{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34151/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34151","id":"gutenberg_34151","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34151","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                     WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS\n\n                            AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n                HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n                            WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n                               REVISED BY\n\n                           ALEXANDER LEIGHTON\n\n              ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.\n\n\nVOL. XIV.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT. 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE COVENANTING FAMILY, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n    THE PRINCE OF SCOTLAND\n\nRETRIBUTION, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    THE ENTHUSIAST\n    TREES AND BURNS\n    KIRKYARDS\n\nPOLWARTH ON THE GREEN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE FESTIVAL, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nA LEGEND OF HOLYROOD, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE RESTORED SON, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_\n\nTHE SKEAN DHU, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH, _(JOHN HOWELL_)\n\nTHE ORDER OF THE GARTER. A STORY OF WARK CASTLE, _(JOHN MACKAY\nWILSON)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COVENANTING FAMILY.\n\n\nThirty years ago, there dwelt an old man named Simon Cockburn, who\nfollowed the avocations of parish teacher and precentor. Every Saturday\nafternoon, after he had washed his hands from the labours of the week,\nhe went down to the public-house of the village in which he dwelt, and\ntook his seat by the parlour window or fire (according as it was summer\nor winter), to read the newspaper, and see, as he said, \"what country\nBonaparte had conquered _this_ week;\" and, as Simon read of some new\nachievement of \"the terrible Corsican,\" as he called him, he was wont to\nlay down the newspaper, take off his spectacles, and say unto himself\naloud, \"But if the chield should come owre to Britain, surely he will\nnever be guilty o' the cruelty and folly o' doing onything to the parish\nschoolmasters. He owes so much to learning himsel, that he will\ncertainly respect those who impart it to others.\"\n\nBut, if a stranger chanced to be in the room when he had glanced over\nthe news, and as he began to warm and wax mighty over his single pint\n(or mutchkin) bottle of strong ale, Simon's wonted taciturnity gave way\nto a flow of speech; and seldom had the conversation continued long,\nwhen he invariably inquired, \"Did ever ye hear o' the saying, by what\nlaw the bishops were expelled from Scotland?\"\n\nThe answer being in the negative, he continued--\"Weel, it was neither\nby civil law nor by canon law, but by _Dunse Law_!\"\n\n\"By Dunse Law, old man!\" inquired his auditors; \"why, what law is that?\"\n\nIf ye never heard o' it (answered he), it is worth your while going to\nsee it. Ye may become acquainted wi' it without paying a fee to a\nwriter. Dunse Law, sir, is a bonny round hill, which rises behind the\nhonest town o' that name. Ye have a magnificent view upon the top o' it.\nIn my opinion, it is equal to the view from the Calton at Edinburgh; and\nsome o' my scholars that have been travellers inform me that the view\nfrom the Calton is every way equal to the far-famed view in the Bay o'\nNaples. Ye have the whole Merse lying beneath your feet, like a\nbeautifully-laid-out and glorious garden--the garden o' some mighty\nconqueror, that had converted a province into a pleasure-ground, and\nwalled it round wi' mountains. There ye behold the Blackadder wimpling\nalong; the Whitadder curling round below you, and as far as ye can\nsee--now glittering in a haugh, or buried among woody braes. Before ye,\nalso, ye behold the Cheviots and the Northumberland hills, wi' a broad\ncountry, the very sister o' the Merse, lying below them, and which runs\nto Tweedside, where they stand and look at each other! Down the middle\ndistance runs the Tweed, shining out here and there, like an illuminated\nlake, and receiving the Border rivers o' both countries into its bosom,\njust as a hen gathers its young under its wings. To the right hand,\nalso, ye behold Roxburghshire, wi' the dimness o' distance, like a thin\nveil thrown owre its beauty, and its hills a' before ye. Ye see also the\nsmoke arising from towns, villages, and hamlets, and hovering owre them\nin the midway air, like almost transparent clouds. Gentlemen's seats,\nand the plantations around them, lie scattered owre the scene;\nfarmhouses that lairds might live in, and stackyards that no other\ncountry could produce. On each elbow ye have the purple Lammermuir,\nwhere a hundred hirsels graze; and to the east, the mighty ocean, wi'\nthe ships sailing upon it, where, wi' their white sails spread to the\nsun, they look from the distance just like sea-birds poising themselves\non their out-stretched wings owre the deep. Ye see also the islands that\nrise wondrously from its bosom--fragments which the great waters have\nstolen from the dry land, or the dry land from the waters. But I ought\nto have mentioned that, before ye, also, ye see the ruins o' castles,\nsome o' them still majestic, which changed masters a hundred times, as\nvictory chanced to decide for the English bow or the Scottish spear, and\nwhich yet bear manifestations o' having been places o' strength and\nterror. All these things, sir, and mony mair, do ye see from Dunse\nLaw--for I have described it very imperfectly; but I hope I have said\naneugh to convince ye that it is no everyday view. And now, I shall\nendeavour to explain to ye the meaning o' the saying, that the bishops\nwere expelled from Scotland by _Dunse Law_.\n\nWhen the first and unfortunate King Charles had the infatuation--and I\nmay also say the cruelty--to attempt to bend and twist the consciences\no' our forefaithers, just as if they had been willows in the hands o' a\nbasketmaker, to make them swallow the service-book, and to clothe and\nfeed bishops, and bow their heads to them, they, like men who regarded\nliberty o' conscience, the freedom o' their country, and, above all, the\nright o' worshipping their Maker as he had commanded them in his Word,\nto be dearer than life--when the king caused his troopers to ride\nrough-shod out owre Scotland, and to awe them into obedience with the\nnaked sword--they also laid their hands upon their swords, ready to\nresist, and, flying to the hills, they congregated together a mighty\narmy.\n\nThe watchword o' the heroic army was, \"_For Christ's Crown and the\nCovenant_;\" and, having congregated together to the number o' many\nthousands, they, in accordance with the wish o' the Tables and chief\nmen, were placed under the command o' the famous General Leslie. When,\ntherefore, the king heard o' these things, he set out from London\ntowards Scotland at the head o' his gay cavaliers and valorous men o'\nwar, doubting not but that, at the glance o' his royal eyes, the\nrebellious Scottish peasants would be stricken with awe and reverence,\nlay down their arms, and bend their necks before him. Now, General\nLeslie was an old man, and a little man; but he had a wise head, and,\nlike Bonaparte, he had a mighty spirit in his wee breast: and when he\nheard that the king was on his way to Scotland, at the head o' a regular\narmy, he resolved to meet him face to face; and, for that purpose, the\narmy o' the Covenant marched forward to Dunglass.\n\nBut when Charles learned from his spies accounts of the numbers, the\ndiscipline, and enthusiasm of the Covenanters, his heart failed him; and\nwhen he looked on his own army, and perceived that they neither had zeal\nin his cause, nor discipline, nor numbers, to enable them to contend\nagainst the army that he was leading them to oppose, he lowered his tone\nmarvellously. He found that the divine prerogative which surrounds kings\nis but a broken hedge, owre which every outlaw may trample, where the\nhearts and affections o' the people dinna form an outer bulwark around\nit. And though, a few days before, he had denounced all the inhabitants\no' Scotland as traitors, and threatened, in the arrogance and confidence\no' his heart, to deal with them as such, and had even given orders to\nhis generals to wreak their vengeance on the rebels, he was now glad to\nsend Lord Holland, with a trumpeter, to the camp o' the Covenanters at\nDunglass, to proclaim to them that he was willing to grant them all\ntheir demands, and that their country should be free, provided they\nwould profess their allegiance to him, and not approach within ten miles\no' the Border.\n\nNow, sir, the Covenanters were by no means republicans in their\nprinciples: all they wanted was freedom--freedom o' mind and body; the\nright o' worshipping in the manner most agreeable to their conscience;\nand o' not being compelled to unbutton their pockets to pay for objects\no' which they disapproved. They had a sort o' liking for Charlie. His\nfaither was a Scotchman, and had been born among them; and they were\nanxious to like him, if he would only put it in their power to do it.\nThey were loth to draw the sword against him; and, when they did do it,\nit was for conscience sake. They therefore accepted his conditions\nreadily; for he promised fairly, and as much, if not more, than they\nexpected to wring from him by the slaughter o' his troops, and steeping\nthe land wi' the blood o' its inhabitants.\n\nWhen Charles, therefore, heard o' the readiness with which they had\nagreed to his proposal, in the vanity and delusion o' his spirit, he\nattributed it to his great power and glory as a king; and he repented\nthat he had not offered to them more haughty and less righteous terms.\nBut those that he had proposed to them he had no design to keep.\n\nHe therefore marched forward his army, and encamped on the south bank o'\nthe Tweed, above Berwick, at a place which historians call the\nBirks--which I take to be the fields lying between West Ord and Norham\nCastle. Here he soon gave proofs that, having come from the Thames to\nthe Tweed, it was his resolution not to return until he had wreaked his\nvengeance on the people o' Scotland, whom he still regarded as rebels.\n\nWhen, therefore, General Leslie heard o' the king's doings, he gave\norders to his army to march towards Dunse.\n\nBut, before proceeding farther, I must make mention o' a Covenanting\nfamily, who are to be more particularly the objects o' my present\ndiscourse. At that time, there resided in the Castle Wynd in Dunse a\nsingular and godly woman, one Alice Cockburn (or, as some called her,\nWeather-burn, that being her maiden name). She was the wife o' a devout\nand worthy man, one Alexander Cockburn, who was the proprietor o' a\ncroft in the neighbourhood; and they had five sons, all men grown. Their\nnames were John, James, Andrew, William; and the youngest, who was\nnineteen, was called Alexander, after his faither. I hae mentioned Alice\nfirst, not only because her name will be hereafter mentioned in this\nnarrative, but also because, while we often speak in triumph o' what our\nfaithers did in securing our civil and religious liberty, we forget to\ndo justice to our mothers, who were even more enthusiastic in the great\nand glorious cause than our faithers were. They fired their zeal--they\nfirst lifted up a voice against tyranny--and, while our faithers fought\nin the field, they bound up their bleeding wounds, brought water from\nthe brooks to cool their parched lips, and were purveyors to the army,\nsupplying them with clothing and with food.\n\nIt was on the evening o' the 5th o' June, 1639, that Alice Cockburn\nhastened into her house, exclaiming, \"Rise, husband!--rise, sons!--arm\nyourselves, and let us awa to Dunse Law; for there is a sicht to be seen\nthere the nicht, such as never before was witnessed in a' broad\nScotland, nor yet in a' Christendie. Haste ye! gird your swords upon\nyour thighs, and awa to assist the armies o' the Kirk and our country to\ndo battle against the Philistines.\"\n\n\"Tell us what ye mean, Alice,\" said her husband. \"The king and his\ncavaliers are still near Berwick; I hae heard naething o' our people\nhaving left Dunglass, and there can be nae battle on Dunse Law the\nnicht--therefore, what is it ye allude to?\"\n\n\"The king may be whar ye say,\" replied she; \"but General Leslie and our\nmen are encamping upon the Law; and they are a host whose numbers seem\ncountless as the sand upon the sea-shore. Our oppressors will be\nconsumed as stubble before them, and tyrants will become their\ncaptives. Haste ye, sons; arm yersels to be ready for the fight that is\nto fight. Enrol yersels in the army o' the righteous, for the sake o'\nthe truth, for the sake o' conscience and yer country. And, on my\ndeath-bed, if I be deprived o' every other consolation, I will still be\nborne up by the secret joy, that my five sons and my half-marrow drew\ntheir swords, and fought side by side, for the cause o' the Covenant.\"\n\n\"Alice,\" said her husband, \"sae lang as I hae ye to stir me up, and mak\nme mair fervent in the great cause, which it is our duty to support with\nour whole might and our whole strength, ye shall never hear it said that\nSandy Cockburn shunned the brunt o' danger, or that his sword returned\nempty when he met wi' an oppressor weapon to weapon. My richt hand is\naulder and stiffer than it has been; but, when ance suppled, it has lost\nbut little o' its strength--and I think I can answer for our sons.\"\n\n\"Ye may do that safely,\" said John, their eldest; \"there shall nae want\no' daring be fixed to the name o' Cockburn.\"\n\nHis three younger brothers, James, Andrew, and William, agreed with him,\nand spoke in the same manner; but Alexander, the youngest, and the\nfaither's namesake, though generally esteemed the boldest amongst them,\nhastened not to provide himself with arms, as his brothers did, but he\nsat with his arms folded upon his bosom, and was silent.\n\n\"Alexander,\" said his mother, \"wherefore do ye sit wi' yer arms faulded,\nand look like ane that wishes to conceal the word _coward_ written on\nhis breast?\"\n\n\"Nae man, no even my brothers, durst ca' me a coward, mother,\" said he;\n\"but I canna help thinking that this is an unnatural war, in which\nfreends and kindred will plunge their swords into each other. And there\nare some who would be fighting against us whose swords I would rather\nfeel pierced through my body, than raise mine against them.\"\n\n\"Oh, wae's me!\" she cried, \"am I to be disgraced--is the truth to be\ndeserted by my youngest and dearest--the Benjamin o' my age? Where,\nladdie--where are a' the precepts I endeavoured to inculcate into you\nnow? But I see how it is: it a' arises out o' yer fondness for the\ndauchter o' that enemy o' our cause--Robert Stuart. Is there naebody ye\ncan see to like but her? Her father is a spy and a persecutor, a\ndefender o' the supremacy o' bishops, an advocate o' the service-book,\nand an upholder o' the absolute power o' the king. She is o' the same\nspirit and principles as her faither is; and, in that respect, she is\nmore to be commended than ye are, for she has hearkened to the voice o'\nher parents, and has not the sin o' disobedience on her head. Have ye\nforgot the command, 'Be not unequally yoked?' Rise, Alexander, I command\nye, get ready yer arms, and gae wi' yer faither, yer brothers, and yer\nmother to the camp.\"\n\n\"Na, na, guidwife,\" said her husband, \"that maunna be; for liberty o'\nconscience am I buckling on my sword; and I winna see the conscience o'\nmy ain bairn suffer wrang. If Alexander winna gang wi' us, a' that I ask\no' him is, that he winna draw his sword against the cause in defence o'\nwhich his faither and his brothers go forth, ready to lay down their\nlives, if they be required.\"\n\n\"Faither,\" cried Alexander, springing up, and grasping his hand, \"I will\nnever fight against ye!--never! I stand by your side to the last, or die\nby it, and my arm shall be ready to defend ye! Where you go, I will go!\"\n\n\"That is right, Alexander, my man,\" said his eldest brother; \"I kenned\nthere was mettle in the callant, and principle, too--though I must say\nthat he is rather unpleasantly situated, and I canna say that I would\nlike his case to be my ain.\"\n\nHis arms being sought out also, the father and his sons were accoutred\nand ready to depart, when Alice again said--\"We have not yet prepared\nall that we ought to do. We are but stewards o' the inheritance\nintrusted to our hands in this world; and to the sacred cause in which\nye are about to engage, it is our duty also to contribute liberally from\nthe substance with which we have been blessed. Now, what say ye,\nguidman--do ye think that we could afford to take to the camp, and\npresent before the general, six sheep, six firlots o' wheat, and six\nmeasures o' meal? Have ye faith to venture sae far?\"\n\n\"Alice,\" replied he, \"can ye doubt me? If it were necessary, I would\nconsider it my duty not only to part wi' my stock to the last sheep, and\nwi' my corn to the last firlot--but I would sell the croft also, and\npart wi' the money, rather than see one who has drawn his sword in\ndefence o' the Covenant and his country want.\"\n\n\"Ye mak my heart glad,\" answered Alice; \"and now let us kneel and give\nthanks that we have lived to see the day when the armies o' the Kirk are\ngathered together, powerful as those which David led against the\nPhilistines.\"\n\nAnd Alexander Cockburn and his family raised the voice o' thanksgiving,\nafter which they knelt down together, and he prayed aloud. When they\narose, each man girded his sword upon his thigh, and the father\ncommanded that a horse should be harnessed, which was laden with the\nwheat and the meal for the army of the Covenant. The sheep they drove on\nbefore them, and Alice accompanied her husband and her sons.\n\nI must now, however, take notice o' Mr Stuart, o' whom particular\nmention was made by Alice, as being an enemy to the Covenant, and a\npersecutor o' its adherents. He was a man o' considerable substance, and\nlived about midway between Dunse and Polwarth. His daughter, to whom\nyoung Alexander Cockburn was attached, and whom his mother cast up to\nhim, was called Flora. She was at that period a bonny young creature o'\neighteen; her hair was like the yellow gowd when the sun shines on't,\nand her een were a brighter and a safter blue than the sky on a summer\nmorning, when there isna a cloud in a' the heavens. She was tall and\ngentle-looking, and her waist ye might hae spanned wi' your hand. It was\nwranging her to ca' her a persecutor; for though she was an advocate for\nEpiscopacy, as her faither had taught her to be, there wasna a sentiment\nin her heart that could hae wranged a worm.\n\nYoung Alexander and Flora had become very early acquainted wi' each\nother, and as early intimate. They were yet but bairns in a manner; but,\nyoung as they were, they had a happy _langsyne_, on which they could\nlook back, in which they had\n\n          \"Paidel'd in the burn,\n    And pu'd the gowans fine.\"\n\nThey had been playmates from the time that they could toddle hand in\nhand thegither; and the hands that they had joined to help each other to\nrun when but infants, they now wished to join for good and a', that they\nmight journey pleasantly together through life. Their hearts had become\ninsensibly twisted around each other, and they had been so long\nentwined, that they had become as one.\n\nBut I must now inform you of the arrival of Alice, her husband, and her\nsons, at Dunse Law. When they arrived at the camp, Alexander the elder\ninquired of one who seemed, by the orders which he was giving, to be an\nofficer, or a man in authority, if he could see the general; for the\nofficers in the army of the Covenant wore the plain blue bonnet, and the\nblue riband streaming from it, without any distinction from the men in\nthe ranks; and when the men lay upon the bare ground, so did they.\n\n\"Ye seem to come wi' a free-will offering,\" said the officer; \"and not\nonly wi' an offering o' provision, but, judging by your soldierly array,\nye come to fight the battles o' conscience, the Covenant, and our\ncountry.\"\n\n\"We do,\" said the father; \"my five sons and mysel, and these sheep and\nprovisions, are the offerings o' my children's mother; which, my lord,\nor whatever ye may be, wi' her husband and five sons thrown into the\nscale, makes nae sma' sacrifice.\"\n\n\"Ye speak truly, worthy friend,\" said the officer; \"we rejoice in such\ndevotedness towards our glorious purpose. It is a volunteer cause, and\nHeaven affords us assurance of victory. Yonder, see ye, is the general\nriding round the tents on the black horse; go to him before he take up\nhis quarters in the castle for the night. He will give ye a gracious\nwelcome.\"\n\n\"Weel, that is very odd,\" said the senior Alexander Cockburn, gazing\nupon the general with a look o' surprise. \"He is a wee, auld-looking\nbody. My opinion o' him was, that he would be something like what we\nunderstand Sir William Wallace to have been--a man before whom his\nenemies fled, at the shaking o' his spear.\"\n\n\"O Alexander!\" said Alice, \"hae ye forgot yoursel athegither, or rather\nhae ye forgot your Bible? Do ye no remember the purposes for which the\nweak things o' this earth were chosen?\"\n\n\"True, Alice,\" said he; \"I stand corrected.\" And the father, the mother,\ntheir armed sons, and the sheep and provisions which they brought with\nthem, were placed before General Leslie.\n\n\"Well, good folk,\" inquired the general, \"what would ye wi' me?\"\n\n\"We come, sir,\" said the elder Cockburn, lifting his bonnet, \"to offer\nyou our best services o' heart and hand, and to--to----\"\n\nHere old Alexander, who, though one o' the most rigid and unbending men\no' the Covenant, was withal a man o' singular modesty, and, in some\nrespects, o' bashfulness, began to falter; on which Alice, taking upon\nherself the office o' speaker, began to say--\"Yes, your\nexcellency--that is, your generalship--we are come----\"\n\nBut her husband gently pulled her by the sleeve, whispering, \"Haud sae,\nAlice, just let me gang on--ye ken it behoves a woman to be silent, and\nin an assembly to open not her mouth.\"\n\nThough an obedient and an affectionate wife, this was a point which she\nprobably would have been disposed to argue with him; but the general,\ninterfering, said, \"Wi' your good leave, sir, I shall hear your wife.\nScotland owes a debt to its wives and mothers, which, as a nation, they\nshould be proud to acknowledge; they are manifesting a godly enthusiasm,\nwhich is far, far beyond the boasted virtue o' the mothers and maidens\no' Rome, when they saved their city from destruction. Speak on, good\nwoman.\"\n\nAlice, thus emboldened, proceeded--\"Weel, sir, as my husband has said,\nhe and our sons have come to offer you their best services o' heart and\nhand; and o' the little we can spare, we hae brought ye six sheep, six\nfirlots o' wheat, and six measures o' meal. The latter is but a poor\noffering; but when, as a wife, I present to ye my husband, and as a\nmother, my five sons, I trust that what we bring will not be altogether\nunacceptable; while it shall be my care to provide means at least for\ntheir support; so that, if they be not of assistance to ye, they at\nleast shall not be a burden.\"\n\nThe old general dismounted, and took Alice by the hand. \"While Scotland\ncan boast o' such wives and mothers as you,\" said he--\"and I am proud to\nsay there are many such--the enemies o' the Covenant will never be able\nto prevail against us.\"\n\nAlexander Cockburn and his five sons then began to erect a sort o' half\nhut, half tent, beside those o' the rest o' the army, that they might be\nalways in readiness. And, oh, sir, at that period, Dunse Law presented\none o' the grandest sights that ever the eyes o' man were witness to. On\nthe side o' that hill were encamped four-and-twenty thousand men.\nLowest down, lay the tents o' the nobles and the great officers, their\ntops rising like pyramids; before them were placed forty pieces o'\ncannon; and between them were the tents o' their captains; and from\nevery captain's tent streamed a broad blue flag, on which was inscribed\nthe words I have already quoted--\"FOR CHRIST'S CROWN AND THE COVENANT.\"\nHigher up the hill were the straw-covered and turf-built huts o' the\nsoldiers: and from the rising o' the sun until its going down, ye\nwouldna hae heard an oath or a profane expression amongst those\nfour-and-twenty thousand men; but, on the contrary, hundreds o' the\nministers o' the gospel were there, each man with his Bible in his hand,\nand his sword girt upon his thigh, ready to lead his followers to the\nbattle, or to lay down his life in testimony o' the truth o' the\ndoctrines which he preached. Morning and night there was public worship\nthroughout the camp, and the drum summoned the army to prayers and to\nhearing the Word, while the services were attended by all, from the\ngeneral down to the humblest recruit that had but newly entered the\nranks. At every hour in the day, also, from some part o' the camp or\nother, the sounds o' praise and prayer were heard. Every man in that\narmy was an enthusiast; but he had a glorious cause to excite his\nenthusiasm--the cause o' his Creator, and his country's liberty--ay, and\nthe liberty, the rights, and privileges o' posterity also. Yes, sir, I\nsay o' posterity; for it is to those men that we are indebted for the\nblessings and the freedom which we enjoy beyond the people o' other\ncountries; though there are men who dared to call them _mere\nfanatics_!--fanatics, indeed!--but, oh, they are fanatics that saved\ntheir country--that braved oppression--that defied it even to death, and\nthat wi' their own blood wrote the irrevocable charter o' our liberty!\nIf they were fanatics, they were such as every nation in the world would\nbe proud to call its sons, and would glory to have possessed. They are\nfanatics, if they must be called so, whose deeds, whose characters,\nwhose firmness o' purpose, the integrity o' whose principles, and whose\nmatchless courage, with the sublime height to which they carried their\ndevotion, despising imprisonment, pain, and death, render us unworthy o'\nbeing numbered as their descendants. I canna endure to hear the men,\nwhose graves are the foundations on which are built our civil and\nreligious liberties, so spoken o'; I winna see their graves--I winna\nhear their memories profaned. More fit we were to set up a national\nmonument in remembrance o' them.\n\nOn the day after the army o' the Covenant encamped on Dunse Law, the\nking held a grand review o' his army by Tweedside; but just as the\nreview was over--and when the king and his courtiers were retiring, to\nsit down to their wine, and their feasts o' fat things, and his poor\nhalf-hungered soldiers to kitchen out a broken biscuit or a piece o'\nbare bannock (while the Covenanters were living like gentlemen on\nwheaten bread and flesh-meat every day)--some o' the Loyalists, that had\nclearer een than others, observed the great camp upon Dunse Law, and the\nhundred banners waving in the wind, and ran to communicate what they had\nobserved to the king. Charles, to do him justice, was a canny, silly\nsort o' a body, but just infatuated wi' his ideas about his\nprerogative--by which he meant absolute power--and his foolish desire to\nforce everybody to swallow a bishop, gown, sleeves, and all! However,\nwhen he heard that the \"blue bonnets were bound for the Border,\" he\nspoke angrily and disdainfully to his officers, and upbraided them that\nthey had not brought him tidings o' the movements o' his enemies; and,\ncalling for his prospect-glass, he stood upon the bank o' the river--and\nthere, sure enough, to his sorrow and consternation, he beheld the camp,\nand the multitude o' armed men. He even to a nearness counted their\nnumbers. Now, Dunse, as the crow flies, not being quite seven miles to\nwhere the Tweed forms the border line between Ladykirk and Norham, his\nMajesty spoke o' punishing the Covenanters for having broken the compact\nthat they had entered into not to approach within ten miles--forgetting,\nbe it remembered, that he was the first aggressor, in having sent his\ntroops to attack a party o' the Covenanters at Kelso; and forgetting,\nalso, that his army was unable to stand up, even for a single hour,\nagainst the host who stood over against them. He soon, however, became\nsensible o' his weakness, and he again began to offer liberal and\ngenerous terms to his armed subjects; but no sooner did he find them\nready to accept them, than his kingly word became like a whuff o' reek\nthat has vanished out o' sight in the air!--ye may seek it, but where\nwill ye find it? The Covenanters were not willing to bathe their swords\nin the blood o' their fellow-subjects, and the king was feared to\nmeasure the strength o' his army against the blue-bonneted host.\n\nBut, as it is not my intention to narrate to ye a history o' the wars o'\nthe Covenant, I shall only say that the king, seeing he had no chance if\nit came to a battle, consented to summon a parliament, and that\neverything should be settled as the Covenanters desired. Both armies\nwere accordingly disbanded, and Alexander Cockburn and his five sons\nreturned home to their own house, and laid their weapons aside.\n\nThe old man said that \"he trusted the time had come when in this country\nthe sword should be turned into a ploughshare, and the spear into a\npruning-hook.\"\n\nBut Alice answered him, saying, \"O Alexander! a foolish thing has been\ndone by our rulers. They have got an assurance from the king; but they\nought to have made assurance doubly sure. You have read, and they must\nhave read--'Put not your trust in princes.' The day is not distant when\nthey will rue that they overlooked that text.\"\n\nThere was too much o' the nature o' prophecy in the words which Alice\nspoke; for twelve months had not passed, when the mischief-making little\nchurchman, Bishop Laud, and other evil spirits o' a similar stamp, egged\nup the simple king to break a' the promises he had made to the people o'\nScotland, and wi' a strong hand carry war and revenge into the country.\nBut, poor man, he reckoned without his host. His advisers were like the\ncounsellors o' Solomon's son--they advised him to his ruin. The news o'\nhis intention ran through Scotland like wildfire. Beacons burned on the\nmountains--men gathered on the plains--and before the king was in\nreadiness to leave London, all Scotland was in arms. Old Leslie was once\nmore chosen commander-in-chief; and the same valiant men that the year\nbefore had encamped upon Dunse Law, gathered together, and marched\ntowards the Borders.\n\nThey had reached Chousely, which is between three and four miles west o'\nDunse, when Alexander Cockburn and his sons again joined them, and\nbrought with them an offering o' provisions, as before. The general\nagain remembered and welcomed them; and he recollected them the more\nreadily, because Alice accompanied them. On the following morning, when\nthe army began to march towards the south, she took her leave o' them,\nsaying, \"Fareweel, husband! bairns!--to the protection o' Him whose\nbattles ye go forth to fight, I resign ye. Pray ye that, whate'er\nbetide, I may be strengthened to bow my head, and say, '_His will be\ndone_!' Go, then, acquit yoursels valiantly; think on the sacred cause\nin which ye are engaged, and trust in the Hand that will sustain ye.\nBairns, fareweel!--your mother blesses you!--she will pray for you!\nHusband, fareweel!--look after our bairns. Alexander! ye are the\nyoungling o' my flock; and oh, hinny, my heart yearns for ye, lest ye\npermit unworthy thoughts to arise in yer breast, that may deprive yer\nyoung arm o' its strength.\"\n\n\"Fear not for me, mother,\" replied the youth.\n\nShe therefore returned home; and they proceeded wi' the army towards\nColdstream, from whence they crossed the Tweed, and proceeded, by way o'\nWooler and Longframlington, towards Newcastle, o' which town they came\nwithin sight on the tenth day after entering Northumberland; but,\nfinding Newcastle strongly fortified and garrisoned by the king's\ntroops, under General Conway, they proceeded a few miles up the Tyne to\nNewburn, where the civil war in reality began, and the first battle was\nfought.\n\nWhen the king's troopers heard that the Covenanters were encamped at\nNewburn, they galloped out o' Newcastle, sword in hand; each man\nswearing lustily that he would kill a dozen o' the blue-bonnetted\nJockies--as they called the Covenanters in derision--and boasting that\nthey would make prisoners o' all who escaped the sword. But when the\ninhabitants o' the canny toon heard the braggadocio o' the redcoats, as\nthey galloped through the streets, flourishing their swords, \"Dinna brag\ntow fast, lads,\" said they, shaking their heads; \"words arena deeds; and\ntak care that each ane o' ye doesna catch a Tartar.\"\n\nNext morning, the battle o' Newburn was fought; and the tone o' the\nking's soldiers was indeed lowered. They were routed at every point,\nthey ran to and fro in confusion, and their panic was like a whirlwind\nin a barn-yard. \"The road to Durham--show us, show us the road to\nDurham!\" they cried; and, helter-skelter, neck-or-nought, leaving\nswords, pistols, carbines, muskets, everything they could throw away, by\nthe roadside, away to Durham, and far beyond it, they ran.\n\nOnly five o' the army o' the Covenant were left dead on the field, but\namong those five was old Alexander Cockburn, the husband o' Alice. After\nthe battle, his sons found his mangled and lifeless body in a narrow\nlane, between two gardens, surrounded by a heap o' dead Loyalists, who\nhad sunk beneath his sword before he fell.\n\nIt is said that the first blow is half the battle; and it was so wi' the\nCovenanters upon this occasion; their sudden victory at Newburn not only\nstruck dismay into the hearts o' the royal troops, but reason and fear\nbaith began to whisper their warnings in the ears o' the monarch. He\nonce more became a negotiator and seeker for peace with his\nthrice-cheated and injured subjects. They remembered the divine precept,\nto forgive their brother though he offended against them seven times in\na day, and they kept this commandment before their eyes in all their\ndealings with the king. They forgave him his lack o' faith, and the\nhollowness o' his promises; and, extending to him the right hand o'\nallegiance, he once more gave his kingly pledge to grant them all that\nthey desired, and to ratify it by the acts o' a parliament. Puir man! he\nhad lang been baith king and parliament in his ain person; and he\nconceived that in him dwelt absolute power, and absolute wisdom; but\nlittle did he dree what a dear parliament the ane that he then spoke o'\nwas to be to him. It is distinguished by the emphatic appellation o'\n\"THE PARLIAMENT\" even unto this day; and by that designation it will\ncontinue to be known. Thus the arms and the cause o' the Covenant again\ntriumphed; and, the objects for which the army took the field being\naccomplished, they were dismissed, and returned every man to his own\nhouse.\n\nWith afflicted hearts, while they rejoiced at the accomplishment o' the\nobject for which they had taken up arms, the five sons o' Alice Cockburn\nreturned to Dunse. She was yet ignorant o' her husband's death, and\nhaving been informed o' their approach, she met them at the door. She\nstretched out her arms to welcome them, but they fell, as if suddenly\nstricken wi' palsy, by her side; and wi' a trembling voice, and a look\nthat bespoke her forebodings, she inquired, \"Where is _he_?\"\n\nThey looked sadly one towards another, as if each were anxious that the\nother should communicate the tidings. Her eldest son took her hand, and\nsaid mournfully, \"Come into the house, mother.\"\n\nTheir sorrowfu looks, their dejected manner, told her but too plainly\nher husband's fate.\n\n\"He is dead!\" she cried, in a tone o' heart-piercing solitariness and\nsorrow, as she accompanied them into the house, where she had beheld\nthem equip themselves for battle.\n\n\"My father is dead,\" said Alexander, her youngest; \"but he died bravely,\nmother, in the cause in which ye glory, and in which a' Scotland\nglories; and, to the deeds done by his hand on the day he fell, we, in a\ngreat measure, owe the freedom o' our country, and the security o' the\nCovenant.\"\n\nShe clasped her hands together, and sat down and wept.\n\n\"Mother,\" said her sons, gathering round her, \"dinna mourn.\"\n\nShe rose, she wept upon their necks from the eldest to the youngest. \"Ye\nhae lost a faither,\" said she, \"whose loss to ye nane but thae wha\nkenned him at his ain fireside can estimate; and I hae lost hae husband,\nwho, for eight-and-thirty years, has been dearer to me than the licht o'\nthe sun, for wherever he was, there was aye sunlicht upon my heart. But\nhis life has been laid down in a cause worthy o' the first martyrs. I\nhae endeavoured to pray--'THY will be done;' and pray for me, bairns,\nthat I may submit to that will without repining, for the stroke is\nheavy, and nature is weak.\"\n\nAgain she sat down and wept, and now she lifted her hands in prayer, and\nagain she wrung them in the bereavement o' widowhood, saying, \"O my\nAlexander!--my husband!--shall I never, never see ye again?\" And her\nsons gathered round her, to comfort her.\n\nOn the day following, Alexander, the youngest o' the sons o' Alice, went\ntowards Polwarth, in the hope o' obtaining an interview with Flora\nStuart, whom he had not seen for several months; for, from the time that\nhe had joined the Covenanting army on Dunse Law, her father had\nforbidden him his house. He spoke o' him as the young traitor, and\nforbade Flora, at her peril, to speak to him again. But, as the sang\nsays,\n\n    Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen;\n\nand Alexander again ventured to see her whose image was for ever present\nwi' his thoughts, as if her portrait were engraven on his heart. It was\nabout the back end o' harvest, and the full moon was shining bright upon\nthe stubble fields and the brown hills; he was passing by Chousely (or,\nas some call it, Choicelee), the very place where his father, his\nbrothers, and himself, had last joined the army o' the Covenant, when he\nobserved a figure tripping along the road before him. One glance was\nsufficient. He knew it was she whom he sought--his own Flora. He ran\nforward.\n\n\"Flora!\" he cried, \"stop, dear--stop--it is me!\"\n\nShe turned round and said, \"Sir!\"\n\nThe cold abruptness of that word \"sir!\" was like a dagger driven through\nhis bosom, and for a moment he stood before her, in silence and\nconfusion, as one who has been detected o' some offence. But true\naffection is never long either in finding words or an equivalent for\nthem.\n\n\"Flora,\" said he, holding out his hand, \"it is long since we met, I hae\nsuffered affliction since then, and encountered danger, and considering\nthe long, long friendship--the more than friendship, Flora--that has\nbeen between us, and the vows we have exchanged wi' each other, I think\nI micht have expected something mair frae ye now than--'Sir!' Is your\nheart changed, Flora--hae ye forgot me--or do ye wish to forget me?\"\n\n\"No, Alexander,\" said she, \"I hae not forgotten ye; nor hae I forgotten\nthe vows that hae passed between us, as my unhappy heart is a secret\nwitness; and if I did wish to forget ye, it wouldna be possible. For,\nwherever I micht be, the remembrance o' you would come o'er my thoughts\nlike the shadow o' a cloud passing across a river.\"\n\n\"And after it had passed, would it leave as little impression upon your\nheart, Flora, as the shadow o' a cloud does upon a river?\"\n\n\"Alexander,\" she replied, \"I am not gaun to argue wi' ye, for I canna.\nBut oh, man, ye hae drawn your sword against your king--ye hae fought\nagainst him, ye hae been a traitor in the land that gave ye birth; and,\nas my faither says, they who are rebellious subjects will never mak good\nhusbands, or be regulated by the ties o' domestic life.\"\n\n\"Flora,\" returned he, \"I deny altogether that what your faither says is\ncorrect. But, even allowing that it were, I deny that I hae taken up\narms against my king, or that I am a rebellious subject. We took up arms\nagainst injustice, tyranny, and oppression; and the king had previously\ntaken up arms against us. Look at the whole conduct o' the Covenant\narmy--hae they not always listened to every proposal o' the king, and\ntrusted to his royal word as faithful subjects who were wishful to prove\ntheir attachment to his throne and person? But where can ye point out\nthe instance that he has not fled from his engagement and deceived us,\nand showed us that his promises and his pledges were not stronger than\nburned straw? Even the last engagement which he has made, and by which\nhe is to secure to us the rights we have sought for, prayed for, fought\nfor, I believe he will break--he will try to evade it, and give us\nvengeance in its stead--and if he does so, I am no longer his subject,\nbut his enemy, even though it be at the sacrifice o' you, Flora; and\nrather than part wi' you, were it in my power, I would ten thousand\ntimes lay down my own life.\"\n\n\"Alexander,\" added she, \"I haena forgotten the days when we were happy\nthegither, and when we neither thought o' kings nor o' onything else,\nbut our twa sels. But now my faither forbids me to speak to ye; and I\nmaun obey him. And though I think that, in the principles ye are\nfollowing, ye are wrong, very wrong--yet, Alexander, be ye rebel, be ye\nwhat you will, there shall never be another name but yours dear to my\nheart--though we ne'er meet again.\"\n\n\"Dinna meet again, dearest!\" cried he; \"we will meet--we shall meet!--we\nshall be happy too! Never talk o' no meeting again.\" And they clung\nround each other's necks and wept.\n\nThey wandered lang backward and forward, forgetting how the hours flew\nduring their lang, fond whispers; and Flora's father, attended by a\nservant man, came forth to seek her. He vehemently upbraided and\nthreatened his daughter, and he as vehemently reviled Alexander. He\ncalled him by names that I couldna mention, and that he bore patiently;\nbut he also spoke disrespectfully o' his mother--he heaped insults on\nthe memory o' his dead faither. Alexander could endure no more; he\nsprang forward, he grasped him by the throat. He placed his hand upon\nhis sword, which he still wore, and exclaimed, \"Sir! there is a point to\nall endurance, and you have passed it!\"\n\nFlora rushed forward, she placed her hand on Alexander's\narm--\"Forbear!--what would you do?\" she cried; \"it is my faither!\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" he replied, calmly, yet sternly; \"I would do nothing; I have\nborne much provocation, and acted rashly--for which rashness forgie me,\nFlora. When I first drew my sword to resist oppression, I vowed that,\nshould I meet one that was dear to you in the ranks o' the oppressor,\nthough his sword should pierce my body, mine should no be raised against\nhim. Fareweel, dearest--happier days may come.\"\n\nFour years had not passed, when the Covenanters found that they had but\nsmall cause to be satisfied wi' the promises and assurances o' the king.\nProvoked by his exactions, and his attempts at despotism, the people o'\nEngland had taken up arms against him. Montrose, who had been one o' the\nleaders o' the Covenant party, though a man possessed o' wonderfu'\nmilitary talents, was to the full as ambitious as he was clever; and he\nhadna principle aneugh to withstand royal promises, smiles, and\nflattery, he therefore turned traitor to the cause in which he had at\nfirst embarked, and he turned the arms o' his Highlanders, and a body o'\nfierce Irishmen, against the men whom, three years before, he had led to\nbattle. Again many o' the Covenanters rushed to arms, and amongst them\nthe sons o' Alice Cockburn.\n\nThey served as musketeers under Sir James Scott, and fought side by side\nat the battle of Tippermuir. When, through the treachery o' some, and\nthe want o' management o' others, the Covenanters were put to flight,\nthe little band o' musketeers, seeking refuge in some ruined buildings,\nkept up an incessant fire upon the forces o' Montrose, as if resolved to\nsell their lives at the dearest price. Montrose, after many efforts\nfinding that they would not surrender, put himself at the head o' a\npowerful body o' Athole men, and rushed upon the gallant band, who\ndefended themselves like lions at bay. O' the five brothers, who fought\nside by side, four fell; and the youngest only was left, like a servant\no' Job of old, to tell the tidings. When Alexander beheld the dead\nbodies o' his brothers lying around him, sorrow and revenge raged in his\nbreast together. His fury became as the fury o' a tiger that is robbed\no' its young. He dashed into the midst o' his enemies--he pressed\nforward to where Montrose was, crying, \"Vengeance! vengeance!\" he\nreached him--they engaged hand to hand. Montrose was pressed against a\nwall o' the ruins.\n\n\"Fause traitor! renegade!\" exclaimed Alexander--\"here shall I die, the\navenger o' my country and my brothers' blood!\"\n\nHis sword was uplifted to strike, when a body o' Athole men rushing to\nthe rescue o' their commander, the sword was shivered in Alexander's\nhand, and he was made prisoner.\n\nSeveral who had heard the words which he had applied to their leader,\nand had seen his hand raised against his life, insisted that his\npunishment should be death; and in justification o' their demand, they\nurged the threat o' the Covenanters to do the same by whosoever Montrose\nmight send to treat wi' them.\n\nA sort o' court-martial was accordingly held, and the fettered prisoner\nwas brought forth before a tribunal who had already agreed upon his\nsentence. He, however, looked his judges boldly in the face. His cheeks\nwere not blanched, nor did his lips move with fear; he heard the charges\nread against him--the epithets that had been applied to Montrose, who\nwas the king's representative--and that he had raised his sword against\nhis life. He daringly admitted his having applied the epithets--he\nrepeated them again; and, raising his clenched and fettered hands in the\nface of his judges, he justified what he had said; and he regretted that\nhis sword had been broken in his hand before it had accomplished the\ndeed which he desired.\n\nMontrose drew his brows together, and glanced upon him sternly; but the\nyoung prisoner met his gaze with a look of scorn.\n\n\"Away with him,\" said his judges; \"to-morrow, let him be brought forth\nfor execution. His fate shall be an example to all rebels.\"\n\nDuring the night which he had heard to be pronounced the last o' his\nexistence, and throughout which he heard the heavy tramp o' the sentinel\npacing before the place o' his confinement, he mourned not for his own\nfate; but the tears ran down his cheeks when he thought o' his poor\nwidowed, desolate, and unfriended mother!\n\n\"Oh, who,\" he exclaimed--\"who will tell her that her bairns are wi' the\ndead!--that there's not one left, from the auldest to the youngest!--but\nthat her husband and her sons are gone--a' gone! My mother!--my poor\nmother!\" Then he would pause, strike his hand upon his bosom, lean his\nbrow against the wall o' the apartment, and raising it again, say, \"And\nFlora, too--my ain betrothed! who will tell, who will comfort her? Her\nfather may bear the tidings to her; but there will be nae sympathy for\nme in his words, nae compassion for her sorrow. Oh! could I only have\nseen her before I died--had there been any ane by whom I could hae sent\nher some token o' my remembrance in death, I would hae bared my breast\nto the muskets that are to destroy me without regret. But to die in the\nmanner I am to do, and not three-and-twenty yet! Oh, what will my poor\nFlora say?\"\n\nThen, folding his arms in wretchedness, he threw himself upon the straw\nwhich had been spread as a bed for his last night's repose.\n\nEarly on the following day he was brought forth for execution. Hundreds\no' armed men attended as spectators o' the scene; and, as he was passing\nthrough the midst o' them, he started, as he approached one of them who\nstood near to Montrose, and he exclaimed, \"Mr. Stuart!\"\n\nHe stood still for a few moments, and approaching the person whose\nappearance had startled him--\"Mr. Stuart,\" he added, \"ye hae long\nregarded me as an enemy, and as a destroyer o' your peace; but, as one,\nthe very minutes o' whose existence are numbered and as one for whom ye\nonce professed to hae a regard, I would make one sma' request to ye--a\ndying request--and that is, that ye would take this watch, which is all\nI hae to leave, and present it to your daughter, my ain betrothed Flora,\nas the last bequest and token o' remembrance o' him to whom her first,\nher only vow was plighted.\"\n\nIt was indeed the father o' Flora he addressed, whose loyalty had\ninduced him to take up arms with Montrose; but he turned away his head,\nand waved back his hand, as Alexander addressed him, as though he knew\nhim not.\n\nMontrose heard the words which the prisoner had spoken, and, approaching\nMr. Stuart, he said, \"Sir, our young prisoner seems to know ye--yea, by\nhis words, it seems that ye were likely to be more than friends. Fear\nnot to countenance him; if ye can urge aught in his favour--yea, for the\nservices ye have rendered, if ye desire that he should be\npardoned--speak but the word, and he shall be pardoned. Montrose has\nsaid it.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Stuart, \"I will not stand in the way o' justice--I would\nnot, to save a brother! I have nothing to say for the young man.\"\n\nAnd, as he turned away, he muttered, loud enough to be heard, \"Let him\nmeet his appointed doom, and ye will extinguish the last o' a race o'\nincorrigible rebels.\"\n\n\"Youth,\" said Montrose, addressing Alexander, \"from the manner in which\nye addressed Mr Stuart, and the way in which he has answered my\ninquiries respecting ye, it is evident to me that the turbulent spirit\no' the times has begotten a feeling between ye which ought not to exist;\nand, through your quarrel, the heart o' a gentle maiden may be broken.\nBut I shall have no part in it. I think,\" he added, in a low tone, \"I\nhave seen your face before. When the lot fell upon me to be the first to\ncross the Tweed at Hirselhaugh into England, are ye not the stripling\nthat was the first to follow me?\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied Alexander; \"but what signifies that, my lord? _ye have\nsince crossed the water in an opposite direction!_\"\n\nMontrose frowned for a moment; but his better nature forced him to\nadmire the heroism of his prisoner; and he added, \"Consent to leave the\nrebellious cause into which you have plunged--embrace the service of\nyour king, and you are pardoned--you shall be promoted--the hand of the\nmaiden whom you love shall be yours. I will be surety for what I have\nsaid.\"\n\nAlexander remained silent for a few minutes, as though there were a\nstruggle in his bosom what he would say; at length, turning his eyes\ntowards Montrose, he answered, \"What, my lord! turn renegrade like\nyou!--desert the cause for which my father and my brethren have laid\ndown their lives! Wi' a' the offers which ye hold out--and tempting one\no' them is--I scorn life at such a price. Let them lead me to execution;\nand I have but one request to make to ye. Ye have heard the favour which\nI besought o' that man, and which he refused to grant\"--as he spoke he\npointed to the father of Flora. \"Will ye inform his daughter that\nAlexander Cockburn met death as became a man--that his last thoughts\nwere o' her--that his last breath breathed her name!\"\n\n\"You shall not die!\" exclaimed Montrose, impatiently; \"I will not so far\ngratify your pride. Conduct him to Perth,\" added he, addressing those\nwho guarded the prisoner; \"and let him be held in safe keeping till our\nfurther pleasure is known concerning him.\"\n\nHe had admired the dauntless spirit which young Cockburn displayed, and\nhe sought not his life, but he resolved, if it were possible, to engaged\nhim in his service.\n\nFor many weeks, Alexander remained as a prisoner in Perth, without hope\nof rescue, and without being able to learn which cause prevailed--the\nKing, the Parliament, or the Covenant--for the Civil war was now\ncarried on by three parties. At length, by daily rubbing the iron bars\no' his prison window wi' some sort o' soap which he contrived to get,\nthey became so corroded, that the stanchels yielded to his hands as\nrotten wood. He tore the blankets that covered him into ribands, and,\nfastening them to a portion o' ane o' the broken bars, lowered himself\nto the street.\n\nIt was night and he fled to the quay--and found concealment in the hold\nof a vessel, which, on the following day, sailed for London.\n\nBut it is time to return to Alice--the widowed, the all but childless\nmother. Day after day she prayed, she yearned, that she might obtain\ntidings of her children; but no tidings came. Sleep forsook her solitary\npillow, and, like Rachel, she wept for her children because they were\nnot. But a messenger of evil at length arrived, bearing intelligence\nthat four of her sons had fallen in battle, and that the fifth, her\nyoungest, had been made prisoner, and was sentenced to die.\n\n\"My cup o' wretchedness is full,\" cried the bereaved mother; \"have I\nnone left--not one--not even my Alexander, my youngest, the comfort o'\nmy age? But I must submit. It is for the best--it is a' for the best, or\nit wadna be. I should rejoice that I hae been chastened, and that my\naffliction has been for a cause that will confer liberty o' conscience\non posterity, and freedom on our poor distracted country. But oh, I\ncanna forget, my heart winna do it, that I was ance a wife--that I was a\nmother, and had five sons, the marrow o' whom ye wouldna hae found in a'\nthe Merse, but now my husband is not, and my bairns are not, and I am a\nlone widow, wearying to be wi' them, and wi' no ane here to speak to me!\nYet I ought not to murmur!--no! no! It was me that urged them to go\nforth and fight the good fight; but, strong as my zeal then was--oh,\nhuman nature and a wife's, a mother's feelings, are strong also!\"\n\nBut Alice, in the day o' her distress, found a comforter, and one that\nsympathised wi' her in all her sorrows, in one whom she had but small\nright to expect to be a freend. When she was left to mourn in solitude,\nwi' but few to visit her, there was one who came to condole wi' her, and\nwho, having once visited her, was seldom absent from her side--and that\nwas Flora Stuart, the betrothed o' her youngest son, o' whom she had\nspoken rashly.\n\n\"Oh, bairn,\" said she, addressing Flora, \"little, little indeed, does\nAlice Cockburn deserve at yer hands!--for but for me, and my puir\nAlexander might this day hae been in life, and held yer hand in his. But\nforgie me, hinny! It was in a guid cause that I hae sacrificed a' that\nwas dear to me in this warld--only, it was a sair, sair stroke upon a\nmother!\"\n\nFlora strove to comfort her; but it was in vain. She didna repine,\nneither did she murmur as those who have no hope; but her health, which\nhad never been what doctors would call robust, was unable to stand the\nshock which her feelings had met wi'; and, in a few weeks after hearing\no' the deaths o' her children, Alice Cockburn was gathered wi' the dead,\nand Flora Stuart accompanied her body mourning to the grave.\n\nI have mentioned that Alexander concealed himself on board a vessel\nwhich sailed for London. He had been three days at sea before he\nventured from the place o' his concealment, and the captain himself\nbeing the son o' a Covenanter, he was conveyed to the great city in\nsafety. He had been but a short time in London, when, meeting with a\ngentleman who belonged to the neighbourhood o' Dunse, he learned that\nhis mother was dead, and that his father's brother, believing that he\nwas dead also, had taken possession o' the property.\n\nAlexander had never had the same religious feelings in the cause in\nwhich he had been engaged, that his father and his brothers had. He\nfought for the sake o' what he called liberty, rather than for any\nfeeling o' conscience; and his ruling passion was a love o' warlike\nadventures. He, therefore, had been but a short time in London, when he\njoined the Parliamentary army; and his courage and talents soon drew\nupon him the notice o' Cromwell, and others o' the Parliamentary\nleaders.\n\nIt was about six years after the battle o' Tippermuir, when one, who was\nsupposed to be a spy from the royalists, fell into the hands o' a party\nbelonging to the Parliamentary army. He was examined, and evidence\nbearing strongly against him, that he had come amongst them secretly to\npry out where the army would be most vulnerable, and, if possible, to\nentrap them into the hands o' their enemies, was produced against him.\nHe was examined a second time, and letters were found concealed about\nhis person which left no doubt o' his being a spy. Some voted that he\nshould be immediately punished with death; but, while all agreed in the\nnature o' the punishment that ought to be inflicted, there were some who\nproposed that the execution o' his sentence should be deferred for a few\ndays, until the arrival o' their commanding officer, who was then\nabsent.\n\nDuring the days that he was thus respited, a daughter o' the spy\narrived, and flinging herself upon her knees before the officers who had\ncondemned him, she besought them, with tears, that they would spare her\nfather's life. Her distress might have moved a heart o' stone. Before\nthem they beheld youth, beauty, loveliness, bathed in misery--bowed down\nwi' distress. They saw her tears falling at their feet--but they had\nbeen used to tears o' blood, and her wretchedness moved them not. All\nthat they could say to her was that their superior officer was not\npresent, and, with the evidence which they had to submit before him,\nthey could not revoke the sentence they had passed.\n\nOn the third day, the chief officer o' the party arrived. All that had\nbeen proved against the prisoner was told to him, and the papers that\nhad been concealed about him were placed before him. He was about to\npronounce the words, \"He shall surely die,\" when, pausing, he commanded\nthat the prisoner should be brought before him.\n\nThe doomed one was accordingly ushered into his presence. When the\nofficer beheld him approach, he started up.\n\n\"Can it be possible?\" he exclaimed--\"Mr Stuart?\" and gasped as he spoke.\n\nThe prisoner also started at hearing his true name, and raising his head\nsaid, \"It is possible! Alexander Cockburn, I am your prisoner--_It is\nyour turn now_!\"\n\nThe officer, who was chief in command o' the party, was none other than\nAlexander Cockburn, the young Covenanter, and the doomed spy was Mr\nRobert Stuart, the father o' Flora.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Alexander, \"my turn is indeed come--it is come to prove to\nyou, that as generous feelings may kindle in the eyes that are barely\nshaded by the blue bonnet o' a Covenanter as in those that look proudly\nfrom beneath the gay beaver o' a cavalier. There was a time when I stood\nas you were like to have done now, wi' but a few ticks o' a watch\nbetween me and eternity--the watch that ye refused to take from my hand;\nand when but the expression o' a wish from your lips was all that was\nrequired to obtain my pardon, my freedom--and that wish ye wouldna\nexpress.\"\n\n\"I ken it, lad! I ken it!\" cried the prisoner; \"but I am in your power\nnow; take your revenge--do by me as I would have done by you!\"\n\n\"No, Mr Stuart!\" replied the other, \"vengeance belongs not to me. But I\nrejoice that, in this instance, for the sake o' one whose name I dare\nnot mention here, I have the power o' pardoning. Soldiers, unloose his\nhands--he is free--he is forgiven.\"\n\nThe soldiers did as they were commanded.\n\n\"Alexander Cockburn!\" exclaimed the late captive, \"will you make me\nappear more contemptible than a worm in my own eyes? A minute has not\npassed since you reminded me how I hated you, and how deadly I showed my\nhatred. The remembrance o' the occasion on which I showed that feeling\nhas been like a biting adder in my breast ever since; and now to receive\nlife at your hands would be to make my future existence a mixture o'\nwormwood and gall.\"\n\n\"Say not so,\" said Alexander, stepping forward, and taking his hand. \"I\nwould speak with you in private.\"\n\nAt that moment a voice was heard without, crying, \"Let me pass!--pray,\nlet me pass!--let a daughter intercede with your officer for the life of\na father!\"\n\n\"Sir, sir!\" exclaimed Alexander, \"it is _her_!--it is _her_! My Flora's\nvoice!\" And he rushed to the door to meet her.\n\n\"Flora!--my own Flora!\" he continued; \"your father is free--he is\nforgiven--he shall live! What! do you not know me? I am your own\nAlexander.\"\n\n\"Alexander!\" she cried, springing forward to meet him, and, yielding to\nthe natural feelings o' the man, her father ran towards them, and\nembraced them both.\n\nMy story (said the schoolmaster) is now at a close. Alexander gave up\nhis commission in the Parliamentary army. It was low-water mark wi' the\nking's people, and Mr Stuart accompanied him; and need I tell ye, that\nso did Flora. They had abundance to keep them comfortable; and, on the\nday after they arrived at Dunse, she took them to the kirkyard, and\nshowed them the clean white headstone o' Alice Cockburn.\n\n\"Bless ye for this, my ain wife,\" said Alexander, while the tears were\nin his een, and he raised her hand to his lips.\n\nI have only to add (continued the narrator), that I, Simon Cockburn, am\nthe great-grandson o' Alexander Cockburn and Flora Stuart.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCE OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\nThe character of David, Earl of Carrick, better known by the title of\nDuke of Rothsay, is one of those which nature seems to delight in\ndistributing among nations at distant periods, apparently with the view\nof teaching mankind, that, however brilliant may be the powers of mind\nwith which an individual is endowed, however captivating the qualities\nof his person, his sparkling wit, his graceful manners, and polite\nconversation; and however amiable the generosity, liberality, and\nfeeling of his heart--though all combined with high rank, and even the\nstation of a king--he has no charter of immunity from the obligations of\nordinary life; and that, if he endeavours, by the aid of these, to turn\nserious things into frolic, and force a pastime from the sanctions of\nreligious or moral duty, he must pay the usual forfeit of a departure\nfrom the rights of nature, and suffer destruction.\n\nThis young prince, it is well known, was the son of Robert III. of\nScotland, who allowed the reins of government to be wrested from his\nfeeble hands by the cunning and powerful Duke of Albany. The feebleness\nof the father was not inherited by the son. Rothsay had powers of mind\nwhich were equal to the management of a kingdom; and these, there is\nreason to suppose, he would have displayed for the advantage of his\ncountry, if the current of events in which he was involved had not been\ninfluenced by his uncle, Albany, and turned to suit his schemes of\nambition. The indications of great talent which, in early youth, he\nexhibited, were hailed by his father with pride and satisfaction; but by\nhis uncle, the governor, with well-founded fear and suspicion.\nUnfortunately, it soon appeared that the fertility of the soil did not\nlimit its powers of production to the nobler and more useful plants.\nAlong with the prince's great powers of intellect, there arose a love of\npleasure which could be gratified only--such was its insatiable\ncharacter--by every species of extravagant sally and wild frolic. His\nheart was untainted by any inclination to injure seriously the health,\nreputation, or interests of any individual, however humble; but,\nunfortunately, when a love of enjoyment took possession of him, all his\nintellectual powers, as well as some of his moral perceptions, were\nabused or overlooked, and a character naturally generous was shaded by\nthe faults of vicious intemperance.\n\nTo make all this the more to be regretted, young Rothsay was a beautiful\nyouth. His voice was full and melodious, capable of being exerted--and\nhe had the art to do it--in exciting, by the strains of exquisite music,\nthe tenderest feelings of the heart. His manner had in it the affability\nof a free romping girl, with the grace and dignity of a young prince.\nHis hilarity seemed to have no interval, and his good-humour was\nscarcely capable of being disturbed. His love of amusement, and his\ngenius in contriving schemes for the promotion of the happiness of his\nfriends and associates, made his company the desire of the aged and the\nenvy of the young. Yet, amidst all this, it was remarked as wonderful,\nthat he seldom lowered the dignity of his rank. Even his frolics were\nthose of a prince, and his humblest acts were performed with that\nconsummate grace which can lend a charm to what, in other hands, would\nincur the charge of vulgarity.\n\nBut, while these fair features often set off with greater effect the\nfaults which inevitably flow from the indulgence of unlawful passions,\nRothsay had the power of combining his good and evil, and so mixing up\nhis passionate sallies of intemperance or vicious sport with traits of\ngenerosity, humanity, and feeling, that it was often impossible to say\nwhether some of his actions were good or bad, or whether the people who\nhad apparently suffered from his unrestrained licentiousness would have\nescaped the injury to be deprived of the benefit which it produced from\nthe calm reflection of the generous youth.\n\nThe friendship of Rothsay was extended to most of the young nobles of\nthat period; but no one was so successful in securing his affections as\nSir John de Ramorgny--a young man supposed to have come originally from\nFrance, and certainly justifying his extraction by his character.\nOriginally bred to the church, he was learned beyond the nobles with\nwhom he associated; and, while few could boast his erudition and\nknowledge, fewer still could cope with him in original powers of mind.\nBut these powers were ill directed; for they were used only in base\nintrigues and vicious projects. A more dangerous friend or fatal enemy\ncould not be found among insidious Frenchmen or the still savage Scots.\nHis dissimulation, address, and elegance of personal appearance and\nmanners, were all used, as occasion required, to cover or aid his\ndesigns of ambition, or his base seductions and purposes of revenge.\nAble for the weightier projects of war or diplomacy, and admirably\nadapted for court intrigue, he did not hesitate to descend to the most\ntrifling and vulgar pleasures. He could play the murderer, the insidious\nbetrayer, and the buffoon or mountebank, with equal address and with\nequal satisfaction. With these qualities, the more wicked and dangerous\nof which he could conceal, Ramorgny was easily able to recommend himself\nto Rothsay; and the affection with which he was treated by the prince\nwas no doubt the effect of a similarity in manners and accomplishments,\nand a congeniality of humour, which the unsuspecting and generous prince\nmistook for an agreement of disposition.\n\nScotland is said to have been used from one end to the other, by these\ndissolute companions, as the theatre of their amusements. They wandered\nabout in disguise, laying rich and poor, old and young, under\ncontributions for their wild pastime. They were often for weeks\nassociated with bands of wandering minstrels and female dancers,\nentering into their humours, playing on their instruments, learning the\nsecrets of their wandering professions, and imitating their\nperformances. The protean versatility of their powers rendered their\nextravagant exhibitions of easy accomplishment; while their hilarity and\nboisterous merriment, recommended by a profusion of money, made them\nwelcome into whatever society of vagabonds they were ambitious of\nentering. Nor was it by merely courting the favours of these tribes that\nthe companions were permitted to join in their revels. They were able to\nstand their ground on an equal footing of reckless hardihood, and, where\noccasion required, of pugilistic authority. They could sing and dance,\nswear and bawl, get drunk and fight, with the most profligate members of\nthese outlawed associations.\n\nThese extravagances soon became known; and Queen Arabella, the young\nduke's mother, was greatly grieved that her eldest son, and the object\nof her dearest hopes and most anxious solicitudes, should act a part\nwhich, while it would alienate from him the hearts of the people, would\nenable his uncle Albany to continue longer his usurped dominion as\ngovernor of Scotland. An attempt was therefore made to unite him to the\ncares and solicitudes of office; and he was soon installed into that of\nlieutenant of the kingdom--a council being, at the same time, appointed\nto advise with him. This step was not followed by its expected benefits;\nfor the governor did not consider it either as incompatible with the\nduties of his situation, or derogatory to the dignity of his high place,\nto resort to his old modes of pleasure and amusement. All that was\nrequired was a greater degree of care employed upon the habiliments of\nhis disguises; and the lord-lieutenant might have been detected joining\nin a rondeau with a singing girl, acting the fanfaron with a Hector,\nperforming a daring croupade with a rope-dancer, or tripping to the\nsound of an Italian theorbo. In all these things he was still kept in\ncountenance by Ramorgny; who, however, while he was joining him in his\nrevels, was meditating schemes of villany and selfishness.\n\nThe affairs of state having thus little power in withdrawing the prince\nfrom his licentious companions and unbecoming practices, it was next\nsuggested by the queen, that the restraining influence of a wife's\naffections might overcome his propensity for the outlawed pleasures to\nwhich he had become enslaved. The king seconded this measure; and\nwithout consulting the duke's sentiments, or ascertaining his taste in\nthe choice of a wife, it was communicated to him that the interests of\nthe nation required him to marry and provide an heir to the throne, and\nthat his choice of a wife lay between Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of\nArchibald, Earl of Douglas, and Elizabeth of Dunbar, daughter of the\npowerful Earl of March. Neither of these ladies had ever been seen by\nthe prince. It was surmised that he had a special favourite of his own,\nselected no doubt from a host of willing beauties with whom he\nassociated; and the intelligence that he was called upon to resign his\nliberty into the hands of a woman he had never seen, could not be\nexpected to be highly relished by a person of his spirit and habits of\nlife.\n\nSeeking Ramorgny, Rothsay communicated to him the intentions of his\nmother, and the commands of his father and the nation, and asked his\nadvice in so trying an emergency.\n\n\"By your father's crown,\" cried Ramorgny, \"I see nothing for it but to\nobey. The difficulty lies in the selection; for, if I am able to\nappreciate the beauty of woman, thou wilt have to choose between a crow\nand a rook. Elizabeth of Dunbar is the descendant of Black Agnes, who\ndefended that old castle, in the days of the Second David, against the\narms of the Duke of Salisbury; and Elizabeth of Douglas cannot fail to\nhave in her some portion of the blood of the Black Earl, who fell in\nSpain, trusting to the protecting charm of Robert's heart, which he\ncarried with him in a casket. So thou seest the black choice thou hast\ngot; and the matter is not mended by having two in thy option, if the\nold proverb carries faith, which sayeth, that 'Two blacks will not make\na white.'\"\n\n\"By the faith of a prince,\" replied the duke, \"it is a black business;\nbut thou hast been talking genealogically, good Ramorgny, while I wished\nto have thy opinion physically. Blood doth not follow the law of the\nmountain stream, by getting more muddy as it descends; neither are men\nand women of the nature of the gaffled cocks we use to fight at the\nmains on the Inch of Perth, which send down their fighting propensities\nto the tenth gallinaceous generation. The two Besses may be whiter than\ntheir progenitors, and of less pugnacious propensities!\"\n\n\"Thy argument, good lieutenant,\" cried Sir John, \"hath the goodly\nproperty of proving two things:--In the first place, it proves that the\ntwo Besses may have white skins; and, secondly, that thou mayest have a\nwhite liver; for, if courage hath no descent but in cocks, thou canst\nnot boast of having the heart of the first Robert!\"\n\n\"Hold! thou art too severe,\" cried Rothsay, \"and not logical. Thou art\nmixing up actuality with potentiality--for that my liver is not white,\nis proved by the blue evidences I painted on thy back, when, in the\ngipsy tent at Bothwell, I fought thee for a kiss of the Brown\nmorris-dancer, Marion of Leghorn, who, having given me the reward of my\nvictory, dressed thy wounds for pity's sake, and then cudgelled thee for\nmine.\"\n\n\"I could turn thy argument against thee,\" answered Ramorgny; \"for thy\ncourage was so much at fault, that thou didst require the aid of an\nItalian morris-dancer to do that which good King Robert would have done\nhimself. But we have wandered from the two Besses, whom it now behoves\nus to take up, and treat with more respect. What is thy course?\"\n\n\"As lieutenant of Scotland, I commission thee, Sir John de Ramorgny, to\nrepair to the castle of Dunbar, and thereafter to that of Douglas, to\ninquire into the qualities of Elizabeth of Dunbar and Elizabeth\nDouglas--to note the height of their persons--the hue of their\nskins--the colour of their eyes, and the nature of their dispositions;\nand thereafter to report as becometh a trusty and faithful commissioner\nof the king.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt be obeyed,\" answered Ramorgny; \"but, if the commissioner may\nbe allowed to judge of the matter of his mission, I would suggest that,\nin my opinion, thou hast left out the most important part of my\ninstructions.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" inquired the prince.\n\n\"The dowery, to be sure,\" answered Ramorgny. \"What are complexions and\ndispositions, to golden acres? What careth the housewife, who wanteth\nstrong broth, for the colour of the capon's tail?\"\n\n\"We will leave that to the queen,\" said the duke. \"Her Majesty wisheth\nto put me up to sale, and to knock me down to the highest bidder. We can\nbring the earls up to within a few acres of each other, and of the two\npigeons, both equally fat, and brought thus equally within shot, I, to\nplease my fancy, may strike the fairest.\"\n\nRamorgny was satisfied, and proceeded on his mission. He first went to\nthe residence of March, which at that time was in a castle situated near\nthe town of Dunse; the castle of Dunbar having been, during the late\nwars, so much shattered, that it required to be put in a state of\nrepair. Ramorgny's rank procured him admittance to the family of the\nearl, and his intimacy with Rothsay was a sufficient recommendation to\nentitle him to the greatest attention and respect. March viewed his\nvisit as one of examination and discovery, and took the precaution to\nprepare his daughter to treat him as the friend and confidant of her\nfuture husband. A great dinner was got up in honour of the knight, at\nwhich Gawin, the earl's son, and Maitland, his nephew, were present, and\nall endeavoured, by every means in their power, to acquire the good-will\nof the prince's favourite. It was not these, however, that Ramorgny\nwished to study or to please. The daughter was his subject; and his\nknowledge of human nature soon enabled him to form an estimate of her\ncharacter not far wide of the truth. She was dark, but beautiful; with a\nclear, burning eye, which occasionally exhibited flashes of the spirit\nof her ancestor, Black Agnes. Her temper was clearly that of a demon;\nher spirit, wild and untamed. When contradicted, her anger,\nnotwithstanding the indications of the displeasure of her parents, burst\nforth with ungovernable energy. She disregarded the rules of ordinary\npoliteness, by applying to her brother Gawin indecorous names. She\nscolded the servants; and even, on one occasion, when she had risen from\ntable, and thought she was unobserved, she applied her fingers to the\nears of a female, and pinched her till she screamed. The earl, who\nsuspected what was going forward, beckoned to her; the lady winked; the\nson pulled her by the gown. Their efforts were unavailing. Ramorgny was\nsatisfied that Elizabeth of Dunbar was a true scion of the stock of old\nAgnes.\n\nThe experience which Ramorgny had thus acquired was completely\ncorroborated by the common report of the Borders, where the young lady\nwent by the name of Black Bess of Dunbar. She was represented as an\nincarnation of Mahoun--a fiend, whom all the efforts of her father and\nmother, aided by their relatives, had not been able to subdue, or soften\ninto the ordinary flexile consistence of mortals. The excuses which were\nmade to the knight by the parents, that she was ill, and had a headache,\nand so forth, only tended to corroborate his experience and the report\nof others. His only wonder was, that the Earl of March could have\nthought of recommending such a female to the arms of a civilised man--to\na prince. No one but March could have dared!\n\nRamorgny next directed his steps to the Castle of Douglas, to make his\nsurvey and examination in that quarter. He was received by Earl\nArchibald, who was now an old man, with much cordiality, and in a short\ntime introduced to Elizabeth. The contrast between this lady and the one\nhe had left was remarkable at first sight, and before she had opened her\nmouth to reply to the elegantly-polished compliments of the most\naccomplished man of his time. She was fair, with auburn hair and blue\neyes; tall, and elegantly formed; imbued with so much of the spirit of a\ngentlewoman, that her whole figure, in its easy, flexile movements,\nseemed to obey the slightest touch of the presiding genius of grace and\nbeauty. Ramorgny felt and acknowledged, with that rapidity with which\nmen of the world can detect the indications of an elevated soul, the\npower of the mute eloquence of this exquisitely-formed complex piece of\nnature's machinery. But when the spirit spoke, and the combination of so\nmany charms started into new life, responding in every turn and\nlineament to music that seemed to have been formed to give them\nadditional grace, and apparently claiming the voice as their own\nindividual expression, the effect was completed, to the disturbance of\nRamorgny's feelings, and the flight of his peace. Her soft and gentle\ntones went straight to his heart. The silken cords of love were cast\naround him by every look, motion, and expression; and the prince's\ndeputy became, in spite of himself, his rival.\n\nRamorgny felt disinclined to leave the castle. Every additional\ncircumstance that came under his observation increased his passion. The\nprevailing character of Elizabeth's mind and feelings was extreme\ngentleness, softness, and sensibility, in which could be discovered no\naffectation of sentimentality. Her manner was natural and easy; and it\nwas impossible to behold her for a moment, without being sensible that\nshe was a creature formed to sacrifice herself, and her individual\nthoughts, wishes, and aspirations, to the happiness of the man who\nshould be so fortunate as to secure her affections. This softness of\nmanner extended itself to the style of her speech, which was slow,\nsmooth, and natural, seeming to derive its sweetness from the perennial\nsmile that played upon her lips.\n\nStruck with an intense passion, Ramorgny forgot the object of his\nmission. The prince was only recollected as an unpleasant object that\ncame between him and the object of his affections. He resorted to every\nmeans of cultivating the good opinion, if not the love, of the lady;\nbut, handsome and gallant as he was--invested with the powers of French\nlove-making, in all its details of conversation, protestation, and\nbadinage--he could not satisfy himself that the gentle and bewitching\nmanners of the lady received any accession, from any increase, in his\nfavour, of the regard and attention she seemed to extend to all the\nvisiters who frequented her father's castle. Ramorgny surveyed this\nequability of enchanting manner, with the pain of one who, fired with, a\nstrong passion, sees ordinary companions basking in the sunshine of\nfavour which he wishes to be confined to himself. He felt pained, but\nthe pain was an increase of passion, with a diminution of hope. His\nviolent temper hurried him into secret cursing of the day on which he\nentered in so thankless an expedition; determinations to escape from his\nduty; and vows that he would secure Elizabeth's love, die, or sacrifice\nhis prince.\n\nRamorgny's threats were no empty sounds. Restrained by no religion--no\nrespect for laws--no terror of punishments--no fear of man--and\ndespising reputation and honour as gewgaws for old women and\nchildren--he was fit for the execution of any measure, executed through\ntreachery and blood, to gratify his passions. Chagrined by the manner of\nElizabeth, which retained its torturing equability of gentleness and\nkindness, without any exhibition of partiality, he was ill prepared for\na letter which arrived from the prince, chiding him for his delay;\nhinting, in his manner, that the rooks of Dunbar and Douglas had flown\naway with his heart, and requesting him to give up the chase, and return\nto his friend. He added, that he understood that his mother, the queen,\nhad declared for the Douglas; and that he would take her, if she was as\nblack as the good Sir James himself.\n\n\"If thou wilt,\" ejaculated Ramorgny, as he perused the letter, \"thou\nshalt at least have the dowery of Ramorgny's sword!\"\n\nThe incensed knight saw, in the midst of his passion, that little good\nwould result from remaining at present longer at the castle. His efforts\nto produce a corresponding affection in the bosom of Elizabeth were\nunavailing. He resolved, therefore, to take his departure; and, having\nkissed the hand of his cruel mistress, and bid adieu to Lord Archibald,\nhe departed. As he journeyed to Linlithgow, where he was to meet the\nduke, he occupied himself in deep meditation. His thoughts reverted\ncontinually to Elizabeth Douglas, whom he pictured to himself the loving\nand beloved wife of Rothsay, whose success with the fair he envied, but\nwhose openness and generosity he despised as weakness. There already\nexisted a rivalship between them as to the affections of a young lady\nwho had eloped with Ramorgny from her father's house, but who afterwards\nleft him for the more enchanting society of the young duke. This\nRamorgny had borne with apparent indifference; but, though he was\nsatisfied that the love of the damsel had not first been solicited by\nRothsay, he could not forgive him his superiority of attraction, and\nimputed to him as a fault, what might, with more propriety, have been\ntermed a misfortune. To lose another object of his affections, and that,\ntoo, by ministering to his own discomfiture, would ill become his\ncharacter for intrigue, and ill accord with the present state of his\nlove for the lady, and hatred for the rival. He must, therefore,\nendeavour to prevent the union between Rothsay and Elizabeth Douglas;\nand if that should fail, he was resolved that the loss of the lady would\nnot involve the loss of his victim. His first step was to falsify his\naccount of the two women; and in this he could not do better than\nreverse their attributes, and substitute Bess of Dunbar for the fair\nDouglas.\n\n\"Well, Ramorgny,\" cried the prince, as he met the knight in the\naudience-chamber of the palace, \"what progress hast thou made in the\nsouth? Thy tarrying indicates enjoyment; for when did Ramorgny wait,\nwhen there was not something to afford him pleasure and amusement?\"\n\n\"Your grace is right,\" answered Ramorgny. \"The pleasures of March's\ncastle are indeed intoxicating. But thou it was who didst send me in the\nway of temptation; and if Elizabeth of Dunbar has, by her enchantment,\ndrawn largely on the time of thy commissioner, thou hast thyself to\nblame. Lord Salisbury, thou knowest, said that her predecessor's\nlove-shafts--meaning the arrows she sent from the old castle walls--went\nstraight to the heart; and, as the lieutenant of this kingdom, and the\nprotector of its subjects, it was thy duty to guard me against a power\nwhich seems to be hereditary in the family of March.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, Black Bess is fair, after all!\" cried the duke. \"Give me thy\nhand. I am right glad on't; for I thought I had no choice--the one being\nfair, the other ugly; and to have been forced to marry one woman, to\nthe exclusion of the darling liberty of selection, would, though she had\nbeen as fair as Venus, have made her like the famed daughter of Phoreus,\nwhose face was as beautiful as that of the sister of Apollo, but whose\nhair was writhing serpents.\"\n\n\"Thy choice, I fear, is not extended by the beauty of Elizabeth of\nDunbar,\" said Ramorgny; \"for what she has, Elizabeth Douglas wants.\nMarch's daughter is a dark beauty, but her colour is not derived from\nthe dingy hues of earth; it owes a higher origin, even the beams of the\nson of Latona himself. Yet the jet eyes from which she sends her\nhereditary love-shafts are the softest engines of death I have ever\nwitnessed. The fire she steals from heaven comes from her as it does\nfrom her cognate thief, Phoebe, as soft as moonbeams. Her gentleness\nis that of the lamb, and the tones of her voice are like the soft\nstrains that come from an AEolian harp, making the heart chase them as\nthey steal away into death-like silence.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried the prince--\"a right good wench. I have ever admired\nsoftness in a woman; and I still maintain that there is the same natural\nfitness in that ordination, as existeth in the connection between heat\nand fire, light and flame, mirth and life, darkness and death! What\nsayest thou now to the other Bess?\"\n\n\"Hast thou ever read of Omphale,\" replied the knight, \"who took from\nHercules his club, and gave him a spindle, and when he complained,\nchastised him with her slipper? It was well for the hero that he did not\nlive in Scotland in these days, when brogues, filled with nails, cover\nthe soft feet of some of our damsels. Elizabeth Douglas would certainly\nimitate Omphale; but, I fear, her slipper would be a brogue; and she\nfarther differeth from her, in being as ugly as she was fair. She\nseemeth to me to be a limb of the devil, which, in its hurry to escape\nfrom the region of fire and brimstone, carried along with it some of\nthese elements of wrath, of which, I doubt not, she would make good use,\nif a husband dared to say to her nay, in place of yea. Thou hast said\nthat thou lovest softness in woman; but I have heard thee say, in thy\nmad freaks--wherein, doubtless, reason had no part--that thou wouldst\nrejoice in an opportunity of taming a shrew. Truly, thy wish, at least\nto the extent of making an attempt, may be gratified by marrying Bess\nDouglas; but I would rede thee to consider, that she might tame _thee_.\nDost thou observe the difference there? Ha! the noble and high-spirited\nRothsay pinned, like a silken nose-cloth, to the skirt of the\nlinsey-woolsey tunic of a modern Xantippe!\"\n\n\"Never fear, Ramorgny,\" cried the duke, impatiently; \"thy efforts in my\nbehalf will save me this degradation. I am obliged to thee for thy\nwarning, and would repay thee, according to the measure of my gratitude\nand thy desert, by recommending to thee as a wife Elizabeth Douglas,\nwhile I will wed her of Dunbar.\"\n\nThe art by which Ramorgny thus sustained, apparently with good-humour,\nhis conversations with the duke regarding subjects which lay very near\nhis heart, and invested with serious import, was one of his cleverest\nbut most deceitful qualities. The duke himself treated everything\nlightly; the unrestrainable buoyancy of his mind cast off with resilient\npower everything which partook of a sombre character; but Ramorgny was\nnaturally dark, gloomy, and thoughtful; and his efforts at frolic,\nsuccessful as they were, were resorted to only as a means to accomplish\nan end. In the present instance, he was necessitated, notwithstanding\nthe intensity of his passion, his vexation, and disappointment, to keep\nup his old manner; for, where truth was generally arrayed in the\ntrappings of frivolity, deceit might have been suspected in an\nappearance of sincerity.\n\nFortunately, however, the prince was not left altogether to the advice\nof Ramorgny; but such is the fate of princes--he got counsel otherwise,\nonly in the suspicions he entertained of an enemy, his uncle Albany.\nHaving heard that he wished him to marry Elizabeth Douglas, and to\naccompany him to Douglas Castle to see the lady on a certain day, the\nprince, to escape the importunities of his uncle, and to gall him--a\npastime in which he took some pleasure--rode off precipitately to\nMarch's castle, to enjoy the society of Elizabeth, in whom he expected\nto find all the qualities described by his friend, who enjoyed his\nabsolute confidence.\n\nWhen Rothsay arrived at the castle of March, the earl was on the eve of\nsetting out for Linlithgow, for the purpose of seeing him. The behaviour\nof Elizabeth in presence of Ramorgny had filled March with solicitude as\nto the issue of the projected match; and he wished to counteract, as far\nas possible, the accounts which the favourite would, in all likelihood,\ngive of his self-willed daughter. On seeing the prince, he began to\nentertain hopes that Ramorgny's account was not so unfavourable as he\nsuspected; but his surprise may be imagined, when, in a short\nconversation he had with the prince previous to his introduction to the\nladies, he ascertained that Ramorgny's eulogistic description of\nElizabeth had filled him with an irresistible desire to see so beautiful\nand gentle a creature. March looked askance at the prince, conceiving\nthat he was making him and his family the subject of an ill-timed\nfrolic; but he saw nothing in the face of the prince but the gravest\nsincerity that his versatile temperament could exhibit. It is not\ndifficult to make doubtful facts quadrate with wishes; and March soon\nbecame satisfied that the prince had received a favourable account, and\nwas deeply impressed with a sense of the beauty and merits of his\ndaughter. He immediately introduced him to Elizabeth, according to the\nrequest of the prince; but it was not until he had got a gentle hint,\nthat he showed any inclination to leave them together--a piece of\netiquette reckoned due to a lover who had been proposed as the husband\nof his daughter.\n\nPleased with the dark beauty, though unable to observe in her eye the\nCynthian beam so elaborately described by Ramorgny, the prince\napproached the damsel, and, with that air of gallantry for which he was\nso remarkable, fell at her feet, and, seizing her hand, said, in one of\nhis sweetest accents--\n\n\"I know not, gentle damsel, whether I have any authority thus to sue for\na slight indication of thy favour; but what may be refused by thy\ngoodness to a lover not yet permitted to approach thee with confidence,\nmay perhaps be granted to the lieutenant of the king. The triumphs of\nbeauty are best celebrated by favour; and condescension, which is the\nprettiest foil of excellence, is exhibited to the kneeling knight, by\nextending a hand to grace the act of his rising to receive it.\"\n\n\"Thou mayst e'en rise how and when thou wilt,\" replied Elizabeth,\nsnatching from him her hand; \"or thou mayst kneel there till brown\nMarion of Leghorn or Jean Lindsay of Rossie comes to help thee up. I\ncare no more for a general lover than I do for a general lieutenant. The\nonly difference I see between them is, that the one hath many female\nslaves, and the other many male ones. By the soul of Black Agnes, I\nshall love no man who loveth more than one woman!\"\n\nThis speech soon raised the prince to his feet. He stared at the damsel,\ndoubtful if she was serious, or if he had his senses. Her seriousness\nwas clear enough; for she finished her speech by a stamp of her foot and\na clenching of the hand, suitable accompaniments of a female's oath.\n\n\"Art thou Elizabeth of Dunbar, the gentle daughter of the Earl of\nMarch?\" said the prince, hesitatingly.\n\n\"They say so,\" replied Elizabeth: \"and it is to that reputation I owe a\nprince's visit. I was born shortly after the sacking of Roxburgh by my\nfather; and, if I have any reputation for being gentle, as thou termest\nme, it may be owing to my birth having followed so close upon that\nfamous occasion, on which mothers mourned the murder of their children,\nand children hung at the breasts of their dying or dead mothers. There\nis none of these things in our days: the world gets effeminate; and, in\nplace of women defending castles, and wiping the dust from the\nbattlements with their white handkerchiefs, as my ancestor did at\nDunbar, they teach the arts of spinning and knitting to the men, who,\nwith the Prince of Scotland at their head, vie with each other in the\nsoftness of their skin and the smoothness of their speeches. How would\nBlack Agnes have answered to the speech thou didst now address to her\ndescendant, thinkest thou?\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" replied the prince, \"in the way in which she answered the\nEnglish who attacked her castle, or perhaps in the gentle way in which\nthou hast done.\"\n\n\"Would that all men-spinsters were answered in the same way!\" rejoined\nElizabeth. \"But I would make a distinction: to men who have the boldness\nto court women as they would attack a castle, I would speak softly; but\nto the white-lipped simperers of smooth sayings, who attack the heart\nwith a tempest of sighs, and sap its foundations with floods of tears, I\nwould open the sally-port of my indignation, and kill them with a look.\"\n\n\"Then, I suppose,\" said the prince, \"I owe my life to thy ladyship's\nmercy, extended by way of tender exception to my individual case?\"\n\n\"Say rather that thou owest it to my contempt,\" replied Elizabeth. \"Thou\nhast not yet experienced one of my looks. I have treated thee tenderly\nbecause of the love I bear to Queen Arabella, thy mother, to whom I\nwould beg leave to commit thee for a farther supply of that\nmilk-and-breadberry, of which, as thy sallow cheeks indicate, thou hast\nbeen cheated in thy infancy. Do not object that thou art too old; for\nthy present condition is but an extension of childhood--even now I have\nheard thy rattle.\"\n\n\"Women are privileged,\" replied the prince, losing temper.\n\n\"So are children,\" rejoined Elizabeth, smartly; \"when thou hast arrived\nat manhood, thou mayest then claim my indignation; meantime I recommend\nthee to the queen.\"\n\nAnd, saying this, she left the astonished prince standing in the chamber\nlike a statue. Recovering himself, he left the castle precipitately,\nwithout seeing the earl, biting his lips, and muttering curses against\nRamorgny, who had deceived him, and Elizabeth, who had insulted him. As\nhe proceeded on his way homewards, he bethought himself of the different\ncharacters Ramorgny gave the two ladies; and wishing to give him credit\nfor having confounded the attributes applicable to each, he resolved to\nsee Elizabeth Douglas; and, changing his course, proceeded in the\ndirection of Castle Douglas.\n\nHis arrival at the residence of the old earl, who had contributed to\nplace his family on the throne, brought into the mind of the prince some\nrecollections which evolved feelings which were deeply planted in his\nnature, and only prevented from producing useful and amiable effects, by\nlawless habits borrowed from dissolute companions. With his mind\nelevated by noble aspirations, and high hopes of being one day an\nornament to his country, which he sincerely loved, he was in an\nexcellent mood for appreciating the virtues and beauty of a woman who\ncould, as a consort, make him a better and a happier man, and, by a\nnecessary consequence, a better governor, and subsequently a good king.\nHe met Elizabeth Douglas at a distance from the castle, and introducing\nhimself in the easy and elegant manner of which no man of his time was\nmore capable, was delighted with her conversation, and inspired by her\npersonal charms. Proceeding together to the castle, they were met at the\ngate by the old earl, who complimented Rothsay, as well as his daughter,\nby saying that all he had sighed for was that they should meet and be\nable to appreciate each other's qualities; for he was assured that one\nhour's conversation between persons so accomplished, actuated by such\nmotives, and inspired with such sentiments, would do more to procure an\nattachment than a year's diplomacy and court intrigue.\n\nRothsay willingly remained for some time at the castle, and had frequent\nopportunities of conversing with Elizabeth alone, and of appreciating\nher noble qualities.\n\n\"I had got thee misrepresented to me,\" said the prince; \"but I believe\nunintentionally, and by a transposition of names. What would Elizabeth\nDouglas think, if she were informed that she was likened to the wife of\nSocrates, and the slipper-castigator of Hercules?\"\n\n\"I should conceive that the reporter did not know me,\" answered\nElizabeth, \"or wished to deceive. I am not an admirer of either of these\nladies, of whom I have before heard; but I plume not myself upon any\nother quality than a wish to use my wealth and station for the benefit\nof those who, though better and holier than I am, have, by the force of\ndire necessity, been obliged to bow their necks under the yoke of\npoverty and misfortune. Yet I fear all I can take credit for is a wish\nto do good. My actions and my aspirations have not that accordance I\ncould wish; but, by the blessing of God, I hope to improve in my\nself-discipline; and, in the meantime, I trust no one will be able to\naccuse me of injuring the humblest of God's creatures.\"\n\n\"How seldom do these sentiments reach the ears of royalty,\" said\nRothsay, whose heart swelled with his genuine sentiments, long\nconcealed, \"and especially from the lips of nobility! Yet, pleasant as\nit is to contemplate goodness in mortals born of sin, it is difficult to\nestimate the extent of the influence of generous sympathy when it is\nfound in the bosom of beauty. Do not pain me by saying I flatter thee.\nAt present I am not the gay son of King Robert; but by the wand of\nenchantment changed for a season--would it were for ever!--into a sober\nreasoner on the rights and claims of suffering humanity.\"\n\n\"Report hath not belied thee, good prince, though it hath me; for I have\never heard that thy sentiments were generous--though, excuse my\nboldness, they were not allowed to be called forth into action by the\nscenes of common life. Believe a simple maiden, when she taketh the\nliberty humbly to suggest, that royalty itself may be more ennobled by\none act of charity than by a glorious victory.\"\n\n\"Sweet maiden,\" cried the prince, seizing rapturously her hands, \"thou\nshalt be my counsellor. Thy sentiments shall be enforced by thy beauty,\nand my heart and my exchequer be equally under the power of thy generous\nfeelings.\"\n\nBy such conversations, Rothsay gained an insight into the heart of his\nmistress. He recurred frequently to the report of Ramorgny, and hinted\nto the earl that he had found his daughter the very reverse of what she\nhad been represented to him. The earl paid particular attention to the\nhint, and seemed inclined to insinuate that Ramorgny might have had some\ncause to misrepresent Elizabeth. The duke, having proceeded so far, felt\nhis curiosity excited to get an explanation of the earl's remark; and,\nupon further question, ascertained that, according to the earl's\nopinion, which had been corroborated by his daughter, Ramorgny had been\ninspired with a strong passion for Elizabeth, which showed itself in\nvarious forms, and was the cause of his protracted stay at the castle.\nThis discovery changed, in a great measure, all the prince's feelings\ntowards his old friend. He had thus convicted him of deception,\npractised with a view to his injury, and for the purpose of gratifying a\npassion cherished for the intended wife of his friend and his prince.\nAmidst all their departures from the rules of sober life, the prince had\nnever himself been guilty, or patronised in his friend, any breach of\ntruth and good faith; and this was the first occasion on which this\ngreat cementing principle of mankind had been sacrificed to private\ninterest. Seriously, however, as he felt it, he resolved upon stating it\nto Ramorgny in such a way as might not produce his enmity; for he had\nseen enough of him, to be satisfied that he was more capable of forming\na worse enemy than he was of becoming a true friend.\n\nWhile the prince had thus been engaged in the south, Ramorgny had been\nin the north, enjoying his favourite pastime of hunting the red deer\namong the hills surrounding the water of Islay. The friends arrived in\nEdinburgh about the same time, ignorant of each other's\nmotions--Ramorgny still labouring under the effect of the passion with\nwhich Elizabeth Douglas had inspired him, and for a partial relief from\nwhose engrossing influence he had gone to the hills; and the duke\nsmarting under the pain of a breach of confidence and friendship in one\non whom he had so long placed his affections, and bestowed many favours.\n\n\"The hills of Scotland,\" said Ramorgny, \"are exquisite renovators of a\ntown-worn constitution. The roes of the Highlands supply the strength\nwhich has been wasted on the town hinds. Thou hadst better have been\nwith me, exerting the powers of a master over the inhabitants of the\nforest, than stooping to the counsel of that grave batch of seniors\nappointed to advise with thee--that is, to dictate to thee--on the\naffairs of the state. Believe me, prince, thou shouldst cashier these\ngreybeards. Thy own judgment, aided by mine, is quite sufficient to\nenable thee to govern this small barbarous kingdom.\"\n\n\"Thy advice,\" replied the prince, smiling, with some indication of\nsatire, \"if followed, by rejecting the counsel of my constituted\nadvisers, would be an advice to reject advice contrary to thy advice;\nfor my council recommend me to marry Elizabeth Douglas, and to reject\nthe March. Dost thou think that any of the greybeards--Albany is too\nambitious to marry again--have any private intentions on Bess of Dunbar.\nIf I thought that, I would reject the Douglas, and betake myself to the\nMarch.\"\n\n\"And thou wouldst act sagely in so doing,\" replied Ramorgny, who did not\nyet see the prince's satire. \"If any one of these counsellors act from\nsuch a motive--and I am not sure of Arran--he ought to lose his mistress\nand his head at the same time.\"\n\n\"Sayest thou so, Ramorgny?\" replied the prince. \"Is it thy heart that so\nspeaketh, or thy judgment? Thou hast recommended me to the March, whom I\nhave seen and conversed with, and well know, and hast endeavoured to\nterrify me from the Douglas, whom I have also seen, and can well\nappreciate. Art thou quite sure thy advice is purer, sounder, truer, and\nwiser, than that of my council?\"\n\nThis question produced an evident effect upon Ramorgny. He endeavoured\nto escape the prince's eye; but he found that no easy matter. Rothsay\nkept looking at him intensely, and plainly showed that he was master of\nthe secret purpose for which he had endeavoured to precipitate him into\na connection that would have made him miserable for life. It was now,\nhowever, too late for Ramorgny to retreat; and, boldly facing his\ndanger, he replied--\n\n\"Thy question carries with it more than meets the ear. If I depreciated\nElizabeth Douglas, and overrated Elizabeth Dunbar, a spirit of liberal\nconstruction would give me credit for having been myself deceived.\"\n\n\"Stop!\" said the prince, interrupting him. \"I did not say that thou\ndidst depreciate the one and overrate the other. Why take guilt to\nthyself?\"\n\n\"By St Duthos,\" cried Ramorgny, who now saw he was caught, and resolved\nupon another tack, \"it is time now to be grave! Will that cursed spirit\nof devilish frolic which I learned from thee cling to me, even after the\ndreadful apparition of the first grey hair, which this morning appeared\nto me in my glass? But thou art thyself to blame. A master of mirth\nthyself--the prime minister of Momus, as well as of King Robert, and my\nprofessor in the science of fun--wert thou unable to discover, in my\noutrageous and elaborate description of the two damsels, the traces of\nthe pencil--for Momus could paint--of the laughing god? If thou wert\nnot, didst thou not deserve the harmless deception? Say, now, good\nprince, condemn, if thou darest, thy scholar of a proficiency which thou\nhast taught. Struck by thy own sword of lath, wilt thou amputate the\noffending hand? Say, and if thou wilt, strike. A philosopher would\nlaugh--what shall the merry-making Rothsay do?\"\n\nThe bold, dashing, laughing manner in which Ramorgny delivered this\nspeech, joined to a recollection of the high-flown and not serious\naccount he had given of the two damsels, drove out of the duke's mind\nthe suspicions roused by the communications of Earl Douglas, and with it\nhis anger. The boisterous good-humour of his friend carried him along\nwith him; and, answering the knight in his own way, he cried--\n\n\"Why, laugh too, perhaps, good Ramorgny. Thou hast certainly defeated me\nin the first instance, but I have conquered thee in the second. I found\nin the women what thou hast described them; only I was obliged to\nsubstitute the name of Elizabeth Douglas for Bess of Dunbar. That\ndescendant of old Agnes is most certainly the devil, or at least his\nviceregent. What dost thou think she recommended to me, to increase the\npowers of my manhood? Why, milk and panado! The only woman, she thought,\nI would be safe in the keeping of was my mother Arabella; the age, of\nwhich she considered me a fair example, had retrograded from the days of\nthe sacking of Roxburgh by her father, into a state of mature infancy;\nand as for our talents for war, she would scarcely allow us the mighty\npower of infanticide. In short, thy description of Elizabeth Douglas\napplied to her; and, when I say that thy description of her applied to\nthe other, why should I say that I was charmed with the fair Douglas?\nThou hast painted better than I can. She must be my wife; and I am glad\nthat my council, my mother, and myself, thus agree on a point which they\nbelieve concerns the nation, but which I opine concerns only myself.\"\n\nRamorgny was at the moment well pleased to perceive that he had thus got\nout of the scrape; but to have his snare twisted round his own limbs--to\nhave his description of his own lover adopted by a rival, in describing\nher perfections, and thus to have, in a manner, precipitated his own\nruin--for he could not survive the marriage of Elizabeth Douglas with\nanother--touched him, as an accomplished intriguer, on the tenderest\nparts of his nature. A second time deprived of the object of his\naffections by his own disciple in the art of love, he determined that,\nat least, there should never be a third opportunity for inflicting upon\nhim such degradation. His revenge deepened, but his smiles and apparent\ngood-humour quadrated with the increased necessity of concealing his\ndesigns. These and their fatal issue are unfortunately but too well\nknown.\n\nUntold to Rothsay, certain schemes had, in the meantime, been in\nagitation between the Earl of March and a party at court, the object of\nwhich was to get a match brought about between Rothsay and Elizabeth of\nDunbar. These, for a time, wrought so favourably, that March, who never\nknew what had taken place between Rothsay and his daughter, entertained\nthe strongest hopes of success. He had offered an immense dowry, which\nthe great extent of his estates near the Borders enabled him to pay, as\nthe price of the connection with royalty; and it would seem that he had\nreceived from head-quarters strong pledges that his wishes would be\ngratified. Ramorgny secretly joined the March party; but all their\nendeavours could not prevent the final triumph of the Douglas, who had\nalso offered a large sum with his daughter, and who was, besides, backed\nby the queen, and by the secret wishes of Rothsay himself.\n\nThe nuptials of the prince with Elizabeth Douglas were celebrated with\ngreat rejoicings at Edinburgh. They were graced by the presence of the\nking and the queen, and all the principal nobility of the land. Among\nthe rest were to be seen two persons destined to supply afterwards the\nmaterials of an extraordinary chapter in the history of Scotland; the\nshadows of which, if presentiment had thrown them before, would have\nwrapped the gay scene of the marriage in the gloomy mantle of the dismal\nAtropos. The first of these was Rothsay's uncle Albany, who, ever since\nhe was displaced from his governorship by the faction who awarded to the\nyoung prince the lieutenantcy of the kingdom, had prayed fervently for\nthe death of the royal stripling, that had, with precocious audacity,\ndared to compete with disciplined age in the management of the affairs\nof the kingdom. The other was Ramorgny, who appeared at the celebration\nof the nuptials, dressed in the gayest style, and wearing on his lips\nthe fallacious smile of the treacherous courtier, while his heart was\nfilled with rage and jealousy, and his fancy teemed with schemes of\ndeadly revenge. The picture, to one who could have seen into futurity,\nwould have presented the extraordinary foreground of an apparent\nuniversal joy, filling all hearts and making all glad; and, close\nbehind, the grinning furies of revenge writhing in their agonies of a\nwild desire to break in upon the unconscious victims, and spread death\nand desolation where pleasure was alone to be found.\n\nRamorgny, who knew the volatile nature of the prince, waited patiently\nuntil the pleasures of the first moon were experienced and exhausted. He\ncultivated more than formerly the good opinion of one who retained no\nlonger any suspicion of the treachery of his friend. Ramorgny knew the\nprince's sentiments of his uncle--that there existed between the two\nrelatives an inimical feeling, amounting, on the side of the uncle, to a\nhatred which, derived from thwarted political ambition, would not\nhesitate at short and ready measures of removing the object to which it\nwas directed, and, on that of the nephew, to a youthful impatience of\nthe surveillance and restraint which his late governor had exercised\nover him, and was still ready to employ, when his selfish purposes\nrequired their application. That Rothsay, who, in reality, possessed a\nnoble and generous spirit, would stoop to any base purpose to get quit\nof the authority and interference of his uncle, Ramorgny did not\nsuppose; but he hoped so far to implicate the thoughtless prince in a\nscheme of his devising, as to make his act appear, by misconstruction,\nof such a nature to Albany, as would give his revenge the specious\nappearance of self-defence, and accelerate the fate of his victim.\n\nIn accordance with this scheme, Ramorgny continued, as he had done\nformerly, to fill the prince's mind with details of his uncle's inimical\nfeelings towards him; which was of the more easy accomplishment, that\nthe prince was already aware of his uncle's disposition. The choleric\nyouth listened to these tales with impatience, and often allowed himself\nto be hurried into extravagant expressions of indignation, which a\nservant of Ramorgny's, a servile creature, ready to commit any crime for\nmoney, was instructed, when occasion offered, to note and remember. For\na time, Ramorgny limited his details to such acts as occasionally\noccurred, and which the unrestrainable hatred of Albany furnished in\nsuch abundance, that he found no great necessity to have recourse to\ninvention, unless it were, indeed, to add the colouring, which was\ngenerally of the most extravagant kind, and best suited to reach the\nheart of the prince, and influence his anger and indignation.\n\nFarther Ramorgny could not venture for a long time to go. The generous\nyouth sometimes got wearied with the recital of his uncle's indignities;\nand, willing to leave him to his own heart, kept on in the tenor of his\nown path; which, however, was none of the straightest--his aberrations\nafter his marriage being, as before, the result of every new fancy which\nsuch men as Ramorgny, acting on an excited and irregular imagination,\nchose, by their consummate arts, to introduce into his mind. This did\nnot suit Ramorgny. He required stronger materials to work with, and did\nnot hesitate to use them. It is easy to work for evil in a heart\noriginally corrupt; but to corrupt, and then to seduce, is a work of\ntime; and it is to the credit of human nature that virtue is often\nstrong enough to maintain its place against the attacks of the most\ninsidious schemers.\n\nIt was now Ramorgny's effort to rouse the suspicions of the prince as to\nhis personal safety from the designs of his uncle. He invented a story\nof a conversation which had been overheard between Albany and a ruffian\noften employed by him to execute his purposes of revenge. The import of\nthis conversation was, that Albany, having been superseded in his office\nof governor, had resolved upon acquiring it again, and that he could not\nsucceed in that resolution so long as the prince was alive--that he\naccordingly hinted to the ruffian that it would be pleasant to him if he\nheard that the duke no longer lived--and that, for such information, a\nreward would be given sufficient to stimulate the most scrupulous\nexecutioner that ever aided an unhappy man across the Stygian stream.\nAll this was communicated to Rothsay by Ramorgny in a whisper, and with\nan appearance, tone, and manner suited to the awful nature of the\nintelligence. The duke believed the story, and, bursting forth into an\nextravagant sally of indignation, cried--\n\n\"It is time that princes of the blood-royal should exert the power in\ndefence of themselves, which is intrusted to them for the defence of\nothers, when villains, in broad day, lay schemes for their lives. I can\nplainly see, and have long seen, that this man and I cannot live in the\nsame age. Scotland is too narrow for us; and the viceroyal chair must be\npolluted with blood! Yet shall age supplant youth? Is it meet that time\nshould go backwards, and that, by force and through blood, the order of\nnature should be changed? It shall not be so! If one is to fall, nature\nherself points out the victim--and that victim is Albany!\"\n\nThese words, uttered in anger, and intended merely to indicate the\ninjustice of Albany's scheme, and the necessity of self-defence, in the\nevent of its being attempted to be carried into execution, were\ncarefully noted by Ramorgny's creature, who was in hearing. They were\nplainly capable, however, of another construction by a person who did\nnot hear the rest of the conversation, and understand their application.\nThey might mean that Rothsay intended to get his uncle out of the way--a\nconstruction which did not ill accord with the feelings which existed in\nthe prince's mind against the disturber of his peace, if these had been\nformed in another bosom, but unjustified by the prince's noble\ndisposition, which would have despised any underhand scheme to rid\nhimself of his bitterest enemy. The words were, however, uttered, and\nnoted, and remembered; and they were not uttered in vain.\n\nRamorgny having thus procured evidence of the prince's designs against\nthe life of his uncle, repaired to Albany, and narrated to him the\nstatements made by the duke, and referred him, for corroboration, to his\nservant. Albany wished nothing more ardently than this communication;\nand, even without it, he would have been glad to have joined Ramorgny in\nany scheme for the removal of his rival. Other enemies were brought into\naction. Sir William Lindsay of Rossie, whose sister the duke had loved\nand deserted; and Archibald Douglas, the brother of Elizabeth, piqued by\nsome private feeling, were willing to aid in the death of one who had\ncourted the relative of one of them to desert her, and married that of\nthe other to treat her with neglect. That the prince was unkind or\nunfaithful to his wife, who bore a reputation of being so fair and\namiable, has been treated by some historians as a mere fable, resorted\nto by the unnatural earl, her brother, as a palliative of conduct which\nit was not suited to render in the slightest degree less revolting.\nThere is reason, however, to suppose that Lindsay had some cause for his\nresentment in the desertion of his sister, who loved the duke, and never\nrecovered from the effects of his unfaithful conduct.\n\nThe first project of these conspirators was worthy of the talents of the\nindividuals who had determined to prostitute the best of the gifts of\nGod to destroy one of his creatures. It was resolved to work upon the\nking in such a way as to procure from him some token of his\ndisapprobation of the conduct of his son. It is difficult now to\nascertain how this was effected, as there is no doubt that Rothsay still\nheld a strong claim on the affections of his father. The result,\nhowever, shows that the means must have been of an extraordinary nature;\nfor King Robert was got to sign a writ for the confinement of the\nprince. It is very probable that nothing more was intended by this than\nto show the king's displeasure, which would gradually relax as the\nslight punishment wrought the expected amendment. It has been doubted\nwhether such writ was ever truly signed by the king; and surely it is\nnot difficult to suppose that the men who, holding the gates of the\npalace in their hands, could admit or deny whom they chose to the royal\npresence, would not stop at forgery which they could conceal, if they\nhad made up their minds to murder, which has seldom or ever been\nsuccessfully concealed. But it matters not, in so far as regards the\nfate of the prince, whether the writ was genuine or not. It was acted\nupon, and the unfortunate son of a king was seized by his enemies,\nDouglas and Ramorgny, lashed in his royal robes to the back of a sorry\nhorse, and hurried through Fife, to a prison adjoining to the palace of\nFalkland.\n\nThe unhappy prince now saw that his death was determined; but he little\nsuspected what was to be its cruel nature. The work of his enemies was\ndone, but they had delegated what even their hard hearts could not\naccomplish to ruffians, from whose bosoms every humane feeling had been\nlong eradicated. He was put under the charge of two men, brought, it is\nsupposed, from Aberdeen--a locality as far from the scene of the tragedy\nthey were to perform as possible--called John Wright and John Selkirk,\nnames that remained infamous in Scotland for many a day. The faces of\nthese men, filled with the expression of a determination to resist every\nfeeling of humanity, contrasted strangely with the countenance of the\nroyal youth, formed by nature, and moulded by his sympathies, to speak\neloquently the language of affection, and reflect the fair lineaments of\nthe most beautiful of the graces. It required only one glance of the\nprince's inquiring eye, to see that, if his fate depended upon the\nfeelings of these men, he had no chance of salvation in this world.\n\nThe ruffians, having thrown the unfortunate youth into one of the low\ndungeons of the prison, without speaking a word, were preparing to leave\nhim, when, urged by feelings of despair, he fell on his knees, and\nbesought them to tell him what commission they had got from his enemies\nfor the fulfilment of his fate.\n\n\"Tell me, good friends,\" he cried, \"in what shape death is to come to\nthe son of a king, that he may prepare his mind to meet his end as\nbecometh a man. Grant me, at least, the privilege of dying by my own\nhand, that the descendant of Bruce may escape the fate of malefactors,\nor the mangled termination of the devoted victim of revenge. You are\nnot, you cannot be, so bad as the sternness of office makes you appear.\nShall the Prince of Scotland sue in vain to the subjects of his father\nfor the boon of a dagger? Merciful Heaven! am I refused this\nrequest? Then is cruelty to be added to injustice; and perhaps\nstarvation--dreadful thought--awaits me, with its attendant agonies.\"\n\nAs the unfortunate prince uttered these words, he fell on the damp floor\nof the dungeon. His appeal produced nothing but a hollow growl, more\nlike the sound of a mastiff's anger than the voice of a human being.\nTurning abruptly from him, they left him extended on the ground, and in\nan instant seemed to be entirely occupied about the manner in which they\nshould secure, with double certainty, the door of the dungeon. On\nlifting his head, the victim heard nothing but the harsh expostulations\nof the two men, as they differed about the expediency of riveting the\niron bars by which the door was fastened.\n\nThe wretched youth had truly anticipated his fate. Starvation was the\nmode of death fixed upon by his cowardly murderers. What might have been\naccomplished in an instant, was prolonged for many days. Cruelty was,\nindeed, as he had said, added to injustice; and the merciful death of\nthe malefactor on the gallows was denied to the heartrending entreaties\nof a prince. For fifteen days, according to a historian, he was suffered\nto remain without food, under the charge of Wright and Selkirk, whose\ntask it was to watch the agony of their victim till it ended in death.\nIt is said that, for awhile, the wretched prisoner was preserved in a\nremarkable manner, by the kindness of a poor woman, who, in passing\nthrough the garden of Falkland, was attracted by his groans to the\ngrated window of his dungeon, which was level with the ground, and\nbecame acquainted with his story. It was her custom to steal thither at\nnight, and bring him food, by dropping small cakes through the grating,\nwhilst milk, conducted through a pipe to his mouth, was the only way he\ncould be supplied with drink. But Wright and Selkirk, suspecting from\nhis appearance that he had some secret supply, watched, and detected the\ncharitable visitant, and the prince was abandoned to his fate.\n\nSuch was the death assigned to the son of a king, the most favoured by\nnature, the most engaging, the most generous--what pity is it to add,\nthe most volatile and irregular--that ever was born to a kingdom, amidst\nthe acclamations of a loving people!\n\n\n\n\nRETRIBUTION.\n\n\nIn these days, when a factitious style is made the vehicle of factitious\nfeelings, we offer to our readers a simple story; and when we say that\nit is a true one, we may hope to claim an interest very different from\nthat which is inspired by ingenious fiction.\n\nThere may be some who yet remember Fanny Rutherford, of the Parish of\nCarwhinn. She was one of the most gentle and amiable creatures that ever\nbreathed--warm in her attachments, confiding in her love, and mild and\nkind in her dispositions. The daughter of a country gentleman, of small\nestate, but of great respectability, she was, at the period of our\nstory, in her nineteenth year. Her father, though by no means wealthy,\nhad spared no expense in her education; and her quick natural parts\nenabled her to derive all the benefit which that education was intended\nto confer. She was also the joy of two brothers, both intelligent,\nclever young men, bred to agricultural pursuits, in which they were\nlargely and extensively engaged.\n\nMr Rutherford was a widower; and his household duties therefore devolved\nupon Fanny, who discharged them with exemplary propriety.\n\nHitherto, though of an ardent, susceptible, and even romantic\ndisposition, Fanny's peace had never been disturbed by love. The quiet\ntenor of her days had passed away in the enjoyment of domestic\nhappiness, and in the interchange of endearments with her father and\nbrothers, to whom she was devotedly attached, and by whom she was most\nsincerely and tenderly loved in return. Neither a thought nor a wish\nbeyond the sphere of this little round of felicity ever entered the\npure and unsophisticated mind of the happy and innocent girl. But this\nwas a happiness that was not to last. Love, that bane or blessing of\nwoman's existence, as its object is unworthy or otherwise, at length\nfound its way into the guileless bosom of Fanny Rutherford; and, oh,\nwhat a consummation awaited that unfortunate attachment!\n\nAt the distance of about a mile from Mr Rutherford's, there lived a\nyoung man of the name of Raeburn, the son of a gentleman in similar\ncircumstances with the former--that is, a small landed proprietor. This\nyoung man, who had received a very liberal education, was possessed of\nan agreeable person and of exceedingly pleasing manners; but there were\noccasional developments of character that but very indifferently\nharmonised with these qualities; and there were, besides, more than one\nlittle incident in his life that betrayed a degree of selfishness, not\nto say heartlessness, that would by no means have been expected in one\nof so frank and cheerful a disposition. Still these symptoms were, after\nall, of so trifling a character, that they could scarcely be said to\nhave affected the reputation which Raeburn aimed at, and succeeded with\na great many in acquiring--namely, that of a dashing, careless,\ngood-hearted, and liberal-minded young fellow.\n\nAt this period, Henry Raeburn was residing at home, waiting for an\nappointment in the civil service of the East India Company, which had\nbeen promised him by a friend of his father's; and much of the spare\ntime which his present circumstances placed at his disposal he spent at\nMr Rutherford's, where his agreeable manners and general intelligence\nmade him at all times a welcome visiter. But to none of the members of\nthe family were these visits more agreeable than to Fanny, over whose\naffections his insinuating address and handsome exterior had made a\ncomplete conquest. Nor was Raeburn himself apparently less the victim\nof this passion than she was. He took every opportunity of pouring into\nher ear the most ardent expressions of attachment. A thousand times he\nswore that he was hers for ever--that the sun would change his course,\nthe stars forget to shine, ere he became inconstant to his Fanny. To all\nthese professions of love the unsuspecting and confiding girl lent a\nwilling ear, and listened and listened to the fascinating tale again and\nagain, till her whole soul became absorbed by one single idea--until she\nfound, in short, that she lived for Henry Raeburn alone.\n\nWhether Raeburn was sincere in his professions of attachment to Fanny\nRutherford, at this stage of their acquaintance, we cannot say, and have\nno means of ascertaining. That was a circumstance known to his Creator\nand himself alone.\n\nThe young people, however, made no attempts to conceal their mutual\nattachment--at least Fanny made none to conceal hers. Indeed, the\nguileless simplicity, and open and candid nature, of the amiable girl\nrendered her incapable of concealing it. Neither, though she could,\nwould she have done it: her sense of propriety and delicacy of feeling\nwould not have permitted her.\n\nFanny's father and brothers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the\nattachment alluded to; and although, of course, the marriage of the\nparties was a thing not to be thought of in their present circumstances,\nyet, as Henry was likely soon to obtain a lucrative situation in India,\nit was a very probable and very desirable contingency; and with this\nprospective consideration, Fanny's father did not disapprove of her\nchoice, as young Raeburn was otherwise, by birth and education, a\nperfectly eligible match for his daughter. All that was wanting was\nfortune; and this was a desideratum which there was a reasonable\nprobability of Henry soon supplying.\n\nWhen we said, however, that the visits of Fanny's lover were acceptable\nto all the members of Mr Rutherford's family, we said fully more than\nthe facts warranted. There was one, at any rate, of that family to whom\nthese visits were not only not acceptable, but positively disagreeable.\nThis person was Fanny's eldest brother, Edward. Possessed of more\npenetration than his father or younger brother, he had perceived\nsomething in the character of Raeburn which he did not like, and which\nstruck him as being strangely at variance with his general pretensions\nand professions. He had, in short, discovered several instances of\nselfishness and want of principle in the young man, which, though they\nwere but of a trifling nature, had early imbued him with a secret\nprejudice against him; and this he did not hesitate to avow to his own\nfamily, and particularly to Fanny; but, in the latter case, his avowal\nwas always accompanied by the most tender expressions of affection for\nherself, as if to convince her that it was on her account alone that he\nfeared.\n\nOne day, on her returning from Mr Raeburn's, where she had been to an\nentertainment, and when Henry, who had accompanied her home, had just\nleft the house--\n\n\"My dear Fanny,\" said her brother, addressing her in the blunt way\npeculiar to him, and taking her affectionately by the hand, \"I don't\nlike that fellow Raeburn. I would not willingly or needlessly say any\nthing harsh of anyone whom you esteem; but you are guileless, Fanny, and\nignorant of the ways of the world, still more so of the faithlessness of\nman, and therefore liable to have your judgment misled by your heart. Be\ncautious--be guarded, then, Fanny. Do, for your own sake, my dear\nsister, be cautious how you admit this man to tamper with your\naffections.\"\n\n\"Edward!\" replied Fanny, bursting into tears, \"what is the meaning of\nthis solemn objurgation? I have never done, and never will do, anything\nwithout my father's consent and yours, Edward. But surely, surely you\njudge unfairly of Henry, Edward. He is far too honourable and upright\nto deceive any one, much less----\"\n\n\"You, you would say,\" interrupted her brother.\n\nFanny blushed slightly, and went on: \"If you had heard him, as I have\noften done, express his sentiments on the duties we owe to each other,\nand speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct, you would\nentertain a very different opinion of him--I am sure you would, Edward.\"\n\n\"Simple girl, simple girl!\" said her brother. \"He speak of the duties we\nowe to each other! He speak of the rules which ought to regulate our\nconduct!\" he added, with a bitter sneer. \"Well, perhaps it is all right,\nFanny,\" he went on; \"I may have judged harshly of Raeburn, and may be\ndoing him an injustice; but, if I am, I never was more mistaken in a man\nin my life. But, Fanny,\" he added, with a sudden energy of manner, \"here\nI swear--and I wish Raeburn heard the oath--that, if he deceive or\ninjure you, I will pursue him to the ends of the earth--ay, through the\nsnows of Greenland, or the burning deserts of the tropics--and seek a\nreparation that will cost the lives of one or both of us.\"\n\n\"Mercy, mercy!\" exclaimed the weeping girl, terrified at the fierce\nlooks and manner of her brother, yet at the same time throwing herself\ninto his arms. \"What dreadful language is this, Edward? What grounds on\nearth have you for anticipating so dreadful a catastrophe? I am sure you\nhave seen nothing to warrant your expressing yourself in this frightful\nmanner.\"\n\n\"I have not said that I anticipated anything, Fanny, regarding this\nattachment of yours,\" replied her brother. \"I spoke only hypothetically.\nBut, from this hour, I say no more on the subject. I trust, however,\nthat what I have said will not be without its effect upon you, Fanny.\nYou will perceive, my dear sister,\" he added, embracing her tenderly,\n\"that it is my affection, and, I will add, my fears, for you, that have\nprompted all I have said.\"\n\n\"I know it, Edward--I know it,\" replied Fanny; \"and I am grateful to\nyou. But you will soon learn to like Henry better than you now do.\"\n\n\"Woman, woman--still woman to the last,\" said her brother, smiling. \"But\ndo, Fanny, permit what I have said to make some impression on you.\" And\nEdward left the apartment.\n\nWoman, woman still, as her brother had said, the warmhearted girl's\naffections for Raeburn suffered no diminution whatever from what had\njust passed between her and her brother. In truth, as such interferences\nalmost always do, it had the effect rather of increasing her love, by\nplacing the object of her affections--in her sight, at any rate--in the\nlight of one who is injured by being harshly judged of.\n\n\"My Henry deceive me!\" she thought within herself on this\noccasion--\"impossible! impossible! That kind and gentle look!--can that\ndeceive? That benignant smile!--can there be treachery there? That frank\nand open manner!--is that assumed? No, no, Edward--you wrong Henry; you\ndo indeed, Edward. You wrong him grievously.\"\n\nSuch were the reflections in which Fanny Rutherford indulged when her\nbrother had left her, and such was the effect which his fears and\nsuspicions had upon her unsuspecting and confiding heart.\n\nWe have already informed the reader that Raeburn was at this time\nwaiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India\nCompany. This appointment he at length obtained, and he was, at the same\ntime, ordered to proceed immediately to London, to embark for his new\ndestination; and with this order he complied, after taking an\naffectionate leave of Fanny, to whom he once more, and for the last\ntime, vowed eternal constancy and love. It is almost unnecessary to add,\nthat a mutual promise to maintain a frequent and regular correspondence\nduring the period of their separation was also given by the lovers. But,\nbesides all this, a distinct arrangement, to which Fanny's father and\nbrothers were privy, was likewise made, that, so soon as Henry should be\nfairly settled in India, and should have ascertained that his income was\nsufficient to warrant such a step, Fanny, being previously informed of\nthis, was to join him, when their destinies should be united.\n\nThese matters arranged, Henry proceeded to London, where he soon after\nembarked for Calcutta, which he eventually reached in safety, at the end\nof the usual period occupied in that voyage.\n\nFaithful to his promise, Henry, soon after his arrival, wrote to Fanny,\nand gave a very flattering account of his situation and prospects,\nexpressing, at the same time, a hope that he would soon be in a\ncondition to invite her to come out and partake his good fortune.\n\nThis letter was followed in due time by another, in which the same\nsentiments of love and affection were expressed; but it contained a less\nflattering account of his circumstances. These, the writer said, had\nscarcely answered the expectations he had formed from them on his first\narrival; and he feared, if they did not improve, that, however painful\ntheir separation was to him, he would be compelled to submit to its\ncontinuance for some time, as he could not think of bringing her there,\nso far from her home and her friends, until he should be able to receive\nher in a manner that would more unequivocally bespeak the sincerity of\nhis love than his present means would admit of.\n\nThese two letters, as we have said, came in due time; and,\nnotwithstanding the discouraging tenor of the last, were received by\npoor Fanny with the most unfeigned delight. But, when the time came\nround that another letter should have reached her from her lover, it was\nin vain that the affectionate girl looked for that solace to her\nwearied spirit. Week after week passed away, month succeeded month, and,\nfinally, year followed year, and still no letter came, to raise the\nprostrate and withering hopes of poor Fanny Rutherford. For some time\nshe was impressed with a conviction that her lover was dead; for she\ncould not, and would not, believe that her Henry was faithless. But in\nthis belief--perhaps the least afflicting of the two--she was not\npermitted long to remain; for it was ascertained, through Henry's\nfather, not only that he was still living, but that he was getting on\nprosperously, and in a fair way of soon realising a fortune.\n\nUnwilling, unwilling, indeed, was poor Fanny to believe this account of\nHenry--but it was certain; and this certainty of the neglectfulness, or,\nyet worse, faithlessness, of her lover threatened to hurry her to a\npremature grave.\n\nNearly three years had now passed away since the receipt of her last\nletter from Henry; and she had long given up all hopes of ever hearing\nfrom him again, or of ever being more to him than she then was. While\nsitting alone, however, one morning about this period, her head leaning\nupon her hand, and listlessly gazing through a window that overlooked\nthe approach to her father's house, her curiosity was slightly excited\nby observing the person who usually brought the letters from the\nneighbouring village hurrying with unwonted speed towards the house,\nand, as she approached nearer, waving a letter which she held in her\nhand towards Fanny. In an instant the blood, which had long forsaken the\npoor girl's cheeks, rushed back to its forgotten repositories. Her heart\nbeat fast and thick, and a violent tremor seized on her whole emaciated\nframe. The letter was, and she now knew it, from Henry Raeburn.\n\nHaving got possession of the intensely-interesting document, she rushed\nwith it up-stairs to her own apartment, bolted the door, and flung\nherself down on a bed; laying, at the same time, the letter, which,\nfrom excessive agitation, she was unable at the moment to open, on a\nsmall table beside her. Having, however, in a few minutes regained as\nmuch composure as she conceived would enable her to venture on the\nexciting task of perusing the letter, she arose, seized it convulsively,\nand staggered with it unfolded in her grasp towards the window, where\nshe began to read. The letter commenced thus--\n\n     \"MY DEAREST, DEAREST FANNY,--What is the meaning of this?\n     Cruel, cruel girl, it is now precisely two years and a-half\n     since I received your last letter, although I have written to\n     you at least six or seven times during that period. What a\n     relief, Fanny, it would be to my mind, to know that these\n     letters of mine had miscarried--that they had never reached\n     you!--for, in that case, I might still hope, still believe,\n     that my Fanny was faithful. Indeed, it is in this hope that I\n     live; for, as I have been for the last two years going from\n     place to place, at a great distance in the interior, I think it\n     not improbable that my letters--all of which were despatched\n     from these remote residences--have never found their way to\n     you.\"\n\nThe writer then went on, praying Fanny not to lose a moment in relieving\nhis mind on this, to him, he said, most painful subject. After a good\ndeal more to similar purpose, he continued--\n\n     \"Will my Fanny not take it amiss--she will not, I know, if she\n     still be to me as she once was, and what I still am to her--if\n     I request her to send me her portrait?--that, since fortune\n     still denies me the happiness of contemplating the original, I\n     may, as I assuredly will, find some consolation in possessing\n     the copy. I will then,\" continued the writer, \"have you present\n     to my corporeal eye, as you are, and have constantly been, to\n     my mental vision. Enclosed, my dearest Fanny, you have a draft\n     for twenty guineas, which please apply to the purpose just\n     expressed, and let there not be a moment lost in forwarding me\n     your beloved picture.\"\n\nThe writer then went on to say, that he expected to be in a condition to\ninvite her out in the course of a twelvemonth or so; and ultimately\nfinished by a repetition of the most tender expressions of affection and\nlove.\n\nWhen Fanny had completed the perusal of this, to her, most gratifying\nletter--that is, after she had read it at least six times over--she\nrushed wildly down-stairs in quest of her brother Edward; and having\nfound him, \"See, see, Edward!\" exclaimed the delighted girl, forcing the\nletter into his hands; \"read that, Edward, and acknowledge, my brother,\nthe injustice which you and all of us have done to Henry. I knew, I\nknew,\" she went on, \"my Henry would not deceive me. I felt assured that\nhis silence and seeming neglect would one day be satisfactorily\naccounted for, and without impugning his honour.\"\n\nTo these expressions of joy, and delight, and confidence, Fanny's\nbrother made no reply, but sat down coolly to read the letter that had\nbeen put into his hands; and greatly disappointed was the poor girl, who\nwas watching his countenance with the most intense interest, while he\nread, to find that the contents seemed to excite in him no emotion\nwhatever. When he finished--\"Well, Fanny,\" he said, dryly, at the same\ntime carelessly returning her the letter, \"it's all very well. I am glad\nto find that Raeburn is not altogether the man I feared he was. He seems\nto think of you with unabated regard still, Fanny.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, Edward!--oh yes! I knew Henry would not deceive me!\" again\nrepeated the unsuspecting and delighted girl.\n\nEdward, as we have already said, tenderly loved Fanny; and it was this\nregard for her that prevented him saying all he thought of the letter he\nhad just read. He would not, for any consideration, have damped the\nfeelings of joy and happiness which it had inspired in the bosom of his\nsister, by making any remarks that might have a tendency of that kind;\nbut he could not help observing sufficient grounds for such\nobservations. He saw, in the first place, that Raeburn's assertion that\nhe had written several letters to Fanny was a downright falsehood, or,\nat best, of a very suspicious character; for his father--who lived, as\nthe reader will recollect we have already said, in the immediate\nneighbourhood, and whom he frequently met with--had never made any\ncomplaint of any interruption in his son's correspondence; and he\n(Edward), moreover, knew that Henry's father had received many letters\nfrom him during the very period of the suspension of his correspondence\nwith Fanny. It therefore appeared extremely odd to him that all the\nletters addressed to the one should have miscarried, while all those\naddressed to the other had reached their destination in safety, and in\ndue course of time. In the next place, Edward saw, or thought he saw,\nthat the general tenor of the letter was forced and unnatural; and,\nlastly, that procrastination was apparently still the object of the\nwriter, notwithstanding his having vaguely named a period when he should\ninvite Fanny to share his fortunes as his wife.\n\nAll this Edward perceived in the letter in question; but the worst he\nthought of it was, that Raeburn had for a time forgotten his sister,\nprobably in a temporary regard for another, and that his affection for\nher having returned, he was now anxious to atone for his negligence or\ninfidelity; and, under this impression, he was willing to overlook the\nsubterfuge to which Raeburn had had recourse, to account for his\nsilence; and, in these views of the matter, Edward's father and brother\nconcurred.\n\nTwo or three days after the receipt of Henry's letter, Fanny, though in\na very indifferent state of health, proceeded to Edinburgh, and had her\nlikeness taken there in miniature. On her return, the picture was\ncarefully packed in a small box or case, and, accompanied by a letter\nfrom Fanny, despatched to its remote destination. In this letter, the\npoor girl, in allusion to the portrait, said--\"I have, in compliance\nwith your wishes, Henry, sent you my portrait; but I fear it will sadly\ndisappoint you; for a more unpropitious time for transferring my\nmiserable countenance to canvas (I believe, however, in this case it is\nivory) could scarcely have been chosen; for I have been extremely ill\nfor a long time past, and am yet very far from being well. I have been\nbroken-hearted, Henry, and have been labouring under the worst and most\nhopeless of all diseases--a crushed and broken spirit.\"\n\nThus did the poor girl allude to the misery which Raeburn's neglect had\nentailed on her. Her delicacy forbade her saying more, and her candid\nand confiding disposition would not permit her to say less.\n\nLeaving matters in this state at Rose Vale (the name of Mr Rutherford's\nresidence), we will, with the reader's consent, embark in the same ship\nwith Fanny's portrait, and proceed to the East Indies, to see with our\nown eyes what, at this period, was the general conduct, character, and\ncircumstances of him for whom that picture was intended. Having done\nthis--an easy matter with you and us, good reader, though no trifling\naffair to others--we shall find Raeburn residing in a very handsome\nhouse at Calcutta; and in one of the most conspicuous places in one of\nthe principal rooms in that house, we shall find the portrait of Fanny\nRutherford suspended--and well worthy of the distinction was this\nlikeness of the lovely girl. Beautiful! exceedingly beautiful in her\nsadness!--for the painter had been faithful; and but too plainly did\nthat picture tell of sorrow and of suffering--\"of hope deferred, that\nmaketh the heart sick.\" Nor did Henry Raeburn seem insensible to the\nbeauty expressed in that little picture. To every one who visited him he\nshowed it, with an air of exultation and triumph; pressed on their\nnotice the soft expression of the fine dark eye, the light, delicate,\nand well-arched eyebrow, the ruby lip, and elegantly-formed nose and\nchin. But, be it remarked--and it was an odd circumstance--it was to\nthe young unmarried men alone who visited him that he showed the\npicture, and that he thus dwelt on the details of its beauties. Strange\ndistinction this--to the unmarried alone that he showed the picture, and\nenlarged on the attractions of its subject! What does this mean? Much,\nmuch it means; and a darker or more atrocious meaning never disgraced\nthe act of man. But we will leave the full explanation of this atrocity\nto be developed by the progress of our story.\n\n\"Ah! you dogs, you!\" Raeburn would say, with well-affected jocularity,\nto his friends of the description already mentioned, when showing them\nFanny's portrait, \"isn't that a pretty girl, now? and am not I a lucky\nfellow to have secured the affections of so charming a woman? What would\nyou give, you rogues, you, for such a creature as that for a wife?\"\nThen, holding the portrait aloft, \"Come, say now, gentlemen, what would\nyou give for her, suppose I was willing to part with her; which,\nperhaps, I am, if I could get a fair price for my right. Bid for her,\ngentlemen, bid for her!\" he would say, laughingly, and _affecting_ to\nmake a joke of the matter. \"I will put her up to sale, and warrant the\nstock to be equal to the sample!\" \"A thousand rupees!\" \"Thank you, John.\nVery well for a beginning! Get on, gentlemen, get on.\" \"Two thousand!\nthree thousand!\" \"That's it. Go it, my spirited lads, go it; but she's\nworth six times the money yet.\" \"Eight thousand! ten thousand!\" \"Ay, now\nyou get on bravely, and are approaching the mark, though still at a\ngreat distance from it.\" \"Fifteen thousand! twenty thousand!\" \"Very\nwell--twenty thousand! Twenty thousand, gentlemen! Will no one bid more!\nWhy, Tom, I thought you were a better judge of female beauty than to\nallow such a bargain as this to slip through your fingers!\" \"Twenty-five\nthousand!\" \"Well done, Tom; I knew you were a lad of spirit, and had\ntoo much of the knight-errant in you to allow a fair lady like this to\nbe knocked down below her value. Twenty-five thousand rupees--once,\ntwice, thrice! There, down she goes--she's yours, Tom; pay me the money,\nand I'll order her out for you by the first ship.\"\n\nThis was a scene of frequent occurrence in Raeburn's house, when a\nnumber of young fellows had got together there, and something very like\nit was repeated to each of them individually when they chanced to call\nalone; particularly in the case of one of them--a Mr Cressingham, the\nson of a gentleman who held one of the highest civil situations in\nIndia, and who was enormously wealthy. This was Raeburn's friend, Tom,\nas he familiarly called him; and to him he was especially eloquent and\nimportunate on the subject of Fanny's beauty.\n\n\"Well, hang me if she an't a devilish pretty creature that, after all!\"\nsaid Tom Cressingham to Raeburn, as they one day sat alone smoking their\nhookahs in the apartment in which Fanny's portrait hung, and on which he\nwas listlessly gazing.\n\n\"That she is, Tom,\" replied Raeburn; \"wouldn't you fancy such a girl as\nthat, now, for a wife, Tom?\"\n\n\"Faith and I would, Harry; I'd give ten thousand rupees for such a\nwife.\"\n\n\"You're coming down in your price, Tom,\" replied Raeburn; \"you offered\ntwenty-five thousand for her the other night.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know but I would give that sum for her, after all, Harry;\nfor she's certainly a delightful-looking creature. But why don't you\nbring out the girl, and marry her at once yourself, Harry?\"\n\n\"Umph!\" ejaculated Raeburn, \"that wouldn't be altogether so convenient\njust now. You know I'm confoundedly in debt, Tom\" (this was but too\ntrue; for he was grossly dissipated, and was living in a style far\nbeyond his income), \"and must clear my feet a bit before I think of\nmarrying. Besides, to tell you a secret, Tom, I don't care much about\nstanding to my Scotch bargain in that matter; and, to be plain with you,\nI wish you, or some one else, would relieve me of it, by taking the girl\noff my hands; giving me, of course, a handsome consideration for my\nright in the property.\"\n\nThis was said jokingly; but it was very easy to see that the speaker\nwould not care to be thought serious; and this Cressingham perceived.\n\n\"Harry,\" he said, \"are you in earnest?\"\n\n\"To be sure I am,\" replied Raeburn; \"never was more in earnest in my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Then I'm your man, Harry, if we can agree about the terms,\" rejoined\nCressingham. \"What say you about the consideration.\"\n\n\"Why, I don't know; you see she is a very handsome girl, Tom; and, on\nthe word of a _gentleman_, I assure you, she is as amiable as she is\nlovely.\"\n\n\"Well, at a word, Harry,\" said Cressingham, \"I'll give you five thousand\npounds sterling money, the day that woman becomes my wife; you being at\nthe expense of bringing her out, and managing all that part of the\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said Raeburn.\n\n\"Done!\" said Cressingham. And they struck hands upon the bargain.\n\nRaeburn's villany, good reader, is now before you fully and fairly. The\nconversation just recorded was no joke, but, as he himself acknowledged,\ndownright earnest; and it will readily be conceded, we think, that a\npiece of more heartless depravity is not upon record. Neither, we beg to\nassure the reader, is this villany imaginary, nor the character of\nRaeburn the invention of fancy. The villany was actually perpetrated,\nand the villain actually lived.\n\nFanny's portrait had been sent for for the express purpose of turning it\nto the account to which we have seen it applied. He had sent for it that\nhe might exhibit it as a sample of goods which he had to dispose of, and\nwhich he meant to sell to the highest bidder; and it was with this\nview--with the view of finding a purchaser--that he had hung the\nportrait of his victim in a conspicuous place, and had urged on the\nnotice of his visiters the various beauties which it displayed.\n\nTo return to our tale. Raeburn and Cressingham--the latter, we need\nhardly say, being nearly as unprincipled as the former--having come to\nthe understanding which we have just detailed, Raeburn insisted that\ntheir bargain should be expressed on paper; that is, that Cressingham\nshould bind himself by a written document to fulfil his part of the\ntransaction--in other words, should bind himself to pay the L5000 on the\nday Fanny became his wife; although with what face he could produce such\na document in a court of justice to enforce his claim, in the event of\nCressingham evading it, it certainly is not easy to conceive. But,\ndesirous of being secure in the meantime, on such a document as that\nalluded to, he insisted; and it was instantly given him.\n\nThis part of the transaction settled, it was Raeburn's business to\nmanage the rest:--the first step of which was to get Fanny out; the\nnext, to get her palmed upon Cressingham; and he lost no time in setting\nabout it.\n\nAs the subsequent proceedings of the villain, however, will be more\nstrikingly exhibited by shifting the scene once more to Rose Vale, we\nrequest the reader to accompany us thither for a moment.\n\nThe year had a good while expired, which Raeburn had fixed on, in his\nlast letter to Fanny, as the period when he should send for her to join\nhim at Calcutta; and the poor girl was looking fondly and anxiously for\nthe promised invitation; but, for several months, she was again doomed\nto suffer all the pains of suspense and disappointment. From this,\nhowever, she was at length relieved by the appearance of the\nlong-expected letter. This, like all its predecessors, was filled with\nthe most tender expressions of regard and esteem. \"It is now,\" said the\nwriter, \"with the most heartfelt--nay, this is far too tame a phrase--it\nis with a delight, my beloved Fanny, which I cannot find language to\nexpress--that I inform you, that the circumstances in which I now find\nmyself warrant me in inviting you out to share my fortunes. I enclose a\ndraft for L150, to defray the expense of your passage, and other\ncontingencies connected with it; and I beg of you, my dearest, dearest\nFanny, as you value my happiness, nay, my existence, to lose no time in\ncoming out to me; for I will be miserable till you arrive.\" To this was\nadded a great many particular directions, as to Fanny's best mode of\nproceeding in the business of her embarkation; and again the writer\nresumed the strain of adulation with which he had begun; and with this\nstrain, also, he finally ended.\n\nAs in the former case, Fanny instantly put this letter into the hands of\nher brother Edward; and again she was disappointed to find that it was\nread without the smallest appearance of satisfaction. Neither was it\nmuch more gratifying to her father and younger brother. But their\nfeelings regarding it proceeded chiefly from their reluctance to part\nwith Fanny, and to her going alone on so long and dreary a voyage; but\nneither they, nor Edward, even with his more serious grounds of\ndissatisfaction, felt that they would be warranted in preventing Fanny\nfrom availing herself of the apparent good fortune which she was now\ninvited to partake. They felt that it would be an act of injustice\ntowards the amiable girl, to exercise any such authority over her\nfortunes and affections; and, therefore, though it was not without great\nreluctance, they finally consented to her departure. This conceded, and\nevery necessary preparation for the voyage being in a few days\ncompleted, Edward accompanied Fanny to London, saw her on board of an\nEast Indiaman that was about to sail for Calcutta, and having consigned\nher to the care of the captain, bade her an affectionate adieu. In less\nthan an hour afterwards, the ship was under weigh; and Fanny Rutherford\nhad commenced her ill-starred voyage to the East.\n\nOn the ship's arrival at Calcutta, which she reached in safety and in\ndue course of time, amongst the first persons who came on board of her\nwere Raeburn and Cressingham. Fanny was down below in the cabin, and in\nthe act of packing a small trunk, preparatory to her going ashore, when\nRaeburn entered. The moment the poor girl saw him, she flew towards him,\nwith an expression of the wildest delight. But, oh! fond and confiding\nheart, what a shock was it to thee--what a withering sensation was\nthine--when you found your warm and generous impulses received with a\ncold and distant civility!--for in such manner did Raeburn now receive\nthe gentle, affectionate, and unsuspecting girl, who had crossed the\n\"rude ocean,\" left kindred and home, to follow his fortunes--the\nfortunes of the man she loved--in a far distant land.\n\nIn this atrocious conduct of Raeburn's there was policy as well as\nnatural heartlessness; for he was desirous of disgusting her with his\ncoldness, and thus preparing the way for the addresses of Cressingham.\nOf this part of the villain's design, Fanny was, of course, utterly\nignorant; but the quick discerning eye of love enabled her instantly to\ndetect the brutal and ungracious manner of Raeburn, so different from\nwhat she had expected; and the discovery fell upon her spirit with the\nmost deadly effect. She, however, made no complaint; but it was evident\nthat the manner of her reception by her deceiver had sunk deep into her\nheart. Poor Fanny proceeded with the packing of her little trunk in\nsilence--a silence interrupted only by an occasional sigh, long drawn,\nand heavy laden with grief. Tears, too, might have been detected\nstealing down her cheeks, were it not that she kept her head, purposely,\ntoo closely over the trunk to permit their being seen. In the work, too,\nin which she was employed, be it observed, Raeburn did not offer her the\nsmallest assistance, but continued walking up and down the cabin,\nwhistling carelessly, and looking at the prints with which the walls\nwere hung.\n\nThis was the scene, then, in the cabin, when Raeburn, after the lapse of\na quarter-an-hour or so from the time of his first descending, suddenly,\nand without giving Fanny the least previous notice of his intention,\nwent to the foot of the cabin-stair, and called loudly on Cressingham,\nwho was on deck. Cressingham appeared at the cabin-door.\n\n\"Why don't you come down?\" said Raeburn. And he followed up this query\nwith a significant wink.\n\n\"Why, I waited till I should be called,\" replied Cressingham, with a\nknowing smile; at the same time commencing his descent into the cabin.\n\n\"Mr Cressingham, Fanny,\" said Raeburn, when the former came down--\"a\nvery particular friend of mine.\"\n\nFanny, before raising her head from the trunk, hurriedly wiped her eyes,\nand stood up to receive the stranger; but it was wholly out of the poor\ngirl's power thus suddenly to regain her composure, or to obliterate\nfrom her countenance the traces of the miserable feelings with which her\nsoul was agonised. These remained but too plain; and were at once\ndetected by Cressingham, who, in place of being moved to compassion by\nthem for the unhappy girl, looked on them as welcome indications of\nfeelings that promised to favour his own advances; inasmuch as they\nbespoke a dissatisfaction on the part of Fanny, at once with her\nsituation and with Raeburn.\n\nIt being now Cressingham's time to begin the performance of his part of\nthe nefarious plot, he advanced towards Miss Rutherford with one of his\nmost gracious looks, and welcomed her to Calcutta. Then, placing himself\nin a chair directly opposite to her, and leaning forward towards her,\ntill he had nearly thrust his head into her face, he began a strain of\nthe most impertinent adulation, not unmingled with expressions of a less\nharmless character. These last did not escape Fanny, who deeply felt the\ninsult they involved, although she was already too much humbled in\nspirit to resent them.\n\nWhen Cressingham had taken up the position described, and had begun the\nnauseous badinage alluded to, Raeburn, on some trifling pretence, left\nthe cabin and went on deck. The motive for this proceeding will at once\npresent itself to the reader. Cressingham, finding himself thus left\nalone with Fanny, was proceeding to use other liberties than those of\nspeech; and had already, with the most impudent familiarity, thrown one\nof his arms around Miss Rutherford's neck, when, with a violent effort,\nshe extricated herself from him, and rushed, in a state of great\nagitation and alarm, up the cabin-stair, calling on Henry, who was at\nthe moment standing at the stern of the vessel, and directly opposite\nthe cabin-door.\n\nGuessing, or rather knowing very well, the cause of Fanny's outcry and\nterror, he went towards her, and sternly and angrily asked her, \"What\nshe made all this noise for!\"\n\n\"O Henry! Henry!\" exclaimed the agitated girl, \"take me out of this,\ntake me out of this. Let us go on shore, Henry, directly. Do, do, let us\ngo on shore; for I will not go down into that cabin again.\"\n\n\"Pooh, you silly fool, you!\" replied Raeburn, harshly. \"What are you\nafraid of? Don't you like Cressingham? He's an excellent fellow, only a\nlittle rough or so, now and then; but not a pin the worse for that. Why,\nhe's one of the handsomest and richest fellows in Calcutta, and half the\ngirls in the town are cocking their caps at him.\"\n\n\"I have nothing to say to or of Mr Cressingham, Henry,\" replied Fanny.\n\n\"All that I ask of you is, to take me immediately ashore.\"\n\nWith this request Raeburn, seeing that it would not be advisable to push\nmatters further at that moment, sulkily complied. A boat was ordered\nalongside. Fanny's luggage was placed in it, and she, Raeburn, and\nCressingham, were forthwith rowed on shore, where, the moment they\nlanded, the latter, after whispering something into Raeburn's ear, and\noffering some ineffectual attempts at making his peace with Miss\nRutherford, left them.\n\nWhere, now, does the reader imagine, did Raeburn conduct the unhappy\nvictim of his villany. To his own splendid mansion? No. To a decent\nhotel, then?--or, probably, he consigned her to the care of some\nrespectable female friend or acquaintance? Neither of these did the\nheartless ruffian do. He took her to a mean lodging, in one of the\nmeanest parts of the town, pleading some lame apology for not taking her\nto his own house; and there left her in the hands of strangers, without\na word of consolation or comfort, or of kindness. He said, however,\nbefore going away, that he would again call in the evening, and would,\nin the meantime, send a female domestic from his own house, to attend\nher, together with some necessaries.\n\nIt would be a vain, an idle task, to attempt to describe what were the\nunfortunate girl's feelings, now that the hideous truth, that she had\nbeen deceived and betrayed, though with what view she could not\nconjecture, stood undisguised before her. They were dreadful, too\nexcruciating, too exquisitely agonising, to be expressed in words or in\nwailing. Their effect was to benumb every faculty, and to prostrate\nevery sense; and, as one thus afflicted, sat poor Fanny Rutherford in a\nchair, at the window of her shabby apartment.\n\nThat evening, the first of her arrival, Raeburn, contrary to his\npromise, did not again visit her; but Cressingham came in his place,\nand dreadful was the result of this unwelcome visit on the poor girl's\nframe. It instantly brought on a crisis in that disease of the mind\nunder which she was already labouring.\n\nThe moment he entered the apartment, she uttered a piercing shriek, and\nrushed frantically to the furthest corner of the room, in the greatest\nterror, calling on the intruder in the name of Heaven not to come near\nher--not to approach her. \"Leave me, leave me!\" she exclaimed, in a tone\nof bitter agony. \"If there be the smallest portion of humanity in your\nnature, you will leave me instantly. For the love of Heaven,\" she again\nrepeated, \"and of all that you hold dear, leave me! I am deceived and\nbetrayed by him in whom I put all my earthly trust. Oh! my father, my\nbrothers, if ye knew of this. But you will never know it: for I will\nnever see you again. Never, never, never!\"\n\nThe extreme agitation, the terror and outcries of the unfortunate girl,\nat once arrested Cressingham's progress, and brought several persons\nthat were in the house around her; and by these last--Cressingham having\nsneaked off, without saying a word--it was judged advisable to send\nimmediately for medical assistance, which was accordingly done. Nor was\nit unnecessary; for a strong fever had already seized on the poor young\nlady, and was rapidly exhausting her strength.\n\nThe medical gentleman sent for instantly attended, and ordered Miss\nRutherford to be put to bed. He then prescribed for her as for one whose\ndanger he considered imminent; and he was not mistaken. Deeply\ninterested in the unfortunate girl, from whom he had learned a good deal\nof her melancholy story, the medical gentleman who had been called in\ndid all that man could do to arrest the progress of the fatal disease\nunder which she was labouring. Night and day he attended her, during her\nsevere but brief illness, and not only employed his own skill to save\nher, but that of some of the most eminent of his professional brethren\nin the town, whom he brought to his assistance.\n\nBut all human efforts were vain. From hour to hour, the fever went on,\nincreasing alarmingly, accompanied by a proportionable diminution of the\npoor patient's strength, until, at length, the awful and fatal crisis\narrived. On the evening of the third day after her arrival in Calcutta,\nFanny Rutherford breathed her last, surrounded with strangers, and in a\nforeign land.\n\n\nBut where was the master ruffian all this time? How was he employed, and\nhow did he feel, while this dreadful and affecting scene was enacting?\nWhy, he was giving himself very little concern about it, further than\nthat which proceeded from his fears for his L5000.\n\nHe had indeed called two or three times at Fanny's lodgings during her\nillness, to inquire for her, and had even sent her some\ncordials--cordials, alas! of which she had never partaken--from his own\nhouse; but more than this he had not done, nor in any other way had he\nevinced the smallest sympathy for the unhappy victim of his villany.\n\nRaeburn knew that Fanny's illness was of a dangerous nature--but he had\nno idea that it was to terminate as it did so soon; and it was under\nthis mistaken impression that he and Cressingham called at Fanny's\nlodgings on the very evening on which she died, and, as it happened,\nwithin a few minutes after that melancholy event had taken place.\n\nHaving tapped gently at the door, which was slowly opened to him by the\nlodging-house-keeper herself--\n\n\"How is your patient to-night, lady?\" he said, addressing the latter,\nsmilingly.\n\n\"She is well, sir--she is well,\" replied the woman, in whom Fanny's\ngentle nature and hard fate--of which she, too, had gathered something\nduring the unfortunate girl's fits of delirium--had excited a strong\nfeeling of sympathy. \"She is well!--she is well!\" she said, wiping her\neyes with her apron as she spoke. \"She's in heaven, sir!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Raeburn, in a tone of voice startling from its\nhollowness, and becoming deadly pale; his mean and dastardly soul\ninstantly sinking under the weight of guilt with which he felt this\ndreadful intelligence burdening it. \"What! she's not dead?\"\n\n\"But she is though,\" replied the woman; \"and there's an avenging God\nabove that will seek out and make a terror and example of those who have\nbeen the cause of this poor girl's death.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, woman?\" said Raeburn, in an alarm which he could not\nconceal, and which the slightest allusion to his villany was now\nsufficient to excite to an overwhelming degree; \"you do not mean to say\nthat she died by violence?\"\n\n\"I know what I know, Mr Raeburn,\" rejoined the lodging-house-keeper,\n\"and that's all I have to say about the matter.\" And she turned into the\nhouse.\n\nHaving by no means any wish to renew the conversation, Raeburn availed\nhimself of the opportunity presented by the woman's retiring into the\nhouse, to sneak off, which he did, and joined his friend Cressingham,\nwho was waiting for him at a little distance.\n\n\"She's dead, Cressingham!--she's dead!\" he said, in great agitation, as\nhe approached the latter.\n\n\"Dead!\" exclaimed Cressingham--\"is it possible? Why, then, Harry, your\nL5000 are gone, and you have been a villain for nothing.\"\n\n\"A villain, did you say, Cressingham?\" repeated Raeburn, his lips pale\nand quivering as he spoke.\n\n\"Yes; surely a villain--a double-dyed villain!\" reiterated the former.\n\"Did you ever imagine you were anything else? My share in the\ntransaction is bad enough--I allow it; but it's nothing to yours,\nRaeburn--nothing; for I would assuredly have married the girl, if she\nwould have had me. My conduct in the business was perhaps that of a\nprofligate: but yours--yours, Raeburn--was unquestionably that,\"\nrepeated Cressingham, coolly and considerately--\"that of a double-dyed\nvillain.\" Saying this, he turned on his heel and left him.\n\nThe instances just mentioned were the first and the only ones in which\nRaeburn had yet suffered the martyrdom of hearing the opinion of others\nof his conduct with regard to Miss Rutherford; but this was a species of\ntorture to which he was now to be frequently exposed. On this very\noccasion, he had not proceeded twenty yards from the place where\nCressingham had left him, when he encountered the medical gentleman who\nhad been attending his victim. This person, conjecturing, from the\ndirection whence Raeburn was coming, that he had been inquiring for his\npatient, accosted him, and asked him how she was.\n\nRaeburn, it will readily be believed, would have gone fifty miles\nabout--ay, even on his bare knees--rather than have exposed himself to\nthis meeting; but it had taken place, and he now, therefore, endeavoured\nto suppress his agitation, and tried to look as composed as possible;\nand it was with this forced and affected calmness that he replied to the\nphysician's inquiry, that his patient was dead.\n\n\"Dead!\" said the kind-hearted man; \"ah, poor girl! I knew it was at\nhand, but I thought she might have lived for at least twenty-four hours\nyet. Well, then,\" he went on, and now looking Raeburn sternly in the\nface, \"since it is so, I will tell you, Mr Raeburn, my opinion of what\nyour conduct has been in this most heartrending affair; for you are\ndeeply implicated in it. My opinion, then, is, sir, that it has been\nmost infamous, most atrocious; and, regarding yourself, sir, I certainly\nthink you one of the most heartless ruffians that ever lived.\"\n\n\"Ruffian, sir!\" repeated Raeburn, affecting to feel insulted, although\nhe was quaking in every limb--\"ruffian, sir! I shall have satisfaction\nfor this, sir, you may depend upon it.\"\n\n\"Satisfaction, you scoundrel!\" exclaimed Dr Henderson--the name of\nFanny's medical attendant--\"what right have you to satisfaction? Who\nwould condescend to fight such a dastardly and disgraceful villain as\nyou are? But, mark me, sir,\" he went on; \"I know who the lady's friends\nare; and you may depend upon it, I shall not lose a moment in writing to\ninform them of everything connected with this shocking affair, and of\nyour conduct towards the deceased. Take my word for that, sir. And, sir,\nnot only will I do this, but I will inform every one I know of your\nconduct, until you are scouted from all society.\"\n\nTo this Raeburn made no other reply than by turning on his heel, and\nmuttering the words, \"Dr Henderson, you shall hear from me.\"\n\n\"Hear from you, you basest and most infamous of men!\" said the doctor,\nlooking with an expression of the most profound contempt and hatred\nafter Raeburn, as he receded; \"the less we hear of you or from you, the\nbetter for yourself, you ruffian.\"\n\nFaithfully redeeming his pledge, Dr Henderson, on the following day,\nwrote to Fanny's father, whose address he had learned from her while\nattending her, and detailed all he knew--and this was nearly all that\nwas to be known--regarding Raeburn's conduct to his daughter; for,\nalthough the latter had never accused Raeburn to him of ill-treatment,\nthe doctor had, by connecting the broken hints which she had dropped\nfrom time to time, and especially by marking certain expressions which\nescaped her during her temporary fits of delirium, arrived at a\nknowledge of the whole truth. Having executed this part of his threat,\nDr Henderson set diligently about the remaining portion, which was to\ngive all the publicity he could to the story of Raeburn's infamy; and so\nsuccessful was he in his efforts in this way, that he had the\nsatisfaction in a very short time of seeing him shunned by all his\nacquaintances, and completely debarred from respectable society.\n\nAfter Fanny's death, Raeburn had evinced a disposition to take an active\npart in her obsequies; and even expressed a willingness to defray the\nwhole of the funeral charges. But this Dr Henderson would on no account\npermit. Neither would he suffer him to interfere in any way whatever\nwith the funeral rites; the whole expense of which he insisted on paying\nout of his own pocket; and Raeburn knew too well the advantage the\ndoctor possessed over him, to offer any resistance to these peremptory\nobjections.\n\nThus stood matters, then, with Raeburn, and thus they remained for about\neighteen months afterwards. He still, during all this time, continued in\npossession of his situation; but his superiors, who were well acquainted\nwith the story of his villany to Miss Rutherford, were eagerly and\nanxiously watching for an opportunity to dismiss him. They did not feel\nthat they would have been warranted in discharging him for his infamous\nconduct on the occasion alluded to, as it was a matter of which they had\nno right, officially, to take cognisance; but they had determined that\nthe slightest dereliction of duty on his part should cost him his\nsituation. Of this Raeburn was perfectly aware; and it required all his\ndiligence, care, and attention, to avoid the visitation with which he\nwas threatened. Such, we say, then, was the state of matters with\nRaeburn for about eighteen months after Fanny Rutherford's death. At the\nexpiry of this period, however, that event occurred which winds up this\ntragic tale.\n\nOne evening, about nine o'clock, Raeburn was sitting solitary in his\nroom, musing on the miseries to which his villany had subjected him, and\nno doubt indulging, as all villains do, in imaginary schemes of\nvengeance against his enemies, when a waiter from one of the hotels in\ntown called, and said that a gentleman there desired to see him\nimmediately on a matter of importance.\n\nRaeburn, conceiving that it might be on some official business that he\nwas wanted, instantly repaired to the hotel, and was ushered into the\nroom where the person was who wished to see him.\n\nThat person kept his back towards Raeburn till he had fairly entered the\napartment, and until the waiter who had shown him in had retired. This\ndone, he suddenly rushed towards the door, snatching up at the same time\none of a pair of pistols which lay on a table in the middle of the room,\nand having locked the door in the inside, he fiercely confronted\nRaeburn, who, horror-struck at the sight, instantly recognised, in the\nperson before him, Edward Rutherford, the brother of the unfortunate\nFanny.\n\n\"Do you know me, villain? Do you know me?\" shouted out Edward, first\nseizing him by the breast, and then dashing him from him with a violence\nthat sent him reeling to the farther end of the apartment. \"Do you know\nthe brother of Fanny Rutherford, murderer? Did you think, ruffian, that\nyou were safe from my vengeance, because the half of the globe lay\nbetween us? If you did, you mistook Edward Rutherford. But I will waste\nno more words on you, villain! The shade of my murdered sister--murdered\nby the cruellest of all deaths--is calling aloud for retribution, and,\nin her name, I am here to demand it! Here, dastard!\" he said, taking up\nthe other pistol, and presenting it to Raeburn--\"here, take this, and\nstand to me like a man; for I would not imbrue my hands in your filthy\nblood but upon equal terms. Although you but little deserve it, I will\ngive you a chance for your life! Come, sir,\" he went on, Raeburn\ndeclining to take the pistol, \"take it--take it; for, by the heaven\nabove us, one or other of us, or both, must die; and your only chance\nis in opposing me; for, if you do not fire, I will! By all that's\nsacred, I will!\" At this moment, Raeburn rushed to the window, with the\nview of calling for assistance; and one supplicatory cry, which,\nhowever, was unattended to, he did emit. But, ere he could fully effect\nhis object, Edward had him by the throat, and, holding his pistol within\na few inches of his head, threatened, if he stirred or repeated his\noutcry, that that moment should be his last.\n\nSeeing the desperate situation in which he was placed, the trembling\nwretch now took the pistol from Rutherford's hand, being aware, as he\nhad been told, that it was indeed his only chance for life.\n\nThe parties now took their stations, one at each end of the room, and\nconfronted each other.\n\n\"Raise your weapon, Raeburn; raise your weapon!\" exclaimed Rutherford,\non observing that his antagonist was not proceeding to assume a hostile\nattitude. \"Your not firing will not save you from mine. I give you fair\nwarning!\"\n\nRaeburn elevated, and levelled his pistol.\n\n\"Are you ready?\" said his terrible opponent.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Raeburn, faintly.\n\n\"Then fire, villain!\" exclaimed Rutherford; and both pistols went off at\nthe same instant, but with very different effect. A retributive power\nhad directed the fatal engines of destruction. Raeburn's bullet struck\nthe wall wide of its mark, while Rutherford's passed through the heart\nof him at whom it was aimed, and he fell lifeless on the floor.\n\nRutherford threw himself on his knees, and holding aloft the still\nreeking weapon of death, thanked Heaven that he had been permitted to be\nthe avenger of his sister's wrongs.\n\nThe house in which this dreadful scene took place was a large one, and\nthe apartment, especially selected on that account by Rutherford, was a\nremote one; so that the firing was not heard by any of the inmates--at\nleast not so distinctly as to inform them that it was the noise of\nfirearms. No one, therefore, appeared to interrupt the escape which\nRutherford now meditated, and lost no time in effecting. He left the\napartment, and, unheeded by any one, descended the great staircase which\nled to it and to others, and fled from the house.\n\nAlthough, however, Rutherford effected his escape in safety, the\ntransaction which rendered his flight necessary did not long remain\nunknown. It came to the ears of justice, and she uncoupled her\nbloodhounds after the offender; but, as the whole circumstances of the\ncase gradually transpired, it is supposed that the pursuit was neither a\nvery eager nor a very willing one. Certain it is, at any rate, that\nRutherford could nowhere be found, although it is equally certain that\nseveral persons knew very well where he was for nearly two months after\nthe death of Raeburn.\n\nTo these it was known that, immediately after the fatal occurrence in\nthe hotel, a person closely wrapped up in a travelling-cloak called at\nDr Henderson's, and desired to have a private interview with the doctor.\nWhen that gentleman entered the apartment into which the stranger had\nbeen shown, the latter announced himself to be Edward Rutherford, the\nbrother of Fanny Rutherford, with whose melancholy story he said the\ndoctor was so well acquainted.\n\n\"The brother of poor Fanny!\" said the doctor, in amazement, and at the\nsame time taking his visiter kindly by the hand. \"I am happy to see you,\nsir, on your poor unfortunate sister's account. Did you come with the\nship that arrived from England to-day, sir?\"\n\n\"I did, sir,\" replied Edward.\n\n\"And pray, my dear sir,\" said the doctor, \"if it be not an impertinent\nquestion--I assure you it is put with the most friendly intentions--what\nmay be your purpose and views in coming out to India?\"\n\n\"Vengeance, doctor! vengeance!\" replied Rutherford, fiercely, \"was my\nsole object--and I have already had it.\"\n\n\"Raeburn!\" exclaimed the doctor, eagerly.\n\n\"Yes, sir, Raeburn is no more--his villanous career is ended. I have\nkilled the ruffian; but, thank God! I killed him in fair fight. Villain\nas he was, I took no advantage of him, farther than compelling him to\nfight me.\" Edward then went on to detail the whole proceedings connected\nwith the duel in the hotel.\n\nWhen he had concluded--\n\n\"On my word, sir,\" said Dr Henderson, smiling--he could not help\nit--\"you have made quick work of it indeed; and I assure you, I for one\nam not sorry that the villain has met with his deserts. But we must now\ncare for your safety, Mr Rutherford, from the vengeance of the laws,\"\nadded the doctor; \"although I do not see how they can be very severe in\nsuch a case as this. Yet it will be as well for you to keep out of\nharm's way for a little. You must remain for some time in concealment;\nand a fitter or more secure place than I shall provide for you in my\nhouse here, you could not readily find anywhere; and I must insist on\nyour availing yourself of it.\"\n\nEdward did not know how to express the gratitude he felt for the\nsingular and most disinterested kindness of his worthy host. He was, in\ntruth, too strongly impressed with it to be able to acknowledge it\notherwise than by a few broken sentences; but there was in these, and\nstill more in the manner in which they were spoken, enough to show Dr\nHenderson that his friendly conduct was properly appreciated.\n\n\"Nothing at all, my dear sir!--nothing at all!\" said the doctor, in\nreply to Edward's attempts at acknowledgment of the generous part he was\nacting towards him. \"I'm very sure you would do the same for me, were I\nplaced in your situation. You have, besides, Mr Rutherford--although,\nperhaps, a strict morality might question your right to the step you\nhave taken--you have, I say, notwithstanding this, a claim on the\nfriendly services of every man who can feel for the wrongs of another,\nespecially--most especially--such grievous wrongs as yours. It was a\njust, and, on the part of him who has suffered, a well-merited\nretribution.\"\n\nEdward was shortly afterwards introduced into the place of\nconcealment--a comfortable little apartment, which had been prepared for\nhim by the kindness of the worthy doctor; and here he remained for about\nseven weeks, experiencing every kindness and attention from his\nbenevolent host, when he was secretly conveyed on board of a ship about\nto sail for London, where he arrived in safety, at the expiry of\nsomewhere about the usual period occupied in such a voyage.\n\nOn his return home, Edward found his father at the point of death. The\nfate of his unfortunate daughter was hurrying him to the grave. Edward\nhad not told him what was his object in going out to India; but the old\nman had guessed it, and had made several ineffectual attempts to\ndissuade him from his purpose. On the former now approaching his\nbedside, therefore, \"Thank God!'\" he said, stretching out his hand to\nEdward, \"that I see you safe again, my son;\" and added--afraid to be\nmore particular in his inquiries--\"have you seen Raeburn?\"\n\n\"I have, father,\" was the only reply of his son; but it was said in a\nmanner, and accompanied by a look, which assured him of what had taken\nplace.\n\n\"I cannot approve, Edward, of what you have done,\" said his father; \"but\nGod will forgive you!\"\n\nThey were the last words he spoke; and Raeburn's villany boasted yet\nanother victim.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENTHUSIAST.\n\n\nThere is a splendid book written, called \"The Enthusiast;\" but, though\nit discovers the author's talents, to my apprehension and feelings, it\nfails, after a few pages, to keep alive the attention--and why? Just\nbecause the author, portraying the general character of enthusiasm,\nsteps beyond himself and his own personal observations, and talks about\nthe workings of the principle in a new and untried combination of\ncircumstances. From the law which regulates projectiles in _aere_, he\nreasons to what should regulate them _in vacuo_; he reasons from things\nseen to things unseen; and then leaves both himself and his reader in\nthe mud and the mist of mere supposition. But, in what I mean to say of\nenthusiasm, I pledge myself to state nothing but what I have felt or\nseen; and I shall separate this principle from all others, only marking\nits influence when it is in a state of intensity, as one marks the\nelectric spark, not in the cloud or the machine, but as it passes from\none locality to another. Enthusiasm is, in fact, the electrical element\nof life. It is more or less everywhere, and often where it is least\nsuspected. It bursts forth, occasionally, in the character of the\nwarrior, the scholar, the poet, the speculator; but it remains as\nsubstantially, perhaps, though not so ostensibly, in the bosom of the\nparent, the husband, the wife, the child, the friend, the kinsman. The\ntradesman is an enthusiast, if he hopes to succeed; the merchant, the\nlabourer, the mechanic. I have seen a shoemaker as enthusiastic in\nmaking his shoes fit neatly without pinching, as the scholar would be in\ndivining the meaning of a difficult passage. Without enthusiasm man had\nnever been what he is. It found him in the world naked, and it clothed\nhim; houseless, and it covered him; defenceless, and it armed him. It\nrun him up through the pastoral, the agricultural, to the commercial\nstate. It composed the \"Idylls\" of Theocritus, the \"Georgics\" of Virgil,\nand the \"Fleece\" of Dyer. Without this there had been no shepherds to\nsing, and no poets to sing of their singing; no husbandmen to labour,\nand no Virgils and Hesiods to speak of their labour and argonautic\nexpeditions; and no sacred bard to celebrate their pursuit of the golden\nfleece, commerce. But, though all this is true, in the enlarged and\ndiluted sense of the word, it is not so in that sense in which the term\nis commonly understood. He is quite an enthusiast in the pursuit of\nknowledge--of a fox--or of hoped-for discovery--or of fame or of\nfortune--anybody knows to be terms applied to an unusually spirited\npursuit of any or all of these. But the enthusiasm of which I speak is\nmore limited still. It is a glow which originates and cools in the same\nbosom; which has no view beyond itself. It is not a mean to an end, but\nmean and end in one. Look at that boy: he is never to be found at a\nleisure hour without a fishing-rod in his hand; at that other youth--his\nbook is his constant companion by the fountain and the hill; at that\nreligious devotee--prayer and Bible-reading are his heaven; at that\nbutcher's boy, who is now killing a lamb--his father has put the knife\ninto his hand to please him--he is an enthusiast in butchery--his\npassion feeds on itself: it is, like virtue, its own reward--he cares\nnot for cutlets or brown roasts.\n\nHaving thus narrowed the field to a class, I shall now select an\nindividual, and that individual shall be one with whom I have had many\nopportunities of becoming well acquainted. Curious reader, it is not\nyou, nor your brother Robert, nor your uncle Andrew, nor any, so far as\nI know, of your kindred--it is \"myself.\" And how has enthusiasm wrought\nin me? That I am just going to tell you. It has made me, in the first\nplace, miserable--most miserable; and I'll tell you how. I took it into\nmy head, when a boy of about eight or nine years of age, that my\nmother--my only living parent--was mortal; nay, that she was so old and\ninfirm--though she was not more than fifty, and in perfect health--that\nshe would drop down dead, even before my eyes. I followed her wherever\nshe went; held on by her apron-string, roaring aloud most mournfully,\nand shedding, besides, a world of tears. In vain did my kind mother\nendeavour to rally me, to reason me, to scold me, and even to chastise\nme, out of my dream: it had taken such hold of my imagination, that,\nsleeping or waking, it was there. When my mother travelled anywhere\nabroad, I was sure to be after her, like a domestic cur. When she went\nto offer up her private oblations to a throne of mercy, I crept in under\nher plaid, and heard every audible aspiration. In my sleep she was still\nbefore me as I had seen my grandmother--the lips parted, the eyes open,\nand set in night. It was horrible. I started into real life, and wept\naloud. I rushed into my mother's apartment, felt her face all over, and\ncried bitterly. Reader, have you always been made of pot-mettle? Have\nyou never experienced any such nervous enthusiasm as this? Have you been\nat all times a child of realities--a very steady, thinking, prudent\nperson; slept like a top, ate like a raven, and talked to the amazement\neven of the minister himself? You may be a steady, good person now. You\nmay even be married, with a family of thirteen children. You may have\nsucceeded in the world, and feathered your nest. You may have presided\nwell at various public dinners, and\n\n                                \"Never wrote\n    One line which, dying, you would wish to blot;\"\n\nand for this simple and best of all reasons, that you have never\nwritten, as far as the public is concerned, any lines at all. You may\nbe a sound-headed lawyer, a calculating merchant, an honest shopkeeper,\nor, what is still more commendable, because more rare, an honest judge.\nYou may sole shoes or make greatcoats to a nicety--fabricate chairs, or\nnails, or pins, or periwigs, to a thought; but you are no enthusiast. Do\nyou see that poor maniac, who is just receiving a visit from his mother\nin his cell, whose eyes are turned up in wild uproar to the roof of his\ndungeon, and who, in the damp icicles, is apostrophising sun, moon, and\nstars, Venus, Jupiter, and Aldubaran? That emaciated form of scarcely\ntwenty years of age, which a weeping mother clasps, and whom a frenzied\nson convulsively strains to his bare and fleshless breast--that is\nFerguson, the poet, the prince of enthusiasts--he at whose genius Burns\nlighted that torch which has filled the world with light. Do you mark\nthat form sitting amongst the sands of Syracuse? The city is taken by\nthe Roman armies. The enemy are within the walls; pillage and murder are\nthe order of the hour. But what is that to him?--he is only an\nenthusiast. The soldier has challenged him to surrender; his sword is\nuplifted, and the challenge is repeated. He heeds it not; the sword\ndescends--and the greatest mathematician, the most complete enthusiast,\nwhich the world has ever seen, lies before you, a gashed and mangled\ncorpse. The world--its wonders, its atoms, its various formations!--the\nlaws--the eternal laws of its construction and form!--there is one who\nsung sweetly--oh, how divinely! There is one who sung sublimely--yes, as\none overpowered with the spirit of Him who said, \"Let there be light,\nand there was light;\" but the cord which was overstrained is snapped,\nand the bow is unstrung; the pressure upon the delicate fibres of the\nbrain has been too much, and the building of God has given way. Poor\nLucretius! the disease of which thou didst expire was \"enthusiasm.\"\n\nBut it is time to shift the scene--to resort to that exquisite\nhappiness, and extensive benefit to society, which enthusiasm is\ncalculated to produce. Poetry is the language of nature. All languages\noriginated in poetry; the ballad is the mother of all living and dead\nbooks. Whether it be repeated in the shape of Fescenine catches on the\nbanks of the Tiber, of glorious epic on those of the Scamander, of\nchivalrous narrative by the rapid Rhone or sweet Liger--whether it\nemploy the time and the enthusiastic efforts of the bard, the\ntroubadour, the harper, or the minstrel--whether it resound through the\nrecesses of Pindus, of Arcady, or of Yarrow--still, still the ballad\npresents the first germ of literature. What are the earlier pages of\nLivy's \"History\" but popular ballads, connected and narratived? What the\nhistory of our own Scotland--of her Bruces, and Wallaces, and all her\nmany and valorous achievements--but ballads? And\n\n    \"How canst thou resist the boundless store\n      Of charms which Nature to her votaries yields--\n    The warbling woodland--the resounding shore--\n      The pomp of groves--and garniture of fields--\n\n    Oh, how canst thou resist, and hope to be forgiven!\"\n\nBut who can or does resist? Not even the robber Moor, who soliloquises\nso poetically the setting sun. Not\n\n    \"The swain who, journeying homeward from\n    A day's long labour, feels\n    The form of beauty smiling on his soul.\"\n\nPoetry is spread as widely through the human heart as is electricity\nthrough all the works of nature. Man can no more help being poetical,\nthan he can new-model his frame. But what is the love--the passion of\npoetry--but enthusiasm--enthusiasm which converts everything it looks\nupon into beauty and sublimity? The man is born desert and lonely: and\nis there no beauty in solitude--no grandeur in expansion? The mountains\nare highland, wild, heathy, and tempest-beaten: and is there no\nsublimity in their cliffs, their scarred fronts, and scarred sides? The\nlandscape is covered with wood, or there is at least a pleasing\nalternation of forest and glade, of peopled levels and wooded hills: and\ndoes not the soul nestle softly and lovingly amidst these pleasing\nvarieties? But you are making faces, and there is something like an\nincipient yawn beginning to travel over your beauteous lips, my dearest\nmadam. Well, I'll have done with advising you to wed the \"spirit of\npoetry,\" if you wish to be completely happy. You need not write poems,\nma'am--that is not necessary; Livy never wrote poetry, and yet he is\nevery inch a poet. Robertson never wrote verse, and yet he is\nessentially poetical. Witness Mexico and Montezuma. \"Am I lying on a bed\nof roses?\"--There, for example, is me _now_--ay, just me--I am every\ninch a poet! and yet, with the exception of a few things which need not\nbe excepted, I never wrote any poetry:--yet I see you want a story, and\nyou say, am I not reading \"The Tales of the Borders, and of\nScotland?\"--I cry you mercy, and shall give you the results of my\nenthusiasm.\n\nWhen in Edinburgh, at the college, while others prolonged the debauch,\nit might be, till two or three of a fine moonlight night, I have stolen\naway about twelve, taken my course through the King's Park to the\nEchoing Rock, and from thence to that long hollow valley of Bagdad,\nwhich runs betwixt Arthur Seat and Salisbury Craigs, and there I have\nseen the Island of Inchkeith lying, like a glittering diamond, on the\nface of the deep and the silver sea, and hazy shores of Fife, and the\nfleecy heavens, and the stars, and the \"bonny lady moon,\" and two\nfigures in the moonlight; they are walking away from me, and are busily\nengaged in conversation--they do not perceive me--I will ensconce myself\nbehind this large stone till I see what may happen. They have now sat\ndown on the greensward, and I hear their voices very much elevated. The\nwoman is reproaching the man in loud and angry tones--the man makes no\nreply; or, if he does, it is in an under tone--Ha! he has sprung upon\nthe woman all at once, like a tiger, and she screams, \"Murder, murder!\"\naloud. Shall I allow a poor woman to be murdered in the solitude of\nnature, without making an effort, even at the risk of my own life, to\nsave her? My resolution, nerved by the wine I had drunk, was taken in an\ninstant--I sprang forward, crying loudly to my _companions_ to assist\nme. When the horrible object understood how things were going, and\nimagining, no doubt, that there were more than _one_ witness of its\nhorrible doings, it took to its heels with the speed of lightning. I did\nnot pursue; in fact, I had no inclination to do so; it was sufficient\nfor me if I could save life--I did not wish to take it, either\npersonally or legally. When I went up to the poor woman, she was all\nastonishment, and her first accents were uttered in thanksgiving to\nAlmighty God for sending me into the desert for her rescue. I found\nthat, although the villain had clutched her by the throat, he had not\nhad time to suffocate her. Her throat was indeed sore from the pressure,\nand she breathed for some time with difficulty; but there were no deadly\nsymptoms about her. What a mysterious Providence is about us!--and we\noften know it not. I had originally no intention of taking a moonlight\nwalk that evening, or rather morning, had it not been to avoid the\nimpertinence of a fellow-member of the Dialectic Society, who manifestly\nwished, in his cups, to fasten a quarrel upon me. I stepped out from\nYoung's, and was off. I was manifestly the messenger of Heaven, and\ncould not help regarding myself with a kind of reverence. The poor\nwoman, who was in fact the wife of this worthless man, gave me her\nhistory, to the following purpose:--\n\nThat brute, as you very properly call him, is my husband, and was once\nas kind and affectionate to me as I could wish. Ours was what is called\na pure love marriage, for I was born to better circumstances and\nprospects than, from my present condition and appearance, you may well\nimagine. (Here the poor woman shed tears, and proceeded.) I was the\ndaughter of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood of Durham, where the\nPrincess of Wales' regiment of Light Dragoons was raised, and was then\nlying, under the command of Lord Darlington. We--that is to say, my\nfather, my mother, my sister, and myself--used to go frequently into a\nfield adjoining the city, and see this really handsome regiment\nreviewed, and go through their exercise. One day there was a mock battle\nrepresented, in the very field adjoining to my father's house. Several\nregiments were collected together, from Newcastle and elsewhere, for the\npurpose. It was to be a great show; and the whole town of Durham, as\nwell as all the country round, were congregated to see the battle.\nCannons were fired, charges of cavalry were made, and a detachment of\nthe Darlington troop rode, in pursuit of the supposed enemy, past our\ndoor. My father and I were at the upper window when the troop came\ndashing along, clearing fences and springing over ditches in the finest\nstyle imaginable. Just as they came opposite to my father's door, a pig,\nwhich had escaped from its confinement in the back-court, dashed\nheadlong forward amongst the feet of the horses. One of the horses fell;\nand the rider, having pitched on his head, was seemingly killed on the\nspot. He was immediately carried into our house, and surgical aid was at\nhand. It was a dislocation of the neck-bone, and was immediately put to\nrights; but the patient was bled, and ordered to be kept quiet for some\ndays. I naturally became the young gentleman's nurse; for he was the son\nof a poor but titled family in the neighbourhood of Darlington. Mr\nFitzwilliam was a handsome man, about my own age; but he was penniless,\nand a soldier of fortune. My father, early seeing the danger of my\nremaining in the way of temptation, had sent me off to a grand house in\nthe neighbourhood of Newcastle. But William Fitzwilliam had won my\nheart, and, in spite of all watchings and lookings, we were man and wife\nin less than a fortnight after my departure for Newcastle.\n\nWe were married at Gretna Green; and I have accompanied him ever since,\nthrough Carlisle and Dumfries, Ayr, Glasgow, and ultimately to Jock's\nLodge, where the regiment is now lying. He has taken lodgings for me in\nEdinburgh; but of late has sadly deserted me. I have been enabled, by\ntaking up linen, and sewing articles for the ladies' exhibition, to do\nsomething in aid of our scanty funds. But William has of late undergone\na sad change. He has become addicted to gambling; has even introduced\nimproper characters, both male and female, into my presence; and has\ntalked, particularly in his cups, about a divorce and separation. He\nwishes _me_, he says, to divorce him; and takes every method of giving\nme sufficient grounds for so doing; but, with all his errors and vices,\nI love him still, nor can I think, now that I have time to reflect on\nit, he would have murdered me outright, even though you had not so\nprovidentially interfered. He has of late succeeded to a title, by the\ndeath of an uncle, who has disinherited him, and left his vast property\npast him. This preyed upon his spirits of late; and I have reason to\nknow that he has been making love, and even offers of marriage, to a\nrich widow lady, who dwells not far from York Place, Edinburgh. But my\nmarriage-lines lie sadly in his way; and it was to attain by force what\nhe could not otherwise, that he had almost, and, but for you, would have\nperhaps altogether, murdered me, a few minutes ago. Poor William! my\nheart still bleeds for him; but I will never give up, whilst I live, the\nonly means which I have of proving myself an honest woman.\n\nAll Edinburgh rang next morning with the news--Lord M---- had shot\nhimself dead in his bedroom.\n\nIn the year 1831, I had occasion to be several days in Durham. It\noccurred to me, one day, whilst I was sauntering about the cathedral,\nthat the house, where probably still lived the father of the poor\nunfortunate Mrs, or rather _Lady_ M----, might be in the neighbourhood.\nI made inquiry; and, without much difficulty, found it out. From what I\nlearned in the neighbourhood, the poor woman had never taken up her\nhusband's title. Her father, on hearing of her husband's tragical end,\nhad relented, and taken her home, to keep his house, and comfort him in\nhis old age. I asked for her father, and was shown into a neat parlour,\nwhere the old man sat, comfortably pillowed, but terribly pained with\ngout and a complication of diseases. I introduced myself as an\nacquaintance of Mrs Fitzwilliam, who was immediately sent for, and\nentered the parlour. She did not know me, nor was it wonderful; for, as\nI went to the country next day after the night adventure, I had no\nopportunity of calling upon her. Indeed, I should scarcely have known\nher either--her dress and manner were so much more imposing than they\nhad been at our first and only interview. However, upon my referring to\nthe circumstances, she immediately took me by the hand, burst into\ntears, and, presenting me to her father, who was almost blind, \"Papa,\"\nsaid she, \"this is the gentleman who saved my life.\" I had the old man's\nblessing. A bottle of home-made wine was called for, and discussed, and\nI was pressed to come back to dinner; which, however, I politely\nrefused, for I did not know how far my enthusiastic temperament might\nhave gone, in the case of a truly beautiful woman, whom I had saved from\ndeath, and whose gratitude led her to think very favourably of me. I\nhave not heard of her lately; but mean to write to my brother-in-law,\nwho lives in Durham, about her, and to ascertain whether she is still\nliving or dead; whether she is yet unmarried, or has again ventured to\nface the blacksmith.\n\nSuch was one of my moonlight adventures; which, if you are so disposed,\nyou are at liberty to denominate a \"matter of moonshine.\" But my\nenthusiasm has not been limited to moonbeams. I am the mountain child,\nand wedded even up to this hour to the mountain-land, with all its wild,\nstriking, and expanding associations. To meet a fair maiden in a _fair_\nis pleasant, as also to replenish her lap with sweet-meats and trinkets.\nTo get a \"canny hour at een, your arms about your deary,\" is snug,\ncomfortable, and something more. Burns prefers \"rigs of barley,\" and the\n\"green rush bushes,\" as a courting parlour; whilst,\n\n    \"Last night, in my late rambles,\n      All in the Isle of Sky,\n    I met a lovely creature\n      Up in the mountains high.\"\n\nNow the Isle of Sky, and its high mountains, are entire strangers to me;\nbut I am well acquainted with two pretty decent hills, not above twenty\nmiles from Dumfries, called Queensberry, _little_ and _big_; and, amidst\ntheir elevated and retired glens, the following incident took place. I\nhave from my boyhood been distractedly fond of fishing; and, up to this\nhour, whenever I visit my native glen, the mania returns; and, though\nthings are sadly changed, and trouts are diminished both in number and\nsize, yet still, in spite of all disadvantages, I fish. It was on an\nexcursion on my way (whilst a young man of twenty) from college, that I\nfound myself, one dark and misty day, amidst the deep and mazy windings\nof the _Brawn_. I was quickly and successively basketing trout after\ntrout, humming all the while some old Scottish sonnet, and calling in my\nlittle dog, _Don_, from the sheep who were pasturing on the adjoining\nhill, named the Dod, when a voice from the depths of the mist and the\nsolitude reached my ear. It was a voice of wo and deep lamentation.\nHaving chid Don's impertinence in giving tongue somewhat too freely, I\nfound, seated upon a grey stone, and weeping aloud, a young woman, about\nmy own age, with dark blue eyes, and a countenance of the most\nprepossessing expression. She sat beside an infant, which she had\ndeposited on a bed of collected fern or braken, and who was fast asleep.\nWhen she saw me, she started, and seemed disposed to fly; but when I\nused my means to reassure her, she ventured to accost me, by informing\nme that she had lost her way--that she was nurserymaid at Mitchelslacks,\nand had wandered that morning with her charge beyond her accustomed\nrange, and, the mist coming suddenly on, she found it impossible to\nretrace her steps. I thought myself quite in possession of the\ninformation which she wanted, and told her that I would see her and her\nlittle charge safely and immediately home. So, giving up my sport for\nthe time, I took up the sleeping infant, and immediately addressed\nmyself, accompanied by the fair wanderer, to the journey. We were\nseveral miles distant from Mitchelslacks; but, as I considered myself\nquite familiar with the ground, I struck immediately over the pathless\nhill, by what I termed a _near cut_, instead of retracing the stream for\na couple of miles, and then crossing the Dod by a cart track. The child\nawoke, and finding itself in strange hands, screamed violently; so I was\nsoon compelled to place the infant in the loveliest bosom I had ever\nseen. I felt my frame tremble all over, as I came into contact with\npretty Peggy's person; and yet, for all the wealth of old Q----, I would\nnot have even conceived anything which might occasion alarm to so\nbeautiful and manifestly so innocent a creature. Yet I could not keep my\neyes off her, and found out, in spite of a dark and crawling mist, that\nher frame was perfect symmetry, and rounded into that ripened plumpness\nwhich bespeaks the fully-matured woman. We conversed freely as we\ntravelled; and my romantic feelings became so excited with my position,\nthat I thought but occasionally, and then indistinctly, of the\ndirection, right or wrong, in which we were advancing. Peggy from time\nto time admonished me, that she trusted to me alone, as she was totally\nunacquainted with the hill. Having attained at last the summit of the\nsteep, I expected to have found a cairn of stones, and, alongside of it\na shepherd's shieling or turf hut, where he reposed at noonday, and\nshared his bread and milk with his faithful curs; but no such shieling\nor cairn was to be seen. It then became manifest to me, all at once,\nthat I as well as my fair companion of the mist had lost my way, and\nthat, unless the day, which was still becoming darker and darker, should\nclear up, we should be in danger of increasing instead of lessening the\ndistance betwixt us and Mitchelslacks. To increase our embarrassment,\nthe child cried continually, evidently from hunger, and great drops of\nrain came down like hail-stones amidst the close and crawling mist. It\nwas evident that a thunderstorm was brooding--nor were we long kept in\nsuspense; for, all at once, the mist was kindled into flame around us,\nand a sharp, smart crack, followed by the roar of a thousand hills, told\nus that we were in the very centre of the electric cloud. Poor Peggy\nsank down at once, overcome with terror; whilst I, immediately and\nintuitively, squatted down beside her, clasping her to my bosom, child\nand all. I may truly say with Patie, in regard to another lovely Peggy--\n\n    \"Whilst hard and fast I held her in my grips,\n    My very soul cam loupin to my lips.\"\n\nBut the awful flash and peal were repeated, and then, in very truth, and\nnot metaphorically,\n\n    \"Down rush'd a deluge of sonorous hail.\"\n\nPeggy fainted outright, and the child screamed itself into hysterics,\nwhen all at once a couple of shaggy shepherd's dogs gave tongue in the\nneighbourhood. A young, yellow haired shepherd lad stood over us in an\ninstant; and, guessing at once how matters really stood, had us all\nremoved, as soon as Peggy had recovered her senses, into the small\nshieling, in the immediate neighbourhood of which we were unconsciously\nwandering. We had to stoop, and enter upon our hands and knees; and,\nwhen we were all stowed away, there was not an inch of house room which\nwas not occupied either by human beings or dogs. But, though sitting, or\nrather lying, on rushes, these rushes were dry, and our humble shelter\nwarded off the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder-cloud gradually\ntook to the top of the higher Queensberry, and left us with a clear\nsunny day, and two miles to walk to the child's home. The truth was,\nthat the family at Mitchelslacks had become alarmed by the absence of\nmaid and child, and had sent nearly half-a-score of shepherds, and a\nfull score of dogs, to the hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery;\nwhilst Mr and Mrs Harkness, the parents, were in a state which may more\neasily be imagined than described. All were now well; and I accompanied\nthe young shepherd, with his sweetheart--for such I soon discovered they\nwere--home, and had the happiness, by running on before, to be the first\nto announce the safety of their child to the worthy and distracted\nparents. They had, indeed, given up both the nurse and child for lost,\nand their despair had been at least equal to their joy, when I ran\nforward and threw the child in the mother's lap. Now, who could doubt\nthat enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, and shining in the tear-wet\neye of the mother, as she pressed the little lost one to her bosom? It\nwas, verily. But, after all I have said of the nature of this\nextraordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever experienced in a\nstronger and purer form than in that of _joy_. I care nothing for the\ncause--it may be any one you please. All I insist for is, that it shall\nbe capable of stimulating, or rather exciting--for the former is a\nphrenological word--the mind of the individual, however stupid, obese,\nor phlegmatic, to the boiling-point of that most intense species of\nhuman happiness. All the many forms of the feeling seem to tend to this\nas the point of their realisation. Pythagoras and his proposition,\nArgand and his lamp, Mungo Park and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs\nHarkness and her child, and the child, probably, next day with a\nbutterfly, are all instances of the feeling in the point of\ngratification. But I have been again wandering from my story--all\nenthusiasm together; for there was love in the affair, which many insist\nupon being the strongest, if not the purest, example that can be\npresented of this mysterious and pervading essence. Those who think so\ncan take their own view; I retain mine; and it is very probable that we\nare both wrong; and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly addressed myself,\nwill put us right, by telling us that poetry is the only genuine and\npure form in which this moral electricity can exhibit itself. Let it be\nas you say, though I would advise you to be on your guard against your\nfriend Miss ----, who lost her lover last week, and will insist that\n_hope_ is the soul of the feeling; and that, when that is gone,\nenthusiasm has no more chance of getting into the mind or heart than I\nhave of getting into your favour by this digression from a story of\nlove, originating in, or perfected by, _mist_, one of the most romantic\nmediums of the tender passion. So, to make a speedy conclusion, about a\nfortnight after this incident, I was again at my old sport, when I was\naccosted by my young friend, the shepherd, who now figured in\nholiday-attire, and informed me that, as this was his wedding-day, my\ncompany would be acceptable _owre by yonder_ at two o'clock. I pursued\nmy sport till then, and, in the old chamber of Mitchelslacks, saw Joseph\nRobson and Margaret Gibson made man and wife. There was neither dancing\nnor revelment of any kind, but there was a plentiful meal, many songs,\nand as much punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the company chose to\nmake use of. All went merry as a marriage-bell. And now I find I am\nchecked by want of space, at the moment when the _jar_ is fully charged,\nand the subtle spirit might have exploded in many more pretty\ncoruscations.\n\n\n\n\nTREES AND BURNS.\n\n\nWoods, natural woods, are most beautiful. To wander all day long amongst\nbushes, hazels, oaks, thorns, of every hue and fruit--the haw, crab, and\nsloe--is most delightful. To lose one's-self, as it were, at every turn,\nand to be arrested by some new feature, ever and anon, as you thread\nyour mazy course through the pathless wood, is a pleasure, the\nrecollection of which still haunts and sweetens my dreams of early\nbeing--\n\n    \"In life's morning march,\n    When my bosom was young.\"\n\nI don't like forests--they are too stiff and stately--they are like a\ntea-and-turn-out party--sombre, silent, and affected. They have not the\neasy negligence, the elegant simplicity, the \"_simplex munditiis_,\" of\nwoods. They are always on their high horses, and darken whilst they look\ndown upon and despise the underwood. I had as rather associate with a\nconclave of high churchmen or consulting doctors, as with a regular,\nwell-planted, and well-fenced plantation. Here man has played the tailor\nwith nature; and, in cutting down her skirts, has deprived her of all\nthat is graceful in drapery and folding. He has made a Bond Street\nexquisite of the subject. But, far and beyond all other inanimate\nobjects, I have always been in love with single, individual, separate\ntrees. You cannot be truly--as the song has it--in love with many _fair\ndames_ at one and the same time; I can never, on that account, bear to\nhear the song sung, which begins thus--\n\n    \"I'm in love with twenty,\n    I'm in love with twenty,\n    And I adore as many more--\n    There's nothing like a plenty.\"\n\nI absolutely quarrelled with an old friend for his frequent singing of\nthis abominable and heretical song, and am scarcely reconciled to him to\nthis hour, though he has long ago limited his love to one object--he has\nbeen married these thirty years. In the same spirit, and on the same\nprinciple, I affirm, that no child, boy, girl, man, or woman, can be\ntruly in love with _two trees_ at one and the same time. Oh! I remember\nwell the old ash-tree that occupied the corner of our kail-yard. There\nthe same pyet built yearly her nest, and brought _out_ and _up_ her\nyoung. To be sure I _tithed_ them occasionally, and taught her offspring\nto imitate speaking most abominably; but still the old lady and\ngentleman returned to their tree and their branch, and even to the same\ncleft of the branch, annually; and my spirit rejoiced within me, as I\nlifted up mine eyes and beheld the black-and-white tail of the dam, as\nshe sat, from morn to night, upon her beautifully-spotted,\nblack-and-white eggs. There, underneath that very tree, I did sit and\nconstruct my first paper kite; there did I play from morn to night with\nthe cat and her kitten; there did I shelter myself from the shower, and\nfrom the meridian heat; there did I repeat my morning and evening prayer\n(short, it is true, but pithy--it was the Lord's Prayer, with an\nadditional petition in behalf of my only surviving parent, my mother);\nthere did I count my slain on returning from fishing expeditions; and\nthere, my dear departed friend and cousin, did you and I associate, eve\nafter eve, in true and holy affection. Alas! the cold earth has closed\nover one of the kindest hearts and clearest heads I ever had occasion to\nknow anything about; but God's will be done. We all hasten to the same\nplace, however different our courses. Peace, my dear companion, to thy\nmanes! We shall meet, I hope, anon. In the meantime, I was speaking of\nthe old ash-tree at Auldwa's, which I have taken the liberty to\ntransplant to Dunsyett. But our common friend, and the friend of many\npast generations, is now laid prostrate (as I am informed) with the\nearth. How is the mighty fallen, and the lofty laid low, and the strong\none broken and smashed in his strength! The storm, the dreadful,\nunexampled storm, which lately swept over our island with a whirlwind's\nimpetuosity and a hurricane's strength, has bent the gallant mast, and\nsunk the noble ship, and buried its thousands and thousands of fathers,\nand brothers, and husbands, and wives, and daughters in the deep sea. It\nhas uptorn forests, scattered woods to the heavens, and (_inter alia_)\nhas stooped from its altitude to lay my old and dear companion\nprostrate. How many tempests, my poor uprooted friend, hast thou not\nbraved!--nay, when the fire of heaven split and splintered the adjoining\noak and ash, thou didst escape unhurt. The awful tempest of winter\n1794-5, deprived thee, indeed, of a branch or two; but thou wert still\nin the manhood of thy being, when the west wind blew as \"'twad blaw its\nlast\"--and M'Diarmid's newspaper is enriched with thy remains.\n\nMy next associate of the tree species was the \"_Castle Beech_.\" Oh, what\na tree it was, and still (I humbly hope) is!--for the hand of man is not\nyet formed in the womb which will dare to cut it down; and it stands\nmighty in its individual girth, awful in its spread, and sheltered in\nits position. This tree is the chronicler of my school days at\nWallacehall: on the smooth and ample bark of that tree are imprinted or\nobliterated recollections of a fearful nature. Oh! who dares to take a\npeep into the charnel-house of fifty years? There they are, playing it\nhard and happy, at dools toosty, or England and Scotland.\n\n    \"Alas! regardless of their doom,\n      The little victims play:\n    No sense have they of ills to come--\n      No cares beyond to-day!\"\n\nBut let forty years, with Juggernaut wheels, crash and creak over us,\nand where are the happy hearts and merry voices? The sea will answer;\nfor she has had her full share. The river, the bloody river _Nith_, will\nand must answer; for in its deceitful waters was lost my old and kind\nclass-fellow and companion, Richard Reid. The west must give up its\ndead, and the east answer to my call. Where am I? My dear schoolfellows,\nwhere are you? Why don't you answer? Alas! _at sixty_, I can scarcely\ncount six contemporaries who still breathe with me the breath of heaven,\nand rejoice in a protracted though misimproved existence. But the old\nbeech, my kind friend Mr Watt of the castle informs me, is still\nstanding, though almost by a miracle, for his branches are so large and\nnumerous that he groaned, and creaked, and swung most dreadfully under\nthe tempest's shock. But it would not do; even the prince of the aerial\npowers was foiled at last, and was compelled to desist from his\nunhallowed attempt. The Castle Beech has weathered the storm; and there\nare hearts in every land which will rejoice in the information which I\nnow convey.\n\nBut the \"Three Brethren,\" the friends and companions of my more mature\nyears, are now no more. They have fallen with those cedars of Lebanon,\nthe mighty monarchs of Arbigland--_they_ have perished, and in their\nfate have nearly involved that of their intelligent and benevolent\nproprietor. But my heart reverts to Collestoun, and to the banks of the\nblue and silver Nith, and to the Three Brethren. The pages of the\nintelligent \"Times\" (county newspaper) are wet with the tears of\nlamentation. But the \"Times\" knows not--it could not, and it cannot\nknow--the one-half that honest Allan Cunningham and I know about these\nremarkable trees. Their traditional history is this:--\n\nPrior to the discovery of Virginia, and of the consequent tobacco trade,\nby means of which Glasgow, from being a comparatively insignificant\ntown, became a large and a prosperous mercantile city, and whilst\nManchester, in England, was almost equally obscure and unimportant,\nthere was no properly-constructed highway through Dumfries-shire betwixt\nthese two mercantile depots. There was, indeed, along the banks of the\nNith, the trace of the old Roman road; but this was obscure, in many\nplaces obliterated, and in all narrow and unaccommodating to\nwheel-carriages. Indeed, the road in many cases was impracticable,\nunless on horses; and these, too, in some places, were in danger of\ndisappearing in mosses and quagmires. In this state of things, to talk\nof or think of inns, or public-houses of accommodation, was out of the\nquestion. _Where there is no demand, there can be no supply_--that is a\nclear case; yet still a certain overland intercourse was carried on\nbetwixt these two great national marts, Glasgow and Manchester; and a\nmerchant from the one city was in the habit of mounting a strong nag,\nand meeting with a merchant from the other city at what was deemed the\n_half-way point_--at the place, namely, where a large tree, with three\noutspread and sheltering branches, not only marked the spot of tryst,\nbut afforded partial shade and shelter. (The reason why these branches\nwere afterwards denominated the Three Brethren has already formed the\nsubject of a tale.) Well, by previous arrangement and appointment, the\nGlasgow and the Manchester merchants met and transacted business under\nthis tree, and then retraced their steps homewards; and this continued\nfor many years to be the nearest and the most commonly-frequented line\nof communication betwixt Glasgow and Manchester. It was in this way,\noriginally, that the benevolent founder of the free school of Closeburn,\nMr Wallace, a native of that parish, and a Glasgow merchant, carried on\nthis extensive business with Manchester. Many a time has the worthy\nfounder of the most celebrated institution in the south of Scotland\n(with which the name of Mundell will be associated till latest ages)\nbeen seen sitting upon a stone rolled to the foot of this immense tree,\nand transacting business with a Manchester merchant, similarly placed\nwith himself. In process of time, the international intercourse\nincreased--post-chaises succeeded to strong saddle horses, the roads\nwere improved, and an inn, or house of accommodation, became absolutely\nnecessary. It was on this occasion that the once famous, though now\ncomparatively obscure inn, called of late years Brownhill, arose--an inn\nresorted to by travellers of all ranks, in preference to any which even\nDumfries in former times could afford--an inn celebrated as the frequent\nresort of Robert Burns, who used to hold high carousal here with its\nformer convivial landlord, Mr Bacon; in whose house, and on one of the\npanes of glass in the window, were originally written those well-known\nlines of Burns, beginning--\n\n    \"Cursed be the man, the veriest wretch in life,\n    The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,\n    Who has no will but by her high permission--\n    Who has not sixpence but in her possession....\n    I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,\" &c.\n\nAs I happen to know the particular circumstances which accompanied the\nwriting of these lines, I shall conclude this chapter on trees, by\nrelating them.\n\nBurns lived at this time at Ellisland, about two miles lower down the\nvale than the Three Brethren, and about three miles from Brownhill. Much\nof his duty as a gauger lay about the village of Brownhill. Now,\nBrownhill was a very convenient half-way house betwixt Thornhill and his\nhome at Ellisland; and, accordingly, Burns' little stout pony (which I\nremember well, though I forget the name) would seldom pass Brownhill.\nOne day, whilst a boy at the free school of Wallacehall, I chanced to be\nlingering about the stable-door at Brownhill, when Burns alighted from\nhis pony, _wet and weary_, and, giving the beast a slap on the hinder\nextremity, exclaimed, \"There! make you comfortable for the night, in the\nbest way you can--and so will the poor gauger!\" Burns looked at me very\nclosely; but I was unknown to him at that time (though I knew him\npersonally afterwards); and muttering, \"One of Mundell's,\" passed on.\nWhat follows is from undoubted authority; namely, one of the party of\nthree, who enjoyed this very merry evening. Bacon and Burns were their\nbowl of punch a-piece, as well as my friend, and were in high talk and\nsong; but Mrs Bacon, who did not partake of the festivity, and who, in\nfact, was the support of the house, refused to produce the materials for\nthe fourth bowl. High words arose betwixt her and her husband; who, as\nwell as Burns and my friend, had by this time given indications of their\nhaving\n\n    \"A wee drap in their ee;\"\n\nand Mrs Bacon hid the keys and went to bed. Ere Burns went to repose (or\nnext morning), he inscribed, with his ready wit, and equally ready\ndiamond, the lines mentioned on the window-pane.\n\n\n\n\n\nKIRKYARDS.\n\n\nKirkyards are to me exceedingly interesting. Alas! those nearest and\ndearest to me are now the tenants of these silent retirements. They\ncontain subjects of intense and protracted recollection. Whenever I have\nan hour to spare after dinner in my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to\ndeviate into a churchyard, and there to spell and stumble my way through\nand over a multiplicity of graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing\nin generalities, I shall speak of two particular cases, known to myself,\nin the churchyard of the parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand\nas you enter and pass Elder Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The\nstone is merely an erect headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The\ninscription is--\"Here lies Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in\ncrossing the water of Nith in 1794.\" Richard, as well as his brother\nStephen, now Colonel Reid, were my particular companions at Wallacehall\nSchool. We were class-fellows. Oh! what fun and frolic we have had\ntogether! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood, Gilchrist Land Wood, the\nPothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs, and the Gravel Walk, could tell, if\nthey were permitted, many tales of us three. What nests did we not find!\nwhat nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we not pocket! what brambles\ndid we not eat! and what _hind_ or raspberries did we not bruise and\nconvert into _red wine_. And, then, what tree so tall as not to admit\nour ascent! what thicket so dense as not to be penetrated! what eel so\nlively as not to be decapitated and skinned! and what trout so cunning\nas to escape the temptation of our nicely-prepared baits! At England and\nScotland, too--that most expressive game of former Border feuds--we were\nmost expert; and have seen many suns descend on our protracted contests\nat shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived, and with it the vacation; the\noats ripened, and so did the hazel-nuts. The report was, that the\nBarjarg Woods were most splendidly supplied with ripe and brown\n_leamers_. We could not--we never tried to resist the temptation. But\nthe rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our travel. It had\nrained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at its banks,\ndid not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated; Richard was\na bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the stream,\nand bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained one-third of\nthe way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood and various floating\nsubstances in it. We became alarmed, and called aloud on Richard; but he\nturned round, and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand this, but\npushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had now\nreached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could not.\nThe stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at once, a\nlarge piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard's position,\nand he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood and the\nstream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again rose; but he\nwas in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He screamed\naloud, and we rushed forward--his brother Stephen and I--to the rescue;\nbut we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling pool.\nOver the banks of this eddy there grew and hung a broom bush; more by\naccident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling\nnear me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately,\nand got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I\nheld like grim death, and at last surmounted the steep. Though\nstupified, I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed--for Stephen was\ninsensible--along the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where\nthe water began to shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any\nsigns of life. In an instant I had a hold of his garment, and had\nactually pulled him considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in\ncontact with a large stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body\nof poor Richard was found, next day, a mile and a-half below, at the\nbottom of Porter's Hole.\n\nOn the opposite side of this churchyard there is a flat flagstone, with\nthe following inscription--\"Here lie the mortal remains of William\nHerdman, weaver in Auldwa's of Gilchristland.\"\n\nPoor Willie Herdman! What associations do not these two magic words\nawaken! When Gibraltar stood nobly out, under the command of an Elliot,\nagainst the combined strength of France and Spain, thou wast there to\nsend the hissing-hot cannon-balls into the hulls of the enemy's\nfloating-batteries. But, on returning to thy native Nottingham, to taste\nof its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was desolate--father, mother,\nand sister, all dead--and the place which knew them owned another\ntenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred a weaver in thy\nyouth, thou didst take the road for Glasgow; but, at Brownhill, chance\nbrought thee acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa's, and with him didst\nthou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days. But it was neither\nas a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee with so much\ninterest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of Scotland--it\nwas as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see thee still,\nbefore sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the plash of\nthe large new-run sea-trout, as it \"turns up its silver scaling to the\nlight\" amidst the dark-brown flood. At all times, and almost in all\nstates of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from\nthee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to\nthis hour--the art of fishing _up_, and not _down_, a mountain stream,\nwith prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last arrived, and it\nwas a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a dish of trouts,\neven in the midst of frost, and at New-year's Day. A wager was laid, and\na considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a dozen for a\nNew-year's-day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the time\napproached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow-blasts, mixed\nwith hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout\nlad in the high class then, and, being in the constant habit of\naccompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not\nbeing absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the\nlast day of December, 179-, dawned, I was by thee aroused from my\nslumbers, and, in spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to\naccompany thee to Caple. The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there\nwas only a sprinkling of snow on the lower grounds, though the higher\nseemed to be much whiter. To fortify himself against the inclemency of\nthe weather, poor Willie had provided himself with a supply of what he\nused to term \"his comforter\"--namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished\nfor about two hours in the deeper and unfrozen pools of Caple, and with\namazing success. Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he\nturned up the bottom of a pint bottle, quite empty. He was not\nintoxicated, but confused. I had not enjoyed the advantage of \"the\ncomforter,\" and was consequently much more collected, and aware of our\ndanger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the day suddenly darkened\ndown, and a terrible snow-drift came up the glen. Mitchelslacks was at\nabout a mile and a-half's distance. I strongly urged our retreat to that\nhospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie wanted one trout of his\ntale, and he persevered for about half-an-hour longer, when he was so\nfortunate as to complete his number. But by this time the snow-drift and\nwind were absolutely choking, and I could see that his eyes were\nhalf-shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching stupor or sleep.\nI became exceedingly alarmed, when he sat, or rather fell, down suddenly\nbeneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and sleep for a\nlittle, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I proposed.\nI tried to pull him along; but he was incapable of motion. What was to\nbe done? Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so many\nstories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who was\nreally a kind-hearted, good-natured creature--poor Willie to perish thus\nhelpless in the drift! I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I\nreached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that\nWillie's dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness\nat their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and\nin a short time reached the spot; but it was too late. There was still\nheat in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body\nwas sitting in a reclining posture, leaning against the stone. There\nwere no marks of previous suffering--all was calm and placid in the\nmarble countenance--the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the\nfish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish! He\nwas dead!\n\n\n\n\nPOLWARTH ON THE GREEN.\n\n\nPeradventure there are few of our readers who have not heard of\n\"Polwarth on the Green,\" and the \"Polwarth Thorn.\" The song bearing the\nformer title is certainly founded upon one of the most popular\ntraditions on the Borders. Since the commencement of this publication,\nwe have been many times requested to write a tale upon the subject, and\nnot less than thrice, from different quarters, within the last seven\ndays; and as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our\nreaders, we shall now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been\nmade to us.\n\nThere are none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting.\nThey save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, and the manners, of our\nfathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them: the\ncivilised European and the Indian savage alike cherish them; and the\npoets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions\nmore general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin\nhas its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillside\nspeaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both.\nThe very schoolboy passes it with reverence, and can tell the history of\nhim whose memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a\nmonument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression,\nand where heroes sleep. Every castle hath its legends, its tales of\nterror and of blood, \"of goblin, ghost, or fairy.\" The mountain glen,\ntoo, hath its records of love and war. There history has let fall its\nromantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees whisper\nof the past; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent\nspirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath\nits traditions, and recounts\n\n    \"The short and simple annals of the poor.\"\n\nEvery family hath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of\ntheir ancestors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent\nupon the Borders was a thing which no man understood; but, as Sir Walter\nScott saith, \"all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon\nhis estate was their personal service in battle, their assistance in\nlabouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty\nquit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a\nshare in the spoil which they acquired by rapine.\" Many of those\ntraditions are calculated to melt the maiden's heart, to fill age with\nenthusiasm, and youth with love of country. But to our story.\n\nIn the year 1470, John Sinclair of Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who\nwas also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, dying without male issue, the\nestate of Kimmerghame descended to his daughter Marion, and that of\nPolwarth to her sister Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, Sir\nWilliam Sinclair, to whom the estate of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William,\nas the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian\nby their father, for they were both well-nigh of woman's estate when he\ndied, craftily took upon himself that duty. He whispered to them that\ntheir estates were not managed as they ought to be--that their bondmen\ndid not perform the duty required of them--that those they had set over\ntheir grounds as stewards did not render them a faithful account of\ntheir stewardship. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their young\nminds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at\nlength succeeded in gaining the entire management of their estates; and\nhe now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. Men\nof power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which\nthey employed to obtain their object; he who had a score of retainers\nweighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware\nof the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country, Sir\nWilliam knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them\nprisoners by open violence. He therefore courteously invited them to his\nhouse at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest\ncompany in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who\nwas fond of amusements, was overjoyed at the invitation; but her sister\nMargaret, who was of a graver disposition, said--\n\n\"Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness--something sinful seems\nto laugh in his looks; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than\nit reveals; confide in _me_, dear sister, and distrust _him_. When I was\nbut a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto\nmy father, 'Ah, John! I like not your brother; there is a cunning in his\nlooks, in his very words; he cannot meet you with the straightforward\ngaze of an honest man; and methinks he looks upon me as though he\ndistrusted and hated me; yea, I have often thought, as though he were\nplotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father\nwould reply, 'Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near\nand dear to me; trust me, that he loves you and yours.'--'It may be so,'\nshe would reply, 'but there is that in his manner which I cannot\novercome.' Then our father would remain silent for a time, and add,\n'Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William which becomes not a\nbrother.'\"\n\n\"Lull your suspicions, my demure sister,\" the light-hearted Marion\nreplied; \"a thousand times have I heard him say that no one but the\nboldest baron in Scotland should wed his niece, Marion.\"\n\n\"And he said truly,\" replied Margaret; \"for, if he have us once within\nhis power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to\nreceive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back,\nand the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, sister,\" subjoined Marion, \"I suppose you have a knight at\nhand who would delight in such handiwork; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of\nWedderburn reputed to be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and\nwithal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Polwarth?\"\n\nAnd as the maiden spoke, she laughed, and tapped her sister\ngood-naturedly upon the cheek. Margaret blushed, and playfully replied,\n\"Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir\nPatrick? What think ye of George Hume?\"\n\n\"No more of this,\" cried Marion; \"let us accept our uncle's invitation,\nand mingle with the gay company he has invited to meet us.\"\n\n\"If you will have it so, let it be so,\" replied Margaret; \"but, trust\nme, I fear that good will not come of it.\"\n\nOn the following day they set out upon their journey towards\nHerdmanstone, accompanied by only two men-servants. The uncle received\nthem with a show of cordial friendship; but the guests whom they\nexpected to meet they saw not; and they had been but a few minutes\nbeneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by\ngratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they\nhad been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the\nunwitting author of her sister's captivity.\n\n\"Fear not,\" said Margaret. \"Our uncle is a stern man, he is a man of\nblood; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to\ndeliver the sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity\nbecomes known.\"\n\n\"But how will it be known?\" asked Marion; \"for who knows that we are\nhere?\"\n\n\"Let us trust in him who is the orphan's father,\" replied her sister,\n\"and leave all to his good providence.\"\n\n\"Amen!\" said the other; but she sobbed bitterly as she spoke.\n\nOn the second day of their imprisonment, their uncle entered the\napartment where they were confined.\n\n\"Weel, maidens,\" said he, sternly, \"how like ye your abode at\nHerdmanstone? I have observed the slightfu een with which baith o' you\nhave looked upon your uncle; and now that ye are in my power, ye shall\nrepent the airs o' disdain that ye hae taken upon ye. It becomes nae the\nblood o' Polwarths to assume a superiority over the house o' Sinclair.\nSo choose ye--there are twa cousins, who are not very auld, but they're\ngrowing; ye shall hae your choice to marry them, or the deepest dungeon\nin Herdmanstone shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed in your own\nhands--decide it as ye will; but remember that it is a Sinclair that\nnever broke his word that wags the finger o' fate over your heads. Eight\ndays--eight days, remember!\" he repeated, and left them.\n\n\"Now you will despise me, Margaret,\" said Marion; \"for my maiden\nambition has led us into this trouble. Yet will I rather be an inmate in\nour uncle's dungeon than be the wife of the boy-husband he would assign\nme. Sister, will you not upbraid me?\"\n\n\"Upbraid you!\" said the calm and gentle Margaret; \"stern as is our\nuncle, deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. The other day you spoke\nto me jeeringly of Sir Patrick Hume--in the same strain I answered you\nrespecting his brother George. Eight days will not pass until Sir\nPatrick misses me from Polwarth; and, powerful as my uncle may be, bold\nand desperate as he is, I know that one stone of Herdmanstone Castle\nwill not be left standing upon another till we are freed.\"\n\n\"You have a brave heart, sister,\" said Marion; \"but it is small comfort\nto me, who must look upon myself as the author of this disaster. And how\nthink ye that Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye will speak of\nhim) are to hear of our confinement? Wot ye not that they know not where\nwe are; or, if they should know, they will not apprehend that evil could\nbefall us in the house of our relative?\"\n\n\"I believe, Marion,\" answered Margaret, \"that within the eight days\nwhich our uncle has named, we shall either be at liberty, or have ceased\nto live. It is our lives that he seeks, not that we should be the wives\nof his sons. Rather than be so wed, I will die--so will you. But, if we\nshould die, our deaths would not be unavenged. He would neither enjoy\nour estates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ye have heard the names of\nPatrick and George Hume of Wedderburn spoken of as sounds of terror upon\nthe Borders--their swords have avenged the injured, and released the\ncaptive. Marion, they will avenge our wrongs! Dear sister, be not\nafraid.\"\n\nIt was about daybreak on the fourth day after their imprisonment, that a\nmusician, who played upon the union or Northumbrian pipe of those days,\napproached beneath the window of their apartment, and softly playing an\nair, accompanied it with his voice, as follows:--\n\n    \"My heart is divided between them,\n      I dinna ken which I wad hae;\n    Right willing my heart I wad gie them--\n      But how can I gie it to twae?\n    There's Meggy, a fairer or better\n      I'm certain there couldna weel be;\n    Dumfounder'd the first time I met her,\n      What was sweet Marion to me!\n\n    \"Yet Marion is gentle and bonny,\n      I liked her ere Meggy I saw,\n    And they say it is sinfu for on\n      Man upon earth to like twa.\n    My heart it is rugg'd and tormented,\n      I'd live wi' or die for them baith;\n    I've done what I've often repented,\n      To baith I have plighted my aith.\n\n    \"And oft when I'm walkin wi' Meggy\n      I'll say, 'Dear Marion,' and start;\n    While fearfu she'll say, 'Weel, I ken ye\n      Hae ithers mair dear to your heart.'\n    Was ever a man sae confounded?\n      I dinna ken what will be dune;\n    Baith sides o' my bosom are wounded,\n      And they'll be the death o' me sune.\"\n\n\"Hark!\" said Marion, as she listened to the strain of the minstrel; \"it\nis the song of the Egyptian thief, Johnny Faa. Mind ye since he sang it\nbeneath our window at Kimmerghame?\"\n\n\"I remember it weel,\" replied Margaret; \"but dinna call him thief,\nsister; for, be Johnny a king or no a king, he is one that King James is\nglad to lift his bonnet to; and I am sure that he means weel to us at\npresent. Wheesht ye, Marion, and I will whisper to him a low chant over\nthe window.\" And, in a low voice, she sung--\n\n    \"O, saw ye my laddie comin, Johnny?\n      O, saw ye my laddie comin?\n    If ye've no seen him, tell him frae me,\n      That I'm a waefu woman.\n    We here are sisters twa, Johnny,\n      Confined within this tower;\n    And ilka time the sun gaes down\n      It points to our death-hour.\"\n\n\"I heard it rumoured, gentle maiden,\" said the gypsy, gazing eagerly\ntowards the window from whence they looked, \"that no good was intended\nye in this place; and though it be not in the power o' Johnny Faa to\nbring to ye the assistance o' his own men, yet it strikes me there is\n_ane_, if no _twa_, maidens, that I could bring to your rescue, and\nthat wad make a clap o' thunder ring through the deepest cell in\nHerdmanstone.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, Johnny,\" replied Margaret; \"ye're kind--ye're very kind; and\nif ye wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to Wedderburn Castle, greatly would\nye aid a distressed damsel.\"\n\n\"I thank ye, my doo, for relying on the word and promise o' John, king\nand lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken me, and less is their\nknowledge o' our race, who think that we would look upon those who are\nwronged without seeing them righted. How I heard o' your imprisonment or\nthe wrong intended ye, never fash your thumb; though a bird waffed it in\nmy lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped it in them as it chirmed past\nme, it is aneugh that I ken o' your wrongs, and that I will assist ye.\n\nTrust me, maidens.\"\n\n\"I will trust ye,\" answered Margaret.\n\n\"Dinna trust him, sister,\" said Marion; \"he may be some spy of our\nuncle's.\"\n\n\"Of being a spy,\" cried the other, \"I dinna believe him capable. Stop,\nJohnny, or king, or whatever ye be,\" she added, \"and I will throw ye a\nword or two, to carry to Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn.\"\n\nShe addressed to him a few words, and threw the paper which contained\nthem into the hands of the gipsy.\n\n\"Bless ye for your confidence, my bonny lassie!\" said Johnny Faa; \"and\nbefore the sun gae down, Sir Patrick Hume shall ken that there is ane\nthat likes him pining in a captive's prison, wi' nane but ane that his\nbrother likes to bear her company.\"\n\nThe gipsy king was mounted on an active pony, and although it was\nwithout a saddle, and reined only by a hempen bridle, he dashed off with\nit, at the pace of a fleet racer, and directed his course toward the\nLammermuirs.\n\nIt was not noon when he arrived at the Castle Wedderburn. The porter at\nthe gate retreated in terror, as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa\nking had become terrible on the Borders, and even the king had been glad\nto grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to the\npresence of the knight--\"What is it, ye vagrant loon,\" asked Sir\nPatrick, \"that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men?\"\n\n\"Honest!\" said the gipsy--\"ha! ha! ha! I daresay your honesty and mine\nare muckle about a par. Between us twa it is, tak who can. Ye hae the\nbit land, Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or a more cunning hand,\nnor yet a sharper sword, than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak\nat evens wi' me, lest ye rue it.\"\n\n\"And wherefore should I speak at evens,\" answered Hume, \"with the like\no' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men?\"\n\n\"The mischief light on ye!\" said the gipsy; \"ye have provoked me sair,\nand I have tholed wi' your slights and taunting; but try me not wi'\nanother word, lest ye rue it, Sir Patrick Hume, and your brother rue it,\nand every Hume o' the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool,\nfor refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa.\"\n\n\"And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave?\" cried the\nknight.\n\n\"Merely,\" retorted the gipsy, \"that there is a bonny lassie, ane wha is\nowre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel, now\nlying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while\nye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue.\"\n\n\"Of whom speak ye?\" vociferated the Laird of Wedderburn.\n\n\"Who,\" rejoined the gipsy, slyly, \"is nearest to your heart?--who\nnearest to your door? Have you seen her within these four days?\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Sir Patrick, \"speak ye of my Margaret?\"\n\n\"Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak?\" said Faa.\n\n\"It is then to her that ye allude?\" cried Sir Patrick.\n\n\"Ay, it is to her,\" was the reply; \"and what knight are ye that would\nremain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden o'\nyour love?\"\n\n\"Pardon me, stranger,\" said Sir Patrick; \"tell me where she is.\"\n\n\"Ye ask me to pardon ye now,\" answered the gipsy, proudly; \"ye knew me\nbefore, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because\nye bear a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds\nof war, that I come to you; but it is because of the maiden who loves\nyou as the Mayfly does the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and her sister\nare the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone.\nHe has looked with an eye of covetousness upon their estates--he longs\nto possess them; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the\nfair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit.\"\n\nThe knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. \"Thank ye, thank ye,\" he\ncried; \"I will reward ye for this act of kindness.\"\n\n\"You reward me!\" shouted the gipsy king, disdainfully. \"Think ye that,\nwhen the King of Little Egypt does an act of humanity or generosity, he\nis to be rewarded for it by a Scottish knight! Away with ye, man! I\nspurn your thanks! I am as far above them as the moon is above the\nglow-worm that glimmers on the ground--ay, as the sun above the fetid\nmatter from which it draws life. Know, then, that Margaret Sinclair and\nher sister will die unless ye have courage to release them, and that\nbefore another Sabbath shine a holiday to you.\"\n\nWedderburn held his hand in thankfulness. \"Forgive me, forgive me,\" he\ncried; \"I have spoken unjustly to one that has a soul within him and who\nhas sympathised for those in whom my happiness is bound up. Again, I\nsay, forgive me.\"\n\n\"Ye are forgiven,\" said the Faa; \"and, if assistance be needed in the\nhour of peril, ye shall find willing hands ready to help ye, though ye\ndeserve it not.\"\n\nSo saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, and withdrew from the presence of\nHume. Sir Patrick bore the tidings instantly to his brother; and, within\ntwo hours, a hundred of their retainers stood armed around Wedderburn\nCastle. \"To Herdmanstone!\" was the cry; \"and the rescue of the lady-love\nof the Lord of Wedderburn!\"\n\n\"Ay, and for Marion, the maid of Kimmerghame!\" cried George, the brother\nof Sir Patrick; \"and the Sinclairs shall wear stout bucklers and belts\nto boot, that this sword pierce not.\"\n\nThe party being marshalled, they took their way across the Lammermuirs\nwith the brothers Sir Patrick and George Hume at their head. It was\nshortly after daybreak when they appeared before Herdmanstone Castle;\nand the Lady Margaret was the first to perceive their approach.\n\n\"Sister!\" she cried; \"see! see! aid is at hand--the banner of the Humes\nis waving over the fields of Herdmanstone.\"\n\n\"Ye dream, sister!\" said Marion, starting from her couch.\n\n\"Nay, I dream not,\" retorted Margaret. \"Arise; through the grey light I\nperceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, and the gay jacket which my\nsister wrought for his brother.\"\n\nMarion sprang forward to the place where her sister stood; they thrust\ntheir hands from the window, to encourage their deliverers to the\nrescue, while Sir Patrick and his brother answered them back, crying,\n\"We come! we come! The haughty and cruel Sinclair shall repent in\nblood.\"\n\nThe trumpets of the Humes sounded; and, as if prepared for the\napproaching conflict, within a few minutes, more than fifty retainers of\nSir William Sinclair were in arms. Ignorant of the number of their\nfoes, they rushed forth to meet them, hand to hand, and sword to sword.\nLong the strife was desperate--it was even doubtful; but, at length,\nsuperiority of numbers, on the part of the Humes, prevailed; the\nretainers of Sir William were routed in all directions, and his castle\nwas assailed, even to its threshold. \"To the rescue of the fair\nmaidens!\" shouted the Humes. Independent of the immediate retainers of\nSir William Sinclair, however, his neighbours came to his aid; and\nalthough they were at first as two to one, the conflict had not lasted\nlong when the Humes became the weaker party. The battle raged\nkeenly--swords were broken in the grasp of their owners--the strong\nwar-horse kicked upon the ground, in the agony of death, indenting the\nearth with its hoofs as it died, leaving the impression of its\nagony--their wounded men grappled with, and reviled each other, as\nthough they had been foreigners or aliens--spears were broken, and\nshields clanked against each other--while the war-shout and the dying\ngroan mingled together. Victory seemed still to be doubtful; for, though\nthe Humes fought bravely, and their leaders led them on as with the\nheroism of despair, yet every minute the numbers of their adversaries\nincreased, while theirs, if the expression might be used, became fewer\nand more few.\n\nYet there were two spectators of the conflict who beheld it with\nfeelings that may not, that cannot be described. Now, the one beheld the\nplume which she had adorned for her betrothed husband severed by the\nsword of an enemy; while the other saw the gay jerkin which she had\nweaved for hers tarnished with blood. They perceived also what we might\nterm the ebbing and flowing of the deadly feud--the retreating and the\ndriving back; and they were spectators also of the wounded, the dying,\nand the dead. They saw the party in whom their hopes were fixed\ngradually overpowered--they beheld them fall back beneath the swords of\ntheir opponents, disputing inch by inch as they retired, and their\nhearts fell within them. When hope, fear, and anxiety were wrought to\ntheir highest point of endurance, and the party in whom their trust lay\nseemed to be vanquished, and were driven back, at that period, Johnny\nFaa, and a number of his followers, rushed to their succour.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" exclaimed the wanderer, \"for the braw lasses o' Polwarth and\nKimmerghame! Fight, ye Humes! fight! There is a prize before ye worthy a\nclour on the crown, or even a stab through the brisket.\"\n\nThe approach of the Faa king turned the tide of victory, and his\nfollowers shouted, \"The bonny lasses o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame shall\nbe free!\"\n\n\"For ever, ay, and a day after it,\" cried Sir William, \"shall the man\ninherit a cow's mailing, and a cow to boot, upon the lands o'\nHerdmanstone, who this day brings me upon his sword the head o' ane o'\nthe birkies o' Wedderburn.\"\n\nSir William, however, became a suppliant for mercy beneath the red sword\nof Patrick Hume; and his life being granted, the Sinclairs gave their\narms into the hands of their opponents. The young brothers each rushed\ninto the house, to the rescue of the captive damsels; and Margaret and\nMarion each fell upon the neck of the man she loved.\n\nOn arriving at Polwarth, they were met by the glad villagers, with whom\nthe fair ladies joined hands, and they danced together in joy around a\nthorn-tree, upon the village green.\n\nIn a few weeks, each of the maidens gave her hand to her\ndeliverer--Margaret to Sir Patrick, and Marion to his brother George. On\ntheir marriage-day, the gay dance at the thorn upon the green was\nresumed, and a festive crowd tripped joyously around it, blessing the\nbride of Polwarth and her fair sister, Marion of Kimmerghame; and the\nmusic to which they that day danced proceeded from the pipes of King\nJohnny Faa, who, with half-a-dozen of his people, sat each with a pair\nof union pipes beneath his arm, and discoursing \"most eloquent music,\"\nwithout \"fee, favour, or reward,\" save that they were partakers of the\ngood things which were that day plentifully circulated upon Polwarth\nGreen.\n\nIn concluding this account of the co-heiresses of Polwarth and\nKimmerghame, it is only necessary to add, that, from her union with Hume\nof Wedderburn, the fair Margaret became the progenitor of the future\nEarls of Marchmont.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FESTIVAL.\n\n\nIn most of the villages on the southern Border, and particularly in part\nof Northumberland, together with Norham and Islandshires, there are what\nare called annual feasts. In the manner in which they are now kept, they\nresemble the _Wakes_ or _Revels_ which are held in various parts of\nEngland. They were originally religious festivals, and are still\ncommemorated upon the anniversary of the saint to which the church or\nreligious house in the village, or with which it was connected, was in\nolden times dedicated. They have long ago lost their religious\ncharacter, and joviality has assumed the place of seriousness.\nNevertheless, although, for more than a century, these feasts have been\nattended with much boisterous merriment, there is still much connected\nwith them that we respect and revere. They came, as it were, whispering\nthe good, the godlike admonition of Scripture--\"Let brotherly love\ncontinue.\" For in those days, brethren and the children of a family meet\ntogether from afar beneath a father's or a brother's roof--the grandsire\nand the grandson sit at the table together--and the words of the\ninspired royal bard, that it is good and pleasant for brethren to dwell\ntogether in unity, are exemplified. They are seasons of mutual\nforgiveness, and of the exchange of family love. They are also seasons\nfor which a many a parent's heart longs eagerly; and although they are\nwhat may be termed changeable feasts, they fall on days which they all\nknow without the aid of an almanack; for there is no calendar so true as\na father's or mother's heart. They are days to which many a mother looks\nforward, as to the time when she will press an absent son or daughter\nto her bosom--when a father shall give them the right hand of welcome,\nand in the fulness of his joy press his teeth upon his lip to conceal\nhis emotion, while a stranger tear steals out, and seeks a home upon his\ncheek. They are, in every house, days in which the \"fatted calf\" is\nkilled; and each village or feast has its own particular dainty,\naccording to the season. At one is the luscious grilse (on that occasion\nbaked instead of boiled); at another, dishes of fruit; and at a third,\nthe roast goose. But each feast has its particular viands, and of them\nthe poorest make an effort to partake. They are not as the Christmas\nfeast was of old, when the rich fed the poor and their dependants at\ntheir table, and regaled each with a \"smack of the good black jack;\" but\nthey are days on which the very poorest strive to make a feast for\nthemselves, and to see _their own_ around their humble board.\n\nWe confess, however, that these feasts do not present sunny pictures\nexclusively; there are many who, as we have hinted, crown them with\nboisterous merriment. It was an ancient custom to elect, on the morning\nafter the feast, a _Mayor_, or _Lord of the Festival_, whose word was\nlaw, and who was the sovereign dispenser of fun and frolic, and against\nwhose command there was no appeal. The farce of \"_The Mayor of Garret_\"\nfurnishes a correct example of this species of rustic revelry. We are\nnot yet very old; but are old enough to remember the time when the\nmayor, or lord of the festivities referred to, was chosen in accordance\nwith the words of Burns--\n\n    \"Wha first beside his chair shall fa',\n    Let him be king among us a'!\"\n\nBut it is long since the treatment of a master of the revels ceased even\nto be decent--we would say merciful. In most places he is no longer\nparaded as an absolute monarch upon the shoulders of his subjects, but\nas the slave of the multitude, of whom they delight to make pastime. The\nmayor of the village feast, \"has fallen from his high estate,\" of\ndictating imperious commands for his short hour of power; and now he is\ngenerally placed in the condition of the frog in the fable, and what may\nbe sport to his tormentors, is well-nigh death to him.\n\nThe festival from which our present story takes its rise was held in\nTweedmouth (the southern suburb of Berwick), nearly seventy years ago;\nand, according to custom, on Margaret's day, or the following Monday.\nFor, although most of them are in some degree held upon the Sunday (a\ncelebration which would \"be more honoured in the breach than in the\nobservance\"), Monday may always be considered as the chief day of the\nfeast. Now at that period there resided at Tweedmouth a Mrs Mordington,\nthe widow of the commander of a coasting sloop, who had left her with\ntwo children, a son and daughter. The son, at the period our tale\nbegins, was about one-and-twenty; his sister, two years younger. The\nson's name was George, and he was then a clerk in the office of a\nmerchant in Gateshead. At the feast of St Margaret's, therefore--which\nis commemorated in Tweedmouth in July, when the sun is in the plenitude\nof its strength, and when the very birds, oppressed with its heat, leave\nthe thin air and the upper branches, and, folding their wings, sit\nsilently in the umbrageous shades, enjoying, well pleased, the coolness\nof their leafy shelter--George Mordington returned to Tweedside, to see\nhis mother and his sister; yea, and there was another whom he longed not\nless eagerly to behold, and that was Marion Weatherly, a fair-headed\nmaiden of nineteen, and the daughter of a master fisherman, who had the\nlease of some two hundred yards upon the Tweed, somewhere between where\nthe Whitadder joins it and the bridge; but whether on the south or north\nside I cannot tell. As there may be thousands of the readers of these\ntales unacquainted with the nature of salmon fisheries, or of what is\nmeant by having been a master fisherman in those days, I shall simply\nstate that Mr Weatherly had taken a lease of a particular spot on one\nside of the Tweed, and which was in length about two hundred yards, and\non that space he had the right of casting out and dragging in his nets.\nHe had this river-farm at a very small sum annually; though, within a\nmile from the spot where he held it, we have known a lesser portion of\nfishing right in the river let for nearly two thousand pounds sterling\nper annum; and that, too, when the wisdom of the present generation\n(perhaps I ought to put the generation in the past tense) almost threw a\n_dyke_ across the mouth of the river, which built up what was called the\n_Meadow Haven_, and which haven was a gut in the rocks, by which the\nfish, coming in shoals from the north, entered the river; and this being\nbuilt up by the _dyke_ or _pier_ aforesaid, after running their noses\nagainst a stone wall, instead of meeting with the _natural_ entrance to\nthe river which _nature_ dictated to them to pursue, they were left,\nlike a pack of fox-hounds that had been thrown off their scent, to seek\nthe artificial entrance where they might find it, or for another river\nif they chose. Thus, the good old Tweed being half blocked up, fishing\nwaters, in the present day, do not abound with the silver-mailed salmon,\nas they did in the days of Mr Weatherly. Besides, the river was then\n_fished_, not _harried_! It is not, therefore, wonderful that the father\nof Marion became a man of property.\n\nNow, George Mordington and Marion Weatherly had known each other from\nchildhood. I do not say that they had loved each other from that period;\nbut they were at the same school together, and even before they left it,\nthey were _equalled_ to each other. This _equalling_, or, as it is\nsometimes called, _evening_ to each other, by schoolmates or\nacquaintances, often goes far towards producing the wedded love of riper\nyears. Many a match would never have been made, but for the schoolboy's\nor the comrade's jeer. Once name young hearts in the same breath, and\nyou draw a magic circle round them; and, however little they may be\nacquainted with each other, whoever of the two may break through that\ncircle, strikes a passing pang into the bosom of the other. Pride feels\nwounded, if nothing else does; but there is a feeling deeper and more\ntender than pride that has been rudely touched. It does not last long;\nbut it is keen while it lasts. I am perfectly aware that there are many\nwho may say, \"Pshaw! it is all nonsense; who cares anything about these\nthings _now_?\" No middle-aged person, I grant you. Individuals of such\nan age like some home truth--something that comes home to their business\nand their bosoms as they are; and when such a thing meets them they say,\n\"Oh, it is very natural.\" Granted that _it_ is natural, why should\npeople of middle age, yea, or of grey hairs, forget that they were once\nyoung; and that what is now \"stale, flat, and unprofitable\" to them, is\nstill the feelings of thousands--is still delightful to thousands--was\nonce _their_ feelings, and delightful to _them_? Though past the sunny\nheyday ourselves, we like not to hear either man or woman cry out, with\nthe Preacher, \"all is vanity!\" For light is beautiful--so is the sun\nthat sheds it forth. The fair earth, with its buds, its flowers, its\nleaves, its fruits, and its trees with their singing birds--they are all\nbeautiful--exquisitely beautiful! No man can look upon the works of his\nMaker, without adoring, worshipping, and loving the Power that formed\nthem. Oh, when we so look abroad upon the glorious creation that is\nabove, beneath, and around us--when we see so much that is measureless,\nmagnificent, and that steals forth in beauty as a bud opens, until its\nloveliness is revealed before the very soul; and, above all, when we\nthink also of the kind hearts that share our sorrows and our joys, that\nwatch over us and that throb for us, that mourn with us and rejoice with\nus, and that are one with us in all things--we are tempted to say that\nall is \"not vanity,\" but that man is the author of his own \"vexation of\nspirit.\" Now George Mordington was one who loved all the works of nature\nfor their loveliness. He saw nothing to which his young heart would\nrespond, \"it is vanity!\" He loved the very worm that crawled--writhing\nand dying as it crawled--over his path, and pushed it gently with his\nfoot upon its parent earth, that it might live. Was there nothing in the\nscenery of his birthplace that he should admire it? There was neither\nthe sublimity of mountains to awe him into remembrance--the majesty of\nwooded hills (which there might be), nor lakes where echoes died in\nmusic; but there was the Tweed, the stream of his nativity, which rushes\ninto the arms of the ocean, like a beautiful bride that has been cast\noff by her parent, and falls upon the neck of her lover without\nadornments; and there was the rich lands of the Merse and Islandshire,\nfor ever spread out before him, with the everlasting ocean, its calms\nand its storms, its placid stillness and its terrible waves--forming\ntogether a scene such as he that has once looked upon can never forget.\nThrough such scenes George Mordington recollected Marion Weatherly.\n\nIt has been mentioned that he was a clerk in Gateshead, and at the\nannual festival held in Tweedmouth, he went to visit his mother, his\nsister, and the fair Marion. I might--for I have often been a witness of\nsuch a scene--describe the joy of the doating mother as she beheld her\nson, in the youthful bloom of manhood, seated at her table. With delight\nsparkling in her eyes, she sat gazing on his face, until the tear of\naffection rose and bedimmed their radiance. On her left hand sat her\nson, and on her right her daughter, and her intended daughter, Marion\nWeatherly. Their dinner passed over in happiness--the mother smiled to\nlook upon her children's joy; and when \"a gentle tap came to the door,\"\nwhich the daughter best understood, and blushing, responded to it,\nGeorge and Marion also arose, and they went into the fields together.\nThey wandered to and fro in a narrow pathway, the length of which was\nrather less than a mile, while on each side of them the ripening grain\nformed _a waving wall_, giving promise of an abundant harvest. They\nwandered backward and forward, hand locked in hand, until the sun was\nlost behind Hallidon, and the stars began to steal out through the grey\ntwilight.\n\nWhen they shook hands at parting--\"Now, George,\" said Marion, \"you have\nyour acquaintances to see, but do not remain late with them; for my sake\nand your mother's, do not.\"\n\n\"Dear Marion,\" said he, \"wherefore remind me of this? I know that I must\nmeet my acquaintances to-night, all of whom are my old friends, many of\nthem my schoolfellows; I have promised to meet them--I have to leave for\nNewcastle to-morrow--and wherefore remind me that I should not remain\nlate with them?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she replied, \"only that you will remember your character, George.\"\n\n\"Do not be interested about my character,\" said he; \"I have hitherto\nsupported it with credit to myself, and, I think, dear Marion, I may do\nalso for the future.\"\n\nHe pressed his lips to hers, and, shaking her hand fervidly, they parted\nfor the night; but before they parted, they had renewed their young\nvows, beneath an ash-tree, where they had sat down together (upon the\nfootpath which is now known by the name of the \"_Willow Back_\"), and\nwhere he had carved their names four years before, and there he deepened\nthe incision which recorded their initials; and, as Virgil somewhere\nhath it (though neither of them knew anything about Virgil), they vowed\nthat, as the \"bark expanded, their love would grow.\" This is a very\ncommon idea amongst love-engravers upon trees; but though a Mantuan\nswain might so write, a British peasant would frequently have cause to\nsay, that, as the tree grew, and the bark expanded, so did his initials\nspread, and become vague, and more vague, until fog grew over them; and\nupon the heart, as on the tree where he had first carved his name, there\nwas no trace left.\n\nBut George Mordington parted with Marion, and went to a street called\nthe Kiln Hill, in which there then was an inn, known by the name of \"THE\nSALMON.\" In it all the associates of his youth were assembled; and when\nhe entered they rose simultaneously, each offering his hand, and\nexclaiming, \"Ah! George! my dear fellow, how are you?\"\n\nThey sat long, and they drank deeply; and, while the song, the story,\nthe jest, or the argument went round, they forgot how time and reason\nwere flying together. It was usual for such companies not to break up\nuntil they had witnessed the election of the mayor. The heads of several\nof the party began to go round as well as the glass; and of this number\nwas George Mordington. He was a youth of the most sober and temperate\nhabits; and before he had drank off his third glass, he might have said,\nin the words of the song, \"This is no me!\" His very countenance was\nchanged; his manner, which was, in general, backward and retiring,\nbecame bold and boisterous. Instead of his wonted silence, he was the\nchief orator of the company. He spoke of things of which he ought not to\nhave spoken, and as glass succeeded glass, so did one act of folly\nsucceed another. Some of the more sober of the company said, they \"were\nsorry for poor Mordington--but his head could stand nothing; and,\" added\nthey, \"it is a pity, for he is an excellent fellow.\" This, however, was\nonly the sentiment of a part of them; and as he began to exhibit\nfantastic tricks, and to declaim with violent gestures upon all\nsubjects, some said that he would make an excellent _mayor_, and\nproposed that a cart should be procured. Against this proposal some of\nhis acquaintances protested; but the idea pleased his own disordered\nfancy, and as the madness of intoxication increased, he insisted that\nthe bacchanalian honour should be conferred upon him.\n\n\"Well done, George!\" cried the more thoughtless of the party; \"he is the\nking of good fellows, every inch of him!\"\n\nSo saying, they rushed into the street, bearing him upon their\nshoulders; and amidst the shouts and laughter of men and boys, he was\nplaced in a cart, his face rubbed over with soot, his hair bedaubed with\nflour, and a broomstick was placed in his hand as his rod of office.\n\n\"Hurrah! George Mordington is mayor!\" was the cry upon the streets; and\nfollowed by a noisy multitude, he was paraded round the village, and, in\nconformity with ancient custom, delivered a speech at every public-house\nand baker's door in the place.\n\nOld and young leave their pillows, to \"see the mayor,\" as they term it,\nand hasten to the door or window, to witness his procession as he is\nhurled along. There were many who, as they perceived him, expressed\nregret to see George Mordington in such a situation, and said it would\nbreak his mother's heart.\n\nBut, as they passed the door of Mr Weatherly, a sudden cry was heard. It\nwas a woman's scream of agony, and as it burst forth, the maddened shout\nof the multitude was hushed. It struck upon the ear of George Mordington\nin the midst of his madness and degradation--it entered his heart. It\nwas the cry of his betrothed Marion. He struck his hand upon his brow,\nand fell back in the cart as if an arrow had entered his breast. Her\nvoice had startled him, as from a trance, into a consciousness of his\nshame and folly.\n\n\"He is dead!\" cried the crowd--for he fell as if dead, and in a state of\nunconsciousness he was conveyed to his mother's house. The poor widow\nwept as she beheld her joy turned into shame; and as he opened his eyes\nand began to gaze vacantly around, his sister said unto him, but rather\nsorrowfully than reproachfully, \"Brother! brother! who could have\nthought that you would have been guilty of this?\"\n\nA groan of anguish was his only reply.\n\n\"Daughter,\" said his mother, \"do not upbraid him; he will feel anguish\nenough for the shame he has brought upon himself and on us, without our\nreproaches.\"\n\nHe started to his feet as he heard her voice, he thrust his fingers in\nhis hair, he gnashed his teeth together, and howling as one in a\nparoxysm of insanity, exclaimed--\n\n\"What have I done? I am lost--disgraced for ever!\"\n\n\"No, my son! no!\" said his mother; \"you have acted foolishly, very\nfoolishly; but in time it will be forgotten.\"\n\n\"Never! never!\" he answered; \"would that the earth would swallow me up!\nI am worse than a madman or a villain--I am ashamed of my existence!\"\n\nThey endeavoured to soothe him; and for a few hours he forgot his shame\nin sleep--though not wholly, for his slumber was troubled, and in the\nmidst of it he groaned, clenched his hands, and grated his teeth\ntogether. The remembrance of his folly was stronger than sleep. He\nawoke, and a sensation of horror awoke with him. The extravagance and\nthe madness of which he had been guilty in the morning were at first\nonly remembered as a disagreeable and confused dream, which he wished to\nchase from his thoughts, and was afraid to remember more vividly. But,\nas he saw the tears on the cheeks of his mother and his sister, as they\nsat weeping by his bedside, all the absurdities in which he had been an\nactor rushed painfully, if not distinctly, across his memory; and he\ncovered his face with his hands, ashamed to look upon the light, or on\nhis kindred's face. He was sick and fevered, and his throat was parched;\nyet the sense of shame lay on his heart so keenly, that he would not ask\nfor a drop of water to cool his tongue. For five days he was confined to\nhis bed; and the physician who had been called in to attend him dreaded\nan attack of brain fever. It was ordered that he should be kept calm;\nbut there was a troubled fire in his breast that burned and denied him\nrest. On the sixth day, he ventured to whisper something in his sister's\near regarding Marion.\n\n\"Poor Marion!\" she replied; \"though she forgives you, her father forbids\nher to speak to you again, and has sent her to the north of Scotland,\nthat she may not have an opportunity of seeing you.\"\n\nHe sat in agony and in silence for a few moments, and rising and taking\nhis hat, walked feebly towards the door. But, ere he had opened it, he\nturned back, and throwing himself upon his seat, cried--\n\n\"I am ashamed for the sunlight to fall upon my face, or for the eyes of\nany one that I know to look upon me.\"\n\nWhen the sun had set, and night began to fall grey upon the river, he\nagain rose, and went towards the house of Marion's father.\n\n\"What want ye?\" said the old man, angrily, as he entered; \"away, ye\ndisgrace o' kith and kin, and dinna let the shamefu shadow o' sic a\nne'er-do-weel darken my door! Away wi' ye! Dinna come here--and let ae\ntelling be as good as a hundred--for daughter o' mine shall never speak\nto ye again!\"\n\n\"You will not,\" said George, \"deal with me so harshly, because I have\nbeen guilty of one act of folly. They have a steady foot who never make\na slip; and, ashamed as I am of my conduct, it certainly has not been so\ndisgraceful as never to be forgiven.\"\n\n\"I have told ye once, and I tell ye again,\" cried the old man, more\nwrathfully, \"that my daughter shanna speak to ye while she breathes. I\nhope she has a spirit above it. It would be a fine story for folk to\ntalk about, that she had married a blackguard that was mayor at\nTweedmouth feast!\"\n\n\"I deserve your censure,\" returned George; \"but surely there is nothing\nso heinous in what I have done as to merit the epithet you apply to me.\nI acknowledge and am ashamed of my folly; what can I do more? And I have\nalso suffered for it.\"\n\n\"Ye acknowledge your folly!\" exclaimed the fisherman; \"pray, sir, how\ncould ye deny it? I saw it--the whole toun saw it--my poor daughter was\na witness o' it; and yet ye have the impudence to stand there before me\nand say ye acknowledge it! And muckle mends it makes to say ye are sorry\nfor it! I suppose, sir, the very murderer is sorry for his crime, when\nhe stands condemned before the judge; but his sorrow, I reckon, is but a\npoor reason why he should be pardoned. Away wi' ye, I say--ye shall find\nno admission here. At ony rate, I have taken good care to have my silly\nbairn out o' your reach, and that she may be out o' the way o' the\ndisgrace and the scandal that ye have brought upon us.\"\n\nSo saying, the speaker rudely closed the door in the face of his\nvisiter.\n\nGeorge Mordington returned to his mother's house, gliding silently, as a\nghost is said to move; for his cheek burned lest any one should look\nupon his face. On the following day, he prepared to set out for\nGateshead; but before he went he placed the following letter, addressed\nto Marion Weatherly, into the hands of his sister, and which she was to\ngive to her on her return:--\n\n     \"MARION,--I cannot now call you _my_ Marion--I have disgraced\n     you, I have dishonoured myself. Your advice, which I deemed\n     unnecessary, was not only forgotten, but you know how it was\n     insulted. I know you must despise me; and I blame you not--you\n     have a right to do so. I have made myself contemptible in your\n     eyes, but not more contemptible than my conduct has rendered me\n     in my own. I blush to think of you, and your excellence renders\n     my folly more despicable. Call it madness--call it what you\n     will--for it was the infatuation, the frenzy, the insanity of\n     an hour. Yet, dear Marion, by all the hours and scenes of\n     happiness that are gone, by all that we have known together,\n     and that we might yet know, cast me not off for ever! Had I\n     been familiar with the nightly debauch, my degradation would\n     have been less, my conduct not so extravagant. Think of me as\n     one degraded by folly, but not abandoned to it. I have sinned,\n     and that deeply; but my repentance is as bitter as my crime was\n     ridiculous. Its remembrance chokes me. _Forgive me, Marion._ I\n     write the words, but I could not utter them, for I find that I\n     could not stand in your presence, and support the weight of the\n     debasement which presses upon me as a galling load. Your father\n     has treated me cruelly--I would say that he has insulted me, if\n     it were possible to insult one who has so insulted himself. The\n     only apology I can, or should, offer for the part I have acted\n     ought to be, and must be, found in my future conduct. It is on\n     this ground only that I ask and hope for your forgiveness.\"\n\nSo ran his letter; and having delivered it to his sister, under the\npromise that it should be given to Marion immediately on her return, he\nleft his mother's house, and took his journey towards Gateshead.\n\nOn arriving at the office of his employers, they looked upon him as\nthough they knew him not, and he perceived that the place at the desk\nwhich he had formerly occupied was filled by another; for there the tale\nof his follies had already reached: so true is it that evil rideth upon\nwings which outstrip the wind. His late master sent one of the junior\nclerks to inform him that he had no farther occasion for his services.\nGeorge stood as if a thunderbolt had smitten him; and he went forth\ndisconsolate, and began to wander towards South Shields, while the\nthought haunted him what he should do, and to whom he should apply for\nassistance. He had ruined his character--he was without friends, almost\nwithout money, and he wandered in wretchedness, the martyr of his own\nfolly. He thought of his mother, of his sister, and of the fair Marion,\nand wept; for he not only had drawn down misery upon his own head, but\nhe had made them miserable also. He took up his lodgings in a mean\npublic-house by the side of the river, and went round the public offices\nin Newcastle and Shields, seeking for employment, but without success.\nIn all of them he was known; in each, the tale of his indiscretion\nseemed to have been heard, for his entrance was greeted with a smile.\n\nIn a short time he began to be in want; and, like the prodigal, he would\nhave \"arisen and gone unto his father\"--but he had no father's roof to\nreceive him--no home, save the lowly habitation of his widowed\nmother--and he found himself left as an outcast on the earth. In his\ndespair he applied to the captain of a vessel which was about to sail\nfor America. During his father's lifetime, he had made some voyages with\nhim, and obtained a knowledge of a seaman's duty. The skipper of the\nAmerican trader, also, to whom he applied, having known him when a clerk\nin the merchant's office at Gateshead, agreed to take him on board, and\ngive him, as he called it, a trial. George Mordington, accordingly,\nsailed for America, and several years passed, and his mother heard\nnothing concerning him. The letter which he had left with his sister for\nMarion had been delivered to her, and as she read it she wept, and her\nheart whispered forgiveness. But days, months, and years dragged their\nslow course along, and no one heard tidings of him. She began to feel\nthat, although she had forgiven him, he had forgotten her. Her father\nsaid she \"was weel quit o' the ne'er-do-weel--that he had always\ndetermined that he should not speak to her again, and he was glad that\nhe had not attempted it.\"\n\nBut his poor mother mourned for him as a stricken dove that is robbed of\nits young; the tears fell upon her pillow at midnight, as she wept for\nher son, her only son, the child of her heart and hopes. Anxious and\nfruitless were her inquiries after him. As the mist of morning\nvanisheth, so had he departed from her sight; and, like it, when the\nsun melteth it away, he was not.\n\nMrs Mordington had a brother who had been many years in India, and\nhaving returned to Britain, he took up his residence in Ayrshire. Being\na widower, and without children, he sent for his sister and her daughter\nto reside with him. They remained as the inmates of his roof for more\nthan ten years, and during that period she heard nothing of her lost\nson. But her brother, who was now an old man, died, leaving to her his\nproperty; and, regarding the place where her husband's bones lay as her\nhome, she returned to Tweedmouth. There, however, she had not been long,\nwhen disease fell, as a withering blight, on the cheeks of her remaining\nchild. Year followed year, and, as the leaves dropped from the trees,\nher daughter seemed ready to drop into the grave. Over her face\nconsumption's fitful rainbow spread its beautiful but deadly streaks;\nand, though the widow now possessed affluence, she knew not happiness.\nHer son was not, and her fair daughter was withering before her, as a\nflower on which the cankerworm had fixed its teeth. Yet, long the maiden\nlingered, until her aged mother almost hoped that they would go down\ninto the grave together.\n\nEighteen years had passed since the festival which had proved fatal to\nthe early promise and the fond prospects of George Mordington.\nMargaret's day had again come round, and the neighbours of the widow,\nwith their children and friends around them, held a holiday. A slow and\nunwieldy vehicle, which was then the only land conveyance between\nBerwick and London, stopped in the village. A sunburned stranger\nalighted from it, and as he left the coach, a young maiden crossed his\npath. She seemed to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, and was\ndressed in a mourning-gown, with a white sarcenet hood over her head,\nbeing in the dress of one who was inviting guests to a funeral.\n\n\"Maiden,\" said the stranger, accosting her, \"can you inform me where Mrs\nMordington resides?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" she replied; \"I am bidding for the funeral.\"\n\n\"For what funeral?\" he exclaimed, eagerly.\n\n\"For her daughter's, sir,\" answered the maiden.\n\n\"My sister--my poor sister!\" cried the stranger, clasping his hands\ntogether.\n\n\"Your sister!\" said she, inquiringly gazing in his face, and throwing\nback her hood as she spoke.\n\n\"Heaven!\" he exclaimed, and starting back; \"your name, maiden--your\nname!\" But he added, \"I need not ask it; it is written on your features.\nYour mother's name is Marion?\"\n\n\"It is,\" replied the astonished and half-terrified girl.\n\n\"Show me to my mother's!\" he cried, smiting his hand suddenly on his\nbosom. \"Would that I had this day to be buried in the grave prepared for\nmy sister!\"\n\nAfraid to cast upon him another glance, she conducted him to the house.\n\n\"It is here, sir,\" said she, pointing to the house.\n\nHis frame, his features were convulsed; they shook with agitation. He\nraised his hand and struck upon the door. It was opened by a woman\ndressed in the garb of mourning, and whose years might be described as\nbeing between youth and middle-age.\n\n\"Do I dream!\" he exclaimed, starting back as he beheld her. \"I am\npunished!--yes, I am now punished beyond the measure of my crime!\nMarion, I am George Mordington!\"\n\nShe clasped her hands together, a wild shriek escaped her lips, and she\nfell back as dead upon the floor. Others who sat with the corpse ran to\nher assistance; but his voice had reached an ear where its tones had\nlived as a memory that might never die.\n\n\"My son! my son!\" cried the aged widow, and pressed forward to throw her\narms around his neck.\n\n\n\"My mother!\" he cried, springing from the ground, where he had sunk by\nthe side of Marion.\n\nThe widow fell upon the breast of her son, and he wept aloud upon her\nneck.\n\nStrangers raised Marion and conveyed her from the house. She had long\nbelieved George Mordington, the object of her early affections, was with\nthe dead; and under this conviction, and in obedience to her father's\ncommand, she had given her hand to another. The maiden whom the\nbetrothed husband of her youth had met on alighting from the coach was\nher daughter, and the features of the girl then were as the mother's had\nbeen when they last parted.\n\nGeorge Mordington accompanied his sister's corpse, as chief mourner, to\nthe grave. The friends of his boyhood had forgotten the tale of his\nfolly; but its consequences gnawed with fiercer agony in his heart than\nwhen he was first ashamed to behold his own face in a glass because of\nit. On the following day, it was stated that Marion was not expected to\nlive, and she requested to speak with him before she died. He approached\nher bedside--she stretched her hand towards him. \"Forgive me, George!\"\nshe cried. \"I knew not that you yet lived. I am the wife of one who has\nlong deserted me; my heart has long been broken, and your appearance has\nsevered the last cord that linked me with existence. But I leave behind\nme a daughter. When I am gone, there will be no parent to provide for\nher--no father whose roof will shelter or hand defend her. As you once\nloved me, protect my poor child!\"\n\n\"I will! I will!\" he exclaimed. \"Farewell, Marion!\" And he rushed from\nthe house.\n\nShe lingered for a few weeks, and he followed her to the grave, as he\nhad done his sister. Yet the remembrance of his early shame still\nhaunted him, and he imagined that every eye in the place of his birth\nlooked on him with derision. He gave his mother's furniture in presents\nto her neighbours; and, with her and the daughter of Marion, proceeded\nto London. The widow lived for a few years, and, at her death, he\nbequeathed upon the daughter of his adoption all that his mother\npossessed.\n\n\"Maiden,\" he said, \"I cannot look upon thy face, but it reminds me of\nthe happiness I have lost, of the misery I have brought on myself and\nupon others. Child of my Marion, farewell! I leave you, if not rich,\nabove want. Be virtuous, as your mother was.\" And again crying,\n\"Farewell!\" he left her; and George Mordington was no more heard of by\nany who had known him. But, after the lapse of many years, there\nappeared in an American newspaper the following paragraph:--\n\n\"Died, at Washington, in the seventieth year of his age, George\nMordington, Esq., a native of Berwick-upon-Tweed, a patriotic senator,\nand an upright judge.\"\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF HOLYROOD.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, when a good story had not ceased to have a beginning\nin this way, there lived a person called William Glenday, who was a sort\nof sub-equerry to Mary Queen of Scots; or rather he assumed that title,\nbecause it sounded better than \"head groom.\" This man was a widower, and\nlived with his daughter Mary, a very interesting young maiden, of about\ntwenty years of age, in one of the houses within the precincts of the\nAbbey set apart for the Queen's household. William was a quaint\nScotsman, shrewd and caustic in his remarks, like many of his nation. He\nwas reputed rich, and somewhat addicted to making more than a proper\ndisplay of his riches; in other words, he was \"purse-proud.\" He was,\nhowever, a most loyal subject of the queen, whom he held to be a paragon\nof beauty. His daughter bore the same name; and it was even whispered\nthat he had sought to trace a likeness between Mary Glenday and Mary\nQueen of Scots. What will the partiality of a father's love not\naccomplish?\n\nOn the other side of the Abbey strand--that is, on the unprivileged\nside--there was a house kept as a tavern or ale-house by a person of the\nname of Peter Connal, very well known in those days as a place of resort\nfor the humble retainers about the palace. Instead of placing a dry\npicture of a type of his trade over his door, in the shape of stoups or\nbickers overflowing with his famous beverage, Peter conceived that he\nwould be nearer his purpose of letting the public know the nature of his\ncalling, by showing them the liquor itself, in a real quaigh, and in the\nact of being swallowed by a real toper; at least Peter gave out as a\nreason for his sitting on a barrel at his door during a great part of\nthe day, drinking his ale, that he was merely showing the public a good\nexample, and exercising the functions of his calling in such a manner as\nto fill his purse and his stomach at the same time--a reason which\npossessed so much of plausibility, that his wife, Janet Wilkinson, was\nnot, by the mere power of logic alone, able to show any fallacy attached\nto it. Peter had a son named John--a very fine young man, who followed\nhis father's trade, but demurred somewhat as to the propriety of\nimitating his father, when he should come to succeed him, in making\nhimself a living signboard; a piece of self-willed precocious conceit on\nthe part of the lad which Peter despised.\n\nNor did Peter Connal stand in any want of individuals to approve of\nthese sentiments. Among others who collected at this door, and took\ntheir station on the seat on which he sat, were William Glenday, and an\nItalian called Giulio Massetto, a servant in the employ of the famous\nDavid Rizzio. These three were often seen sitting together at the door\nof the tavern, drinking Peter's ale, and discussing any point of\ninterest which the strange proceedings of the palace at that time\noffered to their curiosity. Peter did not approve of the intimacy which\nexisted between Rizzio and the queen; Giulio defended his master; and\nWilliam stood up for the unfortunate Mary.\n\n\"I canna see what our royal mistress can mean,\" said Peter, \"by a' this\nwalkin, and ridin, and talkin, and singin, and playin on psalters and\nsackbuts, and pipes and whistles, wi' that Italian. It's nae farther\ngane than yesterday, that my son John--wha despises his ain drink, fule\nthat he is--saw the queen and him sittin in the bonny green bower, at\nthe corner o' the King's Orchard yonder, skirlin ane o' their Italian\nsangs, like twa mavises. Is that like a Queen o' Scotland and the wife\no' Darnley? Na! na!\"\n\n\"Cattivo!\" ejaculated the choleric Italian, \"thy son doth lie in his\nthroat. My noble master is the only accomplished gentleman in this\nbarbarous land; and my royal mistress hath made him her secretary,\nbecause thy kilted barons can only write with their swords.\"\n\n\"And maybe thae kilted barons may write wi' that guidly pen the word\n'_death_' on yer noble master's silken sash,\" answered Peter. \"By my\ntroth, lad, ye had better be at Cremona, playing an Italian strathspey,\nthan here in our abbey, if ony o' our kilted barons be within hearin.\"\n\n\"Wheesht! wheesht! baith o' ye,\" said William Glenday; \"ye are baith\nwrang. It may be ill for Giulio to speak in this fashion; but it may be\nwaur for you, Peter, wha's living comes frae the palace, if ye are heard\nspeakin ill o' Rizzio and the queen.\"\n\n\"I just say what I think,\" said Peter, pertinaciously. \"That Italian\npiper would be better dangling at the black wuddy up the way yonder,\nthan at oor queen's tail.\" And he quietly quaffed off a jug of his ale.\n\nOn hearing these words, Giulio could no longer restrain himself. He\nstarted from his seat, and shaking his fist in the face of Peter, turned\non his heel and disappeared.\n\nThis scene, though made a little ominous by the fierce expression of the\nItalian's face and manner, was not long remembered. Peter continued to\ndrink his ale, and did not hesitate to speak his mind on a subject which\nhad, apparently, become of more than ordinary interest to him. The\nintimacy between him and William Glenday continued; and their children,\nas will appear, had good reasons that it should not be interrupted.\n\nNow John Connal and Mary Glenday were of nearly the same age, and their\nsentiments accorded as closely as their years. From their earliest\nchildhood they had associated together; and the feelings which were\ngenerated in the games and amusements of schoolmates, ripened, as they\ngrew up, into sentiments of the heart. When the same blue-bell, which\ndivided their affections at the \"Wells o' Weary,\" was cast away, it was\nonly to give place to another object of mutual sympathy. The natural\nelements of love, thus reinforced by early congenial habits, mutual\nenjoyments, and the daily intercourse of an inseparable connection,\nproduced, in a short time, a strong attachment in the youthful pair,\nwhich had been pledged and re-pledged as often as their fears suggested\nany impediment to their ultimate union.\n\nThese lovers had now arrived at an age when they might have been united;\nand they looked forward to this happy consummation with confidence and\ndelight. John Connal, however, did not want rivals, who sued in vain for\nthe hand of Mary. Among these was Giulio Massetto, the Italian, who had\nfor some time solicited the favour of the maiden. He trusted much to his\nsuperior appearance and polished manners, and looked with contempt on\nthe poor Scot who dared to dispute with him the hand of his love. Mary\nwas much annoyed by the Italian's importunate method of wooing;\npartaking more, she thought, of the impassioned character of a madman's\nravings, than of the quiet, rational, and sincere mode of a Scottish\ncourtship. She had repeatedly told him that his suit was in vain; but\nevery repulse seemed only to increase his assiduity, and add to the\npathos of his protestations and serenades.\n\nThis man had earned for himself, since he came to Scotland, a reputation\nfor every wickedness. He had been concerned in many disgraceful amours,\nand violent and bloody quarrels with the inhabitants of Edinburgh, which\nbrought upon him a hatred equal to that which his master, by his\nimprudent conduct with the queen, had produced against himself. It was,\nin consequence, suspected that his passion for Mary was a mere\nebullition of that kind of love for which his countrymen were then and\nare to this day remarkable; and that, even if he were so fortunate as to\nsecure the object of his desires on condition of resigning his liberty,\nhe would, when his passion cooled, leave her to follow some other\nequally faithless and disgraceful amour.\n\nHaving been unsuccessful in every effort he had made with Mary, Giulio\nat last resolved to make an application to her father; and he trusted\nthat the show of wealth which, by the misplaced kindness of the royal\nfavourite, he was enabled to make, might have the effect of tempting\nWilliam Glenday to endeavour to influence the affections of his\ndaughter.\n\n\"Thou knowest, William Glenday,\" said the Italian, one morning, \"that I\nlove thy daughter Mary with the force of affection which a true and\nardent lover ought to bear towards the devoted of his heart; and I have\ntaken every method known in our country to induce her to forego the\ngratification of the infliction of her cruelty on her lover; yet she\ncontinues obdurate and determined that I shall die the victim of a\npassion which I cannot control. Yet, if she would but relent, how happy\ncould I make her! My jewels amount in value to a hundred merks; and my\nmaster, on our marriage, will present me with a hundred more. Wilt thou\naid me in my suit, and endeavour to persuade thy daughter that she ought\nto yield to the influence of my love?\"\n\nWilliam Glenday, who was himself a little purse-proud and conceited, was\nby no means taken on the right side by this high-flown speech, which\nwas, like all Giulio's conversation and manners, a gross imitation of\nthe style of his master. William was adverse to his suit on many\ngrounds; but the rhodomontade of this address, and the attempt to bribe\nhim by a display of ill-gotten wealth, roused him beyond his natural\nbearing.\n\n\"Ye seem, sir, to hae yersel stated aneugh,\" answered William. \"Ye admit\nthat my dochter winna hae ye; and wharfore should I endeavour to force\nher luve? Besides, ye're no o' our country, man; and the lasses o'\nScotland dinna like foreigners. Tak an Italian! tak an Italian! Birds\no' a feather gree best thegither; and the kite and the doo winna assort\nava. I carena a bodle for your merks. If they were in their richt place,\nthey should maybe be in our ain Scotch exchequer. Neither care I sae\nmuckle as an auld sang for yer fine speech, which nea doot comes, like\nyer merks, frae yer maister. Ye needna, therefore, pursue ony mair this\nfruitless wark--which, it would seem, ye continue by nicht in the shape\no' something they ca' serenades--or, as we would say, nicht-waits--as\nweel as in the licht o' day, by a constant use o' thae black een o'\nyours, aneugh o' themsels to terrify ony young leddy. In addition to a'\nthis, John Connal has lang been my dochter's lover; and if they wish to\nmak a match o't, it shanna be me that'll prevent it.\"\n\nThis calm and self-sufficient oration produced on the fiery and\nimpatient temper of Giulio that rage which burned on the application of\nevery spark. It must be confessed that even a Scotchman would have\nresented the hints of William, rendered more provoking by the manner in\nwhich they were uttered--a wink or a smile being always at hand to give\npiquancy to an innuendo; while an imperturbable, calm, and\nself-confident assurance gave the whole an aspect of dictation, mixed\nwith contempt. Giulio rose suddenly, and without so much as uttering a\nword, went away.\n\nIn the meantime, the two lovers had got matters in considerable\nadvancement for their marriage, which was fixed to take place in the\nfollowing month. The inhabitants of the Abbey were promised a grand\nentertainment in William Glenday's house; and the day was looked forward\nto by all and sundry as a kind of holiday. There was, indeed, something\nin the match of more than an ordinary character; for, as a pair of twigs\nwhich have fallen connected from a tree into a stream seldom find their\nway together to the ocean, it seldom happens that the loves of childhood\ncan withstand the severing impulses of the conflicting and distracting\ninterests of a selfish and calculating world. It was even whispered that\none of the maids of honour of the queen intended to grace and dignify\nthe union by being present at the ceremony. The preparations went on\nwith spirit. The day approached, and everything seemed to conspire to\nadd to the happiness of a union apparently under the influence of\nsmiling and auspicious powers.\n\nOn the evening of the day preceding that on which their marriage was to\ntake place, one of those events occurred which arrest the attention of\nthousands. Peter Connal, when coming out of the house of William\nGlenday, was stabbed to the heart. A number of persons immediately\ncollected on hearing his cries--the guard of the palace was roused, and\nsearch made in every direction for the perpetrator of so bloody and\nunaccountable an act. Amongst those who rushed out when the cry was\nheard, was Mary Glenday and John Connal. The latter was entirely\noccupied in getting his father's body carried home, in the hope of his\nbeing only wounded, and with a view to get medical aid. Mary and some\nneighbours remained upon the spot, searching about for any trace, by\nfootsteps or otherwise, which might lead to the discovery of the\nmurderer. When engaged in this search, her eye fell upon a small sword\nlying at a little distance from the spot where the crime was committed.\nUpon taking it up, she discovered, to her astonishment, that it was her\nfather's sword, which she had not missed from the house. She instantly\nsecreted it under her clothes, and looked about to see if she could\ndiscover her parent. He had not, however, been seen during the tumult;\nand, though many inquiries were made for him, no person could tell where\nhe was. She now flew to the house, and, upon getting into the inner\nchamber, applied water to the instrument to wash off the blood, threw\nthe washings into a place where they could not be seen, and, by means\nof ashes from the fire, scoured the instrument, so as to bring back its\nbrightness. Having hung it up in the spot which it usually occupied, she\nturned to leave the room, with a view to go again to the street, to\navoid any suspicion which her absence might suggest as to where she had\nbeen. As she turned, she started on observing the eyes of some person\nfixed on her through the window. She trembled from head to foot; and,\nunable to proceed a step, fell back into a chair which stood near her,\nand again shook with an apprehension which she could not account for.\nAll these acts which she had performed during the last ten minutes,\nappeared to her as wanting the reality of life. She had done them\nintuitively; and as no proper, well-defined motive had been present to\nher mind during the time she was occupied, she was now equally at a loss\nto account for an apprehension which it was impossible there could be\nthe least ground for. She questioned herself why did she secrete the\nsword--run home with it--wash it and scour it? Was she afraid of her\nfather being charged as the murderer? Impossible! She was not afraid of\nthat. She could defy the world even to suspect that her father was\nguilty of such a crime; and the idea of it was so absurd that it could\nnot be entertained for a moment. Yet, was she not in fact alarmed? This\nwas not to be denied. She tried to run over the acts which she had, as\nin a dream, performed by the impulse of a power external to herself;\nbut, on looking to the window again, she saw the same eyes staring in at\nher.\n\nAt this moment the door opened, and a person came from John Connal to\ninform her that Peter was dead, and requesting to know if her father had\nyet been seen. She was unable to speak to the messenger, who went away\nwithout an answer. Mary continued to sit waiting with breathless\nimpatience for the return of her parent. She heard the bustle in the\nstreet gradually die away. Occasional inquiries were made by the\npassengers for William Glenday, from whom they wished to get some\nexplanation of the extraordinary case; but the servant answered them,\nand stated that he was not come back, and Mary was indisposed. Eleven\no'clock came, and still no word of her father. She heard some people on\nthe street going home, remarking it as strange that William Glenday\nshould be absent, when the father of his daughter's intended husband had\nbeen stabbed dead at his door.\n\nAbout half-past eleven, William Glenday returned home. He was met by\nseveral people, who told him what had happened. He said he had been\nconveying a hound to a gentleman who lived in Leith, and that he had\nbeen detained beyond his usual time. He seemed to be very much affected\nby the death; and the more so, he said, that he and Peter had that day\nhad some words about his daughter's tocher, which had very nearly broken\noff the match. He inquired particularly if any clue had been found to\nthe murderer; and being informed that no trace had yet been got,\nreturned home.\n\nHe found Mary sitting in the state already noticed, and attributed her\napparent sorrow to the circumstance which had occurred. She looked up,\nand asked him where he had been when such awful doings had been going on\nat his own door. He answered her in the same way he had done the\nneighbours. She then asked him if he had been over at Peter's house. He\nsaid that he had not, but would go immediately. On turning to go out,\nshe observed that his coat was all wet; and, on examining it more\nnarrowly, discovered that it was wet with blood. At the sight of this\nextraordinary coincidence with the circumstances attending the finding\nof the sword, she screamed and fainted. Her father, alarmed for his\ndaughter, hung over her with every demonstration of affection; but,\nattributing her illness and the faint to the shock produced by the death\nof Peter Connal, he trusted to her speedy recovery when the nervous\nexcitement under which she laboured had abated.\n\nOn recovering herself, Mary looked round her, endeavouring to recollect\nsome painful idea which she knew had been the cause of her illness. The\nmoment the thought again struck her, she started up, as if she had found\nthere was a necessity for something being done. Calming her speech and\nmanner, by an effort she made for that purpose, she desired her father\nto take off his coat, which was wet, and put on another, for the purpose\nof going over to Peter Connal's house. William complied, remarking\n(without examining the marks of blood which were behind) that Marion\nGray--a woman of irregular habits, who lived in the precincts of the\nAbbey, and was well known at that time by the name of Mary's Marion, in\nconsequence of having, in her better days, received some attention from\nthe queen--had, as he passed her door, thrown a basin of water upon him,\nand instantly disappeared.\n\nWilliam Glenday having gone over to Peter Connal's house, Mary, who had\nsaid nothing to him of the blood, shut the window-shutters, and washed\nthe coat. The basin in which the bloody water was contained was standing\non the table; and, just as she was about to lift it, she saw that the\nwindow-shutters had been gently opened, and the face of some person was\nthere gazing in upon her. This apparition again disconcerted the poor\ngirl, and threw her into fits of trembling; but she got the water\nemptied out, and hung up the coat to dry upon a screen at the fire.\n\nWhen her father returned, Mary asked him how Peter's wife was sustaining\nher affliction. She did not ask if any clue had been got to the\nmurderer. She trembled as the words were on her lips. The circumstances\nof the evening bore heavy upon her. She knew that William and Peter had\nquarrelled about the tocher, but still she did not suspect her father.\nShe felt it even impious to say to herself that she did not suspect\nhim; for she conceived that the mere connection of the ideas of the\nmurder and of her parent could be nothing but a freak of the devil. Yet\nshe could not ask her father if any clue had been got to the murderer,\nand she could not tell why she felt unable to do that. William talked\nabout certain probabilities as to this one or that one being the guilty\nperson, but came to no very satisfactory conclusion. His first idea, he\nsaid, was, that the Italian had done the deed; but he could see no\nproper motive that could induce him to commit the crime; and, besides,\nGiulio had been seen running out of the palace along with the rest of\nthe people--no sword had been seen upon him, and none had been found by\nthe persons who had gone to search for evidence. After indulging in some\nconversation of the same kind, and lamenting the death, and the\nconsequent interference with the marriage, they retired to rest.\n\nThe search for the murderer of Peter Connal was continued for many days\nwithout effect. The funeral of the unfortunate man was attended by a\ngreat crowd of people, attracted by the respect in which Peter was held,\nand the unusual circumstances of his death. John Connal now took up the\nbusiness, carrying his resolution into effect, not to imitate his father\nin the matter of the sign-post. He accordingly got a very imposing one\nerected, in which he fell into the error which his father had condemned\nin such indignant terms; for it was filled up with mere pictures of\ncasks, bottles, and bickers--things in themselves so sacred in the\nestimation of Peter, that he hated all representation of them as a\nspecies of idolatry. The very barrel on which he had so often sat was\nturned in. The jaunty and gaudy signboard was not received as a\ncompensation for the comfortable personalty of Peter. The inhabitants of\nthe neighbourhood, who had formerly been so delighted with his portly\nfigure, in the very attitude of doing almost continually that which it\nwas their wish to imitate, turned away their eyes from the dry contrast\nafforded by a mere picture, and sighed over all the vanities of this\nfleeting world.\n\nThe intercourse between William Glenday and John Connal was not\ninterrupted by the unaccountable circumstance that had occurred; but it\nwas soon observed that Mary was not what she used to be. Even John\nConnal observed a difference in her manner. She felt a reluctance to fix\nanother day for the marriage; and the importunities of John seemed only\nto increase it.\n\n\"Now, my dear Mary,\" said John, \"when our grief for my father is, by the\ncourse o' nature, somewhat moderated, may we no accomplish that which\nwas interrupted by that melancholy catastrophe? Twenty summers hae gane\nowre our heads, and fifteen o' thae hae been cheered by the beating o'\nour twa hearts, as by the sangs o' birds on a sunny day. The licht o'\nyer lauchin ee has been my only solace amang mony waes; and even on the\noccasion which has filled our houses wi' sackcloth, and our hearts wi'\ngrief, and dashed frae our uplifted hands the cups o' pleasure which hae\nbeen a promise and a covenant between us for a fourth part o' the\nordinary term o' man's pilgrimage on earth, I hae had nae staff o'\nsupport but ye, and nae beam o' hope but what ye hae pleased to\nvouchsafe to me. It canna be, then, that this misfortune, which, God\nknows, was nane o' my doing, should be turned frae the purpose which it\nwas by Heaven intended to serve--nae doot to check our joy, which was\nowre bricht for mortals, into a total extinguisher o' a' our pleasures,\nand a final end to a' our hopes! Na, na, Mary, ye canna think that\nProvidence will deal wi' us in that gate. And oh, tell me, dearest, for\nthe sake o' heaven, why ye hae been sae changed to me o' late, and why\nye winna again prepare to gang wi' me to the altar?\"\n\n\"It's no for me,\" said Mary, \"to interfere wi' the ways o' God--wha,\nhaving allowed us, in his high pleasure, to be joined in our hearts for\nsae lang a time--even our hail lives--thocht proper to part us in the\nend by sic an awfu token as the death o' yer faither, on the very day\nafore our marriage. There was a sign and a meaning in that token which\nmy heart has read in tears, and interpreted in agony; and sae lang as it\npleases Heaven to conceal frae us the hand which struck the fatal blow\nat yer faither's life and our hopes, sae lang, my heart whispers, maun\nour union be delayed!\"\n\n\"That may be for ever, Mary,\" said the young man.\n\n\"No,\" answered she. \"But when that time shall come--and oh, that it may\ncome sune! for it will be as the dew o' heaven to the parched and gaping\nearth--when the bloody hand shall be stretched forth, and the guilty ane\nmade to stand out in the searching sun o' a bright evidence--then shall\nI be able to say whether it may again be that there is any chance for\nour being united in the bonds o' matrimony. Till that time shall come,\nnever mention to me the subject o' this conversation.\"\n\n\"Oh Mary, Mary, take back thae terrible words!\" said he.\n\n\"No; my heart is filled wi' a grief which nane on earth can lessen; and\nit is a sad change that has come owre me, when I can hae a sorrow which\nye canna ken, and though ye kenned it, couldna relieve. Yet sae it is:\nyer puir Mary is nae langer what she was, and may never be what she was\nagain. The flowers o' Arthur's Seat hae lost their colours and their\nscents--the bluebells o' the Hunter's Bog ring nae mair peals--and the\nwater o' St Anthony's spring is drumly and dark, as it is when the\nspirit o' the storms sits on the tap o' the 'Lion's Head.' 'Waly, waly,'\nis now my sang, the joys o' a bricht morning hae fa'en to the bottom,\nlike the lees o' a vessel o' wine; and I maun drink thae lees, bitter\nas they may be; for Heaven has said the word, and Mary Glenday is\nobedient to its behests.\"\n\nThe high-toned determination of the maiden satisfied John that it would\nbe vain to press a suit at present, which was so clearly interdicted by\nsome hidden circumstance. What that could be was a subject of intense\ninterest and curiosity; but, though he thought of it daily and nightly,\nhe could not even approach the mysterious reason which could change a\nhuman being so entirely, as to make a light-laughing maiden, high in the\nhope of being married, a sorrowful and sentimental woman, giving grave\ninjunctions that her intended nuptials should not be broached in her\npresence. At times John thought that her mind was tinged with a\nsuperstitious melancholy, arising from some presentiment that, as their\nmarriage was interrupted in such an awful manner, Heaven had set its\ndecree against it. This opinion deserved weight, from the circumstance\nthat the condition attached by Mary to their union still taking place\nwas the discovery of the author of the murder; but even that condition\nwas itself qualified, as if it depended upon the nature of that\ndiscovery whether she would consent to become a wife. The whole matter\nappeared a mystery, and John could make nothing of it.\n\nThe people in the Abbey discovered that Mary Glenday was entirely\nchanged. Her cheek became blanched, and her blue eyes dim; while her\ngeneral appearance was that of a person labouring under a consumption.\nShe was seldom seen going out, except to church; and even there she\nnever looked up. Many questions were put to her, as to the cause of her\ndejection, but no satisfactory answers could be got from her. Towards\nher father, her kindness continued. It was indeed a kindness altogether\noverdone--the result of a wish to heap attentions on him, as if from a\nmorbid fear that he would not long be preserved to receive or she to\nimpart them. William Glenday was extremely pained by the change which\nhad taken place on his daughter. He could not go out without producing\nterror in her mind. She was even at times seen following him; and, when\nhe would turn round and perceive her, she would, as if caught and\nashamed, slip out of his sight. If any person knocked at the door, she\ntrembled; and if a question was put to her, as to where her father was,\nher answer was so confused, that very often the inquirer was obliged to\ngo away without the information sought. If any one approached the place\nwhere the sword hung, she betrayed uneasiness; and, on one occasion, one\nof the grooms under her father having taken down the sword to look at\nit, she fainted. She never allowed her father to wear the coat he had on\nthat night when the murder was committed; and, when he asked for it, she\nsaid she could not find it, although it was carefully secreted in one of\nher drawers.\n\nThis state of mind in the unhappy girl was not unknown to Giulio\nMassetto. He observed her changed appearance, and was well pleased to\nhear that there was at present no great likelihood of a union between\nher and John Connal. He was observed often to be watching about the door\nof the house; and his bold and blustering manner towards John, and his\nreadiness to speak in his presence about Mary, betrayed a kind of\ntriumph, mixed with a hope that he might yet succeed where his most\nardent wishes still pointed. He had the boldness, indeed, one day to\nmake up to her, as she came from church; but she shrank away from him,\nand left him in conversation with her father, who still kept on friendly\nterms with him.\n\nWilliam Glenday took every method of dispelling his daughter's\nmelancholy. He proposed, one afternoon, a walk to Duddingston, which she\nreluctantly agreed to. They set off accordingly, and visited an\nacquaintance who resided there. After they had been there for some time,\na messenger, on horseback, and holding another horse, saddled and\nbridled, in his hand, inquired at the door if William Glenday was\nwithin. Mary heard the question, and, having seen the messenger and the\nhorses from the window, rushed out, and cried that her father was not\nwithin. Her manner betrayed the utmost agitation. She endeavoured to\nprevent the servant from stating that William Glenday was in the house;\nand it was not until her father, who heard the noise, came out, that the\nmessenger could know what was the truth. The people of the house could\nnot account for her conduct on any other principle than that she was\nderanged. The messenger bore a request that William Glenday should\ninstantly repair to the palace; and having committed Mary to the charge\nof his friends, he departed.\n\nMary returned home in the evening. The weather was calm and delightful,\nand the sun was setting in that fine amber-coloured radiance, which, in\nScotland, is often so remarkable on an autumn evening. Wearied by her\nday's fatigues, she sat down to rest herself. A train of images rose in\nher mind, which took away all perception of time, or of the increasing\nshades of evening that gradually closed over her. In the midst of her\nreverie, she was suddenly startled by a human voice. It was that of\nGiulio Massetto.\n\n\"Anima mia!\" cried the Italian, when he saw her. \"Mary Glenday here, on\nthe brow of the hill, in the gloom of approaching night! Io Godo! Io\nGodo! I am well pleased. And now we shall, if it please thee, have some\nconversation on a subject which, notwithstanding thy coldness, still\nlies next my heart. Thou knowest how I love thee, my sweet Mary; and I\nam well pleased to know that thou hast discarded thy old lover, Connal,\nwho was not, indeed, worthy of the love of such a maiden. Thy father I\nshall yet appease and persuade, if thou wilt but answer to my love.\" And\nhe held out his hands to embrace her.\n\n\"Stand back, sir,\" said the indignant Mary. \"The power does not exist on\nthis earth that can e'er mak Mary Glenday love Giulio Massetto; and\nHeaven winna interfere in sic an affair. I hae tauld ye aften--and this,\nI hope, will be the last time--that it is waur than useless to persevere\nin a suit which I can ne'er gie ony favour or countenance to. Ye may\nperceive, sir, that I am very far frae being in a guid state o' bodily\nhealth; the bloom has gane frae my cheek, and sorrow has flung her\ngloomy mantle owre the heart whar joy loved ance to dwell. Ye may, if it\nbe yer pleasure, continue to persecute ane wha ne'er wranged ye--ye may\nshake doun the few lingering grains that remain in the sand-glass o' my\nlife, and hasten the end o' a miserable existence. Ye may do a' this,\nsir; and when ye hae dune it, what will ye hae accomplished? When ye see\nthe green turf lying on the grave ye hae helped to dig, will that be ony\ncause o' pride, or exultation, or thanksgiving? If it will, or if it\ncan, then I truly say that the heart o' an Italian is no like that o' a\nScotsman. Let me gang, sir, or I will wauken the spirit o' this place\nwi' the cries o' a determined and desperate woman.\"\n\n\"I cry thee mercy, maiden,\" replied Giulio, perfectly unmoved, except by\nhurt pride and bitterness. \"I'osservo something troubles thee, and thou\nmakest that a reason for rejecting my love; but what wouldst thou say if\nGiulio Massetto, whom thou despisest so much, could tell thee of the\ncause of thy illness. It is sometimes more easy to take the grief from\nthe heart of an unwilling maiden, than to wash the gore from a sword, or\nfrom a garment which has been drenched in the heart's blood of a\nfriend.\"\n\nThese words operated like lightning on the unhappy Mary. She intuitively\nfell on her knees, clasped the Italian's legs, clinging to them with the\ngrasp of death--struggled for breath and power to speak, and\nconvulsively screamed, \"Tak--tak back thae words, and tell me that ye\nnever uttered them--say that ye didna see me wash the sword, and scoor\nit, and hang it up i' my faither's room--say that I didna wash the\nbluid frae my faither's coat, and dry it at the fire--say that,\nand--and--Mary Glenday will----\"\n\n\"What?\" said the cold-blooded Italian; \"wilt thou become my wife?\" These\nwords recalled Mary's wandering senses, but only to consign them to the\npower of exhausted nature. She fell senseless at the feet of her\nperfidious persecutor. Approaching footsteps were at this instant heard,\nwhich caused the Italian to retreat; and, when Mary recovered, she found\nherself in the arms of her father, who led her slowly home.\n\nWhen examined by her father, Mary pretended that some unknown person had\nsurprised her on the hill. Her father stated that he thought he\nperceived Giulio Massetto part from her when he came up. To this she\ngave no very distinct answer, pretending that she was not very sure\nwhether it was Giulio or not. This was not at all satisfactory to her\nfather, because he was aware that she had fainted in consequence of the\nviolence of the person who had suddenly left her on his approach; and if\nGiulio had been the individual, she could not have failed to know him.\nHe felt unwilling, however, to press his daughter farther, because she\nseemed quite incapable of supporting any lengthened conversation on this\nsubject, which seemed to be one of great pain to her.\n\nThe weight upon the mind of Mary increased; for she was now overcome by\na feeling of total dependence upon the will of another. The depression\nof spirits produced by this accession to her disquietude acted with\nincreased force on her frame, which daily became more attenuated. It was\nobserved that she now ceased entirely from speaking of Giulio Massetto\nwith disrespect or anger. When his name was mentioned, she was\nspell-bound and silent. One night a noise was heard at the window, as if\nsome person had tapped at it in a peculiar and concerted way. William\nGlenday looked at his daughter, and asked what it was; she replied it\nwas rats, and that she had heard the sound often. In a short interval,\nhowever, she arose from her seat, and signified to her father that she\nhad occasion to leave the house for a few minutes. The latter asked her\nwhither she intended to go, adding, that, in her present weak state, she\nhad better remain in the house. She replied, she was just going to visit\na neighbour; and her father not having suspected any connection between\nthe sound at the window and the departure of his daughter, offered no\nfurther opposition to her expressed wish.\n\nIt was about ten o'clock when Mary went out; eleven struck, and she was\nno yet come home. William Glenday became alarmed, and sent to inquire if\nshe was in the neighbour's house she had mentioned. The servant came\nback, and informed him that she had not called there for many months.\nThis increased her father's alarm, and he ran immediately over to the\nhouse of John Connal, to inquire if she was there. John said that he had\nnot seen her for some days; but his affection for her suggested stronger\ndread than that felt even by her father; and seizing his hat, he rushed\nout of the house to search for the object nearest to his heart. On going\nround the King's Park, he thought he observed two people standing in the\nshadow of a house at the corner of the clump of trees, called at that\ntime the \"King's Orchard.\" On coming nearer, he heard the voice of\nGiulio Massetto, and then that of Mary Glenday. He was struck with\nintense agony. Could it be that he was now, in his turn, the\nunsuccessful rival of the Italian? Everything indicated that fact; and\nhis fancy, fired by jealousy, now saw distinctly the reason why Mary\nwould not consent to name another day for their marriage. Her statements\nabout the murder of his father were used as a device to get quit of her\nobligation and pledge to him, and leave her at liberty to wed his rival.\nHer bad health was produced by the intensity of a new passion, and the\nstruggle between conscience and inclination. Her distress, on being\nsurprised by her father on the night of their visit to Duddingston, was\nall affectation; for, as her father himself had stated, she had been in\nthe company of the Italian, and wished to conceal it.\n\nStung to the heart by this supposed baseness on the part of his lover,\nJohn went forward, determined that either he or Giulio should die on the\nspot. Before he came up, however, the pair separated--the Italian going\none way, and Mary another. John followed Mary, and overtook her.\n\n\"Is that you, Mary Glenday?\" he cried. \"What are ye doing here at this\ntime o' nicht?\"\n\n\"O John, dinna ask me what I'm doing here,\" answered Mary; \"but let me\nget hame, where I hae mair need to be than in this place at sic an\nuntimous hour.\"\n\n\"Why are ye here, then, Mary?\" said John, with asperity.\n\n\"Because I have need to be here,\" answered she. \"And if ye love me,\ndinna, for heaven's sake, ask me ony mair aboot it.\"\n\n\"Had Giulio, the Italian, need to be here too?\" asked John,\nsignificantly.\n\n\"I winna answer that question, John,\" answered Mary, \"nor ony ither ye\nmay put to me. I can only say, that, if ye wish to add to the misery o'\nane wha loves ye wi' a' the force o' a breakin heart--wha is worn down\nto the weakness o' a silly thread, by what she canna reveal to\nmortal--ye hae it in yer power noo to snap it asunder, and send yer ain\nMary to sleep wi' yer murdered faither, in the Canongate kirkyard. Speak\nbut ane or twa mair o' thae sharp words ye hae noo spoken, and ye will\nhae nae mair to do. I hae only to beg, that if ye love me, ye will say\nnaething o' what ye hae seen or heard this nicht. The chough and the\ncraw are gane to their rest--gae awa to yours; and, as they were\nheedless o' what was said and heard by me as I stood yonder under their\nsheltering tree, be ye equally heedless and equally mute. Nae mair. The\nlife o' Mary Glenday depends on yer discretion!\"\n\nAs she said these words, she beckoned to John not to go with her. She\nwent in the direction of home; and he, with a heavy heart, stung with\njealousy--and yet satisfied by her extraordinary conduct that there was\nsomething unexplained, feeling himself bound to conceal his emotions and\nobey her commands--went home also.\n\nIn the morning, William Glenday called at John's house, to inquire if he\nhad seen Mary on the previous night. She had been, he said, late in\nreturning--her spirits were getting worse, her health fast declining,\nand everything indicated some mental disease, or some secret of an\nextraordinary character, preying upon her mind. John denied having seen\nher, and gave a confused assent to what her father stated. This account\ndid not agree with that given by Mary, who had said that she saw John\nConnal on the previous night. William Glenday became, in his turn,\nsuspicious of John, and now began to think that he was acting\ndishonourably by his daughter--a circumstance that would, of itself,\naccount for her state of health and spirits. He, however, said nothing,\nand departed.\n\nTwo nights afterwards, when William Glenday returned home about ten\no'clock at night, he was told that Mary had gone out; and the servant\nsaid she thought there was some strange noise at the window before she\ndeparted. Her father was now satisfied that she had left the house to\nmeet John, and resolved to go himself and ascertain the truth of his\nsuspicions. He went and called at John's house; and having found that he\nhad not yet come in, went away to the darkest parts of the\nneighbourhood, to see if he could discover whither they had gone. He had\nnot proceeded far when he met two men carrying a female. This was his\ndaughter, in a state of insensibility. She was supported by John and\nanother person. They conveyed her to the house; and having applied some\nstimulants, she recovered. William Glenday, with much asperity, blamed\nyoung Connal for not acting honourably towards his daughter, whose\naffections he said he was trampling on. The other defended himself as\nfar as he could, without betraying Mary. He said he had met the stranger\nbearing her in his arms, and that he assisted him merely in carrying her\nhomewards. The stranger, on his part, said he belonged to Leith, and\nthat, as he went along by the entry from the south back of the Canongate\nto the Abbey, he saw the young woman standing with a man--that she was\nsupplicating him not to do something which he threatened to do;\nwhereupon he said, in a threatening and angry tone, that, unless she\nyielded to him within an hour, he would lodge an information the next\nday; and he swore that he would fulfil his threat. On his swearing, the\nyoung girl fell into a swoon; and her companion suddenly disappeared on\nseeing the narrator come up to her assistance. William Glenday could\nmake nothing of this story, and Mary refused to say anything in\nexplanation.\n\nOn the following day, two officers called at William Glenday's house,\nand showed him a warrant for his apprehension upon a charge for the\nmurder of Peter Connal. Mary heard the statement of the men, and went\nagain into a swoon. When she recovered, her father had been taken to\nprison.\n\nA precognition was now led by the crown lawyers. Giulio Massetto was\nexamined, and stated that, on the night of the murder, he saw Mary\nGlenday pick up a sword, which she found lying on the ground near the\nplace where Peter Connal was slain; that he afterwards saw her, through\nthe window, washing the blood from her father's sword and coat.\nGlenday's servant was next examined, who stated that she saw Mary\nwashing the sword and her father's coat, by looking through the key-hole\nof the door. Mary was next called; but she refused to say anything\nagainst her father; and she was not pressed. Several witnesses,\nhowever, were examined, who asserted that a quarrel took place between\nPeter Connal and William Glenday, on the day of the murder, respecting\nthe amount of the tocher which Peter's son was to get from William\nGlenday with his daughter. This evidence the crown-officers conceived to\nbe very strong, and nothing that the prisoner could say tended to affect\nit. The gentleman to whom, on the night that the murder was perpetrated,\nhe said he conveyed the hound, was a Frenchman, then living at Leith,\nwho wished to introduce a breed into France, for which country he had\ndeparted. He therefore could not prove an _alibi_. In addition to all\nthis, the sword itself was produced, and a coat was found in Mary's\ncabinet, which presented all the appearances of having been washed. It\nwas proved, too, that her father was never seen to wear that coat; and\nthe groom referred to in a previous part of this narrative, said that\nMary Glenday had nearly fainted one day when he took down the sword to\nlook at it.\n\nAs the evidence gradually transpired and came to the ears of Mary, the\neffect produced upon her was of a character so intense, that no person\nthought she could support life under its influence. A series of swoons\nfor many days seemed to divide her life with death. Her nerves suffered\nalternations of high excitement and the lowest depression; and, at\ntimes, her screams were heard far from the house, and by passengers\ngoing along the street. In quieter moments, she cried for Giulio\nMassetto, and said she would now consent to his conditions. The people\naround her conceived she was raving, and paid no attention to her wild\nrequest; though they could not restrain their tears, when they thought\nof the extraordinary fate of the unfortunate girl. Her early and\nromantic love for John Connal--the interruption of her marriage by the\ndeath of her intended father-in-law--her sufferings under the terror,\nvery far from being causeless, that her father would expiate on the\nscaffold the crime of murdering her lover's parent;--these things\nbecame topics of ordinary conversation, and brought tears to the eyes of\nmany; but no one on earth knew all the sufferings of Mary Glenday. Her\nrestless nights--her frightful dreams--her cold shivering fears, real\nand imaginary--her dependence on the word of a villain for the life of a\nparent--the conduct she was obliged to pursue towards her lover, for\nwhom her affection had not diminished--and the nervous state of body\ninto which she had fallen, formed a load of misery which would have\nbowed the head of an ordinary mortal to the grave.\n\nNor was the poor maiden now far from that place of rest. No extenuating\nevidence could be procured for her father, and the trial was fixed to\ntake place within a fortnight. Every day of this period brought her more\nnear to the termination of a mortal's career. She gradually sank to the\nlast stage of life. The medical gentleman who attended her saw that she\ncould not survive the period of the trial. John Connal was continually\nby her bedside. He had forgotten and forgiven all; though he had not got\na proper explanation of her mysterious conduct. A faint glimmering of\nlight, however, found its way into his mind; but any hope produced by it\nwas in a moment clouded by the dreadful thought, that she had all along\nsuspected her father to be the murderer of his parent, and had even\ntaken means to conceal it, if she did not, by washing the sword and her\nfather's coat, absolutely approve of it. When these thoughts came across\nyoung Connal's mind, he flew from the object of his love, beating his\nbreast in agony; but pity again recalled him; and between so many\nconflicting passions, he was next to being a madman.\n\nOne night he had been sitting with her to a late hour. She was too far\nreduced to enter into anything like conversation--a few words being all\nthat ever passed; and these were of the most ominous character. After a\nlong pause, and when she seemed to be occupied with thoughts of her\napproaching death, she started up in an instant, and laid hold of John,\nwho was sitting by her bedside. \"Ken ye Mary Gray, John?\" she cried,\nwith a wild scream--\"ken ye that woman that is ca'ed Mary's Marion?\"\n\n\"I do,\" answered John; \"what aboot her, my dear Mary?\"\n\n\"Awa to her!\" she cried--\"awa to her! wi' the flicht o' light. A thocht\nhas come into my head--why has it been sae lang o' comin? Ask her if she\nthrew ony bluid on my faither's coat on that awfu nicht when yer faither\nwas murdered?\"\n\nWith the effort produced by speaking these words, she fell back\nexhausted. John went in search of Mary Gray. She was not in the house;\nbut a young girl told him that she had met her with a man in the\nHunter's Bog. He hurried away to that lonely place. It was now dark, but\nthe night was quiet; and, though he could not see far, he could hear\nwith the greatest distinctness. About the middle of the glen, he heard\ntwo persons engaged in conversation.\n\n\"For the twa gowd pieces ye gied to me,\" said a woman, \"for assistin ye\nin the matter o' fat Peter's death, I dinna thank ye, Giulio, because I\nwrocht for it! Hang ye for an Italian dog! do ye think that Scotch\nlasses are sae blate as to forget their bargains! Na, na--I hae got\nnaething frae ye for this last fortnicht, and I'm this nicht in want--so\ngie me the silver pieces ye are awin me.\"\n\n\"It is neither gold nor silver that insolence will get out of an\nItalian, Mary Gray,\" said Giulio. \"It is another metal that he gives--at\nleast to a male.\"\n\n\"And did puir Peter Connal,\" answered she, \"gie ye ony insolence when ye\nslew him sae unmercifully wi' William Glenday's sword, that ye got me to\nsteal for ye frae his house, as if ye hadna had ane o' yer ain.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the Italian. \"He was insolent to me when he abused my\nmaster, calling him an Italian piper, and saying he should be hanged for\nhis services to our gracious queen.\"\n\n\"And wherefore did ye put the crime on William Glenday,\" asked Mary, \"by\nusing his sword, and getting me to throw bluid on the puir man's coat\nwhen he passed my hoose?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said Giulio, \"he was also insolent to me. He refused me his\ndaughter--taunted me about my money, my speech, and my country. Besides,\nI wished to stop his daughter's marriage with John Connal, which the\nsuspicion attaching to him could not fail to do. I was, besides, freed\nfrom any suspicion of doing the deed myself. Other circumstances arose\nfrom chance, favourable to me; for I did not count upon Mary's secreting\nthe sword, and washing her father's coat, which thou knowest has come\nout in evidence against her.\"\n\n\"And it is a strange thing, Giulio,\" said she, \"seeing that yer life is\nin my hands, that ye should treat me as ye are noo doin, denyin me the\nsilver piece sae justly due to me. Are ye no feared I gang up the street\nyonder, to the council chaumer, and mak a contract atween you and the\nblack knave wha hugs his freends sae closely aboot the craig?\"\n\n\"Thy life would answer for it,\" said Giulio, sternly.\n\n\"And what would Mary's Marion,\" answered she, \"care for a spark, whilk\nonly noo throws oot a glimmer to show her her shame?\"\n\n\"Thou jokest, I presume,\" answered Giulio.\n\n\"I will tell ye that,\" answered Mary, \"when I get my silver piece. Tempt\nnae mair the wrath o' an angry woman, wha has only to say the word that\nwill mak yer feet dance i' the air, to a tune o' your ain whistling. It\nwinna be Davie Rizzio that will save ye if Mary says the word.\"\n\nThe Italian struck the woman violently, who fell, uttering a loud\nscream. As John Connal rushed forward, Giulio fled, pursued by the\nthreats and imprecations of Mary, who, upon returning, was grateful to\nJohn for delivering her from his violence.\n\nNext day Mary Gray was examined by the procurator-fiscal. She gave a\ndetailed account of Giulio's having bribed her to steal William\nGlenday's sword; and afterwards, when he had killed Peter Connal, to\nthrow blood on Glenday's coat as he passed her door. John Connal gave\nnext his account of the conversation he had heard between the Italian\nand Mary Gray. Other witnesses were examined to prove Giulio's quarrel\nwith Peter, and also with William Glenday; and one man stated, that when\nGiulio joined the people who were rushing out of the palace to see the\nfray, he seemed to approach them at an angle, as if he had not come\ndirect from the palace. In addition to all this, Mary Glenday, who was\nexamined in bed, gave a satisfactory account of her actings, as they\nhave been already detailed.\n\nThe aspect of matters was now changed. William Glenday was liberated,\nand the Italian put in his place. He was afterwards tried, condemned,\nand hanged. Mary Glenday recovered, and explained everything to the\nsatisfaction of her lover to whom she was afterwards married.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RESTORED SON.\n\n\nOn the banks of the Esk, in the County of Dumfries, stood, some years\nsince, a handsome, substantial-looking mansion, bearing all the marks of\nplenty and comfort; while the neat and elegant arrangement of the\ngrounds around bore evidence to the refined and chaste taste of its\nproprietor, Gavin Douglas. He was a gentleman by birth, and, \"if merit\ngave titles, he might be a lord,\" for a more kind-hearted, amiable\nChristian never existed. He had succeeded to his father's property\nnearly thirty years before the time of which we write, and had\nconstantly resided upon it ever since, growing daily in the love and\nrespect of all who knew him. His appearance and address were\nparticularly prepossessing: he was tall and upright in his person; his\nmanners were bland and gentleman-like; and his fine expanded forehead\nand mild expressive eye told of a warm and benevolent heart. He was a\nwidower; and his family were at a distance--the sons in the pursuit of\ntheir respective professions, and the daughters all happily and\ncomfortably married, with the exception of the eldest, who resided under\nhis roof with her three fatherless children. His eldest son, Edward, had\nbeen for some years settled in a mercantile house in Calcutta, where he\nhad lately married, and had been admitted as one of the partners of the\nfirm. Gavin Douglas well supplied the place of a father to his little\ngrandchildren; his whole aim seemed to be, to study _their_ happiness,\nand to soothe the sorrow of their bereaved parent.\n\nOne summer evening, the family party at Eskhall were seated in their\ncomfortable drawing-room, engaged in that cheerful, affectionate\nconversation which forms the peculiar charm of a well-educated,\nwell-regulated family circle. The day had been one of the most sultry\nand oppressive of the season; but the clouds, which gathered round the\nsetting sun in dark and gloomy masses, seemed as if waiting in sullen\nsilence for his disappearance, to pour their fury upon the scenes to\nwhich his rays had given beauty. Nor did they threaten in vain; all the\nwrathful energies of nature seemed to have awakened at the very hour\nwhen man and beast were about to seek repose. The rain descended in\ntorrents, and poured forth, more like a continued stream than a\ncollection of single drops. The vivid forked lightning appeared, in its\nragged and eccentric course, to tear asunder the veil of darkness, only\nto render it doubly visible, while, glancing ten thousand reflections\nfrom the falling rain-drops, it flashed across the eyes of the family\nparty, startling and dazzling them with its sudden and excessive\nbrilliancy. The children clung to their grandfather in mute and\nbreathless awe, and the whole party sat in silence, uninterrupted, save\nby involuntary ejaculations, which escaped them at each successive\nflash. Not a breath of wind was stirring, not a sound was to be heard,\nbut the dull, monotonous, incessant pattering of the rain, and the loud,\nclear, crackling burst of the thunder, as it rolled peal after peal over\ntheir heads, and apparently in dangerous proximity. At length, the rain\nbegan to relax in its violence, the flashes of lightning became less and\nless vivid, and the thunder died away in faint and distant murmurings.\n\n\"Grandfather!\" said little Gavin, leaving his stronghold between\nDouglas's knees, \"was not that an awful storm?\"\n\n\"Yes, my boy,\" replied the old man; \"awful, indeed! and thankful ought\nwe to be to the good Providence which has blessed us with a roof to\nshelter us, while many an uncovered head has been exposed to its\nviolence. Such a night as this ought to awaken in us a spirit of\ngratitude for the blessings we ourselves enjoy, and of charity towards\nthe wants of others.\"\n\n\"Did you hear that strange noise during the storm, grandfather!\" said\nlittle Emma; \"it sounded like the bleating of a lamb close by; but I was\nso much frightened by the lightning at the time, that I did not mention\nit to you, and----There it is again!\"\n\nA low, wailing, stifled kind of cry was heard, which almost immediately\nceased, and the whole party started up, with looks of surprise and\nalarm, and gazed at each other, as if mutely inquiring from whence the\nstrange sound could proceed. Again the cry was heard; and Mr Douglas,\nseizing one of the candles, rushed to the front-door, to ascertain the\ncause of their alarm. Great was his surprise to find, under the porch, a\nsmall wicker-basket, covered with a coarse, ragged shawl, on removing\nwhich, he started to behold the little chubby features of an infant,\nwhich stretched out its little arms, and crowed with delight at the\nsight of the candle. Mr Douglas's first impulse was to hurry into the\nparlour, where our little hero was safely deposited on a sofa, and\nexposed to the curious and inquiring gaze of the assembled party.\n\n\"O grandpapa!\" shouted little Gavin, clapping his hands, and dancing\nround the baby, \"I have often heard you say, 'It is an ill wind that\nblows nobody good;' and now see what a nice little brother the\nthunderstorm has blown us.\"\n\n\"Inhuman wretches!\" exclaimed Douglas, \"to expose such a sweet infant in\na night like this! But they cannot be far off.\" And, ringing the bell\nviolently, he went out with some of the servants in pursuit of the\nsupposed fugitives: but vain was their search; every nook and corner of\nthe grounds were examined, but no traces of any such could be\ndiscovered; and Douglas returned, fatigued and disappointed, to the\nparlour. On examining the basket in which the child had been laid, a\ncrumpled and dirty piece of paper was discovered, on which was written,\nin a trembling and almost illegible hand, \"Be kind to the boy--he comes\nof a good family. His name is Philip F. May Heaven prosper you as you\nbehave to him!\" There was likewise a signet ring, with a few Persian\ncharacters engraved upon it. The clothes in which the infant was dressed\nwere formed of the best materials, neatly and plainly made, but bore\nevident tokens of neglect and dirt.\n\n\"Poor boy,\" muttered Gavin; \"since your own unnatural father has\ndeserted you, I will be a father to you. Here, Jane, my love,\"\naddressing his daughter, \"I commit this stray lamb to your charge for\nthe present; see that he is comfortably settled in the little crib in\nyour room.\"\n\nYears passed on; the little foundling had become a tall, handsome\nstripling of thirteen, as much beloved for his kind and amiable\ndisposition, as he was admired for his handsome form and bold and manly\nspirit, when Gavin Douglas received a letter from his son Edward in\nCalcutta, informing him that by the next ship he intended to send his\neldest daughter, who was now seven years old, home to his care. The ship\nby which this letter had been forwarded, having met with a succession of\nlight and baffling winds, had made so long a passage, that the little\nstranger whose approach it announced might be now daily expected. At\nlength the newspapers gave notice of the arrival off the Start of the\nship Cornwallis; and Gavin Douglas prepared to hasten up to town to\nreceive his grand-daughter. Philip, who was at home for his school\nholidays, and who was now as dear to Douglas as if he had been his own\nflesh and blood, entreated and obtained permission to accompany him.\nOwing to a long continuance of easterly winds, the Cornwallis made a\ntedious passage up the Channel, and our travellers were detained for\nsome days at Gravesend, awaiting her arrival. To Philip this delay was\nmost welcome; the bustling scenes around him seemed to arouse the latent\nenergies of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet and peaceful monotony\nof a country life, he felt as if a new sphere of existence was opened to\nhim; and everything he beheld bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty\nand excitement. His great delight was to loiter for hours at the stairs\n(Gravesend did not then boast of the handsome jetty which now adorns\nit), and to gaze at the numerous craft floating on the bosom of the\nmajestic Thames; some lying at anchor, and others taking advantage of\nthe tide to hasten towards their various destinations. Frank and open in\nhis manner, eager and anxious in his thirst for information, the\nwatermen, who were always lounging in numbers about the stairs, felt a\npleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and in initiating him into all the\nmysteries of river seamanship; and he soon learned to distinguish the\ndifferent \"riggs\" of the passing vessels, from the lowly \"peter-boat\" to\nthe majestic ship. One morning there was a dead calm; the river was\ngliding past unruffled by the slightest air; the cheerful \"Yo, heave\noh!\" of the sailors, and the loud clanking of the windlass \"pauls,\" were\nheard distinctly from some of the distant colliers, shortening in cable,\npreparatory to making a start; while the rattling, clattering sounds of\nthe chains were heard from others which were just \"bringing up\"--for it\nwas high-water, and the upward-bound vessels were obliged to come to\nanchor. Philip had been at his usual post for some time, when his\nattention was attracted by the heavy, sluggish cloud of smoke which hung\nin the wake of two steamers, whose low painted chimneys were seen over\nthe land, which they flitted past with great rapidity, while the tall,\nnaked spars of a large ship towered far above them. At length their\nhulls became distinctly visible.\n\n\"Hand here the glass, Jem,\" said a waterman who was anxiously observing\nthem, to his comrade; \"let me have a squint at her. Ah, I'd swear to her\namong a thousand! That's the old Cornwallis! Jump into the boat, Jem,\nand let's push out into the stream.\"\n\nAway flew our friend Philip to the inn, to tell his father, as he called\nhim, the welcome news. The old gentleman hurried down to the stairs, and\nthe Cornwallis had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend Reach, before\nhe and Philip were on her quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Douglas.\nCaptain M'Dougall of the Cornwallis received them with the greatest\npoliteness, and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him of the cause of his\nvisit, he was immediately ushered into one of the round-house cabins,\nwhere a little dark-eyed girl was playing with her ayah.\n\n\"Catherine, my dear,\" said Captain M'Dougall, \"here is your grandpapa\ncome to visit you.\"\n\nLittle Catherine, as we said before, was seven years old, and, like most\nIndian children, quick and clever beyond her years. She was a brunette\nin complexion--so much so, indeed, that she might have been mistaken for\na descendant from parentage of the climate in which she had been reared.\nHer eyes were dark, lively, and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black\nhair fell in clusters upon her shoulders. The moment she heard Captain\nM'Dougall's announcement, she dropped the toy with which she was\nplaying, and ran eagerly up to Douglas:--\n\n\"Are you really grandpapa Gavin?\"\n\n\"Yes, my love,\" said the old gentleman, almost smothering her with\nkisses.\n\n\"Are you quite sure?\" said she: \"then,\" looking smilingly up in his\nface, \"I think I love you very much, grandpapa.\"\n\nPhilip was now introduced, and, in five minutes' time the two young\npeople were sworn friends. Catherine had shown Philip all her rich store\nof toys, and had answered all his eager questions about the voyage, the\nship, the uses of various things in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient,\ngentle reader, at the details of this childish meeting; the happiness or\nmisery of life often depends upon trifles light as air, and our friend\nPhilip's future destiny took its hue from the consequences of that\nintimacy of which we have just been describing the commencement. In the\ncourse of a fortnight, the travellers with their young charge returned\nto Eskhall, where the little stranger met with the most affectionate\nwelcome. The banks of the Esk were beautiful as ever; but, to Philip's\neyes, they had lost great part of their attraction; he had had a glimpse\nof the scenes of active life, and he was eager to engage in them. The\ncountry sports in which he used to take such delight began to lose their\nrelish; and his principal amusement now was to wander in the green\nfields with little Catherine, and to listen to the tales she told of her\nrecollections of the distant lands she had left. His curiosity was\nexcited, and he burned with impatience to visit them, and to judge for\nhimself; and he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predilection for a\nsailor's life, and his eager wish to commence his career as soon as\ncircumstances would allow. Gavin's heart yearned towards the handsome\nand spirited boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose tongue became eloquent,\nas he urged his suit; and he felt that the time was come, which he had\nlong looked forward to with pain, when this young and ardent spirit must\nleave his guardian care, and be intrusted to its own impulses. He talked\nseriously and affectionately to the boy on the subject of his wishes;\ntold him--what had hitherto been kept a secret from him--the history of\nhis first appearance at Eskhall; assured him that he always would be, as\nhe hitherto had been, in the place of a father to him; and concluded\nwith saying--\"Reflect seriously upon what I have pointed out to you, my\ndear boy; I have laid before you, as far as my experience goes, all the\nadvantages and disadvantages of the profession which you wish to adopt;\nweigh the matter carefully in your thoughts; and if, at the end of a\nweek, you continue in the same mind, I will do all in my power to\npromote your wishes.\"\n\nPoor Philip's astonishment and distress was unbounded, when Gavin\ninformed him of the mystery that hung over his birth. He had always\nhitherto been known by the name of Douglas, and had been accustomed to\nconsider himself as Gavin's grandson; and the truth burst upon him with\nthe astounding effect of a thunderbolt. Pale as ashes, with the tears\nstreaming down his cheeks, he exclaimed--\n\n\"Not your grandson, sir? Then who am I? Good heavens! have I been living\nfrom my earliest years a poor dependant upon your bounty? O my generous\nbenefactor! my more than father! how can I ever prove my gratitude to\nyou for your unvaried affection and kindness?\"\n\n\"You have already proved it, Philip, by repaying affection with\naffection; by your steady obedience, and constant attention to my\nslightest wish. I have a father's love for you, Philip; and, poor, and\nunknown, and alien as you are, you have made yourself as dear to me as\nif you were my own flesh and blood. I feared that this disclosure would\nfall like a blight upon your young spirit; but, painful as it is, it was\nnecessary that it should be made. Cheer up, my boy! brighter days will\ncome. I feel a conviction that the secret of your birth will be one day\ndiscovered, and that you will have no reason to blush for your\nparentage.\"\n\n\"Heaven grant it may be so, sir! but I dare not hope. If I had not been\na cause of shame to my parents, would they have deserted me?\"\n\nDouglas shook his head, and said--\n\n\"Time will show. At all events, my dear Philip, look upon me as your\nfather until you find a better.\"\n\n\"That can never be, my dear, dear gr----benefactor.\"\n\nThe week of reflection passed away; but not so Philip's resolution,\nwhich was now confirmed and strengthened by his eager desire to relieve\nMr. Douglas from the burden of his support, and by the hope that he\nmight by some fortunate chance be guided to the discovery of his true\nparents. On his making known his decision, Gavin Douglas immediately\nwrote to a friend in town, through whose interest he obtained for him an\nappointment as midshipman on board an Indiaman which was on the point of\nsailing for Bengal and China, and which it was necessary for him to\n\"join\" immediately. Before he left Eskhall, Gavin delivered into his\nhands the ring and other articles that had been found in the basket in\nwhich he was exposed when an infant, that he might have some clue\nwhereby to endeavour to trace out his parents. Delighted as Philip was\nat the prospect of entering upon his new profession, he felt the\ngreatest sorrow at parting from his kind and liberal benefactor, and\nfrom those whom he had been so long accustomed to look upon as near and\ndear relations; but still more deeply was he affected at leaving his\nbeloved little playmate, Catherine. _Her_ grief on the occasion was\nexcessive. Philip had been her constant companion in all her little\nrambles, and her resource and comfort in all her childish difficulties\nand sorrows. He had scarcely ever left her side; and now she was to part\nwith him--perhaps for ever! Poor Philip himself was obliged to exert all\nthe pride of precocious manhood to resist the contagious example of her\ntears; but he did all in his power to comfort the little mourner, and at\nlast partially succeeded, by reminding her that in a few months the\nvoyage would be over.\n\n\"And _then_, dear Phil, will you come back again?\"\n\n\"That I will.\"\n\n\"Oh, how glad I shall be to see you again!\" And she jumped about,\nclapping her little hands for joy, till the recollection of the long\nseparation that must intervene called forth a fresh torrent of tears.\n\nAt length the parting scene was over; and, freighted with the blessings\nand good wishes of all who knew him, Philip was fairly launched into the\nrough ocean of life, to be exposed to all its storms and quicksands,\nfrom which he had been hitherto safely sheltered in the calm haven of\ndomestic peace. The first voyage passed safely and happily; and some\nyears flew by in the same routine of leave-takings and glad meetings.\nPhilip loved his profession enthusiastically; but, at every successive\nparting, he felt more and more unwilling to tear himself from Eskhall\nand its beloved inmates. Catherine was now a lovely, elegant girl of\neighteen; her childish preference for Philip had been gradually and\nimperceptibly gaining strength, till it had become the ruling passion of\nher heart. _He_ loved _her_ fondly and tenderly; but his fears were\nexcited by her constantly-increasing reserve towards him; there was such\napparent inconsistency between the attentive kindness of her actions,\nand the distance and almost coldness of her manner, that he was puzzled\nas well as surprised. But the eyes of Gavin Douglas's experience were\nopen, and he had for some time read--in the changing complexion of\nCatherine whenever Philip approached her, in the embarrassment of her\nmanner whenever she addressed him, and in the suppressed eagerness of\nher interest in whatever concerned him--that secret which she shrunk\nfrom confessing even to her own heart. Though he dreaded the consequence\nof an attachment which he thought might be productive of only misery and\ndisappointment, yet he had too much confidence in Philip's honour and\ndiscretion to fear any clandestine avowal of love on his part. He wrote\nto his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him of his suspicions and fears\nas to the state of Catherine's affections--telling him all the\nparticulars of Philip's history, and leaving it to his own judgment to\nact as he thought circumstances required.\n\n\"In the meantime,\" wrote he, \"I cannot openly interfere, lest, by\nstriving to remedy, I should only increase the evil; but I will\nendeavour, quietly and unobtrusively, to keep the young people apart\nuntil I hear your decision. My opinion is, that a final separation will\nbe the only means of weaning them from each other. Catherine has a\nfather's home to receive her--when poor _Philip_ leaves _me_, he leaves\nhis only earthly protector; and, even for my grand-daughter's sake, I\ncannot part with one whose amiable and affectionate dispositions have\nrendered him dear to me as a son.\"\n\nThe result of this communication was a letter to Catherine from her\nfather, telling her that he was obliged to visit England for a few\nmonths, on business, and begging her to hold herself in readiness to\naccompany him on his return to Calcutta. Philip had just arrived from\nabroad when he received this news; and, as is often the case, it was not\ntill he feared he was going to part with Catherine for ever, that he\nfelt how deeply and fondly he loved her. He became restless and unhappy;\nand wandered away, day after day, alone, under pretence of seeking\namusement in rural sports, but in reality for the sake of indulging the\nsorrow that was preying upon his mind. He shunned all society, even that\nof her whose image was ever present to him, and absented himself as much\nas he possibly could from the family meetings at meals. His dejection\nbegan to have an evident effect upon his health, and the kind-hearted\nGavin grieved to see his young favourite pining under the influence of\nhis hidden sorrow.\n\n\"Philip, my son,\" said he to him, one day, \"why have you not confided in\nme, your oldest and dearest friend? I have penetrated your secret,\nPhilip, and I honour you for endeavouring to confine it to your own\nbosom; but you must rouse all your energies to shake off the tyranny of\na passion which your high sense of principle must tell you cannot safely\nbe indulged in, and is only likely to be productive of sorrow and\ndisappointment.\" He then proceeded to remind him delicately of the cloud\nthat hung over his birth, of his want of means to maintain the woman of\nhis choice in comfort, and of the absolute necessity for his strenuous\nexertions to rise in his profession, as the only chance of bettering\nhis condition in life; \"for though,\" added the generous man, \"it is my\nintention to make some provision for you in my will, yet there are so\nmany claims of relationship upon me, that your proportion will, I fear,\nbe but small.\"\n\nPhilip's heart swelled, and his eye glistened, as he pressed the old\nman's hand, in mute acknowledgment of his kindness; and some moments\nelapsed ere he could sufficiently command his feelings to give\nexpression to them in words. At length, in broken and hurried accents,\nhe expressed his heartfelt gratitude; he confessed that he had long\nloved Catherine, but said that he had never \"told his love,\" hoping that\nhis prospects might brighten, and that he might then be enabled to prove\nhimself worthy of the happiness he sought. He acknowledged the justice\nand propriety of all Mr Douglas had said, and expressed his conviction\nthat it was his duty, however painful it might be to his feelings, to\ntear himself from the society of one whose presence was so dangerous to\nhis peace, and to endeavour, however vain that endeavour might be, for\n_her_ sake as well as for his own, to conceal, though he could not\nstifle, the passion which reigned in his heart. It was agreed upon\nbetween the two friends that Philip should employ his time while on\nshore in travelling, till his ship was again ready for sea, and that he\nshould then join her, without taking leave a second time of his friends,\nexcept by letter. Poor Philip could hardly command his feelings, when\ntaking what he considered to be his final farewell of Catherine. He knew\nthat, when he next returned home, Eskhall would have lost its principal\ncharm in his eyes--that _she_ would no longer be there, and that, in all\nhuman probability, they might never meet again. Catherine only felt, or\nappeared to feel, the uneasiness attending a temporary parting; but her\nvoice trembled slightly as, with a pale but steady countenance, she bade\nhim adieu; and, leaving the room, with a calm though melancholy manner,\nshe hurried to her chamber, and, securing the door, gave way to the\nsorrow which in his presence she had successfully endeavoured to\nrestrain. Time passed slowly and heavily with Philip during a rambling\ntour which he made through different parts of England and Wales. He\nfought manfully against the sorrow that oppressed him, and endeavoured,\nby rapidity of motion, and constant variation of scene, to turn his\nthoughts into another channel; but in vain--the arrow was fixed too\ndeeply in his heart. He hurried from place to place, and from change to\nchange; but he could not fly from himself. In vain did nature present\nher varied beauties to his eyes; he gazed listlessly and vacantly upon\nall he beheld--he looked as though he saw not, for his heart was\nelsewhere, and he felt that for him the charm of existence was over. In\nthe meantime, Catherine's father had arrived at Eskhall, and had been\ninformed by Gavin Douglas of Philip's noble struggle with his\nunfortunately-placed passion, and of the anguish of mind which his\nresolution had cost him.\n\n\"Generous young man!\" exclaimed Edward Douglas; \"he deserves a happier\nfate. Would that I could favour his suit! But, poor, unknown, and\nperhaps basely born as he is, it is my duty as a father to oppose it.\"\n\nShortly before Philip's ship _came afloat_, Edward Douglas was obliged\nto go to London on business; and there he found out and introduced\nhimself to our young friend. Few young men of his age possessed greater\npowers of pleasing than Philip; there was a frank ingenuousness in his\nmanner and address which, seconded by the remarkable beauty of his\nfeatures, immediately made a favourable impression upon a stranger--an\nimpression which a further intimacy seldom failed to strengthen into\naffection and esteem. Such was the effect of his introduction to Edward\nDouglas. They were mutually pleased with each other, and every hour\nthat Philip could spare from professional duties was devoted to his new\nfriend, rendered doubly dear to him by his near connection with her\nwhose name he dared not mention, though ever in his thoughts.\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" said Douglas to him one day, \"I am aware of the\nsacrifice you have made of feeling to principle, and I honour and esteem\nyou for it. Would to heaven your circumstances and my own were\ndifferent! Situated as you are, without the means of supporting even\n_yourself_, I think I know you too well already to imagine that you\nwould willingly expose her you love to poverty and humiliation. Were my\ncircumstances such as to enable me to enrich my daughter, and to follow\nthe inclinations of my own heart, I know no one for whom I would more\nwillingly use a father's influence than yourself.\"\n\nPhilip's heart was too full for words; yet, though he felt the hardship,\nhe acknowledged the justice, of Edward Douglas's objections, and felt\ngreatly affected by his kind expressions of friendly feeling towards\nhim. They parted with mutual regret; Edward to return to Eskhall, and\nPhilip to join his ship at Gravesend.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Gavin Douglas, one morning, about a fortnight after the above\nparting, as the family were seated round the breakfast-table, \"there is\nthe post-bag. Bring it here, James\" (to the servant). \"It looks too thin\nto contain anything, I am afraid. Yes; here is a letter from dear Phil.\"\n\n\"When is he to return, grandfather?\" asked Emma, now a full-grown woman.\n\nCatherine was seized with a sudden curiosity to look at a pamphlet which\nlay upon the table, and which she held very close to her eyes.\n\n\"Return, my love!\" said Gavin; \"when his voyage is over, I hope. This\nletter was sent on shore by the pilot, and is dated 'Off Scilly.' But,\nmercy upon us! what is the matter with Catherine?\"\n\nThe pamphlet had fallen from her hand; the cheek which had flushed to\ncrimson at the mention of Philip's name was now of death-like paleness;\nand she was leaning back in her chair, with her eyes closed, and panting\nfor breath.\n\n\"Thoughtless blockhead that I was!\" muttered Gavin Douglas. And he then\nset himself to repair the mischief he had done, by bustling about to\nprocure the necessary remedies, which at last succeeded in restoring\nCatherine to consciousness.\n\n\"It was a sudden spasm,\" said she; \"I shall soon recover from it.\"\n\n\"Poor girl!\" thought Gavin, \"I fear not; the evil is more deeply rooted\nthan I imagined.\"\n\nFrom this period, Catherine became quite an altered character. A settled\nmelancholy seemed to weigh upon her heart. She was mild, gentle, and\naffectionate as ever; but the buoyancy of her spirit was gone, and the\nsmile, which now but seldom brightened her countenance, was evidently\nbut grief in disguise. Her friends, with delicate consideration, avoided\nall allusion to the cause of her sorrow, which was but too well known to\nthem all; and her fond and grieving father hoped that time and absence,\nand the novel scenes she was about to enter into, might work,\nimperceptibly to herself, a gradual cure.\n\nNearly nine months had elapsed since Philip's departure; Catherine, half\nbroken-hearted, had accompanied her father on shipboard, and was far on\nher way to the East; and the Recovery, Philip's ship, was on her\nhomeward voyage. One fine night in March, the Recovery was running along\nthe Lagullas Bank, taking advantage of the current which sweeps round\nthe Cape of Good Hope to the eastward. The wind was light but steady\nfrom the S.E., and the night cloudy, when the look-out man on the\nforecastle called out, \"A light on the larboard bow, sir!\" A small\nglimmering light was seen on the horizon to windward, which gradually\nenlarged to a broad flame, wavering and flickering in the breeze; and\nalmost immediately the dull sound of a gun came faintly moaning over the\nwaters, and a long train of arrowy light went rushing up into the sky,\nwhere it hung for a moment, and then burst into separate flashes, which\ngradually died away as they descended. The officer of the deck ran in to\nthe captain immediately. \"I am afraid, sir, there is a ship on fire to\nwindward. There is a strong light on our weather-beam, and I heard the\nreport of a gun, and saw the flash of a rocket.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Tell the gunner to clear away one of the guns. Call the hands\nout. I will be out in a minute.\"\n\nThe light, in the meantime, was gradually increasing in size, and it was\nevident, from the wavering outline which it presented, that the first\nconjecture respecting its origin was a correct one; and gun after gun\nconfirmed it. The captain speedily made his appearance on deck, and,\nafter a moment's glance to windward, called to the chief mate, \"Run the\nstunsails in, Mr Waring. Brace sharp up, and bring the ship to the wind.\nAre you all ready with that gun, Mr Wad?\"\n\n\"All ready, sir!\"\n\n\"Then, fire! Bear a hand, clear away another gun.\"\n\nThe Recovery was now hauled close to the wind, and was slipping rapidly\nthrough the water in the direction of the light; all hands were on deck,\nand, after the bustle of taking in and stowing the studdingsails had\nsubsided, the eyes of all were directed with the greatest anxiety\ntowards the horizon on the weather-bow, where the flame was now\ndistinctly seen, sometimes barely visible above the water, and then\nbursting upward in broad and vivid jets, waving fitfully in the breeze.\nAll at once it disappeared, and half suppressed murmurs and ejaculations\nburst from the excited crew of the Recovery.\n\n\"I fear we are too late, sir!\" said Waring, the mate; \"the light has\ndisappeared.\"\n\n\"Very strange!\" replied the captain, straining his eyes through the\nnight-glass. \"I hope not! Oh no! I see how it is. Don't you observe that\nthe red fiery haze still hangs round the spot?--and, hark! there is\nanother gun! She is on fire abaft, and is running down before the wind.\nShe has heard our signals. Fire another gun!\"\n\nThe vessel to windward still continued firing minute-guns, by the louder\nreport of which it was evident she was rapidly approaching; and in a\nshort time the dark mass of her canvas was distinctly visible, standing\nout in bold relief from its fiery background.\n\n\"Have the quarter cutters clear for lowering, Mr Waring,\" said the\ncaptain. \"Away aloft there, topmen; send down whips for the yard\ntackles, and have the large cutter all clear for tossing out.\"\n\nThese orders were instantly and actively obeyed; the crew seemed to vie\nwith each other in their exertions, and strained every nerve in their\neager emulation. They could now clearly discern the dark hull of the\nship, the sails forward hiding the body of the flame, broad masses of\nwhich were seen, with every roll she took, flaring out from each side,\nalternately, of the dark screen of canvas.\n\n\"Man the gear of the courses!--up courses!--in royals and\ntopgallantsails!--back the mainyard!\" were the orders which now rapidly\nsucceeded each other; and, in a few moments, the Recovery lay as\nmotionless as a log on the water.\n\n\"Call the hands--out boats!\"\n\nThe large cutter was quickly hoisted out, the quarter-boats were lowered\nand manned, and kept alongside, in readiness to push off at a moment's\nwarning. The burning ship was rapidly approaching, and was now within\ntwo miles of the Recovery.\n\n\"Fire a gun to windward, and burn a blue light,\" exclaimed the captain;\n\"she is quite near enough.\"\n\nThe stranger now came slowly and gradually up to the wind, and hove to,\nwith her maintopsail to the mast, about a mile ahead, and to windward of\nthe Recovery. An involuntary shout of horror and admiration burst from\nthe crew of that ship, when the change in the position of the stranger\nrevealed to them the terrific extent of her danger--of horror for the\nimminent peril of her crew, and of irrepressible admiration of the\nsplendid scene so suddenly unveiled to them. Broad masses of flame were\nbursting apparently from her gun-room, and waving over her quarter;\nwhile thick clouds of smoke, glittering with sparks, shot upwards, and\nwere borne far off to leeward by the breeze. Every rope in the ship was\nas distinctly traceable by the glare of the flame, as if it had been\nbroad daylight. Her mainsail was hauled close up; and her crew, seeming\nto have been aware that their only chance of rescue was in flight, had\nbeen actively employed in keeping her headsails wet with streams of\nwater from the fire-engine, for it was very evident that no earthly\npower could check the progress of the flames abaft.\n\nThe dark forms of the crew were seen hurrying about her decks,\napparently employed in clearing away the boats, one of which soon pushed\noff from her, loaded till her gunwales were within a few inches of the\nwater, and pulled slowly towards them.\n\n\"Shove off in the boats,\" shouted the captain of the Recovery, \"and give\nway, my hearties, with a will.\"\n\nThere was not a moment to lose; a spark caught the maintopsail; the\ncanvas, as dry as tinder with the excessive heat, was in a blaze in a\nmoment; and, with lightning-like rapidity, sail after sail on the\nmainmast caught fire, and blazing for a moment with a broad and\nbrilliant glare, shrivelled up, and flew in burning tatters to leeward.\nIt was an awful sight, that pyramid of flame, rising as it were from\nthe bosom of the deep. Not a sound was to be heard, but that of the\nrapidly-moving oars, and the rushing, moaning, and crackling sound of\nthe flame. The men tugged at their oars in the silence of desperate\nenergy; life and death depended upon their exertions, and their voices\nseemed to be hushed by the extremity of the danger. In the meantime,\nsail was made upon the Recovery, and the breeze having partially died\naway, she crawled slowly up on the weather-quarter of the stranger, and\nagain hove to. Boat after boat soon joined her, and, having deposited\ntheir freight, hastened back to the scene of danger for more. The\ngreater part of the crew of the burning ship were soon safely bestowed\non board of the Recovery, when Philip, who had already made two trips to\nthe stranger with the boat under his command, pulled towards her again,\nto bring off the remainder of her men. He was fast approaching her when\nhe was hailed by the officer of one of the other boats, who told him\nthat he had taken off the last of the crew. He was just on the point of\nreturning to his ship, when he heard sounds of remonstrance and entreaty\nfrom another boat which was slowly approaching; the crew seemed\nundecided whether to proceed or return; and, at the same time, he\nobserved by the light of the fire the officer of the boat struggling\nwith a man in the stern-sheets, who was apparently endeavouring to jump\noverboard.\n\n\"It would be madness--downright madness to return,\" exclaimed the\nofficer; \"I will not risk the lives of my men--she will blow up\nimmediately.\"\n\n\"Let me go!\" shouted the stranger; \"if I cannot save her, let me die\nwith her.\" At this moment the stranger's eye caught sight of Philip, who\nwas standing up in the boat, and, with a loud and startling cry, he\nshouted, \"Philip, Philip, save her! Save Catherine!\" It was Edward\nDouglas! At the same time a shrill scream came over the water, and a\nfemale form was seen at the gangway, waving her hands over her head, and\nwringing them in all the anguish of despair. For a moment Philip was\nparalysed; it was but for a moment.\n\n\"We will save her or perish!\" shouted he; \"what say you, my lads?\" The\nmen answered him with a cheer, as the boat sprung through the water\nunder the impulse of their bending oars; and a few vigorous strokes\nbrought them alongside the blazing ship. It was but the work of a moment\nfor Philip and one of the boat's crew to spring up the ship's side, and\nto lower the fainting Catherine into the arms of the men below. With\ncareful haste she was laid down in the stern-sheets, and the water\nfoamed beneath the bows of the boat as her gallant crew bent desperately\nto their oars. A handful of water sprinkled on Catherine's face revived\nher for a moment; she opened her eyes upon her deliverer, and, murmuring\n\"Philip!\" closed them again, with a shudder, and relapsed into\nunconsciousness. The moment the boat reached the Recovery, the ship's\nmainyard was filled, the lower tacks were hauled on board, the small\nsails set, and she stood to windward, to widen her distance. The\nprecaution, however, was scarcely necessary, as the blazing wreck was\ndrifting fast to leeward. Almost immediately after the boat had left\nher, she had paid off before the wind, the sails on the foremast caught\nfire, and in a very short time the blazing wreck of spars fell forward\nover the bows. All eyes were now eagerly directed towards her, to watch\nthe finale of the catastrophe. They were not kept long in suspense: a\ndense cloud of smoke burst from her fore-hatchway, followed by a rush of\nbright flame, and a loud and deafening explosion, and then all was\ndarkness--the hull had disappeared, and not a vestige of the unfortunate\nvessel remained, except the fragments of the wreck, which fell far and\nwide, pattering and hissing in the water.\n\nIt was with a feeling of breathless awe and silent thanksgiving that the\nrescued crew gazed upon the scene; and many a cheek among them was\nblanched with shuddering horror at the thought of the miserable fate\nthey had so providentially and narrowly escaped. The most daring and\nreckless among them were sobered for a time, and many a half-suppressed\nexpression of thankfulness to an overruling Providence burst from lips\nto which oaths and curses had been but too familiar. As soon as all was\nover, sail was made upon the Recovery, the watch was called out, and\narrangements were made for the accommodation of the unexpected addition\nto her crew. The name of the unfortunate ship was the Victory--a fine\nvessel of six hundred tons. The fire had been occasioned by the\nnegligence of the steward, who, while unpacking a case of wine, had left\na light burning in the after orlop, which had set fire to the loose\nstraw, from which the flame was soon communicated to the spirit-room.\n\n\"All that men _could_ do, we did,\" said the captain, when telling the\nstory; \"but, from the first, I had no hope of saving the ship, and\nslight was our chance of escape in the boats. When the sound of your gun\nreached us, it was as a messenger of hope--a promise of rescue; and\nthree cheers burst from our crew, as we put our helm up, and stood away\nto join you. My men behaved nobly; with death staring them in the face,\nthey never for a moment failed in their duty, or flinched from the\ndanger, and exerted themselves to the utmost to keep the fire under, and\nto prevent its communicating to the sails. Thanks to a merciful\nProvidence, and to you, its gallant agents, we have been rescued from a\ndreadful doom!\"\n\nIn the meantime, our friend Philip had hastened to the cabin which had\nbeen appropriated to Edward Douglas, and, knocking at the door, was\nimmediately admitted.\n\n\"Philip!\" exclaimed Edward, grasping his hand, while the tears stood in\nhis eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion; \"my dear, my gallant\ndeliverer!--what an awful fate have you saved us from! If I had lost my\nchild, how valueless would have been my own preservation! To you, under\nHeaven, I owe both: how can I express my gratitude?\"\n\n\"Oh, speak not thus to me, dear sir; I but did my duty, and am I not\nalready more than repaid? But how is Miss Douglas?\"\n\n\"Miss Douglas!\" said Edward; \"cold and formal indeed! Why not\nCatherine?--your Catherine? Have you not earned a right to call her\nyours?\"\n\nPhilip trembled, and turned pale; and then, when the warm blood, rushing\nto his cheeks again, flushed them with emotion, he exclaimed--\n\n\"Oh, Mr Douglas! My whole efforts, since we parted, have been to smother\nfeelings and wishes which your words have again called into life.\"\n\n\"And long may they live, my dear Philip!--my dear son I hope soon to\ncall you. I will no longer strive against fate. You have saved\nCatherine's life; and, if you still retain her love, you have a grateful\nfather's full and free permission to avail yourself of it. For the rest,\nwe will trust to Providence, and to the exertions of your own active and\nenergetic spirit.\"\n\n\"Mr Douglas,\" said Philip, \"your kindness overpowers me. I would risk a\nthousand lives, if I had them, for such a recompense; but I must not\ntake advantage of your excited feelings to obtain a boon, however dear\nto me, which your prudence would deny. The same obstacles remain which\nat first existed. I am still poor and friendless; the obscurity of my\nbirth has not been cleared up; and, circumstanced as I am at present,\nought I to avail myself of an accidental advantage, and of your too\ngenerous appreciation of it, to fetter the free choice of your daughter,\nwho probably may now see those obstacles with far different eyes than in\nher early days?\"\n\n\"Better times may come, Philip; and, in the meanwhile, my daughter's\ndowery will be sufficient to afford you both all the comforts, though\nnot the luxuries of life; your own energy and industry must do the rest.\nBut you must consult Catherine on the subject--gain her consent; mine\nyou have, without further condition, already.\"\n\nAfter a consultation with his officers, the captain of the Recovery\ndeemed it expedient to put into the Cape; and the ship's course was\naccordingly altered. The wind continuing fair and steady, on the evening\nof the fourth day from the disaster, she was close in with the coast;\nand the breeze dying away, and a thick fog coming on, she was hove to\nfor the night. The next morning the fog still continued; nothing was to\nbe seen of the land, though every eye was strained to penetrate the\ngloom, till at last the glad cry was heard from the mast-head, \"High\nland ahead, sir! Close aboard of us!\" All eyes were now turned upwards;\nand there, frowning above the bank of fog, appeared the dark outline of\nthe Table-land. The fog soon cleared off; and, in an hour or two, the\nship rounded Green Point, and came to an anchor in Table Bay. After\nEdward Douglas and the rest of the passengers were landed at Cape Town,\nPhilip, being second officer and _idler_, obtained leave of absence for\na couple of days, and went on shore to join his friends. The\nboarding-houses were all crowded; for there were several ships in the\nroads, one of which, full of passengers from Bengal, had arrived the day\nafter the Recovery; but Edward Douglas had contrived to secure\naccommodation for Philip in the same house with himself. Several\npassengers by the newly-arrived ship had taken up their quarters there;\nand among them a fine-looking, elderly man, a General Fortescue, of the\nBengal army. This gentleman happened, on his first arrival, to be shown\ninto the room where Philip and Edward Douglas were conversing together.\nThey both rose at his entrance, and he returned the salutation of the\nlatter with the free and unembarrassed air of a man of the world; but,\nwhen he turned to Philip, he started, and gazed at him for some moments\nwith a look so fixed and earnest as to call the colour into his cheek.\n\n\"Excuse me, sir,\" said he, at length--\"excuse my involuntary rudeness.\nYour features awakened recollections of other times, and of long-lost\nand dearly-loved friends; and, for the moment, my thoughts wandered into\nforgetfulness of the courtesy due to a stranger.\"\n\n\"I hope at least, sir, that the recollections I recalled were not\nunpleasing ones?\"\n\n\"When you have lived to my age, young sir, bitter experience will have\ntaught you that the 'thread of life is woven of mingled yarn;' and that\nshades of sorrow and disappointment may darken the brightest pictures in\nmemory's retrospect. Few, very few, can look back to the past years of\nlife with unmingled pleasure, or forward to the future with unmixed\nhope.\"\n\nBoth Edward Douglas and Philip became greatly interested in this new\nacquaintance, especially the latter, who in turn seemed to be the object\nof the general's almost exclusive attention. He seemed to watch Philip's\nevery movement with eager interest, often cast upon him earnest and\ninquiring looks, and would then, with a heavy sigh, withdraw his gaze,\nas if his features had recalled some faint and shadowy image of the\npast, which his memory was in vain endeavouring to realise. A party was\nformed to visit the far-famed farm of Constantia, on which the\nwell-known choice wine of that name is manufactured; and the three\nfriends set off together on horseback after breakfast next morning.\nGeneral Fortescue, notwithstanding the habitual shade of melancholy\nwhich clouded his countenance, proved himself to be an animated and most\nagreeable companion. His mind was stored with varied knowledge, and his\nconversation was enlivened with anecdotes of events and characters\nwhich had come under the personal observation of a keen and penetrating\nmind.\n\n\"I know not how it is, Mr Douglas,\" said he, \"but I have not felt for\nyears such a springiness of spirit as I experience to-day. I suppose it\nis because this beautiful country recalls to my recollection our own\ndear England. Suppose we dismount, and ramble for awhile among the\ntrees; with our feet upon the soft grass, and under the cooling shade,\nour recollections of our distant home will return with greater warmth\nand freshness.\"\n\nThis proposal was gladly acceded to by his companions; and, having given\ntheir horses to the care of their attendant, they wandered about for\nsome time, and at last finding a grassy spot sheltered from the rays of\nthe sun, they seated themselves, and entered into an animated and\ncheerful conversation.\n\n\"Pray, Mr Douglas,\" said General Fortescue, addressing himself to\nPhilip, \"is your father a Scotchman? I should think so from the name.\"\n\nPhilip coloured painfully; and the general, perceiving his confusion,\nadded, \"Excuse the liberty I have taken in asking the question--it did\nnot arise from idle curiosity. The dearest friend of my early days was a\nDouglas, and the name is connected in my remembrance with scenes in\nwhich I spent many of my happiest days, when hope gilded my visions of\nthe future, alas! only to deceive me. Yes, if Gavin Douglas still\nsurvives, I must find him out.\"\n\n\"Gavin Douglas!\" said Edward, in surprise; \"was he a Douglas of\nEskhall?\"\n\n\"The same,\" replied he.\n\n\"My father!\" said Edward.\n\n\"Is it possible! And art thou really the son of my dearest and earliest\nfriend? Wonderful are the mysterious sympathies of nature! How strangely\nwas I attracted towards you both, but more especially towards your\nfriend, whom I presume to be your younger brother?\"\n\n\"No, he is not even a connection, though I hope he soon will be one.\"\n\n\"Then whose son is he?\"\n\nPhilip, with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing with vainly-resisted\nemotion, answered, in rapid and passionate accents--\n\n\"The son of one who was ashamed to own him; who deserted him in his\ninfancy, and cast him shelterless upon the casual bounty of strangers;\nthe nameless son of a nameless father; perhaps\"--and his eye fell, and\nhis voice trembled--\"the offspring of shame, as of misfortune.\"\n\n\"Never, Philip!\" said Edward; \"the pure stream rises from the pure\nspring. Whoever your father may be, were he the highest in the land, did\nhe know his son, he would be proud, not ashamed, to own him as such.\nBut, as we have excited the general's curiosity, have you any objection\nto my gratifying it, by reciting the history of your life?\"\n\nPhilip made a movement of assent; and Edward proceeded to give a rapid\nsketch of the events which we have already narrated, from the time of\nPhilip's desertion down to his gallant conduct on board the Recovery.\n\nThe general had listened to his narrative with breathless interest; and,\nwhen it was concluded, asked, in a hurried and agitated manner--\n\n\"Was there no clue by which to trace his parentage? No writing, or other\nnotice of his birth?\"\n\n\"Yes--a paper, stating his name to be Philip, and that he was born of\ngood family; and a ring.\"\n\n\"Here it is,\" said Philip, producing it.\n\nThe moment the general's eyes glanced upon it, his cheek turned deadly\npale, he leaned for a moment backward against a tree, and then, with an\neager and trembling hand, he touched a spring at the back of the seal,\nand the shield flying open, the initials \"P. & M. F.\" appeared engraved\nbehind.\n\n\"My son!\" exclaimed the general, embracing Philip, while the tears\npoured down his cheeks--\"my long-lost Philip! Merciful Heaven! I thank\nthee! How blind I was, not to trace before the resemblance to your\nsainted mother! The very eyes and forehead of my beloved Mary! My son,\nmy son! This hour repays me for years saddened by the misery of\nuncertainty!\"\n\nPhilip, with tears of grateful joy, warmly returned the embraces of his\nnewly-found parent, and, even in that moment of agitation, his thoughts\ngladly reverted to the removal of that which had been the principal\nobstacle to Catherine, the mystery of his birth. Edward Douglas, much\naffected by the unexpected recognition, had retired to some little\ndistance, to leave the father and son to the free expression of their\nmutual feelings; but he was soon recalled to his former station by the\ngeneral, who, shaking him heartily by the hand, said--\n\n\"Son of my dearest friend, I owe it to myself and to my boy to narrate\nto you the history of my past life, and to account to you both for what\nmust appear my culpable and unpardonable neglect of him whose uncertain\nfate has caused me so many bitter moments.\"\n\nThe tale which followed we give in our own words, as our space will not\nallow us to be so diffuse as was the excited narrator.\n\nThe father of General Fortescue was a man of high family and extensive\nlanded property in Ireland; proud of his only son, but prouder still of\nthe ancient name and large possessions which he fondly hoped that son\nwas destined to inherit. His mother had died in his early childhood, and\nhis education was prosecuted under the superintendence of a worthy and\nexcellent tutor, a Scotchman of the name of Campbell. The elder\nFortescue, who had himself been brought up at Eton, and who had a\nstrong prejudice in favour of public education, sent his boy, when he\nwas sufficiently old, to finish his education at that college. There it\nwas his good fortune to be associated with Gavin Douglas, who was two\nyears his senior, and immeasurably his superior in talent and character.\nMild and gentle in demeanour, but firm and uncompromising in principle,\nGavin was generally respected and beloved; his society was courted by\nall his fellow-students--but he distinguished young Fortescue with his\nparticular friendship; and to the influence of that friendship the\nlatter was indebted for all the better traits that adorned his\ncharacter. Philip, in his letters, had often written, in the most\nglowing terms of youthful enthusiasm, of his talented and estimable\nfriend; and his father, ever anxious to administer to his gratification,\ninvited Gavin, whose parents were at the time on the Continent, to spend\nhis vacation at Mount Fortescue, where he spent some weeks, delighted\nwith his hospitable reception, but surprised at the luxury and profusion\nthat surrounded him. But the scene was soon to change. Fortescue had\nbeen for years living in a style of splendid and careless hospitality,\nwhich had from time to time called forth ineffectual remonstrances from\nhis faithful steward, and at last affairs were brought to a crisis by\nthe villany of one for whom he had become security to a very\nconsiderable amount. To meet the demands of his creditors, his estates\nwere sold; and, with about ten thousand pounds saved from their wreck,\nhe retired to a small town on the shores of the Frith of Clyde, and,\nhaving procured a cadetship for his boy, sent him out to Bengal. This\nwas a severe trial to old Fortescue. The loss of his estates he could\nhave borne with comparative firmness, as far as his own comforts were\nconcerned; but his pride as well as his affection was wounded, when he\nthought that his son would be obliged to seek in a _foreign_ land that\nfortune which, but for his careless negligence and profusion, he would\nhave inherited in his _own_. Philip, full of the energy of youthful\nhope, was but little affected by the change in his father's\ncircumstances, for the future was to him bright of promise; but he was\ngreatly grieved at parting with his father, whose many excellent\nqualities had endeared him to his son's affection, and whose chief\nweakness was his high aristocratic pride. After ten years' residence in\nIndia, young Fortescue returned home on furlough, with the rank of\ncaptain, and found his father much altered in person, but equally\nunchanged in affection towards him, and in that pride of birth which had\never been his besetting sin--one of the fruits of which was, frequent\ninvectives against ill-assorted marriages between those whose rank in\nlife was unequal. After staying with his father for a short time,\nCaptain Fortescue hastened to pay a long-promised visit to his friend\nGavin Douglas, whose wife had lately died, and who was now living with\nhis family at Eskhall. On his return, Gavin accompanied him, and\nremained for several weeks at Mr Fortescue's. During one of their\nrambles in the neighbourhood, they discovered, accidentally, that a\ndaughter of Mr Campbell, Fortescue's former tutor, was living near them,\nunder the protection of a maternal aunt. The young men soon sought and\nobtained an introduction to these ladies, by whom they were most\ncordially received, as friends of the departed Campbell. Mary Campbell\nwas a beautiful, highly-accomplished girl of eighteen, perfectly natural\nand unaffected, and unconscious of the power of her charms. Not so young\nFortescue. In vain did his more quick-sighted and prudent friend,\nDouglas, warn him of his danger; in vain did he remind him of the\nobstacle which his father's pride would offer to the prosperous\nindulgence of his growing passion: he renewed his visits day after day;\nand, though he had not spoken of love, his heart was no longer his own.\nShe who was ever present to his thoughts became naturally the frequent\ntheme of his conversation, until his father remarked it, and scornfully\nand bitterly taunted him with his love for one so much his inferior in\nrank.\n\n\"Think no more of her, Philip,\" said he; \"for, with my consent, you\nshall never degrade yourself by marrying one so much beneath you.\"\n\nIt was easier, however, for the father to command than for the son to\nobey; love prevailed over duty, and the young people were privately\nmarried; the only persons in the secret being the minister who\nofficiated, and Mrs Morgan, Mary's maternal aunt. When the time of\nMary's confinement approached, she removed with her aunt to an obscure\nvillage in a distant part of the country, where she died in giving birth\nto the hero of our tale. Her husband was inconsolable, and it was some\ntime before he could bear to look upon the innocent cause of his\nbereavement. After performing the last duties to his wife, and\nwitnessing the baptism of the infant Philip, whom he left under the care\nof his grand-aunt, Captain Fortescue went over to the Continent, hoping\nby travel to dissipate his grief. For a few months he heard regularly of\nhis boy's welfare from Mrs Morgan; but soon her correspondence ceased;\nand, alarmed by her long-continued silence, he hastened home to\nascertain the cause. On his arrival in Scotland, he heard of the sudden\nand dangerous illness of his father. He just reached home in time to\nattend his death-bed; and by his unexpected return and filial\naffections, cheered his last moments, and received his dying blessing.\nBut another trial awaited him. He set off as soon as possible to the\nvillage where Mrs Morgan resided, little dreaming of the sad\nintelligence that awaited him. She had died about six weeks before,\nbequeathing all her small property to little Philip, who had always been\nconsidered as her adopted son, and the orphan child of a distant\nrelation. The morning after her decease, it was discovered that the\nnurse and child were missing, and that an escritoire, which was known to\nhave contained a large sum of money, had been broken open and ransacked.\nActive search had been immediately made after them at first; but was\ndiscontinued, when a woman's bonnet, known to have belonged to the\nnurse, and part of a child's dress, were found on the banks of a\nneighbouring swollen stream. Poor Fortescue was in despair; but at\nlength a gleam of hope broke upon him. The _bodies_ had not been found;\nand his child might still be in existence. Advertisements were inserted\nin all the papers, offering a large reward for the discovery of the\ninfant; but in vain. The heart-broken father lost all hope; and,\nsettling his affairs, hastened again to the East. As is too often the\ncase, fortune smiled upon one who had ceased to value her favours; and\nhe rose steadily and gradually to the highest grades of his profession.\nThe object of envy to others, he was miserable in himself. His thoughts\nbrooded over the past; and at last, after nearly a thirty years'\nresidence abroad, his heart yearned to revisit before his death the\nscene of his past joys and sorrows; and he was thus far on his voyage\nwhen Providence threw in his way his long-lost son.\n\nWhen the general had finished his narrative, the day was too far\nadvanced, and the feelings of the party were too much interested\notherwise, to allow them to prosecute their intended visit to\nConstantia; they therefore returned to Cape Town, where Catherine was\nanxiously expecting their return.\n\n\"Catherine, my love,\" said her father, \"I expect a friend to visit me\nalmost immediately. He is a young man of wealth and rank; and I beg you\nwill give him a cordial welcome, as you must look upon him as your\nfuture husband, and think no more of Philip Douglas.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" said she with the colour fading in her cheek; \"forget Philip!\nNever!\"\n\nAt this moment the door opened, and a servant announced, \"Mr Fortescue.\"\nGreat was Catherine's surprise, when she raised her eyes, and beheld\nPhilip.\n\n\"Philip!\" exclaimed she; then, looking timidly and inquiringly around,\nshe added, \"But where is Mr Fortescue?\"\n\n\"Here he stands, my dear Catherine; no longer the foundling Philip\nDouglas, but Philip Fortescue, the son of one whom he is proud to call\nfather. Next to the joy of discovering _him_, is that of finding that\nyou have bestowed your love on one whose birth will cast no discredit\nupon yours.\"\n\n\"The heart acknowledges no distinctions of rank or fortune,\" replied\nshe, blushing; \"whether Douglas or Fortescue, you would still be my own\ndear Philip--the friend of my childhood--the preserver of my life.\"\n\n\"Nobly spoken, my fair young friend,\" said General Fortescue, who had\nentered unperceived. \"Although I am not yet your father, allow me to\nclaim a father's privilege.\" And he fondly kissed the blushing\nCatherine.\n\nBut we must hasten to the conclusion of our voyage, and of our tale. The\nfollowing announcement appeared two months afterwards in the\npapers--\"Married, at Eskhall, in Dumfries-shire, on the 13th inst.,\nPhilip, eldest son of General Fortescue of the Bengal army, to\nCatherine, daughter of Edward Douglas, Esq., of Calcutta.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SKEAN DHU.\n\n\n\"Bless me, Angus! do you wear a weapon of that kind about you? I never\nknew it before,\" said John Sommerville to his friend Angus M'Intyre, as\nhe sat looking at him one morning performing his toilet; an operation\nwhich discovered the latter thrusting a _skean dhu_--which all our\nreaders know is a short knife, with a black horn handle, once a\nfavourite weapon of the Highlanders--beneath the breast of his coat,\ninto a sheath which seemed to have been placed there for the especial\npurpose.\n\n\"Did you not know that before, John?\" said Angus, with a faint smile,\nbut at the same time evidently desiring that there should be no more\nremarks made on the subject; for he hastily buttoned up his coat, after\nhaving placed the weapon in its sheath, as if to cut the conversation\nshort by putting its subject out of sight.\n\n\"No, indeed, I did not,\" replied Sommerville. \"I never saw it before,\nand never heard you carried such a thing about you. It's a dangerous\nweapon, Angus; and you are a more dangerous man than I thought you,\" he\nadded, smiling.\n\n\"Tuts! nonsense, man!\" said M'Intyre, impatiently. \"It'll never harm\nyou, at any rate, John.\"\n\n\"No, no; I daresay not,\" replied his friend, good-humouredly; \"but it\nmay hurt others, though. Let me see it, Mac.\"\n\nAngus reluctantly complied with his request, and put the tiny but\nformidable weapon into his hands.\n\n\"It has my initials, I declare, on the handle!\" exclaimed Sommerville,\nas he looked at the letters J. S. which were engraved on the butt-end of\nthe knife.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied his friend; \"it belonged to my maternal grandfather, John\nStewart of Ardnahulish.\"\n\nSommerville returned the weapon without further remark, and here the\nconversation dropped. We will avail ourselves of the opportunity to say\nwho the parties were whom we have thus somewhat abruptly introduced to\nthe reader.\n\nAngus M'Intyre was a native of the Island of Skye, in the West Highlands\nof Scotland, and was, at the period of our story (now a pretty old one,\nas it happened in the year 17--), an officer of excise in Glasgow. At\nthis period, the Highland character had not lost all its original\nferocity, and, consequently, the circumstance of an officer of excise,\nwho was a Highlander, wearing a dirk, even in the discharge of the\npeaceable duties--though they were not always so either--that fell to\nhis lot in a large town, was not by any means considered so very\nextraordinary a thing as it would be now. M'Intyre, as we have said, was\na native of the West Highlands of Scotland, and an admirable specimen of\nthe hardy and intrepid race from which he sprang. He was a very handsome\nman, and of the most daring courage, as had been often proved in the\nperilous adventures in which his profession occasionally engaged him. He\nwas, however, of a remarkably quiet disposition, though fiery and\nirascible when provoked; but so much did the former prevail in his\nnature, that no one who did not know him intimately would have guessed\nhow fiery a spirit lay couched underneath this thin covering of\nplacidity, nor deemed, unless they saw that spirit roused, how\nformidable a man in his anger its possessor was. Yet, withal, was he a\nman of a kind and generous heart. The habit of carrying the deadly\nweapon to which we have alluded, Angus had acquired when a youth in the\nHighlands, where it was then common to be so armed; and this habit had\nadhered to him, notwithstanding the entire change of life to which his\nnew occupation as an excise officer had introduced him. Angus, in short,\nalthough they had made him a clergyman, would, it was believed by those\nwho knew him, have carried his skean dhu with him to the pulpit. He made\nno boast, however, of being possessed of this weapon. On the contrary,\nas we have already in part shown, he very much disliked any allusion to\nit; for it was known by a few of his most intimate friends that he did\ncarry such a thing about with him, and by these such allusions were\nsometimes made; but the former, although they had often seen his\nnaturally fiery temper put to very severe test, never knew an instance\nof his having taken advantage of his concealed arms, even to the extent\nof a threat, excepting in the single instance of which we are about to\nspeak; but that alone is sufficient to show--in a very striking light,\nwe think--the miserable effects of introducing or maintaining barbarous\nhabits--more especially that of wearing secret weapons--into civilised\nand social life.\n\nOf Sommerville, we have not much to say in the way of description. He\nwas in the same service with M'Intyre--that is, the excise; and was\nabout the same age--thirty-two or thirty-three. They were intimate\nfriends, and as frequently together as the nature of their duties would\npermit; and were both unmarried. On the same day on which the\nconversation with which we opened our story took place, it happened that\nAngus and Sommerville were invited together to a tavern-dinner in the\nSaltmarket, with some mutual friends. About an hour previous to that\nappointed for the festive meeting, Sommerville called on M'Intyre at his\nlodgings, with the view of waiting for him, that they might go together\nto the house where they were to dine. A few minutes before they left\nM'Intyre's lodgings for this purpose, Sommerville said, playfully,\n\n\"By the by, Mac, I hope you do not intend taking that infernal weapon\nwith you to-night?\"\n\n\"Tuts, man,\" replied M'Intyre, somewhat testily, \"never mind it. What\nneed ye always harp on that string? Did you never know of a gentleman\nwearing a dirk before? It's no such extraordinary or terrible thing,\nsurely.\"\n\n\"Terrible enough in reckless hands,\" said Sommerville.\n\nM'Intyre looked more and more displeased, as his friend continued to\ncling to the subject; but his only reply was,\n\n\"Nonsense, John! Come, let us be going--it's near the hour.\"\n\n\"Well, I tell you what it is, Angus,\" remarked his friend, banteringly,\nand still pertinaciously dwelling on the skean dhu, \"I won't sit beside\nyou to-night--I'll take care of that; no, nor within arm's-length of you\neither.\"\n\n\"Sit where you please,\" replied M'Intyre, angrily, and he flung out of\nthe apartment, followed by Sommerville.\n\nOn their reaching the tavern, the company were already assembled, and\nwere waiting their presence before sitting down to table. As soon as\nthey entered, however, places were taken; and it happened by chance that\nthe only vacant chair left for Sommerville was one next his friend\nM'Intyre. On observing this, the former jokingly declined it, saying,\n\n\"No, no, Mac--I won't sit near you, as I said before. Ye're no canny--I\nhave discovered that.\" And he winked significantly; and, following up\nthe jesting resolution which he had just expressed, he eventually took\nhis place at a different part of the table. M'Intyre said nothing in\nreply to his friend's remarks; but there was a frown upon his brow that\nshowed pretty plainly, though none present observed it, that he was very\nfar from being pleased with them. In truth, he was highly irritated at\nwhat appeared to him the it; and that this, instead of being considered\nby him as a reason for refraining, was deemed directly the reverse--an\nexcellent source of small annoyance. What followed on this fatal night\nwill, we think, be most graphically related in the words of a person,\nanother intimate friend of M'Intyre's, who was present:--\n\nAt the close of the entertainment (said the person alluded to), which\nwas protracted to a pretty late hour, some high words suddenly arose\nbetween M'Intyre and Sommerville; the former being evidently\npredisposed, from some cause or other, to quarrel with the latter; but\nso few were they, that I paid but little attention to them, and had no\ndifficulty in reconciling the parties, as I imagined; but in this, at\nleast in so far as regarded M'Intyre, I was mistaken. No more words,\nhowever, of an angry nature passed between them. At length the party\nbroke up--M'Intyre, Sommerville, and myself remaining a short time\nbehind, when we also left. Sommerville went first, M'Intyre followed,\nand I went last. In this order we were passing through the entrance,\nwhich was quite dark, to gain the street, when I was suddenly\nhorror-struck by hearing Sommerville utter a loud shriek, and, in a\nmoment after, saying, in a hoarse, unearthly tone, as he staggered\nagainst the wall, \"I am a murdered man!--M'Intyre has stabbed me!\"\n\nGuessing precisely what had taken place, I rushed to the mouth of the\nentrance, and saw M'Intyre crossing the street with as calm and\ndeliberate a step as if nothing had happened; and, immediately after, he\nturned a corner and disappeared. I now returned to Sommerville, whom I\nfound still leaning against the wall, with his hand upon his wound. In\nan instant after, he fell, groaned heavily, and, when I stooped down to\nassist him, I found he was gone. Several persons had, by this time,\nassembled round us; and, by the assistance of two or three of these, we\nhad the body of the unfortunate man conveyed to his lodgings. Next\nmorning, having occasion to be abroad very early, and to pass the\nresidence of the procurator-fiscal, I saw three men, whom I knew to be\ncriminal officers, just entering the house. In an instant it crossed my\nmind that this untimous visit of these gentlemen to the functionary\nabove named was, in some way or other, connected with the melancholy\nevent of the preceding night, and that my unfortunate friend M'Intyre\nwas about to be apprehended. Fully impressed with this idea, I instantly\nhastened to his lodgings, taking such short cuts and by-ways as I knew\nwould give me several minutes' start of his pursuers--if the men I saw\nreally were to become such--and the sequel will show they did. On\nentering M'Intyre's room, which I did in considerable agitation, I found\nhim, to my great amazement, sound asleep.\n\n\"M'Intyre,\" said I, shaking him violently by the shoulder, \"I fear there\nis a warrant out against you, or at least that there will be one out\nimmediately; so, for God's sake, rise, and let us see whether we cannot\nfind a hiding-place for you.\" I then hastily mentioned to him the\ngrounds of my suspicions of such being the case. While I was speaking,\nthe unhappy man looked at me with an expression of extreme surprise, and\nas if he did not at all comprehend what I meant. In truth, neither he\ndid; for he had at the moment no recollection whatever of the dreadful\ndeed he had perpetrated--a circumstance which left no doubt of his\nhaving been greatly under the influence of liquor when it was done,\nalthough I did not at the time think so. By degrees, however, the\nhorrible truth flashed upon him; and the painful realities of the\npreceding night stood before him. His, however, was a stout heart. His\nfirm nerves shook not under the pressure of the dreadful circumstances\nin which he was placed. He made no remarks on my communication, but\nimmediately rose, and put on his clothes; and this he did with a\ncoolness and deliberation that both amazed and irritated me; for I was\nafraid that the officers of justice would be in upon us every moment.\nHaving at length dressed, we both sallied out, although I did not at all\nknow which direction I should recommend my unfortunate friend to take;\nneither had he himself any idea whither he should go. We, however,\nproceeded down the street in which he lived; and, just as we were about\nturning the corner at the foot, happening to look round, we saw the\nofficers in the act of entering the street at the opposite end. At this\nalarming sight, we of course quickened our pace, although we calculated\nthat some time would be gained by the search to which we did not doubt\nthe officers would subject the house in which M'Intyre lived. I could\nnot but admire the coolness and presence of mind which my unfortunate\nfriend exhibited under these trying circumstances, although I certainly\ncould have wished the exhibition made in a better cause, and on a more\nhonourable occasion. In his manner there was not the least flurry nor\nagitation. He remained perfectly calm and collected, although an\nignominious death was now staring him in the face. After we had\nproceeded a little way, M'Intyre suddenly stopped, and, addressing me,\nremarked that my accompanying him could serve no good end, but rather\nincrease the difficulty of his escape, and that therefore I had better\nleave him. To the propriety of this remark I could not but subscribe;\nand I therefore, though reluctantly--for, notwithstanding the rash and\nindefensible act he had committed, I could not forget the character\nwhich my unfortunate friend had formerly borne, which was that of an\nhonest, honourable, and warmhearted man--agreed to leave him. Before we\nparted, he told me that he now recollected that, previously to his\nreturning to his lodgings, after he had stabbed Sommerville, he had gone\ndown to the Clyde, and tossed the fatal weapon with which he had done\nthe deed as far as he could throw it into the river; but whether this\nwas merely a precautionary measure, to break at least one link in the\nchain of evidence, or the result of a feeling of horror at what he had\ndone, he did not explain; but my impression was, that it was the latter.\nHaving agreed in the propriety of my friend's remark as to the\nadditional danger to which my accompanying him further would expose him,\nwe parted--I to return to my lodgings, and he to seek shelter where he\nmight, for he had not at the moment the smallest idea whither he should\ndirect his steps.\n\nFor about ten days after this, I heard nothing of my unhappy friend;\nbut, at the end of that period, I learned that he had been apprehended,\nand was then in Glasgow Jail. This intelligence was subsequently\nconfirmed by a note from himself, which I received, intimating his\napprehension, and requesting me to call upon him. With this request I\ncomplied, and found my unfortunate friend in the dreadful circumstances\nof an imprisoned criminal. He was, however, still calm and collected;\nand appeared perfectly resigned to the fate which, he had not the\nsmallest doubt, awaited him--namely, that he should die upon the\nscaffold; and, indeed, no reasonable man could have expected any other\nissue; nor could it be denied that he deserved it. Our interview was\nshort, as it was necessarily carried on in the presence of a turnkey,\nand therefore confined to merely general topics. The unhappy man\nhimself, besides, showed no disposition to prolong it; and, observing\nthis, I withdrew, after obtaining his promise to apply to me for\nanything he might want, and for any service it might be in my power to\nrender him.\n\nAbout three weeks after this, while I was at breakfast one morning, my\nlandlady came into my room, to inform me that there was a young woman at\nthe door who wished to speak with me. I desired her to be shown in. She\nentered; and a more interesting-looking girl I have rarely seen. She\nappeared to me about one-and-twenty years of age, and was extremely\ngraceful, both in person and manner. The latter, indeed, bespoke a much\nmore elevated condition than her dress--which was that of a domestic\nservant--seemed to indicate. Her style of language, too, discovered the\nsame contradiction to appearances.\n\nCurtseying as she entered, and blushing as she spoke--\"You are, sir, I\nbelieve,\" said she \"a friend of poor M'Intyre's, just now in Glasgow\nJail, for--for----\" And here her emotion prevented her further\nutterance.\n\n\"I was,\" replied I, interposing to save her feelings, which I saw were\npainfully excited, \"and I still am, his friend. Would to God I had some\nway of showing him, in his misfortune, how sincerely I am so!\"\n\nThis I said with a degree of earnestness and fervour that seemed to make\na strong impression on my fair, but mysterious visiter. She became pale\nand agitated, and I thought I could even discover a tear glittering in\nher eye. When this momentary emotion had passed away--\n\n\"Then,\" she said, \"I need not hesitate to trust you with a secret.\" And\nshe glanced towards the door, to see that it was shut. \"This night,\" she\nresumed, \"M'Intyre will escape from prison.\"\n\n\"Escape!--how?--by what means?\" I exclaimed, in amazement.\n\n\"By mine,\" she replied, calmly.\n\n\"By yours!\" I said, with increased astonishment.\n\n\"Yes, sir, by mine. This night at twelve o'clock he will be without the\nprison walls, and at liberty, and you must then do him the last service\nhe is ever likely to require at your hands. You will have a chaise\nwaiting at the hour I have mentioned, at the first mile-stone on the\nGreenock road. Will you do this, and save the life of your unfortunate\nfriend?\"\n\nAlthough a good deal confused by the suddenness and singularity of the\nwhole affair, I, without a moment's hesitation or reflection, replied\nthat I would; and, having made this promise, I asked my visiter if she\nwould further confide in me, by telling me all the particulars connected\nwith the proposed escape of my friend.\n\n\"Not now--not now,\" she said, gathering a tartan plaid, which she wore,\nround her, as if to depart; \"but you will probably learn all afterwards.\nIn the meantime, farewell! and, as you would have a friend do to you in\nsimilar circumstances, so do you to your friend. Be faithful to your\npromise.\"\n\nAnd, ere I could make any further remark, or put any other question, she\nhurried out of the apartment, hastily opened the street door, rushed\nout, and disappeared.\n\nInterrupting this personal narrative for a time, we will shift the\nscene, on the eventful night in question--eventful, at least, to the\nunfortunate subject of our story--to the house of the jailer in whose\ncustody he was; and here we shall find, in the capacity of a domestic\nservant, a young woman, bearing a very striking resemblance to her who\nvisited M'Intyre's friend, as above described. Indeed, there can be no\ndoubt that they are the same. It was the jailer's custom, at this time,\nto make the rounds of the prison precisely at nine o'clock every night,\nto see that all was secure; and when this survey was completed, to carry\nall the keys with him to his own house, which was included in the\ngeneral building, and had interior communication with that portion of it\nwhere prisoners were confined. On bringing up the keys, as usual, on the\nnight of which we are speaking, the jailer gave them in charge to his\nwife, as he was invited out to join a party of friends on some occasion\nof merry-making--a circumstance which had been previously known to his\nfamily, and, amongst the rest, to the servant girl a short while since\nalluded to. Having received the keys from her husband, the jailer's wife\ncarried them to her own bedroom for greater safety, and there deposited\nthem in a drawer. In less than two hours after, this drawer was\nsecretly visited by the young woman just spoken of, and a particular key\ncarefully selected, detached from the rest, and transferred from the\ndrawer in which it had lain into her pocket, when she withdrew with her\nprize. Shortly after this, the jailer returned, and retired to bed. When\nthe whole was still, the purloiner of the key might have been seen\nstealing, with cautious steps, down the staircase that led into the\nprincipal passage of the prison, where were stationed two turnkeys--one\nat the outer door, and one at the inner. Advancing to the former--\n\n\"James,\" said the girl, \"Mr Simpson\" (the name of the jailer) \"desires\nto see you up-stairs immediately. Go to the little parlour, and wait for\nhim there, and he'll come to you directly.\"\n\n\"Lassie,\" said the man, \"I canna leave the door richtly; but if he wants\nme, I suppose I maun gang.\"\n\n\"I'll keep the key till you return,\" said the former, \"and tell Andrew\"\n(meaning the inner turnkey) \"to look after the door till you return,\nJames.\"\n\n\"Ay, do, like a dear,\" replied the unsuspecting turnkey, handing her the\nkey, and hastening away to attend the call of his superior.\n\nOn his departure, the girl went, as she had promised, to the other\nturnkey; but it was to deliver a very different message from that she\nhad undertaken. To him, in truth, she made precisely the same\ncommunication as she had done to his neighbour, with a difference of\ndestination--him she directed to wait his master in the kitchen. This\nguardian, trusting in the vigilance of him of the outer door, of whose\nabsence he was unaware, made no difficulty whatever of obeying, but\ninstantly ascended to the jailer's kitchen, where he patiently awaited\nthe appearance of his superior. Having thus disposed of the two\nturnkeys, the girl now, with a beating heart, flew to the door of the\napartment in which M'Intyre was confined, applied the key to the lock,\nturned its huge bolt, and the way was clear.\n\n\"Angus M'Intyre,\" she said, on flinging up the door, \"come forth, come\nforth, and fly instantly for your life! There are none to oppose you.\"\n\n\"In the name of God, who are you?\" said M'Intyre, instinctively obeying\nthe call to liberty and freedom. \"I should know that voice,\" he added,\nendeavouring to obtain a glimpse of the face of his deliverer, but in\nvain, as she was carefully hooded, and the place profoundly dark.\n\n\"Hush! hush!--not a word!\" said the latter. \"What does it signify to you\nwho I am? Off, off instantly!--you have not a moment to lose. This way,\nthis way.\" And she hurried the astonished prisoner, though now no longer\nso, through the deserted passage of the jail, till they reached the\nouter door, to which she applied the key with which its simple guardian\nhad intrusted her, and in the next instant M'Intyre and his deliverer\nwere in the street. On gaining it--\n\n\"Now, fly, Angus,\" said the latter, thrusting, at the same time, a purse\nof money into his hand. \"At the first mile-stone on the Greenock road,\nyou will find a chaise waiting you. In that you will proceed to\nGreenock, where you will find a ship to sail to-morrow for New York.\nEmbark on board of her; and you will then, I trust, escape the vengeance\nof man--it must be your own business, Angus, to deprecate that of your\nGod.\" And without waiting for any reply, or permitting herself to be\nknown to her companion, she hastened away in the opposite direction to\nthat she had pointed out to M'Intyre, and disappeared. The latter,\nbewildered with the suddenness and strangeness of the proceeding which\nhad thus so mysteriously led to his liberation, stood for a second\nconfused, irresolute, and undetermined. His first idea was to pursue\nthis deliverer, and to insist on ascertaining who she was; but even the\nmoment he took to deliberate had put this out of his power, for the\nnight was dark, and she was already out of sight; and where there were\nso many ready places of concealment, the pursuit was a hopeless one.\nM'Intyre perceived this; and aware, at the same time, how necessary it\nwas that he should instantly quit the vicinity of the jail, he hastened\nto the place where he had been told a chaise would be waiting him. The\nchaise was there; M'Intyre flung himself into it, reached Greenock in\nabout four hours afterwards, and, before another sun had sunk in the\nwest, he was sailing down the Frith of Clyde, on his way to the opposite\nshores of the Atlantic.\n\nThree years after the occurrence of the events just related (continued\nthe narrator whom we have already quoted), during which time I had heard\nnothing more of M'Intyre than that he had effected his escape, nor\nanything whatever of his deliverer, I was removed, by order of the Board\nof Excise, to the Island of Skye, where I was settled, perhaps, about a\nyear, when, one day, as I was crossing the country from Portree to\nMeystead--a place celebrated in the wanderings of Prince Charles--I met\na party of ladies and gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. They\nwere a merry squad, with the exception of one of the ladies, who seemed\nto take but little share in the obstreperous mirth of her companions;\nand it was owing to this circumstance, perhaps, that I found her\nengrossing a greater share of my attention than the others; for, in that\nhospitable country, we were friends the moment we met, although we had\nnever seen each other before; and the party, having some provisions with\nthem, I was requested to favour them with my company to a dejeune,\nwhich, they informed me, they had been on the eve of making before I\njoined them. Readily accepting their kind invitation, I accompanied my\nnew friends in search of a suitable spot for the proposed entertainment.\nThis was soon found; and we all sat down on the grass to partake of the\ngood things provided for the occasion. During the repast, I could not\nkeep my eyes off the lady whose melancholy had first attracted my\nattention; for I felt an impression that I had seen the face somewhere\nbefore; but when, where, or under what circumstances, I could not at all\nrecollect. She seemed also to recognise me; for there was a marked\nconfusion and agitation, both in her countenance and manner, from the\nmoment I joined the party to which she belonged. Guessing, from these\nexpressions, that it would not be agreeable to her that I should make\nany attempt at renewing our acquaintance, of whatever nature that might\nhave been, in the presence of her friends, I forbore; but determined, if\nan opportunity was afforded me, of doing so before we parted, as I felt\nall that curiosity and uneasiness which such vague and imperfect\nrecognition of a person's identity is so apt to create. The opportunity\nI desired, the lady, of her own accord, subsequently afforded me.\n\nWhen our repast was concluded, she said, addressing me--\n\n\"We are going, sir, to see the falls of Lubdearg, about a mile from\nthis. It is a very magnificent one; and, if you have never seen it\nbefore, and are in no great hurry to prosecute your journey, you will\nperhaps accompany us. My friends here, I am sure, will be glad of such\nan addition to their party.\"\n\nThe falls she alluded to I had never seen; and for this reason, but\nstill more for that before hinted at, I gladly accepted the proposal of\nbecoming one of the party to Lubdearg. While we were proceeding thither,\nmy inviter contrived to drop a little way behind her friends; which\nperceiving, and conjecturing that she did so for the especial purpose of\naffording me an opportunity of speaking with her, I availed myself of\nit, with a degree of caution that prevented all appearance of\nconnivance, and joined her. Being considerably apart from the others,\nshe said, smiling--\n\n\"You have recognised me, I rather think, sir; but do you recollect where\nand under what circumstances it was that you saw me?\"\n\n\"I do not indeed; I have not the most distant idea,\" I said; \"but I\ncertainly do recollect having seen you before.\"\n\n\"And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is impossible I\nshould ever forget either you or the occasion that introduced me to you.\nDo you,\" she added, \"recollect of a young woman calling on you one\nmorning at your lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in\nreadiness, on the Greenock road, to aid\"--and here she paused a moment,\nand betrayed great emotion--\"the escape,\" she resumed, \"of Angus\nM'Intyre.\"\n\nI need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I knew ere it was\nhalf concluded that it was the deliverer of my unhappy friend who stood\nbefore me.\n\n\"I do, I do, perfectly,\" I replied--\"you are the very person. This is,\nindeed, strange--most singular--our meeting here again, and in this way.\nBut who, in Heaven's name, are you?\" I added; \"that I have never yet\nknown.\"\n\nThe lady smiled sadly. \"Did you ever hear your unfortunate friend speak\nof one Miss Eliza Stewart?\" she said.\n\n\"Often, often,\" I replied; \"to that lady I always understood he was to\nhave been married, had not that deplorable occurrence taken place, which\nso miserably changed his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life.\"\n\n\"It was so,\" said my fair companion, with increased emotion. \"I am that\nperson.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\"\n\n\"It is true; I am Eliza Stewart.\"\n\n\"Then, here is more perplexity and mystery,\" said I. \"How, in all the\nworld, came you to appear to me in the dress and character of a servant\ngirl--you, who are a lady both by birth and education?\" (this I knew\nfrom M'Intyre) \"and how, above all, did you effect the escape of our\nunfortunate friend?\"\n\nThe lady again smiled with a melancholy air. \"I will inform you of all,\"\nshe said, \"in a very few words. At the time of Angus' misfortune, I\nlived, as you may probably know, with my father at ----, in Skye here.\nOn hearing of what had taken place, and of Angus' apprehension, I\nhastened to Glasgow on pretence of visiting a friend, and got into the\nhouse of the jailer in the character of a domestic servant. I will not\nsay by whose means I effected this, as it might still bring ruin on\ntheir heads.\" And here my fair informant gave me the details which are\nalready before the reader. \"On effecting his escape,\" she went on, \"I\nimmediately resumed my own dress, and returned to my father's house,\nwhere it was next to impossible to detect, in his daughter, the servant\ngirl of the Glasgow jailer. Our remote situation, besides, further\nsecured me from the chance of discovery; and I have not yet been\ndiscovered, nor do I suppose I ever will now.\"\n\n\"And why,\" said I, laughingly, \"did you not share the fortunes of the\nman in whom you thus took so deep an interest?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said the heroic girl, with an expression of deep feeling; \"I\nloved M'Intyre, I confess it, with the most sincere and devoted\naffection--what I did for him proves it; but I could not think of\nuniting myself to a man whose hand was red with the blood of a\nfellow-creature; for it cannot be denied that our unfortunate friend,\nnotwithstanding all his good qualities, was--there is no disguising\nit--a----\" Here her emotions prevented her finishing the sentence--nor\ndid she afterwards finish it; but I had no doubt the word she would have\nsupplied was \"murderer.\"\n\n\"Now, sir, you know all,\" she continued, on recovering from her\nperturbation; \"but you will make no allusion, I beg of you, to anything\nI have told you, to my friends here, amongst whom are my father, mother,\nand a sister, who know nothing whatever of the part I acted in effecting\nM'Intyre's escape.\"\n\nWith this request I promised compliance. We reached the falls of\nLubdearg. I parted with Eliza Stewart; and we never met again, as, in a\nfew days afterwards, I left the island; and with this event terminated\nall connecting circumstances on my part with \"The Skean Dhu.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH.\n\n\nIt was a good many years before the accession of King William III. to\nthe throne of Britain, that a farmer of the name of William Kerr rented\na farm in the parish of Minniegaff, in the county of Wigton, on the\ngreat road to Port-Patrick. The farm lay at some distance from the road,\nat the foot of the hills--a wild and secluded spot, possessing few\nbeauties, save to a person who had been reared in the neighbourhood,\nwhose earliest associations were blended with the scenes of his youth.\n\nThis farm of Kerr's was of far greater extent than importance, only a\nfew acres of it being in cultivation; but his flock of sheep was pretty\nextensive, and his black cattle numerous. He was looked upon as a\nwealthy man at the period of which we speak, had been married for many\nyears, but had no children to enjoy that wealth which increased from\nyear to year. This was the only drawback to his earthly happiness; but\nhe never repined, or let a word escape his lips, to betray the wish of\nhis heart. Even the rude taunts of his more fortunate neighbours he bore\nwith unruffled countenance, though he felt them keenly; and he still\nloved Grizzel his wife with all the fervour of his first affection--an\naffection that was returned with usury.\n\nSuch was the situation of the worthy farmer, when, one morning in\nharvest, he went out with the earliest dawn to look after some sheep he\nhad upon a hill in a distant part of the farm. He had counted them, and\nwas returning to join the reapers, accompanied by Colin, his faithful\ndog, who, in devious excursions, circled round the large grey stones\nthat lay scattered about. He had proceeded for some way without missing\nthe animal, when he stopped and whistled for him. Colin, contrary to his\nusual custom, did not come bounding to his side, but answered by a loud\nbarking--a circumstance which a little surprised him; but he proceeded\nhomeward, thinking that he was amusing himself with some animal he had\ndiscovered; and being in haste to join his reapers, paid no further\nattention to this act of disobedience in his favourite. Breakfast\npassed, and mid-day came, and still Colin did not make his appearance.\nHis master was both angry and uneasy at his absence; but, in the bustle\nand laughter of the harvest field, again forgot the occasional thoughts\nof his useful dog that obtruded themselves on his mind. It drew towards\nevening, and still no Colin came. The circumstance was becoming\nunaccountable; none had seen the dog; and uneasiness succeeded to anger.\nHe now left his reapers, and went to the house to inquire of Grizzel if\nthe animal had been in the house; but she answered that she had only\nseen him once in the early part of the day, for a minute or two, when,\nafter receiving a piece of cake, he had ran off with it in his mouth,\nnor stopped to eat it, contrary to his usual custom. This, with the\ncircumstance of his leaving him in the morning, and his unaccountable\nabsence, confirmed William Kerr in his opinion that something uncommon\nmust have happened to him. As he could ill do without his assistance to\ngather his sheep for the night, without returning to his reapers, he set\nout for the spot where the dog had left him, ever and anon calling him\nby his well-known whistle and name. The large grey stones and barren\nmuir echoed the call; but no Colin appeared. At length he came to the\nplace, and was surprised and overtaken with fear, as he observed the\nanimal stretched upon the ground, with something close beside him, which\nhe seemed to watch.\n\n\"Colin, Colin!\" he called; \"poor Colin!\"\n\nThe dog did not rise: he gave every mute token of joy and pleasure at\nthe sight of his master, looking over his bushy shoulder, and wagging\nhis tail; but he made no effort to stir--fearful, apparently, of\ndisturbing the object that lay beside him.\n\n\"Surely,\" said his master, \"my poor dog is bewitched. Colin, you rascal,\nwhat have you there? Come with me to the sheep.\" But Colin moved not.\n\nThe farmer stood rooted to the spot; he had neither the power to advance\nnor retreat; a superstitious fear took possession of him; his hair moved\nupon his head; a tingling feeling seemed to excite every muscle of his\nbody, and deprive it of voluntary motion. The fear, in fact, of the\nfairies was upon him; he conceived himself the victim of fascination--a\nconception well justified by his own conduct, for he could not, for a\ntime, withdraw his eyes from the object of his alarm. When the subject\nwas considered, there was ground for his fear. Before him, under the\nshadow of a large grey boulder stone, within a few yards, lay his\nfaithful dog--a creature that had never before required a second call\nfrom him--now deaf to that voice it was his former pleasure to obey at\nevery hazard. He was supporting something that had the appearance of a\nlovely child sound asleep, nestled close into his bosom, the head\nresting upon his shaggy side, and its curly, golden hair appearing like\nrays of light on the pillow upon which it rested. The face appeared more\nbeauteous than anything of this earth he had ever seen--so delicate, so\nclear, so beautifully blended was rose and lily; but the eyes were\nswollen and red with weeping, pearly drops stole in slow succession from\nits dark eyelashes, while a heavy sob swelled its little bosom as if it\nwould awaken it. The farmer, with his eyes almost starting from their\nsockets, incapable of motion or cool reflection, stood gazing upon the\npair as they lay before him--the one unconscious, the other, while\nshowing every symptom of joy he could silently express at sight of his\nmaster, yet seemingly fearful as an anxious mother of disturbing his\nsleeping charge. As William Kerr's surprise began to abate, his fears,\nif possible, increased.\n\n\"Surely,\" he said to himself, \"this is one of the children of the\nfairies. God protect me! I am bewitched as well as my poor dog. I never\nfelt thus before in the presence of mere earthly being. I cannot\nmove--my knees can scarce support me--I cannot withdraw my eyes from\nthat fearful object. God deliver me from the power of the enemy!\" And he\nshut his eyelids by a convulsive effort.\n\nHe then attempted to pray, but memory had fled; nor psalm nor prayer\ncould he call up to his aid, the palsy of fear had so completely\nunhinged him. The very beauty of the object increased his alarm; for he\nhad heard that Satan is never more to be feared than when he appears as\nan angel of light. With his eyes shut by a nervous effort, he turned\nhimself round, and ran to his reapers.\n\nAs he approached them, and the distance increased between him and the\nobject of his fears, his natural firmness returned; but his countenance\nstill betrayed the agitation of his mind. The reapers were just quitting\nthe field, having accomplished the labours of the day; and, seeing him\nrunning towards them, crowded round him, eagerly inquiring the cause of\nhis alarm. It was some time before he could recover his breath (so\nswiftly had he run), to give them an account of what he had seen, and\nexpress his regret for the loss of Colin, whom he never more expected to\nsee. The whole group were struck with fear and amazement, gazing\nalternately at the farmer and each other--not knowing what to think of\nthe strange case; but all agreed that some effort ought to be made for\nthe recovery of the dog. John Bell, an elder of the church, and a\nneighbour farmer, spoke and said--\n\n\"My brethren, the power of the evil one is great; but it is overruled\nby One greater and more glorious. Let us employ His aid; then we shall\ngo forth in the strength of our faith, and Satan shall flee from before\nus.\"\n\nHe then prayed, and the reapers kneeled. When his address was finished,\nhe arose with a firm assurance in the divine protection.\n\n\"I will go forth,\" said he, \"in the strength of His name, and see what\nnew delusion of Satan this is. William Kerr, send to the house for the\nha' Bible, that I may carry it as a shield between us and the wiles of\nhim who will vanish before the holy Book, like mist before the wind.\"\n\nOne of the young men ran to the house, and soon returned, with his\nmistress, she herself carrying the important volume, which she delivered\ninto the hands of John Bell; and the latter, opening it, read aloud to\nthem that beautiful chapter, the fourteenth of St John's Gospel. They\nthen proceeded to the spot pointed out by the farmer, chanting a psalm,\nwhich the elder gave out, as they walked behind him. All, excepting the\nelder, were unnerved by fear--casting many a timid glance around, and\nready, at the least alarm, to run back. Curiosity to see the conclusion,\nand shame, more than firmness, compelled them to advance. Before they\nreached the stone where the farmer had seen his dog and his charge,\nColin came bounding to them, barking for joy, and fawning upon his\nmaster and mistress; while the former, in a burst of joy at the recovery\nof his favourite, exclaimed--\n\n\"Great is the power of the Word! The charm is broken! Colin, Colin, I am\nrejoiced to have rescued you from the evil powers. Come, lad, let us to\nthe hill, and weer in the ewes.\" And, with his usual whistle, he pointed\nto the hill.\n\nColin would not yet obey the wonted order, but ran back towards the\nlarge grey stone, barking in an unusual manner, returning, again running\ntowards it, and looking back as if he wished his master to follow. The\nwhole group were in amazement, and knew not what to think of these\nstrange actions of the dog; but they had yet more to be surprised at;\nfor, taking the end of his master's plaid in his mouth, the creature\nendeavoured gently to drag him towards the stone. As the party thus\nstood irresolute, the faint wailing of a child was distinctly heard, and\na babe, supporting its feeble arms upon the stone, was seen to emerge\nfrom the other side of it. It was the same the farmer had previously\nseen: his fears returned--several of the most timid fled; but Colin ran\nto the little stranger, and licked the tears that streamed down its\ncheeks, while the child put its arms around his neck, and leaned its\nhead upon its new friend. That they witnessed something out of the usual\norder of nature, no one present had the smallest doubt; for how, by\nearthly means, could a child of man have reached a spot so lonely and\nsecluded? The farmer and his wife both endeavoured, by the most\nendearing terms, to induce Colin to leave it; but in vain.\n\n\"What can this mean?\" exclaimed Grizzel. \"Colin, Colin, you never before\nrefused to obey my voice; surely nothing good could induce you to\ndisregard it. Come, come, and leave that unearthly creature.\"\n\nJohn Bell, who had been occupied in mental devotion, at length broke\nsilence--\n\n\"Let us not judge harshly,\" said he; \"perhaps it is a Christian child,\ndropped here by the fairies as they were bearing it away from its\nparents, who now mourn for its loss, and nurse a changeling in its\nplace. It may have been rescued by the prayer of faith, or some other\nmeans, from their power. In the strength of His name, I will be\nconvinced of its real nature, either by putting it to flight if it is\nunearthly, or rescuing it from death if it is human; for we must not\nleave it here to perish through cold and want, and prove ourselves more\ncruel than the dumb animal.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the eye of the child turned towards them; it gave a feeble\ncry, and stretched out its arms, still supported by the dog. The elder\nadvanced to it, and placing the Bible upon its head, it smiled in his\nface, and grasped his leg. The tears came into the good man's eyes,\nwhile Colin bounded for joy, and licked his hand as it rested upon the\nhead of the child.\n\n\"Come forward, my friends,\" he said; \"it is a lovely child, a Christian\nbabe, for it smiles at the touch of the blessed Word. It is weak and\nsore spent, and calls for attention and kindness.\"\n\nAll the woman was kindled in the heart of the farmer's wife; she ran to\nthe babe, and pressed it to her bosom, kissing it as it smiled in her\nface, and lisped a few words in a language none present could\nunderstand. The fears of all were now nearly dissipated; those who had\nfled returned; all the females in turn embraced the babe; but the\nfondness of William Kerr for the foundling was now equal to his former\nfears. He at once resolved to adopt it as his own, until its sorrowing\nparents should reclaim it. Grizzel concurred in the sentiment and\nresolution; and he and Colin, who now had resumed all his wonted\nobedience, set off for the hill, while the other returned to the house.\nAs Grizzel carried the child home, she felt her love for it increase;\nand the void that had existed in her bosom ever since her marriage was\nfast filling up. The child's eyes were of a deep hazel, and gave\nindications of beauty; and its clothes were of a far finer texture than\nthose worn by children of humble rank, and bespoke a good origin. Of all\nthe females present, she alone felt assured that it was a proper child,\nbecause she wished it to be so; the others looked upon it still with\nsome misgivings; revolving, doubtless, in their minds, the strangeness\nof all the circumstances attending the affair--and not the least of\nthese was the locality of the child's position. It was a lonely spot,\nbearing no good name, close by a beautiful green knoll, standing by a\nspring of pure water, and covered with daisies; while all around was\nheather or stunted grass, resembling an oasis in the desert. Strange\nsights were reported to have been seen near it; and the shepherd lads,\nin the still evenings of summer, were wont to hear there strange humming\nnoises, mixed with faint tinklings--sure signs, of course, of the\npresence of the fairies. It was called the Fairy Knowe, while the stone\nwas called the Eldrich Stone--names of bad omen, and sufficient to scare\nall visiters after nightfall. The newly-awakened feelings of Grizzel\ndeprived all these ideas and recollections of that weight which operated\nwith the other females, and warped their opinions; and, while they\nconcluded that nothing good could be found in such a spot, they\ncautioned Grizzel, in their kindness, to be wary that the creature did\nher no harm. Grizzel herself was not without some misgivings; but she\nclung to the babe that lay in her bosom, and resolved to put to the\ntest, as soon as she reached home, whether it was really a fairy, or a\nchild stolen by these kidnappers. She believed her test to be sufficient\nto make it, if a fairy, leave her presence; if a human babe, to place it\nbeyond their power to recover it, cleanse it from any spell they might\nhave put upon it, secure it from the evil eye, and prevent its being\nforespoken. For these most important purposes she borrowed a piece of\nmoney (without assigning a reason for wanting it) from one of her\nneighbours, and, as soon as she reached home, secured herself in the\nspence with the babe (for no one must see her in the act), put the piece\nof money into some clean water with salt, stripped the child to the\nskin, washed it carefully, then took its shift and passed it thrice\nthrough the smoke of the fire, and put it on again, with the wrong side\nout. All this was done not without fear and trembling on the part of\nGrizzel; but her new-found treasure was unchanged, and smiled sweetly in\nher face as she proceeded in her superstitious operation. Having\nsupplied its little wants, now fully assured, she put it to bed with\njoy and satisfaction, and looked on it till it fell into a sweet sleep.\nScarce had she accomplished this, when William Kerr entered with John\nBell, upon whom he had called as he returned from the hill, to aid him\nwith his counsel and advice.\n\n\"Well, Grizzel,\" said he, \"is it a lad or a lass bairn we hae found; for\nI am convinced (for a' the fear it gae me), by what our elder has said,\nthat it is nae fairy, but an unchristened wean the elves had been\ncarryin awa frae its parents, wha, I hae nae doot, are noo mournin its\nloss.\"\n\n\"Indeed, guidman,\" replied Grizzel, \"it is as sonsie a lass bairn as\never I saw in my life, and a's richt. It is nae fairy, I'm satisfied,\nand I'm richt glad on't; for she'll be a great comfort to us, now that\nwe are getting up in years, if her ain mother doesna come to take her to\nher ain bosom; but o' that I think there is little chance; for, by the\nfew words it spoke, it is nae child o' oor land.\"\n\n\"William Kerr,\" said the elder, \"if, as your wife proposes, you mean to\nkeep this child, there is one duty to perform, both for its sake and\nyour own--and that is, it must be baptised; for there is no doubt this\nsacred right has either been withheld or neglected, or the enemy would\nnot have had the power to do as he has done. To-morrow I will go myself\nto the minister and talk with him; and next Lord's-day you or I must\npresent it to be admitted into the visible church, of which I pray it\nmay be a worthy member. Are you content?\"\n\n\"Far mair than content,\" replied the farmer; \"I will rejoice, and bless\nGod, for the occasion as fervently as if she were my ain. While I hae a\nbit or a bield she shall neither feel hunger nor cold.\"\n\nThe parties separated for the night, and the new-found stranger slept in\nthe bosom of the farmer's wife. On the following Sabbath it was taken to\nthe church of Minniegaff to be baptised. The church was crowded to\nexcess. Every one that could, by any effort, get there, attended to\nwitness the christening of a fairy, all expecting something uncommon to\noccur. The farmer and his wife, they thought, were too rash to harbour\nit in their house, for it was not chancy to be at feud with \"the good\npeople,\" who, out of revenge, might shoot his cattle; and, verily,\nduring that summer, a good many had already died of elve shots. As the\nchristening party approached the church, every one was anxious to get a\npeep at the young creature. It was so beautiful that it could not, they\nsaid, be a common child; neither was it a changeling, for changelings\nare weazened, yammering, ill-looking things, that greet night and day,\nand never grow bigger. Contrary to the expectations of almost all the\ncongregation, when the farmer and his party entered the church, the\nchild neither screamed nor flew off in a flash of fire, but smiled as\nbeautiful as a cherub. The service went on as usual. The farmer stood up\nand took the holy vows upon himself, and gave the lovely babe the name\nof Helen. The girl throve, and became the pride of her foster-parents,\nwho loved her as intensely as if she had been their own child; and Colin\nbecame, if possible, more beloved by them, as Helen's playfellow.\n\nA few months after the finding of Helen, as Grizzel was one day\nexamining the silken dress which she wore when discovered on the muir,\nand which had never been put on since--being soiled and damp when taken\noff--she discovered a piece of paper in one of the folds, much creased,\nas if it had been placed there by some one in a state of great\nagitation. It was written in French. Neither the farmer nor herself\ncould read it, but William, on the first opportunity, took and showed it\nto the minister, who translated it as follows:--\"Merciful God! protect\nme and my child from the fury of my husband, who has returned, after his\nlong absence, more gloomy than ever. Alas! in what have I offended him?\nIf I have, without any intention, done so, my dear baby, you cannot\nhave given offence. Good God! there are preparations for a journey\nmaking in the court-yard--horse, saddle, and pillion. Where am I to be\ncarried to? My babe! I will not be parted from you but by death. His\nfeet are on the stairs: I hear his voice. Alas! I tremble at that sound\nwhich was once music to my soul. Holy Virgin! he approaches!\" Here the\nwriting ceased. It threw no light upon the event, further than it showed\nthat the mother of the child was unhappy, and above the lower ranks of\nlife. The paper William left with the minister, at his request.\n\nThe little Helen grew, and became even more lovely and engaging--the\ndelight and joy of the farmer and his wife. Yet their happiness had in\nit a mixture of pain; for they never thought of her but with a fear\nlest, as not being their own child, she should be claimed and taken from\nthem. Years rolled on, and Helen grew apace. She was of quick parts, and\nlearned with facility everything she was taught--a circumstance which\ninduced many to believe that the fairies were her private tutors. The\nopinion was justified by other circumstances. She was thoughtful and\nsolitary for a child. The Eldrich Stone was her favourite haunt. She\nseldom joined in the sports of the other children of her age--having,\nindeed, little inducement; for they were always fearful of her, and felt\nconstraint in her presence. Some of the most forward taunted her with\nthe cognomen of Fairy Helen; and if she was successful (as she often\nwas) in their childish sports, they left her, saying, \"Who could win\nwith a fairy?\" This chilled the joyous heart of the fair Helen, and was\nthe cause of many tears, which the kind Grizzel would kiss off with more\nthan maternal love. As she grew up, she withdrew herself from the\nsociety of those who thus grieved her; but there was one individual who\never took her part, and boldly stood forth in her defence. This was\nWillie, \"the widow's son,\" as he was familiarly called, for no one knew\nhis surname. He lived with an aged woman, who passed as his mother; but\nthe more knowing females of the village said she could not, from her\napparent age, bear that character. She had come there no one knew from\nwhence, and inhabited a lone cottage with the boy. She appeared to be\nextremely poor, yet sought no aid from any one. William was better clad\nthan any child in the parish, and much care had been taken in his\neducation. She had (by the proper legitimate right) the name of being a\nwitch. She sought not the acquaintance of her neighbours; and, when\naddressed by any of them, was very reserved, but civil; while the only\nthing that saved her from persecution was her regular and devout\nattendance at church, along with the child William, and the good opinion\nof the worthy minister. Yet this scarcely saved her; for, when anything\nuntoward occurred in the neighbourhood, it was always laid to her\ncharge. William was six or seven years older than Helen, and, still\nsmarting under the taunts he had himself endured, was her champion, and\nnone dared offer her insult in his presence. Her timid heart clung to\nhim and loved him as a brother, and they were ever together--as he\naccompanied her to and from school, as if she had been his sister. He\nwas now about eighteen, tall and athletic for his age, and of a firm and\nresolute mind.\n\nIt was in the autumn of the year 1688, that a strange horseman, with a\nservant behind him, was seen to approach the lone cottage of the\nwidow--to dismount and enter it. He remained for several hours, during\nwhich his servant was busy purchasing a horse, and the necessary\nfurniture for an immediate departure. Willie was afterwards seen\nbounding across the fields towards the house of William Kerr, which he\nentered, with a face beaming with joy.\n\n\"Helen,\" said he, \"I am come to bid you farewell; for I am going to\nleave Minniegaff for a long time, and I could not think of going\nwithout seeing you, and letting you know my good fortune.\"\n\nHelen burst into tears, and sobbed. \"O Willie!\" she cried, \"who will\ntake my part when you are gone? I will have no friend left but my dear\nfather and mother, and I will miss you so much. But it is wrong for me\nto be grieved for your departure, if your fortune is good.\" And she\ntried to subdue her tears.\n\n\"Yes, Helen,\" said he, \"my fortune is good. I have found, what I hope\nyou will soon find, a long-lost father--a parent I knew not existed. I\nnow know that Elizabeth is not my mother, but has only had the charge of\nme during my father's exile in a foreign land. He is now returned with\nWilliam, Prince of Orange, and is restored to his estate. I am going to\nLondon to join him, where I will often think of you, Helen. Farewell!\"\nAnd clasping the weeping Helen to his bosom, he ran back to his cottage,\ntook farewell of Elizabeth, and, full of hope and joyous expectation,\nsoon was out of sight.\n\nAfter the departure of Willie, Helen felt for long a loneliness she had\nnever felt before. The Eldrich Stone used to be her favourite resort;\nbut she was now much dedicated to Elizabeth, who, being left alone,\nbecame fond of her company, passing the greater part of the day in the\nfarmer's house, but continuing as reserved and taciturn as she had\nalways been. In vain Grizzel endeavoured to know from her who Willie's\nfather was, or his name. All she ever would communicate was, that his\nwas a gallant name; and the time, she hoped, was now come when he might\npronounce it with the best of the land. Thus time passed on, and Willie\nwas almost forgotten by every one save Elizabeth and Helen--the one\ndwelling on the loved theme with all the fondness of a parent; the other\nwith that of a beloved brother. But no news of him had as yet reached\nthe cottage of Elizabeth, who was now become very frail, while Helen\npaid her every attention in her power.\n\nThe seasons had, for the last three years, been most unpropitious; the\npoor were suffering from famine, and the more wealthy were much\nstraitened in their circumstances, and impoverished by the death of\ntheir cattle from want of fodder. In summer--if it could be called\nsummer--when the sun was not seen for weeks together, when the whole\natmosphere was surcharged by fogs, when the ground was deluged by rain,\nand the wind blew piercing cold, the grain that was sown did not ripen\nsufficiently either for food to man or seed to sow; while the cattle,\nseized by unknown diseases, languished and died. Money, in those distant\nparts, was of small avail; for none had grain to dispose of, or help to\nbestow upon the numerous applicants who thronged the doors of the larger\nfarmers. Nettles, marsh mallows, and every weed that was not immediately\nhurtful, were eagerly sought after and devoured by the famished people.\n\nAmong all this suffering, William Kerr did not escape. The lengthened\nand unprecedentedly deep snowstorms were fatal to his flocks, and,\nbefore the fourth winter, he had not one left to take care of. His black\ncattle died, until he was equally bereft of all; and that house where\nplenty had always been, and from whence the beggar was never sent away\nhungry, was now the abode of want bordering on famine. Yet despondency\nnever clouded his brow, and his heart was strong in Christian faith, and\nresigned to the will of God. Evening and morning his simple sacrifice\nwas offered up to the throne of grace with as fervent love and adoration\nas in the days of his greatest prosperity; while the assiduous and\ngentle Helen mingled her tears with those of Grizzel, as much for the\nmisery that was around them as their own. The winter of the fifth year\nhad set in with unusual severity, long before its usual time, and all\nthat William had secured of his crop was a few bushels of oats, so black\nand bitter, that nothing but the extreme of hunger would have compelled\na human being to have tasted the flour they produced. Their only\ncow--the last of six which had in former years abundantly supplied their\ndairy--now lean and shrunk, had long since withheld her nourishing\nstream. It was a beautiful animal, the pride of Helen and Grizzel, was\nreared upon the farm, and obeyed Helen's voice like a dog. With great\nexertion and assiduity she had procured for it support; but the grass\ndid not give its wonted nourishment, being stinted and sour, and in vain\nwas now all her care. The snow lay deep on the ground, and the animal\nwas pining with hunger, and must inevitably die from want.\n\nGreat was the struggle, and bitter the tears they shed, before they gave\nconsent to have their favourite put to death. Yet it was reasonable; for\nthe carcase was requisite to sustain their own existence and that of\nElizabeth, whom the good farmer had removed to his own home, lest she\nhad died for want, or been plundered in those times of suffering and\ndistress--when even the bands of natural affection were rent asunder by\nfamine, and children were devouring in secret any little eatable they\nfound, without giving a share to their more famished parents, while\nparents grudged a morsel to their expiring children. Thus passed another\nmiserable winter, and death was now busy around them; numbers died from\nwant and unwholesome food, and among the rest old Elizabeth sickened and\npaid the debt of nature; but, to her last moment, she never divulged to\nHelen, much as she loved her, any circumstance regarding Willie. Helen,\nindeed, in the present distress thought not of him; and when Elizabeth\nused to regret his neglect of her, she only remembered him as a former\nplayfellow and generous school companion.\n\nA few days before she died, as Helen sat by her bedside, administering\nto her wants, she put forth her emaciated and withered hands, and taking\nHelen's, kissed them, and blessed her for the care and attention she had\npaid her. Pointing to a small chest in which her clothes were kept, she\ngave Helen the key, and requested her to open it, and bring a small\nebony box to her. Helen did as desired; and, when she received the box,\nshe opened it by touching a concealed spring. Helen looked on in\namazement; for in the box were many jewels, and several valuable rings.\nThe old woman took them out, one by one, and laid them upon the bed, in\na careless manner, as if they had been of no value; then took out a\nsmall bundle of letters, which she kissed and wept over for a few\nmoments; then, looking up, she said--\n\n\"O great Author of my being! pardon this, my last thought of earth, when\nmy whole soul ought to be employed in thanking thee for thy mercies, and\nimploring pardon for my many sins. Oh, how I now lament my\ninfirmities!--but there is still hope for even the chief of sinners,\nwhich I am, in the blood of Jesus.\" She then sunk overpowered upon her\npillow for a time, and at length recovering, continued--\"Dear Helen,\nwhen I am gone, keep these baubles to yourself. Alas! they were\npurchased by me by years of misery. These papers you will keep for\nWilliam, should he ever return to inquire after me; if not, destroy\nthem; you are at liberty to look over them if you choose, when I am no\nmore. In this box you will also find a small sum in gold. When it\npleases God to give his sinful creatures more favourable seasons, it\nwill restock this present desolate farm, and in part only restore the\ndebt of gratitude we owe a worthy man.\"\n\nHelen, with tears, accepted the bequest, and restored it to the oaken\nchest; then kneeled by the bedside of the sufferer, and prayed with all\nher heart for her recovery; but the hand of death was upon\nElizabeth--she fell into stupor, and never spoke again. Helen and her\nfoster-parents felt real sorrow at the death of their inmate, for she\nwas a pleasant companion to a pious auditory. Though taciturn on every\nsubject but what was of a spiritual nature, her soul became as if on\nfire when she conversed on her favourite theme, and a sublimity was in\nher language that carried away her hearers, and forced conviction upon\nthe cold and indifferent.\n\nAs soon as the funeral was over, Helen showed to William and his wife\nthe magnificent bequest of the old lady. Although they knew not the\nexact value of the gems, they knew it must be considerable; and the\nguineas were above two hundred. Their astonishment was great at the good\nfortune of Helen; for they had always thought, from her dress and\nhumility, that Elizabeth was poor, although she never sought relief, but\nlived principally upon the produce of her little kail-yard, and the meal\nshe purchased each year, in the beginning of winter, along with her\nmeat. This unexpected wealth added not to their happiness, nor in the\nleast abated their grief for the loss of the giver. Scanty as the\nnecessaries of life were, William Kerr was far from poor; but at this\ntime money could not procure food in many of the distant parts of\nScotland.\n\nBy strict economy, they contrived to put over the next long and dismal\nwinter, and even to have something to spare for the more necessitous of\ntheir neighbours, in hopes that the ensuing spring would put an end to\ntheir privations; but it proved cold and barren as the others had been,\nand the more necessitous of the surviving population had retired to the\nsea-shore, to eke out a scanty subsistence by picking the shellfish from\nthe rocks, and eating the softer sea-weeds. Often in vain the most\ndexterous fisher essayed his skill, and returned without a single fish;\nfor even those had forsaken the shores of the famishing land, driven off\nby the storms, and the swell, and surge that for weeks together beat\nupon the coast.\n\nIn this, the extreme of their distress, William Kerr heard that a vessel\nhad arrived at Stranraer with grain. Without delay he mounted his sole\nremaining horse, now so much reduced that it could scarce bear his\nweight, and set off for the port--a distance of twenty miles. Short as\nit was, it was late in the evening ere he arrived; and he found, to his\nregret, that all had been disposed of in a few hours--being dispersed\nabout the town and immediate neighbourhood. Through much importunity,\nand by paying a great price, he procured a scanty supply; and next\nmorning, laying it on his horse, went back to his home, rejoicing that\nhe had procured it; for what he had reaped the harvest before was now\nnearly all consumed. As there was no appearance of the present summer\nbeing better than the preceding one, he resolved to shut up his house,\nand retire to Stranraer, until it should please God to remove His wrath\nfrom the land. He took this step because there he could procure\nsubsistence for money, although the price was exorbitant.\n\nWith regret they bade adieu to the scenes of their former happiness;\nand, taking all their valuables and cash, locked up their home; and,\nwith their one horse, which carried the load, accompanied by Colin, now\nold and blind, led by Helen, the sad procession moved on their dull and\nweary way. The land was desolate; it was the beginning of June, yet not\na bud was to be seen; the whins showed only their gaudy yellow flowers,\nas if in mockery of the surrounding dreary scenes. Arrived at Stranraer,\nthey found their situation much more comfortable; as provisions could be\nhad there, although the prices were exorbitant. Several of the\ninhabitants imported grain from England and Ireland, in small\nquantities, for themselves and such as could purchase at the price they\ndemanded for it--which comparatively few could; and what was thus\nbrought was in a manner concealed, for the magistrate, by act of the\nEstates of Scotland, had the power to seize any store of grain, either\nin passing through the borough or concealed in it, and sell it to the\npeople at their own price. This prevented those who could from importing\nit from a distance, save in small quantities.\n\nHelen's heart bled to see the famishing multitudes wandering along the\nbeach at high water, like shadows--so thin, so wasted--looking with\nlonging eyes for the retreat of the tide, that they might commence their\nsearch for any shellfish they could find upon the rocks, or any other\nsubstance which the ingenuity of man could convert to food, however\nloathsome, to satisfy the hunger that was consuming them. There were to\nbe seen mothers, bearing their infants--unmindful of the rain that for\ndays poured down, more or less; and fathers, more resembling spectres\nthan men, either upon their knees in the middle of their family,\nimploring Heaven for aid, or following the wave in its slow retreat to\nthe utmost bound with anxious looks, exulting if their search procured\nthem a few limpets or whelks.\n\nDuring this tedious summer, William Kerr returned occasionally to his\ndeserted farm; but it lay waste and uninviting, more resembling a swamp\nthan arable land. His heart fell within him at the sight. No one had\ncalled; everything remained as it was; even the direction he had written\nupon his door, telling where he was to be found, remained undefaced,\nsave by the pelting rain. Towards autumn the weather became more warm\nand dry, and promised a change for the better. The family, with joy,\nreturned once more to the farm, to prepare for better seasons. As soon\nas they entered the cold damp house, where fire had not been kindled for\nmany months, Colin, the faithful and sagacious dog, blind as he was,\ngave a feeble bark for joy, ran tottering round each well-remembered\nspot; then, stretching himself on his wonted lair beside the fire, which\nHelen was busy kindling, licked her hand as she patted his head,\nstretched his limbs, gave a faint howl, and expired. All felt as if they\nhad lost a friend.\n\nThis winter was more mild than any that had been remembered for many\nyears, and gave token of an early and genial spring. The famine was\nstill very severe; but hope began to appear in the faces of the most\nreduced and desponding. William Kerr procured seed corn from Stranraer,\nand distributed some among his less wealthy neighbours to sow their\nlands.\n\nFor eleven long years no word had been received of Willie, the widow's\nson, as he had been called, although he had been often the subject of\ndiscourse at William Kerr's fireside. The little ebony box had never\nbeen opened since the day of the funeral. There was now little chance of\nhis ever returning to receive its contents, and far less of Helen's ever\nleaving Minniegaff in quest of him; and, as Elizabeth had allowed Helen,\nif she chose, to read the papers, William and Grizzel proposed that she\nshould do so. She immediately opened it, and took out the packet, which\nwas neatly sealed, and tied by a riband. There was no direction upon it.\nHaving broken it open, the first paper was found to be directed \"To\nWilliam B---- of B----;\" and ran thus:--\n\n     \"MY DEAR WILLIAM,--You will not have seen this until I am in\n     the world of spirits, and I hope the communion of saints in\n     heaven, through Jesus our Lord. You have ever believed that I\n     am your parent; but I am not. I am only your aunt--your father\n     being a much younger brother, who was the delight of his mother\n     and myself; for, from his earliest dawning of reason, his mind\n     was of a pious turn, and we loved him as much as he was the\n     aversion of his father. His elder brother had engrossed all his\n     parent's love; for he was more like himself, and cared not for\n     anything that savoured of the fear of God. My father had been a\n     cavalier, and suffered a share of his sovereign's misfortunes,\n     and hated the Covenanters with a perfect hatred; but he\n     interfered not with his pious wife in her mode of worship,\n     until your father showed an aversion, when yet a boy, to join\n     in the profanity and revelry which he and his elder son\n     delighted in. It was after this that he began to storm and\n     threaten his wife, for instilling her Puritanical notions, as\n     he called them, into his children. We were immediately taken\n     from her. I was sent to an aunt of his own opinion; and Andrew,\n     your father, to the university in Paris. Your father I never\n     heard of for some years. My mother I never saw again until she\n     was upon her death-bed, when she gave me the jewels you will\n     find in the box with this. Make a good use of them, and may\n     they prove a blessing, in placing you above want, if I am taken\n     away before you are claimed by your father, which he will do if\n     he lives, and is allowed to return to Scotland; if not, you\n     will be enabled to trace him out by their means. But I must\n     proceed:--I was still residing with my father's aunt when your\n     father returned to Scotland, bringing with him, from France, a\n     Scottish lady of family, whom he had married there. Being very\n     uncomfortably situated, I went to reside with him. The troubles\n     about religion, which distracted the country, had been laying\n     it waste for some time. Your father took a leading part for the\n     Covenant, and joined the insurgents. The fatal battle of\n     Bothwell Bridge was fought. Your father was dangerously\n     wounded; but escaped. He was concealed by a faithful servant,\n     and brought home, where we concealed him from the search that\n     was made, until his recovery. Your mother, who was of a\n     delicate constitution, never recovered the shock. She sickened,\n     and died, before her husband was convalescent. Your father was\n     obliged to fly his country in disguise; his property was\n     confiscated, and a price set upon his head; for, though he had\n     been seen to fall, his body had not been found. I was driven\n     from his house, and retired to this wild as a place of\n     security, of which I informed your father. He was, when I wrote\n     this, at the Hague, a merchant, and wealthy. You were too young\n     to remember any of these events, and I was as familiar in your\n     sight as your sainted mother. If you apply to the Prince of\n     Orange, should your father be dead, he will be your friend for\n     his sake.\n\n     \"ELIZABETH B----.\"\n\nThe next paper was a letter in a neat female hand, which had evidently\nbeen blotted by the tears either of the writer or the reader; for it was\nblistered in many places, and the ink effaced:--\n\n     \"MY LOVING ELIZABETH,--Pity me, for my heart is broken. I am\n     weighed down by many sorrows, and have no one to whom I can\n     relieve this bursting heart but you. Alas! the illusions of\n     love are gone. I am now the aversion of my lord. I fear his\n     love for me is fled for ever, in spite of all my endeavours to\n     please him. At the birth of my beauteous babe, he left the\n     castle in displeasure. Unfeeling Charles! when I expected\n     rapture in his eye at the sight of his child, he turned from it\n     as if he loathed it, because it was not a boy. For eighteen\n     months he has been in London, at the court, and returned only a\n     few weeks since. Alas! how his manner is changed! I am treated\n     with harshness and scorn. The only consolation I have now left\n     he threatens to deprive me of, and send her, young as she is,\n     to a nunnery in France, and make her profess. I have been on my\n     knees again and again to my cruel lord, to allow me to be her\n     companion. This he sternly refuses. Oh, teach me, my dear\n     Eliza, how I may soften his obdurate heart! for, cruel as he\n     is, I love him still, and would die a thousand deaths rather\n     than offend him. Had I never loved him so sincerely, I never\n     had been so miserable. Holy Virgin, be my aid! and all the\n     saints befriend me! I know it is not because I am an unworthy\n     daughter of the universal church that he now has ceased to love\n     me; for he knew I was so before we wed. He, alas! cares for\n     nothing holy; and, in his conversation, even favours the church\n     of my faith. Again, I implore, advise and pity me, your poor\n     and heart-broken\n\n     \"LOUISA B----.\"\n\nThe only other paper was also a letter in the same hand, as follows:--\n\n     \"MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Fate has done its worst, and my heart is\n     not broken, neither am I distracted. I am bereft of my\n     treasure; it was torn from me by its unnatural father, with\n     threats and imprecations. I know no more; for nature sank under\n     his cruelty. When I recovered, my lord--now _my_ lord no\n     longer--had left the castle. I would have followed, though I\n     knew not whither; but I was detained a prisoner in my room, and\n     denied the presence of every one, except strange menials he had\n     appointed as my keepers. I have succeeded in my attempt, and am\n     now with my uncle. I leave this land, in which I have suffered\n     so much, for France, in search of my heart's treasure; nor will\n     I cease my wanderings until I find my child. Farewell! perhaps\n     for ever!\n\n     \"LOUISA B----.\"\n\nHelen and the now aged Grizzel shed tears over the sufferings of Louisa,\nreplaced the papers, and wished that William might once more return, if\nit were for no more than to inquire if he could say whether his relation\nhad found her child or not. The packet could reveal nothing to him but\nwhat he already knew.\n\nThe following summer was genial and warm, and the crops luxuriant to\nprofusion. Nature appeared anxious to make amends for the barrenness of\nthe preceding years. Famine had disappeared, but poverty had laid its\ncold hand upon many a family who before had never known want. The more\nfortunate William Kerr and Helen distributed their aid with a liberal\nhand to all around them; his farm had resumed its wonted cheerful\nappearance; and Helen occasionally visited the Eldrich Stone, as she\nwent out of a summer evening to meet the worthy farmer on his return\nfrom the hill. The harvest had been gathered in, and a public\nthanksgiving made in all the churches for its abundance, when, towards\nthe end of the year, the worthy old minister died, beloved and regretted\nby all. His executor sent to William Kerr the small piece of paper his\nwife had found in the clothes of Helen, with a certificate of the date\nand circumstances carefully written out at the time. So little had they\nthought of it, as of any importance, that its existence was almost\nforgotten. Helen put it into the same box with the papers left in her\ncharge by Elizabeth, and thought no more of it. Happy, loving and\nbeloved by her foster parents, she had no other wish on earth but to see\nthem happy by contributing to their comfort. The new incumbent of the\nparish, a pious young man, was most assiduous in the performance of his\npublic duties--visiting all his parishioners with a parent's care,\nspeaking consolation to the afflicted, and soothing down any little\nanimosities that arose among them; but it was observed that he called\noftener at William Kerr's, and remained longer there, than at any other\nof the houses in the parish; and it was whispered by the young maidens\nthat Helen was, more than the old man and his wife, the inducement for\nthese numerous and protracted visits.\n\nThe truth was, that he loved Helen, and was not looked upon by her with\nindifference; his many virtues had won her esteem, which is near akin to\nlove, and she received his attentions with a secret pleasure, though no\ndeclaration of love had yet been made by him. In one of their walks,\nwhich had been protracted more than usual, they were returning homewards\nby the Eldrich Stone. The evening was mild and serene for the season;\nHelen's arm was in his. She felt no fatigue, but stopped from habit at\nthe much-loved spot. A thought of Willie passed through her mind; a\nfaint wish to know if he were dead or alive rose in her bosom; and her\nhead dropped with a sigh as she thought of his being numbered with the\ndead. The anxious lover remarked the change; and, taking Helen by the\nhand, inquired, with a tremulous voice, the cause of her melancholy. The\ningenuous girl laid open to him the cause, and a pang of jealousy wrung\nhis heart as he dropped her hand. \"Helen,\" he would have said, \"you love\nanother;\" but such was the agitation of his mind, that his tongue\nrefused utterance to his thoughts.\n\nIn silence they walked side by side to the farmer's, as if the faculty\nof speech had been taken from them. Contrary to his wont, the minister\ndid not enter the gate to the enclosure, but, stopping short, wrung\nHelen's hand as he bade her good-night, and hurried away, before she\ncould inquire the cause of his agitation. She burst into tears, and\nstood looking after him. He stopped, and with a quick step she saw him\nreturning. She still stood in the same spot, her eyes following his\nevery motion. Again he approached, and, leaning upon the gate where she\nstill stood, said, in a voice almost choked--\n\n\"Helen, do you love that person?\"\n\n\"As a brother I love him, and cherish his memory,\" the agitated Helen\nreplied.\n\nA groan burst from the minister, as he ran from the spot. Helen entered\nthe house, for the first time in her life, a prey to anguish. What could\nbe the cause of the sudden change in the manners of the minister, she\nwas at a loss to conceive. She retired to bed, but not to rest.\n\nFor several days she saw nothing of her lover. He had never left the\nmanse. On the Sabbath following, Helen and her parents were in their\nusual place in the church; but she had a shade of care upon her lovely\ncountenance which no one had ever seen there before. Contrary to her\nwont, her eyes were never once directed to the pulpit; while the\npreacher sought her face with more than usual anxiety. Although there\nwas a tremulousness in his voice at the commencement of the service, he\npreached with more than his usual eloquence and fervour.\n\nAt the conclusion of the service, the pious hearers crowded round their\npastor; but it was remarked that, although William Kerr and his wife\nshook hands with him, Helen passed on out of the churchyard\nunaccompanied by him, and without being recognised. The worthy pair were\nnot less astonished than the rest of the spectators, and wondered much\nwhat could have caused the change. On their way home, they inquired at\nHelen, who, without reserve, gave them an account of all that had\noccurred at their last interview.\n\nThe good dame smiled. \"He will soon come back again,\" said she; \"it's a\ngood sign--only a little jealousy of Willie.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" replied Helen, \"he need not be jealous of my loving my\nbrother; for I shall always love him as such.\"\n\nGrizzel was right: in the course of the following week the minister was\nas much abroad as ever, and spent more than his usual time with the\nKerrs. All was explained to the satisfaction of both parties, and a\nmutual declaration of love followed. Helen Kerr was soon after led a\nbride to the manse, and became its ornament and boast. With the\nplenishing of the bride, the old carved oak chest of Elizabeth was also\ntaken, the ebony box was opened, and, for the first time, her husband\nknew of the treasure possessed by his wife. With a playful violence he\npushed it from him, and clasped her in his arms.\n\n\"Helen,\" said he, \"you are the jewel I prize; put away from my sight\nthese baubles. But what papers are these?\"\n\n\"I am afraid to let you look upon them,\" said she, \"for they are\nWillie's; and it is dangerous for me, you know, to speak of _him_.\"\n\nShe undid the riband, and handed them to him. He read them over with\ncare, along with the slip of paper written in French, and compared the\nhand in which it was written with the two letters. Resting his head upon\nhis hand, he mused for some time, then again compared them, and seemed\nlost in thought.\n\n\"Helen,\" said he, at length, \"a strange fancy has taken possession of\nme--that you are, in some way or other, connected with these papers. It\nis so improbable, that I am greatly at a loss to conceive how it can be;\nyet the conviction is not the less strong upon my mind. There is a\nsimilarity in the handwriting of the letters that struck me at once.\nTheir date, and the date of my predecessor's certificate, are very near\neach other; there is not a month between the first letter and the\ncertificate; and the second letter is a short time after the date of\nthat document. It is very strange; and God, in his good time, if\nagreeable to his will, may bring all to light.\"\n\nAbout eighteen months after this conversation, Helen, one day, as was\nher wont, had walked over to William Kerr's, with her young son in her\narms, to spend an hour or two with them, and wait until her husband\ncalled, on his return to the manse from his visits. William had the\nbabe in his arms, and was talking, with all the fondness of age, about\nits mother, when he first had her on his knees in the same chair and at\nthe same hearth. Their attention was excited by the tramp of horses'\nfeet approaching the house. Helen started up, and ran to the window to\nsee who it might be. She could not recognise them: it was a gentleman in\na military undress, attended by a servant. The first dismounted, and,\ngiving his horse to the attendant, stepped hastily to the door, which he\nopened with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and, before she could\nleave the window, he was in the room. Helen recognised him at a glance.\n\n\"It is Willie, father!\" she cried, in a voice of joy. \"I am so happy to\nsee you again, and well!--for we all thought you had been dead.\"\n\nIt was indeed Willie; but he appeared not to partake of the joy of those\nwho greeted him with such fervour. He gazed at Helen, and then at the\nbabe she now held in her arms, in silence; and a deep shade of\ndisappointment clouded his brow. He had stood thus for a minute or two\nin silence, with a hand of each of the old people grasped in his. Helen\nfelt awkward and abashed at his melancholy and imploring glance, and,\nturning from it, appeared busy with her son. Willie seated himself, and\nseemed as if in a fit of abstraction, his eyes still fixed on the object\nof his early love, and strong emotion depicted on his countenance. The\nsight of the child had awakened suspicions which he was not for a time\nable to confirm or dissipate by a simple question; and his agitation was\nso extreme, that no one present could call up resolution enough to\nexplain to him how or when Helen had changed her situation. The silence\nwas painful to all, but to none more than to Willie himself; for he\ncould read in the looks of William and Grizzel the reason why they were\nunwilling to speak. They felt for him; and Helen's eye was filled with\na tear, as she looked up blushingly into the face of one who had claimed\nthe first love offering of her virgin heart. This state of painful and\ntoo eloquent silence was put an end to by him who had most to dread from\na disclosure. Starting, as if by an effort forcing himself out of a\ntrain of thoughts, he held out his finger, and pointed to the babe that\nwas looking up smiling into the face of Helen, in whose eye the tear\nstill stood--\n\n\"Is it possible, Helen?\" said he, in a voice choking with strong\nemotion, and unable to get out the rest of the sentence, the meaning of\nwhich his pointed finger sufficiently indicated.\n\nHelen was silent; the blush rose higher on her face, and the tear\ndropped on the face of the child. William and Grizzel looked at each\nother, as if each wished the other to speak.\n\n\"Speak, Helen,\" said Willie, partly recovering himself. \"Can it be----?\"\nand he again faltered.\n\nHis emotion stopped still more effectually the voice of Helen, who hid\nher face on the breast of her child.\n\n\"Indeed, and it is just sae,\" at last said Grizzel. \"That is Helen's\nbairn, and as bonny a ane it is as she was hersel when we found her by\nthe Eldrich Stane, wi' her head restin on the side o' puir auld Colin,\nwha is since dead. Ah, Willie! ye hae yersel to blame; for ye never let\nus ken whether ye were dead or alive.\"\n\nWillie drew his hand over his eyes, and was silent. There was another\nsubject that pressed upon his heart, and one which he equally feared to\nbroach by a question.\n\n\"And Elizabeth--my more than mother!\" he ejaculated, in a broken\nvoice--\"what of her?\"\n\n\"She's in the kirkyard o' Minniegaff,\" answered Grizzel. \"The sods are\nagain grown thegither, and the grass is hail and green owre her grave.\"\n\n\"Oh, did I expect to meet all this!\" muttered the unhappy man, as he\nheld his hands upon his face. There was again silence in the cottage.\n\"Had my dear friend plenty, and was she well cared for in her last\nmoments?\" he continued, with the same broken voice.\n\n\"Nane o' us had plenty at that dreadfu time,\" answered Grizzel; \"death\nwas the only creature that seemed to hae aneugh. We killed auld Hawky to\nsave the life o' puir Elizabeth; but her time was come. She died i' the\nfear o' God; and you, Willie, that was her only love on earth, was her\nlast thought, as she left this warld for that better ane whar friends\ndinna forget their auld benefactors.\"\n\n\"You are unkind, Grizzel,\" said he, \"to add to my present sorrow by the\nreproof contained in that hint. I have to you the appearance of being\nundutiful; but I was so situated that it was not in my power to\ncommunicate with her by letter; and to visit her in person was\nimpossible. I would have been here years since, if I could have\naccomplished it; for I can solemnly declare my heart has been ever\nhere.\"\n\n\"I believe ye, Willie,\" replied Grizzel. \"I was owre hasty. Ye could hae\ndune her nae guid, even if ye had been here; for at that time the hand\no' God was upon our sinfu land, and the assistance o' man was o' nae\navail. But your Helen mightna hae been the minister's wife this day, if\nye had been mair mindfu o' Minniegaff and yer auld friends.\"\n\nThe secret which was paining Willie was now fully revealed. The sad\ntruth that he had lost her of whom he had dreamed for years in foreign\nlands, and to see whom he had journeyed night and day, with the hope of\nbeing blessed at the termination of his journey, was fully disclosed.\nWith not again seeing Elizabeth, he had laid his account; but that he\nshould lose Helen had never once entered his mind; and the intelligence,\naccompanied as it was with the painful vision of seeing her a mother,\nwith the pledge of her love for another sitting smiling on her knee,\nwas too painful to be endured. For some time he again sat silent and\nmoody; but the evil was of that irremediable nature that often\ncontributes to its cure; and, as the first emotion wore off, he\ngratified his auditors with a statement of what had befallen himself\nsince he left Minniegaff.\n\n\"It was with a trusty servant I left Elizabeth to join my father in\nLondon, who had come over from his long exile in the train of King\nWilliam. Upon my arrival, I was received with rapture by my beloved\nparent, and introduced to my sovereign. Proper masters were engaged to\nfinish my education. As soon as I was thought ready, I received a\ncaptain's commission in the army, and set out with my regiment for\nIreland. I was present at the battle of the Boyne, where my uncle\nfell--he having joined the army of James; and my father became, by this\nevent, the representative of the family. Being in favour with the court,\nthe attainder was reversed. I rose rapidly, and had important trusts\ncommitted to my charge, which required my utmost vigilance. My mind was\nso occupied with public affairs, that I had little time for indulging in\nmy own private feelings. I heard of the sufferings in Scotland, and\nwrote twice; but these letters appear not to have reached, as I received\nno answer. I could not send a special messenger, as I was in another\ncountry, and had no one I could with confidence trust. I was also in\nhopes, from year to year, of being relieved, and coming in person; and\nthus twelve tedious years have rolled on.\"\n\nWillie had just finished, when Helen's husband entered, and was\nintroduced by her. Willie shook hands with him, but not with that\ncordiality he had done with the former. There was during tea a\nconstraint, which gradually wore off; and mutual confidence being\nrestored, they were as open with each other and kind, as if they had\nlong been friends. The minister said that he had papers in his\npossession which Elizabeth had left in Helen's charge, and which he and\nHelen had read, as Elizabeth had allowed; and mentioned the strange\nsurmises he had regarding the connection his wife had with them. Willie\nlistened in mute astonishment, and the conflict that was passing in his\nmind was strongly marked upon his open and generous countenance.\n\n\"It cannot be,\" he said at length; \"for my uncle always declared that he\nhad sent his child to France by a trusty agent, from whence he had\nletters of their safe arrival. He showed these letters to the relations\nof his wife, my aunt-in-law, but never would inform them where he had\nplaced her, or who the agent was. My aunt, who is still alive, has used\nevery effort to learn its fate, in vain, and still mourns the loss of\nher babe.\"\n\nThe minister afterwards walked over to the manse and brought the papers.\nWillie at once recognised the handwriting as that of his aunt. Rising,\nhe embraced Helen, kissed her cheek, and owned her for his cousin. Next\nmorning his servant was sent off express to H---- Castle, with a packet\nto his aunt, who had for several years resided there--having given up\nher fruitless search on the Continent. In a few days she arrived at the\nmanse, and embraced Helen as her long-lost daughter. The scrap of paper\nshe kissed again and again, as the means of her present happiness. The\nsilken dress in which Helen was found had been carefully preserved. She\nhad sewed it with her own hand, and it had been last put on by herself;\nfor Grizzel thought it too fine for her to wear. Not a doubt remained.\nWillie, the widow's son, joined the army again, and made a conspicuous\nfigure in the wars of Queen Anne. Helen's mother took up her residence\nin the manse, and once more, in the close of her life, enjoyed that\nhappiness in her grandchildren's infancy she had been denied in her own.\nThe unfeigned piety and example of her daughter and her husband\ngradually weaned her from her early faith, which had been much shaken,\nin her melancholy hours, by the studies she had pursued to solace her\ngrief. Till her death she was a devout member of her son-in-law's flock,\nand is yet remembered to have been heard talked of as the Good Lady.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ORDER OF THE GARTER.\n\nA STORY OF WARK CASTLE.\n\n\nA little above Coldstream, on the south side of the Tweed, stands the\nvillage of Wark, where a walled mound is all that remains to point out\nwhere its proud castle once stood. \"We know that,\" some dweller on the\nBorders may exclaim; \"but what has Wark Castle to do with the Order of\nthe Garter?\" Our answer to this question simply is, that, if tradition\nmay be trusted, or the historian Froissart believed, but for Wark\nCastle, and there would have been no Order of the Garter. But this the\nfollowing story will show:--It was early in the autumn of 1342 that\nDavid Bruce, King of Scotland, led an army across the Borders, and laid\nwaste the towns and villages of Northumberland, as far as Newcastle. The\ninvading army seized upon the cattle, the flocks, the goods, and the\ngold of the Northumbrians; and they were returning, overladen with\nspoils, when they passed within two miles of Wark Castle, which was then\nthe property of the Earl of Salisbury. The earl was absent; but, on the\nhighest turret of the castle, stood his countess, the peerless Joan\nPlantagenet, daughter of the Earl of Kent, and cousin of King Edward.\nHer fair cheeks glowed, and her bright eyes flashed indignation, as she\nbeheld the long line of the Scottish army pass by, laden with the\nplunder of her countrymen.\n\n\"Am not I a Plantagenet?\" she exclaimed--\"flows not the blood of England\nin my veins?--and shall I tamely behold our enemies parade the spoils of\nmy country before mine eyes? Ho! warden!\" she continued, in a louder\ntone, \"send hither Sir William Montague.\"\n\nSir William was the brother of her husband, and the governor of the\ncastle.\n\n\"Behold!\" said she, sternly, as the governor approached, and pointing\ntowards the Scottish army. \"Is it well that we should look like\nimprisoned doves upon yon rebel host? Or shall ye, Sir Governor,\ndischarge your duty to your sovereign, if ye strike not one blow for\nEngland and revenge?\"\n\n\"Fair sister,\" returned the knight, \"ere an hour after nightfall, and\nthe cry, 'For England and the Rose of Wark!' shall burst as the shout of\ndeath upon the ears of our enemies. A troop of forty horsemen wait but\nmy word to become the messengers of vengeance.\"\n\n\"Good, my brother,\" she replied, while her former frown relaxed into a\nsmile; \"and each man who hath done his duty shall, on his return, drink\na cup of wine from the hands of Joan Plantagenet.\"\n\nDarkness began to gather round the turrets of the castle, and on the\nhighest the gentle figure of the countess was still indistinctly\nvisible; now walking round it with impatient steps, and again gazing\neagerly to obtain another glance of the Scottish army, or counting the\nfires which sprung up along the lines where it had encamped for the\nnight, when Sir William and forty of the garrison, mounted on fleet\nsteeds, sallied from the gate of the outer wall.\n\n\"Our ladye speed ye, gallant hearts!\" said the fair Joan, as she beheld\nthem sweep past like a dark cloud on their work of blood.\n\nThe Scottish army were encamped a little beyond Carham, carousing around\ntheir fires from flagons filled with the best wine they had found in the\ncellars of the Northumbrian nobility; over the fires, suspended from\npoles, were skins of sheep and of bullocks, rudely sewed into the form\nof bags, and filled with water--these served them as pots, and the flesh\nof the animals was boiled in their own skins. Amongst the revellers were\nveterans who had fought by the side of Wallace and Bruce; and, while\nsome recounted the deeds of the patriot, and inspired their comrades\nwith accounts of his lion-like courage and prodigious strength, others,\nwith the goblet in hand, fought Bannockburn o'er again. Thus the song,\nthe jest, the laugh, the tale of war, and the wine-cup went round,\namidst the bustle of culinary preparations, and each man laid his arms\naside, and gave himself up to enjoyment and security.\n\nSuddenly there arose upon their mirth the trampling and the neighing of\nwar-steeds, the clang of shields, and the shouts of armed men, and naked\nswords gleamed through the fire-light. \"For England and the Rose of\nWark!\" exclaimed Sir William Montague--\"For England and our ladye!\"\nechoed his followers. They rushed through the Scottish lines like a\nwhirlwind, trampling the late revellers beneath their horses' feet, and\nfleshing their swords in the bodies of unarmed men. For a time they left\ncarnage behind them, and spread consternation before them.\n\nThe surprise and panic of the Scottish army, however, were of short\nduration. \"To horse!--to horse!\" rang through the camp, and they began\nto enclose the small but desperate band of assailants on every side.\n\n\"England is revenged! To the castle with our spoils!\" cried Sir William;\nand they retreated towards Wark, carrying with them a hundred and sixty\nhorses laden with plunder, while the Scots pursued them to the very\ngates. The countess hastened to the outer gate to meet them; and as, by\nthe torches borne by her attendants, she surveyed the number of horses\nthey had taken, and the rich booty which they bore--\n\n\"Thanks, Sir William!\" cried she--\"thanks, my gallant countrymen--ye\nhave done bravely; merry England hath still its chivalrous and stout\nhearts upon the Borders. To-night shall each man pledge his ladye love\nin the ruddy wine.\"\n\nBut there was one who welcomed Sir William Montague's return with\nsilent tears--the gentle Madeline Aubrey, the companion of Joan\nPlantagenet, and the orphan daughter of a valiant knight, who had won\nhis golden spurs by the side of the first Edward, and laid down his life\nin defence of his imbecile son. Madeline was, perhaps, less beautiful\nthan the countess; but her very looks spoke love--love, ardent, tender,\nand sincere. Hers was the beauty of the summer moon kissing the quiet\nlake, when the nightingale offers up its song--lovely and serene; Joan's\nwas as the sun flashing upon the gilded sea--receiving the morning\nworship of the lark, and demanding admiration.\n\n\"Wherefore are ye sad, my sweet Madeline?\" said Sir William, tenderly,\nas he drew off his gauntlet, and took her fair hand in his. \"Joy ye not\nthat I have returned sound in life and limb?\"\n\n\"Yes, I joy that my William is safe,\" answered Madeline; \"but will our\nsafety last? Think ye not that ye have done desperately, and that the\nScottish king, with to-morrow's sun, will avenge the attack ye have made\non his camp to-night?\"\n\n\"St George! and I pray he may!\" added Sir William. \"I am the dependant\nof my brother, with no fortune but my sword; and I should glory, beneath\nthe eyes of my Madeline, to win such renown as would gain a dowery\nworthy of her hand.\"\n\n\"When that hand is given,\" added she, \"your Madeline will seek no honour\nbut her William's heart.\"\n\n\"Well, sweetest,\" rejoined he, \"I know that ye rejoice not in the\ntournament, nor delight in the battle-field; yet would ye mourn to see\nyour own true knight vanquished in the one, or turn craven on the other.\nLet Scotland's king besiege us if he will, and then with this good sword\nshall I prove my love for Madeline.\"\n\n\"Madeline is an orphan,\" added she, \"and the sword hath made her such.\nShe knows your courage as she knows your love, and she asks no farther\nproofs. The deed of chivalry may make the ladye proud of her knight, but\nit cannot win her affection.\"\n\n\"Well, sweet one,\" said he, playfully, \"I should love to see thy pretty\nface in a monk's cowl, for thou dost preach of peace right potently. But\ncome, love, wherefore are ye so sad--what troubles thee?\"\n\n\"'Tis for you I fear,\" she replied. \"I know your daring, and I know that\ndanger threatens us; and oh! Madeline's hands could not deck your bosom\nfor the battle; though, in her own breast, she would receive the stroke\nof death to shield it. For my sake, be not too rash; for oh! in the\nsilent hours of midnight--when the spirits of the dead visit the earth,\nand the souls of the living mingle with them in dreams--I have seen my\nfather and my mother, and they have seemed to weep over their\norphan--they have called on me to follow them; and I have thought of\nyou, and the shout of the battle, and the clash of swords have mingled\nin my ears; and when I would have clasped your hands, the shroud has\nappeared my bridal garment.\"\n\n\"Come, love, 'tis an idle fancy,\" said he, tenderly; \"dream no more. But\nthat they have mewed me up in this dull castle, where honour seeks me\nnot, and reward awaits not, and ere now my Madeline had worn her\nwedding-garment. But cheer up; for your sake I will not be rash, though,\nfor that fair brow I would win a coronet.\"\n\n\"'Tis an honour that I covet not,\" said she; \"nor would I risk thy\nsafety for a moment to wear a crown.\"\n\nMadeline was right in her apprehension that King David would revenge the\nattack that had been made upon the rear of his army. When, with the\nmorning sun, he beheld two hundred of his soldiers lying dead upon the\nground--\"Now, by my halidome,\" said he, \"and for this outrage, I will\nnot leave one stone of Wark Castle upon another, but its ruins shall\nrise as a cairn over the graves of these men.\"\n\nBefore noon, the entire Scottish host were encamped around the castle;\nand the young king sent a messenger to the gates, demanding the countess\nand Sir William to surrender.\n\n\"Surrender! boasting Scot!\" said the chivalrous Joan; \"doth your boy\nking think that a Plantagenet will yield to a Bruce! Back and tell him\nthat, ere a Scot among ye enter these gates, ye shall tread Joan\nPlantagenet in the dust; and the bodies of the bravest of your army\nshall fill the ditches of the castle, that their comrades may pass\nover.\"\n\n\"I take not my answer from a woman's tongue,\" replied the herald; \"what\nsay ye, Sir Governor? Do ye surrender in peace, or choose ye that we\nraze Wark Castle with the ground?\"\n\n\"If King David can, he may,\" was the brief and bold reply of Sir William\nMontague; \"yet it were better for him that he should have tarried in\nScotland until his beard be grown, than that he should attempt it.\"\n\n\"Ye speak boldly,\" answered the herald; \"but ye shall not fare the\nworse, by reason of your free speech, when a passage shall be made\nthrough these walls for the Scottish army to enter.\"\n\nThe messenger having intimated the refusal of the governor to surrender\nto his prince, preparations were instantly made to commence the siege.\nThe besieged, however, did not behold the preparations of their enemies\nand remain inactive. Every means of defence was got in readiness. The\ncountess hastened from post to post, inspiring the garrison with words\nof heroism, and stimulating them with rewards. Even the gentle Madeline\nshowed that her soul could rise with the occasion worthy of a soldier's\nlove; and she, too, went from man to man, cheering them on, and with her\nsweet and silver tones seemed to rob even death of half its terror. Sir\nWilliam's heart swelled with delight as he beheld her mild eye lighted\nup with enthusiasm, and heard her voice, which was as music to his ear,\ngiving courage to the faint-hearted, and heroism to the brave.\n\n\"Heaven bless my Madeline!\" said he, taking her hand; \"ye have taught me\nto know what true courage is, and our besiegers shall feel it. They may\nraze the walls of the castle with the ground, as they have threatened;\nbut it shall be at a price that Scotland can never forget; and even\nthen, my Madeline shall be safe. Farewell now, love, but as night\ngathers round, we must again prepare to assume the part of assailants.\"\n\n\"You must!--I know you must!\" she replied; \"yet be not too rash--attempt\nnot more than a brave man ought--or all may be lost; you, too, may\nperish, and who, then, would protect your Madeline?\"\n\nHe pressed her hand to his breast--again he cried, \"Farewell!\" and,\nhastening to a troop of horsemen who only waited his commands to sally\nfrom the gate upon the camp of their besiegers, the drawbridge was let\ndown, and, at the head of his followers, he dashed upon the nearest\npoint of the Scottish army. Deadly was the carnage which, for a time,\nthey spread around; and, as they were again driven back and pursued to\nthe gate, their own dead and their wounded were left behind. Frequently\nand suddenly were such sallies made, as the falcon watcheth its\nopportunity and darteth on its prey, and as frequently were they driven\nback, but never without leaving proof to the Scottish monarch at what a\ndesperate price Wark Castle was to be purchased. Frequently, too, as\nthey rushed forth, the countess eagerly and impatiently beheld them from\nthe turrets; and, as the harvest-moon broke upon their armour, she\nseemed to watch every flash of their swords, waving her hand with\nexultation, or raising her voice in a strain of triumph. But by her side\nstood Madeline, gazing, not less eagerly, and not less interested, on\nthe work of danger and despair; but her eyes were fixed upon one\nonly--the young leader of the chivalrous band who braved death for\nEngland and their ladye's sake. She also watched the flashing of the\nswords; but her eyes sought those only which glanced where the brightest\nhelmet gleamed and the proudest plume waved. Often the contest was\nbeneath the very walls of the castle, and she could hear her lover's\nvoice, and behold him dashing as a thunderbolt into the midst of his\nenemies.\n\nObstinate, however, as the resistance of the garrison was, and bloody as\nthe price, indeed, seemed at which the castle was to be purchased, David\nhad too much of the Bruce in his blood to abandon the siege. He began to\nfill the ditches, and he ordered engines to be prepared to batter down\nthe walls. The ditches were filled, and, before the heavy and ponderous\nblows of the engines, a breach was made in the outer wall, and with a\nwild shout a thousand of the Scottish troops rushed into the outer\ncourt.\n\n\"Joan Plantagenet disdains ye still!\" cried the dauntless countess.\n\"Quail not, brave hearts,\" she exclaimed, addressing the garrison, who,\nwith deadly aim, continued showering their arrows upon the besiegers;\n\"before I yield, Wark Castle shall be my funeral pile!\"\n\n\"And mine!\" cried Sir William, as an arrow glanced from his hand, and\nbecame transfixed in the visor of one of the Scottish leaders.\n\nMadeline glanced towards him, and her eyes, yet beaming with courage,\nseemed to say, \"_And mine!_\"\n\n\"And ours!\" exclaimed the garrison--\"and ours!\" they repeated more\nvehemently; and, waving their swords, \"Hurrah!\" cried they, \"for our\nladye, St George, and merry England!\"\n\nIt was the shout of valiant but despairing men. Yet, as the danger rose,\nand as hope became less and less, so rose the determination of the\ncountess. She was present to animate at every place of assault. She\ndistributed gold amongst them; her very jewels she gave in presents to\nthe bravest; but, though they had shed much of the best blood in the\nScottish army, their defence was hopeless, and their courage could not\nsave them. Almost their last arrow was expended, and they were repelling\ntheir assailants from the inner wall with their spears, when _Want_, the\nmost formidable enemy of the besieged, began to assail them from within.\n\nIt was now that the gentle Madeline, when Sir William endeavoured to\ninspire her with hope, replied, \"I fear not to die--to die with\nyou!--but tell me not of hope--it is not to be found in the courage of\nthe brave garrison, whom famine is depriving of their strength. There is\none hope for us--only one; but it is a desperate hope, and I would\nrather die than risk the life of another.\"\n\n\"Nay, name it, dearest,\" said Sir William, eagerly; \"and if the heart or\nhand of man can accomplish it, it shall be attempted.\"\n\nMadeline hesitated.\n\n\"Speak, silly one,\" said the countess, who had overheard them--\"where\nlies your hope? Could true knight die in nobler cause? Name it: for I\nwot ye have a wiser head than a bold heart.\"\n\n\"Name it, do, dear Madeline,\" entreated Sir William.\n\n\"King Edward is now in Yorkshire,\" she replied; \"could a messenger be\ndespatched to him, the castle might hold out until he hastened to our\nassistance.\"\n\n\"St George! and 'tis a happy thought!\" replied the countess. \"I have not\nseen my cousin Edward since we were children together; but how know ye\nthat he is in Yorkshire? I expected that, ere now, he was conquering the\nhearts of the dark-eyed dames of Brittany, while his arms conquered the\ncountry.\"\n\n\"In dressing the wounds of the aged Scottish nobleman,\" answered\nMadeline, \"who was yesterday brought into the castle, he informed me.\"\n\n\"What think _ye_ of _your_ fair ladye's plan for our deliverance, good\nbrother?\" inquired the countess, addressing the governor.\n\n\"Madeline said it would be a desperate attempt,\" replied he,\nthoughtfully--\"and it would, indeed, be desperate--it is impossible.\"\n\n\"Out on thy knighthood, man!\" rejoined the countess. \"Is this the\nfar-famed chivalry of Sir William Montague? Why, it is the proposition\nof your own fair ladye, whom, verily, ye cannot believe chivalrous to a\nfault. But is it to Joan Plantagenet that ye talk of impossibilities? I\nwill stake thee my dowery against fair Madeline's, I find a hundred men\nin this poor garrison ready to dare and do what you declare impossible.\"\n\n\"You find not _two_, fair sister,\" said Sir William, proudly.\n\n\"Oh, say not _one_--not _one_!\" whispered Madeline, earnestly.\n\nUpon every man in the castle did the countess urge the dangerous\nmission--she entreated, she threatened, she offered the most liberal,\nthe most tempting rewards; but the boldest rejected them with dismay.\n\nThe Scottish army lay encompassing them around--their sentinels were\nupon the watch almost at every step, and to venture beyond the gate of\nthe castle seemed but to meet death and to seek it.\n\n\"At midnight have my fleetest horse in readiness,\" said Sir William,\naddressing his attendant--\"what no man dare, I will!\"\n\n\"My brother!--thanks!--thanks!\" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of\njoy.\n\nMadeline clasped her hands together--her cheeks became pale--her voice\nfaltered--she burst into tears.\n\n\"Weep not, loved one,\" said Sir William; \"the heavens favour the\nenterprise which my Madeline conceived. Should the storm increase, there\nis hope--it is possible--it will be accomplished.\" And, while he yet\nspoke, the lightning glared along the walls of the castle, and the loud\nthunder pealed over the battlements. Yet Madeline wept, and repented\nthat she had spoken of the possibility of deliverance.\n\nAs it drew towards midnight, the terrors of the storm increased, and the\nfierce hail poured down in sheets and rattled upon the earth; the\nthunder almost incessantly roared louder and more loud; or, when it\nceased, the angry wind moaned through the woods, like a chained giant in\nthe grasp of an enemy; and the impenetrable darkness was rendered more\ndismal by the blue glare of the lightning flashing to and fro.\n\nSilently the castle gate was unbarred; and Sir William, throwing himself\ninto the saddle, dashed his spurs into the sides of his courser, which\nbounded off at its utmost speed, followed by the adieux of his\ncountrymen, and the prayers and the tears of Madeline. The gate was\nscarce barred behind him ere he was dashing through the midst of the\nScottish host. But the noise of the warring elements drowned the\ntrampling of his horse's feet, or where they were indistinctly heard for\na few moments, the sound had ceased, and the horse and its rider were\ninvisible, ere the sentinels, who had sought refuge from the fury of the\nstorm in the tents, could perceive them.\n\nHe passed through the Scottish lines in safety; and, proceeding by way\nof Morpeth and Newcastle, on the third day he reached the camp of King\nEdward, near Knaresborough. The gay and chivalrous monarch, at the head\nof a portion of his army, like a true knight, hastened to the relief of\nhis distressed cousin.\n\nDavid, however, having heard of the approach of Edward, at the head of\nan army more numerous than his own, and his nobles representing to him\nthat the rich and weighty booty which they had taken in their inroad\ninto England, together with the oxen and the horses, would be awkward\nencumbrances in a battle, he reluctantly abandoned the siege of the\ncastle, and commenced his march towards Jed Forest, about six hours\nbefore the arrival of Edward and Sir William Montague.\n\nMadeline took the hand of her lover as he entered, and tears of silent\njoy fell down her cheeks; but the countess forgot to thank him, in her\neagerness to display her beauty and her gratitude in the eyes of her\nsovereign and kinsman. The young monarch gazed, enraptured, on the fair\nface of his lovely cousin; and it was evident, while he gazed in her\neyes, he thought not of gentle Philippa, the wife of his boyhood; nor\nwas it less evident that she, flattered by the gallantry of her princely\nrelative, forgot her absent husband, though in the presence of his\nbrother. Edward, finding that it would be imprudent to follow the\nScottish army into the forest, addressing the countess, said, \"Our\nknights expected, fair coz, to have tried the fair temper of their\nlances on the Scottish shields, but, as it may not be, in honour of your\ndeliverance, to-morrow we proclaim a tournament to be held in the\ncastle-yard, when each true knight shall prove on the morion of his\nantagonist whose ladye-love is the fairest.\"\n\nThe eyes of the countess flashed joy; and she smiled, well pleased at\nthe proposal of the sovereign; but Madeline trembled as she heard it.\n\nEarly on the following morning the castle-yard was fitted up for the\ntournament. The monarch and the countess were seated on a dais covered\nwith a purple canopy, and the latter held in her hand a ring which\ngleamed as a morning star, and which the monarch had taken from his\nfinger, that she might bestow it upon the victor. Near their feet sat\nMadeline, an unwilling spectator of the conflict. The names of the\ncombatants were known to the pursuivants only, and each entered the\nlists armed with lance and spear, with their visors down, and having,\nfor defence, a shield, a sort of cuirass, the helmet, gauntlet, and\ngorget. Several knights had been wounded, and many dismounted; but the\ninterest of the day turned upon the combat of two who already had each\ndiscomfited three. They contended long and keenly; their strength, their\nskill, their activity seemed equal. Victory hung suspended between them.\n\n\"Our ladye!\" exclaimed the monarch, rising with delight; \"but they fight\nbravely! Who may they be? Were it not that he cannot yet be in England,\nI should say the knight in dark armour is Sir John Aubrey.\"\n\nMadeline uttered a suppressed scream, and cast round a look of mingled\nagony and surprise at the monarch; but the half-stifled cry was drowned\nby the spectators, who, at that moment, burst into a shout; the knight\nin dark armour was unhorsed--his conqueror suddenly placed his lance to\nhis breast, but as suddenly withdrew it; and, stretching out his mailed\nhand to the other, said, \"Rise, mine equal! 'twas thy horse's fault, and\nnone of thine, that chance gave me the victory, though I wished it\nmuch.\" The conqueror of the day approached the canopy beneath which the\nmonarch and the countess sat, and, kneeling before the dais, received\nthe ring from her hands. While she had held the splendid bauble in her\nhands during the contest, conscious of her own beauty, of which Border\nminstrel and foreign troubadour had sung, she expected, on placing it in\nthose of the victor, to behold it in homage laid again at her feet. But\nit was not so. The knight, on receiving it, bowed his head, and,\nstepping back again, knelt before the more lowly seat of Madeline.\n\n\"Accept this, dear Madeline,\" whispered he; and she blushed and startled\nat the voice which she knew and loved. The countess cast a glance of\nenvy on her companion as she beheld the victor at her feet; yet it was\nbut one, which passed away as the young monarch poured his practised\nflatteries in her ear.\n\nThe king commanded that the two last combatants should raise their\nvisors. The victor, still standing by the side of Madeline, obeyed. It\nwas Sir William Montague.\n\n\n\"Ha! Montague!\" said the monarch, \"it is you! Well, for your gallant\nbearing to-day, you shall accompany us to France--we shall need such\nhands as thine to secure the sceptre of our lawful kingdom. But what\nmodest flower is this that ye deck with your hard-won diamond?\" added\nhe, glancing towards Madeline; and, without waiting a reply, he turned\nto the countess, saying, \"Is she of thy suite, dear coz? She hath a fair\nface, worthy the hand-maiden of beauty's queen.\"\n\nThe countess liked not his inquiries, but, nevertheless, was flattered\nby the compliment with which he concluded; and she replied that she was\nthe orphan daughter of her father's friend, and the worshipful divinity\nof Sir William. The other combatant now approached also; and, kneeling\nin front of the dais, raised his visor.\n\n\"Aubrey!\" exclaimed the monarch.\n\n\"My brother!\" cried Madeline, starting to his side.\n\n\"Your brother?\" responded Sir William.\n\n\"What! my little Madeline a woman?\" replied the stranger. \"Bless thee,\nmy own sister!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the monarch, \"the paragon of our tournament the sister\nof bold Aubrey? And you, too, the combatant against her chosen champion!\nHad ye spilled blood on either side, this day's sport might have spoiled\na bridal. But whence come ye, Aubrey, and when?\"\n\n\"My liege,\" replied the other, \"having arrived at Knaresborough on the\nday after the departure of your majesty, I hastened hither to inform\nyour grace that France lies open to our arms, and our troops are eager\nto embark.\"\n\nIn a few days Edward left Wark, leaving behind him a powerful garrison\nfor the defence of the castle; but he had left it desolate to poor\nMadeline, for he had taken to accompany him, on his invasion of France,\nher betrothed husband and her brother. That brother whom she had met but\nthree days before, she had not seen from childhood--nor was she certain\nthat he lived--for he had been a soldier from his boyhood, and his life\nhad been spent in the camp and in foreign wars; while she had been\nnurtured under the protection of the Countess of Salisbury.\n\nIt was about seven years after the events we have alluded to had\noccurred, that Edward, covered with all the fame of a conqueror, if not\nthe advantages of conquest, returned to England. During his victories\nand the din of war, however, he had not forgotten the beauty of his fair\ncousin, whose glances had bewildered him at Wark Castle; and now, when\nhe returned, his admiration was renewed, and she appeared as the first\nfavourite of his court. He had provided a royal banquet for the nobles\nand the knights who had distinguished themselves during the French wars.\nA thousand lights blazed in the noble hall--martial music pealed\naround--and hundreds of the brightest eyes in England looked love and\ndelight. The fairest and the noblest in the land thronged the assembly.\nJewels sparkled and studded the gorgeous apparel of the crowd. In the\nmidst of the hall walked the gay and courtly monarch, with the fair Joan\nof Salisbury resting on his arm. They spoke of their first meeting at\nWark, of the siege and the tournament, and again they whispered, and\nhands were pressed, and looks exchanged; and, while they walked\ntogether, a blue garter, decked with gold, pearls, and precious stones,\nand which, with a golden buckle, had fastened the sandal of the fair\nJoan round the best-turned ankle in the hall, became loose and entangled\namong her feet. The countess blushed; and the monarch, with the easy\nunembarrassment and politeness of a practised gallant, stooped to fasten\nthe unfortunate riband. As the nobles beheld the sovereign kneel with\nthe foot of the fair countess on his knee, a hardly suppressed smile\nran through the assembly. But, observing the smile upon the face of his\nnobles, the monarch rose proudly, and, with the garter in his hand,\nexclaimed, \"_Honi soit qui mal y pense_!\"--\"Shame be to him who thinks\nill of it!\" and buckling the garter round his left knee, he added, \"Be\nthis the Order of St George!--and the proudest monarchs and most valiant\nknights in Christendom shall be proud to be honoured with the emblem of\nthy garter, fair coz.\"\n\nScarce, however, was the royal banquet closed, when the voice of\nlamentation was heard in every house, though the mourners went not about\nthe streets; for the living feared to follow their dead to the\nsepulchre. The angel of death breathed upon the land; he stretched out\nhis wings and covered it--at his breath the land sickened--beneath the\nshadow of his wings the people perished. The green fields became as a\nwilderness, and death and desolation reigned in the market-places. Along\nthe streets moved cavalcades of the dead--the hearse of the noble and\nthe car of the citizen; and the dead bodies of the poor were picked up\nupon the streets! The churchyards rose as hills, and fields were turned\nup for the dead! The husband fled from his dying wife; the mother feared\nto kiss her own child; and the bridegroom turned in terror from her who\nwas to have been his bride upon the morn. There was no cry heard but\n\"The dead!--the dead!\" The plague walked in silence, sweeping its\nmillions from the earth, laughing at the noisy slaughter of the sword,\nmaking kings to tremble, and trampling upon conquerors as dust.\n\nSuch was the state of London, when Sir William Montague and Sir John\nAubrey arrived from France. In every street they met the long trains of\nthe dead being borne to their grave; but the living had deserted them;\nand, if they met an occasional passenger, fear and paleness were upon\nhis face. They hurried along the streets in silence--for each would have\nconcealed his thoughts from the other--but the thoughts of both were of\nMadeline; and the one trembled lest he should find his betrothed, the\nother his sister, with the dead! They proceeded to the house of the\nDuchess of Salisbury; but they were told that she had fled, to seek a\nplace of refuge from the destroying glance of the pestilence. From the\ndomestics, however, they learned that Madeline had ceased to be the\ncompanion of the duchess; but they were also directed where they would\nfind her, with a friend in the city--if she yet lived! But, added their\ninformants, they had heard that, in the street which they named, the\ninhabitants died faster than the living could bury them. When the\nhaughty Joan became the acknowledged favourite of the king, she was no\nlonger a meet friend or protector to the gentle Madeline; and the latter\nhad taken up her residence in the house of a merchant, who, in his\nyouth, had fought by her father's side; and where, if she enjoyed not\nthe splendour and the luxuries of wealth, neither was she clothed with\nthe trappings of shame.\n\nWith anxious steps the betrothed husband and the brother hastened to the\ndwelling of the merchant. They reached it.\n\n\"Doth Madeline Aubrey reside here?\" inquired they in the same breath.\n\"Does she live?--does she live?\"\n\n\"She doth reside here,\" answered the citizen, \"and--the saints be\npraised!--good Madeline hath escaped, with my whole house; and I believe\nit is for her sake, though she feareth no more the breath of the\npestilence, than though it were healthsome as the summer breeze bearing\nthe fragrance of the May-thorn. But, belike, ye would speak with her,\ngentlemen--ye may step in, good sirs, and wait till her return.\"\n\nHer brother started back.\n\n\"Gracious Heaven! can my Madeline be abroad at a time like this!\"\nexclaimed Sir William, \"when men tremble to meet each other, and the\nhands of friends convey contagion! Can ye inform us, good man, where we\nshall find her?\"\n\n\"Nay, that I cannot,\" answered he; \"for, as I have told ye, sweet\nMadeline feareth not the plague, but walketh abroad as though it existed\nnot; and now, doubtless, she is soothing the afflicted, or handing a cup\nof water to the dying stranger, whom his own kindred have fled from and\nforsaken, when the evil came upon him. But, as ye seem acquainted with\nher, will not ye tarry till she come?\"\n\nThey gazed towards each other with horror and with fear; yet, in the\nmidst of their apprehensions and dismay, each admired the more than\ncourage of her of whom Joan Plantagenet had said that she had more\nwisdom of head than boldness of heart. They entered the house, and they\nsat down together in silence. Slowly, wearily the moments passed on,\neach strengthening anxiety, each pregnant with agony.\n\n\"She may never return!\" groaned Sir William; \"for the healthy have been\nsmitten down upon the streets; and the wretched hirelings, who make a\nharvest of death, have borne to the same grave the dying with the dead!\"\n\nAt length a light footstep was heard upon the stairs. They started to\ntheir feet. The door opened, and Madeline, more beautiful than ever they\nhad beheld her, stood before them.\n\n\"My own!--my Madeline!\" cried Sir William, hastening to meet her.\n\n\"My sister!\" exclaimed her brother.\n\nHer head rested on the bosom of those she loved; and, in the rapture of\nthe moment, the pestilence and the desolation that reigned around were\nforgotten. At length, the danger to which she had exposed herself\nrecurring to his mind--\n\n\"Let us flee from this horrid charnel-house, dearest,\" said Sir\nWilliam, \"to where our bridal may not be mingled with sights of wo, and\nwhere the pestilence pursueth not its victims. Come, my own--my\nbetrothed--my Madeline, let us haste away.\"\n\n\"Wherefore would my William fly?\" said she--and a smile of joy and of\nconfidence played upon her lips; \"have ye not defied death from the\nsword and the spear, and braved it as it sped with the swift-flying\narrow, and would ye turn and flee from the pestilence which worketh only\nwhat the sword performs, and what chivalry requires as a sacrifice to\nthe madness of woman's folly? But whither would you flee to escape it?\nBe it south or north, it is there; and east or west, it is there also.\nIf ye flee from the pestilence, would ye flee also from the eye of Him\nwho sends it?\"\n\nAgain they urged her to leave the city; and again she endeavoured to\nsmile; but it died languidly on her lip--the rose on her cheek vanished,\nand her mild eyes in a moment became dim. She sank her head upon the\nbosom of her lover, and her hand rested on the shoulder of her brother.\nThe contagion had entered her heart. A darkening spot gathered upon her\nfair cheek--it was the shadow of the finger of death--the seal of\neternity!\n\n\"My Madeline!\" cried Sir William. \"Merciful Heaven!--spare her! spare\nher!\"\n\n\"Oh, my sister!\" exclaimed her brother, \"have I hastened to my native\nland, but to behold thee die?\"\n\nShe feebly pressed their hands in hers--\"Leave me--leave me, loved\nones!--my William!--my brother!--flee from me!--there is death in the\ntouch of your Madeline!--We shall meet again!\"\n\nThe disease which at that time desolated England was in some respects\npeculiar, even as a plague. The dark spots which so clearly indicated\nthe presence of the spoiler began in a mere darkening of some part of\nthe body; but so virulent was the disease, and so rapid its onset and\ncourse, that even a visitor might perceive the beginning, and mark the\nprogress towards death, during the short period of a call.\n\nThe plague-spot darkened on the cheek of Madeline Aubrey, and, in a few\nhours, she was numbered with its victims.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XIV\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 14","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93148}