{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34150/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34150","id":"gutenberg_34150","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34150","summary":null,"tags":["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. XIII.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE UNKNOWN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE TRIALS OF MENIE DEMPSTER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    THE NATURAL HISTORY OF IDIOTS\n\nTHE FLOSHEND INN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nLOTTERY HALL, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER, _(JAMES WILSON)_\n\n    THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP\n    THE SOUTER'S WEDDING\n\nROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE TWO SAILORS, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_\n\nTHE DREAM, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNKNOWN.\n\n\nIn the year 1785, a young and beautiful woman, whose dress and features\nbespoke her to be a native of Spain, was observed a few miles beyond\nPonteland, on the road which leads to Rothbury. She appeared faint and\nweary; dimness was deepening over the lustre of her dark eyes, and their\nglance bespoke anxious misery. Her raiment was of the finest silk; but\ntime had caused its colour to fade; and it hung around her a tattered\nrobe--an ensign of present poverty and wretchedness, a ruined remnant of\nprouder days that were past. She walked feebly and slowly along, bearing\nin her arms an infant boy; and she was observed, at intervals, to sit\ndown, press her pale lips to her child's cheek, and weep. Several\npeasants, who were returning from their labours in the fields, stood and\nspoke to her; but she gazed on them with wild looks of despair, and she\nanswered them in a strange language, which they did not understand.\n\n\"She has been a lady, poor thing,\" said some of them.\n\n\"Ha!\" said others, who had less charity in their breasts, \"they have not\nall been ladies that wear tattered silk in strange fashions.\"\n\nSome inquired at her if she were hungry; if she wanted a lodging; or\nwhere she was going. But, like the mother of Thomas a Beckett, to all\ntheir inquiries she answered them but one word that they understood,\nand that word was \"_Edinburgh_!\"\n\nSome said, \"the poor creature is crazed;\" and when she perceived that\nthey comprehended her not, she waved her hand impatiently for them to\ndepart, and pressing her child closer to her bosom, she bent her head\nover him, and sighed. The peasants, believing from her gestures that she\ndesired not their presence, left her, some pitying, all wondering.\nWithin an hour, some of them returned to the place where they had seen\nher, with the intent of offering her shelter for the night; but she was\nnot to be found.\n\nOn the following morning, one Peter Thornton, a farmer, went into his\nstackyard before his servants were astir, and his attention being\naroused by the weeping and wailing of a child, he hastened toward the\nspot from whence the sound proceeded. In a secluded corner of the yard,\nhe beheld a woman lying, as if asleep, upon some loose straw; and a\nchild was weeping and uttering strange sounds of lamentation on her\nbosom. It was the lovely, but wretched-looking foreigner whom the\npeasants had seen on the evening before. Peter was a blunt, kind-hearted\nEnglishman; he resembled a piece of rich though unpolished metal. He\napproached the forlorn stranger; and her strange dress, her youth, the\nstamp of misery that surrounded her, and the death-like expression of\nher features, moved him, as he gazed upon her and her child, almost to\ntears.\n\n\"Get up, woman,\" said he; \"why do you lie there? Get up, and come wi'\nme; ye seem to be ill, and my wife will get ye something comfortable.\"\n\nBut she spoke not, she moved not, though the child screamed louder at\nhis presence. He called to her again; but still she remained motionless.\n\n\"Preserve us!\" said he, somewhat alarmed, \"what can have come owre the\nwoman? I daresay she is in a trance! She sleeps sounder there in the\nopen air, and upon the bare straw, wi' her poor bairn crying like to\nbrak its heart upon her breast, than I could do on a feather-bed, wi'\neverything peace and quietness around me. Come, waken, woman,\" he added;\nand he bent down, and took her by the hand. But her fingers were stiff\nand cold--there was no sign of life upon her lips, neither was there\nbreath in her nostrils.\n\n\"What is this?\" exclaimed Peter, in a tone of horror--\"a dead woman in\nmy stackyard! Has there been a murder at my door through the night? I'll\ngie a' that I am worth as a reward to find it out!\" And, leaving the\nchild screaming by the side of its dead mother, he rushed breathless\ninto the house, exclaiming, \"Oh, wife! wife!--Jenny, woman!--I say,\nJenny, get up! Here has been bloody wark at our door! What do ye\nthink?--a dead woman lying in our stackyard, wi' a bonny bairn screaming\non her breast!\"\n\n\"What's that ye say, Peter!\" cried his wife, starting up in terror; \"a\ndead woman! Ye're dreaming--ye're not in earnest!\"\n\n\"Haste ye! haste ye, Jenny!\" he added; \"it's as true as that my name is\nPeter Thornton.\"\n\nShe arose, and, with her household servants, accompanied him to where\nthe dead body lay.\n\n\"Now,\" added Peter, with a look which bespoke the troubled state of his\nfeelings, \"this will be a job for the crowner, and we'll a' have to be\nexamined and cross-examined, backward and forward, just as if we had\nkilled the woman, or had onything to do wi' her death. I would rather\nhave lost five hundred pounds, than that she had been found dead upon my\nstackyard.\"\n\n\"But see,\" said Jenny, after she had ascertained that the mother was\nreally dead, and as she took up the child in her arms, and kissed\nit--\"see what a sweet, bonny, innocent-looking creature this is! And,\npoor thing, only to think that it should be left an orphan, and\napparently in a foreign land, for I dinna understand a word that it\ngreets and says!\"\n\nA coroner's inquest was accordingly held upon the body, and a verdict of\n\"_Found dead_\" returned. Nothing was discovered about the person of the\ndeceased which could throw light upon who she was. All the money she had\nhad with her consisted of a small Spanish coin; but on her hand she wore\na gemmed ring, of curious workmanship and considerable value, and also a\nplain marriage-ring. On the inside of the former were engraven the\ncharacters of C. F. _et_ M. V.; and within the latter, C. _et_ M. F. The\nfashion of her dress was Spanish, and the few words of lamentation which\nher poor child could imperfectly utter were discovered to be in that\nlanguage. There being small likelihood of discovering who the stranger\nhad been, her orphan boy was about to be committed to the workhouse; but\nMrs Thornton had no children of her own, the motherless little one had\nbeen three days under her care, and already her heart began to feel for\nhim a mother's fondness.\n\n\"Peter,\" said she unto her husband, \"I am not happy at the thought o'\nthis poor bairn being sent to the workhouse. I'm sure he was born above\nsuch a condition. Death, in taking his mother, left him helpless and\ncrying for help at our door, and I think it would be unnatural in us to\nwithhold it. Now, as we have nae family o' our own, if ye'll bear the\nexpense, I'm sure I'm willing to tak the trouble, o' bringing him up.\"\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart, Jenny, my dow,\" said Peter; \"it was me that found the\nbairn, and if ye say, keep it, I say, keep it, too. His meat will never\nbe missed; and it will be a worse year wi' us than ony we hae seen, when\nwe canna get claes to his back.\"\n\n\"Peter,\" replied she, \"I always said ye had a good heart; and by this\naction ye prove it to the world.\"\n\n\"I care not that,\" said he, snapping the nail of his thumb upwards from\nhis forefinger, \"what the world may say or think about me, provided\n_you_ and my conscience say that it is right that I hae done.\"\n\nThey therefore, from that hour, took the orphan as the child of their\nadoption; and they were most puzzled to decide by what name he should be\ncalled.\n\n\"It is perfectly evident to me,\" said the farmer, \"from the letters on\nthe rings, that his faither's first name has begun wi' a C, and his\nsecond wi' an F; but we could never be able to find out the outlandish\nforeign words that they may stand for. We shall therefore just give him\nsome decent Christian name.\"\n\n\"And what name more decent or respectable could we gie him than our\nown?\" said Jenny. \"Suppose we just call him Thornton--Peter Thornton?\"\n\n\"No, no, good wife,\" said he, \"there must twa words go to the making o'\nthat bargain; for, though nobody would charge you wi' being his mother,\nthe time may come when folk would be wicked enough to hint that I was\nhis faither; therefore, I do not think it proper that he should tak my\nname. What say ye, now, as it is probable that his faither's name began\nwi' a C, if we were to call him Christopher? and, as we found him in the\nmonth o' May, we should gie him a surname after the month, and call him\nChristopher May? That, in my opinion, is a very bonny name; and I hae\nnae doubt that, if he be spared till those dark een o' his begin to look\nafter the lasses, mony a ane o' them will be o' the same way o'\nthinking.\"\n\nThe child soon became reconciled to the change in his situation, and\nreturned the kindness of his foster-mother with affection. She rejoiced\nas he gradually forgot the few words of Spanish which he at first\nlisped, and in their stead began to speak the language of the Borders.\nWith delight in her eyes, she declared that \"she had learned him his\n_mother tongue_, which he now spoke as _natural as life_, though, when\nshe took him under her care, he could say nothing but some heathenish\nkind o' sounds, which nobody could mak ony mair sense o' than it was\npossible to do out o' the yaumerin o' an infant o' six months old.\"\n\nAs the orphan grew up, he became noted as the liveliest boy in the\nneighbourhood. He was the tallest of his age, and the most fearless.\nAbout three years after Peter Thornton had taken him under his\nprotection, he sent him to school. But, lively as the orphan Christopher\nMay was (for so we shall now call him), he by no means showed an aptness\nto learn. For five years, and he never rose higher than the middle of\nthe class. The teacher was often wroth with the thoughtlessness of his\npupil; and in his displeasure said, \"It is nonsense, sirrah, to say that\nye was ever a Spaniard. There is something like sense and stability o'\ncharacter about the people o' Spain; but you--ye're a Frenchman!--a\nthoughtless, dancing, settle-to-nothing fool. Or, if ever ye were a\nSpaniard, ye belong to the family o' Don Quixote; his name would be\nfound in the catalogue o' your great-grandfathers.\" Even Peter Thornton,\nthough no scholar, was grieved when the teacher called upon him, and\ncomplained of the giddiness of his adopted son, and of the little\nprogress which he made under his care.\n\n\"Christie, ye rascal ye,\" said Peter, stamping his foot, \"what news are\nthese your master tells o' ye? He says he's ashamed o' ye, and that\nye'll never learn.\"\n\nBut even for his thoughtlessness the kind heart of Jenny found an\nexcuse.\n\n\"Dear me, goodman,\" said she, \"I wonder to hear the master and ye talk;\nI am surprised that both o' ye haena mair sense. Do ye not tak into\nconsideration that the bairn is learning in a foreign language? Had his\nmother lived, he would hae spoken Spanish; and how can ye expect him to\nbe as glib at the English language as those that were learned--born, I\nmay say--to speak it from the breast?\" \"True, Jenny,\" answered Peter,\nsagely, \"I wasna thinking o' that; but there may be something in't.\nMaister,\" added he, addressing the teacher, \"ye mustna, therefore, be\nowre hard wi' the laddie. He is a fine bairn, though he may be dull--and\ndull I canna think it possible he could be, if he would determine to\nlearn.\"\n\nChristopher, however, was as wild on the play-ground as he was dull and\nthoughtless in the school-room. Every person admired the happy-hearted\norphan. Good Jenny Thornton said that he had been a great comfort to\nher; and that all the care she had taken over him was more than repaid\nby the kindness and gratitude of his heart. They were evident in all he\nsaid, and all that he did. Peter also loved the boy; he said, \"Kit was\nan excellent laddie--for his part, indeed, he never saw his equal. He\nhad now brought him up for nine years, and he could safely say that he\nnever had occasion to raise a hand to him--indeed he did not remember\nthe time that ever he had had occasion to speak an angry word to him;\nand he declared that he should inherit all that he possessed, as though\nhe had been his own son.\"\n\nMrs Thornton often showed to him the rings which had been taken from his\nmother's fingers, with the inscriptions thereon; and on such occasions\nshe would say, \"Weel do I remember, hinny, when our goodman came running\ninto the house one morning, shaking as though he had seen an apparition\nat midnight, and crying to me, quite out o' breath, 'Rise--rise,\nJenny!--here is the dead body o' a woman in our stackyard!' I canna tell\nye what my feelings were when he said so. I wished not to believe him.\nBut had I wakened, and found myself in a grave, I could not have gotten\na greater fricht. My heart louped to my throat, just as if it had gotten\na sudden jerk with a person's whole might and strength! I dinna ken how\nI got my gown thrown on, for my teeth were chattering in my head--I\nshaked like a 'natomy! And when we did get to the stackyard, there was\nye, like a dear wee lammie, mourning owre the breast o' yer dead mother,\nwi' yer bits o' handies pulling impatiently at yer bonny black hair,\nkissing her cold lips, or pulling her by the gown, and crying and\nuttering words which we didna understand. And oh, hinny, but your mother\nhad been a weel-faured woman in her day!--I never saw her but a cold\ncorpse, and I thought, even then, that I had never looked upon a bonnier\nface. She had evidently been a genteel person, but was sore, sore\ndejected. But she had two rings upon her fingers; one of them was a ring\nsuch as married women wear--the other was set wi' precious stones, which\nthose who have seen them say, none but a duchess in this country could\nwear. Ye must examine them.\"--And here Mrs Thornton was in the habit of\nproducing the rings, which she had carefully locked away, wrapped up in\ntwenty folds of paper, and secured in a housewife which folded together\nwithin all. Then she would point out to him the initial letters, the C.\nF. and the M. V., and would add, \"That has been your faither and your\nmother's name when they were sweethearts--at least so our Peter says\n(and he is seldom wrong); but the little _e t_ between them--I canna\nthink what it stands for. O Christopher, my canny laddie, it is a pity\nbut that ye would only endeavour to be a scholar, as ye are good\notherwise, and then ye might be able to tell what the _e t_ means. Who\nkens but it may throw some light upon your parentage; for, if ever ye\ndiscover who your parents were, it will be through the instrumentality\no' these rings. Peter always says that (and, as I say, he is seldom\nwrong) and therefore I always keep them locked away, lest onythin should\ncome owre them; and when they are out o' the drawer, I never suffer them\nto be out o' my sight.\"\n\nIn the fulness of her heart Mrs Thornton told this story at least four\ntimes in the year, almost in the same words, and always exhibiting the\nrings. Her kindly counsels, and the cogent reasons which she urged to\nChristopher why he should become a scholar, at length awoke his\nslumbering energies. For the first time, he stood dux of his class, and\nonce there, he stood like a nail driven into a wall, which might not be\nremoved. His teacher, who was a man of considerable knowledge and\nreading (though perhaps not what those calling themselves _learned_\nwould call a man of _learning_--for _learned_ is a very vague word, and\nis as frequently applied where real ignorance exists, as to real\nknowledge)--that teacher who had formerly said that Christopher could\nnot be a Spaniard, because that he had not solidity enough within\nhim--now said that he believed he was one, and not a descendant of Don\nQuixote; but, if of anybody, a descendant of _him_ who gave the immortal\nDon \"a local habitation and a name;\" for he now predicted that\nChristopher May would be a genius.\n\nBut, though the orphan at length rose to the head of his class, and\nthough he passed from one class to another, he was still the same wild,\nboisterous, and daring boy, when they ran shouting from the school, cap\nin hand, and waving it over their heads, like prisoners relieved from\nconfinement. If there was a quarrel to decide in the whole school, the\norphan Christopher was the umpire. If a weak boy, or a cowardly boy, was\nthreatened by another, Christopher became his champion. If a sparrow's\nnest was to be robbed, to achieve which a tottering gable was to be\nclimbed, he did the deed; yea, or when a football match was to be played\non Eastern E'en (or, as it was there called, Pancake Tuesday), if the\norphan once got the ball at his foot, no man could again touch it.\n\nHis birth-day was not known; but he could scarce have completed his\nthirteenth year when his best friend died. Good, kind-hearted Jenny\nThornton--than whom a better woman never breathed--was gathered with the\ndead; and her last request to her husband was, that he would continue to\nbe the friend and protector of the poor orphan, and especially that he\nwould take care of the rings which had been found upon his mother's\nhand. Now Peter was so overwhelmed with grief at the idea of being\nparted from her who, for twenty years, had been dearer to him than his\nown existence, that he could scarce hear her dying words. He followed\nher coffin like a broken-hearted man; and he sobbed over her grave like\na weaned child on the lap of its mother. But many months had not passed\nwhen it was evident that the orphan Christopher was the only sincere\nmourner for Jenny Thornton. The widower was still in the prime and\nstrength of his days, being not more than two-and-forty. He was a\nprosperous man--one who had had a cheap farm and a good one; and it was\nbelieved that Peter was able to purchase the land which he rented. Many,\nindeed, said that the tenant was a better man than his master--by a\n\"better man,\" meaning a richer man.\n\nFair maidens, therefore, and widows to boot, were anxious to obtain the\nvacant hand of the wealthy widower. Some said that Peter would never\nforget Jenny, and that he would never marry again, for that she had been\nto him a wife amongst a thousand: and they spoke of the bitterness of\nhis grief.\n\n\"Ay,\" said others, \"but we ne'er like to see the tears run owre fast\ndown the cheeks of a man. They show that the heart will soon drown its\nsorrow. Human nature is very frail; and a thing that we thought we would\nlove _for ever_ last year, we find that we only _occasionally remember_\nthat we loved it this. If there be a real mourner for the loss of Mrs\nThornton, it's the poor, foreign orphan laddie. Peter, notwithstanding\nall his greeting at the grave, will get another wife before twelve\nmonths go round.\"\n\nThey who said so were in the right. Poor Jenny had not been in her grave\neleven months and twenty days, when Peter led another Mrs Thornton from\nthe altar. When he had brought her home, he introduced to her the orphan\nChristopher.\n\n\"Now, dear,\" said he, \"here is a laddie--none know whom he belongs to.\nI found him one morning, when he was a mere infant, screaming on the\nbreast o' his dead mother. Since then I have brought him up. My late\nwife was very fond o' him--so, indeed, was I; and it is my request that\nye will be kind to him. Here,\" added he, \"are two rings which his mother\nhad upon her fingers when I found her a cold corpse. Poor fellow, if\nanything ever enable him to discover who his parents were, it will be\nthem, though there is but little chance that he ever will. However, I\nhave been as a father to him for more than ten years, and I trust, love,\nthat ye will act towards him as a mother. Come forward, Christopher,\"\ncontinued he, \"and welcome your new mother.\"\n\nThe boy came forward, hanging his head, and bashfully stretched out his\nhand towards her; but the new-made Mrs Thornton had his mother's\njewelled ring in her hand, and she observed him not. He stood with his\neyes now bent upon the ground, now upon her, and again upon his mother's\nring, as she turned it round and round.\n\n\"Well,\" said she, addressing her husband, and still turning it round as\nshe spoke, \"it is, indeed, a beautiful ring--a very beautiful ring!\"\n\n\"I am glad ye think so,\" said he; \"she had been a bonny woman that wore\nit.\"\n\nShe placed the ring upon her finger, she turned it round again, and\ngazed on it with admiration. \"I should like to wear such a ring,\" she\nadded.\n\n\"Why, hinny, and ye may wear it,\" said Peter; \"for the ring is mine\ntwenty times owre, whatever its value may be, considering what I have\ndone for the laddie.\"\n\nWith an expression of countenance which might be described as something\nbetween a smile and a blush, or, as the people north the Tweed very\naptly express it, with a \"_smirk_,\" she slipped the ring upon her\nfinger, saying that it fitted as well as though it had been made for\nher.\n\nPassion flashed in the eyes of the orphan. His \"new mother,\" as Peter\nstyled her, had done what poor Jenny never ventured to do. He withdrew\nhis hand which he had extended to greet her, and he was turning away\nsullenly, when his foster-father said, \"Stop, Christopher, ye must not\ngo away until you have shaken hands with your mother.\" And he turned\nagain, and once more extended to her his hand.\n\n\"Well,\" said she, addressing her husband, and putting forth two of her\nfingers to Christopher, \"is it really possible that you have brought up\nthis great boy! What a trouble he must have been--and expense too!\"\n\n\"Oh, you are quite mistaken,\" said Peter; \"Christopher never cost us the\nsmallest trouble. I have been proud of him and pleased with him, since\never I took him under my roof; and, poor fellow, as to the expense that\nhe has cost me, if I never had seen his face, I wouldna hae been a penny\nricher to-day, but very possibly poorer; for he has very often amused me\nwi' his drollery, and keepit me in the house, when, but for him, I would\nhave been down at Ponteland, or somewhere else, getting a glass wi' my\nneighbours.\"\n\nMany weeks had not elapsed ere Christopher discovered that his protector\nwho was dead had been succeeded by a living persecutor. A month had not\npassed when he was not permitted to enter the room where the second Mrs\nThornton sat. Before two went round, he was ordered to take his meals\nwith the servants; and he could do nothing with which a fault was not\nfound. He had often, after scraping his shoes for five minutes together,\nto take them off and examine them, before he durst venture into the\npassage leading to the kitchen, which was now the only apartment in the\nhouse to which he had access.\n\nPeter Thornton beheld the persecution which his adopted son endured; and\nhe expostulated with his better half, that she would treat him more\nkindly. But she answered him, that he might have children enough of his\nown to provide for, without becoming a father to those of other people.\nNow, a stripling that is in love generally says and does many foolish\nthings which he does not wish to have recalled to his recollection after\nhe has turned thirty; but the middle-aged man who is so smitten\ninvariably acts much more foolishly than the stripling. I have smiled to\nsee them combing up their few remaining locks to cover their bald\nforehead, or carefully pulling away the grey hairs which appeared about\ntheir temples, and all to appear young in the eyes of some widowed or\nmatronly divinity. I do not exactly agree with the poet who says--\n\n     \"Love never strikes but once, that strikes at all!\"\n\nfor I think, from nineteen to five-and-twenty, there are few men (or\nwomen either) who have not felt a peculiar sensation about their hearts\nwhich they took to be love, and felt it more than once too, and which\nultimately would have become love, but for particular circumstances\nwhich broke off the acquaintanceship; and, before five-and-thirty, we\nforget that such a feeling had existed, and laugh at, or profess to have\nno patience with, those who are its victims. We should always remember,\nhowever, that it is not easy to put an old head upon young shoulders,\nand think of how we once felt and acted ourselves; and to recollect,\nalso, how happy, how miserable, we were in those days. Love is an abused\nword. Elderly people turn up their nostrils when they see it in print.\nThey will hardly read a book where the word occurs. They will fling it\naway, and cry \"stuff!\" But, if they would look back upon their days of\nold, they would treat it with more respect. But the second love of your\nmiddle-aged men and women--call it _doting_, or call it by any other\nname, but do not call it love, for that it is not, and cannot be. Man\nnever knows what love is, until he has experienced the worth of an\naffectionate wife, who for his sake would suffer all that the world's\nills can inflict.\n\nNow, Peter Thornton, though not an old man, and although his first wife\nhad certainly been dear unto him, yet he had a doting fondness for his\nsecond spouse, who obtained an ascendency over him, and, to his\nsurprise, left him no longer master of his own house.\n\nBut she bore to him a son; and, after the birth of the child, his care\nover Christopher every day diminished. The orphan was given over to\npersecution--the hand of every one was raised against him--and, finding\nthat he had now no one to whom he could apply for redress, he lifted up\nhis own hand in his defence. The serving-maids who ill-treated him soon\nfound him more than their equal; and to the men-servants, when they used\nhim roughly, he shook his head, threatening that he would soon be a\nmatch for them.\n\nThe coldness which Mrs Thornton had at first manifested towards him soon\nrelapsed into perfect hatred. He was taken from the school; and she\nhourly forced upon him the most menial offices. For hours together he\nwas doomed to rock the cradle of her child, and was sure of being beaten\nthe moment it awoke. Nor was this all--but, when friends visited her,\npoor Christopher was compelled to wait at the table, at which he had\nonce sat by the side of Jenny Thornton, and whoever might be the guests,\nhe was first served. She even provoked her husband, until he lifted his\nhand and struck the orphan violently--forgetting the proverb, that \"they\nshould have light hands who strike other people's bairns.\" The boy\nlooked upbraidingly in Peter's face as he struck him for the first time,\nthough he uttered no complaint; but that very look whispered to his\nheart, \"What would Jenny have said, had she seen this?\" And Peter,\nrepenting of what he did, turned away and wept. Yet a sin that is once\ncommitted is less difficult to commit again, and remorse becomes as an\necho that is sinking faint. Having, therefore, once lifted his hand\nagainst the orphan--though he then wept for having done so--it was not\nlong until the blows were repeated without compunction.\n\nChristopher, however, was a strange boy--perhaps what some would call a\nprovoking one--and often, when Mrs Thornton pursued him from the house\nto chastise him, he would hastily climb upon the tops of the houses of\nthe farm-servants, and sitting astride upon them, nod down to her\ntriumphantly, as with threats she shook her hand in his face; and,\nsmiling, sing\n\n     \"Loudon's bonny woods and braes.\"\n\nBut his favourite song, on such occasions, was the following, which, if\nit be not the exact words that he sang, embodies the sentiment--\n\n    \"'Can I forget the woody braes\n        Where love and innocence foregather;\n    Where aft, in early summer days,\n        I've croon'd a sang among the heather?\n    Can I forget my father's hearth--\n        My mother by the ingle spinnin--\n    Their weel-pleased look to see the mirth\n        O' a' their bairnies round them rinnin?\n\n    'It was a waefu hour to me,\n        When I frae them and love departed:\n    The tear was in my mother's ee--\n        My father blest me--broken-hearted;\n    My aulder brithers took my hand--\n        The younkers a' ran frae me greetin!\n    But, waur than this--I couldna stand\n        My faithfu lassie's fareweel meetin!\n\n    'Can I forget her partin kiss,\n        Her last fond look, and true love token?\n    Forget an hour sae dear as this!\n        Forget!--the word shall ne'er be spoken!\n    Forget!--na, though the foamin sea,\n      High hills, and mony a sweepin river,\n    May lie between their hearth and me,\n      My heart shall be at hame for ever.'\"\n\nNow, when Christopher was pursued by his persecutor, and sought refuge\non the house-tops, sitting upon them much after the fashion of a tailor,\nhe carolled the song we have just quoted most merrily. Many, indeed,\nwondered that he, never having known the hearth of either a father or a\nmother, should have sung such a song; but it was so, and the orphan\ndelighted to sing it. Yet we often do many things for which we find it\ndifficult to assign a reason. There was one amusing trait in the\ncharacter of Christopher; and that was, that the more vehemently Mrs\nThornton scolded him, and the more bitter her imprecations against him\nbecame, so, while he sat as a tailor on the house-top, did his song wax\nlouder and more loud, and his strain become merrier. We have heard women\ntalk of being ready to eat the nails from their fingers with vexation,\nand on such occasions Mrs Thornton was so. But her anger did not amend\nthe disposition of Christopher, though it often drew down upon him the\nindignation of her husband.\n\nIt has already been mentioned that he struck him once; and, having done\nso, he felt no repugnance to do it frequently. For it is only the first\ntime that we commit a sin that we have the horror of its commission\nbefore us. The orphan now became like unto Ishmael; for every man's hand\nwas against him, and I might say every woman's too. Now, during the\nlifetime of Jenny, he had had everything his own way, and whatsoever he\nsaid was done; some said that he was a spoiled child, and it was at\nleast evident that his humour was never thwarted. This caused him to\nhave the more enemies now; and every menial on the farm of Peter\nThornton became his persecutor. It is the common fate of all\nfavourites--to-day they are treated with abject adulation, and\nto-morrow, if the sun which shone on them be clouded, no one thinks him\ntoo low to look on them with disdain.\n\nFor more than three years, Christopher's life became a scene of\ncontinual martyrdom. He was now, however, a tall and powerful young man\nof seventeen; and many who had been in the habit of raising their hands\nagainst him found it discreet to do so no more. But Mrs Thornton was not\nof this number; she found some cause to lift her hand and strike the\norphan, as often as he came into her presence. Even Peter, kind as he\nhad once been, treated him almost as cruelly as his wife. It was not\nthat he disliked him as she did; but she had soured and fretted his\ndisposition; and, unconsciously to himself, from being the orphan's\nfriend, he became his terror and tormentor.\n\nBut one day, when the violence of Mrs Thornton far exceeded the bounds\nof endurance, Christopher turned upon her, and, with the revenge of a\nSpaniard glistening in his eyes, grasped her by the throat. She screamed\naloud for help, and her husband and the farm-servants rushed to her\nassistance.\n\n\"Back, back!\" exclaimed Christopher. \"Woman, give me the rings--give me\nthe rings!--they are mine--they were my mother's!\"\n\nPeter sprang forward, and grasped hold of him.\n\n\"Touch me not!\" exclaimed the orphan; \"I will be your slave no longer!\nGive me the rings--my mother's rings!\"\n\nPeter stood aghast at the manner of the boy. His every look, his every\naction, bespoke desperation. He thrust his clenched hand towards Mr\nThornton, exclaiming, \"Touch me not!--the rings are mine!--I will have\nthem!\"\n\n\"The muckle mischief confound ye!\" exclaimed Peter, with a look of half\nfear and bewilderment; \"what in a' the world is the matter wi' ye,\nChristopher? Is the laddie out o' his head?\"\n\n\"The rings--my mother's rings!\" cried the orphan; and, as he spoke, he\ngrasped more violently the hand of Mrs Thornton.\n\n\"The like o' that,\" said Peter, \"I never saw in my existence. In my\nopinion, the laddie is no in his right judgment.\"\n\nBut Christopher tore the rings from the hands of Mrs Thornton,\nexclaiming, \"Farewell--farewell!\"\n\n\"The like o' that!\" said Peter, in amazement, holding up his hands; \"the\nladdie is surely daft. Follow him, some o' ye.\"\n\nMrs Thornton sank down in hysterics. Her husband endeavoured to soothe\nand restore her; and the men-servants followed Christopher. But it was\nan idle task. No one had rivalled him in speed of foot, and they could\nnot overtake him.\n\n\"The time will come,\" he cried, as he ran, \"when Peter Thornton will\nrepent his conduct towards me. Follow me not; for the first who shall\nlay a hand upon me shall die.\"\n\nThe farm-servants who pursued him were awed by his manner, and, after\nfollowing him about a mile, turned back.\n\n\"Where can the laddie have gone to?\" said Peter; \"he never took ony o'\nthose fits in Jenny's time. I hope, wife, that ye have done nothing to\nhim that ye ought not to have done.\"\n\n\"Me done to him!\" she cried; \"ye will bring up your beggars, and this is\nyour reward.\"\n\n\"Mrs Thornton,\" answered he, \"I am amazed and astonished to behold this\nconduct in Christopher. For more than fourteen years he has been an\ninmate beneath my roof; seldom have I had to quarrel him, and never\nuntil you became my wife.\"\n\nThe words between Peter and his better half grew loud and angry; but,\ninstead of describing their matrimonial altercations, we shall follow\nthe orphan Christopher.\n\nBut, before accompanying him in his flight from the house of Peter\nThornton, we shall go back a few years, and take up another part of his\nhistory.\n\nThere resided in the neighbourhood in which Christopher had been brought\nup one George Wilkinson, who had a daughter named Jessie. Christopher\nand Jessie were school-mates together; and when the other children ran\nhallooing from the school, they walked together, whispering, smiling at\neach other. It was strange that affection should have sprung up in such\nyoung hearts. But it was so.\n\nChristopher became the one absorbing thought upon which the mind of\nJessie dwelt; and she became the day-dream of his being. She was\ncomparatively a child when he left the house of his foster-father--so\nwas he; yet, although they became thus early parted, they forgot not\neach other. Young as she was, Jessie Wilkinson lay on her bed and wept\nfor the sake of poor Christopher. They indeed might be said to be but\nthe tears of a child; yet they were tears which we can shed but once.\nYoung as Jessie was, Christopher became the dream of her future\nexistence. She remembered the happy days that they had passed together,\nwhen the hawthorn was in blossom or the bean was in the bloom, when they\nloitered together, side by side, and the air was pregnant with\nfragrance, while his hand would touch hers, and he would say, \"Jessie!\"\nand look in her face and wonder what he meant to have said; and she\nwould answer him, \"Christopher!\" Still did those days haunt the\nrecollection of the simple girl; and as she grew in years and stature,\nhis remembrance became the more entwined around her heart. When she had\nreached the age of womanhood, other wooers offered her their hand; but\nshe thought of the boy that had first loved her; and to him her memory\nclung, as the evening dawn falleth on the hills. Her father was but a\npoor man; and when many perceived the liking which Christopher May, the\nadopted son and supposed heir of the rich Peter Thornton, entertained\nfor her, they said that nothing, or at least no good, would proceed from\ntheir acquaintance. But they who so said did not truly judge of the\nheart of Jessie. She was one of those who can love but once, and that\nonce must be for ever. In their early childhood, Christopher had become\na part of her earliest affection, and she now found it impossible to\nforget him, or shake his remembrance from her bosom. It was certainly a\ngirl's love, and elderly people will laugh at it; but why should they\nlaugh? They were the feelings which they once cherished--the feelings\nwhich were once dearest to them--the feelings without which they\nbelieved they could not exist--and wherefore could they blame poor\nJessie for remembering what they had forgot?\n\nMany years passed, and no one heard of Christopher. Even Peter Thornton\nknew nothing of where he was, or what had become of him--the child of\nhis adoption was lost to him. He heard his neighbours upbraid him with\nhaving treated the boy with cruelty; and Peter's heart was troubled. He\nreflected upon his wife for her conduct towards the orphan, and it gave\nrise to bickerings between them.\n\nHitherto we have spoken of the unknown orphan--we must now speak of an\nunknown soldier. At the battle of Salamanca, amongst the men who there\ndistinguished themselves, there was a young serjeant whose feats of\nvalour attracted the notice of his superiors. Where the battle raged\nfiercest, there were the effects of his arm made visible; his\nimpetuosity over all his enemies had attracted the notice of his\nsuperior officers. But, in the moment of victory, when the streets were\nlined with dead, the young hero fell, covered with bayonet wounds. A\nfield-officer, who had been an observer of his conduct, ordered a party\nof his men to attempt his rescue. The life of the young hero was long\ndespaired of; and when he recovered, several officers, in admiration of\nhis courage, agreed to present him with a sword. It was beautifully\nornamented, and bore the inscription--\n\n_\"Presented to Christopher May, serjeant in the ---- regiment of\ninfantry, by several officers who were witnesses of the heroism he\ndisplayed at the battle of Salamanca.\"_\n\nThe sword was presented to him at the head of his regiment, and the\nofficer who placed it in his hand addressed him, saying, \"Young soldier,\nthe gallant bearing which you exhibited at Salamanca has excited the\nadmiration of all who beheld it. The officers of your own regiment,\ntherefore, and others, have deemed it their duty to present you with\nthis sword, as a reward of merit, and a testimony of the admiration with\nwhich your heroism has inspired them. I have now the gratification of\nplacing it in the hands of a brave man. Take it, and if your parents yet\nlive, it will be a trophy of which they will be proud, and which your\nposterity will exhibit with admiration.\"\n\n\"My parents!\" said the young soldier, with a sigh; \"alas, sir! I never\nknew one whom I could call by the endearing name of father or of mother.\nI am an orphan--an unknown one. I believe I am not even an Englishman,\nbut a native of the land for the freedom of which we now fight!\"\n\n\"You a Spaniard!\" said the officer, with surprise; \"it is\nimpossible--neither your name nor features bespeak you to belong to this\nnation. But you say that you never knew your parents--what know you of\nyour history?\"\n\n\"Little, indeed,\" he replied; and as he spoke, the officers gathered\naround him, and he continued--\"I have been told that in the month of\nMay, four-and-twenty years ago, the dead body of a woman was found in a\nfarm-yard, about fifteen miles north of Newcastle. She was dressed in\nSpanish costume, and a child of about three years of age hung weeping on\nher bosom. I was that child; and I have been told that the few words I\ncould then lisp were Spanish. The kind-hearted wife of the honest\nNorthumbrian who found me brought me up as her own child; and while she\nlived, I might almost have said I had a mother. But at her death, I\nfound indeed that I had neither parent, kindred, nor country, but that I\nwas in truth, what some called me in derision, '_The Unknown_.' I\nentered the army, and have fought in defence of the land to which I\nbelieve I belong. This only do I know of my history, or of who or what I\nam.\"\n\nWhile the young serjeant spoke, every eye was bent upon him\ninterestedly; but there was one who was moved even to tears. He was an\nofficer of middle age, named Major Ferguson. He approached the gallant\nyouth, he gazed earnestly in his face.\n\n\"You say that you were about three years old,\" he said, \"when you were\nfound clinging to the breast of your mother; have you no remembrance of\nher--no recollection of the name by which you were then called?\"\n\n\"None! none!\" answered the other. \"I sometimes fancy that, as the vague\nremembrance of a dream, I recollect clinging around my mother's neck,\nand kissing her cold lips; but whether it indeed be remembrance, or\nmerely the tale that has been often told me, I am uncertain. I often\nimagine, also, that her beautiful features yet live in my memory, though\nwith the indistinctness of an ethereal being--like a vapour that is\ndying away on the far horizon; and I am uncertain, also, whether the\nfair vision that haunts me be indeed a dim remembrance of what my mother\nwas, or a creation of my brain.\"\n\nThe interest of the scene was heightened by the resemblance which Major\nFerguson and the young serjeant bore to each other. All observed it--all\nexpressed their surprise--and the major, in his turn, began his tale.\n\n\"Your features, young man,\" said he, \"and your story, have drawn tears\nto the eyes of an old soldier. Thirty years ago I was in this country,\nand became an inmate in the house of a rich merchant in Madrid. His\nname was Valdez, and he had an only daughter called Maria. When I first\nbeheld her, she was about nineteen, and a being more beautiful I had\nnever seen--I have not seen. Affection sprang up between us; for it was\nimpossible to look on her and not love. Her father, though he at first\nexpressed some opposition to our wishes, on the ground of my being a\nProtestant, at length gave his consent, and Maria became my wife. For\nseveral months our happiness was as a dream--as a summer sky where there\nis no cloud. But our days of felicity were of short continuance. We have\nall heard of the revengeful disposition of the Spanish people, and it\nwas our lot to be its victims. I have said that it was impossible to\nlook upon the face of Maria, and not love; and many of the grandees and\nwealthiest citizens of Madrid sought her hand. Amongst the former was a\nnephew of an Inquisitor. He vowed to have his revenge--and he has had\nit. In the dead of night, a band of ruffians burst into the bedchamber\nof Maria's father, and dragged him to the dungeons of the Inquisition.\nFor several weeks, and we could learn nothing of what had become of him;\nbut his property was seized and confiscated, as though he had been a\ncommon felon. My wife was then the mother of an infant son, and I\nendeavoured to effect our concealment, until an opportunity of escaping\nto England might be found. We had approached within a hundred yards of\nthe vessel, when a band of armed men rushed upon us. They overpowered\nme; and while one party bore away my wife and child, others dragged me\ninto a carriage, one holding a pistol to my breast, while another tied a\nbandage over my eyes. They continued to drive with furious rapidity for\nabout six hours, when I was torn from the carriage, and dragged between\nthe ruffians through numerous winding passages. I heard the grating of\nlocks and the creaking of bolts, as they proceeded. Door succeeded door,\ngroaning on their unwilling hinges, as they ascended stairs, and\ndescended others, in an interminable labyrinth. Still the men who\nhurried me onward maintained a sullen silence; and no sound was heard,\nsave the clashing of prison doors, and the sepulchral echo of their\nfootsteps ringing through the surrounding dungeons. They at length\nstopped. A cord, suspended from a block in the roof was fastened round\nmy waist; and, when one, turning a sort of windlass, which communicated\nwith the other end of the cord, raised me several feet from the ground,\nhis comrade drew a knife, and cut asunder the fastenings that bound my\narms. While one, holding the handle of the machine, kept me hanging in\nthe air, other two applied a key to a large, square stone in the floor,\nwhich, aided by a spring, they with some difficulty raised, and revealed\na yawning opening to a dungeon, yet deeper and more dismal than that\nwhich formed its entrance. The moment my hands were at liberty, I tore\nthe bandage from my eyes, and perceiving, through the aid of a dim lamp\nthat flickered in a corner of the vault, the horror of my situation, I\nstruggled in desperation. But my threatenings and my groans were\nanswered only by their hollow echoes, or the more dismal laughter of my\nassassins.\n\n\"Down--down!\" vociferated both voices to their companion, as the stone\nwas raised; and, in a moment, I was plunged into the dark mouth of the\ndungeon. I uttered a cry of agony louder and longer than the rest; and,\nas my body sunk into the abyss, I clutched its edge in despair. One of\nthe ruffians sprang forward, and, blaspheming as he raised his foot,\ndashed his iron heels upon my fingers. Mine was the grasp of a dying\nman; and, thrusting forward my right hand, I seized the ankle of the\nmonster, who attempted to kick me in the face. With my left I\nstrengthened my hold, and my body plunging downward with the movement,\ndragged after me the wretch, who, uttering a piercing shriek, as his\nhead dashed on the brink of the fearful dungeon, escaped instantly from\nmy grasp, and with an imprecation on his tongue, he was plunged headlong\ninto darkness many fathoms deep. Startled by the cry of his comrade, the\nother sprang from the machine by which he was lowering me into the\nvault, and I in consequence descended with the violence of a stone\ndriven from a strong arm. But, before I reached the bottom, the cord by\nwhich I hung was expended, and I swung in torture between the sides of\nthe dungeon. In this state of agony I remained for several minutes, till\none of the miscreants cutting the rope, I fell with my face upon the\nbloody and mangled body of their accomplice; and the huge stone was\nplaced over us, enveloping both in darkness, solid and substantial as\nthe pit of wrath itself.\n\n\"A paralysing feeling of horror and surprise, and the violence with\nwhich I fell upon the mangled body of my victim, for a time deprived me\nof all consciousness of my situation; nor was it until the convulsive\ngroans of the bleeding wretch beneath me recalled me in some measure to\na sense of other miseries than my own, that a remembrance of the past,\nand a feeling of the present, opened upon my mind, like the confused\nterror of a dismal dream. I rose slowly to my feet, and, disengaging\nmyself from the rope by which I was suspended into the vault,\nendeavoured to look around the walls of my prison-house--but all was\ndark as the grave. Recollecting the part sustained in seizing me by the\nwounded man, who still groaned and writhed at my feet, I darted fiercely\nupon him; and hurling him from the ground, exclaimed, 'Villain!--tell me\nor die!--where am I? or by whom am I brought here?' A loud, long yell of\nterror, accompanied by violent and despairing struggles, like a wild\nbeast tearing from the paws of a lion, was the only answer returned by\nthe miserable being. And as the piteous and heart-piercing yell rang\nround the cavern, and its echoes, multiplying in darkness, at length\ndied away, leaving silence more dolorous than ourselves, I felt as a\nman from the midst of a marriage-feast, suddenly thrust into the cells\nof Bedlam; where, instead of the music of the harp and the lute, was the\nshriek and the clanking chains of insanity; for bridal ornaments, the\nmadman's straw; and for the gay dance, the convulsions of the maniac,\nand the sorrowful gestures of idiocy. Every feeling of indignation\npassed away--my blood grew cold--the skin moved upon my flesh--I again\nlaid the wretched man on the damp earth, and fearfully groped to the\nopposite side of the dungeon.\n\n\"As I moved around, feeling through the dense darkness of my prison, I\nfound it a vast square, its sides composed merely of the rude strata of\nearth or rock; and measuring nearly six times the length of my extended\narms. As often as I moved, bones seemed to crackle beneath my feet; and\na noise, like the falling of armour and the sounding of steel,\naccompanied the crumbling fragments. Once I stooped to ascertain the\ncause, and raising a heavy body, a part of it fell with a loud, hollow\ncrash among my feet, leaving the lighter portion in my hands. It was a\nround bony substance, covered, and partly filled, with damp, cold dust.\nI was neither superstitious nor a coward; but, as I drew my hand around\nit, my body quivered, the hair upon my head moved, and my heart felt\nheavy. It was the form of a human skull. The damp dust had once been the\ntemple of a living soul. My fingers entered the sockets of the eyes--the\nteeth fell in my hands--and the still fresh and dewy hair twined around\nit. I shuddered--it fell from my grasp--the chill of death passed over\nme. The horrid conviction that I was immured in a living grave absorbed\nevery other feeling; and smiting my brow in horror, I threw myself, with\na groan, amidst the dead of other years.\n\n\"I again sprang to my feet, with the undetermined and confused wildness\nof despair. The mournful howlings of the assassin continued to render\nthe horrid sepulchre still more horrible, and gave to its darkness a\ndeeper ghostliness. Dead to every emotion of sympathy, stricken with\ndismal realities, and more terrible imaginations, yet burning for\nrevenge, directed by the howlings of the miserable man, and hesitating\nto distinguish between them and their incessant echoes, stretching my\nhands before me, I again approached him, to extort a confession of the\ncause and place of my imprisonment, or rather living burial. Vainly I\nraised him from the ground--threatening, soothing, and expostulation\nwere alike unavailing. On hearing my voice, the miserable being shrieked\nwith redoubled bitterness, plunged furiously, and gnashed his teeth,\nfastening them, in the extremity of his frenzy, in his own flesh. His\nfierce agony recalled to my bosom an emotion of pity; and, for a moment,\nforgetful of my own injuries and condition, I thought only of relieving\nhis suffering; but my presence seemed to add new madness to his\ntortures; and he tore himself from my hold with the lamentable yells of\na tormented mastiff, and the strength of a giant who, in the last throe\nof expiring nature, grapples with his conqueror. He reeled wildly a few\npaces, and fell, with a crash, upon the earth.\n\n\"Slowly and dismally the hours moved on, with no sound to measure their\nprogress, save the audible beating of my own heart, and the death-like\nhowling moan of my companion. As I leaned against the wall, counting\nthese dismal divisions of time, which appeared thus fearfully to mete\nout the duration of my existence, through the black darkness, whose\nweight had become oppressive to my eyeballs, I beheld, far above me, on\nthe opposite wall, a faint shadow, like the ghost of light, streaking\nits side, but so indistinct and imperfect, I knew not whether it was\nfancy or reality. With the earnestness of death, my eyes remained fixed\non the 'gloomy light;' and it threw upon my bosom a hope dim as itself.\nAgain I doubted its existence--deemed it a creation of my brain; and\ngroping along the damp floor, where my hand seemed passing over the ribs\nof a skeleton, I threw a loose fragment in the air, towards the point\nfrom whence the doubted glimmering proceeded; and perceived, for a\nmoment, as it fell, the shadow of a substance. Then, springing forward\nto the spot, I gasped to inhale, with its feeble ray, one breath that\nwas not agony.\n\n\"Thirst burned my lips, and, to cool them, they were pressed against the\ndamp walls of the prison; but my tongue was still dry--my throat\nparched--and hunger began to prey upon me. While thus suffering, a faint\nlight streamed from a narrow opening in the roof of the vault. Slowly a\nfeeble lamp was lowered through the aperture, and descended within two\nor three feet of my head. A small basket, containing a portion of bread\nand a pitcher of water, suspended by a cord, was let down into the\nvault. I seized the pitcher, as I would have rushed upon liberty; and\nraising it to my lips, as the pure, grateful beverage allayed the fever\nof my thirst, I shed a solitary tear, and, in the midst of my misery,\nthat tear was a tear of joy--like the morning-star gilding the horizon,\nwhen the surrounding heavens are wrapped in tempest. With it the\nfeelings of the Christian and the man met in my bosom; and, bending over\nmy fellow-sufferer, I applied the water to his lips. The poor wretch\ndevoured the draught to its last drop with greediness.\n\n\"The presence and the unceasing groans of my companion--yea, the dungeon\nand darkness themselves--were forgotten in the one deadening and bitter\nidea, that my wife and child were also captives, and in the power of\nruffians. If any other thought was indulged a moment, it was longing for\nliberty, that I might fly to their rescue--and it was then only that I\nbecame again sensible of captivity; and my eyes once more sought the\ndubious gleam that stretched fitfully across the wall, becoming more\nevident to perception as I became inured to the surrounding blackness.\nHope burned and brightened, as I traced the source of its dreamy\nshadows; and from thence weaved plans of escape, which, in the\ncalculation of fancy, were already as performed; though, before reason\nand common possibilities, they would have perished as the dewy nets\nthat, with the damps of an autumnal morning, overspread the hawthorn\nwith their spangled lacework, and, before the rising sunbeam, shrink\ninto nothing.\n\n\"But gradually my grief and despair subsided, and gave place to the\ncheering influence of hope, and the resolution of attempting my escape;\nand I rose to eat the bread and drink the water of captivity, to\nstrengthen me for the task. For many hours, the presence of my companion\nhad been forgotten; he still continued to howl, as one whom the horrors\nof an accusing conscience were withholding from the grasp of death; and\nI, roused from the reverie of my feelings and projects at the sound of\nhis sufferings, hastened to apply water and morsels of bread to the lips\nof my perishing fellow-prisoner; for bread and water had been lowered\ninto the vault.\n\n\"In order to carry my plan of escape into effect, for the first time,\naided by the lamp that was suspended over me, I gazed inquisitively, and\nwith a feeling of dismay, around the Golgotha in which I was immured.\nThere lay my hideous companion, the foam of pain and insanity gurgling\nfrom his mouth; beside him the skeleton of a mailed warrior, and around,\nthe uncoffined bones of four others, partly covered with their armour,\nand\n\n     'The brands yet rusted in their bony hands.'\n\n\"Although prepared for such a scene, I placed my hands before my eyes,\nshuddering at the thought of becoming as one of those--of being their\ncompanion while I lived--of lying down by the side of a skeleton to die!\nThe horror of the idea fired anew my resolution, and added more than\nhuman strength to my arm. I again eagerly sought the direction of the\ndoubtful gleam, which formerly filled me with hope; and was convinced\nthat from thence an opening might be effected, if not to perfect\nliberty, to a sight of the blessed light of heaven, where freedom, I\ndreaded not, would easily be found. Filled with determination, which no\nobstacle could impede, I took one of the swords, which had lain by the\nside of its owner untouched for ages, and with this instrument commenced\nthe laborious and seemingly impossible task of cutting out a flight of\nsteps in the rude wall, and thereby gaining the invisible aperture from\nwhich something like light was seen to emanate. The ray proceeded from\nan extreme angle of the dungeon, and apparently at its utmost height.\nThe materials on which I had to work were chiefly a hard granite rock,\nand other lighter, but scarce more manageable strata.\n\n\"Several anxious and miserable weeks thus passed in sluggish succession.\nHalf of my task was accomplished; and hope, with impatience, looked\nforward to its completion. I still divided my scanty meals with my\ncompanion, who, although recovered from the bruises occasioned by his\nfall, was become more horrible and fiend-like than before. As his body\nresumed its functions, his mind became the terrible imaginings of a\nguilty conscience. He had either lost, or forgotten, the power of\nwalking upright, and prowled, howling round the dungeon, on his hands\nand feet; while his dark bushy beard and revolting aspect gave him more\nthe manner and appearance of a wild beast than a human being.\n\n\"Our portion of food being barely sufficient for the sustenance of one,\nhunger had long been added to the list of our sufferings; but\nparticularly to those of the maniac. And, with the cunning peculiar to\nsuch unfortunates, he watched the return of the basket, which was daily\nlowered with provisions, and frequently before I--who, absorbed in the\ncompletion of my task, forgot or heeded not my jailer's being within\nhearing--could descend to the ground, he would grasp the basket, swallow\noff the water at a draught, and hurry with the bread to a corner of a\ndungeon; thus leaving me without food for the next twenty-four hours.\n\n\"It was at the period when I had half completed my object, that my\ncompanion, springing, as was his wont, upon the basket, before I could\napproach to withhold him, succeeded in draining off the contents of a\ngoblet, in which a few drops of a dark-coloured liquid still remained;\nand the pitcher of water was untouched. The wretched maniac had\nswallowed the draught but a few minutes, when, rolling himself together,\nhis screams and contortions became more frightful than before, and\nincreased in virulence for an hour. He lay motionless a few seconds,\ngasping for breath; then, springing suddenly to his feet, he gazed\nwistfully above and around him, with a look of extreme agony, and\nexclaiming, 'Heaven help me!' he rushed fiercely towards the wall in the\nopposite direction to where I was attempting to effect my escape, gave\none furious pull at what appeared the solid rock, and, with a groan,\nfell back, and expired.\n\n\"When the horror occasioned by his death in some degree abated, the\nsingularity of the manner in which he tore at the wall of the dungeon,\nfixed my attention; and, with almost frantic joy, I perceived that a\nportion of the hitherto thought impenetrable rock, had yielded several\ninches to his dying grasp. I hastily removed the body, and pulling\neagerly at the unloosed fragment, it fell upon the ground, a rough\nunhewn lump of granite, leaving an opening of about two feet square in\nthe rude rocky wall, from which it was so cut, as to seem to feeling and\nalmost appearance a solid part of it.\n\n\"My task was now abandoned. The gleam of light, which for weeks was to\nme an object of such intense interest, proceeded from a mere hairbreadth\ncleft in the rock. Taking up a sword which lay upon the ground, I drew\nmy body into the aperture formed by the removal of the piece of rock;\nand creeping slowly on my hands and knees, groping with the weapon\nbefore me, I at length found the winding and dismal passage sufficiently\nlofty to permit me to stand erect. I seemed enveloped in an interminable\ncavern, now opening into spacious chambers, clothed with crystal; again\nlosing itself in low passages, or narrow chinks of the rock, and\nsuddenly terminating in a slippery precipice, beneath which gurgling\nwaters were heard to run. Hours and hours passed; still I was groping\nonward; when I suddenly found my hopes cut off, by the interposition of\na precipice. I probed fearfully forward with the sword, but all was an\nunsubstantial void; I drew it on each side, and then it met but the\nsolid walls. I knelt, and reached down the sword to the length of my\narm, but it touched nothing. In agony, I dropped the weapon, by its\nsound to ascertain the depth; and, delighted, found it did not exceed\neight or ten feet. I cautiously slid down, and groping around, again\nplaced my hand upon the sword. Though my heart occasionally sank within\nme, yet the overcoming of each difficulty lent its inspiring aid to\novercome its successor. Often every hope appeared extinct. Now I\nascended, or again descended the dropping and crystalled rocks; now\ncrept into openings, which suddenly terminated, and turning again,\nanxiously listened to the sound of the rippling water as my only guide.\nOften, in spite of every precaution, I was stunned with a blow from the\nabrupt lowness of the roof, or suddenly plunged to the arms in the\nnumerous pools, whose waters had been dark from their birth.\n\n\"Language cannot convey an idea of the accumulating horrors of my\nsituation. Struggling with suffocation, with a feeling more awful than\nterror, and with despair, the agony of darkness must be _experienced_ to\nbe imagined.\n\n\"Still I moved on; and suddenly, when ready to sink, wearied, fainting,\nhopeless, the glorious light of day streamed upon my sight. I bounded\nforward with a wild shout; but the magnificent sun, bursting from the\neastern heavens, blinded my unaccustomed gaze.\n\n\"I again found that I was free: but my wife--my child--where were they?\nIt was many years before I learned that the nephew of the inquisitor,\nwho had sought her hand, having died, she regained her liberty, and fled\nwith our infant son to Scotland, to seek the home of her lost husband.\nSince then I have never heard of them again.\"\n\nWhen the major had thus concluded his narrative,\n\n\"Here,\" said Christopher, \"are two rings which were taken from the\nfingers of my mother--both bear inscriptions.\"\n\nThe old officer gazed upon them.\n\n\"They were hers--my Maria's!\" he exclaimed; \"I myself placed them upon\nher fingers. Son of my Maria, thou art mine!\"\n\nThe major purchased a commission for his long-lost son; and when peace\nwas proclaimed throughout Europe, they returned to Northumberland\ntogether, where Christopher gave his sword as a memorial to his\nfoster-father, Peter Thornton, and his hand to Jessie Wilkinson.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRIALS OF MENIE DEMPSTER.\n\n\nIn the contemplation of the affairs of the world, there is perhaps\nnothing that strikes a philosophical observer with more wonder than what\nhas been quaintly called the mutability of truth. With the exception of\nsome of the best ascertained laws of matter, and the evidences and\nsanctions of our holy religion, there is scarcely anything around us\nthat can be said to be absolutely determined and ascertained in all its\nbearings--including the influential cause, in a chain extending its\nunseen links through many minds; the proximate cause, involved in the\ndark recesses of the soul of the actor; and the effects, spread forth in\nendless ramification through society. Men are judged of, condemned,\nhanged, reviled, ruined, elevated, applauded, and rewarded upon less\nthan a thousandth part of the real moral truth that is evident to the\neye of the Almighty; and it too often happens, that what seems to be\nbest ascertained by the united testimony of many soothfast witnesses, is\nafter all little better than a lie, or an invention of men's minds,\nrolled up in the clouds of prejudice, selfishness, or hallucination.\nThis truth, of no truth, is apparent to all thinking men; and yet how\nmelancholy is it to reflect that we are so constructed that we cannot\nbut live and act upon the principle and practice that we see the whole,\nwhen we see only an insignificant part, that, if observed in the midst\nof the general array brought out by divine light, would appear not only\na speck, but by the influence of surrounding evidence, changed in its\nnature, and reversed in its object and bearing! It was but a partial,\nthough a striking illustration of this fact, that the murder which Sir\nWalter Raleigh saw committed with his own eyes from the Tower window\ncame to him so distorted and changed, through the medium of public and\njudicial report, that he could scarcely recognise in it the lineaments\nof the vision of his senses; for if the act he witnessed performed in\nthe streets of London were falsified by the errors or inventions of man,\nhow little could have been known of the motives that led to its\ncommission! This subject, if carried out, might open up a dreadful array\nof the effects of man's conceit and blindness, exhibiting innocent\nindividuals paying the penalty of death for the crimes of others;\ncharacters without a stain immolated at the shrine of public prejudice;\nand innocence suffering in ten thousand different ways under the cruel\nscorn of the bloodthirsty Chiun of a blind yet self-sufficient public.\nWe are led into these observations by the facts of a curious case of\nfalse implication that occurred near Edinburgh many years ago, from\nwhich, besides the interest it may inspire, we may learn the lesson of\nthat charity which our blessed Saviour laboured so much to make a ruling\nprinciple in the men of the world, but with a success that might form a\nmelancholy theme for the fair investigations of philanthropists.\n\nIn the village of Old Broughton, situated on the north of the old town\nof Edinburgh, and now nearly swallowed up by the surrounding masses of\narchitectural grandeur that compose the new town of that proud city,\nthere lived (we love the good old style of beginning a story) the old\nwidow of William Dempster, who long officiated in the capacity of\nprecentor in the ancient kirk of the Tron; where his voice, loud as that\nof Cycloborus, stirred the sleeping power of vocal worship in the\nbreasts of the good citizens. His voice had long been mute, not as that\nof Elihu, who trembled to speak to the Lord, but as that of those who\nlie in the mould till that day when there shall be no hindrance by the\nchilling hand of death, to sing the praises of the King of heaven and\nearth. Yet the voice of thanksgiving was not silent in the house of the\nwidow and fatherless, where old Euphan, as she was styled, and her\npretty daughter Menie, lived that life whose enjoyments the proud may\ndespise, but whose end and reward they may envy in vain. It may not be\nthat it was their choice (as whose choice is it?) to be poor; but it was\ntheir wisdom to know, as expressed by old Boston, that it may be more\npleasant to live in a palace, but it is more easy to die in a cottage.\nThe characters of these individuals, who happily never dreamed of\nforming heroines in the \"Border Tales,\" can be best appreciated by those\nwho lived in the last century; for in these jaunty days, when the sun of\nperfectibility is beginning to dawn on the moral horizon of a once\nsinful world, the contentment that is derived from a trust in heaven,\nand the pride that is begotten of a virtue that rejoices in itself, are\nmore often pictured by the pen of the fictioneer than found in the place\nand personages that be. The representations of our old painter, George\nJamesone, would be true as applied to Euphan Dempster and her daughter;\nfor the dresses of the women of Scotland underwent small change until\nthe eventful era of the nineteenth century; but we need them not--for\nour faithful memory has treasured the description of our parent, who\nlived to set forth the old representative of the Covenanters, sitting\nwith her linsey-woolsey gown, of green or cramosie, made close in the\nsleeves--the body tight, and peaked in the form of the old separate\nbodice--the huge swelling skirt of many folds, twined out at the\npocket-holes, and open in front, to show the bright-coloured petticoat\nof callimankey--her round-eared mutch that served the purpose of bonnet\nand coif--her clear-bleached tuck, with its row of mother-of-pearl\nbuttons running down the front--and her hose of white woollen, that\ndisappeared at the extremities in the shoe, whose high-turned heels gave\na kind of dignity to the step of the poor. The dress of the mother in\nthose days was almost that of the daughter, with the exception of the\nhead-gear, which, in the latter, was limited to a band of black velvet\n(the _bandeau_), to restrain the flowing locks; and, high as the word\nvelvet may sound, there were few maidens, however poor, that wanted the\nsmall strip of the costly material that now is seen covering the whole\npersons of the wives of rich tradesmen.\n\nSuch were the external characteristics of the inhabitants of the old\nred-tiled dwelling, so long known by the name of Dominie Dempster's\nHouse, in the village of Old Broughton; and, if we will form a character\nout of a combination of the virtues that dignified and graced the wives\nand daughters of the old Cameronians, we might make a fair approach to\nthe dispositions and habits of this solitary pair, whose earthly stay\nand support being gone, trusted implicitly to Heaven, for what Heaven\nhas seldom denied to the good. The mother was one of those\nhappily-constituted beings, whose minds are so completely formed, as it\nwere, upon the Bible, that not only were her actions regulated by the\nprecepts of the holy book, but her thoughts were naturally and almost\nunconsciously expressed in Scripture language; nor could it be said\nthat, dearly as she loved the old defenders of our faith, who reared\ntheir temples among the mountains, and died on the altars, she imitated\ntheir speech and manners merely because she loved their virtues--she\nonly drew from the same fountain from which they drew; and the water\nthat slaked their thirst in the wilderness of their persecution\nsustained her in the hour of her privation. Obeying the holy behest,\n\"Let thine heart retain my words,\" she made the religion of Christ \"the\nlife of her soul;\" and that which was a part of her spirit could not\nfail to regulate her conversation. An heir of an ever-blessed eternity,\nin which she believed soon to enter, the only worldly feeling that bound\nher to life was her desire to see her beloved Menie exhibit the fruits\nof her parental culture as fair to the eye of virtue, as the many\nsimple beauties of her person--her blooming Scotch face, with the blue\neye, and cheek that rivalled the peach in softness and colour; her\nmermaiden hair, and the graces of an almost perfect harmony of\nproportions--were to the eye of the admirer of female loveliness. And\nthis the mother had already in part seen in the evolution of all those\nestimable qualities of the heart, that, when joined to physical beauty,\nform the fairest object among all the fair creatures of this fair but\nfleeting world.\n\nIt is a trite saying, that female beauty seldom brings happiness to the\npossessor, even when it is combined with that goodness that ought to\nguard the children of virtue from the evils of life; and this was to\nsome extent verified by almost the first of the acts of our younger\nheroine's intercourse with the world; for she secured the heart of a\nlover even against her own will, and, with the unsought-for boon, got\nunwittingly the envy, and deep but concealed hatred, of her earliest\nfriend and companion. The son of the farmer of the Mains of Inverleith,\na property in the neighbourhood, George Wallace, had for some time been\npaying his addresses to Margaret Grierson, the daughter of the occupant\nof one of the small cottages of Broughton; and his success was in\nproportion to the attractions of a fine manly figure, and considerable\npower of that species of conversation which, with love ever on its\nwings, finds a ready access to the hearts of women. Though his passion\nhad not been declared, it had, by the anticipative selfishness of the\nsex, been assumed and claimed by the object of his attentions; and Menie\nhad been so far made a confidant of her companion, as to be intrusted\nwith the secret of a love which had as yet been declared only on one\nside. The communication was sufficient to prevent the simple friend,\neven if there had been in her disposition any spirit of rivalship--a\nfeeling which found no place in her breast--from presenting even an\nopportunity for Wallace discovering in her qualities with which her\ncompanion could not have competed; and she uniformly maintained, in the\npresence of the lovers, a quiet reserve, which afforded pleasure to the\none, but, perhaps, only tended to quicken in the other a comparison that\noperated in a manner contrary to the wishes of the confidant. Time, and\nthe frequent meetings and wanderings by the banks of the Leith--then\ncomparatively a sweet and rural stream, especially about the low grounds\nof Warriston and Inverleith--soon elicited the merits of the two\ncompanions; and Wallace was not slow to perceive that, fair and\ninteresting as his first object had appeared to him, she was eclipsed in\nall the finest attributes of woman by her who had never taken the\ntrouble to display her estimable properties. The reserve of the one--the\nresult of a natural modesty, and of a strict training according to the\nrules of the wisest of men--set off the freedom of the other as little\nbetter than forwardness; while her excellent sense, and an inborn\nsusceptibility of the finest and purest feelings of the sex, whether\nstirred by the flowers of the field arrayed in their simple beauties, or\nthe heaven-born genius of virtue working its pleasant ways in the hearts\nof man, brought out, by a contrast dangerous to her friend, the defects\nof a character that Wallace, in his first blindness, had taken for\nperfections. The result might have been anticipated by all but the\nunwitting possessor herself of virtues of which she was unconscious; and\nit was with no affected surprise that, one night, when walking by the\nmoonlight along the brattling Leith, she heard poured into her ear a\nstrain of impassioned sentiments that ought to have been reserved for\nanother, who had a prior and a better right to them.\n\nThe startled girl flew home to her mother, and narrated, as nearly as\nshe could recollect, the high-flown expressions of Wallace's changed\nlove; not forgetting to add, that the young man had declared upon his\nhonour that he had never declared any affection for her companion.\nOverpowered with sorrow for her friend, the tear glistened in her eye as\nshe sat and told her simple tale to her mother, who lifted up her face\nfrom the open book, to observe in the delicate workings of a\nwell-trained heart the fruits of her maternal care.\n\n\"Your sorrow for Margaret Grierson, child,\" she said, \"is a scented\noffering to auld friendships; but 'when thou wilt do good, know to whom\nthou doest it, so shalt thou be thanked for thy benefits.' I like not\nthe bearing and manners o' yer companion, for I hae seen in her the\noffice o' whisperer, and the fascinations o' the singer, wha would\nkindle love by her smiles, and unholy discord by her wiles. Her vanity,\nlike the gaudy streamers o' her head-gear, winnows wi' every wind but\nthat which comes frae the airth, whar God's chastening tribulations hae\ntheir holy birth. Ye may be surprised to hear me speak thus o' ane wha\nhas sae lang enjoyed the first place in your young affections; but my\nauld een hae a quick turn in them when vanity rideth abroad. She has\nother lovers than George Wallace, and other places and other\ntrystin-trees than the banks o' Leith, or the auld willow that grows by\nthe horse's pool, at the foot o' the bonny brae o' Warriston. Sorrows\nshe for George Wallace, think ye, when she sits amang the ruins o' the\nhospital o' Greenside, and hears the love tale o' vanities frae the lips\no' secret lovers?\"\n\n\"A' that's new to me, mother,\" answered the daughter. \"I never dreamed\nthat Peggy had ony ither than George. Wha are they, and how cam ye by\nthe knowledge?\"\n\n\"Never mind, Menie,\" said the mother, \"how I cam by the knowledge.\nThough my eyes, like Jeremiah's, are auld, and do fail with tears, I hae\nneither the blindness o' the mole nor the deafness o' the adder. But let\nthae things alone; we hae nae right to pry into the secrets o' our\nneighbours' ways, albeit they may savour o' the vanities o' Baal. It is\nenough for me that I warn ye against the 'lamps o' fire' that scorch as\nwell as light. George Wallace is a rich and an honest man's son; and if,\nas I believe, he has plighted nae troth with the follower o' vanities\nand double-loves, ye're no bound to reject his affections. Can your\nheart receive him, Menie?\"\n\n\"Ou ay,\" replied the maiden, as she held down her head, and seemed\nafraid of the strange sounds of her own words. \"I hae seen nae man yet\nlike George Wallace, and I hae chided my puir heart for sometimes\nenvying Peggy o' his affections. But are we not told to change not a\nfreend for the gold of Ophir?\"\n\n\"Surely, child,\" responded the mother--\"a true freend o' God's election\nis better than fine gold; but she who seeketh vanity understands not the\nname o' freendship, and her kisses are as those o' the serpent. Seek nae\nmair the society o' Margaret Grierson; leave her to her secret thoughts\nand secret lovers, and turn your heart to him wha has routh o' means to\nsupport ye, and whase love is the love o' the heart that kens nae\nguile.\"\n\nThe counsel of her parent was ever a law to the daughter; but there was\nsomething in the advice she now gave that exercised an influence over\nMenie's heart, or rather there was something in the heart itself, of a\nnature hitherto unknown to its possessor, that acknowledged and\nrecognised the influence as more congenial to her feelings than any\nauthority of spoken wisdom (though founded on the words of the son of\nSirach) she had yet submitted to. The secret of this feeling lay in the\nwell-springs of an affection that had been pent up by her sense of\nhonour; but now, when she found that she was justified in giving her\nheart its natural freedom to love the choice of her judgment, she lent\nin aid of its operations the creations of a young and glowing fancy,\nwhich soon pictured so many exquisite forms of beauty, both of mind and\nperson, in the object of her rising affection, that, before another\nmorning had dawned on her, she had become versant in the secret and\nsweet mystery of sighs and throbbings, hopes, fears, and aspirations, of\nexperienced lovers. She now wished as ardently for another meeting with\nWallace, as she had done for a separation on the occasion of their last\ninterview. Nor did she wish in vain; for he, with a passion roused into\na warmer flame by her resisting coyness and startled apprehension,\nsought her anxiously, to renew his suit, and remove all the scruples of\nconscience that lay in the way of a passion to be, as he hoped,\nreturned. He little knew that part of the work had been already done to\nhis hand by a mother's cherished counsel; and his joy may be more easily\nconceived than expressed, even by the electric words of love's inspired\npower, when he found that Menie not only loved him, but conceived she\nhad a good title to repay him with a warmth of affection equal to that\nof his own. He was now a frequent visiter at her mother's house; and\nthough he knew that all his motions were watched by her whom he had thus\nabruptly, though, perhaps, not without just cause, forsaken, he kept\nsteady in his new attachment, and avowed openly a love of which the best\nman of his station in Scotland might have been proud.\n\nThe affection that is hallowed by the blessing of such a parent as\nMenie's possessed a good title to be excepted from the ordinary\nproverbial fate of the loves of the humble; but, unfortunately, the\nadverse circumstances, that, like harpies, follow the victims of the\ntender passion, acknowledged no limit to the sources from which they\nspring. The rejected maiden pursued her successful rival with all the\nbitterness of disappointment and envy; odious calumnies were fabricated,\ngiven to the tongue of inveterate scandal, and found their way to the\nsensitive ear of her whom they were intended to ruin. Unacquainted with\nthe ways of a bad world, every individual in which she judged by the\ntest of her own pure feeling--the universal error of young and\nunchilled hearts--her pain was equalled by her surprise, and she sought\nconsolation on the breast of her lover, as they reclined upon the\nsloping and wood-covered banks of Inverleith.\n\n\"I hae bought ye dearly,\" said she, as she looked up in his face through\nher tears, \"when, for your love, I paid the peace o' mind that was never\ntroubled with the breath o' a dishonourable suspicion. The hail o'\nBroughton rings with the report that I betrayed my freend to secure your\naffections, and that I am unworthy o' them, as being a follower o'\nunlawful loves. My eyes hae never been dry since my heart was struck\nwith the false charge. I hae looked to heaven, and found nae relief. My\nmother has tried to comfort me, by telling me o' the waes o' Ane higher\nthan mortal man, wha was pursued to the death by envy and malice, and\nwha yet triumphed. You, George, hae alane the power to comfort me. Tell\nme that ye heed them not, and I will yet try to hold up my head among\nthe honest daughters o' men.\"\n\n\"If ye heed them as little's I heed them, Menie,\" replied he, \"there\nwill be sma skaith though muckle scorn. Dry up your tears, love, and\ntell me if it is true\" (and he laughed in playful mockery of her fears)\n\"that you keep the weekly tryst, by the elm in Leith Loan, with the\nnotorious Mike M'Intyre, the city guardsman?\"\n\n\"George, George!--Oh man, how can ye mak light o' the sorrows o' yer ain\nMenie?\" said the girl, as she heard the calumny come from the lips of\nher lover. \"That is Margaret Grierson's charge against me; and, if ye\nknew that every word o' the falsehood gaes to my heart like the tongue\no' the deaf adder--ay, even though they come on the wings o' yer playfu\nlaugh--ye wad rather gie me the tears o' your pity than the consolation\no' your mirth.\"\n\n\"And what better way, Menie, could I tak to prove my faith in my love's\nhonesty,\" said he, as he clasped her in his arms, \"than by dispersing\nthe poisoned lie by the breath o' a hearty laugh. Nae mair o't--nae mair\no't, Menie--I believe it not; and that ye may hae some faith in my\nstatement, I'll put a question to ye. Will ye answer me fairly, wi' the\ntruth and sincerity that your mother draws frae the fountain o' a'\nguidness--her auld Bible--and pours into yer heart in the dreary hour o'\nlate, even as ye retire into the keepin o' Him who looks down on\nsleepin' innocence with the eye of love?\"\n\n\"Ay will I, George,\" answered the maiden, \"with the openness and\nsincerity with which I lay my sins on the footstool o' Heaven's mercy.\"\n\n\"Will ye consent to be George Wallace's wife on Fastern's E'en, and\nleave the city guardsman to your rival?\"\n\n\"I am already yours, George,\" answered she, as she buried her head in\nhis bosom, to conceal her blushes--\"I am already yours, by a plighted\nfaith that never will be broken; and it may be even as you say; but I\nwish nae ill to my enemies, and will spae nae waur fortune to Margaret\nGrierson, wha has injured me, than that she may get as guid a husband as\nyou will, I trust, be to me.\"\n\n\"Kind, guid creature!\" responded Wallace. \"If the first part o' yer\nanswer maks ye mine for life, the ither proves that ye are worthy o' me;\nfor she wha wishes nae ill to her enemies will never do wrang by her\nfreends. Gae and report to your mother what I hae said. The time is yet\ndistant: but hope gies light wings to the hours o' lovers.\"\n\nThe two parted; and Menie, seeking the nearest way to her home, hurried\nalong, her heart beating high with unutterable emotions, and with all\nthe pain she had felt from the evil reports of her rival drowned in the\nintoxicating pleasure of being the betrothed of the man she loved. The\nmoon, which had been throwing her silver light o'er the dark foliage\nthat overhung the Leith, and catching a look of her own face in the\nwaters through the opening branches, was now half-concealed behind a\ncloud; and as the maiden passed along by the side of the stream, she\nrequired to restrain the flutter of her spirits, to enable her to thread\nher way by the narrow footpath. The ecstatic emotions of her novel\nsituation, and the hurry of her progress, made her breathless, and she\npaused to recover herself, when she observed two individuals sitting by\nthe side of the water. A loud laugh struck her ear; and she did not\nrequire to speculate as to the individuals from whom it came--for a\nvoice she too well knew followed, with words of reproach that shook her\nto the heart. It was that of her former companion; and a glance\nsatisfied her that she was in the society of that very individual,\nM'Intyre, the city guardsman, with whose name her own had been so\ncruelly and invidiously connected. In an instant the notorious\nindividual was by her side.\n\n\"I've waited for ye, Menie,\" he began, \"till the mune has waned and sunk\nbehind the Pentlands. How hae ye been sae lang, woman, when ye ken sae\nweel the impatience o' a true lover, and that I maun be on the city\nwatch on the morrow, and canna meet ye? Mak amends, and let us roam a\nwee amang the birken woods, whar the absence o' the mune will be nae\nhindrance to our loves.\"\n\nAnd before she could reply, he had his arms round her neck, and was\npulling her away among the trees. The apparition of the very individual\nof whom she had been conversing with Wallace, and whose name was a\nterror to her, with the fearful consciousness of the pollution of his\nembrace, took away from her all power of resistance; her knees trembled;\nshe tried to reply to him, but could not; and a weak scream, that almost\ndied in her throat, was the only show of ineffectual resistance she\ncould oppose to his efforts. A few minutes enabled her to rally her\npowers; and she had turned to wrest herself from his arms, when she saw\nWallace standing at a little distance among the trees. He had that very\ninstant come up; and there was something in the cool, piercing look he\nthrew at her, that repressed the inchoate scream for relief that she\nstruggled to utter; and the hands she held out to him imploring his\nsuccour fell nerveless within the grasp of the man who held her. Upon\nthe point of fainting, she would have sunk to the ground, had she not\nbeen upheld by the force of her tormentor; and, in turning her eyes\nagain in the direction of Wallace, she observed he had vanished. The\nscream, no longer restrained, burst forth; but it came too late; for, if\nWallace heard it in his retreat, he might justly attribute it to his own\nappearance at a time when he might suppose himself an unwelcome\nintruder. At that moment two men came in sight; and the city guardsman,\nprobably afraid of being recognised, released her from his grasp, and\nretreated to the position he had left by the side of her who sat\nawaiting in laughter for his arrival.\n\nThe instant she was liberated, the frightened maiden flew with the speed\nof terror homewards--all her energies wound up in the mere effort to\nincrease her irregular progress, and without the capability of feeling\nthe true and fearful circumstances of her position. Arrived at her\nmother's house, she sprang forward in a state bordering on despair, and\nthrew herself on a chair by the side of the fire, opposite to her\nparent, who was engaged in her usual evening exercise of searching the\ninspired volume for the balm of the consolation of age and poverty.\n\n\"What is this, Menie?\" cried the mother, as she saw her daughter\ntrembling under the influence of nervous terror. \"Has yer enemy been at\nher auld wark again? and have a' yer mother's injunctions failed to get\nye to rest on the sure foundation o' conscious innocence? It canna be\nthat George Wallace has listened to the poisoned breath o' scandal and\nenvy. Speak, child; and frae this book shall ye get the support that no\nson or daughter of Adam can lend to the children o' sorrow.\"\n\n\"Let me think, mother--let me collect mysel!\" responded the girl, as she\nraised her hand to her head, and threw back her locks. \"Whar am I? what\nspell is on me? Am I to be a bride on Fastern's E'en, or a disowned and\nheart-broken maiden? Why did he no speak to me--or why did I no speak to\nhim? I will to him yet, and explain a', and the men will speak for me;\nbut wha were they? Ah, they were strangers! and there's nane to warrant\nthe words o' truth.\"\n\nAnd rising, she made again towards the door, apparently with the\nconfused intention of hurrying to Inverleith Mains; but her mother rose\nand restrained her, and she again sat down to collect her thoughts. It\nwas some time before she could give so connected an account of the\nstrange circumstances that had occurred within the space of a short\nhour, as to be understood by the mother; but, by questioning and\ncross-questioning, the latter came to the truth--and a truth of\ndangerous import she soon observed it to be. She had already, in her own\nperson, suffered from the blighting effects of prejudice, and she\ntrembled as she surveyed the difficulties that lay in the way of a\nproper explanation. The poison of a false conviction had too certainly\nalready entered the breast of Wallace, and she knew that its workings\nmight be made only the more inveterate, the greater the efforts resorted\nto for eradicating it. In all her trials, however, her refuge was the\nbook that supported her fathers in the mountain glens, when the storm of\npersecution raged over a struggling land; and, enjoining her daughter to\noffer up with her their prayers to the throne of grace, she sought from\nthe true fountain the means of relieving them from the danger which\nthreatened innocence and poverty. The night passed, and the morning\ncame, when it was resolved that they both together should repair to the\nresidence of Wallace, and openly declare to him the truth of the\nperplexed appearances which had too evidently operated on his mind to\ntheir disadvantage; but a little farther consideration showed them the\ninexpediency of thus assuming that the conduct of Menie required\nexplanation; and the resolution that at last prevailed was, to wait for\nsome time to ascertain what might be the intentions and motions of\nWallace, whom they expected to call at the house, according to his wont,\nas he passed to the city. The day passed away, but there was no\nappearance of him; and, on the day following, it was ascertained, from\none of his father's servants, who was passing with grain to the market,\nthat he had gone to the borders of England to bury a relation, where, it\nwas expected, he would remain for a considerable time, to arrange the\naffairs of the deceased, to whom his father was nearest heir-at-law.\nThis intelligence made it only more certain that the prejudice had taken\nroot; because, otherwise, both duty and inclination would have forced\nhim to pay a visit to his betrothed before his departure, however sudden\nor unexpected that might have been.\n\nA month passed, and Wallace had not yet returned; but Fastern's Even was\nstill a month distant, and every day brought the hope of a letter, at\nleast, to explain the cause of his conduct, and point out his future\nproceedings, whether \"for feid or favour.\" But no letter came; and all\ntheir inquiries ended in the intelligence that his relative's affairs\nwere not yet wound up, and that some weeks yet would elapse before he\ncould return. The situation, meanwhile, of the victim of prejudice was\npainful, and gradually becoming hopeless. Her prior sufferings from the\nstings of calumny were alleviated by the expectation that the generous\nmind of Wallace would scorn the schemes of her enemy, and her marriage\nwould refute the aspersions, and place her beyond the reach of their\npoison; but now her relief was not only apparently cut off, but\nchanged, by some adverse fate, into a proof--a confirmation of what had\nbeen alleged against her character. Every day found her a mourner; and\nit was only after nightfall that she could summon up resolution to go\nabroad on the small messages that domestic wants rendered necessary.\nInvolved in mystery as were both mother and daughter, and pained as the\nlatter was beyond endurance, there yet hung over them a still darker\ncloud of misfortune, equally mysteriously and fortuitously collected and\nformed, and equally cruel in its unmerited discharge on the heads of\ninnocent victims. Misery of the deepest and most complicated kind seems\noften to be evolved from the most trifling causes, as if to show the\nproud sons of men, by a lesson that pains while it mocks them, the utter\ndarkness of that blindness which they mistake for the light of a\nconcealed reason. One evening, Menie had occasion to proceed to the\nsmall village of Canonmills, on a message to a friend; and, as usual,\nshe waited till nightfall, to avoid the gaze of the neighbours, whom her\nfevered fancy exhibited to her (to a great extent untruly) as\nparticipators in the circulation of the calumnies under which she\nsuffered. Wrapped up in a cloak, she hurried out, and proceeded down the\nnarrow loan that then led to the village she intended to visit. Her step\nwas stealthy, and her eye filled with secret shame, even among the\nshades of night. She reached the house, where she staid for a short\ntime, and then set out on return, which she was inclined to accomplish\nas quickly and stealthily as she had done her progress forth; but she\nhad not proceeded many paces from the village, when she observed a small\nwicker corban or basket lying by the side of a hedgerow that then ran\nalong the lower part of the loan. There appeared to be no one near it;\nand, impelled by a natural curiosity, she proceeded forward and\ninspected it. There was on it, she observed, a bundle, so carefully\npinned up, that, though she applied her fingers hastily to it, she\ncould not penetrate its folds. On lifting up the strange deposit, she\nfound that it felt heavy. She stood irresolute, and again looked around\nher, but saw no one. She was flurried; and her desire to get home urged\nher to take it up, and proceed hurriedly along the road, with the view\nof taking it to the house with her, to examine it leisurely, and restore\nit to the owner, in the event of his casting up. She obeyed the natural\nimpulse; and, as she ran home with the unknown charge, she repeatedly\ncast her eyes about, to see if any one appeared to claim it; but she\nstill saw no one; and, in the space of a few minutes, she reached the\ndoor of the house, and hurried in. She placed the burden upon the\nfloor--telling her mother, at the same time, that she had found it on\nthe road, and brought it home to see what it contained, as the bundle\nwas so carefully tied up that she could not unfold it on the highway.\nHer mother put on her spectacles; and, bending down, proceeded, with the\naid of Menie, to undo the cloth, when, to their surprise, they evolved\nfrom the many foldings of an envelope the dead body (still warm) of a\nnew-born babe. Menie fainted at the grim spectacle, and the mother ran\nfor hartshorn, to recover her daughter. In a little time she revived,\nbut it was only to shudder again at the strange sight; while the\nsagacious mind of Euphan was busy with the divinations of a sad\nexperience, that pointed to some new calamity to result from this new\nturn of their adverse fate. She saw, at once, that if she called in her\nenvious neighbours, that had been already busy with the character of her\ndaughter, the unlikely story of the finding and bringing home of a dead\nchild would be scorned and laughed at, while the circumstance of the\nchild being found in the house would be laid hold of as a handle for\ncorroborating and confirming the already circulated calumnies, if,\nindeed, it might not form a subject for judicial examination and\nexposure, that might end in the ruin of one already too much\npersecuted. These cogitations led to a sudden resolution. Rolling up the\nbody hastily in the envelope--\n\n\"Hie ye quickly, Menie,\" she said, \"to the place whar ye fand this\ndangerous burden, and lay it in the precise position in which ye first\nsaw it. The shafts o' envy are already thick round innocence, and we\nneed not for sorrow to prick our own eyes that tears may fall. There is\na knowledge that is for guid, and ane that is for evil; but 'the work of\nall flesh is before Him, and nothing can be hid from his eyes,' so shall\nthis shame be made manifest in his own way. Haste, child, and obey the\nbehest o' your mother.\"\n\nThe trembling girl started back at the mention of again bearing the\nunholy load; but she was impelled by the strange looks of her parent;\nand, like an automaton, she hurriedly snatched up the corb, and hastened\nwith it to the place where she found it. She was wrapped up in her\ncloak, which she threw over the charge, and, after the manner of a\nthief, or a worker of secret iniquity, she slouched along the loan,\ntrembling and stumbling at every step, till she came to the precise\nspot, and there she looked several times around her, before she ventured\nto deposit her burden. She thought she perceived some one behind her,\nwho passed into an opening in the hedge, and she felt irresolute whether\nto lay down the corban at that moment, or ascertain first whether there\nwas really any one behind the fence; but her mind again recurring to the\ncontents of her burden, a feeling of horripilation crept over her, and,\ngently crouching down, as if terrified to behold her own act, she\nwithdrew the cloak, left the charge, and fled precipitately along the\ndark side of the loan. Curiosity impelled her, as she fled, to turn her\nhead, and she saw, with terror, some one issue from the opening in the\nhedge, and proceed, as she thought, to the identical spot which she had\njust left. It struck her forcibly, and she shuddered at the thought,\nthat the figure she saw resembled that of Wallace; and the suspicion\narose, that he had been watching about the cottage, had followed her,\nand observed her motions, and would now examine the burden she had so\nstealthily and mysteriously deposited by the side of the hedge. A strong\nparoxysm of hysterical emotion seized her, as the full consequences of a\nrealisation of the conjecture were arrayed before her by the conjuring\npower of her terrors. The prior unexplained suspicion under which she\nyet lay rose to swell the tumult of her thoughts. She thought her God\nhad deserted her, and that the destiny of her miserable life was placed\nunder the charge of evil spirits, who gloried in her utter ruin. She\ngrew faint, and was scarcely able to walk; and before she again reached\nthe house, the choking effects of the hysterical spasm had almost\ndeprived her of breath. The door was open for her reception; and the\nmoment she entered, she fell upon the floor, panting for air, the blood\nstreaming from her nostrils, and shrill, broken screams, like the sounds\nthat issue from the victims of Cynanche, bursting from her labouring\nthroat.\n\nThe alarmed mother again applied restoratives to her suffering daughter,\nwho, in a few minutes, opened her eyes, and became sensible.\n\n\"Were you seen, Menie?\" whispered the mother, anxiously, in her ear.\n\"Speak, love. 'Blessed is he that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope\nthe Lord is.' Fear not, child; tell me, were ye seen by the eyes o'\nmortal?\"\n\n\"God be merciful to me!\" answered the girl. \"If my eyes deceived me not,\nGeorge Wallace cam behind me, and saw me lay down that evidence o'\nanither's shame. I am lost for ever!\"\n\nThe mother was silent, and lifted up her eyes in an attitude of prayer\nto Heaven. The nervous symptoms still clung to the daughter, and\nshiverings and spasms succeeded each other, till she grew so weak that\nshe was unable to undress herself to retire to bed. The office was\nperformed by the kindly hands of the parent, who, still overcome by the\nworkings of fearful anticipations, sat down by the fire, and, fixing her\neyes on the red embers, seemed for a time lost in the meditations of a\nheart that, filled with the spirit of God, felt that, as Esdras sayeth,\n\"life is astonishment and fear,\" and that we cannot comprehend the\nthings that are promised to the righteous in this world, nor those that\nare given to the wicked to destroy the happiness of the good.\n\nThe night was passed in anxiety and fearful forebodings; and the beam of\nthe morning was dreaded by the daughter, as if it were the blaze of\nevidence that was to bring to light some crime she had committed. She\nwas unable to rise; the small domestic duties of the morning were\nperformed by the mother, pensively, and under the burden of the prospect\nof coming ill. About ten o'clock, a slight knock was heard at the door;\nEuphan cried, in a weak voice, \"Come in.\" She heard a whispering and\nrustling of clothes, as if the visitors were deciding, by expostulations\nand pushings, which of them should enter first. At last two neighbours,\nwho had been known to be active in circulation of reports against the\ndaughter, made their appearance. On the usual salutation, expressed, as\nEuphan thought, in a strange voice, and accompanied by stranger looks--\n\n\"Is Menie ill the day?\" said one of them, as she cast her eye obliquely\nupon the bed. \"Has she nae doctor, puir thing?\"\n\n\"I haena seen her for mony weeks,\" said the other. \"Why do ye conceal\nher illness, Euphan, woman? The lassie may dee, when a helpin hand micht\nsave her.\"\n\n\"Yet I hae heard that she was seen on the road to Canonmills last nicht\nin the darkenin,\" rejoined the first, with an oblique glance at the\nother.\n\nThe words reached Menie in the bed, and the clothes shook above her.\n\n\"God be praised, my bairn is weel!\" said Euphan, who understood the\nimport of their speech; \"but, though 'affliction cometh not forth from\nthe dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground,' yet are we all\nborn unto grief. We hae our ain sorrows, and never pry into those o' our\nneighbours.\"\n\nThe conversation continued for some time, and the women departed,\nleaving the inmates to the certainty that the village had got hold of\nthe dreaded topic of calumny against the miserable victim of prejudice.\nThe shock had not expended its strength upon their already racked\nnerves, when the door was opened by a rude hand, and two men entered,\ndressed in the garb of officers of the Sheriff Court. An involuntary\nscream was uttered by Menie, as her eyes met the uniform of red facings\nof the harsh-looking men. Euphan was silent; but her eyes were filled\nwith the eloquence of fear.\n\n\"Is your daughter at home, good woman?\" said one of the men, while he\ncast his eye on the bed from which the weak scream issued.\n\n\"Ay,\" answered the mother. \"What is your pleasure wi' her or wi' me?\"\n\n\"Where is she?\" added the same person.\n\n\"There,\" answered the mother. \"She is weakly this morning, and hasna yet\nrisen.\"\n\n\"No doubt--no doubt,\" said the man. \"She cannot be weel. I understand\nshe has been confined to the house for six weeks, with the exception of\nsome night wanderings; but she must this day face the light of the sun.\nWe have a warrant of apprehension against her, proceeding on a charge of\nchild-murder. She must up and dress, sick or well, and go with us. The\nbody of the child lies in the sheriff's office; and it is right that the\nmother should be there also.\"\n\nThe words, which had an ironical virulence in them, unbecoming the\nstation of the man, wrung a wail from the accused maiden, which, muffled\nby the bedclothes she had wrapped round her head, sounded like the\nwaning voice of the departing spirit; and the mother, overcome by the\naccumulation of ills crowned by this consummation, flung herself at the\nfeet of the speaker, and grasped his legs with her fleshless arm.\n\n\"God hath spoken once; but I have heard it many times that power\nbelongeth unto him, and not to those wha whet their tongues like swords,\nand bend their bows to shoot their arrows at the innocent. My dochter is\nas guiltless o' this crime as the babe she is accused o' murderin. Let\nher remain, if ye hae in ye the heart that travaileth with pity, and I\nwill awa to them that sent ye, and satisfy them, as never suspicion was\nsatisfied, that Menie Dempster is nae mair capable o' committin this\ncrime against God and his laws, than is she wha is sanctified by the\nholiest spirit that ever warmed the breast or filled with tears the een\no' the mercifu. Grant me this ae request, and it will be a' that Euphan\nDempster may ever ask o' man.\"\n\n\"We cannot,\" replied the officer; \"all we can do is to retire for a\nmoment, till your daughter dress herself; but we cannot wait long--so,\nquick--quick.\"\n\nAnd the two men retired to the door, where their appearance had already\ncollected a crowd of curious inquirers. The behests of necessity\novercome the strongest feelings of mortals, and even impart to weakness\na morbid strength. The unhappy maiden rose, and put on her clothes in\nthe midst of the outpourings of her mother's religious inspirations; but\nher sobs and suppressed wailings bore evidence to a sorrow that would\nnot be comforted, even by the assurances of the mercy that endureth for\never. The men again entered; and Menie, accompanied by her mother, was\nled away to the hall of the Sheriff's Court, to undergo an examination,\nwhich, of itself, might operate as their utter ruin in this world.\n\nThey arrived at the court-room about eleven o'clock. An examination of\nwitnesses had already been begun. As they entered the door of the room\nwhere they were to be placed, Menie saw passing through the lobby\nseveral neighbours; and between two men, in the act of taking him to be\nexamined, she observed George Wallace, whose eyes seemed red and\ninflamed, and who exhibited a strong reluctance to proceed forward,\nrequiring the efforts of the men to drag him before the examinator. The\nwhole scene seemed nothing but a dream; and the trifling circumstance\nfrom which it originated invested it with a character strange and\nunnatural. It was nearly four o'clock before Menie was called in to be\nexamined. When led before the judge, she looked wildly around her. A\nchair was set for her, and she sat down. The usual questions as to her\nname, and other matters, were put, and the more important part of the\nexamination proceeded. She was asked whether she had at one time been on\nterms of intimacy with Michael M'Intyre, the city guardsman; whether she\nhad not been in his society among the trees of Inverleith, on a night\nmentioned; whether she had not been courted by George Wallace of\nInverleith Mains; whether she had not been renounced by him; whether the\nreason of such renouncement was not her prior intimacy with M'Intyre;\nwhether she had not been confined to the house for a considerable\nperiod, and what was the reason of such confinement; whether she had not\ndeposited a basket containing the dead child near the hedgerow in the\nloan leading to Canonmills; and whether she was not the mother of the\nchild. Every question was answered according to her simple ideas of\ninnocence and truth; but when she came to state that she found the\nbasket on the road, carried it home without looking at it, and then\nreplaced it in the situation in which she found it, and all this without\nbeing able properly to account for so unlikely and extraordinary a\nproceeding, the sheriff, prejudiced as he was against her, from her\nprevious admission that she had been seen in the society of M'Intyre, a\nman of dissolute habits--that Wallace had not visited her for many\nweeks, in consequence, as she supposed, of that circumstance--and that\nshe had not been in the habit of going out for a considerable\nperiod--viewed her statement as false, and entertained the strongest\nsuspicions of her being guilty of the crime laid to her charge. She was\naccordingly committed to prison until further evidence might be\nprocured, to throw more light on the mysterious transaction.\n\nIn the meantime, the circumstances of the case being of that\ninexplicable kind that stirs the curiosity of a prying public, the\nresults of the precognition got abroad, and it was ascertained that a\nconsiderable part of the information afforded to the sheriff had been\nprocured from Elspeth Grierson, the mother of Margaret Grierson, and\nfrom one of the men who had seen Menie in the arms of the city\nguardsman. The manner in which Wallace became implicated as an unwilling\nwitness against his betrothed, was also a curious feature in the case.\nHe had not been absent in the south so long as it had been represented,\nbut had concealed his arrival at home with a view to watch the motions\nof her whom he yet loved, in spite of the suspicions he entertained\nagainst her; and having, on that eventful evening, seen Menie hurrying\nalong with a basket in her hand, he had followed her, and seen her\ndeposit the charge in the manner already mentioned. At the very moment\nwhen he was in the act of examining it, Elspeth Grierson came up, as if\nshe had been returning from Canonmills, and helped him to undo the\ncloth in which the dead body of the child was wrapped; and thus was he\npainfully committed as a witness of what he had seen. The authorities\nsoon after got intelligence of the circumstance; the child was taken to\nthe office, and a great number of witnesses, chiefly pointed out by\nElspeth Grierson (among the rest, George Wallace), were examined,\nprevious to the interrogation of the supposed culprit herself.\n\nThe unhappy situation of the girl, and the apparently conflicting\ntestimony of the witnesses, roused a sympathetic interest in many of her\nacquaintances, who, having set on foot a system of inquiry, induced or\npersuaded the fiscal to seek for the truth, rather than for an\nunilateral array of inculpative testimony. It was impossible, even on\nthe part of the authorities, to deny the force of the facts, that Menie\nhad been often seen by the neighbours during their visits, though she\nhad kept the house in the day-time, in consequence of the shame produced\nby the reports circulated against her; that she had been on a visit to\nCanonmills on that evening when the child was exposed; that the rumours\nagainst her (with the exception of the facts attending the depositing of\nthe corb) proceeded mainly from one source, which was a poisoned one;\nand that, in place of denying, as she might have done, all knowledge of\nthe transaction, she had explained everything with a simplicity that was\nseldom exhibited by the votaries of vice. These things made a suitable\nimpression, and the crown authorities were obliged to stop short in\ntheir proceedings, from the circumstance that they could find no proof\nof gravidity, and only one witness, Wallace himself--whose reluctance to\ngive his testimony was looked upon, when contrasted with his ascertained\ninimical feelings towards her, as an affected exhibition of leniency to\ncover concealed hatred--could speak to the fact of the depositation of\nthe child. All seemed enveloped in doubt; and, if there was a glimpse of\ncertainty in regard to any part of the inexplicable case, it was that,\nthat doubt itself would effectuate the ruin of the unfortunate prisoner,\nwho could never claim again the respect that is due to innocence.\n\nFor six months she was confined within the narrow cells of a jail, and\nduring every day of that period she was visited by her mother, whose\nendeavours to support the young and breaking heart of the victim, by the\napplication of the balm that God has sent to the miserable, only tended\nto calm the spirit as it sunk in the ruins of a decaying constitution.\nShe was at last liberated; but the freedom of the body only made more\nmanifest the effects of the blasting power of prejudice and suspicion;\nand the intelligence, that was communicated to her some time afterwards,\nthat Wallace had married Margaret Grierson, crowned the misery that\nenslaved her, and seemed to cut off all hope that she could ever again\nhold up her head among the daughters of men. Time passed, and realised\nthat inherent condition of his power, which, as his progress continues,\nbrings to the miserable the sad consolation of the woes of their\nenemies. The marriage of Wallace with Margaret Grierson was an unhappy\none. The collision of adverse sentiments produced in the wife an\ninfirmity of temper, which, in its exasperated moods, sought for relief\nin intoxication; and the domestic feuds at Inverleith Mains became a\ncommon topic of conversation among the inhabitants of Broughton. Such\nare the turns of fate that acknowledge the influence of a power whose\nways we cannot comprehend; yet a still more extraordinary discovery was\nto be manifested to the child of misfortune. One night Menie and her\nmother were engaged in their evening exercise, heedless of the concerns\nof a world from which they were excluded, when the door opened with a\nloud noise, and George Wallace stood before them. His eyes were wild and\nbloodshot, a fever was in his blood, and his nerves, excited by some\nmaniac passion, shook till his frame seemed convulsed, and the powers\nof judgment and will lay prostrate before the fiend that ruled his\nheart. Menie started up affrighted, and the mother laid her hand upon\nthe book.\n\n\"I am compelled to be here,\" he cried, with a choking, unnatural voice,\nas he held forth his hands to the maiden; \"and it is well I have come,\nfor the quiet air o' this house o' innocence already quells the fever o'\nmy heart. I have this moment left my wife; and I had a struggle to pass\nthe water-dam, that shone in the mune to invite me to bury mysel and my\ngrief in its still breast. But there is a God in heaven; and He it is\nwha has brought me here, to look ance mair on her I loved and ruined,\nand now can only save by my ain endless misery and shame. She lies\nyonder steeped in drink; but the power o' conscience has repelled the\nsubtle poison, and she could speak in burnin words her crime and my\neternal shame. Margaret Grierson it was--my wife--the mother o' my\nchild--O God, help my words!--she has confessed, in her drunken madness,\nand my heart tells me it is the confession o' God's eternal truth, that\nthe babe was hers--that her mother laid it by the hedgerow, a breathin\nvictim, to hide her daughter's dishonour--and that it died there by\nsuffocation. Let me speak it out, that this throbbin heart may be\nstilled. But it cannot--it never can be in this world--no--no--nor in\nthe next.\"\n\nAnd, groaning deeply, he threw himself on a chair, and rugged his hair\nlike a maniac in the highest paroxysm of his disease. The unexpected and\nextraordinary statement rendered the women speechless. They looked at\nhim, and at each other. Mutterings of prayer escaped from the lips of\nEuphan, and surprise and pity divided the empire of the heart of the\ndaughter, who had never thought to see misery that equalled her own.\nThere was no reason for the feeling of triumph, where the melancholy\nrelief came from the ruins of one whom they had both loved and\nrespected. He had been the only individual that ever influenced the\nheart of the one, and the other had fondly looked forward to him as the\nsupport and solace of her old age. Now he was a ruined, miserable man,\nand had no power to make amends for the wrong he had unintentionally\ncommitted. The calmness of the silence, and the relief that came from\nthe unburdening of a secret that had been wrung from him by the pangs of\nconscience, brought him to a sense of the position in which he had\nplaced himself. He had put himself and his wife in the power of those he\nhad wronged, and returning reason brought with it the fears of\nself-preservation.\n\n\"What hae I done?\" he again exclaimed, as he took his hand from his\nforehead, and looked into the face of Menie. \"I hae condemned mysel and\nthe wife o' my bosom--my conscience and a burnin revenge hae wrought\nthis out o' me; but what shall be the consequence thereof? Will ye bring\nher to justice, the gallows--and me to a still deeper ruin and\ndesolation than that which hang over this house o' innocent suffering?\nSay, Menie; speak, guid mother; our doom is in your hands. What says\nthat blessed book on the merits o' forgiveness and the crime o'\nrevenge?\"\n\nEuphan Dempster fixed her eyes on him calmly.\n\n\"Sair, sair hae ye wranged me, and that puir child o' misfortune, wha\nstands there unable to reply to ye, though the tears o' her grief and\nher pity speak in strange language the waes o' a broken heart. But\nsairer, far sairer, hae ye wranged yersel; for, though we 'have seen the\ntravail which God hath given to the sons and daughters o' men,' we have\nbeen answered in the dark nights in which we cried and wept, by Him who\n'maintains the cause o' the afflicted, and the right o' the poor;' but\nye are left to the wrath o' yer ain spirit, that burns in yer heart, and\neven now lights up your eyes wi' a strange licht. Vainly would my\ndaughter and I hae read this book, if we hadna learned to forgive our\nenemies. You hae naething to fear from us.\"\n\n\"And are thae the sentiments o' her wha was ance the life and light o'\nthis stricken heart!\" said Wallace, as he turned mournfully to Menie,\nwho, pale and emaciated from her sorrow, stood before him, the ghost of\nwhat she was. \"O God! can this be my Menie? Is a' that ruin o' health\nand beauty the doin o' him wha loved her as nae man ever loved woman?\nAre thae your sentiments, Menie? and am I, and is my miserable wife,\nsafe in the keepin o' your forgiveness?\"\n\n\"Ay, George,\" answered the maiden, as she burst into tears at the\nrecollection of her former love, and the sight of her unhappy lover. \"I\nhae been sair dealt wi'; but I forgie ye; and I forgie also your wife. I\nwill dree the scorn o' an ill warld; but till you and she are dead, my\nlips will never mention the wrangs I hae suffered from my auld freend,\nand him I could hae dee'd to serve.\"\n\n\"Miserable man that I am!\" exclaimed the youth. \"How much do your\ngenerosity and kindness show me I have lost, and lost for ever? Whither\nnow shall I fly!--to the arms o' a murderer, the wife o' my bosom--or to\nthe wide world, to roam, a houseless man, to whom there is nae city o'\nrefuge on earth?\"\n\nUnable longer to bear the poignancy of his feelings, he rushed out of\nthe house.\n\nFor several years after the scene we have now described, Wallace was not\nheard of. None but his father knew whither he had gone. His wife was\nabsolutely discarded from the farmhouse; and, her habits getting\ngradually worse, she became a street vagrant, and renounced herself to\nthe dominion of the evil power that had, from an early period, ruled\nher, but whose workings she had so artfully, for a time, attempted to\nconceal. She paid many visits to Inverleith Mains, but was rejected by\nthe old farmer, who attributed to her the ruin of his son. On these\noccasions, she broke forth in wild execrations; and, on her return, did\nnot fail to assail the widow and her daughter as the instruments of her\nruin. The old story of the child was published at the door in the words\nof drunken delirium; and often mixed with stray sentences of triumph\nthat, to any one possessed of the secret, would have appeared a\nsufficient condemnation of herself. Yet the construction was all the\nother way; for Menie had never been cleared by evidence, and the\nvirulent expressions of the vagabond were, according to the laws which\ntoo often regulate mundane belief, taken as inculpation; and hence the\nprejudice against the innocent victim was kept up, and the lives of her\nand her mother embittered to a degree that called for all the aids of\ntheir \"sacred remeid\" to ameliorate sufferings that seemed destined to\nhave no end upon earth. But the ways of Heaven are wonderful. A\nboisterous sea may wreck, but the sufferer may be carried to the shore\nby a wave which, if less impetuous, might have been his grave. Wallace's\nwife at last died from the effects of that dissipation that had opened\nthe evil heart to give forth the confession of her own shame; and, after\nthis relief, the husband's father paid regular visits to Menie and her\nmother. He never spoke of the secret that had driven his son away, nor\nof the place to which he had fled; but he showed sufficiently, by his\nattentions and kindness, that he knew all. The house of the widow and\nher daughter was now kept full by supplies from the farm; money, too,\nwas given to them in abundance, and, in so far as regarded worldly\nmeans, the two inmates had, at no period of their lives, been so well\nprovided for.\n\nFive years had now elapsed since the disappearance of Wallace. One\nnight, as Menie and her mother were sitting by the fire, the door was\nopened, and Wallace stood before them. His manner was now very different\nfrom what it was on that day when he rushed like a madman from the\nhouse. He stood for a moment, looking at the couple who had suffered so\nmuch from his wrongs; and the first words he uttered were--\n\n\"Menie Dempster, ye have been true to your promise, and ye have been\nrewarded. That woman is gone to her trial, and yours is ended. Now shall\ntruth triumph.\"\n\nMenie was unable to utter a word. Her eyes were alternately turned to\nWallace and to the fire. The mother laid her hand solemnly on the Bible,\nand addressing the inspired volume--\n\n\"Thus are yer secrets brought to light--ay, even out o' darkness. They\nwha trust in ye shall not fail in the end, though they should stumble\nseven times, yea, seven times seven.\"\n\n\"If I had trusted mair to that,\" said Wallace, \"than to the whisperins\no' my ain heart, I might never have been a miserable husband, or a\nbanished man. But it's no yet owre late. I am resolved. Menie, will ye\nnow consent to be the wife o' him wha wrought, maybe unwittingly, to\nyour ruin?\"\n\nMenie was yet silent.\n\n\"I will publish your innocence,\" rejoined he. \"There is mair evidence\nthan my word against her wha is dead. It shall be known far and wide,\nand you will be the innocent and respected wife o' George Wallace.\"\n\n\"I will speak for her,\" said the mother; \"she will consent. It is asked\nof her by Him wha has brought good out o' evil, and whase mercies, bein\nthe reward o' the patience o' trial, are as a command that shall not be\ndisobeyed.\"\n\nWallace drew near to Menie, and took her hand. Her face was still turned\naway, but he felt the trembling pressure, that got sooner to the heart\nthan the sounds of the voice.\n\n\"It is enough, Menie,\" he whispered. \"Come, the mune is again shinin\namang the trees o' Warriston.\"\n\nThe couple proceeded to their old haunts. They passed the hedgerow\nwhere the child had been deposited. Menie's step was quick as they\napproached it, her eyes were averted from the spot, and they passed it\nin silence. We need not record the spoken sentiments of lovers in the\nsituation of this couple. They parted, after it was arranged that their\nmarriage should take place in the following week.\n\nIn the interval, the most prudent and effectual means were taken to\nclear up the mystery of the old story. The written statements of several\nindividuals, who had heard the broken confessions of the woman, were\ntaken. Wallace and his father added theirs, and there was soon a\nreaction in favour of Menie, much stronger than the original imputation.\nEvery one believed her innocent; and the marriage, which took place a\nshort time after, confirmed all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NATURAL HISTORY OF IDIOTS.\n\n\nThe very foundation of idiocy is peculiarity; whatever this unfortunate\nclass may want, they do not want those features by which they are\ndistinguishable from the ordinary ranks of mankind. Hence the interest\nwhich idiocy has ever exerted, and the splendid creations which, under\nthe name of asylums, quiet, country residences, &c., have been made for\ntheir accommodation. The great mass of society--with the exception,\nperhaps, of a kingdom, which shall, for the present, be nameless--have\nnothing _idiotical_, that is, peculiar, belonging to them exclusively.\nThey move as others move, dress as others dress, think as others think,\nand worship God as others do and as others did. Were it not for\n_idiots_, in the extended sense of the word, there were an end of plays,\nnovels, and all works of fiction. Very few women, if we may credit Pope,\nare idiots: for he says--\n\n    \"Nothing so true as what you once let fall--\n    Most women have no character at all;\n    Matter too soft a standing mark to bear,\n    And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.\"\n\nBut, although the original meaning and enlarged sense of the term might\ncarry us into a field thus almost boundless, we shall at the present\nlimit ourselves to two classes of idiots, comprehending, as they do, a\ngreat variety of species. First, the natural idiot, or the simply\nfatuous: of these there are _two_ varieties--the peaceable and the\nfrantic. Secondly, the unnatural or rational idiot; of these the\nvarieties are infinite, and a selection only is in the present instance\neither desirable or attainable.\n\nWe return then to the purely fatuous, or peaceable idiot.\n\nPoor innocent! as he is uniformly and kindly named by the neighbourhood.\nThere he walks about, along that stream, or across that meadow, from\nmorn to night, and from night to morning, his hand at his cheek, and his\nlips muttering incoherence, such as, \"Johnnie, quo' he, lad; ah, ha,\nWillie lad, Willie lad, Willie lad.\" He is so biddable, that a child may\nmake him lie down, or rise up, enlarge or shorten his step. He will\ncarry a peat-barrow when peats are a-casting, ted hay, or lift a child\nsafely over a fence; yet, for all that, he is not always to be\ntrusted--for there are times when his countenance gets flushed, his\nframe nervously convulsed, and then he utters dreadful things, and\nbecomes violent and unmanageable. These are, however, only aberrations,\nnot continued character; and, by watching the symptoms of the\napproaching storm, the effects may be easily avoided. Idiots, even of\nthis peaceable and innocuous kind, are now abstracted from their natural\nand kindly hearths, and concealed in asylums and private residences. Not\nso--it was not indeed so--in the olden times. The hereditary possession\nof at least one \"innocent\" in a family was deemed a blessing. \"There\nnever will be wanting,\" said the pious parent, \"a bit for thy\nhelplessness, poor Johnnie.\" Good luck took up her residence under the\nroof where such a one resided; and the parent was doubly attached to\n_the object_, as he was sometimes called. To hurt him, or injure him in\nany manner of way, was domestic treason; and even the schoolboy, on his\nharvest rambles, only pelted him with nuts and brambleberries. Poor\nJohnnie! he was missed one day; he had wandered beyond his ordinary\nreach, and all the town was in motion searching for him. The night came\non, dark, and even drifty; and the poor helpless object could nowhere be\nfound. Shouts were raised, dogs were dismissed on errands of inquiry,\nherd-boys ran, and servant lads greatly hastened their pace. At last,\nhe was discovered on the brink of a precipice, over which he was\nsuspended, by the coat-tails, which a strong shepherd's dog was holding\nfast in its teeth. But for the powerful sagacity of this brute, the\nhelpless being had been dashed to pieces. When he was rescued from his\ndangerous position, he was repeating, in his usual manner, \"Johnnie's\na-caul quo' he, lad.\" He was never suffered to be in such danger again.\nThese eyes saw him on his death-bed; and, at the instant of his\ndeparture, it was indeed a most affecting scene.\n\n    \"The soul's dark cottage, shatter'd and decay'd,\n    Let _in_ new light through chinks which time had made.\"\n\nAs the pulse ebbed and the feet swelled, reason seemed to resume her\nlong-deserted seat. He actually raised himself upon his elbow, drew the\nback of his hand twice across his brow, as if clearing away some\nobstruction from his eyes, and, looking around with an eye unusually\nbright and beaming, lambent like an expiring taper--\n\n\"Oh, what a dream! what a dream! But I see you all now; yes--yes--I see\nmy kind mother, my dear father, my sister! Yes--yes--I am now well. I am\nawake--I live.\" Hereupon the fatal and well-known struggle in the throat\nstopped his speech; he fell back, gave one deep sigh, and was at rest.\nPoor Johnnie! if a tear of gratitude can gratify anything that lives,\nbearing the most distant relationship to thee, that tear has now been\nshed. Heaven has long been merciful to the poor Innocent.\n\nBut the frantic idiot who now struggles against the chain and the\nstrait-waistcoat in yonder cell. He too, at one time, roamed at large,\nto the great alarm, but seldom to the injury, of the lieges. \"His bark,\"\nas the people said, \"was waur than his bite;\" and, if at any time he\nrequired to be confined by force, a few kindly words and soothing\naccents threw oil on the troubled sea, and restored comparative\nserenity. Daft Will Gibson rises before me; his long rung or kent by\nway of staff, his Kilmarnock night-cap, and shoes of many patches, his\naversion to all manner of trick or nickname, and his furious onset when\npursued by schoolboys: all these circumstances rise again from the dark\npast, and glare before me like the shades in \"Macbeth.\" Yet, though\noccasionally furious, and even dangerous, he was kind-hearted, and not\nunobservant of character. The timid he rejoiced to terrify, whilst he\npassed by the bold and firm unmolested. Though he often threw large\nstones at those who assailed him, he took special care always to throw\nshort of his object. But one day a little child, unobserved by him, had\ncrossed the pathway of his missile after it had been delivered,\naltogether unobserved by poor Will. The child was knocked down and\ngreatly injured--it bled profusely. Will seemed horrorstruck, and roared\naloud--\n\n\"It was I! It was me! It was daft Will Gibson!\"\n\nFrom that day he never lifted another stone, but always exhibited the\ngreatest liking for this child--of which the following anecdote is\nsufficient proof. A little boy was playing in the channel of a mountain\ntorrent, then almost dry. There was thunder in the distance, and\nQueensberry had put on her inky robe of darkness. All at once, the burns\nbegan to emit a loud, roaring, rattling sound, and down came the Caple\nWater--as my informant, who witnessed the scene, said--like \"corn\nsacks.\" The boy, owing to his eagerness in pursuing a trout (which he\nwas endeavouring to catch) from stone to stone, did not hear or see the\napproaching danger, till the mighty flood was upon him. My informant--a\nshepherd--threw aside plaid and staff, and ran to the rescue; but the\nred and roaring flood was before him; and a fine boy of seven or eight\nyears old would undoubtedly have lost his life, had it not been for the\npoor maniac, who chanced to be pulling rushes hard by. He rushed into\nthe flood just as it was oversetting the helpless victim, and, with a\ntremendous jerk, threw him clean upon the green bank of the torrent. He\nthen endeavoured himself to clear the bank; but the treacherous and\nhollow earth, under the pressure of the water, gave way, and down\ntumbled brow and man into the raging whirlpool--the man underneath, the\nbrow above him. The boy, by means of his heels, escaped; but poor Will\nGibson's body was next day found some miles lower down, sadly disfigured\nand mangled. Thus did this grateful maniac expiate the inadvertent\ninjury which he had done this very boy when a mere child, by saving his\nlife at the expense of his own.\n\nWe now pass, in prosecution of our history, from darkness into light,\nfrom the irresponsible and irrational agent, to the responsible and\nfoolish. Our guide here, in this _mare magnum_ of idiocy, shall be _the\nuse_ of language in discussing the various merits of the different\nclasses. We shall make use of no new phraseology, but be guided to our\npurpose by the acknowledged and recognised use and meaning of terms. Why\nthe word \"idiot\" is retained in conversational language in particular,\nwhen its original and more legitimate meaning is lost, we have already\npointed at; it is owing to analogy and resemblance that in this case, as\nin many others, such terms are legitimate and expressive.\n\nThere is, then, in the first place, to come at once to the point--there\nis\n\n    \"THE HAVERING IDIOT.\"\n\nHorace gives a most correct idea of this class in these well-known\nlines:--\n\n    \"Hunc neque dira venena, nec hosticus auferet ensis\n    Nec laterum dolor, aut tussis aut tarda podagra,\n    _Garrulus hunc quando consumet_.\"\n\nGalt, too, has hit off the character, under a feminine aspect, in his\n\"Wearifu Woman;\" but we have no occasion to ask Horace for his\nspectacles, or Galt for his microscope, in order to discover the\nfeatures of this most numerous and annoying class. Midges, in a new-mown\nmeadow, are terribly teasing; so are peas in one's shoes--particularly\nif unboiled. There is a certain cutaneous disease which is said to give\nexercise at once to the nails and to patience. Who would not fret if\nplaced naked, all face over, in a whin bush? To be teased and tormented\nwith grammar rules is vastly provoking; and to get the proof questions\nby heart cannot be deemed anything but annoying. A showery day, when you\nhave set out on a long-meditated \"pic-nic,\" will vex the most patient\nsoul into spleen; and marriage-settlements are frequently great sources\nof heartburnings and delays. To be told that your house is on fire, when\nyour messenger is on his way to effect an insurance, may possibly give\npain; and to find that every pipe is frozen, so that there is not a drop\nof water for the engine, may probably add to your chagrin. All these,\nand a thousand other miseries to which human flesh is heir, may, nay\nmust, be borne; but the torment of coming into ear-shot of a \"havering\nidiot\" is a thousand and a thousand times more insupportable. You are\nplaced beside him at table, and in a mixed company of men of literature\nand science, whom probably you may never see again. A subject is\nstarted, which, from peculiar reasons, happens to be not only of itself\ncurious, but exceedingly interesting to you, professionally in\nparticular. Professor Pillans is discussing education, or Combe is\nmanipulating heads; Sir David Brewster is describing the polarisation of\nlight, or Tom Campbell is thrilling every heart with poetic\nquotations;--no matter, you are unfortunately in juxtaposition to a\n\"havering idiot,\" and about five removes from the focus of general\nconversation. He will not let you rest for a moment, but is ever\nwhispering into your ear some grand thing which he said last evening at\nLady Whirligig's ball. You push your dish forward, and fix your eyes\nupon the intelligent speaker. He observes, and mistakes, or seems to\nmistake, your movement and your motive, and immediately hopes he may\nhelp you to the dish you are after. You are fairly _dished_; and unless\nyou knock him down with your fist in the first place, and shoot him\nafterwards, you have no resource but to repeat the lines of Horace,\nalready quoted, and submit to your fate.\n\nHis stories are infinite and inextricable; but, unlike the epic, they\nhave neither a beginning, a middle, nor an end. When he starts with\n\"I'll tell you a good thing,\" you listen for an instant, but immediately\nperceive that you are on the wrong scent; and, as he advances, he is\never admonishing you with his elbow of the many _hits_ he is making; and\nhaving heard him out--if that be possible!--you immediately exclaim,\n\"Well!\" thinking assuredly the cream of the joke is yet awaiting you.\n\n\"But, sir, you are making no meal at all. You must try some of that fine\nhoneycomb; it is most excellent; it is of our own making; for, I may\nsay, we have almost everything within ourselves. The bees, last season,\ndid not do well at all; but they have done better this, sir. You are a\nnatural philosopher, sir--can you tell me how the bees see their way\nback again to their houses, when they go far away in search of flowers\nand honey?\"\n\n\"Just the way, I suppose, ma'am, that they see their way a-field.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay--I ken that; but I hae a book here--(go away, Jeanie, and bring\nme the book on natural history; the Cyclopaedia, ye ken). Now, sir, this\nbook tells me that, from the shape of their eye, the bees canna see an\ninch before them--how then do they travel miles and miles, and never\nlose their road?--but bless me, sir, you're no making a meal at no rate.\nAy, here's 'the article,' as it is called. Read that, sir, just at the\nbottom of the 196th page,\" &c. &c.\n\n    \"THE BLETHERING IDIOT\"\n\nis manifestly twin-brother to the haverer, with this small difference,\nhowever, that the bletherer is a mere repeater or reporter of havers.\nThe one is the importer, as it were, of the article wholesale, and the\nother retails the article thus imported. They are raw commodity and\nmanufactured goods--they are original and copy--cause and effect. Burns\nwas quite aware of this when he wrote--\n\n    \"And baith a yellow George to claim,\n              And thole their blethers.\"\n\nThese blethers were not original inventions, but merely varnished\nrepetitions. The blethering idiot is most dangerous as well as most\ndisagreeable. In this respect, he even surpasses the haverer, whose\nannoyances terminate in themselves, in the irritations and\ninconveniences of the moment. But the bletherer is a dangerous friend,\nan inveterate foe, and a most unsafe neighbour. Will Webster was the\nintimate friend of poor James Johnston. James was a lad of honest\nintentions, fair talents, and warm feelings. He was educated as an\nengineer, and had already acquired a certain status and character in\nthat capacity. His friend Webster had been accidentally a school\ncompanion, from the proximity of their dwellings and the intimacy of\ntheir parents. Webster had studied law, and was about to pass advocate,\nwhen he came to meet his friend, and spend a harvest vacation with him\nat Castledykes, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfries-shire. The two young\nmen were in the bloom and strength of youth, being both some months\nunder twenty-one. Georgina Gordon was the daughter of a small\nneighbouring proprietor (a Dunscore laird), an only daughter, her\nfather's prop (her mother having died at her birth), and the admiration\nof everybody who merely saw her at church on Sunday, or who knew her\nintimately. I should have mentioned before, that this beautiful flower\nhad been named Georgina, with the view of perpetuating the name of a\nbrother whose fate had been involved in obscurity. He had betaken\nhimself early to sea, and the vessel in which he sailed had never more,\nduring several years before Georgina's birth, been heard of. All\npossible inquiries had been made, but without effect. The Thunderer,\nCaptain Morris, had been seen off the coast of South America; but no\nmore was known. James Johnston was already in the way of making\nreasonable proposals to any one; but his heart had long been fixed at\nCastledykes. He used to wander for hours and days along the glen of the\ncairn, and within sight of the old family abode. Georgina, however, had\nalready many lovers, and was reported to have, in fact, made a\nselection. It was again and again reported by Will Webster to his friend\nJohnston, and to everybody who took any interest in the report, that he\nhad seen Georgina enter the Kelpie Cave in company with a lover, and\nthat he had even seen them fondly embracing each other. At first\nJohnston gave no heed to Will's _blethers_; but still they gradually\nmade an impression upon him. He became, at last, decidedly jealous,\nwhen, led and guided by his friend Will, he beheld with his own eyes a\nmale figure, closely wrapped up in a plaid, holding secret converse with\nthe lovely Miss Gordon. What will not jealousy, goaded on by officious\nand injudicious friendship, do? Unknown to any one, he met and accosted\nthe figure in the dark: a struggle and a contest with lethal weapons\ntook place, and the stranger fell. No sooner had the deed been done,\nthan James saw and repented of his rashness. The wound which he had\ninflicted was bound up, and the fainting man, help being procured,\nconveyed to Castledykes. James Johnston was not the man to fly, even\nshould death prove the consequence of his rashness. A curious denouement\nnow took place: the person whom James had wounded was no other than the\nlong-lost George Gordon. The vessel in which he had sailed had not been\nwrecked, as was supposed, but had been taken, scuttled, and sunk, by\nSpanish privateers, who then infested the Leeward Islands. He had been\nbound and fettered in the hold, till he came under a solemn promise\nneither to desert nor abandon his colours in the hour of battle. Under\nsuch discipline, it was no wonder that, in a few years, George Gordon\n(now taking the Spanish name of Joan Paraiso) should be habituated to\nall manner of rapine and bloodshed. From less to more, by acts of\nheroism, he became second, and ultimately first, in command of a Spanish\nprivateer.\n\nEngland, having viewed this growing evil with a suitable indignation,\nsent out her armaments to the west; and the Don Savallo, Joan Paraiso,\ncommander, was taken. The prisoners were conveyed to Britain; and it\nbeing discovered that Paraiso was originally a British subject, he was\nthrown into prison to abide his trial. From this he escaped, almost by a\nmiracle, and wandering over the kingdom in another domino, or assumed\nname, he came at last, as if by the law of force and attraction, to his\nnative glen. But he durst not yet discover himself, for he was an\noutlaw, and the papers were filled with rewards for his apprehension. In\nthis situation he discovered himself, under the most dreadful oaths of\nsecresy, even from his own father (at least for a time), to his sister.\nThe rest, up to the period of his wound, which was by no means\ndangerous, is easily understood. What follows will be necessary to\ncomplete the narrative:--James Johnston having learned all this from\nGeorgina, who, in a moment of excitement, discovered that it was not a\nlover but a brother over whom she hung, he again met his blethering\nfriend Webster--acquainted him with the history, and, in a few days,\nJoan Paraiso was arrested in his bed, and carried to Plymouth, to\nundergo his trial. The grief and horror of all may be easily conceived.\nAll, save the origin of the evil, were thunderstruck and overpowered\nwith grief and vexation. \"But for your long tongue and empty head,\"\nsaid Johnston, taking him one day by the throat, \"my dear Georgina had\nbeen mine--her brother had lived, and all had been well.\" The guilty man\nstruggled, and was dashed against a stone wall with tremendous violence.\nA concussion of the brain followed, and poor unhappy James Johnston was\nhimself on trial for murder. It is true that he was acquitted, as the\nsurgeon would not positively affirm that the dead person had not died\nfrom a natural stroke of apoplexy; and it is likewise true, that Joan\nParaiso, _alias_ George Gordon, was acquitted, as he had been compelled,\nfrom fear of death, to act as he had done. But Georgina was no longer an\nheiress, and the mercenary laird of Clatchet-Knowe, who had all but\nobtained her consent to a marriage, became suddenly cooled in his\nfervour. Johnston hearing of this, and having, after some months,\nrecovered his spirits, made his addresses, and was accepted. Georgina\nJohnston is now, or was lately, a happy wife and mother. Her husband has\npurchased the farm of Kirkcudbright, in that neighbourhood, and they\nlive in comfort and respectability. So much as a specimen of the\nachievements and fate of a bletherer. But who waits there?\n\n    \"THE AFFECTED IDIOT.\n\nLet him enter. What a thing! But it is not with the tailor-work that we\nhave to deal; we leave that to the titter and ridicule of every sensible\nperson in the company, and to the compassion of the rest.\n\n    \"In man or woman, but far most in man,\n    I hate all affectation.\"\n\nSo says good-hearted Cowper. But, hating affectation, he must in some\ndegree hate a large section of the male, and a still larger proportion\nof the female sex. In fact, we are all more or less affected--I in\nwriting this article in such an easy, off-hand, after-dinner manner, and\nthe publisher of the \"Border Tales\" in affecting not to be affected by\nso many favourable notices in so many papers. I don't like the word--I\nhate it ever since Lord Brougham (who once was so great) made use of the\none half of it, when speaking of Sugden; but, notwithstanding, I must\nout with it--\"_humbug_\" is the go, and everybody knows it, and yet\neverybody does it. Was there ever such a queer world, ma'am? I\n_wish_--well, I will tell you, madam, what I wish--I wish I had a new\ntack of \"this world,\" with all its nonsense. This thing we call \"life\"\nis to me exceeding amusing; but I am off, on the very velocipede of\naffectation, and must \"'bout ship.\"\n\nThe affectation of no affectation is the most unsupportable of all.\nSimple Johnnie comes into the room, throwing about, from side to side,\nboth his elbows. He immediately, in the simplicity of his nature, lets\nyou know that he never was up to the ordinary methods of society; in\ntestimony of which he sits down beside you on a sofa--plaits his legs,\nand passes his hand along his leg, from heel to knee, and _vice versa_.\nYou talk of anything and everything. He is sure you are right. He never\ncould remember anything. He is sure you are right; but he cannot say, it\nis so long since he read about it. He tells you at once that people call\nhim \"Simple Johnnie;\" that he once tumbled into a river, whilst reading\na book; that he is _so_ absent, you have no notion; that he has\nforgotten his own name, and only remembered it, after having given a\npenny to a boy, saying, \"Now, my boy, do you know who gave you that?\" He\nputs on a blue stocking and a grey, and wonders that people observe it;\nhe pushes through the market, snuffing, snorting, and repeating almost\naloud, Thomson's \"Seasons;\" he is called a good sort of a body, and\ntells you so; but he knows in reality that he is an excellent classical\nscholar, and a writer of no mean degree. Affectation, however, hangs\nover him, like a mist; and his real merits, which are great, are greatly\nobscured by the medium through which they are seen.\n\nLet us change the sex!--A farmer's daughter married to an earl--no, not\nan earl--a laird--a country gentleman. She is all _gentility_--talks of\nnothing beneath dukes and marquises; asks you if there is anybody of\nnote in India; never saw fish eaten without a silver fork; and considers\nthat Queen Victoria has never seen good company! After a', wha cares?\nThis is a precious rag of feminality; nobody can hurt her feelings, or\ndestroy her equanimity. You mention, in her company, that Lady Louisa\nRussell, her most intimate friend, of whom she talks daily, and to\neverybody, has left the town without calling; she assumes an air of\nsupreme indifference, and exclaims--\"Well! after a', wha cares?\"\n\nA bluestocking!--No, I will not spend ink and paper on the subject--it\nis literally _thread_-bare--not a loop in the stocking but may be seen\nby a man of ninety without spectacles. A fop!--faugh!--who cares for\nanything of the dandy or exquisite species?--A braggadocio--another\nMunchausen! who kills trouts by the gross, and men by the dozen--who\nshoots on the wing--_e.g._ Two individuals of this description once met\nin my own presence. They had been in India, and were Indianising for the\nbenefit and entertainment of the company. Shooting came on the carpet,\nand their various achievements were stated. Colonel A---- had shot more\nthan a dozen water-fowl at one shot.\n\n\"I am sure,\" said he, appealing to his Indian friend--\"I am sure,\ngeneral, you know it to be true.\"\n\n\"Twelve dozen, by God!\" was the emphatic response.\n\n\"Who has not heard of my father, the colonel?\"--viz., Colonel Cloud--and\nyet this colonel proved to be nothing more than plain Mr B----, from the\ngrand town of Forfar. Oh, how shall I overtake the varied forms that\nrise up before me!--as well might I essay to catch and fix every\nbutterfly from the Emperor of Morocco down to the blue wing. \"Upwards\nand downwards, thwarting and convolved,\" the myriads of insects dance\naway their hour, and are forgot. And who art thou who thus speakest of\nothers? A solitary fly! A large blue-bottom, madam, as insignificant and\nephemeral as any amongst them. But of this enough. Let us now introduce\nanother actor, or rather speaker.\n\n\"Well, sir, I am glad I have met you; for I was just going to call upon\nyou, to tell you that my son John, poor fellow--you know John?--that he\nhas got a step--what they call a step in the service, and that he has\nhad a severe fever, but is now quite well; and that he writes to his\nsister--such a letter--but I have it here, sir, in my pocket. Pray do,\nsir, sit down for a little, and I will read it to you; it is such a\nfunny letter--you have no notion--and so full of inquiries for\neverybody, amongst the rest for yourself, whom it is wonderful that he\nremembers--he has such a memory, my Johnnie, and always had. I remember,\nwhen just a little thing not higher than this parasol. But, bless me,\nsir, you are not listening!\"\n\n\"No, ma'am; I beg your pardon; but I have an engagement.\" (Exit.)\n\nAnd who does not see, at once, that this is a\n\n\n\"PROSING IDIOT?\"\n\n\"I was up, yes--yes--up--up--yes, I was up by five\nyesterday--yes--yes--yesterday morning. When do you rise, ma'am? I\nalways rise--yes--yes--rise--I always rise by six--true--true--quite\ntrue--by six, ma'am--it is good--so good--yes--yes--very good, ma'am,\nfor the health--the health--yes--the health.\"\n\nSuch is the drivel which we have often heard oozing, drop by drop, from\na male creature of the prosy kind.\n\n\n\"THE BLAZING IDIOT.\"\n\nThe blazing idiot is all over self and wonderment. He has done--what has\nhe not done? He can do--what can he not do? One of this character was\none day entertaining old Quin with the account of an encounter with a\nfurious bull, in which the blazer had proved too much for the horner,\nand held him, in spite of his neck, till he roared for a truce.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Quin, looking around him knowingly on the company, \"that is\nnothing at all to what I once experienced myself.\"\n\nThe original blazer looked amazement.\n\n\"Yes,\" says Quin, \"I--even I, have managed the bull exercise in a higher\nstyle than you, sir. You only held the bull's head down by the horns,\nbut I twisted his head from his neck, and threw it after his departing\nhind-quarters!\"\n\nThis produced a roar at the idiot's expense, and he shrunk out, to\nannounce his achievements somewhere else.\n\nIs he a traveller?--Why, then, Munchausen is a fool to him. He has\nundergone, achieved, seen, heard, tasted, more wonders than a thousand\nGullivers.\n\n\"The bats of Madagascar are large, assuredly, and almost exclude the\nsunlight by the breadth of their hairy wings. But the bats are nothing,\nsir, to the bees.\"\n\n\"What kind of bees have they?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, the bees are, 'pon honour, sir, they are as large as your\nsheep in this country.\"\n\n\"Why, then, one would require to keep a pretty sharp look-out ahead, in\ncase of a near encounter with such a winged monster.\"\n\n\"Not at all, sir. They make such a roaring noise, sir, with their wings,\nthat you can hear them, like the bulls of Bashan, a full mile distant.\"\n\n\"Terrible! But are they numerous?\"\n\n\"Oh, exceedingly!\"\n\n\"And what kind of flowers have they to feed on?\"\n\n\"Why, just ordinary flowers. They cover them all over, and insert their\nproboscis into a thousand, without stirring from their position.\"\n\n\"Yes! And what kind of skeps have they?\"\n\n\"Oh, just ordinary skeps, like ours in this country.\"\n\n\"Yes! And how do these bees get into the skeps?\"\n\n\"Oh, _just let them see to that_!\"\n\nBut these may be termed the magnificent blazers. There is an animal of\nthis species of very reduced dimensions; and yet, from its numbers and\nactivity, it is not less provoking and annoying than the giant race. You\ncannot mention a long walk which you have taken, but it out-walks you by\nat least ten miles. You cannot drink your three bottles at a sitting,\nbut it empties five. You made, whilst a boy, some hairbreadth escapes,\nbut they are nothing to what it has escaped. You have had a very bad\nfever, and lay a whole week insensible; this creature roared a whole\nmonth. You have broken your tendon Achilles; this unfortunate has cut\nall the arteries and tendons of the leg. Go where you will, the land has\nbeen travelled before you. Do what you may, the thing has been done, and\nmuch better done, already. In fact, you are only the copy of the\noriginal before you; a shaping out of a web; a degenerate branch of a\nvine in full growth; an Italian alphabet in the presence of a Roman. \"I\nthought my master a wise man; but this man makes my master a fool,\" says\nthe housemaid in Dean Swift; and it is thus that the emmet Blazer\nbefools you, turn where you may. Whom have we next in this our show-box\nof rarities? Step in, sir. Don't stumble on the doorway, like\nProtesilaus in setting out for Troy. Oh, I ask your pardon--\n\n\n\"THE BLUNDERING IDIOT.\"\n\nSit down there, sir--no, not on that sofa--with your dirty garments, and\nshoes bemired; but on that arm-chair, where you may roll about to your\nheart's content. Now, sir, be silent; for I see you are about to blunder\nout whatever comes uppermost (and that is generally froth and scum),\nand listen to me. I am going to read you a lecture. It was owing to your\nblundering interference that I am not the Laird of Peatie's Mill at this\nmoment. You went to my uncle, and, by the way of recommending his\nnephew, told him that I was an intimate acquaintance of yours, and that\nyou and I had many a happy night together at Johnnie Dowie's. Now, you\nought to have known my uncle's views and habits--in short, his\ncharacter--and that he had all his life long an utter abhorrence of\nanything approaching to dissipation. My uncle instituted inquiry, and\nfound that what you stated was true, at least to a certain extent; and,\nin consequence, cut me off with a shilling, leaving Peatie's Mill to a\nmiserly, mean fellow, who had once informed him of the approaching\nfailure of one who owed him money. You need not make any apology now,\nthe thing is done, and cannot be undone. When I was on the point of\nbeing married to an heiress, with a good person and a fine property, you\ncame again as my evil genius, denying a report, which I had myself\npropagated, of my early indiscretions, and assuring her cousin that I\nwas totally incapable of anything of the kind; that I was a perfect\nNathaniel, or Joseph, or what not; and, in short, so disgusted the lady\nwith your praises of me, that she immediately cut me, and married the\nmaster of a coasting vessel. I know what you are going to say; but I\nknow, too, that you had no business to pop your nose into other people's\nbusiness. Besides, at last election, did not you assure the members to\nwhom you, amongst others, applied in my favour, that I was at heart a\nTory, though I had assumed Whig colours of late; and all this because\nyou knew his own father had been a violent Tory in old times. This so\ndisgusted my patron, that I lost the stamps by it. Your blundering\nidiocy, sir--without any bad motive to arm it to mischief--has done more\ninjury to yourself, as well as to others, than would be the very worst\nintentions and the most malevolent endeavours. But I spare\nyou--convinced, as I am, that nothing which I can say will ever drain\nthe blundering propensity out of your nature. But whom have we here?--\n\n\n\"A BORN IDIOT.\"\n\n\"Well, ma'am, let me have your own story from your own lips.\"\n\n\"Why, sir, do you use no more ceremony with me, knowing who I am, sir?\nWhen your ancestors, sir, were working on the queen's highways, and\nbreaking stones----\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, madam; but it is but a short time since Macadamising\nwas introduced, and my ancestors happened to live at a period prior to\nthe breaking of stones on high-roads as a business.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, but you have interrupted me, and I forgot what I was going\nto say. Oh ay! I was going to tell you that my ancestors rode in\ncoaches, when yours drove carts; that mine spent thousands upon\nthousands, whilst yours were dealing in tarry-woo and candle grease; and\nyet you, sir--you now sit in this cottage of yours (as you must needs\ncall it)--you have the audacity, and the impertinence, and the\npresumption, forsooth, to call my son to account for shooting a few of\nyour dirty birds over your poor, paltry acres.\"\n\n\"Ma'am, I only warned him off my preserves, and did it in civil\nlanguage, too; but your son, taking his cue, I have no doubt, from so\naccomplished a parent, used improper and ungentlemanly language to me,\nand threatened to horsewhip me; so I thought it was only justice to\nmyself to put him into the hands of my man of business.\"\n\n\"Your man of business, sir! And who gave you, or your father's son, a\nman of business, pray? What business may you have to manage, which a\nservant lass may not conduct to a favourable conclusion with a\nthree-pronged grape?\"\n\n\"Madam, I will stand this no longer. This house is my own. Depart!\"\n\nThere she goes, wagging her tail and tossing her head, the Born Idiot!\n\nBut here comes a change of person, in\n\n\n\"THE CANTING IDIOT.\"\n\nBut, hush! I hear the voice of psalmody. She has taken to what she terms\na \"sweet psalm,\" and must not on any account be disturbed.\n\nIt is true that there are odd stories abroad of her early life, and some\nrather suspicious reports respecting a certain serjeant of a certain\nregiment. Suspicions, too, have been entertained of her being concerned\nin the burning of a certain will, by which her husband became possessed\nof property to a comfortable extent; but she has no family, and of late\nyears has taken to religion, and, some say, occasionally to a less safe\nstimulant. Be that as it may, Mrs Glaiks is at the head of all manner of\nfemale associations of a religious character. She is a perfect adept in\njudging of young preachers and evangelical discourses. If she pronounce\nher verdict, the matter is settled; there is no appeal, not even to her\npoor henpecked husband, whose conscience, every now and then, requires\nall her care and eloquence to soothe. She has already taken possession\nof this world by a _trick_, and she means to take the next by _force_.\nShe is urgent with the Lord, in season and out of season, and has been\nat great pains in converting a handsome young man, who was addicted to\nwine and its usual accompaniments. She says that she has been the\nunworthy instrument, in God's hand, of his soul's salvation; and meets\nwith him more frequently in private than John Glaiks approves of. Pass\non, Mrs Glaiks--\n\n    \"If honest worth to heaven rise,\n    Ye'll mend ere ye come near it.\"\n\nBut what a mighty fuss is here! The door flies wide open, till the\nhinges crack again, as _in_ there rolls, in all the majesty of a new\nsuit of clothes, and a mighty self.\n\n\n\"THE POMPOUS IDIOT.\"\n\nReader! it is not Samuel Johnson, nor his Leader Bozzie. These were both\npompous enough, God knows; but they were not idiots--it is \"my Uncle\nThomas.\" My Uncle Thomas was once a colonel in the Galloway Militia, and\nhas long retired in single blessedness, to live upon a small family\ninheritance, which is scarcely sufficient to support himself, with a\n_man in livery_ and a servant girl, to work his means, and act as\nchambermaid. My uncle rises every morning at seven, rings his bell, and\ncalls his servant to shave and dress him. All this is done in solemn\nsilence; for it would be presumption in John to utter a word, unless he\nbe spoken to. My uncle, having surveyed his full, round person in the\nglass, takes possession of his arm-chair, then pokers the fire; looks\nout at his window; scolds a turkey-cock for spreading his feathers and\nkeeping up a row in the back court; rings the bell again, and says--\n\n\"Why, sir, what do you stare at? Let me have breakfast.\"\n\nBreakfast with my uncle is a serious concern. The cups are not in order;\nthe bread is burned to a cinder; the butter is rancid, and the cream is\nonly fit to feed pigs with. However, he has at last breakfasted, and\nbeen again surveyed and brushed by John, and is now prepared for the\nonerous duties of the day. These consist, first, in taking snuff, which\nhe does regularly with three raps on the box-lid, a gaze around, to see\nif he is observed, and a knowing plunge of the forefinger and thumb into\nthe midst of the powder. But his box is empty, though in fact half-full,\nand John, having been well scolded, is despatched to his own shop,\nDonald Mackechnie's, for the real Irish. The box is impressed with the\nfamily arms, and the family motto, \"_dum vivo spero_.\" At last the\nsupply arrives; his gold-headed cane, presented to him when colonel of\nthe Galloway Militia, is taken in hand; his hat is brushed, and planted\nin proper attitude on his head; and forth he sallies, in his\npepper-and-salt habiliments, to scold the schoolboys for neglecting to\ntake off, or even touch, their hats, as he passes along what he terms\nhis gravel-walk, which is nothing more nor less than a cart-road leading\nto a stone-quarry. A cow has escaped from under the care of his keeper,\nand poor Davie Proudfoot, the herd-boy, is in hot pursuit. The cow is\ndirecting her steps, somewhat unceremoniously, towards the colonel's\nfavourite walk, and he is loudly appealed to by the boy, to assist him\nin \"wearing\" the brute. My uncle stares with ineffable rage and contempt\nupon the unfortunate tender of cattle.\n\n\"What, sir!--what mean you, sir, to ask a colonel in His Majesty's\nservice _to turn a cow_?\"\n\nMy uncle has gone, in quest of an appetite, beyond his usual bounds, and\nhaving observed a person passing over the grounds of a neighbouring\nlaird, with a gun under his arm, and of a questionable appearance, he\ndetermines to inform Lord Douglas, the neighbouring laird, as he usually\ndesignates his lordship, of the fact; and for this purpose, in order to\nreceive information, he calls at the door of a cottage. A little girl,\nabout ten years of age, makes her appearance, and is accosted with--\n\n\"Lassie, where is your mother?\"\n\n\"Mither, oh, mither--she's butt the house; but what do you want wi'\nher?\"\n\n\"You are an ill-educated girl,\" says my uncle. \"Why don't you say 'sir'\nto me when you address me? But go and tell your mother to speak to\nme--away!\"\n\n\"Mither! mither! haste and come here--there's a _man_ wantin to speak to\nyou.\"\n\nThis was more than my uncle could stand: so he instantly decamped,\ngold-headed cane and all, to ruminate over the indignities to which he\nhad been subjected.\n\n\"Go,\" said he one day to John, when acting as butler to the colonel, his\nmaster, and the young laird of Puddentuscal, who had been invited to\ndinner--\"go to catacomb seventeen, and bring us a bottle of vintage\ntwenty-six.\"\n\n\"Catacomb here, and vintage there,\" replied John, with a comical\nexpression on his face, \"that's the last bottle on the table I've got\nfrae Peter Cruikshanks, for the twa cheeses we selt him.\"\n\nMy uncle died one day, but had taken previous care to have himself\ncarried shoulder-high to the grave. \"_Sic transit gloria mundi!_\"\n\n\"Miss Smiles! Oh, Miss Smiles, I am happy to see you, you have been\n_such_ a stranger! But how is your mother? I was sorry to hear of her\nlate dangerous indisposition, and that you were obliged to call in the\nassistance of a doctor.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" replies\n\n\n\"THE SIMPERING IDIOT\"\n\nwith an everlasting smile on her countenance. \"Poor mamma was so\nill!--he--he--he! we really thought she would have died--he! But then Dr\nBlister was so attentive and funny. Oh la!--oh la! how he did laugh, and\nmade such a deal of fun, that poor mamma absolutely sat up in bed, and\nhe!--he!--he!--laughed, absolutely laughed outright. But, really, Mrs\nWotton, really that is such a beautiful little pony which you have got\nfeeding on the green, and it looked so comical at me in passing--he!\nhe!--and your little boy, Bobby, rides it so gracefully--ha! ha!--and he\nfell so prettily. But be not alarmed, Mrs Wotton, the boy is only a\nlittle, just a very little hurt about the head--he! he!--only about the\nhead, ma'am. I assure you don't be alarmed. Pray--pray,\ndon't!--he!--he! I think I see little Bobby tumbling heels up, head\ndown. A pretty boy, indeed, your little Bobby. But, bless me, Mrs\nWotton, don't ring the bell--he!--he! I saw Bobby carefully carried into\nthe gardener's cottage at the gate, with the whip still in his hand,\nand--but he did not bleed severely----Oh la!--oh la! I hope I have not\nalarmed you, ma'am. Good-morning--good-morning.\"\n\nThere goes that insensible piece of everlasting giggle. She has no more\nheart than that poker, and no more mercy than an enraged cobbler, making\nuse of it to chastise a drunken spouse. There she goes from house to\nhouse, from morn to night, with all the external marks of contentment\nand high delight, and yet with an inward feeling of envy and ill-will,\nwhich is a perfect hell. But here comes, with a copy of the \"Laus\nStultitiae\" by Erasmus, in one pocket, and a play of AEschylus in the\nOther.\n\n\n\"THE PEDANTIC IDIOT\"\n\nOxford bred--pure Oxford, ma'am. You cannot possibly utter a sentiment\nwhich he does not roll you off in pure Iambics, nor mention a fact which\ndoes not suggest another, at least eighteen centuries old.\n\n\"The day is very fine, ma'am, very fine indeed. 'And thus, from day to\nday'--you remember the quotation in Shakspere--it is prettily said, but\nnot delicately. I do not like the words 'rot, and rot;' yet, if one take\ninto account the age, ma'am, the age of Shakspere--I don't mean the\nyears which he lived, but the age of the world in which he lived--if you\ntake into consideration the age, such words as rot were not deemed\nungenteel. 'Like a bare bodkin,' and 'groan and sweat'--all these\nphrases have got somehow into bad repute now; but they were once seen in\nthe most polite company. Have you read the 'Laus Stultitiae' of Erasmus,\nsir; or, as it is more frequently expressed in Greek terms, the\nEncomium Moriae? It is quite unique, sir; so full of genuine fun,\nexpressed in beautiful Latin, with scraps of Greek intermixed. What\nthink you of the 'Prometheus' of Euripides?--is it not sublime and\nterrific?--such a thunder of language and meaning intermingled! These\nold fellows--these ancients--were the boys. What are our moderns to\nthem? What is Southey to Virgil, or Scott to Homer, Tom Moore to\nAnacreon, or the lyrics of Burns to those of Horace? Oh, _fons\nBlandusiae_! how soft, how sweet, how beautifully _simplex munditiis_!\nAnd then his _'quem verum aut heroa,' 'Coelo tonantem credimus\nJovem'_. But I am, perhaps, trespassing on your patience; if so, I ask\nyour pardon, and bid you good-morning.\"\n\nThere he goes--a creature of nut-shells, one who deals with the husk but\nnever with the kernel--a bag of chaff, with scarcely a per-centage of\nhonest grain--a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal--a thing of shreds\nand patches--a Joseph's coat of many colours. I was heartily tired of\nthe classical pedant; but there are pedants, ma'am, in all situations\nand professions. There are even pedantic chimney-sweeps--men in sooty\ngarb, who brandish the brush and display the dirt-bag with an air of\nimportance, and whose loud and penetrating \"sweep\" has a peculiar force\nwith it. There is, for example, your next neighbour, Mrs Manage, who\nmakes more cheeses from less milk than any one of her neighbours; whose\nbutter has a higher flavour than any in the market; and who kills you,\nfrom morn to night, with plans of savings, and profits, and\nimprovements. She even rides her hobby whilst asleep; for she often\nstarts, and mutters the name of a favourite milcher. And there is Mr\nClark. Ah, my dear, good-natured, companionable, ever-to-be-remembered\nMr Clark! You were indeed the prince of fishers. You had travelled over\na great part of Scotland, like my friend Stodart, fishing; and, really\nand in truth, you had done and seen wonders. I am sorry, very sorry,\nindeed, to place you amongst the \"pedants;\" but truth, my dear sir--my\ndear shade, compels me to do so. Set you once upon fishing, and there\nwas no end of it--from Dan to Beersheba, on you went. Here you killed a\nsalmon of fourteen pounds weight, after playing him up pool and down\nstream for at least six hours; there, you hooked another, which broke\nyour line, and curvetted away to the tune of\n\n    \"I care for nobody, no not I,\n    If nobody cares for me.\"\n\nAgain, you filled your basket ere twelve o'clock, and gave up fishing\nmerely because you could carry no more. And then, such adventures! One\nday you lost yourself in the mist--found a tethered horse--wandered for\nhours, and then encountered the same tethered horse again. At another\ntime, you came upon a cottage in the muirland with a lame crow; and,\nafter much wandering, came again upon the same object. You once changed\nyour flies _three_ times, and at last pulled _him_ out by a knot upon\nthe line, at which he took _greedily_. Was it not you who filled your\nbasket with trouts of a pound weight each, and then, in leaning over a\nbank to land another, your basket-pin gave way, and they all tumbled\ndead into the gullet? Did not you jump _in_ after them; and were you not\ncarried down into the bumbling pool; and had it not been that you got a\nhold of a _heather cow_, would not you have been absolutely drowned?\nAfter all this testimony, which you know--I mean _knew_ (alas! my dear\nfriend, that I should say _knew_!)--to be true, can I avoid placing you\namongst the _fishing pedants_? Yet, as the angel did in Sterne (an angel\nwho has had a deal of work to do in his time), do I now drop a tear upon\nwhat I have written, and all _but_ blot it out for ever. Honest Mr\nClark! you were indeed the king of fishers; but, then, all your fish\nweighed fisher's weight--you added at least seventy-five per cent. to\nthe avoirdupois!\n\nBut golfers! Golfers, of all pedants who infest earth or purgatory, are\nthe most intolerable. During dinner, you hear the distant grumble of\nthunder; there is a word or two dropped, of this hole and that hole--of\nthis stroke and that stroke--of this tee and that tee; but so soon as\nthe glass has circulated a little, you are all mish-mash,\nhelter-skelter, at it again. Done--done! is the word on the match;\nshillings, pounds, and guineas fly about like midges in harvest\nsunshine. Some one tries to introduce general conversation, by observing\nthat the coronation went well off; but it is all to no purpose. Their\nvoice is not heard in the general uproar. The very table seems to take\nan interest in the hubbub, and responds to the clenched fist with a\npeculiar hollow sound. If this be not pedantry, I know nothing of the\nsubject. The Old Commodore, a second Uncle Toby, was a pedant; and so\nwas Willie Herdman, who had fought as a common soldier at the siege of\nGibraltar; and Jumping Jenny was a pedant, who had not an idea beyond a\nreel and a fling; and Willie Crosbie was a pedant, who could talk of\nnothing but ewes and gimmers; and Geordie Johnston was a pedant, who\nvalued himself on his small ankles, and nice lambs'-wool stockings; and\nArchy Tait was a pedant, who kept up a nightly intercourse with the\ndevil and all manner of bogles. But time and paper (which is more\nprecious than time, never to speak of the printing) would fail me, were\nI to reveal to you the thousandth part of the cases in which pedantic\nidiocy appears. Turn we now, therefore, to another species of the same\ngenus, to the \"SARCASTICAL JESTER,\" who, though he has not yet obtained\na name amongst the notables, is, undeniably, the greatest and most\noffensive Idiot of the whole batch.\n\nWe must approach him slily, for he is an exceedingly cunning fellow;\nand, when you least think of it, he will be showing you off to some\nthird party, whom, in his turn, he will again be showing off to you.\nDean Swift's housemaid was one of this class, who pinned a dish-clout to\nthe tail of Dr Sheridan, and pointed him out as an object of ridicule to\nall the servants. Nay, Satan himself was a master of works on the\noccasion, when he said \"eat, and be wise,\" well knowing that his advice\nwas folly, and obedience to it death. The practical jester is not a man\nof many words, but he looks two ways for Sabbath. He will tread upon\nyour corny toe, and then ask your pardon, looking all the while slily to\nhis companion, who is in the secret. He will call you _Kettle of\nBarclay_, instead of _Barclay of Kettle_--aware, as he is, that you\nvalue yourself upon your title. He will, above all this, practise upon\nyou his great leading joke of _Johnnie Hastie's shears_. You are sitting\nbeside him upon the top of a coach, and thinking of nothing but the\ncrops, the fields, and the cottages. All at once, you spring to your\nfeet with a shout, and are precipitated over the driver's seat upon the\nbacks of the horses. All that he did, or was doing, was to give you a\nclip of Johnnie Hastie's shears. Good reader (for all readers of those\nTales are good, like the Tales themselves), dost thou know anything\nabout Johnnie Hastie or his shears? I shall tell thee.\n\nHe was a tailor in the Parish of Crail, famous for fish and herrings--a\nreal cankered body, but with about an equal quantity of humour or\nmalevolent wit. Whenever he found a proper opportunity, he used to bend\nhis fore and middle fingers, and then, protruding the middle joint, and\nopening or separating the one from the other, he used to apply this\ninstrument to the fleshy and most sensitive part of any person who might\nhappen to sit near him, and, by compressing suddenly the joints and\nfingers, gave the impression of severe clipping. This he denominated a\nclip of Johnnie Hastie's shears; and hence arose the by-word. An\nincident or two of this sort it may not be improper to mention.\n\nIt is well known that hiccuping is an unpleasant but a pertinacious\ncomplaint, and that it proceeds from many causes as well as from a too\nliberal indulgence in wine. A person who happened to be at the time\nafflicted with this convulsive movement was suddenly struck on the back,\nby a practical jester, by way of surprising him out of the distemper.\nThe stroke, however, happened to introduce a small piece of nut kernel,\nwhich he was eating, into his windpipe, and it was not without much\nsuffering that it was at last extracted. Another came up to a man of\npeculiar habits and feelings, observing that he was looking very ill;\nand then, meeting him again next day, and a third, and a fourth, made\nthe same observation. The poor nervous creature took it sadly to heart,\nwent to bed, and never rose again. He died from the fear of death. At\nthe siege of Toulon--when balls flew about in abundance--after the\nbattle was over, and our ships were forced, by the infant Hercules,\nBonaparte, to retreat, an officer went up to his companion, who was\nstanding with his back towards him in the dark, and slapped him suddenly\non the back betwixt the shoulders. The person suddenly struck jumped up\non the deck, and shouting, \"Shot at last, by God!\" he died on the spot.\n\nJeanie Gibson and William Laidlaw were lovers, not in any particular\nsentimental manner, but just in the old-fashioned way. They liked each\nother's company, sat very close to each other in the dark, and\noccasionally indulged in an innocent kiss! But Jeanie was what is called\n\"bonny,\" and had more lovers than Willie Laidlaw; one of whom, Bob\nPaton, a sly, unfeeling rogue, of the practical-jesting kind, was over\nhead-and-ears in love with bonny Jeanie. He took it into his head that\nhe would play a trick upon Jeanie, and make her avow at once her\npreference for Willie Laidlaw, whom she only in secret favoured. For\nthis purpose, he dressed up a figure in what (in the dark) might appear\nto be the clothes of Willie Laidlaw, and placed it in a field through\nwhich he knew Laidlaw was to pass. He armed himself with a gun, duly\ncharged with powder and shot. Firm prepared, he advanced into the field\nor park, well knowing that Jeanie Gibson was not only within _sight_,\nbut within _hearing_ of him, being seated under the cover of a stone\ndyke hard by.\n\n\"Where are you going, William?\" said the practical jester. \"I know where\nyou are going; you are going to meet wi' Jeanie Gibson; but I'll blaw\nyour brains out first.\" Thus saying, he fired off his musket, and the\nfigure immediately fell.\n\nA wild scream was all that was heard, and Jeanie was found lifeless: no,\nmuch worse--deprived of reason for life! She never recovered; but when\nher lover was brought into her presence, always said--\n\n\"I know--I know it is not my Willie. I saw--I saw him fa'! It isna him;\nit canna be him. He's awa--awa--awa!\" And then she uniformly fainted.\n\nNor did the practical jester escape. Willie actually shot him, and was\nhanged on Lockerby Muir for the deed.\n\n_Finis coronat opus_--to conclude, I shall e'en take off myself under\nthe character of\n\n\n\"THE SCRIBBLING IDIOT.\"\n\nHe is always meditating something great, but never carries it into\nexecution. One day he commences a heroic poem, which terminates the next\nin a rebus or sonnet. One day he becomes a dramatist, and pens a scene\nof a play on the escape of James the Fifth from the palace of Falkland;\nthe next he writes an article for the \"Tales of the Borders.\" Now he\nundertakes a history of the eight-and-twenty years' persecution--gets\nout numerous books from the library--actually writes a preface and a\nconclusion in fine style, which ends in a few lines in the poet's corner\nof a country newspaper. He sketches a poem, to be entitled,\n\"Gratitude\"--in which dogs, elephants, lions, and even horses, as well\nas men and women, are to figure; but he never gets on further than four\nvery indifferent lines. He is sixty years old; and at sixteen could\nwrite as well and cleverly as he does now. He never takes time to\ncorrect _vetere stylum_, he is always in such a confounded hurry lest\nhis idea should escape him ere he has given it a black coat and a white\nwaistcoat. Nobody can equal him in rapidity of composition; but, then,\nhis composition is like the man's horse, with two faults--\"it is very\nill to catch, and not worth a penny when caught.\" He does everything for\neverybody; writes all manner of reviews of books which he has never\nread, and quotes authorities which he has never consulted. He gets daily\ninto scrapes by making use of people's names about whom he knows\nnothing, and who abhor, or pretend to abhor, notoriety. One day he is\nall devotion and sentiment, the next all fun and frolic. He spends his\nlife in an endless whirl of fancies, meditations, resolves, attempts,\nand finds himself every hour less respected; and, indeed, less\nrespectable than he once was. The worst of it is, \"he knows that he is\nan idiot;\" but the knowledge does him no manner of good. He takes a\ntumbler or two; and then he is, in his own estimation, the very acme of\ngenius! He knows that, had he possessed perseverance, he might have done\nmuch; and this knowledge, instead of stimulating, paralyses all manner\nof effect. His life is a dream; and when he dies, he will be instantly\nforgotten. He will set like an equatorial sun, and there will be no\ntwilight over his memory.\n\nBut \"_latet dolus in generalibus_\"--I set out in life with excellent\nprospects--had gained the patronage of a nobleman who had at least\ntwenty kirks in his gift. In these days the Veto had not shown its\nappalling phiz. I had the absolute promise of a kirk, which was sure to\nbe vacant in a year or two. But nothing would serve me but I would\nwrite some satirical verses on a scolding wife, whom I knew only by\nreport. I sent the following lines to some magazine of the day.\n\nTUNE--\"_Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch_\n\n      \"Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal[1]--\n       Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal,\n        Wat ye how she rated me,\n      And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal!\n\n    \"Her words gaed through me like a sword--\n      She said she'd gnash our heads together.\n    Had I sic wife, upon my word,\n      I'd twist her chanter in a tether.\n        Tam's wife, &c.\n\n    \"I did but pree her dinner cheer,\n      And hadna drunk twa jugs o' toddy,\n    When _in_ she bang'd like ony bear--\n      Oh, she is an awsome body!\n        Tam's wife, &c.\n\n    \"I took my bonnet and the road,\n      And to my waefu fate resign'd me;\n    When, what think ye, the raging jade\n      Daddit _to_ the door behind me?\n        Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal--\n        Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal,\n          Wat ye how she rated me,\n        And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal.\n\n[Footnote 1: Name of a farm.]\n\nNow this song happened to take in the neighbourhood, and was reckoned\nsevere and clever. The murder came out in a few weeks. I received the\nfollowing letter from Lord C----:--\n\n     \"SIR,--I hear you have been lampooning, in a periodical work, a\n     person in whom Lady C---- takes a deep interest. I consider\n     myself relieved from any obligations which your past services\n     may have imposed upon me.--I remain, &c.\"\n\n\nMy lord was as good as his word, and that I am now\n\n    \"Within my noisy mansion skill'd to rule,\"\n\ninstead of appearing sleek, fat, and comfortable at the General Assembly\nnow sitting, is owing to my scribbling propensities.\n\nBut there is yet one other idiot, with whose character I might close\n\"this strange, eventful history\"--an idiot decidedly the most prominent\nof all--an idiot who, in modern times in particular, has proved his\nclaims on my notice to an unusual extent--an idiot, too, without whose\nidiocy mine were literally a dead letter: Reader! gentle reader!--\"_Quid\nrides--nomine mutato de_ TE\"--that is, if you are _displeased_; if not,\nyou are an angel!\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLOSHEND INN.\n\n\nAbout the middle of the last century, and previous to it, the truly\nnational trade of carrying the pack was, as doubtless many of our\nreaders know, both much more general and respectable than it now is.\nIt did not then, by any means, occupy the low place in the scale of\ntraffic to which modern pride, and perhaps modern improvement, have\nreduced it. At the period to which we allude, those engaged in this\ntrade were for the most part men of good substance and of unimpeachable\ncharacter, trustworthy, and, in their humble sphere, highly\nrespectable--circumstances which, doubtless, imparted to their calling\nthe consideration which it then enjoyed. The reason lies on the surface:\nthe trade was then both a more extensive and a more important one than\nit is now, and required a much greater capital; for there being then\nnone of those rapid and commodious conveyances for transporting\nmerchandise from place to place which are now everywhere to be met with,\nthe greater part of this business was then done by the packmen, who\ncombined the two characters of merchants and carriers; and in this\ndouble capacity supplied many of the shops of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and\nother large towns, with English manufactures. Those, therefore, who\nwould conceive of the packman of old, an indifferently-clad and\nequivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden box on his back, containing his\nwhole stock, would form a very erroneous idea of the peripatetic\nmerchant. Their conception would not, in truth, represent the man at\nall. The packman of yore kept two or three horses, and these he loaded\nwith his merchandise, to the value often of several thousand pounds; and\nthus he perambulated the country, passing between Scotland and England,\nconveying the goods of the one to the other; and thus maintaining the\ncommercial intercourse of the two kingdoms.\n\nAbout the year 1746, this trade had arrived at so great a height, that\nthe high-road to England by Gretna Green was thronged with those engaged\nin it, going to and returning from the sister kingdom with their loaded\nponies; and a merry and bustling time of it they kept at the Floshend\nInn. This hostelry, now extinct, was long a favourite resort of these\npackmen, or pack-carriers, as they were more generally or more properly\ncalled. It was situated on the Scottish side of the Borders, near to\nGretna Green, and was kept by a very civil and obliging person, of the\nluminous name of John Gas--a little, fat, good-humoured,\nlandlord-looking body, with a countenance strongly expressive of his\ncomfortable condition, having a capital business, and being very much at\nhis ease, both in mind and body. His house was a favourite resort of the\npack-carriers; and for good reasons. It was the last inn of any note on\nthe Scottish side, and was, of consequence, the first they came to on\nre-entering their native country from their expeditions into England.\nThe quarters, besides, were in themselves excellent; the accommodations\nwere good, and the fare abundant, reasonable, and of the first\nquality--especially the liquor, that great _sine qua non_ of good cheer.\nIn addition to all this, John Gas himself was the very pink of\nlandlords; humorous, kind, attentive, and obliging; possessing that\nvaluable quality of being able to stand almost any given quantity of\ndrink, which enabled him to distribute his presence and his company over\nany number of successive guests. Fresh as a bedewed daisy, and steady as\na wave-beaten rock, he was always forthcoming, whatever might have been\nthe amount of previous duty he had performed; and what might remain yet\nto do he always overtook, and executed with credit to himself, and\nsatisfaction to his customers--no instance having been known of his\nhaving been placed _hors de combat_, either by ale-cup or brandy-bottle.\nWith such claims on public patronage, it was no wonder that his house\nsecured so large a share of the custom of the itinerant merchants of the\ntime; who, so much did they appreciate the comforts of the Floshend Inn,\nand so much were they alive to the merits of its host, that they would\nnot rest, foul or fair, dark or light, anywhere within ten miles of it.\nA dozen of them were thus frequently assembled together at the same time\nunder the hospitable roof; and, being all known to each other, they\nformed, on such occasions, a merry corps--spending freely, and sitting\ndown all together at the same table. A more amusing or more entertaining\ncompany could, perhaps, nowhere be found; for they were all shrewd,\nintelligent men--their profession and their wandering lives putting them\nin possession of a vast store of curious adventure and anecdote, and\nthrowing many sights in their way which escape the local fixtures of the\nhuman race. Naturally of a gossiping turn--a propensity made\nparticularly evident when they chanced to meet together in such a way as\nwe have described--they were in the habit of amusing each other with\nnarratives of what they had seen and heard that was strange, and\nenlivening the evening with merry tale and jest.\n\nIt was somewhere about the month of March, in the year 1750, that a knot\nof these worthies, consisting of seven or eight, was assembled in the\ncheerful kitchen of the Floshend Inn--an apartment they preferred for\nits superior comfort, its blazing fire, and its freedom from all\nrestraint. Some of the guests present on this occasion were on their way\nto England; others had just returned from it, with packs of Manchester\ngoods, and large bales of Kendal leather. These last, and all other\ndescriptions of merchandise which his pack-carrier customers brought,\nwere stowed in a large room in the inn, which the landlord had very\njudiciously and very properly appropriated for this purpose; while the\nhorses that bore them were comfortably quartered in the commodious and\nwell-ordered stables. They were seated on either side of the fire, with\na small round table between them, on which stood a circle of glasses; in\nthe centre, a smoking jug, whose contents may be readily guessed; and\nclose by the table was the landlord, doing the honours of the\noccasion--that is, making the brandy-toddy, and filling the glasses of\nhis guests. The master of ceremonies was in great glee, being precisely\nin his element, the situation of all others in which he most\ndelighted--a bowl of good liquor before him, a set of merry good friends\naround him, and the prospect of a neat, snug reckoning in perspective.\nThe conversation amongst the guests was general; but it might have been\nobserved that one of the party had got the ear of the landlord, and was\ntelling him, in an under-tone, some curious story; for the latter, with\nhead inclined towards the facetious narrator, was chuckling and smirking\nat every turn of the humorous tale. At length a sudden roar of laughter\nat once announced its consummation, and attracted towards himself the\ngeneral attention of the company.\n\n\"What's that, mine host?\" was an inquiry put by three or four at once.\n\"Something guid, I warrant; for that was a hearty ane.\" The speaker\nmeant Mr Gas's laugh. \"What was't?\"\n\n\"It's a story,\" replied he, the tears still standing in his eyes, \"that\nAndrew here has been tellin me, aboot the minister o' Kirkfodden and his\nservant lass--and a very guid ane it is. Andrew, will I tell it?\" he\nadded, turning round to the person who had told him the story.\n\n\"Surely, surely,\" replied Andrew; \"let it gang to the general guid.\"\n\nAweel, freends (said mine host, now confronting his auditors), the\nminister o' Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is, though a clergyman, a droll\nsort o' body, and very fond o' a curious story, and still fonder o' a\nguid joke--and no a whit the waur is he o' that; for he is a guid,\nworthy man, as I mysel ken. The minister had a servant lass they ca'd\nJenny Waterstone--a young, guid-lookin, decent, active quean; and she\nhad a sweetheart o' the name o' David Widrow--a neighbourin ploughman\nlad, a very decent chield in his way--wha used to come skulkin aboot the\nmanse at nichts, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny, withoot ony\nobjection on the part o' the minister, wha believed it to be, as it\nreally was, an honourable courtship on baith sides. Ae nicht, being\nlater in his garden than usual--indeed, until it got pretty dark--the\nminister's attention was suddenly attracted by a loud whisperin on the\nither side o' the garden wa', just opposite to where he stood. He\nlistened a moment, and soon discovered that the whisperers were David\nWidrow and his servant, and overheard, as the nicht was uncommonly lown,\nthe followin conversation between the lovin pair:--\n\n\"I fear, Jenny,\" said David, \"that the minister winna be owre weel\npleased to see me comin sae aften aboot the house.\"\n\n\"I dinna think he'll be ill pleased,\" replied Jenny. \"He's no ane o'\nthat kind.\"\n\n\"Still,\" said David, \"I had better let the nicht fa', now and then,\nbefore I come; and then he'll no see me mair than four times a-week or\nsae. He canna count that bein very troublesome.\"\n\n\"Just as ye like, David,\" said she.\n\n\"But how am I to let ye ken I'm here?\" inquired the lover.\n\n\"Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen window, and I'll come oot to ye,\"\nreplied the girl.\n\n\"Very weel,\" said David; \"I'll come and rap at the back window the\nmorn's nicht.\"\n\n\"Do sae,\" replied she; \"and, if I canna get oot to ye at the moment,\njust step into the barn till I come. I'll leave the door open for ye.\"\n\nThis matter arranged, the lovers parted, little suspectin wha had\noverheard them; and the minister went into the house. On the followin\nevenin, a little after dark, the doctor, closely wrapped up in a plaid\nbelongin to his servin-man, slipped oot, and, stealin up behind the\nhouse, till he cam to the kitchen window, gave the preconcerted signal,\nby gently tappin on it with his fingers. Jenny, who was employed at the\nmoment in bottlin aff a sma' cask o' choice strong ale, for his ain\nparticular use, immediately answered the ca', raised the window, and put\noot her head.\n\n\"Is that you, David?\" said she.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the minister, in a whisper so gentle as to prevent her\nrecognisin his voice.\n\n\"I canna get to ye at present,\" said Jenny; \"for I'm engaged bottlin\nsome ale, and maun put it a' past before I gang oot; the minister's\nwaitin till I tak it up the stair; but love maks clever hands, as they\nsay, and I'll gie ye something to keep ye frae wearyin, in the meantime,\ntill I come.\" Sayin this she handed him oot a bottle o' the ale, and a\nbasket containin some cakes and cheese. \"Now,\" said she, \"tak thae awa\nto the barn wi' ye, David, and tak a bite and a sowp till I come.\" And\nshe drew down the window, and resumed her work. The minister, without\nsayin a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed it in a dark corner at a\nlittle distance. In a short time he again returned to the window, and\nagain rapped. The window was promptly thrown up, and Jenny's head thrust\noot.\n\n\"Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny?\" said the minister, speakin as low\nas before, and disguisin his voice as well as he could.\n\n\"Anither bottle, David!\" exclaimed Jenny, in surprise. \"Gude save us\nfrae a' evil! hae ye finished a hail bottle already? My troth, that's\nclever wark! But I canna gie ye anither the nicht, David. It's a' put\npast. Besides, ye hae aneugh for ae nicht.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said the minister; \"come oot as sune as ye can, Jenny.\"\nAnd he again slippit awa.\n\nThinkin, now, that he couldna carry the joke farther wi' safety, as\nthere was great risk o' the real David appearin, the minister slippit\ninto the house, threw aff his plaid, and went to a little back window\nthat was immediately over the kitchen ane, from which he could, by a\nlittle cautious management, both see and overhear, unobserved, all that\nshould pass between Jenny and her lover, when _he_ came on the stage.\nNor had he to wait long for this. In a few minutes after he had taken\nhis station, he saw David come round the corner o' the house, and steal,\nwi' cautious steps, towards the kitchen-window. He rapped. The window\nwas raised, but evidently wi' some impatience.\n\n\"Gude bless me, Davie! are ye there again already?\" said Jenny, somewhat\ntestily. \"Dear me, man, can ye no hae patience a bit? I'll come to ye\nimmediately.\" And, without waitin for ony answer, she again banged doun\nthe window.\n\nDavid was confounded at this treatment; but, as Jenny had gien him nae\ntime to mak ony remark for her edification, he made ane or twa for his\nain.\n\n\"Here _again_!\" he said, mutterin to himself--\"here _already_! Can I no\nhae patience!\" Then, after a pause, \"What does the woman mean? What\n_can_ she mean?\"\n\nThis was a question, however, which Jenny hersel only could explain; and\nfor this explanation David had to wait wi' what patience he could\nconveniently spare. But he certainly hadna to tarry lang; for, in twa or\nthree minutes after, a soft, low voice was heard sayin--\n\n\"Whar are ye, David?\"\n\n\"Here,\" quoth David, in the same cautious voice.\n\n\"Dear me, man,\" said Jenny, \"what was a' yer hurry? I'm sure ae rap at\nthe window was as guid as twenty. Ye micht hae been sure I wad come to\nye as sune as I could.\"\n\n\"Hurry, Jenny! What do ye mean? I was only ance at the window,\" replied\nDavid. \"Ye surely canna ca' that impatience.\"\n\n\"Ye're fou, Davie; that's plain,\" said Jenny. \"The bottle o' ale has\ngane to your head, and ye've forgotten. Nae wonder; it wasna sma' beer,\nI warrant ye, but real double stoot. Catch the minister drinkin onything\nelse! Thae black-coats ken what's guid for them.\" And, without waitin\nfor ony answer, she proceeded--\"But whar hae ye left the basket, Davie?\nIs't in the barn?\"\n\n\"Jenny,\" said David, now perfectly bewildered by all this, to him,\nwholly incomprehensible ravin, \"ye say I'm fou; but, if I'm no greatly\nmistaen, ye're the fouest o' the twa.\" And he peered into her face, to\nsee how far appearances would confirm his conjectures.\n\n\"Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk!\" said Jenny, pushin him good-naturedly from\nher. \"Ye're just as fou's the Baltic--that's plain. But tell me, man,\nwhar ye put the basket; for it may be missed? I houp ye haena forgotten\nthat tae?\"\n\n\"Jenny,\" replied David, now somewhat mair sincerely, \"will ye tell me at\nance what ye mean? What bottles o' ale and baskets are ye speakin\naboot?\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! Like as ye dinna ken!\" said Jenny, lookin archly, and giein her\nlover anither push. \"That's a guid ane! To drink my ale, and eat my\nbread and cheese, and then deny it!\"\n\nI leave you, guid freends (said the narrator here), to conjecture what\nwere David's feelins, and to conceive what were his looks, while Jenny\nwas thus chargin him wi' ingratitude. I'll no attempt a description o'\nthem. A' this time the minister was lookin owre his window, richt abune\nthe lovers, and heard every word o' what they said; but he keepit quiet\ntill the argument should come to a crisis. In the meantime the\nconversation between the lovers proceeded.\n\n\"Jenny,\" said David, in reply to her last remark, \"ye're either daft or\nfou--and that's the end o't. Sae let us speak aboot something else if ye\ncan.\"\n\n\"Do ye mean to say, David,\" replied Jenny--now getting somewhat serious\ntoo, and a little surprised, in her turn, at seein the perfect composure\no' her lover, and the utter unconsciousness expressed on his\ncountenance--\"do ye mean to say that I didna gie ye a bottle o' ale and\na basket o' bread and cheese oot o' the window there, aboot a\nquarter-o'-an-hour syne?\"\n\n\"Never saw them, nor heard o' them,\" replied David, with great coolness.\n\n\"Ta! nonsense, man!\" said Jenny, with impatient credulity. \"And did ye\nno come and seek anither? and did ye no come three or four times to the\nwindow?\"\n\n\"Naething o' the kind,\" replied David, briefly, but with the same\ncalmness and composure as before. \"I never got a bottle o' ale and a\nbasket o' bread frae ye oot o' that window; I never sought anither frae\nye; and I hae been only ance at that window this blessed nicht.\"\n\nThere was nae resistin belief to a disclaimer sae coolly, sae calmly,\nand sae pointedly made; and Jenny acknowledged this by immediately\nexclaimin, in the utmost dismay and alarm--\n\n\"Lord preserve me, then! wha was't that got them, and whar are they?\"\n\nHer queries were instantly answered.\n\n\"It was _me_ that got them, Jenny; and they're owre in yon corner\nyonder,\" said the minister, in a loud whisper, and now thrustin his head\noot o' the window.\n\nJenny looked up for an instant in horror, uttered a loud scream, and\nfled. David looked up, too, for a second, and then set after her as fast\nas he could birr; leavin the facetious, but worthy minister in\nconvulsions o' laughter.\n\n\"And that, my freends,\" here said the merry landlord, \"is the story o'\nthe minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass, as tauld to me by my\nguid freend, Andrew, here\"--laying his hand kindly on the shoulder of\nthe person he alluded to. The narrator was rewarded for his story, or\nrather for his manner of telling it--for in this art he excelled--by a\ncontinued roar of laughter from his auditory. When this had subsided--\n\n\"Come now,\" he said, \"put in yer glasses. The best story's no the waur\no' a weetin. It looks as weel again through a glass o' toddy.\"\n\nThe invitation thus humorously given was at once obeyed. In a twinkling\na circle of empty glasses, like a _garde du corps_, surrounded the bowl,\nand were soon replenished, with a dexterity and skill which long\npractice alone could have given the artist. His well-practised hand and\narm skimmed the ponderous vessel as lightly over the glasses as if it\nhad been a cream-pot; filling each of the latter as it went along to\nexactly the same height--not a drop in or over--with a precision that\nwas truly beautiful to behold.\n\nThe glasses, which had thus been scientifically filled, having been\nagain emptied, the landlord suddenly fixed his look on another of his\nguests, who was sitting up in one of the furthest corners, by the\nfireside, and to whom his attention had been directed, by observing him\nmusing and smiling at intervals, as if tickled by the suggestions of his\nimagination. He rightly took them for symptoms of a story, and acted\nupon this impression.\n\n\"James,\" he said, addressing the person alluded to, who was at the\nmoment gazing abstractedly on the fire, \"if I'm no mistaen, ye hae\nsomething to tell that micht amuse us. Ye're lookin like it, at ony\nrate, if that smirk at the corner o' yer mouth has ony intelligence\nin't.\"\n\nJames turned round, and, with a smile that was gradually acquiring\nbreadth, said that he was \"thinkin aboot Tam Brodie and the kirn.\"\n\n\"I was sure o't,\" exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly. \"What aboot Tam\nand the kirn, James?\"\n\n\"There's little in't,\" replied the other; \"but I'll tell it for the guid\no' the company.\" And he immediately went on:--I daresay the maist o' ye\nhere ken Tam Brodie o' the Broomhouse; and them that dinna may now learn\nthat he's a sma' farmer, as weel as unco sma' man, in a certain part o'\nAnnandale. He is in but very indifferent circumstances, and has, on the\nwhole, a sair struggle wi' the warld; but this is no to hinder him, as\nhow should it, frae haein a maist extraordinar fondness for cream; but\nit ought to hinder him frae takin every opportunity, which he does, o'\nhis wife's bein oot o' the way, to steal frae his ain kirn, to the\nserious detriment o' his ain interest. His wife entertains the same\nopinion; for she's obliged to watch him like a cat; and, when she does\ncatch him at the forbidden vessel, or discovers that it has been\nthere--which she often does, by the ring about his mouth, when she has\ncome so suddenly on him as no to gie him time to remove the\nevidence--she does pepper him sweetly wi' the first thing that comes to\nher haun; for she's a trimmer, though a weel-behaved, hard-workin woman.\nA' her watchfuness, however, and a' the wappins she could gie her\nhusband, could neither cure him o' his propensity, nor prevent him\nindulgin it whenever he thought he could do it without bein detected.\n\nIt happened ae day, that Mrs Brodie had some errand to a neighbourin\nfarmhouse, which she behoved to execute personally. Having dressed\nhersel a little better than ordinary for this purpose, she cam to her\nhusband, who was at the moment delvin in the kail-yard behind the\nhouse, told him where she was gaun, and desired him to look after the\nweans till her return. This task, Tam, of course, readily undertook, and\ncontinued to delve awa as composedly as if his wife's proposed absence\nhad suggested nae ither idea to him. He, in short, looked as innocent of\na sinister purpose as a man could do; although at that very moment the\ncunnin little rascal's mind was fu' o' the idea o' makin a dive at the\nkirn, the moment the wife's back was turned. And he soon made these evil\nintentions manifest aneugh. While his wife was speakin to him, leavin\nthe bairns in his charge, Tam never raised his head, but continued\ndelvin awa wi' great assiduity. He was, in fact, afraid to lift his\nhead, for fear that his wife should discover his joy on his countenance,\nand tak some means o' bafflin his designs. Although, however, he didna\nraise his head while she was speakin to him, he did it the instant she\nleft him. While continuin bent as if in the act o' workin, he looked\nafter her till she disappeared down a brae, at the distance o' aboot a\nhundred yards, when he stood erect, stuck his spade in the ground, and\nwent wi' deliberate step into the hoose. This deliberation, however, did\nnot proceed so much from a consciousness o' security, as to prevent\nexcitin suspicion o' his ain weans, whom he did not wish to trust wi'\nthe secret o' his intended depredations on the kirn, for fear they\nshould tell their mother, as, had they known it, they certainly\nwould--perhaps not deliberately, but they would blab it. This risk,\ntherefore, he resolved not to run. On enterin the kitchen whar the weans\nwar, to the number o' three or four--\n\n\"What keeps ye a' in the hoose sic a nice bonny day as this?\" said he;\n\"awa and play yersels in the yard for a wee; and, as I'm wearied, and\ngaun to rest mysel, ye can come and tell me whan ye see yer mither\ncomin. Ye can see her, ye ken, frae the tap o' the yard a lang way aff.\nNow,\" he said, addressin the last o' the urchins, as they scampered\noot, in obedience to their father's commands--\"now mind, and let me ken\n_the moment_ your mither comes in sicht.\" The boy promised, and rushed\nout after his brothers and sisters. The coast was now clear; Tam's\nprogress thus far was triumphant. He had never had before sae fair a\nfield for operations, and he felt a' the satisfaction that his happy\nsituation was capable o' affordin.\n\nHavin got the weans oot, he advanced to the door, shut it, and, to\nprevent any unseasonable intrusion, locked it--at least he thocht he had\ndone so, but the bolt had missed. Unaware o' this circumstance, he\nproceeded to his operations wi' a feelin o' perfect security. Havin gone\ninto the room where the kirn was, he lifted the large stone by which the\nlid was kept down, and placed it on the floor. This done, he lifted the\nlid itsel, and next the clean white cloth which is usually thrown first\non the mouth o' the vessel. These a' removed, the glorious substance\nappeared--thick, rich, and yellow. The glutton gazed on it a moment with\na rapturous eye; but there was no time to be lost. He had provided\nhimsel wi' a small tin jug. This he now dipped into the delicious\nsemi-fluid mass, raised it to his lips, and quaffed it aff as fast as\nits consistency would admit. Again he dipped and again he swilled; and\nto make everything as comfortable as possible, he next drew a chair to\nthe kirn, sat down on it, stretched out his legs, and in this luxurious\nand deliberate attitude proceeded wi' his debauch. While in the act o'\npourin down his throat the fifth or sixth jug, wi' his head thrown back,\nhis eye--though half closed, from an overpowerin sense o'\nenjoyment--caught a glimpse o' a castle o' cakes and a plate filled wi'\nrolls o' fresh butter, that stood on the upper shelf o' a cupboard\nfastened high upon the wa' in ane o' the corners o' the apartment. The\nsight was temptin; for he felt at that moment somewhat hungry, and he\nthocht, besides, the cakes and butter would eat delightfully wi' the\ncream--and there is little doot they would. Filled wi' this new idea,\nhe rose frae his chair and approached the cupboard wi' the intention o'\nsackin it; but it was owre high for him. (He was a very little man.)\nThis, however, he was perfectly aware o'. So he took a stool in his\nhand, placed it, and mounted; but was still several inches from the\nmark. Findin this, he descended, put anither stool on the top o' the\nfirst, and, on again mountin, found himself just barely within reach o'\nthe prize. By seizin, however, a fast hold o' ane o' the shelves o' the\ncupboard by one hand, he found he could raise himsel up sufficiently\nhigh to accomplish the purposed robbery wi' the ither. Discoverin this,\nhe grasped the shelf, and was just in the act o' raisin himsel up by its\nmeans, when the stool on which he was standin (he had stood owre near\nthe end o't) suddenly canted up, and left him suspended to the cupboard\nshelf; for he held on like grim death, kickin and spurrin awa in a vain\nattempt to recover his footin. This was a state o' things that couldna\ncontinue lang; either he must come doun himsel, or the cupboard must\ncome doun alang wi' him--and the latter was the upshot. Doun cam the\ncupboard; wi' everything that was in it--and it was filled wi' cheeny\nand crystal--smash on the floor wi' a dreadfu crash, and Tam below it.\nThere wasna a hail glass, cup, or plate left; and the rows o' butter\nwere rollin in a' directions through the floor. Here was a pretty\nbusiness; and the puir culprit knew it. Cantin awa the cupboard frae\naboon him, he slowly rose (for he was not at all much hurt) to his feet,\ninfinitely mair distressed wi' fear for his wife's vengeance than wi'\nregret for his ain loss. At this instant--that is, just as he had gained\nhis feet, and was lookin ruefully doun on the wreck he had\noccasioned--ane o' his bairns cam runnin to the door, and bawled out the\ndelightfu intelligence--\n\n\"Faither, my mother's comin!\"\n\nThe horrible announcement roused him from his reverie, and instantly put\nhim on the alert. He had presence o' mind aneugh left to recollect that\nthe cupboard wasna a' he had to answer for. There was the kirn, which,\nin its present denuded state, told an ugly tale. He flew to remedy this.\nHe snatched up the towel, spread it over the mouth o't, lifted the huge\nstone with which all had been secured, dashed it down--on what? on the\nlid? No, in his hurry and confusion he forgot the lid;--on the\ntowel--and doun went towel and stone into the kirn, and the latter with\nsuch force as fairly knocked out the bottom, and sent the whole contents\nstreamin owre the floor. At this particularly felicitous moment, his\nwife entered the outer door, when the first thing she met was the colly\ndog wi' a row o' the fresh butter in his mouth. In ordinary\ncircumstances, this wad hae been a provokin aneugh sicht to her, but a\nglimpse at the same instant o' the dreadfu ruin within made it appear\nbut a sma' matter indeed. On enterin on the scene o' devastation, she\nfand the culprit standin almost senseless and speechless wi' terror and\nhorror, and every other stupifyin feelin that can be named, in the\nmiddle o' the ruins he had created, and up to the shoe-mouth in cream.\n\n\"An awfu business this, Maggy,\" he said, in a sepulchral voice. It was\na' he got leave to say; for, in the next moment, he was felled wi' the\nstroke o' a besom; and when he resumed his feet, which he did almost\ninstantly, he took to his heels, and didna venture hame again till wife\nand weans were a' lang in their beds. Tam ne'er touched the kirn after\nthis.\n\n\"And here,\" said the narrator, \"ends my story o' Tam Brodie and the\nkirn.\"\n\n\"And a very guid ane it is,\" rejoined the landlord, taking off a cold\nhalf-glass of punch that stood before him. \"I ken Tam o' the Broomhouse\nas weel as I ken ony ane here, and it's just as like him as can be.\nWilliam,\" added mine host, now turning and addressing another member of\nthe company--a quiet, mild-looking man, whom one could not, _a priori_,\nhave suspected of being a joker--\"that's nearly as guid a ane as the\nBlue Bonnet. Do ye mind that story? William shook his head and smiled.\n\n\"I mind it weel aneugh,\" he replied; \"but it was rather a serious\naffair--at least it micht hae been sae--and I'm no fond o' recollectin\n't.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, man; nae harm cam o't,\" said the other; \"and it was\nharmlessly meant.\"\n\n\"But it micht hae been a bad business,\" said William.\n\n\"But it _wasna_,\" said mine host; \"and, as I dinna believe there's ane\nhere that ever heard the story, I wish ye wad let me tell it.\"\n\n\"It's no worth tellin,\" said the other.\n\n\"I'll tak my chance o' that,\" replied the landlord; \"if it's counted\nworthless, I'll tak the wyte o't. Do ye gie me leave?\"\n\n\"A wilfu man maun hae his ain way--do as you like,\" rejoined William\nBrydon, affectin a chariness he did not altogether feel.\n\nThus regularly licensed, the narrator began:--\n\nAbout twa or three years syne, there used to come about this house o'\nmine a wee bit whupper-snapper body o' an English bagman. An impudent,\nupsettin brat he was, although no muckle higher than that table. The\nfavourite theme o' this wee ill-tongued rascal--for he had a vile\nane--was abusin Scotland, and a' that war in't, for a parcel o' sneakin,\nhungry, beggarly loons. This was his constant talk wherever he was, and\nwhaever he micht be amang. I didna mind him mysel; for the cratur wasna\na bad customer, and he was, besides, such a wretched-lookin body--I mean\nas to size and figure, for he was aye weel aneugh put on--that puttin a\nhaun to him was oot o' the question. Ye couldna hae blawn upon him, but\nye wad hae been in for murder, or culpable homicide at the very least.\nBut, although I keepit a calm sough wi' him, and didna mind his abusive\njabberin, it wasna sae wi' everybody; and there was nane bore it waur\nthan oor freend William Brydon here, wha aften forgathered wi' him in\nthis hoose. William couldna endure the cratur, and mony a sair wrangle\nthey had wi' the tongue; but the Englishman's was by far the glibber,\nthough William's was the weightier. It chanced that William and the\nlittle gabby Englishman met here, both on their way to England, ae day\nsune after the execution o' the rebels in Carlisle--a time whan the\nScots, as ye a' dootless ken, war in unco bad odour throughoot a'\nEngland, and especially in Carlisle, whar the feelin ran sae high that\nno person wearin ony piece o' dress which smelt in the least o' Scotland\nwas safe in the streets. And wha was sae vindictive against the rascally\nrebels, as he ca'ed them, as our wee bagman? \"Headin and hangin's owre\nguid for the villains,\" he wad say. \"They should be roasted before a\nslow fire, like sae mony shouthers o' mutton.\" Oh, he had a bitter spite\nat them! It was aboot this time, as I said, that he and our freend here\nmet in my hoose--and, as usual, they had a tremendous yokin; but it was,\non this occasion, a' aboot the rebels; for this was the thing uppermost\nin the wee bagman's mind at the time. It was a grand catch for him, and\nhe made the maist o't. In short, a' his abuse now took this particular\ndirection.\n\nNotwithstandin William and the bagman's constant quarrellin, and their\nmutual dislike o' each ither, they aye drank thegither whan they met,\nand whiles took guid scours o't, and lang sederunts; but it wasna for\nlove, ye'll readily believe, they sat thegither: na, na, it was for the\npurpose o' gettin a guid worryin at ane anither; so that they may be\nsaid to hae sought each ither's company oot o' a kind o' lovin hatred to\nane anither. In the afternoon o' which I'm speakin, the twa, as usual,\ndrank and quarrelled; but I was surprised to find, towards the end o'\ntheir sederunt, that oor freend here, instead o' gettin angrier, as he\nused to do, as the contest drew towards a close, grew aye the calmer;\nand, what astonished me still mair, suddenly showed a strong disposition\nto curry favour wi' his antagonist, and actually so far succeeded, by\ndint o' soothin words, as to induce the bagman to extend the hand o'\nfriendship and good-fellowship to him--swearin that William was, after\nall, a devilish good fellow, for a Scotchman. The bagman, however, was\nby this time pretty weel on by the head; and this micht hae had some\nshare in producin this new-born kindness for the Scotchman. However this\nmay be, being both anxious to get on to Carlisle that nicht, they\nagreed--such good freends had they thus suddenly become--to travel\ntogether. This settled, their horses were brought to the door. William's\npacks had been sent on before, and he had hired ane o' my horses to\ncarry him unto Carlisle. Just as they were gaun oot the passage there,\nto the door to mount, William hings back a bit, lettin the bagman gang\non before him, and whispers into my ear--\n\n\"I'll play that pockpuddin a pliskie yet. Hae ye such a thing as an auld\nbroad bonnet aboot ye, that ye could lend me?\"\n\nLittle dreamin what he was gaun to do with it, I replied I had; and\nrunnin into the kitchen here, I took down frae a nail, ane that I used\nto wear when gaun aboot the garden, and gae it to him. William took it,\nrowed it up, and thrust it in his pocket, without sayin a word, and, in\nthree minutes after, the twa war aff.\n\nOn arrivin within aboot a mile o' Carlisle, Willie proposed to the\nbagman that they should go into a public-house that was on the roadside,\nand hae something before they entered the toon, as they required to part\na wee on this side o't--William having, he said, some sma' business to\ndo aff the road. To this proposal the Englishman readily agreed, and in\nthey gaed, leavin their horses at the door. Here William plied the\nbagman--nothing loth, for he was a drucken wee rascal--wi' brandy till\nhe began to wink, and no to be perfectly certain which end o' him was\nuppermost. Havin reduced him to this condition, his freend proposed that\nthey should be movin, when they both got up for that purpose.\n\n\"Where's my _'at_?\" said the bagman, turnin round to look for the\narticle he named.\n\n\"Here it's, man,\" said William, comin behind him, and clappin the bonnet\non his head.\n\n\"Thank you, freend!\" replied the bagman, generously believin that, as he\nfelt _something_ put upon his head, it must be his hat; and thus\ntheekit, he walked to the door, and mounted his horse, as grave and\ncomposed as if a' was richt, and rode aff wi' William alangside o' him.\nThey hadna ridden far, however, when his friend, for obvious reasons,\ndesirous o' bein quit o' his companion, said he was sorry that they maun\nnow part, he requirin, as he told him before, to turn aff the road a\nbit. On this they shook hands and parted. The bagman hadna proceeded far\nwi' the notorious badge o' Scotland--the broad blue bonnet--on his head,\ntill he found himsel, he could not conceive how, an object of marked\nattention to a' the passers-by. At length, as he approached the town,\nthis attention became gradually more and more alarmin, and began at the\nsame time to be accompanied by such symptoms as plainly evinced that it\nwas not o' a pleasant character.\n\nPopular notice, the bagman very weel saw, he had attained by some means\nor other; but he also saw as weel that this by no means meant popular\nadmiration; for in every face that was turned towards him there was an\nangry scowl. Amazed and confounded at bein thus so strangely and\ndisagreeably marked, the poor little Englishman looked first at his\nlegs, and then at his horse, leanin forward for this purpose, and then\nexamined his own outer man all over, to see if he could discern onything\nwrang wi' either, that micht account for his sudden elevation in the\npublic mind; but he found nothing--a' was richt, and the little bagman\nwas more perplexed than ever. He rode on, however--as what else could he\ndo?--and at length entered the town. Here the general attention became\nstill more strikingly marked: people stood on the streets and stared\nbroadly at him; and, when he had passed, looked after him, and shook\ntheir heads. At length matters came to a crisis. This approached by\noccasional cries of \"Doun wi' the rebel!\" \"Doun wi' the Scottish\ncut-throat!\" \"Hang the robber!\" \"Head him! head him!\" If confounded\nbefore, the little bagman was now ten times more so. These terms could\nnever apply to him, and yet they were most palpably directed to him.\nWhat on earth could it mean? To be taken, too, for a character which of\nall others he most abhorred. It was unaccountable--most extraordinary.\nIn the meantime, both the cries and the crowd increased, till the latter\nat length fairly surrounded the little bagman and his horse, and\nperemptorily arrested his progress, still shoutin, but with greater\nferocity, \"Doun wi' the rebel!\"\n\n\"Good people,\" said the perplexed and terrified cratur, \"what do you\nmean? Hear me for a moment. I'm no rebel. I detest them as much as you\ncan do. I am an Englishman--a born Englishman.\"\n\n\"Yes, when it suits your purpose, ye cowardly Scottish dog!\" exclaimed\none of the crowd, advancin towards him, and seizin him by a leg.\n\n\"We know you too well by your head-mark,\" said a second, bustlin forward\nto hae a share in forcibly dismounting the wee bagman; a measure which\nwas now evidently contemplated, if not determined on, by the crowd.\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" shouted a third, \"he has the mark o' the beast on him. Doun\nwi' him! doun wi' him! He can't deny the blue bonnet. Doun wi' it, and\nthe head that's in it!\" Seein all eyes at this moment directed to that\npart o' his person where a hat should have been, the wee bagman\ninstinctively clapped his hand on his head. It felt strange! There was\nno superstructure--all was bare and flat. He pulled aff the mysterious\ncoverin, and beheld with horror and amazement a large, broad, Scottish\nblue bonnet, the size o' a cart wheel, with a red knob, like an\novergrown cherry, in the centre o't.\n\n\"Ay, where got ye that? where got ye that?\" exclaimed some one frae the\ncrowd. But, though the question was put, no answer was permitted to the\nquestioned. In the next instant he was on his back on the street, kickin\nand strugglin amongst the feet o' his assailants, who applied the latter\nto all parts o' his person wi' a rapidity and vigour o' execution that\nthreatened, and certainly would hae extinguished, the wee life o' him,\nif he hadna been rescued a trifle on this side o't by a guard o'\nsodgers, whom the alarm had brought to the spot.\n\nBattered, bruised, speechless, and his face streamin wi' blood, the\nunfortunate bit bagman was now conveyed to the guard-house, and from\nthence, after he had somewhat recovered, to prison, under the same\nsuspicion which had procured him such rough treatment from the mob. So\nthat, to appearance, as they werena very nice in thae times, he was\nsaved frae a violent death only to be subjected to anither; frae bein\nkicked into the ither warld to be hanged; and o' this opinion the wee\nbagman was himsel for some time, for the authorities o' Carlisle war at\nthat period excessively loyal, and wadna cared muckle to hae hanged him\non chance. As it was, however, he was kept in jail for a week, when his\ninnocence havin been so clearly established that the most loyal o' his\njudges couldna deny it, he was set at liberty--though wi' a grudge, for\nthey wad still fain hae hanged him--and a caution never to wear a blue\nbonnet in Carlisle again.\n\n\"The wee bagman,\" added the landlord, \"has never come this way since,\nand I fancy now never will. Come, freends,\" continued he, \"shute in\nyour glasses--the drink's gettin cauld; and,\" he said, edging the mouth\nof the bowl slopingly towards him, so as to afford him a view of its\ncontents, \"there's a gey drap in't yet.\" Then, with that forethought\nwhich was a very remarkable and praiseworthy trait in his\ncharacter--\"Betty,\" he cried out to a servant girl, \"keep the kettle\nboilin.\"\n\nHis call for the glasses of his friends being promptly obeyed, they were\nas promptly re-filled, and it is but doing justice to the honest men\nassembled on this occasion to state, were as speedily emptied again.\nThis done--\n\n\"Mr Gas,\" said Walter Gibson, one of the most extensive traders and most\nrespectable men in the company--\"Mr Gas,\" he said--for they all\naddressed him as their chairman--\"these are a' queer aneugh stories in\ntheir way that hae been tell't the nicht; but I'm no sure if there's ony\no' them better than the story o' Sandy M'Gill and his mither.\"\n\nThe landlord cocked his ears. \"And what story's that, Watty?\" he said.\n\"I never heard it.\"\n\n\"It's no the waur o' that, however,\" said Watty, dryly.\n\n\"No a grain,\" replied the other, with one of his good-natured laughs;\n\"but let us judge for oursels.\"\n\n\"I'll do that,\" quoth Walter; and he immediately began:--\"Twa or three\nyears ago, as ye a' ken, Lord Drumlanrig, son o' the Duke o'\nQueensberry, raised a regiment for what was ca'ed the Holland service.\nHis lordship's headquarters durin the recruitin for the corps was\nDumfries, where he used to beat up on the market days. Amongst those who\nwere enlisted on ane o' thae occasions was a young lad o' the name o'\nSandy M'Gill--a joiner to trade. Sandy was a handsome, good-lookin young\nman--very smart and clever, and possessed o' a good education; that is,\nhe wrote and figured weel.\n\nOn the regiment being completed, it was embodied at Dunse, and then\ndrilled for some time. It was then marched to Leith, Sandy M'Gill and\na', where it was to be embarked for Amsterdam. Two days after the\nregiment had left Dunse, Lord Drumlanrig, mounted on horseback, and\nattended by a servant, also mounted, set out from Dumfries, to join his\nregiment at Leith, whence he meant to sail wi' it for Holland. On\napproachin the Nether Mill, his lordship was recognised, while yet at\nsome distance, by an auld blacksmith o' the name o' William Thamson.\n\n\"There,\" said he to a bit lively, hardy-lookin auld wifie--it was Widow\nM'Gill--\"there's Lord Drumlanrig comin forrit.\"\n\n\"Is that him?\" quoth the auld wife; \"feth and I maun speak to him then!\nHe's taen awa my puir Sandy for a sodger.\"\n\nAnd she ran into the middle o' the road, and, ere Lord Drumlanrig was\naware, she had his horse by the bridle, exclaimin--\n\n\"Please yer lordship, ye maun stop and speak to me a wee. I hae\nsomething to say to ye.\"\n\n\"What is it, my good woman?\" said his lordship, smilin good-naturedly;\n\"but I'm in a great hurry, and you must not detain me a moment.\"\n\n\"What I want to speak to yer lordship aboot,\" replied Widow M'Gill,\ntaking nae notice o' his lordship's impatience, \"is this: ye hae taen\nawa my puir son, Sandy, for a sodger, and I'm like to brak my heart\naboot him.\"\n\n\"There's nae guid reason for that in the world, my honest woman,\" said\nhis lordship; \"as he'll be better wi' me than lyin at hame here, scartin\nthe porridge pots.\"\n\n\"I'm no sure o' that, my lord, unless ye look weel to him, and tak him\nunder yer special care. Ye'll fin' him weel wordy o't; for, although I\nsay it that sudna say it, he's a clever, weel-inclined lad.\"\n\n\"I've nae doot o't, honest woman, nae doot o't,\" said his lordship, now\nendeavourin to move on; \"and, you may depend on't, I'll see that he gets\nevery justice.\" And he made another attempt to get on.\n\n\"Na, na, my lord,\" said the widow, perceivin his efforts to get quit o'\nher, \"I winna let ye gang that way--I hae something mair to say to ye\nyet; but, as I see a' the neebors glowrin at us, ye'll just come doon\nand step into the house wi' me a minute, and I'll tell ye there a' I hae\nto say.\"\n\n\"Really, really, my good woman,\" said his lordship, in great alarm at\nthis threat o' further detention, \"it is impossible--I cannot on any\naccount--I am indeed in a great hurry, and exceedinly anxious to get\nforrit.\"\n\n\"Deil may care, my lord!--the deil a fit ye'll stir till ye come in wi'\nme a bit--on that I'm determined.\" And she took a still firmer haud o'\nthe bridle.\n\n\"Some ither time, my guid woman,\" said his lordship, despairinly.\n\n\"Na, na, nae time like the present, my lord,\" replied the widow.\n\nSeein now that, unless he had recourse to some violence--which it was\nneither his nature nor desire to hae--it was useless to contend wi' the\nresolute auld wife, his lordship dismounted, though, ye may believe, wi'\na very bad grace, gave his horse to his servant to haud, and went in wi'\nWidow M'Gill to her little cot. On enterin the hoose, his lordship made\nanither desperate effort to prevail on the widow to shorten his\ndetention.\n\n\"Now, my guid woman,\" he said, \"let me beg o' you to say quickly what ye\nhae to say, for I really will not be detained.\"\n\n\"No twa minutes, no twa minutes, my lord,\" said the widow, dustin, wi'\ngreat activity, wi' her apron, a chair for his lordship to sit doun\nupon.\n\n\"No, no; I really will not sit doun,\" said his lordship, determinedly.\n\"I'll hear what you hae to say standin.\"\n\n\"But ye _maun_ sit, my lord,\" replied the widow, wi' equal resolution.\n\"A bonny thing it wad be, you to come into my house, and gang oot again\nwithoot sittin doun. Na, na, that maunna be said. Doun, my lord, ye maun\nsit.\" And, seein that he wad only increase his ain delay by resistance,\ndoun, to be sure, his lordship did sit. \"Noo, my lord,\" says the widow,\n\"I'm sure the deil a morsel o' breakfast ye hae gotten the day yet--for\nit's no aboon seven o'clock; sae ye'll just tak a mouthfu wi' me.\"\n\nAt this horrid proposal, his lordship sprang frae his chair--for he was\nnoo fairly driven at bay--and made for the door; but the widow was as\nclever in the heels as he was. She sprang after him, and, before he\ncould gain the door, had him fast by the tails o' the coat, exclaimin,\nas she pu'ed him back--\n\n\"Deil a fit o' ye, my lord, 's gaun oot o' this house, till ye taste my\nbread and cheese. Ise haud ye fast, I warrant.\"\n\nRegardless o' her threats, his lordship still pressed for the door; but\nthe stieve auld wife held on wi' a determined and nae feckless grip, and\nhe couldna mak it oot, withoot efforts that micht do her an injury.\nSeein this, and seein, at the same time, the ludicrousness o' the\nstruggle, his lordship at length gied in, and returned to his seat. In a\ntwinklin the active auld wifie had a table before him, covered wi'\nbread, butter, and cheese, and a large jug o' sweet milk.\n\n\"Noo, my lord, see and tak a mouthfu. It's but hamely fare to put before\na lord; but it's gien wi' hearty guid-will, and that maun mak amends.\"\n\nHis lordship guid-naturedly took a little o' what was put before him.\nWhile doin this, the auld wifie kept up a runnin fire o' sma'-talk.\n\n\"Noo, my lord, ye'll be guid to my son. He's an honest man's bairn, but\nhis faither's dead and gane mony a year syne; and mony a lonely seat\nand sair heart has fa'en to my share sin syne; but I aye looked forward\nto findin a comforter and supporter in my only son, in my auld age; but\nnoo he's taen frae me too, and a' is desolation and darkness around me.\"\n\nHere the puir widow, whose maternal feelins, thus excited by the picture\nshe had drawn o' her ain loneliness, had suddenly and totally changed\nher character, or rather had brocht oot its real qualities, which were,\nafter a', those o' a kind and feelin heart, raised the corner o' her\napron to her eyes, and wiped awa an involuntary tear. His lordship,\nnotwithstandin o' the provokin predicament in which he was, feelin much\naffected by the widow's lamentations, thus simply expressed, took oot a\nmemorandum-book frae his pocket, and havin inquired her son's name, and\nthe name o' the place o' her residence, wrote them doun. He next asked\nif she knew in whose company he was.\n\n\"Captain Dooglas,\" replied the widow--\"Captain Dooglas they ca' him.\"\nThen, becomin querist in turn--\"Do ye ken what sort o' a man he is, my\nlord?\"\n\n\"Oh, an excellent man, my guid woman,\" said his lordship. \"Your son\ncould not be under a better fellow.\" And his lordship noted doun this\ncircumstance also, wi' the name o' Sandy's captain.\n\nHavin dune this, he replaced his memorandum-book in his pocket, and rose\nfrae his seat, the widow noo offerin nae farther resistance; and havin\nplaced, unperceived, as he thought, a couple o' guineas on the table,\nwas aboot to leave the house, after shakin his hostess kindly by the\nhand--for his lordship was noo rather tickled wi' the adventure\nathegither--and promisin to see to the interests o' her son, when the\nwidow, gettin her ee on the coin, snatched it up, and was forcin it back\non its original possessor, exclaimin--\n\n\"Na, na, my lord--I'll tak nae siller for kindness. A' that I want is,\nthat ye wad be guid to my puir Sandy, whan he's far awa frae his hame\nand his freends. Be kind till him, my lord, and tak the widow's blessin\nin return.\" And she was pressin the money back on his lordship, when he\nran frae her, got oot o' the hoose, and was aboot to mount his horse,\nwhen, to his unutterable horror, he heard the widow exclaimin, \"Gude\nguide me! I hae a' this time forgotten your servant, my lord; and he'll\nbe hungry aneugh, too, puir fallow, I hae nae doot.\" And she ran and\nseized _his_ horse next by the bridle. \"Come doun, lad, and come in by a\nbit, and tak a mouthfu. His lordship, I'm sure, 'll wait twa or three\nminutes on ye without grudgin't; for the puir maun be fed as weel as the\nrich, the man as weel as his maister.\"\n\n\"No, no, no. For God's sake, my guid woman, let us be gone!\" exclaimed\nhis lordship, in an implorin voice, and now beginnin to think he wad\nnever get oot o' the auld wife's hands.\n\n\"Na, troth, my lord, I'll no let him go. The lad _maun_ hae a mouthfu o'\nmeat.\"\n\n\"Then, in Heaven's name,\" said his lordship, \"if ye will hae him tak\nsomething, bring't oot till him here, and dinna tak him aff his horse.\"\n\nComplyin wi' this request, the very first she had complied wi', the auld\nwifie ran in to the house--his lordship, while she was there, tellin his\nservant to put at ance into his pocket whatever it micht be--and brought\noot a quantity o' bread and cheese, which the man disposed o' as his\nmaister had desired him.\n\nThe coast being now clear, his lordship, after again shakin hands wi'\nthe auld wife, and promisin to keep an ee on her son, put spurs to his\nhorse, and darted aff at full speed, as delighted wi' his liberty as if\nhe had escaped frae a highwayman; but, fast as he gaed, it was some\nseconds before he got oot o' hearin o' the auld wife's voice, bawlin\nafter him, \"Now, my lord, dinna forget Sandy--dinna forget Sandy\nM'Gill.\"\n\nOn gainin some distance, both master and man drew bridle, and laughed\nheartily at the adventure wi' the auld wife o' the Nether Mill.\n\nAweel, shortly after, his lordship embarked for Holland with a part o'\nhis regiment--the remainder, amongst which was Sandy M'Gill, proceeding\nin another vessel--and arrived there, as did the whole corps, in due\ntime, and without any accident.\n\nSome days after the landin, Lord Drumlanrig, at parade one forenoon,\nafter speakin and laughin for a few minutes wi' Captain Douglas in front\no' the line, went up to a certain guid-lookin young sodger in that\nofficer's company, and callin him out frae his comrades, asked him his\nname.\n\n\"Sandy M'Gill, my lord,\" replied the young man, touchin his hat, and\nsomewhat surprised at bein singled out in this way.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said his lordship. \"Well, Sandy, I breakfasted in your\nmother's house on my way frae Dumfries to Edinburgh, just before I left\nScotland; and a kind, hearty old woman she is, I assure you.\"\n\n\"I wonder, my lord,\" said Sandy, blushin, \"that my mother could hae had\nthe impudence to tak your lordship into her puir sooty house.\"\n\n\"It was no impudence at all, Sandy--nae such thing. It was oot o'\nkindness to me and affection for you. The breakfast, however, was an\nexcellent one, and gien wi' a hearty welcome and richt guid-will. But I\npromised yer mother, Sandy,\" continued his lordship, \"to look after ye,\nand I mean to do sae. Can you write any?\"\n\nSandy said he could.\n\n\"Can you figure?\"\n\nAnother reply in the affirmative.\n\n\"Can ye show me your handwriting? Have ye any specimens upon you?\"\n\nSandy pulled out of his pocket some scraps o paper that exhibited his\nfist. His lordship looked at them, and said the writing was very\nguid--that it wad do very weel. \"Now, then, Sandy,\" he added, \"I'll tell\nye what I mean to do for you, to begin wi': there's anither serjeant\nwanted for your company, and I hae desired Captain Douglas to appoint\nyou. You will get a suit o' claes frae the store, and there's five\nguineas to you to purchase necessaries, and I hae nae doot ye'll turn\noot a guid and brave sodger.\"\n\nSandy endeavoured to express his gratitude for the sudden and unexpected\nfortune; but he couldna. Nor, though he had been able, did his lordship\ngie him an opportunity; for, anticipatin the lad's embarrassment, he\nwalked awa the moment he had dune speakin.\n\nNext day, Sandy appeared in the uniform o' a non-commissioned officer;\nand, being now on the road to promotion, returned, at the conclusion o'\nthe war, to his native place, as captain; attributin a' his guid fortune\nto the breakfast which his mother gae to Lord Drumlanrig at the Nether\nMill.\n\n\"Aweel, it is really curious how things turn oot sometimes,\" said lang\nJamie Turner, on the conclusion o' the foregoing story--\"very curious.\nDid ye ever hear, Mr Gas,\" continued Jamie, now addressing his landlord,\n\"hoo Jock Tinwald, a son o' Andrew Tinwald's o' Shaw Hill, recovered\nforty guineas he ance lost at the Candlemas Fair o' Dumfries?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr Gas, looking with interest at the speaker. \"I never heard\nthat ane.\"\n\n\"It was a gey clever ane,\" said Jamie Turner, and, without further\npreface, he proceeded to relate the following adventure:--\n\nOn a certain Candlemas Fair, some twa or three years back, auld Tinwald\no' Shaw Hill sent his son Jock to Dumfries, wi' forty guineas in a net\npurse in his pocket, to purchase a couple o' good draught horses. Jock\nwasna lang in the fair until he fell in wi' twa horses that appeared to\nbe o' precisely the description he wanted. He inquired their price,\nfound it wasna far beyond the mark, and, finally, after some chaffering,\nstruck a bargain with the seller. This done, the young farmer put his\nhand into his pocket, to bring out the net purse with the forty guineas.\nHe started, and looked pale. It was not in the pocket in which he\nthought--nay, in which he was certain he had put it. He searched\nanither, and anither, and anither, with distraction in his looks. It was\nin nane o' them--it was lost, gane! He had been robbed. O' this there\nwas nae doubt. Poor Jock was in despair, but it was an evil without a\nremedy; for he had not the smallest notion when, where, or by whom he\nhad been plundered. There was therefore no help for it; and, feelin\nthis, Jock repaired to a public-house, drowned the recollection of his\nloss in brandy, and went home at nicht penniless, horseless, and drunk.\n\nSix months after this, the Rude Fair of Dumfries came round; and, in the\nthick and the thrang o' this fair, micht hae been seen the braid\nshouthers and the round, healthfu, guid-natured face o' Jock Tinwald.\nBut surely he'll tak care this time how he mingles wi' the crood, or at\nleast keep a sharp ee on his neebors. Not he. There he is, pushin and\njostlin awa in the heart o' the very densest mass, wi' an apparent\nregardlessness o' consequences which is most amazin, considerin the loss\nhe sustained on a former occasion. Nay, not only is he doin this, but he\nis ostentatiously displayin a purse apparently as well filled as the\nlast one. This does indeed seem the extreme o' folly. But it only\n_seems_ so. It is not without a reason. Jock is not so unguarded as he\nappears. The truth is, he is just now practisin a ruse which he is not\nwithout hope may help him to the recovery o' his forty guineas.\n\nThe purse which Jock is so openly sportin is filled not with gold, but\nwith copper. It contains, in short, instead o' guineas, a quantity of\nfarthings, and is thus ostentatiously displayed in the hope of\nattractin the notice of the light-fingered gentleman who had relieved\nhim on the former occasion--and with what promise o' success may be\nguessed frae the followin incident.\n\nOn Tinwald's first entering the scene o' the fair, he was marked by two\npersons o' very equivocal appearance who were hoverin about.\n\n\"That,\" said ane o' them, nudging his neebor wi' his elbow, and inclinin\nhis head towards Tinwald--\"that's the flat I _did_ at the last Candlemas\nfair. The easiest handled guse I ever cam across.\"\n\n\"What wad ye think o' our tryin him again?\" said the speaker's neebor.\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart,\" replied the other. \"He's but a saft ane; but I fear\nhe'll no hae onything on him this time.\"\n\nAt this instant the fears of the pair of pickpockets on this score were\nrelieved by a sight of Jock's purse. It caught their eyes in a moment,\nand they viewed it with a delight which gentlemen of their profession\nalone can know. They felt as sure of it as if it were already in their\npockets. Dropping all other speculation, therefore, they now commenced\ndogging Jock, who was fishing away with his purse through the crowd,\nlike an angler with his fly, for the thief of his guineas or some of his\ngang, whom he had a pretty shrewd notion would not be far off. Jock,\nhowever, took care to keep the exhibition of his purse within bounds. He\ntook care not to make an over frequent or suspicious display of it, only\noccasionally, and then returning it to a certain side pocket of easy\naccess. There was nothing, therefore, which Tinwald was at this moment\nso anxious for as to feel a hand in the said pocket; and this was a\ngratification which he was not long denied. A hand was introduced, he\nfelt it, and, turning quickly round, he seized the person to whom it\nbelonged.\n\n\"I ken ye, freend,\" said Jock to his prisoner, in a low whisper--\"I ken\nye perfectly weel. It was you that robbed me o' forty guineas in a green\nnet purse at the last Candlemas Fair.\" (All this was said by Jock at a\nventure, but by chance was true.) \"Now, I say, let me hae the money back\nquietly, and I'll tak nae mair notice o' the matter; but, if ye dinna,\nI'll immediately gie the alarm, and hae ye apprehended. Sae tak yer\nchoice, freend. But, mind, there's a rope round your neck: it's hangin\nat the very least.\"\n\n\"Let me go, then, and follow me,\" replied the depredator, briefly, and\nin the same low tone that he had been addressed. Jock loosed his grasp,\nand keepin close behind his man, who immediately began threadin his way\noot o' the crowd, followed him till they had cleared it; when, dreadin a\nsudden bolt, he cam up close beside him; and thus the two held on their\nway, till they cam to a retired part o' the market-place, when the thief\nsuddenly stopped, and, plungin his hand into his bosom, drew oot a\nleathern bag, from which he counted into the astonished young farmer's\nhand forty golden guineas. Jock, confounded at his own success, could\nscarcely believe his eyes when he looked at the precious deposit in his\nhand; and, in the fulness o' his joy, insisted on giein the thief\nhalf-a-mutchkin o' brandy on the head o't. This, however, the latter\ndeclined, and, in an instant after, disappeared in the crowd; and Jock\nnever saw mair o' him. And sae ends my story, freends,\" added lang Jamie\nTurner.\n\n\"And, by my feth, a richt guid ane--a real clever ane,\" said the\nlandlord, as he filled glasses round, and, rising on his little, short\nlegs, drank to each and all of the company \"a soun sleep and a blithe\nwaukenin.\" In two or three minutes more, the kitchen of the Floshend Inn\nwas cleared of its tenants, and for that night, at any rate, no more was\nheard in it the sounds of revelry, nor the accompanying glee of the\ngibe, or jest, or merry tale.\n\n\n\n\nLOTTERY HALL.\n\n\nI had slept on the preceding night at Brampton; and, without entering so\nfar into particulars as to say whether I took the road towards Carlisle,\nNewcastle, Annan, or to the south, suffice it to say, that, towards\nevening, and just as I was again beginning to think of a resting-place,\nI overtook a man sauntering along the road, with his hands behind his\nback. A single glance informed me that he was not one who earned his\nbread by the sweat of his brow; but the same glance also told me that he\nhad not bread enough and to spare. His back was covered with a well-worn\nblack coat, the fashion of which belonged to a period at least twelve\nyears preceding the time of which I write. The other parts of his\noutward man harmonised with his coat as far as apparent age and colour\nwent. His head was covered with a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat; and on\nhis nose he wore a pair of silver-mounted spectacles. To my mind he\npresented the picture of a poor scholar, or of gentility in ruins. The\nlapels of his coat were tinged a little, but only a little, with snuff;\nwhich _Flee-up_, or _Beggar's Brown_, as some call it, is very apt to\ndo. In his hands, also, which, as I have said, were behind his back, he\nheld his snuff-box. It is probable that he imagined he had returned it\nto his pocket after taking a pinch; but he appeared from his very\nsaunter to be a meditative man, and an idea having shot across his brain\nwhile in the act of snuff-taking, the box was unconsciously retained in\nhis hand, and placed behind his back. Whether the hands are in the way\nof contemplation or not, I cannot tell, for I never think, save when my\nhand holds a pen; yet I have observed that to carry the hands behind\nthe back is a favourite position with _walking thinkers_. I accordingly\nset down the gentleman with the broad-brimmed hat and silver-mounted\nspectacles to be a walking thinker; and it is more than probable that I\nshould not have broken in upon his musings (for I am not in the habit of\nspeaking to strangers), had it not been that I observed the snuff-box in\nhis hands, and that mine required replenishing at the time. It is\namazing and humiliating to think how uncomfortable, fretful, and\nmiserable the want of a pinch of snuff can make a man!--how dust longs\nfor dust! I had been desiring a pinch for an hour, and here it was\npresented before me like an unexpected spring in the wilderness.\nSnuffers are like freemasons--there is a sort of brotherhood among them.\nThe real snuffer will not give a pinch to the mere dipper into other\npeople's boxes, but he will never refuse one to the initiated. Now, I\ntook the measure of the man's mind at a single glance. I discovered\nsomething of the pedant in his very stride--it was thoughtful, measured,\nmathematical; to say nothing of the spectacles, or of his beard, which\nwas of a dark colour, and which had not been visited by the razor for at\nleast two days. I therefore accosted him in the hackneyed but pompous\nlanguage attributed to Johnson--\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"permit me to immerge the summits of my digits in your\npulveriferous utensil, in order to excite a grateful titillation in my\nolfactory nerves.\"\n\n\"Cheerfully, sir,\" returned he, handing me the box, for which, by the\nway, he first groped in his waistcoat-pocket; \"I know what pleasure it\nis--'_naribus aliquid haurire_.'\"\n\nI soon discovered that my companion, to whom a pinch of snuff had thus\nintroduced me, was an agreeable and well-informed man. About a mile\nbefore us lay a village in which I intended to take up my quarters for\nthe night, and near the village was a house of considerable dimensions,\nthe appearance of which it would puzzle me to describe. The architect\nhad evidently set all orders at defiance; it was a mixture of the castle\nand the cottage--a heap of stones confusedly put together. Around it was\na quantity of trees--poplars and Scotch firs; and they appeared to have\nbeen planted as promiscuously as the house was built. Its appearance\nexcited my curiosity, and I inquired of my companion what it was called,\nor to whom it belonged.\n\n\"Why, sir,\" said he, \"people generally call it LOTTERY HALL; but the\noriginal proprietor intended that it should have been named LUCK'S\nLODGE. There is rather an interesting story connected with it, if you\nhad time to hear it.\"\n\n\"If the story be as amusing as the appearance of the house,\" added I,\n\"and you have time to tell it, I shall take time to hear it.\"\n\nI discovered that my friend with the silver-mounted spectacles kept what\nhe termed an \"Establishment for Young Gentlemen\" in the\nneighbourhood--that being the modernised appellation for a\nboarding-school; though, judging from his appearance, I did not suppose\nhis establishment to be over-filled; and having informed him that I\nintended to remain for the night at the village inn, I requested him to\naccompany me, where, after I had made obeisance to a supper--which was a\nduty that a walk of forty miles strongly prompted me to perform--I\nshould, \"enjoying mine ease\" like the good old bishop, gladly hear his\ntale of Lottery Hall.\n\nTherefore, having reached the inn, and partaken of supper and a glass\ntogether, after priming each nostril with a separate pinch from the box\naforesaid, he thus began:--\n\nThirty years ago, there dwelt within this village a man named Andrew\nDonaldson. He was merely a day-labourer upon the estate of the squire to\nwhom the village belongs; but he was a singular man in many respects,\nand one whose character very few were able to comprehend. You will be\nsurprised when I inform you that the desire to become a MAN OF FASHION\nhaunted this poor day-labourer like his shadow in the sun. It was the\ndisease of his mind. Now, sir, before proceeding with my story, I shall\nmake a few observations on this plaything and ruler of the world called\nFashion. I would describe Fashion to be a deformed little monster with a\nchameleon skin, bestriding the shoulders of public opinion. Though weak\nin itself, it has gradually usurped a degree of power that is well-nigh\nirresistible; and this tyranny prevails, in various forms, but with\nequal cruelty, over the whole habitable earth. Like a rushing stream, it\nbears along all ranks and conditions of men, all avocations and\nprofessions, and often principles. Fashion is withal a notable courtier,\nbowing to the strong, and flattering the powerful. Fashion is a mere\nwhim, a conceit, a foible, a toy, a folly; and withal an idol whose\nworshippers are universal. Wherever introduced, it generally assumes the\nfamiliar name of Habit; and many of your great and philosophical men,\nand certain ill-natured old women, who appear at parties in their\nwedding-gowns, and despise the very name of Fashion, are each the slaves\nof sundry habits which once bore the appellation. Should Fashion miss\nthe skirts of a man's coat, it is certain of seizing him by the beard.\nIt is humiliating to the dignity of immortal beings, possessed of\ncapabilities the extent of which is yet unknown, to confess that many of\nthem, professing to be Christians, Jews, Mahometans, or Pagans, are\nmerely the followers in the stream of Fashion; and are Christians or\nJews simply because such a religion was after the fashion of their\nfathers or country. During the present century, it has been the cause of\nmuch infidelity and free-thinking; or, rather, as is more frequently the\ncase with its votaries, of _no thinking_. This arose from wisdom and\nlearning being the fashion; and a vast number of brainless people--who\ncould neither be out of the service of their idol, nor yet endure the\nplodding labour and severe study necessary for the acquiring of wisdom\nand learning, and many of them not even possessing the requisite\nabilities--in order to be thought at once wise men and philosophers,\nthey pronounced religion to be a cheat, futurity a bugbear, and\nthemselves organic clods. Fashion, indeed, is as capricious as it is\ntyrannical; with one man it plays the infidel, and with another it runs\nthe gauntlet of Bible and missionary meetings or benevolent societies.\nIt is like the Emperor of Austria--a compound of intolerable evil and\nmuch good. It attempts to penetrate the mysteries of metaphysics; and it\nmocks the calculations of the most sagacious chancellor of the\nexchequer. At the nod of Fashion, ladies change their gloves; and the\nchildren of the glove-makers of Worcester go without dinners. At its\ncall they took the shining buckles from their shoes, and they walked in\nthe laced boot, the sandalled slipper, or the tied shoe. Individually,\nit seemed a small matter whether shoes were fastened with a buckle or\nwith riband; but the small-ware manufacturers found a new harvest, while\nthe buckle-makers of Birmingham and their families, in thousands, were\ndriven through the country, to beg, to steal, to coin, to perish. This\nwas the work of Fashion; and its effects are similar to the present\nhour. If the cloak drive the shawl from the promenade, Paisley and\nBolton may go in sackcloth. Here I may observe that the cry of distress\nis frequently raised against _bad government_, assuming it to be the\ncause; when fickle Fashion has alone produced the injury. In such a\nmatter, government was unable to prevent, and is unable to\nrelieve--Fashion defying all its enactments, and the ladies being the\nsole governors in the case. For, although the world rules man and his\nbusiness, and Fashion is the ruler of the world, yet the ladies, though\nthe most devoted of its servants, are at the same time the rulers of\nFashion. This last assertion may seem a contradiction, but it is not the\nless true. With simplicity and the graces, Fashion has seldom exhibited\nany inclination to cultivate an acquaintance. Now, the ladies being, in\ntheir very nature, form, and feature, the living representatives of\nthese virtues, I am the more surprised that they should be the especial\npatrons of Fashion, seeing that its efforts are more directed to conceal\na defect, by making it more deformed, than to lend a charm to elegance,\nor an adornment to beauty. The lady of fortune follows the tide of\nFashion, till she and her husband are within sight of the shores of\npoverty. The portionless, or the poorly-portioned, maiden presses on in\nits wake, till she find herself immured in the everlasting garret of an\nold maid. The well-dressed woman every man admires--the fashionable\nwoman every man fears. Then comes the animal of the male kind, whose\ncoat is cut, whose hair is curled, and his very cravat tied according to\nthe fashion. Away with such shreds and patches of effeminacy! But the\nfashion for which Andrew Donaldson, the day-labourer, sighed aimed at\nhigher things than this. It grieved him that he was not a better-dressed\nman and a greater man than the squire on whose estate he earned his\ndaily bread. He was a hard and severe man in his own house: at his frown\nhis wife was submissive, and his children trembled. His family consisted\nof his wife; three sons, Paul, Peter, and Jacob; and two daughters,\nSarah and Rebecca. Though all scriptural names, they had all been so\ncalled after his own relations. His earnings did not exceed eight or\nnine shillings a-week; but even out of this sum he did not permit the\none-half to go to the support of his family--and that half was doled out\nmost reluctantly, penny by penny. For twenty years, he had never\nintrusted his wife with the management or the keeping of a single\nsixpence. With her, of a verity, money was but a _sight_, and that\ngenerally in the smallest coins of the realm. She seldom had an\nopportunity of contemplating the gracious countenance of His Majesty;\nand when she had, it was invariably upon copper. If she needed but a\npenny to complete the cooking of a dinner, the children had to run for\nit to the fields, the quarry, or the hedge-side, where their father\nmight be at work; and then it was given with a lecture against their\nmother's extravagance! Extravagance indeed! to support seven mouths for\na week out of five shillings! I have spoken of dinners, and I should\ntell you that bread was seen in the house but once a-day, and that only\nof the coarsest kind. Potatoes were the staple commodity, and necessity\ntaught Mrs Donaldson to cook them in twenty different ways; and,\nalthough butcher meat was never seen beneath Andrew's roof, with the\nexception of pork of their own feeding, in a very small portion, once\na-week, yet the kindness of the cook in the squire's family, who\noccasionally presented her with a jar of _kitchen-fee_, enabled her to\ndish up her potatoes in modes as various and palatable to the hungry as\nthey were creditable to her own ingenuity and frugality. Andrew was a\nman of no expensive habits himself; he had never been known to spend a\npenny upon liquor of any kind but once, and that was at the christening\nof his youngest child, who was baptised in the house; when, it being a\ncold and stormy night, and the minister having far to ride, and withal\nbeing labouring under a cold, he said he would thank Andrew for a glass\nof spirits. The frugal father thought the last born of his flock had\nmade an expensive entry into existence; but, handing twopence to his son\nPaul, he desired him to bring a glass of spirits to his reverence. The\nspirits were brought in a milk-pot; but a milk-pot was an unsightly and\nan unseemly vessel out of which to ask a minister to drink. The only\npiece of crystal in the house was a footless wine-glass, out of which a\ngrey linnet drank, and there was no alternative but to take it from the\ncage, clean it, pour the spirits into it, and hand it, bottomless as it\nwas, to the clergyman--and this was done accordingly. For twenty years,\nthis was all that Andrew Donaldson was known to have spent on ale, wine,\nor spirits; and as, from the period that his children had been able to\nwork, he had not contributed a single sixpence of his earnings towards\nthe maintenance of his house, it was generally believed that he could\nnot be worth less than two or three hundred pounds. Where he kept his\nmoney, however, or who was his banker, no one could tell. Some believed\nthat he was saving in order to emigrate to Canada, and purchase land;\nbut this was only a surmise. For weeks and months he was frequently wont\nto manifest the deepest anxiety. His impatience was piteous to behold;\nbut why he was anxious and impatient no one could tell. These fits of\nanxiety were as frequently succeeded by others of the deepest\ndespondency; and during both, his wife and children feared to look in\nhis face, to speak or move in his presence. As his despondency was wont\nto wear away, his penuriousness in the same degree increased; and at\nsuch periods a penny for the most necessary purpose was obstinately\nrefused.\n\nSuch were the life and habits of Andrew Donaldson, until his son Paul,\nwho was the eldest of his family, had attained the age of\nthree-and-twenty, and his daughter Rebecca, the youngest, was seventeen,\nwhen, on a Saturday evening, he returned from the market-town, so\nchanged, so elated (though evidently not with strong drink), so kind, so\nhappy, and withal so proud, that his wife and his sons and daughters\nmarvelled, and looked at each other with wonder. He walked backward and\nforward across the floor, with his arms crossed upon his breast, his\nhead thrown back, yea, he stalked with the majestic stride of a\nstage-king in a tragedy. He took the fragment of a mirror, which, being\nfastened in pieces of parchment, hung against the wall, and endeavoured,\nas he best might, and as its size and its half-triangular, half-circular\nform would admit, to survey himself from head to foot. His family gazed\nat him and at each other with increased astonishment.\n\n\"The man's possessed!\" whispered Mrs Donaldson, in terror.\n\nHe thrust his hand into his pocket, he drew out a quantity of silver.\n\n\"Go, _Miss_ Rebecca,\" said he, \"and order John Bell of the King's Head\nto send Mister Donaldson a bottle of brandy and a bottle of his best\nwine, instantly.\"\n\nHis wife gave a sort of scream, his children started to their feet.\n\n\"Go!\" said he, stamping his foot, and placing the money in her\nhand--\"go! I order you.\"\n\nThey knew his temper, that he was not to be thwarted, and Rebecca\nobeyed. He continued to walk across the floor with the same stride of\nimportance; he addressed his sons as Master Donaldson, Master Peter, and\nMaster Jacob; and Sarah, who was the best of the family, as Miss\nDonaldson. He walked up to his wife, and, with a degree of kindness,\nsuch as his family had never witnessed before, he clapped her on the\nshoulder, and said--\n\n\"Catherine, you know the proverb, that 'they who look for a silk gown\nalways get a sleeve o't'--I have long looked for one to you, and now\n\n    \"I'll mak ye lady o' them a'!\"\n\nAnd, in his own unmusical way, he sang a line or two from the \"Lass o'\nGowrie.\"\n\nPoor Mrs Donaldson trembled from the crown of the head to the sole of\nthe foot. Her looks plainly told that she feared her husband had \"gone\nbeside himself.\" He resumed his march across the floor, stately as an\nadmiral on the quarterdeck, when Rebecca entered with the brandy and the\nwine.\n\n\"What!\" said he, again, stamping his foot, \"did I not _order_ you to\n_order_ John Bell to _send_ the bottles?\"\n\nRebecca shook--but he took them from her hand, and ordered her to bring\nthe glasses! I have already noticed the paucity of glass vessels at\nRebecca's baptism. They were not more numerous now; and even the\nfootless glass, out of which the linnet drank, had long ago, with the\nlinnet, gone the way of all flesh and of all glass; and Rebecca placed a\nwhite teacup, scored and seamed with age (there were but four in the\nhouse), upon the table.\n\n\"What! a cup! a cup!\" exclaimed he, stamping his foot more vehemently\nthan before; \"did I not _order_ you to bring _glasses_! Me!--me!--Mister\nDonaldson drink wine out of a teacup!\" And he dashed the cup behind the\nfire.\n\n\"O Paul! Paul!\" cried Mrs Donaldson, addressing her first-born, \"is yer\nfaither crazed!--will ye no haud him!--shall we send for the doctor, a\nstrait-jacket, or the minister?\"\n\nPaul was puzzled: his father did not exactly seem mad; but his conduct,\nhis extravagance, was so unlike anything he had ever seen in him before,\nthat he was troubled on his account, and he rose to reason with him.\n\n\"Keep your seat, Master Donaldson,\" said his father, with the dignity of\na duke--\"keep your seat, sir; your father is not mad, but before a week\ngo round, the best hat in the village shall be lifted to him.\"\n\nPaul knew not what to think; but he had been taught to fear and to obey\nhis father, and he obeyed him now. Andrew again handed money to his\ndaughter, and ordered her to go and purchase six tumblers and six\nwine-glasses. Mrs Donaldson wrung her hands; she no longer doubted that\nher husband was \"beside himself.\" The crystal, however, was brought, the\nwine and the brandy were sent round, and the day-labourer made merry\nwith his children.\n\nOn the Monday following, he went not out into the fields to his work as\nusual; but arraying himself in his Sunday attire, he took leave of his\nfamily, saying he would be absent for a week. This was as unaccountable\nas his sending for the wine, the brandy, and the crystal, for no man\nattended his employment more faithfully than Andrew Donaldson. For\ntwenty years he had never been absent from his work a single day,\nSundays and Fast-days alone excepted. His children communed together,\nand his wife shed tears; she was certain that something had gone wrong\nabout his head; yet, strange as his actions were, his conversation was\nrational; and though still imperious, he manifested more affection for\nthem all than he had ever done before. They did not dare to question him\nas to the change that had come over him, or whither he was going; for at\nall times his mildest answer to all inquiries was, that \"fools and\nbairns should never see things half done.\" He departed, therefore,\nwithout telling why or whither, simply intimating that he would return\nwithin seven days, leaving his family in distress and bewilderment.\n\nSunday came, but no tidings were heard regarding him. With much\nheaviness of heart and anxiety of spirit, his sons and daughters\nproceeded to the church; and while they, with others, yet stood in\ngroups around the church-yard, a stranger gentleman entered. His step\nwas slow and soldier-like. He carried a silken umbrella to screen\nhimself from the sun, for they were then but little used as a protection\nfrom rain; few had at that time discovered that they could be so\napplied. His head was covered with a hat of the most fashionable shape.\nHis hair was thickly powdered, and gathered up behind in a _queue_. His\ncoat, his vest, his breeches, were of silken velvet, and the colour\nthereof was the kingly purple--moreover, the knees of the last-mentioned\narticle were fastened with silver buckles, which shone as stars as the\nsun fell upon them. His stockings also were of silk, white as the driven\nsnow; and partly covering these, he wore a pair of boots of the kind\ncalled Hessian. In his left hand, as I have said, he carried an\numbrella, and in his right he bore a silver-mounted cane.[2]\n\n[Footnote 2: To some this picture may appear exaggerated, but many\nreaders of these Tales will recognise in it a faithful portraiture of\nthe original.]\n\nThe people gazed with wonder as the stranger paced slowly along the\nfootpath; and, as he approached the door, the sexton lifted his hat,\nbowed, and walking before him, conducted him to the squire's pew. The\ngentleman sat down; he placed his umbrella between his knees, his cane\nby his side, and from his pocket he drew out a silver snuff-box, and a\nBible in two volumes, bound in crimson-coloured morocco. As the\ncongregation began to assemble, some looked at the stranger in the\nsquire's seat with wonder. All thought his face was familiar to them. On\nthe countenances of some there was a smile; and from divers parts of the\nchurch there issued sounds like the tittering of suppressed laughter.\nAmongst those who gazed on him were the sons and daughters of Andrew\nDonaldson. Their cheeks alternately became red, pale, hot, and\ncold. Their eyes were in a dream, and poor Sarah's head fell, as\nthough she had fainted away, upon the shoulder of her brother Paul.\nPeter looked at Jacob, and Rebecca hung her head. But the squire\nand his family entered. They reached the pew--he bowed to the\nstranger--gazed--started--frowned--ushered his family rudely past him,\nand beckoned for the gentleman to leave the pew. In the purple-robed\nstranger he recognised his own field-labourer, Andrew Donaldson! Andrew,\nhowever, kept his seat, and looked haughty and unmoved. But the service\nbegan--the preacher looked often to the pew of the squire, and at length\nhe too seemed to make the discovery, for he paused for a full\nhalf-minute in the middle of his sermon, gazed at the purple coat, and\nall the congregation gazed with him, and breaking from his subject, he\ncommenced a lecture against the wickedness of pride and vanity.\n\nThe service being concluded, the sons and daughters of Andrew Donaldson\nproceeded home, with as many eyes fixed upon them as upon their father's\npurple coat. They were confounded and unhappy beyond the power of words\nto picture their feelings. They communicated to their mother all that\nthey had seen. She, good soul, was more distressed than even they were,\nand she sat down and wept for \"her poor Andrew.\" He came not; and Paul,\nPeter, and Jacob were about to go in quest of him--and they now thought\nin earnest of a strait-waistcoat--when John Bell's waiter of the King's\nHead entered, and presenting Mr Donaldson's compliments, requested them\nto come and dine with him. Wife, sons, and daughters were petrified!\n\n\"Puir man!\" said Mrs Donaldson, and tears forbade her to say more.\n\n\"Oh! my father! my puir father!\" cried Sarah.\n\n\"He does not seem to be poor,\" answered the waiter.\n\n\"What in the world can hae put him sae?\" said Jacob.\n\n\"We maun try to soothe and humour him,\" added Paul.\n\nThe whole family, therefore, though ashamed to be seen in the village,\nwent to the King's Head together. They were ushered into a room, in the\nmidst of which stood Andrew, with divers trunks or boxes around him. His\nwife screamed, as she beheld his transformation; and, clasping her hands\ntogether, she cried, \"O Andrew!\"\n\n\"Catherine,\" said he, \"ye must understand that ye are a lady now, and ye\nmust not call me Andrew, but Mister Donaldson.\"\n\n\"A leddy!\" exclaimed she, in a tone of mingled fear and astonishment--\"O\ndear! what does the man mean! Bairns! bairns! can nane o' ye bring yer\nfaither to reason!\"\n\n\"It is you that requires to be brought to reason, Mrs Donaldson,\" said\nhe; \"but now since I see that ye are all upon the rack, I'll put ye at\nyour wits' end. I am sensible that baith you and our neighbours have\nalways considered me in the light of a miser. But neither you nor them\nknew my motive for saving. It has ever been my desire to become the\nrichest, the greatest, and the most respectable man in the parish. But,\nthough you may think that I have pinched the stomach, and wasted\nnothing on the back, this I knew I never could become out of the savings\nof nine shillings a-week. Yet, night and day, I hoped, prayed, and\nbelieved, that it would be accomplished--and it is accomplished!--yes, I\nrepeat, it is accomplished.\"\n\n\"Oh help us!--help us?--what's to be dune wi' him?\" cried Mrs Donaldson.\n\n\"Will ye speak sae that we can understand ye, faither?\" said Paul.\n\n\"Well, then,\" replied Andrew, \"for twenty years have I purchased shares\nin the lotteries, and twenty times did I get nothing but blanks--but I\nhave got it at last!--I have got it at last!\"\n\n\"What have you got, Andrew?\" inquired Mrs Donaldson, eagerly, whose eyes\nwere beginning to be opened.\n\n\"What have ye got, faither?\" exclaimed Rebecca, breathlessly, who\npossessed no small portion of her father's pride; \"how muckle\nis't?--will we can keep a coach?\"\n\n\"Ay, and a coachman, too!\" answered he, with an air of triumphant pride;\n\"I have got the half of a _thirty thousand_!\"\n\n\"The like o' that!\" said Mrs Donaldson, raising her hands.\n\n\"A coach!\" repeated Rebecca, surveying her face in a mirror.\n\nSarah looked surprised, but said nothing.\n\n\"Fifteen thousand pounds!\" said Peter.\n\n\"Fifteen thousand!\" responded Jacob.\n\nPaul was thoughtful.\n\n\"Now,\" added Andrew, opening the boxes around him, \"go each of you cast\noff the sackcloth which now covers you, and in these you will find\ngarments such as it becomes the family of Andrew Donaldson, Esquire, to\nwear.\"\n\nThey obeyed his commands; and, casting aside their home-made cloth and\ncotton gowns, they appeared before him in the raiment which he had\nprovided for them. The gowns were of silk, the coats of the finest\nSaxony, the waistcoats Marseilles. Mrs Donaldson's dress sat upon her\nawkwardly--the waist was out of its place, she seemed at a loss what to\ndo with her arms, and altogether she appeared to feel as though the gown\nwere too fine to sit upon. Sarah was neat, though not neater than she\nwas in the dress of printed cotton which she had cast off; but Rebecca\nwas transformed into the fine lady in a moment, and she tossed her head\nwith the air of a duchess. The sleeves of Paul's coat were too short,\nPeter's vest would admit of but one button, and Jacob's trousers were\ndeficient in length. Nevertheless, great was the outward change upon the\nfamily of Andrew Donaldson, and they gazed upon each other in wonder, as\nthey would have stared at an exhibition of strange animals.\n\nAt this period there was a property, consisting of about twenty acres,\nin the neighbourhood of the village for sale. Mr Donaldson became the\npurchaser, and immediately commenced to build _Luck's Lodge, or Lottery\nHall_, which to-day arrested your attention. As you may have seen, it\nwas built under the direction of no architect but caprice, or a fickle\nand uninformed taste. The house was furnished expensively; there were\ncard-tables and dining-tables, the couch, the sofa, and the harpsichord.\nMrs Donaldson was afraid to touch the furniture, and she thought it\nlittle short of sin to sit upon the hair-bottomed mahogany chairs, which\nwere studded with brass nails, bright as the stars in the firmament.\nThough, however, a harpsichord stood in the dining-room, as yet no music\nhad issued from the lodge. Sarah had looked at it, and Rebecca had\ntouched it, and appeared delighted with the sounds she produced; but\neven her mother knew that such sounds were not a tune. A dancing-master,\ntherefore, who at that period was teaching the \"five positions\" to the\nyouths and maidens of the village, was engaged to teach dancing and the\nmysteries of the harpsichord at the same time to the daughters of Mr.\nDonaldson. He had become a great and a rich man in a day; yet the pride\nof his heart was not satisfied. His neighbours did not lift their hats\nto him, as he had expected; but they passed him, saying, \"Here's a fine\nday, Andrew!\" or, \"Weel, Andrew, hoo's a' wi' ye the day?\" To such\nobservations or inquiries he never returned an answer, but with his\nsilver-mounted cane in his hand stalked proudly on. But this was not\nall; for, even in passing through the village, he would hear the women\nremark, \"There's that silly body Donaldson away past;\" or, \"There struts\nthe Lottery Ticket!\" These things were wormwood to his spirit, and he\nrepented that he had built his house in a neighbourhood where he was\nknown. To be equal with the squire, however, and to mortify his\nneighbours the more, he bought a pair of horses and a barouche. He was\nlong puzzled for a crest and motto with which to emblazon it; and Mrs.\nDonaldson suggested that Peter should paint on it a lottery ticket, but\nher husband stamped his foot in anger; and at length the coach-painter\nfurnished it with the head and paws of some unknown animal.\n\nPaul had always been given to books; he now requested to be sent to the\nuniversity. His wish was complied with, and he took his departure for\nEdinburgh. Peter had always evinced a talent for drawing and painting.\nWhen a boy, he was wont to sketch houses and trees with pieces of chalk,\nwhich his mother declared to be as _natural as life_, and he now took\ninstructions from a drawing-master. Jacob was ever of an idle turn; and\nhe at first prevailed upon his father to purchase him a riding-horse,\nand afterwards to furnish him with the means of seeing the world. So\nJacob set up gentleman in earnest, and went abroad. Mrs Donaldson was at\nhome in no part of the house but the kitchen; and in it, notwithstanding\nher husband's lectures to remember that she was the wife of Mister\nDonaldson, she was generally found.\n\nAt the period when her father obtained the prize, Sarah was on the eve\nof being united to a respectable young man, a mechanic in the village,\nbut now she was forbidden to speak or to look on him. The cotton gown\nlay lighter on her bosom than did its silken successor. Rebecca mocked\nher, and her father persecuted her; but poor Sarah could not cast off\nthe affections of her heart like a worn garment. From childhood she had\nbeen blithe as the lark, but now dull melancholy claimed her as its own.\nThe smile and the rose expired upon her cheeks together, and her health\nand happiness were crushed beneath her father's wealth. Rebecca, too, in\ntheir poverty had been \"respected like the lave,\" but she now turned\ndisdainfully from her admirer, and when he dared to accost her, she\ninquired with a frown, \"Who are you, sir?\" In her efforts also to speak\nproperly, she committed foul murder on his Majesty's English; but she\nbecame the pride of her father's heart, his favourite daughter whom he\ndelighted to honour.\n\nStill feeling bitterly the want of reverence that was shown him by the\nvillagers, and resolved at the same time to act as other gentlemen of\nfortune did, as winter drew on, Mr. Donaldson removed, with his wife,\nand daughters, and his son Peter, to London. They took up their abode at\na hotel in Albemarle Street; and having brought the barouche with them,\nevery afternoon Mr. Donaldson and his daughter Rebecca drove round the\nPark. His dress was rich and his carriage proud, and he lounged about\nthe most fashionable places of resort; but he was not yet initiated into\nthe mysteries of fashion and greatness; he was ignorant of the key by\nwhich their chambers were to be unlocked; and it mortified and surprised\nhim that Andrew Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge--a gentleman who paid\nready money for everything--received no invitations to the routes, the\nassemblies, or tables of the _haut ton_; but he paraded Bond Street, or\nsauntered on the Mall, with as little respect shown to him as by his\nneighbours in the country. When he had been a month in the metropolis,\nhe discovered that he had made an omission, and he paid two guineas for\nthe announcement of his arrival in a morning newspaper. \"This will do!\"\nsaid he twenty times during breakfast, as he held the paper in his hand,\nand twenty times read the announcement--\"Arrived at ---- Hotel,\nAlbemarle Street, A. Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge, and family, from\ntheir seat in the north.\" But this did not do; he found it was two\nguineas thrown away, but consoled himself with the thought that it would\nvex the squire and the people of his native village. With the hope of\nbecoming familiar with the leading men of the great world, he became a\nfrequenter of the principal coffee-rooms. At one of these, he shortly\nbecame acquainted with a Captain Edwards, who, as Mr. Donaldson\naffirmed, was intimate with all the world, and bowed to and was known by\nevery nobleman they met. Edwards was one of those creatures who\nlive--heaven knows how--who are without estates and without fortune, but\nwho appear in the resorts of fashion as its very mirrors. In a word, he\nwas one of the hangers-on of the nobility and gentry--one of their\nblacklegs and purveyors. Poor Mr. Donaldson thought him the greatest man\nhe had ever met with. He heard him accost noblemen on the streets in the\n_afternoon_ with, \"Good _morning_, my lord,\" and they familiarly\nreplied, \"Ha! Tom! what's the news?\" He had borrowed ten, fifty, and a\nhundred pounds from his companion; and he had relieved him of a hundred\nor two more in teaching him to play at whist; but, vain, simple Mr.\nDonaldson never conceived that such a great man and such a fashionable\nman could be without money, though he could not be at the trouble to\ncarry it. Edwards was between thirty and forty years of age, but looked\nyounger; his hair was black, and tortured into ringlets; his upper lip\nwas ornamented with thin, curved moustaches; and in his dress he was an\nexquisite, or a buck, as they were then called, of the first water. Mr.\nDonaldson invited him to his hotel, where he became a daily visitor. He\nspoke of his uncle the bishop of such a place, and of his godfather the\nearl of another--of his estates in Wales, and the rich advowsons in his\ngift. Andrew gloried in his fortune; he was now reaching the _acme_ of\nhis ambition; he believed there would be no difficulty in getting his\nfriend to bestow one or more of the benefices, when vacant, upon his son\nPaul; and he thought of sending for Paul to leave Edinburgh, and enter\nhimself of Cambridge. Rebecca displayed all her charms before the\ncaptain; and the captain all his attractions before her. She triumphed\nin a conquest; so did he. Mr. Donaldson now also began to give\ndinners--and to them Captain Edwards invited the Honourable This, and\nSir That; but in the midst of his own feast he found himself a cipher,\nwhere he was neither looked upon nor regarded, but had to think himself\nhonoured in honourables eating of the banquet for which he had to pay.\nThis galled him nearly as much as the perverseness of his neighbours in\nthe country in not lifting their hats to him; but he feared to notice\nit, lest by so doing he should lose the distinction of their society.\nFrom the manner in which his guests treated him, they gave him few\nopportunities of betraying his origin; but, indeed, though a vain, he\nwas not an ignorant man.\n\nWhile these doings were carrying on in Albemarle-street, Mrs. Donaldson\nwas, as she herself expressed it, \"uneasy as a fish taken from the\nwater.\" She said \"such ongoings would be her death;\" and she almost\nwished that the lottery ticket had turned up a blank. Peter was studying\nthe paintings in Somerset House, and taking lessons in oil-colours;\nRebecca mingled with company, or flaunted with Captain Edwards; but poor\nSarah drooped like a lily that appears before its time, and is bitten by\nthe returning frost. She wasted away--she died of a withered heart.\n\nFor a few weeks her death stemmed the tide of fashionable folly and\nextravagance; for, although vanity was the ruling passion of Andrew\nDonaldson, it could not altogether extinguish the parent in his heart.\nBut his wife was inconsolable; for Sarah had been her favourite\ndaughter, as Rebecca was his. It is a weak and a wicked thing, sir, for\nparents to make favourites of one child more than another--good never\ncomes of it. Peter painted a portrait of his deceased sister from\nmemory, and sent it to the young man to whom she was betrothed--I say\nbetrothed, for she had said to him \"_I will_,\" and they had broken a\nring between them; each took a half of it; and, poor thing, her part of\nit was found on her breast, in a small bag, when she died. The captain\npaid his daily visits--he condoled with Rebecca--and, in a short time,\nshe began to say it was a silly thing for her sister to die; but she was\na grovelling-minded girl, she had no spirit.\n\nSoon after this, Captain Edwards, in order to cheer Mr. Donaldson,\nobtained for him admission to a club, where he introduced him to a needy\npeer, who was a sort of half-proprietor of a nomination borough, and had\nthe sale of the representation of a thousand souls. It was called his\nlordship's borough. One of its seats was then vacant, and was in the\nmarket, and his lordship was in want of money. Captain Edwards whispered\nthe matter to his friend Mr Donaldson. Now, the latter, though a vain\nman, and anxious to be thought a fashionable man, was also a shrewd and\na calculating man. His ideas expanded--his ambition fired at the\nthought! He imagined he saw the words ANDREW DONALDSON, ESQ., M.P., in\ncapitals before him. He discovered that he had always had a turn for\npolitics--he remembered that, when a working man, he had always been too\nmuch in an argument for the _Blacknebs_. He thought of the flaming\nspeeches he would make in parliament--he had a habit of stamping his\nfoot (for he thought it dignified), and he did so, and half exclaimed,\n\"Mr. Speaker!\" But he thought also of his family--he sank the idea of\nadvowsons, and he had no doubt but he might push his son Paul forward\ntill he saw him prime minister or lord chancellor; Peter's genius, he\nthought, was such as to secure his appointment to the Board of Works\nwhenever he might apply for it; Jacob would make a secretary to a\nforeign ambassador; and for Rebecca he provided as a maid of honour.\nBut, beyond all this, he perceived also that, by writing the letters\nM.P. after his name, he would be a greater man than the squire of his\nnative village, and its inhabitants would then lift their hats to him\nwhen he went down to his seat; or, if they did not, he would know how to\npunish them. He would bring in severer bills on the game laws and\nagainst smuggling--he would chastise them with a new turnpike act.\n\nSuch were the ideas that passed rapidly through his mind, when his\nfriend Edwards suggested the possibility of his becoming a Member of\nParliament.\n\n\"And how much do ye think it would cost to obtain the seat?\" inquired\nhe, anxiously.\n\n\"Oh, only a few thousands,\" replied the captain.\n\n\"How many, think ye?\" inquired Mr. Donaldson.\n\n\"Can't say exactly,\" replied the other; \"but my friend Mr Borrowbridge,\nthe solicitor, in Clement's Inn, has the management of the affair--we\nshall inquire at him.\"\n\nSo they went to the solicitor; the price agreed upon for the\nrepresentation of the borough was five thousand pounds; and the money\nwas paid.\n\nMr Donaldson returned to his hotel, his heart swelling within him, and\ncutting the figures M.P. in the air with his cane as he went along. A\nletter was despatched to Paul at Edinburgh, to write a speech for his\nfather, which he might deliver on the day of his nomination.\n\n\"O father!\" exclaimed Paul, as he read the letter, \"much money hath made\nthee mad.\"\n\nThe speech was written, and forwarded, though reluctantly, by return of\npost. It was short, sententious, patriotic.\n\nWith the speech in his pocket, Mr. Donaldson, accompanied by his friend\nEdwards, posted down to the borough. But, to their horror, on arriving,\nthey found that a candidate of the opposite party had dared to contest\nthe borough with the nobleman's nominee, and had commenced his canvass\nthe day before. But what was worse than all, they were told that he\nbleed freely, and his friends were distributing _gooseberries_ right and\nleft.\n\n\"What is the meaning of all this?\" said Mr. Donaldson, \"have I not paid\nfor the borough, and is it not mine? I shall punish him for daring to\npoach upon my grounds.\"\n\nAnd, breaking away from Captain Edwards and his friends, he hurried out\nin quest of the mayor, to request advice from him. Nor had he gone far,\ntill, addressing a person who was employed in thatching a house--\n\n\"Holloa, friend!\" cried he, \"can you inform me where I shall find the\nright worshipful the mayor?\"\n\n\"Whoy, zur!\" replied the thatcher, \"I be's the mayor!\"[3]\n\n[Footnote 3: This picture also is drawn from life.]\n\nAndrew looked at him. \"Heaven help us!\" thought he, \"you the\nmayor!--you!--a thatcher!--well may I be a Member of Parliament!\" But,\nwithout again addressing his worship, he hastened back to his friends;\nand with them he was made sensible, that, although he had given a\nconsideration for the borough, yet, as opposition had started--as the\npower of the patron was not omnipotent--as the other candidate was\nbleeding freely--as he was keeping open houses and giving _yellow\ngooseberries_--there was nothing for it but that Mr. Donaldson should do\nthe same.\n\n\"But, oh! how much will it require?\" again inquired the candidate, in a\ntone of anxiety.\n\n\"Oh, merely a thousand or two!\" again cooly rejoined Captain Edwards.\n\n\"A thousand or two!\" ejeculated Mr. Donaldson, for his thousands were\nbecoming few. But, like King Richard, he had \"set his fate upon a cast,\"\nand he \"would stand the hazard of the die.\" As to his landed\nqualification, if elected, the patron was to provide for that; and,\nafter a few words from his friend Edwards, \"Richard was himself\nagain\"--his fears vanished--the ocean of his ambition opened before\nhim--he saw golden prospects for himself and for his family--he could\nsoon, when elected, redeem a few thousands; and he bled, he opened\nhouses, he gave gooseberries as his opponent did.\n\nBut the great, the eventful, the nomination day arrived. Mr.\nDonaldson--Andrew Donaldson, the labourer that was--stood forward to\nmake his speech--the speech that his son Paul, student in the University\nof Edinburgh, had written. He got through the first sentence, in the\ntone and after the manner of the village clergyman, whom he had attended\nfor forty years; but there he stuck fast; and of all his son Paul had\nwritten--short, sententious, patriotic as it was--he remembered not a\nsingle word. But, though gravelled from forgetfulness of his son's\nmatter, and though he stammered, hesitated, and tried to recollect\nhimself for a few moments, he had too high an idea of his own\nconsequence to stand completely still. No man who has a consequential\nidea of his own abilities will ever positively stick in a speech. I\nremember an old schoolmaster of mine used to say, that a public speaker\nshould regard his audience as so many cabbage-stocks.[4] But he had\nnever been a public speaker, or he would have said no such thing, Such\nan advice may do very well for a precentor to a congregation; but, as\nregards an orator addressing a multitude, it is a different matter. No,\nsir; the man who speaks in public must neither forget his audience nor\noverlook them; he must regard them as his _equals_, but none of them as\nhis _superiors_ in intellect; he should regard every man of them as\ncapable of understanding and appreciating what he may say; and, in order\nto make himself understood, he should endeavour to bring his language\nand his imagery down to every capacity, rather than permit them to go on\nstilts or to take wings. Some silly people imagine that what they call\nfine language, flowery sentences, and splendid metaphors, are oratory.\nStuff!--stuff! Where do you find them in the orations of the immortal\norators of Greece or Rome? They used the proper language--they used\neffective language--\n\n    \"Thoughts that breathed and words that burn'd;\"\n\nbut they knew that the key of eloquence must be applied not to the head\nbut to the heart. But, sir, I digress from the speech of Mr. Donaldson.\n(Pardon me--I am in the habit of illustrating to my boys, and\ndissertation is my fault, or rather I should say my habit.) Well, sir,\nas I have said, he stuck fast in the speech which his son had written;\nbut, as I have also said, he had too high an opinion of himself to stand\nlong without saying something. When left to himself, in what he did say,\nI am afraid he \"betrayed his birth and breeding;\" for there was loud\nlaughter in the hall, and cries of _hear him! hear him!_ But the poll\ncommenced; the other candidate brought voters from five hundred miles'\ndistance--from east, west, north, and south--from Scotland, Ireland and\nthe Continent. He polled a vote at every three proclamations, when Mr.\nDonaldson had no more to bring forward; and on the fourteenth day he\ndefeated him by a majority of ONE! The right worshipful thatcher\ndeclared that the election had fallen on the opposing candidate. The\npeople also said that he had spent most money, and that it was right the\nelection should fall on the best man. He, in truth, had spent more in\nthe contest than Andrew Donaldson had won by his lottery ticket. The\nfeelings of Mr. Donaldson on the loss of his election were the agonies\nof extreme dispair. In the height of his misery he mentioned to his\n_introducer_, Captain Edwards--or rather I should call him his\n_traducer_--that he was a ruined man; that he had lost his all. The\ncaptain laughed and left the room. He seemed to have left the town also;\nfor his victim did not meet with him again.\n\n[Footnote 4: This, I believe, was the advice to his students of a late\nprofessor in the University of Edinburgh.]\n\nIn a state bordering on frenzy, he returned to London. He reached the\nhotel--he rushed into the room where his wife, his son, and his daughter\nsat. With a confused and hurried step he paced to and fro across the\nfloor, wringing his hands, and ever and anon exclaiming, bitterly--\n\n\"Lost Andrew Donaldson!--Ruined Andrew Donaldson!\"\n\nHis son Peter, who took the matter calmly, and who believed that the\nextent of the loss was the loss of the election, carefully surveyed his\nfather's attitudes and the expression of his countenance, and thought\nthe scene before him would make an admirable subject for a picture--the\npiece to be entitled, \"_The Unsuccessful Candidate_.\" \"It will help to\nmake good his loss,\" thought Peter, \"provided he will sit.\"\n\n\"Oh dearsake, Andrew! Andrew!--what is't?\" cried Mrs. Donaldson.\n\n\"Lost! lost! ruined Andrew Donaldson!\" replied her husband.\n\n\"Oh, where is the Captain?--where is Edwards? Why is he not here?\" asked\nRebecca.\n\n\"The foul fiend?\" exclaimed her father.\n\n\"O Andrew, man--speak! Andrew, jewel--what is't?\" added his wife; \"if it\nbe only the loss o' siller, Heaven be praised! for I've neither had\npeace nor comfort since ye got it.\"\n\n\"_Only_ the loss!\" cried he, turning upon her like a fury--\"only the\nloss!\" Agony and passion stopped his utterance.\n\nMr Donaldson was in truth a ruined man. Of the fifteen thousand which he\nhad obtained, not three hundred, exclusive of Lottery Hall, and the\ntwenty acres around it, were left. His career had been a brief and a\nfashionable one. On the following day, his son Jacob returned from\nabroad. Within twelve months he had cost his father a thousand pounds;\nand, in exchange for the money spent, he brought home with him all the\nvices he had met with on his route. But I blame not Jacob: his betters,\nthe learned and the noble, do the same. Poor fellow! he was sent upon\nthe world with a rough garment round his shoulders, which gathered up\nall the dust that blew, and retained a portion of all the filth with\nwhich it came in contact; but polished substances would not adhere to\nit.\n\nCaptain Edwards returned no more to the hotel. He had given the last\nlesson to his scholar in the science of fashion; he had extorted from\nhim the last fee he could spare. He had gauged the neck of his purse,\nand he forsook him--in his debt he forsook him. Poor Rebecca! day after\nday, she inquired after the captain--the captain! Lost, degraded,\nwretched Rebecca! But I will say no more of her. She became as dead\nwhile she yet lived--the confiding victim of a villain!\n\nThe barouche, the horses, the trinkets that deformed Mrs. Donaldson,\nwith a piano that had been bought for Rebecca, were sold, and Andrew\nDonaldson, with his family, left London, and proceeded to Lottery Hall.\nBut there, though he endeavoured to carry his head high, though he still\nwalked with his silver cane, and though he was known (and he took care\nto make it known) that he had polled within one of being a Member of\nParliament--still the squire did not acknowledge him--his old\nacquaintances did not lift their hats to him--but all seemed certain\nthat he was coming down \"_by the run_\" (I think that was the slang or\nprovincial phrase they used) to his old level. They perceived that he\nkept no horses now, save one to work the twenty acres around the lodge;\nfor he had ploughed up, and sown with barley, and let out as potato\nground, what he at first had laid out as a park. This spoke volumes.\nThey also saw that he had parted with his coach, that he kept but one\nservant, and that servant told tales in the village. He was laughed at\nby his neighbours and those who had been his fellow-labourers; and with\na sardonic chuckle they were wont to speak of his house as \"_the Member\no' Parliament's_.\" I have said that I would say no more of poor Rebecca;\nbut the tongues of the women in the village dwelt also on her. She died,\nand in the same hour died also a new-born child of the villain Edwards.\n\nPeter had left his father's house, and commenced the profession of an\nartist, in a town about twenty miles from this. Mr. Donaldson was now\nhumbled. It was his intention with the sorry remnant of his fortune, to\ntake a farm for Jacob; but, oh! Jacob had bathed in a sea of vice, and\nthe bitter waters of adversity could not wash out the pollution it had\nleft behind it. Into his native village he carried the habits he had\nacquired or witnessed beneath the cerulean skies of Italy, or amidst the\ndark-eyed daughters of France. Shame followed his footsteps. Yea,\nalthough the squire despised Mr. Donaldson, his son, a youth of\nnineteen, became the boon companion of Jacob. They held midnight orgies\ntogether. Jacob initiated the squireling into the mysteries of Paris and\nRome, of Naples and Munich, whither he was about to proceed. But I will\nnot dwell upon their short career. Extravagance attended it, shame and\ntears followed it.\n\nAndrew Donaldson no longer possessed the means of upholding his son in\nfolly and wickedness. He urged him to settle in the world--to take a\nfarm while he had the power left of placing him in it; but Jacob's sins\npursued him. He fled from his father's house, and enlisted in a marching\nregiment about to embark for the East Indies. No more was heard of him\nfor many years, until a letter arrived from one of his comrades,\nannouncing that he had fallen at Corunna.\n\nTo defray the expenses which his son Jacob had brought upon him, Mr.\nDonaldson had not only to part with the small remnant that was left him\nof his fifteen thousand, but take a heavy mortgage upon Lottery Hall.\nAgain he was compelled to put his hand to the spade and to the plough;\nand his wife, deprived of her daughters, again became her own servant.\nSorrow, shame, and disappointment gnawed in his heart. His garments of\npride, now worn threadbare, were cut off for ever. The persecution, the\nmockery of his neighbours increased. They asked each other \"if they had\nseen the Member of Parliament with the spade in his hand again?\" They\nquoted the text, \"A haughty spirit goes before a fall;\" and they\nremembered passages of the preacher's lecture against pride and vanity\non the day when Andrew appeared in his purple coat. He became a solitary\nman; and, on the face of this globe which we inhabit, there existed not\na more miserable being than Andrew Donaldson.\n\nPeter was generally admitted to be a young man of great talents, and\nbade fair to rise to eminence in his profession as an artist. There was\nto be an exhibition of the works of living artists in Edinburgh; and\nPeter went through to it, taking with him more than a dozen pictures, on\nall subjects and of all sizes. He had landscapes, sea pieces, historical\npaintings, portraits, fish, game, and compositions, the grouping of\nwhich would have done credit to a master. In size, they were from five\nfeet square to five inches. His brother Paul, who was still at the\ncollege, and who now supported himself by private teaching, was\nsurprised when one morning Peter arrived at his lodgings, with three\ncadies at his back, bearing his load of pictures. Paul welcomed him\nwith open arms, for he was proud of his brother; he had admired his\nearly talents, and had heard of the progress he had made in his art.\nWith a proud heart and a delighted eye, Peter unpacked his paintings,\nand placed them round the room for the inspection of his brother; and\ngreat was his brother's admiration.\n\n\"What may be their value, Peter?\" inquired Paul.\n\n\"Between ourselves, Paul,\" replied Peter, \"I would not part with the lot\nunder a thousand guineas.\"\n\n\"A thousand guineas!\" ejeculated the student, in surprise; \"do you say\nso?\"\n\n\"Yes, I say it,\" answered the painter, with importance. \"Look ye,\nPaul--observe this bridal party at the alter--see the blush on the\nbride's cheek, the joy in the bride-groom's eye--is it not natural? And\nlook at the grouping! observe the warmth of the colouring, the breadth\nof effect, the depth of shade, the freedom of touch! Now, tell me\ncandidly, as a brother, is it not a gem?\"\n\n\"It is certainly beautiful,\" answered Paul.\n\n\"I tell you what,\" continued the artist--\"though I say it who should not\nsay it--I have seen worse things sold for a thousand guineas.\"\n\n\"You don't say so!\" responded the astonished student, and he wished that\nhe had been an artist instead of a scholar.\n\n\"I do,\" added Peter; \"and now, Paul, what do you think I intend to do\nwith the money which this will bring?\"\n\n\"How should I know, brother?\" returned the other.\n\n\"Why, then,\" said he, \"I'm resolved to pay off the mortgage on our\nfather's property, that the old man may spend the remainder of his days\nin comfort.\"\n\nPaul wept, and taking his brother's hand, said, \"And if you do, the\nproperty shall be yours, Peter.\"\n\n\"Never, brother!\" replied the other--\"rather than rob you of your\nbirth-right I would cut my hand off.\"\n\nThe pictures were again packed up, and the brothers went out in quest of\nthe secretary to the exhibition, in order to have them submitted to the\ncommittee for admission. The secretary received them with politeness; he\nsaid he was afraid that they could not find room for so many pieces as\nMr Donaldson mentioned, for they wished to give every one a fair chance;\nbut he desired him to forward the pictures, and he would see what could\nbe done for them. The paintings were sent, and Peter heard no more of\nthem for a week, when a printed catalogue and perpetual ticket were sent\nto him, with the secretary's compliments. Peter's eyes ran over the\ncatalogue--at length they fell upon \"_No. 210. A Bridal Party--P.\nDonaldson_,\" and again, \"_No. 230. Dead Game--P. Donaldson_;\" but his\nname did not again occur in the whole catalogue. This was a\ndisappointment; but it was some consolation that his favourite piece had\nbeen chosen.\n\nNext day the exhibition opened, and Peter and Paul visited it together.\nThe _Bridal Party_ was a small picture with a modest frame, and they\nanxiously sought round the room in which it was said to be placed; but\nthey saw it not. At length, \"Here it is,\" said Paul--and there indeed it\nwas, thrust into a dark corner of the room, the frame touching the\nfloor, literally crushed and overshadowed beneath a glaring battle\npiece, six feet in length, and with a frame seven inches in depth. It\nwas impossible to examine it without going upon your knees. Peter's\nindignation knew no bounds. He would have torn the picture from its\nhiding-place, but Paul prevented him. They next looked for No. 230: and,\nto increase the indignation of the artist, it, with twenty others, was\nhuddled into the passage, where, as Milton saith, there\n\n    \"No light, but rather darkness visible;\"\n\nor, as Spenser hath it--\n\n    \"A little gloomy light, much like a shade.\"\n\nFor fourteen days did Peter visit the exhibition, and return to the\nlodgings of his brother, sorrowful and disappointed. The magical word\nSOLD was not yet attached to the painting which was to redeem his\nfather's property.\n\nOne evening, Paul being engaged with his pupils, the artist had gone\ninto a tavern, to drown the bitterness of his disappointment for a few\nmoments with a bottle of ale. The keenness of his feelings had rendered\nhim oblivious; and in his abstraction and misery he had spoken aloud of\nhis favourite painting, the _Bridal Party_. Two young _gentlemen_ sat in\nthe next box; they either were not in the room when he entered, or he\ndid not observe them. They overheard the monologue to which the artist\nhad unconsciously given utterance, and it struck them as a prime jest to\nlark with his misery. The words \"Splendid piece, yon _Bridal\nParty_!\"--\"Beautiful!\"--\"Production of a master!\"--\"Wonderful that it\n_sold_ in such a bad light and shameful situation!\" fell upon Peter's\nears. He started up--he hurried round the box where they sat--\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he exclaimed, eagerly, \"do you speak of the painting No.\n210 in the exhibition?\"\n\n\"Of the same, sir,\" was the reply.\n\n\"I am the artist--I painted it,\" cried Peter.\n\n\"You, sir--you!\" cried both the gentlemen at once. \"Give us your hand,\nsir, we are proud of having the honour of seeing you.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" returned one of them; \"we left the exhibition to-day just\nbefore it closed, and had the pleasure of seeing the porter attach the\nticket to it.\"\n\n\"Glorious!--joy! joy!\" cried Peter, running in ecstasy to the bell, and\nringing it violently; and, as the waiter entered, he added, \"A bottle of\nclaret! claret, boy!--claret!\" And he sat down to treat the gentlemen\nwho had announced to him the glad tidings. They drank long and deep,\ntill Peter's head came in contact with the table, and sleep sealed up\nhis eyelids. When aroused by the landlord, who presented his bill, his\ncompanions were gone; and, stupid as Peter was, he recollected for the\nfirst time that his pocket did not contain funds to discharge the\nreckoning; and he left his watch with the tavern-keeper, promising to\nredeem it the next day, when he received the price of his picture. I\nneed not tell you what a miserable day that next day was to him, when,\nwith his head aching with the fumes of the wine, he found that he had\nbeen duped--that his picture was not sold. The exhibition closed for the\nseason; he had spent his last shilling--and Paul was as poor as Peter:\nbut the former borrowed a guinea, to pay his brother's fare on the\noutside of the coach to----.\n\nAndrew Donaldson continued to struggle hard; but, struggle as he would,\nhe could not pay the interest of the mortgage. Disappointment, sorrow,\nhumbled vanity, and the laugh of the world, were too much for him; and,\nshortly after Peter's visit to Edinburgh, he died, repenting that he had\never pursued the phantom Fashion, or sought after the rottenness of\nwealth.\n\n\"And what,\" inquired I, \"became of Mrs Donaldson, and her sons Paul and\nPeter?\"\n\n\"Peter, sir,\" continued the narrator, \"rose to eminence in his\nprofession; and, redeeming the mortgage on Lottery Hall, he gave it as a\npresent to his brother Paul, who opened it as an establishment for young\ngentlemen. His mother resides with him; and, sir, Paul hath spoken unto\nyou--he hath given you the history of Lottery Hall.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP.\n\n\n\"Weel, I dinna ken how it is, Richard,\" said a Selkirk dominie to his\nfriend Richard Blackwell, a souter of the same royal borough--\"I dinna\nken how it is, but there's naething pleases me mair than some o' them\nBorder Tales--they're so uncommonly natural. I've often thought, indeed,\nin my ain mind, that the writers must get silly, stupid folk to sit doun\nand repeat their little histories to them in their ain language; for I\ncan hardly believe that such true delineations o' character, and such\nremarkable instances o' the ups and downs o' human affairs, are mere\ninventions. Frequently, when I finish a tale, I exclaim, 'I ken the man\nthat's meant for;' and for a that, though the picture may be as like him\nas your ain face to its reflection in a looking-glass, it's ten to ane\nif the author is aware o' such a character being in existence. This is\nwhat puzzles me, Richard. The 'Henpecked Man,' for instance, was a _dead\nhit_; but unfortunately every village on the Borders claimed the\nbickermaker as well as Birgham; while ilk guidwife might hae been heard\nbawling to her next-door neighbour, as she shook the tale in her\nclenched hand, 'Filthy fallow! that's our John or your Ned he's been\ntaking aff.'\"\n\n\"It wadna be worth their while putting ony o' us twa into prent,\"\nrejoined the souter.\n\n\"I differ with you there, neighbour,\" replied the dominie; \"for there is\nno calculating the value that clever and skilly hands can give to rude\nmaterials. Would ye believe, now, to use a funny illustration, that a\nfarthing's worth o' pig-iron, made into steel chains, rises to mair than\ntwa hundred times its value? Ye stare incredulously, Richard; but it's\nthe truth I'm telling you;--so it follows that out o' the raw material\no' our lives, value o' anither kind may be gotten by a proper adaptation\no' incidents and the like: and it often occurs to me, there is that\nabout my courtship that would make no that ill a story, were it a wee\nthocht embellished. Ye shall hear it, however, as it is, and judge for\nyoursel:\"--\n\nLove, ye must be informed, Richard, did not communicate itself to my\nheart till I was well up in years--probably when I was seven-and-twenty,\nor thereabouts--nor did it blaze up a' at once, like a sudden flame--for\nit seemed at first but a sma' sma' spark, which often threatened to go\nout o' its ain accord, like coals kindled with green sticks--till\nMargery Johnson--that's my wife's maiden name--would have come across my\npath again like a bonny blink o' sunshine, and presently the dying\nembers would grow het once more at the heart, and burn away for a' the\nworld like a blown-up fire. Now, though Margery, when I went a-courting\nher, didna possess ony great personal attractions to make a sang\nabout--like the feck o' your grand romance leddies--yet she had that\nlife and buoyancy about her, and blowsy healthiness o' countenance,\nwhich can make a deeper impression on the heart, at least, according to\nmy liking, than a' the fine complexions, blue een, and artificial forms\nin the world. Margery was a little above the middle height--a plump,\nrobust, guid-looking lass--the apple o' her faither's eye, and the pride\no' her mother--whom everybody spoke well o'. And it was not without\neither choice or reflection that my passion for Margery Johnson was\nimbibed. Her faither, who is as guid a man as ever broke the world's\nbread, attended the Rev. Mr Heslop as weel as mysel; and as the seat\nwhich I occupied gave me a full command o' him and his family--for they\nonly sat about an arm's-length from me--I had the pleasure o' seeing\nMargery, with the lave, every returning Sabbath. I dinna ken rightly\nhow it was, but when she slipped along the aisle, I felt like a\nshortness o' breath, and a queer tingling sensation steal owre my whole\nbody. In the time o' the singing, too, I could not help from keeking off\nthe psalm-book, had it been to save me, to see if she were looking at\nme; and when our glances happened to encounter, I would have instantly\nreddened to the bottom o' the haffets, and impudently pretended, by\ncasting my eyes carelessly up to the big front window, that it was\nmerely a casual contact. I cannot take upon me to say how far this was\nsinful; but I ken that at such times I sat in a sort o' religious\nfervour, on terms o' kindness with my bitterest enemy--for weel can love\nteach a moral to the mind--while my heart seemed rinning owre with\ngratitude to the Deity for this new proof o' his benevolence and\ngoodness, in the provision made for puir erring mankind.\n\nI'm no sure whether I have mentioned that Margery was in the service o'\nthe minister--if no, ye must understand that she was his housemaid; and\nthe manse, ye may weel conceive, Richard, was not the best place in the\nworld for carrying on a courtship. I happened to be muckle thought on,\nhowever, by the minister and his wife--for my learning, ye see, brought\nme within a very little o' the minister himsel--indeed, we were nearly a\nbuckle; and I, accordingly, had frequent invitations from him on a\nweek-day night, to drink tea and spend the evening. On those occasions,\nunfortunately, I only saw Margery when she brought in and carried out\nthe tea things; but one night, when the minister and I were indulging\nourselves after the four-hours was owre (I may mention, for your\nedification, Richard, that _four-hours_ signifies the time o' drinking\ntea,--_four_, according to Watson, being the ancient _hour_ for the\nafternoon beverage)--it was after our tea was done, as I was saying,\nthat the minister and I sat down to a glass o' whisky-toddy; and, as we\nboth got very cracky, the minister says to me, jocularly, for he was a\npleasant, agreeable man, Mr Heslop--\n\n\"I wonder, James, ye never think o' changing your life!\"\n\nNow, it did not just strike me, at first, what he meant; so I bluntly\nreplied, \"Yes, sir; I am weel aware, as the heathen philosopher has\nbeautifully observed, _Proba vita est via in coelum_--which signifies,\nA good life is the way to heaven.\"\n\nWith that the minister and his wife kinked and laughed a guid ane; and\nthe latter at last cried out to me--\n\n\"Mr Heslop means, James, that you should get married.\"\n\n\"Oh, is that what he's driving at?\" says I, colouring at my ain want o'\ngumption--\"truly it's no a slight matter to get married, though I'll no\nbe after denying that, could I fall in with a likely, serious young\nwoman, I should have no great objections to make her my wife.\"\n\n\"What think you o' Margery, my housemaid?\" says Mrs Heslop, archly--\"I\nthink she would make you a guid wife.\"\n\nHad I been convicted o' the theft o' a silver spoon, I could not have\nfelt more confused than I did at this moment--I found the very\nperspiration, Richard, oozing out in large drops from every pore o' my\nframe; while Mr Heslop, in the midst o' my embarrassment, chimed in--\n\n\"You forget, dear, that James must have a learned lady--one who has\nattained the _tongues_.--What say you, Mr Brown, to a _bluestocking_?\"\n\n\"White lamb's-wool, sir, or blue jacey, are both alike to me,\" says I,\nlaughing at his drollery. \"I'm no particular to a shade.\"\n\nAnother loud laugh from the minister and his wife followed up this\nsally, and, at the same minute, the parlour-door opened, and in capered\nMargery, with an ash-bucketful o' coals, to mend the fire. Mrs Heslop,\nat the same time, went out, and left the minister and me owre our second\ntumbler. I thought I never saw Margery look half so interesting as she\ndid that night; and I was so passionately struck with her appearance,\nthat, without minding the presence o' the minister, I leaned back on my\nchair, and, taking the glass o' spirits into my hand, and looking owre\nmy left shouther--\n\n\"My service to you, Margery,\" says I, and drank it off.\n\n\"I daresay the man's gyte!\" says Margery, staring me in the face like an\nidiot, as she gaed tittering out o' the room.\n\nI was not to be beaten in any such way, however; and on the afternoon o'\nthe following Sabbath, I contrived, when the kirk scaled, to get into\nthe loaning before Margery, and sauntering till her and her neighbour\novertook me, I turned round just as they were passing my side, and, says\nI, keeping up with them at the same time--\n\n\"Here's a braw afternoon, lassies.\"\n\n\"It's a' that,\" says her neighbour.\n\nNow, had it been to crown me King o' England, I did not ken what next to\nsay, for I felt as if I had been suddenly tongue-tacked; and, without\nthe word o' a lee, Richard, I'm certain we walked as guid as two hundred\nyards without uttering another syllable.\n\n\"How terrible warm it is!\" says I, at last, removing my hat, and wiping\nthe perspiration from my brow with my India silk napkin.\n\n\"So I think,\" says Margery, jeeringly. And the next minute she and her\nneighbour doubled the corner o' the loaning, and struck into the path\nwhich led down to the minister's, without so muckle as saying, \"Guid\ne'en to ye, sir!\"\n\nI made the best o' my way back through droves o' the kirk folk, who kept\nspeering at one another as I passed, quite loud enough for me to hear\nthem--\n\n\"There now, what a world this is!--isna that the light-headed dominie?\nWhar can he hae been stravagin on the Lord's-day afternoon? He can hae\nbeen after nae guid.\"\n\nThis, as ye may weel suppose, was but a puir beginning, Richard; but\nstill I was determined to hold out and persevere. My next step was to\nmool in with Margery's faither; and, as I knew him to be a great\nsnuffer, I bought a box and got it filled, though I did not care a\nbutton-tap for the snuff mysel, which I used to rax owre to him during\nthe sermon. Nor did I forget her mother--for it's an important thing in\ncourting, Richard, to gain owre the auld folk--but day after day I used\nto strip my coat-breast o' the bit \"mint\" and \"southernwood\" that I was\nin the habit o' sticking in my button-hole on a Sabbath-day, and present\nthem to her, to keep her up in the afternoon service, when the heat was\nlike to overcome her. I invited Margery's brother, too, twice or thrice,\non a Sunday afternoon, to his tea; and contrived, in seeing him home, to\nwalk aye within a stone's-cast o' his faither's house, when he could not\nfor mense's sake but ask me in. On such occasions, the auld man and I\nused to yoke about religion, and my clever knack in conversation and\nargument did not fail to impress him with a high sense o' my abilities.\nMargery's mother was equally taken with my particular mode o'\nexpression--for schule-maisters, Richard, have to watch owre the\nsmallest _particle_; and frequently when I have delivered mysel o' a few\nlong-nebbed words, she would have slapped me on the shoulder, and cried\nout--\n\n\"It's worth a body's while listening to the likes o' you, Maister Brown;\nfor to hear ye speak is like hearing a Latin scholar reading aloud frae\na prented book--such braw words, truly, are no found in every head; and\nthe mair's the pity that your ain is no waggin in a pulpit. Now, what\nwould I no gie, could ony o' mine acquit themselves in such a manner.\"\n\nThis pleasant intercourse went on for some time, till, one everyday\nnight, being down at tea with Margery's brother, her mother\nsays--meaning, no doubt, for me to take the hint--\n\n\"Ye mustna sit there, Robert\"--that was to her son--\"for ye ken your\nsister is down at Greystone Mill, and has to come hame hersel the night,\nwhich is far frae being chancy, seeing that there are sae mony o' thae\nIrish fallows upon the road.\"\n\n\"I will take a step doun,\" says I; \"it will be a pleasant walk.\"\n\n\"That wad be such a thing!\" says the auld woman, \"and _him_ sitting\nthere! Now, I'm vexed at mysel for having mooted it before ye.\"\n\n\"I feel a pleasure,\" says I, \"in going; and it's o' no use Robert tiring\nhimsel, as he was thrashing aneugh through the day.\"\n\n\"But ye're sae kind and considerate, Maister Brown,\" says she--\"it's\njust imposing on your guid nature athegither. Hurry her hame, sir, if ye\nplease, afore the darkening; but, to be sure, we needna fret, kenning\nshe's in such excellent company.\"\n\nI accordingly set off for the Greystone Mill; and when I came in front\no' the premises, I began to see that it was rather an awkward business I\nwas out on; for I didna ken but Margery might hae somebody o' her ain to\nsee her hame; and to go straight up to an unco house, and speer for a\nfemale that I had only spoken twice till, and that in a dry\n\"how-do-ye-do\" kind o' manner, was rather a trying affair, Richard, for\none that was naturally bashful, as ye may weel conceive. Into the house\nI went, however, and meeting auld _mooter-the-melder_ in the entry--\n\n\"How's a' wi' ye, freend?\" says I, in guid braid Scotch, shooting out my\nhand, at the same time, to give him a hearty shake.\n\n\"Ye hae the advantage o' me,\" says he, drawing back and puckering up\nhis mealy mouth. \"I dinna ken ye.\"\n\n\"I'm the schulemaister o' Selkirk,\" says I.\n\n\"And what may the schulemaister o' Selkirk be wanting wi' me?\" says he,\ngruffly, still keeping me standing like a borrowed body in the passage.\n\n\"I'm seeking a young woman,\" says I.\n\n\"Oh,\" says he, \"ye'll be Margery Johnson's sweetheart, Ise warrant--come\nawa ben.\"\n\n\"He's no my sweetheart,\" says Margery, as I was stalking into the bit\nparlour. \"I wonder what's brought the randering _fool_ here.\"\n\nThis, I confess, was rather a damper; and had I not been weel versed in\na woman's pawky ways, and kent that she was aye readiest to misca' them\nfor whom she had the greatest regard, before folk, I'm not so sure,\nRichard, what might have been the upshot. I sat doun, however, as if I\nhad not overheard her, and chatted awa to the miller's twa gaucy\ndaughters, keeping a watchful eye on Margery a' the time, who did not\nseem to relish owre weel the attention I was bestowing on them. I saw\nplainly, indeed, that she was a little mortified, for she gaunted twice\nor thrice in the midst o' our pleasantry--no forgetting to put her hand\nbefore her mouth, and cast her eyes up to the watch that stood on the\nmantelpiece, as muckle as to say--\"It's time we were stepping, lad.\" I\nkept teasing her, nevertheless, for a guid bit; and when at last we left\nthe mill, and got on to the road that leads down to the Linthaughs, I\nsays to her, \"Will ye tak my arm, Margery dear?\"\n\n\"Keep your arms,\" says she, \"for them ye mak love till.\"\n\n\"That's to you, then,\" says I.\n\n\"Ye never made love to me in your life,\" says she.\n\n\"Then I must not ken how to mak it,\" says I; \"but aiblins ye'll teach\nme.\"\n\n\"Schulemaisters dinna need to be taught,\" says she; \"ye ken nicelies how\nto mak love to Betty Aitchison--at least to her siller.\"\n\nThis was the miller's youngest daughter.--\"What feck o' siller has\nBetty?\" says I.\n\n\"Ye can gang and ask her,\" says she.\n\n\"Hoot, what serves a' this cangling?\" says I, taking hold o' her arm,\nand slipping it into mine--\"you are as het in the temper as a\njenny-nettle, woman.\"\n\n\"Ye're the first that said it,\" says she.\n\n\"And I hope I'll be the last,\" says I. And on we joggit, as loving-like\nas if we had been returning from the kirk on our bridal.\n\nIt might be four weeks after this meeting, that Margery and I were out,\non an autumn evening, in the lang green loaning that leads down to the\nLinthaughs. It was as bonny a night as man could be abroad in: the moon,\nnearly full, was just rising owre the Black Cairn, and the deep\nstillness that prevailed was only broken by the low monotonous murmur o'\nthe trees, or interrupted by our own footsteps. I dinna ken how long we\nmight have sauntered in the loaning--aiblins, two hours--and though\ninclined a' the time to confess to Margery that I loved her, I could not\nbring mysel to out with it, for aye as I was about to attempt it, I felt\nas if something were threatening to choke me. At last I thought on an\nexpedient. And what was it, think ye? No--you'll not guess, Richard; but\nyou'll laugh when you hear. I had recently got by heart the affecting\nballad that had been written by a freend o' my ain, on Willie Grahame\nand Jeanie Sanderson o' Cavers, a little before Jeanie's death; and,\nthinks I--as I was a capital hand at the Scotch--Ise try what effect the\nreciting o' it will have upon Margery; for wha kens but it may move her\nheart to love and pity? This scheme being formed, I says to her--\n\n\"Margery, did you ever hear the waesome ballad about Jeanie Sanderson\nand her sweetheart?\"\n\n\"Where was I to hear it?\" says she.\n\n\"Would ye like to hear it?\" says I.\n\n\"I'm no caring,\" says she.\n\nAnd wi' that I began the ditty; but, as it has never been in prent, I\nhad better rin owre it, that you may be able to judge o' its fitness for\naccomplishing my _end_. It begins as if Jeanie--who was dying o'\nconsumption--were addressing hersel to Willie Grahame, and he to\nher--_vice versa_.\n\n             SCOTTISH BALLAD.\n\n    \"Six years have come and gane, Willie,\n      Since first I met with you;\n    And through each chequer'd scene I've been\n      Affectionate and true.\n    But now my yearning heart must a'\n      Its cherish'd hopes resign;\n    For never on this side the grave\n      Can my true love be mine.\"\n\n    \"Oh, do not speak o' death, Jeanie,\n      Unless that ye would break\n    The heart that cheerfully would shed\n      Its life's-blood for your sake;--\n    For what a dreary blank this world\n      Would prove to me, I trow,\n    If ye were sleeping your long sleep\n      Upon yon cauld green knowe!\"\n\n    \"When I have pass'd from earth, Willie,\n      E'en sorrow as you will,\n    Your stricken heart will pleasure seek\n      In other objects still.\n    For though, when my worn frame is cauld,\n      Your grief may be profound.\n    My very name will soon become\n      Like a forgotten sound!\"\n\n    \"I'm wae to see the cheek, Jeanie,\n      That shamed the elder wine,\n    Now stripp'd o' a' the bloom that told\n      Your heart's fond love langsyne.\n    But do not, Jeanie Sanderson,\n      Come owre your death to me:\n    It's pain enow to see you look\n      So sad on a' you see.\"\n\n    \"I'm dying on my feet, Willie,\n      Whate'er you'd have me say;\n    And my last hour on earth, I feel,\n      Draws nearer every day.\n    Nor can ye with false hopes deceive;\n      For ne'er can summer's heat\n    Restore the early blighted flower\n      That's crush'd aneath your feet.\"\n\n    \"Oh, bring once more to mind, Jeanie,\n      The happiness we've seen,\n    When at the gloaming's tranquil fa'\n      We sought the loaning green.\n    Ye ken how oft I came when ye\n      Sat eerie, love, at hame,\n    And tapp'd at that bit lattice, whiles--\n      Your ain true Willie Grahame!\"\n\n    \"It's like a vanish'd dream, Willie,\n      The memory o' the past,\n    And oft I've thought our happiness\n      Owre great at times to last.\n    Alas! your coming now I watch\n      In sickness and in pain;\n    But will ye seek my mother's door\n      When once that I am gane?\"\n\n    \"You're harbouring thoughts o' me, Jeanie.\n      It's wrong for you to breathe;\n    For oh, is wretchedness the gift\n      To _me_ ye would bequeath?\n    I've ne'er through life loved ane but you;\n      And must the hopes o' years\n    Be rooted from my heart at once,\n      And quench'd in bitter tears?\"\n\n    \"Ye stand 'tween me and heaven, Willie,\n      Yet, oh, I do not blame,\n    Nor seek to wound the feeling heart,\n      Whose love was aye the same.\n    But love is selfish to the last,\n      And I should like to wear\n    The locket round my neck, when gane,\n      That holds my Willie's hair!\"\n\n    \"It cuts me to the heart, Jeanie,\n      To see you thus give way\n    To trouble ye are forcing on,\n      For a' your freends can say.\n    And do ye think that I could e'er\n      To others passion vow,\n    Were death to break the link that binds\n      Our hearts so closely now?\"\n\n    \"It may be that long time, Willie,\n      Will teach you to forget,\n    Nor leave within your breast--for me--\n      One feeling o' regret.\n    But, should you fold another's heart\n      To yours with fond regard,\n    Oh, think on her who then shall lie\n      Happ'd up in yon kirkyard!\"\n\nWeel, a' the time I was repeating the ballad, I saw, in the changing\nexpression o' Margery's countenance, that there was a tender struggle\ngoing on in her heart; but when I came to the last verse, she could\nrestrain her feelings no longer, but grat outright, as if Jeanie had\nbeen her ain sister. I was rather on, Richard, for the greeting mysel;\nbut, affecting an indifference I did not feel, I says to her, as she was\nin the act o' wiping her eyes wi' her pocket-napkin--\n\n\"Would ye greet for me, Margery, were I dying?\"\n\n\"You're very like a dying person, or you're naething,\" says she.\n\n\"There are few lovers to be met wi',\" says I, \"like Willie Grahame and\nJeanie Sanderson--their devotedness is rare.\"\n\n\"Ye'll be judging frae yersel, Ise warrant,\" says Margery.\n\n\"Oh,\" says I, \"I do not doubt but I could mak as guid a sweetheart as\nWillie Grahame, would onybody try me. But I've a secret to tell ye,\nwoman,\" continued I, summoning up courage to mak a confession.\n\n\"Women canna keep secrets,\" says she; \"so ye had better no trust me wi'\nit.\"\n\nA long silence was the upshot o' this, and we sauntered on, as if we had\nbeen two walking statues, till we came within sight o' the manse.\nMargery could not but notice my perplexity; for I looked round and round\nabout me a thousand times, for fear o' listeners, and hemmed again and\nagain, as the words mounted to my lips, and swooned away in a burning\nblush on my face.\n\n\"What was it ye were gaun to tell me?\" at last says she. \"It maun be\nsome great secret, surely, that ye're in such terror to disclose it.\"\n\n\"Weel, Margery,\" says I, in the greatest fervour, locking her hand\npassionately in baith o' mine--\"if ye will have it--I LOVE YOU!\"\n\n\"Is that a'?\" says she, coolly slipping awa her hand. \"I really thought,\nfrom seeing sae muckle dumb-show, that ye had something o' importance to\ntell me.\"\n\n\"Might I ask, if ye like _me_?\" says I to her, earnestly.\n\n\"Were it even possible that I did,\" says she, \"do ye think that I wad be\nsic a born fool as to tell ye?--_Atweel do I no!_\"\n\nI had often heard, Richard, o' folk being dumbfoundered; but, till that\nmoment, I never knew what it was to be so mysel; and such was the keen\nsense o' my silliness, that I even wished I might sink down through the\nearth, clean out o' sight and hearing. As matters stood, however, I saw\nthere was naething for it but urging Margery to discretion; so I says\ntill her, seriously--\n\n\"I hope in heaven, Margery, that neither your partner nor anybody else\nwill be the better o' what has passed between you and me this night!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" says she.\n\n\"Why,\" says I, \"I mean, that ye'll no acquaint them wi' my liking for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Guid truly,\" says she, wi' a toss o' her head, \"I wad hae muckle to\nspeak aboot! To tell ye the truth, lad, I never was thinking ony mair\naboot it, nor wad it hae entered into my head again, had ye no mentioned\nit.\"\n\n\"I do not care,\" says I, rather wittily, \"how seldom it enter your\n_head_, Margery, so long as it engage your _heart_.\"\n\n\"Ye're a queer man,\" says she, \"to be a schulemaister;\" and skipped aff\nto the manse, without expressing the least desire to see me again.\n\nWhen I went home and lay down in bed that night, I could do nothing but\ntoss and tumble; and aye as my silliness recurred to me, I would have\nuttered a loud _hem_, as a person will do when he is clearing his\nthroat, to keep the racking thought down; but, in spite o' a' I could\ndo, it continued uppermost, and kept torturing me till better than\nhalf-past four in the morning. Weel, thinks I, this is really a fine\npass I've brought mysel to! I'll not only become the laughingstock o'\nthe minister and his wife, but the whole town will join in with ready\nchorus. Time slipped on, however, and things remained much the same,\nsave that Margery took upon hersel a great many airs, and behaved on a'\noccasions as if I were her humble servant. At last, Richard, I took\nheart o' grace, plucked up a spirit, and seemed careless about _her_.\nThat Margery was secretly piqued at this, I had ample proof; for,\nmeeting William Aitchison one night at her father's--for she had then\nleft the minister's service--to mortify me, the puir creature paid the\nmost marked attention to the young man, scarcely goaming me; but, for a'\nthat, I could see plainly aneugh that she preferred me in her heart,\nthough her pride would not let her show it. Nor did she stop here; for,\nwhen Aitchison rose to go away, she hurried to the press, and taking out\na bottle o' spirits, she poured him out a dram, which he no sooner had\nswallowed, than she put away the bottle and the glass, without so muckle\nas saying, \"Colly, will ye taste?\" But I saw through a' this, Richard;\nand, though she went to the door and laughed and chatted with him, I\nknew brawlies, from her very manner, that she was acting, and would have\ngien the best thing in a' the house, to have been freends with me again.\nAt last, into the room she comes, and sets hersel doun by the fire, with\nher hands owre ilk other. Now, thinks I, I'll pay ye back in your ain\ncoin, lass; so I rattled away with her brother, for as guid as\nhalf-an-hour, about the qualities o' bone-dust and marl, never letting\non that I saw her a' the time, until happening to pat the auld colly\nthat lay sound asleep on the hearthstane, the puir creature, vexed at\nthe thought o' the dumb beast getting that attention paid him which was\ndenied to hersel, kicked him ill-naturedly with her foot, and ordered\nhim out o' the room.\n\n\"I thought lassies were aye best-natured when they had seen their jo and\ndearie,\" says I, giving her brother a sly dunch with my arm, and looking\nslily up in Margery's face.\n\n\"She's in the sulks, the jade,\" says her mother; \"and if she doesna keep\na better temper, the worst will be her ain--that's a' that I'll say.\"\n\nMargery made no reply to this; but taking the candlestick into her hand\nthat stood on the table, left the parlour without uttering a word.\n\n\"What's the matter wi' ye and her now, James?\" says the auld wife--for\nshe did not mind styling me _Maister_, as we were so very familiar,\nthough I must say that Margery's faither continued to the last to\n_Maister_ me--he had such a regard for mysel, and veneration for the\nprofession.\n\n\"There is naething the matter with us,\" says I--\"that I ken o', at\nleast.\"\n\n\"Come, come, lad; ye maunna tell me that,\" says she; \"it's no little\nthat will ding my lass; and if ye hae slighted her for ony o' the\nAitchisons, it says unco little for you, wi' a' your learning. Oh, shame\nfa' that weary, weary siller!\" added she, shaking her head, and leaving\nthe room; \"it's been the bane o' true love sin the world had a\nbeginning, and will, I think, till it have an end.\"\n\nOn my road home that night I resolved in my mind to trifle no longer\nwith Margery; for I became convinced it was but heartless conduct, to\nsay the very least o't. To get her to confess, however, that she loved\nme, I was resolutely determined on; and, after devising a thousand\nschemes, I at last thought o' trying what effect my way-going would have\nupon her. Accordingly, as ye may weel remember, Richard, I got a report\ncirculated that I had an intention o' going out to America, to try my\nluck in the other world; so, meeting with Margery one night between the\nRankleburn and her ain house, I asked her if she had any objections to\ntake a walk with me as far as the Linthaughs.\n\n\"What are ye gaun to do at the Linthaughs?\"\n\n\"Do ye not know,\" says I, \"that I'm about to leave this quarter, for\nguid and a', for America?\" Her heart lap into her mouth at hearing this,\nand she quickly cast her eyes round on me, which were brimful o' tears,\nas if to see whether or no I spoke in earnest, and hurriedly withdrew\nthem the same moment without uttering a word. \"It's a trying thing,\"\nsays I, \"to leave the place o' ane's nativity. It may appear childish,\nbut there is a charm attaches even to the schulehouse, with its clay\nfloor, and dirty hacked tables, that my heart cannot resist; and, as\nsure as death, Margery, the very wooden chair, whose hind legs I rock\nbackwards and forwards on when the class is ranged before me, dimmed my\neyes with tears this morning, when I reflected that, in a few weeks,\nsome stranger lad should sit upon it. It was but the other night, too,\nthat I chanced to light upon a few simple verses in Mrs Heslop's album\nthat quite unmanned me.\"\n\n\"What were they about?\" says Margery.\n\n\"Just about a person's way-going and fareweel-taking,\" says I; \"and the\nwriter, in speaking o' the sorrow it occasioned him, to take a last look\no' ony familiar object, says, truly and feelingly--\n\n    'I never look'd a last adieu\n      To things familiar, but my heart\n    Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,\n      Even from their lifelessness to part.\n\n    I never spoke the word Farewell!\n      But with an utterance faint and broken;\n    A heart-sick yearning for the time\n      When it should never more be spoken.'\n\n\"God only knows,\" continued I, in the same deep earnestness, \"whether\nthe time will ever come round to _me_ when the bitter word shall never\nbe spoken again. Our evening walks, Margery, will soon be at an end; but\ngo where I will, never can I forget the green banks o' the Yarrow, and\nthe beetling brow o' those hills, with their red heather and bleached\nbent, where I used to rin when a callant; and no scene, however grand or\nlovely, can ever have nearer and warmer claims upon my affection, than\nthis loaning, Margery, where you and I have watched the lang streaks o'\nthe yellow sunlight fading in the grey clouds o' evening, as the\ntwilight thickened round us, rendering us as happy as if we were under\nthe delusion o' glamoury. In the sad clearness o' regret, the whole o'\nthe simple images o' the past are crowding owre my fancy; and now that I\nam thinking o' leaving Selkirk, I cannot describe to you the melancholy\nsensation o' loneliness that possesses me. I depart from it a green\nbough, and can only return--if ever I be permitted to come back--a\nwithered, sapless stem; and, though the sun may shine, the birds sing,\nand that bonny green haugh present the same garniture o' sweets and\nbeauties as ever, what will it a' avail, Margery, if _you_, and a' them\nthat I care for, have gone down into the grave, and left me without a\ntie to bind me to the world!\"\n\nHere the tears actually trickled down my cheeks, Richard, having wrought\nmy feelings into such a fermentation; and Margery, the same moment,\nthrew her arms around me, and breathed on my neck, in a tremulous and\nbroken voice, the love o' her warm and feeling heart.\n\n\"Will ye cross the Atlantic with me, Margery?\" says I, while the dear\ncreature still trembled palpably by my side.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" says she, tenderly; \"but ye're no gaun to leave Selkirk,\nJames; and ye ken ye're only saying sae to try me.\"\n\n\"You and my happiness are so utterly entwined, Margery,\" says I, \"that I\ncould not for a moment harbour the thought, were it to make you uneasy.\n_I'll no stir a foot._\"\n\nAbout two months after this took place, Margery and I were married by Mr\nHeslop, our ain minister; and a braw wedding we had, there being no less\nthan eight couple, besides my guidfather, at it. And, certies, she could\nnot complain o' her down-sitting; for, though I say it who should not, I\ndo not believe there's a brawer house than ours--among those o' our ain\ngraith, I mean--in a' Selkirk, or one where you'll find half o' the\ncomfort; for Margery and I are as happy as the day is long, and our twa\nbonny bairns, John and Mary--the laddie's christened after my faither,\nand the lassie after the wife's mother--mingle with us nightly around\nour cheerful fireside in the snug little parlour, delighting us with\ntheir endearing prattle, and beguiling our cares with the innocent\njoyousness o' their happy hearts. You may think me a weak man, Richard;\nbut I doubt not the most feck o' parents are like mysel--fond o'\nspeaking about their offspring--no minding that it may be tiresome\naneugh to those that never had ony themselves; yet could we but feel how\nthe sunshine o' their young and glad hearts reflects itself back upon a\ndoting faither's, I am certain ye would think that I was more to be\nenvied in my domestic happiness than the monarch o' England; and weel\ncan I exclaim, in the words o' the Scottish sang--\n\n    \"I view, with mair than kingly pride,\n      My hearth--a heaven o' rapture;\n    While Mary's hand in mine will slide,\n      As Jockie reads his chapter.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUTER'S WEDDING.\n\n\n\"Not to flatter you, Maister Brown,\" said the souter, when the dominie\nhad finished the account of his courtship, \"your wooing is a capital\ntale in itself; and could it only be put into prent, in the simple and\nhonest manner--for ye hide nothing--that you've gone owre it, I'll\nventure to say that a more laughable story is no in the book. Deil o'\nthe like o' it I ever heard; so muckle duplicity on the one hand, and\nsheepishness on the other; and, after a', to think that ye should have\nwon your wife's heart by such a wily stratagem. Ye talked, if I remember\nrightly, o' being weel up in years ere ye fell in love; but atweel I\ncannot say the same, for I was owre head and ears in it before I was\nrightly into my teens. Having my faither's business in Selkirk to fall\nback upon, and being rather handsome, and no that ill-farand, and\nnaturally gifted, like the rest o' our family--for our cleverness a'\ncame by the Maxwells--that's our mother's side o' the house--it is not\nto be wondered at that the young lassies o' the place should have held\na great racket about me. I was even styled the leddies' man; and, night\nafter night, I might have been seen strolling away down by the\nPleasance, in company with the Jacksons--high as they hold their heads\nabove you and me now, Maister Brown; and, at other times, with the braw\nniece o' the dean o' guild. At our annual fairs, too, I have seen the\ngenteeler lasses--farmers' daughters and the like--flocking about me for\ntheir _fairing_ in perfect droves; and I'm certain there was not one o'\nthem, either from Selkirkshire or Roxburghshire, but who would have\nwaded the Tweed for me, had I but held up my thumb. I was very ill to\nplease, however; for, unless I could get one possessed o' youth, beauty,\nand siller, I had resolved never to marry. These three requisites I\nconsidered indispensable in a wife; and though, at times, I felt my\nprudent resolution nearly sapped by the winning gentleness o' Susan\nBaillie, I still prevented the sacred citadel o' my heart from being\nopenly taken, and kept cautiously speculating upon the untoward\nconsequences o' a rash and imprudent marriage. My faither dropping off\njust as I was entering upon my three-and-twentieth year, his business\nwas consigned owre to me, with the whole o' his effects; and, although\nthe heavy bereavement did not fail to make a suitable impression upon my\nheart, I felt my personal consequence greatly increased, from the\ncircumstance o' standing in his _shoon_. The Johnsons went actually mad\nabout me, besides scores o' others, as weel to do in the world as any\nJohnson among them; and many a trap was set for me, by auld crones who\nhad daughters at a marriageable age hanging on their hands. I continued,\nhowever, to gallant away among them, as a kind o' general lover; and at\na' their select parties, there was I to be found figuring.\n\nThus weeks, and months, and years passed on, and I still remained in\nsingle blessedness, while the young leddies o' my acquaintance kept\nstepping off one by one--some marrying tradesmen's sons, and others the\nyoung gentlemen belonging to the neighbouring counties, till not one o'\na' the number that I used to caper about with was left for my taking.\nThe very bairns o' some o' them, breeched and unbreeched, were big\naneugh to come to my shop and get the measure o' their shoon; and on one\noccasion, when Susan Baillie's auld Irish nurse--Susan was then Mrs\nCaptain Fraser--brought down the auldest lassie in her hand, to get a\npair o' red boots fitted on, I declare the very tears came into my eyes\nwhen I saw the little creature--she looked so like her mother!\n\n\"Losh, me!\" says I to Peggy Byrne, \"that lassie makes me an auld man.\"\n\n\"Och, and it's your own fault, Master Blackwell,\" says the nurse, \"that\nyour ould at all at all; for you, who are a gintleman born, should be\nglad to have the mistress and purty childer at home, even to spake to.\"\n\n\"A wife is an expensive piece o' furniture to keep about a house,\" says\nI.\n\n\"I'm sorry to the heart for you, sir,\" says she; \"and if you care for\nyoursilf, you'll not let a thrifle of money prevint you from trating\nyoursilf to some genteel cratur of a wife. Will you just give a look to\nthis swate girleen, God bless it!\" added she, kissing the wee lassie,\n\"and say if ye could grudge her bit of brade, poor sowl, or the brade of\nthe moder that bore her?\"\n\n\"But I cannot get anybody to please me, woman,\" says I, jocularly.\n\n\"Take my word and honour, as an Irishwoman,\" says Peggy, in Hibernian\nwarmth, \"you'll bring the shame of the world on yoursilf, and ye will,\nye will. I thought once you could not live after my mistress Susan; but\nshe's lost to you, anyhow, the jewel, and I only know you will never\nhave it in your power to get a glance of love from such two swate eyes\nagain.\"\n\n\"There are better fish in the sea,\" says I, \"than ever came out o' it.\"\n\n\"Don't attimpt to say so,\" says she; \"for, though many a nate, dacent\ngirl is to the fore, 'tis a silfish cratur they wish bad luck to; and\nmaybe your honour will let me tell you the iligant ould story of the\n'Crooked Stick' for your idification. Well, then,\" she went on, \"you\nmust know there was a whimsical young woman sent into a green lane,\nhaving on either side tall and beautiful trees; and she was tould to\npick out and bring away the straightest and purtiest branch she could\nfind. She was left at liberty to go to the end, if she plased; but she\nwas not, by any means, to be allowed to retrace her steps, to make\nchoice of a stick she had already slighted. Beautiful and tall were the\nboughs of the trees, and swate to look upon; and each in its turn was\ndecaived in not being preferred; for the silly maiden went on and on,\nwithout any rason, vainly expecting to get a more perfect stick than\nthose that courted her two eyes. At long and last, the trees became\nsmaller, while blurs and warts disfigured their crooked boughs. She\ncould not, she thought within hersilf, choose such rubbitch. But what\nwas she to do?--for lo! she had arrived at the ind of her journey, and,\ninstead of a nate young branch from a stately tree, an ould deformed\nbough was all that remained within her reach. So the silly maiden had to\ntake the _crooked stick_ at last, and return with it in her hand, amidst\nthe jeering of the beautiful trees which she had formerly despised. And\nnow,\" said Peggy Byrne, in conclusion, \"remember the _crooked stick_,\nyour honour, and give over your dilly-dallying, or sure enough you'll\nget it--you will.\"\n\nI laughed heartily at the Irish nurse's foolery; and that very night, I\nmind, I had as queer a dream as mortal ever dreamed. I thought I was out\non a fine summer's day in the month o' June, fishing in the stream a\nlittle below Selkirk, where the Tweed is augmented by the Ettrick. I\nwas angling, I thought, with the artificial fly in the manner o' worm;\nand, though the water was very turbid, trouts, like silly women, are so\napt to be taken with _appearances_, that that day multitudes o' them\neagerly seized the deadly barb, and only found out the deceit at the\nprecious cost o' their lives! I imagined I was particularly nice,\nhowever, in choosing the fish I raised; for, as I drew them ashore upon\nthe nearest channel, instead o' rinning forward with alacrity and\nseizing them, I thought I stood like an innocent, turning owre in my\nmind whether the trouts were o' such a quality as to repay me for the\ntrouble o' stooping to take them up. Presently the fish, not being\nproperly banked, would have broken the gut and torn themselves from the\nhook, leaving me in bewilderment and shame, to execrate my ain stupid\nindecision. But this was not the worst o' it; for in some cases I\nactually fancied I saw the same bonny detached trouts taken further down\nthe stream by other anglers, while a number, after a fierce struggle to\nget free, would have been seen pining, with wounded hearts, at the\nbottom o' the water, unable apparently either to feed or spawn. To add\nto my vexation, Maister Brown, the stream began suddenly to clear, while\nthe fish, from the quantity o' food that covered the water, grew lazy,\nand would not so muckle as move. At last I thought I threw in, for the\nlast time, in a fit o' desperation, and what should I do but hook a huge\nsalmon by the side fin! He immediately started in beautiful style for\nhis far hame, the sea; and as a fish so fastened was no better secured\nthan a young bluid-horse bridled by the middle instead o' the mouth, I\nsaw there was nothing for it but following him, and using my legs as\nweel as my line. Away we accordingly went, at a dead heat, down the\nTweed--starting from about Ettrick foot, while the fish every now and\nthen would have sprung furiously out o' the water in his attempts to\nshiver the line with his tail. It would not a' do, however; and, after\na great many hours' play, I thought we landed at \"Coldstream Brig-end,\"\nwhere, finding him greatly exhausted, I drew him closer and closer to\nthe edge, whiles giving him a brattle out into the deep water, till\nseeing him unable to give any further resistance, I gaffed and secured\nhim. But, judge o' my mortification, when, instead o' a bonny plump\nsalmon, a lean, deformed skate lay in the dead-thraws upon the white\ngravel, to mock me for my pains! The bairns, at this moment, whom I\nthought I saw distinctly on the bridge, setting up a wicked shout o'\nderision, I awoke with the noise. Nor will I ever forget the agony that\nI was in--the sweat ran from my body like a planet shower; and do what I\nliked, I could not get the disagreeable image o' the ill-coloured toom\nskate from my mind; for aye, as I dovered owre again, I was as suddenly\nstarted by the presence o' the hateful fish laying itsel cheek by jowl\nalongside o' me.\n\nYou may laugh as ye like, Maister Brown, at this strange dream; but,\nwhen you hear how significantly the crowning event in the after-history\no' my life was prefigured by it, you'll see less cause for laughter, I'm\nthinking. It might be half-a-year subsequent to the dream, or\nthereabouts, that I happened to be in Wooler on a jaunt; and as the\nplace and the folk about it were muckle to my mind, I was induced to\nprotract my stay for several weeks. I soon made the acquaintance o'\nseveral o' the young leddies o' the same _caste_ as mysel; and, among\nothers, I got uncommonly intimate with a Miss Cochrane, and her sister\nArabella. The former, I was told, had a hantle o' siller, besides rich\nexpectations from some auld aunt in Newcastle; while stories were\nwhispered o' the prodigious number o' offers she had refused, and that\nhe would be considered a lucky man who should make off with such a\ncapital prize! Here, thinks I, I've fallen on my feet at last; and, if I\ndo not impove the golden opportunity to my advantage, blame me. Miss\nCochrane continued shy, however; and I was beginning to despair o'\nmaking any impression, when, one night, being at a party with her and\nher sister, at the house o' a Mrs Cavendish, we a' three grew so\ndelighted with each other, that it was agreed, before parting, that, as\nneither Arabella nor hersel had ever seen Coldstream, and as they had a\ngenteel cousin there, we should take a trip to it the next day in a\npost-chaise. Off we accordingly went on the ensuing morning; and, as\nsoon as we reached the town, a messenger was despatched for the genteel\ncousin, when presently a little dissipated-looking creature made his\nappearance, who, at the sight o' his dear Sophia and Arabella, was like\nto go into ecstatics. He did not need to be asked twice to join us at\ndinner; for he moved about as if the inn had been his ain, and he fell\nto the dainties we had ordered as greedily as a half-famished cur. The\nwine and brandy, too, were sent down his throat as if his stomach had\nbeen a sand-bed, and he kept drinking glasses with us every whip-touch,\nfirst asking me to join him, and then his \"dear cousins,\" till, long\nbefore the dinner was owre, I had got so completely _rosined_, that I\ncould not weel make out where I was, or satisfactorily account for the\nappearance o' the two strange women that sat on each side o' me. The\nhaze, however, that hung owre me began to go off in the course o' the\nevening; and, when I cleared up sufficiently, the Coldstream birkie\nproposed that we should sally out and get a sight o' the famed\n\"Brig-end,\" where the well-known Peter Moodie celebrated clandestine\nmarriages.\n\n\"I'm yer man for a spree,\" says I--for the brandy, by this time, had\nflown to my head. And, starting to my feet, and seizing Miss Cochrane by\nthe arm--\"Come, my dawty,\" cries I, \"let us away down to the brig and\nsee Hymen's Altar!\"\n\n\"Oh, Master Blackwell!\" says madam, in girlish bashfulness, allowing\nhersel at the same time to be led off \"only think what our friends will\nsay, should they hear of _us_ being there! I would not for ten thousand\nworlds they should know.\"\n\n\"Fiddledee, fiddledum!\" shouted I; and off we strutted, uttering a' the\nbalderdash, and foolery in the world on our way down; and, when we came\nto the Brig-end, I began to sing, at the very top o' my lungs,\n\n    \"There's naebody coming to marry me.\"\n\nBut I had scarcely finished the first line o' the sang, when forward\nstepped an auld man, with a snuffy white napkin round his neck, and with\na head as white as the driven snaw; and says he, touching his hat with\nhis hand--\n\n\"Would ye be wanting my services, sir?\"\n\n\"What services in a' the world can ye render, auld carle?\" says I.\n\n\"I'm the man that marries the folk,\" says he; \"my name's Peter Moodie.\"\n\n\"And what do you seek for your marriage-service?\" says I.\n\n\"Three half-crowns frae working-folk, and a guinea frae the like o' you,\nsir,\" says he.\n\n\"There's a crown-piece, my guid fellow,\" says I, \"and let me see you go\nowre the foolery--for the very fun o' the thing.\"\n\n\"Do, do, Peter!\" cried the youngest Cochrane and her cousin, eagerly.\n\n\"Wha shall I buckle, then?\" says the mimicking priest.\n\n\"Our two selves,\" says I, pressing Miss Cochrane's hand, in maudlin\nfondness.\n\n\"What's your name, sir?\" says the white-headed impostor, looking me\ngravely in the face.\n\n\"Richard Blackwell,\" says I, proudly.\n\n\"Speak after me, then,\" says he--\"I, Richard Blackwell, do take thee,\nSophia Cochrane, to be my married wife, and do promise to be a loving\nhusband unto thee until death shall separate us.\"\n\nI did as I was ordered by the body, and he next caused Miss Cochrane to\ntake me by the right hand, and repeat a few words after him, muckle to\nthe same effect. This being done--\"Richard Blackwell and Sophia\nCochrane,\" added the carle, with an air o' mock solemnity, \"I proclaim\nyou husband and wife.\"\n\n\"Get on with the ceremony, ye drunken neer-do-weel,\" bawled I; \"the five\nshillings will surely go a deal farther than that. We're not half\nmarried!\"\n\n\"Try to get off, if you can, and see how ye'll thrive,\" says Peter, and\nstaggered off, leaving us to enjoy what I considered at the time a mere\nfarce or bit o' harmless diversion.\n\nHaving returned to the inn, we had another bottle o' brandy, to drink to\nthe health and happiness o' Mr and Mrs Blackwell; and, as I was willing\nto carry on the joke, I good-naturedly humoured the fools--for what will\na man not do in drink--and thanked them with sham politeness for their\nkind wishes. The bill at length was sent up to _our lordships_; but, as\nthe cousin had no small change on him, and as the leddies had left their\npurses behind them in the bustle o' setting off, I had to pay dearly for\nmy \"whistle,\" but I cared not. Having got a' settled, we packed into the\nchaise, and drove off for Wooler; but I was so far gone, that I lay as\nsound as a tap on the auldest Cochrane's shoulder, until we came within\na mile o' the village; and when I awoke the _mercury_ had fallen so low,\nthat I felt as stupid and dead as a door nail. No sooner, however, did\nwe reach their door in the main street, than I banged up in the chaise,\nand attempted to jump out; but, alack-a-day! my legs fell from beneath\nme as if they did not belong to my body, while my puir head swam round\nand round, like a light bung in a gutter.--\"Will ony o' you chiels,\"\nhiccuped I to the crowd that stood in front o' the chaise window, \"carry\nme to Lucky Hunter's?\"\n\n\"Ye maun pack in wi' your wife, Billy,\" cried they.\n\n\"I've no _wife_,\" stammered I; \"I'm Ma-ma-ister Blackwell, the braw\nsou-sou-ter o' Selkirk.\"\n\nAt hearing this, some witty rascal roared out--\n\n    \"_Doun_ wi' the souters o' Selkirk,\n    And _up_ wi' the Yearl o' Hume.\"\n\nAnd, suiting the action to the words, _doun_ from the chaise they\naccordingly dragged me; but, as I would not on any account enter Miss\nCochrane's house, the youngsters lifted me into a butcher's slaughtering\nbarrow, and whirled me along the pavement like daft devils; and in the\nlapse o' a few minutes, I was thudded against my landlady's door, and\ntumbled out on the dirty street, as unceremoniously as if I had been the\n\"lord o' misrule\" at a village feast. Being carried up-stairs and laid\nupon a sofa, I was owre asleep before ye could say \"Jock Robinson,\" and\nas unconscious o' the late hullybilloo as the bairn unborn. The burning\nfever, however, that the drink had flung me into would not let me sleep\nfor any length o' time; and about two in the morning I awoke, with my\ntongue sticking to my mouth, as if it had been tacked; nor could I open\nmy lips wide aneugh to let in a teaspoon shank, though my very throat\nwas cracking with the heat, like a piece o' parched muirland. In raising\nmysel on the sofa, I fortunately got hold o' the bell-rope, and, resting\nmysel on my elbow, I rang it as furiously as if the house had been in\nflames about my ears.\n\n\"What, what, what is the matter with you?\" sputtered the terrified\nlandlady, scrambling up the stairs. \"People will think it is the\nfire-bell.\"\n\n\"It is a great enough fire-bell,\" says I; \"and if ye do not keep back\nyour abominable candle, you'll set my breath a-low.\"\n\n\"The good folk will then take you for one of the new lights,\" says she.\n\n\"For mercy's sake,\" cries I, \"bring up your water-pipe, and let it run\ndoun my throat, to slocken me!\"\n\n\"There's not such a thing as a water-pipe in Wooler,\" says the\naggravating creature. \"The good people in this quarter haven't the\n_spirit_ in them that you've got.\"\n\n\"Oh, do not torture me, wife,\" said I, \"with your off-taking way, for I\ncould drink the Till dry, could I get at it.\"\n\n\"You shall have a proper sluicing in it in the morning, then,\" says the\nunfeeling wretch; \"so just lay your head high till daylight comes in.\"\n\nSeeing I could not better myself, I flung my head down with a terrible\nclash on the side o' the sofa; while my thirst grew so intolerable, that\nthe very breath which issued from my cramped lips was like to stifle me.\nIn this indescribably miserable state I lay till about seven o'clock,\nwhen, by a sickly effort o' strength, I got up, and tried to walk across\nthe floor; but my brain reeled at every step, and my limbs shook beneath\nme like willow wands. With my eyes swimming in dizziness, I next sought\nthe washhand-basin, and plunging my head into the cauld water, I kept it\nthere for nearly three minutes, drinking copiously at the same time; and\nthough the terrible stimulus brought on a severe shivering qualm, that\nlasted for nearly a quarter-of-an-hour, it cleared my faculties\nsufficiently to lay me open to a' the violence o' self-reproach. Having\nswallowed a beefsteak, with plenty o' mustard and pepper, I felt\ncomparatively recruited, at least in body; and when the day had worn on\nto about four in the afternoon, I thought, as the reading-room was only\nat the next door, I might contrive to slip in unobserved, and get a\nsight o' the papers. I accordingly stole out, and got into the room\nwithout meeting any one, where I found an auldish man in a brown tufted\nwig, who used glasses, sitting brooding owre the _bad times_ fornent\nthe window. He did not take any notice o' me, nor I o' him; but I had\nnot got weel seated, when in steps a spruce-looking body, in a Petersham\nfrock, who immediately marched up to the spectacled dumby, and inquired\nif there was any news going.\n\n\"None,\" replied the latter, in a sepulchral tone o' voice, \"neither\nforeign nor domestic.\"\n\n\"You haven't heard, then,\" says the other, \"of Miss Cochrane's affair?\"\n\n\"Has she been _seized_?\" says the elderly gentleman, taking off his\nspectacles, and turning up the whites of his eyes.\n\n\"Ay, ay, heart and body,\" says the younger, in a fit of laughter; \"she\nhas been seized by her husband, a half-witted idiot of a fellow, a\nnative of the town of Selkirk.\"\n\n\"Ye dinna mean to say sae?\" rejoins his friend.\n\n\"The simpleton was hooked at Coldstream Brig-end,\" cries the young man\nin the surtout, as I stole out, in an agony o' remorse, and directed my\nsteps to my lodgings, on the most freendly terms with desperation. My\nworst fears were instantly confirmed; for I no sooner had entered the\nhouse, than Mrs Hunter placed a letter in my hand from the youngest\nCochrane. I have carried the thing about with me for these ten years\nnow; and, as I regard it as a kind o' curiosity, ye would aiblins like\nto hear it. It's just word for word to this day as I received it:--\n\n     \"MY DEAR BROTHER,--Mrs Blackwell, your much-attached wife, has\n     passed a miserable night--going out of one hysteric into\n     another; and bitterly lamenting that she should have given her\n     hand to one who seems determined to repay the affection she has\n     heaped upon him with a neglect which, if persisted in, will not\n     fail to break her loving heart. She has tasted nothing since\n     she left Coldstream, save a mouthful of cold water, and a\n     little thin gruel; and our fear is, that the poor soul will\n     starve herself to death! Do come down immediately, and try to\n     comfort her, and you may rely upon my kind offices in doing\n     away with the unpleasant feelings to which your unaccountable\n     conduct last night has given rise.--Your affectionate sister,\n\n     \"ARABELLA COCHRANE.\"\n\nI turned in actual loathing from the perusal o' this artful scrawl;\nwhile my heart was like to burst with the wild tumult o' feeling that\ndistracted me. \"Is it possible,\" asked I, again and again, o' mysel,\n\"that I am married? No, no, it cannot be; and rather than live with a\nwoman I do not like, I'll leave the country, and transport myself for\nlife to the farthest isle o' Sydney Cove.\" How I was kept in my right\njudgment throughout that sleepless and miserable night, is a wonder to\nme till this day. Twenty times did I fondly convince mysel that it was\na' but a crazed dream; and as often did the truth flash upon my mind,\ncurdling my very bluid with shame and remorse. The morning at length\nbreaking, I hastily arose, threw on my clothes, and hurried down to the\n\"Cottage\" for a post-chaise; and in less than an hour I was off, bag and\nbaggage, on my way to Selkirk. But bad news travel unco fast; and, long\nbefore I reached the town, the story o' my clandestine marriage was in\nthe mouths o' auld and young; and, on driving up to my ain house, the\nfirst sight I saw was the big radical flag wapped to the chimney, and\nflapping out owre the premises, in token o' rejoicing.\n\n\"Oh, Tam Wilson,\" cried I to the foreman, stamping my foot in madness,\n\"what, in the name o' a' that's guid, has tempted ye to hoist that\ninfernal rag above my house? Tear it doun this moment, sirrah, if ye\nvalue either your maister's character or your ain employ.\"\n\n\"It was put up, sir, in honour o' your marriage,\" says he.\n\n\"Breathe that word again in my hearing,\" says I, \"and I'll cleave you to\nthe teeth, ye scoundrel!\"\n\nIn the midst o' our cangling, a chaise rolled up to the door, when out\njumped my two she-tormentors, and their little blackavised cousin, and\nmarched direct into the shop. A _scene_ immediately ensued that baffles\na' description. The auldest Cochrane first tried on the fainting and\ngreeting; but finding, after a great deal o' attitudinising, that she\nwas as far from her purpose as ever, she next began to storm like a\nfury, and even had the audacity and ill-breeding to smack me in the\nface--not with her lips truly, but with her open hand--using towards me,\nat the same time, language that would disgrace an outcast in a\nBridewell. After expending the whole o' her wrath on my head, the party\nleft the shop, threatening that they would make my purse smart for it in\nthe way o' a settlement. And they were as guid as their word; for I had\nforty pounds a-year to settle on a person the law acknowledged as my\nlawfully-wedded wife, besides incurring legal expenses to the amount o'\nthree hundred pounds.\n\nYears have come and passed sin a' this happened; but never has my\nunlucky marriage gone down in Selkirk: and I not only have lost my\n\"status\" in society, but my presence, at a public meeting or the\nlike--even at this day--is the ready signal for the evil-disposed to\nkick up a riot. This I might even get owre; but when I think o' the\ncheerlessness o' my ain house, and the sad desolateness o' my\nheart--that my only sister, whose advice I have often treated with owre\nlittle deference, has sunk into the grave with a broken heart--that I\nhave none to take an interest or enter into the cause o' the inquietude\nand suffering that has silently worn down the strength o' my\nconstitution--and that, were I dying the morn, the fremmit must close my\neyes, and my effects go to enrich an ingrate:--I say, Maister Brown,\nwhen I think on the misery that my foolishness has brought upon me, and\nreflect how happy I might have been, had I not become the dupe o' my ain\nerroneous opinions and self-conceit--my very heart sickens within me;\nand, in the bitterness o' my feelings, I earnestly wish that I were laid\nby the side o' my puir sister, and my head at rest, for ever below the\nsod.\n\n\n\n\nROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER.\n\n\nThe old strength of Roseallan cannot now boast even a site on the face\nof the earth; for (so at least says tradition) the waters of the\nWhitadder run over the place where it reared its proud turrets. It is\nsad enough to look upon the green grass, and contemplate, with a heart\nbeating with the feelings that respond to antiquarian reminiscences, the\nvelvet covering of nature spread over the place where chivalry, love,\nand hospitality claimed the base-court, the bower, and the banqueting\nhall; but green grass, though long, and whistling in the winds of\nwinter, carries not to the sensitive mind the feeling of mournful change\nand desolation suggested by the murmuring stream, as, rolling over the\nsite of an old castle, it speaks its eloquent anger and triumph over the\nproud structures of man. So long as there is apparent to the eye a place\nwhere the cherished object of memory might, without violence to the\nordinary conditions of nature, have stood, the plastic fancy asserts\ninstantly her constructive power, and sets before the eye of the mind a\nstructure that satisfies all our historical associations; but the moment\nwe see the favoured place occupied by a running water, vindicating,\napparently, a right to an eternal and unchangeable course, the\nmany-coloured goddess takes fright, and refuses to obey the behest of\nthe will that wishes her to compete with nature in the work of creation.\nWe have stated a tradition, and we do not answer for it. There may be\ndoubts now about the precise locality of the old strength of Roseallan,\nbut there are none in regard to the fact of its last proprietor having\nbeen Sir Gilbert Rollo, a favourite of King James V., who saw no better\nmode of rewarding his loyal subject for important services, than by\ngiving him a grant of the castle and domains, upon the old feudal tenure\nof ward-holding. This the king was enabled to do, from the property\nhaving fallen to the crown by the constructive rebellion of its former\nproprietor, whose name we have not been able to discover. Sir Gilbert\nRollo had a wife and one daughter, the latter of whom was called\nMatilda. According to the account contained in some letters still extant\nin the possession of a branch of the family, this young lady was\npossessed of charms of so extraordinary a nature as to make her famous\nthroughout \"broad Scotland.\" Having little faith in verbal descriptions,\nas a mean of conveying to the mind of one who has not seen the original,\nany adequate idea of those peculiar qualities of form, colour,\nproportion, and expression that go to form what is called female beauty,\nwe will not transcribe the elaborate account of her perfections which we\nhave had the privilege of perusing. We content ourselves with stating,\nwhat will give a far better notion of her excellence, that there can be\nno doubt of the fact of her having been famous throughout Scotland at\nthat period as the fairest woman in the kingdom. It has been stated that\nQueen Mary showed her picture to some of her French followers, with a\nview to impress upon their minds that, beautiful as she was, her country\nhad produced one even transcending her; though some have asserted that\nthe picture which hung in Mary's bedroom was that of a daughter of\nCrighton of Brunston. We cannot reconcile the different statements; but\nit is enough for our purpose that Matilda Rollo was supposed to be\nentitled to compete for this distinction.\n\nSir Gilbert and Lady Rollo were staunch Catholics of the primary church.\nThey gratified King James, by extending their hatred to all those who\nshowed any disposition to favour the partial reformation effected by\nHenry VIII. of England; whose law of the six articles was then a\nsubject of bitter contention among all parties, both in England and\nScotland. This religious prejudice was of greater importance in the\nfamily of Roseallan Castle than as a mere question of faith. It\ninterfered with the success of a suitor for the hand of Matilda--an\nEnglish knight of the name of Sir Thomas Courtney. This individual, who\nwas much famed on the English side of the Borders for his knightly\nbearing, manly proportions, and beauty of person, was ambitious of\ncarrying off the fairest woman of Scotland; as well from an ardent\npassion with which he was inflamed, as from the pride of having to boast\namong his English compeers of being the possessor of so inestimable a\njewel as the \"Rose of Roseallan.\" His suit had been favoured for a time\nby Matilda's father, but had been discharged as soon as it was known\nthat the lover of Matilda was an admirer of Henry's new system of\nreligious reformation. This determination on the part of her parents was\nnot disagreeable to the daughter, who had never been able to see, in the\nproud stateliness of the handsome Englishman, those softer qualities\nwhich could enable him to respond to the high aspirations and\nimpassioned feelings of what she conceived to be genuine romantic love.\n\nFor a considerable period, Sir Thomas had not been a visiter at\nRoseallan. He had, however, left a deputy in the person of Bertha\nMaitland, who had been Matilda's nurse, and was still retained in the\nfamily as a favoured domestic. A favourer of the religious tenets of the\nnew English reformers, she had looked favourably on the suit of the\nlover; and there was reason to suppose that English gold, as well as\nEnglish principles of religion, had been employed to gain over her\ninterest in behalf of the Englishman. Her efforts had been sedulously\ndevoted to the excitement of some feeling of attachment on the part of\nMatilda; but as women can only excite love in their female companions by\nrivalship, her praises went for nothing more than an old woman's\ngarrulity. Matilda felt it impossible to give her affections to her\nEnglish suitor, and was glad to take refuge behind the commands of her\nfather, never to see him, and never to listen to his high-flown\nprofessions of passion.\n\nMany other suitors sought the favour of the far-famed Rose of Roseallan.\nThey were of the highest of the land--many of them the courtiers of King\nJames; and the rules and canons of love-making, taken from the old\nromances--\"Amadis de Gaul\" and others--were learned by heart, and acted\non by tongue and eyes. But all was in vain. There was not a single\nindividual among all those who resorted to Roseallan, not even Sir\nGeorge Douglas (who had been favoured by her father), that had been able\nto excite the least spark of affection in the bosom of the fair object\nof their suit. The circumstance was remarkable, but not the less true;\nand the difficulty could not be solved by the ordinary expedients.\nThough the most beautiful woman in Scotland at that time, she was the\nhumblest; and no rejected lover could lay his bad fortune to the account\nof pride, or solace his self-love by an imputed arrogance of beauty. The\nperfect disengagement (so far as could be observed) of her affections,\nkept up the hopes of her English admirer, who learned everything that\ntook place at the castle through the medium of his hired agent. The\nmediations of Bertha were kept up; but her praises had, by repetition,\nbecome tiresome, and fell upon the ear of her fair mistress like the\ntuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to be of the choir of the\nforest, chirped on the old walls of Roseallan.\n\nThe castle was so situated that one end of it was almost washed by the\nwaters of the Whitadder. A small bridge was thrown over the river, and\ncommunicated with a deep wood on the other side, then called the Satyr's\nHall. In this wood, and towards the end of the bridge, was a small\nbower, which had been built for the sake of Matilda, and in which she\noften sat during the heat of the mid-day sun, listening to the songs of\nthe birds, or reading some of the old romances and ballads of Scotland,\nwhich she loved with the devotion of the heart. It seemed to be in the\nimaginary world of these narratives that she had found the lover who\ndefied the efforts of so many suitors to obtain a place in her\naffections. Her rapt fancy, occupied in the contemplation of some form\nwhich it had painted with all the fond colours of exaggerated beauty,\ncarried her away from the ordinary thoughts and feelings of life. Yet it\nwas not all imagination; she did not carry her romance so far as to\nuphold that no man of mere flesh and blood, however well put together,\nand however well decorated by the smiles of nature (the artificial\nornaments of fashion she valued not), could satisfy the heart that had\nenshrined within it those hallowed images of a beautiful creative\nimagination. One who knew human nature, and the habits of thinking and\nacting of imaginative females, would have discovered, in this love of\nthe fair inhabitants of her own Elysium, the true reason of her apparent\ncoldness towards the most beautiful and accomplished men of her time;\nbut they would have suspected that the form of beauty she thus cherished\nhad some foundation in nature; and that--though an excited fancy engages\nin its service the young female heart, and, having limned for it an\nideal object to contemplate, ceases not till it engages for the image\nthe most pure, and sometimes the strongest affections of the\nheart--there is still a substratum in reality to which all may be\nreferred. So was it with Matilda Rollo. One day, when sitting in her\nbower, she had fallen asleep with a volume of Italian poems in her hand.\nShe had been busy culling roses--the bower was strewed with them; and\nthe sun sent his rays past the window and entrance of the retreat, as if\nto avoid an interruption of her repose. She was, however, interrupted by\nanother cause; and, looking up, she saw the face of a man gazing\nsteadfastly upon her through the window. Alarmed, she started up--the\nindividual disappeared; but the beauty of his countenance, which\ntranscended anything she had ever seen on earth, or dreamed of in the\ngrandest of her rapt imaginations, left an impression on her which she\nnever forgot. She was supplied with a form of beauty on which her fancy\nmight luxuriate, and to which she would refer all the descriptions in\nher favourite works; nor did she fail in this--for, though she could not\ndiscover who the individual was, and did not see him again, she\ncherished the beloved image as a treasure, and, day and night, in her\nfanciful musings and in her dreams, she delighted to contemplate the\nbeauty of her imaginary lover.\n\nOne morning Bertha accosted her young mistress in such a manner as to\nexcite her curiosity.\n\n\"The cushat doesna use to coo when the owl flies,\" said she. \"Heard ye,\nmy young leddy, the sounds last night in the beechwood?\"\n\n\"The owl is generally busy there at night,\" replied Matilda. \"I went to\nsleep early, and never waked till morning, when I heard the wind booming\nlike a moon-baying spaniel through the forest. It had begun before you\nslept; but you know, Bertha, you find often a magic virtue in night\nsounds that no one else has the wits to discover.\"\n\n\"A lover's flute has mair virtue in it for young maidens than for auld\nwitches,\" replied the other, looking knowingly. \"Sir George Douglas has\ntried his looks and his speech upon you; his success may, peradventure,\nbe greater through the means o' music, the lover's charm.\"\n\n\"I understand you not, good Bertha,\" replied Matilda; \"you do not mean\nto say that Sir George Douglas was bold enough to serenade me in that\nhouse into which he might have entered, and, by a father's authority,\nclaimed my attention.\"\n\n\"If it wasna Sir George, ye can maybe tell me wha it was,\" replied the\nold nurse, looking cunningly into the face of Matilda.\n\n\"I can tell ye nothing, Bertha, for I heard nothing,\" said the other.\n\nThis conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Rollo,\nroused the curiosity of Matilda, who, ignorant of the interest felt by\nBertha in the suit of the English lover, did not observe in her words or\nmanner any wish to acquire information, but only a simple badinage on a\nsubject of love. She trusted her nurse implicitly as her best friend,\nand sought her counsel often in those moments of unhappiness when her\nmother interrupted the imaginative course of her life by some effort to\nget her affections fixed on a proud baron or a courtly knight. The\nconsolations of Bertha were ever ready; and her innocent and\nunsuspicious friend did not observe, in the nurse's zealous efforts to\nconfirm her against the marriage-plans of her mother, the anxious\nworkings of the concealed and paid deputy of a lover also rejected. She\nintended to have questioned her father about the sounds in the wood; but\nthat day did not afford an opportunity for the gratification of her\nwish. Left to her own imagination, she concluded that some of her lovers\nhad presumed to address her after the Spanish form of the evening\nserenade; and, while she resolved upon listening on the following\nevening, she was determined to take no notice of the importunities of\nher impassioned lover.\n\nThe evening set in with great beauty. The full moon rose high in the\nheavens, in which there was not discernible the thinnest wreath of\nvapour to form a resting-place for the eye, as it wandered among the\nendless regions of pure illuminated ether. The bright queen, paramount\nover all, engrossed the whole hemisphere, reducing the twinkling stars\nto the dimensions of small satraps of distant provinces, whose smallness\nincreased the splendour of her august majesty. The stillness of nature\nsuggested the idea of a general worship of the presiding genius of the\nnight. Every wind was stilled, and even the Whitadder seemed to glide\nalong with a greater smoothness than usual; while its singing, mellow\nvoice seemed as if it rejoiced in the bright reflection of the gay queen\nof the heavens it held in its bosom. It was now about nine o'clock.\nMatilda was sitting at the casement of her apartment, overlooking the\nstream--her eyes were fixed on the beautiful scene; the towers of\nRoseallan threw over a part of the river a shadow, at the farther\nextremity of which, and, as it were, at the point of the eastern turret,\nthe round form of the moon, like a bright silver salver, lay still in\nthe bosom of the water. A little beyond this striking object stood her\nbower in the wood; and so bright was the flood of light that penetrated\nevery part of the forest, that she saw the door and window of the\nromantic retreat so perfectly, that she could have detected the entrance\nof the august Oberon, or even Piggwiggan himself, if either of them\ncould have left their revels on the greensward, in that auspicious\nnight, to favour her bower with a visit. The scene was so inviting, that\nshe would have been tempted to wander over the bridge into the wood, if\nthe information of Bertha had not pointed out to her the danger.\n\nAs she continued her gaze on the beautiful scene, her attention was\nclaimed by the form of a man gliding between the trees in the wood. He\ncame forward to the edge of the river, and stood in a contemplative\nattitude, with his arm resting on the branch of an old beech, and his\nhead directed in such a way as to suggest the idea that he was looking\ntowards the casement of Matilda's apartment. On seeing him take this\nattitude, she retired back, to prevent her white dress from attracting\nhis attention. A slight examination satisfied her that he was an\nindividual below the rank of life in which she moved. He was of great\nheight and commanding aspect; but his dress was that of the son of a\nfree farmer of that time, being composed of the rough doublet, bound\nwith a broad leather belt, and the slouched hat, made of thick plaits\nof coarse straw, and ornamented with a black riband tied round the\njunction of the rim and the crown. Though worn by the inferior orders,\nthe dress was a noble one, imparting to the wearer an air of robust\nstrength, with that easy carelessness and rude grace which forms the\n_dignite_ of the freeborn son of the mountain. It was only the general\noutline of his appearance and dress which Matilda could thus discover\nthrough the light of the moon; but she saw enough to excite her\nattention, and she continued to notice his motions.\n\nThe stranger stood in the same attitude of mute contemplation for a\nconsiderable time, his face still directed toward the same part of the\nbuilding, in spite of the powerful claims on his eye and attention that\nwere put forth by the splendid scene around him, with the round figure\nof the moon shining in the waters at his feet. At length he took his arm\nfrom the branch of the old beech, and, turning round, slowly directed\nhis steps towards Matilda's wood-bower, into which he entered, bending\nhis tall person to enable him to get in at the door--a circumstance that\nsatisfied Matilda of his great height, as her father--a very tall\nman--could enter without that preliminary. All was for a time still and\nsilent; the gentle rippling of the Whitadder deriving from the absence\nof any other sound a distinctness which, in its turn, added to the depth\nof the quiet of sleeping nature. A soft sound began to rise in low\nstrains of sweet music, coming apparently from the bower. It was the\nvoice of a man, modulated into the tones of the pathetic expression of\nheart-felt sentiment; the air was slow, and filled with cadences which\nbrought down the voice to the lowest note; the words--pronounced in the\nlow tone of the music, and run together by the fluent character of the\nmelody which accompanied them--could not be distinguished; but the\neffect of the plaintive sounds, co-operating with the silence of night,\nand the extraordinary scene of lunar splendour exhibited by earth and\nheaven, was felt by Matilda as the nearest approximation she had yet\nexperienced to the realisation of her imaginative creations. The music\ncontinued for some time, and then ceased at the termination of one of\nthe deep cadences, prolonged apparently for the purpose of expressing a\nfinale. The individual came out of the bower, and stood again on the\nside of the river--the shadow of his tall figure fell on the ground like\nthe reflection of the beech on which he leaned; he continued his gaze\nfor some time in dead silence, and then, turning, disappeared in the\nwood.\n\nMatilda was unable, after all the consideration she could bestow on the\nsubject, to come to any conclusion satisfactory to herself, as to either\nthe identity of the individual, or the object he had in view. During the\nnight, the scene, which had been deeply impressed on her mind, was\nverified by the power of fancy; and there was a certain romance about it\nwhich recommended it to her heart. In the morning she questioned Bertha,\nto whom she confided her every secret.\n\n\"I am perplexed, Bertha,\" she began. \"You asked me yesterday if I had\nheard any sounds in the Satyr's Hall, and I have that question now to\nput to you. The man that sings in my bower must have some other object\nin view than gratifying his own ears or those of the night birds with\nhis plaintive melody. What means it, Bertha? Come, my good friend,\nunravel the mystery, and the grateful thanks of your Matilda will reward\nyou.\"\n\n\"If the throstle hen kens nae the mottled lover that sings to her, what\nother bird o' the wood can come to the knowledge?\" answered Bertha. \"I'm\nowre auld a bird to ken noo the notes o' a lover, or to tell a moulted\nfeather frae the new plume; but, as far as my auld een would carry, your\nnight freend looked mair curiously at the east tower o' Roseallan than\nmen generally do at grey wa's in the light o' the moon. He's as tall, at\nony rate, as Sir Thomas, and I thocht there was only ae man o' his\nheight in the land where he sojourns. But I think I could unmask his\nsecresy.\"\n\nBertha looked, to see the effect of her allusion to her principal; but\nshe got no encouragement.\n\n\"Whoever he may be,\" answered Matilda, \"he is a very different kind of\nindividual from Sir George Douglas; nor is it Sir Thomas Courtney. The\nmelody is too sweet for the execution of an English throat. He is a\nScotchman; probably some of my Edinburgh courtly lovers, in the disguise\nof a free son of the mountains. I cannot listen to his strains; but you\ncan safely approach the bower, and may, as you yourself have proffered,\nascertain for me who and what he is.\"\n\n\"My young leddy's wish is Bertha's command,\" answered the old woman;\n\"watch me with your hazel eyes, over the white bridge, this night at\nnine. If he comes again, he shall not go away unknown.\"\n\nWhen the evening came, Matilda was again at her casement. The night was\nas beautiful as the preceding one; but there was a thin halo round the\nmoon that gave her a softer aspect; and the diminished sound of the\nmellow ripple of the Whitadder seemed to indicate that there was a\nzephyr abroad whose presence could be detected only by that delicate\ntest. About the hour of nine, she saw the thin figure of old Bertha,\nrolled up in a cloak, steal silently from a postern of the east wall,\nand creep slowly down to the end of the light, airy bridge, that\nspanned, with its pure white arms, the bosom of the river. Stretching\nforth her bony hand, she seized the rail, and, having got a firm\nfooting, walked with slow steps along the planks. Her progress was slow,\nnervous, and unsteady. Matilda was solicitous for her safety; for she\nhad never seen Bertha venture along the bridge at night, and she herself\nseldom crossed it after nightfall, even with the aid of a resplendent\nmoon. Her attention was fixed upon her to the exclusion of all notice\nof any proceedings on the other side of the stream. The old woman had\ngot to the middle of the bridge, and Matilda saw with horror her\nsupposed faithful friend fall. Starting from her seat, she rushed down,\nand in an instant was at the end of the bridge. Seizing the rail, she\nhurried along, and found the body of the nurse lying extended on the\nplanks, apparently senseless, though she had merely experienced an\nordinary fall, the result of a stumble. Bending down, the anxious girl\nwas proceeding to lift her up, when she was, in an instant, seized by\nthe arms of a strong man, and hurried away to the further end of the\nbridge. Stunned by this sudden seizure, succeeding as it did the anxiety\nunder which she laboured for her nurse, she was unable even to scream,\nand lay in the arms of the person that bore her away, helpless, and\nnearly senseless. When she recovered herself so far as to be conscious\nof her situation, she found she was in the wood, and heard the sound of\nthe voices of several men, among whom she thought she observed the\ndisguised figure of a gentleman. They had wrapped a large cloak round\nher, and were in the act of putting her on the back of a jennet that\nstood ready saddled and bridled, when the man that held her was struck\nto the ground by some one that came behind him. He lay senseless at her\nfeet; a second one shared his fate in an instant; and a third, after\ndealing a treacherous blow on the head of her deliverer, flung himself\non a horse that stood alongside of the jennet, and galloped off at the\ntop of his speed. Meanwhile, she was again seized by another man, and\nsoon found herself reclining in her own bower.\n\n\"The feet o' the remaining horses,\" said a voice at her feet, \"are\nraisin the echoes o' the Satyr's wood. The spoilers have recovered, and\nhave fled after their master, who is, by this time, by the side o' the\nTweed. Hoo fares Matilda Rollo? Can it be excused by high birth and\nbeauty that the salvation o' their possessor frae the arms o' an\nEnglish reformer cam frae the courage or the good fortune o' ane that\ndaurna lift his face to ask forgiveness for doin the duty o' a\nfellow-creature?\"\n\n\"Whoever you are,\" cried Matilda, as she recovered, \"you have done\nlittle in saving me, if Bertha Maitland lies drowned in the Whitadder;\nand that blood that flows down your face may be the dear price of my\nsafety.\" And she started to her feet, as if she were to fly to save her\nfriend.\n\n\"Content yersel, fair leddy,\" said the individual who still knelt at her\nfeet; \"my wound is sma', and as to your auld nurse, I saw her rise\nwithout a helpin hand, and, like the stunned bird, shake her feathers,\nand return to Roseallan wi' a steadier step than when she wiled ye owre\nthe bridge.\"\n\nThe last words were pronounced with that irresolution which resulted\nfrom a fear of a false impeachment, and were not heard or understood by\nMatilda, who, made easy on the subject of her solicitude, now\ncontemplated the individual who had saved her. The blood flowed\nprofusely over his face, yet she could perceive that he was the same\nperson whom she had seen on the previous night; and the estimate she had\nthen made of his character was realised. But a new source of curiosity\nand interest was now opened to her. She recognised in his countenance,\nwhich was formed after the finest model that ever came from the pencil\nof Apelles or the chisel of Praxiteles, the original of the image which\nshe had so often, in that bower, called up to the contemplation of a\nfancy excited by the reading of \"Amadis\" or \"Cavalcante.\" She was\nsurprised and confused; her mind recurred back to former times; a\nfloating vision crossed her fancy; she fixed her eyes on the beautiful,\nthough blood-stained countenance of her protector, and, blushing to the\nears, threw them again on the ground. Her confusion prevented her from\nspeaking, as well as from rising to return to the castle; and the doubt\nwhich clung to her mind, whether all the extraordinary proceedings of\nthe last ten minutes were not a dream, added to her irresolution, and\nincreased her embarrassment. A thought roused her suddenly to a sense of\nher position. Bertha would report her danger at the castle, and her\nfather, with attendants, would instantly be in search of her, and in\npursuit of the fugitives. Starting up, she made confusedly for the\nentrance of the bower; but the hem of her garment was held by her\ndeliverer, who implored for a moment's delay.\n\n\"A second time have I been blessed,\" he ejaculated, as he wiped the\nblood from his face. \"Three years have passed sin chance led me to look\nin at the window o' this wood-bower, where, gracious heaven! I saw the\nfair maiden o' Roseallan in the beauty o' a calm sleep. On this\nheather-bench, which was strewn wi' roses, her head rested; a book had\nfa'en frae her left hand, and her right was spread amang the flowing\ncurls o' auburn hair that spread owre her neck and bosom. She dreamed,\ndootless, o' some happy lover; for, ever and anon, the smile played on\nher lips, and a tear struggled frae beneath the closed lids, and\ntrickled down her cheeks. The vision enchanted me--I gazed, and could\nhave gazed for ever. Matilda Rollo, you awoke, and saw my face as it\ndisappeared from the window; but, Heaven have mercy on me! I have never\nawoke frae that hour! Wi' the might o' that enchantment, I wrestled as\nbecame a humble admirer o' what fate had put beyond my reach--but it was\nin vain, and I sought relief frae the new scenes o' Northumberland,\nwhile my brother tended a widowed mother. Fate has brought me again to\nthe neighbourhood o' Roseallan; but duty must--ay, shall drive me again\nfar away.\"\n\nA sudden recollection glanced on the mind of Matilda; she threw her eyes\nupon his countenance, the origin of all her day-dreams, and quickly, and\nas if in terror, withdrew them. A slight struggle released her from his\ngentle hold; she sprang out of the bower, and, with trembling steps,\nsought quickly the bridge, along which she hurried to the castle, where\nshe sought instantly the chamber of Bertha. She found the old woman on\nher knees, at her evening's devotion.\n\n\"Ah! my leddy!\" ejaculated the nurse, \"why did ye leave me to seek my\nway back owre the brig, without the helpin hand o' your love and\nassistance? I was stunned sair by the fa', but I heard a sound o' voices\nas I recovered. I looked for you, and thought ye had returned to your\napartment, whar I intended to have sought ye, after offering up my\nprayers to our Leddy for my deliverance.\"\n\n\"Sore stunned you must have been, good Bertha,\" said Matilda, \"when you\ndid not see my peril. Surely it is impossible. Did you not see your own\nMatilda carried off by men? Yet, why do I put that question? Surely it\nis sufficient to satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible and\nignorant of my fate, when I see her occupied in prayer, in place of\nrousing my father to my rescue.\"\n\n\"Carried awa by men, child!\" ejaculated the nurse, \"and me ignorant o'\nthe base treachery! By'r Leddy, I'm petrified! Whar were you carried,\nand wha were the ruffians? Kenned ye ony o' them? Doubtless, some o' our\nHolyrude knights in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating heart\no' your auld freend.\"\n\nMatilda took Bertha up to her chamber, and recounted to her, in the\nconfidence of love and friendship, all that had occurred to her--not\neven excepting the interview she had had in the wood-bower with her\nunknown but interesting deliverer.\n\n\"It was indeed he,\" she continued, \"whose angelic countenance has so\nlong hovered over me in my hours of retirement and in my dreams. He said\nhe first saw me sleeping in my bower, and he spoke truth; for you must\nrecollect, Bertha, of my having informed you, at the time, years ago,\nof my terror on awakening and finding a human countenance staring in\nupon me through the window. My confusion prevented me from recognising\nhim; but his countenance had got into my mind by the power of its\nbeauty, while my memory sometimes let go the connection between the\nimage which subsequently waxed so vivid, and the occasion by which it\nbecame a part of my thoughts. Oh, long have I cherished it, long assumed\nit as the face of the beatified hero of my histories, often limned it in\nair by the pregnant pencil of my fancy, dreamed of it, and wept as the\nlight of day chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its place\nthe things of ordinary life, the countenances of the knightly wooers of\nHolyrood!\"\n\n\"And wha is he,\" inquired Bertha, \"wha thus shoves his head into\nleddies' bowers, and sae timously saves them frae the hands o'\nkidnappers?\"\n\n\"I know not, good Bertha,\" answered Matilda. \"He is humble, and knows as\nwell as I know that he and I never can be united. Already has duty taken\nhim hence, and again is he to force himself far from me. I may never see\nhim more. Would that I had never seen him, or were fated to see him\never!\"\n\n\"Deliverer and spoiler are alike unkenned, then,\" said Bertha. \"Hae ye\nnae suspicion o' the treacherous caitifs?\" she added, looking\nsearchingly into Matilda's face.\n\n\"None,\" replied the other. \"I heard them not; but, Bertha, my best and\ntruest friend, you must endeavour to learn for me some intelligence of\nmy deliverer; for, though he cannot ever stand in any other relation to\nme, I could wish to know something of one whose image I have treasured\nup in my heart, even as a miser does the number that forms the index of\nhis wealth. The widow loves the grave of her departed husband, and\nbedews it with tears, and carries away with her again the image of him\nshe leaves to the worms: he is to me as the entombed lover: life and\ndeath are not more distant, than the pride of the Rollos and the\nhumility of the poor; but his name may become as the graven letters of\nthe monumental stone--I may weep over it.\"\n\n\"Auld age is a puir scout, my Matilda,\" replied Bertha. \"Ance I have\nfailed in my commission, and a watery grave in the Whitadder had nearly\nbeen my reward. Tak the advice o' eild, and seek neither his name nor\nnativity. The duty ye owe to the pride and power o' the braw house o'\nRoseallan must ever prevent ye frae being his wedded wife; and, if it is\nordained that ye must forget him, ye will banish him from your mind the\nmair easily that ye ken nae mair o' him than ye do o' the bird that\nbirrs past ye in the wood--that it has a bonny feather in its tail.\"\n\n\"Ah, Bertha, that ignorance will not be to me bliss,\" said Matilda,\nsighing; \"but, in the meantime, I must hasten to my mother, and tell her\nof the danger I have escaped.\"\n\n\"And o' the lover that saved ye, guileless simpleton!\" said Bertha,\nseizing her by the arm. \"The Whitadder leads nae mair certainly to the\nTweed, than will the story o' yer danger lead to the discovery o' him ye\nare ashamed to acknowledge as a lover. Darkness waukens the owl, and yer\nmystery will open the eyes o' Lady Rollo. Let the bird sleep, or its\nscream will mak the wood ring.\"\n\nMatilda saw, so far as she herself was concerned, the prudence of\nsecresy, and was about to take leave of Bertha for the night, when Lady\nRollo entered, and informed her daughter that Sir George Douglas of\nHaughhead had arrived to pay his addresses to her, and that she behoved\nto be in a proper state for meeting him in the morning at the first\nmeal. Having delivered her command, the proud dame retired, leaving her\ndaughter to the many distracting reflections suggested by all the\nconflicting and painful events of the evening. She retired to her couch,\nwhere she was to resign herself to the domination of that rapt fancy\nthat had so long led the train of her thoughts, and regulated the\naffections of her heart. Sleep forsook her pillow, or came only for\nshort intervals, with the Genius of Dreams in his train. Waking or\nslumbering, the image of the unknown youth, who had made such an\nimpression upon her heart, by the extraordinary deputed power of an\nimagination ever active in painting in bright colours all his\nperfections, was before her eyes. The higher these perfections and the\nbrighter the beauties, the greater was the pain and the deeper the sobs\nof anguish that were wrung from her heart, by the conviction that her\nlove was destined only to similate the cankerworm, that eats into the\nheart of the flower, and makes it perish.\n\nNext day, she was compelled, with her hazel eyes still dimmed with\ntears, to meet Sir George Douglas, a man she had every reason to hate,\nas well from his proud assumption of a right to her affections, as from\nthe mean and inconsistent mode of mediation he resorted to, and which\nshe had learned from her mother that morning--by bribing her parents\nwith large promises of a tempting dowery.\n\nWith her feelings never kindly affected towards him, her heart burning\nwith the thoughts of another, and her prejudices excited by the\ninformation she received from her mother, she conducted herself towards\nthe knight with a _hauteur_ that called forth his hurt pride and the\nindignation of her parents. After breakfast, she retired to her\napartment, to feast her eyes with the vision of her bower--to her now\nenchanted--while her angry parents closeted themselves for a conference\non the subject of Sir George's splendid offer, and the conduct of their\ndaughter. Wrought up to a pitch of excitement by the united feelings of\nanger and ambition, they came to the critical determination of\nsubmitting her entirely to the power and discretion of Douglas, who, if\nhe chose to wed her upon the sanction of their consent, might, if he\nchose, dispense with that of the principal party interested. The project\nwas instantly submitted to Douglas, a hard and unfeeling man, who,\ndetermined to possess Matilda upon any terms, closed readily with the\noffer, and a day was fixed at the end of a month for the marriage.\n\nThese preliminaries settled, Lady Rollo repaired to Matilda's apartment,\nwhere she found her with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes\nfixed on the wood-bower, where she had conjured up the image of her\nunknown lover.\n\n\"Thy conduct this day, Matilda,\" she began, \"towards one of the gayest\nand richest knights of our land, the confidant of King James, and our\nespecial friend and favourite, requireth the chastisement of the reproof\nof parental authority; but we have witnessed too long this pride of\nbeauty in thee (which disdaineth the loves of mortals, and seduceth thee\nand thy heart into the airy regions of profitless romance), to remain\ncontented now with mere words of argument, persuasion, or reproach. The\nday of these is by, with the hopes of the many lovers thou hast turned\naway from the gates of Roseallan; and the time for action--maugre thy\nwishes or thy prejudices--hath approached. Sir George Douglas is\ndestined to be thy husband, and the day after the next feast of our\nChurch is thy appointed bridal-day, whereunto thou hadst best prepare\nthyself with as much grace and favour as thou mayest be able to call up\ninto thy fair face.\"\n\nSaying these words, Lady Rollo retired hurriedly, as if with the view of\navoiding a reply, or witnessing the sudden effects of her announcement.\nThe words had fallen upon her daughter's heart like the announcement of\na doom, and closed up the fountains of her tears. She sat riveted to the\nchair, incapable of speech, or even of thought. On partially recovering\nher senses, she found Bertha standing before her. Rising into a\nparoxysm of struggling emotion, she flung her arms round the neck of the\nold nurse, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. The choking sobs\nseemed to come from the inmost recesses of her heart, and the burning\ntears, forcing the closed issues of their fountains, flowed down her\ncheeks, and dropped on the neck of her confidant. Bertha heard the\nintelligence, as it was communicated in detached syllables, in silence;\nand, having placed the unhappy maiden on her chair, sank into a train of\nthinking, which her young friend attributed to a sympathetic sorrow for\nher sufferings. The voice of Lady Rollo prevented the expected\nconsolation, and obeying the command of her mistress, Bertha left the\napartment, promising to return soon again. The day passed, and Matilda,\nunable to join the company in the western wing of the castle, remained\nin her apartment, sunk in despondency, and at times verging on the bleak\nprovince of despair.\n\nHeedless of the gloom that overhung the minds of mortals, the bright\nmoon rose again in the evening with undiminished splendour, throwing her\nsilver beams over the tear-bedewed face of the sorrowful maiden, whose\nweeping was increased by the contrast of nature's loveliness. She sat\nagain at the casement; her eyes wandered heavily over the scene that lay\nlike a fair painting spread before her; the long, dark shadows of the\nwood, lying by the side of bright, moonlit plots of greensward, with\ntheir spangles of dew glittering like diamonds, reminded her of the\nchequered scenes of life, into the depth of one of the gloomiest of\nwhich she was now sunk; and her pain was increased as she felt herself,\nby the power of fate, contemplating again her wood-bower, which stood\nfair in the broad light of the moon. A sound struck her ears and called\nforth her attention. It was that of a lute, and came in dying notes from\na distance in the wood. Gradually increasing in distinctness, it seemed\nto come nearer and nearer; and now she recognised the air that was sung\nby her preserver on that night when she discovered him. The sound ceased\nsuddenly, and she saw the figure of her preserver emerge from a thick\npart of the wood and pass into her bower. The same plaintive air was\nagain raised, and spread around in soft mellifluous strains, suggesting\nthe union, by some process unknown to metaphysical analysis, of light\nand sound--so connected and blended were the feelings produced by the\nsoft beams of the moon and the sounds of the lute. The blessed sensation\npassed over her racked nerves like the odorous incense of the altar on\nthe excited sensibility of the bleeding victim; her eyes and ears were\nversant with heaven, while her thoughts were claimed by the evil\nworkings of bad angels; her heart swelled with the conflicting emotions,\nand a fresh burst of tears afforded her a temporary relief. Her paroxysm\nover, the soft sounds fell again upon her ear. Retaining her breath to\ndrink deeper of the draught, she heard the notes gradually diminishing,\nas if the performer were retiring in the wood. He had left the bower\nunobserved; and the silence that now reigned around announced that he\nwas gone.\n\nFor seven successive nights the music in the wood-bower had assuaged the\nsufferings of the respective days; but for three nights there had been\nnothing heard but the cry of the screech-owl, and the moon had been\nilluminating other lands. The period of her sacrifice was drawing nearer\nand nearer, and the cloud of her sorrow was gradually becoming deeper\nand darker.\n\n\"'Tis now three nights since he was in the wood,\" she said to Bertha.\n\"My silence and inattention have but ill repaid his services and his\npassion. The sound of his lute has been to me the voice of hope breaking\nthrough the clouds of despair. O Bertha! my sense of duty to my parents\nand the honour of the old house of Roseallan has so nearly perished\namidst this persecution, that I could now feel it no crime to throw\nmyself into his arms, and seek in humble worth the protection I cannot\nprocure in the Castle of Roseallan's master.\"\n\n\"Wisely spoken, my bonny bairn,\" replied Bertha. \"My auld blood boils\nwi' the passion o' youth, and drives frae my heart the gratitude I owe\nto the proud master and mistress o' Roseallan, as I witness this\npersecution o' the bonniest and the best o' Scotland's daughters. The\narms o' George Templeton, the archer, the son o' the widow of Mosscairn,\ncan send an arrow beyond the cast o' the best archer o' the Borders; and\nmay weel defend (were he again in health) her for whom the proudest o'\nScotland's knights would send the last shaft into the heart o' his\nrival.\"\n\n\"Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha?\" ejaculated Matilda, in\nsurprise. \"How came you by your knowledge? Speak, and relieve me, that I\nmay be certain that I know to whom I owe my life or my honour; and to\nwhom I--unworthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I am!--have not yet\nvouchsafed one solitary look or word of thanks or gratitude. But what\nsaid you of his health? He was wounded for me--ha! Has adverse fate\nanother evil in store for a daughter of affliction?\"\n\n\"For your sake, my bairn, I traced out this man,\" replied the old nurse;\n\"but, oh, that I should hae to add anither sorrow to the wo-worn child\no' my early affection! He is ill. A wound he received in the wood has\nbecome, by ill treatment and exposure, the heart o' a fever that has\neaten into the seat o' life.\"\n\n\"And he will die for me--killed by the second and severest wound, of\ningratitude!\" cried Matilda, starting up in violent emotion. \"With death\non him, received in my defence, has he nightly visited the bower of his\nungrateful mistress, who never, even by the movement of her evening\nlamp, showed that she heard his strains, or understood their meaning.\nThat countenance, streaming with blood, yet beautiful through his\nlife's stream flowing for me, will haunt me through the short span that\nmisery may allow me. Would to God that I had returned one token as a\nmark of my gratitude, if not of my love! Bertha, I must see this man,\nwho holds in his hands the issues of my destiny.\"\n\n\"And ye will, guid child,\" answered the nurse; \"but, should death\ndeprive ye o' this refuge, we may think o' some ither means o' savin ye\nfrae this forced match wi' this high Catholic knight o' Haughhead, wha\npersecuted the reformers as muckle as he does his lovers. Sir Thomas\nCourtney--whom your father has banned frae Roseallan--shows as muckle\nmercy to the Catholics as he does fair-seeming love to his lass-lemans.\nBut are you able to wander to Mosscairn, child?\"\n\n\"A bleeding head did not keep him from my wood-bower,\" replied\nMatilda--\"a bleeding heart shall not prevent me from seeing him before\nhe dies.\"\n\nThis resolution on the part of Matilda, though it did not meet with the\nentire approbation of Bertha, was adhered to; but no opportunity\noccurred for putting it into execution. Every hour, in the meantime,\nadded to her unhappiness. Sir George Douglas had returned to Edinburgh,\nto make preparations for the marriage; her mother watched her, to detect\nwhat she termed the trick of simulated illness; and her father, who was\nled by her mother, seemed determined to carry their cruel scheme into\nexecution. Tortured throughout the day, the moon, now late in rising,\nafforded her no solace at night; the scene from the castle was changed\nfrom lightness to darkness; the screeching of night birds came, in the\nfitful blasts, in place of the melody of her lover's lute; and the\ndreary view called up by the power of association the picture of her\nlover lying on a death-bed, paying, by the torture of death, the\ndreadful penalty of having dared to love one above his degree.\n\nAfter a suitable inspection, her mother had, as she thought, discovered\nthat there existed no illness about her to prevent her from taking her\nusual airing, and Bertha, who had apparently some purpose in view, came\nand urged her to walk as far as the Monks' Mound, a green hillock that\nstood on the borders of the property of Roseallan. They accordingly set\nout. The day was not propitious; lazy clouds lay sleeping on the sides\nof the hills, and wreaths of mist floated along like shadows, assuming\ngrotesque forms, and suggesting resemblances to aerial beings in the act\nof superintending the operations of mortals; the wind was hushed to the\ngentlest zephyr; and the sun, obscured by the masses of sleeping clouds,\nwas not able even to indicate the part of the heavens where he was.\nNature, \"dowie and wae,\" seemed to have shrouded herself in the pall of\nmourning, and the feathered tribes, overcome by the instinctive\nsympathy, were mute, and cowered among the branches of the trees, as if\nthey had borrowed the habits of the wingless, tuneless reptiles that\ncrawled among the rank grass that covered the ground of the wood. The\ncouple wandered along slowly, Matilda resting on the arm of the nurse.\nThey came to the Monks' Mound, and sat down. The burying-ground of the\nmonastery of Dominicans lay on their right hand, and they could see the\ntombstones rearing their grey, moss-covered heads over the turf-dyke\nthat surrounded the consecrated ground.\n\n\"See ye the little thatched house at the foot o' Lincleugh Hill yonder?\"\nsaid Bertha, after some moments of solemn silence, and holding out her\nshrivelled hand. \"The smoke frae its auld lum is curling among the\nmist-clouds; but there's a darker mist within, and nae sun to send a\nflaught through it.\"\n\n\"I see it well,\" replied Matilda, in a melancholy voice; \"and, humble as\nit is, and gloomy as it may be in its interior, I could even seek there\nthe peace I cannot find in the proud towers of Roseallan. There are no\nforced marriages under roofs of thatch.\"\n\n\"Ay, but there is death, in the cottage as well as in the bonniest ha',\"\nmuttered Bertha, ominously.\n\nMatilda looked into the face of her nurse, who continued to gaze in the\ndirection of the cottage of Lincleugh.\n\n\"The mist blinds my auld een,\" she continued, as she passed her hand\nover her eyes. \"The hour is come, and there should be tokens o'\ngathering there--yet I see naething.\"\n\nMatilda looked again inquiringly into her face.\n\n\"Young een are sharp,\" said she again, \"and now the mist is rowing awa\nfrae the side o' Lincleugh, and breaking into wreaths in the valley.\nLook again, Matilda, and tell me what ye see.\"\n\n\"The removal of the mist,\" replied Matilda, directing her eyes to the\ncottage, \"has revealed a cluster of people dressed in black standing\nround the door of the cottage.\"\n\n\"Ay, I'm right,\" replied Bertha, straining her eyes to see the mourners;\n\"the hour is near; and see the sextons stand there in Death's Croft,\nlike twa ghouls, looking into the grave they have this moment finished.\"\n\nMatilda intuitively turned her eyes to the burying-ground that went\nunder the name of Death's Croft.\n\n\"You seem to know something more of this funeral than we of the castle\ngenerally learn of the fate of the distant cottagers,\" said she.\n\n\"They're lifting,\" said the nurse, overlooking Matilda's remark, \"and\nthe train moves to Death's Croft.\n\n    'Round and round\n    The unseen hand\n    Turns the fate\n    O' mortal man:\n\n    A screich at birth,\n    A grane at even--\n    The flesh to earth,\n    The soul to heav'n.'\"\n\n\"Who is dead?\" asked Matilda, as she fixed her eyes on the procession.\n\nBertha was silent. The procession reached Death's Croft, and, in a short\ntime, the rattling of the stones and earth on the coffin-lid was\ndistinctly heard. Matilda shuddered as the hollow sounds met her ear,\nand Bertha crooned the lines of poetry she had already repeated. The\nrattling sound ceased, and the loud clap of the spade indicated the\napproaching termination of the work. The mourners gradually departed,\nand the sextons, having finished their work, returned to the monastery.\n\n\"Come, come, now,\" said Bertha, \"we've seen aneugh--the flesh to earth,\nthe soul to heaven. A's dune--let us return to Roseallan.\"\n\n\"The inhabitant of that narrow cell has the advantage of me,\" muttered\nMatilda, sadly, as she rose to return home. \"The marriage with the\nRedeemer is not forced, and the union endureth for ever.\"\n\nBertha, who remained silent, hastened home, and, old as she was, several\ntimes outwalked her weak and melancholy companion. When they arrived,\nthey went direct to the apartment of Matilda, where they were met by\nLady Rollo, who congratulated her daughter upon her increasing ability\nto go through, with the necessary decorum, the ceremony of the marriage.\nAs soon as she retired, Matilda flung herself on her couch, and burst\ninto tears.\n\n\"There is only one individual who can save me from this dreadful fate,\"\nshe cried. \"Bertha, it is borne in upon my mind, that I cannot endure\nthis trial. Death or madness will be the alternative doom of the forced\nbride of the knight of Haughhead. What of George Templeton? Did you not\npromise to assist me to inquire for his health? Were we not to visit him\nwhen my strength permitted? Tell me, tell me--have you heard how he is?\"\n\n\"He is weel, my bairn,\" replied Bertha; \"better than either you or me.\"\n\n\"Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha!\" cried Matilda, rising and flinging\nher arms round the neck of the old woman; \"then there is some chance\nleft for me. I may yet be saved from that dreadful doom. I would trust\nto the honour of that man who has already saved it with my life. Ah, if\nhe is well, I may expect again to hear these dulcet sounds which thrill\nthrough my frame, and soften, by their sweet tones, the grief that sits\nlike a relentless tyrant on my heart. When, Bertha, shall we visit him?\"\n\n\"We hae already visited him,\" replied the nurse, with a strange meaning\nin her eye. \"Did ye no see him this day, bairn, laid by the side o' his\nfaither amang the saft mould o' Death's Croft?\"\n\n\"What mean you, Bertha?\" replied Matilda. \"There is a strange light in\nyour eye; I never before saw your face wear that expression. Ah! another\ndoom impends over me--I see the opening cloud from which the thunder is\nto burst on my poor head. Why look thus upon me, nurse? is there a\nhumour on your seriousness?--for you laugh not. Read the doom backwards,\nand do not incur from your Matilda the imputation of inflicting a cruel\ntorture on her who has hung at your breast.\"\n\n\"It was to save pain to my beloved Matilda,\" replied the nurse, with a\npeculiar tone, \"that I had ye hame before I told ye that the corpse ye\nthis day saw laid in the grave, in Death's Croft, was that o' George\nTempleton.\"\n\nConscious of the effect that would be produced by this announcement, the\nold woman held out her arms to receive the falling maiden. With a loud\nscream she fainted, and forcing her way through the arms of the nurse,\nfell on the floor with a loud crash. The sound brought up her mother.\nAs Matilda recovered, she looked about her wildly; her eyes recoiling\nfrom the face of her mother, on which was depicted a smile of\nincredulity, and seeking Bertha's, on which she found an expression\nequally painful. There was no refuge on either side; and, as the image\nof her dead lover rose on her fancy, she felt, in the consciousness of\nthe utter ruin of all her hopes, the stinging reproof of a tender\nconscience, that charged her with cruelty to the devoted being who, in\ndefending her honour, lost his life.\n\n\"All this will not impose upon me, Matilda,\" said her mother. \"Thou wert\nwell to-day, when thou didst walk forth; and this well-acted fit is\nintended to remove the impression I entertain of your perfect ability to\nperform the engagement your father and I have made for your benefit.\nMark me, maiden!--I will not heed thee more, if thy simulation were as\nwell acted as that of the wise King of Utica.\" And, saying these words,\nshe abruptly departed, leaving Matilda still scarcely sensible of what\nwas going on around her. The cruel dame called the nurse after her, and\nthe miserable girl was left to wrestle with her secret and divulged\ngriefs with the unaided powers of a mind broken down by her accumulated\nmisfortunes. She lay extended on her couch; and fancy, deriving new\nenergies from the impulse of feeling, became busy in the portrayment of\nthe form of her lover, whom she had, as she was satisfied, killed. She\nrecurred to the scene in the bower, with his manly countenance streaming\nwith blood; his visits to her bower afterwards--when he must have been\nsuffering the first approaches of that disease that proved fatal to him;\nand, above all, her heartless conduct in not even condescending to\nnotice this tribute of devotion in one who had saved her life.\n\nShe lay under the agony of these thoughts till it was after nightfall,\nwhen the gloom of her mind increased as the shades of darkness spread\naround her. She felt that she could suffer the agonising thoughts no\nlonger, and, starting up, and throwing over her shoulders a night-cloak,\nshe hurried out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the\nway to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there was a\nhollow, gousty wind blowing among the trees, and whistling among the\nwhins and tall grass that lay in her path. Heedless of all obstructions,\nand insensible to danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at\nthe side of the turf-dyke that surrounded the place of the dead.\nSurmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among the\ntombstones, starting occasionally, as a gust of wind made the long grass\nrustle by her side, or produced a hollow sound from the reverberation of\nsome hollow cenotaph. After considerable labour, she came to a new-made\ngrave, and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not another\nequally new among the many _tumuli_ that raised their green bosoms\naround her. On a stone at the foot of the grave she sat down, and\nwrapped the folds of the mantle round her, to keep from her tender frame\nthe chill night-winds. She rose, and knelt down upon the new-made grave,\nthe green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot was doubly\nhallowed by recollections and self-criminations, and she could not, for\na longer period than was consistent with her safety, drag herself away\nfrom it. Throwing herself on the grass in a paroxysm of grief, she\nkissed the sods, and, crying bitterly, rose, and mournfully sought the\npath that led to that home where a new misery awaited her. She wandered\nslowly along; and, as she approached the castle, saw with dismay a light\nshining in her chamber. Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would,\nby her absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was\nmerely assumed. She stood for a moment, and paused, irresolute how to\nproceed--terrified to enter the house, yet unknowing whither to go. A\nvoice struck her ear--it was that of Bertha; and, looking round, she saw\nher old nurse in close conversation with a man who had on the very\ndress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to carry her off,\nand who, she suspected, was no other than Sir Thomas Courtney. What\ncould this mean? Was it possible that Bertha was in the interest of the\nman who had attempted to force her affections, by retaining possession\nof her person? The question was an extraordinary one, and startled her.\nShe stood and looked for a moment. The man observed her, and retreated,\nwhile Bertha stealthily sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion\nincreased, and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She was\nthus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead, and in his grave, and all\nleft behind seemed to be against her. There appeared to be no refuge\nfrom the fate that awaited her. The marriage-day was on the wing, and\nwould soon cast the cloud of its dark pinion on the turrets of\nRoseallan. Her reliance on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion\nof treachery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which she\nsuspected was a part of her scheme to get her into the hands of the\nEnglish reformer, whose tenets, she thought, Bertha secretly favoured.\nThus had she lost both friend and lover--the one by death, the other by\ninfidelity; and she could scarcely tell which was most painful to\nher--such is the anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of\nfriendship. Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears; her\nfather was obdurate; her lover proud, determined, and, worse than all,\nfilled with what he called an ardent love, and which she looked upon as\na loathing, ribald passion, the indications of which she would fly as\nshe would the embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmost\nrecesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears; her dry,\nglowing eyes looked unutterable anguish; and a feverish heat pervaded\nher system, rendering her restless and miserable. She flung herself on\nher bed, where she lay tortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother\ndid not again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from\nshame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the few necessaries\nshe required. The night was passed in great anguish, and the morrow's\nlight brought no assuagement of her pain. The domestic who waited upon\nher told her that Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a\nparty, and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next day.\nBertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend her; but she\nwould, in the meantime, supply her place. The day passed with no\nvariation; there was no relief from the hope of succour; and her mind,\ndark and foreboding, sunk into a state of gloomy melancholy. The night\ncame on, and threw the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened\nwith the misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she\nheard the sound of a lute; and rising, she placed herself at the window.\nThe night was still, and the moon, which had not for some time been\nvisible, was sending forth faint beams before she set. The scene was\ncomposed and pleasant, and brought to her mind recollections that added\nto her griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure\npassing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable her to know\nwho it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any mixture of colours,\nsuggested the idea of Bertha's friend, Sir Thomas Courtney. A new source\nof curiosity now arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she\nthought, a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played by\nher lover. The sounds went to her heart; but suspicion of treachery\naccompanied them, and fired her with as much anger as her gentle nature\nwas capable of, against this new scheme to wile her from the castle. At\nthis moment, her mother and father entered.\n\n\"We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover,\" cried the father. \"I\ninsist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who it is.\"\n\n\"I do not know, father,\" replied Matilda.\n\n\"Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night when Bertha fell\non the bridge?\" asked the mother.\n\n\"I never attempted to elope,\" answered the maiden, weeping; \"but I was\nattempted to be carried off by some one in disguise; and the man that is\nnow in my bower may be he, but I know not.\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas Courtney!\" cried the mother.\n\nThe father rushed out of the room. The sounds of voices were heard in\nthe base-court, and that of George Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was\nheard. Matilda looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying\nthe body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were brought, and\nsome one called out the name of Templeton the archer. Matilda flew out\nof the room, and was in an instant in the ballium. She looked in the\nface of the wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened his eyes,\nand fixed them on her face, took her hand into his, pressed it, sighed,\nand expired.\n\nSome days afterwards, Matilda Rollo was led, dressed by the hands of her\nmother, into the presence of the priest who was to unite her and Sir\nGeorge Douglas. When asked if she consented to receive the knight as her\nhusband, she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled; she was ever\nafterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Maitland, who, sitting in\nthe wood-bower, often contemplated, with feelings we will not attempt to\ndescribe, the unhappy victim of her treachery.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO SAILORS.\n\n\nOne dark and cloudy evening in September, two young men were seen\nwalking on the road that winds so beautifully along the shore of the\nSolway, below the mouth of the Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock.\nThe summit of Criffel was hidden in clouds; the sky was dark and\nthreatening; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening crests\nof the waves, as they broke before the freshening breeze, gave warning\nthat a storm was at hand. At some distance, a two-masted boat, or\nwherry, as it is there called, lay on the beach, half afloat on the\nrising tide; and a boy sat on the green bank near, apparently watching\nher.\n\nThe two men appeared, by their dress, to be sailors. They were both in\nthe prime of life, and remarkably handsome; but their countenances were\nof very different expressions. The one, whose short, crisp hair curled\nover a forehead embrowned by exposure to the elements, had the frank,\nbold, joyous look which we love to recognise as a characteristic of the\nclass of men to which he belonged; the other, his superior in face and\nfigure, as well as his senior in years, had a deep-set dark eye, whose\nvery smile was ominous of the storm of evil passions and tempers within.\nTheir conversation was loud and earnest, and was carried on in tones of\nconsiderable occasional excitement; the violent motion of their hands,\nand the increasing loudness of their voices, gave token that passion was\nbeginning to usurp the throne of prudence; till at last the elder of the\ntwo, stung to madness by some observation of his companion, suddenly\nraised his hand, and struck him a blow on the head, which made him\nstagger for some paces. Quick as lightning, however, he recovered\nhimself, and rushed to avenge the blow. A short and violent struggle\nensued; and then the younger, whom we shall call Richard Goldie, sat\nastride the prostrate body of his antagonist, panting with violent\nexertion, and with his knees pinioning the arms of the other to the\nground; while the latter, exhausted with his exertions, made feeble and\nineffectual struggles to rise.\n\n\"Let me rise,\" said he, at last, in a sullen tone; \"you need not be\nafraid.\"\n\n\"Afraid!\" replied the other, with a contemptuous laugh; \"it wad ill set\na born and bred Nithsdale man to fear a mongrel o' a foreigner. Rise up,\nman--rise up; ye brought it on yoursel. I wadna cared for yer sharp\nwords, or yer ill tongue, had ye but keepit yer hans aff. But dinna look\nsae dour-like man. Ye needna be cast doun aboot it; it was a fair\nstand-up fecht, and ye did yer best. Come, gie's yer han, and we'll\nthink nae mair o't?\"\n\n\"Richie Goldie,\" said Cummin, rejecting the proffered hand, and drawing\nback, as if he thought its touch would be contamination, while his eye\nflashed with vindictive fire--\"Richie Goldie, hear me. When we were boys\nat school together, you were like a serpent in my eyes. Since we left\nit, you have always crossed my path, like the east wind, to blight, and\nblast, and wither all the flowers that lay in it. You have stood between\nme and my love; and now you have struck me to the earth, and wounded me,\nwhen fallen, with your taunts and sarcasms. You have roused the\nslumbering devil within me, and before he sleeps again, you shall\nbitterly repent this day's work: you shall find the mongrel foreigner is\nno mongrel in his revenge!\"\n\n\"Dinna talk that fearfu gate,\" said Goldie, laughing; \"ye'll mak a body\nthink ye're clean demented--speakin o' revenge, and lookin at a man as\nif ye wished yer een war daggers. I wish ye a better temper and a kinder\nheart. I fear neither you nor yer revenge; and as we _maun_ gang this\ntrip thegither, just put yer revenge in yer pouch, and let's 'gree and\nbe freends.\"\n\nSo saying, he sprang into the boat, which was now rocking in the tide,\nand rewarding the boy for his trouble, and followed in sullen silence by\nCummin, he hauled aft the sheets, and in a few minutes the boat was\ndancing over the waves towards Annan.\n\nIt is now necessary that we should introduce the two heroes of our tale\nmore particularly to the reader, which we will endeavour to do as\nconcisely as possible. Edward Cummin's mother was an Italian, who had\naccompanied a family of rank to England in the capacity of lady's-maid.\nShe was a beautiful woman, of warm and violent passions, and, for her\nstation in life, remarkably well-informed and clever. Her mistress had a\nhigh opinion of her, and thought she was throwing herself away when she\nasked permission to marry her master's gardener; but, finding that her\narguments to dissuade her from the connection were ineffectual, she gave\nher consent to it, and did all in her power to render her favourite's\nmarried state a comfortable one. For seven years the Cummins lived a\nhappy and industrious life together--the only fruit of their union being\na boy, the Edward of our story. He was an uncommonly handsome child, and\nwas very much noticed by the family at the hall, from whom he received\nthe rudiments of an excellent education, and acquired manners and habits\nsuperior to his station. He was the idol of his parents; but his\nfather--a sensible, steady Scotchman--did not allow his partiality to\nblind him to his son's faults, and was firm and steady in his correction\nof them; while the mother, with foolish and mistaken fondness,\nendeavoured on all occasions to conceal his failings, and soothed and\ncaressed, when she ought to have checked and punished him. The\nconsequence was, that young Edward soon learned to fear his father, and\nto despise his mother--and dissimulation and hypocrisy were the natural\nconsequences of such contradictory management. At this time\ncircumstances obliged the family to leave the hall, and settle on the\nContinent--the estate was sold, and Cummin, being deprived of his\nsituation, returned, with his family, to his native place. Here their\nnearest neighbours were the Goldies; and a considerable degree of\nintimacy arose between the two families. The boys, Richard Goldie and\nEdward Cummin, were sent, during the winter months, to the same school,\nwhere a great deal of apparent friendship subsisted between them. But,\non Edward's part, it was all seeming--for he was a hypocrite by nature,\nand, to suit his own purposes, could fawn, and cringe, and flatter, with\nan air, at the same time, of bold off-hand independence; and it was his\ninterest to keep on good terms with Richard Goldie, who, though younger\nthan himself, was more active and hardy, and who really _was_, what _he_\npretended to be, courageous and independent. But, in his heart, Edward\nhated his high-spirited companion; it was gall and wormwood to his proud\nand vindictive spirit to notice the evident partiality shown towards\nRichard by his companions, and the coolness and avoidance evinced\ntowards himself. Several circumstances at last transpired, which served\nto open Richard Goldie's eyes to the true character of his pretended\nfriend; and a coolness arose between them, which, though it never\nproceeded to an open rupture, for some time put a stop to the closeness\nof their intimacy. Years passed, and the young men both adopted the sea\nfor a profession, and sailed for some time together in the same\nvessel--an American trader, \"hailing\" from Dumfries. Here, as at school,\nthough equally active in the performance of their duties, Richard\nGoldie's frank and generous disposition rendered him a favourite with\nthe rest of the crew, while Cummin in vain strove to make himself\npopular--he always was, or fancied himself to be, an object of distrust\nand aversion. Towards Goldie he maintained the same apparently friendly\nand kindly bearing, while he was storing up bitter feelings against him\nin his heart. It was strange that, with growing, though concealed,\nhatred on the one side, and with want of confidence on the other, these\ntwo young men should have continued to associate, and to keep up a\ncompanionship which it only depended upon themselves to discontinue; but\nso it was. They had learned from the same books; they had sported\nbeneath the same roof; they had risen from boyhood to manhood together;\nand they could not, though so different in disposition, entirely sever\nthe links with which early associations had bound them together. In the\nneighbourhood of Kelton lived an old fisherman, whose daughter was one\nof the loveliest girls in the district. Our two companions, being near\nneighbours of old Grey, were very constant in their attentions to him;\nthey managed his boat for him, helped him to mend his nets, and made\nthemselves useful in every possible way. Some of the neighbours\ninsinuated, that all this kindness proceeded less from a regard for the\nold man, than from a wish to conciliate his pretty daughter. That,\nhowever, was matter of doubt; and old Grey took the \"benefit of the\ndoubt,\" and the compliment to himself. While flattering the father,\nhowever, they were both very assiduous in their attentions to the\ndaughter, and each in turn fancied that he was the object of her\nexclusive regard. But Ellen Grey was as sensible as she was lovely, and\nhad met with so much passing admiration, and knew so well what value to\nput upon it, that she was but little affected by this additional proof\nof her power. She liked both the young men as pleasant companions, but\nhad, as yet, shown no decided partiality for either. She was perfectly\nwell aware that they both admired her, and she was gratified by their\nattentions--as what pretty woman would not have been?--but the only use\nshe made of her influence over them, was to restrain their angry\npassions, and to keep up friendly feelings between them. Of the two,\nCummin was the most calculated to please the eye and attract the fancy\nof a young and inexperienced girl; for, besides being more strikingly\nhandsome than Goldie, in his intercourse with the softer sex he had\nsuccessfully studied the art of concealing and glossing over all the\nworse qualities of his nature. Goldie, on the contrary, was frank and\nopen to all alike; he was manly and independent in his address to\nfemales, and never stooped to flattery or dissimulation. Things went on\nin this uncertain way for some time, till the young men, wearied of\nsailing backwards and forwards to and from America, resolved to vary the\nscene, by making a voyage to India. Although they both felt that\nfriendship was with them but a name, yet they had become so united by\nhabit and early association, that they could not make up their minds to\nseparate, and accordingly agreed to \"enter\" on board the same ship.\n\nThe evening on which our story commences, was the one fixed upon for\ntheir departure. Goldie had been to Annan the day previous, to ascertain\nthe time of the steamboat's sailing from Liverpool, and had borrowed a\nboat from a friend of his father's there, in which he and Cummin were to\nreturn. They had passed the afternoon together at old Grey's, and Cummin\nfancied that Ellen smiled more kindly upon his rival than upon himself.\nShe immediately, with the quickness of woman's tact, perceived, and\nendeavoured to remove, the impression--but in vain; and, in so doing,\nexcited the jealous feelings of Goldie. They left the house in gloomy\nsilence; but had not proceeded far before their irritated feelings found\nvent in words--few, and cautious, and half-suppressed at first, but\ngradually increasing in loudness, and energy, and bitterness, till the\nresult was the struggle we have already described. Cummin's face, as he\nsat beside Goldie in the stern-sheets of the boat, was a true index to\nthe black and vindictive passions that boiled within his heart. His\nglaring eye, set teeth, clenched hand, and heavy breathing, told too\nplainly what was passing within. A child might have read his secret on\nhis brow--and yet he was too great a coward to utter it. He sat brooding\nover his wrath, and nourishing dark thoughts of hatred and revenge\nagainst his unconscious companion, whose momentary anger had passed\naway, and left no trace behind it.\n\n\"Ye're as quiet's a sittin hen, Ned,\" said he; \"I doot ye're hatchin\nmischief. Dinna tak on sae, man; let byganes be byganes, and think nae\nmair aboot it.\"\n\nCummin's first flush of rage had by this time passed away, and he began\nto think of the expediency of _appearing_ to be reconciled to\nGoldie--for he knew that it was only by treachery and cunning he could\nhope to gratify his longing for revenge. He, therefore, in reply to\nRichard's speech, grasped him warmly by the hand, and said--\n\n\"Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that I bear you any\nill-will on account of what has passed. The words I uttered in my\npassion I am sorry for and disclaim, now that I am cool. I _was_\nangry--very angry, certainly; but that is past. How can you wonder that\nI am sad and silent, when you remember that we may never return to the\n'bonny banks o' Nith.' We are going among strangers, and into strange\nlands: let us not forget our old friendship--let us always be friends as\nwell as countrymen.\"\n\n\"That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates,\" replied Goldie. \"What wi'\nyer English lingo and yer grand words, ye talk for a' the warld like a\nprented bulk; it does a body's lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, 'shouther\nto shouther' is the word in the Highlands, and we'll tak it for _our_\nby-word.\" And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by the\nhand.\n\nNext day, they took their passage in the steamer for Liverpool, and from\nthence made the best of their way to London. There they were soon picked\nup by one of the \"crimps,\" on the look-out for men for the\noutward-bound Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped\non board the Briton--a vessel of twelve hundred tons. Here everything\nwas strange to them, and they were subjected to a course of discipline\nto which they had not before been accustomed. They both proved\nthemselves to be smart, active young fellows, and good seamen; but at\nfirst Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie--for he was too cunning\nand timeserving to commit himself in any way; while the latter, always\nin the habit of speaking out his mind boldly and freely, frequently got\nhimself into trouble by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness\nof his remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in their\ntrue colours, and the scale was turned in favour of Goldie, whose frank\nand open manners, and straightforward, fearless confidence, established\nhim in the general good opinion of his officers and messmates; while, on\nthe other hand, the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more\napparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance to the\nlatter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates rankled deep in the\nheart of the vindictive Cummin; and, forgetting that he himself was the\ncause of it, he attributed all to the influence of the detested Goldie.\nA circumstance soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of\nevil passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was within a\nfew degrees of the equator, when one day a strange sail was seen ahead,\nwhich proved to be a \"homeward-bounder.\" The captain immediately\ndetermined to board her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief\nmate.\n\n\"Midshipman! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the letters, and pass\nthe word fore and aft that a bag is going to be made up for England.\nFirst cutters, clean themselves!\"\n\nThe breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as the stranger was\nstill at a considerable distance, orders were given to \"pipe to dinner,\"\nand for the cutter's crew to come up as soon as they had dined, to\nlower the boat down. In a short time, the coxswain of the boat--a fine,\nactive, young north-country man--came up with three of his crew, two of\nwhom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat, while the\ncoxswain, with the other man, jumped in, to be lowered down in her. One\nof the men at the \"falls\" was Cummin; lowering away, quickly and\ncarelessly, he allowed the rope to run too quickly round the \"cleat,\"\nand not being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go \"by the\nrun.\" The consequence was, that the stern of the boat was plunged into\nthe water, while the bow hung suspended in the other tackle--the men\nwere thrown out, and the poor coxswain, not being able to swim, made two\nor three ineffectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident\nwas so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little apparent\ndanger--for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the poor fellow\nwas within arm's-length almost of the boat's gunwale--that he was gone\nalmost before an alarm was given. The men were all below at dinner; but\nill news flies fast--in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways, each\nhurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first up, and, rushing\naft on the poop, he exclaimed, \"Where is he?\" and, hardly waiting for an\nanswer, sprung over the taffrail into the water, a height of twenty\nfeet, and dived after the sinking man; but in vain--the poor fellow was\ngone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin severely for his\ncarelessness, degraded him from his station as topman, made him a\n\"sweeper,\" and stopped his allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly\npraised on the quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a\nhandsome present from the captain, besides being promoted to the station\nof boatswain's mate at the first opportunity. This was a bitter potion\nfor the moody and jealous spirit of Cummin; and he brooded day and night\nover his fancied wrongs.\n\nThe ship was now rapidly approaching the \"line,\" and the crew had been\nfor some time anticipating with great glee the day of fun and license\nwhich was in store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with\npractising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-water sailors\nwho had never been to the southward of the equator; and strange and\nmysterious were the notions which many of the latter formed of the\ndreaded \"line,\" from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some\nimagined that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not be cut\nwithout the permission of the old king of the waves; others were gulled\ninto the belief that there was a large tree growing out of the water, to\nwhich the ship was to be made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were\ngone through. But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed\ninto certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his report to the\ncaptain--\n\n\"The sun's up, sir.\"\n\n\"What is the latitude?\"\n\n\"Fifty minutes north, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well--make it twelve o'clock.\"\n\n\"Strike eight-bells, quartermaster!\" And away went the old fellow\n\"forward,\" to strike the bell, brimful of the intelligence he had just\noverheard; and in two minutes it was known all over the ship, that, if\nthe breeze held, they would cross the \"line\" before morning.\n\n\"There it is at last,\" muttered one of the middies, who had been for\nsome minutes apparently straining his eyes through a three-foot\n\"Dollond,\" and who, knowing he was within ear-shot of a knot of young\ncadets, _muttered_ loud enough to be overheard.\n\n\"What is it?\" said a young Irishman.\n\n\"The line, to be sure--the equinoxial line--which we have been so\nanxiously looking for.\"\n\nIn the meantime, great was the bustle among all the old hands on board.\nPaint and tar were in constant requisition. A deputation had waited some\ndays before upon the lady passengers, requesting from them some of their\ncast-off wearing apparel, as the crew expected \"Mrs Neptune\" to honour\nthem with a visit in a few days, and wished to have a change of raiment\nin readiness for her, as she would most likely be wet and cold with her\nlong cruise upon the water. A list had been drawn up, ready for\npresentation to Neptune, on his arrival, of all those who were for the\nfirst time crossing the line; and those of the passengers who were\nunwilling to undergo the ceremonies attendant upon being made \"freemen\nof the line,\" had expressed their readiness to pay the customary\nexempting tribute, under the salutary dread of the razors, of three\ndegrees of comparison, which were duly brandished before their eyes.\n\nTowards evening, the breeze gradually decreased; the clouds were tinged\nwith all the gorgeous hues of a tropical sunset, assuming every variety\nof strange and grotesque appearances; and the water reflected back their\nimage, if possible, with increased splendour. As far as the eye could\nreach, nothing was visible but the glassy, undulating surface of the\nsea, partially rippled by the \"cat's paws\"[5] which played over it. The\nship was gliding slowly over the smooth expanse of water--her large\nsails flapping heavily against the masts, as the sea rose and fell, and\nher smaller canvas just swelling in the breeze, and lending its feeble\naid to urge her onwards; the passengers were taking their evening lounge\non the poop and quarterdeck; while the ship's \"band\" were \"discoursing\neloquent music\" for their amusement; and the crew were scattered in\ngroups about the forecastle and waist. Just as the dusk of evening began\nto render objects obscure and indistinct, the _look-out_ on the\nforecastle called out--\n\n[Footnote 5: Light, partial airs.]\n\n\"A light right ahead, sir!\"\n\n\"Very well, my boy; keep your eye upon it, and let me know if we near\nit.\"\n\nIn a short time the man exclaimed, \"The light is close aboard of us,\nsir!\" and, at the same moment, a bugle-note was heard, and a glimmering\nlight appeared, which gradually enlarged, throwing a broad, blue,\nunearthly glare over the fore part of the ship, till the smallest rope\nwas as visible as in broad daylight; while a loud, confused, roaring\nnoise was heard, and a stentorian voice shouted, apparently from the\nsea--\n\n\"Ho! the ship, ahoy!\"\n\n\"Holloa!\" replied the officer.\n\n\"What ship is that?\"\n\n\"The Honourable Company's ship Briton.\"\n\n\"Ah! my old friend, Captain Oakum!--welcome back again! I am too busy to\ncome on board just now; but I will pay you a visit to-morrow forenoon.\nBe sure to have everything ready for me, for I have a great deal of work\non my hands just now.--Good-night!\"\n\n\"Good-night!\"\n\nAgain the bugle-note was heard; and then the car of his watery\nmajesty--looking to vulgar and unpoetic eyes very like a lighted\ntar-barrel--floated slowly astern, throwing a flickering glare over the\nsails, as it passed; while the \"band\" almost knocked down what little of\nthe breeze was left with their counter-blast of \"Rule Britannia,\" which\nthey puffed away with all their might and main, till the car of Neptune\nsank beneath the sea.\n\n\"Come forward,\" said a middie to the cadets near him, just before the\n_car_ dropped astern--\"come _forward_, and see Neptune's car; it is\nworth your while to look at the old boy, whisking along at the tail of\nhalf-a-score of dolphins, with a poop-light as big as a full-moon\nblazing over his stern; you can see him quite plain from the\nforecastle.\" And away they all ran, helter-skelter, towards the\nforecastle--the middie knowingly allowing the young aspirants for\nmilitary distinction to get ahead of him, and bolting under the\nforecastle, while they ran thundering up the ladder. They had hardly\nreached the upper step, before a slight sprinkling from aloft made them\nlook upwards; and, while they were gaping, open-mouthed, in wonder from\nwhence the rain could proceed, as not a cloud was to be seen, they had\nsoon reason to think that a waterspout had burst over their heads;\nfor--splash, splash, splash--bucketful after bucketful of water was\npoured on their devoted heads from the \"foretop.\" As soon as they\nrecovered from the momentary shock and surprise, they made a precipitate\nretreat, amid roars of laughter from all parts of the ship, in which\nthey were fain to join, to conceal their mortification.\n\nAll was now quiet for the night; the \"band\" had played \"God save the\nKing;\" the watch had been called; and the captain's steward had\nannounced, \"Spirits on the table, sir.\"\n\n\"I had no idea, Captain Oakum,\" said one of the passengers at the\n\"cuddy\" table, \"that Neptune was such a dashing blade, with his flourish\nof trumpets and car of flame. I shall feel a greater respect for him in\nfuture. Does he always announce his approach in such style?\"\n\n\"No; he sometimes does it by deputy. Last voyage, I was walking the\nquarterdeck with some of my passengers, when we were all startled by\nseeing a figure, in white, come flying down out of the maintop. It\nfluttered its wings for a while, and then alighted on the deck, close\nbefore us; touched its hat, and delivered a letter into my hands; and\nthen--whisk! before we had time to look round us, it was flying up into\nthe mizzentop. The figure in white was one of the topmen--intended, I\nsuppose, to represent Mercury; and the letter was from the King of the\nSea, announcing his approach. The men had rove a couple of 'whips' from\nthe main and mizzen mast-heads, and the end of each being made fast\nround 'Mr Mercury's' waist, he was lowered from the one top, and 'run\nup' into the other.\"\n\n\"Capital! It must have been rather startling, in the dusk of evening, to\nsee such a strange sea-bird alight at your feet.\"\n\nThe next morning, as soon as the decks were washed, preparations were\nmade for the approaching ceremony. The jolly-boat was got in from the\nstern, and secured at the gangway, from which a long particoloured pole\nprojected, announcing that this was \"Neptune's free-and-easy\nshaving-shop.\" All the \"scuppers\" of the upper deck were stopped, and\nthe pumps were kept in constant motion, till the lee-side of the deck\nwas afloat, and the jolly-boat full to the \"gunwale.\" An old sail was\ndrawn across the fore-part of the ship's \"waist,\" like the curtain of a\ntheatre, to conceal the actors in the approaching ceremony, while making\ntheir necessary preparations. There was an air of bustling and eager\nmystery among all the old hands, which, to the uninitiated, gave rise to\nvague and unpleasant feelings of fear. It was in vain they strained\ntheir eyes to penetrate the mysteries of the sanctum concealed by the\nprovoking curtain, from behind which sundry notes of preparation were\nheard, mixed with disjointed ejaculations--such as, \"A touch more black,\nJem.\" \"How does my scraper sit?\" \"Where's my nose?\"--and so on. All was\nbustle and animation; the carpenter's gang converting an old\ngun-carriage into a triumphal car; the gunner preparing flags for its\ndecoration; his mates busy, with their paint-brushes, bedaubing the tars\nwho were to act as sea-horses; and the charioteer preparing and fitting\non Neptune's livery. At length all was ready for the reception of the\nKing of the Sea.\n\n\"On deck there!\" shouted the man at the masthead.\n\n\"Holloa!\" replied the officer of the watch.\n\n\"A strange sail right ahead, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well, my boy. Can you make out what she is?\"\n\n\"She looks small, sir--not bigger than a boat.\"\n\nThe officer made his report to the captain, who kindly entered into the\nspirit of the thing, to gratify the men, and desired to be informed when\nthe boat was near the ship.\n\n\"We are nearing the boat fast, sir.\" And the captain made his appearance\non deck, to reconnoitre the approaching stranger.\n\n\"Ship ahoy!\" roared a voice ahead; \"lay your maintopsail to the mast,\nand give us a rope for the boat.\"\n\n\"Forecastle there!--a rope for the boat! Let go the maintop bowline!\nSquare away the mainyard, after-guard!\" bawled the officer of the deck.\n\nIn the meantime, the unfortunates who had never crossed the line were\ndriven below; the \"gratings\" were laid on fore and aft, and sentries\nwere stationed at the hatchways to prevent escape.\n\nA bugle-note was now heard murdering the \"Conquering Hero,\" who soon\nmade his appearance in person, over the bows, and stood for a moment in\na _graceful_ attitude on the night-head, where he really cut quite an\nimposing figure, with his robe of sheep-skins and flowing beard of\n\"oakum,\" and grasping in his extended hand a trident, with a fine fish\non its prongs. A few minutes after he had descended into the \"waist,\"\nthe screen we before mentioned was withdrawn, and the procession moved\non. First came the ship's musicians, fantastically dressed for the\noccasion, and playing \"Rule Britannia\" with all their might and main;\nnext came the triumphal car, surmounted by a canopy decorated with flags\nof all nations, under which were seated Neptune, Amphitrite, or Mrs Nep,\nas Jack calls her, and a little triton; and immediately in the rear\nfollowed the _suite_, consisting of the barber, doctor, clerk, and about\na dozen half-naked and particoloured demigods, who acted as\nwater-bailiffs. Each of these gentlemen merits a particular\ndescription; for they were all great men, in their way. The doctor wore\nan immense _floured_ wig, and an uncommonly long, unwholesome-looking\nnose, and over all a rusty piece of tarpaulin, pinched into three\ncorners, to represent a hat; under his arm he carried his family\nmedicine-chest, the lid of which was open, and displayed to view pills\nand powders of all shapes, sizes, and colours, in great profusion; and\nin his hand he carried a large bottle, labelled, \"Neptune's elixir.\" The\nbarber carried, slung over his arm, his shaving-box (a large tar\nbucket), with brushes to correspond; the pouch in the front of his apron\nwas filled with little etceteras, such as boxes of _grease_ for the\nhair, _powder_ for the teeth, &c.; and in his hand he brandished three\nrazors, each about three feet long--one made of smooth iron hoop, the\nnext about as genteel as a hand-saw, and the third, meant for particular\nfavourites, with teeth grinning at each other, half-an inch apart, more\nor less. The clerk, or scribe, was a dandy of the first water: he had on\na small raree hat, which looked as if it had been forced up on one side\nby an immense crop of oakum curls, which sprouted most luxuriantly from\nunder one of the rims. His whiskers were pointed to the wind with the\ngreatest nicety; and from behind his ear peeped the quill, his badge of\noffice; while a little inkstand dangled at his button-hole. The tips of\nhis nose and ears were almost hidden by a most magnificently stiff\ncollar, and his chin nestled in a bed of frill, made to match the collar\nof the best _foolscap_. All these _gentlemen_ wore _long togs_.[6]\n\n[Footnote 6: Coats]\n\nOn came the pageant: Neptune's sheep-skins and trident looked very\nmajestic; Amphitrite, a tall, high-cheek-boned Scotch \"topman,\" with the\nassistance of a little red paint and oakum locks, and arrayed\n_cap-a-pie_ in cabin finery, made a very passable representation of a\nshe-monster; the barber brandished his razors; the scribe paraded his\nlist, and, every now and then, made use of an old frying-pan, with the\nbottom knocked out of it, for a quizzing-glass; the jack-_tars_ who\nacted as sea-horses pranced as uncouthly as jack-_asses_; and the\ncoachman, seated on the fore-part of the car, and proud of his livery\nand shoulder-knots, cracked his whip, d----d his horses for _lubbers_,\nand _singing out_ to them, \"Hard a-port!\" contrived to _weather_ the\nafter hatchway, and then _bear up_ round the \"capstan,\" where, with a\ngraceful pull-up of the reins, very much like a strong pull at the\nmainbrace, and an \"Avast there!\" to his obedient cattle, he stopped the\ncar. The captain was standing under the poop-awning, in readiness to\nreceive his majesty, who welcomed him most graciously to his dominions.\n\n\"Glad to see you once more, Captain Oakum,\" said he; \"it warms the\ncockles of my heart to fall in with an old friend; and my wife here and\nI both wants comfort of some kind, after our long morning ride over the\nwater; the cold air is apt to give one a cold in the stomach.\" The\ndoctor immediately stepped forward with his bottle, and presented it to\nhis majesty. \"No, no,\" said he; \"none of your doctor's stuff for _me_;\nkeep that for my children; Captain Oakum knows my complaint of old.\"\n\nThe captain laughed, and his steward, taking the hint, produced a bottle\ncontaining a different kind of _elixir_, which old Neptune seemed to\nquaff with peculiar relish. A glass was then offered to Amphitrite, who\npretended to reject it, and tried to blush--in vain.\n\n\"Come, come! none of that 'ere humbug, old gal,\" said the king; \"tip it\nover; it'll do you good.\" And away it went, where many of its fellows\nhad gone before.\n\n\"Ah!\" said she, smacking her lips with unqueenlike gusto, \"glorious\nstuff to drive out a cold!\"\n\nThe whole of the suite were immediately seized with the same complaint,\nand all required the application of the same remedy.\n\n\"I understand, Captain Oakum, you have a good many of my children on\nboard.\"\n\n\"Yes, a few. I hope you will treat them kindly.\"\n\n\"Oh, leave that to me, sir; I'll give none of them more nor they\ndesarves.\"\n\nHe then thrust out his trident to the captain's steward, with a graceful\nair, as if he meant to impale him; but it was only for the purpose of\npresenting the fish on its prongs, as an addition to his honour the\ncaptain's dinner.\n\n\"I wish it war better; but we've had a sad sickly season down below, and\nall the dolphins and bonitos are on the doctor's list with influenzie.\"\n\nDuring this interview, the men were all standing near the gangway, armed\nwith buckets of water, wet swabs, &c., impatient for the commencement of\nthe fun.\n\n\"But I must wish you good-morning, Captain Oakum; I have no time to\nlose. I have two or three other ships to board this morning.\"\n\n\"Good-morning!\"\n\nThe band struck up \"Off she goes.\" \"Carry on, you lubbers!\" said the\ncoachman. Crack went the whip--off pranced the horses--and away whirled\nthe car, which no sooner approached the gangway, than the procession was\ngreeted with torrents of water, and his \"godship\" was half smothered in\nhis own element. After gasping for breath, and shaking off the\nsuperfluous moisture, Neptune and the _fair_ Amphitrite took their\nstation on \"the booms,\" to superintend the operations of the day. The\nclerk handed to his majesty a list of his new subjects, who were\nrecommended to his peculiar attention.\n\n\"Richard Goldie is the first on the list,\" said Neptune; \"send him up!\"\nAnd away scampered the Tritons (or constables), who were naked to the\nwaist, the upper parts of their bodies being hideously painted,\nfantastic-looking caps on their heads, and short painted staves in their\nhands. The main-hatch \"grating\" was lifted, and up came our friend\nRichard, blindfolded, between two constables, laughing and joking with\nhis captors as he came along. As soon as he made his appearance, Neptune\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Who have we got here? I ought to know the cut of that younker's jib.\nAy, I'm blowed if it isn't the same that was cruising about the other\nday after a drowning shipmate. One of the right sort that. Just put my\nmark upon him--give him a touch of the tar-brush, and let him go.\"\n\nAlmost untouched, Richard was allowed to escape forward, where he\nimmediately equipped himself with a wet \"swab,\" and prepared to follow\nthe example of those around him.\n\n\"Edward Cummin! Bring Edward Cummin!\"\n\nAnd Cummin made his appearance, escorted as Goldie had been, with a face\nalmost as white as the handkerchief that blinded his eyes, and shivering\nwith anticipation. The attendant Tritons seated him on the edge of the\njolly-boat at the gangway; and the barber, turning to Neptune, and\nholding up his three razors, said--\n\n\"Please your honour, which?\"\n\n\"Let us hear first what he has to say for himself,\" said Neptune.\n\n\"Where do ye come from?\"\n\n\"From Scot----oo! oo!\" said the poor fellow, as the barber thrust a\nwell-filled tar-brush into his mouth.\n\n\"How long is it since you left it?\"\n\nBut Cummin had gained experience; he set his teeth, pressed his lips\ntogether, and sat, a ludicrous picture of fear, mixed with desperate\nresolution.\n\n\"A close Scot, I see,\" said Neptune; \"give him some soap to soften his\n_fizz_, and teach him to open his mouth. Shave him clean.\"\n\nThe barber lathered his victim's cheeks with tar, which he _dabbed_ on\nwithout much regard for his feelings; while the Tritons, with their\nhands in his hair, _tugged_ his head about in the proper direction. The\noperation was performed with the \"favourite's\" razor, which left the\nfurrows of its _fine_ edge upon his cheeks. The doctor was standing by\nwith his vial of tar-water, and his box of indescribable pills, ready to\ntake advantage of every involuntary gasp of the poor patient. At last,\nafter daubing his hair with rancid grease, \"to make it grow,\" the\nbandage was suddenly taken from his eyes, and he was thrown backward\ninto the boat, and left floundering among the tarry water, till some\ncharitable hand dragged him out. Half-drowned and half-blinded, Cummin\nstaggered forwards, blessing his stars that his torments were over; but,\nalas! he soon found that he had escaped from the fangs of the torturing\nfew, only to encounter the tender mercies of the vindictive many. Groans\nand hisses from all quarters gave token of the dislike in which he was\nheld--bucketfuls of water were dashed in his face, and a rope drawn\nsuddenly right across, tripped up his feet, and he floundered on the\ndeck at the mercy of his tormentors, who, whenever he attempted to rise,\ndashed torrents of water upon him, and half-buried him in wet \"swabs.\"\nMad with rage and mortification, wearied and exhausted, Cummin at last\nreached the forecastle, where he sat down for awhile, to recover breath\nand strength.\n\n\"Come, Cummin, man,\" shouted Goldie to him--\"come and join the sport.\"\n\nThere was something in Goldie's joyous and laughing tone which jarred\nupon Cummin's excited feelings--it seemed to him like an insult, that\nhis companion should be so merry and happy, while he was sitting, like\nan evil spirit, scowling on the scene of mirth before him. He made no\nreply to Goldie, but muttered to himself--\"Laugh on, my young cock of\nthe walk; you shall pay dearly for your fun.\" From that day, Cummin\nbecame an altered man in manner; he no longer attempted to conceal his\ndislike to Goldie, but on all occasions did his utmost to thwart and\nannoy him. He used to pace up and down the deck, in gloomy silence,\nwhile the rest of the crew were sleeping around him; and dark and deadly\nwere the thoughts that crowded through his brain. He felt that he was\ndisliked and avoided by all his companions, and, attributing their\nestrangement to the arts and influence of Goldie, over and over again\ndid he vow bitter revenge against him. But how was his revenge to be\ngratified? There was the rub. He was too much of a coward to attack him\nopenly, and feared to attempt any secret mischief, as he knew that he\nwould be immediately suspected as the author of it; for his hatred to\nGoldie had, by this time, been remarked throughout the ship, where, it\nwas equally obvious, Goldie had no other enemy. But, while he is\nmeditating mischief, we must go on with our story.\n\nWhen the Briton arrived in Madras Roads, several vessels were lying at\nanchor there; and one of them, a small merchantman, had her foretopsail\nloose, and \"blue-peter\" flying. This was the Columbine, a Liverpool\nship, which was expected to sail that night about twelve o'clock. As\nCummin stood on the forecastle in the evening, after the hammocks were\npiped down, looking gloomily at that vessel, his countenance suddenly\nbrightened up. He rubbed his hands together, and laughed aloud; then\nchecking himself, and looking cautiously round, to see whether any one\nwas near him, he dived below. At midnight, the Columbine \"got under\nway,\" and stood to sea.\n\nNext morning, while washing decks, the officer of the deck called out,\n\"Midshipman! I don't see Cummin; send him up.\"\n\n\"Cummin!--Richard Cummin!\" was echoed round the decks; but no Richard\nCummin appeared.\n\nThe hands were called out to muster; Cummin did not answer to his name.\nStrict search was made for him, but he was nowhere to be found. The\nfirst and most natural conclusion was, that he had deserted to the\nColumbine; but it was too late now to ascertain. But that belief was a\ngood deal shaken, when one of the men, who happened to have been awake\nat eleven o'clock the night before, said that he had heard a loud splash\nin the water, and ran immediately to the \"port\" to look out; but all was\nsilent again; and, if it was, as he now supposed, Cummin, he must have\ngone down immediately. He did not give the alarm at the time, for he was\nhalf-asleep when he heard the noise, and thought he must have been\nmistaken. While the man was giving this evidence on the quarterdeck, up\ncame Goldie with a piece of paper, which he had found on the pillow of\nhis hammock, on which were scrawled the following words:--\"Richie, I\nmust put an end to this life of misery and mortification; when I am\ngone, perhaps you will think more kindly of me. I was wicked enough to\ntalk of revenge. I leave my chest and all my traps to you. Be kind to my\npoor mother, for the sake of your unhappy shipmate.\" It was now evident\nto all that the poor fellow, whose dejection and reserve had been long\nnoticed, had committed suicide; and, much as he was disliked, his\ndisappearance cast a gloom over the ship's company for some days. Goldie\ngrieved sincerely for him, now that he was gone--all his violence, all\nhis tempers were forgotten, and Richard only thought of him as the\nfriend of his boyhood, and the companion of his early days; and he was\nmuch affected by the kindly feeling manifested in his note.\n\nWe must now transport ourselves, for awhile, on board the Columbine, and\nfollow Edward Cummin and his fortunes. On the night of the Briton's\narrival in Madras Roads, Cummin, who was a capital swimmer, dropped\nunperceived under the bows of the Columbine, about an hour before she\ngot \"under way,\" and climbed into the \"head\" by a rope that was hanging\noverboard. He passed the look-out on the forecastle; but the man, being\nhalf-asleep, took him for one of the ship's company. He then _dived_\ndown the main-hatchway, and concealed himself in the \"heart\" of one of\nthe cable-tiers, where he remained undiscovered during the day. Next\nnight, when all was quiet, he stole up on the gundeck, and was in the\nact of helping himself out of one of the bread-bags there, when a man of\nthe mess, who happened to be awake, seized him as a thief, and dragged\nhim on the upper deck.\n\n\"Bring a light, quartermaster,\" said the mate; \"let us see who this\nskulking thief is. Holloa!\" continued he, starting back, with surprise,\n\"who the deuce have we got here? Where did you spring from?\"\n\n\"I came up from the cable-tier to get something to eat, sir; I was very\nhungry.\"\n\n\"Out of the cable-tier! But how did you get _into_ the cable-tier?\"\n\n\"I swam----\"\n\n\"Swam into the cable-tier! You must be a clever fellow. Come, none of\nyour tricks upon travellers--tell the truth at once.\"\n\n\"I was going to tell you when you stopped me, sir. I am a 'Briton.'\"\n\n\"Well, what has that to do with it?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, I was tired of being one.\"\n\n\"Tired of being a Briton, and swam into the cable-tier! What do you\nmean?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, that I was one of the crew of the Briton, the Indiaman that\nlay next you in the roads, and I cut and run from her, and got on board\nof you, just before you got under way.\"\n\n\"Here's a pretty business! But we must make the best of a bad bargain. I\nsuppose you're one of the company's _hard ones_.\"\n\nThe Columbine was short-handed, having lost several men at Madras, and\nthe captain, though he blustered a little when he first heard the story,\nwas in his heart pleased to have got such an unexpected addition to his\ncrew; and, after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was\nrated able seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's arrival at\nLiverpool, Cummin immediately set off homewards, and made his appearance\nat Kelton again, about eight months after he had left it, much to the\nsurprise of his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his\nsufferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of poor\nGoldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to cholera. After the\ndeath of his friend, driven to desperation by the ill-usage he was\nexposed to, he determined to run from his ship on the first opportunity,\nand had accordingly deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all\noccasions, in the warmest terms of Goldie's great kindness to him, and\nexpressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad news was a death-blow\nto the poor old Goldies, who never recovered from the effects of it, and\nwho, broken-hearted and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks\nafterwards, to an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and\nsincerely for Richard Goldie; she had always liked him as an agreeable\ncompanion, and respected him as an amiable and steady character; and\nthough, at first, she had given the preference to the plausible Cummin,\nyet, before they parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon\nher better sense, that she had begun to experience that kind of\npartiality towards him which might in time have ripened into a warmer\nfeeling. With the quick eye of jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this\nchange in her feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself.\nHe had never really loved her; his object in appearing to do so had been\nto annoy Goldie; but the wound thus given to his vanity had rankled in\nhis heart, to the exclusion of every other feeling but that of a wish\nto punish her for her defection.\n\nHe now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was doubly assiduous in\nhis attentions towards him. He had become, apparently, quite an altered\ncharacter--that is, he had become a more finished hypocrite; he had\nlearned to calm his temper and to smooth his brow; and appeared, on all\noccasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man began to feel the\nkindest regard towards him, and pointed him out to his daughter's\nattention as a pattern for the young men around, and one who would make\na steady and respectable husband. There was at first, however, a\nchangeableness in his manner towards Ellen that puzzled and surprised\nher. At times, he was almost servilely obsequious in his attentions\ntowards her; at others, when he thought himself unobserved, she was\nstartled by the malevolent expression of his countenance, and by the\nderisive smile that played round his lips, as he gazed upon her. Cummin\nnoticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and became more\nguarded in his behaviour; he redoubled his attentions, and never allowed\na shade of unpleasant feeling to be visible on his brow. His\nperseverance had the desired effect of reviving her old partiality, and\nin an evil hour she consented to become his wife. The morning after\ntheir wedding, he had disappeared, and had never since been heard of. A\ndeserted bride, she was left in all the misery of uncertainty respecting\nhis fate or his intentions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she\ncould impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had treated her\nfrom the moment of their union.\n\nBut we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. Nothing particular\noccurred during the remainder of the voyage of the Briton, until their\narrival in China, where, in consequence of a dispute with the\nauthorities, the ships were detained for several months, and a year\nelapsed before they returned to England. As soon as he had received his\npay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he proceeded by steam to\nAnnan. When his foot was fairly planted on the soil of Dumfries-shire,\nand his face was turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the\nexuberance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved his\nhat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which could only be\nexcused in a young sailor just let loose; and which, had they been\nwitnessed by others of a cooler temperament, would have been looked upon\nas the freaks of a madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his\nparents, and of bonny Ellen Grey; and with thoughts of her came a sad\nrecollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of flattering notion that the\nlatter had had good cause for his jealousy on the night of their\nquarrel, when Ellen, every feature of whose face and every note of whose\nvoice were vividly present to his memory, smiled so sweetly upon him,\nand bid him take care of himself \"for a' our sakes.\"\n\nIt was late in the evening when he approached Kelton, on his way\nhomewards; and he resolved to give the Greys a call as he went past. At\nlength he saw the well-known cottage, and a flush came over his brow\nwhen he recognised Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to\ngreet her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated, he\nwas surprised and mortified to see her start up with a faint scream, and\navert her eyes, with looks of horror and alarm.\n\n\"Ellen!\" exclaimed he--\"hae ye forgotten me? What gars ye turn awa yer\nhead, as though ye'd seen a bogle? Am I sae changed, that ye dinna ken\nyer auld freend, Richie Goldie?\" And he advanced to take her hand. The\ngirl started from his touch, with a cold shudder, and muttered--\n\n\"Is it no gane yet?\"\n\n\"What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen? There's nought here but yersel and\nme? Can ye no speak to me? It sets ye ill to turn the cauld shouther to\nan auld freend.\"\n\nThe girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over her shoulder, and\nexclaimed, with a start of joy--\n\n\"Oh! I believe it's himsel!\"\n\n\"Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen?\"\n\n\"For yer wraith, Richie; they tell't me ye were dead.\"\n\n\"And wha tell't ye sic a lee?\"\n\n\"He tell't me sae himsel.\"\n\n\"And wha was he?\"\n\n\"Ned Cummin: he said he saw ye dee.\"\n\n\"Ned Cummin! Why the lassie's head's in a creel. Ned drowned himsel,\npuir chiel! in Madras Roads; and mony a sair thocht has it gien me that\nwe war unfreends when we parted.\"\n\n\"Weel, Richie, a' I ken is, that it's Gude's truth that Ned Cummin\ntell't me ye were dead--and I believed him.\" And the tears gushed from\nher eyes as she said so. \"But come ben the hoose, and see my faither.\"\n\nOld Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at the apparition,\nas he thought it, of Richard Goldie; for they both were infected with\nthe superstition of the country, and firmly believed in the doctrine of\nwraiths, bogles, and other supernatural appearances.\n\n\"And, noo,\" said the old man, \"that we ken that ye're yersel, and no yer\nwraith, sit doun and tell us a' that's happened ye sin ye gaed awa.\"\n\n\"I hae nae time 'enow,\" said Richard; \"I maun awa hame; for I haena seen\nmy ain folk yet--mair's the shame; but I'll come back the morn's morn,\nand gie ye my cracks.\"\n\n\"But Richie, my man, hae ye no heard--d'ye no ken?\" said the old man,\nhesitatingly.\n\n\"What's happened?\" cried Goldie, alarmed. \"Are they no a' weel at hame?\"\n\n\"They heard ye were dead, Richie: and ye ken, they aye said that ye war\nthe life o' their hearts--they were never like the same folk again; the\ngrass o' Caerlav'rock kirkyard is green abune their heads.\"\n\nGoldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing intelligence; he\nhad loved his parents with the fondest affection, and the hope of\ncheering and supporting them in their declining years had been the\nmainspring of his activity and industry. He covered his face with his\nhands, and remained for some moments silent; and at last, with a sudden\noutburst of grief, exclaimed--\n\n\"Gane! baith gane! and I am left alane without a leevin freend, or a\nroof to shelter me!\"\n\n\"Yese no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore. Come, bide whar\nye are; ye'll aye be welcome for the sake o' langsyne. I hae aften\nwished, and I ance thocht, that oor Ellen and you micht come thegither;\nbut it wasna to be.\"\n\n\"And what for can it no be?\" said Richie, forgetting his recent loss for\nthe moment, and looking at Ellen. But she burst into tears, and left the\nroom.\n\nGoldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it; and the old\nman, in explanation, told him the story we have already related, and\nexpressed his surprise at Cummin's conduct, and his wonder as to what\ncould be his motive for such deception.\n\n\"What for did he tell us ye were dead, Richie?\"\n\n\"I see it a' noo,\" said Richard: \"when I struck him to the ground, he\nswore he would hae revenge--and sair revenge has he taen. My puir\nfaither and mither! What had they dune?\" And the poor fellow hung down\nhis head, and sobbed aloud.\n\n\"But what could hae garred him leave our Ellen?\"\n\n\"Oh, he kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she thocht mair o' me\nthan o' himsel; and he just married her to spite me, and to be revenged\nupon her for slighting him at first. But there's a time for a' things;\nif I get a grip on him, he's repent it.\"\n\nIt was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the disappointment\nof all his fondest hopes; and when the first violence of his grief was\npast, the springiness and buoyancy of his disposition seemed to have\nleft him entirely. He became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely\never seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his usual\noccupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if it mattered not to\nhim how they were performed, and as if they were to him a mere\nmechanical and tiresome duty. Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever;\nbut she was now, though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a\ncoldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still reigned but\ntoo powerfully in his breast. He was _reserved_, because he felt a kind\nof painful pleasure in brooding in silence over his sorrows. In thinking\nof his poor parents, and of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife but\nfor another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the\ncold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery. He would fain\nhave left a place which, much as he loved it, only kept awake so many\npainful recollections, had he not been withheld from doing so by a\nstrong feeling of gratitude to old Grey, who was now unable to work for\nhis own subsistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his daily\nsupport. Ellen herself, who was much liked in the neighbourhood, and\nwhose story had excited much interest among the neighbouring gentry,\nobtained a good deal of employment as a dressmaker, which enabled her\nnot only to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure\nmany luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have obtained. At\nlength, after lingering for some months in a state of gradual decay, the\nold man died, and Goldie, after having seen Ellen comfortably settled in\na neighbouring family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went\nto Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been heard of\nCummin, although nearly two years had elapsed since his disappearance;\nand Goldie, who could not forget his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a\nstate of most unpleasant uncertainty.\n\nRichard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was walking one day\non the Clarence Dock, as some carts were being unloaded. The horse in\none of them took fright at some passing object, and dashed off at full\nspeed. A sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and attempted\nto stop it; but was instantly knocked down with great violence, and the\nwheel of the cart passed over his head. Richard, who was close to the\nspot, hastened to his assistance; and was horrified at the sight that\nmet his eyes. The poor fellow was senseless; his arm appeared to be\nbroken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered with gore and\ndust. Richard raised his head on a log of wood lying near, loosened his\ncollar, and, a crowd instantly collecting, requested some of them to run\nfor the nearest doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the\nbystanders, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses near,\nwhere he lay for some time panting and groaning; but apparently quite\ninsensible.\n\nAfter they had all gone, the wounded man turned to Richard, and, looking\nin his face, gave a heavy sigh.\n\n\"Are ye in much pain?\" said Goldie.\n\n\"Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie,\" replied the man,\nin feeble and imperfect accents. \"Do you not know me?\"\n\n\"Mercifu powers!\" exclaimed Richie; \"sure it canna be Ned Cummin?\"\n\n\"It _is_ Edward Cummin, Richie, your false friend, your once bitter\nenemy, that lies bruised, and crushed, and broken-spirited before you.\nCan you forgive me?--can you forgive a dying and a penitent man?\"\n\n\"Ned Cummin,\" said Richard, \"ye hae dune me grievous wrang; but I forgie\nye wi' a' my heart.\"\n\n\"Thanks, dear Richie!--this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said.\"\n\n\"But I _must_ speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years\nwere allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not\nto be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different\nlight now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and\nconfiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because\nI always _felt_ myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck\nme to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it\nwas long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of\nEllen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for\nyou; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and\nthen deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with\nme, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred.\nRichard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still\nforgive me?\"\n\n\"I do, I do, from my heart,\" sobbed Richard.\n\n\"Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may\nmake my peace with Heaven.\"\n\nNext morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last\nmoments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy\nframe of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he\ngave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward.\nHaving arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news.\nHis love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union\nhaving been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded--a union very\ndifferent from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DREAM.\n\n\nThe war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has been a long\none. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superstition against\nreason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two!\nCruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an _increase_ of the\nstrength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument,\npersuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost _total\nextinction_ of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark\nrecesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer\nextermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand\nyears, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left\nuntouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these,\nnotwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the\nsecond, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the\nthird, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and\nLord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them\nnot; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in\nreference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat,\nthere are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and\nperplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to\nconfess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same\nauthor has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest\nagainst the inference of our own belief in oneirology.\n\nAbout half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand,\nat the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on\nthe left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once\na small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this\nlittle humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but\nlittle attention from the passer-by, were they not so delightfully and\nconspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a\nbeautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into\nand overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which\nwinds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The\nsituation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an\ninterest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a\nless romantic locality.\n\nOf the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the\ngables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you\nto further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little\n_kail-yard_, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an\nobscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place\nof the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen\na solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former\ncultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated,\nand can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound--once its\nwall--that forms the boundary of its limits.\n\nThere is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular\ninterest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly.\nIn the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is\nonly the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of\nmighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to\nwork--not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of\nthe obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed\nhis Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to\nattract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the\ncottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show.\n\nAbout the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited\nby John Edmonstone--a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his\nstation was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and\neconomy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of money, besides a\ngood deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming\nimplements, &c. The former--namely, the cash--according to the good old\ncustom of Scotland, amongst John's class, was stowed into a\nstocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall,\nknown only to the members of the family. But, ignoble and odd as this\ndepository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and\nthat not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its\nabode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as\nlarge as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright\nand shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being\nat once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the\nstocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but\nin the same general depository--namely, the stocking--a huge\nconglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of\nabout L50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature--thus\ngiving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something\nthe appearance of a string of sausages.\n\nAt the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two\ndaughters--the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or\nfive years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father.\nJane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and\ninteresting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking\npersonal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner\nand a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived\nhappily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led\na sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came\nround, the \"big ha' Bible\" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the\nlight of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful\nfire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the\nbest regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and\nabandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he\nshortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his\nwealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two\nunprotected girls; for they were without relatives--at least, there were\nnone near them--though certainly not without those who wished them well,\nas they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on\ntheir father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of\ntheir only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with\nthe world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding\nthe considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had\nsecured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former\nfeeling; for it was a solitary one--the house in which they lived being\nat a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood\nin which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with\ncoal-miners and coal-carters--the latter, in particular, a brutal,\nruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be\nwell known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their\nfather had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to\ntheir other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken\ninto, and themselves robbed and murdered.\n\nIt was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter\nhelplessness--for they found they could not conduct the business of the\nfarm--and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane,\nthe youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from\na troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and\naffright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes--\n\n\"O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day--not another\nday. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle\nabout selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here,\nMary, to be robbed and murdered.\"\n\n\"I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane,\" replied her sister,\nnow more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual\nexcitement; \"but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?\"\n\n\"It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary,\" said Jane, in great\nagitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; \"but I'll go this day to\nGlasgow, and consult our uncle.\" And, without vouchsafing any\nexplanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily\nexpressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few\nminutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to\nfive miles.\n\nThe uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occasion was a brother\nof her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circumstances, and\nhad been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he\nhad never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a\nhard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient\nforbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and\namiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never\nbeen able to improve his circumstances, or to rise above the condition\nof a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his\neldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his\nfather's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and,\nsomehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither\nJane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their\nfather's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about\nhis circumstances or character; the same cause preventing all\nintercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their\nuncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the\nloan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle,\nand the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circumstances,\nthey naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding\ntheir affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before\nthe old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity\nof manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were\nresolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead,\nand take up their residence in Glasgow; \"for,\" said she, \"we are day and\nnight in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable\nto conduct our father's business--buying and selling cattle--or to carry\non the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do--and\nneither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we\nwant is safety.\"\n\nThe old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any\nreply. At length he said--\n\n\"Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father\nleave, Jane?--in money, I mean.\"\n\n\"Somewhat about three hundred pounds,\" replied his niece.\n\n\"A good round sum,\" said the old man, \"to be all in hard money. And is\nit all past you--all in the house?\"\n\n\"All.\"\n\nDavidson thought for a moment. Then--\"Well, I'll tell you what it is,\nJane,\" he said: \"I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If\nyou do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which\nwill not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be\ngoing out, and nothing coming in--and where would you be when it was\nexhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source\nof emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent\nmaintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your\nfather. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where\nyou are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the\ndistance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and\nassist you with both my personal services and advice.\"\n\n\"Thank you, uncle,\" replied his niece; \"but we really cannot remain at\nBraehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any\nconsideration.\"\n\n\"No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?\" said her uncle.\n\n\"Of being murdered,\" replied Jane; \"and I have but too good reason to\nfear it.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are\nthese?\"'\n\n\"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle,\" replied his niece,\nwith emphasis.\n\n\"Reason!--what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?\"\n\n\"Yet I have, though, uncle,\" said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing\nsomewhat confused and embarrassed.\n\n\"What do you mean, girl?\" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon\nher countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarrassment. \"What\n_is_ this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?\"\n\n\"Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once,\" replied Jane: \"I had a\nmost frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier--a tall,\nfierce-looking man--broke into our house in the middle of the night,\nwith a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my\neyes--I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done\nthis, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his\nbayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and\nhas made such an impression on me--it was so fearfully true--that I\ncannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream\nthat urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for\nit would put her distracted.\"\n\nJane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous\nincredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done--\n\n\"Pho, pho! what stuff!\" he said--\"what absurd stuff! How can you be so\nsilly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in\nsuch nonsense as this?\"\n\n\"I cannot help it,\" interrupted Jane.\n\n\"Well, well--perhaps you cannot,\" continued Davidson; \"but it is not the\nless ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get\nyou laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of\nit; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and\nI will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on.\"\n\nTo this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly\nthe same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her\npurpose--from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this--\n\n\"Well, then,\" said her uncle, \"at least remain where you are for a day\nor two, when I will come out and assist you in your arrangements, and in\nthe disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters\nyourselves.\"\n\nTo this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her\ndetermination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into\nGlasgow to reside.\n\nOn this understanding, then--namely, that Jane and her sister should\nremain at Braehead until their uncle came out--the former returned home,\nwhen she told Mary of all that had passed, excepting what related to\nher dream, to which, for the reason she had herself assigned, she\ncarefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence,\nhowever--but, though strange, by no means unprecedented--the considerate\ncaution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after\nrendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke,\nin an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had\narisen on that preceding, exclaiming--\n\n\"O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!\"\n\n\"What was it, Mary?\" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting\nher own frightful vision.\n\n\"O Jane!\" replied the former, still trembling with terror, \"I dreamed\nthat a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and\nmurdered us both. O God! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor\nthere, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his\nhand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places.\"\n\n\"Gracious God protect us!\" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a\nstate of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. \"This is dreadful! Oh,\nthese are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted--it can no\nlonger be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last\nnight; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to\nour uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with\ncontempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be\nslighted.\"\n\nWe need not interrupt our narrative at this point, by stopping to\ndescribe further Jane's feelings on hearing of this strange and\nappalling repetition of her own frightful vision. These feelings were\ndreadful. She grew pale as death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their\nfirst terrors subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to\nwhat they should do, to avoid the horrible fate with which they now had\nno doubt they were threatened; and finally resolved that, if their uncle\ndid not appear on that day--or, indeed, whether he appeared or not--they\nwould, on the next, remove to Glasgow, taking with them all their ready\nmoney, and whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and\nleave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring farmer,\nwho had been an intimate friend of their father's. They, in short,\nresolved that, in any event, they would remain only one other night at\nBraehead.\n\nBefore proceeding further with our story, we would beg the reader to\nobserve, that the circumstances we are now relating occurred in the year\n1760, in the month of January. It was a winter of great severity, and\nremarkable for the amazing quantity of snow that fell; but one of the\nwildest days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month above\nnamed. It was the same day in which the scene between the two sisters\nwhich we have just related occurred.\n\nThe storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings, which had been\nraging all day, increased as night approached; and, when darkness had\nfallen upon the earth, it became tremendous. The trees around the little\ncottage of Braehead bent before the wind like willow wands; and loud and\nwild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the storm amongst\nthe leafless branches. The snow, too, was whirling all around, in\nimmense dense masses, and overwhelming every object whose height they\nsurpassed in their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful\nnight, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could possibly\nhave survived. Dreadful in particular to the lonely traveller, who was\nseeking a distant refuge, and whose urgencies required that he should do\nbattle with the storm; and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of\nthe shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible night of the\n21st of January, 1760.\n\nWhile the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely cottage of\nBraehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are blocking up door and window,\nwhat are its two solitary inmates about? There they are, the two\nunprotected women--all their previous fears increased tenfold by the\nawful sounds without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness\ndeepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we say, sitting by\ntheir fire, pale and trembling, one on each side of the chimney--for\nthey are afraid to go to bed--listening in silent awe to the raging of\nthe storm.\n\nIt was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged words on\nthis dreary night, and then it was little more than a brief exclamation\nor remark, excited by some sudden and violent gust that swept over their\nlittle cottage, or roared amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the\ngeneral tenor of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They\ntherefore continued by the fire, where they sat almost without moving\nfor many hours.\n\nIt was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the storm was at its\nheight, when the fears of the two lonely sisters were suddenly wrought\nup to a horrible climax, by a loud rapping at the door, which, again,\nwas instantly followed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In\nthe first moment of alarm, the women leaped from their seats and flew to\ndifferent corners of the apartment, screaming hideously, having no doubt\nthat their fatal dream was now about to be realised. From this terror,\nhowever, they were gradually in some measure relieved by the\nsupplicatory language and tones of the person seeking admittance.\n\n\"For God's sake, open the door!\" he said--for it was the voice of a\nman--\"or I must perish. I have already travelled fifteen miles in the\nstorm, and am now so benumbed and exhausted that I cannot move another\nstep. Open the door, I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity\nin you, and give me shelter till daylight.\"\n\nSomewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in them so little of a\nhostile character, and to which circumstances gave so truthful a\ncomplexion, Jane, the younger of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a\nlow voice, what they should do. \"Shall we admit him?\" she said; \"for it\nreally seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to refuse\nhim shelter in such a night as this. We could never forgive ourselves,\nMary, if the poor man should perish in the storm.\"\n\n\"It is true, Jane,\" replied her sister--\"we could not indeed. We will\nadmit him, and trust the result to God. He will not allow a deed of\ncharity and benevolence to be turned into an instrument of crime.\"\nSaying this, Mary approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar,\nput one other query ere she undid it. \"Are you,\" she said, addressing\nthe person without--\"are you really in the situation you represent\nyourself to be?\"\n\n\"Before God, I am!\" replied the voice from without, emphatically. \"Admit\nme for heaven's sake! You have nothing to fear from me.\"\n\nIn the next instant the bolt was withdrawn, the door flew open, and in\nwalked a man in the garb of a soldier. The brass plate on his cap\nglittered in the light of the lamp held by the younger sister, who stood\nat some distance from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore\npeeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and simultaneous\nshriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically into the interior of\nthe house, told of this horrid realisation of their dreams. The soldier,\nin the meantime, walked into the kitchen; but any one who should at this\ninstant have marked his countenance, would have seen very little in it\nto indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed good reason to fear\nhe had come. He was, in truth, a young, handsome, and singularly\ngood-looking man, with a face expressive of great good-nature and\nmildness of disposition. Little regarding these indications of a\ncharacter so different from that which occupied their minds, the\nsisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild shrieks, and\nin the most piteous appeals for mercy. On their bent knees they implored\nit; offering all they had, if their lives were only spared. The soldier,\nbenumbed and exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own\nsufferings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a most\nextraordinary and unaccountable scene--the terrified sisters on their\nknees, imploring his mercy.\n\n\"Good women,\" he at length said, \"what is the meaning of this? What are\nyou afraid of? Is there anything in my appearance so dreadful as to\nexcite this extraordinary alarm? If there be, I never knew it before;\nand am very sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no\nharm--none in the world. God forbid I should! I am but too grateful to\nyou for having opened your door to me; and but too happy to get near\nthis cheerful fire.\"\n\nAgain somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions, so different from\nwhat they had expected, the sisters ceased their frantic cries for\nmercy; and, though yet far from being reconciled to their tremendous\nvisiter, they became a little more composed when the soldier, perceiving\nthe effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated\nassurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and of the\nperfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit. These\nasseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and conciliatory tone,\neventually induced the sisters not only to look with less alarm on their\nunwelcome guest, but to desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will\nnot say, however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure\nbenevolence. We will not say that it was not done more with a view to\ndisarm their still dreaded visiter of any hostile intentions he might\nentertain towards them, than from any feeling of compassion. Be this as\nit may, however, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered\ngreatcoat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses,\nand sat him down before the fire.\n\n\"Now, my good friends,\" he said, after having warmed himself a little,\nand having still further abated the terrors of the sisters by more kind\nand gentle words, \"will you be so good as tell me why you were so much\nafraid of me when I first entered the house?--for I cannot understand\nit--seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your own accord,\nand must, therefore, have been prepared to see somebody or other. Was it\nmy cap and red coat that frightened you so? Come, tell me now,\ncandidly.\"\n\nThe sisters looked to each other with a faint smile, and an air of\nembarrassment; but with an expression of inquiry which said as plainly\nas an unspoken expression could say it--\"Shall we tell him?\"\n\nTheir guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly that there\nwas something to explain--something that they did not altogether like to\navow. Observing this--\n\n\"Come, now, out with it!\" he said, laughingly, \"and, depend upon it, I\nshall not be the least offended, however uncomplimentary it may be to\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said the younger sister, \"I _will_ tell you. Both my\nsister and I dreamed very lately, that a soldier came into this house\nhere, as you have done, and murdered us. We both dreamed the same dream\nat different times, and without its being previously known to either of\nus. Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we should have\nbeen so much alarmed at your appearance.\"\n\n\"Odd enough,\" said the soldier, laughing; \"but, in my opinion, very\nparticular nonsense. Had you dreamed of a soldier coming to court you,\nit would have been a much more likely thing, and you would have had a\nbetter chance of seeing it realised, I should think, than that he should\nhave come to murder you.\"\n\n\"But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and at such an hour?\"\ninquired the elder sister, whose fears, as well as those of Jane, were\nby no means entirely allayed by this familiarity. \"Where were you going\nto, and whence came you?\"\n\n\"Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress,\" replied the soldier,\n\"when I have filled this pipe.\" And he proceeded to the operation of\nwhich he spoke. When he had done, and had expirated a whiff or two--Now,\nI'll tell you (he said) how it happens that I am out in such an infernal\nnight as this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong to the\n50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have been absent on\nfurlough, seeing my poor old mother in the south country, where she\nresides. I had not seen her, poor soul! for several years; and as she\nwas unwilling to part with me again, I was obliged to stay with her to\nthe last moment of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was\nanxious to get on to quarters before it was out; for we have got a devil\nof a fellow in our commanding officer: and this is the reason why I was\nso late upon the road in such a night. I wanted to save my distance, and\navoid a bothering. But it wouldn't do--I was obliged to knock under.\n\nI found my poor mother (went on the soldier) in much better\ncircumstances than I expected to find her; for my father left her in\ngreat poverty and with a large family; but a rather curious occurrence\ngave her a lift in the world, in her own humble way, about a couple of\nyears ago, of which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a\nvery pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence, saying that\nit was the Divine interference in her behalf. However this may be, it\nwas a very simple affair, and all natural enough.\n\nIn mother's neighbourhood, you see--she lives in a remote parish in the\nsouth of Scotland--there resides a fellow of the name of Tweedie--Tom\nTweedie. Tom is a cattle-dealer to business, and is well to pass in the\nworld--a lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely fond\nof a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the expense of his\nneighbours. Amongst those who suffer most severely by his waggery is a\ngood-natured man of the name of Brydon--Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives\nclose by him--that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well, on\nthis person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has played innumerable\ntricks--all, indeed, of a harmless character, but some of them\nsufficiently annoying. Either from want of opportunity, or what is more\nlikely, from want of genius, Peter never could accomplish any\nretaliation--a circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever\nof agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and ingenuity in the\nway of practical joking constantly kept him. At length, however, chance\nthrew in Peter's way what he considered an excellent opportunity of\nannoying his mischievous neighbour in turn.\n\nPassing the gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty early, on\nhorseback (the road he was travelling led close by it), Peter saw a huge\nwooden dish of oat-meal porridge smoking on the top of the wall of the\nhouse-yard. It was intended for the breakfast of the family, and had\nbeen put out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter,\nstruck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after\ncontemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and having previously\nlooked carefully around him to see that nobody marked his motions, he\nlifted the dish from its place, porridge and all, placed it before him\non the saddle, brought his plaid over it so as to conceal it, and rode\noff rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my mother's\nhouse lies close by the road on which he had to travel, and at the\ndistance of about a mile from the place where the robbery had been\ncommitted. Now, it struck Peter that he could not do better than leave\nthe dish of porridge there, where he knew there was a houseful of\nchildren, who would clear all out in a twinkling; but he did not\nknow--for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her\nneighbours--how seasonable would be the supply which he now proposed to\nbring them. On that morning, the children had no breakfast of their own\nto take. There was not a morsel in the house to give them. Having made\nup his mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made\ndirectly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting, rapped with\nthe butt-end of his whip. My mother came out.\n\n\"Here,\" said Peter, handing down the stolen mess; \"here's a dish of\nporridge I have brought for the children's breakfast.\"\n\n\"Porridge!\" exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and at the same time\nblushing deeply, from a conviction that her poverty had been detected,\n\"how, in all the world, came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr\nBrydon?\"\n\nThis was a question which Peter had but little inclination to answer. He\ntherefore waived it.\n\n\"Hoot, hoot, guidwife,\" he replied, \"what does that signify? There they\nare--that's enough--and a capital mess, I warrant ye, your young anes\nwill find them. So let them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and muckle\nguid may't do them! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife,\nof making a breakfast of your own.\"\n\nMy mother having now no doubt that her neighbour knew of her destitute\ncondition--of which, however, he, in reality, knew nothing--and that his\ngift was one of pure benevolence, rising the corner of her apron to her\neyes, thanked him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave him\nfull information regarding what she thought he already knew--her\nstraitened circumstances. Peter made no remark, at the time, on my\nmother's confession of poverty, and said little or nothing in reply to\nwhat she addressed to him, but rode on his way.\n\nWell, it happened that, on this very day, my mother went to Tweedie's\nhouse with some yarn she had been spinning for his wife, who\noccasionally employed her in that way, when the latter, amongst other\nthings, informed her of the robbery of the porridge; adding, however,\nthat she cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of her\ndish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind.\n\n\"If they would only bring me the basin back,\" she said, \"they are\nwelcome, whoever took it, to its contents.\"\n\nThe blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained for some moments in\nsilent confusion; but at length said--her face as red as crimson--\n\n\"Mrs. Tweedie, your dish is safe; it is in my house, but the porridge is\ngone.\"\n\n\"In your house, Mrs. Johnston!\" (that is my mother's name)--\"my basin in\nyour house! How does that happen?\" replied Mrs. Tweedie, with a look of\nsurprise, and something like displeasure.\n\nMy mother detailed the circumstances as already related; and, thinking\nherself compelled to acknowledge her poverty, as an apology for having\nmade use of the porridge, she fairly stated her condition; saying,\namongst other things, that when it came she had not a morsel in the\nhouse.\n\nMrs. Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her before of her\nsituation, and concluded by promising that neither she nor her children\nshould ever again want a meal as long as she had one to give them; and\nshe instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could carry home.\nHer husband, who was present on this occasion, enjoyed the joke\nexceedingly, and gave the chosen victim of his own wit, Brydon, great\ncredit for his trick. He further expressed himself highly pleased that\nthe latter had taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she\nstood so much in need of them. To make a long story short (added the\nsoldier), both Tweedie and Brydon, who were good kind-hearted men, from\nthis moment that my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made\nknown to them, took her under their especial patronage.\n\nOn the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal and potatoes as\nlasted her a month; each of them took one of my brothers into their\nservice; their wives gave her as much spinning as she could execute; and\na complement of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes of\nanother, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever since by the\ntwo benevolent jokers. From that day to this, old mother, has never been\nin want; and when speaking of the occurrence says, that the day on which\nPeter Brydon brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the\nluckiest in her life.\n\nHere the soldier finished his story and his pipe together. Both the\nmatter of his little tale and his manner of telling it tended\nconsiderably to calm the apprehensions of his hostesses, and to disabuse\nthem, in spite of their dream, of much of the unfavourable opinion they\nhad entertained of his intentions. Still, however, they felt by no means\nsecure, and would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the\nwhole, of the money in the house, to have been quit of him. Nor were the\nfears that yet remained lessened by their having discovered, which they\nhad not done for some time after he had entered, that he wore his\nbayonet by his side. On this formidable weapon the two poor women looked\nwith inexpressible horror; having a strong feeling of apprehension that\nit was the dreadful instrument by which their destruction was to be\naccomplished and their dream fulfiled. Now, too, the sisters detected\nthe fellow occasionally glancing around the house, with a most\nsuspicious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now, also,\nbegan to put questions that greatly alarmed them--such as, Was there\nnobody in the house but themselves? How far distant was the nearest\nhouse? and guessing, with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that\ntheir father (they had informed him of his death) had left them a good\nround sum in some corner or other? In short, his behaviour altogether\nbegan again to grow extremely suspicious; and, perceiving this, the\nsisters' fears returned with all their original force.\n\nIn the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating, had increased;\nthe dreary, rushing sound of the trees became fiercer and louder, and\nthe fitful gusts of wind more frequent and furious. It was now about one\no'clock of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which had\ninduced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the fire--namely, to\ndisarm him, by kindness, of any evil design he might entertain towards\nthem--the sisters now offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly\naccepted the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily.\nWhen he had done, one of the sisters told him that there was a spare bed\nin a closet to which she pointed, and that he might go to it if he\nchose. With this offer he also gladly closed, and immediately retired.\n\nThe sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus disposed\nof--thinking it something like a sign of harmless intention on his\npart--determined to sit themselves by the fire throughout the remainder\nof the night. They were, then, thus sitting, and it might be about one\nhour after the soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness\nto every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise as if of some one\nforcing the door. At first the poor horrified women thought it was some\nunusual sound produced by the storm, but, on listening again, there was\nno doubt of the appalling fact. They heard distinctly the working of an\niron instrument, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The\nwretched women leaped from their seats, and again their wild shrieks\nwere heard rising above the noise of the tempest without. Awakened by\ntheir alarming cries--for he had been fast asleep--the soldier started\nfrom his bed, calling out, as he hurried on his clothes--\n\n\"What the devil is the matter now! By heaven! you are all mad.\"\n\n\"Oh, you know but too well what is the matter,\" replied one of the\nsisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate with excessive\nterror--\"you know but too well what is the matter. These are some of the\nother murderers of your gang forcing open the door. O God! in mercy\nreceive our souls!\"\n\n\"My gang forcing the door! What the devil do you mean?\" replied the\nsoldier, emerging from the closet. Then, after an instant--\"By heaven!\nit is so far true. There is some one breaking in, sure enough.\"\n\nSaying this, he drew his bayonet, and ran to the door; but, ere he\ngained it, it was forced open, and two men were in the act of entering,\none behind the other. On seeing the soldier, the foremost presented a\npistol to his head, and drew the trigger; but a click of the lock was\nthe only result. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's\nbayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when he who was\nbehind him immediately fled. The soldier pursued him, but, after running\nseveral hundred yards, gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to\nthe house, where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he\nhad stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright, had\ndisappeared, and was nowhere to be seen.\n\nOn entering the house--\"Well, my good women,\" said the soldier, \"are you\nnow satisfied of the sincerity of my intentions towards you? Why, I\nthink I have saved your lives, in place of taking them.\"\n\n\"You have! you have!\" exclaimed both the sisters at once. \"And oh how\nthankful are we to God, who alone could have sent you here to protect us\non this dreadful night!\"\n\n\"It certainly was as well for you that I was here,\" replied the soldier,\nmodestly; \"but have you any idea of who the villains could be?\"\n\n\"None in the least,\" said the younger sister; \"but this neighbourhood is\nfilled with bad characters, and we have no doubt it was some of\nthem--for all of them know, we believe, that our father left us a little\nmoney. We have alwas dreaded this.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the soldier, \"I would advise you to leave this\ndirectly, and go to some place of greater safety.\"\n\nThe sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and\nthat they intended going to Glasgow to reside.\n\nWhat subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between the sisters\nand their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in\norder to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again\nsecured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till\ndaylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he\nprepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the\nyoungest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her\ngratitude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas\ninto his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an\ninstant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that\nstood by--\n\n\"Not a farthing,\" he said--\"not a farthing shill I take. I consider\nmyself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to\nprotect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved\nmy live--and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This,\nat any rate,\" he added laughingly, \"will balance them.\" And,\nsoldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was\naware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses.\n\nThis theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately\nafter called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return,\ninformed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to\ninform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for\ntheir instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do\nbetter than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him\njust now. \"Besides,\" she said, \"I should like you to see our uncle, if\nyou would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will\nbe able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than\nshe can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving\nthis instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at\nall of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He\nwould think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our\nanxiety to leave this.\"\n\nThe soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to\nconceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already\nsaid, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city.\n\nIn a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few\nmore she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had\nnow entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What\nconversation passed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can\nonly conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the\nreader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both,\nthere can be no doubt.\n\nIn the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they\narrive in little more than a couple of hours.\n\nOn reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly\ndisappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little\ncousins--its mother being out of the way at the moment--that Davidson\nwas not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night,\nand had not yet returned.\n\n\"Then where's your brother;\" inquired Jane.\n\n\"He's gone to the country, too,\" said the child.\n\n\"Is he with your father?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did he go last night also?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?\"\n\nThe child could not tell.\n\nAt this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted\nfor the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work\nat a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that\nshe expected them home that day, although she could not say when.\n\nAs the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved\non going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they\nshould, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money\nalong with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to,\nwhose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.\n\nLeaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their\nuncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some\nthings of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane\nhad left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very\ndifferent man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though\nsomewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he\napproached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and\ndreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from\nsome excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting\nhimself by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own house,\nhe went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than\ntelling his wife that he was very ill--that he had received a severe\ninjury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of\nwhich, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm,\nproposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would\nby no means allow--saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he\nthought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A\nfew hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he\nnot only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One\nwas immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of\nDavidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story\nwhich we have just related.\n\n\"That cannot be true,\" said the surgeon. \"Your wound has not been\ninflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument.\nIt is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted\nwith a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite assured of this,\nwhatever may be your motives for concealing it.\"\n\nDavidson repeated his asseverations of having come by his injury by\nfalling on a pointed piece of wood.\n\n\"Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has\nbeen inflicted, but how it is to be cured,\" (During this time he was\nexamining the injury.) \"But I fear,\" he added, \"it is beyond my skill,\nor that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to\nthink, is mortal.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said the patient with great calmness and composure.\n\n\"I certainly do,\" replied the surgeon, \"and I think it my duty to tell\nyou, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set\nabout it the better.\"\n\nThe patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought.\nAt length he said--\n\n\"Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none\nmyself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have\nsomething of importance to communicate.\"\n\nThe surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man\ndesired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having\npreviously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself,\nthat he would return along with him. \"I wish to have you both together,\"\nhe said, \"It will be better that there are two.\"\n\nIn less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the\nclergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the\nformer to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This\ndone, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice,\nthe astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into\nthe house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed\non that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously\nsuspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the\nruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not,\ntill now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much\nthe dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell,\nwho was his associate in the crime. This person, however, was\nsubsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he\nnever came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who\nknew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and\nthat even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his\nbehalf by the attending clergyman.\n\nHaving brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters,\nwho were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy\nman now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of\ntheir original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to\nfurther their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming\nutensils, &c., and stock of every kind.\n\nSome days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson\ncalled on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them,\nthat he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought\nto be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of\ntheir little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment\nthe young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr.\nAnderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the\narmy. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left\nthem, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so\nwithout his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day;\nand in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young\nsoldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy\nwedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently\nappeared, applied only to its subordinate situation--more definitely\nspeaking, to the condition of a private--soon after purchased a\nlieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died\na lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man\nand a gallant soldier.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XIII\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 13","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":94226}