{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34148/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34148","id":"gutenberg_34148","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34148","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","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. X.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE FIRST-FOOT, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF PERTH, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    PEAT-CASTING TIME\n    THE MEDAL\n\nTHE MEETING AT ST BOSWELL'S, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_\n\nTHE STORY OF MAY DARLING, _(JOHN FRANCIS SMITH)_\n\nI CANNA BE FASHED; OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS, _(JOHN MACKAY\nWILSON)_\n\nTALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE, _(MATTHEW FORSTER CONOLLY)_\n\n        THE CASTLE OF CRAIL; OR, KING DAVID AND MAUDE\n        THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE\n        THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY\n\nCALEB CRABBIN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_\n\n        THE IMPRUDENT MARRIAGE\n\nTHE BEWILDERED STUDENT, _(JOHN BETHUNE)_\n\nTHE CROOKED COMYN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST-FOOT.\n\n\nNotwithstanding the shortness of their days, the bitterness of their\nfrosts, and the fury of their storms, December and January are merry\nmonths. First comes old Christmas, shaking his hoary locks, belike, in\nthe shape of snow-drift, and laughing, well-pleased, beneath his crown\nof mistletoe, over the smoking sirloin and the savoury goose. There is\nnot a child on the south side of the Borders who longs not for the\ncoming of merry Christmas: it is their holiday of holidays, their season\nof play and of presents; and old and young shake hands with Christmas,\nand with each other. And even on the northern side of \"the river,\" and\n\"the ideal line by fancy drawn,\" which \"divide the sister kingdoms,\"\nthere are thousands who welcome and forget not \"blithe Yule Day.\" Next\ncomes the New Year--the bottle, the hot pint, and the _first-foot_--and\nwe might notice, also, Hansel Monday, and \"Auld Hansel Monanday,\" which\nfollow in their wake, and keep up the merriment till the back of January\nis broken. But our business at present is with the _first-foot_, and we\nmust hold. It matters not on what side of the Borders it may be--and\nnorthward the feeling extends far beyond the Borders--there is a\nmysterious, an ominous importance attached to the individual who first\ncrosses the threshold, after the clock has struck twelve at midnight, on\nthe 31st of December, or who is the _first-foot_ in a house after the\nNew Year has begun. The _first-foot_ stamps the \"luck\" of the house--the\ngood fortune or the evil fortune of its inmates throughout the year! But\nto begin with our story. There was not a person on all the Borders, nor\nyet in all Scotland, who attached more importance to the first-foot than\nNelly Rogers. Nelly was a very worthy, kind-hearted, yea, even sensible\nsort of woman; but a vein of superstition ran through her sense: she had\nimbibed a variety of \"auld-warld notions\" in infancy, and, as she grew\nup, they became a part of her creed. She did not exactly believe that\nghosts and apparitions existed in her day, but she was perfectly sure\nthey _had_ existed, and _had_ been seen; she was sure, also, there was\nsomething in dreams, and she was positive there was a great deal in the\nluckiness or unluckiness of a first-foot; she had remarked it in her own\nexperience thirty times, and, she said, \"it was o' nae use attempting to\nargue her out o' what she had observed hersel.\" Nelly was the wife of\none Richard Rogers, a respectable farmer, whose farmhouse stood by the\nside of the post-road between Kelso and Lauder. They had a family of\nseveral children; but our business is with the eldest, who was called\nGeorge, and who had the misfortune to receive, both from his parents and\ntheir neighbours, the character of being _a genius_. This is a very\nunfortunate character to give to any one who has a fortune to make in\nthe world, as will be seen when we come to notice the history of George\nthe Genius--for such was the appellation by which he was familiarly\nmentioned. Now, it was the last night of the old year--George was about\ntwelve years of age, and, because he was their first-born, and,\nmoreover, because he was a genius, he was permitted to sit with his\nfather and his mother, and a few friends, who had come to visit them, to\nsee the old year out, and the New Year in. The cuckoo clock struck\ntwelve, and the company rose, shook hands, wished each other a happy new\nyear, and, in a bumper, drank, \"May the year that's awa be the warst o'\nour lives.\"\n\n\"I wonder wha will be our first-foot,\" said Nelly; \"I hope it will be a\nlucky ane.\"\n\nThe company began to argue whether there was anything in the luck of a\nfirst-foot or not, and the young genius sided with his mother; and,\nwhile they yet disputed upon the subject, a knocking was heard at the\nfront-door.\n\n\"There's somebody,\" said Nelly; \"if it's onybody that I think's no luck,\nI winna let them in.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Richard.\n\n\"It's nae nonsense,\" replied Nelly; \"it may be a _flat-soled_ body, for\nonything I ken; and do ye think I wad risk the like o' that. Haud awa,\nsee wha it is, George,\" added she, addressing the genius; \"and dinna let\nthem in unless you're sure that they dinna come empty-handed.\"\n\n\"Did ever ye hear the like o' the woman?\" said her husband. \"Sic havers!\nRin awa, George, hinny; open the door.\"\n\nThe boy ran to the door, and inquired--\"Who's there?\"\n\n\"A stranger,\" was the reply.\n\n\"What do ye want?\" inquired the genius, with a degree of caution seldom\nfound in persons honoured with such an epithet.\n\n\"I have a letter to Master Rogers, from his brother,\" answered the\nstranger.\n\n\"A letter frae my brother John!\" cried Richard, starting from his seat;\n\"open the door, laddie--open the door.\"\n\nNow, Richard Rogers had a brother, who also had been considered a sort\nof a genius in his youth. He was of a wild and restless disposition in\nthose days, and his acquaintances were wont to call him by the name of\nJack the Rambler. But it is a long road that has no turning--he had now\nbeen many years at sea--was the captain of a free-trader--and as\nremarkable for his steadiness and worldly wisdom, as he had been noted\nfor the wildness of his youth. There was a mysterious spot in the\ncaptain's history, which even his brother Richard had never been able to\nclear up. But that spot will be brought to light by and by.\n\nGeorge opened the door, and the stranger entered. He was dressed as a\nseaman; and Nelly drew back and appeared troubled as her eyes fell upon\nhim. It was evident she had set him down in her mind as an unlucky\nfirst-foot. He was not, indeed, the most comely personage that one might\ndesire to look upon on a New-year's morning; for he was a squat little\nfellow, with huge red whiskers that almost buried his face; his burly\nhead was covered with a sou-wester, and his eyes squinted most\nfearfully. Nelly could not withdraw her eyes from the man's eyes--she\ncontemplated the squint with horror! Such eyes were never in the head of\na first-foot before! She was sure that \"something no canny would be the\nupshot.\"\n\n\"Tak a seat, sir--tak a seat, sir,\" said Richard, addressing the sailor;\n\"fill out a glass, and mak yoursel at hame. Nelly, bring a clean\ntumbler. And ye hae a letter frae my brother, the captain, sir,\" added\nhe, anxiously; \"how is he?--where is he?--when did ye see him?\"\n\n\"I left him at Liverpool, sir,\" replied the queer-looking sailor; \"and,\nas I intended to take a run down over and to Leith to see my old mother,\n'Bill,' says he to me (for my name's Bill, sir--Bill Somers)--well, as\nI'm saying, 'Bill,' says he, 'you'll be going past the door of a brother\nof mine, and I wish I were going with you'--(and I wish he had, for, not\nto say it before you, sir, there an't a better or a cleverer fellow than\nCaptain Rogers in the whole service--nor a luckier one either, though,\npoor fellow, he has had his bad luck too in some things; and it sticks\nto him still, and will stick to him)--however, as I say, said he to\nme--'Bill, here is a bit of a letter, give it to my brother--it concerns\nmy nevy, George'--(yes, George, I think he called him). So I took the\nletter and set off--that is some days ago--and I arrived at the\npublic-house, a little from this, about four hours since, and intended\nto cast anchor there for the night; but having taken a glass or two, by\nway of ballast, I found myself in good sailing trim, and, having\ninquired about you, and finding that you lived but a short way off, and\nthat the people in the house said, it being New-year's times, you\nwouldn't be moored yet, I desired the landlady to fill me up\nhalf-a-gallon or so of her best rum, that I mightn't come\nempty-handed--for that wouldn't be lucky, ma'am, I reckon,\" added he,\nsquinting in the face of Mrs Rogers, who looked now at his eyes, and now\nat a large bottle, which he drew from beneath a sort of half greatcoat\nor monkey-jacket. Nelly was no friend to spirit-drinking; nevertheless\nshe was glad that her first-foot, though he did squint, had not come\nempty-handed.\n\nThe letter was handed to Mr Rogers, who, having broke the\nseal--\"Preserve us, Richard!\" said Nelly, \"that's a lang epistle! I\ndaursay the captain's made his will in't--what does he say?\"\n\n\"It's a kind, sensible, weel-written letter,\" said Richard, \"for John\nwas a genius a' his days; and there is mair about a will in't than ye're\naware o'. But there's nae secret in't. George will read it.\"\n\nThe letter was then given to the genius, who read as follows:--\n\n     \"DEAR DICK,--As one of my crew, Bill Somers, who has sailed\n     with me for a dozen years, is going down to Scotland, and will\n     pass your way, I take the opportunity of writing to you, and\n     letting you know that I am as well as a person who has as much\n     cause to be unhappy as I have can desire to be. The cause of\n     that unhappiness you don't know, and few know it--but I do, and\n     that's enough. I have made some money--perhaps a good deal--but\n     that's of no consequence. I once thought that I might have\n     _them_ of my own flesh and blood to inherit it; however, that\n     was not to be. It is a long story, and a sad story--one that\n     you know nothing about, and which it is of no use to tell you\n     about now. As things are, my nevy George is to be heir to\n     whatever money, goods, and chattels I possess.\"\n\nAs her son read this, Nelly thought that it was nonsense, after all, to\nsay that a squint first-foot was unlucky.\n\n\"Read on, George,\" said his father, \"and tak heed to what your uncle\nsays.\"\n\nThe boy resumed the letter, and again read--\n\n     \"Now, as my nevy is to be my heir, I think it my duty to lay\n     down a sort of chart--or call it what you like--by which I\n     would wish him to shape his future conduct. I am glad to hear\n     that his head is of the right sort; but let us have none of\n     your fiddle ornaments about it. A lofty prow is not always the\n     best for a storm, and looks bad enough with a Dutch stern.\n     Beware, also, how you let him to sea before his vessel is\n     fairly rigged, caulked, and waterproof--or, if you do, then\n     look out for his growing top-heavy, and capsising in the turn\n     of a handspike. If you set him off with a bare allowance of\n     ballast, and without a single letter of credit--do you expect\n     him to bring home a cargo? It is stuff, Dick--arrant stuff! All\n     your boy exhibitions are downright swindling. Prodigies,\n     forsooth!--why, parrots can speak, and jackdaws chatter. Or, to\n     render myself intelligible to your agricultural senses, a tree\n     blossoms in its first year, and a selfish, deluded idiot plucks\n     it up, exhibits it in the market-place--the bud perishes, and\n     the tree withers, while gaping lubbers wonder that it did not\n     bear fruit! Now, Dick, this is always the case with all you\n     fast-sailing miracles. Give a boy the helm, and get him to the\n     drudgery of the cabin again, if you can.\n\n     \"As to his love affairs, provided the girl of his choice be\n     virtuous, and tolerably pretty--though neither very rich nor\n     very intelligent--see that you don't strike off at a tangent,\n     and, like one of your own stupid cattle, run counter to his\n     will. If you do, it will only hasten what you wish to\n     prevent--or render a marriage certain, which the young couple\n     thought sufficiently doubtful. Besides, your opposition might\n     spoil a poor girl's reputation; and I have always found that\n     imputations of a certain class, upon a man, are like marks left\n     upon the sand within a tide-mark; but to a woman--a lovely,\n     helpless woman--they adhere like a limpit to the rock. Besides\n     this, Dick, I am certain the most powerful impression of moral\n     rectitude you can imprint upon his heart would be like a pistol\n     fired from a cock-boat, compared to the glorious and\n     irresistible broadside of a seventy-four, when you contrast its\n     influence upon his actions with the delightful and conquering\n     emotions of love and esteem which he entertains for an amiable\n     woman. Don't preach to me, Dick, for I know when the devil, the\n     world, and the flesh, war against our better principles, and\n     when early instructions, counsels, and all that sort of things,\n     are fairly run down and drop astern, why, if a fellow just\n     think for a moment of the beautiful being, whose soul is as\n     pure as the blue sea on a summer day--if he just think of\n     her--or of her last words, '_Don't forget me!_'--belay! is the\n     word--about goes the helm--head round from the lee-shore of\n     inconsistency, and he is again quietly moored in the fair-way\n     of virtue.\n\n     \"When he begins to shape into manhood, _Discretion_ is the\n     watchword; and whatever he or others may think of his\n     abilities, let him douse _Presumption_, and stow it below,\n     hoist a _desire to please_ at the fore-top, place\n     _Perseverance_, at the helm, and _Civility_ and _Moderate\n     Ambition_ upon the watch. People say they like a plain-spoken,\n     honest fellow, who says what he thinks. But it is all a fudge.\n     Just speak in the jack-blunt manner which they praise\n     respecting themselves, and, mark me, they will march off to\n     another tune. Let any man practise this for a time, and he will\n     soon be hated by every soul on board. I don't mean to advise\n     dissimulation; but a man can get enemies enough without making\n     them; therefore, where he has no good to say of a person,\n     though they may have injured him, let him hold his tongue.\n\n     \"Another thing, and an important one, for him to remember,\n     is--he who is the king of good fellows, and a 'good soul'\n     amongst his associates, is styled by the public a thoughtless\n     man, and by his enemies a drunkard. Now, Dick, in the world of\n     business, a _good fellow_ simply means a _good-for-nothing_.\n     Therefore, see to it, and put my nevy on the look-out; for, not\n     to speak of the growing influence of habit, just attribute\n     unsteadiness to a man, and you bring him a wind ahead, stop his\n     credit, and hurl him to ruin headlong. Sobriety is his\n     compass--sobriety is his passport.\n\n     \"Again, Dick, I would neither wish to see him a booby nor a\n     maw-worm; but I must tell you that the opinion the world forms\n     of us is often cast upon very trivial circumstances. A\n     heedlessly committed action, which we forget in half-an-hour,\n     others will remember to our disadvantage for twelve months.\n     There is nothing like being well-braced with circumspection;\n     let him always look well to his bearing and distance, or he\n     will soon find himself out in his latitude. No man of any\n     ambition, or whether he was ambitious or not, ever loved a man\n     who presumed to be in all things wiser that himself. I don't\n     wish to lecture upon humbug humility, but diffidence and\n     good-breeding should never be under the poop. Let him take\n     heed, also, how he dabbles in politics or religion. Both\n     concern him, and he must think and act upon both; but he must\n     do so as becomes a man. I hate all your noisy boatswain\n     politicians, both aboard the Commons and out of it. The moment\n     I see a lubberly fellow swinging his arms about and blowing a\n     hurricane, whether he be endeavouring to blow a nation or a\n     tavern into agitation--there rages a grand rascal, say I; his\n     patriotism, and the froth which he scatters from his mouth, are\n     of a piece. Now, as to his religious principles, of all things,\n     let him keep them to himself. Every man is as much in the\n     right, in his own estimation, as he is. Nothing will procure a\n     man more enemies than a real or affected singularity in matters\n     of religion. For though there is a great deal of good sense\n     afloat in the world, yet there is such a fry of feverish,\n     canting, small craft, always skulking about, and peeping into\n     our _pees_ and _ques_, which, though they cannot sink your\n     character, they annoy it with their sparrow-hail. In a word,\n     Dick, every intelligent being's religion lies between his own\n     conscience and his Maker. Give my nevy a Bible, with a father's\n     best blessing--in it he will find the ennobling hopes of\n     eternity, and learn to do unto others as he would wish others\n     to do unto him; and this, from the bottom of my heart, is the\n     advice of his uncle Jack.\n\n     \"A sterling, upright, moral character, is absolutely\n     indispensable. If the heart be well built, and kept in good\n     sailing trim, he will have a tell-tale there which will keep\n     all right aloft. As well set a seaman upon a voyage of\n     discovery without a compass, as a young fellow upon the world\n     without a character. But, d'ye see, because you can't go to sea\n     without a compass of this kind, you are not to expect that, in\n     all cases, it will insure you of reaching the pole. No, Dick,\n     it is rather like a pilot sent out to steer you in, when you\n     are within sight of land, and without whose assistance you\n     cannot reach the port.\n\n     \"In conversation, too, I hate to see a smooth-water puppy\n     running at the rate of twelve knots, as if no vessel in the\n     fleet could sail but his own. I have seen fellows of this sort\n     showing off like gilded pinnaces at a regatta, while they were\n     only showing how little they had on board. Two things, in\n     particular, I wish my nevy to avoid--namely, argufying in\n     company, and speaking about himself. There is a time and a\n     place for everything; and, though argument be well enough in\n     its way, he who is always upon the look-out for one is just as\n     sure as he finds it to find an enemy; and, as to speaking of\n     one's-self, independent of its ill-breeding, it is like a dose\n     of salt-water served round the company. The grand secret of\n     conversation is, to say little in a way to please, and the\n     moment you fail to do so, it is time to shove your boat off.\n     Whenever you see a person yawn in your company, take your hat.\n\n     \"Independent of these things, let him look well to his\n     tide-table. Without punctuality, the best character becomes a\n     bad one. The moment a man breaks his word, or becomes\n     indifferent to his engagement, why, the confidence of his\n     commodore is at an end; and, instead of being promoted to the\n     quarterdeck, he may slave before the mast till the boatswain's\n     last whistle pipes all hands to his funeral. Punctuality,\n     Dick--systematical, methodical punctuality--is a fortune to a\n     fellow ready made. Let him once listen to the syren voice of\n     delay--neglect to weigh anchor with the tide, and if he don't\n     drift back with the current, go to pieces on a sand-bank, or be\n     blown to sticks by a foul wind, my name's not Jack. Let him\n     keep a sharp eye upon the beginning, the middle, and the end of\n     everything he undertakes. He must not tack about, like a fellow\n     on a cruise or a roving commission, but, whatever wind blows,\n     maintain a straight course, keeping his head to the port.\n     Burns, the poet, spoke like a philosopher, when he said it was\n     the misfortune of his life to be without an aim. But I tell you\n     what, Dick, we must not only have an object to steer to, but it\n     must be a reasonable object. A madman may say he is determined\n     to go to the North Pole, or the moon; but that's not the thing,\n     Dick: our anticipations must be likelihoods, our ambitions\n     probabilities; and when we have made frequent calculations, and\n     find ourselves correct in our reckoning, though we have made\n     but little way, then down with despondency, and stick to\n     perseverance. I don't mean a beggarly, servile, grovelling\n     perseverance, but the unsubdued determination of an\n     unconquerable spirit, riding out the storm, and, while small\n     craft sink on every side, disdaining to take in a single reef.\n\n     \"Now, having said thus much about shaping his course, and\n     laying in a freight, it is material that I drop a concluding\n     word with regard to his rigging. Send him out with patched\n     canvas, and the veriest punt that ever disgraced the water will\n     clear out before him. A patch upon his coat will be an embargo\n     on his prospects. People affect to despise tailors; but it is\n     base ingratitude, or shallow dissimulation. Not that I would\n     for the world see my nevy an insignificant dandy, but remember,\n     the moment the elbows of your coat open, every door shuts.\n\n     \"But my fingers are cramped with this long epistle, and,\n     moreover, the paper is full; and with love to nevy George, to\n     Nelly, and the little ones, I am, dear Dick, your affectionate\n     brother,\n\n    \"JOHN ROGERS,\n\n    \"Otherwise, JACK THE RAMBLER.\"\n\nAll applauded this letter, when they had heard it, and they vowed the\ncaptain was a clever fellow--a noble fellow--ay, and a wise one; and\nthey drank his health and a happy New Year to him, though half of what\nhe had written, from his nautical types and symbols, was as Greek and\nLatin unto those who heard it, and worse unto George the Genius, who\nread it; though some parts of it all understood.\n\nWhen the health of Captain Rogers had gone round--\n\n\"I wonder in the world,\" said Richard, \"what it can be that my brother\naye refers to about being unhappy? I've written to him fifty times, to\ntry to fathom it; but I never could--he never would gie me ony\nsatisfaction.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the seaman, as he sat leaning forward, and turning round his\nsou-wester between his knees, \"I believe I know, or I can guess a\nsomething about the matter. It's about ten years ago, according to my\nreckoning, we were coming down the Mediterranean--the captain was as\nfine a looking young fellow then as ever stood upon a deck. Well, as I\nwas saying, we were coming down the Mediterranean, and at Genoa we took\na gentleman and his daughter on board. She was a pretty creature; I've\nseen nothing like her neither before nor since. So, as I'm telling you,\nwe took them on board at Genoa, for England, and they had not been many\ndays on board, till every one saw, and I saw--though my eyes are none o'\nthe smartest--that the captain could look on nothing but his lovely\npassenger. It wasn't hard to see that she looked much in the same way at\nhim, and I have seen them walking on the deck at night, with her arm\nthrough his, in the moonlight; and, let me tell you, a glorious sight\nit is--moonlight on the Mediterranean! It is enough to make a man fall\nin love with moonlight itself, if there be nothing else beside him.\nWell, d'ye see, as I am saying, it wasn't long until the old gentleman,\nher father, saw which way the land lay; and one day we heard the lady\nweeping; she never came out of her cabin during the rest of the voyage,\nnor did her father again speak to the master. We were laid up for a long\ntime, and there was a report that the captain and her had got married,\nunknown to her father. However, we sailed on a long voyage; we weren't\nback to England again for more than twelve months; but the day after we\nlanded, the captain shut himself up, and, for long and long, we used to\nfind him sitting with the salt-water in his eyes. We again heard the\nreport that he had been married, and also that his lady had died in\nchildbed; but whether the child was living or ever was living, or\nwhether it was a boy or a girl, we didn't know; nor did he know; and, I\nbelieve, he never was able to hear any more about the old gentleman--so,\nas I say, that's all I know about the matter, poor fellow.\"\n\nNow, the squinting sailor remained two days in the house of Richard\nRogers, and he was such a comical man, and such a good-natured,\nkind-hearted man, that Mrs Rogers was certain he would be a lucky\nfirst-foot, even though he had a very unfortunate cross look with his\neyes; and she was the more convinced in this opinion, because, in a\nconversation she had had with him, and in which she had inquired--\"What\nsiller he thought the captain might be worth?\"--\"Why, I'm saying,\"\nanswered the sailor, \"Captain Rogers is worth a round twenty thousand,\nif he be worth a single penny;--and that, I'm thinking, is a pretty\ncomfortable thing for Master George to be heir to!\"--\"Ay, and so it is,\"\nresponded Nelly. And there was no longer anything disagreeable in the\nsailor's squint.\n\nWell, week followed week, and month succeeded month--spring came, and\nsummer came, and harvest followed; and it was altogether a lucky year to\nRichard Rogers. Nelly declared that the squinting sailor had been an\nexcellent first-foot.\n\nAnother year came, another, and another, until eight years passed round\nsince they had been visited by the outlandish seaman. Nelly had had both\nlucky and unlucky first-feet. George the Genius was now a lad of twenty,\nand the other children were well grown--but George was still a genius,\nand nothing but a genius. He was indeed a good scholar--a grand scholar,\nas his mother declared--and a great one, as his father affirmed. He had\nbeen brought up to no profession, for it was of no use thinking of a\nprofession for one who was heir to twenty thousand pounds; and, at any\nrate, his genius was sure to make him a fortune. In what way his genius\nwas to do this was never taken into consideration. Many people said, \"If\nwe had your genius, George, we could make a fortune.\" And George thought\nhe would and could. The joiner in the next village, however, said, that\n\"Wi' a' George's genius, he didna believe he could mak an elshin-heft,\nand stick him!--and, in his opinion, there was mair to be made by making\nelshin-hefts than by writing ballants!\"\n\nAs I have said, eight years had passed; it was again the last night of\nthe old year, and a very dark and stormy night it was. Mr Rogers, his\nwife, their son George, and the rest of their family, had again seen the\nold year out, and the New Year in, and exchanged with each other the\ncompliments of the season, when the cuckoo-clock again announced the\nhour of twelve. Nelly had \"_happed_ up the fire\" with her own hands--a\nthing that she always did on the last night of the old year, that it\nmight not be out on a New-year's morning. She was again wondering who\nwould be their first-foot, and expressing a hope that it would be a\nlucky one, when a chaise drew up before the house, and the driver,\ndismounting and knocking at the window, begged that they would favour\nhim with a light, as the roads were exceedingly dark, and the lamps of\nthe chaise had been blown out by the wind.\n\n\"A licht!\" exclaimed Betty, half petrified at the request; \"preserve us!\nis the man beside himsel? Do ye imagine that onybody is gaun to gie ye\nout a licht the first thing on a New-year's morning? Gae awa!--gae awa!\"\n\nIn vain the driver expostulated--he had met with similar treatment at\nother houses at which he had called. \"Ye hae nao business to travel at\nsiccan a time o' nicht,\" replied Betty to all his arguments. Her husband\nsaid little, for he entertained some of his wife's scruples against\ngiving a light at such a time. George mildly ridiculed the absurdity of\nthe refusal; but--\"I am mistress o' my ain house,\" answered his mother,\n\"and I'll gie a licht out o't when I please, and only when I please. Wi'\na' yer learnin, George, ye wad be a great fool sometimes.\"\n\nThe voice of a lady was now heard at the window with the driver,\nsaying--\"Pray, good people, do permit us to light the lamps, and you\nshall have any recompense.\" No sooner did George hear the lady's voice,\nthan, in despite of his mother's frowns, he sprang to the door and\nunlocked it. With an awkward sort of gallantry he ushered in the fair\nstranger. She was, indeed, the loveliest first-foot that had ever\ncrossed the threshold of Mrs Rogers. She had no sooner entered, than\nNelly saw and felt this, and, with a civility which formed a strange\ncontrast to her answers to the driver, she smoothed down for her the\ncushioned arm-chair by the side of the fire. The young lady (for she\nhardly appeared to exceed seventeen) politely declined the proffered\nhospitality. \"Sit down, my sweet young leddy; now, do sit down just to\noblige me,\" said Nelly. \"Ye are our first-foot, and I hope--I'm sure\nye'll ba a lucky ane; and ye wadna, ye canna be gaun out without tasting\nwi' us on a New-year's morning.\"\n\nThe young lady sat down; and Nelly hastened to spread upon the table\nlittle mountains of short-bread (of which she was a notable maker), with\nher spice-loaf, milk-scones, and her best ewe-cheese, and her\ncream-cheese, which was quite a fancy! And while his mother was so\noccupied, George produced three or four sorts of home-made wine of his\nown manufacture; for, in his catalogue of capabilities as a genius, it\nmust be admitted that he had some which might be said to belong to the\nuseful.\n\n\"Now, make yoursel at hame, my dear leddy,\" said Nelly; \"need nae\npressing. Or if ye wad like it better, I'll get ye ready a cup o' tea in\na minute or twa; the kettle's boiling; and it's only to mask, so dinna\nsay no. Indeed, if ye'll only consent to stop a' nicht, ye shall hae the\nbest bed in the house, and we'll put the horses in the stable; for it's\nno owre and aboon lucky to gie or tak a licht on a New-year's morning.\"\n\nA faint smile played across the lips of the fair stranger, at the\nmixture of Nelly's kindness and credulity; and she thanked her for her\nhospitality, but stated that she must proceed on her journey, as she was\nhastening to the death-bed of a near and only relative. The young lady,\nhowever, sat longer than she wist, for she had entered into conversation\nwith George--how, she knew not, and he knew not; but they were pleased\nwith each other; and there were times (though it was only at times) that\nGeorge could talk like an inspired being; and this was one of those\ntimes. The knowledge, the youth, the beauty of the lovely stranger, had\nkindled all the fires of his genius within him. Even his father was\nsurprised, and his mother forgot that the chaise-driver was lighting the\nlamps; and how long the fair lady might have listened to George, we\ncannot tell, had not the driver hinted, \"All's ready, ma'am; the horses\nwill get no good in the cold.\" She arose, and took leave of her\nentertainers; and George accompanied her to the chaise, and shook her\nhand, and bade her farewell, as though she had been an old and a very\ndear friend. He even thought, as she replied, \"_Farewell_,\" that there\nwas a sadness in her tone, as if she were sorry to say it.\n\nRichard and his spouse retired to rest; but still the thought of having\ngiven a light out of her house on a New-year's morning troubled her, and\nshe feared that, after all, her lovely first-foot would prove an unlucky\none. George laid his head upon his pillow, to dream dreams, and conjure\nup visions of the fair stranger.\n\nA short week had not passed, however--Richard was returning from Kelso\nmarket, the roads were literally a sheet of ice (it is said that bones\nare most easily broken in frosty weather), his horse fell, and rolled\nover him, and he was carried home bruised, and with his leg broken.\nNelly was loud in her lamentations, and yet louder in her upbraidings,\nagainst George and against herself, that she permitted a light to be\ncarried out of her house on a New-year's morning.\n\n\"It was borne in upon me,\" said she, \"the leddy wadna be lucky, that\nsomething would come out o' the giein the licht!\"\n\nBut this was not all: before two months elapsed, and just as her husband\nwas beginning to set his foot to the ground again, from friction and\nnegligence together, the thrashing-machine took fire. It was still a\nsevere frost, there was scarce a drop of water to be procured about the\nplace, and, in spite of the exertions of all the people on the farm, and\ntheir neighbours, who came to their assistance, the fierce flames\nroared, spread, and rushed from stack to stack, until the barn, the\nstables, the stackyard, and the dwelling-house presented a heap of\nsmouldering ashes and smoking ruins. Yet this was not the worst evil\nwhich had that day fallen upon Richard Rogers. He was one of those\nindividuals who have an aversion to the very name of a bank, and he had\nthe savings and the profits of twenty years--in fifty-pound notes, and\nin five-pound notes, and crown-pieces--locked away in a strong drawer\nin his bedroom. In the confusion of the fire, and as he bustled halting\nabout, with the hope of saving some of his wheat-stacks (for wheat was\nselling high at the time), he forgot the strong drawer, and his twenty\nyears' savings, until flames were seen bursting from the window of his\nbedroom. The window had been left open, and some of the burning\nmaterials having been blown into the room, it was the first part of the\nhouse which caught fire.\n\n\"Oh, I'm ruined!--I'm ruined!\" cried Richard; \"my siller!--my\nsiller!--my hard-won siller!\"\n\nA rush was made to the bedroom; but before they reached it, the stairs\ngave way, the floor fell in, and a thick flame and suffocating smoke\nburied the fruits of poor Richard's industry--the treasure which he had\nlaid up for his children.\n\n\"Now, I am a beggar!\" groaned he, lifting up his hands, while the flames\nalmost scorched his face.\n\n\"Oh, black sorrow tak that leddy!\" cried Nelly, wringing her hands;\n\"what tempted her to be my first-foot?--or what tempted me to gie her a\nlicht? George! George! it was a' you! We gied fire out o' the house, and\nnow we've brocht it about us! Wae's me!--wae's me! I'm a ruined woman!\nOh, Richard, what will we do? What was ye thinking about, that ye didna\nmind the siller?\"\n\nRichard knew nothing of the number of his notes, and his riches had\nindeed vanished in a flash of fire! He was now obliged to take shelter\nwith his family in an outhouse, which had been occupied by a cottar. He\nhad not heard from Captain Rogers for more than twelve months, and he\nknew not where he was; therefore he could expect no immediate assistance\nfrom him. It was now necessary that George should bring his genius into\naction--his father could no longer support him in idleness; and, as it\nhad always been said that he had only to exert his genius to make a\nfortune, George resolved that he would exert it, and he was pleased with\nthe thought of setting his father on his feet again by the reward of his\ntalents. He had read somewhere in the writings of Dr Johnson (and the\ndoctor had a good deal of experience in the matter), that \"genius was\n_sure_ to meet with its reward in London;\" and, if the doctor was _sure_\nof that, George was as _sure_ that he was a genius, and therefore ho\nconsidered the reward as certain. So George determined, as his uncle\nmight live many years, that he would go to London and make a fortune for\nhimself, and to assist his father in the meantime. A cow was taken to\nKelso market and sold for eight pounds, and the money was given to\nGeorge, to pay his expenses to the metropolis, and to keep him there\nuntil his genius should put him in the way of making the anticipated\nfortune. His coat was not exactly such a one as his uncle desired he\nshould be sent out into the world in--not that it was positively a bad\ncoat, but it was beginning to be rather smooth and clear about the\nelbows, a lighter shade ran up on each side of the seams at the back,\nand his hat was becoming bare round the edges on the crown. To be sure,\nas his mother said, \"he would aye hae ink beside him, and a dip o' ink\nwould help to hide that.\" These, however, were things that could not be\nmended--the wardrobe of the whole family had been consumed at the fire;\nbut these things did not distress George, for he did not consider it\nnecessary for a genius to appear in a new coat. There were many tears\nshed on both sides when George bade adieu to his father, his mother, and\nhis brethren, and took his journey towards London.\n\nIt was about the middle of March when he arrived in the metropolis; and,\nhaving spent two days wandering about and wondering at all he saw,\nwithout once thinking how his genius was to make the long-talked-of\nfortune, on the third day he delivered a letter of introduction, which\nhe had received, to a broker in the city. Now it so happened that in\nthis letter poor George was spoken of as an \"_extraordinary genius_!\"\n\n\"So you are a _great genius_, young man, my friend informs mo,\" said the\nbroker; \"what have you a genius for?\"\n\nGeorge blushed and looked confused; he almost said--\"for everything;\"\nbut he hung down his head, and said nothing.\n\n\"Is it a genius for making machines--or playing the fiddle--or what?\"\nadded the broker.\n\nGeorge looked more and more confused; he replied--\"that he could neither\nmake machines, nor did he know anything of music.\"\n\n\"Then I hope it's not a genius for making ballads, is it?\" continued the\nother.\n\n\"I have written ballads,\" answered George, hesitatingly.\n\n\"Oh, then, you must try the west end--you won't do for the city,\" added\nthe broker; \"your genius is an article that's not in demand here.\"\n\nGeorge left the office of the London citizen, mortified and humiliated.\nFor a dozen long years everybody had told him he was a genius; and now,\nwhen the question was put to him--\"what had he a genius for?\" he could\nnot answer it. This rebuff rendered him melancholy for several days, and\nhe wandered from street to street, sometimes standing, unconscious of\nwhat he was doing, before the window of a bookseller, till, jostled by\nthe crowd, he moved on, and again took his stand before the window of\nthe printseller, the jeweller, or the vender of caricatures. Still he\nbelieved that he was a genius, and he was conscious that that genius\nmight make him a fortune; only he knew not how to apply it--he was\npuzzled where to begin. Yet he did not despair. He thought the day would\ncome--but how it was to come he knew not. He took out his uncle's\nletter, which his father had put into his hands when he left him, and he\nread it again, and said, it was all very good, but what was he the\nbetter of it?--it was all very true--too true, for he understood every\nword of it now; and he turned round his arm, and examined his coat with\na sigh, and beheld that the lining was beginning to show its unwelcome\nface through the seams of the elbows. I should have told you that he was\nthen sitting in a coffee-house, sipping his three-halfpence-worth of\ncoffee, and _kitchening_ his pennyworth of bread, which was but\nhalf-a-slice, slightly buttered--and a thin slice, too, compared with\nthose of his mother's cutting. He was beginning to feel one of the first\nrewards of genius--_eating by measure_! To divert the melancholy of his\nfeelings, and the gloom of his prospects, he took up a magazine which\nlay on the table before him. His eyes fell upon a review of a poem which\nhad been lately published, and for which the author was said to have\nreceived a thousand guineas!\n\n\"_A thousand guineas!_\" exclaimed George, dropping the magazine--\"a\n_thousand guineas_! I shall make a fortune yet!\"\n\nHe had read some of the extracts from the poem--he was sure he could\nwrite better lines--his eyes flashed with ecstasy--his very nostrils\ndistended with delight--a thousand guineas seemed already in his pocket!\nthough, alas! out of the eight pounds which he had received as the price\nof his father's cow, with all his management, and with all his economy,\nhe had but eight shillings left. But his resolution was taken--he saw\nfortune hovering over him with her golden wings--he purchased a quire of\npaper and half-a-dozen quills, and hurried to his garret--for his\nlodging _was_ a garret, in which there was nothing but an old bed and an\nolden chair, not even an apology for a table; but sometimes the bed\nserved the purpose of one, and at other times he sat upon the floor like\na Turk, and wrote upon the chair. He was resolved to write an epic; for\nthe idea of a thousand guineas had taken possession of all his\nfaculties. He made a pen--he folded the paper--he rubbed his hands\nacross his brow for a subject. He might have said with Byron--had Byron\nthen said it--\n\n    \"I want a hero!\"\n\nHe thought of a hundred subjects, and with each the idea of his mother's\nbeautiful but most unlucky first-foot was mingled! At length he fixed\nupon one, and began to write. He wrote most industriously--in short, he\nwrote for a thousand guineas! He tasked himself to four hundred lines\na-day, and in a fortnight he finished a poem containing about five\nthousand. It was longer than that for which the thousand guineas had\nbeen given; but George thought, though he should get no more for his,\nthat even a thousand guineas was very good payment for a fortnight's\nlabour. Of the eight shillings which we mentioned his being in\npossession of when he began the epic, he had now but threepence, and he\nwas in arrears for the week's rent of his garret. The landlady began to\ncast very suspicious glances at her lodger--she looked at him with the\nsides of her eyes. She did not know exactly what a genius meant, but she\nhad proof positive it did not mean a gentleman. At times, also, she\nwould stand with his garret-door in her hand, as if she intended to say,\n\"Mr Rogers, I would thank you for last week's rent.\"\n\nScarce was the ink dry upon the last page of his poem, when George,\nfolding up the manuscript, put it carefully into his coat-pocket, and\nhurried to the bookseller of whom he had read that he had given a\nthousand guineas for a shorter work, and one, too, that, he was\nsatisfied in his own mind, was every way inferior to his. We do not say\nthat he exactly expected the publisher to fall down and worship him, the\nmoment he read the first page of his production, but he did believe that\nhe would regard him as a prodigy, and at once offer terms for the\ncopyright. He was informed by a shopman, however, that the publisher was\nengaged, and he left the manuscript, stating that he would call again.\nGeorge did call again, and yet again, trembling with hope and anxiety;\nand he began to discover that a great London publisher was as difficult\nof access as his imperial mightiness the Emperor of China. At length, by\naccident, he found the bibliopole in his shop. He gave a glance at\nGeorge--it was a withering glance--a glance at his coat and at his\nelbows. The unfortunate genius remembered, when it was too late, the\npassage in his uncle's letter, \"the moment the elbows of your coat open,\nevery door shuts.\" We have already mentioned that the lining was\nbeginning to peer through them, and, during the fervour of inspiration,\nor the _furor_ of excitement in composing the epic, he had not observed\nthat the rent had become greater, that the lining, too, had given way,\nand that now his linen, which was not of a snow colour, was visible. He\ninquired after his manuscript.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked the publisher.\n\n\"A poem,\" answered George--\"an epic!\"\n\nThe man of books smiled; he gave another look at the forlorn elbows of\nthe genius--it was evident he measured the value of his poetry by the\nvalue of his coat.\n\n\"A poem!\" replied he; \"poetry's a drug! It is of no use for such as you\nto think about writing poetry. Give the young man his manuscript,\" said\nhe to the shopman, and walked away.\n\nThe reader may imagine the feelings of our disappointed genius: they\nwere bitter as the human soul could bear. Yet he did not altogether\ndespair; there were more booksellers in London. It is unnecessary to\ntell how he offered his manuscript to another, and another, yea, to\ntwenty more--how he examined what books they had published in their\nwindows--and how he entered their shops with fear and trembling, for\nhis hopes were becoming fainter and more faint. Some opened it, others\ndid not, but all shook their heads, and said, nobody would undertake to\npublish poetry, or that it was not in their way; some advised him to\npublish by subscription, but George Rogers did not know a soul in\nLondon; others recommended him to try the magazines. It was with a heavy\nheart that he abandoned the idea of publishing his epic, and with it\nalso his fond dream of obtaining a thousand guineas. He had resolved\nwithin himself that the moment he received the money, he would go down\nto Scotland, and rebuild his father's house; and all who knew him should\nmarvel, and hold up their hands, at the fame and fortune of George the\nGenius. But a hungry man cannot indulge in day-dreams, and his visions\nby night are an aggravation of his misery; he therefore had to renounce\nthe fond delusion, that he might have bread to eat. His last resource\nwas to try the magazines. His epic was out of the question for them; and\nhe wrote songs, odes, essays, and short tales, on every scrap of paper,\nand on the back of every letter in his possession. With this bundle of\n\"shreds and patches,\" he waited upon several magazine publishers. One\ntold him he was overstocked with contributions; another, that he might\nleave the papers, and he should have an answer in two or three weeks.\nBut three weeks was an eternity to a man who had not tasted food for\nthree days. A third said, \"he could seldom make room for new\ncontributors--poetry was not an article for which he gave money--essays\nwere at a discount, and he only published tales by writers of\nestablished reputation.\" There was one article, however, which pleased\nhim, and he handed George a guinea for it. The tears started into his\neyes as he received it--he thought he would never be poor again--he was\nas proud of that guinea as if it had been a thousand! It convinced him\nmore and more that he _was_ a genius. I need not tell you how that\nguinea was husbanded, and how it was doled out; but, although George\nreckoned that it would purchase two hundred and fifty-two penny loaves,\nand that that was almost as many as a man need to eat in a twelvemonth,\nyet the guinea vanished to the last penny before a month went round.\n\nHe had frequently called at the shop of his first patron, the publisher\nof the magazine; and on one day when he so called--\n\n\"Oh, Mr Rogers,\" said the bookseller, \"I have just heard of a little job\nwhich will suit you. Lord L---- wishes me to find him a person to write a\npamphlet in defence of the war. You are just the person to do it. Make\nit pungent and peppery, and it will be five or ten guineas for you, and\nperhaps the patronage of his lordship; and you know no bookseller will\nlook at genius without patronage.\"\n\nA new light broke upon George--he discovered why his epic had been\nrejected. He hurried to his garret. He began the pamphlet with the\neagerness of frenzy. It was both peppery and passionate. Before the\nafternoon of the following day it was completed, and he flew with it to\nthe house of the nobleman. Our genius was hardly, as the reader may\nsuppose, in a fitting garb for the drawing-room or library of a British\npeer, and the pampered menial who opened the door attempted to dash it\nback in his face. He, however, neither lacked spirit nor strength, and\nhe forced his way into the lobby.\n\n\"Inform his lordship,\" said George, \"that Mr Rogers has called with the\npamphlet in defence of the war!\" And he spoke this with an air of\nconsequence and authority.\n\nThe man of genius was ushered into the library of the literary lord,\nwho, raising his glass to his eye, surveyed him from head to foot with a\nlook partaking of scorn and disgust; and there was no mistaking that its\nmeaning was--\"Stand back!\" At length he desired our author to remain\nwhere he was, and to read his manuscript. The chagrin which he felt at\nthis reception marred the effect of the first two or three sentences,\nbut, as he acquired his self-possession, he read with excellent feeling\nand emphasis. Every sentence told. \"Good! good!\" said the peer, rubbing\nhis hands--\"that will do!--excellent!--give me the manuscript!\"\n\nGeorge was stepping boldly forward to the chair of his lordship, when\nthe latter, rising, stretched his arm at its extreme length across the\ntable, and received the manuscript between his finger and thumb, as\nthough he feared contagion from the touch of the author, or fancied that\nthe plague was sewed up between the seams of his threadbare coat. The\npeer glanced his eye over the title-page, which George had not read--\"A\nDefence of the War with France,\" said he; \"by--by who!--the\ndeuce!--George Rogers!--who is George Rogers?\"\n\n\"I am, your lordship,\" answered the author.\n\n\"You are!--you!\" said his lordship, \"you the author of _the Defence_?\nImpertinent fool! had not you the idea from me? Am not I to pay for it?\nThe work is mine!\" So saying, he rang the bell, and addressing the\nservant who entered, added, \"Give that gentleman a guinea.\"\n\nGeorge withdrew, in rage and bewilderment, and his poverty, not his\nwill, consented to accept the insulting remuneration. Within two days,\nhe saw at the door of every bookseller a placard with the words--\"Just\npublished, A DEFENCE OF THE WAR WITH FRANCE, by the Right Hon. Lord\nL----.\" George compared himself to Esau, who sold his birthright for a\nmess of pottage--he had bartered his name, his fame, and the fruits of\nhis genius, for a paltry guinea.\n\nHe began to be ashamed of the shabbiness of his garments--the withering\nmeaning of the word clung round him--he felt it as a festering sore\neating into his very soul, and he appeared but little upon the streets.\nHe had been several weeks without a lodging, and though it was now\nsummer, the winds of heaven afford but a comfortless blanket for the\nshoulders when the midnight dews fall upon the earth. He had slept for\nseveral nights in a hayfield in the suburbs, on the Kent side of the\nriver; and his custom was, to lift a few armfuls aside on a low rick,\nand laying himself down in the midst of it, gradually placing the hay\nover his feet, and the rest of his body, until the whole was covered.\nBut the hay season did not last for ever; and one morning, when fast\nasleep in the middle of the rick, he was roused by a sudden exclamation\nof mingled horror and astonishment. He looked up, and beside him stood a\ncountryman, with his mouth open, and his eyes gazing wistfully. In his\nhand he held a hayfork, and on the prongs of the fork was one of the\nskirts of poor George's coat. He gazed angrily at the countryman, and\nruefully at the fragment of his unfortunate coat; and, rising, he drew\nround the portion of it that remained on his back, to view \"the rent the\nenvious _hayfork_ made.\"\n\n\"By goam! chap,\" said the countryman, when he regained his speech, \"I\nhave made thee a spencer; but I might have run the fork through thee,\nand it would have been no blame of mine.\"\n\nThey were leading the hay from the field, and the genius was deprived of\nhis lodging. It was some nights after this he was wandering in the\nneighbourhood of Poplar, fainting and exhausted--sleeping, starting,\ndreaming--as he dragged his benumbed and wearied limbs along; and, as he\nwas crossing one of the bridges over the canal, he saw one of the long\nfly-boats, which ply with goods to Birmingham and Manchester, lying\nbelow it. George climbed over the bridge, and dropped into the boat, and\nfinding a quantity of painted sailcloth near the head of it, which was\nused as a covering for the goods, to protect them from the weather, he\nwrapped himself up in it, and lay down to sleep. How long he lay he\nknow not, for he slept most soundly; and, when he awoke, he felt more\nrefreshed than he had been for many nights. But he started as he heard\nthe sound of voices near him; and, cautiously withdrawing the canvas\nfrom over his face, he beheld that the sun was up; and, to increase his\nperplexity, fields, trees, and hedges were gliding past him. While he\nslept, the boatmen had put the horses to the barge, and were now on\ntheir passage to Birmingham, and several miles from London; but, though\nthey had passed and repassed the roll of canvas, they saw not, and they\nsuspected not, that they \"carried Caesar and his fortunes.\" George\nspeedily comprehended his situation; and extricating his limbs from the\nfolds of the canvas as quietly as ho could, he sprang to his feet,\nstepped to the side of the boat, and, with a desperate bound, reached\nthe bank of the canal.\n\n\"Holloa!\" shouted the astonished boatmen--\"holloa! what have you been\nafter?\"\n\nGeorge made no answer, but ran with his utmost speed down the side of\nthe canal.\n\n\"Holloa! stop thief!--stop thief!\" bellowed the boatmen; and, springing\nto the ground, they gave chase to the genius. The boys, also, who rode\nthe horses that dragged the boat unlinked them, and joined in the\npursuit. It was a noble chase! But when George found himself pursued, he\nleft the side of the canal, and took to the fields, clearing hedge,\nditch, fence, and stone wall, with an agility that would have done\ncredit to a first-rate hunter. The horses were at fault in following his\nexample, and the boys gave up the chase; and when the boatmen had\npursued him for the space of half-a-mile, finding they were losing\nground at every step they returned, panting and breathless, to their\nboat. George, however, slackened his pace but little until he arrived at\nthe Edgeware Road, and there he resumed his wonted slow and melancholy\nsaunter, and sorrowfully returned towards London. He now, poor fellow,\nsometimes shut his eyes, to avoid the sight of his own shadow, which he\nseemed to regard as a caricature of his forlorn person; and, in truth,\nhe now appeared miserably forlorn--I had almost said ludicrously so. His\ncoat has been already mentioned, with its wounded elbows, and imagine it\nnow with the skirts which had been torn away with the hayfork, when the\nauthor of an epic was nearly forked upon a cart, as he reposed in a\nbundle of hay--imagine now the coat with that skirt awkwardly pinned to\nit--fancy also that the button-holes had become useless, and that all\nthe buttons, save two, had taken leave of his waistcoat--his trousers,\nalso, were as smooth at the knees as though they had been glazed and\nhot-pressed, and they were so bare, so very bare, that the knees could\nalmost be seen through them without spectacles. Imagine, also, that this\nsuit had once been black, and that it had changed colours with the\nweather, the damp hay, the painted canvas, and the cold earth on which\nhe slept; and add to this a hat, the brim of which was broken, and the\ncrown fallen in--with shoes, the soles of which had departed, and the\nheels involuntarily gone down, as if ready to perform the service of\nslippers. Imagine these things, and you have a personification of George\nRogers, as he now wended his weary way towards London.\n\nHe had reached the head of Oxford Street, and he was standing irresolute\nwhether to go into the city or turn into the Park, to hide himself from\nthe eyes of man, and to lie down in solitude with his misery, when a\nlady and a gentleman crossed the street to where he stood. Their eyes\nfell upon him--the lady started--George beheld her, and he started\ntoo--he felt his heart throb, and a blush burn over his cheek. He knew\nher at the first glance--it was the fair stranger--his mother's\nfirst-foot! He turned round--he hurried towards the Park--he was\nafraid--he was ashamed to look behind him. A thousand times had he\nwished to meet that lady again, and now he had met her, and he fled from\nher--the shame of his habiliments entered his soul. Still he heard\nfootsteps behind him, and he quickened his pace. Ho had entered the\nPark, but yet he heard the sound of the footsteps following.\n\n\"Stop, young man!\" cried a voice from behind him. But George walked on\nas though he heard it not. The word \"stop!\" was repeated; but, instead\nof doing so, he was endeavouring to hurry onward, when, as we have said,\none of the shoes which had become slippers, and which, bad before, were\nnow worse from his flight across the ploughed fields, came off, and he\nwas compelled to stop and stoop, to put it again upon his foot, or to\nleave his shoe behind him. While he stopped, therefore, to get his shoe\nagain upon his foot, the person who followed him came up--it was the\ngentleman whom he had seen with the fair unknown. With difficulty he\nobtained a promise from George that he would call upon him at his house\nin Pimlico in the afternoon; and when he found our genius too proud to\naccept of money, he thrust into the pocket of the memorable skirt, which\nthe hayfork had torn from the parent cloth, all the silver which he had\nupon his person.\n\nWhen the gentleman had left him, George burst into tears. They were\ntears of pride, of shame, and of agony.\n\nAt length, he took the silver from the pocket of his skirt; he counted\nit in his hand--it amounted to nearly twenty shillings. Twenty shillings\nwill go farther in London than in any city in the world, with those who\nknow how to spend it--but much depends upon that. By all the by-ways he\ncould find, George winded his way down to Rosemary Lane, where the\n\"_Black and Blue Reviver_\" worketh miracles, and where the children of\nIsrael are its high priests. Within an hour, wonderful was the\nmetamorphosis upon the person of George Rogers. At eleven o'clock he was\nclothed as a beggar--at twelve he was shabby-genteel. The hat in ruins\nwas replaced by one of a newer shape, and that had been brushed and\nironed till it was as clear as a looking-glass. The skirtless coat was\nthrown aside for an olive-coloured one of metropolitan cut, with a\nvelvet collar, and of which, as the Israelite who sold it said, \"de\n_glosh_ was not off.\" The buttonless vest was laid aside for one of a\nlight colour, and the place of the decayed trousers was supplied by a\npair of pure white; yea, his feet were enclosed in sheep-skin shoes,\nwhich, he was assured, had never been upon foot before. Such was the\nchange produced upon the outer man of George Rogers through twenty\nshillings; and, thus arrayed, with a beating and an anxious heart, he\nproceeded in the afternoon to the home of the beautiful stranger who had\nbeen the eventful first-foot in his father's house. As he crossed the\nPark by the side of the Serpentine, he could not avoid stopping to\ncontemplate, perhaps I should say admire, the change that had been\nwrought upon his person, as it was reflected in the water as in a\nmirror. When he had arrived at Pimlico, and been ushered into the house,\nthere was surprise on the face of the gentleman as he surveyed the\nchange that had come over the person of his guest; but in the\ncountenance of the young lady there was more of delight than of\nsurprise. When he had sat with them for some time, the gentleman\nrequested that he would favour them with his history and his adventures\nin London. George did so from the days of his childhood, until the day\nwhen the fair lady before him became his mother's first-foot; and he\nrecounted also his adventures and his struggles in London, as we have\nrelated them; and, as he spoke, the lady wept. As he concluded, he\nsaid--\"And, until this day, I have ever found an expression, which my\nuncle made in a letter, verified, that 'the moment the elbows of my coat\nopened, every door would shut.'\"\n\n\"Your uncle!\" said the gentleman, eagerly; \"who is he?--what is his\nname?\"\n\n\"He commands a vessel of his own in the merchant service,\" replied\nGeorge, \"and his name is John Rogers.\"\n\n\"John Rogers!\" added the gentleman; \"and your father's name?\"\n\n\"Richard Rogers,\" answered George.\n\nThe young lady gazed upon him anxiously, and words seemed leaping to her\ntongue, when the gentleman prevented her, saying, \"Isabel, love, I wish\nto speak with this young man in private;\" and she withdrew. When they\nwere left alone, the gentleman remained silent for a few minutes, at\ntimes gazing in the face of George, and again placing his hand upon his\nbrow. At length he said--\"I know your uncle, and I am desirous of\nserving you--he also will assist you, if you continue to deserve it. But\nyou must give up book-making as a business; and you must not neglect\nbusiness for book-making. You understand me. I shall give you a letter\nto a gentleman in the city, who will take you into his counting-house;\nand if, at the expiration of three months, I find your conduct has been\nsuch as to deserve my approbation, you shall meet me here again.\"\n\nHe then wrote a letter, which, having sealed, he put, with a purse, into\nthe hands of George, who sat speechless with gratitude and astonishment.\n\nOn the following day, George delivered the letter to the merchant, and\nwas immediately admitted as a clerk into his counting-house. He was\nignorant of the name of his uncle's friend; and when he ventured to\ninquire at the merchant respecting him, he merely told him, he was one\nwhose good opinion he would not advise him to forfeit. In this state of\nsuspense, George laboured day by day at the desk; and although he was\nmost diligent, active, and anxious to please, yet frequently, when he\nwas running up figures, or making out an invoice, his secret thoughts\nwere of the fair Isabel--the daughter of his uncle's friend, and his\nmother's first-foot. He regretted that he did not inform her father\nthat he was his uncle's heir--he might then have been admitted to his\nhouse, and daily seen her on whom his thoughts dwelt. His situation was\nagreeable enough--it was paradise to what he had experienced; yet the\nthree months of his probation seemed longer than twelve.\n\nHe had been a few weeks employed in the counting-house, when he received\na letter from his parents. His father informed him that they had\nreceived a letter from his uncle, who was then in London; but, added he,\n\"he has forgotten to gie us his direction, where we may write to him, or\nwhere ye may find him.\" His mother added an important postscript, in\nwhich she informed him that \"She was sorry she was richt after a', that\nthere wasna luck in a squintin first-foot; for he would mind o' the\nsailor that brought the letter, that said he was to be his uncle's heir;\nand now it turned out that his uncle had found an heir o' his ain.\"\n\nIt was the intention of George, when he had read the letter, to go to\nthe house of his benefactor, and inquire for his uncle's address, or the\nname of the ship; but when he reflected that he might know neither--that\nhe was not to return to his house for three months, nor until he was\nsent for--and, above all, when he thought that he was no longer his\nuncle's heir, and that he now could offer up no plea for looking up to\nthe lovely Isabel--he resumed his pen with a stifled sigh, and abandoned\nthe thought of finding out his uncle for the present.\n\nHe had been rather more than ten weeks in the office, when the unknown\nIsabel entered and inquired for the merchant. She smiled upon George as\nshe passed him--the smile entered his very soul, and the pen shook in\nhis hand. It was drawing towards evening, and the merchant requested\nGeorge to accompany the young lady home. Joy and agitation raised a\ntumult in his breast--he seized his hat--he offered her his arm--but he\nscarce knew what he did. For half-an-hour he walked by her side without\ndaring or without being able to utter a single word. They entered the\nPark; the lamps were lighted amidst the trees along the Mall, and the\nyoung moon shone over them. It was a lovely and an imposing scene, and\nwith it George found a tongue. He dwelt upon the effect of the\nscenery--he quoted passages from his own epic--and he spoke of the time\nwhen his fair companion was his mother's first-foot. She informed him\nthat she was then hastening to the death-bed of her grandfather, whom\nshe believed to be the only relative that she had in life--that she\narrived in time to receive his blessing, and that, with his dying\nbreath, he told her her father yet lived--and, for the first time, she\nheard his name, and had found him. George would have asked what that\nname was, but when he attempted to do so he hesitated, and the question\nwas left unfinished. They spoke of many things, and often they walked in\nsilence; and it was not until the watchman called, \"Past nine o'clock,\"\nthat they seemed to discover that, instead of proceeding towards\nPimlico, they had been walking backward and forward upon the Mall. Ho\naccompanied her to her father's door, and left her with his heart filled\nwith unutterable thoughts.\n\nThe three months had not quite expired, when the anxiously-looked-for\ninvitation arrived, and George Rogers was to dine at the house of his\nuncle's friend, the father of the fair Isabel. I shall not describe his\nfeelings as he hastened along the streets towards Pimlico. He arrived at\nthe house, and his hand shook as he reached it to the rapper. The door\nwas opened by a strange-looking footman. George thought that he had seen\nhim before--it was indeed a face that, if once seen, was not easily\nforgotten. The footman had not such large whiskers as Bill Somers, but\nthey were of the same colour, and they certainly were the same eyes that\nhad frightened his mother in the head of her first-foot. He was shown\ninto a room where Isabel and her father waited to receive him. \"When I\nlast saw you, sir,\" said the latter, \"you informed me you were the\nnephew of John Rogers. He finds he has no cause to be ashamed of you.\nGeorge, my dear fellow, your uncle Jack gives you his hand! Isabel,\nwelcome your cousin!\"\n\n\"My cousin!\" cried George.\n\n\"My cousin!\" said Isabel.\n\nWhat need we say more--before the New Year came, they went down to\nScotland a wedded pair, to be his mother's first-foot in the farmhouse,\nwhich had been rebuilt.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF PERTH.\n\n\nIn the year 1310, King Robert Bruce had overcome many of those\nextraordinary difficulties that threatened to render all the efforts of\nmere man unavailable in regaining for Scotland that perfect liberty of\nwhich she had so long boasted, and which, though it had never been taken\nfrom her absolutely, had been, by the unwarrantable schemes and policy\nof the first Edward, loosened from her grasp, and lay trampled on by the\nfierce genius of war. Great and wonderful, however, as had already been\nthe prowess and determination of Bruce, and successful beyond the\naspirations of hope as had been his efforts in the glorious cause of his\ncountry's freedom, there was great room for question whether Scotland\nwould even at this period have triumphed, had the sceptre of England not\nfallen so opportunely into the hands of the second Edward. The first and\ngreatest of all Scotland's foes, the first Edward, had died three years\nbefore, at Burgh-upon-Sands, leaving, as Froissart informs us, his dying\ninjunction on his son, to boil his body in a caldron, till the bones\nshould part with the flesh, and to carry the grim relics with him into\nScotland, with the condition that they should not be buried till\nScotland was subdued. The legacy of dry bones, from which the spirit of\nthe great king had departed, was apparently all of his father that the\nyoung Edward inherited; for he soon displayed so much vacillation of\npolicy, and so little genius for war, that, if Providence had intended\nto work to the hands of Bruce for the salvation of his country, she\ncould not have brought about her designs with greater effect than by\ngiving Bruce as an enemy the young King of England. Things were going\nstraight forward to the result of Bannockburn. Bruce had been successful\nalmost everywhere. The clergy at Dundee had declared his right to the\nthrone, and the injustice of the decision that gave Baliol the crown;\nthe nobles, with the exception of Angus, Buchan, and some others, were\nin his favour; but, above all, the common people, in whom the true\nsovereignty of every country lies, had begun to see in their new king\nthose qualities that are calculated to move the heart. The hopes of\nBruce rose every hour; and, having scattered the forces of the English\nin every recent encounter, he saw the necessity, and felt the power, of\nseizing some of the walled towns that Edward had fortified with much\ncare, as if stone and lime could bind the freedom of Scotland. The town\nof Perth was the one that seemed then of greatest importance, as well\nfrom its central situation between the Highlands and Lowlands, as from\nthe state of its battlements, which were a regular fortification, with\nstrong walls defended by high towers, and all surrounded by a broad and\ndeep fosse.\n\nThe town had for some time been under siege, and, being one of those\nthat Edward was determined to hold to the last, was promised succour\nwith the first supplies that should enter the Tay. It was commanded by\nWilliam Oliphant, an Anglicised Scot, who, with a firmness worthy of a\nbetter cause, had resolved to be true to the enemy of his country, and\nto give up the town only with his life. But his efforts were sorely\nthwarted by the remissness of Edward in sending provisions, and by the\neffects of a grievous famine, that, as a consequence of the intestine\nwars by which the country had been so wofully torn, was desolating the\nland in every quarter. He had already drained the pockets of the most\nwealthy of the citizens, by forcing them to supply him with money, by\nwhich he contrived to get in provisions to enable him to hold out\nagainst Bruce. Among the rest, a rich burgher from the Lower Provinces,\nPeter of Ghent (his latter name has not reached us) was expected to lend\nhim a large sum of money. The Fleming was, in those days, what the Scots\nafterwards became--remarkable for the possession of the faculty of\nprudence--the legitimate offspring of the genius of merchandise. By the\nimportation of broadcloths and armour gear, he had contrived to realise\na large fortune, and was reported by the good men of Perth as one of the\nwealthiest merchants in the kingdom. He had only one child, a daughter,\ncommonly known by the name of Anne of Ghent, a young creature of great\nbeauty, and, what may appear to have been somewhat remarkable in her\nstation, of a spirit that was deeply imbued with the love of chivalry.\nBut we would form a very inadequate estimate of the charms of that\nextraordinary power which overturned kingdoms and damsels' hearts\nwherever its influence was felt, if we were to limit its sphere to the\nsons and daughters of nobility. Its principles, indeed, are found in\nevery bosom that responds to the sentiments of love and heroism; and\nfrom the humble and beautiful Anne of Ghent, up to the noble and heroic\nIsabella of Buchan, the spirit burned with a fervour that was only in\nsome accounted less strong because no opportunities wore afforded for\nits display.\n\nIt was not in Scotland that this spirit had been first fanned into a\nflame in the bosom of the fair Fleming, but in France, where the _preux\nchevalier_ was seen in all his pride and glory. When about sixteen years\nof age, she had accompanied her father to Flanders, when he resorted\nthither for the purpose of traffic; and, in order to gratify his\ndaughter, of whom he was justly proud, he had taken her to Paris, to be\npresent at a joust held before Louis IX. The display of arms on that\noccasion was a trial between Sir Piers Guyard and Sir William\nIndelgonde, the latter of whom, having defamed the mistress of the\nformer, had been compelled, by order of Louis, to prove his assertion by\nthe issue of a mortal combat. The battle ended by the death of\nIndelgonde; but what possessed greater charms to Anne than the details\nof the _duellum_, was the extraordinary sight she witnessed of twenty\nuntried squires of France, all arrayed in shining coats of armour, with\nlong flowing plumes of various colours on their glittering basnets,\ntaking, according to the custom of these days, their first oaths,\n\"before the peacock and the ladies,\" that they would not see with both\neyes until they had accomplished some daring deed of arms. The gay bird\nof gaudy hues was brought into a large pavilion erected at the end of\nthe arena; and, like that before which King Edward I. swore at\nWestminster when he denounced poor Scotland, was encircled with a thin\ncovering of golden gauze, and placed on a tripod ornamented with many\ncarved devices of chivalry. The squires, one by one, knelt before the\nbird, and recited their oaths, and then, turning round to the queens of\ntheir destinies, solicited like mendicants, with one knee on the ground,\na silk riband to bind up the orb which was about to be deprived of the\nfair sight of their charms. Nearly opposite to where Anne sat, a very\nyoung chevalier of the name of Rolande of Leon knelt for his eye gear;\nand though twenty ladies of birth, all anxious that their gifts should\nbe accepted, threw to him ribands of silk, it happened that, whether\nfrom chance or from some mysterious sympathy between the hand and eyes\nof the young mendicant, a narrow green stripe, that Anne in her\nenthusiasm tore hurriedly from her head-gear, fell into his willing\ngrasp. When she saw the fluttering trophy in the hands of so comely a\nyouth, she trembled with modest fear; for she knew that, as the daughter\nof a burgher, rich as he was, she had but a very questionable title to\ncompete for the honours of chivalry; but, when she saw the riband bound\nround his head, and the helmet placed upon it, she was ready to faint\noutright, and it was with difficulty that she retained her position on\nthe bench. As soon as the crowd began to move, she hastened away to join\nher father, who was waiting for her beyond the palisades. Next day she\nwas on her way to Flanders, and shortly afterwards she arrived at the\ncity of Perth.\n\nTwo or three years had now passed since the fair Fleming acted the\nalmost involuntary part of a high lady, within the pale of the _Theatre\nde la chevalerie_. Living, with the rich old merchant, within the walls\nof a city devoted to traffic, she had had few opportunities of\nwitnessing another show of arms. The warriors of Scotland were then\nholding their jousts in the open fields and thick forests; and, in place\nof fighting for the smiles of women, were doing battle for the liberties\nof their ancient and much-abused country. But the rising fame of Bruce,\nhis brother Edward, and Douglas, and Randolph, claimed her feelings of\nadmiration; and she would have given her rosary itself, with her\njewelled cross, to have got a glimpse of men of whom all the ladies of\nChristendom were enamoured. She often pictured to herself, as she sat in\nher small parlour that fronted the city wall, their forms firmly girt\nwith their shining armour; but a visor was never lifted up to the eye of\nher fancy without revealing the feature of Rolande, as she saw him\nkneeling at her feet for the gift he solicited and obtained. The face\nhad been deeply imprinted in her memory, and the encircling gift which\nshe had bestowed, seemed to connect her by some indefinable tie with one\nwhom she might never see again, but of whom she could never cease to\nthink. His elegant and manly form, which displayed all the graces of the\naccomplished man-at-arms, mixed itself with all her thoughts, and her\ngreatest delight was to pre-figure to herself the appearance, on some\noccasion, of that same warrior, with his left eye bound by the badge she\nhad given him, and a declaration on his tongue, as he knelt before her,\nthat she had the sole power of restoring him full-orbed to the light,\nwhich he might now claim as the reward of his prowess.\n\nAnne was thus one evening indulging in some of these reveries of a\nlove-sick brain, when Peter of Ghent entered the room. He was dressed in\nhis Sunday's suit, with his ample surcoat of the best broadcloth, girt\nround the waist with a leather belt, his broad slouched hat of felt, and\nboots of the old Flemish style turned down at the tops, forming\naltogether a favourable contrast with the roughly-clad people of those\nearly times, when the rough hats, coarse jerkins, and untanned shoes,\nconstituted the apparel of Scotland's sons. Anne looked up, and a slight\nfeeling of surprise passed through her mind as she noticed him thus\narrayed.\n\n\"The town is still in great danger, Anne,\" said he, as he took a seat by\nher side, at the fire of blazing faggots, that threw a bright glare over\nthe beautiful face of his daughter. \"The enemies of Edward seem to be on\nthe increase. Dundee has surrendered, the whole of Galloway has been\nravaged, and Bruce, become bolder by his success, lies looking on our\ngood town, as the wolves of Atholl look on the sheepfold in the glen.\"\n\n\"If there had been lions in these parts, father,\" answered Anne, \"I\nmight have heard from thee a comparison more suitable to the qualities\nof that brave soldier.\"\n\n\"These words, Anne,\" replied Peter, \"but ill become a liege woman of\nKing Edward. This poor country cannot thrive without the protecting\npower of England, where more broadcloths are disposed of in one year\nthan Scotland uses in ten. The limbs of the sturdy hills and dales men\nseem to spurn all modes of human comfort; yet verily the love of ease\nand warmth to the body is the parent of all arts and improvement; and\nuntil that begins to be felt, we can have no hope of Scotland.\"\n\nAnne looked up, and smiled at this professional allusion to the source\nof her father's wealth.\n\n\"But I need not so speak to the pretty Anne,\" he added, returning her\nsmile; \"for I know that thou hast the fashionable womanish affection of\nthese times for steel, as the commodity of man's apparel; and thereto\nappertaineth the subject of which I came to speak to thee. Our governor,\nWilliam Oliphant--who, though a Scotchman, is as true an adherent of\nEdward as ever fought under the banner-borne bones of his\nfather--wanteth a thousand Flemish nobles, to enable him to get\nprovisions for our citizens from a Dutch galley in the Tay; and whom\nshould he apply to for it but Peter of Ghent, who is looked upon as\nbeing the richest man of Perth?\"\n\n\"And wilt thou give it him, father?\" said Anne. \"Of a surety, thou wilt\nlose it, if thou dost; for, were Perth as strong as Roxburgh, which,\nthey say, is the strongest hold of these parts, it would not stand\nagainst such a warrior as Robert Bruce; and where wilt thou get thy\nmoney again, if the town falls into the hands of the Scots?\"\n\n\"That is a good point of argument for a woman, love,\" replied Peter. \"I\nfear for the old town myself; for they tell me that Bruce's fame has\nbrought to his blue banner three French knights, with their left eyes\nbound up by ladies' favours, who deem that their feats of arms in an\nescalade of Perth may restore to them their sight. Doubtless they will\nfight like lions or devils; but seest thou not, that, whether I give the\nmoney or not, the town may fall, and all I have in the world may be\nwrenched from me by these naked caterans, to whom a single merk, albeit\nit were clipped to the dimensions of King David's bodles, would be a\nfortune?\"\n\nAnne was silent. The mention of the monoculous knights of France had\ndriven merks and all other moneys from her mind, and she would have\nrejoiced to have seen Perth taken upon the instant, provided always that\nshe were taken with it. But Peter understood not her absence of mind,\nand resumed his argument, on the assumption that Anne was listening with\nall due attention to his scheme.\n\n\"But Peter of Ghent,\" he again said, \"never gave a silver piece, or a\nwoollen piece either, for nothing; and, if my dutiful Anne will enter\ninto my scheme, she may have for her consort no less a man than William\nOliphant himself, the Governor of Perth, and her wedding-dress shall be\nof the best silks of Nismes, the richest gloves of Grenoble, and sandals\nfrom the fair of Bocaire.\"\n\nThis announcement of some cunning purpose of her father filled Anne with\nalarm. Oliphant, a dissolute man, had been sometimes in the habit of\ncalling at the house, and she had often thought that she herself was the\nobject of his attraction. Her father, by mentioning the French knights\nthat fought under the banner of Bruce, had raised a hope that her\nchevalier of the green riband was among them, and now he had caused an\nalarm that might have been read in her countenance.\n\n\"William Oliphant, the Governor of Perth,\" she replied, as she held down\nher face towards the blazing faggots, \"will not surely stoop to marry\nthe daughter of a Flemish merchant.\"\n\n\"Money will make any man stoop, fair Anne,\" replied Peter. \"I have heard\nthe back armour of the bravest knight of the lists crack with the bow to\nMammon, as loud as when he knelt to the peacock. A merchant knows the\nscience of provisos, and conditions, and stipulations, and never a\nScotch plack will William Oliphant get from Peter of Ghent, but upon the\ncondition that he wed my Anne, when the town is saved from the arms of\nBruce and his blind knights, and the promised succours shall arrive from\nEngland. By Saint Dennis, we may have a jolly wedding in the midst of\nour jubilee of liberation. What sayest, my love?\"\n\nAnne still hung down her head. She feared to oppose her father, who was\nindulgent to her, and had hitherto prided himself on her obedience. She\nwas, besides, overcome with the conflicting thoughts that had been so\nsuddenly raised in her mind by the mention of the French knights, and of\nthis new purpose of her father, that seemed to destroy all the hopes she\nstill entertained of one day enjoying the affections of the man who had\nfirst produced an effect upon her heart. A deep sigh escaped from her,\nand roused her father's suspicions of the cause of her silence.\n\n\"Speak, Anne,\" he said; \"thou hast already captivated the governor by\nthy beauty, and my money will do the rest. He will be knighted by\nEdward, if he beat off the Bruce; and my daughter will be a lady.\"\n\n\"William Oliphant is not a man according to my heart, father,\" answered\nshe, at last, with a trembling heart; \"but might I be absolved from my\nengagement to marry him, if the town falls before the arms of the\nScots?\" she added, as she looked modestly and fearfully into his face.\n\n\"Most certainly, love,\" replied Peter; \"and, moreover, thou shalt not be\nbound to Oliphant personally, for it is I that must make the condition\nthat he will marry thee, in consideration of the loan I gave him for the\ngood old town.\"\n\nWell pleased with the dutiful answer he had got from his daughter, the\nworthy man of traffic sallied forth to meet, by special appointment, the\ngovernor, who anxiously waited for him in his residence. After he had\ngone forth, Anne bethought herself of what her fear of offending her\nfather had wrung from her. Though timid from love and duty, she was of a\nnoble spirit, and upheld her heart, as it recoiled from the thought of\nbecoming the wife of a man she hated, by revolving in her mind the\nchances of the gallant Scots forcing the town to surrender, and\nrelieving her from her qualified obligation. She wished all success to\nthe chivalrous Bruce, because she loved the character of him, and the\ngreat and enthusiastic spirits who were struggling for freedom; but she\nwas filled with a high swelling hope, that burned in her bright eye, and\nheaved her bosom, that her chosen knight of the lists was among the\nthree Frenchmen, who were undergoing their probation for the honours of\nchivalry. At that moment, her lover was in all probability at a very\nshort distance from her--her lady-gift still bound the flowing hair of\ndark auburn she had seen and admired, as it escaped from beneath his\nhelm; her power was still exercised in occluding one of the darkest and\nmost brilliant eyes that ever peered through the warrior's visor, and\nthe thought of her then sitting and dreaming of him was perhaps\noccupying his mind, and filling his heart. Then rose the thrilling\nthought, that, ere another week passed over, her own hands might be\nrequired to unbind the pledge, and the light of the eye that had so long\nbeen hid from the sun, might first be thrown upon the face of her who\nbound it. The hazards of a siege were despised by her bold spirit, as it\ncontemplated these glowing visions. She feared nothing for either\nherself or her father from men who, while they fought like lions for\ntheir country's liberty, were actuated by the high and noble spirit of\nchivalry. Possessing that confidence in the generosity of noble hearts\nwhich seems to be natural to lovely women, she would throw herself on\nthe protection of Bruce himself; claiming that, she could defy all\ndanger, from whatever quarter it might come; and her request for safety\nto her father would be as successful as her petition for herself. In the\nsiege and capture of the town, her best and dearest interests were\ninvolved; for she would contemplate the success of great men fighting in\na cause she loved, she would have the chance of meeting her lover, and\nshe had the certainty of escaping the licentious Oliphant, who could not\nclaim her, in the event of losing his treacherous cause in fighting\nagainst his country. The sounds of the clang of arms of the assailants\nwould at that moment have been the sweetest sound she ever heard; and\nshe drew deep sighs, as she contemplated the chances of their triumph.\n\nUnconscious of the thoughts that were revolving in the excited mind of\nhis daughter, Peter of Ghent walked along the streets of Perth, till he\ncame to the residence of the governor. His mind was too much occupied on\nthe subject of his diplomatic undertaking to allow him to notice the\ngazing burghers, who, from their windows, stared at the rich Fleming,\nand suspected that the object of his expedition was in some way\nconnected with the perilous state of the town. He found the governor\nwaiting for him; and, having made his bow, was soon seated by the\nofficial's fire.\n\n\"Well, Peter of Ghent,\" began Oliphant, \"hast thou bethought thyself of\nmy request--to give me the thousand nobles that are required for the\nsupport of the town against the arms of the Bruce, whose head deserveth\na spear, alongside of that which upholdeth Wallace's on London Bridge,\nor whose body meriteth a cage, alongside of the Countess of Buchan's\ncrib, in the Castle of Berwick. What sayest thou?\"\n\n\"The sum thou mentionest, Sir Governor,\" replied the cunning burgher,\n\"hath been laid apart for the tocher of Anne, who meriteth well of the\ngood consideration thou hast bestowed on her. The marriage dower is a\nsacred gift. Dost thou think as well of her now as formerly?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, Peter of Ghent, I do,\" replied Oliphant, who probably saw\nsome obscure connection between Peter's sentences which the words\nthemselves scarcely supplied. \"No man with a heart could see that maiden\nonce, and forget her ever. Less beautiful women have been the cause of\nthe meeting of bleeding heads and sawdust; and thou wilt not be far\nbeyond the Saracen's head of thy suspicion, if thou deemest me a lover\nof fair Anne of Ghent.\"\n\n\"That I have had a fair cause to suspect,\" said Peter; \"and I am well\nentitled to opine that Anne would give her consent to my paying the sum\nrequired of me, upon the consideration that it was merely a species of\nforeinstalment of dowery, given for the double purpose of saving the\ntown and securing a governor of her heart. A man that can defend, so\nnobly as you have done, a walled city, could keep a woman's heart in\ngood discipline.\"\n\n\"A right fair point of dialects, Peter of Ghent,\" replied Oliphant; \"but\nwe had better speak of concernments of love after the city is saved. Let\nus have the nobles in the meanwhile, and we will discuss the merits of\nthe fair Anne, when we have time and leisure to appreciate the qualities\nof womankind.\"\n\n\"Well and veritably indited,\" said Peter; \"but it would lubricate and\nfacilitate the gaining of Anne's consent to the payment of this money,\nif I could report to her that it was to be paid as a matrimonial propine\nto the man she loveth; and, to be honest, I cannot, of a truth, pay it,\nbut upon that stipulation.\"\n\n\"And, by the honour of a governor! I am well pleased to think that I am\nthus estimated by so fair a creature. Let us have the money; and, if all\ngoes well with the town, I shall look for a second tocher, of another\nthousand, with the hand of thy daughter.\"\n\n\"Concluded, Sir Governor,\" cried Peter, in ecstasy.\n\nAnd the two sat down to finish, over a bottle of Burgundy, the details\nof a bargain which, on one side, was, at least, sincere; but on the\nother, was deemed, by those who knew the faithless character of the man,\nof, at least, dubious faith. Whatever sincerity, however, was felt and\nexhibited by Peter, in so far as concerned the governor, it was very\nclear that he had acted a part of true mercantile subtlety, in so far as\nregarded the interests of his fair daughter. Meanwhile, the money was\npaid, and extraordinary efforts were made by Oliphant to get foraging\nparties sent abroad, to procure, for the inhabitants, the necessary\nsupplies. The motions of these troops, as well as those of the\nbesiegers, were regularly noticed by Anne from a part of the wall to\nwhich she had access from her father's house. Her interest in the issue\nof the impending strife was the greatest that could be felt by woman;\nfor it involved the dearest rights of her sex. Bound to Oliphant only in\nthe event of his success, his defeat might bring to her the object of\nher affections, and she looked for every demonstration of activity on\nthe part of Bruce as a sign of her coming liberation.\n\nDuring these watchful operations of the fair Fleming, the soldiers of\nBruce remained steady at their post, where they had already been for\nfive weeks, endeavouring to prevent any supplies from being sent into\nthe town. Their numbers as yet, however, were so few, and the\nfortifications of Perth so extensive, that a considerable portion of the\nground surrounding the town was left under the surveillance of a species\nof riding patrole, which the indefatigable endeavours of Oliphant\nsometimes succeeded in enabling the purveyors to elude. A like good\nfortune did not attend some of those sent to turn the merks of Peter of\nGhent into edibles; for several foragers were intercepted in their\npassage from the country to the besieged city. One of these--a person\ncalled Giles Mortimer--was taken before Bruce, and examined as to the\nstate of the town's provisions.\n\n\"Well, sirrah, are these rebels still determined to hold out?\" said the\nking.\n\n\"There are many murmurs in the town, sire,\" replied the man; \"and were\nit not, as fame reporteth, that a rich citizen hath given the governor a\nthousand Flemish nobles, on condition that he marry his daughter, I do\nbelieve that not another noble would have been wrung from any one in the\nwhole city.\"\n\n\"And what is the name of this rich citizen?\" said Bruce.\n\n\"How could it be any other than Peter of Ghent?\" said the man, with a\nsmile; \"for is he not the richest citizen of Perth?\"\n\n\"We have heard of this same Peter of Ghent,\" said Bruce; \"and, by our\ncrown, we should not be ill pleased to be present at the wedding of his\ndaughter. We have some French knights here, who would dance merrily, in\nhonour of the fair bride. What is her name?\"\n\n\"Anne of Ghent she is called,\" replied the man; \"and, by'r lady, she\nmight, for the matter of beauty, be the wife of a king.\"\n\n\"And when is the wedding to be?\" rejoined Brace.\n\n\"When the governor can declare the town to be safe from the Bruce,\"\nreplied the man.\n\n\"And that will be when the hares in the pass of Ben Cruachan are safe\nfrom the wolves of Lorn,\" replied Bruce, laughing, and looking around to\nhis chiefs. \"Now, look around you, sir, at these warriors, and after\nthou hast made a gauge of their numbers, and learned that every castle\nwe have yet attempted hath fallen before us, go and tell William\nOliphant that we intend to be present at his wedding with the fair Anne\nof Ghent, and cannot think of waiting either for the succours of King\nEdward, or for our own defeat. Hie thee on our message, sirrah.\"\n\nThe man was accordingly liberated; and Bruce, during that same day,\nhaving resolved to perform by stratagem what seemed to be impossible by\nthe fair play of arms, took with him Sir James Douglas, and went to\nreconnoitre. Great and even marvellous as was the courage of these\nfar-famed assertors of their country's freedom, it may be doubted\nwhether their genius for daring and successful stratagem did not excel\nthe chivalrous spirit of fair-fighting by which they were actuated to\nperform deeds of arms that have made the whole world ring with their\nfame. The capture of the peel or castle of Linlithgow, and that of\nEdinburgh, afterwards performed, were the most cunningly-devised pieces\nof military stratagem that had ever been witnessed; and the work of old\nPolyaenus on the warlike acts of the strategists of Greece exhibits\nnothing that can be compared to them. Bruce had already exhibited this\ntalent for scheming, in the affairs of Lindon Hill and Cruachan Ben; but\nhis powers in this respect were yet to be developed on a grander scale,\nand as it were by gradation, till the final triumph of Bannockburn\nshould establish his fame for ever. The capture of Perth was one of\nthose intermediate and probationary trials that were fitting the great\nmaster for that final and glorious display of all his talents for war;\nbut, small as it was in comparison of what followed, it exhibited\nperhaps as much of his peculiar genius as had yet been shown.\nAccompanied by Sir James, he went, during the hours of twilight, up to\nthe margin of the fosse.\n\n\"We must know the depth cf this miniature Styx,\" he said to his\ncompanion.\n\n\"But we have no measuring-rods,\" replied Sir James.\n\n\"By thine own St Bride! we have though,\" replied Bruce, smiling. \"I am\nsix feet two inches in height.\" And, in an instant, he was up to the\nneck in the water; proceeding forward he reached the bottom of the wall,\nand satisfied himself that all the tall men of his army might make their\nway through the ditch without incurring the danger of being drowned.\nHaving ascertained this, he returned to the camp, and having provided\nhimself and his companion (for he avoided any show of men) with\nscaling-ladders of ropes, they again sallied forth under the shade of\nthe increasing darkness, and reached the spot that had already been\ntested. With one of the ladders in his hand, he again plunged into the\nwater, and made a signal for Sir James to follow; but the knight wanted\nfull two inches of the height of the king, and hesitated a moment, from\na well-grounded suspicion that he would be overwhelmed. But shame\nmastered his scruples, and in an instant he was alongside of the king,\nwho, however, required to seize and sustain him, to prevent his being\ntaken off his feet by the power of the water, that was almost on a level\nwith his lips. They paused a moment in this position, to listen if there\nwere any sounds of stir on the walls, and, perceiving all quiet, they\nproceeded, and reached the bottom of the fortification. Sir James stood\nclose to the wall, and Bruce, by the aid of some jutting stones, mounted\nupon his shoulders, remarking, with a quaint humour, that the knight\nrequired some weight to be placed upon him, to enable him to keep his\nerect position. In this strange attitude the king contrived to throw up\nand fix the ladders to the top of the first bartizan of the wall, and\nhaving tugged them with all his force, to ascertain their steadfastness,\nhe came down, and was about to retrace his steps, when Sir James, who\ndisdained to be behind even his king in feats of daring, seized the end\nof one of the ladders, and, mounting up, looked calmly over the top of\nthe wall, and satisfied himself of two things--first, that the ladders\nwere properly fixed; and, second, that their daring act had not been\nobserved. Having descended, he was again laid hold of by the king; and\nthey reached the bank, where they deliberately shook the water off them\nafter the manner of water-spaniels, and returned to the camp.\n\nSome of the heads of the army were informed of what had been done, and,\nnext morning, after all the inhabitants of the town were astir, the\nclarion was sounded, loud and long, as if the city had been upon the\ninstant to be attacked. The tents were struck; but, in place of an\nattack, a retreat was the order of the day, and in the course of an hour\nthe whole Scottish host were beyond the sight of the inhabitants of\nPerth. The intelligence was soon therefore circulated within the city,\nthat Bruce had given up the siege, and had departed upon some expedition\nof less difficulty; and the friends of Edward rejoiced that they were\nliberated from so fearful a foe. The communication was received by many\nwith great rejoicings; and a courier, who arrived that same day from\nEngland, announced that Edward had despatched succours to the city,\nwhich would arrive in the Tay nearly as soon as the messenger would\nreach the end of his journey. To Peter of Ghent, this change of\ncircumstances was the apparent prelude to the honours he expected to be\nshowered upon his daughter; but Anne herself, dreaming still of her\nmonoculous knight, and of her anticipated delivery by the champions she\ndesired so ardently to see, looked forward with fear and trembling to\nthe sacrifice that seemed to await her. Her watching at the city walls\nhad been persevered in; but all her care and perspicacity had not\nenabled her to perceive the strange act of Bruce in suspending the\nladder before sounding a retreat. The guarding of the walls was in some\ndegree relaxed, and the inhabitants began again to go forth, and engage\nin their avocations. About three days afterwards, the handmaid of the\nfair Fleming, who was in the secret of her mistress, informed her that,\nas she returned from a meeting near the fortifications with her lover, a\nsoldier, she had observed the top of a rope-ladder affixed to the lower\nbartizan of the west wall; but the girl's information ended with the\nannouncement of the fact, for her simple mind had suggested no\nexplanation of the circumstance. But to Anne's quick thought the\ncommunication presented an aspect pregnant of hope; and, having\ncautioned the maiden against speaking of what she had seen to any of the\ninhabitants, she sallied forth in the light of the moon, and by the\ndirections of her informant soon came to the spot where the ladder was\nsuspended. A train of reflections opened up to her the scheme of Bruce,\nwho had, as she thought, raised the siege, to lull the inhabitants into\na security which he might turn to his advantage. By some bold efforts,\nshe reached the part of the wall to which the instrument of escalade was\nattached, and, in the height of her enthusiasm, she took from her dress\na narrow riband, and bound it to the top of the ropes.\n\n\"The design of these bold spirits,\" she said, \"shall not lack the\ninspiring gift of a woman to hail, as that favour streameth in the wind,\nthe success of the cause that giveth freedom to their country. If\nRolande de Leon may not see this, the eyes of Bruce, that are unbound,\nmay catch a sight of the trophy; and what better evidence may he have\nthat Anne of Ghent wisheth him triumph?\"\n\nAfter indulging in her short monologue, she retreated from the wall, and\nwith some difficulty escaped the eyes of some of the neighbouring\nguards, as she sought with quick steps the house of her father. As she\nentered, Peter of Ghent looked at her as if he would have questioned her\nas to where she had been at so late an hour; but his mind was too much\noccupied by matters of greater moment.\n\n\"Welcome, my love,\" said he to her, as she sat down by the fire. \"I have\nbeen with the governor, who is full of rejoicing at this unexpected\nquittance of the Bruce and his host of wolves. The period of the\nfulfilment of our condition approaches. The succours of Edward are\nexpected every hour; and then, Anne, I have a right to claim for thee a\nlord, who is worthy of thy beauty and thy goodness.\"\n\n\"The Bruce may return, father,\" replied Anne. \"It is not thus that he\nresigns his prey.\"\n\n\"That is nothing to thee or to me, Anne,\" said Peter, somewhat roused.\n\"A knighthood will be the more sure to the governor; and I should like\nas well to see that honour bestowed on thy husband as on thy betrothed.\nGet ready thy marriage-gear, love, and lay aside thy maiden blushes,\nwhich can aid thee as little in capturing a husband, as Bruce's\nbackwardness in the taking of Perth.\"\n\n\"The governor hath not claimed me, father,\" replied Anne, hesitatingly.\n\"He hath not called here since the money was paid to him.\"\n\n\"More still of thy doubtful questionings, wench!\" cried Peter, rising in\nhis anger. \"What is his remissness to thee, if I adhere to my condition,\nand demand my bond? He is bound by his honour; to-morrow he is to be\nhere, and thou must show thy fairest qualities in his presence. Go and\nassign thee thy appurtenances and paraphernals.\"\n\nAnne rose silently and left the room; but it was not to obey her father.\nHer mind was occupied with meditations on the chances of the return of\nBruce, upon which her safety from the arms of Oliphant, and her hope of\nmeeting her French knight, depended. Her calculations of the probability\nof that event were but the operations of her own unaided mind, and\nmisgivings, ushering in painful fears, vindicated a place in her\nthoughts, and made her alternately the victim of hope and apprehension.\nShe could not retire to rest, and her devotions before the Holy Virgin\nwere performed with a fluttering heart, that shook off the holy feelings\nwith which she was accustomed to kneel before the sacred image. The moon\nstill shone bright in at the window, and the stillness that reigned\nwithin the house told her that the inmates had retired to rest. She felt\na strong inclination to go forth, and find that relief which is often\nexperienced by troubled spirits, in the calm beams of the queen of\nnight; and, wrapping around her a mantle, she obeyed the impulse of her\nfeelings. A large garden nearly connected the house with a part of the\nfortifications; and, having perambulated the open space, she sauntered\nalong till she came to an embrasure, at which she set herself down, and\nfixed her eyes on the surrounding ground, where she had formerly seen a\npart of Bruce's besieging forces. She could perceive nothing now but the\nwide plain spread forth in the silver light of the moon, and below her\nfeet the deep fosse which reflected the bright beams from its quiet\nsurface. The wind was hushed, and an unbroken silence seemed to reign\nthroughout all nature. A deep train of meditations took possession of\nher mind; and the sublimed feelings that were called forth by the still\nand solemn silence around her, mixed with and lent an influence to the\nthoughts that were ever and anon busy with the hopes that had not yet\nforsaken her breast. As she sat thus meditating, she thought she\nobserved a dark mass of some moving body upon the plain beyond; and, as\nshe gazed, her attention became more and more fixed upon the\nextraordinary appearance.\n\nIn a short time, the dense mass became more perceptible, and she could\nnow distinguish that it was composed of a body of men, whose motion\nforward was so noiseless that scarcely a single sound met her ear. There\nwas a small body somewhat in advance of the rest, and she now saw that\nthe direction which they held was towards the spot where she had seen\nthe instrument of escalade fixed to the wall. Rising hurriedly, she\ncrept along by the covered way, and was surprised to find that her\npassage was not interrupted by a single guard, the men having, in\nconsequence of the fatigue to which they had been exposed for five\nweeks, taken advantage of Bruce's retreat, and betaken themselves to\nrest. She soon arrived at the spot, and about the same time she observed\nthat the van she had noticed had also got to that part of the fosse\nopposite to where she was now placed. The silence enabled her now to\ncatch the low tones of the men; and the coruscations of their steel\narmour, as the moonbeams played upon it, met her eye. She hesitated a\nmoment whether she would remain or retreat; for the terrors of a siege\nwere before her, and her father was in danger; but she felt that her own\nfreedom from a hated union depended upon the success of the besiegers,\nand the workings of an enthusiastic spirit stilled the whisperings of\nfear. She bent and listened, for articulate sentences now rose from the\nwarriors, who stood for a moment on the brink of the fosse. A gigantic\nindividual, in full mail, stood in the midst of the group, and he could\nbe no other than Bruce himself, whose height exceeded that of most men\nof his day.\n\n\"Art ready?\" said he, as he held forth his spear, the point of which\nglittered in the moonbeams, as he waved it.\n\n\"Ay--on, noble king!\" was responded by another behind him.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" again said the former, and immediately he dashed into\nthe water, which seemed to cover his body to the head.\n\nSome of the others appeared to hesitate for a moment.\n\n\"What shall we say of our French lords,\" cried another, in a French\naccent, \"who live at home in the midst of wassail and jollity, when so\nbrave a knight is here putting his life in hazard to win a hamlet?\" And\nhe was the second that followed the Bruce.\n\n\"Shall a Frenchman, who hath not yet redeemed the sight of his left eye,\nbound by a lady's pledge, be the second to mount the wall,\" was said by\na third, as he rushed forward. In an instant the whole party were in the\nwater.\n\nBruce was now on the ladder. He stopped suddenly, and gazed for a moment\nat the riband on the top of the escalade. Anne's voice met his ear.\n\n\"Come on, come on, brave warriors,\" she said, in a low tone.\n\n\"Who art thou, in Heaven's name?\" replied he.\n\n\"Anne of Ghent, thy friend. The guard is asleep, and the governor\ndeemeth thee far away. I claim indemnity in life and limb to Peter of\nGhent.\"\n\n\"Granted, noble damsel, by the sword of Bruce!\" was the answer;\n\"away--away!--to a place of safety.\"\n\nAnne lost no time in obeying the command. She flew along the covered way\nwith the quickness of light. In her speed she stumbled on the feet of a\nsoldier who lay in a recess of the ramparts, and was almost\nprecipitated to the ground. The man looked up in agitation, and, seeing\nthat it was a woman, growled out a few incoherent sentences, and again\nresigned himself to sleep, from which he might awake only to feel the\nsharp steel of a Scotch dagger, as it sought his heart. She paused a\nlittle, to satisfy herself that the man was not sufficiently roused to\nhear the sounds of the assailants, and, finding all safe, she sought\nhurriedly the dwelling of her father. He was sound asleep when she\nentered, and there was no one stirring; but the sounds of horns were now\nringing through the city, and, as she opened the door of his\nsleeping-apartment, the clamour roused him. Starting to his feet, he\ncalled out to Anne to know the cause of the disturbance.\n\n\"The Bruce is in the act of storming the city, father,\" she said.\n\n\"Then are the dreams of my ambition finished,\" replied Peter; \"and we\nshall be the marks for the vengeance of these savages. I have no chance\nof escape. My money is gone, and the reward that will be given for it\nwill be death.\"\n\n\"Fear not, father,\" said Anne, calmly; \"thou art safe.\"\n\n\"Peter of Ghent,\" replied he, \"who hath furnished money for the support\nof the city, will be among the first objects of the vengeance of the\nBruce. Ha! I hear already the groans of the dying. Whither shall I fly,\nor where shall I conceal myself?\"\n\n\"Thou canst be safe only in this house,\" said Anne. \"The Bruce hath, by\nhis sword, pledged his faith to me that Peter of Ghent shall be safe in\nlife and limb.\"\n\n\"What meaneth the damsel's strange words?\" cried the father. \"Art thou\nmad? Where couldst thou have seen the Bruce?\"\n\n\"Concern not thyself for that, father,\" replied she, with the same\nunperturbed air. \"Thou art safe. The Bruce hath said it.\"\n\nPeter looked at his daughter in blank wonder; and, as the sounds of\nhorns, the clashing of swords, and the screams of the dying met his ear,\nhe trembled and seemed irresolute whether he should repose faith in her\nwords, or take means for his safety. A loud noise now approached the\nhouse; the door was burst open, and three naked caterans entered the\napartment, with bloodstained swords gleaming in their hands. One of them\nrushed forwards, and, seizing Peter, was on the point of thrusting the\nweapon into his bosom.\n\n\"He is safe by the word of the Bruce,\" ejaculated Anne, as she rushed\nbetween the soldier and her father.\n\n\"His name, then?\" cried one of the soldiers behind.\n\n\"Peter of Ghent,\" answered Anne.\n\nThe sword of the soldier was dropped in an instant.\n\n\"To pe sure he will pe safe if that pe his name,\" said the man, with a\ngrim smile. \"Te prince has said it. Here, Tuncan, guard this maiden and\nher father, while I and Tonald will pe after sending te neebours to\ntheir lang hames.\"\n\nWith these words the two caterans left the house, and joined the other\nsoldiers who were careering through the city, and slaying every\nAnglicised Scot that came in their way. The guard Duncan remained in\nPeter's house, and sat with grim majesty, surveying in silence the\nterrified Fleming, who was lost in wonder at what he had seen and heard;\nfor everything appeared to him a mystery. Others of the soldiers burst\nat intervals into the house, with the intent to slay the inmates; but\nDuncan silenced them all by the watchword, \"Peter of Ghent,\" and at\nevery demonstration of the charm the worthy burgher seemed more and more\nsurprised. He questioned Anne as to the meaning of the strange effect of\nhis name and of the unlooked-for security that it afforded to him who\ndeserved death more than any one in the city, except the governor\nhimself. But he got small satisfaction from the maiden, for she felt\nthat it was impossible for her to explain the part she acted, without\nincurring the charge that she had been untrue to the cause of her\nfather, and the rights of the governor and the king. Neither would\nDuncan give him any information but what tended rather to increase the\nmystery; for he merely said that it was the command of the Bruce that\nPeter of Ghent should be saved from the general massacre, and guarded\nsafely from the fury of the soldiers by the first man that entered his\nhouse. In the midst of this mystery, a suspicion took possession of him,\nthat Bruce wished to save him for a more cruel death, after the siege\nshould be ended; and, notwithstanding of all that Anne could say to him\nto calm his fears, he still retained doggedly the apprehension, and\nsighed bitterly as he contemplated his expected fate.\n\n\"Thou hast given me no reason, girl,\" he whispered to her, \"to satisfy\nme that I am not reserved for the heading-block. Bruce hath, of a\nverity, heard of the money I lent to the governor, and thou shalt by and\nby mourn the death of thy father. But what didst thou mean, Anne, by thy\nstatement to the soldier, that I was safe by the word of the Bruce? Was\nit a device of thy quick fancy to save me from the sword of that man,\nwho weareth no broadcloth on his body, and whose limbs are, of a\nconsequence, as hard as his heart?\"\n\n\"If thou wilt stand by thy pledge, father,\" answered Anne, \"that I shall\nnot be required to marry Oliphant, now that the city is taken, I will\npledge a simple damsel's word that thou shalt be as safe from the\nheadsman's falchion as thou art from the broadsword of that wild man,\nwhose bare limbs terrify me more than the bright steel of the Bruce.\"\n\n\"Of a surety I will stand by my pledge, girl; but I cannot rest\nsatisfied till I hear thy reason for the confidence thou reposest in the\nclemency of the Scottish leader, whose name is a terror to every enemy\nof his country.\"\n\n\"Nay, father, I am now trafficking with thee--driving a bargain, as thou\nsayest,\" replied she, with a smile, which the still terrified Fleming\ncould not for the soul of him understand. \"The bargain is concluded, and\nI cannot, for my honour, say more, even to my father.\"\n\n\"Tell me, man,\" cried Peter, to the Highlander, who still stood guarding\nthe door, with the drawn sword in his hand--\"tell me, since my daughter\nwill not, what the Bruce intendeth to do with Peter of Ghent, whose name\nhath operated as a charm on thy ear?\"\n\n\"Hoigh, hoigh, man!\" replied Duncan; \"ye'll pe trying to get secrets oot\no' Tuncan Thu Mohr.\"\n\n\"I will give thee money, my brave preserver,\" rejoined Peter, as he ran\nforward. \"Let me escape, and I will reward thee with ten nobles. Here\nthey are--see, see--it is meet thou shouldst have them, seeing thou wilt\nget no share of the spoils of the city.\"\n\n\"Keep him securely,\" whispered Anne, in the ear of the Highlander, \"and\nI will reward thee better on the morrow.\"\n\n\"Thou art mad, Anne. What means the rebellious wench?\" cried Peter,\nangrily. \"Thou hast become a trafficker with the enemies of thy father.\nHenceforth I have no faith in thee. Wilt thou not let me free, good\nMaster Mohr?\"\n\nDuncan turned, and looked knowingly at Anne, who, he probably thought,\nwas wishing to torment the old merchant.\n\n\"To pe surely, she will pe keeping her prisoner,\" said he, in aid of the\nimputed design of the fair accomplice, and with a twinkle in his eye.\n\"Te auld merchant's head will pe worth more than te ten nobles, she will\npe thinking.\"\n\n\"Dost thou not hear, Anne, that I am, as I suspected, doomed to lay my\nhead on the block?\" cried Peter again. \"Thou hast apparently some power\nover the savage,\" he added, in a whisper; \"aid me in bribing him, and\nwe may yet escape to Flanders, with my wealth, otherwise thou wilt lose\nthy dowery, and I my head.\"\n\n\"I have told thee that thou art safe, and thou wilt not listen to me,\"\nreplied she. \"Thou oughtst to be thankful for thy condition. Hearest\nthou not the groans of the dying citizens amidst the loud clang of arms?\nThousands are now dying, and thou hast a royal guard to save thee from\nharm; yet art thou grumbling at thy fate!\"\n\nDuring all this time, the work of destruction had been going on in all\nparts of the city. Bruce was well aware that the great evil he had to\ncure could only be overcome by extreme measures, and the better feelings\nof his nature had for a time given place to the thirst for vengeance for\nthe many wrongs he had suffered from the tyrants, who had not only\nruined the country, but stained his domestic hearth with the cruelties\nof persecution. He gave orders, on entering the city, that every Soot\nthat had favoured Edward should die; and his command was but too\nliterally obeyed--thousands on that night felt, in the pangs of death,\nthe effects of his dreadful retaliation. When the day dawned, he\ncollected his captains in the court hall of the city, for the purpose of\nissuing ordinances of confiscation, settling the terms on which the city\nshould in future be held, and passing sentence on the governor, who had\nbeen taken alive, and stood in the hall bound in chains. Bruce sat in\nthe chair of office, his captains were ranged around him, and by his\nleft side sat two of the French squires already spoken of, who had\ntrusted to the events of that siege for getting the leave of the bravest\nknights of these times to remove the bandages from their left eyes, and\nbe declared entitled to the rights and honours of chivalry. The scene\npresented one of the most extraordinary aspects of these times of war\nand bloodshed. Bruce himself had fought hand to hand with the officers\nof the garrison, and slain every one who dared to withstand his terrible\nonset. His face and hands were covered with blood; his bright armour\nwas stained; and the sword which he still held in his hand bore\nevidence to the work of deadly execution it had done against Scotland's\nfoes. Sir James Douglas, Randolph, and others of the fiercest of his\ncaptains, bore the same grim aspect; and the French squires exhibited by\ntheir gore-stained shields that they merited the reward for which they\nlooked, from the honour-dispensing sword of the king.\n\nAt a table before the king, there sat a man habited as a clerk, with a\nblack cloak over his shoulders, and a small felt cap, that covered the\ncrown of his head. He was busy calling forth the names of the\ninhabitants who had adhered to the cause of Edward; and, as he repeated\nthem, the king awarded his fiat of confiscation of the effects of the\nindividuals. As the man proceeded, he came to the name of Peter of\nGhent, and Bruce paused. The recollections of Anne and her father had\nbeen, by the turmoils of the siege, for some time absent from his mind;\nbut now his face glowed as the adventure of the preceding night flashed\nupon him, and the heroic conduct of the maiden was appreciated in the\ntriumph he was now enjoying. He thought for a moment, and remembered\nthat it was she who was to have been wedded to the governor. He could\nnot account for the apparent contradiction between this purpose and the\nconduct of the girl in hailing him on to the siege of the city; but his\nquick mind at once suggested the solution that she had been hostile to\nthe match, and that it had been projected merely by her father as a part\nof the transactions of the loan that had been given for the support of\nthe city.\n\n\"Let Peter of Ghent and his fair daughter Anne be called to our\npresence,\" cried the king. And in a short time the wealthy Fleming, with\nAnne, who was covered with a deep veil, was led forwards in the midst\nof the assembled chiefs. It was apparent, from Peter's manner, that he\nwas still actuated by the fear of punishment, for he trembled and shook\nall over, while Anne, looking at him with side-glances from beneath her\nveil, seemed to contemplate him with a mixed feeling of pity and\ngood-humour. Bruce, who was anxious to see the face of the maiden who\nhad acted so noble and fearless a part, would have requested her to lift\nher veil; but the high-bred feelings inculcated by the peculiar formula\nof knighthood induced him to wait till he could accomplish the object of\nhis wish after the legitimate manner of the chevaliers. Turning to the\ntrembling culprit, he raised his voice to the highest pitch.\n\n\"What does that inhabitant of old Scotland deserve,\" he said, as he\nfixed his eyes on Peter, \"who giveth his means in aid of rebellion\nagainst his crowned king? Answer us, Peter of Ghent, according to the\nestimate thou formest of thine own act, in giving to Mr Oliphant,\ngovernor of our city, the money wherewith he endeavoured to resist our\nauthority.\"\n\nPeter was silent, for he was now satisfied that he had been spared to be\nreserved for the gallows or the heading-axe.\n\n\"Speak, sirrah!\" cried the Bruce, assuming a more stern tone of\nauthority.\n\n\"What it meriteth in the mind of Scotland's lawful king,\" replied Peter,\nat length; \"but spare the old father for the sake of his child, and what\nis left of my substance shall go to support the crown, which a king's\nleniency to repentant subjects renders the more lustrous.\"\n\n\"Flattery is no atonement for rebellion,\" thundered out Bruce.\n\n\"God have mercy upon me!\" cried Peter of Ghent. \"Thou knowest, my liege,\nthat I had no power to resist the command of the governor, when he\ndemanded of me a thousand nobles; nor could I resist thy higher\nauthority, wert thou to ask of me to lay another thousand at this moment\nat thy royal feet.\"\n\n\"Thou wouldst now even bargain for thy head, as thou didst for the\nmarriage of thy fair daughter,\" cried Bruce. \"Is it not true, sir, that\nthou didst sell the maiden to the traitor Oliphant?\"\n\n\"It is even true that I did make it a condition of the advance of the\nthousand nobles, that he should fulfil the intentions he had manifested\ntowards my daughter; yet I was not the less necessitated to give the\nmoney, seeing it would have been taken from me otherwise.\"\n\n\"Then what does the man merit who sells his daughter for the liberties\nof the country by whose industry and means he liveth?\" replied the king.\n\"I put it to the nobles here assembled.\"\n\n\"The heading-block--the heading-block,\" resounded in hoarse groans\nthrough the hall.\n\n\"Will she not yet throw off her veil?\" muttered the king, as he cast his\neyes on Anne.\n\n\"Lead Peter of Ghent to the block,\" he cried aloud.\n\nAnne threw back her veil, and, with her face uncovered, cast herself at\nthe feet of Bruce. The assembled lords fixed their eyes upon the damsel,\nas she occupied a position which exhibited the graces of her perfect\nfigure, and the intelligence of her beautiful face lighted up with\nfeelings which moved the hearts of the sternest warriors around. They\nwere struck with the full blaze of a beauty that was not excelled by the\nfairest woman of Scotland in her day, and whispers went round among them\nthat told eloquently the effect she had produced by the sudden display\nof her charms.\n\n\"Is this the reward, my liege,\" she said, in a clear, tuneful voice,\n\"that is due to me for my humble efforts in behalf of the success of\nthine arms? Is this the faith of the Brace, whose name has filled the\nnations as the trumpet resounds within the palisades when honour is to\nbe sought and won?\"\n\nA smile played upon the face of the king. The quick, dark eye of the\nmaiden searched his heart, and was satisfied. A mantling blush,\naccompanied by a smile that seemed to respond to the humour of the king,\nenhanced her beauty, and showed that she understood the play that was\nenacted by the noble monarch.\n\n\"It is the privilege of beauty,\" said the king, still smiling, \"to\ninspire its possessor with an unshaken faith in the sanctions of the\nbrave. We are not oblivious, fair Anne of Ghent, of our promise, as this\nwill testify.\" And he undid her own riband from his arm, and put it\naround the neck of the supplicant. \"The colour of this streamer shall\nafterwards be that of the banner of Perth. Thy father is safe in life\nand limb; but tell us, fair damsel, what other method could we have\nadopted, to gratify our sense of justice and our love of beauty, than\nto show thy father that he owes his safety to thee, and to make thee\nthrow off the veil that concealeth so fair a face?\"\n\nAt this moment, one of the French squires, with his left eye bound up by\na green riband, advanced to the feet of the king, and stood for a moment\nsurveying the countenance of the supplicant.\n\n\"By the patron saint of the house of Leon,\" cried the Frenchman, \"it is\nmy fair queen of the lists! Knowest thou this silken band, lady, by\nwhich my left orb is occluded, and my affections bound to the giver?\"\n\n\"If thou art Rolande de Leon,\" said Anne, as she rose, by the hand of\nthe king, \"thou canst tell if that gift was bestowed by my hands. To\nthat valiant squire, Anne of Ghent did once award the humble pledge of a\nsilken band, which was to remain on his temples till he achieved a feat\nof arms.\"\n\n\"Ha, well timed!\" cried Bruce. \"Hear the command of thy liege\nsovereign. We command Anne of Ghent to give the light of heaven to that\noccluded organ, which is so well entitled to see the glitter of the\nsword of knighthood, and the charms of her who restores it to its\nnatural rights.\"\n\nAnne proceeded, amidst the applause of the lords, to obey the commands\nof the king. With a firm hand, but a palpitating heart, she undid the\nbandage, as the Frenchman knelt at her feet.\n\n\"Rise not yet,\" said Bruce, when he saw the operation concluded; and,\ntaking his sword, he touched the back of the squire, and pronounced the\nwords, \"Rise, Sir Rolande de Leon, one of the bravest knights that it\nhas been our good fortune to see fighting under the blue banner of\nScotland.\"\n\nThe knight rose, amidst the acclamation of the nobles. The clerk again\nproceeded with his monotonous vocation of calling out the names of the\ncitizens. Peter, with his daughter, accompanied by Sir Rolande, left the\ncourt-room, and proceeded to his house, where, after proper\nexplanations, the Fleming saw no reason to regret the taking of the\ncity. On that same day, William Oliphant was beheaded. The town was\nquickly restored to order; and, before Bruce's army again set out on a\nnew expedition, Anne of Ghent became the lady of Sir Rolande de Leon.\n\nThis brave knight accompanied Bruce through all his engagements, taking\nfrequent opportunities, throughout the wars, of stealing a few days of\nthe society of his fair Anne of Ghent. In a short time he was covered\nwith honours; and, by the end of Scotland's period of direst strife and\ndanger, old Peter of Ghent died, leaving a large fortune to his\ndaughter. The couple, we have reason to believe, retired afterwards to a\ncastle somewhere in Perthshire, to enjoy the peace and happiness of a\ndomestic life, after so many toils and dangers. We have somewhere seen\nthe arms afterwards adopted by the knight, in which _three Lioncels\nrampant topaz_ figure on a _field sapphire_, _crest_, wreathed with a\n_riband vert_. The wreath we may easily understand; nor can we be at any\nloss for the derivation of the young Lions, seeing that, according to\nour authority, Anne bore Sir Rolande three sons, whose descendants,\nunder the name of Lion, long lived in Perthshire; and, if we are not led\nastray by old writs, they afterwards intermarried with the Lions of\nStrathmore.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nPEAT-CASTING TIME.\n\n\nIn the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when labour and\nfrolic went hand in hand--when professional duty and kind-hearted glee\nmutually kissed each other. The \"rocking\" mentioned by Burns--\n\n    \"On Fastening's E'en we had a rocking\"--\n\nI still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is only under\nthe refractive medium of vigorous recollection that I can again bring up\nto view (as the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those images that have been\nreposing, \"'midst the wreck of things that were,\" for more than fifty\nyears. Yet my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile and\njuvenile festivities. _There_ still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch\nand check-apron, projecting at intervals the well-filled spindle into\nthe distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating and twirling the yet\nunwound thread. Nanny Nivison occupies a _creepy_ on the further side of\nthe fire (making the third Fate!), with her shears. Around, and on\nbedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad; Tam\nKirkpatrick, with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob Paton the stirk-herd; and\nyour humble servant. And \"now the crack gaes round, and who so wilful as\nto put it by?\" The story of past times; the report of recent\nlove-matches and miscarriages; the gleeful song, bursting unbid from the\nyoung heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the waters\nfrom the rock of Meribah; the occasional female remonstrance against\ncertain _welcome_ impertinences, in shape of, \"Come now, Tam--nane o'\nyer nonsense.\" \"Will! I say, be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk.\n'Od, ye'll squeeze the very breath out o' a body.\"\n\n        \"Till, in a social glass o' strunt,\n        They parted off careering\n                          On sic a night.\"\n\n    \"Ye've heard a lilting at our ewes-milking.\"\n\nHow few of the present generation have ever heard of this \"lilting,\"\nexcept in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The\nyoung lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating\nit, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the\nplain are marching--\n\n    \"The labour much of man and dog\"--\n\nto the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their\nwoolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It\nis the raven conversing with the jack-daw! All is bustle, excitement,\nand badinage.\n\n\"Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a\nblanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!\"\n\n\"Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin.\nTroth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!\"\n\nWouf, wouf, wouf!--hee, hee, hee!--hoch, hoch, hoch!--there _in_ they\ngo, and _in_ they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a\ntrio of stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up \"_a la\nbreeches_,\" tugging away at their well-filled dugs.\n\n\"Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; 'od I think ye hae gotten haud o'\nthe auld tup himsel. He's as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie,\nwham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou.\"\n\n\"Troth, at weel, Tam, ye're a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am\no' cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o' a howlet.\"\n\n\"Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy\nyou a new pan.\"\n\nAt this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible from its\nuniversality, mixed as it is with the bleating of ewes, the barking of\ndogs, together with the singing of herd-laddies and of your humble\nservant.\n\nHarvest is a blithe time! May all the charms of \"Sycorax, toads,\nbeetles, bats, light on him\" who shall first invent a reaping-machine!\nThe best of all reaping-machines is \"the human _arm_ divine,\" whether\nbrawny or muscular, or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all\nyear long at her domestic occupations--you would deem her incapable of\nany out-door exertions; but, at the sound of the harvest-horn, she\nrenews her youth, and sallies forth into the harvest-field, with hook\nover shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the spirit of the season, to\ntake her place and drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown\nboy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in frolic, in jest\nand jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest and the most matured.\nMothers and daughters, husbands and wives, and, above and beyond all,\n\"lads and lasses, lovers gay!\" mix and mingle in one united band, for\nhonest labour and exquisite enjoyment; and when at last the joyous kirn\nis won--when the maiden of straw is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn\nfor twelve months the wall of the farmer's ben--when the rich and\ncooling curds-and-cream have been ram-horn-spooned into as many mouths\nas there are persons in the \"toun\"--then comes the mighty and\nlong-anticipated festival, the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the big pot\nenriched with the cheering and elevating draught, the punch dealt about\nin ladles and in jugs, the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the\nHighland fling.\n\n    \"_We_ cannot but remember such things were,\n    And were most dear to us!\"\n\nHay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling those of\nthe grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and glows with fainter\ncolouring around the interior and the brighter, so did the hay harvest\nof yore anticipate and pre-figure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded\nto the sun; the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her\ncheeks redolent of youth, and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting,\ncarting or ricking, the sweetly-scented meadow produce, under a June sun\nand a blue sky!\n\n    \"Oh, to feel as I have felt,\n    Or be what I have been!\"\n\nThe favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now in its\nfourteenth summer--myself as pure and all unthinking of aught but\naffection the most intense, and feelings the most soft and\nunaccountable.\n\n    \"Ah, little did thy mother think,\n      That day she cradled thee,\n    What lands thou hadst to travel in,\n      What death thou hadst to dee!\"\n\nPoor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen her, only a few weeks ago, during the\nsittings of the General Assembly, sunk in poverty, emaciated by disease,\nthe wife of an old soldier, himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark\nhovel in Pipe's Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh.\n\nIn the upper district of Dumfries-shire--the land of my birth, and of\nall those early associations which cling to me as the mistletoe to the\noak, and which are equally hallowed with that druidical\nexcrescence--there are no coals, but a superabundance of moss;\nconsequently peat-fires _are_ very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the\ntime of which I speak, _universally_, made use of; and a peat-fire, on a\ncold, frosty night of winter, when every star is glinting and goggling\nthrough the blue, or when the tempest raves, and\n\n    \"There's no a star in a' the cary,\"\n\nis by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived--but then\nit kindles soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us with fantastic\nand playful jets of flame--but then its light is full, united, and\nsteady; the heat which it sends out on all sides is superior to that of\ncoals. Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It\neats away into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat--\n\n    \"The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane\"--\n\nis the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then peats must\nbe prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate in meadows.\nThey must be cut from the black and consolidated moss; and a\npeculiarly-constructed spade, with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be\nmade use of for that purpose; and into the field of operation must be\nbrought, at casting-time, the spademen, with their spades; and the\nbarrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their barrows; and the\nbreakfast sowans, with their creamy milk, cut and crossed into circles\nand squares; and the dinner stew, with its sappy potatoes and\ngusty-onioned mutton fragments; and the rest at noon, with its active\nsports and feats of agility, and, in particular, with its jumps from the\nmoss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath--and _thereby hangs my\ntale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible.\n\nOne of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was a\nyear or so older than me; but we went and returned from school together.\nShe was the only daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself,\nin a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching\nor whitening webs. In those days, the alkalis and acids had not yet\nsuperseded the slower progress of whitening green linen by soap-boiling,\ntramping, and alternate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure running\nwater. Many is the time and oft that Nanny and I have wielded the\nwatering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long. Whilst the\nhumble-bee boomed past us, the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and the\nmother of Nanny employed herself in some more laborious department of\nthe same process, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward--_in\ntenaci gramine_--played at chucks, \"head him and cross him,\" or some\nsuch amusement. At school, Nanny had ever a faithful defender and\navenger in me; and I have even purloined apples and gooseberries from\nthe castle garden--and all for the love I bore \"to my Nanny, oh!\"\n\nI know not that any one has rightly described a first love. It is not\nthe love of man and woman, though that be fervent and terrible--it is\nnot the love of mere boy and girlhood, though that be disinterested and\nengrossing--but it is the love of the period of life which unites the\ntwo. \"Is there a man whose blood is warm within him\" who does not\nrecollect it? Is there a woman who has passed through the novitiate of\nfifteen, who has not still a distinct impression of the feeling of which\nI speak. It is not sexual, and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes.\nIt is the sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being can\npass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence of the\nadored--in seclusion, in meditation, and in dreams--it is bold,\nresolute, and determined. There is no plan, no design, no right\nconception of _cause_; yet the _effect_ is sure and the bliss perfect.\nOh, for one hour--one little hour--from the thousands which I have\nidled, sported, dreamed away in the company of my darling\nschool-companion, Nancy!\n\nWill Mather was about two years older than Nancy--a fine youth,\nattending the same school, and evidently an admirer of Nancy. Mine was\nthe love of comparative boyhood; but his was a passion gradually\nripening (as the charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a manly and\nmatrimonial feeling. I loved the girl merely as such--his eye, his\nheart, his whole soul were in his future bride. Marriage in no shape\never entered into my computations; but his eager look and heaving bosom\nbespoke the definite purpose--he anticipated felicity. I don't know\nexactly why, but I was never jealous of Will Mather--we were companions;\nand he was high-souled and generous, and stood my friend in many\nperilous quarrels. I knew that _my_ pathway in life was to be afar from\nthat in which Nancy and Will were likely to walk; and I felt in my heart\nthat, dear as this beautiful rosebud was to me, I was not _man_\nenough--I was not _peasant_ enough to wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy on\nany occasion turned round to be kissed by me, I would have fled over\nmuir and dale, to avoid her presence--and yet I had often a great desire\nto obtain that favour. Once indeed, and only once, did I obtain, or\nrather steal it. She was sitting beside a bird's nest, the young ones of\nwhich she was feeding and cherishing--for the parent birds, by the\nrapacity of a cat, had recently perished. As the little bills were\nexpanding to receive their food, her countenance beamed with pity and\nbenevolence. I never saw even _her_ so lovely--so, in a moment, I had\nher round the neck, and clung to her lips with the tenacity of a\ncreature drowning. But, feeling at once the awkwardness of my position,\nI took to my heels, becoming immediately invisible amidst the\nsurrounding brushwood.\n\nSuch was \"Will Mather,\" and such was \"Nancy Morrison\" at the period of\nwhich I am speaking. We must now advance about two or three years in our\nchronology, and find Will possessed of a piece of information which bore\nmaterially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegitimate child. His\nmother had kept the secret so well that he did not know his father,\nthough he had frequently urged her to reveal to him privately all that\nshe knew of his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now\naffianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes; whilst she, with a\nbecoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not to press an aged parent\non so delicate a point. At last the old woman was taken seriously ill,\nand, on her death-bed and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of\nhis birth. He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a\nmuch-respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his mother's\neyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode of his father, and,\nentering by a window, was in his father's bedchamber and over his body\nere he was fully awake.\n\n\"John Scott!\" said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his\nparent meantime convulsively round the neck--\"John Scott of\nAuchincleuch, _I am thy son_!\"\n\nTho conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost\nimagining this a supernatural intimation from heaven, exclaimed, in\ntrembling accents--\n\n\"But who are you that makes this averment?\"\n\n\"I am thy son, father--oh, I am thy son!\"\n\nWill could no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped hot\nand heavy on a father's face.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob--(O Heaven!\nthou art just!)--\"yes, thou _art_ indeed my son--my long-denied and\nill-used boy--whom the fear of the world's scorn has tempted me, against\nall the yearnings of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to\nmy bosom--to a father's bosom _now_, for I know that voice too well to\ndistrust thee.\"\n\nIn a few months after this interesting disclosure, John Scott was\nnumbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no longer Mather) became\nLaird of Auchincleuch.\n\nPoor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this discovery, which put\nher betrothed in a position to expect a higher or genteeler match. But\nthere was no cause of alarm. Will was true to the back-bone, and would\nas soon have burned his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride. After\nmuch pressing for an early day on the part of the lover, it was agreed,\nat last, that the marriage should take place at \"Peat-casting Time,\" and\nthat Nancy should, for the last turn, assist at the casting of her\nmother's peats.\n\nI wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you an account of\nthe happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy Morrison, the handsomest\ncouple in the parish of Closeburn. But it may not be! These eyes, which\nare still filled (though it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and\nthis pen, which trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the\ncatastrophe.\n\nNancy, the beautiful bride, and I (for I was now on the point of leaving\nschool for college) agreed to have a jump for the last time (often had\nwe jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow.\n\n\"My frolicsome days will sune be owre,\" she cried, laughing; \"the\nguidwife of Auchincleuch will hae something else to do than jump frae\nthe moss-brow; and, while my name is Nancy Morrison, I'll hail the\ndules, or jump wi' the best o' my auld playmates.\"\n\n\"Weel dune, Nancy!\" cried I; \"you are now to be the wife o' the Laird o'\nAuchincleuch, when your jumping days will be at an end, and I am soon to\nbe sent to college, where the only jump I may get may be from the top of\na pile of old black-letter folios--no half sae guid a point of advantage\nas the moss-brow.\"\n\n\"There's the Laird o' Auchincleuch coming,\" cried Peggy Chalmers, one of\nthe peat-casters, who was standing aside along with several others.\n\"He's nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the\nblithest swankie o' the barnyard. Siller maks sair changes; and yet, wha\nwad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich bridegroom,\nNancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna tempt Providence, my\nhinny! The laird winna like to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe\nlike a daft giglet, within a week o' her marriage.\"\n\n\"Tout!\" cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh; \"see, he's awa\nround by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us--and whar's the harm if he\ndid? Come now, Tammie, just ae spring and the last, and I'll wad ye my\nkame against your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o' my marriage\nslipper.\"\n\n\"Weel dune, Nancy!\" cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on\ntheir spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation.\n\nThe laird had, as Nancy said, crossed over by what was called the Craw\nPlantin, and was now out of sight. To make the affair more\nludicrous--for we were all bent on fun--Nancy took out, from among her\nhigh-built locks of auburn hair, her comb--a present from her lover--and\nimpledged it in the hands of Billy Watson, along with my cravat, which I\nhad taken off, and handed to the umpire.\n\n\"Here is a better moss-brow,\" cried one, at a distance.\n\nAnd so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than the one we had\nfixed upon, and the landing-place was soft and elastic. Our practice\nwas, always to jump together, so that the points of the toes could be\nmeasured when both the competitors' feet were still fixed in the moss.\nWe mounted the moss-brow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could\nscarcely contain herself, for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I went\noff, but the mad girl could not follow, for she was still holding her\nsides, and laughing immoderately. I asked her what she laughed at. She\ncould not tell. She was under the influence of one of those\nextraordinary cachinnations that sometimes convulse our diaphragms,\nwithout our being able to tell why, and certainly without our being able\nto put a stop to them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her glee\nshone bright in her eye. I took my position again.\n\n\"Now!\" cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and\nspongy moss.\n\nI stood with my feet in the ground, that the umpire might come and mark\nthe distance. A loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and,\ndreadful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground, with the blood\npouring out at her mouth in a large stream! She had burst a\nblood-vessel. The fit of laughing which preceded her effort to leap had,\nin all likelihood, distended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to\nthe unhappy result.\n\nThe loud scream had attracted the notice of the bridegroom, who came\nrunning from the back of the Craw Plantin. The sight appalled and\nstupefied him. He cried for explanation, and ran forward to his dead or\ndying bride, in wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation,\nbut none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the\nunhappy man; but, though we could not speak intelligibly, we could act,\nand several of us lifted her up. This step sealed her fate. The change\nin her position produced another stream of blood. She opened her eyes\nonce, and fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed them,\nand for ever.\n\nI saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld her head, fainted\nbefore he proceeded twenty yards, and I was obliged to take his place. I\nwas almost as unfit for the task as himself; for I reproached myself as\nthe cause of her death. I have lived long. Will the image of that\nprocession ever pass from my mind? The bloodstained moss-ground, the\nbleeding body, the trailing clothes, the unbound locks, are all before\nme. I can proceed no further. Would that I could stop the current of my\nthoughts as easily as that of this feathered chronicler of sorrow! But--\n\n    \"There is a silent sorrow here,\n      A grief I'll ne'er impart;\n    It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,\n      But it consumes my heart.\"\n\nI have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still remains a\nbachelor, and that on every visit I make to Dumfries-shire, I take my\ndinner, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are\nannually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MEDAL.\n\n\nI was educated in a Scottish university, where prizes were distributed\nto the most distinguished students in each class at the termination of\nthe session. The most distinguished prize was a gold medal, value ten\nguineas, the gift of a departed _eleve_, and awarded to the best scholar\nin the mathematical class. Having a natural turn or bias for\nmathematical pursuits, I applied myself night and day to the attainment\nof this my object of ambition; and this, too, at the expense and neglect\nof all the other classes which I attended. I was a very imperfect Latin\nscholar, I knew almost nothing of Greek, and held the unscientific\nreasoning of logic and moral philosophy in great contempt. By great\nlabour, and after a severe competition, I succeeded in attaining the\ndistinction at which I aimed, and saw myself blazoned in several\nnewspapers as the holder of this distinguishing badge. My great chum at\ncollege was a Mr Donald Ferguson, a lad of a staid and persevering\ndisposition, of a well-balanced and judicious mind, and without any\ntalents, _apparently_, which bespoke future distinction. We had been\nfriends and companions at school--our parents were friends before\nus--and, although we differed materially in disposition, this did not\nprevent the closest and most affectionate intercourse. Oh! such\nrecollections as now rush upon my mind!--\n\n    \"Dear happy scenes of innocence and ease--\n    Scenes of my youth, when every sport could please!\"\n\nFerguson and I spent whole days together in the solitude of nature, with\nnothing but the deep blue and fleecy white overhead; the stunted thorn\nand the croaking raven above; and the brawling brook and trout-dimpled\npool before us. In all games of activity I had the start of Ferguson,\nand was always first chosen at \"King o' Cantilon,\" \"the dools,\" and\n\"shinty;\" but he had the advantage again of me in feats of strength and\nprecision of eye--in the quoits and putting-stone. But I am wandering\nfrom my purpose, and forgetting my narrative.\n\nFerguson would often admonish me that I was giving offence to several\nprofessors, in order to gain the good opinion of one, and that the\napplause which my medal would procure for me might be too dearly bought\nat the expense of every other department of study. I took all this in\ngood part, but without altering, in the least, my conduct, as I answered\nthat my friend was making a virtue of necessity, and recommending that\ncourse of obscure diligence to me which he, by nature, was destined to\npursue.\n\nIn consequence of the _eclat_ of the medal, I had an invitation to make\none of a pleasure party to Roslin, and had the happiness of being\nintroduced to some young ladies, who had previously expressed to my\nfriend Ferguson a wish to make my acquaintance. We spent a most\ndelightful day--\n\n    \"'Midst Roslin's bowers sae bright and bonny,\n    And a' the sweets o' Hawthornden.\"\n\nThe ladies were young, bright, and beautiful, light of heart, and\ndelightfully pleasing in manners and conversation. I had not been\npreviously accustomed to such fascinating society; and I felt that kind\nof intoxication which youth, innocence, and strong passion only can\nfeel. I was all day _off_ my feet, and gave way to every manner of fun,\nfrolic, and foolery, to show that, though I was an immense philosopher,\nI was still a man in every pulse and vein. There was in this happy group\none divine countenance; an eye so blue, and so soft, and so\npenetrating--lips that moved in meaning, and held every instant\ncommunication of the most electric character, with a little playful,\nalmost wily dimple which gave the most varied fascination to a cheek of\nsunshine and almost rosy hue. Her form\n\n          \"Was fresher than the morning rose\n    When the dew wets its leaves--unstain'd and pure\n    As is the lily or the mountain snow.\"\n\nIn a word, as you will easily perceive, I was captivated; and could do\nnothing all the ensuing night but toss and think, and think and toss,\ntill nature at last steeped me anew, not in forgetfulness, but in all\nthe motley, medley joys and gambols of Roslin. I had now become a\nstudent of divinity; but all study was with me at an end. No party of\nyoung people--particularly where young ladies were concerned--could be\nheld without me; and I had the very great misfortune to be talked of by\nthem as monstrous clever. The young lady to whom I had so long paid\nparticular attention, and at whose house (that of the widow of a\nrespected clergyman of the Church of Scotland) I had long been a\nhabitual and a welcome guest, at last consented to receive me in future\nin the light of a lover. We walked it, talked it, and laughed it from\nmorning to night, \"as other lovers do,\" and scarcely thought of either\nthe past or the future, being so completely engrossed with the present.\nTime flew by on angel wings, fleeting as bright, and the period of my\nexamination, previous to my receiving license, at last approached. I had\nall the while a secret misgiving that I would not stand a trial, in the\nPresbytery of Edinburgh in particular; but I had no other residence for\nseveral years, and, consequently, no other way of becoming a licentiate.\nAs good fortune would have it, the mother of my betrothed, through her\ninterest with the Duke of Queensberry's factor, had every chance of\nprocuring me a presentation the moment I was qualified to accept of it;\nand both she and her daughter would as soon have dreamed that I would\nfail in opening my eyes, as in obtaining the indispensable requisite of\na license. What I had anticipated, however, actually took place: I was\nfound so deficient in the classics of Greece and Rome, that my license\nwas delayed, and I was remitted for twelve months to my studies. This\nwas a degree of disgrace and degradation which altogether unmanned me. I\ncould not face my beloved Mary, or her mother, or any of my own friends\nand acquaintances, under such circumstances. Sleep fled my eyes, and my\nmind became unhinged. Existence itself became a positive, insupportable\nmisery. I fled to the mountains; but they, through all their glens and\nstreams, had tongues that syllabled beloved names, which I wished, were\nit possible, to forget. Wherever I went, the horrors of the past were\never present. People seemed to me to stop and point the finger of scorn\nat me from every street and doorway. At last, in a fit of despair, I\nrashly resolved on self-destruction, and plunged headlong into Leith\nharbour. I have the sound of the waters still in my ears, and that sound\nwill, I verily believe, remain till that of the last trumpet shall\nmingle with it. When I awoke from seeming nonentity, I was surrounded by\nmany and unknown faces; and my passage back to life was more terrific\nand painful by far than my exit. I had been for some time in a warm bed,\nand undergoing the means of resuscitation. \"Much kinder,\" thought I,\n\"had ye been to let me go.\" My name, parentage, &c., having been\nascertained, my father was written to, and I was kept in close custody\ntill his arrival. My father was a respectable farmer in Dumfries-shire,\nand immediately hurried me away to my native glen. My mother met me with\ntears; but they were those of sympathy and affection, and one word of\nreproach she never uttered. I became gradually more and more calm: but\nat times the thoughts of the paradise which I had lost, and the hell I\nhad earned, would throw me absolutely into convulsions. The calmness\nwhich gathered over my soul was not that of resignation--it was the\nsettled gloom of despair. Religion was talked of and pressed upon me;\nbut as yet I had no settled views on that subject. I neither believed\nnor disbelieved: I was willing, when the subject obtruded itself upon my\nthoughts, to get rid of it the best way I could. At last my melancholy\ngradually undermined a naturally good constitution, and it was manifest\nto my medical adviser that I was verging towards that degree of\nweakness and decay which, under various distinctive appellations, is\nsure to terminate in death. A change of scene was urged, and I was\nhurried away to Saturness Point, that I might inhale the sea breeze, and\nbe interested in new objects. This measure was at first partially\nsuccessful; but, happening to see a newspaper one day, in which the\nsettlement of my more steady companion in the very church which I had\nonce destined for myself was mentioned, and reading in the very same\npage a notice of his marriage with my beloved Mary, I became immediately\nfrantic. For years my mind was so far unhinged that a person was\nappointed to watch my motions, and guard me from self-destruction. \"Oh,\nthat cursed medal!\" was I heard again and again to exclaim; \"it is to\nthis I have to trace my every wo.\" What I endured, during this dark and\nfearful night, no power of fancy can image, no pen can describe.\n_Horresco referens._\n\nAs God would have it, the person who was thus associated with me night\nand day was religiously disposed, and took occasion, when opportunity\nserved, to lead my mind to serious subjects--to talk of eternity,\nimmortality, heaven, and hell. Often did I kick against the pricks, and\nstrive to resume my former indifference; but it would not do. The very\n_possibility_ of such awful truths was terrific. I awoke all at once, as\nit were, to a sense of my imminent danger. I found that I was sleeping\non a parapet, from which to fall was certain death. I fled with all\npossible speed to the only city of refuge--to the redemption that is in\nChrist Jesus. I grasped the truths of the gospel with the energy of a\ndying creature. I hugged the very Bible to my bosom, and read it night\nand day. Our conversations were protracted, and, to me, ultimately\ndelightful. I found that there was mercy even to the _chief_ of sinners,\nand I regarded myself as personally referred to in the gracious\nintimation. With the perception and cultivation of gospel truth, my\nhealth gradually rallied, and my mind assumed a more balanced attitude.\nIt was about this time that my father died, and the superintendence of a\npretty extensive sheep-farm naturally devolved upon me. This avocation,\nuncongenial as it was to my college pursuits and feelings, still\noccupied my attention, and withdrew me from reflections of no very\npleasing nature. In cultivating, or rather in renewing, my acquaintance\nwith the soil, and with its productions, vegetable as well as animal, I\nfelt that I was placed as it were in the outer vestibule of God's\ntemple. Into the holy of holies, through the blessed mediation, I had\nalready been introduced, and it gave me pleasure to behold the outer, as\nwell as to contemplate the inner, courts of so stupendous an erection.\n\"The Shepherd of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. My sheep hear my\nvoice. He shall separate the sheep from the goats. The streams that run\namongst the hills. Mount Carmel, Mount Zion, Mount Horeb.\" These and\nsimilar expressions, in which the Jewish Scriptures, in particular,\nabound, came home to my newly-renovated, and, I trust, regenerated,\nperceptions, with a vividness and a force formerly unknown. I seemed to\nmyself to be a dweller on the mountains of Jacob, and amongst the tents\nof Israel, as my flocks scattered themselves on the hill-side, or\npursued the green pasturage by the streams of waters. There was a\nharmony and correspondence betwixt the seen and the unseen, the present\nand the past, the temporal and the spiritual life, of which I every day\nbecame more and more aware.\n\nAbout this time we received intimation of the death of my father's\nbrother, who had gone, early in life, to Kingston in Jamaica, and had,\nby prosperous adventures as a merchant, realised a considerable sum of\nmoney. After various delays and much peculation, the residue of his\nfortune, together with his will, was transmitted home, and I found\nmyself, as my father's heir-male, entitled to upwards of L10,000. My\nmother had already greatly declined, indeed she never fully rallied\nafter my father's death; and on the very day on which the papers\nrespecting the inheritance arrived, I had to perform the last sad duties\nto one of the best of parents. Alas! that ever my unhappy conduct should\nhave occasioned pain and anxiety in a bosom where pure affection and\nundefiled religion habitually resided! I had the consolation, however,\nto receive my mother's blessing in her parting breath, and to hear her\nconstrue my misconduct and misfortunes into merciful dispensations of a\nwise Providence, who is ever bringing good out of seeming evil.\n\n    \"And better thence again, and better still,\n    In infinite progression.\"\n\nThe lease of the farm having expired in a year after this, I did not\nthink of continuing on a spot which suggested so many recollections\nconnected with the departed; so I at once removed to furnished lodgings\nin Edinburgh, and gradually renewed my acquaintance with a few of my\nstill surviving friends. Amongst these was the mother of my Mary, who\ninformed me that her daughter was now a widow and without family, and\nwas expected in a month or two to return to her old fireside from the\nManse of ----. I do not know how it was, but I trembled all over at this\ninformation, and an image, which had for so long a time been almost\nobliterated from my memory, now rose before me in all its original\nloveliness. The two months appeared to me two twelvemonths, till I again\nsaw, and renewed my acquaintance, with the only woman whom my soul had\never loved. Mutual explanations took place; she had married my friend\nFerguson, under the impression that, if not dead, I was confined in a\nlunatic asylum; and had only consented, after all, at the earnest\nrequest of her mother. It was but yesterday that we had a most\ndelightful drive to Roslin, where I renewed my addresses, and have been\naccepted. I have taken a neat cottage near Hawthornden, where I mean to\nspend with Mary the remainder of my days, if not in the fervour of young\nlove, at least in the more enduring, perhaps, and more rational\nendearments of mutual affection, friendship, and esteem. The medal,\nwhich was the foundation of all my sufferings, I have at this moment\nsuspended before me, in my study, that I may be ever reminded of that\nfalse step which, but for the interposition of Providence, might have\nruined both soul and body for ever. If it shall be in God's providence\nthat I am blessed with any pledges of affection by my dear Mary, I shall\nendeavour to save them from the danger which I so narrowly escaped; yet,\nso strangely commingled are the good and bad things of life--so very\ndelicately are the fine threads that go to form the web of our moral\nsystem connected and interlaced--that it requires a hand finer than mere\nman's to remove some of the dingy lines, so as to restore to the whole\nthat beauty it possessed when spread in the garden of Eden. If we take\nfrom the noble steed the emulation that may hurry him over the\nprecipice, we will see him distanced at the next St Leger. Must we,\nthen, secure the good, and run the risk of the attendant evil? The\nanswer does not seem difficult. Let emulation be by all means\nencouraged; but let all teachers and parents impress upon the minds of\nthe fortunate competitors the true value of the prize won. And whilst\nefforts are made in one direction, let it ever be remembered that a\n_useful_ education comprehends _breadth_ as well as _length_; and that\nthe departments which have been neglected may prove, in future life,\nthose of the most essential value in promoting success and securing\nhappiness.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MEETING AT ST BOSWELL'S.\n\n\nIt is now some years since I happened to visit the pretty little village\nof St Boswell's, in Roxburghshire, in company with a friend, who had\nsome stock to dispose of at the great annual fair then holding there.\nMost of my readers are aware that the Duke of Buccleugh is lord of the\nmanor of St Boswell's, and that a dinner is always provided, at his\ngrace's expense, in a barn on the fair ground, for all gentlemen who\nhave tickets of admission from the baron bailie. While my friend was\nbusied with the disposal of his stock, I, being an idler, wandered up\nand down the green, and was much pleased with the appearance of the\nfair, which was more English, if I may be allowed to use the term, than\nanything of the kind I had ever witnessed in Scotland. The numbers, neat\narrangement, and really handsome appearance of the \"street\" of\nbooths--the gay and well-dressed parties of gentlefolks--the cheerful,\njoyous faces of the lower orders--the handsome equipages--the green at a\ndistance, swarming with cattle of various kinds--with a bright and\ngenial sun shining over all--formed altogether a pleasing and animated\nscene. Pleased as I was, however, I caught myself several times\ninvoluntarily yawning, and turning my eyes towards the barn; and I was\nnot at all sorry when the welcome sound of the drum announced that \"the\nroast beef\" was ready. I was soon seated beside my friend, who, like\nmyself, was most ready and anxious to do justice to the duke's liberal\nprovision. I have a great talent for eating, but none for description,\nso I will not attempt to enumerate or describe the variety of good\nthings which _dis_appeared before us; suffice it, we were all much more\ncontented with ourselves and each other when all was over, than before\nour operations commenced. Commend me to a man who has just made a good\ndinner--if he be not a philanthropist then, he never will be. Happening\nto glance my eye towards the other end of the table, I observed that I\nwas the object of close and intense attention to one of the company--a\nstranger of prepossessing aspect, who was seated at some distance at the\nopposite side. He gazed at me with an earnestness almost amounting to\nrudeness; and whenever I glanced in that direction, I perceived that his\neye was constantly riveted upon my countenance. At first, I was\nconsiderably annoyed by the persevering scrutiny of his gaze; but, after\na time, I was conscious of a vague impression on my mind that I had seen\nhis face before; but when or where, I in vain endeavoured to recall. I\nwas in the unpleasant situation of one who hears a long-forgotten\nmelody, which stirs up within his mind overpowering and indefinable\nemotions, though, at the moment, the associations connected with it are\nforgotten. A confused train of visions of the past, of pleasure and of\npain, crowded through my brain, with a dreamy consciousness that the\nstranger was, in some way or another, connected with them. I could not,\nfor the life of me, shake off the impression his features had made upon\nmy mind; and I wandered up and down, through all the bustle of the fair,\nas abstracted as if I were in a desert--treading upon the toes of the\npresent, and raking up the ashes of the past, to puzzle out some\nconnection between them and the stranger; but in vain. The indignant\nlooks and half-suppressed curses of those I jostled or trod upon alike\nfailed in rousing me from my reverie, till a violent push from the elbow\nof one of my victims sent me staggering against a gentleman who was\nstanding close to one of the booths. It was the stranger.\n\nHow wonderful and unaccountable are the workings of the human mind, and\nwhat trifling incidents may present us with a clue to the labyrinth of\nthought we have been in vain endeavouring to unravel!\n\nIn making my apologies to the stranger, my eye chanced to glance upwards\nto the _sign_ above the entrance to the booth; it was \"The Old Ship.\" A\nflash of sudden recollection lighted up the dark places of my\nmemory--the friend of my early days stood before me.\n\n\"Sandford!--in the name of all that's strange, is that you?\"\n\n\"My name is Sandford Grant,\" said he, \"and I know and feel that you are\nan old friend. I have been thinking of nothing else since I saw you in\nthe barn; but my memory plays me false--I cannot recollect when or where\nwe have met before.\"\n\n\"Look up at that board--perhaps it will assist your recollection, as it\ndid mine.\"\n\n\"The Old Ship!\" exclaimed he, with a look of wonder and inquiry. \"The\nOld Ship!\" he repeated, slowly and distinctly, and then he gazed long\nand earnestly in my face, till at length the look of indecision and\ndoubt gave place to a sudden glow of delighted recognition. \"Douglas!\"\nexclaimed he, with a long and cordial shake of the hand.\n\n\"The same, my dear fellow. It is ten long years since we met, and time\nhas left his marks upon us both; no wonder we did not recognise each\nother at first; particularly as it was in such a very different scene we\nlast met, or rather parted.\"\n\nWe spent the evening together, as two long-separated friends should do,\nin talking over the events of our early years, and relating our mutual\nadventures since we parted. As I did not know Sandford myself at first,\nit is hardly to be expected that the reader can know either of us\nwithout a formal introduction; which is the more necessary, as we are\nboth to figure in the tale I am about to relate.\n\nThose of my readers who have passed through Longtown in Cumberland may\nhave remarked, on the left-hand side of the main street, as they entered\nthe town from the bridge, a neat red-brick house, with an iron-railed\nenclosure in front, and a large gateway to the right, leading into the\ncourtyard. In that house Sandford Grant and I first became acquainted\nwith each other; it was then an academy. The house still remains, but\nmaster and pupils are \"scattered to the four winds of heaven.\" For three\nyears we were class-fellows and friends; for we were just of the same\nage, and a Scottish feeling of clannish regard made us cling to each\nother more perhaps than we otherwise would have done. He was a handsome,\nspirited boy, or rather child, and was always ready, at a word, to fight\nmy battles as well as his own. He was a great favourite on account of\nhis frank, liberal disposition; but the most unlucky little dog that\never lived. If ever there was any mischief going on, he was sure to be\nconcerned in it, and as sure of being discovered and punished; if there\nwas only one puddle in the road on a Sunday, he, somehow or other,\ncontrived to go out of his way to tumble into it, dirty his white\nstockings, and be recommended by the mistress to her husband's tender\nmercies. In fact, he was constantly getting into scrapes; so much so\nthat \"Sandford's luck\" became quite a proverb among us.\n\nIt was with sad hearts and tears on both sides that we parted, when\ncircumstances obliged me to accompany my family to the south. We were\nthen about eleven years of age; and having lately read the tale of Damon\nand Pythias, we felt assured that we would willingly follow their\nexample, and were ready, if necessary, to immolate ourselves on the\naltar of friendship. Fortunately for us, there was no such necessity.\nThe spring of tears in youth lies too near the surface--it is soon\nexhausted. We solaced our sorrows for the present, by promising that, as\nwe could no longer see each other, we would exchange long letters, at\nleast once a-week. At first our correspondence added considerably to His\nMajesty's revenue; but our epistolary ardour soon cooled, till, at no\nvery long interval, our correspondence fell into a gradual decline, and\nat last died away altogether. But the Fates had decreed that Sandford\nand I were not to part so easily. We met some years afterwards at the\nMilitary College at Addiscombe, where we added to the number of the\nEast India Company's _hard bargains_. There we were inseparable; for,\nwith all the warmth of early recollections around us, our renewed\nacquaintance soon ripened into sincere and devoted friendship.\n\nAfter the usual term of probation at Addiscombe, Sandford obtained an\nappointment in the engineers, and I a cadetship of infantry, and we\nsailed from England together. On our arrival at Calcutta, we separated:\nhe remaining at the presidency, and I being ordered up the country, to\njoin my regiment at Cawnpore.\n\nI pass over the details of my life in India; suffice it that, after ten\nyears roasting under an eastern sun, I was pretty well done at last, and\nmy liver began to give me sundry gentle hints that it was time for me to\nbe moving, unless I wished to remain altogether where I was;\naccordingly, I applied for and obtained furlough to visit Europe for the\nbenefit of my health. Though Sandford and I had been so long separated,\nwe had always kept up a regular intercourse by letter, and we had\narranged that, if practicable, we would take our furlough together; and,\naccordingly, we managed matters so that we took our passage in the same\nship for England. Fortune had favoured us both in promotion; we had each\nattained the rank of captain in our respective corps. In congratulating\nSandford on his good fortune, I remarked, in allusion to our\nschool-days, that it was better than \"Sandford's luck.\"\n\n\"You would not say so, my dear fellow,\" said he, \"if you knew all. I am\nas unlucky a dog as ever; and you may have reason yet, before we part,\nto wish we had not met again.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said I; \"let us enjoy the present, at all events, whatever\nthe future may have in store for us. Come, order your palanquin, and let\nus be off; the boat was to be waiting for us at Champaul Ghaut at ten\no'clock, and it only wants a few minutes of the hour.\"\n\nOur ship, the Dolphin, was a beautiful little chartered free-trader, of\nabout 600 tons, remarkably fast for a merchantman--a regular clipper, as\nher captain called her--and manned by an active and effective crew. She\nmounted twelve small carronades on her upper deck, and a neat brass\nswivel which traversed on the head of the capstan. On the 28th August,\n18--, we sailed from Sangor with several other merchantmen, under convoy\nof H.M.S. Albatross. Our voyage was very tedious, unmarked by any\nvariety except that of wind and weather; and our captain, who was a\nsmart, active little man, an excellent disciplinarian, and much beloved\nby his crew, was dreadfully annoyed by the detention occasioned by the\ndull sailers of the fleet. At last he resolved, if possible, to effect\nhis escape, and make the best of his way home. After we left St Helena,\nan opportunity, unfortunately for us, soon presented itself. One squally\nevening, the frigate made a signal for the convoy to carry easy sail,\nand to watch the commodore's motions during the night. Soon after dark,\nthe wind freshened up to a strong breeze, with passing squalls and heavy\nrain at times. With her topgallantsails set over single-reefed topsails,\nthe little Dolphin bounded over the waves in such style as to do credit\nto the name she bore; and, by keeping a little of the course she had\nbefore been steering, and carrying a press of sail through the night,\nmade such good use of her _fins_, that at daybreak not a ship of the\nfleet was to be seen. We were all at first delighted with our freedom,\nand with the prospect of reaching our destination so much sooner than we\notherwise would have done; but, upon after reflection, we began to doubt\nthe prudence of trusting to our own legs and arms, when we would have\nbeen so much safer under the wing of the Albatross. Captain Driver\nhimself, however, was in high glee; he said he knew that few even of the\ncrack privateers were matches for his little Dolphin. However, he\nneglected no means of adding to, and improving, the efficiency of his\nvessel: the men were exercised regularly at the guns, the passengers and\nservants drilled in the use of the muskets, and every precaution was\nadopted which skill and experience could suggest, to make our means of\ndefence as available as possible.\n\nIn this way our time passed away stirringly and pleasantly enough, till\nwe lost the south-east trade, and then we were tormented for nearly\nthree weeks with calms and burning heat during the day, and heavy\nunceasing rains during the night. To add to our discomforts, a great\nmortality had taken place among our live stock, and we were for days\nfloating about among a whole fleet of dead ducks and fowls, with the\npleasant prospect before us of salt junk and hard Curtis[1] for the rest\nof the voyage.\n\n[Footnote 1: A famous biscuit-baker.]\n\n\"My old luck,\" said Sandford.\n\nWe had at last contrived to crawl as far as four degrees north, when,\none afternoon, to our great joy, we observed signs of change in the\nweather. Light grey clouds were beginning to appear to the northward;\nand we watched with great interest those \"ships of heaven\" slowly and\ngradually moving upwards. Light _cats'-paws_ began to ruffle the waters,\nand every here and there we saw in the distance shoals of fish sporting\namid the roughness which the light and partial airs produced upon the\nsurface. But we were still lying becalmed; the awnings were all spread,\nbut the heat was oppressive; and the little Dolphin was rolling heavily\nin the long sea, dipping her bright sides deep into the water. A long\ndark line was now visible on the horizon to the eastward, which\ngradually spread, and neared us.\n\n\"Thank goodness! there is a breeze at last!\" said Captain Driver; and in\nhalf-an-hour's time the Dolphin was once more dancing along, like a\nliving creature, over the waves. During the night, the wind drew\ngradually round to the northward; and before morning we had a fine\nsteady north-east trade, which carried us as far as twenty-nine degrees\nnorth. From this time nothing particular occurred, till we arrived\nnearly in the parallel of the English Channel--the Lizard bearing about\nnorth-east-by-east of us, fifteen hundred miles distant. Here, after a\nsuccession of south-easterly breezes, we had another taste of\n\"Sandford's luck,\" in the shape of a calm of two days' duration. On the\nmorning of the third day, we were surprised by seeing, at some six or\nseven miles' distance to the south-west, a long, low, rakish-looking\nbrig, with her royals furled and courses hauled up, and a pennant flying\nat the mast-head. Immediately on noticing us, she hoisted an English\nensign, and fired a gun. Our boatswain, an old man-of-war's-man,\nimmediately exclaimed that he recognised her as H.M. brig Hawk; and upon\nher firing a second gun, the quarter-boat was lowered and manned, and\nthe second mate despatched in her. Sandford, who was fond of novelty,\nasked and obtained leave to join the party. Soon after the boat shoved\noff from the Dolphin, a light breeze from the southward filled the\nstranger's sails, and she drew a little nearer. We were all anxious for\nnews from England, and watched our boat with great anxiety, as she went\nalongside of the brig; but what was our surprise to observe that the\ncrew were all called up, and two of the stranger's men were sent into\nthe boat! The brig was all this time slowly and gradually approaching\nus, while we were lying helplessly becalmed, watching the breeze as it\nrippled over the still, smooth water, about half-way between the\nvessels. The stranger was now within two miles of us, when the light\nair, which had so long been favouring her, began to roughen the sea\nclose under our stern. A bright flash and a thick cloud of smoke now\nburst from the stranger's bow, and the loud, sharp report of a gun\nbroke, with startling import, on our ears, while, at the same moment,\nthe English ensign was hauled down, and the white flag of France\nfloated proudly in its stead, and a red cornet fluttered at the main.\n\n\"Here's a pretty business!\" said Captain Driver. \"We will give them a\nrun for it, however.\"\n\nIn an instant, all was bustle and activity an board the little Dolphin:\nevery stitch of canvas was spread to catch the coming breeze; two of the\nguns were _trained_ aft, and pointed out of the cabin windows; not a\nvoice was heard on board, but that of the captain; the men moved\nactively and noiselessly about, watching their commander's eye, and in\nprompt obedience to his orders. The little Dolphin herself seemed\nconscious that danger was near, so silently did she slip through the\nwater, as her lofty sails swelled out with the light but steady breeze.\nThere was such a hush among us on board, after all the sails had been\nset, that the only sound heard was the hissing noise made by the ship as\nshe cut rapidly through the smooth water, and the small bubbles floated\naway astern. Presently a tiny wave raised its white crest here and\nthere, and broke with a gentle murmur; there was glad music in the\nsound--for it was a sign that the breeze was freshening. In the course\nof an hour, though the water was still smooth, the Dolphin was beginning\nto _speak_ audibly, and the white foam-bells danced merrily past her.\n\nIn the meantime, the stranger had not been idle. She had at first made\nuse of her sweeps; but, as the breeze freshened, she laid them in. Her\nlofty spars were crowded with canvas, and she seemed to be rather\ngaining upon us. We could see that her decks were crowded with men; and\nevery now and then she sent a shot after us.\n\n\"Talk away, my boys,\" said the gallant little captain. \"I have no time\nto return the compliment. If I can only keep clear of you till dark, I\nwill weather you yet.\" The poor little Dolphin glided away beautifully,\nand proved that she well merited her good character; for, after some\nhours' chase, the privateer had gained but little upon us; but still\nthere appeared no chance of our escaping in the long run. About noon,\nthe enemy was within range, and no sooner made the discovery, than she\nbegan blazing away with her bow-guns, in hopes of disabling us; but\nfortune, for once in her life, favoured the weaker party. The\nprivateer's shot riddled our sails; but our spars and hull were as yet\nunharmed, when a well-aimed shot from one of our stern-chasers went\nthrough her fore-topgallantsail, and struck the mast just above the cap.\nThree cheers burst from our gallant crew, as they saw her small masts\nfirst bend, then fall forward together before the foretopsail, dragging\nwith them the main-royal and skysail masts. The sailing of the two\nvessels was so nearly equal, that we now had a decided advantage over\nthe enemy, which Captain Driver did all in his power to make the most\nof. Two of the foremost guns were _trained_ aft, and the men were all\nordered to lie down on the deck close to the taffrail, to bring the ship\nmore by the stern. There were active hands, however, on board the\nprivateer. In a wonderfully short time, the wreck was cleared away, and\nnew spars had replaced the crippled ones. She came crawling quickly up\nagain; and it was evident to all on board the Dolphin, that, unless some\nunforeseen accident saved us, a few hours would seal our fate.\n\nIt was now late in the evening; the sun had set, and dark, louring\nclouds were hanging over the horizon to the westward. The water was\nstill tolerably smooth, and the wind was a little on our starboard\nquarter; the privateer was coming up rather to leeward, gaining rapidly\nupon us, and peppering away as fast as she could with her bow-chasers.\nSome of her shot _told_ upon our hull, smashing the cabin bulk-heads,\nbut hurting no one; and, fortunately, our spars were as yet untouched.\nBut she was not so lucky--for we could see, by their getting\npreventer-backstays upon her fore-topmast, that the mast was crippled.\nCaptain Driver perceived that there was no chance of escaping much\nlonger by fast sailing, and he determined to try what stratagem could do\nfor us. He called his men round him, and explained to them what his\nintentions were; telling them that everything depended upon their energy\nand activity, and promising them, in the name of his owners, a handsome\nreward if they succeeded in saving the ship. Immediately after the next\nshot fired by the privateer, the man at the helm, by Captain Driver's\norders, began to yaw the ship about--the stunsails were hauled in--the\nroyal sheets let go--the sails clued up, but not furled--the\ntopgallantsails lowered, and the colours hauled down. Every movement\nmust have appeared to the enemy indicative of terror and indecision; and\nwe could distinctly hear the cheers with which they hailed the lowering\nof our ensign. In the midst of our apparent confusion, the yards of the\nDolphin were quietly drawn forward to starboard, and the men and\npassengers stationed at the topgallant and royal halyards, and royal\nsheets. The privateer, which some of our men now recognised as the\nnotorious Hercule of Brest, came bowling upon our larboard quarter,\ntaking in and furling all her small sails, and hauling up her courses.\nWhen she was so close to us that we might almost have thrown a biscuit\non board, the French captain jumped upon the bulwark with his trumpet in\nhis hand, as if to hail us.\n\n\"Now, my lad,\" said Driver to the man at the helm, \"remember what I told\nyou. When I call out to you to put the helm hard a-starboard, put it\nhard a-port.\"\n\nThe privateer captain was just putting the trumpet to his lips, when\nCaptain Driver bawled out, \"Put the helm hard a-starboard!\"\n\nAs he expected, this order was instantly echoed on board the privateer,\nwho thought we intended to try and run aboard of him. As I said before,\nthe wind was a little on our starboard quarter; and the Frenchman, by\npaying quickly _off_, threw his sails aback; while the little Dolphin,\n_her_ helm having been put to port instead of starboard, flew _up_ to\nthe wind, and, her yards being all ready braced up, darted away like an\narrow to windward--this being her favourite sailing point; at the same\nmoment, the topgallant sails were sheeted home and set, and the royals\nhoisted.\n\nIt was some little time before the privateer recovered from the surprise\nand confusion occasioned by this unexpected manoeuvre; and, by the\ntime her yards were trimmed and sails set, the Dolphin had again a good\nstart of her. We had now reason to bless the fortunate shot that had\ncrippled her fore-topmast; for she was afraid to carry such a press of\nsail as she otherwise would have done. However, disabled as she was, she\nwas still a match for us, and kept throwing her shot after us, in token\nof her friendly feeling.\n\n\"Hurrah, my little beauty!\" said Captain Driver, apostrophising his\nship; \"another hour, and we are safe.\"\n\nThe privateer was gaining upon us slowly but surely, when the night,\nwhich, fortunately for us, was dark and gloomy, set in. Captain Driver\nkept a light burning in the stern cabin, and gave strict orders that\nevery other light in the ship should be put out. He then had a large\nwater-butt sawed in half, and fitted into it a light bamboo staff, to\nthe end of which a lantern was affixed. The tub was well ballasted; and,\nwhen all was ready, it was lowered down nearly to the water's edge\nastern, the lantern lighted, and the lamp in the captain's cabin\nextinguished. Just as the lanyards were let go, and the tub, with its\ndecoy light, fell into the water, we fired both our stern-chasers, to\ndeceive the enemy, and immediately bore up, and stood away, under a\npress of sail, to the westward. The night was pitch dark; the wind\ndrawing round to the southward and westward, and with every appearance\nof further change.\n\nOur ruse succeeded completely. We were only aware of the privateer's\nposition by the bright flashes of her guns, as she fired them in chase,\nas she thought; and by the twinkling light of the floating lantern,\nwhich was, at last, suddenly extinguished, after a brisk fire from the\nFrenchman. We ran, for a couple of hours, to the westward; and then, the\nwind gradually heading us, we kept away again for the Channel, and,\nbefore morning, we had a fine staggering westerly breeze to help us\nalong.\n\nAt daylight, nothing was to be seen from the mast-head; and we\ncheerfully pursued our voyage, rejoicing in our fortunate escape. We had\nnow time to think of and to lament the hard fate of our shipmates, who\nhad been so cleverly entrapped.\n\n\"Sandford's luck, again,\" said I. \"Poor fellow, how strange it is that\nsuch a fatality always seems to attend him!\"\n\n\"You forget,\" said Captain Driver, \"that the men who are with him are in\nthe same unlucky predicament, and of course are equally unfortunate. But\nit _is_ curious to observe how some men are favoured and others\npersecuted by fortune. When I was a youngster, I sailed with a captain\n(a smart, active, intelligent man he was) who told me that ever since he\nhad commanded a ship, each alternate voyage had always been an unlucky\none. 'And this,' said he, 'is my unlucky one.' And sure enough it was\nso; for, from the commencement to the close of it, it was one constant\nseries of misfortunes. However, I have no doubt our poor lads will be\nwell enough off on board the privateer--the French are fine fellows,\nafter all; but I do not envy them the quarters that await them on\nshore.\"\n\nThe breeze continued steady; and in about ten days' time we had run down\na great part of our distance from the Lizard, which we expected to\n_make_ in two days more. One morning the man at the mast-head reported a\nlarge ship to the southward, and Captain Driver _made her out_ to be a\nman-of-war. We immediately crowded all sail, with the horrors of a\nFrench prison before us; but she had already noticed us, and come\nbowling after us, firing a gun to bring us to, and hoisting English\ncolours. After a long and anxious survey of the stranger, Captain Driver\nwas satisfied that she was an English frigate, and accordingly hoisted\nhis colours and hove to. From the lieutenant who boarded us, we learned\nthat the frigate was H.M.S. ----, bound to Spithead. When we related to\nhim our adventure with the privateer, he told us that it was no wonder\nwe were deceived; for that the Hercule was often mistaken for the Hawk,\nand that the real Hawk was cruising about the _chops_ of the Channel, in\nhopes of falling in with her. We followed in the wake of the frigate up\nChannel, and, on the 1st May, to our great joy, we cast anchor once more\non the shores of Old England. I remained two years at home, and then\nreturned to the East, without having heard any news of poor Sandford's\nfate.\n\n\"And now, my dear Sandford,\" said I, \"tell me all your adventures since\nwe parted company so unexpectedly.\"\n\n\"You may imagine our surprise,\" replied he, \"when we found how quietly\nwe poor gulls had thrust our heads into the eagle's nest. The second\nmate of the Dolphin and I had hardly set foot on the deck of the\nstranger, when we saw at a glance our mistake; and, if we had any doubts\non the subject, they were soon set at rest by the captain, who said to\nus, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile--\n\n\"'Messieurs, you are my prisonnars; dere is no use for de resiste; call\nyour men out of de boat.'\n\n\"We saw too plainly that resistance was vain, and we submitted to our\nhard fate as patiently as we could. The boat's crew were sent down into\nthe hold, and sentries placed over them, and we were disarmed, but\nallowed the range of the deck and cabin, giving our parole that we\nwould hold no intercourse with our own men or the crew. When we saw the\nprivateer's sails swell with the breeze and when with her long sweeps\nshe began to crawl along 'like a centipede,' while the little Dolphin\nlay stationary and becalmed, we feared that we should soon have more\ncompanions in captivity. Great was our delight when the gallant little\nvessel glided away like a fairy before us, and we began to have some\nhopes of your escape, knowing as we did what a character the Dolphin had\nfor sailing.\n\n\"'Well done, my beauty!' shouted the mate.\n\n\"'Ah, mon ami,' said the Frenchman, 'do not rejoice too queek; before\nnight, your leetel beaute, as you call hare, shall be mine.'\n\n\"I cannot describe his mortification at the skilful manoeuvre by which\nyou baffled him just as he thought he was sure of you, and contrived to\nsteal away again to windward of him; but, after a time, when his angry\nfeeling had passed away, he could not help exclaiming--\n\n\"'Parbleu! he is one clevare man, that capitane! He most be var weak\nafter lose one boat's crew, and yet how he manage his sheep skeelfully!\n'Tis almost peety not let him rone away; bote I mos catch heem--he\ncannot escape long.' When the night set in so dark and gloomy, he\nsaid--'Well, begar, I do begin think that capitane of yours is not so\nvary clevare man after all. How he most be fool to carry that\nlight!--without that lumiere I should lose sight of heem quite entirely,\nthe night is so, what you call, so tar--no--peetch dark.'\n\n\"'I suppose,' said I, 'in the confusion he has forgot it.'\n\n\"'Not a bit of it,' said Gordon, the mate, to me, aside; 'Captain Driver\nis not such a fool as he thinks. He has some reason for what he is\ndoing, depend upon it.'\n\n\"After a time, the light, which had kept a pretty equal distance ahead\nof us, became apparently stationary, and we came up to it with great\nrapidity.\n\n\"'Ah,' said the Frenchman, 'he is tire at last. We have catch heem.'\n\n\"We all thought that some of our chance shots had taken effect, and that\nthe Dolphin, unable to escape, had hove to, to surrender. As we came\nnear the light, the small sails were taken in and furled, the courses\nhauled up, and the boat was cleared away for lowering to board the\nprize.\n\n\"'Begar, dis is ver extraordinare!' said the Frenchman to me--'dere is\nde light, but I do not see de sheep. Sheep ahoy!' No answer. 'Sheep\nahoy! Answere, or I weel fire.' Still no answer. 'Tirez donc!' A\nbroadside was fired, and the light disappeared.\n\n\"Not a cry or sound of any kind was heard after the noise of the firing\nhad ceased. The poor little Dolphin, we thought, must have sunk at once;\nbut yet it was very strange that so large a vessel (she was large\ncompared to the Frenchman) could have been invisible and inaudible when\nso near us. The boats were lowered immediately, and furnished with\nlanterns, that their crews might see to save all they could. After a\nshort time, they returned, bringing back, as the sole remains of the\npoor Dolphin, a few broken staves, and a bamboo, with a lantern lashed\nto the end of it. The French captain's blank stare of astonishment was\nat first quite amusing; but at last the truth flashed upon him, and,\nwith a loud laugh, he exclaimed--\n\n\"'Parbleu! that capitane is one dam clevare fellow! He throw out one tub\nto catch a whale; he deserves to escape. _Neanmoins_, he is not safe\nyet.'\n\n\"He then hauled close to the wind, and stood to the eastward, thinking\nthat you would make for the Channel as fast as possible. If it had not\nbeen for the name of the thing, we would have enjoyed the cruise very\nmuch; for the French captain and his officers were polite and\ngentlemanly, and treated us as messmates and friends. _Their_\ndestination was Brest, and ours, eventually, a French prison, till we\nshould be ransomed or exchanged--a pleasant way for me to enjoy my three\nyears' furlough!\n\n\"One afternoon, just after dinner, as we were dodging to the eastward,\nwith the wind at north, a sail appeared ahead, but too far off to\ndistinguish what she could be. All sail was immediately made in chase,\nand we rapidly neared the object of our pursuit. She was a lumbering,\nheavy-looking brig, under topgallantsails, painted with a broad, dirty\nwhite streak, turning up at each end with a _sheer_ like a bow. We\nhoisted French colours, and fired a gun to leeward; she showed an\nEnglish ensign, and immediately began to make more sail, which she did\nin a regular collier-like fashion, and went floundering and plunging\nalong like a cart-horse over a ploughed field; and the more sail she\nmade, the slower she seemed to go. We were all mightily amused with her\nclumsy attempts to escape, and wondered at her folly in exasperating her\nenemy by such unavailing efforts. Gun after gun was fired to bring her\nto; but still she floundered on, kicking up her stern as if in derision,\nas her heavy bow plunged deep into the water. At last the captain of the\nprivateer got into a towering passion, and swore he would sink her when\nhe got alongside. While the brig, or at least her crew, were straining\nevery nerve to escape, one of her maintopgallant sheets _went_; and the\nawkward and slovenly manner in which the sail was handled excited the\nlaughter of all on board our small craft. The brig at this time, as if\naware that escape was hopeless, took in her royals, and lowered her\ntopgallantsails, but without altering her course, or striking her\ncolours. It was dusk when we came within speaking distance; and, running\nup close under her quarter, our captain seized the speaking-trumpet, and\nordered the brig to strike her colours immediately, or he would sink\nher. What was his surprise, when, in answer to his hail, three deafening\ncheers resounded from the brig! Her deck was in an instant swarming\nwith men; and, while our crew were gaping with astonishment, _the\npainted canvas screen_ disappeared from her side as if by magic, and a\nbroadside was poured into our hull, which made us reel again, and\nwounded and killed several of the crew. In justice to the Frenchman, I\nmust say, that, as soon as the first surprise was over, he (the captain,\nI mean) was as cool and collected as possible. His orders were given\nrapidly and energetically; and actively and ably were they executed. He\ninstantly stood away to the southward and eastward, and trusted to his\nheels to escape from an enemy whom he saw at a glance he was unable to\ncope with. In a few minutes, from the truck to the water's edge, the\nHercule was one cloud of canvas; and merrily did she dance away over the\nwaves. The English man-of-war crowded all sail after us; very\ndifferently was she _handled_, now she was no longer acting merchantman.\nShe seemed to have cast aside her sluggishness with her disguise, and,\nto our great surprise, seemed rather to gain than lose ground. She kept\non our weather (larboard) quarter; and her bow-chasers were in constant\nplay, and remarkably well served--hardly a shot but told upon our\nrigging or hull.\n\n\"The Hercule was considered the fastest privateer out of France; but,\nbefore the wind, the brig was evidently gaining upon us. Not one of our\nshot had, as yet, done her any material injury, though her head sails\nwere riddled through and through. This game could not last long;--the\nprivateer determined upon trying another move. He was obliged to keep\nhis pumps constantly going, for he had received several shots between\nwind and water. Suddenly whipping in all his stunsails, he ran his yards\nforward, and hauled to the eastward. This manoeuvre was rapidly and\nskilfully executed; and, as we shot across the bows of the English brig,\nwe poured a raking broadside into her, which, we afterwards learned, did\nnot do so much damage as we expected, as our guns were pointed too high.\nThree cheers rang from the English brig; as quick as thought, they _ran_\nin their stunsails, and, following our movements, hauled to the wind.\n\n\"As the privateer had anticipated, the moment the brig rounded to, her\nforetopsail and topgallantsail, already in tatters, blew clean out of\nthe bolt-ropes. This was a glorious sight for the privateer, but a sad\none for us poor prisoners; we thought that all chance of escape was at\nan end, and that it was impossible for the brig to shift her sails\nquickly enough to save her distance. But 'impossible' is a landsman's\nword--there is none such on board a British man-of-war; her fore-rigging\nwas swarming with men in a moment, and in ten minutes more they were\n_bringing_ a new topsail _to_ the yard, and the topgallantyard was on\nits way to the mast-head again. In the meantime her bow guns had not\nbeen silent; a pretty smart conversation was carried on between them and\nour stern-chasers, and _their_ answers were most unpleasantly _true_ and\ngalling. Her guns must have had picked marksmen stationed at them, for\nhardly a shot was thrown away.\n\n\"We were, however, leaving the brig rapidly, when a lucky shot from her\ncame through one of our quarter-ports, and knocked down the two men at\nthe helm. The privateer instantly flew up in the wind, and her\nhead-sails took aback; and though the helmsmen were instantly replaced,\nand the vessel boxed off again skilfully and rapidly, yet the few\nminutes that elapsed before she paid off and gathered way again, were\nsufficient to make a great alteration in our relative positions.\n\n\"The English brig was now within half-a-mile on our weather quarter,\ngaining steadily and slowly, and throwing her single shot into us with\nthe most unerring precision. At last an eighteen-pound shot struck our\nweather maintopsail yardarm; and the spar snapped in two close outside\nthe slings. All chance of escape was now over; but the Frenchman, a\ngallant fellow, was determined not to strike till the last; and all the\nguns that could be brought to bear upon the brig were double-shotted,\nand rattled into her. In answer to this salute, the man-of-war gave a\nyaw to windward, and poured her starboard broadside into the privateer,\nwith deadly effect; and then, bearing suddenly up amid the clouds of\nsmoke, she ran close under our stern, and discharged her larboard guns,\nsweeping our decks fore and aft, dismounting two of our guns, killing\nfive of our men, and carrying away our tiller-ropes. The privateer was\nnow perfectly unmanageable; her topmasts were hanging in splinters over\nher sides; her brave captain was killed; there were three feet water in\nthe hold; and the active and indefatigable brig was playing round and\nround, pouring in her remorseless fire. The French crew, seeing the\nmadness and inutility of further resistance, struck their colours; and\nin a few minutes a boat came on board from H.M. brig Hawk, and the\nofficers of the privateer surrendered their swords to the lieutenant in\ncommand; who, on receiving them, complimented the privateer's men highly\non their gallant defence. I was greatly grieved at the death of the\nFrench captain, who, during our short sojourn with him, had endeared\nhimself to us by his handsome and gentlemanly behaviour. He had allowed\nGordon, the mate, and myself to dispose of ourselves as we thought\nproper during the action, on our giving our parole that we would not in\nany way interfere. As soon as the privateer ceased firing, the smothered\nsound of three cheers came faintly up the hatchway from our poor fellows\nin the hold, who rightly judged the result of the action. They were\nimmediately liberated; and a prize crew having been sent on board, the\nFrench took up the quarters just vacated by the 'Dolphins.'\n\n\"After a few hours spent in repairing damages, and in vigorous exercise\nat the pumps of the privateer, the Hawk, with her prize in tow, stood\nto the northward and eastward; and in a few days the Hercule, with the\nred ensign proudly floating above the flag of France, followed her\ncaptor into Spithead. As soon as I possibly could, I hastened up to\ntown, where I found a letter lying for me at my agent's, to be delivered\nas soon as the Dolphin arrived (my friends knew I had taken my passage\nin that ship), begging me to hasten over to Ireland immediately, to\nattend the death-bed of a maternal uncle. I arrived in Dublin in time to\nattend the old gentleman's funeral, and to find, to my great surprise,\nthat he had left the whole of his Irish property and a large estate in\nthis country to his grateful nephew, on condition that I took his name.\nFortune was tired of plaguing me at last. I was obliged to remain nearly\nthree years in Ireland, in order to arrange matters satisfactorily with\nmy agent, and to put everything in train for making my tenants as\ncomfortable as possible. My other estate is in Perthshire, where I shall\nbe delighted to enjoy the pleasure of _your_ society, until you are\nwearied of _ours_.--I say ours, because I have a new friend to introduce\nto you in the person of my wife.\"\n\nI accompanied Sandford home, and found his establishment such as I\nshould have expected from a man of his liberal and enlightened turn of\nmind--handsome without ostentation--liberal without profusion. His lady\nwas a most amiable and agreeable person--unaffected and cheerful in her\nmanners. I was delighted with my first introduction to her. Coming\nforward to meet me with all the graceful ease that distinguishes a\nwell-bred woman, and with all the warmth of manner of an old friend, she\nshook me most cordially by the hand.\n\n\"Mr Douglas,\" said she, \"I am delighted to see you; often and often has\nSandford talked over your mutual adventures, and regretted the evil\ndestiny that separated him from his earliest and dearest friend. Your\ncharacter is so familiar to me, that I feel as if, instead of\naddressing a stranger, I were talking to an old friend. I hope you will\nsoon learn to look upon all here in the same light.\"\n\nIt was impossible not to feel instantly at home, where such genuine and\nsincere cordiality was displayed; and in a few hours I was as completely\ndomesticated at Grant Hall, as if I had been its inmate for years. The\nvery servants seemed to feel that in pleasing me they were pleasing\ntheir master and mistress; for whom, it was evident, they all felt the\ngreatest affection and respect. It is a good sign of the heads of a\nhouse, when the servants grow grey at their posts; and most of those at\nGrant Hall seemed in a fair way of doing so. But I am digressing. While\nthe ceremony of introduction between myself and Mrs Grant was in\nprogress, a young lady was seated at one of the open windows. She raised\nher eyes on my entrance--and such eyes! However, I will say nothing more\nabout them; for, though so much has already been spoken and written\nabout ladies' eyes, one glance from such a pair as then beamed upon me\nwas worth volumes of description. There was nothing at first\nparticularly striking about the lady's appearance; at least nothing\nsufficiently so for particular notice or description; but, on further\nscrutiny, her features were faultlessly regular, and the expression of\nher countenance was so placid and gentle, that, had it not been for the\nlambent fire of her dark eyes, I might almost have fancied that some\npure, cold, faultless creation of the sculptor's fancy sat before me.\nHers was one of those faces which seldom _arrest_ admiration at first\nsight, but which seem to display new beauties the longer they are gazed\nupon. Sandford introduced her as his sister Alice.\n\n\"This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Sandford,\" said I. \"Your brother\nwished to give me an agreeable surprise, I suppose; for he never told me\nthat you formed one of his family party.\"\n\n\"Sandford may have neglected to mention his sister to you, Mr Grant,\"\nsaid she, her bright eyes sparkling with animation, and giving life and\nenergy to her features; \"but I assure you he has not been backward in\nmaking you the theme of his discourse to us. I have often been inclined\nto feel jealous of his brotherly regard for you.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Ned Douglas,\" muttered I to myself, when I was\ncomfortably settled into my soft bed, \"you're a lucky dog to have fallen\ninto such good quarters. A few weeks ago, you were afraid to move, lest\nyou should tumble out of your narrow cot, and break your invaluable head\nupon a hard deck; and now you are afraid to move for fear of losing\nyourself in this wilderness of a bed, or being smothered in an ocean of\nfeathers.\"\n\nIt was bright and beautiful July; all nature brightened in the smile of\nthe summer sun, and fair Alice smiled upon me. Could I be otherwise than\nhappy?\n\nSandford was a keen fisherman; and we used to wander together day after\nday along the banks of the beautiful Tay--he to indulge in an amusement\nwhich he enjoyed with enthusiastic relish, and I to gratify my love for\nthe beauties of nature, which are nowhere seen to greater perfection\nthan on the banks of that noble stream. We always returned home to a\nlate dinner, and the evenings were enlivened with music and song, in\nwhich both the ladies excelled, and in talking over the adventures of\nthe day, and the stirring scenes of our past lives.\n\n\"What strange beings sailors must be!\" said Alice to me one evening;\n\"such compounds of contradictions!--so lavish, yet so selfish--so\ndaring, yet so superstitious.\"\n\n\"Do you remember that strange old fellow, Rodney, the quartermaster,\"\nsaid Grant, \"who used to be such a favourite of yours? What yarns, as he\ncalled them, he used to spin!--enough to stagger the faith of the most\ncredulous; and yet I really think the old fellow had told them so often\nthat he believed them himself.\"\n\n\"Come, Mr Douglas,\" said Alice, \"can you not revive your recollections\nof the past sufficiently to favour us with a sample of his yarns, as you\ncall them? We have a long evening before us, and you know we ladies are\nfond of novelty and excitement.\"\n\n\"Well, Miss Alice, I will endeavour to gratify your love of the novel\nand marvellous; but, remember, the story I am about to tell is Rodney's,\nnot mine. You talked of the superstition of sailors--I will repeat you\none of his ghost stories, as it is less improbable than most of his\nyarns; and I know for a fact that there were numbers besides Rodney who\nfirmly believed it.\"\n\n\"Well, but, Douglas,\" said Sandford, \"let us have it in true Rodney\nstyle--slang and all. Don't be alarmed, ladies, by slang I only mean the\npeculiar phraseology of men of the Rodney stamp.\"\n\n\"Oh, do, Mr Douglas--now do! It will add so greatly to the effect of the\nstory; and I am sure you will not say anything to shock our ears.\"\n\n\"Well, Miss Alice, I will do my best to please you; but I must\nendeavour, in the first place, to give you some notion of Rodney's\nappearance. Do you remember him distinctly, Sandford? I have his figure\nbefore my mind's eye--long, thin, and muscular; a kind of prototype of\nthat pink of all coxswains and quartermasters, 'Long Tom Coffin;' his\nround, brightly-blackened hat flapped down upon his head, with an air of\ncareless indifference; his thin, iron-grey hair peeping out behind, as\nif it was wondering where the queue was going to; and his face looking\nout in front, as rough and unmoved as the surface of a weatherbeaten\nrock.\n\n\"'Well, Rodney,' said I to him, one first-watch, when his spell at the\ncunn was over, and he was taking what he called a fisherman's walk[2]\non the lee side of the poop--'well, Rodney, you really do believe in\nFlying Dutchmen, ghosts, and all that kind of nonsense?'\n\n[Footnote 2: \"Fisherman's walk\"--two steps and overboard.]\n\n\"'Believe!--Lord love your honour, to be sure I do! Didn't I sail with a\nman once as had been in a ship where one of the lads had seen the Flying\nDutchman the voyage before, and swore to it, too? Believe! Why, axing\nyer honour's pardon, and meaning no offence, there's none but fools and\nlong-shore chaps what doesn't believe them.'\n\n\"'Well, well; but ghosts, Rodney--did you ever see a ghost?'\n\n\"'Why, I can't say as how I ever seen one myself; but I knows them as\nhas.'\n\n\"'Ah! and what sort of ghost was it?'\n\n\"'Why, it's a longish yarn, yer honour; and ye're wanting to turn in.\nYou can't keep your eyes open like an old sailor; it's not naturable you\nshould, seeing you haven't had the same opportunity of larning. You\noodn't believe, now, I suppose, Mr Douglas, that I keeps watch and watch\nwith my peepers, and always goes to sleep with one eye open? And, for\nthe matter o' that, when I'm walking the deck by myself, I often takes\noff one of my shoes, to give 'em spell and spell about.'\n\n\"'Why,' said I, 'I have seen you keeping your shoes at watch and watch;\nbut the eyes, Rodney--I can't swallow the eyes.'\n\n\"'Love yer honour, you hain't half a swally, then; when you've heerd as\nmany queer yarns as I've heerd, and seen as many deviltries as I've\nseen, ye'll larn to swallow anything.'\n\n\"'But come, Rodney, let's have the ghost. I don't mean to turn in till\neight-bells.'\n\n\"The old man leaned back upon the hencoop on which I was sitting,\ncrossed his arms over the breast of his pea-jacket, and began:--\n\n\"'Well, yer honour, Jack Rodney never was the man to lay at his anchors\nwhen the signal was made to get under weigh. I've been at sea, yer\nhonour, man and boy, five-and-thirty years come next quarter-day; and\nthere's ne'er a blue-jacket afloat as can say Jack Rodney ever sailed\nunder false colours, or stretched a yarn beyond its bearings. When once\nold Jack gets his jawing-tacks aboard, his yarn runs off clear and\nquick, like the line off a log-reel in a breeze. I hates them stuttering\nbeggars, axing yer honour's pardon, as boxes all the points of the\ncompass, and never steers no strait coorse after all. Their words come\ncreeping out as if they were afeerd the master-at-arms was a-going to\nput them in limbo; but a steady helm and a straight coorse for old\nRodney, says I.'\n\n\"After the old man had talked himself into a proper opinion of his\nmerits, he began at once to steer a straight course, as he called it.\n\n\"'Ye've never been in Chainey, yer honour? Ah you long-togged gentry has\na vast to see! Why, you sits at home half your lives, and never knows\nnothing. Why, now I'll make bould to say yer honour doesn't know how to\nmake a sea-pie or a dish of lobskous?'\n\n\"'Not I, Rodney.'\n\n\"'My eyes!' muttered the old man to himself, 'to think of a man coming\nto his years, and not knowing how to make lobskous! Why, sir, axing yer\npardon, yer edication must have been sadly neglected.'\n\n\"'Oh, I shall improve under your tuition, Rodney; but now for the\nghost.'\n\n\"'Well, sir, you sees when I was aboard the old Bruisewater, East\nInjeeman, we wor lying at our moorings in Wampoa Reach--that's in\nChainey, yer honour. There was a large fleet of us, all lying waiting\nfor a cargo, with nothing in the varsal world to do but to keep the\nships clean, and to play at race-horses with the boats. A grand sight it\nwas, yer honour, to see so many fine large craft lying at anchor, all\nclean painted, and looking as gay as so many women rigged out for a\ndance ashore, with their red and striped ensigns all fluttering in the\nsunshine; and the lads all as neat and clean as shore-going gemmen.\nWhy, Lord love you, this here craft would look like a cockleshell\nalongside o' them! 'Twas a sight to do an old sailor's heart good, to\nsee sich a show of merchantmen as no other country but Ould England\ncould produce. And then, for such an outlandish, out-o'-the-way place as\nChainey, the country wasn't so ill-looking neither. On each side of the\nriver were the level green paddy fields, with here and there a little\nhill, with a joss-house peeping out from the bamboos; the green hills of\nDane's Island further up, and its valleys rich with orange-trees and\npatches of sugar-cane. Further up still was the village of Wampoa, all\nsticks and straw like, with a great thing like a lighthouse--what them\nneggurs calls a pugodour--standing as stiff as a marine at attention, on\nthe opposite bank of the river. And then to see the outlandish-looking\nmat sails--for devil a boat could you see belonging to them--cutting\nacross in all directions, as if they wor taking a walk in the paddy\nfields! and the junks cocking up ahead and astern like nothing else in\nthe world, with eyes painted on their bows, because the natural fools\nthink they won't be able to see without them! Then, sir, there's the men\nwith tails like cows, and the women with feet like dolls, and the\nchildren in the boats tied to calabashes, to prevent their drowning.\nWhy, bless ye, sir, if ye couldn't swally what I told you before, all\nthis 'll choke ye outright. Well, but to come to my story agen. I hates\nall this here traverse sailing; I must take a fresh departure. The chief\nmate of the Prince Royal, Mr Pattison, was a riglar out-an-outer, a man\nas was well knowed in the fleet, and was a favoryte with high and low;\nfor he was a sailor every inch of him, and knowed right well how to keep\npersons and things in their places. He was a taut hand, too; but none\nthe worse for that, for your true sailor, sir, loves an officer as is a\nreal officer, and gives every man his due, good or bad, without favour\nor affection--one knows what one has to trust to with such a man. He was\nquite a pet with the crew, though he made them fly whenever he spoke to\nthem; they were proud of old Charley, as they called him, and of their\nship--and high kelter[3] she was in. Well, sir, old Charley was taken\nill--then he got worse--then we heard he wasn't expected to live. There\nwasn't a man or officer in the fleet but wor sorry for him; for them as\nhadn't been shipmates with him knowed him by karacter. Of coorse, sir,\nwhen the chief mate was in the doctor's hands, and hove down to repair,\nthe second did duty for him. One day, when Charley was very ill, the\nsecond mate came on deck, and seed the carpenter a-standing in the sun\nwithout his hat on; so says he--\n\n[Footnote 3: Kelter--order.]\n\n\"'Mr Chips,' says he (the carpenters aboard them ships were all\nwarrant-officers, and so always had a handle put to their names)--'Mr\nChips, why are you standing in the sun without your hat? You'll be\ngetting a stroke of the sun.'\n\n\"'Oh, sir,' said the carpenter, with a face as long as the\nmaintop-bowline, 'it's of little consequence; my time's almost up; I\nhaven't much longer to live.'\n\n\"'What do you mean?' said the officer; 'what foolish notion have you\ntaken into yer head?'\n\n\"'Oh, sir, it's no foolish notion; _he_ told me so, and I never knowed\nhim deceive any one yet!'\n\n\"'Who told you so, Chips?' said the mate, kind and soothing like; for he\nwas afeerd that the sun really had got in at some little crack in his\nupper works; '_who_ told you so?'\n\n\"'Mr Pattison himself told me so, sir, last night.'\n\n\"'Mr Pattison? Why, Chips, you're dreaming; he's regularly hove down,\ncan't stir hand or foot, poor fellow.'\n\n\"'No matter, sir, _he_ told me so; and if it wasn't him, it was his\nghost.'\n\n\"'But how was this, and when?'\n\n\"'Why, sir, as I was lying awake last night in my cot, I saw Mr Pattison\ncome into my cabin port. The cot shook under me, I trembled so with\nfear, for I knew how ill he was; but I thought that, while the fever was\nat its height, he might have got up and wandered to my cabin without\nknowing what he was about; so I mustered courage to say to him, 'I am\nglad to see you on your legs again, sir.' He shook his head mournfully,\nand said, 'I shall never rise from my bed again; in two days' time my\neyes will be closed in death, and in three more you will follow me.' He\nthen disappeared, and left me with a weight upon my heart that will sink\nme to the grave.'\n\n\"'Oh, nonsense, Chips,' said the officer; 'don't let your mind dwell\nupon it. You must have been asleep--it was nothing but a dream.'\n\n\"'Dream or not, sir, I feel that I am a doomed man.'\n\n\"'Two days after this confab, yer honour, I saw the colours of the\nPrince Royal slowly rise from the tafferel, as if they didn't like the\nduty they were on; and then they hung mournfully half-way between deck\nand the gaff-end: in three minutes, every ship in the fleet had her\ncolours hoisted half-mast, that well-known signal that some officer has\nstruck his flag to death. Poor Charley was no more! A circular was sent\nfrom the commodore, to order two boats from every ship in the fleet to\nattend the funeral--and a grand funeral it was. It was a beautiful sight\nto see the procession, yer honour. There was the boat, with the coffin\nin the starn-sheets, covered with a union-jack; and the mourners sitting\non each side of it, towed by one of the Prince's cutters; all her crew\nin mourning, with black crape round their arms, and pulling\nminute-strokes. Then came the Prince's launch, towed by another boat,\nfull of the ship's company, who had all asked leave to see the last of\ntheir officer. Poor fellows! sincere mourners I believe they were.\nThen, sir, there was a long line of boats from each quarter of the\nlong-boat, all following in each other's wake, and stretching from one\nend of the reach to the other. As soon as the boat with the coffin in it\nshoved off from the Prince, her bell began to toll slowly, and, as it\npassed the gangway of the next ship, her bell took up the knell, and so\non all up the fleet. It was a beautiful sight, yer honour, to see the\nlong lines of boats, with their neat jacks fluttering half-mast from the\nstaffs; the men of each boat dressed alike; some crews in blue jackets;\nothers in white, but all with the crape round their arms: then the flags\nof all the fleet--English, French, American, and Dutch--waving,\nmournful-like, half-mast high; not a sound to be heard, yer honour, but\nthe dull sound of the minute-strokes, and the fluttering of the colours,\nand the long clear tones of the bells, as they died away further and\nfurther up the fleet:--oh, sir, it was a sad and a beautiful sight! He\nwas buried, where all the other English officers are buried, on French\nIsland. Well, yer honour, now comes the end of the business. Three days\nafterwards I was quartermaster of the deck, and was standing on the\nfoksle, when I see'd three boats a-passing, with their jacks half-mast,\nand a coffin in the starn-sheets of the foremost on 'em; so says I to\nTom Rattlin, the captain of the foksle--\"Tom,\" says I, \"what boats is\nthem?\"--\"The Prince's,\" says he; \"I believe her carpenter is dead.\" And\nsure enough it was the carpenter, sir; the ghost didn't tell him no lie;\nhis signal for sailing was made at the very time he named. Now, sir,\nafter that yarn, will you tell me that there are no such things as\nghosts? It was my old shipmate, Bill Buntling, that told me; and, if all\ntales are true, that's no lie.'\n\n\"There was no answering such a truism; so I thanked the old man for his\nyarn, and giving him a stiff'ner,[4] when the watch was over, turned\ninto my snug cot, little dreaming that I would ever repeat the story on\nthe banks of the Tay.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: Strong glass of grog.]\n\n\"Thank ye, Mr Douglas, for your 'yarn,'\" said Alice, \"I really think you\nwould make as good a 'spinner of yarns,' as you call it, as old Rodney\nhimself.\"\n\n\"What became of old Rodney, did you ever hear?\" said Sandford.\n\n\"Yes. He was lost from the Dundas Indiaman, poor fellow! some years ago.\nI used often to be talking of him on board the Dolphin, and Captain\nDriver told me that he knew the man, and that he had heard his fate. He\nwent out to put additional lashings on the sheet-anchor in a heavy gale\nof wind, a sea struck the bow, and tore him away while clasping the\nanchor in his arms. He was swept twenty yards from the ship, poor\nfellow! at once, and all hopes of saving him were at an end. He was an\nexcellent swimmer, and was seen to take off his pea-jacket with the\ngreatest coolness, and, whenever he rose on the top of a sea, he was\nseen waving his hat for assistance; at last he was seen on the crest of\na sea, but when it rose again Rodney was gone----\"\n\n\"Where many a true heart has gone before him!\" said Sandford, as the\nladies were rising to bid us good-night.\n\n\"How happy ought you and I to be, Douglas, enjoying all the comforts of\na cheerful home, while so many brave fellows are exposed to all the\nstorms and dangers of the deep!\"\n\nI _was_ happy; I had felt like a new man ever since my visit to\nPerthshire; a gleam of sunshine had brightened the dark and gloomy path\nof my life. I was no longer an isolated being--I had met with congenial\nhearts--I contrasted with gratitude the present with the past, and\nlooked forward with hope to a calm and happy future. I have before\nspoken of my first impressions of Alice Sandford: I soon learned to look\nupon her with feelings of warmer interest than I had thought I would\never experience again towards mortal being. I will not waste more words\nin endeavouring to describe the beauty of a face which, lovely as it\nwas, owed its principal charm to its sweet and amiable expression. That\nher countenance was a true index to her heart, I have had well-tried\nexperience; for Alice Sandford has been the wife of my bosom for many\nyears, and never, in joy or in sorrow, has she given me a moment's cause\nto repent of my choice. My friend Sandford (Grant, I should call him)\npersuaded me to fix my quarters in a handsome villa on his property; and\nI have ever since had reason to be thankful to Providence for the\nhappiness I have enjoyed, and for the blessed chance that led to my\nmeeting with my friend in the barn at ST BOSWELL'S.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF MAY DARLING.\n\n    \"Lay her i' the earth;\n    And from her pure and unpolluted flesh\n    May violets spring!\"--HAMLET.\n\n\nIt is a lovely spot, Grassyvale--\"beautiful exceedingly.\" But its beauty\nis of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic feature of the\nlandscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from\nthe highest neighbouring eminence, is simply--repose. There are no\nmountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles--none of\nthose natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of\nmountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur,\nlike columns of adamant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are\nsituated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might\nreadily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like stillness, and\nthe everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their\nbolts of liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had\nechoed to the thunder of their fall since the birth of time. There is no\nfar-spreading forest--no yawning ravine, with \"ebon shades and\nlow-browed rocks\"--no beetling cliff or precipice, \"shagged\" with\nbrushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the\nsublime, the terrible, or the magnificent--there is only quiet; or, if\nthe terms do not sound affected to \"ears polite,\" modest, unassuming\nbeauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in the zenith,\nmight form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not\nhere wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is\nso attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we\nmay be as much stultified with this question as was the child in\nWordsworth's sweet little poem, \"We are Seven\" (which the reader may\nturn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen),\nand may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves\nfor holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic\nobstinacy, it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to\nexclude a description of the landscape which we had prepared.\n\nThe village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small\nstream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly\nwhitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering\nshrub--wild-briar, honeysuckle, or the like--whilst a \"kail-yard\" in the\nrear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those\ndwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and\nby an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which\nseems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere. It is literally covered\nwith a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose\nunvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous \"the bright profusion of its\nscattered stars.\" The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of\nroses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance,\nand scatter their \"perfumed sweets\" around the apartment. Near the\ncottage, there is also a holly planted--that evergreen-tree which seems\nprovidentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter,\nand, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual\npromise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little\ndwelling than merely to describe its exterior.\n\nBehind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into\nelevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the parish\nchurch, like the ark resting on Ararat--faith's triumph, and mercy's\nsymbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate the cemetery\nwhere \"the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.\" Amongst those\nmemorials which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue\nfor a few generations--and which, with their appropriate emblems and\ninscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart, and realise to the\nletter Shakspere's memorable words, \"sermons in stones\"--there is one\nwhich always attracts attention. It is not a \"storied urn, an animated\nbust\"--one of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which\nworldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnificence, over departed\npride. No; it is only a small, unadorned slab of rather dingy-coloured\nfreestone; and the inscription is simply--\"To the memory of May Darling,\nwho was removed from this world to a better, at the early age of\nnineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a\nsincere Christian.\n\n    \"Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er;\n    She is not lost, but only gone before.\"\n\nAh! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass that\nhumble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her who\nsleeps beneath--her who was so beloved, so admired by every one, as well\nas being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and\nuntimely fate (cut off \"i' the morn and liquid dew of youth\") was the\nvillage talk for many a day.\n\nJohn Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great\nphenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious,\nhonest man. In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent farmer,\nwhose marriage-portion enabled him to commence life under very\nfavourable auspices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the\nmildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however wisely our\nplans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously and\njudiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which it would\nunnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the\nperiod to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field-labourer.\nDeath had likewise been busy singling out victims from amongst those who\nsurrounded his humble but cheerful fireside; and of a large family there\nonly remained three, and he was a widower besides. May was the eldest;\nand, accordingly, the superintendence of the household devolved upon\nher. The deceased parent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of\nmind, for the recollection of former affluence never forsook her; and\nthis circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and\nsophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict\nfamily disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely upon\nthe affairs of her own household; and her children were accordingly\nwatched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with more scrupulous\ncare, than was usual with those around her. It was her pride, and \"let\nit be her praise,\" to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than\nthose worn by their associates; and, to accomplish this darling object,\nwhat serious transmutation did her finery of former days undergo, as the\nmutilated robes descended from child to child, turned upside down,\ninside out, and otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove! The\ndress of May, in particular--her first-born bud of bliss, the doated on\nof her bosom--was always attended to with special care; nor was the\ncultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early inspired\nher with a love of reading, which increased with the development of her\nfaculties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had been\nawakened.\n\nIn person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was\neminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black contrasted\nadmirably with a countenance which may be designated as transparent--it\nwas nearly colourless; and only on occasions of unusual bodily exertion,\nor when some mental emotion suffused the cheek with a damask blush,\nwould a tint of rosy red fluctuate over her pure skin. It can scarcely\nbe called pale, however--it had nothing about it of that death-in-life\nhue which indicates the presence of disease.\n\n    \"Oh, call it _fair_, not pale!\"\n\nThe expression was at once amiable and intellectual--mellowed or\nblended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually, but most\nerroneously, called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a\n\"mind at peace with all below--a heart whose love was innocent.\" The\ncountenance, in general, affords an index of the mental character--it\ntakes its \"form and pressure,\" as it were, from the predominant workings\nof that inward principle which is the source of thought and feeling. It\nis there that thought and feeling, those subtle essences, are made\nvisible to the eye--it is there that mind may be seen. The most casual\nobserver could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke eloquently\nin the eye, \"and sweetly lightened o'er the face,\" of May Darling, was a\nworshipper of nature, of poetry, and of virtue; for they are often\ncombined--they have a natural relation to one another; and, when they\nexist simultaneously in one individual, a mind so constituted has a\ncapacity for enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is\nsusceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very\nhigh degree; and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of\n\"untold wealth\" to her.\n\n    \"Many are poets who have never penn'd\n    Their inspirations.\"\n\nAnd, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble village maiden,\nwill be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she enjoyed hours of\nintense poetical inspiration. In both her mental character and in the\nstyle of her personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of\nthe village. Need it be told, that often, of a fine evening, she would\nsteal away from her gay, romping, laughing associates, and, with a\nfavourite author in her hand, and wrapped in a vision of \"_sweet_ coming\nfancies,\" follow the course of the stream which intersected her native\nvale, flowing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own\nexistence?\n\nThe favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was a\nbeautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village. It was a\nplace so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there (but then all\nthese fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in nature's\nown hallowed Pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by\nscience--why should this be?)--there, if anywhere, the genius of\nsolitude might be supposed to have fixed her abode. It was a broken\npiece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks, here projecting\nin hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale, however), and\nthere clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn.\nThe earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf; and\ninterwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were numerous wild\nflowers--the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac blossoms; the\nhyacinth, whose enamelled blue looks so charmingly in the light of the\nsetting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the like--throwing up their\nvariegated tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle\ncreature like May Darling to gather up and lay upon her bosom. The air,\nof course, was permanently impregnated with the perfume which they\nbreathed out--the everlasting incense of the flowers rising from the\naltars of nature to her God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned\nfrom books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion with her\nown; and well was it adapted for nursing a romantic taste, and giving a\ntenderer tone to every tender feeling.\n\nThe personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased\nwith her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and all\nthe country round. It followed, as a matter of course, that her admirers\noutnumbered her years; and that the possession of her affections was,\nwith many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled the little kingdom\nof the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At every village fete--a\nwedding, a harvest-home, or other rural festival--hers was the step most\nbuoyant in the dance, hers the hand most frequently solicited, hers the\nform and face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled the heart of the\nardent admirer \"too much adoring.\" Amongst the other accomplishments of\nour heroine, skill in music was not the least prominent. Not that she\nexcelled in those intricate graces which are often had recourse to by\nvocalists to conceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and\nexpression; but her \"wood-note wild\" was eminently characterised by the\nlatter qualities of singing; and the effect which she produced was\naccordingly calculated to be lasting.\n\nIt must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of\nadulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, \"but half-concealed,\"\nhad any pernicious influence over her mind. She was neither puffed up\nwith vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve and distance towards\nthose who numbered fewer worshippers than herself; still humility of\nheart, which was \"native there, and to the manner born,\" characterised\nher deportment; nor was there any relaxation in the discharge of the\nhousehold duties which devolved upon her; and the comfort of her father,\nand the proper care and culture of the younger branches of the family,\nwere as faithfully attended to as if her deformity, instead of her\nbeauty, had been proverbial. She folded the little flutterers under her\nwing, like a mother bird; and, if there was one thing more than another\nthat she took delight in, it was the training of their young minds to\nthe love and practice of virtue and religion--the only fountains whence\nhappiness, pure and uncontaminated, can be drawn in this life.\n\n    \"So pass'd their life--a clear united stream,\n    By care unruffled; till, in evil hour----\"\n\nBut we anticipate.\n\nIt was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little\nsisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town. Such an\nevent naturally excites considerable interest over all the country\nround; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour along\nthe public ways--not in \"weary\" but in lighthearted \"droves\"--full of\neagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the Pool of Bethesda, when\nthe angel was expected to make his annual descent, and impart a healing\nvirtue to its waters; for there there is to be found variety of\namusement for every mind--from the Katerfelto wonderer, \"wondering for\nhis bread,\" down to the more humble establishment of the halfpenny\nshowman, with his \"glorious victory of Waterloo,\" his \"golden beetle,\"\nor \"ashes from the burning mountains.\" But, on the occasion to which we\nrefer, there was an exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which\npresented extraordinary attractions for May Darling; and, accordingly,\nafter deliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated\nwith the expense which it would cost (her exchequer was, of course, not\nvery rich), she at length found herself comfortably seated near the\nfront of the stage. The tragedy of \"George Barnwell\" was going off with\nprodigious _eclat_; and the performers had arrived at that scene where\nthe hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure props that\nsupported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to disencumber\nthemselves of their burden, and at last finally gave way. The confusion\nwhich now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and other vocal notes of\nterror and dismay, it is needless to describe--these have nothing to do\nwith our tale. Barnwell, instead of imbruing his hands in innocent\nblood, even \"in jest,\" became the most active agent in rescuing his\nhapless audience from their perilous situation. He was a tall, handsome\nyoung man, of a very prepossessing exterior, and appeared to great\nadvantage in his showy stage habiliments. The general rush was towards\nthe door, the most likely avenue of escape which presented itself to the\nastonished rustics; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, with more\ncollected judgment and presence of mind, found a place of security on\nthe stage. May was slightly bruised in her endeavours to shelter her\nyoung charge; and, although not much injured, her forlorn yet\ninteresting appearance drew the attention of the histrionic Samaritan,\nand he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of the theatre.\nThe affair was not of such a serious nature as might have been\nanticipated. A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two of trifling\ncontusions, made up the sum total of the damage. A hat or two might have\nchanged owners in the confusion; but these are things beneath the\ndignity of a tragedian to look after; and, as soon as matters were\nadjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he returned to the object of\nhis first solicitude. She was seated on a stool in what was dignified\nwith the sounding appellation of a green-room--looking paler, and\nlovelier, and more loveable than ever. He quieted her apprehensions with\nrespect to the catastrophe; for he was an adept in the art of imitation,\nand politely requested the honour of conducting her to her place of\nresidence. It is not difficult to conceive what was the first impression\nwhich the request made upon the mind of May Darling; but the scruples of\nmodest, virgin innocence yielded at last to the importunities of the\nactor, and they left the scene of mirth and confusion together.\n\nOn their journey homewards, the conversation naturally turned upon the\ndrama; and many a fine passage, which May admired, was recited to her\nwith all the eloquence and stage artifice which the actor was master of.\nAnd he would speak feelingly of \"the gentle lady married to the\nMoor\"--her love--the love of Desdemona, pure, exalted, all-enduring,\nsuch as death alone could quench--her wo and her fate, so replete with\nall that can agonise the human soul, and awaken its profoundest\nsympathies;--of Ophelia--\"the fair Ophelia,\" the young, the beautiful,\nand the gentle--her devoted, child-like affection, her mournful\ndistraction, and her untimely doom;--of Miranda, the island bride--the\nbeing of enchantment--half-earthly, half-heavenly--around whom the\nspirits of the air hovered, and ministered unto as vassals;--of Imogen,\nthe fair and faithful--the patient, long-suffering, and finally\nfortunate Imogen;--of Cordelia--she of the seraph-spirit, pure and\npeaceful--whose love for a father surpassed that of the Roman\ndaughter;--of Perdita, \"the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the\ngreensward\"--the shepherdess and the princess;--of Juliet--the martyr of\npassion--she who drew poison from earth's sweetest flower, love, and\ndied thereby; by love's own flame \"kindled she was and blasted.\" These,\nand many other creations of fancy, which omnipotent genius has rendered\nalmost real historical personages--not shadow, but substance--were the\ntopics of discourse which were handled by our hero of the buskin, until\nthe cottage of John Darling was reached. From the description which has\nbeen given of May's character, it need be no matter of surprise that the\nimpression made upon her gentle bosom was profound; and, on taking leave\nof her, a request on the part of Mr Henry Wilkinson (such was the\ntragedian's name) to be permitted to visit her on some future occasion,\nmade under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of her health,\nwas acceded to. Again and again Mr Wilkinson visited the cottage, and\npoured into the ear of the humble, unsuspecting, and happy inmate many a\nstory of love, and hope, and joy--such as his knowledge of the drama,\nwhich was great, supplied him with.\n\n                \"These things to hear\n    Would Desdemona seriously incline;\n    But still the house affairs would draw her thence;\n    Which ever as she could with haste despatch\n    She'd come again, and with a greedy ear\n    Devour up his discourse.\"\n\nSubstitute the name of May Darling for that of Desdemona, and the\ndescription becomes perfect of our heroine's situation, whilst the\nresult was similar: in a short time, the happiness of our village maiden\nwas entirely at the disposal of Mr Wilkinson. Hitherto her heart had\nslept, like some untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven, and nature\ngrand and beautiful around; but now its waters were darkened and\ndisturbed by one single image--and that was her lover's. Her ears were\nno longer open to the murmurs of her native stream, or the gush of song\nof the fairy-winged and fairy-plumaged birds, whom she almost knew one\nfrom another: she only heard the music of her lover's voice. Her\nsecluded dell was no longer visited alone: her walks were no longer\nsolitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet him whom her heart\nloved, and to see if his speed \"kept pace with her expectancy.\"\nEverything was beheld through one all-hallowing atmosphere--and that was\nlove. It lay upon her soul like the shadow on the sundial, and time was\nmeasured by it. How, it will be asked, was all this looked upon by her\nfather? With no favourable eye--nay, with many suspicious forebodings\nand prophetic fears.\n\nIt was about three months after the catastrophe which took place in the\nprovincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson made proposals of a union to May,\nwhich, being accepted, the consent of her parent was next applied for.\nThe advances of the actor were for a time checked by an uncompromising\nrefusal; but May's father gradually became less peremptory, until there\nremained only one objection, but that was insurmountable--namely, the\nprofession of Mr Wilkinson--one, in general, very obnoxious to a\nScottish peasant. It was, however, finally obviated, by the actor's\npromising to abandon it, and become a teacher of elocution in the town\nof H----. The father's consent was obtained at last, though with\nreluctance, and the day of their nuptials was fixed.\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day when May Darling\nwas to give her hand to the man for whom her heart cherished a love as\ndeep, intense, and concentrated, as ever was awakened and nursed in\nwoman's gentle bosom. The sun--just sinking through those vast masses of\nclouds which usually attend his exit, and assume, as he descends,\nvarious wild and fantastical shapes, and catch every hue, from the\nintense purple to the scarcely perceptible yellow--showered on the face\nof nature a stream of rich but mellowed radiance, which softened without\nobliterating the outlines of objects, and produced that \"clear obscure,\nso softly dark, so darkly pure,\" which is so favourable to indulgence in\ntender emotions.\n\n    \"Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart!\"--\n\nsweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling most profound--when\nthe mind, abroad all day, busied with the concerns of this work-a-day\nworld, comes home to itself, and broods, and sleeps, and dreams golden\ndreams--sunny, hope-illumined dreams!--sweet hour, when the ties of\nsocial being which the day had severed are reunited, and around the\nhousehold hearth the \"old familiar faces\" are assembled!--sweet hour,\nwhen the shades of evening, gradually deepening, are sufficient to\nconceal the blush which might mantle beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly\npressed, as, in a voice half-sighs, half-whispers, she confesses the\nsecret of her love; and when, in the arms which gently enfold her\nyielding form, she seems, in the fine language of Rogers, to become less\nand less earthly,\n\n     \"And fades at last into a spirit from heaven!\"\n\n'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his betrothed set out\non one of those charming walks during which they had so often exchanged\nvows of mutual and eternal love. The road which they at first took was\nsufficiently retired to admit of their conversing aloud with unreserved\nconfidence; but, continuing their journey, unconscious where they were\ngoing, they found themselves at last in the vicinity of the high road\nwhich leads to the town of H----. Turning to strike down a narrow\nhedgerow path, a moving spectacle presented itself to their observation.\nUpon a grassy knoll lay a female fast asleep, with a child at her\nbreast, vainly attempting to force its little fingers within the folds\nof the handkerchief which concealed the bosom of its mother. May uttered\na faint exclamation, somewhat between pity and fear; for she was taken\nby surprise. But her lover's astonishment was still greater than hers;\nfor, after he had contemplated the careworn features of the wayfarer, he\nstarted, and, had not the increasing gloom of evening prevented any\nchange of countenance from being perceptible, May might have seen his\nface turn ashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly\nlocked tremble distinctly.\n\n\"This touches your feelings, Henry,\" said May; \"but can we not, love, do\nsomething to alleviate the sufferings of this, no doubt, unfortunate\nfemale? Had I not better awake her, and conduct her to my father's,\nwhere refreshment and rest can be procured?\"\n\n\"Nay, dearest love,\" said Wilkinson; \"sleep is to the wretched the\ngreatest boon that can be bestowed: let us leave her alone, nor deprive\nher of the only comfort which, possibly, she is capable of enjoying.\"\n\nSo saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat reluctantly,\nhomewards; for her sympathy was much excited, and she would fain have\ncarried her generous purpose into effect; but gave way to the entreaties\nof her lover, who had some miles to walk ere he could reach his place of\nresidence. After seeing May safely beneath the domestic roof, Wilkinson\nbade farewell for the night to his betrothed bride, and took his\ndeparture, with the intention, he said, of immediately returning to\nH----. He did not proceed directly home, however; but, making a\nretrograde movement, he fell back upon the place where the fatigued\ntraveller had been seen. She was gone when he arrived; and whether the\ncircumstance gave him pleasure or the reverse, we have never been able\nto ascertain; but, at all events, he now set out in good earnest for\nH----. What should have interested Wilkinson so much in this apparently\nwandering mendicant?--_Pacienza_.\n\nOn the evening which we have described, let the reader picture to\nhimself two aged crones, comfortably seated upon a rough slab of wood,\nelevated two feet or so above the ground, by a massive block of granite\nwhich supported either end. This, together with the cottage wall against\nwhich their backs reclined, might, even with individuals more fastidious\nthan its present occupants, have appeared a luxury little inferior to a\nsofa, especially in that bland and beautiful hour when daylight dies\nalong the hills, and our feelings, partaking of the softness of the\nscene and hour, dispose us to be pleased, we ask not why, and care not\nwherefore. On either hand was situated a door, over which hung suspended\na very homely signboard. From one of these the wayfarer might learn that\ngood entertainment for man and beast could be supplied within, by Janet\nBaird, who, it appeared, was, by special permission of government,\npermitted to retail spirits, porter, ale, and other items. Lest any\nmistake should occur as to the nature of the invitation (or perhaps it\nwas a ruse to provoke the alimentary faculties), there was a painting of\nthe interior, representing a table, which seemed to groan under the\nweight of bottles, glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, cheese, and what\nnot; whilst two jolly companions, with rubicund faces, where an infinity\nof good-nature predominated, sat round it, each with a cup in hand, and\nboth evidently sublimed by their potations far above this \"dirty planet,\nthe earth.\" At the entrance to the apartment was seen the landlady, who\nwith one hand pushed open the door, whilst the other, projecting\nforwards, supported a huge tankard, charged with the favourite beverage,\nwhich mantled or effloresced at the top like a cauliflower. The\nneighbouring sign had fewer attractions for the weary traveller or the\ndroughty villager, throwing out merely hints as to the condition of the\nreader's linen, by intimating that clothes might here undergo\npurification, and be mangled by the hour or _peace_ (such was the\northography) by Nelly Gray.\n\nThe two neighbours lived on terms of the utmost harmony; for there was\nno rivalry of interests. Their callings were antipodes to each\nother--one being devoted to the decoration and comfortable appearance of\nthe human exterior, whilst the other took special cognisance of the\ninternal condition of the animal economy. They, of course, carried on a\nmutual traffic; but it was on the primitive principle of barter--the\nweekly account for washing and dressing which Janet owed being duly\nbalanced by her accommodating Nelly with a certain potent nostrum, which\nwe shall not name, but merely describe as a sovereign remedy for aching\nbones and pains, and other complaints of the stomach, to which this\npetticoat Diogenes (for she likewise practised in a tub) was very\nsubject, especially after washing a whole day, or impelling her crazy,\ncreaking machine for the same space of time. It was their invariable\npractice to spend an hour or two every evening in what is termed in the\nvernacular a \"twa-handed crack,\" either seated out-doors, or snugly\nimmured in Janet's back parlour--a small dark room, encumbered with\nsundry articles of retail. The subject of their conversation, on the\npresent occasion, will immediately become apparent.\n\n\"They say he's gaun to learn folk ellykeashun,\" said Janet, in reference\nto May's lover.\n\n\"And what's that, Janet?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Ne'er a bit o' me kens very weel,\" rejoined Janet; \"but I'm thinkin\nit's the way the gentry speak, eghin and owin, and sichin and sabbin,\nand makin yer voice gang up and doun, like daft Jock playin on the\nfife.\"\n\n\"Ay! ay! that's an idle kind o' way o' makin ane's bread,\" sighed Nelly.\n\"It's naething else than beggin. He'd better pit a nappin-hammer in his\nhand, and tak the roadside for an honest livelihood.\"\n\n\"'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's been on the road before, followin\nanither trade,\" said Janet. \"I'm sair mistaen if he's no a hempie; and\nwe'll maybe hear mair aboot him yet than some folks wad like to ken o'.\nI never liked your land-loupers and spoutin gentry a' my days. They're\nnae better than tinklers, that carry aff whatever they lay their hands\non, nae matter whether it's beast or body. It cowes the gowan hoo sae\nsensible a man as John Darling wad e'er hae looten his dochter tak up\nwi' sic-like clam-jamphrey. But he was aye owre easy wi' his family, and\ngied them owre muckle o' their ain wull frae the first. But the mother\nwas sair to blame in pittin sic daft-like notions intil a bairn's head\nas to read playactorin books and novels. Wae am I to say sae, noo that\nshe's whar the Lord wull.\"\n\n\"Is't true, Janet, that they're to be coupled i' the kirk?\" asked Nelly.\n\"They say the minister's taen an unco likin to the lad; and, to mak\nthings look as genteel as possible, he's offered the use o' the kirk for\nmarryin them in; and's to gie them a ploy forbye, after it's a' owre.\"\n\n\"Guid faith, it's a true sayin, 'The fat sow gets a' the draff,'\"\nrejoined Janet. \"It wad be lang or he did a turn like that for ony puir\nbody like oorsels. The birkie doesna stand in need o' cash; for he gies\nsaxpence to this ane, and a shillin to the tither ane, for gangin\nerrans. He micht hae provided something for the waddin folks doun at\nMichael Crummie's, whase tred's no sae brisk noo, sin' that kick-up wi'\nhim and the mason-lodge folk, wha swore he gied them up ill whusky--and\nthat was maybe nae lee. He ne'er, since ever I mind, keepit the real\nstuff, like that o' mine. But see, Nelly, whatna puir, waebegone-lookin\ncratur's that comin alang the road, scarcely able to trail ae leg after\nanither? and a bairn, too, help us a'!\"\n\nThe object which drew the attention of the honest ale-wife was, as the\nreader may have already sagaciously conjectured, the same forlorn being\nwhom May Darling and her lover had accidentally encountered. With a slow\nand faltering step she approached the village dames, and inquired of\nthem how far it was from the town of H----.\n\n\"Five miles guid,\" said Janet Baird, and continued--\"But ye'll no think\no' gaun there the nicht; it's gettin dark, and ye've mair need o' a\nwhile's rest; and maybe ye wadna be the waur o' something to support\nnature; for, wae's me! ye do look thin and hungert like! Tak her in by,\nNelly, and I'll fetch her some cordial, as weel as a morsel to eat.\"\n\nSo saying, she proceeded to her shop, for the purpose of making good her\nword, whilst Nelly followed up that part of the duty of relieving the\nstranger which devolved upon her, and conducted the \"wearied one\" into\nthe interior of her humble domicile.\n\n\"Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, na, I sudna wonder?\" said Nelly.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the stranger, whom we shall now designate as Mrs B----.\n\"Since morning I have prosecuted my journey with all the speed which\nwant and weariness would permit of. But these were nothing, did I only\nknow how it was to terminate.\"\n\nMeantime Janet had returned, bearing in her apron an ample stock of\nprovisions; and, having heard the latter part of Mrs B----'s reply to\nNelly, her curiosity was not a little excited to know something of her\nhistory. This she set about with the characteristic _pawkiness_ (there\nis no purely English word sufficiently expressive) of the Scotch--that\nstyle of speaking which is half-asking, half-answering a question; and\nshe was successful in her endeavours.\n\n\"It'll be the guidman that ye're gaun to meet at H----?\" said Janet.\n\"He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae doot; for there's little else\ndune there; and, indeed, that itsel has faun sair aff sin' that dirt o'\nmachinery was brocht in to tak the bread oot o' the puir man's mou.\"\n\n\"Yes--no; he is not in that line, nor do I know, indeed, if he is to be\nfound there at all. But--but--excuse me, kind friends, for showing a\nlittle reserve touching one who----\"\n\nHere, however, her feelings overcame her; and, turning round to gaze on\nthe helpless being that clung to her bosom, tears from her suffused eyes\nbegan to find a ready passage down her pale emaciated cheek--a channel\nwith which they appeared to be familiar.\n\n\"He never saw thee, my little Henry, my sweet boy! Methinks, that cherub\nsmile of innocence which lies upon that countenance would be powerful\nenough to melt the icy feelings of his soul, and recall ----. Pardon me,\nkind friends,\" she continued; \"but the name of husband is associated in\nmy mind with all that human nature can suffer of unmitigated, hopeless\nwretchedness. You see before you the victim of ----. But you shall hear\nall.\"\n\nShe then commenced her history, recounting every circumstance of a tale\nof misery but too common. As it is in some measure connected with that\nof May Darling, we shall give a few of its leading facts.\n\nShe was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the north of England,\nand, being an only child, received an accomplished education; and, from\nher engaging manners, personal attractions, and skill in music, she was\nmuch courted, even by those who moved in the higher circles. At the\nhouse of a neighbouring clergyman, Mr G----, she was a very frequent\nvisiter; and her charms captivated the heart of Dr G----, a young\nmedical gentleman, and the nephew of the clergyman. On her part,\nhowever, there was no attachment, although the ardour with which Dr\nG---- pressed his suit might have captivated a bosom less stubborn than\nhers. But another idol was shrined and secretly worshipped there. This\nwas a Mr Henry Bolton, a fellow-student of Dr G----'s, who, in calling\nat the house of Mr G---- to see his friend the doctor, was induced to\nspend a few days with him. His stay was protracted to weeks, months--in\nshort, till the farmer's daughter and he, having come to an\nunderstanding with respect to the all-important matter of love, agreed\nto join hands for better, for worse. The marriage took place at a\nneighbouring town, where the couple remained for several months, living\nin a state of great privacy, for no one was in the secret of their\nunion, not even the lady's father. The finances of Mr Bolton became\nexhausted; and a letter from his father having shut out all hope of\nsuccour from that quarter, he was thrown into a state of extreme\ndejection. His temper soured, and harshness towards his wife soon\nfollowed; for an application on her part to her father, to whom she was\ncompelled by necessity to reveal her situation, met with a reception\nsimilar to the other. One day, he dressed himself with more than usual\ncare, packed up in a small parcel the principal part of his\nbody-clothes, and having told his wife that he meant to go as far\nas ----, naming a considerable town, which was situated at some miles\ndistance, parted from her, like Ajut in \"The Rambler,\" never to return.\nThe sun arose and set, and arose again and again, and week after week,\nbut still he came not; nor was she ever able to obtain the faintest\ntrace of him. Her health began to droop, and, in the depth of her\nhumiliation and misery, like the prodigal of old, she was compelled to\nseek for shelter under the paternal roof. Her father received her even\nwith kindness; for time, the softener of affliction, the soother of\nwrath, had not passed over his head without exercising its due influence\nupon his feelings. Here she gave birth to a child, the baby which now\nlay at her breast. Time passed away, and still no intelligence of her\nrunaway husband reached her, till, \"about a week back,\" she said,\n\"communication was made me by letter, that, if I would repair to the\ntown of H----, I would hear something of my lost husband. Without the\nknowledge of my father, I have undertaken the journey; and God alone\nknows whether the information, so mysteriously conveyed to me, be true\nor false--whether my hopes will be disappointed or realised. A few\nhours, however, will be sufficient to set my mind at rest. I have\nwearied you, I fear; but my present wretched appearance required some\nexplanation on my part--for, oh, it is difficult to lie under the\nsuspicion of being a vagrant or vagabond, as Heaven knows I am neither.\"\nAnd, clasping her hands and raising her eyes, she remained for a few\nminutes in that reverential but death-like attitude which is assumed\nwhen a human soul prays in agony.\n\nHer painful narrative had its due influence upon the minds of those to\nwhom it was addressed; and, although both admitted the propriety of\nproceeding to the town of H----, yet they earnestly exhorted her to\nremain with them for a night; and to this proposal she acceded. After\nbreakfast next morning, Mrs B---- (who must now be looked upon as one of\nthe principal of our _dramatis personae_) set out for the town of H----.\nWhat the nature of her reflections were, as she drew near the\ntermination of her journey, may be readily conceived; but of their\nintensity, no idea can be formed by any one except by the brokenhearted\nfemale who has passed through the same fiery ordeal of desertion and\ndespair. She had arrived within a short distance of the town, when a\nchaise, driving rapidly down the principal entrance to it, attracted her\nattention. It approached, and from the favours which profusely adorned\nthe driver, his team, and his vehicle, it was evident that some happy\npair were destined soon to become its occupants. The blinds were all\ndrawn up; but, as the chaise passed her, one of them was partially let\ndown, and she heard some one from within instruct the driver to proceed\nto the manse by a road more retired than that usually taken. There was\nsomething in the tone of the voice (though indistinctly heard from the\nrattling of the wheels) which startled Mrs B---- from a reverie in which\nshe had been indulging, and made every fibre of her body to thrill, as\nif an electric discharge had shot through it. In mute astonishment, not\nunmingled with thick-coming fancies, horrible forebodings, which,\nwithout assuming any definite form, were prophetic of wo, she fixed her\neyes upon the retiring vehicle, and, rooted to the spot where she stood,\nmotionless as a Niobe of stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs ached.\n\"Can it be?\" she at last exclaimed, with wild emotion--\"can it\nbe?--No--no--'tis but fancy; yet the place!--gracious powers!\" Her eyes\ncontinued to follow the retiring wheels, fixed upon them she knew not by\nwhat mysterious power; and long she might have remained in this\nposition, had not some person from behind softly addressed her. She\nturned round, and her eyes fell upon her former suitor, Dr G----. Let\nher astonishment be imagined--we will not attempt to give words to her\nfeelings.\n\n\"It is to you, then,\" she said, after recovering from her surprise--\"it\nis to you, Dr G----, that I am indebted for information regarding my\nlost husband.\"\n\n\"It is,\" he replied; \"but not a moment is to be lost. Things are in a\nworse condition than they were when I despatched my letter to you. But\nlet us proceed instantly to Grassyvale. On the way I will inform you of\nall that has come to my knowledge regarding that monster--it were a\nprofanation of language to call him husband.\"\n\nSo saying, they commenced their journey, which we shall leave them to\nprosecute whilst we bring up some parts of our narrative which have\nbeen necessarily left in the rear.\n\nWe need hardly say that the morning of her marriage was an anxious and a\nbusy one to May Darling. It is true that she had plenty of assistance\nafforded her by the village matrons, and by a few youthful associates,\nwhom she had singled out as especial favourites, from amongst many who\nwere regarded by her with affection. But still a fastidiousness of taste\nalways seizes people on those occasions when they are desirous of\nappearing to the best advantage. Besides, when there are a number of\nlady's-maids, all busily engaged in decorating a single individual, a\ndifference of opinion relative to the various items of dress always\ntakes place, and occasions much delay. One of them is clear that such\nand such a colour of riband will best suit the complexion of the wearer;\nanother holds out strongly for an opposite hue; and a third silences\nthem both by asserting that neither answer the colour of the bonnet.\nWhat sort of flowers would most fittingly ornament the hair was also a\nsubject of protracted debate; and half-an-hour was wasted in determining\nwhether the riband which was to circle her waist like a zone should hang\ndown or not. Matters, however, were at last adjusted--the bride was\narrayed, the hour of twelve was struck by a small wooden clock which\nticked behind the door; and with the hour there arrived at the cottage a\nsort of rude palanquin, fashioned of birch-tree boughs, which\nintertwisted with each other, and were interwoven with branches of\nflowering shrubs; and upon this some of the kindest and blithest-hearted\nof the villagers had agreed to bear May to the kirk. Some modest\nscruples required to be overcome before she would be induced to avail\nherself of this mode of conveyance; and, after being seated, with the\nbridesmaid walking on one side, and John Darling on the other, the\ncavalcade began to move. Many hearty good wishes for the happiness of\nthe bride from the elder people, and many joyous shouts from the younger\npart of the villagers, greeted the ears of the marriage party; whilst a\npretty long train which drew itself out in the rear, sent up its\nrejoicings on the wind from a distance. But one step must bring us to\nthe altar of Hymen. Side by side stood the bridegroom and the bride; and\na more interesting, handsome, and apparently well-matched pair, never\nwere seen in the same situation, as we are informed by the clergyman who\nofficiated on the occasion. The ceremony proceeded with due\nformality--one moment more would have joined their hands, when a person\nwho had just entered the church called to the clergyman to stay the\nnuptials; and, at the same moment, a shriek from a female who had\nentered along with him, rose so wild, thrilling, and distracted, that\nevery bosom shook beneath its glittering attire.\n\n\"Base, inhuman miscreant!\" shouted Dr G----, addressing himself to\nWilkinson (which name must now be supplanted by his real one, Bolton),\nat the same time rushing forward to seize the bridegroom.\n\nHe, however, had ere this dropped the hand of May Darling--that hand\nwhich, till now, like Desdemona's, had \"felt no age, nor known no\nsorrow\"--and, unsheathing a dagger which was concealed about his person\n(doubtless one of his theatrical weapons), he threatened to make a ghost\nof any one who disputed his retreat from the church. His menacing\nattitude and wild gesticulations terrified every beholder, and even Dr\nG---- gave way, allowing him unmolested to quit the sacred place which\nhe was about to profane, and possibly might have stained with blood.\nOnly one attempted to arrest him, and for a short time succeeded. It was\nhis wife--she who the night previously had kindled up in his soul the\nfires of conscience, as she lay asleep, unsheltered save by heaven's\nblue canopy, and apparently an abandoned outcast.\n\n\"Henry,\" she said, holding up their child, and stretching forth her\narms--\"Henry, look on this dear pledge of our affection, the child of\nlove, though born in bitterness and tears, the offspring of your\nchoice--look on him, Henry, and let the voice of conscience in your\nbreast, which must be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf. The\nhelpless darling innocent--of what crime has he been guilty, that his\nnatural protector should cast him forth to meet the buffetings of fate\nwithout a shield--that he should be launched upon the sea of life\nwithout an oar? If not for my sake, at least for the sake of little\nHenry--for he bears your name--restore us both to honour and society, by\nreturning to the path of duty. The arms that have so often embraced you\nwill again encircle the neck to which they have clung so often and so\nfondly. O Henry, Henry! reflect for an instant on my destitute outcast\ncondition--without you, I am a weed cast from the rock, to be driven\nwhithersoever the storm sets wildest. Think what my sufferings have been\nand must be!--God alone can estimate them. Henry, hear me. Stay but one\ninstant--Henry, Henry!\" And, taking her child in one arm, she stretched\nout the other to detain him; but the heartless villain shook her rudely\nfrom him, and darted from the church.\n\nWhat were May Darling's feelings during this heartrending scene? She was\nnot a spectator of it. The moment that the dreadful truth flashed upon\nher mind, she sank into the arms of her father, dead to consciousness\nand time. By the same conveyance which had brought her in triumph to the\nchurch, covered with the insignia of happiness, and palpitating with\nrapture almost too intense for the human soul to enjoy for any length of\ntime without experiencing pain and a revolution of feeling--by that same\nconveyance, not an hour after, she was borne to her father's cottage, a\nwretched, but a gentle maniac.\n\nDays, weeks, months, passed away, and she remained the same listless,\nmild, and inoffensive creature--a baby-woman, a human being ripe in\nyears, and an infant in thought, feeling, and everything mental. 'Tis\npainful to contemplate the situation of an individual overwhelmed by\nsuch a calamity under any circumstances; but, under the present, how\nterrible indeed! To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in bridal\nrobes, and with all her hopes blooming around her--how does it humble\nhuman pride, set at nought all calculations of human happiness, and\nassign narrow limits to human hope! And yet there was mercy in the\ndispensation. Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than alive\nto all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling. Better the vacant\nstare, and the look of silent indifference on all beneath the sun, than\nthe wild gesticulations of violent grief, the shriek of wo, or the agony\nof despair, for the alleviation of which \"hope never comes that comes to\nall.\"\n\nEvery means were had recourse to for rousing her from the dismal trance\ninto which she had fallen, to dispel from her thoughts the gloomy, the\ndead images by which they were haunted--but in vain. Sometimes she would\nsit amongst her gay companions; and, whilst they laughed, chatted, and\nsung, as in former happy days, a faint smile would rekindle about her\nlips, so rosy once, so wan and withered now, and for a moment playing\nlike a mental coruscation, would suddenly expire, and then she would\ndroop again into the gloom of moody madness, and weep amidst all the\ngaiety that surrounded her--weep even like a child. If spoken to, she\nmade no reply; but, lifting up her dark streaming eyes, sparkling\nthrough the humid medium in which they were suffused, like a star in\nmotionless water, she would sing snatches of old songs about\ndisappointed love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts. And the melancholy\ntones of her voice would sadden all around her, as if some powerful\nspell had suddenly passed over their minds like a cold wind, and frozen\nup the fount of joyous feeling; and they would weep too--weep along with\nher; for she was so beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy once, and\nso wobegone and wretched now. Then would the gentle maniac start up on\na sudden, as if some one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards\nhome, would mutter, in a quick tone of voice--\"I am coming--I am coming!\nI knew we would be in time!--I knew we would be in time! He is\nthere!--he--he!----Who?\" She was silent now. Many an eye was filled with\ntears as she passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale.\n\nWinter had passed away; the vernal eruption of spring had been matured\ninto the bloom and the promise which spring gives of autumn, when May\nDarling one evening wandered forth from her father's cottage, attended\nonly by a little sister. Striking into that beautiful and unfrequented\npath where she had last walked with him who, on the following day, was\nto have become her husband, she had arrived at the very spot where lay\nasleep on the grassy bank by the hedge-side the wife of Bolton. A train\nof thought seemed suddenly to rush through her mind; for she sat, or\nrather dropped, gently down. 'Twas the recollection of former events\nwhich had begun to be reanimated within her; and, though faint, it was\nsufficient to cause a temporary suspension of muscular energy: her sight\nbecame dim, only vague images being presented to the eye; and she might\nprobably have fallen backwards, had not a person sprung through the\nhedge, and, putting his arms around her slender form, maintained her in\nan erect position. The individual who had thus so opportunely come to\nher assistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the\nwarmth of the weather rendered such a covering scarcely necessary. The\nupper part of his countenance was concealed by a slouched hat drawn\npretty far down; but from what of it was visible, it was plain that\ncare, remorse, and dissipation, had gone far to modify its natural\nexpression.\n\nMay gradually revived from her partial swoon; and the stranger,\nuncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid features which\nbegan to assume the hue of life and the expression of conscious being,\nsaid, in a low, trembling voice--\n\n\"May Darling, hear me--do not curse me--I am miserable enough without\nthe malison of her whom----\" But his feelings, for a moment, choked his\nutterance. \"Through a thousand dangers and difficulties have I sought\nthis interview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and\nacceptance of this small gift.\" Here he flung a purse down by her side.\n\"Say you forgive me, May--breathe but the word, and in a few days an\nocean shall roll between us.\"\n\nBut he spoke to ears which heard not. The moment that May recognised\nBolton, reason was restored, but animation fled, and she sank dead for a\ntime in his arms. He was about to take measures for her restoration,\nwhen the rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his attention in another\ndirection; and, looking over the hedgerow, he perceived two horsemen, at\na very little distance, advancing towards the village. He seemed to be\naware of their errand, and the cause of their speed; for no sooner had\nhe cast his eyes on them, than his head instinctively slunk down behind\nthe hedge. But his precaution was too late. He had been seen; and that\nnight he was led, a fettered man, to the jail of H----, charged with\nhighway robbery. We may as well conclude his history, as well as that of\nthe other individuals who have been interwoven with our tale, before\nreturning to May Darling.\n\nMr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with which he was charged,\nand condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was only his first\noffence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the crime for the\npurpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to requite May\nDarling for the injury which she had received at his hands. How\nwonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the guilty! Actuated\nby a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits a capital crime, and\nthe woman whom he had wronged becomes, unconsciously to herself, the\nultimate cause of his punishment! However, by powerful intercession on\nthe part of his friends, the sentence was commuted to transportation for\nlife. But it was destined that he should end his days miserably. \"Whoso\nsheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.\" Bolton was\nvirtually a murderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded\nby the decision of any earthly tribunal. 'Twas vain to attempt to fly\nfrom it. The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the\nregions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness and\ndisguise, would have struck its victim down. In a skirmish with the\nnatives of the place to which he had been transported, he was taken\nprisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death.\n\nAfter the painful interview with her husband in the church of\nGrassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from\nthe world, and devoting her time to household duties and the education\nof her son. Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated at last to\nthe remote part of the country where she resided, and, on its being\nofficially authenticated, Dr G----, who had commenced practice in a\nneighbouring town, became a frequent visiter at the farmhouse. His\nformer courtship was renewed; and, when the days of mourning were over,\nand time had done much to alleviate grief, to restore the faded charms\nof Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of the past into dimness and\ndistance, they were united; and are still, according to the last\naccounts, living happily together, surrounded by a family of thriving\nchildren. Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still pursue their respective\ncallings in Grassyvale--the latter never failing, on every possible\noccasion, to boast of her sagacity in detecting the real character of Mr\nHenry Wilkinson, _alias_ Bolton. But let us return to the suffering May\nDarling.\n\nShe was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she\nremained all that night, and next day revived, only to know that she was\ndying. Yes, the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the venom,\nthough fatal, worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the more intense\nthe heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So is it with the\nhuman soul. It is made perfect through suffering; and the more it is\ndestined to endure, the fitter will it become for taking a part with the\nchoirs of saints and angels, when it shall have thrown aside the garment\nof mortality, and mounted on high, like the unshadowed moon, through\nparted clouds. But May was happy notwithstanding. In all her looks and\nmovements were disclosed the peace of mind which passeth understanding.\nIt was diffused, like light from heaven, over her countenance; it was\nheard, like a rich chord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every\nword and action betrayed its presence and all-prevailing power. Her\nBible, although always a favourite study, became now her sole one; and\nby its all-hallowing influence, her mind, looking down with calm\ncomplacency on all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of\nimmortality, in many a delightful contemplation of that abode and that\nfelicity which shall reward the just.\n\n\"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn,\" says the\nworthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts of\nthe foregoing narrative, \"that I was hastily summoned by John Darling to\nvisit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no time in\nproceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture was but too\ntrue. In an easy-chair, placed at an open window which faced the west,\nreclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had\nimpressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose-tint fluctuated,\nwhich was not so in her days of health and hope. Her words, when she\nspake (and that was seldom), seemed to come forth without her breath;\nand the lightest down that ever was wafted through summer's air might\nhave slept unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down, and prayed that the\ngentle spirit, which was about to be released from its mortal bonds,\nmight receive a welcome to the realms of life and light. She understood\ndistinctly that she was dying; and, in token that her mind was at\nperfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I had finished, 'Yes! oh yes!\nHeaven! he----!' The words died unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit\nrose to its native sky.\n\n    'Peace to her broken heart and virgin grave!'\n\n\"In what a noble, what a truly grand point of view does this instance of\ntriumphant faith place the glorious religion in which we believe! In\nwhat bold relief does its value to our fallen race appear! What a\nluminous light does it shed in life's last agonies, opening up a radiant\nvista through the clouds and darkness which settle on the soul, like the\nshadows of approaching death! There is nothing better qualified to\ndevelop the intellectual faculties, enlarge the understanding, and\nstrengthen and foster the latent virtues of the heart, than the love and\nthe study of literature. I am no advocate for the exclusive study of\nScripture--nay, I am not sure if such restricted reading would not lead\nto narrowness of mind and gloomy unconcern about the affairs of life,\nand the duties connected with it, if not also to selfish moroseness and\nilliberal bigotry--a want of community of feeling and sympathy with\nhuman nature in general. But what would literature _alone_ have done for\nMay Darling? Would the recollection of Shakspere's finest bursts of\ninspiration, where the dramatist seems struggling with nature which\nshall be the greatest, have buoyed her spirit up under the load which\noppressed it, or given but one, only one, faint assurance of\nimmortality? Alas! they could only have reminded her of what it would\nhave been far better to forget for ever, to bury in everlasting oblivion\nbeneath the waves of Lethe. How finely does the bard of Hope write, in\nreference to the anticipation of eternal felicity in the hour of\ndissolution!\n\n    'What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly?--\n    The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye?\n    Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey\n    The morning dream of life's eternal day!'\n\nOr what could philosophy have done for her? Science has only reference\nto this life--its eagle eye has never caught a ray reflected from that\nwhich is to come. Matter may be tortured by methods, varied with\ninfinite ingenuity; but every secret thus disclosed only relates to\n_matter_--there is nothing of spirit brought to light in all the\nexperiments of the chemist, in all the observations of the astronomer,\nin all the gropings and searching investigations of the geologist; for,\nthough he reveals past time--ay, almost a past eternity--the strata of\nthe earth, with their world of organic wonders, which record the\ntranspired history of our planet in imperishable hieroglyphics, tell\nnothing of the future. The ocean, with its buried wrecks and its\ncountless treasures; the mountain, over which the mighty deep once\nrolled its undulating expanse, and there deposited its myriads of living\ncreatures; the desert, which heaps its ocean of sand over entombed\ncities, once the glory of the earth----But why should we go\non?--everything speaks of the past, but not a whisper comes from\ncreation's breast of what is to come. The Bible alone discloses the\nmighty secret. May all, therefore, find it what it proved to be to May\nDarling: light, when all is dark--hope, when all is despair--pleasure in\npain--life in death.\n\nIt was upon her that a nameless rustic bard, who had been an admirer,\ncomposed the following lines:--\n\n    \"She faded like a flower\n      That wastes by slow decay;\n    Not snatch'd in an untimely hour,\n      But wither'd day by day.\n    'Twas sad to see those charms,\n      So heavenly once, decay'd;\n    And oh! to blight thee in our arms,\n\n      In bridal robes array'd!\n\n    But Heaven commenced with thee\n      Whilst yet below the sun;\n    And, ere the mortal ceased to be,\n      The seraph had begun.\n    Calm, then, on Nature's breast,\n      In dreamless sleep, sleep on,\n    Till angel voices break thy rest\n      In music like thine own!\"\n\n\n\n\nI CANNA BE FASHED!\n\nOR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS.\n\n\n\"Here's a bonny day, sir,\" said old Willie Grant, \"and the Whitadder's\nin excellent trim--will ye get your gad and your creel, and we'll awa\nsee what sort o' sport there is. If I'm no mistaen, the trouts will rise\nas fast as ye throw the line to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, I canna be fashed,\" said the individual to whom he spoke.\n\n\"What's that I hear ye say?\" added Willie, seriously. \"Ye canna be\nfashed! can ye no? Do ye think ye could be fashed to read the 'Cottagers\no' Glenburnie?' Ye would there see the meaning and the effects o' 'I\ncanna be fashed' illustrated. But if ye can be fashed to hear, I'll gie\nye an example in my ain case; and, I assure ye, that those four words,\n'I--canna--be--fashed' (he spoke them very slowly, laying emphasis on\neach)--I say, sir, those four words hae cost me a thousand pounds twice\ntold. I got them for naething; but, certes, they proved a dear bargain\nin the long run. They hae made me acquainted wi' a sair skin, a sair\nheart, and an empty pocket. I hae nae remembrance wha learned me the\nwords, nor am I altogether certain but that they are words that just\nspring out o' the laziness and indolence o' our dispositions, like weeds\nout o' a neglected soil. But weel do I remember the first time when I\nwas made to hae a feeling remembrance o' having used them. My faither\nwas a bit sma' laird in East Lothian--no very far frae Dunglass--and the\nproperty consisted o' between thirty and forty acres, so that he managed\nto bring up a family o' five o' us very comfortably, and rather\nrespectably--and the more especially as my mother was a very thrifty\nwoman. I was the third o' the family; and, as I was gaun to say to ye,\nthere was ae day that we were a' gilravishing about the floor, and\nwheeling ane anither in a little wheelbarrow that my faither had got a\ncartwright in Dunbar to mak for us (for he was a man that liked to see\nhis bairns happy), when, says he to me--\n\n\"Willie, tie yer whings,[5] and dinna let yer shoon be shaughlin aff yer\nfeet in that gate, or ye maun gang barefoot. Folk shouldna hae shoon\nthat dinna ken hoo to wear them.\"\n\n[Footnote 5: Shoe-ties.]\n\n\"I canna be fashed, faither,\" said I, and continued running after the\nwheelbarrow; but, before ever I wist, and before I thought that I had\ndone ill, he gied me a cuff i' the haffits that made me birl half\ndonnert by the cheek o' the lum.[6]\n\n[Footnote 6: Chimney.]\n\n\"Ay, man!\" says he, \"what's that I hear ye say--'_ye canna be fashed_!'\nLet me hear the words come out o' your lips again if ye daur, and I'll\nknock the life out o' ye.\"\n\nThat was the first time that I particularly remember o' having made use\no' the phrase, and I am only sorry that the clout which my faither gied\nme didna drive it out o' my head frae that day henceforth, and for ever;\nthough, truly, it had nae such effect, as ye shall hear, and as I\nexperienced to my sorrow. I sat down whinging till my faither gaed out\no' the house, and, as soon as his back was turned, I dried my een, and\nbegan to drive about the barrow again wi' my brothers and sisters; but I\nhadna ran aboon ten minutes, till my mother, wha was tired wi' the noise\nwe were making, cried--\n\n\"Willie, laddie, gie me aff your stockings instantly. Preserve us! the\ncallant has holes in their heels ye micht put yer nieve\nthrough!--There's what ye've dune wi' your running about without yer\nwhings tied.\"\n\n\"Hoot, mother,\" cried I, \"I canna be fashed--darn them again' nicht.\"\n\n\"I'll '_canna be fashed_' ye--ye lazy monkey, ye. Did your faither no\ngie ye aneugh for that no ten minutes syne, and ye'll tell me ony\nsiccan a story!\"\n\nShe grippit me by the neck, and for my faither's ae clout she gied me\nten, at every cuff saying, \"I'll _canna be fashed_ ye!\" And at last she\nthrew aff my shoon, and pulled the stockings aff my legs, and pushed me\nawa frae her wi' a great drive, crying, \"Now, only let me hear ye making\nuse o' thae words again, and ye'll maybe see what I can be fashed to\ndo.\"\n\n\"Oh dear me!\" thought I, \"what ill have I done?\" And I sat down, and I\ngrat and I roared most heartily, and I kicked my bare feet upon the\nfloor.\n\n\"Kick awa there, my man,\" said my mother--for she was a woman that never\ngot into what ye could call a passion in her family, as I have seen some\nmothers do--\"kick awa there,\" says she; \"and if ye drive a hole in the\nheels o' the stockings you've on now, ye'll darn them yoursel.\"\n\nBut this, sir, was only the first thrashing that I got for \"I canna be\nfashed\"--it wasna the last, by a score o' times. My faither was a man\nthat never liked to lay out a shilling where it could be saved; and he\nalways grudged to employ other people to do anything when he thought it\ncould be done within his own house--that is, by the members o' his own\nfamily--therefore, about the back end o' spring, or the fore end o'\nsummer, he would have said to us--\n\n\"Now, bairns, haud awa to your beds, and before school-time the morn,\ngang and howe the potatoes, or weed the corn.\"\n\nI never durst say onything then, but slipped awa to bed very\nunwillingly--just feeling as if I felt it a trouble to put aff my claes.\nBut before sunrise in the morning, when my brothers would have wakened\nme, I used to rub my een, and gaunt, and say--\n\n\"What!--what!--hoots!--I canna be fashed!\"\n\nAnd my father, frae the ben-a-house, would have cried out, wi' a voice\nthat made the very nails on my fingers shake, \"What's that he's\nsaying?--I'll _be fashed_ him!\"\n\nThen up I would have got, shrugging my shoulders, and wriggling them\nfrae side to side, and cried peevishly to one, \"Where's my stockings?\"\nand to another, \"Where's my jacket?\"\n\nThen my faither would have cried out again, \"_I'll seek_ it for ye!\"\nThen I soon found it, and got out o' the house wi' the rest o' them.\n\nIt was precisely the same thing when my brothers used to shake me in a\nmorning, and say--\n\n\"Get up, Willie--ye haena your task yet.\"\n\nI had invariably the same answer for them on such occasions also. I\nappeared as if naething could drive it out o' me. I have heard auld\nwives say, if ye were taking infants to ony part o' the globe ye like,\nand keeping them where they never would hear a human voice, nor speech\no' one kind nor anither, that they would speak Hebrew! Now, I verily\nbelieve that, if ye had done the same by me--if ye had taken me, when a\nweek auld, into the deserts o' Arawbia, wi' naething but dummies round\nabout me, and not a living soul nor a living thing endowed wi' the power\no' speech allowed to see me or come near me--I say, that I verily\nbelieve the first words I would have spoken would have been, \"_I canna\nbe fashed_!\" in guid braid Scotch. The words literally seemed born wi'\nme. And, as I was telling ye about getting up to learn my tasks in the\nmorning, many, many is the time, in the cauldest day o' winter, that my\nfavourite phrase has caused the tawse to warm my hands, when the fingers\no' a' the rest o' the scholars were dinnlin wi' cauld, and they were\nholding them at their mouths, and blowing their hot breath on them to\ntake out the frost. My faither should have paid no coal-money for me.\nAnd more than this, the four insignificant and carelessly-uttered words\nwhich I allude to, while I was at school, always kept me near the bottom\no' the class; or, if I rose one or two towards the top, it was purely on\naccount o' others having been awa from the school for a day, or\nhalf-a-day, and having to take the foot o' the class, on account o'\ntheir absence, as a matter o' course. Often and often I could have\ntripped their heels, and taken my place aboon them--and the teacher\nkenned it as weel, and many a weary time has he said to me, \"Oh, ye\nstupid stirk! why do ye stand there? why didna ye trap him?\"\n\nAnd once, in particular, I remember I answered him, \"I couldna be\nfashed, sir!\"\n\n\"Fashed!\" he cried, in a perfect fury, and he raised the tawse to his\nteeth--\"fashed, sirrah!\" he cried again; \"then I'll learn ye to be\nfashed!\"\n\nBut o' a' the belabourings I ever got frae either faither or mother, for\nthe same cause, they were naething to the schoolmaster's. It's a miracle\nto me that there was a tail left on his tawse; for he loundered me round\nthe school and round the school; and, aye as he loundered, he ground his\nteeth together, and he cried, \"Heard ever onybody the like o' that!\nCanna be fashed, truly!--I'll fash ye, my man!--I'll learn ye to gie me\nan answer o' that kind again!\"\n\nBut a' the thrashings that faither, and mother, and master could thrash\nat me, on every occasion the confounded words were aye uppermost--they\nwere perpetually at my tongue end. I was just an easy, indolent\nbeing--one that seemed disposed to steal through the world wi' my hands\nin pocket, as smoothly as possible. When I grew to be a lad, I daresay\nthose that kenned me best were surprised that I could be fashed to gang\na-courting, like other youngsters. But even then, when others would\nbrush themselves up, and put on their half-best coat, and the like o'\nthat, in order that they might look as smart as possible, I have thought\nto mysel, I wonder if I should shave and wash my face, and gie mysel a\nredd-up before I gang to see _her_ the nicht; but perpetually I used to\nsay to mysel--\"Ou, I carena; I canna be fashed--I'll do very weel as I\nam.\" And there wasna less than three or four young lasses that I had a\nparticular liking for--and each o' them, I daresay, would made an\nexcellent wife, and I could been very happy wi' ony o' them--but they\nall broke off acquaintance wi' me, \"just,\" as they said to their\nfriends, \"because I was o' such a slovenly disposition, that I couldna\neven be fashed to mak mysel purpose-like when I gaed to see a body.\"\n\nThe like o' this was very galling to me; but it hadna the effect o'\nmaking a better o' me. I couldna be fashed to be ony better, let come\nwhat might. \"Losh-a-day,\" thought I, \"I wonder what folk would hae me to\nbe at, or how they can gie themsels sae meikle trouble, and be sae\nparticular?\"\n\nBut, beyond all others, there was one young woman that I had an\naffection for in a very extraordinary degree. She was as dear to me as\nthe apple o' my ee; and I am sure she could hae done onything wi'\nme--save to break me o' my habit o' saying \"I canna be fashed.\" That was\nbeyond her power. It was my fixed intention to marry her; and, indeed,\nnot only was the wedding-day set, but her wedding-gown and my coat were\nmade, and the ring was bought, and she had spoken to her bridesmaid;\nand, besides buying a' sort o' things hersel, she had got her mother to\nhave her providing packed up, and everything was in readiness just to be\nlifted to our new house--that is, the house we were to occupy. Now, when\nall this had taken place, there was one bonny starlight nicht that we\nwere walking together, just as happy as twa wood-pigeons, and talking\nowre the settlements o' every thing, that she said to me--\n\n\"What did the joiner say last nicht, Willie?--will he be sure no to\ndisappoint us wi' the furniture?--for I would like everything richt at\nthe very first.\"\n\n\"Eh! weel-minded, my dear,\" says I; \"I really forgot to gang and see\nhim, for I was sae tired when I got hame last nicht, that--I couldna be\nfashed.\"\n\n\"That was silly o' ye, man,\" said she; \"it was very thoughtless. But I\nhope ye didna forget to gie in the marriage lines to the minister?\" (The\nsession-clerk was ill at the time.)\n\n\"Save us a', hinny!\" said I, \"weel, I am sure that dings everything!\nBut, as sure as death! as I told ye, I was sae tired, that I never\nminded a word about it till bed-time, when I had my waistcoat unbuttoned\nand my shoon off, and I couldna be fashed to put them on again, and, at\nony rate, it was owre late.\"\n\n\"Very weel, Willie,\" says she, and apparently a good deal hurt, \"I\nwouldna thought it o' ye--but no matter.\"\n\n\"No, love,\" said I, \"it's no great matter, sure enough; for this is only\nSaturday nicht, and I'll just call in at the manse in the by-going, as I\ngang hame, and tell the minister a' about it. The thing can be done in a\nminute.\"\n\n\"Indeed, no,\" said she, \"though I should never be cried,[7] ye are to go\nno such way. This is Saturday nicht--the morn is the Sabbath, and the\nminister will be at his studies, and ye are not to disturb him upon my\naccount.\"\n\n[Footnote 7: Cried--Publication of banns.]\n\n\"Very well, love,\" said I, \"we'll just have to put off a week, then.\"\n\n\"Maybe sae,\" said she. But I thought there was something unco dry in her\nmanner o' saying \"maybe sae.\" However, as I couldna be fashed to call\nupon the minister that nicht, I took nae mair notice o' the subject.\n\nI could hardly get a word out o' her after this, for above an hour that\nI remained in her company. However, she rather came to a little (for she\nwas a kind-hearted lassie), when we were about to part; and we promised\nfaithfully to meet one another at the usual trysting-place, on the\nWednesday nicht following, at eight o'clock, within a minute; and I was\nto have everything arranged wi' the minister and the joiner in the\nmeantime.\n\nOn the Sunday morning, the minister passed me between the manse and the\nkirk, and, says he, quite familiarly--for he was a man that had nae\nstiffness about him--\n\n\"Willie, I thought you was to have been cried to-day.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" said I; \"but it was all my neglect; for I\ncouldna be fashed until last nicht, and then I thought ye would be at\nyour studies, and it was owre late to trouble ye.\"\n\n\"You were very considerate,\" said he, wi' a smile; \"but I'll save you\nthe trouble next week.\"\n\n\"I'll be obliged to ye, sir,\" said I, taking off my hat.\n\nIn going home, I overtook the joiner--no, I'm wrong, the joiner overtook\nme--and, after he had observed that it was a fine day, and I had said it\nwas, and he had asked me what I thought o' the sermon, and so on, I said\nto him--\"Now, I expect that ye'll no disappoint me wi' the furniture.\"\n\n\"Ye needna be feared o' that, Mr Grant,\" said he; \"ye ken ye proposed\nthat it was to be a ready-money transaction. It's no every day that we\nmeet wi' jobs o' that kind, and ye may tak my word on't, I'll no\ndisappoint ye--both for your sake and mine.\"\n\n\"Weel,\" thought I, \"that's twa things aff my head--Isabella will surely\nbe pleased now (for they ca'd her Isabella). I've been fortunate in\nmeeting wi' them baith--in killing twa birds wi' ae stane.\"\n\nBut the appointed Wednesday nicht came, and perfectly do I recollect,\nthat a dark, dirty, gousty nicht it was. I had full three miles to go to\nsee her, and about seven o'clock I pulled out my watch, and I went to\nthe door. A sma' drizzling rain came battering on my face. I looked a'\nround about the heavens, and saw that there was nae appearance o' the\nnicht's clearing up, and, thinks I--\"Weel, she'll ne'er think o' coming\nto meet me the nicht. She'll no be sae daft. It's o' nae use o' me gaun,\nand--I canna be fashed.\"\n\nSo I went into the house again, and sat down quite contented; and a\nnicht or twa after, the weather having settled, I went to see her at her\nfaither's. The auld folk received me, as usual, very kindly; and the\nauld man got a seat for me next the fire, and inquired if there were any\nnews--while his guidwife asked me if I wadna hae my stockings changed,\nas the roads were very wet, and my feet might be damp--and I thanked\nher, and said \"No.\" But there sat _my intended_, plaiting at a\ncap-border, or frill, or something o' that sort, as stiff and as silent\nas a stucco image, never letting on that she either saw or heard me. I\nspoke to her twice or thrice, and she gied a sort o' low, half cough,\nhalf _hem!_ but not a syllable did I get out o' her. Never did she look\nto the side o' the house I was on. Her head seemed to be fixed in a\nblacksmith's vice in an opposite direction, and dear kens what sort o'\ncap or frill it was she keepit plait, plait, plaiting at; but her task\nwas never like to come to an end, and she keepit pingle, pingling, and\nnip, nipping at it wi' a knife, until my patience was fairly worn out.\nIn my opinion her fingers had discovered the perpetual motion; and when\nI had sat until vexation and anxiety were like to choke me, I felt a\nsort o' ha!--ha!--haing! in my throat, as though I could hae burst out\ninto a fit o' passion, or greeting, or I dinna ken what--and wi' a great\nstruggle I got up, and I managed to say--\n\n\"Will ye speak at the door, Isabella dear?\"\n\n\"_I canna be fashed!_\" said she.\n\nO sir! sir! had ye experienced what I felt at that moment. The\nlounderings o' my faither, my mother, and my dominie, and the slights o'\nformer sweethearts, were a mere naething to what her answer caused me to\nendure. I expected naething but that I would drop down upon the floor.\n\n\"Oh, ye foolish lassie, ye!\" said her mother, who was sorry for me,\n\"what do ye mean?\"\n\n\"Get up!\" said her faither.\n\n\"I canna be fashed!\" said she again, more cuttingly than before, and\nhalf turned her een upon me, as she said it, in a manner that gaed\nthrough my breast as if ye had drawn a sharp knife across it.\n\nWeel, sir, our names were ca'ed on the Sunday following; and between the\nfirst day o' their being published, and the day on which the marriage\nwas to take place, I was three or four times back and forward at her\nfaither's--but I got nae mair out o' her. I almost thought that I ought\nto stop the banns; but I thought, again, that that would be very unco\nlike, and very contrary to what I wished; so I allowed them to go on,\nSunday after Sunday.\n\nI never imagined but that she was just in the pet at me having broken my\ntryst, and that, like everybody that was in the pet, she would come out\no't when she found it necessary, and the sooner frae being left to\nhersel. But, on the very day we had fixed for the wedding, and when the\nbest-man and I went to her faither's house, expecting to find her and\nthe best-maid, and the whole o' them, in readiness to go before the\nminister--to my unutterable astonishment and dismay, there was she,\nsitting in her morning gown, as unconcerned as a judge, just as if\nnaething had been to happen.\n\n\"Mercy me! Isabella!\" says I, \"are ye no ready?--where's the women?\"\n\n\"Ready!\" returned she--\"what for?--what do ye mean?--what women?\"\n\nOh! guid gracious! I'll never forget the sensation that I felt at that\nmoment. I'm surprised that I didna drop dead on the floor. \"Isabella,\"\nsaid I, \"are ye no perfectly aware that this is our wedding-day, and\nthat we were to be at the manse at twelve o'clock precisely?\"\n\n\"Ay!\" said she, \"had ye keepit your tryst at such a time, and at such a\nplace, nae doubt this would have been the day; but ye couldna be fashed\nto keep it then--and I canna be fashed now.\"\n\n\"Oh, confound it!\" cried I; \"Isabella, do ye want to drive me mad?\"\n\n\"I dinna think there's ony danger o' that,\" replied she.\n\nVexation and surprise put me fairly beyont mysel--I was taken in a\nmoment.\n\n\"Weel!\" exclaimed I, \"ye'll rue it, Isabella! ye'll rue it--there shall\nnae woman mak a fool o' me!\"\n\n\"Nor man o' me,\" said she.\n\n\"Be it sae,\" said I; \"yet, guidness me! you're no in earnest?\"\n\n\"Earnest!\" said she; \"I tell you I canna be fashed.\"\n\nAt the sound o' the terrible words, I banged out o' the house. I never\nstopped till I came to Dunbar, and there, at the very moment I arrived,\nI took the coach for Edinburgh; and there I stopped but two days till I\nset off for London, for my heart was in such a terrible state o'\nperturbation, that I could have gone to the world's end, ay, and round\nit, and round it again, if I had had the means, in order that I might\nhave found rest.\n\nIt seems that poor Isabella thought that I would come back--and the\nbest-man persuaded her that I would--and she went to dress hersel, and\nsent for the best-maid. But little did she understand the character she\nhad to deal wi'. I was either a' laziness, or a' desperation. I knew no\nmedium; and I have no doubt that, before she got her hair dressed, and\nher gown fairly on, I was half-way to Edinburgh--for I flew to Dunbar as\nthough furies had pursued me.\n\nBut, sir, the upshot was, that Isabella died a spinster, and I am a\nbachelor until this day, and will be, until the last day o' my\nexistence; and thus did the four never-aneugh-to-be-detested words--\"I\ncanna be fashed\"--place eternity, yea, an infinite chasm, between me and\nthe only woman for whose sake I could have laid down my life, as cheaply\nas though it hadna been worth a sixpence.\n\nYe may think that the few instances I have related to ye, and their\nconsequences, would have been aneugh to have cured me o' ever making use\no' the words again--but ye shall see.\n\nNow, you'll observe that, before the time I'm speaking o', my faither\nand mother were both dead, as well as two o' their family, so that there\nwere but three o' us left, and we sold the property, and divided the\nmoney amongst us in equal shares. Therefore, when I got to London, I was\nnot altogether bare-handed. Now, to my shame, I must confess that I had\nnot been long there, till the remembrance o' Isabella, and the cause\nthat had provoked me to come to desert her, were almost forgotten; for\nye must remember that absence makes many changes--and there is many a\nbonny face in London. So, after I had looked about me for a week or two,\nI thought to mysel that I saw nobody doing better than the keepers o'\nwine and spirit vaults. It seemed a' ready-money; it was just nipper\nafter nipper--that is, glass after glass, owre the counter--the money\ndown, and done wi' it. I resolved to become a wine-vault keeper, and I\nlooked around to see where such premises were to let. At length I\npitched upon a shop that I thought would suit me exactly, on the north\nside of Clerkenwell Street, and nearly facing Jerusalem Passage.\n\nThere were a very great number o' compositors and pressmen, and\nbookbinders and gold-beaters, and other trades, in the immediate\nneighbourhood; and I understood that they were in the habit o' making\nthe vaults which I was about to take their pay-house and house-o'-call.\nSo I took the house, and entered upon the business, and, in a very short\ntime, I thought very little about Isabella, or the grief she had caused\nme. I hadna long opened the house until the compositors and the\npressmen, the bookbinders, gold-beaters, and others, a' came back to it.\nThey were weel-spoken, civil lads. They spent a deal o' money, and I\ncertainly tried to be as civil and obliging to them as I could; and, in\nshort, they called me \"a fine chap,\" and \"the best Scotsman out of all\n_sorts_ they had ever met with.\"\n\nWeel, in a week or two, some o' them began to get on to my slates--not\nby name, for I didna like to ask it; it was impudent; and, thought I,\noh, it might spoil their custom at ony rate; and I canna be fashed; it\nwould be an awfu trouble writing names upon a slate, especially the\nnames o' so many. But I knew them a' by head-mark, and I thought there\nwas no need for it.\n\nHowever, one got into my books, and another got into my books; but, no,\nI am wrong there again, for they only got on to the slates--I couldna be\nfashed to carry them into the books; I thought there was nae need for\nit; they generally paid upon the Saturday nicht, and there was nae fear\no' me forgettin.\n\nBut, in a short time, there never was a Saturday nicht but there was\nalways some o' my debtor customers amissing; and when I inquired for any\no' them, the reply was--\n\n\"Oh, you're one of his ghosts, are you? well, I wish you may get\nit--he's _got the bag_.[8]\"\n\n[Footnote 8: Got the bag--_i. e._, paid off, or discharged.]\n\n\"So, so,\" I would say; \"and he is off with his finger in my bag too.\"\n\nWell, in this way I lost more money than I can tell. But I lost it in\nanother way also, and from the same cause. You know that in London every\npublic-house has a porter-walk, or a beer-walk, as they call it, the\nsame as the rounds of a milk-woman here, and they go round twice a-day,\nat dinner-time and supper-time. Well, to my surprise, in a few months I\ngot the best beer-walk in all London. I couldna think how it was. I was\nalmost rivalling the Alderney dairy which was at my very hand, for I had\nto engage two pot-boys to carry out my supply. But I gave credit; I\ntrusted to the lads to keep an account of what they took out, and they\ntrusted to me. I said \"I couldna be fashed wi' the like o' that;\" but\nthey said they gave me the names and number o' the individuals with whom\nthey had intrusted both porter and pewter-pots; and if I did not mark it\ndown and see after it, it was my look-out, and not theirs. In this way,\nI believe, I lost five butts o' porter within twelve months. Yet, sir,\nthese were not the only griefs and the only losses that the four words\nwhich are the subject of my story have brought upon me. Not only did I\nfrequently neglect to insert in my own books what I had sent out on\ncredit, but I as frequently delayed to mark down what had been sent to\nme by the brewer or distiller, and said, \"Hoot, I haena time--I canna be\nfashed to enter it to-day, I will do it the morn, or the next day.\" But\nthe next day and the next came, and I could be less fashed than ever,\nand the entry remained untouched. Many a heavy loss I am sensible this\nhas caused me; and often has it made me appear as a rogue, when my\nintentions were honest.\n\nSir, what I have told ye is but a sample o' what \"_I canna be fashed_\"\nhas cost me. I could relate to you a thousand o' its consequences; but\nhalf-a-dozen are as good, and perhaps better than a thousand, by way o'\nexample.\n\nI had been about fifteen years in business, when I became bond, for a\nfriend that I thought I could have trusted as my own brother, to the\nextent o' three thousand pounds. I was certain he was perfectly solvent,\nand from the acquaintance I had had o' him, I could nae mair hae doubted\nhim than I could hae doubted that I was the son o' my mother. But a few\nweeks after I had signed the bond, a mutual acquaintance called upon me,\nand, says he--\n\n\"Grant, you have acted like a fool.\"\n\n\"I dinna doubt,\" says I, for I was perfectly aware that I often had;\n\"but what do ye mean to be at?\"\n\n\"Why,\" says he, \"So-and-so has taken you in. He is preparing to be off,\nbag and baggage, for America, and you will be left to pay the piper.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye are a suspicious wretch,\" says I; \"man, I couldna believe the\nlike o' that if ye were to swear it to me.\"\n\n\"Believe it or not,\" says he, \"if you don't see after it instantly, your\nthree thousand pounds are gone.\"\n\n\"Hoot! babbles!\" said I, \"the man's daft!--do ye think I dinna ken him\nbetter than that? The man is as sure as the bank. I would be the last\nman he would injure a farthing--I ken that weel aneugh. But, at ony\nrate, I am particularly busy, and I canna be fashed wi' ony nonsense o'\nthe kind; so ye may keep yoursel easy, and I am only sorry that ye\nshould hae such an opinion o' ony friend o' mine.\"\n\n\"Canna be fashed!\" cried my acquaintance, hurrying from the shop; \"what\na deuced fool! Grant, you'll repent it.\"\n\nI laughed at the man; for I had perfect confidence in my friend, and I\nknew that he had property worth three times the money that I was bond\nfor him.\n\nOn the very next day, the same acquaintance came into my house very\nhastily, and says he--\n\n\"Grant, if you don't look after your money, and that very sharply, you\nwill find your friend's property is no go, and you are in for paying the\nthree thousand.\"\n\n\"Ye dinna mean to say the like o' that?\" said I.\n\n\"Say that, you blockhead!\" returned my acquaintance--\"wherefore wouldn't\nyou believe me yesterday?\" And placing his arm through mine, he dragged\nme out o' the house. We reached the habitation o' the worthy gentleman\nfor whom I was surety in the sum o' three thousand precious pounds\nsterling. But he was off--off like a bird whose nest has been robbed o'\nits eggs. Twelve hours before, he had sailed for America, or some other\nquarter o' the globe; but where I never knew.\n\n\"Come home, Grant,\" said my friend, \"don't distress yourself now.\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna speak to me,\" says I--\"I canna be fashed; my three thousand\npounds!--my poor three thousand pounds!\"\n\nWe went into a tavern, and I drank out o' pure desperation until I could\nhardly stand; and as we were going home I fell, and I dislocated my arm,\nor I broke it; at ony rate I did something to it, and it never was like\nto get better; and my friends advised me to send for a surgeon--but----\n\n\"What to do wi' a surgeon?\" says I; \"I canna be fashed wi' them. The arm\nwill get better itsel.\"\n\nBut from that day until the present hour, I have never had the right use\no' it. It made me useless, in a great measure, in the way o' business.\nTherefore I sold the goodwill o' my house, and wi' the other little\nremains o' what I had saved, I came down here, just to live as easy and\nas cheap as possible. And now, sir, as ye have seen what a _great\ngainer_ I have been by the words \"_I canna be fashed_,\" I hope and\nimplore ye will never use them again, but take a warning by the example\no' Willie Grant.\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CASTLE OF CRAIL; OR, KING DAVID AND MAUDE.\n\n    \"Ev'n kings hae taen a queen out o' the plain,\n    And what has been before may be again.\"--ALLAN RAMSAY.\n\n\nThe reign of the illustrious Malcolm III., surnamed Canmore, King of\nScotland, which began in the year 1057, was not more distinguished for\nheroism and literature than for love. He was both a religious and a\nvaliant king, and was often victorious against the Danes, who frequently\ninvaded Scotland. In his time, William, Duke of Normandy, conquered\nEngland, and in the great battle of Hastings, which took place in 1066,\nkilled King Harold. Edgar, the lawful heir to the English crown, seeing\nthe country conquered, and the nobles routed and dispersed, took\nshipping with his mother and sisters, and arrived in the Frith of Forth,\nand landed at Queensferry, which received its name from Margaret, the\neldest sister of Edgar, whom King Malcolm afterwards married. King\nMalcolm was killed at the siege of Alnwick by Robert Moubray, who,\nunarmed, upon a light horse, came out of Alnwick Castle, with a lance in\nhis hand, and bearing the keys of the castle upon its point.\n\nKing Malcolm, while earnestly regarding the keys, was stabbed by Moubray\nthrough the left eye to the brain, and died instantly. King William the\nConqueror, in consequence of this achievement, changed the name of\nMoubray to that of Percy, of whom are descended the Dukes of\nNorthumberland.\n\nAfter sundry usurpations, Edgar and Alexander, the first and second sons\nof King Malcolm, severally reigned for a number of years, and died\nchildless; and in 1124, David I., the hero of our tale, ascended the\nthrone. He possessed a large share of his father's virtues, and during\nhis reign cultivated those arts and sciences which Malcolm had\nencouraged. His heart was particularly susceptible of the tender\npassion, and of the power of beauty. It is a well-established historical\nfact, that King David occasionally resided at the Castle of Crail, which\nstood on a rock overhanging the harbour, and vestiges of this royal\nresidence still remain. A summer-house now stands on the site,\nsurrounded by a large garden; and the place is sometimes occupied by the\nowner, a landed gentleman in the neighbourhood, and his friends, for the\npurposes of good fellowship and social intercourse.\n\nWhile residing at the Castle of Crail, the king and his younger nobles\nresolved on partaking of the wild sports of the neighbourhood; and with\nthis view they proceeded one day, well mounted, and attended by the\nhounds, to Kingsbarns, a fine tract of land belonging to the crown,\nwhere the grain was stored in barns for payment of the king's rents; and\nfrom thence they passed on to an extensive and thickly-wooded\ndistrict--in fact, a large forest, which now constitutes a considerable\nportion of the Parish of St Andrews and surrounding parishes. The\nancient name of this district was _Cursus Apri_, or, the Boar-Chase, and\nhence is derived the present name of the village contiguous,\n\"Boar-hills.\"\n\nHaving started a wild boar out of this forest, it took a westerly course\ntowards Kingsmuir (which, as its name implies, also belonged to the\ncrown), and the party set off in hot pursuit. This muir, now highly\ncultivated, was, at the time to which we refer, a waste or common of\nlittle value, and on which many of the neighbouring proprietors, in\nconsequence, claimed a servitude right of pasturage; but it was under an\nofficer of the crown, styled \"Heritable Keeper of the Kingsmuir.\" Here,\nthen, while engaged in the exciting sport of the chase of the boar\n(which, in the end, was killed at Kingscairn Mill), a deer, a fox, and a\nwild cat also broke cover, and the attention of the hunters and hounds\nbeing thus divided, the party separated, and the king found himself\nalone upon the muir.\n\nDavid was in the prime of life--a very handsome man, and of princely\nbearing, and, while thus unattended and unknown, he met with a lovely\nyoung shepherdess in a lonely part of the muir, tending her father's\nsheep. The name of the young woman, he found, was Maude, or Matilda,\nand, having inquired of her where she abode, he departed, resolving to\ncultivate the acquaintance he had thus accidentally formed. He\nfrequently visited the shepherdess after this (who was entirely ignorant\nof his rank), in the capacity of a private gentleman, and her\nconversation was his delight. There was something mysterious to him in\nher deportment and her accomplishments: she possessed the strictest\ninnocence and the most dignified bearing without the slightest\nembarrassment. Though plainly attired, \"grace was in all her steps,\" and\nevery action exhibited courtly propriety and ease. Though her\nobservations were chiefly confined to her flocks, and to rural affairs,\nyet she would occasionally surprise the king with her remarks upon\nastronomy, history, geography, morals, and agriculture, which bespoke a\nmind informed far above the common level. Being thus engaging in her\nmind and manners, it was not to be wondered at that every additional\nvisit increased the love and affection of the astonished king, whose\ndignity was her torture. His passion grew stronger every day.\n\nThe king was captivated with her charms. Honour, however, governed his\nactions, and subjected his wishes to the control of virtue: he wished to\nraise her to an exalted situation, not to triumph over her innocence--in\nshort, he wished to make her his royal bride; but this seemed\nimpossible, and he returned dejected to his Castle of Crail. He\nregretted that high rank should now stand in the way of his happiness,\nand almost wished he had not been born a king. He consulted the Lord of\nDouglas, his prime minister, urged the beauty, the virtue, the genius of\nMatilda, but all in vain; the reply was, that policy and prudence\nrequired him to seek a union with some exalted character--an alliance\nwith the daughter of a powerful and wealthy prince; and that, were he to\nplace a shepherdess on the throne, his nobles would be disgusted, and\nquit his court, and in all probability proceed by open violence to\nresent the supposed insult to their dignity. The king admitted that what\nwas said was too likely to be the fact, and at the same time reprobated\nthat pride which deemed an alliance with obscure and untitled virtue\ndisgraceful; but he knew the prejudices of his nobility were\nunconquerable, and he submitted with great reluctance to his fate. His\nfriends--and amongst others the Lairds of Cambo, Anstruther, Grangemuir,\nand Balcombie, the Provost of Crail, and Prior of St Rufus, the remains\nof whose chapel may still be seen a little eastward of Crail, near Roome\nBay, and whose well (called the Prior's Well) is yet resorted to\noccasionally by the good people of the Nethergate--those friends, we\nsay, tried in vain to divert the king's thoughts, and alleviate his\ndistress. They informed him of the great antiquity of the burgh--that it\nwas a place of note in the ninth century. They conveyed him on horseback\nto the Dane's Dyke, the remains of a bulwark of stones thrown up by our\nDanish invaders in one night, where human bones, in great quantities,\nare yet cast up by the plough on the farm of Kilmining; and they then\npassed on to the Cave of Balcombie Sands, where they told him one of his\nmajesty's predecessors, Constantine, the Scottish king, was beheaded by\nthe Danes, in the year 871, he having been taken prisoner in a skirmish,\nwhile the enemy were retreating. The party then visited the Castle of\nBalcombie, a lofty and extensive pile of building, of immense strength\nand remote antiquity, where, in after years, Mary of Guise was\nhospitably entertained, on landing, after a tempestuous passage, at\nFifeness-haven, in order to be married to King James V. From hence King\nDavid proceeded to Airdrie, or Ard-rhi--a name which in the Celtic\nlanguage denotes \"the king's height\"--then a favourite royal\nhunting-station on the borders of Kingsmuir; and, returning to Crail,\nthe Runic Cross was not forgotten.[9]\n\n[Footnote 9: This is a singular monument, and of great antiquity. At the\nrepair of the church of Crail, it was laid down in place of a piece of\nArbroath pavement, to form one of the passages, and is thereby already\nsomewhat mutilated, and had it been allowed to continue much longer in\nthat situation, it must have been entirely obliterated; but it is\ngratifying to state that, while these lines are going to press, a\ngentleman from the Cape of Good Hope, on a visit to Crail, his native\nparish, has had the good taste to get the stone removed, and placed in\nthe wall of the church, where it will be now preserved from further\ndilapidation.]\n\nIt were endless to tell of all the devices resorted to by his friends to\nalleviate the king's melancholy. The greatest beauties of the castle\ncourted his smiles without effect. Their charms seemed but to remind him\nof the superior fascinations of his beloved Matilda. Nothing seemed to\nremain to him but the trying task of parting, perhaps for ever, from his\ncaptivating shepherdess.\n\nThe king often thought of asking Matilda for the story of her life, but\ndreaded that the narrative would but confirm his misery. Upon one of his\nvisits, he missed her at the accustomed spot, but found a venerable old\nman attending the sheep in her place. The king anxiously inquired for\nMatilda, and was informed that she was visiting a family in the\nneighbourhood.\n\nThe family which she had gone to visit lived in an unpretending mansion\nbeautifully situated on a ridge of rising ground, which stretches from\neast to west, nearly through the middle of what is now the Parish of\nCarnbee. This ridge rises in different places into hills of a beautiful\nconical form, and are green and verdant to the summit; these are\nCarnbee-law, Kellie-law. Gillingshill, and Cunner-law. It was to\nGillingshill Matilda had directed her steps, and, occupying as it did an\nelevated position, the house commanded an extensive and splendid\nview.[10]\n\n[Footnote 10: Among the objects which the eye now takes in by a short\nsweep are the noble mansion of Kellie Castle, belonging to the Right\nHonourable the Earl of Mar and Kellie; Grangemuir, the residence of the\nRight Honourable Lord William Douglas; Balcaskie, the seat of Sir Ralph\nAbercrombie Anstruther, Baronet; together with Elie House and village,\nwith its commodious harbour; Kilconquhar House, with its beautiful loch;\nBalcarras, with its picturesque craig, its ivy-mantled chapel, and its\nmany military, historical, and literary associations; Pitcorthie, with\nits magnificent mansion; Gibleston, with its fine woods and gardens, and\nmany villas of lesser note.]\n\nThe maiden had acquainted her father that she often had a visiter when\nkeeping her flocks in the muir, and, from her description of him, the\nold man conceived the individual present to be that person, and\naccordingly invited him to their habitation, which invitation David,\nthrowing aside for awhile his usual courtly ceremony, accepted.\n\nHe went on with sorrowing steps, and yet would not have staid behind.\nThe small and unpretending cottage before him damped him at first, but\nwhen he thought upon it as the home of his fair enchantress, his spirits\nwere again cheered. He found in the place neatness and rural elegance.\nHe would have been happy to have changed his sceptre for a shepherd's\ncrook, and his noble Castle of Crail for this humble dwelling. He was\ninvited to refresh himself, and Matilda soon joined them; but, although\nthe table was spread with healthful rustic dainties, he could not do\njustice to the feast. Matilda's charming company and conversation was\nhis regalement. The old man apologised for the homeliness of his fare,\nsupposing _that_ to be the cause of his guest's abstinence, and said,\n\"That once he could have entertained him better, but now he had little\nmore to offer than a hearty welcome.\"\n\nA knock was heard at the door, and a young farmer having entered who\nwished to buy some sheep, the old man retired with him with the view of\nmaking a bargain.\n\nThe young couple being left alone, David moved his chair nearer to that\nof Matilda, and began to renew his attentions to her; but, however much\nshe was pleased with the courtly air and intellectual conversation of\nher visiter, she was resolved to act with prudence and circumspection.\nShe therefore took this opportunity of stating to him, in a polite and\nkindly manner, that, as he had said his visits were paid for the purpose\nof making _her_ acquaintance, and that while she thanked him for the\nfavourable opinion he had often expressed with regard to her, yet, as he\nwas a stranger, and had never been regularly introduced, she should be\nobliged to decline his future visits. She further stated, that he must\nbe well aware there can be no safe principle except this, that every man\naiming at our acquaintance must be introduced to us by some person we\nalready know, who becomes a guarantee, as it were, for the propriety of\nhis behaviour and the honour of his views; that without this we can\nnever be sure that the individual addressing us is not a designing\nadventurer, who would think nothing of making our happiness his sport;\nand that for a young female to admit the addresses of an unknown young\nman, however fascinating his manners or noble his air, would be to run a\ngreat risk of disappointment and unhappiness for life.\n\nThe old man now came into the room, and the subject of conversation\nbeing changed, King David shortly afterwards took leave of his\nentertainers, bowing respectfully as he retired.\n\nMatilda's father had been her tutor, and he was well qualified for that\noffice. To aid the development of her infant mind--to pour forth to her,\nas she grew in years and in reason, all the fruits of his own\nrichly-cultivated intellect, was the solitary consolation of one over\nwhose head was impending the misfortune of incompetence, or deficiency\nof means for the adequate support of himself and his daughter. Matilda\nwas gifted with a mind which, even if her tutor had not been her father,\nwould have rendered tuition a delight. Her lively imagination, which\nearly unfolded itself; her dangerous but interesting vivacity; the keen\ndelight, the swift enthusiasm with which she drank in knowledge, and\nthen panted for more; her shrewd acuteness, and her innate passion for\nwhat was excellent and beautiful, filled her father with rapture, which\nhe repressed, and made him feel conscious how much there was to check,\nto guide, and to form, as well as to cherish, to admire, and to applaud.\n\nAs she grew up, the bright parts of her character shone with increased\nlustre; but, in spite of the exertions of her instructor, some less\nadmirable qualities had not yet disappeared. She was still too often the\ndupe of her imagination; and though perfectly inexperienced, her\nconfidence in her theoretical knowledge of human nature was unbounded.\nShe had an idea that she could penetrate the character of individuals at\nfirst meeting; and the consequence of this fatal axiom was, that she was\nalways the slave of first impressions, and constantly the victim of\nprejudice; she was ever thinking individuals better or worse than they\nreally were, and she believed it to be out of the power of any one to\ndeceive her. Constant attendance during many years on a dying beloved\nmother, and her deep religious feelings, had first broken, and then\ncontrolled, a spirit which nature had intended to be arrogant and\nhaughty. Her father she adored; and she seemed to devote to him all that\nconsideration which, with more common characters, is generally\ndistributed among their acquaintances.\n\nWe hint at her faults. How shall we describe her virtues? Her unbounded\ngenerosity, her dignified simplicity, her graceful frankness, her\nnobility of thought and feeling, her firmness, her courage, and her\ntruth, her kindness to her inferiors, her constant charity, her devotion\nto her parents, her sympathy with sorrow, her detestation of oppression,\nher pure unsullied thoughts, her delicate taste, her deep religion--all\nthese combined would have formed a delightful character, even if\nunaccompanied with such brilliant talents and such brilliant beauty as\nshe possessed. Nature and art were the graces which had combined to form\nthis girl. She was a jewel set in gold, and worthy of a king.\n\nAfter the remarks made by Matilda on his last visit, the king resolved\nto make known to the old man and his daughter his rank and station with\nas little delay as possible; but, being wishful at the same time to\nascertain previously what were the feelings of Matilda towards him as a\nprivate individual, irrespective of his kingly crown and dignity, he\nthought it best to postpone the communication until he should have\nlearned the history of the old shepherd and his family. For this purpose\nhe repaired on an early day to Kingsmuir, and bearing in mind the few\nwords which formerly fell from the old man in reference to his having\nseen better days--words which had greatly raised the hopes of the king,\nand fixed his attention on the story of their fortunes--he entreated the\nsage to relate the same, which he agreed to do, and began as\nfollows:--\"I was formerly Earl of Northumberland, and husband of\nJuditha, grand-daughter of William the Conqueror. Our family were nearly\nconnected with royalty, and my possessions in lands, flocks, and herds,\nexceedingly extensive and valuable. I lived in becoming splendour. I was\nbeloved by my neighbours, and happy in my family. My estates are\nsituated not far from the borders of Scotland, and were frequently\ninvaded by the Scottish chiefs. For a long time my tenants and servants\nbravely repelled these attacks, but at length increasing in their\nnumbers, we were overpowered. They spoiled and ravaged all our lands,\nand drove away our flocks and herds, save a small portion, with which I\nremoved to the East of Fife, to find security and protection. Here have\nI since lived--suppressed my style and title, and passed myself off as a\npoor old shepherd, with this my humble but virtuous and affectionate\ndaughter, the comfort and support of my declining years.\"\n\nThe king struggled to conceal the thrilling emotions which he felt at\nthis narration, and asked the old man whether he had applied at court\nfor succour in his distress. His question was answered thus:--\"No; my\nfamily, consisting of but myself and young Matilda, and my desires being\nconfined to narrow bounds, by the dictates of religion and philosophy, I\nthought it unjust to ask of this country that support which health and\nhonest industry could procure, and thereby deprive more useful subjects\nof their just reward.\" The king admired the generous spirit of the\nvenerable sage; told him he had interest at court; assured him that the\nking would be glad to see him, and insisted that he and his daughter\nshould hasten thither; which journey, after considerable hesitation,\nthey resolved to undertake.\n\nIt is impossible to describe the transports of the young king on this\noccasion. He came back to the castle, to inform his courtiers that two\ninteresting strangers were shortly to visit them, and he made all due\npreparations for his expected and welcome guests. The scene was now\nchanged from deep despondency to the most complete joy and felicity.\n\nAt the appointed time the old shepherd and his lovely daughter arrived\nat the good old town and Castle of Crail; and having recovered from\ntheir surprise, the king introduced them to the court in their rural\nhabits, without disclosing their rank. As companions of the king, the\ncourtiers were obliged to receive them with civility, but their affected\npoliteness could ill conceal their absolute contempt. The court broke\nup, and the king again engaged in conversation with the Earl of\nNorthumberland. He requested to know where his daughter derived so much\nknowledge? To which the earl replied, \"From my own poor stock. She was\nmy sole companion. I thought it my interest as well as my duty to teach\nher every science I knew. She had an apt and comprehensive intellect,\nand easily received instruction.\"\n\nIn a few days the king again assembled all his courtiers. He had\npreviously advised with the prime minister and privy councillors on the\npropriety of a marriage with an earl's daughter of royal lineage, and\nobtained their unqualified consent and approval. He then introduced the\nold man as the Earl of Northumberland, and the beautiful shepherdess as\nhis daughter Matilda. Shame seized the ungenerous nobility for their\nformer conduct, but the offended parties soon removed their\nembarrassment; and a noble suite of apartments were soon set aside for\nthe earl and Matilda in the house of the governor of the castle.[11]\n\n[Footnote 11: The Castle of Crail was an important station in early\ntimes. The fortress was entered by a massive gate in the Shoregate, the\nsite of which is now occupied by a house some time belonging to the late\nMr William Cowan. Within the rampart which defended the entrance were\nplaced the guard-house and apartments for officers. For centuries the\ncastle consisted of little more than these houses and a single tower,\nsurrounded by a barbican, and other defences; but after the end of the\neleventh century it became of more importance as a royal residence for\nKing David. In his reign the fortifications were considerably extended;\na governor's house was erected, with two circular towers, from which a\ngrand view was obtained to seaward, and of the surrounding country.\nWithin a second gate were two courts, containing the king's palace, the\nparliament hall, the chapel, and other buildings. The roof of the king's\nroom in the palace was completely covered with rich carving in oak, long\nregarded by the town's-people with veneration. There was also a house\nfor storing grain, and a well of excellent water within its walls. This\nfortress was considered the key of the East of Fife, and, before the\ninvention of gunpowder, was deemed impregnable.]\n\nIn a fine summer afternoon David and his beloved Matilda were seated\nalone in a room of the governor's house.\n\nNow, as interviews between lovers are usually very delightful to our\nfair young friends in general, we might for their benefit narrate at\ngreat length all that was said and done by the parties above mentioned;\nbut, without disappointing them altogether, we shall be very brief on\nthe subject, and rather hasten to unfold more important parts of their\nadventures.\n\n\"Sweet Matilda,\" began David, \"my heart, that never knew another love,\nis all your own. Since we first met on Kingsmuir, your image has not\nquitted my mind for a second. Not for a moment have I ceased to think\nyou the best, the most beautiful, the most enchanting, the most\nendearing creature that ever graced our country.\"\n\nShe turned; her eye glistened; her arm fell over his shoulder; she\nburied her head in his breast. At this very moment the door opened, and\nthe earl her father entered; and David exclaimed, \"Oh, my dear earl, I\nam the happiest man that ever breathed.\"\n\n\"What is all this?\" inquired the earl.\n\n\"Is it possible,\" said the king, \"that you have not long before detected\nthe feelings I ventured to entertain for your daughter? In a word, she\nrequires only your sanction to my being the most fortunate of men.\"\n\n\"My gracious sovereign,\" cried the earl, \"it is out of the power of man\nto impart to me any event which could afford to me such exquisite\npleasure.\"\n\nThe earl then approached his daughter, and, bending down, pressed the\nlips of his child. It was the seal to their plighted faith, and told\nwithout speech that the blessing of a father mingled with the vows of a\nlover. At this moment Matilda thought only of her father--that friend of\nher life in prosperity and adversity, whose love had never been\nwanting--was she now about to leave him? She rose; she threw her arms\nabout her father's neck, and wept.\n\nThe earl at this time considerately remembered that he wanted to see his\nservant, and they were left alone. Their eyes meet; their soft looks\ntell that they are thinking of each other. His arm steals round the back\nof her chair, and with the other hand he gently lays hold on hers. But\nwhy more? First love--first love, how many a glowing bard has sung thy\ncharms! Nature herself seemed to those loving hearts more beautiful than\never. Their own thoughts reflected themselves in every object that met\ntheir view, as they wandered amidst the shady woods or along the sunny\nbraes near the royal residence.\n\nBut although the young king was in love, duty was not to be neglected;\nand the old earl entreated that the youthful pair should cease to wander\non the West Braes, and Roome Links, and woods, and muirs which at that\ntime surrounded the burgh. He urged the king to examine and make good\nthe walls of the town, and the gates at the East and West Ports, and\nJockey's Port, as well as those of the Nethergate and Shoregate; also\nthe castle walls, gates, and defences, and whole fortifications. The\narmoury came likewise under observation, and an inspection took place of\nthe bowmen, while practising archery in the Bow Butts. These precautions\nbecame necessary, as rumours began to be circulated that a war might\nspeedily be expected with the English.\n\nThe affairs of state having also received due attention, the court\nresolved to visit the Isle of May.\n\nThe morning was remarkably fine, when the king, with the Earl of\nNorthumberland, Matilda, and a number of his court, embarked at Crail in\na pleasure-yacht for the May. The air was pure, the sea slightly ruffled\nwith a favouring breeze, and the sky almost cloudless; all nature looked\nbright and beautiful, and the morning sun cast the shadows of the\nvessel's masts across the water in the harbour.\n\nThe harbour of Crail presented a very animated scene. Everything was in\nunison with the sunny day and the illustrious occasion. The piers were\nlined with soldiers, and behind them were dense crowds of spectators.\nThe royal Scottish standard was flying from the castle, and from the\nsouth pier-head. The harbour was crowded with boats and small craft, to\nwitness the departure. On the yacht leaving the harbour, the cheer was\ntaken up by the soldiers and the populace, while the band struck up the\nnational air.\n\nThe Island of May was reached in less than an hour. In sailing round the\nwestern side, the most discordant sounds saluted the ear from\nkittiewakes, seagulls, scouts, and other wild sea-fowl, which inhabit\nthe rock in myriads, and nestle in the bare crevices; and some of the\nparty, wishful to display their skill in archery, brought down a few of\nthe birds with their arrows, both sitting and on the wing. A landing was\nsafely made on the southern side, and the company separated into small\nparties, to stroll over the island, and view its natural curiosities and\nvarious remains of antiquity, particularly its priory and gifted holy\nwell.\n\nAfter spending a delightful day, the court embarked with the afternoon's\ntide for Crail, and, when at a distance from the island, they viewed\nwith interest the romantic Castle of Dreel, the stronghold of the\nAnstruthers of Anstruther, to whom the king had lately granted a\ncharter, wherein the heir is designed \"Filius Willielmi de Candela,\ndomini de Anstruther:\" \"son of William de Candela, Lord of Anstruther,\"\na name obviously of Norman origin. This castle lies at the bottom of the\nbay, between the Billowness and Craignoon Rock, with its rough, grey,\nantique houses clustering round the mouth of the Dreel burn. Brightly on\nsea and on shore shone the unclouded afternoon's sun on the white cliffs\nof the isle, and the rugged shore of the East of Fife, with all its\ncaverns, rocks, and towers, its ancient burghs, with their pointed\nspires, and long and straggling fishing villages, that dot the rocky\nbeach. The scene was lovely and beautiful. The Forth shone like a stream\nof lucid gold; West Anstruther, with its old church of Norman\narchitecture; Royal Crail, with its lofty castle, its chapel, and\nturreted battlements; Castle Cunningham, at the West Braes, and its\ngloomy caverns not far distant--all these were visible at once, and\nbathed in ruddy light.\n\nKing David having now declared his intention of espousing Matilda, the\nmarriage was soon after solemnised within the chapel of the castle, with\nmuch splendour and dignity. The guests of the bridal were the nobility\nand dignified clergy, and in their suite a numerous assembly of vassals.\nA thousand knights, in their robes of silk, attended the bride on the\nmorn of her nuptials, and several days were spent in hunting, feasting,\ndancing, and other circumstances of pomp and revelry.\n\nA tournament, the frequent amusement of this warlike age, also took\nplace. This was a martial sport or exercise which the ancient cavaliers\nused to perform to show their address and bravery. On this occasion,\nWalter Bisset, a powerful baron, who piqued himself on his skill in his\nweapons, was foiled by Patrick, Earl of Athole. An old feud which\nexisted between these families embittered the defeat, and Athole was\nfound murdered in his house, which, probably for the purpose of\nconcealment, was set on fire by the assassins. The suspicion of this\nslaughter--which, even in an age familiar with ferocity, seems to have\nexcited unwonted horror--immediately fell upon the Bissets; and although\n_Walter_ was the person concerned in the tournament, the popular clamour\npointed to _William_, the elder brother, and chief of the family. He was\npursued by the nobility, who were incited to vengeance by the Earl of\nMarch and David de Hastings, and would have been torn to pieces, had not\nthe interference of the king protected him from the fury of the friends\nof Athole. Ultimately the Bissets were condemned, their estates\nforfeited to the crown, and they were ordered to repair to Palestine,\nand there, for the remaining days of their lives, to pray for the soul\nof the murdered earl.\n\nWhen we muse on the chivalric and martial sports which distinguished\nour ancient burgh in former days, and witness the silence and gloomy\ndepopulation which now reign in our streets; when we compare its lofty\nand formidable castle with its present bare and defenceless walls; when\nwe think of the great maritime and commercial interest carried on,\nbefore the Union, between its harbour and Holland, and other foreign\ncountries, and see its present limited coasting trade, we can scarcely\nhelp regretting the loss of its ancient grandeur. One cannot help\n_feeling_ that of this royal residence, where princes feasted and heroes\nfought--now in the bloody earnest of storm and siege, and now in the\ngames of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valour had\nwon--all is now desolate, all its glory is departed. The mossy ruins of\nits castle walls only serve to show what their extent and splendour once\nwas, and to impress on the mind of the musing visiter the transitory\nnature and value of all human possessions, and the true happiness of\n_those_ who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment.\n\nSome of our readers may deem the marriage of David and Matilda a\nsingular and improbable circumstance; but we can tell of a far more\nromantic bridal, and one well attested by historical evidence, which\nhappened little more than a hundred years afterwards--viz., in\n1272--with which important consequences were connected:--A Scottish\nknight of high birth, Robert de Bruce, younger of Annandale and\nCleveland, was passing on horseback through the domains of Turnberry,\nwhich belonged to Marjory, Countess of Carrick. The lady happened at the\nmoment to be pursuing the diversion of the chase, surrounded by her\nsquires and damsels. They encountered the Bruce. The young countess was\nstruck by his noble figure, and courteously entreated him to remain and\ntake the recreation of hunting. Bruce, who, in those feudal days, knew\nthe danger of paying too much attention to a ward of the king, declined\nthe invitation, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by the\nattendants; and the lady, riding up, seized his bridle, and led off the\nknight with gentle violence to her Castle of Turnberry. Here, after\nfifteen days' residence, the adventure concluded as might have been\nanticipated: Bruce married the countess, without the knowledge of her\nrelations, or obtaining the king's consent; upon which King Alexander\nseized her Castle of Turnberry. The intercession of friends, however,\nand a heavy fine, conciliated the mind of the monarch. Bruce became, in\nright of his wife, Lord of Carrick, and the son of this marriage of\nromantic love was the great Robert Bruce, the restorer of Scottish\nliberty.\n\nSoon after the royal marriage, preparations were made for the queen's\ncoronation (King David having been crowned when he ascended the throne),\nand the royal pair, with the court, proceeded to Scone Palace for that\npurpose.\n\nIt was a fine morning in the month of July when the party set out, and\nthe dawn was beautiful. Before them lay the great Frith of Forth,\nrolling down in the bright sunshine from the mountains of the west, its\nshores teeming with fertility and natural loveliness. Along the banks\nthe mists were rising from the verdant cones and waving woods of\nInnergellie, Lochton, and Balcomie. It was a spacious prospect of\nflowering meadow and ripening corn-field--of foliaged coppice and\nflowing ocean--of rising eminence and busy burgh town--of ships and\nfishing-boats at anchor or under sail, with the glorious sunshine\nbeaming over all, and everything was full of life, of light, and of\nhappiness around them. The road from Crail passed through Airdrie Woods,\nby the back of Kellie-law, and thence through the muirs to Falkland.[12]\nHere the royal party stopped and partook of refreshments, and thereafter\nproceeded on their journey to the Palace of Scone.\n\n[Footnote 12: It is still open, and of great breadth in various parts of\nthe line, and retains the name of the King's Cadgers' Road, because the\nfish carriers from Crail travelled along it with fish from that royal\nburgh to supply the king's table when resident at Falkland Palace].\n\nThe mode in which the ceremony of Queen Matilda's coronation was\nperformed is strikingly illustrative of the manners of the age. The\nBishops of St Andrews and Dunkeld, with the Abbot of Scone, attended to\nofficiate. The Bishop of St Andrews explained to her majesty the\nrespective oaths, which were to be taken first in Latin, and afterwards\nin Norman French. They then conducted her to the regal chair or sacred\nstone of Scone, which stood before the cross in the eastern division of\nthe chapel. Upon this she sat; the crown was placed on her head; she was\ninvested with the royal mantle, and the nobility kneeling in homage\nthrew their robes beneath her feet. A Highland bard or sennachy, clothed\nin a scarlet mantle, with hair venerably white, then advanced from the\ncrowd, and bending before the throne, repeated in his native tongue the\ngenealogy of the youthful queen.\n\nMany years pass. Maude is dead; and our fancy, under a spell, leads us\nto Crail Church. The usual service has not yet commenced, and\nconsequently neither the king, his family, nor attendants, have entered\nthe church; but it is whispered that they may be looked for every\nmoment, as his majesty was scrupulously punctual at prayers.\n\nThere was soon a large congregation assembled, certainly not less than a\nthousand persons, drawn hither by loyalty and curiosity, and in\ncompliment to the royal birth-day. A soft and solemn strain of music now\nrose from the organ, and time is given, during the voluntary, to collect\nthe distracted thoughts, and to compose them into calmness and order\nsuitable to the occasion. There now ran a muffled whisper of \"The King!\nthe King!\" and a vista being opened in front, his majesty is seen quite\ndistinctly. He is a venerable old man, hoary and furrowed--no grandeur,\nno majesty, no assumption of princely dignity. Shading his dim eyes with\none hand, he reverently knelt down, and inwardly breathed his composing\naspiration to the Throne of Grace. The other hand rested on the\nshoulder of the fair-haired child who stood by his side, his little\ngrand-daughter, whom he had led in his hand to the place of worship.\n\nAll this had passed in a few seconds: and there was now a deep hush, for\nthe priests were in their places. The staring and whispering were\nsuspended; the service commenced, and the aged monarch, bareheaded, his\nthin, trembling hands fervently clasped, his eyes uplifted as it were to\nthe place to which all his earnest thoughts were now directed, in the\nattitude of intense, absorbing devotion--presented a picture of devotion\nof a character so solemn and impressive, that anything more striking\ncould rarely be witnessed or imagined.\n\nHere, then, is an end to all our previous dreams of royal splendour, for\nthere stands the pious monarch, David, King of Scotland,\n\n    \"His staff his sceptre, his grey hairs his crown,\"\n\ntrembling in presence of his God, breathing the general confession of\nhis sins with the beings of the same kindred and frail nature as himself\nthat stood around him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE.\n\n\nFrom authentic documents referred to by Sir John Connel in his \"History\nof Tithes,\" Abercrombie, or Abercromlin, appears to have been a parish\nas far back as 1174. How long that character pertained to this portion\nof Fife we cannot say, but the church is obviously of very great\nantiquity. Having become so ruinous as to be unfit for a place of\nworship, it was abandoned in 1646, and since that time the parishes of\nAbercrombie and St Monans have been united, and the old church of St\nMonans, situated on the sea-shore, has served for the use of both.\n\nIn a romantic and beautiful situation within the grounds now forming\npart of the domain of Sir Ralph Abercrombie Anstruther of Balcaskie,\nBaronet, and in the old burying-place, still used as a cemetery by the\nBalcaskie family, stands the remains of the old grey parish church of\nAbercrombie, with its encircling lime-trees and its green ivy garment\nduskily investing its aged walls.\n\nDedicated to St Mary and St Margaret, tradition has deduced the origin\nof Abercrombie Church from the piety and wealth of two sisters similarly\nnamed.\n\nAbout the middle of the twelfth century, the broad lands and swelling\ncoffers of Sir Humphrey Abercrombie (failing male issue) devolved upon\ntwo maiden sisters, Mary and Margaret, only children of the baronet; and\nas both were young, and of unimpeachable descent--the true Norman blood\nmantling in every vein--the heiresses early became objects of absorbing\ninterest in the eyes of such of the surrounding knights and thanes as\ncould advance pretensions to as clear a shield and pure a lineage as\ntheir own.\n\nEducated within the walls of the convent at Haddington, the sisters'\nlimited experience and unripe notions of the world would have\ninadequately fitted them for the duties entailed upon them by their new\nposition, were it not that nature had beneficently gifted the elder with\na certain strength and self-reliance of character, imperfectly developed\nin the cloister, but daily expanding and maturing in a broader sphere,\nin proportion as circumstances seemed to call it into action, and demand\nits vigorous exercise.\n\nThe younger was a graceful, gentle girl, gifted with rare beauty, and\nwith a disposition as femininely soft and placid as the mild and\ndove-like eyes through which her soul looked out upon a world but newly\nrevealed to her enfranchised gaze.\n\nHow was it, then, that thus differing--thus unlike in mind and\nfeature--the high-souled Mary and the shrinking, soft-eyed Margaret\nshould, almost simultaneously, have set their hearts on one object? Was\nit that, under the handsome exterior of her soldier-cousin, Philip de\nCandela, the elder sister recognised a spirit similar to her own? And\nwas it that the pliant mind of Margaret, putting forth a host of\ntendrils--impulses, affections, sympathies--craved some object for\nsupport, something to cling to and weave themselves around, encircling\nwhat they garlanded? Was it in the harder nature of the soldier these\nbudding tendrils found, as it were, a massive trunk wooing their embrace\nand strengthening their growth? Was it that the elder loved him for the\nperils he had undergone in Palestine and in France, the exciting scenes\nin which he had conspicuously borne a brave man's part, and for the\nspirit of daring and adventure by which he had been influenced in his\nbusy brief career? We may know that it was so; that continued\nintercourse confirmed and ripened love; that Mary's ears were seldom\nregaled with tales of war and chivalry, while the songs of Provence were\ncarolled with a frequency and fervour most gratifying, it would seem, to\nthe happy, hopeful Margaret; and that, in short, the soldier and his\nsoft-eyed cousin plighted their troth, and then irrevocably sealed it\nwith a sacred union. The ceremonial was performed by St Monan, a hermit\nor religious recluse belonging to the Monastery of Pittenweem, which was\nsheltered in a recess amongst the banks, walls, and crevices at the west\nend of the village of the same name, with a dusky-coloured mass of hard\nwhinstone overhanging it behind, and a stair or gully winding past it in\nfront. Haste and secresy could be purchased then as now, and Philip and\nhis bride were ferried across the frith, and landed at North Berwick,\nhours ere their lengthened absence had been noted by the elder sister as\nan unusual circumstance.\n\nHow fierce and violent a storm of passion then swelled within the\ndisappointed sister's breast--how from her heart she cursed them\nbitterly, bridegroom and bride--how vowed an unmitigable hatred to them\nboth--how every soft and womanly feeling seemed utterly extinct--how in\ntheir stead arose an intense, consuming thirst to be avenged--how, in\nfact, her whole nature seemed changed, and how she moodily immured\nherself within her Castle of Abercrombie, day after day, week after\nweek, brooding upon the scornful slight which had been put upon her\nlove, and upon the cunning, as she deemed it, of the sister who had\nsupplanted her--it were a charity to the infirmities of our common\nnature to touch upon but lightly, and so pass on to after incidents.\n\nSix months had scarcely run their course after the marriage, when the\nwar broke out between Stephen, the unpopular usurper of the English\nthrone, and his fair relative and competitor, Maude. Margaret's husband\nwas among the first to join the standard of King David, and to fling\nhimself within the ranks of those who opposed Stephen. Alas! he was\namong the first also to fall a victim to that sanguinary strife, being\nslain in a mere chance skirmish, into which his zeal and well-known\nbravery had unhappily led him.\n\nPoor Margaret might well be overwhelmed by such a fearful and\nunlooked-for bereavement. Reason almost gave way; and during the time\nthat partial delirium deprived her of consciousness, her husband's\nkinsmen mercifully consigned the gashed and ghastly corpse to its last\nhome, that the widow's eye might never look with agony upon the loved\nand distorted features of her slaughtered soldier.\n\nWhen the elder sister heard of this sudden sharp calamity, her heart\nmelted within her. In the presence of death, anger and hate, and\njealousy, and wounded love, and baffled hope, stood solemnly rebuked.\nThe cause of their disunion no longer found a place within their\nmemory; but a more unclouded past, childhood and girlhood, the\nrecollections of an era teeming with thoughts and images of love and\ntenderness--of a time when they two nestled their soft cheeks upon the\nsame pillow, wove the same woof, shared the same rambles to Kellie-law\nand Kilconquhar Loch, to Macduff's Cave and Balcarras Craig--cherished\nthe same dear rose-tree, wept and laughed, grew pale or crimson, sad or\nmerry, as the same feelings swayed the hearts of both--came thronging to\nher mind; and as the past brought with it such gentle harmonising\ninfluences, why should they not renew it in the future? They had been\ntoo long widely and unwisely severed. Henceforth they would have, as\nthey had had of yore, but one home and one heart.\n\nBorne down, indeed, still almost distraught with grief, the younger yet\ncould find a solace and a mitigation of her sorrow in her reunion with\nher elder sister; and when the latter fell upon the widow's bosom, and\nbrokenly sobbed out her sorrow for the past, her grief for this last\nheavy stroke, and spoke of hope for better days, when suffering should\nbe softened down by time, and submission soothe regret, her dark eyes\nkindled through her tears, and a faint smile, like a ray of fleeting\nsunshine gilding the blackness of the storm, played momentarily upon her\ncompressed and pallid lips.\n\nSo the old Castle of Abercrombie received them once again, linked\ntogether by a closer tie--wiser and sadder both--the joyousness of youth\ndisplaced by thoughts of a graver, if not gloomier, texture, as though a\nfew short months had done the work of years, and prematurely stamped the\nfeelings of a later epoch upon their youthful minds. Perhaps the\nsolitude in which they lived, disposing them to ponder on the after\ndestination of the soul, or perhaps the converse of a priestly adviser,\nanxious to aggrandise the church (for there was only _one_ church then,\nand for three hundred years after there was no other, namely, the Church\nof Rome) of which he was a member; or perhaps that natural revulsion of\nthe mind from matters of momentary to matters of imperishable\nimportance, which results from worldly disappointment and domestic\ncalamities, influenced them in coming to the determination to which they\ncame; but whatever may have been the influences which operated on them,\nthis alone is certain--that the sisters mutually resolved to _found a\nchurch_, and dedicate it to the service of the Almighty, in token of\ntheir reconciliation; purposing likewise to endow it at their decease\nwith the personal wealth of which they were possessed.\n\nAt that time the whole surrounding country, or at least the muirland\nportion of it, was little better than a leafy wilderness, intersected by\nnumerous bridle-ways, with here and there a broader track, offering a\npassage for the slow and cumbrous carts and sledges of those rude days.\nAt scattered intervals large clearances had been made; and out of the\nold primeval trees, and with the aid of turf taken from the soil, and\nrushes gathered from the margin of the burns, rivulets, and lochs,\ngroups of cottages were framed, windowless and chimneyless--a miserable\nshelter for the hardy cottars who tenanted them. A frank tenementer's\nmore commodious abode, a smithy, or perhaps a huckster's store, were the\nonly tenements that varied that otherwise uniform aspect of these\nprimitive clachans. Wherever the ground swelled into anything like a\nreasonable eminence, the stronghold of a baron might be observed perched\non the summit, while the circumjacent hollow would exhibit its\nirregularly-clustered hovels, overlooked by the more massive and\nenduring residence of the rural magnate. Such churches, too, as then\nexisted, were mostly built upon a rising ground, and seemed to serve as\nlandmarks in that wild untravelled breadth of muir-moss and forest-land.\nIt may be readily conceived, therefore, that at such a time, and in such\na district, the rumour of the meditated erection in the first instance,\nand afterwards the commencement, continued progress, and completion of\nthe sacred structure, were regarded as the gradual evolution of an event\npeculiarly important.\n\nIt was an event, moreover, that was regarded with the utmost\nsatisfaction by the Romish Church, upon whose dignitaries, in due time,\ndevolved the task of formally consecrating the edifice to the sacred\nobject for which it was intended, and who purposed to lavish in the\nceremonial all those adventitious aids by which the Church of Rome\nimparted a character of such imposing grandeur to every rite and\nceremonial to which she lent her countenance, or in which she bore a\npart: and hence the consecration of this edifice, followed, or rather\naccompanied, by a solemn presentation of the sisters at the altar, in\ntoken of compunction for dissensions past, and thankfulness for love\nrestored, was marked by features of such rare magnificence, by such\nimpressive pomp, and such professional display, and witnessed by such a\nmultitude of wondering spectators, gathered from far and near, that both\nthe solemnity itself, and its strange issue, lived in the memories of\nsucceeding generations for centuries afterwards.\n\nOn that solemnity we need not tarry to comment; our legend has reference\nto _its issue_ only. As the sisters knelt before the altar, thus by a\nformal act to ratify their reconciliation in the sight of God and man,\nand the venerable diocesan, Bishop Arnold of St Andrews, bent down to\ngive his benediction on them both, a flash of vivid lightning on a\nsudden filled the sacred edifice with a ruddy light, and a rattling peal\nof thunder rolled, as it were, along the very roof of the building.\n\nThere was a hush--a silence that was almost audible--a deep, dead calm\nreigning for a space in every portion of the holy pile. Most of the\ncongregation lay prostrate on the pavement; the sisters knelt upon the\naltar steps, with buried heads and clasped hands; the old prelate stood\nalone erect, and folding his hands upon his breast, with eyes uplifted\nand serene, at length emphatically said, \"Thy will be done!\" A thousand\nvoices as by one impulse, blending into chaos, made response, \"Amen,\namen!\"\n\nAnd then the good old bishop, gently touching the kneeling sisters, bade\nthem rise; but neither speech nor motion answered him, for still they\nknelt, with heads bowed low and fingers intertwined--with mute lips and\neyelids drooping heavily. Again and yet again he would have them raised\nfrom their kneeling posture; but there was neither word nor sign; and\nthen awe fell upon the hearts of all present, for they knew that _death_\nwas there! The spirits of the sisters, forgiving and forgiven, had\npassed away, and doubtless angels and redeemed spirits had heralded them\nto the mansions of the blessed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROMANCE OF THE MAY.\n\n\nThe Isle of May, which lies at the mouth of the Forth, is about six\nmiles from Crail, and is about a mile in length, and three-quarters in\nbreadth. It has a well of excellent water, a small loch, and affords the\nfinest pasturage for sheep.[13] The island contained a religious house\nand chapel dedicated to St Adrian, who was murdered by the Danes in 872,\nand buried at Anstruther-Wester, where his stone coffin is yet to be\nseen. The island belonged to the crown; King David afterwards presented\nit to the abbot and convent of Reading in Berkshire; and from this and\nmany other valuable benefactions to the church, King James I., when he\nvisited his tomb, three hundred years after, called him \"a sair saint to\nthe crown.\" From Prynne's records it appears that the abbot afterwards\nunwarrantably sold the island to William Lamberton, Bishop of St\nAndrews. It afterwards came into the possession of General Scott of\nBalcombie, whose daughter, the Duchess of Portland, sold it to the\nCommissioners of Northern Lights.\n\n[Footnote 13: Two-year-old May wether mutton is said to be a feast\nworthy of the gods, if they would admit anything more substantial than\nambrosia.]\n\nSome remarkable events are connected with this island. The first we\nshall advert to is the \"Battle of the May.\"\n\nOur readers have all doubtless heard or read of Sir Andrew Wood of\nLargo, a famous Scottish admiral in the reign of James III. In the year\n1490, King Henry, the English monarch, mortified at the defeat of some\nof his ships by Admiral Wood the previous year, assembled his officers,\nand offered rewards to any of them who should take the sea against Sir\nAndrew, and bring him to him dead or alive. One Stephen Bull, a London\nmerchantman, who, like Sir Andrew Wood, combined the pursuits of warfare\nand commerce, accepted the offer, and with three large ships set sail\nfor the Frith of Forth, in order to get between Admiral Wood and the\nland on his return from Flanders, to which he had escorted a fleet of\nmerchantmen.\n\nThe English ships anchored under shelter of the Isle of May; and Bull,\nhaving captured some sailors, compelled them to give him intelligence\nabout Sir Andrew's movements.\n\nEarly by daybreak, on a fine summer morning, the 10th of August, Sir\nAndrew's two vessels, the one named \"The Flower,\" and the other \"The\nYellow Carvel,\" were observed to come in sight, on which the English\ncommander made preparations for engaging them, and distributed wine\namongst his men to raise their courage. With regard to the Scottish\nadmiral, Pitscottie the historian says, \"On the other hand, Sir Andrew\nWood came pertly forward, knowing no impediment of enemies to be in his\ngate, till at last he perceived their three ships under sail, and coming\nfast to them in fier of war. Then Sir Andrew Wood, seeing this, exhorted\nhis men to battle, beseeching them to take courage against their enemies\nof England, who had sworn and made their vows that they should make us\nprisoners to the King of England, but, God willing, they shall fail of\ntheir purpose. Therefore set yourselves in order, every man in his own\nplace. Let the gunners charge their artillery and the cors-bows make\nthem ready; with the lyme-pots and fire-balls in our tops, and\ntwe-handed swords in your fore-arms; and let every man be stout and\ndiligent for his own part and for the honour of Scotland, and thereto he\ncaused fill the wine, and every man drank to other.\"\n\nThe engagement that took place is described as being of the most\ndesperate character. The Scottish admiral contrived to get to windward\nof the enemy. The fight lasted from sunrise to sunset, and was beheld by\nan immense crowd of men, women, and children on the coast of Fife. At\nlast the two fleets were parted by the darkness, and drew off from each\nother, till the daylight next morning again enabled them to see what\nthey were about.\n\nThe signal for a renewal of the engagement was then given by blowing of\ntrumpets on both sides, when the two hosts encountered each other again,\n\"and fought so cruely,\" says our historian, \"that neither the skippers\nor mariners took heed of their ships,\" but allowed them to drift away\nwith wind and tide till they reached as far as opposite the mouth of the\nTay, the crews all the while contending hand to hand. At last the\nEnglish admiral was compelled to yield, and to give up his sword to Sir\nAndrew Wood; and his three ships were then towed up to Dundee, where the\nwounded were landed, and placed under medical care. A few days after,\nSir Andrew, our brave countryman, presented the English admiral and his\nofficers to his majesty, James, King of Scotland, who, so far from\nreturning evil for evil, released and sent back Admiral Bull, his\nofficers and men, with their vessels, and with rich gifts as a present\nto the English king. King Henry of England had thus, in addition to his\nvexation at this signal defeat, the humiliation of being obliged to\nacknowledge the generosity and princely bearing of the Scottish king,\nwhom he had insulted and injured without the slightest provocation.\n\nThe next occurrence which we shall record is the melancholy accident\nwhich took place on the Island of May in January, 1791.\n\nFor two evenings no light was exhibited from the lighthouse, and the\nweather was such as no boat could put off to ascertain the cause. On the\nthird day the storm abated, and a boat was manned from Crail. No sooner\nhad the crew of the boat landed, than they were assailed by a strong\nsulphurous smell, and proceeding directly to the lighthouse, they found\nthe door shut, and no one answered their call. Forcing an entrance, they\nsaw the keeper, his wife, and five children, all lying suffocated, and a\nsixth infant sucking its dead mother. In another room were found two men\nalmost expiring, but who, by the timely assistance rendered,\nprovidentially recovered. It was supposed that this sad accident was\noccasioned by some burning coals being blown among some cinders and\nrefuse lying at the bottom of the lighthouse.\n\nThe last incident to which we shall refer is the boat disaster at the\nisland in 1837.\n\nOn the 1st of July, 1837, a skipper and boat-owner belonging to\nCellardyke set sail from that harbour, with a large party, on a pleasure\nexcursion to the Isle of May. The day was fine and wind favourable, and\nthe party, chiefly young men and women, consisting of sixty-five\npersons, including the crew, were all in high spirits, having music on\nboard, indulging freely in mirth and gaiety, and little thinking of the\nsad event impending over their heads, by which, in a little half-hour,\nso many of them were to perish.\n\nHaving approached close to the island, on the western side, it was not\ndeemed fitting to land at the place called \"the Stand,\" or\n\"Atterstones,\" but to proceed round the southern end of the island to\nthe eastern side thereof, with intention to disembark at a creek on the\neastern side, called \"Kirken Haven.\" In the attempt to enter this haven,\nthere being a swell of the sea, or surge, setting in from the eastward\nat the time, the boat became unmanageable, and was violently driven\nagainst the shore; the _stem_, in consequence, having stuck fast on the\nrocks, while the _stern_ floated in deep water, the swell or eddies, and\nbroken water, upset or caused the boat to sink, and a great number of\npersons belonging to Anstruther, Cellardyke, and the neighbouring towns,\nwere drowned. Of those, ten were young unmarried women, two married\nwomen, and one infant--in all, thirteen persons. One individual lost his\nwife, his mother, and his child; another, a young man, observing his\nsister and a young woman to whom he was warmly attached both struggling\nin the water, and sinking in the midst of furious breakers, boldly\nplunged into the boiling sea, and made his way to the perishing girls.\nAnd oh what a sight for those on shore, to see the noble-minded youth\nrisking his life for those he loved! He supports both for some time; he\ncomforts them with hopes of succour; but his strength begins to fail.\nWhat shall he do? Shall he part with one? and if so, which of the two?\nNo; the idea is torment to him--he cannot for a moment entertain it. He\nwill save both, or perish in the attempt. He sinks, and rises, and sinks\nagain, with his precious burden. The waters close over their heads--they\nare given up for lost. The two young women perish, but a huge wave casts\nthe young man nearer the shore; his comrades on the beach make the most\nextraordinary efforts to save him, and he is at last rescued from the\nvery jaws of death.\n\n\n\n\nCALEB CRABBIN.\n\n\n\nAs a good theorising spirit in philosophy is the very soul of all\nprogress in science, and the creatures that dabble in experiments with\ncrucibles and retorts are no better than pioneers to the great geniuses\nthat combine and generalise, so some think it an undoubted truth that\nspeculation is the great spirit of commerce (including, of course, in\nthe articles of that commerce, _wives_), and that those who do not make\na bold stroke seldom make an effectual one. In no department of commerce\nis speculation held of greater importance than in that of marriage; and\nhow rare is it to find a man who thoroughly understands it--if, indeed,\nit may not be said that ninety-nine out of a hundred do not know even\nthe difference between buying and selling. The women marriage-traders,\nindeed, form a very creditable exception, because every one of\nthem--knowing very well, for a surety, that they have on hand a stock\nthat does not improve by keeping--are sellers, out and out; while the\nmales again are almost all buyers, though, if they had the sense of a\ntortoise, they might know that they have just as good a stock to dispose\nof as their fair customers. There are, doubtless, some exceptions in our\nsex that go far to retrieve our characters; but, alas! they are very\nfew; and it is just on that very account that we think it proper to give\nsome account of Mr Caleb Crabbin, hosier in the Lawn-market in\nEdinburgh--so great a genius in the department to which we have alluded,\nthat he discovered that all mongering in blankets and stockings was a\nperfect bagatelle in comparison of the profitable disposal of his own\nperson; and no sooner did he make the discovery than he acted upon it,\nwith all the boldness that belongs to original thinkers.\n\nThe worthy we have thus mentioned favourably--because we admire a\nsupporter of the rights of free trade--had laboured for a period of six\nor eight years in disposing of articles of hosiery, for every one of\nwhich he paid a high price; and, whether it was that he could not buy to\nadvantage--his genius, probably, not lying in that way--or that he\ncould not sell with a profit, wherein he displayed the same want of\nnatural tact--it is certain that he became a bankrupt about as soon as\nother people merely begin to see they might make \"a good thing\" of a\nstop. So he wound up cleverly, and made just as little of his\nbankruptcy--a matter of profit often to those who are mere bunglers in\nthe department of solvency--and took it into his head to sell himself.\nSo, accordingly, as chance would have it, he threw his eyes on Miss\nBelinda Yellowlees, who combined the two comely properties of wealth and\nweakness--in other words, she possessed a thousand pounds, and a very\nbad constitution; and here it was that Caleb's properties began to be\nmanifested; for the man who thought himself not worth one farthing--and\nwas, in fact, not worth more, in the estimation of any of his own\nsex--was proved to be worth no less than a thousand pounds, at which\nprice Miss Yellowlees bought him, and thought, too, that she had got a\nvery good bargain. Seldom, indeed, it happens that both buyer and\nseller, in a transaction of pure business concerns, think that they have\nmade a hit; yet, of a surety, it was the case in this marriage; for Mr\nCaleb Crabbin actually conceived that he had made as good a bargain as\ndid Miss Belinda Yellowlees; and so, to be sure, it was soon proved, by\nan exceeding good probatory test; for Miss Belinda, within six months,\nwent the way of the dead, and her thousand pounds went the way of the\nliving--that is, into the possession of her surviving husband.\n\nNo one will deny that this was undoubtedly a good beginning in this new\ncommercial enterprise of Mr Caleb; and the best feature of the whole\ntransaction was, that, along with the thousand pounds, he had actually\ngot back again the commodity which he gave for it, and was thereby in a\ncapacity to dispose of it again, on far better terms than ever. Many a\ngood article of hosiery he had disposed of over the counter, and never\nseen a single glimpse again either of the price or the article; whereas\nhere there was all the difference in the world; for he held the\npossession of both--the thing sold, and the price got for it; and,\nstimulated by his success, he, as soon as decency would permit, set\nabout again endeavouring to make a bargain, upon the same, or better,\nterms than before. Nor was he long about encompassing his object; for\nthe money he had got by the first transaction yielded a facility to the\nprogress of the second; and, within a year of the death of the first\nunfortunate, Mrs Belinda Crabbin, he, after a hunt comprehending nearly\nall that period, found out an individual not only in every way worthy of\nhis attention, but exhibiting all the features of being as good a\nmarket-woman as he was an out-and-out trader. The lady, whose name was\nMiss Amelia Reddie--clearly an orthographic phase of the cognomen\nReady--was eager, or \"yape,\" as the Scotch call it, for a transaction;\nand, having nothing to boast of but her patrimony of twelve hundred and\nfifty, she made the most of what she had; and the never a man of all she\nhad ever spoken to but knew, as well as he did the number of his own\nfingers, the exact sum, to the odd fifty, which she was willing to give\nas the consideration. Many a dozen of suitors had heard her set forth\nher mercantile recommendation; but, then, she was the last of five, who\nhad all died of consumption, leaving her the heir of the small sums that\nbelonged to them; and this fact, which she tried assiduously to conceal,\nhad, in a great measure, destroyed her saleable capability, till the\ntime when there appeared in the mart Mr Caleb, who, instead of deeming\nit an objection, thought it the consideration next best to the amount of\nher funds. Well, without exhausting a lexicon upon the affair, we come\nto the point, as cleverly as did the hero himself, who was, in the\nthirteenth month after the death of his first wife, duly and lawfully\nput in possession of Miss Amelia Reddie and her twelve hundred and\nfifty.\n\n\"A deuced deal better than hosiery this!\" said Caleb to himself, on his\nmarriage night; \"for here have I not made two thousand two hundred and\nfifty pounds in one year and a month, without ever a shop, or signboard,\nor risk or trouble at all!\"\n\nIf we were to say that there was an atom of affection in a concern of\nthis kind, we would assuredly be doing not only Mr Caleb a great\ninjustice, but be committing a libel on the taste of our sex; and, to be\nsure, save for the money, there was none at all. But we have more to\nsay; and that is, that, where a man does not love the woman (as why\nshould he?) whom he has married for money, it follows, as a natural\ncorollary, that he wishes her dead. With \"a trembling hand,\" like that\nof the poet Tibullus, he would hold the fair one, when dying; but then\nthe hand would tremble lest she should recover, not lest she should go\nthe way of all flesh. But, alas for the plans of mortals! the greatest\ngeniuses sometimes fail in noble undertakings; and, not long after Mr\nCrabbin had begun to discover ailing symptoms on the part of his\nhelpmate, the truth broke upon him that he was about to become a father;\nand a father, too, in good time, he became, of as healthy a child as\never blessed a living husband who liked his wife.\n\n\"If I am to have half-a-dozen, or mayhap a dozen, of these,\" said he,\n\"the devil a merchant that ever sold cheaper than he bought, ever made\nso bad a bargain. Every one of those creatures will cost, at least,\nthree hundred pounds; so that, if I shall have six of them, I will be a\nloser to the extent of five hundred and fifty.\"\n\nThe speech was prophetic; for every year, for a period of six, the\nconsumptive Mrs Amelia Crabbin presented her husband with a healthy\npledge; and on every birth-day Mr Caleb made a speech almost the same,\nbut with increased lugubrity. But for this he might have found very good\nauthority among the ancients; and if he had known of that strange man\nwho wept at the birth of a child, or of Xenophon, who continued the job\nof a sacrifice he was at, though a messenger told him of the death of\nhis boy, he would have thought them very sensible men, of a very\ndifferent kidney from the fool, John Zopilah, who died of joy, when he\nheard that his wife had brought him an heir male. But it availed Mr\nCaleb nothing.\n\n\"Better,\" said he, \"I had stuck by the counter; for I might have become\nbankrupt as often as I chose; and, if I had made the never a penny by\nit, I might at least have got quit of my creditors; but children are a\nsort of creditors that a man cannot sweep off by any means, not even the\nfamous cessio.\"\n\nAnd what made the matter more intolerable was, that all this time, when\nMrs Crabbin was thriving so excellently well, in the way of adding to\nthe number of the human species, she was gradually declining in health,\nhaving, by the time she had the third child, become so lean and\nshrivelled, that neither the Atlas nor the Hercules would have insured\nher life at a premium of fifty per cent. Yet, as we have said, three\nmore followed in good time, and healthier creatures never opened their\neyes on an evil world. Mrs Amelia Crabbin had now, however, done her\nworst; and, having been wasted away to a mere sigh, she one night took\nMr Caleb round the neck, and, weeping bitterly, told him she was going,\nin the midst of her prosperity, to where she once thought she would have\ngone six years before--even where her five sisters were--the grave;\nrecommending to him to take care of the twelve hundred and fifty, for\nthe sake of the six children she had left, as every penny of it, and\nmore, would be needed by the dear orphans. Mr Caleb wept too; but it was\nat the touching allusion she had made to the danger she had escaped, of\ndying before the first of the children was born; and Mrs Amelia, seeing\nwhat she conceived to be undoubted evidence of his affection, hung\nawhile upon his neck, and then bid him bring in every one of the six.\nThey were accordingly ranged by the side of her bed.\n\n\"Now, my little ones,\" she said to them, tenderly, \"Caleb, Andrew,\nMaria, George, Amelia, and Augustus, your mother is going to die, and\nyou may never see her again after this hour. Mr Crabbin,\" she continued,\nlooking to her husband, \"you must know that these children are the last\nof the blood of our Reddies, and proud am I to think that it has pleased\nHeaven that I should be the means of thus leaving so many scions of our\nancient race, that there is no chance of the name being forgotten,\nseeing that they have all three names, the middle one being Reddie in\nevery instance. I hope they will multiply as I have done. Bless you, my\ndear children! Your father will protect you; and thankful am I that the\ntwelve hundred and fifty is yet all left, so that you will get your\nshares when you come to be of age.\"\n\nIn an hour afterwards Mrs Amelia Crabbin was no more, and in three days\nafterwards she was buried.\n\n\"It is finished,\" said the husband; \"and a fair speculation never turned\nup an uglier balance, since the days of the bubble of the South Sea.\"\n\nSo he took to real weeping; and there was not a friend that came to give\nhim consolation, but went away with the impression that he had been one\nof the most loving of husbands, and was one of the tenderest of men.\nAmong those visiters, were two or three acquaintances of his deceased\nwife, and one or two of them possessed even more than twelve hundred and\nfifty. So, Mr Caleb, seeing through his wet eyes that his grief took\nwith them very well, continued the indications--a very easy process,\nseeing he had only to look to the debit and credit of his speculation to\nmake the tears drop as fast as hailstones.\n\n\"It's a heavy loss you have sustained, Mr Crabbin,\" said Miss Jean\nGibbs.\n\n\"Very heavy loss,\" rejoined he, with emphasis on the principal word.\n\n\"But the children are a consolation.\"\n\n\"To be sure they are,\" answered Caleb; \"and I have six of them, and now,\nyou see, all without a female to take charge of them.\"\n\nThe hint did not take, as the saying goes; and Miss Jean having\ndeparted, and Miss Isabella Gentle, who had also a competency, having\narrived, he tried the same plan with her; for his spirit for speculation\nwas still strong; and he expected, yet, to make a far more successful\nhit than he had even done in the case of Miss Belinda Yellowlees. Now,\nMiss Isabella was just as sincere in her admiration of his sorrow as was\nMiss Jean Gibbs; and all that was gone over about the loss he had\nsustained, and the consolation of the children, and the feeling he\nexhibited, as became a good husband and a loving father. But the moment\nhe made a hint about the poor creatures having no female to look after\nthem, the same effect was as evident as in the case of Miss Jean--for\nMiss Isabella, for a certainty, did not seem to relish it.\n\n\"All this may come of my being too eager and too soon,\" said he. \"But I\nfear these six children will be stumbling-blocks in the way of my\nfarther enterprise; for a woman will not give so much for a man with six\nchildren, as she would do for himself. Had my second transaction come up\nto the first, I might to-day have been an independent man. But a third\nmay do better; and, if it don't, it shall not, by Hymen, be Mr Caleb\nCrabbin that will be to blame.\"\n\nNor, indeed, could it be alleged that he spoke falsely; for, as soon as\nthe proper time came, he set about a very vigorous search for a third\nhelpmate in every direction where he thought he had any chance. He tried\nagain Miss Jean Gibbs and Miss Isabella Gentle; but the children formed\nan objection which they could not get over.\n\n\"I will never marry a man with six children--no--nor five, nor four, nor\nthree, nor two,\" said Miss Jean.\n\n\"I would far rather live and die an old maid, than become the slave of\nanother woman's family,\" was the reply of Miss Isabella.\n\nAnd then he tried Miss Julia Cross, who had something of a lying stock,\nthough not much, and her answer was just as peremptory.\n\n\"I hold the woman to be mad, Mr Caleb Crabbin,\" said she, \"who would\nundertake the charge of six children. One might as well become a\nschoolmistress at once.\"\n\nAnd after this rebuff, he tried Miss Angelina Crabbe, who had an annuity\nof somewhere about seventy-five pounds, besides about three hundred of\nold savings; but Angelina said that she would not be a stepmother for\nthe whole earth.\n\n\"I see it will not do,\" said he, after some farther rejections. \"Unless\nI take a wife with nothing, I will never get another, where it is known\nthat I am burdened with six children. But he who takes a wife with\nnothing is but a sorry trafficker; and the never a wife with nothing,\nwere she as fair as Venus, will Caleb Crabbin marry in this world. I\nwill pack off the whole crew, and try my fortune under other colours.\"\n\nThe resolution thus formed he put in execution, by getting the whole of\nhis children boarded with friends who lived at a distance, upon the\npretence that he was going to take a trip away somewhere abroad. Having\nachieved this preliminary, he set off for the nearest good\nwatering-place, being no other than the noted Pitcaithly, where so many\n\"wanters,\" have, with various success, been supplied; and he had not\nbeen a week there when he fell in with a buxom widow of five-and-thirty,\nwho was reported as being worth not a jot less than one hundred and\nfifty pounds a-year, secured on the strong Atlas, by the providence of\nher deceased husband. The name she carried, Mrs Jemima Bowsie, was a\nmixture of her own maiden name and the surname of her husband, very well\nblended; and she carried herself with such an air of frankness,\nsurrounded with the eclat of her fortune, which she had taken care to\nblaze pretty well, that Mr Caleb Crabbin was immediately struck.\n\n\"That is my mark,\" said he, \"as sure as was Belinda Yellowlees; and, if\nI'm not worth the purchase at one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, on\nthe life of Mrs Jemima Bowsie, I have lost all my saleable commodity.\"\n\nOne who had twice sold himself, and offered himself for sale a score of\ntimes over, had no difficulty in getting matters placed in a train for a\nnew offer; and an hour had scarcely elapsed after the monologue we have\nmentioned, when Mr Caleb Crabbin and Mrs Jemima Bowsie were walking and\ntalking together as if they had been acquainted from the period of\nconning the alphabet. Nor was their intimacy long limited to talking\na-field; for he found his way to the house where she lodged, and she\nfound her way to the house where he had taken up his quarters, and, in\nthe course of these meetings, mutual hints and questions tended towards\nthe expression of mutual wishes.\n\n\"By the way, Mr Crabbin,\" said Mrs Jemima, one evening when they were\nsitting together in her lodgings, \"I have a question to put to you; and,\nas you respect a widow, left, as it were, alone in the world, you will\nanswer me according to your conscience.\"\n\n\"That will I, Mrs Bowsie,\" answered Caleb, \"as sincerely as if you were\nmy wedded wife.\"\n\n\"That is tenderly and beautifully indited, Mr Crabbin,\" answered she.\n\"Pray, sir, is the Atlas a strong company?\"\n\n\"I believe it is a very strong concern, madam,\" replied he; \"not much\nless so, I fancy, than the Royal, where I happen to have two thousand\npounds deposited on an operating account. But might I have the great\nboldness, madam, to ask you why you put that question to me?\"\n\n\"I am not sure,\" replied Mrs Jemima; \"yet, let me see. Why, there can't\nbe much harm in it either, only one does not like to trumpet forth her\nprivate affairs. But then it is to be remembered that I am a lonely\ncreature in the world; and to whom can an unprotected widow speak, if it\nisn't to one who is just in her own situation?--for you hinted to me\nthat your wife has gone, and left you also solitary.\"\n\n\"Too true,\" answered Caleb, affecting some ocular moisture. \"My house is\nindeed empty enough. Indeed I have the key of it in my pocket; and one\nwho has the never a one to speak to at home just wanders about where the\nfancy lists.\"\n\n\"How our positions and sentiments _do_ coincide!\" replied she. \"Well, as\nto the reason for my putting the question about the strength of the\nAtlas; this,\" she continued, as she opened a box, and took out a\npolicy--\"this may explain it.\" And she handed the policy to Mr Caleb\nCrabbin.\n\n\"An annuity policy for one hundred and fifty, for the natural life,\"\nsaid he, as he affected surprise at what he knew as well as he did the\namount of the sums possessed by his two deceased wives. \"A handsome\nthing, madam, of a certainty.\"\n\n\"Very well for two single people,\" rejoined she, sentimentally; \"but\nbelieve me, sir, I would not have put the question, had it not been that\na female is apt to get nervous where her all is laid out on the security\nof one concern.\"\n\n\"There need be never a tone of apology about the matter, madam; for, to\nbe plain with you, I often make inquiries about the stability of the\nRoyal, where, as I told you, I have two thousand pounds deposited on an\noperating account; and, to be plainer still, I do not hesitate to tell\nyou, madam, that my house being, as I said, locked up in these gloomy\ndays of my widowhood, I carry about with me my receipt. Here it is.\"\n(Opening his pocket-book.) \"You may take a glance at it just as I have\ndone at your policy. Giff-gaff, as we say, makes good friends.\"\n\n\"And you have just hit upon the very reason,\" replied she, \"why I carry\nabout my policy with me; for, where there is no one at home to take an\ninterest in one's affairs, or a charge of their effects, one feels\nuneasy about a valuable document, such as these in our hands. Of course\nyou do not tell any one of the question I put to you; because, you know,\nthe Atlas might come on me for damages.\"\n\n\"No fear on't, madam,\" said Caleb; \"but pray--hem! hem!--is it your\nintention, Mrs Bowsie, ever again to change your name?\"\n\n\"And, pray, Mr Crabbin,\" replied she, holding away her head, \"is it your\nintention ever to give yours to another woman?\"\n\n\"The never a doubt on't, madam,\" rejoined Mr Caleb. \"Loneliness is poor\ncompany; and I would marry to-morrow, were it for nothing else than to\nproduce some stir of life in my deserted house.\"\n\n\"And, for society's sake, I would almost be tempted to change condition,\ntoo,\" rejoined she, rising to put past the policy and conceal her\nblushes.\n\nUnluckily, at this interesting moment, an acquaintance entered, and put\nan end to a conversation that was clearly tending towards a crisis, to\nwhich the boldness of Mr Caleb would soon have brought it. But enough\nhad been said to dream upon; and by the time that the two met next day\nin the woods, the matter had been arranged in the minds of both. The\nquestion was \"popped,\" a gracious answer returned, and, as Caleb had\nclearly induced her to believe, without any direct statement, that he\nhad not a single child to mar Mrs Jemima's happiness, he saw the\nnecessity of getting the transaction concluded without the loss of a\nmoment of time, lest discoveries might break it up. But the widow was\njust as anxious for quick despatch as he was; and he did not fail to\ntake advantage of so favourable a circumstance. So to Perth he went, and\ngot all things put in readiness for a proclamation of banns. This\npreliminary was gone through on the following Sunday; on the Monday\nafter, Mr Caleb Crabbin and Mrs Jemima Bowsie were man and wife; and\nthus had Caleb disposed of himself, for the third time, on terms which\nhe conceived to form the elements of a good bargain.\n\nThese matters we have run over rapidly, leaving it, of course, to be\nunderstood that several explanations--such as the localities of their\nlocked-up houses, their connections, and so forth, were mutually made\nand mutually relied on; and it becomes us, in the same manner, to leave\nto the fancy all the pretty excursions and conversations that lasted for\nthe legitimate period of the sweet moon, at the end of which the couple\narrived in Edinburgh to take possession of the husband's deserted house.\nAnd, to be sure, the house was empty enough, in so far as regarded human\nbeings; for there was no one in it, and Mrs Jemima Crabbin surveyed it\nas her future home with no small expression of satisfaction. A new\nservant was got. A week passed, and all was as it should be--not a word\nof the six children having, as yet, been uttered by Caleb, and no one of\nthe neighbours having taken it upon them to supply the want of knowledge\nwhich Caleb conceived to be necessary to a continuation of his\nhappiness. On the eighth day, they went out together to draw the\nquarterly annuity from the agent of the Atlas Company; and never was a\nman better pleased with himself than Caleb, when he pocketed the\nthirty-seven pounds ten shillings, the first earnest of many drawings,\neven so long as the life of his helpmate. This was clearly not fated to\nlast; because it behoved Caleb to make the necessary disclosure, to\nprevent its being made, perhaps, in a manner fraught with more pain to\nher who apparently looked forward to a life of genteel ease. It was\nclear that the sooner the disclosure was made the better; and a stronger\ncup of tea than usual (brewed on the head of the quarter's annuity)\nhaving been served up, he sat ruminating on the best way of breaking the\nintelligence.\n\n\"What are you thinking of, Mr Crabbin?\" said the lady, as she sat\nfilling out the first cup of tea, and while the door stood open that the\nservant might bring in the toast.\n\n\"There he is, you little darlings,\" said Mrs Reddie of Pennicuick, as\nshe entered; and at the same instant Master Caleb Reddie Crabbin, Master\nAndrew Reddie Crabbin, and Miss Maria Reddie Crabbin, rushed forward\nwith a united cry of \"Papa! papa! papa!\" and hung round his neck, and\njumped on his knee, with a demonstration of affection that a father, in\nordinary circumstances, would have been delighted to see.\n\n\"I couldna keep them awa, sir,\" said the woman. \"They would be in,\nreason or nane.\"\n\nMrs Crabbin sat with the teapot in her hand, held nearly as high as her\nmouth, and contemplated the affectionate scene, with open lips and wide\nstaring eyes; but never a word had Mr Caleb said, though the dear little\nones hugged him more fondly than ever.\n\n\"Are these your children, Mr Crabbin?\" at last said the wife.\n\nCaleb looked at her, and saw something like a smile playing round the\ncorner of her lips, in the midst of sufficient indications of surprise;\nbut the meaning thereof transcended all his powers of construction.\n\n\"The children, you hear, say I'm their father,\" replied he, still gazing\nin her face, to try if he could catch again the same symptom he had\nobserved before; and, to be sure, he did catch it, and, with it, another\nsymptom that astonished him more still; for Mrs Crabbin immediately\nejaculated--\n\n\"Why did you not tell me of this, Mr Crabbin? What nice, dear, sweet\ncreatures! I'm delighted to see them. Come to me, George; come to me,\nAndrew; and, Maria, you are the prettiest little girl in the world.\"\n\n\"What an amiable wife I have got!\" ejaculated he, as he saw her take the\nlittle ones and fondle them as kindly as if they had been her own.\n\n\"When saw ye the others,\" said Mrs Reddie--\"George, Amelia, and\nAugustus? Are they weel aneugh?\"\n\n\"Three more!\" ejaculated Mrs Crabbin.\n\nAnd Caleb again searched her face, to see if there was not some irony\nlurking about the muscles; but the never a trace could he find but\nsatisfaction. He was puzzled as never man was puzzled since the days of\nOEdipus.\n\n\"Have I been at all these pains,\" muttered he, \"to conceal what yields\nher pleasure rather than chagrin?\"\n\n\"Now, Mr Crabbin,\" said his wife, as she still fondled the children,\n\"you must send to-morrow for the others, that I may see them; for I long\nto show them that I shall be as kind to them as would have been their\nown mother.\"\n\n\"The never such another woman is to be found in all Christendom!\"\nmuttered Caleb.\n\n\"Jenny,\" cried Mrs Crabbin, \"bring cups here, that the children may have\ntheir tea.\"\n\nAnd so the cups were brought; and the whole group, Mrs Reddie--whose\nmouth had been closed up by the effect of the extraordinary\nscene--included, sat down in the most perfect harmony.\n\nOn the very next day, a messenger was sent off for Master George Reddie\nCrabbin, Miss Amelia Reddie Crabbin, and Master Augustus Reddie Crabbin;\nand they were expected to arrive at the house of their father within\nthree days afterwards. Meanwhile, Mrs Crabbin displayed still the same\ndegree of kindness she had at first exhibited; and Caleb continued to\nwonder more and more at conduct that seemed to set at defiance all the\nmatrimonial maxims he had got proved to him by the many women he had\nsolicited to become his wife. Nor can there be a doubt that he was\npleased--if, indeed, it might not be said that he was delighted; for it\ncannot be denied that the weight of the secret he had carried about had\nmaterially interfered with his connubial happiness; and even the light\nof the honeymoon had been dashed with streaks of shade, thrown up from\nthe cavern where the dread fact had lain concealed.\n\nOn the day on which the additional children were expected, Mrs Crabbin\nwas occupied in making preparations for their home-coming. A thousand\nlittle matters were gone about with maternal assiduity; and, everything\nhaving been arranged, the couple and the three children sat down to tea,\nmuch in the same spirit they had done on the previous occasion. It was\nabout five o'clock; and the coach would arrive somewhere about that\ntime.\n\n\"Here they come at last,\" said Caleb, as he listened to a tread of many\nsteps on the stair, accompanied by the clear clack of the tongues of\nhappy children.\n\nAnd, to be sure, in they came; but there happened to be no fewer than\nfive, accompanied by an old nurse; and they had no sooner entered, than\nthey ran forward to Mrs Crabbin, crying out \"Mamma! mamma! mamma!\" all\ntogether, and hanging round her neck, and kissing her, and climbing on\nher knees, just in the same affectionate manner that had been exhibited\nby Mr Crabbin's children on the prior occasion.\n\nMeanwhile, Mrs Jemima Crabbin was busy with the face of Mr Caleb, to see\nwhat she could find there; but the man, who never had any great sense\nof justice, showed no smile, as she had done when _his_ children came so\nunexpectedly in upon her. A sombre gloom covered his face, and he sat\nand looked as glum as he did on every occasion when Mrs Amelia Crabbin\nhad brought him a child; and, probably, if there had been any deeper\nshade, or rather five times as deep as that expression, it would have\nfound a place upon his face.\n\n\"Are all these your children, madam?\" said Caleb, with a voice that\nexpressed with the question a tendency to choke.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Mrs Crabbin; \"but you see, my dear sir, you beat me;\nfor, while I have only five, you have six.\"\n\n\"Eleven of a family to support on two thousand pounds of principal, at\nfour per cent., and one hundred and fifty per annum on the life of Mrs\nJemima Crabbin!\" groaned Mr Caleb. \"A deuced poor trafficker I am proved\nto be! Would I not have been better as a hosier?\"\n\n\"A hosier!\" ejaculated Mrs Crabbin. \"I took you for a gentleman, as Mr\nFrederick Bowsie was, every inch of him.\"\n\n\"And I took you for a solitary widow, as you led me to believe,\"\nresponded he.\n\n\"And so, to be sure, I took you for a solitary widower, carrying the key\nof your house in your pocket, as you previously told me,\" was the just\nreply.\n\nAt this juncture the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the\nother three Crabbins, who acted over again the scene of their brothers\nand sister; and thus there were brought on the carpet no fewer than\neleven of a family, one-half strangers to their half-brothers and\nsisters, and all talking, and laughing, and romping in a manner that\nmight have afforded no small joy to well-conditioned parents. Yet Mr\nCaleb was not to be cajoled by their fun into anything like good humour,\nfor no man likes to behold the evidence of the almost total defeat of a\ndarling project, which he had held to be the pride and profit of his\nexistence. Nor was the bringing of eight more tea-cups, instantly\nordered by Mrs Crabbin, likely to effect what the romping of the \"dear\nones\" had not been able to accomplish; and it is impossible to say how\nlong he would have remained under the cloud of his gloom, had not Mrs\nCrabbin risen, and, going round to him by the backs of the circle of\nchildren, gently and playfully clapped him on the hanging clouded cheek.\n\n\"Come, now, Mr Crabbin,\" said she, \"you see we are just in the position\nof the pot and kettle that fell into warfare, calling each other\nblackamores. You have cheated me, and I have cheated you, and therefore\nare we on a par. No good can come of complaining where each has so good\na rejoinder; and, to be plain with you, if you gloom, I'll gloom, having\njust as good a right; whereas, if you are well pleased, and love my\nfive, I shall be well pleased, and love your six; and thus we may make\nthe best of a bad bargain. What say you, Mr Caleb Crabbin?\"\n\nCaleb threw his eye around the table, and groaned; but necessity is a\nstrong monitor; and so he turned round--where there was a matrimonial\nkiss awaiting him--and, having taken the offering for better and for\nworse--\n\n\"I believe, Jemima, you are right, after all,\" said he; \"but still it is\na bad business; for, if we add five or six more children to that small\narmy, we may come to starve.\"\n\n\"You can begin business again as a merchant (but not in the hosiery way)\nwith your two thousand, and I shall be as frugal a wife as ever made the\ntwo ends of coming and going out meet.\"\n\nCaleb meditated.\n\n\"You are right again, Jemima,\" said he; \"for, after all, I have not been\nhappy under the trade of wiving I have driven for so many years--always\nidle, and pointed out as one who lives on the means of his wives--so, to\nbe sure, I'll immediately betake myself to an honourable calling, and\nbefore I die I may yet acquire the reputation of what is called a\nrespectable member of society. For true it is,\" he added, \"that a\nfortune-hunter, even if he has run down the game of thousands, is only a\nfortune-hunter to the end of the chapter. Out of my evil, you see, has\ncome my good; and you, who a little ago seemed my bad angel, have turned\nout to be my good. So here be all our strife ended.\"\n\nAnd another embrace settled the affair.\n\n\"Now,\" said Caleb, \"you'll be kind enough to tell me the names of these\nchildren. By my faith, they are pretty ones--as pretty as my own!\"\n\n\"This is William--this is George--this is Andrew--this is Mary--and this\nis Margaret.\"\n\n\"Well, we must fall upon some way of distinguishing those of mine and\nthose of yours, who carry the same name. Let it be your George and my\nGeorge, your Andrew and my Andrew. I see now no difficulty about the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Neither do I,\" answered Jemima. \"All we have to provide against is to\navoid calling our own _mutual_ children George or Andrew, for a third of\nthe name wouldn't do.\"\n\n\"Neither it would,\" rejoined he.\n\nAccording to these arrangements, Mr Crabbin commenced business again;\nand, having been taught experience by his former failure, did very well.\nWe believe there were at least two or three additional children born\nafterwards; but that was of no consequence, because Mr Crabbin's means\nbecame, by his own industry, proportionate. A good lesson hangeth by the\npeg of our tale, or we are somewhat out.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IMPRUDENT MARRIAGE.\n\n\nSerjeant Square again resumed the narrative of his adventures:--\n\nThere is a strange feeling, that every reflecting person must have often\nbeen conscious of, accompanying the idea of time. We feel as if in\ncontact with the past, as far back as our memory can reach. If our\nreading has been extensive, it requires reflection to disentangle the\nevents of early ages, as well as those of a more recent date; and, even\nas regards the time to come, we feel as if it also were for us, until\nthe melancholy certainty of the shortness of life forces us back upon\nthe present moment, which, until passed, we cannot call our own. Neither\nis there a situation in which we can be placed, in which we do not feel\nsome cause of uneasiness, from the faintest shade of unfulfilled\nanticipation, to the depth of real suffering.\n\nGloomy were the reflections that haunted my mind for the first three\nweeks after my arrival in London. Often and far as I had been from\nScotland, never until now had I been home-sick--if it could be called so\nin one who had neither kindred nor home in the world. Destitute of\nkindred as I was, the feeling seemed to extend my relationship: every\nScotchman being my relation, and his accents music to my ears. An\nunaccountable melancholy was upon me; and I felt a strange presentiment\nas if some evil were about to befall me. I felt no pleasure, as I was\nwont, in walking about. My time was spent at my lodgings, in Lower\nThames Street, save when I went occasionally to the neighbourhood of\nCovent Garden, to visit Captain H----. Even these visits had become\nirksome, as no good seemed likely to arise to me from them. I was always\nreceived in the most friendly manner. Still there was a constraint upon\nme I could not overcome, arising from the relative situation in which we\nhad formerly stood towards each other as private seaman and captain. I\nwould have felt far more at my ease had he treated me in a more distant\nmanner. Frugal as my mode of life was, my cash wore done apace, and I\nhad fixed upon no mode of obtaining a new supply. Once or twice I had\nmade inquiries among the shipping for a situation, without success.\nPerhaps the fault was my own, as I was rather nice to please, and not\nover anxious to go to sea if I could do better. I hoped that the captain\nor his friend would propose something for my advantage; and thus the\ntime had run on, while my lowness of spirits increased upon me. The\nweather had become wet and foggy. I cared not to leave the house, and\nremained at home for several days, so depressed that I even wished I\nwere dead, and away from a world in which I had suffered so much. The\npleasures I had also enjoyed were entirely blotted out from my\nrecollection. All my life appeared to have been a scene of suffering,\nwith no prospect before me but further misery and endurance.\n\nThis was a state of mind that could not long endure without leading to a\nfatal result. I began to regard suicide as the only remedy for my\nmisery; and even to look upon it as a crime of no very deep atrocity.\nYet there was a feeling within me that made death as a remedy horrible.\nAt length, by an effort that cost me more to accomplish than anything I\nhad ever done before or since, I shook off this, the darkest moral\nincubus of the darkest period of my life, and, after an absence of ten\ndays, waited upon Captain H---- to bid him farewell, as I was resolved\nto leave London, and enter on board the first vessel wherever bound for,\nand in any capacity I could obtain a berth. When I reached the house, I\nfound it shut up, and could obtain no information whither he had gone.\nAll I learned was, that they had left the house three days before, it\nwas believed for the country. I felt indignant and hurt, although I had\nno reason, at this sudden departure. I had no claim upon him. I had ever\nbeen overpaid for any service I had rendered. Still, this was not my\nfeeling at the time; and I bent my steps towards my lodgings in no\nenviable mood, either with myself or the world. A numbing sensation was\nupon me. I felt once more alone in the world; and passed through the\nbusy crowds that thronged the streets, almost unconscious of the\npresence of a human being, until I had reached Tower Hill, when my\nattention was roused by a crowd of men and boys, who were hooting and\njostling an old man of rather respectable appearance, whose impatient\nanger caused them only to increase their shouts and annoyance. They were\ncalling to him, \"Rebel Scot,\" and \"Scottish traitor;\" and crying, \"Roll\nhim in the kennel,\" \"Duck him in the river.\" I was in a humour to\nquarrel with any one, or even dare a host. My blood was on fire in a\nmoment, for the old man upbraided them in Scotch, although tinctured by\na foreign accent. He was tall, and had once been a very powerful man.\nHis hat had been knocked off, and his grey hairs were in disorder, save\nwhat were retained by a neat cue that bobbed from side to side, as he\nwas pushed, or turned to aim a blow at his cowardly assailants, many of\nwhom, I blush to say, had reached man's estate. In an instant I was by\nhis side, and shouted, to overtop the noise--\n\n\"For shame, to use an old man and a stranger so! Is that like\nEnglishmen?\"\n\nFor a moment there was a pause; it was but for a moment. My Scottish\naccent turned them as much against me as him whom I wished to befriend.\n\n\"They are both rebel Scots--serve them alike!\" shouted a stout young\nfellow, as he aimed a blow at me. The others joined in the cry. The blow\ntook effect upon the side of my head. I was stunned a little; but\nreturned it with so good effect that he staggered back a pace or two.\nThe blood flowed from my cheek, which was cut, pretty fast. In a moment\nthe shouting ceased, and \"A ring! a ring!\" was the cry. \"Give the\nScottish sailor fair play--he has pluck in him.\" \"Go it, Joe!\" cried\nothers; and their attention was directed from the old man to me and my\nopponent. A ring was formed. I gave my jacket and hat to the old man to\nhold, and to it we went; but, tall as I was and stout, I was forced to\ngive in after a severe contest; my enemy's science prevailed; but my\nobject was attained. The old man and myself were no longer hated. \"I was\na bit of good stuff,\" they said, \"and had stood well up to fighting Joe\nof Smithfield.\" Even Joe said he would give any one a beating who\nmolested us. We were conducted to a public-house, where I got myself\ncleaned and my bruises dressed. The old gentleman gave me a thousand\nthanks for the part I had taken in his rescue, and seemed to feel much\nmore for the injuries I had received than I did myself. As soon as we\nhad had some slight refreshment, he caused a coach to be brought, and\naccompanied me to my lodgings. During our short drive, I learned that he\nhad only arrived from Holland the evening before, and was a stranger in\nLondon. He said he had resided for the last ten years there; that he had\nnot been in Scotland for many years; and that he was on his way to it to\nlay his bones in the graves of his fathers. There was a reservedness of\nmanner that interested me much in the man; and every time I looked to\nhim, I grew the more certain that his face had been familiar to me at\nsome former period of my life. Even his voice fell on my ear like some\nwell-known sound. Neither of us had inquired the name of the other. The\ncoach stopped at the door of my lodging, into which he assisted me; and\nI immediately went to bed at his request, he promising to call upon me\nin the morning.\n\nAfter passing a restless night, I was awoke in the morning by my\nlandlady entering my room to inquire if I would see Lieutenant Speare,\nthe old gentleman who had accompanied me home the evening before.\nAlthough I felt rather feverish, I replied that I would be glad to see\nhim. In a few minutes I was astonished to see him enter in an undress,\nuntil he informed me that he had been so fortunate as to obtain a room\nfrom my landlady; and, if I was agreeable, he wished to breakfast along\nwith me and spend the day, as I was not, he felt assured, in a state to\nleave my room. I did not conceal that I felt very unwell, and would be\nhappy to have his company. After he was seated, I inquired by what\naccident he had become involved with the rabble upon Tower Hill. After a\nshort pause--\n\n\"You and I,\" replied he, \"are countrymen, but strangers to each other.\nFrom the disinterested manner in which you interfered in my behalf, I\nfeel that I may trust you with my secret. Even if we differ in opinion,\nyou will not betray me; I therefore shall make no reserve.\n\n\"I was born and bred an adherent of the exiled royal family of Great\nBritain; have bled in their cause; suffered exile from all I held dear;\nand even now I tread my native land with a halter about my neck, which\none word from you might attach to the fatal tree that has ceased to have\nany horrors for me, were it not for a sacred duty I have to perform\nbefore death put a period to my long life of suffering. Yesterday\nafternoon I had only been a few hours in London, for the first time in\nmy life; yet its gloomy Tower, and blood-drinking Tower Hill, had long\nbeen familiar to my mind, as scenes of cruelty and tyranny, where the\nbest blood of Scotland was poured out like water to satisfy the thirst\nof a usurper. I had surveyed the scene for some time in silent agony,\nwhen my oppressed feelings called before me the heroes, as I had seen\nand admired them, in manly vigour, struggling in a righteous cause, with\nthe sad termination they experienced, when their headless trunks were\ninsulted by an unfeeling crowd. All caution left me, and I expressed my\nthoughts aloud. I was overheard and assailed. You delivered me. I\nacknowledge my imprudence; and, on your account, lament what I have\ndone.\"\n\n\"On my account there is no cause of regret,\" said I. \"I am happy your\nunguarded language had no more fatal result. Your secret is safe in my\nkeeping. I myself have been a sufferer through that fatal affair,\nalthough too young to distinguish between parties; for the miseries of\ncivil war fall heaviest upon the innocent, the females and children. By\nit I was deprived of both my parents, and thrown destitute upon the\nworld, without friends or home. If the great will struggle, urged by\nambition or party zeal, what have the poor to do with their strife, who\ncan, at the best, only change their taskmasters? Had my father remained\nin Edinburgh, my mother had not broken her heart, and I had not been an\noutcast orphan boy.\"\n\n\"Edinburgh, did you say, young man?\" replied he. \"Few joined the Prince\nfrom that city.\" His voice faltered; his whole frame shook. He gazed\nfixedly upon me for a short time; then, starting to his feet, he\nstaggered to my bedside, supporting himself by the bedpost. \"What is\nyour name?\" he eagerly said.\n\n\"John Square,\" I replied.\n\nUttering a cry that resembled a heavy groan, he sunk upon the bed, and,\ngrasping my hand, bathed it with tears; then, clasping me to his breast,\nkissed my forehead. His heart was too full to speak; he held me in his\nembrace, and gazed upon my face. I was so much amazed at the strange\nconduct of the old man, that it was some time before I recovered from my\nsurprise, or could inquire the cause of his, to me, unaccountable\nproceeding. Still grasping my hand--\n\n\"Now, welcome death!\" said he. \"My mission is accomplished. I shall die\nin peace. I have found thee, my long-forsaken and injured boy.\"\n\nIt was now my turn to feel the utmost agitation. Did my father really\nstand before me? I feared to ask the question, yet burned to do so.\n\n\"Are you my father?\" cried I.\n\n\"Alas! no! I am not your father,\" said he. \"Yet I am all the father you\never knew; and you were, and are, dear to me as my own son. Ah, my poor\nMary!--she was a kind mother to you. Told she not the secret of your\nbirth before she died?\"\n\n\"No,\" was my answer. \"I was too young and thoughtless at the time. I\nrecollect she called me to her bedside often, and wept over me; but she\nonly prayed, and blessed me. She sent one of her neighbours, who was\nvery attentive, for the minister to come to her, saying she had\nsomething important to intrust him with; but, before he arrived, her\nmind began to wander, and she remained in that condition until her\ndeath, two days after. She had even forgot she had sent for the good\nman, who, after offering up a prayer, departed.\" I paused, for the old\nman wept bitterly while I spake. I did respect his feelings; but my own\nwere too impetuous to be restrained. \"Who was my father, since you are\nnot?\" cried I. \"Is he alive? If you ever loved me, pause not a moment.\nNay, I shall tear the secret from you.\" And I started up in my bed, sore\nas I was, and looked wildly at him, as he appeared to hesitate.\n\n\"Be composed, my dear John,\" said he. \"It is a melancholy tale. I would\nmore willingly spare your feelings than wound them by the relation; but\nit were cruel now to withhold it from you. You will have no cause to\nblush for your relatives. My own history is so deeply interwoven with\nthat of your parents, that I cannot disentangle them, and therefore must\ngive them, connected as they are. It was upon the borders of the\nromantic Esk I first awoke to consciousness, in the hospitable house of\nyour grandfather, to whom my father had been head servant for many\nyears. I was within a few weeks of the same age as John, your father,\nhis third son. I was his foster-brother and playfellow, unequal as was\nour rank. I loved him with more than a brother's love, and would have\nrisked my life for him, had he been in danger. He was my young master;\nhis comfort was all my duty and care; and swiftly the days and hours\npassed on, until the period arrived that he was to go to Edinburgh to\nattend the classes at the university, and whither I was to accompany\nhim. We were both young and inexperienced. Your father was of a\nfearless, open, and generous temper; and his rank in life gave him\naccess to the best society in the city. At one of the assemblies he\nbecame acquainted with a young lady, the orphan daughter of an officer\nwho had fallen in the wars of Marlborough. She resided with two rich\nmaiden aunts, upon whom she depended for her present support and future\nfortune. Their intimacy soon ripened, unfortunately, into love. As\npolitics raged at this time with a force and bitterness that divided\nfriends and relations, even the sacred mysteries of love were\ninterrupted by the offerings to the stern genius of discord. Rose's\naunts were stern Whigs, supporters of what were then styled by us the\nHanoverian usurpers; and their only surviving brother was an officer\nhigh of rank in their armies; while your grandfather was faithful to his\nlawful king, and as true a Tory as ever lived or bled for the Stewarts.\nNeither your father nor myself had ever troubled ourselves about the\nrival factions; yet we were, as we had been bred, staunch adherents to\nthe royal exiles; but Love is of no party, and we were both under his\ninfluence. From the cause I have mentioned, your father's visits were\nunacceptable at Rose's aunts; their interviews were stolen, and, of\ncourse, more sweet. She was at times allowed to walk out for exercise,\nand to visit, but never unaccompanied by her maid, who had been her\nservant before her mother's death. She was a bar in my master's way;\nand, if he dared to converse with his beloved, she would have been kept\nentirely from his sight. To aid him in his interviews, I became\nacquainted with Mary, the servant, and was soon as deep in love as my\nmaster. Little did our young and joyous hearts dream of the bitter dregs\nthat lay in the cup of pleasure we quaffed in the hours of romance, as\nwe walked, or sat scarce in sight of each other, among the cliffs and\nsheltered valleys of Arthur Seat. Nothing but my love for your father\ncould have blinded me to the folly he was guilty of, and the ruin that\nawaited his future prospects in life. As for myself, I could not be\nother than I was. Mary was of my own rank, born to toil, and with little\nto lose; while they had a fearful height to fall from, if they wedded\nwithout consent of friends. But when, alas! did ever youthful love\ncalculate consequences aright, until the calculation is useless?\n\n\"Thus intoxicated with love, the time ran on with unheeded speed; yet my\nmaster was unremitting in his studies. He had, with the consent of his\nfather, fixed upon the law as his profession, as the political opinions\nof the latter gave his son small chance of rising in the army. Rose and\nhe had often exchanged vows of mutual constancy, until more fortunate\ntimes for their love should arrive. Your father had pictured to himself\nspeedy success at the bar; and the first use he was to make of his fame\nwas to claim your mother from her aunts; and if they refused, as, from\nthe vain efforts he had made to gain their good graces, he had every\nreason to expect, to wed her without their consent, or one farthing of\nfortune. His father's consent he knew he could not hope for before the\nmarriage; but his forgiveness afterwards he had no doubt of obtaining.\nThus had he lulled himself into a pleasant dream of security, from which\nhe was soon awakened. It was in the beginning of the third session of\ncollege, that one of the two aunts was taken suddenly ill, and died in a\nfew days, without making any will. Elizabeth, the younger sister, who\nhad never been very kind to Rose, was now her sole protector; and she,\nsweet lady, was rendered very unhappy--a circumstance that gave great\npain and uneasiness to your father, and was the cause of the imprudent\nstep he took. Scarcely was the funeral over, when Mary her maid was\ndischarged, as an unnecessary burden; and, with my master's consent, she\nand I were married. Aided by his bounty, I began housekeeping, still\nwaiting upon him; and, meanwhile, our house was the scene of the meeting\nof the lovers. The penury and harshness of her aunt rendered the young\nlady's life miserable. Her secret was communicated to my wife, who again\ntold my master. This precipitated the consummation of the long\ncourtship. He prevailed upon his beloved to give her consent to a\nprivate marriage, that he might have the right to shelter her from\nsuffering longer from her aunt's tyranny. They were privately married in\nmy house, at the head of Mary King's Close.\n\n\"Your father had not yet passed as an advocate, and had no means of\nsubsistence, save what he got from his father. It was imperative that\nhis marriage should be kept secret from every one. Your mother resided\nwith her aunt only until your father had furnished a small house, near\nthe foot of our close, for his beloved wife--an achievement he could not\nget accomplished so quickly as he wished, without raising curiosity as\nto the cause of his repeated demands for money. Nearly four months\npassed on after the marriage, and your mother still resided with her\naunt, who, since her sister's death, had become gay, and had many\nvisiters--principally bachelors--all paying her court, old as she was,\nfor the sake of her wealth; and several of them often paying more\nattention to the young wife than she wished. Among the visitants was\none, a great favourite with the aunt, a retired officer, of an abandoned\nturn, but connected with some of the oldest families in Scotland. He was\nwell received in most companies, and welcomed for his wit and jovial\nmanner. I recollect I was waiting your father's return from a tavern\nparty, principally young lawyers, before I went to my own house for the\nnight, when he came home much sooner than I had expected, greatly\nagitated, and in high anger. Alarmed at his unwonted manner, I, with\nall the humble freedom I could ever use with him, implored him to tell\nme what had occurred to disturb him so much. After he had become more\ncalm, he told me that Captain Ogilvie had been of the party; that they\nhad drunk pretty freely, and were giving toasts; that the captain\npledged Rose, your mother, and spoke more lightly of her than he could\nendure to hear; and that a quarrel had ensued, and blows had been\nstruck. He then desired me to see that his rapier was sharp and in\norder, as he was to meet the captain by five the next morning in the\nDuke's Walk. My anger against the vile traducer was as great as that of\nmy master. I wished I could meet him in his place; for I had a strong\nfeeling that evil would come out of it; but this was impossible.\n\n\"Your father sat down to his writing-table, and began two letters--one\nfor his young wife, the other to his father--and, while he was thus\nemployed, I ran home, told Mary not to expect me home that night, and\nput on a suit of plain clothes. Before he was done, I had his sword and\nmy own in excellent order; for I was as good at fencing as he was, in\nconsequence of having practised with him all the manly exercises he had\nlearned. As soon as he was ready, we began play at the swords; as the\ncaptain was an expert swordsman, while my master had had no practice for\nseveral years. Thus we passed the night until past four o'clock. When we\nsallied forth, we called at Blackford's Wynd upon his second, whom we\nfound waiting upon him, and then proceeded by St Mary's Wynd Port and\nthe South Back of the Canongate to the ground, which we reached a few\nminutes before the appointed time. The captain and his friend arrived\nalmost as soon as we did. Since then, I have seen blood spilled as\nfreely as water; but never did my heart quail as at this time. In\nfighting with the blood warm, there is a fierce pleasure; but to me\nnothing is, or can be, more distressing than to stand an idle\nspectator, and see your friend engaged, and hear the clash and rasp of\nthe weapon aimed at his heart, as if it were your own, and your hands\nbound. Such were my feelings at this time. The seconds wished to\nreconcile them, but neither would hear of it. Each drew, and stood on\nhis guard. A fearful pause of a few seconds ensued, while they eyed each\nother like hungry wolves. My eyes felt as if they would start from their\nsockets; my breath was suspended; all was still as death; a sudden clang\nrung on my ears; their swords gleamed in the rays of the rising sun; and\nso rapid were their movements, that my eye could not follow them. I saw\nthat the captain, from his fence, was a complete master of his weapon,\nhaving practised abroad. My master had been foiled in his favourite\nassault--the one, indeed, on which I had placed my reliance. A moment's\npause ensued; neither had drawn blood. Again they closed, and, after a\nfew unsuccessful attacks, paused again for breath. I saw the blood upon\nmy master's arm, from a slight cut. My hand grasped my sword; but, by a\nviolent effort, I restrained myself. They had been engaged nearly\nhalf-an-hour; my master's hand was dyed in blood; but he was young and\nalert; while his antagonist was rather corpulent, and his constitution\nshaken by dissipation. His play became now more feeble and cautious, and\nmy confidence began to revive. He was yet without a scratch; and,\ncollecting all his energies, he made a desperate lunge, which your\nfather only parried so far as to make it pass between his side and the\nsword-arm, piercing his vest; and the captain lay at his feet\ntransfixed. My heart leaped for joy as I ran to your father's aid. I\nbound up his arm, while the two seconds attended to the captain. I found\nmy master but slightly hurt. He despatched me for aid to his antagonist,\nwith which I returned; and, as the captain's wound appeared to be\nmortal, we left them, and proceeded over the hill. We scarcely\nexchanged words. Passing up the valley, we stood upon the crest of the\nheight that commanded a view of Craigmillar Castle, and the distant\nhills, with the level country between. Here we paused; and your father,\nclasping his hands in agony, gazed around for a few minutes in silence.\nMy own heart was too full to speak, and I stood looking upon his mental\nsuffering, which I knew no mode of soothing, and reverenced too much to\ninterrupt. At length he said, as if unconscious of my presence,\n'Farewell, sweet scenes of my happiness! my cruel destiny drives me from\nyou, and her who is dearer to me than life. But that thought is\ndistraction. Rose! my beloved Rose! in what a state am I forced to leave\nyou! Alas! I dare not even bid you farewell. My hands are red with\nblood, and the avengers will soon be on my track; but in defence of your\nhonour it was shed, and Heaven will justify the act. Who now--who will\nprotect you when I am an outlaw?'\n\n\"He dashed his hands upon his forehead, and groaned. I could endure in\nsilence no longer, and at length soothed him into something like\ncomposure. It was agreed that he should go to his father, inform him of\nhis duel, and act by his counsel; while I should return to my own house,\nwatch the progress of the captain's wound, and, happen what would, meet\nhim at Roslin Chapel at ten o'clock in the evening, to consult what was\nfarther to be done. We parted at St Leonard's Hill.\n\n\"In the forenoon nothing was talked of in the city but Captain Ogilvie's\nduel; and it had become a party question. The Whigs had one version of\nthe cause of quarrel, the Tories another, I gave no ear to either; but\nwas rejoiced to learn that the captain was not dead, although his life\nwas despaired of.\n\n\"It was now past six o'clock--the quarter had chimed upon the clock of\nSt Giles. I had my hand on the latch to go once more to the captain's,\nto know how he continued since my last inquiry, when the rasp was gently\nmoved. I opened the door, and your mother staggered into my arms, pale\nas death, and swooned away. With difficulty Mary and I restored her to\nconsciousness. I told her of your father's safety; and she replied that\nshe was now, save for her husband, a destitute outcast; that her aunt,\nwho only waited a pretext, had turned her out upon the world; and that\nthe cause of her expulsion was her conduct in being the mean of her\naunt's favourite, Captain Ogilvie's death. I told her that the captain\nwas not yet dead, and would, I hoped, survive; and, leaving her in\ncharge of Mary, I hurried to ascertain what ground there was for any\nhope. I found that the captain was still alive, but that his death was\nhourly expected.\n\n\"With a sorrowful heart I hurried out by Bristo Port, after getting the\nword for the night from the keeper, that I might be admitted, on my\nreturn, into the city. I was at the chapel some time before ten o'clock,\nand found my master waiting for me. When I told him that the captain was\nstill in life, he took my hand--'Square,' he said, 'this has been a sad\nand dreary day to me. It is a fearful thing to have blood upon our\nhands, even in a just cause. I pray with my whole soul he may recover,\nboth for his own sake and mine.'\n\n\"I then told him what had befallen your mother.\n\n\"'I am happy it is so,' he said, 'I shall leave her under the keeping of\nMary and you with more confidence than I could in her aunt's. My mind is\nrelieved of a burden; my greatest difficulty was how to dispose of my\nbeloved until my return; for, by the command of my father, I set off for\nFrance to-morrow--to St Germains, where I will remain until this\nuntoward affair blows over. If all go as we anticipate, you will,\nperhaps, see me here sooner than you expect--ay, with a gallant band of\npatriots, to redress Scotland's wrongs, and restore our rightful\nprince. My father is not displeased at my conduct--would that he knew\nthe right I had to take my Rose's part! But the time will come. As I\nknow not how soon the officers of justice may be in quest of me, I must\ndepart to-morrow morning for England, on my way to France. I must\ntherefore see Rose, to bid her good-by for a short season. I shall be\nwaiting for her near St Anthony's Chapel, to weep our parting, where we\nhave so often smiled at our meetings. O William, William! these thoughts\nunman me.'\n\n\"'My dear master,' said I, 'am I to accompany you?'\n\n\"'No, William,' replied he--'no; I leave my beloved wife to your care\nuntil my return, when I will requite you as she shall report of you.'\n\n\"It was early in the morning before I reached Edinburgh. I found your\nmother and Mary still out of bed, awaiting my return. The night was\nspent in tears by the females, and a melancholy presentiment was on my\nown heart. Before we set out to meet the fugitive, I caused them to\ndisguise themselves--your mother having my wife's maud, and she a dress\nshe had never before worn. They proceeded down the street by themselves,\nwhile I went to inquire how the captain had spent the night. I found he\nwas still in life, but no hopes were entertained of his recovery.\n\n\"The shades of evening were beginning to fall before this last and\nsorrowful parting terminated. They never met again. Your mother, who was\nin the family way, although we knew not the fact for weeks afterwards,\nbegan to droop and pine--a sadness of heart seemed to consume her; in\nvain we strove to cheer her gloom; and her aunt made no inquiries after\nher. Once a-week I visited the banks of the Esk to inquire after my\nmaster; and occasionally got accounts of his welfare; but they were few\nand far between--only, indeed, when the letters could be forwarded by\nsome one coming to Scotland. No letter had as yet come to me for his\nwife. How often have I left her, with a faint smile of hope dispelling\nthe habitual sadness of her lovely countenance, and returned with an\naching heart to witness her increased melancholy. Your father had left\nher all the gold he could, even more than he could spare; yet we would\nhave given it all for a single letter from his hand; but none came.\nMeanwhile Captain Ogilvie, who continued long in a precarious state,\nultimately recovered.\n\n\"At length you were born; but your unfortunate mother did not survive\nmany days; and scarcely was the sod green on her grave, when my master\ncame back to Scotland. His grief, his agony, I shall not attempt to\ndescribe. In a few weeks after he returned to France, for his native\ncountry was hateful to him; and I would have accompanied him, but that\nMary was in delicate health, and I could not leave her. As his father\nwas displeased at him for relinquishing his study of the law, he gave\nhim only a small sum to maintain him in France. You passed, meanwhile,\nas my own child, and went under my name.\n\n\"At length the long-expected deliverer came. I concealed the certificate\nof your father's marriage, and some other papers, in the wainscot of our\nroom, and would have joined my master in the north; but, as the party\nwere in rapid advance to Edinburgh, I thought I could be of more service\nto the cause in Edinburgh. It was I who contrived the way, and caused\nthe easy entry of the Prince into the city, by the Netherbow Port. The\ngentleman you saw once or twice in conversation with Mary, whom you took\nfor your mother, was your father; but it was not thought prudent to\nundeceive you. We had the greatest confidence in the success of our\nrighteous cause. Alas! we were prosperous for a time, only to feel more\nbitterly our reverse. We advanced into England, elate with the victory\nof Tranent, where we scattered the red-coats like frightened deer. I had\nno opportunity of visiting Edinburgh again, until it would have been\ndeath to me to dare the act. Your father was wounded at the Battle of\nFalkirk, and required my utmost care. After the Prince retired from the\nsiege of Stirling, and Cumberland's arrival in the north, our affairs\nbegan to wear a different aspect. Carlisle had been recaptured, and our\nsuccess seemed farther from us than at the commencement. My master's\nwound was, by good management, so much better that he could travel by\neasy stages. The volunteers and adherents of the Hanoverians were\nbeginning to show more bravery, by apprehending all whom they knew\nbelonged to the Prince; so that, without taking leave, we left our\nlandlord in the night; and, crossing at Kincardine, got into Fife, and\ntravelled down the shores of the Forth until we reached Dysart, where\nyour father was confined to bed, by fever, for some days. Here we\nreceived the heart-breaking intelligence of Culloden Field, and the\nmassacre of the friends of royalty. Scotland was no longer a country for\nus. My master had acted too open and conspicuous a part to hope for\npardon. I would, perhaps, on Mary's account and yours, have ventured my\nlife in a return to Edinburgh; but I could not leave your father in his\npresent situation. As yet no one suspected we had belonged to the\nHighland army; for I had so adroitly concealed my master's wound, that\nhe was thought to be only sick of a fever. Fortunately, there was a\nvessel about to sail for Rotterdam. We embarked for Holland without\ninterruption, and arrived safe. During your father's convalescence we\nwere reduced to great straits; for our supply of cash was, when we left\nScotland, much reduced, and here it entirely failed. My master had\nwritten to his brother for assistance; but he had found it for his\nadvantage to change sides; and, so far from sending a remittance, he\nnever answered one of his letters. Had it not been for the disinterested\naid of a Scottish merchant, who was established in the place of our\nretreat, and who had been a college friend of your father, we must have\nbeen reduced to absolute want. Through his influence, he obtained for\nhim a commission in the Scottish Brigade, then in the service of the\nStates; and thus relieved him from the humiliation of dependence; but\nthis was not accomplished until nearly the end of the second year after\nI had left my peaceful home. During all this time we were in the\ngreatest anxiety--he about his son, I about my dear wife. Yet we had no\nmeans of ascertaining your fates; and the consciousness of the poverty\nyou must be plunged in embittered all our thoughts. As soon as my master\njoined the division of the brigade, which was quartered in\nBergen-op-Zoom, he borrowed a sum of money for my use. At all hazards I\nhad resolved to return to Edinburgh, use all the precaution I could to\navoid being recognised, and bring over with me to Holland you and my\ndear Mary.\n\n\"All being prepared, I bade adieu to your father, and embarked, in the\ndress of a Dutch skipper, on board of a vessel bound for Dysart,\nprincipally loaded with old iron, for the nailers of Pathhead. She was a\nFife vessel; and the captain knew me only as William Speare, a Dutchman.\nUpon our arrival, I crossed, with the first Kinghorn boat, for Leith,\nand hurried up to Edinburgh. Our passage across the Frith had been very\ntedious; and the shades of evening were just coming on when I reached\nthe Abbey Hill. With a heart equally divided between hope and fear, I\nwalked up the Canongate, through the Netherbow Port, and up the High\nStreet. I saw many that I had known in happier days, and my heart\nyearned to address them; but, alas! I was a proscribed outlaw, shut out\nfrom the society I loved. When I reached Mary King's Close, my heart\nbeat so ardently, that I was forced to pause for breath as I climbed the\nstair to my old door. I took the rasp in my hand, and gave my wonted\ntirl. A female opened the door, about the same height as her I loved. It\nwas very dusky. That it was my wife I had no doubt. I threw my arms\naround her, crying, 'Dear Mary!' The female pushed me from her, and\nscreamed out for help. I thought I would have sunk to the ground, and\nleaned against the door for support. An elderly female came in haste\nwith a light. I attempted to speak, but could only sob, and felt sick\nalmost to death. The women looked upon me in amazement, for the tears\nwere silently stealing down my face. After whispering a few words, I was\nkindly invited into the house which I had expected to have been my own.\nIt was tidily furnished; but everything in it was strange to me, and\nwore a look of desolation and loneliness. Neither my wife nor you were\nthere. Not to betray myself, I told them that I had not been in\nEdinburgh for a long time; but that, when I left it last, a very dear\nfriend had resided there, whom I had hoped to find where I left her, and\nthat my mistake must plead my excuse for any apparent rudeness. Their\nanswers to my inquiries crushed all my hopes. Mary was in her silent\ngrave, and you had disappeared. Nothing now remained to me in Scotland\nthat I cared for; and, after in vain offering a reward to any one who\ncould give any information concerning you, and shedding a few tears over\nthe grave of my wife, I returned to Holland with my sorrowful\nintelligence. Your father, quite sunk with your uncertain fate, fell\ninto a lowness of spirits that preyed upon his health, and continually\nreflected upon himself as the cause of your mother's early death, and\nyour destitution.\n\n\"As the monotony and dulness of garrison duty in a strongly-fortified\ntown served to increase his melancholy, which threatened to merge into\nconsumption, he, by the advice of his physician--that change of scene,\nand a warm climate, might remove all the bad symptoms he\nexhibited--exchanged into a regiment stationed in the Island of Ceylon,\ninto which I also enlisted, that I might accompany him. There was,\nalas! no other individual on earth for whom I cared. Far from recovering\non the voyage, its tedious dulness sunk him more and more into his\nhabitual lowness of spirits; and, on our arrival on the island, he grew\nworse, and did not survive many months. I buried him at Trincomalee.\nAlas! how true is the saying, that 'all men know where they were born,\nbut none where they shall lay their bones.'\"\n\nSo intense had been the interest I felt in his narrative, that I\nscarcely moved, lest I should lose a word, or interrupt him. He paused\nat this event, and wiped a tear from his eyes. William and Mary I had\nuntil this hour looked upon as my real parents. For those I now heard\nof, I had new feelings to acquire. I noticed that he did not tell me the\nsurname of my parents, and I pressed not the question. All that I asked\nof him was to continue his history, and inform me what had induced him\nonce more to return to Scotland.\n\n\"Can a Scotsman ask that question of a Scotsman?\" said he. \"In whatever\npart of the globe he may be, the hope to lay his bones with his fathers\nis the Polar Star that cheers his wanderings, be they prosperous or\nadverse. Remove this hope, and his energies from that moment sink, for\nhe has lost all of life worth caring for. I have both known and felt it.\nBut to proceed:--\n\n\"After your father's death, I felt the most solitary of men for many\nmonths. Still I continued to do my duty as a private soldier, without\ntaking any interest in surrounding events. About two years after my\narrival, a revolt broke out in the colony: the Singaleese were aided by\nthe Candians from the mountains; and the handful of Europeans could\nscarce make head against the multitudes of the natives, who had courage\nand ferocity more than sufficient to have exterminated us every man;\nbut, fortunately for us, they had no discipline or other mode of\nwarfare, but to rush on their enemy and overpower them. This they found\nto be a vain attempt; yet they never changed their mode until compelled\nto sue for peace, by the immense slaughter made of them in this war of\ncarnage and massacre. I had been several times the decided cause of\nvictory to the Dutch, in preventing small detachments from being cut\noff, and directing the movements of the main body; for which services I\nwas promoted to a lieutenantcy. I never rose higher, nor do I believe I\nwould have attained this rank, had it not been to enable me to take\ncommand of small parties, for which I was qualified from my being ever\non the outskirts of the army, or in the borders of the jungle. Great\nnumbers of my men died through fatigue and fever. I, myself for several\nyears, remained robust; but my turn came at length. I fevered and\nrelapsed; several times my life was despaired of for whole weeks; and\nmany wounds I had received from the Candian spears and arrows broke out\nafresh, and baffled the power of medicine. My constitution triumphed\nover my malady; but I was unfit for service. I have one wound here on my\nside that is hurrying me to my grave; which, I hope, will be in\nPennycuick churchyard. But, now that I have the happiness to find my\nlong-lost charge, there is one more duty for me to perform when we reach\nEdinburgh, whither you must return with me, to consign me to the dust.\nThat duty I never did expect to be called to perform--it is to\nre-possess myself of the certificates of your father's marriage and your\nbaptism, which are, as I told you, concealed behind the wainscot in the\nhouse in Mary King's Close. I trust, for your sake, they are still safe,\nand may be the means of placing you in your proper rank in society.\"\n\n\"Dear father,\" I replied--\"for I must still call you so--if it is to be\nof any service to me alone, it is of no avail to proceed further on that\nerrand, for fortune baffles all my undertakings, and I tell you you will\nnot succeed; still I have no objection to return with you to Scotland,\nalthough my present object in London was to go to sea in a vessel bound\nfor the Indian seas--the only place of all I ever visited where fortune\nsmiled upon me, and I scorned her favours.\"\n\nAfter dinner I gave the lieutenant an outline of my adventures since he\nhad left Edinburgh, at which he was much moved. When I told him of the\nobligation I lay under to the worthy lawyer--\n\n\"Ah, Johnnie!\" said he, \"we have already half-gained the victory. Mr\nDavidson was at college and intimate with your father, and ho knows me\nwell as your father's servant. Scotland does not contain a better man\nfor our purpose. I shall fee him liberally, and fortune may yet smile\nupon us.\" It was now late in the evening, and the lieutenant left me for\nthe night.\n\nScarce was he gone, when a new passion took entire possession of\nme--that of pride and ambition. I felt myself quite changed, and strange\nvisions of imaginary importance floated before me. My present finances\nwere now deemed low enough--eleven guineas--which at one period I would\nhave considered an immense sum. So sanguine had a few hours made me,\nthat I looked upon it only as so many pence. From this period I date a\ncomplete revolution in my train of thoughts. Formerly I had cared but\nfor the passing hour, nor heeded for to-morrow. My early education had,\nuntil now, clung to me in all my vicissitudes, being ever the outcast\norphan boy, who, his belly full, his back warm, had nothing further to\nobtain. My contentment was now gone. But to proceed:--\n\nFor a few days I was forced to keep at home, until the marks of my Tower\nHill affray had disappeared; during which, urged by my new passion\n(pride), I got myself equipped in the extreme of fashion. I now smile at\nmy folly, when I look back to these few weeks in which I was swayed by\nit. But no young lady, getting her first ball-dress, was ever more\nfidgety or hard to please than John Square. The lieutenant was pleased\nto see me ape the gentleman; for he really looked upon me as such, and\npaid me every deference, as the son of his master. The money he had\nsaved while in Ceylon he counted as mutual; nor would he allow me to\nexpend one farthing of my own. We both were now anxious to proceed to\nEdinburgh, and embarked in the first trader bound for Leith. This voyage\nwas the most pleasant I had ever made; I was in fairyland, and the\nlieutenant not far behind me.\n\nWhen we were landed, with the earliest convenience we proceeded to\nEdinburgh, with far different feelings from any I had before\nexperienced. Having arrived in the evening, it was next morning, after\nan early breakfast, that we proceeded from our inn in the Canongate\ntowards the Cross, to reconnoitre the old domicile of William Square,\nthe house in which I had first drawn breath. You may judge our horror,\nsurprise, and grief--I cannot describe it--that loved edifice had\ndisappeared from the earth; it no longer existed. Where it had once\nstood, new walls were shooting up towards the firmament. It and many\nothers had been swept away, to make room for the site of the present\nRoyal Exchange. A feeling of desolation, bordering on despair, took\npossession of my heart. The lieutenant, uttering a groan, wrung his\nhands, and looked upon me with a gaze that pierced me to the soul. I\nfelt his frame leaning upon me with the weight of death. He would have\nsunk to the ground, had I not supported him. With, difficulty I conveyed\nhim into Corbet's tavern, under the Piazzas, where, after a time, he\nrecovered, only to give vent to a burst of anguish.\n\n\"Ill-fated parent and ill-fated child!\" he cried, \"it was not that my\nheart yearned not to tell you the family from whence you sprang, but\na presentiment hung heavy upon my mind that there was evil still\nin store for you. Alas, my poor John! are you really doomed to dree\nthe weird assigned your forebears. Your father's father was Mr\nWilliam ---- of ----. Can it be possible that these canting Whigamores\nhave the spirit of prophecy? This almost forces me to think they had--\n\n    'For saints' blood and saints harried,\n    The third generation will ne'er inherit.'\n\n\"It is too true, too true!\"\n\nThese last sentences he repeated to himself several times as if\nunconsciously, and again sunk back upon his chair in a state of stupor;\nnor could I rouse him by all the gentle methods I could use. At length I\ncalled a sedan-chair, and had him conveyed to the inn, and put to bed.\nHe seemed quite unconscious and passive, until, disturbed by our moving\nhim into bed, when, as if mechanically, he again said--\n\n    \"'For saints' blood and saints harried,\n    The third generation will ne'er inherit.'\n\nMy poor boy! my poor boy!\"\n\nAt this time a physician arrived, and, having administered the remedies\nhe thought most efficacious in my foster-parent's case, was about to\nretire, when I inquired if he thought there was any immediate danger. He\ncandidly said he thought there was; for the patient's constitution was\nmuch reduced, and he had received some violent shock, which might dash\nout the remaining drops from the nearly exhausted glass. He advised that\nhe should not be left alone for any time; and, above all, that he must\nbe kept quiet, until he called again in the afternoon.\n\nAs soon as I had recovered myself a little from the agitation this\nuntoward event had produced, I wrote a note to Mr Davidson, requesting\nhe would be so kind as call upon me as soon as convenient, stating that\nI had urgent business to consult him upon, and pleading, as my excuse\nfor putting him to the trouble, the sudden illness of a friend. When the\ncadie was sent off with my card, I began to ruminate upon my prospects,\nwhich again had been so suddenly overcast. He on whom my sole dependence\nwas placed lay in the room where I sat, in a state of prostration\nbordering almost upon unconsciousness. The visions of pride and\nconsequence in which I had indulged, from the time I first heard of my\ngentle forefathers, began to fade from before me; a short time of sad\nand melancholy reasoning on probabilities had swept them away as\ncompletely as the innovating hands of the good citizens had removed the\nold tenement in which the testimonials of their reality had been\nconcealed. In the midst of these reflections, the lawyer arrived. His\nastonishment at seeing me was equalled by my joy at meeting with one in\nwhose judgment and shrewdness I had the utmost confidence. The sight of\nhim renewed my hopes; and the fond clinging to self-importance, so\nnatural, yet so foolish, when it is derived from no merit or endeavour\nof the individual, again returned upon me.\n\nAfter mutual congratulations, we at once proceeded to business. After\nstating my arrival in London, and strange meeting with the lieutenant, I\nnarrated the melancholy fate of my parents. He heard me to the end with\nall the imperturbability of a man of business; yet his countenance\nbetrayed the interest he took in my recital. When I concluded, he rose\nto his feet; and, placing his hands behind his back, moved quickly two\nor three times across the room, then stopped at the side of the bed\nwhere the lieutenant lay; and, after gazing for a short time upon his\naltered countenance, turned to me, and gave his head an ominous shake.\n\n\"Mr Square,\" said he, \"this is a strange business. I myself have not a\ndoubt of the truth of all the circumstances, some of which I have a\ndistinct recollection of--more especially the quarrel and duel; but how\nto obtain the necessary evidence I at present cannot divine. The loss of\nthe papers is a very material point; and the sudden illness of your\nfoster-parent is very unfortunate. But there is also another difficulty,\neven were we so fortunate, as I hope we will be, as to restore him to\nhealth and consciousness: his testimony could not be taken in any court\nof justice; he is an outlaw, tainted by actual rebellion, and liable to\nbe apprehended and executed as a traitor. His mildest punishment, if not\npardoned after sentence, would be banishment; and, what is not the least\nworthy of serious consideration, the object to be attained, unless your\nfriend is very rich, may not be worth the expense and trouble. That\nfoolish rhyme has been fulfilled, in the meantime, so far. Your\ngreat-grandfather was a zealous partisan of the Lauderdale\nadministration in Scotland; and, I believe, rather rigorous with the\nadherents of the Covenant. At the Revolution, he fell into disgrace with\nthe powers that assumed the reins of government, and so turned his hopes\nupon the restoration of the exiled family, and impoverished himself in\naiding the intrigues to restore them. Your grandfather had been bred in,\nand adhered to, the same politics, now a losing game. He still farther\nreduced the rent-roll by sales and bonds; and, at his death, your two\nuncles, who remained at home, changed their party. The older died young,\nwithout having married; and the younger succeeded to what remained of\nthe estate of his ancestors--a mere wreck, soon spent in dissipation.\nNot one furr of land that once owned your ancestors as lord now owns\ntheir sway. With the sum produced by the last sale, your uncle bade\nadieu to Scotland; and you are the last of the race. I would advise no\nfarther proceedings than to endeavour, if possible, to recover the\ndocuments relating to your birth and legitimacy, if they have not been\ndestroyed in pulling down the old walls.\"\n\nWhy should I dwell on my disappointment. Mr Davidson used every effort,\nby inquiries and offers of reward; but the papers never were recovered,\nalthough we got from one of the workmen the brass Dutch box in which\nthey had been placed. He had purchased it from one of the labourers who\npicked it up in the ruins, and had destroyed the papers as of no\nimportance. I had now the knowledge of the family from whom I was\ndescended, but no proof to establish my claim, even though my right to\nproperty to any amount would have been the consequence.\n\nAs for my foster-parent, he gradually recovered from the stupor that had\noverwhelmed him, but never regained his wonted energies. He was\npossessed of a few hundred pounds, besides his half-pay from the Dutch\nGovernment, which was regularly paid. He never could endure me for any\nlength of time out of his sight; and I remained with him until his\ndeath, a few years afterwards. I know that I was wasting my time; yet I\ncould not desert the old man, whose whole happiness was concentrated in\nme; and, shall I confess, I felt a strange happiness in his society--for\nhe alone of all mankind treated the beggar-boy of former years as an\nindividual of rank; and our conversation was generally about the\ntraditions of my ancestors. When the weather would permit, it was our\nwont to leave our house at Clock Mill, to wander over the scenes he\nloved--the spots in and around the bosom of Arthur Seat, where he had\nfirst won the affections of his departed Mary--and point out the\nfavourite haunts which my father and mother used to sit in or walk. On\nthese we would gaze, until our imagination seemed vested with the power\nof calling the personages before us. Thus passed on the time until the\nlieutenant's death, which happened suddenly.\n\nI was thus once more alone in the world, without a tie to bind me to it,\nsave the natural love of life inherent in man.\n\nIn Edinburgh I had formed no acquaintance; a continual soreness haunted\nme as to the dignity of birth, yet I never assumed even the name of my\nparent. I only heard it pronounced by my foster-father, who urged me to\nadopt my family honours. The conversation of the lieutenant had given my\nmind a military bias. I was weary of Edinburgh, which recalled to my\nmind too many sad reflections; and I mentioned to Mr Davidson the\nresolution I had formed. After winding up the affairs of the lieutenant,\nI found that I was possessed of one hundred and seventy pounds. Mr\nDavidson, who still insisted that the money I had left as a gift in his\nhands was at my disposal, generously offered to advance the amount\nrequired to purchase me an ensigncy; but this I would on no account\nallow. My pride revolted at a pecuniary obligation, as a derogation from\nmy family dignity, which still hung heavy upon me. By his advice, and\nthrough his assistance, I sunk in the hands of the magistrates one\nhundred and fifty pounds, as the most profitable way I could invest\nit--the interest to accumulate until my return in person to claim it. It\nwas about the year 1775, when the troubles in America had commenced.\nAccounts had just arrived that blood had been shed at Lexington and\nConcord; and the bootless victory at Boston was announced, but not\nconfirmed. It was the month of August, and the utmost excitement reigned\namong the people in the city: every means, both legal and scarcely\nlegal, being employed to raise troops. The comprehending act was passed,\nby which the justices of the peace were empowered to impress and send to\nthe army all idle or immoral characters: an engine of great tyranny and\noppression in their hands; for every person who was in the least\nobnoxious to them was hurried to the army, whatever his character might\nbe. Without informing my friend Mr Davidson, I bade him farewell, and\nproceeded to Glasgow, where I entered as a private into the Fraser\nHighlanders, resolved to carve out my own fortune with my sword. This I\ndid through my foolish pride, so little had I learned by my former\nexperience. During my short stay with the party, before I joined the\nregiment, my mind became disgusted by the modes I saw practised to\naugment the army, by trepanning and actual violence. The landed\ngentlemen and magistrates appeared to have lost, in their zeal, every\nsense of justice. The most disgusting modes were resorted to: such as\nputting a shilling into a drinking jug, and causing the king's health to\nbe pledged; while the soldier, in plain clothes, sitting in company as a\ntradesman, or a person from the country, was ready to seize the person\nwhom he had pitched upon, the moment he drank the royal toast. If he\nresisted, nothing could save him from prison; enlist, and attest he\nmust. So prevalent, indeed, was this mode, that the publicans were under\nthe necessity of getting pewter jugs with glass bottoms to drink from,\nor their houses would have been deserted. This gave security to the\ncustomer that there was not a shilling in the bottom; and allowed him to\nwatch through the glass the motions of the persons with whom he drank.\nThe only redress the kidnapped individual got was, that he might choose\nthe regiment he would join; and he in general fixed upon some other one\nthan the one to which his betrayer belonged. One instance disgusted me\nbeyond endurance. It happened to a good-looking young lad, belonging to\nHamilton. An intimate acquaintance of his had been enlisted, whether\nvoluntarily or not I do not recollect, but he was still without any\nmarks of his new profession. Several of the old soldiers were also with\nhim, prowling about for recruits, when he recognised his former friend\nin the Briggate, accompanied by his intended bride and their mothers,\nwho had come to Glasgow with the young people to purchase their\nplenishing. Rejoiced to meet an old acquaintance in the city, the party,\nbeing fatigued with their walk and the heat of the weather, retired to a\nneighbouring public-house to rest and refresh themselves. The companions\nof the betrayer, to avoid suspicion, had passed on, as if they were not\nof his party, but entered the house a short time after. As those from\nthe country had business to transact, they refused to tarry, and the\nnew-made soldier insisted to pay for the entertainment, which, after a\ngood-natured dispute, he was allowed to do. By design, or otherwise, he\nsat at the far end of the table, and when the landlady was called, he\nsaid, handing forward a shilling--\n\n\"Here, George, is a shilling; be so good as hand it to the landlady.\"\n\n\"The reckoning is one and sixpence,\" said she.\n\n\"Oh, I have plenty of the king's coin. Here is another for you, George.\"\n\nTo the alarm and grief of the bridal party, when they were at the door\nto proceed on the business they had come to town upon, the soldiers in\nwaiting seized the young man, and declared him one of the king's men.\nThe betrayer shrunk back, not yet hardened to the trade; but his\nassociates compelled the victim to go with them to the jail. Fortunately\nfor them and the young man, they had respectable friends in the city,\nwho waited upon some of the magistrates. An investigation took place.\nThe soldiers scrupled not to maintain that he was enlisted, and were\nwilling to swear that he had taken the second shilling in the king's\nname--the usual words of voluntary enlistment. They even produced the\nlandlady, who, either leaning towards the soldiers (her good customers),\nor not paying much attention at the time, declared that she heard, when\nthe second shilling was given, distinctly the words \"king and coin.\" So\npowerful was the feeling at this time, that he was declared duly\nenlisted, and only escaped by paying to the party a round sum of\nsmart-money.\n\nAfter passing the winter at drill, I was embarked with a numerous body,\nto reinforce the army besieged in Quebec, where we arrived in the month\nof May. I was now on the field where I was to reap the fruits of my\nambition; but I found it unpromising, and strewed with thorns. Still I\nhad an object to attain, however distant it might be, and my oppression\nleft me. I was most assiduous in my duties, and was soon made a\ncorporal. My heart leaped for joy. This was the first step to my\nambition; my hopes began to brighten, and I submitted to our privations\nwithout a murmur. At the storming of St John's, I was made a serjeant;\nand here I stuck. In vain was all my daring and good conduct. At the\ndescent upon Long Island, I was as conspicuous as I dared to be by the\nrules of strict discipline, and, in consequence, often had the charge of\nsmall picquets upon dangerous service, and was twice slightly wounded.\nOnce I led the company, and took several prisoners, after both the\ncaptain and ensign were carried to the rear dangerously wounded. The\nensign died in a few days of his wound; and it was generally believed by\nthe men of the regiment that I would have been promoted to his rank. At\nlength, in the month of August, 1781, I was made paymaster-serjeant;\nwhich rank I did not long retain; for the army was not long after\ncompletely surrounded by the Americans, besieged in Yorktown and at\nGloucester, and, after suffering the extreme of hardships for twelve\ndays, from sickness, famine, and the fire of the enemy, Lord Cornwallis,\nhopeless of being relieved, surrendered himself and army prisoners of\nwar. This put an extinguisher upon all my hopes. I was now a prisoner,\nsick, and looked upon for death, and must have perished, had it not been\nfor one of the captains of the American army, to whom the sick prisoners\nwere delivered over. He proved to have been one of the palantines--an\nAberdeen lad--who had been my companion in early misfortune, now an\nextensive proprietor in New England. To him I was indebted for much\nkindness during my imprisonment until the peace. When I returned to\nBritain, I was discharged with a pension of one shilling per day, being\nwhat is called the king's letter, which, with the accumulation of my\nannuity, enables me to finish my chequered career in competence, and\nwander as I list amidst these scenes of wo and pleasure, lovely by\nnature, and endeared by former recollections.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEWILDERED STUDENT.[14]\n\n\n[Footnote 14: The author of this tale, John Bethune, was one of the two\nbrothers, self-educated labourers, referred to in the Editor's note\nappended to \"The Young Laird.\"--ED.]\n\nFifty years ago, the roads in many parts of Scotland were so bad that\nthey could only be travelled on with safety in broad daylight. The\ndangers which the tourist had to encounter did not arise from the\nlawless dispositions of the people; for Scotland was then a highly moral\nand highly hospitable country. But, ere the genius of road-making had\nvisited it, the benighted wanderer had more reason to apprehend\ndestruction from the delusive light of the \"moss-traversing spunkie,\"\nthan from the sudden flash of the robber's pistol. Vast undrained\nmarshes were common in every part of the country. From these marshes\nmany a goodly peat-stack had been delved, and the holes were soon filled\nup with stagnant water--covered with zoophytes and other aquatic plants,\nand surrounded by tall rushes, which concealed from the eye those\ndangerous pits, where a whole regiment of soldiers might have found an\ninglorious grave.\n\nThe roads, in many places, passed so close to these unwholesome bogs,\nthat a false step in the dark was often equal to stepping out of this\nworld. Nor was this the only risk that a traveller had to calculate\nupon, when settling the propriety of making his will before he undertook\na journey; for the highways--properly so called, at that\nperiod--frequently ascended in the most abrupt manner from the swampy\nvalley to the rocky hill-side, where they winded along the edges of\nprecipices, which afforded admirable facilities for despairing lovers to\ntake the _loup_ without being suspected of suicide.\n\nBesides the actual danger which attended travelling in those days, there\nwere many inconveniences, which, though less appalling, were even more\nperplexing to a forward spirit, than the risk of tumbling from a\nrock-head, or plunging into a peat-bog. The roads in many places\nbranched out in different directions upon lonely muirs, where no\ninformation could be obtained concerning the places to which they led;\nand the consequence was, that many a weary wight, after cogitating\nhalf-an-hour upon the propriety of turning to the right hand or the\nleft, dashed into one of the doubtful paths, and proceeded for another\nhour at his utmost speed, to no better purpose than simply to receive\ninformation that he had walked four miles out of his way. Inns, too,\nwere almost unknown, except in the towns and upon the most frequented\nroads; and even there the accommodation was so meagre, that equestrians\nhad often the greatest difficulty in finding lodgings for themselves and\nhorses. Steam-waggons and stage-coaches, as yet, lay packed up in the\nheads of their inventors; and the traveller, though otherwise in\ncomfortable circumstances, had no other means of conveyance but his own\ntwo legs, and an oaken or hazel staff, with which he urged them onward\nwhen ascending, and prevented them running away with him when descending\nthe hill-side. Thus equipped, he could find lodgings in the first\ncottage which he came to; and, if his mind was not too refined for the\nconversation of simple, social, warm-hearted men, nor his taste too\ndelicate for the \"halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food,\" he could\ngenerally pass the night with tolerable comfort, and very little\nexpense. In this way, many of the most eminent men of the time became\nacquainted with the humble homes and virtuous habits of the peasantry of\ntheir native land; and the information which they thus acquired formed a\nlink of connection between the different classes of society, which the\nprejudices of fashion could never afterwards wholly destroy. But we have\na simple story to narrate, which will sufficiently illustrate the kindly\nhospitality which characterised the poorest of our rural population, and\nthe generous feeling with which the greatest could remember and requite\nthe little services which inclination _induced_, or necessity _forced_,\nthem to accept.\n\nUpon the banks of one of the most beautiful little lakes which is to be\nfound in the Lowlands of Scotland, and not far from the ancient and now\nhalf-forgotten village of Lindores, stand four humble cottages, which\nare still the abodes of men; though, to the eyes of a modern traveller,\ntheir low walls and moss-covered roofs would present the idea of\nsheep-cots or cattle-sheds, rather than that of human habitations. The\nfields around them are now in the highest state of cultivation; and the\ngentle hills with which they are on all sides surrounded, where\ninaccessible to the plough, are, for the most part, covered with\nthriving plantations, which give a sheltered and picturesque appearance\nto the little world in which they are situated. These simple shielings\nseem to have outlasted many of their humble contemporaries, the sites of\nwhich are now only indicated by two or three decaying trees, which, in\nthe greenness of youth, must have beautified the little gardens of sober\nold men, who are long ago in their graves, and shaded the sports of\nchildren, who are now, perhaps, tottering with bleached locks through\nthe crowded streets of some smoky town, forgetful alike of the quiet\nfields upon which they danced away the innocent morning of existence,\nand the spreading trees beneath whose branches they had imitated the\nvoice of the cuckoo, and listened to the song of birds, with spirits as\nlight and musical as their own.\n\nAbout fifty years ago, one of these cottages was occupied by James\nW---- and his wife, a most respectable and industrious pair, whose humble\nvirtues are still remembered with esteem by the elderly part of the\ncommunity in the neighbourhood where they lived. James was a weaver,\nand, like most of his craft at that time, he manufactured his own yarn,\nand sold his own cloth. But, besides this little business, which he\ncarried on for himself, he was often employed by the country people in\nwhat was called customer work. He also farmed a small piece of ground,\nwhich afforded him a healthful occupation in the spring months, and\nsupported a cow, whose produce, to use his own language, \"keepit a fu'\nhouse a' the year round.\"\n\nJames was rather an intelligent man for his station. Besides being\ndeeply versed in all that Biblical knowledge which was then so happily\ncultivated by the labouring class in Scotland, he had read Josephus and\nsome other old historians, whose writings he quoted with so much\npromptness and propriety, that many of his simple listeners believed him\nto be almost inspired, and some of them went even so far as to say that\nhis speech wanted only a little polishing to make him a match for the\nminister. But, though James really possessed a greater amount of\nknowledge than most of those with whom he mingled, he never exhibited\nthat arrogant, overbearing manner, which is too often allied to superior\nabilities. His good-nature was equal to his other acquirements, and he\nwas a special favourite with all who knew him. He could explain an\nabstruse doctrine to the satisfaction of the old gudemen, and enlarge\nwith great animation on the merits of good housewifery, not forgetting,\nin the course of discussion, to pay a delicate compliment to the thrifty\ndames who intrusted him with the manufacturing of their linen. Nor was\nhe less admired by the younger part of the community; for, while the old\nand sober asserted that James was a _canny_ man, and a learned man, the\nyoung and frolicsome assured one another that he was a droll man, and a\nfunny man. On the harvest field he was the very \"soul of all;\" for he\nnever wanted a queer story or a witty jest, to cheer the spirits of his\nfellow-labourers, when they began to flag under the heat and toil of the\nday. His wit, however, was of that quiet, inoffensive kind, which\ndelights those who listen, without wounding the feelings of those upon\nwhom it is exercised. He possessed a happy turn, too, for settling the\ndisputes which frequently arose among the young and fiery spirits\ncomposing the little army of reapers with whom he was engaged. When a\ncompetition, or _campe_, as it was called, occurred, James's mediation\nwas often necessary to reconcile the contending parties to the results\nof the contest; and his talent was seldom exerted in vain. While the\npride of the vanquished brought forth charges of unfair play to cover\nthe shame of defeat, and while these charges were repelled by the\nboasting of the victors, James stepped forward with some humorous\nremark, or displayed some piece of ludicrous mimicry, which overpowered\nthe spirit of contention, and united both parties in a harmonious roar\nof laughter. He was not only umpire in their quarrels, and master of the\nceremonies at their feasts, but chaplain in ordinary at their common\nbreakfasts and dinners among the stooks. Upon these occasions, it was\npleasing to remark the solemnity which prevailed in the usually noisy\nassembly, when James took off his old dimpled hat, and, with a\ndevotional gravity, which contrasted finely with the cheerful expression\nof his ordinary countenance, solicited the blessing of God upon the\nsimple repast of which they were about to partake. If at any time the\nsly winks of some mischievous wag succeeded in raising a titter among\nthe younger part of the company, it was suppressed in a moment; for,\nthough James was extremely good-natured, he was always severe in\nrebuking the conduct of those who showed the least disrespect to\nreligion.\n\nHaving thus given a general account of James's character, we must now\nproceed to narrate a simple anecdote in his life, which we consider\nworthy of being known, not only on account of the generosity of feeling\nwhich it exhibits, but also on account of the opportunity which it\naffords for displaying the genuine simplicity of manners prevailing\namong the class to which he belonged at the period when it occurred.\n\nOne fine afternoon, in the beginning of the winter of 1776, as James was\nbusily employed at his occupation in the shop, Nanny, his wife, entered\nwith a handful of pirns, and a countenance which betokened something of\nimportance. She was evidently in a hurry, and needed her husband's\nassistance; but hesitated about the propriety of asking it.\n\n\"When Jamie's aff the loom,\" said she to herself, \"neither beam-traddles\nnor bore-staff'll budge a single bit; and, if he fa's in wi' onybody by\nthe gate, wha kens when he may come back again?--for the greatest faut\nthat oor Jamie has, is just that he likes a crack owre weel.\"\n\nNotwithstanding of these prudential considerations, Nanny did broach the\nsubject in a most becoming and delicate manner, by asking her husband's\nadvice in her present perplexity.\n\n\"What are we to do noo, Jamie?\" said she, in a rather depressed tone.\n\"There's no a pickle meal i' the barrel; and I hae the cow's supper to\nget in, and the butter to mak, and the bed to mak, and the milk to\n'earn, forby mony a ither thing that _maun_ be done--sae, ye see, I hae\nnae time to gang for meal the nicht.\"\n\n\"Hout, lassie!\" said James, with a smile; \"I'll tell ye what we'll do.\nI'll just get a pock, and set up by to Sandy Laing's for a peck or twa\nto keep oor teeth gaun till oor ain melder come frae the mill.\"\n\n\"Weel, aweel, Jamie,\" said the guidwife, glad to find such a ready\nremedy for all her difficulties. \"If ye'll bring the meal, I'll mak the\nparritch, lad; but it wad hae been a braw thing if we had haen a bit\ncratur o' oor ain to gang an errant like this, and we micht hae been\nmakin something at oor wark i' the time.\"\n\n\"It's very true, lassie,\" said James; \"but, if we hae nae bairn to carry\nmeal, we hae nane to eat it--let's aye be content, woman.\"\n\nJames was soon provided with a clean linen bag, which he deposited in\nhis pocket; and, crossing his arms upon his back, he set off to the\nneighbouring village of Lindores for the necessary supply of meal. As he\nwas proceeding along the ridge of a natural embankment, which forms the\nnorth-eastern boundary of the loch, he saw a well-dressed young man\nadvancing towards him. The stranger seemed to be in a hurry--at least\none might have supposed so from the rapidity of his motion; but he\noccasionally stopped and looked down upon the frozen lake, which\nexpanded to the sky like a mighty mirror for the passing clouds to\nbehold their own shadows in. After gazing for a few minutes, as if he\nhad forgotten the length of his journey in contemplating the beauty of\nthe prospect which extended beneath him, he would start off at a quicker\npace, as if anxious to redeem the time which he had lost in gratifying\nan idle curiosity. When he drew near, James could easily discover, from\nhis superior dress, slender make, and pale, meditative countenance, that\nhe did not belong to that class \"who drudge through wet and dry with\nnever-ceasing toil;\" and, notwithstanding of his itch for conversation,\nhe would have passed the stranger without making any remark upon the\nstate of the weather, the beauty of the scenery, or the antiquities of\nthe parish. But the young man, who seemed to be as inquisitive as James\nwas communicative, addressed him in a tone of frank cordiality, which at\nonce removed every feeling of reserve.\n\nAfter a few questions had been asked and answered, James, recollecting\nhis errand, pulled out the bag which he had received from his wife, and,\nexhibiting it to his new-found acquaintance, remarked--\n\n\"I'm just gaun doon by to Sandy Laing's here, to get twa pecks o' meal;\nand gin ye'll stap at leisure for a wee, I'll gae doon the hill wi' ye,\nand point oot a' the curiosities o' the place by the gate.\"\n\nThe stranger agreed to this proposal, and James marched off with most\nungentlemanly strides to the merchant's, from which he returned in an\nincredibly short time, with his meal on his back, his hat in his hand,\nand his body bent forward several degrees beyond its usual perpendicular\nposition.\n\n\"Ugh!\" said James, as he again came up with the stranger, \"I'm clean oot\no' breath wi' my hurry; but an auld body's blast's sune blawn, and\nthat's a stiff brae to climb wi' a burden; but mine's no a heavy ane.\"\n\n\"Permit me to carry it a bit till you recover yourself,\" said the\nstranger, taking hold of the bag.\n\n\"Na, na, sir,\" said James, laughing. \"I'm muckle obliged--greatly\nobliged, sir; but ye dinna ken the penalty o' carryin a pock o' meal\nyet. Only look at my back, and think hoo sic a melvyin wad suit on your\nfine black coat. It wad mak ye look like a miller athegither; and the\nladies, whan they saw ye neist, wadna ken that it was just yersel again.\nBut I'll gather wund in a wee; and, i' the meantime, as I promised to\ngie ye an account o' the curiosities o' the place, I'll just begin wi'\nthe nearest first; and, I assure ye, if onything short o' real\nrichteousness can hallow the dust o' the earth, we noo stand on hallowed\nground. This very spot where we noo breathe bears the name o' M'Duff's\nHill; and thae auld stumps o' wa's, that ye see lookin oot amang the\ngrass there, are the remains o' what was ance a castle or a palace\nbelangin to the Thanes o' Fife. It wad be a very _unpregnable_ place\nafore the invention o' gunpowther; for ye'll observe that it has\nLindores Loch on the south, the Dog Loch on the wast, the Boistart Loch\non the north, and the Childert Loch on the east; and there's nae doot\nbut they wad hae ditches atween, to prevent their enemies frae gettin in\nupon them by surprise. I could tell ye some fine stories about the\nsieges and battles that hae happened here; but, as it wad tak owre\nmuckle o' yer time, I shall just mention hoo the lochs cam to get their\nnames. About Lindores Loch I need say naething. A'body kens that it's\njust ca'ed after the little towny there, that stands on the north side\no't. But the Dog Loch's rather a darker subject. It's supposed to hae\nderived its name frae the purpose it was devoted to. In auld times, ilka\ngreat chief had twa or three packs o' hounds, for huntin boars, and\ndeers, and men wi'; and it's believed that the dogs frae the castle were\naye driven to that loch to drink, when the chase was done; and the auld\nanes, that were owre sair bursten to rin again, were thrown into the\nmiddle o't, wi' stanes about their necks, to droon. Sae, ye see, frae\nthis circumstance it got the name o' the Dog Loch. The Boistart Loch,\nagain, as ye'll observe, lies atween twa hills; and when the wind blaws\nfrae the east or the wast, it gathers into great gusts i' the glen, and\nmaks the water jaw, and jawp, and foam like a caldron; and for this\nreason it has been ca'ed Boistart, or Boisterous, Loch. But there's a\nbetter story than this connected wi' the name o' the Childert Loch; and\nI aye like to tell't, on account o' the generosity that it displays, and\nthe honour that it reflects upon oor countrywomen, wha, even in the\nmaist savage times, werena athegither withoot some gliffins o' natural\naffection. It was the custom, it seems, in thae rude ages, for the\nleddies to engage in oot-door sports as weel as the men; and a very\ncommon amusement hereabout, wi' mothers and nurses o' a' descriptions,\nwas the drawin o' their bairns, in a sort o' boxes or cradles, upon the\nsmooth ice o' the loch. This diverted the women folk, and exercised the\nlittle anes, wha were thus prepared for the hardships o' the wild life\nthat they afterwards led. Aweel, ae fine winter afternoon, as ane o' the\nbairns' maids frae the castle was pu'in a young Macduff, in a braw\nsilver-mounted cradle, upon the loch, and his mother lookin at them frae\nthe hill here--maybe frae the very place where we noo stand--the ice\nbrak, and doon gaed the cradle, bairn and a', to the bottom o' the loch.\nThe puir lassie, wha stood upon a stronger part o' the ice, and still\nhad the broken leadin-strings in her hand, heard the screams o' the\ndistracted mother, and saw the muddy water risin owre the head o' the\nhelpless wean; and, castin a confused look around, to see if ony\nassistance was at hand, she plunged into the same hole; and, in tryin to\nsave the bairn, lost hersel. The watchman on the castle-tower heard the\nscreams o' the leddy, and saw the melancholy accident; and ae tout o'\nhis horn sent a hunder hardy callants to the place; but they were owre\nlate. The bairn and his nurse were pu'ed oot o' the loch clasped in ane\nanither's arms; but the life had gaen oot o' them baith. It's said,\nhowever, that the body o' the bit lassie wha had perished in tryin to\nsave that young sprout o' nobility received a' the honour that the\ngratitude o' its high-minded parents could confer. The last act o' her\nlife was noble, and she was buried in the same grave wi' the son o'\nMacduff. But, noo that I've recovered my breath, we'll be joggin awa, if\nye like; for ye'll be clean wearied oot wi' waitin upon an auld man's\nhavers.\"\n\n\"I assure you I am not,\" said the stranger. \"I have been much delighted\nwith your recital; and I shall never think that time lost which is spent\nlistening to such interesting anecdotes. But, pray, what is the name of\nthat old, grey-roofed house upon the bank, at the western extremity of\nthe loch?\"\n\n\"Ou, that's just oor auld kirk,\" said James; \"and a very venerable\nbiggin it is, too. It was ance a Roman Catholic chapel; but the altar\nand the images hae been a' demolished; and the only vestige o'\nsuperstition that remains noo is the cross upon the riggin, and the\njugs, and a stane basin for the holy water, in the porch. But that's a\nfine, solemn situation, ye'll alloo, for a kirk; and that's a bonny\nburying-ground around it, too. It's just a pleasure to puir bodies like\nme to think that they hae a claim to sic a quiet inheritance, when a'\nthe toils and troubles o' life are past.\"\n\n\"Tis indeed a sweetly-retired spot,\" said the stranger; \"and it wants\nonly that 'cheerless, unsocial plant,' the sepulchral yew, to make it\naccord exactly to the description given by Gray in these beautiful\nlines of the Elegy--\n\n    'Beneath these rugged elms--that yew-tree's shade,\n      Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,\n    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,\n      The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.'\"\n\n\"The description agrees unco weel, sir,\" said James; \"for mony a sober\nChristian and mony a royit callant lie thegither below yon grassy divot,\nwithoot bein sensible o' the company they keep. But, noo that we're\nspeakin o' kirks, gin y'll just turn a wee bit to the richt wi' me, I'll\nlet ye see a kirk construckit by the hands o' the _Creawtor_ himsel;\nand, I'm sure, he has been mony a time as devootly worshipped there as\never he was in temples built by human hands.\"\n\nThe distance was but a few steps out of the way; and, as the stranger\nwas enthusiastic in his desire to see every curiosity, he readily agreed\nto accompany James to the place. They accordingly turned into a narrow\nfootpath, which diverged to the right, and winded among the gorse in a\nmore southerly direction. The lake, which had been for some time\nconcealed by a shoulder of the hill, again appeared; and the hill\nitself, divided into two ridges--forming a capacious amphitheatre,\ncovered by smooth grass, and surrounded on all sides by tall broom and\nimpenetrable furze. At the head or northern end of this dingle, the\nground rises into a mound of considerable height and regularity of form;\nand from this mound the prospect in all directions is unobstructed and\nextensive.\n\n\"There,\" said James, \"is the kirk o' the Covenanters; and mony a guid\nsermon has been preached there, in defiance o' the winter's cauld and\nthe summer's heat, and the persecution o' cruel men, that was waur to\nbide than them baith. In that howe stood the minister, upon a muckle\nstane that has been lang syne removed; and the congregation sat upon the\nbrae around him. The sentry stood upon this knowe here, at yer richt\nhand; and it still bears the name o' the Watchman's Tower. His business,\nas ye'll maybe ken, was to watch for the appearance o' an enemy, and gie\nwarnin to the preacher and his hearers to provide for their safety, by\nstandin to their arms or takin to their heels. Mony a time I picture to\nmysel the confusion that wad tak place amang the women folk, when a\nparty o' wild dragoons were seen scamperin in this direction. I think I\nhear the watchman fire his gun, as he rins to the congregation; I think\nI see the minister faulding up the Word o' God, and descendin to his\naudience wi' the composed dignity o' ane that has settled his account\nwi' time, and is prepared to dee for the doctrines he has advanced; then\nthere is the animatin address that he delivers to his little flock, as\nthey gather around him, wi' their swords in their richt hand, and their\nBibles in the left; the tears o' their greetin wives, and dochters, and\nsisters, and sweethearts, fa'in thick as a simmer shower, while they\nstand tremblin and sabbin, and pleadin wi' their freens to flee frae the\ndangers o' the comin storm. I think I see them wringin their hands and\nrivin their hair wi' agony, when their entreaties are answered by the\ndeliberate determination o' the auld, and the fiery resolution o' the\nyoung, wi' the fearfu assurance that they will conquer or dee. I think I\nsee that little company o' matrons and maidens retirin slowly frae the\nscene o' confusion; while aye noo and then some kind-hearted youth, wha\nconvoys and comforts them, fa's oot frae the band, and rins back to the\nranks. Then they begin singin a hymn o' praise to the God o' battles,\nwha is able to withstand the powerfu, and protect the oppressed; and\nimmediately--when the crack o' the guns and the clang o' the swords has\nconvinced them that the deadly wark is indeed begun--they are kneelin\ndoon on the grass, wi' their een turned up to heaven, and sabbin oot\nwordless prayers for the success and the safety o' their freens; there\nis that little band o' heroes, noo broken and driven back by superior\nnumbers, noo rallyin around their leader, and returnin to the charge wi'\na shout o' triumph that maks a' the hills ring; they are noo ance mair\nrepulsed, and nearly borne down by the heavy onset o' their mair skilfu\nenemies--and, just as my heart begins to tremble for their sakes, I hear\nthe cheers o' a fresh reinforcement o' countrymen, and see their swords\nbrandishin owre the brae, as they rush down to the assistance o' their\nfreens, wha welcome them to the ranks wi' the inspirin war-cry o' the\nparty, 'God and oor country!' The bluidy persecutors are at last broken\nand dispersed afore the irresistible charge o' the united _pawtriots_;\nand, while they are scamperin frae the field wi' mony a toom saddle in\ntheir train, the victors are busy, devoutly offerin up thanks to Heaven\nfor the battle they hae won.\n\n\"But this is no a', sir. I think I see the women folk returnin to the\nscene o' strife, to lament owre the dead, and to administer consolation\nto the deein. There is a puir widow supportin the lifeless head o' her\nhusband--kissin his bluidy lips i' the agonies o' her grief, and strivin\nto close the gapin wounds, that gie nae mair pain to the body that bears\nthem; a beautifu and an affectionate dochter kneelin by the side o' her\nexpirin parent, twinin her arms around his neck, and droonin wi' her\nbitter lamentations the deep groans o' the deein man; a band o' sisters\nare noo endeavourin to bear awa the dead body o' a fair-haired striplin,\nwha had been the pride o' their family, and the joy o' their hearts; and\nthere is ane there wha, though nae relation to the youth, feels his fate\nmair deeply than the nearest o' his kin; upon her pale face there is a\nfearfu struggle between modesty and grief--the last overcomes, and,\nforgetfu o' the presence o' ony but the dead, she clasps him in her\narms, while her breast heaves and sabs like ane wha is suffocatin wi\nsome unutterable feelin! Then there are her neebors, wha never kenned\nonything o' her affections, till death had divulged them, remarkin, in\nthe language o' Scripture, 'Behold how she loved him!' But, 'deed, sir,\nI maun hae dune; for ye'll be like to think that I've gane clean daft\nathegither wi' sae muckle nonsense; and I maun confess, that, when I get\non thae auld stories, I haena guid gettin aff them again.\"\n\n\"I just think,\" said the stranger, \"that, if you _had_ lived in the days\nof the Covenant, you would have been a most inveterate conventicler;\nand, to confess a truth, had I lived at the same period, I would most\nlikely have been found in the same ranks; for, ere I arrived at that age\nwhen men are ashamed to cry, I often wept most heartily over the\nsufferings of the poor hillmen. But night approaches; and, as I suppose\nI have a long way to go before I can get a bed, I would thank you to\ndirect me the nearest road to Cupar.\"\n\n\"To Cupar, sir?\" said James, in surprise. \"Ye dinna surely intend to\ngang to Cupar this nicht?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the stranger; \"I only intend to go as far as the first\npublic-house where I can find accommodation for the night; but that will\nnot be just at hand, I believe.\"\n\n\"Atweel no, sir,\" said James; \"for there's no a public-house on the road\nto Cupar nearer than John Denmill's--and that's at Easter Fernie a' the\ngate. But John's a queer chap, and he _will_ divert ye, if ye ance get\nthere.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the stranger, \"a good fire, a good supper, and a jolly\nlandlord, make the best entertainment for a traveller on a winter\nevening.\"\n\nOur two friends proceeded for a short distance farther together; and\nbefore they parted, James not only gave the young man the best\ninstructions he could with respect to the road, but also invited him to\ncome to his cottage, which was just at hand, and partake of some bread\nand cheese, assuring him at the same time \"that he wad get nae meat on\nthe hill, and that his guidwife wad be as proud as a duchess to hae sic\na guest under her roof.\"\n\nThe stranger thanked James most heartily for his kindness, but civilly\ndeclined the offered entertainment. They parted with mutual esteem.\nJames went home with his meal, and the stranger went on his way.\n\nBy this time the sun had sunk to the verge of the horizon, and the sky,\nwhich had been previously clear, began to overcast. A fresh gale, too,\nsprung up from the east, and blew full in the stranger's face. Night was\napproaching fast; and he had five miles to travel upon an intricate\nhilly road, before he could reach any place of shelter. The moon, upon\nwhich he had depended for light, now threatened to be of little service;\nfor though she occasionally burst upon his eye through the ragged edges\nof the driving clouds, it was but a momentary flash, which deepened,\ninstead of dissipating the surrounding darkness. He buttoned his coat,\ndrew his hat closer down upon his head, and made all the speed he could\nagainst the tempest, which now blew so violently that it sometimes\nbrought him to a dead stand; and notwithstanding of his perilous\ncircumstances, he could not refrain from laughing at himself, as he\nstruggled with the viewless element which opposed his progress, and\nwhistled defiance to his vengeance.\n\nHe at length came to a place where the road divided, and, turning his\nback to the storm, he stood for a few minutes to recollect the\ninstructions which he had received from his late guide. A number of\nlittle lights now caught his eye, twinkling from the cottage windows in\nthe vale below; and as he again proceeded on his way, he could not help\nlooking back, and indulging a momentary feeling of envy over the\ncondition of those who were sitting warm and dry by their own firesides,\nwhile he was toiling amid the tempest. The poorest inhabitants of these\ncottages, thought he, are, for the present, blessed, when compared with\nme. They possess all the comforts of home, and perhaps do not appreciate\ntheir worth, while I am destitute of all but a deep knowledge of the\nvalue of what I do not possess.\n\nAs he advanced, the lights began to disappear. He seemed to have passed\nbeyond the limits of the inhabited country, and nothing was to be seen\nbut an uncertain road before him, and darkness on every side. The storm\ngrew wilder, and the doubtful path, which he had previously pursued,\nterminated in a number of little tracks, which diverged in all\ndirections among the furze, as if they had been formed by a flock of\nsheep scattered over the hill in search of their pasture. He tried to\nretrace his steps, in the supposition that he had taken the wrong road;\nbut a blinding shower of snow came driving with the wind, and concealed\nevery object which might have guided him in his return. He became\ncompletely bewildered, and every moment increased his confusion. The\nsnow began to drift; and all the stories that he had ever heard of\nbenighted travellers lost among the hills rushed into his mind with\npainful distinctness. He began to run in the direction, as he supposed,\nof the little hamlets which he had passed in the afternoon; but his feet\ngot entangled among the gorse and broom which covered the hill, and he\nfell several times at full length among the snow. He stood still and\nlistened, with the faint expectation that he might hear some sound which\nwould lead him to the abodes of men. Something tinkled at a distance,\nbetween the gusts of the storm, like the ringing of a bell. He\nimmediately shaped his course by the sound, and was glad to hear that it\ngrew louder as he advanced. Though he could not conjecture the purpose\nof a bell in that deserted region, yet such it certainly was; and, as no\nbell will ring without motion, he trusted to find some one who would be\nable to direct him to a place of shelter. But, after he had walked for a\nconsiderable time, at his utmost speed, he found himself very little\nnearer the object of his pursuit, which seemed to retire as fast as he\nadvanced. He again began to run, and soon had the satisfaction to find\nhimself within a very few yards of the sound; but still he could not\nperceive the object from which it proceeded. The mysterious bellringer\nseemed to increase his speed, as if he had discovered a pursuer, and\ndetermined to elude his grasp.\n\nThe stranger was out of breath; he paused to listen. The bell still\nrung, and still retired, though at a less rapid rate. He had never\nbelieved in ghosts nor fairies; but this mysterious phenomenon seemed to\nconfirm his nurse's tales, and make \"chimeras true.\" He was not one,\nhowever, who would shrink from phantoms without evidence of their\nexistence.\n\n\"Honest, honest, Iago!\" said he, quoting Shakspere,\n\n    'If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.'\n\nBut, devil or ghost, I will hunt thee to thy den, and if I can overtake\nthee, I will tread thee under my feet.\"\n\nSo saying, he renewed the chase, and, in a few minutes, the bell was\nagain jingling at a fearful rate, almost among his feet. He called out\nto the flying mystery to stop and speak with him. No answer was made;\nbut his words seemed to produce some effect; for in a moment more the\nbell was off in another direction, tinkling and jingling as loudly as\never.\n\n\"You shall not escape me thus,\" said the stranger, who had quite\nforgotten his own bewildered condition in his earnestness to discover\nthe cause of this unaccountable noise.\n\nHe again turned, and followed the bell with his utmost speed; and, after\na long pursuit, and many doublings and windings among the broom, he at\nlength tumbled over some soft body, which rolled among his feet. He\ngrasped it in his arms and listened. The bell had ceased to jingle, and\nnothing was to be heard but the howling of the wind and the rustling of\nthe drift.\n\n\"I have you now, my boy,\" said the stranger; \"and I will bring you to a\nsevere reckoning for all this sport.\"\n\n\"Bae!\" cried the terrified bellringer, struggling to escape from the\nrude grasp which held him.\n\n\"Bae!\" said the stranger, imitating the voice of the animal. \"What a\nsilly pursuit I have been engaged in! But I am glad to find that I am\nnot alone on these wild hills in this wild night.\"\n\nThe young man's knowledge of rural economy convinced him that he had\nchased from his companions a poor sheep, who had been intrusted with a\nbell about his neck, as was the custom in many parts of the country, to\nenable the shepherd to discover his flock in the morning. The adventure\nof the renowned Don Quixote occurred to his mind, and he could not help\nlaughing at himself even in the midst of his misery.\n\nBoth the sheep and the man were completely exhausted, and they lay still\ntogether for some time among the snow; but the piercing blast and the\ngathering drift soon convinced the latter that he must either renew his\nexertions, or perish with his fleecy companion beneath the accumulating\nheap. He accordingly started up, and proceeded--he knew not where. His\nimagination became haunted with the horrors of his condition, and the\nidea\n\n    \"Of covered pits unfathomably deep,\n      A dire descent, beyond the reach of frost;\n    Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,\n      Smoothed up with snow\"--\n\n'so paralysed his powers that he could scarcely move. But again\n\n              \"The thoughts of home\n    Rush'd on his nerves, and call'd their vigour forth.\"\n\nHe now found himself descending the hill-side; but whether it was the\nsame side which he had ascended, or some other, he could not conjecture.\nBy this time the snow had accumulated to a considerable depth in the\nhollows; and he frequently plunged into it up to the middle before he\nwas aware. He pulled out his watch to try if he could ascertain the\nhour; but he could not. He tried his voice, in the hope that some one\nmight hear him, and come to his assistance; but his feeble cry died away\nunanswered upon the blast. His situation was a desperate one, and he\nresolved to make one desperate effort more for existence. He turned his\nback to the storm, determined to run before it as far as he was able;\nand, should he perish, if possible to perish upon his feet. He had not\nproceeded far, however, when he tumbled over a steep bank, and rolled\nfrom hillock to hillock till he reached the bottom of the den in a state\nof insensibility. When he again recovered, he found himself beneath the\nstorm, stretched among the undrifted snow, which was lying about a foot\ndeep around him, while close by his side a brawling stream was dashing\nover the large stones which, like him, had rolled down the hill, and\nrested in the bottom of the glen. \"Here,\" thought the stranger, \"I have\nat last found a place where I may die in peace; and it is, perhaps,\nbetter to give up the struggle, then again to rush into the tempest only\nto perish beneath its pitiless pelting.\"\n\nWhat were his religious feelings in the prospect of death we know not;\nbut his home and his friends, the grief which his early fate would\noccasion, and the melancholy satisfaction which they would derive from\nbestowing the last rites upon his lifeless remains, were present to his\nimagination. And, lest they should be deprived of the performance of\nthese sadly-pleasing duties, by the ignorance of those who found him, he\npulled out his pocket-book, and endeavoured to write his own name, with\nthe name of his father's farm, and the name of the parish in which it\nwas situated.\n\nWhile thus engaged, in that\n\n    \"Hopeless certainty of mind\n      Which makes us feel at length resign'd\n    To _that_ which our foreboding years\n      Presents the worst and last of fears,\"\n\nthe deep sonorous sound of a well-blown horn fell upon his ears, and\nroused him to fresh exertions. He had crossed the burn and clambered to\nthe top of the bank before the blast had ceased; and, as he endeavoured\nto fix the direction of the sound, the horn was again winded. It seemed\nnot to be very distant. Hope invigorated his weary limbs, and he dashed\nthrough the opposing wreaths as stoutly as if his toils had been only\nnewly begun. Another blast was blown, and he continued to run upon the\nsound till it ceased, and it was not again repeated.\n\nHe recollected that it was common for the farmers, in many parts of\nScotland, to blow a horn at eight o'clock on the winter evenings, for\nthe purpose of warning their servants to attend to the suppering of the\nhorses; and he hoped that, if he could keep to the proper direction,\nthis might lead him to some hospitable farmhouse, where he would soon\nforget the horrors of the storm before a comfortable fire. He now\nproceeded more leisurely, striving not to deviate from the course which\nthe horn had induced him to take; and keeping a sharp look-out on all\nsides, and an intense attention to every sound, in the expectation that\nsome cottage light might twinkle upon his eye, or some human voice reach\nhis ear, in the intervals of the deafening blast. But still he could\ndiscover no sight nor sound of man; and the shifting tempest, which\nattacked him from every direction, soon confounded all his ideas of time\nand distance. In some places, too, the snow had accumulated in such\nimmense masses, that he could not pass through them; and the circuits\nwhich he was obliged to make tended farther to confuse his mind. His\nspirits again began to sink, and his limbs to falter; and that sluggish\nindifference which follows the extinction of hope again took possession\nof his senses. But, while he was dragging himself onward with slow and\nfeeble steps, a new and extraordinary noise broke upon his ear. He stood\nstill and listened; but he could not conjecture the cause of it. It\nseemed to mingle with, and yet it was different from, the ravings of the\nstorm. It proceeded from one quarter, and remained steadily in one\nplace. There was a mingling of sounds, like the dashing of waves, the\nrushing of winds, and the jingling of a thousand little bells,\naccompanied occasionally by a harsh, guttural cry, like that which is\nemitted by a band of wild geese when disturbed in their \"watery haunt.\"\n\nThough this mysterious noise was more appalling than attractive, and\nthough it promised neither rest nor shelter to the stranger, yet it\noperated upon his curiosity, and induced him to continue his exertions.\nThe terrific sounds grew louder and louder as he advanced. The clouds of\nsnow, which were every moment dashed into his face, prevented him from\nseeing more than a few yards before him; and an involuntary shudder\npassed over his frame, as he thought that he might even now be toppling\nupon the brink of some dreadful gulf, and that another step might\nprecipitate him into destruction. Something terrible was certainly at\nhand; but what was the nature of the danger was beyond his powers of\nconception.\n\nThe unaccountable noise, which was now thundering beneath him, resembled\nmost the dashing of a cataract, or the roaring of the ocean, when its\nfar-accumulated waves are broken into foaming madness among hidden\nrocks. He stood still, and gazed intently in the direction of the sound.\n\nThe storm abated a little in its violence, and he thought he could\nperceive a black expanse at a little distance stretching out before him.\nHe advanced a few steps nearer it. It was tossing in fearful commotion,\nand here and there streaked with lines, and dotted with patches of\nwhite. It was evidently water; but whether lake, river, or ocean, was\nall a mystery.\n\n\"Can it be possible,\" thought he, \"that the storm has insensibly driven\nme in the right direction? Do I now stand among the rocks that look down\nupon the breaker-beaten bay of St Andrews? Or have I returned again to\nthe banks of the Tay? Or can this be the little loch which I passed in\nthe afternoon, and which then lay stretched out in frozen tranquillity\nbeneath me?\"\n\nHis heart grew sick and his brain dizzy with conjecture. He turned away\nfrom the stunning scene with a shiver of despair. A strange sense of\ntorpidity and madness passed along his nerves--it was the confused\nenergy of an active soul, struggling with the numbedness of exhausted\nnature. The snow seemed to swim around him--his eyes became heavy, and,\nwhen he closed them, numberless phantoms seemed to pass before him, like\nfigures in a dream. In this state of drowsy insensibility, he lost for a\ntime all recollection of his sufferings--his blood began to stagnate in\nhis veins, and the icy coldness of death was stealing over his\nextremities, when a covey of wild ducks swept past, and their short,\nsharp cries startled him again into consciousness of his condition. When\nhe opened his eyes, a faint light seemed to be glimmering from a\nhill-side about a hundred yards above him. It was now seen, and now\nlost, as the clouds of drift passed between him and the place from which\nit issued. But still it was there; and its dim, shadowy lustre was to\nhim like life to the dead. Hope again returned to his heart, and\nanimation to his limbs; and in a few minutes he had reached the window\nof a little cottage, which was so completely drifted up with snow on all\nsides save that on which he stood, that any one might have passed in\nbroad daylight without supposing it to be a human habitation.\n\nThe stranger looked in at the window. The fire, which was composed of\npeats, had been covered up with ashes to prevent them from wasting\nthrough the night; but, by this time, the small dust had passed through\nthe grate, and there only remained a little heap of live embers, which\ncast a sombre glow around the interior of the cottage. The family were\nin bed. The stranger rapped gently on the window, and then listened for\nan answer; but nothing stirred. He rapped a little louder, and again\nlistened.\n\n\"What's that, Jamie?\" said a female voice within.\n\n\"Hoch, hoch, hey!\" said another, yawning and stretching out his arms\nfrom the same box or bed, as if to relieve them from the uneasiness of\nlying long in one position. It was evident that the voice of the first\nspeaker had awakened the second, without communicating to his mind the\npurport of the question, which was again repeated.\n\n\"What was that Jamie?\"\n\n\"What was _what_, lassie?\" said the wondering husband. \"I see naething\nby ordinar.\"\n\n\"Man,\" returned the guidwife, \"did you no hear yon awfu rattle at the\nwindock? My flesh's a' creepin, for I fear something no canny's aboot\nthe back o' the hoose. It was just like the noise that was heard at\nWilly Patty's windock last year afore his mither dee'd.\"\n\n\"Havers, lassie; ye've just been dreamin,\" said the guidman, who was\nanxious to quiet his partner's fears, though he was not altogether free\nfrom some tremours himself.\n\nThe stranger gave another rap.\n\n\"Hear ye that, then, Jamie?\" said the guidwife. \"It's no sic a dream, I\ntrow; for that's something awfu.\"\n\n\"Deed is't,\" said James, who was now convinced that the \"rattle\" was not\nquite so terrible as it had been represented; \"it's an awfu thing for\nony puir body to be oot in sic a nicht as this; but let's be thankfu,\nNanny, that we hae a roof to hap oorsels frae the storm, and a door to\nlet a hooseless body in at.\"\n\nJames flung himself around, and disentangled his feet from the\nbedclothes, with the intention of going immediately to admit the\nstranger; but, ere he got away from the bedside, his \"better half\" laid\nhold of him, and cried out, in great perturbation--\n\n\"Stop, Jamie--stop, I beseech ye; and consider weel what ye're aboot;\nfor ye ken that, forby the danger o' robbers and rascals, the evil\nspirits just delight to range aboot in sic a nicht as this, like roarin\nlions, seekin wham they may devour; and wha kens what may come owre ye,\nif ye pit yersel i' their merciment.\"\n\n\"Havers, woman!\" said James again; \"let me go, I tell ye; for I'll speak\nat the windock, and spier if he wants shelter, though it war auld Satan\nhimsel.\"\n\nNanny relaxed her grasp; but she seemed determined that the guidman\nshould encounter no danger which she did not take a share of; and she\ntoo sprung to the floor, and followed him to the window.\n\n\"Wha's there?\" cried James, in a voice that showed he was neither to be\n_cowed_ by fiends, fairies, ghosts, nor men.\n\n\"A bewildered stranger,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Weel,\" said James, \"a great stranger may be a great villain; but, for\na' that, if I understand my Bible richtly, the words, 'I was a stranger\nand ye took me in,' will never be addressed to ane wha has the hard\nheart to refuse a hameless wanderer the shelter o' his roof in sic a\nnicht as this. Sae just gang ye aboot to the tither side o' the hoose,\nand come alang the fore wa' a' the gate, till ye find the door, and I'll\nlet ye in.\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" said the stranger.\n\nNanny, who now discovered that the object of all her fears was neither\nghost nor goblin, but a conversable and civil creature of her own\nspecies, thought that her husband might be safely trusted in his\npresence without her support; and she accordingly returned again to her\nbed.\n\nJames lighted the lamp, and went to admit the stranger; but, when he\nopened the door, he opened no passage for his entrance. A solid wall of\nsnow still separated the guidman and his intended guest.\n\n\"Preserve's a'!\" cried the former, \"that's been an awfu' nicht, indeed.\nThe door's drifted up to the lintel; and there's no a hole i' the hale\nhicht o't, that a mouse could creep oot or in through. Are ye aye there\nyet, freen?\" (addressing the stranger, who answered in the affirmative.)\n\"Aweel, aweel,\" he continued, \"ye maun just content yersel awhile or I\nget a spade and try and mak some oot-gate in't.\"\n\nJames got a spade, and commenced to delve the snow into the passage,\nbetween the _hallant_ and the outer door; but he had no sooner broken\ndown a part of the barrier, than the insidious drift entered the\naperture, and, getting under his shirt, which was the only garment he\nhad on, it whirled about his bare legs. He persisted for awhile, but his\npowers of perseverance ultimately forsook him. He flung down the spade,\nand, as every gust of wind brought a fresh volley of snow whistling\nabout his ankles, he leaped as high as the henroost, which formed the\nceiling of the lobby, would permit.\n\n\"Preserve's a', that's dreadfu!\" he at length cried out, making a most\nmagnificent jump at the same time. \"Flesh and bluid canna endure\nthat--it wad gar a horse swither. Ye'll just hae to thole awee till I\nget my claes on, lad.\"\n\nJames bounded into the house, and commenced immediately to get his\nshivering limbs conducted into the proper openings of a pair of canvas\ntrousers. But this was no easy task. He had got one foot in, and the\nother within a few inches of the entrance, when his great toe unluckily\ngot entangled in one of the pockets of the garment, and, as he was\nstriving to preserve his equilibrium, by hopping through the house\nbackwards upon one leg, the stranger, who had forced himself through\nthe aperture which he had made in the doorway, entered like a moving\nmass of snow. James at length succeeded, by the support of the bed,\nwhich happily resisted his retrograde movement, in getting on his\nclothes; and then all his attention was directed to the comfort of his\nguest.\n\n\"Dear me, man,\" said he, taking hold of the stranger's arm with the one\nhand, and a broom with the other, \"ye'll need hauf-an-hoor's soopin\nafore we get a sicht o' ye. I'm sure ye're unco far frae comfortable\nbelow that wread o' snaw.\"\n\nAs the stranger was standing before the fire, while James was\nendeavouring to clear away the snow from his neck and shoulder, the\nsudden change of temperature which he had experienced, expanding the\nfluids faster than the vessels which contained them, produced in his\nextremities that agonising sensation which is more forcibly expressed by\nthe Scottish word _dinnling_, than by any other word with which we are\nacquainted. Sickness and pain overpowered his exhausted nerves. His eyes\nturned wildly up to the roof of the cottage. He gave one suffocating\ngasp for breath, and sank senseless upon the floor. James seized him in\nhis arms, and called out to his wife--\n\n\"O Nanny, Nanny, woman! get up and help's here! The puir callant's fa'en\ninto a drow, and I'm feared he's gaun to dee upon our hands athegither.\nGet up, woman, and let's try if onything can be dune to bring him aboot\nagain.\"\n\nNanny sprang up at the call of her husband; and, seizing the stranger by\nthe hand, cried out--\n\n\"Preserve us a', Jamie! he's perfectly perishin'; his hand is as cauld\nand stiff as the poker. I maun get on the kettle and heat some water to\nthaw the snaw aff him.\"\n\n\"Na, na,\" cried James, \"that wad mak him waur, woman. Rin ye to the door\nand get a gowpen o' snaw, and rub his hands wi' _it_ and a rough clout\ntime aboot, and sprinkle some cauld water in his face, and he'll may be\nsune come till himsel again.\"\n\n\"Jamie,\" said the guidwife, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, \"the lad's\ngotten owre muckle snaw and cauld water already; that's just what's the\nmatter wi' him. I maun hae up the fire and get something warm till 'im.\"\n\n\"Ye're haverin, Nanny,\" said James, who was too much agitated to be\nrespectful. \"Gang ye and get the snaw, I tell ye; for ye understand\nnaething o' the matter.\"\n\n\"Aweel, aweel, then,\" said Nanny, \"ye hae mair skill o' doctory than me,\nJamie; but it's a very unnatural-like cure, to rub cauld snaw on a man\nperishin' wi' the cauld.\"\n\nNanny got the snow, and commenced the operation with great activity,\nwhile James reached his hand to a pitcher which was standing near, and\nsprinkled a few drops of water in the stranger's face. He soon began to\nshow some symptoms of returning animation, and James earnestly\ninquired--\n\n\"How are ye yet? Are ye better noo?\"\n\nAfter a considerable pause, the stranger replied, as if the question had\nonly then reached him--\n\n\"I'm better now, I thank you!\"\n\n\"God be praised that it's sae!\" said James. \"Gie him a drink, Nanny,\nwoman, and he'll be a' richt in a wee again.\"\n\nNanny brought some water, and, while she was endeavouring to pour it\ninto the stranger's mouth, James got a full view of his face, and cried\nout--\n\n\"He's the very young gentleman that I cam doon the hill wi' this\nafternoon. Dear me, what a nicht he's had, wanderin amang the drift sin\nyon time!\"\n\n\"He's a bonny laddie at ony rate,\" said Nanny, looking close into his\nface, \"Ye'll no grudge to let him get some heat noo, Jamie. Help me aff\nwi' his coat and his shoon; and we'll just coup him inowre in oor ain\nwarm bed, here.\"\n\n\"That's weel thocht on,\" said James. \"I canna say but ye hae sometimes a\ngliffin o' sense aboot ye, Nanny.\"\n\nThe stranger soon recovered so far as to be able to put off his own\nclothes; and though he remonstrated strongly against taking possession\nof the honest couple's bed, they would not be resisted in their\nkindness; and he was obliged to comply. Nanny now took the management of\nthe patient wholly into her own hands; and, as she had all her life\nconsidered heat the only remedy for a man perishing with cold, she began\nto make preparations for applying her own cure. She stirred the fire,\nsupplied it with fresh fuel, laid a brick across it on each side, and\nplaced a panful of water between them. She then took James's leather\napron, and folded it so as to form a substitute for a fan; and with it\nshe blew the slumbering embers into flaming activity. In a very short\ntime the bricks were _red_, and the water boiling hot. The former were\nimmersed in water, and then wrapped up in flannel, and laid to the\nstranger's feet and breast; the latter was converted into gruel, which,\nthough not very thirsty, he drank with a very good appetite--having\nmissed his supper that night on the hill.\n\n\"Noo, sir,\" said Nanny, \"ye maun just lie doon and try if ye can get a\ngloffen o' sleep; for I'll warrant ye're baith tired and drowsy, after\nsic a wrastle amang the snaw. Gin ye want onything, Jamie and me'll just\nbe sittin at the ingle here; but we'll mak nae din to disturb ye.\"\n\nThus heated within and without, the stranger soon lost all recollection\nof his wanderings, in a deep and refreshing sleep.\n\n    \"The storm without micht rair and rustle,\n    _He_ didna mind the storm a whustle.\"\n\nJames betook himself to his old companion, Josephus; and Nanny sat down\nby the other side of the fire, and resumed her evening's employment,\nwhich had been the knitting of a pair of stockings for the guidman. She\nnow felt all a mother's anxiety for the comfort of the stranger; and she\nfrequently rose and peeped into the bed, to see how he rested; then\nreturned to her husband, with a smile, and whispered into his ear--\n\n\"The lad's sleepin as sound as a tap, yet.\"\n\nThe night passed away; and by the time that daylight dawned down the\n_lum_--the little windows being drifted up with the snow--Nanny had\nprepared a warm breakfast for the stranger, the guidman, and herself. It\nconsisted of oatmeal porridge, served up in two wooden platters, with a\njugful of milk and three horn spoons set down on the table between them.\nNanny now awakened the stranger by asking how he had rested. She then\ntook his clothes, which had been carefully dried and warmed before the\nfire; and, handing them into the bed, which had to serve the purpose of\na dressing-room also, she closed the lids--remarking, that \"the parritch\nwas ready; and it wad be better to sup them afore they got owre cauld.\"\nThe stranger dressed, and took a seat beside his kind entertainers.\nJames asked a blessing, apologised for the coarseness of the fare, and\ndespatched his portion of the repast in shorter time than a fashionable\neater would take to stir about his coffee and crack the shell of his\negg. It occurred to Nanny that she might make the porridge more\nagreeable to the stranger's delicate taste, by giving him cream, instead\nof milk, to sup them with. She accordingly brought her evening's\n_meltith_, and skimmed it into his dish, remarking, at the same time--\n\n\"Ye'll no like oor coorse way o' livin, sir; but hunger's guid kitchen,\nthey say, and that's no ill sap, I think, for it was just drawn frae the\ncoo yestreen.\" The stranger assured her that he liked the dish\nexceedingly well; and Nanny added--\"Ye'll be used to drappies o' tea, I\nwarrant; but we haena had ootower twa brewins i' the hoose sin we were\nmarried; and, though a wee sirple o't may do brawly when the sap's\nscarce, yet I aye thocht that it was an unco feckless sort o' a diet,\nfor a manbody especially.\"\n\nAfter breakfast, the young student (for such was the stranger) gave his\nentertainers an account of his wildered wanderings on the hill, as we\nhave already narrated them; and James explained all the mysteries which\nhe had met to his entire satisfaction. We shall only give his exposition\nof the last; namely, the fearful minglings of sounds which had alarmed\nhim so much when he approached the lake. These were occasioned by the\nbreaking up of the ice, which, driven ashore in innumerable fragments by\nthe wind, rose and fell with every wave, making a confused tinkling,\nlike the ringing of a thousand little bells.\n\nThe storm had now abated; and, though the roads in many places were\nentirely blocked up, by keeping along the high ground it was possible\nfor a person on foot to pursue his journey. The stranger, who was\ntravelling to the College of St. Andrews, prepared to depart. He offered\nNanny such a sum of money as he could spare, in acknowledgement of her\nkindness; but she refused it.\n\n\"Na, sir!\" said she, \"we'll hae nae reward. Only look what a dad o' a\nstockin I've wrocht, that wadna been wrocht gin ye hadna been here; and\nthe guidman's gotten as muckle lear oot o' that auld book, as may ser'\nhim for a twalmonth to crack aboot; sae, ye see, we hae made some profit\no' yer visit, forby a' the pleasure o' yer company.\"\n\nJames also refused money; and still further enhanced his kindness, by\naccompanying the stranger to the top of the hill, where he gave him the\nbest directions with respect to the road, and bade him an affectionate\nfarewell.\n\nMany years after this, a medical student from the neighbourhood was\nattending the lectures of the celebrated Dr. B---- of Edinburgh, who one\nevening intimated a desire to speak with him after the class was\ndismissed. He accordingly waited, and the doctor opened the conversation\nby inquiring if he knew an individual of the name of James W----, who\nlived near the village of Lindores. He was answered in the affirmative.\n\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, \"I owe my life to the exertions of that old man\nand his wife; and I received my first lessons in medical science from\nthem. When I was a student at the College of St. Andrews, I lost my way\namong the hills, and was nearly smothered among the snow. I at last\ndiscovered their cottage, and was kindly admitted. Like all good knights\nof _misventure_, I fainted and fell down upon the floor. James and his\nwife held a consultation over me, and I afterwards came to learn that\neven here 'doctors differed.' James was an Emperic, and argued from\nexperience, or experiment, that cold water and friction was the best\nremedy for numbed fingers. Nanny adhered to the Dogmatics, and inferred,\nfrom reason and nature, that heat was the best application for driving\naway cold.\n\n\"Thus Epilogism and Dogmatism contended in the mouths of people who had\nprobably never heard of the names of Aristotle and Plato in their lives.\nBut, in my case, both the systems were adopted with advantage. I was\nresuscitated by the empiric with cold, and recovered by the theorist\nwith heat. And, what is more wonderful still, my kind physicians, unlike\nall other members of the profession, refused to take any fee. But they\nare not forgotten. They cast their bread upon the water, and they shall\nfind it again after many days.\"\n\nWe shall only add, that in a short time after this James received an\nelegant silver-mounted snuff-box, bearing the following\ninscription:--\"From Dr B---- to James W----. 'I was a stranger, and ye\ntook me in.'\"\n\nNanny at the same time received a more useful present; and both rejoiced\nthat they had once possessed an opportunity of being useful to a man\nwhose genius had made him an honour to his country, and an ornament to\nthe profession to which he belonged.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CROOKED COMYN.\n\n\nWalter Comyn, Earl of Menteith, one of the \"three Comyns,\" all earls,\nwho, in the minority of Alexander III., possessed so much power in\nScotland as to be able to oppose all the other nobility together, was a\nvery remarkable man. Of low stature, deformed in his person, dark in his\ncomplexion, of gigantic strength--he possessed the spirit of a lion with\nthe subtlety of a fox. Neither in the planning nor the executing of a\npolitical scheme could any man in Scotland or England cope with him. He\nmade his two brothers, and the thirty-three knights who joined him\nagainst the measures of the English regency, his puppets, allowing them\nno will of their own, but subjugating them entirely to his direction. He\ncould read the human countenance even of a courtier of Henry III. of\nEngland as easily as he could do the court hand of the clerks of his\ntime; and, to complete his character, he so falsified the muscles of his\nface, by mixing up smiles and frowns in such a thorough confusion of\nactivity and change, that no one could tell his thoughts or his\nfeelings.\n\nHis wife, the countess, was directly the reverse of her husband. Tall in\nher person, handsomely formed, with graceful movements and accomplished\nmanners, she was accounted open-hearted, good-humoured, approaching to\nsimplicity, destitute of all guile and deceit. Her countenance wore a\ncontinual smile, and was so open and ingenuous, that it might be read\nlike the page of a book. The best proof of her goodness was the kindness\nshe exhibited to the deformed partner of her life. She boasted--and he\nadmitted--that she was the only person who could read him, not from her\npowers of penetration, but from his yielding relaxation of the deceptive\ndiscipline of his face and manners. He often remarked that it was\nfortunate for him that his Countess Margaret was so much of a child; for\nhe felt and acknowledged that it was only in the presence of children\nthat he considered himself safe in throwing off his disguise, and\nappearing for a time in his natural character. Such are the effects of\nambition.\n\nA legend saith that, on one occasion, the following conversation took\nplace between these dissimilar yet well-mated companions--\n\n\"Wert thou not so simple, fair Margaret,\" said the earl, \"I would\nsuspect thou hadst no great affection for him whom King Henry calleth\nthe 'Crooked Comyn.' Men may love me for my subtlety and power, from\ninterest; my brothers because I am their brother, from instinct; and my\nwolf-dog, Grim, because I join him in the chase. Now, to gratify my\nhumour for frolic on this night when I think I have overturned the power\nof the English regent, tell me what thou lovest me for, good simpleton;\nfor I cannot doubt that simpletons have their fancies like other folks;\nand, if thou dost not love me, why hast thou prepared for me, even now\non this night of my triumph, that cup of warm milk curdled with sack\nwhich thou callest a posset? I asked it not of thee, and love must have\nsuggested it.\"\n\n\"What should I love my Walter for,\" replied Countess Margaret, \"but his\nnoble qualities, placed in a person the defects of which, as he states\nthem, I cannot see? Custom hath made thee straight, and love hath\nembellished both thy mind and body; but, above all, I love thee because\nthou lovest me; for it is an old saying in our cottage, that love begets\nlove, and\"--patting him playfully on the cheek--\"my heart must have been\nbarren indeed, if, after ten years of thy wooing, it produced no more\naffection than was able to prepare for thee a posset of milk and sack on\nthe evening of the day of thy triumph.\"\n\n\"Thou hast made a good turn of the subject, simpleton,\" said Comyn. \"If\nI beat my political opponents during the day, thou worstest me at night\nby thy ingenious pleasantry. Thou conquerest even nature's twists and\ntorsels, for my crooked mind and deformed body become straight under the\nsoft ministration of thy simple manners. I cannot help sometimes\nthinking that, if it had been thy fate to be wedded to such a fair piece\nof nature's handiwork as the English baron, John Russel, who banqueted\nwith us yesterday--a thing of red and white pigment--an automaton\nmannerist, without a mind--every woman's slave, and never his own\nmaster--thy simplicity would have lost its power, for, having no foil,\nit would have merged into the idiocy of thy husband, and you would have\nbecome a pair of quarrelsome simpletons.\"\n\n\"And if thou hadst got a wife,\" answered Countess Margaret, smiling, \"as\ndeep and subtle as thyself, the charm thou hast for me--thy mental\nsuperiority--would have been lost, for want of a foil; but thou wert too\nclever to fall into that snare, and didst avoid artful and knowing\nwomen, though beautiful, as anxiously as I, if I were still unmarried,\nwould avoid that fair painted Jackalent thou hast mentioned, the English\nbaron, John Russel. Sheep, thou knowest often fight, and get entangled\nin each other's horns. They are then an easy prey to the wolves. I would\nnot give my 'Crooked Comyn' for all the Russels of England.\"\n\n\"Thy rattle pleaseth me, sweet Margaret,\" said Comyn. \"But how is this?\nI feel ill. What can ail Comyn on the night of his day of triumph? These\npains rack me. So sudden an attack! These are not usual feelings that\nnow assail me.\"\n\n\"Ill in the midst of health!\" cried Countess Margaret. \"What meaneth\nthis!--where is the complaint? Speak, dear husband! tell thy devoted\nwife what may enable her to yield thee relief.\"\n\n\"A burning pain wringeth my heart,\" replied Comyn, with an expression of\nagony, \"and unmanneth a soul that never knew subjugation; that is to me\nthe only symptom of danger. When Comyn trembleth, death cannot be far\ndistant.\"\n\n\"Thou alarmest me, dear husband,\" cried Countess Margaret; \"speak not in\nsuch ominous terms of what I could not survive one solitary moon. What\ncan I minister to thee?\"\n\n\"Water, water from the icy springs of Lapland!\" cried the frantic earl;\n\"yet the frozen sea will not quench this burning fire! What availeth now\nthe wiles, the subtlety, the courage of Scotland's proudest earl? I\nnever was master or director of such pains as these. Death! how\nsuccessfully dost thou earn thy reputation of being the grim king!\nWater, beloved Margaret, for this miniature hell!\"\n\n\"It is here, good heart,\" cried Countess Margaret. \"God bless its\nefficacy!--drink.\"\n\n\"It is as nothing,\" cried Comyn, after swallowing the contents of the\ncup. \"It is as nothing--these tormina laugh at the puny quencher of\nfires fiercer than those of Gehenna. I must submit. Thou wilt have no\nterce from my earldom, wherein I am not yet feudally seised. Alas! shall\nmy innocent be left terceless--a beggar--the dependant of my brothers?\n'Sdeath, this is worse than these scorching fires! Call the clerk of St\nJohn's--quick.\"\n\nThe countess flow out of the room, and in a short time returned with the\nclerical lawyer.\n\n\"Attend, sir,\" cried Comyn. \"Thou seest one in the hands of death;\nprepare, with the greatest speed of thy quill, a liferent disposition of\nmy whole earldom in favour of Countess Margaret, my wife. I shall then\nconfess to thee, and thou shalt pray for me.\"\n\n\"The liferent disposition I shall make out,\" replied the clerk of St\nJohn's; \"for Comyn's commands must be obeyed. But I, in behalf of the\nholy brethren of our order, must tell thee, noble earl, that our prayers\ncan be of little avail if they are limited, in point of time, to the\nperiod of thy sojourn on earth. Thy mausoleum must be lighted for ten\nyears with wax tapers, a thousand masses must be said for thy soul, and\na pilgrimage to the Holy Land must be performed, ere we can hope to\nbring thee out of purgatory. If thou leavest the liferent of thy earldom\nto Countess Margaret--the fee going to thy eldest brother as heir--what\nis to pay the monks of St John for all their labours, in thus\nendeavouring to free thee from the pains of that temporary place of\npunishment?\"\n\n\"No purgatory can equal these pains, man,\" cried the earl. \"Thou shalt\nhave my earldom this instant for one hour's relief from this hell-fire.\"\n\n\"Why, good priest,\" said the lady, \"canst thou thus talk of worldly\npossessions to one in such agony? While I am thus ministering to the\nbody, it would better become thee to minister to the soul, while it is\nstill in its earthly tabernacle. I, his dear wife, asked for no\nliferent, and yet thou requirest a mortification.\"\n\n\"It is for his own sake,\" said the priest, \"that I have recommended the\nprovision of the means for saving his soul. We are not bees, to produce\nwax for tapers; nor birds of paradise, to fly from hence to Jerusalem,\nand sit on the holy shrine, without being fed as other birds; nor are we\ncanonised saints, requiring no meat nor drink. We must live, or we\ncannot pray. Wilt _thou_, madam, give up a half of thy liferent, to aid\nin the redemption of the soul thou lovest so ardently?\"\n\n\"Thou hast heard my lord's commands,\" rejoined the lady. \"I cannot allow\nmy mind to be occupied at present with thoughts of that contemptible\ntrash thou callest gold. What is all the earldom of the Comyns to the\npreservation of the life of my dear husband?--Walter, dear Walter! what\ncan be done for thee?\"\n\n\"The priest hath already my commands,\" answered the earl. \"The\nparchment!--the parchment!--and--and--water--water!\"\n\n\"Hie thee away to thy work, good monk,\" cried the lady. \"There's no time\nfor parley. Away. Thou seest that _I_ deny him not his request.\"\n\n\"Water costeth little,\" said the priest, with a smile of suspicion, \"and\navaileth little either to assuage these pains or those of purgatory.\"\n\nThe priest retired, and in the course of an hour returned, with the deed\nextended, and two witnesses at his back. The paper was read. Comyn was\nstill able to sign it. He attached his name, and in a few minutes\nexpired.\n\nThus died that remarkable man. A dark story now arose in Scotland:\nCountess Margaret had encouraged a criminal passion for the English\nbaron, John Russel, and was openly accused of having poisoned her\nhusband, by means of a posset of milk and sack, to make way for her\nparamour, whom she married with indecent haste. Insulted and disgraced,\nshe and her husband were thrown into prison, despoiled of their estate,\nand compelled to leave the kingdom. It was afterwards rumoured in\nScotland that she quarrelled with Russel--who ill-used her, and stood in\ncontinual fear of being treated in the same way as Comyn--and, finally,\ndrowned herself in the river Thames.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. X\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 10","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":95171}