{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_37217/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_37217","id":"gutenberg_37217","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37217","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Humour","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\n\n                                 Wilson's\n\n                           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                                 VOL. XX.\n\n\n    LONDON:\n    WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n    AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n    1884.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S, (_Alexander Leighton_)                   1\n\n    SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON, (_John Mackay Wilson_)        34\n\n    THE HEROINE: A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE, (_Alexander Leighton_)      66\n\n    THE BARLEY BANNOCK, (_Alexander Campbell_)                          93\n\n    GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--\n\n          xx. JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE                                   111\n\n         xxi. \"OLD BLUNTIE\"                                            120\n\n        xxii. THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN                             124\n\n       xxiii. THE SHOES REVERSED                                       132\n\n    THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE, (_Rev. G. Thomson_)     143\n\n    TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS, (_John Mackay Wilson_)                        194\n\n    THE MISER OF NEWABBEY, (_Alexander Leighton_)                      226\n\n    THE SEA SKIRMISH, (_Anon._)                                        258\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S\n\nTALES OF THE BORDERS,\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nPLEASANT REMINISCENCES OF MY FATHER.\n\n\nIt is now about twenty years sin' I first raised my voice in the desk o'\nthe kirk o' St Fillan's, in the parish o' that name, and He wha out o'\nthe mouths o' babes and sucklins did ordain praise, hath never thought\nmeet, by means o' ony catarrh, cynanche, quinsy, toothache, or lock-jaw,\nto close up my mouth, and prevent me frae leadin the congregation in a\nclear, melodious strain, to the worship o' the Chief Musician. When I\nwas ordained session clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor, I had already\npassed about thirty years o' my pilgrimage; yet filled wi' Latin and\nGreek, till my _pia mater_ was absolutely like to burst, I had,\nnotwithstanding, nae trade by the hand. The reason was this. My father,\nwho had been for forty years sexton o' the parish, had seen, wi' an e'e\nlang practised in searchin for traces o' death in the faces o'\nparishioners--for the labourer maun live by his hire, and the merchant\nby his customers, \"and thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands\"--a\npleasant leucophlegmatic tinge about the gills o' Jedediah Cameron, my\npredecessor in the three offices already mentioned. Weel, as the\nhusbandman in dry weather, when his fields are parched, and his braird\nthin and weak, watches the clouds that contain rain--mair precious to\nhim than the ointment that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's dry\nbeard--my guid father watched the dropsical signs or indications in\nJedediah's face, daily and hourly, in the fair and legitimate hope o'\ngettin the aridity o' my starvin condition quenched and satisfied. He\nwas an argute sexton, and had learned, in his younger days, some\nsmatterin o' Latin, though I never could ascertain that he retained more\nof the humane lear, than the twa proverbs, \"_Vita mortalium\nbrevis_,\" \"Life is short,\" which comes originally frae Homer;\nand \"_Pecuniae obediunt omnia_,\" which comes frae the sixth chapter\no' Ecclesiastes--\"Money answereth all things.\"\n\nBut my father was never contented wi' his ain _prognosis_. His ain ee\nfor death was as gleg as that o' the hawk for its quarry; but the\nglegness wasna a mere junction or combination o' a keen and praiseworthy\ndesire to live, and a lang experience o' lookin for death in ithers; he\nhad science to guide him; he knew a' the Latin names comprehended in Dr\nCullen's \"Nosology;\" an' Buchan's \"Domestic Medicine\" was scarcely ever\nout o' his hands, except when there was a spade in them. I hae the auld,\nthumed, and faulded, and marked copy o' our domestic AEsculapius yet;\nand, as I look at the store from which he used to draw the lore that\nenabled him to see, as if by a kind o' necromantic divination, a guid\nlucrative death, though still lodged in the wame o' futurity, I canna\nbut drap a tear to the memory o' ane wha toiled sae hard for the sake o'\nhis son. But I examine the book, sometimes, in a mair philosophic\nway--to mark the train o' my auld parent's mind, as he had perused his\ntext-book; for it was his practice, when he saw ony o' the parishioners\nexhibiting favourable symptoms--such as a hard, dry cough, puffed legs,\nwhite liver lips, or even some o' the mair dubious indications, such as\na pale cheek, spare body, drooping head, difficulty in walking, morbid\nappetite, or bulimia, the _delirium tremens_ o' dram-drinkers, the\nyellow o' the white o' the ee o' hypochondriacs, and the like--to search\nin Buchan for the diseases portended by thae appearances, and, when he\nwas sure he had caught them, to draw a pencil stroke along the margin\nopposite to the pleasantest parts o' the doctor's descriptions. I never\nsaw mony marks opposite the common and innocuous complaints--_cholica_,\nor pain in the stamach; _catarrhs_, or cauld; _arthritis_, or gout;\n_rheumatismus_, or rheumatism; _odontalgia_, or toothache; and sae\nforth: thae were beneath his notice. Neither did I ever observe ony\nmarks o' attention to what are called prophylactics, or remedies, to\nprevent diseases comin on: thae nostrums he plainly despised. But, sae\nfar as I could discover, he had a very marked abhorrence o' what the\ndoctors ca' therapeutics, or means and processes o' curin diseases, and\nkeepin awa death; and as for what are denominated _specifics_, or\ninfallible remedies, he wouldna hear o' them ava--showin his despite o'\nthem by the exclamation--\"Psha!\" scribbled with contemptuous haste on\nthe margin. The soul and marrow o' the book to the guid man--bless\nhim!--were the mortal symptoms--the _facies Hippocraticus_, the\nHippocratic face; the _raucitus mortis_, or rattle in the throat;\n_subsultus tendinum_, or twitching o' the hands and fingers; the glazing\no' the ee, and the stoppin o' the breath, and the like o' thae serious\nsigns and appearances. A strong, determined stroke o' the pencil marked\nhis attention to and interest in the Doctor's touchin account o' thae\nturns o' the spindle wharby the thread o' our existence is wound up for\never. It may be easily and safely supposed, that the melancholy words,\ndescriptive o' the oncome o' the grim tyrant himsel--\"_and death closes\nthe tragic scene_\"--sae touchingly and feelingly introduced by the\neloquent author werena lost on my respectit parent.\n\nGuid man as he was, however, (I shall return presently to his study o'\nmy predecessor's dropsy,) it is painfu for his son to hae to say that,\nthough very generally respectit by people when they were in health and\nprosperity, he hadna the same veneration extended to him by the same\nindividuals when they fell into disease. But though rejectin his visits,\nsae lang as a patient was in life and capable o' bein benefited by his\nlively manners, the breath was nae sooner out o' the body, than he was\nsent for, ye might almost say by express. It is some consolation to me,\nthat my parent was far abune shewin resentment at conduct sae\ncontradictory and offensive. In place o' bein angry when invited to the\nhouse o' a dead patient, from which he had been expelled during his\nillness, he uniformly appeared well pleased--repairin, wi' the greatest\ngood humour, to the residence o' the deceased, and disdainin to exhibit\nthe slightest indication o' pique or anger. There are some men wha brak\nthe prophet's command--\"Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead,\nbut remember that we die all;\" but I can safely and upon my honour and\nparole say, that my parent shewed nae greater signs o' happiness on the\ndeath o' an enemy than he did on the death o' a friend. A man has a\npleasure in statin thae things o' a father.\n\nThese early associations hae a charm about them that's very apt to lead\na person off his direct road; \"_Patriae fumus igne alieno\nluculentior_\"--the very smoke o' our father's fireside is clearer than\nanither's flame. How bright, then, maun the virtue and honour o' a\nfather and mother appear to a dutiful and affectionate son! I was\nstating, at the time when I was seduced into that pleasant episode, that\nmy father kept up a daily inspection o' the leucophlegmatic face o' my\npredecessor, Jedediah Cameron; comparing, with, the greatest diligence,\nthe aqueous symptoms there discernible, with the description given by\nhis oracle, Dr Buchan; and, as his hopes strengthened, edging me, by\nslow degrees, into the dominie's desk, and the schoolmaster's chair o'\nauthority, as the friendly and gratuitous assistant o' the dying man.\nBut my father had mair sense than to trust, entirely and allenarly, in\nan affair o' sae gigantic importance, to ony dead authority. He was at\nthe heels o' Dr Dennistoun, our parish physician, as often as that\nworthy man would permit his approach; and it was sometimes said, though\nin a jocular way--and nae man likes a joke better than I do--that he\nconsulted the doctor as the farmer does the barometer, with a view to a\nguid crop. But, were this even _vero verius, certo certius_, how could\nmy parent be blamed for being industrious? Unless ye thresh and grind,\nye hae little chance o' a dinner--\"_Ni purgas et molas, non comedes_;\"\nan auld saying o' Diogenianus, particularly applicable to my father, who\nhad to support, by his industry, an idle sou--_bos in stabulo_--long,\nbare-boned, ill-filled up, as hungry and voracious as a Cyclops, and\nnever weel-dined but on the day o' a dead-chack. I might blame my\nrespectable parent for consulting Dr Dennistoun about expected deaths\nand burials, if mortals could avoid ony o' the twa; but we hae nae\nElijahs in thae days, \"to be taken up in a whirlwind of fire, and in a\nchariot of fiery horses.\" Death comes to a'--_mors omnibus communis_;\nand Jedediah Cameron--bless him!--had nae chance o' bein made an\nexception; otherwise my lank wame and lean cheeks stood a puir chance o'\nbein sae weel filled up as they afterwards came to be, when I held his\nthree offices.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nA KIND PROVIDENCE SMILES ON MY PARENT'S SOLICITUDE.\n\n\nIf it hadna been to make certainty doubly sure, my father had nae\noccasion to hound after Dr Dennistoun in the way he did, to ascertain\nthe probability o' the death o' Jedediah Cameron, or ony other mortal\nthat stood a chance o' needin a bit turf and a kindly clap o' his spade.\nHis ee was as sure as a cockatrice's. He needed nae howling o' the\nmoon-baying tyke, nae' death-watch, nae whip-lash on the table, nae\ndead-drap, nae dead-shaving at the candle, nae coffin-spark frae the\nfire, nae powers o second-sight, dreams, or divinations, to tell him\nwhen he was to hae a guid job. He came to be able to read death in men's\nfaces, as he could do a printed book. Now, Jedediah Cameron didna\ndeceive him. Ae day, when I was busy teachin the puir man's scholars, he\ncame in, and whispered in my ear, that the parish clerk, schoolmaster,\nand precentor o' St Fillan's, was dead. I was, at the time, in the very\nact o' flogging an urchin wha had disputed my authority. The ferula fell\nfrom my hands; the urchin's rebellion was, I thought, ominous o' the\nrejection o' my claims o' succession; but, after a', there's nae oracle\nlike the presentiments o' a man's ain soul, speaking frae the inspired\ntripod that is set owre the hollow-sounding, murmuring gulf o' an empty\nstamach; and so the ancient Pythonissa o' Apollo's temple at Delphi,\njudiciously took her seat over the abyss called the _umbilicus orbis\nterrarum_. Being an honest man, I confess frankly that the first feeling\nproduced by my father's lively whisper, was a kind o' pleasure,\napproaching as near to delight as any sensation I had yet discovered in\nmy microcosm. But I remembered the seventh verse o' the eighth chapter\no' Ecclesiasticus, directed against rejoicing over the dead; and, upon\nthe very instant, set vigorously to work, either to expel the delightful\nemotion frae my mind, or, at least, to push the sweet rebel off the\ncerebral throne--the pineal gland--and plunge him into some o' the deep\nventricles, or dungeons, lying in the lower part of the brain, or ben in\nthe cerebellum. It was a considerable struggle; but I succeeded to a\nperfect miracle--a circumstance I am the more pleased with, as I hate\nmortally that abominable cant of the Calvinists, about necessity, as if\na man hadna the whip-hand, direction, and guidance of his own will.\n\nThe grave o' Jedediah Cameron was, in due time, dog by my parent--wi'\nwhat feeling, whether o' sorrow or satisfaction, I am not bound to say,\nbecause a sense o' delicacy prevented me frae being present at the\nbreaking o' the earth; but I consider myself under an obligation to\nstate, that I never saw my respected parent cover up a mortal body so\ncleverly. Lest, however, ony hasty-minded, sanguine individual, should,\nfrom this admission o' mine, suppose that that cleverness, or\nnimbleness, had ony connection with the alacrity o' joy, or the morbid\nquickness o' a sorrow that wishes to get an unpleasant job out of hands,\nI must explain that my father merely wanted--surely a most legitimate\nobject--to catch as many o' the parochial heritors present at the\nfuneral as remained on the ground, reading grave-stanes, or laughing and\nchatting thegither, after the body was clappit down--with the view o'\nsecuring their votes for me, as the singular successor (to speak as the\nlawyers do) to the three vacant offices held by the now dead dominie.\n\nBut this is a sair subject--I can scarcely write upon it. My brain\nwhirls like an old woman's spindle the moment I think on't. Guidness!\nwhat a risk I ran o' losin my three offices by the mere paternal\nfondness o' that honest man. Some o' the heritors had remarked the\nvivacity and agility o' my parent in throwin in the heavy moil on the\nclatterin coffin, wi' mair noise, force, and fervor than was ever used\non an occasion o' the same kind afore; pushin and shovellin great\nhillocks o' stanes and banes at a mighty effort, usin his very feet in\nthe process; sweatin, pechin, stumblin, and producin a noise frae the\ncoffin lid like distant thunner; and mair, peradventure, resemblin the\nrisin than the lyin doun o' the dead. The thing couldna be concealed.\nMy father was excited beyond a' prudence or decent decorum; and, when he\nhad finished the wark, or rather pretended to finish it--for it was at\nbest a clumsy business--and, drawin near, wi' the shovel in his hand, to\na knot o' the heritors, standin on a flat gravestane, they asked him,\nwi' a significant expression, why he was in sae great a hurry in coverin\nup the puir dominie, a laugh rang amang the grave-stanes--a guid answer\nto my father's request--that stuck in his throat; and, in place o'\ngettin a vote, he hadna the courage to ask ane. The thing deed awa afore\nthe meetin o' the heritors, an' I was saved frae ruin--an escape for\nwhich I hae offered up many thanks to the Author o' our mercies.\n\nThe pleasant duty o' filial love is sae fu' o' artfu' seduction, and\nwinnin, pauky guile, that it has carried me awa frae my ain merits an'\nsuccesses. The first thing I had to do was to keep a guid firm grip o'\nthe schule, the parish books, and the dominie's desk; for I knew that\npossession is nine points o' the law. I got ready my testimonials wi'\nthe greatest despatch; the mair by token, that some o' them were in a\nvery forward state before Jedediah Cameron's breath was out. I ca'ed at\nthe houses o' a' the heritors wha had bairns at the schule, and praised\nwi' decent pride the progress they had made under my care--music mair\nsweet to their ears than even the Bangor itsel. Meanwhile, I exerted\nmysel on the Sabbaths, to sing, wi' the greatest pith and clearness, the\npsalm tunes. I kenned the folks were fondest o' such as the Auld Hunder,\nMount Pleasant, and that excellent favourite the Bangor. My execution,\npathos, quavers, semi-quavers, were wonderfu. The parishioners were\nastonished, and followin my leadin tenor into the altitudes o' the\nhighest inspiration, flew awa into the very Elysian fields o'\nenthusiastic devotion.\n\nNae doubt, some o' the auld, cunnin foxes, that never sang a stave\nlooked at me as if they saw through my drift; but I was far abune their\nenvy, and was conscious o' the purity o' my heart. In the meantime, my\nmost excellent and much-respected parent was hawking aboot amang the\nheritors my testimonials; and at the next meetin o' the heritors, I was\nduly elected parish-clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's.\nWeel do I recollect that joyfu occasion. Our dinner exceeded far ony\ndead-chack I ever saw. My father took a free glass; and, inspired wi'\nthe generous liquor, made a speech to me as lang as a funeral oration.\n\n\"Noo, Gideon,\" he began, \"yer namesake, the son o' Joash got his fortune\nread by a dream o' a barley cake that fell frae heaven, as we find i'\nthe Book o' Judges. Yer barley-cake hath come frae heaven, and the\nforces o' Midian are delivered owre to ye. I can do nae mair for ye. I\nhae fed ye, clad ye, made ye. In yer mouth I hae put men's lear, in yer\nheart God's fear. For yer sake I watched, as the husbandman does the\nclouds, for signs o' mortality in the face o' Jedediah Cameron; and the\nfirst symptom o' water I saw in his body, comin atween me and the sun o'\nmy hope, made a glitterin rainbow in my paternal ee. Muckle do ye owe\nme, Gideon; but I'll no be ill to satisfy. I'll be pleased if ye measure\nyer gratitude by the size o' that lank, toom wame, whilk I never saw\nfilled to satisfaction till this blessed day, when ye hauld the three\nprincipal offices o' this parish.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nI EXERT MY GREAT ABILITIES ON A GREAT OCCASION.\n\n\nWhen I had fairly made up my mind to tak a wife, I set mysel to the wark\nsystematically. The first thing to be dune was to put mysel in a\nconvenient position for being struck; but a knowledge o' my combustible\nnature suggested caution against mere love at first sight--_ex aspectu\nnascitur amor_--lest I might be caught in yarn toils in place o' a goold\nchain. After a', there's nae place like a dominie's desk, for showing\naff to the greatest advantage a man's personalities and graces. The\nopenin o' the chest to let out the wind, naturally produces an erection\no' the hail man. The keepin o' the time wi' the arm brings out a gracefu\nmovement, just as ane were to set aff in a minuet. The lightin up o' the\nee, and the fine attenuation o' a' the sma' limber muscles o' the face,\nwi' the power o' the music, is a direct expression o' the pure pathetic,\nshowing at ance baith yer sentiment and yer beauty. Then singin\nitsel--and love, Augustinus says, will mak a musician out o' an\nass--_musicam docet amor_--is a great grace and accomplishment, whether\nit be in warbling \"Dundee's\" wild measures, the \"plaintive Martyrs,\" or\n\"noble Elgin\"--a' the very pick o' Psalm tunes--ranting \"Tullochgorum,\"\nor spinnin out the lang, plaintive notes o' \"The Flowers o' the Forest.\"\n\nIt may very safely be supposed, that I never lost sight o' thae\nadvantages. A dominie, in urgent celibacy, has a' the invention aboot\nhim o' a man in extreme hunger. In fact, I felt as keen to get a wife as\nI ever did to get my three offices. But I was weel aware that a' my\ndress--and Mr Meiklejohn himsel, the minister, hadna a finer gloss on\nhis black coat, or a brighter white in his cravat--a' my posture-makin,\nmy attitudes and smiles--a' my sentimental looks, and turnin up o' the\nwhite o' my een--could avail me little, unless I picked out some female\nas the object and mark o' a weel-directed and significant _glowr_. In\ncase o' failure, I fixed upon twa--May Walker, the dochter o' Gilbert\nWalker, an auld cattle-dealer, wha rented Langacres frae a chief\nheritor; and Agnes Lowrie, the dochter o' Benjamin Lowrie, feuar o'\nMuirbank. Twa or three guid _glowrs_ were a' that was necessary, in the\nfirst instance, to show that I, the dominie o' St Fillan's, wanted a\nwife, and that I was even in a state o' great exigency. The moment I\nthought I had impressed my twa damosels with this idea, I laboured\nassiduously in my vocation of endeavourin to produce, by my gracefu\nattitudes and sweet singin, a favourable impression on their hearts.\n\nI am a weel-disposed man, but love is a terrible thing, and it now hangs\nheavy on my conscience, that I did little else, during the duration o'\nMr Meiklejohn's discourses, than to cast the glamour o' my attractions\nowre the een o' my dulcineas. There was ae particular occasion, however,\nbeyond a', for expressin the pressure and exigency o' my situation, and,\nas it were, forcin attention to my wants and wishes. I used to gie out\nthe purposed marriages at an early hour, before the congregation was\nhalf assembled; but I now took especial care, that the twa objects o' my\naffections should be calmly seated before I executed this part o' my\nduties. I began first by fixin my een on the ane I intended to devote\nthat particular Sabbath to, (for I alternated my preferences;) and, as I\nlooked at her as significantly as I could, I pronounced the emphatic\nwords--\"There is a purpose o' marriage between\"--wi' sae muckle strong,\nheart-felt pathos--sometimes even inclinin my right hand a little in the\ndirection o' my heart--that baith look and word maun hae pierced her\nvery gizzard. It was perfectly impossible that this could fail. These\npreliminary operations I persevered in for sixteen Sabbaths.\n\nHaving prepared matters in this effectual--I may say irresistible way--I\nbethought mysel o' the maist efficient way o' followin up the advantage\nI had gained. I asked my respected parent which o' the twa lasses he\nthought I should attack first. He answered, wi' that wisdom for which he\nwas sae remarkable, that that depended upon circumstances. Twa or three\ndays afterwards, he said he was prepared to answer my question--the\ninterval being, I presume, occupied in gettin intelligence about the\nwealth o' the respective fathers o' the young women. He said, that, sae\nfar as he could answer, May Walker was the preferable damsel. I asked\nhim his reason. He replied, that he had taen the trouble o' ascertainin\nthe hail circumstances o' her condition; and, though her father wasna\nsae rich as Agnes Lowrie's, he was paler, and a guid deal mair\ncadaverous looking. If my parent hadna been speakin professionally, as\nthe sexton o' St Fillans, I might hae been inclined to think he was\njokin, but he never was mair serious in his life; and, in fact, he had\nthat very mornin been _Buchaneezing_, as he caed it, on Gilbert Walker's\n_prognosis_, and had come to a conclusion on his case, very favourable\nto my prospects in life.\n\nThe saxteen Sabbaths I had spent _in limine_, as it were, o' Cupid's\ntemple, drove me sae _hard up_--in other words, increased the exigency\no' my celibacy to such an extent--that, actin on my father's advice, I\ndetermined upon fa'in foul o' her the very first time I met her in an\nunprotected situation, and in a secret, sequestered, and convenient\nplace. My respected parent aye said, that love was just like death. The\ntwa powers are aye best, baith for themsels and their victims, when they\ntak them by storm, or, as the French say, by a _coup de main_. A\nlingerin death and a lingerin love (said the guidman) make the heart\nsick, and, for his part, (laying aside his professional feelings), he\ndetested baith. He seized my mither, he said, just like an apoplexy, and\nshe succumbed in a single groan o' consent.\n\n\"Gideon, take example by me,\" he continued; \"never seize a woman like\nwhat Buchan ca's a _hemiplegia_--that is, by halves; comprehend in your\nembrace liver, pancreas, stamach, heart, spleen, and then ye're sure to\nmove her compassion, and settle the affair in an instant.\"\n\nFollowing my worthy genitor's advice, I watched for May Walker, the\nnext Sabbath, as she left the kirk after the afternoon's service. She\nwas alane, and took the quietest road to Langacres. I dogged her most\ndeterminedly up the Willow Loan that leads into a solitary and\nsequestered howe, ca'ed the Warlocks' Glen, a place sae intensely\nromantic, sae completely sacred to the high feelins o' love and poetry,\nthat it seemed impossible there for a woman to resist a man; and, if she\nmight attempt it, she could look for nae mortal assistance. Having ogled\nher into a perfect state o' preparation, or predisposition to receive\nthe attack, as the doctors say, I was quite certain o' success; and,\njust as an experienced sportsman lets a bird tak a lang flight afore he\nfires, to shew his ease, coolness, and confidence in his powers, I\nallowed her to be half-way up the Willow Loan afore I should pounce upon\nher. By some misfortune, however, she had got a glimpse o' me; for, just\nwhen I was meditating on the surest way o' makin my point guid, she took\nto her heels, like a springbok, and was off through the Warlocks' Glen\nin as short a time as I tak to gie out the first line o' a heroic Psalm\nverse.\n\nI cam hame and reported my progress to my parent; but he wasna in the\nslightest degree dispirited; and next Sabbath, I got Andrew Waugh, a\nsingin weaver o' the village, to officiate for me, under a pretence that\nI had caught a severe cauld. I repaired to the Warlocks' Glen, and sat\ndoun on a stump o' an auld aik tree, allowin freely the inspiration o'\nthe place to seize me, and nerve my energies for the bauld project I had\nin hand. In a short time, I espied the streamers o' a woman's bannet\nwavin amang the willows in the distance. Slouchin doun, like a tiger,\nbehind a large broom bush, I watched the onward progress o' the sweet\nnymph, doubtless my beloved May. It was absolutely and indispensably\nrequisite that I should take her by ambuscade; for, if she had seen even\nthe hem o' my garment, I'm satisfied her ambulation would hae been\nreversed, and in speed very considerably increased. I'm vexed to be\nobliged to mak this admission, which grates sae harshly against my\nself-conceit; but verity transcends, in beauty and importance, vanity;\nand I consider this biography to be naething but a confession frae\nbeginnin to end.\n\nKeepin my slouchin, sneakin attitude as weel as my lang gaunt body would\npermit, I had at least the exorbitant satisfaction o' seein the dear\nyoung woman walkin mournfully alang, unconscious o' the danger that\nawaited her. At a little distance from my lurkin place, she stood, as if\nshe feared there was a snake in the grass; for the anxiety and\nsolicitude I felt to get a glimpse o' her fair face, forced me to twist\nmy body into unpleasant contortions, which produced a kind of a rustling\namang the sere-leaves that lay on the ground. Findin a' quiet again, she\nseemed to renounce a' fear; though I secretly suspected that she kenned\nweel aneugh the cause o' the noise, for I had detected the hinder part\no' my body in a higher state o' elevation than my will or security\nwarranted, being considerably abune the broom, and, therefore, plainly\nin her ee. Keepin my suspicion to mysel, I watched her motions wi' still\ngreater curiosity and intensity; because, if my suspicions were true\nthat she kenned I was lyin sneakin there, her conduct, of course,\nrequired frae me a different rule o' construction. At last she sat doon,\nquite close to me--a circumstance that satisfied me still mair that she\nwas aware o' my position, condition, and intentions--for it seemed to be\na kind o' an invitation to me to dart upon her, and secure my prey. She\nspoke.\n\n\"Noo, this is no usin me quite weel,\" said she, \"no to be here,\" (a mere\nblind, thinks I, to mak me think she doesna ken I'm lyin slouchin at her\nvery side), \"when I had sae muckle to say to him. Though I was shy to\nhim the last time I saw him, he might hae learned eneugh o' the heart o'\nwoman to ken that we hae certain arts and wiles, and guiles about us--a\nkind o' secret charms--to increase an affection that we think over\nlanguid, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the\nwarm life o' a lively passion. It canna be, that, after sae lang a\nperiod o' lookin, followin, and languishin, he doesna like me. If he\nonly kenned the condition o' this puir, flutterin, beatin heart, that\nfears to listen to its ain timid voice, as if it were treason to\nlove--how muckle mair wad he prize my sittin here, invitin--wae's my\npuir prudence!--thae very attractions I used to flee frae! But woman,\nweak woman, is doomed to be the sport o' men, as weel as o' her ain\nheart.\"\n\nIt was noo clearly my time to pounce. In fack, the young woman was\ninvitin me. Up I sprang, like a jungle thief.\n\n\"How can you sit there, May,\" said I, \"kennin I was lyin sneakin there\nunder that broom bush, and yet abusin a faithfu creature for being slow\nand languid in his love, when last Sabbath ye flew frae him wi' a' the\npith o' a bitter hatred disgust, and scorn! Languid in _my_ affection!\nIs _that_ like languidness?\" (Throwing my arms fully around her, so as\nto include, if possible, the hail body in my ample embrace.) \"Is _that_,\ndear May, like love in the dead-thraw? If _that's_ no a sign\" (still\npressing her, as she struggled and cried) \"o' the warm life o' a lively\npassion, as ye ca'd it, I kenna what it is?\"\n\nAs I thus held her in my impassioned grasp--as firm as a tiger's--she\nscreamed most inordinately, makin the hail Warlocks' Glen ring frae end\nto end, rousin the mawkins on every side, and makin them skip over the\nwhin bushes as if they had been followed by a pack o' harriers. But I\nwasna to be deceived. She had, when I was sneakin under the bush o'\nbroom, gien me the key to this conduct, in her cunnin monologue. This\nwas ane o' the arts, wiles, guiles, and secret charms, to increase a\nlanguid affection, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love\ninto the warm love o' a lively passion. Her words still rung in my\nears, and I was as determined as the very deevil to show her that her\nefforts to increase my love were perfectly effectual. I hugged her\ncloser and closer. Heart, liver, pancreas, a'thegither, as recommended\nby my father, were in my embrace. I squeezed the dear creature like a\nvice, sae strong was my determination, increased every minute by her\nscreams, to prove to her entire satisfaction--in fack, to demonstrate,\nbeyond the possibility of a doubt--that there was nae mair occasion for\nher female guile or charm, and that she might rest assured that my\naffection could, nae mair than my grasp, be increased in point o'\nintensity. But a' wouldna do--her heart seemed to be insatiable. In\naddition to my squeezing grasp, I kissed her ruby lips. She cried the\nlouder and the louder; and--oh! hae I lived to write it?--she actually\nspat on the face that was glowin red hot wi' affection for her. Still I\npersevered; for I thought that even the _sputum_ might be ane o' her\nsecret charms. The struggle continued, and her cries increased. She had\nrecourse to her nails, and I felt the blude streamin doun my cheeks. We\nfell on the ground. A man's voice behind me cried--\"My love, my love!\nknock doun the spoiler!\" A tremendous blow on the head took frae me my\nsenses; and, when I recovered, I was in my ain bed, with my respectit\nparents sitting by me, watchin, with the greatest and tenderest care,\nthe return o' consciousness to their beloved son.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nLIGHT STRUGGLES THROUGH A CLOUD TO GET TO ME IN MY MISFORTUNE.\n\n\nI sune recovered my health, but my reputation and fair fame were for a\ntime under a cloud. The parishioners, in place o' shakin me by the\nhand, looked at me with averted eyes. I was treated as a dog that had\nbeen in bad company. A sough went throughout the parish, that Simon\nBegley--or, as the folks ca'ed him, with a humorous application to his\ncraft, that of procurator-fiscal o' the county, Beagle--was busy takin a\nprecognition with a view to layin the case before the Lord Advocate. But\nI was gien to understand, and privately, that the authorities didna\nintend, in the meantime, to lay hold o' me, as they had nae suspicion I\nwould flee the country. Their object was to ascertain the truth o' the\ncharge, and, if they found there was any real _delictum_, and Gilbert\nWalker and May persevered in their determination, to apprehend me then,\nand try me as an example and a warnin.\n\nThis misfortune brought upon me an attack o' hypochondriacism; and\nMelancholy, wi' a' her attendant hags, hounded me, as they say, frae\nhouse to hame. Wearied o' concealin myself within doors, I sought the\nby-ways, the loans, and the unfrequented paths--still, however, doin my\nduties, and facin the public whar I couldna weel sneak out o' the way.\nAe day, I was sittin on a fence, no far frae my ain door, musin on the\ncurious turn my love affair had taen, and generally on the \"vanity of\nhuman wishes.\" I thought o' the poem o' that name by the only poet whose\nworks I could ever thole to read, and cured, in some degree, my\ndespondency, by repeatin to mysel the lines--\n\n    \"Still raise for good the supplicating voice,\n    But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.\"\n\n\"I hae dune baith,\" said a saft voice in my ear; \"but the guid I hae\nprayed for is lang o' comin.\"\n\n\"It has a lang road to come, my bonny lass,\" said I to a young woman\nwith a child in her arms, wha stood before me. \"I, mysel, ken what it is\nto suffer; for a pickled rod is at this very moment on my puir\nback--sending, as it cuts its way, the nippin brine into my very\nmarrow. But I am exercisin patience. What may your compliant be?\"\n\n\"My complaint,\" said she, wipin a clear, shinin tear frae her bonny blue\nee, \"lies owre near my puir broken heart to be tauld to a stranger; for\nwha but Him wha is 'the saul's portion,' should hear the secrets, or is\nable to cure the waes o' a deserted wife? Ken ye the session-clerk o'\nthis parish?\"\n\n\"Owre weel,\" said I, \"guid woman; for, personally, I am noo sufferin for\nthat officer. I, mysel, hold that honoured office, wi' its twa\nappurtenances.\"\n\n\"You are, then, the very man I wanted to see,\" said she; \"but I maun\nspeak privately to ye. I hae come far to see ye, and heavy are the\nburdens I hae carried, baith at this bosom (lookin at her child) and in\nit; an' maybe ye may be the means o' relievin me o' ane o' them.\"\n\n\"Which o' them mean ye, woman?\" said I, no a'thegither at ease. \"I hope\nye dinna mean the bairn. Ae misfortune's enough at a time.\"\n\n\"Na, na,\" replied she; \"I dinna mean that you should be the faither o'\nthe child; but ye may be the means, in higher hands, o' gettin back its\nfaither, and thereby relievin me o' a' my burdens and a' my sorrows\nthegither.\"\n\n\"Nae man likes to do guid better than I do,\" replied I, wi' a decent\ncomplacency, \"though I hae been sair defamed. Come awa wi' me, an' tell\nme your story.\"\n\nI took the puir woman hame, and, seein she was filled wi' naething but\nsorrow, ane o' the maist inflatin o' a' the _non-naturals_ (for\nHippocrates himsel couldna doubt that it's ane o' them,) I supplied her\nwi' as muckle victuals o' ae kind or anither--no bein very particular\nabout the agreement or concurrence o' the elemental parts o' the\npolymixia or combination--as I thought would hae the double effeck o'\ngettin quit o' her hunger and her sorrow thegither. The puir creature\nate like a rhinoceros. I doubt if she had had any meat for a week.\nCakes, milk, cheese, herrings, tea, and honey, a' disappeared; and\nnaething remained but a blush o' shame on her bonny cheek, to tell how\nmuckle abashed she was at her good appetite. Some ungracefu minded folks\nwad ha ta'en the sweet suffusion that covered her face, for the mere\neffect o' the fecht or warstle o' devouring sae muckle meat; but my\ndelicacy suggested a truer, a mair feminine, and a mair gallant\nconclusion. I was sae muckle pleased with the refinement o' mind that\nled to this discovery, that I couldna help bringing't oot--for nae man\nshould hide his candle under a bushel--\n\n\"Ye needna be ashamed, my bonny woman,\" said I, \"at eating sae muckle;\nfor, though it's no paid for, ye're perfectly welcome to it, ample and\nmultitudinous as it is.\"\n\nThis had the desired effect; for the blush was instantly succeeded by a\ndeadly paleness. I then asked her what was her particular object, in\nwishin to see and speak to me privately. It was some time afore she\ncould answer--overcome, I fancy, by her admiration o' my delicacy o'\nsentiment; but at last, takin out a ragged handkerchief, as a kind o'\npreparation for a scene, a thing I like abune a' things--exceptin,\nmaybe, that in the Warlocks' Glen--she began--\n\n\"I am the dochter o' an honest farmer, that lives down near the Tweed.\nHis name is Arthur Graeme; and my name--that is my maiden name--is Lucy\nGraeme. He was ance accounted rich, and I was--no lang syne\nyet--considered to hae some claims to beauty--twa things that hae\nproduced a' my wae. I was courted by the neighbourin farmers, wha vied\nwi' ane anither for my hand and my affections; but, as a prophet has nae\ncredit in his ain country, sae neeborin lovers were little respeckit.\nThe gree was born awa frae them by a perfect stranger, kenned neither to\nthem nor to me. A young man, ca'ed, at that time at least, Hugh\nKennedy, whase looks were, alas! his best recommendation, if I shouldna\nspeak of a soft honeyed tongue, whase sounds were music to my ear,\nrecommended himsel to me at a neighbouring fair, and took frae me,\nwhether I wad or no, my silly affections. He had heard o' my father's\nsiller, and he saw my blooming face; but he never had the courage to\ncome to our house and court me honourably, as my other wooers were glad\nand proud to do. Yet--strange backslidin o' the human heart!--I wadna\nhae gien a stowen kiss o' Hugh Kennedy, among the beech groves o'\nSunnybrae, for a' the flatterin, wooin, and braw presents o' the rest o'\nmy lovers thegither. The mere circumstance o' the puir youth being\nbanned, as he was (for his secret courtship was sune kenned), frae the\nvery neeborin woods, bound him to my heart the closer and the firmer.\nThough twenty een were upon me as gleg as hawks, and I was watched like\na convicted thief, I saw him, spoke to him, wept wi' him, lay in his\ndear arms, and got my tears kissed awa wi' his burning lips.\"\n\nHer throat got thick, and she paused. After some sobbing, she\ncontinued--\n\n\"Oh, forgie me, sir! To ye alane, wha hae my fortune in yer hands, wad I\nspeak in this wild strain, for my heart is fu' o' love, grief, and a\nstill revivin hope that winna dee. I never asked him a question, sae\nworthless and silly in the thoughts o' a lover, whar he wad tak me, and\nwhat he wad do wi' me, if I ran frae my faither's house, and married\nhim. What cared I for things that were to come, when a' my joys were\ncentred in the single moment when I was in his arms? Na, I never asked\nhim whar was to be our bed--whar we were to get our dinner. Love had\nmade me as light, as gay, as free, as thoughtless, as the birds o' the\ngrove, whose food and raiment, hoose an' ha', are provided by nature,\nwha is kinder to them than to us proud human creatures. I need say nae\nmair. I flew frae my faither's hoose, was married and ruined. My\nhusband had nae trade by the hand, nae friends, nae hame. He trusted to\nmy faither's wealth; but that took wings and flew away as fast as his\ndochter. We lived thegither, Gude kens hoo, for twa years, when, ae\nmornin aboot six months syne, he rose frae my side an' left me, an' I\nhae never seen him since. A month after, I bore this babe, wha hasna yet\nseen its faither. I inquired for him in every direction, an' at last I\nheard that he was livin in this parish, an' was on the eve o' bein\nmarried to a braw lass, wi' a better tocher than I could bring to him.\"\n\n\"This is a sad story, Lucy--Mrs Kennedy, I mean\"--said I. \"Your\ntreacherous husband, and his unconscious victim, this second wife,\nwhoever she may be, haena gien in their names to me yet, as clerk o'\nthis parish; and Mr Meiklejohn is owre correct a man to marry them\nagainst the rules.\"\n\n\"Heaven be praised!\" cried the poor woman. \"I was afraid I might be owre\nlate.\"\n\n\"Yer in braw time,\" said I; \"but, if Mr Kennedy taks anither name, how\nwill I ken him?--for he may forge certificates o' residence, or bribe\nsome residenters to certify him--tricks no uncommon in the traffic o'\nmatrimony.\"\n\n\"But maybe ye may ken his _sweetheart_,\" said she, wi a big heart, as\nshe wrung the bitter name out o' her dry throat.\n\n\"It's no unlikely,\" said I; \"I ken the maist o' the leevin folks o' the\nparish, and my faither kens a' the dead anes.\"\n\n\"Did you ever hear o' a young woman bearing the name o' May Walker?\"\nsaid she.\n\n\"I think I hae,\" said I, hesitatingly, as if trying to recollect mysel;\nand, lookin suspiciously at her, for I thocht she had heard o' my\nmisfortune, and was suspicious o' every individual that mentioned that\ncharmed, dear, yet terrible name.\n\n\"I think I hae,\" repeated I, drawing my hand owre my weel-shaved chin,\nas if to try my beard; and, satisfied o' the ignorance and innocence o'\nthe creature, wishin to keep my secret.\n\n\"Did ye ever see her, or speak to her?\" continued Mrs Kennedy. \"Is she\nbonny?--has she a sweet voice?--is she like--like me?\" And she burst\ninto tears.\n\n\"I hae seen her,\" replied I, tryin to keep mysel frae greetin too; but a\nloud blubber burst frae me, in spite o' a' my efforts to keep it amang\nthe lower pairt o' my lungs. \"I hae seen her--I hae kissed--hum--I mean\nI hae spoken to her. She _is_ bonny--O ay!\" (with an increased blubber);\n\"she _is_ indeed bonny.\"\n\nMy answer increased the weepin o' the jealous wife, and we baith grat\nthegither.\n\n\"Has she muckle siller?\" said she, calming a little.\n\n\"She _will_ hae,\" replied I; \"she _maun_ hae, for her faither is in\n_very_ bad health.\"\n\nThis new cause o' sorrow increased my paroxysm to a perfect buller.\n\n\"Ye are a maist sympathetic creature,\" said Mrs Kennedy, \"to greet that\nway for anither's misfortunes.\"\n\n\"It's just my way,\" said I; \"we canna restrain our heart or our\nstamach.\"\n\nThe mention o' the last word made the puir creature blush. It even\nstopped her tears. On hoo little springs do our passions depend!\n\nThis scene bein acted in the way I hae thus (I hope pretty graphically)\ndescribed, I began to tak a mair philosophical view o' this important\nbusiness. With an acuteness as natural to me as to a snip's tool, I\npenetrated the prudential course o' my operations in an instant o'\ninspired intuition. I fancy it wad smack considerably o' the _inane\ngotium_ o' supererogation, besides being exposed to the charge o'\nanticipation, to lay my plan before my readers in the clumsy way o' a\nchart, where there's sae guid a pilot. I like to seize a subject as my\nfather did my mother when he courted and won her; or as I did May\nWalker, when I courted and lost her. To the heart at ance! I premised my\noperations, by askin Mrs Kennedy, in spite o' the gladiator-like way she\nhad o' handlin her knife and fork, to remain in my house for a day or\ntwa, till we saw whether her husband would ca' upon me, to gie in the\nnames o' him and _his_--alas! what a change!--_his_ dulcinea! In the\nmeantime, Beagle's precognition was still proceedin; and Gilbert Walker\nand his dochter wouldna, it was said, relent. For about eight days, Mrs\nKennedy sat and watched at the window, to see if she could espy her\nfaithless husband; while I sneaked about, to try if I could ascertain\nthe absolute truth of her story, and the real facks o' my ain deplorable\ncase. My inquiries, conducted under the disadvantage o' being obliged to\nskulk, and beg, as it were, an answer to my questions, were not very\nsuccessful. I, however, discovered that a young man, wi' black routhy\nwhiskers, and a long romantic nose juttin out frae amang them, like a\npromontory frae the side o' a thick wud, was busy courtin May Walker,\nwhase heart had got entangled in the forest o' his face, and couldna be\nliberated by a' the ruggin o' her father and her friends. This\ndescription o' him agreed wi' that I got frae Mrs Kennedy, wha couldna\ndescribe the coverin o' his face without tears. I was satisfied it was\nthe man; and my satisfaction was confirmed by a kind o'\nrecollection--strugglin through the inspissated gloom o' the oblivion I\nexperienced after being knocked doon in the Warlocks' Glen--o' the\nfigure o' an Orson-like individual, wi' a great rung in his hand, mixed\nwith the evanescent sounds o' \"My love!--my love!--knock doun the\nspoiler!\" which produced, thegither, the conviction that Mr Hugh Kennedy\nwas the very man on whom May Walker was waitin on that eventfu Sabbath,\nand who felled me sae unmercifully to the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nMY TALENTS BROUGHT STILL MORE IN REQUISITION.\n\n\nMrs Kennedy and I persevered, with the asperity o' hedgehogs, _echini\nasperitate_, (Pliny,) in our watch. Ae day, as I was sitting ben the\nhouse, where the parish register lies, the puir woman cam rinnin into\nthe room, in a state of dreadful agitation, crying--\n\n\"There he's--there he's passing the very window--comin in, nae doubt, to\ngie in the names. Ah, traitor!\"\n\n\"Be quiet, foolish woman,\" said I. \"Awa again to the kitchen. There he\nis!\" (there was now a loud knocking at the door;) \"awa wi' ye to the\nkitchen!\"\n\nAnd I hurried her, _obtorto collo_, by the neck and shoulders, (for the\nexigency of the case obliterated every trace of my usual gallantry,) to\nthe kitchen, whereinto I locked her, as firmly as guid smith's wark\nwould permit. The prudence o' this preliminary step needs nae\nelucidation to them wha ken the nature o' a deserted wife. I then walked\ncalmly to the door, which I opened slowly and decently, as became a\nsession clerk.\n\n\"How do you do, Mr Willison?\" said a man, with large, black, routhy\nwhiskers, and a prominent nose, o' the aquiline, or romantic cut.\n\nIt was the very apparition o' the fever I caught in the Warlocks' Glen.\nHe pretended never to have seen me before; but a blue mark on my\nforehead tingled the moment it caught his eye; and, as I unconsciously\nraised my hand to gie it the relief it asked, he smiled--a fair\ndetection; but I said naething to shew that I recognised him.\n\n\"As weel as can be expected,\" answered I, without mair significancy or\nintelligence than a babe or suckling would have exhibited.\n\n\"That is the answer of a lying-in wife in Scotland,\" said he, still\nsmiling.\n\n\"Unfortunately, nane o' us hae ony experience o' that yet,\" said I, \"if\nI can guess your errand to a parish clerk.\"\n\n\"You do guess rightly,\" said he. \"I came here to request you, sir, to\npublish these banns, on the next three successive Sabbaths.\"\n\nI received the paper he held out. It contained the names and designation\no' the twa parties--George Webster, residing at Burnfoot; and May\nWalker, dochter o' Gilbert Walker, residing at Langacres.\n\n\"Where are your certificates o' residence?\" said I.\n\nHe handed me a certificate, signed and attested wi' apparent regularity,\nbut which I was predetermined to doubt, wi' a' the obstinacy o' a guid\ndogmatic sceptic.\n\n\"I fancy you'll be the George Webster mentioned here yersel, Mr Hugh\nKennedy,\" said I.\n\nHe started, at the very least, three guid thumb-measured inches, frae my\nfloor. The stroke was nearly as pithy as that he applied to me in the\nWarlocks' Glen.\n\n\"That is my name in the certificate, there,\" said he, recovering.\n\n\"I ken that brawly, Mr Kennedy,\" said I. \"George Webster's your\n_present_ name; but I forget neither auld names nor auld friends. Some\nfolk, wi' new-fangled notions, hae, now-a-days, three names. Even Mr\nMeiklejohn, guid man, baptized his son Finlay Johnstone Meiklejohn, to\nthe admiration o' the twa-named congregation o' St Fillan's; but it\ncanna be expected that, when the laddie comes up, we are aye to address\nhim by his three names. It would be owre great an expense o' wind and\ntime.\"\n\n\"I have neither wind nor time to spend in this foolery,\" said he. \"That\nis my name in the paper, and there are your fees.\"\n\n\"I dinna want to quarrel wi' you, Mr Kennedy,\" said I, \"because I hae\nowre muckle respect for Mrs Kennedy--Lucy Graeme, the dochter o' Arthur\nGraeme o' Sunnybrae, on Tweedside--and her bonny bairn, to get into a\ndispute wi' the husband o' the ane and the father o' the other. But I\ncan keep a secret, man. What are ye alarmed about? Though ye knocked me\ndoun in the Warlocks' Glen, I hae nae ill-will to ye. I dinna object to\ncry ye next Sabbath, wi' May Walker; but ae gude turn deserves\nanither--ye can do me a service.\"\n\nThis statement utterly confounded Mr Kennedy. He tried first to bluster\nand swear, denied the truth of my assertion, calmed, blustered again; in\nshort, gaed through a' thae useless and affected turns and movements\nthat a hooked salmon taks the unnecessary trouble to do before it turns\nup the white o' its wame.\n\n\"Calm yoursel, my dear sir,\" said I. \"Mrs Lucy Kennedy is in my power,\nunder my key. She daurna stir. Ye may be married and awa lang afore she\nkens onything about it, puir thing. We can settle a bit o' ordinar\nbusiness without the interference o' a woman. I pledge ye ye'll neither\nhear nor see her, if ye'll promise to do me the favour I want aff ye.\"\n\nHe fell back again into a rantin fit--swore he didna understand\nme--threatened to lick me--seized me by the cravat--took awa his hand\nagain--gaed to the door--returned--calmed--rose, and calmed again.\n\n\"What a trouble ye put yersel to, Mr Kennedy!\" said I, calmly. \"I want\nnaething frae ye o' ony consequence. Ye're quite welcome to May Walker.\"\n(A sentimental whine here treacherously insinuated itself into my\nspeech.) \"She's a braw lass, and will be a rich lass. Her faither's ga'\nblether's fu' o' ga' stanes, or as my faither ca'es them, ga' nuts--a\ndecided _icterus_ or jaundice. My parent (ye ken he's sexton) says he's\nsure o' him in sax weeks, and, consequently, ye're sure o' yer tocher in\nthat sma' period o' time. I dinna want to deprive ye o' a' thae\nblessings, though it's in my power, and I might be urged to't by baith\nlove and revenge.\"\n\n\"What is't ye want, then?\" roared he, at last, in a voice higher than\nStentor's, while the fire flashed frae his ee in almost palpable\nscintillations o' fury.\n\n\"Just get yer sweetheart, May Walker,\" said I, softly, \"to write twa\nlines to Simon Begley, or Beagle, as they ca' him, the fiscal o' the\nshire, passin frae her charge against me; and ye'll be cried on Sabbath,\nafore the congregation meets, and Mrs Kennedy will never hear o't.\"\n\n\"I'll admit naething aboot Mrs Kennedy,\" said he, as doggedly as a\nmule--\"it's all an invention of the brain of a subtle dominie; but I'll\nget ye the line ye want, on condition that these idle fancies are lodged\nagain safely in the addle-noddle where subtlety or folly engendered\nthem, and when self-interest brought them to aid ye in a bad cause.\"\n\n\"It's dune,\" said I; \"but mark ye, nae cryin till I get the discharge;\nat least, if I'm forced, as I may be, to do my duty, and ca' the names,\nthere'll be somebody in the front seat o' the gallery to answer me. Ye\nunderstand, Mr Kennedy?\"\n\nDartin a furious look at me, no unlike what a person might fancy o' the\nminotaur, he flew oot o' the hoose. As he passed the window, the yells\no' Mrs Kennedy resounded through the house, and even, I believe,\nfollowed hard on the heels o' her husband, if they didna owretak him\na'thegither, as he birred through the neeborin plantin like an\nincorporated personification o' fear. The moment he was oot o' sight, I\nliberated the puir, unfortunate woman frae her place o' confinement.\n\n\"Whar is my husband?\" she cried--\"whar is that dear man, wha, in spite\no' a' his guile and treachery, I maun see ance mair, though it were only\nto hauld up in his face this bairn, and then drap doun at his feet, and\ndee?\"\n\n\"Calm yersel, my bonny woman,\" said I, dautin her on the back like a\nbairn. \"It's time enough to talk o' deein--a subject my faither likes\nbetter than I do--when I hae renounced my endeavours to get ye back yer\nhusband. It's a' in a fair way. He's got the shot. Ye may see by the way\nhe ran, he's got something better than sparrow hail. Be assured he'll\ncome doun. A deevil couldna flee wi' the weight o' cauld lead he carries\nunder his wing.\"\n\n\"God bless ye!\" said she, \"and prosper yer efforts! I'll wait yer time.\"\n\nIn twa hours after this, a man on horseback, bespattered wi' the red\nloam o' the Warlocks' Glen up to the chin, arrived at my door. He cam\nfrae Langacres, and carried a letter, he said, for the session-clerk o'\nSt Fillan's. I snatched the letter frae his hands in an instant; tearin\nit open wi' a' the anxiety o' a creature strugglin for his precious\nreputation. It was just what I wanted. I asked the man to come in and\nget some refreshment; and the very instant I had him fairly within the\nhouse, I shut the door on him, and, mountin his swift, roan-coloured\nmare, flew like lightnin to Simon Begley's. He was at hame. I handed him\nthe letter. He said it was just the very thing he wanted, for he\nacknowledged that the public authorities had no wish to prosecute a case\ninvolvin the ruin o' a puir man; but, until they got out the discharge\no' the private prosecutor, they had nae power to relinquish their\nproceedins. He assured me that everything was now at an end, and the\nsough o' the country would dree the fate o' a seven days' wonder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nA SUCCESSFUL ISSUE TO THE EFFORTS OF MY GENIUS.\n\n\nNext day, I tauld Mrs Kennedy to dress hersel, and be ready, wi' her\nbairn and her marriage-lines, to accompany me to a neighbour's house. We\ndeparted thegither. We took the road to Langacres. I felt the necessity\nhere o' the maist inordinate caution--for I never could have been\nanswerable for the effects o' my bein seen at a distance, walkin in my\nordinary, erect, bauld, and somewhat martial manner, upon the house o' a\njaundiced invalid, wha possessed the idea that I had already assaulted,\nand endeavoured to abduct his dochter. He might, in the first place,\neither be placed in a situation o' intense fear and alarm--prejudicial,\nif not fatal, to an invalid--or he might fire upon me from the windows,\nwi' ane o' his auld sportin guns, for he was ance a great sportsman. At\nsame time it was necessary to conceal Mrs Kennedy, in case she might hae\nbeen recognised by her faithless spouse. We took, therefore, a\ncircuitous route, under the cover o' a wood, that led up to the kitchen\ndoor. The moment I entered, the women in the kitchen began to scream and\nflee awa; but I soon shewed them I was perfectly canny, and even got the\nlength o' bein allowed to daut ane o' them (but she was a little\nadvanced in life) on the back. I was nae langer impeded in my endeavour\nto see Mr Gilbert Walker, whom I discovered in an arm-chair, as yellow\nas saffron, and as cankered as a nettle. He tried to start up when I\nentered; but, heaven be praised! his jaundice sune brought him to his\nseat again.\n\n\"I am come, sir,\" said I, \"in a matter o' the maist interest in nature\nto you and your dochter May.\"\n\n\"How, sir,\" screamed he, \"can ye dare to sully the name o' that\ninnocent creature, by makin't run the gauntlet o' thae treacherous lips!\nAwa wi' ye, ye vile Nicanor! ye wolf that carries woo on your back in\nplace o' hair! Alas! what a warld is this! 'Baith prophet and priest are\nprofane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness.'\"\n\n\"Gilbert Walker,\" said I, calmly, \"my intentions towards your dochter\nwere honourable, and I am come here this day--little thanks to me!--to\nput you on your guard against one whose intentions are false,\ntreacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a\nmarried man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for\nmerely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband\no' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned\nthough honourable Coelebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me,\nher faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act,\nconvict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side\nwi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could\njustify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man?\nThere's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan,\nfrae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that\ntaste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland.\"\n\n\"What is this?\" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in\nthe arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. \"What do I hear? Who says\nthat George Webster is a married man?\"\n\n\"Your greatest enemy!\" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with\nhis outstretched hand. \"Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected,\ndejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared\nto spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is\ngratitude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just\nvengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that\nawarded him his safety.\"\n\n\"I see, I see it a',\" cried May. \"I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the\nauld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom\nbushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the\nyellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry\ntheir poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's\nha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in\nthe green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie\nhim nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the\nWarlocks' Glen.\"\n\nI sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard\nspinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance--\n\n\"Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!--it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never\nshew your face in this house again.\"\n\nIn three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness\nand calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of\nnative etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet,\nMrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in\nher pouch.\n\n\"I beg leave to introduce to you,\" said I, \"Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu\nwedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George\nWebster, which is a mere cover--a vile deceit, and an imposition.\"\n\nI hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her\nbairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a\nlove that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi'\nher longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious\nmastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he\ncan. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake\nthe king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore,\nkicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck\nlike a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht\nhae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid.\nBut the foolish man struggled--vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane\neffort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew,\nand puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle\nwas for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for\nlife. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe,\nimpeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out,\nas if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned\nup, to show their whites. A hollow _raucitus_, or rattle, began in his\nthroat.\n\n\"Save the man frae strangulation,\" cried Gilbert Walker.\n\n\"Haud the young Kennedy, May,\" said I, throwin the bairn into her arms,\nsquallin wi' a great noise.\n\nI flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's\nhands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was\ndeprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy,\nstaggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a\nshort time, the puir woman cam to hersel.\n\n\"Hugh, dearest Hugh,\" she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, \"can it\nbe possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither--me, wha left,\nfor yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the\nbonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene\no' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves--for ay and for ever?\"\n\n\"I know you not, woman,\" said he, doggedly.\n\n\"Dinna ken yer wedded wife!\" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her\nmarriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. \"Dinna ken Lucy Graeme,\ndochter o' Arthur Graeme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by\nmarryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to\ncherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This\nis the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae\nbrought on my puir head. That bairn,\" (risin an' seizin the child,)\n\"that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted\nits houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your\ncauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge--got, dootless, frae heaven--o'\nits natural protector. O maiden, maiden,\" (lookin to May Walker,) \"tak\nexample by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it,\ndinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree,\nand means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has\ntaen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace--he wad hae taen\nfrae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour.\"\n\nKennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his\nwife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I\nwatched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled\nme to a side--I stumbled and fell--the women screamed--and, before I got\nup, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn\nstill in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae\npower wad restrain her--she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs,\nafter her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair.\n\nGratitude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time\ncompletely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin.\nWe were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that\nfamous wark, \"The Border Tales.\"\n\n\n\n\nSAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON.\n\n\nAn every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son\nof pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly\nright, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say\nthey were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck\nnine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife\nBetty called in their man-servant and their maid-servant into what\nnow-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms,\nof reading the Word, and of prayer, was heard; and, moreover, their\nactions corresponded with their profession. I say also they were\nrespectable; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, consisting\nof fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was \"making money\nlike hay\"--for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days.\nFoxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the\nfarm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The\nbrae on which Foxlaw stood, formed one side of a sort of deep valley or\nravine; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few\nrespectable-looking houses scattered here and there in its\nneighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when,\nto the exceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called\nhis name Peter--that having been the Christian name of his paternal\ngrandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would\nbe a prodigy; and was heard to say--\"See, Robin, man, see!--did ye ever\nken the like o' that?--see how he laughs!--he kens his name already!\"\nAnd Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his\nsmile. \"O Betty,\" said Robin--for Robin was no common man--\"that smile\nwas the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul!--Thank\nGod! the bairn has a' its faculties.\" At five years old Peter was sent\nto the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen; and there\nhe was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a book-worm.\nNevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his\nclass; but this was accounted for by the fact, that, when he made a\nblunder, no one dared to _trap_ him, well knowing that if they had done\nso, the moment they were out of school, Peter would have made his\nknuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions\nwhen he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a\nboy lower in the class, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look\nnow at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again\nlook from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before\nhis face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stammerer, would give a\nsort of significant nod to his fist suddenly clenched upon the open\npage; and when the teacher stamped his foot, and cried, \"Speak, sir!\"\nthe trembler whimpered, \"I daurna, sir.\" \"Ye daurna!\" the enraged\ndominie would cry--\"Why?\" \"Because--because, sir,\" was slowly stammered\nout--\"Peter Paterson wud _lick_ me!\" Then would the incensed\ndisciplinarian spring upon Peter; and, grasping him by the collar, whirl\nhis _taws_ in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the\nback, sides, and limbs of Peter; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes\nmore stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the\nface of his tormentor with a look of imperturbable defiance and\ncontempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had\nattained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary\nto call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more\nfor his son, adding that--\"He was fit for the college; and, though he\nsaid it, that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever\nentered it.\" These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin\ntreated the dominie to an extra tumbler. He, however, thought his son\nwas young enough for the college--\"We'll wait anither year,\" said he;\n\"an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame; an' ye can gie a look in,\nMaister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should\nhae--we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll\nsay that for ye.\"\n\nSo another year passed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now\nsometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun,\nand more frequently still with a fishing rod. At the end of the twelve\nmonths, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother\nentreated, and his father threatened; but it was labour in vain. At\nlast--\"It's o' nae use striving against the stream,\" said Robin--\"ye\ncanna gather berries off a whin bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an'\nhe may live to rue it.\" Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fishing,\nand working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to\nreceive a number of epithets from his neighbours. His old schoolmaster\ncalled him \"Ne'er-do-weel Peter;\" but the dominie was a mere proser; he\nknew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was\nincapable of appreciating its soul. Some called him \"Poetical Peter,\"\nand a few \"Prosing Peter;\" but the latter were downright bargain-making,\npounds-shillings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to\n\n    \"The music of sweet sounds;\"\n\nand sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called\nhim \"_Daft_ Peter,\" for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless\nmischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him\n\"Handsome Peter.\" Yet he of whom they thus spoke would wander for hours\nalone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves\nwarring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict;\nor he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when\nthe morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the shore, a flash of\nglory; or, when the moon-beams, like a million torches shooting from the\ndeep, danced on its undulating billows--then would he stand, like an\nentranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul,\nawed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, worshipped God, the\nCreator of the great sea. With all his reputed wildness, and with all\nhis thoughtlessness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the\nbrae-side, Peter found voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him\nthe tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood;\nand he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw\nout the very soul of the\n\n    \"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower.\"\n\nIt, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, \"Just\nidling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels.\" His father\nnow said--\"Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight--an he'll\neither mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson.\"\nBut, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire\nto live to see him, as she expressed it, \"wag his pow in a poopit,\" or,\nat any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when\nRobin was at Dunse hiring-market, the schoolmaster having called on his\nold pupil, \"Ne'er-do-weel Peter,\" the two entered into a controversy in\nthe presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the discussion,\nthe man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the\narguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into\nBetty's eyes, to hear, as she said, \"her bairn expawtiate equal--ay,\nsuperior to ony minister;\" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn,\nthan, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said--\n\n\"O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae?--an' sae fu' o' the dictioner'!\nTroth but ye wad cut a figure i' the poopit! There wad nae dust gather\non your cushion--there wad be nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while\nmy Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad\nmother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college! Ye wadna be lang o'\ngettin a kirk, my man--I can tell ye that; an', if ye'll only consent to\ngang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething\nabout--my bairn shall appear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was\nan infant, it has aye been my hope an' my prayer, Peter, to see ye a\nminister; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' butter to the\nmarket, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to keep his pockets at\nthe college.\"\n\nPeter was, in the main, a most dutiful and most affectionate son; but on\nthis point he was strangely stubborn; and he replied--\n\n\"Wheesht, mother! wheesht!--nae mair aboot it.\"\n\n\"Nae mair aboot it, bairn!\" said she; \"but I maun say mair aboot it.\nMan! wad ye fling awa yer learnin' at a dyke-side, an' yer talents at a\npleugh-tail? Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart? O Peter!\nPeter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava?--What is yer objection?\"\n\n\"Weel, keep your temper, mother,\" said he, \"an' I'll tell ye\ncandidly:--The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae\nelbow-room in!\"\n\n\"What do ye mean, ye graceless?\" added she, in a voice betokening a sort\nof horror.\n\n\"Oh, naething particular; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as--the\nReverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on\nhis ain glebe--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the\npresbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Miller's\ndam--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear before the\nGeneral Assembly for clappin' Tammy the Miller's servant lassie on the\nshouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome quean--or\"----\n\n\"Or!\"--exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother--\"Oh, ye forward an'\nprofane rascal ye! how daur ye speak in sic a strain--or wad ye be\nguilty o' sic unministerial conduct?--wad ye disgrace _the coat_ by sic\nungodly behaviour?\"\n\n\"There's nae sayin', mother,\" added he; \"but dinna be angry--I'm sure,\nif I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny lassie on the shouther,\nye wadna think it unlike your son Peter.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said the good-natured matron, softened down by his manner;\n\"it's true your faither says--it's nae use striving against the stream;\nan' a' gifts arena graces. But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye\nbe? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate?\"\n\n\"Worse an' worse, mother! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of\nanother.\"\n\n\"Then, callant,\" added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she\nspoke--\"I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye. Will ye no be a doctor?\"\n\n\"What!\" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical attitude--\"an\napothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a\npestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!\" said his mother, as she\nrose and left the room in a passion; \"ye'll be a play-actor yet, an'\nthat will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'.\"\n\nPeter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger\nties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about\nseventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up\nhis residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the\nvillage. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master\nof a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the\nvillagers expressed it, \"a sort o' money.\" He had a family of several\nchildren, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same\nage as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter;\nthey frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up\nbetween them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion;\nfor, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row,\nreef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a\nboy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper,\nrunner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a\nlong yarn, and, over a glass of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a\nman; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards\nhim, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit\nof reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed\nsuddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat.\nHis eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr\nGraham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing\nevery word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire\nsoul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed\nup in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over her fair brow;\nbut Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes\noccasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely\nface, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost\nsculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the\nshining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on\nAnn Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before;\nand he knew not wherefore.\n\nNext day, and every day, found Peter at the house of Captain Graham; and\noften as love's own hour threw its grey mantle over the hills, he was to\nbe seen wandering with the gentle Ann by his side, on the sea-banks, by\nthe beach, and in the unfrequented paths. Again and again, when no eye\nsaw them, and when no ear heard them, he had revealed the fulness of his\nheart before her; and, in the rapture of the moment, sealed his truth\nupon her lips; while she, with affection too deep for words, would fling\nher arm across his shoulder, and hide her face on his breast to conceal\nthe tear of joy and of love.\n\nHis parents looked upon Ann as their future daughter; and, with Peter,\nthe course of \"true love ran smooth.\" A farm had been taken in an\nadjoining parish, on which he was to enter at the following Whitsunday;\nand, on taking possession of his farm, Ann Graham was to become his\nbride. Never did exile long more ardently for his native land, than did\nPeter Paterson for the coming Whitsunday; but, ere it came, the poetical\ntruth was verified, that\n\n    \"The course of true love _never did_ run smooth.\"\n\nContiguous to the farm of Foxlaw, lay the estate of one Laird Horslie--a\nyoung gentleman but little known in the neighbourhood; for he had\nvisited it but once, and that only for a few weeks, since it came into\nhis possession. All that was known of him was, that he wrote J.P. after\nhis name--that he was a hard landlord, and had the reputation of\nspending his rents faster than his factor could forward them to him. To\nhim belonged the farm that had been taken for Peter; and it so happened,\nthat, before the Whitsunday which was to make the latter happy arrived,\nthe laird paid a second visit to his estate. At the kirk, on the Sunday,\nall eyes were fixed on the young laird. Captain Graham was one of his\ntenants, and occupied a pew immediately behind the square seat of the\nsquire. But, while all eyes were fixed upon Laird Horslie, he turned his\nback upon the minister, and gazed, and gazed again, upon the lovely\ncountenance of Ann Graham. All the congregation observed it. Ann blushed\nand hung her head; but the young squire, with the privilege of a man of\nproperty, gazed on unabashed. What was observed by all the rest of the\ncongregation, was not unobserved by Peter. Many, with a questionable\nexpression in their eyes, turned them from the laird, and fixed them\nupon him. Peter observed this also and his soul was wroth. His face\nglowed like a furnace; he stood up in his seat, and his teeth were\nclenched together. His fist was once or twice observed to be clenched\nalso; and he continued scowling on the laird, wishing in his heart for\nability to annihilate him with a glance.\n\nNext day, the squire called upon the old skipper, and he praised the\nbeauty of Ann in her own presence, and in the presence of her parents.\nBut there was nothing particular in this; for he called upon all his\ntenants, he chatted with them, tasted their bottle, paid compliments to\ntheir daughters, and declared that their sons did honour to\n\n    \"Scotland's glorious peasantry.\"\n\nMany began to say, that the laird was \"a nice young gentleman\"--that he\nhad been \"wickedly misca'ed;\" and the factor \"got the wyte o' a'.\" His\nvisits to Mr Graham's cottage, however, were continued day after day;\nand his attentions to Ann became more and more marked. A keen sportsman\nhimself, he was the implacable enemy of poachers, and had strictly\nprohibited shooting on his estate; but, to the old skipper, the\nprivilege was granted of shooting when and where he pleased. Instead,\ntherefore, of seeing Peter Paterson and the old seaman in the fields\ntogether, it was no uncommon thing to meet the skipper and the squire.\nThe affection of the former, indeed, had wonderfully cooled towards his\nintended son-in-law. Peter saw and felt this; and the visits of the\nsquire were wormwood to his spirit. If they did not make him jealous,\nthey rendered him impatient, impetuous, miserable.\n\nHe was wandering alone upon the shore, at the hour which Hogg calls\n\"between the gloamin' and the mirk,\" in one of those impatient,\nimpetuous, and unhappy moods, when he resolved not to live in a state of\ntorture and anxiety until Whitsunday, but to have the sacred knot tied\nat once.\n\nHaving so determined, Peter turned towards Graham's cottage. He had not\nproceeded far, when he observed a figure gliding before him on the\nfootpath, leading from the village to the cottage. Darkness was\ngathering fast, but he at once recognised the form before him to be that\nof his own Ann. She was not a hundred yards before him, and he hastened\nforward to overtake her; but, as the proverb has it, there is much\nbetween the cup and the lip. A part of the footpath ran through a young\nplantation, and this plantation Ann Graham was just entering, when\nobserved by Peter. He also had entered the wood, when his progress was\narrested for a moment by the sudden sound of voices. It was Ann's voice,\nand it reached his ear in tones of anger and reproach; and these were\ntones so new to him, as proceeding from one whom he regarded as all\ngentleness and love, that he stood involuntarily still. The words he\ncould not distinguish; but, after halting for an instant, he pushed\nsoftly but hastily forward, and heard the voice of the young laird\nreply--\n\n\"A rose-bud in a fury, by the goddesses!--Nay, frown not, fairest,\"\ncontinued he, throwing his arm around her, and adding--\n\n    \"What pity that so delicate a form\n    Should be devoted to the rude embrace\n    Of some indecent clown!\"\n\nPeter heard this, and muttered an oath or an ejaculation which we will\nnot write.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Ann, indignantly, and struggling as she spoke, \"if you have\nthe fortune of a gentleman, have, at least, the decency of a man.\"\n\n\"Nay, sweetest; but you, having the beauty of an angel, have the heart\nof a woman.\" And he attempted to kiss her cheek.\n\n\"Laird Horslie!\" shouted Peter, as if an earthquake had burst at the\nheels of the squire--\"hands off!--I say, hands off!\"\n\nNow, Peter did not exactly suit the action to the word; for, while he\nyet exclaimed \"hands off!\" he, with both hands, clutched the laird by\nthe collar, and hurling him across the path, caused him to roll like a\nball at the foot of a tree.\n\n\"Fellow!\" exclaimed Horslie, furiously, rising on his knee, and rubbing\nhis sores--\n\n\"Fellow!\" interrupted Peter--\"confound ye, sir, dinna _fellow_ me, or\nthere'll be _fellin_' in the way. You can keep yer farm, and be hanged\nto ye; and let me tell ye, sir, if ye were ten thousand lairds, if ye\ndared to lay yer ill-faur'd lips on a sweetheart o' mine, I wad twist\nyer neck about like a turnip-shaw! Come awa, Annie, love,\" added he,\ntenderly, \"and be thankfu' I cam in the way.\"\n\nBefore they entered the house, he had obtained her consent to their\nimmediate union; but the acquiescence of the old skipper was still\nwanting; and when Peter made known his wishes to him--\n\n\"Belay,\" cried the old boy; \"not so fast, Master Peter; a craft such as\nmy girl is worth a longer run, lad. Time enough to take her in tow, when\nyou've a harbour to moor her in, Master Peter. There may be other\ncutters upon the coast, too, that will give you a race for her, and that\nhave got what I call _shot_ in their lockers. So you can take in a reef,\nmy lad; and, if you don't like it, why--helm about--that's all.\"\n\n\"Captain Graham,\" said Peter, proudly and earnestly, \"I both understand\nand feel your remarks; and, but for Ann's sake, I would resent them\nalso. But, sir, you are a faither--you are an affectionate one--dinna be\na deluded one. By a side-wind, ye hae flung my poverty in my teeth; but,\nsir, if I hae poverty, and Laird Horslie riches, I hae loved yer\ndochter as a man--he seeks to destroy her like a villain.\"\n\n\"'Vast, Peter, 'vast!\" cried the old man; \"mind I am Ann's father--tell\nme what you mean.\"\n\n\"I mean, sir, that ye hae been hoodwinked,\" added the other--\"that ye\nhae been flung aff yer guard, and led to the precipice o' the deep, dark\nsea o' destruction an' disgrace; that a villain has hovered round yer\nhouse, like a hawk round a wood-pigeon's nest, waiting an opportunity to\ndestroy yer peace for ever! Sir, to use a phrase o' yer ain, wad ye\nbehold yer dochter driven a ruined wreck upon the world's bleak shore,\nthe discarded property o' the lord o' the manor? If ye doubt me, as to\nthe rascal's intentions, ask Ann hersel.\"\n\n\"'Sdeath, Peter, man!\" cried the old tar, \"do you say that the fellow\nhas tried to make a marine of me?--that a lubber has got the weathergage\nof Bill Graham? Call in Ann.\"\n\nAnn entered the room where her father and Peter sat.\n\n\"Ann, love,\" said the old man, \"I know you are a true girl; you know\nSquire Horslie, and you know he comes here for you; now, tell me at\nonce, dear--I say, tell me what you think of him?\"\n\n\"I think,\" replied she, bursting into tears--\"I _know_ he is a villain!\"\n\n\"You know it!\" returned he; \"blow me, have I harboured a shark! What!\nthe salt water in my girl's eyes, too! If I thought he had whispered a\nword in your ear, but the thing that was honourable--hang me! I would\nwarm the puppy's back with a round dozen with my own hand.\"\n\n\"You have to thank Peter,\" said she, sobbing, \"for rescuing me to-night\nfrom his unmanly rudeness.\"\n\n\"What! saved you from his rudeness!--you didn't tell me that, Peter;\nwell, well, my lad, you have saved an old sailor from being drifted on\na rock. There's my hand--forgive me--get Ann's, and God bless you!\"\n\nWithin three weeks, all was in readiness for the wedding. At Foxlaw, old\nBetty was, as she said, up to the elbows in preparation, and Robin was\nalmost as happy as his son; for Ann was loved by every one. It was\nMonday evening, and the wedding was to take place next day. Peter was\ntoo much of a sportsman not to have game upon the table at his marriage\nfeast. He took his gun, and went among the fields. He had traversed over\nthe fifty acres of Foxlaw in vain, when, in an adjoining field, the\nproperty of his rival, he perceived a full-grown hare holding his\ncircuitous gambols. It was a noble-looking animal. The temptation was\nirresistible. He took aim; and the next moment bounded over the low\nhedge. He was a dead shot; and he had taken up the prize, and was\nholding it, surveying it before him, when Mr Horslie and his gamekeeper\nsprang upon him, and, ere he was aware, their hands were on his breast.\nAngry words passed, and words rose to blows. Peter threw the hare over\nhis shoulder, and left the squire and his gamekeeper to console each\nother on the ground. He returned home; but nothing said he of his second\nadventure with Laird Horslie.\n\nThe wedding-day dawned; and, though the village had no bells to ring,\nthere were not wanting demonstrations of rejoicing; and, as the marriage\nparty passed through its little street to the manse, children shouted,\nwaved ribbons, and smiled, and every fowling-piece and pistol in the\nplace sent forth a joyful noise; yea, the village Vulcan himself, as\nthey passed his smithy, stood with a rod of red-hot iron in his hand,\nand having his stithies arranged before him like a battery, and charged\nwith powder, saluted them with a rustic but hearty _feu d'joie_. There\nwas not a countenance but seemed to bless them. Peter was the very\npicture of manly joy--Ann of modesty and love. They were within five\nyards of the manse, where the minister waited to pronounce over them the\ncharmed and holy words, when Squire Horslie's gamekeeper and two\nconstables intercepted the party.\n\n\"You are our prisoner,\" said one of the latter, producing his warrant,\nand laying his hand upon Peter.\n\nPeter's cheek grew pale; he stood silent and motionless, as if palsy had\nsmitten his very soul. Ann uttered a short, sudden scream of despair,\nand fell senseless at the feet of the best-man. Her cry of agony\nrecalled the bridegroom to instant consciousness; he started round--he\nraised her in his arms, he held her to his bosom. \"Ann!--my ain Ann!\" he\ncried; \"look up--oh, look up, dear! It is me, Ann--they canna, they\ndaurna harm me.\"\n\nConfusion and dismay took possession of the whole party.\n\n\"What is the meaning o' this, sirs?\" said Robin Paterson, his voice\nhalf-choked with agitation; \"what has my son done, that ye choose sic an\nuntimeous hour to bring a warrant against him?\"\n\n\"He has done, old boy, what will give him employment for seven years,\"\nsaid the gamekeeper, insolently. \"Constables, do your duty.\"\n\n\"Sirs,\" said Robin, as they again attempted to lay hands upon his son,\n\"I am sure he has been guilty o' nae crime--leave us noo, an' whatever\nbe his offence, I, his faither, will be answerable for his forthcoming\nto the last penny in my possession.\"\n\n\"And I will be bail to the same amount, master constables,\" said the old\nskipper; \"for, blow me, d'ye see, if there an't black work at the bottom\no' this, and somebody shall hear about it, that's all.\"\n\nConsciousness had returned to the fair bride. She threw her arms around\nPeter's neck--\"They shall not--no, they shall not take you from me!\"\nexclaimed she.\n\n\"No, no, dear,\" returned he; \"dinna put yersel' about.\"\n\nThe minister had come out of the manse, and offered to join the old men\nas security for Peter's appearance on the following day.\n\n\"To the devil with your bail!--you are no justices, master constables,\"\nreplied the inexorable gamekeeper--\"seize him instantly.\"\n\n\"Slave!\" cried Peter, raising his hand and grasping the other by the\nthroat.\n\n\"Help! help, in the king's name!\" shouted the provincial executors of\nthe law, each seizing him by the arm.\n\n\"Be quiet, Peter, my man,\" said his father, clapping his shoulder, and a\ntear stole down his cheek as he spoke, \"dinna mak bad worse.\"\n\n\"A rescue, by Harry!--a rescue!\" cried the old skipper.\n\n\"No, no,\" returned Peter--\"no rescue; if it cam to that, I wad need nae\nassistance. Quit my arms, sirs, and I'll accompany ye in peace. Ann,\nlove--fareweel the noo, an' Heaven bless you, dearest!--but dinna greet,\nhinny--dinna greet!\" And he pressed his lips to hers. \"Help her,\nfaither--help her,\" added he; \"see her hame, and try to comfort her.\"\n\nThe old man placed his arm tenderly round her waist--she clung closer to\nher bridegroom's neck; and, as they gently lifted up her hands, she\nuttered a heart-piercing, and it seemed, a heart-broken scream, that\nrang down the valley like the wail o' desolation. Her head dropped upon\nher bosom. Peter hastily raised her hand to his lips; then turning to\nthe myrmidons of the law, said sternly--\"I am ready, sirs; lead me where\nyou will.\"\n\nI might describe to you the fears, the anguish, and the agony of Peter's\nmother, as, from the door of Foxlaw, she beheld the bridal party return\nto the village. \"Bless me, are they back already!--can anything hae\nhappened the minister?\" was her first exclamation; but she saw the\nvillagers collecting around them in silent crowds; she beheld the women\nraising their hands, as if stricken with dismay; the joy that had\ngreeted them a few minutes before was dead, and the very children seemed\nto follow in sorrow. \"Oh, bairn!\" said she to the serving maid, who\nstood beside her, \"saw ye e'er the like o' yon? Rin doun an' see what's\nhappened; for my knees are sinking under me.\" The next moment she beheld\nher husband and Captain Graham supporting the unwedded bride in their\narms. They approached not to Foxlaw, but turned to the direction of the\nCaptain's cottage. A dimness came over the mother's eyes--for a moment\nthey sought her son, but found him not. \"Gracious Heaven!\" she cried,\nwringing her hands, \"what's this come owre us!\" She rushed forward--the\nvalley, the village, and the joyless bridal party, floated round before\nher--her heart was sick with agony, and she fell with her face upon the\nearth.\n\nThe next day found Peter in Greenlaw jail. He had not only been detected\nin the act of poaching; but a violent assault, as it was termed, against\none of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, was proved against him; and,\nbefore his father or his friends could visit him, he was hurried to\nLeith, and placed on board a frigate about to sail from the Roads. He\nwas made of sterner stuff than to sink beneath oppression; and, though\nhis heart yearned for the mourning bride from whose arms he had been\ntorn, and he found it hard to brook the imperious commands and even\ninsolence of men \"dressed in a little brief authority;\" yet, as the\nawkwardness of a landsman began to wear away, and the tumult of his\nfeelings to subside, his situation became less disagreeable; and, before\ntwelve months had passed, Peter Paterson was a favourite with every one\non board.\n\nAt the time we speak of, some French privateers had annoyed the fishing\nsmacks employed in carrying salmon from Scotland to London; and the\nfrigate on board of which Peter had been sent, was cruising to and fro\nin quest of them. One beautiful summer evening, when the blue sea was\nsmooth as a mirror, the winds seemed dead, and the very clouds slept\nmotionless beneath the blue sky, the frigate lay becalmed in a sort of\nbay within two miles of the shore. Well was that shore known to Peter;\nhe was familiar with the appearance of every rock--with the form of\nevery hill--with the situation of every tree--with the name of every\nhouse and its inhabitants. It was the place of his birth; and, before\nhim, the setting sun shed its evening rays upon his father's house, and\nupon the habitation of her whom he regarded as his wife. He leaned\nanxiously over the proud bulwarks of the vessel, gazing till his\nimprisoned soul seemed ready to burst from his body, and mingle with the\nobjects it loved. The sun sank behind the hills--the big tears swelled\nin his eyes--indistinctness gathered over the shore--he wrung his hands\nin silence and in bitterness. He muttered in agony the name of his\nparents, and the name of her he loved. He felt himself a slave. He\ndashed his hand against his forehead--\"O Heaven!\" he exclaimed aloud,\n\"thy curse upon mine enemy!\"\n\n\"Paterson!\" cried an officer, who had observed him, and overheard his\nexclamation; \"are you mad? See him below,\" continued he, addressing\nanother seaman; \"the fellow appears deranged.\"\n\n\"I am not mad, your honour,\" returned Peter, though his look and his\nlate manner almost belied his words; and, briefly telling his story, he\nbegged permission to go on shore. The frigate, however, was considered\nas his prison, and his place of punishment; when sent on board, he had\nbeen described as \"a dangerous character\"--his recent bitter prayer or\nimprecation went far in confirmation of that description; and his\nearnest request was refused.\n\nDarkness silently stretched its dull curtain over earth and sea--still\nthe wind slept as a cradled child, and the evening star, like a gem on\nthe bosom of night, threw its pale light upon the land. Peter had again\ncrept upon the deck; and, while the tears yet glistened in his eyes, he\ngazed eagerly towards the shore, and on the star of hope and of love. It\nseemed like a lamp from Heaven suspended over his father's house--the\nhome of his heart, and of his childhood. He felt as though it at once\ninvited him to the scene of his young affections, and lighted the way.\nFor the first time, the gathering tears rolled down his cheeks. He bent\nhis knees--he clasped his hands in silent prayer--one desperate\nresolution had taken possession of his soul; and the next moment he\ndescended gently into the silent sea. He dived by the side of the\nvessel; and, ascending at the distance of about twenty yards, strained\nevery nerve for the shore.\n\nIt was about day-dawn, when Robin Paterson and his wife were aroused by\nthe loud barking of their farm-dog; but the sound suddenly ceased, as if\nthe watch-dog were familiar with the intruder; and a gentle tapping was\nheard at the window of the room where they slept.\n\n\"Wha's there?\" inquired Betty.\n\n\"A friend--an old friend,\" was replied in a low, and seemingly disguised\nvoice.\n\nBut there was no disguising the voice of a lost son to a mother's ear.\n\n\"Robin! Robin!\" she exclaimed--\"it is _him_!--Oh, it is\n_him_!--Peter!--my bairn!\"\n\nIn an instant, the door flew open, and Peter Paterson stood on his\nparents' hearth, with their arms around his neck, while their tears were\nmingled together.\n\nAfter a brief space wasted in hurried exclamations, inquiries, and tears\nof joy and surprise--\"Come, hinny,\" said the anxious mother, \"let me get\nye changed, for ye're wet through and through. Oh, come, my man, and\nwe'll hear a' thing by and by--or ye'll get yer death o' cauld, for\nye're droukit into the very skin. But, preserve us, bairn! ye hae\nneither a hat to yer head, nor a coat to yer back! O Peter, hinny, what\nis't--what's the matter?--tell me what's the meaning o't.\"\n\n\"O mother, do not ask me!--I have but a few minutes to stop. Faither, ye\ncan understand me--I maun go back to the ship again; if I stay, they\nwill be after me.\"\n\n\"O Peter!--Peter, man!\" exclaimed Robin, weeping as he spoke, and\npressing his son's hand between his--\"what's this o't!--yes, yes, yer\nfaither understands ye! But is it no possible to hide?\"\n\n\"No, no, faither!\" replied he--\"dinna think o't.\"\n\n\"O bairn!\" cried Betty, \"what is't ye mean? Wad ye leave yer mother\nagain? Oh! if ye kenned what I've suffered for yer sake, ye wadna speak\no't.\"\n\n\"O mother!\" exclaimed Peter, dashing his hand before his face, \"this is\nworse than death! But I must!--I must go back, or they would tear me\nfrom you. Yet, before I do go, I would see my poor Ann.\"\n\n\"Ye shall see her--see her presently,\" cried Betty; \"and baith her and\nyer mother will gang doon on oor knees to ye, Peter, if ye'll promise no\nto leave us.\"\n\n\"Haste ye, then, Betty,\" said Robin, anxiously; \"rin awa owre to Mr\nGraham's as quick as ye can; for, though ye no understand it, I see\nthere's nae chance for poor Peter but to tak horse for it before the\nsun's up.\"\n\nHastily the weeping mother flew towards Mr Graham's. Robin, in spite of\nthe remonstrances of his son, went out to saddle a horse on which he\nmight fly. The sun had not yet risen when Peter beheld his mother, his\nbetrothed bride, and her father, hurrying towards Foxlaw. He rushed out\nto meet them--to press the object of his love to his heart. They\nmet--their arms were flung around each other.\n\nA loud huzza burst from a rising ground between them and the beach. The\nold skipper started round. He beheld a boat's crew of the frigate, with\ntheir pistols levelled towards himself, his unhappy daughter, and her\nhapless bridegroom!\n\n\"O Ann, woman!\" exclaimed Peter, wildly, \"this is terrible! it is mair\nthan flesh and blood can stand!\"\n\n\"Peter! O Peter!\" cried the wretched girl, clinging around him.\n\nThe party from the frigate approached them. Even their hearts were\ntouched.\n\n\"From my soul, I feel for you, Paterson,\" said the lieutenant commanding\nthem; \"and I am sorry to see these old people and that lovely girl in\ndistress; but you know I must do my duty, lad.\"\n\n\"O sir! sir!\" cried his mother, wringing her hands, and addressing the\nlieutenant, \"if ye hae a drap o' compassion in yer heart, spare my puir\nbairn! O sir! I implore ye, as ye wad expect mercy here or hereafter,\ndinna tear him frae the door o' the mother that bore him.\"\n\n\"Good woman,\" replied the officer, \"your son must go with us; but I\nshall do all that I can to render his punishment as light as possible.\"\n\nAnn uttered a shriek of horror.\n\n\"Punishment!\" exclaimed Betty, grasping the arm of the lieutenant--\"O,\nsir, what do ye mean by punishment? Surely, though your heart was harder\nthan a nether mill-stane, ye couldna be sae cruel as to hurt my bairn\nfor comin to see his ain mother?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Robin, \"my son never intended to rin awa frae your ship. He\ntold me he was gaun to return immediately--I assure ye o' that. But,\nsir, if ye could only leave him, and if siller can do anything in the\ncase, ye shall hae the savings o' thirty years, an' a faither's blessing\ninto the bargain.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay, sir!\" cried his mother; \"ye shall hae the last penny we hae i'\nthe world--ye shall hae the very stock of the farm, if ye'll leave my\nbairn!\"\n\nThe officer shook his head. The sailors attempted to pinion Peter's\narms.\n\n\"'Vast there, shipmates! 'vast!\" said Peter, sorrowfully; \"there is no\nneed for that; had I intended to run for it, you would not have found me\nhere. Ann, love\"----he added--his heart was too full for words--he\ngroaned--he pressed his teeth upon his lip--he wrung her hand. He\ngrasped the hands of his parents and of Mr Graham--he burst into tears,\nand in bitterness exclaimed, \"Farewell!\" I will not describe the painful\nscene, nor paint the silent agony of the father, the heart-rending\nlamentations of the bereaved mother, nor the tears and anguish of the\nmiserable maiden who refused to be comforted.\n\nPeter was taken to the boat, and conveyed again to the frigate. His\nofficer sat in judgment upon his offence, and Peter stood as a culprit\nbefore them. He begged to be heard in his defence, and his prayer was\ngranted.\n\n\"I know, your honours,\" said Peter, \"that I have been guilty of a breach\nof discipline; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the\nservice. Who amongst you, that has a heart to feel, would not, under the\nsame circumstances, have acted as I did? Who that has been torn from a\nfaither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take\na faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or\nwho that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than\nlife, would not risk life for her sake? Gentlemen, it becomes not man to\npunish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog,\ntorture, and degrade me--I do not supplicate for mercy--but will\ndegradation prompt me to serve my king more faithfully? I know you must\ndo your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers--as men\nwho have hearts to feel.\"\n\nDuring this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted provincial accent.\nThere was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and\nthe punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement.\n\nIt was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The\nfrigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon\nthe station about three months; and, during that time, as the seamen\nsaid--\"not a lubber of the enemy had dared to show his face--there was\nno _life_ going at all;\" and they were becoming impatient for a friendly\nset-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the\nmast-head. \"A sail!--a Yankee!\" shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra\nburst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the\nrigging to ascertain the fact. \"All's right,\" he cried--\"a sixty-gun\nship, at least.\"\n\n\"Clear the deck, my boys,\" cried the commander; \"get the guns in\norder--active--be steady, and down upon her.\"\n\nWithin ten minutes, all was in readiness for action.\n\n\"Then down on the deck, my lads,\" cried the captain; \"not a word amongst\nyou--give them a British welcome.\"\n\nThe brave fellows silently knelt by the guns, glowing with impatience\nfor the command to be given to open their fire upon the enemy. The\nAmericans seemed nothing loath to meet them half-way. Like winged\nengines of death rushing to shower destruction on each other, the proud\nvessels came within gunshot. The American opened the first fire upon the\nfrigate. Several shot had passed over her, and some of the crew were\nalready wounded. Still no word escaped from the lips of the British\ncommander. At length he spoke a word in the ear of the man at the helm,\nand the next moment the frigate was brought across the bow of the enemy.\n\"Now, my lads,\" cried the captain, \"now give them it.\" An earthquake\nseemed to burst at his words--the American was raked fore and aft, and\nthe dead and dying, and limbs of the wounded, strewed her deck. The\nenemy quickly brought their vessel round--then followed the random gun,\nand anon the heavy broadsides were poured into each other. For an hour\nthe action had continued, but victory or death seemed the determination\nof both parties. Both ships were crippled, and had become almost\nunmanageable, and in each, equal courage and seamanship were displayed.\nIt was drawing towards nightfall, they became entangled, and the word\n\"to board!\" was given by the commander of the frigate. Peter Paterson\nwas the first man who, cutlass in hand, sprang upon the deck of the\nAmerican. He seemed to possess a lion's strength, and more than a lion's\nferocity. In a few minutes, four of the enemy had sunk beneath his\nweapon. \"On, my hearties!--follow Paterson!\" cried an officer; \"Peter's\na hero!\" Fifty Englishmen were engaged hand to hand with the crew of the\nAmerican; and for a time they gained ground; but they were opposed with\na determination equal to their own, and, overpowered by a superiority of\nnumbers, they were driven back and compelled to leap again into the\nfrigate. At the moment his comrades were repulsed, Peter was engaged\nwith the first lieutenant of the American--\"Stop a minute!\" shouted\nPeter, as he beheld them driven back; \"keep your ground till I finish\nthis fellow!\" His request was made in vain, and he was left alone on the\nenemy's deck; but Peter could turn his back upon no man. \"It lies\nbetween you and me now, friend,\" said he to his antagonist. He had\nshivered the sword of the lieutenant by the hilt, when a Yankee seaman,\narmed with a crowbar, felled Peter to the deck.\n\nDarkness came on, and the vessels separated. The Americans were flinging\ntheir dead into the sea--they lifted the body of Peter. His hands\nmoved--the supposed dead man groaned. They again placed him on the deck.\nHe at length looked round in bewilderment. He raised himself on his\nside. \"I say, neighbours,\" said he to the group around him, \"is this\n_our_ ship or _yours_?\" The Americans made merry at Peter's question.\n\"Well,\" continued he, \"if it be yours, I can only tell you it was foul\nplay that did it. It was a low, cowardly action, to fell a man behind\nhis back; but come face to face, and twa at a time if ye like, and I'll\nclear the decks o' the whole ship's crew o' you.\"\n\n\"You are a noble fellow,\" said the lieutenant whom he had encountered,\n\"and if you will join our service, I guess your merit shan't be long\nwithout promotion.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Peter, \"raise my right hand against my ain country! Gude\ngracious, sir! I wud sooner eat it as my next meal!\"\n\nIn a few weeks the vessel put into Boston for repairs; and, on her\narrival, it was ascertained that peace had been concluded between the\ntwo countries. Peter found himself once more at liberty; but with\nliberty he found himself in a strange land, without a sixpence in his\npocket. This was no enviable situation to be placed in, even in America,\nrenowned as it is as the paradise of the unfortunate; and he was\nstanding, on the second morning after his being put on shore, counting\nthe picturesque islands which stud Boston harbour, for his breakfast,\npoor fellow, when a person accosted him--\"Well, my lad, how is the new\nworld using you?\" Peter started round--it was his old adversary the\nlieutenant.\n\n\"A weel-filled pocket, sir,\" returned Peter, \"will mak either the new\nwarld or the auld use you weel; and without that, I reckon your usage in\neither the ane or the ither wad be naething to mak a sang about.\"\n\nThe lieutenant pulled out his purse--\"I am not rich, Paterson,\" said he;\n\"but, perhaps, I can assist a brave man in need.\" Peter was prevailed\nupon to accept a few dollars. He knew that to return to Berwickshire was\nagain to throw himself into the power of his persecutor, and he communed\nwith himself what to do. He could plough--he could manage a farm--he\nwas master of all field-work; and, within a week, he engaged himself as\na farm-servant to a proprietor in the neighbourhood of Charleston. He\nhad small reason, however, to be in love with his new employment. Peter\nwas proud and high-minded, (in the English, not the American acceptation\nof the word,) and he found his master an imperious, avaricious,\nrepublican tyrant. The man's conduct ill-accorded with his professions\nof universal liberty. His wish seemed to be, to level all down to his\nown standard, that he might the more easily trample on all beneath him.\nHis incessant cry, from the rising of the sun until its setting, was,\n\"Work! work!\" and with an oath he again called upon his servants to\n\"work!\" He treated them as beasts of burden. \"Work! hang ye, work!\" and\na few oaths, seemed to be the principal words in the man's vocabulary.\nPeter had not been overwrought in the frigate--he had been his own\nmaster at Foxlaw--and, when doing his utmost, he hated to hear those\nwords everlastingly rung in his ear. But he had another cause for\nabhorring his employment; his master had a number of slaves, on whom he\nwreaked the full measure of his cruelty. There was one, an old man, in\nparticular, on whom he almost every day gratified his savageness. Peter\nhad beheld the brutal treatment of the old negro till he could stand it\nno longer; and one day, when he was vainly imploring the man who called\nhimself the owner of his flesh for mercy, Peter rushed forward, he\nseized the savage by the breast, and exclaimed--\"Confound ye, sir, if I\nsee ye strike that poor auld black creature again, I'll cleave ye to the\nchin.\"\n\nThe slave-owner trembled with rage. \"What!\" said he--\"it's a fine thing,\nindeed, if we've wollopped the English for liberty, and after all, a man\nan't to have the liberty of wollopping his own neeger!\"\n\nHe drew out his purse, and flung Peter's wages contemptuously on the\nground. Peter, stooping, placed the money in his pocket, and, turning\ntowards Charleston, proceeded along the bridge to Boston. He had seen\nenough of tilling another man's fields in America, and resolved to try\nhis fortune in some other way, but was at a loss how to begin. I have\nalready told you how Peter's mother praised his delivery in his debate\nwith the schoolmaster; and Peter himself thought that he could deliver a\npassage from Shakspeare in a manner that would make the fortune of any\nhero of the sock and buskin; and he was passing along the Mall, counting\nthe number of trees on every row, much in the same manner, and for the\nsame reason, as he had formerly counted the islands in the harbour, when\nthe thought struck him that the Americans were fond of theatricals; and\nhe resolved to try the stage. He called at the lodgings of the manager\nin Franklin Place. He gave a specimen of his abilities; and, at a salary\nof eighteen dollars a-week, Peter Paterson was engaged as leader of the\n\"heavy business\" of the Boston _corps dramatique_. The tidings would\nhave killed his mother. Lear was chosen as the part in which he was to\nmake his first appearance. The curtain was drawn up. \"Peter, what would\nyour mother say?\" whispered his conscience, as he looked in the glass,\njust as the bell rung and the prompter called him; and what, indeed,\nwould Betty Paterson have said to have seen her own son Peter, with a\nred cloak, a painted face, a grey wig, and a white beard falling on his\nbreast! Lear--Peter--entered. He looked above, below, and around him.\nThe audience clapped their hands, shouted, and clapped their hands\nagain. It was to cheer the new performer. Peter thought they would bring\ndown the theatre. The lights dazzled his eyes. The gallery began to\nswim--the pit moved--the boxes appeared to wave backward and forward.\nPeter became pale through the very rouge that bedaubed his face, and\nsweat, cold as icicles, rained down his temples. The shouting and the\nclapping of hands was resumed--he felt a trembling about his limbs--he\nendeavoured to look upon the audience--he could discern only a confused\nmass. The noise again ceased.\n\n\"Attend----France----Burgundy----hem!----Gloster!\" faltered out poor\nPeter. The laughter became louder than the clapping of hands had been\nbefore. The manager led Peter off the stage, paid him the half of his\nweek's salary, and wished him good-by. It is unnecessary to tell you how\nPeter, after this disappointment, laid out eight dollars in the purchase\nof a pack, and how, as pedlar, he travelled for two years among the\nIndians and back-settlers of Canada, and how he made money in his new\ncalling. He had written to his parents and to Ann Graham; but, in his\nunsettled way of life, it is no wonder that he had not received an\nanswer. He had written again to say, that, in the course of four months,\nhe would have to be in New York _in the way of business_--for Peter's\npride would not permit him to acknowledge that he carried a pack--and if\nthey addressed their letters to him at the Post-office there, he would\nreceive them. He had been some weeks in New York, and called every day,\nwith an anxious heart, at the Post-office. But his time was not lost; he\nhad obtained many rare and valuable skins from the Indians, and, with\nhis shop upon his back, he was doing more business than the most\nfashionable store-keeper in the Broadway. At length, a letter arrived.\nPeter hastily opened the seal, which bore the impress of his mother's\nthimble, and read:--\"My dear bairn,--This comes to inform ye that baith\nyour faither and me are weel--thanks to the Giver o' a' good--and hoping\nto find ye the same. O Peter, hinny, could ye only come hame--did you\nonly ken what sleepless nights I spend on your account, ye wad leave\nAmerica as soon as ye get my letter. I wonder that ye no ken that Ann,\npoor woman, an' her faither an her mother, an' the family, a' gaed to\nabout America mair than a year and a half syne, and I'm surprised ye\nhaena seen them.\"\n\n\"Ann in America!\" cried Peter. He was unable to read the remainder of\nhis mother's letter. He again flung his pack upon his shoulder, but not\nso much to barter and to sell, as to seek his betrothed bride. He\nvisited almost every city in the States, and in the provinces of British\nAmerica. He advertised for her in more than fifty newspapers; but his\nsearch was fruitless--it was \"Love's labour lost.\" Yet, during his\nsearch, the world prospered with Peter. His pack had made him rich. He\nopened a store in New York. He became also a shareholder in canals, and\na proprietor of steam-boats; in short he was looked upon as one of the\nmost prosperous men in the city. But his heart yearned for his native\nland; and Peter Paterson, Esq., turned his property into cash, and\nembarked for Liverpool.\n\nTen long years had passed since the eyes of Betty Paterson had looked\nupon her son; and she was busied, on a winter day, feeding her poultry\nin the barn-yard, when she observed a post-chaise drive through the\nvillage, and begin to ascend the hill towards Foxlaw.\n\n\"Preserve us, Robin!\" she cried, as she bustled into the house, \"there's\na coach comin' here--what can folk in a coach want wi' the like o' us?\nHaud awa out an' see what they want, till I fling on a clean mutch an'\nan apron, an' mak mysel wiselike.\"\n\n\"I watna wha it can be,\" said Robin, as he rose and went towards the\ndoor.\n\nThe chaise drew up--a tall genteel-looking man alighted from it--at the\nfirst glance he seemed nearly forty years of age, but he was much\nyounger. As he approached Robin started back--his heart sprang to his\nthroat--his tongue faltered.\n\n\"Pe--Pe--Peter!\" he exclaimed. The stranger leaped forward, and fell\nupon the old man's neck.\n\nBetty heard the word _Peter!_--the clean cap fell from her hand, she\nuttered a scream of joy, and rushed to the door, her grey hairs falling\nover her face; and the next moment her arms encircled her son.\n\nI need not tell you of the thousand anxious questions of the fond\nmother, and how she wept as he hinted at the misfortunes he had\nencountered, and smiled, and wept, and grasped his hand again, as he\ndwelt upon his prosperity.\n\n\"Did I no aye say,\" exclaimed she, \"that I would live to see my Peter a\ngentleman?\"\n\n\"Yet, mother,\" said Peter, \"riches cannot bring happiness--at least not\nto me, while I can hear nothing of poor Ann. Can no one tell to what\npart of America her father went?--for I have sought them everywhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, forgie me, hinny,\" cried Betty, bitterly; \"it was a mistake o' yer\nmother's a'thegither. I understand, now, it wasna Ameri_ca_, they gaed\nto; but it was Jamai_ca_, or some _ca_, and we hear they're back again.\"\n\n\"Not America,\" said Peter: \"and back again!--then, where--where shall I\nfind her?\"\n\n\"When we wrote to you, that, after leaving here, they had gaen to\nAmerica,\" said Robin, \"it was understood they had gaen there--at ony\nrate, they went abroad someway--and we never heard, till the other week,\nthat they were back to this country, and are now about Liverpool, where\nI'm very sorry to hear they are very ill off; for the warld, they say,\nhas gaen a' wrang wi' the auld man.\"\n\nThis was the only information Peter could obtain. They were bitter\ntidings; but they brought hope with them.\n\n\"Ye were saying that ye was in Liverpool the other day,\" added his\nmother; \"I wonder ye didna see some o' them!\"\n\nPeter's spirit was sad, yet he almost smiled at the simplicity of his\nparent; and he resolved to set out in quest of his betrothed on the\nfollowing day.\n\nLeaving Foxlaw, we shall introduce the reader to Sparling Street, in\nLiverpool. Amongst the miserable cellars where the poor are crowded\ntogether, and where they are almost without light and without air, one\nnear the foot of the street was distinguished by its outward\ncleanliness; and in the window was a ticket with the words--\"_A Girl's\nSchool kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM.\" Over this humble cellar was a\nboarding-house, from which, ever and anon, the loud laugh of jolly\nseamen rang boisterous as on their own element. By a feeble fire in the\ncomfortless cellar, sat an emaciated, and apparently dying man; near him\nsat his wife, engaged in making such articles of apparel as the\nslop-dealers send to the West Indies, and near the window was a pale but\nbeautiful young woman, instructing a few children in needle-work and the\nrudiments of education. The children being dismissed, she began to\nassist her mother; and, addressing her father, said--\n\n\"Come, cheer up, dear father--do not give way to despondency--we shall\nsee better times. Come, smile now, and I will sing your favourite song.\"\n\n\"Heaven bless thee, my own sweet child!\" said the old man, while the\ntears trickled down his cheeks. \"Thou wilt sing to cheer me, wilt\nthou?--bless thee!--bless thee! It is enough that, in my old age, I eat\nthy bread, my child!--sing not!--sing not!--there is no music now for\nthy father's heart.\"\n\n\"Oh, speak not--think not thus,\" she cried, tenderly; \"you make me sad,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"I would not make thee sad, love,\" returned he, \"but it is hard--it is\nvery hard--that, after cruising till I had made a fortune, as I may say,\nand after being anchored in safety, to be tempted to make another\nvoyage, where my all was wrecked--and not only all wrecked, but my\nlittle ones too--thy brothers and thy sisters, Ann--to see them struck\ndown one after another, and I hardly left wherewith to bury them--it is\nhard to bear, child!--and, worse than all, to be knocked up like a\nuseless hulk, and see thee and thy mother toiling and killing\nthemselves for me--it is more than a father's heart can stand, Ann.\"\n\n\"Nay, repine not, father,\" said she: \"He who tempereth the wind to the\nshorn lamb, will not permit adversity to press on us more hardly than he\ngives us strength to endure it. Though we suffer poverty, our exertions\nkeep us above want.\"\n\nThe old woman turned aside her head and wept.\n\n\"True, dear,\" added he, \"thy exertions keep us from charity; but those\nexertions, my child, will not long be able to make--I see it--I feel it?\nAnd, oh, Ann, shall I see thee and thy mother inmates of a\nworkhouse--shall I hear men call thy father, Bill Graham, the old\npauper?\"\n\nThe sweat broke upon the old man's brow from his excitement; his\ndaughter strove to soothe him, and, with an assumed playfulness,\ncommenced singing Skinner's beautiful old man's song, beginning--\n\n    \"Oh, why should old age so much wound us!\"\n\nNow, Peter Paterson had been several days in Liverpool anxiously\ninquiring for Captain Graham, but without obtaining any information of\nhim or of his daughter, or where they dwelt. Again and again he had\nwandered along the docks; and he was disconsolately passing up Sparling\nStreet, when the loud revelry of the seamen in the boarding-house\nattracted his attention. It reminded him of old associations; he paused\nfor a moment, and glanced upon the house and, as the pealing laughter\nceased, a low, sweet voice, pouring forth a simple Scottish air, reached\nhis ear. Peter now stood still. He listened--\"That voice!\" he exclaimed\naudibly, and he shook as he spoke. He looked down towards the\ncellar--the ticket in the window caught his eye. He read the words, \"_A\nGirl's School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM.\" \"I have found her!\" he cried,\nclasping his hands together. He rushed down the few steps, he stood in\nthe midst of them--\"I have found her!\" he repeated, as he entered. His\nvoice fell like a sunbeam on the cheerless heart of the fair vocalist.\n\"Peter!--My own\"----she exclaimed, starting to her feet. She could not\nutter more; she would have fallen to the ground, but Peter caught her in\nhis arms.\n\nI need not describe the scene that followed: that night they left the\nhovel which had served as a grave for their misfortunes. Within a week\nthey had arrived at Foxlaw, and within a week old and young in the\nvillage danced at a joyful wedding. I may only add, that, a few weeks\nafter his marriage, Peter read in the papers an advertisement,\nheaded--\"UPSET PRICE GREATLY REDUCED.--_Desirable Property in the\nneighbourhood of Foxlaw, &c._\" It was the very farm now offered for sale\nof which Peter was to have become a tenant some twelve years before, and\nwas the remnant of the estates of the hopeful Laird Horslie; and Peter\nbecame the purchaser. The old skipper regained his wonted health and\ncheerfulness; and Betty Paterson lived to tell her grandchildren, \"she\naye said their faither wad be a gentleman, and her words cam true.\" Even\nthe old schoolmaster, who had styled him \"Ne'er-do-weel Peter,\" said, he\n\"had aye predicted o' Mr Paterson, even when a callant, that he would\nturn out an extraordinary man.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEROINE.\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE.\n\n\nAfter it became known that the wily Sir Robert Carey had hurried away\nfrom the deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce to the delighted\nmonarch of Scotland his succession to the crown of England, a great many\nEnglish noblemen and gentlemen came north on much the same errand that\nbrings so many of them at this day--viz., to hunt; the game, in the one\ncase, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse.\nAmong the rest, was one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in\nDevonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set off\nby an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours,\nbut exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and\nmental acquirements, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature,\nin all her departments, delights to display--suggesting, as it did, to\nan ancient philosopher, that the _pulchrum_ and the _utile_ are dealt\nout in equal portions under a whimsical law against their union in one\nperson.\n\nHaving arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at\nthe palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was informed that there were no\napartments close to the palace which could be given to him for his\naccommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who\nhad come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their\nallegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on\nthe occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took\nup his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled down more\nthan a hundred years ago--at that time known by the name of the House\nof Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been\noccupied by the ducal family of that name. It was situated on the south\nside of the street, and nearly opposite to the close called Big Loch-end\nClose, which possessed at that time a very different appearance from\nwhat it does at present; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts\nwhich lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings,\nwhich do not look half so well as their more humble predecessors.\n\nNow, in one of these little huts there lived, at that time--unconscious,\ndoubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest\ncenturies after they were gathered to their fathers--a man called Adam\nHunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere\nof their own little gossiping world; but, if these humble individuals\nhad been all that their lowly mansion contained, the chronicler would\nscarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was\na third inmate in that house--an orphan girl, called Margaret\nWilliamson--a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years\nof age, of bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and\nmeekness of disposition, that endeared her to thousands. Producing that\nkind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so\noften found to be the effect of the mysterious power of beauty, though\nallied to poverty, which, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret seemed\nas unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the\nsingular fate that awaited her. She had been heard of where she was not\nseen; and, innocent and harmless as she was, she had not been passed\nunheeded by the \"wise women\" of her day, who, in spite of fire and King\nJames' wrath, provided her, according to their love or their spite, with\na prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. As already hinted, Margaret\nwas represented as being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous\nkindness of Adam Hunter and his wife, though there were not wanting some\nwho thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was\nrepresented.\n\nScotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice\nof gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and\nnumber of remarks on the new-comers to the house of Gordon; and the\nfamily of Adam Hunter were not behind their neighbours in their\ncuriosity.\n\n\"He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon,\" said\nJanet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire.\n\n\"Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he is,\" inquired Adam, \"atour the mere\ntitle an' form o' his knighthood?\"\n\n\"I ken naething aboot him,\" replied Janet, \"save that his name is Sir\nWilloughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham\nhe treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured, and\nElspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o'\nspeech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and\nhonour o' mony a bonny maiden may perish, like the silly boats that\ntrust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy\nWilliamson can tell mair aboot the knight than a' the 'wise women' frae\nthe Watergate to St. Mary's.\"\n\n\"An' if she can,\" said Adam, \"it may be waur for her than if she were as\ndeep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art, whereby she\nworks sae meikle mischief to her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon\nher head the vengeance o' the law. I houp better things o' Peggy.\"\n\n\"I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Feather,\" said Margaret,\nwith a deep sigh; \"and wherefore should I?--he's far abune my degree.\"\n\n\"But ye ken, at least,\" rejoined Adam, \"that he wears a white feather,\nmy bonny bird--and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when\nthey're far frae their ain countrie. Even our ain robin, wha condescends\nto come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in\nsummer; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna\nhesitate, when he has a guid opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast\nwi' the blood o' his companions.\"\n\nIt was apparent that both Adam Hunter and Janet were suspicious of\nMargaret's limited knowledge of the knight, and they had good reason to\nbe so; for Janet had been told that, one night, when Margaret had said\nshe was going to meet a person of the name of Simon Frazer--a tradesman\nwho had been making honourable proposals to her, along with many others\nwho were proud to be called her suitors--she had been seen walking with\na gentleman wrapped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to be Sir\nWilloughby, in the glen of St Arthur's Seat, called the Hunter's Bog. On\nanother occasion, she had been followed by Simon Frazer to a trysting\nplace, known by the name of the Hunter's Rest--a large boulder of basalt\nlying on the side of the bog, and remarkable to geologists by its\nunaccountable position. On this stone Margaret had sat till the moon had\nconcealed her horns behind the top of St Arthur's, and the glen had\ngradually become enveloped in the shade of the hill. Simon Frazer took\nadvantage of the gloom, and concealed himself near to the spot where\nMargaret sat; and, amidst the silence which reigned in this secluded\nplace, he could distinctly hear the sighs of the maiden, as the hope of\nseeing the person she had come to meet became fainter and fainter.\n\n\"Wae's my puir, deluded heart!\" she said, in a desponding and tremulous\nvoice; \"what is it that drives me, like a charmed bird or a dementit\nthing, into the power o' this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings o'\nElspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam Hunter, and, what's abune a', the\nfearsome visions o' my ain wild dreams? Can it be that I, wha hae seen,\nand may still see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' my ain country\nsupplicating my favours as if their condition here and in anither warld\ndepended on a blink o' these worthless een, sit here, even noo, at the\nHunter's Rest, a mile frae my ain hame, and when naething but spirits\nare in the glen, to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha speaks a\nstrange language, and mak's love in a strange fashion? But it is even\nsae. My heart is nae langer my ain. He has ta'en it into his ain\nkeeping, and he may, in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as he may\ncrush the bonny blue bells that flower there i' the glen.\"\n\nAt the termination of Margaret's simple soliloquy, the sound of\nfootsteps was heard, and there soon followed the greeting of lovers.\nMargaret's spirits soon revived, and, having taken Sir Willoughby's arm,\nshe said, playfully, as she looked up into his face--\"The faithless moon\nhas been truer this nicht than ye hae been; for she left the tap o' the\nhill half an hour syne, and ye are only here noo.\"\n\n\"Upbraid me not, my fair Margaret,\" answered Sir Willoughby; \"for I was\nscared at the Friar's Path by some person who seemed inclined to follow\nme, and I was obliged to change my road; but thou knowest that love is\nfed by hindrances, and its course is none of the straightest.\"\n\n\"I didna think,\" answered the simple maiden, \"that true love stood in\nneed o' onything else in this warld, than the company and kindness o'\nthe twa lovers to ane anither.\"\n\n\"By my feather, Margaret, that is a true maiden's speech! But I do not\nthink that St Arthur, who must surely be the lover's saint, will thank\nus for an argument, instead of a love-token, on such a beautiful night\nas this. Observe these gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like streaks of\nsilver on the tops of the crags, investing the darkness of this glen\nwith a mystery in which love delights, and thou wilt forget thy\nargument, in the sweets of our accustomed dalliance.\"\n\n\"That is a licht aith, Sir Willoughby, that ye hae sworn,\" answered the\nmaiden; \"but every land, as the sang says, has its ain laugh, and it may\nalso hae its ain aith; and I may weel forgie ye that, for the bonny\nwords ye hae now spoken. Foreign lands hae finer words than puir\nScotland; but dinna think that I canna enjoy the beauty o' these silvery\nrocks and that mirky glen, because my silly heart can find nae utterance\nto its feelings, but by its ain unmeaning thrabs.\"\n\n\"And that is nature's best and most beautiful language, my sweet bird,\"\nsaid Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding maiden; \"nor would I give one\nthrob of thy fair bosom for all the eloquence of poetry.\"\n\nHolding such conversation, the lovers passed deeper into the shades of\nthe hill, and disappeared; but the death-like silence of the place\ndiscovered, to the disappointed Simon Frazer, many sighs and\nprotestations which otherwise would have been sacred to the happy pair.\n\nWell, many such meetings had Sir Willoughby and Margaret. Their walks\nbecame more frequent, and of longer duration; and it was often a late\nhour before Margaret returned to her home. It could not be that such a\nchange in the habits of the girl could escape the keen eye of public\ncuriosity, and far less the suspicious guardianship of Adam Hunter. Wide\nspread, and generally known, as was the beauty of the maiden, so, in\nproportion, was the voice of scandal heard over the town, whispering the\nstrange tidings, that Peggy Williamson had been seduced by the great\nknight who lived in the House of Gordon.\n\nThe circumstance, indeed, very soon became apparent, from the appearance\nof the unhappy girl, who could no longer conceal her condition. She\nwas, in consequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, and interrogated\nwhether she had received any promise of marriage, or any pledge whereon\nshe could found any expectation or hope that the knight's intentions\ntowards her were of an honourable nature. On this subject, no\nsatisfaction could be got from Margaret, who persisted in a dogged\nsilence, whenever any question was put to her, tending to implicate, in\nany way, the man who, to all appearance, had ruined her. But chance\nbrought to light what Margaret had been so anxious to conceal; for one\nevening, Janet Hunter discovered in Margaret's sleeping apartment a\nsmall scented paper, curiously folded up, which she instantly carried to\nher husband. Adam took the paper to a learned clerk, in Blackfriars'\nHospital--(for few persons, at that day, could either write, or read\nwriting)--who read it to him; and he was surprised to find that it\ncontained a promise, on the faith of a knight, that Sir Willoughby\nSomerset would make, when time and circumstances afforded opportunity,\nMargaret Williamson his wedded wife. The paper was again returned to the\nplace from which it was taken.\n\nThis paper, combined with Margaret's condition, having satisfied Adam\nHunter of the truth of the general report and his own suspicions, he\nlost no time in waiting upon the knight. Being a man of hasty and even\nfurious temper, he taxed Sir Willoughby, in unmeasured terms, with the\nseduction of his ward, and demanded, with a stern determination,\nsatisfaction to the maiden and to himself. Touched to the quick, and\nwounded in his pride by the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, Sir\nWilloughby lost in turn his temper, and seizing a baton which lay near\nhim, he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow on the head, and, with the\naid of his servants, kicked him out of the house. One of Sir\nWilloughby's servants, who aided in this ejection and outrage, was\nRichard Foster; the person who, it was supposed, first procured a\nmeeting between his master and Margaret. He was possessed of his\nmaster's secrets, in this and many other dishonourable amours; and,\nthough he now, by his master's orders, assisted in the expulsion of Adam\nHunter, he hated him in his heart, in consequence of a blow which he had\nsome time before received from him, on which occasion he had threatened\nto report his master's practices to Sir Robert Carey, who would not have\nfailed to communicate them to King James, whereby Sir Willoughby's\nstatus at Court would have been lost, and his ruin accomplished. The\nknight wished, therefore, to get quit of Richard; but to part with him\nliving was to part with his secrets; and he had accordingly made up his\nmind to get him disposed of in such a manner as that he could tell no\ntales. An opportunity for this occurred sooner than might have been\nexpected.\n\nStung with an ungovernable rage, Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold\nof the house of Gordon, threw himself on his knees, and vowed to\nAlmighty God that he would take the first opportunity that fortune\nafforded him of depriving his enemy of life. This dreadful purpose, thus\ndefinitively and impiously settled, calmed Adam Hunter's rage; for he\nfelt, as if by anticipation, that he was revenged. He walked\ndeliberately home, and without hinting anything of his deadly intention\nto his wife, sent for Simon Frazer, Margaret's rejected suitor,\ncommunicated to him his design, and requested his co-operation. Frazer\nentered into the scheme with all the spirit of his clan, and all the\nrage of a disappointed lover towards his successful rival. They resolved\nto fix the manner of accomplishing their purpose that evening, after\nJanet and Margaret had retired to rest.\n\nIn the evening, when Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer met, Margaret had just\nretired to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was occupied with the\nthoughts of her situation. She had now become suspicious of Sir\nWilloughby's intentions. In her late interviews with him, he had been\ndistant and shy; and he had even refused, on one occasion, to meet her,\nalleging, as an excuse, that he was engaged to go to an evening\nentertainment, to which it was ascertained he never went. He had,\nbesides, endeavoured to get back from her the letter, which, in an\nunguarded moment, when intoxicated with love and wine, he had given to\nher. All these circumstances satisfied the unhappy maiden that she was\nabout to become, or rather had already become, the dupe of a heartless\nvillain. She now considered herself standing on the very verge of ruin;\nabout to become, as Elspet Craig had foreboded, the victim of a passion\ninsidiously introduced into her young heart; and left to the scorn of an\nunfeeling world, or the unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruitful\nphilanthropy. These reflections were passing through her mind, when she\nheard Simon Frazer come into the house; for her bed was so situated that\nshe could hear everything that occurred in the adjoining apartment. She\nsoon ascertained the object of this late meeting of the two friends; and\nwith feelings that shook her whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on\nthe following evening, when Sir Willoughby was expected to go to an\nevening entertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter should gain the\nstaircase window of Widow Hutchison, fire upon his enemy, and, upon\nseeing him fall, make his escape, along with his friend, by a back\npassage that led to the North Back of the Canongate. This resolved upon,\nthe two friends parted.\n\nThe agitation which the knowledge of this fierce and bloody purpose\nproduced in the mind of Margaret, was proportioned to the love which she\nstill bore to her seducer, and to the gentle character of the maiden,\nwho shrunk from the very thought of violence. Her nerves had, moreover,\nbeen severely affected by the train of sorrowful thoughts which, at the\nmoment when she heard the fatal resolution, were passing through her\nmind. But a new feeling soon arose. She was now called upon to act, and\nthe urgency of the case requiring the most prompt communication to Sir\nWilloughby, assuaged, in some degree, her nervous excitement, by forcing\nher ideas into a train calculated to the contrivance of some method of\nmeeting him in the morning.\n\nAt daybreak, Margaret rose from her sleepless pillow, wrapt herself up\nin her plaid, and went and secreted herself behind a large tree, which\nstood in the garden at the back of the House of Gordon, from which she\ncould observe the bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It was a cold raw\nmorning; the rain was pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant thunder\nshook the heavens. In this situation, Margaret sat for two hours, wet,\nwearied, and disconsolate. Her attention was, in some degree, arrested\nby a new equipage that stood in the court-yard, apparently newly arrived\nfrom a distance; and she concluded that Sir Willoughby had visitors--a\nprediction which she had good reason to verify. Her eye sought\ncontinually the casement of the knight's sleeping apartment, which was\nat last opened, and to her surprise and mortification, she saw standing\nbehind the dressing-glass, the form of a gay and fashionable lady, with\nSir Willoughby standing behind her--his head leaning on her left\nshoulder, and his right hand patting, with playful fondness, her cheek,\nand arranging her ringlets with the sportive gaiety and confidence of a\nprofessed libertine.\n\nOvercome by this apparition, which so completely justified Margaret's\nsuspicions of the character of her lover, and wearied and wasted as she\nwas by the scene of the previous night, the fevered vigil which\nsucceeded, and the cold and wet position she had so long occupied on\nthis morning, she became faint; and, being unable longer to stand, leant\nherself, in a stooping posture, against the stem of the tree under which\nshe stood. Sir Willoughby now entered the garden; he had observed her\nfrom the window, and came with marked displeasure in his countenance.\n\n\"Why this early visit, young maiden?\" he said, with a querulous tone of\nvoice, and without making any effort to assist her to rise.\n\n\"I dinna come here this morning, Sir Willoughby Somerset,\" replied\nMargaret, with the warmth of offended pride, and standing up, nerved by\nher feelings, which were roused as far as the gentleness of her nature\npermitted--\"I dinna come here this morning on my ain account, though\nmaybe I hae as meikle reason to do that as the braw leddie wha sits,\neven noo, in your sleepin chamber, and whose braw hair ye were pleased,\nin a fashion of merriment, to put in disorder. Oh, that it had pleased\nheaven that ye had deranged nae mair o' me than my worthless locks, I\nmight this morning hae been the blithe, thochtless, and innocent Peggy\nWilliamson, that I was when my stray wits left me to mysel' at the\nHunter's Rest! Na, Sir Willoughby, I dinna come to tell ye o' your\nbroken troth, and my lost love, and the ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad\ngladly hae laid down her worthless life to save yours. These\nthings--though, by our memories, whilk are but as the quicksand to the\nfinger-marks of the drowning sailor, they may ance be forgotten--are\nrecorded, doubtless, whar' they shall remain, ay, as the graving on\nadamant. Yet, though these things, in this world at least, concern only\nme, wha am, doubtless, o' sma concernment to ony living mortal; and\nthough they may cost me _my_ life, may be o' sma avail, they are o' less\nimportance to me at this time than what I cam' to tell ye, being\nnaething less than how to save your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to\nslay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. Tak' anither road than the\nCanongate; or, what is better, stay at hame, and save a life that is\ndearer to Peggy Williamson than her ain.--Fareweel, fareweel!\" And\nbefore Sir Willoughby could reply, she had left him, waving her hand to\nhim as she went. But, on looking back, as she opened the wicket, she saw\nthe same lady--whom she afterwards ascertained to be lady Arabella\nWinford, a person of bad repute, with whom Sir Willoughby had resided\nfor some time on the continent--enter the garden, and greet him in a\nmanner very different from the modest custom of Scotland at that day.\n\nAfter the departure of Margaret, Sir Willoughby, instead of being in any\ndegree affected by gratitude for the preservation of his life, or by\ncompassion for the kind maiden who had been instrumental in doing him\nthat service, projected, from her information, a scheme marked by\ncowardice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid of his servant Richard\nForster, and put an end to him and the secrets with which he had\nentrusted him, at the same moment. He resolved, and true to the\ncharacter he bore--a combination of cruelty and frivolity--he resolved,\namidst the blandishments of meretricious affection, and the imbecile\nbadinage and persiflage of a strumpet's conversation, to send Richard\ndown the Canongate in the evening, wrapped up in his cloak, and wearing\nhis hat and white plume, by which he had become so remarkable. The\nproject was executed as it was planned; and a deed was done with which\nEdinburgh, and indeed Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard Forster,\nwearing the cloak and plumed hat of his master, was shot dead in the\nCanongate, opposite the house of the widow Hutchison, by the unerring\nhand of Adam Hunter, who, seeing his supposed victim fall, flew in the\ndirection of the Calton Hill, leaving the gun, with which he had done\nthe deed, lying in a hedge, which at that time skirted a part of the\nnorth back of the Canongate.\n\nA hue and cry was soon raised against Adam Hunter who, about a week\nafter the crime was committed, was laid hold of by the officers of the\nlaw, and lodged in prison. Sufficient evidence having, in the opinion of\nthe crown authorities, been procured for a conviction, the unfortunate\nman was, in due course of time, brought to trial before the High Court\nof Justiciary. The court met on the 15th day of November; and Adam\nHunter, guarded on each side by members of the City Guard, sat, with the\nstoical indifference which marked his character, to hear the evidence to\nbe brought forward against him, and, in all probability, to receive\nsentence of death. The august appearance of the judges, sitting in their\nsilk robes, the venerable and even dignified aspect of the unfortunate\nculprit, and the strange and mysterious crime with which he stood\ncharged, joined with the fate of the well-known Canongate beauty, with\nwhich that crime was unaccountably associated, produced a sensation in\nthe Justiciary Court which had not been experienced for many years. The\ndeepest silence prevailed when the indictment was read; and the Lord\nJustice-Clerk, having put the ordinary question to the pannel of guilty\nor not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firmness, and calmly and\nrespectfully answered--\"Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder of Richard\nForster.\" The trial proceeded, and the crown advocate spoke:--\n\n\"My Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of murder, whereto,\nso far as I can see, no defence or plea of justification, or even\npalliation, can be set up by the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that\nwhich is indeed an aggravation, that he did intend to kill one man\nagainst whom he entertained _malice prepense_, and slew another against\nwhom he had no cause of quarrel. On the day preceding the commission of\nthis murder, the prisoner at the bar was, in consequence of his\noutrageous and brutal conduct in the House of Gordon, occupied at\npresent by Sir Willoughby Somerset, kicked by that honourable knight out\nof doors, whereby, being fiercely enraged, he impiously vowed a\ndesperate revenge, the which, though he had taken it instanter and\nkilled his enemy, _percitus rixa_, would still, by the just laws of this\nland, which make no distinction between forethought felony, and _chaude\nmelee_, have been murder, and sufficient to subject the prisoner to the\npenal consequences of that heinous crime. But, my Lords, the prisoner\ncannot even plead _homicidium in rixa_; for he went home and meditated\nupon his crime; settled deliberately the _modus trucidandi_ in cool\nblood--or, as we say, _sanguine frigida_; and, on the following day,\nwatched, _sanguinem sitiens_, for his victim; and more like a\nbloodhound, _canis vestigator_, than a human being, deprived him, whom\nhe supposed to be his victim, of life. But revenge is known to be blind,\nand, instead of his enemy, the prisoner murdered, by shooting him\nthrough the body, a person who was not in any degree guilty of having\noffended him; but who was going about his private affairs, as any of us\nmight have been, unconscious of meriting, standing in no fear of\nreceiving, and knowing no reason for expecting such an awful fate as\nthat which awaited him. This, I say, is an aggravation of the crime of\nmurder, in so far as, while in the ordinary case there may, in man's\nestimation, be some palliation in consequence of the infliction of an\ninjury--in this there can be none.\"\n\nThe witnesses for the crown were then called. The death of Richard\nForster, caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. It was also proved,\nthat the gun found in the hedge was Adam Hunter's. The quarrel with Sir\nWilloughby Somerset was next established, as also the fact that the\ndeceased wore, on that evening, the dress of his master. The macer of\ncourt then called out the name of the next witness, which was that of\nMargaret Williamson; but, before she had time to make her appearance,\nAdam Hunter rose from his seat and addressed the court in the following\nterms:--\n\n\"My Lords, it doesna appear to me, that, in the eye o' God, or even in\nthat o' man, it can abide the twitch o' natural reason that a puir bairn\nshould, in ignorance o' the relation she bears to him against whom she\nis to swear, be entrapped by cunning men o' the law, to gie evidence\nagainst the life o' him wha gave her life. The veins o' Margaret\nWilliamson are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart mayna beat wi' the\nordinary feelings o' a bairn to a father; for she, puir thing, has nae\nknowledge that Adam Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound to love and\nrespect, and therefore she may this day, in that unseemly ignorance\nwhich I and my wife Janet have imposed upon her, say what at some future\ntime she may repent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna recall to her\nthe parent she has slain. I canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye\ncan consider it unreasonable in a parent--a character maybe some o'\nyourselves bear, and, if ye do, oh, think what it is to be doomed by\nyour ain bairn!--that this puir lassie be tauld, before she be examined,\nthat she is bane o' the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him whom she is\nabout to arraign o' murder.\"\n\nAs soon as Adam Hunter had finished his speech, which, delivered with\nmuch emphasis, produced a great sensation in all the persons present,\nwho never understood that Margaret Williamson was in any way related to\nhim, the crown counsel stood up and said--\n\n\"My Lords, this is an ingenious device, on the part of the prisoner at\nthe bar, to deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, who is about to\nbe brought forward as a witness, has been held out to the world as an\norphan--a fact that may be testified by hundreds of persons, and is,\nindeed, admitted by the culprit himself. The story now fabricated by the\nprisoner is, indeed, improbable--as what father would deny his child? I\ncannot, therefore, consent to allow any communication to be made to the\nwitness, whereby the fountain of evidence may be contaminated by\nprejudice, and truth itself sacrificed to the false feelings and\nhysterical emotions of a relationship which, in my opinion, has no\nfoundation in fact.\"\n\nThe judges, having disbelieved the statement of Adam Hunter, refused to\ncomply with his request. Margaret Williamson was, accordingly, brought\nin and placed in the witnesses' box. Upon being examined, she gave, in\nevidence, the substance of the conversation which took place between\nAdam Hunter and Simon Frazer on that night when the death of Sir\nWilloughby Somerset was resolved upon. She was then asked whether she\nhad, between that period and the death of Richard Forster, any\ncommunication with Sir Willoughby; but to this question she refused to\ngive any answer, or rather she, by the effect of her simplicity--in this\ninstance, however, made subservient to something approaching to\ncunning--so completely baffled the men of law that they were obliged to\ngive up the question in despair.\n\nOn the part of Adam Hunter, an attempt was made to prove an alibi; but\nthat having failed, the jury, upon the charge of the judge, who\nconsidered the crime proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and Adam\nHunter received sentence of death.\n\nThe speech which Adam Hunter had made on the occasion of his trial, as\nalready said, excited much sensation, and the truth of the fact stated\nby him was subjected to investigation. It was found to be perfectly\ntrue, though no notice is taken of it in the books of adjournal.\nMargaret Williamson was the illegitimate child of Adam Hunter, by the\ndaughter of Elspet Craig, who died in giving birth to the infant; and it\nwas to gratify the prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused to bring up\nthe child on any other condition, that the parentage had been so\nindustriously concealed.\n\nThe unfortunate Adam Hunter was executed according to his sentence. At\nthe time of his execution, considerable uproar was observed among the\npopulace, who, displaying the usual shrewdness of the lower orders in\nScotland, perceived that, although Adam could not be justified, he was\nonly one of the actors in the tragedy; and that, while their unfortunate\ncountryman was expiating his crime by an ignominious death, the English\nknight, whose enmity towards Richard Forster, and shameful conduct\ntowards Adam's daughter, were now generally known, was allowed to\nescape.\n\nThe rumours thus circulated by the crowd at the execution of Adam Hunter\nwere not unknown to the crown officers, who felt the force of the\nextraordinary circumstance, that Richard Forster should, on that fatal\nnight, have worn the clothes of his master. That fact was, moreover, in\na considerable degree, explained by another, which had been elicited\nfrom one of Sir Willoughby's servants, of the name of William Evans,\nviz., that Sir Willoughby and Richard had had a quarrel, which produced\nhigh words between the parties, and some threats on the part of the\nknight. The crown officers were, besides, moved by the curious\ncircumstance, that Margaret Williamson had so artfully evaded the\nquestion put to her on the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter; while\nit was almost impossible to believe that she would not have communicated\nto Sir Willoughby the plot that was laid for his life, notwithstanding\nof the injury she had received by being made the victim of his\nseduction.\n\nA warrant was accordingly issued for the apprehension of Sir Willoughby\nSomerset. He was found by the officers in the company of Lady Arabella\nWinford, torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. The charge against him\nwas the murder of Richard Forster, perpetrated by his having, _sciens et\nprudens_, sent him where death awaited him. Application was, in the\nmeantime, again made by the crown officers to Margaret Williamson, for\ninformation as to whether she had had any communication with Sir\nWilloughby on the day on which Richard Forster was slain. Margaret's\nanswers were still of an evasive character, and her examinators left\nher, stating that they would visit her again, and use some other means\nof extorting the truth. Before this threat was put in execution, the\nknight, having heard that Margaret was in the hands of the examinators,\novercome by fear and cowardice, and indulging the mean and despicable\nhope of being able to persuade his victim to save his life a second\ntime, still without rendering her justice, sent for her to visit him in\nprison--a request with which she instantly complied.\n\n\"My fair Margaret,\" commenced the knight, \"I have sent for thee to know\nwhat are still thy feelings towards one who loves thee, and now requires\nsome aid and consolation, such as only thou canst render him. I flatter\nmyself that, at one time, I was not indifferent to thee; and, if my\npresent peril were past (and thou art the arbiter of my fate), I may\nfind a suitable opportunity of showing thee that I still love thee as\nfervently as I did when I used to meet thee, by the light of the moon,\nat the Hunter's Rest. I understand that my persecutors have been with\nthee, and it is my pleasure to be informed, from thy own fair lips, that\nit is not thy intention to communicate to them what passed between thee\nand me in my garden, on the day of the death of my worthless servant.\"\n\n\"I didna think,\" replied Margaret, with calmness and dignity, \"that Sir\nWilloughby Somerset could hae mistaken sae far the heart of Margaret\nWilliamson as to find, in the compass o' his ain, any doubt sufficient\nto cause him to put that question to her. Aince already hae I saved your\nlife, and I would be laith to throw that awa now which I had before sae\nmeikle pains--though wae's my heart! sae little thanks or reward--to\npreserve. Na, na; let the officers of the law tak' their course--mine\nhas been lang fixed; and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scotland, and\neven the black wuddy itsel', winna wrest frae me sae meikle as would\ninjure a single hair o' your head. It may be that I only preserve ye for\nthe love o' anither; but I will at least hae that satisfaction--and it\nis better to the broken heart than a fause love that has now nae power\nto bind it--that I hae rendered, as our holy religion inculcates, good\nfor evil.\"\n\nThese sentiments only interested or concerned Sir Willoughby in so far\nas they told him that the fair maiden would not betray him. He mistook\nentirely the Scotch character generally; and he had not himself any of\nthose high-minded qualities which could enable him to appreciate\nMargaret's. Betrayed, by her determination to do justice to her own\nstandard of female duty, into an idea that the sacrifices she had\nthrown, and was again to throw, on the shrine of that duty which she\nhad, in her fervid imagination, defied, were mere indications of a wish\nto oblige and conciliate him, Sir Willoughby thought he might safely go\na step further, and endeavour to wring out of her the written promise of\nmarriage he had so unguardedly given her. He began by using some more of\nthe bland language by which he had originally beguiled her; but he had\nscarcely approached the subject on which her mind was fixed, when\nMargaret, with the perspicacity of her sex in these tender points,\ninterrupted him; and, raising herself to the utmost extent of her\nheight, while the fire flashed from her dark blue eye, said--\n\n\"If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' shame I hae carried for six moons\nunder my broken heart, and restore to me my lost repute, aince pure as\nthe snaw that the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir and mountain, and\ntear from my puir crazy brain the image I hae made an idol o', and on\nwhose unholy alter I hae sacrificed my maiden virtue--and maybe that\neternal life that hasna been promised to the trafficker in sin--then,\nSir Willoughby, ye may ask me for that whilk stands to me in the place\nof ane haly covenant. It is the only solace left to bind up my broken\nspirit, and be a sign and a token to your bairn whom I hae yet to bear,\nthat its puir mother, though doubtless guilty o' a great sin, was the\nvictim o' a knight's broken troth, and maybe entitled to a drap o' mercy\nin her burning cup. Tell me, sir to keep frae the officers o' the law\nthe secret that would bring ye to a shamefu' death, and I will part wi'\nit as sune as I will part wi' the written testimonial of what a merciful\nGod, and the less merciful laws o' my countrie, may, peradventure, deal\nwi' as ane haly bond o' marriage.\"\n\nWith these words, Margaret abruptly left the prison, and Sir Willoughby,\nconcerned only for his liberation, denied access to his heart to the\nsentiments which reflected so much honour on the feelings of his victim,\nfrom whom he was entitled to expect nothing but revenge.\n\nMargaret was soon again visited by the officers of the law; but she\nremained firm to her resolution, not to say anything tending to\nimplicate Sir Willoughby. Recourse was therefore had, according to the\nusages of that period, to the ordinary mode of dealing with an unwilling\nwitness. She was now told, that, as a person refractory, and disobedient\nto the laws of her country, she must go to prison, where the means of\nextorting her withholden testimony would be more in the power of the\ncrown officials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to the prison in which\nSir Willoughby was confined, and intimation was solemnly made to her\nthat, on the following morning, she would be subjected to the rack of\nthe thumbikins. The threat was fulfilled with fidelity and vigour. On\nthe first application of this cruel instrument, the poor girl screamed\nwith agony; but the unstability of her frame, attenuated and weakened by\nher previous sufferings, and her pregnancy, loosened, under the effect\nof the torture, that connection between agony and resolution, without\nwhich all tortured methods of extorting testimony must be unavailing.\nEvery increased pressure produced an agonized scream, succeeded by a\nstate of insensibility, or faint, which these deluded searchers for\ntruth had as much difficulty in bringing her out of, as they had in\nproducing. The torture continued to be applied, at stated intervals, for\ndays, and the screams of the unfortunate maiden could not fail to find\ntheir way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the wretch by whom her\nsufferings had been occasioned. Little impression, however, was produced\non Margaret's resolution to die with her secret; and, upon the occasion\nof one application of the instrument, the syncope produced had so long a\nperiod of duration, that the medical man who was present declared that\nit could not be applied without danger of producing death.\n\nThe officers were now inclined to allow the period of Margaret's\npregnancy to pass before they again applied the instrument--a\ncircumstance of rather an anamolous nature in the proceedings of these\nlovers of truth; for a true medical philalethes would naturally have\nconceived, that the weaker the habit of the patient, the more certain\nwas the chance of a recovery. In the meantime, however, a circumstance\ncame to the ears of the king's prosecutor, which induced him to relax\nhis energies in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. Several of his\nservants now declared, (no doubt by the aid of concealed bribery), that\nRichard Forster was in the habit of attiring himself in his master's\ngarments, and personating him in the prosecution of amours. In addition\nto this, Janet Hunter, though called upon, could not swear that Margaret\nWilliamson had stirred from the house on the day of the murder. Unable\nto force Margaret to speak, and influenced by the testimony of these\nwitnesses, the public prosecutor came to the resolution of liberating\nSir Willoughby, and the knight was accordingly let out of gaol.\n\nWithin a few hours after his liberation, he was on his way to England,\nin company with Lady Arabella. He had devoted the whole period of his\nimprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against\nScotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in\nthe arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his\nsufferings--for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked\nare the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her\nretributions.\n\nNothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby; but she whom he\nhad ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an\nobject of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a\nson, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam.\nMargaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to\npity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the\nalms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of\nthe inhabitants of Edinburgh.\n\nNow, it was five years after the transactions I have detailed, and when\nKing James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, that\nLionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in\nEdinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name\nof Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a\nsmall ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of\nEdinburgh. A man who was standing at the top of Leith Wynd took him to\nMargaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the\nobject of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight.\nLionel entered into conversation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw\nher into a recital of the story of her life; but she evaded, though in\nthe gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her\nsecrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make\nthe other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the\nimpertinent interrogations of gossiping people, who often insulted her\nby withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip\nungratified.\n\nLionel made many visits to Margaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in\nbreaking down her reluctance to speak of herself. He told her, that he\nhad been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for\nthe sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a\ngentleman, that the only use he would make of her information would be\nin turning it to her advantage. He was evidently already well acquainted\nwith many parts of her story; but the chief object of his inquiry\nrelated to the written promise of marriage which, he had been given to\nunderstand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. Margaret, at first, would\nnot admit that any such document existed, and appeared to feel acute\npain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, at last, by\nhis importunity, she went to a little chest, which was secreted in a\nrecess dug into the wall of her apartment, and having drawn it out, and\nopened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but\ncuriously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with\nwhich Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With conclusive sobs,\nMargaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read\nit, and found it to contain the following words, written in a small\naffected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by\nthe writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. \"Sir\nWilloughby Somerset, of Somerset Hall, knight of the noble order\nof--(here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon)--doth,\nby these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed Margaret\nWilliamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the\norder to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day of\nApril, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of\nEngland.\"\n\nThis document Lionel copied, and having returned the original to\nMargaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London.\n\n\"If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset,\" answered she, \"I will sooner\nwalk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wha lie\nbetween Leith and Aberdour.\"\n\n\"It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden,\" said Sir Lionel;\n\"and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is your friend, I\npromise thee thou shalt not have cause to regret thy journey.\"\n\nAfter much solicitation, Margaret agreed to go to London and take her\nchild with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to\nescape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after\nten days' travelling. On their arrival, Margaret and her child were\ntaken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till\nLionel called for her.\n\nAfter some days, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady, carrying a\nbundle, came out, and asked to be shown to the apartment occupied by the\nScotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number\nof specimens of tartan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her\nto point out the kind she wore when she lived with Adam Hunter. This\nMargaret did; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret\nshould describe to her the shape of the garments, and the manner in\nwhich she wore them; all of which Margaret complied with, and the lady\ndeparted.\n\nIn two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and\nrequested Margaret to put them on, and, with the child, accompany her to\nthe place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed\ntogether in a coach. After driving for some little time, the coach\nstopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lady led Margaret\nand her child up a great many stairs, and round winding passages, until\nthey came to a room, where she was requested to remain. After waiting\nabout ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook\nher kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and without any\nexplanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a\npart of his salutation.\n\n\"Why, woman, didna ye mak' some legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae\nyour braw lover, Sir Willoughby Somerset? Can it be possible that ye\ndidna ken, that by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage,\ncoupled wi' a--a--hem! hem!--a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, as\ngude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o' haly\nkirk? By my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly lassie, whatever\nfolk may sae o' ye, praising ye for the hich and michtie honour ye made\nsae meikle fashion o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha\nruined ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the wuddy o' my countrie,\nthough made o' guid aik, a mair suitable wife to him, God wot, than the\nlike o' ye. But lat that alane--_tempus reparabit_--ha! ha! ye ken\nnaething o' Latin, I fancy, but I meant only by that flicht to tell ye\nthat ye will be revenged.\"\n\nWhile in the act of delivering this strange speech, the gentleman began\nto drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of the room where they were, into\nanother; his speech and the dragging operation going on at the same\ntime. She now found herself in a large hall, where she saw an elevated\nchair overshaded by a canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of which was\na crown. The gentleman, still in the same confused manner--speaking\nsometimes to himself, and sometimes to her--shoved her behind a small\nscreen, apparently placed there for the purpose of concealing some one,\ntelling her to remain there until she was called for.\n\nThe folding doors of the apartment now opened, and Margaret heard the\nvoices of heralds, and saw a great number of high-dressed ladies and\ngentlemen come in, and stand round the elevated chair. Among these she\nobserved Sir Willoughby Somerset, and a lady (the same she had seen in\nthe garden of the House of Gordon) leaning upon his arm. \"Come forth,\nMargaret Williamson,\" cried the gentleman who had first spoken to her;\nand Margaret, with her tartan plaid around her, and her child at her\nfoot, stood before King James. Opposite to her stood Sir Willoughby\nSomerset and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, and forming\na strange and striking contrast with the plaided stranger.\n\n\"I am right glad,\" said James, \"to see my auld subjects o' my native\nkingdom; and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, and wish ye and your\nbairn mony braw days. I also greet ye weel, Sir Willoughby Somerset,\nKnight, and your braw leddie, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, in\nsae meikle as she is nearest your heart, in the fashion o' the\nconnection whilk exists between our auld Scotch wuddy and the heart o'\nMid-Loudon. But awa wi' this--_Et nunc labores exantlare_--whilk means,\nto wark, to wark. Ken ye this Scotch lassie, Sir Willoughby Somerset?\"\n\n\"No, sire,\" answered the knight, in evident confusion, but still\nretaining a portion of his natural impudence.\n\n\"It's fause, sir,\" answered the King, whose choler now rose to the\nboiling point of his royal fervour--\"It's fause, sir; ye ken her as weel\nas did our royal faither our royal mither, or as Hamman did his wuddy,\nwhilk was made o' sweet-smelling cedar, as is clearly made out by the\nlearned Chrysostom. I canna believe you; for our royal brither Solomon\nhath said, that if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants shall be\nwicked. But, maybe, ye may ken your ain handwriting better than ye do\nthe lassie. Look at that, man; do ye ken that?\"\n\nSir Willoughby was silent.\n\n\"I will take your silence, man, for an ill-favoured confession; and now,\nsir, let it be understood by ye, that that bit writing and that bit\ncallant--wha doesna ken ye sae weel as ye ken his mither--maks a gude\nmarriage by the law o' Scotland. I dinna mean, sir, in the presence o'\nthis assembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will serve the purposes o'\njustice; and I leave ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about ye as\nreflection, how ye treated this po'r lassie, wham ye ruined, and wha,\nthough fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, are given, as\nEcclesiasticus says, for vengeance, sat quietly and--seeking nae other\nsatisfaction--sucked, wi' her honied lips, the poison which your shaft\ncarried to her broken heart; and wha, though exposed to terrible and\nracking tortures, saved, on twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her\nain. Now, sir, though the lassie can claim ye as her husband, she alane\nhas the power o' severing that connection on the ground o' your\ncohabitation wi' that leddie, wham ye call your wife; whilk power, by my\nadvice, she will doubtless exercise. But, sir, there maun here be a\n_solatium_; and I ask you if you are willing to sign that paper whilk\nLionel Apsley is ready to shaw ye?\"\n\nSir Willoughby took the document, which purported to be a conveyance to\nMargaret Williamson, in liferent, and her son in fee, of one-half of the\ndomain of Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to L2,000 a year; and,\nhaving read it, he seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his hesitation,\nJames whispered in his ear the name of Richard Foster. His manner\nchanged, and he signed the deed.\n\nMargaret Williamson received the deed from the King, giving, in return,\none of her best curtsies. She came down to Scotland, prosecuted a\ndivorce against Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a much honoured and\nrespected lady, in Edinburgh, for many years.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BARLEY BANNOCK\n\n\nBetween Falkirk and Stirling are the remains of a wood, even yet pretty\nextensive, which existed in the times of Wallace and Bruce. It is the\nwell-known Torwood, so frequently mentioned in the histories of these\nScottish heroes, and so celebrated for the shelter and concealment it\nafforded them on frequent occasions during their seasons of adversity.\nIn those days, however, if we may believe old chronicles, the Torwood\ncovered a great deal more ground than it does now, extending, on its\nnorthern side, it is said, to the banks of the Forth, a distance of\nabout four miles. Experiencing the fate of our other ancient woods, the\nprogress of cultivation and improvement has now greatly lessened its\nextent; but it forms even in the present day, a singularly striking and\nimpressive piece of sylvian scenery. Its outward characteristics,\nstriking as they are, may not differ from those of other forests; but\nthere are associations connected with the Torwood, which fill its\nsombre, solitary depths and recesses with a profound and solemn mystery,\nand which diffuse throughout its picturesque glades a golden atmosphere\nof poetry and romance. The spirit of the olden time is there, and has\nflung its bewitching glamoury around the forest scene. There are few who\nhave wandered through its green arcades, and have penetrated its far and\ngloomy depths, with a knowledge and recollection of the scenes which\nthey have witnessed, and the sounds they have heard--the mustering of\nWallace's patriot bands, and the stirring strains of the bugle of\nBruce--few, we say, who have roamed through the dark solitudes of the\nTorwood, and who have thought of these things, but must have felt the\nfullest, the deepest effect of those sacred associations and\nrecollections which enshrine the memory of the mighty dead.\n\nAt the period we refer to, namely, the glorious period when Bruce was\nstruggling to complete the work which his great predecessor Wallace had\nbegun--to compass the independence of Scotland--a rude little cottage or\nbothy reared its humble form on the eastern skirts of the Torwood, or\nrather a little way within the verge of the forest.\n\nThis lowly and lonely domicile was then occupied by a widow woman of the\nname of Margaret Grahame. Her husband had been killed, some years\nprevious to the period at which we introduce her to the notice of the\nreader, in a skirmish with a party of the English garrison from\nStirling; and she was thus left to bring up, as she best might, a family\nof young children; the eldest of whom, a beautiful girl, named after her\nmother, was only nine years of age at the time of her husband's death.\n\nMargaret, however, was not one of those women who sink under\nmisfortune--who unresistingly yield to the pressure of calamity. In that\nwhich had befallen her, she only saw an additional reason for redoubling\nthose exertions in behalf of her family which had never, at any time,\nbeen wanting. After her husband's death, she continued to cultivate,\nwith the assistance of her children, the little patch of ground, which,\ntogether with a small track of pasturage, on which two cows, her whole\nstock of bestial, grazed, formed her only means of subsistence.\n\nSmall and humble as these means were, however, the industry and thrifty\nmanagement of Margaret Grahame rendered them sufficient to place herself\nand family beyond the reach of want. The fare, indeed, which she could\nput before her children, was homely enough in quality, but it was\nabundant.\n\nIn character, Margaret, who had been a remarkably good-looking woman in\nher day, and who was even yet a comely dame to look upon, was what we,\nin Scotland here, call \"furthy.\" She was a lively, rattling,\nkind-hearted, out-spoken person; warm in her feelings, active in all her\nhabits, and possessing a natural courage and presence of mind, that\nsingularly fitted her for performing the duties of friendship in cases\nof difficulty, danger, or distress.\n\nSuch, then, was Margaret Grahame, and such were the circumstances in\nwhich she was placed at the period when we bring her before the reader.\nThese essential preliminary matters recorded, we proceed to say, that,\non a certain evening, a wet and stormy one, in the month of October,\n1307, as Margaret was busily employed, with the assistance of her eldest\ndaughter--the younger children having been put to bed--in toasting some\nbarley meal bannocks before the fire, some one rapped smartly at the\ndoor.\n\n\"Wha's there?\" exclaimed Margaret, in some surprise at the lateness of\nthe visit, and little accustomed to the calls of either friends or foes\nat her remote and solitary dwelling, wondering who the person could be\nwho sought admittance. To her inquiry, a mellow-toned, but masculine\nvoice replied--that the person without was one who had no other place of\nshelter to go to for the night, and who would cheerfully pay for a\nlittle refreshment, and an hour or two's shelter from the storm.\n\n\"A houseless stranger! Rin Margaret and open the door and let him in.\"\n\n\"I'm feart, mother,\" replied the timid girl, holding back, and putting\nher finger to her mouth.\n\n\"Feart, ye little cowardly thing; what are ye feart for?\" exclaimed Mrs\nGrahame, hastening herself to the door. \"Wha wad do us ony harm, ye\ngowk,\" she continued, as she undid the fastenings of the door; \"and is't\nfeer, think ye, that's to hinder us frae gien shelter to the\nshelterless, or food to the hungry?\"\n\nAs she uttered the last word, she flung the door widely and boldly open;\nand there entered a figure which might well have appalled even the stout\nheart of Margaret Grahame. This figure was that of a man of gigantic\nstature and powerful frame, wearing a steel cap and shirt of mail that\nglanced through the openings of a leathern doublet by which it was\ncovered, and in some measure concealed. From a belt which passed over\nhis right shoulder, depended a sword of dimension corresponding to the\ntremendous strength indicated by the proportions of the wearer; and in\nanother belt, which passed round his middle, and which was joined in\nfront by a silver clasp, part of whose fashioning displayed two lion's\nheads, was stuck a richly hilted dagger. A small silver bugle horn,\nwhich was suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal,\ncompleted his appointments.\n\nOn the entrance of this formidable figure, the little girl uttered a\nscream of terror, and flew to a remote corner of the apartment. The\ngigantic stranger smiled, and, turning to her mother, said--\n\n\"I am sorry that my appearance is so alarming as to make young ladies\nfly me. I would have them believe that I would much sooner protect than\ninjure them. God forbid it should ever be otherwise. Come hither, my\nlittle primrose, and let me assure thee of all safety at my hands.\" And\nthe stranger drew out a silken purse and took from it a small gold coin,\nwhich he seemed desirous of presenting to the little fugitive fair one.\nHe was, however, interrupted.\n\n\"Never mind her, sir; never mind her,\" said her mother, who now\nperceived that her guest was a person apparently of some note; \"she'll\nsune learn no to be sae frichtened for the men. Sit doon, sir, sit doon.\nTak a seat, and throw aff your wat jerkin, and I'll gie ye a pair o' my\npuir gude-man's stockins to draw on, for I'm sure ye're soakit to the\nskin; and a pair o' slippers to yer feet.\" And while the kindly-hearted\nand hospitable woman was thus rattling away, she was actively employed\nin seeking out the various comforts which she enumerated.\n\nIn a very few minutes after, the portly figure of the stranger filled\nthe favourite arm-chair, by the fire, of Mrs Grahame's late husband, in\nas comfortable a plight as the hospitable attentions of his hostess\ncould place him. Several of these, however, he declined. He would not\npart with his boots, nor divest himself of any part of his apparel or\nappointments, excepting his steel cap and sword, both of which he placed\non the floor close by his chair, as if desirous that they should be\nwithin reach on the slightest appearance of emergency.\n\n\"Now, my good dame,\" said the stranger, after enjoying for a few minutes\nthe invigorating warmth of a blazing fire, which his hostess had heaped\nwith faggots for his comfort, \"I must be plain enough to tell ye that I\nam famishing of hunger, and that these barley bannocks of yours look\nmost tempting.\"\n\n\"And do ye think, sir, I wasna gaun to mak ye an offer o' a tastin o'\nthem? That wad be a gay churlish like thing, I think; I was but waiting\ntill they war ready, to place some o' them before ye, wi' a soup milk,\nand a bit butter, cheese, and a cauler egg or twa. Ye'll hae them a' in\nten minutes, and welcome.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my kind lady, thank you; and now, with your leave,\" added\nMargaret's guest, whose hunger seemed to be in one of its most active\nmoods--\"I'll just see what state the bannocks are in,\" and he stretched\nout his hand, took one from the fire, blew on it, tossed it quickly to\nand fro in his hands--for it was too hot to hold steadily--and, finally,\nwhen it had cooled a little, broke it, took a mouthful, pronounced it\nnearly ready, and, with great gusto, despatched the remainder.\n\n\"Dear me, man,\" said Mrs Grahame, who witnessed this gastronomic feat of\nher guest with a feeling of increased compassion for his condition; \"but\nye are awfu' hungry, I dare say, or ye wadna hae eaten a half-raw barley\nbannock that way.\"\n\n\"The sweetest morsel ever I ate in my life!\" replied the stranger,\nsmiling. \"I'll never forget it; nor you either, my good dame.\"\n\n\"Pho, nonsense, man; but I see you're dreadfu' hungry;\" and she\ncommenced an active turn of the bannocks, to expedite the process of\ntoasting.\n\nThis done, she redoubled her exertions in general preparation, and with\nsuch effect, that in a few minutes, a little round table, spread with a\nclean white cloth, which she placed by the elbow of her guest, was\ncovered with the homely but wholesome edibles which she had\nenumerated--namely, a small basin of fresh eggs, a quarter of a cheese,\na plate of butter, a large bowl of milk, and a heaped-up platter of warm\nsmoking barley bread.\n\n\"Noo, sir, set to, and do me and yoursel credit by makin a hearty\nsupper. I'm sure ye're welcome; and I houp I needna say that again.\"\n\nObeying, without hesitation or further ceremony, the kind and cordial\ninvitation of his hostess, the stalworth stranger commenced a vigorous\nattack on the tempting viands placed before him; and, had the credit of\nMrs Grahame been dependant on the quantity he might consume, it was\nsafe, for he did, indeed, make a splendid meal of it.\n\nThe stranger had completed his repast, but his hostess had scarcely\nremoved the surplus and other traces of the meal, when both were\nsuddenly alarmed by the sound of the trampling of horses' feet from\nwithout, mingled with occasional shouts by the riders, some of mirth,\nand some of imprecation.\n\n\"No sound of bugle--they cannot be friends!\" exclaimed Mrs Grahame's\nguest, starting to his feet and seizing his sword. \"Now, my good\nweapon,\" he added, as he unsheathed the shining blade, \"stand me in as\ngood stead this night as thou hast hitherto done, and thou shalt find\nthat I will do my duty by thee.\"\n\n\"Fecht, sir! ye'll fecht nane here,\" exclaimed Margaret Grahame, who had\nbeen, during the previous instant, listening eagerly with her ear close\nto the door, endeavouring to make out who or what the approaching party\nof horsemen were. \"Fecht! ye'll fecht nane,\" she exclaimed, rushing up\nto her guest, and seizing him by the sword arm. \"It wad be madness,\nperfect madness. It's a party o' Englishers frae Stirlin Castle--a\ndizzen at least. And what could your single arm, strong as it is, do\nagainst sae mony? No, no, come here--here wi' me,\" she added, in a state\nof great excitement. \"Leave me to fecht the Englishers; I ken how to\ndo't. I'll fecht them wi' barley bannocks and dauds o' butter. Keep thae\nchiels chowan, and deil haet else they'll think o'.\"\n\nBy this time Margaret Grahame had conducted, or rather dragged her\nguest, who passively, and, it may be added, prudently yielded to her\nproceeding, into a dark back apartment. This gained, she hastily threw\naside the curtain of a bed, which occupied a corner of the room, opened\na _press_ or closet, the door of which the former concealed, and\nunceremoniously thrust her guest, without saying another word, into the\nunoccupied receptacle, fastened the door, and drew the curtains of the\nbed again before it.\n\nAll this was the work of but an instant, and there was need that it\nshould be so; for the English troopers--such they were--were already\nthundering at the door for admittance.\n\n\"Comin this moment!\" exclaimed Margaret Grahame. \"Dear me, will ye no\ngie folk time to throw on their claes,\" she added, as she undid the\nfastenings of the door. \"To raise folk out o' their beds this way at\nthis time o' nicht.\"\n\nAs she said this, she threw the door open, and, in the same instant, six\nor eight dismounted troopers, who had given their horses in charge to\ntwo or three comrades remaining mounted outside, entered.\n\nOn the entrance of the soldiers, Margaret Grahame, in pursuance of the\nparticular line of tactics which she had laid down for herself,\ncommenced, with great volubility of speech, to overwhelm her visiters\nwith both words and deeds of hospitality--she stirred the fire to warm\nthem, and covered her homely board with the best she had to regale them,\nand all this with such expedition, accompanied by such an outpouring of\nexpressions of kindness, that the soldiers could do nothing but look at\neach other in surprise, and, by their smiles, express the perplexity\ninto which such an unexpected reception had placed them.\n\nOne obvious general effect, however, was produced on them all by\nMargaret's proceedings; this was the completely disarming them of all\nvindictive feeling, and substituting in its place one of kindness and\nsympathy.\n\nPressed by their hostess, and nothing loth themselves, the soldiers now\nsat down to the well-spread board which the former's hospitality had\nprepared for them, and ate heartily; those first served giving place to\ntheir comrades, until the whole had partaken of the widow's good cheer.\n\nThis done, the soldiers, though not without apologies for the rudeness\nwhich their duty imposed on them, informed Margaret Grahame that the\npurpose of their visit was to search her house for a certain important\npersonage--not naming him--who, they had information, had been seen in\nthat neighbourhood in the course of the day.\n\nHaving given her this intimation, the soldiers, attended by Margaret\nherself, proceeded to search the house, but in a temper so mollified by\nthe kind treatment they had received, that they went through the process\nmore as a matter of form than duty.\n\nOn completing their brief and cursory search, the troopers, after\nthanking their hostess for her hospitality, remounted their horses, and\ndeparted.\n\nIt was not for some time after they were gone, that Margaret Grahame\nventured to seek the hiding-place of her first guest of the evening.\nThere were two reasons for this delay. The first was to ensure the\nperfect safety of the latter, by allowing her late visiters to get to a\nsecure distance; the other was one of a less definite and more\nperplexing nature. From some expressions which had dropped from the\ntroopers in the course of their search, she had now no doubt that her\nconcealed guest was no other than Robert Bruce.\n\nIt was under this impression, then, and under the feeling of reverential\nawe it inspired, that Margaret Grahame at length went to intimate to her\nconcealed guest that the troopers were gone, and that he might now come\nforth from his hiding-place.\n\nOn the latter's stepping from his concealment, Margaret flung herself on\nher knees, and calling him her King, implored his pardon for the homely\nand familiar manner in which, in ignorance of his quality, she had\ntreated him.\n\n\"So, my good dame,\" replied Bruce, smiling--for it was indeed he--and\ntaking his hostess kindly by the hand, and raising her from her humble\nposition, \"so you have discovered me? These troopers have blabbed, I\nfancy. Well, my secret could not be in safer keeping, I feel assured,\nthan in thine, my kind hostess. It is even so. I _am_ Robert Bruce, and\nnone other.\"\n\nOvercome by the various and tumultuous feelings which the incident,\naltogether, was so well calculated to excite, Margaret Grahame burst\ninto tears, and, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, stood\nthus for some seconds without uttering a word.\n\nBruce, affected, even to the starting of a tear, took his hostess again\nby the hand, and, not without very evident emotion, said--\"Come, my good\ndame, why those tears?\"\n\n\"I canna richtly tell mysel, sir. I dinna ken. I canna help it. Maybe it\nis to see you in this plight--to see Scotland's chief without a single\nattendant, and glad o' the shelter o' sae lowly a roof as mine.\"\n\n\"Pho, pho, my kind hostess, and what is in that?\" replied Bruce, in a\ncheering tone. \"We must all rough it out as we best can in these times,\nking and cobbler, baron and beggar. Better days are coming, and we will\nthen think of our present hardships only to laugh at them. As to\nattendants,\" he added, with a look of peculiar intelligence, \"I am not,\nperhaps, so destitute of them as I may seem; although they are not, it\nmay be, within calling at this moment. Half-an-hour's walk into the\nTorwood, however, and half-a-dozen blasts of this little horn would\nbring around me a band of as stalworth, nay, as brave hearts as Scotland\ncan boast.\"\n\n\"God be thankit for that!\" said Bruce's enthusiastic hostess. \"Then\nthere is hope yet.\"\n\n\"There is, there is. A day of reckoning is coming. But now, my good\ndame,\" he added, glancing at a little window, through which the dull,\nfaint light of the breaking day had just begun to gleam, \"I must take my\ndeparture. I must be at the mustering place an hour after daybreak.\"\nSaying this the redoubted warrior drew out a leathern purse, from whence\nhe took several pieces of gold coin, which he vainly endeavoured to\npress on the acceptance of his hostess.\n\n\"Well, well, my good dame,\" he said, on finding his urgency only gave\noffence; \"we'll settle all this on some future day. Depend upon it, _I_\nwill not forget the score which stands against me here. In the meantime,\nfarewell; and fare ye well too, my little maiden,\" he said, taking his\nhostess's daughter by the hand; \"you and I will meet again.\" Having said\nthis, and having once more bid mother and daughter adieu, Bruce left the\nhouse, and soon after disappeared in the depths of the Torwood.\n\nMargaret Grahame stood at the door, and, with the corner of her apron at\nher eye, looked after the stately figure of the patriot chief, as long\nas it remained in sight. When it had disappeared, she returned into the\nhouse, and began, as she busied herself in brushing up, or, as she would\nherself have called it, \"redding\" up her little cottage, after the\nhospitalities of which it had been the scene, in _crooning_ a popular\nScottish ditty of the day, of which the two first verses ran thus,\n\n    \"Guid speed the wark o' bow and brand\n      That's raised for Scotland's weal,\n    And blessins on the heart and hand\n      O' the ever true and leal.\"\n\n    \"Come frae the east, come frae the wast,\n      Come frae the south and north;\n    For Bruce's horn has blawn a blast\n      That's heard frae Clyde to Forth.\"\n                \"Guid speed the wark,\" &c.\n\nHere, we beg to apprise the reader, the first act of our little drama\ncloses--the curtain drops; and when we again raise it, years have passed\naway, and many things have undergone those changes which the lapse of\ntime so certainly produces.\n\nDuring the interval to which we allude--an interval of eight or ten\nyears, Scotland, after a long and arduous struggle, had achieved her\nindependence, and Bruce was now in secure and peaceable possession of\nthe Scottish crown.\n\nTo all, however, the changes which had taken place had not been equally\nfortunate or favourable. On many the sanguinary and ruthless warfare\nwhich had desolated the country brought poverty and ruin.\n\nAmongst the sufferers of this description was Margaret Grahame. About\nthree years after the occurrence of the incidents which occupy the\npreceding pages, a party of English soldiers had first plundered and\nthen burned her little cottage, driving herself and family forth on the\nworld, to earn a livelihood as they best might, or to subsist, if other\nmeans failed, on the scanty doles of charity.\n\nOn being driven from her home, Margaret Grahame, followed by her\nchildren, in melancholy procession, wandered she knew nor cared not\nwhither; but, instinctively, taking that direction which promised to\nleave further danger at the greatest distance behind her. This direction\nwas westward, and on this route she continued; subsisting by the way on\nthe benevolence of the humane; most of whom, however, were more willing\nthan able to relieve her, till she reached the neighbourhood of the\nvillage of Kilpatrick, on the Clyde. Exhausted with fatigue, and\nfamishing with hunger, the widow and her children here applied at a\nrespectable farm-house, which stood a little way off the road, for\nrelief.\n\nThe door was opened by the farmer himself, a man of mild and benevolent\ndisposition. To him, therefore, the petition of the destitute widow was\nnot proffered in vain. Herself and children were instantly admitted, and\na plenteous meal of bread, and cheese, and milk, placed before them.\n\nWhen the famishing family had satisfied the cravings of hunger, the\nfarmer, whose name was Blackadder, inquired, but in the most delicate\nmanner possible, into the history of the widow. She told him her story.\nWhen she had concluded, Blackadder, looking at her two sons, said that\nthey were fine stout boys, and that he thought, if she chose, he could\nfind them employment about his farm.\n\n\"Ye're kind, sir, very kind,\" replied the widow; \"but I'm sweart to\npairt wi' my bairns. Destitute as I am, I canna think o' separatin frae\nthem.\"\n\n\"But there's no occasion for that either,\" replied the farmer. \"I'm\nwillin, in consideration o' their services, to gie ye a bit sma cot to\nlive in, and ye'll never want a pickle meal, and a soup o' milk forbye.\nAnd for this bonnie lassie, here,\" he added, and now looking at\nMargaret, who had grown into a tall and handsome girl, \"she micht mak\nherself useful about my house too, for which, of course, I wad gie her\nthe wages gaun. Ye micht then be a' comfortable aneuch, for a wee, at\nony rate.\"\n\nNeed we say that the kind offers of Blackadder were readily closed with.\nWe think we need not. The grateful family, the children, by looks of\nglee and satisfaction, and the mother by broken sentences and tears of\njoy, acknowledged their deep sense of the obligation proposed to be\nconferred on them.\n\n\"And wha kens,\" said the farmer, on this matter being settled, \"an wha\nkens,\" he said, smiling; \"but this bonny lassie here,\" laying his hand\non Margaret's shoulder, \"may sune fa' in wi' a bit canny guidman\nhereawa, wi' a weel-stocked mailin.\"\n\n\"I doot, sir, that's a' settled already,\" replied the widow, smiling,\n\"although there's but little gear in the case. Margaret, I'm jalousin,\nhas left her heart at the Torwood. There's a certain young lad, a\nfarmer's son there, that I'm thinkin she wadna willingly forget. But\nwant o' warl's gear aften sunders fond hearts.\"\n\n\"Better times may come roun, guidwife,\" replied Mr Blackadder; \"an' the\nlass may get her leman for a'.\"\n\nDuring this conversation, the subject of it seemed in an agony of\nmaidenly distress. With a face burning with blushes, she vainly\nattempted, with a series of unconnected interjections, amongst which\nwere several _denials_ of the _fact_, to arrest her mother's\ncommunications regarding the secrets of her heart. Finding these\nefforts ineffectual, the bashful girl retreated behind her mother's\nchair, and there, concealing herself as much as possible, awaited, in\nsuffering silence, the conclusion of the, to her, most annoying\ndiscussion.\n\nIn less than a week from this period, Widow Grahame was comfortably\ndomiciled in a small cot-house at a little distance from the residence\nof her benefactor, Blackadder. Here, contented with her humble lot, and\ngrateful to a kind Providence, which had so timeously interposed in her\nbehalf, Margaret Grahame plied her wheel the livelong day, singing as\nmerrily, the while, as the \"laverock in the lift.\" Her boys were giving\nevery satisfaction to their employer, and her daughter was no less\nsuccessful in pleasing in her department. She was thus in the enjoyment\nof one of the greatest happinesses of which her condition was\nsusceptible, and she fully appreciated the blessing. It was while\nmatters were in this state with Widow Grahame, and somewhere about two\nyears after she had settled at Kilpatrick, that her eldest son said to\nher one evening, on returning home after the labours of the day were\nover:--\n\n\"Mother, they say the King has come to Cardross Castle and I believe\nit's true; for I saw, frae the braes, a great cavalcade o' knights and\ngentlemen on horseback, doon on the Glasgow road, gaun towards Dumbarton\nas hard's they could bir.\"\n\n\"An' what's that to me, laddie, whar the King, God bless him, is?\"\nreplied his mother. \"I'm aye blithe to hear o' his weelfare, for auld\nlang syne; but what mair is there aboot it?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken, mother,\" said the boy; \"but I've been thinkin that if he\nkent you were here, or kent whar to fin ye, he wad maybe let you see\nthat he hadna forgotten the barley meal bannocks o' the Torwood, that ye\nhae sae aften tell't us aboot.\"\n\n\"Tuts, ye foolish boy,\" replied his mother, plying away at her wheel.\n\"Whatna notion is that? The King, honest man, has, I daresay, forgotten\nbaith me and my bannocks many a day syne. He had owre muckle to do and\nowre muckle to think o' after that, to keep ony mind o' sae sma' and\nordinary a matter as that. The _recollection_ o' that nicht, Jamie, is,\nat onyrate, reward aneuch for me.\"\n\n\"Feth, I dinna ken, mither,\" said the pertinacious youngster; \"but I\nthink ye micht do waur than try. Ye micht do waur than tak a step doun\nto Cardross Castle--it's only about seven or aucht miles frae this, and\nget a sicht o' the King, an' tell him wha ye are. It micht do us a'\nguid.\"\n\nTo this very distinct and rational proposition, Margaret made no reply.\nIt threw her into a musing mood, in which she continued for some time;\nmaking the wheel revolve, the while, with redoubled velocity. At length,\nstudiously, as it appeared, avoiding all recurrence to the subject on\nwhich her son and herself had been speaking,\n\n\"Tak your bread and milk, Jamie, and gang to your bed. Ye ken ye hae to\nrise by three the morn's mornin.\"\n\nThe boy, without further urging his proposal, or saying anything more\nregarding it, did as he was desired--ate his bread and milk, and retired\nto bed, where he quickly fell fast asleep. His mother, on ascertaining\nthat he had done so, got up from her wheel, went to a small wooden tub\nthat stood in a corner of the cottage, and filled from it a small basin\nof barley-meal. With this meal she forthwith proceeded to bake a bannock\nof small size, which she subsequently toasted with great care. This\ndone, she placed it in a cupboard, and soon after retired to bed. On the\nfollowing morning, at an early hour, Margaret Grahame, dressed in her\nbest, and carrying in her hand the identical barley meal bannock above\nspoken of, neatly wrapped up in a snow-white towel, was seen posting\nstoutly along the Dumbarton road, and evidently bent on a journey of\nsome length. It was so: Margaret was making for Cardross Castle, where\nshe arrived about three hours after leaving her own house. On reaching\nthe outer gate of the castle, Margaret addressed herself to a sentinel\nwho was walking backwards and forwards with a drawn sword in his hand.\n\n\"Is the King here, sir, just now?\" she said.\n\n\"He is,\" replied the man, shortly.\n\n\"Could I see him, sir, do you think?\"\n\n\"Indeed, mistress, I think you could _not_,\" replied the sentinel,\nperemptorily. \"None but properly accredited persons can obtain access to\nhim at present.\"\n\n\"I'm sure, however, he wad be glad aneuch to see me,\" said Margaret;\n\"for him and I are auld acquantance.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" replied the soldier. \"Of that I know nothing; but I know\nmy duty, and that is to keep out all unknown and unaccredited persons.\nBut here's Balcanquhail, the King's confidential personal attendant, and\nyou may speak to him if you like. Ho, Balcanquhail, here's a woman who\nclaims _old acquaintanceship_\" (a smile accompanying, and intelligent\nemphasis laid on these two words) \"with the King, and who wants\nadmittance to his Majesty,\" added the sentinel, beckoning her towards\nhim, and now addressing the person whom he named.\n\n\"You cannot be admitted, honest woman,\" said Balcanquhail, scanning the\nsupplicant with something of a contemptuous expression of face. \"You\ncannot, on any account, so it's no use insisting.\"\n\n\"Weel, sir,\" replied Margaret, calmly, \"if ye winna let mysel in, will\nye tak in this to the King?\" and she presented the white towel with its\ninclosure to the \"chaumer chiel\" of Robert Bruce. \"Let the King hae\nthat, and, if I'm no mista'en, ye'll sune hae orders to fling a' the\ngates o' the castle open to me.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said Balcanquhail, peering curiously into the folds of the\ntowel.\n\n\"Atweel it's neither mair nor less,\" replied the widow, \"than a\nbarley-meal bannock. Nae very rare nor costly commodity; but place ye't\nbefore the King, and he'll understand what it means. I'll wait here till\nye come back.\"\n\nAccustomed to such symbolical communications, which were much resorted\nto in these days, and sometimes on very important occasions,\nBalcanquhail readily agreed, without further inquiry or remark, to\ncomply with the widow's request.\n\nHastening to the King's private apartment--the King being at the moment\nat breakfast--Balcanquhail placed his charge on the table before him, in\nthe precise state in which he received it, without saying a word.\n\n\"What's this, Balcanquhail?\" said Bruce, opening out the towel as he\nspoke, and without waiting for a reply. \"Ah! a barley bannock. What can\nthis mean?\" and he mused for an instant. Then suddenly starting from his\nseat--\"I have it!--I have it!\" he exclaimed, with eager delight. \"How\nshould I forget the barley bannocks of the 'Torwood?' Who brought this\nbannock, Balcanquhail? Where is the person who brought it?\" Balcanquhail\ninformed him.\n\n\"Send her up to me instantly--instantly!\" rejoined the excited monarch.\n\"This is the good woman about whom I have been so anxiously, but vainly,\ninquiring for these two or three years back. Quick, quick, bring her\nhither, Balcanquhail?\"\n\nIn less than two minutes afterwards, Margaret Grahame was in the\npresence of her Sovereign. On her entrance, the King hastened towards\nher with extended hand, and after giving her a cordial welcome:--\n\n\"Where in all the world hast thou been, my good dame?\" he said, \"that I\nhave not been able to find thee, although I have had emissaries employed\nfrom time to time, in all directions, for the last two or three years,\nto trace thee out, with the offer of a reward to him who should first\ndiscover thee? No one about thy old place of residence--whither I went\nmyself to seek thee--could tell aught of thee. They knew not what had\nbecome of thee, nor where thou hadst gone to. Where, on earth, hast thou\nbeen?\"\n\nMargaret gave the history of her whole proceedings, and of all that had\nhappened her since the eventful night on which she had entertained the\nking in her little cot on the skirts of the Torwood.\n\nWhen she was done, Bruce, with many expressions of kindness, presented\nher with a large purse of gold for her present exigencies. He\nsubsequently built her a handsome mansion-house, where she lived in\ncomfort and independence for many years, on the site of her ruined\ncottage--a locality which he chose in order to commemorate the event\nwhich forms the ground of this tale--gave her a charter of three or four\nextensive farms that lay around it, dowered her daughter Margaret\nGrahame, who was by this means enabled to wed the man of her choice,\nand, finally, placed her two sons in situations of profit and trust\nabout his own person.\n\nAnd so, gentle reader, ends the story of the \"Barley Bannock.\"\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\nXX.--JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE.\n\n\nIn the Greyfriars' Churchyard of Edinburgh I have often spent a solitary\nhour, during what, in Scotland, is called the \"gloaming.\" The large and\nhandsome monument which still records the sufferings of the covenanted\nfriends of freedom, always occupied my deepest thoughts; and when I\nlooked around me on the quiet solitude of the scene, on the modest and\nunassuming style of the sacred edifice, and on the old and\nscarcely-visible fort,[1] which had stood so many sieges, and witnessed\nso many changes, I have often let the moon peep upon my meditative\nmovements, over the top of the Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, or Salisbury\nCrags. There passed, on the outside of the wall, the light-hearted\ncarter, whistling alongside of his horse; or the fish-wife, proclaiming\nthe caller commodity she wished to sell; or the merry school boy,\nindicating his relish of freedom from school restraint by boisterous\nmirth and unrestrained motion;--and yet, on the inner side of the wall,\nall was alone and peaceful, as if I had taken up my station in a far-off\nHighland glen. These were the days of my youthful feelings, and warm and\ngenerous emotion. If my blood did not _boil_ within me, it warmed\nexceedingly, as the vision of other times and far different scenes\ncrossed my brain, and was reflected from my heart. From the works of our\nhistorians--of Knox and Woodrow in particular--I had early become\nacquainted with the history of those times, (which are still continuing\nto interest our feelings and influence our judgment;) and I could not\nfail to image out more particularly the dismal aspect which this very\nlocality presented in 1679. Whilst engaged one evening in these\nreveries, I inadvertently wandered away behind the church, and stood\nlooking out upon the moonshine, which, \"o'er the dark a silver mantle\nthrew;\" whilst the officer of the Greyfriars' Church, seeing nobody in\nthe yard, quietly and unperceived by me, locked the door, and retired to\nhis home in the Netherbow. Accordingly, when I began to think, about\neleven o'clock, of home and repose, I was not a little surprised to find\nall egress by the customary outlet impossible. The night was indeed\nlovely--mild and still; but yet there was something not altogether\nsatisfactory in being compelled to enjoy it in company with the dead of\nmany generations. A large mastiff, too, which had concealed itself for\nsome time under the wall, came forth into the moonlight, with a bone in\nhis jaws--manifestly a human skull.\n\n[Footnote 1: Edinburgh Castle]\n\n    \"And I saw the lean dog, _beneath the wall_,\n    Hold o'er the dead its carnival;\n    And its white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull\n    As it slipped through its jaws, when the edge grew dull,\n    As it lazily mumbled the bones of the dead.\"\n\nThe sight was not only jarring to all my more composed and soothing\nreflections, but not unaccompanied with a certain indefinite\napprehension of evil. The season had been hot, and hydrophobia had shewn\nits dreadful existence in Leith Walk and in the Canongate. Two persons\nhad died of it raving mad. I was, therefore, exceedingly anxious to\nplace the high wall which surrounded the Greyfriars' Churchyard betwixt\nmy companion and myself. But how was this to be effected? I ventured to\nraise my voice, and shout aloud; but no notice was taken of my call.\nNay, my growling and crunching neighbour approached me--offering seeming\ndefiance. He was a fearful animal, of that very breed which I have all\nmy life trusted the least--I may say feared and abhorred the most. I\nbegan to speak soothingly to him; but, to all my \"poor fellows,\" and\nother accents of friendly intercourse, he only answered with a deeper\ngrowl. What was to be done? I was afraid to renew my shout; for that\nmanifestly annoyed him; and yet he seemed evidently approaching me.\nMerciful God! I could see the very glare of his eyes, even in the\nsoftened moonlight. I looked up, in perfect despair, to the moon and to\nthe stars, and could not help envying them their secure positions. I\nwould have become anything heavenly, even a star of the very least\nmagnitude, to have secured my retreat from this bull-headed monster. I\nedged myself towards the monument of the Martyrs; and, with some\ndifficulty, got myself elevated a considerable way up one of the\npillars. I clung to every projection like one perishing; and, being\nyoung, slender, and full of elastic vigour, I at last gained the top of\nthe wall, from whence I immediately informed a night watch, then passing\nalong, of my terrible situation. In the meantime, the hideous monster\nmade a spring from a tombstone to the top of the same wall; but, instead\nof visiting me, he dropped himself quietly into a carrier's cart, to\nwhich he belonged, and which stood near the doorway of the \"Harrow\"\npublic house. I was immediately relieved both from my fears and my\nposition, by the assistance of John Brown, the Greyfriars' Church\nofficer, who opened the gate, and assisted me in my descent. The\nincident was somewhat singular; and, as I stood in need of some\nrefreshment, and honest Johnny Dowie's shop did not shut till twelve, I\nasked the pleasure of John Brown's company to a red herring and a glass\n\n    \"Of as guid nappy liquor\n    As ever reamed in horn or bicker.\"\n\nDuring the discussion of these viands, (and, maybe, a wee drap of\nHighland whisky made into warm todd,) John Brown and I became\nexceedingly well acquainted. He had occupied his present office for\nupwards of forty years, was an enthusiast about the Covenanters, and\npossessed, in fact, some written documents on the subject, which he\npromised to shew me. He was a lineal descendant, he informed me, of the\nfamous Thomas Brown, who suffered, along with John Waddel, Andrew Sword,\nJohn Clide, and James Wood, on Magus Muir. The documents, as I\nafterwards found, were nothing more nor less than some scattered and\npencilled notices by one John Govan, in the parish of Kirkliston, of his\nshare in the affair of Bothwell Brig, and his sufferings in consequence\nthereof. I shall avail myself partially of these pencillings, in the\nfollowing narrative:--\n\n\"O Lord, thy mercies are manifold! Thou wilt not desert thine ancient\ninheritance--thy puir, suffering, persecuted remnant. O Lord! thou wilt,\nand thou _must_ stand by thy servants, godly Hamilton, and Cargill, and\nRathillet, and by us and our cause--which, guid Lord, is, after all,\nthine own--in this awful day. I see the Duke's men on the hill-side\nopposite. They are now, even now, making downwards towards the bridge.\nThey have opened their guns. I must up and do my duty. Lord, stand by\nthe righteous!\"\n\nThe battle, as is here anticipated, began; and (owing to the sad\ndivisions in the camp of the nonconformists) was won by the Duke of\nBuccleuch and Monmouth, almost without any resistance. Notwithstanding\nthe humane exertions of the Duke--owing to the sanguinary revenge of\nClavers in particular--the slaughter after the battle, in what may be\ntermed the wantonness of cruelty, was very great indeed. The next\nextract from Govan's diary, confirms this historical truth:--\n\n\"And thou, O Lord, hast yet more work to do for poor John Govan. But\npoor Samuel Logan lies dead in the next field there--I saw him run when\nI fell into a ditch, and just lay still; but the destroyer was hard\nbehind him. Sam _darned_ at last in a corn-field; and there I saw him\nshot through the head by that terrible Clavers. He did not give him an\ninstant to make his peace wi' his Maker. O Lord! wherefore is it thus\nwith thy Zion? But it belongs not to poor John Govan to find fault wi'\nsic a Master--thy ways are not as our ways, nor thy thoughts as ours.\"\n\nPoor John Govan was, however, at last taken prisoner, whilst\nendeavouring to conceal himself in an outhouse of a farm-steading in\nStrathavon, but not till after a whole volley of balls had been poured\nin upon his retreat, only one of which, however, had taken effect, and\nthat on the fleshy part of his leg. Notwithstanding his wound, and the\nstiffness, which, after it had bled profusely, was induced upon the\nlimb, he was compelled to march on foot, along with upwards of three\nhundred prisoners--many of them badly wounded--towards Edinburgh. Mr\nReid and Mr King--both of whom were afterwards tried, tortured, hanged,\nand quartered--were of the number. To avoid the commiseration and\nsympathy of the more populous districts, Clavers marched the prisoners\nthrough the upper district of Lanarkshire. At Lanark the first halt was\nmade for the night; and there the men were tied together by twos and\nthrees, and compelled to bivouac in the open air, in a barn-yard. In\nvain were all their groanings and complainings--some from their wounds,\nothers from hunger or thirst, and not a few from the dismal fate which\nhad overtaken the cause which they supported. The infamous soldiery,\nurged on, or at least not properly checked by their leaders, only\nlaughed at their calamities, telling them to be patient--that patience\nwas a d----d good supper--a great deal too good for a covenanter, &c.,\n&c. Upon this I found the following reflections in Govan:--\n\n\"O Lord! when will their ire be stayed?--when will thy face return and\nshine again upon thy heritage? This night has been an awful night: my\nsufferings, all our sufferings, have been great, great beyond\nbearing--four of our number have died of their wounds and fatigue. My\nown cousin, William Young, has paid the debt of nature; he has gone to\nthe bosom of his God; for William was a just, and a good, and a holy\nman. I held his head till he expired; it was a sore struggle, but he\nquailed not; he repeated as long as he could speak--'Though he slay me,\nyet will I trust in him; my heart and my flesh may faint and fail--oh,\nyes! the earthly house of our tabernacle must be dissolved; but we have\na house, John, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens; and the\nSpirit and the bride say, Come;' and, with these words, he bowed his\nhead and he gave up the ghost. He and I were tied together by the legs,\nand I sat till morning light with his dead body in my arms. These\ndreadful men only scoffed when I spoke of death, and bade me take my\nsupper off the dead man's bones. O Lord! how long? O Lord! how long?\"\n\nThe next resting-place seems to have been in the midst of the \"Lang\nWhang\"--a barren and bleak muir, which stretches eastward ten or eleven\nmiles beyond Carnwath. Here an enclosure was effected by means of stakes\nand ropes, as the binding system had been found ineffectual, there being\ngenerally some method adopted by the fettered sufferers to relieve\nthemselves. Within this enclosure these three hundred men stood or lay\nduring a dark and a rainy night, without fire, and with very scanty\nprovisions; whilst the demons on the outside of the enclosure lighted up\nfires of the heath, and of some peats which were found ready dried in\nthe neighbourhood, and spent the night in roasting all manner of\nbarn-door fowls, pigs, and even sheep, which they had captured as they\npassed along. Refreshment of a spirituous character was not denied them;\nand their songs, and their blasphemies, and their insulting language,\n\"rose up in the midst of the wilderness\" as Govan expresses it--\"to the\nthrone of the Most High, calling for vengeance in the day of\nretribution, on the head of the oppressor.\"\n\n\"This,\" continues he, \"is a second morning, and a cold, and a gloomy,\nand a dreadful one it is. Clavers and his attendants are galloping up\nfrom Carnwath, where they have been spending the night in jollification\nwi' the laird; and we are just about to renew our dismal march. My leg\nis exceedingly troublesome; but, as we advance but slowly, I make a\nshift to get on. One man died last night raving mad; and another, I much\nfear, has put an end, with his own hand, to an unendurable existence. O\nLord, give me strength to bear whatever thy wisdom sees meet to\ninflict!\"\n\nFrom the Lang Whang, the Grass Market was reached on the succeeding\nevening, and, after being united with two hundred prisoners from\nStirling, they were all marched from the Grass Market; and, after some\nseasonable refreshment, ordered by the humane and kind-hearted Duke of\nMonmouth, into the Greyfriars' Churchyard, there to abide--from the\nmonth of June to that of December following--all the peltings of the\npitiless storm, without a sufficiency of food, and entirely without\ncovering.\n\nMen of Scotland, was there ever anything like this? Can the remembrance\nof such atrocities ever be obliterated? Can century upon century, as\nthey slowly roll on their course, ever place these events, and this\nevent in particular, beyond the range of your interest? We read with\nhorror of the scaffold and the guillotine; but what immediate death\ncould equal in atrocity their protracted sufferings? Friends have they,\nindeed, within these walls, but they cannot, or but seldom, and at great\nrisk, obtain an entrance. Many are disposed to supply the houseless\nprisoner with couch and covering, but they only supply additional means\nof debauchery to the ruffian soldiery. The chambers of the _many dead_\nare defiled and rendered pestilential by the presence of the _many\nliving_. Death, in ordinary circumstances, is a boon to this. Winter\napproaching--(nay, has arrived)--the sleety shower plashing over the\nCastle--the whirling drifts, eddying about, amongst, and beneath the\ntombstones--the wild, long, endless night, to which succeeds no dawn of\ncomfort--no warm chamber--no invigorating and cheering meal. Oh, honest\nand fearless shades, tell us all! how did you stand it? How was it that\nyou did not sell your remaining strength as dearly as possible?--that\nyou did not rush like tigers upon your guards, and perish whilst rending\nthem with your teeth and nails? But ye are silent as becomes ye; so I\nmust apply to honest John Govan's MS.\n\n\"This is now the sixth week that I have dwelt in this dreary place. Oh,\nhappy they who lie beneath! they are covered, and feel not our\nprivations, and pains, and sufferings; and yet freedom and home is\noffered to us, and accepted by many. God forgive them, if it be His\nwill!--but John Govan will never accept his liberty on such terms. His\nmother's shade would rise up in judgment. Shall I take their infamous\noaths, or subscribe their no less infamous bonds? Shall I swear that the\nBishop's death is murder, and that the resistance of an oppressed and\npersecuted people is rebellion? Shall I 'bind, oblige, and enact\nmyself,' that I shall not hereafter take up arms in so good a cause? No!\nI will sooner perish, inch by inch; I will sooner suffer the tortures of\nthe boot, and the final cruel judgment of the maiden. Men are yet unborn\nthat will bless us--a whole people, happy in a pure religion and a free\ngovernment, will adore the memory of the most humble son of the\nCovenant; they will build and erect pillars and monuments to our memory;\nthey will count, anxiously count, kindred with us; they will record and\nregister our deeds and our sufferings; and, when this world, with all\nits interests, shall have ceased to exist, we shall be in everlasting\nremembrance.\"\n\nThus reasoned, and thus were supported, these men, who set at defiance\nthreats, and entreaties, and insidious reasonings; who valued the\napprobation of their own consciences above every other; who feared their\nGod, and had no other fear.\n\nAs winter drew on, the intercourse with the inhabitants of Edinburgh\nbecame more frequent and less easily obstructed. It was absolutely\nnecessary that brothers, and even sisters, and wives, and mothers,\nshould be permitted occasionally to carry some warm broth, or some still\nstronger stimulants, to those whose rations were so limited, and whose\nexposure to the cold air was so dismally protracted. Even partial\nscaffoldings were erected around the churchyard, and towards the east,\nor town side in particular; and some imperfect, no doubt, but still\nacceptable shelter, was thus extended to the perishing inmates. It was\nnot possible that disease should not walk in the train of so much\ndeprivation. Many died of fever; some of consumption or bad colds; and\nnot a few of downright debility. The guards, too, became tired of the\nmonotony of their task, and often retired into adjoining taverns to keep\nup their spirits. Some escaped by one means and some by another; one in\nthe dress of a sister, and another in the garb of a mason. An Act of\nIndemnity was at last passed, from which, however, about twenty were\nexempted, and perhaps nine or ten executed. John Govan seems to have\nsurvived these dismal times by some years; for I find him next on Magus\nMuir, encouraging and supporting his friends who suffered. His\nconcluding sentences are these:--\n\n\"I have seen, I have seen--mine eyes have seen thy salvation;\nPresbytery, my beloved Presbytery, established by law; freedom of\nconscience secured to all; a Protestant King; a Protestant government;\nevery man dwelling in peace, under his own vine and his own fig-tree;\nmine own son delivering the word of God to a Protestant congregation,\nand protected by law. My old age has been soothed by many comforts; the\npartner of my fortunes and sharer of all my trials still alive, and\ncapable of uniting with me in the song of thanksgiving--verily, the Lord\nhas been merciful and gracious, and I now await his divine pleasure with\nperfect resignation. I am old, and have had my day. I trust I have not\naltogether neglected my duty; and when it shall be His blessed will to\ncall me, I will depart cheerfully home, and appear in his presence. My\nsins and imperfections are indeed many; but I know in whom I have\nbelieved, and to whom I have committed the soul, my immortal part. Lord,\nnow lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.\"\n\nThus far honest John Govan, who seems to have slept with his fathers a\nyear or two after the Revolution, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.\nThe papers, John Brown informed me, passed into his grandfather's\nkeeping, in consequence of the friendship which continued to exist\nbetwixt the Govans and the Browns; the Govans having long ago emigrated\nto America, and left the Browns a bequest of books, and these papers\nbesides.\n\n\n\n\nXXI.--\"OLD BLUNTIE.\"\n\n\nCreehope Linn was a well-known retreat of the old Covenanters in\nDumfriesshire. The water, in the course of successive ages, has cut\nitself a smooth, winding, and extremely deep passage, through an immense\nbed of sandstone; and so capricious have been its excavations, that,\nwhilst the rock beneath is hollowed out into vast recesses, or natural\ncaves and chambers, the rock above almost meets, and spreads a gloom,\napproaching to complete darkness, all around the caverns below. In these\ncaverns--as I already, more than once, have had occasion to\nmention--the poor persecuted flock found a temporary shelter and safety.\nThere was something in the natural gloom which induced melancholy and\neven fearful cogitations. One of these caves, immediately over what is\nstill known by the appropriate designation of \"Hell's Cauldron,\" was,\nlong after the Revolution, tenanted by an old man of singular aspect and\ncharacter, who cobbled shoes for the peasantry around. His residence is\nstill shown, and known as the \"Sutor's Seat.\" You may still see the\nhollow in the rock where he lay himself, and another which contained his\nimplements. Tradition gives but few notices of his habits, but these few\nare perhaps worth recording. He was manifestly crazy; but still there\nwas a method in his madness; and nothing would persuade him, after the\nRevolution, that he might ever safely visit the upper world. He still\ntalked of Clavers, and Johnston, and Douglas, and Lag; and the rocks\nretain to this day, it is said, the names of some of these worthies,\nengraved by Sutor Bluntie's awl. Whether this appellation of \"Bluntie\"\nwas his own original name, or whether it was only a cognomen, I cannot\npositively aver, though I think the _last_ is more than probable, as I\nnever heard of any person of this name in Dumfriesshire, or, indeed,\nanywhere else. He would, whilst in the act of mending a shoe or cobbling\na boot, suddenly spring to his legs, look fearfully around him, and aver\nthat he was not alone--that the pursuer was present--that a fearfully\ndisfigured, mangled carcase stood in the very centre of Hell's Caldron.\n\"There it stands!\" he would say--\"there! there! One jaw hanging down,\nand one eye out; its legs broken; its skull in pieces; its belly ripped\nup; and yet it looks terribly at me. But the foul fiend will be here by\nand by--ay will he. He will soon settle your jabbering, Donald Cameron.\nThere--there he comes: he is rushing, like a tempest, among these\ntrees!--he is sweeping like a whirlwind amongst these rocks! Yes--he\ncomes, like a lion, roaring for his prey. But you are gone, Donald\nCameron; it was as well. You sank into the Caldron to award the foul\nfiend, did you?--out of the frying-pan into the fire, lad! But now all's\nquiet again--I will finish my job in spite of you!\" Even at mid-day, he\nkept a lamp constantly burning; and the rock is still blackened by the\nsmoke. Thus, doubtless, his mind had taken a gloomy tint, which\ngradually diverged into downright insanity. But there was, after all, a\nmethod in his madness. There was a particular reason for the peculiar\nusages which his imagination conjured up; and it was this:--During the\nhottest period of the Persecution, Old Bluntie, who was by profession a\nshoemaker, had taken to this (to him) well-known and familiar recess.\nThere he remained during the day; but at night he stole out, with the\nbeasts of prey, to obtain food. His wife (for he had no children) had\nbeen shot, one day, by a dragoon, as she stood in her doorway. The man\nsimply exclaimed--\"That's the Covenanting b----!\" fired his pistol, and\nthe woman fell. Bluntie became, ever after this, altogether reckless;\nhis only object was, by one means or another, by hook or by crook, to\nlead or decoy the persecutors into ambushes and danger. It was he mainly\nwho decoyed the party into the Pass of Enterkin, already described in\nthese papers. He pretended to turn informer; but when the cave was\nsearched, the inmate was flown; but a rifle-gun, from behind a hedge,\nseldom missed its mark. Another plan of his was of a somewhat original\ncharacter. Creehope Linn divides, as I have already described, a\nsandstone rock, over which there lies a deep layer of moss, surmounted\nby close and tall heather--at least this was the case formerly, and may\nbe so still. For a considerable way below the fall known by the name of\nthe \"Grey Mare's Tail,\" the linn _almost_ meets above, and the heather\n_altogether_--to an inexperienced stranger, there is no evidence\nwhatever of the dreadful abyss, of sixty feet depth, which yawns\nbeneath. The ground around is level, and the water moves on at such a\ndistance from the surface, that, unless in floods, it is quite\ninaudible. Clavers at this time was a stranger in the southern district,\nto which, in consequence of Turner's rising at Dumfries, he had been\nrecently appointed; and his men were, of course, equally strangers. Old\nBluntie caused a report to be conveyed to Clavers, whilst stationed at\nCroalchapel, in the neighbourhood, that a number of the friends of the\nCovenant, with old Cargill at their head, were to have a meeting, or\nconventicle, in a hollow glen, fifty yards south of the Linn. It was, of\ncourse, to take place at night, and by favour of a harvest moon. Having\nbeen deceived by false intelligence on other occasions, Clavers ordered\nRed Rob to lead a troop of ten men into an adjoining cleugh, and there\nto dismiss one of them on foot to reconnoitre the ground. All this was\ndone. But when the soldier came within sight of the place of meeting, he\nfound only one man, whom he immediately hailed. The figure started, and\nran swiftly away, whilst a ball went fully more swiftly in pursuit, but\nmissed its mark. The soldier pursued sword in hand, and Bluntie made the\nbest of his way onward towards the mountain pass of Bellybught. But, all\nat once, the soldier disappeared. He had sunk through the heather, and\nwas not to be seen. The other nine dragoons, who had heard the report,\nnow followed in hot pursuit, and, coming inadvertently on the same\nconcealed danger, horse and man went over at once. The legs of several\nof the horses were broken; two stuck in the jaws of the ravine, which\nwas not wide enough to allow them to sink; and one rider went plump to\nthe bottom; whilst another had his neck broken, by being pitched on his\nhead to some distance. This person's name was John Campbell; and the\nspot retains the name of \"Jock's Step\" to this hour.\n\n\n\n\nXXII.--THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN.\n\n\nI have already given some account of the famous rescue at Enterkin--I am\nnow about to follow out one of the consequences of that rescue:--\n\nAmongst those who were engaged in this affair, was Thomas Harkness of\nLockerben, parish of Dalgarno. Immediately after the affray, the various\nindividuals who were principally concerned in it separated. Andrew\nClerk, in Leadhills, fled to Annandale; Samuel M'Ewan, in Glencairn,\nmade off towards Cumnock; and Thomas Harkness hovered for some time\namongst the Lowther heights, and then took refuge in a widow woman's\nhouse in Leadhills. Marion Morrison was the widow of David Douglas, a\nminer, who had lost his life in one of the shafts. She lived in a small\ncottage on the heathy muir, and at a considerable distance from the\nother houses, which, in these times, were not numerous. She had one only\ndaughter--now woman-grown and comely--who, by spinning sale-yarn for the\nLanark and Douglas market, supported herself and her mother, if not in\ncomfort, at least in competence and peace. They were both religious\npersons, and took a deep interest in the persecuted remnant. Many a\nprayer had Marion put up in behalf of God's own people, to which her\ndaughter May, as she was called, responded with deep sincerity. As the\nold song says, \"It was in and about the Martinmas time,\" when Marion and\nher daughter were engaged, the one in carding and the other in spinning\nwool, the tarry-woo of the mountain land. May was blythe and cheerful,\nhalf-singing and half-chanting the now old, but then popular song--\n\n    \"Oh, tarry woo is ill to spin!\n    Card it weel ere ye begin--\n    Card it weel, and draw it sma'--\n    Tarry woo is the best of a'!\"\n\nwhen the cat was observed to make a sudden movement across the hearth,\nand in stepped a tall figure, wrapped up in a shepherd's plaid. Marion\nstarted, and May all but screamed. But the figure soon unfolded itself,\nexclaiming--\n\n\"Be not afeared--be not afeared, honest Christian women. I am a poor,\npursued, persecuted bird, flying into your hut from the claws of the\nkite. I have neither slept nor broken bread for these three days and\nthree nights; but, now that the moon has waned, I have ventured down, in\nthe dark, to beg a morsel of meal and water, a night's shelter, and a\nfew hours' rest. My name is Thomas Harkness of Lockerben, where my\nforbears have lived for these three hundred years bygane; and it's e'en\na richt sair case that, wi' thae grey hairs and wrinkles, I should be\ncompelled to sleep wi' the peaseweep, and to sup wi' the fox on the\nmountain fell.\"\n\n\"Indeed, and sae it is,\" responded Marion; \"and welcome, thrice welcome,\nI trow, are ye, or ony o' the name and the lineage o' the Harknesses, to\npuir Marion Morrison's best; and, oh, that it was better, for your sake!\nYe hae forgotten the bit whilking lassie, nae doubt, that drave oot yer\nworthy faither's stirks to the calf-park and back again, that helpit the\nmistress wi' the bairns, and whiles scrapit potatoes, and sic like.\nWeel, that bit young, thoughtless cummer, is now the auld, decrepit\nbody--bonny May, as yer mother used to ca' me, is now auld Marion, wham\nthe folks hereabout deeply suspect o' witchcraft, and I kenna what ither\ncraft, I'm turned sae unwarl and pookit-like. But, May, my bairn, the\nguid man's sleeping wi' downright fatigue. Get on the pot; there's a wee\npickle barley in the auld barrel, and there's a bit o' the meat that I\nwas keeping for our Sabbath meal; but the Lord is a rich provider, and\nwe winna want; sae just put in the bit meat wi' the barley, and get\nbroth and mutton for my auld master's son. The mashlom bannock is amang\nthe meal, in the kist. Bring it oot, wi' a bit saut butter, in the\nmeantime; for oh, sirs! hunger's ill to bide. But, dear, and be wi' me!\nif the guidman bena as sound as a tap! It wad be a'maist a pity to waken\nhim, till the broth pot be fairly set a poppling at least.\"\n\nMay executed her mother's orders with alacrity; and, ere an hour had\nescaped, Thomas Harkness was aroused to a most delicious meal, which he\ndevoured more like a famished wolf than a Christian man; not, however,\nhungry and ravenous as he was, before doffing his blue bonnet, and\nasking of his Maker a blessing with the offered mercy. He was soon after\nconveyed ben the house, and put into possession of the only bed which\nthe cottage contained; the mother and daughter sleeping and watching\nalternately, the one in a large elbow chair, and the other upon a sack\nof tarry woo. Day dawned, beautiful and sweet, over the wild mountains\nof Leadhills, and May Douglas stood without the low and confined door of\nher little cottage, when she was startled by the firing of muskets on\nthe opposite hill-side. The smoke directed her eye to the spot, and she\nsaw a poor boy, who had been running hard for the old shafts, fall\nimmediately forward amongst the long rank heather. \"Let the cursed dog\nlie there and bleed to death,\" was uttered aloud, in the most horrid\ntone of voice. \"Where the watch has been set, the enemy must be lurking;\nwe'll search, my lads, the village from corner to corner; and, if we\ncannot start the game otherwise, we'll put a blazing peat to it, and\nsmoke out the old fox from his den.\" It was manifest to May Douglas that\nThomas Harkness was now placed in the utmost jeopardy; and she flew ben\nthe house, and, with that unconsciousness of impropriety so natural to\nher age and innocence, immediately roused the guidman of Lockerben, and\nmade him sensible of his situation. What was to be done?--An instant\nmore, and all might be lost. It struck the good girl that there was an\nold shaft mouth, within a few yards of the back part of the house, into\nwhich the pursued fugitive might pass through a window, or hole, which\nopened, to let out the smoke and _in_ the light, backwards. No sooner\nthought of than said--and Thomas, with the greater part of his clothing\nunder his arm, thrust himself through the opening with some difficulty,\nand found himself in a second or two within the hiding of the old shaft.\nIn an instant after, the house was surrounded, and armed men, with\nswords and holster pistols, rushed into the house of this poor\nunprotected woman.\n\n\"Turn out the old b---- with her whelp,\" said Clavers to the band, \"and\ncast her Bible and Psalm-Book after, that she may amuse herself and her\nbeauty, whilst we secure the stray sheep of the house of Israel. So ho!\nhere is trail, here is trail; tally-ho!--a shepherd's plaid, and a pair\nof good large shoes, well soled and tacketed. The guidman himself is not\nfar off--he will be at his devotions, Rob; see you do not disturb him,\nyou unmannerly rascal.\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" replied the well-known corporal, Rob Douglas, \"I will only join\nin the psalmody.\" And then he bawled out, in stentorian whine, mimicking\nthe voice and manner of a Covenanter--\n\n    \"'In Judah's land God is well-known,\n      His name in Israel great,\n    In Salem is his tabernacle,\n      In Zion is his seat.'\n\nBut no, no, my sweet chick of canticles, not so fast, dear, not so\nfast--neither you nor old grunty must budge a foot-length from the place\nwhere you now stand--sit or lie, as you please--till you get permission\nfrom this here person with the King's authority on both his shoulders.\"\n\nIn the meantime, everything in the house had been turned topsy-turvy,\nand the eleventh commandment, as they facetiously denominated the\nbroadsword, had been passed through all manner of pierceables; when,\nenraged at being foiled of his prey when so nearly securing it, Clavers\nordered the hut to be set on fire, and the old hunks to be thrown into\nthe midst of it. \"As to this young chick,\" said he, giving her chin a\nrude blow upwards, \"why, I do not know that I shall burn her till\nHalloween, and then she will skip and flame on the hearth-stane amongst\nthe nuts.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done--the house was immediately set fire to at all\nthe four corners, whilst the brutal soldiery stood round watching, and\nmaking sport of some mice, whom their instinct led to escape. Marion\nMorrison was actually in the rude hands of the soldiers, when fear of\nthe consequences, or, it may be, something resembling humanity, led\nClavers to give orders to let the b---- live, to plague the whole\nvillage for half a century to come.\n\nIn the meantime, Mr Robert Ramsay, the manager of the lead-mines,\nappeared, to remonstrate with Clavers for his very unhandsome treatment\nof the women, and his destruction of property which belonged to the\nfamily of Hopetoun. It being the time, too, when the workmen shifted\ntheir labours, the hill-side poured forth, its fifties and hundreds, as\nif it had actually teemed with life. Clavers and his men were\nimmediately surrounded with a grim and an incensed crowd, headed by\ntheir much-esteemed manager--the father, as was afterwards the case, of\nthe celebrated Allan Ramsay, who thus celebrates the place of his\nbirth--\n\n    \"Of Crawford Moor--born in Leadhill--\n    Where mineral springs Glengonner fill,\n      Which joins sweet-flowing Clyde,\n    Between auld Crawford Lindsay's towers\n    And where Duneaton rapid pours\n      His stream to Glotta's tide.\"\n\nIn vain did Ramsay remonstrate with Clavers. He boasted his Orders in\nCouncil; defied all remonstrance; ordered his men to charge; and,\nfiring on the crowd right and left, made his escape to the hills.\nProvidentially no one was even hurt; and it was strongly suspected that,\nknowing he had already rather exceeded his commission, he had ordered\nthe dragoons to charge without ball-cartridge. After this affair was\nover, the district was freed, for a time, from the hateful presence of\nthe King's troops, as they were known to be occupied on a similar office\nin Annandale, and the higher district of Nithsdale.\n\nThomas Harkness being duly informed of his safety, came forth from his\nhiding, which was nearly covered over by spret and long heather, and was\nwelcomed (though not without apprehension) to the manager's dwelling,\nwhich stood then, where the manager's house still stands, in the midst\nof the town, and was and still is surrounded by trees--the only ones to\nbe seen for many miles around. The old woman, Marion Morrison, with her\nbonny May, were likewise taken home to the same hospitable dwelling,\ntill some arrangement could be made, with the generous and noble-minded\nfamily of Hopetoun, for their future accommodation. Mr Robert Ramsay was\na young, unmarried man of family--as his name implies--and he felt the\nimpropriety of keeping a young, unmarried woman under his roof. Whether\nit was that he and May understood each other before this time, or that\ntheir unexpected juxtaposition, now accelerated the consummation, I know\nnot; but so it was, that, in a few days, preparations were agoing\nforward of a somewhat demonstrative nature. A fine black-faced sheep was\nkilled; ale barrels were seen travelling up Glengonner; four dozen of\ngood port wine were placed on the sideboard, whilst a cask of strong\nNantz brandy slept quietly beneath. On Sabbath, the names of Robert\nRamsay and May Douglas, both of this parish, were read aloud by the\nprecentor, schoolmaster, and manager's clerk; and the Friday following\nwas fixed upon for the marriage.\n\nAny festivity amongst these congregated children of the mountains, is\nanticipated by them with peculiar relish and excitement. Miles beneath\nthe ground, the voice of joy and jest, and colloquy, penetrated; and,\nwhilst the jumper penetrated the rock, and the hammer fell ponderous and\nfrequent, the tongue was not idle, and the heart was not sad. Every one\nspoke well of the bride; most of them knew her father and esteemed him.\nOld Marion, to be sure, was a _quisquis_ character; but then, she was\nnow to be the manager's stepmother, honest man; and it was deemed that,\nif ever old Marion had dealt with the old gentleman, she would now\nprefer the young one. The long-looked-for, wished-for day, at last\narrived, and the nonconforming minister of the parish of Crawford--the\ngodly Mr Austin--was brought from his retreat, at the town of Douglas,\nto perform the marriage ceremony. All was gay as a marriage bell; the\nmen had a full holiday, by order of Lord Hopetoun, with full wages, on\nthe occasion. They, with their wives and daughters, were all arranged on\nthe green plot in front of the manager's house; whilst viands, of a most\nsubstantial nature, were served out to them in abundance--amongst which,\nsheep-heads, haggises, and Irish stews, were not forgotten. The tankards\ncirculated; the wine was handed round in queghs and skuties, or timber\nshells; and brandy followed in abundance. The heart of the poor labourer\nwas gladdened, whilst, glowing as it did with gratitude and kindly\nfeeling, it was made better; and the young and handsome couple walked\nround amongst the people with pride and honest delight. One mother was\nsad, because her son lay still in a bed of sickness. He had fallen when\nwounded (as was before mentioned) on the hill, and having been shot\nthrough the knee-joint, his wound was long of healing--still there was a\ncertainty that, though lame for life, he would not die of the injury,\nand the mother ventured out, though with a clouded aspect. A Highland\nbagpiper made his appearance, (probably from a previous arrangement,)\nand, having taken his seat and his draught--\n\n    \"He screwed his pipes, and gart them skirl,\n    Till glen and mountain a' did dirl.\"\n\nThe lads sprung to their feet--\n\n          \"Wi' wooer babs\n     At their blue-bonnet lugs.\"\n\n    \"The lasses--bonny witches--\n    Were a' dressed up in aprons clean,\n    And braw white Sunday mutches.\"\n\nSo to it they went; and round and round the green they reeled it, and\ncountry-danced it, and shouted it, and flapped it, and jumped it--and\n\n    \"Haverel Jean her hanging stocking ties,\n    And to the dance with maddening fury flies,\"\n\ntill nature could hold out no longer, and wearied limbs were stretched\nout full length on the soft greensward. In the meantime, _in_ came two\npilgrims from the Holy Land, and they spoke of Eastern lands and Eastern\nmanners; and, being wearied with travel, they behoved to partake of the\ncheer. Next to them succeeded Auld Glenae, tied all round with straw\nropes, and making love to every bonny lassie present, clapping the old\nwomen on the back, and kissing the young lassies. Even Thomas Harkness\nhas laid aside, for a season, his nonconformity, and absolutely foots it\naway with old Marion Morrison. Laughter goes round in peals, and punch\nin pailfuls; and the jolly god shakes his sides as he contemplates his\nhappy worshippers. Never did Mount Nysa resound to more genuine\nrevelment. But whom have we here? A horseman--a dragoon! Let me look\nthrough the trees. Oh, my God! we are surrounded by a troop of horse,\nand all means of resistance of escape is cut off from us! Clavers\nadvances very coolly into the midst of the festive circle; and, making\nhis obeisance in the most polite manner, takes up a full tankard, and\ndrinks to the health of the new-married couple--nay, nothing will serve\nhim but he must dance a reel with the bride, who, though reluctant, is\nforced to comply. Then, turning round, in the most playful manner, to Mr\nRobert Ramsay--\n\n\"I know,\" said he, \"you are an honest man, and a true, and trouble\nyourself mighty little with conformity or nonconformity; and, therefore,\nmy business is not with you. As to you, Mr Austin, your day is coming;\nbut the pear is not ripe yet. I have my eyes upon you; and the first\nconventicle which you hold at the old town of Douglas shall seal your\nfate. At present, you are free. But with you, Mr Thomas Lockerben, I\nmust hold some private communing; and, with the permission of this jolly\ncompany, and with all thanks to our hospitable entertainers, we shall\nnow withdraw. Soldiers, see the prisoner secured, and his hands tied\nfirm behind his back. Bundle him up there behind the sergeant. One file\non each side, and one behind! All ready! March!\"\n\nThe next appearance which poor Thomas Harkness made was in the\nGrassmarket of Edinburgh, where he emitted the testimony to be found in\nWodrow--(Burns' edition, vol. iv., p. 68.)\n\n\n\n\nXXIII.--THE SHOES REVERSED.\n\n\nThe banks of the Liddel are green, peaceful, and productive. The stream\nitself is all which a pastoral stream ever ought to aspire to: it is\nneither turbid nor calm; neither precipitous nor sluggish. When chafed,\nindeed, by the flood, it can assert, and boldly, its independence; and\nsometimes, just by way of showing its strength and general forbearance,\nyou may see a hay-stack, or a stray sheep, floating on the railway of\nits current. But, in general, it winds its course along a narrow,\nindeed, but a sweet pastoral valley, with all becoming moderation, and\neven modesty--retiring occasionally, like the coquette in Virgil, _ad\nsalices_, and, like her, too, _cupiens ante videri_; now passing from\nbehind a steep, and again trotting it off in graceful and visible\nwindings. Yet, peaceful and beautiful as this Scottish Tempe now is, it\nwas for ages the scene of rapine, blood, and battle--of all those Border\nfeuds which, from age to age, concentrated on this point, till the\nwaters of the Liddel ran red, and its green banks were dyed with the\nblood of vassal and lord, of Scotchman and Englishman, of Douglas, Hume,\nHoward, Graham, and Percy. During these bold and stirring times,\ncharacters were formed which remained long after reiving had ceased. The\nElliot, the Armstrong, the Jardine, and the Johnstone, entailed upon\ntheir posterity a spirit of fearless independence and wassail\nhospitality, which remains, though in a greatly diluted state, to this\nhour. At the time to which this narrative points, it was still in full\nvigour; and the incidents of the story are illustrative of such a\ncharacter.\n\nThe property of Whithaugh has been in the possession of the ancestors of\nthe venerable and kind-hearted present proprietor for at least four\ncenturies. Its produce has always been sufficient for the necessaries,\nand even some of the luxuries of life; and, what is somewhat singular,\nno miser and no spendthrift has ever increased or diminished its extent.\nWhat it was in the days of James V. of Scotland, (who once lodged a\nnight in the mansion-house,) it continues to be. The rental may be\nsomewhat about L. 600 per annum; and, with the income free and\nunincumbered, the present proprietor is just as rich as he wishes to be,\nand can afford to exercise that immemorial bias towards hospitality for\nwhich the Elliots of Whithaugh are, and have always been, quite\ncelebrated. My tale--which is, indeed, too true in all its general\noutline--I heard, a few years ago, from old Elliot himself, in the\npresence of the worthy minister of Castleton, my old and good friend,\nthe Rev. Mr Barton, to whom I can safely appeal for the truth of the\nfacts related.\n\nSir James Johnstone of Westerhall was a well-known persecutor during the\nreign of the detestable Second Charles; and, as his mansion was at no\ngreat distance from Liddesdale, he treated himself occasionally to a\nBorder chase, as he termed it--riding with a troop of dragoons up and\ndown the dale, levying heavy fines, and shooting occasionally, a stray\nson of the Covenant, as he fled to the cave or the morass. In one of\nthese excursions Johnstone encountered the Laird of Whithaugh's poor,\nfatuous brother, who had, by some means, escaped into the mountains from\nthe hands of a stout man, to whose care and protection the inoffensive,\nbut perfectly fatuous creature was committed. Archy Elliot (known in the\nneighbourhood by the familiar designation, \"_A but_ Archy,\" from his\ncommencing every sentence with the words \"A but\") had wandered into a\nmountain dell; and, at last, unable to extricate himself, he had sat\ndown to rest him upon a rock, which overhung a small stream, over which\nthe branches of the rowan tree, or mountain ash, were spread. Johnstone\nand his party were in quest, at the time, of poor Gilbert Watson,\nagainst whom the curate of the parish of Applegirth had lodged an\ninformation, on the score of his having got his child baptized by the\nlately ousted minister of the parish. Gilbert had been compelled to\nbetake him to the mountain passes on this account, and was supposed to\nhave taken up his abode in what was called \"Fox Den,\" on the water of\nTarras. Johnstone immediately dismounted from his horse, (upon seeing\nthe figure of a man by the stream-side,) and, with two dragoons to\nassist him, proceeded to descend into the hollow where poor Archy\nElliot was seated.\n\n\"Hollo!\" vociferated Johnstone, in a loud and harsh tone of\nvoice--\"hollo! brother brush-the-heather, what have we here? A Bible, no\ndoubt, and a psalm-tune, and Covenanting dirge, made up of profanity and\nhigh treason in equal proportions. Stir your stumps, old Gibby! Ye're\nwanted, man, by the guidwife. She can get nae rest without you; and the\nvile, roaring _get_ which ye sae lately made a Christian o', took a\ntaste o' the caller air this morning at the top o' Sergeant Pagan's\nsword. Look, man! glour, man!--you, Gibby, wi' or without the\n_girds_--there's the blood o' the yelping brat on the sword yet. Pat\nPagan tells me it won't come off; so we'll e'en see if the Tarras water\nwinna wash it oot\"--pulling the sword out of the hands of the grim\nsergeant, and swinging it backwards and forwards in the adjoining pool.\n\nIn the meantime, Daft Archy had sprung to his feet, and was staring\nwildly at the company by which he was surrounded.\n\n\"A but, man--a but, man--I'm Archy, ye ken--Archy Elliot, ye ken--a but,\nno kill Archy--a but--a but--a but!\" &c.\n\n\"None of your Whiggery slang here, ye manting, shamming fool! D'ye think\nwe dinna see that all this foolery is put on, man? D'ye think we dinna\nken Gibby Watson o' the Goosedub? Men, do your duty, and secure the\ntraitor!\"\n\nThus saying, the dragoons were proceeding to execute their orders, when\none of them interfered, and assured his Honour that he was mistaken in\nthe person--for this was the daft brither o' the Laird o' Whithaugh,\n\"owre by yonder.\"\n\n\"Elliot o' Whithaugh!\" exclaimed Johnstone, with a demoniacal grin.\n\"Auld, canting, traitor-hiding Elliot! I have a good mind to set his\nhouse in a lunt about his lugs, and toss this lump of idiocy into the\nfire, just to beet the flame. Tie the creature with cords to a tree,\nand let us proceed to Elliot's of Whithaugh. It is a thousand to one\nthat 'Gibby God-be-thanked' is not snugly lodged in the laird's pantry;\nor, maybe, luggit into the heart o' a peat-stack.\"\n\nAltogether reckless of the screams and struggles of the poor innocent,\naway the party scampered, as if on a holiday excursion, towards the old\nhouse of Whithaugh. It had rained hard over night, and the Liddel was\nrunning dark, smooth, and foam-belled. Instead, however, of going about\na mile round by the old stone bridge, the whole party dashed at once\nfearlessly into the swollen stream, and made furiously forward towards\nthe opposite bank. The bank however was steep; and, as Sergeant Pagan's\nhorse was trying to clear an ascent of some feet, it fairly fell back,\nwith its rider beneath, into the turbid and boiling water. At once rider\nand man were tumbled over by the flood, and lodged in a deep pool under\na steep cliff, some yards lower down. The horse and man, for some time,\nseemed entangled with each other; but, at last, the horse escaped, and\nmade for the further shore, which was shelvy and hard. The man was never\nagain seen alive. His body was afterwards found some miles lower down.\nHaving ascertained that one of his troop--one of the most tried and\ntrustworthy--in other words, of the most cruel and daring--had paid the\nforfeit of his own temerity, Johnstone uttered a curse or two in\nreference to the departed's soul, and swore that he would make old\nWhithaugh suffer for this. Up, accordingly, the band trotted towards the\nfront door, which faced southward upon a green lawn. But, upon demanding\nentrance, he was told from a window that none would be permitted. In\nfact, the party had been seen advancing, and their purpose guessed at;\nand Whithaugh had resolved, by the assistance of two stout sons, an only\ndaughter of singular beauty, and nearly half-a-dozen ploughmen, to\ndefend Gilbert Watson and his own premises by force. This altered\nsomewhat the aspect of things; and Johnstone, after bestowing his usual\nallowance of curses upon the old man, the house, and all its inmates,\ndrew from his pocket what he termed a \"Lauderdale,\" or high commission,\nby which he was entitled to search out, sack, and if necessary, put to\nthe sword all manner of traitors and conventiclers in these parts.\nHaving read as it were the \"riot act,\" he was proceeding to open the\nfront door by force, when poor Archy was heard fast approaching under\nthe conduct of his keeper.\n\n\"A but, a but,\" said Archy--\"a but--no kill, no kill--ah, but tie--ah,\nbut tie--tree! tree! tree!\"--pointing to the trees which surrounded the\ngreen.\n\n\"Give the old cutter a broadside,\" said Johnstone, retreating from the\ndoor to give freedom to the men; and immediately the whole front windows\nwere lying in shining fragments inside and outside of the apartments.\nLuckily, seeing the preparation that was made, everybody had stood aside\nfrom the windows, and no one in the house was injured. His keeper had a\nstrong hold of Archy, and was endeavouring to keep him out of harm's\nway, by thrusting his back against a tree in the orchard, when, by a\nsudden effort, he escaped, and, armed with a pitchfork, which he had\nfound in the stack-yard, he rushed instantly upon the assailants,\nlodging the weapon in the flanks of one of the trooper's horses, ere his\nrider could turn him round. This so incensed the soldier, that he\ninstantly pulled out his holster pistol, and shot the poor half-witted\ncreature through the head. He fell, repeating his well-known\nexclamation, \"a but,\" and was dead in an instant.\n\nSeeing how matters were going on without, old Whithaugh, who had\nhitherto acted merely upon the defensive, discharged a fowling-piece,\nwhich he had ready loaded, at the captain of the band. The ball grazed\nhis bridle hand, and blood followed the slight injury. This so incensed\nthe leader that he immediately ordered the stack-yard and out-houses to\nbe set fire to, vowing that if the traitor were not given up, he would\nburn down the Ha' house likewise, and not leave a combustible unconsumed\nabout the steading. Already had the poor cattle begun to roar at the\nstake, and the hens and turkeys to escape from the flaming stack-yard,\nwhen out Whithaugh issued, surrounded by his resolute supporters, armed\nwith grapes, pitchforks, and such other lethal weapons as the place and\nthe occasion admitted of. Seeing matters come to this pass, poor\nGilbert, who had actually been built up into a hay-stack, the farther\nextremity of which was now on fire, immediately sprung forth, and,\nthrowing himself betwixt the combatants, called aloud for an armistice,\nand at once offered to surrender. Meanwhile, the fair but distracted\nHelen Elliot rushed likewise betwixt the parties, and prayed, on her\nknees, that her father's grey hairs might be spared. This somewhat\naltered the state of matters. The cattle were got extricated from the\nburning--in some cases the flames were extinguished--and, Johnstone\nhaving gained his object, though at the expense of life and much\nvaluable property, gave orders for a retreat. Placing poor Gilbert\nWatson, upon a dragoon's saddle, in a very inconvenient position, whilst\nthe rider sat comfortably in the saddle behind him, and bestowing some\nextravagant, but unwelcome praises upon the personal charms of fair\nHelen--the whole party, with the exception of the wounded horse, which\nwas speared to death, and the man who had lost his life in the water,\nmarched up the dale, being resolved that, now at least, they should not\nrisk their lives in the swollen flood. There stood at this time, and\nprobably there stands still, a little public-house at the bridge, and\nabout half a mile from the manse of Castleton. Into this public-house\nthe party betook themselves to refresh, whilst the curate of Castleton\nwas sent for, to have an interview with Johnstone, to whom he was\nintimately known, and to whom he had often given private information\nrespecting the poor HIDING people, who fled to the mountain and glen,\nand the moss and the cave, for life and for conscience-sake. This curate\nof Castleton was a somewhat singular personage in appearance. He gave\none a pretty correct idea of AEsop. He was a little bandy-legged body,\nwith a large aquiline nose, a hunched back, and a most sinister squint.\nHis church, indeed, was deserted, unless by the family in the small\nchange-house, and one or two farmers, who, for fear of suspicion and\nconsequent spoliation, were in the habit of occasionally attending. He,\nlike his neighbours of the curacy, had been imported, _ready made_, from\nAberdeen, with all its strange dialect, and all its stranger leanings to\noppression and Episcopacy. Just at the moment when Johnstone's messenger\narrived at the manse, then situated high up the hill, upon the brink of\na precipice, the curate was in private converse with a person who was\ngiving him the important information, that a conventicle was this very\nevening to be held at the Dead-Water--a large mountain-moss, situated on\nthe Borders, and giving rise to the river Tyne on the one side, and the\nLiddel on the other. This information having been obtained, the curate,\ncommonly designated Clatterwallet, hastened away, in company with\nJohnstone's messenger, for the Brig change-house. An interview with\nJohnstone was immediately obtained; and, in a few minutes, orders were\ngiven to his men to hold themselves in readiness to march. Meanwhile,\nthe prisoner, Watson, was put under the guardianship of a dragoon, and\nlodged in a small byre attached to the gavel of the dwelling-house.\nSeveral attempts were made by _seeming_ travellers, to get the soldier\nwithdrawn from his station, but they proved ineffectual. Meantime, the\nnight began to darken in, with a soft-falling snow shower, which\nrendered the ground all white around. Poor Gilbert Watson had said his\nprayers, sung the 121st Psalm, and was preparing to rest himself, with a\ncow and her calf for his companions, when he thought he heard a voice\nwhispering to him from the roof of the thatched byre. It was indeed a\nvoice, and a friendly one; for it said, \"_Here! Here!_\" A staff was\nthrust through a small aperture in the thatch. Gilbert moved towards the\nplace, and heard, in whispers exceedingly low, that an opening in the\nroof was about to be made for his escape. Meanwhile, Gilbert kept\nconstantly moving about, so that the watch at the door might be assured\nthat he was still in his keeping. All at once, when a hole large enough\nhad been made, Gilbert was pulled up by the arms and shoulders, and\ncarried on the back of a strong man, with amazing velocity down the\nglen. The soldier had heard the noise which this occasioned, and\nimmediately hailed his prisoner. No answer being returned, he entered,\nand discovered at once the trick which had been played upon him. He\nimmediately _rounded_ the byre; but, in doing so, felt his feet\nentangled in a strong rope, which, when he had put down his hands to\ndisentangle, he was caught by the waist in a strong fox-trap. This made\nhim roar aloud for help; but ere the innkeeper could give him the\ndesired assistance, the prisoner had considerable time to escape. In\nfact, in noiseless speed, the strong man had borne Gilbert to a\nconsiderable distance, and then setting him down, he _untied his shoes,\nand putting the heels foremost, fastened them, thus reversed, by strings\nto his feet_. \"Now,\" said the voice, in parting--\"now for\nCastle-Hermitage and its dungeon! till to-morrow morning, when\nassistance will be rendered.\" And, saying thus, the strong man took his\nimmediate departure, and disappeared amongst the woods. Poor Gilbert did\nas he was instructed, and, in about an hour, reached the dismal solitude\nof Castle-Hermitage. There, on some straw which still remained from the\ntime when poor Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie had been starved to\ndeath by Sir William Douglas, did this poor persecuted man remain till\nthe following morning. In the meantime, Johnstone having discovered that\nhe had been sent on a fool's errand, and that no such meeting was about\nto take place, as the curate had been advertised of, at the\nDead-Water-Moss, returned in no very good humour--first, to the manse of\nCastleton, from which he proposed ejecting the curate over the\nprecipice, which lay underneath his window, and then, about midnight, to\nthe inn at the Brig-end of Liddel Water. Here his rage was converted\ninto fury at the trick which had now manifestly been played upon him;\nand he stamped, and swore, and blasphemed during the remainder of the\nnight; drinking, however, and eating mutton ham, by turns, and warning\nhis man that, so soon as day broke, they should give chase to the old\nfox. Day broke, and chase was given. Some were dismissed in one\ndirection, and some in another; and, as the snow had been undisturbed\nfrom the time of the escape till morning, it was naturally guessed that\nthe footsteps of the pursued might still be traced. Accordingly,\nJohnstone, with three of his men, set out in the track from the back of\nthe byre, and made sure work of it till they came to the bottom of the\nglen--their footsteps were confused, and the party seemed to have made\noff towards Whithaugh. Having, however, despatched a strong body to\ntrace those footsteps, Johnstone and his men rode immediately over the\nrising ground, and came down at once on the old towers of\nCastle-Hermitage. Here the truth appeared to be manifest. There were\ndouble footsteps--those of one approaching and one departing--and the\ninference was immediately drawn, that the pursued had betaken himself to\nthe castle keep, but had again effected his escape. In fact, the strong\nman of last evening had advanced, towards morning, with provisions and\nrefreshment to the dungeon; and his shoes being nailed and formed very\nmuch like those of Gilbert, they very naturally took the two\nfoot-prints, the one advancing and the other retreating, for one--and\noff they set at full gallop--whilst Gilbert and one of Whithaugh's\nploughmen made the best of their way in the opposite direction, and\nultimately separated within sight of Hawick--the honest ploughman\nreturning, not a little satisfied with his dexterity to the broad and\nfertile acres of Whithaugh; whilst Gilbert Watson ultimately reached\nsome friends who lived in the Cowgate of Edinburgh--by which means he\nescaped.\n\nThe shoes which contributed so greatly to the escape of Gilbert Watson,\nwere presented as a memorial to the family of Elliot, and are still\nshown to the curious in such matters, by the present hospitable and\nworthy proprietor of Whithaugh. It was remarked, that, after this\nunfortunate _raid_, Johnstone became morose and peevish, beyond his\nusual; seemed to suffer great mental agony; and was one morning found\ndead in his bed. Helen Elliot, the fair maid of Whithaugh, was wooed and\nwon by a Charteris of Empsfield; and from her are the present honourable\nfamily of that title descended. So ends my Hysteron Proteron or, \"the\nShoes Reversed.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE.[2]\n\n\n[Footnote 2: This tale is the production of the Rev. George Thomson,\n\"the happy Dominie Thomson of the happy days of Abbotsford,\" as Lockhart\ndesignates him in the last volume of his \"Life of Scott,\" when alluding\nto the sad inroads of death into the family circle where Thomson had\nbeen Tutor for many years. He was a son of the late minister of Melrose,\nand much respected for his sterling worth, amiability, and sound\nlearning--particularly noted, also, for the eccentricity of his wit, and\nthe humour of his sayings and doings. The above, and another tale, are,\nso far as I can learn, the only contributions to literature by the\namanuensis of Scott.--ED.]\n\n\"There are few men,\" says a peculiar moralist, \"however much they may\nhave been loved and esteemed in their day, whose return to life, after\nany considerable interval, would not be regarded with feelings of\nregret.\" In this observation there is some truth. The places once\noccupied by the departed have been supplied by others; their return to\nlife would be regretted by those whom they would \"push from their\nstools;\" and it may be very well believed that, if the rightful heir of\na great estate were to make his appearance in life, after having been\nlong lost and regarded as dead, the feelings of the person whom he would\nsupplant, whose possessions, prerogatives, and ostensibility, he would\ntake away, would not be particularly pleasant. But, when no personal\ninterests are at stake, and no feelings of malign selfishness are\nawakened, there are few things from which a person well constituted in\nheart and mind, will derive a more vivid delight, or a more exquisite\nexcitement, than the return, and an unexpected meeting with, a long lost\nand long absent friend. Mark, in proof, the stare of astonishment, the\neyes eagerly looking into each other, while the mind gradually opens\ninto recognition, and such exclamations as, \"Guide me! it's no\npossible! can this be really you?--eh, it's lang since I hae seen\nye!--hoo hae ye been a' this time?\" In no place are such feelings more\nvivid, or such exclamations more rife, than on the Scottish Borders,\nwhose good-humoured natives have always been distinguished for\nenterprising energy, as well as warmth of heart, producing a disposition\nboth to rove and to return.\n\nOn the east coast--somewhere between Berwick and St Abb's Head--a\nvillage is situated at the mouth of a small stream, which gives it an\nimmediate access to, and egress from the open sea. Its harbour does not\nadmit vessels of any considerable burthen; but there is good anchorage\nground in the offing, and its situation being favourable for the\nirregular discharge of a cargo, it is said to have been, in former\ntimes, notorious for the contraband trade. It continued to enjoy an\nhonourable prosperity, however, after this infamous and most pernicious\ntraffic had been put down by the vigilance of government, owing to its\npermanent local advantages. The chief employment of its inhabitants is\nfishing; and its coasting trade is considerable, affording to the\ntenantry of the adjoining country a ready market for farm produce of all\nkinds--grazing, pastoral, and agricultural. In this village, long before\nthe formation of those regularly constituted clubs which now exist in\nevery considerable market town, a number of persons, whom business had\nbrought together, used to hold regular meetings in the evening of the\nmarket day. These meetings, of which, when a young man, I was a constant\nattender, were generally composed of nearly the same persons, who, by\ntacit agreement, used to assemble at the same time and in the same\nplace; one particular apartment of the principal inn being always\nreserved for their use. On these occasions, there was much innocent\nenjoyment and little variety. In allusion to the chief avocations of the\npersons present, and the commodities which formed the staple of the\nmarket, it was customary to give, as the toast of the evening--\n\n    \"The life of man, the death of fish,\n      The boat, the crook, the plough;\n    Horn, corn, lint, and yarn,\n      Flax, and tarry woo.\"\n\nThe chief transactions of the day having been talked over, and the party\nhaving gradually diminished as the evening advanced, to a few intimates\nwho dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, many a tale, anecdote, and\nlegend used to be told, while the glass circled round. The appetite for\nlegendary lore, orally delivered, had not begun to abate in the days of\nmy youth.\n\nI remember well a particular evening in which many stories were told, of\n\"hair-breadth 'scapes,\" strange coincidences, and remarkable incidents\nof various kinds; but gene rally connected with the departure and return\nof Scottish adventurers. Mr Plainworth, and the patient butt of his\nplayful humour, Mr Wonderlove, two respectable Septuagenarians, and the\nvenerable fathers of the club, occupied, as usual, the two arm chairs\nwhich stood one on each side of the fire. At length, after having been\nlong a silent listener, Mr Plainworth stated that an incident as\nremarkable as any that had yet been told, had occurred in the very\napartment in which we were sitting, and when he himself was present.\n\"Did any of you,\" said he, \"know the late William Elphinstone, Esq.?\"\n\n\"I for one knew him well, for a most excellent and worthy man,\" said\nWonderlove; \"and his family is said to be the first of their line that\never did well. I have heard of a dule (doom) which was formerly laid\nupon that house, by a mother cursing, in the anguish of her heart, and\non her bare knees, the bearing of which was, that the sword would never\nbe off the race, till their pride had been humbled--till their head had\nwedded a maiden of low degree.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Plainworth, \"I regarded as a mere folly of the olden time.\nSome aggravated case of seduction, in which family pride was exhibited,\nand innocence ruined and forsaken, had suggested the idea of a suitable\ndoom, which was supposed to hang over the house; or a curse may have\nbeen pronounced under such awful circumstances; and as there would be no\nblack and white upon the matter, its import and bearing might easily be\nmade to correspond with subsequent events. An obliquity of\ndisposition--a transmitted depravity of character--will sometimes be\nhereditary for two or three generations in a particular race; on the\nremoval of which, the evils to which, by natural consequence, it had\nled, and which might seem to flow from a hereditary fatality or doom,\nwill also pass away. The fortunes of the house of Elphinstone seem to\nhave improved with the improved character of the race.\"\n\n\"You are a deep thinker, Mr Plainworth,\" said the other; \"but it is\nwell-known that, for a long period of time, the sword never was off that\nhouse. Deeply involved in the troubles that preceded and followed the\ncivil wars, they always came off with the worst. Some fell in battle;\nsome bled on the scaffold; and when others ceased to kill them, they\nbegan to put an end to themselves.\"\n\n\"You allude,\" said Plainworth, \"to the death of Edward Elphinstone, the\nbrother of the laird. Poor unhappy young man! I knew him well.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Wonderlove, \"I could tell you of a strange thing, which I\ncannot help thinking is somehow connected with his death. I was\nacquainted with the son of the parish minister. He and his father had\noccasion to go down to the churchyard, on account of something which had\ngone wrong with the cattle. A loud scream was heard at the west-end of\nthe church, in a little while followed by another. The son, who hurried\nforward to see what was the matter, beheld a light streaming from the\nwindow of the Elphinstone aisle; and, on looking in, he could perceive\na human figure, lying on the central grave-stone, under a white sheet.\nHe stood and gazed till, from below the white sheet, another scream came\npealing exactly like the two he had heard before; and then he ran back\nin terror to his father, and both made the best of their way home. Next\nmorning, Edward Elphinstone was found dead in the neighbouring woods. He\nhad fired his own gun through his head, by means of a string attached to\nthe trigger, and passed round the butt end. Now, sir, what is your\nopinion as to that?\"\n\n\"I would say,\" replied Plainworth, \"that it must have been the poor\nyouth stretching himself in life, in the place where he was shortly to\nlie dead--put down, alas! by his own hand--one of the strange fancies of\na mind meditating suicide, and therefore labouring under a degree of\nfrenzied excitement. Had he been conveyed home, the catastrophe might\nhave been prevented.\"\n\n\"An admirable explanation,\" said the other, \"and a true.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Plainworth, \"and is Wonderlove so ready to give up such a\nlikely and well-authenticated tale of diablerie? Well, in return for\nyour candour, I assure you that William Elphinstone, the first of the\nline who seems to have been freed from the dread hereditary doom, really\ndid marry 'a maiden of low degree.' I was his friend, and the confidant\nof his innocent and honourable love.\"\n\n\"And the thing you mean to tell us of--does it concern him?\" asked\nWonderlove.\n\n\"It does, as you shall hear,\" replied Plainworth. \"After the death of\nEdward, the second son,\" continued Plainworth, \"there remained of the\nfamily of Elphinstone, only the Laird, and William, the youngest son, my\nparticular friend. The health of the laird had been irreparably injured,\nboth by early excesses, and by a fall which he got from his horse while\nhunting. After this accident, his life was despaired of; and, although\nhe partially recovered, his constitution, owing to an injury in the\nhead, was ruined for ever. A cousin, who would have succeeded to the\nestates, failing him and his brother, made various abortive attempts to\nsow dissension between them; which, being ascribed to their true motive,\ncaused the laird to hate him most cordially. To defeat the crooked\npolicy of this bad man, he was anxious to keep William at home; and he\nendeavoured to effect a marriage between him and an heiress of good\nfamily, great fortune, and greater expectations. The lady was\nfavourable--her friends not less so. But William had placed his\naffections in a lower sphere. He had long loved the only daughter of a\nMr Constant, the humble proprietor of about fifty acres of poor land,\ncalled Sanditofts. Mary Constant was a young woman who had everything to\nrecommend her, except fortune. William had succeeded in gaining her\nheart; but, with a noble disinterestedness, she persisted in\ndiscouraging his addresses to herself, and did her utmost to prevail on\nhim to gratify his elder brother, by preferring the more advantageous\nmatch.\n\n\"Of this ground of difference, the first which had existed between the\nbrothers, the wicked cousin endeavoured to make the most. He contrived\nto have unworthy suspicions of the innocent object of William's love,\ninsinuated into the mind of the laird; and that there might be some\nfoundation for these suspicions, the fiend had insidiously pointed her\nout to the notice of a Sir Charles Ranger--a man of fashion and\nprofligate manners, who happened at the time to be resident in this part\nof the country. Observing something peculiar in William's manner one\nday, I wrung from him the secret cause, which was, that he had been\ngiven to understand that Mary was in the habit of receiving, and with\nencouragement, the attentions of Sir Charles. 'If that should be true,'\nsaid he, with a sigh, 'how inconsistent in a creature who, in mind as\nwell as in person, seems to be all perfection!' On my demanding his\nauthority, he stated that his brother had been his first informer, who\nhad got his information from one lady, who had got it from another, and\nso on; but that he thought he had been able, very nearly, to run up the\nslander to his cousin, with whom it must have originated.\"\n\n\"'What can be the villain's motive?' cried I, indignantly.\n\n\"'Evidently,' said he, 'to give my brother an unfavourable opinion of\nMary, that he may be induced to set his face, like flint, against my\nbeing united to her in marriage; in which case he may anticipate that\nsuch a quarrel might arise between him and me as would admit of no\nreconciliation; and that, as I might then have to lead the precarious\nunsettled life of an adventurer, the extinction of the elder branch of\nthe family would become more likely. That may be his policy, for, in my\nbrother's infirm state, I am certainly the chief obstruction to his hope\nof eventually succeeding to the family inheritance; but why speculate\nabout the motives of such a man? I beat him soundly on the occasion you\nknow of, when he attempted to do me ill offices with my brother.'\n\n\"'Beat him, did you?' cried I.\n\n\"'That I did,' said he, 'and with right good will. I began with mild\nexpostulation, which was all I intended at first; but his shameless\nattempts at justification, and at maintaining the character of a mutual\nfriend, made him appear so vile in my eyes, that I threw him on the\nground, told him that I would make an impression on his body, if not on\nhis mind, and beat him with a sapling, till I had tired my arm, rather\nthan exhausted my wrath.\"\n\n\"'He well deserved all he got,' said I; 'but a mind like his will never\nforgive a blow--far less a long succession of blows, most energetically\nlaid on--although he may not have the spirit to show his resentment\nopenly.'\n\n\"'He hates me from his soul,' said he, 'while he fawns upon me; and he\nwell knows that to let fly an envenomed shaft at poor Mary, is the\nlikeliest way to give me a deadly wound.'\n\n\"'You have acted most rashly towards him,' said I; 'for he is a dark,\ndeep, dangerous man; the deadly enmity of such as he ought never to be\nunnecessarily provoked; under the sting of a reptile will a lion die.'\n\n\"'He is indeed a reptile,' replied he, 'whom I pity and despise, and\nwhom you will have some difficulty in persuading me to fear. I am not\nfree,' he added with perceptible agitation, 'I am not free from the\nhereditary imperfection of our ill-fated race; but I endeavour to\nrestrain my mind by those means by which the mind can best be\nrestrained. As for the inheritance of our house, which seems to excite\nmy wretched cousin's cupidity, I could almost wish he had it, with the\nhereditary curse along with it; so that I had only a moderate\ncompetence, with God's blessing, a peaceful mind, and Mary's love.'\n\n\"A few days after the above conversation took place, as William\nElphinstone and I were sauntering about, without any particular object,\nwho should we see coming over the hill but Mary herself, along with Sir\nCharles Ranger? 'Now, Elphinstone,' said I, on observing them, 'keep\nyour temper, and don't allow yourself to be flung off your guard--that\nis indeed Sir Charles; but the meeting has been unintentional on Mary's\npart. The poor girl could not drive such an intruder away, as easily as\nthe wind would a piece of thistle-down.'\n\n\"'They are walking wide apart, on opposite sides of the road,' said he,\nwith considerable emotion.\n\n\"As we moved towards them, keeping on the inside of a hedge, which\nafforded us concealment, we lost sight of them for a little while; but,\non turning a corner, they again came in view. She was evidently walking\ntoo fast for her gallant attendant; and William seemed to be amused with\nhis efforts to maintain his fashionable swagger at the unusual pace. As\nwe continued to follow them unobserved, we could see him in several\ninstances come over to her side of the road; but she always crossed to\nthe other, and quickened her pace. At length having come to a turn of\nthe road, where Sir Charles perhaps thought that he behoved either to\ndesist, or to make a bold effort, he sprung forward, and placed himself\nbefore her, so as to obstruct her passage, and began to pour forth all\nmanner of professions, protestations, and unmeaning extravagances. Mary,\nwith indignation and disdain in her every look, peremptorily demanded to\nbe permitted to pass on unmolested. At length he went so far as to catch\nher in his arms, earnestly imploring that she would give him for one\nmoment a hearing. Upon which she screamed in terror; and young\nElphinstone springing over the hedge, seized the unprincipled libertine\nby the collar, and dashed him to the ground. On my coming forward, he\ndelivered the trembling girl into my care; and then turning to Sir\nCharles, as he was attempting to rise, he quietly begged to know who it\nwas that had pointed out that young woman to him, as a fit person for\nsuch as he to accost.'\n\n\"'Well thought of, Elphinstone,' cried I; 'wring an answer to that\nquestion out of him, one way or other.'\n\n\"Mary did her utmost to put a stop to further violence, but I prevented\nher from interfering, and encouraged William to proceed. Upon which,\nfixing on his prostrate foe, a look, in which was expressed all the fire\nof his race, he repeated his question. Sir Charles refused to\nanswer--William threatened! the one hesitated--the other kept holding\nhim down. At length, finding himself compelled to speak, Sir Charles\npronounced the name of William Elphinstone's cousin.\n\n\"'All's well,' cried the latter, assisting him to rise. 'You may now go\naway, sir; and if you should think that the punishment inflicted has\nbeen in this case greater than the evil you have been able to do, you\nwill perhaps remember passages in your life, in which the balance was\nthe other way.'\n\n\"As the baffled profligate withdrew, he tried to put on a menacing look,\nand hinted that, as Elphinstone's conduct was dissonant to the usages of\nsociety, he was determined to demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,\nand that he should hear from him shortly. This threat, however, was\nnever put into effect; for, although bold enough toward an unprotected\nfemale, he was not over-fond of confronting an antagonist such as\nElphinstone.\n\n\"In excuse for our having continued violent measures ill-suited to her\npresence, after protection had been afforded, I shewed to Mary, as we\nwere escorting her home, the importance of the disclosure which had been\nwrung from Sir Charles, which would enable us to ascribe not merely the\ninsults to which she had been exposed, but also the slanders by which\nher good name had been secretly assailed, to the malice of William's\ncousin, whose name Sir Charles had been compelled to give up. I spoke,\nalso, of the distress which we had both had on her account for some time\npast. Whenever she became aware of the painful fact, that she had been\nan object of suspicion, she stopped, her features became agitated, and\nshe burst into tears. Nothing that we could say would pacify her--stung\nto the heart with the anguish of offended female pride. When she had\nsomewhat recovered from this agitation, young Elphinstone began to press\nhis suit with impassioned earnestness; while Mary, on her part,\npersisted in giving him no encouragement, but pointed out the great\nadvantages of the other match intended for him by his brother; and\nextolled the lady as being far superior to herself in every respect. She\nspoke firmly, but yet with the air of one who is rather acting on high\nprinciple than from inclination. William had evidently a powerful\nadvocate in her heart. Long did she hesitate, nevertheless; and much did\nshe say about the impropriety of her allowing him to sacrifice to his\npassion for her, the favour of his elder brother, and such great\nexpectations. But at last the lover's importunities were successful.\nMary--her countenance becoming pale and then crimson--faintly, yet\ndistinctly pronounced the words--'Speak to my father.'\n\n\"Soon after this, we heard the sound of a horseman, who was coming up\nbehind us at a rapid trot. This was none other than Mr Elphinstone, the\nbrother of William, who began with accusing him of having acted in a\nmost ruffian-like manner toward Sir Charles Ranger, whom he had met, and\nby whose representations a most unfavourable impression had been made\nupon his mind. William attempted to explain; the former, however, would\nnot hear; but harshly added, with a look of cruel meaning, directed to\nthe most interesting person present--'I find you, sir, in most improper\nsociety.'\n\n\"William, forgetting himself for an instant, made a grasp at his\nbrother's rein, and also at his collar, saying--'Not one disrespectful\nword, sir, of that young woman; a more innocent and a nobler the world\ndoes not hold.'\n\n\"'Unloose your hand from my rein and collar,' vociferated the elder\nElphinstone, fiercely; 'after this insolence, we can never meet more.'\nWith that he immediately rode off.\n\n\"'The laird will soon be informed of the true state of matters,' said I,\nsoothingly; 'and he is not a man to retain his anger long.'\n\n\"'This is the first time,' replied William, 'that a harsh word ever\npassed between my brother and me; and I can only regret that our feud\nshould have originated in such a cause.'\n\n\"The humble habitation of Mary now came in sight--a low cottage-looking\nbuilding, with agricultural appurtenances behind it--neat and\ncomfortable, though plain in its appearance, and betokening the\nresidence of a person in easy circumstances, who was not disposed to\nlive above his sphere. On our approaching the house, Mary's father came\nout to welcome us; and, perceiving, from our appearance, that something\nmore than ordinary had happened, he looked inquiringly. Mary and her\nlover entered the house, each, with a look, devolving the task of\nexplanation upon me; and, between Mr Constant and myself, a long\nconversation followed, in which everything was told. Entering then the\nhouse where he was anxiously waited for, he bent over the chair which\nWilliam Elphinstone occupied, and exclaimed--'My dear young man, accept\na father's thanks for the protection which ye have this day afforded to\nhis only child. As for what ye further intend, there are difficulties,\nbut none shall arise from me. Had ye been of our own sphere of life,\nthere is none in the country on whom I would have been more willing to\nhave bestowed my daughter.'\n\n\"We spent the evening there; and I never saw William appear to such\nadvantage. If he could not raise his wife to the sphere in which he had\nbeen bred and born, he was to go down contentedly into hers; to\nconstitute her happiness was to be the delight of his life. Mr\nConstant--who had long esteemed him highly, but had never before seen\nhim open, throwing forth in rich profusion, the treasures of his noble\nheart and vigorous understanding--was in amazement. As for Mary, her\nheart seemed to be overflowing with happiness, while she contemplated,\nwith a woman's pride, the high qualities of the man who had chosen her\nfor his own. Every doubt as to the propriety of the momentous step which\nshe had taken, having been removed by her father's knowledge,\nconcurrence, and approbation--\n\n    \"'----she, pleased, resigned\n    To tender feelings all her lovely mind.'\n\n\"Next day, William sent to his brother a plain unvarnished statement of\nall that had happened, expressed in a fair manly style--asking for\nnothing, apologizing for nothing, and conceding nothing; and, after\nhaving discharged this act of fraternal duty, he came and met me early\nin the afternoon in the town here, for the purpose of bringing me back\nwith him to Sanditofts. It was the market day, and, wherever he went,\nhis old friends gathered in congratulating groups around him; for he was\na universal favourite. On our proposing to leave them, they absolutely\nlaid violent hands on us; and so having sent off a card to apologize,\nand bring Mr Constant to meet us, we sat down along with them to their\nusual dinner in this same room. I could easily see that poor William\nwould rather have been at Sanditofts, where his heart was; but, making a\nvirtue of necessity, he exerted himself to please, and was successful.\nHis affair with Sir Charles was brought on, or rather it insensibly\nstole upon the carpet. One person accidentally made a very distant\nallusion to it; a second reproved him for so doing; a third, a fourth, a\nfifth made observations, pointing, though from afar, to what had\nhappened. Pleased and amused at the delicacy which was so visibly\nrestraining the general feeling, William threw open the subject at once,\nby giving a modest statement of the whole affair. He added--'I would\nhave done as much for any other young woman under the like\ncircumstances; and what could I have done less for her who has been for\nlong the object of my fondest love--a love now sanctioned by her\nfather!'\n\n\"The importance of this disclosure, and the deep pathos of his voice,\nproduced an instant silence, which was first broken by Mr Macquil, the\nlawyer, who gave his opinion as to the legal bearings of the case. He\nassured us that Sir Charles had no ground for an action whatsoever,\nhaving been guilty of accosting rudely, and with evil intent, a lone\nwoman--the most sacred of all objects in the eye of the law.\n\n\"'I remember a case,' said he, 'in which a rude person having merely\nused, in female society, some expressions not suitable for a female ear,\na young officer of the army present, seized upon and twisted his nose.\nUpon which an action was raised against the officer; and, the case\nhaving come before the fifteen, sixpence of damages only was awarded,\nwith no expenses at all.'\n\n\"Thus did the evening pass on, none of us apprehending that it was to\nhave such a woful termination. As the party separated, each, as he\nretired, came and grasped William by the hand, testifying the highest\napprobation of the part which he had acted, in simple warm-hearted\nlanguage. In these feelings, all the great proprietors around\nparticipated. They are strictly moral, the _real_ gentry, and they have\nnoble hearts. They detested Sir Charles for his dissolute life; and they\nsuspected him of being, what he afterwards really proved to be, a ruined\nprofligate, flying from English creditors to this side of the Border.\n\n\"All those members of the company whose homes were at any distance had\nnow retired; and the party had become such a one as we have at present.\nThe fine spirits which William had maintained throughout the evening,\nhad vanished; his attitude, and the expression of his countenance, had\nbecome thoughtful and strangely sad; and I thought he looked fearfully\nlike his brother Edward. At length he started up from his reverie; and\nI, approaching him, looked anxiously into his countenance, and asked him\nhow he did. He assured me that he had never been better in his\nlife--that he had never enjoyed so much of the best happiness which can\nirradiate the heart. 'But,' said he, 'my quarrel with my brother hurts\nme. I never loved him so much in my life as when that spark of his old\nfire, which my rude grasp struck out of him, made him look so like what\nhe was in other days. And, Mary--to think of her having at length given\nup her opposition to my wishes, in such a manner! Altogether, it is too\nmuch for me; and I have been silly enough to allow shadowy imaginations\nof evils, which may affect my relations with her and my poor brother,\nand mar the happiness of us all, to disturb my ruminations. That is the\nfact; and I apprehend that you, regarding my foolish features with\nfriendly anxiety, have been speculating thereon.'\n\n\"This explanation, which agreed well with what I knew of the character\nof his mind, in which there was not a little of an undue ascendency of\nthe imagination, seemed to me quite satisfactory; and I said to\nhim--'Everything is to go right; you and your brother will soon be\nreconciled.'\n\n\"'I am not entirely dependent on my brother,' said he; 'as I shall show\nyou all to-night, when we talk seriously over certain arrangements.'\n\n\"'Where are you going just now?' said I to him, as he was moving toward\nthe door.\n\n\"'Merely to have a look at the evening,' said he--'I will be back to you\nin five seconds.'\n\n\"Thus did he retire; and I, relieved from apprehensions which, in the\nissue, seemed to be very like 'coming events casting their shadows\nbefore,' fell fast asleep on resuming my chair. Meanwhile, Mr. Constant\ncame in and awoke me, to inquire after William. He told me that he had\nreceived his card, but had been prevented from being with us earlier, by\na visit which he had received from Mr Elphinstone, the laird, who had\nspent the day with them, and was with them still; and he gave me the\ngratifying information that the letter which William had that day sent\nto his brother had removed every bad impression from his mind, that,\ninstead of opposing his inclinations, he was anxious that his marriage\nwith Mary might take place as soon as possible; and that he was\nimpatient to see himself personally, that everything might be\nsatisfactorily arranged for it, and that they might be reconciled after\nthe unpleasant affair of yesterday, which, he said, was the only\nserious difference they had ever had.\n\n\"'I have just come down,' continued he, 'to bring you both to\nSanditofts, for that purpose.'\n\n\"'In that case,' said I, 'every obstacle to my friend's happiness is\ncompletely removed;' and I assured him that William had just gone out,\nbut that he would return immediately. He did not return, however,\nalthough, as one of the company observed, he must have intended to do\nso, his hat having been left behind him. After waiting for some minutes\nlonger, I became very uneasy; a feeling of apprehension began to steal\nover my mind, and I hurried out to make inquiries, followed by Mr\nConstant. On reaching the foot of the stairs, we were informed that\nWilliam had gone out by a back passage which led down to the sea-beach,\nand we turned our steps thither.\n\n\"The evening was pleasant. A gentle breeze was blowing off the land, and\na yellow radiance faintly tinging the east, and sharply cutting far the\nblack water in the offing, showed that the darkness was on the point of\nbeing lightened by the rising of an unclouded moon. We proceeded onward,\nmy anxious friend and I, for a great way along the rocky margin of the\nsea, until we gained a commanding station, and the moon more than\nhalf-risen threw a clearer light upon our view. But no traces did we\ndiscover of the object of our search. As a last resource, raising our\nvoices together, we shouted aloud the name of William. As we stood long\nand anxiously listening, we became aware of a sound which came booming\nover the water, and which after having been once heard, we could again\ndistinguish as it ever and anon recurred, at irregular intervals. While\nlooking toward the point from which these sounds seemed to come, we\nbeheld for an instant the upper spars of a two-masted lugger distinctly\npourtrayed on the face of the moon. She was so diminished by distance,\nas not to do more than fill the moon's disk, and she seemed to be\ncrowding all sail. Shortly after the single mast of a fore-and-aft\nrigged vessel, also under a press of canvass, was beheld in the same\nway; and the smoke, curling in wreaths among her rigging, seemed to\nindicate that it was from the latter vessel that the sounds which we\nheard proceeded.\n\n\"'I wonder,' said my companion, 'if that can have any connection with\nthe disappearance of Mr. William.'\n\n\"'It's merely a revenue cutter,' replied I, 'in chase of some smuggling\nvessel.'\n\n\"Having returned to the apartment in the inn, we found the company still\nassembled, and reported to them our want of success, my poor friend\ncasting a long and wistful look at the hat of William, which was\nhanging, and which long continued to hang, on that very pin. On its\nbeing suggested that there was a chance that he might be found in some\nhouse in the town, all with one accord separated to make inquiries. The\nwhole place was soon in commotion, and so was the whole country side.\nEvery place in which it was possible for William to be, dead or alive,\nwas searched in vain.\n\n    \"'They sought him that night, and they sought him next day,\n    Oh! vainly they sought him, till a week past away:--\n    And years flew by, and their sorrow at last,\n    Was told as a mournful tale that is past.'\n\n\"If among the friends of him who had so strangely disappeared, his\nintended bride felt the most acutely, it was on his brother that the\nblow fell most heavily. Mary long refused to be comforted; and was only\nsustained by young health, and by hopes which we all laboured to infuse\ninto her dejected heart; but the sickly frame of William's brother never\nrecovered from the shook it received. He always reflected on himself for\nhaving parted from his brother in anger; the fate of Edward, which was\never before his eyes, seemed to afford too natural an explanation of the\nmystery of William's disappearance; and his exhausted frame yielded at\nlast to death, after an interval of about three years, during which his\nchief solace was the society and the kind attentions of the amiable\nfamily of Sanditofts. His last words were--\n\n    \"'Whither is he gone?--what accident\n    Hath rapt him from us?'\n\n\"The title of his wicked cousin was contested by another claimant, which\nkept matters in abeyance, else he never could have been prevented by us,\nthe executors, from entering into possession. At last, after a long\nlitigation, the case went in his favour, of which I was first informed\nwhile engaged in the market here; and, although I had long anticipated\nsuch a result, the impression which the intelligence made upon my mind\nwas most painful. At the weekly dinner, whither I repaired as usual,\nfrom long habitude rather than inclination, I felt feverish and\nuncomfortable; an insatiable thirst made me drink rather more than my\nwont, and in the course of the evening I sank into a heavy bilious\nslumber. How long I remained in that state I know not. But I remember\nwell, that, feeling a hand laid on my arm, which kept tightening its\ngrasp till it awoke me, I turned to my next neighbour, who was staring\nas if at some object of terror; and that, following his affrighted look,\nI beheld William sitting before me, with features wasted, care-worn, and\nwofully sad, and in the well-remembered attitude in which I had seen\nhim, a little before his strange disappearance. Confounded, incapable of\nspeech and action, did I remain for some time. At length, having caught\nhis eye, we both started up together.\n\n\"'William,' cried I, 'can this be really you?--O man! where hae ye been\na' this time?'\n\n\"'Mary! Mary!' cried he; 'tell me about her!'\n\n\"I told him that she was alive and well.\n\n\"'But, but!' said he.\n\n\"'She is still unmarried,' said I, 'and as devoted to you as ever, which\nis more than you were entitled to expect, after having left her in the\nmanner you did.'\n\n\"'I have been a prisoner,' said he, in a mournful tone, 'in a land of\nwhich till lately I knew not the name, and I was carried away by force.'\n\n\"Amid exclamations of wrath, which came from all parts of the room, and\nthe tumultuous flocking of his old friends around him, his voice was\nagain heard.\n\n\"'And my brother?' said he; 'tell me also about him.'\n\n\"'He has been dead,' said I, 'for about two years. In the arms of your\nbeloved did he breathe his last sigh.'\n\n\"Upon this his tears began to flow; but he checked them immediately,\nadding--'Enough for the present. In a little while, my kind friends, I\nwill tell you all. But my heart is now heavy, and the crisis is urgent.\nWill you, for old friendship's sake, have the goodness either to go or\nto send down the coast, a little to the northward of this. A party of\npoor fellows will be found in the same plight as I am. Bring them all\nhither, and provide for them, in my name, dry clothing, a good supper,\nplenty of drink, and comfortable bedding.' All with one accord readily\nundertook the charge. 'And now, then,' said he, 'this old hat shall be\nagain fitted to my head; for the billows are sporting with the one I\nlately wore.' Perceiving his clothes to be wet, we adverted to the\ncircumstance. 'Pooh,' said he, 'I have just been shipwrecked, that's\nall.' With that he hurried me out of this house, and entering that of a\nmutual friend, where comfortable dry clothing was provided for him, and\na chaise having been procured, we flung ourselves into it, and drove off\nto Sanditofts.\n\n\"As we drew near the house, painful feelings began to arise in his mind,\nas to the reception he would meet with, and the construction which might\nhave been put upon his involuntary absence. Dismissing the carriage,\ntherefore, I hurried on before him, at his earnest request, and finding,\non entering the house, the father and daughter by themselves, my first\nwords were--'William has been a prisoner in a strange land--he was\ncarried away by force, poor fellow. Amazement, mingled with many other\nfeelings, was visibly depicted in each countenance. Poor Mary began to\nweep profusely. Diffidently, and with her eyes earnestly fixed on mine,\nshe was just inquiring when they might expect to see him or to hear from\nhim, when her ear was caught by the sound of an approaching foot; and,\nimmediately, the door opening, William stood before her. With a cry of\njoy, she and her father flew to welcome him. For long did she remain\nclasped in his arms; and what a scene was exhibited in the outpourings\nof their innocent and faithful love--a love which had withstood the most\nperilous of all trials--a long separation, which had been connected with\nso many doubts and anxious fears, and over which so thick a veil of\nmystery had hung! The father and I stood silently regarding them, as\nthey wept in sadness and were rapturously joyful by turns.\n\n\"'Weel,' said the father, rubbing his hands together, with a look of\ninexpressible satisfaction, 'that's really a sight guid for sair een.\nPoor things!--lang hae they loved each other, and sair has their love\nbeen tried.'\n\n\"When our excited feelings had a little subsided, curiosity became the\nprevailing sentiment. Mr. Constant and I began by detailing the\nparticulars of our ineffectual search along the coast. William, on his\npart, declared that, when he left me on going out, it really was his\nintention to have come back immediately, and to have returned to\nSanditofts, where he had been invited and had promised to pass the\nnight; but he stated that, having felt somewhat oppressed by the heat of\nthe crowded apartment, he had been unhappily induced, by the refreshing\ncoolness of the evening, to walk a little way by the sea-side, where he\nhad apprehended no evil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"To all appearance,\" said he, \"there was nothing but solitude around me;\nonly, I heard carts at a distance which seemed to be driven inland; and\nmy curiosity was excited by a low rumbling sound which came from the\nother side of a small projecting promontory. I ran hastily in the\ndirection of the latter sound. After having proceeded a little way, I\nheard footsteps coming up behind me; but I continued to move on, without\nslackening my pace, until there came a shrill whistle, followed by the\nsound as of a number of men rushing towards me. I then attempted to fly,\nbut was prevented by two stout fellows, who placed themselves right in\nmy way, and a numerous party of men quickly surrounded me, one of whom,\neyeing me attentively, exclaimed--'The very man we want. We shall be\nable to do our friend's work with very little trouble.' On my attempting\nto expostulate and resist, I was overpowered and forced into a boat. The\nboat rowed off to a smuggling vessel which was lying to in the offing;\nand which, soon after I was put on board, stood out to sea under a press\nof canvass--chased, as it soon appeared, by a revenue cutter, which\ncontinued for long to fire at her.\"\n\nHere he was interrupted by our mentioning the two vessels which we had\nseen passing over the moon.\n\n\"I was in the first of these vessels,\" said he; \"the two-masted lugger,\nwhich, unfortunately, was able to escape, by superior sailing, from the\nsecond vessel (a revenue cutter, fore-and-aft rigged, with one mast) by\nwhich she was pursued.\n\n\"My captors continued, for two or three weeks, to land goods on\ndifferent parts of the eastern coasts, sustaining so many losses that I\ncould not help saying that, if their trade was a paying one, the goods\nwhich they could afford to lose in such quantities could not be honestly\ncome by--an observation at which great offence was taken. After having\nparted with her original cargo, and shipped another, which was chiefly\ncomposed of provisions of all sorts, the vessel left the German Ocean,\ngoing north about; and she then pursued a south-westerly course across\nthe Atlantic for many weeks, until she was accosted by a notorious\npirate, Gonsalvo by name, the terror of the West Indian seas; for whom,\nas I could observe, a careful look-out had long been kept. This\nferocious ruffian, having come on board our vessel, had a long interview\nwith our captain--the two worthies being, to all appearance, on terms of\nmost courteous and familiar intimacy--and our cargo of provisions was\nput on board the pirate's vessel; while hogsheads of sugar, puncheons of\nrum, and other articles of West Indian produce, were received in\nexchange. This transaction clearly explained the mystery of the\ncontraband trade. The smugglers of the present day are connected with\nthe Buccaneers, who, not daring to bring their ill-gotten goods to a\nregular market, willingly barter the bulky part of them on any terms,\nfor the necessaries of life. These goods having been taken originally\nfor nothing, and subsequently sold for little or nothing, if one cargo\nout of three escapes seizure, the concern will pay. Hence it is, that\nthe contraband trade is maintained in spite of every effort to put it\ndown.\n\n\"After another long interview which our captain had with this Gonsalvo,\nsome of my shipmates came to me with joyful countenances, looking like\nmen from whose minds some heavy burden had just been removed; and they\ntold me, that 'my life was to be safe; only,' said they, 'take care of\nyour tongue.'\n\n\"'My life!' cried I, in astonishment. Hitherto I had been under no\napprehensions about my life; although I had discovered, in course of\nconversation with the men, that my villanous cousin, to whose secret\nstores the carts I had heard were no doubt proceeding, had been long and\ndeeply engaged with the smugglers--that he had been of immense service\nto them--and that it was to gratify him, and, at his request, that I had\nbeen carried away.\" Gently checking, with his upraised hand, the\nexclamations which this disclosure drew from his hearers, he thus\nproceeded:--\"You may guess what my feelings were, when I was put on\nboard the vessel of the odious Gonsalvo. All my former shipmates\nregarded me with compassion; and a poor fellow, from this part of the\ncountry, called James Stray, who, in an evil hour, had been tempted to\nengage in the illegal traffic, told me at parting, with tears in his\neyes, that he would regret what had happened to the last day of his\nlife; for that I was 'the best o' the twa.'\n\n\"After cruising about for some time, Gonsalvo made for a numerous group\nof small rocky islands, which were scattered over a great extent of sea;\nand, entering them by a labyrinth of intricate passages, he moored hard\nby one larger than the rest, and pleasantly wooded, which had a good\nroadstead, where the hulks of several captured vessels were observable,\nseemingly in the act of being broken up for firewood. Here I was put\nashore. Before leaving the pirate vessel, I made bold to enter--and it\nwas for the first time--the principal cabin, where I collected a number\nof books in the Spanish language; loaded with which, and moved by\nrestrained indignation to do something ludicrous, I presented myself\nbefore Gonsalvo on the quarter-deck, with the easy confident air of a\ngentleman gifted with considerable assurance, who has been presuming\nsomewhat too far upon the good nature of another. Never shall I forget\nthe look of cold, cruel, malign contemptuousness, with which the ruffian\nregarded me. That look said, as plainly as any look could do--'Wretched\ncreature, I see you have been making very free with my property; but it\nmatters not.'\n\n\"In this unknown spot, and within the power of this ruffian, did I\nremain for about four years, more or less. My chief employment was\nfishing. I became an expert boat-man--I made occasional visits to\nanother piratical station to the south of us; thus did I endeavour to\npass my lonely hours. I sometimes found a kind of pleasure in exploring\nthe intricate navigation of the islands; and, in time, became acquainted\nwith many a place where a boat could pass in certain states of the tide,\nthrough rocks which had the appearance of being continuous. The sheet of\nwater at the back of our island, was bounded, on the north-west, by a\nlong and seemingly unbroken chain of high precipitous rocks, through a\ncleft in which I discovered a winding passage of this nature, leading to\na small secluded island, not distinguishable from numberless others\nwhich lay scattered, like black sea fowl, over the surface of the water.\nWith all my thoughts bent on escape, I endeavoured to attach to me a lad\nof sixteen, residing on the island, along with his widowed mother;\nhaving, with the aid of Gonsalvo's books, mastered the Spanish language.\nHe was a stupid cub; manageable when we went out together a-fishing; but\nwithout any character of his own. I therefore trusted him in nothing. I\nonce carried him far west into the open sea beyond the islands; but,\nwhen we found the formidable high-heaving swell below our frail bark, he\nbegan to cry; and, my own nerves being somewhat shaken, I returned with\na heavy heart, while on the point of attempting something great--of\nrunning off with the boat and boy altogether.\n\n\"This incident made me anxious to have a vessel of larger dimensions;\nand a barge of peculiar construction, high raised, and with a deck at\nbow and stern, occurred to me, which I had seen at the other station.\nProceeding thither by myself, and saying that we had need of such a\nthing, I offered to purchase it with part of a sum of gold, which I had\non me when carried away, and had carefully preserved. The men regarded\nme with a stare, but seemed quite willing to sell a thing which was not\ntheir own, and for which they had no use. The bargain being struck,\nthey assisted me in navigating it, by a long circuitous course of many\nweeks, by which I brought them to the small secluded island, which was\nmy favourite place of refuge. While carrying them back in my boat by the\nsame road, we became very friendly; and, at their suggestion, I\npurchased, with the rest of my gold, a large cargo of such things as\nwere of use for repairing the barge, and perfecting her equipment. On\nreturning to Gonsalvo's station after this perilous transaction, I found\nthe mother of the boy on whom I had formed designs, in tears. He had\nbeen taken on board Gonsalvo's ship, who had effected a return and a\ndeparture in my absence. During the period of my stay, the pirate had\nkept ever and anon returning at irregular intervals; but his arrival was\nthe signal for my flight; and, that flight might at all times be in my\npower, for the boat which I had been allowed to appropriate on account\nof my fishing services, always lay at the back of the island, over\nagainst the secret opening through the north-western line of rocks.\nGonsalvo, on his part, never, so far as I could learn, inquired after\nme; and, as years had slipped away, during which I had never seen him,\nnor he me, I had insensibly become less cautious, concluding that he had\nforgotten me altogether. Narrow was the escape which I in consequence\nmade.\n\n\"Motives of humanity had led me to pay some attention to the widowed\nmother, after the loss of her son, for which she seemed to be very\ngrateful. On one occasion, when I had secured my boat in its usual place\nat the back of the island, I was not deterred by the sight of the\npirate's pendant glancing above the trees, which showed that his ship\nwas in the roadstead, from paying her visit, and making inquiries after\nher son. There was much embarrassment in her manner when she saw me; she\nseemed to be agitated by conflicting feelings; and, at length, she\nhesitatingly stated that Gonsalvo had been inquiring after me, and, as\nshe believed, for no good. 'Your son,' said I, 'would he befriend me?'\n\n\"'He is now become as bad as the rest of them,' said she; 'much I said\nto him on your account; and oh, what usage he gave his mother!'\n\n\"The information of the poor woman made me anticipate the worst. Leaving\nher some fish, I hastily ran to the highest point of the island, and\nthrew myself on the ground under cover of the hill, where I had\nimmediate access to my boat, and could observe every movement of the\nenemy. I was in a state of desperation; gall and wormwood were in my\nheart. Had I then stood by Gonsalvo's magazine, with a lighted match in\nmy hand, I would have blown them all up, that they might have perished\nalong with me. While in this state of feeling, the thought flashed like\nlightning upon my mind, that I might go to the other station; that I\nmight join the other piratical crew, to whose leader I was unknown;\nthat, having gained their confidence, I might betray and hang them all,\nand return home. The new idea giving a new excitement to hope, I was\npresently meditating upon the result, rather than upon the means; and,\nin a little while, sinking into slumber, I was dreaming of my distant\nhome and betrothed love. Meanwhile, the sound of British voices had so\nsoftly entered my dreaming ear, that it was some time before the reality\nawoke me. Awaking at last, I was startled to find myself surrounded by a\nnumber of the pirate's men, when I gave myself up for lost. But there\nwas a compassion in their looks, and tears in their eyes. 'My good\nfriends,' said I, in confusion.\n\n\"'O sir,' said they, 'you have small reasons to call friends, the\npersons by whom you were so villanously carried away. We thought we knew\nyou as you lay asleep; now that you have spoken, we are certain.'\n\n\"'My dear fellows,' said I, recognising them for part of the crew of the\nsmuggling vessel. I only remember now your former kindness, and your\nanxiety that my life should be safe.'\n\n\"'God bless you!' said one of them, by name Jack Fid, 'could you bring\nyour noble heart to taste with us?'\n\n\"Willing to gratify him, I received his offered flask, and drank from it\na mouthful of rum.\n\n\"In the course of the long conversation which followed this act of\ncourtesy, I learned that the captain of the smuggling vessel in which I\nhad been carried away, had fallen in an affray with the revenue\nofficers; that his crew, having been so ill advised as to aid the\nillegal traffic by firearms, and thus to become guilty of a capital\ncrime, had been induced to betake themselves in their perplexity, to\nGonsalvo; and that he, making very light of what had happened, had\nreceived part of them on board his own vessel, and put the rest of them\non board another smaller armed vessel, which he had fitted out.\n\n\"'Poor James Stray,' said I, 'what has become of him?'\n\n\"'Hanged, sir, at New York. The other small vessel in which he sailed\nwas taken, and he suffered along with all the rest.'\n\n\"They stated farther, that their late captain, a little before his\ndeath, had got a letter from my cousin to Gonsalvo, which they had been\ncareful to deliver, supposing that it might respect my return. Having\nexplained the motives by which my cousin had been actuated in having me\ncarried away, and mentioned the ominous words of the poor widow, from\nwhich it appeared that Gonsalvo was seeking my life, I made them\nsensible that my cousin's letter must have had a very different object\nin view from what they had supposed; and then they growled deep\nexecrations against my unnatural kinsman. I soon found that they had not\nyet received on board a sufficiency of depravity for the kind of service\nin which they were engaged; that they were all most anxious to return to\nan honest course of life; and that they could not bear to live with the\nabominable wretches among whom they were. With unfeigned horror, they\nspoke of the miserable end of a poor young woman, who had lately fallen\ninto the hands of the monsters, and whose body--after she had died under\ntheir outrages--they had carelessly flung into the sea, like a soiled\ngarment. They gave a most woful account, also, of two captives of\nsuperior rank, whom the pirates at that moment had in their power--a\nfather and his daughter; and they said that the daughter, if not\nspeedily rescued, would meet the same fate as the other woman; for that\nGonsalvo restrained neither himself nor his crew. One of them, whose\nname was Tom Clewgarnet, and who had a singularly soft expression in the\nrough outlines of his weather-beaten features, declared that he would\nwillingly peril his life at any time, to deliver the innocent young\ncreature out of their hands. Regarding the poor fellows, first with\ncompassion, then with love, and then with confidence, I told them of all\nmy plans for escaping; of my boat; of the secret passage through the\nrocks to the secluded island; and of the bark which I had there. 'Like\nthe Yorkshireman,' said I, 'who is in possession of saddle, bridle,\nwhip, and spurs, and wants nought but a horse, I have long had a vessel,\nand everything necessary for her equipment. It remains with you to\ndetermine whether I am still in want of a gallant crew.' Upon this they\njoyfully declared, one and all, that they would faithfully follow me to\nthe death; and immediate flight was resolved on.\n\n\"'If we could but carry that poor young woman along with us,' said Tom\nClewgarnet, 'what a blessed deed it would be!'\n\n\"He spoke with great earnestness of manner; and my observation was,\n'Could we not try?'\n\n\"While commenting upon the fearful danger and the utter madness of such\nan undertaking, we observed a boat leaving the pirate vessel, and moving\ntoward the shore. A pocket telescope having been directed to it, we\ndiscovered Gonsalvo and the identical girl who had excited our\ncommiseration, seated in the stern. 'My life on't,' cried I, 'she will\nbe removed to some secluded spot in these woods below.' And I was right.\nWe saw Gonsalvo land with a small party, and move inland from the shore.\nMarking well the road he took, we then ranged ourselves in a long line\nacross the woods, so as to communicate with each other; and, having\nreceived intelligence which enabled me, well acquainted as I was with\nthe locality, to guess at the exact spot where Gonsalvo and his party\nwould halt, I stationed myself near by, along with Tom Clewgarnet, so as\nto see without being seen. Onward, in a little while, came the\ndarkly-scowling villain with the poor trembling girl dragged along by\ntwo armed attendants. My heart burned within me. The attendants were\ndismissed; she remained struggling in his arms; and then, laying my hand\non Tom's cutlass, giving him at the same time a sidelong look, I softly\ndrew out the weapon, and, bounding forward toward Gonsalvo, I plunged it\ninto his side. He uttered a stifled groan, which brought back his two\nattendants; when Tom, having taken up the sword of the fallen miscreant,\nhe and I furiously set upon them, and in a moment they also lay dead at\nour feet. Turning now compassionately to the girl, while our weapons\nwere red and reeking with blood, I addressed her in French, which she\nseemed to understand, assuring her that she was now in honest hands,\nwhere she would find honourable protection. Our companions having\nrejoined us, with the gratifying intelligence that our fell deed had\nescaped observation, we were on the point of proceeding toward my boat,\nwhich was lying ready to receive us, when a most vexatious difficulty\noccurred. Nothing that we could say would persuade the girl to move\nwithout her father, whom she long and earnestly implored us to save. I\nmentioned to her the horrid end of the other poor woman, and somewhat\nangrily showed to her how ungenerous it was to urge her deliverers on\nto certain death, in vainly attempting to deal with more than two\nhundred armed ruffians; upon which she sunk to the ground sobbing\npiteously. She was an uncommonly interesting-looking creature,\ndelicately formed, wofully wasted with suffering, and very young. My\nheart was melted. A scheme occurred to me by which it was at least\npossible that her father might be saved; and, having spoken soothingly\nto the girl, and applauded the heroism of her devoted filial love, I\ndeclared that we really would make the fearful attempt to which she\nurged us, if, in return, she would promise to follow and be obedient to\nTom, in whose care I meant to leave her for a time. Having obtained from\nher assurances to that effect, I unfolded my plan, first to her in\nFrench, and then to the men in English;--which was, that, having rowed\noff to the pirate vessel in the very boat from which Gonsalvo had just\nlanded, and which then lay awaiting his return, I would endeavour to\npass myself off for a French officer, belonging to the pirate ship known\nto be at the other station, who, being on a visit to Gonsalvo, had been\ndeputed by him to bring the father of the girl ashore, for the purpose\nof extorting an exorbitant ransom; and, that on our return, we would\ndouble the south-eastern point of the island, where there was an\nintricate passage well known to me, through which we could find our way\ninto the sheet of water on the north-west side of it, where Tom and the\ngirl might wait for us in my boat.\n\n\"To this perilous scheme the men agreed, although with visible\nreluctance; and it was immediately put in execution. The body of\nGonsalvo was stript of its gay vestments, which I shudderingly drew on,\nwhile wet and warm with his blood; and from which every distinctive\nornament was carefully removed. It was a fearful venture; but the\nsqualid rags which I previously wore, would have worse accorded with the\ncharacter I had to sustain. Tom was then sent off, along with the girl,\ntoward my boat, while I and the rest of the men ran down to the opposite\nshore, sprang into the boat of Gonsalvo, rudely tumbled out three men\nwho had been left in charge of her, and rowed off to the pirate vessel,\nleaving the men standing on the beach and looking after us in stupid\namazement. While on our way, we were deeply meditating upon, and\ncarefully arranging all that was to be said and done, feeling how\nperilous it would be in a matter which required such extreme delicacy,\nto be compelled '_capere consilium ex improviso_.' A boat cloak, thrown\nnegligently around me, aided in concealing my borrowed and bloody\ngarments; several of the men who seemed to have the firmest nerves were\ninstructed to go on board and remain carelessly sauntering about; while\none of them brought off the father of the girl, and I endeavoured to\nkeep the chief officer in play. On approaching, I gallantly hailed;\nbegged to see the chief officer; gave up my assumed name; spoke of my\npretended visit to, and of the pretended errand on which I had been sent\nby Gonsalvo; and mightily wondered how he, Gonsalvo, should have thought\nsuch a poor squalling wretch of a creature good for anything, but to\nextort an exorbitant ransom from her father, whom for that purpose I was\nforthwith to bring ashore. I began with speaking in French, in which the\nforeign accent would be less perceptible to a Spaniard, and then in such\nimperfect Spanish as a French officer might be expected to use. My\nmasquerade escaped detection, and the bait took. The father of the girl,\nwith his wobegone, yet noble-looking features, was received into the\nboat; all my companions leisurely followed one after another and resumed\ntheir oars. Jack Fid came last of all, carrying in his hand a huge\ngreybeard of liquor, and having in his features a peculiar twist, which\nseemed to say--'How we are doing the scoundrels!' and at which we\nafterwards laughed very heartily. It was no time for laughter then.\n\n\"'I see a boat putting off yonder,' cried the chief officer, applying a\ntelescope to his eye, 'with a dead body lying in her stern.'\n\n\"A deadly terror struck through my heart; but, with assumed\nindifference, I replied--'Ay, Gonsalvo has got that fellow at last;'\nmaking it seem that the dead body seen from afar was my own.\n\n\"'It is fortunate that he has been caught,' said the other, laying down\nhis telescope; 'Gonsalvo has made the widow and her son answerable for\nhim with their lives.'\n\n\"The last words were scarcely audible, by reason of the distance which\nwe interposed between us and the vessel. With the strokes of our oars\ngradually increased both in frequency and in length, we flew rapidly\nthrough the water. As we receded from, the other boat with Gonsalvo's\nblood-boltered carcase, which the chief officer had seen from afar, drew\nnear the vessel. When far beyond the reach of small arms and of grape,\nalthough still within the longest range of the cannon, we could see her\ncome alongside of the vessel; and then multitudes of faces were\nstretched over, or thrust out of bulwark and port-hole; a great\ncommotion was observable on board; the vessel, making a yaw round,\nturned her broadside towards us; twelve columns of smoke darted from her\nside, and as many thunders opened their voices, while through the air a\nshower of iron came hurling towards us. Every bullet fell beyond, or\nshort, or wide of us; and in a little while the projecting south-eastern\npoint of the island screened us from the fire and from the view of the\nenemy.\n\n\"After having doubled this point, two passages opened before us--one\nwide and inviting, which led eastward into the Atlantic--the other\nnarrow, and not distinguishable from numberless other similar openings\nin the rocks, which led to nothing. Into the former, we threw our hats,\nthat our pursuers might be led to suppose that our boat, injured by a\nrandom shot had foundered; through the intricacies of the latter, to me\nwell known, we wound our way north-westward, until we had gained the\nsheet of water on the other side of the island, where we found Tom and\nthe girl in my boat awaiting our approach in the deepest anxiety, their\nears having been startled by the thunder of the broadside, while they\nknew not the result. At the sight of the lonely, desolate girl, sitting\nin terror, by the side of her rough-looking, but kind-hearted conductor,\nmy heart was thrilled with compassion; and, when we drew near, I\npointed, delightedly, to her father, on whom she continued to fix an\neager, wistful look, until Tom, lightly lifting her up, and leaping on\nboard of us, as we brushed by, had placed her in his arms. Tom, at my\ninstance, came and seated himself by me in the stern, where he kept\ngazing for some time at the outporings of the purest of all\naffections--filial and parental love; and then turning to me, and\nspeaking with deep emotion, he told me that it was by him that James\nStray had been first led away; that, since his miserable end he had made\nfrequent attempts at prayer, but that then an awful pang had always shot\nthrough his head and heart. 'If,' continued he, 'we shall be able to\nsave that father and daughter, will that pass away?' Anxious to give the\npoor fellow useful and innocent advice, I told him that what he spoke of\narose from conscience, which, slumbering at other times, always awoke\nduring prayer; and there was nothing pacified the conscience like a good\ndeed, humbly offered to God in the Redeemer's name; that, after having\nreturned to an honest course of life, he would obtain what good people\ncalled peace of conscience; and that then his devotions would be as soft\nand sweet as they had ever been when a child at his mother's knee. He\nseemed very grateful for these words of instruction, declaring that he\nwas ready to shed for me the last drop of his blood. Bending forward now\ntoward the father, and addressing him for the first time, I assured him\nthat his daughter had been restored to him unsullied, that we were\nourselves in the act of escaping from the pirates, and that we would\neither save him or perish along with him.\n\n\"A little before sunset we came under the north-western line of rocks,\nwhose long shadows concealed us from distant observation; and, entering\nthe passage through them, which I had so often traversed, we soon\narrived at the place where my bark was lying snug in the secluded\nisland. At the sight of her, the seamen were delighted. They all leaped\non board simultaneously, and began tumultuously to examine her in every\npart. 'To work, lads,' cried I, 'that she may be made ready for sea as\nsoon as possible.' To work accordingly we fell. Fires were kindled,\npitch melted, oakum, and all things necessary, were found in my stores.\nThe work was continued during the night--when the ebbing tide left her\nhigh and dry--by the light of torches of pinewood, smeared with tar,\nwhich were stuck around, or borne in the hands of the father and\ndaughter; and, after seven or eight hours of unremitted labour, the\nouter planking of the vessel was carefully cauked, and her hull,\nthoroughly repaired in every part. Leaving the carpenter and two other\nhands to keep watch and repair the water casks, the rest of us turned in\nto enjoy a few hours of sleep. The light of day beheld us again at work;\nand several hours behoved still to elapse before the masts could be\nhoisted, the sails bent, and the running rigging rove. Meanwhile, an\nanchor was carried out to sea, and the cable laid over the windlass; my\nlong hoarded stores of biscuit, junk, and dried fish, were put on board,\nwith a few culinary utensils, a sufficiency of loose timber for fuel,\nand of ballast for trimming the vessel; and the water casks, filled at a\nneighbouring fountain by the father and daughter, were rolled down to\nthe beach, one by one. The work being nearly over in every department,\nwe continued, some on board, and some on shore, patiently to await the\nrising of the tide, now nearly at the full; and the father had very\njudiciously thought of climbing a neighbouring height to reconnoitre. On\ngaining the summit, he was observed to return in all haste, and\nseemingly in great terror. The daughter was running off to meet him, but\narrested by me, she was given in charge to her old protector; while I\ncried out--'To the water casks, one and all.' So, while they were in the\nact of being swung on board, she continued to struggle and to scream in\nTom's arms. The poor girl's agitation proceeded from an interesting\ncause; but it was very provoking to be unnecessarily deprived, at such a\ntime, of a valuable hand. However, the last water cask was safely\nstowed, when the father arrived with the alarming intelligence, that a\nnumber of boats, full of men, were on the east coast of the island; and\nthat a party, landed from one of them, were in the act of ascending the\nopposite acclivity. The daughter was on the point of springing into his\narms; but I had her very unceremoniously swung on board, calling her an\nunmanageable vixen. The father, and all the rest of us immediately\nfollowed; and then, having thrust our handspikes into the windlass--just\nas the party of which we had received information were seen on the top\nof the neighbouring height--we made, with our united strength, one\ndesperate heave. A grinding sound, heard at the bottom of the vessel,\nshewed she had been dislodged; but the cable had snapped, and I threw\nmyself down in despair, giving up all for lost. The dexterity of the\nseamen saved us. The cable, while on the point of escaping, was caught,\njammed, and held fast, until it was spliced in such a manner as to be\ncapable of enduring as great a strain as ever. Laying our strength on\nmore cautiously, the grinding sound was again heard, and we affected a\nquarter turn of the windlass. Coil after coil of the cable now passed\nover the revolving beam, without farther incident; and at length the\nvessel, floating smoothly in deep water, was hauled out to the offing,\njust as a hundred armed ruffians, having surmounted the neighbouring\nheights, were rushing down, with infuriated yells, towards us. The ample\nfolds of our pointed lateen sails were then spread to the winds; and we\njoyfully proceeded on our way, while the baffled scoundrels stood\nlooking at us from afar; and we sat in safety looking at them, with the\nprey that we had rescued out of their merciless hands.\n\n\"When our feelings had a little subsided after this excitement, and\nwhile the most skilful seamen were superintending the adjustment of the\nballast, and studying the properties of the vessel, I went and sat down\nby the father and daughter. I begged of the daughter that she would\nexcuse the hasty words which I had been led to use, in my anxiety to\nleave such a dangerous shore. Her father assured me that he could easily\nsee the kindness of my heart amid the prompt decided manner which the\nhour of danger required; and I assured him that there was not a man on\nboard who did not regard the saving of him and of his daughter as the\nbest part of the enterprise. He began to pour forth the warmest\nexpressions of gratitude, when my attention was called to the pilotage\nof the vessel, and nothing more passed between us at that time. To\nconduct the vessel through such intricate and precarious passages,\nrequired the utmost care and unremitted attention; but at length, just\nas the sun was gilding the watery waste with its setting radiance, we\nreached the open sea, at the very place where I had been some years\nbefore with the Spanish boy. I now asked the father where he would wish\nto be carried.\n\n\"'To Havannah,' said he, with tears gushing down his cheeks.\n\n\"Upon this we directed our course, at a venture, a good way southward\nfrom the point at which the sun was setting; and, as we had no compass,\nwe resolved to steer by the wind which was blowing steadily from one\npoint. We then made all snug for the night, keeping as much sail up as\nthe little vessel could safely carry; and, a proper watch having been\nset, the remainder of the weary crew were sent to rest.\n\n\"The father and daughter were led by me into a small cabin under the\nstern deck; and they, aware of the scantiness of our accommodation,\ninsisted that I should stay with them, when I was on the point of\nwithdrawing that they might be left by themselves. The father was placed\nin the middle, the daughter on one side of him, and I stretched my weary\nlimbs on the other. I remained for long supine, motionless, and unable\nto sleep; and thus I came to overhear the following dialogue, which was\ncarried on in the purest Spanish, between the father and his daughter:--\n\n\"'Papa,' said she, 'are the French all so much better than the Spanish?'\n\n\"'My dear Carolina, why that question?'\n\n\"'He spoke to me first in French.'\n\n\"'He speaks French well, but with a strong English accent. His\ncompanions are all British sailors; certainly the most extraordinary\npeople in the world. A party of these men, lately landing in a drunken\nfrolic, took one of the strongest fortresses in Spain, which the Spanish\nKing would give half the wealth of his dominions to recover.'\n\n\"She then gave him a detailed account of all that had befallen\nher--greatly exaggerating my prowess and that of Tom--and dwelling much\non our kindness, in having, at her instance, made such a perilous\nattempt to save him.\n\n\"'Well,' said he, 'the British are truly a noble people; I feel easy now\nthat I am in their hands, although there is a mystery in our\ndeliverance, and in that extraordinary young man to whom his companions\nseem so devoted, which I cannot fathom.' Having joined in their\ndiscourse with an apology, I fully explained the mystery he spoke of,\ntelling him who I was, and under what unhappy circumstances I had been\ncarried away from my native land, while on the very eve of marriage. I\ntold him also of his daughter's devoted filial love; how she had refused\nto escape, unless he could be saved along with her; and how she had\nabsolutely forced us on to do what we did, when we were all shrinking\nfrom the risk, and unwilling to incur further danger. While straining to\nhis heart his dutiful child, he made me acquainted with his own history.\nIt appeared that he, Don Pedro by name, was a Spanish gentleman well\nknown in Havannah, who, notwithstanding the war between our countries,\ncould easily procure for me a speedy return home; that an attachment\nhaving arisen between his daughter Carolina, and Alonzo, the eldest son\nof a noble family, at whose haughty bearing he had taken offence, he had\nsent her away to a sister of his, resident in one of the Windward\nIslands; that Alonzo's father and he, having afterwards come to a better\nunderstanding, he had gone, in person, to bring back his daughter, with\na view to her immediate marriage, and that, while on their way home,\nthey had the misfortune to be taken by the pirates. 'What became of the\nvessel in which we sailed,' added he, 'and her crew, I know not; but I\napprehend the worst.'\n\n\"After this exchange of confidence, gratitude on their parts, and the\ninexpressible satisfaction of having achieved such a deliverance on\nmine, united our hearts together; and in the society of the noble\nSpaniard and his amiable daughter, I, after my long years of lonely\nwretchedness, felt for a time the hours pass rapidly away. There was I\nknow not what of romantic interest in our peculiar situation. A\nhurricane would soon have drowned us all; but the wind blew fair and\nsteady. The prospect around us was unvarying, but one of which the eye\ncould not soon grow weary. At noon, when the sun, vertical in that\nlatitude, poured down his irradiation from the zenith, he appeared like\na glorious ornament in the centre of the canopy of the heavens, from\nwhich they descended in a uniform arch of unclouded blue until they\nrested on the farthest edge of the waste of water, over whose billows\nour little bark was gallantly bounding, and which, wherever the eye was\nturned, seemed to stretch\n\n    'Far into silent regions, blue and pale.'\n\nOne cloud there was which rested on my mind. All seemed to regard me\nwith confidence--to look on me for direction; but I had no confidence in\nmyself. Unaided by compass or nautical science, we were steering almost\nat random, vaguely guessing at a south-westerly course, from the\nposition of the rising and setting sun.\n\n\"In this manner, week after week passed away, until one morning, when I\nwas awakened by the hand of Don Pedro laid on my shoulder. He seemed to\nbe in great agitation; and I hastily arose and followed him forward.\nWhen we reached the open part of the vessel, he raised his arm and\npointed to where, over a little aft the weather-bow, we could observe,\nhung high in air, the inverted images of a number of ships, with a large\nvessel in the centre, and a line of coast stretching hard by.\n\n\"'Sir,' said he, 'I know that to be the coast and shipping of Havannah.'\n\n\"'All's well,' cried I; 'who is at the helm?'\n\n\"'Bill Bowline, your honour.'\n\n\"'Bill, lay your bows right upon the main-mast of that large vessel\nwhich you see looming in the distance.' 'Ay, ay, sir.' 'Steer directly\ntowards her, and try to keep your course exactly, guided, as usual, by\nthe position of your sails, relatively to the wind.' 'Ay, ay, sir.'\nTurning now to Don Pedro, I said--'Admirably has he done his work; he\nseems a perfect sailing made easy, or every mariner his own compass.'\nWithout noticing my pleasantry, my poor friend said, with a very serious\nlook--'You see the care with which the mother of God watches over the\nchildren of the true church.' Carolina having asked me the day before,\nwhat I would do to my wicked cousin; and I having said that I would\nmerely give him a long forgiving look, she farther asked if I belonged\nto the _true church_; and on my saying that I belonged to a very humble\nchurch, which, however, was faithful in teaching all her children to\nlook up to God, in the Redeemer's name, with the desire of being good,\nthat they might obtain good, Don Pedro seemed to wish that such a\ndelicate subject should be dropped. Now, however, he conceived himself\nto stand on high vantage ground, and appealed to the aerial reflection\nas a splendid miracle wrought for his behoof. I told him that what he\nsaw was a common natural phenomenon, with which our able seamen were all\nquite familiar; but he shook his head, doubting or disbelieving. 'Noble\nsir,' said I, 'you understand English, listen;--Bill Bowline, at what\ndistance may these ships be, on which you are now steering?'\n\n\"'Sure to raise them, sir, in the course of the day.'\n\n\"'Mark that,' said I, assuring Don Pedro that in all likelihood he would\nbe at home and in the bosom of his family before night. If the blush of\nshame which the children of the true church are wont to exhibit when\ntheir supposed or pretended miracles are most satisfactorily accounted\nfor on natural principles, did for a moment pass over the features of\nDon Pedro, it was soon chased away by excessive joy. During the day, he\nsuffered much from impatience; hope and fear had by turns the possession\nof his mind. But, at length, after many a long tedious hour of watching,\nhe beheld a line of blue land rising above the edge of the horizon,\nwhich gradually unfolded itself into the town, coast, and shipping of\nHavannah.\n\n\"At the request of her father, no information as to what we had seen and\nwere led to expect was given to Carolina. He was afraid that our hopes\nmight not be realized, and that she might have to endure the pangs of\ndisappointment. Accordingly, she was in the very act of speaking of her\nhome, of her family, and of her lover, as dear objects that she might\nnever again see, when her father entered the cabin in an ecstasy of joy,\ncrying--'Here they are all now, just as we saw them in the morning;\nonly, their masts point upward, and not down. Not a moment longer,'\ncried he, 'shall my dear daughter be kept in ignorance.' So catching her\nin his arms, he led her forward to the bows, and pointed out to her the\ndistinct outlines of her native shore. She silently gazed on it for an\ninstant; then tears of joy flowed down her cheek. To me, to Tom, to all\nour companions, severally, she testified her gratitude in broken\naccents, calling us her dear deliverers, and invoking the blessings of\nHeaven upon our heads. The men were in raptures with her; and, wishing\nto improve the opportunity afforded for drawing vividly forth their best\naffections, I said to them--'Only to think, now, that there should be\nhearts, either in earth or hell, capable of misusing a fine creature\nlike that!' A low murmuring sound, as if of profound deliberation,\nfollowed these words; after which Bill Bowline arose as the orator of\nthe party, and, having given his trousers a hitch, he said that it was\nthe contraband trade that had thrown them among such abominable wretches\nas the Buccaneers; and that they were resolved never to break the laws\nof Old England any more, for that they now saw, that when once people\nbegan to do evil, there was no saying where they might end; which\nresolution gave to Don Pedro great satisfaction. The greybeard of Jack\nFid was now handed round as long as it contained a drop of liquor; after\nwhich it was broken, its fragments, along with a variety of other\nmoveables, were thrown into the sea, and three hearty cheers were given.\n\n\"In a little while, the bark lay alongside of the quay of Havannah. Don\nPedro and his daughter, having been safely handed out, sunk down on\ntheir knees, and the men went and sat down at a little distance, as if\nanxious to avoid the appearance of wishing to intrude. Feeling sympathy\nfor the brave fellows, and admiring their motives, I went and seated\nmyself in the midst of them, saying--'From me, at least, you shall not\nbe parted;' while an unpleasant suspicion arose in my mind, lest we\nshould, after all, be left in a land of strangers, lonely and unowned.\nIn this I did our kind friends wrong. Having devoutly rendered their\nthanks to Heaven, they came and begged us to follow them. By way of\ngiving effect to the feelings of my companions, I said that we would be\nsorry to distress their hospitality; upon which Carolina looked first\namazed, then angry, and then burst into tears--'This from you!' said\nshe--'from my preserver--from my second father!' Forthwith she and her\nnatural father drove us all before them, like a flock of reluctant\ngeese, to their residence--a splendid one it was, in which we met as\nwarm a reception as grateful hearts could give, or the unfriended\ndesire.\n\n\"Next day several high officers of the Spanish army and navy waited upon\nme, and made particular inquiries respecting the pirate islands, with\nwhose locality my long residence had made me well acquainted. Our\nnations were at war, but my heart took fire at the idea of terminating\nmy exile by a noble stroke--by contributing to the fall of the\nBuccaneer, the common enemy of the civilized world. I, therefore,\noffered my own services, and those of my companions, on the express\ncondition that, having left our large armed vessels so soon as we had\narrived off the islands, we should venture among their intricacies in\nboats, with a sufficient force, and endeavour to take the enemy by\nsurprise, and to carry him by boarding. This plan having, after some\nhesitation, been agreed to, off we set immediately; and, in three weeks,\nwe returned in triumph, having captured both the pirate vessels, which\nwere found lying, in supposed security, at their two stations, and\ncompletely destroyed that nest of odious ruffians, to the great joy of\nall the West Indian islands. My companions fought like lions; two of\nthem fell, and several were wounded. On our return, we were loaded with\nhonours; a great sum of money was given to me, for the purpose, as was\nsaid, of buying a sword; handsome sums were also given to each of my\ncompanions, which they put into my hands, and which, with what I shall\nadd to them out of mine, will enable me to settle them all comfortably\nin life. During our absence, Don Pedro and his daughter had suffered\nmuch from anxiety on our account; they received us with the liveliest\njoy on our return--they mourned for the slain--they nursed the wounded\nwith the tenderest care, and their house became, for a time, our home.\nTheir kindness led us to prolong our stay far beyond the time necessary\nfor the recovery of the wounded; and I had the satisfaction of assisting\nat the marriage and of being assured of the happiness of Alonzo and\nCarolina. At length, we parted from our grateful and warm-hearted\nfriends; and a government packet conveyed us all safely across the\nAtlantic to Cadiz.\n\n\"At Cadiz, I found that the letters which Don Pedro had given to me, and\nprocured for me, would enable us all, notwithstanding the war with\nFrance and Spain, to pass unmolested through both countries; and so,\nhaving converted our wealth into bills, payable in Antwerp, I travelled\nover land to this neutral port, along with my companions, as the\nreadiest way to obtain a safe and a speedy passage to Britain. At\nAntwerp, I again converted my foreign bills into others which were\npayable in England; while my companions went down to the quay at my\nrequest, to look out for an immediate passage thither. On finding that\nno immediate passage could be procured, I purchased, at their\nsuggestion, a small sloop, which was lying in one of the docks for sale;\non board of which, confident in my lately acquired nautical science, and\nin the long-tried seamanship of my companions, I proceeded straight\nacross the German Ocean; steering direct, not for the latitude of any\nof England's great seaports, but for that of the home of my fathers, and\nthe mouth of my native river. Having a good wind, we drove our little\nvessel, at a gallant rate, through the water. Our hearts being gay, our\nspirits high, and our stores supplied with abundance of everything, our\nvoyage became one continued scene of fun, festivity, and folly, in which\nI largely participated, until an event occurred which brought us to our\nsenses. On the sixth morning of our passage, it was found that the\nvessel had sprung a leak--that there were four feet of water in the\nhold. The pumps enabled us to sink it a little; but it afterwards gained\nupon us to such an alarming degree that the carpenter was in doubt\nwhether the vessel could be kept afloat for twenty-four hours longer.\nThe wind also began to die away, and so thick a fog settled around us\nthat we could see nothing but our foundering vessel, and the water into\nwhich she was ready to sink, looking black and dismal below. While\nmatters were in this state, a thickening of the darkness came to be\nobservable right a-head at the lower part of the fog; which, while every\neye was fixed upon it, rose higher, and showed an irregular outline. It\nwas declared to be land; and we were not long kept in suspense. In a\nlittle while, a grinding sound was heard at the bottom of the vessel,\nfollowed by a slight concussion; and, in about fifteen minutes, during\nwhich the vessel, stripped of every inch of canvass, continued to grind\nand to strike, she settled down and remained fast. I immediately secured\nmy valuable papers on my person, and the men set about making\npreparations for leaving the vessel. We had neglected to provide\nourselves with a boat; but two or three of the men swam to the shore,\nwhich proved to be at no great distance, carrying the end of a rope\nalong with them; by the aid of which all the rest of us were enabled to\nreach the land in safety.\n\n\"Thus did my seven companions and I terminate our adventures. Once in\nsafety, I began to laugh heartily at our mishap. '_O passi graviora\nmecum_,' cried I, gaily, as they seemed to stand down-hearted in their\ndripping garments; 'it is on no desolate or inhospitable shore that we\nare now cast. Stay there for a little, till I see where we are, and look\nout for shelter.' With that I went a little way inland, until, having\nobserved the appearance of distant lights on my left, I ran in all haste\nin that direction, scarcely feeling the ground under my feet. In about\nhalf an hour, I came to a number of buildings which I seemed to know; I\nfound a narrow lane, at the end of it a door, and within the door a\nstair, which I seemed to know. My heart began to beat violently. Having\nmounted the stair, and gone along a dark passage at the head of it, I\ncame to a door, on opening which, the forms of the very friends, after\nleaving whom I was carried away, seemed to appear before me, as at their\nusual meeting. All gazed on me; but none of them spoke except old Adam\nMuzzy, who was in his usual state of inebriety, which so strangely\nbrightens one part of his faculties, and darkens another. Recognising\nme, and having some very indistinct perception of circumstances, he\nexclaimed, in the usual style of his address to a retired and returned\nbottle-companion--'Guide me! ye hae been lang away; but we hae thocht\nthat ye would be back, for ye left yer hat ahint ye. Sit doon, man, and\ntak aff yer glass.'\n\n\"The sight of my hat hanging where I left it, and the daized dreamy look\nof the creature, with his half-shut eye, so affected me, that I sunk\nunconsciously down into the chair to which he had pointed, painfully\nimpressed with the idea that I had only been dreaming of home, as I had\noften done, in the lonely isles of the West Indian seas. It was my name\nloudly pronounced by the friendly voice of Plainworth which first awoke\nme from my stupor.\n\n\"'My dear Mary,' said he, as he concluded, 'he will tell you what were\nthe first questions which I asked.'\n\n\"'Indeed,' said I, addressing her, 'his two first questions were both\nabout you; and the second of them was, whether you were still\nunmarried?'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Amid the deep silence which followed this narrative; the effect of\nwhich was heightened by the near interest which each had in the\nprincipal actor, a soft diffident tap was heard at the outer door;\nwhich, having been opened, the whole party of old friends, whom William\nhad so startled by his unlooked-for appearance among them that evening,\ncame pouring in tumultuously, with the trampling of many feet, and the\nsound of many voices mingled together. We could have seen them far\nenough off, being in that quiet kind of heart-absorbing felicity, to\nwhich boisterous intrusion is most irksome. But it presently appeared,\nthat, in their coming, there was no want of consideration. Besides\nattending to the wants of the shipwrecked mariners, as they had\nundertaken, they had employed a number of the resident fishermen, with\ntheir boats, to look after the wreck now lying dry upon a ledge of\nrocks, with her bottom staved in, by whom every article of value on\nboard had been saved. They described William's companions as the\nstrangest set of fellows whom they had ever met with. 'They were close\nenough at first,' said they. 'Many significant looks having been\nexchanged between them when the glass began to circle round; but when\nthey did open, what strange stories they told of the scenes which they\nhad passed through! And, oh, how they spoke of you, Mr. William! They\nsaid that you were the best and bravest of landsmen--one whom no dangers\ncould daunt, whom no difficulties could subdue, and who had so kind a\nheart withal, that you were always more attentive to their wants than\nyour own. One of them, whom they called Tom Clewgarnet, declared it to\nbe his firm belief that you were just a kind of an angel, who had been\nsent down to save them all from the pit.' It appeared, in short, that\nour kind friends had been most attentive to the poor fellows; and that,\nwith the powerful aid of the fishermen whom they had employed, and who\nhad joined them after having finished their work, they had succeeded in\nsending them all to bed in a very comfortable state of inebriety; they\nthemselves, also, as their appearance strongly testified, having\nsuffered somewhat in the cause.\n\n\"After this gratifying intelligence had been given, which was received\nwith the warmest acknowledgments, the whole party earnestly entreated\nWilliam to consent to act his part in a notable ploy of Mr Macquils;\nwhich was, that, as his cousin was taking steps for entering into\npossession, and was to visit Elphinstone House the next day, he should\nmake his first public appearance in the very heart of his proceedings.\n\n\"'The people of the house where you threw off your wet garments,' said\nthey, 'enter heartily into the plan; and, as we have been careful in\nkeeping the secret, there is no person, either in town or country, who\nhas any knowledge of your return.'\n\n\"William gratified them by a ready acquiescence; indeed, the proposal\ncoincided exactly with his own previous intentions; the mortification\nwhich his cousin would receive being all the punishment which he\nintended for him. The necessary arrangements having been agreed on, and\ncommitted to Mr Macquil, the first projector of the plan, the whole\nparty were permitted to withdraw, on condition that they would favour us\nwith their company to dinner next day, when William promised to make a\nfull disclosure of all that had befallen him. When we were again by\nourselves, William said to me, in a whisper--'You must aid me, my\nfriend, in making immediate arrangements for facilitating the escape of\nmy cousin. The testimony of those people whom I have with me, would be\nsure to convict him; and, as they hate him most cordially on my account,\nthat testimony, though it would implicate themselves, would be given\nwith great good-will. Heaven knows, that I have no wish that, on the\nscaffold, kindred blood should flow!'\n\n\"Mary expressed an extreme desire to see the men who had passed through\nsuch strange scenes; and she begged of William, that he would take her\nwith him for that purpose; adding, diffidently--'I believe that, after\nthis, I will always be afraid when you are out of my sight.'\n\n\"Early next morning, the long disused wardrobe of William was procured\nfrom the mansion of the Elphinstones. While William was still sleeping\nprofoundly, exhausted with the toils of the preceding day, Mr Macquil\nand I made a careful selection of such articles of dress as we judged\nmost suitable for him to appear in, on the approaching great occasion.\nWe made choice of a suit which nearly resembled his ordinary forenoon\nattire--clothed in which, it was impossible for any one who knew him to\nmistake his identity. His features were thinner than before; but he was\nimmensely improved in his general appearance. His person was more firmly\nset--his carriage more staid and dignified; and, while he retained the\nsame winning mildness of manner, there was in his eye that manly,\nresolute look, indicating energy, intrepidity, and force of\ncharacter--which familiarity with toils and dangers, gallently borne and\nnobly triumphed over, alone can give. Of the feelings of Mary, when she\nbeheld her lover arrayed once more in his former vestments, looking so\nnoble, so kind, and so like what he was before, it is impossible to\nspeak. Their happiness, when they met next morning, was more tranquil\nthan the evening before, but not less profound. At breakfast, Mr Macquil\nwas the principal speaker--full of the all-engrossing project which he\nhad in view. Immediately after breakfast, we were to have set out; but,\nhour after hour passed away, while the lovers remained together, 'all\nthe world forgot;' and while poor Mr Macquil and I and the horses were\nwaiting impatiently at the door. The impatience of Mr Macquil began to\nexceed all bounds; and a scout having brought intelligence that the\nchariots and horsemen of the enemy had been beheld approaching at a\ndistance, he became very angry. He broke in abruptly upon the lovers--he\ntook William by the arm, and led him off--promising, however, by way of\ncomfort, that that separation should not be of longer duration than half\nan hour.\n\n\"Once in the saddle, off we set at full gallop, through by-roads, which\nbrought us to a thicket in the rear of Elphinstone House, where some old\ndomestics of the family, with delight vividly expressed in their\ncountenances, were ready to receive our horses. Entering the house by a\nback door, and ascending the stairs, we heard, as we were passing the\nmain entrance hall, the party without loudly thundering for admittance\nat the front door, while a little urchin of a boy, evidently in the\nsecret, was pertly screaming to them through the key-hole--'The key--the\nkey! Can ye no stop a wee? What signifies a bit minute or twa?'\nProceeding forthwith into a spacious apartment, which directly opened\ninto the entrance hall, and which had been fixed upon as the most proper\nplace for the scene which was to be enacted, Mr Macquil conveyed William\ninto a small by-room, where he was to remain in concealment until the\nproper time for his appearance: and shutting the door with a triumphant\nbang, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.\n\n\"Events now rapidly followed each other. The preconcerted signal that\nall was prepared was given--the impatient party at the front door were\nadmitted--and presently the cousin stalked into the room, followed by\nthe sheriff, his officers, and our friends, with many other spectators\nwhom they had brought along with them. I was standing at the window; Mr\nMacquil was pacing up and down the room with a huge white handkerchief\napplied to his eyes, and uttering uncouth sounds of wo, which, however,\nsometimes had a greater resemblance to laughter than to lamentation.\n\n\"'Sir,' said the cousin, 'we come here for business, and have no time\nfor nonsense.'\n\n\"'I assure you,' said the other, 'that it is far from being my wish that\nthe proper heir of this house should be longer kept out of his goodly\nheritage. You will find the only obstacle to your being put into\nimmediate possession in that closet; and there is the key.'\n\n\"'Hold,' cries the sheriff; 'too fast, sir, by one half.'\n\n\"A look of peculiar meaning from Mr Macquil arrested for an instant the\nsheriff's attention.\n\n\"Meanwhile the cousin having received the key, hurried to the closet,\nopened wide the door, and William walked forward into the room. He was\nrecognised in an instant, as was evident from the acclamations which\nfollowed his appearance.\n\n\"'Ha! ha! ha!' quoth the sheriff, 'who could have expected this from\nyou, Mr Macquil? You are positively become as arch as a romping, roguish\nyoung boarding-school girl of fifteen. Mr Elphinstone, give me leave to\nsay that I never was more delighted--never more happy.' Briefly\nreturning the compliments of the worthy sheriff, William fixed his eyes\nupon his cousin with a look in which there was reproach but no\nmalignity.\n\n\"'Cousin,' said he--'one with me in lineage, in kindred, and in blood--I\nhave been indebted to you for a long and involuntary excursion abroad,\nwhich has been attended with most woful results. Sir, while I abhor, I\nforgive--I pity; in proof of which, I give you timeous warning that\nthere is intelligence from the other side of the Atlantic, which\nconcerns you more nearly than any farther interest which you can\npossibly have in my inheritance.' With that, the bad man grew deadly\npale--he trembled from head to foot--he looked fearfully at the\nsheriff--and he hurried out, followed by me. After a long pause, during\nwhich he seemed to be thinking profoundly, the sheriff said--'There is\nreally a strange meaning in your words, Mr Elphinstone!'--\n\n\"'Which,' replied William, 'I will fully explain in a few days.'\n\n\"Whenever the facts of the case came to be known, the officers of\njustice were sent in full cry after the criminal; but, with the aid of\nthe generous kinsman whom he had so foully wronged, he effected his\nescape, and was never heard of more.\n\n\"In a short time Elphinstone House again became the residence of its\nrightful proprietor; and, within less than a fortnight from the date of\nhis return, William and Mary were united in the holy bands of wedlock,\nto be separated no more. I was the best-man; and a happier pair never\nwas seen. They were happy in themselves and in their family.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Wonderlove, \"from that family the dule passed away.\"\n\n\"And you observe,\" replied the other with a smile, \"that the head of\nthat house really did marry a maiden of low degree!\"\n\n\"Well, now, is not that a strange--a strange--a very strange!\"--\n\n\"It is a strange coincidence,\" said Plainworth, \"but nothing more. What\nmore natural than that such a woman should engage the affections of such\na man? and as for the subsequent prosperity of their numerous and bonny\nfamily, it is an old saying and a true--'That being good, naturally\nleads to the obtaining of good.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTRIALS AND TRIUMPHS.\n\n\nIt was in the autumn of 1825, that a stranger was wandering by the side\nof the silver lakes and over the majestic mountains of romantic\nCumberland. He was near the side of blue Keswick, and the light wind was\nscattering, in showers, the death-touched leaves upon the bright waters.\nSuddenly, the face of the lake became troubled, and dark ripples rose\nupon its bosom, as if the chained spirit of a storm struggled thereon to\nbe free, and moved them. A louder rustling and a sound of agitation was\nheard among the trees, as though it were there also. Thick clouds\ngathered before the face of the sun, and darkness, like an angel's\nwrath, rolled along the brow of the mighty Skiddaw. In a few moments the\nthunder was heard bursting from the mountain sides, and its echoes\nreverbed, as the groaning of the great hills, through the glens.\nThunder, lightning, and tempest, gathered round, and burst over the\nstranger. The cattle crowded together upon the hills, and the birds of\nheaven sought shelter in the woods. The stranger, also, looked around\nfor a place of refuge.\n\nBefore him, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, lay a\nsequestered and beautiful villa--round which mountain, wood, and water,\nand craggy cliff, were gathered--with a sloping lawn before it. It was a\nspot which the genius of romance might have made its habitation. The\nmansion was in keeping with the scenery, and towards it the stranger\nrepaired for shelter.\n\nHe was requesting permission of a servant of the household, to be\nsheltered until the storm passed over, when the occupier of the mansion\ncame himself to the door, and, with the frankness of an old friend, held\nout his hand, saying--\"Come in--thou art welcome. At such a time the\nbirds of heaven seek shelter, and find it in the thick branches of the\nwoods; and surely man has a right to expect refuge in the habitations of\nhis fellow-men. Follow me, friend, and rest here until the storm be\npast.\"\n\nThe stranger bowed, thanked him, and followed him; but, ere they had sat\ndown, the owner of the mansion again addressed his visitant,\nsaying--\"The inhabitants of the East ask no questions of strangers until\nthey have given them water to wash their feet, and a change of garments,\nif required. I know no excuse which the people of the West can offer,\nwhy they should be less hospitable. I perceive that thy apparel is\nalready drenched; therefore, my servant will provide thee with a change\nof raiment. Go, do as I request, that no harm overtake thee; and, in the\nmeantime, I will order refreshment, after which, thou and I shall\nconverse together.\"\n\nThere was a kindness in the manner, and an expression of benevolence in\nthe aspect of his entertainer, which at once gratified and interested\nthe stranger. The latter appeared to be about forty; but his hospitable\nentertainer was at least threescore. Care had engraven some wrinkles\nupon his brow, and the \"silverings\" of age were beginning to mingle\nthickly with his once brown hair; but his ruddy and open countenance\nspoke of the generosity of his disposition and the health of his\nconstitution.\n\nWhen the stranger had put on dry raiment and partaken of food, his host\nordered liquors to be brought; and when they were placed upon the table,\nhe again addressed his guest, and said--\"Here, sir, thou hast claret,\nport, and sherry--my cellar affords no other wines. Therefore, take thy\nchoice. Be merry and wise; but, above all--be at home. The wayfaring\nman, and the man whom a storm drives into our house among the mountains,\nshould need no second invitation. With me he is welcome to whatsoever\nis set before him. Therefore, use no ceremony, but consult thine own\ntaste. For myself I am no wine-drinker. Its coldness agrees not with my\nstomach, and I prefer the distillation of our northern hills to the\njuice of the grapes of the sunny south. Therefore, friend, while I brew\nmy punch, help thyself to whatsoever best pleaseth thee.\"\n\nThe stranger again thanked him, and having something of nationality\nabout him, preferred joining him in a bowl prepared from the \"mountain\ndew.\" They quickly discovered that they were what the world calls\n\"kindred spirits,\" and, before an hour had passed, the stranger told\nwhence he came, what he had been, and what his intentions, in visiting\nthat part of the country, were; but his name, he said, he did not intend\nto divulge to any one for a time. He might make it known in a few days,\nshould he remain in the neighbourhood, and, perhaps, he never would.\n\n\"Well,\" said his host, \"thou hast told me a considerable part of thy\nhistory, but thou hast withheld thy name: I will tell thee _all_ mine;\nbut, to be even with thee, thou shalt not know my name either, (provided\nthou dost not know it already,) beyond that my Christian name is Robert.\n\n\"I am (continued he) the first-born of a numerous family, and am\ntwenty-four years older than the youngest of my parents' children. My\nfather was what is called a statesman in this part of the country; by\nwhich you are not to understand that he was in any way connected with\npolitics, or had any part in governing the affairs of the nation, but,\nsimply, that he was the possessor of an estate containing some eighty\nacres, and which had descended to him from his ancestors, unimpaired and\nunencumbered. He was a kind husband and an indulgent father; but he was\nprovident as neither. A better-hearted man never breathed. He was\ngenerous even to the committing of a crime against his own family; and\nthe misfortune, the error--I might say the curse of his life--was, that\nhe never knew the value of a shilling. It has been said that I possess\nmy father's failing in this respect; but, through his example at all\ntimes as a warning before me, I have been enabled to regulate it, and to\nkeep it within controllable limits. You have often heard it said, 'Take\ncare of the shillings, and the pounds will take care of themselves;' but\nthis will not hold good in every instance--as was the case with my\nfather. He appeared to be one of those who did not stop to consider the\nvalue between a pound and a shilling. He was naturally a man of a strong\nintellect and a sound judgment; but his impulses were stronger still. He\nwas a being of impulses. They hurried him away, and he stopped not to\nconsult with calmer reason. With him to feel was to act. He generally\nsaw and repented his error, before another had an opportunity of telling\nhim of it, but not before it was too late; and these self-made\ndiscoveries never prevented him from falling into the same errors again.\nIn the kindliness of his own heart he took _all_ mankind to be good; he\nbelieved them to be better than they really were; or rather he believed\nno man to be a bad man until he had found him to be so. Now, sir, when I\nsay that in this respect my father exercised too much both of faith and\ncharity, thou must not think that I am shut up here like a cynic in this\nmountain solitude, to inflict upon every passenger my railings against\nhis race. On the contrary, I have seen much of the world, and\nexperienced much of its buffetings, of its storms, its calms, and its\nsunshine; I have also seen much of men; and I have seldom, I would\nalmost say, I have never, met with one who had no redeeming quality.\nBut, sir, I have seen and felt enough, to trust no man far until I have\nproved him. Yet my father was many times deceived, and he trusted again;\nand, if not the same parties, others under the same circumstances. He\ncould not pass a beggar on the highway without relieving him; and, where\nhe saw or heard that distress or misery existed, it was enough for\nhim--he never inquired into the cause He was bringing up his family,\nnot certainly in affluence, but in respectability; but his unthinking\ngenerosity, his open hand, and his open-heartedness, were frequently\nbringing him into trouble. One instance I will relate; it took place\nwhen I was a lad of eighteen. There resided in our neighbourhood an\nextensive manufacturer, who employed many people, and who was reputed to\nbe very rich. He was also a man of ostentatious piety; and, young as I\nthen was, his dragging forward religion in every conversation, and upon\nall occasions, led me to doubt whether he really had anything of\nreligion in his heart. There were many, also, who disputed his wealth.\nBut my father and he were as brothers. We perceived that he had gained\nan ascendancy over him in all things; and often did my mother\nremonstrate with him, for being, as she said, led by a stranger, and\ncaution him against what might be the consequences. For I ought to\ninform you, that the manufacturer had been but a few years in\nCumberland, and no one knew his previous history. But my father would\nnot hear the whisper of suspicion breathed against him.\n\n\"My mother was a native of Dumfriesshire; her ancestors had taken a\ndistinguished part in the wars of the Covenant; and, one evening, I was\nreading to her from her favourite volume, \"_The Lives of the Scots\nWorthies_,\" when my father entered, and sat down in a corner of the room\nin silence, and evidently in deep sorrow. He leaned his brow upon his\nhand, and his spirit seemed troubled.\"\n\n\"William,\" said my mother, addressing him, \"why do ye sit there? What\nhas happened? There is something putting ye about.\"\n\nHe returned no answer to her inquiries; and approaching him, and taking\nhis hand in hers, she added--\"Oh! there is something the matter, or ye\nwould never sit in that way, and have such a look. Are ye weel enough,\nWilliam--or what is it?\"\n\n\"Nothing! nothing!\" said he. But the very manner in which he said it,\nand the trembling and quavering of his voice, were equivalent to\nsaying--\"Something! something!\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna say to me, nothing!\" said she; \"for there is a something, and\nthat is evident, or ye would never sit as ye are doing.\"\n\nHe struck his clenched hands upon his brow, and exclaimed--\"Do not\ntorment me!--do not add to my misery!\"\n\n\"William! William!\" cried my mother, \"there is something wrong, and why\nwill ye hide it from me? Have I been your wife for twenty years, and ye\nsay I torment ye now, by my anxiety for your weelfare? O William! I am\ncertain I didna deserve this treatment from you, neither did I think\nthat ye were capable of acting in such a manner. What is it that is\ntroubling ye?\"\n\n\"Nancy,\" he cried, in the vehemence of despair, \"I have ruined you!--I\nhave ruined my family! I have ruined my earthly comfort, my peace of\nmind, and my own soul!\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna talk in that way, William!\" she cried; \"I ken now that\nsomething serious has happened; but, oh! whatever it be, let us bear it\nlike Christians, and remember that we are Christians. What is it,\nWilliam? Ye may confide in your wife now?\"\n\n\"Nancy,\" said he, \"I never was worthy of such a wife. But neither look\non me, nor speak to me with kindness. I have brought you to beggary--I\nhave brought my family to beggary--and I have brought myself to\neverlasting misery and despair!\"\n\n\"O my dear!\" said she, \"dinna talk in such a heathen-like manner. If it\nbe the case that we have lost all that we had, there is no help for it\nnow; but I trust, and am assured, that ye will not have lost it in such\na way as to make your family hang their head among folk, in remembrance\nof their faither's transaction. I am certain, already, that it is your\nfoolish disposition to be everybody's friend, that has brought this upon\nye. A thousand times have I warned ye of what, some day or other, would\nbe the upshot; but ye would take no admonition from me.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" added he, \"I have misery enough, and more than enough, without\nyour aggravating it by your dagger-drawing reflections.\"\n\nHe sat groaning, throughout the night, with his hand upon his brow; but\nthe real cause of his misery he would not explain, farther than that he\nhad brought himself and his family to ruin. But, with sunrise, the tale\nof our undoing was on every tongue; and all its particulars, and more\nthan all, were not long in being conveyed to us. For a tale of distress\nhath the power of taking unto itself wings, and every wind of heaven\nwill echo it, let it come whence it may, and let it go where it may. I\nbeheld, and I heard my mother doomed to receive the doleful\n_congratulations_ of her friends--the prompt expression of their\nsympathy for her calamities. It was the first time, and it was the last,\nthat many of them ever felt for human wo. But there are people in this\nworld, who delight to go abroad with the tidings of tribulation on their\ntongue, and whose chief pleasure is to act the part of Job's comforters,\nor, I might say, of his messengers.\n\nWe learned that my father's bosom friend, the professedly wealthy and\npious manufacturer, had been declared a bankrupt, and that my father had\nbecome liable on his account to the amount of two thousand pounds. His\nunguided generosity had previously compelled him to mortgage his\nproperty, and this calamity swallowed it up. Never will I forget the\ncalmness, I might call it the philosophy, with which my mother received\nthe tidings.\n\n\"I am glad,\" said she to the individual who first communicated to her\nthe tidings, \"that my children will have no cause to blush for their\nfather's misfortunes; and I would rather endure the privations which\nthose misfortunes may bring upon us, than feel the pangs of his\nconscience who has brought them upon his friend.\"\n\nMy father sank into a state of despondency, from which it required all\nour efforts to arouse him; and his despondency increased, when it was\nnecessary that the money for which he had become liable, should be paid.\nThe estate, which had been in the possession of his ancestors for a\nhundred and fifty years, it became necessary to sell; and when it was\nsold, not only to the last acre, but even to our household furniture, it\ndid not bring a sum sufficient to discharge the liabilities which he had\nincurred. Well do I remember the soul-harrowing day on which that sale\ntook place. My father went out into the fields, and, in a small\nplantation, which before sunset was no longer to be his, sat down and\nwept. Even my mother, who hitherto had borne our trials with more than\nmere fortitude, sat down in a corner of the house, upon the humblest\nchair that was in it, and which she perhaps thought they would not sell,\nor that it would not be worth their selling, and there, with an infant\nchild at her bosom, she rocked her head in misery, and her secret tears\nbedewed the cheeks of her babe.\n\nThat night, my father, my mother, and their children, sought refuge in a\nmiserable garret in Carlisle. I, as I have already said, was the eldest,\nand perhaps the change in their circumstances affected me most deeply,\nand by me was most keenly felt.\n\nThrough yielding to the influence of feelings that were too susceptible,\nmy father beheld his family suddenly plunged into destitution. It was a\nsad sight to behold my brothers and my sisters, who had ever been used\nto plenty, crying around him and around my mother, for bread to eat,\nwhen they were without credit, and their last coin was expended. My\nfather did not shew the extreme agony of his spirit before his children,\nbut he could not conceal that it lay like a cankerworm in his breast,\npreying upon his vitals. His strength withered away like a leaf in\nautumn; and what went most deeply to my mother's heart was, that he\nseemed as if ashamed to look his family in the face; and he appeared\neven as one who had committed a crime which he was anxious to conceal.\n\nMy mother, however, was a woman amongst ten thousand. Never did the\nslightest murmur escape her lips, to upbraid my father for what he had\nbrought upon us; but, on the contrary, she daily, hourly, strove to\ncheer him, and to render him happy--to make him forget the past. But it\nwas a vain task; misery haunted him by night and by day; there was\ndespair in his very smile, and the teeth of self-reproach entered his\nsoul. He was a man who had received more than what is called a common\neducation; and a gentleman who had been his schoolfellow, and known him\nfrom his childhood, and who resided much abroad, appointed him to be his\nland steward. The emoluments of the office were not great, but they were\nsufficient to keep his family from want.\n\nUnder the circumstances in which they were now placed, I was too old to\nremain longer as a burden upon my parents. I therefore bade them a fond,\na heart-rending farewell; and with less than four pounds in my pocket,\ntook my passage from Whitehaven to Liverpool, from whence I was to\nproceed by land to London. Liverpool was then only beginning to emerge\ninto its present commercial magnitude; and I carried with me letters to\ntwo merchants there, the one residing in Poole Lane, the other in Dale\nStreet. Both received me civilly, and both asked me _what I could do?_\nIt was a question which I believe had never occurred to me before, nor\neven to my father, up to the period of my shaking hands with him and\nbidding him farewell. I hesitated for a few seconds, and I believe that\nupon both occasions I stammered out the word--\"_anything_.\"\n\n\"You can do _anything_, can you?\" said the first merchant,\nsarcastically; \"then you are a great deal too clever for me; and I\nsuspect the situation of a servant of _all work_ will suit you better\nthan that of a clerk in a counting-house. Pray, are you acquainted with\nkeeping books?\"\n\nI replied that I was not.\n\n\"Then,\" added he, \"though you can do everything, that is one thing which\nI find you cannot do; and as it is the only thing that would be of any\nservice to me, I shall not be able to avail myself of your otherwise\nuniversal attainments.\"\n\nThe cold, the sarcastic manner of this gentleman, made my very blood to\nfreeze within my veins; a cold shivering (I might call it the mantle of\ndespair) came over me, and my heart failed within me. I, however,\nproceeded to Dale Street, and delivered my letter to the other\ngentleman. He, as I have already intimated to you, inquired at me what I\ncould do. And to him, also, my unfortunate answer was \"_anything_.\" He\nsmiled, but there was a kindness in his smile, and he good-humouredly\nasked me what I meant by anything. I was as much at a loss to answer\nhim, as I had been to answer the merchant I had left.\n\n\"Have you ever been in a merchant's office?\" he inquired, \"or had any\npractice as an accountant?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied.\n\n\"Then,\" added he, \"I fear it will be difficult to find anything in\nLiverpool to answer your expectations, and I would not recommend you to\nwaste time in it. If I could have promoted your views, I would have done\nso most cheerfully; but, as I cannot, here are three guineas--(for from\nthe manner in which my friend speaks of you in his letter I believe you\nto be a deserving youth)--they will help you onward in your journey, and\nin London you will meet with many chances of obtaining a situation, that\nyou cannot find in Liverpool.\"\n\nI burst into tears as he spoke, and put the money in my hands. The\nkindness of the one merchant had affected me more than the chilling\nirony of the other. The one roused my indignation, the other melted my\nheart. But I was indebted to both; for both had given me a lesson of\nwhat the world was, and both had rendered me more sensible of the\ndependence and hopelessness of my situation.\n\nIn order to husband my resources, I proceeded to London on foot, and\nwhen I arrived there, I found myself to be like a bird in a wilderness,\nor a helmless vessel on a dark sea. The magnitude of the city, its busy\nthousands, its groaning warehouses, where the treasures and luxuries of\nevery corner of the globe are piled together, the splendour of its\nshops, the magnificence of its squares, and the lordly equipages which\nglittered in the midst of them, moved me not. They scarcely excited my\nobservation. My soul was filled with thoughts of my own prospects; and I\nwandered, dreaming, from street to street, moving at a pace as though I\nhad been sauntering by the side of one of my native lakes, and I\nappeared as the only individual in the great city who had no aim, and no\nurgent business which required me to move rapidly, as others did. I\ndelivered all the letters that I brought with me, and I was again asked,\nas I had been in Liverpool--_what I could do?_ But I did not, as I did\nthere, reply, _anything_. I, however, was puzzled how to answer the\nquestion. The truth was, I was utterly ignorant of business. I had been\nbrought up amongst those mountains, with merely a knowledge that there\nwas such a thing. In fact, my ideas of it hardly extended beyond giving\nout goods with one hand, and receiving money for them in the other. The\nword _commerce_ was to me as a phrase in a dead language. I had fancied\nto myself that the sea was a great lake, over the whole expanse of which\nI should be able to gaze at once, and see the four quarters of the globe\naround it: and my ideas of what ships were, were gathered from the\nboats which I had seen upon Keswick. On the day on which I left my\nparents' roof, I heard my old schoolmaster console them with the\nassurance, that \"there was no fear of me, for _I was fit for anything_.\"\nWhile such testimony, from his lips, comforted them, it cheered me also,\nand it caused me to look upon myself as a youth of high promise, and of\nyet higher expectations. But now, when I was left to myself, with all my\ntalents and acquirements ready to be disposed of in any market, I found\nthat my general qualifications, my fitness for anything, amounted to\nbeing qualified for nothing, when reduced to particulars. Days, weeks,\nmonths passed away, and I was still a wanderer upon the streets of the\nmodern Babylon.\n\nAt length, when ready to lie down and die from hunger and from\nhopelessness, I obtained a situation as copying-clerk to a solicitor, at\na salary of ten shillings a-week. In such a city as London, and where it\nwas necessary to keep up a respectable appearance, this sum might be\nconsidered as inadequate to my wants. But it was not so. During the\nfirst ten weeks, I transmitted two pounds to my parents, to assist them.\nI always kept the proverb before my memory, that \"a penny hained is a\npenny gained;\" and I never took one from my pocket, until I had\nconsidered whether or not it was absolutely necessary to spend it. My\nfood was of the simplest kind; and finding that I could not afford the\nexpense of an eating-house, it consisted of a half-quartern loaf in the\ntwenty-four hours, the one half of which was eaten in the morning; the\nother in the evening. I \"_kitchened_\" my loaf, as they say in Scotland,\nwith a pennyworth of butter, and occasionally with lettuce or a few\nradishes in their season; and the beverage with which I regaled myself,\nafter my meals, was a glass of water from the nearest pump.\n\nUpon this diet I became stouter, and was more healthy for the time, than\never I had been before; though I believe I have suffered for it since.\nIt was my duty to lock up the office (or chambers, as they were called)\nat night, and to open them in the morning. I had not been many days in\nmy situation, when the thought struck me, that, by locking myself within\nthe chambers at night, instead of locking myself out, I might save the\nexpense of a lodging. Again I said to myself that \"a penny hained was a\npenny gained,\" and four chairs in the chambers became my couch, while\nthe money which I would have given for a lodging was transmitted to my\nparents.\n\nI had not been many months in this situation, when it was my fortune to\nrender what he considered a service to a rich merchant in the city, who\nwas a client of my employers. He made inquiry at me respecting the\namount of my salary, and concerning my home and relatives. I found that\nhe was from Westmoreland, and he offered me a situation in his\ncounting-house, with a salary of eighty pounds a-year. My heart sprang\nin joy and in gratitude to my throat at his proposal. I seized his hand\nas though he had been my brother. I pressed it to my breast. A tear ran\ndown my cheek and fell upon it. Even while I held his hand, I fancied to\nmyself, that I beheld my parents and their children again sitting\nbeneath the sunshine of independence, and blessing their first-born, who\nwas \"fit for anything.\"\n\nI entered upon my new situation, and upon my income of eighty pounds\na-year, in a few days, and received a quarter's salary in advance. I\nwell knew that my father was still oppressed by liabilities, which he\nwas endeavouring to discharge out of forty pounds a-year, which he\nreceived for his stewardship. I knew, and I felt also, that let a son do\nfor a parent what he will, he can never repay a parent's love and a\nparent's cares. Who could repay a mother for her unceasing and anxious\nwatchings over us in the helplessness of infancy, or a father, in\nproviding for all our wants, in teaching us to know good from evil? I\nfancied that thirty pounds a-year was enough and more than enough for\nall my wants, and I dwelt with fondness on the thought of remitting them\nfifty pounds out of my annual salary. Previous to entering the\ncounting-house of the merchant, my delight at the pleasing anticipations\nbefore me robbed me of sleep, and for the first time caused me to feel\nthe hardness of my bed upon the chairs of the solicitor's chambers.\n\nHowever, with a heart overflowing with joy, I entered upon my mercantile\navocations. Then, as I bustled along the streets, I felt within my heart\nas though in all London there was none greater than I; I was independent\nas the Lord Mayor--as happy as his Majesty. But there was one thing, a\nsmall matter, which I forgot--it was the proverb which I have twice\nquoted already, that \"a penny hained is a penny gained.\" On leaving my\noccupation as a copying-clerk, I almost unconsciously left also my cheap\nand humble diet. My fellow-clerks in the merchant's counting-house dined\nevery day at a chop-house in Milk Street, and they requested me to join\nthem. I had no longer an opportunity of eating my half-loaf in secret,\nand I accompanied them. Each of us had generally a chop, for which we\npaid eight-pence; a fried sole, for which we were charged a shilling;\nwith a glass of porter during dinner, and a \"go\" of gin, as it was\ncalled, and sometimes _two_, afterwards. I did not wish to be singular,\nneither did I see how I could avoid doing as others did; and, moreover,\nI reasoned that, with eighty pounds a-year, I was justified in living\ncomfortably. But this was not all. My associates were in the habit of\nhaving their crust and cheese, and their glass of porter, in the\nforenoons; and I had to join them in this also. And this, too, ran away\nwith pence which might have been saved. But I had not been long amongst\nthem, when I found that they had also evening clubs, where they met to\nenjoy a pipe and a glass, and hear the news of the day. Unless I joined\none of these clubs, I found that I would be considered as--nobody. I\naccompanied a comrade to one of them, and as the glass, the song, and\nthe merry jest went round, I was as a person ushered into a new world,\ndelighted with all I saw. I became a nightly attender of the club; and\nalthough I never indulged to excess, I had completely forgotten the\nproverb which enabled me to assist my parents when I had but ten\nshillings a-week; and therefore it forgot me.\n\nMy landlady also informed me, that it was the rule of her establishment\nfor her lodgers to breakfast in the house, and with this proposal, also,\nI deemed it necessary to comply. I had begun to yield to circumstances,\nand when, in such a case, the head is once bent, the whole body\nimperceptibly becomes prostrate.\n\nBut twelve months passed away, and instead of fifty pounds being sent to\nmy parents, I found my entire eighty not only expended, but that I was\nten pounds in debt. I called myself a fool, a madman, and many other\nnames; for conscience burned within my bosom, and the glow of shame upon\nmy cheek. But it was fruitless; a habit had been formed, and that habit\nwas my master. I had involuntarily become its slave, and wanted\nresolution to become its master.\n\nOn entering upon my second year, my employer, who still retained a\nfavourable opinion of me, increased my salary to a hundred a-year. But\neven when it had expired, instead of having assisted my parents, I still\nfound myself in debt. I had left my twenty pounds of additional salary\nto take care of themselves, and at the same time I had forgotten to take\ncare not only of the shillings which composed them, but of the pence\nwhich made up my whole income. I forgot that a hundred pounds quickly\ndisappears in a free hand, and leaves its owner wondering whither it has\ngone. At this period, the letters which I received from my parents\nsometimes indirectly hinted at the privations which they were enduring;\nbut they never requested, or seemed to expect assistance from me. The\nconsciousness of their circumstances, however, stung me to the soul; but\nit did not reclaim me, or turn me from the dark sea of thoughtless\nexpenditure on which I had embarked. I experienced that a slight thread\nis sufficient to lead a man to temptation, but it requireth a strong\ncord and a strong hand to drag him again to repentance.\n\nI seldom laid my head upon my pillow but I resolved that, on the\nfollowing day, I would reform my course of life, and again practise\neconomy. But, alas! I \"resolved and re-resolved,\" and lived the same. At\nthis period, however, my own conscience was my only accuser and\ntormentor. For although in a country town my habit of spending every\nevening with a club, at a tavern, might have been registered against me\nas a vice, in London it did not so militate, and was neither noted nor\nregarded. I was punctual in my attendance at the counting-house--always\nclean, and rather particular in my person; (and I must say, that I do\nnot know a town on the face of the habitable globe, where the\ncertificate of dandyism, or of something approaching to it, will be of\ngreater service to a young man than in London. It has struck me a\nhundred times, that the two chief recommendations for obtaining a\nsituation there, are _dress_ and _address_.) I was not exactly what\ncould be called a good-natured person, but there was a free and easy\nsomething about my disposition, which rendered me a favourite with my\nfellow-clerks. I also was pleased with their society, and it was seldom\nthat I could resist the temptation of accompanying them wheresoever they\nwent when solicited, and which was in general to all their parties of\npleasure. When I said to myself, in the language of Burns--\"Come, go to,\nI will be wise,\" and began to practise retrenchment in one item of my\nexpenditure, I heedlessly plunged into other sources equally\nextravagant. For my old maxim, which had proved a friend to me on my\nfirst coming to London, was completely forgotten; and I neither thought\nof saving a penny nor taking care of a shilling. Indeed, so far had I\nforgotten these maxims, that on many occasions I reasoned with myself,\nsaying--\"Oh, it is _only_ a shilling or two--there is nothing in that. I\nwill go, or I will do it.\" But I forgot the sum to which that _only_,\nrepeated three hundred and odd times in the year, amounted. In short, I\nhad fallen into a habit which would have prevented me, had my salary\nbeen a thousand a-year, from being either richer or happier than I was\nwhen I had but ten shillings a-week.\n\nI, however, retained the good opinion of my employer; and in the third\nyear of my engagement with him, I was sent as supercargo with a vessel\nto South America. It was to be a trading voyage, and the appointment\nconferred upon me was an honour which caused me to be envied by the\nother clerks in the counting-house. Some of my seniors sneered at my\ninexperience, and said I would bring home a \"precious cargo, and a\nprofitable account of my transactions.\" Those who were nearer my own age\nsaw nothing in me that I should have been chosen by our employer, and\nthey agreed that he had preferred me, merely because I was a Border man\nlike himself. In truth, I wondered at his choice myself; for I was\nconscious of but few qualifications for the task imposed on me,\nalthough, three years before, I was thought, and considered myself--\"fit\nfor anything.\"\n\nIt was understood that our voyage would occupy between two and three\nyears; and in order that I might provide myself with everything\nnecessary for my lengthened travels on the sea, and my dealings on\nshore, my employer placed in my hands two hundred and fifty pounds,\nindependent of letters of credit to foreign merchants, in various ports,\nin which I was to transact business.\n\nBut, on the very day on which I received the two hundred and fifty\npounds, and about five days before I was to leave England, I received a\nletter from my father, to the following import:--\n\n     \"MY DEAR SON,--It pains me to be the bearer to you of evil\n     tidings, and the more so, as I know that they can only grieve\n     you, and that it is not in your power to remove their cause.\n     Yet it is meet that you should know of them. You knew, and felt\n     the the effects of the misfortunes which, a few years ago,\n     overwhelmed me; but you knew not their extent. They still weigh\n     me to the earth--they blast my prospects, and render powerless\n     my energies. Yet there is no one whom I can accuse for my\n     misfortunes; they, and the distresses of my family, are the\n     work of my own hands. To-morrow I will be the inmate of a\n     prison, for a debt of two hundred pounds, which still hangs\n     over me. Your poor mother, and your brothers and sisters, will\n     be left with no one to provide for them. Think of them, my dear\n     son, and, if it be in your power, assist them.\"\n\nSuch was my father's letter, and every word in it went to my bosom as a\nsharp instrument. I took two hundred pounds from the two hundred and\nfifty that had been given to me to provide for my voyage, and\ntransmitted them to my father, to relieve him from his distress. I\nperhaps acted unthinkingly, and sent more than I ought to have sent--but\nwhat will not a son do for a parent when his heart is touched?--and at\nall events I acted as he to whom the money was sent would have\nacted--from the impulse of the moment; in obedience to the first, the\nnatural dictates of the heart.\n\nI found that I had deprived myself of the power of obtaining many things\nwhich were necessary for the voyage; but I rejoiced in the thought of\nhaving given liberty to a parent, and happiness to his family; and my\nspirit enjoyed a secret triumph, which more than counterbalanced any\ntrials I might have to endure.\n\nBut the day on which I was to leave Old England arrived, and within four\ndays I saw its white cliffs sink and die away in the distance as a\nfar-off cloud. We had been seven weeks at sea, when a strange vessel\nhove in sight, and made alongside of us. She had a suspicious\nappearance, and our captain pronounced her to be a pirate. As she drew\nnearer, we could perceive that her crew crowded her deck; and as she\ncontinued to bear down upon us, there could be little doubt of her\nintentions. Our deck was cleared, and our few guns put in readiness for\naction. We were the heavier vessel of the two, but she carried three\nguns for our one, and it was evident that her crew were almost as ten to\none. When the captain had seen everything made ready for action, he\nrequested me to follow him to the cabin for a few moments, and when\nthere he said--\"Robert,\" for my Christian name I will communicate to\nyou, \"the pirate which is now bearing down upon us, is making three\nknots for our two. Within a quarter of an hour you will hear her shot\nwhiz over us. I don't care so much for both our lives being endangered,\nfor I know that already both our lives are _sold_; but I regret the\nissue of this _venture_ for your sake and for my own, and also for that\nof our owner, for I am certain it would have proved a good one to us\nall. However, we must all heave-to in deep water or in shallow water\nsome time or other, and the tide has overtaken you and me to-day.\nTherefore, my lad, don't let us look miserable about the matter. Only I\nhave to tell you, (lest I should be one of the first to be swept off the\ndeck when the business of the day begins,) that our old owner who,\nHeaven bless him! is a regular trump, said to me, just as I had got my\npapers from the Custom House, and he was shaking hands with me--'Tom,'\nsaid he, (for the old fellow always called me Tom,) 'look after that\nsupercargo of mine that you've got on board. He is a countryman of my\nown. He does not know it, but his father and I used to paddle on Keswick\nlake together. I have liked him on that account since the first day I\nclapped my eyes on him, and therefore I took him into my employ. But,\nthough he didn't think that I saw it, I saw that the chaps of London\nwere too much for him. Therefore, I say, Tom,' said he, 'if you see him\nlike to go too far, for the love I bear the boy, bring him up with a\nshort cable.' Such, you see, my lad, is the love which our old owner has\nfor you; and though you may have found him a little gruff now and then,\n(as I have done myself,) depend upon it he is a regular trump at the\nbottom. Therefore, I say, let us fight for him now, as better is not to\nbe, until we go to the bottom.\"\n\nI felt a glow about my heart on account of the kindness of my master,\nand especially when I found that he was aware of more than I thought he\nhad discovered of my conduct while in London; but it was no time to\nindulge in a reverie of gratitude, when every moment I expected to hear\na twenty-four pounder boom over our deck, and that, too, from the deck\nof a pirate, who did not chalk up mercy as one of his attributes.\n\nI went upon deck with our captain, and I had not been there for five\nminutes, when a shot from the pirate damaged our rigging. At the same\ntime she hoisted the black flag.\n\n\"It is all up, Bob,\" said our commander, addressing me; \"let us die\nmanfully. If I die first, sink the vessel before she fall into their\nhands.\"\n\n\"Trust to me, captain,\" cried I; \"I will see that all is right. We shall\nwin the day, or go to the bottom.\"\n\n\"Bravo! my hearty!\" he exclaimed; \"I wish you had been a sailor!\"\n\nThe action now began in good earnest, and was kept up on either side\nwith unyielding determination. But they fired three guns for our one,\nand ever and anon they made an attempt to board us. Our crew consisted\nof but fourteen men and three boys--the commander, the mate, and myself\nincluded. The mate fell at the first broadside which our enemy poured\ninto us. We maintained the unequal fight for near an hour, when our\ncaptain also fell, calling out to me--\"Stand out, Bob!--sink her, or\nbeat them!\"\n\n\"I will, captain!\" cried I; but I don't believe that he lived to hear\nwhat I said to him. Our ship's company was reduced to five able men, and\nI lay amongst the wounded upon deck. We were boarded, overpowered in a\nmoment, and our vessel became the prize of the pirates. The dead, and\nsome of the wounded amongst our crew, were thrown overboard upon the\ninstant. My appearance pleaded for me with the murderers, (even as I\nhave said, appearance pleads with a prevailing intercession on most\noccasions in London,) and in a state of unconsciousness I was borne on\nboard their vessel. When I raised my eyes and became conscious of my\nsituation, the pirate captain stood over me. My wounds had been bound\nup, and I aroused myself, and rose up in pain as one awoke from a dream.\n\n\"Your name!--your name!\" said he, addressing me.\n\n\"Ha! we are captured, then!\" replied I; \"my name is of small\nconsequence--I am your victim.\"\n\n\"Speak!\" he cried vehemently--\"you wrong me. You are our captives, but I\nwish to know _your_ name. You are an Englishman--are you from\nCumberland?--Were you not at the school of old Dominie Lindores?\"\n\n\"I am--I was!\" I gasped in agony.\n\n\"And do you,\" he continued, \"do you remember the boy, who, before he was\neighteen, and while he was a boarder at the school, ran to Gretna with\nan heiress from a neighbouring seminary.\"\n\n\"I do!--I do remember it!\" I cried.\n\n\"And what,\" he exclaimed--\"_what was his name_?\"\n\n\"Belford!\" said I.\n\n\"Belford!\" he cried--\"it was indeed Belford. I am not deceived! You are,\nindeed, my countryman. You are younger than I, but I remember you; I am\nthe Belford of whom you have spoken. For auld lang syne, and for the\nsake of bonny Cumberland, no harm shall happen unto you, nor to any of\nyour comrades. I have but one thing to say to you--_be obedient_.\"\n\nPained and wounded as I was, I remembered him. I recollected him as\nhaving been a boy, some six years older than myself, at the same school,\nand in a senior class. But when I would have questioned him, he placed\nhis fingers upon his lips, and said--\"Speak no more to me at present. Do\nas I have said--_be obedient_.\"\n\nI thought it a strange thing to be placed a prisoner under the hatches\nof an old schoolfellow; but the assurance that he and I had trembled\nunder the same birch, and played on the same hill-side together, gave\nme, with his promise of safety, some consolation. My hands were\npermitted to be at liberty, but my feet were ordered to be kept in\nirons; and when I went upon the deck I could not step more than six\ninches at a time. I knew not how my fellow-prisoners fared, for I never\nsaw them.\n\nOne day I was requested, or rather I ought to say, ordered, to dine with\nthe pirate-captain.\n\n\"Your name is Robert,\" said he to me; and I answered that it was.\n\n\"Well,\" he continued, \"I wish to save your life, and if it were possible\nI would spare also your comrades. But there would be danger in doing so,\nand my fellows, whom I must sometimes humour, are to a man against it. I\nwill try however, either to place you on board a vessel that is not\nworth shot, or on some island where you are certain of being picked up.\nIn the meantime, here is a purse for you, which, you will find will do\nyou more good on shore than any services of mine. A father and a\nmother's care,\" he added, \"I have never known, and from rumour only do I\nsuppose who my parents were. I owe mankind nothing for the kindness\nthey have shewn me; and the same love and mercy which I have received\nfrom them, I have measured out to them again. Farewell!\" he said, and\nleft me.\n\nI knew that he was the reputed son of a gentleman who had held extensive\npossessions in Cumberland, but that something of mystery hung over his\nbirth, and that it was reported cruel and unjust means had been resorted\nto, to deprive him of his lawful inheritance.\n\nHis words produced no pleasant feeling in my mind. I found myself in the\nsituation of a person who was pinioned to a certain spot, with a sword\nsuspended over his head by a single hair. But while he spoke I fancied\nthat I heard the sighs of a female in distress. When he left me they\nwere repeated more audibly. I went towards a door in the cabin, which\nled to an apartment from whence the sound seemed to proceed. I attempted\nto open the door of the chamber, which was unlocked, and I entered it.\nBefore me sat a lady whose age appeared to be below twenty. She raised\nher eyes towards me as I entered, and tears ran down her cheeks. Till\nthen I had never seen a face so beautiful, and, I will add, or felt\nbeauty's power--I felt as if suddenly ushered into the presence of a\nbeing who was more than mortal.\n\nOur interview I will not describe. We spoke little; and the words which\nwe did speak were in low and hurried whispers. For we heard the sound of\nour tyrant's feet pacing over our head, and to have found us in\nconversation together might have been death to both. Almost without\nknowing what I said, or for lack of other words, I spoke of the\npossibility of our escape. A faint smile broke through her tears, and\nshe twice waved her hand silently, as if to say, \"It is hopeless!--it is\nhopeless!\"\n\nFrom that moment she was present in all my thoughts, when awake she\nbecame the one idea of my mind, and in sleep she was the object of my\ndreams. As I was indulged with some degree of liberty, we met\nfrequently, and although our interviews were short, they were as \"stolen\nwater,\" or as \"bread eaten in secret.\" Their existence was brief, but\ntheir memory long. I had informed her of my early acquaintance with the\npirate commander, and of all that passed between us from the time of my\nbecoming his prisoner. And when she had heard all, even she indulged in\nthe dream that our escape might be possible.\n\nIt was about a week after my discovery of the fair captive, that I\nascertained that two of those who had become prisoners with myself had\njoined the pirates, and the others had been cast into the sea. My fate\ntheir captain still left undecided. My anxiety to escape increased\ntenfold; but how it was to be accomplished, was a question which for\never haunted me, but which I could never answer.\n\nOne day we came in contact with a Dutch lugger, laden with Hollands. The\npirates boarded her, but they only _bled_ the vessel, as they termed it;\nthey did not take the whole cargo. With what they did take, however,\nthey made a merry carousal; they first became uproarious in their mirth,\nand eventually they sobered down into a state in which a child might\nhave bound them. I observed the change that was wrought upon them--I saw\nthe advantage I had gained. My thoughts became fixed upon how to profit\nby it.\n\nIt was midnight--the moon of an eastern sky flashed upon the sea--the\nvery waters of the mighty deep moved in silence. The few stars that were\nin the heavens were reflected back from its bosom. On board the vessel\nnot a living creature stirred; the very man at the helm had fallen down\nas if dead. With the fetters upon my feet, I stood alone, the master of\na dead crew. I seized an instrument that lay upon the deck, and\nendeavoured to unfasten the irons that fettered me. I succeeded in the\nattempt. It was with difficulty that I restrained from bursting into a\nshout of joy. But I recollected my situation. I stole on tiptoe to the\ncabin--I opened the door of the apartment where the fair captive was\nconfined.\n\n\"Our hour is come,\" I whispered in her ear; \"we must escape--follow me.\"\n\nShe started, and would have spoken aloud, but I placed my fingers on her\nlips, and whispered--\"Be silent.\"\n\n\"I come, I come,\" she said. She followed me, and we ascended to the\ndeck, and stood alone in the midst of the wild ocean, without knowing\nwhither to direct our course. I unfastened the stern-boat, and lowered\nit into the sea. I descended into it with her beneath my arm, and\ncutting asunder the rope with which I had fastened it, I pulled away\nfrom the vessel, which was unto us both a prison-house. My arm was\nnerved with the strength of despair, and within a few hours I had lost\nsight of the pirate-ship. At daybreak on the following day, we were\nalone in the midst of the vast and solitary sea; and desperate as our\nsituation then was, I felt a glow of happiness at the thought that I\nshould be enabled either to save her life, or to risk mine to save her\nin whom, from the time that I had first seen her, my whole soul had\nbecome involved. I now felt and knew that it was in my power to serve\nher, that our fates were united; and, when I beheld her alone with me\nupon the wide ocean, I felt as though her life had been given into my\nhands, and we both were secure. The thought in which I indulged was\nrealized. We had scarce been twelve hours upon the sea, when a vessel\npassed us at the distance of scarce a mile. I made signals, that she\nmight discover us, and they were observed. She was bound for London, and\nwe were taken on board. I may say that it was now that my acquaintance\nwith the fair being whom I had rescued from the hands of those who would\nhave destroyed her began. Her beauty grew upon my sight as a summer sun\nincreaseth in glory; and the more that I beheld it, the more did I\nbecome enchained by its power. It was now, for the first time, that I\nventured to make inquiry concerning her name and birth; when I\nascertained that her name was Charlotte Hastings; and, upon further\ninquiry, discovered that she was the niece, and the supposed heiress, of\nthe merchant in whose employment I was. On making this discovery, my\ntongue became dumb. I felt that I loved her because I had delivered her\nfrom death, or from what would have been worse than death. But when I\nknew that she was my superior in circumstances--the heiress of him in\nwhose employment I was--I stood before her and was dumb. But there was a\nlanguage in my eyes, while my tongue was silent; and though I spoke not,\nI had reason to know that she understood its meaning--for often I found\nher dark eyes anxiously fastened upon me; and while she gazed, the tears\nstole down her cheeks.\n\nWe arrived in London. On the day of our arrival, I went towards her, and\nsaid--\"Madam, we must part.\"\n\n\"Part!\" she exclaimed, \"wherefore?--tell me wherefore?\"\n\n\"There is a gulf between our stations,\" I answered, \"which I cannot\npass.\" She then knew nothing of my being but a clerk in her uncle's\noffice, and I was resolved that she never should know. \"Charlotte,\" I\nsaid, on first addressing her after landing, \"fate has cast us\ntogether--in some degree it has mingled our destiny; yet we must part.\nFate has gamboled with us--it has mocked us with a child's game. We must\npart now, not to meet again. Farewell! I could have dreamed in your\neyes--yea, I could have lived in the light that fell from them; but,\nCharlotte, it was not to be my lot--that happiness was reserved for\nothers. We came to this country together; the wind and the waves spared\nus, and wed us. The troubled sea did not divide us. We escaped from the\nhands of our destroyers, and fate recorded us as one. But it may be\nnecessary that we should part--for I know the difference between our\nstations; and, if it be so, despise not him that saved you.\"\n\nHer uncle heard of our captivity and escape with the coldest\nindifference. Not a muscle of his face moved. The variation of a\nfraction in the price of the funds would have interested him more.\n\n\"I thank you,\" said he, \"for having restored my kinswoman to freedom.\nHereafter, it may be in my power to reward you for the act. In the\nmeantime, you must undertake another voyage to the Brazils, which I\ntrust will prove more fortunate than your last.\"\n\nI had only been fourteen days in London, when, another vessel being\nfitted out, I was ordered again to embark. During that period, and from\nthe day that I conducted her to her uncle's house, had not been\npermitted to see the fair being whom I had rescued; nor did my employer,\nthough I saw him daily, once mention her name to me, or in any way\nallude to her. Yet, during that period, by day and by night, her image\nhad been ever present to my thoughts. There was a singularity in the\nconduct of the merchant, with regard to her, which surprised me. I\nresolved, before my departure, to ask his permission to bid her\nfarewell. I did so.\n\n\"Young man,\" replied he, \"romantic thoughts do not accord with the\nsuccess of a merchant, and with romantic adventures he has but little to\ndo. You imagine that you love my niece, and she perhaps entertains the\nsame foolish thoughts concerning you. It is a delusion arising from the\ncircumstances under which you became acquainted; but it will pass away\nas a reflection from the face of a mirror, and leave no trace of\nexistence. When you return you may see her again, but not now.\"\n\nLovers are proverbial for their lack of patience, and this assuredly\nwas putting mine to trial. But I knew the temper of the man with whom I\nhad to deal, and, yielding to necessity, I sailed without seeing her.\n\nI had been absent for more than two years, and prospered exceedingly in\nall my dealings. On my return homeward, I had to visit Genoa. On the day\nof my arrival there, a person accosted me on the street by name. Without\nseeing the speaker when he accosted me, I started at his voice, for I\nremembered it well. It was Belford the pirate.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, in a sort of whisper, \"I give you credit for the manner\nin which you effected your escape. But you robbed me of a prize which\nshould not have been ransomed for less than a thousand pounds. And,\nbefore we part,\" added he gravely, \"you shall give me your hand and seal\nto pay me that sum on the day that she becomes your wife.\"\n\nI could not forbear a smile at the strange demand, and said that it\nshould be readily complied with, if ever the event of which he spoke\ntook place; but of that, I assured him, there was but small hope.\n\n\"Fool!\" said he, \"know you not that the old merchant, her father,\nintends that you shall be wed on your arrival in England? And think you\nthat I know not that you are to succeed him in business?\"\n\n\"Her father!\" I exclaimed--\"of whom do you speak? I know him not. Or do\nyou speak only to mock me?\"\n\n\"By my right hand,\" said he, \"I speak seriously, and the truth. She\nbelieves, and you believe that she is the niece of old Hastings, your\nmaster. She is his daughter--the only daughter of a fair but frail wife,\nwho eloped from him while his child was yet an infant, leaving it to his\ncare. In order to forget the shame which his frail partner had brought\nupon him, he, from that day, refused to see his child, lest her features\nshould remind him of her mother. The girl was sent to Boulogne, where\nshe remained till within two months of the time when you saw her on\nboard of my good privateer. You look astonished,\" added he--\"does my\nnarrative surprise you?\"\n\n\"It does indeed surprise me,\" I replied; \"but how come you to know these\nthings?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied he, \"I know them, and require but small help from\ndivination. Nine years ago, I was commander of one of old Hasting's\nvessels; and because I was a native of the Borders, forsooth, I, like\nyou, was a favourite with him. He entrusted me with the secret of his\nhaving a daughter. Frequently, when I had occasion to put into Boulogne,\nI carried her presents from him. He also ordered me to bring him over\nher portrait, and when the old boy took it in his hands, and held it\nbefore his face, he wept as though he had been a child. He used me\ncrookedly at last, however; for he accused me of dishonesty, and\nattempted to bring me to punishment. I was then as honest as noonday,\nand on land I am honest still, although I have done some bold business\nupon the high seas. I made a vow that I would be revenged upon him, and,\nbut that you thwarted me, I would have been revenged. I ran my brig into\nBoulogne. I pretended that I had a message to Miss Hastings from her\nfather, or, as I termed him, her uncle, and that she was to accompany me\nto England. As I had frequently been the bearer of communications from\nhim before, my tale was believed. She accompanied me on board the brig;\nand we sailed, not for England, but on a roving cruise, as a king of the\nopen sea. I was resolved that no harm should befal her; but I had also\ndetermined that she should not again set her foot upon land, until her\nfather came down with a thousand pounds as a ransom. Of that thousand\npounds you deprived me. But on your marriage day--at the very\naltar--payment will be demanded. It is not for myself that I desire it,\"\nsaid he, seriously, \"for I am a careless fellow, and am content with\nwhat the sea gives to me; but I have a son in Cumberland, who will now\nbe about seven years of age. His mother is dead, for my forsaking her\nbroke the poor thing's heart, and hurried her to the grave. My son, I\nbelieve, is now the inmate of a workhouse. It is better that he should\nremain there, than be trained to the gallows by his father. Yet I should\nwish to see him provided for, and your wife's ransom shall be his\ninheritance. Give me your bond, and when you again see this dagger, be\nready to fulfil it.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he exhibited a small poniard, which he carried concealed\nbeneath his coat. I conceived that his brain was affected, and merely to\nhumour him I agreed to his strange demand.\n\nHis words gave birth to wild thoughts, and with an anxious heart I\nhastened to return to England. My employer received me as though I had\nnot been absent for a week.\n\n\"You have done well,\" he said; \"I am satisfied with your undertaking.\nYou did not this time meet with pirates, nor captive damsels to rescue.\"\nI hesitated to reply, and I mentioned that I had met and spoken with the\npirate commander at Genoa.\n\nHe glanced at me sharply for a moment, and added--\"Merchants should not\nconverse with robbers.\"\n\nHe sat thoughtful for the space of half an hour, and then requested me\nto accompany him into his private office. When there, he said--\n\n\"You inform me that you have again seen Belford, the pirate, and that\nyou have spoken with him. What said he to you? Tell me all--conceal\nnothing.\"\n\nI again hesitated, and sought to evade the subject. But he added, more\ndecisively--\"Speak on--hide nothing--fear nothing.\"\n\nI did tell him all, and he sat and heard me unmoved.\n\nWhen I concluded, he took my hand and said--\"It well you have spoken\nhonestly. Listen to me. Charlotte is indeed my daughter. Time has not\ndiminished your affection for each other, which I was afraid was too\nromantic in its origin to endure. I have put your attachment to each\nother to severe trials; let it now triumph. Follow me,\" he added, \"and I\nwill conduct you to her.\"\n\nI was blind with happiness, and almost believed that what I heard was\nbut a dream--the fond whispering of an excited brain. I will not\ndescribe to you my interview with my Charlotte; I could not--words could\nnot. It was an hour of breathless, of measureless joy. She was more\nbeautiful than ever, and love and joy beamed from her eyes.\n\nOur wedding-day came--her father placed her hands in mine, and blessed\nus. We were leaving the church, when a person in the porch, whose figure\nwas rapt up in a cloak, approached me, and revealing the point of a\ndagger, whispered--\"Remember your bond!\"\n\nIt was Belford, the daring pirate. I kept faith with him, and he\nreceived the money.\n\nI will not detain you longer with my history, with my Trials and\nTriumphs. One of the first acts of my Charlotte was to purchase the\nestate which had been torn from my father, and she presented it to him\nas his daughter's gift. On retiring from business, I came to reside on\nit, and built on it this house, which has sheltered you from the storm.\n\n\"And your name,\" said the listener, \"is Mr Melvin?\"\n\n\"It is,\" replied the host.\n\n\"Then startle not,\" continued the stranger, \"when you hear that mine is\nBelford! I am the son of the pirate. My father died not as he had lived.\nWhen upon his deathbed he sent for me, and on leaving me his treasure,\nwhich was considerable, he commanded me to repay you the thousand pounds\nwhich he so strangely exacted from you. From the day on which he\nreceived it, he abandoned his desperate course, and through honest\ndealings became rich. I have brought you your money, with interest up to\nthe present time.\"\n\nSo saying, the stranger placed a pocketbook in the hands of his\nentertainer, and hastily exclaiming \"Farewell!\" hurried from the house,\nand was no more heard of.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISER OF NEWABBEY.\n\n\nIn the pretty little village of Newabbey, in the south of Scotland,\nthere lived one of those individuals which society sometimes casts up,\nas the sea does its secret monsters, formed apparently for no other\npurpose than to show how curiously operose nature can be in her\nproductions, though mankind, ever in search for final causes, may\nattempt to wrest out of such eccentricities some moral to suit their\nself-love, and, by producing a contrast, elevate themselves in the scale\nof moral or physical being. That strange person, Cuthbert Grandison--or,\nas he was generally termed, Cubby Grindstane, by the corruptive\ningenuity of his neighbours--occupied a small mud cottage near the\ncentre of the village we have mentioned. He was considerably advanced in\nage, and, having come to Newabbey at a late period of his life, the\npeople in that part of the country knew little of his history--a\ncircumstance they regretted in proportion to the interest excited by the\nstrange habits of the individual. He was in person a little man;\nextremely spare; with a sharp keen, hungry look; a grey hawk's eye,\nwhich, like the cat's, seemed to enjoy the best vision collaterally, for\nthe pupil was almost always at the junction of the eyelids. On his back\nthere was a large hump, which being the only rotundity which his spare\nbody presented, gave him the appearance of a skeleton carrying a lump of\nbeef; and, as his mode of walking was quick and hurried, a quaint fancy\ncould not resist the additional suggestion, that he was running home\nwith it in order to satisfy the hunger that shone through his fleshless\nform. The extraordinary appearance of such a wild and grotesque-looking\nindividual, in so small a village, could not fail to produce the usual\nspeculation among the high-mutched gossips, who, having in vain made\ninquiries and exerted their wits as to his origin, directed their\nattention to his habits, and especially to the mode in which he earned\nhis livelihood--for no one could say he was ever seen to beg. But they\nwere not much more successful in these secondary inquiries and\ninvestigations; because, (although it was certain that he had a\nsignboard, exhibiting the characters, \"Cuthbert Grandison, Cobbler\"--an\nunusual and somewhat affected and gratuitous depreciation of the votary\nof St Crispin--and sometimes sat at his small window, perforating soles\nwith his awl, and filling up the holes with \"tackets,\") no one in the\nvillage employed him, and he never condescended to ask any one for work.\nIf his operations thus afforded no proper clue to his means of life, his\nconversation was, if possible, still more sterile; for, in place of\nassociating with the other \"snabs\" of the village, or joining the\nquidnunes who assembled in Widow Cruickshanks', to drink beer and \"twine\npolitical arguments\"--a much harder labour than their day's work, though\nthey thought it a recreation--he locked himself, and another individual\nnow to be mentioned, into the house at an early hour of the evening, and\nrefused to open it again to however urgent a visiter.\n\nThe other individual who lived in Cuthbert's house, was no other than a\ndaughter, about eighteen years of age, called Jean, as unlike her\ngrotesque and mysterious parent as any of God's creatures could be;\nthough every effort was exerted, on his part, to make her as silent and\nincommunicative as himself. She appeared to have received no education;\nher dress was of the most wretched kind; and it was even alleged by the\nneighbours, whose espionage extended even to the calculation of the\nquantity of meal and milk purchased for the support of the father and\nthe daughter, that she did not get sufficient food. These circumstances\nregarding the girl were the more readily remarked, that, as all\nadmitted, Jean, or, as she was familiarly called, Jeanie Grandison,\nwould, if she had been treated like other individuals of her age, have\nexcelled the greater number of young women of the village, not only in\npersonal appearance, but in the qualities of her mind and heart. She\napparently stood in great awe of her strange parent, and uniformly\nrejected all solicitations, on the part of the villagers, to join them\nin their sports, or partake of their little entertainments. The story of\nthe mysterious treatment to which she was subjected, excited the\nsympathies of the neighbours; and her own amiable manners and meek\ndeportment, exhibiting the indications of a crushed spirit, riveted the\nregard which had been first elicited by her apparent misfortunes.\n\nThe studied seclusion which Grindstane observed, and seemed determined\nto vindicate against all attempts on the part of the neighbours to \"draw\nhim out,\" rendered it difficult to obtain any insight into the domestic\neconomy of his strange domicile; but accident, at last, brought about\nwhat might otherwise not have been easily accomplished. It was observed\nthat, for a considerable time, his daughter had been ailing. She made no\ncomplaints to any one; but the quick eye of sympathy soon discovered\nwhat was apparently attempted to be concealed. The wife of John\nMonilaws, a grocer and meal-dealer, from whom Jeanie bought the small\nportion of provisions her father required, observed and noticed the\nchange that had taken place upon her, and urged her to reveal her\ncomplaint, and apply to the surgeon of the village for relief. She\nsmiled sorrowfully at the exhibition of a sympathy to which she was so\nmuch a stranger, and which she was not permitted to avail herself of;\nthanked Mrs Monilaws for her kind intentions; and assured her she was\nnot much out of her usual condition of health. Two days afterwards, the\ngood dame was astonished by the grotesque appearance of the mysterious\nCubby himself, standing by the side of her counter. It was seldom he\nwas to be seen, far less spoken to; and, as she looked on the man whom\nreport had invested with attributes of an unusual kind, a shiver came\nover her, which the presence of her husband, who, having seen Cubby\nenter the shop, followed him from mere curiosity, was required to\ncounteract.\n\n\"I want to buy some bread,\" said he, slowly.\n\n\"What kind?\" said Mrs Monilaws.\n\n\"A kind I hae aften asked Jeanie to get,\" replied he; \"but my een are\nnever blessed wi' the sight o't.\"\n\n\"Te may hae't, if we hae't, Cuthbert Grindstane,\" said John.\n\n\"Hae ye ony auld, weathered bread,\" said he, \"that has seen the sun for\na week, and fules winna buy frae ye?\"\n\n\"Ay hae we,\" replied the mistress--\"owre muckle o that. There's some our\nJohn is to boil up for the pigs. It's moulded as green as turf-sod. But\nye hae nae pigs, Cuthbert?\"\n\n\"Pigs anew--pigs anew,\" replied he. \"What's the price o' that?\"\n\n\"It's scarce worth onything,\" replied the honest woman.\n\n\"It's seldom I sell whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye may hae't\na'thegither for a penny.\"\n\n\"That's owre muckle, guid woman,\" said Cubby. \"A bawbee, eke a farthin,\nis the hail value o't. I'll gie nae mair.\"\n\n\"I dinna deal in farthins,\" replied she.\n\n\"Dinna deal in farthins!\" ejaculated Cubby with surprise. \"Is a farthin\nno the fourth part o' yer ain price o' a' that bread, sufficient to keep\na moderate man for a week?\"\n\n\"He would be a very moderate man that wad eat it,\" said John. \"I was\neven dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o' my pigs wi't, though boiled in\nwhey.\"\n\n\"Whey!\" ejaculated Cubby again--\"do ye gie yer pigs whey? They maun hae\na routhy stye. Will ye hae my bode?\"\n\n\"Ye may tak it for naething,\" said the mistress. \"Hoo is Jeanie?--she\nwas complainin last time I saw her.\"\n\n\"Complainin!\" said he, as he with the greatest avidity seized the bread,\nand stuffed it into his pockets. \"Did the lassie complain? What did she\ncomplain o'? No surely that she didna get her meat.\" And he looked\nfearfully and inquiringly into the face of Mrs Monilaws.\n\n\"She looked in an ailing way,\" said the mistress; \"an' I thought she was\nill.\"\n\n\"She's owre fat--an ill complaint,\" replied he, apparently wishing to\nget away.\n\n\"I dinna see that,\" said Mrs Monilaws.\n\n\"But I baith see't an' feel't,\" replied he with a grin. \"Guid nicht.\"\n\n\"I pity the puir lassie,\" said Mrs Monilaws, after Cubby went away,\n\"wha's doomed to live wi' that man. That's a puir supper for the stamach\no' an unweel cratur; an' I've a' my doots if she's no at this moment\nconfined to her strae bed. Is there nae way o' getting her out o' his\nhands? The Laird o' Cubbertscroft wants a servant, an' I promised to get\nane to him. Jeanie wad answer better than ony other lass in Newabbey,\nbut I canna see her to speak to her; for, though she comes here, naebody\ncan gae to her.\"\n\n\"There seemed to be something strange,\" replied John, \"in Cubby's\nmanner, when ye asked him about Jeanie. If he gaes lang his ain errands,\nan' she doesna make her appearance, I'll conclude, frae what I hae seen\nand heard, that there's something wrang. That man has the heart to\nstarve ane o' God's creatures--ay, his ain dochter--to death. What\nmortal could live on that meat he has taen hame wi' him this nicht? Keep\nan ee on them, Marion; an', if Jeanie doesna sune shew hersel, I'll mak\nsma' scruple in visitin the lion's den.\"\n\nSome days afterwards, Cubby again made his appearance at the counter of\nJohn Monilaws; and there being no more old bread for him, he struck a\nlong-contested bargain about some \"fuisted\" meal that had been long in\nthe shop, and for which he offered far beneath its real value; but Mrs\nMonilaws, thinking him poor and miserable, accepted his offer, though\nshe had scarcely done so when she repented of her generosity, for she\nimmediately concluded that her kindness was a species of cruelty, in so\nfar as she was accessory to sending, in all likelihood to an invalid,\nfood that was not suited even to a robust beggar. As he greedily\ngrasped, and carried away like a thief, the article he had purchased,\nshe asked again for his daughter; but she got less satisfaction on this\noccasion than even on the last, for his only answer was--\"What's the\nuse o' speerin for weel foik?\" The suspicions of Mrs Monilaws were\nroused, rather than allayed, by this answer, and the manner in which it\nwas delivered, and she lost no time in telling her husband, that he\nmight get some of the neighbours to accompany him, and go and inquire\nfor the young girl, who, if ill, ought to be taken from the house; or,\nif well, might be feed--whether old Grindstane was agreeable or not--for\nthe service at Cubbertscroft.\n\nAt the moment that Mrs Monilaws and her husband were engaged talking\nabout this strange individual and his daughter, Carey Cuthbert--the\nthird son of William Cuthbert of Cuthbert's, or, as it was called,\nCubbertscroft, a fine property in the neighbourhood--entered the shop,\nwith a message from Mrs Cuthbert, for articles for the use of the\nfamily, and a request to know if any suitable servant had yet been\nprocured by Mrs Monilaws. This young man, who was about eighteen years\nof age, was reputed by his parents as unfit for sustaining, even so far\nas a third son might sustain, the honour and respectability of the\nCuthberts of Cubbertscroft. He was represented as being so dull that he\nwould learn nothing; and, at the same time, so fond of associating with\ninferior people, that he could scarcely have been recognised, either\nfrom his conversation or manners, as the son of a gentleman. His\nbluntness, kindness, and humility, however, pleased all those with whom\nhis father did not wish him to associate. With many of the humble\ninhabitants of Newabbey he was on the most familiar footing; and nothing\npleased him better than to get into the village, where, on every side,\nhe could find companions of the grade that suited his (as his father\ntermed it) depraved taste. In these humbler societies, however, Carey\nlearned what perhaps he would not have done from the Greek and Latin\nbooks which, at school, were eternally in his hands, and never in his\nhead. Like most other individuals, whether fools or wits, he had a\ngenius of his own; and, as the worms on which the mole feeds are larger\nand fatter than the flying insects that form the food of the swallow,\nhumility, and a taste for the common sense that, like water, is best and\npurest the farther down you go, may be vindicated on the grand principle\nof utility and interest. We do not give a young man of eighteen credit\nfor an _a priori_ knowledge that his interests lay in searching among\nthe humble for that \"lear\" that could not be got among the sons of the\ngreat; but we may safely assert that nature had placed in him an\ninstinctive liking for the simple and the natural, and he might soon\nperceive, without any spirit of divination, that, by following nature as\nhis guide, he might arrive at a more satisfactory termination of his\njourney, than his horse-racing brothers, William and George, who were\nfast flying through their father's estate. He had nearly already,\nhowever, been given up as untractable; his speech, as his mother said,\nhad been Scotch from the first lisp; his ideas had been of the earth,\nfrom the first moment he crawled upon it; and the servants his\ncompanions, from the time he was able to escape, by the aid of his own\nfeet, from the nursery.\n\nAs soon as Carey had delivered his message, he conceived he had thrown\noff the servitude imposed upon him by his mother, who considered him of\nno other use than to carry a verbal communication to the village.\nEntertaining a very different opinion of Carey's powers, John Monilaws\ntold him of the strange conduct of Cubby Grindstane, (whom he also well\nknew, as indeed every person in the neighbourhood,) in endeavouring to\nconceal the illness of his daughter, who was the individual to be\nrecommended to his mother as a servant. Carey confessed he thought the\nconduct of Cubby very suspicious, and, with a knowing look, hinted that\nit had been long his intention to endeavour to ascertain something more\nof the old cobbler than the people of Newabbey yet knew.\n\n\"It is just you callants,\" said John, \"wha are best at thae things. When\nI was like ye, there wasna a house-tap in a' Newabbey I didna ken as\nweel as the sparrows that biggit their nests in them. There are queerer\nsights seen i' the warld, by lookin _down_ than by lookin _up_, for a\nthat astronomers may say on the subject. It was I that discovered Marion\nMuschet killin her new-born bairn wi' a pack-thread. I saw her through\nher ain skylicht; an', though I had nae power to speak, I had plenty o'\npith i' my legs; but, fule that I was, I forgot that, lang afore I could\nget assistance, the pack-thread wad hae dune its wark. Sae it was--the\nface o' the bairn was as blue as my bannet, when, by my means, it was\ndiscovered.\"\n\n\"An' muckle ye got for yer sky-larkin,\" said Mrs Monilaws. \"Ye hanged\nthe puir woman, an' got the name o' Skylicht Johnnie, whilk ye hae\ncarried about wi' ye ever since, and will do till the day ye dee.\"\n\n\"Ay, Marion,\" answered the good-natured husband, \"I hae taen nane o'\nthae flights sin' I married ye. Ye keep me weel down. I suffered weel i'\nmy young days for lookin down; but I fear I wad suffer mair noo for\nlookin up. But the deil's no buried i' Kirkaldy, if I wadna hae a blink\nthrough Cubby Grindstane's skylicht, were my legs as soople as Mr Carey\nCuthbert's there, an' I had nae wife on my back.\"\n\nCarey looked and smiled, and said nothing; but his mind was not so\ninactive as his tongue.\n\n\"Ye wad be nearer yer purpose, John,\" said Marion, \"if ye wad tak wi' ye\nour neebor, John Willison, a godly elder o' the kirk, and gae bauldly in\nat the door. John will tak wi' him prayers, an' ye some o' my jellies. I\nnever kenned ony guid come by a skylicht--except, maybe, Widow\nGairdner's; wha was sittin ae nicht, thinkin whar she wad get her\nsupper; an', as she thought, an' thought, an' was nae better or fu'er\nfor thinkin, a man fell frae the roof at her feet, an', throwing frae\nhim sixteen gowd guineas wi' pure fear, flew out at the door as if\nBeelzebub an' a' his angels had been after him. Widow Gairdner got her\nsupper that nicht. Naebody ever asked for the guineas; but it was weel\nkenned frae whase hoose they were stown.\"\n\n\"Ah, Marion, Marion,\" said John, laughing; \"an' sae ye forget yer ain\nmither's skylicht, through whilk I used to gae to court ye.\"\n\n\"An' I do nae sic things, John,\" replied Mrs Monilaws, jocularly; \"ye\nnever brocht sixteen gowd guineas wi' ye when ye cam doon through my\nmither's skylicht, to court her dochter.\"\n\nThis conversation was not lost upon Carey Cuthbert, although he said\nnothing. He laughed heartily at the dry humour of the honest, happy\ncouple, and went to visit his other friends in the village. In the\nafternoon, he was seen studying like a painter the form and appearance\nof old Grindstane's house, and did not leave the village till the\nevening. As soon as it was sufficiently dark, he repaired again to the\nold black domicile; and having during daylight taken his eye-draughts,\nhe tried if he could observe what was going on in the inside of the\nhouse from the small window in the side-wall, or from a small round hole\nin the gable. Both apertures were, however, completely closed, the\ngreatest care having apparently been taken, not only to shut the crazy\nshutters, but to stuff up the holes with pieces of rags, and to cover up\nall with a cloth hung from the inside so as to cover all the interior\npart of the windows. Carey saw, however, enough to satisfy him that the\ninmates had not retired to rest; for there was light in the cottage, and\nhe thought he observed that it moved as if some one were carrying a lamp\nfrom one part of the interior to another. He heard no sounds; for the\nindividual who moved the light walked softly, as if he wished to avoid\nmaking any disturbance.\n\n\"We hae nae hope upon earth,\" said Carey to himself, quaintly; \"I maun\ntak for ance my mither's counsel, an' _soar_--though, I fear, crawlin on\nthatched roofs is no the kind o' ambition she wants me to flee at.\"\n\nWith these words, and a smile on his face, Carey went along, and, by the\naid of a tree, mounted to the top of the house adjacent to Cubby's.\nResisting a strong temptation to peep into the interior of this house,\nwhich presented a very clear, open, and convenient skylight, through\nwhich many secrets might have been discovered, he slipped softly along,\nand laid himself on the thatch of Cubby's house, with his feet in the\nspout, and his head on the small aperture, covered with one pane of\nyelked glass, through which, if any light had been in the interior, he\ncould very easily have seen all that went on in the inside of the\ncottage. All, however, was dark as pitch--a circumstance which appeared\nto him somewhat strange, as he was certain he had seen light in the\nhouse before he mounted; but to be accounted for sufficiently easily,\nby supposing that the light had been extinguished during the time he had\nbeen occupied in getting up. He had no hopes now of seeing anything that\nnight; but, as he was there at any rate, (so he argued,) he might as\nwell rest himself a little, after the fatigues of a day spent running\nabout in various directions, and he might perhaps hear something, if he\ncould see nothing; a mode of acquiring knowledge he had less objection\nto than to the ocular exercises on printed paper, so much recommended by\nhis parents and Dominie Blackletter--a creature he hated.\n\nHaving lain quietly for some time, he heard, very distinctly, hollow\nmoans, coming from the lower part of the house. They were of the most\nunearthly kind he had ever heard, suggesting, as they struck the pained\near, the idea of some one suffering the last pangs of mortal agony.\nThese were mixed, or alternated, with, occasional harsh objurgatory\nnotes, coming from another person, apparently a man, and supposed, by\nCarey, to be Cubby Grandison himself. These were followed by a scream,\nwhich appeared to be stifled towards its conclusion, as if some one had\napplied a cloth or other obstruction to the mouth of the individual\ngiving vent to the unbearable agony. The scream marked the individual as\na female, and Carey set her down as the unfortunate daughter of whom he\nhad heard John Monilaws and his wife talking in the fore-part of the\nday. These sounds continued for a considerable time. The groans, the\nobjurgations, the scream stifled as before, succeeded each other; and,\nthen, for a time, a deep silence reigned throughout the interior, only\nto be interrupted again, by a repetition of the same sounds. At last, a\nlouder scream than any he had yet heard, burst from the mouth of the\nsufferer, and, in an instant, a noise, as of some one falling over\nchairs, was heard, and then a sudden stifling of the scream, accompanied\nby the objurgatory and menacing voice of a man, whose anger seemed to\nincrease with the necessity of an increase of his efforts to stop the\ncomplaint of the sufferer. This scream was the last that Carey heard. A\ndeep silence again reigned, and a full quarter of an hour passed without\nany indications being perceived of the presence of a living person in\nthe cottage.\n\nHaving waited for a considerable time without hearing anything further,\nCarey concluded that the suffering individual had been suffocated, and\nwas on the eve of getting down to give an alarm. His attention was again\narrested by a new phenomenon. A light was now observable through the\nchinks of an apparent partition between the skylight and the under or\nmain part of the house, an unusual occurrence in Scotch cottages, which\nhave generally no garret, or any other apartment than what extends from\nroof to ceiling. A noise was now heard, as of some one trying to open a\nlocked door. Success attended his efforts, and, in a little time, a\nsmall door, sufficient to let in the body of a man in a crawling\nposture, opened, and discovered the face and upper part of the body of\nCuthbert Grandison, holding in his hands a small cruisie, which sent\nforth a doubtful, glimmering light, scarcely sufficient to do more than\nshow the high bones and grey eye of the strange individual who held it.\nThe door being opened he placed the cruisie into the small apartment\ninto which it led; whereby Carey was enabled to see the nature of the\nplace, and its extraordinary contents. As he surveyed them, he shook\nwith terror, and was once afraid that his perturbation would discover\nhim. The apartment was a place in the form of a small garret, extending\nto about half the size of the under apartment of the cottage; and seemed\nto have been formed after the house was built, for the purpose to which\nit was devoted. Casting his eye around and round, what struck the\nfearful observer first, was a skeleton of a human being, lying extended\nalong the floor, and half enveloped in the darkness, which the\nglimmering taper only partially illuminated. It had been the first human\nskeleton Carey had ever seen; and the circumstances under which he now\nbeheld it, shining principally by the borrowed light of its bleached\nbones, and suggesting some mysterious connection between the being whose\nphysical system it once supported, and the extraordinary individual who\nheld this strange piece of household furniture, rendered the sight\nappalling and horripalant. On a chest at the other side of the apartment\nlay another skeleton, apparently that of a new-born child, whose tiny\nshanks, worm-like finger bones, and small head, formed a striking and\npainful contrast to its full-grown companion--suggesting the probability\nof some kindred blood having once warmed the sapless bones, and some\nkindred fate having dried it up, leaving these dry tokens as the only\nmonument of their sorrows and misfortunes. Around, on all sides were\nlarge packages cased with iron, and sitting on a small hook attached to\nthe wall near the ceiling was another inhabitant of this living\ncemetery, which, from the singularity of its aspect, its silence, and\nits locality, excited as much terror in Carey as even the skeleton. This\nwas no other than a large grey owl, sitting as demure as grimalkin, with\nits goggle eyes at their utmost stretch, glaring in the light of the\ntaper like fiery balls, and rolling as if in anger at being interrupted\nby the intruder in its enjoyment of eating a mouse, which, dead and\nmangled, was firmly clenched in its claws. The few minutes that served\nCarey to examine these extraordinary appearances, whose reality he\ndoubted against all the clearness of his rubbed eyes, enabled Cuthbert\nGrandison to crawl into the place, through the limited aperture opening\nin its side. The moment he got in, he shut the door carefully, and threw\nhis eyes up to the pane of glass through which Carey was looking,\nwithout, however, observing him, as he instantly drew back his head.\nWhen Carey again directed his eyes to the object of his curiosity and\nawe, he was lying prostrate by the side of the bones of the larger\nskeleton. He then rose up, threw a look of recognition to the owl, who\nwent on with his repast, heedless of the ceremony with which he had been\nhonoured. The necromantic appearance, attitude, and acts of the\nhunchbacked living skeleton, who thus stood, as it were, in the midst of\nthe dead, communing with them by a secret and mysterious power, realized\nin the mind of the neophite all the stories he had heard and read of the\nwonderful and the terrific. The subsequent conduct of the performer was\nnot less extraordinary. His ceremonies and operations occupied a full\nhour. Everything was noticed by Carey; and if what we have attempted to\ndescribe produced wonder, what we have at present abstained from\nnarrating, from a regard to what is due to the importance of other\ncircumstances waiting for detail, was not calculated to lessen that\nfeeling.\n\nCarey having got down again from the roof top, hurried away home at the\ntop of his speed; for he had staid too long, and was certain of a scold\nfrom his parents, for having been seduced into low practices, by the\nvulgar inhabitants of the village. A confusion in the house, produced by\na poinding having been that day executed, but removed by payment of the\ndebt which had been incurred by the eldest son, William, and\ncorroborated by the indulgent father, saved him from the abuse which\nawaited him. Though young, he had sense enough to see the folly of the\nproceedings of his father and brothers, and sighed as he retired to his\ncouch, in the anticipation of a greater evil impending over the house of\nCuthbert, than the humble-mindedness of its third son. The anticipated\nmisfortunes of his father, and the recollection of the extraordinary\nsights he had witnessed from the roof top of Cubby Grandison, kept him\nawake during the greater part of the night. His meditations took\nvarious turns. The abuse to which he was daily exposed at the hands of\nhis parents and brothers, produced an ambition of shewing himself worthy\nof their regard, and even of saving them from the ruin that seemed to\nawait them; but the schemes whereby that was to be accomplished, formed\nin a youthful mind, fell far short of the wishes which produced them. In\nthe morning, he was duly catechised as to the cause of his being so late\nin coming home; but he chose rather to be subjected to the suspicion of\nhaving been in the company of Sandy Ferrier the smith, or Geordie\nMactubbie the cooper, or any other humble, but witty denizen of\nNewabbey, whose laugh caught his ready sympathies, than divulge the\nsecrets of his evening's adventures, on the house top of Cubby\nGrindstane the cobbler.\n\nNext day it was absolutely necessary--so at least thought Carey\nCuthbert--that he should again see John Monilaws, about his mother's\nservant, though he had no new commission from her to execute, connected\nwith that affair; and giving Gideon Blackletter and his Greek and Latin\nbooks the slip, he hastened again to Newabbey, now become a much more\ninteresting place than Cubbertscroft.\n\n\"Ye've got nae intelligence yet, I fancy, Mrs Monilaws, aboot my\nmither's servant?\" he said, as he entered the shop of the gaucy dealer\nin many wares.\n\n\"No yet, Mr Carey,\" replied she. \"There's been a consultation atween\nElder Willison an' John, as to the time o' their visit to Cubby's den,\nas they ca' it. They're speakin o' four o'clock. They want a stout young\nchiel wi' them, for fear o' accidents. As you're a little interested i'\nthe affair, and fond o' sichts, maybe ye may condescend to accompany\nthem?\"\n\n\"I've nae objections,\" answered Carey. \"Is there ony other livin\ncreature supposed to be i' the house, but Cubby an' his dochter?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the mistress, \"if indeed ane o' thae two even be livin;\nbut few folk can tell muckle aboot the inside o' Cubby Grindstane's\nhouse, for he has a way o' meetin visitors at the door, an', stanin\nricht i' the gap, speaks them fair, an' gets them awa as sune as he\ncan.\"\n\n\"Was he ever married, ken ye?\" said Carey, \"or did ye ever hear o' ony\nither body that lived wi' him?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken,\" replied she. \"He hasna had a wife sin' he cam to\nNewabbey.\"\n\n\"Is his dochter Jeanie, wham ye intend for my mither's servant, like her\nfather?\" said Carey.\n\n\"As unlike as ony twa creatures can be,\" replied Mrs Monilaws. \"He's a\nhunchbacked scarecraw, an' she's a bonny young lassie, whase beauty, a'\nthe ill usage and starvation she has suffered, hasna been able to tak\nthe blume frae; but, I fear, that bonny blume winna stand muckle langer,\nif indeed death hasna already blawn the witherin gouch o' his breath\non't. But this day will expose a' the secrets o' the inside o' that\nhouse.\"\n\n\"I see nae great reason,\" replied Carey, \"for supposin there's ony great\nsecret aboot it.\"\n\n\"What maks him keep a'body oot, then, Mr Carey, man?\" said the mistress.\n\"What gies him that side-look, that fearfu girn, an' his slouchin walk!\nWhat maintains him?--for he works nane; and why winna Jeanie speak abune\nher breath when she sees him, or answer, when he's awa, ony question\naboot him or his hoose?\"\n\n\"A' prejudice, Mrs Monilaws,\" replied Carey; \"auld wive's wind eggs,\nhatched, nae doot, by a covey o' them, as they sit thegither till they\nclock. The puir man doesna want to be fashed wi' a set o' meddlin\nneebors.\"\n\nAt four o'clock, Elder Willison, John Monilaws, and Carey, went to the\nhouse of Cubby Grindstane. The door was locked. They knocked, and asked\nadmittance.\n\n\"What want ye?\" said a rough voice from within.\n\n\"We hae some shoes to get mended,\" said John Monilaws.\n\n\"I'm ill, an' no in a mendin way the day,\" replied Cubby, \"Gang awa to\nJamie Goodawls.\"\n\n\"Jamie has owre muckle to do, and tauld us to gang to Cubby Grindstane,\"\nsaid the godly elder.\n\n\"My awl's my ain,\" said Cubby, in worse humour; \"an' sae lang as it's no\nthirled to the _soles_ o' men, I'm free frae the power o' their bodies.\nAwa wi' ye!\"\n\n\"You're in my district, Cubby,\" said the elder, \"an' I hae the command\no' Mr Singer, oor minister, to ca' upon ye, and inquire for the state o'\nyer soul, whilk, to reverse yer puir pun, is, we fear, owre closely\nthirled to yer _all_. Yer dochter has also a soul to be saved; and Mr\nSinger says he never saw you or her i' the kirk.\"\n\n\"Weel, if I dinna trouble him, he has nae richt to trouble me,\" replied\nCubby. \"I say again, awa wi' ye! The law says a man's hoose is his\ncastle, an' it says true.\"\n\n\"That's an unfortunate allusion,\" whispered Carey to John Monilaws.\n\"Castles are made to be attacked.\"\n\n\"An' to be defended,\" answered Cubby, who had overheard the remark.\n\nCarey applied his powerful back to the crazy door, and, in an instant,\nthrew it open, overturning at the back of it a number of pieces of old\nfurniture, placed as props or defences, to prevent its being opened. The\nparty entered, and, in an instant, were in the middle of the cottage,\nwhich was in two divisions--one end being occupied by a small truckle\nbed, on which a human body lay extended; and the other which Carey\nremarked was under the small garret where he had observed the nocturnal\nrites, presented nothing but a few broken stools; some straw in one\ncorner, over which a dirty sheet and a blanket were spread; a fire, with\nabout as much live coal in it as a hand might hold, as well for quantity\nas activity of heat; a small cupboard, with a padlock on it of twice the\nvalue of the articles it guarded, presenting some bones that had once,\nand while another's property, been covered with roasted meat, and\nseemed by their whiteness to have been four or five times boiled, with\nthe remnant of the fuisted meal purchased from Mrs Monilaws.\n\n\"This is a strange way,\" said Cubby, as he went to what might have been\ncalled the butt end of the cottage--\"this is a strange fashion o'\nbringin the word o' God to folk that dinna want it.\"\n\n\"We are tauld,\" replied the elder, \"to strive for the repentance o'\nsinners.\"\n\n\"Ay, but ye're no tauld to brak open folk's doors, to force them to\nrepent,\" replied Cubby. \"Besides, Mr Willison, whar's the shoon Jamie\nGoodawl said he couldna mend, and sent ye to me wi'? Amang sins to be\nrepented o', a lee is a very guid ane to begin wi'.\"\n\n\"Hoo's Jeanie, yer dochter?\" said the elder, who was fairly caught by\nCubby.\n\n\"What should ail her?\" said Cubby, looking suspiciously, and moving\nbetween them and the other apartment.\n\n\"That's just what we want to ken,\" said John Monilaws, pushing Cubby a\nlittle to the side, and moving slowly into the other division, followed\nby the elder and Carey.\n\nThe sight that here presented itself to them, as they approached the\nsmall truckle bed, and folded down the top of the only blanket that\ncovered the body of a female, was of the most wretched and pitiful\ncharacter. It was with the greatest difficulty that John Monilaws could\nrecognise the features of Jeannie Grandison, (for such the invalid was,)\nreduced, by the ill-matched pair, famine and disease, to the last stage\nof existence. The bloom which Mrs Monilaws feared for was indeed\nwithered, and the stalk which supported the flower attenuated to a\nfibre. Pale as a corpse, and emaciated beyond the lowest state of body\nthat keeps burning the lamp of life, it appeared doubtful, in the\nabsence of motion, whether she should be classed among living mortals.\nThe approach of strangers seemed to produce no effect upon her; for her\neyelids, which about half covered the glazed orbs, remained stationary,\nand no symptoms of breathing could be discovered. At the side of the\nbed, stood a three-footed stool, on which was placed a tin tankard,\ncontaining some cold water, and a small bowl, with about an ounce of\ncold porridge (made, no doubt, of part of the meal seen in the press) in\nthe bottom of it, no part of which seemed marked by the rusty iron spoon\nthat lay alongside of the dish.\n\n\"Why did ye say to my wife, Cubby, that that lassie was weel, when it's\nscarcely possible to observe in her a spark o' life?\"\n\n\"And what guid wad it hae dune to hae said she was ill?\" replied Cubby.\n\"I canna pay for possets an' puddins recommended by auld wives; an' a\ndoctor is far ayont my degree or ability.\"\n\n\"Ye micht hae begged assistance, then,\" said John. \"Naebody wad hae\nrefused a bite or a sup to ane o' God's creatures, lyin at the point o'\ndeath.\"\n\n\"The folk hereabout,\" replied Cubby, \"are owre proud o' their bites and\nsups, no to come an' enjoy the luxury o' seem their charity applied, and\ngettin their lugs lined wi' the return o' gratitude. A house fu' o'\nfolk, an' a pouch wi' three farthins i' the corner o't, dinna sort weel\nthegither. Besides, what mair can ony sick body get than meat and\ndrink?\"\n\n\"An' do ye ca' that meat and drink?\" said John, pointing to the porridge\nand water.\n\n\"What wad you ca' it?\" replied Cubby, grinnin. \"I wish I may get nae\nwaur to comfort me when I come to dee.\"\n\n\"If the fear of expense,\" said Carey, \"has prevented ye frae lettin the\nneebors ken o' yer daughter's illness, wadna the same cause hae\nprevented ye frae tellin o' her death? A funeral costs siller--what wad\nye hae dune wi' the body?\"\n\nCubby seemed moved by this question, and eyed the speaker suspiciously\nand fearfully.\n\n\"What's that to ye, callant?\" he said at last. \"A man's nae great\nmechanic wha canna ca' thegither four white deals; and they that carry\nto the grave dinna trouble are by coming back to ask for their fare, as\nother carriers do.\"\n\n\"She'll no be ill to carry, puir thing,\" said John Monilaws. \"The only\nweight aboot her will be that o' death, whilk they say is great even in\na bird. Whar does her mither lie?\"\n\n\"Whar should she lie?\" replied Cubby, again put into a state of\nagitation, remarked particularly by Carey. \"Think ye she's no in her\ngrave?\"\n\n\"I hae little doot o' that, Cubby,\" said the other; \"but I hope puir\nJeanie hears naething o' a' this.\"\n\nOn looking at the invalid, all parties were surprised to see her looking\nup in their faces, apparently comprehending every word they said.\n\n\"Ye're better, I think, Jeanie,\" said John.\n\n\"I dinna ken,\" replied the poor maiden. \"Ask my faither. I can say\nnaething about mysel. He'll answer for me.\"\n\n\"Hae ye been gettin ony meat except this crowdy an Adam's wine?\" again\nsaid the other.\n\n\"My faither kens best what kind o' wine I hae been gettin,\" replied she.\n\n\"Wine!\" ejaculated Cubby--\"God keep me an' my house frae sic\nextravagance! Mair souls an' siller hae been drooned in that liquor than\nin the Dead Sea, whilk hauds Sodom and Gomorrah.\"\n\n\"An' some bodies hae been saved wi't,\" said John, taking out a small\nbottle and a glass, and emptying some wine, which, by holding up the\npoor invalid, he endeavoured to prevail upon her to taste.\n\nCubby turned up his eyes and his hands to heaven. Jeannie looked\nfearfully at her father, and refused to taste the wine, though her lips\nwere as withered leaves.\n\n\"The taste o't will never leave her mouth,\" ejaculated Cubby. \"Awa wi'\nyou an' your wine! Is my bairn to be corrupted, an' her father lookin\non? What can be expected o' ane wha has swallowed three hail pennies at\nae gulp? God hae mercy on us!\"\n\n\"You seem to want yer dochter dead,\" said the elder. \"The Lord has sent\nus thae things to be used, and no abused. Paul says, 'Drink no longer\nwater, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often\ninfirmities.'\"\n\n\"I'll no tak that,\" replied Cubby, \"on the faith o' are wha said he cam\nhere wi' shune to mend, when his true errand was to corrupt the stamach\no' my dochter. Paul had mair sense than learn folk thae evil habits.\"\n\n\"Shew me a Bible, an' I'll point ye out the passage,\" said the elder.\n\n\"I may thank the Bible,\" replied Cubby; \"for the auld ane I ance had,\nan' whilk I sauld for half-a-crown to Geordie Bookless o' Dumfries, kept\nme and Jeannie livin for five weeks--sae I hae naething to say against\nthat guid buik; but I haena been able to buy a second. Ye may noo gang\nyer ways. Ye see that neither yer wine nor yer text is o' ony use in\nthis house.\"\n\n\"Will you alloo her to tak onything else, then, Cubby, if my wife sends\nit to ye?\" said John Monilaws.\n\n\"It's no often ye hear o' a puir penniless cratur like me refusin\nonything that wad save his stock o' three guid farthins. I wad tak ony\ngift but luxuries, provided the giver didna want entrance to my house;\nbut that's impossible. A' that gie think they hae a richt to enter yer\nhouse as they like. Sae I dispense wi' yer gifts. Awa wi' you and them\nbaith!\"\n\n\"Its in vain to fecht wi' him,\" whispered Carey into the ear of John\nMonilaws. \"It's clear the lassie will dee if she's no removed. I'll\nhand Cubby, if you an' the elder will lift the truckle-bed bodily, an'\ncarry the lassie an' it thegither into yer ain house.\"\n\nThis communication was approved of, and conveyed to the elder. A sign\nwas given by Carey, who instantly seized Cubby by the shoulders; while,\nthe door being opened, the two others lifted with the greatest ease the\nsmall couch, and, to the great surprise of the neighbours, who rejoiced\nin the proceeding, carried it with the poor victim into John's house,\nwhere the humane mistress, who had a liking for Jeanie, received her\nwith pleasure, and proceeded to contribute to her ease and recovery. The\ngreatest terror was evinced by Cubby on being let free from the powerful\ngrasp of Carey. He flew out of the cottage like one distracted, (yet\nlocking, even in his hurry, the door,) forced himself through the crowd\ninto John Monilaws' house, and, by threats, imprecations, supplications,\nand even bribes, endeavoured to get possession of his daughter. His\nconduct appeared to the people inexplicable. The starvation of his\ndaughter, and the affection (for what else could have produced his\nanxiety?) that suggested such means of regaining possession of her,\nappeared inconsistent; and if the sanity of the individual had not, by\nhis conversation, been well established, he would have been considered a\nmadman. His violence arose to such a pitch that it was found necessary\nto guard the door; and it was only after some feigned attempt to break\ninto his own house, which seemed to terrify him even more than the\ndetention of his daughter, that he was forced home, and the poor girl\nwas left unmolested under the charge of Mrs Monilaws.\n\nMeanwhile, Jeanie, being kindly treated and attended by a surgeon,\nrecovered with a quickness proportioned to the powers of reaction of a\nyouthful constitution, acting on a system once more restored to the\nenjoyment of what Dr Leechman called the _non-naturals_. Her natural\nbeauty which had never yet got fair play, began to shew itself; and her\nsimple and timid manners, produced by the dreadful tyranny under which\nshe had lived, excited a deep interest in her protectors and preservers.\nShe never, however, could be prevailed upon to speak of her father, or\nof anything connected with the house. A shudder passed over her when his\nname was mentioned; and she expressed an anxiety either to be put beyond\nhis power or again restored to him, an alternative which was not well\nunderstood by her protectors, but sufficiently explained by the dangers\nto which she would be exposed if she were made accessible to him when he\nwas under the influence of the fits of terror, excitement, and anxiety,\nhe had exhibited already on more than one occasion, and, perhaps, partly\nto be accounted for by some secret cause which she could not be\nprevailed upon to divulge. She was quite agreeable to go to\nCubbertscroft as a servant; and it was arranged that she should\naccordingly proceed there as soon as she had totally recovered. Grieved\nfor her want of education, Mrs Monilaws procured, for her instruction in\nreading and writing, the services of the village schoolmaster, who\nattended her daily after she was able for the exercise, and was much\ngratified by the rapid progress she made (for she was of quick parts)\nunder his zealous tuition.\n\nDuring all this period, Jeanie Grandison was regularly visited by Carey\nCuthbert, whose interest in her, though he had not then seen her,\ncommenced from the eventful evening when he made the awful discoveries\nwe have partly detailed, through her father's skylight; and had\nincreased from the moment he saw the first tint of the bloom of\nreturning health on her pallid cheek, and heard the sounds of her clear\nmelodious voice, though exercised only in the expressions of the\nsentiments of a half-broken, timid, yet grateful heart. When properly\nrestored to health, Jeanie was sent out under the protection of John\nMonilaws and Carey, (who, however, left them before he approached the\nhouse,) to Cubbertscroft, where she entered upon her service. Nothing\nwas said to any one of her parentage; all that was told to Mrs Cuthbert\nor the other servants, being, that she had, after having come to Mrs\nMonilaws to be engaged, been seized with a fever, which prevented her\nsooner from entering upon her service. This caution had been observed in\naccordance with Jeanie's own wish; but her curious history reached the\nears of one of the servants, and very soon became known to the family,\nwho did not treat her any better, because she was reputed to be the\ndaughter of one already notorious in that part of the country for\nsqualid beggary and extraordinary and mysterious conduct. Mrs Cuthbert,\nan unfeeling woman, whose contempt was measured by the humbleness of the\nbirth, circumstances, and education of every one around her, treated her\nharshly--not hesitating, in her moods of spleen and passion, to taunt\nher with her father's abject poverty, and her own origin. The protection\nand kindness she received from Carey, were limited by his want of\nopportunity and power; but the early interest he felt in her soon\nassumed a new character, and an affection, pure and honourable as the\nheart that entertained it, took possession of him, with all the energy\nof a youthful passion. The opportunities he had of conversing with her,\nwere stolen from the watchful surveillance of his parents; who,\nacquainted with his habits of humble companionship, had threatened to\nturn him from the house if he did not renounce them; but, as the\nmountains, piled by the daring hand of Titan, are not able to stop the\nmountain stream, many devices were fallen upon by Carey, to give vent to\na passion whose course, though proverbially crooked, is also\nproverbially irresistible. When Jeanie was supposed to be visiting her\nfriends in Newabbey--a place she dared not enter--she was along with\nCarey, in the Wolf's Brake, a very retired place in the neighbourhood,\nwhere they conceived they were perfectly safe from the disturbance of\ntheir enemies; but they were discovered by Carey's parents, who cruelly\ndismissed them both from the house. Carey was true to his love; and they\nproceeded together to the village, where they were received by John\nMonilaws and his wife, to whom they related their strange story, with\nkindness. Some time afterwards, they were married, and Carey paid little\nattention to the remarks of the neighbours, who could not see \"hoo the\nyoung gentleman, without a trade in his hand,\" was to support himself\nand a wife. Even John Monilaws thought the match, in the meantime,\nimprudent, and recommended that it should be postponed until Carey had\nlearned some trade or profession. Carey smiled in reply, and thought of\nwhat he had seen from the skylight of his father-in-law's cottage.\n\nIn a short time it was currently reported, that the laird of\nCubbertscroft was over head and ears in debt, and that the property was\nto be brought to the hammer. This news was soon but too well\ncorroborated by large printed bills, posted in various parts of the\ncounty, advertising the sale of the property of Cubbertscroft, in the\ntown-hall of Dumfries, on a day and hour set forth. One of these fell\ninto the hands of Carey. He sallied out of the house; and it being at\nthe time dark, he sought, and forcibly entered the dark and dismal\nhabitation of Cubby Grindstane, now his father-in-law.\n\n\"Ken ye the law against hamesucken, sir?\" said Cubby, recognising him.\n\n\"I do,\" said Carey; \"but it is a subtle point wi' the lawyers hoo strong\na rap (intended to let folk hear ye, but haein the by effect o' openin\nthe door) amounts to forcible entry. I cam to ask hoo ye are, Cubby\nGrindstane.\"\n\n\"A' sort o' impudence,\" said Cubby, \"is comprehended by that cant. If\nfolk want to borrow frae ye, (whilk, God be praised! I'm far ayont,) if\nthey want to steal yer time, if they want to see what's i' yer hoose,\nor what's intended to be in yer stamach, they aye cloak their intentions\nwi' askin hoo ye are--the maist unmeaning o' a' questions. Gang yer ways\nthe way ye cam sir; an' I'll send ye a weekly bulletin o' my health.\"\n\n\"Bulletins hae been issued about the health o' folk o' less\nconsequence,\" said Carey, pointing his finger to the small garret.\n\n\"What mean ye, sir?\" said Cubby, staring at him with his eyes at their\nfull stretch, and shewing signs of great agitation.\n\n\"Sit down, Cubby,\" said Carey--\"I want to speak to ye, for a short time,\nrationally an' quietly. I hae nae ill intentions towards ye; an', if\nye're discreet, ye'll find me a mair sicker freen than a safe fae.\"\n\nCubby hesitated to sit down. He had never been seen in that position\nwhen any one was in his house; for he found he got any people who had\nbeen lucky enough to get in, out again, more readily by keeping on his\nlegs.\n\n\"I'm no used sittin wi' strangers,\" said he.\n\nCarey again lifted his finger to the roof of the house, and Cubby's\nagitation increased. Trembling from head to foot, he at last sat down on\na three-footed stool, opposite to Carey.\n\n\"Hae ye heard ony news o' late?\" began Carey.\n\n\"I'm no i' the way o' hearin news,\" replied Cubby, \"an' care little for\nthe warld's clavers besides.\"\n\n\"But when things concern oorsels,\" said Carey, \"we maun care aboot\nthem.\"\n\n\"What mean ye?\" said Cubby.\n\n\"It's said,\" replied Carey, looking at him attentively, \"that in a hoose\nno a hunder miles frae the sma' village o' Newabbey, there lie the banes\no' a woman an' a bairn, whase coffins never saw the mortclaith o' ony\nparish, or filled the graves o' ony buryin place. When deaths are\nconcealed, suspicions o' murder are aye rife; and I hae heard it even\nsaid that simple concealment itsel, at least in ae case, is a guid, if\nno the only proof o' wilfu' slaughter.\"\n\n\"What hae I to do wi' that, sir?\" said Cubby, whose agitation still\nincreased.\n\n\"Silence!\" said Carey, holding up his hand to the roof--\"ye may at least\nhear the gossip o' the village. The banes are in the hoose o' an auld\ncobbler; and it's also said, that, in the place whar they lie, there is\nan extraordinary collection o' a miser's treasure, filling nae fewer\nthan five big kists, strongly clasped wi' bands o' iron, to protect the\ngowd guineas, nae less in amount than fifteen thousand pounds. To mak\nthe story mair wonderfu', the gossips hae added to the inhabitants o'\nthe strange hoose, a grey owl--nae doot, an invention o' their ain\nbrains.\"\n\n\"It's a' an invention thegither,\" ejaculated Cubby, rising from his\nseat, and trying to walk through the apartment, which, however, his\ntrembling and agitation prevented him from doing, otherwise than by a\nzig-zag motion, from one side to another.\n\n\"I think sae mysel,\" said Carey; \"but we'll see.\" And he rose and\nseized, in an instant, a ladder used by Cubby, for the purpose of\nmounting to his Golgotha.\n\n\"Hauld, sir!\" cried the frantic Cubby, as he flew and seized Carey by\nthe legs, falling at the same time on his knees, and turning up his grey\neyes, now, like his own owl's, darting forth fire. \"What is this ye're\naboot? Wha are ye? What ken ye o' thae dark things?--I mean there is\nnaething there. Hauld, sir! or ye'll kill an auld man wha micht be yer\nfaither.\" And he fell on the floor, groaning and rolling about, like one\nin a convulsion.\n\n\"I will lay down this ladder,\" said Carey, \"if you will rise, an' sit\ndown, an' speak to me on certain subjects that concern me an' you.\"\n\n\"I will, I will,\" replied Cubby, recovering slightly; \"I'll sit quietly\nan' hear ye speak o' onything but thae village gossips. Nae lamb will be\nmair peaceable; an'--an' ye'll hae something, too--to tak wi' ye when ye\ngae awa.\"\n\n\"Ye mean ane o' yer three guid farthins, I suppose?\" said Carey, with a\nsmile.\n\n\"Ay, I'll mak it a gowd guinea,\" said the other, with an effort like to\nchoke him.\n\n\"Weel, let that alane,\" said Carey; \"we'll maybe mak it mair. Ye now see\nthat I ken a' the secret that lies i' that garret. I hae seen it wi' my\nain een, an heard it frae yer dochter, wha is noo my lawfu married\nwife--a guid match to her, seein I am the third son o' William Cuthbert\no' Cubbertscroft.\"\n\n\"My dochter married to ane o' the Cubberts o' Cubbertscroft!\" ejaculated\nCubby. \"Then hae the twa stocks at last joined? Heaven be praised!\"\n\n\"It is clear, then,\" continued Carey, \"that you are completely in my\npower. On going to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal o' the county, an' layin\nmy statement afore him, his first step will be to seize the banes an'\nthe gowd. Ye will be tried for the murder o' the unhappy beings whase\nbodies they ance supported; an', whether ye be guilty or innocent, ye'll\nhae some difficulty o' gettin oot o' the hands o' the law the fifteen\nthousand guineas I saw ye count wi' my ain een; an', even were ye to get\nit back, it will spread throughout the country that Cubby Grindstane has\nL15,000, an' a' the stouthrievers o' the country will be on ye like\nbluidhounds, to ease ye o' the burden o' keepin't.\"\n\n\"But ye'll no gang to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal?\" cried Cubby, rising\nagain into one of his paroxysms of terror, and seizing Carey by the\nknees. \"It's no in the heart o' ane wi' that face o' yours to ruin a\npuir auld man wha you say is your faither-in-law. I ken ye winna do't.\nThe guinea I'll mak twa, an' maybe a half mair. Say ye winua gang an'\nI'll mak it three. Mercy! mercy!\"\n\nWith the greatest difficulty, Carey got him to let go the firm grasp he\nhad of his legs; and which he seemed inclined to hold till he got his\nrequest granted.\n\n\"It isna by ony sic bribes as thae, Cuthbert Grandison, that I will be\ndiverted from my purpose.\"\n\n\"What will please ye then?\" cried Cubby, earnestly.\n\n\"A condition for yer ain benefit,\" replied Carey. \"Have ye no sense\nenough to see that the money ye hoard in thae kists yields ye nae\ninterest, and, besides, rins the risk o' bein taen frae ye the very\nmoment it's kenned (an' its already suspected) ye hae't.\"\n\nA groan was all the answer Cubby could give; for denying the money was\nnow out of the question.\n\n\"Now I am to put you on a plan,\" continued Carey, \"wharby ye may get a\nguid return for yer money, an' nae man can tak it frae ye.\"\n\nAnother groan evinced the agony of the sufferer.\n\n\"Hear,\" continued Carey, taking from his pocket the advertisement of\nCubbertscroft. \"Here is my father's property for sale on Wednesday next.\nIt will, in all likelihood, be thrown awa. Tak yer siller to the bank o'\nDumfries, an' lodge it there, then gang to the Hall, an' buy\nCubbertscroft; an' wha will venture to rin awa wi' that frae ye?\"\n\n\"But ye are wrang aboot the siller,\" cried Cubby--\"there's no sae muckle\no't as ye say.\"\n\n\"I will count it mysel,\" cried Carey, pointing to the ladder. \"I heard\nye count it before.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" replied Cubby, \"I'll think o' what ye've said.\"\n\n\"I'll wait yer answer the morn,\" said Carey. \"If ye dinna agree, I write\ninstantly to Sleuthie.\"\n\nCarey then left him; but, with the determination of watching the house\nduring the night, to prevent any attempt at removing the chests.\n\n\"Mercy on me!\" said Cubby to himself, when Carey went out, \"what am I to\ndo? I canna remove thae kists, an' whar can I tak them. My secret's oot;\nan', whether that callant tells Sleuthie or no, it's clear I canna keep\nlanger this siller in a thatched cottage. Let me see--buy Cubbertscroft,\nthe property o' the freens o' my mither, whase name I bear? Aften hae I\nheard her say, puir cratur! that she couldna live an' see Cubbertscroft\nsauld and gien awa to strangers; and noo that is aboot to be--at a time,\ntoo, when, strange to say! my dochter is married to a Cubbert--the\ncallant's no far wrang. The banes o' my wife an' bairn, wham I couldna\nfind in my heart to bury, hae kept my gowd lang safe frae the ee o' my\ndochter; but they may noo lead Sleuthie to my coffers. What's to be\ndone? My gowd! my gowd! I canna part wi' ye; for ye are dearer to me\nthan my heart's blude! But, if it wad pain me to gie ye awa for land\nwhilk has nae king's face on't, what wad I feel to hae ye taen frae me\nby force! I canna bear that thought. Buy Cubbertscroft! Cubby Grindstane\ngie awa his gowd for Cubbertscroft!--awfu thought! But it was my\nmither's wish--an' better land than naething. I maun think mair on't.\"\n\nCarey called next day, and again laid before the old man the danger of\nnot complying with his request. Cubby himself had been shaken fearfully\nduring the night with the terror of losing altogether his wealth; and\nthe arguments of Carey almost decided him. He said he would consider\nagain of it, and if he came to the conclusion of buying Cubbertscroft,\nhe would be at the place of sale on the day and hour appointed. Carey\nleft him, and continued his watch at night. About twelve o'clock he\nobserved a cart and a horse standing at the door of the cottage; and\nwhen all the inhabitants of the village were at rest, he observed the\nmiser carrying out his coffers and placing them on the cart. He allowed\nhim to proceed. The cart was loaded; and, in a short time, he saw it\ntake the road to Dumfries. He followed close behind, and was surprised\nto find that Cubby drove straight up to the house of the cashier of the\nprincipal bank of the town. By knocking hard, he roused the servants; in\na little time the banker came out, the cart was unloaded, and a\ntransaction finished.\n\nThe day arrived on which the sale of Cubbertscroft was to take place. A\ngreat number of people was collected. Carey was there, and he was\nsurprised to find his father; who, however, had attended with the hope\nof getting some friend to buy in the property on his account. The two\nlooked at each other without speaking. John Monilaws was also present,\nas well as some others of the inhabitants of Newabbey. The auctioneer\nmounted into his desk; and L12,000 had been offered for the property by\na neighbouring laird, who wished to incorporate it with his own land.\nSome other individuals bade, and the bodes had arrived at L14,000--no\none being inclined to go beyond it. At this moment the door of the room\nopened, with a harsh noise, and the people looked around, to observe the\ncause of the interruption. Cubby Grindstane entered. A feeling of\nsurprise ran through the crowd. John Monilaws stared, and Carey smiled.\nStepping forward, Cubby watched the voice of the auctioneer. The latter\ncalled out L14,000.\n\n\"Five shillings mair!\" cried Cubby.\n\n\"You must make it five pounds, sir,\" said the auctioneer.\n\n\"Aweel, aweel, then,\" said Cubby--\"let it be five pounds.\"\n\nThe surprise of the people increased to wonder. Every one whispered to\nhis neighbour--\"Is he mad? Why does the auctioneer take his bode?\" No\none bade higher, and the hammer fell.\n\n\"Are you able to find caution, sir?\" said the auctioneer.\n\n\"No,\" replied Cubby.\n\n\"Why did you bid for the land, then?\" rejoined the other.\n\n\"Because I wanted it,\" replied Cubby. \"Will ye no tak' the siller in\nplace o' caution.\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" replied the auctioneer, smiling--\"where is it?\"\n\n\"There,\" said Cubby, \"is the banker's check for L14,000. The moment I\nget a complete right to the land, ye may hae the siller.\"\n\nThe bargain was, accordingly, soon arranged; and, to the surprise of all\nthat part of the country, Cuthbert Grandison became the laird of\nCubbertscroft. His feelings subsequently underwent some change for the\nbetter, and he took home his daughter Jeanie and her husband, to live\nwith him in the mansion-house, where, however, he still exhibited a\ngreat portion of his original avarice. He soon died, and the property\nwas left to Jeanie. Carey Cuthbert had, by the right of courtesy, all\nthe power of the property. He received with welcome his father and\nmother, and maintained them during their lives in the mansion-house from\nwhich they had formerly expelled him, and from which their own\nextravagance had driven themselves.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA SKIRMISH.\n\n    \"The boatswain, piping, loudly thunders--\n      To your quarters fore and aft!\n    The great guns sponge, prepare for wonders,\n      While, my lads, the wind's abaft.\n    With grape we can nine-pounders rattle--\n      Naval heroes, fight and sing--\n    He that bravely falls in battle,\n    Nobly serves his prince or king.\"\n\n    _Sea Song._\n\n\nThe days of war are now gone by, and the events consequent upon them\nhave now become but as \"the tales of other years;\" while those who were\nthen the principal agents in carrying on hostile operations, have either\ngone the way of all the earth, or remain as the connecting links between\nthe last race and the present. But the time will never come when the\nnaval history of Great Britain shall not be that on which Britons look\nwith the greatest interest; and certainly if there is one page in our\nhistory more than another calculated to afford pleasure, and, we may\nadd, profit to the reader, it is that which records the matchless\nachievements of our daring tars during the last French war. How many are\nthe accounts of storms and battles, of hardships and perils undergone,\nwhich, in the days of our boyhood, we were accustomed to hear from the\nmouths of old tars, now no more, and whose memories are preserved only\nin the recollections of a few of their old associates! There still\nstands on the east side of the village of T----, a whitewashed house, at\nthe door of which hangs a huge ship, indicating that this is the village\nale-house. This house, in our early days, was the resort of some\nhalf-dozen old sailors, who had retired, after their best years had been\nspent in their country's service, to spend their days in their native\nvillage. At the door of \"The Ship,\" as the ale-house was called, stood\nan immense ash-tree, the wide-spreading branches of which, covered with\nfoliage, afforded, in summer, an agreeable shade from the heat of the\nsun. Under this tree, a long seat was placed, in front of which stood a\nwhite fir-table, upon which rested the jugs of foaming ale with which\nthose who chose were wont to regale themselves. That seat is still\nthere, and we hope it will remain for ages. It was the constant resort\nof the old tars already mentioned; and there, with their jug of ale, and\ntheir never-failing pipe, were they wont to fight all their battles o'er\nagain. Many of the yarns which we then heard, we have since forgotten;\nsome of them, however, still survive in our recollection. One of these\nwe shall communicate, if not in the very words in which it was\ndelivered, yet in substance, to the reader.\n\nIf a spectator were to stand on almost any part of the seacoast of Great\nBritain, and cast his eyes over the sea, he would behold numerous white\nspecks upon the ocean, passing in every direction; these specks he knows\nto be vessels, freighted with stores of various descriptions, and\ndestined to various ports, to supply the deficiency in certain articles\nexisting in one place, from the superabundance of another. These\nvessels, in our day, creep along their respective ways, without fear of\nmolestation. The case was different, however, at the time in which our\nstory begins. Then it was necessary for several vessels bound for the\nsame port, to be armed for defence, and to sail in company, for the sake\nof mutual protection from the assaults of French privateers, who\nfrequently attacked and captured merchantmen, consigning their crews to\nthe horrors of a French prison.\n\nIt was on a beautiful morning in June, that three of the smacks which\nply between London and Berwick, were lying in the Thames, with the\nsignal for sailing at their topmast heads. The sails were all loosed\nfrom the lashings which had bound them down whilst in harbour, whilst\nthe sailors were all busily employed in preparations for hoisting them\nto the breeze. At the command of the masters, the mainsails rose slowly\nfrom the large folds into which they had been compressed; the gaffs were\nalternately elevated and depressed, as the strength of the seamen was\napplied to the peak or main haulyards, whilst the tars, employed in such\noperations, bellowed out, in guttural sounds, their favourite song of \"O\ncheerily.\" At length, the command to \"belay\" was given, and the\nmainsails were stretched to their full dimensions; whilst the cry of\n\"Clear away the gaff topsail there!\" was responded to by the cheerful\n\"Ay, ay, sir!\" of the sailors. A couple of younkers flew up the rigging\nof each smack, with the agility of monkeys, to execute the order.\n\n\"All clear!\" shouted out a voice from the crosstrees.\n\n\"Then, hoist away, my lads!\" cried the master. And the long, tapering\nsails rose up to their places.\n\n\"Sheet them home! and belay all!\" bawled out the captain. And the\ntopsailsheet was fastened to the belaying pins.\n\n\"Clap on the jib-out-haul!\" was the next order, which was as speedily\nobeyed. And the ample jib was also extended to the breeze, whilst some\nof the sailors were, at the same time, employed in bousing down the\nbobstay, which secured the bowsprit from yielding too far to the\ninfluence of the jib.\n\nAll now seemed ready for starting; the ropes were coiled up out of the\nway, and the smacks held to the wharf by a single rope; the pilot was\nalso on board; and the sailors were wondering what could be the reason\nwhy the word was not given to cast off. Minute after minute, however,\nrolled on, and still no order, whilst the sailors, leaning against the\nbulwarks, were whiling away the time in trying to divine the cause of\ndelay. At last, voices were heard from the two sternmost smacks, hailing\nthe one a-head--\"_Tweed_, ahoy!\"\n\n\"Hillo!\" sung out the master of the _Tweed_, a fine, hard-a-weather\nlooking old seaman, who was pacing up and down his deck, and ever and\nanon casting an impatient glance at the corner of the wharf.\n\n\"Aren't your passengers coming yet, Mr Jones? We are losing this fine\nair of wind down the river.\"\n\n\"They promised to be down at half-past three,\" responded the old tar;\n\"and you see it is scarcely that yet; but we must wait no longer. Tom,\"\ncontinued he, addressing his son, a fine young man of five-and-twenty,\n\"run up, my boy, and see if they aren't coming yet.\"\n\nTom, obeying his father, sprung over the ship's side; and, in a few\nminutes, returned, accompanied by an old gentleman dressed in black, on\nwhose arm leaned a young lady, closely wrapped up in a cloak, which\ndefended her from the morning air. The old man seemed worn down by years\nand infirmities; but, though over his head more than seventy winters had\nshed their snows, yet in his eye, at times, there shone a slight spark\nof animation, shewing the fire which had lightened up his face in other\ndays. His daughter seemed to lean on his arm for support; but she, in\nreality, afforded him assistance. Under the guidance of old Jones, they\nproceeded to the cabin of the _Tweed_, which was fitted up in a style of\nneatness, and what, in those days, might be reckoned splendour. After\nseeing them seated, old Jones mounted the companion, and proceeded on\ndeck, to get his vessel under way. On reaching the deck, he overheard\ntwo of the seamen and his son Tom, who was also his mate, in close\nconversation.\n\n\"I tell you what it is, Tom,\" said one of them, hitching up his\ntrowsers--\"I tell you what it is, the leddy may be as bonny as Molly\nJackson, but the old man is a priest; and there is never luck when a\npriest is on board.\"\n\n\"I have sailed the salt sea,\" said the other sailor--a fine-looking,\nupright figure--\"for thirty years now, man and boy, and never yet sailed\nwith a priest without some misfortune or other happening--I suppose,\n'cause the ould fellow's so spiteful at sight of them holy men, that he\ntries to do all the mischief he can; but we, poor devils! are sure to\nbear it all.\"\n\n\"That's all in my eye and Betty Martin,\" replied Tom. \"There was no\nlater than the voyage before last, we took up half-a-dozen priests; and\nthe only thing which happened was, that, when they came on board, a\nfresh hand was sent to the bellows, to blow more wind; but it was fair;\nso, instead of doing us ill, the ould fellow only cheated himself, as we\nmade our passage in forty-eight hours. But what significates talking?\nDidn't you see his pretty little daughter?\"\n\n\"I couldn't get a right look at her,\" replied Bill Mossman, the seaman\nwho spoke last; \"but as she was stepping over the hauser, I got a squint\nat a prettty little foot--that was all I could see.\"\n\n\"Oh, Bill,\" interrupted Tom, \"had you seen her as I did, last night,\nwhen I went, with old dad, to call at their lodgings. My eye, what a\nbeautiful run!--a pair of cheeks fit for the bow of a frigate--a waist\nas fine and tapering as the royal of a gun brig--and a quarter fit for a\nman-of-war. But her eyes\"----\n\n\"Have burned a hole in your heart,\" interrupted Mossman.\n\n\"Well, it's of no use denying it,\" replied Tom. \"I will defy any one, to\nsee her and not fall in love with her; but what struck me more than her\nbeauty, was her kindness and attention to her old father, who, poor man,\nseems to need it all. The tears trickled down the old man's face as he\nrelated all his sufferings and trials, and his daughter's affection;\nand, shiver my timbers, if I could help piping my eye to keep him\ncompany!\"\n\n\"That's always the way with you,\" replied Jem Ward, the other sailor;\n\"you're always taken in tow by some girl or other; but you can never be\ntrue to one. I had never but one sweetheart--Peggy Dawson, the prettiest\ngirl in Berwick.\"\n\n\"Your Peggy Dawson,\" replied Tom, \"is no more to be compared to Miss\nKeveley, than a keelman's barge is fit to be compared with the _Royal\nGeorge_.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Bill Mossman, \"the girl is well enough; but I wish,\nas the priest is aboard, that the voyage were well over. But, let me\nsee--this is Friday too--worse and worse!\"\n\n\"Keep yourself easy,\" replied Tom. \"As long as Miss Keveley's on board,\nyou needn't fear. Such a kind creature as she is, will be in the place\nof 'the sweet little cherub which,' as the song says, 'sits up aloft,\nand takes care of the life of poor Jack.'\"\n\n\"But,\" asked Bill Mossman, \"do you know anything of their history?\"\n\n\"Very little,\" answered Tom, \"except what the old gentleman himself told\nus last night: That he has been a missionary abroad for many years, and\nthat his wife has died in a foreign country, leaving him and his only\ndaughter, who accompanies him; and that, worn out with the fatigues\nwhich he has undergone, and his constitution broken down by an unhealthy\nclimate, he is returning to his native village, to lay his bones, as he\nexpressed it, beside the ashes of his fathers.\"\n\nTheir conversation was here interrupted by old Jones, who gave the word\nto cast off the warp which held them to the quay--an order which was\nspeedily obeyed by the seamen; and the vessel soon _paid off_, under the\ninfluence of the jib. The same orders were given on board of the\n_Princess Charlotte_ and the _Olive_, the other two smacks; and, in a\nfew minutes more, all the three vessels were holding their course,\nsmoothly and peaceably, down the river. It was a beautiful morning. A\nslight breath of wind was stirring, just sufficient to fill the sails of\nthe vessels: light, however, as it was, it was fresh and invigorating.\nThe sun was just rising; and his upper limb only was as yet visible,\npeering above the cloud with which his body was enveloped, as if to take\na peep at the ocean and the land before rising from his couch.\nGradually, however, the king of day emerged from the cloud, and again\nhis upper limb was concealed in another cloud higher up in the heavens,\nleaving a broad band of light alone visible. These alternations of light\nand shade continued for a short time, till the sun ascended higher in\nthe sky, and then the middle of his body was covered by a dark vapour,\nwhich was passed round him like a ribbon. This also passed off; and the\n\"father of ten thousand days\" burst forth in a flood of glory--of\nbright, effulgent light--making the gentle undulations of the waves to\nglitter as if studded with millions of gems; whilst the dewdrops of the\nmorning, hanging from the sails and cordage of the vessels, glistening\nin the sun, assumed various fantastic forms, as the head of the vessel\ndipped and rose at intervals, upon the gentle waves. Miss Keveley had\nleft her father reclining upon a sofa in the cabin of the _Tweed_, and\nhad come upon deck to enjoy the beauty of the scene; and, as she gazed\nupon the rising luminary and the silent waters of the Thames, the queen\nof rivers, she felt that elevation of spirits, and that devotion, which\nsuch a scene is calculated to inspire. Catherine Keveley had been\npeculiarly the child of misfortune. Her mother was of a noble family,\nand her alliance had been sought by many rich and noble youths.\nPreferring, however, the hand of a man, who, though much her inferior in\nbirth, yet in high and lofty feeling was, at least, her equal, she\nchose Mr Keveley as her companion for life--a licensed minister of the\nChurch of Scotland, and at that time appointed as superintendent of a\nmissionary station in a distant country. Happy in each other's love,\nthey lived in a foreign land till the birth of Catherine; which event\nwas succeeded by her mother's death.\n\nCatherine, though from childhood a delicate flower, and though deprived\nof the fostering care of a mother's love, yet, under the tender\nmanagement of her doting father, rose up to be the prop and staff of his\ndeclining years. Her form was of the slightest kind; her eyes, of that\nlight, heavenly blue, which is the sure index of deep feeling, were\nprotected by high, arched eyebrows; her forehead was broad rather than\nlofty, but of an alabaster whiteness; her clear brown hair was parted\nover her brow in graceful curls, whilst her long tresses hung in flowing\nringlets down her shoulders. Her air was usually of that pensive cast\nwhich never fails to interest the beholder; but, of late, a shade of\ndeeper melancholy had been seated on her features, called up by anxiety\nfor her father's declining health, and the sad prospect which then lay\nbefore her, an unprotected orphan.\n\nIt was impossible to look upon that lovely creature without emotion, as\nshe stood leaning against the bulwark of the vessel, and beholding the\nglories of the rising sun, and the places upon the river, as the vessel\npassed them, one after another, in its course. Nor was she unobserved;\nfor Tom Jones, seated upon the windlass, with his hands crossed upon his\nbreast, was silently beholding her. She was here joined by her father,\nwho had come upon deck, and without speaking, took her hand. Catherine\nsilently pointed to the sun.--\"This, indeed,\" said her father, breaking\nsilence, \"is a glorious spectacle. I have travelled in many lands, and\nbeheld many splendid sights--I have seen the most gorgeous spectacles\nof eastern magnificence, where everything was combined that could please\nthe eye or captivate the fancy--but all of these fall short, very far\nshort, of this display. How many people,\" continued the old gentleman,\n\"travel into other countries, for the sake of seeing fine sights, who\nare ignorant that they might behold, at home, a sight grander than the\nfinest of these!\"\n\n\"I don't wonder,\" said Catherine, \"that the Persians, and many other\nEastern nations, worship the sun--contributing, as he does, so much to\nour comfort and happiness; in so doing, they are thankful for the\nblessings conferred, and only mistake the secondary, for the first cause\nof their enjoyment.\"\n\nThey continued thus talking to each other for some time, while Tom Jones\nwas devouring every word which was uttered. After enjoying the coolness\nof the morning breeze, they again descended to the cabin, where they\ncontinued till breakfast-time, when they were joined by the old captain\nand his son Tom. The old tar was full of spirits--told them some of his\nbest yarns--and, by his kindness, endeavoured to make his guests as\ncomfortable as possible. Tom was engaged in the same labour of love;\nand, by several little acts of attention to the old gentleman, he gained\nwhat, to him, was the sweetest reward on earth--an approving smile from\nCatherine.\n\n\"Are we your only passengers?\" asked Mr Keveley.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Tom. \"People now-a-days prefer going by land, to running\nthe risk of being taken by the French privateers, which swarm along the\ncoast.\"\n\n\"I hope there is no danger of being attacked?\" asked Catherine, turning\npale with alarm.\n\n\"Why, as to that,\" replied old Bill, \"one can't say for sartin--I have\nseed such sights as that before now; but never fear, my bonny Miss--if\nthey were to attack three smacks armed as we are, they might mayhap\ncatch a Tar-tar--that's all.\"\n\n\"I am not afraid for myself,\" said Catherine, casting an affectionate\nlook at her father--\"but my father\"----\n\n\"Is now under that protecting Power which has preserved his life in the\nmidst of so many perils by land.\"\n\nWhen they again ascended to the deck, the vessels were going with a fine\nbreeze, which was taking them quickly down the river. After passing the\nNore, they stood out to the open sea; and, the wind continuing fair,\nthey proceeded speedily on their voyage, which promised to be pleasant\nand expeditious. On the second morning after sailing, the _Tweed_ was\npassing Yarmouth Roads. In the roadstead was lying a large vessel, whose\ntaunt, raking masts, and square, lightly-rigged yards, proved her to be\na man-of-war. The seamen of the _Tweed_ were pointing out to each other\nthe various fair properties of the vessel as they passed; and Tom,\nthinking that Miss Keveley would be pleased with the sight, went below,\nto ask her if she wished to see a man-of-war.\n\nCatherine thanked him for his attention, and followed him upon deck.\n\n\"What a beautiful vessel!\" exclaimed Catherine, unable to contain her\ndelight--\"what exquisite symmetry!--what neatness in the arrangements of\nthe various ropes, which appear as complicated as the gossamer's web,\nand, at this distance, almost as fine! What an intricate maze do all\nthese appear to an ignorant spectator!--and yet, I dare say,\" continued\nshe, addressing Tom, \"there is not one amongst the number which has not\nits use.\"\n\n\"Not one,\" said Tom; \"and, however confused they may appear to your eye,\nyet there is not one which, at a moment's notice, may not be laid hold\nof by the seamen.\"\n\nDuring this conversation, Tom asked the name of the village in which\nMiss Keveley was going to reside. She informed him that they proposed\nsettling, for some time at least, in Norham.\n\n\"That's lucky,\" replied Tom; \"my old aunt, Mrs Burton, lives there, who\nmay be of service to you in settling, and who will be the most pleasant\ncompanion in the world. Her husband was the curate of the village, but\nhe has been dead this many a day; she is, however, in most comfortable\ncircumstances, and can afford you accommodation for a short time, till\nyou get settled.\"\n\n\"You are very kind, indeed,\" said Catherine, with emotion, \"and I trust\nthat my father and I will both feel grateful for the offer. However, we\nshall be guided by circumstances.\"\n\nTom lost no time in informing his father of the destination of his\npassengers, and of the offer which he had made them.\n\n\"That's right, my boy,\" said the old tar--\"it's our duty to assist our\nfellow-men as much as is in our power--and never have I seed two persons\nwhom I would be inclined to assist so much as that old man and his\ndaughter.\"\n\nThe wind, which had been favourable for them hitherto, now chopped\nabout, by degrees, till at last it blew in a direction exactly opposite\nto their course.\n\n\"This is unfortunate,\" said old Bill, as he gave his reluctant orders to\nalter the vessel's course, and to take in the studding-sails, which were\nhanging flapping in wild disorder, as the wind headed them. These,\nhowever, were speedily taken in, and the other evolutions performed, so\nas to enable the vessel to ply to windward. On the morning of the third\nday, the _Tweed_ was abreast of Boston Deeps, with the wind still at\nnorth-east. To leeward of her, about five miles, were the _Olive_ and\nthe _Princess Charlotte_, the other two smacks. Tom had the watch on\ndeck, and was steering the vessel--whilst the sailors were sitting\nforward on the windlass, with their hands across their breasts, and\nuttering, at intervals, a few words to each other. One man alone stood\napart from the rest, upon the starboard quarter, who seemed, by his\nintense gaze, to be trying to make out some vessel at a distance. After\ngazing for a few moments, he took two or three hasty steps along the\ndeck, and again came back to his place, and gave another look. At\nlength, apparently not able to satisfy himself as to the object of his\nscrutiny, he came up to the companion, and took from thence the glass,\nwhich, having adjusted, he made a sweep across the horizon, till it bore\nupon the object of his search.\n\n\"What do you see there?\" asked Tom, of the sailor.\n\n\"Something that I doesn't like,\" replied Bill Mossman; \"I am much\nmistaken if there isn't a ship shaping a course to cut us off from the\nother smacks.\"\n\nThe other sailors, hearing the conversation, now came aft, and took part\nin it.\n\n\"Here,\" said Tom, \"take the helm a moment, and give me the glass.\"\n\nTom accordingly, seizing the glass, took a look at the vessel, and\ncontinued, for a few moments, silently scanning her, in spite of the\ninterrogatories which were poured in upon him by the sailors, as to the\nappearance of the stranger.\n\n\"Call up my father,\" were the first words of Tom; \"I don't like the look\nof that vessel. Although she is at a great distance, yet I can make her\nout not to be a merchantman; and, besides, what does she mean by\nsteering direct for us? Her movements are, at all events, suspicious.\"\n\nAt this moment, old Bill came upon deck, and, after a scrutinizing\nglance through the glass, he ascended the rigging. There he had not\ncontinued long, when he bawled down to the deck, in a voice of\nthunder--\"That he might be blowed if he didn't think that she was one of\nthe rascally French privateers.\"\n\nThis announcement threw the whole of the seamen into the utmost dismay,\nand then ensued a scene of confusion which would baffle all description.\nHalf-a-dozen voices were heard at once, recommending different things,\nwhilst each appeared too fond of delivering his own opinion, to listen\nto that of his neighbour. The voice of old Bill, however, who had again\ndescended, soon restored order.\n\n\"This is most unlucky,\" said he. \"This blackguard means to cut us off\nfrom our comrades; he has got the weather gage of them, and for us to\nrun down to them would be to run ourselves into the lion's mouth. But\nnever fear, my lads,\" continued the old tar, in a more cheerful tone;\n\"we may contrive to give the Frenchman the slip, for all that.\"\n\n\"Had we not better make the signal for the other smacks to join as fast\nas possible?\" asked Tom.\n\n\"That's right,\" said his father. \"Bend the signal haulyards, and send up\nthe ensign, with the union down.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" responded the men, in whose minds the assured tone of\ntheir captain had inspired confidence; and, in a minute, the British\nensign was unfurled to the breeze; but, as the captain had ordered, with\nthe union downwards, which had been the preconcerted signal for joining.\nThe signal was immediately answered by the smacks; but they were too far\nastern to afford any reasonable hope of immediate assistance.\nNevertheless, old Bill proceeded, with his accustomed coolness, to give\nhis order for clearing his ship for action.\n\nThe _Tweed_ was a large, powerful smack; and although, of course, not\nfitted out for war, yet, on her deck were displayed half-a-dozen\ntwelve-pound carronades, which, however unfitted for an engagement at a\ngreat distance, yet, in a running fight, and at a short stretch, were\ncapable of doing, what brother Jonathan would call, \"pretty considerable\nexecution.\" They were also well provided with ammunition of all sorts;\nand, although not a match in the number of men for the Frenchmen--which\nwould, if a privateer, in all probability be crowded--yet old Bill, as\nhe glanced his eye over his thirteen hardy fellows, who were looking to\nhim for orders, felt assured that, if not victory, at least escape might\nbe possible.\n\n\"Get the ship clear, my lads,\" shouted he; \"take in the jibtopsail--it\nwill do more harm than good--slue round the guns, and get the lashings\noff them.\"\n\nThese orders were speedily executed; and everything which was not\nabsolutely necessary was removed off the deck. The ropes were all coiled\nout of the way, and the men took off their upper jackets, and remained\nin their trowsers and shirts. The ammunition was now handed upon deck,\nand the guns were soon loaded with a full dose of grape and canister.\n\n\"Now, my lads, keep the ports closed, till I give you the word. I want\nto make the privateer think we are not armed, or that we have not made\nhim out.\"\n\nTwo of the sailors, at this moment, came from below, bringing, each of\nthem, a couple of muskets, which old Bill immediately ordered again to\nbe taken below, adding, that they could only be useful in case of close\nquarters, in which they could never hope to cope with the Frenchman, so\nthat they would only be an encumbrance. Every arrangement seemed now\nmade, which prudence could suggest. Two men were ordered forward, to\nwork the head-sails, and one to stand aft by the main sheet, to assist\nthe vessel in stays; the rest he stationed at the guns; the steering he\ntook upon himself. The excitement attendant upon the clearing of the\nvessel for action, had driven the remembrance of his passengers from old\nBill's mind. The case, however, was different with Tom; for his anxiety\nfor the safety of the sweet pensive girl who had been committed to their\ncare, had completely banished from his mind all thoughts of himself. As\nsoon as the arrangements for engaging had been made, Tom entered the\ncabin, and acquainted Mr Keveley and his daughter, as delicately as\npossible, how matters went. Catherine stood for some moments like one\nstupified; at last her grief found utterance in a flood of tears, and\nshe sobbed convulsively on the bosom of her father.\n\n\"Oh, my father!\" she exclaimed, \"was it for this that you left the\nswamps of the Ganges? Better that you had died there in peace, than be\nmade the captive of lawless and abandoned men, and be subjected to all\nthe horrors of a French prison!\"\n\nMr Keveley strove to comfort her.\n\n\"Be patient, my daughter!\" he exclaimed; \"the same Being who has\nprotected as in times that are past, is still watching over us.\"\n\nTom also strove to comfort her with the hopes of escape.\n\n\"But are you sure it is a French vessel?\" asked Mr Keveley.\n\n\"I am sorry to say,\" replied Tom, \"there is not the least doubt of that,\nas she is approaching us rapidly, and we can plainly discern her\ncolours.\"\n\n\"I will go upon deck,\" said Mr Keveley; \"and do you, Catherine, remain\nhere.\" But Catherine resolved to accompany him; and, in spite of Tom's\nsolicitations to the contrary, they both ascended.\n\n\"I had completely forgot them,\" exclaimed old Bill to himself, when he\nsaw them ascend. \"Poor things! I wish they were well on shore.\" Mr\nKeveley cast his eyes on the hostile vessel. Her hull was fast rising,\nfor the breeze was fresh, and the French tri-coloured flag was plainly\ndistinguishable at her _fore-royal_ mast-head. Tom endeavoured to\npersuade them to go again below, and he was joined in his entreaty by\nold Bill, who told him that they were only exposing themselves to\nneedless danger--\"Besides,\" added the tar in his rough way, \"you are\nonly live lumber here. So you had better go below, and get the Bible\nunder way as fast as possible.\" They allowed themselves to be prevailed\nupon--and Tom again took leave of them.\n\n\"Good-by!\" said Catherine, stretching out her hand. \"We may never meet\nagain. May God bless you, for all your kindness to us! Take care and\ndon't expose yourself, to unnecessary danger.\"--Tom took her proffered\nhand; and, as he looked upon her mild, beautiful eyes, suffused with\ntears, he vowed that the last drop of his blood should be spilt before\nharm should come upon that lovely creature.\n\nWhen Tom again came upon deck, the Frenchman was within half a mile's\ndistance. She appeared to be a long, black brig; and her guns were\npointing onward on each side, shewing, as the sailors term it, two\nbeautiful rows of teeth. The seamen of the _Tweed_, as they stood\nlooking at her, counted seven guns on each side; and, from their size,\nthey appeared twelve-pounders.\n\n\"If we can only keep her off,\" said Bill to his son Tom, \"we shall do\ncapitally; but, if she once gets alongside of us, it's all up.\"\n\n\"Hadn't we better, sir,\" said Bill Mossman, coming aft, \"cut away the\nboat from the davits? The vessel is too much by the stern already.\"\n\n\"That's a good idea,\" said old Bill; and the order was executed\naccordingly.\n\n\"Now, my lads,\" shouted the old tar, \"be ready with your ports; and,\nwhen I give you the word, burst them open, and fire away; but keep out\nof sight, in the meantime, except one or two of you.\"\n\nThe deck of the Frenchman was now plainly visible to those an board the\n_Tweed_--a dense mass of men were seen--but they seemed clustered\nthickest near the fore-chains; from which place old Bill thought they\nintended to board.\n\n\"I'll cut you out of that, anyhow,\" exclaimed he, with glee. \"I'll show\nyou that a smack can be fought as well as a cursed French privateer, any\nday.\" So saying, he gave orders to ease off the sheets; and, keeping the\nvessel _away_, he made it appear to the Frenchman as if he had\ndiscovered him for the first time to be an enemy, and was endeavouring\nto escape. The Frenchman took the bait, and, making more sail, pursued\nhim, under a press of canvass; and, as old Bill expected, came rapidly\nup with him, and was now within pistol-shot, when Bill suddenly shifted\nhis helm, and hauled his wind right across the privateer's bows.\n\n\"Now, my boys,\" shouted the old tar, \"blaze away!\" when the men, who\nwere eager for the order, burst open the ports, and poured a rattling\nbroadside into her. The smoke which ensued hid everything from the\nsight; but the horrid shriek which arose on board the Frenchman, and the\ncrashing of wood splintered by the shot, gave indications how fearfully\nthe \"twelves\" had told. The sailors on board the _Tweed_, were\nthemselves, for a moment, awed by the sight of the work of destruction\nwhich they had made; but the voice of their old commander quickly\nrecalled them to their duty; and they again, without a moment's delay,\nproceeded to load their instruments of death. The smoke had cleared\naway; but the distance was too great to allow them to perceive the\nextent of the Frenchman's loss. Escape now appeared possible; but old\nBill's blood was up; and though, by carrying on a press of sail, he\nmight have got off, he resolved to give the Frenchman another smell of\nhis powder.\n\n\"Cheerily, my lads!\" sung out the old man; \"keep steady, and we'll give\nMr Monseer a hearty breakfast, different from what he expected.\" So\nsaying, he sung out a few lines of a forecastle ditty, at the top of his\nvoice:--\n\n    \"They sailed from the Bay of St Peter,\n      Five hundred and fifty on board;\n    And we were all ready to meet her--\n      Conquer or die was the word.\"\n\nThe spirit of their captain seemed contagious; and the crew, one and\nall, took up the two last lines, and bellowed it out a second time, in\nfull chorus.\n\n\"All ready, 'bout ship there?\" sung out Bill.\n\n\"All ready, sir,\" shouted the men.\n\n\"'Bout there, then!\" And, in one moment, the helm was put hard a\nstarboard, and the vessel's head came round to the wind in fine style.\n\n\"All's about, there, my boys!--let go the fore-bowline!\"\n\nAnd this order being executed, the _Tweed_ was bowling along on the\nother tack, standing towards the Frenchman, who, having now recovered\nfrom his confusion, was again coming up rapidly. The privateer again\nattempted to board, but was again defeated, by the skill and dexterity\nof old Bill in working his vessel. Again they passed each other, and the\nFrenchman's broadside of seven guns told heavily on the _Tweed_'s sides\nand rigging; but the men had so well obeyed Bill's orders of keeping out\nof sight till the fire of the Frenchman was received, that none of them\nwas hurt, save old Bill himself, who was severely wounded. The old tar,\nnothing daunted at the accident, again gave his orders to fire. A dense\nmass of smoke immediately rose up in huge columns to the sky as the\norder was obeyed, and the deadly instruments again belched forth their\ncontents into the hull of the Frenchman. When the smoke cleared away,\nthe crew of the _Tweed_ were dismayed to behold their gallant old\ncommander standing at the helm, pale and bleeding, but still keeping his\npost. Tom rushed aft to support him, and asked him if he was much hurt.\n\n\"I fear,\" replied the old tar, \"that your poor old father has received a\nshot between wind and water; but never mind, my boy; while I can stand\nI'll never flinch; it shall never be said that ould Bill Jones flinched\nfrom his post in the hour of danger; and mind, my boy, Tom, if I fall,\nnever surrender to a rascally Frenchman, but fight it out; be sure to\nkeep him off, and there is no fear. Never yield, Tom!\"\n\nThe old tar, quite exhausted by his exertions and by loss of blood,\ndropped down upon the deck; but, notwithstanding the solicitations of\nhis son and the crew, he persisted in not being carried below. They,\ntherefore, wrapped a boat cloak around him, and laid him along the deck,\nwith his head supported against a coil of rope.\n\nTom now took the command, and it required all his exertions and skill to\nsave him from the privateer; for the crew of the _Tweed_, regardless of\neverything else, had been looking at their commander like persons\nstupified, allowing the vessel to go as she pleased. The Frenchman had\nperceived their confusion, and was pressing on to take advantage of it;\nand the crew of the _Tweed_ could perceive the men clustering along the\nyards as thick as bees. Tom, however, again passed him without allowing\nthe Frenchman to board; but, unfortunately, the broadside which was\npoured into the _Tweed_ shot away the jib-hal-yards, and the large sail\ncame down into the water. Three cheers from the Frenchmen followed this\naccident, which promised them a certain victory; for not only was the\nsmack deprived of the assistance of the jib in sailing, but the dragging\nof the sail through the water impeded materially her progress.\n\nAll now seemed lost, when Tom, resigning the helm to one of the men,\nsprung forward; and, seizing hold of the end of the halyards, mounted\nthe rigging, and, in spite of the showers of shot fired at him from the\nFrenchman's tops, succeeded in again reeving it through the block; and,\nby the assistance of the wynch, the jib again rose to its former place.\n\nThe Frenchman, thus baffled in all his attempts, resolved to make a last\neffort; and, crowding all sail, came rapidly upon the weather or\nstarboard quarter. \"Ready about!\" sung out Tom; and, as the smack shot\nup head to the wind, he gave the order to fire--which order was no\nsooner obeyed than a dreadful shriek rose from the privateer; and the\nfirst sight which greeted the eyes of the _Tweed_'s crew after the smoke\nhad cleared, was their enemy, standing away before the wind under a\npress of sail. Simultaneous cheers burst from the lips of the men, as\nthey beheld this not less pleasing than unexpected sight, and they were\njoined by old Bill, who, weak and faint as he was, raised his hand, and\ncheered with his crew.\n\n\"We've given him a parting salute,\" said Bill Mossman, grinning with\ndelight, through a face all begrimed with powder and smoke. \"My eye,\nonly look there!--he seems to be in as great a hurry as a dog with a\nkettle at his tail.\"\n\n\"Ay, we have peppered his cannister for him,\" said Jem Ward--\"the lousy\nrascal that he is! I am only sorry that we did not take him.\"\n\nThe crew being now free from danger, crowded round old Bill, who was\nstill lying on the deck, with Tom at his side; and, in their own,\nhearty, honest, though blunt manner, inquired how he felt.\n\n\"Better than ever I did in my life,\" answered the old sailor. \"No doubt,\nI have got a shot which may compel me to lay up in ordinary a sheer hulk\nfor the rest of my life, if it don't make me kick the bucket altogether;\nbut haven't we beat a French privateer nearly three times our size, and\nwith ten times our men? I tell you, my brave fellows, that this is the\nproudest and happiest day of my life. And you, Tom,\" said he, addressing\nhis son, \"have behaved like your father's son--and that's saying\nsomething.\"\n\nThe sailors now proceeded to remove Bill below; and Tom, whose eagerness\nto inform Catherine and her father of their success, had only been\nrestrained by his filial affection, rushed down to the cabin to tell\nthem the joyful news. When he entered, he found Mr Keveley and his\ndaughter seated, with their hands locked together; and, as he entered,\nthey clung closer to each other, as if preparing for the worst.\n\nIt would be impossible to describe the joy which animated Catherine's\nface when Tom told them the happy tidings--joy danced in her blue eyes,\nwhich were alternately fixed upon him or her father. Surprise, at first,\nprevented her speech, till her emotion found vent in a flood of tears.\nMr Keveley bore the news more composedly than his daughter. He first\nembraced her, then came and shook Tom heartily by the hand.\n\n\"And has the Frenchman really run off?\" asked Catherine, when she had\nrecovered her speech. \"You must have had warm work of it, if we may\njudge from your appearance,\" added she, with a playful smile. Tom turned\nhis head for an instant to a mirror, which was hanging up on one side of\nthe cabin, and in it beheld his countenance, so soiled with powder and\nperspiration, that he scarcely recognised his own features.\n\nAfter wiping away the drops of sweat, which were coursing each other\ndown his cheeks, and ploughing up large furrows on the indented soot,\nTom took his departure to attend his father, whom he found pretty well,\nthough much exhausted from loss of blood. After the old man's wound had\nbeen dressed, as well as circumstances would admit, a warm soothing\npotion, administered by Mr Keveley, who understood something of\nmedicine, was given, which, having drunk, he fell into a comfortable\nsleep.\n\nA consultation was now held upon deck, as to the course to be pursued.\nSome advised that they should proceed on their voyage, whilst some were\nfor running back to Yarmouth Roads, to see if the frigate, which they\nhad passed on the previous morning, still remained, in order that they\nmight give intelligence as to the route of the Frenchman.\n\nThe last plan was adopted, and the vessel was put before the wind--only\nstopping, as she passed, to inform each of her consorts of the\nparticulars of the engagement. The crews of the vessels cheered the\n_Tweed_, as she passed with her flag at her gaff, and with the union now\nupwards, instead of being inverted as formerly. The wind being fair,\nthey soon reached the Roads, and to their great joy beheld the frigate\nstill lying in the same situation as when they had passed her. Tom\nimmediately bore down upon her; and the watch on board the frigate\nhailed--\"What ship, ahoy?\"--\"The _Tweed_, from London to Leith and\nBerwick--have been engaged for two hours with a large French privateer,\nand have beaten him off.\"\n\n\"What direction did he steer?\" was the next question asked.\n\n\"Direct S.E.,\" was the answer, \"and, if you look sharp, you may still\ncatch her--she is a large black brig, low in the water, with her\nmain-mast raking over her stern.\" The boatswain's whistle was now heard\non board the frigate, calling all hands to weigh anchor; in an instant,\nthe ship was all life and animation; and such is the effect of strict\ndiscipline, that, in a few minutes, the frigate was under way, with\nevery inch of canvass set which could be crowded upon her spars, in\npursuit of the privateer.\n\nTom, seeing that everything had been done as he wished, again made sail\nto the northward. After a short time, he arrived at Leith, where his\nconsorts had already conveyed the news of the engagement. As the _Tweed_\nentered the harbour, crowds of people, attracted by the news of the\nvictory, lined the shore; whilst the crews of every vessel cheered her\nas she passed. Old Bill, whose wound was not at all dangerous, was able\nto come upon deck; and the old man's gratification was complete, on\nobserving the joy which their arrival diffused amongst all classes.\n\nAfter the _Tweed_ had been moored alongside of the wharf, a coach was\nprovided, into which old Bill, with Mr Keveley and his daughter,\nentered, and proceeded to the old man's house; but the populace, who\nobserved what was going forward, took out the horses, and drew the coach\nalong the streets, with the loudest acclamations.\n\nDuring the whole time that the _Tweed_ lay at Leith, her decks were\nnever free from people, who, most of them, brought brandy and whisky to\nregale the sailors. In such abundance were these articles supplied, that\nthey not only were sufficient for the _Tweed_'s own crew, but served for\na jollification to every sailor in the harbour; and such a scene of\nfeasting, dancing, and merriment went on, as was never witnessed by\nLeith either before or since. The same reception awaited the _Tweed_ on\nher arrival at London, where they found the privateer with whom they had\nbeen engaged, lying alongside of the frigate, who had taken her, after a\nlong chase. On making inquiries, they learned that the Frenchman had\nlost twenty-five men, with nine wounded--their last broadside having\nkilled the lieutenant.\n\nOld Bill rapidly recovered from his wound, which was not dangerous; and\nhe was soon enabled to take command of his vessel, which had made two or\nthree voyages to London under the command of Tom.\n\nMr and Miss Keveley had retired to the village of Norham, beautifully\nsituated on the banks of the Tweed, where they continued for some time\nwith Tom's aunt, Mrs Burton. The old gentleman, finding that his native\nair was beneficial to his wasted constitution, resolved to settle there\nfor the remainder of his days; and he accordingly rented a neat cottage\nat the extremity of the village.\n\nHere Tom had frequent opportunities of becoming better acquainted with\nCatherine; and every time he beheld her, she improved in his regard. It\nwas on the second voyage, after old Bill had again taken possession of\nhis vessel, that he and his son Tom were conversing together on deck.\nAfter a few preliminary hems, the old man began:--\n\n\"Tom, my boy, I have been thinking that it is now time you had a wife--a\nsailor is never comfortable till he gets married.\"\n\nTom replied, that he thought it time enough.\n\n\"What would you think of Miss Keveley for a wife?\" asked Bill, without\nattending to his son's reply.\n\n\"The only fault I could find with her is, that she is too good for me.\nDo you think,\" continued he, \"that Miss Keveley would ever marry a\nsailor?\"\n\n\"As unlikely ships as that have come to land before now,\" replied Bill;\n\"and wherefore should Miss Keveley not marry you? Haven't you seventy\npounds a-year left you by your grandmother? and an't you my only son?\nAnd you know I've several shares in the company's vessels, besides\nsomething else that you know of; and when the old woman and myself are\nbrought up in the next world, sha'nt you have it all?\"\n\nTom assented to all this, but shook his head.\n\n\"Try her, my boy,\" said Bill--\"faint heart never won fair lady, as they\nsay at the fairs, when they wish you to try your luck at the\n'rouly-pouly.' I was talking about it myself to the old gentleman not\nlong ago; he highly approves of the match, provided you and his daughter\ncould agree; and Mr Keveley added, that he believed you would not meet a\nrefusal, as his daughter seemed never tired of talking about your\nexploits, or of hearing of them; so that you see it all depends upon\nyourself.\"\n\nTom, encouraged by these words, resolved, when the vessel should reach\nBerwick, to set out for Norham; which design he put in execution, a few\ndays after, setting out from Berwick about six in the evening.\n\nAfter reaching the village, he quickly passed through it to where Mr\nKeveley's cottage stood. It was a sweet summer evening; and when Tom\napproached the house, the setting sun was illuminating the windows with\nhis departing rays. A little garden fronted the cottage; and the\nhoneysuckle and jessamine, which had crept up its front, were spreading\ntheir fragrance all around. The window of the little parlour looked to\nthe west; it was opened, and Tom heard the sound of a musical\ninstrument, accompanied by a low female voice. He listened for a moment\nto catch if possible the air, but it seemed a foreign song which the\nmusician was playing. At last, he went up to the door and knocked,\nwhilst his heart went pit-a-pat with emotion. Mr Keveley had gone out,\nand he found Catherine alone in the parlour. She received him with her\nusual sweet smile of welcome, and bade him be seated. Tom strove to\nappear at ease, but his anxiety prevented him, and his confusion was\nsuch as to attract the notice of Catherine, who asked him if he was\nunwell.\n\n\"Not exactly that,\" said Tom; \"but\"----Here he made a full pause.\n\n\"But what?\" asked Catherine, unable to divine the cause of his\nuneasiness.\n\n\"Well,\" said Tom, at length taking courage, \"I may as well out with it\nat once. The truth is, Miss Keveley, I love you dearly; but could never\nhave had the courage to make this declaration, had your father not\napproved of it.\"\n\nIt was now Catherine's turn to blush, and be silent; at length,\nregaining the use of her tongue, she replied--\"It would not only be\naffectation, but ingratitude in me, to affect indifference, where my\nheart is really interested; and, as you say my father sanctions your\naddresses, there is my hand;--if you think it worth your acceptance, it\nis at your service.\"\n\nTom, unable to contain himself, took her hand, and pressed it to his\nlips. \"I leave you to yourself,\" said he \"for a few minutes, to recover\nfrom your confusion\"--so saying, he went out for a little; and met Mr\nKeveley, just returning from a visit to a friend at a little distance,\nto whom he communicated the pleasing intelligence of his happiness. Mr\nKeveley took Tom by the hand, and, having embraced him--\n\n\"I shall now leave this world,\" said he, \"without a wish unsatisfied. It\nwas the only desire of my heart, before bidding a final adieu to all\nsublunary things, to see my daughter with a protector for life; and I am\nglad she has made choice of an honest man, and one every way so\ndeserving of her.\" So saying, he led Tom back to the parlour, where\nCatherine still remained seated. After joining their hands, the old\ngentleman uttered a benediction over them, and embraced them both with\nmuch tenderness.\n\nAfter a short time, Tom took his leave, but not before Catherine had\npromised that their marriage should take place on an early day.\n\nAbout a fortnight after, on a fine forenoon, the village grocer at\nNorham was standing at his door, and gazing after a crowd which had\npassed; as he stood looking, a man dressed like a grazier came up, and,\nafter the accustomed salutation of \"How's a' wi' ye the day?\" asked him\nwhat he was \"glowrin\" at.\n\n\"I have just been lookin at the weddin which has passed,\" answered the\ngrocer; \"an' sic a braw sicht hasna been seen in the village for mony a\nday.\"\n\n\"Wha's weddin is it?\" asked the grazier.\n\n\"It's the daughter of ane Mr Keveley, who has settled in this place for\nsome time--and a bonny lassie she is; and they say, she's as guid as\nshe's bonny. She's married to ane Jones, son o' auld Bill Jones, maister\no' the smack which beat the Frenchman no very lang syne yet. Every one\no' the smack's crew are at the weddin; an' sic a set o' merry jovial\nblades were never thegither in this place afore. The folks are like to\nstifle them wi' kindness. But what's the queerest thing of a' is, that\nthey a' cam oot here, this mornin, in a boat.\"\n\n\"In a boat!\" exclaimed the grazier, in amazement--\"on dry land?\"\n\n\"Ay, in a boat,\" replied the grocer--\"a lang boat, mounted upon a lang\ncart; an' there were they a' seated in it, wi' ribbons fleein; an' wi'\nthe Union, as they ca' the flag which hung at the ship's mast when they\nbeat the Frenchman; an' the folks a' shoutin, an' the bairns skirling. I\ndeclare, thae sailors are a wheen born deevils for fun and frolic; but\nthey are sic canty chiels, that ane canna help likin them the better for\na' their nonsense. They ca' the lang boat the _Whim_; an', faith, she's\nweel named--for it's a whimsical idea.\"\n\nThe grocer and the grazier stood talking thus to each other, till the\ncavalcade returned from the church--Tom and his bride in an open,\nfour-wheeled carriage, whilst the rest all followed in the boat already\nmentioned.\n\nLittle of our story now remains to be told. After his marriage, Tom went\nto sea for a few years, in command of the _Tweed_; but, on the death of\nMr Keveley, he retired to Norham, where he took the cottage which the\nold gentleman had inhabited.\n\nPassing lately through the churchyard of T----, we went up to the grave\nof old Bill Jones. A neat, marble tombstone had been raised to his\nmemory, by his son and daughter. At the bottom was the following\nepitaph:--\n\n    \"Though Neptune's waves and Boreas' storms\n      Have tossed me to and fro,\n    In spite of all, by God's decree,\n      I anchor here below.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 20","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":94091}