{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34152/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34152","id":"gutenberg_34152","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34152","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                     WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS\n\n                            AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n                HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n                            WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n                               REVISED BY\n\n                           ALEXANDER LEIGHTON\n\n              ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.\n\n\nVOL. XV.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nTHE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n    THE DEATH OF JAMES I\n\nTHE CURATE OF GOVAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    I.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE\n    II.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH\n    III.--PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON\n    IV.--THE PERSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS\n\nTHE STORY OF TOM BERTRAM, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_\n\nTHE COTTAR'S DAUGHTER, _(ANON.)_\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n     THE CASE OF EVIDENCE\n\nTHE WARNING, _(ALEXANDER BETHUNE)_\n\nGRIZEL COCHRANE. A TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nSQUIRE BEN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE BATTLE OF DRYFFE SANDS, _(ANON.)_\n\nTHE CLERICAL MURDERER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH.\n\n\n\n\nThere is no feeling more strongly or more generally implanted in the\nhuman breast, than man's love for the place of his nativity. The\nshivering Icelander sees a beauty, that renders them pleasant, in his\nmountains of perpetual snow; and the sunburned Moor discovers a\nloveliness in his sultry and sandy desert. The scenes of our nativity\nbecome implanted on our hearts like the memory of undying dreams; and\nwith them the word _home_ is for ever associated, and\n\n    \"Through pleasures and palaces though we may roam,\n    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.\"\n\nWe cannot forget the place where our eyes first looked upon the glorious\nsun; where the moon was a thing of wonder, the evening companion of our\nchildish gambols, joining with us in the race, and flying through the\nheavens as we ran! where we first listened to the song of the lark,\nreceived the outpourings of a mother's love upon our neck, or saw a\nfather's eyes sparkle with joy as he beheld his happy children around\nhim; where we first breathed affection's tale or heard its vows, and\nperchance were happy, wretched, blessed, or distracted, within a short\nhour. There is a magic influence about nativity that the soul loves to\ncherish. Its woods, its rivers, its hills, its old memories, fling their\nshadows and associations after us, and over us, even to the ends of the\nearth; and while these whisper of our early joys, or of what we fancied\nto be care ere we knew what care was--its churchyard tells us we have a\nportion there--that there our brethren and our kindred sleep. We may be\nabsent from it until our very name is forgotten; yet we love it not the\nless. The man who loves it not hath his affections \"dark as Erebus.\" It\nis a common wish, and it hath patriotism in it, too, that where we drew\nour first breath, there also we should breathe our last. Yet, in this\nworld of changes and vicissitudes, such is not the lot of many. While I\nthus moralise, however, I detain the reader from the Recollections of\nthe Village Patriarch; and as some of the individuals mentioned in his\nreminiscences may be yet living, I shall speak of the place in which he\ndwelt as the village of A----.\n\nThe name of the patriarch was Roger Rutherford. He was in many respects\na singular old man. He was the proprietor of three or four cottages, and\nof some thirty acres of arable land adjoining to them. He was a man of\nconsiderable reading, of some education, and much shrewdness. His years,\nat the period we speak of, were fourscore and four. By general consent,\nhe was a sort of home-made magistrate in the village, and the umpire in\nall the disputes which arose amongst his neighbours. It was common with\nthem to say, instead of going to law, \"We will leave the matter to old\nRoger;\" and the patriarch so managed or balanced his opinions, that he\ngenerally succeeded in pleasing both parties. He was also the living or\nwalking history or chronicle of the village. He could record all the\nchanges that had taken place in it for more than seventy years; and he\ncould speak of all the ups and downs of its inhabitants. What Byron\nbeautifully says of the ocean--\n\n    \"Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow\"--\n\nmight have been said of the memory and intellect of the patriarch. He\nhad also a happy art in telling his village tales, which rendered it\npleasant to listen to the old man.\n\nIt was in the month of August, 1830, and just before the crops were\nready for the sickle, old Roger was sitting, as his custom was (when the\nweather permitted), enjoying his afternoon pipe on a stone seat at the\ndoor, when a genteel-looking stranger, who might be about fifty years of\nage, approached him, and entered into conversation with him. The\nstranger asked many questions concerning the village and its old\ninhabitants, and Roger, eyeing him attentively for the space of a\nminute, said, \"Weel, ye seem to ken something about the town, but I\ncannot charge my memory with having the smallest recollection o' ye;\nhowever, sit down, and I shall inform ye concerning whatever ye wish to\nhear.\"\n\nSo the stranger sat down beside the patriarch on the stone seat by the\ndoor, and he mentioned to him the circumstances respecting which he\nwished to be informed, and the individuals concerning whom he wished to\nlearn tidings. And thus did the old man narrate his recollections, and\nthe tales of\n\nTHE VILLAGE.\n\nI have often thought, sir (he began), that A---- is one of the bonniest\ntowns on all the Borders--indeed I may say in all broad Scotland. I\ndinna suppose ye will find its marrow in England; and I dinna say this\nthrough any prejudice in its favour, or partiality towards it, because I\nwas born in it, and have lived in it now for the better part o'\nfourscore and four years; but I will leave your own eyes to be the\njudge. It is as clean as the hearth-stane of a tidy wife--and there\ncertainly is a great improvement in it, in this respect, since I first\nknew it. There is the bit garden before almost every door, wi'\nvegetables in the middle, flowers alang the edges, a pear or cherry tree\nrunning up the side o' the house, and the sweet, bonny brier mixing wi'\nthe hedges round about. It lies just in the bosom of woods, too, in the\ncentre of a lovely haugh, where the river soughs along, like the echo of\nthe cooing of the cushats in the plantations. The population is four\ntimes what it was when I remember it first, and there are but few of the\nold original residenters left. There have been a great many alterations,\nchanges, and improvements in it, since I first kenned it; but young folk\nwill have young fashions, and it is of no use talking to them. The first\ninroad upon our ancient and primitive habits was made by one Lucky\nRiddle taking out a license to sell whisky, and tippenny, and other\nliquors. She hadna carried on the trade for six months, until a great\nalteration was observable in the morals o' several in the parish. It was\na sad heart-sore to our worthy minister. He once spoke to me o' having\nLucky Riddle summoned before the session. But says I to him--\"Sir, I am\nafraid it is a case in which the session canna interfere. Ye see she has\nout a king's license, and she is contributing to what they call the\nrevenue o' the country; therefore, if she be only acting up to her\nregulations, I doubt we canna interfere, and that we would only bring\nourselves into trouble if we did.\"\n\n\"But, Roger,\" quoth he, \"her strong drink is making weak vessels of some\nof my parishioners. There is Thomas Elliot, and William Archbold, or\nBlithe Willie, as some call him for a by-word; those lads, and a dozen\no' others, I am creditably informed, are there, drinking, singing,\nswearing, fighting, or dancing, night after night; and even Johnny\nGrippy, the miser, that I would have made an elder last year, but on\naccount o' his penuriousness, is said to slip in on the edge o' his foot\nevery morning, to swallow his dram before breakfast! I tell ye, Roger,\nshe is bringing them to ruin faster than I can bring them to a sense o'\nsin--or whatever impression I may make, her liquor is washing away. She\nhas brought a plague amongst us, and it is entering our habitations--it\nis thinning the sanctuary, striking down our strong men, and making\nmothers miserable. Therefore, unless Lucky Riddle will, in the meantime,\nrelinquish her traffic, I think we ought, in duty, to prohibit her from\ncoming forward on the next half-yearly occasion.\"\n\nI was perfectly aware that there was a vast deal o' truth in what the\nminister said, but I thought he was carrying the case to a length that\ncouldna be justified; and I advised him to remember that he was a\nminister o' the gospel, but not o' the law. So all proceedings against\nMrs Riddle were stopped, and her business went on, doing much injury to\nthe minds, bodies, purses, and families, of many in the village.\n\nIt was nae great secret that there were folk, both in and about the\ntown, that had small stills concealed and working about their premises,\nand that there wasna a night but they sent gallons o' spirits owre the\nhills into England; but, by some means or other, government got wit of\nthese clandestine transactions, and the consequence was, that a gauger\nwas sent to live in the village, and three armed soldiers were billeted\non the inhabitants, who had to provide beds for them week about. Naebody\ncared for having men wi' swords and firearms in their house, and they\npreferred paying for their bed at Lucky Riddle's. They were regarded as\nspies, and their appearance caused a great commotion amongst young and\nold. I often feared that the spirit of murmuring would break out into\nopen rebellion; and one morning the soldiers came down from the hills,\ncarrying the gauger, covered wi' blood, and in a state that ye could\nhardly ken life in him. One o' the soldiers also was dreadfully bruised\nabout the head, and his sword was broken through the middle. They\nacknowledged that they had had a terrible battle wi' a party o'\nsmugglers, and rewards were offered for their apprehension. But, though\nmany of our people were then making rapid strides towards depravity,\nthere was none of them so depraved as to sell his neighbour, as Judas\ndid his Master, for a sum of money. None o' us had any great doubts\nabout who had been in the ploy, and some o' our folk werena seen for\nmonths after; and, when inquiries were made concerning them, their\nfriends said they were in England, or the dear kens where--places where\nthey could have no more business than wi' the man o' the moon--but when\nthey came back, some o' them were lamiters for life.\n\nThe next improvement, as they called it, was the building of a strong,\nsquare, flat-roofed house, like a castle in miniature, wi' an\niron-stancheled window, and an oak door that might have resisted the\nattack of a battering-ram. This was intended to be a place of\nconfinement for disorderly persons. A constable was appointed to take\ncare of it, and it often furnished some o' Lucky Riddle's customers with\na night's lodgings. Persons guilty of offences were also confined there,\nuntil they could be removed to the county jail.\n\nThe next thing that followed certainly was an improvement, but it had\nits drawbacks. It was the erection of a woollen manufactory, in which a\ngreat number o' men, women, and bairns, were employed. But they were\nmostly strangers; for our folk were ignorant of the work, and the\nproprietor of the factory brought them someway from the west of England.\nThe auld residenters were swallowed up in the influx of new comers. But\nit caused a great stir about the town, and gave the street quite a new\nappearance. The factory hadna commenced three months, when a rival\nestablishment was set up in opposition to Lucky Riddle, and one\npublic-house followed upon the back of another, until now we have ten of\nthem. As a matter of course, there was a great deal of more money spent\nin the village; and several young lads belonging to it, that had served\ntheir time as shopkeepers in the county town, came and commenced\nbusiness in it, some of them beneath their father's roof, and enlarging\nthe bit window o' six panes--where their mother had exposed thread,\nbiscuits, and gingerbread for sale--into a great bow-window that\nprojected into the street, they there exhibited for sale all that the\neye could desire for dress, or the palate to pet it. Yet, with an\nincrease of trade and money, there also came an increase of crime and a\nlaxity of morals, and vices became common among both sexes that were\nunheard of in my young days. Nevertheless, the evil did not come without\na degree of good to counterbalance it; and, in course of time, besides\nthe kirk, the handsome dissenting meeting-house, that ye would observe\nat the foot of the town, was built. Four schools, besides the\nparish-school, also sprang up, so that every one had education actually\nbrought to their door; but opposition at that time (which was very\nsingular), instead o' lowering, raised the price o' schooling, and he\nthat charged highest got the genteelest school. Then both the kirk and\nthe meeting-house got libraries attached to them, and Luckie Riddle\nfound the libraries by far the most powerful opposition she had had to\ncontend wi'. Some of the youngsters, also, formed what they called a\nMechanics' Institution, and they also got a library, and met for\ninstruction after work hours; and, I declare to ye, that even callants,\nin a manner, became so learned, that I often had great difficulty to\nkeep my ground wi' them; and I have actually heard some of them have the\nimpudence to tell the dominie that taught them their letters, that he\nwas utterly ignorant of all useful learning, and that he knew nothing of\nthe properties of either chemistry or mechanics. When I was a youth,\nalso, I dinna ken if there was a person in the village, save the\nminister, kenned what a newspaper was. Politics never were heard tell of\nuntil about the year seventy-five or eighty, but ever since then, they\nhave been more and more discussed, until now they have divided the whole\ntown into parties, and keep it in a state of perpetual ferment; and now\nthere are not less than five newspapers come from London by the post\nevery day, besides a score of weekly ones on the Saturday. Ye see, sir,\nthat even in my time very great changes and improvements have taken\nplace; and I am free to give it as my opinion, that society is more\nintellectual now than it was when I first kenned it; and, upon the\nwhole, I would say, that mankind, instead of degenerating, are\nimproving. I recollect, that even the street there, ye couldna get\nacross it in the winter season, without lairing knee-deep in a dub; and\nnow ye see, it is all what they call macadamised, and as firm, dry, and\ndurable, as a sheet of iron. In fact, sir, within the last forty years,\nthe improvements and changes in this village alone are past all\nbelief--and the alterations in the place are nothing to what I have seen\nand heard of the ups, and downs, and vicissitudes of its inhabitants.\n\nThe patriarch having finished his account of the village, thus proceeded\nwith the history of the individuals after whom the stranger had\ninquired.\n\n\nTHE LAIRD.\n\nYe have asked me if auld Laird Cochrane be still living at the Ha',\nwhich, for three centuries, was the glory and pride of his ancestors.\nListen, sir, and ye shall hear concerning him. He was born and brought\nup amongst us, and for many years he was a blessing to this part of the\ncountry. The good he did was incalculable. He was owner of two thousand\nacres of as excellent land as ye would have found on all the Borders;\nand I could have defied ony man to hear a poor mouth made throughout the\nwhole length and breadth of his estate. His tenants were all happy,\nweel-to-do, and content. There wasna a murmur amongst them, nor amongst\nall his servants. He was a landlord amongst ten thousand. He was always\ndevising some new scheme or improvement to give employment to the poor;\nand he would as soon have thought of taking away his own life as\ndistressing a tenant. But the longest day has an end, and so had the\ngoodness and benevolence of Laird Cochrane.\n\nIt will be eight-and-twenty years ago, just about this present time,\nthat he took a sort of back-going in his health, and somebody got him\nadvised to go to a place in the south that they call Tunbridge\nWells--one of the places where people that can afford annually to have\nfashionable complaints go to drink mineral waters. He would then be\nabout fifty-two years of age; and the distress of both auld and young in\nthe village was very great at his departure. Men, women, and children\naccompanied him a full mile from the porter's lodge; and when his\ncarriage drove away, there was not one that didna say, \"Heaven bless\nyou!\" On the Sabbath, also, our minister, Mr Anderson, prayed for him\nvery fervidly.\n\nWeel, we heard no more about the laird, nor how the waters agreed wi'\nhis stomach, for the space of about two months, when, to our surprise, a\nrumour got abroad that he was on the eve of being married. Some folk\nlaughed at the report, and made light of it; but I did no such thing;\nfor I remembered the proverb, that \"An auld fool is the worst of all\nfools.\" But, to increase our astonishment, cartloads of furniture, and\nnumbers of upholsterers, arrived from Edinburgh; and the housekeeper and\nbutler received orders to have everything in readiness, in the best\nmanner, for the reception of their new leddy. There was nothing else\ntalked about in the village for a fortnight, and, I believe, nothing\nelse dreamed about. A clap of thunder bursting out on a New-year's\nmorning, ushering in the year, and continuing for a day without\nintermission, could not have surprised us more. There were several\nwidows and auld maids in the parish, that the laird allowed so much\na-year to, and their dinner every Sunday and Wednesday from the Ha'\nkitchen; and they, poor creatures, were in very great distress about the\nmatter. They were principally auld or feckless people; and they were\nafraid, if their benefactor should stop his bounty, that they would be\nleft to perish. Whether they judged by their own dispositions or not, it\nis not for me to say; but certain it is, that one and all of them were\nafraid that his marrying a wife would put an end both to their annuities\nand the dinners which they received twice a-week from his kitchen.\n\nI dinna suppose that there was a great deal the matter wi' the laird\nwhen he went to Tunbridge Wells. Like many others, he wasna weel from\nhaving owre little to do. But he had not been there many days, when his\nfancy was attracted by a dashing young leddy of four or five-and-twenty,\nthe daughter of a gentleman who was a dignitary in the church, but who\nlived up to, and rather beyond, his income, so that, when he should die,\nhis gay family, of whom he had four daughters, would be left penniless.\nThe name of the laird's intended was Jemima, and she certainly was a\npretty woman, and what ye would call a handsome one; but there was a\nhaughtiness about her looks, and a boldness in her carriage, which were\nfar from being becoming in a woman. Her looks and carriage, however,\nwere not her worst fault. She had been taken to the Wells by her mamma,\nas she termed her mother, for the express purpose of being\nexhibited--much after the same manner as cattle are exhibited at a\nfair--to see whether any bachelor or widower would make proposals. Our\ngood laird was smitten, sighed, was accepted, and sealed the marriage\ncontract.\n\nThe marriage took place immediately, but he didna arrive at the Ha' wi'\nhis young wife till the following June. When they did arrive, her\nfather, the divine, was wi' them; and, within a week, there was a\ncomplete overturning of the whole establishment, from head to foot. They\ncame in two speck-and-span-new carriages, shining like the sun wi'\nsilver ornaments. They brought also a leddy's-maid wi' them, that wore\nher veils, and her frills, and her fal-de-rals; and the housekeeper\ndeclared that, for the first eight days, she didna ken her mistress from\nthe maid; for miss imitated madam, and both took such airs upon\nthemselves, that the auld body was confounded, and curtsied to both\nwithout distinction, for fear of making a mistake. They also brought a\nman-servant wi' them, that couldna speak a word like a Christian, nor\nutter a word but in some heathenish foreign tongue. Within a week the\nauld servants were driven about from the right hand to the left, and\nfrom the left to the right. The incomers ordered them to do this and to\ndo that, wi' as much insolence and authority as if he had been a lord\nand she a leddy.\n\nBut, in a short time, the leddy discovered that all the auld domestics,\nfrom the housekeeper and butler down to the scullion wench, some of whom\nhad been in the house for twenty years, were little better than a den of\nthieves; and, at the Martinmas term, a new race of servants took\npossession of the Ha'. But this was not the only change which her young\nleddyship and her father brought about within a few weeks. Her nerves\ncould not stand the smell of vegetables, which arose from the kitchen\nwhen the broth was cooking for the widows and their families, the auld\nmaidens, and other helpless persons in the village and neighbourhood, on\nthe Sundays and Wednesdays, and she gave orders that the _nuisance_\nshould be discontinued. Thus, sir, for the sake of the gentility and\ndelicacy of her leddyship's organ of smelling, forty stomachs were left\ntwice a-week to yearn with hunger. At that time the labouring men on the\nestate had seven shillings a-week, with liberty to keep a cow to graze\nin the plantations; and those that dwelt by the river-side kept ducks\nand geese, all of which were great helps to them. But her leddyship had\nan aversion to horned cattle. She never saw them, she said, but she\ndreamed of them, and to dream of them was to dream of an enemy! The\nlaird endeavoured to laugh her out of such silly notions, and appealed\nto her father, the dignitary and divine, to prove that belief in dreams\nwas absurd. His reverence agreed that it was ridiculous to place faith\nin dreams, but he hinted that there were occasions when the wishes of a\nwife, though a little extravagant, and perhaps absurd, ought to be\ncomplied with; and he also stated, that he himself had seen the cattle\nin question rubbing against the young trees, and nibbling the tender\ntwigs; besides, there were walks through the plantations, and, as there\nmight be running cattle amongst them, he certainly thought, with his\ndaughter, that the grazing in the woods ought to be discontinued. His\nauthority was decisive. Next day, the steward was commanded to issue an\norder, that every cottar upon the estate must either sell his cow, or\npay for its grass to a farmer.\n\nThis was a sad blow to the poor hedgers and ditchers, and those that\nwork with the spade. There was mourning that day in many a cottage--it\nwas equal to taking a meal a-day off every family. But the change that\nwas taking place in their condition did not end there. The divine, like\nanother great and immortal member of the sacred profession--the\nillustrious Paley--was fond of angling; but there the resemblance\nbetween them stopped. I have said that he was fond of angling--but he\nwas short-sighted, and one of the worst fishers that ever cracked off a\nhook, or raised a splash in the water. Once, when he might have preached\nupon the text, that he \"had toiled all day, and caught nothing,\" he was\nfishing on the river, about a mile above where we now are, when he\nperceived the geese and ducks of a cottager swimming and diving their\nheads in the stream. It immediately occurred to the wise man that his\nwant of success arose from the geese and ducks destroying all the\nfish!--and he forthwith prevailed upon his son-in-law to order his\ntenants to part with their poultry.[1] This was another sair blow to the\npoor cottagers, and was the cause of their bairns gaun barelegged in\nwinter and hungry in summer. The gardens, the avenues, the lodge,\neverything about the place, was altered. But, to crown all, the lease of\nthree or four of the laird's tenants was out at the following Martinmas,\nand their rents were doubled. Every person marvelled at the change in\nthe conduct and character of the laird. Some thought he had gone out of\nhis wits, and others that he was possessed by the evil one; but the\ngreater part thought, like me, that he was a silly, hen-pecked man.\n\n[Footnote 1: Absurd as this may seem, it is a FACT.]\n\nA few months after her leddyship arrived, she gave birth to a son and\nheir, and there were great rejoicings about the Ha' on the occasion, but\nvery little upon the estate; for already it had become a place that\nevery one saw it would be desirable to leave as soon as possible. As the\nyoung birkie grew up, he soon gave evidence of being a sad scapegrace.\nNever a day passed but we heard of his being in some ploy or other; and\nhis worthy mother said, that it showed a spirit becoming his station in\nlife. Before he had reached man's estate, he was considered to be a\ngreat proficient in horse-racing, cock-fighting, fox-hunting, gambling,\nand other gentlemanly amusements; but as to learning, though he had been\nat both school and college, I dinna suppose that there is a trades lad\nconnected wi' the Mechanics' Institution here that he was fit to hand\nthe candle to. His grandfather, the divine, sometimes lectured him about\nthe little attention which he paid to his learning, but the young\nhopeful answered, that \"There was no necessity for a gentleman who was\nheir to five or six thousand a-year, and whose father was seventy years\nof age, boring over books.\"\n\nThey generally resided in London, and were never about the Ha', save\nduring a month or two in the shooting season. We heard, however, that\nthey had fine carryings on in the great city; that they kept up a\nperpetual course of routes parties, and assemblies--that the estate was\ndeeply mortgaged; and the laird, from the course of dissipation into\nwhich he had been dragged, had sunk into premature dotage. It was even\nreported that Johnny Grippy, the miser, had advanced several thousand\npounds upon the estate, at a very exorbitant interest.\n\nAt length their course of extravagance, like a lang tether, came to an\nend. Creditors grew numerous and clamorous; they would have their money,\nand nothing but their money would satisfy them. The infatuated auld\nlaird sought refuge in the Abbey at Holyrood; and his son went on racing\nabout and gambling as formerly, borrowing money from John Grippy when\ndown here, and from Jews when in London, and giving them promises and\nsecurities that would make the estate disappear, when it came into his\npossession, like snow in summer. Her leddyship came down to the Ha',\nand, to my certain knowledge, was refused credit for twenty shillings in\na shop in the village here, which was then kept by a son of one of the\ncottars that she and her father had caused to part wi' their kye and\ntheir poultry. This was what the young man called \"seeing day about wi'\nher leddyship.\"\n\nThe auld laird hadna been twelve months in the Abbey, when, finding\nhimself utterly deserted by his wife and son, he sank into despondency,\nand died in misery; rueing, I will make free to say, that ever he had\nset his foot in Tunbridge Wells. His young successor, in gratitude to\nhis mother for her over indulgence, and the example she had set him,\nturned her from the Ha' on his taking possession of it, and left her to\nseek refuge in the house of her father, the divine; and we never heard\nof her in this part of the country again. The career and end of the\nyoung laird I will state to ye, as I notice the histories of the\nminister and Ne'er-do-weel Tam. And now for that of\n\n\nTHE MINISTER.\n\nA more excellent, worthy, and sincere man than Mr Anderson never entered\na pulpit, or preached words of hope and consolation to sinners. He was\nnot a flowery orator or a fashionable preacher; but he was plain,\nsimple, nervous, earnest. His homeliness and anxious sincerity riveted\nthe attention of the most thoughtless; and, as a poet says,\n\n    \"They who came to scoff remain'd to pray.\"\n\nI remember when he was first placed amongst us as minister of the\nparish: he was a mere youngster, but as primitive in his manners as if\nhe had just come from the plough instead of a college. His father was a\nfarm-steward upon the estate of the then member for the county; and the\npatronage being in the crown--as it is called--it was through the\ninterest of the member that he got the kirk. About twelve months after\nhe was placed, he took a wife; and his marriage gave great satisfaction\nto the whole congregation--at least to the poor and middle classes, who\nof course were the great majority. And the reason why his marriage gave\nsuch satisfaction was, that his wife was the daughter of a poor hind,\nthat he had taken a liking to when he was but a laddie and her a lassie;\nand he had promised her, when they came from the harvest-field together\n(for while he was at the college, he always wrought in the\nharvest-time), that, if he lived, and was spared to be a minister, she\nshould be his wife. I am sorry to say that such promises are owre often\nneglected by young people, when either the one or the other of them\nhappens to get their head up in the world. But our minister thereby\nshowed that his heart was actuated by right principles, and that he\npreferred happiness to every mercenary consideration. It showed that he\nwas desirous of domestic comfort, and not ambitious of worldly\naggrandisement. She was a bonny, quiet, discreet creature; and, if she\nhadna what ye may call the manners of a leddy, yet her modesty and\ngood-nature lent an air of politeness to everything she did. Her\nconstant desire to please far more than counterbalanced for her want of\nbeing what is called weel-bred; and, if she had not gentility, she had\nwhat is of more importance in a preacher's wife--a pious mind, a\ncheerful and charitable disposition, and a meek spirit; and whatever she\nwas ignorant of, there was one thing she was acquainted with--she\n\n    \"Knew her Bible true.\"\n\nBut after their marriage, he took great pains in instructing her in\nvarious branches of learning; and in that she made great proficiency, I\nam qualified to give evidence; for, when I have been present at the\ndinners after the sacramental occasions, I have heard her dispute wi'\nthe ministers upon points of divinity, history, and other matters, and\nmaintain her ground very manfully, if I may say it.\n\nI believe that a happier couple were not to be found in Great Britain.\nShe bore unto him fourteen children, but of these, all save two, a boy\nand a girl, died in infancy; and in giving birth to the last, the mother\nperished. It was on a Sunday that she died; and I remember that, on the\nfollowing Sabbath, her widowed husband entered the pulpit to preach her\nfuneral sermon. His text was, \"Why should we mourn as those who have no\nhope?\" He proceeded with his discourse, but every few minutes he paused,\nhe sobbed; the big tears ran down his cheeks; and all the congregation\nwept with him. At last he quoted the words, \"In the morning I preached\nto the people, and in the evening my wife died!\" His heart filled--the\ntears gushed from his eyes--he could say no more. He sank down on the\nseat, and covered his face with his hands. Two of the elders went up to\nthe pulpit, and led him to the manse; and the precentor, of his own\naccord, giving out a psalm, the congregation sang it and dispersed.\n\nI have mentioned to ye his two surviving bairns--the name of the laddie\nwas Edward, and of the lassie, Esther. Edward was several years older\nthan his sister; and, from his youth upwards, he was a bold, sprightly,\nfearless callant. Often have I observed him playing the part of a\ncaptain, and drilling the laddies of the village into squares and lines,\nlike a little army; and as often have I heard him say, that he would be\nnothing but a sodger. His father (as every Christian ought to do)\nregarded war as a great wickedness, and as an abomination that disgraced\nthe earth; he therefore was grieved to see the military bent of his\nson's inclination, and did everything in his power to break him from it.\nHe believed, and correctly too, that Edward had too much pride to enter\nthe army as a common soldier, where he would be little better than a\nslave, and have to lift his hat to every puppy that wore an epaulette on\nhis shoulder or a sash round his waist. The minister, therefore, was\nresolved that he would not advance the money to buy his son a\ncommission.\n\nHere I must notice Johnny Grippy, who had never been kenned to perform a\ngenerous action in the whole course of his existence. He was a man that,\nif he had parted wi' a bawbee, to save a fellow-creature from\nstarvation, wadna, through vexation, have slept again for a week. If ony\nbody had pleaded poverty to him, he would have asked them--\"What right\nthey had to be poor?\" It would have been more difficult for him to\nanswer--\"What right he had to be rich?\" Johnny never forgave Mr Anderson\nfor prohibiting him from being made an elder; and, in his own quiet, but\ncruel way, he said he would see that he got satisfaction, to the last\nplack, for the insult. Now, what do ye think the miser did? He\nabsolutely offered young Maister Edward money to buy an ensign's\ncommission, at the moderate interest of ten per cent., and on the\nunderstanding that he would gie him four years' credit for the interest,\nand that he wadna request the principal until he was made a captain.\nThis proposal was made for the sole and individual purpose of grieving\nand afflicting Mr Anderson, and of being revenged on him. The silly\nladdie, dazzled wi' the bright sword and the gold-laced coat of an\nofficer, and thinking it a grand thing to be a soldier--fancying himself\na general, a hero, a conqueror in a hundred fights--swallowed the\ntemptation, took the offered money on the conditions agreed to; and\nthrough the assistance of a college acquaintance, the son of a member of\nparliament, purchased a commission in a foot regiment. All this was done\nwithout his father's knowledge; and when Johnny Grippy witnessed the\ngood man's tears as he parted with his son, his cold heart rejoiced that\nhis revenge had been so far successful, and for once he regretted not\nhaving parted with his money without a sure bond being made doubly sure.\n\nIn a very few weeks after Edward Anderson joined his regiment, he\naccompanied it abroad; and twelve months had not passed when the public\npapers contained an account of his having been promoted to the rank of\nlieutenant on the field, on account of his bravery.\n\nBut listen, sir, to what follows.--It was on our fast-day, that the news\narrived concerning a great victory in the Indies. We were all interested\nin the tidings, and the more particularly, as we knew that our\nminister's son was at the battle. His father and his sister were in a\nstate of great anxiety concerning him, for whether he was dead or\nliving, they could not tell. The weather was remarkably fine, and as a\ngreat preacher was to serve some of the tables, and preach during the\nafternoon's service, the kirk was crowded almost to suffocation, and it\nwas found necessary to perform the ordinances in the open air. A green\nplot in front of the manse was chosen for the occasion, and which was\ncapable of accommodating two or three thousand people. It was a grand\nsight to see such a multitude sitting on the green sward, singing the\npraises of their Maker, wi' the great heavens aboon them for a canopy!\nits very glory and immensity rendering them incapable of appreciating\nits unspeakable magnificence, and rendering as less than the dust in the\nbalance the temples of men's hands. It reminded me of the days of the\nCovenant, when the pulpit was a mountain side, and its covering a cloud.\nMr Anderson was a man whose very existence seemed linked wi' affection\nfor his family. He had had great affection in it, and every death seemed\nto transfer the love that he had borne for the dead in a stronger degree\ntowards those that were left. His soul was built up in them. All the\ncongregation observed that he was greatly agitated various times during\nhis discourse. It was evident to all that apprehensions for the fate of\nhis son were forcing themselves upon his thoughts.\n\nThe postman at that time brought the letters from the next town every\nday about one o'clock. Mr Anderson was serving the first table, and his\nface was towards the manse, when the postman, approaching the door,\nwaved his hand towards Miss Esther, who sat near it, as much as to say\nthat he had a letter from her brother. The father's voice failed,\nthrough agitation and anxiety, as he saw the letter in the postman's\nhand, and abruptly concluding his exhortation, he sat down trembling,\nwhile his eyes remained as if fixed upon the letter. I myself observed,\nas the postman passed me wi' it in his hand, that it was sealed wi'\nblack. I regarded it as a fatal omen, and I at first looked towards the\nminister, to see whether he had observed it; but I believe that his eyes\nwere so blinded wi' tears that he could not perceive it; and I then\nturned round towards Miss Esther; who I observed hastening to take the\nletter in her hand. At the sight of the black seal, she almost fainted\nupon the ground; and I saw the poor thing shaking as a leaf that quivers\nin the wind. But when, wi' a hurried and trembling hand, she had broken\nthe seal, she hadna read three lines until the letter dropped upon the\nground, and, clasping her hands together, wi' a wild heart-piercing\nscream, that sounded wildly through the worship of the people, she\nexclaimed, \"My brother!--my brother!\" and fell wi' her face upon the\nground. The spectators raised her in their arms. Her father's heart\ncould hold no longer. He rushed through the multitude--he snatched up\nthe fatal letter. It bore the post-mark of Bengal, but it was not the\nhandwriting of his son. He, too, seemed to read but a line, when he\nsmote his hand upon his forehead, and exclaimed, in agony, \"My son! my\nson!--my poor Edward!\"\n\nHis gallant boy was one of those who were slain and buried upon the\nfield; and the letter, which was from his colonel, recorded his courage,\nhis virtues, and his death! All the people rose, and sorrow and sympathy\nseemed on every countenance save one--and that was the face of the auld\nmiser and hypocrite, Johnny Grippy. The body seemed actually to glut,\nwi' a malicious delight, over the misery and affliction of which he, in\na measure, had been the cause; and, though he did try to screw his mouth\ninto a form of pity or compassion, and squeezed his een together to make\nthem water, I more than once observed the twittering streak of\nsatisfaction and delight pass owre his cheeks, just as ye have seen the\nshadow of a swift cloud pass owre a field of waving grain. I hated the\nauld miser for his very looks and his attempted hypocrisy; and, forgive\nme for saying so, but I believe, if at that moment it had been in my\npower to have annihilated him, I would have done it. The man who does\nthe work of iniquity openly or through error, I would pray for; but he\nthat does it beneath the mask of virtue or religion, I would\nexterminate.\n\nIt was many weeks before Mr Anderson was able to resume his place in the\npulpit again; and his daughter, also, took the death of her brother\ngreatly to heart. The whole parish sought to condole wi' them, not even\nexcepting young Laird Cochrane of the Ha', who had not then come to the\nestate. I firmly believe, sir, that he was a predestinated villain from\nhis cradle, for he showed symptoms of the most disgusting depravity more\nearly than ever laddie did. The aulder he grew, when he was in the\ncountry, he went the more about the manse, and Esther was nearly about\nhis own age. She was a lassie that I would call the very perfection of\nloveliness--simple, artless, confiding, but not without a sprinkling o'\nwoman's vanity. There was a laddie, the son of Thomas Elliot, or\nNe'er-do-weel Tam, as he was commonly called, that was very fond of her;\nhe was a fine, deserving callant, and all the town thought she was fond\nof him. But the young laird put himself forward as his rival, and the\none was rich and the other poor. The laird of the Ha' sent daily\npresents of geese, turkeys, and all sorts of game in their season, to\nthe manse; and he also presented rings, trinkets, and other fine things\nto Esther; while the other, who was considered a sort of poet in the\nneighbourhood, could only say, as a sang that I hear them singing\nnow-a-days says--\n\n    \"My heart and lute are all my store\n    And these I bring to thee.\"\n\nThe laird was also an adept in flattery, in its most cunningly-devised\nforms. Now, sir, it is amazing what an effect the use of such means will\nultimately produce upon the best-regulated minds. They are like the\nconstant dropping that weareth away a stone. Though unconscious of it\nherself, Esther, who was but a young thing, began to listen with more\npatience to the addresses of the heir of the Ha'; and she occasionally\nexhibited something like dryness and petulance in the presence of poor\nAlexander Elliot--for such was his name. At the very first shadow of\nchange upon her countenance, his spirit became bitter wi' jealousy, and\nhe rashly charged her wi' deserting him for the sake of the young laird\nand the estate to which he was heir. This was a tearing asunder of the\nsilken cords that for years had held their hearts together. He was\nproud, and so was she--they became distrustful of each other, and at\nlength they quarrelled, and parted never to meet again. I have heard it\nsaid, that it was partly to be revenged on Alexander that Esther gave an\near to the addresses of the laird; but that is a subject on which I\noffer no opinion. All that I know is, that Alexander enlisted, and went\nout to join his regiment in the West Indies. The laird followed Esther\nlike her shadow; and every one, save myself, said that there would be a\nmarriage between them. Even her worthy father seemed to dream in the\ngolden delusion; and, I am sorry to say, that I believe he was in no\nsmall degree the cause of finally breaking off the intimacy between her\nand Alexander Elliot. She was, as I have informed ye, a sensitive,\nconfiding lassie; and the laird, who had a honeyed tongue, succeeded not\nonly, in the long run, in gaining her affections, but in making her to\nbelieve in his very looks; for, being incapable of falsehood herself,\nshe did not suspect it in others, and least of all in those who had\nobtained a place in her heart.\n\nThe young villain went so far as, in her presence, to ask her father's\nconsent to their marriage; and the auld laird being then dead, the\nminister agreed. It was not long after this, that the scapegrace went to\nLondon, and Esther began to droop like a flower nipped wi' a frost.\nHalf-a-dozen times in the day her father found her in tears, and he\nendeavoured to comfort and to cheer her; but his efforts were\nunavailing. It pained his heart, which had already been sorely chastened\nby affliction, to behold the youngling, and last of his flock, pining\naway before him. The young laird neither returned nor wrote, and he\nsuspected not the cause of his daughter's grief. The first hint he got\nof it was from his elders assembled in session. The old man in agony\nfell back--he gasped, he smote his breast, and tore his grey hairs. In\nhis agony he cried that his Maker had forsaken him! The elders sought to\ncondole wi' him, but it was in vain; he was carried to the manse, and he\nnever preached more. His heart was broken, and, before a month passed,\nthe thread of life snapped also.\n\nWi' the weight of her own shame and sorrow, and her father's death, poor\nEsther became demented. About nine weeks after her father's funeral, she\ngave birth to a still-born child; and it was a happy thing that the\ninfant and its mother were buried at the same time, in the same grave.\n\nSuch, sir, is all that it is necessary for me to inform ye concerning\nour late worthy minister; and of the young laird ye shall hear more\npresently, in the history of\n\n\nNE'ER-DO-WEEL TAM.\n\nI never kenned a lad that I entertained a higher regard for than Thomas\nElliot. His father left him fifteen hundred pounds, laid out upon a\nmortgage at five per cent. interest, and bequeathed in such a way that\nhe couldna lift the principal. There was a vast deal of real goodness\nabout his heart--he was frank, liberal, sincere. Every person that\nkenned him liked him. His first and greatest fault was that he was owre\nopen; he laid bare his breast, as it were, to the attack of every enemy\nthat chose to hurl a shaft at it. He was a fool for his pains; and, I\ndaresay, he saw it in the end. There was always some person taking the\nadvantage of the frankness of his disposition. But the thing that ruined\nhim, and fixed the by-name on him, was, that he became a sort of fixture\nin Luckie Riddle's parlour. His chief companion was a lad of the name of\nWilliam Archbold--a blithe, singing chield, that was always happy, and\nready at onything. Thomas and he were courting two sisters--Jenny and\nPeggy Lilly--the daughters of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, and\nboth of them were bonny, weel-respected lasses. The folk in this quarter\nused to call William Archbold _Blithe Willie_. He was a blacksmith to\nhis trade, but quite a youth; and come upon him by night or by day,\nWillie was sure to be found laughing, whistling, or singing. He hadna a\nyearly income like Thomas Elliot; and, strange to say, he got the blame\nof gieing him a howff at Luckie Riddle's. But that was a doctrine which\nI always protested against; and I said it was much more likely that, as\nThomas was fu'-handed, while his neighbour had to work for his bread,\nthe man of money led the blacksmith to their howff, and not the\nblacksmith the man of money. One thing is certain, that both of them\nwere far oftener at Luckie's than was either good for their health,\nwealth, or reputation. One night, it seems, after having drunk until, if\n\"they werena fu', they just had plenty,\" they reeled away to see the two\nsisters, their sweethearts. Jenny didna wish to quarrel wi' Thomas,\nbecause he had the siller; but Peggy turned away wi' scorn from Blithe\nWillie, and said, that she \"never again would speak to one who was no\nbetter than a common blackguard, and who neither had regard for himself,\nnor for any one connected wi' him.\" What more passed between them I\ncanna tell, but it is said he turned sober in an instant; and, certain\nit is, that night he left the town, and has never been more heard tell\noff.\n\nThomas Elliot and Jenny were married, but she died the second year after\ntheir marriage, leaving to his charge an infant son, who was kirsened by\nthe name of Alexander. Thomas, after his wife's death, tried many things\n(for while she lived she keepit him to rights), but he neglected them\nall. He began twenty things, and ended nothing. He was to be found in\nLuckie Riddle's in the morning, and he was to be seen sitting there at\nnight. Before he was forty, he became a perfect sot; and I used to ask,\n\"Wha leads him away now.\" The fact was, he was miserable save when he\nwas in company; and, for the sake of company, he would have sat sipping\nand drinking from sunrise to sunset, without ever perceiving that in\nthat time he had been sitting wi' twenty different companies, each of\nwhom had remained maybe half-an-hour, and left him bibbing there to make\na crony of the customer that last came in. But this course of life could\nnot last long. He had mortgaged the mortgage that his father left him,\nuntil, although he could not lift it, he had almost swallowed it up; and\nat the age of forty-four he fell into the grave like a lump of diseased\nflesh--a thing without a soul!\n\nI have informed ye that he left a son, named Alexander, behind him. He\nwas a laddie that was beloved by the whole town; and it was him that\nfrae bairnhood was set down as the future husband of Esther Anderson,\nour minister's daughter. I have already told ye how he enlisted, when he\nfancied that she was drawing up wi' the young laird, and slighting him.\n\nNow, mark ye, sir--for this is one of the most singular things in the\nhistory of our village--about three years after the melancholy deaths of\nEsther and her father, the laird, wi' a pack o' young men as thoughtless\nand wicked as himself, came down to the Ha'. It was plain as noonday\nthat the murder of a young lassie, her bairn, and her honoured father,\nhad never cost the young libertine a thought. He returned to all his\nformer profligacy, as a sow returns to its wallowing in the mire.\n\nHe was returning, towards evening, with three or four of his companions\nfrom an otter-hunt, and was within a quarter-of-a-mile of the Ha', when\nhe was met by two strangers--the one a youth, and the other a man of\nmiddle age.\n\n\"Stand!\" cried the young man, sternly.\n\n\"What do you want, fellow?\" inquired the laird, proudly.\n\n\"Dismount,\" retorted the other, \"and take this,\" presenting to him a\npistol. \"I come to avenge the murder of Esther Anderson and her father;\nand,\" added he, \"wi' your blood to wash the bruise ye have inflicted on\nmy wounded heart. Did ye think, because her brave brother was with the\ndead, that there was none left to revenge the ruin of her innocence?\nBeneath the very tree where we now stand, she plighted me her first vow,\nand we were happy as the birds that sang upon its branches, until ye, as\na serpent, crossed our path. Dismount, Laird Cochrane, if ye be not\ncoward as weel as villain.\"\n\n\"Alexander Elliot,\" replied the laird, \"are ye not aware that I am a\nmagistrate, and have power to commit ye even now as a deserter. Begone,\nsir, and take your hand from my horse's head; for it becomes not a\ngentleman to quarrel wi' such as you.\"\n\n\"Dismount, ye palsy-spirited slave!\" cried Alexander, \"and choose your\nweapon and your distance. Let your friends that are wi' you see that ye\nhave fair play. Dismount, or I will shoot ye dead where ye sit.\" And as\nhe spoke he dragged him from his horse.\n\nIt was an awful tragedy to take place in a peaceable corner of the earth\nlike this. The stranger that accompanied Alexander took the pistols, and\naddressing one of the gentlemen that were wi' the laird, said, coolly,\n\"This business must be settled, sir, and the sooner the better. Choose\nye one of these weapons, and let the principals take their ground.\"\n\nThey did take their ground, as it was termed, and their pistols were\nlevelled at each other's heart. Guilt and surprise made the laird to\ntremble, but revenge gave steadiness to the hand of young Elliot. Both\nfired at the same moment, and with a sudden groan the laird fell dead\nupon the ground.\n\nSome said that the earth was weel rid of a prodigal; while others\nthought it an awful thing that he should have been cut off in such a\nmanner, in the very middle of his iniquities and career of wickedness;\nand it was generally regretted that he should have fallen by the hand of\na lad so universally respected as Alexander Elliot. Such, sir, was the\nend of the young laird; but what has become of Alexander is more than\nany one in these parts can tell. I have just now a few words to say\nconcerning\n\n\nJOHNNY GRIPPY.\n\nThe Grippys were a very remarkable family; and it was a common saying,\nthat they were weel named. There were originally three brothers of them;\nand when I first kenned them, they were ragged, barelegged callants, but\nevery one of them as keen as a Jew, and as hard as a flinty rock. Two of\nthem were in the cattle line; and, through stinginess, cheatery, and\nsuch-like means, they amassed a power of money. But both of them died,\nand being unmarried, their brother Johnny became sole heir to their\nproperty. He was a man that would have walked ten miles to pick up a\nfarthing. He keepit a shop, or what the Americans would call a _store_,\nin the village, for he sold everything, new and auld, good, bad, and\nindifferent--eatable and wearable, or for whatever purpose it was\nwanted; for everything ye could think about was to be had for money at\nthe shop of Johnny Grippy. Of late years, it was weel ascertained that\nhe dealt extensively in sending whisky into England, and in such a way,\ntoo, that neither the dirdum, the risk, nor the loss could land at his\ndoor. But he had dealings in many concerns, both here and elsewhere.\nWherever he heard of anything by which there was money to be made, he\nalways endeavoured to get his finger in. It was affirmed that he was\nconnected wi' some wealthy trading companies about London, and that he\nhad ships upon the sea. I know for a positive fact, that he went up to\nthe great city every year, and that he actually begged his way there and\nback again. But it is my opinion that he made the greater part of his\nwealth by lending out money to usury. By this means a great deal of\nproperty fell into his possession, for he was as cruel as a starving\ntiger. He was a despiser of both justice and mercy, and all he cared\nabout was--\"_I maun hae my bargain_.\" That was always his answer, if\nonybody offered to intercede wi' him for ony poor creature that he was\ndistressing.\n\nThe auld knave endeavoured to cover his avarice wi' the cloak o'\nreligion, and, as I have already informed ye, sought to be made an\nelder; and, as ye have been made aware, he never forgave our late worthy\nminister for the slight and disappointment, but, even against his\nnature, parted wi' money to obtain a cruel revenge. It would tire you,\nif I were to inform you of the one-thousandth part of Johnny's meanness,\nand the instances of his ravening avariciousness, or the misery which he\ncaused in the habitations of both high and low. Indeed, I may say, that\nhe grew rich through the ruin of others; and he sought out objects of\nmisery on which he might fix his devouring talons, even as a vulture\nseeketh out a dead carcase.\n\nAt an enormous interest, he lent money to the auld laird; and he\ncunningly permitted the interest to accumulate, year after year, until\nthe laird's death. He also advanced sums to the young laird at a rate\neven more usurious, and got the entire title-deeds of the estate into\nhis hands as security; and when the laird fell in the duel wi' Alexander\nElliot, he seized and took possession of Ha' estate, and all that was\nthereon, claiming them as his! The whole parish was thunderstruck wi'\nastonishment.\n\nThe next kin to the young laird threatened to throw the case into the\nCourt of Chancery.\n\n\"Let them,\" said Johnny, laughing in his sleeve, \"they will live lang\nthat live to see it settled there--and _I will hae my bargain_.\"\n\nWeel, the case was thrown into Chancery, and Johnny did not live to see\nit settled, for settled it is not until this day, and what some one said\nof eternity might be said of it--it is \"beginning to begin.\"\n\nI think ye heard that John had acquired a habit of slipping owre to\nLuckie Riddle's on the edge of his foot for a dram before breakfast. He\ntook a strong liking for her strong bottle, and by way of saving the\nexpense of the dram, he left off the practice of taking a breakfast; and\nwhen the single dram increased to two and three in the day, he confined\nhimself to one meal, and that of the poorest and scantiest kind--a\npotato and salt, or maybe a herring as a luxury. But it was more than\nsuspected that the potatoes on which he lived were not all honestly came\nby; for I myself have seen him in a field amongst other folks', stooping\ndown and fingering at the drills, and slipping the potatoes into his\ncoat-pocket; and when asked what he was doing, he would have said (quite\ncollectedly, for there was no possibility of confusing him), \"Ou, I am\njust looking what sort of crop such-a-one is going to have this year.\"\n\nBut the miser's love of drink increased upon him, and the more he spent\non liquor, the more he hungered himself. He became a living skeleton,\nand in the depth of a severe winter, he was found sitting dead behind\nhis desk, with the copy of a letter before him, in which he had\ninstructed his man of business to sell off, immediately, the husband of\nPeggy Lilly.\n\n\"The husband of Peggy Lilly!\" interrupted the stranger, who had hitherto\nlistened to the records of the Patriarch in silence--\"who was he?\"\n\n\"That,\" resumed the old man, \"seems to interest you, and wherefore I\ncannot divine, as I have no recollection of your face; but, if ye have\npatience and hearken, ye shall hear all that I can tell ye of the\nhistory of\n\n\nPEGGY LILLY.\n\nPeggy was allowed to be the bonniest lass in all the parish; but she\nwas as prudent and sedate as she was bonny, and everybody wondered that\nshe keepit company wi' William Archbold sae lang as she did, after he\nhad gien himself up to a habit o' dissipation; though she, perhaps,\nthocht as I did, that it was mere thochtlessness in the young man, that\nhe was just drawn awa by his friend, Thomas Elliot, and that, if he were\nmarried, he would reform. Luckie Riddle's sign, however, was a black\nsight to him, and I doot it has been a heart-sore to puir Peggy. The\ndifference that the subject gave rise to between them, was perhaps\nunlucky for the happiness o' baith parties. In the vexation o' the\nmoment, she uttered words o' harshness which her heart did not dictate,\nand, in leaving as he did, he acted rashly.\n\nWhen we heard, however, of William Archbold's having left the town, and\nthe cause of his leaving--that it arose from Peggy having spoken to him\nas if disgusted at his conduct--we laughed, and said he would soon come\nback again. She thought the same thing; but weeks and months succeeded\neach other, and now five-and-twenty years have passed, and the lad has\nbeen no more heard of. How deeply Peggy grieved for her conduct, and\nmourned his absence, was visible in her countenance.\n\nAbout ten years after her sister's death, her parents, who had both\nbecome very frail, were thrown out of their bit farm, after several very\nunfortunate seasons in it, and they were left entirely dependent upon\nher exertions for their support. They were reduced to very great\nstraits, and many a time it was a wonder to me how they lived; but late\nand early did she toil for their maintenance; and, poor hizzy, the\nsorrow that fell upon her face for the loss of William Archbold never\nleft it.\n\nAt that time a very decent man, who had taken a small farm in the\nneighbourhood, began to pay attention to her, and often called at her\nfather's house. She heard his request, that she would marry him, wi' a\nsigh--for she hadna forgotten Blithe Willie. But her father and mither\nlooked at her, wi' the tears in their een, and they besought her night\nand day, that they might see her settled and provided for. She at length\nyielded to their solicitations, and gied him her hand; but she was\ncandid enough to confess to him, that her affection couldna accompany\nit, though her respect and duty should.\n\nSo far as the world could judge, they seemed to live happily together,\nand Peggy made an exemplary wife; but there was always like a quiet\nsettled melancholy on her countenance. Their farm was too dear taken,\nand about a year after they were married, it became the property of\nJohnny Grippy. Ye have already heard what sort of man he was, reaping\nwhere he had not sown. He exacted his rent to the last farthing, or\nwithout ceremony paid himself double from the stock upon the farm.\n\nPeggy's husband became unable, though he struggled early and late, to\nmake up his rent, and having fought until his strength was exhausted,\nand his health and heart broken, he sank down upon his bed, a dying man;\nand Johnny, causing the sheriff's-officer to seize all that was upon the\nfarm, made them seize also the very bed upon which the dying man lay. He\nin fact died in their hands; and Peggy was turned out upon the world, a\nfriendless widow, with two helpless infants at her knee; and a sore,\nsore fight she has had to get the bite and the sup for them, poor\nthings, from that day to this.\n\n\"But,\" replied the stranger, with emotion, \"there is one left who will\nprovide for her and her children.\"\n\n\"Who may that be?\" inquired the patriarch.\n\n\"William Archbold,\" answered the other.\n\n\"Preserve us!\" said the old man, in surprise; \"I daresay I have been\nblind not to have recognised ye before--ye are William!\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied the other--\"Blithe Willie, as you once termed me.\nPeggy's cutting and just rebuke roused my pride, and filled me with\nself-abasement at the same instant. In a state of mind bordering on\nmadness, I left the village, where I considered my character to be\nblasted for ever. I went to London, and there engaged to go out to\nIndia. I was there fortunate in business, and in a few years became\nrich. I there, some years ago, discovered Alexander Elliot (the son of\nmy old companion), whose regiment had gone to the East, and not to the\nWest Indies, as you supposed. I purchased his discharge, and employed\nhim as a clerk. He requested permission to visit this country, and it\nwas granted; but I knew not the deadly nature of his errand. It was\nduring that visit that he so fatally avenged the ruin of poor Esther. He\nis again in India, and prospering. But you say that Peggy has been\nmarried--that she is a widow--a widow!\"\n\n\"Yes; a widow, sir,\" answered the patriarch; \"and if ye be single, I\nthink ye canna do better than make her a wife.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" said William, drawing his hand across his eyes; \"I cannot; I\nwill not glean where another has reaped. But here is a bank-order for\nfive hundred pounds; let it be conveyed to her; but let her never know\nthe hand from whence it came.\"\n\n\"Hoots! nonsense, Maister William!\" said the old man. \"See her again,\nfor auld langsyne, at ony rate, and gie her it yersel.\"\n\nWhat course William Archbold would have adopted I cannot tell; but at\nthat moment Peggy passed down the street, and spoke to the old man as\nshe passed. William started to his feet, he stretched out his hand, he\nexclaimed, \"Peggy!\"\n\nShe was speechless--tears gushed into her eyes. Old love, it is said,\nsoon kindles again. Be this as it may, within six weeks Peggy left the\nvillage in a coach as the wife of William Archbold, and her children\naccompanied her.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.\n\nTHE DEATH OF JAMES I.\n\n\nThe scrupulous, we might almost say affected, regard for what they\nconceive to be historical truth, on the part of many historians, leading\nthem to admit nothing into their veritable histories but what has been\n\"proven,\" and proven in such a manner as to please themselves, has been\nproductive of at least this effect--that many a fact in history has been\nconsigned to the regions of fable and romance, because supported only by\nthat evidence which has hanged millions of God's creatures--namely, the\ntestimony of witnesses. The weight of tradition, often the very best and\ntruest evidence, in so far as it combines experience and faith, is, in\nthe estimation of historiographers, overbalanced by a fragment of paper,\nprovided it be written upon, and the writing be formed after some old\ncourt-hand or black-letter style; though, after all, the valued\nantiquarian scrap, formed by the operation of one goose quill, moved by\none hand, and that hand impelled by the mind of one frail mortal, may be\nmerely a distorted relic of that very tradition which is so much\ndespised. We do not profess to be fastidious in the selection of\nauthorities. Tradition, in our opinion, ought to be tested by the\nexperience of mankind: where it stands that test, it ought to be\nreceived as a part of veritable history; and sure we are that, if by\nthis mode anything may be thought to be lost in point of strict truth,\nit will be well balanced by what is gained in point of amusement. It is\nupon these principles we have selected, and now lay before our readers,\nan account of a well-known catastrophe of Scottish history, much more\nfull in its details than any that has yet been offered to the public.\n\nIn the beginning of the winter 1436, Sir Robert Graham (whose nephew,\nPatrick Graham, had been married to the daughter of David, Earl of\nStrathearn, and who himself bore that dignity) appeared at the royal\nresidence of Walter Stuart, Duke of Athol, his kinsman (the latter being\nuncle to Patrick, Earl of Strathearn's wife), in a state of disguise.\nThe night was far advanced when he arrived, and the duke was called from\nhis bed to see the visiter, who had been for some time under the ban of\nthe stern authority of his sovereign, James I. The duke knew well what\nwas the main object of the knight, though he was entirely ignorant of\nthe special intelligence that the latter had to communicate to him. They\nmet in the large wainscoted hall, which in brighter days had resounded\nto the merry sounds of the wassail of King Robert's sons, but which,\never since the accession of the reigning king, had echoed nothing but\nthe sighs and groans of the persecuted victims of James' vengeance\nagainst all the relatives and supporters of the unfortunate house of\nAlbany. The duke and the knight were now both old men, though the former\nwas much in advance of the latter; they were both grandfathers--the\ngrandson of the duke being Sir Robert Stuart, chamberlain to the king,\nand the grandson of the latter being Malise Graham, who had been\ndisinherited of his Earldom of Strathearn by the unwise policy of the\nmonarch; but old and grey-headed as they were, they, true to the\ncharacter of the age in which they lived, retained that fierce spirit of\nvengeance which was held one of the cardinal virtues of the creed of\nnobility and knighthood of that extraordinary period.\n\nAs the duke entered the hall, which was lighted only by a small lamp\nthat stood on the oaken table at which the inhabitants of the castle\ndined, he required to use well both his eyes and his ears, obtuse as\nhis external senses had become by age, before he was apprised of the\nsituation occupied by the knight, who, musing over his schemes of\nrevenge, did not observe the duke enter. He was roused from his reverie\nby the hand of his old friend, applied by way of slap to his shoulder,\nas if for the purpose of wakening him from sleep--a power that seldom\novercomes the restless spirit of vengeance.\n\n\"The arm of King James,\" said the duke, \"reaches farther than mine, and\na smaller light than that glimmering taper, that twinkles so mournfully\nin this ancient hall of the Stuarts, enables him to see farther than is\nnow permitted to these old eyes; and yet you are here on the very\nborders of the Lowlands, and within a score miles of the court, where\nthe enemy of our families holds undisputed sway. Are you not afraid of\nthe Heading-hill of Stirling, which still shows the marks of the blood\nof the murdered Stuarts?\"\n\n\"I have come from the fastnesses of the north,\" said Graham, as he took\noff his plaid, which was covered with snow, to shake it, and exhibited a\nbelt well stored with daggers and hunting-knives--\"I have come from my\nresidence among the eagles, like one of the old grey-headed birds with\nwhich I am become familiar, to warm the cold blood of a mountain life\nwith some of the warm stream that nerves the arms of my enemies of the\nvalley.\"\n\n\"Or rather,\" replied the duke, smiling, \"you have come to ask an old\nfox, with a head greyer than that of an eagle, to hunt with you, and\nguide you to the caves of your foes; but you have destroyed your scheme\nof vengeance, by advising your principal enemy of your intention. Why,\nspeaking seriously, did you write such an epistle to the king? You have\nlived among your grey-headed friends to little purpose, when you have\nused one of their feathers as an instrument for telling your victim that\nanother is to fledge the arrow that is to seek his heart's blood. Such\nan act may be said to be noble, when the avenger is to give his enemy a\nfair chance for his life; but that you do not intend to do, for your\nvengeance (which must be glutted in secret, if it is to be glutted at\nall) is not to be stayed by the forms of the laws of chivalry. James is\nnow on his guard. You have told him you intend to slay him--and slay him\nnow if you can!\"\n\n\"And, by the arms of the Grahams of Kincardine, I _will_, Athol--I\n_will_, I _shall_! Is it your grace who would dissuade me from my\npurpose of revenge, merely because the fire is so furious that it sent\nforth a gleam on the victim that is destined to feel its scorching\nheat?--you, who have within these few minutes brought up to our burning\nimaginations the bloody scene of the Heading-hill of Stirling, whereon\nperished so many of your kinsmen--you, whose dukedom has been first\nwrested from you, and then bestowed on you in _liferent_, because you\nare _old_--you who should\" (here he spoke into the ear of the duke) \"be\n_king_!\"--pausing. \"Who does not know that Robert III., your brother,\nwas born out of lawful wedlock? His father never married Elizabeth More;\nbut who could doubt that Euphemia Ross, your mother, the widow of the\nfamous Randolph, was joined to him in lawful wedlock? The people of\nScotland know this, and they are sick of the bastard on the\nthrone\"--pausing again, and looking earnestly at the duke through the\ngloom of the large hall. \"Is it to be tolerated that legitimacy is to be\nlonger trampled under foot by bastardy? Too long have you overlooked\nyour right of blood; but it is not yet too late for ample amends. The\nusurper has done all in his power, by oppressing you and slaying your\nfriends, to force you to assert and vindicate your indefeasible right,\nand gratify a legitimate revenge. In these veins,\" seizing the old man's\nshrivelled wrist, \"runs the blood of _the Bruce_! What a thought is\nthat!--what heart could resist its impulse? what brain its fire?\"\n\nAfter whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into the ear of\nthe old duke, Graham paused again, and looked at him. The words had\nproduced the effect which they might have been expected to produce on\nthe mind of one who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and\npurposes, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had been\nprevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates of his judgment,\nthe call of his ambition, and the spur of revenge. The energetic manner\nin which the old fancies had been roused by the wily Graham threw him\ninto a reverie, the result of which the knight did not think fit to\nwait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in stimulating the\nlethargy of age, and sending through the shrivelled veins of the scion\nof royalty the blood that owned the influence of the passion-struck\nheart; it was now his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push\nfor more; and as the duke still stood muffled up in his morning-gown,\nand his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter proceeded--\n\n\"Your grace has often declared to me,\" he continued, \"that you have\nfaith in our Highland seers, and believe the sounds of the _taisch_, as\ngiven forth by the inspired visionary.\"\n\n\"Who can doubt these things?\" replied the old duke, looking seriously,\nand continuing his musing position. \"I certainly never had the\nhardihood. I have seen too many instances of their verification, to be\nsceptical on that head. The fate of the family of Albany was foretold by\na seer many months before the execution of Duke Murdoch and his sons.\nBut what has this to do with my persecution, or with my being king of\nScotland? God knows, I have at this moment visions enough!--your remarks\nhave roused my sleeping mind; yet I could almost say I dream.\"\n\n\"This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my presence at this\nlate hour, may well produce an illusion; but I deal in no fancies. I\nhave only truths to tell, and deeds to do--ay, and such deeds as may\nwell cross the rapt eyes of the seer; Scotland has not seen such for\nmany a day, sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings. Will\nyour grace hear _your_ fate from the lips of a seer?\"\n\n\"I would rather hear that of my enemy, who rules this kingdom with a rod\nof iron,\" replied the duke.\n\n\"You will hear the fates and fortunes of both,\" said Graham--\"ay, even\nas is seen the scales of justice, which, as the beam moves, lifts one,\nonly to depress the other. If you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut,\nback among your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in store\nfor you and King James.\"\n\n\"I will,\" replied the duke, anxiously; \"but age requires rest. I was\nhunting all day, and feel weary. Let us postpone our visit till\nto-morrow evening.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Graham, \"the _hunter_ may say he is wearied, but the\n_hunted_ has no title to speak the language of nature. If we go at all,\nwe must go _now_. The visions of the seer come on him during night. At\nthe solemn hour of midnight, futurity is revealed to him--to the hunted\noutlaw, whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed the\nordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress--I will lead\nyour grace's horse through the hills. We have no time to lose--the old\nenemy is beforehand with us, and our grizzled locks mock the tardiness\nof our revenge. Come!\"\n\n\"My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words, Graham,\" said the\nold duke. \"Tell Malcolm to get my horse in readiness; meanwhile, I will\ndress, and be presently with you.\"\n\nThe duke went up to his bedroom, and Graham sought the servant, who\nproceeded to obey his directions. He came again back to the hall, and\nfolding his arms, walked to and fro, muttering to himself, stopping at\ntimes, and raising his hand in a menacing attitude, as if he were\nwholly engrossed by one feeling of revenge, and then resuming his musing\nattitude. The duke, dressed, belted, and muffled up in a large\nriding-cloak, again roused him from his reverie. They proceeded to the\ncourtyard, where the duke mounted, and Graham, taking the bridle into\nhis hand, took the horse away into a by-path that led to the hills.\nAfter proceeding forward for about an hour in the dark, they observed a\nsmall light glimmering in the distance, and coming apparently from the\nwindow of some cottage. For this Graham made as directly as the\nunevenness of the ground would permit; and in a short time they arrived\nat the door of the small dwelling, from the window of which the beam of\nlight shot out amongst the darkness, suggesting the idea of life, and\nprobably some of its comforts (at least a fire), amidst the dead\nstillness of a winter night in so dreary a situation.\n\nAt the door of this cottage, Graham rapped in a peculiar manner; and\nwithout a word being spoken, it was opened by a young man clad in the\nHighland garb. The two friends entered. The scene presented to them was\nthe ordinary appearance of a mountain hut in those days: a small fire of\npeats burned in the middle of the apartment, and sent out the light\nwhich, beaming through the small aperture in place of a window, had\nattracted the eyes of the guests. In a corner, a small truckle-bed\nstuffed with heather, part of which protruded at the side and end, and\ncovered with a coarse blanket or two, contained an old woman, with a\nclear, active eye, which twinkled in the light of the fire, and moved\nwith great rapidity as she scanned narrowly the persons of the guests.\nIn another corner was the bed of the young Highlander, composed simply\nof a collection of heather, and without blanket or covering of any kind.\nThe guests seated themselves on two coarse stools that stood by the\nfire; holding their hands over the flame, to receive as much as\npossible of the heat to thaw their limbs, which the freezing night air,\nco-operating with their advanced years, had stiffened and benumbed.\nWhile they were engaged in this preliminary but indispensable operation,\nthe young man, who appeared restless and confused, placed another stool\nbefore the bed of the old woman, so that, when seated upon it, his back\nwould be supported by the side of the bed, and his face in some degree\nconcealed from the gaze of the guests, who, being on the other side of\nthe peat fire, could, through the ascending smoke, see him only\nindistinctly and at intervals.\n\nWith the exception of a few words that had passed between the young\nHighlander and Graham--and which, being in Gaelic, were not understood\nby the royal duke, who, though formerly Lord of Brechin, and resident in\nthe north, had been too long in leaving the royal residence of his\nfather, Robert II., to acquire the language--there was nothing for some\ntime said. The guests continued their manual applications to the peat\nfire, and the young Gael, who had for some time been seated on his\nstool, threw himself occasionally back on the fore part of the bed, then\nbrought himself forward again, and at intervals muttered quickly some\nwords in Gaelic, accompanied with sounds of wonder and surprise, from\nall which he suddenly relapsed into quietness and silence. While these\nstrange operations were going on, Graham directed the attention of the\nduke to the uncouth actor, and whispered something in his ear which had\nthe effect of rousing him, and making him look anxiously through the\nsmoke, to get a better view of the strange gestures of the youth. The\nold woman in the bed made, in the meantime, efforts as if she intended\nto speak; but these were repressed by a sudden motion of the youth,\nwhose hand, slipped back, was applied as secretly as possible to her\nmouth, and then, in a menacing attitude, clenched and shaken in her\nface.\n\n\"Is your hour come yet, Allan?\" said Graham, in a deep and serious\nvoice.\n\n\"He says no,\" answered the old woman, with a sharp, clear voice, from\nthe bed, translating the Gaelic response of the youth; \"but he sees\nsigns o' an oncome.\"\n\n\"Is it to be a mute vision, Allan?\" again said Graham; \"or see you any\nsigns of a _taisch_?\"\n\n\"He thinks,\" said the woman again, as translator, \"he will see again the\nface and feir o' a dead king, wha will speak wi' sobs and granes o' him\nwha will come after him, and sit in the browden and burniest ha' o'\nScone's auld palace, whar he will be crowned.\"\n\nSilence again succeeded the clear notes of the woman's voice; the young\nman's movements and gestures recommenced; and the old duke's attention\nwas riveted by the strange proceedings which, to an absolute believer in\nthe powers of the seer, were fraught with intense interest. The\nprophetic paroxysm seemed to approach more near: the body of the seer\nwas bent stiffly back, and leaned on the bed; his eyes were wide open,\nand fixed upon a mental object; his hands were extended forth; his lips\nwere apart; and every gesture indicated that state of the mind when,\nunder the influence of a rapt vision, it takes from the body its nervous\nenergy, and leaves the limbs as if under the power of a trance.\n\nHe remained in this condition for fully five minutes; and then, throwing\nhis arms about, he cried out some quickly-uttered words in Gaelic, which\nthe old woman translated into--\"It comes! it comes!\" After a pause of a\nfew minutes, during which the most death-like silence prevailed\nthroughout the cottage, he began to move his hands slowly through the\nair, from right to left, as if he were following the progress of a\npassing creation of the mind; and, as he continued this movement, he\nspoke, in a deep, tremulous voice, with a kind of mournful, singing\ncadence, the Gaelic words, which were continually translated by the old\nwoman.\n\n\"There comes slowly, as if frae the womb o' a cloud o' mountain mist,\nthe seim o' a turreted abbey, wi' the tomb o' the Bruce and the\nmonuments o' other kings, amang which a new grave, wi' the moul o'\ncenturies o' rotten banes lying on its edge, and mixed wi' the skulls o'\ndead kings, and arm-banes that ance bore the sceptre o' Scotland!--It is\ngane!--the seim has vanished, and my eye is again darkened!\"\n\nA deep silence succeeded, and lasted for several minutes. The speaker's\nhands again began to move from right to left, and slowly-uttered words\nagain came from his lips!\n\n\"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and shows the wraith o' a\ngowd-graithit bier, movin to the wast; the Scotch lion is on the lid,\nand a shinin halbrik, owre whilk waves the royal pennon o' Scotland,\nbegirt wi' gowd, is carried afore, by the king-at-arms. A warlock, auld\nand shrivelled, wi' a white beard, touches wi' his wand the coffin; the\nlid lifts, and the head o' a king, wi' a leaden crown, rises frae the\nbier! A _taisch_! a _taisch_!--hark! the lips o' the dead open and move,\nand he speaks the weird that never deceives! '_Hail, Walter, King o' the\nScots!_'\"\n\nThis extraordinary statement was accompanied by a kind of yell or\nscream, that rung through the cottage, and pierced the ears of the\nlisteners. Silence again followed, and lasted several minutes, during\nwhich the seer was quiet. The duke was apparently entranced, and Graham\nlooked wonder and surprise. The seer began again to move his hands, and\nspeak as before.\n\n\"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and my eye follows the seim o'\nthe royal chair o' Scone, wherein sits\" (a loud scream of surprise broke\nfrom the seer) \"Walter, Lord o' Brechin that was, Duke o' Athol that\nis--King o' Scotland that will be!\"\n\nThese words were no sooner uttered, than the duke started from the stool\non which he sat, and showed strong indications of surprise and\nconfusion. His belief in the predictions of a seer was, as was common in\nthat age, unbounded, and when he heard himself pronounced King o'\nScotland his mind, freed from all manner of scepticism or doubt,\nreverted to the circumstance of the doubtful legitimacy of his\nhalf-brothers; the aspirations and day-dreams he had so long indulged\nseemed in an instant to have received the stamp of truth; the prospect\nof having his ambition at last gratified, by wearing the crown which his\nenemy now bore, inflamed his mind, and the coldness and lethargy of old\nage seemed to have been supplanted by the fire and energy of youth.\n\n\"Is the vision complete?\" said he to the old woman, as he saw the seer\ngradually regaining his upright position, and resulting his natural\nmanner, like one who had come out of a fit.\n\n\"Ay,\" replied she. \"Allan is himsel again; but, if ye are the Duke o'\nAthol, as I tak ye to be, I could rede ye, before our reddin, never\nmair, aiblins, to meet on this side o' time, something that wad make\nyour auld een glimmer through the smeik o' that ingle mair swith and\ndeftly than could a' the visions o' the seers o' Scotland.\"\n\nGraham looked alarmed at this unexpected speech of the old woman; and\nAllan, the seer, slipping gently his hand behind her back, stopped her\nmouth, and produced silence. The duke and Graham left the cottage--the\nlatter exhibiting a wish that the former should not remain longer, after\nthe object was attained for which they had made their visit. They\nreturned in the same way they had come; and for some time the duke was\nso much occupied with the thoughts of the extraordinary vision he had\ngot declared to him, that he rode forward, still led by Graham, without\nuttering a word. The night was, if possible, darker than it was when\nthey left the castle; and the stillness of a lazy fall of snow reigned\namong the hills, unbroken by a single sound, even of the night-birds.\n\n\"It is then ordained above,\" said the duke at last, in a low tone--\"my\nlot is already cast among the destinies, and all the dreams of a long\nlife are at last to be realised. I can scarcely believe that I have been\nawake for this last hour; yet what can be more certain than that I am\nnow suffering the cold of these hills, a bodily feeling which dreams\ncannot simulate? 'Walter, King of Scotland!' Ha! it sounds as well as\nJames--we are both the first of our name. It is tardy justice, but it is\njustice accompanied by retribution; and when is the blood too thin and\ncold to feed the fire of revenge? When do the pulses of the old heart\ncease to quicken at the thought of a just retribution? When is the head\ntoo bald to bear a crown lined with purple velvet? My spirits, frozen by\nage and this cold night, are thawed by the fire of these visions of\nvengeance, and dance in the wild array of youthful delight. Ha! he took\nfrom me the fee of my dukedom, and gave me, because I was _old_, the\nusufruct, the liferent: I shall now have the usufruct of a\n_kingdom_--_his_ kingdom by courtesy, _mine_ by right. Hark, Graham! How\nis this vision to be realised? The seer pointed to James's death--who is\nto kill the tyrant?\"\n\n\"I with this hand shall strike the blow,\" replied Graham. \"My plans are\nalready laid, and I wanted only your cooperation and assistance; for\nwhy, you know, should I be so improvident as to kill one king, until\nanother is ready to take his place?\"\n\n\"I cannot speak lightly of this affair,\" said the duke, in check of\nGraham's levity. \"What are your plans? The fewer co-operators in a\nconspiracy the better.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" replied Graham. \"Your grandson, Sir Robert Stuart, whom\nJames has foolishly retained as chamberlain, while he has taken from him\nhis chance of succeeding you in your dukedom, waits for your command to\ngive us access to the royal chamber. The king is to celebrate the\nChristmas holidays at the monastery of the Dominicans in Perth; he comes\nto the point of our dagger, held by a hand nerved by a thousand wrongs,\nto plunge it into his bosom. I can command the services of Sir John\nHall, and Christopher and Thomas Chambers, who cry for revenge for the\nmurder of their master Albany; three hundred caterans are at my service,\nready to do the work of death at my bidding; and all that was required\nto complete my schemes was the consent of your grace, now happily\nobtained, to the act which is to right you, to revenge you, to crown\nyou.\"\n\n\"If the king is to be at Perth,\" replied the duke, after a pause, \"I\nshall be at the revels of Christmas. My grandson Sir Robert, who, as\nchamberlain, may be said to be the keeper of the king, can let your\nthree hundred caterans into the monastery, and the work may be finished\nwith a facility which seldom attends the execution of the purposes of\nrevenge.\"\n\n\"Your grace has anticipated my very thoughts and words,\" replied the\nwily Graham. \"Heaven aids the work of a just retribution on the head of\nthe tyrant. Mark the supernatural coincidences. When was the vision of\nthe seer presented to the living senses of the avenger of his own and\nhis country's wrongs--the executioner of a tyrant, and the successor who\nis to occupy his throne--as if to urge him to his duty? When did the\ngroaning victims of royal cruelty get a chamberlain to turn for them the\nkey of the tyrant's sleeping room? And when were the suspicions of\nremorse and guilt of the wrong-doer so opportunely lulled, as to give\nroom to a confidence which brings him to the dagger's point?\"\n\n\"Walter, King of Scotland!\" ejaculated the duke, who, during Graham's\nspeech, had been musing over the sudden change in his fortunes. \"Ha!\nhow many acts shall I have to repeal! how many nobles to right! how many\nwounds to bind up of my bleeding country! Graham, you shall be Earl of\nMenteith, and your grand-nephew, Malise, shall have, instead of that\nearldom, his own Strathearn. How my mind burns with the thoughts of\nturning wrong into right, and taking the weight of the royal sceptre out\nof the scales of justice!\"\n\nBy this time, the pair had arrived again at the palace of Athol. Their\nplans were completed: the duke retired to dream of his crown and\nsceptre, and Graham returned to seek a heather bed, in his retreat,\nbeyond the reach of his enemies.\n\nSome time after, he met Allan, the seer, whose surname was Mackay, among\nthe hills. The Gael had apparently gone in quest of his employer, and\nseemed to have some important object to attain, by travelling so far as\nhe had done to meet him.\n\n\"I peg your honour's pardon,\" said the seer, as he came up to Graham;\n\"te katherans are to pe at te red stane in te howe o' te hills, on te\nsaxth. I hae seen a' te praw fallows, wha are as keen for te onset as te\neagles o' Shehallion. Ye will meet them, dootless, and keep up the fire\no' their pluid, pe te three grand powers--te speeches, te peat-reek, and\nte pay. Hoo did I manage te duke? Te play was weel played, your honour,\nthough Allan Mackay pe te man who says it; and te mair's my credit, that\nI never pefore acted to seer in presence o' te son o' a king. Ugh--ugh!\nput it was a praw performance, and are that deserves to pe weel paid\nfor. Hoo muckle did your honour promise to gie me for my remuneration?\nTe sum has clean escaped my memory.\"\n\n\"It was five merks, Allan,\" said Graham.\n\n\"I peg your pardon, your honour,\" said Allan. \"It was shust exactly\nseven; and little aneugh, seein I had my mither's mouth to keep close,\nfor fear she wad peach te secret to te duke, pesides te grand story o'\nDumferlin Appey, and te funeral, and te taisch, and te Palace o' Scone,\nto invent and perform. King Shames's actors are petter paid for\nperformin his 'Peebles to te Play.' Maybe your honour can pay me te\nseven merks shusht now?\"\n\n\"I cannot quarrel with you, Allan,\" said Graham; \"but our bargain was\nfive. Here's your own sum, however. Since that night, I have had\napprehensions about your mother's steadfastness. You must watch her, and\nprevent her from going from home. Women have been the ruin of all plots,\nsince the beginning of the world.\"\n\n\"That was shust what I was to speak aboot, next after the payment, your\nhonour,\" said Allan. \"She's awa owre the hills already, Cot knows whar.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Graham, in great agitation--\"has she gone away without\nyour knowledge, and without telling you whither she was going?\"\n\n\"That's shust the very thing I hae to inform ye o',\" replied the\nphlegmatic Gael. \"Te last time I saw her was on Wednesday morning, when\nshe was warstlin wi' the winds that plaw ower te tap o' te hill o' Gary.\nA glint o' te risin sun showed me her red cloak is it fluttered in te\nplast, and, in a moment after, a' my powers o' the second sight couldna\ndiscover her. But we've ae satisfaction; she's no awa to the duke. Put\nmaybe\" (turning up his eye slyly) \"she's awa to King Shames. I would\nfollow her, and pring her pack, put I require te seven merks I hae got\nfrae your honour for other necessary occasions, and purposes, and\nnecessities; and a pody canna travel in the Lowlands, whar there's nae\nheather to sleep on, without pawpees.\"\n\n\"Death and fury!\" cried the agitated Graham, \"are all my long-meditated\nschemes of revenge, are the concerted purposes for cutting off a tyrant\nand righting a nation, to be counteracted by the wag of an old woman's\ntongue? Allan\" (lowering his voice), \"you must after your mother--dog\nher through hill and dale, highway and city vennel; seize her, by force\nor guile; prevent her from seeking the presence of the king, or those\nwho may have the power of communicating with him; and get her back to\nher cottage, on the peril of all our lives. Here's money for you\"\n(giving him a purse), \"and here is a passport to the confidence of Sir\nRobert Stuart, the king's chamberlain, one of our friends, who will\nco-operate with you in preventing her from approaching the royal\npresence.\"\n\n\"She's a Lowlander, your honour,\" said Allan, putting the money in his\npocket; \"and maybe she's awa to see her praw freends o' the south, whar\nshe gaes ance a-year, shust about this time; put, to oplige, and favour,\nand satisfy your honour, I'll awa doon te Strath o' te Tay; and, if I\ndinna find her wi' her relations in Dundee, there may be some reason,\nand occasion, and authority for your honour's apprehension, and for my\ncrossin te Tay and te Forth, to prevent her frae payin her respects to\nShames, whilk she wad think nae mair o' doin than o' speakin in te way\nshe did to te Duke o' Athol.\"\n\n\"Away--away, then!\" cried Graham; \"and remember that your head's at\nstake as well as that of the best of us. So look to yourself.\"\n\nGraham went away to an appointed place, where he was to meet Sir John\nHall, who was to accompany him to the meeting of the caterans, and Allan\nwent back to the cottage, and, taking out some necessaries, proceeded to\nStrath Tay. He arrived at the town of Dundee next evening; and, having\nascertained that his mother had crossed over to Fife, had no doubt that\nshe was away to Edinburgh for the purpose of communicating to King James\nwhat she knew of the conspiracy of the north. He therefore also crossed\nthe Tay, proceeded through Fife, and, after considerable delay,\nproduced by ineffectual inquiries after an old woman in a red cloak, he\narrived in Edinburgh on the third day after he had set out from his\ncottage. He had procured no trace of his mother, and all his wanderings\nand searchings through the Scottish metropolis were unavailing--he could\nneither see nor hear of her; and he therefore resolved to wait upon Sir\nRobert Stuart, to put him on his guard, lest she might, by her cunning,\nescape also his notice, and get access to the king by means of some\nsubtle story told to the usher. He had no difficulty in getting access\nto Sir Robert, who was, about that time, too much occupied with secret\nmessengers from the seat of the conspiracy in which he had engaged, to\nhesitate an instant about consenting to see the Gael, who, he doubted\nnot, came from Sir Robert Graham, or his grandfather, the duke--both, he\nknew, deeply engaged in the secret affair. Having been admitted, Allan,\nas he walked up to the end of the apartment where Sir Robert was seated,\nlooked cautiously around; and, seeing no one near, assumed an attitude\nand demeanour somewhat bolder, but still suited to the secresy of his\nmessage.\n\n\"Has your honour seen an old woman in a red cloak, apoot te precincts o'\nte king's residence?\" said he, in a whispering tone, as he slipped\nGraham's token--a piece of paper with ciphers on it--into Sir Robert's\nhand.\n\n\"Sir Robert has himself written me about that beldam,\" said the\nchamberlain. \"She is in our secret, I understand--an extraordinary\ninstance of imprudence, which I must have explained to me. Meantime, the\ndanger must be averted. I have not seen her. Have you, sir?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Allan. \"I wish I could get a climpse o' her. It's te very\nthing I want. She would never see te face o' te king, if she ance\ncrossed my path--tamn her!\"\n\n\"What would ye do with her?\" inquired the chamberlain, eagerly. \"I wish\nwe could get her out of the way. You know what I mean; a sum of money is\nof no importance in comparison of security--real, absolute, undoubted\nsecurity--from this plague. You understand me?\" And he touched his\nsword, to make himself better understood.\n\n\"Understand ye!--ugh, ugh, your honour,\" cried the Gael, \"there was nae\noccasion for touchin te sword; your words are sharp aneugh for gettin to\nmy intellects. You mean\" (whispering in the chamberlain's ear) \"that for\na praw consideration and remuneration, I might kill te auld hag. Eh!\nisn't that it, your honour?\"\n\n\"Supposing, but not admitting, that that was my meaning,\" said the\nchamberlain, cautiously, \"what would you say to the proposition?\"\n\n\"Say to't, your honour!\" said Allan. \"Ugh! ugh! Let your honour say te\nword and pay te remuneration, and te auld harridan is dead twa hoors\nafter I get a climpse o' her. Of course\" (looking knowingly into the\nchamberlain's face), \"your honour would protect me till I got to to\nhills. Te work itsel is naething--an auld wife's easy kilt--it's no pe\ntat te remuneration should be measured--it's pe te risk o' hangin. Was\nit ten merks your honour said?\"\n\n\"I did not mention any sum,\" said the chamberlain; \"but you may have\ntwenty, if you relieve us of this fear in the manner you have yourself\nmentioned.\"\n\n\"Ten in hand, I fancy,\" said the Gael--\"word for word, your honour. If I\ntrust you ten merks, you may trust me te trifle o' killin an auld\nwife--a mere pagatelle. I hae kilt twenty shust to please te Wolf o'\nPadenoch's son, Duncan.\"\n\n\"But do you know the woman?\" said the chamberlain.\n\n\"I think I do,\" answered Allan. \"There pe nae fear o' a mistake; put, if\nI should kill ae auld wife for anithor, whar's te harm? The right ane\ncan easily be kilt afterwards.\"\n\nThe importance of being entirely relieved from the danger that thus\nimpended over the heads of the conspirators was very apparent to Sir\nRobert Stuart. He knew well the character of James: a hint was often\nsufficient for him; and the statement of a woman, if it quadrated with\nknown facts and suspicions, would be believed; inquiry would follow; one\nfact would lead to another, and the whole scheme be laid open. He\ntherefore eagerly closed with Allan's offer; the ten merks were paid;\nand it was agreed upon that the murderer should receive his other ten\nmerks, as well as harbourage and protection, upon satisfying the\nchamberlain that the deed was executed. Well pleased at having made so\neasily a sum of considerable magnitude in those days, Allan went to look\nfor his mother--not, it may readily be conceived, for the purpose of\nkilling her, but simply with the view of getting her out of the way,\nuntil the king had set off for Perth, which he understood he would do in\na few days.\n\nHe wandered round the skirts of the town, musing on his good fortune,\nlooking at the novelties that presented themselves to his view, and\nkeeping a sharp eye for a red cloak. In this way he passed the time\nuntil the grey of the twilight; when, as he sauntered along the foot of\nthe Calton Hill, he saw, lying in a sequestered spot, his aged parent,\nwrapped up in her red cloak, and apparently in a sound sleep, into which\nshe had, in all likelihood, fallen, from the excessive fatigue to which\nshe had been exposed in her long journey to the metropolis. The\naffection of the son produced only an involuntary sigh, and a musing\nattitude of a few moments. He hastened to the residence of the\nchamberlain; and, as he passed the door of a flesher who was killing\nsheep, ran in, and, without saying a word, dipped his sword in the\nblood, and then proceeded on his way. He got instant admittance to his\nemployer, who was sitting alone, occupied by the thoughts of the mighty\nand dangerous enterprise on which he had entered. Slipping up to him,\nwith an air of great secresy, he stood before him.\n\n\"She's dead!\" said Allan, looking into the face of Stuart, with an\nexpression of countenance in which triumph and cunning were strangely\nblended.\n\n\"You are a most expeditious workman,\" replied the chamberlain; \"but\nwhere is the evidence of our being freed from this plague?\"\n\n\"Will her heart's pluid satisfy ye?\" replied Allan, holding up the sword\ncovered with the sheep's blood. \"Waur evidence has hanged a shentleman\nbefore noo. Ye'll pe ken there's twa kinds o' pluid in te human body--a\nred and a plack: te ane comes frae flesh wounds o' te skean dhu, when\nit's bashfu, and winna gang far ben; and te other follows te plow o' te\ndetermined dirk, when it seeks te habitation o' life in te heart itsel.\nDoes yer honour ken te difference? What say ye to that?\" showing him the\nsword. \"I'm sure ye never saw ponnier plack pluid i' te heart o' a\ncourtier o' King Shames.\"\n\n\"You are getting ironical in your probation,\" said the chamberlain. \"I'm\nno judge of the difference of veinous and arterial blood; but, if I\nwere, how am I to be satisfied that this is the life stream of the old\nwoman?\"\n\n\"Nae other auld plack teevel could hae kept it sae lang in her gizzard,\"\nreplied the Gael. \"Put there pe mair evidence. An honest man's like\ngowd--he rejoices in te fiery furnace. I'll show ye te pody o' te\ntreacherous hag hersel, wha would hae sent us a' to te head o' her clan,\nSatan, if I hadna peen beforehand wi' her. She lies on te Calton yonder,\nas quietly as if she were in the Greyfriars; and if your honour will\naccompany me, ye may satisfy yersel o' te absolute truth and verity o'\nmy statement.\"\n\n\"The dead body cannot be long there,\" answered Sir Robert, \"without\nbeing discovered; and by approaching the spot we may subject ourselves\nto suspicion, especially if you were previously seen hounding about the\nplace.\"\n\n\"Ugh! ugh! Is that a' your honour kens o' a Gael's prudence?\" replied\nAllan. \"Think ye I wanted to let your Edinburghers see how neatly we\nGaels can strike pelow te fifth rib? Na! I was working for te ten merks,\nand te salvation o' mysel, your honour, and Sir Robert Graham; and if te\nauld witch hersel wasna inclined to spake o' te affair, it didna pecome\nme to say a single word. She took it as quietly and decently as I'll\nreceive te ten merks (and whatever mair my expedition merits) frae te\nhands o' yer honour. Put te night's fa'in, and there's nae danger in\nlookin at te pody o' a dead wife. Come, your honour, and trust to me for\nyour guide.\"\n\nThe chamberlain, pleased with the issue of his negotiation, was\nnotwithstanding fully aware of the danger to which he was exposed by his\nconnection with the murderer. He hesitated about examining the evidence\nof the murder; but how otherwise could he have any faith in the\nstatement of the Highlander? And his peace of mind, as well as the\nsafety of his colleagues, would repay the slight risk he ran in taking a\ncursory view of the body of the murdered woman. He resolved, therefore,\non accompanying Allan to the spot; and having requested the Gael to go\nbefore, he secretly followed him, until he saw his guide stop, and point\nwith his finger to the spot where his mother lay. Still under an alarm,\nwhich the increasing gloom might have in some measure allayed, he walked\nirresolutely forward, and having seen the body of the woman wrapped up\nin the red cloak lying extended on the ground, he had not the slightest\ndoubt that she was dead, having been killed by the stern Gael. He\ninstantly retreated; and having waited for the approach of Allan, paid\nhim twenty merks (being ten in addition), and requested him to fly with\nall expedition to the Highlands. Allan received the money, counting it\nwith a nonchalance which surprised the chamberlain, and bidding him\ngood-night, walked away to waken his mother, and take her to a warm bed,\nwhile the other went home, delighted that this great danger had been so\neasily averted.\n\nSome days afterwards, the king and queen set out for Perth--Sir Robert\nStuart, now freed from all alarm, having preceded them, for the purpose\nof making the necessary preparations at Dundee for the reception of his\nroyal master and mistress, and for their journey along the north bank of\nthe Tay to Perth. The royal party arrived at Leith about twelve o'clock\nof the day, for the purpose of embarking in a yacht, which was to carry\nthem across the Forth. A large assemblage of people was present,\ncollected from Edinburgh and Leith, to see the embarkation; among whom,\nthe courtiers, dressed in their gay robes, were conspicuous, as well\nfrom their dresses as the air of authority they assumed, on an occasion\nwhich some of them might suspect was to be the last in which their\nmonarch would ever require their attendance. The sounds of the carriages\nand horses, of a tumultuous crowd, and of those actually engaged in the\nembarkation--with the crushing of anxious spectators, and the efforts of\nthe military to insure order, and make room for the progress of the\nparty towards the yacht--produced the confusion generally attending such\na scene. The queen had been escorted forward to the side of the vessel,\nand been assisted on board; and the king was on the eve of taking the\nstep which was to remove him from the pier into the yacht, when an old\nwoman, wrapped in a red cloak, rushed forward, and, holding up two\nspare, wrinkled arms in the face of the monarch, cried, in a wild and\nprophetic manner--\n\n\"James Stuart, receive this warning! It is not made in vain, however it\nmay be received. If you cross the Scottish sea, betwixt and the feast o'\nChristmas, you will never come back again in life.\"\n\nHaving said these words, she waved her hands, and disappeared. Struck\nwith her solemn and impressive manner, and her extraordinary\nappearance, James started, and stood for a moment mute. Recollecting\nhimself, he called out to a knight to follow, and question her. He\nobeyed; but ere he could make his way among the crowd, Allan Mackay had\nseized his mother (for such she was), and hurried her beyond the reach\nof the courtiers. The event struck James forcibly. He concealed it from\nhis queen; but, during the passage to Kirkcaldy, he was remarked to be\nsilent and abstracted--a mood which remained on him during a great part\nof his journey. At Dundee, he repaired to the palace, in St Margaret's\nClose, where he still meditated secretly on the strange warning, and\ncompared it with the denunciation and threat contained in the letter he\nhad some time before received from Sir Robert Graham. After retiring to\nhis chamber, he sent for Sir Robert Stuart, to commune with him on\nmatters of importance. The message alarmed the guilty chamberlain, who\nconceived that the conspiracy of the north had been discovered, in spite\nof his murderous effort to conceal it, by the death of the Highland\nwoman. He repaired to the presence-chamber, trembling, and full of\nfearful anticipations.\n\n\"Sir Robert,\" said the king, as the chamberlain approached him, \"I am\nfilled with gloomy apprehensions of a violent death, that will prevent\nme from re-crossing the Forth. Have you heard anything of late of my\nbitter foe, Graham, who has denounced me? Are you certain he is not\nhatching against me some bloody conspiracy in these fastnesses of the\nnorth?\"\n\nThe question went to the heart of the conspirator. He gave up all for\nlost, and guilt supplied all that was awanting in the king's speech to\nfix upon him the reproach of plotting against the life of his sovereign.\nHappily, James did not observe his agitation, having relapsed, after his\nquestion, into the gloomy despondency in which he had for several days\nbeen immerged. All the resolution of the guilty man was required to\nenable him to utter a solitary question.\n\n\"What reason has your majesty,\" he said, \"for entertaining these fears,\napparently so unfounded?\"\n\n\"I have been warned,\" replied the king, in a deep voice, \"surely by a\nmessenger from Heaven. As I stood on the pier of Leith, ready to step\ninto the yacht, a strange woman, muffled up in a red cloak, approached\nme, and holding out her hands, warned me against crossing the Forth, and\nsaid that if I did, I would never come back alive. Her manner was\nsupernatural, her voice hollow and grave-like. She disappeared, and,\nnotwithstanding the efforts of my messengers to seize her, could nowhere\nbe found. I cannot shake this vision from my mind. Every one knows that\nI despise superstitious fears; but that very circumstance makes my gloom\nand despondency the more remarkable.\"\n\nThis speech struck another chord in the mind of the guilty courtier. No\ndoubt had remained in his mind that the old woman in the red cloak,\nmentioned by Sir Robert Graham, had been by his orders killed; he had\nseen her blood on the fatal sword, and he had seen her body lying\nlifeless on the ground. Who, then, was this second old woman in the red\ncloak, that had made such a fearful impression upon the king? Had Heaven\nnot taken up arms against him, and re-incorporated the departed spirit\nof the murdered woman, for the purpose of her humane object being still\nattained? Had not the king himself, the most dauntless of men, said the\nfigure was supernatural? And, above all, was it not certain that there\nwas a just occasion for the interposition of Providence, when one of the\nrulers of the earth, who have often been protected by Heaven, was about\nto fall a victim to a cruel purpose, in which he himself was engaged?\nThese thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of light, and\nstruck his heart with a remorse and fear which made him quake. James\nlooked at him with surprise; but attributed his agitation to the\nstrange tidings he had communicated regarding the supposed supernatural\nvisitation. Relieved, however, from the fear of personal danger produced\nby the king's first announcement, the guilty chamberlain endeavoured to\nshake off his superstitious feelings, and, summoning all his powers,\ncontrived to put together a few sentences of vulgar scepticism,\nrecommending to the king not to allow the ravings of a maniac (as the\nold woman undoubtedly was) to disturb his tranquillity, or interfere\nwith his sound and philosophical notions of the government of the\nuniverse.\n\nThe king proceeded to Perth, and subsequently overcame the feeling of\napprehension and despondency produced by the supposed apparition; and\nthe chamberlain got again so completely entoiled in the details of his\nconspiracy, that the affair passed from his mind also. By the time the\nfestivities of Christmas came to be celebrated, the apprehensions of\nevil had died away, just in proportion as the real danger became every\nday more to be dreaded. The power of the chamberlain was now exercised\nvigorously, and with ill-merited success. He contrived to gain over to\nhis side many of the royal guards; while Sir Robert Graham was not less\nsuccessful in his organisation of the external forces, composed of wild\nand daring caterans, ready, on being let into the palace, to spread\ndeath and desolation wherever they came. Meanwhile, the Duke of Athol\ndreamed his day-dream of royalty, and indulged in all the intoxicating\nvisions of state and power, which he thought were on the point of being\nrealised. Yet the conspiracy was confined to a very few influential\nindividuals--the duke himself, Graham, Stuart, Hall, and Chambers being\nalmost the only persons of any distinction or authority who had been\nasked to join the bold enterprise; and these, it is supposed, would not\nhave ventured on the scheme, had they not been blindfolded by personal\ncravings of insatiable revenge, which prevented all prudential\ncalculations of consequences.\n\nAs the revels approached, the chamberlain took care to prevail upon the\nking to send an invitation to those of the conspirators who were\nconsidered to be so much in favour at court as to be entitled to that\nmark of the royal favour; while especial care was also taken to get the\ninvitations to the _real_ friends of the king so distributed, that there\nshould, on the night intended for the murder, be collected in the\nmonastery as few as possible of the latter, and as many of the former as\nthe king could be prevailed upon to invite. There would thus be\ninsidious enemies within, at the head of whom would be the Duke of\nAthol; and fierce foes without, led by the furious and bloodthirsty\nGraham, to the latter of whom, by the bribing of the guards, a free\npassage would be opened to the sleeping apartment of the king, where the\nbloody scene was intended to be enacted in presence of the queen.\n\nIt was on the night of the 20th of February that the conspirators had\nresolved to execute their work of death. All things were carefully\nprepared: wooden boards were placed across the moat which surrounded the\nmonastery, to enable the conspirators to pass unknown to the warders,\nwho were placed only at the entrances; and the extraordinary precaution\nwas taken by the chamberlain, to destroy the locks of the royal\nbedchamber, and of those of the outer room with which it communicated,\nwhereby it would be impossible for those within to secure the doors, and\nto prevent the entrance of the party. Meanwhile, in the inside of the\nmonastery, a gay party was collected, consisting of young and gallant\nnobles and knights, and crowds of fair damsels, dressed in the glowing\ncolours so much beloved by the belles of that age. In the midst of this\nhappy group were the traitors Sir Robert Stuart and his aged\ngrandfather, Athol, who looked and smiled upon the scene, while they\nknew that, in a few minutes, that presence-chamber would in all\nlikelihood be flowing with the blood of the king who sat beside them,\nand become, through their means, a scene of massacre and carnage.\n\nOf all the individuals in the royal presence-chamber on that night, no\none was more joyous than the merry monarch himself. A poet of exquisite\nhumour, as well exemplified in his performance of \"Peebles to the Play,\"\nhe was the life and spirit of the amusements of the evening, which\nconsisted chiefly of the recitation of poetical stories, the reading of\nromances, the playing on the harp to the plaintive tunes of the old\nScottish ballads (the touching words being the suitable accompaniment),\nthe game of tables, and all the other diversions of the age. In all\nthis, the king joined with (it is said) greater pleasure and alacrity\nthan he had exhibited for many years. In the midst of his jests and\nmerry sayings, he even laughed and made light of a prophecy which had\nforetold his death in that year--an allusion perfectly understood by\nthose who knew of the apparition of the old woman in the red cloak,\nwhose warning, though not forgotten, was now treated with his accustomed\nlevity. In playing at chess with a young knight, over whose shoulder the\ngrey-bearded Athol looked smilingly into the face of the king, his\njesting and merriment were kept up and exercised in a manner that\nsuggested the most extraordinary coincidences. He had been accustomed to\ncall the young knight \"the king of love;\" and, in allusion to the\nwarning, advised him to look well to his safety, as they were the only\ntwo kings in the land. The old duke started as he heard this statement\ncome from the mouth of one on the very eve of being consigned to the\ndagger; and for a moment thought that the conspiracy had been\ndiscovered; but a second look at the joyous merry-maker left no doubt on\nhis mind that his jesting was the mere overflow of an exuberance of\nspirits.\n\nAt this moment a hundred wild and kilted caterans, armed with swords and\nknives, and thirsting for blood, were lurking in the dark angles of the\ncourt of the monastery, directing their eyes to the blazing windows of\nthe presence-chamber, and listening to the sounds of the revels. The\nconspirators within knew, by a concerted signal, that Graham and his\nparty were in this situation, and looked anxiously for the breaking up\nof the entertainment; but the king was inclined to prolong the\namusements, and the hour was getting near midnight. While the king was\nengaged in play with the young knight, Christopher Chambers, one of the\nconspirators, was seized with a fit of remorse, and repeatedly\napproached the royal presence, with a view to inform James of his\ndanger; but the crowd of knights and ladies who filled the\npresence-chamber prevented him from executing his purpose. The\namusements continued; it was now long past midnight, and Stuart and\nAthol heard at length the long-wished-for declaration of the king, that\nthe revels should be concluded.\n\nJust as James had uttered this wish, the usher of the presence-chamber\napproached Stuart, and whispered in his ear that an old woman, wrapped\nup in a red cloak, was at the door, and requested permission to see and\nspeak with the king. The guilty chamberlain, who was on the point of\ngiving the fatal signal, heard the statement with horror, and recoiled\nback from the usher; but the die was cast, and even the powers of heaven\nwere disregarded amidst the turmoil of wild thoughts that were then\ncareering through his excited mind. \"Bid her begone--thrust her from the\ndoor!\" he whispered in the ear of the usher, and applied himself again\nto the dreadful work in which he was engaged.\n\nSoon after this, the king called for the parting cup, and the company\ndispersed--Athol and Stuart being the last to leave the apartment. With\nthe view of going to bed, James and his queen now retired to the\nsleeping chamber, where the merry monarch, still under the influence of\nhigh spirits, stood before the fire in his night-gown, talking gaily\nwith those around him. At that moment, a clang of arms was heard, and a\nblaze of torches was seen in the court of the monastery. The quick mind\nof the king saw his danger in an instant; a suspicion of treason, and a\ndread of his bloodthirsty enemy, Graham, were his first thoughts. Alarm\nwas now the prevailing power; and the ladies of the bedchamber, rushing\ninto the sleeping room, cried that treason was abroad. The queen and her\nattendants flew to secure the doors; the locks were useless; and the\ncertainty of having been betrayed by his chamberlain now occupied the\nmind of the king. Yet, though he saw his destruction resolved on, he did\nnot lose presence of mind. He called to his queen and ladies to obstruct\nall entrance as long as they could, and rushed to the windows. They were\nfirmly secured by iron bars, and all escape in that way was impossible.\nThe clang of arms increased; and the sounds of the approach of armed men\nalong the passages came every instant nearer and nearer. The ladies\nscreamed, and held the doors; the king was in despair; and, seizing a\npair of tongs from the fireplace, with unexampled force wrenched up the\nboards of the floor, and descended into a vault below, while the ladies\nreplaced the covering.\n\nA slight hope was now entertained that he might escape. The vault\ncommunicated with the outer court; but, unfortunately, the passage had\nbeen, shortly before, by the king's own orders, built up, to prevent the\ntennis-balls of the players in the tennis-court, to which the passage\nled, from rolling into the vault (as they had often done), and being\nlost. There was, therefore, no escape. Meanwhile, Graham and his\ncaterans rushed towards the bedchamber, and having slain Walter\nStraiton, a page they met in the passage, began to force open the door,\namidst the shrieks of the women, who still, though weakly, attempted to\nbarricade it. An extraordinary circumstance here occurred: Catherine\nDouglas, with the heroic resolution of her family, thrust her arm into\nthe staple from which the bolt had been taken by the traitors, and in an\ninstant it was snapped asunder. The conspirators, yelling like fiends,\nand with bloody daggers and knives in their hands, now rushed into the\nroom, and cowardly stabbed some of the defenceless ladies, as they fled\nscreaming round the apartment, or trying vainly to hide themselves in\nits corners and beneath the bed. The queen herself never moved: horror\nhad thrown its cataleptic power over her frame; she stood rooted to the\nfloor, a striking spectacle--her hair hanging over her shoulders, and\nnothing on her but her kirtle and mantle. In this situation, she was\nstabbed by one of the conspirators, and was only saved from the knives\nof others and death itself, by a son of Graham, who, impatient for the\nlife of the king, commanded the men to leave such work for that which\nwas more important. The king was not to be found; and a suspicion gained\nground that he had escaped from the sleeping room by the door. A search\nwas therefore made throughout the whole monastery, in all the outer\nrooms along the corridor, and in the court; and had it not been that\nStuart assured them that it was impossible the king could have escaped\nbeyond the walls, the search would have been relinquished in despair.\n\nMeanwhile, the citizens and the nobles who were quartered in the town\nheard the tumult, and were hastening to the spot. The king might yet be\nsaved; for his place of escape had not been discovered, and rescue was\nat hand. Alas! his own impatience brought on his head the ruin that\nseemed to be averted. Hearing all quiet, he fancied that the traitors\nhad relinquished the search, and called up from the vault to the ladies,\nto bring the sheets from the bed and draw him up again into the\napartment. In attempting this, one of the ladies, Elizabeth Douglas,\nfell down into the vault. The noise recalled the murderers. Thomas\nChambers, who knew all the holes and recesses of the monastery, suddenly\nremembered the small vault, and concluded that James must be concealed\nthere. He therefore returned; the torn floor caught his eye; the planks\nwere again lifted, and a blazing torch was soon held down into the dark\nhole. The king and the unfortunate lady, who lay apparently breathless\nbeside him, were seen; and, glorying in his discovery, the relentless\nruffian shouted aloud with savage merriment, and called his companions\nback; \"for,\" as he said, \"the bride was found for whom they had sought\nand carolled all night.\" A dreadful scene was now enacted in the vault,\nin the hearing of the queen, who, with her attendants, was still in the\napartment. Sir John Hall first leaped down; but James, strong in his\nagony, throttled him, and flung him beneath his feet. Hall's brother\nnext descended, and met the same fate; and now came the arch-enemy, Sir\nRobert Graham. Like a roaring tiger, he threw himself into the hole, and\nJames, bleeding sore from the wounds of the Halls' knives, was overcome,\nand fell, with the stern murderer over him. The wretched monarch\nimplored mercy, and begged his life, should it be at the price of half\nhis kingdom.\n\n\"Thou cruel tyrant!\" said Graham, \"never hadst thou compassion on thine\nown noble kindred; therefore expect none from me.\"\n\n\"At least,\" cried James, \"let me have a confessor, for the good of my\nsoul.\"\n\n\"None,\" replied Graham, \"but this sword!\" Upon which he stabbed him in a\nvital part; but the king continued to implore so piteously for mercy,\nthat even Graham's nerves were shaken, and he felt inclined to fly from\nthe dreadful scene.\n\nHis companions above noticed this change; and, as he was scrambling up,\nleaving the king still breathing, they threatened him with death, if he\ndid not complete the work. He at last obeyed, and struck the king many\ntimes, till he died.\n\nThe story of the Highland woman who appeared to King James, which to\nhistorians has so long been a subject of mystery, is thus, by our\nchronicle, cleared up. We may afterwards do the same good office to\nother curious and doubtful parts of Scottish history; but, in the\nmeantime, as it may be satisfactory to know the fate of those bold\nconspirators who executed so desperate a purpose as that we have\nnarrated, we may mention that the queen never rested till she had\nbrought them all to justice. Never was retribution so certain, so ample,\nso merited, and so satisfactory to a whole nation; for James's alleged\nharshness was confined to the nobles, and never extended to the people,\nwho loved the royal poet, and revered their king. Sir Robert Stuart and\nThomas Chambers were first taken; and, upon a confession of their guilt,\nwere beheaded on a high scaffold raised in the market-place, and their\nheads fixed on the gates of Perth. Athol next suffered; and, as he had\nsighed for a crown, his head, when it was severed from his body, was\nencompassed by an iron one. Graham was next seized; and, after the\nmanner of the times, was tortured before his execution in a manner which\nwe cannot describe. Hall and all the others suffered a similar fate; and\nit was alleged that not a single individual who had a hand in the\nterrible tragedy was allowed to escape--thus justifying the ways of God,\nwhere vengeance, though sometimes concealed, sooner or later overtakes\nthose who contravene His laws.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CURATE OF GOVAN.\n\n\nDo any of our east or south country readers know anything of the little\nvillage of Govan, within about two miles or so of Glasgow? If they do,\nthey will acknowledge, we daresay, that it is one of the most\nprettily-situated little hamlets that may be seen. We mean, however,\nsolely that portion of it which stands on the banks of the Clyde. On a\nsummer evening, when the tide is at its height, filling up the channel\nof the river from side to side in a bumper, and is gliding stilly and\ngently along between its margins of green, there cannot, we think, be\nanything prettier than the scene of which the little picturesque village\nof Govan forms the centre or principal object. The antique row of houses\nstretching down to the water, widened, at this particular spot, into a\nlittle lake, by the confluence of the Kelvin; the rude but picturesque\nsalmon fisher's hut in the foreground; the river winding far to the\nwest, and skirting the base of the beautiful hills of Kilpatrick, that\nform the boundary of the scene in that direction--all combine to form,\nas we have already said, a scene of more than ordinary beauty.\n\nSuch, as nearly as we can describe it, is the local situation and\nappearance of Govan at the present day; for often, often have we been\nthere in our younger years, and never shall we forget the happy hours we\nhave spent in it. Pleasant, indeed, was the walk of a summer's evening\non the banks of the Clyde--pleasant was the feast of kippered salmon,\nfor which the village was celebrated; but pleasanter than all were the\nlooks--the kindly, _pawky_ looks--the civility and the homely but shrewd\nwit of David Dreghorn, the honest, worthy, and kindhearted landlord of\nthe ----. We are not sure if his house had a name; but it was not\nnecessary; for well and widely was David known, and by none was he known\nby whom he was not esteemed and respected.\n\nBut there were other landlords in Govan before David's day--not more\nworthy or better men, but of older date--yes, as far back as the time of\nJames V. At that period, the principal, indeed the only, hostelry in\nGovan was kept by one Ninian, or, as he was more commonly called, Ringan\nScouler. The house--a small, plain-looking building with marvellously\nfew windows, and these few marvellously small in size and wide\napart--was situated at the extreme end of the village, which terminates\nat or near the margin of the river. All trace of it has long since\ndisappeared; but we have pointed out its precise locality. It commanded,\nas those who know the spot will at once believe, a delightful view, or\nrather series of views. The front windows looked up the Clyde, the back\nwindows down; and those in the gable commanded the Kelvin and the\nwoodland scenery (more so then than now) around and beyond. The sign of\nhis calling, which hung above the door of Ringan Scouler's little\nhostelry, was then, as it still is, that of several of his brethren in\ntrade in the village--the figure of a salmon, painted in its natural\ncolours on a black ground. Ringan's emblematic fish, however, was not a\nvery shapely animal; but there was enough of likeness remaining to place\nbeyond all manner of doubt that it was meant to represent the \"monarch\nof the flood.\" Mine host himself was a quiet-mannered, good-humoured,\nand good-natured person, with just such an eye to the one thing needful\nas admitted of his cherishing this temperament, and of keeping a\ncomfortable house over his head. Perhaps his propensity of the kind just\nalluded to went even a little further in its objects than this. We will\nnot say that, with all his quiet wit, and good-humour, and kindness,\nand apparent carelessness about the main chance, he was not a pretty\nvigilant marker of it. But what then? It was all in a fair and honest\nway; and he gave his urbanity of manner as an equivalent.\n\nRingan, at the period of our story, was about fifty years of age, of a\nfresh, healthy complexion, and shrewd cast of countenance; the latter\nbeing lighted up by a couple of little, cunning, grey eyes, deep set\nbeneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, which, again, were surmounted by a\nhead of hair, prematurely grey--a constitutional characteristic; for\nneither his years nor his cares warranted this usual indication of the\npressure of one or other, or both of these causes. Ringan was, moreover,\nwell to pass in the world; for, being a man of at least ordinary\nprudence, and having as excellent business, his circumstances throve\napace. His business, we have said, was excellent. It could not be\notherwise; for it was not in the nature of man to pass Ringan's door\nwithout entering it. His good things, in the shape of liquor and\nprovender; his quaint, sly jokes, spoken almost under breath, which, in\nhis case, added to their effect; his cunning, smirking, facetious look\nand manner--were all and each of them wholly irresistible; and all the\nking's lieges who passed within a mile of his door, and who had a penny\nin their pockets, felt them to be so.\n\nSuch was Ringan Scouler, the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron--for we\nforgot to say, in its proper place, that the culinary implement just\nnamed appropriately figured at one end of the board. The list of\nRingan's regular customers, which was a very extensive one, included the\ncurate and schoolmaster of Govan, both drouthy cronies and sworn\nfriends, although there was not a night in the world that they did not\nquarrel; but this was more the effect of Ringan's ale than of any\ninherent pugnacity of disposition in the belligerents themselves. This\nquarrel, however, was so usual and so regular, that Ringan could tell\nto a measure of liquor when it would commence.\n\nIn summer, these worthies generally occupied a little room that\noverlooked the river; but in winter, or when the weather began to get\nchill, they took possession of a corner of the kitchen, the most\ncheerful apartment in the house at that season, as it was always kept in\nmost admirable order. The walls were white as snow, the floor strewed\nwith bright white sand; immense rows of shining pewter plates and jugs\nof the same metal glittered on the rack; and a rousing fire crackled in\nthe old-fashioned chimney. Nothing, in short, could be more tempting to\nthe wayfarer, on a dark, cold, and drizzly night, than a casual peep\nthrough the blazing windows into Ringan's cheerful kitchen; and nothing\ncould in reality be more comfortable than that kitchen, when you were\nonce into it. In a corner of this snug apartment was to be found\nregularly, every evening, say, from October to May, between the hours of\nseven and ten, Mr Walter Gibson, curate of Govan, and Mr John Craig,\nschoolmaster there. Before them, and near to the fireplace, stood a\nsmall fir table, and on this table invariably stood a large pewter\nmeasure of ale, and three horn tumblers with silver rims--one for each\nof the persons just named, and a spare one for the use of the landlord,\nwho joined their potations as often as the demands on his attention to\nthe duties of the house permitted.\n\nOut of all the evenings, however, which the curate and schoolmaster\nspent in Ringan Scouler's, we can afford to select one only; but this\nshall be one on which something occurred to diversify the monotony of\ntheir meetings, otherwise distinguished only by the usual quarrel, the\nusual humdrum conversation (which, though sufficiently interesting to\nthemselves, would, if recorded, afford very little entertainment to the\nreader), and the usual consumption of somewhere about a gallon of mine\nhost's double ale. The particular evening to which we have alluded\nshall be one in the latter end of the month of October, and the\nyear somewhere about _anno_ 1529. It was a raw, wet, and cold\nnight--circumstances which greatly enhanced the comforts of Ringan's\nkitchen, as both the curate and schoolmaster very sensibly felt. Having\neach turned off a couple of horns of their good host's home-brewed, the\nconversation between the two worthies began to assume a lively,\ndesultory character.\n\n\"I was up in the toun the day, curate,\" said the schoolmaster--a thin,\nhard-visaged personage, with a good deal of the failing said to be\ninherent in his craft--conceit. \"I was up in the toun,\" he said--meaning\nGlasgow.\n\n\"Were ye?\" quoth the curate--in personal appearance and manner the very\nantipodes of his friend; being a stout, homely-looking man, of blunt\nspeech and great good-nature; his age, about forty-five. \"And what saw\nye strange there, Mr Craig?\"\n\n\"Naething very particular, but the braw new gatehouse o' the archbishop.\nMy certy, yon's a notable piece o' wark! His arms are engraven on the\nfront o't--three cushions within the double tressure. Man, curate, can\nye no contrive to warsle up the brae a bit? I'm sure waur than you's\nbeen made a bishop.\"\n\n\"I'm no sae ambitious, Johnny,\" replied the curate. \"If I were rector o'\nGovan, I wad be content. But St Mungo himsel wadna get even that length\nnoo-a-days without a pouchfu o' interest--and I hae nane.\"\n\n\"The mair's the pity,\" said the schoolmaster, filling up his horn\ntumbler; \"but there's nae sayin what may happen yet.\"\n\n\"Indeed, is there no, Mr Craig,\" interposed Ringan, who made at this\nparticular moment one of the party. \"Ye may get promotion, curate, whan\nye least expeck it, and may find a freend whar ye didna look for him.\nThere's mony chances, baith o' guid and ill, befa' folk in this warld.\"\n\nWhile the curate's friends were endeavouring, by these vague and\nsufficiently commonplace but well-meant remarks, to inspire him with\nhopes of better days, it was announced to the party that the ferry-boat\nwas bringing over a passenger. By the way, with regard to this\nparticular, we forgot to say before that there _was_ a ferry across the\nClyde, just below Ringan's house; and, as the passengers were not then,\nas they are now, very numerous, there was always a degree of interest\nand speculation excited by their appearance.\n\n\"Wha can he be?\" said Ringan. \"Some o' oor ain folk, I fancy. It'll be\nJamie Dinwoodie frae Glasgow fair, I'll wad a groat. He's come roun by\nPartick, instead o' comin doun by the water-side.\"\n\n\"The deil o' him it's, at ony rate, Ringan,\" said the schoolmaster.\n\"Jamie's been hame twa hoors since, and as fou's a fiddler.\"\n\nAll further speculation on the subject of the passenger was here\ninterrupted by the entrance of that person himself; and it was with some\ndisappointment the speculators found that, to judge by his appearance,\nhe was not worth speculating about; for he was very meanly dressed--nay,\nworse than meanly--his attire was beggarly; so much so, indeed, that\nthere was a general belief that he was a mendicant by profession,\nalthough, perhaps, of a somewhat better order than common. His apparel\nconsisted of a threadbare and patched short coat or surtout, of coarse\ngrey cloth, secured round his middle by a black belt. On his legs he\nwore a pair of thick blue rig-and-fur hose or stockings, as a certain\ndescription of these _wearables_ are called in Scotland. They are now\nnearly extinct, but may still be seen occasionally. Those on the legs of\nthe stranger were darned in fifty places, and with worsted of various\ncolours. His shoes were in no better condition than his stockings, being\npatched in nearly as many places. On his head he wore an old broad blue\nbonnet, which, with a pair of sadly dilapidated inexpressibles, and a\nrough newly-cut staff, completed his equipment--the whole unequivocally\nbespeaking a very limited exchequer. On his entrance, the stranger,\nperceiving the respectable quality of the guests assembled in the\nkitchen of the Grilse and Gridiron, reverently doffed his bonnet, and\napologised for intruding on the \"honourable company.\"\n\n\"Nae apology necessary, freend,\" said the curate, rising from his seat,\nto allow the poor traveller, who was dripping with wet, to approach\nnearer to the fire. \"Come awa--nae apology at a' necessary. This is a\npublic hostelry; and, if ye can birl your bawbee, ye've as guid a richt\nto accommodation as the best in the land.\"\n\n\"Thanks to ye, honourable sir,\" replied the stranger, meekly. \"I wish\nevery ane were o' your way o' thinking; but I find this auld coat and\nthae clouted shoon nae great recommendations to civility onywhere.\"\n\nSaying this, the stranger planted himself in a chair before the fire,\nand ordered the landlord to bring him a measure of ale.\n\n\"Tak a moothfu o' this in the meantime, honest man,\" said the curate,\nhanding him his own goblet; \"for ye seem to be baith wat and weary.\"\n\n\"Ou, no--no very weary, sir,\" replied the stranger, taking the proffered\ngoblet; \"but a wee thing wet, certainly. I hae only come frae Glasgow\nthe day.\"\n\n\"Nae far'er?\" said the curate.\n\n\"No an inch,\" replied the other.\n\n\"Tak it oot, man, tak it oot,\" said the former, as the latter was about\nto return the goblet, after merely tasting it. \"It'll warm your heart,\nman, and I'm sure ye're welcome till't.\"\n\nThe stranger, without any remark, did as he was bid, and drained out the\ncup. In the business of this scene, the schoolmaster took no part, but\nmaintained a haughty distance; his pride evidently hurt by the intrusion\ninto his society of a person of such questionable condition--a feeling\nwhich he indicated by observing a dignified silence. This difference of\ndisposition between the two gentlemen did not escape the stranger, who\nmight have been detected from time to time throwing expressive glances\nof inquiry, not unmingled with contempt, at the offended dominie. The\ndispleasure of his friend, however, did not deter the kindhearted curate\nfrom prosecuting his conversation with the stranger, who eventually\nproved to be so intelligent and entertaining a person, that he gradually\nforced himself into the position of an understood, though not formally\nacknowledged, member of the party. Being full of anecdote and quaint\nhumour, such as even the schoolmaster could not altogether resist,\nalthough he made several ineffectual attempts to do so, the laugh and\nthe liquor both soon began to circulate with great cordiality; and in\ndue time songs were added to the evening's enjoyment. In this species of\nentertainment the good-humoured curate set the example, at the earnest\nrequest of Ringan, who asked him, and not in vain, to \"skirl up,\" as he\ncalled it, the following ditty, which he had often heard the worthy\nchurchman sing before:--\n\n    \"In scarlet hose the bishop he goes,\n      In the best o' braid claith goes the vicar;\n    But the curate, puir soul, has only the bowl\n      To comfort him wi' its drap liquor, drap liquor,\n          To comfort him wi' its drap liquor.\n\n    \"Right substantial, in troth, is the fat prebend's broth,\n      And the bishop's a hantle yet thicker;\n    But muslin kail to the curate they deal,\n      Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor, drap liquor,\n          Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor.\n\n    \"Gie the sodger renown, the doctor a gown,\n      And the lover the long looked-for letter;\n    But for me the main chance is a weel-plenish'd manse--\n      And the sooner I get it the better, the better,\n          And the sooner I get it the better.\"\n\n\"Faith, and I say so too with all my heart, sir,\" said the stranger,\nlaughing loudly, and ruffing applause of the good curate's humorous song\non the table. \"I'm sure I've known many a one planted in a comfortable\nliving, who, I would take it upon me to say, were less deserving of it\nthan you are.\"\n\n\"That may be, honest man,\" replied the curate; \"but, as I said to my\nfreend here a little ago, when he made the same remark, I hae nae\ninterest; and withoot that, ye ken, it's as impossible to get on, as for\na milestane to row its lane up a hill.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, that is but too true, I fear,\" said the stranger; \"yet the\nking, they say, is very well disposed to reward merit when he finds it,\nand has often done so with out the interference of influence.\"\n\n\"Ou, I daur say,\" replied the curate; \"he's gude aneugh that way--na,\nvery guid, I believe; but I hae nae access to the king, and it'll be\nlang aneugh before my merits, if I hae ony--which I mysel very much\ndoot--'ll find their way to him. He has owre mony greedy gleds to feed,\nfor the like o' me to hae ony chance o' promotion. No, no, freend--\n\n    \"Curate o' Govan I was born to be,\n    An' curate o' Govan I'm destined to dee.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" exclaimed the stranger, laughing; \"a bit of a poet, curate.\"\n\n\"In an unco sma' way, freend,\" replied the worthy churchman.\n\n\"Excuse my freedom, sir,\" rejoined the stranger; \"but pray how long have\nyou been curate of this parish?'\n\n\"Nine years, come Martinmas next.\"\n\n\"And no prospect of advancement yet?\"\n\n\"Just as muckle as ye may see through a whunstane; and ye ken it taks\ngey sharp een to see onything through that.\"\n\n\"Nae doot,\" replied the stranger; \"but the king, though he cannot see\nthrough a whunstane farther than ither folk, has pretty sharp eyes, and\nears, too, sir, and baith hears and sees things that every one is not\naware of. You may, therefore--who knows?--be nearer promotion than you\nthink. Isn't the rectorship of Govan vacant just now?\"\n\n\"Deed is't, freend,\" said the curate; \"and if I had it, I wadna ca' the\nking my cousin, though he were my uncle's son. But it'll no be lang\nvacant, I warrant; some o' thae hungry hingers-on aboot the court 'll be\nclinkin doun intill't in the turnin o' a divot. It's owre canny a seat\nto be lang withoot a sitter.\"\n\n\"It will not be long without an incumbent, I daresay,\" rejoined the\nstranger; \"but I'm not sure that you're right, curate, as to the\ndescription of person that will obtain it. But will your friend here not\nfavour us with a verse or two? It is his turn now.\"\n\n\"Ou, I daresay he will,\" replied the curate. \"Come, Johnny, gie's yer\nauld favourite.\"\n\nWith this request, the schoolmaster, who was now considerably mollified\nby the liquor he had drank, readily complied, and struck up--\n\n    'Let kings their subjects keep in awe,\n      By terror o' the laws;\n    For me, I fin' there's naething like\n      A guid thick pair o' tawse.\n\n    'Let doctors think to store the mind,\n      By screeds o' rules and saws--\n    Commend me to the learning that's\n      Weel whupp'd in wi' the tawse.\n\n    'Let lawyers, whan they wad prevail\n      In fine words plead their cause--\n    The _argumentum_ still wi' mo\n      Is thae bit nine-taed tawse.'\n\nSuiting the action to the word, the dominie, on repeating the last line,\nwhipped the formidable and efficacious instrument he spoke of out of his\npocket. Whether, however, it had actually nine toes or not, or whether\nthat assertion was merely a poetical flourish, none of those present\ntook the trouble of ascertaining.\n\n\"By my troth, sir,\" said the stranger, when the schoolmaster had\nconcluded, \"it's a pity that such a thing as tawse was not in use\noutside the school as well as inside. There are many children of the\nlarger growth in the world who would be greatly improved by its\napplication.\"\n\n\"Come, landlord,\" now said the curate, \"it's your turn now;--and it'll\nbe yours belyve, freend,\" he added, addressing the stranger. \"Up wi't,\nRingan--up wi't, man.\"\n\n\"Ye'se no want that lang,\" said the jolly, good-natured landlord of the\nGrilse and Gridiron, with one of his quiet, cunning shrugs of the\nshoulders and pawky leers of the eye; and off he went with--\n\n    \"A flowing jug, a reaming jug,\n      'S a glorious sicht, my dear boys;\n    It waukens love, it lichtens care,\n      And drowns all sorts of fear, boys.\n\n\"Come, gentlemen, chorus.\n\n                    \"Fal de ral, &c.\n\n    \"Your sober man's an arrant fool,\n      His spirits are all sunk, boys;\n    Give me your honest, jovial soul,\n      That night and day is drunk, boys.\n\n\"Chorus, gentlemen.\n\n                    \"Fal de ral, &c.\n\n    \"You tell me that his outward man\n      Is shabby, spare, and thin, boys;\n    But you forget to reckon on\n      The comfort that's within, boys.\n\n\"Chorus.\n\n                    \"Fal de ral, &c.\n\n    \"Then, whether I be here or there,\n      Or this or t'other side, boys,\n    May streams o' ale still round me flow,\n      As broad and deep's the Clyde, boys!\n\n\"Chorus, gentlemen.\n\n    \"Fal de ral,\" &c.\n\nAt the moment the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron had completed his\ntemperance-society lyric, and ere the tribute of applause which was\nready to be paid down on the nail to him for it by his auditors could be\ntendered him--the feelings of the whole party were directed into another\nchannel, by the information that a boat-load of passengers had just\nlanded at the ferry. On receiving this intelligence, Ringan hurriedly\nrose from the table, and ran to the door, to see what portion of the\nhuman cargo was likely to come his way--and right glad was he to find\nthat he was about to be favoured with the company of the whole. They\nwere one party, and were approaching Ringan's house in a string. On\nentering the kitchen, they were found to be three men and two women. The\nformer were apparently farmers--two of them elderly men, and one of them\na young, loutish-looking fellow, of about two-and-twenty. The women were\nmother and daughter--the latter a beautiful girl, of about eighteen or\ntwenty years of age. The whole of these persons were well known to the\ncurate, schoolmaster, and landlord; and the consequence was a general\ncry of recognition, and a tumultuous shaking of hands.\n\n\"How are ye, curate?\" \"How are ye, Clayslaps?\" \"Glad to see you, Mr\nCraig!\" \"As glad to see you, Jordanhill!\"\n\n\"And hoo are _ye_, guidwife?\" said the curate, advancing towards the\nelder of the two females, and taking her kindly by the hand--\"and you,\nMeenie, my bonny dear,\" he said, turning towards the daughter--\"hoo are\nye? and hoo,\" he added, with an intelligent smirk, \"is Davy Linn o'\nPartick? But hoo's this?\" he said, more seriously, and now peering into\nher face--\"there's a tear in yer ee, Meenie. What's wrang, lassie? Hae\nye lost yer leman? Has Davy no been sae kind's he should hae been?\"\n\nPoor Meenie made no reply to the worthy curate's half-jocular,\nhalf-serious remarks. Her heart was sad; and to her dismal and\nheart-withering was the errand on which she and her friends (for, of the\nmen of the party, one was her father, the other her uncle, and the third\nher intended husband) had come to Govan. While the curate spoke to her,\nshe held down her head to hide the tears that were fast falling from her\nbeautiful dark hazel eyes; but she could not conceal the heaving of her\nbosom, from the sobs which she was endeavouring to suppress.\n\n\"She's a camstairy cutty,\" said her father, Adam Ritchie of Clayslaps,\nfrowningly, \"and most undutifu, no to submit to the wishes o' her\nparents wi' a better grace.\"\n\n\"Surely every bairn is bound to obey with cheerfulness those to whom\nthey owe their being,\" said the curate; \"but there are some cases,\nClayslaps, where it wad be cruelty to impose restraint, and unreasonable\nto expect ungrudged compliance.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, curate,\" replied Adam Ritchie, impatiently, \"we'll speak o'\nthae things anither time. In the meantime, landlord,\" he said, turning\nto Ringan, \"bring us in some brandy; for we're baith cauld and wat, and\na thumblefu o' the Frenchman'll do us nae harm.\"\n\nThis order was speedily complied with. A small pewter measure of the\nliquor desired, accompanied by a small silver drinking-cup or quaigh,\nwas placed on the table; and the whole party, including the former\noccupants of the kitchen, soon began to get cheerful and somewhat\ntalkative, with the exception of Meenie Ritchie. In all that had\nhitherto passed, he of the clouted shoes and darned hose had taken no\npart, but had kept his eye steadily fixed on Meenie, with a look of\ndeep interest and compassion. At length, as if urged on by the\nincreasing energy of those feelings, he rose, went up to her, and\nclapping her kindly on the shoulder--\n\n\"I wish, my sweet lass,\" he said, \"it were in my power to lighten that\nbit heartie o' yours; for it seems to me to be sore burdened wi' some\ngrief or other; and I am wae to see't.\"\n\n\"And what business hae ye to interfere, freend?\" said her father,\nangrily. \"If the lassie's in grief, whilk she has but little reason to\nbe, she has them aboot her here wha hae a deeper interest in her than ye\ncan hae, and a hantle better richt to be her comforters.\"\n\n\"Sma' comfort she's like to get amang ye, be ye what ye like to her,\"\nreplied the stranger, doughtily; \"and, if it's onything I can richt her\nin, tak my word for't, honest man, I'll do it with but small regard to\nyour displeasure.\"\n\n\"My troth, ye're no blate, sirrah, to tell me sae--her ain faither,\"\nsaid Clayslaps, reddening with anger; \"but I advise ye, freend, neither\nto mak nor meddle wi' oor affairs, else ye may repent it. That lassie,\nsir, is my dochter; and there's her mother, and there's her uncle, and\nthere's her husband to be; sae ye may see hoo very little your\ninterference is needed here.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" replied the stranger, now retiring to his seat, \"if\nthere's only fair play going, I'm content; but I like to see that\neverywhere and on all occasions.\"\n\n\"So, Clayslaps,\" said the curate, here interfering, \"is't to be a match\nafter a'--is't?\"\n\n\"Indeed is't, curate,\" replied the former. \"Meenie's come roun at last,\nand is convinced her parents wadna advise her against her interest. Sae\nwe have just come here this nicht for the express purpose o' gettin a\ncast o' your office; and I consider it the luckiest thing in the world\nthat we hae foregathered wi' ye sae cannily, curate.\"\n\n\"Indeed, ay, curate,\" here chimed in Meenie's mother with that ready\nvolubility and a little of the incoherence of her particular class and\ncharacter, \"we're just gaun to close the business at ance, and be dune\nwi't. I'm sure, muckle trouble and thocht it has cost us, curate. Ye ken\nDavy o'Partick, that was rinnin after Meenie, and wha the fulish,\nthochtless thing had sic a wark wi', hasna a plack in his purse--neither\nmaut nor meal, neither hoose nor ha'; and were we gaun to throw awa oor\nlassie, wi' fifty merks o' tocher in her pouch, forbye what she may get\nwhan the guidman and me's raked i' the mools, on a landless, penniless\nchiel like that? Na, my certy--we kent better than that, curate; and\nwe're just gaun to gie her to the young laird o' Goupinsfou there, wha\ncan lay down plack for plack wi' her, and has a bien house to tak her\nto, forbye.\"\n\n\"But,\" here interrupted the curate, at the same time looking towards\nMeenie, \"are ye quite sure, Mrs Ritchie, that ye hae brocht your dochter\nto see this matter in the same prudent licht that ye do? I maun say, I\ndoot it. And besides, guidwife, what's a' the hurry in marryin the\nlassie--she's but young yet.\"\n\n\"That's a faut that's aye mendin, curate,\" replied Meenie's mother; \"and\nwe think the suner she's oot o' harm's way the better. He's but a\nreckless chiel that Davy, and there's nae sayin what he micht do. Maybe\nrin awa wi' her afore mornin; for he has heard an inklin o' oor\nintentions. Sae we just cam slippin awa in the dark, to get the business\nsettled withoot his kennin.\"\n\nDuring all this time, poor Meenie Ritchie sat the picture of misery and\nsuffering. She had never, since she entered, once raised her head, but\ncontinued wrapped up in the silent wretchedness of despair; painfully\nand forcibly showing how little she partook in the anxiety of her\nparents to accomplish the impending union. Meenie was evidently, in\nshort, a victim to parental authority; and this all present felt and\nsaw, and none with more compassion than the worthy curate who was to be\nthe unwilling instrument of her doom.\n\n\"To be plain wi' ye, guidwife,\" said the kindhearted churchman, when the\nformer had gone through her somewhat unconnected, but sufficiently\nintelligible, story, \"and you, Clayslaps, and the rest o' ye that's\nconcerned in this business, I dinna like it, and I will not marry these\npersons but with the full and free consent of both.\"\n\n\"But ye may not refuse, curate,\" said Meenie's father, somewhat testily.\n\"She has consented already, and will consent again.\"\n\n\"In that case, certainly, I may not refuse,\" said the curate, going up\nto the afflicted girl, and taking her kindly by the hand. \"Meenie, my\ndear,\" he now said, addressing her, \"are ye here for the purpose o'\nbeing united to Goupinsfou, o' yer ain free will and accord?\"\n\nThe poor girl made no reply.\n\nThe curate repeated his question, when her father sternly called on her\nto answer. Thus urged, she uttered a scarcely audible affirmative.\n\n\"Then, since it is so, Meenie,\" said the curate, dropping her hand, \"I\nmay not decline to effect the union. Do you desire, Clayslaps, that the\nceremony should be immediately performed?\"\n\n\"As sune's ye like, curate,\" replied the latter.\n\n\"And the suner the better,\" added Meenie's mother.\n\n\"Our worthy landlord here, then,\" said the curate, \"will prepare an\napartment for us, and we will retire thither and unite this young\ncouple. In the meantime, freends,\" he added, addressing the schoolmaster\nand he of the darned hose, \"we had better settle oor lawin.\"\n\nThe schoolmaster instantly drew from his pocket his share of the\nreckoning, while the stranger pulled out the foot of an old stocking,\nwhich had been ingeniously converted into a purse, and was about\nundoing the bit of twine with which it was secured, when the curate\nplaced his hand on his arm, to arrest his proceedings, saying--\n\n\"The ne'er a bodle, freend, ye'll pay. This'll be the schule-maister's\nand mine.\"\n\n\"The ne'er o' that it'll be, curate,\" replied the schoolmaster. \"Every\nane for himsel. Plack aboot's fair play. Let every herrin hing by its\nain head. The deil a bodle I'll pay for onybody.\"\n\n\"Then I will,\" said the curate. \"I'll pay for this honest man here; for\nit may be he canna sae weel spare't.\" And he laid down his own and the\nstranger's share of the reckoning.\n\n\"Many thanks to ye, curate,\" said the latter; \"but there's no occasion\nfor this kindness. I have, indeed, but little to spare; but that gives\nme no claim whatever on your generosity.\"\n\n\"Say nae mair aboot it, freend,\" replied the curate--\"say nae mair aboot\nit, man. Ye'll maybe pay for me in a strait, some ither time. It's but a\ntrifle, at ony rate--no worth speakin aboot; sae ye'll obleege me by\ngiein me my ain way.\"\n\n\"Well, well, since you insist on it,\" said the stranger, again tying up\nthe stocking-foot, \"I winna press the matter. Many thanks to ye.\"\n\nThe important affair of the reckoning settled, a general movement was\nmade amongst the party to adjourn to the apartment which had been\nprepared for the celebration of the marriage ceremony. Taking advantage\nof the momentary confusion created by this circumstance, the curate's\nnew friend touched him on the elbow, led him aside, and whispered into\nhis ear, \"Delay the ceremony as long as you can. The poor girl, you see,\nis about to be sacrificed. Perhaps I can prevent it.\"\n\nThe curate nodded assent, although it was but the result of an impulse\nof his kind nature; for he could not conceive how any one--particularly\nsuch a very humble personage as he who had spoken to him--should have\nthe power to stay an event of the kind, and under the circumstances of\nthat which was about to take place. Still, as the request was in\naccordance with his own feelings, and as he did not know what this very\nodd person might have it in his power to do in the matter, he resolved\nto do what he could to comply with it. Having made the communication to\nthe curate just recorded, the stranger suddenly and hurriedly left the\napartment. Whither, and the purpose for which he went, we shall\nascertain by following him.\n\nOn leaving the house, he hastened down to the river side, and having\ncalled the ferryman out of his temporary habitation, a little hut\nerected on the bank, \"Friend,\" he said, \"do you know Davy Linn\no'Partick?\"\n\n\"Brawly that,\" replied the ferryman. \"No a better or decenter chiel in\nthe country side than Davy. A warmhearted, honest fellow!\"\n\n\"Glad to hear it,\" said the inquirer. \"Well, then, since that is the\ncase, you will have no objection to do him a service, I daresay?\"\n\n\"It would be ill my part, if I had,\" replied the man; \"for he has done\nme twa or three services that I wadna willingly forget.\"\n\n\"Then across the water with you, and up to Partick as fast as if the old\none were after you, and tell Davy to come here directly--to come along\nwith you--if he would not lose Meenie Ritchie for ever.\"\n\n\"Feth, that'll mak him rin, if onything will,\" said the man, who knew of\nDavy's attachment to Meenie.\n\n\"And stay, sir,\" continued the stranger, without noticing the\ninterruption; \"take this\"--producing a small gold ring--\"and go, at the\nsame time, to the bishop's castle, up the way, there, on the Kelvin, and\nrequest some one of the domestics to put it into the hands of Sir John\nElphingstone, who is residing there just now with the bishop. He will\ninstantly come out to you; and, when he does, tell him that the person\nwho sent it desires to see him here immediately, and requests that he\nmay come along with you. And now, my friend,\" he continued, \"that you\nmay do all these errands with the greater good-will and despatch, here's\na gold Jacobus for thee.\"\n\nThe man took the coin, though not without a look of surprise at the\ndonor, whom he evidently thought a most unlikely person to deal in gold\nrings and Jacobuses. He, however, made no remark, but prepared to\nexecute the mission with which he had been intrusted; and was just about\nto push off his boat, when his employer called out to him--\n\n\"I forgot to say, friend, that when you have brought over your\npassengers, you will desire them to wait in your hut here until you have\nacquainted me with their arrival. You will find me in Scouler's\nhostelry.\"\n\nWith this order the boatman promised compliance, and pushed off; when\nhis employer returned to the inn, and, planting himself before the\nkitchen fire, anxiously awaited the return of his messenger.\n\nThe curate, in the meantime, was faithfully performing his part, in\npromoting delay, by the aid of story and anecdote, although he felt as\nif it were a hopeless case. While thus employed, the landlady, a lively,\nactive, bustling body, happening to come into the room, he suddenly\nstopped in the middle of a story, and exclaimed, laughingly, \"Mrs\nScouler, hae ye been makin ony brandy parritch lately?\"\n\n\"Tuts, Mr Gibson, will I never hear the end o' that?\" replied the\nhostess of the Grilse and Gridiron, good-naturedly, and hurrying out of\nthe apartment, to escape the further banter of the facetious churchman.\n\n\"What aboot the brandy parritch, curate?\" exclaimed the guidwife of\nClayslaps, on the hostess leaving the room.\n\nI'll tell you that (replied the curate). Ae morning, pretty early, last\nsummer, there cam a serving man, mounted on horseback, to oor freend\nRingan Scouler's door here, and said he belonged to Lord Minto; and that\nhe had been sent forward by his master, who was on the road comin frae\nArran through to Edinburgh; to order some breakfast to be prepared for\nhim. But what, think ye, was the breakfast ordered for his lordship?\nWhy, it was parritch--plain, simple parritch; for it seems he prefers it\nto a' ither kind of food for his morning meal. Weel, however much\nastonished Mrs Scouler was at this order, she readily undertook to\nprepare the dish desired, and the man departed. But he had no sooner\ngone, than it occurred to her, that parritch for a lord ought to be made\nsomewhat differently from those intended for a plebeian stomach. But\nwherein was this difference to consist? There was no choice of\nmaterials, no variety of ingredients, no process of manufacture, but\none, that she had ever seen or heard tell of. At length, after racking\nher brain for some time, to see if she could not strike out something\nnew on the subject, it occurred to her that, if she would substitute\nbrandy for water, the desired object would be accomplished, and a lordly\ndish produced. Acting on this bright idea, the guidwife immediately\nemptied a bottle of brandy into the parritch-pot, and proceeded with the\nremainder of the process in the usual way. By the time his lordship came\nup, the parritch was ready, and a dish of them placed before him. Little\nsuspecting--although he thocht they looked a wee thing darker than they\nshould do--that there was anything wrong, his lordship took a thumpin\nspoonfu to begin wi'; but he no sooner fan' the extraordinary taste they\nhad, than he jumped from his seat, threw doon the spune, and sputtered\nthe contents o' his mooth a' owre the table, thinkin he was poisoned.\nHe then ran to the door, and called oot violently for oor guid hostess\nhere. In great alarm she ran hastily up the stair, and inquired what was\nthe matter.\n\n\"The matter, woman!\" exclaimed his lordship, in a towering passion.\n\"What's this you hae gien me?\" pointing to the parritch; \"what infernal\nstuff is that?\"\n\nMrs Scouler, surprised at his lordship's want of discernment, explained\nto him what she had dune; when he burst out a-laughing, told her that\nthe taste of a peer and a ploughman were precisely the same, and\nrequested her to make him just such a mess as she made for her ain\nfamily. This was accordingly dune; whan his lordship, payin sax prices\nfor his hamely breakfast, set off in great good humour, telling Mrs\nScouler, however, at parting, never to put brandy in his parritch again.\n\nThe curate, having concluded his episodical anecdote, proceeded with the\nstory which he had interrupted to relate it; but was beginning to be\nsecretly uneasy at the long delay which was taking place in the\noperations of his friend of the darned stockings. From this feeling,\nhowever, he was in some measure relieved by the latter's sending for\nhim, after a short while, and begging of him to gain but other fifteen\nminutes, if he could, when he pledged himself that such an event would\noccur as would, in all probability, save Meenie Ritchie from the fate\nthat threatened her.\n\n\"But what is the event ye allude to, freend, and what is't ye propose to\ndo in this matter that'll produce the effect ye speak o'?\" said the\ncurate, looking doubtingly at his new acquaintance.\n\n\"Patience a little, my good sir,\" replied the latter, smiling, \"and ye\nshall know all. In the meantime, trust to my good faith, and you will\nfind that I can do more, perhaps, than my appearance would promise.\n\n\"Be it even so, then,\" said the curate; \"but observe I cannot possibly\nput the ceremony off beyond the time you have mentioned; for a' but the\npuir lassie hersel are gettin restlessly impatient.\"\n\nThe curate now returned to his party, and again had recourse to his\nstore of anecdote, which was an inexhaustible one, to protract the\nperformance of the ceremony. In the meantime, the boatman, faithful to\nhis trust, was diligently executing the missions confided to him. On\nentering the house of Davy Linn's father, he found Davy sitting\ndisconsolately by the fire, his head resting on his hand, and his eyes\nfixed, in thoughtful gaze, on the burning embers. He was thinking of\nMeenie Ritchie--there could be no doubt of that; for poor Davy thought\nof little else. Formerly, these thoughts had been pleasant to Davy; but\nat this moment they were sad and heart-withering; for he had heard some\nrumours of her parents intending to marry her to another; and he now,\ntherefore, considered her as for ever lost to him.\n\n\"What the mischief, Davy, man, are ye sittin gloomin and glunchin at\nthere?\" said the ferryman, whose name was Archy Dawson, slapping the\nperson he addressed on the shoulder--\"up, man, up!--I hae guid news for\nyou--at least what I think's likely to turn oot sae.\"\n\nDavy, who had hitherto been so engrossed by his own gloomy reflections,\nas either not to have heard or not heeded the entrance of Archy Dawson,\nnow rose from his seat, and, confronting the former, asked, with a faint\nsmile, what the news was.\n\n\"Is there naebody in the hoose but yersel, Davy?\" inquired Archy,\nlooking cautiously round the apartment.\n\n\"Nane at this moment,\" replied Davy; \"but there'll be some of them here\nbelyve, I daursay.\"\n\n\"Weel, before they come, Davy, I'll tell you what's brocht me here the\nnicht.\" And Archy proceeded to relate the particulars of his mission.\n\nDavy made no reply for some time; but the clenching of his teeth showed\nthat some fierce spirit had been roused within him by the intelligence.\nAt length he said--\"Ay, I see how it is; they have stolen a march on me.\nOh, if I had known this but an hour since, they should have had more\nguests at the wedding than they counted on, although some of them might\nnot have been very welcome.\"\n\n\"Maybe, maybe, Davy,\" said Archy; \"but it's likely no owre late yet; sae\ncome awa as fast's ye can, man, and let's see what this business'll turn\noot to, and I'll tell ye the rest o' my story as we gang alang.\"\n\nDavy, although without knowing distinctly why or wherefore now left the\nhouse with his friend Archy, when the latter, as promised, acquainted\nhim with the other mission he had to execute--namely, the delivering the\nring to Sir John Elphingstone, at the bishop's castle, whither Davy\nsubsequently accompanied him.\n\nOn arriving at the lordly mansion of the prelate, Archy inquired of a\nservant if Sir John was there, and was told that he was.\n\n\"Then,\" said he, \"be sae guid, freend, as tak up this bit trantalum o' a\nthing till him, and I'll wait whar I am till I hear frae him.\"\n\nIn a few minutes after Sir John appeared, and, accosting Archy, said,\n\"Well, my friend, what commands have you brought along with this?\"\nproducing the ring.\n\n\"The person that gied me that, sir,\" said Archy, \"desired me to tell you\nto come along wi' me.\"\n\n\"And, pray, where are you from, friend?\"\n\n\"Ou, no far awa, sir,\" said Archy; \"just frae Govan, owre the way\nthere.\"\n\n\"Very well, I'll accompany you. But who's this you have with you?\"\ninquired the knight, looking at Davy Linn, who stood close by.\n\n\"That lad's name, sir,\" said Archy, \"is Davy Linn; he belangs to\nPartick, up there, sir. He's a fine lad, Davy--a fine, decent, canny\nlad, sir.\"\n\n\"I have no reason to doubt it,\" replied Sir John; \"but what does he here\nwith you?\"\n\n\"Dear me, sir,\" said Archy--\"he was sent for, too, by the same chield\nthat sent you the ring. I was desired to bring ye baith.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed,\" replied Sir John--\"that's enough; let us proceed, then.\"\nAnd the three immediately set off for Govan. On their arrival on the\nopposite bank of the river, Archy, leaving them there, hastened up to\nRingan Scouler's, and intimated to his employer that he had executed his\nmission, and that the persons he had sent for waited him in his hut. On\nreceiving this information, the former hastened down to the ferry\nstation; and, after a brief interview and hasty explanation with Sir\nJohn and Davy, of which we leave the sequel to show the import, returned\nwith equal haste to the hostelry, and now pushed boldly into the\napartment occupied by the marriage party. The time stipulated with the\ncurate had expired; and the latter, finding he could no longer delay the\ndischarge of the duty he was called upon to perform, had already\ncommenced the service.\n\n\"Friend,\" said the intruder, with a degree of boldness and familiarity\nin his manner which he had not before assumed, and at the same time\nlaying his hand on the arm of the curate, to arrest his attention,\n\"pray, stop a moment, if you please, till I speak a word with the\nbride's father.\" Saying this, and now turning round to the person to\nwhom he alluded, \"May I ask, Clayslaps,\" he said, \"if your objection to\nyour daughter's having the man of her choice is his want of fortune?\"\n\nClayslaps looked for a moment at the querist with an expression of\nextreme surprise, but at length said--\n\n\"I dinna see what richt, freend, ye hae to put such questions;\nnevertheless, I will answer't. It is; and a guid and sufficient ane\nit'll be allooed, I think.\"\n\n\"Is it your only one? Have you no other fault to lay to the young man's\ncharge?\"\n\n\"I hae nae faut to charge him wi',\" replied Clayslaps, crustily and\nreluctantly. \"The lad, for ought I ken to the contrary, is weel aneugh\nin ither respects. But he's nae match for my dochter.\"\n\n\"Your wife has said,\" continued the querist, \"that your daughter's\nportion is fifty merks, which is to be met by a similar sum on the part\nof the young man whom you intend for her husband. Now, friend, if Davy\ncould produce two merks for her one--that is, a hundred to her\nfifty--what would you say to having him still for a son-in-law?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the bride's father, \"that wad certainly hae altered the case\nat ae time; but it's owre late noo.\"\n\n\"Not a bit--not a bit,\" replied the propounder of the question--\"better\nlate than never.\"\n\n\"But young Goupinsfou has lands as weel as siller,\" rejoined Clayslaps.\n\n\"True, I believe,\" said the other speaker; \"but suppose Davy could\nproduce you evidence of his being a laird, too--say--let me see\"--and he\npaused a moment--\"say he could show you that he was laird of a hundred\nacres of the best land within half-a-dozen miles of Partick, what would\nyou say then, guidman, to having Davy for your daughter's husband?\"\n\n\"What's the use o' talking this nonsense?\" said the Laird of Clayslaps,\nimpatiently; \"everybody kens that Davy Linn's baith landless and\npenniless, and likely aye to be. Sae, freend, hae the guidness to\nretire--for your company's no wanted here--and let the ceremony\nproceed.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, laird, if you please,\" returned the person addressed; and\nthen, turning to the bride's mother, \"What would you say, guidwife, to\nDavy for a son-in-law, if he had all the property I have mentioned?\"\n\n\"Ou, indeed, man, it wad surely hae altered the case athegither--there's\nnae doot o' that. I wad hae had nae objection till him, had that been\nthe case--neither wad her faither, I am sure. But, as the guidman has\nsaid, what's the use o' speaking o' thae things, now, at ony rate? Davy\nhas naething, and Goupinsfou has plenty, and that maks a' the\ndiffer--but, my faith, an unco differ it is.\"\n\n\"No doubt; but, if we remove this differ, guidwife,\" rejoined the\nstranger, \"perhaps we may yet prevent two fond hearts being separated;\nand, to end this matter at once,\" continued the speaker, but now in a\nserious tone, \"_I_ will pay down a hundred merks on Davy Linn's account,\nas a free gift to him, on the day after he has become the husband of\nyour daughter, and _I_ will put him in possession, as a free gift also,\nof a hundred acres of the best land within six miles of Partick, on the\nsame day, and on the same conditions.\"\n\n\"_Ye'll_ pay doon a hunner merks to Davy Linn, and _ye'll_ gie him a\nhunner acres o' land!\" exclaimed Clayslaps, in the utmost amazement, and\nlooking at the threadbare coat, clouted shoes, and darned hose of the\nman of promises, with the most profound contempt and incredulity. \"And\nwhar the deil are _ye_ to get them?\"\n\n\"Never ye fear that, freend,\" replied the latter, laughing; \"I'll find\nthem, I warrant you.\"\n\n\"Let's see the siller,\" said Clayslaps, triumphantly.\n\n\"Why, you certainly have me there, Clayslaps. I have not the money on\nme, indeed; but I will find you instant security for it, and for the\nentire fulfilment of my promises. Landlord,\" continued the speaker, and\nnow turning to Ringan, who was one of his astonished auditors, \"please\nto say to Sir John Elphingstone, whom I presume you know is to be found\nin the next room, that it will be obliging if he will step this way a\nmoment.\"\n\nWe will not stop to describe the amazement that was felt by all, and\nexpressed on every countenance in the apartment, on the delivery of this\nextraordinary message. Sir John Elphingstone was well known to every one\nthere as a gentleman of large possessions and highly honourable\ncharacter; and how he came to be at the call of such a person as he who\nhad sent for him, or how he came to be in the house at all at such a\ntime, was matter of inexpressible surprise to every one present. The\nwhole affair, in short, was one of impenetrable mystery and perplexity\nto all, including the worthy curate. We will not, however, wait to\ndescribe the feelings of the party on this occasion, but go straight on\nwith our story. Neither will we do so, in any case--thinking it much\nbetter to leave such matters wholly to the reader's own imagination.\n\nThe summons that called Sir John into the presence of the marriage-folks\nwas immediately obeyed. In an instant that gentleman entered the\napartment, with a smile upon his face, all the party standing up and\nreceiving him with the most marked reverence and respect.\n\n\"You'll excuse the liberty I have taken in sending for you, Sir John,\"\nsaid the person who had called him, on the former's entrance; \"and I\ncertainly would not have taken that liberty, had I not known how much\npleasure it gives you when an opportunity is afforded you of doing a\ngenerous thing. Here, Sir John, is a young woman about to be sacrificed\nat the altar of Mammon. Now, I know that you would not permit this if\nyou could help it. Neither will I; and, to prevent it, I have promised\nto the intended bride's father here, that I will give one hundred merks\nand one hundred acres of land to the husband of Meenie's choice, Davy\nLinn of Partick--a very deserving young man, I believe--on the day after\nshe is married to him. Now, Sir John, will you become my security to\nClayslaps for the fulfilment of this promise?\"\n\n\"Most assuredly,\" said Sir John, smiling; \"let me have pen, ink, and\npaper, and I will give him my written obligation to that effect.\"\n\nThe materials were brought, and the obligation drawn out; Clayslaps and\nall the others being too much confounded by what was passing to offer\nany interruption or make any remark. When the paper was written, it was\nhanded to Meenie's father, who, almost unconsciously--for he did not\nseem to know very well what he was doing--read it over. On concluding\nthe perusal,\n\n\"A'richt aneugh,\" he said--\"a'richt aneugh. Od, this _is_ a queer\nbusiness. But it's a' owre late, guid sirs. We canna be aff wi'\nGoupinsfou at this stage o' the affair, and in this sort o' way. It\nwadna be fair nor honest, and wad look unco strange like. Besides, ye\ncanna expeck that he would submit to't himsel.\"\n\nThis was certainly a reasonable enough supposition, but it happened to\nbe an unfounded one; for Goupinsfou was not only an ass, but a most\nabominably mean and selfish one; and Sir John, aware of this, thought he\nknew a way to reconcile him to the loss of Meenie.\n\nGoing up to Goupinsfou, he took him aside, and whispered in his ear, \"I\nsay, laird, you've long had an eye, I know, to the bit holm on the\nKelvin, below the Gorroch Mills.\"\n\n\"It's a bonny spot,\" interrupted Goupinsfou, cocking his ears.\n\n\"It is,\" replied Sir John. \"Well, then, it shall be yours, if you give\nup all claim to the hand of Meenie Ritchie, and give me in writing an\nentire quittance on that score.\"\n\n\"Dune!\" exclaimed Goupinsfou, instantly, wisely calculating that he\ncould readily find another wife, but might not so readily get another\noffer of the piece of land he so much coveted. \"Dune, Sir John!\" he\nexclaimed, grasping that gentleman by the hand with the selfish\neagerness that belonged to his character; but, desirous of glossing\nover the meanness of the transaction, he placed his acquiescence on\nanother footing than that of bribery, by adding, \"I wadna like, I'm\nsure, to force the lassie to marry me against her will. I gie her up wi'\na' my heart.\"\n\nHaving obtained the brute's consent to resign the hand of Meenie, Sir\nJohn turned to the party, and informed them that their worthy friend,\nthe Laird of Goupinsfou, out of consideration for the feelings of Meenie\nRitchie, which he feared were not favourable to him, resigned all claim\nto her hand, and left her at full liberty to marry whom she pleased.\n\n\"Weel, that's certainly sae far guid,\" said Clayslaps; \"but still I'm no\nathegither reconciled to this business. It looks----\"\n\n\"Toots, guidman,\" here interposed his wife, \"the thing's a'richt aneugh.\nHavena ye Sir John's haun o' vrit for the promise made by\nthis--this\"--and she looked at the person she meant, and would have said\n_gentleman_, but another glimpse of the patched shoes directed her to\nthe words--\"_honest man_, to gie Davie the land and siller spoken o';\nand what mair wad ye hae? Davie's a discreet, decent, well-doin lad,\neverybody kens, that will mak, I'm sure, a guid husband to Meenie; sae,\njust let them e'en gang thegither.\"\n\nShe would scarcely have said so much for Davie an hour before; but she\nsaid it now, and it was all well enough.\n\n\"Weel, weel, guidwife,\" said Clayslaps, \"since it is sae, we'll see\naboot it. There can be nae harm, however, in delayin a day or twa, at\nony rate, till we think owre't.\"\n\n\"No, no--no delay,\" exclaimed the meddling stranger; \"delays are\ndangerous, guidman. Nothing like the present moment. Let us strike while\nthe iron's hot. Landlord,\" he said, turning round to Ringan, \"send Davie\nLinn here.\"\n\nIn a second after, Davie Linn rushed into the apartment, flew to Meenie,\nand caught her in his arms. \"Mine yet! mine yet, Meenie!\" he exclaimed,\nrapturously. It was all he could say; and, little as it was, it was more\nthan she he addressed was able to express. During the whole night,\nindeed, she had not opened her lips, and seemed to have been scarcely\nconscious of what was passing around her. This was the effect of deep\nmisery; and the result was now nearly the same from an excess of joy.\n\n\"No delay now, curate,\" said the intermeddler. \"Set to work as fast as\nyou can, and buckle these two together. No objection, I fancy?\"\n\n\"Oh, none in the world,\" said the curate; \"I'll fix them in a trice. But\nI say, freend,\" he added, laughing, \"I'm thinkin what a fule I was to\npay your reckonin the nicht--ane wha maks the merks flee like drift snaw\non a windy day, and gies awa lumps o' land wi' as little thocht\nas--as--as I settled your lawin. Feth, but it was fulish aneugh o' me,\nand ye're a queer ane, be ye wha ye like.\"\n\n\"Not so very foolish, perhaps, as you think, curate,\" said the person\nthus addressed, \"and that it's possible ye may find. At any rate, it's\nno lost what a friend gets, you know, curate; but, in the meantime, will\nyou proceed with the ceremony, if you please. And, guidman,\" he added,\nturning to Clayslaps, \"will ye allow me to give away the bride?\"\n\n\"I ken nane here that has a better richt,\" replied the latter, now\nthoroughly reconciled to the sudden and most unexpected change in his\ndaughter's destiny which had taken place. \"Ye may either gie her awa or\ntak her yersel, just as ye like; for, by my faith, ye seem to be a guid\nhonest chiel, be ye wha ye like, as the curate says.\"\n\n\"Well, then, since you place her at my disposal, I here give her to\nDavie Linn o' Partick--and may he always continue to deserve her!\"\n\nThis conveyance of the fair Meenie, the curate lost no time in\nlegalising and confirming. When the ceremony was completed, \"Now,\" said\nthe stranger, \"if there be a fiddler or piper in all Govan who will\nplay to us for love or money, let him be brought here instantly, and\nwe'll finish as well as we've begun. By St Bride, we'll have a night of\nit! What say you, Sir John?\" And he turned to that gentleman with a\nsmile. \"Will you condescend to honour us with your presence, and with as\nmuch good-humour as you can conveniently spare?\"\n\n\"Oh, most certainly,\" replied the latter, laughing, \"with all my heart.\"\n\nThe desired musician was procured, and made his appearance. The room was\ncleared, creature comforts were ordered in, in unsparing abundance, and\nsuch a night of mirth and fun ensued as, we believe, has not been seen\nsince in the little village of Govan, and perhaps not often anywhere\nelse. The curate danced and frisked about like a three-year-old; Sir\nJohn conducted himself with no less animation; but neither of them had\nthe smallest chance with the gentleman in the darned hose. He kept the\nfloor almost the whole night, whooping and hallooing in a most spirited\nmanner, and dancing fully half the time with the bride, and the rest\nwith her mother, the guidwife of Clayslaps, relieved occasionally by a\nturn-out with some young girls of the neighbourhood, whom the landlord\nof the Grilse and Gridiron had hurriedly brought together, on the\nprinciple of \"the more the merrier.\" But time and tide wait on no man.\nMorning came, and the revellers prepared to depart to their several\nhomes. The marriage party, including the bride and bridegroom, and Sir\nJohn Elphingstone, proceeded to the ferry, to which they were\naccompanied by him who had performed the principal character of the\nnight. Having seen them all embarked, and having wished the young\nmarried couple every happiness, he stood on the shore for an instant,\nwaved them a final adieu, retired by the way of the village, and was\nseen no more.\n\nWithin a week after the occurrence of the events just related, the\nworthy curate of Govan was surprised one day by receiving a letter from\nthe Archbishop of Glasgow.\n\n\"What's wrang now?\" said the curate to himself, as he opened it. \"My\ndismissal, I suppose, for the irregularity o' my conduct at Ringan\nScouler's the ither nicht.\"\n\nIt was not exactly so, as the reader will perceive. The letter ran\nthus:--\n\n     \"At the recommendation of a high personage, I intend appointing\n     you to the vacant rectorship of Govan. You will therefore\n     repair immediately to me, either at my palace at Glasgow or my\n     castle at Partick, that I may confer with you farther on the\n     subject.\n\n     \"DUNBAR, A. B. OF G.\"\n\n\"Whe-e-e-ou!\" ejaculated the curate, with a long-drawn expiration, when\nhe had read this very pleasant document--\"I smell a rat. 'Od, but it was\nstupid o' me no to think o't afore. I'm sure I micht hae kent him; for\nI've seen him twa or three times; but then he was in a green frock-coat\no' the finest claith; a velvet bonnet, wi' ruby and feathers, was on his\nhead; a chain o' gowd, worth five hundred merks, if it was worth a\nbodle, round his neck, and a gaucy sword by his side. Still I ought to\nhae kent him, for a' his clouted shoon and darned hose. But the cat's\noot o' the pock; and, my word, a bonny beast it is!\"\n\nWhat does the good curate's hints and allegorical allusions mean?\ninquires the reader. Why, it means that the worthy man suspected--and we\nhave no doubt his suspicion was perfectly correct--that the person in\nthe darned hose was no other than James V., King of Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\n\n\n\nI.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE.\n\n\nNotwithstanding the researches of Woodrow, and the more recent\nenlargement and excellent annotations of Dr Burns, we are quite\nconscious that a volume somewhat interesting might still be collected of\nadditional and traditional atrocities, of which no written record\nremains, nor other, save the recollections _of recollections_--in other\nwords, the remembrance which we and a few others possess of the\nnarratives of our grandmothers whilst we were yet children. Our own\nmaternal grandmother died at ninety-six--we ourselves are now in our\nsixtieth year; so that, deducting eight or nine years for our age\nprevious to our taking an interest in such concerns, we have our\ngrandmother existing before (say) 1695, which, deducting eight years of\ninfancy, brings us to 1703, which is only twenty-five years posterior to\nthe conclusion, and fifty-three to the commencement, of the atrocious\ntwenty-eight years' persecution. It is then manifest, from this\narithmetical computation, that our own grandmother, on whose truthful\nintentions we can rely with confidence, came into contact and\nconversation with those who were contemporaneous with the events and\npersons she referred to. This surely is no very violent or unsafe\nstretch of tradition; but, even though it were much more so, we would be\ndisposed to yield to it somewhat more consideration than is generally\ndone. Now-a-days, the pen and the press are almost the only recorders of\npassing and past events and circumstances; but, in the age to which we\nrefer, this was not the case. The children of Israel were bound by a\nholy and inviolate law to record _verbally_ to their children, and\nthose again to theirs, what the Lord had done for their forefathers. And\non the same principle, and under the same comparative absence of written\nrecords, did our grandmothers receive from their immediate predecessors\nthe revolting disclosures which they have handed down to us. There are\nhere but two links in the chain--those, namely, which connect our\ngrandmothers with their parents, and with us; but, had there been\ntwenty--nay, fifty or a hundred links--we should not, on account of the\nhigh antiquity of such a tradition, have been disposed to dismiss it as\naltogether groundless, and not implying even the slightest authority. In\nillustration of this, we may adduce the facts, sufficiently well known\nand authenticated, which were disclosed about thirty years ago at\nBurgh-head, the ultimate extent of Roman conquest in Scotland. In that\npromontory, now inhabited by a scattered population, there remained,\nfrom age to age, a tradition that a Roman well had existed on the\nparticular spot. There being a lack of water in the place, the\ninhabitants combined to have the locality opened, with the view of\ndisclosing so useful and essential an element. They dug twenty and even\nthirty feet downwards, but made no disclosures; and were on the point of\ngiving up the search, when the father of the late Duke of Gordon\nhappening to pass, and to ascertain their object and their want of\nsuccess, very generously supplied them with the means of making a\nfurther excavation. At last, to their no small surprise and delight,\nthey came to a nicely built and rounded well-mouth, with a stair\ndownwards to the bottom, and the bronze statues of Mercury and other\nheathen gods stuck into niches. This well remains to this hour, and may\nbe visited by the traveller along the Moray Frith, as an indisputable\nand indelible evidence of the value of traditions in ages when almost no\nother means of record existed. True, such traditions are deeply\ncoloured and tinged by the prejudices of the age in which they\noriginated--allowance as to exaggeration must be made for excited\nfeelings and outraged opinions; but still the groundwork may in general\nbe depended on. The old, and perhaps vulgar, proverb, \"There is aye SOME\nwater where the stirkie drowns!\" applies in this case with a conclusive\nforce; and we may rely upon it, even from the collateral and written\nevidence of parties and partisans on all sides, that nothing which mere\ntradition has hinted at can exceed, in characters of genuine cruelty and\ndownright bloodshed and murder, those historical statements which have\nreached us.\n\nTrue, a writer lately deceased, whose memory is immortal, and whose\nwritings will survive whilst national feelings and the vitality of high\ntalent remain, has given us a somewhat chivalrous and attractive\ncharacter of the most distinguished actor in the atrocities of the\nfearful time; and it is to be more than lamented--to be deplored--that\nan early and habitual, and ultimately constitutional, leaning to\naristocratic and chivalrous views should have induced such a writer as\nSir Walter Scott to draw such an interesting picture of the really\ninfamous \"Clavers\"--of him who, for a piece of morning pastime, could,\nwith his own pistol, blow out a husband's brains, without law or trial,\nand that in the presence of his wife and infant family! But the great\nbody of historians are on the side of truth and tradition; and the\nrecently-published, and still publishing, Life by Lockhart has unfolded,\nand will yet unfold, those leanings of the great novelist which have\noccasioned so lamentable a deviation from real history.\n\nUnder the shelter, then, of these preliminary observations, we proceed\nwith such notices and statements as we have heard repeated, or seen in\nmanuscripts which have (as we believe) never been printed. And we shall\ngive these notices and statements as they were given to us--surrounded\nby a halo of superstition, and involving much belief which is now,\nhappily or unhappily--we do not say which--completely exploded.\n\nOh, my bairn! these were fearful times!--(Grandmother _loquitur_)--ay,\nand atweel war _they_. My own mother has again and again made my hair\nstand on end, and my heart-blood run cold at her relations.\n\nYe ken Auchincairn, my bairn; and maybe, whan ye were seeking for hawks'\nnests, ye hae searched the Whitestane Cleughs. Aweel, ye maybe hae seen,\nor maybe no--for young hearts and een like yours (O sirs! mine are now\ndim and sair!) tak little tent o' sic-like things; but, my bonny bairn,\nthough tent it ye didna, true it is, and of verity, that, at the very\nbottom o' that steep and fearfu linn, there is a rock, a stane like a\nblue whunstane; and owre that stane the water has run for years and\nyears, and the winds and the rains of heaven hae dashed and plashed\nagainst it; but still that stane remains (dear me, I'm amaist\ngreeting!)--it remains stained and spotted _wi' bluid_. And that bluid,\nmy dear bairn, is o' the bluid that rins in yer ain veins--it is the\nbluid o' William Harkness, my own faither's brother. Weel, and ye shall\nhear; for my mother used to tell me the langsyne stories sae aft, that I\ncan just repeat them in her ain words. Weel, it was the month of\nOctober, and the nights were beginning to lengthen; and the puir\npersecuted saints, that had taen to the _outside_ a' simmer, and were\nseldom, if ever, to be seen in the _inside_, were beginning to pop in\nagain nows and thans, when they thought Dalyel, and Johnston, and\nClavers, and Douglas, and the rest o' the murdering gang, war elsewhere.\nAweel, as I am telling ye, yer granduncle cam hame to his ain brother's\nhouse; it might be about the dawn o' the morning, whan a' the house,\nexcept his brother, were sleeping, and he had got a cog o' crap whey on\nhis knee, wi' a barley scone--for glad, glad was he to get it; and he\nhad just finished saying the grace, and was conversing quietly like,\nand in whisper, wi' his ain brother, when what should he hear, but a rap\nat the kitchen-door, and a voice pouring in through the keyhole--\n\n\"Willie Harkness! Willie Harkness! the Philistines are upon ye! They are\njust now crossing the Pothouseburn.\"\n\nI trow when he heard that, he wasna lang in clearing the closs, and\ntakin doun the shank, straight for the foot of the Whiteside Linn, where\nthe cave was in which he had for weeks and months been concealed. It was\nnow, ye see, the grey o' the morning, and things could be seen moving at\nsome distance. Just as my uncle was about to enter the bramble-bushes at\nthe foot o' the linn, he was met by a trooper on horseback.\n\n\"Stand!\" said a voice, in accents of Satan; \"stand, this moment, and\nsurrender; or your life is not worth three snuffs of a Covenanter's\nmull.\"\n\nMy uncle kent weel the consequences of standing, and of being taken\ncaptive; and ye see, my bairn, life is sweet to us a'; sae he e'en\ndashed into the thicket, and, in an instant o' time, and ere the dragoon\ncould shoulder his musket, he was tumbling head-foremost (but holding by\nthe branches) towards the bottom of Whiteside Linn. There lay my worthy\nuncle, breathless, and motionless, and silent, expecting every moment\nthat the dragoon would dismount and secure him. However, the man o' sin\ncontented himsel wi' firing several times (at random) into the linn. The\nlast shot which was fired took effect on my uncle's knee; the blood\nsprung from it, and he fainted. As God would have it, at this time no\nfurther pursuit was attempted, and my uncle was lame for life. The blood\nstill remains on the stane, as witness against the unholy hand that shed\nit. But, alas! we are a' erring creatures; and who knows but even a\ndragoon may get repentance and find mercy! God forbid, my wee man, that\nwe should condemn ony ane, even a persecutor, to eternal damnation!\nIt's awfu--it's fearfu! But that's no a' ye shall hear. When the\ntrooper came up to the house, and joined his party, he repeated what had\npassed, and a search was set about in the linn for my uncle; but William\nhad by this time crippen into his cauld, dripping cave, over which the\nwater spouted in a cascade, and thus concealed him from their search;\nsae, after marking the blood, and almost raving like bloodhounds with\ndisappointment, they tied up a servant girl--whom they had first abused\nin the most unseemly and beastly manner--to a tree, and there they left\nher, incapable, though she had been able, of freeing herself. She was\nrelieved in an hour; but never recovered either the shame or the\ncruelty. She died, and her grave is in the east corner, near the large\nbushy tree in Closeburn kirkyard. \"Blessed are the dead which die in the\nLord; for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.\"\n\nMuckle better, my dear, was her fate, though seemingly a hard one, than\nthat o' the ungodly curate o' Closeburn--o' him wha was informer against\nthe puir persecuted remnant, and wha, through the instrumentality o' his\nspies and informers, had occasioned a' this murder and cruelty. Ye shall\nhear. He--I mean, my bairn, the curate--had been hurlin the folk,\nwhether they would or no, to the kirk, for weeks, in carts and\nhurdles--for oh, they liked his cauld, moral harangues ill, and his\nconduct far waur. He had even got the laird to refuse burial in the\nkirkyard to ony who refused to hear his fushionless preaching. Puir\nNanny Walker's funeral (she who had been sae horribly murdered) was to\ntak place on sic a day. The curate had heard o' this, and he was\nresolved to oppose the interment. But God's ways, my wean, are not as\nour ways, nor his thoughts as ours; in his hands are the issues of life\nand of death; he killeth and he maketh alive--blessed be his name, for\never, amen! Weel, as I was telling ye, out cam the curate, raging,\nrunning, and stamping like a madman; coming down his ain entry like a\nroaring lion, and swearing--for he stuck at naething--that Nanny\nWalker's vile Covenanting heart should never rot in Closeburn kirkyard.\nAweel, when he had just reached the kirk stile, and was in the act o'\nlifting up his hand against them who were bearing the coffin into the\nkirkyard, what think ye, my bairn, happened? The ungodly man, with his\nmouth open in cursing, and his hand uplifted to strike, instantly fell\ndown on the flagstanes, uttered but one groan, and expired! Ye see, my\nbairn, what a fearfu thing it is to persecute, and then to fall into the\nhands o' an angry and avenging God. Oh, may never descendant o' mine\ndeserve or meet wi' sic a fate! But there is mair to tell ye still. Just\nat the time when this fearfu visitation o' Providence took place, the\nfamily o' Auchincairn war a' engaged wi' the Buik, whan _in_ should rush\nwha but daft Gibbie Galloway, wha had never spoken a sensible word in\nhis life--for he was a born innocent, he and his mither afore him! Weel,\nand to be sure, just about this time, for they compared it afterwards,\n_in_ Gibbie stammered into the kitchen, whar they war a' convened, and\ninterrupted the guidman's prayer, wha happened at the time to be prayin\nto the Lord for vengeance against the ungodly curate:--\n\n\"Haud at him,\" said Gibby--\"haud at him! he's 'ust at the pit-brow!\"\n\nAy, fearfu, sirs--thae war awfu times!\n\n\n\n\nII.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH.\n\n\nThe narratives of the Rev. Mr Frazer of Alness, as well as those of\nQuentin Dick, William M'Millan, and Mr Robert M'Lellan, Laird of\nBalmagechan--all sufferers by, and MS. historians of the same events--we\nhave carefully perused; and it is from a collection of these hitherto\nunpublished MSS. that the following paper is composed.\n\nMr Frazer had gone to London about the end of the year 1676, and had\ncontinued there till 1685, when he was seized, along with the Laird of\nBalmagechan, in Galloway, whilst they were listening to the instructions\nof the Rev. Mr Alexander Shields, the celebrated author of the \"Hynd let\nloose,\" and forwarded by sea, under fetter and hatchway, to Leith. After\na variety of tossing and council-questioning, as was the order of the\nday at this time, they were marched from the Canongate Tolbooth, along\nwith upwards of 200 prisoners, to Dunnottar Castle in Kincardineshire.\n\nOf the sudden and unexpected summoning which they experienced, the\nreverend autobiographer speaks in these terms:--\n\n\"We were engaged, as was usual with us in our Babel captivity, in\nsinging a psalm. It was our evening sacrifice, and whilst the sun was\nsinking ayont the Pentlands. The voice of a godly and much-tried woman,\nEuphan Thriepland, ascended clear and full of heavenly melody above the\nrest. The prison-door was suddenly thrown open, and we at first\nimagined--alas!--that our captivity had ended; but it was not so. The\nLord saw meet to put us to still severer trials. We were marched, under\nthe command of Colonel Douglas, to Leith. This poor woman, who was\nlabouring under great bodily weakness, pled hard and strove sair for\nleave to stay behind. But she was mounted behind a corporal, and, amidst\nmany an obscene jest and much blasphemous language, conveyed to the pier\nat Leith.\"\n\nNext morning, we find the whole prisoners put up in the most indecent\nand uncomfortable manner in two rooms of the Tolbooth at Burntisland,\nand undergoing an examination before the Laird of Gosford, as to their\nopinions of allegiance and absolute supremacy. Forty acknowledged King\nJames as head of our Presbyterian Church, and superior lord over all law\nand authority in the kingdom; and the forty-first was standing in the\npresence of the oath administrator, with his hand uplifted, and in the\nvery act of following the example of his brethren, when his aunt, Euphan\nThriepland, _alias_ M'Birnie (for her husband's name was such),\nadvancing with difficulty towards the table, thus proceeded, with\nviolent gesticulation, and in a firm tone of voice, to address her\nnephew. Here we use the words of the Laird of Balmagechan, who has given\nthe whole scene with singular force and fidelity:--\n\n\"Jamie M'Birnie, what's that ye're about? Down wi' yer hand, man!--down\nwi' yer hand, this moment!--or ye may weel expect it to rot aff by the\nshackle-bane, man! Ye're but a young man, Jamie, and muckle atweel ye\nseem to require counsel. Had Peter M'Birnie, yer worthy faither--now\nwith his Maker--stood where I now (though with tottering joints and a\nfeeble voice) stand, he would neither have held his peace nor withheld\nhis admonition. He would rather hae seen that hand--now stretched oot to\nabjure Christ and his Covenanted Kirk--burning and frying in the hettest\nflame, than hae witnessed the waefu sicht I now see. It's weel wi'\nhim!--oh, it's weel wi' him, that his eyes are shut on earth, and that,\nin heaven, there is nae annoyance; otherwise, sair, sair would his heart\nhae been, to see my sister's wean devoting himsel wi' his ain uplifted\nhand to Satan. O Jamie, what says the Bible? It says awfu things to you,\nJamie--it says, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is\nbetter to go into heaven with one eye, than that the whole body'--Jamie,\nmark that! the whole body--'should be cast into hell fire.' And is not\nan eye dearer than a hand, and must not the dearest member be\nsacrificed, if it stand in the way of the soul's salvation? Ye may own\nKing James, and muckle thanks ye'll get for't; and ye may abjure and\nrenounce Christ, and ye'll sune see wha will gain or lose by that. And\nye may adhere to the king's curates, or to the bishops' curates, and\nstarve at the breast o' a _yeld_, a milkless mither; but tak tent that\nye dinna feed and nourish in your bosom a fearful _worm_, that winna\ndie nor lie still, but will gnaw and gnaw as lang as the fire burns and\nisna quenched.\"\n\nJamie M'Birnie's hand continued to fall gradually during this address,\nand, when his aunt had concluded, his arm hung pendulous and seemingly\npowerless by his side. At this instant, a young woman of uncommon\npersonal attractions was seen hurrying from a boat which had just\nlanded. She had scarcely set foot on shore, when a commotion was\nobserved in the court, and a face full of anguish and despair was\npresented to the party assembled in the Tolbooth. The Laird of Gosford,\nafter cursing the aunt for an old Covenanting hag, had just put the\nquestion of abjuration to Jamie for the last time. Jamie now remained\ninflexible, and was immediately ordered to be handcuffed, and marched\nwith the rest to Dunnottar Castle. Hereupon, as the Laird of Balmagechan\nexpresses it--The maiden, who was fair to look upon, pushed herself\nsuddenly forward, and rushed into the arms of her lover--for such he\nbehoved, from her words and her conduct, to be.\n\n\"O Jamie, Jamie, tak the oath--tak the oath--tak ony oath--tak onything;\ndo a' that they bid you do; say a' that they bid ye say--rather than\nleave yer ain Jeanie Wilson to break her heart wi' downright greeting. O\nJamie, we were to be married, ye ken, at Martinmas; and I have athing\nready, and the bit house is taen, and ye can work outby, and I can spin\nwithin, and--and--but, O Jamie, speak, man, just speak, and say ye'll\ntak the oath. Haud up yer hand!\" Hereupon she lifted his seemingly\npowerless right hand, till it came to a level with his head. \"Look\nthere, sir,\" addressing Gosford; \"look there--swear him, man, swear him,\nman; he's willing, dinna ye see, to swear--what for dinna ye swear him?\"\n\nBeing informed that the oath must be voluntary, and his hand not be\npropped, with great reluctance, and looking in Jamie's face with a look\nof inexpressible persuasion, she whispered something in his ear which\nwas inaudible, and retired a few paces from her station. No sooner,\nhowever, had she done so, than the hand, as if by the law of\ngravitation, resumed its former position, and a loud scream indicated\nthat the young heart of Jeanie had found a temporary stillness in\ninsensibility. The poor creature was borne out of court, amidst some\nsympathy even from the hardened and merciless soldiery; and Jamie, now a\nstupid, passive clod, was handcuffed, and ordered to march.\n\nLieutenant Beaton of Kilrennie commanded the detachment to which was\nintrusted the execution of the higher orders. They were all compelled to\nwalk, with the exception of Euphan Thriepland, who was mounted, as\nformerly, behind a corporal, together with a poor lame schoolmaster,\nwhose feet were closely and most cruelly tied down to the sides of a\nwild and unbroken colt. Upon these two helpless and tormented beings,\nprincipally, did it please and amuse the commander and his men to\nexercise their wit and expend their jeers. At one time the schoolmaster\nwas likened to a perched radish, and again he was \"riding the stang\" for\nhis sins. Euphemia was designated \"Dame Grunt,\" in humane allusion, no\ndoubt, to the painful position which she occupied _a la croupe_, and\nwhich compelled her frequently to groan. Again she was accosted as the\n\"mother of all saints,\" and the \"true Blue Whigamore.\" One observed that\nthe dominie would look wonderfully handsome in boots (referring, no\ndoubt, to the instrument of torture); and another observed that the lady\nwould wondrous well become a St Johnstone's cravat--namely, a halter.\nThe foot-soldiers, who were armed with long pikes, made excellent\napplication of their weapons; and ever and anon, as some weary wretch\nlagged behind, or some hungry or thirsty one seemed inclined to turn\naside to procure food or drink, the \"_argumentum a posteriori_\" was\napplied vigorously and unsparingly. The people of Fife, who were\nuniversally favourably disposed toward the prisoners, flocked in upon\ntheir retired and out-of-the-way route with every kind of provision and\nrefreshment; but, instead of being permitted to bestow them where they\nwere needed, they were met with taunts, and in some cases with blows;\nand the food which was intended for the prisoners was uniformly devoured\nby their tormentors, or wasted and destroyed in the very presence, and\nunder the very eyes, of those who were almost famishing for hunger. A\nstrolling piper, who happened to be crossing their route, was sportively\nenlisted into their service, and compelled, like Barton at Bannockburn,\nto play, very much to his own annoyance, such tunes as \"The Whigs o'\nFife,\" well known to be offensive to the friends of the Covenant.\n\n\"It was, indeed,\" says the Rev. Mr Frazer, with more of naivete and\ngood-humour than might have been expected--\"it was, indeed, an uncommon\nsight to behold a large and mixed company of men and women, but\nindifferently clad and ill-assorted, marching over muirs and hill-sides,\nwith a roaring bagpipe at their tail; the piper puffing and blowing, and\never and anon casting a suspicious look behind, towards the pike points,\nwhich were occasionally applied to his person in a manner the least\nceremonious possible.\" Might not this group form an appropriate subject\nfor an Allan, a Wilkie, or a Harvey? About dusk the party had skirted\nthe Lomonts, and were billeted for the night in the poor, but\npleasantly-situated, village of Freuchie. Each head of a family was made\nanswerable with his property and life for the persons of those prisoners\nwho were committed to his charge. And it is worthy of notice that not\none of those poor oppressed and insulted sufferers--who were all day\nlong endeavouring to escape--once attempted to implicate a single\nindividual amongst all their kind and hospitable landlords.\n\nUpon rallying their numbers next morning, it was found that one aged\nindividual, a forebear of ours, of the name of Watson, had died of\nover-fatigue; and that the poor schoolmaster was so much injured by his\nhorsemanship, that he could not possibly advance farther. When they\narrived at the south ferry of the Tay, the tide did not serve, and a\nmost cruel and barbarous scene was exhibited. A young man, the son of\nthe Rev. Mr Frazer, with the view of making interest for his father's\nrelease, had endeavoured to escape during the night. He was challenged\nby a sentinel in passing along the rocks, and not answering instantly,\nwas immediately shot dead on the spot. His head was cut from the body,\nand with the return of day, presented to the unfortunate and horrified\nparent, with these words, \"There's the gallows face of your son!\" Mr\nFrazer's own reflections on this scene deserve to be extracted from his\nwritten manuscripts:--\"O my Charles! my dear, heart-broken Charles! thy\nmother's joy and thy father's hope, and prop, and comfort! To be thus\ndeprived of thee, and for ever! But I am wrong, very wrong: I had thee\nonly as a loan from the Lord; and I know well that he gives--\n\n    'And when he takes away,\n    He takes but what he gave.'\n\nThou hast perished in the ranks amidst the soldiers of Christ; and I\ndoubt not that when the Captain of our salvation shall appear, thou wilt\nappear with him.\"\n\nIt would only fatigue and disgust the reader to give one tithe of the\natrocities which were perpetrated during the whole march to Dunnottar\nCastle. Really, the manuscript narratives here concur in such statements\nas are calculated to make us conceive favourably of Hottentots and\ncannibals: children torn from their mothers' arms, and transfixed on\npike points; a woman in labour thrown into a pool in the North Esk;\nlighted matches applied betwixt the fingers of old Euphan Thriepland,\nbecause she ventured to denounce such atrocities, &c. &c. &c. Come we,\nthen, after three or four days' march, to Dunnottar Castle.\n\nThe Castle of Dunnottar stands upon a rocky peninsula; and at the time\nof which we are writing was only accessible by a drawbridge. It has been\nin successive years the scene of much contention and bloodshed. It was\nhere that Sir William Wallace is said to have burned to the death not\nless than four thousand Southrons in one night. It was within these\nfire-seared and blackened walls that the unfortunate Marquis of Montrose\nrenewed the horrors of conflagration; and it was here, too, that the\nbrave Ogilvy so long and so determinedly defended our Scottish regalia\nagainst the soldiers of the Commonwealth. It was, too, from out these\nwalls, that Mrs Granger, wife of the minister of Kinneff, conveyed away,\npacked up and concealed amidst a bundle of clothes, the emblems of\nScottish independence; and that, after having concealed them till the\nRestoration, at one time beneath the pulpit, and at another betwixt the\nplies of a double-bottomed bed, she returned them, upon the accession of\nCharles II., to Mr Ogilvy, who, along with the Earl Marischal and keeper\nof the regalia, Keith, were rewarded for their fidelity, the one with a\nbaronetcy, and the other with the earldom of Kintire; whilst neither\nthis woman nor her husband, nor any of their posterity, have once yet\nbeen visited by any mark of royal or national gratitude:--\n\n    \"Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.\"\n\nIt is thus that the great man stands in the light of the small, and that\nthe royal vision is prevented from penetrating beyond the objects in\nimmediate juxtaposition.\n\nThis Castle of Dunnottar, which had so recently been honoured as the\nreceptacle of the regalia, was now about to be converted into a state\nprison, and, like the Bass, to become subservient to the views of an\nalarmed and fluctuating council, at a time when the rebellion of the\nunfortunate Monmouth in England, and of the haughty and ill-advised\nArgyle in Scotland, had set the whole kingdom in a ferment, either of\nhope or apprehension. Mr Frazer's narrative of the entrance of the\nprisoners into the castle, upon Sabbath the 24th day of May, 1685, is\nsufficiently graphic and intelligible:--\n\n\"We passed along,\" says he, \"a narrow way or drawbridge, and from thence\nascended under a covered road towards the castle, which stands high up,\nand looks down upon the sea from three of its sides. A person in the\ngarb of a jailer, with a bunch of large and rusty keys in his hand,\nopened a door on the seaward side of the building, and we were very\nrudely and insultingly commanded to enter. 'Kennel up, there, kennel up,\nye dogs of the Covenant!' were amongst the best terms which were applied\nto us.\n\n\"The Laird of Balmagechan being amongst the last to penetrate into this\nabode of stench, damp, darkness, suffocation, and death, a soldier made\na lunge at him with the point of his pike. Balmagechan was a peaceable\nman and a Christian; but this was somewhat too much--so, turning round\nin an instant, and closing at once with his insulting tormentor, he\nfairly wrested the pike from the soldier's grasp, and, splintering it in\nshivers over his head, he added, 'Tak, then, that in the meantime, thou\ndevil's gaet, to teach thee better manners!' The apartment into which,\nwith scarcely room to stand, 177 (our numbers having thus diminished\nfrom 200, on the march) human beings were thrust was, in fact, dug out\nof the rock, and, unless by a small narrow window towards the sea, had\nno means of admitting either light or air. As the night advanced, the\nheat became intolerable, and a sense of suffocation, the most painful of\nany to which our frail nature can be exposed, seemed to threaten an\nexcruciating, if not an immediate death. In vain we knocked, and called\nupon the guard, and implored a little air, and asked water, for God and\nmercy's sake. We were only answered by scoffs and jeers. At last nature,\nin many instances being entirely worn out, gave way. Some turned their\nheads over upon the shoulder of the persons nearest them, as if in the\nact of drinking water, and expired--others lost their reason entirely,\nstruck out furiously around them, tore their own hair and that of\nothers, and then went off in strong and hideous convulsions. Happier\nwere they, at this awful midnight hour, who entered this dungeon with a\nfeeble step, and in a wasted state of bodily strength; for _their_\nstruggle was short, and their death comparatively easy--_they_ died ere\nmidnight. But far otherwise was it with many upon whom God had bestowed\nyouth, health, and unimpaired strength. They stood the contest long; and\nfrequently, after they appeared to be dead, awoke again in renewed\nstrength, and ten times increased suffering. After the fatal discovery\nwas made, that the door was not to be opened, the rush toward the\nopposite window became absolutely intolerable. The feeble were trodden\ndown, and even the strong wasted their strength in contending with each\nother.\n\n\"Morning at last dawned, and our prison-door flew suddenly open. The\ngovernor's lady had learned our fate; and, even at the risk of giving\noffence to her lord, she had ordered us air and water, whilst _he still\nslept_. 'O woman, woman,' exclaims Mr Quentin Dick, in his MS. before\nme, 'thou art, and hast ever been, an angel. What does not man--what do\nnot we owe thee?'\"\n\nIn a word, more than the half perished on that dreadful night, and\namongst those who were ultimately liberated by order in council, were\nthe individuals who have been particularised in this narrative.\n\nReader, we inquire not into thy political creed--we ask not whether thou\nart a Whig or a Tory, a Conservative or a Radical--we can allow thee to\nbe an honest and conscientious man, on all these suppositions: all we\nask of thee is this, \"_Art thou a man?_\" The inference is inevitable.\n\nPerhaps some may wish to know what became of Euphan Thriepland, Jamie\nM'Birnie, and Jeanie Wilson. We are happy that, owing to an accidental\noccurrence, we can throw some light upon the subject. Last time we were\nin Dumfries-shire, and in Closeburn, our native parish, we read upon the\ndoor of a change-house, in the village of Croalchapel, this inscription,\n\"Whisky, Ale, and British Spirits, sold here, by James M'Birnie.\" The\ncoincidence of the name revived my long-obscured recollection of the\npast, and led, in fact, ultimately to the whole of this narrative. We\nlearned, from an old bedrid woman, the grandmother of this James, that\nhe of Dunnottar celebrity had returned to Edinburgh and married Jeanie\nWilson; that he had taken auld aunt Euphan home to their dwelling; and\nhad been employed for several years after the Revolution, as a nursery\nand seeds-man, in Edinburgh; that, having realised a competency, they\nhad ultimately retired to their native parish of Closeburn, and had\ntenanted a small farm called Stepends; that their son had been a drover,\nand unsuccessful even to bankruptcy; and that the family were now\nreduced to the condition which we beheld.\n\n\n\n\nIII.--PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON.\n\n\nWe believe there never was such a sad Sabbath witnessed, as that upon\nwhich nearly four hundred of the Established clergy of Scotland preached\ntheir farewell sermons and addresses to their several congregations. It\nwas a day, as the historians of that period express it, of \"wailing, and\nof loud lamentation, as the weeping of Jazer, when the lords of the\nheathen had broken down her principal plants; and as the mourning of\nRachel, who wept for her children, and would not be comforted.\"\n\nOn the 4th day of October, 1662, a council, under the commission of the\ninfatuated and ill-advised Middleton, was held at Glasgow; and, in an\nhour of brutal intoxication, it was resolved and decreed that all those\nministers of the Church of Scotland who had, by a popular election,\nentered upon their cures since the year 1649, should, in the first\ninstance, be arrested, nor permitted to resume their pulpits, or draw\ntheir stipends, till they had received a presentation at the hands of\nthe lay patrons, and submitted to induction from the diocesan bishop. In\nother words, Presbytery, which had been so dearly purchased, and was so\nacceptable to the people of Scotland, was to be superseded by Prelacy;\nand the mandate of the prince, or of his privy council, was to be\nconsidered in future as _law_, in all matters whether civil or\necclesiastical. It was not to be supposed that the descendants and\nadmirers of Knox, and Hamilton, and Welsh, and Melville could calmly and\npassively submit to this; and accordingly the 20th day of October--the\nlast Sabbath which, without conformity to the orders in council, the\nproscribed ministers were permitted to preach--was a day anticipated\nwith anxious feelings, and afterwards remembered to their dying day, by\nall who witnessed it. It was our fortune, in early life, to be\nacquainted with an old man, upwards of ninety, an inhabitant of the\nvillage of Glenluce, whose grandfather was actually present at the\nfarewell or parting sermon which Mr Peden, the author of the famous\nprophecies which bear his name, delivered on this occasion to his\nparishioners. We have conversed with this aged chronicler so frequently\nand so fully upon the subject, that we believe we can give a pretty\nfaithful report of what was then delivered by Peden.\n\nI remember well (continued, according to my authority, the old\nchronicler)--I mind it well, it seems but as yesterday--the morning of\nthis truly awful and not-to-be-forgotten day. It had been rain in the\nnight-time, and the morning was dark and cloudy--the mist trailed like\nthe smoke o' a furnace, white and ragged, alang the hill-taps. The\nheavens above seemed, as it were, to scowl upon the earth beneath. I\nrose early, as was my wont on the Sabbath morning, and hitched away\ntowards the tap o' the Briock. I had only continued, it micht be, an\nhour in private meditation and prayer, when I heard the eight-o'clock\nbells beginning to toll. Indeed, I could hear, from the place where I\nwas, I may say, every bell in the presbytery. The sound o' these bells\nis still in my ears--it was unusually sweet and melodious; and yet there\nwas something very melancholy in the sound. I thought on the blood of\nthe saints by which these bells had been purchased; upon the many souls,\nnow gone to a better place, who had been summoned to a preached gospel\nby these bells; and I thought, too, on the sad alteration which a few\nhours would produce, when the pulpits would be deserted by the worthy\nPresbyterian ministers who filled them, and be filled, it micht be, by\nPrelatical curates--wolves in sheep's clothing, and fushionless\npreachers at the best. Even at this early hour, I could see, every here\nand there, blue bonnets, and black-and-white plaids, and scarlet\nmantles, mixing with and coming forth every now and then from the broken\nand creeping mist. The Lord's own covenanted flock were e'en gaun awa to\npluck a mouthfu (it micht be the last) o' hale-some and sanctified\npasture.\n\nThe doors o' the kirk o' New Luce had been thrown open early in the\nmorning; but, owing to an immense concourse of people, a tent had been\nlatterly erected on the brow face, immediately opposite to the\nkirk-stile, and the multitude had settled, and were, when we arrived,\nsettling down, like bees around their queen, on all sides of it. Having\nadvanced suddenly over the height, and come all at once within view of\nthis goodly assembly, I found them engaged, as was their customary, till\nthe minister's appearance, in psalm-singing. A portion of the\nThirty-second Psalm had been selected by the precentor, and he was in\nthe act of _giving out_, as it is termed, these appropriate and\ncomforting lines--\n\n    \"Thou art my hiding-place; thou shalt\n      From trouble set me free;\n    And with songs of deliverance\n      About shall compass me\"--\n\nwhen Peden made his appearance above the brow of the adjoining linn,\nwhere he had probably been engaged for some time in preparatory and\nprivate devotion. He advanced with the pulpit Bible under his arm, and\nwith a rapid, though occasionally a hesitating, step. All eyes were at\nonce turned upon him; but he seemed lost in meditation, and altogether\ncareless or unconscious of his exposed situation. His figure was\ndiminutive, but his frame athletic and his step elastic. He wore a blue\nbonnet, from beneath which his dark hair flowed out over his shoulders,\nlong, lank, and dishevelled. His complexion was sallow, but his eyes\ndark, keen, and penetrating. He had neither gown nor band, but had his\nshirt-neck tied up with a narrow stock of uncommon whiteness. Thus\nhabited, he approached the congregation, who rose up to make way for\nhim, ascended the ladder attached to the back-door of the tent, and\nforthwith proceeded to the duties of the day.\n\n\"Therefore watch and remember; for the space of three years I ceased not\nto warn every one, night and day, with tears.\"\n\nThese words of the text were read out in a firm, though somewhat shrill\nand squeaking tone of voice; and as he lifted up his eyes from the\nsacred page, and looked east and west around him, there was a general\npreparatory cough, and adjustment of position and dress, which clearly\nbespoke the protracted attention which was about to be given. And,\ntruly, although he continued to discourse from twelve o'clock till\ndusk, I cannot say that I felt tired or hungry. Nor did it appear that\nthe speaker's strength or matter failed him--nay, he even rose into a\ndegree of fervid and impressive eloquence towards the close which none\nwho were present ever heard equalled.\n\n\"And now, my friends,\" continued he, in a concluding appeal to their\nconsciences--\"and now I am gaun to warn ye anent the future, as weel as\nto admonish you o' the past. Ye'll see and hear nae mair o' puir Sandy\nPeden after this day's wark is owre. See ye that puir bird\" (at this\nmoment a hawk had darted down, in view of the whole congregation, in\npursuit of its prey)--\"see ye that puir panting laverock, which has now\ncrossed into that dark and deep linn, for safety and for refuge from the\nclaws and the beak of its pursuer? I'll tell ye what, my freends--the\ntwasome didna drift down this way frae that dark clud, and along that\nbleak heathery brae-face, for naething. They were sent, they were\ncommissioned; and if ye had arisen to your feet, ere they passed, and\ncried, 'Shue!' ye couldna hae frichtened them oot o' their mission. They\ncam to testify o' a persecuted remnant, and o' a cruel pursuing foe--o'\na kirk which will soon hae to betak hersel like a bird to the mountains,\nand o' an enemy which will not allow her to rest, by night nor by day,\neven in the dark recesses o' the rocks, or amidst the damp and cauld\nmosses o' the hills. They cam, and they war welcome, to gie auld Sandy a\nwarning, too, and to bid him tak the bent as fast as possible; to flee,\neven this very nicht, for the pursuer is even nigh at hand. But, hooly,\nsirs, we maunna part till our wark is finished; as an auld writer has\nit--'till our work is finished, we are immortal.' I hae e'en dune my\nbest, as saith an apostle, amang ye; and I hae this day the consolation,\nand that's no sma', to think that my puir exertions hae been rewarded\nwi' some sma' success. And had it been _His_ plan, or _His_ pleasure, to\nhave permitted me to lay down my auld banes, when I had nae mair use\nfor them, beneath ane o' the through-stanes there, I canna say but I wad\nhae been content. But, since it's no His guid and sovereign pleasure, I\nhae ae request to mak before we separate this nicht, never in this place\nto meet again.\" (Hereupon the sobbing and the bursting forth of hitherto\nsuppressed sorrow was almost universal.) \"Ye maun a' stand upon your\nfeet, and lift up your hands, and swear, before the great Head and\nMaster o' the Presbyterian Kirk o' Scotland\" (there was a general rising\nand show of hands, whilst the speaker continued), \"that, till an\nindependent Presbyterian minister ascend the pulpit, you will never\nenter the door o' that kirk mair; and let this be the solemn league and\ncovenant betwixt you and me, and betwixt my God and your God, in all\ntime coming! Amen!--so let it be!\"\n\nIn this standing position, which we had thus almost insensibly assumed,\nthe last prayer or benediction was heard, and the concluding psalm was\nsung--\n\n    \"For he in his pavilion shall\n      Me hide in evil days,\n    In secret of his tent me hide,\n      And on a rock me raise.\"\n\nI never listened to a sound or beheld a spectacle more overpowering. The\nnight-cloud had come down the hill above us--the sun had set. It was\ntwilight; and the united and full swing of the voice of praise ascended\nthrough the veil of evening, from the thousands of lips, even to the\ngate of heaven. Whilst we continued singing, our venerable pastor\ndescended from the tent--the Word of God in his hand, and the accents of\npraise on his lips; and at the concluding line he stood fairly and\nvisibly out by himself, upon the entry towards the east door of the\nkirk. Having shut the door and locked it, in the view and in the hearing\nof the people, he knocked upon it thrice with the back of the pulpit\nBible, accompanying this action with these words, audibly and distinctly\npronounced--\n\n\"I arrest thee in my Master's name, that none ever enter by thee, save\nthose who enter by the door of Presbytery.\" So saying, he ascended the\nwall at the kirk-stile, spread his arms abroad to their utmost stretch,\nand in the most solemn and impressive manner dismissed the multitude.\n\nAlthough Peden was thus banished from that pulpit to which, during the\ncivil wars, he had been elected by the unanimous voice of a most\nattached people, he did not thereupon, or therefore, refrain entirely\nfrom exercising his function as a minister of the Gospel; but, having\nbetaken himself to those fastnesses which lie betwixt Wigton and\nAyrshire, he was in the habit of assembling, occasionally, around him\nthe greater part of his congregation, as well as many belonging to the\nneighbouring parishes. In the meantime, after several months' vacancy, a\nyoung and half-educated lad from Aberdeen was appointed by the\ngovernment in the capacity of curate. This person was, of course, hated\nby the parish; but this hatred was exalted to abhorrence, in consequence\nof his immoral and unclerical life and conversation.\n\nWilliam Smith and Jessie Lawson were the children, the first of a\nrespectable farmer, and the other of a pious, though poor widow woman.\nThere had been some difficulties in the way of the lovers--\n\n    \"For the course of true love never yet run smooth;\"\n\nbut these had at last been removed, and the young couple were about to\nbe united, with the consent of relatives, in the honourable bands of\nmatrimony. But the young and dissolute curate had caught a glimpse of\nJessie; and, having been fascinated by her beauty, had not been backward\nin signifying, both to mother and daughter, his honourable (for they\nreally were so in this case) intentions. Janet, however, was too sound a\nCovenanter to give her consent.\n\n\"Na, na,\" she continued; \"my bairn, I wot weel, has been baptised by the\nholy Mr Welsh, and she has lang sucked in the milk o' the true and\nCovenanted Word, frae worthy and godly Mr Peden, and it will ill become\nher to turn her baek on her first lover, for the sake o' ony yearthly\nconcern whatever.\"\n\nIn the meantime winter drew on, with its frosts, and its blasts, and its\nsnows, and the lovers became more and more anxious to be united in the\nbands of hallowed love, in consequence of the pressing and importunate\naddresses of the curate. Here, however, a difficulty occurred, which\nwas, however, overcome, by bribing the schoolmaster, as session-clerk,\nto proclaim them to empty benches, and by obtaining Peden's consent to\nperform the marriage-ceremony on their producing the requisite evidence\nof proclamation. The place appointed was the Bogle Glen, and the time\nmidnight, on the second day of January, 1684. The night--for such\nmeetings were usually held during night--was stormy; there being a\nconsiderable degree of snow-drift; but Peden was not easily diverted\nfrom his purpose; nor was his audience unaccustomed to such exposures.\nSo the night-meeting for religious worship took place beneath the Gleds'\nCraig, from the brow or apron of which the minister officiated. Beneath\nhim, huddled together under plaids, stood his devoted and attentive\ncongregation, whilst the moon looked down at intervals on a landscape\nover which a frosty wind was ever and anon carrying the snow-drift.\nBeside the speaker were arranged, on chairs and stools, some young women\nbearing children to be baptised, and the youthful couple about to be\nunited in marriage. The usual service proceeded, and the voice of psalms\nwas heard amidst the solemn stillness of the midnight hour. The\nchildren were next baptised from an adjoining well, which presented\nitself opportunely, like the waters of Meribah, from a cleft of the\nrock. The young people had just been united, and Peden was in the act of\npronouncing the usual benediction, when the tramp of horses' feet was\nsuddenly heard; and, in an instant, a discharge of muskets indicated but\ntoo surely the nature of the assault. All was challenge, capture, and\ndispersion; through which the screams of the young bride and the\nmenacing voice of the curate were distinctly heard.\n\nAbout four o'clock of the same eventful night, the manse of New Luce was\ndiscovered to be on fire, and some hundreds of figures were seen\ncongregated in frantic and menacing attitudes around it. At last a form\nwas discovered, bearing off from the flames something which appeared to\nbe inanimate. The curate's screams were heard from his bedroom-window,\nand, by the assistance of the military, who had now arrived, he was\nrelieved by a rope from his critical situation; and the young lovers\nwere next morning discovered, safe and uninjured, in their own home, and\nin each other's arms.\n\n\n\n\nIV.--THE PROSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS.\n\n\nThe miseries of war are not confined to the battle-field and the actual\nreturn of the killed and wounded. There is an atmosphere of wo and\nintense suffering, which hangs dense and heavy over the whole theatre of\nwar--the devastation and horrors of a wide-marching enemy, advancing\nlike the simoom of the desert, and converting into a howling wilderness\nthe peopled and rejoicing district. Life is extinguished by terror and\ndeprivation, as well as by the sword; and with this difference, too,\nthat the former process is so much the more severe that it is protracted\nand defenceless. Civil war is, in this respect in particular, the most\nrevolting of all. The animosities and resentments of opposing parties\nare greatly exasperated by proximity of situation and community of\ncountry; and the revenge of the stronger directed upon the weaker party\nis uniformly marked by many atrocities. Of this character was,\nunhappily, the latter period of the domination of Charles II., together\nwith the whole four years of the Papistical infatuation of the second\nJames. Men, women, and children were not only shot, drowned, and spiked,\nbut thousands who escaped this extreme fate, were so worn out by\nwatchings, and cold, and hunger, and mental anxieties, as to fall under\nthe power of diseases from which they never recovered.\n\nAn instance illustrative of these remarks occurred, according to\ninvariable tradition (partly oral, and partly written), in the Pass of\nDalveen, one of the wildest and most sublime localities in\nDumfries-shire. In the days of which we speak, there were no\nmail-coaches, nor did the public road from Edinburgh to Dumfries pass,\nas now, through that most fearfully sublime ravine; all _then_ was\nseclusion and solitude in that mountain retirement, where the winds met\nand mingled from many a converging glen; and the eagle and the raven\ndivided the supremacy above. The site of the shepherd's shieling is\nindeed still ascertainable by the depth of verdure which marks the\ndeparted walls; and the traveller may see it by the burn-side, almost\nhalf-way down the pass.\n\nThe family which, during the latter period of the eight-and-twenty\nyears' persecution, occupied this humble dwelling was named M'Michael.\nThere were two brothers of that name; Daniel, who was a bachelor, and\nGilbert, who was married, and the father of a son, now a lad of ten or\ntwelve, and two daughters, still younger. The mother of these children\nwas a M'Caig, a name immortalised in the annals of persecution. The two\nbrothers, Gilbert and Daniel, had rendered themselves peculiarly\nobnoxious to the spite and revenge of the curate of Durrisdeer, by\ntheir refusing to attend ordinances; and their obtaining baptism, and\neven, as times and occasions offered, the _sealing_ ordinance of the\nSupper, from the hands of worthy Mr Welsh. Besides all this, when hard\npursued one day in the pass, Daniel and Gilbert had defended themselves\nagainst a whole troop of Douglas' dragoons, by occupying the rocky\nsummits of the Lowther Hills, and precipitating loose and rebounding\nrocks on the pursuers beneath. It was on this occasion that \"Red Rob,\"\nof persecuting notoriety, had his shoulder-blade dislocated; and that\nLieutenant James Douglas himself, in his extreme eagerness to scale the\nsteep, had two of his front teeth dislodged.\n\nWinter 1686 was peculiarly severe, and the proximity of Drumlanrig\nCastle, the residence of the Queensberry Douglases, rendered it\nexceedingly unsafe for the two obnoxious brothers, in particular, to\nvisit their home, unless it were by snatches, and at the dead hour of\nnight. The natural consequence of all this was, that both brothers lost\ntheir health, and that Gilbert, in particular, who was constitutionally\ninfirm, contracted, or rather exasperated, a bad cough, which threatened\nserious consequences. It is quite true that a warm bed and the comforts\nof home might have done much for the complaint; but Gilbert's ordinary\nbedroom was the damp extremity of a hollow in a rock, without fire, and\nwith his plaid alone as a nightly couch and covering. It was on a cold\nand drifty day in the month of January, that Gilbert, in the presence of\nhis family, and under hourly apprehension of a visit from the barbarous\nDouglas, called his family around him, and, leaning upon the bosom of\nhis beloved wife, addressed them in words to the following effect:--\n\n\"My dearest wife, my dear children, and my beloved Daniel, stand round\nme, for I am dying.\" Thereupon there was much weeping, and the poor\nwoman had to be carried out of the room, nearly insensible. This pause\nwas employed by Gilbert in secret prayer and ejaculation--\n\n\"Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!--Lord, comfort the\nwidow and the fatherless!--Lord, give strength for trial, and faith for\ndying like a Christian!\"\n\nWhen the poor widow had been so far recovered as to be able to return to\nthe bedside, the dying man proceeded, with frequent pauses and much\nweakness, thus:--\n\n\"I hope I may say, though at an infinite distance, with the apostle\nPaul, I have fought a good fight. I have kept the faith--the faith of my\nSaviour, of his holy apostles, and of our Covenanted Kirk. I have kept\nit in bad report, as well as in good--in the day of her extreme\nsuffering, as well as when godly Mr Brown was minister of Durrisdeer.\nThey have driven me from my humble but happy home, and from my wife and\nchildren, to the mountain and the cave; but I have ever said--\n\n    'I to the hills will lift mine eyes,\n    From whence doth come mine aid,\n    My safety cometh from the Lord.'\n\nAnd I have ever found it so. I have been shot at, pursued, hunted like a\nwild beast, and exposed to disease, and pain, and extreme\nweakness--whilst I was, unless at intervals, denied the voice that\nsoothes, the truth that cheers, and the looks of sympathy that mitigate\nin the extremest suffering; and I am now, if it shall please God to\nwithhold for a little the foot of the merciless and the ungodly--I am\nnow about to close my testimony by sealing it with my latest breath.\"\n\nThis exertion was too much for his exhausted strength, and it seemed to\nall that life had fled; when, after a few short and heavy respirations,\nhe again proceeded--\"Lord, give me strength for this last, this parting\neffort in this our covenanted cause!--Now, my dearly beloved, I leave\nyou; for I hear my Master's call, and the Spirit and the Bride say,\nCome! I leave you with this last, this dying advice: Let nothing deprive\nyou of your crown, hold fast your integrity; for He whom you will serve\nwill come quickly, and terrible will his coming be to all his enemies.\"\n\n\"Enemies, indeed!\" vociferated Lieutenant Douglas, who had unperceived\nentered the apartment: \"those enemies, friend Gibby, are nearer, I trow,\nthan ye wot, and ready, with leave of this good company here, to take\nspecial care that his majesty's enemies shall be suitably provided for.\nCome, budge, old Benty, and you too of the lion's den. Come--my lambs,\nhere, will be more difficult to manage than the _lions_ of your Jewish\nnamesake. Come, Mr Dan--up, and be going; for the day breaketh apace,\nand it will be pleasant pastime just to give us a stave of the death\npsalm under the old thorn, on the brae face yonder. Red Rob's shoulder,\nhere, has sworn a solemn league and covenant against you; and, as to my\ntwo front teeth, they are complete nonconformists to Whigs and Whiggery,\nthrough all generations. Amen!\"\n\nIn vain was all this profane barbarity poured on the ears of the dead\nman; old Gilbert had breathed his last at the very first perception of\nDouglas' presence--his God had in mercy withdrawn him from his last and\nmost severe trial.\n\n\"Look there! look there! look there!\" were the first articulate accents\nwhich crossed the lips of the distracted widow; \"look, ye sons o'\nBelial--ye men o' bluid--on the pale and lifeless victim o' yer horrid\npersecution. Ay, aff wi' him!\" (for Douglas had now approached the bed,\nas if to ascertain that no deception had been practised upon him)--\"aff\nwi' him, to the croft, or to the maiden, or to the thorn-tree! shoot\nhim, head him, hang him--ah!--ha!--ha!--ha!\" (Hysterically screaming.)\n\"He has escaped ye a'. Yer bullets canna pierce him; yer flames canna\nscorch him; yer malice canna reach him yonder.\" (Pointing at the same\ntime upwards.) \"There, even there, whar ye and yer band shall never\nenter, the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary, ay, thank God!\nthe weary are at rest. Rest _here_, indeed, they had none; but _there_\nthey shall rest, when ye shall lie tormented!\"\n\n\"Come, come, Mother Testimony, give us no more of your blarney. Let us\nonly over the shank yonder, and you and your whelps there may yelp and\nhowl till the day of judgment, if you please. But as for you, friend\nDan,\" (speaking ironically, and imitating the Covenanting language and\nmanner), \"does the Spirit move thee to budge?--has the Lord dealt\nbountifully with thee?--and will he 'save thee from six troubles, yea,\nfrom seven?' Come, come, friend,\" taking him rudely by the arm, and\npulling him, with the assistance of Red Rob, towards the door. \"The\nSpirit and the Bride say, 'Come;' there is a _maiden_ longing for thy\nembrace--yea, a maiden whose lovers have been many, and whose embrace is\nsomewhat close. But she, having taken up her residence in the guid town\nof Edinburgh, is afar off; but, lest thou shouldst feel disappointment,\nmy lambs here have become somewhat frisky of late, and they will be most\nhappy to give thee a little matrimonial music, to the tune of 'Make\nready, present, fire!'\"\n\nDaniel M'Michael had long been accustomed to view death as a messenger\nof peace. His days--now manifestly numbered--had been sorely troubled.\nHis faith in his Saviour was, with him, not a fluctuating, but a fixed\nprinciple; like Stephen, he might ascend to see heaven opened--and his\nsoul was long absent in fervent prayer. He prayed for a persecuted kirk,\nfor a persecuted remnant, for his friends, and for his enemies, even\nthose whose hands were raised against his life.\n\n\"The guid Lord,\" said he, \"forgive ye, for ye know not what ye do. The\nthief on the cross was forgiven; David, the murderer, was forgiven; and\ne'en Judas himself may have obtained mercy. Oh, ye puir, infatuated,\ngodless band! it is not for myself that I pray--it is for you; for, when\nthe day of wrath arrives, where will ye flee to? To the hills?--they\nwill be cast into the sea. To the rocks?--they will have melted with\nfervent heat. To the linns and the glens?--but where will ye find them,\nin that great and notable day of the Lord----\"\n\nDaniel was proceeding thus, when Red Rob struck him over the head with\nthe handle of his sword.\n\n\"Down to the earth with thee and thy everlasting jaw. We want none of\nthy prayers and petitionings. We are King Charles' men, and our God is\nour captain, our reward our pay, our heaven is our mess-room, and our\neternity an hour's kissing of a bonny lass.\"\n\nHere the commander interfered, and the poor victim was raised, though\nscarcely able to stand on his legs, from the stun of the blow.\n\n\"And now,\" said Douglas, \"for the last time, wilt thou conform, and\npreserve thy life, or die?\"\n\nThe poor man groaned, and fell on his knees. The band was removed to a\ndistance, and in a few seconds the smoke rose white and whirling from\nthe hill-side. The work of death was done!\n\nThere is a small clump of old thorns which faces the high-road from\nDumfries to Edinburgh, as it enters the Pass of Dalveen from the south.\nAt the lower extremity of this woodland patch, there is a grey rock or\nstone, covered with a thick coating of moss. It was whilst resting\nagainst this stone, that Daniel M'Michael was shot, about half-an-hour\nposterior to the cruelties which have been narrated.\n\nA stone, with a suitable inscription, has been placed over the mangled\nremains of this good man in the churchyard of Durrisdeer; whilst a\nmarble and gilt monument, of the most elegant and tasteful character,\noccupies the whole of the aisle or nave of the church. The latter\nmonument perpetuates the memory and the virtues of the noble family of\nDouglas; whilst the former rude and now mutilated flag-stone mentions an\nact of atrocity perpetrated by a cadet of the family. In that day when\nthe secrets of families and individuals shall be made known, it shall be\nmanifested whose memory and virtues best deserve to be perpetuated.\n\nThe eldest daughter of Mrs Janet M'Michael or M'Caig was married, after\nthe Revolution, to the second son (John) of Thomas Harkness of\nMitchelslacks, from whom, in a lineal descent, the author of these\nscraps derives his birth. Is it to be wondered at, then, that we feel,\nthrough every drop of blood and ramification of nerves, a devotedness to\nthe great cause of constitutional freedom and rational reform? But we\nhope the cause of political liberty may never be mixed up with the\nconcerns of that Church which our ancestors founded on the dead bodies\nof martyrs, and cemented with their blood. We may return to this subject\nagain, for we have yet many recollections to record.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF TOM BERTRAM.\n\n\nPoor Tom Bertram! His story is a sad one; and yet I love to talk of it.\nIt affords me a melancholy pleasure, in my old age, to conjure up the\nmemories of the past, and to recall those happy days when Tom and I\nenjoyed together the freshness of youth and friendship. We were born in\nthe same village of Roxburghshire, educated at the same Border school,\nentered as reefers together in the Honourable East India Company's\nservice, and for fourteen years we were shipmates and firm friends.\n_His_ voyage of life has long been over; and my crazy old hulk must\nfounder ere long. But a truce to reflection. I must proceed with my\nstory; and, if I do make myself tedious by my digressions, forgive the\nfond garrulity of an old sailor, who loves to linger upon every trifling\nrecollection of a lost and valued friend.\n\nTom Bertram was an orphan, the son of a respectable farmer in\nRoxburghshire, who, on his death-bed, left his boy to the care and\nprotection of my maternal uncle. It was impossible to live long in Tom's\ncompany without loving him. He was frank, daring, and active--a stranger\nto fear, and yet gentle and affectionate in the extreme; and when I add\nto this, that he was one of the handsomest youths ever beheld, can it be\nwondered at that he was an object of favour and admiration to all our\nvillage belles? Tom, however, laughed and joked, and talked sentiment\nwith them all; but his heart remained untouched--his _time_ had not yet\ncome: and it was with a merry heart, and pleasant anticipations of the\nfuture, that he took his seat beside me on the coach that was to convey\nus to London. I will pass over our first impressions of all the\nnovelties we saw and heard there: suffice it to say, that the\nconsciousness of being among strangers and aliens made us cling with the\nfonder warmth to each other; and every voyage we made together only\nserved to strengthen the ties of our mutual regard. Years had passed by,\nand we had both risen gradually, though slowly, in our profession, and\nhad always contrived to get appointed to the same ship. The last voyage\nwe sailed together, I was fourth, and Tom fifth, mate of the Cornwallis,\nIndiaman; and we were both in the same watch. Every one acquainted with\nboard-ship affairs knows how perfectly compatible the greatest intimacy\nand familiarity are with the strictest discipline; and how habitually\nand instantaneously the frankness of friendly intercourse gives place to\nthe formality of nautical etiquette, whenever the duty of the ship\nrequires their alternation. Tom and I were like brothers; but he never\nforgot that he was my junior officer, and never by any chance took\nadvantage of my friendship for him by ill-timed familiarity. One fine\nmoonlight night, we were lying becalmed within the tropics, whistling\nand invoking St Antonio in vain, for no breeze came. Beautiful are those\ncalm tropical nights to the lovers of the picturesque, though sadly\ntrying to the patience of the mariner. The _watch_ were all lying in\nvarious attitudes about the decks in deep slumber; the helmsman was\nstanding at his post--but whether asleep or awake was of little\nconsequence, for the rudder was powerless; there was not a cloud in the\ndark blue sky, and the moon and stars were shining with almost dazzling\nbrightness, and looking provokingly placid and happy; the surface of the\nsea was smooth as the smoothest glass, and in its undulating mirror gave\nback a vivid reflection of the brilliant canopy above; there was a long\nsilvery path of light from the horizon to the ship; and the scene was\naltogether uncommonly beautiful, and uncommonly provoking to the officer\nof the watch. And there, in the midst of all the splendour and beauty\nof nature, lay our noble ship, one of the finest specimens of man's\nproud art, helpless and powerless as a new-born babe--rolling, and\ntossing, and tumbling about--her lofty prow rising and falling as if\ndoing homage to the majesty of ocean; while the moon and stars seemed to\nsmile in quiet scorn at her unwieldy movements. Oh, the tedium and\nweariness of a calm night-watch at sea!--the anxious look around and\naloft, to see if any _cat's-paw_ is ruffling the water, or if any stray\nair has found its way into the _flying-kites_; the low, impatient\nwhistle; and the common but unintelligible and unaccountable ejaculation\nof \"Blow, good breeze, and I'll give you a soldier!\" Bertram was\nstanding at the gangway, with his arm and head resting on the rail, and\nmuttering to himself. I approached him just in time to hear--\n\n    \"For then sweet dreams of other days arise,\n    And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.\"\n\n\"Ah, Tom, sentimentalising? I have some hopes of you now. Who is the\nobject of your vesper sigh, if it is a fair question?--which of the\nthousand-and-one flowers in your garden of love has left the memory of\nits fragrancy in your heart?\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Harry,\" said he, colouring; \"I have something else to do than\nto pine and sigh for a lady's love. What a lovely night it is!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I--\"lovely enough for a high-flying, sentimental lover, but\nanything but pleasing to a plain, straight-forward fellow like myself.\nBut, joking apart, Tom, you have not been yourself this voyage; you go\nthrough your duties actively enough, it is true, but evidently quite\nmechanically. Your heart is elsewhere. Do not be afraid of making me\nyour confidant--I will not betray you; trust your secret sorrow,\nwhatever it may be, to _me_; if I cannot assist, I can at all events\nsympathise with you.\"\n\n\"Thank you kindly, Harry,\" said he--\"I believe you from my heart. You\nhave made a right guess for once in your life. I _am_ in love.\"\n\n\"Well, make a clean breast of it at once, and tell me who your Dulcinea\nis; that, if I have the felicity of her acquaintance, we may hold\neloquent discourse of her charms together.\"\n\n\"Well, Harry, you remember Miss ----\"\n\n\"Holloa! there's a breeze coming at last--beg your pardon, Tom,\" said I,\nspringing up on the poop for a better view; and there it was, sure\nenough, coming up on the larboard quarter, with a cool, fresh, rippling\nsound, roughening the surface of the swell before it.\n\n\"Forecastle there!\"\n\n\"Sir?\" replied Tom.\n\n\"Rig out the foretopmast and topgallant-studdingsail booms, Mr Bertram,\nand bear a hand with the sails.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir.\"\n\n\"Maintop there!--rig out the topgallant-studdingsail boom!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir.\"\n\n\"All ready with the stunsails forward, sir,\" cried Bertram.\n\n\"Very well. Forward there the watch!--run the stunsails up. Forecastle\nthere!--swing the lower boom!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir.\"\n\nIn twenty minutes the ship was under a cloud of canvas, and moving\nrapidly through the water, the ropes were all coiled down, and the watch\nagain on their beam-ends.\n\n\"Stea-dy!\" called the quartermaster.\n\n\"Steady it is!\" answered the man at the helm.\n\n\"I told you so, Bill,\" muttered one of the afterguard to his\nneighbour--\"I knowed as how we'd have a breeze when I throwed my old\nshoe overboard.\"\n\n\"Now, Tom,\" said I, \"make an end of your confession. You asked me if I\nremembered Miss----what's her name?\"\n\n\"Kate Fotheringham.\"\n\nIf a thunderbolt had fallen at my feet, it could hardly have startled me\nmore than did the unexpected mention of that name. I _felt_ myself turn\npale--the blood seemed to creep and curdle in my veins, and a sensation\nof mortal sickness and faintness came over me.\n\nTom observed my emotion, and exclaimed, in great alarm--\n\n\"Harry, how ill you look! What is the matter with you?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said I--\"a sudden spasm--but it is gone.\"\n\nAnd, with desperate resolution, I gulped down the emotion which almost\nchoked my utterance, and listened with patience while Tom proceeded,\nwith all a lover's enthusiasm, to expatiate upon the charms of his\nmistress. He had so long confined his feelings to his own bosom, that,\nwhen he gave them free vent, their sudden and torrent-like out-pouring\nwas almost overwhelming. Rapidly and fervidly did he depict his first\nsensations; glowingly and fondly did he dwell upon the personal charms\nand mental amiabilities of his adored one; and, in _burning_ words, he\nexpressed his happiness in the certainty that he was beloved again.\nAlas, poor fellow! he little knew that every kind expression of his\nmistress went like a dagger to the heart of his friend! And yet so it\nwas; for, in the innermost recesses of my heart, hidden from all mortal\nknowledge save my own, I had enshrined an idol--and that idol was Kate\nFotheringham. 'Tis true, I had bowed before it in vain. I had offered up\nto her the incense of my first love; it had filled the temple, but made\nno impression upon the divinity. My love was hopeless, but constant. But\nit is necessary that I should explain myself; and to do so I must go\nback.\n\nThe Rev. Thomas Fotheringham was minister of the Parish of L----, and\nthe father of two beauteous daughters, of whom Kate was the youngest.\nShe was indeed a lovely creature--full of life and animation, sparkling\nand joyous; her complexion was delicately brilliant, and her bright blue\neyes shot forth their playful glances from the covert of the most\nbeautiful flaxen ringlets in the world. When she shook back her hair\nfrom her forehead, and her laugh,\n\n                        \"Without any control\n    But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul,\"\n\nand displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, she was indeed a thing to be\nwondered at and admired.\n\nMr Fotheringham had been an intimate friend of my father, and I had gone\nto spend a few weeks at L---- Manse, on my last return home. When I had\nseen Kate some years before, she was a pretty, interesting child, and\nused, in her playfulness, to call me her sailor husband: how great was\nmy surprise, when I met her again, to find the playful child transformed\ninto the tall, graceful, elegant woman! It was impossible to see Kate\nFotheringham without admiring her beauty: I soon found that it was\nimpossible to know her without loving her. She was as good as she was\nlovely, and was almost adored by the poor of the parish, to whom she was\nlike a ministering angel. Her great delight was in distributing food and\nclothing to the poor and needy; and her sweet smile and soothing tone of\nsympathy were balm to the melancholy mourner, and to the bruised and\nbroken spirit. Was it wonderful that, living as I did in the most\nfriendly intimacy with such a being, listening to her praises from all\nquarters, hearing the sweet music of her voice as she warbled the simple\nmelodies of her native land--was it wonderful that I loved her? Yes! I\nmore than loved her. Love is too tame, too commonplace a term for my\nfeelings. I adored her--I bowed my heart before her very footsteps: but\nI felt that I was not loved again. The very frankness and innocent\nfamiliarity of her manner towards me, while it fascinated, maddened me;\nfor I knew that I was wilfully deceiving myself; that she looked upon me\nas a friend--a brother--nothing more. Fool that I was!--knowing all\nthis--knowing, in my own secret heart, that every day, every hour, I was\nonly storing up bitterness for myself--I still fluttered round the flame\nthat was consuming me. At last, one evening, my long-suppressed feelings\nburst forth. Some expression of Kate acted as a spark to the train of\npassion that was lying smouldering within my breast, and----I know not\nwhat I said--but my heart was in the words; I only know that I was\nmiserable. Kate was agitated, surprised, and affected. She esteemed and\nadmired me, she said; but her heart was not her own. We parted with\nmutual sorrow, and with a promise, on her part, never to mention the\noccurrences of that evening; and with a determination on mine to smother\nmy feelings, and with firm resolve to tear her image from my heart for\never. Weak and vain resolution!--that image will go with me to my grave.\n\nTom went on to tell me that he had gone, with my uncle, his guardian, on\na visit to L----, three years before, and that he had not been long\ndomesticated there before he felt the influence of those charms which\nhad proved so fatal to my peace. He was the constant companion of the\nyoung ladies in all their rambles, had witnessed their various deeds of\nunostentatious charity and benevolence, and was in the habit of\nlistening with pleasure to the warm and unsophisticated praises lavished\nupon them by every dependant and cottager around them. His heart had\nhitherto resisted the fascinations of beauty, and he had learned to look\nupon it as a \"pretty plaything,\" accompanied, as he had hitherto seen\nit, with superficial accomplishments and frivolous employment. But here\nwas all his fancy had ever pictured of female loveliness and amiability\ncombined; and he felt that, with such a companion, he might reasonably\nexpect to realise his brightest dreams of mundane happiness. He\nconsulted my uncle, who had always loved him as a son, and who intended\nhim to be his heir; and laying before him the state of his affections,\ntold him that he waited but for his consent to prosecute his suit. My\nuncle was delighted with his confession, and with the object of his\nchoice, and gave him his consent and blessing; at the same time giving\nhim to understand that Kate should not marry a beggar. Kate's heart,\nalmost unconsciously to herself, had long been his; and she was too\nfrank and artless to attempt to veil it from him when he made his\nproposals. It was agreed that their marriage was to take place when he\nreturned from his next voyage, and that, in the meantime, their\nengagement was to be kept secret.\n\nOh, how I had envied my happy rival! How often had I longed, with eager\ncuriosity, to see the man who had gained the heart of such a glorious\ncreature! And now he stood before me--the dearest friend of my heart,\nfrom whom I had never had but one concealment--he whom I had loved as a\nbrother, and watched over with more than a brother's love--was the being\nwho, unconsciously, stood between me and happiness--who had blighted and\nwithered the fondest aspirations of my heart. Oh, the conflict of\nfeelings within me! Had he but confided in me sooner, what misery might\nhe not have spared me! Thank Heaven! friendship and justice conquered at\nlast. I resolved to keep my secret, though my heart should break; his\nknowledge of it could not benefit me, but would only distress and grieve\nhim, and, perhaps, cast a cloud over that friendship which was now the\nchief remaining solace of my life. It was with a smiling face,\ntherefore, but with an aching bosom, that I shook hands with Tom that\nnight; and well did I keep my secret, for he died in ignorance of it.\n\nAs we were going into the mess-berth next morning to breakfast, we met\nBen, the servant, looking as grave as an owl, with a face as long as the\nmaintop-bowline.\n\n\"What's the matter, Ben?\" said Tom.\n\n\"O sir! we'll soon know what's the matter: the cow died this morning!\"\n\nTom burst into a roar of laughter, and asked what that had to do with\nhis long face.\n\n\"It's no laughing matter, sir,\" said the man; \"I never knew any good\ncome to a ship when the cow died: but we'll see before long.\"\n\nWe were both much amused at the man's newfangled superstition, as we\nthought it, as we had never before heard of this.\n\n\"I have been told a story,\" said I, \"of a cat influencing the destinies\nof a ship, but I never heard a cow so highly honoured before.\"\n\n\"A cat!\" said Tom--\"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"It's an old story,\" said I; \"but, as you seem not to have heard it, I\nwill enlighten you on the subject:--\n\nSome years since, one of His Majesty's crack frigates had greatly\ndistinguished herself, on the Mediterranean station, by the smartness\nand activity of her crew, her state of excellent discipline, and her\ngreat success in capturing prizes. For some time her good fortune seemed\nto have deserted her; day after day passed away, and not a _tangible_\nsail was to be seen; the time began to hang heavy on the hands of the\ncrew, and discontent and disappointment were legible in their\ncountenances. This state of things could not last long. The captain, a\ngood and gallant seaman, perceived that the spirit of disaffection was\nbusy among his crew, and determined to check it in the bud.\n\n\"Call the hands out, if you please, Mr Steady,\" said he to the first\nlieutenant.\n\nThe hands were called out; and when assembled on the quarterdeck, the\ncaptain addressed them to the following effect:--\n\n\"My lads, you used to be as active and cheerful a set of fellows as I\nwould wish to command; I used to be proud of you, for you seemed to take\npleasure in your duty; but now you go about the decks sullen and\ndiscontented, and only work because you dare not disobey. If you have\nany grievances to complain of, come forward like men and say so, and I\nwill redress them, if I can; but I tell you, once for all, I will have\nno sulkiness; and by Heaven! if I can't drive it out of you in any other\nway, I'll flog it out of you.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, one of the captains of the forecastle stepped out\nfrom the crew, and twirling his hat in one hand and scratching the back\nof his ear with the other, said--\n\n\"Please your honour, we haven't no grievances.'\n\n\"Then what the devil's the matter with you all?\"\n\n\"Why, sir----\" said the man, hesitatingly.\n\n\"Go on,\" said the captain--\"I won't bite you.\"\n\n\"Why, then, sir,\" replied the captain of the forecastle, \"we've never\nhad no luck since you took that 'ere black cat on board.\"\n\nThe captain could not help laughing. \"Well,\" said he, \"that evil can\nsoon be remedied. Midshipman, tell my steward to throw the cat\noverboard.\"\n\n\"O sir!\" said the man, in great alarm, \"do not throw him overboard--that\nwould be worser still.\"\n\n\"Then, what the deuce do you want me to do with him?\"\n\n\"Why, if your honour would send him ashore as he came aboard, in a\nboat.\"\n\n\"What a set of cursed ninnies!\" muttered the captain. \"Well,\" said he,\n\"you have often exerted yourselves to please me, and it is but fair that\nI should do something to please you for once in a way.\"\n\nThe frigate stood in shore, and hove to, a boat was lowered, and the\nunlucky cat, safely deposited in a bread-bag, was sent under charge of\na midshipman to be landed at the nearest point. The boat returned in due\ntime, and was hoisted up, the sails were filled and trimmed, when the\nman at the mast-head hailed the deck--\n\n\"A strange sail in sight ahead, sir!\"\n\n\"All hands make sail in chase!\" was the cry; and, before night, the\ncat-haters had taken a valuable prize.\n\n\"A strange coincidence, certainly,\" said Tom, \"and most unfortunately\ncalculated to strengthen the men in their superstition. I hope we shall\nhave no such confirmation of Ben's panic about the cow.\"\n\nWe had a glorious breeze that morning on the quarter; the long swell,\nwhich had been so smooth and glassy the day before, was broken into\nshort waves, which came rushing, and curling, and bursting under the\nship's counter; the sky was covered with light mackerel clouds; every\nstitch of canvas we could carry was spread; the sails were all asleep,\nand the ship snoring through the water;--there was every appearance of a\nsteady breeze, and of continued fine weather. A little after mid-day,\nthe captain came on deck, and said to the officer of the watch, \"Mr\nFreeman, what do you think of the weather?\"\n\nMr Freeman, with a look of surprise, replied, \"I never saw a finer day,\nsir; and there is every appearance of a steady breeze.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"that's my opinion too; yet the glass is falling\nrapidly. I do not understand it. Send for Mr Sneerwell.\" And the chief\nmate made his appearance. He agreed in thinking that there was no sign\nof change in the weather.\n\n\"Well,\" said the captain, \"my glass has never deceived me yet, and I\nwill believe it now against my own opinion, and in spite of favourable\nappearances. You will pipe to dinner, if you please; and, when the\npeople have had their time, call the hands out to shorten sail.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir! Pipe to dinner!\"\n\nThe breeze began gradually to freshen; and, by the time we had swallowed\nour dinner, we were glad to get our stunsails and lofty sails in as fast\nas possible. A small dark cloud had appeared on the weather-beam, which\ngradually spread and spread, till the whole heaven was covered with an\nominous darkness, and the wind increased so rapidly that there was\nbarely time to execute the orders which followed each other in quick\nsuccession from the quarterdeck. Before one reef was taken in in the\ntopsails, it was time to take in another; the courses were reefed, the\nmainsail furled, the topgallantyards sent on deck. Before midnight, we\nwere under reefed foresail and close-reefed driver; and, before the\nmorning watch, were hove to under stormstaysails. Tom had exerted\nhimself greatly during the gale; and, when aloft in the maintop, had\nbeen struck on the temple by one of the points of the topsail which was\nshaking in the wind while reefing. The blow, though from so small a\nrope, had stunned him; and, when he recovered, he was obliged to be\nassisted down to his cot, where the doctor took a good quantity of blood\nfrom him. About this time, an epidemic disorder had shown itself among\nthe crew, which spread rapidly, and in a short time our sick list\namounted to six or seven-and-twenty. At first, the disease was not\nfatal; but, after a time, death followed in its footsteps, and the\nmortality became quite alarming and dispiriting to the survivors of the\ncrew. The only officer who was seized with the disorder was my friend\nTom, who had hardly recovered from the weakening effect of loss of\nblood, and whose constitution had been much shaken by severe illness\nabroad. Long and doubtful was the struggle between life and death; but\nat length the crisis of the disease was over, and he began slowly to\nrecover. Oh! how often did I vow, while watching by his sick-bed, and\nbathing his burning hands and brow, never again to go to sea with one\nfor whom I felt more than a common regard! I thought it would be almost\nbetter to renounce the communion of intimate friendship altogether, than\nagain to expose myself to the risk of such grief as I now felt in the\nprospect of losing my friend. Tom did no more duty for the remainder of\nthe passage of five weeks, and was still very feeble when we arrived in\nthe Downs. During that time, however, he used often to come on deck in\nmy watch; and, if there were no particular ship's duty going on, we\nindulged in long conversations about the past, and in pleasant\nanticipations of the future. But, on whatever topic our conversations\nmight commence, they always ended in the same subject--L---- Manse and\nits inmates. Kate Fotheringham, Kate Fotheringham, was the everlasting\ntheme of Tom's tongue; even if I had never seen her, I might almost have\npainted her picture from his vivid descriptions of her.\n\n\"You forget, Tom,\" I have often said, \"that I have seen this paragon of\nyours; you need not give me such a minute description of her.\"\n\n\"You _have_ seen her, Harry! I _always_ see her; her image is in my\nheart. It is out of the fulness of my heart that my mouth speaks. Oh!\nlet me talk of her--the very sound of her name is like music to my ear.\nKate, Kate Fotheringham--is it not a sweet name, Harry?\"\n\n\"The name is pretty enough; but, my dear fellow, you are allowing your\npassion to run away with your senses altogether. For her sake, as well\nas your own, you must endeavour to restrain the violence of your\nfeelings, which, in the present enfeebled state of your health, might\nproduce fatal effects.\"\n\n\"Fatal!\" said he--\"nothing can be fatal to me as long as Kate\nFotheringham's love remains to me. But, oh Harry! if I were to lose\nthat, what would become of me?\"\n\nI was alarmed and distressed by the depth and violence of Tom's\nemotions; but I thought it better to allow him to express them\nunreservedly, than to run the risk of adding to their intensity, by\nendeavouring to check and repress them. Among other plans for the\nfuture, he dwelt with much pleasure upon the prospect of giving our\nfriends at L---- an agreeable surprise, by coming upon them\nunexpectedly, before they had heard of our arrival in England.\nCircumstances favoured us in this project. Our passage had been a quick\none; and, the wind favouring us after we had passed the Downs, we ran\nright up the river at once. In consequence of our unexpectedly early\narrival, there were no letters awaiting us; but we were not anxious on\nthat score, as our last accounts were favourable. The day after our\narrival at Blackwall, we obtained leave of absence, and set off (under\nthe rose) for the north. When we arrived at the nearest town to L----,\nwe left the coach, intending to hire a chaise or gig to take us on to\nthe manse; but there had been a run on the road that day, and there was\nno conveyance to be obtained. Tom's mortification was extreme. I wished\nto remain till next day; but his impatience prevented his listening to\nreason.\n\n\"It's only a few miles, Harry! We can walk.\"\n\n\"In your present state,\" said I, \"such an exertion may be prejudicial to\nyou.\"\n\n\"I see you don't like to stretch your legs, Harry. I will go by myself;\nyou can follow to-morrow!\"\n\nI had nothing further to say; so we ordered our baggage to be sent after\nus, and set off together. When we arrived near L----, instead of\nfollowing the sweep of the road, and crossing the river by the bridge,\nby way of a short cut, we struck across the fields, and waded the\nstream. The moon was shining brightly, and the whole scene was flooded\nwith light. On the summit of a green bank, sloping down to the river,\nlay the churchyard, near which stood the church, a venerable Gothic\nbuilding, shaded by old and solemn-looking trees, standing like\nsentinels over the slumbers of the tomb. Our path to the manse lay\nthrough the churchyard; and a feeling of sadness and of awe crept over\nus, as we saw the cold beautiful moonlight resting on the well-known\ngraves of many of our early friends.\n\n\"Ah!\" said I, \"the churchyard has, at least, _one_ tenant more since our\ndeparture. Whose can this handsome monument be?\"\n\nMy eye glanced at the inscription, and a cold shudder came over me.\n\n\"Come on, Tom!\" said I; \"we have no time to dawdle here.\"\n\n\"Let me read this epitaph first.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said I, trying to force him away. But it was too late--he had\nseen enough: and with a cry of unutterable anguish, he fell fainting in\nmy arms. Poor Tom Bertram! Long years have passed, but that scene is\nfresh in my memory--my heart bleeds for him still! I laid him gently on\nthe grass beside the tomb--the dying, as I thought, beside the dead. The\ntears blinded my eyes, as I endeavoured to read the sad inscription on\nthe stone--\"Sacred to the memory of Catherine, youngest daughter of the\nRev. Thomas Fotheringham, minister of this parish.\" The long panegyric\nthat followed--what had I to do with it then? I ran down to the river,\nand bringing some water in my hat, I dashed it in Tom's face, and after\nsome time had the happiness to see him revive. He stared wildly at me,\nand exclaimed--\n\n\"Where am I?--Harry!\"\n\n\"Here I am, dear Tom!\"\n\n\"Oh! I have had such a dream!\" His eye-glance fell upon the\ntomb.--\"Merciful Heaven! is it true?\" And leaning his head upon my\nbreast, while his face turned deadly pale, he gasped for breath. At\nlength, a burst of sorrow, such as I had seldom witnessed, relieved his\nover-wrought feelings; he sobbed and wept as if his heart were flowing\nout of him. I did not attempt to check or to console him; sorrow like\nhis was, in its first bitterness, too deep and withering for\nconsolation. Alas! I needed comfort for myself!\n\nAt length, the first violence of his feelings was exhausted, and he\nsuffered me to lead him, unresistingly, to the manse, where we were\nreceived with the greatest kindness and sympathy by the sorrowing\nfamily. There we heard the sad particulars of our loss. Kate had fallen\na victim to consumption some months before; the letter containing the\nmelancholy news had not reached us. Poor Tom, exhausted by previous\nillness, and overcome by the dreadful shock he had experienced, was\nobliged to take to his bed. I hastened back to my ship, where I was\ndetained some weeks. When I returned, Tom was dying. He knew me; and\nwith a faint smile, and a hardly perceptible pressure of my hand, he\nmurmured--\n\n\"I die happy, Harry. She prayed for me on her death-bed!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE COTTAR'S DAUGHTER.\n\n\nThe parties to whom the following tale refers being still, we believe,\nalive, we must warn the reader that, though the story be true, the names\nemployed are fictitious; but we beg also to add, that in this\ncircumstance alone is the tale indebted to invention.\n\nYoung Edington of Wellwood was the son of a gentleman of large fortune,\nresiding in Roxburghshire; but we shall not say in what particular part\nof that district. The noble residence of Wellwood--a huge castellated\npile, rising in the midst of embowering woods and wide-spread lawns of\nthe smoothest and brightest verdure--sufficiently bespoke the wealth of\nits owner; or, if this was not enough to give such assurance, the crowd\nof liveried menials that might be seen lounging about its magnificent\nportals, together with the splendid equipages that were ever and anon\nrolling to and from the lordly mansion, would have carried this\nconviction to the mind of the most casual observer.\n\nThe presumptive heir to all this grandeur was young Wellwood, who was an\nonly child. At the period of our story, Harry (for such was his\nChristian name) was about four-and-twenty years of age. His education\nhad been completed at Oxford some three years previous to this; and the\ninterval had been spent in a tour on the Continent, from which he had\nnow just returned, to reside some time with his father, before going\nabroad, to fill a high official situation, which the latter's great\ninfluence in the political world had procured for him.\n\nYoung Wellwood was a man of elegant figure, accomplished, and of\nsingularly fascinating manners--recommendations of which he too often\navailed himself to accomplish very discreditable purposes, as the sequel\nof our story will show. He was not naturally of bad dispositions--we\ncould almost say quite the contrary; nor did he love evil for\nits own sake; but his passions were too powerful for his moral\nprinciples--unsupported as these were by any auxiliary resolutions of\nhis own.\n\nSuch, then, was young Edington of Wellwood; and, having thus briefly\nsketched his circumstances, situation, and character, we proceed to\nadvert to the humble heroine of our tale.\n\nAt a short distance from Wellwood House, there is a pretty little\nvillage, which we shall take the liberty of calling Springfield. It is\nsituated in a romantic dell or hollow, and occupies either side of a\nbroad, clear, but shallow stream, that runs brawling through its very\ncentre. Steep rocks, and in other places abrupt acclivities covered with\nverdure, and the whole overhung with \"wild woods thick'ning green,\" form\nthe boundaries of the narrow glen in which the village is situated. From\nthis village, bands of young maidens--daughters of the labouring people\nby whom it is inhabited, and of others in poor circumstances--were in\nthe habit of repairing to Wellwood House every morning during the summer\nseason for supplies of milk; the excess of the dairy being sold at\nlittle more than a nominal value to every one in the neighbourhood who\nchose to apply for it. Amongst the young girls who used to frequent\nWellwood House on this errand was Helen Gardenstone, the daughter of a\npoor widow woman who resided in Springfield. She was a girl with an\nappearance and manners of a kind rarely to be met with amongst those in\nher humble station in life. Her beauty did not lie in the mere glow of\nhealth, or in regularity of feature alone. Both of these, indeed, she\npossessed in an eminent degree; but the chief captivations of her truly\nlovely countenance were to be found in the peculiar sweetness, grace,\nand native dignity of its expression, which the meanness of her\ncircumstances had been unable to abase. In short, even the style of\nHelen Gardenstone's beauty, unaided by fashion, art, or education, as it\nwas, was such as the daughter of the haughtiest peer of the realm might\nhave been proud to own. But nature had not expended all her skill and\npains on the countenance alone. She added a figure every way worthy of\nits loveliness; a figure whose elegance and fine proportions the simple\nbut coarse garments she wore might impair, but could not conceal; and\nshe finished the work by bestowing on this favoured creature a mild,\ngentle, and generous disposition; a heart formed for cherishing all the\nbetter qualities of female nature; and a degree of intelligence much\nsurpassing that usually found amongst those of her years and class. Such\nwas Helen Gardenstone, the daughter of the widow.\n\nTo resume our narrative. It was on a fine summer's morning, at the\nperiod to which our story refers, that Helen's mother came to her\nbedside, and, shaking her gently by the shoulder--for she was sound\nasleep--said, in a kindly tone--\n\n\"Helen, dear, it's time ye were awa to Wellwood for the milk.\"\n\nHelen opened her bright eyes, smiled in her mother's face, started from\nher couch, and was soon ready to perform the morning duty to which she\nhad been called.\n\n\"But I'm thinkin I'm late this mornin, mother,\" she said, on observing\nthe advanced appearance of the day.\n\n\"Ou, ye're time aneugh, dear,\" replied her mother; \"I didna like to\nwauken ye sooner, as ye were up sae late last nicht, and sae sair\nfatigued wi' the washin.\"\n\n\"Tuts, mother,\" rejoined Helen, \"that was naething. Ye should hae made\nme jump at the usual time. I declare, there they're comin back!\" she\nabruptly added, having caught a glimpse of some of the village maidens\nreturning with their pitchers of milk; and with this she hurried out of\nthe house, with her little tin can, and, tripping lightly over the road,\nshe soon reached the avenue leading to Wellwood House.\n\nHelen was, indeed, later than usual on this morning; and one consequence\nof this was, that she had to go alone--for all those who used to\naccompany her had already been to Wellwood, and had returned; another\nconsequence, and one fraught with much that was deeply interwoven with\nthe future destiny of the unsuspecting girl--that all the inmates of\nWellwood House were astir, and amongst these young Wellwood himself, who\nwas sauntering in the avenue that led to the house at the very moment\nHelen entered it. They met. Wellwood, who had never happened to see her\nbefore, was struck with her extraordinary beauty. He threw himself in\nher way. He addressed her in flattering language. He watched her return\nfrom the house, learned everything from the artless girl regarding her\nsituation and circumstances; and, from that hour, she engrossed all his\nthoughts, and became the sole object to which he devoted the dangerous\npowers of fascination which nature had given him, and art had improved.\nNor did he exercise these powers in vain. Helen ultimately fell a victim\nto his wiles, and became the prey of the spoiler.\n\nThe story of the poor girl's misfortune soon spread abroad. It became\nthe talk of the village; and many a burning face, and many an agonising\npang, it cost her as she passed along, and heard the sneers, and taunts,\nand heartless jests to which that misfortune subjected her.\n\n\"The graceless cutty!\" said one--and we must here remark that the\nmerciless persecutions of this kind to which she was exposed proceeded\nalmost entirely from those of her own sex--\"nae better could happen her\nwi' her dressin and her airs. No a madam in a' the land could be at\nmair pains snoodin her hair than she was.\"\n\n\"Atweel, that's true,\" said a second; \"and see what she has made o't,\nthe vain, silly thing!\"\n\n\"Made o't!\" exclaimed another of these vulgar and heartless traducers;\n\"my certie, she'll mak weel o't, I warrant ye. Young Wellwood 'll gie\nher silks and satins by the wab, and siller in gowpens. She'll no\nwant--tak my word for that. We maun toil late and early, cummers, for\nour scanty mouthfu, and our bits o' duds; while the like o' her eats and\ndrinks o' the best, without ever fylin her fingers.\"\n\n\"This'll bring doun her pride, I'm thinkin,\" said a fourth. \"I aye\nthocht she wad hae a fa', and was ne'er owre fond o' oor Mary gaun wi'\nher. Folk speak o' her beauty; but, for my part, I never could see ony\nbeauty about her.\"\n\n\"Nor me either,\" chimed in a fifth; \"I aye thocht her a puir, glaikit,\nsilly-looking thing.\"\n\nMuch of such conversation as this the poor unfortunate girl frequently\noverheard; and much more of a similar kind was said which she did not\nhear. In short, there was not one, at least of her own sex, who\nexpressed the smallest sympathy for her unhappy condition, or felt for\nher misfortune--not one who attempted to soothe her sorrows, or to\nlighten the burden of the poor girl's miseries--not one to treat her\nerror with the lenity which their own liability to deviate from the\nstraight path of moral rectitude ought to have inspired:--no, the poor\ngirl's persecutors seemed to think that the abuse and defamation of her\ncharacter shed an additional lustre on their own, and that, by her fall,\nthey themselves were exalted. Strangers were they to the god-like\nsentiments expressed by him who says--\n\n    \"Teach me to feel another's wo,\n      To hide the fault I see;\n    That mercy I to others show,\n      Such mercy show to me.\"\n\nWhen we said, however, that there was not one who felt for poor Helen's\nunhappy situation, we ought to have made a single exception. There was\n_one_ who felt for her, and that most acutely. This one was her mother.\nThe widow sorrowed, indeed, over the fall of her child, and many a\nbitter tear unseen did it cost her--but she pitied and forgave.\n\n\"Dinna mourn that way, my puir lassie,\" she would say, when she found\nHelen, as she often did, weeping in secret. \"God 'll gie ye strength to\nbear up wi' your sorrows. He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, Helen,\nand e'en will He saften the grief in which your young heart is steeped.\nThough a' the warld should abuse ye, Helen, and desert ye, and scorn ye,\nyour mother's arms and your mother's bosom will aye be open to receive\nye; for weel do I ken, though everybody else should be blin' to't, that,\nfor a' that has happened, ye're guileless, Helen, and far mair sinned\nagainst than sinning.\"\n\nThe uniform kindness of her mother, and the charitable and\nChristian-like spirit in which she treated her erring daughter, greatly\nconsoled the unfortunate girl under her affliction, and was the means of\nsaving her, for a time, at any rate, from utter despair--we have said\nfor a time only, because it was ultimately unequal to support poor\nHelen's spirit against the sneers of an unfeeling world. Returning home\none evening from a place at a little distance, where she had been on an\nerrand of her mother's, Helen overheard, from amongst a group of women,\nsome such conversation regarding her as we have already quoted; but more\nsevere things still were said on this occasion than we have recorded,\nand, amongst these, the last and worst name which can be given to the\nerring of her sex was applied to her. Helen heard the horrifying word;\nand no sooner had it reached her ear, than a sense of self-debasement,\nof shame, and despair, which she had never felt so acutely before,\nseized upon her, and nearly deprived her of her reason. The ground\nseemed to reel under her feet, and it was with the utmost difficulty she\nwas able to make out her mother's house. Her walk was unsteady, and she\nwas pale as death when she entered.\n\n\"Mercy on me, Helen! what's the matter?\" exclaimed her mother, running,\nin the utmost alarm, to the bed, on which the latter had flung herself,\nin an agony of shame and horror, the moment she had entered the house.\n\"What's the matter, Helen?\" repeated the latter, in a soothing tone.\n\"Has onybody been using you ill?\" she inquired; for she knew that her\nunfortunate daughter was often exposed to such insult and abuse as we\nhave already noticed.\n\n\"O mother! mother! I can stand this nae langer,\" was the indirect, but\nsufficiently intelligible, reply of the weeping girl, who, with her face\nburied in the bedclothes, was now sobbing her heart out. \"I can stand it\nnae langer. I canna live, mother--I canna live under this load o' shame\nand reproach. I ken I am a guilty and a sinfu creature; but, oh! will\nthey no hae mercy on me, and leave me to the punishment o' my ain\nthochts and feelings? Is there nae compassion in them, nae pity, nae\ncharity, that they will thus continue to persecute me wi' their\nmerciless tongues? I hae offended my God; but, I'm sure, I hae never\noffended them in thocht, word, or deed; and why, then, will they drive\nme to distraction this way? I canna live under it, mother--I canna live\nunder it!\" again exclaimed the unfortunate girl.\n\n\"They can hae but little o' the milk o' human kindness in their bosoms,\nHelen, that wad add a pang to them ye are already endurin, my poor\nlassie,\" said her mother, leaning over her with the utmost tenderness\nand affection. \"They surely canna be mothers themsels that wad do a\nthing sae cruel and unfeelin. I'm sure it wad melt the heart o' a\nwhunstane to look on that puir wae-begone face o' yours. But never mind\nthem, Helen, dear--keep up your heart. Guid has come before noo oot o'\nevil; and there's nae sayin what may be in store for you yet.\"\n\nTo this attempt at consolation Helen made no reply; but that night--and\nit was a wild and a wet one--she left her mother's house, stealing out\nwhile she slept; and, when morning came, she had not returned, and no\none knew whither she had gone. Days, weeks, and months passed away, and\nstill Helen Gardenstone came not, nor was any trace of her discovered;\nbut it came at length to be generally believed that the poor deluded and\ndistracted girl had terminated her miseries by committing suicide--that\nshe had buried her sorrows in the waters of the Molendinar--the name of\nthe stream or river that ran through the village, and which had many\ndeep pools both below and above it.\n\nThese were, indeed, actually searched for her body, but to no purpose;\nthough this was accounted for by the circumstance of the river's having\nbeen much swollen at the time of Helen's disappearance, by several\nprevious days' rain. The body, then, was conjectured to have been\ncarried down to the sea.\n\nThe report of Helen's sudden disappearance, together with rumours of the\nsupposed catastrophe which it involved, soon reached young Wellwood;\nand, libertine as he was, the appalling intelligence plunged him into\nthe deepest distress. When first informed of it, he grew deadly pale,\nand would fain have disbelieved the horrid tale, which made him\nvirtually and morally, though not legally, poor Helen's murderer. But,\nwhen he found he could no longer doubt the truth of the rumour, remorse\nand contrition seized him, and, for some days thereafter, he confined\nhimself to his room on pretence of sudden indisposition, to conceal the\ndistraction of his mind, which wholly unfitted him to mingle in\nsociety.\n\nThe vision of Helen, invested with all the personal beauty and mental\ninnocence in which she had first met his sight, appeared before him\nduring the feverish reveries of the day, and in the disturbed slumbers\nof the night. Anon, the scene would change, and the dead form of the\nvictim of his lawless passion would stand before him, bearing all the\nhorrid marks of the peculiar death she had died--her face rigid and\nghastly pale--her wet dishevelled hair hanging wildly around it; and her\nclothes drenched with the waters in which her miseries had been\nterminated. Such were the harrowing pictures which the disturbed\nimagination and guilty soul of young Wellwood summoned before his mental\neye, to madden and distract him. In time, however, these dreadful\nvisions began to abate, both in frequency and force, and he was\ngradually enabled to take his place again in society; but a settled\nmelancholy was now visible on his countenance--for the fatal catastrophe\nof poor Helen's death, though latterly less vividly present to him than\nat first, still pressed upon his spirits with a weight and constancy\nthat produced a very marked change on his general demeanour.\n\nSoon after the period to which we have now brought our story, Wellwood\nproceeded to the place of his destination abroad, to occupy the official\nsituation which his father's influence had procured for him. Here he\nremained for two years, when some business connected with the duties of\nhis appointment called him to London. One of the first persons on whom\nhe called, on his arrival in the metropolis, was a gentleman of the name\nof Middleton--a young man of fortune, and of excessively dissipated\nhabits, whom he had known at Oxford, and who had been the companion of\nall his debaucheries (and they were frequent and deep) during his\nresidence at that seat of learning. In this last respect young Wellwood\nwas now somewhat improved; but it was otherwise with his old friend, who\nstill pursued, with unabated vigour and unsated appetite, the wild\ncareer of dissipation in which Wellwood had so far accompanied him. The\nrenewal of their acquaintance on this occasion terminated in the renewal\nof the scenes at Oxford; and, led on by his companion, Harry largely\nindulged in all the fashionable excesses of the capital. These excesses,\nhowever, even with all the outrageous mirth and jollity with which they\nwere associated, could not restore to him the peace of mind he had lost,\nnor even banish from his countenance that expression of melancholy to\nwhich it had now become habituated, and which did not escape his friend\nMiddleton, who frequently urged him to tell him the cause of it; but for\nsome time Wellwood evaded the inquiry. At length, however, the secret\nwas wrung from him.\n\n\"I say, now, Harry,\" said Middleton to him one evening, as they sat\ntogether over a bottle of wine, \"won't you tell us how you came by that\nPuritanical face of yours. It's not the one you used to wear at Oxford,\nI'll be sworn, and where you have picked it up I can't imagine; but it\ncertainly does become you amazingly. That melancholy gives you quite a\nsentimental air. Couldn't you help me to a touch of it? I think it would\nimprove me vastly.\"\n\n\"Middleton,\" replied Wellwood, gravely, \"I wish you may never have such\ncause as I have, both to look and to think seriously; and, in order that\nyou may judge for yourself whether I have not good reason, I _will_ now\ninform you of the cause of that melancholy which has so frequently\nattracted your notice, and has so much excited your curiosity.\" Having\nsaid this, Wellwood proceeded to tell his friend of the dismal story of\nHelen Gardenstone; and, when he had concluded, \"Worlds on worlds,\" he\nexclaimed, energetically, \"would I give, Middleton, were I possessed of\nthem, to restore that sweet unfortunate girl again to life; and these,\nten times told, would I part with, to be relieved of the guilt of having\nwronged her.\"\n\nTo the melancholy tale of Helen's death, and to the repentant\nexclamations with which it was wound up, Middleton replied with a loud\nlaugh.\n\n\"And is this all?\" he cried out. \"Is this the cause of that most\nlachrymose countenance of yours, Harry? Shame, shame, man! I thought you\nwere a fellow of more spirit, a man of more mettle, than to be affected\nby such a very trifling affair as that. Why, how the deuce could you\nhelp the silly wench drowning herself? You did not push her into the\nwater. Tuts, man! fill up your glass, and think no more of it; and now,\n'pon my soul, Harry,\" he continued, \"that I know the cause of your\ndismal phiz, and find it to be a matter of moonshine, I'll cut you for\never, if you don't, after this night, hold up your head, and look like a\nman. There, fill up,\" he said, pushing the bottle, from which he had\njust helped himself largely, towards his companion, who, without making\nany remark on what had just been addressed to him, seized it with\navidity, and, as if in desperation, poured out and swallowed an entire\ntumbler of the liquor it contained.\n\nWe need not follow out the scene. The night terminated, as it usually\ndid with those boon companions, in a deep debauch; but it was ultimately\nmarked by an event for which the reader will be as little prepared as\nWellwood was. On returning to his lodgings, accompanied by Middleton,\nwho slept at the same hotel, at an early hour of the morning--and a\nbitterly cold and snowy one it was, for it was the depth of winter--the\ntwo friends, as they came shouting and bawling along, under the\ninfluence of the wine they had drunk, were attracted by seeing four or\nfive persons gathered together on the street, and evidently surrounding\nsome object of interest.\n\n\"I say, Harry, let's see what this is?\" said Middleton; \"perhaps we may\nknock some sport out of it.\"\n\n\"Why, I don't mind,\" replied the former; \"but doubtless it's some\ndrunken or starving wretch, enjoying the cool night air.\"\n\n\"Why, what's the matter here?\" said Middleton, bustling into the middle\nof the assemblage, followed by Wellwood.\n\n\"Vy, it's a young voman and a child as is a-starving, and has never a\nhome to go to,\" said one of the bystanders. And such, indeed, was the\ntruth.\n\nA miserable being--not, however, in her attire, which, though bespeaking\npoverty, was yet clean, whole, and even decent--was seen sitting on the\nsteps of a stair, seemingly in the last stage of exhaustion, with a\nchild, a boy of about two years of age, closely wrapped up in her cloak,\nand strained to her bosom, to protect it from the piercing cold of the\nnight.\n\n\"My good woman,\" said Middleton, stooping down close to her--for even he\nwas affected by the piteous sight--\"where are you from?\"\n\n\"I'm frae Scotland, sir,\" was the reply, in a voice of singular\nsweetness, but evidently enfeebled by suffering.\n\nWellwood caught in an instant the dialect of his native land; and he did\nnot hear it without emotion--neither were the soft musical tones of the\nvoice lost upon him. They resembled, strongly resembled, those of one\nwhom he dared not even think of; and these circumstances combined,\ninstantly excited in him a deep interest in the unhappy being before\nhim. He now also approached her, and, taking her kindly by the hand, was\nabout to address her in soothing language, looking at the same time\nclosely to her face, when, without saying what he intended, or indeed\nsaying anything, he slowly raised himself again from the stooping\nposture to which he had had recourse, his face as pale as death, and\ntrembling violently in every limb. In the next instant, he staggered as\nif he would have fallen. Middleton ran to support him, and, thinking he\nhad been seized with some sudden illness, slowly led him to the distance\nof a few paces from the persons assembled round the destitute female.\n\n\"What's the matter? what's the matter, Harry?\" said the former, on their\ngetting out of hearing of any one. \"My troth, but you do look ill,\nWellwood!\"\n\n\"_That_,\" replied the latter, in a sepulchral voice, and with a look\nthat increased the alarm of his companion--\"_that_,\" he said, pointing\nto the spot where the unhappy woman sat, and without noticing\nMiddleton's inquiry, \"is no being of flesh and blood. It is a vexed\nspirit, Middleton, come to haunt me for the injuries I did it when in\nthe body--come to destroy my peace, and to realise the horrid dreams of\nmy guilt. It is--it is, Middleton\"--and he gasped for breath as he\nspoke--\"the spirit of Helen Gardenstone.\"\n\n\"Nay, that I'll be sworn it isn't,\" replied his friend, who now thought\nhe had gone deranged. \"It's a _bona fide_ human being, I warrant you,\nHarry, and I'll bring you proof of that directly.\" Saying this, he ran\nto the object of his friend's terror, and inquired her name. She gave\nit. Middleton was confounded--he hastened back to Wellwood, and, as he\napproached him, \"By Heaven, Harry!\" he said, \"you are so far right--the\nwoman's name is really Helen Gardenstone.\"\n\nRegardless of the situation in which he was, and equally so of those who\nmight witness the strong expression of feeling which he meditated,\nWellwood instantly dropped on his knees, and, in one brief sentence of\nmingled piety and joy, thanked God that he was not altogether the guilty\nwretch that he had conceived himself to be; for he now felt assured\nthat, whatever might have been the train of circumstances that had led\nto this singular occurrence, the person whom he had thus found a\nhouseless and destitute wanderer on the streets of the metropolis was,\nindeed, no other than Helen Gardenstone.\n\nOn recovering a little from the tumultuous feelings which had at first\noverwhelmed him, Wellwood's next thought was how to succour the\nunfortunate girl and _his_ child, as he had no doubt it was. The first\nidea which occurred to him on this point was to have Helen instantly\nconveyed to his hotel--and on this idea he subsequently acted; but,\nthinking the present neither a fit time nor place to discover himself to\nher, or to give her an opportunity of recognising him, he deputed the\ntask to his friend Middleton, who readily undertook it, whilst he\nhimself kept aloof. On reaching the inn, Wellwood retired to his own\napartment, while Middleton saw to the comforts of his unfortunate\ncharge. These provided for, he rejoined his friend, whom he found\nwrapped in profound meditation, with his elbow resting on a table.\n\n\"Well, Harry,\" he said, on entering the apartment, \"this is a devilish\nqueer affair, an't it? But, in the name of all that's perplexing, what\ndo you propose doing now?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you all about that in the morning, Middleton,\" replied\nWellwood, gravely, \"after I shall have slept on it. In the meantime, I\nthank you for your attention to the poor girl.\"\n\n\"Faith, to tell you a truth, Harry,\" rejoined Middleton, \"I would have\ndone as much, and a great deal more, too, on her own account, let alone\nyours; for she's certainly as pretty a girl as ever I clapped eye upon.\nA gentle, beautiful creature 'tis, Harry. But what the deuce are you to\ndo with her, again say I.\"\n\n\"Why, I have not quite made up my mind on that subject,\" said Wellwood;\n\"but I'll think of it, and we'll see what the morning brings forth.\"\n\nSaying this, he retired to his own sleeping-apartment, where he spent\nhalf the night in thinking what should be his next proceeding with\nregard to Helen; and the result of his cogitations on this subject was a\nresolution of a very extraordinary kind.\n\nOn the following morning, when he and Middleton met--\n\n\"Well, Harry,\" said the latter, \"what's to be done now? What has been\nthe result of your night's reflections regarding Helen? What do you now\npropose doing with her?\"\n\n\"I propose to marry her, Middleton,\" replied Wellwood, gravely. \"It is\nthe least thing I can do in reparation of the injury I have done\nher--the misery and scorn I have entailed on her; and besides,\nMiddleton,\" he went on, \"I should be perjured in the face of Heaven if I\ndid not, for I swore a sacred and binding oath that I should make her\nmine; and it was by trusting to that oath that poor Helen fell.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha!--a particular good joke, Harry,\" exclaimed Middleton; \"and----\"\n\n\"No joke whatever, Middleton,\" said Wellwood, interrupting him; \"I am in\nserious earnest. I will do the girl the only justice now in my power. I\nwill do what my heart and my conscience tell me is right in this matter,\nand defy the sneers of a selfish and censorious world. On this I am\nfirmly determined, let the consequences be what they may. My mind is\nmade up, Middleton.\"\n\n\"You're mad, Harry,\" said the latter, now becoming serious in his turn,\non seeing that his friend was really in earnest--\"absolutely and\nabsurdly mad.\"\n\n\"It may be so, Middleton,\" replied Wellwood, calmly. \"That is a point I\nwill not dispute with you; but I am nevertheless firmly resolved to do\nwhat I have said. I will take my poor little boy to my bosom, and his\nmother shall become lady of Wellwood. It is all the reparation I can\nmake her, and it shall be made. Will you assist me in going through with\nthis romantic business, Middleton?\" he added, smiling.\n\n\"Why, Harry,\" replied the latter, \"I certainly should not like to desert\nyou in a time of need; but----\"\n\n\"No buts, Middleton,\" interrupted his friend. \"Will you, or will you\nnot?\"\n\n\"Why, then, if you _are_ resolved, Harry, on this desperate, and, I must\ncall it, singularly absurd step, I will,\" rejoined Middleton. \"But what\nwill your father say to it?\"\n\n\"Why, from him, certainly, my marriage must, far a time, at any rate, be\nconcealed; but of this more afterwards. In the meantime, will you go to\nHelen, and tell her that an old acquaintance desires to see her; and\nconduct her hither?\"\n\nMiddleton readily undertook the mission, and departed to execute it. In\na minute afterwards he returned, leading in Helen by the hand. On seeing\nWellwood, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fainted in the arms of\nMiddleton, her little boy clinging to her in all the terror of childish\naffright. Wellwood rushed to her assistance, and, in the tenderest and\nmost soothing language he could command, endeavoured to restore her to\nconsciousness. This of itself gradually returned, and a scene followed\nwhich we will not attempt to describe. Wellwood, pressing Helen to his\nbosom, told the bewildered but delighted girl that it was his intention\nto repair the injury he had done her, by offering her his hand. He next\nflew to his boy, took him up in his arms, bathed him with his tears, and\nbestowed upon him, while he caressed him, every tender epithet he could\nthink of.\n\nOur story is now coming naturally to a close; and we will not prolong it\nby any unnecessary or extraneous details. In three days after this,\nHelen--having been previously provided with everything suitable to the\nrank in life to which she was thus suddenly and most unexpectedly\npromoted from the lowest depths of wretchedness and destitution--became\nthe wife of Henry Edington, Esq. of Wellwood. In three days more, Mr\nEdington received intelligence of his father's sudden demise, which\nrendered it necessary that he should proceed instantly to Wellwood. In\nthis journey his wife and child accompanied him; and the next appearance\nof Helen Gardenstone in her native village was in a splendid carriage,\nas the lady of Wellwood, in which character she subsequently acquired an\nextensive reputation for benevolence, and for the practice of every\nsocial virtue. Helen, in short, became an exemplary wife, and conferred\non her husband, who continued to regard her with unabated affection till\nthe day of his death, all the happiness of which the marriage state is\ncapable.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CASE OF EVIDENCE.\n\n\nThe following narrative was given to me by the executors of Miss\nBallingal, whom I attended for a short time previous to her death:--\n\nI shall not now, I hope, be long upon the face of this earth. It is\nsinful to wish to die; but, when the spirit is weary of the trials of\nthis evil world, and the body broken, and the bones stricken to their\ndried marrow with pains, surely a poor mortal may indulge the wish, that\nGod's time of release may not be postponed beyond the power of bearing\nthe weight of life. My years, if mentioned, would not, perhaps, appear\nto be many; but _age_, in the sense in which I take it, cannot be\ncalculated by circumvolutions of the sun. There is an age of the spirit\nindependently of that of the body; and to calculate that, we must have a\nmeasure of the effects of misfortune, and pain, and injury, on nerves\ntoned in all the keys that rise in gradation, from the sensations of\ncreatures a little above the brutes, to the sensibilities of individuals\na little lower than the angels. In this view, I am indeed aged as the\nsons of Levi; for my soul, like the people of Pharaoh, has been smitten\nwith boils and blains, by the poisoned bite of the serpent tongue of\ncivilisation. The spirit of the Indian under his plantain-tree, lives\ntill the body is sick of it; and with a mistaken humanity, he is exposed\nin the desert, that the wants of the flesh may kill the spirit that\nyearns to live, and to rejoice again in the return of the seasons, with\ntheir fruits and flowers; but the spirit of civilised man or woman is\noften dead long before the mortal tenement exhibits any decay; for,\nthough spotted fever and limping palsy have passed on, and touched not\nthe flesh, the spirit has been visited by plagues a thousand times more\ndeadly, that rise from the refinements of civilised life. It is these\nthat have made me aged, and weary of remaining longer here; and I am not\ndoubtful that, when I record what I have suffered from two\ncauses--first, my own--yes, I affirm it--my own goodness; and, secondly,\nthe evils inherent in the state of society in which we live--every one\nwill acknowledge that I have little more to wait for on this side of\ntime, and that the sooner I am dissolved, the better it may be for\nmyself, and those who sympathise in griefs that death alone can\nalleviate.\n\nBrought up in the manse of C----, by a pious father, the clergyman of\nthe parish, a learned man--and by a mother, a woman of many virtues, who\nwished her daughter to be as good as herself--I enjoyed all the\nadvantages of breeding and education; which, if turned to good account,\nmake the ornaments of society. I cannot, and never will, admit that\nthese advantages were lost upon me, though they have tended to make me\nmiserable. I was accounted fair; and I believe that my beauty--a gift so\nmuch valued--has had also a share, and no inconsiderable one, in the\nproduction of the peculiar evils under which I have suffered, and still\nsuffer. I was--what none knew so well as myself--sensitive to a degree\nbordering on diseased irritability; but my sensitiveness was of that\nhigher kind, which, courting and receiving impressions and impulses from\nvirtuous thoughts and elevated feelings, tends to elevate rather than\ndepress. The fine culture I received from my father, co-operating with\nmy refined sensibilities, produced in me the most exquisitely minute\nperceptions of moral good and evil; so that I came to have the same\ndelicate feeling of the graceful or the distorted in morals, that some\n_born_ musicians are said to possess in regard to the tones of harmony\nin the world of sounds. This is not self-praise--it is truth wrung out\nof me; for, though possessed of many qualities which might have\nnourished vanity, the disrelish I ever felt of the exhibitions of a vain\nspirit in others would have been effectual in quelling my own, even if I\nhad had any to quell, which assuredly I never had. I believe that the\nstrong view in which morals were presented to me by the precepts of my\nfather, would have operated to the production of a fine and healthy\neffect in one formed for the busy world; but in me, who seemed to have\nbeen formed with a connate, aspen-like, trembling sensitiveness of the\ntraces of good and evil, his instructions, continued from day to day,\nand enforced by the power of his own example and that of my sainted\nmother, tended to give my original perceptions so strong and holy a\nsanction, that, at a very early period, I had become a kind of\nworshipper of good. Virtue has a lovely aspect to all, even to those who\ntremble at her beauty, from the contrast of their own ugliness; religion\nhas the power of making her more beautiful; and systems of morals,\nclothed in fine language, are effective in training many hearts to a\nhigh love of this emanation from God. But I was, and I am yet, different\nfrom any individual whose moral perceptions are merely strengthened by\nthese aids. I do not know if I make myself intelligible, but I myself\nfeel the distinction I wish to impress: morals were to me that species\nof passion which in many exhibits itself only more perceptibly in regard\nto some other object--such as poetry, painting, sculpture, or\nmusic--with perhaps this difference, that while these natural\n_illuminati_ are merely annoyed by an exhibition of distortion, I was\npained--sorely, miserably pained--by vice, in whatever form it was\nexhibited to me. I was not contented with the ordinary appearances of\npurity. The jealousy-offering was ever in my hand; and I was always\nsighing to see it waving before the goddess, and offered upon the altar\nof virtue. I looked upon the individual in whom the \"water that causes\nthe curse\" became bitter, as a creature who was rotten, and had become a\ncurse among the people.\n\nEntertaining these sentiments, I loved to expatiate upon the beauties of\nmy favourite subject, with a glow of eloquence that struck even the\ngodly visiters of the manse with surprise and admiration. I often, also,\nin my visits among my father's parishioners, exhibited the same warm\nenthusiasm, couching my sentiments in the gorgeous clothing of a young\nfancy enamoured of a deified personification of what I conceived to be\nthe only true good and the only true beauty upon earth. But I was no\napostle under the influence of a proselytising spirit; for I only\nvisited the virtuous, because I loved them, and those of an evil\nreputation I avoided with a thrilling horror, as creatures diseased and\ndangerous to approach. Those who believed me a religious enthusiast--and\nthere were many who entertained that opinion of me--knew nothing of my\nreal nature; for, though my father's precepts had had all due effect\nupon me, religion, far from being the origin of my feelings, lent merely\na sanction to them, showing the final cause of my enthusiastic views,\nand turning them to that account in the contemplation of an after world,\nthat ought to have been at all times their end and object. I was rather\na lover of virtue for its beauty: my feeling was an impassioned taste,\nluxuriating on every virtuous act, and dwelling with inexpressible\ndelight on every cultivator of my favourite subject. A consequence of\nthis was the horror of vicious persons, which I possessed to a degree\nthat made my father suspect that my passion was not the religious one,\nwhich is unavoidably accompanied with pity for the misguided votary of\nsin, and a straining effort to reclaim him to the paths of virtue. He\nwas to a certain extent right; but I question much if, with all his\nlearning, he possessed knowledge enough of the various peculiarities of\nhuman nature, to enable him to analyse my character, or to understand\nthe peculiarities of one under the dominion of a passion for ethics.\n\nI was, moreover, of a remarkably tender constitution of body--the\nconsequence of early weakness, as well, perhaps, as of that irritable\ntemperament which fed and was nourished in turn by the high-strung\nsensibilities of my spirit. Up to the age of fifteen, I was subject to a\nspecies of fit, or nervous syncope; and I always found that, after an\nattack of these enervating prostrations of my physical powers, my mind\nrecurred to my favourite subject with greater keenness, supplying my\nexcited fancy with brilliant images of virtuous sacrifices, such as I\nhad read of in the old classic authors, which I could read in the\noriginal; and these, again, swelled my heart, lighted my eye, and lent\nan eloquence to my tongue, which dwelt on the daring of Mutius, the\nsacrifice of Lucretia, the heroism of Brutus, the friendship of Damon,\nand the determination of Virginius. Exhausted by the swell of emotions\nproduced by these subjects, I fell back upon the quieter, but no less\ndelicious, theme of a Howard's philanthropy; and ended with the\ncontemplation of those instances of private charity which had come under\nmy own eye. I never felt happier than when in these moods; and my\nmother, who knew my passion, contributed to its gratification, by\ndirecting me to such recorded examples of worth as she knew where to\nfind among my father's books.\n\nPossessed of these views and feelings, so unsuitable to the cold maxims\nof the world, and with a weak and irritable constitution, I was ill\nprepared for the loss which was now, when I was in my twentieth year,\nimpending over me--the death of both my parents, who, attacked by the\nsame disease--some putrid species of typhus--died within a week of each\nother, leaving me, their only child, as much unprovided for in regard to\nworldly wants, as I was unfitted for making up the deficiency by my\npersonal exertions. My father left nothing but the furniture in the\nmanse, which was all required to pay up some advances of stipend which\nhad been made to him by several of the heritors, and which the extreme\nscantiness of his income necessitated him to have recourse to. I was a\nbeggar, imbued with notions to make the people of the world admire and\npity, and gifted with a countenance so beautiful (why need I spare the\nvain word, when I now admit that age and pain have made me ugly?), that,\nwith art, might have realised a fortune, or, with folly, might have\nruined me. I sought the protection of a spendthrift uncle and a good\naunt--the latter resident in the town of Stirling, an old lady of\nfortune, a Mrs Greville, who admired my principles, and possessed\ngenerosity enough to enable her to offer to repay the pleasures of my\ncompanionship by her house and her friendship. My tender frame, operated\nupon by the intense grief I had felt in the loss of my parents,\nsustained a shock which would have proved fatal to me, if the assuasive\nattentions of that angelic being had not contributed to the recovery of\nmy health. Her protection was much, her kindness valuable; but above all\nwas I blessed in the possession of a friend who reduced to practice,\nthough she could not _feel_ as I felt, the principles of virtue I had so\nlong cherished with the fondness of a ruling passion. But my situation\nwas now changed. In my father's manse I saw little of the world; but\nwhat came under my observation was congenial to my mind, and gratified\nmy feelings by the exhibition of goodness as well of deed as of\nsentiment. The evil I saw was out-of-doors, and I eschewed it as a\nserpent which would beguile by the spiral turns of its insidious lines\nof beauty, and the shining hues of the colours of false loveliness. In\nour society at home, or in the houses of the parishioners, it never came\nunder my experience, except by the report of crimes which grated on my\nirritable feelings, and pained me to a much greater extent than people\nof ordinary sensibilities may well comprehend. In my new residence, I\nwas necessitated to mix with the world. My aunt saw much company,\ncomposed of the mixed inhabitants of the town, and I accompanied her to\nvarious parties where the _fashionable_ vices were cultivated, as all\nfashionable things are, with an affected contempt of honest plainness\nand unadorned simplicity.\n\nThough my aunt was herself a good woman, and admired the high-coloured,\nand, it may be, unnatural views I took of human life, she never\nunderstood the secret parts of my mental constitution, but took me\nsimply for one who entertained a somewhat strong sense of the beauty of\na good life, and who therefore could mix with society of acknowledged\nhonesty as the world goes, without allowing the frailty of human nature\nto interfere with my own views, and far less with my comfort and peace\nof mind. My beauty made her proud of me; and I was soon introduced to\nscenes which stirred all the antipathies that, as the result of my past\nmodes of thinking and feeling, lay strong within my heart, and ready to\nbe called forth by a departure in others from the rules of life I had so\nlong loved. The first view I got of the mysteries of card-playing--in\nthe house of Captain Semple, of Tennet, who lived in town, only a few\ndoors removed from where I lived--produced an effect of pain upon me\nsimilar to that which Mozart declared he felt when his harmony was lost\nin discordance. They played for what they called high stakes; and there\nwas exhibited, on a lesser scale, the keen avaricious eye, the forced,\nchoking laugh, the lying smile, the trembling hand, and burning brow of\nthe gambler of the London grade. The whole family engaged in this play.\nI recollect, at this distant period, the effect produced upon me by the\nagonised countenance of the beautiful Catherine Semple, the eldest\ndaughter, when she lost a high stake, and yet turned the expression of\nthe worst look of the devil into a smile far more hideous than that\nwhich it concealed. Nor was the effect less painful that was produced\nupon my high-wrought sensibilities by the cruel triumph that burned in\nthe beautiful blue eye of Esther her sister, who had pocketed the\nhard-won earnings of a poor surgeon, and seemed to feed on the poisoned\ngarbage of his depression and disappointment. The face of her mother,\nwho looked on, partook alternately of the expression of those of her\ndaughters; and while I, a stranger, beheld with pain the first\nprinciples of goodness subverted, and the fairest samples of God's\ncreatures penetrated to the core by the worst feelings of our fallen\nnature, she, their parent, sympathised with a daughter's deceit and\nrevenge, or gloried in her triumph over what might be the approaches of\nruin to a fallen creature. I went home after that exhibition dispirited\nand miserable; the chords of the moral harp, that had so long responded\nto the sweet sounds of a virtue imagined, felt, and dreamed of, as a\nbeatific vision, were disrupted and torn asunder; and I imagined that\nthe individuals who had thus laid upon it their sacrilegious hands were\nworthy of a hatred unqualified by pity, as destroyers of the most\nbeautiful fabric ever erected by God's love. These were not the gloomy\nviews of the monastic ascetic, or the religious enthusiast--for I was\nneither. I was, indeed, peculiarly formed; but I knew not my\npeculiarity, and even now I could scarcely abate one ray of the\neffulgence that, if you please, blinded me to the factitious virtues of\nthe _juste milieu_ of a bad world's morality.\n\nSome nights afterwards, I accompanied my aunt to the house of Mrs Ball,\nalso a neighbour, and one who could afford to live in a style that, in\nsuch a town as Stirling, might be conceived to be high. She had a\ndaughter, Anne, and a son, George, an attorney, both accomplished and\nhandsome, and wearing on their faces the external appearances of\nsimplicity and goodness. The recollections of Semple's family were still\nbusy with my heart, and I trembled to approach another assemblage of\nfashionable people. I was placed in the midst of a large tea _coterie_,\nand expected to hear a conversation suited to the views of human life I\nso fondly cherished. Stories of generosity, of age assuaged, bereavement\nameliorated, want supplied, and hunger and nakedness fed and clothed,\nmust, I thought, issue from such a quiet-looking assemblage of people,\nbrought together apparently for no other purpose than to promote the\ncause of their own happiness, which surely might be best done by\ncontemplating the means of the happiness of others. Having had one of my\nfits in the fore part of the day, I was more irritable than usual; but\nhaving got, in some measure, quit of the pain produced by the moral\ndiscordance that had, some days before, grated so painfully on my weak\nnerves, I expected to be able to join in a conversation which could not\nfail to embrace a part of my favourite theme. I was again destined to be\nmade miserable. I was placed in the midst of a species of moral\ncannibals, who preyed ruthlessly and jestingly on the misfortunes and\nmiseries of their fellow-creatures. Pecuniary embarrassments,\nmatrimonial disagreements, detections of dishonesty, elopements,\ninfidelities--everything that might render an individual worthy of pity\nor hatred--was treated in the same tone of concealed satisfaction. The\nburst of loud laughter followed on the heels of the whine of hollow\nsympathy; the sneer mixed its cutting sarcasm with the lying tribute to\nsuffering worth; and through all, over all, in all, there was the spirit\nof evil, in its worst, its ugliest form, rejoicing--secretly, no doubt,\nbut not the less certainly--in the defection of mortals from God's law,\nand their devarication from my standard of moral beauty.\n\nI experience a difficulty now, though then it would have been easy for\nme to describe what I felt on the occasion of this new display of this,\nto me, the ugliest parts of the hated system of evil which prevails in\nthe world. The beautiful visions I had formed in my day-dreams, and\nwhich I had cherished as the source of my greatest happiness, appeared\nto me to have little or no relation to earth, or to earth's inhabitants;\nand a gloomy melancholy stole over me, and retained the dominion of my\nmind, in spite of every effort to shake it off. I endeavoured to make my\nfeelings understood by Mrs Greville; but she, though participant in my\nviews of moral perfection, could not comprehend why the turpitude of men\nshould have the effect of making a good person incapable of enjoying\nwhat was truly virtuous in nature, and far less why it should produce a\ngloomy misery in those who were themselves truly good. What people\ncannot comprehend, they sometimes state to others, for the sake of\nassistance to their understandings; and my aunt, in the openness of her\nheart, stated my peculiarities to some friends, who coloured them to\nsuit their fancies, and then communicated them to the families of the\nSemples, the Balls, and several others. My views, as I afterwards\nlearned, were considered by these people as an impeachment of their\nmorals; and I was set down as an arch-hypocrite, who wished to rear a\ncharacter for goodness on the ruin of the reputation of others. The\nstate of despondency into which I fell, precipitated me into a\nsuccession of my old nervous fits, and it was not for some time that I\nwas again prevailed upon to visit the scenes where my feelings were\nexposed to such causes of laceration; but when I did again accompany my\nfriend in her accustomed visits, I found that I had become unwelcome:\noblique sneers, short, cutting taunts, and pointed insinuations, were\ndirected against me; and though I then knew nothing of the cause, I\nfelt, with that trembling sensitiveness which was peculiar to me, the\npoignancy of the poison of a hatred that was scarcely attempted to be\nconcealed.\n\nIn the little intercourse I had as yet had with the new world of sad\nreality into which I had entered, I had heard the characters of good\npeople so fearfully belied and reviled, that I attributed the painful\ntreatment I thus received to the same malevolent spirit that dictated\nthe malicious scandal which seemed to penetrate almost every family I\nhad yet visited. I inquired for no cause in myself; for I had done or\nsaid nothing to create merited individual hatred. It was the working of\nthe same spirit of evil that generally prevailed, extended to me, a poor\norphan, living on the dependence of a kind relation. It was one thing to\nsee evil done towards others, and to feel it applied to one's-self; and\nthe pain I formerly felt was increased by the dread that I might yet be\nthrown upon that world which presented to me such fearful indications of\ncruelty and vice. It will soon be seen whether it was my good or evil\nfortune, at this gloomy period, to meet with one who appeared really to\nunderstand the constitution of my mind, to appreciate the exalted views\nI entertained of virtue, and to sympathise with me in the pain produced\nby the discordance between the actual state of society and what I so\nfondly wished it to be. Augustus Merling, proprietor of a fine property\ncalled the Park, yielding him about L1500 a-year, and who lived, for a\ngreat part of the year, in town with his widowed mother, visited my\naunt, and often saw me. I have said I was possessed of much beauty, and\nthe fact is undoubted; but there was still about me that aspen-like\nsensitiveness, derived from the nervous attacks to which I was enslaved,\noperating on a mind of originally fine structure, that the very look of\nman or woman, if boldly thrown upon me, whether from curiosity or\nconfidence, made me shrink intuitively, and look confused or abashed;\nand I never could conceive that all the beauty I possessed could make\namends for or overcome the prejudices against me originating in that\ncause. I was in this respect, however, entirely wrong. My sensitiveness\ngave me an interest in the eyes of Augustus, who, the moment he saw me,\nwas so struck with the beauty of my face, and that very shrinking of my\nmanner, that he inquired at Mrs Greville every particular concerning me;\nand got such an account as, he himself afterwards confessed, increased\nhis curiosity by the mystic obscurity in which my aunt's inability to\nunderstand me had wrapped all the peculiar attributes of my mind. He had\nfelt some anticipative impression of a sympathy between our thoughts and\nfeelings; and our intercourse--for he sought me the more fervently the\nmore I retired from him--soon satisfied him he was right in his estimate\nof my character. I am certain he understood me thoroughly, and I believe\nhe was the only individual I had yet met who fathomed the mysteries of a\nheart only too good and pure for the world in which we live. But, if I\nwas surprised and pleased with this, what may be conceived to be my\nfeelings, when I at last found, in a beautiful youth of fortune, the\nvery moral counterpart of myself, with all my exalted views of my\nbeloved and cherished goodness and moral loveliness! Often as the pen of\npoet has been employed in the description of the feelings of mortals\nunder the influence of the tender passion, sublimed by the elevating\npower of virtuous purity, I am satisfied that small approach has been\nmade to the reality of the love that soon bound me and Augustus together\nas creatures made after the same model, and yet different from all\nmankind. If other matters did not hurry me forward, I could exhibit the\nthrilling details of a bliss which is thought to be peculiar to the\nregions above. I would only be afraid that the analysis would require to\nbe carried so deep into the attenuated fibres of constitutions so seldom\nseen and so little understood, that I would be charged with my imputed\nerror of applying unearthly visions to things of earthly mould. Love has\nbecome a by-word, because it is too often mixed with the impurities of\nvulgar natures; but such love as ours might tend to elevate and throw\nover the rapt fancies of imaginative beings a forecast of that exquisite\nbliss which awaits mankind in the regions of heaven.\n\nBut, even in this sweet dream, the evil of the world was destined to\nfollow me. I had taken from two ladies the object of their love or\nambition. Catherine Semple and Anne Ball, whom I have already mentioned,\nhad been severally intended by their mothers as the wife of Augustus--a\nmatch to which the young rivals themselves were as much inclined as\ntheir mothers, as well from the personal qualities of Augustus, as from\nhis wealth and property. I was hated by these ladies before as a\nhypocrite. I was now the successful rival apparently destined to blast\nall the cherished hopes of their love or ambition--and yet guiltless of\neven the thought of the earthly and debased feelings of what is known as\nrivalship. Our love was soon known to both the families, chiefly through\nthe medium of George Ball, who acted as the man of business of Mrs\nGreville, and in that capacity was often a visiter at the house. The\neffect of the intelligence was intense and stirring; and, through the\nsimple medium of my aunt, I heard myself denounced as one who carried\nvirtue on my face and tongue; simulated nervous sensibility, to give\neffect to my affected distaste of vice; and who yet bore within my\nbosom, for a heart, the poisonous cockatrice, whose eggs were the guile\nand deceit that work more evil in the world than open-faced, unblushing\nvice. These statements were corroborated by what I myself saw; for when\nI again met the young ladies--and it was more by chance than\nintention--I was struck by the intensity with which they, even in the\npresence of others, expressed by look and manner the hatred they carried\nin their hearts against me, guiltless as I was of thought or deed\ninimical to them or any other mortal on earth. The enmity thus flared\nupon me, with such strength of feeling, was experienced in the height\nof the delicious dream of love in which I was entranced; and, softened\nand mellowed as I was with the sweet enjoyment of the actual experience\nin Augustus of the visions of perfection I had so devotedly cherished, I\nfelt again, and in an increased degree, the pain which the workings of\nevil seemed fated to produce in me.\n\nAbout the same time, another source of uneasiness rose at my side, in\nthe person of George Ball. Whether actuated by love, or interest, or\nboth, I know not--but I afterwards had reason to suppose he wished\nAugustus detached from me, to be free for his sister--this individual\ntook the opportunity of my aunt's absence, and made, on his knees, warm\nprofessions of attachment to me. He declared that he was dying for me,\nand implored me to give him a test of his affection. I looked at him and\ntrembled. He it was who had reported the affection of me and Augustus,\nand, with the knowledge that I loved and was beloved by another, he thus\nattempted to burst the bonds of a holy and elevated connection--to make\nme ungrateful, perfidious, and base; and to render him in whom all my\nhappiness was centred miserable and wretched. My frame of mind was too\ndelicate for indignation; a slow creeping feeling of loathing was the\nform in which the contemplation of evil produced an effect on me, and\nthe sickening influence seldom failed in reducing me, for a time, to\ngloom and nervousness. I cannot describe my conduct on the occasion of\nthis new discovery of the workings of the prevailing demon; but I\nbelieve that I hurried from the apartment with such an expression of my\nfeelings depicted upon my countenance, as must have told him, more\neloquently than words, the disgust he had roused in me, and the pain\nwith which I was penetrated. The former he might understand, the latter\nwas beyond the reach of his intelligence.\n\nI found an assuagement of these evils in the bosom of Augustus, where\nlay the microcosm, that pure moral world I delighted to contemplate; but\nthe illness of Mrs Greville, which shortly after supervened, called upon\nme to exercise actively those virtues of gratitude and kindness which\nformed a part of the scheme of my morality. Night and day I waited upon\nmy benefactress, with the fondness of affection, and the fidelity and\nunwearied steadfastness of principle. Between her and my Augustus my\ntime was passed; and I know not whether I felt more satisfaction in the\ntheoretical contemplation I enjoyed along with him, of the beauties of a\ngood life, than in the practical application of our views to the\namelioration of my aunt's feelings in her illness, and to the\ncontribution to her ease and satisfaction. Yet all my assiduity seemed\nto be of little avail; she gradually grew worse; and there seemed to\ncome over her, at times, sorrowful anticipations of what might befall\nme, in the event of her death, mixed with, if not suggested by,\nrecollections of the manner in which I had been treated by the families\nwhose daughters aspired to the hand of Augustus. These thoughts were\nbusy with her one day, and she had sent for George Ball to make her\nwill. Before he came, she was visited by the mother of Augustus; and\nbefore the latter departed, Miss Catherine Semple and Miss Anne Ball\nalso came. I sat by her bedside, watching, through tears of sympathy,\nevery indication of pain or solicitude. It was a strange meeting, and\npresented an opportunity for a declaration of sentiment on the part of\nmy aunt, that, ill as she was, she could not let escape.\n\n\"Martha,\" she said, looking in my face, and taking my hand into hers,\n\"oh, that I possessed the virtues of your clear, untainted mind!--for\nthen I should be prepared to meet the bright beams of that light of\nheavenly glory which searches to purify, and shines to enlighten, and\nbless, and make happy. Your trial may be now, or rather when I am gone;\nbut your triumph will come when you are as I now am. People have tried\nto injure you\" (she looked steadfastly at the two young ladies); \"but,\nif Mrs Merling remains your friend, the viper-tongue of scandal or\nreproach cannot touch you. The terms on which you stand with Augustus I\nknow, though I never can be able to comprehend all the beauty of your\nmutual views and sentiments on that subject which is gradually opening\nupon me by the medium of a light from above. You have rivals\" (looking\nagain at the two young ladies); \"but they are bold mortals who would\ndispute the victory with angels.\"\n\nThese words came to me like the \"fountain which was opened to the house\nof David,\" for it banished from me many fears; but to Catherine Semple\nand Anne Ball they were as adders' tongues; and the eliminated poison,\nindigested, was thrown out upon me by every expression of hatred they\ncould call up into their countenances. Mrs Merling was silent, but\nlooked upon me with that sweetness which resulted from those angelic\nviews of heaven-born goodness she had communicated to Augustus. That\nlook was to me an ample panoply against the scorching, revengeful fire\nof the eyes of my rivals, who, having expended all the force of their\nmalevolence by the side of their prostrate and apparently dying friend,\ndeparted in wrath. In a short time, a servant came from George Ball, and\nstated that he was from home, and would not return till next day. My\naunt appeared disconcerted by the intelligence, but said she would not\nemploy another, as he alone knew the state of her affairs. Mrs Merling\nkissed me, and told me to be of good heart, for that, while she loved\nher Augustus, she must continue to love me, who was his counterpart, and\ntherefore (she added, with a soft smile) more of heaven than of earth.\nShe departed, stating that she would return in the evening, to ascertain\nhow my aunt then was. These assurances of friendship I required to\nsustain me amidst this trying scene; for my old complaint had been\nexhibiting an activity among my nerves, which shook me to the heart,\nand predisposed me for the pain of the endurance of enmity on the one\nside, and the solicitude of a friendship, on the eve of being ended for\never, on the other. I was sitting convulsed by conflicting emotions,\nwith my hand on my forehead, when Mrs Greville again spoke.\n\n\"I feel worse, my beloved Martha,\" she said, \"and am solicitous about\nthe return of George Ball. I would send for another, but that I would so\nmuch prefer my usual man of business. So far, at least, I can insure\nyour safety, my love, in the event of anything happening to me before\nhis return. Hand me that box that lies on the top of my escritoire.\"\n\nI complied, by fetching and laying the box on the bed. My aunt took a\nkey that lay under her pillow, and, opening the secretary, exhibited a\ngreat number of jewels, which she had got on the death of her husband,\nwho had been a jeweller on a great extent in London, and left her the\ntreasure as her share of his fortune. Some of these she had disposed of,\nand laid out the proceeds in the purchase of heritable property, on the\nrents of which she lived; and the remainder, along with an inventory,\nwritten in her own hand, she had deposited in the box, of which she had\nalways taken the greatest care. There were other valuable articles\nbesides the jewels in the box; her title-deeds were there, and some\nbank-cheques, for money she had saved out of her rents. She lifted up\ntwo or three pearl-necklaces, and other articles, to enable her to get\nto a string of diamonds, apparently of great value.\n\n\"These,\" she said, \"were valued by James\" (so she always spoke of her\nhusband) \"at four thousand pounds. They were intended as the portion of\nmy little Agnes, who died only one week before her father. Who has a\nbetter right to them than you, my dear Martha?--take them, and along\nwith them the necklaces, which I think are worth a hundred guineas\neach. The loose jewels in this interior box you may also take; they are\nof no great value, but they will suit you as articles of dress, when you\nbecome the wife of Augustus Merling. Take and place them all in your own\ntrunk. If I get better, I will trust to your returning them to me\n_without a request on my part_, and the inventory may be left here, to\nshow what you have got. When George Ball comes, I shall make him put a\nclause in my will, to accord with this act and my sentiments.\"\n\nShe then locked the box, and I, with tears of gratitude in my eyes, went\nand placed the jewels in my trunk, and returned to the bed of my\nbenefactress.\n\n\"You must look to your treasure, Martha,\" she continued. \"I have guarded\nit well, having had occasion to doubt the honesty of Magdalene\" (the\nmaid-servant), \"who, I fear, knew too well what that box contained. I\nmissed a beautiful brooch last year, and would have discharged her, but\nthat I had no evidence against her. Look well to the key of your trunk.\"\n\nI could not reply to these statements of my aunt. My heart was full, and\nmy tongue would not express the feelings of gratitude with which I was\npenetrated; but she understood me, and was content. Shortly afterwards,\nshe said she felt worse, and I despatched Magdalene for Mrs Merling, who\ncame within half-an-hour, accompanied by Augustus, who sat in an\nantechamber, anxious to see me. The first look that Mrs Merling directed\nto her old friend detected the symptoms of approaching death, and she\ncommunicated to me secretly the melancholy information. She seemed\nanxious about the attorney; but the situation in which I, who would be\nbenefited by the will, and her son, who was so near, stood in relation\nto each other, produced a delicacy which prevented her from showing any\nanxiety on the subject. The medical man, who came soon after, held out\nto us a very faint hope, and even hinted that he himself was surprised\nat the sudden change that had taken place upon her. The unfavourable\nsymptoms increased towards night, and the intelligence of her illness\nbrought Mrs Ball, to get her curiosity satisfied, and her feelings of\nhumanity excited. She had been informed by her daughter of what had\ntaken place in the forenoon, and had scarcely entered, when she alluded,\nin a sneering tone, to Augustus, whom she had seen in the anteroom as\nshe passed. We sat round the bed of my dear relative, who began to\nexhibit symptoms of a wandering state of mind--a circumstance less\nnoticed by the others than by me; and having heard that Augustus was in\nthe house, she requested to see him. I ran for him--he came and bent\nhimself over the sick-bed, to administer some of the soothing sentiments\nof a mind replete with the balm of \"the spirit of grace and\nsupplications\" which was poured on the house of David. She asked him to\nbe seated, and, raising a little her body, she pointed to the box, which\nstood on the top of the escritoire, and wished it brought to her, that\nshe might give Augustus a ring as a keepsake. Mrs Merling, who sat next\nto it, obeyed the request, and brought the box. With trembling hands the\npatient sought for the key, and having found it, tried to insert it in\nthe lock; but she was unable, and Mrs Merling assisted her. The box was\nopened, and my aunt, now in a state of delirium, ran a wild eye over its\ncontents, and, raising her hands to heaven, cried--\n\n\"Where are my jewels? I have been robbed. Wretches, tell me where are\nthose jewels which I have guarded for twenty years?\"\n\nThe excitement was fatal--she fell back, and expired. The confusion\nwhich followed this sudden and as yet unexpected event drowned for a\ntime the effect resulting from the extraordinary exclamation. The women\nwere busy in various ways, and Augustus ran to support me, who at\nfirst, staggered by the exclamations, was rendered senseless by what so\nimmediately followed. I swooned in his arms, and, when I recovered,\nfound myself in my own parlour, with Mrs Ball leaning over me. Augustus,\nalarmed by the length of time I remained insensible, had hastened away\nfor the doctor, and left me to the tender mercies of the mother of my\nrival. When I looked up, the first object that met my eyes was my trunk,\nwhere were deposited the jewels I had got gifted to me by my aunt; and,\nby the power of association, I heard ringing in my ears the words, \"I\nhave been robbed.\" The air seemed thick, from the impediment which my\nswelling heart offered to my powers of respiration, and, holding out my\nhand, I pushed away her who held me. The resistance offered to my hands\ndirected my attention to the face of Mrs Ball, who, smiling, with a\ncutting satire, which spoke her suspicions--\n\n\"Who robbed your aunt, Miss Martha?\" inquired she. \"Why did you faint\nwhen she mentioned the loss of her jewels?\"\n\n\"Ha!\" answered I, with an exclamation, rubbing my forehead, and still\nsearching in my mind for a full recollection of all that had taken\nplace; \"I wish my aunt to explain, in presence of Mrs Merling, and you,\nand Augustus, her extraordinary words. Come, come--let us go to her--she\nmust explain, she must free me of the imputation.\"\n\n\"Your aunt is dead, young woman; you saw her die,\" she replied, with\nmore bitter irony. \"You have not yet recovered yourself. It was her\ndeath-bed confession. Why did it shake you so? _You_ never can be\nsuspected.\"\n\nIn an instant the full truth flashed upon me, and I saw that the death\nof my aunt precluded all hope of getting her statement recalled. I felt\na horrible load upon my heart, and gasped for breath. The thought that I\nhad _already_ allowed to pass the proper opportunity of stating the\ntruth burned my brain with the pain of a seething iron. The force of\ntruth was strong in me, and I struggled at this late period to tell all\nthat had occurred; but, when I looked up in the face of my malicious\ntormentor, I could not speak, and I now felt that those sensibilities\nwhich made me so exquisitely alive to the sense of virtue had become my\nenemies. The thought of being suspected--and my confession that the\njewels were in my trunk would amount almost to a conviction--seemed\nworse than death in its direst form; yet I essayed again and again to\ntell the truth, and still I failed to pronounce one intelligible word of\nexplanation. Mrs Ball, finding me recovered, left me, as she said, with\nher accustomed satire, to the attentions of Augustus Merling, who at\nthat moment entered the room with the surgeon. He was delighted to see\nme recovered, and asked me, in tones that sounded in my ears more\ngrating than risped iron, how I felt. I answered, with difficulty, that\nI was better. The doctor gave me some stimulant, and he and Augustus sat\ndown by my side, talking on the subject of the sudden change that had\ntaken place in my aunt's disease, which no one had thought fatal. I sat\nsilent, and expected every moment that Augustus would have mentioned\nsomething regarding the statement made by my aunt in reference to her\njewels; but he never approached the subject--a circumstance which seemed\nto me extraordinary; for it was impossible, I thought, that so striking\nan incident could have escaped his memory; and as the presence of the\ndoctor could form no reason (but rather the opposite) against a\nrecurrence to the subject in his presence, I thought I had grounds for\nsupposing that my presence formed the cause. The moment this thought\nentered my mind, I shook throughout my whole system. The question rose\nincessantly upon me, Why does my presence prevent him from disclosing so\nstartling and important a circumstance? The answer appeared plain and\nsimple--Because he suspects me. At the time these thoughts were passing\nthrough my mind, my eye caught again my trunk, and I now saw very\nplainly, from the position of the key, which, having been handled\ncarelessly, was hanging from the keyhole, that some one had been there.\nI recollected that, when my aunt grew worse, I ran to her, and left the\nkey in the lock, and now suspected that Mrs Ball had opened it while I\nwas in a state of insensibility. As I fixed my eye on the trunk, I heard\nAugustus stop in the middle of a sentence; and, turning upon him a\ntimid, furtive glance, I thought I saw him look at me earnestly, with a\ndifferent expression of countenance from any I had ever yet seen him\nassume. The doctor seemed to notice the break in the conversation, and\nto take it as a hint to retire, which he did almost immediately, to the\ngreat increase of my misery. I was now left alone with Augustus, and my\nwhole mind became, as it were, concentrated in my ear, to hear him break\nthe subject which had become so awfully interesting to me. I was silent,\nand he, too, apparently, was inclined to be gloomy--a state of mind so\ninconsistent with the usual habitudes of a spirit ever in the\ncontemplation of the fair side of human nature, that I looked upon it as\ninauspicious. I had forgotten entirely--so completely was my mind\nabsorbed by the frightful subject before me--that he might respect the\nsorrow incident to my situation, and hold it too sacred for an abrupt\nand officious condolence. At length the soft accents of sympathy stole\nfrom his lips; and had they been as \"the ointment of spikenard,\" they\nwould have aggravated my pain; for he avoided--it appeared to me\nstudiously--all reference to the conduct of my aunt. I knew not what\nwords to use in my inane replies; and the more studiously he seemed to\navoid the subject, the more difficult, the more certainly impossible, I\nfelt the task of approaching it myself. I felt now, more heavily than\nwhen in the presence of Mrs Ball, the weight of the _time_ that had\nalready been allowed to elapse without an explanation; and every minute\nthat passed added to it immeasurably. My aunt's statement, standing\nalone, was powerful, almost insuperable; but, joined to the lapse of\ntime between the charge and the denial--for what could it be now but a\ndenial?--it would appear to be proof strong as holy writ. All this I\nfelt with such soul-prostrating effect, that every effort I made to\nbroach the subject was strangled in my throat, by the sympathetic power\nof a heart loaded with the shame of a suspicion that _never_ could be\ndisproved. In addition to all this, what I had already suffered had\nproduced indications of a coming accession of my nervous affections; and\nthus overcome by shame, terror, and physical debility, I sat beside my\ncomforter as one in whose ears are knelling the strokes of the hour of\nexecution.\n\nAugustus rose to depart; and, at this moment, his mother, who had been\noccupied dressing the dead body, came in to ascertain how I was. She\nlooked wistfully at me as I sat pale and trembling, and I thought I saw\nher motion to Augustus to leave us together. He went out, and shortly\nafter, my fit came upon me, and retained me in its ruthless grasp for a\nconsiderable period. I never had recovered from an attack to a\nperception of such realities as were now before me; and the more\nconscious I became, the more dreadful seemed my condition. My first\nthoughts were directed to the speech of Mrs Merling; and I soon found\nthat she too avoided making the slightest allusion to my aunt's\ndeath-bed declaration. If the circumstance was strange in Augustus, it\nwas more so in his mother, a female, not so apt to be forgetful of a\nmatter where curiosity might have been expected to be roused to the\nhighest pitch. I was now more and more convinced that both acted from a\nsense of delicacy towards me, on whom the whole weight of the suspicion\nof my aunt's declaration doubtless rested. I felt the same load on my\nbreast as before--the same difficulty to approach the fearful subject;\nbut now my energies were overcome by another cause, for the moment I\nbegan to struggle with myself, with a view to overcome the choking\nimpediment presented to a declaration, I was attacked by my nervous\nailment, and laid senseless in the arms of my friend. This occurred\nseveral times within an hour, at the end of which period--with the fatal\nsecret still in my bosom--I was so overcome with misery and pain, that I\nwas obliged to be consigned to my night-couch.\n\nI lay for several days in a state of weakness, which was continued by\noccasional attacks of my complaint, by the weight of the peculiar misery\nwith which I was affected, and, by the disturbing effects of horrid\ndreams, the consequence of the states of both my mind and body. These\nlast assumed often the character of nightmare, in which the form of my\naunt was always (though dreadfully distorted) apparent among others;\nbut, dreadful as these were, I would have borne all their weight, and\nendured all their agony, rather than have suffered what always awaited\nme when I succeeded in wrenching my consciousness out of the grasp of\nthe nocturnal fiend. Mrs Merling attended me, and Augustus was incessant\nin his requests to know how I was. My aunt was, in the meantime, buried;\nand Mrs Merling, who communicated to me the intelligence, seated herself\nby my bedside, with the view, apparently, of opening to me some subject\nthat lay near her heart. I looked at her and trembled.\n\n\"Martha,\" said she, \"I am going to speak to you on a subject of great\ndelicacy; and it is because I know you are possessed of as much good\nsense as generous feeling, that I will take the liberty of doing it\nafter the manner of a friend.\"\n\nShe paused, and looked at me, as if her heart had been overpowered with\npity. I expected now the long-dreaded announcement, and lay motionless,\nalmost senseless, to hear the pronunciation of my doom.\n\n\"Your aunt was no sooner laid under the ground,\" began Mrs Merling,\n\"than her heir-at-law--who is, as you know, your uncle by the mother's\nside, James Battie, one of the worst men that our part of the country\nhas ever seen--came and demanded possession of the house, with the\narticles therein; to all which, and indeed to everything which belonged\nto the good old lady, he has an undoubted right, seeing that she left no\nwill. The keys are accordingly to be delivered this evening to his\nagent, who, by the by, is Mr George Ball, and who has likely been\nselected in consequence of his having acted in that capacity for your\naunt, and therefore acquainted with her concerns. Every lock and drawer\nin the other parts of the house was sealed up before the funeral; and it\nwas only on the representation that you were lying here in a state of\ndistress, that this room has not been entered. It is therefore necessary\nthat you remove from this house this evening; and as I and my son know\nyou have no home, no friends, and, I fear, no means, we have resolved to\ntake from you no denial to our request that you permit yourself to be\nremoved to our house, where, allow me to say, my dear Martha, I hope to\nsee you in the character of a respected and beloved daughter-in-law.\"\n\nThis announcement satisfied me that neither Mrs Merling nor her son had\nany suspicions of my being possessed of my aunt's jewels; and, so far as\nregarded these individuals, I had no reason for the apprehensions that\nhad assailed me; but alas! how long could they remain in that state of\nmind, when, as it had appeared, Mrs Ball's son was appointed the\nattorney of the heir-at-law? That fact appeared decisive of my ruin. I\ncould not contemplate the probable evils that might result from it,\nwithout exposing myself to the danger of another fit of my ailment; and\nmaking an effort to reply suitably to Mrs Merling, I, with great\ndifficulty, rose and got myself dressed, and removed with my trunks to\nthe residence of my new benefactress, where I might have enjoyed all the\nhappiness of which my nature was capable of, had I not taken with me the\nburden that still pressed upon my heart. Augustus seemed to realise some\nfond dream in having me under his mother's roof as his intended wife. He\nrenewed our former studies and conversations; wooed my heart, in many\nforms, and with numerous allurements, to the calm, virtuous enjoyments\nof love; and seemed to make a total sacrifice of himself, his pursuits\nand feelings, to the reclamation of me to my wonted participation in his\nsentiments, and sympathy with his high-souled aspirations. These\nbenefits, this worship, that offer of happiness, only tended to render\nme from hour to hour more incapable to unburden to him my mind. The\nburden pressed upon me with the weight and horror of an incubus. I\nforced myself repeatedly from the presence of him I loved above all\nearthly things, and wept in my closet over a fate which held before my\neyes a fair heaven, imparted the capabilities of enjoying it, and the\nburning wish to reach it--and yet guarded it with a demon whose visage\nwas the chosen birthplace of terror. My struggles to impart the\nintelligence had become weaker and weaker, as the lapse of time rendered\nany declaration I could make less and less worthy of credit. If I had\nhad the feeling of guilt, I would have naturally taken means, by\nremoving the articles, to avoid detection; but, filled though I was with\nthe forebodings of ruin and shame, none of the ordinary means of\navoiding my fate ever occurred to me; and, though they had, my mind,\nfilled with pure and elevated sentiments, would have shrank aghast at\nthe devices of guilt.\n\nWhat I had already suffered produced such an effect upon me, that I was\nreduced to the condition of a sickly, lingering creature, destitute of\nthe sustaining power that enables the most wretched of mortals to\nsupport their existence, and continue on this stage of crime and misery.\nEven my cherished views of the grace and beauty of my favourite ethics\nceased to yield me any pleasure; all my thoughts, hopes, and feelings\nwere absorbed by the one great and ever-present conviction, that I was\nliable to be suspected--nay, proved--a robber; and every ring of the\ndoor-bell sounded in my ears as the prelude to my ruin. My condition was\nsoon noticed by the solicitude of my benefactors, who, by inviting\ncompany to the house, endeavoured to drive away what they termed my\nsorrow for my aunt. Mrs Ball and Anne Ball were of these parties. They\nlooked at me as if they enjoyed some signal triumph; and though, by\ncrouching into the corner of the room, I tried to avoid them, they\nseemed to take a delight in following me, and contrasting the hilarity\nof their joy with the gloom of my melancholy. Shall I ever forget the\nlooks of these women? When shall their words fade from my ear? Anne Ball\nput a question to me--Why did I not wear my aunt's diamond necklace? I\nswooned, and was carried out. What a night was that!\n\nIn the morning I forced myself to the breakfast table, though I could\nscarcely walk that length. Augustus had, for several hours, been\nstudying some portions of Plato, where that philosopher, as he said,\narrays, in the most beautiful language of any nation on earth, the most\nexalted ideas of man's capabilities in the great field of\nheaven-directed virtue that ever fired the brain of the philosophic\nphilanthropist. Ill as I was, I listened to his description of what he\nhad read; but every word was a dagger whose hilt was set with rubies,\nwhose point sought my heart. The thrilling and swelling emotions which\nwould, at one time, have obeyed the sounds of his voice, attuned to such\nmusic of moral spheres, seemed to fall back upon my heart and suffocate\nme. The bell of the outer door now rang with considerable vehemence, and\nI heard the steps of several individuals enter. I thought I heard my own\nname mentioned, and shortly the step of one person, the others\napparently remaining below, was heard upon the stair. The parlour-door\nopened, and George Ball, holding in his hand a paper, stood before us.\nHe bowed to Augustus and his mother; but to me he threw only the glance\nof a cunning, triumphant eye. My heart was still; every muscle,\nvoluntary and involuntary, seemed bound up in the grasp of a spasm; and\nfreezing fear, in place of breath, when my lungs played not, sustained\nme as a statue is sustained. George Ball spoke--\n\n\"I trouble your family this morning, Mr Merling, on a matter of\nbusiness. I hold in my hand a warrant of the sheriff to search the\nrepositories of Miss Martha Ballingal, resident in your house, for\ncertain jewels of great value, which belonged to Mrs Greville, her aunt,\nand an inventory of which was found in the empty box where the articles\nwere deposited. Mrs Greville, as you and your mother both know, declared\non her death-bed that she had been robbed of these jewels; there was\nanother witness who heard the same declaration; and the empty box, with\nthe inventory, corroborated the statement of Mrs Greville, who, indeed,\ncould not have been wrong in a matter which so nearly concerned herself.\nNow, the heir-at-law has good reason to suppose that these jewels, and\nparticularly a diamond necklace, several pearl ones, and a number of\nloose jewels, all as set forth in the inventory, are in the trunks of\nMiss Ballingal; and the sheriff has accordingly granted a warrant for\nthe purpose of having her repositories examined. I have stated these\nthings to you at once, because the lady is under your protection, and I\nwould not have conceived it fair to search lockfast places in your\nhouse, without first making this intimation to you personally.\"\n\nAugustus looked at George Ball for some moments without speaking. He had\nbeen taken by surprise, and the communication had roused in him such a\nconflict of feelings, that he was entirely unmanned. A short time\nbrought him to the power of a reply. Mrs Merling sat as one entranced. I\nwas still able to maintain my position, but was ready to fall at a\nsingle turn of this extraordinary ceremony.\n\n\"We were aware, sir,\" replied Augustus, \"that Mrs Greville had lost or\nbeen robbed of her jewels, because we heard her declare so; but, in duty\nto the feelings of Miss Ballingal, who is beyond suspicion, we have\nrefrained from alluding to the subject, until some light should be\nthrown upon the manner in which the articles were carried off. The\nrepositories of the maid should have been searched. As to Miss\nBallingal, that lady, I will take upon me to say, will cheerfully lay\nhers open to your inspection.\"\n\nI heard no more that I could understand. A confused sound of men's\nvoices, and of their feet passing and repassing, fell on my ear, and\nstifled screams of a female mixed at times with them, and died away into\nhollow moans. I do not know what time elapsed; but I found myself in my\nown apartment alone. I tried to lift myself up and look around. My\ntrunks were open; the place where the jewels had been was ransacked; the\njewels themselves were gone. I went to the door, and tried to open it;\nbut it was locked, and the rough voice of a man answered by requesting\nme to remain quiet. It was not the voice of Augustus or of George Ball.\nI had never heard it before. Presently the door was opened with a loud\nnoise, and three men entered. They threw a shawl over me, and placed on\nmy head my bonnet, which was lying near me; for they said that I was\nunable to do these offices for myself. They took hold of my arms, and\nproceeded to direct me outwards. I passed through the room where we had\nbeen breakfasting. Mrs Merling sat in one corner, with a handkerchief\nover her face, and loud sobs burst from her. Augustus had buried his\nface in his hands, and I heard heavy groans forcing themselves from his\nconvulsed bosom, in spite of all his efforts to restrain them. They\nnever looked at me. A feeble cry of \"Augustus!\" came involuntarily from\nme as I was hurried forward, and I could see his hand waving as if he\ndisowned me in sorrow. In a few minutes more, I was lodged in a prison.\n\nThe cell to which I was consigned was dark and loathsome, as all Scotch\njails then were, and as many of them still are. A small grating looked\nout into a yard, where sick debtors were allowed space to walk. A small\nstream of light came in at this aperture, and exhibited to me all the\nhorrors of my place of confinement--the pallet of straw, a broken chair,\nand fragments of iron chains, which had been used for the purpose of\nbinding felons. I cannot describe what I felt, as my eye glanced, in the\ndim light of the cell, over these articles; yet they added nothing to my\npain. I may even say with truth, that they had rather the power of\ndiminishing it--the lowest condition of despair sometimes drawing from\nan additional evil a species of frozen insensibility, which is felt as a\nrelief. For two or three days I scarcely moved; my meat lay by the side\nof my pallet, and I saw crowds of hungry rats come and eat of\nit--fighting with each other over the vessel, and turning, at times, and\nlooking at me, apparently without terror. The sight of these creatures\nat one time would have made me fly and scream, from an involuntary fear\nof them, to which I had all my life been subject; but I now sat and\nlooked at them with apathy, though they approached so near to me that I\ncould have seized them with my extended hand. This fit of inanity\ngradually wore off; but it was succeeded by a condition a thousand times\nmore fearful; for, as if the restrained blood had obeyed some impulse\nof reacting nature, my veins began to beat violently, my temples\nthrobbed, and the thoughts that had been frozen or fixed in one gloomy\ndirection began to career violently--touching all subjects in their\nprogress; retracing every painful circumstance of my lot; contrasting my\nformer happiness with my present misery; foreshadowing my trial, my\ncondemnation, my execution or banishment; and then, again, mixing up a\nthousand images, leaving me in a state of wild confusion, incapable of\ndistinguishing one thing from another. This was the beginning of a\nfever. I was insensible for many days--had been bled and\nblistered--despaired of--and recovered from the brink of death, to meet\na fate a thousand times more dreadful. My trial, as I understood, was\nput off until I should be in a condition to be able to sit upright in\nthe dock. When I became able to speak, I was waited on by a man of the\nlaw. I knew not who sent him, but suspected that he came at the bidding\nof Augustus, who probably thought I might yet be brought off. I told the\nman the truth; and requested him to ascertain whether my aunt was in her\nsenses when she made the declaration on her death-bed. He answered, that\nhe had already made inquiries on that subject, but that none of the\nwitnesses would admit that she was otherwise than sane; and the\ncircumstance of her having been on her death-bed militated against me.\nHe seemed to pity me, but held out no hope. I asked to have one meeting\nwith Augustus, but knew not whether my message reached him. He never\ncame; and I had no relatives to take a part for me in my defence.\n\nThe day of trial came; and I was removed in a carriage to the\njustice-hall, and placed at the bar. No one could have known me. I was\nthe mere ghost of what I was; and would have fallen from my seat, had I\nnot been supported by two officers who sat by my side. I answered the\njudge's question of guilty or not guilty without rising, according to\ncustom; and the words were no sooner out of my mouth, than I fainted.\nWhen I recovered, the trial had begun. The sound of the witnesses'\nvoices seemed to come to me through some other medium than the ear; for,\nthough seemingly unconscious, I yet heard. Mrs Ball appeared, and swore\nto the statement of Mrs Greville. The maid-servant identified the\njewels. Augustus Merling was put into the witness-box. He spoke the\ntruth--what he had heard my aunt declare. His mother was also there, and\nshe spoke the truth--what she had heard my aunt declare. What availed my\nstory against such evidence? What jury could hesitate on a point so\nclear? I was condemned, and sentenced to transportation beyond seas for\nseven years; but my sentence was commuted for a year's imprisonment. How\nI bore that--where I have lived since my release--under what name, what\nprivations, what agency, what madness--is it necessary for me to say?\nTwenty years have passed; and I am still a living, sensitive being. I\nhave seen the children of Anne Ball and Augustus Merling, and I have\nalso seen their parents, though they knew me not. O God! when shall I be\nrelieved?\n\nSuch is the narrative of Miss Ballingal. I have no reason to think she\nwas ever righted. I saw her die. I believe in the expression of an eye\nfixed on a world of spirits. I have also often seen a smile of triumph\nas the soul fluttered to depart.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WARNING.\n\n\nAmong the inhabitants of Blackenburn, which was once the scene of some\nincidents in the following story, Nanny Ferly was perhaps the most\nextraordinary. If man, woman, or child had caught a cold of a week's\nstanding, she never failed to discover a strong similarity between their\ncase and the case of some one else who had died of consumption. Whether\nthe complaint were toothache, or headache, or heartache, she seemed\nalways certain that the symptoms were fatal; though sometimes she rather\nleft people to infer the truth from certain significant hints which she\ngave them, than told it plain out. Upon these occasions, she would shake\nher head, turn up her eyes, groan audibly, and say, \"Ay, ay, a fever\noften begins that way; and I've kenned mony a ane carried to their end\nby a sma' beginning.\" She believed as firmly in the existence of ghosts,\nwraiths, warnings before death, and, in short, all sorts of supernatural\nagency, as she believed in the truth of her Bible; and in these, along\nwith her talk of \"illnesses,\" \"deaths,\" and \"burials\" (births and\nbaptisms were not among her favourite subjects), she found the means of\nsatisfying the craving of a morbid appetite for excitement, which she\npossessed in an eminent degree.\n\nIn the house which stood next to Nanny's lived Nelly Jackson, who was\nrather a shrewd, thinking woman, and in some respects the very\nantithesis of the former. She had brought her husband four children,\nmost of whom were grown up. They had, however, upon several occasions,\nbeen seriously indisposed; but their mother, who already knew Nanny's\npropensity for peopling the other world, and who, with a creditable\ndegree of penetration, guessed the effect which the ominous shake of her\nhead, and her usual \"ay, ay,\" were likely to have upon the mind of a\ndistressed person, carefully prevented her from getting to their\npresence while they were ill; and though Nanny did not fail to foretell\ntheir fate, in her usual significant way, among her other neighbours, by\nsome mistake they all recovered. Nanny accounted herself not only\nneglected but insulted, by not being allowed to exercise her benevolence\nin visiting the sick at all seasons; Nelly, on the other hand, having\nseen her predictions falsified in the case of her own children, began to\ndoubt that neither her foresight nor her piety were superior to those of\nothers; she even ventured to speak rather slightingly of both, affirming\nthat \"nothing gave Nanny greater pleasure than to see her neighbours\ndying;\" which speeches were borne to the ears of Nanny; and thus, though\nthey neither came to fistycuffs nor high words, there was little love\nbetween them.\n\nNext to Nelly, on the other side, lived Margaret M'Kenzie, her husband,\nand a daughter, whose name was Mary. Margaret was an honest,\nindustrious, and, in most respects, a sensible woman; but, from the\ncircumstance of having been accustomed to listen to it for a length of\ntime, her neighbour Nanny's belief in the preternatural had acquired a\nconsiderable ascendency in her mind, and often influenced her thoughts;\nso that she might be regarded as a sort of medium between the two\ncharacters already described. She had born to her husband a son and a\ndaughter; the former of whom had learned a trade and left them: but\nMary, who when young was rather a delicate girl, had always been kept at\nhome. To accommodate and keep her as comfortable as possible, a small\napartment, with a chimney and a back window, had been fitted up in the\n_ben end_ of the house; and in this little sanctum, besides assisting\nher mother with the household concerns, she had earned her own\nsubsistence with her needle for several years. Her constitution, of\nlate, however, had greatly improved; and at nineteen--the time at which\nour story commences--she was a healthy, handsome, and, upon the whole,\nrather a good-looking young woman.\n\nFrom the days of their childhood, a close intimacy had subsisted between\nher and Jenny Jackson, who had been her playmate and confidant from the\nearliest period of her recollection. But somewhat more than a year\nprevious to the time here referred to, Jenny had arrived at that age\nwhen it is common for parents in a certain station to send their\ndaughters to \"service out amang the farmers round,\" as Burns has phrased\nit, that they \"may learn something of the world.\" This, at least, is\nalmost always assigned as a general reason for such a step, and almost\nas often taken for granted. There are, however, several adjuncts, which\nnobody ever thinks of mentioning, and sundry little motives of a private\nor personal nature, which are not without their influence in determining\nboth the parents and the girls themselves upon the propriety of going\nabroad. In the first place, when a young woman comes to be married--and\nmost of them have a sort of presentiment that, at one time or other,\nthey will have the _misfortune_ to be so--she is always expected to\nprovide, or bring along with her, a certain share of the furnishing of a\nhouse. Her share having been fixed by a sort of conventional laws, there\nis no escaping from it: at least there can be but little prospect of an\nhonourable settlement in life without it--the other sex having, in\ngeneral, enough to do with their own part of the concern, and being by\nno means more disinterested than the \"true love\" ballad-makers have\nrepresented them. To enable her to make this provision, the parents of a\nportionless lass can seldom do more than lend her some little assistance\nin the way of advice and management, leaving her to procure the\nwherewithal, or, in other words, the money with which the furnishing of\nhouses, and everything else, must be purchased by her own industry. Thus\nleft, service in the country, and some regular occupation, such as the\nart of weaving in the towns, are the only alternatives; and to one or\nother of these she must early devote her attention, if she intends to be\nin the field of matrimony within a reasonable time.\n\nTo those who are acquainted with the tactics of the tender passion, it\nis, moreover, known that a bashful lover seldom cares for seeking the\nsociety of his fair one in the presence of her parents, while the fair\none herself as seldom cares for being seen in the society of a lover by\nthese relations. In such matters, a great deal of deceit, or, to speak\nmore properly, of concealment, must be practised. There is a luxury in\nkeeping all those delightful feelings, hopes, fears, fancies, and\nfollies to one's-self; more than half the excitement of the thing, and\nconsequently more than half its pleasure, would be destroyed if the\nsecret were too soon divulged; and for some such reason, perhaps, your\nenamoured swain fears the eye of a mother, as being an interested party,\nand likely to be quick-sighted, more than that of any other human being.\nWhatever be the cause, the effect which it produces seems to be\ntolerably well understood by a very great majority of marriageable young\nwomen; and out of pity, as it would appear, for the failings of the\nother sex in general, and those of bashful young men in particular, they\nare sometimes willing to afford wooers an opportunity of seeing them in\na less embarrassing situation.\n\nInfluenced by one or other, or both or neither of these reasons,\nmotives, or whatever the reader chooses to call them, Jenny Jackson,\nwith her mother's consent, engaged herself as a servant at a place\ncalled Heatherinch; and after having been nearly three quarters of a\nyear in her place, she represented the advantages of \"going to service\"\nin so favourable a light, that her young friend, Mary M'Kenzie, felt\ninclined to listen to any proposal which might give her a chance of\nsimilar advantages. Such a proposal was not long awanting; for it\nappeared that Jenny really had a situation in her eye, and that her\nprevious discourse had been intended to prepare her friend for accepting\nit. Shortly thereafter, Mary was accordingly engaged to go at the\nensuing Martinmas in the capacity of a servant girl to Cairnybraes,\nwhich was a farm lying at the distance of only a mile or so from\nHeatherinch; and she promised herself a whole world of satisfaction in\nbeing again so near her friend.\n\nHere the reader will, no doubt, be inclined to think that Jenny was\nperfectly disinterested in these matters, and that she could have no\nmotive for doing as she had done, except a wish to promote Mary's\nhappiness. But, alas! how much of disinterestedness, charity,\nbenevolence, and even piety itself, would disappear, if we could only\napply the science of chemistry to the heart! Neither acids nor alkalis,\nhowever, can be brought to act upon it; and as for the crucible, the\ncopple, and the fusing-pot, they are out of the question, so that a\nchemical analysis is not to be expected; and in the absence of such\ntests, we can only judge of causes from effects; or, in other words, we\nmust judge of the heart from actions and appearances. Be it known then,\nthat, within the first half-year of Jenny's service, two young men, who\nwere also servants on the farm, had taken it into their heads to\nmanifest rather more than an ordinary attachment to her. This she told\nnot; but people do not expect to be told of such matters, and in the\npresent instance they ascertained, or rather guessed, the truth, without\nany evidence from her. Their names were Andrew Angus and James Duff.\nLike herself, they were both engaged to remain for another year; and\nthough Jenny might have managed their attentions and their addresses\nwithout much trouble, had they been only lodged at a tolerable\ndistance, she found it rather distressing to have them constantly so\nnear her. In this emergency, it occurred to her that it were better to\nhave one of them \"taken off her hand;\" for the performance of this feat,\nher friend, Mary M'Kenzie, was the most likely individual she could\nthink of; and for Mary's future lover Andrew was set apart.\n\nAt the appointed time, Mary came to reside at Cairnybraes; but, as seeds\ncannot vegetate unless they are put into the ground, so neither can\nyoung people acquire an affection for each other unless they are brought\ntogether. Jenny could not muster courage enough to tell Andrew to \"go\nand see Mary;\" she did not like to bid Mary \"come and see him;\" and,\ntherefore, she had recourse to manoeuvring. The host of the Gazling\nInn, on considering the case of his humble brethren, and the few\nopportunities they had of enjoying themselves, had agreed to give a\nNew-year's entertainment to as many of them as could afford to pay\nhalf-a-crown. According to the advertisement on this occasion put forth,\nthe said brethren, for their half-crowns, were to have the privilege of\nbringing an equal number of _sistren_ along with them. It was farther\nstipulated, that they should have a sufficiency of tea, sugar, bread,\nand butter set before them, or rather dealt out to them; a man with a\nfiddle and a fiddlestick was also to be provided, for those who might be\ninclined to dance; after which, all and sundry were to have as much\nliquor as they should choose to drink and _pay for_. Such an opportunity\nwas by no means to be neglected, and the only matter of importance which\nJenny had now to decide upon was, how she might procure a partner for\nMary with whom _she_ was not likely to fall in love. Andrew must be\nmanaged cautiously, lest he should become restive, and more stubbornly\nattached to herself than he had been before. He had no previous\nacquaintance of Mary, and it were both awkward and indelicate, she\nargued, to send him off to seek a woman to whom he had not so much as\nspoken on any former occasion. She, moreover, did not like the idea of\n_dismissing_ him, which would have been implied in such a proceeding.\nShe therefore deemed it best to bring the _candle to the moth_, as if by\naccident, and allow him to flutter around it till he was fairly singed.\nFor this purpose, a neighbouring rustic, called Ritchie Drycraig, was\nselected as one who was likely to perform his part, and, at the same\ntime, leave Mary's heart free to be impressed with the image of another.\nBy a slight exercise of maiden ingenuity, a little coaxing, and some sly\nhints, Ritchie was induced to set forth on his mission. The expected\nevening came--the various parties made their appearance--and so far all\nwas right.\n\nBurns has told us, that\n\n    \"there is an ending quote. The best-laid schemes o' mice and men\n             Gang aft agley;\"\n\nand fortunate it were for the world, if mice and men were the only\nportions of society to whose schemes accident might give a wrong\ndirection; but, alas! there is no perfection on this earth, and the\nschemes of women miscarry almost as often as those of their neighbours.\nContrary to all reasonable expectation, and to everything like rational\nconduct, Andrew took no notice of Mary, while James Duff seemed to\nregard her with considerable attention, and \"puir drucken Ritchie\"\nappeared to be perfectly bewitched by her presence. With respect to Mary\nherself, it was easy to see that she was rather pleased than otherwise\nwith those indirect attentions and little notices which, in the course\nof the evening, she received from the said James Duff; and,\nnotwithstanding his previous attachment to Jenny, it almost appeared\nthat he would have volunteered his service to conduct her home. But vain\nwas every attempt of the kind. Even if the maiden had been willing to\naccept of such service, from Ritchie there was no possibility of\nescaping. Mary had little skill in these matters; she could not manage\nthem after the manner of well-bred damsels, and her only alternative was\nto allow him to carry her off.\n\nAt first Ritchie was \"a' crack thegither;\" but scarcely had they got\nbeyond the precincts of the Gazling Inn, when the conversation began to\nflag, and, after a considerable silence, which his companion had in vain\nendeavoured to break--\n\n\"Mary,\" said he, prefacing his discourse with sundry hiccups, \"I've fa'n\nin love wi' ye.\"\n\n\"Fa' out o't as fast as possible, then,\" said Mary, attempting to laugh,\nthough she really began to feel alarmed.\n\n\"Oh, Mary, Mary!\" again began the maudlin young man most pathetically to\nplead. \"Oh, Mary, if ye only kenned what a heart I have, and how aften\nI've lookit at you when I never spake a word, ye wad never bid me do\nthat.\"\n\n\"Lookit at _me_,\" rejoined the other, affecting to be greatly surprised;\n\"and pray what may the price of a _look_ be? If looks are to be made\ndebts, I doubt my little property, which consists only of the claes on\nmy back, will soon fail, and I must become a bankrupt.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mary,\" persevered her undaunted wooer, \"ye ken brawly what I mean;\nbut you surely never kenned what it was to be in love, or ye wad never\njeer a body that way.\"\n\n\"Love, they say, is warm,\" replied Mary, \"and I would rather be _in it_,\nor in my master's kitchen, or in my bed, or anywhere else, than _out_ in\nthis cauld night; so, if you do not walk faster, I shall be forced to\nrun away and leave you.\"\n\n\"My dear Mary,\" said he of the Drycraig, mending his pace a little,\nthough it was evident he did so with great reluctance--\"my dear Mary, I\ncould gang at the gallop, or I could gang like a snail, or I could gang\nowre a linn and drown mysel, or owre a craig and brak my neck, or speak,\nor haud my tongue, or do ony other thing on earth, for your sake, if ye\nwould only allow me to love ye, and say ye loved me again.\"\n\n\"Weel, I must confess you would do a great deal for me,\" said Mary,\nbeginning to enjoy his extravagance--teasing as he had become--and\nscarcely able to refrain from laughing at him; \"you would really do a\ngreat deal; but take my advice for the present: keep your head above\nwater, and your neck hale as lang as ye can; neither gang owre the linn\nnor the craig, but the neist time you are in a company, let fewer linns\ngang owre your _ain_ craig; and, in the meantime, neither speak of love,\nnor haud your tongue a'thegither, but _gang at the gallop_!--that will\nplease me best; for my mistress must be angry at me for staying out sae\nlate. Or, stop! I might run a race with you for a penny--the loser to\npay the stake--and then, I can tell you some other time whether you are\nto love me or not. Maidens, they say, should aye be mealy-mouthed at\nfirst.\"\n\nAs she uttered these words, she secretly determined, if possible, never\nto give him another opportunity of making such a proposition. She also\nresolved to bear with him for the present, and leave him to learn her\nreal sentiments from her future conduct. A crisis, however, was\napproaching which she had not foreseen, and for which she was wholly\nunprepared. Her protector, who had drank rather too liberally at the\nGazling Inn, was now beginning to be in such a state that he would have\nalmost required a protector himself. The moment he heard Mary's\nlight-hearted declaration, his emotion seemed to overcome him, he made a\ndead stand, and exclaimed, in the most piteous accents--\n\n\"I canna gang anither fit!\"\n\n\"Foul fa' you and your feet baith,\" said Mary, forgetting the resolution\nwhich she had formed only a minute ago, and nearly losing her\ngood-humour at the same time. \"I tell ye,\" she continued, \"that I should\nbeen hame lang syne, and d'ye think that I can bide here the hale night\nto hear you haver nonsense.\"\n\n\"O Mary, Mary!\" rejoined the man of exclamations, \"this sets the crown\non a' my misfortunes, and I'll never do mair guid. Twice owre this same\nnight I saw you looking at Jamie Duff: ye love him, and no me. O Mary,\nMary, Mary!\" and therewith he threw himself down upon the earth, or\nrather in a puddle of dirty water by the road-side, at full length, and\nbegan to weep and groan, in great tribulation. When his inarticulate\nwailings would permit, he again muttered half sentences about walking\nover the linn or the craig, and he even threw out hints of an intention\nto leave the world in that most ungentlemanly manner in which the law\nsometimes disposes of very dissolute characters. As the liquor with\nwhich he had been drenching his system had no doubt heightened the\neffects of his sensibility, his sensibility now heightened the effects\nof the liquor; and between them he was soon in a sad state of mental as\nwell as bodily distemperature.\n\nMary, who had little experience in these matters, would have readily\ngiven all the worlds which all the Alexanders and Caesars on earth ever\nconquered, had she been mistress of them, for some one to assist her in\nconducting him to any house where he might find shelter for the night,\nor perhaps, as she thought, a bed on which he might breathe his last.\nFortunately for her, she soon heard the noise of footsteps approaching;\nand, in a few minutes more, she had the satisfaction of seeing, or\nrather hearing, James Duff, with his convoy, which was not a\nmerchantman, but a marriageable woman, bear down upon her.\n\nJames had been left in quiet possession of Jenny Jackson, in consequence\nof Andrew--who was certainly the most enamoured lover--having got\nrather fuddled; from which circumstance he had been left at the inn to\nsleep off his debauch; and, though the hands of the former were already\nfull, he did not appear offended, nor even greatly distressed, at the\naccident which gave him an opportunity of again meeting Mary. He\nimmediately lifted the fallen man from the ground, on which he was still\nlying in a half-senseless state, and, with the assistance of the two\nmaidens, who, in this instance, lent their aid, \"nothing loth,\"\nconducted him to the nearest house, where they left him to recover from\nhis drench.\n\nMary was now for running home as fast as possible, but the gallantry of\nher new acquaintance would not permit him to think of allowing her to go\nalone; he therefore proposed that she should go with them to\nHeatherinch, which was but a short way out of her road, and, after\nseeing Jenny safely lodged, he would accompany her at least a part of\nher journey. To this proposal Jenny was far from giving a hearty\nsanction, but the other seemed determined for once to take his own way.\nShe had her own reasons for wishing not to thwart him openly, and, after\nsome trifling demurs, she acquiesced. James, accordingly, escorted Mary\nas far as her master's barn-yard, which was certainly the most\nconsiderable part of her journey; and here, notwithstanding the\nlateness, or rather earliness of the hour, and her previous hurry to get\nhome, they spent they knew not how long on the leeward side of a _strae\nstack_, conversing on various subjects, which to them, and to the whole\nworld, might have been deemed of very little importance; and, though\nneither of them spoke one word of love, or made the slightest allusion\nto that interesting subject, it was almost morning before they thought\nof separating.\n\nThe night adventure, thus happily got over, produced no bad\nconsequences; but it was not long before Mary was again threatened with\nthe addresses of Ritchie Drycraig. To these, however, she had sagely\ndetermined not to listen, if she could by any possibility do otherwise;\nand when, according to the established rules of society, he presented\nhimself at her bedroom window between the hours of ten and twelve P.M.,\nmaking his presence known by a gentle rap upon the glass and a low\nwhistle, she was under the necessity of feigning sickness oftener than\nonce to get quit of him. But this, as it afforded her an excuse for not\nseeing him, so it gave him a pretext for returning to inquire after her\nhealth; and to avoid him, in a short time, it would have become\nabsolutely necessary for her to lie constantly in bed. This would not\ndo, and a new expedient was tried. Next time he made his appearance, the\nnew moon gave a faint and uncertain light, which seemed to suit her\npurpose very well; and from the half-opened window she whispered in his\near a terrifying tale of a ghost, which had been lately seen walking\nunder the shelter of a hedge immediately in front of the house. She\npointed out the very bush from which it had emerged; and just as she\nconcluded, the obedient ghost made its appearance, wrapped up in as much\nwhite drapery as the wardrobe of any ordinary ghost could be supposed to\ncontain. But the terrified lover, instead of taking to his heels, as the\ndamsel had expected, thrust his head and shoulders in at the window,\nwhich she had raised a little for the purpose of speaking to him; and\nthe next moment he stood bolt upright in the room beside her. This was\nmending matters with a vengeance. The very plan which she had adopted to\ndrive him from the _outside_ of the house, had driven him to the\n_inside_ of it; and, what was worse, she was left with him alone. From\nthe odour of his breath, it was evident that he did not lack\ninspiration; and finding himself snugly housed, with the \"maid of his\nheart\" beside him, notwithstanding the terrors of the ghost, he was\nbeginning to talk of love; and had it not been for the other servant\ngirl, who came in shortly after, it is probable he might have reached\nthe \"linns\" and the \"craigs,\" as he had done on a former occasion,\nbefore he had thought of stopping. She, however, assured him that she\nhad heard her master stirring above-stairs--which, by the by, is always\na formidable announcement to an enamoured swain--and warned him to make\nwhat haste he could in getting home. But this information, though it\nincreased his perplexity to an immeasurable extent, and effectually\nsilenced him upon the former subject, gave him neither strength nor\ncourage to face an inhabitant of the other world alone, and at the\nominous hour of midnight. Judging that it were better to fight within\nwalls than without them, whether the enemies were spiritual or temporal,\nhe continued to keep his position; nor was it till the other servant\ngirl had persuaded one of the young men who slept in the house, and who\nwas supposed to set some value on her own good opinion, to leave his\nbed, and promise to conduct Ritchie beyond the haunted neighbourhood,\nthat he could be prevailed upon to depart.\n\nThe hiring time at last came round; the whole of the servants on\nCairnybraes were engaged for another year, and Mary's master and\nmistress were anxious that she should remain also. They had every reason\nto be satisfied with her integrity, industry, and general good conduct;\nand when she did not readily accept of their terms, they even went so\nfar as to offer her a slight advance of wages, but to no purpose.\nApplication was next made to her father and mother, in the expectation\nthat they might succeed in persuading her to remain where she was. They\nreadily consented to use their influence, never dreaming that she would\nreject any request which they might proffer; but, for the first time in\ntheir lives, they had the mortification of seeing their wishes\ndisregarded. For no persuasion, and upon no condition, could she be\nprevailed on to engage for another year; and, what was still more\nstrange, she would assign no reason for leaving her place. Her\nunaccountable humour in this respect gave rise to a number of\nconjectures as to its cause, of which one or two may be noticed in\npassing.\n\nSome people said that the ghost had scared her as well as Ritchie\nDrycraig; others supposed that she must have a \"lad\" about the\nbleachfield, who found it inconvenient to come so far to see her; but\nthe most general opinion was, that she wished to bring either the\nforesaid Ritchie, or James Duff, both of whom were regarded as a sort of\n_danglers_, or distant admirers, to an explanation. Here be it remarked,\nthat this is a subject upon which young women in general can only endure\nsilence with any degree of patience for a limited time. Some, as a\nmatter of course, will hold out for a longer and some for a shorter\nseason, just as their natural temper may chance to be ardent or\notherwise. But, assuredly, the patience of the most plodding maiden on\nearth, if her heart should happen to be infected with the tender\npassion, will come to an end; and then, neither man, woman, young, old,\nor middle-aged, can tell what measures she may adopt, or what agency she\nmay employ to bring forth the important secret. Some novelist or other\nhas said--in spleen it would almost appear--\"that in the higher circles\nthere is a regular system of managing these matters--that the whole had\nbeen reduced to a science; and that an initiated damsel understands how\nto play her part in the important concern of getting a husband nearly as\nwell as she understands a game at cards!\" This, if true, must be an\nimmense acquisition to young ladies; but, as the \"schoolmaster\" has not\nyet been so far \"abroad\" as to bring the discovery down to the country\ngirl and the village maiden, these are wholly left to their own\nshifts--and shifts, at times, they must try. But, as to these, the\npresent writer would be almost wholly ignorant, were it not for certain\nof the sex themselves, whom he has heard declare that a quarrel about\nsomething or nothing is one of their most natural expedients, and, as\nsuch, is frequently resorted to with good effect. Next in order,\naccording to the above-mentioned authorities, is a _flitting_ or\nseparation, which is to last for a length of time: such a step seems to\nthrow the parties concerned at once upon their beam-ends; and before\nthey can trim their ballast again, the secret may chance to \"spunk out.\"\nThus there was, at least, a show of reason in some of the conjectures\njust alluded to. But after having noticed these things, that the reader\nmay judge of their probabilities and improbabilities for himself, to\nkeep up the dignity and the veracity of history, he must now be told the\ntruth.\n\nBy this time, Mary was completely tired of the tricks and shifts by\nwhich she had endeavoured to evade the persevering _Ritchie_, who,\nwhenever his _dry-craig_ was moistened with the _water of life_, or any\nother strong water, was certain to pester her with his visits and\nimportunities. She also considered it highly dishonourable in herself to\nencourage any feelings in James Duff which might have a tendency to\nseduce him from his allegiance to another; and, to be free from these\nannoyances and temptations, with which she knew not how to contend, she\nhonourably and resolutely determined to return home.\n\nAt the Martinmas term Mary accordingly took up her abode again with her\nparents at Blackenburn. The day on which she returned was wet and\nstormy, and she caught a cold, which kept her rather indisposed for\nthree weeks. The most fearful in such cases, however, could have seen no\nreason for apprehending the slightest danger, till Sabbath morning\nushered in the fourth week. But, on this particular morning, though Mary\nfelt much better, her mother appeared uncommonly thoughtful, or rather\nseriously alarmed. From her husband and daughter, however, she\nendeavoured to conceal her perturbation as much as possible, and as soon\nas her neighbour's door was opened, she went to inquire for Mrs Jackson.\n\n\"How are ye this morning?\" said she, as she entered.\n\n\"No that ill!\" was the reply. \"How are ye yoursel?\"\n\n\"I may be thankfu, I've no reason to complain!\" said the other, in a\ntone which was in itself a complaint.\n\n\"Dear me, Margate,\" rejoined Nelly, \"what's wrang? I have not seen ye\nlook so ill for many a day, as ye do this precious morning. Something is\ndistressing ye, I doubt.\"\n\n\"May the Lord have mercy upon me and mine!\" ejaculated Margaret, wiping\naway a tear as she spoke; \"but, saving His holy will, I fear I have\n_owre_ guid reason to be distressed.\"\n\n\"Sorry am I to hear that!\" responded Nelly, catching almost\nunintentionally the low impressive tone of her neighbour. \"But what\nis't, woman, if I may speer?\"\n\nThis was exactly what Margaret wanted, to enable her to unburden her\nmind; and she now proceeded to tell the cause of her distress. Some time\nabout midnight, or it might be toward morning, she could not be certain\nwhich, she had been awakened from her sleep, by what she described as \"a\nsharp rap upon the window, followed by a lang laigh sough, like the wind\nwhistling in a toom house.\" She rose stealthily from her bed, to\nascertain, if possible, the cause of these unwonted noises, and, while\nshe stood irresolute in the middle of the floor, she heard a low, husky,\nindistinct voice, which, she said, \"resembled that of a dying man,\"\npronounce the word _Mary_. \"At hearing that voice,\" she continued,\n\"every hair on my head stood on end, and my very flesh shook as if it\nwould have fa'n from my banes; but a mother's affection for her ain\nbairn, and my anxiety anent Mary's distress, made me desperate; and, to\nbe satisfied whether it was onything earthly which had uttered that\nword, I opened the door, and there I saw her wraith standing at the\nwindow as clear as ever I saw hersel!--Oh sirs! oh sirs! That sight gars\nmy flesh a' creep whenever I think on't! It was a' dressed in white\nexcept the head, and that was as black as our Mary's, and it's black\naneugh, ye ken. It was just about her size, too, as nearly as I could\nguess; but as soon as it saw me it glided round by the end of the house,\nwithout moving foot or hand, and was out of sight in an instant. And\nnow, let a' the doctors, and a' the neighbours on earth say what they\nwill, I believe that my Mary, poor thing, is fa'en into a decline, and\nthat this was naething but a _warning_!--Wo's me!--wo's me!\"\n\n\"Hout, woman!\" said Nelly, who had listened to this mournful\nrecapitulation, not without some indications of doubt as to its\nauthenticity--\"hout, woman; yesterday was _pay-day_, as they ca't, among\nthe bleachers, and I'll warrant the wraith was just some scamp frae the\nbleachfield, wha had gotten himself half-fou, and wanted to get a\nwhile's daffin wi' the lassie, Sabbath morning though it was.\"\n\n\"O Nelly, Nelly!\" rejoined the other, \"I wonder to hear ye speak at that\nrate, after what happened in Nanny Ferly's last summer!\"\n\nFinding that she was not likely to meet with much sympathy here,\nMargaret left the house rather abruptly. But her mind was in a state of\nperturbation which forbade her to rest, and she hastened forthwith to\nNanny Ferry, her next neighbour, to whom she told the same story, word\nfor word, and had the satisfaction--if satisfaction it can be called--of\nseeing every circumstance listened to with the deepest attention, and\nevery syllable believed as readily as if it had been part of a sermon.\n\n\"Ay, ay, Margate,\" said her auditor, when she had heard the story to an\nend, \"it's a warning, shure aneugh; and that will be seen before lang;\nfor I never kenned a warning fail. I'll mind that nicht as lang as I\nlive, when the warning came for my sister's dochter, Lizzy Lawmont; and\nweel I wat she was as dear to me as if she had been my ain bairn--though\nI've aye been spared the fashery o' bairns. Aweel, the doctor said she\nwas greatly better; and sae, as I was complainin at the time, she was\ntaen ben the house, to let me get some rest; and Lizzy Duncan--glaikit\nhizzy! as she has turned oot--cam to sit up for the nicht. The doors\nwere baith steekit, and the lamp was blawn out in the expectation that\nshe would fa' asleep, and I was lying waukin, with the _worm in my lug_,\nwhen I hears a rap at the windock, just as ye heard it, and something\nsaid _Lizzy_, as laigh and as plain as I'm saying it enoo. Aweel, I\nstartit up, expecting to find the dear lassie a corpse, but it was some\ntime before I could gang ben to see; and when I did gang ben, I found\nher waukening frae a sleep; and Lizzy Duncan said she had sleepit mair\nthan twa hours. But, from that minute, I kenned brawly what was to\nhappen, and from that minute she grew waur and waur, till the neist\nnicht about ten o'clock, when the speerit left her weel-faured clay to\nthe worms. Sae, Margate, never build yoursel up in Nelly's nonsense\nabout _lads_; she's a puir haverin body; and, as shure as the sun rises\nand sets, your Mary is gaun fast from this world, e'en as my Lizzy gaed\nbefore her.\"\n\nThe poor mother was affected to tears by these lugubrious observations.\nThe propriety of apprising Mary of her approaching fate was next\nadverted to by Nanny. Margaret did not adopt her views of the matter at\nfirst; but when the culpability of allowing her daughter to indulge in\nthe vanities of the world, when so near her end, was represented to her,\nshe gave her consent, with a flood of tears; and, after making some\narrangements for communicating the necessary information, they parted.\n\nThe day, for one in the middle of winter, appeared to be uncommonly\ninviting, and Mary, who now fancied herself quite well, proposed going\nto church. To this proposal she expected a number of objections from her\nmother, but she was rather agreeably disappointed, for Margaret only\nobserved, in an unusually solemn tone, that \"folk should gang to the\nkirk as lang as they were able,\" and she accordingly went. When the\ncongregation was dismissed, the air was almost as mild as if it had been\nsummer; the sun shone faintly but cheerfully upon the faded scene,\ngiving an unwonted appearance of warmth to the southern slopes and sunny\nside of the hedges. Some feathery songsters were still warbling their\n\"wilde notes\" from the leafless trees, and, on her way home, Mary felt\nher spirits cheered, and her whole frame invigorated, by the fresh air\nand the universal calm. The scene, the season, and the sacred day, alike\nseemed to \"woo the heart to meditation;\" and she was proceeding a short\nway in advance of the other worshippers, doubtless wrapped in some\nreverie, when her thoughts, whatever they might be, were dissipated by\nNanny Ferly, who, puffing and panting from the effects of rapid\ntravelling, now came up and addressed her from behind.\n\n\"That's a braw gown ye have on the day, Mary,\" were her first words,\nuttered in a tone of more than sepulchral solemnity.\n\n\"Nae brawer than ordinary,\" was Mary's reply.\n\nThis did not appear to be exactly the answer which had been anticipated,\nand Nanny--who, like other far-sighted individuals, had no doubt\ncalculated the chances of the conversation, and provided herself with\nsentiments suitable to the occasion--seemed to feel rather _out_. She\nsoon recovered, however, and adjusting her sails to the wind, proceeded\nupon a new tack.\n\n\"I was just thinking, as I came up behint you,\" she went on, \"what vain\nand frail creatures we a' are! We labour to deck out our bodies in\ndainty claes, and to appear strong and healthful, and engaging in the\neyes of others, when we should be thinking of our winding-sheets and our\ncoffins, and meditating on the worms which are shortly to prey upon us\nin darkness. And maybe at the very time when we are bestowing the\ngreatest care upon thae worldly vanities, death may be hovering owre\nus, with his hand stretched out to smite, and giving us _warning_ to\nprepare for our last gasp, and that sma' house which is theekit wi' the\nlang grass o' the kirkyard.\"\n\n\"A' that may be true,\" rejoined Mary; \"but what, if I may speir, has\ngi'en sic a kirkyard turn to your conversation the day? I am better now,\nI assure you, and I hope you dinna think that, because I had the cauld\naught days since, and because I have on a new gown the day, I maun die\nneist week.\"\n\n\"That's just the way with foolish young creatures in general, and you\namang the lave,\" resumed her companion, waxing yet more solemn in her\ntone and manner of speaking. \"They aye keep the day of distress and of\ndeath far away from themselves: but death stays not his dart for their\nfolly, and the messenger will come at his time, whether they will think\nof his coming, or whether they will keep their thoughts fixed upon\nworldly vanity.\"\n\n\"What _is_ the meaning of all this?\" said Mary, who now began to feel\nsomewhat alarmed. \"Has anybody persuaded you that I am really dying, or\nthat I am not as likely to live as others of my age, because I have had\na slight cold, from which I am now perfectly recovered? Tell me at once\nfor I can endure your mysterious hints no longer.\"\n\n\"Then I must tell you the truth,\" said Nanny, whose voice had now\nreached the uttermost pitch of solemnity which it could compass--\"I must\ntell you the truth, though I had meant to prepare you, but in part, for\nwhat is before you. And think not lightly of it, I beseech you, for it\nis indeed a terrible thing to go down to the grave in the bloom of\nyouth, and to be a feast for _snails_ and worms, when we are promising\nourselves many days of worldly enjoyment. But, as I said, I maun e'en\ntell you the truth, as I telled my ain dear Lizzy Lawmont, when she was\non her death-bed; and weel it was that I did tell her without delay;\nfor, from that minute, puir Lizzy postit to her grave.\"\n\nHere she went over the whole story of the _warning_, with such\nadditions, emendations, and exaggeration, as were necessary to give it\nits full effect. In this department of literary science she displayed a\npower of contrivance and an ingenuity which might have done honour to a\nprofessed _story-teller_. But in the present instance her art seemed to\nbe almost thrown away; for, after she had given the finishing touch to\nthe picture--and she did it with a master-hand--\n\n\"Is that a'?\" said Mary, with a smile, which showed that her heart was\ngreatly, if not wholly relieved--\"is that a'?\" she repeated, in a tone\nwhich made her fellow-traveller turn her eyes to heaven with a feeling\nof pious indignation.\n\n\"Ay, that's a',\" rejoined Nanny, with a degree of pique in her manner\nwhich she could not conceal; \"and little effect it _a'_ seems to hae\nupon you! But I maun go and spier for auld John Gavel, wha has been sair\ndistressed for mair than a fortnight; and sae, guid-day.\" As she spoke\nthe last word, she left Mary to pursue her journey alone, and turned\ndown another road, with the friendly intention, no doubt, of persuading\nMr Gavel that he was beyond all hope of recovery.\n\nWonderful as it may seem, after what had happened, Mary continued to\nenjoy good health, and what was still more unaccountable, excellent\nspirits, for a whole fortnight. Without making any direct allusion to\nthe _warning_, from which she evidently wished to keep at as great a\ndistance as possible, she did everything in her power to dissipate her\nmother's apprehensions on that subject; but at the end of this period,\nthe fears of the latter were again awakened in all their force, and as\nsoon as the neighbours were astir, she again hastened to lay the burden\nof her distress before Nanny Ferly.\n\n\"O Nanny, Nanny!\" said she, wringing her hands, as she entered the\ndomicile, \"sic a night as I've passed? If the Lord should give me\nstrength to endure, I must not complain; but, I fear, if thae awfu\nthings continue to happen about our house, I'll no stand it lang, or if\nI do stand it, I'll surely lose my reason.\"\n\n\"What have you seen or heard?\" inquired Nanny, eagerly, as soon as she\ncould get in a word.\n\n\"I've heard as muckle as micht drive a mither oot o' her senses,\" was\nthe reply; \"and it has driven rest frae my bed, and ilka Sabbath-day's\nthocht out o' my head. But, to tell ye what it was:--Some time after\nmidnight, I heard the very same sharp rap at the window that I heard\nyesternight was a fortnight; and, as I've never sleepit sound since that\nawfu nicht, I started up, and listened. Aweel, after awhile, the rap was\nrepeated, but naething spake; and then I heard a deep, low sound upon\nthe window-frame, which I could compare to naething save the noise of\nbringing in an empty coffin; and then Nelly Jackson's dog gae a bark,\nand I heard nae mair. I was aye trying to convince mysel that it micht\nbe only a trick the first time, and this conviction gathered strength\nwhen I saw the lassie keep her health frae day to day; but I doubt, I\ndoubt, something _is_ gaun to happen now!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay!\" was Nanny's response; and as she spoke her voice assumed its\ngravest tone; \"it's owre like something _will_ happen, and that before\nit's lang. Puir John Gavel's wife heard a soughing i' the lum twa nichts\nafore he died; and I telled baith her and him what wad happen, and\nhappen it did, sure aneugh.\"\n\nUnquestionable as these warnings had been considered, their fulfilment,\nto Nanny's great discomfiture, did not follow so speedily as had been\nexpected. The new-year season again came round, without anything\nextraordinary having happened; and with it came Jenny Jackson's wedding.\nJenny's scheme, like the \"schemes\" of the before-mentioned \"mice and\nmen,\" had entirely failed. With a degree of vanity which may be easily\npardoned, she had been led to suppose that James Duff was really\nattached to her, while he, in reality, only bestowed some attention upon\nher for the purpose of _plaguing_ Andrew, and to amuse himself when he\nhad nothing else to do; but, from the evening on which he first saw Mary\nM'Kenzie, he had become less and less assiduous in these attentions,\ntill, in the end, she began to grow fearful of \"losing the market\"\naltogether, and was glad to accept an offer of marriage from Andrew,\nalmost as soon as it was made. But, though the said James, in country\nphrase, had _drawn back_, he had carefully avoided everything like a\nquarrel; and, as they had been fellow-servants, and had, moreover, been\nupon the most friendly terms up to the very day on which they parted, he\nwas invited to the wedding.\n\nPassing over the ceremony, and all that concerned it, Mary Mackenzie was\nalso among the wedding guests, and she did not appear to be forgotten by\nJames Duff; for he embraced the first opportunity which presented itself\nof renewing their old acquaintance, by placing himself beside her. Upon\nthis occasion, she appeared to receive him with more open frankness than\nshe had ever done before, while he appeared highly gratified with the\nchange of sentiment which she now manifested towards him. For a time,\nthey carried on a sort of exclusive conversation, in very low and\nconfidential tones; and, when Mary afterwards complained that she felt\nuncomfortably warm, from the number of people congregated in the small\nroom, James proposed to take a walk in the open air. This proposal was\nreadily agreed to; and, the evening being calm and still, though dark\nand cloudy, they sauntered for some distance along the road, in the\ndirection which led out of the village. James did not seem to suppose\nthat any one would expect their return; he seemed to have forgotten\neverything except his companion; and he would have wandered on,\nneglectful alike of the distance from home and the lapse of time, had\nnot Mary ventured to remind him of the possibility of their being missed\nfrom the company, if they should prolong their walk, and hinted the\npropriety of immediately returning.\n\nThis hint--gentle in itself, and sounded, or rather whispered in his\near, by a voice the very gentlest imaginable--nevertheless, seemed to\nstrike him as something wholly unexpected; and, while they turned to\nretrace their steps, he appeared rather at a loss what to say. The truth\nwas, he had been thinking for some time past of introducing a subject in\nwhich he felt he was deeply interested; but, as he had never in his life\nbefore had occasion to introduce such a subject to the notice of a\nwoman, he knew not how to begin, and hence his inattention to the matter\nof miles and furlongs, and the length of their walk. Fearing, however,\nthat another opportunity equally favourable might not soon occur, or\nperhaps he might be influenced by the idea that some one more favourably\nsituated might supersede him--it matters little which--at length he did\nmake out to declare his affection; with what tones, or in what words,\nhas not been recorded.\n\nThe days, at this season of the year, being nearly at the shortest, and\nthe nights at the longest, the evening's festivity was early begun, and\nthe bridal merriment had lasted at least five hours before ten o'clock.\nBy this time, James Duff, who had a number of miles to travel before he\ncould reach his master's farm, and who, moreover, had to attend his work\nnext day, began to think of taking his departure. But, while the mirth\nand festivity had been proceeding within, the weather had been getting\ngradually more and more stormy without. For the last half-hour, the wind\nhad been howling furiously and loud around the house; the few stars\nwhich were visible \"sent down a sklintin light;\" the clouds, previously\naccumulated, had begun to career overhead; and, at the time spoken of,\na blinding fall of snow came on. James, however, would have proceeded on\nhis journey; but Mary, as soon as she saw the state of the weather,\ninsisted on the propriety, or rather necessity, of his stopping till\nmorning. With her wishes in this respect he declared himself ready to\ncomply, if she could only find some place of shelter where they might\npass what remained of the night, and promise to keep him company. But\nwith this she was not to be satisfied. Though he seemed to set little\nvalue on his health, she said that she could not consent to see him\nwilfully throwing it away. The night was now piercing cold; and as he\nmust be fatigued with his previous journey, and would have to work hard\nnext day, she insisted on being allowed to provide him with a bed. Beds,\nhowever, were not easy to be found in the neighbourhood--there being in\nmost of the houses no more accommodation than what was necessary for the\nfamilies they contained; but the ingenuity of woman, when really and\nfairly set to work, is seldom baffled. She soon recollected a female\nacquaintance who slept alone; and, by taking up her quarters with this\nindividual, her own bed would be left for the reception of him for whose\ncomfort she now seemed to consider it her duty to provide. This\narrangement completed, she conducted him to her mother's, where no\nopposition was offered to her scheme; and, after placing a light for him\nin her own little room, and bidding him an affectionate good-night, she\nleft him to his repose, which, as the sequel will show, was not destined\nto be unbroken.\n\nBoth pleased and excited by the occurrences of the evening, the blood\ncoursed his veins too rapidly to admit of sleep for a time. He had,\nhowever, closed his eyes, and a dream had begun to operate upon his\nimagination. It was a dream of a house which he could call his own, a\nclean hearth, and a cheerful fire, with himself snugly seated in an\narm-chair on one side of it, and Mary sitting on the other, knitting a\nstocking; and, ever as he addressed her, bending on him a pair of\nsmiling eyes. Alas! what is the happiness of man, in most instances,\nsave a dream--sometimes a waking one, sometimes a sleeping one--but\nseldom real! From this pleasing illusion he was awakened by a noise at\nthe window; and the house, clean hearth, cheerful fire, arm-chair, along\nwith Mary and her stocking, at once disappeared in darkness. He heard\nher name repeated in a low whisper; and, after a considerable pause, the\nnoise increased. Upon this occasion, it appeared to be something worse\nthan an ordinary _warning_--bad as that might be--for it continued. At\nfirst jealousy took possession of his heart. \"Could it be possible that\nMary was making a dupe of him, while she really preferred another? And\ncould it be that _other_ who was now making a noise for the purpose of\nawakening her?\" These were questions which, in his first surprise, he\nnaturally put to himself, without being exactly able to answer them.\nSomething more serious, however, than the awakening of young women\nseemed to be in the wind, and his next thought was of robbers. This\nidea, upon farther consideration, he was also forced to reject; for he\nhad remarked that, except the bed upon which he was lying, a table, a\nsmall mirror, and some trifling articles of female attire, there was\nneither chest, chest of drawers, nor anything else in the apartment\nwhich could possibly conceal treasure; and it was not likely that\npractised robbers would put themselves to much trouble for beds, tables,\nand six-inch mirrors. Upon these things he had ample time to reflect;\nfor the operations at the window neither appeared to be scientific nor\nsuccessful. They consisted of a sort of half-cautious rubbing and\nscratching, which was kept up with little intermission; and at last he\nfelt inclined to think that the whole might be the work of some one who\nhad sat too long at the bottle, and, after being deserted by his\ncompanions, had forgotten to go to bed. But, then, unless he were in\nsome way or other connected with Mary, or unless his visits at least\nhad, on some former occasion, been sanctioned by her, what reason could\nhe have for selecting that particular window as the scene of his\nnocturnal operations? A certain degree of reviving jealousy, mingled\nwith a strong feeling of curiosity, now took full possession of the\ndoubtful lover's mind; and having, to his own astonishment, remained so\nlong silent, he resolved to await the issue without uttering a word.\nFortunately he had heard nothing of warnings, and but little of ghosts;\nthe little which he had heard he entirely discredited; and, by\nattributing the whole directly to _natural_ and not _supernatural_\nagency, he felt strengthened to abide by his resolution--a circumstance\nwhich could have hardly occurred, had he held, in its full perfection,\nthe doctrine of the _visibility_ of spirits.\n\nThe noise continued for nearly an hour and a-half; and when it ceased,\nafter something like a gentle wrench bestowed upon the window-frame, he\nheard a foot cautiously approaching the bed on which he lay; and, by\ncompressing his lips with a desperate effort, and almost stifling his\nvery breath, he suppressed an involuntary inclination to start up, and\neither place himself in a posture of defence, or give the alarm. In\nhalf-a-minute more, he felt a cold, rough, clammy hand pass over his\nface. A freezing sense of terror, which had nearly converted him from\nhis scepticism with respect to ghosts, shot directly to his heart, and a\nchill perspiration was bursting from his brow; with the next breath he\nhad probably started to his feet, and attempted to fly; but at that\ninstant he was relieved by hearing a voice with which he was well\nacquainted, in soft and tremulous accents, pronounce the word _Mary_.\nThat he might be certain as to the identity of the speaker, he waited\ntill he heard the name repeated, and then spoke.\n\n\"Friend,\" said he, in a stern voice, \"I doubt you seek one who is not\nhere;\" and, as he spoke, he made an attempt to grasp the former speaker.\nBut his words, few and commonplace as they were, had produced a more\ninstantaneous effect upon that individual than the most powerful\nexorcism of a Catholic priest ever produced upon rats, mice, or any\nother pest of humanity. The moment the first syllable sounded in his\nears, he made a hasty retreat; and after the intruder was gone, the\nlittle that remained of the night passed without farther disturbance.\n\nMary had felt too much oppressed with tumultuous, yet happy feelings, to\nsleep during the night, so that there was little danger of her being\nlate in rising; and, according to a promise made on the previous\nevening, she was at her mother's cottage some hours before daylight. In\na few minutes the fire was lighted up, and she was proceeding to cook a\nslight repast for the stranger, when he himself made his appearance in\nthat apartment which might be called the kitchen. She saluted him by\ninquiring \"how he had rested?\" and he answered her with an attempt at\ncivility; but his eye did not meet hers as it had done on the previous\nevening; and altogether there was an alteration in his manner which\nstruck her forcibly. She next begged him to be seated; but, instead of\ncomplying with her request, he looked at his watch, and then represented\nto her the necessity of his being gone immediately. She seemed anxious\nthat he should stop till she could set before him the victuals which she\nhad been preparing, simply, as she said, \"that he might not go abroad so\nearly with an empty stomach;\" but her entreaties were thrown away; and,\nwhen nothing could persuade him to delay his journey only for a few\nminutes, she accompanied him out in a state of perplexed feeling not\neasily described. She had walked by his side to some distance without\nanything having passed between them, except some trite observations\nconcerning the weather, which was now fair--the fall of snow having\nonly lasted for a short time--when, unable longer to endure this state\nof suspense, she asked, in a hesitating tone, if \"anything had occurred\nduring the night to disturb him?\"\n\n\"I have been a fool!\" was his tart reply; \"but I am at least wise enough\nto repent of my folly in time. I was loth to believe the evidence of my\nown senses when they testified against you, and I even tried to argue\nmyself into a belief of your innocence, but your question puts the\nmatter beyond a doubt; and now, farewell for ever!\"\n\nMary would have remonstrated with him as to the rashness of his\nconduct--she would have told him what she knew. The warmth of a lately\nawakened affection, a woman's pride, a woman's delicacy, and a feeling\nof indignation at being thus suspected, were all at strife in her bosom;\nand it can scarcely be matter of surprise, if for some seconds they\ndeprived her of the use of speech. As he was turning to depart, however,\nshe mustered as much resolution as to repeat the word \"farewell\" firmly,\nwhich was all she could say.\n\nWhen left alone, Mary felt so much agitated, that it was some time\nbefore she could endure the thought of being seen. Darkness and solitude\nseemed to accord best with the state of her feelings, and to afford her\nthe only consolation which she was capable of receiving. In this state\nof mind, it was some time before she could think of returning home; and,\nwhen she did return, a new scene of mystery and confusion awaited her.\n\nAt the door she met her mother, who, with a countenance uncommonly\nsolemn, was just coming out. Margaret, who, from having slept more\nsoundly than was her usual, had only heard the concluding part of the\nnocturnal noises, was again in a great distress. She believed them\nnothing less than a _third warning_; which, according to vulgar\nsuperstition, is an infallible proof; and on the present, as on former\noccasions, she was hastening to communicate this fresh confirmation of\nher fears to Nanny Ferly. But she was immediately recalled by her\nhusband, who, on returning from the yard, whither he had been to\nreconnoitre the morning sky, for the purpose of ascertaining what sort\nof weather they were likely to have for the day, declared, \"that their\nback-window had been taken out, and that Mary's room had certainly been\nrobbed.\" On being made acquainted with this circumstance, great was the\ngood dame's consternation; and yet it were difficult to say whether she\nwould not have preferred the loss of her daughter's property, or any\nother property which might be in the house, to those distressing fears\nwhich she had hitherto entertained for the loss of that daughter\nherself.\n\n\"God be thankit!\" she exclaimed, after a short pause--\"there was but\nlittle to rob.\"\n\nA strict examination was now instituted, to ascertain if property had\nnot been abstracted from other parts of the house; but in this\nexamination Mary took little share.\n\n\"What's the lassie doin dreamin there, as if she were bewildered?\" cried\nher mother at last, with some impatience. \"Ye're a bonny ane indeed, to\nstand as unconcerned as if ye were the steeple, when the hale house is\nturned heels owre head to see how muckle that scoundrel has carried aff\nwi' him.\"\n\nThis seemed to awaken her from her reverie.\n\n\"Mother,\" said she, firmly, \"you may spare your bad names; for whatever\nhe _may do_, he will neither rob nor steal; and, so far as I can see,\nthe scoundrel of whom _you_ complain has carried off but little.\"\n\nMary's assertion was strictly and literally true; for, after the closest\nsearch, it was found that the whole of the mortar which secured the\nlittle window on the outside had been carefully displaced by means of a\nlarge nail, or some other iron instrument, and the window itself set\ndown upon the ground without any of the glass being broken; but nothing\nwas missing, and not a single article seemed to have been so much as\nmoved from its place. Great was the wonder which now rose as to who the\ndepredator could be, and what motive he could possibly have had for\nacting so strange a part. Mary was strictly questioned as to the time\nand manner of her guest's departure; but her evidence tended in no way\nto clear up the mystery. After much conjecture had been wasted to no\npurpose, as daylight grew broad, a hat was discovered under a\nlow-growing apple-tree, which appeared to have been brushed by the\nbranches from the head of the depredator while he was making his escape.\nIt was carefully examined; but it bore no distinctive mark except the\nletters \"A. A.,\" and \"R. D.,\" in the crown, neither of which could be\ndeciphered. Mary was again questioned as to its owner; but she only\nsaid, \"It might belong to anybody, for anything she knew;\" and, in the\ntrue spirit of discovery, it was carried by her mother to the house of\nthe new-married pair. No sooner had Jenny Jackson--now Mrs Angus--seen\nit, than she exclaimed, \"Whaur is Mary? whaur is Mary?\" Mary was sent\nfor.\n\n\"Whether is Ritchie or Jamie gaun to get ye noo, Mary?\" she inquired, in\nan ecstasy of triumphant feeling. \"I doubt it's Ritchie, after a', for\nthis is his hat--the very hat he bought from Andrew before he gaed to\nthe bleachfield; and Andrew said it was naething but you that took him\nthere. See, there is baith their names--A. for Andrew, A. for Angus, R.\nfor Ritchie, D. for Drycraig.\"\n\nThe whole was now out. Ritchie, from having lain down and fallen asleep\nwithout his hat, was thrown into a fever, which, after having brought\nhim very near the grave, cured him effectually of his drunken habits and\nhis maudlin affection at the same time. Though James Duff had departed\nin wrath, he soon returned in softened feeling; and, in less than a\nyear, he was married to Mary Mackenzie. Nanny Ferly was an incurable;\nbut the ridicule to which she was subjected upon this occasion made her\nmore cautious in the selection of her subjects And thus ends our story\nof The Warning.\n\n\n\n\nGRIZEL COCHRANE.\n\nA TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR.\n\n\nWhen the tyranny and bigotry of the last James drove his subjects to\ntake up arms against him, one of the most formidable enemies to his\ndangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane, ancestor of the present\nEarl of Dundonald. He was one of the most prominent actors in Argyle's\nrebellion, and for ages a destructive doom seemed to have hung over the\nhouse of Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their\nfortunes to the cause of its chieftains. The same doom encompassed Sir\nJohn Cochrane. He was surrounded by the king's troops--long, deadly, and\ndesperate was his resistance; but at length, overpowered by numbers, he\nwas taken prisoner, tried, and condemned to die upon the scaffold. He\nhad but a few days to live, and his jailer waited but the arrival of his\ndeath-warrant to lead him forth to execution. His family and his friends\nhad visited him in prison, and exchanged with him the last, the long,\nthe heart-yearning farewell. But there was one who came not with the\nrest to receive his blessing--one who was the pride of his eyes, and of\nhis house--even Grizel, the daughter of his love. Twilight was casting a\ndeeper gloom over the gratings of his prison-house, he was mourning for\na last look of his favourite child, and his head was pressed against the\ncold damp walls of his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot\nthrough it like stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned\nslowly on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a\nyoung and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and commanding, her eyes\ndark, bright, and tearless; but their very brightness spoke of\nsorrow--of sorrow too deep to be wept away; and her raven tresses were\nparted over an open brow, clear and pure as the polished marble. The\nunhappy captive raised his head as they entered--\n\n\"My child! my own Grizel!\" he exclaimed, and she fell upon his bosom.\n\n\"My father! my dear father!\" sobbed the miserable maiden, and she dashed\naway the tear that accompanied the words.\n\n\"Your interview must be short--very short,\", said the jailer, as he\nturned and left them for a few minutes together.\n\n\"God help and comfort thee, my daughter!\" added the unhappy father, as\nhe held her to his breast, and printed a kiss upon her brow. \"I had\nfeared that I should die without bestowing my blessing on the head of my\nown child, and that stung me more than death. But thou art come, my\nlove--thou art come! and the last blessing of thy wretched father----\"\n\n\"Nay! forbear! forbear!\" she exclaimed; \"not thy last blessing!--not thy\nlast! My father shall not die!\"\n\n\"Be calm! be calm, my child!\" returned he; \"would to Heaven that I could\ncomfort thee!--my own! my own! But there is no hope--within three days,\nand thou and all my little ones will be----\"\n\nFatherless--he would have said, but the words died on his tongue.\n\n\"Three days!\" repeated she, raising her head from his breast, but\neagerly pressing his hand--\"three days! Then there _is_ hope--my father\n_shall_ live! Is not my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the\nconfessor and the master of the king? From him he shall beg the life of\nhis son, and my father shall not die.\"\n\n\"Nay! nay, my Grizel,\" returned he; \"be not deceived--there is no\nhope--already my doom is sealed--already the king has signed the order\nfor my execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way.\"\n\n\"Yet my father SHALL not!--SHALL not die!\" she repeated, emphatically,\nand, clasping her hands together. \"Heaven speed a daughter's purpose!\"\nshe exclaimed; and, turning to her father, said, calmly--\"We part now,\nbut we shall meet again.\"\n\n\"What would my child?\" inquired he eagerly, gazing anxiously on her\nface.\n\n\"Ask not now,\" she replied, \"my father--ask not now; but pray for me and\nbless me--but not with thy _last_ blessing.\"\n\nHe again pressed her to his heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few\nmoments the jailer entered, and they were torn from the arms of each\nother.\n\nOn the evening of the second day after the interview we have mentioned,\na wayfaring man crossed the drawbridge at Berwick, from the north, and\nproceeding down Marygate, sat down to rest upon a bench by the door of\nan hostelry on the south side of the street, nearly fronting where what\nwas called the \"Main-guard\" then stood. He did not enter the inn; for it\nwas above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver Cromwell had\nmade his head-quarters a few years before, and where, at a somewhat\nearlier period, James the Sixth had taken up his residence when on his\nway to enter on the sovereignty of England. The traveller wore a coarse\njerkin fastened round his body by a leathern girdle, and over it a short\ncloak, composed of equally plain materials. He was evidently a young\nman; but his beaver was drawn down, so as almost to conceal his\nfeatures. In the one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other a\npilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a crust of\nbread from his bundle, and, after resting for a few minutes, rose to\ndepart. The shades of night were setting in, and it threatened to be a\nnight of storms. The heavens were gathering black, the clouds rushing\nfrom the sea, sudden gusts of wind were moaning along the streets,\naccompanied by heavy drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was\ntroubled.\n\n\"Heaven help thee, if thou intendest to travel far in such a night as\nthis!\" said the sentinel at the English gate, as the traveller passed\nhim and proceeded to cross the bridge.\n\nIn a few minutes, he was upon the borders of the wide, desolate, and\ndreary muir of Tweedmouth, which, for miles, presented a desert of\nwhins, fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered\nwith thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill, braving the\nstorm, which now raged in wildest fury. The rain fell in torrents, and\nthe wind howled as a legion of famished wolves, hurling its doleful and\nangry echoes over the heath. Still the stranger pushed onward, until he\nhad proceeded about two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable\nlonger to brave the storm, he sought shelter amidst some crab and\nbramble bushes by the wayside. Nearly an hour had passed since he sought\nthis imperfect refuge, and the darkness of the night and the storm had\nincreased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard,\nhurriedly plashing along the road. The rider bent his head to the blast.\nSuddenly his horse was grasped by the bridle, the rider raised his head,\nand the traveller stood before him, holding a pistol to his breast.\n\n\"Dismount!\" cried the stranger, sternly.\n\nThe horseman, benumbed, and stricken with fear, made an effort to reach\nhis arms; but, in a moment, the hand of the robber, quitting the bridle,\ngrasped the breast of the rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell\nheavily on his face, and for several minutes remained senseless. The\nstranger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail for the north,\nand flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath.\n\nEarly on the following morning, the inhabitants of Berwick were seen\nhurrying in groups to the spot where the robbery had been committed, and\nwere scattered in every direction around the muir; but no trace of the\nrobber could be obtained.\n\nThree days had passed, and Sir John Cochrane yet lived. The mail which\ncontained his death-warrant had been robbed; and, before another order\nfor his execution could be given, the intercession of his father, the\nEarl of Dundonald, with the king's confessor, might be successful.\nGrizel now became almost his constant companion in prison, and spoke to\nhim words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had passed since the robbery\nof the mail had been committed, and protracted hope in the bosom of the\nprisoner became more bitter than his first despair. But even that hope,\nbitter as it was, perished. The intercession of his father had been\nunsuccessful--and a second time the bigoted and would-be despotic\nmonarch had signed the warrant for his death, and within little more\nthan another day that warrant would reach his prison.\n\n\"The will of Heaven be done!\" groaned the captive.\n\n\"Amen!\" returned Grizel, with wild vehemence; \"but my father _shall_ not\ndie!\"\n\nAgain the rider with the mail had reached the muir of Tweedmouth, and a\nsecond time he bore with him the doom of Cochrane. He spurred his horse\nto its utmost speed, he looked cautiously before, behind, and around\nhim; and in his right hand he carried a pistol ready to defend himself.\nThe moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, rendering desolation\nvisible, and giving a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was\nturning the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared at the\nreport of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash into its very eyes.\nAt the same moment, his own pistol flashed, and the horse rearing more\nviolently, he was driven from the saddle. In a moment, the foot of the\nrobber was upon his breast, who, bending over him, and brandishing a\nshort dagger in his hand, said--\n\n\"Give me thine arms, or die!\"\n\nThe heart of the king's servant failed within him, and, without\nventuring to reply, he did as he was commanded.\n\n\"Now, go thy way,\" said the robber, sternly, \"but leave with me the\nhorse, and leave with me the mail--lest a worse thing come upon thee.\"\n\nThe man therefore arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, trembling; and\nthe robber, mounting the horse which he had left, rode rapidly across\nthe heath.\n\nPreparations were making for the execution of Sir John Cochrane, and the\nofficers of the law waited only for the arrival of the mail with his\nsecond death-warrant, to lead him forth to the scaffold, when the\ntidings arrived that the mail had again been robbed. For yet fourteen\ndays, and the life of the prisoner would be again prolonged. He again\nfell on the neck of his daughter, and wept, and said--\n\n\"It is good--the hand of Heaven is in this!\"\n\n\"Said I not,\" replied the maiden--and for the first time she wept\naloud--\"that my father should not die.\"\n\nThe fourteen days were not yet past, when the prison-doors flew open,\nand the old Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His\nintercession with the confessor had been at length successful; and,\nafter twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had\nas often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his\npardon. He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own\nhouse--his family were clinging around him shedding tears of joy--and\nthey were marvelling with gratitude at the mysterious providence that\nhad twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger\ncraved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted--and the robber\nentered. He was habited, as we have before described, with the coarse\ncloak and coarser jerkin; but his bearing was above his condition. On\nentering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained Covered.\n\n\"When you have perused these,\" said he, taking two papers from his\nbosom, \"cast them into the fire!\"\n\nSir John glanced on them, started, and became pale--they were his\ndeath-warrants.\n\n\"My deliverer,\" exclaimed he, \"how shall I thank thee--how repay the\nsaviour of my life! My father--my children--thank him for me!\"\n\nThe old earl grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his\nknees; and he burst into tears.\n\n\"By what name,\" eagerly inquired Sir John, \"shall I thank my deliverer?\"\n\nThe stranger wept aloud; and raising his beaver, the raven tresses of\nGrizel Cochrane fell upon the coarse cloak.\n\n\"Gracious Heaven!\" exclaimed the astonished and enraptured father--\"my\nown child!--my saviour!--my own Grizel!\"\n\nIt is unnecessary to add more--the imagination of the reader can supply\nthe rest; and, we may only add, that Grizel Cochrane, whose heroism and\nnoble affection we have here hurriedly and imperfectly sketched, was,\ntradition says, the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of\nAllanbank, and great-great-grandmother of Mr Coutts, the celebrated\nbanker.[2]\n\n[Footnote 2: Since the author of the \"Tales of the Borders\" first\npublished the tale of \"Grizel Cochrane,\" a slightly different version of\nit appeared in \"Chambers' Journal.\" There is no reason to doubt the fact\nof her heroism; but we believe it is incorrect, as is generally\naffirmed, to say that she was the grandmother of the late Sir John\nStuart of Allanbank. We may state that the author of these tales\nreceived a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John referred to,\nstating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel\nconnected with their genealogy, but that they were unable to prove such\nconnection.]\n\n\n\n\nSQUIRE BEN.\n\n\nBefore introducing my readers to the narrative of Squire Ben, it may be\nproper to inform them who Squire Ben was. In the year 1816, when the\npiping times of peace had begun, and our heroes, like Othello, \"found\ntheir occupation gone,\" a thickset, bluff, burly-headed little man,\nwhose every word and look reminded you of Incledon's \"_Cease, rude\nBoreas_,\" and bespoke him to be one of those who had \"sailed with noble\nJervis,\" or,\n\n    \"In gallant Duncan's fleet\n    Had sung out, yo heave ho!\"--\n\npurchased a small estate in Northumberland, a few miles from the banks\nof the Coquet. He might be fifty years of age; but his weatherbeaten\ncountenance gave him the appearance of a man of sixty. Around the collar\nof a Newfoundland dog, which followed him more faithfully than his\nshadow, were engraved the words, \"Captain Benjamin Cookson;\" but, after\nhe had purchased the estate to which I have alluded, his poorer\nneighbours called him Squire Ben. He was a strange mixture of\nenthusiasm, shrewdness, courage, comicality, generosity, and humanity.\nBen, on becoming a country gentleman, became a keen fisher; and, as it\nis said, \"a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind,\" I also, being fond\nof the sport, became a mighty favourite with the bluff-faced squire. It\nwas on a fine bracing day in March, after a tolerable day's fishing, we\nwent to dine and spend the afternoon in the Angler's Inn, which stands\nat the north end of the bridge over the Coquet, at the foot of the hill\nleading up to Longframlington. Observing that Ben was in good sailing\ntrim, I dropped a hint that an account of his voyages and cruises on\nthe ocean of life would be interesting.\n\nAh, my boy (said Ben), you are there with your soundings, are you? Well,\nyou shall have a long story by the shortest tack. Somebody was my father\n(continued he), but whom I know not. This much I know about my mother:\nshe was cook in a gentleman's family in this county, and being a fat,\nportly body--something of the build of her son, I take it--no one\nsuspected that she was in a certain delicate situation, until within a\nfew days before I was born. Then, with very grief and shame, the poor\nthing became delirious; and, as an old servant of the family has since\ntold me, you could see the very flesh melting off her bones. While she\ncontinued in a state of delirium, your humble servant, poor Benjamin,\nwas born; and without recovering her senses, she died within an hour\nafter my birth, leaving me--a beautiful orphan, as you see me now--a\nlegacy to the workhouse and the world. Benjamin was my mother's family\nname--from which I suppose they had something of the Jew in their blood;\nthough, Heaven knows, I have none in my composition. So they who had the\nchristening of me gave me my mother's name of Benjamin, as my Christian\nname: and from her occupation as _cook_, they surnamed me Cookson--that\nis, \"Benjamin the Cook's son,\" simply Benjamin Cookson, more simply,\nSquire Ben. Well, you see, my boy, I was born beneath the roof of an\nEnglish squire, and before I was three hours old was handed over to the\nworkhouse. This was the beginning of my life. The first thing I remember\nwas hating the workhouse--the second was loving the sea. Yes, sir,\nbefore I was seven years old, I used to steal away in the noble company\nof my own good self, and sit down upon a rock on the solitary beach,\nwatching the ships, the waves, and the sea-birds--wishing to be a wave,\na ship, or a bird--ay, sir, wishing to be anything but poor orphan Ben.\nThe sea was to me what my parents should have been--a thing I delighted\nto look upon. I loved the very music of its maddest storms; though,\nquietly, I have since had enough of them. I began my career before I was\nten years of age, as cabin-boy in a collier. My skipper was a\ndare-devil, tear-away sort of fellow, who cared no more for running down\none of your coasting craft than for turning a quid in his mouth. But he\nwas a good, honest, kindhearted sort of a chap, for all that--barring\nthat the rope's-end was too often in his hand.\n\n\"Ben,\" says he to me one misty day, when we were taking coals across the\nherring pond to the Dutchmen, and the man at the helm could not see\nhalf-way to the mast-head--\"Ben, my little fellow, can you cipher?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" says I.\n\n\"The deuce you can!\" says he; \"then you're just the lad for me. And do\nyou understand logarithms?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" says I; \"what sort of wood be they?\"\n\n\"Wood be hanged! you blockhead!\" said he, raising his foot in a passion,\nbut a smile on the corners of his mouth shoved it to the deck again\nbefore it reached me. \"But come, Ben, you can cipher, you say; well, I\nknow all about the radius and tangents, and them sort of things, and\nstating the question; but blow me if I have a multiplication-table on\nboard--my fingers are of no use at a long number, and I am always\ngetting out of it counting by chalks;--so come below, Ben, and look over\nthe question, and let us find where we are. I know I have made a mistake\nsome way; and mark ye, Ben, if you don't find it out--ye that can\ncipher--there's a rope's-end to your supper, and that's all.\"\n\nHowsever, sir, I did find it out, and I was regarded as a prodigy in the\nship ever after. The year before I was out of my apprenticeship, our\nvessel was laid up for four months, and the skipper sent me to school\nduring the time, at his own expense, saying--\n\n\"Get navigation, Ben, my boy, and you will one day be a commodore--by\nJupiter, you'll be an honour to the navy.\"\n\nI got as far as \"_Dead Reckoning_\" and there, I reckon, I made a dead\nstand, or rather, I ceased to do anything but study \"_Lunar\nObservations_.\" Our owner had a daughter, my own age to a day. I can't\ndescribe her, sir; I haven't enough of what I suppose you would call\npoetry about me for that, but, upon the word of a sailor, her hair was\nlike night rendered transparent--black, jet black; her neck white as the\nspray on the bosom of a billow; her face was lovelier than a rainbow;\nand her figure handsome as a frigate in full sail. But she had twenty\nthousand pounds--she was no bargain for orphan Ben! However, I saw her,\nand that was enough--learning and I shook hands. Her father had a small\nyacht--he proposed taking a pleasure party to the Coquet. Jess--for that\nwas her name--was one of the passengers, and the management of the yacht\nwas intrusted to me. In spite of myself, I gazed upon her by the hour--I\nwas intoxicated with passion--my heart swelled as if it would burst from\nmy bosom. I saw a titled puppy touch her fingers--I heard him prattle\nlove in her ears. My first impulse was to dash him overboard. I wished\nthe sea which I loved might rise and swallow us. I thought it would be\nhappiness to die in her company--perhaps to sink with her arm clinging\nround my neck for protection. The wish of my madness was verified. We\nwere returning. We were five miles from the shore. A squall, then a\nhurricane, came on--every sail was reefed--the mast was snapped as I\nwould snap that pipe between my fingers (here the old squire, suiting\nthe action to the word, broke the end off his pipe)--the sea rose--the\nhurricane increased, the yacht capsised, as a feather twirls in the\nwind. Every soul that had been on board was now struggling for\nlife--buffeting the billows. At that moment I had but one thought, and\nthat was of Jess; but one wish, and that was to die with her. I saw my\nfellow-creatures in their death agonies, but I looked only for her. At\nthe moment we were upset, she was clinging to the arm of the titled\npuppy for protection; and now I saw her within five yards of me still\nclinging to the skirts of his coat, calling on him and on her father to\nsave her; and I saw him--yes, sir, I saw the monster, while struggling\nwith one hand, raise the other to strike her on the face, that he might\nextricate himself from her grasp.\n\n\"Brute!--monster!\" I exclaimed; and the next moment I had fixed my\nclenched hands in the hair of his head. Then, with one hand, I grasped\nthe arm of her I loved; and, with the other, uttering a fiendish yell, I\nendeavoured to hurl the coward to the bottom of the sea. The yacht still\nlay bottom up, but was now a hundred yards from us; however, getting my\narm round the waist of my adored Jess--I laughed at the sea--I defied\nthe hurricane. We reached the yacht. Her keel was not three feet out of\nthe water; and with my right hand I managed to obtain a hold of it. I\nsaw two of the crew and six of the passengers perish; but her father,\nand the coward who had struck her from him, still struggled with the\nwaves. They were borne far from us. Within half-an-hour I saw a vessel\npick them up. It tried to reach us, but could not. Two hours more had\npassed, and night was coming on--my strength gave way--my hold loosened.\nI made one more desperate effort; I fixed my teeth in the keel--but the\nburden under my left arm was still sacred--I felt her breath upon my\ncheek--it inspired me with a lion's strength, and for another hour I\nclung to the keel. Then the fury of the storm slackened;--a boat from\nthe vessel that had picked up her father reached us--we were taken on\nboard. She was senseless, but still breathed--my arm seemed glued round\nher waist. I was almost unconscious of everything, but an attempt to\ntake her from me. My teeth gnashed when they touched my hand to do so.\nAs we approached the vessel, those on board hailed us with three cheers.\nWe were lifted on deck. She was conveyed to the cabin. In a few minutes\nI became fully conscious of our situation. Some one gave me brandy--my\nbrain became on fire.\n\n\"Where is she?\" I exclaimed--\"did I not save her?--save her from the\ncoward who would have murdered her?\"\n\nI rushed to the cabin--she was recovering--her father stood over\nher--strangers were rubbing her bosom. Her father took my hand to thank\nme; but I was frantic--I rushed towards her--I bent over her--I pressed\nmy lips to hers--I called her mine. Her father grasped me by the collar.\n\n\"Boy, beggar, bastard!\" he exclaimed.\n\nWith his last word, half of my frenzy vanished; for a moment I seized\nhim by the throat--I cried, \"Repeat the word!\"\n\nI groaned in the agony of shame and madness. I rushed upon the deck--we\nwere then within a quarter-of-a-mile from the shore--I plunged\noverboard--I swam to the beach--I reached it.\n\nI became interested in the narrative of the squire, and I begged he\nwould continue it with less rapidity.\n\nRapidity! (said he, fixing upon me a glance in which I thought there was\nsomething like disdain). Youngster, if you cast a feather into the\nstream, it will be borne on with it. But (added he, in a less hurried\ntone, after pausing to breathe for a few moments), after struggling with\nthe strong surge for a good half-hour, I reached the shore. My utmost\nstrength was spent, and I was scarce able to drag myself a dozen yards\nbeyond tide-mark, when I sank exhausted on the beach. I lay, as though\nin sleep, until night had gathered round me, and when I arose, cold and\nbenumbed, my delirium had passed away. My bosom, however, like a galley\nmanned with criminals, was still the prison-house of agonising feelings,\neach more unruly than another. Every scene in which I had borne a part\nduring the day rushed before me in a moment--her image--the image of my\nJess, mingled with each. I hated existence--I almost despised myself;\nbut tears started from my eyes--the suffocation in my breast passed\naway, and I again breathed freely. I will not trouble you with details.\nI will pass over the next five years of my life, during which I was\nman-of-war's man, privateer, and smuggler. But I will tell you how I\nbecame a smuggler, for that calling I only followed for a week, and that\nwas from necessity; but, as you shall hear, it well-nigh cost me my\nlife. Britain had just launched into a war with France, and I was first\nmate of a small privateer, carrying two guns and a long Tom. We were\ntrying our fortune within six leagues of the Dutch coast, when two\nFrench merchantmen hove in sight. They were too heavy metal for us, and\nwe saw that it would be necessary to deal with them warily. So, hoisting\nthe republican flag, we bore down upon them; but the Frenchmen were not\nto be had; and no sooner had we come within gunshot, than one of them\nsaluted our little craft with a broadside that made her dance in the\nwater. It was evident there was no chance for us but at close quarters.\n\n\"Cookson,\" says our commander to me, \"what's to be done, my lad?\"\n\n\"Leave the privateer,\" says I.\n\n\"What!\" says he, \"take the long boat and run, without singeing a\nFrenchman's whisker! No, blow me,\" says he.\n\n\"No, sir,\" says I; \"board them--give them a touch of the cold steel.\"\n\n\"Right, Ben, my boy,\" says he. \"Helm about there--look to your\ncutlasses, my hearties--and now for the Frenchman's deck, and French\nwine to supper.\" The next moment we had tacked about, and were under the\nFrenchman's bow. In turning round, long Tom had been discharged, and\nclipped the rigging of the other vessel beautifully. The commander,\nmyself, and a dozen more, sprang upon the enemy's deck, cutlass in hand.\nOur reception was as warm as powder and steel could make it--the\nFrenchmen fought like devils, and disputed with us every inch of the\ndeck hand to hand. But, d'ye see, we beat them aft, though their numbers\nwere two to one; yet, as bad luck would have it, out of the twelve of us\nwho had boarded her, only seven were now able to handle a cutlass; and\namongst those who lay dying on the enemy's deck was our gallant\ncommander. He was a noble fellow, sir--a regular fire-eater, even in\ndeath. Bleeding, dying as he was, he endeavoured to drag his body along\nthe deck to assist us--and when finding it would not do, and he could\nmove no farther, he drew a pistol from his belt, and raising himself on\none hand, he discharged it at the head of the French captain with the\nother, and shouting out, \"Go it, my hearties!--Ben! never yield!\" his\nhead fell upon the deck; and \"he died like a true British sailor.\" But,\nsir, the other vessel that had been crippled at that moment made\nalongside. Her crew also boarded to assist their countrymen, and we were\nattacked fore and aft. There was nothing now left for us but to cut our\nway to the privateer, which had been brought round to the other side of\nthe vessel we had boarded. She had been left to the care of the second\nmate and six seamen; but the traitor, seeing our commander fall, and the\nhopelessness of our success, cut the lashings and bore off, leaving us\nto our fate on the deck of the enemy. Our number was now reduced to\nfive, and we were hemmed in on all sides--but we fought like tigers\nbereaved of their cubs. We placed ourselves heel to heel, we formed a\nlittle circle of death. I know not whether it was admiration of our\ncourage, or the cowardice of the enemy, that induced them to proclaim a\ntruce, and to offer us a boat, oars, and provisions, and to depart with\nour arms. We agreed to their proposal, after fighting an hour upon their\ndeck. And here begins my short, but eventful history as a smuggler. We\nhad been six hours at sea in the open boat, when we were picked up by a\nsmuggling lugger named the Wildfire. Her captain was an Englishman, and\nher cargo, which consisted principally of brandy and Hollands, was to be\ndelivered at Spittal and Boomer. It was about daybreak on the third\nmorning after we had been picked up; we were again within sight of the\nCoquet Isle. I had not seen it for five years. It called up a thousand\nrecollections--I became entranced in the past. My Jess seemed again\nclinging to my neck--I again thought I felt her breath upon my\ncheek--and again involuntarily I exclaimed aloud, \"_She shall be mine_.\"\nBut I was aroused from my reverie by a cry--\"A cruiser--a cutter ahead!\"\nIn a moment the deck of the lugger became a scene of consternation. The\ncutter was making upon us rapidly; and though the Wildfire sailed nobly,\nher pursuer skimmed over the sea like a swallow. The skipper of the\nlugger seemed to become insane as the danger increased. He ordered every\ngun to be loaded, and a six-oared gig to be got in readiness. The cutter\nfired on us, the Wildfire returned the salute, and three of the cutter's\nmen fell. A few more shots were exchanged, and the lugger was disabled;\nher skipper and the Englishmen of his crew took the gig, and made for\nthe shore. In a few minutes more, we were boarded by the commander of\nthe cutter, and a part of her crew. I knew the commander's face; his\ncountenance, his name, were engraved as with a sharp instrument on my\nheart. His name was Melton--the Honourable Lieutenant Melton--my\nenemy--the man I hated--the titled puppy of whom I spoke--my rival for\nthe hand of my Jess. He approached me--he knew me as I did him. We lost\nno love between us--I heard his teeth grate as he fixed his eyes on me,\nand mine echoed to the sound.\n\n\"Slave! scoundrel!\" were his first words, \"we have met again at last,\nand your life shall pay the forfeit! Place him in irons!\"\n\n\"Coward!\" I hurled in his teeth a second time, and my hand grasped my\ncutlass, which in a moment flashed in the air. His armed crew sprang\nbetween us--I defied them all--he grew bold under their protection.\n\n\"Strike him down!\" he exclaimed; and, springing forward, his sword\nentered my side--but scarce was it withdrawn, ere _his_ blood streamed\nfrom the point of my cutlass to my hand.\n\nSuffice it to say, I was overpowered and disarmed--I was taken on board\nhis cutter, and put in irons. And now, sir (continued the squire,\nraising his voice, for the subject seemed to wound him), know that you\nare in the company of a man who has been condemned to die--yes, sir, to\ndie like a common murderer on the gallows! You start--but it is true;\nand, if you do not like the company of a man for whom the hangman once\nprovided a neckerchief, I will drop my story.\n\nI requested him to proceed.\n\nWell, sir (continued he), I was lodged in prison. I was accused of being\na smuggler--of having drawn my sword against one of His Majesty's\nofficers--of having wounded him. On the testimony of my enemy and his\ncrew, I was tried and condemned--condemned to die without hope of\npardon. I had but a day to live, when a lady entered my miserable cell.\nShe came to comfort the criminal, to administer consolation in his last\nhour. I was in no mood to listen to the admonitions of the female\nSamaritan, and I was about to bid her depart from me. Her face was\nveiled, and in the dim light of my dungeon I saw it not. But she spoke,\nand her voice went through my soul like the remembrance of a national\nair which we have sung in childhood, and hear in a foreign land.\n\n\"Lady!\" I exclaimed, \"what fiend hath sent thee? Come ye to ask me to\nforgive my murderer? If _you_ command it, I will.\"\n\n\"I would ask you to forgive your enemies,\" replied she, mildly; \"but not\nfor my sake.\"\n\n\"Yet it can only be for _your_ sake,\" said I; \"but tell me, lady, are\nyou the _wife_ of the man who has pursued me to death?\"\n\n\"No--not his wife.\"\n\n\"But you will be?\" cried I, hastily; \"and you love him--tell me, do you\nnot love him?\"\n\nShe sighed--she burst into tears.\n\n\"Unhappy man,\" she returned, \"what know you of me, that you torment me\nwith questions that torture me?\"\n\nI thrust forth my fettered hand--I grasped hers.\n\n\"Tell me, lady,\" I exclaimed, \"before my soul can receive the words of\nrepentance which you come to preach--tell me--do you _love_ him?\"\n\n\"No!\" she pronounced, emphatically; and her whole frame shook.\n\n\"Thank God!\" I cried, and clasped my fettered hands together. \"Forgive\nme, lady!--forgive me! Do you know me? I am Ben!--orphan Ben!--the boy\nwho saved you!\"\n\nShe screamed aloud--she fell upon my bosom, and my chained arm once more\ncircled the neck of my Jess.\n\nYes, sir, it was my own Jess, who, without being conscious who I was,\nhad come to visit the doomed one in his miserable cell, to prepare him\nfor death, by pointing out the necessity of repentance and the way to\nheaven. I need not tell you that, the moment my name was told, she\nforgot her mission; and as, with my fettered arms, I held her to my\nbreast, and felt her burning tears drop upon my cheek, I forgot\nimprisonment, I forgot death--my very dungeon became a heaven that I\nwould not have exchanged for a throne--for, oh! as her tears fell, and\nher heaving bosom throbbed upon my heart, each throb told me that Jess\nloved the persecuted orphan--the boy who saved her. I cannot tell you\nwhat a trance is; but, as I clung round her neck, and her arms encircled\nmine, I felt as if my very soul would have burst from my body in\necstasy. She was soon convinced that I was no criminal--that I had been\nguilty of no actual crime--that I was innocent, and doomed to die.\n\n\"No! no! you shall not die!\" sobbed my heroic girl--\"hope! hope! hope!\nThe man who saved me shall not die!\" She hurried to the door of my\ncell--it was opened by the keeper, and she left me, exclaiming,\n\"Hope!--hope!\"\n\nOn that day his then Majesty George III. was to prorogue Parliament in\nperson. He was returning from the House of Lords; crowds were following\nthe royal procession, and thousands of spectators lined Parliament\nStreet, some showing their loyalty by shouts and the waving of hats and\nhandkerchiefs, and others manifesting their discontent in sullen silence\nor half-suppressed murmurs. In the midst of the multitude, and opposite\nWhitehall, stood a private carriage, the door of which was open, and out\nof it, as the royal retinue approached, issued a female, and, with a\npaper in her hand, knelt before the window of His Majesty's carriage,\nclasping her hands together as she knelt, and crying--\n\n\"Look upon me, sire!\"\n\n\"Stop! stop!\" said the king--\"coachman, stop! What! a lady kneeling,\neh--eh? A young lady, too! Poor thing--poor thing--give me the paper.\"\n\nHis Majesty glanced at it--he desired her to follow him to St James's. I\nneed not dwell upon particulars: that very night my Jess returned to my\nprison with my pardon in her hand, and I left its gloomy walls with her\narm locked in mine.\n\nAnd now you may think that I was the happiest dog alive--that I had\nnothing more to do but to ask and obtain the hand of my Jess--but you\nare wrong; and I will go over the rest of my life as briefly as I can.\n\nNo sooner did her father become acquainted with what she had done, than\nhe threatened to disinherit her--and he removed her, I know not where. I\nbecame first desperate, then gloomy, and eventually sank into lassitude.\nEven the sea, which I had loved from my first thought, lost its charms\nfor me. I fancied that money only stood between me and happiness--and I\nsaw no prospect of making the sum I thought necessary at sea. While in\nthe privateer service, I had saved about two hundred pounds in\nprize-money. With this sum as a foundation, I determined to try my\nfortune on shore. I embarked in many schemes; in some I was partially\nsuccessful; but I persevered in none. It was the curse of my life that I\nhad no settled plan--I wanted method; and let me tell you, sir, that the\nwant of a systematic plan, the want of method, has ruined many a wise\nman. It was my ruin. From this cause, though I neither drank nor gamed,\nnor seemed more foolish than my neighbours, my money wasted like a\nsnowball in the sun. Though I say it myself, I was not an ignorant man;\nfor, considering my opportunities, I had read much, and I had as much\nworldly wisdom as most of people. In short, I was an excellent framer of\nplans at night; but I wanted decision and activity to put them into\nexecution in the morning. I had also a dash of false pride and\ngenerosity in my composition, and did actions without considering the\nconsequences, by which I was continually bringing myself into\ndifficulties. This system, or rather this want of system, quickly\nstripped me of my last shilling, and left me the world's debtor into the\nbargain. Then, sir, I gnashed my teeth together--I clenched my fist--I\ncould have cut the throat of my own conscience, had it been a thing of\nflesh and blood, for spitting my thoughtlessness and folly in my teeth.\nI took no oath--but I resolved, firmly, resolutely, deeply resolved, to\nbe wise for the future; and, let me tell you, my good fellow, such a\nresolution is worth twenty hasty oaths. I sold my watch, the only piece\nof property worth twenty shillings that I had left, and with the money\nit produced in my pocket, I set out for Liverpool. That town, or city,\nor whatever you have a mind to call it, was not then what it is now. I\nwas strolling along by the Duke's Little Dock, and saw a schooner of\nabout a hundred and sixty tons burden. Her masts lay well back, and I\nobserved her decks were double laid. I saw her character in a moment. I\nwent on board--I inquired of the commander if he would ship a hand. He\ngave me a knowing look, and inquired if ever I had been in the _trade_\nbefore. I mentioned my name and the ship in which I had last served.\n\n\"The deuce you are!\" he said; \"what! you Cookson!--ship you, ay, and a\nhundred like you, if I could get them.\"\n\nI need hardly tell you the vessel was a privateer. Within three days the\nschooner left the Mersey, and I had the good fortune to be shipped as\nmate. For two years we boxed about the Mediterranean, and I had cleared,\nas my share of prize-money, nearly a thousand pounds. At that period,\nour skipper, thinking he had made enough, resigned the command in favour\nof me. My first cruise was so successful, that I was enabled to purchase\na privateer of my own, which I named the Jess. For, d'ye see, her idea\nwas like a never-waning moonlight in my brain--her emphatic words,\n\"Hope!--hope!--hope!\" whispered eternally in my breast--and I did hope.\nSleeping or waking, on sea or on shore, a day never passed but the image\nof my Jess arose on my sight, smiling and saying, \"Hope!\" In four years\nmore, I had cleared ten thousand pounds, and I sold the schooner for\nanother thousand. I now thought myself a match for Jess, and resolved to\ngo to the old man--her father, I mean--and offer to take her without a\nshilling. Well, I had sold my craft at Plymouth, and, before proceeding\nto the north, was stopping a few days in a small town in the south-west\nof England, to breathe the land air--for my face, you see, had become a\nlittle rough, by constant exposure to the weather. Well, sir, the\nwindows of my lodging faced the jail, and, for three days, I observed\nthe handsomest figure that ever graced a woman enter the prison at\nmeal-times. It was the very figure--the very gait of my Jess--only her\nappearance was not genteel enough. But I had never seen her face. On the\nfourth day I got a glimpse of it. Powers of earth! it was her!--it was\nmy Jess! I rushed downstairs like a madman--I flew to the prison-door,\nand knocked. The jailer opened it. I eagerly inquired who the young lady\nwas that had just entered. He abruptly replied--\n\n\"The daughter of a debtor.\"\n\n\"For Heaven's sake!\" I returned, \"let me speak with them!\"\n\nHe refused. I pushed a guinea into his hand, and he led me to the\ndebtors' room. And there, sir--there stood my Jess--my saviour--my\nangel--there she stood, administering to the wants of her grey-haired\nfather! I won't, because I can't, describe to you the tragedy scene that\nensued. The old man had lost all that he possessed in the world--his\nthousands had taken wings, and flown away, and he was now pining in jail\nfor fifty--and his daughter, my noble Jess, supported him by the labours\nof her needle. I paid the debt before I left the prison, and out I came,\nwith Jess upon one arm, and the old man on the other. We were married\nwithin a month. I went to sea again--but I will pass over that; and,\nwhen the peace was made, we came down here to Northumberland, and\npurchased a bit of ground and a snug cabin, about five miles from this;\nand there six little Cooksons are romping about, and calling my Jess\ntheir mother, and none of them orphans, like their father, thank Heaven!\nAnd now, sir, you have heard the narrative of Squire Ben--what do you\nthink of it?\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF DRYFFE SANDS.\n\n\nThe power of custom to render the mind indifferent or insensible to\ndanger, has never been better exemplified than by the mothers, and\nwives, and daughters of the ancient Borderers. They were wont to regard\nwithout apprehension the departure of their dearest relatives upon\nperilous expeditions--neither expressing nor experiencing any feeling\nexcept a wish for the success of the _raid_. Nay, as we have elsewhere\nstated, the fair dames of these stern warriors and marauders not\nunfrequently hinted that the larder needed replenishing, by placing on\nthe table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair\nof clean spurs; or by making the announcement that \"hough's i' the pot;\"\nor by calling, within hearing of the laird, on the herds to bring out\nTHE COW; or, in short, by the thousand-and-one means which the ready wit\nof woman could devise. Rapine and war were the sole business of the\nchiefs and their retainers; and matrons and maidens, if they had wept\nand wailed whenever their natural protectors went \"to take a prey,\"\nwould have been thought just as unreasonable as some of our modern\nladies, who will not allow their husbands to proceed about their daily\navocations, without bestowing on them tears, kisses, and embraces, in\nsuperabundance.\n\nThe mistress of Thrieve Castle, Lady Maxwell, possessed her full share\nof that masculine character which was deemed befitting in a Borderer's\nwife; and, although she had mingled in the gaieties of the unhappy\nMary's court, that sternness which was part of her inheritance as a\ndaughter of the house of Douglas had not been perceptibly diminished in\nthe course of her residence at Holyrood. The aggrandisement of her\nhusband's family was the perpetual subject of her thoughts; and whatever\naffected their honour or their interest was felt as keenly by Lady\nMaxwell as by the most devoted follower. At the time to which this\nnarrative relates, her meditations ran even more frequently and fully\nthan usual in their accustomed channel.\n\nAbout ten years before James VI. succeeded to the throne of England, the\nhereditary feud which had for generations subsisted betwixt the Maxwells\nof Nithsdale and the Johnstones of Annandale broke forth with redoubled\nviolence. Several of the lairds, whose possessions lay within the\ndistrict which was disturbed by the contentions of these two races, had\nsustained serious injury from the incursions of marauders from\nAnnandale, and, in consequence, had entered into a secret compact,\noffensive and defensive, with Lord Maxwell. This transaction reached the\nears of Sir James Johnstone, who forthwith endeavoured to break the\nleague which had so greatly extended his rival's power. The petty\nwarfare betwixt the two barons was carried on for some time, without\nproducing any very decisive result. The compact was still unbroken, and,\nto all appearance, the Maxwells were rapidly acquiring that ascendency\nwhich would soon render resistance hopeless. But the worsted party\nobtained the aid of the Scotts and other clans from the midland\ndistrict. Lord Maxwell, on the other hand, rallied around him the barons\nof Nithsdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and\nhastened to attack his opponents in their fastnesses.\n\nAlthough Lady Maxwell entertained no extravagant dread with regard to\nthe safety of her husband and son, or even with regard to the result of\na conflict for which such ample preparations had been made, she could\nnot suppress a feeling of impatience, when the afternoon of the second\nday after the departure of the expedition arrived without bringing any\nintelligence of the result. She endeavoured, however, to check the\nmelancholy course of her thoughts, by supposing that the pursuit of the\nenemy had occasioned the delay; but then she deemed it strange that her\nhusband had sent no messenger with the tidings of his success; and again\nshe pleased herself with the reflection, that he had reserved for\nhimself the agreeable duty of announcing the happy issue of the\nconflict.\n\nThe shades of evening were descending, when Lady Maxwell, with her\nlittle daughters and younger son, proceeded to the battlements of the\nThrieve. This ancient stronghold--which was a royal castle, though the\nkeeping of it was intrusted to the family of Maxwell--was situated on a\nsmall island formed by the river Dee, in the centre of a muirish tract\nof country. Its gloomy appearance was, and still is, in harmony with the\nsurrounding desolation; but it is now no longer the abode of man, and is\nleft, a monument of departed greatness, to moulder away. Lady Maxwell\nhad not continued long to gaze over the wilderness which stretched\naround, when she observed a band of mosstroopers approaching from the\neast; and the light was still strong enough to show that these warriors\nhad not the appearance of a host returning victorious from battle. On\nthe contrary, their steeds were jaded; they seemed themselves to be\nexhausted with toil; and, instead of the shouts of laughter which\nusually burst from the merry bands of Borderers, silence seemed to\nprevail in their ranks. \"Pray God nothing evil hath happened!\" exclaimed\nthe lady, in alarm. And scarcely had she descended to the hall of the\ncastle, when her eldest son, a youth of twenty years, stood in her\npresence--but he stood alone. The loss which she had sustained flashed\nacross her mind in an instant. \"Your father! where is my husband?\"\nejaculated Lady Maxwell, wildly. \"But I need not ask--I know it all--he\nwill return no more. Is it not so?\"\n\nThe silence of her son showed her that she had guessed aright. But,\nalthough her heart grew sick, and her limbs waxed weak, she suppressed\nher emotion, and hastened to her chamber, there to give vent to her\ngrief in solitude. Meanwhile, preparations for the evening meal were\nmade; the exhausted soldiers ranged themselves beside the table which\nextended through the baronial hall; and their young master occupied the\nseat of his father--though, at the moment, he could have wished that\nsome less trying proof of his self-command had been exacted. But it\nwould have been deemed a want of hospitality, had he not remained beside\nhis guests, of whom some were barons inferior only to himself in\nconsequence.\n\nWhen the hunger of the half-famished troopers was somewhat appeased, the\nevents of the morning began to form the topic of conversation--which,\nhowever, was carried on only in whispers. Lord Maxwell, it seems, had\nencountered his opponents at the Dryffe Sands, not far from Lockerby, in\nAnnandale, and had been defeated, partly in consequence of the cowardice\nof his confederates, whose alliance with him had been the sole cause of\nthe renewed hostility. He was struck from his horse in his flight; and\nalthough he sued for quarter, the miscreant by whom he was assailed\nstruck off his hand, which had been stretched forth as the sign of\nentreaty, and mercilessly slaughtered the unfortunate baron. Many of his\nfollowers perished in the fight, and most of them were cruelly wounded,\nespecially by slashes in the face.[3] The young Lord Maxwell and his\nfriends (having left a sufficient body of men to repel any immediate\ninvasion) proceeded to the castle of the Thrieve, situated in the\nrecesses of his family possessions, and a very considerable distance\nfrom the scene of the conflict, for the purpose of concerting measures\nwith regard to the further prosecution of hostilities.\n\n[Footnote 3: This kind of wound is called a \"Lockerby lick\"--the place\nwhich bears that name being in the immediate vicinity of the field of\nbattle.]\n\nAfter the deliberations of the evening were concluded, and the wearied\nsoldiers had gone to rest, Lady Maxwell summoned her son to her\npresence, and asked what course it was intended to adopt.\n\n\"Orchardstone talks of a bond,\" replied young Maxwell.\n\n\"A bond of alliance! And did you listen to him?\" said the lady, looking\nkeenly at her son; \"did you let him repeat the word? An eye that shrinks\nfrom the gaze of another tells no good tale; a cheek in which the blood\nebbs and flows within a moment, betrays no stout heart. It must not be.\nPeace! who would talk of peace to one who has just suffered bereavement?\nTalk not to me of peace--talk not to me of bonds. Talk of revenge.\nRemember that the blood of him who has been treacherously slain flows in\nyour veins. You had no craven heart from him--you have none from me. Why\nthen do you stand mute and wavering?\"\n\n\"Madam, you have forestalled me,\" said the youth. \"I will have revenge.\nThe king----\"\n\n\"What! would you play the spaniel to James?--a craven sovereign, worthy\nof a craven suitor. Boy, will you break my heart outright? Will you doom\nme to disgrace, as the mother of a coward?--make me curse the day in\nwhich I was wedded, and the hour in which you were born? This comes of\nthe monkish tricks taught you by that old man whom your father brought\nto his house, not to make a coward of his son, but to shelter a\ntrembling priest from persecution.\"\n\n\"Madam, let me speak, if it please you. I am no coward--no craven,\"\nexclaimed the young lord, proudly. \"I am not a child that needs to be\nchidden with the rod or with harsh speeches; and my father's blood boils\nas fiercely in my veins as the blood of the Douglas in yours. Our\ndeliberations are not at an end, and by daybreak to-morrow they will be\nresumed.\"\n\n\"Nay, but, my son, you say not that you will seek revenge,\" cried Lady\nMaxwell; \"you speak of those petty barons, whom you demean yourself so\nfar as to consult. Your father told them what was his will, and never\nasked what was theirs. It was theirs to obey.\"\n\n\"Why do you speak so hardly of me?\" asked the youth. \"Have I not borne\nmyself like my equals and my race? But you shall not want revenge--you\nshall not want the heart's blood that you ask. This house, these lands,\nthese vassals, are yours, until revenge is yours. They will be employed\nin the pursuit of revenge. No lady shall hold your place; my life shall\nhave but one object, till that object is accomplished; my being shall\nhave but one end; my thoughts shall have only one aim; my heart will\ndelight in only one hope.\"\n\n\"Stay, stay, my son,\" interrupted Lady Maxwell, in a calmer tone than\nhad hitherto marked her address; \"you have said enough--ay, more than\nenough--to satisfy my doubts. I would not remain sole lady of this\ncastle.\"\n\n\"The oath is recorded in heaven, and may not be recalled,\" was the\nanswer of the young lord.\n\nLord Maxwell, after receiving a maternal benediction, retired to his\nchamber; and, notwithstanding the difficulties which he knew it would be\nhis lot immediately to encounter, the fatigue of the day was more than\nenough to insure him a good night's rest. His slumbers continued\nundisturbed, until the old man to whom reference has already been made\ncame to his bedside early on the following morning. This person was a\nclansman, who had entered the church, and had embraced the doctrines of\nthe Reformation. About ten years before the death of Lord Maxwell, that\nnobleman had quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, who at that time was the\nreigning favourite of James VI; and he had then brought his learned\nclansman to the Castle of the Thrieve. The rude warden of the west\nmarches--for Lord Maxwell held that office--had no taste for the\nreligious exercises which his namesake, John, wished to introduce into\nthe household; and it may be said that the baron's favour for\nPresbyterianism was owing to the single circumstance that Arran was an\nobject of detestation common to him and to the ministers. But, although\nfew listeners could be found for the discourses of the aged preacher,\nhis assiduity had enabled him to impart a share of his knowledge to his\npatron's son and heir, who in some measure repaid him for his care, by\nregarding him with strong feelings of respect and attachment.\n\nWhen Lord Maxwell had dressed himself, he proceeded to the study of his\naged friend, who had requested an interview with him at that early hour.\n\n\"I fear your rest has been broken by my impatience,\" said the minister;\n\"but, as I was anxious to see you before your comrades were astir, it\nwas not easy to do otherwise.\"\n\nThe young baron assured him that he was completely refreshed, and begged\nhim to mention the cause of his anxiety.\n\n\"You will pardon me,\" said the old man, \"if I intrude a word or two of\nadvice upon you. The rules of Border morality require you to avenge the\ndeath of your father. I have oftentimes shown you wherein these rules\nwere wrong; and you have owned that what I have said was true. Are you\nnow ready to act upon your own independent judgment, to forego your\ndesire for revenge, and to enter into alliance with Johnstone? Will you\npermit those barons who are now asleep beneath the roof-tree of your\nhouse to make you do what you know and feel to be wrong?\"\n\n\"It may not be,\" said the other; \"my fathers have died on the\nbattle-field, and I must not die in my bed. But I am bound by a solemn\nvow--by all that I hope and enjoy--to seek revenge, by day and by night,\nby all honourable means; to risk life, lands, liberty--ay, happiness in\nthis world and the next--before I abandon the pursuit.\"\n\n\"Ay, but, my son,\" replied the aged minister--\"for so would I call thee,\nwho are dearer to me than life--a vow or oath which has an evil object\nin view may be honourably broken. The honour is in breaking, not in\nkeeping it.\"\n\n\"The oath is no longer in mine own keeping; and I would not break it,\neven if I could. It may be that an evil oath should be broken; I pretend\nnot to skill in these matters. But I feel,\" said Lord Maxwell, in an\nenergetic tone--\"I feel that this oath of mine cannot be broken. I have\nnot taken it in haste; and sooner would I wish that my head, severed\nfrom my body, were placed over the gate of Johnstone's castle of\nLochwood, there by turns to blacken in the sun and bleach in the rain,\nthan I would now break my vow in one particular.\"\n\n\"Alas! for thee, my son!\" exclaimed the minister, in the tremulous\naccents of age and of distress. \"I deemed that thou wouldst prove an\nhonour to thy kind and thy country; that for thee might be reserved the\ntask of healing the wounds of this distracted land.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, my second father,\" said the young baron, taking his aged\nfriend by the hand; \"my doom is fixed, but my deeds must be done within\na narrower sphere. My objects are not like those of princes. Blood has\nbeen shed, and it must be wiped away; life has been lost, and it must be\navenged. My father has perished miserably--yet not miserably, for he\ndied on the field of battle. His blood cries aloud for vengeance.\"\n\nThe aged minister's grief would not allow him to utter the prayer that\npassed from his heart to heaven on behalf of his erring pupil. Lord\nMaxwell silently wrung the hand that was enclosed in his own, and\nhastened to meet the barons, who had now assembled in the hall, and only\nwaited until their host should assume his place, before beginning their\nmorning's repast.\n\nConsiderable division of opinion existed in the councils of the\nNithsdale barons, with regard to the propriety of putting an end to the\ndisturbances, by entering into league with Sir James Johnstone; but the\ndetermination with which Lord Maxwell avowed his intention of calling\nupon them all to act in conformity with their previous letters of\n_manrent_, soon put an end to the deliberations of the morning, and\nimmediate steps were taken for pursuing the warfare with renewed vigour.\nSir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone, who was married to a sister of Sir\nJames Johnstone, but who had, nevertheless, taken the part of his chief,\nLord Maxwell, in the recent disputes, was permitted to remain inactive;\nbut his contingency of men was required as rigorously as that of any\nother baron who had bound himself to give all support to the head of the\nclan. Day after day incursions were made by these hostile tribes into\nthe territory of each other; their hatred hourly waxed stronger; those\ncourtesies which even mosstroopers sometimes practised were thrown aside\nwith shameful indifference. Rapine and crimes of every complexion were\nof daily occurrence; villages were burned without compunction; neither\nage nor sex was spared; slaughter and conflagration were now the end and\naim of the freebooters, instead of plunder. No redeeming ray was cast\nover the horrors of this continued warfare, by any of those\ncircumstances which sometimes show the hearts of men in their more\nfavourable aspects; and to describe the progress of events in this\ndistrict of country for the course of many succeeding years, would serve\nonly to weary and disgust with a repetition of the most fearful\natrocities.\n\nIs it wonderful that a familiarity with scenes of blood should steel\nthe heart of the young baron, and make him deaf to the voice of\ncompassion or remonstrance? Need it be said that cruelty became the\ncharacteristic of his mind? that his temper became harsh, his\ndisposition imperious, and his spirit as untameable as it was fiery?\nNeither the threats nor the entreaties of his sovereign himself could\nmake Lord Maxwell lay aside his vindictive purpose: the former were\ndespised, because they could not be executed; the latter were unheeded,\nbecause they were as dust in the balance, compared with the revenge\nwhich the young chief had vowed to obtain. The appointment of his\nexperienced rival to the wardenry of the middle marches, about five or\nsix years after the battle of Dryffe Sands, made the cup of bitterness\noverflow. Lord Maxwell took advantage of Sir James Johnstone's absence\nto ravage that baron's territory with greater ferocity than ever; and,\non the pretext afforded by this last fearful inroad, he was prohibited\nfrom approaching the Border counties. The mandate was scorned, because\nit could not be carried into effect; and these hostile tribes continued\nto lay waste the territories of each other, until King James ascended\nthe English throne, when, in the course of a year or two, the power of\nthat monarch was so much strengthened, that he was, ere long, enabled to\nplace under the command of Sir James Johnstone a force which was found\nsufficient for the purpose of expelling the refractory Lord Maxwell.\n\nThe fugitive baron, half-frenzied with anger and disappointment, was\ninvited by his kinsman, the Marquis of Hamilton, to take up his abode in\nCraignethan Castle, a stronghold situated in the most fertile district\nof Clydesdale, upon a rock which overhangs the river. The marquis and\nhis father (who had died a short time before the arrival of Lord Maxwell\nat Craignethan) had always supported their relative whenever differences\narose betwixt him and the court of King James; and this support was\ntendered, not so much from the coarser motives which, for the most\npart, lay at the foundation of noble friendships in those days, as from\nregard to Lord Maxwell, whose better qualities had not been so totally\nobscured in the course of his brief but bloody career, as to prevent him\nfrom becoming an object of affection among his own kindred and\ndependants.\n\nBut neither the marquis, nor his mother (who still lived to relate,\nrather for her own amusement than for the edification of her hearers,\nthe achievements of her race), nor his sister, the Lady Margaret, could\ndevise any means of dispelling the gloom which marked the countenance\nand deportment of their guest; and he seemed even to hate the very\namusements with which his friends endeavoured to draw his thoughts away\nfrom the bitter recollections that were the daily subject of his\ncontemplation. His only enjoyment seemed to consist in traversing the\nromantic scenes which lay around; and scarcely a day passed without a\nvisit to some of those spots in which the rude magnificence exhibited by\nnature in the rocks and ravines, was contested with the gentleness and\nbeauty that characterised many patches reclaimed from the waste by the\nindustry of the neighbouring husbandmen. At other times he would roam\nthrough the woods until he lost himself in their mazes, and his mind was\nroused into activity by the effort to retrace his steps.\n\nA beautiful dell, in which all sorts of scenery were harmoniously\ncombined, was a favourite haunt of the baron; and here he often\nstretched himself at mid-day beneath the shadow of some vast oak or\nbeech, that he might meditate in solitude and in silence on schemes for\nretrieving his affairs--for restoring him to his possessions in their\nfull extent and without restraint--and, above all, for consummating that\nrevenge which was still ungratified, notwithstanding all the rapine and\nslaughter of eight years.\n\nAs he was one day engaged in such contemplations--profaning with evil\nthoughts the retreats which seemed to have been consecrated by nature to\npeace, and holiness, and all good affections--his attention was arrested\nby a song familiar to Borderers, and composed by one of the men who had\nbeen executed for the murder of Sir James Johnstone's predecessor in the\nwardenship of the middle marches. But, although the associations which\nwere awakened in the mind of Lord Maxwell on hearing \"Johnnie\nArmstrong's Last Good-night,\"[4] were of a mixed nature, the sweet tones\nof the singer, and the allusions to the Border, made him forget, in the\ndelight of the moment, the more painful meditations which had been thus\nagreeably interrupted. The delicious dream lasted only for a minute; the\nvoice of song was hushed; and although the baron, with curiosity to\nwhich he had for years remained a stranger, started alertly from the\nground, that he might discover the sweet disturber of his thoughts, he\nwas too late; for no one save himself stood within the dell, where he\nhad sought solitude, though, as it turned out, he had not altogether\nfound it.\n\n[Footnote 4: \"The music of the most accomplished singer,\" says\nGoldsmith, in his \"Essays,\" \"is dissonance to what I felt when an old\ndairymaid sang me into tears with 'Johnnie Armstrong's Last\nGood-night.'\" Of this ballad only two stanzas (which are subjoined) have\nsurvived till modern times. The beauty of these only deepens the feeling\nof regret at the loss of the rest.\n\n    \"This night is my departing night,\n      For here nae langer must I stay;\n    There's neither friend nor foe o' mine\n      But wishes me away.\n\n    \"What I have done, through lack o' wit,\n      I never, never can recall:\n    I hope ye're a' my friends as yet--\n      Good-night, and joy be with you all!\"]\n\n\nHis reveries were now at an end for the time; and he returned to the\ncastle with that reluctance which every man feels when he is about to\nmingle in society, without possessing the power of deriving delight from\nhis intercourse with human-kind.\n\nIn the course of the evening--which was usually devoted by the guests of\nthe marquis to sports, varied by occasional conversations on all sorts\nof subjects, from lively to severe--a keen dispute arose betwixt a young\nFrench count and one of his comrades with regard to the merits of\nScottish music. After arguing, and stating, and re-stating their\nopinions, until they found that the one could not convince the other,\nthey agreed to refer the point to Lord Maxwell, who seemed to be the\nonly person not talking, or listening to talk, at the moment; and they\nthen proceeded to give specimens at once of their own vocal powers and\nof the beauty of the music peculiarly prevalent in their respective\ncountries. After the trial was completed, a round of laughter greeted\nthe competitors, whose performance, it may be supposed from this\nreception, was none of the most beautiful. The umpire, when asked to\ndeliver his award, only shook his head.\n\n\"Though I don't pretend to say which is the _better_ singer,\" said Lord\nMaxwell, \"I will undertake to convince our foreign friend that Scottish\nmelodies are at least equal to the music which he adores; but you, my\nlord, must aid me, otherwise this mighty dispute must remain unsettled.\"\n\n\"Speak your wish,\" said the marquis, \"and it shall be gratified, if I\ncan help you.\"\n\n\"You have sometimes told me that I do nothing but mope about your woods\nand ravines, scarcely opening my eyes or my ears; but to-day, at least,\nit was not so. My day-dreams were agreeably dispelled by some\nsongstress, who had escaped, however, before I could discover whether\nthe lips which breathed such melody were as sweet as the song. Could you\nonly hear \"Armstrong's Good-night\" warbled as I heard it to-day, your\ndisputes would soon be at an end. Perhaps some of the village girls\nmay----\"\n\n\"No village girl, my lord,\" exclaimed the defender of Scottish music.\n\nAll eyes were in a moment fixed upon Lady Margaret, whose blushes had\nbetrayed her. The ballad was once more sung; and need it be said that\nthe disbeliever in Scottish melody became a convert, and, like other\nconverts, became even more zealous than his old antagonist in praises of\nthe song and of the songstress? Lord Maxwell began to chide himself for\nnot having sooner discovered that Lady Margaret was not only endowed\nwith a sweet voice, but possessed of great personal attractions. He had,\nindeed, frequently heard her sing, but the right chord had never been\ntouched before; and it was only when the ballads with which he was\nfamiliar, and which were the native growth of his own province, fell\nupon his ear, that attention was awakened, and the full beauty of the\nvocal powers possessed by his unseen charmer was perceived.\n\nMargaret Hamilton was now in her eighteenth year, and possessed that\nirregular beauty, glowing with life and health, which wins the heart\nmore readily than the most faultless but chilling perfection of feature.\nThe high intelligence and elevated feeling which met \"in her aspect and\nher eyes,\" her bright complexion and raven ringlets, made her such a\nbeing as the imagination delights to portray and contemplate, though the\nbeautiful vision which flits across the mind seldom has a living, and\nbreathing, and moving counterpart in the material world.\n\nThe excursions of Lord Maxwell were not now so solitary as they had been\nbefore the occurrence of the incident already mentioned; and a walk\nwithout a companion was now the exception from the general rule. That\ncompanion--need it be recorded--was Margaret Hamilton. Every scene that\ndeserved a visit--every wondrous work of nature or curious work of man,\nwithin a range of several miles around Craignethan Castle--was pointed\nout by Lady Margaret for the admiration of her brother's guest. Nor was\nit long before the admiration bestowed upon the lifeless scenes which\nthey contemplated in common was transferred to each other by the\nanimated observers themselves. They rapidly proceeded through all the\nstages of that fever which, in its crisis, is called love. The feuds,\nand animosities, and revenge, of the Nithsdale baron were for a time\nforgotten; those better affections which had been cherished by the\npreceptor of his youth--the gentler feelings which produce the\ncourtesies and kindnesses of life--the intellectual tastes which had\nlong lain uncultivated, and had indeed borne many weeds under the\ninfluence of harsh passions--all these began in some measure to revive;\nhis spirit, freed for a season from the operation of those motives which\nhad hitherto guided it with so much power, appeared to be softened; his\ndemeanour lost somewhat of its sternness; and a new passion seemed\ngradually to be expelling all those fiercer emotions by which he had\nhitherto been governed.\n\nBut these delightful days could not last for ever; and the marquis,\nalthough he was pleased when he first saw the change in the deportment\nof his relative, felt that the intimacy of his sister and his kinsman\ncould not last long without ripening into attachment. Yet he attempted\nto soothe his disquietude by the usual excuse that his apprehensions\nwere outrunning the reality; and he delayed all interference until\ninterference was in vain. Besides, he was himself about to enter into\nthe state of wedlock, and could not be in a very fit condition for\ntreating the affections of others with anything like severity. Autumn\nhad arrived before the marquis introduced the subject. He rallied his\nkinsman on his bachelorship.\n\n\"But why may not I remain a bachelor, and be as happy as you?\"\n\n\"What!--I would Lady Margaret heard you. Could _she_ not make you change\nyour mind?\" said the marquis, keenly eyeing Lord Maxwell.\n\nThe baron gave no reply; for the words died on his lips. The blood\nforsook his cheek; the fire was quenched in his eye; even his stature\nseemed to lessen; and he looked as if Heaven in its wrath had struck him\nwith its thunderbolt. The oath which he had sworn, and which he had\nbroken even by his sloth in lingering at Craignethan Castle, recurred to\nhis mind in all its force:--one aim, one hope, one affection, one\nobject--revenge, bloody revenge, on the head of the clan that had slain\nhis father, was all for which he had vowed to live, until the deed of\ndeath was accomplished, or he himself was laid in the dust. He\nremembered, with loathing unspeakable, the words which he had uttered;\nhis heart felt crushed within him; and he stood without speaking a word,\nuntil his horrorstricken friend seized him by the hand, and roused him\nfrom the fearful reverie into which he had so suddenly fallen.\n\n\"I thank you--I thank you,\" cried Maxwell, abstractedly; \"but I forget.\nYour roof can shelter me no more. I must leave you now--ay, this very\ninstant.\"\n\n\"But, my dear friend,\" said the marquis, interrupting him, \"why do you\nspeak of departure? I did not mean offence, and let none be taken.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, I am not offended at aught: you have reminded me of my duty;\nand every moment that I stay here is a moment lost. I must to horse.\"\n\n\"But not without telling me why you leave me so abruptly. You say I have\nnot offended you; and yet you talked not of departure until this moment.\nIf the reason be one that can be told, why should you conceal it from\nyour warmest friend?\"\n\n\"My father's death is unavenged. I have loitered here like a dull slave\nshrinking from his task. I have forfeited my faith--I have broken my\noath. I must redeem the one, and fulfil the other.\"\n\n\"What task? what faith? what oath?\" ejaculated the marquis, hurriedly.\n\n\"I have told you the task--to revenge my father's death! I have sworn\nthat, until the life's-blood of his foe be sprinkled on the earth, I\nwill not rest by day or by night--I will not enjoy land, power, or life\nitself, except as the means of accomplishing my purpose. I will remain\nunwedded--I will possess no hope in earth or in heaven, save one--the\nhope of revenge. I have broken my faith; for I have not laboured without\nceasing, but have lazily sojourned under this roof. That faith must be\nredeemed by the fulfilment of my vow. Should the fair lady of whom you\nspoke,\" he added, in a tone little elevated above a whisper, \"deign to\nlook down on one so unworthy, she will see me a suitor at her feet\nwhenever my first duty has been discharged.\"\n\nThe remonstrances of the marquis could avail nothing, and Lord Maxwell\nsallied forth from Craignethan Castle. The prohibitions of his sovereign\nhad no power to prevent the baron and his vassals from renewing\nhostilities against their hereditary enemies. The awakened chief\nhastened, despite the royal mandate, to his native possessions; the\njoyous news of his return spread, in a day, from Thrieve Castle to the\nremotest hamlet in Eskdale--for the authority of the Maxwells extended\nover the vast district of country which lies on the Scottish side of the\nSolway. Immediate preparations were made for an incursion into\nAnnandale. But these movements did not take place without the knowledge\nof Sir James Johnstone, who, on his side, mustered his vassals, and\nobtained reinforcements of royal troops, for the purpose of protecting\nhis own territory, as well as enforcing obedience to the will of his\nsovereign, by compelling Lord Maxwell once more to retire from the\nBorders. The Lord of Nithsdale proceeded on his expedition, with the\nview of pursuing his opponent into his fastnesses in the hills; but his\nschemes were baffled by Sir James Johnstone, who selected a rising\nground not very far from the scene of the bloody conflict of Dryffe\nSands, as an advantageous position for receiving the attack of his\nenemy. Lord Maxwell had expected that he would have taken his opponent\nunawares--that he would have found Johnstone's retainers scattered, and\nhis territory undefended; but, nevertheless, with characteristic\nimpetuosity, he resolved to risk a battle; the disgrace of retreating\nwithout striking a blow, the dismay which anything like vacillation was\nlikely to produce among his retainers, and those motives which addressed\nthemselves more directly to his passions, all weighed with him, even\nthough he learned that his force was inferior to that of his foe.\n\nThe conflict was severe and protracted; but, although Lord Maxwell's\nfollowers fought with desperate courage, they were unable to keep their\nground against the large and well-appointed force arrayed against them.\nTheir leader rallied them once and again; animated them by his own\nexample; called on them to bear themselves as they were wont; reminded\nthem, by one or two words, of former conflicts bravely fought; and did\nall that he could to secure victory. But his efforts were in vain, and\nhis retainers fled on every side, after the battle had been contested\nuntil not a man remained without a wound. He, however, did not join his\nfollowers, though they tried to hurry him from the field; but he\ndisengaged himself from their grasp, and, frantic with disappointment,\nrushed into the midst of his adversaries. The cry, \"Take him alive,\" was\ninstantly heard; and Lord Maxwell, overwhelmed by numbers, and exhausted\nby his unremitting exertions, was the prisoner of Sir James Johnstone.\n\nBut he was not now permitted to choose his own place of retirement; and,\nafter remaining for some days in Annandale, he was conveyed to\nEdinburgh, and immured in the castle. Solitude, instead of soothing his\npassions, made them more vehement than ever; and the desire of revenge,\nwhich had been originally produced on the death of his father, now\nderived additional energy from his sense of personal injury and\nsuffering.\n\nIt could not be supposed that the fate of Lord Maxwell could be regarded\nby his friends with that cold indifference which is the general feeling\namong men when misfortune overtakes their neighbours. The ties of\nclanship had not lost their strength in the days of King James; and\nother ties, which had been knit under happier circumstances, were not\nforgotten in the hour of danger. Lady Margaret Hamilton, who, like\npersons of the same rank, usually resided in Edinburgh during the winter\nand spring, heard of the imprisonment of the baron with grief, which, it\nmay be, was not ummingled with joy at the anticipation of his presence\nin the same city; and the resolution that she would endeavour to procure\nhis release was scarcely formed, when she found an agent and coadjutor\nin the person of a retainer of Lord Maxwell, commonly called Charlie o'\nKirkhouse. This freebooter, who was the baron's foster brother, was\ndevotedly attached to his chief; and he would have earnestly petitioned\nthe authorities to place him in attendance on Lord Maxwell, had he not\nrecollected that he would thereby, in a great measure, be prevented from\nassisting that nobleman to escape. Charlie, though a shrewd fellow, had\nbeen more in the practice of executing than devising schemes; and as he\nthought it scarcely possible for himself, single-handed, to effect his\nobject, he proceeded to the Marquis of Hamilton's, for the purpose of\nobtaining an interview with Lady Margaret, who, as he supposed, would\nreadily give him all the aid in her power. Charlie made his application\non the pretext that he wished to visit his chief, and suggested that the\nmarquis could facilitate his free and frequent admission. But Lady\nMargaret recommended him rather to enlist in the royal service; and, as\nhe would then be received into the castle, he would be better able to\nassist Lord Maxwell in any attempt to escape; while, at the same time,\nhe would be able to co-operate with her in any schemes which she might\ndevise for effecting the same object. By dint of perseverance, Charlie\novercame the proverbial and preliminary difficulty of making the first\nstep; and, by abusing his chief for a tyrant and everything that was bad\n(his peculiar dialect told too many tales), he next endeavoured to win\nthe confidence of his superiors, and thus remove the only obstacles\nwhich prevented him from obtaining access to the prisoner. This,\nhowever, was a much more tedious process than he imagined. Will\no'Gunmerlie, a follower of Johnstone, who was stationed in the castle by\nhis chief, with the view of making up for the deficiencies in point of\nvigilance on the part of the constituted authorities, retained the\nclannish dislike of the Nithsdale soldier, and thwarted him so often,\nthat he began almost to despair of success; but he still hoped, by\ningratiating himself with some of the superior officers in the garrison,\nthat all obstacles would ere long be overcome.\n\nWhile he was one day on guard, in the immediate neighbourhood of Lord\nMaxwell's prison, one of his comrades approached, accompanied by a\nyouth, whose bonnet was pulled down upon his brows, and whose face was,\nin consequence, for the most part concealed from view.\n\n\"Wha's this, Charlie, think ye?\" said the soldier, laconically.\n\n\"I canna say I ken,\" replied Charlie, closely scrutinising the stranger.\n\n\"Hae ye nae guess wha he is?\" repeated the soldier.\n\nCharlie shook his head.\n\n\"Am I not,\" said the youth, stepping up to the perplexed sentinel--\"am I\nnot Lord Maxwell's brother?\"\n\n\"His brither!!!\" exclaimed Charlie, in a tone which can only be\nrepresented by a regiment of notes of admiration.\n\n\"Yes--his brother,\" repeated the youth, at the same time slightly\nraising his bonnet so as to give Charlie a peep of a very fair\ncomplexion. \"Look at me again.\"\n\nCharlie's wonder ceased in a moment.\n\n\"I daurna dispute what you say.\"\n\n\"Then he is Lord's Maxwell's brother!\" said the conductor of the youth.\n\n\"Wha else should he be?\" replied Charlie o' Kirkhouse, at the same time\nresuming his duties.\n\nLeave of admission was soon obtained for the youth; and, in the course\nof a few minutes, he stood in the presence of Lord Maxwell. The room\ninto which he was introduced was small and gloomy--for the light was\nadmitted only by a single loophole, guarded by a bar of iron; and\neverything showed that this was, indeed, a prison. The tenant of this\napartment was engaged at a table, placed as near the scanty window as\npossible, and covered with books and papers, which he seemed to be\nintently studying.\n\n\"Your brother, my lord,\" said the jailer. \"I will return in\nhalf-an-hour,\" he added, turning to the youth, whom he then left\nstanding in the middle of the room.\n\n\"My brother Charlie?\" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, starting up, and hastening\nto meet his visiter. \"I thought you had been in London. But how? you are\nnot my brother. Charlie was a strapping fellow when last I saw him,\nand--excuse me--you have the advantage.\"\n\nBut, instead of answering, the youth blushed \"celestial rosy red, love's\nproper hue\"--and that so deeply, that even through the gloom the baron\nsaw the glow on the cheek.\n\n\"What! a youth--and to blush!\" said he, eyeing his visiter keenly; \"it\ncannot be; and yet who should it be but----\"\n\n\"You have not forgotten 'Johnny Armstrong's Good-night,'\" whispered the\nyouth.\n\n\"Nor that voice,\" added the baron, saluting his pretended brother. \"What\ngood spirit has brought you here, my dear Lady Margaret?\"\n\n\"I have brought you the means of escape: you can disguise yourself in my\ncloak and hat; the jailer will not know the difference in this dismal\nlight, or rather darkness; the sentinel at the end of the court is\nCharlie o'Kirkhouse, who may be sent as your guide and guard to the\ngate; the cloak and hat will deceive the rest, whose recollection is\ndoubtless by this time faint enough to favour the attempt.\"\n\n\"It must not be; for, even though no evil were to result from the\nattempt, I would not have you subjected to the rudeness of menials.\"\n\n\"Say not so, my lord, for nobody will dare to injure me. I never made a\nrequest before, and I may never make another.\"\n\n\"Nay--not so, I hope; but it cannot be that I should meanly leave you in\nmy stead. Forgive me, my dear lady, if I refuse to avail myself of the\nmeans of escape which you propose; but deem me not so selfish as to\nvalue my own freedom above yours--as to skulk in disguise from these\nwalls, and leave you here exposed to the insults of the angry underlings\ndeputed by a suspicious enemy to watch my every movement.\"\n\n\"Would that I could prevail upon you, my dear lord,\" said Lady Margaret,\naffectionately, \"to make the attempt; and would that I could prevail\nupon you to cast aside your schemes of vengeance, to devote your\nenergies to the cause of your country, and to hear in your halls the\nsounds of merriment rather than the wailings of sorrow over friends\nwhose lives have been lost in feudal warfare.\"\n\n\"Would that I could prevail upon myself,\" rejoined Lord Maxwell, \"and\nbe content to pass my years in peace and in happiness, with none save\none to care for. But I forget myself: these things cannot come to pass.\"\n\n\"And why not?--why may they not now? If you will sign a bond, disavowing\nall intent of renewing your hereditary warfare with your hereditary\nfoes, you would be placed at liberty; and my brother will pledge his\nlife and land for your word.\"\n\n\"No more--tempt me no more; my will was weak and wavering; but I have\nnot yet renounced my vow. You have spoken of my hereditary foes--shall I\nbe the first of my race to cast away my heritage? Happiness is a dream:\nI know it now--for this moment--though bolts and bars retain me\nhere--though the sun's blessed ray scarce reaches me--though I have\npassed my days in tumult and trouble, which will accompany me till life\nhas reached its close. But this is all a dream: in a little while, you,\nmy dear lady, will leave me; and with you, the dream will depart.\"\n\n\"Is there no hope left? Is your heart closed against me? Is your ear\ndeaf to my prayer? Will you not hasten from these horrid walls? Will you\nsign no bond?\"\n\n\"Never--never: I would as soon sign my own death-warrant, or yours; for\nto sign my own would not wring my heart. I will sign no bond: I will\ngive no pledge. I need no man's honour to be gauged for my forbearance.\nPardon me, if I seem rude, and rough, and stern. I would that the time\nwere come when it might not be so--that my destiny were accomplished;\nfor it may be that, by brooding over schemes of vengeance, our minds are\nfilled with strange presentiments. When one deed has been done--when my\nfirst task has been completed--when my vow is fulfilled--happiness may\nyet be in store.\"\n\nNeither the tears nor the entreaties of Lady Margaret could prevail on\nthe inflexible baron; who, however, declared his resolution to try some\nother means of escape; and with this view suggested the propriety of\nascertaining what assistance could now be rendered by Charlie o'\nKirkhouse. Lady Margaret, as she was conducted from the baron's cell,\ncommunicated to the trooper the joint wishes of his chief and of\nherself.\n\nLord Maxwell now occupied his mind with projects of escape; and closely\nexamined the aperture which admitted a scanty portion of light into the\napartment; but its construction presented almost insuperable obstacles.\nNothing daunted, however, he resolved to try whether, by displacing a\npart of the wall, he might not be able to open a passage; but the rate\nat which the work advanced was so slow, that a whole lifetime would have\nbeen required to accomplish his object.\n\nAs he had one evening arranged the rubbish according to his usual custom\nbefore meal-times, so that his operations might not be visible to the\njailer, that functionary entered; but, instead of quietly placing on the\ntable the viands which he bore, he addressed himself, in an under tone,\nto Lord Maxwell: \"Would you like to escape, my lord?\"\n\n\"Charlie o' Kirkhouse, as I'm a living man!\" exclaimed the baron. \"How\ngot you here?\"\n\n\"Hush--you shall know afterwards. Let us change dresses; I will remain\nin your stead.\"\n\n\"But you must not run into danger on my account.\"\n\n\"Danger! What danger? They dinna care to meddle wi' sma' gentry like me.\nYou maun do as I bid you.\"\n\n\"Well, well, Charlie,\" said the baron, nothing loth to seize the\nopportunity of escape, undeterred by any feeling of delicacy in the\nevent of his substitute being discovered, and satisfying his scruples\nwith the reflection that Charlie's insignificance would protect him from\ninsult or injury.\n\nThe exchange was forthwith made; and so well had Charlie selected the\nhour, that Lord Maxwell received no interruption, except from the sentry\nat the outer gate, who wanted to crack a joke with his friend Charlie\no'Kirkhouse. Though the soldier looked somewhat suspicious when his joke\nwas acknowledged only by a \"humph,\" yet nothing further occurring to\nstrengthen his suspicions, he quietly resumed his measured tread.\n\nThe baron soon provided himself with a horse; and the following morning\nfound him at Thrieve Castle.\n\nMeanwhile, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, who remained the tenant of Lord\nMaxwell's apartment, was missed by his comrades; but the story of the\nsentinel, that he had seen \"the Nithsdale trooper in a huff trampin'\ndoun the toun,\" satisfied them for the night. The jailer--who had a\nsecond key, and thus was able to obtain admission--was taken aback on\nvisiting the cell on the following morning, when he found himself rather\nroughly hugged by the prisoner, who thrust him head over heels into a\nrecess filled with what was, in courtesy, called a bed. Before the\nastounded functionary could open his mouth, he heard the door locked,\nand found himself a prisoner. He shouted, kicked, and thumped on the\ndoor, and made all the din in his power. Charlie found the key in the\ndoor at the end of a passage which led to the cell, and which had\nprevented him from making his escape in the night-time; but his dress\nattracted the notice and suspicion of some officers. He was seized\nwithout delay. His excuse, however, that he had been \"a guizardin\" would\nhave served his purpose, had not the imprisoned jailer, by dint of\nclamour, brought some of his comrades to the door, and let them know the\nstate of the case. Charlie was immediately pursued; and, as he had not\nreached the castle gate, he was captured without difficulty.\n\n\"A pretty fellow you are,\" said Will o'Gunmerlie, \"ye leein scoon'rel!\nbut yese get your ser'in for lattin aff yon villain, that ye used to\nmisca' waur nor ony Johnstone. Here. Habbie, Dandie, gie him a roun'\ndizzen--and sync arither--and sync anither.\"\n\nCharlie o' Kirkhouse fidgeted a little on hearing this order issued, and\nhe would fain have made another attempt to escape; but it was in vain.\n\"Come ane, come a',\" he recklessly cried, when no hope was left, \"I\ncarena; four dizzen's nae waur nor ane.\" The punishment was inflicted\nwith full vigour by Will o' Gunmerlie's ministers of justice; and the\nluckless Charlie was thrust out of the castle, to find comfort and\nshelter where he might.\n\nMeanwhile, Lord Maxwell tried to raise the barons of Nithsdale; but the\ntimes had changed so greatly since the accession of James to the English\nthrone, that the lairds felt themselves more independent than they were\nof old, when their only choice was either to join the standard of some\npowerful chief, or to suffer their possessions to be spoiled by his\nretainers. Besides, they were weary of contests with their neighbours;\nand most of them peremptorily refused to comply with the baron's wishes.\nHis wrath may be more easily conceived than described. After spending\nsome weeks in ineffectual attempts to overcome the resolution of his\nrefractory vassals, he applied to Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone\n(who, as has already been stated, was connected by marriage with Sir\nJames Johnstone), for the purpose of obtaining an interview with his\nantagonist, and of trying whether that baron could not be prevailed upon\nto intercede for him with the king. The aged knight, gratified at the\nconciliatory disposition shown by Lord Maxwell, fixed time and place for\na meeting between the two chiefs, who accordingly hastened, each with a\nsmall body of attendants, to the confines of their respective\nterritories, with the view of holding an amicable conference. Leaving\nmost of their attendants at some distance, Sir Robert Maxwell of\nOrchardstone, Sir James Johnstone, accompanied by Will o' Gunmerlie, and\nLord Maxwell, accompanied by Charlie o' Kirkhouse (who had recovered\nfrom the effects of his whipping), proceeded to enter on the business\nwhich had called them together.\n\n\"I houp ye're nane the waur o' bein i' the castle, Charlie,\" cried Will\no'Gunmerlie, sneeringly.\n\n\"Nae thanks to you; I'll hae it oot o' yer hide some day. Tak ye tent,\nma man; ye've taen gude whangs o' ither folk's leather--look to yer\nain.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\" was the only reply of the other.\n\n\"Dinna anger me,\" vociferated Charlie, in a nettled tone, looking at his\npistol; \"I tauld ye ye would get yer ser'in. There's nocht to hinder me\nfrae giein ye't noo. There--tak that!\" And in a moment the freebooter\nraised his pistol, and shot the unsuspecting Will o'Gunmerlie, who\nrolled from his horse in the agonies of death.\n\nSir James Johnstone, on hearing the shot and the groans of his murdered\nattendant, turned about to see what had happened, and (in the words of\nthe old chronicler) \"immediately Maxwell shot him behind his back with\nane pistoll chairgit with two poysonit bullets.\" The unfortunate chief\nfell from his horse; and, although he lingered for some time, his wound\nwas mortal. He lived, however, so long as to declare his wishes with\nregard to various weighty matters, and to utter a word of consolation to\nOrchardstone, whose grief was rendered agonising by the recollection\nthat his credulity had been the means of hastening the death of Sir\nJames.\n\nLord Maxwell immediately proceeded to the Castle of the Thrieve, where a\nlarge company was assembled, for the purpose, as they thought, of\ncelebrating the reconciliation betwixt the two clans, and also the\nmarriage of the chief with Lady Margaret Hamilton, who had been\nconducted thither by her brother. On Lord Maxwell's return, he sought a\nprivate interview with the marquis--told him what he had done--asked him\nto communicate the circumstances to the bride, and learn whether she\nwould be wedded to a man whose hand was newly stained with blood.\n\n\"But he has slain his enemy in honourable battle,\" said Lady Margaret;\n\"he has borne himself like a true knight; and, even though he may now\ndepart for a season, the king has pardoned more heinous offences.\"\n\nWhen the reply was reported to the baron, he muttered, with that\nsneering the which betrays the bitterness of the heart--\"In honourable\nfight!--most honourable! Would it had been so!--But I will not now\nundeceive her.\"\n\nThe nuptials proceeded; the festivities were commenced, and continued to\na late hour. Early on the following morning, the baron left his weeping\nbride, and, with his faithful retainer, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, hastened in\ndisguise from his own home and country.\n\nNotwithstanding all the efforts of the Marquis of Hamilton and other\nfriends of the expatriated Baron of Nithsdale, no pardon could be\nextorted from King James--whose virtue seems for once to have been proof\nagainst all the temptations and threats which his most powerful Scottish\nsubjects could hold forth. Lord Maxwell's peace of mind was gone; for\nall that was dear to him--his country and kindred--were at a distance;\nthe engrossing object of his thought for many years past had been\nattained; and his memory would not allow him to forget that his revenge\nhad been accomplished by meanly assassinating his enemy. After he had\nremained for about three or four years, wasting the prime of his days in\nexile and in misery, he learned that Lady Margaret was in bad spirits;\nthen in bad health; then that her life was despaired of; and he\nresolved, at all hazards, to revisit Scotland. But, before his voyage\nwas ended, Lady Margaret had breathed her last--heart-broken in the\nmidst of those enjoyments--wealth, power, and rank--which are fondly\nsupposed, by those who possess them not, and by not a few who do possess\nthem, to be the infallible means of securing human felicity. The only\nobject which made life worth retaining, in the estimation of Lord\nMaxwell, was thus snatched from him; and he would have immediately\ndelivered himself up to justice, had it not been for the remonstrances\nof his faithful attendant, Charlie o'Kirkhouse. The family of Sir James\nJohnstone, as well as the constituted authorities, hunted the baron over\nthe whole country; until, after frequently enduring the extremity of\ndistress, he was seized in the wilds of Caithness, to which he had\nultimately been driven. The indefatigable industry of his hereditary\nfoes pursued him even to this distant retreat; and he was brought to\nEdinburgh, where, once more, he returned to his old quarters in the\ncastle.\n\nAmong the friends who came to visit him, with the view of concerting\nmeasures for his defence, was the Marquis of Hamilton.\n\n\"Do you know that they mean to rob Charles of his birthright?\" said the\nbaron, on the entrance of his friend. \"Oh, my good lord, such deeds\nwould never have been done, had some of your ancestors filled the seat\nof the mean-spirited prince who rules this unhappy country.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, my friend!\" said the marquis; \"speak nought like treason. I\nknow it all. My lord treasurer, or his deputy, cannot want the estates;\nand you must therefore submit to a charge of fire-raising as well as of\nmurder.\"\n\n\"May my curse or my blessing--for I know not which is more likely to\nbring the worse consequences--rest upon them all, if they take from my\nrace their own inheritance, because I, forsooth, have sent a hoary\nvillain a little before his time to his account!\"\n\n\"Speak not so harshly, kinsman; your sense of your own sufferings makes\nyou unjust. Men say that these sufferings have been self-inflicted; but\nI will not say so. I come to learn if in aught I can mitigate them.\"\n\n\"Mitigate them, did you say? I ask no mitigation; for my life is now a\nburden. I ask no pity; I ask no sympathy I have but one possession which\nI can still call my own; it is not inherited; I cannot transmit it; it\nis my sole luxury, my sole treasure--and it is one which you will not\ncovet. I have nought but my own misery that I can call my\nown--self-inflicted it may be; I dispute not about a word. But if it be\nself-inflicted, so much the more is it my own property. Forgive me, my\nlord, if I seem rude and hasty in temper; but I have scarce slept under\na roof since, after long absence, I last touched my native soil, until\nlast night, indeed, when I harboured here. I have been hunted by hounds\nof human breed; I have skulked in mosses, forests, and caverns, as\nfamiliarly as you have trodden the courts of palaces. Need you wonder I\nam worn to what I am--a mere skeleton-a wretched, decrepid thing--more\nlike a being returned from the grave, than a living man?\"\n\n\"It is but too true,\" said the marquis; \"yet is there nought you would\nwish me to do? No token of affection to send to your friends----\"\n\n\"Nothing--nothing.\"\n\nThe time of trial at length arrived, and Lord Maxwell was indicted for\nthe crimes of murder and of fire-raising. The introduction of the latter\ncharge was the cause of bitter complaint on the part of the prisoner;\nfor he well knew that the object of the public authorities was to obtain\nthe forfeiture of his estates; and the treasurer-depute, Sir Gideon\nMurray, was supposed to have instigated them to combine this minor\naccusation with the other. The crime of fire-raising, according to the\nancient Scottish law, if perpetrated by a landed man, constituted a\nspecies of treason, and inferred forfeiture. The purpose of public\njustice, however, was, on this, as an other occasions in the same reign,\nsullied by being united with that of enriching some needy favourite. No\ndifficulty was felt in proving either of the charges; the former,\nindeed, was not denied; and the latter was established by the evidence\nof some sufferers in the course of the first outrages committed after\nthe battle of Dryffe Sands. The baron was found guilty of both crimes,\nand sentenced to be beheaded. Every effort was made to obtain pardon for\nhim; but the king and his counsellors were inexorable.\n\nOn the night before the execution, Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone,\nwho was now very far advanced in years, visited his kinsman and chief,\nunder the guidance of the Marquis of Hamilton.\n\n\"And it has come to this at last!\" exclaimed the old man. \"Would to\nheaven, my dear lord, you had listened to the prayer of your humble\nclansman, eighteen years ago. Brief time is left to make your peace.\nSome holy man may be able to soothe your mind, ruffled though it be.\"\n\n\"Mock me not, dear uncle,\" said the baron, in a tone of bitterness which\nstartled the old man with horror. \"Torture me not with talk about peace\nand holy men. They cannot give me peace--they cannot give me happiness\non earth or in heaven. I am content with the share I have enjoyed. One\ngleam of sunshine has crossed my path--one fair flowret has blessed my\nsight--one spring has gladdened the weary wilderness--one human heart\nhas been mine; and though it is mine no longer--though the flower has\nbeen blighted, and the bright gleam of happiness, now departed, has only\nmade me more sensitive to the succeeding darkness, and the spring is\ndried, and the human heart lies in the dust--I ask no more. My cup of\nbliss is full--one drop has filled it. My heaven has been already\nenjoyed--no dotard can bring me tidings of weal or wo; I cannot part\nwith it. Leave me, good uncle and good cousin. I would bless you, but my\nblessing might prove a curse.\"\n\nHis sorrowing friends left him as he wished. He was beheaded on the\nfollowing morning.\n\nHis estates, which had been forfeited, were granted in part to the\ntreasurer-depute, a favourite of the king; but, after the lapse of a few\nyears, the attainder was reversed, and the honours and estates conferred\nupon his brother.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CLERICAL MURDERER.\n\n\nThe story which has been told of John Smithson, the minister of Berwick,\nwho was, in the year 1672, executed for committing a crime which has\nseldom stained the hands of the ministers of the religion of Christ, is\nas true as it is extraordinary. There are connected with it some\ncircumstances which have communicated to it a character of even deeper\ninterest than what generally invests tales of blood. Sympathy for the\nvictim, disgust and hatred towards the perpetrator, and a general\nfeeling of horror at the contemplation of the crime, are the usual\nemotions excited by the commission of an aggravated murder; but there\nare sometimes afforded, by these melancholy exhibitions of the weakness\nand sinfulness of our fallen nature, certain lights, \"burning blue,\"\nwhich lay open, with their mysterious glare, recesses in the heart of\nman which no philosophy has ever been able to reach and develop.\n\nIt was remarked that Smithson was one of the best of sons. His aged\nmother was supported by him for a long period, and at a time when he\ncould very ill spare the means. Indeed, such was his filial affection,\nthat he once travelled fifty miles in one day, to get payment of a small\nsum of money that had been due to his father; and to procure which for\nhis mother he required to beg his way to the residence of the creditor.\nWhen he returned, he presented to her the whole sum; and when asked upon\nwhat he had supported himself on the journey, he replied that the cause\nin which he was engaged procured him the means of subsistence, for he\nwas not refused alms by a single individual whom he had solicited.\n\nIt was in consequence of his kindness to his father and mother that he\nwas assisted by a rich friend to acquire education fitted for his\nbecoming a clergyman. For this patron he ever afterwards felt the\nstrongest esteem; and his gratitude kept pace with his affection. He\nattended his friend on his death-bed, and administered to him that\nknowledge and consolation which the clerical education he had received\nenabled him to bestow on his dying benefactor. Nor did he consider that\nthe gratuitous assistance which had thus been extended to him could be\nrepaid alone by affection towards the vicarious giver, but declared\nthat, as it came from Heaven, so ought the gratitude of his heart to be\ndirected to the origin of all gifts that are bestowed on the deserving.\n\nGratitude is not only its own reward, but the cause often of the means\nof its own increase; for Smithson's benefactor was so pleased with his\nattention to him when dying, that he left him a large legacy in his\nwill, which relieved him from that state of dependence which he found\nhad limited his means of doing good. He soon afterwards married a very\nbeautiful woman, and got himself placed in the church of Berwick.\n\nHis ministerial duties were performed with the greatest devotion and\nzeal for the welfare of the people intrusted to his charge. His\nattention to his parishioners was unremitting--his prayers for the dying\nor the sorrow-smitten were fervent--and the poor and aged not only\ntasted of the consolations afforded by his pious sympathy, but often had\ntheir wants relieved by his charitable hand. No mortal eye could\ndiscover in this any insincerity, far less any cloak put on to cover\nevil already done, or any false assumption of a good and devout\ncharacter, to avert the eye of suspicion from deeds intended to be\nperpetrated.\n\nHis character had indeed, in other respects, been tried, and found not\nawanting. A relation of his had died, and left a large sum of money to\nbe divided among his nephews and nieces. The money was recovered by\nSmithson, and upon the young heirs arriving at majority, was divided\namong them with so much honesty, that they all combined in addressing to\nhim a letter, wherein they extolled his character for justice, honour,\nand piety, and attributed to him all the qualities of a saint.\n\nIn addition to all this, his conjugal character was unspotted. His\nattentions to his wife were what might have been expected from a good\nhusband and a minister of the gospel; the breath of scandal never dimmed\nthe purity of his fidelity; nor could the most querulous exacter of\nconjugal obligations have found any fault with the manner in which he\nfulfilled, not only the duties of a husband, but the more generous and\nless easily counterfeited attentions of the lover. His wife seemed to be\ngrateful for his kindness, and respected his official character as much\nas she loved those private virtues, from which she was much benefited.\n\nOn a Sunday previous to that on which the Sacrament was to be dispensed,\nhe preached in the church of Berwick. His text was the sixth\nCommandment--\"Thou shalt not kill.\" His sermons, always animated and\nvigorous, and possessing even a tint of devout enthusiasm, were much\nrelished by his congregation; but on that day he outshone all his former\nefforts of pulpit eloquence. He painted the character of the murderer\nwith colours drawn from the palette of inspired truth; the cruel,\nremorseless, bloodthirsty heart of the son of Cain was laid open to the\neyes of his entranced audience; the feelings of the victim were\ndescribed with such power of sympathy, that the tears of the\ncongregation fell in ready and heartfelt tribute to the power of his\ndelineation; his own emotion, equalling that of his people, filled his\neyes with tears, and lent to his voice that peculiar thrilling sound\nwhich calls forth, while it expresses, the strongest pity. The man of\nGod seemed inspired, and he communicated the inspiration to those who\nheard him. His hand was observed to tremble; his eye was bloodshot; his\nmanner nervous, tremulous, excited, and enthusiastic; his voice \"broken\nwith pity,\" and at times discordant with the overpowering excess of his\nemotion. His whole soul seemed under the influence of divine power; and\nhis body, quailing under the energies of its nobler partner, shook like\na thing touched by the hand of the Almighty.\n\nOn that morning the preacher had murdered his wife. By the time the\ncongregation came out, the news had begun to spread. Nobody would credit\nwhat they heard, while they exclaimed that his sermon was strange, and\nhis manner remarkable. A determination not to believe was mixed with\nstrange insinuations, and the town of Berwick was suspended between\nextravagant incredulity and unaccountable suspicions. But the report was\ntrue, and the fact remains as one of those occurrences in life which no\nknowledge of the heart of man, though dignified with the proud name of\nphilosophy, has been, or perhaps ever will be, able to explain.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XV.\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 15","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93168}