{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_37336/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_37336","id":"gutenberg_37336","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37336","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Katie Hernandez and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWilson's Tales of the Borders\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\nHISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\nWITH A GLOSSARY.\n\nREVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and\nContributors._\n\nVOL. XXI. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND\nNEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1884.\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n    THE BURGHER'S TALES,                  (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n    THE HOUSE IN BELL'S WYND,                                           5\n\n    THE PRODIGAL SON,                     (_John Mackay Wilson_),       39\n\n    THE LAWYER'S TALES,                   (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n        THE WOMAN WITH THE WHITE MICE,                                  56\n\n    GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT,            (_Prof. Thos. Gillespie_)--\n        THE EARLY DAYS OF A FRIEND OF THE COVENANT,                     84\n\n    THE DETECTIVE'S TALE,                 (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n        THE CHANCE QUESTION,                                            119\n\n    THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER,              (_Alexander Campbell_),       139\n\n    THE BRIDE OF BELL'S TOWER,            (_Alexander Leighton_),       173\n\n    DOCTOR DOBBIE,                        (_Alexander Campbell_),       206\n\n    THE SEEKER,                           (_John Mackay Wilson_),       235\n\n    THE SURGEON'S TALES,                  (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n        THE WAGER,                                                      244\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\nTHE BURGHER'S TALES.\n\nTHE HOUSE IN BELL'S WYND.\n\n\nSome reference has been made by Mr. Chambers, in his _Traditions of\nEdinburgh_, to a story which looks very like fiction, but the foundation\nof which, I dare to say, is the following, derived at most third-hand,\nfrom George Gourlay, a blacksmith, whose shop was in the Luckenbooths,\nhis dwelling-house in Bell's Wynd, and who was himself an actor in the\ndrama.\n\nIt is not saying much for the topography of an Edinburgh wynd, to tell\nthat it contained a flat such as that occupied by this blacksmith; but\nhe who would describe one of these peculiar features of the Old Town,\nwould be qualified to come after him who gave a graphic account of the\nDaedalian Labyrinth, or pictured Menander. Such a wynd has been likened\nto the vestibule to a certain place, more hot than cozy--at another\ntime, to two long tiers of catacombs with living mummies piled row over\nrow; but, resigning such extravagances, we may be within the bounds of\nmoderation, and not beyond the attributes of fair similitude, when we\nsay that one of these wynds is like a perpendicular town where the long,\nnarrow, dark streets, in place of extending themselves, as they ought,\non the earth's surface, proceed upwards to the sky. And which sky is\nscarcely visible--not that, if the perpendicular line were maintained,\nthe empyrean would be so very much obscured, but that the inhabitants,\nin proportion as they rise away from mother earth and society, make\namends by jutting out their dwellings in the form of Dutch gables, so as\nto be able to converse with their neighbours opposite on the affairs of\nthe world below--that world above, to which they are so much nearer,\nbeing despised, on the principle of familiarity producing contempt. Then\nthe sky-line would so much delight a Gothic architect, composed as it is\nof a long multiplicity on either side of pointed gables, lum-tops\nventing reek and smoke, dried women's heads venting something of the\nsame kind. Next, the dark boles of openings to these perpendicular\npassages--so like entries to coal cellars,--yet where myriads of human\nbeings pass and repass up to and down from these skyward streets, which\nhave no name; being the only streets in the wide world without a\nnomenclature.\n\nWe picture the said George Gourlay and his wife, of an evening, at the\ntime of the history of Bell's Wynd, and other such wynds, when a change\nwas taking place among the masses there. The New Town was beginning to\nhold out its aristocratic attractions to the grandees and wealthy\nmerchants, who had chosen to live so long in so pent-up a place. Ay,\nmany had left years before, or were leaving their lairs to be occupied\nby those who never thought they would live in houses with armorial\nbearings over the door. So it was that flats were shut up, and little\nwonder was created by the circumstance of windows being closed by inside\nshutters for years. The explanation simply was, that the good old\nfamily would come back to its old _lares_, or that no tenant could be\ngot for the empty house. And then, of course, the furniture had flitted\nto the palaces beyond the North Loch; and what interest could there be\nin an empty house with the bare walls overhung by cobwebs, or gnawed\ninto sinuosities by hungry rats, thus cruelly deserted by the cooks who\nought to have fed them? Yet, in that same stair where Gourlay lived,\nthere was a _door_ with a history that could not be explained in that\neasy way.\n\n\"I say it puzzles me, guidwife Christian, and has done for years.\"\n\n\"And mair it should me, George. You have been here only nine years, but\n'tis now twenty-one since my father was carried to the West Kirk; and a\nyear afore that I heard him say the house was left o' a morning: nor\nsound nor sigh o' human being has been heard in't since that hour.\"\n\n\"And then the changes,\" said Geordie, \"hae ta'en awa the auld folk whase\ngleg een would hae noticed it. As for Bailie or Dean o' Guild, nane o'\nthem hae ever tirled the padlock.\"\n\n\"But the factor, auld Dallas o' Lady Stair's Close, dee'd shortly after\nmy father, and that will partly account for't.\"\n\n\"It accounts for naething, guidwife Christian,\" rejoined he. \"Whar's the\nlaird? Men are sometimes forgetfu'; but what man, or woman either, ever\nforgets their property or heirlooms? Ye ken, love Christian,\" he\ncontinued, looking askance at her, half in seriousness and half in\nhumour, \"I am a blacksmith, and hae routh o' skeleton keys.\"\n\n\"And never ane o' them will touch that padlock while I'm in your\nkeeping, Geordie. I took ye for an honest man.\"\n\nAn opposition or check which Gourlay did not altogether like; for, in\nsecret truth, he had long contemplated an entry by these said skeleton\nkeys, and, like all people who want a justification for some act they\nwish to perform, not altogether consistent with what is right, he had\noften in serious playfulness knocked his foot against the old\nworm-eaten, wood-rusted, dry-rotted door, as if he expected some\nconfined ghost to shriek, like that unhappy spirit of the Buchan Caves,\n\"Let me out, let me out!\" whereupon Mr. Gourlay would have been, we\ndoubt not, more humane than his old father-god, who would not let the\npretty mother of love out of his iron net.\n\n\"Honest! there's twa-three kinds o' honesty, wife Christian. There's the\ncauld iron or steel kind, that will neither brak nor bend--the lukewarm,\nthat is stiff--and the red hot, which canna be handled, but may be\ntwisted by a bribe o' the hammer, or the cajoling o' the nippers. What\nkind would ye wish mine to be?\"\n\n\"The cauld, that winna bend.\"\n\n\"And canna be fashioned to man's purposes, and made a picklock o'? Weel,\nweel, Christian, I'm content.\"\n\nBut George Gourlay was not content, neither then nor for several nights;\nnor even in that hour when, having watched guidwife Christian as she lay\non the liver side, and heard the \"snurr, snurr,\" of her deepest sleep,\nand listened to the corresponding knurr of the old timepiece as it beat\nhoarsely the key-stone hour between the night and the day, he slipt\nnoiselessly out of bed, and listened again to ascertain whether his\nstealthy movement had disturbed his wife. All safe--nor sound anywhere\nwithin the house, or even in the Wynd, where midnight orgies of the\nnew-comers sometimes annoyed the remaining grandees not yet gone over\nthe Loch; no, nor rap, rap, upwards from the spirits in the deserted\nhouse right below him, inviting him by the call of \"Let me out.\" Most\nopportune silence,--not even broken by guidwife Christian's Baudron\nwatching with brain-lighted eyes at some hole in a meat-press. And\ndark too, not less than Cimmerian, save only for a small rule of\nmoonlight, which, penetrating a circular hole in the shutter, played\nfitfully, as the clouds went over its source, on a point of the red\ncurtains--sometimes disappearing altogether. By a little groping he got\nhis hose; nor more would he venture to search for, but finding his way\nby touch of the finger, he reached the kitchen, where he lighted the end\nof a small dip. A sorry glimmer indeed; but it enabled him to lay his\nhands on a bunch of crooked instruments, which he lifted so stealthily\nthat even a mouse would have continued nibbling forbidden cheese, and\nbeen not a whit alarmed. Then there was the more dangerous opening of\nthe door leading to the tortuous stair--dangerous, for that quick ear\nben the house, which knew the creak as well as she did the accents of\nGeordie Gourlay. Ah, _tutum silentii praemium_! has he not gone through\nall this, and reached the stair without a sneeze or sigh of mortal to\ndisturb him!\n\nSo far was he fortunate; and slipshod in worsted of wife Christian's own\nworking, who so little thought, as she pleased herself with the\nreflection of the softness for his feet, that she was to be cheated\nthereby, he slipped gently down the steps on this enterprise he had\nrevolved in his mind for years and years of bygone time. Come to the\nidentical old door. He had examined it often by candle-light before; and\nas for the rusty hasp and staple, and appended padlock, he knew them\nwell, with all their difficulties to even smith's hands of his horny\nmanipulation. He laid down the glimmering candle and paused. What a\nformidable object of occlusion, that door by which no one had entered\nfor twenty years! Geordie knew nothing of the old notion, that time\nfills secret and vacant recesses with terrified ghosts, frightened away\nfrom the haunts of men; yet he had strange misgivings, which, being the\ninstinctive suggestions of a rude mind, had a better chance for being\ntrue to nature. Perhaps the cold night air, to which his shirt offered\nsmall impediment, helped his tremulousness; and that was not diminished\nwhen, on seizing the padlock, a scream from some drunken unfortunate in\nthe Wynd struck on his ear and died away in the midnight silence. Nor\nwas he free from the pangs of conscience, as he thought of the\ninjunctions of guidwife Christian, and, more than these, the sanctions\nof morality and the laws; but then he was not a thief,--only an\nantiquary, searching into a dungeon of time-hallowed curiosities and\nrelics. He laid his hard hand on the rusty padlock. He was accustomed to\nthe screech of old bolts, but that now was as if it came from some of\nVulcan's chains whereby he caught the old thieves. The key-hole was\nentirely filled up with red rust, which, like silence stuffing up the\nmouth, had kept the brain-works unimpaired; so it needed no long time\ntill, through his cunning crooks, he heard the nick of the receding\nbolt. A tug brought up the hasp, and now all ought to have been clear;\nbut it was otherwise. Time, with his warpings and accumulating glues,\nhad been there too long--the door would not give way, even to a smith's\nright hand; but Geordie had a potency in his back, before which other\nunwilling impediments of the same kind, sometimes with a debtor's\nresistance at the other side, had given way. That potency he applied;\nand the groan of the hinges responding fearfully to his ears, the vision\nwas at length realized, of that door standing open for the passage of\nhuman beings.\n\nSo far committed, Geordie's courage came with a drawing up of his\nmuscles; and muttering between his teeth, which risped like files, \"I\nwill face any one except the devil,\" he lifted the candle, the glimmer\nof which paled in the thick air of the opening. He waved it up and down\nbefore he entered; but it seemed as if the weak rays could not find\ntheir way in the dense atmosphere--enough, notwithstanding, to show him\ndimly a long lobby. He snorted as the accumulated must stimulated his\nnostrils; but there was more than must--the smell was that of an opened\ngrave which had been covered with moil for a century. Yet his step was\ninstinctively forward,--the small light flitting here and there like the\nfitful gleam of a magic lantern. Half groping with the left hand, as he\nheld the candle with his right, he soon began to discover particulars.\nThere were three doors, opening no doubt to rooms, on his left; and as\nthe light--becoming accustomed, like men's eyes, to the dark--shone\nforwards towards the end, he saw another door, which was open. Desperate\nmen--and Geordie was now wound up--aim at the farthest extremities. He\nmade his way forward, laying down each stocking-clad foot as if in fear\nof being heard by the family below, whose hysterics at a tread above\nthem at midnight, and in that house, would lead to inquiry and\ndetection.\n\nHe came at length to the open door at the end of the lobby, and ventured\nin. He was presently in the middle of the kitchen, holding the candle up\nto see as far around him as he could. Geordie had never read of those\nscenes of enchantment where veritable men and women, with warm blood in\ntheir veins, were, on being touched by a wand, changed into statues with\nthe very smile on their faces which they wore at the moment of\ntransmutation; in which state they were to remain for a hundred years,\ntill the wand was broken by a fairy, when they would all start into\ntheir old life. No matter if he had not, for here there was no change:\nthe kitchen was as it had been left, twenty years before. The\nplate-rack, with the china set all along in regular order--no change\nthere; nor on the row of pewter jugs, one of which stood on the dresser,\nwith a bottle alongside, and a screw with the cork still on its spiral\nend. No doubt some one had been drinking just on the eve of the\ncessation of the living economy. A square fir-table stood in the middle,\nsupplied with plates ready to be carried to the dining-room; and these\nplates were certainly not to have been supplied with imaginary meals,\nlike those in the Eastern tale, for, as he held the candle down towards\nthe grate, yet half filled with cinders, he saw the horizontal spit with\nthe skeleton of a goose stuck on it. The motion of the spit had been\nsuspended when the works ran out, and Baudron had feasted upon the flesh\nwhen it became cold. Nay, that cat, no doubt cherished, lay extended in\nanatomy before the fireplace. Nor could it be doubted that the roast had\nnot been ready; for the axe lay beside a piece of coal half splintered,\nfor the necessities of the diminished fire. An industrious house too,\nwherein the birr of the wheel and the sneck of the reel had sounded: the\npirn was half filled, and the wisp, from which the thread had been\ndrawn, lay over the back of a chair, as it had been taken from the waist\nof the servant maid. But why should not the sluttish girl's bed have\nbeen made at a time of the day when a goose was roasting for dinner? Nor\ndid Geordie try to answer, because the question was as far from his\nwondering mind, as the time when he stood there himself enchanted was\nfrom the period of that marvellous dereliction.\n\nWith eyes rounder, and wider, and considerably glegger, than when he\nleft goodwife Christian snoring in her bed, so unconscious of what her\nhusband was to see, he retraced his steps to the kitchen-door, and\nturning to the right, opened that next to him. It was the dining-room.\nHe peered about as his wonder still grew. The long oak-table, in place\nof the modern sideboard, ran along the farther end, whereon were\ndecanters and two silver cups; and not far from these a salver, with a\nshrivelled lump, hard as whinstone, and of the form of a loaf, with a\nknife lying alongside. The very cushion of the settee opposite to the\nfireplace had preserved upon it the indentation of a human head. But\nmuch less wonderful was the cloth-covered table, with salt-cellars and\nspice-boxes, and plates, with knives and forks appropriated to each; for\nhad not Geordie seen the goose at the fire in the kitchen! The\nindispensable pictures, too, were all round on the dingy walls--every\none a portrait--staring through dust; and a special one of a female,\nwith voluminous silks, and a high flour-starched toupee, claimed the\ncharmed eye of the blacksmith. Even in the vertigo of his wonder, he\nlooked stedfastly at that beautiful face; nor did the painted eye look\nless stedfastly at him, as if, after twenty years, it was again charmed\nby the vision of a living man, to the withdrawing of that eye from the\nfigure alongside of her, so clearly that of her husband. That they were\nmaster and mistress of this very house he would have concluded, if he\nhad been calm enough to think; but he was, alas, still under the souffle\nof the bellows of romantic wonder.\n\nWhere next, if he could take his eye off that beautiful countenance?\nThere was a middle door leading into another room: he would persevere\nand still explore. Holding up the fast-diminishing candle, he looked in.\nThere was a female figure there, standing in the dark, beside a bed. It\nwas arrayed in a long gown, reaching to the feet, of pure white (as\naccords). It moved. Geordie could see it plainly: it was the only thing\nwith living motion in all that still and dreary habitation. Hitherto his\nhair had kept wonderfully flat and sleek, but now it began to crisp, and\nswirm, and rise on end; while his legs shook, and the trembling had made\nthe glimmer oscillate in every direction, whereby sometimes it turned\naway from the figure, again to illuminate it sparingly, and again to\nvibrate off. He could not, notwithstanding his terror, recede; nay, he\ntried ineffectually to fix the ray on the very thing that thrilled him\nthrough every nerve. Verily, he would even go forward, under the charm\nof his fear, which, like other morbid feelings, would feed on the object\nwhich produced it. First a step, and then a step. The glimmer was again\noff the mark; and when he got to the bed, the figure was gone--according\nto the old law.\n\nBut the bed was too certainly there, with its deep green curtains, which\nwere drawn close, indicating midnight; and yet the goose at the fire,\nand the table laid! Nor could Geordie explain the physical anomaly,\nprobably for the reason that he did not try. His candle was wasting away\nwith those endless oscillations: the figure in white itself had run off\nwith the half of the short stump; and he feared again to be left in the\ndark, where he would have a difficulty in finding his way out. Yet he\nfelt he must draw these deep green curtains: the broad hand of Fate was\nupon his shoulders. He seized them hysterically, and pulled them aside\nfar enough to let in his head and the candle hand. A dark counterpane\nwas covered quarter-inch thick with dust; but the odour was not now of\nmust, it was a choking flesh and bone rot, scarcely bearable; even the\nlight felt the heaviness, and almost died away in his tremulous fingers.\nThere were clothes beneath the counterpane, and a long, narrow tumulus\ndown the middle, as if a body were there, of half its usual size; but\nlittle more was visible, till the eye was turned to the top where the\npillow lay, half up which the dark counterpane was drawn. There was a\nhead on the pillow, partly covered by the coverlet, partly by a\nround-eared mutch--once, no doubt, white as snow, now brown as a Norway\nrat's back; yet Geordie would peer, and peer, till he saw an orbless\nsocket of pure white bone, and a portion of two rows of white teeth\nclenched. An undoing of the clothes would have shown him--how much more?\nBut his shaking was now a palsy of the brain, and he could not undo the\nsuspected horror. He turned suddenly; and, as the green curtain fell\nwith a flap, the dip lost its flame, and a black reek vied with that\nheavy cadaverousness. He was in the dark.\n\nSuch is the effect of degrees, that, as he groped and groped in a place\nwhere he had lost all landmarks, and the topography had become a\nconfusion, he could have wished to see again the figure in white; which,\nfrom its own light, could surely, as a spirit, lead him out. His brain\ngot into a swirl. If the white figure was the spirit of that thing which\nhe had seen so partially in the bed, would it not return to flit about\nits own old tenement? yet not a trail of that white light cast a glance\nanywhere. Groping and groping, knocking his head against unknown things,\nhe turned and turned, but could not find the lobby. He had got through\nanother door, but not that leading outwards. He must have got into\nanother room; for he felt and grasped things he had not heretofore seen.\nThen the noise he had made had such a dreary sound, falling on his\nstrained, nerve-strung ear! His hand shrunk at everything he touched, as\nif it had been a deaf adder, or deadly nag--above all, a shock of hair,\nfrom which he recoiled more than ever yet, till the devious turns round\nand round obliterated every recollection of what he had understood of\nlocalities. So far he must have retraced his steps; for he had again the\ngreen curtain in his left hand without knowing it, and the right went\nslap upon that round-eared mutch, and the bone that was under the same.\nRecalled a little to his senses, he got at length to the kitchen,\ncircumambulated and circummanipulated the table, and groped his way to\nthe door in the end of the lobby, through which he had first entered.\nAll safe now by the lines of the two walls, he hugged the outer door as\nif it had been a twenty years' absent friend, a father, or a wife.\n\nNor did he take time to relock the padlock. He had, besides, lost his\ncrooked instruments. Ah! how sweet to get into a warm bed safe and\nsound, after having fancied that from such a white figure hovering round\ndry bones he had heard--for Geordie had read plays--\n\n        \"I am that body's spirit,\n    Doomed for a certain time to walk the night;\n    And for the day confined, to fast in fires,\n    Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature\n    Are burnt and purged away.\"\n\nHow delightful to Geordie was that snore of wife Christian, as she still\nlay on the liver side, perhaps dreaming of seraphim!\n\nThe adventure of that midnight hour dated the beginning of a change on\nGeorge Gourlay. One might have said of him, with the older playwright\nwho never pictured a ghost, _quod scis nescis_; for then never a word\nscarcely would he speak to man or beast, nay, not even to a woman, who\nhas a power of breaking the charm of that silence in others of which\ntheir sex are themselves incapable--even, we say, wife Christian. There\nare many Trophonian caves in the world about us, only known to\nourselves, out of which, when we come, we are mute, because we have seen\nsomething different from the objects of the sunlight; yea, if, as the\nIndians say, the animals are the dumb of earth, these are the dumb of\nheaven. Certain at least it is, that while Geordie did not hesitate\nbefore that night to use his voice in asking an extravagant price for an\nold lock, or even damning him who below made more noise than nails, he\nnever now used that tongue in such dishonesties and irreverences. But,\nwhat was even more strange, wife Christian did not seem to have any\ninclination to break his silent mood; nay, if he was moody, so was she.\nThen her eyelight was so changed to him, that he could not thereby, as\nformerly, read her thoughts. Perhaps she took all this on from\nimitation; but she was not one of the imitative children of\ngenius--rather a hard-grained Cameronian, to whom others' thoughts are\nonly as a snare; yet, might she not have had suspicions of her husband's\nsilence? All facts were against such a supposition, except one: that, on\nthe following morning, she observed dryly, that the dip she had left in\nthe kitchen had burnt away of its own special accord. Vain thoughts all.\nGeordie was simply \"born again;\" and old women do not speak to infants,\nuntil, at least, they can hear.\n\nNor did this mood promise amendment even up to that night, when a rap\nhaving come to the door, Geordie started, while guidwife Christian went\nundismayed to open the same; for, moody as she was, she was not affected\nby evening raps as he was, and had been since that eventful midnight.\nBut if the sturdy blacksmith was afraid before she obeyed the call, he\nwas greatly more so after she had opened the door, and when she led into\nthe parlour an old man, with hair more than usually grey even for his\nyears, with a staff in his hand, bearing up, as he came in, a tall,\nwasted body--so wasted, that he might have been supposed to have waited\nall this time for a leg of that goose which had been so very long at the\nfire. The grief of years had eaten up his face, and only left untouched\nthe corrugations itself had made. Yet withal he was a gentleman; for his\nbow to Geordie was just that which the grandees of the Wynd made to each\nother as they passed and repassed. No sooner was he seated, holding his\ncane between his shrivelled legs, and his sharp grey eye fixed on the\nblacksmith, than the latter became as one enchanted for a second time,\nwith all the horrors of the first catalepsy upon him, by the process of\nthe double sense insisted for by Abercromby, but thus known in Bell's\nWynd before his day. Yes, Geordie was entranced again, nor less guidwife\nChristian--both staring at the stranger, as if their minds had gone back\nthrough long bygone years to catch the features of a prototype for\ncomparison with that long, withered face, so yellow and grave-like; then\nChristian looked stealthily, and concealed her face.\n\n\"You are a blacksmith, Mr. Gourlay?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"How long have you been here in Bell's Wynd?\"\n\n\"Nine years, come Beltane Feast.\"\n\n\"Not so much as the half of twenty,\" said the stranger, more inwards\nthan outwards.\n\n\"Twenty!\" ejaculated Christian, as if she could not just help herself.\n\nAnd Geordie searched her rigid face for a stray sympathy, repeating\nwithin the teeth that very same word--\"Twenty.\"\n\n\"Then,\" continued the old man, \"you cannot tell who occupied the flat\nbelow at that long period back?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And who occupies it now?\"\n\nGeordie was as dumb as the white figure, or as the head on the pillow\nwith the rat-brown mutch; and this time Christian answered for him:\n\n\"It hasna been occupied for twenty years, sir; and it has been shut up\na' that lang time.\"\n\n\"Twenty years!\" ejaculated the old man, pondering deeply, and sighing\nheavily and painfully.\n\n\"Do any of you know Mr. Thomas Dallas, the Clerk to the Signet, who\nlived once in Lady Stair's Close?\"\n\n\"Dead eighteen years since,\" replied the wife.\n\n\"Ah, I see,\" rejoined the stranger; \"and so the house has been thus long\nclosed!\" Then musingly, \"But then it will be empty--no furniture,\nnothing but bare walls.\"\n\n\"Naebody kens,\" replied George, still busy examining the face of the\nquestioner, as if he could not get it to be steady alongside the image\nin his own mind.\n\n\"You can, of course, open a padlock?\"\n\n\"Ou ay, when it's no owre auld, and the brass slide has been well kept\non the key-hole.\" Then, as if recollecting himself, \"I hinna tried an\nauld ane for years.\"\n\n\"One twenty years unopened?\" rejoined the stranger.\n\nGeordie was again dumb and rigid.\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" replied Christian, who saw that her husband was under\nsome strong feeling, \"he can pick ony lock.\"\n\n\"The very man,\" said the mysterious visitor. \"And now, madam, will you\nallow me to take the liberty of requesting to be for a few moments the\nonly one present in this room with your husband, as I have some business\nof a very secret nature to transact with him, which it would not be\nproper for a woman, even of your evident discretion and confidence, to\nbe acquainted with?\"\n\n\"I dinna want ye to gang,\" whispered George.\n\n\"And what for no?\" muttered she. \"Let evil-doers dree the shame o' their\ndeeds. Didna ye say to me ye were an honest man, ay, even as cauld iron\nor steel, and what ought ye to hae to fear? And now, sir,\" turning\nround, \"I will e'en tak me to the kitchen, that what ye want wi' George\nGourlay you may do in secret, even as he has been secret wi' me.\"\n\nThen guidwife Christian went out, casting, as she went, a look of\nsomething like triumph at her husband.\n\n\"And now, George Gourlay,\" said the stranger, \"the secret thing I have\nto transact with you, and for which I have come three thousand miles, is\nto ask you to go with me this night and open the padlock of the door of\nthat house below, which has not been opened for twenty years.\"\n\n\"I winna, I canna, I daurna, sir. Gang to the Dean o' Guild. There's a\ndead body in the green bed, and there's a spirit in a lang white goun\nthat watches it.\"\n\nThe hand of the stranger shook, as he grasped spasmodically his staff;\nhis teeth for a moment were clenched; and he plainly showed a resolution\nnot to seem moved by that which as clearly did move him to the innermost\nparts of his being. Nor did it now escape Gourlay, as he sat and gazed\nat him, that he was the original of that picture in the dining-room,\nwhich hung by the side of the beautiful lady.\n\n\"Then you must have been in?\"\n\nGeordie was silent, meditating on some new light gradually breaking in\nupon him.\n\n\"You must have been in, and--and--know the secret?\"\n\n\"I ken nae secret, except it be that the goose which has been at the\nfire for twenty years is no roasted yet.\"\n\n\"That goose at the fire even yet!\" ejaculated the stranger.\n\n\"Ay, and the thread still on the pirn.\"\n\n\"Pirn!\" responded he mechanically.\n\n\"Ay, and the bottle standing on the dresser along by the pewter mug.\"\n\n\"Mug!\"\n\n\"Ay, and the half-cut loaf on the oaken table, with alongside o't the\nknife.\"\n\n\"Knife!\"\n\n\"Ay, and to cap a', the green bed with the dark red counterpane, and in\nit still the corpse.\"\n\n\"Corpse!\"\n\n\"So, so,\" continued the stranger, \"I have been wandering the wide world\nfor twenty years to escape from myself, as if a man could leave his\nshadow in the east when he has gone to the west, and all that time found\nthe vanity of a forced forgetfulness where the touch of God's finger\nstill burned in the heart. Ay, nor long prairies, nor savannahs where\nobjects are cast behind and not seen, nor thick woods which exclude the\nsun, nor rocky caves by the sea-shore, where there is only heard the\nroaring of the waves, could untwine the dark soul from its\nrecollections. But other things of earth and human workmanship rot and\npass away, as if all were vanity, but man's spirit; and yet here it has\nbeen decreed by Heaven, and wrought by miracle, that things of flesh,\nand bone, and wood, and dried grass should be enchanted for duration,\nyea, kept in the very place, and form, and lineaments they possessed in\na terrible hour, the memory of which they must conserve for a purpose.\nSpeak man: Have those sights and things taught you aught of a purpose?\nWhy look ye at me as if you saw into my heart, and grin as if you were\ngifted with the right of revenge? What thoughts have you--what wishes?\nWhat do you premeditate?\"\n\n\"Just nae mair than that you'll no get me to enter that house again.\"\n\nThe stranger's head was bent down in heavy sorrow; and, after being\nsilent for a while, he rose, and bidding Gourlay good night, went away,\nsaying he would get another locksmith. The strange manner of Christian\nwas now made even more remarkable, as, taking her bonnet and cloak, she\nsallied forth, late as the hour was, proceeding up the Wynd, and\nmuttering as she went, \"The very man, the very man,\" she made direct for\nBlackfriars Wynd, where she stopt, and looked up to a small window on\nthe right hand. There was light in it; and ascending a narrow stair she\nreached a door, which she quietly opened. A woman was there, busily\nspinning. The birr ceased as the door opened.\n\n\"Ann Hall,\" cried Christian, as she entered, \"he is come, he is come! I\nkent his face the moment I saw it.\"\n\n\"Patience, patience, Christian,\" replied the woman, \"what are you to\ndo?\"\n\n\"There maun be nae patience, when God says haste.\"\n\n\"Canny, canny. The wa's are thin and ears are gleg. I can hear a whisper\nfrae the next room. Now, I'll spin and you'll speak.\"\n\nAnd so she began to produce the dirl by turning the wheel and plying the\nthread.\n\n\"What although ye hae seen him? that maks nae difference. Your aith is\nstill afore the Lord; and though we are forbidden to swear, when we hae\nsworn we hae nae right to brak that aith, as if it were a silly wand,\nto be broken and cast awa' at the end o' our journey. And then ye maun\nkeep in mind, if you brak your word, ye stretch his neck.\"\n\n\"I carena,\" replied Christian. \"The Lord maun hae His ain for reward,\nand Satan maun hae his ain, too, for punishment. Sin' ever that eery\nnight when in my night-shirt I followed George into the house, and saw\nwhat I saw, the Spirit o' the Lord has been busy in my heart; and my\naith has been to me nae mair than a windlestrae in the east wind, to be\nblawn awa' where it listeth. Ye are, like mysel', o' the Auld Light, and\nken what it is to hae the finger o' command laid upon ye.\"\n\n\"We maun obey; but we maun ken whether the finger is for the will o' the\nauld rebel o' pride, wha rebelled in heaven, or Him wha says to the\nmurderer, Get ye among the rocks or caves o' secrecy, and I will search\nye out, and rug ye into the licht.\"\n\n\"And what for should I no ken whase finger it is?\" said wife Christian.\n\"Have I no seen what I have seen? For what are a' thae things keepit, as\nman keeps the apple o' his e'e? Is na the rust and the worm, ay, and\nTime's teeth, aye eating, and gnawing, and tearing, so that everything\npasses awa' to make room for others, as if the hail warld were a\nwhirligig turning round like your ain wheel there for ever and ever?\"\n\n\"Ay, the Lord's hand, na doubt. The deil doesna keep the instruments and\nsigns o' his evil, but shuffles them awa' in nooks and corners to be out\no' the een o' his victims.\"\n\n\"But hae I no laid my very hand on the fleshless head o' the bonny\nmisguided creature? Wae tak the man wha brought sae muckle beauty to the\nearth to rot, and yet hae nae grave to cover it!\"\n\n\"Weel mind I o' her,\" said Ann, as she still made the wheel go round.\n\"How she sailed up the Wynd wi' her load o' silks and satins, and the\nribbons that waved in the wind, as if to say, Look here; saw ye ever the\nlike among the daughters o' men?\"\n\n\"It was left to testify, woman, naething else; but the glimmer o'\nGeordie's candle showed me a' the lave. Ay, the very goose I plucked,\nand drew, and singed, and put on the spit--what for is it there, think\nye, cummer, but to testify? and the pewter jug I drank out o' that\nforenoon, and my ain bed I hadna time to mak--what for but to testify?\"\n\n\"And punish. But oh, woman, he had sair provocations. Wha was that goose\nfor?\"\n\n\"For her lover, nae doubt; for my master wasna expected hame for a week.\nAnd was I no guilty mysel', wha played into her hands, and was fause to\nhim wha fed me?\"\n\n\"Haud your peace, then, and say naething. The Lord will forgi'e you.\"\n\n\"Oh God, hae mercy on me, a sinner; and tak awa' frae me this\ntransgression, that I may lift up my voice in the tabernacle without\nfear or trembling!\"\n\nThe wheel turned with greater celerity and more noise, and wife\nChristian was on her knees, beating her bosom and crying for mercy.\n\n\"Say nae mair, woman,\" cried the spinner, \"and do nae mair. Let the\ncorpse lie in the green bed, and a' thing be in the wud-dream o' that\ndreary house; do nae mair.\"\n\n\"But the Lord drives me.\"\n\n\"Just sae; and he wham you would hang on the wuddy will stand up against\nye, and swear ye were the cause o' the death o' his braw leddie, for\nthat ye concealed her trothlessness, and winked at her wickedness.\"\n\n\"Haud your tongue, cummer,\" cried the Old Light Sinner; \"haud your\ntongue, or you'll drive me mad. Is my heart no like aneugh to brak its\nstrings, but ye maun tug at them? Is my brain no het aneugh, but ye maun\nset lowe to it, and burn it? And my conscience, ken ye na what it is to\nhae that terrible thing within ye, when it's waukened up like a fiend o'\nhell, chasing ye wi' a red-het brand, and nae escape, for the angel o'\nthe Lord hauds ye agen? Ann Hall, my auldest friend, will ye do this\nthing for me?\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Gang to Mr B----, the fiscal, and tell him that the corpse is there,\nand that the man is here, and say naething o' me; do this, or I'll never\nhaud up my hands again for grace and mercy.\"\n\nAnn was silent, only driving the wheel, the sound of which in the silent\nhouse--dark enough, too, in the small light of the oil cruise over the\nfireplace--was all that was heard, save the occasional sobs of the\nunhappy victim of conscience.\n\n\"I canna, Christian; I canna, lass. I'll hang nae man for the death o' a\nlight-o'-love limmer, and to save the conscience o' ane wha, if she\ndidna see something wrang when it _was_ wrang, ought to hae seen it.\"\n\n\"I repent and am sair in the spirit,\" replied Christian; \"but if I had\ntauld him what I suspected was wrang between Spynie--and ye ken he was a\nlord, and titles cast glamour ower the een o' maidens--and my mistress,\nit would hae been a' the same. But wae's me!\" she added, as she sighed\nfrom the depths of the heart, and wrung her hands, \"I had a lichtness\nabout me myself. A woman's no in her ain keeping at wild happy nineteen.\nThe heart is aye jumping against the head. But oh, how changed when the\nAuld Licht shone ower me! And hae I no been a guid wife to Geordie\nGourlay? Will you no help me, woman?\"\n\n\"I hae said it,\" replied Mrs Hall, as the energy of her resolution\npassed into the moving power of the wheel, and the revolutions became\nquicker and quicker.\n\nThe Cameronian stood for a moment looking at her--the lips compressed,\nthe brow knit, the hand firmly bound up, and striking it upon the wall.\n\n\"Ye're o' my faith,\" said she bitterly; \"and may the Evil One help ye\nwhen ye're in need o' the Lord!\"\n\nAnd with these words she left her old friend, drawing the door after her\nwith a clang, which shook the crazy tenement. In a moment she was in the\nstreet, now beginning to be deserted. The wooden-pillared lamps, so\nthinly distributed, and their small dreary spunk of life, showed only\nthe darkness they were perhaps intended to illumine; and here and there\nwas seen a gay-dressed sprig of aristocracy, with his gold-headed cane,\ncocked hat, and braided vest, strolling unsteadily home, after having\ndrunk his couple of claret. Solitary city guardsmen were lounging about,\nas if waiting for the peace being broken, when an encounter occurred\nbetween some such ornamented braggadocio and a low Wynd\nblackguard--ready to use his quarter-staff against the silver-handled\nsword of the aristocrat; and here and there the high-pattened,\nshort-gowned light-o'-love, regardless of the loud-screamed \"gardy-loo,\"\nfrolicked with \"gold lace and wine,\" or swore the Edinburgh oaths at\nuntrue and discarded lovers of their own degree. But guidwife Christian\nsaw none of all these things; only one engrossing vision was in her\nmind, that of the sleeping scene of enchantment in the old flat,\nassociated with the figure of the stranger;--one feeling only was\nparamount in her heart, the inspired awe of the conviction that these\npetrified relics of another time, so long back, were there waiting for\nher to touch them, that they should be disenchanted, and speak and tell\ntheir tale, and then rot and depart, according to the usual law of\nchange, and corruption, and decay.\n\nIn this mood she got to the top of the Wynd, and was hurrying along the\nfirst or covered portion, overspread by the front lands, and therefore\ndark, when she encountered a man rolled up in a cloak. Even in the dim\nlight coming from the street lamp on the main pavement, she recognised\nhim in a moment. He was slouching down by the side of the wall, and did\nnot seem to notice her. So Christian held back, until he had got farther\non. She felt herself concentrated upon his movements, and observed that\nhe hung about her own stair, standing in the middle of the close, with\nhis eye fixed on the dark windows of the deserted flat. There was no\nmeaning in his action. It seemed simply that his eye was bound to that\nhouse. So far Christian understood the ways of the world; but there are\ndeeper mysteries there than she wotted of or dreamed just then. A man\nwill examine a gangrene if it is hopeful; and will hope, and shrink, and\nbe alarmed, when the hope fails only but a little; nay, he will dread\nthe undoing of the bandages, lest the hope of the prior undoing should\nbe changed by the new aspect into a conviction of aggravation; but there\nis a state of that ailment, as of moral ills, where all hope having\nvanished, despair comes to be reconciled to its own terrors, and the eye\nwill peer into the hopeless thing, ay, and be charmed with it, and dally\nwith it, as an irremediable condition, which is his own peculium, a part\nof his nature, so far changed. He then becomes a lover of pity, as\nbefore he was a seeker for hope; and, like a desperate bankrupt, will\nhawk the balance-sheet of his ills, to make up for the subtraction from\nhis credit by the sympathy of the world. So did that man look upon that\nhouse, a hopeless sore, after twenty years pain and agony, with these\ngreen spots, and the caustic-defying \"proud flesh.\" Was not the\nfleshless corpse of his dead wife still there? She was a skeleton; but\nhe could only fancy her as he had seen her twenty years before, a young\nand beautiful woman. Nor was he alarmed as Christian, weary of waiting\nbut not unsteeled now for a recognition, stept forward and confronted\nhim.\n\n\"Mrs. Gourlay!\" he said, as he peered into her hard face.\n\n\"Ay, guidwife Christian, as my husband says. Christian Gourlay that\nis--Christian Dempster that was.\"\n\n\"Dempster!\" ejaculated he, as he staggered and sustained himself against\nthe side of the close.\n\n\"Yes, sir--Patrick Guthrie that was when I was Dempster, and is--ay, and\nwill be till you are born again, and baptized with fire.\"\n\n\"Patrick Guthrie!\" he repeated. \"Yes, the man, the very man. And here,\ntoo, is the evidence kept and preserved, perhaps more than once snatched\nfrom death, to be here at this hour to see me, and lay your hand on me,\nand be certain that I am the man, the very man. And,\" after a pause,\n\"you have kept your sworn promise?\"\n\n\"Till this day. Look up there, and see thae closed shutters; go in, and\nbehold, and say whether or not.\"\n\n\"Too faithful!\" groaned he.\n\n\"To an aith wrung out o' me by a money-bribe and terror.\"\n\n\"And to be repaid by a money-reward and penitence.\"\n\n\"The ane, sir, but never the other. Another day--another day,\" she\nrepeated, \"will try a'.\"\n\n\"What mean you, Christian?\"\n\n\"Mean I? Why are you here?\"\n\n\"Because I am weary wandering over the face of the earth, an exile and a\ncriminal, for twenty long--oh long years!\"\n\n\"And now want rest and peace! And how can ye get them but through the\nfire of the law, and the waters of the gospel? Where are you living?\"\n\n\"Why should I conceal from you, Christian?\" said he, thoughtfully.\n\"No--at the White Horse in the Canongate, under the name of Douglas.\"\n\n\"_Her_ name! Then look ye to it; for there will be human voices where\nnone have been for twenty years, and cries o' wonder, and tears o' pity.\nYes, yes, the long sleep is ended, for the charm is broken. Good night.\"\n\nAnd hurrying away, she mounted the stair, leaving the man even more\namazed than he was heart-broken and miserable. Nor will we be far wrong\nin supposing that Patrick Guthrie sought the White Horse probably not to\nsleep, but if to sleep, as probably to dream. As for guidwife Christian,\nshe was soon on that side so propitious to her snoring; and as for her\ndreams, they were not more of seraphim, nor of Urim and Thummim, than\nthey were on that night when she was the disembodied spirit of her who\nhad lain so long in the bed with green curtains. Yet, no doubt, Geordie\nwas just as certain that she slept as he was on that same night when he\nsaw the said disembodied spirit; and as for himself, there could be\nlittle doubt that, sleeping or waking, his mind was occupied in tracing\nthe marked resemblance of the stranger to the picture on the wall, which\nwould lead him again to the beautiful lady, and which, again, would\nremind him of the bones below the red coverlet; and then there is as\nlittle doubt as there is about all these wonderful things, that he\nwould fancy himself beridden with a terrible nightmare. Oppressed and\ntortured by thoughts which he could not bring to bear on any probable\nevent, he turned and turned; but all his restlessness would produce no\neffect on guidwife Christian, who seemed as dead asleep as ever was he\nof the Cretan cave in the middle of the seventy years. Nor could he\nunderstand this: heretofore a slight cough, even slighter than that\nwhich brought the Doctor in the \"Devil on Two Sticks,\" used to awaken\nthe faithful wife; and now nothing would awaken her. He dodged, he\ncried; but she wouldn't help to take off the nightmare, which, with its\nold characteristic of tailor-folded legs and grinning aspect, sat upon\nhis chest, as it heaved, but could not throw off the imp. But what was\nmore extraordinary, this strange conduct of Christian was the\ncontinuation of--nay, a climax to--her inexplicable conduct since ever\nthat night when he caught up in his mind, as in a prism, that midnight\nvision which he had seen, and the fiery coruscations of which still\ncareered through his brain. Honest Geordie had no guile; and if he had\nhad any, the new birth he had undergone, with the consequent baptism,\nwould have taken it clean away, so that there was no chance of a\nsuspicion of the part which guidwife Christian had played on the said\noccasion. Yet, wonder as he might, if he had known all, he would have\nwondered more how any woman, even with the advantage of a \"New Light,\"\ncould have snored under the purpose she had revolved in her mind, and\nwhich she had so darkly revealed to her old master. Ah yes, that female\nmember, of which so much has been said--even that it contains on the\nsubtle point thereof a little nerve which anatomists cannot find in the\ncorresponding organ in man--can swim lightly _tanquam suber_, and yet\nnever give an indication of the depths below. But Geordie became\nwild;--was she dead outright? Dead people do not snore, but the dying do\nin apoplexy. He took her by the shoulders, and shook her.\n\n\"Christian, woman, will ye no speak, when I can get nae rest? Wha was\nthat man wha called here yestreen?\"\n\nNo, she wouldn't.\n\n\"And did I no see you look at him as ye never looked at man before?\"\n\nNo avail.\n\n\"And what took ye out so soon after he was awa'?\"\n\nNo reply.\n\n\"And what's mair\"--the murder was now out,--\"did ye no meet him secretly\nat the stair-foot, and stand and speak to him in strange words and\nstrange signs?\"\n\nNot yet.\n\n\"And what, in the name o' Heaven, and a' the ither powers up and down\nand round and round, was the aith that ye swore to him?\"\n\nAnother pause.\n\n\"And what money-bribe was it ye spak o' sae secretly and darkly?\"\n\nAll in vain. At length the knurr of the clock, and the most solemn of\nall the hours, \"one,\" sounded hoarsely. Wearied, exhausted, and sorely\ntroubled, Geordie fell asleep, greatly aided thereto by the eternal\noscillation of that little tongue at the back of the greater and mute\none, the sound of which ceased when the blacksmith was fairly and\ncertainly over, just as if its services had been no longer needed that\nnight.\n\nSurely the next of these eventful days was destined, either by the\nFuries or the good goddess, to be that day that \"would try a'.\" Even\nthese words Geordie had heard, if he had not caught up many other\nbroken sentences, which showed to his distracted mind that guidwife\nChristian was in some mysterious way mixed up with the events and things\nof the charmed house. The comparatively sleepless night induced a later\nthan usual rising; but with what wonder did Geordie Gourlay ascertain,\nthat late as Christian had been out on the previous night, she was\nalready again forth of the house, leaving him to the bachelor work of\nmaking his own breakfast! Where she had gone he could not even venture\nto suppose; but certain he was that her absence was in some way\nconnected with that stranger with whom he had seen her in communication\nthe night before. The business did not admit of his waiting; so he took\nhis morning meal of porridge and milk, and with thoughts anxious and\ndeep, yet deeper in mere feeling than portrayment of outward coming\nevents, he sallied forth for the Luckenbooths. On descending the stair,\nhe found to his dire amazement the door of the portentous flat--that\ngrave above ground of so many things that should have been either under\nthe earth, in the sinless regions of mortality, or in the mendicant bag\nof Time, rolled away beyond the ken of mortal--open. Yes, that door,\nwith the rusty padlock, and the creaking hinge, and the worm-eaten\npanels, was open. He shuddered: yet he looked ben into the old dark\nlobby, where he had groped and so nearly lost himself; and what did he\nsee? His wife, guidwife Christian, standing in the middle thereof in her\nwhite short-gown, so like, to his imperfect vision, that spirit he had\nencountered in that house before! There seemed to be others there also;\nfor he heard inside doors creaking, and by and by saw come out of the\nfar-end door that very man--yea, the very man. The reflection of a light\nshone out upon him. To escape observation, he slipt to a side; and when\nhe peered in again, no one was to be seen. They had passed together\ninto some of the rooms, probably that bedroom where stood the bed with\nthe green curtains. Resolved as he had been never to enter that door-way\nagain, he would have rushed forward, had not a hand been laid on his\nshoulder.\n\n\"George Gourlay,\" said a voice behind him.\n\n\"Ay, nae doubt I'm weel kenned.\"\n\n\"You are in the meantime my prisoner,\" said an officer, with the\nindispensable blue coat, and the red collar, and the cocked hat.\n\n\"For what?\" said Geordie.\n\n\"Ye'll ken that by and by,\" replied the officer; \"the fiscal will tell\nye. Awa' wi' me to the office.\"\n\n\"Humph! for picking a lock,\" said the blacksmith. \"The deil put my left\nfingers between my hammer and the stiddy when I meddle again wi' rusty\npadlocks.\"\n\n\"There's naething dune on earth but what is seen,\" said the man, as with\nsomething like a smile on his left cheek, the other retaining its\ngravity, he held up his finger as if pointing to heaven.\n\n\"Ay, ay, there's an e'e there.\"\n\n\"And to break open a house,\" continued the officer, \"is death en the\nwuddy up yonder at the 'Auld Heart.'\"\n\n\"But wha, in God's name, is the witness against me?\"\n\n\"Guidwife Christian,\" said the officer again, seriously enough at least\nfor Geordie's belief of his sincerity.\n\n\"And the woman has turned against her husband! This is the warst blow\nava. But, Lord, man, I stowe naething.\"\n\n\"Thieves are no generally at the trouble of picking locks, rummaging a\nhouse, and going away empty-handed, as if out o' a kirk. But come, you\ncan tell the Lord Advocate's deputy a' that.\"\n\nAnd George Gourlay was taken away, muttering to himself, as he went,\n\"This explains a'. Nae wonder she wadna speak to the man she intended\nto hang. Woman, woman, verily from the beginning hae ye been we to man,\nand will be to the end.\"\n\nLed up the High Street, yet in such a way as to avoid any suspicion that\nhe was in the hands of an officer, George Gourlay was placed safely in\nthe room of Mr. B----, the procurator-fiscal of that time, for reasons\nunknown to us, in the Old Tolbooth. The entry through the thick\niron-knobbed door to the inside of this dark and dreary pile, which\nborrowed its light only through openings left by the irregularities of\nthe high masses of St. Giles, and the parallel rows of overshadowing\nhouses, flanked by the booths and the Crames, was enough to vanquish the\nheart of the strongest and the most innocent. Nor was it the darkness\nand the squalor alone that were so formidable. Thick air, loaded with\nthe breath and exhalations from unhealthiness and disease itself, had\nmade livid faces and bloodshot eyes; drunken, uproarious voices, and\nbacchanalian songs, oaths, denunciations, and peals of laughter, mixed\nwith groans. Only awanting that inscription seen by the Hermet shadow\nwho led the Florentine. Up a stair--through the midst of these children\nof evil or victims of misfortune, the innocent rendered guilty by\ninfection, the condemned to death made drearily jolly by despair,\nimitating the recklessness of mirth,--and now the unfortunate George\nGourlay is before his examinator.\n\n\"Mr. Gourlay,\" said the officer.\n\n\"Sit down, sir,\" said Mr. B----, \"and wait till the others come. We\ncannot want Mrs. Gourlay, though no doubt you can swear to the man. In\nthe meantime, hold your peace, lest you commit yourself. Say nothing\ntill you are asked. Most strange affair.\"\n\nThus at once doomed to silence, George sat and listened to the mixed\nbuzz of this misery become ludibund. Nor was his unhappiness thus\nlimited: a fearful conviction seized him, that long before he was hanged\nhe would take on the likeness of the wretches he had passed through;--he\nwould become sleazy; his eyes would be red, fiery, or bleared with\ntears, dried up in the heat of his fevered blood; his cheeks would be\npale-yellow or blue, his voice husky, and his nose red; he would sing,\nswear, dance--ay, douce Geordie would sing even as they. Better be\nhanged at once than sent hence thus deteriorated,--an unpleasant\ncustomer in the other world. Nay, one half of them had greasy, furzy,\nred nightcaps; and the chance was therefore a half that he would be\nthrown off in one of these, to the eternal disgrace of the Gourlays of\nGersholm, from whom he was descended.\n\nA full hour passed, bringing no comfort on its heavy wings. At length\nanother red-necked official entered, and introduced guidwife Christian\nherself, and--Patrick Guthrie.\n\nWhen these parties entered, Geordie's eyes and mouth had relapsed into\nthat condition they presented on that occasion when he saw the wraith by\nthe bed with the green curtains.\n\n\"Mrs. Gourlay,\" said Mr. B----, \"you are the wife of George Gourlay,\nblacksmith?\"\n\n\"Ay, and have been for nine years, come the time, the day, and the\nhour.\"\n\n\"Please throw your mind back twenty years.\"\n\n\"It ower aften gaes back to that time o' its ain accord, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, tell us where you lived, and what you did about that time.\"\n\n\"I was servant to Mr. Patrick Guthrie,--this gentleman sitting at my\nright hand.\"\n\n\"Was Mr. Guthrie a married man?\"\n\n\"Ay, sir, he was married to a young lady, whose maiden name was\nHenrietta Douglas, ane o' the Brigstons, as I hae heard.\"\n\n\"What kind of woman was she?\"\n\n\"Bonny, sir, as ony that ever walked the High Street or the Canongate;\nand the mair wae, sir. Cheerfu', too, and light-hearted and merry as the\nlavrock when it rises in the morning; ay, and the mair wae!\"\n\n\"Why do you add these words?\" continued Mr. B----. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Because thae things brought gay gallants about the house when master\nwas awa' in Angus, whaur he had a property near Gaigie; but he was nane,\nI think, o' the four Guthries.\"\n\n\"Then you knew that they came without the knowledge and against the\nwishes of your master?\"\n\n\"Ower weel, sir, for my peace these twenty years bygane.\"\n\n\"Then you think there was more than indiscretion in Mrs. Guthrie?\"\n\n\"Muckle mair, I doubt.\"\n\n\"Do you recollect the names of any of these gay gallants?\"\n\n\"There was Lord Spynie, a wild dare-the-deil; but sae merry, and jovial,\nand pleasant, that his very een were nets to catch women's hearts.\"\n\n\"Do you remember anything happening when Lord Spynie was in the house\nin Bell's Wynd?\"\n\n\"Ay; on the last day o' my service, yea, the last day o' my leddie's\nlife. My maister had gane to Gaigie, as I thought; but I aye doubted if\nhe had been farther than the White Horse. He wouldna return for a week,\nnot he; and so my leddie thought, for the next day she ordered me to get\na goose, and roast it on the spit; and weel I kenned wha the goose was\nfor. But I didna like the business, for I had my pirns to finish--no,\ngude forgie me, that I was against this deception o' my master. The\ngoose was bought, and plucket, and singed, and put to the fire. The\ndinner was to be at twa o'clock, and Lord Spynie was there by ane. In\nhalf an hour after, wha comes rushing in but my master? And the moment\nhe saw Spynie, he drew his sword, and so did his lordship his. My\nmistress screamed, and ran between them; and oh! sir, the sword that was\nthrust at Spynie gaed clean through my mistress's fair body. She was\ndead. Then Lord Spynie lost a' his courage, and flew out o' the house;\nand just as he was passing through the door, my master thrust at him,\nand his bluidy sword snapt and was broken clean through. He came back\nand looked on my leddy, and kissed her, ay, and grat like a bairn; but\noh! he was composed too. 'Christy,' said he, 'lay your mistress on the\ngreen bed.' And so I did, and streeked her, and drew the coverlet over\nher, and put a mutch upon her head. Oh how fair she was in death!\n'Christy,' said master, 'come hither.' I obeyed. 'Get the Bible,' he\nsaid. I got it. 'Get on your knees,' he said. I knelt. 'Here,' said he,\n'is twenty gowden guineas; and now swear upon the Laws and the Prophets,\nand the four Gospels, that you will never, by word, or look, or pen,\nreveal to man, or woman, or wean what has been done--in this house this\nday.' I swore. 'Now go,' said he; 'for I am to lock up the house, and go\nfar away, where no man can know me.' So I took my little trunk, and went\naway sobbing. Nor was he a moment after me. I saw him shut the shutters\nand lock the door, and walk quickly away. Nor was he ever heard of more\ntill yesterday; and there he is.\"\n\n\"Is all this true, Mr. Guthrie?\"\n\n\"All true as God's word.\"\n\n\"And all this happened twenty years ago?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then by the law of Scotland you are a free man, even were this murder\nor homicide; for twenty years is the period of our prescription. You may\nall go.\"\n\nThen they rose to depart.\n\n\"Mr. Guthrie,\" cried Mr. B----, \"bury your wife. And, hark ye, the goose\nhas been at the fire for twenty years, and must now, I think, be\nroasted.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRODIGAL SON.\n\n\nThe early sun was melting away the coronets of grey clouds on the brows\nof the mountains, and the lark, as if proud of its plumage, and\nsurveying itself in an illuminated mirror, carolled over the bright\nwater of Keswick, when two strangers met upon the side of the lofty\nSkiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer, betokening that their\ncommon errand was to search for objects of geological interest. The one\nappeared about fifty, the other some twenty years younger. There is\nsomething in the solitude of the everlasting hills, which makes men who\nare strangers to each other despise the ceremonious introductions of the\ndrawing-room. So it was with our geologists--their place of meeting,\ntheir common pursuit, produced an instantaneous familiarity. They spent\nthe day, and dined on the mountain-side together. They shared the\ncontents of their flasks with each other; and, ere they began to descend\nthe hill, they felt, the one towards the other, as though they had been\nold friends. They had begun to take the road towards Keswick, when the\nelder said to the younger, \"My meeting with you to-day recalls to my\nrecollection a singular meeting which took place between a friend of\nmine and a stranger, about seven years ago, upon the same mountain. But,\nsir, I will relate to you the circumstances connected with it; and they\nmight be called the History of the Prodigal Son.\"\n\nHe paused for a few moments, and proceeded:--About thirty years ago a\nMr. Fen-wick was possessed of property in Bamboroughshire worth about\nthree hundred per annum. He had married while young, and seven fair\nchildren cheered the hearth of a glad father and a happy mother. Many\nyears of joy and of peace had flown over them, when Death visited their\ndomestic circle, and passed his icy hand over the cheek of the\nfirst-born; and, for five successive years, as their children opened\ninto manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor entered their\ndwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the youngest,\nleft. And O, sir, in the leaving of that one, lay the cruelty of\nDeath--to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name\nwas Edward; and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents\nhad borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father,\nwhose soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish; and\nhis poor mother\n\n                                  \"Would not permit\n    The winds of heaven to visit his cheek too roughly.\"\n\nBut you shall hear how cruelly he repaid their love--how murderously he\nreturned their kindness. He was headstrong and wayward; and though the\nsmall still voice of affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it\nwas stifled by the storm of his passions and propensities. His first\nmanifestation of open viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice\nof cock-fighting; and he became a constant attender at every \"_main_\"\nthat took place at Northumberland. He was a habitual \"_bettor_,\" and his\nlosses were frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and\npartly from a too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A\n\"main\" was to take place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was\npresent. Two noble birds were disfigured, the savage instruments of\ndeath were fixed upon them, and they were pitted against each other. \"A\nhundred to one on the Felton Grey!\" shouted Fen-wick. \"Done! for\nguineas!\" replied another. \"Done! for guineas!--done!\" repeated the\nprodigal--and the next moment the Felton Grey lay dead on the ground,\npierced through the skull with the spur of the other. He rushed out of\nthe cockpit--\"I shall expect payment to-morrow, Fen-wick,\" cried the\nother. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode homeward with the fury\nof a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been, he feared to meet him\nor tell him the amount of his loss. His mother perceived his agony, and\nstrove to soothe him.\n\n\"What is't that troubles thee, my bird?\" inquired she. \"Come, tell thy\nmother, darling.\"\n\nWith an oath he cursed the mention of birds, and threatened to destroy\nhimself.\n\n\"O Edward, love! thou wilt kill thy poor mother. What can I do for\nthee?\"\n\n\"Do for me!\" he exclaimed, wildly tearing his hair as he spoke--\"do for\nme, mother. Get me a hundred pounds, or my heart's blood shall flow at\nyour feet.\"\n\n\"Child! child!\" said she, \"thou hast been at thy black trade of betting\nagain. Thou wilt ruin thy father, Edward, and break thy mother's heart.\nBut give me thy hand on't, dear, that thou'lt bet no more, and I'll get\nthy father to give thee the money.\"\n\n\"My father must not know,\" he exclaimed; \"I will die rather.\"\n\n\"Love! love!\" replied she; \"but, without asking thy father, where could\nI get thee a hundred pounds?\"\n\n\"You have some money, mother,\" added he; \"and you have\ntrinkets--jewellery!\" he gasped, and hid his face as he spoke.\n\n\"Thou shalt have them!--thou shalt have them, child!\" said she, \"and\nall the money thy mother has--only say thou wilt bet no more. Dost thou\npromise, Edward--oh, dost thou promise thy poor mother this?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" he cried. And he burst into tears as he spoke.\n\nHe received the money, and the trinkets, which his mother had not worn\nfor thirty years, and hurried from the house, and with them discharged a\nportion of his dishonourable debt.\n\nHe, however, did bet again; and I might tell you how he became a\nhorse-racer also; but you shall hear that too. He was now about\ntwo-and-twenty, and for several years he had been acquainted with\nEleanor Robinson--a fair being, made up of gentleness and love, if ever\nwoman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her own disposal of\nthree thousand pounds. Her friends had often warned her against the\ndangerous habits of Edward Fen-wick. But she had given him her young\nheart--to him she had plighted her first vow--and, though she beheld his\nfollies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them;\nand, with a heart full of hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand\nand fortune. Poor Eleanor! her hopes were vain, her love unworthily\nbestowed. Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son\nand thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house,\nbetting and carousing with his companions of the turf; while one vice\nled the way to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he\nunconsciously sunk into all the habits of a profligate.\n\nIt was about four years after his marriage, when, according to his\ncustom, he took leave of his wife for a few days, to attend the meeting\nat Doncaster.\n\n\"Good-bye, Eleanor, dear,\" he said gaily, as he rose to depart, and\nkissed her cheek; \"I shall be back within five days.\"\n\n\"Well, Edward,\" said she, tenderly, \"if you will go, you must; but think\nof me, and think of these our little ones.\" And, with a tear in her eye,\nshe desired a lovely boy and girl to kiss their father. \"Now, think of\nus, Edward,\" she added; \"and do not bet, dearest, do not bet!\"\n\n\"Nonsense, duck! nonsense!\" said he; \"did you ever see me lose?--do you\nsuppose that Ned Fen-wick is not 'wide awake?' I know my horse, and its\nrider too--Barrymore's Highlander can distance everything. But, if it\ncould not, I have it from a sure hand--the other horses are all\n'_safe_.' Do you understand that--eh?\"\n\n\"No, I do not understand it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it,\"\nadded she; \"but, dearest, as you love me--as you love our children--risk\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Love you, little gipsy! you know I'd die for you,\" said he--and, with\nall his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. \"Come, Nell, kiss me again,\nmy dear--no long faces--don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book;\nyou know the saying, 'Never venture, never win--faint heart never won\nfair ladye!' Good-bye, love--'bye, Ned--good-bye, mother's darling,\" said\nhe, addressing the children as he left the house.\n\nHe reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the\nbetting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the\nshrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys,\nto ascertain the secrets of their horses. \"All's safe!\" said the\nprodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the\nfestival--the important St. Leger--arrived. Hundreds were ready to back\nHighlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he\nwould take any odds--he did take them--he staked his all. \"A thousand to\nfive hundred on Highlander against the field,\" he cried, as he stood\nnear a betting-post. \"Done!\" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in\na barouche by his side. \"Done!\" cried Fen-wick, \"for the double, if you\nlike, my lord.\" \"Done!\" added the peer; \"and I'll treble it if you\ndare!\" \"Done!\" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement\nof the moment--\"Done! my lord.\" The eventful hour arrived. There was not\na false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led\nthe way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap,\nlooked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the\nrails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the\nadmonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen.\nHis very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his\nbreast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight.\n\"The tartan yet! the tartan yet!\" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his\neyes--he was blind with anxiety--he could not discern them; still he\nheard the cry of \"The tartan! the tartan!\" and his heart sprang to his\nmouth. \"Well done, orange!--the orange will have it!\" was the next cry.\nHe again looked up, but he was more blind than before.\n\n\"Beautiful!--beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!\" shouted the\nspectators; \"a noble race!--neck and neck; six to five on the orange!\"\nHe became almost deaf as well as blind. \"Now for it!--now for it!--it\nwon't do, tartan!--hurrah!--hurrah!--orange has it!\"\n\n\"Liar!\" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping\nthe spectator who stood next him by the throat--\"I am not ruined!\"--In a\nmoment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing,\nand gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul\ngroaned in agony. \"Eleanor!--my poor Eleanor!\" cried the prodigal. The\ncrowd hurried towards the winning-post--he was left alone. The peer with\nwhom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with\nhis whip--\"Well, my covey,\" said the nobleman, \"you have lost it.\"\n\nFen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and\nrepeated--\"Lost it!--I am ruined--soul and body!--wife and children\nruined!\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Fen-wick,\" said the sporting peer, \"I suppose, if that be the\ncase, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day\nis to-morrow--you know I keep sharp accounts; and if you have not the\n'_ready_' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent--you understand me.\"\n\nSo saying, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he\nchose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his\nmisery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he\ngave the winner a bill for the money--payable at sight. My feelings will\nnot permit me to tell you how the poor infatuated madman more than once\nmade attempts upon his own life; but the latent love of his wife and of\nhis children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering\non insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply\ninjured.\n\nI might describe to you how poor Eleanor was sitting in their little\nparlour, with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on\nher knee, telling them fondly that their father would be home soon, and\nanon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme--\n\n    \"Hush, my babe, baby bunting,\n    Your father's at the hunting,\" etc.;\n\nwhen the door opened, and the guilty father entered, his hair clotted,\nhis eyes rolling with the wildness of despair, and the cold sweat\nrunning down his pale cheeks.\n\n\"Eleanor! Eleanor!\" he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa.\n\nShe placed her little daughter on the floor--she flew towards him--\"My\nEdward!--oh my Edward!\" she cried--\"what is it, love?--something\ntroubles you.\"\n\n\"Curse me, Eleanor!\" exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face\nfrom her. \"I have ruined you I--I have ruined my children!--I am lost\nfor ever!\"\n\n\"No, my husband!\" exclaimed the best of wives; \"your Eleanor will not\ncurse you. Tell me the worst, and I will bear it--cheerfully bear it,\nfor my Edward's sake.\"\n\n\"You will not--you cannot,\" cried he; \"I have sinned against you as\nnever man sinned against woman. Oh! if you would spit upon the very\nground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleviation of my\nsufferings; but your sympathy, your affection, makes my very soul\ndestroy itself! Eleanor!--Eleanor-!--if you have mercy, hate me--tell\nme--show me that you do!\"\n\n\"O Edward!\" said she, imploringly, \"was it thus when your Eleanor\nspurned every offer for your sake, when you pledged to her everlasting\nlove? She has none but you, and can you speak thus? O husband! if you\nwill forsake _me_, forsake not my poor children--tell me! only tell me\nthe worst--and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Fen-wick, \"if you will add to my misery by professing to\nlove a wretch like me--know you are a beggar!--and I have made you one!\nNow, can you share beggary with me?\"\n\nShe repeated the word \"Beggary!\"--she clasped her hands together--for a\nfew moments she stood in silent anguish--her bosom heaved--the tears\ngushed forth--she flung her arms around her husband's neck--\"Yes!\" she\ncried, \"I can meet even beggary with my Edward!\"\n\n\"O Heaven!\" cried the prodigal, \"would that the earth would swallow me!\nI cannot stand this!\"\n\nI will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to\nsoothe and to comfort her unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to\nyou the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they\nheard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost\nthe old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded\nto his son's house to comfort his daughter-in-law. When he entered,\nshe was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the\nharpsichord--though, Heaven knows, there was no music in her breast,\nsave that of love--enduring love!\n\n\"Well, Edward,\" said the old man, as he took a seat, \"what is this that\nthou hast done now?\"\n\nThe prodigal was silent.\n\n\"Edward,\" continued the grey-haired parent, \"I have had deaths in my\nfamily--many deaths, and thou knowest it--but I never had to blush for a\nchild but thee! I have felt sorrow, but thou hast added shame to\nsorrow--\"\n\n\"O father!\" cried Eleanor, imploringly, \"do not upbraid my poor\nhusband.\"\n\nThe old man wept--he pressed her hand, and, with a groan, said, \"I am\nashamed that thou shouldst call me father, sweetest; but if thou canst\nforgive him, I should. He is all that is left to me--all that the hand\nof death has spared me in this world! Yet, Eleanor, his conduct is a\nliving death to me--it is worse than all that I have suffered. When\naffliction pressed heavily upon me, and, year after year, I followed my\ndear children to the grave, my neighbours sympathized with me--they\nmingled their tears with mine; but now, child--oh, now, I am ashamed to\nhold up my head amongst them! O Edward, man! if thou hast no regard for\nthy father or thy heart-broken mother, hast thou no affection for thy\npoor wife?--canst thou bring her and thy helpless children to ruin? But\nthat, I may say, thou hast done already! Son! son! if thou wilt murder\nthy parents, hast thou no mercy for thine own flesh and blood?--wilt\nthou destroy thine own offspring? O Edward! if there be any sin that I\nwill repent upon my death-bed, it will be that I have been a too\nindulgent father to thee--that I am the author of thy crimes!\"\n\n\"No, father! no!\" cried the prodigal; \"my sins are my own! I am their\nauthor, and my soul carries its own punishment! Spurn me! cast me\noff!--disown me for ever!--it is all I ask of you! You despise me--hate\nme too, and I will be less miserable!\"\n\n\"O Edward!\" said the old man, \"thou art a father, but little dost thou\nknow a father's heart! Disown thee! Cast thee off, sayest thou! As soon\ncould the graves of thy brothers give up their dead! Never, Edward!\nnever! O son, wouldst thou but reform thy ways--wouldst thou but become\na husband worthy of our dear Eleanor; and, after all the suffering thou\nhast brought upon her, and the shame thou hast brought upon thy family,\nI would part with my last shilling for thee, Edward, though I should go\ninto the workhouse myself.\"\n\nYou are affected, sir--I will not harrow up your feelings by further\ndescribing the interview between the father and his son. The misery of\nthe prodigal was remorse, not penitence. It is sufficient for me to say,\nthat the old man took a heavy mortgage on his property, and Edward\nFen-wick commenced business as a wine and spirit merchant in Newcastle.\nBut, sir, he did not attend upon business; and I need not tell you that\nsuch being the case, business was too proud a customer to attend upon\nhim. Neither did he forsake his old habits, and, within two years, he\nbecame involved--deeply involved. Already, to sustain his tottering\ncredit, his father had been brought to the verge of ruin. During his\nresidence in Bamboroughshire, he had become acquainted with many\nindividuals carrying on a contraband trade with Holland. To amend his\ndesperate fortunes, he recklessly embarked in it. In order to obtain a\npart in the ownership of a lugger, he _used his father's name_! This was\nthe crowning evil in the prodigal's drama. He made the voyage himself.\nThey were pursued and overtaken when attempting to effect a landing near\nthe Coquet. He escaped. But the papers of the vessel bespoke her as\nbeing chiefly the property of his father. Need I tell you that this was\na finishing blow to the old man?\n\nEdward Fen-wick had ruined his wife and family--he had brought ruin upon\nhis father, and was himself a fugitive. He was pursued by the law; he\nfled from them; and he would have fled from their remembrance if he\ncould. It was now, sir, that the wrath of Heaven was showered upon the\nhead, and began to touch the heart of the prodigal: Like Cain, he was a\nfugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth. For many months he\nwandered in a distant part of the country; his body was emaciated and\nclothed with rags, and hunger preyed upon his very heart-strings. It is\na vulgar thing, sir, to talk of hunger; but they who have never felt it\nknow not what it means. He was fainting by the wayside, his teeth were\ngrating together, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. \"The servants\nof my father's house,\" he cried, \"have bread enough and to spare, while\nI perish with hunger;\" and continuing the language of the prodigal in\nthe Scriptures, he said, \"I will arise and go unto my father, and say, I\nhave sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight.\"\n\nWith a slow and tottering step, he arose to proceed on his journey to\nhis father's house. A month had passed--for every day he made less\nprogress--ere the home of his infancy appeared in sight. It was noon,\nand, when he saw it, he sat down in a little wood by a hill-side and\nwept, until it had become dusk; for he was ashamed of his rags. He drew\nnear the house, but none came forth to welcome him. With a timid hand he\nrapped at the door, but none answered him. A stranger came from one of\nthe outhouses and inquired, \"What dost thou want, man?\"\n\n\"Mr Fen-wick,\" feebly answered the prodigal.\n\n\"Why, naebody lives there,\" said the other; \"and auld Fen-wick died in\nMorpeth jail mair than three months sin'!\"\n\n\"Died in Morpeth jail!\" groaned the miserable being, and fell against\nthe door of the house that had been his father's.\n\n\"I tell ye, ye cannot get in there,\" continued the other.\n\n\"Sir,\" replied Edward, \"pity me; and, oh, tell me is Mrs Fen-wick\nhere--or her daughter-in-law?\"\n\n\"I know nought about them,\" said the stranger. \"I'm put in charge here\nby the trustees.\"\n\nWant and misery kindled all their fires in the breast of the fugitive.\nHe groaned, and, partly from exhaustion, partly from agony, sank upon\nthe ground. The other lifted him to a shed, where cattle were wont to be\nfed. His lips were parched, his languid eyes rolled vacantly. \"Water!\ngive me water!\" he muttered in a feeble voice; and a cup of water was\nbrought to him. He gazed wistfully in the face of the person who stood\nover him--he would have asked for bread; but, in the midst of his\nsufferings, pride was yet strong in his heart, and he could not. The\nstranger, however, was not wholly destitute of humanity.\n\n\"Poor wretch!\" said he, \"ye look very fatigued; dow ye think ye cud eat\na bit bread, if I were gi'en it to thee?\"\n\nTears gathered in the lustreless eyes of the prodigal; but he could not\nspeak. The stranger left him, and returning, placed a piece of coarse\nbread in his hand. He ate a morsel; but his very soul was sick, and his\nheart loathed to receive the food for lack of which he was perishing.\n\nVain, sir, were the inquiries after his wife, his children, and his\nmother; all that he could learn was, that they had kept their sorrow and\ntheir shame to themselves, and had left Northumberland together, but\nwhere, none knew. He also learned that it was understood amongst his\nacquaintances that he had put a period to his existence, and that this\nbelief was entertained by his family. Months of wretchedness followed,\nand Fen-wick, in despair, enlisted into a foot regiment, which, within\ntwelve months, was ordered to embark for Egypt. At that period the\nBritish were anxious to hide the remembrance of their unsuccessful\nattack upon Cadiz, and resolved to wrench the ancient kingdom of the\nPharaohs from the grasp of the proud armies of Napoleon. The Cabinet,\ntherefore, on the surrender of Malta, having seconded the views of Sir\nRalph Abercrombie, several transports were fitted out to join the\nsquadron under Lord Keith. In one of those transports the penitent\nprodigal embarked. You are too young to remember it, sir; but at that\nperiod a love of country was more widely than ever becoming the ruling\npassion of every man in Britain; and, with all his sins, his follies,\nand his miseries, such a feeling glowed in the breast of Edward\nFen-wick. He was weary of existence, and he longed to listen to the\nneighing of the war-horse, and the shout of its rider, and as they might\nrush on the invulnerable phalanx, and its breastwork of bayonets, to\nmingle in the rank of heroes; and, rather than pine in inglorious grief,\nto sell his life for the welfare of his country; or, like the gallant\nGraham, amidst the din of war, and the confusion of glory, to forget his\nsorrows. The regiment to which he belonged joined the main army off the\nBay of Marmorice, and was the first that, with the gallant Moore at its\nhead, on the memorable seventh of March, raised the shout of victory on\nthe shores of Aboukir.\n\nIn the moment of victory, Fen-wick fell wounded on the field, and his\ncomrades, in their triumph, passed over him. He had some skill in\nsurgery, and he was enabled to bind up his wound. He was fainting upon\nthe burning sand, and he was creeping amongst the bodies of the slain,\nfor a drop of moisture to cool his parched tongue, when he perceived a\nsmall bottle in the hands of a dead officer. It was half-filled with\nwine--he eagerly raised it to his lips--\"Englishman!\" cried a feeble\nvoice, \"for the love of Heaven! give me one drop--only one!--or I die!\"\nHe looked around--a French officer, apparently in the agonies of death,\nwas vainly endeavouring to raise himself on his side, and stretching his\nhand towards him. \"Why should I live?\" cried the wretched prodigal;\n\"take it, take it, and live, if you desire life!\" He raised the wounded\nFrenchman's head from the sand--he placed the bottle to his lips--he\nuntied his sash, and bound up his wounds. The other pressed his hand in\ngratitude. They were conveyed from the field together. Fen-wick was\nunable to follow the army, and he was disabled from continuing in the\nservice. The French officer recovered, and he was grateful for the poor\nservice that had been rendered to him; and, previous to his being sent\noff with other prisoners, he gave a present of a thousand francs to the\njoyless being whom he called his deliverer.\n\nI have told you that Fen-wick had some skill in surgery; he had studied\nsome years for the medical profession, but abandoned it for the turf and\nits vices. He proceeded to Alexandria, where he began to practise as a\nsurgeon, and, amongst an ignorant people, gained reputation. Many years\npassed, and he had acquired, if not riches, at least an independency.\nRepentance also had penetrated his soul. He had inquired long and\nanxiously after his family. He had but few other relatives; and to all\nof them he had anxiously written, imploring them to acquaint him with\nthe residence of the beings whom he had brought to ruin, but whom he\nstill loved. Some returned no answer to his applications, and others\nonly said that they knew nothing of his wife, or his mother, or of his\nchildren, nor whether they yet lived; all they knew was, that they had\nendeavoured to hide the shame he had brought upon them from the world.\nThese words were daggers to his bruised spirit; but he knew he deserved\nthem, and he prayed that Heaven would grant him the consolation and the\nmercy that were denied him on earth.\n\nSomewhat more than seven years ago he returned to his native country,\nand he was wandering on the very mountain where, to-day, I met you, when\nhe entered into conversation with a youth apparently about three or four\nand twenty years of age; and they spent the day together as we have\ndone. Fen-wick was lodging in Keswick, and as, towards evening, they\nproceeded along the road together, they were overtaken by a storm. \"You\nmust accompany me home,\" said the young man, \"until the storm be passed;\nmy mother's house is at hand,\"--and he conducted him to yonder lonely\ncottage, whose white walls you perceive peering through the trees by the\nwater-side. It was dusk when the youth ushered him into a little parlour\nwhere two ladies sat; the one appeared about forty, the other threescore\nand ten. They welcomed the stranger graciously. He ascertained that they\nlet out the rooms of their cottage to visitors to the lakes during the\nsummer season. He expressed a wish to become their lodger, and made some\nobservations on the beauty of the situation.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the younger lady, \"the situation is indeed beautiful;\nbut I have seen it when the water, and the mountains around it, could\nimpart no charm to its dwellers. Providence has, indeed, been kind to\nus, and our lodgings have seldom been empty; but, sir, when we entered\nit, it was a sad house indeed. My poor mother-in-law and myself had\nexperienced many sorrows; yet my poor fatherless children--for I might\ncall them fatherless\"--and she wept as she spoke--\"with their innocent\nprattle, soothed our affliction. But my little Eleanor, who was loved by\nevery one, began to droop day by day. It was a winter night--the snow\nwas on the ground--I heard my little darling give a deep sigh upon my\nbosom. I started up. I called to my poor mother. She brought a light to\nthe bedside--and I found my sweet child dead upon my breast. It was a\nlong and sad night, as we sat by the dead body of my Eleanor, with no\none near us; and after she =was= buried, my poor Edward there, as he\nsat by our side at night, would draw forward to his knee the stool on\nwhich his sister sat--while his grandmother would glance at him fondly,\nand push aside the stool with her foot, that I might not see it;--but I\nsaw it all.\"\n\nThe twilight had deepened in the little parlour, and its inmates could\nnot perfectly distinguish the features of each other; but as the lady\nspoke, the soul of Edward Fen-wick glowed within him--his heart\nthrobbed--his breathing became thick--the sweat burst upon his brow.\n\"Pardon me, lady!\" he cried, in agony; \"but, oh! tell me your name?\"\n\n\"Fen-wick, sir,\" replied she.\n\n\"Eleanor! my injured Eleanor!\" he exclaimed, flinging himself at her\nfeet. \"I am Edward, your guilty husband! Mother! can you forgive me? My\nson! my son! intercede for your guilty father!\"\n\nAh, sir, there needed no intercession--their arms were around his\nneck--the prodigal was forgiven! \"Behold,\" continued the narrator,\n\"yonder from the cottage comes the mother, the wife, and the son of whom\nI have spoken! I will introduce you to them--you shall witness the\nhappiness and the penitence of the prodigal--you must stop with me\nto-night. Start not, sir--I am Edward Fen-wick the Prodigal Son!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAWYER'S TALES.\n\nTHE WOMAN WITH THE WHITE MICE.\n\n\nMany have, doubtless, both heard and read of the case of murder in which\nJeffrey performed his greatest feat of oratory and power over a jury,\nand in which, while engaged in his grand speech of more than six hours,\nhe caught, from an open window, the aphony which threatened to close up\nhis voice for ever afterwards. I have had occasion to notice the wants\nin reported cases tried before courts; and in reference to the one I\nhave now mentioned, I have reason, from my inquiries, to know that the\nmost curious details of the transaction are not only not to be found in\nthe report, but not even suggested, if they do not, in some particulars,\nappear to be opposed to the public testimony. The agent of the panel\nsits behind the counsel, delivering to him sometimes very crude\nmaterials for the defence, and the counsel sifts that matter; sometimes\ntaking a handful of the chaff to blind a juryman or a judge, but more\noften casting it away as either useless or dangerous. In that unused\nchaff there are often pickles not of the kind put into the sack, and\nagain laid as an offering before the blind goddess, but of a different\nkind of grain--nor often less pleasant, or, if applied, less acceptable\nto justice.\n\nIn a certain month in the year 18--, a writer in Dundee, of the name of\nDavid M----, was busy in his office, in a dark street off the High\nStreet--busy, no doubt, in discharging the functions of that office\nrepresented by AEsop as occupied by a monkey, holding the scales between\nthe litigating cats. He heard a horse stop at his office door, as if\nbrought suddenly up by a jerk of the rein.\n\n\"There is haste here,\" he thought; \"what is up?\"\n\nAnd presently the door opened, and there came, or rather rushed, in a\nman, of the appearance of a country farmer, greatly more excited than\nthese douce men generally are--except, perhaps, in the midst of a\nplentiful harvest-home--splashed up with mud to the back of the neck,\nand breathing as hard as, no doubt, the horse was that carried him.\n\n\"What is it, Mr. S----?\" inquired the writer, as he looked at his\nclient.\n\n\"A dreadful business!\" replied he; and he turned, went back to the door,\nshut it, and tested the hold of the lock; then laying down his hat and\nwhip, and pulling off his big-coat, he drew a chair so near the writer,\nthat the man of law, _brusque_ and even jolly as he was, instinctively\nwithdrew his, as if he feared an appeal for money.\n\n\"What is the business?\" again asked the writer, as he saw the man in a\nspasmodic difficulty to begin.\n\n\"We are all ruined at D----!\" he at length said; \"Mrs. S----is in your\njail, hard by, on a charge of murder.\"\n\n\"Mrs. S----! of all the women in the world!\" ejaculated the writer in\nunfeigned amazement: \"murder of whom?\"\n\n\"Of a servant at D----,\" replied Mr. S----; \"one of our own women.\"\n\n\"And what could be the motive?\"\n\n\"The young woman,\" continued S----, \"had been observed to be pregnant,\nand the report was got up that my son was the party responsible and\nblameable. Then the charge is, that my wife gave the girl poison,\neither to procure abortion, or to take away her life. The woman is dead\nand buried; but, I believe, her body has been taken up out of the grave\nand examined, and poison found in the stomach.\"\n\n\"An ugly account,\" said the writer. \"I mean not ugly as regards the\nevidence, of which, as yet, I have heard nothing. I could say beforehand\nthat I don't believe the authorities will be able to bring home an act\nof this kind to so rational and respectable a woman, as I have known\nMrs. S----to be; but if you wish me to get her off, you must allow me to\nlook at the case as if she were guilty.\"\n\n\"Guilty!\" echoed the man, with a shudder.\n\n\"Yes. Were I to go fumbling about in an affair of this kind, acting upon\na notion--whatever I may think or feel--that Mrs. S----, though your\nwife, _could not_ possibly do an act of that kind, I would neither hound\nup, as I ought, the investigations of the prosecutor, nor get up proper\nevidence--not to meet their proofs only, but to overturn them.\"\n\n\"I would have thought you would have been keener to get off an innocent\nperson--a wife, and the mother of a family, too--than a guilty one,\"\nsaid S----.\n\n\"We cannot get you people to understand these things,\" replied the\nwriter; \"but so it is, at least with me, and I rather think a good\nnumber of my brethren. We have a pride in getting off a guilty person;\nwhereas we have only a spice of satisfaction in saving an innocent one.\nPerhaps I have an object, for your own sake, in speaking thus frankly to\nyou; and I tell you at once, that if you intend to help me to get off\nyour wife, you must, as soon as you can--even here, at this\nmoment--renounce all blind confidence in her innocence.\"\n\n\"Terrible condition!\" said the farmer.\n\n\"Not pleasant, but useful. How, in God's name, am I to know how to\ndoctor, purge, or scarify, or anoint a testimony against you, unless I\nknow that it exists, and where to find it?\"\n\n\"Very true,\" rejoined the farmer, trying to follow the clever \"limb.\"\n\n\"Don't hesitate. I will have more pleasure, and not, maybe, much less\nhope, in hearing you detail all the grounds of your suspicion against\nyour wife, than in listening to your nasaling and canting about her\ninnocence. All this is for your good, my dear sir, take it as you will.\"\n\n\"I believe it,\" said the farmer, \"and will try to act up to what you\nsay; but I cannot, of my own knowledge, say much, as yet. These things\nare done privately, within the house, and a farmer is mostly out of\ndoors.\"\n\n\"Well, away, get access to your wife, ferret everything out of her, as\nwell for her as against her. If she bought poison, where she bought it,\nwhat rats were to be poisoned, how it was applied, how she communicated\nwith the girl, and where, and all, and everything you can gather.\nQuestion your servants all they saw or heard; your son, what he has to\nsay; ascertain who came about the house, how affected towards the girl,\nwhether there were more lovers than your son, whether the girl was\nmelancholy, or hopeful, and likely to do the thing or not; but, above\nall, keep it ever in view that your wife is in prison, and suspected,\nand let me know every item you can bring against her. Away, and lose no\ntime, for I see it's a matter of neck and neck between her and the\nprosecutor, and, consequently, neck and noose, or neck and no noose,\nbetween her and the hangman.\"\n\nUtterly confounded by this array of instructions, the poor farmer sat\nand looked blank. It was impossible he could remember all he had been\nrequested to do; and the duty of finding out facts to criminate the wife\nwho had lived with him so long in love and confidence, bore down upon\nhim with a weight he could hardly sustain.\n\n\"I will do what I can,\" he said.\n\n\"You must do _more_ than you can,\" said the writer; \"but, again I say,\nlet me know every, the smallest item you can discover against your\nwife.\"\n\nAnd, thus charged, Mr. S----mounted his horse, and rode home to a\nmiserable house with a miserable heart.\n\nExtraordinary as the case was, it was entrusted to the charge of an\nextraordinary man, well remembered yet throughout that county, and much\nbeyond it. In personal respects he was strong, broad, and muscular, with\na florid countenance never out of humour, and an eye that flashed in so\nmany different directions, that it was impossible to arrest it for two\nmoments at a time. All action, nothing resisted him; all impulse and\nsensibility, nothing escaped his observation; yet no one could say that\nany subject retained his mind for more time than would have sufficed\nanother merely to glance at it. He could speak to a hundred men in a day\nupon a hundred topics, and sit down and run off twenty pages of a paper\nwithout an hour of previous meditation; break off at a pronoun, at a\ncall to the further end of the town; drink as much in a few minutes'\nconversation with a client as would have taken another an hour to enjoy,\nand return and finish his paper in less time than another would take to\nthink of it. Always, to appearance, off his guard, he was always master\nof his position, nor could any obstacle make him stand and calculate\nits dimensions--it must be surmounted or broken, if his head or the laws\nshould be broken with it; always pressing, he never seemed to be\nimpressed, and the gain or loss of a case was equally indifferent to\nhim. His passion was action, his desire money; but the money went as it\ncame--made without effort and spent without reason. Yet no man hated\nhim; most loved him; few admired him; and even those he might injure by\nhis apparent recklessness could not resist the good nature by which he\nwarded off every attack.\n\nHe saw at once, after he had dismissed S----, that he had got hold of a\ndesperate case, and also that he behoved to have recourse to desperate\nmeans; but it seemed to take no grip of his mind for more than a few\nminutes, by the end of which he was full swing in some other matter of\nbusiness, to be followed with the same rapidity by something else, and,\nprobably, after that, pleasure till three in the morning, when he would\nbe carried home to an elegant house in a certain species of carriage\nwith one wheel. Nor had even that consummation any effect on to-morrow's\navocations, for which he would be ready at the earliest hour; and in\nthis case he _was_ ready. He set about his inquiries, first proceeded to\nD----to get a view of the premises--the room where the young woman lay,\nwhere the son slept, and the bedroom of the mother--and ascertain\nwhether the premises permitted of intercourse with the servants unknown\nto the farmer and his wife. He next began his precognition of those\nconnected with the house, and, on returning to town, procured access to\nMrs. S----.\n\nThe jail of Dundee was at that time over the courthouse, a miserable den\nof a few dark rooms, presenting the appearance of displenished garrets,\nwith small grated windows and a few benches. Here the woman sat\nrevolving, no doubt, in her mind all the events of a life of comfort and\nrespectability, and now under the risk of being brought to a termination\nby her body being suspended in the front of that building where she had\nseen before this terrible consummation of justice enacted with the\nfamiliar and dismal forms of the tragedy of the gallows. We write of\nthese things as parrots gabble, we read of them as monkeys ogle the, to\nthem, strange actions of human beings; but what is all that comes by the\neye or the ear of the experiences of an exterior spirit to the workings\nof that spirit in its own interior world, where thought follows thought\nwith endless ramifications, weaving and interweaving scenes of love and\njoy and pain, contrasting and mixing, dissolving and remixing--bright\nlights and dark shadows--all seen through the blue-tinged and distorting\nlens of present shame? We cannot realize these things, nor did the\nwriter try. He had only the practical work to do--if possible, to get\nthis woman's neck kept out of a kench; nor did it signify much to him\nhow that was effected; but effected it would be, if the invention of one\nman could do it, and if that failed, and the woman was suspended, it\nwould trouble him no more than would the loss of a small-debt case.\n\n\"Sorry to see you in this infernal place, Mrs. S----,\" he said, as he\nthrew himself upon a bench. \"I must get you out, that's certain; but I\ncan promise you that certainty only upon the condition of making a clean\nbreast--only to me, you know.\"\n\n\"I know only that I never poisoned the woman,\" replied she.\n\n\"Do you want to be hanged?\" said he, with the reckless abruptness so\npeculiar a feature of his character, at the same time taking a rapid\nglance of her demeanour. He knew all about the firmness derived from\nthe confidence of innocence, of which a certain class of rhapsodists\nmake so much in a heroic way, and yet he had always entertained the\nheterodoxical notion that guilt is a firmer and often more composed\ncondition than innocence, inasmuch as his experience led him to know\nthat the latter is shaky, anxious, and sensitive, and the former stern\nand imperturbable. Nor did his quick mind want reasons for showing that\nsuch ought, by natural laws, to be the case; for it is never to be lost\nsight of, that, in so far as regards murder, which requires for its\nperpetration a peculiar form of mind and a most unnatural condition of\nthe feelings, the same hardness of nerve which enables a man or woman to\ndo the deed, serves equally well the purpose of helping them to stand up\nagainst the shame, while the innocent person, in nine hundred and\nninety-nine cases out of a thousand--the probable proportion of those\nwho _cannot_ kill--has not the fortitude to withstand the ignominy,\nsimply because he wants the power to slay. So without in his heart\nprejudging the woman, he drew his conclusions, true or false, from the\nimpassibility of her demeanour. Her answer was ready----\n\n\"How could they hang an innocent woman?\"\n\n\"But they _do_ hang hundreds, who say just what you say,\" replied he.\n\"What are you to make of that riddle? Come, did you ever buy any\npoison?--please leave out the rats.\"\n\n\"No; neither for rats nor servants,\" was the composed reply.\n\n\"And you never gave the woman a dose?\"\n\n\"Yes; I have given her medicine more than once.\"\n\n\"Oh, a capital thing to save life; but you know her life was not saved.\nShe died and was buried, and has been taken up; and I suspect it was not\nyour jalap that was found in the body. But what interest had you in\nbeing so very kind to the woman who was to bring shame on your family by\nbearing a child to your son?\"\n\n\"I never knew she was in that way; but though I had known it, I could\nnot have taken away her life.\"\n\n\"Then, who gave her the poison?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"And cannot even suspect any one?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Good-bye!\" he said, as he started up and hurried away; muttering to\nhimself, as the jailer undid the bolts, \"Always the same!--the women are\nalways innocent; and yet we see them stretching ropes other than\nclothes' ropes every now and then.\"\n\nDefeated, but as little discomfited, as we might gather from his pithy\nsoliloquy, his next step was to double up, as he termed it, the\nauthorities, who, he knew, would never have gone the length of\napprehending the woman without having got hold of evidence sufficient to\njustify Sir William Rae, the Lord Advocate, a considerate and prudent\nman, that the charge lay heavy on the prisoner. He had no right of\naccess, at this stage, to the names of the intended witnesses; but to a\nman of his activity it is no difficult matter to find these out, from\nthe natural garrulity of the people, and a kind of self-importance in\nbeing a Crown testimony. Then to find them out was next to drawing them\nout; for it may be safely said for our writer that there was no man,\nfrom the time of John Wilkes, who could exercise a more winning\npersuasion. One by one he ferreted them out, wheedled, threatened,\nadjured, but found himself resisted in every attempt to break them down\nor to turn them to him. At every stage of his inquiry he saw the case\nfor the prisoner assuming a dark aspect--as dark, he so termed it, as\nthe face of a hanged culprit.\n\n\"The beagles have got a track. There are more foxes in the cover than\none; and shall it be said I, David M----, cannot beat out another as\nstimulating to the nose?\"\n\nIn a quarter of an hour after having made this observation to himself,\nhe was posting on horseback to the farm of D----, where he arrived in as\nshort a time as he generally took on his journeys.\n\n\"I am afraid to ask you for intelligence,\" said the farmer, as he stood\nby the horse's side, and addressed the writer, who kept his seat.\n\n\"Get me two and five-eighths of a glass of whisky in a jug of milk, and\nI'll tell you then what I want. I have no time to dismount.\"\n\nThe farmer complied.\n\n\"The case looks ugly,\" said the writer, as he handed back the jug.\n\"These witnesses would hang a calendared saint of a hundred miracles.\nAre any tramps in the habit of coming about you?\"\n\n\"Too many.\"\n\n\"Do you know any of them?\"\n\n\"Scarcely--not by name.\"\n\n\"Any women?--never mind the men,\" said the writer impatiently.\n\n\"Yes; there is one who used to come often; she sold small things.\"\n\n\"Is that all you know of her? Has she no mark, man? Is her nose long or\nshort? no squint, lame leg, or pock-pits?\"\n\n\"She had usually a small cage, in which she kept a couple of white\nmice.\"\n\n\"White mice!\" ejaculated the writer; \"never was a better mark.\"\n\n\"You don't know her name?\"\n\n\"No; nor do I think any of my present people do.\"\n\n\"When was she here last?\"\n\n\"About a month ago.\"\n\n\"Anywhere near the time of the girl's death?\"\n\n\"Ay, just about that time, or maybe a week before.\"\n\n\"And you can give me no trace of her?\"\n\n\"None whatever, except that I think I saw her take to the east, in the\nway to Arbroath. But I do not see how she can be of any use.\"\n\n\"I don't want you to see that she can be of any use,\" said the writer,\nlaughing; \"but I want you to hear whereabout she is.\"\n\n\"I will try what I can,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"And let me know by some messenger who can ride as fast as I can.\" Then\nadding, \"Gilderoy was saved by a _brown_ mouse, which gnawed the string\nby which the key of the jail door of Forfar hung on a nail, whereby the\nkey fell to the ground, and was pulled by him through an opening at the\nbottom. Heard you ever the story?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But it's true, nevertheless. What would you say if a _white_ mouse, or\ntwo of them, should save the life of your wife?\"\n\n\"I would say it was wonderful,\" replied the farmer, with eyes a-goggled\nby amazement.\n\n\"And so would I,\" answered Mr. M----, as he put the rowels into the side\nof his horse and began a hard trot, which he would not slacken till he\nwas at the Cowgate port, and not even then, for he made his way\ngenerally through the streets of the town with equal rapidity, and\nalways the safer that he was the \"fresher.\"\n\nOn arriving at his office he sat down, and, without apparently any\npremeditation, unless what he had indulged in during his trot, wrote off\nwith his usual rapidity four letters to the following effect:--\"Dear\nSir,--As agent for Mrs. S----, who now lies in our jail on a charge of\nmurder, I request you will endeavour to find some trace of a woman who\ngoes through the country with a cage and two white mice. Grave\nsuspicions attach to her, as the person who administered the poison, and\nI wish your energies to be employed in aiding me to search her out.\" The\nletters were directed to agents in Arbroath, Forfar, Kirriemuir, and\nMontrose, and immediately committed to a clerk to be taken to the\npost-office, with a good-natured laugh on the lips of the writer--and,\nwithin the teeth, the little monologue--\"The wrinkled skin easily\nconceals a scar.\"\n\nFrom some source or another, probably the true one may be guessed, an\n_uberrima fides_ began to hang round a report that a new feature had\nspread over the face of Mrs. S----'s case; and that, in place of her\nbeing the guilty person, the culprit was a tramp, with white mice in a\ncage. Nor were the authorities long in being startled by the report; but\nwhere that woman was no one could tell, and a vague report was no\nfoundation for authoritative action. But if it was not for a Lord\nAdvocate to seek out or hunt after white mice, that was no reason why\nthe prisoner's agent should not condescend to so very humble an office;\nand, accordingly, two days after the despatch of the letters I have\nmentioned, the same horse that carried the writer on the former\noccasion, and knew so well the prick of his rowels, was ready saddled at\nthe door of the office. The head of the agent was instantly drawn out of\nsome other deep well of legal truth, some score of directions given to\nclerks, and he was off on the road to Glammis, but not before some\nflash had shown him what he was to do when he got there. The same rapid\ntrot was commenced, and continued, to the great diminution of the sap of\nthe animal, until the place he was destined for loomed before him. He\nnow commenced inquiries upon inquiries. Every traveller was questioned,\nevery door got a touch of his whip, until at length he got a trace, and\nhe was again in full pursuit. I think it is Suidas who says that these\npretty little animals, called white mice, are very amatory, and have a\nstrong odour, but this must be only to their mates. I doubt if even the\nnostrils of a writer are equal to this perception, whatever sense they\nmay possess in the case of pigeons with a pluckable covering. But,\nhowever this may be, it was soon observable that our pursuer had at\nleast something in his eye. The spurs were active; and, by and by, he\ndrew up at a small road-side change-house, into the kitchen of which he\ntumbled, without a premonitory question, and there, before him, sat the\nveritable mistress of these very white mice, spaeing the fortunes of\nsome laughing girls, who saw the illuminated figures of their lovers in\nthe future.[A]\n\n\"Can you read me _my_ fortune?\" he said, in his own peculiar way.\n\n\"Na; I ken ye owre weel,\" was the quick reply, as she turned a pair of\nkeen, grey eyes on him.\n\n\"Well, you'll speak to me at any rate,\" he said. \"I have something to\nsay to you.\"\n\nAnd, going into the adjoining parlour, he called for a half-mutchkin. He\nneeded some himself, and he knew the tramp was not an abstainer.\n\n\"Tell the woman to come ben,\" he said, as the man placed the whisky on\nthe table.\n\n\"What can you want, Mr. M----, with that old, never-mend vagabond?\"\n\n\"Perhaps an uncle has left her five hundred pounds,\" said the writer\nwith a chuckle.\n\n\"Gude save us! the creature will go mad,\" said the man, as he went out,\nnot knowing whether his guest was in humour or earnest.\n\nBut, whatever he said to the woman, there she was, presently, white mice\nand all, seated alongside of the writer, who could make a beggar or a\nbaron at home with him, with equal ease, and in an equally short time.\n\n\"You're obliged to me, I think, if I can trust to a pretty long memory,\"\nhe said, handing her a glass of the spirits.\n\n\"Ay; but it doesna need a lang memory to mind gi'en me this,\" she\nreplied, not wishing any other reason for her obligation.\n\n\"And you've forgotten the pirn scrape?\"\n\n\"The deil's in a lang memory; but I hinna,\" she replied, with more\nconfidence, for by this time the whisky had disappeared in the\naccustomed bourne of departed spirits.\n\n\"Weel, it's a bad business that at your auld freend's at D----,\" said\nhe, getting into his Scotch, for familiarity. \"Hae ye heard?\"\n\n\"Wha hasna heard? I kenned the lassie brawly; but I didna like her--she\nwas never gude to a puir cratur like me.\"\n\n\"But they say ye ken mair than ither folk?\" said he.\n\n\"Maybe I do,\" replied the woman, getting proud of the impeachment. \"Hae\nwe nae lugs and een, ay, and stamachs, like ither folk?\"\n\n\"And could ye do naething to save this puir woman, the wife o' a gude\nbuirdly man, wi' an open hand to your kin, and the mither o' a family?\"\n\n\"I care naething about her being the wife o' a man, or the mither o' a\nfamily; but I ken what I ken.\"\n\n\"And sometimes what ye dinna ken, when you tell the lasses o' their\nlovers ye never saw.\"\n\n\"The deil tak their louping hearts into his hand for silly gawkies; if\nthey werena a' red-wood about lads, they wadna heed me a whistle. But\nthough I might try to get Mrs. S----'s head out o' the loop, I wadna\nlike to put my ain in.\"\n\n\"I'll tak gude care o' that,\" said the writer. \"I got ye out o' a scrape\nbefore.\"\n\n\"Weel than----\"\n\n\"And weel than,\" echoed he.\n\n\"And better than weel than; suppose I swore I did it mysel'--and maybe I\ndid; that's no your business--they wadna hang a puir wretch like me for\nher ain words, wad they, when there's nae proof I did it but my ain\ntongue?\"\n\n\"No likely,\" replied he; \"and then a hunder gowden guineas as a present,\nno as a bribe----\"\n\n\"I want nae bribes--I gie value for my fortunes. If it's wind, wind is\nthe breath o' life; a present!\"\n\n\"Would make your een jump,\" added he, finishing his sentence.\n\n\"Jump! ay, loup! Whar are they?\"\n\n\"You'll get the half when you come into the town, and the other when\nMrs. S----is safe. You will ca' at my office on Wednesday; and, after\nthat, I'll tak care o' you. In the meantime, ye maun sell your mice.\"\n\n\"Geordie Cameron offered me five shillings for them; I'll gie them to\nhim.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the writer; \"no to a _man_. Ken ye nae woman-tramp-will\ntak them, and show them about as you do?\"\n\n\"Ou ay; I'll gie them to Meg Davidson, wha's to be here the night. But\nwhaurfor no Geordie?\"\n\n\"Never ye mind that, I ken the difference; and if Meg doesna give you\nthe five shillings, I will.\"\n\n\"Well, buy them yoursel',\" said the woman.\n\n\"Done,\" said he; \"there's five guineas for them, and you can gie them to\nMeg as a present. Now, are ye firm?\"\n\n\"Firm!\" she cried, as she clutched the money, and gave a shrill laugh,\nfrom a nerve that was never softened by pity or penitence. \"I think nae\nmair on't, man--sir, I mean, for ye proved yoursel' a gentleman to me\nafore--than I do now in spaeing twins to your wife at her next\ndoun-lying.\"\n\nA rap on the table, from the bottom of the pewter measure, brought in\nthe landlord.\n\n\"Fill that again,\" said the writer.\n\nAnd the man having re-entered with the pewter measure----\n\n\"You're to give this woman board and lodging for a day or two, and I\nwill pay you before I start.\"\n\n\"That will be oot o' the five hundred frae her uncle,\" said the man,\nlaughing. \"She's my lady noo; but what will become o' the mice?\"\n\n\"There's Meg Davidson passing the window e'en noo,\" said the woman.\n\n\"Send her in,\" said the writer to the change-house keeper.\n\nThe woman going under this name was immediately introduced by the man,\nwith a kind of mock formality; for he could not get quit of the\nimpression that his old customer had really succeeded to the five\nhundred pounds--a sum, in his estimation, sufficiently large to insure\nrespect.\n\n\"Maggy,\" said the writer, \"tak this chair, and here's a dram. What think\nye?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken.\"\n\n\"Ye're to get the twa white mice and the cage for naething, and this\ndram to boot.\"\n\nMeg's face cleared up like a June sun come out in a burst.\n\n\"Na,\" she said; \"ye're joking.\"\n\n\"But it's upon a condition,\" rejoined he.\n\n\"Weel, what is't--that I'm to feed them weel, and keep them clean?\"\n\n\"You'll do that too,\" said he, laughing, \"for they're valuable\ncreatures, and bonny; but you're to say you've had them for a year.\"\n\n\"For twa, if you like,\" replied the woman; \"a puir fusionless lee that,\nand no worth sending a body to the deil for.\"\n\n\"Here they are,\" said the tramp; \"and you're to tak care o' them.\nThey've been my staff for mony a day, and they're the only creatures on\nearth I care for and like; for they never said to me, 'Get out, ye\nwretch,' or banned me for a witch; but were aye sae happy wi' their\npickles o' barley, and maybe a knot o' sugar, when I could get at a\nfarmer's wife's bowl.\"\n\nEven hags have pathetic moods. Meg was affected; and the writer, having\nappreciated the virtue, whispered in the ear of his _protegee_, \"Seven\no'clock on Wednesday night,\" and left them to the remainder of the\nwhisky. At the door he settled with the man, and, mounting his horse,\nwhich he had ordered a bottle of strong ale for, in addition to his\noats, he set off at his old trot.\n\n\"Now let the Crown blood-hounds catch Meg Davidson and her mice,\" he\nsaid, as he pushed on.\n\nThe writer was, no doubt, bent eagerly for home, but he seldom got to\nhis intended destination, though we have given one or two examples of\nan uninterrupted course, without undergoing several stoppages, either\nfrom the sudden calls of business, which lay in every direction, or the\nseductions of conviviality, equally ubiquitous; and on this occasion he\nwas hailed from the window of the inn by some ten-tumbler men of Forfar,\nwhose plan for draining the loch, by making toddy of it, had not, to\ntheir discomfort, been realized, but who made due retaliation by very\nclean drainings elsewhere. The moment he heard the shout he understood\nthe meaning thereof, because he knew the house, the locality, and the\nmen; and Meg Davidson and her mice were passed into the wallet-bag of\ntime, till he should give these revellers their satisfaction in a boon\ncompanion who could see them under the table, and then mount his horse,\nwith a power of retention of his seat unexampled in a county famous for\nrevolutions of heads as well as of bodies. Dismounting from his horse,\nhe got his dinner, a meal he had expected at Dundee; and, in spite of\nthe distance of fourteen miles which lay before him, he despatched\ntumbler after tumbler without being once tempted to the imprudence of\nletting out his extraordinary hunt, but rather with the prudence of\nsending, through his compotators, to the county town the fact that a\nwoman who perambulated the country with white mice was really the\nmurderer of the country girl. This statement he was able to make, even\nat that acme of his dithyrambics, when, as usual, he got upon the head\nof the table to make his speech of the evening. It was now eleven, and\nhe had swallowed eight tumblers, yet he was comparatively steady when he\nmounted; and, though during the fourteen miles he swung like a\nwell-ballasted barque in a gale of wind, he made sufficient headway to\nbe home by half-past twelve.\n\nNext morning, as ready and able as usual for the work of the day, he was\nat his desk about eleven, and when engaged with one client, while others\nwere waiting to be despatched in the way in which he alone could\ndischarge clients, he was waited on by a gentleman connected with the\nCrown Office. Having been yielded a preference, the official took his\nseat.\n\n\"I understand you are employed for Mrs. S----?\" he said. \"We have\nthought it necessary, as disinterested protectors of the lives of the\nking's subjects, to apprehend this woman. I need not say that our\nprecognitions are our guarantee; but I have heard a report which would\nseem to impugn our discretion, if it do not shame our judgment, insomuch\nthat, if it be true, we have seized the wrong person. Do you know\nanything of this woman with the white mice, who takes upon herself the\nburden of a self-accusation? Of course it is for you to help us to her\nas the salvation of your client.\"\n\n\"Too evident that for a parade of candour,\" replied Mr. M----. \"Her name\nis Margaret Davidson. Her white companions will identify her. Her\nresidence is where you may chance to find her.\"\n\n\"Very vague, considering your interest,\" replied the other. \"Where did\nyou find her?\"\n\n\"Ask me first, my dear sir, whether I have found her. Perhaps not. If it\nis my interest to search her out, it is not less your duty to catch her.\nA vagrant with white mice is a kenspeckle, and surely you can have no\ndifficulty in tracing her. I need scarcely add, that when you do find\nher, you will substitute her for my client, and make amends for the\ndisgrace you have brought upon an innocent woman and a respectable\nfamily.\"\n\n\"I won't say that,\" replied the other, shaking his head. \"The evidence\nagainst Mrs. S---- is too heavy to admit of our believing a vagrant,\ninfluenced by the desire of, perhaps, a paid martyrdom, or the\nexcitement of a mania.\"\n\n\"Then, why ask me to help you to find her?\"\n\n\"For our satisfaction as public officers.\"\n\n\"And to my detriment as a private agent.\"\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"Yes; if I choose to make her a witness for the defence, and leave the\njury to judge of _paid_ martyrdom, or her real madness. Paid\nmartyrdom!--paid by whom?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily by you.\"\n\n\"But you want me to help you to be able to prove the bribe out of her\nown mouth, don't you?\"\n\n\"Of course we would examine her.\"\n\n\"Yes, and cook her; but you must catch her first. Really, my dear sir, a\nvery useful recipe in cuisine; and, hark ye, you can put the mice in the\npan also. But, really, I am not bound, and cannot in justice be expected\nto do more. I have given you her name; and when had a culprit so\npeculiar and striking a designation as being the proprietor of a\nperipatetic menagerie?\"\n\n\"Ridiculous!\"\n\n\"Yes, _ridiculus mus_! But are you not the labouring mountain yourself,\nand do you not wish me to become the midwife?\"\n\n\"I perceive I can make nothing of you,\" at length said the gentleman.\n\"You either don't want to save your client, or the means you trust to\ncannot stand the test.\"\n\n\"God bless my soul!\" roared the writer; \"must I tell you again that I\nhave given you her name and occupation? Even a cat, with nose-instinct\nput awry by the colour of the white race of victims, would smell her\nout.\"\n\nBowing the official to the door with these words, he was presently in\nsome other ravelled web, which he disentangled with equal success and\napparent ease; but, following him in his great scheme, we find him in\nthe afternoon posting again to the farm. He found the farmer in the same\ncollapse of hope, sitting in the arm-chair so long pressed by his wife,\nwith his chin upon his breast, and his eyes dim and dead. The evidence\nhad got piece by piece to his ear, paralyzing more and more the tissues\nof his brain; and hope had assumed the character of an impossibility in\nthe moral world of God's government.\n\n\"You must cheer up,\" said the writer. \"Come, some milk and whisky. Move\nabout; I have got good news for you, but cannot trust you.\"\n\nThe head of the man was raised up, and a slight beam was, as it were,\nstruck from his eye by the jerk of a sudden impulse. His step, as he\nmoved to gratify the agent, seemed to have acquired even a spring.\n\n\"Why are you here,\" he said, as he brought the indispensable jug, with\nsomething even more than the five-eighths of the spiritual element added\nto the two glasses, \"if you cannot tell me the grounds of my hope? I\ncould not comprehend what you meant about the woman and the white mice.\"\n\n\"Nor do I want you to understand it; it is enough if I do,\" replied Mr.\nM----, as he put the jug to his mouth; \"but this I want you to\nunderstand, in the first place, that I want an order for fifty pounds\nfrom you.\"\n\nThe farmer was too happy to write an order for any amount within the\nlimits of his last farthing, and getting pen and ink, he wrote the\ncheque.\n\n\"And you couldn't tell me the name of the woman with the mice; but I can\ntell you,\" he continued. \"It is Margaret Davidson; and, hark ye--come\nnear me, man--if you are called upon by any one with the appearance of a\nsheriff's beagle, or whatever he may be like, for the name of that\nwoman, say it is Margaret Davidson, and that they will find her between\nLerwick and Berwick. Do you comprehend?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"And, moreover, you are to tell every living soul within ear-shot,\nservants or strangers, that it was that very woman who gave the dose to\nthe lass, and that the woman herself does not deny it.\"\n\n\"Gude Lord! but is all this true, Mr. M----?\"\n\n\"Is it true your wife did it, then, you d----d idiot?\" cried the writer,\nusing thus one of his most familiar terms, but with perfect good-nature.\n\"Don't you in your heart--or hope, at any rate--think the Lord Advocate\na liar? and has his lordship a better right to lie than I or Meg\nDavidson? Isn't the world a great leavened lump of lies from the Cape of\nGood Hope to the Cape of Wrath? And you want your wife hanged, because\nthe nose of truth is out of joint a bit! Ay, what though it were cut off\naltogether, if you get your wife's back without being coloured blue by\nthe hangman? But, I tell you, it's not a lie: the woman with the white\nmice says it of her own accord.\"\n\n\"Wonderful! the woman with the white mice!\"\n\n\"The woman with the white mice!\" echoed the writer.\n\nAnd, getting again upon his legs, he hurried out, throwing back his\ninjunctions upon S---- to obey his instructions. In a few minutes more\nhe was again upon the road, leaving the clatter of his horse's hoofs to\nmingle with the confused thoughts of his mystified client. Arrived at\nthe High Street, where, as used to be said of him, he could not be ten\nminutes without having seized some five or six persons by the breast of\nthe coat, and put as many questions on various matters of business, just\nas the thought struck him on the instant, he pounced upon one, no other\nthan the confidential clerk of the fiscal.\n\n\"I say, man,\" seizing and holding him in the usual way, \"have you\ncatched the woman yet?\"\n\n\"What woman?\" replied the clerk.\n\n\"The woman with the white mice.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried the young man, \"we have no faith in that quarter--a mere\nget-up; but we're looking about for her, notwithstanding.\"\n\n\"Well, tell your master that Meg Davidson was last seen on the Muir of\nRannoch, and that the Highlanders in that outlandish quarter, having\nnever seen white mice before, are in a state of perfect amazement.\"\n\nA bolt at some other person left the clerk probably in as great\namazement as the Highlanders; but our man of the law did not stop to see\nthe extent of it. All his avocations, however, did not prevent the\ncoming round of that seven o'clock on Wednesday evening, which he had\nappointed as the hour of meeting with the woman on whom his hopes of\nsaving his client almost altogether rested. He was at his desk at the\nhour, and the woman, no doubt eager for the phenomenon of the \"louping\nee,\" was as true as the time itself. The writer locked the door of his\noffice, and drawing her as near him as possible, inquired first whether\nany knew she was in town.\n\n\"Deil are,\" she replied; \"naebody cares for me ony mair than I were an\nauld glandered spavin, ready for the knackers.\"\n\n\"And you've been remembering a' ye are to say?\"\n\nNow, the woman did not answer this question immediately. She had been,\nfor some days, busy in the repository of her memory--a crazy box of\nshattered spunk-wood, through the crevices of which came the lurid\nlights sent from another box, called the imagination, and such was the\nclose intimacy, or rather mixture, of the revelations of these two magic\ncentres, that they could not be distinguished from one another; but the\nhabit of fortune-telling had so quickened the light of the one, as to\nmake it predominate over, and almost extinguish that of the other, so\nthat she was at a loss to get a stray glimmer of the memory, to make her\nready, on the instant, for the answer.\n\n\"Remembering! Ay,\" she said, \"there's no muckle to remember. The lass\nwas under the burden of shame, and couldna bear it: she wanted some\ndoctor's trash to tak that burden aff her, if it should carry her life\nalang wi' 't. I got the stuff, and the woman dee'd.\"\n\nAll which was carefully written down--but the writer had his own way of\ndoing his work. He would have day and date, the place where the doctor's\ntrash was bought, the price thereof, the manner of administering the\nsame, and many other particulars, every one of which was so carefully\nrecorded, that the whole, no doubt, looked like a veritable precognition\nof facts, got from the said box called the memory, as if it had been\nthat not one tint of light, from the conterminous chamber, had mixed\nwith the pure spirit of truth.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, \"regaining his English, when his purpose was served,\n\"you'll stand firm to this, in the face of judge, jury, justice, and all\nher angels?\"\n\n\"Never ye fear.\"\n\n\"Then, you will go with me to a private lodging, where I wish you to\nremain, seen by as few as you can. You're a widow; your name is Mrs.\nAnderson; your husband was drowned in the Maelstrom. Get weeds, a veil,\nand look respectable.\"\n\n\"A' save the last, for that's impossible.\"\n\n\"Try; and, as you will need to pay for your board and lodgings, and your\ndress, here's the sum I promised ye; the other half when Mrs. S---- is\nsaved.\"\n\n\"A' right; and did I no say my ee would loup?--but 'ae gude turn\ndeserves anither,' as the deil said to the loon o' Culloden, when he\nhauled him doun, screaming, to a place ye maybe ken o', and whaur I hae\nnae wish to be.\"\n\n\"Where is Meg Davidson?\" he then asked.\n\n\"Oh ay!\" she replied, \"that puts me in mind o' a man wha met me on the\nroad, and asked me if I was the woman wi' the twa white mice? I tauld\nhim she was awa east to Montrose, and sae it is.\"\n\n\"Not a cheep of the sale,\" added he.\n\n\"Na, na, nor o' ony thing else, but just Mrs. Anderson, the widow, whase\nman was drouned in the Maelstream.\"\n\nAnd, having thus finished, the writer led the woman to her place of\nsafety, there to lie _in retentis_ till the court-day.\n\nThat eventful day came round. In the meantime, the prosecution never got\naccess to the real white mouse tramp, and whatever they got out of Meg\nDavidson, satisfied them that she knew nothing of the murder. Large sums\nwere given to secure the services of Jeffrey, then in the full blaze of\nhis power, and Cockburn, so useful in examinations. The Lord Advocate\nled his proof, which was no darker than our writer had ascertained it to\nbe, when he found himself driven to his clever expedient. The proof for\nthe defence began; and, after some other witnesses were examined, the\nname of the woman with the white mice was called by the macer; and here\noccurred a circumstance, at the time known to very few. Cockburn turned\nround to our country agent, who was sitting behind him, and said, in a\nwhisper--\n\n\"M----, if the angel Gabriel were at this moment to come down and blow a\ntrumpet, and tell me that what this woman is going to swear to is truth,\nI would not believe her.\"\n\nNor is there any doubt to be entertained that the woman's testimony took\nthe court and the audience by surprise. The judges looked at each other,\nand the jury were perplexed. There was only one thing that produced any\nsolicitude in our writer. He feared the Lord Advocate would lay hands\nupon her, as either a murderer or a perjurer, the moment she left the\nwitness-box. At that instant was he prepared. Quietly slipping out, he\ngot hold of the woman, led her to the outer door, through a crowd,\ncalled to the door-keeper, who stood sentry, to open for the purpose of\nletting in a fresh witness of great importance to the accused; and\nhaving succeeded, as he seldom failed, he got the woman outside. A cab\nwas in readiness--no time lost--the woman was pushed in, followed by her\nguardian, and in a short time was safely disposed of. Meanwhile, the\nCrown authorities had been preparing their warrant, and the woman was\nonly saved from their mercies by a very few minutes.\n\nIt is well known, as I have already mentioned, that Jeffrey's speech for\nMrs. S---- was the greatest of all modern orations, yet it was delivered\nunder peculiar circumstances. When he rose and began, he seemed languid\nand unwell. The wonted sparkle was not seen in his eye, the usually\ncompressed lip was loose and flaccid, and his words, though all his\nbeginnings were generally marked with a subdued tone, came with\ndifficulty. Cockburn looked at him inquiringly, anxious and troubled.\nThere was something wrong, and those interested in the defence augured\nominously. All of a sudden the little man stopped, fixed his eye on one\nof the walls of the court-room, and cried out, \"Shut that window.\"\nThrough that opening a cold wind had been blowing-upon and chilling a\nbody which, though firm and compact, was thin, wiry, and delicately\ntoned to the refined requirements of the spirit that animated and moved\nit with a grace peculiarly his own. The chill, in consonance with\nwell-known pathological laws, produced first depression, and then a\nfeverish reaction, which latter was even morbidly favourable to the\ndevelopment of his powers. He began to revive; the blood, pulsing with\nmore than natural activity, warmed still more at the call of his\nenthusiasm. He analyzed every part of the cause, tore up the characters\nof the prosecutor's witnesses, held up microscopic flaws, and passed\nthem through the lens of his ingenious exaggeration, till they appeared\nserious in the eyes of the jury. Then how touching, if not noble, was\nthe conduct of that strange witness for the defence--who, a wretched\ncriminal herself, would yet, under a secret power, so far expiate her\nguilt by offering herself as a sacrifice for innocence! Beyond all was\nthe pathos of his peroration, where he brought home the case to the\njury, as loving husbands of loving wives, and tender fathers of beloved\nchildren. A woman sat there before them--a wife and a mother. She had\nundergone an ordeal not much less trying than death itself, and even then\nshe was trembling under the agony of suspense, extended beyond mortal\npowers of endurance--to be terminated by the breath of their mouths,\neither for life and a restoration to a previously happy family, or for a\ndeath on a gallows, with all its ignominy.\n\nThat speech, which nearly cost Jeffrey his life, saved that of another.\nThe jury found the libel not proven; Mrs. S---- was free; Jeffrey was\nmade more famous; but no one ever heard more of the woman with the white\nmice.\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\nTHE EARLY DAYS OF A FRIEND OF THE COVENANT.\n\n\nI was born in the upper district and amidst the mountains of\nDumfriesshire. My father, who died ere I had attained my second\nbirthday, had seen better times; but, having engaged in mercantile\nspeculations, had been overreached or unfortunate, or both, and during\nthe latter years of his life had carried a gun, kept an amazing pointer\nbitch (of which my mother used to discourse largely), and had ultimately\nmarried in a fit of despondency. My mother, to whom he had long been\naffianced, was nearly connected with the Lairds of Clauchry, of which\nrelationship she was vain; and in all her trials, of which she had no\nordinary share, she still retained somewhat of the feelings, as well as\nthe appearance of a gentlewoman. I remember, for example, a pair of\nhigh-heeled red Morocco shoes, overhung by the ample drapery of a\nquilted silk gown, in which habiliments she appeared on great occasions.\nSoon after my father's decease, my mother found it convenient and\nadvisable to remove from the neighbourhood of the Clauchry to a cottage,\nor cottier as it was called, on her brother's farm, in the upper\ndivision of the parish of Closeburn.\n\nFew situations could be better fitted for the purpose of a quiet and\nsequestered retreat. The scene is now as vividly before me as it was on\nthat day when I last saw it, and felt that, in all probability, I viewed\nit for the last time. A snug kailyard, surrounded by a fullgrown bushy\nhedge of bourtree, saugh, and thorn, lay along the border of a small\nmountain stream, and hard by a thatched cottage, with a peat-stack at\nthe one end and a small byre at the other. All this was nestled as it\nwere in the bosom of mountains, which, to the north and the east in\nparticular, presented a defence against all winds, and an outline of\nbold grandeur exceedingly impressive. The south and the west were more\nopen; consequently the mid-day and afternoon sun reposed, with\ndelightful and unobstructed radiance, on the green border of the stream,\nand the flowery foliage of the brae. And when the evening was calm, and\nthe season suitable, the blue smoke winded upwards, and the birds sang\ndelightfully amidst hazel, and oak, and birch, with a profusion of which\nthe eastern bank was covered. It was here that I spent my early days;\nand it was in this scene of mountain solitude, with no immediate\nassociate but my mother, and for a few years of my existence my\ngrandmother, that my \"feelings and fortunes were formed and shaped out.\"\n\nTo be brought up amidst mountain scenery, apart and afar from the busy\nor polluted haunts of man; to place one's little bare foot, with its\nfirst movement, on the greensward, the brown heath, or in the pure\nstream; to live in the retired glen, a perceptible part of all that\nlives and enjoys; to feel the bracing air of freedom in every breeze; to\nbe possessed of elbow room from ridge to summit, from bank to\nbrae,--this is, indeed, the most delightful of all infant schools, and,\nabove all, prepares the young and infant mind for enlarged conception\nand resolute daring.\n\n    \"To sit on rocks; to muse o'er flood and fell;\n      To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,\n    Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,\n      And mortal foot hath ne'er or seldom been;\n\n    To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,\n      With the wild flock that never needs a fold;\n    Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean:\n      This is not solitude--'tis but to hold\n    Converse with Nature's God, and see his works unrolled.\"\n\nHere, indeed, are the things that own not the dominion of man! The\neverlasting hills, in their outlines of rock and heath; the floods that\nleap in freedom, or rush in defiance from steep to steep, from gullet to\npool, and from pool to plain; the very tempest that overpowers; and\nheaven, through which the fowls of air sail with supreme and\nunchallenged dominion,--all these inspire the young heart with\nindependence and self-reliance. True it is that the child, and even the\nboy, reflects not at all on the advantages of his situation; and this is\nthe very reason that his whole imagination and heart are under their\ninfluence. He that is ever arresting and analyzing the current of his\nthoughts, will seldom think correctly; and he who examines with a\nmicroscopic eye the sources of beauty and sublimity, will seldom feel\nthe full force and sway of such impressions. Early and lasting\nfriendships are the fruit of accident, rather than of calculation--of\nfeeling, rather than of reflection; and the circumstances of scenery and\nhabit, which modify the child, and give a bent, a bias, and a character\nto the after-life, pass all unestimated in regard to such tendency at\nthe time. The bulrush is not less unconscious of the marsh which\nmodifies its growth, or the wallflower of the decay to which it clings,\nand by which alone its nature and growth would be most advantageously\nmarked and perfected, than is the mountain child of that moral as well\nas physical development, which such peculiar circumstances are\ncalculated to effect. If, through all the vicissitudes and trials of my\npast life, I have ever retained a spirit of independence, a spirit\nwhich has not, as the sequel (which I may yet give) will evince, proved\nat all times advantageous to my worldly advancement--if such has been\nthe case, I owe it, in a great measure, to the impression which the home\nof my youth was calculated to make.\n\nMy mother had originally received a better education than in those days\nwas customary with individuals of her class; and, in addition to this\nadvantage, she had long acted as housekeeper to an unmarried brother,\nthe minister of a parish in Galloway. In this situation, she had access\nto a large and well-chosen library; and at leisure intervals had\nimproved the opportunity thus presented. She was quite familiar with\nYoung, and Pope, and Dryden, as well as with Tate's translation of\nOvid's Epistles. These latter, in particular, she used to repeat to me\nduring the winter evenings, with a tone of plaintiveness which I felt at\nthe time, and the impression of which can never be obliterated. From\nthese early associations and impressions I am enabled to deduce a taste\nfor poetry, which, while it has served to beguile many an otherwise\nunsupportable sorrow, has largely contributed to the actual enjoyments\nof life. There are, indeed, moments of sadness and of joy, to which\npoetry can bring neither alleviation nor zest; but these, when compared\nwith the more softening shadings, are but rare; and when the intensity\nof grief or of delight has yielded, or is in the act of yielding, to\ntime or reflection, it is then, in the gloaming or the twilight, as\ndarkness passes into light, or light into darkness, that the soothing\nand softening notes of poesy come over the soul like the blessed south.\n\nIn religion, or rather in politics--in as far, at least, as they are\ninterwoven with and inseparable from the Presbyterian faith--my mother\nwas a staunch Covenanter. Nor was it at all surprising that one whose\nforefathers had suffered so severely in defence of the Covenant, and in\nopposition to oppression, should imbibe their sentiments. Her maternal\ngrandfather had suffered at the Gallowlee; and her grandmother, who\nrefused to give information to Clavers respecting the retreat of her\nhusband, had her new-born babe plucked from her breast, dashed upon the\nfloor, and the very bed, from which, to rescue her babe, she had sprung,\npierced and perforated in a thousand places by the swords of the\nruffians. Whilst this tragedy was enacting within doors, and in what, in\nthese simple times, was denominated the _chaumer_, her eldest son, a boy\nof about twelve years of age, was arrested, and because he would not, or\nin all probability could not, disclose his father's retreat, he was\nblindfolded, tied to a tree, and taught to expect that every ball which\nhe heard whizzing past his ear was aimed at his head. The boy was left\nbound; and, upon his being released by a menial, it was discovered that\nhis reason had fled--and for ever! He died a few years afterwards, being\nknown in the neighbourhood by the name of the Martyred Innocent! I have\noften looked at the bloody stone (for such stains are well known to be\nlike those upon Lady Macbeth's hand, indelible,) where fell, after being\nperforated by a brace of bullets, Daniel M'Michael, a faithful witness\nto the truth, whose tomb, with its primitive and expressive inscription,\nis still to be seen in the churchyard of Durisdeer. Grierson of Lag made\na conspicuous figure in the parish of Closeburn in particular; nor did\nmy mother neglect to point out to me the ruined tower and the waste\ndomain around it, which bespoke, according to her creed, the curse of\nGod upon the seed of the persecutor. His elegy--somewhat lengthy and\ndull--I could once repeat. I can now only recall the striking lines\nwhere the Devil is introduced as lamenting over the death of his\nfaithful and unflinching ally:--\n\n    \"What fatal news is this I hear?--\n    On earth who shall my standard bear?--\n    For Lag, who was my champion brave,\n    Is dead, and now laid in his grave.\n\n    \"The want of him is a great grief--\n    He was my manager-in-chief,\n    Who sought my kingdom to improve;\n    And to my laws he had great love,\" etc.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so on, through at least two hundred lines, composing a pamphlet,\nhawked about, in my younger days, in every huckster's basket, and sold\nin thousands to the peasantry of Dumfriesshire and Galloway, at the\nprice of one penny. Whilst, however, the storm of evil passions raged\nwith such fury in what was termed the western districts in particular,\nthe poor, shelterless, and persecuted Covenanter was not altogether\ndestitute of help or comfort. According to his own apprehension, at\nleast, his Maker was on his side; his prayers, offered up on the\nmountain and in the cave, were heard and answered; and a watchful\nProvidence often interfered, miraculously, both to punish his\noppressors, and warn him against the approach of danger. In evidence of\nthis, my mother was wont, amongst many others, to quote the following\ninstances, respecting which she herself entertained no doubt\nwhatever--instances which, having never before been committed to paper,\nhave at least the recommendation of novelty in their favour.\n\nOne of the chief rendezvous of the Covenant was Auchincairn, in the\neastern district of Closeburn. To this friendly, but, on that account,\nsuspected roof, did the poor wanderer of the mist, the glen, and the\nmountain repair, at dead of night, to obtain what was barely necessary\nfor the support of nature. Grierson of Lag was not ignorant of the fact,\nand accordingly, by a sudden movement, was often found surrounding the\nsteading with men and horses before daybreak; yet, prompt and well\narranged as his measures were, they were never successful. The objects\nof his search uniformly escaped before the search was made. And this\nsingular good fortune was owing, according to my authority, to the\nfollowing circumstance. On the night previous to such an unwelcome\nvisit, a little bird, of a peculiar feather and note, such as are not to\nbe found in this country, came, and perching upon the topmost branch of\nthe old ash tree in the corner of the garden, poured forth its notes of\nfriendly intimation. To these the poor skulking friend of the Covenant\nlistened, by these he was warned, lifted his eyes and his feet to the\nmountain, and was safe.\n\nThe curate of Closeburn was eminently active in distressing his flock.\nHe was one of those Aberdeen divines whom the wisdom of the Glasgow\ncouncil had placed in the three hundred pulpits vacated in consequence\nof a drunken and absurd decree. As his church was deserted, he had had\nrecourse to compulsory measures to enforce attendance, and had actually\ndragged servants and children, in carts and hurdles, to hear his\nspiritual and edifying addresses; whilst, on the other hand, his spies\nand emissaries were busied in giving information against such masters\nand parents as fled from his grasp, or resisted it. He had even gone so\nfar, under the countenance and sanction of the infamous Lauderdale, as\nto forbid Christian burial in every case where there was no attendance\non his ministry. Such was the character, and such the conduct of the man\nagainst whom the prayers of a private meeting of the friends of\nPresbytery were earnestly directed on the following occasion. The eldest\nson of the guidman of Auchincairn had paid the debt of nature, and\nbehooved to be buried with his fathers in the churchyard of the parish.\nTo this, from the well-known character both of curate and father, it was\nanticipated that resistance would be made. Against this resistance,\nhowever, measures were taken of a somewhat decided character. The body\nwas to be borne to the churchyard by men in arms, whilst a part of the\nattendants were to remain at home, for the purpose of addressing their\nMaker in united prayer and supplication. Thus, doubly armed and\nprepared, the funeral advanced towards the church and manse. Meanwhile\nthe prayer and supplication were warm, and almost expostulatory, that\n_His_ arm might be stretched forth in behalf of His own covenanted\nservants. A poor idiot, who had not been judged a proper person to join\nin this service, was heard to approach, and, after listening with great\nseeming attention to the strain of the petitions which were made, he, at\nlength, unable to constrain himself any longer, was heard to exclaim,\n\"Haud at him, sirs, haud at him--he's just at the pit brow!\" Surprising\nas it may appear, and incredulous as some may be, there is sufficient\nevidence to prove that, just about the time when this prediction was\nuttered, the curate of Closeburn, whilst endeavouring to head and hurry\non a party of the military, suddenly dropped down and expired.\n\nIs it, then, matter of surprise that with my mother's milk I imbibed a\nstrong aversion to all manner of oppression, and that, in the broadest\nand best sense of the word, I became \"a Whig?\" To the mountain, then,\nand the flood, I owe my spirit of independence--that shelly-coat\ncovering against which many arrows have been directed; to my mother,\nand her Cameronian and political bias, I owe my detestation of\noppression--in other words, my political creed--together with my\npoetical leanings. But to my venerated grandmother, in particular, I am\nindebted for my early acquaintance with the whole history and economy of\nthe spiritual kingdoms, divided as they are into bogle, ghost, and\nfairy-land.\n\nI shall probably be regarded as an enthusiast whose feelings no future\nevidence can reclaim from early impressions, when I express my regret\nthat the dreams of my infancy and boyhood have fled--those dreams of\ndark and bright agency, which shall probably never again return, to\nagitate and interest--those dreams which charmed me in the midst of a\nspiritual world, and taught me to consider mere matter as only the\nvisible and tangible instrument through which spirit was constantly\nacting--those dreams which appear as the shadow and reflection of sacred\nintimation, and which serve to guard the young heart, in particular,\nfrom the cold and revolting tenets of materialism. From the malevolence\nof him who walks and who works in darkness--who goes about like a\nroaring lion (but, in our climate and country, more frequently like a\nbull-dog, or a nondescript bogle), seeking whom he may terrify--I was\ntaught to fly into the protecting arms of the omnipotent Jehovah; that\nno class of beings could break loose upon another without His high\npermission; that the Evil One, under whatever disguise or shape he might\nappear, was still restrained and over-mastered by the Source of all good\nand of all safety; whilst with the green-coated fairy, the laborious\nbrownie, and the nocturnal hearth-bairn, I almost desired to live upon\nmore intimate and friendly terms!\n\nHow poor, comparatively speaking, are the incidents, how uninteresting\nis the machinery, of a modern fictitious narrative!--sudden and\nunlooked-for reappearances of those who were thought to be dead,\ndiscoveries of substituted births, with various chances and\nmisnomers--\"antres vast, and deserts wild!\" One good, tall, stalking\nghost, with its compressed lips and pointed fingers, with its glazed eye\nand measured step, is worth them all! Oh for a real \"_white lady_\" under\nthe twilight of the year seventeen hundred and forty! When the elegant\nGreek or warlike Roman walked abroad or dined at home, he was surrounded\nby all the influences of an interesting and captivating mythology--by\nnymphs of the oak, of the mountain, and of the spring--by the Lares and\nPenates of his fireside and gateway--by the genius, the Ceres and the\nBacchus of his banquet. When our forefathers contended for religious and\ncivil liberty on the mountain--when they prayed for it in the glen, and\nin the silent darkness of the damp and cheerless cave--they were\nsurrounded, not by material images, but by popular conceptions. The\ntempter was still in the wilderness, with his suggestions and his\npromises; and there, too, was the good angel, to warn and to comfort, to\nstrengthen and to cheer. The very fowls of heaven bore on their wing and\nin their note a message of warning or a voice of comforting; and when\nthe sound of psalms commingled with the swelling rush of the cascade,\nthere were often heard, as it were, the harping of angels, the\ncommingling of heavenly with earthly melody. All this was elevating and\ncomforting precisely in proportion to the belief by which it was\nsupported; and it may fairly be questioned whether such men as Peden and\nCameron would have maintained the struggle with so much nerve and\nresolution if the sun of their faith had not been surrounded by a\nhalo--if the noonday of the gospel had not shaded away imperceptibly\ninto the twilight of superstition. In fact, superstition, in its softer\nand milder modifications, seems to form a kind of barrier or fence\naround the \"sacred territory;\" and it seldom if ever fails to happen\nthat, when the outworks are driven in, the citadel is in danger; when\nthe good old woman has been completely disabused of her harmless\nfancies, she may then aspire to the faith and the religious comforts of\nthe philosophy of Volney.\n\nIn confirmation of these observations, I may adduce the belief and life\nof my nearest relatives. To them, amidst all their superstitious\nimpressions, religion, pure and undefiled, was still the main hold--the\nsheet anchor, stayed and steadied by which they were enabled to bear up\namidst the turmoils and tempests of life. To an intimate acquaintance\nwith, and a frequent reading of the sacred volume, was added, under our\nhumble roof, family prayer both morning and evening--an exercise which\nwas performed by mother and daughter alternately, and in a manner which,\nhad I not actually thought them inspired, would have surprised me. Those\nwho are unacquainted with the ancient Doric of our devotional and\nintelligent peasantry, and with that musical accentuation or chant of\nwhich it is not only susceptible, but upon which it is in a manner\nconstructed, can have but a very imperfect notion of family prayer,\nperformed in the manner I refer to. Many there are who smile at that\nfamiliarity of address and homeliness of expression which are generally\nmade use of; but under that homely address there lie a sincerity and\nearnestness, a soothing, arousing, and penetrating eloquence, which\nneither in public nor in private prayer have ever been excelled. Again\nand again I have felt my breast swell and my eyes fill whilst the prayer\nof a parent was presented at a throne of grace in words to the\nfollowing purpose:--\"Help him, good Lord!\" (speaking in reference to\nmyself), \"oh help my puir, faitherless bairn in the day of frowardness\nand in the hour of folly--in the season of forgetfulness and of\nunforeseen danger--in trial and in difficulty--in life and in death.\nGood Lord, for his sainted father's sake (who is now, we trust, with\nThee), for my puir sake, who am unworthy to ask the favour, and, far\naboon and above a', for thine own well-beloved Son's sake, do _Thou_ be\npleased to keep, counsel, and support my puir helpless wean, when mine\neyes shall be closed, and my lips shall be shut, and my hands shall have\nceased to labour. Thou that didst visit Hagar and her child in the\nthirsty wilderness--Thou that didst bring thy servant Joseph from the\npit and the miry clay--Thou that didst carry thy beloved people Israel\nthrough a barren desert to a promised and fruitful land--do Thou be a\nhusband and a father to me and mine; and oh forbid that, in adversity or\nin prosperity, by day or by night, in the solitude or in the city, we\nshould ever forget Thee!\"\n\nIn an age when, amongst our peasantry in particular, family prayer is so\nextensively and mournfully neglected--when the farmer, the manufacturer,\nthe mechanic, not to mention the more elevated orders, have ceased to\nobey the injunction laid upon all Presbyterian parents in baptism--it is\nrefreshing to look back to the time when the taking of the book, as it\nwas termed, returned as regularly as the rising and the setting of the\nsun--when the whole household convened together, morning and evening, to\nworship the God of their fathers. In public worship, as well as in\nprivate prayer, there is much of comforting and spiritual support. It is\npleasing, as well as useful, to unite voice with voice, and heart with\nheart; it is consolatory, as well as comforting, to retire from the\nworld to commune with one's heart and be still; but it is not the less\ndelightful and refreshing to unite in family prayer the charities and\nsympathies of life--to come to the throne of mercy and of pardon in the\nattitude and capacity of parent and child, brother and sister, husband\nand wife, master and servant, and to express, in the common confession,\npetition, and thanksgiving, our united feelings of sinfulness,\nresignation, and gratitude.\n\nMilton paints beautifully the first impressions which death made upon\nEve; and sure I am that, though conceived in sin and brought forth in\niniquity, I remember the time when I was entirely ignorant of death. I\nhad indeed been informed that I had a father; but as to any change which\nhad been effected upon him by death, I was as ignorant as if I had been\nembowered from my birth amidst the evergreens of paradise. Everything\naround me appeared to be permanent and undying, almost unchanging. The\nsun set only to rise again; the moon waned, and then reappeared,\nreassured in strength and repaired in form; the stars, in their courses,\nwalked steadily and uniformly over my head; the flowers faded and\nnourished; the birds exchanged silence for song; the domestic animals\nwere all my acquaintances from the dawn of memory. To me, and to those\nassociated with me, similar events happened: we ate, drank, went to\nsleep, and arose again, with the utmost regularity. I had, indeed, heard\nof death as of some inconceivable evil; but, in my imagination, its\noperation had no figure. I had not even seen a dog die; for my father's\nfavourite Gipsy lived for nine years after his death--a cherished and\nrespected pensioner. At last, however, the period arrived when the spell\nwas to be broken for ever--when I was to be let into the secret of the\nhouse of corruption, and made acquainted with the change which death\ninduces upon the human countenance.\n\nMy grandmother had attained a very advanced old age, yet was she\nstraight in person, and perfect in all her mental faculties. Her\ncountenance, which I still see distinctly, was expressive of good-will;\nand the wrinkles on her brow served to add a kind of intellectual\nactivity to a face naturally soft, and even comely. She had told me so\nmany stories, given me so many good advices, initiated me so carefully\nin the elements of all learning, \"the small and capital letters,\" and,\nlastly, had so frequently interposed betwixt me and parental\nchastisement, that I bore her as much good-will and kindly feeling as a\nboy of seven years could reasonably be expected to exhibit. True it is,\nand of verity, that this kindly feeling was not incompatible with many\nacts of annoyance, for which I now take shame and express regret; but\nthese acts were anything but malevolent, being committed under the view\nof self-indulgence merely. It was, therefore, with infinite concern that\nI received the intelligence from my mother that grannie was, in all\nprobability, on the point of leaving us, and for ever.\n\n\"Leaving us, and for ever,\" sounded in my ears like a dream of the\nnight, in which I had seen the stream which passed our door swell\nsuddenly into a torrent, and the torrent into a flood, carrying me, and\neverything around me, away in its waters. I felt unassured in regard to\nmy condition, and was half disposed to believe that I was still asleep\nand imagining horrors! But when my mother told me that the disease which\nhad for days confined my grandmother to bed would end in death--in other\nwords, would place her alongside of my father's grave in the churchyard\nof Closeburn--I felt that I was not asleep, but awake to some dreadful\nreality, which was about to overtake us. From this period till within a\nfew hours of her dissolution, I kept cautiously and carefully aloof from\nall intercourse with my grandmother--I felt, as it were, unwilling to\nrenew an intercourse which was so certainly, and so soon, and so\npermanently to be interrupted; so I betook myself to the hills, and to\nthe pursuit of all manner of bees and butterflies. I would not, in fact,\nrest; and as I lay extended on my back amidst the heath, and marked the\nsoft and filmy cloud swimming slowly along, \"making the blue one white,\"\nI thought of her who was dying, and of some holy and happy residence far\nbeyond the utmost elevation of cloud, or sun, or sky. Again and again I\nhave risen from such reveries to plunge myself headlong into the pool,\nor pursue with increased activity the winged insects which buzzed and\nflitted around me. Strange indeed are the impressions made upon our yet\nunstamped, unbiassed nature; and could we in every instance recall them,\ntheir history would be so unlike our more recent experience, as to make\nus suspect our personal identity. I do not remember any more recent\nfeeling which corresponded in character and degree with this, whose\nwayward and strange workings I am endeavouring to describe; and yet in\nthis case, and in all its accompaniments, I have as perfect a\nrecollection of facts, and reverence of feeling, as if I were yet the\nchild of seven, visited for the first time with tidings of death.\n\nMy grandmother's end drew nigh, and I was commanded, or rather dragged,\nto her bedside. There I still see her lying, calm, but emaciated, in\nremarkably white sheets, and a head dress which seemed to speak of some\napproaching change. It was drawn closely over her brow, and covered the\nchin up to her lips. Nature had manifestly given up the contest; and\nalthough her voice was scarcely audible, her reason evidently continued\nunclouded and entire. She spoke to me slowly and solemnly of religion,\nobedience to my mother, and being obliging to every one; laid, by my\nmother's assistance, her hand upon my head, as I kneeled at her bedside,\nand in a few instants had ceased to breathe. I lifted up my head at my\nmother's bidding, and beheld a corpse. What I saw or what I felt, I can\nnever express in words. I can only recollect that I sprang immediately,\nhorror-struck, to my feet, rushed out at the door, made for the closest\nand thickest part of the brushwood of the adjoining brae, and, casting\nmyself headlong into the midst of it, burst into tears. I wept, nay,\nroared aloud; my grief and astonishment were intense whilst they lasted,\nbut they did not last long; for when I returned home about dusk, I found\na small table spread over with a clean cloth, upon which was placed a\nbottle with spirits, a loaf of bread, and cheese cut into pretty large\npieces. Around this table sat my mother, with two old women from the\nnearest hamlet. They were talking in a low but in a wonderfully cheerful\ntone, as I thought, and had evidently been partaking of refreshment.\nBeing asked to join them, I did so; but ever and anon the white sheet in\nthe bed, which shaped itself out most fearfully into the human form,\ndrew my attention, and excited something of the feeling which a ghost\nmight have occasioned. I had ceased in a great measure to feel for my\ngrandmother's death. I now felt the alarms and agitations of\nsuperstition. It was not because she had fled from us that I was\nagitated, but because that, though dead, she still seemed present, in\nall the inconceivable mystery of a dead life!\n\nThe funeral called forth, from the adjoining glens and cottages, a\nrespectable attendance, and at the same time gave me an opportunity of\npartaking, unnoticed, of more refreshment than suited the occasion or my\nyears; in fact, I became little less than intoxicated, and was\nexceedingly surprised at finding myself, towards evening, in the midst\nof the same bush where I had experienced my paroxysm of grief, singing\naloud, in all the exultation of exhilarated spirits. Such is infancy and\nboyhood--\n\n    \"The tear forgot, as soon as shed.\"\n\nI returned, however, home, thoughtful and sad, and never, but once,\nthought the house so deserted and solitary as during that evening.\n\nMy mother was not a Cameronian by communion, but she was in fact one in\nspirit. This spirit she had by inheritance, and it was kept alive by an\noccasional visit from \"Fairly.\" This redoubted champion of the Covenant\ndrew me one day towards him, and, placing me betwixt his knees,\nproceeded to question me how I would like to be a minister; and as I\npreserved silence, he proceeded to explain that he did not mean a parish\nminister, with a manse and glebe and stipend, but a poor Cameronian\nhill-preacher like himself. As he uttered these last words, I looked up,\nand saw before me an austere countenance, and a threadbare black coat\nhung loosely over what is termed a hunchback. I had often heard Fairly\nmentioned, not only with respect, but enthusiasm, and had already\nidentified him and his followers with the \"guid auld persecuted folks\"\nof whom I had heard so much. Yet there was something so strange, not to\nsay forbidding, in Fairly's appearance, that I hesitated to give my\nconsent, and continued silent; whereupon Fairly rose to depart,\nobserving to my mother, that \"my time was not come yet.\" I did not then\nfully comprehend the meaning of this expression, nor do I perhaps now,\nbut it passed over my heart like an awakening breeze over the strings of\nan AEolian harp. I immediately sprang forward, and catching Fairly by the\nskirt of his coat, exclaimed--\n\n\"Oh stay, sir!--dinna gang and leave us, and I will do onything ye\nlike.\"\n\n\"But then mind, my wee man,\" continued Fairly in return, \"mind that, if\nye join us, ye will have neither house nor hame, and will often be cauld\nand hungry, without a bed to lie on.\"\n\n\"I dinna care,\" was my uncouth, but resolute response.\n\n\"There's mair metal in that callant than ye're aware o',\" rejoined\nFairly, addressing himself to my mother, and looking all the while most\naffectionately into my countenance. \"Here, my little fellow, here's a\npenny for ye, to buy a _charitcher_; and gin ye leeve to be a man, ye'll\naiblins be honoured wi' upholding the doctrines which it contains, on\nthe mountain and in the glen, when my auld banes are mixed wi' the\nclods.\"\n\nI looked again at Fairly as he pronounced these words, and had an angel\ndescended from heaven in all the radiance and benignity of undimmed\nglory, such a presence would not have impressed me more deeply with\nfeelings of love, veneration, and esteem.\n\nThis colloquy, short as it was, exercised considerable influence over my\nfuture life.\n\nI cannot suppose anything more imposing, and better calculated to excite\nthe imagination, than the meetings of these Cameronians or hill-men.\nThey are still vividly under my view: the precipitous and green hills of\nDurrisdeer on each side--the tent adjoining to the pure mountain stream\nbeneath--the communion table stretching away in double rows from the\ntent towards the acclivity--the vast multitude in one wide amphitheatre\nround and above--the spring gushing solemnly and copiously from the\nrock, like that of Meribah, for the refreshment of the people--the still\nor whispering silence when Fairly appeared, with the Bible under his\narm, without gown, or band, or any other clerical badge of\ndistinction--the tent-ladder, ascended by the bald-headed and venerable\nold man, and his almost divine regard of benevolence, cast abroad upon a\ncountless multitude--his earnestness in prayer--his plain and colloquial\nstyle of address--the deep and pious attention paid to him, from the\nplaided old woman at the front of the tent to the gaily dressed lad and\nlass on the extremity of the ground--his descent, and the communion\nservice--his solemn and powerful consecration prayer, over which the\npassing cloud seemed to hover, and the sheep on the hill-side to forego\nfor a time their pasture--his bald head (like a bare rock encompassed\nwith furze) slightly fringed with grey hairs, remaining uncovered under\nthe plashing of a descending torrent, and his right hand thrust upward,\nin holy indignation against the proffered umbrella;--all this I see\nunder the alternating splendours and darkenings, lights and shadows, of\na sultry summer's day. The thunder is heard in its awful sublimity; and\nwhilst the hearts of man and of beast are quaking around and above,\nFairly's voice is louder and more confirmed, his countenance is\nbrighter, and his eye more assured, and stedfastly fixed on the\nmuttering heaven. \"Thou, O Lord, art ever near us, but we perceive Thee\nnot; Thou speakest from Zion, and in a still small voice, but it is\ndrowned in the world's murmurings. Then Thou comest forth as now, in thy\nthrone of darkness, and encompassest thy Sinai with thunderings and\nlightnings; and then it is, that like silly and timid sheep who have\nstrayed from their pasture, we stand afar off and tremble. _This_ flash\nof thy indignant majesty, which has now crossed these aged eyes, might,\nhadst Thou but so willed it, have dimmed them for ever; and this vast\nassemblage of sinful life might have been, in the twinkling of an eye,\nas the hosts of Assyria, or the inhabitants of Admah and Zeboim; but\nThou knowest, O Lord, that Thou hast more work for me, and more mercy\nfor them, and that the prayers of penitence which are now knocking hard\nfor entrance and answer, must have time and trial to prove their\nsincerity. So be it, good Lord! for thine ire, that hath suddenly\nkindled, hath passed; and the Sun of Righteousness himself hath bid his\nown best image come forth from the cloud to enliven our assembly.\" In\nfact, the thunder-cloud had passed, and under the strong relief of a\nrenewed effulgence, was wrapping in its trailing ascent the summits of\nthe more distant mountains.\n\n    \"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,\n      From whence doth come mine aid:\n    My safety cometh from the Lord\"----\n\nThese were the notes which pealed in the after-service of that memorable\noccasion from at least ten thousand hearts. Nor is there any object in\nnature better calculated to call forth the most elevated sentiments of\ndevotion, than such a simultaneous concordant union of voice and\npurpose, in praise of Him \"who heaven and earth hath made.\"\n\n    \"All people that on earth do dwell,\n    Sing to the Lord\"----\n\nSo says the divine monitor; but what says modern fashion and refinement?\nLet them answer in succession for themselves. And first, then, in\nreference to fashion. When examined and duly purged, she deposeth that\nthe time was when men were not ashamed to praise their God \"before his\npeople all;\" when they even rejoiced with what tones they might to unite\ntheir tributary stream of praise to that vast flood which rolled, in\naccumulated efficacy, towards the throne on high; when lord and lady,\nhusbandman and mechanic, learned and unlearned, prince and people, sent\nforth their hearts in their united voices towards Him who is the God\nover all and the Saviour of all. She further deposeth that the venerated\nfounders of our Presbyterian Church were wont to scare the curlew and\nthe bittern of the mountain and the marsh by their nightly songs of\nsolemn and combined thanksgiving and praise; and that, with the view of\nsecuring a continuance of this delightful exercise, our Confession of\nFaith strictly enjoins us, providing, by the reading of \"the line,\"\nagainst cases of extreme ignorance or bodily infirmity; and yet she\naverreth that, in defiance of law and practice, of reason and\nrevelation, of good feeling and common-sense, hath it become\nunfashionable to be seen or to be heard praising God. It is vulgar and\nunseemly, it would appear, in the extreme, to modulate the voice or to\ncompose the countenance into any form or expression which might imply an\ninterest in the exercise of praise. The young Miss in her teens, whose\ntender and susceptible heart is as wax to impressions, is half betrayed\ninto a spontaneous exhibition of devotional feeling; but she looks at\nthe marble countenance and changeless aspect of Mamma, and is silent.\nThe home-bred, unadulterated peasant would willingly persevere in a\npractice to which he has been accustomed from his first entrance at the\nchurch stile; but his superiors, from pew and gallery, discountenance\nhis feelings, and indicate by the carelessness--I had almost added the\nlevity--of their demeanour, that they are thinking of anything, of\neverything, but God's praise; whilst the voices of the hired precentor\nand of a few old women and rustics are heard uniting in suppressed and\nfeeble symphony. Nay, there is a case still more revolting than any\nwhich has been hitherto denounced--that, namely, of our young\nprobationers and ministers, who, in many instances, refuse even in the\npulpit that example which, with their last breath, they were perhaps\nemployed in recommending. There they sit or stoop whilst the psalm is\nsinging, busily employed in revising their MS., or in reviewing the\ncongregation, in selecting and marking for emphasis the splendid\npassages, or in noting for observation whatever of interesting the dress\nor the countenances of the people may suggest. So much for _fashion_;\nand now for the deposition of _refinement_ on the same subject.\n\nRefinement has indeed much to answer for; she has brushed the coat\nthreadbare; she has wiredrawn the thread till it can scarcely support\nits own weight; and in no one instance has her besetting sin been more\nconspicuous than in her intercommunings with our church psalmody. The\nold women who, from the original establishment of Presbytery, have\ncontinued to occupy and grace our pulpit stairs, are oftentimes\ndefective in point of sweetness and delicacy of voice; in fact, they do\nnot sing, but croon, and in some instances they have even been known to\noutrun the precentor by several measures, and to return upon him a\nsecond time ere the conclusion of the line. What then?--they always\ncroon in a low key; and if _they_ are gratified, their Maker pleased,\nand the congregation in general undisturbed, the principal parties are\ndisposed of. There is no doubt something unpleasing to a refined ear in\nthe jarring concord of a rustic euphony, when, in full voice, of a\nsacramental Sabbath evening, they are inclined to hold on with\nirresistible swing. But what they want in harmony, they have in\ngood-will; what they lose in melody, they gain in the ringing echo of\ntheir voices from roof and ceiling. And were it possible, without\nsilencing the uninstructed, to gratify and encourage the refined and the\ndisciplined, then were there at once a union and a unison of agreeables;\nbut as this object has never been effected, or even attempted, and as\nrefinement has at once laid aside all regard for the humble and\nuntrained worshipper, and has set her stamp and seal upon a trained band\nof vocal performers, it becomes the duty of all rightly constituted\nminds to oppose, if they cannot stem the tide--to mark and stigmatize\nthat as unbecoming and absurd which the folly of the age would have us\nconsider as improvement. It is of little moment whether the office of\npsalm-singing be committed to a select band, who surround, with their\nmerry faces and tenor pipes, the precentor's seat, or be entrusted to\nseparate parties scattered through the congregation; still, so long as\nthe _taught_ alone are expected to sing, the original end of\npsalm-singing is lost sight of, the habits of a Presbyterian\ncongregation are violated, and _manner_ being preferred to _matter_--an\nattuned voice to a fervent spirit--a manifest violence is done to the\nfeelings of the truly devout.\n\nNo two things are probably more distinct and separate in the reader's\nmind than preaching and fishing; yet in mine they are closely\nassociated.\n\nAnd is not fishing or angling with the rod a most fascinating amusement?\nThere is just enough of address required to admit and imply a gratifying\nadmixture of self-approbation; and enough, at the same time, of chance\nor circumstance, over which the fisher has no control, to keep\nexpectation alive even during the most deplorable luck. Hence a real\nfisher is seldom found, from want of success merely, to relinquish his\nrod in disgust; but, with the spirit of a true hill-man of the old\nschool, he is patient in tribulation, rejoicing in hope. \"_Meliore\nopera_\" is written upon his countenance; and whilst mischance and\nmisfortune haunt him, it may be, from stream to stream, or from pool to\npool, he still looks down the glen and along the river's course; he\nstill regards in anxious expectation the alluring and more promising\ncurl, the circulating and creamy froth, the suddenly broken and\nhesitating gullet, and the dark clayey bank, under which the water runs\nthick and the foam-bells figure bright and starry. He knows that one\nsingle hour of successful adventure, when the cloud has ascended and the\nshadow is deep, and the breeze comes upwards on the stream, and the\nwhole finny race are in eager expectation of the approaching\nshower--that one single hour of this description will amply repay him\nfor every discouragement and misfortune.\n\nAnd who that has enjoyed this one little hour of success would consider\nthe purchase as dearly made? Is it with bait that you are angling?--and\nin the solitude of a mountain glen can you discover the stream of your\nhope, stretching away like a blue pennant waving into the distance, and\nescaping from view behind some projecting angle of the hill? Your\nfishing-rod is tight and right, your line is in order, your hook\npenetrates your finger to the barb; other companions than the plover,\nthe lark, and the water-wagtail you have none. This is no hour for\nchirping grasshopper, or flaunting butterfly, or booming bee; the\novershaded and ruffled water receives your bait with a plump; and ere it\nhas travelled to the distance of six feet, it is nailed down to the\nleeward of a stone. You pull recklessly and fearlessly, and flash after\nflash, and flap after flap, comes there in upon your hull the spotted\nand ponderous inmate of the flood! Or is it the fly with which you are\nplying the river's fuller and more seaward flow? The wide extent of\nstreamy pool is before you, and beyond your reach. Fathom after fathom\ngoes reeling from your pirn, but still you are barely able to drop the\nfar fly into the distant curl. \"Habet!\" he has it; and proudly does he\nbear himself in the plenitudes of strength, space, and freedom. Your\nline cuts and carves the water into all manner of squares, triangles,\nand parallelograms. Now he makes a few capers in the air, and shows you,\nas an opera dancer would do, his proportions and agility: now again he\nis sulky and restive, and gives you to understand that the _vis inertiae_\nis strong within him. But fate is in all his operations, and his last\nconvulsive effort makes the sand and the water commingle at the\nlanding-place.\n\nThe resort of the fisher is amidst the retirements of what, and what\nalone, can be justly denominated undegraded nature. The furnace, and the\nmanufactory, and the bleaching-green, and the tall red smoke-vomiting\nchimney are his utter aversion. The village, the clachan, the city, he\navoids: he flies from them as something intolerably hostile to his\nhopes. He holds no voluntary intercourse with man, or with his petty and\ninsignificant achievements. \"He lifts his eyes to the hills,\" and his\nsteps lie through the retired glen, and winding vale, and smiling\nstrath, up to the misty eminence and cairn-topped peak. He catches the\nfirst beams of the sun, not through the dim and disfiguring smoke of a\ncity, but over the sparkling and diamonded mountain, above the unbroken\nand undulating line of the distant horizon. His conversation is with\nheaven, with the mist, and the cloud, and the sky; the great, the\nunmeasured, the incomprehensible are around him; and all the agitation\nand excitement to which his hopes and fears as a mere fisher subject\nhim, cannot completely withdraw his soul from that character of\nsublimity by which the mountain solitude is so perceptibly impressed.\n\nI shall never forget one day's sport. The morning was warm, and in fact\nsomewhat sultry; and swarms of insects arose on my path. As every gullet\nwas gushing with water, it behoved me to ascend, even beyond my former\ntravel, to the purest streams or feeders, which ran unseen, in general,\namong the hills. The clouds, as I hurried on my way, began to gather up\ninto a dense and darkening awning. There was a slight and somewhat\nhesitating breeze on the hill-side, for I could see the heath and\nbracken bending under it, but it was scarcely perceptible beneath. This,\nhowever, I regretted the less, as the mountain torrent to which I had\nattached myself was too precipitous and streamy in its course to require\nthe aids of wind and curl to forward the sport. Let the true fisher--for\nhe only can appreciate the circumstances--say what must have been my\ndelight, my rapture, as I proceeded to prepare my rod, open out my line\nover the brink of a gullet, along which the water rushed like porter\nthrough the neck of a bottle, and at the lower extremity of which the\nfroth tilted round and round in most inviting eddies! Here there was no\nspringing of trouts to the surface, nor coursing of alarmed shoals\nbeneath. The darkened heaven was reflected back by the darker water; and\nthe torrent kept dashing, tumbling, and brawling along under the impulse\nand agitation of a swiftly ebbing flood. I had hit upon that very\ncritical shade, betwixt the high brown and soft blue colour, which\nevery mountain angler knows well how to appreciate; and I felt as if\nevery turn and entanglement of my line formed a barrier betwixt me and\nparadise. The very first throw was successful, ere the bait had\ntravelled twice round the eddy at the bottom of the gullet. When trouts\nin such circumstances take at all, they do so in good earnest. They are\nall on the outlook for food, and dash at the swiftly-descending bait\nwith a freedom and good-will which almost uniformly insures their\ncapture. And here, for the benefit of bait fishers, it may be proper to\nmention, that success depends not so much on the choosing and preparing\nof the worms--though these undoubtedly are important points--as in the\nthrowing and drawing, or rather dragging of the line. In such mountain\nrapids, the trout always turn their heads to the current, and never\ngorge the bait till they have placed themselves lower down in the water;\nconsequently, by pulling _downwards_, two manifest advantages are\ngained: the trout is often hooked without gorging, or even biting at\nall, and the current assists the fisher in landing his prize, which, in\nsuch circumstances, may be done in an instant, and at a single pull. But\nto return. My success on this occasion was altogether beyond precedent:\nat every turn and wheel of the winding torrent, I was sure to grace the\ngreen turf or sandy channel with another and another yellow-sided and\nbrightly-spotted half-pounder. The very sheep, as they travelled along\ntheir mountain pathway, stopped and gazed down on the sport. The season\nwas harvest, and the Lammas floods had brought up the bull or sea\ntrouts. I had all along hoped that one or two stragglers might have\nreached my position; and this hope had animated every pull. It was not,\nhowever, till the day was well advanced, that I had the good fortune to\nsucceed in hooking a large, powerful, active, and new-run \"milter.\" In\nfisher weight he might seem _five_, but in imperial he would possibly\nnot exceed two or three pounds. Immediately upon his feeling the steel\nhe plunged madly, flung himself into the air, dived again into the\ndepths, and flounced about in the most active and courageous style\nimaginable. At last, taking the stream-head somewhat suddenly, he showed\ntail and fin above the surface of the water, brought his two extremities\nalmost into contact, shot himself upwards like an arrow, and was off\nwith the hook and a yard of line ere I had time to prepare against the\ndanger; but as unforeseen circumstances led to this catastrophe,\noccurrences equally unlooked-for repaired the loss; for in an instant I\nsecured the disengaged captive whilst floundering upon the sand, having,\nby his headlong precipitancy, fairly pitched himself out of his native\nelement. There he lay, like a ship in the shallows, exhibiting scale and\nfin, and shoulder and spot, of the most fascinating hue; and, ever and\nanon, as the recollection of the fatal precipitancy seemed to return\nupon him, he cut a few capers and exhibited a few somersets, which\ncontributed materially to insure his capture, and increase my delight.\n\nBy this time I had ascended nearly to the source of the stream; and at\nevery opening up of the glen I could perceive a sensible diminution of\nthe current. I was quite alone in the solitude; and my unwonted success\nhad rendered me insensible to the escape of time. The glen terminated at\nlast in a linn and scaur, beyond which it did not appear probable that\ntrouts would ascend. Whilst I was engaged in the consideration of the\nobjects around me, with a reference to my return home, I became all at\nonce enveloped in mist and darkness. The mist was dense and close and\nsuffocating, while the darkness increased every instant. I felt a\ndifficulty in breathing, as if I had been shut up in an empty oven; my\nsituation stared me at once in the face, and I took to my heels over the\nheath, in what I considered a homeward direction. Now that my ears were\nrelieved from the gurgling sound of the water, I could perceive, through\nthe stillness of the air, that the thunder was behind me. I had been\ntaught to consider thunder as the voice of the \"Most High,\" when He\nspeaks in his wrath, and felt my whole soul prostrated under the divine\nrebuke. Some passages of the 18th Psalm rushed on my remembrance; and as\nthe lightnings began to kindle, and the thunder to advance, I could hear\nmyself involuntarily repeating--\n\n    \"Up from his nostrils came a smoke,\n      And from his mouth there came\n    Devouring fire; and coals by it\n      Were turned into flame.\n\n    \"The Lord God also in the heavens\n      Did thunder in his _ire_,\n    And there the Highest gave his voice--\n      Hail-stones and coals of fire.\"\n\nSuch was the subject of my meditation, as the muttering and seemingly\nsubterraneous thunder boomed and quavered behind me. At last, one broad\nand whizzing flash passed over, around, beneath, and I could almost\nimagine, _through_ me. The clap followed instantly, and, by its\ndeafening knell, drove me head foremost into the heathy moss. Had the\nearth now opened (as to Curtius of old) before me, I should certainly\nhave dashed into the crater, in order to escape from that explosive\nomnipotence which seemed to overtake me. Peal after peal pitched, with a\nrending and tearing sound, upon the drum of my ear and the parapet of my\nbrain; whilst the mist and the darkness were kindled up around me into\nan open glow. I could hear a strange rush upon the mountain, and along\nthe glen, as if the Solway had overleaped all bounds, and was careering\nsome thousand feet abreast over Criffel and Queenberry. Down it came at\nlast, in a swirl and a roar, as if rocks and cairns and heath were\ncommingled in its sweep. This terrible blast was only the immediate\nprecursor of a hail-storm, which, descending at first in separate and\ndistinct pieces, as if the powers of darkness and uproar had been\npitching marbles, came on at last with a rush, as if Satan himself had\nbeen dumriddling the elements. The water in the moss-hag rose up, and\nboiled and sputtered in the face of heaven, and a rock, underneath the\nhollow corner of which I had now crept on hands and knees, rattled all\nover, as if assailed by musketry. I lay now altogether invisible to\nmortal eye, amidst the mighty movements of the elements--a thing of\nnought, endeavouring to crawl into nonentity--a tiny percipient amidst\nthe blind urgency of nature. I lay in all the prostration of a bruised\nand subdued spirit, praying fervently and loudly unto God that He might\nbe pleased to cover me with his hand till his wrath was overpast. And,\nto my persuasion at the time, my prayers were not altogether\ninsufficient: the storm softened, rain succeeded hail, a pause followed\nthe hurricane, and the thunder's voice had already travelled away over\nthe brow of the onward mountain.\n\nWhilst I was debating with myself whether it were safer, now that the\nnight had fairly closed in upon the pathless moor, to remain all night\nin my present position, or to attempt once more my return home, I heard,\nall of a sudden, the sound of human voices, which the violence of the\nstorm had prevented me from sooner perceiving. I scarcely knew whether I\nwas more alarmed or comforted by this discovery. From my previous state\nof agitation, combined with my early and rooted belief in all manner of\nsupernaturals, I was strongly disposed to terror; but the accents were\nso manifestly human, that, in spite of my apprehensions, they tended to\ncheer me. As I continued, therefore, to listen with mouth and ears, the\nvoices became louder and louder, and more numerous, mixed and commingled\nas they appeared at last to be with the tread and the plash of horses'\nfeet. These demonstrations of an approaching cavalcade naturally called\nupon me to narrow, as much and as speedily as possible, my\ncircumference; in other words, to creep, as it were, into my shell, by\noccupying the farthest extremity of the recess, to which I betook myself\nat first for shelter, and now for concealment. There I lay like a limpet\nstuck to the rock, against which I could feel my heart beat with\naccelerated rapidity. In this situation I could distinguish voices and\nexpressions, and ultimately unravel the import of a conversation\ninterlarded with oaths and similar ornamental flourishes. There was a\nproposal to halt, alight, and refresh in this sequestered situation.\nSuch a proposal, as may readily be supposed, was to me anything but\nagreeable. Here was I, according to my reckoning, surrounded by a band\nof robbers, and liable every instant to detection. Firearms were talked\nof, and preparations, offensive and defensive, were proposed. I could\ndistinctly smell gunpowder. In the meantime, a fire was struck up at no\ngreat distance, under the glare of which I could distinguish horses\nheavily panniered, and strange-looking countenances, congregating within\nfifty paces of my retreat. The shadow of the intervening corner of the\nrock covered me, otherwise immediate detection would have been\ninevitable. The thunder and lightnings with all their terrors were\nnothing to this. In the one case, I was placed at the immediate disposal\nof a merciful, as well as a mighty Being; but at present I ran every\nrisk of falling into the hands of those whose counsels I had overheard,\nand whose tender mercies were only cruelty. As I lay--rod, basket, and\nfish crumpled up into a corner of contracted dimensions--all ear,\nhowever, and eye towards the light--I could mark the shadows of several\nindividuals who were manifestly engaged in the peaceful and ordinary\nprocess of eating and drinking; hands, arms, and flagons projected in\nlengthened obscurity over the mass, and intimated, by the rapidity and\ncharacter of their movements, that jaws were likewise in motion. The\nlong pull, with the accompanying _smack_, were likewise audible; and it\nwas manifest that the repast was not more substantial than the beverage\nwas exhilarating. \"Word follows word, from question answer flows.\"\nDangers and contingencies--which, while the flame was kindling and the\nflagon was filling, seemed to agitate and interest all--were now talked\nof as bugbears; and oaths of heavy and horrifying defiance were hurled\ninto the ear of night, with many concomitant expressions of security and\nself-reliance. The night, though dark, had now become still and warm;\nand the ground which they occupied, like my own retreat, had been\npartially protected from the hail and the rain by the projecting rock.\nThe stunted roots of burnt heath, or \"brins,\" served them plentifully\nfor fuel; and altogether their situation was not so uncomfortable as\nmight have been expected. Still, however, their character, employment,\nand conversation appeared to me a fearful mystery. One thing, however,\nwas evident, that they conceived themselves as engaged in some illegal\ntransactions. Their whole revel was tainted with treason and\ninsubordination: kings and rulers were disposed of with little\nceremony; and excise officers, in particular, were visited with\nanathemas not to be mentioned. At this critical moment, when the whole\nparty seemed verging towards downright intoxication, a pistol bullet\nburst itself to atoms on the projecting corner of the rock; and the\nreport which accompanied this demonstration was followed up by oaths of\nchallenge and imprecation. The fire went out as if by magic, and an\nimmediate rush to arms, accompanied by shots and clashing of lethal\nweapons, indicated a struggle for life.\n\n\"Stand and surrender, you smuggling scoundrels! or by all that is\nsacred, not one of you shall quit this spot in life!\"\n\nThis salutation was answered by a renewed discharge of musketry; and the\ndarkness, which was relieved by the momentary flash, became instantly\nmore impenetrable than ever. Men evidently pursued men, and horses were\nheld by the bridle, or driven into speed as circumstances permitted. How\nit happened that I neither screamed, fainted, nor died outright, I am\nyet at a loss to determine. The darkness, however, was my covering; and\neven amidst the unknown horrors of the onset, I felt in some degree\nassured by the extinction of the fire. But this assurance was not of\nlong continuance: the assailing party had evidently taken possession of\nthe field; and, after a few questions of mutual recognition and\ncongratulation, proceeded to secure their booty, which consisted of one\nhorse, with a considerable assortment of barrels and panniers. This was\ndone under the light of the rekindled fire, around which a repetition of\nthe former festivities was immediately commenced. The fire, however, now\nflared full in my face, and led to my immediate detection. I was\nsummoned to come forth, with the muzzle of a pistol placed within a few\ninches of my ear--an injunction which I was by no means prepared to\nresist. I rolled immediately outwards from under the rock, displaying my\nbasket and rod, and screaming all the while heartily for mercy. At this\ncritical moment a horse was heard to approach, and a challenge was\nimmediately sent through the darkness,--every musket was levelled in the\ndirection of the apprehended danger,--when a voice, to which I was by no\nmeans a stranger, immediately restored matters to their former bearing.\n\n\"Now, what is the meaning o' a' this, my lads? And how come the king's\nservants to be sae ill lodged at this time o' night? He must be a shabby\nlandlord that has naething better than the bare heath and the hard rock\nto accommodate his guests wi'.\"\n\n\"Oh, Fairly, my old man of the Covenant,\" vociferated the leader of the\nparty, \"how come you to be keeping company with the whaup and the curlew\nat this time o' night? But a drink is shorter than a tale; fling the\nbridle owre the grey yad's shoulders, an' ca' her to the bent, till we\nmak ourselves better acquainted with this little natty gentleman, whom\nwe have so opportunely encountered on the moor\"--displaying, at the same\ntime, a keg or small flask of liquor referred to, and shaking it\njoyously till it clunked again.\n\nIn an instant Fairly was stationed by the side of the fire, with a can\nof Martin's brandy in his hands, and an expression of exceeding surprise\non his countenance as he perceived my mother's son in full length\nexhibited before him. I did not, however, use the ceremony of a formal\nrecognition; but, rushing on his person, I clung to it with all the\nconvulsive desperation of a person drowning. Matters were now adjusted\nby mutual recognitions and explanations; and I learned that I had been\nthe unconscious spectator of a scuffle betwixt the \"king's officers\"\nand a \"band of smugglers;\" and that Fairly, who had been preaching and\nbaptizing that day at Burnfoot, and was on his return towards Durrisdeer\n(where he was next day to officiate), had heard and been attracted to\nthe spot by the firing. In these times to which I refer, the Isle of Man\nformed a depot for illegal traffic. Tea, brandy, and tobacco, in\nparticular, found their way from the Calf of Man to the Rinns of\nGalloway, Richmaden, and the mouth of the Solway. From the latter depot\nthe said articles were smuggled, during night marches, into the\ninterior, through such byways and mountain passes as were unfrequented\nor inaccessible. After suitable libations had been made, I was mounted\nbetwixt a couple of panniers, and soon found myself in my own bed, some\ntime before\n\n    \"That hour o' night's black arch the keystane!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DETECTIVE'S TALE.\n\nTHE CHANCE QUESTION.\n\n\nIt is not long since the cleverest of these strangely constituted men\ncalled detectives [_entre nous_ myself] went up to his superintendent\nwith a very rueful face, and told him that all his energies were vain in\ndiscovering a clue to an extensive robbery of plate which had occurred\nin ---- Street some short time before.\n\n\"I confess myself fairly baffled,\" he said; and could say no more.\n\n\"With that singular foxhound organ of yours?\" replied his superior. \"The\nherring must have been well smoked.\"\n\n\"At the devil's own fire of pitch and brimstone,\" said the detective.\n\"But the worst is, I have had no trail to be taken off. I never was so\ndisconcerted before. Generally some object to point direction, if even\nonly a dead crow or smothered sheep; but here, not even that.\"\n\n\"No trace of P---- or any of the English gang?\"\n\n\"None; all beyond the bounds, or up chimneys, or down in cellars, or\ncovered up in coal-bunkers. I am beginning to think the job to be of\nhome manufacture.\"\n\n\"Generally a clumsy affair; and therefore very easy for a man of your\nparts. What reason have you?\"\n\n\"Absolutely none.\"\n\n\"That is, I fancy,\" said the superintendent, \"the thousand pounds of\ngood silver, watches, and rings, are absolutely gone.\"\n\n\"You know my conditions,\" said the officer: \"give me the thing stolen,\nand I will find to a living certainty the man who stole it; or give me\nthe man who stole it, and I will find you to a dead certainty the thing\nstolen. But it's a deuced unfortunate thing that a man can't get even a\nsniff.\"\n\n\"Yes, especially when, as in your case, all his soul is in his nose.\"\n\n\"And with such a reward!\" continued the chagrined officer; \"scarcely\nanything so liberal has been offered in my time; but, after all, the\nreward is nothing--it is the honour of the force and one's character. It\nis well up for the night anyhow, and I rather think altogether, unless\nsome flash come by telegraph.\"\n\n\"You have no other place you can go to now?\" said the superintendent\nmusingly, and not altogether satisfied.\n\n\"None,\" replied the officer resolutely. \"I have been out of bed for ten\nnights--every den scoured, and every 'soup-kitchen'[B] visited, every\nswell watched and dogged, and every trull searched; I can do no more. It\nis now eleven, my eyes will hardly hold open, and I request to be\nallowed to go and rest for the present.\"\n\n\"As you like,\" replied the superintendent. \"We are neither omniscient\nnor omnipotent.\"\n\n\"The people who get robbed think us both,\" said the officer; and taking\nhis hat, left the office, and began to trudge slowly down the street.\nThe orderly people had mostly retired to their homes. The midnight\nghouls from the deep wynds and closes were beginning to form their\ngossiping clusters; the perambulators had begun their courses; and fast\nyouths from the precincts of the College or the New Town were resuming\ntheir search for sprees, or determined to make them. There were among\nthem many clients of our officer, whom he knew, and had hopes of at some\nfuture day; but now he surveyed them with the eye of one whose\noccupation for the time was gone. His sadness was of the colour of\nJacques', but there was a difference: the one wove out of his melancholy\ngolden verses in the forest of Arden; our hero could not draw out of his\neven silver plate in the dens of Edinburgh. He had come to the Tron\nKirk, and hesitated whether, after all, he should renounce his hunt for\nthe night--true to the peculiarity of this species of men, whose game\nare wretched and wicked beings, always less or more between them and the\nwind's eye, and therefore always stimulating to pursuit; but again he\nresolved upon home, or, rather, his heavy eyes and worn-out spirits\nresolved him, in spite of himself, and he turned south, in which\ndirection his residence was. So on he trudged till he came about the\nmiddle part of the street called the South Bridge, when he heard\npattering behind him the feet of a woman. She came up to him, and passed\nhim, or rather was in the act of passing him, when, from something no\nbetter than a desire to stimulate activity, or rather to free himself\nfrom the conviction that he was utterly and entirely defeated, he turned\nround to the girl, whom he saw in an instant was a street-walker, and\nthrew carelessly a question at her.\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Home,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Where do you live?\"\n\n\"In Simon Square.\"\n\nHere he was at first inclined to make a stop, having put the questions\nmore as common routine than with any defined intention; but just as the\ngirl came opposite to a lamp-post, and was on the eve of outstripping\nhim, he said,\n\n\"Oh, by-the-bye, do you know any one thereabouts, or anywhere else, who\nmends rings?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Abram.\"\n\n\"What more?\"\n\n\"I don't know his other name; we just call him Abram, and sometimes Jew\nAbram.\"\n\n\"Did you ever get anything mended by him?\"\n\n\"No; but I bought a ring from him once.\"\n\n\"And what did you do with it?\"\n\n\"I have it on my finger,\" she replied.\n\n\"Will you let me see it?\" he continued.\n\n\"Oh yes.\"\n\nAnd as they came forward to another lamp-post, he was shown the ring. He\nexamined it carefully, taking from his waistcoat another, and comparing\nthe two--\"Won't do.\"\n\n\"How long is it since you made this purchase?\"\n\n\"About ten days ago.\"\n\n\"And what did you pay for it?\"\n\n\"Three and sixpence.\"\n\nBy this time they had got opposite the square where the girl lived. She\ncrossed, and he followed, in the meantime asking her name.\n\n\"There is Abram's house,\" she said; \"there's light in the window.\"\n\nAnd the officer, standing a little to see where she went, now began to\nexamine the outside of Abram's premises. A chink in the shutters showed\nhim a part of the person of some one inside, whom he conjectured to be\nAbram sitting at his work. He opened the door, and it was as he thought.\nAn old man was sitting at a bench, with a pair of nippers in his hand,\npeering into some small object.\n\n\"Can you mend that?\" said the officer abruptly, and, without a word of\nprelocution, pressing into his hands a ring.\n\n\"Anything,\" was the prompt reply.\n\nBut no sooner had the ring come under the glance of his far-ben eye--\n\n\"Yes--ah! ye-es--well--no--no.\"\n\nAnd the peering eye came, as it were, forward out of its recess, and\nscanned the face of the officer, who, on the other hand, was busy\nwatching every turn of the Jew's features.\n\n\"No; I cannot mend that.\"\n\n\"Why? You said you could mend anything.\"\n\n\"Ye-es, anything; but not that.\"\n\n\"No matter--no harm in asking,\" replied the officer, as he looked round\nthe apartment, and fixed his eye on the back wall, where, in utter\nopposition to all convenience, let alone taste, and even to the\nexclusion of required space, there were battered two or three coarse\nengravings.\n\n\"Good night!\"\n\n\"Goo-ood night!\"\n\n\"Now what, in the name of decoration, are these prints hung up on that\nwall for?\" asked the officer of himself, without making any question of\nthe import of the Jew's look, and his yes and no. He was now standing in\nthe middle of the square, and, turning round, he saw the light put out.\nAnother thought struck him, but whatever it was, it was the cause of a\nlaugh that took hold of him, even in the grasp of his anxiety; yea, he\nlaughed, for a detective, greatly more heartily than could be authorized\nby anything I have recorded.\n\n\"Why, the lower print is absolutely the old Jewish subject of the cup in\nthe sack,\" he muttered, and laughed again. \"Was ever detective so\nfavoured?--a representation of concealed treasure on the very wall\nwhere that treasure is! Were the brethren fools enough to put the\nrepresentation of a cup on Benjamin's sack?\"\n\n\"Robertson!\" he called to one of his men, whom, by the light at the\nstreet-end of the entry, he saw passing, \"send two men here upon the\ninstant.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nAnd then he began to examine more thoroughly the premises, to ascertain\nwhether there were any exit-openings besides the door and window. There\nwere none. He had a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes to wait, and\nfive of these had not passed before he observed some one go up and tap\nat Abram's door. A question, though he did not hear it, must have been\nput by the Jew, for an answer, in a low voice, responded,\n\n\"Slabberdash!\"\n\n\"The crack name of that fellow Clinch, whom I've been after for a week,\"\nsaid the officer to himself, as he kept in the shadow of a cellar which\njutted out from the other houses.\n\nThe Jew had again answered, for the visitor repeated to himself, as if\nin fear and surprise, \"Red-light,\" and, looking cautiously about him,\nmade off.\n\n\"It is not my cue to follow,\" muttered the detective; \"but I will do\nnext best.\"\n\nAnd hurrying out of the mouth of the entry at the heels of the visitor,\nhe caught the policeman on the Nicolson Street beat almost immediately.\n\n\"Track that fellow,\" he said; \"there--there, you see him--'tis\nSlabberdash; do not leave him or the front of his den till sunrise. I'll\nget a man for your beat.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" replied the policeman, adroitly blowing out his bull's-eye\nand making off at a canter.\n\nThe officer returned to his post, and within the time the two assistants\narrived.\n\n\"Go you, Reid, to the office, and send a man to supply Nicolson Street\nbeat till Ogilvy return; he's on commission; come back instantly.\"\n\nThe man obeyed with alacrity.\n\n\"And now, Jones, you and your neighbour take charge of that door--keep\nseeing it without it seeing; you understand? Keep watch; and if any one\napproach, scan him for Slabberdash, but take care he doesn't see you. I\nwill relieve you at shutters-down in the morning; meanwhile, I'm at home\nfor report or exigency.\"\n\n\"I comprehend,\" replied the man, \"and will be careful.\"\n\nThe officer took for home, weary and drowsy, though a little awakened by\nthe events of one half-hour. There was sight of game, as well as scent.\nThe Jew's look by itself was not much, yet greatly more to the eye of a\ndetective than even an expert physiognomist could imagine. The\npicture-plastered wall was more; the cup in the sack was merely an\nenlivening joke; but Slabberdash was no joke, as many a douce burgher in\nEdinburgh knew to his cost. The fellow was a match for the father of\ncheats and lies himself; and therefore it could be no dishonour to our\nclever detective that hitherto he had had no chance with him, any more\nthan if he had been James Maccoul, or the great Mahoun.\n\nMeanwhile, the other watch having arrived, the two kept up their\nsurveillance; nor would they be without something to report to their\nofficer, were it nothing more than that little Abram--for he was very\ndiminutive--about one in the morning rather surprised one of the guard,\nwho was incautiously too near the house, by slowly opening the door,\nand looking out with an inquiring eye, in his shirt; and upon getting a\nglimpse of the dark figure of the policeman, saying, as if to himself,\nthough intended for the said dark figure, whoever it might be,\n\n\"I vash wondering if it vash moonlight.\"\n\nAnd, shutting the door hurriedly, he disappeared. About an hour\nafterwards, a tall female figure, coming up the entry from North\nRichmond Street, made a full stop, at about three yards from Abram's\ndoor, and then darted off, but not before one of the guard had seen\nenough, as he thought, to enable him to swear that it was Slabberdash's\ncompanion, a woman known by the slang name of Four-toed Mary, once one\nof the most dashing and beautiful of the local street-sirens. About an\nhour after that the two guards forgathered to compare notes.\n\n\"The devil is surely in that little man,\" said the one who had heard the\nsoliloquy about the moon; \"for, whether or not he wanted light outside\nor in to drive away the shadows of his conscience, he served his purpose\na few minutes since by lighting his lamp. I saw the light through the\nchinks, and venturing to listen, heard noises as of working. He is\nlabouring at something, if not sweating.\"\n\n\"Perhaps _melting_,\" said the other, with a laugh.\n\n\"But here comes our officer; there is never rest for that man when\nthere's a bird on the moor or a fox in the covert.\"\n\nThe truth was, as the man said, the detective had gone home to sleep;\nbut no sooner had he lain down than the little traces he had discovered\nbegan to excite his imagination, and that faculty, so suggestive in his\nclass, getting inflamed, developed so many images in the camera of his\nmind, that he soon found sleep an impossibility, and he was now there\nto know whether anything further had transpired. The men made their\nreport, and he soon saw there was something more than ordinary in\nAbram's curiosity about the moon, and still more in the coincidence of\nthe visits of Slabberdash and Four-toes. He had a theory, too, about the\nworking, though it did not admit the melting. He knew better what to\naugur. But he had a fault to find, and he was not slow to find it.\n\n\"Why didn't one of you track Four-toes? One of you could have served\nhere. She has been off the scene for three weeks, and is hiding. You\nought to have known that a woman is a good subject for a detective. Her\nstrength is her weakness, and her weakness our opportunity. But there's\nno help for it now. We must trace the links we have. If she come again,\nbe more on the alert, and follow up the track. Keep your guard, and let\nnot a circumstance escape you.\"\n\n\"The light is out again,\" remarked one of the men; \"he has gone to bed.\"\n\n\"But not to sleep, I warrant,\" said his superior. \"Look sharp and listen\nquick, and I will be with you when I promised.\"\n\nHe now proceeded to the office in the High Street, where he found the\nsuperintendent waiting for a report in another case. He recounted all he\nhad seen and heard.\n\n\"You have a chance here,\" said the latter; \"and, to confirm our hopes, I\ncan tell you that Four-toes' mother gave yesterday to a shebeen-master\nin Toddrick's Close, one of the rings for a mutchkin of whisky; and,\nwhat is more, Clinch has been traced to the old woman's house in\nBlackfriars Wynd. I suspect that the picture's true after all. The cup\nis verily in Benjamin's sack.\"\n\nThus fortified, our detective sought his way again down the High Street;\nand as he had time to kill between that and the opening of the shutters\nin Simon Square, he paid a visit to Blackfriars Wynd, where he found his\nfaithful myrmidon keeping watch over the old mother's house, like a Skye\nterrier at the mouth of a rat-hole. He here learned that Mary with the\ndeficient toe had also been seen to go upstairs to her mother's garret,\nwhich circumstance accorded perfectly with the statement of the guard in\nthe square, as no doubt she had returned home after being startled at\nthe door of Abram. But then she was seen to go out again, about an hour\nbefore, though whither she went the watch could not say. The hour of\nappointment was now approaching. The day had broken amidst watery\nclouds, driven about by a fitful, gusty wind, and every now and then\nsending stiff showers of rain, sufficient to have cooled the enthusiasm\nof any one but a hunter after the doers of evil. He had been drenched\ntwo or three times, and now he felt that a glass of brandy was necessary\nas an auxiliary to internal resistance against external aggression. He\nwas soon supplied, and, wending his way to the old rendezvous, he found\nhis guard, but without any addition to their report of midnight. Abram\nwas long of getting up, and it seemed that he was first roused by the\nclink of a milkwoman's tankard on the window-shutter. The door was\nslowly opened, but in place of the vendor of milk handing in to her\nsolitary customer the small half-pint, she went in herself, pails, and\ntankard, and all. Our detective marked the circumstance as being\nunusual, and, more than unusual still, the door was partly closed upon\nher as she entered. Then he began to think that she had nothing about\nher of the appearance of that class of young women.\n\n\"Has not that woman the appearance of Four-toes?\" said the officer.\n\n\"I'm blowed if she's not the very woman I saw in the dark,\" said one of\nthe men.\n\n\"Split,\" said the lieutenant; \"but be within sign.\"\n\nThe precaution was wise. In a few minutes Abram's face was peering out\nat the door, not this time looking for the moon--more probably for the\nenemies of her minions; and what immediately succeeded showed that he\nhad got a glimpse of the men, for by-and-by the milk-maid came forth and\nproceeded along the square.\n\n\"Go and look into her pails,\" said the lieutenant to Reid, as he\nhastened up to him. \"Jones and I will remain for a moment here.\"\n\nReid set off, and disappeared in the narrow passage leading to West\nRichmond Street; but he remained only a short time.\n\n\"Crumbie is yeld! there's not a drop of milk in her pitchers,\" said he,\non his return; \"and it's no other than Four-toes.\"\n\n\"Ah, we've been seen by Abram,\" said the officer; \"and the pitchers are\nsent away empty, which otherwise would have contained something more\nvaluable than milk. After her again, and track her. Jones and I will pay\nAbram a morning visit.\"\n\nThe man again set off; and the officer and Jones having hung about a few\nminutes till Abram came out to open the shutters and afford them light\ninside, they caught their opportunity, and, just as the Jew was taking\ndown the shattered boards, they darted into the house. Abram was at\ntheir heels in a moment.\n\n\"Vat ish it, gentlemen?\"\n\n\"A robbery of plate has been committed,\" said the officer at once; \"and\nI am here, with your permission no doubt, to search this house.\"\n\n\"Very goo-ood; there ish nothing but vat ish my property.\"\n\nThe officer had even already seen a half of the bench--which had\nconsisted of two parts put together, probably originally intended for\nsome other purpose than mending jewellery--had been removed and placed\nagainst the wall where Joseph and his brethren were standing round the\ncup in the sack, so that it was more difficult to reach the wall, though\nthe device was clearly only the half of an idea, as the prints still\nstood above the bench, and might, by a sharp eye, have still suggested\nthe suspicion that they were intended for something else than\ndecoration, or even the gratification of a Jew's love for the legends of\nhis country. But the officer did not go first to the suspected part. He\ntook a hammer from his pocket, and began rapping all round the wall.\n\"Stone, stone--lath, lath; ah, a compact house.\"\n\n\"Very goo-ood. Vash only three weeks a tenant.\"\n\nThe officer recollected the estimate of the time given by the\nstreet-walker, the _fons et origo_ of all, and his hammer went more\nbriskly till he came to the patriarchs. \"Good head, that, of Joseph,\" he\nsaid with a laugh; \"hollow, eh?\"\n\n\"Vash a good head--not hollow; the best at the court of Pharaoh.\"\n\nIn an instant, a long chisel was through the picture; and in another,\nthe poker, driven into the chisel-hole, and wrenched to a side, sent a\nthin covering of fir lath into a dozen of splinters. The hand did the\nrest. A cupboard was exposed to the eyes of the apparently wondering\nIsraelite, containing, closely packed, an array of plate, watches,\nrings, and bijouterie, sufficient to make any eye besides a Jew's leap\nfor the wish of possession.\n\nAbram held up his hands in affected wonderment as the lieutenant stood\ngazing at the treasure, and almost himself entranced. Jones was fixed to\nthe ground; at one time looking at the costly treasure, at another at\nhis superior, who had already, in this department of his art, acquired\nan envied reputation.\n\n\"Very goo-ood!\" exclaimed Abram; \"vash only here three weeks. What fools\nto leave here all this wonderful treasure!\"\n\n\"Abram, will you be so good as take a walk up the High Street? Jones\nwill show you the way. Breakfast will be waiting you. And do you,\"\nlooking to Jones, \"send down a box large enough to hold this silver, and\ntwo of our men to remove it to the office.\"\n\n\"Vash the other tenant,\" cried Abram, as he saw the plight he had got\ninto--\"vash not me, so help me the God of my forefathers, even Abraham,\nIsaac, and Jacob, who were just men, as I am a just man; it vash not me.\nVash not the cup put in Benjamin's sack?\"\n\nThe officer laughed--at this time inside, for it behoved him now to be\ngrave--at the recollection of the strange coincidence of the picture and\nthe stolen plate.\n\n\"Come,\" said Jones, \"let us start;\" and, clapping the Jew's old hat on\nthe head of the little man, he took him under the arm to lead him out.\n\n\"After depositing him,\" whispered the officer into Jones' ear, \"get\nhelp; proceed to Blackfriars, where Ogilvy is on the watch, and lay hold\nof Clinch. Some others will start in search of Reid, who may have\ntracked Four-toes, and seize her. You comprehend?\"\n\n\"Perfectly. Come, Abram--unless you would like to walk at a safe\ndistance?\"\n\n\"Surely I would,\" replied Abram; \"and so would every man who vash as\ninnocent as the child vash born yesterday, or this minute.\"\n\nWhen the prisoner had departed, the officer sat down on the Jew's stool\nto rest himself, previous to making a survey of the articles, with\nreference to an inventory he had in his pocket. In this attitude, he\ntook up a pair of Abram's nippers to fasten a link in his watch chain,\nwhich threatened to give way, so that he might very well have\nrepresented the master of the establishment sitting at his work. This\nobservation is here made, as explanatory of another circumstance which\npresently occurred in this altogether remarkable case. The door, which\nJones had closed after him, was opened stealthily; an old woman, wrapped\nup in a duffle cloak, slipped quietly and timidly in, and going round\nthe end of the bench, whispered into the ear of the lieutenant--\n\n\"You'll be Abram, nae doubt?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied he.\n\n\"Ye're early at wark.\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Weel, the milk-woman--ye ken wha I mean?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; Four-toes.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ay, just Four-toes, that's Mary Burt; ah! she _was_ a buxom\nlass in my kennin'. Weel, she has sent me to you, in a quiet way, ye\nken, to tell ye that the p'lice have an e'e on you. That ill-lookin'\nscoondrel, the cleverest o' the 'tectives, as they ca' them--I never saw\nhim mysel, but dootless you'll ken him--has been seen in the coort here,\nwi' twa o' his beagles, and you're to tak tent.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know the ill-looking Christian dog. Vat ish your name?\"\n\n\"Chirsty Anderson.\"\n\n\"Where do you live, Christian?\"\n\n\"In Wardrop's Coort, at the tap o' the lang stair. And the\nmilk-maid--ha! ha!--says you're to shift the things to my room i' the\ndark'nin', whaur Geordie, my laddie, will hae a plank lifted, and you\ncan stow them awa, ayont the ken o' the cleverest o' them.\"\n\n\"And where ish the milk-woman?\"\n\n\"In my room, pitchers an' a'.\"\n\n\"Well, tell her to keep there, as vash a prisoner, till I come to her\nplace.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"Isn't Geordie, my good woman, called Squint?\"\n\n\"Just the same,\" she replied with a laugh; \"and, ye ken, he has a right\nto a silver jug or twa, for he risked his neck for't as weel as Clinch.\"\n\n\"Surely, surely.\"\n\n\"But you're to gie me a ring to tak to her, for she's hard up, and I'll\ntry Mr. E----e wi' 't at night, and get some shillings on't.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Christian--not a good name that; but here,\" taking her by\nthe shoulders, and turning sharply in the direction of the door--for he\nwas afraid she might notice the wreck made in the recess,--\"look out at\nthe door, and be on the good watch for the ill-looking dog.\"\n\n\"Ah, Abram, ye're sae clever! The deil's in them if they put saut on\n_your_ tail.\"\n\n\"Here, give that to Four-toes, and tell her to keep good prisoner till I\ncome.\"\n\n\"Just sae--a bonny ring!\"\n\n\"Quick! turn to your right, and go by the Pleasance, along St. Mary's\nWynd, up the High Street, to your home.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied the woman as she departed.\n\nNot five minutes elapsed, when Jones and the two assistants with the box\narrived; when the officer cried--\n\n\"Jones, follow up an old woman, in a grey duffle cloak, Christian\nAnderson by name, who is this moment gone down by the Pleasance, to\ntake St. Mary's Wynd and the High Street on her way to her room, in\nWardrop's Court, at the top of the stair. Having seen her landed, stop\nfive minutes at the door, to give her time to deliver a ring to\nFour-toes, then step in, and take the young woman to the office. You\nwill find Geordie Anderson there also, the notorious Squint; so pick up\na man as you go, and make Squint sure.\"\n\n\"At once, sir,\" replied the man, and was off.\n\nBy-and-by, and just as our officer was beginning to compare the plate\nwith the inventory, the superintendent, who had got intelligence of the\ndiscovery, came hurrying in. They found, to their astonishment, that\nevery article was there, excepting two rings--the one, probably, that\noffered to the shebeen-man by Four-toes' mother, and the other that\nwhich had been presently sent to Four-toes herself. A more complete\nrecovery was perhaps never achieved; and it was all the more wonderful\nfrom the small beginning from which the trace had been detected. Having\ncompleted the examination and packed the treasure, which was presently\nremoved to the office, the discoverer set about examining Abram's room;\nbut so cunningly had the whole affair of the resettership been\nconducted, that there was not found a trace of any kind to show his\nconnection with the burglars. The joke of the man in reference to the\nprocess of melting had, however, had a narrow escape from being\nrealized; for a kind of furnace had been erected with bricks, and a\nlarge crucible, sufficient to hold a Scotch pint of the \"silver soup,\"\nwas lying in what had been used as a coal-bunker. Meanwhile, Reid\nhurried in in great dejection, because the milk-woman had baffled him by\ngoing into a house in one of the wynds, and emerging by the back, and\nescaping.\n\n\"She's provided for,\" said the officer, \"and you may go. I don't need\nyou here; but you may go to Wardrop's Court, top of stair, and help\nJones to take care of Four-toes and George Anderson called Squint; you\nknow him?\"\n\n\"Who that has once seen him will ever forget him?\" replied the other.\n\"When will Jones be there?\"\n\n\"Just when you will arrive, giving you time to walk slow, like a good\ndetective.\"\n\n\"And now,\" said our officer, as he proceeded to fasten up the door, \"so\nmuch for a casual question,--a good night's work, and a reward of a\nhundred for recovering a thousand. I think I am entitled to my\nbreakfast. It's not often a man makes so much of a morning.\" And\nresuming his deliberate walk--a characteristic, as he himself\nacknowledged, of a true thief-catcher--he repaired to a coffee-house in\nNicolson Street, and allayed his hunger by coffee and a pound of chops.\nIt was about ten o'clock when he reached the office, where he had the\npleasant scene presented to him of a well-assorted bag of game--the last\nvictims, Four-toes and Squint, being in the act of being deposited as he\nentered. The principals secure, the accessories were of less\nconsequence. There were there Abram, Slabberdash, Squint, and Four-toes.\n\n\"To complete our complement we must have Four-toes' mother and Mrs.\nAnderson,\" he said to the superintendent, \"and Reid and Jones will go\nand fetch them.\"\n\nIn the course of an hour both these ladies were brought into the already\nconsiderable company. That they were all surprised at the unexpected\nmeeting, belongs to reasonable conjecture; and that Christian Anderson\nwas more surprised than any of them, when she discovered her mistake in\ntrusting her secrets to the \"ill-looking scoundrel\" of a detective in\nplace of Abram, is not less reasonable. Our officer was, in truth, too\ngallant a man to traverse those laws of etiquette which demand respect\nfor the feelings of females, and he never once alluded to the\n_contretemps_. But Chirsty did not feel the same delicacy in regard to\nhim, who she feared would hang her for misplaced confidence. She had no\nsooner recovered from her surprise than she cried out to him, in a\nshrill, piercing voice--\n\n\"I hope you'll hae mercy on me, sir. It wad do ye nae guid to stretch\nthe wizzened craig o' an auld woman, because some silly words--I wish\nthey had choket me--cam oot o't.\"\n\n\"They will never be brought against you,\" said he; \"make yourself easy\non that score.\"\n\n\"Then what am I here for?\" she growled, as, relieved somewhat from her\nfear, she got into her natural temper.\n\n\"For agreeing to hide stolen property.\"\n\n\"Stolen property!\" she replied. \"And did ye no steal from me my secret\nabout my puir laddie, that ye may string him to a wuddy? There's an auld\nsayin' that speech is silvern, but silence is gowden. Whaur is the\ndifference between stealing frae me the siller o' my speech, and robbing\na man o' the siller o' his jugs and teaspoons?\"\n\n\"Quiet,\" he said calmly. \"Abram, I want to speak with you. Separate\nthese,\" he added, addressing one of the men.\n\nAnd having got Abram by himself, he asked him if he was inclined to run\nthe risk of a trial and condemnation, or tell the truth, and trust to\nthe Royal mercy. The Jew hesitated; but our officer knew that a\nhesitating criminal is like a hesitating woman--each waits for an\nargument to resolve them against their faith and honour. He knew that\nmisfortune breaks up the bonds of etiquette, even among the virtuous;\nand that the honour among themselves, of which thieves boast, and a\nportion of mankind, for some strange reason, secretly approve, becomes\nweak in proportion to the danger of retributive justice. Not much given\nto speculate, he yet sometimes wondered why it was that one should be\ndespised and treated harshly because he comes forward to serve the ends\nof justice and benefit society; but a less acute mind may feel no\ndifficulty in accounting for the anomaly. The king's-evidence, while he\nproves himself a coward and false to his faith, acts from pure\nselfishness; and though he offers a boon to society, it is in reality a\nbargain which he drives for self-preservation. These speculations\ncertainly did not pass through the mind of Abram, if his prevailing\nthought was not more likely in the form--\n\n\"If I can't get my pound of silver out of the Christian, I can at least\nkeep my own pound of flesh.\"\n\nBut whether he thought in this Jewish form or not, it is certain that he\nwas not long in making as clean a breast as a Jew might be expected to\nmake of the whole secret of the robbery. It was planned and executed, he\nsaid, by Slabberdash and Squint, and he agreed to become resetter on the\ncondition of being allowed to retain a half of the proceeds. Four-toes\nbrought the plate to him at half a dozen courses of her pitchers, and he\nhad intended on that very day to melt all that was meltable. The watches\nand rings were to be reserved for opportunities, as occasions presented.\n\nI give this story by way of an example of those strange workings in a\nclose society, whereby often great events are discovered from what is\ntermed chance. Such occurrences, however they may startle us, are all\nexplainable by the laws of probabilities. They occur often just in\nproportion to the increase of ramifications in civilised conditions.\nMore people come into the plot; the increased activity drives the\nculprits to shifts, and these shifts are perilous from the very\ncircumstance of being forced. We thus find detection often more easy and\ncertain in populous towns, with a good staff of criminal officers, than\nin quieter places, where both plotters and shifts are proportionally\nfewer. If nature is always true to her purpose, so art, which is second\nnature, is equally true to hers, and man is better provided for than he\ndeserves. I do not concern myself with the vulgar subject of\npunishments, never very agreeable to polite minds, and not at all times\nuseful to those who gloat over descriptions of them. It is enough to say\nthat the law was justly applied. Two got clear off--the mothers of\nSquint and Four-toes; and I may add that Chirsty Anderson probably\nafterwards acted up more to her own proverb, that \"speech is silvern,\nbut silence is golden.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.\n\n\nOn the western skirts of the Torwood--famous in Scottish story for its\nassociation with the names of Wallace and Bruce--there stood, in the\nmiddle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior\nappearance for the period.\n\nThis house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of the\nname of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in the\nneighbourhood.\n\nHenderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in\ntolerably easy circumstances.\n\nThe night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the\nyear 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of the\nTorwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the storm;\nand, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were rendered\nvisible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses by the\nflashing lightning.\n\nThe night, too, was pitch-dark; and, to add to its dismal character, a\nheavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth, and\nbeat with violence on all opposing objects.\n\n\"A terrible night this, goodwife,\" said Henderson to his helpmate, as he\ndouble-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a candle\nto afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.\n\n\"I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north\nmay not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just as\nthey are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of\nFlodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster was\nat hand.\"\n\n\"But I have heard you say, goodman,\" replied David Henderson's\nbetter-half, who--the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar\ninto its place--was still detained in her situation of candle-holder,\n\"that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's descending from his\nvantage-ground.\"\n\n\"True, goodwife,\" said David; \"but was not his doing so but a means of\nfulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about\nelse?\"\n\nThe door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without\nfurther colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late,\nretired to bed.\n\nIn the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The\nrush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly,\nbut gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending\ndeluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining river on the\nblast as it boiled and raged along.\n\nHenderson had been in bed about an hour--it was now midnight--but had\nbeen kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently\njogging his slumbering helpmate--\n\n\"Goodwife,\" he said, \"listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of some\none shouting without?\"\n\nThey now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon\ndistinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.\n\nIn the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the\ndoor, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the\nexclamations of--\"Ho! within there! house, house!\" gave intimation that\nthe rider sought admittance.\n\n\"Who can this be?\" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which,\nhowever, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying--\n\n\"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit\nvisitors. Who can tell who they may be?\"\n\n\"And who cares who they may be?\" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing\nhimself out of bed. \"I'll just see how they look from the window, Mary;\"\nand he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and saw\nbeneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black horse,\nwith a lady seated behind him.\n\n\"Dreadful night, friend,\" said the stranger, looking up to the window\noccupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the noise\nmade in raising it. \"Can you give my fellow-traveller here shelter till\nthe morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched with wet, and so\nexhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that she can proceed no\nfurther; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to make out.\"\n\n\"This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers,\"\nreplied the farmer. \"I am not in the habit of admitting strangers into\nmy house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this.\"\n\n\"Had I been asking for myself,\" rejoined the horseman, \"I should not\nhave complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish as\nrefuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce retain\nher seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid for any\ntrouble you may be put to.\"\n\n\"Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am\nindeed very much fatigued,\" came up to the ear of Henderson, in feeble\nbut silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman, with the\naddition, after a short pause, of \"You shall be well rewarded for the\nkindness.\"\n\nAt a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but, scratching\nhis head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his wife.\n\nLearning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this\ncircumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to be\nintended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance, to her\nhusband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be admitted.\n\nOn this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window, and\nthrusting out his head, exclaimed, \"Wait there a moment, and I will\nadmit you.\"\n\nIn the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped out\nto assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this courtesy\nby her companion, who had already placed her on the ground.\n\n\"Shall I put up your horse, sir?\" said Henderson, addressing the\nstranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress\nand manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more closely,\nhe had no doubt he was a man of rank.\n\n\"Oh no, thank you, friend,\" replied the latter. \"My business is\npressing, and I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady to\nyour kindest attention. To-morrow I will return and carry her away.\"\n\nSaying this, he again threw himself on his horse--a noble-looking\ncharger--took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and\nregardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the night,\ndarted off with the speed of the wind.\n\nIn an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but\ntheir furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they had\ndisappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce\ncollision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was\ntearing his way with such desperate velocity.\n\nHenderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the house,\nand had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now risen for the\npurpose of attending her.\n\nA servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on the\nhearth of the best apartment in the house--that into which the strange\nlady had been ushered.\n\nThe kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with dry\nclothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power to\nrender her as comfortable as possible.\n\nTo this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted her;\nbut an additional motive presented itself in the youth and extreme\nbeauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife afterwards\nremarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes ever beheld.\nNor was her manner less captivating: it was mild and gentle, while the\nsweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an additional charm to the\ngraces of her person.\n\nHer apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest\ndescription; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the shape\nof rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after another on\na table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of one\naccustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great value.\n\nA purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound indicated,\nwas likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent manner.\n\nThe wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the eyes\nof her humble, unsophisticated attendant.\n\nThe comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the\noffer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely\npartook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone in\nthe apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room\ncontaining a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for\nstrangers.\n\nOn rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and\nearnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who or\nwhat the strangers could be. They supposed, they conjectured, they\nimagined, but all to no purpose. They could make nothing of it beyond\nthe conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural\npoliteness of the \"guidwife\" had prevented her asking the young lady any\nquestions touching her history; and she had made no communication\nwhatever on the subject herself.\n\nAs to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one of\nthe family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall, dark\nman, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak, that he\ncould not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme darkness of the\nnight, make out his features distinctly.\n\nHenderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his\ndeparture, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which he\nhad ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of all\nobstacles that might be in the way.\n\nIt was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of the\nground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great marvel he\nheld it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards without horse\nand man coming down, to the utter destruction of both.\n\nSuch was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife\nregarding the horseman. The latter's to him was of the youth and\nexceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently prodigious\nwealth. The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and looks of excessive\nwonderment, her glowing descriptions of the sparkling jewels and heavily\nladen purse which she had seen the strange lady deposit on the table;\nand greatly did these descriptions add to his perplexity as to who or\nwhat this lady could possibly be.\n\nTired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest,\ntrusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which so\nsadly puzzled them.\n\nIn due time that morning came, and, like many of those mornings that\nsucceed a night of storm, it came fair and beautiful. The wind was laid,\nthe rain had ceased, and the unclouded sun poured his cheerful light\nthrough the dark green glades of the Torwood.\n\nOn the same morning another sun arose, although to shine on a more\nlimited scene. This was the fair guest of David Henderson of Woodlands,\nwhose beauty, remarkable as it had seemed on the previous night under\nall disadvantages, now appeared to surpass all that can be conceived of\nfemale perfection.\n\nMrs. Henderson looked, and, we may say, gazed on the fair stranger with\na degree of wonder and delight, that for some time prevented her\ntendering the civilities which she came for the express purpose of\noffering. For some seconds she could do nothing but obey a species of\ncharm, for which, perhaps, she could not have very well accounted. The\ngentle smile, too, and melodious voice of her guest, seemed still more\nfascinating than on the previous evening.\n\nIn the meantime the day wore on, and there was yet no appearance of the\nlady's companion of the former night, who, as the reader will\nrecollect, had promised to Henderson to return and carry away his fair\nlodger.\n\nNight came, and still he appeared not. Another day and another night\npassed away, and still he of the black charger was not forthcoming.\n\nThe circumstance greatly surprised both Henderson and his wife; but it\ndid not surprise them more than the lady's apparent indifference on the\nsubject. She indeed joined, in words at least, in the wonder which they\nonce or twice distantly hinted at the conduct of the recreant knight;\nbut it was evident that she did not feel much of either astonishment or\ndisappointment at his delay.\n\nAgain and again, another and another day came and passed away, and still\nno one appeared to inquire after the fair inmate of Woodlands.\n\nIt will readily be believed that the surprise of Henderson and his wife\nat this circumstance increased with the lapse of time. It certainly did.\nBut however much they might be surprised, they had little reason to\ncomplain, so far, at any rate, as their interest was concerned, for\ntheir fair lodger paid them handsomely for the trouble she put them to.\nShe dealt out the contents of her ample and well-stocked purse with\nunsparing liberality, besides presenting her hostess with several\nvaluable jewels.\n\nOn this score, therefore, they had nothing to complain of; and neither\nneeded to care, nor did care, how long it continued.\n\nDuring all this time the unknown beauty continued to maintain the most\nprofound silence regarding her history,--whence she had come, whither\nshe was going, or in what relation the person stood to her who had\nbrought her to Woodlands, and who now seemed to have deserted her.\n\nAll that the most ingeniously-put queries on the subject could elicit\nwas, that she was an entire stranger in that part of the country; and an\nassurance that the person who brought her would return for her one day,\nalthough there were reasons why it might be some little time distant.\n\nWhat these reasons were, however, she never would give the most remote\nidea; and with this measure of information were her host and hostess\ncompelled to remain satisfied.\n\nThe habits of the fair stranger, in the meantime, were extremely\nretired. She would never go abroad until towards the dusk of the\nevening; and when she did, she always took the most sequestered routes;\nher favourite, indeed only resort on these occasions, being a certain\nlittle retired grove of elms, at the distance of about a quarter of a\nmile from Woodlands.\n\nThe extreme caution the young lady observed in all her movements when\nshe went abroad, a good deal surprised both Henderson and his wife; but,\nfrom a feeling of delicacy towards their fair lodger, who had won their\nesteem by her affable and amiable manners, they avoided all remark on\nthe subject, and would neither themselves interfere in any way with her\nproceedings, nor allow any other member of their family to do so.\n\nThus was she permitted to go out and return whensoever she pleased,\nwithout inquiry or remark.\n\nAlthough, however, neither Henderson nor his wife would allow of any one\nwatching the motions of their fair but mysterious lodger when she went\nabroad, there is nothing to hinder us from doing this. We shall\ntherefore follow her to the little elm grove by the wayside, on a\ncertain evening two or three days after her arrival in Woodlands.\n\nDoing this, we shall find the mysterious stranger seated beside a clear\nsparkling fountain, situated a little way within the grove, that, first\nforming itself into a little pellucid lake in the midst of the\ngreensward, afterwards glided away down a mossy channel bedecked with\nprimroses.\n\nAll alone by this fountain sat the young lady, looking, in her\nsurpassing features and the exquisite symmetry of her light and graceful\nform, the very nymph of the crystal waters of the spring--the goddess of\nthe grove.\n\nAs she thus sat on the evening in question--it being now towards the\ndusk--the bushes, by which the fountain was in part shut in, were\nsuddenly and roughly parted, and in the next moment a young man of\nelegant exterior, attired in the best fashion of the period, and leading\na horse behind him by the bridle, stood before the half-alarmed and\nblushing damsel.\n\nThe embarrassment of the lady, however, was not much greater than that\nof the intruder, who appeared to have little expected to find so fair\nand delicate a creature in such a situation, or indeed to find any one\nelse. He himself had sought the fountain, which he knew well, and had\noften visited, merely to quench his thirst.\n\nAfter contemplating each other for an instant with looks of surprise and\nembarrassment, the stranger doffed his bonnet with an air of great\ngallantry, and apologised for his intrusion.\n\nThe lady, smiling and blushing, replied, that his appearance there could\nbe no intrusion, as the place was free to all.\n\n\"True, madam,\" said the former, again bowing low; \"but your presence\nshould have made it sacred, and I should have so deemed it, had I been\naware of your being here.\"\n\nThe only reply of the young lady to this gallant speech, was a profound\ncurtsey, and a smile of winning sweetness which was natural to her.\n\nUnable to withdraw himself from the fascinations of the fair stranger,\nyet without any apology for remaining longer where he was, the young man\nappeared for a moment not to know precisely what he should say or do\nnext. At length, however, after having vainly hinted a desire to know\nthe young lady's name and place of residence, his courtesy prevailed\nover every other more selfish feeling, and he mounted his horse, and,\nbidding the fair wood-nymph a respectful adieu, rode off.\n\nThe young gallant, however, did not carry all away with him that he\nbrought,--he left his heart behind him; and he had not ridden far before\nhe found that he had done so.\n\nThe surpassing beauty of the fair stranger, and the captivating\nsweetness of her manner, had made an impression upon him which was\ndestined never to be effaced.\n\nHis, in short, was one of those cases in the matter of love, which, it\nis said, are laughed at in France, doubted in England, and true only of\nthe warm-tempered sons and daughters of the sunny south,--love at first\nsight.\n\nIt was so. From that hour the image of the lovely nymph of the grove was\nto remain for ever enshrined in the inmost heart of the young cavalier.\n\nHe had met with no encouragement to follow up the accidental\nacquaintance he had made. Indeed, the lady's reluctance to give him any\ninformation whatever as to her name or residence, he could not but\nconsider as an indirect intimation that she desired no further\ncorrespondence with him.\n\nBut, recollecting the old adage, that \"faint heart never won fair lady,\"\nhe resolved, although unbidden, to seek, very soon again, the fountain\nin the elm grove.\n\nHaving brought our story to this point, we shall retrace our steps a\nlittle way, and take note of certain incidents that occurred in the city\nof Glasgow on the day after the visit of him of the black charger at\nWoodlands.\n\nEarly on the forenoon of that day, the Drygate, then one of the\nprincipal streets of the city above named, exhibited an unusual degree\nof stir and bustle.\n\nThe causeway was thronged with idlers, who were ever and anon dashed\naside, like the wave that is thrown from the prow of a vessel, by some\nprancing horseman, who made his way towards an open space formed by the\njunction of three different streets.\n\nAt this point were mustering a band of riders, consisting of the civil\nauthorities of the city, together with a number of its principal\ninhabitants, and other gentlemen from the neighbourhood.\n\nThe horsemen were all attired in their best,--hat and feathers, long\ncloaks of Flemish broad-cloth, and glittering steel-handed rapiers by\ntheir sides.\n\nHaving mustered to about the number of thirty, they formed themselves\ninto something like regular order, and seemed now to be but awaiting the\nword to march. And it was indeed so; but they were also awaiting he who\nwas to give it. They waited the appearance of their leader. A shout from\nthe populace soon after announced his approach.\n\n\"The Provost! the Provost!\" exclaimed a hundred voices at once, as a man\nof large stature, and of a bold and martial bearing, mounted on a\n\"coal-black steed,\" came prancing alongst the Drygate-head, and made for\nthe point at which the horsemen were assembled.\n\nOn his approach, the latter doffed their hats respectfully--a civility\nwhich was gracefully returned by him to whom it was addressed.\n\nTaking his place at the head of the cavalcade, the Provost gave the word\nto march, when the whole party moved onwards; and after cautiously\nfooting it down the steep and ill-paved descent of the Drygate, took, at\na slow pace, the road towards Hamilton.\n\nThe chief magistrate of Glasgow, who led the party of horsemen on the\npresent occasion, was Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod,--a powerful and\nwealthy baron of the neighbourhood, who had been chosen to that\nappointment, as all chief magistrates were chosen in those wild and\nturbulent times, on account of his ability to protect the inhabitants\nfrom those insults and injuries to which they were constantly liable at\nthe hands of unprincipled power, and from which the laws were too feeble\nto shield them.\n\nAnd to better hands than those of Sir Robert Lindsay, who was a man of\nbold and determined character, the welfare of the city and the safety of\nthe citizens could not have been entrusted.\n\nIn return for the honour conferred on him, and the confidence reposed in\nhim, he watched over the interests of the city with the utmost\nvigilance. But it was not to the general interest alone that he confined\nthe benefits of his guardianship. Individuals, also, who were wronged,\nor threatened to be wronged, found in him a ready and efficient\nprotector, let the oppressor or wrongdoer be whom he might.\n\nHaving given this brief sketch of the leader of the cavalcade, we resume\nthe detail of its proceedings.\n\nHolding on its way in a south-easterly direction, the party soon reached\nand passed Rutherglen Bridge; the road connecting Hamilton with Glasgow\nbeing then on the south side of the Clyde. But a little way farther had\nthey proceeded, when the faint sound of a bugle was heard, coming\napparently from a considerable distance.\n\n\"There he comes at last,\" said Sir David Lindsay, suddenly checking his\nhorse to await the coming up of his party, of which he had been riding a\nlittle way in advance, immersed in a brown study. \"There he comes at\nlast,\" he exclaimed, recalled from his reverie by the sound of the\nbugle. \"Look to your paces, gentlemen, and let us show some order and\nregularity as well as respect.\"\n\nObeying this hint, the horsemen, who had been before jogging along in a\nconfused and careless manner, now drew together into a closer body; the\nlaggards coming forward, and those in advance holding back.\n\nIn this order, with the Provost at their head, the party continued to\nmove slowly onwards; but they had not done so for many minutes, when\nthey descried, at the farther extremity of a long level reach of the\nroad, a numerous party of horse approaching at a rapid, ambling pace,\nand seemingly straining hard to keep up with one who rode a little way\nin their front.\n\nThe contrast between this party and the Provost's was striking enough.\n\nThe latter, though exceedingly respectable and citizen-like, was of\nextremely sober hue compared to the former, in which flaunted all the\ngayest dresses of the gayest courtiers of the time. Long plumes of\nfeathers waved and nodded in velvet bonnets, looped with gold bands; and\nrich and brilliant colours, mingling with the glitter of steel and\nsilver, gave to the gallant cavalcade at once an imposing and\nmagnificent appearance. In point of horsemanship, too, with the\nexception of Sir Robert Lindsay himself, and one or two other men of\nrank who had joined his party, the approaching cavaliers greatly\nsurpassed the worthy citizens of St. Mungo,--coming on at a showy and\ndashing pace, while the latter kept advancing with the sober, steady\ngait assimilative of their character.\n\nOn the two parties coming within about fifty paces of each other, Sir\nRobert Lindsay made a signal to his followers to halt, while he himself\nrode forward, hat in hand, towards the leader of the opposite party.\n\n\"Our good Sir Robert of Dunrod,\" said the latter, who was no other than\nJames V., advancing half-way to meet the Provost, and taking him kindly\nand familiarly by the hand as he spoke. \"How did'st learn of our\ncoming?\"\n\n\"The movements of kings are not easily kept secret,\" replied Sir Robert,\nevasively.\n\n\"By St. Bridget, it would seem not,\" replied James, laughingly. \"My\nvisit to your good city, Sir Robert, I did not mean to be a formal one,\nand therefore had mentioned it only to one or two. In truth,\nI--I\"--added James, with some embarrassment of manner--\"I had just one\nparticular purpose, and that of a private nature, in view. No state\nmatter at all, Sir Robert--nothing of a public character. So that, to be\nplain with you, Sir Robert, I could have dispensed with the honour you\nhave done me in bringing out these good citizens to receive me; that\nbeing, I presume, your purpose. Not but that I should have been most\nhappy to meet yourself, Sir Robert; but it was quite unnecessary to\ntrouble these worthy people.\"\n\n\"It was our bounden duty, your Grace,\" replied Sir Robert, not at all\ndisconcerted by this royal damper on his loyalty. \"It was our bounden\nduty, on learning that your Grace was at Bothwell Castle, and that you\nintended visiting our poor town of Glasgow, to acknowledge the favour\nin the best way in our power. And these worthy gentlemen and myself\ncould think of no better than coming out to meet and welcome your\nGrace.\"\n\n\"Well, well, since it is so, Sir Robert,\" replied the king,\ngood-humouredly, \"we shall take the kindness as it is meant. Let us\nproceed.\"\n\nRiding side by side, and followed by their respective parties, James and\nthe Provost now resumed their progress towards Glasgow, where they\nshortly after arrived, and where they were received with noisy\nacclamations by the populace, whom rumour had informed of the king's\napproach.\n\nOn reaching the city, the latter proceeded to the Bishop's Castle,--an\nedifice which has long since disappeared, but which at this time stood\non or near the site of the infirmary,--in which he intended taking up\nhis residence.\n\nHaving seen the king within the castle gates, his citizen escort\ndispersed, and sought their several homes; going off, in twos and\nthrees, in different directions.\n\n\"Ken ye, Sir Robert, what has brought his Grace here at present?\" said\nan old wealthy merchant, who had been one of the cavalcade that went to\nmeet James, and whom the Provost overtook as he was leisurely jogging\ndown the High Street, on his way home.\n\n\"Hem,\" ejaculated Sir Robert. \"Perhaps I have half a guess, Mr, Morton.\nThe king visits places on very particular sorts of errands sometimes.\nHis Grace didn't above half thank us for our attendance to-day. He would\nrather have got somewhat more quietly into the city; but I had reasons\nfor desiring it to be otherwise, so did not mind his hints about his\nwish for privacy.\"\n\n\"And no doubt he had his reasons for the privacy he hinted at,\" said Sir\nRobert's companion.\n\n\"You may swear that,\" replied the latter, laughingly.\n\n\"Heard ye ever, Mr. Morton, of a certain fair and wealthy young lady of\nthe name of Jessie Craig?\"\n\n\"John Craig's daughter?\" rejoined the old merchant.\n\n\"The same,\" said Sir Robert. \"The prettiest girl in Scotland, and one of\nthe wealthiest too.\"\n\n\"Well; what if the king should have been smitten with her beauty, having\nseen her accidentally in Edinburgh, where she was lately? and what, if\nhis visit to Glasgow just now should be for the express purpose of\nseeing this fair maiden? and what, if I should not exactly approve of\nsuch a proceeding, seeing that the young lady in question has, as you\nknow, neither father nor mother to protect her, both being dead?\"\n\n\"Well, Sir Robert, and what then?\" here interposed Mr. Morton, availing\nhimself of a pause in the former's supposititious case.\n\n\"Why, then, wouldn't it be my bounden duty, worthy sir, as Provost of\nthis city, to act the part of guardian towards this young maiden in such\nemergency, and to see that she came by no wrong?\"\n\n\"Truly, it would be a worthy part, Sir Robert,\" replied the old\nmerchant; \"but the king is strong, and you may not resist him openly.\"\n\n\"Nay, that I would not attempt,\" replied the Provost. \"I have taken\nquieter and more effectual measures. Made aware, though somewhat late,\nthrough a trusty channel, of the king's intended visit and its purpose,\nI have removed her out of the reach of danger, to where his Grace will,\nI rather think, have some difficulty in finding her.\"\n\n\"So, so. And this, then, is the true secret of the honour which has just\nbeen conferred on us!\" replied Sir Robert's companion, with some\nindignation. \"But the matter is in good hands when it is in yours,\nProvost. In your keeping we consider our honours and our interests are\nsafe. I wish you a good day, Provost.\" And the interlocutors having by\nthis time arrived at the foot of the High Street, where four streets\njoined, the old merchant took that which conducted to his residence, Sir\nRobert's route lying in an opposite direction.\n\nFrom the conversation just recorded, the reader will at once trace a\nconnection between Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod and he of the black\ncharger who brought to Woodlands the fair damsel whom we left there.\nThey were the same; and that fair damsel was the daughter of John Craig,\nlate merchant of the city of Glasgow, who left an immense fortune, of\nwhich this girl was the sole heir.\n\nIn carrying the young lady to Woodlands, and leaving her there, Sir\nRobert, although apparently under the compulsion of circumstances, was\nacting advisedly. He knew Henderson to be a man of excellent character\nand great respectability; and in the secrecy and mystery he observed, he\nsought to preclude all possibility of his interference in the affair\never reaching the ears of the king. What he had told to old Morton, he\nknew would go no further; that person having been an intimate friend of\nthe young lady's father, and of course interested in all that concerned\nher welfare.\n\nThe palace of a bishop was not very appropriate quarters for one who\ncame on such an errand as that which brought James to Glasgow. But this\nwas a circumstance that did not give much concern to that merry and\nsomewhat eccentric monarch; and the less so, that the bishop himself\nhappened to be from home at the time, on a visit to his brother of St.\nAndrews.\n\nHaving the house thus to himself, James did not hesitate to make as free\nuse of it as if he had been at Holyrood.\n\nIt was not many hours after his arrival at the castle, that he summoned\nto his presence a certain trusty attendant of the name of William\nBuchanan, and thus schooled him in the duties of a particular mission in\nwhich he desired his services.\n\n\"Willie,\" said the good-humoured monarch, \"at the further end of the\nRottenrow of this good city of Glasgow--that is, at the western end of\nthe said row--there stands a fair mansion on the edge of the brae, and\noverlooking the strath of the Clyde. It is the residence of a certain\nfair young lady of the name of Craig. Now, Willie, what I desire of you\nto do is this: you will go to this young lady from me, carrying her this\ngold ring, and say to her that I intend, with her permission, doing\nmyself the honour of paying her a visit in the course of this afternoon.\n\n\"Make your observations, Willie, and let me know how the land lies when\nyou return. But, pray thee, keep out of the way of our worthy knight of\nDunrod; and if thou shouldst chance to meet him, and he should question\nthee, seeing that you wear our livery, breathe no syllable of what thou\nart about, otherwise he may prove somewhat troublesome to both of us. At\nany rate, to a certainty, he would crop thy ears, Willie; and thou\nknowest, king though I be, I could not put them on again, nor give thee\nanother pair in their stead. So keep those thou hast out of the hands of\nSir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod, I pray thee.\"\n\nCharged with his mission, Willie, who had been often employed on matters\nof this kind before, proceeded to the street with the unsavoury name\nalready mentioned; but, not knowing exactly where to find the house he\nwanted, he looked around him to see if he could see any one to whom he\nmight apply for information. There happened to be nobody on the street\nat the time; but his eye at length fell on an old weaver--as, from the\nshort green apron he wore, he appeared to be--standing at a door.\n\nTowards this person Willie now advanced, discarding, however, as much as\npossible, all appearance of having any particular object in view; for he\nprided himself on the caution and dexterity with which he managed all\nsuch matters as that he was now engaged in.\n\n\"Fine day, honest man,\" said Willie, approaching the old weaver. \"Gran\nwather for the hairst.\"\n\n\"It's just that, noo,\" replied the old man, gazing at Willie with a look\nof inquiry. \"Just uncommon pleesant wather.\"\n\n\"A bit nice airy place up here,\" remarked the latter.\n\n\"Ou ay, weel aneuch for that,\" replied the weaver. \"But air 'll no fill\nthe wame.\"\n\n\"No very substantially,\" said Willie. \"Some gran hooses up here, though.\nWha's is that?\" and he pointed to a very handsome mansion-house\nopposite.\n\n\"That's the rector o' Hamilton's,\" replied the weaver.\n\n\"And that are there?\"\n\n\"That's the rector o' Carstairs'.\"\n\n\"And that?\"\n\n\"That's the rector o' Erskine's.\"\n\n\"'Od, but ye do leeve in a godly neighbourhood here,\" said Willie,\nimpatient with these clerical iterations. \"Do a' the best houses hereawa\nbelang to the clergy?\"\n\n\"Indeed, the maist feck o' them,\" said the weaver. \"Leave ye them alane\nfor that. The best o' everything fa's to their share.\"\n\n\"Yonder's anither handsome hoose, noo,\" said Willie, pointing to one he\nhad not yet indicated. \"Does yon belang to the clergy too?\"\n\n\"Ou no; yon's the late Mr. Craig's,\" replied the weaver; \"ane o' oor\nwalthiest merchants, wha died some time ago.\"\n\n\"Ou ay,\" said Willie, drily; \"just sae. Gude mornin', friend.\" And\nthinking he had managed his inquiries very dexterously, he sauntered\nslowly away--still assuming to have no special object in view--towards\nthe particular house just spoken of, and which, we need not say, was\nprecisely the one he wanted.\n\nIt was a large isolated building, with an extensive garden behind, and\nstretching down the face of what is now called the Deanside Brae. On the\nside next the street, the entrance was by a tall, narrow, iron gate.\nThis gate Willie now approached, but found it locked hard and fast.\nFinding this, he bawled out, at the top of his voice, for some one to\ncome to him. After a time, an old woman made her appearance, and, in no\nvery pleasant mood, asked him what he wanted.\n\n\"I hae a particular message, frae a very particular person, to the young\nleddy o' this hoose,\" replied Willie.\n\n\"Ye maun gang and seek the young leddy o' this hoose ither whars than\nhere, then,\" said the old dame, making back to the house again, without\nintending any further communication on the subject.\n\n\"Do ye mean to say that she's no in the hoose?\" shouted Willie.\n\n\"Ay, I mean to say that, and mair too,\" replied the old crone. \"She\nhasna been in't for a gey while, and winna be in't for a guid while\nlanger; and sae ye may tell them that sent ye.\"\n\nSaying this, she passed into the house; and by doing so, would have put\nan end to all further conference.\n\nBut Willie was not to be thus baffled in his object. Changing his\ntactics from the imperative to the wheedling, in which last he believed\nhimself to be exceedingly dexterous--\n\n\"Mistress--I say, Mistress,\" he shouted, in a loud, but coaxing tone;\n\"speak a word, woman--just a word or two. Ye maybe winna fare the waur\no't.\"\n\nWhether it was the hint conveyed in the last clause of Willie's address,\nor that the old woman felt some curiosity to hear what so urgent a\nvisitor had to say, she returned to the door, where, standing fast, and\nlooking across the courtyard at Willie, whose sly though simple-looking\nface was pressed against the iron bars of the outer gate, she replied to\nhim with a--\n\n\"Weel, man, what is't ye want?\"\n\n\"Tuts, woman, come across--come across,\" said Willie, wagging her\ntowards him with his forefinger. \"I canna be roarin' out what I hae to\nsay to ye a' that distance. I micht as weel cry it oot at the cross.\nSee, there's something to bring ye a wee nearer.\"\n\nAnd he held out several small silver coin through the bars of the gate.\nThe production of the cash had the desired effect. The old woman, who\nwas lame, and who walked by the aid of a short thick stick with a\ncrooked head, hobbled towards him, and, having accepted the proffered\ncoin, again asked, though with much more civility than before, what it\nwas he wanted?\n\n\"Tuts, woman, open the yett,\" said Willie in his cagiest manner, \"and\nI'll tell ye a' aboot it. It's hardly ceevil to be keeping a body\nspeakin' this way wi' his nose thrust through atwixt twa cauld bars o'\nairn, like a rattin atween a pair o' tangs.\"\n\n\"Some folks are safest that way, though,\" replied the old woman, with\nsomething like an attempt at a laugh. \"Bars o' airn are amang the best\nfreens we hae sometimes. But as ye seem a civil sort o' a chiel, after\na', I'll let ye in, although I dinna see what ye'll be the better o'\nthat.\"\n\nSo saying, she took a large iron key from her girdle, inserted it in the\nlock, and in the next moment the gate grated on its hinges; yielding\npartly to the pressure of Willie from without, and partly to the\nco-operative efforts of the old woman from within.\n\n\"Noo,\" said Willie, on gaining the interior of the courtyard--\"Noo,\" he\nsaid, affecting his most coaxing manner, \"you and me 'll hae a bit crack\nthegither, guidwife.\"\n\nAnd, sitting down on a stone bench that ran along the front of the\nhouse, he motioned to the old lady to take a seat beside him, which she\ndid.\n\n\"I understand, guidwife,\" began Willie, who meant to be very cunning in\nhis mode of procedure, \"that she's just an uncommon bonny leddy your\nmistress; just wonderfu'.\"\n\n\"Whaever tell't ye that, didna misinform ye,\" replied the old woman\ndrily.\n\n\"And has mints o' siller?\" rejoined Mr. Buchanan.\n\n\"No ill aff in that way either,\" said the old woman.\n\n\"But it's her beauty--it's her extraordinary beauty--that's the wonder,\nand that I hear everybody speakin' aboot,\" said Willie. \"I wad gie the\nprice o' sax fat hens to see her. Could ye no get me a glisk o' her ony\nway, just for ae minute?\"\n\n\"Didna I tell ye before that she's no at hame?\" said the old dame,\nthreatening again to get restive on Willie's hands.\n\n\"Od, so ye did; I forgot,\" said Mr. Buchanan, affecting obliviousness of\nthe fact. \"Whaur may she be noo?\" he added in his simplest and\n_couthiest_ manner.\n\n\"Wad ye like to ken?\" replied the old lady with a satirical sneer.\n\n\"'Deed wad I; and there's mae than me wad like to ken,\" replied Willie;\n\"and them that wad pay handsomely for the information.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said the old dame, with a continuation of the same sneer, and\nlong ere this guessing what Willie was driving at. \"And wha may they be\nnoo, if I may speer?\"\n\n\"They're gey kenspeckled,\" replied Mr. Buchanan; \"but that doesna\nmatter. If ye canna, or winna tell me whaur Mistress Craig is, could ye\nno gie's a bit inklin' o' whan ye expect her hame?\"\n\n\"No; but I'll gie ye a bit inklin o' whan ye'll walk oot o' this,\" said\nthe old woman, rising angrily from her seat; \"and that's this minute, or\nI'll set the dug on ye. Hisk, hisk--Teeger, Teeger!\"\n\nAnd a huge black dog came bouncing out of the house, and took up a\nposition right in front of Willie; wagging his tail, as if in\nanticipation of a handsome treat in the way of worrying that worthy.\n\n\"Gude sake, woman,\" said Willie, rising in great alarm from his seat,\nand edging towards the outer gate--\"What's a' this for? Ye wadna set\nthat brute on a Christian cratur, wad ye?\"\n\n\"Wadna I? Ye'd better no try me, frien', but troop aff wi' ye. Teeger,\"\nshe added, with a significant look. The dog understood it, and,\nspringing on Willie, seized him by one of the skirts of his coat, which,\nwith one powerful tug, he at once separated from the body.\n\nPressed closely upon by both the dog and his mistress, Willie keeping,\nhowever, his face to the foe, now retreated towards the gate, when, just\nat the moment of his making his exit, the old lady, raising her staff,\nhit him a parting blow, which, taking effect on the bridge of his nose,\nimmediately enlarged the dimensions of that organ, besides drawing forth\na copious stream of claret. In the next instant the gate was shut and\nlocked in the sufferer's face.\n\n\"Confound ye, ye auld limmer,\" shouted Willie furiously, and shaking his\nfist through the bars of the gate as he spoke, \"if I had ye here on the\noutside o' the yett, as ye're in the in, if I wadna baste the auld hide\no' ye. But my name's no Willie Buchanan if I dinna gar ye rue this job\nyet, some way or anither.\"\n\nTo these objurgations of the discomfited messenger the old lady deigned\nno word of answer, but merely shaking her head, and indulging in a\npretty broad smile of satisfaction, hobbled into the house, followed by\nTiger, wagging his tail, as much as to say, \"I think we've given yon\nfellow a fright, mistress.\"\n\nDistracted with indignation and resentment, Willie hastened back to the\ncastle, and, too much excited to think of his outward appearance,\nhurried into the royal presence with his skirtless coat and disfigured\ncountenance, which he had by no means improved by sundry wipes with the\nsleeve of his coat.\n\nOn Willie making his appearance in this guise, the merry monarch looked\nat him for an instant in silent amazement, then burst into an\nincontrollable fit of laughter, which the grave, serious look of Willie\nshowed he by no means relished. There was even a slight expression of\nresentment in the manner in which the maltreated messenger bore the\nmerry reception of his light-hearted master.\n\n\"Willie, man,\" at length said James, when his mirth had somewhat\nsubsided, \"what's this has happened thee? Where gottest thou that\nenormous nose, man?\"\n\n\"Feth, your Majesty, it may be a joke to you, but it's unco little o'\nane to me,\" replied Willie, whose confidential duties and familiar\nintercourse with his royal master had led him to assume a freedom of\nspeech which was permitted to no other, and which no other would have\ndared to attempt.\n\n\"I hae gotten sic a worryin' the day,\" he continued, \"as I never got in\nmy life before. Between dugs and auld wives, I hae had a bonny time o't.\nWorried by the tane and smashed by the tither, as my nose and my\ncoat-tails bear witness.\"\n\n\"Explain yourself, Willie. What does all this mean?\" exclaimed James,\nagain laughing.\n\nWillie told his story, finishing with the information that the bird was\nflown--meaning Jessie Craig. \"Aff and awa, naebody kens, or'll tell\nwhaur.\"\n\n\"Off--away!\" exclaimed the king, with an air of mingled disappointment\nand surprise. \"Very odd,\" he added, musingly; \"and most particularly\nunlucky. But we shall wait on a day or two, and she will probably\nreappear in that time; or we may find out where she has gone to.\"\n\nOn the day following that on which the incidents just related occurred,\nthe curiosity of the good people in the neighbourhood of the late Mr.\nCraig's house in Rottenrow was a good deal excited by seeing a person in\nthe dress of a gentleman hovering about the residence just alluded to.\n\nAnon he would walk to and fro in front of the house, looking earnestly\ntowards the windows. Now he would descend the Deanside Brae, and do the\nsame by those behind. Again he would return to the front of the mansion,\nand taking up his station on the opposite side of the street, would\nresume his scrutiny of the windows.\n\nThe stranger was thus employed, when he was startled by the appearance\nof some one advancing towards him, whom, it was evident, he would fain\nhave avoided if he could. But it was too late. There was no escape. So,\nassuming an air of as much composure and indifference as he could, he\nawaited the approach of the unwelcome intruder. This person was Sir\nRobert Lindsay.\n\nComing up to the stranger with a respectful air, and with an expression\nof countenance as free from all consciousness as that which had been\nassumed by the former--\n\n\"I hope your Grace is well?\" he said, bowing profoundly as he spoke.\n\n\"Thank you, Provost--thank you,\" replied James; for we need hardly say\nit was he.\n\n\"Your Grace has doubtless come hither,\" said the former gravely, \"to\nenjoy the delightful view which this eminence commands?\"\n\n\"The precise purpose, Sir Robert,\" replied James, recovering a little\nfrom the embarrassment which, after all his efforts, he could not\nentirely conceal. \"The view is truly a fine one, Provost,\" continued the\nking. \"I had no idea that your good city could boast of anything so fair\nin the way of landscape. Our city of Edinburgh hath more romantic points\nabout it; but for calm and tranquil beauty, methinks it hath nothing\nsuperior to the scene commanded by this eminence.\"\n\n\"There are some particular localities on the ridge of the hill here,\nhowever,\" said Sir Robert, \"that exhibit the landscape to much better\nadvantage than others, and to which, taking it for granted that your\nGrace is not over-familiar with the ground, it will afford me much\npleasure to conduct you.\"\n\n\"Ah! thank you, good Sir Robert--thank you,\" replied James. \"But some\nother day, if you please. The little spare time I had on my hands is\nabout exhausted, so that I must return to the castle. I have, as you\nknow, Sir Robert, to give audience to some of your worthy councillors,\nwho intend honouring me with a visit.\n\n\"Amongst the number I will expect to see yourself, Sir Robert.\" And\nJames, after politely returning the loyal obeisance of the Provost,\nhurried away towards the castle.\n\nOn his departure, the latter stood for a moment, and looked after him\nwith a smile of peculiar intelligence; then muttered, as he also left\nthe spot--\n\n\"Well do I know what it was brought your Grace to this quarter of the\ntown; and knowing this, I know it was for anything but the sake of its\nview. Fair maidens have more attractions in your eyes than all the views\nbetween this and John o'Groat's. But I have taken care that your pursuit\nin the present instance will avail thee little.\" And the good Provost\nwent on his way.\n\nFor eight entire days after this did James wait in Glasgow for the\nreturn of Jessie Craig; but he waited in vain. Neither in that time\ncould he learn anything whatever of the place of her sojournment. His\npatience at length exhausted, he determined on giving up the pursuit for\nthe time at any rate, and on quitting the city.\n\nThe king, as elsewhere casually mentioned, had come last from Bothwell\nCastle. It was now his intention to proceed to Stirling, where he\nproposed stopping for two or three weeks; thence to Linlithgow, and\nthereafter returning to Edinburgh.\n\nThe purpose of James to make this round having reached the ears of a\ncertain Sir James Crawford of Netherton, whose house and estate lay\nabout half-way between Glasgow and Stirling, that gentleman sent a\nrespectful message to James, through Sir Robert Lindsay, to the effect\nthat he would feel much gratified if his Grace would deign to honour his\npoor house of Netherton with a visit in passing, and accept for himself\nand followers such refreshment as he could put before them.\n\nTo this message James returned a gracious answer, saying that he would\nhave much pleasure in accepting the invitation so kindly sent him, and\nnaming the day and hour when he would put the inviter's hospitality to\nthe test.\n\nFaithful to his promise, the king and his retinue, amongst whom was now\nSir Robert Lindsay, who had been included in the invitation, presented\nthemselves at Netherton gate about noon on the day that had been named.\n\nThey were received with all honour by the proprietor, a young man of\nprepossessing appearance, graceful manners, and frank address.\n\nOn the king and gentlemen of his train entering the house, they were\nushered into a large banqueting hall, where was an ample table spread\nwith the choicest edibles, and glittering with the silver goblets and\nflagons that stood around it in thick array. Everything, in short,\nbetokened at once the loyalty and great wealth of the royal party's\nentertainer.\n\nThe king and his followers having taken their places at table, the\nfullest measure of justice was quickly done to the good things with\nwhich it was spread. James was in high spirits, and talked and rattled\naway with as much glee and as entire an absence of all kingly reserve as\nthe humblest good fellow in his train.\n\nEncouraged by the affability of the king, and catching his humour, the\nwhole party gave way to the most unrestrained mirth. The joke and the\njest went merrily round with the wine flagon; and he was for a time the\nbest man who could start the most jocund theme.\n\nIt was while this spirit prevailed that Sir Robert Lindsay, after making\na private signal to Sir James Crawford, which had the effect of causing\nhim to quit the apartment on pretence of looking for something he\nwanted, addressing the king, said--\n\n\"May I take the liberty of asking your Grace if you have seen any\nparticularly fair maidens in the course of your present peregrinations?\nI know your Grace has a good taste in these matters.\"\n\nJames coloured a little at this question and the remark which\naccompanied it; but quickly regaining his self-possession and\ngood-humour--\n\n\"No, Sir Robert,\" he said, laughingly, \"I cannot say that I have been so\nfortunate on the present occasion. As to the commendation which you have\nbeen pleased to bestow on my taste, I thank you, and am glad it meets\nwith your approbation.\"\n\n\"Yet, your Grace,\" continued Sir Robert, \"excellent judge as I know you\nto be of female beauty, I deem myself, old and staid as I am, your\nGrace's equal, craving your Grace's pardon; and, to prove this, will\ntake a bet with your Grace of a good round sum, that you have never\nseen, and do not know, a more beautiful woman than the lady of our\npresent host.\"\n\n\"Take care, Provost,\" replied James. \"Make no rash bets. I know the most\nbeautiful maiden the sun ever shone upon. But it would be ungallant and\nungracious to make the lady of our good host the subject of such a bet\non the present occasion.\"\n\n\"But our host is absent, your Grace,\" replied the Provost\npertinaciously; \"and neither he nor any one else, but your Grace's\nfriends present, need know anything at all of the matter. Will your\nGrace take me up for a thousand merks?\"\n\n\"But suppose I should,\" replied James, \"how is the thing to be managed?\nand who is to decide?\"\n\n\"Both points are of easy adjustment, your Grace,\" said Sir Robert. \"Your\nGrace has only to intimate a wish to our host, when he returns, that\nyou would feel gratified by his introducing his lady to you; and as to\nthe matter of decision, I would, with your Grace's permission and\napproval, put that into the hands of the gentlemen present. Of course,\nnothing need be said of the purpose of this proceeding to either host or\nhostess.\"\n\n\"Well, be it so,\" said James, urged on by the madcaps around him, who\nwere delighted with the idea of the thing. \"Now then, gentlemen,\" he\ncontinued, \"the lady on whose beauty I stake my thousand merks is Jessie\nCraig, the merchant's daughter, of Glasgow, whom, I think, all of you\nhave seen.\"\n\n\"Ha! my townswoman,\" exclaimed Sir Robert, with every appearance of\nsurprise. \"On my word, you have made mine a hard task of it; for a\nfairer maiden than Jessie Craig may not so readily be found.\nNevertheless, I adhere to the terms of my bet.\"\n\nThe Provost had just done speaking, when Sir James Crawford entered the\napartment, and resumed his seat at table. Shortly after he had done so,\nJames, addressing him, said--\n\n\"Sir James, it would complete the satisfaction of these gentlemen and\nmyself with the hospitality you have this day shown us, were you to\nafford us an opportunity of paying our respects to your good lady; that\nis, if it be perfectly convenient for and agreeable to her.\"\n\n\"Lady Crawford will be but too proud of the honour, your Grace,\" replied\nSir James, rising. \"She shall attend your Grace presently.\"\n\nSaying this, the latter again withdrew; and soon after returned, leading\na lady, over whose face hung a long and flowing veil, into the royal\npresence.\n\nIt would require the painter's art to express adequately the looks of\nintense and eager interest with which James and his party gazed on the\nveiled beauty, as she entered the apartment and advanced towards them.\nTheir keen and impatient scrutiny seemed as if it would pierce the\ntantalizing obstruction that prevented them seeing those features on\nwhose beauty so large a sum had been staked. In this state of annoying\nsuspense, however, they were not long detained. On approaching within a\nfew paces of the king, and at the moment Sir James Crawford said, with a\nrespectful obeisance, \"My wife, Lady Crawford, your Grace,\" she raised\nher veil, and exhibited to the astonished monarch and his courtiers a\nsurpassingly beautiful countenance indeed; but it was that of Jessie\nCraig.\n\n\"A trick! a trick!\" exclaimed James, with merry shout, and amidst a peal\nof laughter from all present, and in which the fair cause of all this\nstir most cordially joined. \"A trick, a trick, Provost! a trick!\"\nrepeated James.\n\n\"Nay, no trick at all, your Grace, craving your Grace's pardon,\" replied\nthe Provost gravely. \"Your Grace betted that Jessie Craig was more\nbeautiful than Lady Crawford. Now, is it so? I refer the matter, as\nagreed upon, to the gentlemen around us.\"\n\n\"Lost! lost!\" exclaimed half a dozen gallants at once.\n\n\"Well, well, gentlemen, since you so decide,\" said James, \"I will\ninstantly give our good Provost here an order upon our treasurer for the\nsum.\"\n\n\"Nay, your Grace, not so fast. The money is as safe in your hands as\nmine. Let it there remain till I require it. When I do, I shall not fail\nto demand it.\"\n\n\"Be it so, then,\" said James, when, placing his fair hostess beside him,\nand after obtaining a brief explanation--which we will, in the sequel,\ngive at more length--of the odd circumstance of finding Jessie Craig\nconverted into Lady Crawford, the mirth and hilarity of the party were\nresumed, and continued till pretty far in the afternoon, when the king\nand his courtiers took horse,--the former at parting having presented\nhis hostess with a massive gold chain which he wore about his neck, in\ntoken of his good wishes,--and rode off for Stirling.\n\nTo our tale we have now only to add the two or three explanatory\ncircumstances above alluded to.\n\nIn Sir James Crawford the reader is requested to recognise the young man\nwho discovered Jessie Craig, then the unknown fair one, by the side of\nthe fountain in the little elm grove at Woodlands.\n\nEncouraged by and acting on the adage already quoted,--namely, that\n\"faint heart never won fair lady,\"--he followed up his first accidental\ninterview with the fair fugitive from royal importunity with an\nassiduity that in one short week accomplished the wooing and winning of\nher.\n\nWhile the first was in progress, Sir James was informed by the young\nlady of the reasons for her concealment. On this and the part Sir Robert\nLindsay had acted towards her being made known to him, he lost no time\nin opening a communication with that gentleman, riding repeatedly into\nGlasgow himself to see him on the subject of his fair charge; at the\nsame time informing him of the attachment he had formed for her, and\nfinally obtaining his consent, or at least approbation, to their\nmarriage. The bet, we need hardly add, was a concerted joke between the\nProvost, Sir James, and his lady.\n\nWhen we have added that the circumstance of Sir Robert Lindsay's delay\nin returning for Jessie Craig, which excited so much surprise at\nWoodlands, was owing to the unlooked-for prolongation of the king's stay\nin Glasgow, we think we have left nothing unexplained that stood in need\nof such aid.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDE OF BELL'S TOWER.\n\n\nSome time ago I made inquiry at the editor of _Notes and Queries_ for\ninformation as to the whereabouts of an old mansion called Bell's Tower,\nand whether it was occupied by a family of the name of Bower; but my\ninquiry was not attended with any success beyond the usual production of\nsurmises and speculations. There was a place so called in Perthshire;\nbut then it never was occupied by people of that name,--the Bowers being\nan old family in Angus, whose principal messuage was Kincaldrum. Yet I\ncannot be mistaken in the name, either of the house or the family, as\nconnected with the occurrences of the tradition, the essentials of which\nhave floated in my mind ever since I heard them from one to whom they\nwere also traditional. Then the story has something of an antique air\nabout it, as may be noticed from the application of adjectives to\nbaptismal names, as Devil Isobel and Sweet Marjory,--by no means a\nmodern usage, but easily recognised in analogues of our old poetry. We\nmay say, at least, that whether the Bowers were a very or only a\nmoderately ancient family, Bell's Tower was an old structure--the name\nbeing applied to the mansion, which was an addition to a peel or\ncastle-house of many centuries--not without its battlements and barnkin,\nand all the other appurtenances of a strength, as such places were\ncalled.\n\nHad we more to do than our subject requires with the _physique_ of this\nmansion--and we have something; for what romance in the moral world is\nindependent of a _locale_, and of those lights and shadows that play\nwhere men live and act all the wondrous things they do?--we might be\nparticular in our description; but our narrator's shade will be\nsufficiently conciliated, if we say that there was room enough, and\nill-lighted chambers enough, and sufficiently tortuous breakneck stairs\nhere and there, as well as those peculiar to castles, lobbies in all\nconscience long enough--not forgetting a blue parlour with some\nmysterious associations--to supply elements for genius to weave the\nmany-coloured web of fiction. But we have a humbler part to play; and it\nbegins here,--that Mrs. Bower had in the said blue parlour, a fortnight\nbefore our incidents, told her eldest daughter, whom we are, for the\nsake of the antique nomenclature--discriminative, and therefore kindly,\nif also sometimes harsh--to call Sweet Marjory, a piece of information,\nto her unexpected and strange,--no other than that Isobel, her sister,\nwas the accepting and accepted of the rich and chivalrous youth, Hector\nOgilvy, a neighbouring laird's son. Nor would it have appeared\nwonderful, if we had known more of the inside of that heaving breast,\nwherein a heart was too obedient to those magic chords, with their\nminute capillaries spread over the tympanum, that Marjory was as mute\nand pale as a statue of marble. But the truth really was, that Ogilvy\nhad courted Marjory, and won her heart, and Isobel--Devil Isobel--had\ncontrived means to win him to herself, at the expense of a sister's\nreputation for all the beautiful qualities that adorn human nature. And\nas all the world knows that both men and women hate those they injure,\nwe may be at no loss to ascertain the feelings by which Isobel regarded\nMarjory. Nor shall those who know the nature of woman have any\ndifficulty in supposing that not more carefully does nature guard in the\nbosom the physical organ of the affections, than she concealed the\nfeelings which had for that fortnight eaten into the vital tissues of\nher being.\n\nHow swiftly that fortnight had flown for Isobel! how charged with heavy\nhours for Marjory! and to-morrow was the eventful day. What doings in\nBell's Tower during this intervening time! what pattering of feet along\nthe sombre lobbies! what gossiping among servants! what applications to\nthe gate--comings and goings! and the rooms, how bestrewn with clippings\nof silk, and stray bits of artificial flowers! And, amidst all the\ntriumphing, Isobel displayed her nature in spite of old saws and maxims,\nwhich lay upon brides conditions of reserve and humility, held to be so\nbecoming in those who, as it were, occupy the place of a sacrifice; yea,\nif some tears are shed, so much better is custom obeyed. Then where\ncould Marjory go, in the midst of this confusion of gaiety?--where, as\nthe poet says, \"weep her woes\" in secret, and listen to the throbbings\nof a broken heart? Not in her own room, in the lower part of the castle\ntower, where her mother had still the privilege of chiding her for\nthrowing the shadows of melancholy over a scene of happiness, and where\nIsobel would force an entrance, to show her, in the very spite of her\nevil nature, some bridal present from him who was still to the deserted\none the idol of her heart. There was scarcely a refuge for grief, where\njoy was impatient of check, and, like all tyrants, would force reluctant\nconditions into a unanimity of compliance; but up these castle stairs,\nin the second room, there was one whom time had shut out from the\nsympathies of the world, so old, as to be almost forgotten, except by\nMarjory herself, who, all gentleness and love, delighted to supply\nvacant hearts with the fervours of her friendship, and to ameliorate\nevils by the appliances of her humanity.\n\nWith languid step she ascended the stair, and was presently beside her\ngreat-grandaunt, Patricia Bower. Twilight was dropping her wing, and the\nshadows were fast collecting round the square windows, which, narrow and\ngrated, would scarcely at noonday let in light enough to enliven the\nhuman eye. There, solitary and in the gloom, sat the creature of the\nprior century, whose birth could only be arrived at by going through\ngenerations back ninety and five years before; but not gloom to her, to\nwhom the light of memory was as a necromancer, arraying before the gleg\neye of her spirit the images of persons and things and circumstances of\nthe far past, with all the vividness of enchantment, and still even\nraising again those very loves and sympathies they elicited when they\nwere of the passing hour. Yet the doings in this house of Bell's Tower\nat the time, so far removed from the period of the living archetypes of\nher dreams, had got to her ear, where still the word marriage was a\ncharm, against which the dry impassable nerve resisted in vain.\n\n\"I will go to this marriage, Marjory,\" she said, as the maiden entered,\nand without appearing to notice her distress.\n\n\"No, aunt,\" replied Marjory, as she sat down opposite to her.\n\n\"And shall I not?\" continued the ancient maiden, as her eyes seemed to\ncome forward out of the deep sockets into which they had long sunk, and\nemitted an unearthly lustre. \"And shall I not? It is four times a score\nof years bating five since I was at a bridal; and when all were waiting,\nay, Marjory, expecting the young bridegroom, the door was opened, and\nfour men carried in Walter Ogilvy's bleeding corpse, and laid him in\nthe bridal hall; for he had been stabbed by a rival in the Craig Glen,\ndown by there; and where could they take the body but to Bell's Tower,\nwhere his bride waited for him? But she did not go mad, Sweet Marjory;\nno, no.\"\n\nAnd as the image grew more distinct in the internal chambers, so did the\neyes shine more lustrously, like stars peering through between grey\nclouds; and the shrivelled muscles, obeying once more the excited nerve,\nimparted to her almost the appearance of youth. Gradually a humming tone\nessayed to take form in words; but the wavering treble disconcerted her,\ntill, calming herself by some effort, she recited, in solemn see-saw--\n\n    \"The guests they came from the grey mountain side,--\n    The bride she was fair, and the bride she was fain;\n    But where was the lover, who sought not his bride?\n    Oh! a maid she is now, as a maid she was then;\n    And her cheek it is pale, and her hair it is grey,\n    Since the long long time of her bridal day.\"\n\nThe last line descended into a quavering whisper.\n\nWith the effusion, adopted probably from an old ditty, and brought forth\nfrom its long-retaining chamber of the brain by the inspiration of one\nof her often-returning visions, the fervour of the tasked spirit died\naway, and, reclining her head, she sat before the wondering Marjory--who\nhad heard, as a tale of the family, and applicable to Patricia herself,\nthe circumstances she had related--as one suspended between death and\nlife; nor did it seem that it required more than a rude vibration to\ndecide to which of the two worlds she would in a few minutes belong.\nOnly a short time sufficed to restore her to her ordinary composure,\nand, waving her shrivelled hand, she said--\n\n\"Open the door to the bartisan, Marjory, that I may have air, and see\nthe moon, who, amidst all the changes of life, is ever the same to the\nmiserable and the happy.\"\n\nMarjory obeyed her; and as she looked forth, the moon was rising over\nthe tops of the trees, as if to chase away the envious shades, ready to\nfollow the departure of twilight. There was solace in her soft splendour\nfor the melancholy of the youthful girl, which might be ameliorated by a\nturn of fortune, as well as for the sadness of her aged friend, which\nwas not only beyond the influence of worldly change, but so like the\nforecast gloom of the grave, as if the inexorable tyrant, long\ndisappointed, was already rejoicing in his victim. But no sooner was the\ndoor casement opened, than the sound of voices entered. Then Marjory\nstepped out on the bartisan, not to listen, for her spirit was superior\nto artifice; and, leaning over the bartisan, she soon recognised the\nvoices of Isobel and Ogilvy; nor could she escape the words--\n\n\"I loved her for her own sake,\" said he, \"before I loved you, Isobel;\nand now I love her as your sister. But I shall have no peace in my\nwedded life with you, save on the condition that you love her also; for\nmy conscience tells me I have not done by Sweet Marjory what is deemed\naccording to the honour of man. You see what your power has been,\nIsobel. Nor would I have spoken thus on the very evening before our\nwedding, were it not that I have heard you do not love her, nay, that\nyou hate her.\"\n\nThen Marjory heard Devil Isobel reply; and she knew by the voice that\nshe was in anger, though she cunningly repressed her passion.\n\n\"Believe them not,\" said Isobel. \"By the pale face of yonder moon, and\nall those bright stars that are coming out one by one to add honour upon\nhonour to this evening, the last of my maiden life, I love sweet\nMarjory Bower; and I swear by Him who made all these heavenly orbs, that\nI shall love her as a sister ought.\"\n\n\"It pleases me much to hear my Isobel speak thus,\" said Ogilvy. \"And\nhark ye, love, I have here a valuable locket, set with diamonds and\nopals--see, it contains the grey hair of my mother; and, will I or nill\nI, she will send this by me to Marjory as a love-token. Now I want to\nconvey it to Sweet Marjory through you, because it will make you a party\nto the love-gift, and so bind us all in a circle of affection.\"\n\n\"Give it me,\" cried Isobel, fixing her piercing eye on the diamonds as\nthey sparkled in the moonlight; \"and, on the honour of a bride, I will\ngive it to my sister, whom I love so dearly.\"\n\nAnd Isobel continued to speak; but the movement of the lovers as they\nwalked prevented Marjory from hearing more. Still she followed them with\nher weeping eyes, as their figures, clearly revealed to her by the moon,\nglided among the wide-standing trees of the lawn, and at length\ndisappeared. The moon had now less solace for her. Her wound had been\nretouched by a hand of all others calculated to irritate, even by that\nof Ogilvy himself, who, she now knew, felt compunction for the cruelty\nof his desertion. His regret was too late to save her sorrow, but it was\nnot too late to increase that sorrow; for the words by which he had\nuttered it reminded her, in their tone, of that unctuous luxury he had\nso often poured into her heart, and which, in their sincerity, were so\nunlike the dissimulation of her wicked sister. With a deep-drawn sigh\nshe entered the bartisan casement, shut it after her, and having spoken\nsome kindly words to her aunt, whom she kissed, she sought her way down\nthe bastle stair to her own room below. There she threw herself upon a\ncouch, not to seek assuagement, but only to give rest to limbs that\nwould scarcely support her. Nor did the closed door keep from her ear\nthose notes of preparation, coming in so many shapes; for there was, in\naddition to the customary rites of the great sacrifice, to be a\nsumptuous feast, at which, too, she would be expected to attend. Yet all\nthese noisy tokens did not keep from her mind the tones of that remorse\nshe had heard from the lips of Ogilvy, and she fondled them, in her\nmisery, as one would the dead body of a dear friend on whose face still\nsat the look of love in which he died. By-and-by she heard once more the\nvoice of Isobel, who had returned; and she trembled as she expected the\nvisit in execution of her commission. The door opened, and there entered\nher sister, with a face, as it appeared in the light of the lamp she\ncarried, beaming with the old exultation, mingled with the smile of a\nsoft deceit.\n\n\"Look here, Sweet Marjory,\" she said, as she held out the golden\ntrinket. \"Saw you ever so lovely a piece of workmanship? But you cannot\ndiscern its value till you know it contains a lock of the hair of _my_\nmother-in-law-to-be--Mrs. Ogilvy. That locket was given to me even now\nby my Hector, the bridegroom----\"\n\n\"To give to me,\" sighed Marjory faintly.\n\n\"You lie for a false fiend,\" cried Devil Isobel. \"He gave it to me, and\nto me it belongs.\"\n\n\"You may keep it,\" said Marjory; \"but I heard Hector Ogilvy say to you\nthat it was a gift from his mother to me, and you promised to him to\ndeliver it.\"\n\nIsobel's lips turned white and whiter, as her eye flared with the\ninternal light struck out of the quivering nerve by the brain inflamed\nby fury. Nor was it the detection alone that produced these effects:\nshe had construed Ogilvy's confession that he once loved Marjory into an\nadmission that the latter was still dear to him, and she considered\nherself justified in her suspicion by the tones of his regret; then\nthere had shot through her the pang of envy, when she heard that there\nwas a gift for Marjory from the mother, and none to her. All these\npent-up passions had been quickened into expression by Marjory's gentle\ndetection; and as Marjory looked at her, she trembled.\n\n\"Do not be angry at me, Isobel,\" she said. \"I did not go out upon the\nbartisan to hear you; and as for the gift, I do not want it.\"\n\nBut Marjory's simplicity and generosity, in place of appeasing her\npassion, only gave it a turn into a forced stifling, which suited the\npurpose of her dissimulation. In an instant the evil features, which, as\na moral expression, had changed her into hideousness, gave way, and she\nstood before her sister the beautiful being who had enchanted Ogilvy out\nof his first and purest love.\n\n\"Come, Marjory,\" she said, as she grasped the faint hand of the almost\nunresisting girl. \"Come.\"\n\nAnd leading her by a half-dragging effort out of the room and along the\npassages, she took her to the large hall, where servants were busy\nlaying the long table for the feast.\n\n\"There will be seventy here,\" she said, \"and all to do honour to me. How\nwould _you_ have liked it, Sweet Marjory? You do not envy me, though you\nlook so sad? But oh! there is more honour for me. Come.\" And still, with\nthe application of something like force, she led Marjory out by the\nfront door towards the lawn, where a number of men were, with the light\nof pine torches, piling up fagots over layers of pitch. The glare of the\ntorches was thrown over the dark bastle house, and under the relief of\nthe deep shadows, where the light of the moon did not penetrate, was\nromantic enough even for the taste of Isobel, whose spirit ever panted\nfor display. To add to the effect, the men were jolly; for their supply\nof ale had been ample, and the occasion of a marriage in the house of\nthe Bowers warranted a merriment which was acceptable to her for whom\nall these expensive preparations were made.\n\n\"This is the marriage-pile, Marjory,\" said Isobel. \"I am not to be put\nupon it after the manner of Jephthah's daughter; but it will blaze up to\nthe sky, and tell the gods and goddesses that there is one to be\nhonoured here on earth. How would _you_ have liked that honour, Marjory?\nBut you are not envious. Come, there is more.\"\n\nAnd as she was leading Marjory away, an exclamation from one of the men\nattracted their attention. On turning round, they saw the men's faces,\nlighted up by the torches, all directed to the bastle tower on which the\nglare shone full and red. Their merriment was gone, to give place to the\nfeeling of awe; nor did a syllable escape from their lips. The eyes of\nthe sisters followed those of the men, and were in like manner riveted.\n\n\"It is the wraith bride o' the peel,\" said the old forester. \"She gaes\nround about and round about. My mither saw it thirty years syne, when\nthe laird brought hame his leddy; and we ken he broke his leg in coming\noff his horse to help her down. I have heard her say\n\n\n    'There's evil for the house o' Bower,\n    When the bride gaes round the bastle tower.'\"\n\n\"You are a lying knave,\" cried Isobel. \"It is that old cantrup-working\nwitch, Patricia Bower, who should have been burnt with tar-barrels and\ntormented by prickers fifty years ago. Nor ghost, nor ghoul, nor demon\nor devil, shall come between me and my happy destiny.\"\n\nA speech which, spoken in excitement, was cheered by all the men but the\nunfortunate forester; for, as we have said, they were merry with ale.\nAnd they knew by report, as they now saw with their eyes, the beauty of\nthe young woman, who, in addition to her natural charms, appeared, as\nthey whirled the torches round their heads, and the cheers rose and\nechoed in the woods, to be invested with the dignity of a queen. But as\nthis natural enthusiasm died down, they turned again their wondering\neyes to the bastle house; and as the figure still went round the\nbartisan and round the bartisan, they looked at each other, and shook\ntheir heads with a motion which appeared very grotesque in the glare of\nthe torches. At length it disappeared, and they began again to pile the\nfagots, now in silence, and not with the merry words and snatches of\ntheir prior humour, as if each of them had foreseen some evil which he\ncould not define.\n\nMeanwhile Isobel had again seized Marjory, to continue the round of her\ntriumphs.\n\n\"We will now go to my boudoir, nor mind that witch,\" she said, \"and I\nwill show you all the presents I have got from my neighbours and\nfriends. Oh! they are so fine, that did I not know that you are not\nenvious, I would fear that you would tear my eyes out. Oh, but look,\nthere is Ogilvy's horse standing waiting for him to carry him home, and\nI shall see him only this once before I am made his wife.\" Then, pausing\nand becoming meditative, she led her sister into the shade of a gigantic\nelm, the stem of which sufficed to conceal them from observers. \"Kneel\ndown,\" she continued in a stern tone.\n\n\"Why so?\" replied Marjory, trembling with fear, yet obeying\ninstinctively.\n\n\"Swear,\" cried Isobel, \"that you will not, before Ogilvy, contradict\nwhat I shall say to him about his mother's gift. Swear.\"\n\n\"I swear,\" replied the sister.\n\nAnd rising up, her hand was again grasped by Isobel, as she led her\nforward to where the horse stood. Nor had they proceeded many paces,\nwhen Ogilvy himself was observed coming forward. He could see them by\nthe light of the torches, as they saw him; and upon the instant, Isobel,\nclasping Marjory in her arms, kissed her with all the fervency of love.\n\n\"How pleasant this is to me,\" said Ogilvy, as he came up equipped and\nspurred for his ride, \"to see you so loving and sisterly!\"\n\n\"Did I not swear by Dian and the stars I would love her?\" said Devil\nIsobel; \"and is she not called Sweet Marjory?\"\n\n\"Sweet she is,\" said he, as he timidly scanned the face of his first\nlove, and pressed her hand; but his countenance changed as he felt the\nsilky-skinned hand of the girl tremble within his, as if it shrunk from\nthe touch, and saw her blue eyes turned on the ground, and heard a sigh\nsteal from her breast. A feeling that was new to him thrilled through\nthe circle of his nerves, and made him tremble to the centre of his\nbeing. He had never calculated upon that strange emotion, nor could he\nanalyze it: it was inscrutable, but it was terrible; it was not simply a\nreturn of his own love under the restraint of the new one, neither was\nit simple remorse, but a mixture of various thrills which induced no\npurpose, but only rendered him uncertain, feeble, and miserable. So\nengrossed for a moment was he, that he did not even seek the eye of\nIsobel, who was watching him in every turn of his countenance. Then he\nwould seek some relief in words.\n\n\"You have my mother's love at least, Marjory,\" he said; and he could not\nhelp saying it. \"And I shall be pleased to see you wear her gift, which\nshe sent to you through me, who gave it to Isobel.\"\n\nMarjory was silent, and Ogilvy turned his eye upon Isobel.\n\n\"She rejects it,\" said Isobel, \"and wishes me to return it.\"\n\n\"Rejects it!\" ejaculated the youth, as he again looked at Marjory.\n\nMarjory was still silent, and her eyes were even more timidly turned to\nthe ground.\n\n\"I did not regard the gift as valuable for the brilliants and opals,\"\ncontinued he, \"but as conveying the love of my mother; and surely\nMarjory cannot reject that love.\"\n\nYet still was Marjory silent, for she had sworn.\n\n\"Oh, she is frightened, poor Sweet Marjory,\" cried Isobel, with a\nsatirical laugh; \"for she has seen the wraith bride on the bastle\ntower.\"\n\n\"The wraith bride!\" responded Ogilvy, relapsing into silence, and\ninstinctively looking round him, where only glared the torchlight among\nthe trees of the lawn, and the dark bodies of the fagot-pilers were\nmoving backwards and forwards. He had heard the couplet mentioned by the\nforester, and had of course viewed it as a play of superstition; but\nreason is a weak thing in the grasp of feeling, and now he was all\nfeeling. The remorse of which he had had premonitions, had now taken him\nas a fit. His eye sought Marjory's down-turned face, and shrunk from\nIsobel's watchful stare; but the direction of that organ did not form an\nindex to his mind, for his fancy was, even during these swift instants,\nbusy weaving the many-coloured web of the future of his married life,\nand clouding it with sombre shades; nor did the active agent hesitate to\ndraw materials from the past fortunes of the house of Bell's Tower, and\nmix them up as things yet to be repeated. Even the wraith bride\nperformed her part now, where she had feeling to help her weakness, and\nset her up among realities.\n\nAt this critical juncture of Ogilvy's thoughts, there came up from the\nmansion good Dame Bower herself, of portly corporation, often resonant\nof a comfortable laugh; and now, when flushed with the exercise of her\ndomestic superintendence, looking the very picture of the joyous mother\nof a happy bride.\n\n\"I had forgotten,\" she said as she approached, \"to ask you to convey my\nthanks to Dame Ogilvy for that beautiful locket with her hair\ntherein--more precious, I ween, than the diamonds and opals, though\nthese, I'm told, are worth five thousand good merks--which she has so\nthoughtfully sent to Isobel.\"\n\n\"Isobel!\" ejaculated Ogilvy, fixing his eye on the face of his bride,\nwhere there were no blushes to reveal the consciousness of deceit. \"To\nIsobel!\" he repeated; \"and did Isobel say this?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"It is false,\" cried the damsel, precipitated by anger into the terrible\nimputation.\n\nThe mother stood aghast, and Marjory held her head away.\n\n\"Speak, Marjory,\" said Ogilvy, with lips that in an instant had become\nwhite and parched.\n\n\"I have sworn,\" said Marjory.\n\n\"And dare not speak?\" said Ogilvy. Then a deep gloom spread over his\nface, his eye flashed with a sudden flame. He spoke not a word more;\nbut, vaulting into the saddle, he drove his spurs into the side of his\nhorse, and rode off. As he passed the fagot-hewers, he saw them\nclustered together, and heard high words among them, with names of so\npotent a charm to him, that, even in his confusion and speed, he could\nnot drive them from his mind. These names were, Sweet Marjory and Devil\nIsobel.\n\nAnd as if the words had entered the rowels and made them sharper, his\nhorse reared, and he sped on with a whirling tumult in his brain, but\nyet without uttering a word--nor even to himself did he mutter a\nremark--still urging his steed, yet unconscious that his journey's end\nwould bring no assuagement of that tumult, nor mean of extricating him\nfrom his strange and perilous predicament. Nor was he aware of the speed\nof his riding, or how far he had gone, till he came to some huts in the\noutskirts of the Craigwood, which bounds the domain of Bell's Tower on\nthe west, where he saw some cottagers assembled at a door, and again\nheard words which pierced his ear--no other than those of his own\nmarriage. Again urged by curiosity, he put the question,\n\n\"Whom do you speak of, good folks?\"\n\n\"Sweet Marjory,\" said one; and another added, \"Devil Isobel.\"\n\nFain would he have asked more--these were not to him more than\nsufficient; but pride interposed, and fear aided pride, and away he\nagain sped even at a still quicker pace. Never before had he been so\nagitated: fear, anger, or remorse had never ruffled the tenor of an\nexistence which passed amidst rural avocations and unsophisticated\npleasures,--knew nothing of intrigue, falsehood, or dissimulation--those\nparasitic plagues that follow the societies of men. The moon that shone\nover his head was as placid and beautiful, and forest and wold as\nquiet, as they used to be when his mind was a reflection of the peace\nthat was without; but now, as he rode on and on, wild images arose from\nthe roused autonomy of the spirit, and seemed to be impressed by\nfire,--the face of Isobel reflecting the light of the moon, and those\neyes which, looking up, were in their own expression an adjuration\nsimilar to that pronounced by her lips, that she would obey him, and\ndeliver the diamond gift to its rightful owner; then the same eyes when,\ninflamed by the fire of her wrath, she called her mother a liar, and\nproved her own falsehood, while she cast off the duty of a daughter. But\nthrough all glided the face of Sweet Marjory, with its mildness,\nbeneficence, and timidity; and the eye that, quailing under her sister's\ntyranny, looked so lovingly in the face of the mother, but dared not\nchide him who had been false to her. He felt within him that revolution\nfrom one feeling to its opposite, which, when it begins in the mind, is\nso energetic and startling. His love for Isobel--which had been a\nfrenzy, tearing him from another love which had been a sweet\ndream--began to undergo the wonderful change: her beauty faded before a\nmoral expression which waxed hideous, and grew up in these passing\nmoments into a direct contrast with the gentle loveliness of her sister,\nwhich, coming from the heart, beamed through features fitted to enhance\nit. Nor could he stop this revolution of his sentiments, the full effect\nof which, aggravated by remorse, shook his frame, as his horse bounded,\nand added to the turmoil within him. Yet ever the words came from his\nquivering lips--\"Am I fated to be the husband of Devil Isobel? Is Sweet\nMarjory destined to bless the nuptial bed of another?\" And at every\nrepetition he unconsciously drove the spur into the sides of his now\nfoaming steed.\n\nBut whither all this hot haste--whither was he flying? To his home,\nwhere he knew that his mother condemned his choice, though her delicacy\nhad limited her dissatisfaction to that strange but pregnant expression,\nwhereby she had sent her most valuable jewel to her whom she valued and\nloved, and whom, in the madness of fascination, he had left to sorrow,\nif not to heartbreaking--perhaps death. He felt that he behoved to be\nhome to make certain preparations for his appearance on the morrow, as a\nbridegroom by the side of Isobel Bower; and yet he felt that he could\nnot face his mother under the feelings which now ruled him, and the very\nweakness of his resolution prompted the device of tarrying by the way\nuntil she should have gone to bed. He knew where to watch her chamber\nlight, and he began to draw the rein. Yet how unconscious he was of a\npeculiarity of that power that had been for some time working within\nhim!--yea, even remorse, who, true to her unfailing purpose, was\nmoulding his heart into that yearning to visit the victim on which she\ninsists for ever as a condition of peace to the betrayer. He had come to\nthe cross-road leading eastwards; and even while muttering his purpose\nof merely prolonging the period of his home-going, he was twitching the\nrein to the right, so that the obedient steed turned and carried him\nforward at the old speed. Whither now, versatile and remorseful youth?\nFrom this eastern road there goes off, a couple of miles forward, a\nrough track, leading to the mansion he had so recently left. And it was\nnot long ere he reached the point of turn. Nor was he even decided when\nthere, that he would again draw the rein to the right. But if he was\nmaster of his horse, he was not master of himself: the rough track was\ntaken, and Ogilvy was in full swing to Bell's Tower. He did not know\nthat it is only when the act is accomplished that one thinks of the\ndecrees of Fate, though it is true that the purposes of man are equally\nfated in their beginnings, when reason is battling against feeling, as\nin their termination. In how short time was he in the pine wood, behind\nthe house, where were his bane, and perhaps his antidote, though he\ncould not divine the latter! And he trembled as through the trees he saw\nthe flitting lights, as they came and went past the windows, indicating\nthe joy of preparation: not for these he looked, only for one, sombre\nand steady, like Melancholy's dull eye, wherein no tear glistens.\nLeaving his horse tied to a pine stem, Ogilvy was in an instant kneeling\nat the low casement at the foot of the bastle house, where glimmered\nthat light for which he had been so intensely looking.\n\nWas it that grief, forced into an excitement foreign to its lonely,\nself-indulgent nature, wooed the evening air, to cool by the open window\nthe fever of her slow-throbbing veins? Certain it is at least that\nMarjory Bower expected no salutation from without at that hour.\n\n\"Sweet Marjory, will you listen to one who once dared to love you, and\nwho has now sorrow at his heart, yet Heaven's wrath will not send forth\nlightnings to kill?\"\n\n\"What terrible words are these?\" replied the maiden, as she took her\nhand from her brow and looked in the direction of the open casement.\n\n\"Not those,\" replied he, \"which are winged with the hope of a\nbridegroom. But I am miserable! Marjory Bower, I loved you, and you\nreturned my love; I deserted you, and you never even gloomed on me; and\nI am now the bridegroom of your sister,--ay, your sister, Devil Isobel!\nWill you give me hope if I break off this marriage?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" rejoined she; \"that cannot be. You have gone too far to go back\nwith honour.\"\n\n\"Or forward with any hope of happiness,\" said he. \"But I will brave all\nyour father's anger, Isobel's revenge, and my loss of honour, if you\nwill consent to be mine within a year.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" repeated the maid with a sigh. \"Out of my unhappiness may come\nthe happiness of others. Though I may not live to see it, I may die in\nthe hope that Isobel Bower may, in your keeping, come to deserve a name\nbetter than that terrible one she has earned, and which just now sounded\nso terrible from your lips.\"\n\n\"Is she not a liar, who falsified my words?\" said he impassionedly. \"Is\nshe not a thief, who appropriated the diamond gift of my mother,\nintended for you? Is she not an undutiful daughter, who first deceived\nher mother by a falsehood, and then denounced her as herself false? Is\nthat woman, with the form of an angel and the heart of a devil, to be my\nwife? And does Marjory Bower counsel it? Then Marjory Bower hates Hector\nOgilvy!\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied she calmly, \"I only love your honour. Night and day I\nwill pray for a blessing on your marriage, and that God, who made the\nheart of my sister, may change it into love and goodness.\"\n\nA repressed spasmodic laugh shook the frame of the youth. \"What a hope,\"\nhe said, \"on which to found the happiness of a life, and for which to\nbarter such a creature as you! But, Marjory, you have roused the pride\nof my honour, while you have appeased my remorse; and I will marry\nIsobel because you have said that I should. It is thus I shall punish\nmyself by becoming a victim in turn to the honour I was false to.\"\n\nAs he pronounced these words, he fixed his eye on the face of Marjory,\nwhich at the moment reflected brightly the light of the lamp. Her eyes\nwere swimming in tears. She seemed to struggle with herself, as if she\nfeared that, in thus counselling him, she incurred some heavy\nresponsibility. So Ogilvy thought. But he little knew that there was\nmixed up with these emotions the keen anguish of a sacrifice; for she\nhad not as yet admitted to him how dear he had been to her, and how\nbitterly she had felt the transference of his affections from her to her\nsister. He waited for a few moments. He got no reply, except from these\nswimming eyes. \"Adieu! dear Marjory,\" he said; and hastened again to the\npine wood, where, having flung himself on his steed, he started for\nhome.\n\nAs he hurried along, he felt that he had appeased one feeling at the\nexpense of a life's happiness, and yet he was satisfied, according to\nthat law whereby the present evil always appears the greatest. About\nhalf way up the rough track he met one of the servants of Bell's Tower\nproceeding homewards, and suspecting that he had been with a message to\nhim or his mother, he stopped and questioned him.\n\n\"I have been to Dame Ogilvy with a letter from Dame Bower,\" said the\nman; \"and well I may,\" he added, as he sided up and whispered, \"The\nfagot-hewers have seen the bride to-night on the top bartisan of the\ncastle tower.\"\n\n\"And I now see a fool,\" replied Ogilvy, and rode on. Not that he thought\nthe man the fool he called him, but that he felt it necessary, as many\nmen do, to make a protest against the weakness of superstition at the\nvery moment when the mysterious power was busy with his heart; and,\nrepeating the word \"fool,\" he went on auguring and condemning in the\ndouble way of mortals. How strangely he had been led for the last hour!\nThe terms he had heard applied to his bride, justifying what he had\nhimself seen, had all but resolved him to remain absent from the\nintended ceremony of the morrow. He had had some lurking hope that\nMarjory would agree to his resolution, and again inspire him with hope;\nand he knew that his mother would be pleased with a change which would\nyield her a chance of having her favourite for her daughter-in-law. He\nhad been proposing as a weak mortal. Another power was purposing as a\nGod; and yet he considered himself as so much master of himself and the\noccasion as to laugh with bitter scorn at the rustic diviner, and his\nfolly of the apparition bride. And now there was shining before him the\nlight of the lamp from the chamber of his mother, whom he had still\nstronger reasons than ever for avoiding that night. But even these\nreasons were unavailing. The spirit of his honour, which had been so\nfragile a thing when opposed by the advent of a new love, had been\nbreathed upon and increased to a flame by her he had deserted; and he\nfor the moment felt he could face the mild reproof of a mother whom he\nloved. What a versatile, incomprehensible creature is man, even in those\ninspired moments, when, with the nerve trembling under the tension of\npurpose, he appears to himself and others in his highest position! In a\nfew minutes more he was in the presence of his mother.\n\nThere sat in her painted chamber the fine gentlewoman, with her fixed\neye divining in the light of the gilded lamp, as the spirit cast upon\nthe dark curtain of the future the forms which were but as\nre-adaptations of the signs of what had come and gone in her memory and\nexperience. The two families had been linked by the power of fate, and\nthe connection, which had never been dissolved; was to evolve in some\nnew form. She had grieved for her gentle favourite, Marjory Bower; and\nhad she been as stern as she was mild, she would have interposed a\nparent's authority against her son's change of purpose. Yea, there might\nhave been true affection in that sternness; but such would have been the\nresolution of a mental strength which she did not possess, for she was\nas those whose parental love gratifies wilfulness from a fear of\nproducing pain. Nor even now, when she held in her hand a letter of, to\nher, strange import, could she call up from her soft heart an energy to\nsave her son from the ruin which seemed to impend over him. He stood for\na moment before her, silent, pale, and resolved against all\nchances,--verily a puppet under the reaction of affections and\nprinciples he had dared to tamper with against the injunctions of\nhonour,--and yet he could not see that the soft and trembling hand of\nher in Bell's Tower, which held the strings that bound him so, held them\nand straitened them by a spasm. Nor was it of use to him now that the\nstrings trembled, and relaxed only for the time when the soft,\nreproving, yet loving light of his mother's eye, as it turned from her\nreverie, fell upon his soul; for his purpose came again, as his lip\nquivered and he waxed more pale.\n\n\"What means this letter?\" said she, as she held it forth in her hand.\n\"Mrs. Bower thanks me for the gift I sent to your bride.\"\n\n\"It means, dear mother,\" replied he firmly, \"what it says. I was weak\nenough to think that, if I committed your jewelled locket to Isobel's\nhand as the mean whereby it would reach Marjory, I would do something to\ncement their love. I saw Isobel's eye light up as she fixed it on the\ndiamonds--their glare had entered her soul and made it avaricious; and\nenvy threw her red glance to fire the passion. Yes, she appropriated\nthe gift. I have other evidence than this, even from my bride.\" And as\nhe pronounced the word \"bride,\" a scornful laugh escaped from him, and\nalarmed his mother.\n\n\"And yet she _is_ your bride, and will be your wife to-morrow?\" said\nshe, looking inquiringly.\n\n\"She will,\" replied he, in a tone which, though soft, if not pitiful,\nwas firm, if a trait of sarcasm against himself might not have been\ndetected in it.\n\n\"Strange!\" ejaculated the mother, as she still fixed her eyes on him.\nThen, musing a little, \"Do you know that the bride has been seen\nto-night on the bastle tower?\"\n\n\"Superstition.\"\n\n\"An ill-used word, Hector,\" said she; \"as if God was not the Ruler of\nhis own world. When we see unnatural motives swaying men, and all\nworking to an event, are we not to suppose that that event shall also be\nout of Nature's scheme? and that which is out of Nature's scheme must be\nin God's immediate hand. What motives impel you to wed a woman with whom\nyou must be miserable, and have that misery enhanced by seeing every day\nher who would have rendered you happy?\"\n\n\"My honour pledged to the world, which must condemn and laugh at a\nbreach of faith, not to be justified except at the expense of Isobel.\"\n\n\"A false reason,\" continued the mother. \"Is there more honour in\nadhering to a breach of honour than in returning to the honour that was\nbroken?\"\n\n\"There is another reason, mother,\" said Ogilvy, as he carried his hand\nover his sorrowful face.\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"Sweet Marjory commands me.\"\n\n\"Ah, Hector, Hector, how little you know of the heart of woman! Know\nyou not that in a forsaken woman the heart has an irony even when it is\nbreaking? Ask her if you should wed her rival, and the breaking\nheart-string will respond Yes, even as the cord of the harp will twang\nwhen it is severed. Well do I know Sweet Marjory, and what she must have\nfelt when she uttered this command. The canker has begun, and she will\ndie. The worm does not seek always the withered leaf. You've heard the\nsong that Patricia used to sing--\n\n    \"'The dainty worm, it loves the tomb,\n      And gnaws, and gnaws its nightly food;\n    But a daintier worm selects the bloom,\n      And a daintier still affects the bud.'\"\n\n\"Oh, God forgive me!\" ejaculated the miserable youth, as, holding his\nhand on his brow, he rushed out of the room and sought his bed-chamber.\nWas there ever such a night before the day, of all days auspicious to\nmortals, of the culminating joy of human life! Could he not find refuge\nin sleep, where the miserable so often seek to escape from the\nvibrations of the leaping, palpitating nerve, inflamed by the fever of\nlife? A half-hour's dreamy consciousness, an hour's vision of returning\nimages, rest and unrest, haunting scenes woven by some secret power, so\nvaried, so ephialtic, so monstrous, yet all, somehow or another, however\nunlike the reality, still vindicating a connection. Why should Sweet\nMarjory be in the deep recesses of the pine wood, resting by his foaming\nsteed, with his mother sitting and breathing hope's accents in her ear,\nand ever and again calling on him in sobbing vocables to return from his\npursuit of another? He would return. The charm of her sweet voice is\nfelt to be irresistible; yet it is resisted. And though he looks back\nonly to see her by the flaught of the lightning that plays among the\ntrees, his steps are forward, where Devil Isobel charms him with a song,\nin comparison of which the magic of the sirens is but the rustle of the\nreed as it swerves in the blast. He struggles, and seizes the stems of\nthe pines to hold him from his progress and keep him steady; and he\nwrithes as he finds he cannot obey the maternal appeal to a son's love.\nAll is still again, and there is rest, only to be alternated by the\nrecurring visions always assuming new forms, changing and disappearing,\nflaring up again, and then the deep breast-riding oppression, and those\nhollow moans, which never can be imitated by the waking sense, as if\nNature preserved this domain of the spirit as an evidence, in the night\nof the soul, that there is another world where the limbo of agony is not\nless certain than the heaven which is simulated by sweet dreams.\n\nBut, _lucidus die--nocte inutilis_. As the day dawned, and the morning\nsun, fresh from the east, threw in between the chinks of the shutters\nthe virgin beams, Ogilvy felt the truth of the old saying, that every\nday vindicates its two conditions of good and evil. There was again a\nchange in the versatile mind of the romantic youth; and Honour, pinkt\nout in those gaudy decorations woven by the busy spirits that move so\ncunningly the springs of man's thoughts in a conventional world,\nappeared before him. If Isobel was still the Devil Isobel, Honour was a\nsmiling angel, even more beautiful than Sweet Marjory. Yet he was not\nhappy--only firm, as he confessed by that lying power of the mind, to\nthe strength of bonds he had himself imposed, and yet repented\nof--setting necessity as a will-power amidst the wreck and ruin of his\naffections. The hour advanced, and he must superinduce the happy\nbridegroom on the dead statue. Unsteady and fitful even in the common\nactions of life--lifting the wrong thing, and suddenly throwing it down\nin the wrong place, again to snatch the right thing at the wrong\ntime--he was not so this morning. Every step and manipulation was like\nthe movement of a machine. Composedness was a luxury to him. Ornament\nafter ornament, at a time when a bridegroom's decorations were the\nexpression of a rude refinement, found its place with a steady, nay,\naffectedly formal hand; yea, a more cool bridegroom had never been seen\nin the world's history, since that eventful morning when the hero of\nBaeotia put on his lion's skin, and took up his wooden club, to marry the\nfifty daughters of the king, though among these, if the wise man is\nright, there must have been forty-nine devils. As the solemn work went\non, he looked again and again into the mirror, where he saw none of the\nwrinkles of care, no brow-knitting of fractiousness, no sternness of\nresolute determination,--all quiet, smooth, even mild. Ay, such a mime\nis man when he is a mome, that he even smiled as he felt his pulse,--how\ncool was his blood, how regular the vibrations! And so the mummery went\non: the flowered-red vest, the braided coat of sky-blue, the cravat, the\nruffles, the wrist-bands scolloped and stiff, the indispensable ruff,\nconcealed behind by the long locks of auburn, so beautiful in Isobel's\neyes, that flowed over his broad shoulders.\n\nThe work was finished; Ogilvy was dressed--his body in all the colours\nof the arc of hope--his mind in the dark midnight weeds of a concealed\nmisery, concealed even from himself. He sought the chamber of his\nmother, and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently; but could not trust\nhimself to even a broken syllable of speech, and his silence was\nsympathetic. She looked into the face of her son, and then threw her eye\nsolemnly over the array of his dress. The tear stood apparent, yet her\nface seemed to have borrowed his composedness, as if she felt that the\nold doom still followed the house of Ogilvy, and was inevitable, when\nthe evil genius of the Bowers was in the ascendant. There was no reproof\nnow, save that which lies in the dumb expression of sorrow--even that\nreproof which, melting the obstruction of man's egotism, finds its way\nto the heart, when even scorn would be only a hardening coruscation. Yet\neven this he could bear for the sake of that conventionality which is a\ntyrant. Turning away his head, he again kissed the soft hand, and\nhurried away.\n\nAs he issued from the gate and mounted his steed, now refreshed from the\nrough stress of the previous evening, the sun shone high and flaring,\nand the face of the country, with its rising hills and heather-bloom,\nand patches of waving corn, responded--as became it surely on a bridal\nmorning--to the clang of the bell in Bell's Tower,--so like in all but\nthe workings of the heart to the Sabbath morning when the union is to be\nbetween the spirit of man and the Lamb without guile. Yet art,\nself-confident and pragmatic, was not to be cajoled by the solicitations\nof, to it, a lying nature, however beautiful; and Ogilvy found it\nconvenient, if not manly and heroic, to knit his eyebrows against the\nsun. So does the Indian hurl his wooden spear against the lightning,\nbecause he is a greater being than the Author of the thunder. So he rode\non to where the bells rung--for was not he specially called?--the gloom\non his countenance, with which his forced determination kept pace,\nincreasing as he proceeded. Nor had he ever ridden thus before. Even his\nsteed might have known, as he opened his nostrils, that there was\nsomething more than common in the wind's eye, accustomed as he was to\nthe speed of enthusiasm, or the walk of exhaustion. He was now a solemn\nstalking-horse, bearing a rigid, buckram-mailed showman, whose only\nsound or movement resided in the plates of his armour, or his lath sword\nor gilded spontoon.\n\nAs Ogilvy had thus enrolled himself among the chivalry of honour, and\nwas consequently, in his own estimation, as we have hinted, a personage\nof romance, so was it only consistent with the indispensable gloom of\nhis dignity and sternness that he should ride alone: nor was it seeming\nthat he should accost the guests whom he saw on either side, obeying the\ncall of the bell, and riding along to the bridal and the feast. Yet the\nscene might have enlivened somewhat a very gloomy knight, as, looking\naround, he saw the lairds rounding the bases of the hills, and heard, as\nothers came into sight, the sound of bagpipes, however little these\nmight be associated with chivalric notions and aspirations. But then it\nwas not easy to act this solitary part; for what more natural than that\nthose passing to his own celebration should salute him? Nor could he\navoid those salutations.\n\n\"Joy to thee, Ogilvy,\" said one, as he rode up; \"the nightshade is\nsweeter than the rose;\" and departed.\n\n\"A happy day,\" said another, \"when the wolf becomes more innocent than\nthe lamb.\"\n\n\"Good morning, bridegroom,\" said a third. \"The sun shines bright, and\nthe moss-brown tarn is more limpid than the running rill.\"\n\n\"All happiness,\" said a fourth rider, \"when the merle nestles with the\njolly owl, and is not afraid when he sounds his horn.\"\n\nBut Ogilvy only compressed his lips the more, and looked the more\ngloomy, solacing himself with the vision of Honour, the beautiful yet\nstern virgin, and immaculate as she who shook her mailed petticoats\nafter getting out of Jupiter's head. Nor was the inspiration diminished\nas he now saw rising before him the rugged pile of Bell's Tower, wherein\nthe bell rang still more lustily as the hour approached. The guests were\nthronging in a multiform, many-coloured mass, all eager for the honour\nof a Bower's smile. He was soon among the midst of them, repaying\nneither compliment, nor salutation, nor mute nod, with a single sign of\nacknowledgment. And now he entered the great hall, where already the\ninvited numbers were nearly completed. How grand the scene! What silks,\nand satins, and taffetas, flowerings, braidings, and be-purflings, and\nhooped inflations! what towering toupees, built up with horse-hair and\ndyed hemp, stiffened with starch! what nosegays, redolent of\nheather-bells, and roses, and orange blossoms! There sat Dame Bower\nherself, fat and jolly, with her ruby dewlap, looking dignity; and\nBower, the laird, great in legend. Mess John, too, even fatter than\ntradition will have him--the sleek bald head and face, where a thousand\nslynesses could play together without jostling. But what were all these,\nand the fairest and the proudest there, to Isobel Bower, as, arrayed in\nher long white veil, she sailed about, heedless of all decorum,\nshowering her triumph upon envious damsels, as if she would blight all\ntheir fond hopes to make a rich soil for the flowering of her own! If\nothers sat and looked for being looked at, and others stood for being\nadmired, she walked and moved for worship, as if she claimed the\nperipatetic honour of the entire round of adoration. Not that she stared\nfor it: she was too intensely magnetized to doubt of the jumping of the\nsteel sparks to be all arranged _rayonnant_, like a horse-shoe, round\nthe centre of her glory. Then, as there is by the domestic law a wearock\nin every nest, however speckled, and however redolent of balm-leaves or\nresonant of chirpings, where was Sweet Marjory Bower? Where that law\nought to place her, by older legends than the date of Bower pride and\npower--in a corner, plainly dressed, and trying with downcast eyes to\nescape observation. But how pallid!--as if all the colours there had\nvied to steal from her cheeks, not the rosy bloom--for it never was\nthere---but the fresh white of the lily, more beautiful than all the\nflowers of the garden; and not the colour alone, but the light itself of\nthe lily's eye. Nay, it would seem that the greatest robber of all was\nher sister, whose look turned upon her as if in scorn of her humility,\nand in pleasure of her woe.\n\nAs Ogilvy entered, walking up direct and stedfastly to the midst of the\ngreat hall, there arose the welcome buzz, like that humming which makes\nmusical the sphere where comes the reigning queen of the hive. But how\nsoon, as the bell in the tower ceased to ring, was all that noise hushed\ninto a death-like silence, as he stood without sign or movement, with\nhis arms crossed, and his gloomy eyes fixed on the only empty space in\nthat crowded assembly! Would he not look at the bride, or salute the\nbride's mother, or shake hands with the bride's father, or do any one of\nall those many things which lay to his duty--far more to his\ninclination--as a happy bridegroom? Not one of them. And there he stood,\nas a motionless Grecian god hewn out of veritable panthelion, with its\nivory eyes, and the mute worshippers all about. Nay, the likeness was\neven more perfect; for as these worshippers, from the very fear of\nreverence and the impression of awe, kept at a distance from that centre\nof deity, so those guests who were nearest to the strange man moved\ninstinctively away, leaving him in the middle of the charmed ring. But\neven this did not move him. Then there was business to be done. \"Oh! he\nwas only meditative.\" The greatness of the occasion was the mother of a\nhundred excuses. Still to all it was oppressive, killing enthusiasm, and\nso unlike what these gay hopefuls had prefigured of that celestial state\nin which they wished themselves to be. Only Isobel seemed unchanged. She\nwhispered to Mess John--most unseemly; but was she not the Devil Isobel?\nOgilvy, even as a statue, was hers, and could not get away. Then the\nbridesmaids sought each other, by the clustering sympathy of their gay\nwreaths and their office, and the bridesman stood in readiness. Mess\nJohn was at the altar; and the bell was to ring the celebrating peal\nafter the ceremony was ended, and the guests should fall to their knives\nand forks; and the retainers on the lawn, where the fire blazed wild to\nroast the ox and honour the bride, should sit down to their marriage\nfeast.\n\nAs Solemnity is the mother of Angerona, with her finger on her lip, so\nhere reigned now the utmost stillness that could be enforced by heaving\nhearts against the buzz of a crowd. Scarcely a sound was heard as the\naltar was encircled. You might have detected a sigh, if it had not been\nthat every sigh was suppressed. Even Isobel was mute, but not from any\ncessation of her triumph--rather from the impression of its culmination\nin possession. She stood grandly, looking around her, in defiance of the\ninexorable law of down-gazing on the ground, where brides see so much\nwhich no one else sees. Nor had she yet expressed by a look any wonder\nat the statue bridegroom, whose attitude was still unchanged. All is\neye, and ear, and throbbing heart, when of a sudden the door of the\ngreat hall opened, calling the eye in the direction of the screech. Who\ndared? Some one more daring than common humanity. A figure entered, in\nthe dress of another bride,--a tall figure, with surely nothing to be\ncovered by the white satin and the long lace mantilla, suspended from\nthe top of a wreathed head white as the driven snows of Salmon, but\nbones, sheer bones. The face could scarcely be seen for the folds of the\nveil: only two eyes, with no more light in them than what plays on the\nsurface of untransparent things, and fixed and immoveable as if they saw\nnothing. The guests were breathless from stupefying amazement. They\nbeheld it pass into the middle of the hall, where, in the space that had\nbeen deserted, it began a movement something like dancing. Strange\nmutterings of a broken-voiced song, with words about long years having\npassed away, rhyming with bridal day, and so forth, in the\ncauldron-kettle-and-incantation style, came in snatches.\n\n\"It is that infernal old witch, Patricia Bower,\" screamed Devil Isobel.\n\nAnd rushing forward, the impassioned creature threw the weight of her\nbody on the composition of bones and satin. It fell, with a loud shrill\nscream from a windpipe dried by the breath of ninety-seven years.\n\nDame Bower and Sweet Marjory rushed forward and drew back the veil. It\nwas the antediluvian Patricia. She was dead. The last spark had been\noffered to Hymen, and the incense canister was broken. Drops of blood\nissued from her mouth and nose, and sat upon the marble face, with still\nremains of the old beauty in it which had charmed Walter Ogilvy, like\ndots on the tiger lily.\n\nAt this moment the bell began to clang. Devil Isobel was gone. She had\nhurried out the moment she knew that the spark of life had fled. Nor\ncould she be found. The song says--\n\n    \"They sought her here, they sought her there,\n    By lochs and streams that scent the main,\n    By forests dark, and gardens fair;\n    But she was never seen again.\"\n\nA trick, this last line, of some of the old legend-mongers of the Bell's\nTower minstrels, no doubt to conceal the shame of the family; for Devil\nIsobel had flown to the tower, where, having concealed herself till the\nbell-ringers went away to join in the feast of the ox, which they never\ntasted even after so much pulling and hauling, she mounted to the\nbelfry. Somehow she had contrived to cast the bell-rope round one of the\nbeams by which the bell was suspended, so as to produce no noise, and\nthen, having made a noose of a different kind from that she had that day\nbeen busily twining, she suspended herself by the neck. It was some days\nbefore she was discovered. The long white figure, still arrayed in the\nmarriage dress with the flowing veil, had been observed by some of the\nsearchers; and then, strange enough, it was remembered that one solitary\nclang of the bell had been heard after the cessation of the ringing.\nThat was the death-peal of Isobel Bower. But, a year after, that same\nbell had another peal to sound--no other than the celebration of the\nmarriage of Hector Ogilvy and Sweet Marjory. Some say that Bell's Tower\ngot its name from the contraction of Isobel. Names stick after the\nthings have passed away. They did well at least to change the\nrope--_finis funis_.\n\n\n\n\nDOCTOR DOBBIE.\n\n\nThe particular day in the life of the worthy disciple of Esculapius to\nwhich we desire to direct the attention of the reader, was raw, coldish,\nand drizzly in the morning, but cleared up towards noon; and although it\nnever became what could be called warm (it was the latter end of\nSeptember), it turned out a very passable sort of day on the whole--such\na day as no man could reasonably object to, unless he had some\nparticular purpose of his own to serve. In such case he might perhaps\nhave wished more rain, or probably more sunshine, as the one or the\nother suited his interest; but where no such selfish motives interfered,\nthe day must have been generally allowed to have been a good one. The\nthermometer stood at--we forget what; and the barometer indicated\n\"Fair.\"\n\n\nPERSONAL APPEARANCE, CHARACTER, AND PECULIARITIES OF THE DOCTOR.\n\nThe doctor was a little stout man, not what could be called corpulent,\nbut presenting that sort of plump appearance which gives the idea of a\nperson's being hard-packed, squeezed, crammed into his skin.\n\nSuch was the doctor, then--not positively fat, but thick, firm, and\nstumpy; the latter characteristic being considerably heightened by his\nalways wearing a pair of glossy Hessian boots, which, firmly encasing\nhis little thick legs up nearly to the knees, gave a peculiar air of\nstamina and solidity to his nether person. The doctor stood like a rock\nin his Hessians, and stumped along in them--for he was excessively vain\nof them--as proudly as a field-marshal, planting his little iron heels\non the flag-stones with a sharpness and decision that told of a firm and\nvigorous step.\n\nThe doctor was no great hand at his trade; but this, it is but fair to\nobserve, was not his own opinion. It was the opinion only of those who\nemployed him, and of the little public to whom he was known. He himself\nentertained wholly different sentiments on the subject. The doctor, in\ntruth, was a vain, conceited little gentleman; but, withal, a pleasant\nsort of person, and very generally liked. He sung a capital song, and\nhad an inexhaustible fund of animal spirits.\n\nOne consequence of the latter circumstance was his being much invited\nout amongst his friends and acquaintances. He was, in fact, a regular\nguest at all their festivities and merry-makings, and on these occasions\nused to get himself fully more strongly malted than became a gentleman\nof his grave profession.\n\nWhen returning home of a night in this state, the little doctor's little\niron heels might be heard rap-rapping on the flag-stones at a great\ndistance in the quiet street, for he then planted them with still more\ndecision and vigour than when sober; and so well known in his\nneighbourhood was the sound of his footsteps, so audible were they in\nthe stillness of the night, and so habitually late was he in returning\nhome--his profession forming an excellent excuse for this--that people,\neven while sitting at their own firesides, or, it might be, in bed,\nalthough at the height of three storeys, became aware, the moment they\nheard his heels, that the doctor was passing beneath; and the\nexclamations, \"That's the doctor,\" or \"There goes the doctor,\" announced\nthe important fact to many a family circle. All unconscious, however,\nof these recognitions, the doctor stumped on his way, reflecting the\nwhile, it might be, on the good cheer he had just been enjoying.\n\nOn these occasions, the doctor, while he kept the open street, got on\nswimmingly; but the dark and somewhat tortuous staircase which he had to\nascend to reach his domicile--the said domicile being on the third\nflat--used to annoy him sadly. When very much overcome, as, we grieve to\nsay it, the doctor very frequently was, the labour it cost him to make\nout the three stairs was very serious. It was long protracted, too; it\ntook him an immense time; for, conscious of his unsteady condition, he\nclimbed slowly and deliberately, but we cannot add quietly; for his\nshuffling, kicking, and blowing, to which he frequently added a muttered\nobjurgation or two on missing a step, as he struggled up the dark stair,\nwere distinctly audible to the whole land. By merely listening, they\ncould trace his whole progress with the utmost accuracy, from the moment\nhe entered the close, until the slam of a door announced that the doctor\nwas housed. They could hear him pass along the close--they could hear\nhim commence his laborious ascent--they could hear him struggling\nupwards, and, anon, the point of his boot striking against a step, which\nhe had taken more surely than necessary--they could hear him gain the\nlanding-place at his own door, signified by a peculiar shuffle, which\nalmost seemed to express the intelligence that a great work had been\naccomplished--they could hear the doctor fumbling amongst his keys and\nloose coin for his check-key, and again fumbling with this check-key\nabout its aperture in the door, the hitting of the latter being a\ntedious and apparently most difficult achievement--and, lastly, they\ncould hear the door flung to with great violence, announcing the finale\nof the doctor's progress.\n\nOver and above the more ordinary and obvious difficulties attending the\ndoctor's ascent on such occasions, and under such circumstances as those\nof which we speak, there was one of a peculiar and particularly annoying\nnature. This was the difficulty he found in discriminating his own\nlanding-place from the others,--a difficulty which was greatly increased\nby the entire similarity of all the landing-places on the stair, the\ndoors in all of which were perfect counterparts of each other, and stood\nexactly in the same relative positions. This difficulty often nonplussed\nhim sadly; but he at length fell upon a method of overcoming it, and of\nensuring his making attempts on no door but his own. He counted the\nlanding-places as he gained them, pausing a second or two on each to\ndraw breath, and impress its number on his memory,--one, two, three,\nthen out with the check-key.\n\nNow this was all very well had the doctor continued to reckon\naccurately; but, considering the state of obfuscation in which he\ngenerally returned home at night, it was very possible that he might\nmiscount on an occasion, and take that for three which, according to\nCocker, was only two, or that for two which, by the same authority, was\nbut one. This was perfectly possible, as the sequel of our tale will\nsufficiently prove. In the meantime, we proceed to other matters; and,\nto make our history as complete as possible, we start anew with--\n\n\nTHE DOCTOR'S SHOP.\n\nIt had not a very imposing appearance; for, to tell a truth, the\ndoctor's circumstances were by no means in a palmy state. The shop,\ntherefore, was decidedly a shabby one. It was very small and very\ndirty, with a little projecting bow window, the lower panes of which\nwere mystified with some sort of light green substance--paint or paper,\nwe don't know which--in order to baffle the curiosity of the prying\nurchins who used to congregate about it. Not that they were attracted by\nanything in the window itself, but that it happened to be a favourite\nstation of the boys in the neighbourhood,--a sort of mustering place, or\nplace of call, where they could at any time find each other. The typical\ndisplay in the doctor's window consisted of a blue bottle, a pound of\nsalts, and a serpent; the second being made up into labelled packages of\nabout an ounce weight each, and built up with nice skill against one of\nthe panes, so as to make as much show as possible. The serpent was a\nnative of the Lammermoor Hills, which a boy, who drove a buttermilk\ncart, brought in one morning, and sold to the doctor for a shilling.\n\nThe inside of the doctor's shop, which besides being very dirty was very\ndark, had a strange, mysterious, equivocal sort of character about it.\nEverything was dingy, and greasy, and battered, and mutilated. Dirty\nbroken glasses stood in dark and dirty corners; rows of dirty bottles,\nsome without stoppers, and some with the necks chipped off, and\ncontaining drops of black, villanous-looking liquids, stood on dirty\nshelves; rows of battered, unctuous-looking drawers, rising tier above\ntier, lined one side of the shop, most of which were handled with bits\nof greasy cord, the brass handles with which they had been originally\nfurnished having long since disappeared, and never having been replaced.\n\nWhat these drawers contained, no human being but the doctor himself\ncould tell. In truth, few of them contained anything at all. Those that\ndid, could be described only as holding mysterious, dirty-looking\npowders, lumps of incomprehensible substances, or masses of desiccated\nvegetable matter of powerful and most abominable flavour.\n\nFor all these, the doctor had, doubtless, very learned names; but such\nas we have described them was their appearance to the eye of the\nuninitiated.\n\nTo complete the charms of the doctor's medical establishment, it was\nconstantly pervaded by a heavy, unearthly smell, that, we verily\nbelieve, no man but himself could have inhaled for an hour and lived.\n\nNotwithstanding the unpretending and homely character of the doctor's\nestablishment, it boasted a sounding name. The doctor himself called it,\nand so did the signboard over the door, \"The ---- Medical Hall,\"--a\ntitle which the envious thought absurd enough for a place whose proudest\nshow was a blue bottle, a pound of salts, and a serpent. But these\npeople did not recollect, or did not choose to recollect, the high\npretensions of the doctor himself. They did not advert to the numerous\ndegrees, honorary titles, fellowships, etc., which he had acquired,\notherwise they would have looked to the man, not to the shop. Probably,\nhowever, few of them were aware of the number of these which he boasted;\nbut it is a fact, nevertheless, that the doctor could, and did on\nparticular occasions, sign himself thus:--\"David Dobbie, M.D.; E.F.;\nM.N.O.; U.V.; Z.Y.X.; W.V.U.;\" nor did he hesitate sometimes to alter\nthe letters according to the inspiration of the happy moment.\n\nNow, had the doctor's right to all these titles been taken into account,\nand, so taken, been appreciated as it ought, there would have been fewer\nsneers at his Medical Hall than there was as matters stood.\n\n\n\n\nTHE INVITATION.\n\n\nIn another part of this history we have stated that the doctor, being\ngenerally liked, was much invited out to feastings and merry-makings,\nand convivialities of all sorts, from the aristocratic roast turkey and\nbottle of port, to the plebeian Findhorn haddock and jug of toddy. But\nall, in this way, was fish that came in the doctor's net. Provided there\nwas quantity--particularly in the liquor department--he was not much\ngiven to shying at quality. He certainly preferred wine, but by no means\nturned up his nose at a tumbler. Few men, in fact, could empty more at a\nsitting.\n\nIt was observed of the doctor, by those who knew him intimately, that he\nwas always in bad humour on what he called blank days. These were days\non which he had no invitation on hand for any description of guzzle\nwhatever--either dinner, tea, supper, or a \"just come up and take a\nglass of toddy in the evening.\" This seldom occurred, but it did\nsometimes happen; and on these occasions the doctor's short and snappish\nanswers gave sufficient intimation of the provoking fact.\n\nIn such temper, then, and for such reason, was the doctor in the\nforenoon of the particular day in his life which we have made the\nsubject of this paper. He was as cross as an old drill-sergeant; and\nwhat made him worse, the affair he had been at on the preceding night\nhad been a very poor one. He had been hinted away after the third\ntumbler--treatment which had driven the doctor to swear, mentally, that\nhe would never enter the house again. How far he would keep this\ndetermination, it remained for another invitation to prove.\n\nIn this mood, then, and at the time already alluded to, was the doctor\nemployed, behind his counter, in measuring off some liquid in a\ngraduated glass, which he held between him and the light, and on which\nhe was looking very intently, as the liquid was precious, the quantity\nwanted small, and the glass but faintly marked, when a little boy\nentered the shop, and inquired if Dr. Dobbie was within.\n\n\"Yes. What do you want?\" replied the doctor gruffly, and without taking\nhis eye off the graduated glass.\n\n\"Here's a line for ye, sir,\" said the boy, laying a card on the counter.\n\n\"Who's it from?\" roared the doctor.\n\n\"Frae Mr. Walkinshaw, sir,\" replied the boy, meekly; \"and he would like\nto ken whether ye can come or no.\"\n\n\"Come; oh, surely. Let me see,\" said the doctor. \"Come; ay, certainly,\"\nhe added, his tone suddenly dropping down to the mild and affable, and\nspeaking from an intuitive knowledge of the tenor of the card. \"Surely;\nlet me see.\" And the doctor opened the note and read, his eyes gloating,\nand his countenance dissolving into smiles, as he did so:--\n\n     \"DEAR DOCTOR,--A few friends at half-past eight. Just a haddock\n     and a jug of toddy. Be as pointed as you can. Won't be kept\n     _very_ late. Dear Doctor, yours truly,\n\n    \"R. WALKINSHAW.\"\n\n\"My compliments to Mr. Walkinshaw,\" said the doctor, with a bland smile,\nand folding up the card with a sort of affectionate air as he spoke,\n\"and tell him I will be pointed. Stop, boy,\" he added, on the latter's\nbeing about to depart with his message; \"stop,\" he said, running towards\nhis till, and thence abstracting threepence, which he put into the boy's\nhand, with a--\"There, my boy, take that to buy marbles.\" The doctor\nalways rewarded such messengers; but he did so systematically, and by a\nrule of his own. For an invitation to breakfast he gave a penny, thus\nestimating that meal at all but the lowest possible rate; for an\ninvitation to dinner he gave sixpence; for one to supper, threepence, as\nexemplified in the instance above.\n\nIn possession of Mr. Walkinshaw's invitation, the doctor continued in\nexcellent spirits throughout the remainder of the day.\n\n\nTHE GUZZLE.\n\nAt the height of three stories, in a respectable-looking tenement in a\ncertain quarter of a certain city which shall be nameless, there resided\na decent widow woman of the name of Paton, who kept lodgers.\n\nAt the particular time, and on the particular occasion at and on which\nwe introduce the reader to Mrs. Paton's lodging-house, there was a\ncertain parlour in the said house in a state of unusual tidiness. Not to\nsay that this parlour was not always in good order: it was; but in the\npresent instance, it displayed an extra degree both of _redding_-up and\nof comfort.\n\nAn unusually large fire blazed in the polished grate, and a couple of\ncandles, in shining candlesticks, stood on the bright mahogany table. On\na small old-fashioned sideboard was exhibited a goodly display of\nbottles and glasses, flanked by a sugar basin, heaped up with snowy bits\nof refined sugar; a small plate of cut cheese, another of biscuit, and a\nthird bearing a couple of lemons.\n\nEverything about the room, in short, gave indication of an approaching\nguzzle. The symptoms were unmistakeable. The only occupant of the room\nat this time was a gentleman, who sat in an arm-chair opposite the\nfire, carelessly turning over the leaves of a new magazine. His heart,\nevidently, was not in the employment; he was merely putting off time,\nand doing so with some impatience of manner, for he was ever and anon\npulling out his watch to see how the night sped on.\n\nThis gentleman was Mr. Walkinshaw, the doctor's inviter, head clerk in a\nrespectable mercantile establishment in the city; and, we need hardly\nsay, one of Mrs. Paton's lodgers. Neither need we say, we fancy, that he\nwas just now waiting, and every moment expecting, the arrival of the\ndoctor, and the other friends he had invited, nor that the preparations\nabove described were intended for the special enjoyment of the party\nalluded to.\n\n\"Five-and-twenty minutes to nine,\" said Mr. Walkinshaw, looking for the\ntwentieth time at the dial of his watch. \"I wonder what has become of\nthe doctor! _he_ used to be so pointed.\"\n\nAt this moment a ring of the door bell announced a visitor. Mr.\nWalkinshaw, in his impatience for the appearance of his friends, and not\ndoubting that this was one of them, snatched up the candle, and ran to\nthe door himself. He opened it; when a little thick-set figure, in\nHessian boots, wrapped up in an ample blue cloth cloak, with an immense\ncape, and having a red comforter tied round his throat, presented\nhimself. It was the doctor.\n\n\"How d'ye do? and how d'ye do? Come away. Glad to see you!\" with cordial\nshaking of hands and joyous smiles, marked the satisfaction with which\nthe inviter and the invited met. The doctor was in high spirits, as he\nalways was on such occasions; that is, when there was a prospect of good\neating and drinking, and nothing to pay.\n\nHaving assisted the doctor to divest himself of his cloak, hat, and\ncomforter, Mr. Walkinshaw ushered him into his room; and having kindly\nseated him in the arm-chair which he had himself occupied a minute or\ntwo before, he ran to the sideboard, took therefrom a small bottle, and\nvery small glass of the shape of a thistle-top, and approaching his\nguest, said in a coaxing tone, filling up at the same time--\n\n\"Thimbleful of brandy, doctor; just to take the chill off.\" Anything for\nan excuse in such cases.\n\n\"Why, no objection, my dear sir,\" said the doctor, smiling most\ngraciously, taking the proffered glass of ruby-coloured liquid, wishing\nhealth and a good wife to his host, and tossing off the tiny bumper.\n\nThe doctor had scarcely bolted his alcohol, when the door bell again\nrung violently.\n\n\"There _they_ are at last!\" exclaimed Walkinshaw, joyously.\n\nAnd there they were, to be sure. Half-a-dozen rattling fellows all in a\nlump. In they poured into Walkinshaw's room with hilarious glee.\n\n\"Ah, doctor. Oh, doctor. Here too, doctor. Hope you're well, doctor.\nGlad to see you, doctor!\" resounded in all quarters; for they were all\nintimate acquaintances of our medical friend, and were really delighted\nto see him.\n\nTo this running fire of salutation, the doctor replied by a series of\nbecks, bows, and smiles, and a shaking of hands, right and left, in\nrapid succession.\n\nAll these, and such like preliminaries, gone through, the party took\ntheir seats around the table, and the business of the evening began. It\nsoon did more: it progressed, and that most joyously. Jug followed jug\nin rapid succession. The doctor got into exuberant spirits, and sung\nseveral of his best songs, in his best manner. But alas!--\n\n    \"Pleasures are,\" etc. etc.\n\nThey are, sweet poet, and no man could be more strongly impressed with,\nor would have more readily allowed the truth and happy application of\nthy beautiful similes, than the doctor, on the occasion of which we are\nspeaking. Enjoyment was quickly succeeded by satiety; and alert\napprehension, and quick perception, by that doziness and obfuscation of\nthe faculties which marks the _quantum suff._ at the festive board.\n\nThe doctor was a man who could have said with the face of clay--\n\n    \"And cursed be he who first cries, Hold, enough!\"\n\nBut, being but mortal, after all, his powers were not illimitable. There\nwas a boundary which even he could not pass, and at the same time lay\nhis hand on his breast and say, \"I'm sober.\"\n\nThat boundary the doctor had now passed by a pretty good way. In plain\nlanguage, he was cut, very much cut, as was made sufficiently evident by\nvarious little symptoms,--such as a certain thickness of speech; a\ncertain diffusion of dull red over the whole countenance, extending to\nand including the ears, which seemed to become transparent, like a pair\nof thin, flat, red pebbles; a certain look of stupidity and\nnon-comprehension; and a certain heaviness and lacklustreness of eye,\nthat gave these organs a strong resemblance to a couple of parboiled\ngooseberries.\n\nSensible of his own condition, sensible that he could hold out no\nlonger, the doctor now moved, in the most intelligible language which he\ncould conveniently command, that the diet should be deserted _pro loco\net tempore_.\n\nThe motion was unanimously approved of; this unanimity having been\nsecured by the inability of several of the party, who had been rendered\n_hors de combat_, to express dissent.\n\nA general break up, then, was the consequence of the doctor's motion.\nCandle in hand, Mr. Walkinshaw rose and accompanied his guests to the\ndoor, towards which they moved in a long irregular file, he leading the\nway. In the passage, however, a momentary halt was called. It was to\nallow the doctor to don himself in his walking gear. With some\nassistance from his host, this was soon accomplished. His hat was stuck\non his head, his martial cloak thrown around him, and his immense\ncomforter, like a red blanket, coiled around his neck. Thus accoutred,\nthe doctor and his friends evacuated the premises of their worthy host,\nMr. Walkinshaw.\n\n\nTHE RETURN HOME, AND INCIDENTS THEREFROM ARISING.\n\nThe doctor had not proceeded far on his way home, until he found himself\nalone. One after another, his friends had popped off; some disappearing\nmysteriously, others giving fair warning of their departure, by shaking\nhim by the hand, and wishing him\n\n    ----\"good night,\n    And rosy dreams and slumbers light.\"\n\nLeft to his own reflections, and, we may add, to his own exertions, the\ndoctor stumped bravely homeward, and, without meeting with anything\nparticularly worthy of notice, arrived safely at his own _close_ mouth.\n\nIn another part of this history, we have mentioned that there were one\nor two difficulties that always awaited the doctor on his return home\nwhen in the particular state in which he was at this moment. The first\nof these difficulties was to climb the dark tortuous staircase, on the\nthird story of which was his domicile. The second was to discriminate\nbetween his neighbours' door and his own. The reader will recollect\nthat, to obviate this last difficulty, the doctor fell upon the\ningenious expedient of counting the landing-places as he ascended, his\nown being number three.\n\nThe reader's memory refreshed as to these particulars, we proceed to say\nthat the doctor, having traversed the close with a tolerably firm and\nsteady step, commenced his laborious ascent of the stair in his usual\nmanner, but with evidently fully more difficulty, as some of the\nneighbours, who heard his struggles, remarked, than ordinary,--a\ncircumstance from which they inferred--and correctly enough, as we have\nseen--that the doctor was more than ordinarily overcome.\n\nThe first flight of steps the doctor accomplished with perfect success,\nand with perfect accuracy recorded it as number one. This done, he\ncommenced the ascent of number two; and, after a severe struggle,\naccomplished it also. But by the time he had done so, the doctor had\nlost his reckoning, and, believing that he had gained his own\nlanding-place, from which, we need hardly remind the reader, he was yet\nan entire flight of stairs distant, he deliberately pulled out his\ncheck-key, and applied it to the door of the neighbour who lived right\nunder him,--a certain Mr. Thomson, who pursued the intellectual calling\nof a cheesemonger.\n\nHaving inserted the key in the lock, the doctor gave it the necessary\ntwitch; and, obedient to the hint, the bolt rose, the door opened, and\nthe doctor walked in.\n\nBeing pitch-dark, and the two houses--that is, the doctor's and Mr.\nThomson's--being of precisely the same construction within, nothing\npresented itself to the unconscious burglar to inform him of the blunder\nhe had made.\n\nSatisfied, or rather never doubting, that all was right, the doctor shut\nthe door, and, groping along the passage, sought the door of a small\napartment on the left, which, in his own house, was his bedroom. This\nroom he readily found; and it so happened that in Mr. Thomson's house\nthis same apartment was also a bedroom; so that the doctor, under all\ncircumstances, could not be blamed for feeling perfectly at ease as to\nhis situation. In this feeling, he planted himself down in a chair, and\nbegan deliberately to unbutton his waistcoat, preparatory to tumbling\nin. While thus employed, the doctor indulged in a sort of soliloquy,\nembracing certain reflections and reminiscences connected with his\npresent condition and recent revelries.\n\n\"All right, then,\" said the doctor, referring to his present position.\n\"Snug in my own bedroom. Capital song yon of Ned's; one of Gilfirian's,\nI think. Writes a beautiful song, Gil--a pretty song--very pretty. Good\nfeeling, sweet natural sentiment, and all that sort of thing. Must get\nhis new edition, and learn half-a-dozen of them. Hah! confoundedly drunk\nthough--that lee-lurch ugly. Never mind: dead sober in the morning;\nsound as a roach. Take a seidlitz, and all right.\"\n\nWhile thus expressing the ideas that were crowding through his addled\nbrain, the doctor's attention was suddenly attracted by a noise at the\nouter door. He paused to listen. It was some one, with a key,\nendeavouring to gain access. What could it mean? Thieves, robbers, no\ndoubt of it. The doctor did not doubt it. So, grasping a huge, thick\ncrab-stick, which he always carried at night, and which he had on the\npresent occasion laid against the wall close by where he sat, the doctor\nstole on tiptoe towards the door, and taking up a position about a yard\ndistant from it, raised his crab-stick aloft, and in this attitude slily\nawaited the entrance of the thief, whom he proposed to knock quietly\ndown the moment he passed the door-way.\n\nLeaving the doctor in this gallant position for a few seconds, we step\naside to inform the reader of a circumstance or two with which it is\nright he should be made acquainted. In the first place, he should be, as\nhe now is, informed that the person at the door, and whom the doctor\ntook to be a midnight robber, was no other than the doctor's neighbour,\nMr. Thomson himself, the lawful occupant of the house of which the\nformer had taken possession. He had happened, like the doctor, to have\nbeen out late that night; and, like the doctor, too, was several sheets\nin the wind. However, that is neither here nor there to our story. But\nit is of some consequence to it to add, inasmuch as it accounts for the\nnon-appearance of any one to avert the impending catastrophe, that there\nwas no one residing in Mr. Thomson's house at the particular period of\nwhich we speak, but Mr. Thomson himself; his wife, children, and\nservant, being at sea-bathing quarters. Thus, then, it was that the\ndoctor had been allowed to take and keep such undisturbed possession of\nthe premises.\n\nAgain, the doctor being a bachelor, kept no servant at all; the domestic\nduties of his establishment being performed by an old woman, who came at\nan early hour of the morning, remained all day, and left at night.\n\nThere was thus no family circumstance connected with his own domestic\nestablishment, the absence of which, on the present occasion, might have\nexcited his suspicions as to his real position. Everything, then,\nfavoured the unlucky chance now in progress. To resume: The doctor\nhaving placed himself in the hostile attitude already described, coolly\nand courageously awaited the entrance of the supposed burglar. He had\nnot to wait long. The door opened; and, all unconscious of what was\nawaiting him, Thomson entered. It was all he was allowed to do, however;\nfor, in the next instant, a well-directed blow from the doctor's\ncrab-stick laid him senseless on the floor.\n\n\"Take that, you burglarious villain,\" shouted the doctor triumphantly,\non seeing the success of his assault; \"and that, and that, and that,\" he\nadded, plunging sundry forcible kicks into the body of his prostrate\nvictim with the points of his little stumpy Hessians.\n\nHaving settled his man, as he imagined, the doctor stooped down, and,\nseizing him by the neck of his coat, proceeded to drag him to the\noutside of the door. This was a work of some difficulty, as Thomson was\nrather a heavy man; but it was accomplished. The doctor exerted himself,\nand succeeded in hauling the unconscious body of his unfortunate\nneighbour on to the landing-place on the outside. Having got him there,\nhe edged him towards the descent, and, giving him a shove with his foot,\nsent him rolling down the stairs.\n\nThe housebreaker thus disposed of, and put, as the doctor believed,\nbeyond all power of doing any more mischief in this world, the latter,\nhighly satisfied with what he had done, and not a little vain of his\nprowess, re-entered the house, carefully secured the door after him with\nchain and bolt, and retired to the little bedroom of which he had been\nbefore in possession.\n\nSomewhat sobered by the occurrence which had just taken place, the\ndoctor now discovered various little circumstances which rather\nsurprised him. He could not, for instance, find his nightcap; it was not\nin the place where it used to be. Neither could he find the boot-jack;\nit was not where it used to be either. The bed, too, he thought, had\ntaken up a strange position; it was not in the same corner of the room,\nand the head was reversed. The head of his bed used to be towards the\ndoor; he now found the foot in that direction.\n\nAll these little matters the doctor noted, and thought them rather odd;\nbut he set them all down to the debit of his housekeeper,--some as the\nresults of carelessness--such as the absence of the nightcap and\nboot-jack; others--the shifting of the bed and altering its position--to\nthe whim of some new arrangement.\n\nThus satisfactorily accounting for the little omissions and\ndiscrepancies he noted, the doctor began to peel; and, in a short time\nafter, was snugly buried beneath the blankets, with his red comforter\nround his head in place of a nightcap.\n\nLeaving the doctor for a time, thus comfortably quartered, we will look\nafter the unfortunate victim of his prowess, whose rights he was now so\ncomplacently usurping.\n\nFor fully half an hour after he had been bundled down stairs by the\ndoctor in the way already described, poor Thomson lay without sense or\nmotion. At about the end of that time, however, he so far recovered as\nto be able to emit two or three dismal groans, which happening to be\noverheard by the policeman on the station, who was at the moment going\nhis rounds, he hastened towards the quarter from whence the alarming\nsounds proceeded, and found the ill-used cheesemonger lying at full\nlength on the stair, head downwards, and, of course, feet uppermost.\n\nThe policeman held his lantern close to the face of the unfortunate man,\nto see if he could recognise him; but this he could not, and that for\ntwo reasons: First, being newly come to the station, he did not know\nThomson at all; and, second, the countenance of the latter was so\ncovered with blood, and otherwise disfigured, that, suppose he had, he\ncould not possibly have recognised him.\n\nSeeing the man in a senseless state, and, as he thought, perhaps\nmortally injured, the policeman hastened to the office to give notice of\nhis situation, and to procure assistance to have him carried there; all\nof which was speedily done. A bier was brought, and on this bier the\nperson of the unfortunate cheesemonger was placed, and borne to the\npolice office.\n\nMedical aid being here afforded to the sufferer, he was soon brought so\nfar round as to be able to give some account of himself, and of the\nmisfortune which had befallen him. His face, too, having been cleared of\nthe blood by which it was disguised, he was recognised by several\npersons in the office; and being known to be a respectable man, the\nwonder was greatly increased to see him in so lamentable a condition.\nMr. Thomson's account, however, of the occurrences of the night\nexplained all.\n\nHe stated that, on returning home to his own house, in which there was\nno one living at present but himself, he was encountered by some one in\nthe passage, and knocked down the instant he entered the door. Who or\nwhat the person was he could not tell, but he had no doubt that it was\nsome one who had entered the house for the purpose of robbing it; and\nadded his belief that the house was filled with robbers, who, he had no\ndoubt, had plundered it of every portable article worth carrying away.\n\nHow he came to be found on the stair he could not tell, but supposed\nthat he had been dragged there after he had been knocked down--that\nproceeding having deprived him of all consciousness.\n\nHere ended Mr. Thomson's deposition; and great was the sensation, great\nthe commotion which it excited in the police office. So daring a\nburglary--so daring an assault. The like had not been heard of for\nyears. In a twinkling, eight or ten men were mustered, lanterned, and\nbludgeoned; and, headed by a sergeant, were on their march to the scene\nof robbery.\n\nOn arriving at Mr. Thomson's door, they found it fast, and all quiet\nwithin. What was to be done? Force open the door? Perhaps some of the\nvillains were still in the house. At any rate, it was proper to see what\nstate things were in.\n\nA smith was accordingly sent for, the lock picked, and the door thrown\nopen, when, headed by the sergeant with a pistol in his hand, in rushed\na mob of policemen, a constellation of lanterns, a forest of bludgeons.\n\nThe guardians of the night now dispersed themselves over the house; but,\nto their great surprise, found no trace whatever of the thieves. There\nappeared to have been nothing disturbed, and the doors and windows\nremained all fast.\n\nPuzzled by these circumstances, the police had begun to abate somewhat\nof that zeal with which they had first commenced their search, and were\nstanding together in knots, some in one room and some in another,\ndiscussing the probabilities and likelihoods of the case, when those in\nthe doctor's apartment were suddenly startled by a loud snore or grunt,\nproceeding from the bed, which was followed by a restless movement, and\nthe exclamation--\"Thieves, robbers!\" muttered in the thick indistinct\nway of a person dreaming.\n\nIn an instant, half a dozen policemen rushed towards the bed, drew aside\nthe curtains, and there beheld the unconscious face of the heroic little\ndoctor just peering out of the blankets, and a section of the red\ncomforter in which his head was entombed in the manner already set\nforth. We have said that the face on which the astonished policemen now\nlooked was an unconscious one. So it was; for, notwithstanding the grunt\nhe had emitted, the movement he had made, and the exclamations he had\nuttered, the doctor was still sound asleep; the former having been\nmerely the result of dreamy reminiscences of the past, awakened by an\nindistinct sense of the presence of some person or persons in the house.\n\nIn mute surprise, the police, every one holding his lantern aloft, and\nthus surrounding the bed with a halo of light, gazed for a second or two\non the sleeping Esculapius. They had never, in the course of all their\nexperience, seen a burglar take things so coolly and comfortably. That\nhe should enter a house with the intention of robbing it, and should\ndeliberately strip, go to bed, and take a snooze in that house, was a\npiece of such daring impudence as they had never heard of before.\n\nIt was no time, however, for making reflections on the subject. The\nbusiness in hand was to secure the villain; and this was promptly done.\nFinding his sleep so profound as not to be easily disturbed, half a\ndozen men, lanterns and sticks in hand, flung themselves on the doctor,\nand, seizing him by the legs and arms, had him in a twinkling on the\nfloor on the breadth of his back. Confounded and bewildered as he was by\nthe extraordinary and appalling circumstances in which he now found\nhimself--surrounded with what appeared to him to be a mob--lanterns\nflitting about as thick as the sparks on a piece of burned\npaper--cudgels bristling around him like a paling--and, to complete all,\na clamour and hubbub of tongues that might have been heard three streets\noff;--we say, confounded and bewildered as he was by these sights and\nsounds, the doctor's pluck did not desert him. Starting to his feet, and\nnot doubting that he was in the midst of a mob of housebreakers, he\nseized one of the policemen by the throat, when a deadly struggle\nensued, in which the doctor's shirt was, in a twinkling, torn up into\nribbons; in another twinkling he was floored by a blow from a baton, and\nrendered incapable of further resistance.\n\nThe combat had been a most unequal one, and no other consequence could\npossibly have arisen from it.\n\nHaving knocked down the doctor, the next business, as is usual in such\nand similar cases, was to get him up again. Accordingly, three or four\nmen got hold of him by the arms and shoulders, and having raised him to\nhis feet, planted him, still senseless, in a chair.\n\nA clamorous consultation, spoken in half a dozen different dialects, now\nensued, as to how the housebreaker was to be disposed of.\n\n\"We'll teuk him to the office, to pe surely,\" said a hard-faced,\nred-whiskered Celt. \"What else you'll do wi' ta roke that'll proke into\nshentleman's hoose, and go to ped as comfortable as a lort. Dam's\nimpitence.\"\n\n\"Soul, and it's to the office we'll have him, by all manner o' means,\nand that in the twinkling of a bedpost,\" chimed in a tall raw-boned\nIrishman, with a spotted cotton handkerchief tied so high around the\nlower part of his face as to bury his mouth. \"The thaif o' the world.\nIt's a free passage across the wather he'll now get, anyhow, bad luck to\nhim.\"\n\n\"Fat, tiel, would you tak the man stark naked through the street?\" said\na little thick-set Aberdonian. \"It would be verra undecent. There's a\nbit cloaky there; throw that aboot his shouthers, and then we'll link\nhim awa like a water-stoup.\"\n\n\"Od, ye'll no fin that so easy, I'm thinkin!\" exclaimed a lumpish,\nbroad-shouldered young fellow. \"He's as fat's a Lochrin distillery pig.\nHe's a hantle mair like his meat than his wark, that ane.\"\n\nHitherto the unfortunate subject of these remarks had been able to take\nno part in what was passing; but, stupefied by the blow he had received,\nwhich had covered his face with blood, and further confounded by the\nvarious circumstances of the case--his previous debauch, the violence\nand suddenness of his awakening, and the extraordinary clamour and\nuproar that surrounded him--he sat, with drooping head and confused\nsenses, without uttering a word.\n\nHis physical energies, however, gradually recovering a little, he began\nto stare about him with a look of bewilderment; and at length, fixing\nhis eye on the Irishman, who happened to be standing directly opposite\nhim, he addressed him with a--\n\n\"Pray, friend, what is the meaning of all this?\"\n\n\"Faiks, my purty fellow, and it's yourself that might be after guessing\nthat with your own 'cute genius,\" replied Paddy. \"Haven't you half a\nnotion, now, of what you have been about the same blessed night?\"\n\n\"I have a pretty good notion that my house has been broken into by a\nparcel of ruffians,\" said the doctor, \"and that I have been half,\nperhaps wholly, murdered by you.\"\n\n\"Capital, ould fellow; capital,\" said the Irishman. \"Tell truth, and\nshame the devil. Your house! Stick to that, my jewel, and you'll\nastonish the spalpeens. But come, come, my tight little mannikin, get up\nwid ye. You'll go and have a peep of _our_ house now. Time about's fair\nplay.\"\n\nAnd he seized the doctor, who was now wrapped in his cloak, and was\nforcing him from his seat, when the latter, resisting this movement,\ncalled out--\n\n\"Does no one here know me? Will no one here protect me? What am I\nassailed in my own house in this manner for? My name's Dobbie--Doctor\nDobbie!\"\n\n\"Your name's no nosin to nobody, you roke,\" said Duncan M'Kay, seconding\nthe efforts of his colleague to lug the doctor out of his seat. \"You'll\nbe one names to-day and anodder names to-morrow. So shust come along to\nta office, toctor--since you calls yourselfs a toctor--and teuket a\nnicht's quarters wi' some o' your frients that's there afore you.\"\n\n\"Let's get a grup o' him,\" exclaimed the broad-shouldered young fellow\nalready spoken of, edging himself in to have a share in the honour of\nlaying a capturing hand on the doctor. \"Od, he's as round as a pokmanky.\nThere's nae getting hand o' him. Come awa, doctor; come awa, my man.\nBailie Morton 'll be unco glad to see ye,\" he added, having succeeded in\ngetting hold of one of the doctor's arms, which he seized with a grip\nlike a vice.\n\nUndeterred by the overpowering force with which he was assailed, the\ndoctor still resisted, vainly announcing and re-announcing his name and\ncalling. It had the effect only of increasing the clamour and hubbub\namongst the police, who now all huddled round him in a mob; and without\nlistening to a word he said, finally succeeded in carrying him bodily\nout of the house, in despite of some desperate struggling, and a great\ndeal of noisy vociferation on the part of the doctor.\n\n\nTHE POLICE OFFICE, AND FINALE.\n\nLeading off from and immediately behind the public office, there was a\nsmall carpeted room, provided with a sofa, some chairs, and a\nwriting-desk.\n\nThis room was appropriated to some of the upper functionaries connected\nwith the police establishment of ----, and was the scene of private\nexaminations of culprits, and of other kinds of proceedings of a private\nnature.\n\nAt the time at which we introduce the reader to this apartment, there\nlay extended on the sofa above spoken of, a gentleman who appeared to\nhave seen some recent service, if one might judge from the circumstance\nof his head being bound up in a blood-stained handkerchief, and his\nexhibiting some symptoms of languor and debility. This gentleman was Mr.\nThomson, who was awaiting the result of the expedition which had gone to\nexamine his house, and whose return he was now momentarily expecting.\nAwaiting the same issue then, and awaiting it in the same apartment, was\nanother gentleman. This person was a sort of sub-superintendent of the\npolice; and was, at the moment of which we speak, busily engaged writing\nat the desk formerly mentioned.\n\nBoth of those persons, then, were anxiously waiting the return of the\ndetachment whose proceedings are already before the reader, beguiling\nthe time, meanwhile, by discussing the probabilities of the case. They\nwere thus engaged, when a tremendous noise in the outer office gave\nintimation of an arrival, and one of no ordinary kind; for the tramping\nof feet was immense, and the hubbub astounding.\n\n\"That's _them_,\" said Mr. Thomson.\n\n\"I think it is,\" said the sub.\n\nEre any other remark could be made, the door of the private apartment\nwas opened, and in marched a short, stout, half-dressed, bloody-faced\ngentleman, in a blue cloth cloak, between two policemen, and followed by\na mob of functionaries of the same description, who stood so thick as\nto completely block up the door. This stout, half-dressed gentleman in\nthe blue cloth cloak was the doctor.\n\n\"Dear me, doctor,\" said Mr. Thomson, advancing towards the former, whom\nhe at once recognised, \"what's the matter? What terrible affair is\nthis?\"\n\n\"Terrible indeed--unheard of, monstrous!\" exclaimed the doctor, in a\ntowering passion. \"My house, sir, has been broken into by these\nruffians. I have been torn from my bed, maltreated in the way you see,\nand dragged here like a felon by them, and for what I know not. But I\n_will_ know it; and if I don't--\"\n\n\"This is odd, doctor,\" here interposed Mr. Thomson; \"I have been the\nvictim of a similar kind of violence to-night, as you may see by the\nstate of my head, although the case is in other respects somewhat\ndifferent. My house has been also broken into.\"\n\n\"Bless my soul, very strange!\" said the doctor, taking a momentary\ninterest in the misfortunes of his neighbour. \"By these ruffians?\" he\nadded, pointing to the police.\n\n\"No, no, not them,\" replied Thomson; \"housebreakers. Some villains had\ngot into the house; and I had no sooner entered it, on returning home a\nlittle later than usual, than I was knocked down, dragged out to the\nstair, and thrown down, where I was found in a state of insensibility\nand brought here.\"\n\nThe doctor winced a little at this statement: a vague suspicion, we can\nhardly say of the fact, but of something akin thereto, began to glimmer\ndimly on his mental optics. He, however, said nothing; nor, even had he\nbeen inclined to say anything, was opportunity afforded him; for here\nthe presiding official of the place, the sub-superintendent, to whom the\ndoctor was well known, and who had impatiently awaited the conclusion\nof the conversation between the latter and Thomson, interfered with a--\n\n\"Good heaven, doctor, how came you to be in this situation? What is the\nmeaning of all this?\" he added, turning to his men.\n\n\"The maining's as plain as a pike-staff, your honour,\" replied the Irish\nwatchman, to whom we have already introduced the reader. \"We found this\nlittle gentleman, since he turns out to be a gentleman, where he\nshouldn't have been.\"\n\n\"And where was that, pray?\" inquired the sub.\n\n\"Why, in Mr. Thomson's house, your honour. And not only that, but in bed\ntoo, as snug as a fox in a chimbley.\"\n\n\"In ta fery peds, ta roke!\" here chimed in our friend M'Kay.\n\n\"What! you don't mean to say that you found the doctor here in _Mr.\nThomson's_ house?\" said the astonished official, laying a marked\nemphasis on the name.\n\n\"To pe surely we do, sir,\" replied Duncan.\n\n\"I'll tak my Bible oath till't,\" added another personage, whom the\nreader will readily recognise.\n\n\"In my house! The doctor in _my_ house!\" exclaimed Mr. Thomson, in the\nutmost amazement.\n\n\"Mr. Thomson's house! Me in Mr. Thomson's house!\" said the doctor, with\na look of blank dismay; for a tolerably distinct view of the truth had\nnow begun to present itself to his mind's eye. It was, therefore, rather\nin the desperate hope of there being yet some chance in his favour, than\nfrom any conviction that the testimony against him was founded in error,\nthat he added--\n\n\"My _own_ house, you scoundrels; you found me in my _own_ house!\"\n\nHere the whole mob of policemen simultaneously, and as if with one\nvoice, shouted--\"It's a lie, it's a lie. We found him in Mr. Thomson's.\"\n\n\"How do you explain this, doctor?\" said Mr. Thomson mildly, although\nbeginning--he couldn't help it--to think rather queerly of the doctor.\n\n\"Why, why,\" replied the crest-fallen and perplexed doctor, \"if I really\nhave been in your house, Mr. Thomson, although I can't believe it, I\nmust, I must--in fact, I must have mistaken it for my own. To tell a\ntruth, I came home rather cut last night; and it is possible, quite\npossible, although I can hardly think probable, that I may have taken\nyour house for my own. That's the fact,\" added the doctor, with\nsomething like an appeal to the lenity of the person whose rights he had\nso unwittingly usurped, and whose corporeal substance he had so\nseriously maltreated.\n\n\"And was it you that knocked me down, doctor?\" said Mr. Thomson. \"Too\nbad that, to knock me down in my own house.\"\n\n\"Why, my dear sir, I trust I did not. I hope I did not. But really I\ndon't know; perhaps I--you see, I thought thieves were coming in, and\nI--\"\n\nHere a burst of laughter from the presiding officer, which was instantly\ntaken up by every one in the apartment, and in which Thomson himself\ncouldn't help joining, interrupted the doctor's further explanations.\n\n\"Well, doctor,\" said the latter, who was a good-natured sort of person,\nand who, like every one else, had a kind of esteem for the little\nmedical gentleman, \"I must say that when you broke my head, you were\nonly in the way of your trade; but I think the least thing you can do is\nto mend it for nothing.\"\n\n\"Most gladly, my dear sir,\" replied the doctor; \"for I did the\ndamage,--at least I fear it, however unknowingly,--and am bound to\nrepair it.\"\n\n\"Done; let it be a bargain,\" said Thomson. \"But, doctor, be so good as\nto give me previous notice when you again desire to take possession of\nmy house. At any rate, don't knock me down when I come to seek a share\nof it.\"\n\nThe doctor promised to observe the conditions; and shortly after, the\ntwo left the office, arm in arm, in the most friendly way imaginable.\n\nIt is said, although we cannot vouch for the truth of the report, that\nthe doctor, after this, fell upon the expedient of casting a knot on his\nhandkerchief for each landing-place in the stair as he gained it, when\nascending the latter under such circumstances as those that gave rise to\nthe awkward occurrence which has been the subject of these pages.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEEKER.\n\n\nAmongst the many thousand readers of these tales, there are perhaps few\nwho have not observed that the object of the writers is frequently of a\nhigher kind than that of merely contributing to their amusement. They\nwould wish \"to point a moral,\" while they endeavour to \"adorn a tale.\"\nIt is with this view that I now lay before them the history of a SEEKER.\nThe first time I remember hearing, or rather of noticing the term, was\nin a conversation with a living author respecting the merits of a\npopular poet, when, his religious opinions being adverted to, it was\nmentioned that, in a letter to a brother poet of equal celebrity, he\ndescribed himself as a SEEKER. I was struck with the word and its\napplication. I had never met with the fool who saith in his heart that\nthere is no God; and though I had known many deniers of revelation, yet\na SEEKER, in the sense in which the word was applied, appeared a new\ncharacter. But, on reflection, I found it an epithet applicable to\nthousands, and adopted it as a title to our present story.\n\nRichard Storie was the eldest son of a Dissenting minister, who had the\npastoral charge of a small congregation a few miles from Hawick. His\nfather was not what the world calls a man of talent, but he possessed\nwhat is far beyond talents--piety and humanity. In his own heart he felt\nhis Bible to be true--its words were as a lamp within him; and from his\nheart he poured forth its doctrines, its hopes, and consolations, to\nothers, with a fervour and an earnestness which Faith only can inspire.\nIt is not the thunder of declamation, the pomp of eloquence, the majesty\nof rhetoric, the rounded period, and the glow of imagery, which can\nchain the listening soul, and melt down the heart of the unbeliever, as\nmetals yield to the heat of the furnace. Show me the hoary-headed\npreacher, who carries sincerity in his very look and in his very tones,\nwho is animated because faith inspires him, and out of the fulness of\nhis own heart his mouth speaketh, and there is the man from whose tongue\ntruth floweth as from the lips of an apostle; and the small still voice\nof conscience echoes to his words, while hope burns, and the judgment\nbecomes convinced. Where faith is not in the preacher, none will be\nproduced in the hearer. Such a man was the father of Richard Storie. He\nhad fulfilled his vows, and prayed with and for his children. He set\nbefore them the example of a Christian parent, and he rejoiced to\nperceive that that example was not lost upon them.\n\nWe pass over the earlier years of Richard Storie, as during that period\nhe had not become a SEEKER, nor did he differ from other children of his\nage. There was indeed a thoughtfulness and sensibility about his\ncharacter; but these were by no means so remarkable as to require\nparticular notice, nor did they mark his boyhood in a peculiar degree.\nThe truths which from his childhood he had been accustomed to hear from\nhis father's lips, he had never doubted; but he felt their truth as he\nfelt his father's love, for both had been imparted to him together. He\nhad fixed upon the profession of a surgeon, and at the age of eighteen\nhe was sent to Edinburgh to attend the classes. He was a zealous\nstudent, and his progress realized the fondest wishes and anticipations\nof his parent. It was during his second session that Richard was\ninduced, by some of his fellow collegians, to become a member of a\ndebating society. It was composed of many bold and ambitious young men,\nwho, in the confidence of their hearts, rashly dared to meddle with\nthings too high for them. There were many amongst them who regarded it\nas a proof of manliness to avow their scepticism, and who gloried in\nscoffing at the eternal truths which had lighted the souls of their\nfathers when the darkness of death fell upon their eyelids. It is one of\nthe besetting sins of youth to appear wise above what is written. There\nwere many such amongst those with whom Richard Storie now associated.\nFrom them he first heard the truths which had been poured into his\ninfant ear from his father's lips attacked, and the tongue of the\nscoffer rail against them. His first feeling was horror, and he\nshuddered at the impiety of his friends. He rose to combat their\nobjections and refute their arguments, but he withdrew not from the\nsociety of the wicked. Week succeeded week, and he became a leading\nmember of the club. He was no longer filled with horror at the bold\nassertions of the avowed sceptic, nor did he manifest disgust at the\nribald jest. As night silently and imperceptibly creeps through the air,\ndeepening shade on shade, till the earth lies buried in its darkness, so\nhad the gloom of _Doubt_ crept over his mind, deepening and darkening,\ntill his soul was bewildered in the sunless darkness.\n\nThe members acted as chairman of the society in rotation, and, in his\nturn, the office fell upon Eichard Storie. For the first time, he seemed\nto feel conscious of the darkness in which his spirit was enveloped;\nconscience haunted him as a hound followeth its prey; and still its\nsmall still voice whispered,\n\n     \"Who sitteth in the scorner's chair.\"\n\nThe words seemed burning on his memory. He tried to forget them, to\nchase them away--to speak of, to listen to other things; but he could\nnot. \"_Who sitteth in the scorner's chair_\" rose upon his mind as if\nprinted before him--as if he heard the words from his father's\ntongue--as though they would rise to his own lips. He was troubled--his\nconscience smote him--the darkness in which his soul was shrouded was\nmade visible. He left his companions--he hastened to his lodgings, and\nwept. But his tears brought not back the light which had been\nextinguished within him, nor restored the hopes which the pride and the\nrashness of reason had destroyed. He had become the willing prisoner of\n_Doubt_, and it now held him in its cold and iron grasp, struggling in\ndespair.\n\nReason, or rather the self-sufficient arrogance of fancied talent which\nfrequently assumes its name, endeavoured to suppress the whisperings of\nconscience in his breast; and in such a state of mind was Richard\nStorie, when he was summoned to attend the death-bed of his father. It\nwas winter, and the snow lay deep on the ground, and there was no\nconveyance to Hawick until the following day; but, ere the morrow came,\neternity might be between him and his parent. He had wandered from the\ndoctrines that parent had taught, but no blight had yet fallen on the\naffections of his heart. He hurried forth on foot; and having travelled\nall night in sorrow and anxiety, before daybreak he arrived at the home\nof his infancy. Two of the elders of the congregation stood before the\ndoor.\n\n\"Ye are just in time, Mr. Richard,\" said one of them mournfully, \"for\nhe'll no be lang now; and he has prayed earnestly that he might only be\nspared till ye arrived.\"\n\nRichard wept aloud.\n\n\"Oh, try and compose yoursel', dear sir,\" said the elder. \"Your distress\nmay break the peace with which he's like to pass away. It's a sair\ntrial, nae doubt--a visitation to us a'; but ye ken, Richard, we must\nnot mourn as those who have no hope.\"\n\n\"Hope!\" groaned the agonized son as he entered the house. He went\ntowards the room where his father lay; his mother and his brethren sat\nweeping around the bed.\n\n\"Richard!\" said his afflicted mother as she rose and flung her arms\naround his neck. The dying man heard the name of his first-born, his\nlanguid eyes brightened, he endeavoured to raise himself upon his\npillow, he stretched forth his feeble hand. \"Richard!--my own Richard!\"\nhe exclaimed; \"ye hae come, my son; my prayer is heard, and I can die in\npeace! I longed to see ye, for my spirit was troubled upon yer\naccount--sore and sadly troubled; for there were expressions in yer last\nletter that made me tremble--that made me fear that the pride o' human\nlearning was lifting up the heart o' my bairn, and leading his judgment\ninto the dark paths o' error and unbelief; but oh! these tears are not\nthe tears of an unbeliever!\"\n\nHe sank back exhausted. Richard trembled. He again raised his head.\n\n\"Get the books,\" said he feebly, \"and Richard will make worship. It is\nthe last time we shall all join together in praise on this earth, and it\nwill be the last time I shall hear the voice o' my bairn in prayer, and\nit is long since I heard it. Sing the hymn,\n\n     'The hour of my departure's come,'\n\nand read the twenty-third psalm.\"\n\nRichard did as his dying parent requested; and as he knelt by the\nbedside, and lifted up his voice in prayer, his conscience smote him,\nagony pierced his soul, and his tongue faltered. He now became a Seeker,\nseeking mercy and truth at the same moment; and, in the agitation of his\nspirit, his secret thoughts were revealed, his doubts were manifested! A\ndeep groan issued from the dying-bed. The voice of the supplicant failed\nhim--his _amen_ died upon his lips; he started to his feet in confusion.\n\n\"My son! my son!\" feebly cried the dying man, \"ye hae lifted yer eyes to\nthe mountains o' vanity, and the pride o' reason has darkened yer heart,\nbut, as yet, it has not hardened it. Oh Richard! remember the last words\no' yer dying faither: 'Seek, and ye shall find.' Pray with an humble and\na contrite heart, and in yer last hour ye will hae, as I hae now, a\nlicht to guide ye through the dark valley of the shadow of death.\"\n\nHe called his wife and his other children around him--he blessed\nthem--he strove to comfort them--he committed them to his care who is\nthe Husband of the widow and the Father of the fatherless. The lustre\nthat lighted up his eyes for a moment, as he besought a blessing on\nthem, vanished away, his head sank back upon his pillow, a low moan was\nheard, and his spirit passed into peace.\n\nHis father's death threw a blight upon the prospects of Richard. He no\nlonger possessed the means of prosecuting his studies; and in order to\nsupport himself and assist his mother, he engaged himself as tutor in\nthe family of a gentleman in East Lothian. But there his doubts followed\nhim, and melancholy sat upon his breast. He had thoughtlessly, almost\nimperceptibly, stepped into the gloomy paths of unbelief, and anxiously\nhe groped to retrace his steps; but it was as a blind man stumbles; and\nin wading through the maze of controversy for a guide, his way became\nmore intricate, and the darkness of his mind more intense. He repented\nthat he had ever listened to the words of the scoffer, or sat in the\nchair of the scorner; but he had permitted the cold mists of scepticism\nto gather round his mind, till even the affections of his heart became\nblighted by their influence. He was now a solitary man, shunning\nsociety; and at those hours when his pupils were not under his charge,\nhe would wander alone in the wood or by the river, brooding over\nunutterable thoughts, and communing with despair; for he sought not, as\nis the manner of many, to instil the poison that had destroyed his own\npeace into the minds of others. He carried his punishment in his soul,\nand was silent--in the soul that was doubting its own existence! Of all\nhypochondriacs, to me the unbeliever seems the most absurd. For can\nmatter think? can it reason, can it doubt? Is it not the thing that\ndoubts which distrusts its own being? Often when he so wandered, the\nlast words of his father--\"Seek, and ye shall find\"--were whispered in\nhis heart, as though the spirit of the departed breathed them over him.\nThen would he raise his hands in agony, and his prayer rose from the\nsolitude of the woods.\n\nAfter acting about two years as tutor, he returned to Edinburgh and\ncompleted his studies. Having with difficulty, from the scantiness of\nhis means, obtained his diplomas, he commenced practice in his native\nvillage. His brothers and his sisters had arrived at manhood and\nwomanhood, and his mother enjoyed a small annuity. Almost from boyhood\nhe had been deeply attached to Agnes Brown, the daughter of a\nneighbouring farmer; and about three years after he had commenced\npractice, she bestowed on him her hand. She was all that his heart could\nwish--meek, gentle, and affectionate; and her anxious love threw a\ngleam of sunshine over the melancholy that had settled upon his soul.\nOften, when he fondly gazed in her eyes, where affection beamed, the\nhope of immortality would flash through his bosom; for one so good, so\nmade of all that renders virtue dear, but to be born to die and to be no\nmore, he deemed impossible. They had been married about nine years, and\nAgnes had become the mother of five fair children, when in one day death\nentered their dwelling, and robbed them of two of their little ones. The\nneighbours had gathered together to comfort them, and the mother in\nsilent anguish wept over her babes; but the father stood tearless and\nstricken with grief, as though his hopes were sealed up in the coffin of\nhis children. In his agony he uttered words of strange meaning. The\ndoubts of the Seeker burst forth in the accents of despair. The\nneighbours gazed at each other. They had before had doubts of the\nreligious principles of Dr. Storie; now those doubts were confirmed.\nMany began to regard him as an unsafe man to visit a death-bed, where he\nmight attempt to rob the dying of the everlasting hope which enables\nthem to triumph over the last enemy. His practice fell off, and the\nwants of his family increased. He was no longer able to maintain an\nappearance of respectability. His circumstances aggravated the gloom of\nhis mind; and for a time he became, not a Seeker, but one who abandoned\nhimself to callousness and despair. Even the affection of his\nwife--which knew no change, but rather increased as affliction and\nmisfortune came upon them--with the smiles and affection of his\nchildren, became irksome. Their love increased his misery. His own house\nwas all but forsaken, and the blacksmith's shop became his consulting\nroom, the village alehouse his laboratory. Misery and contempt\nheightened the \"shadows, clouds, and darkness\" which rested on his\nmind. To his anguish and excitement he had now added habits of\nintemperance; his health became a wreck, and he sank upon his bed, a\nmiserable and a ruined man. The shadow of death seemed lowering over\nhim, and he lay trembling, shrinking from its approach, shuddering and\nbrooding over the cheerless, the horrible thought--_annihilation_! But,\neven then, his poor Agnes watched over him with a love stronger than\ndeath. She strove to cheer him with the thought that he would still\nlive--that they would again be happy. \"Oh my husband!\" cried she fondly,\n\"yield not to despair; _seek, and ye shall find_!\"\n\n\"Oh heavens, Agnes!\" exclaimed he, \"I have sought!--I have sought! I\nhave been a SEEKER until now; but Truth flees from me, Hope mocks me,\nand the terrors of Death only find me!\"\n\n\"Kneel with me, my children,\" she cried; \"let us pray for mercy and\npeace of mind for your poor father!\" And the fond wife and her offspring\nknelt around the bed where her husband lay. A gleam of joy passed over\nthe sick man's countenance, as the voice of her supplication rose upon\nhis ear, and a ray of hope fell upon his heart. \"_Amen_!\" he uttered as\nshe arose; and \"_Amen_!\" responded their children.\n\nOn the bed of sickness his heart had been humbled; he had, as it were,\nseen death face to face; and the nearer it approached, the stronger\nassurances did he feel of the immortality he had dared to doubt. He\narose from his bed a new man; hope illumined, and faith began to glow in\nhis bosom. His doubts were vanquished, his fears dispelled. He had\nsought, and at length found the hopes of the Christian.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\nTHE WAGER.[C]\n\n\nAbout thirty years ago, the office of carrier between Edinburgh and a\ncertain town on the north of the Tay was discharged by a person of the\nname of George Skirving. At the time of which we speak he might be about\nforty-five years of age, a man of considerable physical strength, and\nwith as much mental firmness as will be found among the generality of\nmankind. His occupation, in travelling during night, required often the\nconfirming influence of personal courage, to keep him from being\nalarmed; and his activity, and exposure to the fresh air of both land\nand water, were conducive to bodily health and elasticity of spirits. He\nwas at once a faithful carrier and a good companion on the road, along\nwhich he was generally respected; and, by attention to business and\neconomical habits of living, he had been enabled to realize as much\nmoney as might suffice to sustain him, with his wife and three children,\nin the event of his being disabled, by accident or ill health, from\nfollowing his ordinary employment.\n\nThe day in which George Skirving left the northern town for Edinburgh,\nwas Wednesday of each week; and he started at the hour of seven, both in\nwinter and summer. On one occasion, in the month of August, he set out\nfrom his quarters at his usual hour; and having crossed the Tay with his\ngoods, proceeded on his way through Fife. He had with him his dog Wolf,\nwho usually served him as a companion; his waggons were loaded with\ngoods, the proceeds of the carriage of which he counted as he trudged\nalong; and he now and then had recourse to a small flask of spirits\nwhich his wife had, without his knowledge, and contrary to her usual\ncustom, placed in the breast-pocket of his great-coat. He was thus in\ngood spirits; and as he applied himself with great moderation--for he\nwas a sober man--to his inspiring companion, he jocularly blamed Betty\n(such was the name of his consort) for defrauding his houses of call on\nthe road of the custom he used to bestow on them.\n\n\"It was kind o' ye, Betty,\" he said; \"but it saves naething; for if I,\nwha have travelled this road for sae mony years, were to pass John\nSharpe's, or Widow M'Murdo's, or Andrew Gemmel's, without takin' my\nusual allowance, I would be set doun as fey or mad. I maun gae through\na' my usual routine--mak my ca's, order my drams, drink them, and pay\nfor them, as I hae dune for twenty years. Men are just like clocks--some\ngae owre fast, and some owre slow; but the carrier, beyond a', maun keep\nto his time aye, and _chap_ at the proper time and place, or idleness\nand beggary would soon mak time hang weary on his hands.\"\n\nHe had trudged onwards in his slow pace for a space of about eight\nmiles, and was at the distance of about three from Cupar, when he was\naccosted by a person of the name of James Cowie, an inhabitant of\nDundee, with whom he had for a long time been in habits of intimacy.\n\n\"You are weel forward the day, George,\" said Cowie. \"Ye'll be in Cupar\nbefore your time. There's rowth a parcels for ye at John Sharpe's door,\nyonder. But, mercy on me!\" he continued, starting and looking amazed,\n\"what's the matter wi' ye, man?\"\n\n\"Naething,\" replied George. \"I hae been takin' a few draps o' Betty's\ncordial, here,\" pointing to the flask, \"and maybe the colour may have\nmounted to my face.\"\n\n\"The colour mounted to your face, man!\" ejaculated Cowie. \"Is it\nwhiteness--paleness--ye mean by colour? Ye're like a clout, man--a\nbleached clout. There's something wrang, rely upon it, George; some o'\nthat intricate machinery o' our fearfu' systems out o' joint. Is it\npossible ye have felt or feel nae change?\"\n\n\"Nane whatever, Jamie,\" answered the carrier, somewhat alarmed. \"You're\nsurely joking me; I never felt better i' my life. No, no, Jamie, there's\nnaething the matter; thank God, I'm in gude health.\"\n\n\"It's weel ye think sae,\" replied Cowie, with a satirical tone; \"but if\nI'm no cheated, ye're on the brink o' some fearfu' disease. Get up on\nyour cart, man; hasten to Cupar, an' speak to Doctor Lowrie. It's a braw\nthing to tak diseases in time.\"\n\n\"If a white face is a' ye judge by,\" said George, attempting to make\nlight of the matter, \"I can remove it by an application to Betty's\ncordial.\"\n\n\"Ay, do that,\" said Cowie ironically, \"and add fuel to the flame. If I\nwerena your friend, I wadna tak this liberty wi' ye. I assure ye again,\nan' I hae some judgment o' thae matters, that ye're very ill. That's no\nan ordinary paleness: your lips are blue, an' your eyes dull an'\nheavy--sure signs o' an oncome. Haste ye to Cupar an' get advice, an' ye\nmay yet ca' me your best friend.\"\n\nAs he finished these words, Cowie turned to proceed onwards towards\nNewport.\n\n\"Ye've either said owre little or owre muckle, James,\" replied George,\nafter a slight pause, and resigning his carelessness.\n\n\"I hae just said the truth, George,\" added Cowie; \"but I maun be in\nDundee by one o'clock, an' canna wait. I'll say naething to Mrs.\nSkirving to alarm her; but, for God's sake, tak my advice, an' consult\nDoctor Lowrie.\"\n\nHe proceeded on his journey, leaving Skirving in doubt and perplexity.\nAt first he was considerably affected by Cowie's speech and manner,\nbecause he knew him to be a serious man, and averse to all manner of\njoking. It was possible, he admitted, that a disease might be lurking\nsecretly in his vitals, unknown to himself, but discernible to another;\nand the circumstance of his wife having put the flask of cordial in his\ncoat-pocket, seemed to indicate that she had observed something wrong\nbefore he set out, and had been afraid to communicate it to him, in case\nit might alarm him. His spirits sank, as this confirmation of Cowie's\nstatement came to his mind; he put his right hand to his left wrist, to\nfeel the state of the pulse, and, as might have been expected,\ndiscovered (for he overlooked the effects of his fear) that it was much\nquicker than it used to be when he was in perfect health.\n\nHaving been taken thus by surprise, he remained in a state of\nconsiderable depression for some time; but when he came to think of the\ninadequate grounds of his alarm, he began to rally; and his mind,\nrebounding, as it were, on the cessation of the depressing reverie,\nthrew off the fear, and he recovered so far his natural courage as to\nlaugh at the strange fancy that had taken possession of him.\n\n\"I was a fule,\" he said to himself. \"What though my face be pale, and my\neyes heavy, and my pulse a little quicker than usual, am I to dee for a'\nthat? Cowie has probably had his _morning_; and truly his appearance,\nnow when I think of it, didna assort ill wi' that supposition. Johnny\nSharpe and he are auld cronies, and they couldna part without some wet\npledge o' their auld friendship. I'll wad my best horse on the point.\nHa! ha! what a fule I was!\" He accompanied these words by again feeling\nhis pulse. The fear was greatly off, the pulsations had become more\nregular; and this confirmation enabled him to laugh off the effects the\nextraordinary announcements had made upon him.\n\nHe proceeded onwards to Cupar, and stopped at John Sharpe's inn. The\nlandlord was at the door. George looked at him narrowly, as he saluted\nhim in the ordinary form. He thought the innkeeper looked also very\nnarrowly at him, as he answered his salutation; but he was afraid to\nbroach the question of his sickly appearance, and hurried away to get\nthe goods packed that stood at the inn door. Having finished his work,\nduring which he thought he saw the landlord looking strangely at him, he\ncalled for the quantity of spirits he was usually in the habit of\ngetting, and, as he filled out the glass, asked quickly if James Cowie\nhad been there that morning. The landlord answered that he had; but\nadded, of his own accord, that he did not remain in the house so long as\nto give time for even drinking to each other. This answer produced a\ngreater effect upon George than he was even then aware of; and it is not\nunlikely that this, and the impression that the landlord looked at him\n_strangely_, produced the very paleness that Cowie had mentioned. Be\nthat as it may, he took up the glass of spirits and laid it down again,\nwithout almost tasting it; and his reason for this departure from his\nordinary course, was, that he had already partaken sufficiently of his\nwife's cordial; and he had some strange misgivings about drinking ardent\nspirits, in case, after all, it might turn out that there was hanging\nabout him some disease. The moment he laid down the full glass, the\nlandlord said to him, looking in an inquiring and sympathetic manner\ninto his face--\n\n\"George, I haena seen you do that for ten years. Are you well enough?\"\n\n\"What! what! eh, what!\" stammered out the carrier confusedly; \"do you\nthink I'm ill, John?\"\n\nThe words were scarcely out of his mouth when the inn bell rang, and the\nlandlord was called away, and, being otherwise occupied, did not return.\nAfter waiting for him a considerable time, Skirving became impatient,\nand, making another effort to shake off his fears, applied the whip to\nhis horses, and proceeded on his journey. For a time his mind was so\nmuch confused that he could not contemplate the whole import of the\nextraordinary coincidence he had just witnessed; but as he proceeded and\ncame to a quieter part of the road, his thoughts reverted to the\nstatements of James Cowie--who, he was now satisfied, had been quite\nsober--to the looks and extraordinary question of John Sharpe, and to\nthe intention of his wife in providing him with the cordial. As he\npondered on this strange accumulation of according facts, he again felt\nhis pulse, which had again risen to the height it had attained during\nthe prior paroxysm. The affair had now assumed a new aspect. It was\nimpossible that this concurrence of circumstances could be fortuitous.\nHe was now much afraid that he was ill--very ill indeed; perhaps under\nthe incipient symptoms of typhus or brain fever, or small-pox, or some\nother dreadful disease. As these thoughts rose in his mind, he grew\nfaint, and would have sat down; but he felt a reluctance to stop his\ncarts, and a feeling of shame struggled against his conviction, and kept\nhim walking.\n\nThis state of nervous excitement remained, in spite of many efforts he\nmade to throw off his fears. Yet he was bound to admit that he felt no\nsymptoms of pain or sickness. By and by the feeling of alarm began again\nto decay, and by the time he got eight or ten miles farther on his road,\nhe had conjured up a good many sustaining ideas and arguments, whereby\nhe at least contrived to increase the quantum of _doubt_ of his being\nreally ill. He rallied a little again; but the temporary elevation was\ndestined to be succeeded by another depression, which, in its turn, gave\nplace to another accession of relief; and thus he was kept in a painful\nalternation of changing fancies, until he was within a mile and a half\nof the next place of call--a little house at some distance from the\nPlasterers' Inn.\n\nHe had hitherto been progressing at a very slow rate, and was in the act\nof raising his hand to apply the whip to his horses, when he saw before\nhim Archibald Willison, a sort of itinerant cloth merchant, a native of\nDundee, with whom he was on terms of intimacy. They had met often on the\nroad, and had gossiped together over a little refreshment at the inns\nwhere the carrier stopped. At this particular time, George Skirving\nwould rather have avoided his old friend; for he was under a depression\nof spirits, and felt also a disinclination or fear, he could not account\nfor, to submit his face and appearance to the lynx eye of the travelling\nmerchant. He had, however, no choice.\n\n\"Ah, George,\" cried Archie, \"it's lang since I saw ye. How are\nye? What!\"--starting as if surprised--\"have ye been lyin',\nman--confined--sick?--what, in God's name, has been the matter wi' ye?\nSome sad complaint, surely, to produce so mighty a change!\"\n\nThis address seemed to George just the very confirmation he now\nrequired to make him perfectly satisfied of his danger. It was too much\nfor him to hear and suffer. Staggering back, he leant upon the side of\nhis cart, and drew breath with difficulty, attempting in vain to give\nhis friend some reply.\n\n\"It's wrang in ye, man,\" continued Archie, as he saw the carrier\nlabouring to find words to reply to him--\"it's wrang in ye, George, to\nbe here in that state o' body. How did Betty permit it? Wha wad\nguarantee your no lyin' doun an' deein' by the road-side? I'm sure I\nwadna undertake the suretyship.\"\n\n\"I have not been a day confined, Archie,\" said George, as he slightly\nrecovered from the shock caused by the announcement. \"I have not been\nill; and left home this morning in my usual health.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" ejaculated Archie, \"is that possible? Then is it sae muckle\nthe waur. I thought it had been a' owre wi' ye--that ye had been ill,\nan' partly recovered; but now I see the disease is only comin' yet. How\ndeadly pale ye are, man; an' what a strange colour there is on your\nlips, round the sockets o' your een, an' the edges o' your nostrils!\"\n\n\"I hae been told that the day already, Archie,\" said George; \"I fear\nthere's some truth in't. Yet I feel nae pain; I'm only weak an'\nnervous.\"\n\n\"Ah, ye ken little about fevers o' the putrid kind--typhus, an' the\nlike,\" continued the other,--\"when ye think they show themselves by\nordinary symptoms. I had a cousin who died o' typhus last week; an' he\nlooked, when he took it, just as ye look, an' spoke just as ye speak.\nTak the advice o' a friend, George. Dinna stop at Widow M'Murdo's; ye\ncan get nae advice there; hurry on to Edinburgh, and apply immediately,\non your arrival, to a doctor o' repute. I assure ye a' his skill will be\nrequired.\"\n\nAfter some conversation, all tending to the same effect, Willison parted\nfrom him, continuing his route to Cupar. All the doubt that had existed\nin the mind of the victim was now removed, and a settled conviction took\nhold of him that he was on the very eve of falling into some terrible\nillness. A train of gloomy fancies took possession of his mind, and he\npictured himself lying extended on a bed of sickness, with the angel of\ndeath hanging over him, and an awakened conscience within, wringing him\nwith its agonizing tortures. The nature of the disease which impended\nover him--the putrid typhus--was fixed, and put beyond doubt; and all\nthe cases he had known of individuals who had died of that disease were\nbrought before the eye of his imagination, to feed the appetite for\nhorrors, which now began to crave food. He endeavoured to analyze his\nsensations, and discovered, what he never felt before, a hard,\nfluttering palpitation at his heart, a difficulty of breathing,\nweakness, trembling of the limbs, and other clear indications of the\noncoming attack of a fatal disease.\n\nMoving slowly forward, under the load of these thoughts, he arrived at\nWidow M'Murdo's, where he fed his horses. He was silent and gloomy; and\nthe fear under which he laboured produced a _real_ appearance of\nillness, which soon struck the eye of the kind dame.\n\n\"What ails ye?\" asked she kindly; and ran and brought out her bottle of\ncordial, to administer to him that universal medicine. But her question\nwas enough. Moody and miserable, he paid little attention to her\nkindness, and departed for Kirkcaldy. Under the same load of despondency\nand apprehension, he arrived at Andrew Gemmel's, where it was his\npractice to remain all night. He exhibited the appearance of a person\nlabouring under some grievous misfortune; and deputing the feeding of\nhis horses to the ostler, he seemed to be careless whether justice was\ndone to them or not. The landlord noticed the change that had taken\nplace upon him. \"What ails ye, George?\" was asked repeatedly; and the\ndeath-like import of the question prevented him from giving any\nsatisfactory answer. Long before his usual period, he retired to his\nbed, where he passed a night of fevered dreams, restlessness, and\nmisery.\n\nIn the morning, he was still under the operation of his apprehension,\nand was unable to take any breakfast. The ostler managed for him all the\ndetails of his business, and he departed in the same gloomy mood for\nPettycur. Sauntering along at a slow pace, he met, half-way between the\ntwo towns, Duncan Paterson, a Dundee weaver, an old acquaintance, by\nwhom he was hailed in the ordinary form of salutation. But he wished to\nproceed without standing to speak to his old friend; for he was so\nsorely depressed, and was so much afraid of another fearful announcement\nabout his sickly appearance, that he could not bear an interview. This\nstrange conduct seemed to rouse the curiosity of his friend, who,\nrunning up to him, held forth his hand, crying out--\n\n\"Ha! George, man!--this is no like you, to pass auld friends. What ails\nye, man?\"\n\n\"I dinna feel altogether weel,\" answered the carrier in a mournful tone.\n\n\"I saw that, man, lang before ye cam up,\" replied the other; \"and it was\njust because ye were looking so grievously ill, that I was determined to\nspeak to ye. When were ye seized?\"\n\n\"I was weel when I left the north, yesterday morning; but I hadna been\nlang on the road, when I began to gie tokens o' illness,\" replied the\ncarrier mournfully, and with a drooping head.\n\n\"If I had met you in that waefu' state,\" said the other, \"with that\ndeath-like face and unnatural-like look, I wadna have allowed ye to\nproceed a mile farther; but now since ye're sae far on the road, it's\njust as weel that ye hurry on to Edinburgh, whaur ye'll get the best\nadvice. What symptoms do ye feel?\"\n\n\"I'm heavy and dull,\" replied George; \"my pulse rises and fa's, my heart\nthrobs, and my legs hae been shakin' under me, as if I were palsied.\"\n\n\"Ah, George, George! these are a' clear signs o' typhus, man,\" replied\nPaterson. \"My mother died o't. I watched, wi' filial care and affection,\na' her maist minute symptoms. They were just yours. I'm vexed for ye;\nbut maybe the hand o' a skilfu' doctor may avert the usual fatal issue.\"\n\n\"Was yer mither lang ill?\" asked George in a low tone.\n\n\"Nine days,\" answered Paterson. \"By the seventh she was spotted like a\nleopard, on the eighth she went mad, and the ninth put an end to her\nsufferings.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" muttered George, with a deep sigh.\n\n\"But the power o' medicine's great,\" rejoined Paterson. \"Lose nae time,\nafter ye arrive in Edinburgh, in applying to a doctor. Mind my words.\"\n\nAnd Paterson, casting upon him a look suited to the parting statement,\nleft the carrier, and proceeded on his way. The victim, now completely\nimmerged in melancholy, progressed slowly onwards to Pettycur. His\ndowncast appearance attracted there the attention of the people who\nassisted him in the discharge of his business. The question, \"What ails\nye, George?\" was repeated, and answered by silence and a sorrowful look.\nIn the boat in which he crossed the Forth, his unusual sadness was also\nnoticed by the captain and crew, with whom he was intimately acquainted.\nAs he sat in the fore-part of the vessel, silent and gloomy, they\nrepeated the dreadful question--\"What ails ye, George?\"--that had been\nso often before put to him. To some he said he felt unwell, to others he\nreplied by a melancholy stare, and relapsed again into his melancholy.\n\nWhen he arrived at Leith, he was assisted, according to custom, by\nporters, in getting his goods disembarked. The men were not long in\nnoticing the great change that had taken place upon his spirits. \"What\nails ye, George?\" was the uniform question; and every time it was put it\nwent to his heart, for it showed more and more, as he thought, his\nsick-like appearance, which seemed to escape the eyes of no one. The men\nassisted him more assiduously than they had ever done before; and having\ngot everything ready, he proceeded up Leith Walk. The toll-man noticed\nalso his dejected appearance, and the same question was put by him. He\nproceeded to his quarters, and, committing his carts to a man that was\nin the habit of assisting him, he went into the house and threw himself\ninto a chair. \"What ails ye, George?\" exclaimed Widow Gilmour, as she\nsaw him exhibiting these indications of illness. He said he felt unwell,\nand, rising, went away up to his bedroom, where he retired to bed.\n\nThe torture of mind to which he had been exposed for a day and a night,\nand a part of another day, with the want of food, and the exercise of\nhis trade, had operated so powerfully on his body, that he was now in\nreality in a fever. The landlady felt his pulse, and, becoming alarmed,\nsent for a doctor, a young man, who immediately bled him to a much\ngreater extent than was necessary; but the statements of George himself,\nand the fevered appearance he presented, convinced the young doctor\nthat nothing but copious bleeding would overcome the disease. The\napplication of the lancet stamped the whole affair with the character of\nreality; and the sick man, still overcome by gloomy anticipations, was\nsoon in the very height of a dangerous fever. Two days afterwards, his\nwife was sent for; but the poor man got gradually worse, and,\nnotwithstanding all the efforts of the doctor, was soon pronounced to be\nin a state of imminent danger. One day James Cowie called at the house,\nand inquired, in a flurried manner, how George Skirving was.\n\n\"He is sae ill that I hae very little hope o' him,\" said Mrs. Skirving.\n\n\"Good God!\" replied the man, \"is it possible? I have murdered him.\" And\nhe groaned in distress.\n\n\"What do ye mean, James?\"\n\n\"Six o' us wagered, three against three, and twa to ane,\" he proceeded,\n\"that our side wadna put your husband to his bed. We met him in Fife at\ndifferent places o' the road, and terrified him, by describing his\nlooks, into an opinion that he was unwell. I'm come to make amends. What\nis the L10 to me when the life o' a fellow-creature is at jeopardy?\"\n\nIt was too late. We need say no more. The communication was made to the\nsick man; but he was too far gone to recover, and died in a few days\nafterwards. This is a true tale, and requires little more explanation.\nIt may have been gathered from our narrative, that Cowie, Willison, and\nPaterson were the only persons who were in the plot. John Sharpe, Widow\nM'Murdo, Andrew Gemmel, and the others who merely noticed his dejection,\nwere entirely ignorant of the cruel purpose.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Footnote A: One version of the story says that Mr. M---- picked up the\ntramp at Cammerton, in Fife; but I adhere to my authority.]\n\n[Footnote B: Places for melting plate.]\n\n[Footnote C: This strange tale is given from materials supplied by the\nSurgeon with whom I was brought up.]\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 21","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":75442}