{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39759/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39759","id":"gutenberg_39759","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39759","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                            Wilson's\n                      Tales of the Borders\n                        AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n    HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n    WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n    REVISED BY\n    ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n    _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._\n\n    VOL. XVIII.\n\n    LONDON:\n    WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n    AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n    1884.\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS\n\n                                                                Page\n\n  THOMAS OF CHARTRES,                           (_Hugh Miller_),   1\n\n  THE FUGITIVE,                          (_John Mackay Wilson_),  33\n\n  THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH,             (_Alexander Leighton_),  63\n\n  GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT,    (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--\n\n      XIV. JAMES RENWICK,                                         95\n\n      XV. OLD ISBEL KIRK,                                        105\n\n      XVI. THE CURLERS,                                          110\n\n      XVII. THE VIOLATED COFFIN,                                 119\n\n  THE SURGEON'S TALES,                  (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n\n            THE MONOMANIAC,                                      127\n\n  THE FOUNDLING AT SEA,                  (_Alexander Campbell_), 159\n\n  THE ASSASSIN,                          (_Alexander Campbell_), 178\n\n  THE PRISONER OF WAR,                          (_John Howell_), 191\n\n  WILLIE WASTLE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS WIFE,   (_John Mackay Wilson_), 223\n\n  THE STONE-BREAKER,                     (_Alexander Campbell_), 255\n\n  LAIRD RORIESON'S WILL,                 (_Alexander Leighton_), 276\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS OF CHARTRES.\n\n\nOne morning, early in the spring of 1298, a small Scottish vessel lay\nbecalmed in the middle of the Irish Channel, about fifteen leagues to\nthe south of the Isle of Man. During the whole of the previous night,\nshe had been borne steadily southward, by a light breeze from off the\nfast receding island; but it had sunk as the sun rose, and she was now\nheaving slowly to the swell, which still continued to roll onward, in\nlong glassy ridges from the north. A thick fog had risen as the wind\nfell--one of those low sea fogs which, leaving the central heavens\ncomparatively clear, hangs its dense, impervious volumes around the\nhorizon; and the little vessel lay as if imprisoned within a circular\nwall of darkness, while the sun, reddened by the haze, looked down\ncheerily upon her from above. She was a small and very rude-looking\nvessel, furnished with two lug-sails of dark brown, much in the manner\nof a modern Dutch lugger; with a poop and forecastle singularly high,\ncompared with her height in the waist; and with sides which, attaining\ntheir full breadth scarcely a foot over the water, sloped abruptly\ninwards, towards the deck, like the wall of a mole or pier. The\nparapet-like bulwarks of both poop and forecastle were cut into deep\nembrasures, and ran, like those of a tower, all around the areas they\nenclosed, looking down nearly as loftily on the midships as on the\nwater. The sides were black as pitch could render them--the sails\nscarcely less dark; but, as if to shew man's love of the ornamental in\neven the rudest stage of art, a huge misshapen lion flared in vermillion\non the prow, and over the stern hung the blue flag of Scotland, with the\nsilver cross of St Andrew stretching from corner to corner.\n\nFrom eight to ten seamen lounged about the decks. They were\nuncouth-looking men, heavily attired in jerkins and caps of blue\nwoollen, with long, thick beards, and strongly-marked features. The\nmaster, a man considerably advanced in life--for, though his eye seemed\nas bright as ever, his hair and beard had become white as snow--was\nrather better dressed. He wore above his jerkin a short cloak of blue\nwhich confessed, in its finer texture, the superiority of the looms of\nFlanders over those of his own country; and a slender cord of silver ran\nround a cap of the same material. His nether garments, however, were\ncoarse and rude as those of his seamen; and the shoes he wore were\nfashioned, like theirs, of the undressed skin of the deer, with the hair\nstill attached; giving to the foot that brush-like appearance which had\nacquired to his countrymen of the age, from their more polished\nneighbours, the appellation of rough-footed Scots. Neither the number,\nnor the appearance of the crew, singular and wild as the latter was,\ngave the vessel aught of a warlike aspect; and yet there were\nappearances that might have led one to doubt whether she was quite so\nunprepared for attack or defence as at the first view might be premised.\nThere ran round the butt of each mast a rack filled with spears, of more\nknightly appearance than could have belonged to a few rude seamen--for\nof some of these the handles were chased with silver, and to some there\nwere strips of pennon attached; and a rich crimson cloak, with several\npieces of mail, were spread out to the morning sun, on one of the\nshrouds.\n\nThe crew, we have said, were lounging about the deck, unemployed in the\ncalm, when a strong, iron-studded door opened in the poop, and a young\nand very handsome man stepped forward.\n\n\"Has my unfortunate cloak escaped stain?\" he said to the master. \"Your\nsea-water is no brightener of colour.\"\n\n\"It will not yet much ashame you, Clelland,\" said the master, \"even amid\nthe gallants of France; but, were it worse, there is little fear, with\nthese eyes of yours, of being overlooked by the ladies.\"\n\n\"Nay, now, Brichan, that's but a light compliment from so grave a man as\nyou,\" said Clelland. \"You forget how small a chance I shall have beside\nmy cousin.\"\n\n\"Not jealous of the Governor, Clelland, I hope?\" said the old man,\ngaily. \"Nay, trust me, you are in little danger. Sir William is perhaps\nquite as handsome a man as you, and taller by the head and shoulders;\nbut, trust me, no one will ever think of him as a pretty fellow. He\nstands too much alone for that. Has he risen yet?\"\n\n\"Risen!--he has been with the chaplain for I know not how long. Their\nLatin broke in upon my dreams two hours ago. But what have we yonder, on\nthe edge of that bank of fog! Is it one of the mermaidens you were\ntelling me of yesterday?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the master, \"it is but a poor seal, risen to take the air.\nBut what have we beyond it? By heavens I see the dim outline of a large\nvessel, through the fog! and yonder, not half a bow-shot beyond, there\nis another! Saints forbid that it be not the English fleet, or the ships\nof Thomas of Chartres! Clelland, good Clelland, do call up the Governor\nand his company!\"\n\nClelland stepped up to the door in the poop, and shouted hastily to his\ncompanions within--\"Strange sails in sight!--supposed enemies--it were\nwell to don your armours.\" And then turning to a seaman. \"Assist me,\ngood fellow,\" he said, \"in bracing on mine.\"\n\n\"Thomas of Chartres, to a certainty!\" exclaimed the master--\"and not a\nbreath to bear us away! Would to heavens that I were dead and buried, or\nhad never been born!\"\n\n\"Why all this ado, Brichan?\" said Clelland, who, assisted by the sailor,\nwas coolly buckling on his mail. \"It was never your wont before, to be\nthus annoyed by danger.\"\n\n\"It is not for myself I fear, noble Clelland,\" said the master, \"if the\nGovernor were but away and safe. But, oh, to think that the pride and\nstay of Scotland should fall into the merciless hands of a pirate dog!\nWould that my own life, and the lives of all my crew, could but purchase\nhis safety!\"\n\n\"Take heart, old man,\" said Clelland, with dignity. \"Heaven watches over\nthe fortunes of the Governor of Scotland; nor will it suffer him to fall\nobscurely by the hands of a mere plunderer of merchants and seamen.--Rax\nme my long spear.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the Governor himself stepped forward from the door in the\npoop, enveloped from head to foot in complete armour. He was a man of\nmore than kingly presence--taller, by nearly a foot, than even the\ntallest man on deck, and broader across the shoulders by full six\ninches; but so admirably was his frame moulded, that, though his stature\nrose to the gigantic, no one could think of him as a giant. His visor\nwas up, and exhibited a set of high handsome features, and two of the\nfinest blue eyes that ever served as indexes to the feelings of a human\nsoul. His chin and upper lip were thickly covered with hair of that\ngolden colour so often sung by the elder poets; and a few curling locks\nof rather darker shade escaped from under his helmet. A man of middle\nstature and grave saturnine aspect, who wore a monk's frock over a coat\nof mail, came up behind him.\n\n\"What is to befall us now, cousin Clelland?\" said the Governor. \"Does\nnot the truce extend over the channel, think you?\"\n\n\"Ah, these are not English enemies, noble sir,\" replied the master. \"We\nhave fallen on the fleet of the infamous Thomas of Chartres.\"\n\n\"And who is Thomas of Chartres?\" asked the Governor.\n\n\"A cruel and bloodthirsty pirate--the terror of these seas for the last\nsixteen years. Wo is me!--we have neither force enough to fight, nor\nwind to bear us away!\"\n\n\"Two large vessels,\" said the Governor, stepping up to the side, \"full\nof armed men, too; but we muster fifty, besides the sailors; and, if\nthey attempt boarding us, it must be by boat. Is it not so, master? The\ncalm which fixes us here, must prevent them from laying alongside and\novermastering us.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, noble sir,\" said the master; \"but we see only a part of the\nfleet.\"\n\n\"Were there ten fleets,\" exclaimed Clelland, impatiently, \"I have met\nwith as great odds ashore--and here comes Crawford.\"\n\nThe door in the poop was again thrown open, and from forty to fifty\nwarriors, in complete armour, headed by a tall and powerful-looking man,\ncame crowding out, and then thronged around the masts, to disengage\ntheir spears. They were all robust and hardy-looking men--the flower\napparently of a country side; and the coolness and promptitude with\nwhich they ranged themselves round their leader, to wait his commands,\nshewed that it was not now for the first time they had been called on to\nprepare for battle. They were, in truth, tried veterans of the long and\nbloody struggle which their country had maintained with Edward--men who,\nere they had united under a leader worthy to command them, had resisted\nthe enemy individually, and preserved, amid their woods and fastnesses,\nat least their personal independence. Such a party of such men, however\ngreat the odds opposed to them, could not, in any circumstances, be\ndeemed other than formidable.\n\n\"We are not born for peace, countryman,\" said the Governor--\"war follows\nus even here. Meanwhile, lie down, that the enemy mark not our numbers.\nThat foremost vessel is lowering her boat, and yonder tall man in\nscarlet, who takes his seat in the bows, seems to be a leader.\"\n\n\"It is Thomas of Chartres, himself,\" said the master. \"I know him well.\nSome five-and-twenty years ago, we sailed together from Palestine.\"\n\n\"And what,\" asked the Governor, \"could have brought a false pirate\nthere?\"\n\n\"He was no false pirate then,\" replied the master, \"but a true Christian\nknight; and bravely did he fight for the sepulchre. But, on his return\nto France, where he had been pledged to meet with his lady-love, he fell\nunder the displeasure of the King, his master; and, ever since, he has\nbeen a wanderer and a pirate. You will see, as he approaches, the\nscallop in his basnet; and be sure he will be the first man to board\nus.\"\n\n\"Excellent,\" exclaimed the Governor, gaily; \"we shall hold him hostage\nfor the good behaviour of his fleet. Mark me, cousin Crawford. His barge\nshoves off, and the men bend to their oars. He will be here in a\ntwinkling. Do you stand by our good Ancient--would there were but wind\nenough to unfurl it!--and the instant he bids us strike, why, lower it\nto the deck; but be as sure you hoist it again when you see him fairly\naboard. And you, dear Clelland, do you take your stand here on the deck\nbeside me, and see to it, when I am dealing with the pirate, that you\nkeep your long spear between us and his crew. It will be strange if he\nboast of his victory this bout.\"\n\nThe men, at the command of their leader, had prostrated themselves on\nthe deck, while his two brethren in arms, Crawford and Clelland,\nstationed themselves at his bidding--the one on the vessel's poop,\ndirectly under the pennon, the other at his side in the midships. The\npirate's barge, glittering to the sun with arms and armour, and crowded\nwith men, rowed lustily towards them; but, while yet a full hundred\nyards away, a sudden breeze from the west began to murmur through the\nshrouds, and the bellying sails swelled slowly over the side.\n\n\"Heaven's mercy be praised!\" exclaimed the master, \"we shall escape them\nyet. Lay her easy to the wind, good Crawford--lay her easy to the wind,\nand we shall bear out through them all.\"\n\n\"Nay, cousin, nay,\" said the Governor, his eyes flashing with eagerness,\n\"the pirate must not escape us so. Lay the vessel to. Turn her head full\nto the wind. And you, captain, draw off your men to the hold. We must\nnot lose our good sailors; and these woollens of yours will scarcely\nturn a French arrow. Nay, 'tis I who am master now\"--for the old man\nseemed disposed to linger. \"I may resign my charge, perhaps, by and by;\nbut you must obey me now.\"\n\nThe master and his sailors left the deck. The barge of the pirate came\nsweeping onward till within two spears' length of the vessel, and then\nhailed her with no courtly summons of surrender. \"Strike, dogs, strike!\nor you shall fare the worse!\" It was the pirate himself who spoke, and\nCrawford, at his bidding, pulled down the Ancient. The barge dashed\nalongside. Thomas of Chartres, a very tall and very powerful man, seized\nhold of the bulwark rail with one hand, and bearing a naked sword in the\nother, leaped fearlessly aboard, within half a yard of where the\nGovernor stood, half-concealed by the shrouds and the bulwarks. In a\nmoment the sword was struck down, and the intruder locked in the\ntremendous grasp of the first champion of his time. Crawford hoisted the\nAncient, yard-high, to the new-risen breeze; while Clelland struck his\nlong spear against the pirate who had leaped on the gunwale to follow\nhis leader, with such hearty good-will that the steel passed through\ntarge and corselet, and he fell back a dead man into the boat. In an\ninstant the concealed party had sprung from the deck, and fifty Scottish\nspears bristled over the gunwale, interposing their impenetrable hedge\nbetween the pirate crew and their leader. For a moment, the latter had\nstriven to move his antagonist; but, powerful and sinewy as he was, he\nmight as well have attempted to uproot an oak of an hundred summers.\nWhile yet every muscle was strained in the exertion, the Governor swung\nhim from off his feet, suspended him at arm's length for full half a\nmoment in the air, and then dashed him violently against the deck. A\nstream of blood gushed from mouth and nostril, and he lay stunned and\nsenseless where he fell. Meanwhile, the crew of the barge, taken by\nsurprise, and outnumbered, shoved off a boat's length beyond reach of\nthe spears, and then rested on their oars.\n\n\"He revives,\" said the warrior in the monk's frock, going up to the\nfallen pirate. \"Reiver though he be, he has fought for the holy\nsepulchre, and has worn golden spurs.\"\n\n\"I will deal with him right knightly,\" said the Governor. \"Yield thee,\nSir Thomas of Chartres,\" he continued, bending over the prisoner, and\nholding up a dagger to his face--\"yield thee true hostage for the good\nconduct of thy fleet--or shall I call the confessor?\"\n\n\"I yield me true hostage,\" said the fallen man. \"But who art thou,\nterrible warrior, that o'ermasterest De Longoville of France as if he\nwere a stripling of twelve summers? Art Wallace, the Scottish\nChampion!\"\n\n\"Thou yieldest, De Longoville,\" said the Governor, \"to Sir William\nWallace of Elderslie. But how is it that I meet, in the infamous Thomas\nof Chartres, that true soldier of the Cross, De Longoville? I have heard\nminstrels sing of thy deeds against the Saracen, Sir Knight, while I was\nyet a boy; and yet here art thou now, the dread of the wandering sailor\nand the merchant--a chief among thieves and pirates.\"\n\n\"Alas! noble Wallace, thou sayest too truly,\" said Sir Thomas; \"but yet\nwouldst thou deem me as worthy of pity as of censure, didst thou but\nknow all, and the remorse I even now endure. For a full year have I\ndetermined to quit this wild, unknightly mode of life, and go a pilgrim\nas of old; not to fight for the sepulchre--for the battles of the Cross\nare over--not to fight, but to die for it. But I accept, noble champion,\nthis my first defeat on sea, as a message from heaven. Accept of me as\ntrue soldier under thee, and I will fight for thee in thy country's\nquarrel, to the death.\"\n\n\"Most willingly, brave De Longoville,\" said the Governor, as he raised\nhim from the deck; \"Scotland needs sorely the use of such swords as\nthine.\"\n\n\"And deem not her cause less holy,\" said the monk--for monk he was, the\nwell-known Chaplain Blair--\"deem not her cause less holy than that of\nthe sepulchre itself; nor think that thou shalt eradicate the stain of\npast dishonour less surely in her battles. The cause of justice, De\nLongoville, is the cause of God, contend for it where we may.\"\n\nWallace returned to De Longoville the sword of which he had so lately\ndisarmed him; and the pirate admiral, on learning that the champion was\nbound for Rochelle, issued orders to his fleet, which, now that the mist\nrose, was found to consist of six large vessels, to follow close in\ntheir wake. The breeze blew steadily from the north-west, and the ships\nwent careering along, each in her own long furrow of white, towards the\nport of their destination; the pirate vessels keeping aloof full two\nbowshots from the Scotsman--for so De Longoville had ordered, to prevent\nsuspicion of treachery. He had set aside his armour, and now appeared to\nhis new associates as a man of noble and knightly bearing, tall and\nstalwart as any warrior aboard, save the Governor; and, though his hair\nwas blanched around his temples, and indicated the approach of age, the\nlight step and quick sparkling eye gave evidence that his vigour of\nframe still remained undiminished. He sat apart, with the Governor and\nhis two kinsmen, Clelland and Crawford, in the cabin under the poop. It\nwas a rude, unornamented apartment, as might be expected, from the\ngeneral appearance of the vessel; but the profusion of arms and pieces\nof armour which hung from the sides, glittering to the light that found\nentrance through a casement in the deck, bestowed on the place an air of\nhigher pretension. A table with food and wine was placed before the\nwarriors.\n\n\"It is now twenty-six years, or thereby,\" said De Longoville, \"since I\nquitted Palestine for France, with the good Louis. I had fought by his\nside on the disastrous field of Massouna, and did all that a man of\nmould might to rescue him from the Saracens, when he fell into their\nhands, exhausted by his wounds and his sore sickness. But that day was\nwritten a day of defeat and disaster to the soldiers of the Cross. Nor\nneed I say how I took my stand, with the best of my countrymen, on the\nwalls of Damietta, and maintained them for the good cause, despite of\nthe assembled forces of the Moslem, until we had bought back our king\nfrom captivity, by yielding up the city we defended for his ransom. It\nis enough for a disgraced man and a captive to say that my services were\nnot overlooked by those whose notice was most an honour; and that, ere I\nembarked for France, I received the badge of knighthood from the hand\nof the good Louis himself.\n\n\"You all know of how different a character Charles of Anjou was from his\nbrother the king. I had returned from the crusade rich, only in honour,\nand found the lady of my affections under close thrall by her parents,\nwho had resolved that she should marry Loithaire, Lord of Languedoc. I\nknew that her heart was all my own; but I knew, besides, that I must\nbecome wealthy ere I could hope to compete for her with a rival such as\nLoithaire; and the good Pope Nicholas having made over the crown of the\nTwo Sicilies to Charles of Anjou, in an evil hour I entered the army\nwith which Charles was to wrest it from the bastard Manfred--having\ncertain assurance, from the tyrant himself, that, if he succeeded, I\nshould become one of the nobles of Sicily. We encountered Manfred at\nBeneventura, and the bastard was defeated and slain. But I must blush,\nas a knight, for the honour of knighthood--as a Frenchman, for the fair\nfame of my country--when I think of the cruelties which followed. Not\nthe worst tyrants of old Rome could have surpassed Charles of Anjou in\nhis butcheries. The blood plashed under the hoofs of his charger as he\npassed through the cities of his future kingdom; and, when he had borne\ndown all opposition, 'twould seem as if, in his eagerness to destroy all\nwho might resist, he had also determined to extirpate all who could\nobey. But his policy proved as unsound as 'twas cruel and unjust, as the\nterrible _Eve of the Vespers_ has since shown. The Princes of Germany,\nheaded by the chivalrous Conradine of Swabia, united against us in the\ncause of the people. But the arms of France were again triumphant; the\nconfederacy was broken, and the gallant Conradine fell into the hands of\nCharles. It was I, warriors of Scotland! to whom he surrendered; and I\nhad granted him, as became a knight, an assurance of knightly\nprotection. But would that my arms had been hewn off at the shoulders\nwhen I first beat down his sword, and intercepted his retreat! The\ninfamous Charles treated my knightly assurance with scorn; and--can you\ncredit such baseness, noble Wallace!--he ordered Conradine of Swabia--a\ntrue knight, and an independent prince--for instant execution, as if he\nwere a common malefactor. My blood boils, even now, when I recall that\nterrible scene of injustice and cruelty. The soldiers of France crowded\nround the scaffold; and I was among them, burning with shame and rage.\nEre Conradine bent him to the executioner, he took off his glove, and\nthrowing it amongst us, adjured us, if we were not all as dead to honour\nas our leader, to bear it to some of his kinsmen, who would receive it\nas a pledge of investiture in his rights, and as beqeathing the\nobligation to revenge his death. Will you blame me, noble Wallace! that,\nFrenchman as I was, I seized the glove of Conradine, and fled the army\nof Charles; and that, ere I returned to France, I delivered it up to\nPedro of Arragon, the near kinsman of the last Prince of Swabia?\n\n\"My king and friend, the good Louis, had sailed from France for\nPalestine, on his last hapless voyage, ere I had executed my mission. On\nmy return to France, however, I found a galley of Toulon on the eve of\nquitting port, to join with his fleet, then on the coast of Africa, and,\nsnatching a hurried interview with the lady of my affections, maugre the\nvigilance of her relatives, I embarked to fight under Louis, as of old,\nfor the blessed sepulchre. We landed near Tunis, and saw the tents of\nFrance glittering to the sun. But all was silent as midnight, and the\nroyal standard hung reversed over the pavilion of the good Louis. He had\ndied that morning of the plague; and his base and cruel brother, the\nfalse Charles of Anjou, sat beside the corpse. I felt that I had fallen\namong my enemies; for though the young King was there, he was weak and\ninexperienced, and open to the influence of his uncle. The first knight\nI met, as I entered the camp, was Loithaire of Languedoc--now the wily\nfriend and counsellor of Charles. There were lying witnesses suborned\nagainst me, who accused me of the most incredible and unheard-of\npractices; and of these Loithaire was the chief. 'Twas in vain I\ndemanded the combat, as a test of my innocence. The combat was denied\nme; my sword was broken before the assembled chivalry of France; my\nshield reversed; and sentence was passed that I should be burnt at a\nstake, and my ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven. But it was\nnot written that I should perish so. Scarce an hour before the opening\nof the day appointed for my execution, I broke from prison, assisted by\na brother soldier, whose life I had saved in Palestine, and escaped to\nFrance.\n\n\"I was a broken and ruined man. But how wondrous the force of true\naffection! My Agnes knew this; and yet, knowing all, she contrived to\nelude her guardians, and fled with me to the sea-shore, where we\nembarked, in a ship of Normandy, for the south of Ireland. From that\nhour De Longoville has fought under no banner but his own. I renounced,\nin my anger, my allegiance to my country-nay, declared war with the\nsovereign who had so injured me. The years passed, and desperate and\ndishonoured men like myself came flocking to me as their leader, till\nnot Philip himself, or my old enemy Charles, had more kingly authority\non land than De Longoville on the sea. But let no man again deceive\nhimself as I have done. I had reasoned on the lax morality and doubtful\nhonour of kings, and asked myself why I might not, as the admiral and\nprince of my fleet, achieve a less guilty, though not less splendid\nglory than the bastard William of Normandy, or Edward of England, or my\nold enemy Charles of Anjou. But I have long since been taught that what\nwere high achievements and honourable conquest in the admiral of a\nhundred vessels, is but sheer piracy in the captain of six. I can trust,\nhowever, that the last days of De Longoville may yet be deemed equal to\nthe first; and that the middle term of his life may be forgiven him for\nits beginning and its close. Not a month since, I carried my wife and\ndaughter to France, and took final leave of them, with the purpose of\nsetting out on my pilgrimage to Palestine. That intention, noble\nWallace! is now altered; and I must again seek them out, that they may\naccompany me to Scotland.\"\n\n\"The foul stain of treason, brave Longoville, must be removed,\" said the\nGovernor. \"Charles of Anjou has long since gone to his account: does the\nLord of Languedoc still survive!\"\n\n\"He still lives,\" replied the admiral; \"his years do not outnumber my\nown.\"\n\n\"Then must he either retract the vile calumny, or grant you the combat.\nThe young Philip has pledged his knightly word, when he solicited the\nvisit I am now voyaging to pay him, that he would grant me the first\nboon I craved in person, should it involve the alienation of his fairest\nprovince. That boon, brave De Longoville, will, at least, present you\nwith the means of regaining your fair fame.\"\n\nDe Longoville knelt on the cabin floor, and kissed the hand of the\nGovernor. The conversation glided imperceptibly to other and lighter\nmatters; time passed gaily in the recital of stories of chivalrous\nendurance or exploit; and the gale, which still blew steadily from the\nnorth-west, promised a speedy accomplishment of their voyage. For four\ndays they sailed without shifting back or lowering sail; and, on the\nmorning of the fifth, cast anchor in the harbour of Rochelle.\n\nOn the evening of the second day after their arrival, a single knight\nwas pricking his steed through one of the glades of the immense forest\nwhich, at this period, covered the greater part of the province of\nPoitiers. He had been passing, ever since morning, through what seemed\nan interminable wilderness of wood--here clustered into almost\nimpenetrable thickets shagged with an undergrowth of thorn, there\nopening into long bosky glades and avenues that seemed, however, only to\nlead into recesses still more solitary and remote than those that\ndarkened around him. During the early part of the day, the sun had\nlooked down gaily among the trees, checkering the sward below with a\ncarpeting of alternate light and shadow; and the knight, a lover of\nfalconry and the chase, had rode jocundly on through the peopled\nsolitude; ever and anon grasping his spear, with the eager spirit of the\nhuntsman, as the fawn started up beside his courser, and shot like a\nmeteor across the avenue, or the wild boar or wolf rustled in the\nneighbouring brake. Towards evening, however, the eternal sameness of\nthe landscape had begun to fatigue him; the sun, too, had disappeared,\nlong before his setting, in a veil of impenetrable vapour, mottled with\ngrey, ponderous clouds, betokening an approaching storm; and the\nhorseman pressed eagerly onward, in the hope of reaching, ere its\nbursting, the hostelry in which he had purposed to pass the evening. He\nhad either, however, mistaken his way or miscalculated his distance; for\nafter passing dell and dingle, glade and thicket, in monotonous\nsuccession, for hours on hours, the forest still seemed as dense and\nunending, and the hostelry as distant as ever. A brown and sleepy horror\nseemed to settle over the trees as the evening darkened; the thunder\nbegan to bellow in long peals, far to the south, and a few heavy drops\nto patter from time to time on the leaves, giving indication of the\napproaching deluge. The knight had just resigned himself to encounter\nall the horrors of the storm, when, on descending into a little bosky\nhollow, through which there passed a minute streamlet, he found himself\nin front of a deserted hermitage. It was a cell, opening, like an\nEgyptian tomb, in the face of a low precipice. A rude stone-cross,\ntapestried with ivy, rose immediately over the narrow door-way.\n\n\"The saints be praised!\" exclaimed the knight, leaping lightly from his\nhorse. \"I shall e'en avail myself of the good shelter they have\nprovided. But thou, poor Biscay,\" he continued, patting his steed,\n\"wouldst that thou wert with thy master, mine host of the Three _Fleurs\nde Lis!_--there is scant stabling for thee here. This way, however, good\nBiscay--this way. Thou must bide the storm as thou best may'st in yonder\nhollow of the rock.\" And, leading the animal to the hollow, he fastened\nhim to the stem of a huge ivy, and then entered the hermitage.\n\nIt consisted of one small rude apartment, hewn, apparently with immense\nlabour, in the living rock. A seat and bed of stone occupied the\nopposite sides; and in the extreme end, fronting the door, there was a\nrude image of the Virgin, with a small altar of mouldering stone, placed\nbefore it. The evening was oppressively sultry, and, taking his seat on\nthe bedside, the knight unlaced and set aside his helmet, exhibiting to\nthe fast-dying light, the brown curling hair and handsome features of\nour old acquaintance Clelland--for it was no other than he. The thunder\nbegan to roll in louder and longer peals, and the lightning to illumine,\nat brief intervals, every glade and dingle without, and every minute\nobject within; when a loud scream of dismay and terror, blent with the\ninfuriated howl of some wild animal, rose from the upper part of the\ndell, and Clelland had but snatched up his spear and leaped out into the\nstorm, when a young female, closely pursued by an enormous wolf, came\nrushing down the declivity, in the direction of the hermitage; but, in\ncrossing the little stream, overcome apparently by fatigue and terror,\nshe stumbled and fell. To interpose his person between the poor girl and\nher ravenous pursuer was with Clelland the work of one moment; to make\nsuch prompt and efficient use of his spear that the steel head passed\nthrough and through the monster, and then buried itself in the earth\nbeneath, was his employment in the next. The black blood came spouting\nout along the shaft, crimsoning both his hands to the wrists; and the\ntransfixed savage, writhing itself round on the wood in its mortal\nagony, and gnashing its immense fangs, just uttered one tremendous howl\nthat could be heard even above the pealing of the thunder, and then\nbelched out his life at his feet. He raised the fallen girl, who seemed\nfor a moment to have sunk into a state of partial swoon, and,\ndisengaging his good weapon from the bleeding carcass, he supported her\nto the hermitage in the rock.\n\nShe was attired in the garb of a common peasant of the age and country;\nbut there was even yet light enough to shew that her beauty was of a\nmore dignified expression than is almost ever to be found in a\ncottage--exquisite in colour and form as that which we meet with in the\nlatter, may often be. There was a subdued elegance, too, in her few\nbrief, but earnest expressions of gratitude to her deliverer, that\nconsorted equally ill with her attire. On entering the hermitage, she\nknelt before the altar, and prayed in silence; while Clelland took his\nseat on the stone couch where he had before placed his helmet, leaving\nto his new companion the settle on the opposite side. Meanwhile the\nstorm without had increased tenfold. The thunder rolled overhead, peal\nafter peal, without break or pause; so that the outbursting of every\nfresh clap was mingled with the echoes in which the wide-spread forest\nhad replied to the last. At times, the opposite acclivity, with all its\nthickets, seemed as if enveloped in an atmosphere of fire--at times one\nimmense seam of forked lightning came ploughing the pitchy gloom of the\nheavens, from the centre to the horizon. The wild beasts of the forest\nwere abroad. Clelland could hear their fierce howlings mingled with the\nterrific bellowings of the heavens. The dead sultry calm was suddenly\nbroken. A hurricane went raging through the woods. There was a creaking,\ncrackling, rushing sound among the trees, as they strained and quivered\nto the blast; and a roaring, like that of some huge cataract, showed\nthat a waterspout had burst in the upper part of the dell, and that the\nlittle stream was coming down in thunder--a wide and impetuous torrent.\nClelland's fair companion still remained kneeling before the altar.\n'Twould seem as her prayer of thanks for her great deliverance had\nchanged into an earnest and oft-reiterated petition for still further\nprotection.\n\nIn a pause of the storm, the frightful howlings of a flock of wolves\nwere heard rising from over the hermitage, as if hundreds had assembled\non its roof of rock. Clelland sprung from his seat, and, grasping his\nspear, stood in the doorway.\n\n\"We shall have to bide siege,\" he said to his companion. \"I knew not\nthat these fierce creatures mustered so thickly here.\"\n\n\"Heaven be our protection!\" said the maiden. \"They fill every recess of\nthe forest. I had left my mother's this evening for but an\ninstant--'twas in quest of a tame fawn--when the monster from whose\nmurderous fangs you delivered me, started up between me and my home; and\nI had to fly from instant destruction into the thick of the forest.\"\n\n\"And so your place of residence is quite at hand?\" said Clelland. \"In\nthe course of a long day's journey, I have not met with a single human\nhabitation.\"\n\n\"The hermitage,\" replied the maiden, \"is but a short half-mile from my\nmother's--would that we were but safe there!\"\n\nAs she spoke, the howling of the wolves burst out again, in frightful\nchorus, from above, and at least a score of the ravenous animals came\nleaping down over the rock, brushing in their descent the ivy and the\nunderwood. Clelland couched his spear, so that nothing could enter by\nthe narrow doorway without encountering its sharp point. But the wolves\ncame not to the attack; and their yells and howlings from the hollow of\nthe rock, blent with the terrified snortings and pawings of poor Biscay,\nshewed that they were bent on an easier conquest, and bulkier, though\nless noble prey. The animal, in his first struggle, broke loose from his\nfastenings, and went galloping madly past; and an intensely bright flash\nof lightning, that illumined the whole scene of terror without, shewed\nhim in the act of straining up the opposite bank, with a huge wolf\nfastened to his lacerated back, and closely pursued by full twenty more.\n\nIt was, in truth, a night of dread and terror. Towards morning, however,\nthe storm gradually sunk into a calm as dead as that which had preceded\nit, and a clear, starry sky looked down on the again silent forest. The\nmaiden, now that there was less of danger, was rendered thoroughly\nunhappy by thoughts of her mother. She had left her, she said, but for\nan instant--left her solitary in her dwelling; and how must she have\npassed so terrible a night! Clelland strove to quiet her fears. There\nwas a little cloud in the east, he said, already reddening on its lower\nedge; in an hour longer, it would be broad day, and he could then\nconduct her to her mother's.\n\n\"You have not always worn such a dress as that which you now wear,\" he\ncontinued; \"nor have you spent all your days on the edge of the forest.\nDoes your father still live?\"\n\nThere was a pause for a moment.\n\n\"I am a native of France,\" she at length said; \"but I have passed most\nof my time in other countries. My father, in fulfilment of a vow, is now\nbound on a pilgrimage to Palestine.\"\n\n\"And may I not crave your name?\" asked Clelland.\n\n\"My name,\" she replied, \"is Bertha de Longoville. Brave and courtly\nwarrior, but for whose generous and knightly daring I would have found\nyester-evening a horrid tomb in the ravenous maw of the wolf, do not, I\npray you, ask me more. A vow binds me to secrecy for the time.\"\n\n\"Nay, fear not, gentle maiden,\" said Clelland, \"that what you but wish\nto keep secret, I shall once urge you to reveal. But hear me, lady, and\nthen judge how far I am to be trusted. You are the only daughter of Sir\nThomas de Longoville, once a true soldier of the blessed Cross, but, in\nhis latter days, less fortunate in his quarrels. Your father is now in\nFrance, and in two weeks hence will be in Paris.\"\n\n\"Saints and angels!\" exclaimed the maiden, \"he has fallen into the hands\nof his enemies!\"\n\n\"Not so, lady; he is among his best friends. The knightly word of Sir\nWilliam Wallace of Elderslie, who never broke faith with friend or\nenemy, is pledged for his safe-keeping. With my kinsman, he is secure of\nat least safety--perhaps even of grace and pardon. But the day has\nbroken, maiden; suffer me to conduct you to your mother's.\"\n\nThey left the hermitage together, and ascended the side of the dell. As\nthey passed the hollow in the rock, a bright patch of blood caught the\neye of Clelland.\n\n\"Ah, poor Biscay!\" he exclaimed; \"there is all that now remains of him;\nand how to procure another steed in this wild district, I know not. My\nkinsman will be at Paris long ere his herald gets there. Well, there\nhave been greater mishaps. Yonder is the carcass of the wolf I slew\nyester-evening, half eaten by his savage companions.\"\n\nThe morning, we have said, was calm and still; but the storm of the\npreceding night had left behind it no doubtful vestiges of its fury.\nThe stream had fallen to its old level, and went tinkling along its\nchannel, with a murmur that only served to shew how complete was the\nsilence; but the banks were torn and hollowed by the recent torrent, and\ntangled wreaths of brushwood and foliage lay high on the sides of the\ndell. The broken and ragged appearance of the forest gave evidence of\nthe force of the hurricane. The fallen trees lay thick on the sides of\nthe more exposed acclivities--some reclining like spears, half bent to\nthe charge, athwart the spreading boughs of such of their neighbours as\nthe storm had spared; others lay as if levelled by the woodman, save\nthat their long flexile roots had thrown up vast fragments of turf,\nresembling the broken ruins of cottages. And, in an opening of the wood,\na gigantic oak, the slow growth of centuries, lay scattered over the\nsoil, in raw and splintery fragments, that gave strange evidence of the\nirresistible force of the agent employed in its destruction. The trees\nopened as they advanced, and they emerged from the forest as the first\nbeams of the sun had begun to glitter on the topmost boughs. A low,\nmoory plain, walled in by a range of distant hills, and mottled with a\nfew patches of corn, and a few miserable cottages, lay before them. A\ngrey detached tower, somewhat resembling that of an English village\nchurch, rose on the forest edge, scarce a hundred yards away.\n\n\"Yonder tower, Sir Knight,\" said the maiden, \"is the dwelling of my\nmother. Alas! what must she not have endured during the protracted\nhorrors of the night!\"\n\n\"There is, at least, joy waiting her now,\" said Clelland; \"and all will\nsoon be well.\"\n\nThey approached the tower. It was a small and very picturesque erection,\nof three low stories in height, with projecting turrets at the front\ncorners, connected by a hanging bartizan, over which there rose a sharp\nserrated gable, to the height of about two stories more. A row of\ncircular shot-holes, and a low, narrow door-way, were the only openings\nin the lower storey--the few windows in the upper, long and narrow, and\nscarce equal in size to a Norman shield, were thickly barred with iron.\nThe building had altogether a dilapidated and deserted appearance; for\nthe turrets were broken-edged and mouldering, and some of the large\nsquare flags had slidden from off the stone roof, and lay in the moat,\nwhich, from a reservoir, had degenerated into a quagmire, mantled over\nwith aquatic plants, and with, here and there, a bush of willow\nspringing out from the sides. A single plank afforded a rather doubtful\npassage across; and the iron-studded door of the fortalice lay wide\nopen. Clelland hung back as the maiden entered.\n\n\"My daughter! my Bertha!\" exclaimed a female voice from within; \"and do\nyou yet live! and are you again restored to me!\"\n\nThe Knight entered, and found the maiden in the embrace of her mother.\n\n\"That I still live,\" said Bertha, \"I owe it to this brave and courtly\nknight. But for his generous daring, your daughter would have found\nstrange burial in the ravenous maw of a wolf.\"\n\nThe mother turned round to Clelland, and grasped his mailed hand in both\nhers.\n\n\"The saints be your blessing and reward!\" she exclaimed; \"for I cannot\nrepay you. God himself be your reward!--for earth bears no price\nadequate to the benefit. You have restored to the lonely and the broken\nin spirit her only stay and comfort.\"\n\n\"Nay, madam,\" said Clelland, \"I would have done as much for the meanest\nserf; for Bertha de Longoville I could have laid down my life.\"\n\nThe mother again grasped his hand. She was a tall and a still beautiful\nwoman, though considerably turned of forty, and though she yet bore\nimpressed on her countenance no unequivocal traces of the distress of\nthe night. She told them of her sufferings; and was made acquainted in\nturn with the frightful adventure in the hermitage, and, more startling\nstill, with the resolution of her husband to confront his calumniators\nat the court of France.\n\n\"We must set out instantly on our journey to Paris, Bertha,\" said the\nmatron; \"your father, in his imminent peril, must not lack some one, at\nleast to comfort, if not to assist him.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Clelland, \"ere your setting out, you must first take rest\nenough, to recover the fatigues and watching of the night. And, besides,\nhow could two unprotected females travel through such a country as this?\nHear me, lady: I was hastening to Paris in advance of my party; but now\nthat I have missed my way and lost my good steed, they will be all there\nbefore me. It matters but little. My kinsman can well afford wanting a\nherald. I shall cast myself on your hospitality for the day; and,\nto-morrow, should you feel yourself fully recovered, you shall set out\nfor Paris, under such convoy as I can afford you.\"\n\nBoth ladies expressed their warmest gratitude for the kind and generous\noffer; and there was that in the thanks of the younger which Clelland\nwould have deemed price sufficient for a service much less redolent of\npleasure than that he had just tendered. She was in truth one of the\nloveliest women he had ever seen; tall and graceful, and with a\ncountenance exquisite in form and colour. But, with all of the bodily\nand the material that constitutes beauty, it was mainly to expression,\nthat index of the soul, that she owed her power. There was a steady\nlight in the dark hazel eye, joined to an air of quiet, unobtrusive\nself-possession, which seemed to sit on the polished and finely formed\nforehead, that gave evidence of a strong and equable mind; while the\nsweet smile that seemed to lurk about the mouth, and the air of softness\nspread over the lower part of the face, shewed that there mingled with\nthe stronger traits of her character the feminine gentleness and\nsweetness of disposition, so fascinating in the sex. A little girl from\none of the distant cottages entered the building with a milking pail in\nher hands.\n\n\"Ah, my good Annette,\" said the matron, \"you left me by much too soon\nyester-evening; but it matters not now. You must busy yourself in\ngetting breakfast for us--meanwhile, good Sir Knight, this way. The\ntower is a wild ruin, but all its apartments are not equally ruinous.\"\n\nThey ascended, by a stair hollowed in the thickness of the wall, to an\nupper story. There was but one apartment on each floor; so that the\nentire building consisted but of four, and the two closet-like recesses\nin the turrets. The apartment they now entered was lined with dark oak;\na massy table of the same material occupied the centre; and a row of\nponderous stools, like those which Cowper describes in his \"Task,\" ran\nalong the wall. An immense chimney, supported by two rude pillars of\nstone, and piled with half-charred billets of wood, projected over the\nfloor; the lintel, an oblong tablet about three feet in height, was\nroughened by uncouth heraldic sculptures of merwomen playing on harps,\nand two knights in complete armour fronting each other as in the\ntilt-yard. The windows were small and dark, and barred with iron; and\nthrough one of these that opened to the east, the morning sun, now risen\nhalf a spear's length over the forest, found entrance, in a square\nslanting rule of yellow light, which fell on the floor under a square\nrecess in the opposite wall. The little girl entered immediately after\nthe ladies and Clelland, bearing fire and fuel; a cheerful blaze soon\nroared in the chimney; and, as the morning felt keen and chill after the\nrecent storm, they seated themselves before it. An hour passed in\ncourtly and animated dialogue, and then breakfast was served up.\n\nThe younger lady would fain have prolonged the conversation--for it had\nturned on the struggles of the Scots, and the wonderful exploits of\nWallace--had not her mother reminded her that they stood much in need of\nrest to strengthen them for their approaching journey. They both,\ntherefore, retired to their sleeping apartments in the turrets; while\nthe knight, providing himself with a bow and a few arrows, sallied out\ninto the forest. The practice in woodcraft, which he had acquired under\nhis kinsman, who, in his reverses, could levy on only the woods and\nmoors, stood him in so good stead, that, when dinner-time came round, a\nnoble haunch of venison and two plump pheasants smoked on the board. But\nBertha alone made her appearance. Her mother, she said, still felt\nfatigued, and slightly indisposed; but she trusted to be able to join\nthem in the course of the evening.\n\nThere was nothing Clelland had so anxiously wished for, when spending\nthe earlier part of the day in the wood, as some such opportunity of\npassing a few hours with Bertha. And yet, now that the opportunity had\noccurred, he scarce knew how to employ it. The radiant smile of the\nmaiden--her light, elegant form, and lovely features--had haunted him\nall the morning; and he wisely enough thought there could be but little\nharm in frankly telling her so. But, now that the fair occasion had\noffered, he found that all his usual frankness had left him, and that he\ncould scarce say anything, even on matters more indifferent. And, what\nseemed not a little strange, too, the maiden was scarcely more at her\nease than himself, and could find not a great deal more to say. Dinner\npassed almost in silence; and Bertha, rising to the square recess in the\nwall, drew from it a flagon filled with wine, which she placed before\nher guest and a vellum volume, bound in velvet and gold.\n\n\"This,\" she said, \"is a wonderful romaunt, written by a countryman of\nyours, of whom I have heard the strangest stories. Can you tell me aught\nregarding him?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the knight, taking up the volume, \"the book of Tristram. I am\nnot too young, lady, to have seen the writer--the good Thomas of\nErceldoune.\"\n\n\"Seen Thomas of Erceldoune! Thomas the Rhymer!\" exclaimed the lady. \"And\nis it sooth that his prophecies never fail, and that he now lives in\nElf-land?\"\n\n\"Nay, lady, the good Thomas sleeps in Lauderdale, with his fathers. But\nwe trust much to his prophecies. They have given us heart and hope amid\nour darkest reverses. He predicted the years of oppression and suffering\nwhich, through the death of our good Alexander, have wasted our country;\nbut he prophesied, also, our deliverance through my kinsman, Sir William\nof Elderslie. We have already seen much of the evil he foresaw, and\nmuch, also, of the good. Scotland, though still threatened by the power\nof Edward, is at this moment free.\"\n\n\"I have long wished,\" said Bertha, \"to see those warriors of Scotland\nwhose fame is filling all Europe. And now that wish is gratified--nay,\nmore than gratified.\"\n\n\"You see but one of her minor warriors,\" said Clelland; \"but at Paris\nyou shall meet with the Governor himself. Your father, Bertha, should he\nsucceed in clearing his fair fame--and I know he will--sets out with us\nfor Scotland. Will not you and the lady your mother also accompany us?\"\n\n\"I had deemed my father bound on a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre,\"\nsaid Bertha.\n\n\"But he has since thought,\" said Clelland, \"how much better it were to\nlive gloriously fighting in a just quarrel beside the first warrior of\nthe world, than to perish obscurely in some loathsome pesthouse of the\nFar East. I myself heard him tender his services to my kinsman.\"\n\n\"Then be sure,\" said Bertha, \"my mother and I will not be separated from\nhim. Might one find in Scotland, Sir Knight, some such quiet tower as\nthis, where two defenceless women may bide the issue of the contest?\"\n\n\"Why defenceless, lady? There are many gallant swords in Scotland that\nwould needs be beaten down ere you could come to harm. And why not now\naccept of Clelland's? Scotland has greater warriors and better swords;\nbut, trust me, lady, she cannot boast of a truer heart. Accept of me,\nlady, as your bounden knight.\"\n\nA rich flush of crimson suffused the face and neck of the maiden, as she\nheld out her hand to Clelland, who raised it respectfully to his lips.\n\n\"I accept of thee, noble warrior,\" she said, \"as true and faithful\nknight, seeing that thy own generous tender of service doth but second\nwhat Heaven had purposed, when, in my imminent peril in the wood, it\nsent thee to my rescue. Trust me, warrior, never yet had lady knight\nwhom she respected more.\"\n\nClelland again raised her hand to his lips.\n\n\"I have a sister, lady,\" he said, \"whose years do not outnumber your\nown. She lives lonely, since the death of my mother, in the home of my\nfathers--a tower roomier and stronger than this, and on the edge of a\nforest nearly as widely spread. You will be her companion, lady, and her\nfriend; and your mother will be mistress of the mansion. On the morrow,\nwe set out for Paris.\"\n\nThe style in which the party travelled was sufficiently humble. Four\nsmall and very shaggy palfreys were provided from the neighbouring\ncottages: the ladies and Clelland were mounted on three of these; and\nthe fourth, led by a hind, carried the luggage of the party. Before\nsetting out, the lady had entrusted to the charge of the knight, a\nsmall, but very ponderous casket of ebony.\n\n\"It needs, in these unsettled times,\" she said, \"some such person to\ncare for it; and Bertha and I would fare all the worse for wanting it.\"\n\nThe journey was long and tedious, and the daily stages of the party\nnecessarily short. Their route lay through a wild, half-cultivated\ncountry, which seemed to owe much to the hand of nature, but little to\nthat of man. There was an ever-recurring succession, day after day, of\ndreary, wide-spreading forests, with comparatively narrow spaces\nbetween, which, from the imperfect and doubtful traces of industry which\nthey exhibited, seemed as if but lately reclaimed from a state of\nnature. Groups of miserable serfs, bound to the soil even more rigidly\nthan their fellow-slaves the cattle, were plying their unskilful and\nunproductive labours in the fields. They passed scattered assemblages of\ndingy hovels, with here and there a grim feudal tower rising in the\nmidst--giving evidence, by the strength of its defences, of the\ninsecurity and turbulence of the time. The travellers they met with were\nbut few. Occasionally a strolling troubadour or harper accompanied them\npart of the way, on his journey from one baronial castle to another. At\ntimes, they met with armed parties of travelling merchants, bound for\nsome distant fair; at times with disbanded artisans, wandering about in\nquest of employment; soldiers in search of a master; or pilgrims newly\nreturned from Palestine, attired in cloaks of grey, and bearing the\nscallop in their caps. The hind, their attendant, bore in his scrip,\nfrom stage to stage, their provisions for the day; and their evenings\nwere passed in some rude hostelry by the way-side. The third week had\npassed, ere, one evening on the edge of twilight, they alighted at the\nhostel of St Denis, and ascertained, from mine host, that they were now\nwithin half a stage of Paris.\n\nThe hostel was crowded with travellers; and the ladies and Clelland, for\nthe early part of the evening, were fain to take their places in the\ncommon room beside the fire. A young and handsome troubadour, whose\njemmy jerkin, and cap of green, edged with silver, shewed that he was\neither one of the more wealthy of his class, or under the patronage of\nsome rich nobleman, and who had courteously risen to yield place to\nBertha, had succeeded in reseating himself beside the knight.\n\n\"The hostel swarms with company,\" said Clelland, addressing him--\"pray,\ngood minstrel, canst tell me the occasion? Is there a fair holds\nto-morrow?\"\n\n\"Ah, Sir Knight,\" said the minstrel, \"I should rather ask of thee,\nseeing thy tongue shews thee to be a Scot. Dost not know that thy\ncountryman, the brave Wallace of Elderslie, is at court, and that all\nwho can, in any wise, leave their homes for a season, are leaving them,\nto see him? It is not once in a lifetime that such a knight may be\nlooked at. And, besides, have you not heard that the combat comes on\nto-morrow?\"\n\n\"I have heard of nothing,\" said Clelland; \"my route has lain, of late,\nthrough the remoter parts of the country. What combat?\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas de Longoville, so long a true soldier of the cross--so long,\ntoo, a wandering pirate--has defied to mortal combat, Loithaire of\nLanguedoc; and our fair Philip, through the intercession of Wallace, has\ngranted him the lists.\"\n\nBoth the ladies started at the intelligence; and the elder, wrapping up\nher face in her mantle, bent her head well nigh to her knee.\n\n\"And how, good minstrel,\" said Bertha, in a voice tremulous from\nanxiety, \"how is it thought the combat will go?\"\n\n\"That rests with Heaven, fair lady,\" said the minstrel. \"Loithaire is\nknown far and wide, as a striker in the lists; but who has not also\nheard of De Longoville, and his wars with the fierce Saracen? Many seem\nto think, too, that he has been foully injured by Loithaire. That soul\nof knightly honour, the good Lord Jonville, has already renewed his\nfriendship with him, as his friend and comrade in the battles of\nPalestine, and will attend him to-morrow in the lists.\"\n\n\"May all the saints reward him!\" ejaculated the elder lady.\n\n\"And at what hour, Sir Minstrel,\" asked the knight, \"does the combat\ncome on?\"\n\n\"At the turn of noon,\" replied the minstrel, \"when the shadow first\nveers to the east. I go to Paris, to find new theme for a ballad, and to\nsee the good Wallace, who is himself the theme of so many.\"\n\nThe travellers were early on the road. With all their haste and anxiety,\nhowever, they saw the sun climbing towards the middle heavens, while the\ncity was yet several miles distant. They spurred on their jaded\npalfreys, and entered the suburbs about noon. What was properly the city\nof Paris in this age, occupied one of the larger islands of the Seine,\nand was surrounded by a high wall, flanked at the angles by massy\ntowers, and strengthened by rows of thickly-set buttresses; but, on\neither side the river, there were immense assemblages of the dirtiest\nand meanest hovels that the necessities of man had ever huddled\ntogether. The travellers, however, found but little time for remark in\npassing through. All Paris had poured out her inhabitants, to witness\nthe combat, and they now crowded an upper island of the Seine, which the\nchivalry of the age had appropriated as a scene of games, tournaments,\nand duels. Clelland and the ladies had but reached the opposite bank,\nwhen a flourish of trumpets told them that the combatants had taken\ntheir places in the lists, and were waiting the signal to engage.\n\n\"No further, ladies, no further,\" said the knight, \"or we shall entangle\nourselves in the outer skirts of the crowd, and see nothing. This way;\nlet us ascend this eminence, and the scene, though somewhat distant,\nwill be all before us.\"\n\nThey ascended a smooth green knoll, the burial mound of some chieftain\nof the olden time, that overlooked the river. The island lay but a short\nfurlong away. They could look over the heads of the congregated\nthousands into the open lists, and see the brilliant assemblage of the\nbeauty and gallantry of France, which the fame of De Longoville and his\nopponent, and the singular nature of their quarrel, had drawn together.\nThe sun glanced gaily on arms and armour, on many a robe of rich\nembroidery and many a costly jewel, and high over the whole, the\noriflame of France, so famous in story, waved its flames of crimson and\ngold to the breeze. Knights and squires traversed the area, in gay and\nglittering confusion; and at either end there sat a warrior on\nhorseback, as still and motionless as if sculptured in bronze. The\nchampion at the northern end was cased from head to foot in sable\narmour, and beside him, under the blue pennon of Scotland, there stood a\ngroup of knights, who, though tall and stately as any in the lists,\nseemed lessened almost to boys in the presence of a gigantic warrior in\nbright mail, who, like Saul among the people, raised his head and\nshoulders over the proud crests of the assembled chivalry of France.\n\n\"Yonder, ladies--yonder is my kinsman,\" exclaimed Clelland; \"yonder is\nWallace of Elderslie; and the champion beside him is Sir Thomas de\nLongoville.\"\n\nThere was a second flourish of trumpets. Bertha flung herself on her\nknees on the sward, and raised her hands to her eyes. Her mother almost\nfainted outright.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Clelland, \"that is but the signal to clear the lists; the\nknights hurry behind the palisades, and the champions are left alone.\nFear not, dearest Bertha!--there is a God in heaven, and----Ah, there is\nthe third flourish! The champions strike their spurs deep into their\nchargers; and see how they rush forward, like thunder clouds before a\nhurricane! They close!--they close!--hark to the crash!--their steeds\nare thrown back on their haunches! Look up, Bertha! look up!--your\nfather has won--he has won! Loithaire is flung from his saddle, the\nspear of De Longoville has passed through hauberk and corslet; I saw the\nsteel head glitter red at the felon's back. Look up, ladies! look\nup!--De Longoville is safe; nay, more--restored to the honour and fair\nfame of his early manhood. Let us hasten and join him, that we may add\nour congratulations to those of his friends.\"\n\nWhy dwell longer on the story of Thomas de Longoville? No Scotsman\nacquainted with Blind Harry need be told how frequent and honourable the\nmention of his name occurs in the latter pages of that historian.\nScotland became his adopted country, and well and chivalrously did he\nfight in her battles; till, at length, when well nigh worn out by the\nfatigues and hardships of a long and active life, the decisive victory\nat Bannockburn gave him to enjoy an old age of peace and leisure, in the\nsociety of his lady, on the lands of his son-in-law. Need we add it was\nthe gallant Clelland who stood in this relation to him? The chosen\nknight of Bertha had become her favoured lover, and the favoured lover a\nfond and devoted husband. Of the Governor more anon. There was a time,\nat least, when Scotsmen did not soon weary of stories of the Wight\nWallace.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FUGITIVE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nWhen Prince Charles Edward, at the head of his hardy Highlanders, took\nup his head-quarters in Edinburgh, issuing proclamations and holding\nlevees, amongst those who attended the latter was a young Englishman,\nnamed Henry Blackett, then a student at the university, and the son of a\nSir John Blackett of Winburn Priory, in Cheshire. His mother had been a\nMiss Cameron, a native of Inverness-shire, and the daughter of a poor\nbut proud military officer. From her he had imbibed principles or\nprejudices in favour of the house of Stuart; and when he had been\nintroduced to the young adventurer at Holyrood, and witnessed the zeal\nof his army, his enthusiasm was kindled--there was a romance in the\nundertaking which pleased his love of enterprise, and he resolved to\noffer his sword to the Prince, and hazard his fortunes with him. The\noffer was at once graciously and gratefully accepted, and Henry Blackett\nwas enrolled as an officer in the rebel army.\n\nHe followed the Prince through prosperity and adversity, and when\nCharles became a fugitive in the land of his fathers, Henry Blackett was\none of the last to forsake him. He, too, was hunted from one\nhiding-place to another; like him whom he had served, he was a fugitive,\nand a price was set upon his head.\n\nAs has been stated, he imbibed his principles in favour of the house of\nStuart from his mother; but she had been dead for several years. His\nfather was a weak man--one of whom it may be said that he had no\nprinciples at all; but being knighted by King George, on the occasion\nof his performing some civic duty, he became a violent defender of the\nhouse of Brunswick, and he vowed that, if the law did not, he would\ndisinherit his son for having taken up arras in defence of Charles. But\nwhat chiefly strengthened him in this resolution, was not so much his\ndevotion for the reigning family, as his attachment to one Miss Norton,\nthe daughter of a Squire Norton of Norton Hall. She was a young lady of\nmuch beauty, and mistress of what are called accomplishments; but, in\nsaying this much, I have recorded all her virtues. Her father's\ncharacter might be summed up in one brief sentence--he was a deep,\ndesigning, needy villain. He was a gambler--a gentleman by birth--a\nknave in practice. He had long been on terms of familiarity with Sir\nJohn Blackett--he knew his weakness, and he knew his wealth, and he\nrejoiced in the attachment which he saw him manifesting for his\ndaughter, in the hope that it would be the means of bringing his estates\nwithin his control. But the property of Sir John being entailed, it\nconsequently would devolve on Henry as his only surviving son. He,\ntherefore, was an obstacle to the accomplishment of the schemes on which\nNorton brooded; and when the latter found that he had joined the army of\nthe young Chevalier, he was chiefly instrumental in having his name\nincluded in the list of those for whose apprehension rewards were\noffered; and he privately, and at his own expense, employed spies to go\nin quest of him. He also endeavoured to excite his father more bitterly\nagainst him. Nor did his designs rest here--but, as he beheld the\nfondness of the knight for his daughter increase, he, with the cunning\nof a demon, proposed to him to break the entail; and when the other\ninquired how it could be done, he replied--\"Nothing is more simple; deny\nhim to be your heir--pronounce him illegitimate. There is no living\nwitness of your marriage with his mother. The only document to prove it\nis some thumbed leaf in the register of an obscure parish church in the\nHighlands of Scotland; and we can secure it.\"\n\nTo this most unnatural proposal the weak and wicked old man consented;\nand I shall now describe the means employed by Norton to become\npossessed of the parish register referred to.\n\nSquire Norton had a son who was in all respects worthy of such a\nfather--he was the image of his mind and person. In short, he was one of\nthe _things_ who, in those days, resembled those who in our own call\nthemselves _men of the world_, forsooth! and who, under that\nname, infest and corrupt society--making a boast of their\nworthlessness--poisoning innocence--triumphing in their work of\nruin--and laughing, like spirits of desolation, over the daughter's\nmisery and disgrace, the father's anguish, the wretched mother's tears,\nand the shame of a family, which they have accomplished. There are such\ncreatures, who disgrace both the soul and the shape of man, who are mere\nshreds and patches of debauchery--sweepings from the shops of the\ntailor, the milliner, and the hair-dresser--who live upon the plunder\nobtained under false pretences from the industrious--who giggle, ogle,\npat a snuff-box, or affect to nod in a church, to be thought sceptics or\nfine gentlemen. One of such was young Norton; and he was sent down to\nScotland to destroy the only proof which Henry Blackett, in the event of\nhis being pardoned, could bring forward in support of his legitimacy.\n\nHe arrived at a lonely village in Inverness-shire, near which the\ncottage formerly occupied by Major Cameron, the grandfather of Henry,\nwas situated; and of whom he found that few of the inhabitants\nremembered more than that \"there lived a man.\" Finding the only inn that\nwas in the village much more cleanly and comfortable than he had\nanticipated, he resolved to make it his hotel during his residence, and\ninquired of the landlady if there were any one in the village with whom\na gentleman could spend an evening, and obtain information respecting\nthe neighbourhood.\n\n\"Fu' shurely! fu' shurely, sir!\" replied his Highland hostess--\"there pe\nte auld tominie.\"\n\n\"Who?\" inquired he, not exactly comprehending her Celtic accent.\n\n\"Wha put te auld tominie?\" returned she; \"an' a tiscreet, goot\nshentleman he pe as in a' te toun.\"\n\n\"The dominie?--the dominie?\" he repeated, in a tone of perplexity.\n\n\"Oigh! oigh! te tominie,\" added she, \"tat teaches te pits o' pairns, an'\nraises te psalm in te kirk.\"\n\nHe now comprehended her meaning; and from her coupling the dominie's\nname with the kirk, believed that he might be of use to him in the\naccomplishment of his object, and desired that he might be sent for.\n\n\"Oigh!\" returned she, smiling, \"an' he no pe lang, for he like te\ntrappie unco weel.\"\n\nWithin five minutes, Dugald Mackay, precentor, teacher, and parish-clerk\nof Glencleugh, entered the parlour of Mrs Macnab. Never was a more\nstriking contrast exhibited in castle or in cottage. Here stood young\nNorton, bedecked with all the foppery of an exquisite of his day; and\nthere stood Dugald Mackay, his thick bushy grey hair falling on his\nshoulders, holding in his hand a hat not half the size of his head,\nwhich had neither been made nor bought for him, and which had become\nbrown with service, and was now stitched in many places, to keep it\ntogether. Round it was wrapped a narrow stripe of crape browner than\nitself, and over all winded several yards of gut and hair-line, with\nhooks attached, betokening his angling propensities. Dugald was a\nthickset old man, with a face blooming like his native heather. His feet\nwere thrust into immense brogues, as brown as his hat, and their\nformidable patches shewed that their wearer could use the _lingle_ and\n_elshun_, although his profession was to \"teach the young idea how to\nshoot.\" He wore tartan hose--black breeches, fastened at the knees by\nsilver gilt buckles, and much the worse for the wear, while, from the\naccumulation of ink and dust, they might have stood upright. His vest\nwas huge and double-breasted, its colour not recognised by painters; and\nhis shoulders were covered by a very small tartan coat, the tails of\nwhich hardly reached his waist. Such was Dugald Mackay; and the youth,\nplying him with the bottle, endeavoured to ascertain how far he could\nrender him subservient to his purpose.\n\n\"You appear fond of angling,\" said Norton.\n\n\"Fond o' fishing?\" returned the man of letters; \"ou ay; ou ay!--hur hae\nmony time filt te creel o' te shentlemen frae Inverness, for te\nsixpence, and te shilling, and te pig crown, not to let tem gaun pack\nwi' te empty pasket. And hur will teach your honour, or tress your\nhonour's hooks, should you be stopping to fish. Here pe goot sport to\nyour honour,\" continued he, raising a bumper to his lips.\n\nThe other, glad to assign a plausible pretext for his visit, said that\nhe had come a few days for the sake of fishing, and inquired how long\nhis guest had been in the neighbourhood.\n\n\"Hur peen schulemaister and parish-clerk in Glencleugh for forty year,\"\nreplied Dugald.\n\n\"Parish-clerk!\" said Norton, eagerly, and checking himself,\ncontinued--\"that is--in the church you mean, you raise the tunes?\"\n\n\"Ou ay, hur nainsel' pe precenter too,\" answered Dugald; \"put hur be\nschulemaister and parish-clerk into te pargain.\"\n\n\"And what are your duties as parish-clerk?\" inquired the other, in a\ntone of indifference.\n\n\"Ou, it pe to keep te pooks wi' te marriages, te christenings, and te\ndeaths. Here pe to your honour's very goot luck again,\" said he,\nswallowing another bumper.\n\nThus the holder of the birch and parish chronicler began to help himself\nto one glass after another, until the candles began to dance reels and\nstrathspeys before him. At length the angler, expressing a wish to see\nsuch a curiosity as the matrimonial and baptismal register of a hamlet\nso remote, out sallied Dugald, describing curved lines as he went, and\nshortly returned, bearing the eventful quartos under his arm. Norton\nlooked through them, laughing, jesting, and professing to be amused, and\nhis eye quickly fell upon the page which he sought. Dugald laughed,\ndrank, and talked, until his rough head sank upon his breast, and\ncertain nasal sounds gave notice that the schoolmaster was abroad. In a\nmoment, Norton transferred the leaf which contained the certificate of\nLady Blackett's marriage, from the volume to his pocket. His father had\nordered him to destroy it; but the son, vicious as the father,\ndetermined to keep it, and to hold it over him as an instrument of\nterror to extort money. The dominie being roused to take one glass more\nby way of a night-cap, was led home, as usual, by Mrs Macnab's\nservant-of-all-work, who carried the volumes.\n\nShortly after this, the marriage between Sir John Blackett and Miss\nNorton took place; her father rejoiced in the success of his schemes,\nand Henry was disinherited and disowned.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nWhile the latter events which we have recorded in the last chapter were\ntaking place, Henry Blackett, the rebel soldier, was a fugitive, flying\nfrom hiding-place to hiding-place, seeking concealment in the mountains\nand in the glens, in the forest and crowded city, assuming every\ndisguise, and hunted from covert to covert. A reward was not offered for\nhis apprehension, in particular by government, but he was included\namongst those whom loyal subjects were forbidden to conceal; and two\nemissaries, sent out by Norton, sought him continually, to deliver him\nup. Ignorant of his father's marriage, or of the villain's part he had\nacted towards him, though conscious of his anger at his having joined\nPrince Charles, he was wandering in Dumfries-shire, by the shores of the\nSolway, disguised as a sailor, and watching an opportunity to return\nhome, when the hunters after his life suddenly sprang upon him,\nexclaiming--\"Ha! Blackett, the traitor!--the five hundred pounds are\nours!\"\n\nArmed only with the branch of a tree, which he carried partly for\ndefence, and as a walking-stick, he repelled them with the desperate\nfierceness of a man whose life is at stake. One he disabled, and the\nother being unable to contend against him singly, permitted him to\nescape. He rushed at his utmost speed across the fields for many miles,\navoiding the highways and public paths, until he sank panting and\nexhausted on the ground. He had not lain long in this situation when he\nwas discovered by a wealthy farmer, who was known in the neighbourhood\nby the appellation of \"canny Willie Galloway.\"\n\n\"Puir young chield,\" said Willie, casting on him a look of compassion,\n\"ye seem sadly distressed. Do ye think I could be o' ony service to ye?\nFrom yer appearance, ye wadna be the waur o' a nicht's lodging, and I\ncan only say that ye are heartily welcome to't.\"\n\nHenry had been so long the object of pursuit and persecution, that he\nregarded every one with suspicion; and starting to his feet and grasping\nthe branch firmer in his hand, he said--\"Know you what you say?--or\nwould you betray the wretched?\"\n\n\"It is o' nae manner o' use gripping your stick,\" said Willie, calmly,\n\"for I'm allooed to be a first-rate cudgel-player--the best atween\nStranraer and Dumfries. But, as to kennin' what I said, I was offerin'\nye a nicht's lodgings; and as to betrayin' the wretched, I wadna see a\nhawk strike doon a sparrow, not a spider a midge, if I could prevent\nit.\"\n\n\"You seem honest,\" said Henry; \"I am miserable, and will trust you.\"\n\n\"Be thankit,\" answered the other; \"I dare to say I'm as honest as my\nneebors; and, as ye seem in distress, I will be very happy to serve ye,\nif I can do't in a creditable way.\"\n\nWillie Galloway was a bachelor of five and forty, and his house was kept\nby an old woman, a distant relative, called Janet White. Henry\naccompanied him home, and communicated to him his story. Willie took a\nliking for him, and vowed that he would not only shelter him, while he\nhad a roof over his head, but that he would defend him against every\nenemy, while he had a hand that he could lift; and, the better to ensure\nhis concealment, he proposed that he should pass as his sister's son,\nand not even write to his father to intimate where he was, until the\npersecution against those who had \"been _out_ with poor Charlie,\" was\npast.\n\nIn the neighbourhood of Willie's farm, there resided an elderly\ngentleman, named Laird Howison. He was an eccentric but most\nkind-hearted man, of whom many believed and said that his imagination\nwas stronger then his reason; and in so saying, it was probable that\nthey were not far from the truth. But of that the reader will determine\nas he sees more of the laird. There resided with him a beautiful orphan\ngirl, named Helen Marshall, the daughter of the late parish clergyman,\nand to whom he had been left guardian from her childhood. But, as she\ngrew up in loveliness before him, she became as a dream of futurity that\nsoothed and cheered his existence; and, although he was already on the\nwrong side of fifty, he resolved that, as soon as she was twenty-one,\nhe would offer her his hand and fortune. Janet White, the housekeeper\nand relative of Willie Galloway, had nursed Helen in infancy; and the\nlovely maiden was, therefore, a frequent visitor at his house. She there\nmet Henry, and neither saw nor listened to him with indifference; and\nher beauty, sense, and gentleness, made a like impression upon him.\nWillie, though a bachelor, had penetration enough to perceive that when\nthey met there was meaning in their eyes; and he began to rally\nHenry--saying, \"Now, there would be a match for ye!--when the storm has\nblawn owre your head, just tak ye that bonny Scotch lassie hame to\nEngland wi' ye as yer wife, and ye will find her a treasure, such as ye\nmay wander the world round and no find her marrow.\"\n\nAs their intimacy and affection increased, Henry communicated to Helen\nthe secret of his birth and situation; and, like a true woman, she loved\nhim the more for the dangers to which he was exposed. He had remained\nmore than eight months with his friend and protector; and, imagining\nthat the persecution against himself, and others who had acted in the\nsame cause, was now abated in its fury, he forwarded a letter to his\nfather, at Winburn Priory, announcing his intention of venturing home in\na few days, and begging his forgiveness and protection, until his pardon\ncould be procured. He, however, intimated to Willie Galloway, his desire\nto secure the hand of Helen before he left.\n\n\"Weel, if she be agreeable,\" said Willie \"--and I hae every reason to\nbelieve she is--I wadna blame ye for taking that step ava; for her auld\ngowk o' a guardian, Laird Howison, (though a very worthy man in some\nrespecks), vows that he is determined to marry her himsel, as soon as\nshe is ane and twenty; and, as he is up aboot London at present, ye\ncouldna hae a better opportunity. Therefore, only ye and Helen say the\nword, and I'll arrange the business for ye in less than nae time.\"\n\nThe fair maiden consented; a clergyman had joined their hands, and\npronounced the benediction over them--the ceremony was concluded, but it\nwas only concluded, when the two ruffians, who have been already\nmentioned as hired by Norton to search for him and secure his\napprehension, and who before had met him by the side of the Solway,\nfollowed by two soldiers, burst into the apartment, crying--\"Secure the\ntraitor! It is he!--Harry Blackett!\"\n\nHelen screamed aloud and clasped her hands.\n\n\"Ye lie! ye lie!\" cried Willie--\"it is my sister's son--meddle wi' him\nwha daur, and us twa will fecht you four, even in the presence o' the\nminister.\"\n\nSo saying, he seized hold of a chair, and raised it to repel them. Henry\nfollowed his example. The soldiers threateningly raised their fire-arms.\nWillie suddenly swang round the chair with his utmost strength, and\ndashed down their arms. Henry hastily kissed the brow of his fair bride,\nand, rushing through the midst of them, darted from the house, while\nWillie, as rapidly following him, closed the door behind him, and\nholding it fast, cried--\"Run, Harry, my lad!--run for bare life, and\nI'll keep them fast here!\"\n\nFor several days, the soldiers searched the neighbourhood for the\nfugitive; but they found him not, and no one knew where he had fled.\nWithin a week, Helen disappeared from Primrose Hall, the seat of her\nguardian, Laird Howison; and the general belief was, that she had set\nout for Cheshire, to the father of her bridegroom, to intercede with him\nto use his influence in his son's behalf. \"And,\" said Willie, \"if she\ndoesna move him to forgie his son, and do his duty towards him, then I\nsay that he has a heart harder than a whin-rock.\"\n\nBut no one knew the object of her departure, nor whither she had gone.\nLaird Howison had not returned; and, after several weeks had passed, and\nWillie Galloway was unable to hear ought of either Helen or Henry, he\nresolved to proceed to Cheshire, to make inquiries after them; and for\nthis purpose purchased an entire suit of new and fashionable raiment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nOn a beautiful summer morning, an old man, slightly stooping in his\ngait, was slowly walking down a green lane which led in the direction\nfrom Warrington to Winburn Priory. Behind him, at a rapid pace, followed\na younger man, of a muscular frame, exceedingly well-dressed, and\ncarrying over his arm a thick chequered plaid, like those worn in the\npastoral districts of Scotland. He overtook the elder pedestrian, and\naccosted him, saying--\n\n\"Here's a bonny morning, freend.\"\n\n\"Sir?\" said the old man inquiringly, slightly lifting his hat, and not\nexactly comprehending his companion.\n\n\"Losh, but he's a mannerly auld body that,\" thought the other; \"I see\nthe siller upon this suit o' claes has been weel-wared;\" and added\naloud, \"I was observing it's a delightful morning, sir, and as\ndelightful a country-side; it wad be a paradise, were it no sae flat.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir!\" replied the old man; \"but I fear as how the country looks\nlike a paradise without its innocence.\"\n\n\"Ye talk very rationally, honest man,\" said the other, whom the reader\nwill have recognised to be Willie Galloway; \"and, if I am no mistaen, ye\nmaun hae some cause to mak the remark. But, dear me, sir, only look\nround ye, and see the trees in a' their glory, the flowers in a' their\ninnocence; or just look at the rowing burn there, wimplin alang by oor\nside, like refined silver, beneath a sun only less glorious than the\nHand that made it; and see hoo the bits o' fish are whittering round,\nwagging their tails, and whisking back and forrit, as happy as kings!\nLook at the lovely and the cheerfu' face o' a' Nature--or just listen\nto the music o' thae sinless creatures in the hedges, and in the blue\nlift--and ye will say that, but for the inventions and deceitfulness o'\nman's heart, this earth wad be a paradise still. But I tell ye what,\nfreend--I believe that were an irreligious man just to get up before\nsunrise at a season like this, and gang into the fields and listen to\nthe laverock, and look around on the earth, and on the majesty o' the\nheavens rising, he wadna stand for half-an-hoor until, if naebody were\nseeing him, he would drap doun on his knees and pray.\"\n\nMuch of Willie's sermon was lost on the old man; he, however,\ncomprehended a part, and said, \"Why, sir, I know as how I always find my\nmind more in tune for the service of the church, by a walk in the\nfields, and the singing of the birds, than by all the instruments of the\norchestra.\"\n\n\"Orchestra!\" said Willie, \"what do ye mean?--that's a strange place to\ngather devotion frae!\"\n\n\"The orchestra of the church,\" returned the other.\n\n\"The orchestra o' the church!\" said Willie, in surprise--\"what's that? I\nnever heard o't before. There's the poopit, and the precentor's desk,\nthe pews and the square seats, and doun stairs and the gallery--but ye\nnonplus me about the orchestra.\"\n\n\"Why, our lord of the manor,\" continued the old man, \"is one who cares\nfor nothing that's good, and he will give nothing; and as we are not\nrich enough to buy an organ, we have only a bass viol, two tenors, and a\nflute.\"\n\n\"Fiddles and a flute in a place o' worship!\" exclaimed Willie.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" replied the other, marvelling at his manner.\n\n\"Weel,\" returned Willie, standing suddenly still, and striking his staff\nupon the ground, \"that beats a'! And will ye tell me, sir, hoo it is\npossible to worship yer Creator by scraping catgut, or blawing wind\nthrough a hollow stick?\"\n\n\"Why, master,\" said the old man, \"the use of instruments in worship is\nas old as the times of the prophets, and I can't see why it should be\ngiven up. But dost thou think, now, that thou couldst go into Chester\ncathedral at twilight, while the organ filled all round about thee with\nits deep music, without feeling in thy heart that thou wast in a house\nof praise. Why, sir, at such a time thou couldst not commit a wicked\naction. The very sound, while it lifted up thy soul with delight, would\nawe thee.\"\n\nWhen their controversy had ended, Willie inquired--\"Do ye ken a family\no' the name o' Blackett, that lives aboot this neeborhood?\"\n\n\"I should,\" answered the old man; \"forty years did I eat of their\nbread.\"\n\n\"Then, after sic lang service, ye'll just be like ane o' the family?\"\nreplied Willie.\n\n\"Alas!\" said the other, shaking his head.\n\n\"Ye dinna mean to say,\" resumed Willie, in a tone of surprise, \"that\nthey hae turned ye aff, in your auld age, as some heartless wretch wad\nsell the noble animal that had carried him when a callant, to a cadger,\nbecause it had grown howe-backet, and lost its speed o' foot. But I hope\nthat young Mr Henry had nae hand in it?\"\n\n\"Henry!--no! no!\" cried the old man eagerly--\"bless him! Did you know Mr\nHenry, your honour?\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Willie; \"and I hae come from Scotland ance errand to see\nhim.\"\n\n\"But, sir,\" inquired the old man, tremulously, \"do you know where to\nfind him?\"\n\n\"I expect to find him, by this time, at his father's house.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" answered the old domestic, \"there has been no one at the priory\nfor more than twelve months. I don't know where the old knight is. Henry\nhas not been here since he went to Edinburgh, and that is nigh to five\nyears gone now.\"\n\n\"Ye dumfounder me, auld man,\" exclaimed Willie; \"but where, in the name\no' guidness, where's the wife?--where's Mrs Blackett?\"\n\n\"You will mean your countrywoman, I suppose,\" said the other.\n\n\"To be sure I mean her,\" said Willie--\"wha else could I mean?\"\n\n\"Ah! wo is me!\" sighed his companion, and he burst into tears as he\nspoke, \"dost see the churchyard, just before us?--and they have raised\nno stone to mark the spot.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" ejaculated Willie, becoming pale with horror, and fixing upon\nhis fellow-pedestrian a look of agony--\"Ye dinna say--dead!\"\n\n\"Even so!--even so!\" said the old domestic, sobbing aloud.\n\n\"And hoo was it?\" cried Willie; \"was it a fair strae death--or just\ngrief, puir thing--just grief?\"\n\n\"Why, I can't say how it was,\" answered his informant; \"but I wish I\ndurst tell all I think.\"\n\n\"Say it!--say it!\" exclaimed Willie, vehemently, \"what do you mean by,\nif you durst say all you think? If there be the shadow o' foul play, I\nwill sift it to the bottom, though it cost me a thousand pounds; and\nthere is anither that will gie mair.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, I am but a friendless old man,\" replied the other, \"that could\nnot stand the weight of a stronger arm.\"\n\n\"Plague take their arms!\" cried Willie, handling his cudgel, as if to\nshew the strength of his own--\"tell what ye think, and they'll have\nstrong arms that dare touch a hair o' yer head.\"\n\n\"Well, master,\" was the reply, \"I don't like to say too much to\nstrangers, but if thou makest any stay in these parts, I may tell thee\nsomething; and I fear that wherever poor Henry is, he is in need of\nfriends. But perhaps your honour would wish to see her grave?\"\n\n\"Her grave!\" ejaculated Willie--\"yes! yes! yes!--her grave!--O misery!\nhave I come frae Dumfries-shire to see a sicht like this?\"\n\nThe old man led the way over the stile, hanging his head and sighing as\nhe went. Willie followed him, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, as was\nhis custom when his heart was touched, and forgetting the dress of the\ngentleman which he wore, in the feelings of the man.\n\n\"The family vault is in yonder corner,\" said his conductor, as they\nturned across the churchyard.\n\n\"Save us, friend!\" exclaimed Willie, looking towards the spot, \"saw ye\never the like o' yon?--a poor miserable dementit creature, wringing his\nhands as though his heart would break!\"\n\n\"Tis he! 'tis he!\" shouted the old man, springing forward with the\nalacrity of youth, \"my child!--my dear young master!\"\n\n\"Oh! conscience o' man!\" exclaimed Willie, \"what sort o' a dream is\nthis? It canna be possible! _Her_ dead, and _him_, oot o' his judgment,\nmourning owre her grave in the garb o' a beggar!\"\n\n\"Ha! discovered again!\" cried Henry fiercely, and starting round as he\nspoke; but immediately recognising the old domestic, on whom time had\nnot wrought such a metamorphosis as dress had upon Willie Galloway--\"Ha,\nJonathan! old Jonathan Holditch!\" he added, \"do I again see the face of\na friend!\" and instantly discovering Willie, he sprang forward and\ngrasped his extended hand in both of his.\n\nThe old man sat down upon the grave and wept.\n\n\"Don't weep, Jonathan,\" said Henry, \"I trust that we shall soon have\ncause to rejoice.\"\n\n\"I wish a' may be richt yet,\" thought Willie; \"I took him to be rather\ndementit at the first glance, and _rejoice_ is rather a strange word to\nuse owre a young wife's grave. Puir fellow!\"\n\n\"Yes, Master Henry,\" said Jonathan, \"I do rejoice that the worst is\npast; but I must weep too, for there be many things in all this that I\ndo not understand.\"\n\n\"Nor me either,\" said Willie; \"but ye say ye think more than ye dare\ntell.\"\n\n\"Why is it, Jonathan,\" continued Henry, \"that there is no stone to mark\nmy mother's grave? There is room enough in our burial place. Why is\nthere nothing to her memory?\" he continued, bending his eyes upon her\nsepulchre. \"Her _memory_!\" he added; \"cold, cruel grave; and is memory\nall that is left me of such a parent? Is the dumb dust, beneath this\nunlettered stone--all!--all! that I can now call mother? Has she no\nmonument but the tears of her only surviving child?\"\n\n\"A' about his mother,\" muttered Willie, \"who has been dead for four\nyears, and no a word aboot puir Helen! As sure as I'm a living man this\nis beyont my comprehension--I dinna think he can be _a'thegither\nthere_!\"\n\nHenry turned towards him and said, \"I have much to ask, my dear friend,\nbut my heart is so filled with griefs and forebodings already, that the\nwords I would utter tremble on my tongue; but what of my Helen--tell me,\nwhat of her?\"\n\n\"She--she's--weel,\" gasped Willie, bewildered; \"that is--I--I hope--I\ntrust--that--oh, losh, Mr Blackett, I dinna ken whare I am, nor what I\nam saying, for my brain is as daized as a body's that is driven owre wi'\na drift, and rowed amang the snaw! Has there been onybody buried here\nlately?\"\n\n\"Mr Galloway!--Mr Galloway!\" exclaimed Henry, half-choked with\nagitation, and wringing his hand in his, while the perspiration burst\nupon his brow--\"in the name of wretchedness--what--what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna speak to me!\" said Willie, waving his hand; \"ask that auld\nman.\"\n\n\"Jonathan?\" exclaimed Henry.\n\n\"I don't know what the gentleman means,\" said the old man; \"but no one\nhas been buried here since your honoured mother, and that is four years\nago.\"\n\n\"And whase grave--whase grave did ye bring me to look at?\" inquired\nWillie, eagerly.\n\n\"My lady's,\" answered he.\n\n\"Yer leddy's!\" returned Willie--\"do you mean Mr Blackett's mother?\"\n\n\"Whom else could I mean?\" asked old Jonathan, in a tone of wonder.\n\n\"Wha else could you mean!\" repeated Willie; \"then, be thankit! _she's_\nno dead!--ye say _she's_ no dead!\" and he literally leapt for joy.\n\n\"Who dead?\" inquired the old man, with increased astonishment.\n\n\"Wha dead, ye stupid auld body!--did I no say _his wife_, as plain as I\ncould speak?\"\n\n\"_Whose_ wife?\" inquired Jonathan, looking from Willie to his master in\nbewilderment.\n\n\"Whose wife!\" reiterated Willie, weeping, laughing, and twirling his\nstick; \"shame fa' ye--ye may ask that noo, after knocking my heart oot\no' the place o't wi' yer palaver. Whase wife do ye say?--ask Mr Henry.\"\n\n\"Mr Galloway!\" interrupted Henry, \"am I to understand that you believed\nthis to be the grave of my beloved Helen?--or, how could you suppose it?\nHas she left Primrose Hall?--or, has our marriage----Tell me all you\nknow, for I wist not what I would ask.\"\n\nWillie then related to him what the reader already knows--namely, that\nshe had left Dumfries-shire, and was supposed to have gone to his\nfather's.\n\n\"Blessings on the day that these eyes beheld the dear lady, then,\"\nexclaimed old Jonathan; \"for I could vow that she is under my roof now.\"\n\n\"Under _your_ roof!\" cried Henry.\n\n\"Was ye doited, auld man, that ye didna tell me that before?\" said\nWillie.\n\n\"I knew no more of my young master's marriage, until just now, than\nthese gravestones do,\" said Jonathan; \"the dear lady who is with us told\nnothing to me. Only my wife told me that she knew she loved our young\nmaster.\"\n\n\"But why is she lodging with you, Jonathan? I have learned that my\nfather is abroad, and is it that he is soon expected home?\"\n\n\"A fever caused her to be an inmate of my poor roof,\" answered Jonathan,\n\"after she had been rudely driven from the gate as a common beggar. But\nI am no longer thy father's servant--and I wish, for thy sake, I could\nforget he was thy father; for he has done that which might make the\nblessed bones beneath our feet start from their grave. And there is no\none about the Priory now, but the creatures of the villain Norton.\"\n\nHenry entreated that the old man would not speak harshly of his father,\nthough he had so treated them; and he briefly informed them, that, on\nflying from Scotland to escape his pursuers even at his father's lodge,\nhe again met one of the individuals who had hunted him as \"Blackett, the\ntraitor,\" and who had attempted to seize him in the hour of his\nmarriage--and that even there the cry was again raised against him; and\na band, thirsting for his blood-money, joined in the pursuit. He had\nfled to the churchyard, and found concealment in the family vault, where\nhe had remained until they then discovered him, as, in the early\nmorning, he had ventured out.\n\nWillie counselled that there was now small vengeance to be apprehended\nfrom the persecution of the government; and when Jonathan stated that\nSir John had married the daughter of Norton, and disinherited Henry by\ndenying his marriage with his mother, Willie exclaimed--\"I see it a', Mr\nHenry, just as clear as the A, B, C. This rascal, ye ca' Norton, or your\nfaither, (forgie me for saying sae,) has employed the villains wha\nhunted for yer life; it has been mair them than the government that has\nbeen to blame. Therefore, my advice is, let us go and drive the thieves\nout o' the house by force.\"\n\nHenry, who was speechless with grief, horror, and disgust, agreed to the\nproposition of his friend, and they proceeded to the Priory by a shorter\nroad than the lodge.\n\nHenry knocked loudly at the door, which was opened by a man-servant, who\nattempted to shut it in his face; but, in a moment the door was driven\nback upon its hinges, and the menial lay extended along the lobby; and\nHenry, with his sturdy ally, and old Jonathan, rushed in. Alarmed by the\nsound, the other servants, male and female, hurried to the spot; and\nepithets, too opprobrious to be written, were the mildest they applied\nto the young heir, as he demanded admission.\n\n\"Then let us gie them club-law for it,\" cried Willie, \"if they will have\nit; and they shall have it to their heart's content, if I ance begin\nit.\"\n\nArmed with such weapons as they could seize at the moment, the servants\nmenacingly opposed their entrance; but Henry, dashing through them,\nrushed towards the stairs, where he was followed by four men-servants,\ntwo armed with swords, and the others with kitchen utensils.\n\nBut Willie, following at their heels, cried--\"Come back!\" and, bringing\nhis cudgel round his head, with one tremendous swoop caused it to rattle\nacross the unprotected legs of the two last of the pursuers, and, almost\nat the same instant, before their comrades had ascended five steps from\nthe ground, they, from the same cause, descended backwards, rolling and\nroaring over their companions. Within three seconds, all four were\nconquered, disarmed, and unable to rise. As the discomfited garrison of\nthe Priory gathered themselves together, (much in the attitude of Turks\nor tailors,) groaning, writhing, and ruefully rubbing their stockings,\nWillie, with the composed look of a philosopher, addressed to them this\nconsoling and important information--\"Noo, sirs, I hope ye are a'\n_sensibly_ convinced, what guid service a bit hazel may do in a willing\nhand; and if ony o' yer banes are broken, I would recommend ye to send\nfor the doctor before the swelling gets stiff about them. But ye couldna\nhae broken banes at a cannier place on a' the leg than just where I gied\nye the bits o' clinks; they were hearty licks, and would gie them a\nclean snap, so that, in the matter o' six weeks, ye may be on your feet\nagain.\"\n\nOld Jonathan had already followed Henry up stairs; and Willie having\nfinished his exhortation, proceeded in quest of them. Henry succeeded in\nobtaining a change of raiment; and having sent for one who had been long\na tenant upon the estate, he left the house in charge to him, with\norders that he should immediately turn from it all the creatures of\nNorton, and engage other servants; and he and his friend, Willie,\nproceeded to the house of old Jonathan, where, as the latter supposed, a\nlady that he believed to be the wife of his young master, then was.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nMrs Holditch (the wife of old Jonathan) was wandering up the lane in\nquest of her husband, wondering at the length of his absence, and\nfretting for his return; for \"the sweet lady,\" as she termed Helen,\n\"would not take breakfast without them.\" She had proceeded about half a\nmile from the cottage, when she was met by none other than Laird Howison\nof Primrose Hall, and the following dialogue took place:--\n\n\"Will ye hae the kindness to inform me, ma'am, if the person that used\nto keep the gate of Sir John Blackett lives ony way aboot here?\"\n\n\"He does, sir,\" replied she, with low obeisance.\n\n\"And, oh!\" interrupted he, earnestly, \"know ye if there be a young leddy\nfrae Scotland stopping there at present--for I have heard that there is?\nYe'll no think me inquisitive, ma'am; for really if ye kenned what\nmotive I hae for asking, ye would think it motive enough.\"\n\n\"There be, your honour,\" returned she, \"and a dear excellent young lady\nshe is.\"\n\n\"Oh! if it be her that I mean,\" said he, \"that she is _dear_, indeed, I\nhave owre guid reason to ken, and her excellence is written on every\nline o' her beautiful countenance. But, if I'm no detaining ye, ma'am,\nmay I just ask her name?\"\n\n\"She bade us call her Helen, sir,\" replied she; \"we know no other.\"\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" cried he, \"it's just Helen!--Helen, and nothing else to me!\nMony a time has that name been offered up wi' my prayers. But I thought,\nma'am, ye said she bade _you_ call her Helen.\"\n\n\"Yes, your honour,\" said she; \"I be the wife of old Jonathan Holditch,\nand she be staying with us now.\"\n\n\"Bless you!\" he exclaimed, \"for the shelter which yer roof has afforded\nto the head o' an orphan. But, oh! what like is _your_ Helen? Is her\nneck whiter than the drifted snaw? Does her hair fa' in gowden ringlets,\nlike the clouds that curl round the brows o' the setting sun? Is her\nform delicate as the willow, but stately as the young pine? Is her\ncountenance beautiful as the light o' laughing day, when it chases\nsickness and darkness together from the chamber o' the invalid? If she\nisna a' this--if her voice isna sweeter than the sough o' music on a\nriver--dear and excellent she may be, and they may call her Helen--but,\noh! she isna my _Helen_!--for there is none in the world like unto\n_mine_. But, no! no!--she is _not mine now_! O Helen, woman! did I\nexpect this? Excuse me, ma'am, ye'll think my conduct strange; but, when\nmy poor seared-up heart thinks o' past enjoyment, it makes me forget\nmysel'. Do you think your Helen is the same that I hae come to seek?\"\n\n\"A sweeter and a lovelier lady,\" said she, \"never called Christian man\nfather. She had business at Winburn Priory; but my husband says she was\ndriven away from the gate like a dog.\"\n\n\"It is her!\" exclaimed he, \"and she's no been at the Priory, then?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" returned she.\n\n\"Nor seen ony o' the Blackett family?\" added he, eagerly.\n\n\"No, sir; for there be none of them in the neighbourhood,\" answered she.\n\n\"What's this I hear!\" cried he:--\"Gracious! if I may again hope!--and\nwhy for no? But how is it that she is stopping wi' you?--wherefore did\nshe not return to the home where she has been cherished from infancy,\nand where she will aye be welcome. Has Helen forgot me a'thegither?\"\n\n\"Alas, sir!\" said she; \"it was partly grief, I believe, that brought on\na bad fever, and I had fears the sweet, patient creature would have died\nin my hands. I sat by her bedside, watching night after night; and, oh!\nsir, I daresay as how it was about you that she sometimes talked, and\nwept, and laughed, and talked again, poor thing.\"\n\n\"And did _ye_,\" he inquired, fumbling with, a pocket book; \"did _ye_\nwatch owre her? I'm your debtor for that. And ye think she spoke about\n_me_--my name's Howison, ma'am--Thomas Howison of Primrose Hall, in the\ncounty o' Dumfries. She would, maybe, call me _Thomas_!\"\n\n\"Mr Howison!\" replied the old woman: \"yes, your honour, she often\nmentioned such a name--very often.\"\n\n\"Did she really,\" added he; \"did she mention me?--and often spoke about\nme--often? Then she's no forgotten me a'thegither!\"\n\nHe thrust a bank-note into the hands of Mrs Holditch, which she refused\nto accept, saying that \"the dear lady had more than paid her for all\nthat she had done already.\" But, while she spoke, they had arrived\nwithin sight of the cottage, and he suddenly bounded forward,\nexclaiming--\"Oh! haud my heart!\" as he beheld Helen, sitting looking\nfrom the window--\"yonder she is! yonder she is! O Helen! Helen!\" he\ncried, rushing towards the door--\"wherefore did ye leave me?--why hae ye\nforsaken me? But, joy o' my heart, I winna upbraid ye; for I hae found\nye again.\"\n\nWith an agitated step, she advanced to meet him--she extended her hand\ntowards him--she faltered--\"My kind, kind benefactor.\"\n\nHe heard the words she uttered--with a glance he beheld the\nmarriage-ring upon her finger--he stood still in the midst of his\ntransport--his outstretched arms fell motionless by his side--\"O Helen,\nwoman!\" he cried in agony, \"do ye really say _benefactor_?--that isna\nthe word I wish to hear frae ye. Ye never ca'ed me _benefactor_ before!\"\n\nThe few words spoken by the old woman had called up his buried hopes;\nbut the word _benefactor_ had again whelmed him in despair.\n\n\"Oh!\" he continued, dashing away the tears from his eyes, \"my poor mind\nis flung away upon a whirlwind, and my brain is the sport o' every\nshadow! O Helen! I thought ye had forgotten me!\"\n\n\"Forgotten you, my kind dear friend!\" said she; \"I have not, I will not,\nI cannot forget you; and wherefore would you forget that I can only\nremember you as a friend?\"\n\n\"Poor, miserable, and deluded being that I am,\" added he; \"I expected,\nfrom what the mistress o' this house told me, that I wouldna be welcomed\nby the cauldrife names o' _friend_ or _benefactor_. Do ye mind since ye\nused to call me _Thomas_?\"\n\n\"Mr Howison,\" answered she, \"I know this visit has been made in\nkindness--let me believe in parental anxiety. You have not now to learn\nthat I am a wife, and you can have heard nothing here to lead you to\nthink otherwise. I will not pretend to misunderstand your language. But\nby what name can I call you save that of friend?--it was the first and\nthe only one by which I have ever known you.\"\n\n\"No, Helen,\" cried he, wringing her hand; \"there was a time when ye only\nsaid _Thomas!_ and the sound o' that ae word frae yer lips was a waff o'\nmusic, which echoed, like the vibrations o' an angel's harp, about my\nheart for hours and for hours!\"\n\n\"If,\" added she, \"from having been taught by you to call you by that\nname in childhood, when I regarded you as my guardian, and you\ncondescended to be my playmate, will you upbraid me with ceasing to use\nit now, when respect to you and to myself demand the use of another? Or\ncan you, by any act of mine, place another meaning upon my having used\nit, than obedience to your wishes, and the familiarity of a thoughtless\ngirl? And, knowing this, is it possible that the best of men will heap\nsorrow upon sorrow on the head of a friendless and afflicted woman?\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna say friendless, Helen,\" cried he; \"friendless ye canna be\nwhile I am in existence. Ye hae torn the scales from my eyes, and the\nfirst use o' sicht has been to show me that the past has been delusion,\nand that the future is misery, solitary madness, or despair! And hae I\nreally a' this time mistaen sweetness for love, and familiarity for\naffection? Do ye really say that it was only familiarity, Helen?\"\n\n\"The feelings of a sister for a brother,\" she answered; \"of a daughter\nfor a father.\"\n\n\"True,\" said he; \"I see it now; I was, indeed, older than your father--I\ndidna recollect that.\"\n\nHe sat thoughtful for a few minutes, when Helen, to change the subject,\ninquired after her old nurse, Janet White.\n\n\"Poor body,\" said he, raising his head, \"her spirits are clean gone. I\nunderstand she sits mourning for you by the fire, cowering thegither\nlike a pigeon that's lost its mate, or a ewe whose lamb has been struck\ndead by its side. It would wring tears from a heart o' stane to hear her\nlamenting, morning, noon, and night, for her 'dear bairn,' as she aye\nca'ed ye--rocking her head and chirming owre her sorrow, like a hen bird\nowre its rifled nest. I had her owre at the Hall the day after I cam\nback frae London, and just afore I cam here to seek for ye. But there is\nnaething aboot it that she taks delight in noo. And, when I strove to\namuse her, by taking her through the garden and plantations, (though I\nstood mair in need o' comfort mysel'), she would stand still and lean\nher head against a tree, in the very middle o' some o' the bonniest\nspots, while a tear came rowing down her cheeks, and look in my face wi'\nsuch a sorrowfu' expression, that a thousand arrows, entering my breast\nat ance, couldna hae caused me mair agony. I felt that I was a puir,\nsolitary, and despised being, only cast into the midst o' a paradise,\nthat my comfortless bosom might appear the blacker and the more dismal.\nThe puir auld body saw what was passing within me, and she shook her\nhead, saying, 'Oh, sir! had I seen ye leading my bairn down thir bonny\navenues as your wife, Janet White would have been a happy woman.' Then\nshe wrung her withered hands, and the tears hailed down her cheeks\nfaster and faster; while I hadna a word o' consolation to say to her,\nhad it been to save my life. For the very chirping o' the birds grew\nirksome, and the young leaves and the silky flowers painful to look\nupon. O Helen! if ye only kenned what we a' suffer on yer account! If ye\nonly kenned what it is to have hope spired up, and affection preying\nupon your ain heart for nourishment, ye wadna be angry at onything I\nsay.\"\n\n\"Think not it is possible,\" she replied, while her tears flowed faster\nthan her words; \"but wherefore feed a hopeless passion, the indulgence\nof which is now criminal?\"\n\n\"Oh! forgie ye!\" he exclaimed, vehemently; \"dinna say that, Helen!\nHopeless it may be, but not _criminal_! That is the only cruel word I\never heard frae yer lips! I didna think onybody would hae said that to\nme! Did you really say _criminal_? But, oh! as matters stand, if ye'd\nonly alloo me to say anither word or twa anent the subject, and if ye\nwadna just crush me as a moth, and tak pleasure in my agonies--or hae me\nto perish wi' the sunless desolation o' my ain breast--ye'll alloo me to\nsay them. They relate to my last consolation--the last tie that links me\nand the world together!\"\n\n\"Speak,\" said Helen; \"let not me be the cause of misery I can have power\nto prevent.\"\n\n\"Oh, then!\" replied he, \"be not angry at what I'm going to say; and\nmind, that, on your answer depends the future happiness or misery o' a\nfellow-being. Yes, Helen! upon your word depends life and hope--madness\nand misery; I say life and hope--for, if ye destroy the one, the other\nwinna hand lang oot; and I say madness--for, oh! if ye had been a\nwitness o' the wild and the melancholy days and nights that I hae\npassed since I learned that ye had left me, and felt my heart burning\nand beating, and my brain loup, louping for ever, like a living\nsubstance, and shooting and stinging through my head, like stings o'\nfire, till I neither kenned whar I was, nor what I did; but stood still,\nor rushed out in agony, and screamed to the wind, or gripped at the echo\no' my voice!--I say, if ye had seen this, ye wadna think it strange that\nI made use o' the words. And, now, as ye have heard nothing from----from\nHenry Blackett, from the night that the ceremony o' marriage was\nperformed--and if ye should hear nothing o' him for seven years to come,\nye will then, ye ken, be at liberty--and will ye say that I may hope,\nthen? O Helen, woman! say but the word, and I'll wait the seven years,\nas Jacob did for Rachel, and count them but a day if my Helen will bless\nme wi' a smile o' hope!\"\n\nAs he thus spoke, Mrs Holditch bustled into the room, exclaiming--\"O\nsweet lady, here be one coming thee knows--see! see! there be my\nhusband, and our own dear young master Henry, come to make us happy\nagain!\"\n\n\"My Henry!\" exclaimed Helen, springing towards the door--\"where--oh,\nwhere?\".\n\n\"Here, my beloved! here!\" replied Henry, meeting her on the threshold.\n\nPoor Laird Howison stood dumb, his mouth open, his eyes extended,\nstaring on vacancy. He beheld the object of his delirious love sink into\nher husband's arms, and saw no more. He clasped his hands together, and,\nwith a deep groan, reeled against the wall. Henry and Helen, in the\necstasy of meeting each other, were unconscious of all around, and\nWillie Galloway was the first to observe his countryman.\n\n\"Preserve us! you here, too, Mr Howison!\" said he. But the features of\nthe laird remained rivetted in agony, and betrayed no symptom of\nrecognition. The mention of the laird's name by Willie, arrested the\nattention of Henry, and approaching him, he said--\"Sir, to you I ought\nto offer an apology.\"\n\nThe unhappy man wildly grasped the hand of Henry, and seizing also\nHelen's, he exclaimed--\"It is a' owre now! The chain is forged, and the\niron is round my soul. But I bless you baith. Tak her! tak her!--and\nhear me, Henry Blackett--as ye would escape wrath and judgment, be kind\nto her as the westlin' winds and the morning dews to the leaves o'\nspring. Let it be your part to clothe her countenance wi' smiles and her\nbosom wi' joy! Fareweel, Helen!--look up!--let me, for the last time,\nlook upon your face, and I will carry that look upon my memory to the\ngrave!\"\n\nShe gazed upon him wildly, crying--\"Stay!--stay!--you must not leave\nus!\"\n\n\"Now!--now, it is past!\" he cried; \"it was a sair struggle, but reason\nmastered it! Fareweel, Helen!--fareweel!\"\n\nThus saying, he rushed out of the house, and Willie Galloway followed\nhim; but, although fleet of foot, he was compelled to give up the\npursuit.\n\nA few minutes after the abrupt and wild departure of the laird, and\nbefore Helen had recovered from the shock, the ruffians, who, at the\ninstigation of Norton, had hunted after Henry to deliver him up to the\ngovernment, and from whom he had already twice escaped, rushed into the\nroom, exclaiming--\"Secure the traitor!\"\n\nHenry sprang back to defend himself, and Willie Galloway, who had\nreturned, threw himself into a pugilistic attitude. But Helen, stepping\nbetween her husband and his pursuers, drew a paper from her bosom, and\nplacing it in his hands, said--\"My Henry is free! he is pardoned!--the\nking hath signed it!--laugh at the bloodhounds!\" And, as she spoke, she\nsank upon his breast. He opened the paper; it was his pardon under the\nroyal signature and the royal seal! \"My own!--my wife!--my wife!\" cried\nHenry, pressing her to his heart, and weeping on her neck.\n\n\"That crowns a'!\" exclaimed Willie Galloway; \"O Helen!--what a lassie ye\nare!\"\n\nThe ruffians slunk from the room in confusion, and Willie informed them\nthat the sooner they were out of sight it would be the better for them.\n\nHelen, on leaving Scotland, had proceeded to London, where, through the\ninterest of a friend of Laird Howison's, she gained access to the Duke\nof Cumberland, and throwing herself at his feet, had, through him,\nobtained her husband's pardon, and that pardon she had carried next her\nbosom to his father's house, hoping to find him there.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHaving divided this tale into chapters, we now come to the\n\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\n\nHenry being now pardoned, Willie Galloway advised that he should take\nhis wife to his father's house, and remain there, adding--\"Mind ye,\nMaister Henry, that possession is nine points o' law--and if ye be in\nwant o' the matter o' five hundred pounds for present use, or for mair\nto prove your birthright at law, I am the man that will advance it, and\nthat will leave no stone unturned till I see you righted.\"\n\nWillie's suggestion was acted upon; and Henry and Helen took up their\nabode in the Priory, where they had been but a few weeks, when he\nobtained information that his father had fallen in a duel, and that his\nadversary was none other than Squire Norton, the father of his then\nwife; but with his dying breath he declared, in the presence of his\nseconds, and invoked them to record it, that his injured son Henry was\nhis only and lawful heir.\n\n\"That,\" exclaimed Norton, with a savage laugh over his dying antagonist,\n\"it will cost him some trouble to prove!\"\n\nThe murderer, in the name of a child which his daughter had borne to Sir\nJohn, had the hardihood to enter legal proceedings to obtain the estate.\n\nHenry applied to the parish of Glencleugh for the register of his\nmother's marriage; but no such record was found. Old Dugald Mackay had a\ndreamy recollection of such a marriage taking place; but he said--\"It pe\nvery strange that it isna in te pook; hur canna swear to it.\"\n\nMany thought that the day would be given against Henry, and pitied him;\nbut before judgment was pronounced in the case, young Norton was found\nguilty of forgery, and condemned to undergo the just severity of the\nlaw. Previous to his ignominious death, in the presence of witnesses, he\nconfessed the injury he had done to Henry by tearing the leaves from the\nparish register, and directed where they might be found. They were\nfound--old Norton fled from the country, and Henry obtained undisputed\npossession of the estate; but on his father's widow and child he settled\na competency.\n\nLaird Howison's sorrow moderated as his years increased; and when Henry\nand Helen had children, and when they had grown up to run about, he\nrequested that they should be sent to him every year, to pull the\nprimroses around Primrose Hall; and they were sent. One of them, a girl,\nthe image of her mother, he often wept over, and said, he hoped to live\nto love her, as he had loved her mother. Willie Galloway often visited\nhis friends in Cheshire, and remained \"canny Willie\" to the end of the\nchapter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH.[1]\n\n\nIt has been stated by the greatest critics the world ever saw--whose\nnames we would mention, if we did not wish to avoid interfering with the\nsimplicity of our humble annals--that no fictitious character ought to\nbe made at once virtuous and unfortunate; and the reason given for it is\nthat mankind, having a natural tendency to a belief of an adjustment,\neven in this world, of the claims of virtue and the deserts of vice, are\ndispleased with a representation which at once overturns this belief,\nand creates dissatisfaction with the ways of Providence. This may be\nvery good criticism, and we have no wish to find fault with it as\napplied to works intended to produce a certain effect on the minds of\nreaders; but, so long as Nature and Providence work with machinery whose\nsecret springs are hid from our view, and evince--doubtless for wise\npurposes--a disregard of the adjustment of rewards and punishments for\nvirtue and vice, we shall not want a higher authority than critics for\nexhibiting things as they are, and portraying on the page of truth, wet\nwith unavailing tears, goodness that went to the grave, not only\nunrewarded, but struck down with griefs that should have dried the heart\nand grizzled the hairs of the wicked.\n\nIn a little haugh that runs parallel to the Tweed--at a part of its\ncourse not far from Peebles, and through which there creeps, over a bed\nof white pebbles, a little burn, whose voice is so small, except at\ncertain places where a larger stone raises its \"sweet anger\" to the\nheight of a tiny \"buller,\" that the lowest note of the goldfinch drowns\nit and charms it to silence--there stood, about the middle of the last\ncentury, a cottage. Its white walls and dark roof, with some white roses\nand honeysuckle flowering on its walls, bespoke the humble retreat of\ncontentment and comfort. The place went by the name of Bramblehaugh,\nfrom the sides of the small burn being lined, for several miles, with\nthe bramble. The sloping collateral ground was covered with shrubs and\ntrees of various kinds, which harboured, in the summer months, a great\ncollection of birds--the blackbird, the starling, the mavis, and others\nof the tuneful choir--whose notes rendered harmonious the secluded scene\nwhere they sang unmolested. The spot is one of those which, scattered\nsparingly over a wild country, woo the footsteps of lovers of nature,\nand, by a few months of their simple charms, regenerate the health,\nwhile they quicken and gratify the business-clouded fancies of the\ndenizens of smoky towns.\n\nThe cottage we have now described was occupied by David Mearns, and his\nwife Elizabeth, called, by our national contraction, Betty. These\nindividuals earned a livelihood, and nothing more, by the mode in which\npoor cotters in Scotland contrive to spin out an existence; the leading\nfeature of which, contentment, the result of necessity, is often falsely\ndenominated happiness by those whose positive pleasures, chequered by a\nfew misfortunes, are forgotten in the contemplation of a state of life\nalmost entirely negative. Difficulties that cannot be overcome deaden\nthe energies that have in vain been exerted to surmount them; and, when\nall efforts to better our condition are relinquished, we acquire a\ncredit for contentedness, which is only a forced adaptation of limited\nmeans to an unchangeable end. David Mearns, who had, in his younger\ndays, been ruined by a high farm, had learned from misfortune what he\nwould not have been very apt to have received from the much-applauded\nphilosophy which is said to generate a disposition to be pleased with\nour lot. The bitterness of disappointment, and the wish to get beyond\nthe reach of obligations he could not discharge, suggested the remedy of\na reliance simply on his capability of earning a cotter's subsistence;\nand having procured a cheap lease of the little domicile of\nBramblehaugh, he set himself down, with the partner of his hopes and\nmisfortunes, to eat, with that simulated contentment we have noticed,\nthe food of his hard labour, with the relish of health, and to extract\nfrom the lot thus forced upon him as much happiness as it would yield.\nThe cottage and the small piece of ground attached to it, was the\nproperty of an old man, who, having made a great deal of money by the\nvery means that had failed in the hands of David Mearns, had purchased\nthe property of Burnbank, lying on the side of the small rivulet already\nmentioned, and, in consequence, it was said, of Betty Mearns bearing the\nsame name, (Cherrytrees,) though there was no relationship between them,\nhad let to David the small premises at a low rent.\n\nA single child had blessed the marriage of David Mearns and his wife--a\ndaughter, called Euphemia, though generally, for the sake of brevity and\nkindliness, called Effie; an interesting girl, who, at the period we\nspeak of, had arrived at the age of sixteen years. In a place where\nthere were few to raise the rude standard of beauty formed in the minds\nof a limited country population, she was accounted \"bonny\"--a\nmuch-abused word, no doubt, in Scotland, but yet having a very fair and\nlegitimate application to an interesting young creature, whose blue\neyes, however little real town beauty they may have expressed or\nilluminated, gave out much tenderness and feeling, accompanied by that\ninexpressible look of pure, unaffected modesty, which is the first, but\nthe most difficult gesture of the female manner attempted to be imitated\nby those who are destitute of the feeling that produces it. An\nexpression of pensiveness--perhaps the fruit of the early misfortunes of\nher parents operating on the tender mind of infancy, ever quick in\ncatching, with instinctive sympathy, the feeling that saddens or\nenlivens the spirits of a mother--was seldom abroad from her\ncountenance, imparting to it a deep interest, and, by suggesting a wish\nto relieve the cause of so early an indication of incipient melancholy,\ncreating an instant friendship, which subsequent intercourse did not\ndiminish.\n\nWalter Cherrytrees, the Laird of Burnbank, a man approaching seventy\nyears of age, had a daughter, Lucy, about the same age as Effie Mearns.\nHe had lost his wife about fifteen years before; and--though a feeling\nof anxiousness often found its way to his heart, suggesting to his\nvacant mind, as the cure of his listlessness and the balm of his\nbereavement, another wife--he had for a long time been nearly equally\npoised between the hope of Lucy becoming his comfort in his old age, and\nthe wish for a tender partner of pleasures which, without participation,\nlose their relish. His daughter, Lucy, was a sprightly, showy girl, who,\nhaving got a good education, might, with the prospect she had of\ninheriting her father's property, have been entitled to look for a\nhusband among the sons of the neighbouring proprietors, if her father's\nsecluded mode of life, and plain, blunt manners, had not to a great\nextent limited her intercourse to a few acquaintances, by no means equal\nto him in point of wealth or status, however estimable they might have\nbeen in other respects. A more pleasant companion to the old Laird of\nBurnbank could not be found, from the one end of Bramblehaugh to the\nother, than David Mearns, his tenant, whose honesty and bluntness, set\noff by a fertility of simple anecdote, had charms for one of the same\nhabits of thought and feeling, which all the disadvantages of his\npoverty could not counterbalance. The intimacy of the fathers produced,\nat a very early period, a friendship between the daughters, who,\nnotwithstanding, could not boast of the resemblance of thought and\nmanners, and community of feeling, which formed the foundation of the\nattachment existing between the parents.\n\nThis friendship was not exclusive of some acquaintanceships with the\nneighbouring young men and women, which, however, were in general\nmutual; neither of the two young maidens having formed any intimacy with\nanother without, her friend participating in the friendship. Among\nothers, Lewis Campbell, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had been a\nlarge creditor of David Mearns at the time of his failure, called\nsometimes at the cottage of Bramblehaugh, and was soon smitten with a\nstrong love for Effie. They sometimes indulged in long walks by the side\nof the river.\n\nWe may anticipate, when we say that the hours spent in these\nexcursions--in which the greatest beauties of external nature, and the\nstrongest and purest emotions of two loving hearts, acting in\nco-operation and harmony, formed a present and a future such as poets\ndream of, and the world never realizes, but in momentary glimpses--were\nthe happiest of these lovers. Effie's inseparable companion, Lucy,\nfrequently met them as they sauntered along by the house of Burnbank;\nand the soft breathings of ardent affection were relieved by the gay and\ninnocent prattle of the companions, who enjoyed, though in different\ndegrees, the conversation and manners of the young lover. The simplicity\nand single-heartedness of Effie were entirely exclusive of a single\nthought unfavourable to an equal openness and frankness on the part of\nher companion, whom she had informed, in her artless way, of the state\nof her affections. But what might not have resulted from a mere\nacquaintanceship between Lucy and Effie's lover, was called forth by the\npride of the former, whose spirit of emulation, excited by the good\nfortune of her poor friend, suggested a secret wish to alienate the\naffections of Lewis from her companion, and direct them to herself. The\nwish to be beloved, though the mere effect of emulation, is the surest\nof the artificial modes by which love itself is generated in the heart\nof the wisher; and Lucy soon became, unknown for a time to Effie, as\nmuch enamoured of young Lewis as was her unsuspecting friend.\n\nThe first intimation that Effie received of the state of Lucy's feelings\ntowards her lover, was from Lewis himself. Sitting at a part of the\nhaugh called the Cross Knowe, from the circumstance of an old Romish\ncruciform stone that stood on the top of a gentle elevation--a place\nmuch resorted to by the lovers--Lewis, unable to conceal a single\nthought or feeling from one who so well deserved his confidence, first\ntold her of the perfidy of her friend.\n\n\"You are not so well supplied with sweethearts, Effie,\" he began, \"as I\nam; for I can boast of two besides you.\"\n\n\"That speaks little in your favour, Lewie,\" replied she; \"for, if it was\nmy wish, I could hae a' the young men o' the haugh makin love to me frae\nmornin to e'en.\"\n\n\"That remark, Effie,\" said Lewis, \"implies that I have courted, or at\nleast received marks of affection, from others besides you, while I was\nleading you to suppose that my heart was entirely yours. Now, that is\nnot justified by what I said; for one may have sweethearts, and neither\nknow nor acknowledge them as such.\"\n\n\"Maybe I am wrang, Lewie,\" said Effie; \"but what was I to think but that\nthe twa ither sweethearts ye mentioned were acknowledged by ye? It's no\nin the pooer o' my puir heart to conceive how a young woman could love\nare that neither kenned nor acknowledged her love. But I speak frae my\nain simple, an' maybe worthless thoughts. The world's wide, an' haulds\nblack an' fair, weak an' strong, heigh and laigh; an' wharfore no also\nhearts an' minds as different as their bodies? The birds o' this haugh\nhae only their ain single luves; but they're a' coloured alike that\nbelang to ae kind. Would that it had been God's pleasure to mak mankind\nlike thae bonny birds!\"\n\n\"I fear, Effie,\" replied Lewis, \"that a statement of mine, intended to\nbe partly in jest, has been construed by you in such a manner as to\nproduce to you pain. God is my witness that I am as single-hearted in my\naffection as the birds of this haugh; and gaudier colours, sweeter\nnotes, and better scented bowers will never interfere with the love I\nbear to Effie Mearns.\"\n\n\"What meant ye, then, Lewie, by sayin ye had twa sweethearts besides\nEffie Mearns?\" said she.\n\n\"That you shall immediately know,\" replied Lewis \"and you will think\nmore highly of me when I shew you, by my revealing secrets, not indeed\nconfided to me, but still secrets, that you have all my heart and the\nthoughts that it contains. The first of my other lovers you will not be\njealous of, for she is old Lizzy Buchanan, or, as she calls herself,\nBuwhanan, my nurse, who loves me as well as you do, Effie; but the\nother, I fear, may create in you an unpleasant feeling of confidence\nmisplaced, and friendship repaid by something like treachery. Surely I\nneed say no more.\"\n\n\"Is it indeed sae, Lewie?\" said she. \"It's lang sin I whispered--and my\nheart beat and my limbs trembled as I did it--in the ear o' Lucy\nCherrytrees, that my puir, silly thoughts were never aff Lewie Campbell.\nAnd what think ye she said to me? She said I needna look far ayont\nBramblehaugh for a bonnier and a brawer lover.\"\n\n\"Then,\" replied Lewis, \"I am not much better off than you are; for she\ntold me that your simplicity, she feared, was art, and that your poverty\nmade any beauty you had; and she doubted if that bonny face was not a\ngreat snare for the ruin of a penniless lover.\"\n\n\"Sae, sae,\" said she, sighing deeply; \"and has the fair face o' life's\nfriendship put on the looks o' the hypocrite at the very time when\ngreater confidence was required? I hae read in Laird Cherrytrees' books\nhe is sae kind as lend me, many an example o' fause and faithless\ncreatures, baith men and women, o' the world, o' the great cities that\nlie far ayont oor humble sphere; but little did I think that here in\nBramblehaugh, where our bughts ken nae nicht-thieves, and our hen-roosts\nnae reynards, there was ane, and that ane my friend, wha could smile in\nmy face at the very moment she was tryin to ruin me in the eyes o' ane\nwha is dearest to me on earth.\"\n\nAs she thus poured forth her feelings with greater loquacity than she\ngenerally exhibited--being for the most part quiet and gentle--the tears\nflowed down her cheeks in great profusion, and she sobbed bitterly, in\nspite of all the efforts of Lewis to satisfy her that Lucy's endeavours\nto lessen her in his estimation were entirely fruitless.\n\n\"Apprehend nothing, dear Effie, from the discovered treachery of a false\nfriend,\" said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. \"It has less power\nwith me than the whispers of that gentle burn have on the sleeping\nechoes of the Eagle's Rock that only answers to the voice of the\ntempest.\"\n\n\"It's no that, Lewie,\" replied she, wiping away her tears, \"that gies me\npain. I hae nae fear o' faith and troth that has been pledged, and\nbetter than pledged; for I hae seen it i' yer looks, and heard it i' the\nsoonds o' yer deep-drawn sighs. Thae tears are for a broken\nfriendship--for the return o' evil for guid--for the withered blossoms\no' a bonny flower I hae cherished and watered, in the hope it wad yield\nme a sweet smell when I kissed its leaves i' the daffin o' youth or the\nkindliness o' age. If it is sae sair to lose a friend, what, Lewie--what\nwad it be to lose a lover?\"\n\n\"The very existence of great evils, Effie,\" said he, \"makes us happy,\nin the thought that they are beyond our reach.\"\n\n\"But did I no think,\" said she, \"that I was beyond the reach o' the pain\no' experiencing the fauseness o' Lucy Cherrytrees--the very creature o'\na' ithers, I hae chosen as my bosom friend--to whom I confided a' my\nthochts and the very secret o' my love?\"\n\n\"But it is an ill wind that blaws naebody guid, as they say, Effie,\"\nsaid Lewis. \"I can better appreciate your goodness, now that I have\nexperienced the faithlessness of another.\"\n\n\"An' if I hae lost a friend,\" replied Effie, \"I am the mair sure o' my\nlover. Ye dinna ken, Lewie, how muckle this has raised you even in my\nmind, whar ye hae aye occupied the highest place. Ye hae rejected the\noffered luve o' the braw heiress o' Burnbank, for the humble dochter o'\nDavid Mearns, wha earns his bread in the sweat o' his brow. Oh! what can\na puir, penniless cottager's dochter gie in return to the man wha, for\nher sake, turns his back on a big ha', a thoosand braid acres, an' a\nbraw heiress?\"\n\n\"Her simple, genuine, unsophisticated heart,\" replied Lewis, \"with one\nunchangeable, devoted affection beating in its core. Were Burnbank Hall\nas big as the Parliament House, and Burnbank itself longer than the\nlands watered by the Brambleburn, and Lucy Cherrytrees as fair as our\nunfortunate Mary Stuart, I would not give my simple Effie, with no more\nproperty of her own than the bandeau that binds her fair locks, for Lucy\nCherrytrees and all her lands.\"\n\nThe two lovers continued their evening walks, indulging in conversations\nwhich, embracing the subject of their affection, and anticipating the\npleasures of their ultimate union, realized that fullest enjoyment of\nhope which is said to transcend possession. No notice was taken of their\nmutual sentiments on the subject of Lucy Cherrytrees' affection for\nLewis, and her unjustifiable attempts to displace her old friend, to\nmake room for herself in the heart of the contested object of their\nwishes.\n\nMatters continued in this state for some time, Effie being regularly\ngratified by a visit from Lewis three times a-week. On one occasion a\nwhole week passed without any intelligence of her lover. Her inquiries\nhad produced no satisfactory explanation of the unusual occurrence; and\nFancy, under the spell of the genius of Fear, was busy in her vocation\nof drawing dark pictures of coming evil. At last she was told by her\nfather, who had procured the intelligence from a friend of George\nCampbell, the father, that young Lewis had been suspected of an\nintention to marry the poor daughter of the cottager, David Mearns, and\nhad been despatched, without a minute's premonition, 'to an uncle, who\nwas a merchant in Rio de Janeiro. No time had been given to him to write\nto Effie; and care had been taken to prevent him from sending her any\nintelligence while he remained at Liverpool, previous to his departure.\nThe statement was corroborated by intelligence to the same effect,\nprocured by one of Laird Cherrytrees' servants from one of the servants\nof George Campbell, who told it to Lucy, and who again told it to Effie,\nwith tears in her eyes, which she took every care to conceal. The effect\nproduced on the mind of Effie Mearns, by this unexpected misfortune, was\nproportioned to its magnitude, and the susceptibility of the feelings of\nthe delicate individual on whom it operated. For many days she wept\nincessantly, refusing the ordinary sustenance of a life which she now\ndeemed of no importance to herself or to any one else. All attempts at\ncomforting a bruised heart were--as they generally are in cases of\ndisappointed love--unavailing; and the effects of time seemed only\napparent in a quieter, though not in any degree less poignant sorrow.\nEvery object kept alive the remembrance of the youth who had first made\nan impression on her heart, and whose image was graven on every spot of\nthe neighbourhood which had been consecrated by the exchange of a mutual\npassion. The scenes of their wanderings, hallowed as they had been in\nher memory, were now peopled with undefined terrors; and every time that\nshe was forced abroad to take that air and exercise which latterly\nseemed indispensable to her existence, her sorrow received an accession\nof power from every tree under which they had sat, and every knowe or\ndell where they had listened to the musical loves of the birds, as they\nexchanged their own in not less eloquent sighs.\n\nThe first circumstance that produced any effect on the mind of the\ndisconsolate maiden, was a misfortune of another kind, which, realizing\nthe old adage, seemed to follow with all due rapidity the footsteps of\nits precursor. Her mother, who sat on one side of the fire, while Effie\noccupied her usual seat in a corner of the cottage in the other, had\nbeen using all the force of her rude but impressive eloquence to get her\ndaughter to adopt the means that were in her power for the amelioration\nof a grief which might render her childless.\n\n\"I am gettin auld, Effie,\" she said, \"an' you are the only are I can\nlook to for administerin to yer faither an' to me that comfort we hae a\nricht to expect at the hands o' a dochter wha never yet was deficient in\nher duty. Our poverty, which winna be made ony less severe, as ye may\nweel ken, by the income o' years, will mak yer attention to us mair\nnecessary; an' it may even be--God meise the means!--that your weak\nhands may yet be required to work for the support o' yer auld parents. I\nhae lang intended to speak to you in this way, and it was only pity for\nmy puir heart-broken Effie that put me aff frae day to day, in the\nexpectation that either some news wad come frae Lewie, or that ye wad\nget consolation frae anither and a higher source, to support ye for\ntrials ye may yet hae to bear up against, for the sake o' them that\nbrocht ye into the world. A' ither means hae been tried to get ye to\ndetermine to live, an' no lay yersel doun to dee, an' they havin failed,\nwhat can I do but try the last remedy in my pooer--to speak, as I hae\nnow dune, to yer guid sense, an' lay afore ye the duties o' a dutifu'\nbairn, which are far aboon the thochts o' a disappointed love. Promise,\nnow, my bonny Effie, that ye will try to gie up yer mournin, for the\nsake o' parents whase love for ye is nae less than Lewie Campbell's.\"\n\nAs Betty finished her impressive admonition to Effie, who acknowledged\nits force, and inwardly determined on complying with the request of her\nmother, an unusual noise at the door of the cottage startled her anxious\near. It seemed that a number of people were approaching the cottage, and\nthe groans of one in deep distress and pain were mixed with the low talk\nof the crowd, who, from those inexpressible indications which the ear\ncan catch and analyse ere the mind is conscious of the operation, seemed\nalready to sympathise with one to whom they were bearing a grief. Housed\nby that anticipative fear of evil which all unfortunate people feel,\nBetty ran to the door, followed by her daughter, and opened it--to let\nin the mangled body of her husband; who, in felling an oak, on the\nproperty of Burnbank, had fallen under the weight of the tree, and got\nhis leg broken, and one of his arms dislocated at the shoulder-joint. He\nwas conveyed, by the kind neighbours, to a bed; and, by the time they\ngot him undressed, for the purpose of his wounds being submitted to the\ncurative process of the doctor, that individual arrived, and proceeded\nto perform the painful operation of setting the broken bones. The full\neffect of this misfortune to Effie and her mother was for a time\nsuspended by the call made upon them to relieve the sufferings of the\nfather and husband; and it was not till the bustle ceased, and the\nneighbours (excepting two women, whose services, in addition to those\nof the wife and daughter, might still be required) went away, that they\nfelt the full force of the gigantic evil that had befallen them, the\nconsequences of which might extend through the remaining years of their\nexistence.\n\nA period of no less than eighteen months passed away, and David Mearns\nwas still unable to do more than, with assistance, to rise from his bed,\nand sit, during a part of the day, by the fire, or at the window. During\nthe whole of this time, he had been tended by his daughter with\nassiduous care. Her filial sympathies, called into active operation by\nthe sorrows of her parent, filled up the void that had been made in her\nheart by the departure of her lover; and a new source of grief effected\n(however paradoxical it may seem) a change in the morbid melancholy to\nwhich she had been enslaved, which, although not for mental health or\nease, was so much in favour of exertion and remedial exercise, that she\ncame to present the appearance of one inclined to endeavour to sustain\nher sorrow, rather than resign herself to the fatal power of an\nirremediable woe. Among the visitors who took an interest in a family\nreduced by one stroke to want and all its attendant evils, Laird\nCherrytrees evinced the strongest concern for the fate of his friend;\nand, by a timeous contribution of necessary assistance, ameliorated, in\nso far as man could, the unhappy condition of virtue under the load of\nmisery. The many visits of the good old laird, and the long periods of\ntime he passed by the bedside of the patient, enabled him to see and\nappreciate the devoted attention of Effie to her parent; and often, as\nshe flew at the slightest indication of a wish for something to assuage\npain, or remove the uneasiness produced by the long confinement, he\nwould stop the current of his narrative, and fix his eyes on the kind\nmaiden, so long as her tender office engaged her attention and feelings\nThese long looks, not unaccompanied at times with a deep sigh, were\nattributed, as they well might, to admiration and approbation of so much\nfilial affection and devotedness exercised towards one whom the old\nlaird respected above all his friends.\n\nThe visits of Laird Cherrytrees were at first twice or thrice a-week.\nHis infirm body already begun to exhibit the effects of old age,\nprevented him from walking; and such was the anxiety he felt for the\nunhappy patient, that he mounted his old pony, Donald, nearly as frail\nas his master, to enable him to administer consolation so much required.\nHe came always at the same hour; Effie, who expected him, was often at\nthe door ready to receive him; and, while she held old Donald's head\ntill he dismounted, welcomed her father's friend with so much sincerity\nand pleasure, that if she had failed in her ostlership, he would have\nfelt a disappointment he would not have liked to express. Even when at a\ndistance from the cottage, he strained his eyes to endeavour to catch a\nglimpse of the faithful attendant; and, if he did not see her, the rein\nof Donald was relaxed, and he was allowed to saunter along at his own\npleasure, or even to eat grass by the roadside, (a luxury he delighted\nin from his having once belonged to a cadger,) so as to give Effie time\nto get to her post.\n\nThe three days of the week on which Laird Cherrytrees was in the habit\nof visiting David Mearns, were Monday, Thursday, and Saturday; and he\nseldom came without bringing something to the poor family--either some\nmoney for old Betty; some preserves, prepared by Lucy, for the invalid;\nor a book, or a flower from Burnbank garden, for Effie. When his\nconversation with David was finished--and every day it seemed to get\nshorter and shorter, though there seemed no lack of either subjects or\nideas--he commenced to talk with Effie, chiefly on the nature and\ncontents of the books he brought her to read; and nothing seemed to\ndelight him more than to sit in the large arm-chair by David's bedside,\nand hear Effie discoursing, _ex cathedra_, (on a three-footed stool at\nthe foot of the bed, opposite to the Laird's chair,) with her\ncharacteristic simplicity and good sense, on the subjects he himself had\nsuggested. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to appear well-pleased\nin presence of the man who was supporting her family, her train of\nthoughts was often broken in upon by the recollections of Lewis\nCampbell, and she would sit for an hour at a time, with the eyes of the\nLaird fixed on her melancholy face, as if he had been all that time in\nmute cogitation, suggesting some remedy for her sorrow. His ideas and\nfeelings seemed to be operated upon by the same power that ruled the\nmind of the maiden; for his face followed, in its changing expressions,\nthe mutations of her countenance. Her melancholy seemed to be\ncommunicated by a glance of her watery eye, as the thought of Lewis\nentered her mind; and when she recovered from her gloomy reverie, a\ncorresponding indication of relief lighted up the grey, twinkling orbs\nof the old Laird. This custom of \"glowrin,\" for whole hours at a time,\non the face of the sensitive girl, at first painful to her, became a\nmatter of indifference; and the position and attitudes of the three\nindividuals--Betty being generally engaged about the house--undergoing,\nwhile the Laird was present, no change, came to assume something like\nthe natural properties of the parties, as if they had been fixtures, or\nlay figures for the study of a painter.\n\nEvery time the Laird came to the cottage, he extended the period of his\nstay, and, latterly, he did not stir till a servant from Burnbank, sent\nby Lucy, came to take him home. It seemed as if he could not get enough\nof \"glowrin;\" for, latterly, all his occupation, which at first\nconsisted of rational conversation, merged in that mute eloquence of the\neye, or rather in that inebriation of the orb, \"drinking of light,\"\nwhich lovers of sights, especially female countenances, are so fond of.\nThe visits had been so regular, not a day being ever missed, that, as\nEffie held the stirrup till he mounted Donald, during all which time the\nprocess of \"glowrin\" went on as regularly as at the bedside of David,\nshe never thought of asking, and he never thought of stating, when he\nwould call again. Time had stamped the act of calling with the impress\nof unchangeable custom. The caseless clock of David's cottage was not\nmore regular; the only change being that already observed--that the time\nof the Laird's stay gradually and gradually lengthened.\n\nThe homage paid by Effie to Laird Cherrytrees was, as may easily be\nconceived, the respect, attention, and kindness of an open-hearted girl,\nfilled with gratitude to the preserver of the lives of her and her\nparents. Every evening she offered up, at her bedside, prayers for the\npreservation and happiness of the man but for whose kindness starvation\nmight have overtaken the helpless invalid, and not much less helpless\nwife and daughter. In their prayers the \"amen\" of David and his wife was\nthe most heart-felt expression of love and gratitude that ever came from\nthe lips of mortal. This feeling, however, did not prevent David Mearns\nand Betty from sometimes indulging, in the absence of Effie (in all\nlikelihood giving freedom to her tears, as she sat in some favourite\nretreat of her absent lover,) in some remarks on the extraordinary\nconduct of Laird Cherrytrees. They soon saw through the secret, and\nresolved upon drawing him out; for which purpose Effie was to be called\naway on the occasion of the next visit.\n\nThe Laird came as he used to do, took his seat, and resumed his gazing.\nEffie pleased him exceedingly, by an account she gave him of the last\nbook he brought to her; and, throwing himself back in the arm chair, he\nseemed, for a time, wrapped in meditation. Effie obeyed, in the\nmeantime, her mother's request, to come for a few minutes to the green\nto assist her in her work; and, when the Laird again applied his eyes\nto their accustomed vocation, he was surprised, but not (for once)\ndispleased, at her disappearance. A great struggle now commenced between\nsome wish and a restraint. He looked round the cottage, and then turned\nhis eyes on David; acts which he repeated several times. Incipient\nsyllables of words half-formed died away in his struggling throat. He\nmoved restlessly in the large chair, and twirled his silver-headed cane\nin his hand. He even rose, went to the door, looked out, came back\nagain, and took his seat without saying a word. Holding away his face\nfrom David, he at last made out a few words, uttered with great\ndifficulty.\n\n\"She's a fine lassie, Effie,\" he said.\n\n\"A bonnier an' a better never was brocht up in Bramblehaugh, savin yer\nain Lucy,\" replied David.\n\n\"Hoo auld is she noo?\" said the Laird, still holding away his face.\n\n\"She will be nineteen come the time,\" replied David.\n\n\"It's a pity she's sae young,\" rejoined the Laird, with a great\nstruggle, and making a noise with his cane, as if he had repented of his\nwords, and wished to drown them before they reached the ears of David.\n\n\"I dinna think sae, beggin yer Honour's pardon,\" replied David. \"We need\nher assistance, in this trial; an' I'm just thinkin o' some way she\nmicht use her hands--an she's willing aneugh, puir cratur--for our\nassistance.\"\n\n\"Are ye no pleased wi' my assistance?\" said the Laird, displeased at\nsomething in David's reply.\n\n\"Yer Honour has saved our lives,\" replied David, feelingly, \"an' it wad\nonly be because we are ashamed o yer guidness that we wad wish our\ndochter to tak a part o' that burden aff ane wha is under nae obligation\nto serve us.\"\n\n\"If I hae been yer friend, ye hae been mine,\" said the Laird. \"I hae got\nguid advices frae ye; an', even noo, I hae something to ask ye\nconcernin mysel, that nae ither man i' the haugh could sae weel answer.\"\n\n\"What is that, yer Honour?\" said David.\n\n\"What do ye think, David Mearns, I should do,\" said the Laird, moving\nabout in the chair in evident perplexity, \"if my dochter Lucy were to\ntak a husband an' leave Burnbank? I carena aboot fa'in into the hands o'\nJenny Mucklewham, wha, for this some time past, has neither cleaned my\nbuckles nor brushed my coat as I wad wish. She says I'm mair fashious;\nbut that's a mere excuse.\"\n\n\"I hae seen aulder men marry again,\" said David, thinking he would\nplease the Laird, by giving him such an answer as he was clearly fishing\nfor.\n\n\"Aulder men, David, man!\" replied the Laird, looking down at his person,\nand adjusting his wig. \"Did I ask ye onything aboot my age? I wanted\nmerely your advice, what I should do in certain circumstances, an' ye\ngie me a comparison for an answer.--Do ye think I should marry?\"\n\n\"If yer Honour has ony wish in that way, I think ye should,\" said David.\n\n\"I never yet did wrang in following your advice, David Mearns,\" said the\nLaird. \"--She's a fine lassie, Effie.\"\n\n\"Ou, ay,\" responded David, at a loss what more to say.\n\n\"Very fine,\" again said the Laird, turning his face partially from the\nwindow, so as the tail of his eye reached David's face, and waiting for\nsomething more.\n\nDavid could, however, say nothing. The very circumstance of the Laird's\nwishing him to say something pertinent to the purpose already so broadly\nhinted at, prevented him from touching so delicate a subject; and,\nnotwithstanding of another application of the tail of the Laird's eye,\nhe was silent.\n\n\"Ye hae gien me ae advice, David,\" said the Laird, in despair of getting\nanything more out of David without a question: \"could ye no tell me\n_wha_ I should marry, man?\" And having achieved this announcement, he\nrose and walked to the window.\n\n\"That's owre delicate a subject for me to gie an advice on, yer Honour,\"\nreplied David. \"The doo lays aside ninety-nine guid straes, an' taks the\nhundredth, though a crooked ane, for its nest. Ye maun judge for\nyersel.\"\n\n\"What say ye to yer ain Effie, then?\" said the Laird, relieved at last\nfrom a dreadful burden.\n\n\"If yer Honour likes the lassie, an' she'll tak yer Honour, I can hae\nnae objections,\" replied David.\n\nThe Laird, who seemed twenty years younger after this declaration, took\nDavid by the hand, and shook it till the pain of his dislocated arm\nalmost made him cry.\n\n\"Will ye speak to her aboot it. David!\" said he, still holding his hand.\n\"The best farm o' Burnbank will be your reward. Plead for me, David, my\nbest friend. Tell Betty aboot it, and get her to use a mother's pooer.\nIf I can trust my een, Effie doesna dislike me. If a' gaes weel, ye may\nhae Ravelrigg, or Braidacre, or Muirfield--onything that's in my pooer\nto gie, David.\" And the old lover, exhausted by the struggle and\nexcitement he had suffered, sank back into the chair.\n\n\"I will do my best,\" replied David. And the old Laird sighed, and\nabsolutely groaned with pure, unmixed satisfaction.\n\nAt the end of this scene, Effie and her mother came in. The damsel took\nher old seat on the three-footed stool at the foot of the bed; the eyes\nof the Laird sought again her face, where he thought they had a better\nright now to rest. No more was spoken; enough for a day had been said\nand done; and, with a parting look to David, to keep him in remembrance\nof his promise, and a purse of money slipped into the hand of Betty, as\na solvent of any obstacle that might exist in her mind, the lover went\nto the door to receive Donald from the soft hands of Effie, who, as was\nher custom, had gone out before him, to lead the old cadger to the door,\nand hold the bridle till he with an effort got into the saddle. The only\ndifference Effie could observe in his departure this day, was a kind of\nmock-gallant wave of the hand, as he, with more than usual spirit,\nstruck his spurless heels into Donald's sides, and tried to rise in the\nsaddle, in response to the hobble of the old Highlander.\n\nThe Laird had been scarcely out of the house, when David had a communing\nwith his wife, in absence of Effie, on the extraordinary intimation made\nby the old lover. Betty was agreeable to the match; but the tear came\ninto her eye as she thought of the sacrifice poor Effie was to be called\nupon to make. Neither of them could answer for the consent of Effie,\nwhose melancholy, though somewhat ameliorated, was little diminished,\nand whose recollections of Lewis Campbell were as vivid as they were on\nthe day of his departure. When she returned from one of her solitary\nrambles, which fed her passion and increased her grief, she was\ndelicately told of the intentions of Laird Cherrytrees. The announcement\nof the extraordinary intelligence produced an effect which neither her\nfather nor mother could have anticipated. A quick operation of her mind\nplaced before her all the affectionate acts of attention she had for\nyears been in the habit of applying to the old friend of her father, and\nthe preserver of their lives. Gratitude, operating in one of the most\ngrateful hearts that ever beat in the bosom of mortal, had produced in\nher an exuberant kindness, a devotedness of a species of affection due\nby a child to its godfather, a playful freedom of the confidence of one\nwho relied on the disparity of years for a license from even the\nsuspicion of a possibility of any other relation existing between them.\nThat now came back upon her, loaded with self-reproach and shame, and\nattributing to her misconstrued attentions the extraordinary passion\nthat had taken hold of the heart of the old Laird. She was totally\nunable to make any reply to her parents. The image of Lewis Campbell,\nnever absent from her mind, assumed a new form, and swam in the tears\nwhich flowed from her eyes. The natural contrast between age and youth,\nlove and gratitude, assumed its legitimate strength. The first feeling\nof her mind was, that she would suffer the death that had for a time\nbeen impending over her, and whose finger was already on her breaking\nheart, rather than comply with the wishes of her father and mother. They\nsaw the struggle that was in her mind, and abstained from pressing what\nthey had suggested. They did not ask her even to give her sentiments;\nbut the silent tears that stole down her cheek and dropped in her lap\nfrom her drooping head, required no spoken commentary to tell them the\nextent of her grief, and the resolution at least of a heart that might\nentirely break, as it appeared to be breaking, but never could forget.\n\nThere was little sleep for the eyes of Effie on the succeeding night.\nHer sobs reached the ears of her parents, who, unable to yield her\nconsolation, were obliged to leave her to wrestle with her grief;\nsending up a silent prayer to the Author of all good dispensations, that\nHe might assuage the sorrow of one who had already, with exemplary\npatience, submitted to the rod of affliction. The sacredness of her\nfeelings was too well appreciated by her parents to admit of any offer\nof counsel, where deep-seated affection, the work of mysterious\ninstinct, stood in solemn derision of the vulgar ideas of this world's\nexpediency. The struggle in her mind arose from the strength of her\nlove, and the power of her filial devotion. No part of the attendant\ncircumstances or probable consequences of her decision escaped her mind.\nShe knew that she never could be happy as the wife of any other\nindividual, even of suitable age, than Lewis Campbell. But this\nconcerned only herself; and she knew, and trembled as she thought, that\nthe result of her decision might be the destitution, the want, perhaps\nthe death of her parents; their all depended on the breath of the man\nwhom she, by the sign of her finger, might change from a friend to a\nfoe; and she might thereby become the destroyer of those who gave her\nbeing.\n\nThe morning came, but brought neither sleep nor relief to the unhappy\nmaiden. Her parents seemed inclined not to advert to the subject that\nday, but to let her struggle on with her own thoughts. The hour of the\nLaird's visit approached, and he was already on the road for the home of\nhis beloved, whom his ardent fancy pictured standing smiling at the\ndoor, ready as usual to receive him and lead him into the house.\nDonald--who knew a reverie in his master bettor than he did himself, and\ndid not fail to take advantage of it--ambled on with diminished speed.\nThe Laird approached the cottage. No Effie was there. His bright visions\ntook flight, and were succeeded by a cold shiver, the precursor of a\ngloomy train of ideas, which pictured a refusal and all its attendant\nhorrors. He drew up the head of Donald, and even invited him to partake\nof the long grass which grew by the way-side. He counted the moments as\nDonald devoured the food; and, from time to time, lifted his eyes to see\nif Effie was yet at the cottage door. She was not, to be seen--and she\nhad not been absent before for many months. His mind was unprepared for\na refusal; the ground-swell of his previous excited fancy distracted him\namidst the dead stillness of despair. He looked again, and for the last\ntime that day. Effie was not yet there. He turned the head of the\ndelighted, and no doubt astonished Donald, and quietly sought again the\nhouse of Burnbank.\n\nThe same procedure was gone through on the succeeding day. Laird\nCherrytrees again proceeded to the cottage of David Mearns; and, as he\nsauntered along, he thought it impossible that Effie should again be\nabsent from her post. He was too good a man, and too conceited a lover,\nas all old lovers are, to allow his mind to dwell on the probable\noperation of necessity and the fear of injuring her father's patron, on\nthe mind of the daughter; and yet a lurking, rebellious idea suggested\nthat he would rather see Effie at the door, impelled by that cause, than\nabsent altogether. His hopes again beat high, and Donald was pricked on\nto the goal of his wishes with an asperity he did not relish so well as\na reverie. The spot was attained. Effie was still absent. Donald was\nagain remitted to the long grass, and all the resources of a lover's\nmind were called up, to enable him to face the evil that awaited him.\nBut all was in vain--he found it impossible to proceed.\n\n\"I am rejected,\" he muttered to himself, with a sigh; \"a cottager's\ndochter has refused the Laird o' Burnbank; but her cauldness an' cruelty\nmak me like her the mair. Effie Mearns, Effie Mearns! hoo little do ye\nken what commotion ye hae produced in this puir, burstin heart! But,\nthough ye winna hae me, I winna desert yer faither. Hame, Donald, to\nBurnbank.\" And, as he pulled up the bridle with his left hand, he wiped\naway the tears that had collected in his eyes, and, casting many a look\nback to the cottage, cantered slowly home.\n\nThese proceedings of the Laird had been noticed by Betty Mearns from the\nwindow of the cottage, and she and David were at no loss to guess the\ncause of them. They knew his timid, sensitive disposition, and truly\nattributed his return to his not seeing Effie at the door waiting for\nhim as usual. Apprehensions now seized the good mother, that the Laird\nmight withdraw his attentions and assistance from the family, the result\nof which would be nothing but misery and ruin; as David's fractured\nlimbs were yet far from being healed, and a long period must yet pass\nbefore he could earn a penny to keep in their lives. These fears were\nincreased by a third and a fourth day having passed without a visit\nfrom the Laird, who had, notwithstanding, been seen reconnoitering as\nusual at a distance from the cottage. Effie herself saw how matters\nstood, and learned, from the looks of her father and mother, sentiments\nthey seemed unwilling to declare. She was still much convulsed with the\nstruggle of the antagonist duties, wishes, emotions, and fears, that\nrose in her mind; and the apprehensions of her parents, which she\nconsidered well-founded, added to her sorrow an additional source of\nanguish.\n\n\"This house,\" said David, at last overcome by his feelings, \"has become\nmair like an hospital that has lost its mortification than an honest\nman's cottage. Effie sits greetin an' sabbin the hail day, an' you,\nBetty, look forward to starvation, wi' the gruesome face o' despair. I\nam unhappy mysel, besides being an invalid. What is this to end in? What\nare we to do? How are we to live withoot meat, now that Burnbank, guid\nman, has deserted us?\"\n\n\"There has come naething frae Burnbank for five days,\" replied Betty;\n\"an' the siller I got frae the guid auld man, the last time he was here,\nI payed awa i' the village for necessaries I had taen on afore we got\nthat help. Our girnel winna haud oot lang against three mous; an' if\nLaird Cherrytrees bides awa muckle langer, I see naething for it but to\nbeg.\"\n\nThe tear started to the eye of David. He looked at Effie. She wept and\nsobbed, and covered her face with her hands.\n\n\"Effie, woman,\" said David, \"a' this micht hae been averted if ye had\njust gane to the door, an' welcomed the auld Laird, as ye were wont.\nHe's a blate man, though a guid carl; an' he has, nae doot, thocht he\nwas unwelcome when yer auld practice o' waitin for him was gien up.\"\n\n\"I tauld her that, David,\" said Betty, \"an' pressed her to gang to the\ndoor, though it was only to gie the blate Laird a glimpse o' her, whilk\nwas a' he wanted to bring him in; but she only sabbed the mair. Unhappy\nhour she first saw that callant, wha may now be dead or married for\nought she kens!--an yet for his sake maun a hail family dree the dule o'\nthis day's misery. Effie, woman, can ye no forget are wha hasna thocht\nye worth the trouble o tellin ye, by ae scrape o' his pen, whether he be\ni' the land o' the livin!\"\n\nA sob was the only reply Effie could make to this appeal.\n\n\"I hae tauld Effie,\" said David, \"what wad save us frae the ruin an'\nstarvation that stare us i' the face; but my mind's made up to suffer to\nthe end, though I should lie here wi' my broken banes, and dree the\npains o' hunger, rather than force my dochter to marry a man against her\nain choice. But, O Effie, woman, wad ye see yer puir faither, broken as\nhe is baith in mind and body, lie starvin here in his bed, wi' nae mair\npooer to earn a bite o' bread than the unspeaned bairn, and no mak a\nsacrifice to save him?\"\n\n\"Ay, faither,\" replied Effie, \"I wad dee to save ye.\"\n\n\"But deein winna save either him or me,\" said Betty. \"Naething will hae\nthat effect but yer agreein to be the leddy o' the braw hoose an' braid\nacres o' Burnbank. Wae's me! what a difference between that condition,\nwi' servants at yer nod, an' a' the comforts an' luxuries o' life at yer\ncommand, an', abune a', the pooer o' makin happy yer auld faither and\nmother, an' this awfu prospect o' dreein the very warst an' last o' a'\nthe evils o' life--want an' auld age--ill-matched pair! Effie, woman, my\nbonny bairn, hae ye nae love in yer heart, but for Lewie Campbell? Wad\nye, for his sake, see a' this misfortune fa' on the heads o' yer\nparents, whom, by the laws o' God an' man, ye are bound to honour,\nserve, and obey?\"\n\nIt was easier for Effie to say she would die to save her parents, than\nthat she would comply with the wish of her mother; but the feeling\nappeal of her parent increased her agony, which induced another paroxysm\nof hysterical sobs--the only answer she could yet make to her mother.\n\n\"Effie doesna care for either you or me, Betty,\" said David, \"or she wad\nhae little hesitation aboot marryin a guid, fresh, clean, rich, auld\nman, to save her faither and mother frae poverty and starvation. I see\nnae great sacrifice i' the matter. Her young heart mayna rejoice i' the\npleasures o' a daft love, but her guid sense will be gratified by a\nfeelin o' duty far aboon the vain, frawart freaks o' a silly, giddy,\nyouthfu passion. Let her refuse Laird Cherrytrees, an' when Lewie\nCampbell comes hame, the owrecome bread o' the funeral o' her faither\nmay grace a waddin bought wi' the price o' his life.\"\n\n\"Dinna speak that way, faither,\" cried Effie, lifting up her hands; \"I\ncanna stand that. You said ye wadna force me, an' ye _are_ forcin me.\nOh, my puir heart, wha or what will support ye when grief for my parents\nturns me against ye? Faither, faither, when I am dead, Laird Cherrytrees\nwill be again yer friend. A little time will do't: will ye no wait?\"\n\n\"Hunger waits only eight days, as the sayin is,\" replied he, \"an ye'll\nlive mair than that time, I hope an' trow. I will be dead afore ye,\nEffie, an' ye'll hae the consolation, as ye maybe drap a tear on the\nmossy grey stane that covers the Mearnses i' the kirkyard o' our parish,\nto think, if ye shouldna like to say, in case ye micht be heard--though\nthinkin an' speakin's a' ane to God--that 'that stane was lifted ten\nyears suner than it micht hae been, because I liked Lewie Campbell\nbetter than auld Laird Cherrytrees.'\"\n\n\"An' it's no likely,\" said the mother, \"that I wad be there to hear\nEffie mak sae waefu a speech. If I binna lyin wi' the Mearns, I'll be\nwi' the Cherrytrees o' Mossnook--nae relations o' the Burnbanks, though\nmaybe as guid a family. But, afore I'm mixed wi' the dust o' that auld\nhoose, Effie--an' it mayna be lang--ye may join the twa Cherrytrees, an'\nlet the gravestanes o' the Mearns, as weel as the Mossnooks, lie yet a\nscore years langer withoot bein moved. It's a pity to disturb the lang\ngrass. Its sough i' the nichtwind keeps the bats frae pickin the auld\nbanes, an' maybe it may save yer mother's, if ye send her there afore\nher time.\"\n\nEffie's feelings could no longer withstand these appeals. Her sobbing\nceased suddenly; and, starting up from her seat, she looked to the old\nclock that stood against the wall of the cottage. She noticed that it\nwas upon the hour of the Laird's usual visit.\n\n\"It is twelve o'clock, faither,\" she said, firmly--\"this hoor decides\nthe fate o' Effie Mearns.\"\n\nWalking to the door, she placed herself in the position she used to\noccupy when she intended to welcome her father's friend. Now she was to\nwelcome a husband. Laird Cherrytrees was, as might have been expected,\nallowing Donald to take his liberty of the road-side, grazing while he\nwas busy reconnoitering the cottage. The moment he saw the form of Effie\nstanding where he had for several long days wished to see her, he pulled\nup Donald's bridle with the alacrity of youth, and, striking his sides\nwith his unarmed heels, made all the speed of a bridegroom to get to his\nbride. The sight of the object he had gazed upon so unceasingly for so\nlong a time, and whom he had strained his eyes in vain to see during\nthese eventful days, operated like a charm on the old lover. He\ndiscovered at first sight the red, swollen eyes of Effie; but he was too\nhappy in thinking he had been successful, as he had no doubt he had, to\nmeditate on the struggle which produced his bliss. Having taken a long\ndraught of the fountain of his hopes and happiness, and feasted his eyes\non the face of the maiden, who attempted to smile through her tears,\nwhich he did sitting on his horse, and, without speaking a word--for,\nloquacious in politics or rural economy, he was mute in love--he\ndismounted, while Effie, as usual, held the reins. He lost no time in\ngetting into his chair, falling back into it like a breathless traveller\nwho has at last attained the end of his journey. David and Betty, who\nconstrued Effie's conduct into a consent, took an early opportunity,\nwhile she was still at the door, of letting the happy Laird know that\ntheir daughter, as they conceived, was inclined to the match. The Laird\nreceived the intelligence as if it had been too much for mortal to bear.\nHe was at first beyond the vulgar habit of speech. He sighed, turned his\neyes in their sockets, groaned, and wrung his hands. On recovering\nhimself, he exclaimed----\n\n\"Whar is she, Betty? Let me see the dear creature. David, ye'll hae\nRavelrigg; it's the best o' them a'. Whan is't to be, Betty? Ye maun fix\nthe day; an' ye maun brak the thing to Lucy, and to Jenny Mucklewham;\nfor I hae nae pooer. Let me see her--let me see the sweet creature this\ninstant.\"\n\nEffie, at the request of her mother, came in and resumed her seat on the\nthree-footed stool. Her eyes were still swollen, and she looked\nsorrowfully at her father. The Laird fixed his eyes on her; but his\nloquacity was gone. He had not a word to say; but his \"glowrin\" was in\nsome degree changed, being accompanied by a soft smile of\nself-complacency and contentment, and freed from the nervous\nirritability with which he used to solicit with his eyes a look from the\nobject of his affections. His visit this day was shorter than it used to\nbe. Next day, Betty was to visit Burnbank, to arrange for the marriage.\n\nMeanwhile, the unfortunate girl resigned herself as a self-sacrifice\ninto the hands of her mother. Bound with the silken bands of filial\naffection, she renounced all desire of exercising her own free-will, or\nindulging in those feelings of the female heart which are deemed so\nstrong as to demand the sacrifice often of all other earthly\nconsiderations. The fate of Iphiginia has occupied the pens and tongues\nof pitying mortals for thousands of years. A lovely woman sacrificed for\na fair wind, doomed to have the blood that mantled in the blushing\ncheeks of beauty sprinkled on the altar of a false religion, is a\nspectacle which the imagination cannot contemplate without a\nparticipation of the strongest sympathies of the heart; yet there are,\nin the common every-day world we now live in, many a scene in the act of\nbeing performed, where, though there is no bloodshed and no smoking\naltar exhibited, the sacrifice is not less than that of the Grecian\nvictim. Our blessed, holy altar of matrimony is often, by the wayward\nfeelings of man--for we here say nothing of vice or corrupt\nconduct--made more cruel than those of Moloch and Chiun. There is many a\nbloodless Iphiginia in those days, whose sufferings are unknown and\nunsung, because confined to the heart that broke over them and concealed\nthem in death. The young, tender, and devoted female, who, for the love\nshe bears to her parents, consents to intermarry with rich age, to\nembrace dry bones, to extend her sympathies to churlishness, caprice,\nand ill-nature, or, what is worse, to the asthmatic giggle of a\nsuperannuated love, while all the while her heart, cheated of its\ntribute and swelling with indignation, requires to be watched by her\nwith vigilance and firmness, the cruelty of which she herself\nfeels--presents a form of self-sacrifice possessing claims on the pity\nof mankind beyond those of the boasted self-immolation of ancient\ndevotees.\n\nThe silence and dejection of our bride were construed, by her parents,\ninto that seemly and becoming sedateness which sensible young women\nthink it proper to assume on the eve of so important a change in their\ncondition as marriage; while the happy bridegroom had come to that time\nof life when he is pleased with submission, though it be expressed\nthrough tears. No chemical menstruum has so much power in the\ndissolution of the hardest metals as the self-complacency of an old\nlover has in construing, according to his wishes, the actions, words, or\nlooks of the young woman who is destined to be his bride. Silence and\ntears are expressive of happiness as well as of grief; and, so long as\nthe desire of the ancient philosopher is uncomplied with by the gods,\nand there is no window to the heart, that organ in the young victim may\nbreak while the sexagenarian bridegroom is enjoying the imputed silent,\nrestrained happiness of the object of his ill-timed affection.\n\nThe sadness and melancholy of the apparently-resigned Effie Mearns had\nno effect on the noise and show of the preparations for her marriage\nwith her old lover. The marriages of old men are well known to be\ncelebrated with higher bugle notes from the trumpet of fame than any\nothers. A sumptuous dinner was to be given to the neighbouring lairds,\nand the cotters were to be fed and regaled on the green opposite to the\nmansion. Dancing and music were to add their charms to the gay scene;\nand it was even alleged that the light of a bonfire would lend its\npeculiar aid, in raising the joy of the guests, predisposed to hilarity\nby plenteous potations, to the proper height suited to the conquest of\nthe old bridegroom over, at once, a young woman and old Time.\n\nFor days previous to the eventful one, Effie Mearns was not heard to\nopen her lips. She looked on all the gay preparations for her marriage\nas if they had been the mournful acts of the undertaker employed in\nlaying the silver trimming on the coffin lid of a lover. The bedside of\nher sick parent, who was still unable to rise, was the place where she\nsat \"shrouded in silence.\" She heard the conversations of her father and\nmother about the progress of the preparations, without exhibiting so\nmuch interest as to show that she understood them. Misgivings crossed\nthe minds of the old couple, and brought tears to their eyes, as they\ncontemplated the animated corpse that sat there, waiting the nod of the\nmaster of ceremonies, and ready to perform the part assigned to it in\nthe forthcoming orgies of mournful joy; but they had gone too far to\nrecede, and it was even a subject of satisfaction to them that the\nperiod of the celebration was so near, for otherwise they might have had\nreason to fear that their daughter would not have survived the\nintermediate time. When the bridegroom called, his ears were alarmed by\nthe voices of the parents, who saw the necessity of endeavouring to hide\nthe condition of their daughter; and he was satisfied, if he got, free\nand unrestrained, \"a feast of the eyes.\" His love was still expressed by\nsilent gazing; for it was too deep in his old heart for either words or\ntears; if, indeed, there was moisture enough in the seat of his\naffection for the suppliance of the _softest_ expression of the soft\npassion.\n\nThe eventful day arrived. The marriage was to take place in the cottage,\nwhere David Mearns still lay confined to bed. The sick man wore a\nmarriage favour attached to the breast of his shirt!--for Laird\nCherrytrees would be contented with no less a demonstration of his\nparticipation in his unparalleled happiness. The still silent bride\n_submitted_ passively to all the acts of her nimble dressers, whose\nlaugh seemed to strike her ears like funeral bells; yet she tried--poor\nvictim! to smile, though the clouded beam came through a tear which, by\nits steadfastness, seemed to belong to the orb. The bridegroom came at\nthe very instant when he ought to have come--the hand of the clock not\nhaving had time to leave the mark of notation. He was dressed in the\nstyle of his earliest days, with cocked hat, laced coat, and a sky-blue\nvest, embroidered in the richest manner; while a new wig, ordered from\nthe metropolis, imparted to him the freshness of youth. His cheek was\nflushed with the blood which joy had forced, for a moment, from where it\nwas more needed, at the drying fountain of life; and his eye spoke a\nhappiness which his parched tongue could not have achieved, without\ncausing shame even to himself. Everything was new, spruce, perking,\nself-complacent. The clergyman next came, and all was prepared.\n\nThroughout all this time and all these preparations, not the slightest\nchange had been observed on the bride. After she was dressed, she took\nher seat again, silently by the side of her father's sickbed, where she\nsat like a statue. The ceremony was now to commence, and she stood up,\nwhen required by the clergyman, as if she obeyed the command of an\nexecutioner. It was noticed that she seemed to incline to be as near as\npossible to her father's bed; and her unwillingness or inability to come\nforward forced the clergyman and the bridegroom some paces from the\nsituation they at first held. The ceremony proceeded till it came to the\npart where the consent of the parties is asked. The happy bridegroom\npronounced his response, quick, sharp, and with an air of conceit, which\nbrought a smile to the faces of the parties present. There was now a\npause for the consent of the bride. All eyes were fixed on her\ndeath-like face. A severe struggle was going on in her bosom; yet her\ncountenance was unmoved, and no one conjectured that she suffered more\nthan sensitive females often do in her situation. The clergyman repeated\nhis question. There was still a pause--the eyes of all were riveted on\nher. \"I _canna_, I _canna_!\" at last she exclaimed, in a voice of agony,\nand fell back on the bed--a corpse!\n\nSix months after the death of Effie Mearns, Lucy Cherrytrees was\nmarried, without faint or swoon, to Lewis Campbell, who returned home,\nin spite of his reported death. The union was against the consent of the\nLaird, who soon died of either a broken heart or old age--no doctor\ncould have told which.\n\n[Footnote 1: This story will suggest the remembrance of a popular ballad, but the\nsimilarity is casual; for the circumstances are here true, if they may\nnot be found of every-day occurrence somewhere about the temple of\nMammon.--ED.]\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.--JAMES RENWICK.\n\n\nIn the times in which we live, party spirit is carried very far. Many\nhonest tradesmen, merchants, and shopkeepers, are ruined by their votes\nat elections. The ordinary intercourse of social life is obstructed and\nderanged. Friends go up to the polling station with friends, but\nseparate there, and become, it may be, the most inveterate enemies.\nThis, our later reformation of 1832, has cost us much; but our\nsufferings are nothing to those which marked the two previous\nreformations from Popery and Prelacy. In the one instance, fire and\nfaggot were the ordinary means adopted for defending political\narrangements; in the other, the gallows and the maiden did the same\nwork, and the boots and the thumbikins acted as ministering engines of\ntorture. The whole of society was convulsed; men's blood boiled in their\nveins at the revolting sights which were almost daily obtruding upon\ntheir attention; and their judgments being greatly influenced by their\nfeelings, it is not to be wondered at that they should, in a few\ninstances, have overshot, as it were, the mark--have sacrificed their\nlives to the support of opinions which appear now not materially\ndifferent from those which their enemies pressed upon their acceptance.\nIt is a sad mistake to suppose that the friends of Presbytery, during\nthe fearful twenty-eight years' persecution of Charles and James, died\nin the support of certain doctrines and forms of church government\nmerely. With these were, unhappily, or rather, as things have turned\nout, fortunately, combined, political or civil liberty, the\nestablishment and support of a supreme power, vested in King, Lords,\nand Commons--instead of being vested, by usurpation, merely in the King\nalone. By avoiding to call Parliaments, and by obtaining supplies of\nmoney from France and otherwise, the two last of the Stuart Despots had,\nin fact, broken the compact of Government, and had exposed themselves\nall along, through the twenty-eight years of persecution, to\ndethronement for high treason. This was the strong view taken by those\nwho fought and who fell at Bothwell Bridge, and this was the view taken\nby nine-tenths of the inhabitants of Scotland--of the descendants and\nadmirers of Bruce and Wallace--of Knox and Carstairs. James Renwick, the\nlast of the martyrs in the cause of religion and liberty, was executed\nin Edinburgh in his twenty-sixth year. He was a young man of liberal\neducation, conducted both at the college of Edinburgh, and Groningen,\nabroad--of the most amiable disposition, and the most unblemished moral\ncharacter--yet, simply because he avowed, and supported, and publicly\npreached doctrines on which, in twelve months after his execution, the\nBritish Government was based, he was adjudged to the death, and\nignominiously executed in the presence of his poor mother and other\nrelatives, as well as of the Edinburgh public. Mr Woodrow, in his\nhistory of this man's life, alludes to some papers which he had seen,\ncontaining notices of Mr Renwick's trials and hair-breadth escapes;\nprior to his capture and execution--which, however, he refrains from\ngiving to the public. It so happens that, from my acquaintance with a\nlineal descendent of the last of the Martyrs, I have it in my power, in\nsome measure, to supply the deficiency; his own note, or\nmemorandum-book, being still in existence, though it never has been, nor\never will, probably, be published.\n\nIt was in the month of January 1688, that Mr Renwick was preaching,\nafter nightfall, to a few followers, at Braid Craigs, in the\nneighbourhood of Edinburgh. The night was stormy--a cold east wind, with\noccasional blasts of snow--whilst the moon, in her second quarter,\nlooked out, at intervals, on plaids and bonnets nestled to the leeward\nof rocks and furze. It was a piteous sight to view rational and immortal\ncreatures reduced to a state upon the level with the hares and the\nfoxes. Renwick discoursed to them from the point of a rock which\nprotruded over the lee side of the Craigieknowe. His manner was solemn\nand impressive. He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age;\nand his mother, Elspeth Carson, sat immediately before him--an old woman\nof threescore and upwards--in her tartan plaid and velvet hood. Her son\nhad been born to a larger promise, and had enjoyed an excellent academic\neducation; and much it had originally grieved the old woman's heart to\nfind all her hopes of seeing him minister of her native parish of\nGlencairn, blasted; but his conscience would not allow him to conform;\nand she had followed him in his wanderings and field-preachings, through\nAyrshire, Renfrewshire, and all along by the Pentland Hills, to\nEdinburgh, where a sister of hers was married, and lived in a\nrespectable way on the Castle Hill. This evening, after psalm-singing\nand prayer, Mr. Renwick had chosen for his text these words, in the\nfourth verse of the eighteenth chapter of the book of Revelation--\"Come\nout of her, my people.\" The kindly phrase, \"my people,\" was beautifully\ninsisted upon.\n\n\"There ye are,\" said Renwick, stretching out his hand to the darkening\nsleet; \"there ye are, a poor, shivering, fainting, despised, persecuted\nremnant, whom the great ones despise, and the men of might, and of war,\nand of blood, cut down with their swords, and rack with their tortures.\nYe are, like ye'r great Master, despised and rejected of men; but the\nMaster whom ye serve, and whom angels serve with veiled faces, and even\nHe who created and supports the sun, the moon, and the stars,\nHe--blessed be His name!--is not ashamed to acknowledge ye, under all\nyour humiliation, as _His_ people. 'Come out of her,' says He, '_my\npeople_.' O, sirs, this is a sweet and a loving invitation. Ye are '_His\npeople_,' the sheep of His pasture, after all; and who would have\nthought it, that heard ye, but yesterday, denounced at the cross of\nEdinburgh as traitors, and rebels, and non-conformists, as the\noffscourings of the earth, the filth and the abomination in the eyes and\nin the nostrils of the great and the mighty? 'Come out!' says the text,\nand out ye have come--'done ere ye bade, guid Lord!' Ye may truly and\nreverentially say--Here we are, guid Lord; we have come out from the\nWest Port, and from the Grassmarket, and from the Nether Bow, and from\nthe Canongate--out we have come, because we are thy people. We know thy\nvoice, and thy servants' voice, and a stranger and a hireling, with his\nstipend and his worldly rewards, will we not follow; but we will listen\nto him whose reward is with him; whose stipend is Thy divine\napprobation; whose manse is the wilderness; and whose glebe land is the\nbarren rock and the shelterless knowe. Come out of _her_. There _she_\nsits,\" (pointing towards Edinburgh, now visible in the scattered rays of\nthe moon,) \"there she sits, like a lady, in her delicacies, and her\ndrawing-rooms, and her ball-rooms, and her closetings, and her\nabominations. Ye can almost hear the hum of her many voices on the wings\nof the tempest. There she sits in her easy chair, stretching her feet\ndownwards, from west to east, from castle to palace! But she has lost\nher first love, and has deserted her covenanted husband. She hath gone\nastray--she hath gone astray!--and He who made her hath denounced\nher--He whose she was in the day of her betrothment, hath said--She is\nno longer mine; 'come out of her, my people'--be not misled by her\nwitcheries, and her dalliance, and her smiles--be not terrified by her\nthreats, and cruelties, and her murderings--she is drunk, she is\ndrunk--and with the most dangerous and intoxicating beverage, too--she\nis drunk with the blood of the saints. When shipwrecked and famishing\nsailors kill each other, and drink the blood, it is written that they\nimmediately become mad, and, uttering all manner of blasphemies, expire!\nThus it is with the 'Lady of the rock'--she is now in her terrible\nblasphemies, and will, by and by, expire in her frenzy. And who sits\nupon her throne?--even the bloody Papist, who misrules these unhappy\nlands--he, the usurper of a throne from which by law he is\ndebarred--even the cruel and Papistical _Duke_, whom men, in their folly\nor in their fears, denominate 'KING'--he, too, is doomed--the decree\nhath gone forth, and he will perish with her, because he would not _come\nout_.\"\n\n\"Will he, indeed, Mr Bletherwell? But there are some here who must\nperish first.\" So said the wily and infuriated Claverhouse, as he poured\nin his men by a signal from the adjoining glen, (where the lonely\nhermitage now stands in its silent beauty,) and in an instant had made\nRenwick, and about ten of his followers--the old woman, his mother,\nincluded--prisoners. This was done in an instant, for the arrangements\nhad been made prior to the hour of meeting, and Claverhouse, attired in\nplaid and bonnet, had actually sat during the whole discourse, listening\nto the speaker till once he should utter something treasonable, when, by\nrising on a rock, and shaking the corners of his plaid, he brought the\ntroop up from their hiding-places, amidst the whins and the broom by\nwhich the glen was at that time covered. Renwick, seeing all resistance\nuseless, and indeed forbidding his followers, who were not unprovided\nfor the occasion, to fire upon the military, marched onwards, in\nsilence, towards Edinburgh. As they passed along by the land now\ndenominated \"Canaan,\" they halted at a small public-house kept by a\nwoman well known at the time by the nickname of \"Red-herrings,\" on\naccount of her making frequent use of these viands to stimulate a desire\nfor her strong drink. Over her door-way, indeed, a red-herring and a\nfoaming tankard were rudely sketched on a sign-board, (like cause and\neffect, or mere sequence!) in loving unity. The prisoners were\naccommodated with standing-room in Tibby's kitchen; while the soldiers,\nwith their leader, occupied the ben-room and the only doorway--thus\nsecuring their prisoners from all possibility of escape. Refreshments,\nsuch as Tibby could muster, consisting principally of brandy and ale,\nmixed up in about equal proportions of each, were distributed amongst\nthe soldiers--who were, in fact, from their long exposure in the open\nair, in need of some such stimulants; whilst the poor prisoners were\nonly watched, and made a subject of great merriment by the soldiers. The\nhalt, however, was very temporary; but, temporary as it was, it enabled\nseveral of the members of the field-meeting to reach Edinburgh, and to\napprise their friends, and what is termed the mob of the streets, of the\ndoings at \"Braid Craigs.\" Onwards advanced the party--soldiers before\nand behind, and their captives in the middle--till they reached the West\nPort, at the foot of the Grassmarket. It was near about ten o'clock, and\nthe streets were in a buz with idle 'prentices, bakers' boys,\nshoemakers' lads, &c. The march along the Grassmarket seemed to alarm\nClavers, for he halted his men, made them examine their firelocks,\nspread themselves all around the prisoners, and, advancing himself in\nfront, and on his famous black horse, with drawn sword and holster\npistols, seemed to set all opposition at defiance. The party had already\ngained the middle of that narrow and winding pass, the West Bow, when a\nwaggon, heavily loaded with stones, was hurled downwards upon the party,\nwith irresistible force and rapidity--Clavers's horse shied, and escaped\nthe moving destruction; but it came full force into the very midst of\nthe soldiers, who, from a natural instinct, turned off into open doors\nand side closes; in this they were imitated by the poor prisoners, who\nwere better acquainted with the localities of the West Bow than the\nsoldiery. In an instant afterwards, a dense and armed mob rushed\nheadlong down the street, carrying all before them, and shouting aloud,\n\"Renwick for ever! Renwick for ever!\" This was taken as a hint by the\nprisoners, who, in an instant, had mixed with the mob; or sunk, as it\nwere, through the earth, into dark passages and cellars. \"Fire!\" was\nClaverhouse's immediate order, so soon as the human torrent had reached\nhim; and _fire_ some of the soldiers did, but not to the injury of any\nof the prisoners, but to that of a person--a bride, as it turned\nout--who, in her curiosity or fear, had looked from a window above; she\nwas shot through the head, and died instantly. But, in the meantime, the\nrescue was complete--Claverhouse, afraid manifestly of being shot from a\nwindow, galloped up the brae, and made the best of his way to the\nCastle, there to demand fresh troops to quell what he called an\ninsurrection: whilst, in the meantime, the men, after a very temporary\nsearch or pursuit, marched onwards, with their muskets presented to the\nopen windows, in case any head should protrude. But no heads were to be\nseen; and the soldiers escaped to the guard-house (to the Heart of\nMidlothian) in safety. Here, however, a scene ensued of a most\nheart-rending nature. Scarcely had the men grounded their muskets in the\nguard-house, when a seeming maniac rushed upon them with an open knife,\nand cut right and left like a fury. He was immediately secured, but not\ntill after many of the soldiers were bleeding profusely. They thrust him\nimmediately, bound hand and foot, into the black-hole, to await the\ndecision of next morning; but next morning death had decided his\nfate--he had manifestly died of apoplexy, brought on by extreme\nexcitement. His mother, who had followed her son when he issued forth\ndeprived seemingly of reason, having lost sight of him in the darkness,\nhad learned next morning of his fate and situation. She came,\ntherefore, with the return of light, to the prison door, and had been\nwaiting hours before it was opened. At last Clavers arrived, and ordered\nthe maniac to be brought into his presence, and that of the Court, for\nexamination. But it was all over; and the distorted limbs and features\nof a young and handsome man were all the mark by which a fond mother\ncould certify the identity of an only son. From this poor woman's\nexamination, it turned out that her son was to have been married on that\nvery day to a young woman whom he had long loved; but that he had been\ncalled to see her corpse, after she was shot by the soldiery, and had\nrushed out in the frantic and armed manner already described. The poor\nwoman, from that hour, became melancholy; refused to take food; and,\nalways calling upon the names of her \"bonny murdered bairns,\" was found\ndead one morning in her bed.\n\nIn the meantime, James Renwick had made the best of his way down the\nCowgate, and across, by a narrow wynd, into the Canongate, where a\nfriend of his kept a small public-house. He had gone to bed; but his\nwife was still at the bar, and two men sat drinking in a small side\napartment. He asked immediately for her husband, and was recognised, but\nwith a wink and a look which but too plainly spoke her suspicion of the\npersons who were witnesses of his entrance. Hereupon he called for some\nrefreshment, as if he had been a perfect stranger, and, seating himself\nat a small table, began to read in a little note-book which he took from\nhis side pocket--\"four, five, six, seven--yes, seven,\" said he--\"and it\nhas cost me seven pounds my journey to Edinburgh.\" This he said so\naudibly as to be heard by the persons who were sitting in the adjoining\nbox, that they might regard him as a stranger, and unconnected with\nEdinburgh. But, as he afterwards expressed it, he deeply repented of the\nattempt to mislead. The Lord, he said, had justly punished him for\ndistrusting his power to extricate him, as he had already done, from his\ntroubles. The men, after one had accosted him in a friendly tone about\nthe weather, or some indifferent subject, took their departure; and Mrs\nChalmers and he, now joined by the husband, enjoyed one hour's canny\ncrack ere bedtime, over some warm repast. The whole truth was made known\nto them; but, though perfectly trustworthy themselves, they expressed a\ndoubt of their customers, who were known to be little better than hired\ninformers, who went about to public-houses, at the expense of the\nGovernment, listening and prying if they could find any evidence against\nthe poor Covenanters. Next day, even before daylight, the house was\nsurrounded by armed men, and Renwick was demanded by name. Mr Chalmers\ndid not deny that he was in the house, but said that he came to him as\nto a distant relation, and that he was no way connected with his\ndoctrines or opinions. In the meantime, Renwick was aroused, and had\nresolved to sell his life as dearly as possible. He was a young and an\nactive man, and trusted, as he owned with great regret afterwards, to\nhis strength and activity, rather than to the mercy and the wisdom of\nhis Maker. So, rushing suddenly down stairs, and throwing himself,\nwhilst discharging a pistol, (which, however, did no harm), into the\nstreet, he was out of sight in a twinkling; but, in passing along, his\nhat fell off; and this circumstance drew the attention and suspicion of\nevery one whom he passed, to his appearance. One foot, in particular,\npressed hard upon him from behind, and a voice kept constantly crying,\n\"Stop thief!--stop thief!\" He ran down a blind alley, on the other side\nof the Canongate, and was at last taken, without resistance, by three\nmen, one of whom--and it was the one who had all along pursued him--was\nthe person who had accosted him last night in the public-house,\nrespecting the weather. He was immediately carried to prison, where he\nremained--visited indeed by his mother--till next assizes, when he was\ntried, condemned, and afterwards executed--the Last of the Martyrs!\n\nThe conversation which he had with his mother, his public confessions of\nfaith, and adherence to the covenanted cause, as well as his last\naddress, drowned at the time in the sound of drums--all these are given\nat full length in Woodrow, (the edition of Dr Burns of Paisley), to\nwhich I must refer the reader who is curious upon such subjects. In this\nvaluable work will likewise be found the inscription placed upon a very\nhandsome cippus, or monument of stone, erected to his memory. We give it\nto the reader. There is another, if we mistake not, in the Greyfriars of\nEdinburgh, somewhat in the same style. They are both equally simple and\ntouching.\n\n                 In memory of the late\n                REVEREND JAMES RENWICK,\n    the last who suffered to the death for attachment to the\n               Covenanted Cause of Christ\n                      in Scotland.\n        Born near this spot, 15th February, 1662,\n                  and executed at the\n                 Grassmarket, Edinburgh,\n                          1688.\n     \"The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.\"\n                     Ps. cxli. and 6.\n             Erected by subscription, 1828.\n\nThe late James Hastings, Esq. gave a donation of the ground. The\nsubscriptions, amounting to about L100, were collected at large from\nChristians of all denominations; and the gentleman who took the most\nactive part in suggesting and carrying through the undertaking, was the\nRev. Gavin Mowat, minister of the Reformed Presbyterian Congregation at\nWhithorn, and formerly at Scar-brig, in Penpont, Dumfries-shire. The\nmonument is placed upon the farm of Knees, at no great distance from the\nfarm-house where the martyr was born. It stands upon an eminence, from\nwhich it may be seen at the distance of several miles down the glen, in\nwhich the village of Monyaive is situated. It was visited last summer by\nthe author of this narrative; when the resolution, which has now been\nvery imperfectly fulfilled, was taken.\n\n\n\n\nXV.--OLD ISBEL KIRK.\n\n\nIsbel Kirk lived in Pothouse, Closeburn, in that very house where that\ndistinguished scholar, the late Professor Hunter of St Andrew's, was\nborn. She had never been married, and lived in a small lonely cottage,\nwith no companions but her cat and cricket, which chirped occasionally\nfrom beneath the hudstone, against which her peat-fire was built. There\nsat old, and now nearly blind, Isbel Kirk, spinning or carding wool,\ncrooning occasionally an old Scotch song, or, it might be, one of\nDavid's psalms, and enjoying at intervals her pipe, a visit from her\nnext neighbour, Nancy Nivison, or her champit-potatoes--a luxury which\nthe west country, and that alone, has hitherto enjoyed. Two old Irish\nwomen had settled some time before this on the skirts of the opposite\nbrae, where they had built a small turf cabin, and lived nobody could\nwell tell how. They were generally understood to make a kind of\nprecarious living, by going about the country periodically, giving\n_pigs_ or crockery-ware in exchange for wool. Isbel Kirk was a most\nsimple, honest creature, living on little, but procuring that little by\nher industry in spinning sale yarn, weaving garters, and using her\nneedle occasionally, to assist the guidwife of Gilchristland in\nshirt-making for a large family. But the M'Dermots were the aversion of\neverybody, and seldom visited even by the guidman of Barmoor, on whose\nfarm, or rather on the debatable skirts of it, they had sat down, almost\nin spite of his teeth. He was a humane man; and, though he loved not\nsuch visitors, yet he tolerated the nuisance, as his wife reckoned them\nskilled in curing children's diseases, and in spaeing the young women's\nfortunes. John Watson pastured sheep, where corn harvests now wave in\nabundance; and his flocks spread about to the doors of the M'Dermots and\nIsbel Kirk. These flocks gradually decreased, and much suspicion was\nattached to his Irish and heathenish neighbours, for they attended no\nplace of worship, not even the conformed Curate's; but there was no\nproof against them. At last, a search was suddenly and secretly\ninstituted under the authority of the Laird of Closeburn; and, although\nmuch wool was found, still there were no entire fleeces, nor any means\nleft of bringing it home to the M'Dermots.\n\n\"Na, na, guidman,\" said the elder of the two harridans. \"Na--ye needna\nstir aboot the kail-pot in that way--ye'll find naething there but a\nfine bit o' the dead braxy I gat frae the guidman o' Gilchristland, for\nhelping the mistress wi' her kirn, that wadna mak butter; but there are\nfolks that ye dinna suspect, and that are maybe no that far off either,\nwha could very weel tell ye gin they liked whar yer braw gimmer yows\ngang till.\"\n\nBeing pushed to be more particular, they were seemingly compelled at\nlast to intimate that auld Isbel Kirk, she and her friend, Nanny\nNivison, could give an account of the stolen sheep, if they liked. The\nguidman would not credit such allegations; but the old women persisted\nin their averment, and even offered to give the guidman of Barmoor\noccular demonstration of the guilt of the twa _saunts_, as they called\nthem. A few days passed, and still a lamb or an old sheep would\ndisappear--they melted away gradually, and the guidman began to think\nthat his flocks must be bewitched, and that the devil himself must keep\na kitchen somewhere about the Chaise Craig, over which Archy Tait had\noften seen the _old gentleman_ driving six-in-hand about twelve o'clock\nat night. Returning, therefore, one morning to the M'Dermots, and\nrenewing the conversation respecting Isbel Kirk and Nanny Nivison, it\nwas agreed that one of the Irish sisterhood should walk over to Isbel's\nwith him next forenoon, and that she would give him evidence of the fate\nof his flocks. Isbel was sitting before her door, in the sunshine of a\nfine spring morning, when the guidman and Esther M'Dermot arrived. She\nwelcomed them kindly into her small but clean and neat cottage; and,\nwith all the despatch which her blindness would permit of, dusted for\ntheir use an old-fashioned chair, and a round stool, which served the\ndouble purpose of stool and table. The conversation went on as usual\nabout the weather, and the last sufferer in the cause of the Covenant,\nwhen Esther M'Dermot went into a dark corner, and forthwith drew out\ninto the guidman's view, and to his infinite astonishment, a sheep's\nhead, which bore the well-known mark of the farm on its ears.\n\n\"Look there, guidman,\" said Esther, \"isna that proof positive of the way\nin which your braw hirsel is disposed of? By Jasus and the holy St\nPatrick! and here is a foot too, and twa horns!\"\n\nPoor Isbel Kirk could scarcely be made to apprehend the meaning of all\nthis--indeed she could scarcely see the evidences of her guilt--and\nassured the guidman, in the most unequivocal manner imaginable, that she\nwas innocent as the child unborn; indeed, she said, what should she do\nwith dead sheep, or how should she get hold of them, seeing she was old\nand blind, and had not enjoyed a bit of mutton, or any other flesh,\nmeat, since the new year?\n\n\"Ay,\" responded old Esther; \"but ye hae friends that can help ye; dinna\nI whiles see, after dark, twa tall figures stealing o'er your way frae\nthe Whitside linn yonder! I'se warrant they dinna live on deaf nits,\nafter lying a' day in a dark and damp cave.\" Isbel held up her hands in\nprayer, entreating the Lord to be merciful to her and to his ain\ninheritance, and to discomfit the plans of his and her enemies.\n\n\"Ye may pray,\" said Elspat, \"as ye like, but ye'll no mak the guidman\nhere distrust his ain een, wi' yer praying and yer Whiggery.\" This last\nsuggestion of the nightly visitors staggered Mr Watson not a little; he\nwell knew how friendly old Isbel was to the poor Covenanters, and\nbrought himself to conclude, under the weighty and conclusive evidence\nbefore him, that Isbel might have persuaded herself that she was\nrendering God good service by feeding his chosen people with the best of\nhis flock. Isbel could only protest her innocence and ignorance of the\nway in which these evidences against her came there; whilst the guidman\nand Esther took their leave--he threatening that the matter should not\nrest where it was, and the old Irish jade pretending to commiserate\nIsbel on the unfortunate discovery.\n\nNext morning, the pothouse was surrounded, and carefully searched by a\ndetachment of Lag's men, to whom information of Isbel's harbouring\nrebels had been (the reader may guess how) communicated. Having been\nunsuccessful in their search, they put the poor blind creature to the\ntorture, because she would not discover, or, perhaps, could not reveal,\nthe retreat of the persecuted people. A burning match was put betwixt\nher fingers, and she was firmly tied to a bedpost, whilst the fire was\nblown into a flame by one of the soldiers. Not a feature in Isbel's\ncountenance changed; but her lips moved, and she was evidently deeply\nabsorbed in devotional exercise.\n\n\"Come, come, old Bleary,\" said one, \"out with it! or we will roast you\non the coals, like a red herring, for Beelzebub's breakfast.\"\n\n\"Ye can only do what ye're permitted to do,\" said the poor sufferer,\nnow writhing with pain, and suffering all the agonies of martyrdom. \"Ye\nmay burn this poor auld body, and reduce it to its natural dust; but ye\nwill never hear my tongue betray any of the poor persecuted remnant.\"\n\nIt is horrible to relate, but the fact cannot be disputed, that these\nmonsters stood by and blew the match till the poor creature's fingers\nwere actually burnt off--yet she only once cried for mercy; but, when\nthey mentioned the conditions, she fainted; and thus nature relieved her\nfrom her sufferings. When she came again to herself, she found that they\nhad killed the only living creature which she could call companion, and\nactually hung the body of the dead cat around her neck; but they were\ngone, and her hands were untied.\n\nDuring the ensuing night a watch was set upon poor Isbel's house,\nthinking, as the persecutors did, that they would catch the nightly\nvisitants, who were yet ignorant of their friend's sufferings in their\nbehalf. The men lay concealed among brackens, on the bank opposite to\nthe pothouse, and near to Staffybiggin, the residence of the M'Dermots.\nTo their surprise, a figure, about twelve o'clock, came warily and\nstealthily around a flock of sheep which lay ruminating in the hollow.\nIt was a female figure, if not the devil in a female garb. They\ncontinued to keep silent and lie still. At last they saw the whole flock\ndriven over and across a thick-set bush of fern. One of the sheep\nimmediately began to struggle; but it was manifestly held by the\nfoot--in a few instants, two figures were seen dragging it into\nM'Dermot's door. This naturally excited their surprise, and, rushing\nimmediately into the hut, they found the two old women in the act of\npreparing in a pit--which, during the day time, was concealed--mutton\nfor their own use. The murder was now out. These wretched women had been\nin the habit, for some years, of supplying themselves from the Barmoor\nflocks; the one lying flat down upon her back amongst the furze, and\nthe other driving the sheep over her breast. Thus the sister who caught,\nhad an opportunity of selecting; and the best of the wedders had thus\nfrom time to time disappeared.\n\nPoor Isbel Kirk!--her innocence was now fully established; but it was\ntoo late. Her kind friend Nanny Nivison attended her in her last\nillness, and the guidman of Barmoor paid every humane attention. But the\nruffians of a mistaken and ill-advised government had deranged her\nnervous system. Besides, the burn never properly healed; it at last\nmortified, and she died almost insensible, either of pain or presence.\nHer soul seemed to have left its frail tabernacle ere life was extinct.\nThe example we have here given is taken from that humble source, which\nthe historian leaves open to the gleaner. Indeed, the histories of those\ntimes give but a very imperfect idea of the atrocities of that\nremarkable period. The cottage door must be opened to get at the truth;\nbut the stately political historian seldom enters.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.--THE CURLERS.\n\n\nWinter 1684-5 was, like the last, cold, frosty, and stormy. The ice was\non lake and muir from new year's day till the month of March. Curling\nwas then, as it is still, the great winter amusement in the south and\nwest of Scotland. The ploughman lad rose by two o'clock of a frosty\nmorning, had the day's fodder threshed for the cattle, and was on the\nice, besom in hand, by nine o'clock. The farmer, after seeing things\nright in the stable and the byre, was not long behind his servant. The\nminister left his study and his M.S., his concordance, and his desk, for\nthe loch, and the rink, and the channel-stane. Even the laird himself\nwas not proof against the temptation, but often preferred full twelve\nhours of rousing game on the ice, to all the fascinations of the drawing\nor the billiard-room, or the study. Even the schoolmaster was incapable\nof resisting the tempting and animating sound; and, at every peal of\nlaughter which broke upon his own and his pupils' ears, turned his eyes\nand his steps towards the window which looked upon the adjoining loch;\nand, at last, entirely overcome by the shout over a contested shot; off\nhe and his bevy swarmed, helter-skelter, across the Carse Meadow, to the\nice. From all accounts which I have heard of it, this was a notable\namongst many notable days. The factor was never in such play; the master\ngreatly outdid himself; the laird played hind-hand in beautiful style;\nand Sutor John came up the rink \"like Jehu in time o' need.\" Shots were\nlaid just a yard, right and left, before and behind the tee; shots were\ntaken out, and run off the ice with wonderful precision; guards, that\nmost ticklish of all plays, were rested just over the hog-score, so as\ncompletely to cover the winner; inwicks were taken to a hair, and the\nplayer's stone whirled in most gracefully, (like a lady in a country\ndance), and settled, three-deep-guarded, upon the top of the tee. Chance\nhad her triumphs as well as good play. A random shot, driven with such\nfury that the stone rebounded and split in two, deprived the opposite\nside of four shots, and took the game. The sky was blue as indigo, and\nthe sun shot his beams over the Keir Hills in penetrating and\ninvigorating splendour. Old women frequented the loch with baskets; boys\nand young lads skated gracefully around; the whisky-bottle did its duty;\nand even the herons at the spring-wells had their necks greatly\nelongated by the roaring fun. It was a capital day's sport. Little did\nthis happy scene exhibit of the suffering and the misery which was all\nthis while perpetrated by the men of violence. Clavers, the\never-infamous, was in Wigtonshire with his Lambs; Grierson was lying in\nhis den of Lag, like a lion on the spring; Johnstone was on the Annan;\nand Winram on the Doon; whilst Douglas was here, and there, and\neverywhere, flying, like a malevolent spirit, from strath to strath, and\nfrom hill to dale. The snow lay, and had long been lying, more than a\nfoot deep, crisp and white, over the bleak but beauteous wild; the sheep\nwere perishing for want of pasture; and many poor creatures were in\nabsolute want of the necessaries of life. (The potato, that true friend\nof the people, had not yet made its way to any extent into Scotland).\nCaves, dens, and outhouses were crowded with the persecuted flock. The\nousted ministers were still lifting up their voice in the wilderness,\nand the distant hum of psalmody was heard afar amongst the hills, and by\nthe side of the frozen stream and the bare hawthorn. What a contrast did\nall this present to the fun, frolic, and downright ecstacy of this day's\nsport! But the night came, with its beef and its greens, and its song,\nand its punch, and its anecdote, and its thrice-played games, and its\nwarm words, and its half-muttered threats, and its dispersion about\nthree in the morning.\n\n\"Wha was yon stranger?\" said John Harkness to Sandy Gibson, as they met\nnext day on the hill. \"I didna like the look o' him; an' yet he played\nhis stane weel, an' took a great lead in the conversation. I wish he\nmayna be a spy, after a'; for I never heard o' ony Watsons in\nEcclefechan, till yon creature cast up.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said lang Sandy, \"I didna like the creature--it got sae fou\nan' impudent, late at nicht; an' then that puir haverel, Will Paterson,\ncam in, an' let oot that the cave at Glencairn had been surprised, an'\nthe auld minister murdered. If it be na the case--as I believe it isna\nhitherto--there was enough said last nicht to mak it necessary to hae\nthe puir, persecuted saint informed o' his danger.\"\n\n\"An' that's as true,\" responded John; \"an' I think you an' I canna do\nbetter than wear awa wast o'er whan the sun gaes down, an' let honest\nMr Lawson ken that his retreat is known. That Watson creature--didna ye\ntent?--went aff, wi' the curate, a wee afore the lave; they were heard\nbusy talking together, in a low tone of voice, as they went hame to the\nmanse. I wonder what maks the laird--wha is a perfect gentleman, an' a\nfriend, too, o' the Covenanted truth--keep company, on the ice, or off\nit, wi' that rotten-hearted, roupit creature, the curate o' Closeburn?\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied the other, \"he is sae clean daft aboot playing at\nchannel-stane, that, I believe, baith him, an' the dominie, an' the\nfactor--forby Souter Ferguson--would play wi' auld Symnie himself,\nprovided he was a keen and a guid shot! But it will be mirk dark--an'\nthere's nae moon--ere we mak Glencairn cave o't.\"\n\nJohn Harkness and Sandy Gibson arrived at Monyaive, in Glencairn, a\nlittle after dark. The cave was about a mile distant from the town; and,\nwith the view of refreshment, as well as of concerting the best way of\navoiding suspicion, they entered a small ale-house kept by an old woman\nat the farther end of the bridge. They were shewn into a narrow and\nmeanly-furnished apartment, and called for a bottle of the best beer,\nwith a suitable accompaniment of bread and cheese. The landlady,\nby-and-by, was sent for, and was asked to partake of her own beverage,\nand questioned, in a careless and incidental manner, respecting the\nnews. She looked somewhat embarrassed; and, fixing her eyes upon a\nkeyhole, in a door which conducted to an adjoining apartment, she said,\nin a whisper--\n\n\"I ken brawly wha ye are, an maybe, too, what ye're after; but ye hae\nneed to be active, lads; for there are those in that ither room that\nwadna care though a yer heads, as well as those o' some ither folks that\nshall be nameless were stuck on the West Port o' Edinbro.\"\n\nIn an instant, the two young farmers were _butt_ the house, and beside\nTibby Haddow's peat fire. In the course of a short, and, to all but\nthemselves, an inaudible conversation, they learned that Lag himself,\ndisguised as a common soldier, was in the next room, in close colloquy\nwith a person clothed in grey duffle, with a broad bonnet on his head.\nFrom the description of the person, the two Closeburnians had no manner\nof doubt that the information obtained last night, in regard to the\nexistence of a place of refuge in Glencairn, was now in the act of being\ncommunicated.\n\n\"At one o'clock!\" said a well-known voice--it was that of Lag, to a\ncertainty.\n\n\"Yes, at one,\" responded the stranger, Watson--whose voice was equally\nwell-known to the farmers--\"at one!\" And they parted--the one going\neast, and the other west--and were lost in the darkness of night.\n\nIt was now past seven, with a clear, frosty night. What was to be done?\nIt was manifest that the cave was betrayed--at least, that the\n_whereabouts_ was known--and it was likewise necessary that this\ninformation should be conveyed to the poor inmate. But where was he to\nfind a refuge, after the cave had been vacated? It struck them, in\nconsulting, that if they could get the old woman to be friendly and\nassisting, the escape might be effected before the time evidently fixed\nupon for taking the cave by surprise. This was, however, a somewhat\ndangerous experiment; for, although Tibby M'Murdo was known to be\nfavourable--as who amongst the lower classes was not?--to the\nnon-conformists, yet she might not choose to run the immense risk of\nruin and even death, which might result from her knowingly giving\nharbour to a rebel. So, by way of sounding the old woman--who lived in\nthe house by herself, her granddaughter, who was at service in the town,\nonly visiting her occasionally--they proposed to stay all night in the\nhouse, as they were in hourly expectation of a wool-dealer who had made\nan appointment to meet them here, but who, owing to the heavy roads, had\nmanifestly been detained beyond the appointed time. The old woman had\nvarious objections to this arrangement; but was at last persuaded to\nmake an addition to her fire, to put half-a-dozen bottles of her best\nale on the table, with a tappit hen, and what she termed \"a wee drap o'\nthe creature,\" and to retire to rest about eight o'clock, her usual\nhour, they having already paid for all, and promised not to leave the\nhouse till she rose in the morning. At this time, about eight o'clock,\nthe night had suddenly became dark and cloudy, and there was a strange\nnoise up amongst the rocks overhead. It was manifest that there was a\nchange of weather fast approaching. At last the snow descended, the wind\narose, and it became a perfect tempest. Next morning, there were three\nhuman beings in Tibby's small _ben_, busily employed in discussing the\ngood things already purchased, as well as in higgling and bothering\nabout the price of wool. The weather, which had been exceedingly\nboisterous all night, had again cleared up into frost, and the\ninhabitants of Monyaive were busied in cutting away the accumulated snow\nfrom their doors, when in burst old Tibby's granddaughter, and, all at\nonce, with exceeding animation, made the following communication:--\n\n\"Ay, granny, ye never heard what has taen place this last nicht. I had\nit a' frae Jock Johnston. Ye ken Jock--he's oor maister's foreman, an'\nunco weel acquent wi' the dragoons that lodge in the Spread Eagle. Weel,\nJock tells me that Lag was here last nicht, in disguise like, an' that\nthey had gotten information, frae ane o' their spies like, aboot a cave\nup by yonder where some o' the puir persecuted folks is concealed; an'\nthat, aboot ane o'clock o' this morning--an' an awsome morning it\nwas--they had marched on, three abreast, through the drift, carrying\nstrae alang wi' them an lighted matches; an' that they gaed straight to\nthe cave, an' immediately summoned the puir folks to come out and be\nshot; and that they only answered by a groan, which tellt them as\nplainly as could be, that the puir creatures were there; and that they\nimmediately set fire to the straes at the mooth o' the cave, and fairly\nsmoked them (Jock tells me) to death. Did ye ever hear the like o't?\"\n\n\"O woman!\" responded the grandmother, \"but that is fearfu'!--these are\nindeed fearfu' times; there is naebody sure o' their lives for\nhalf-an-hour thegither, wha doesna gae to hear the fushionless curates!\"\n\nAt this instant, one of the dragoons drew up his horse at the door,\nasking if a man, such as he described, with a blue bonnet and a grey\nduffle coat, had returned late last night, or rather this morning, to\nbed. Old Tibby answered, in a quavering voice, that the man mentioned\nhad left her house about eight o'clock, and had not yet returned. The\ndragoon appeared somewhat incredulous; and, giving his horse to the girl\nto hold, he dashed at once and boldly into the room, where the three\npersons already mentioned were seated. The young farmers questioned\nimmediately the propriety of his conduct; but he drew his sword, and\nswore that he would make cats' meat of the first that should lay hold\nupon him. He had no sooner said so, than a man sprang upon him from the\nfireside, and, striking his sword-arm down with the poker, immediately\nsecured his person by such means as the place and time presented. The\nfellow roared like a bull, blaspheming and vociferating mightily of the\ncrime of arresting a king's soldier in the discharge of his duty. But he\nwas hurried into a concealed bed, tied firmly down with ropes and even\nblankets, and made to know that, unless he was silent, he might have to\npay for his disobedience with his life. When old Tibby saw how things\nwere going on, and that her house might suffer by such transactions,\nshe sallied forth as fast as her feeble limbs and well-worn staff would\ncarry her, exclaiming as she went--\"We'll a' be slain--we'll a' be\nslain!--the laird o' Lag will be here--and Clavers will be here--and the\nKing himself will be here--an' we'll a' be murdered--we'll a' be\nmurdered!\" At this moment, the trooper appeared in his regimentals,\nmounted his horse, and was off at full gallop. The granddaughter, now\nrelieved from holding the dragoon's horse, followed her grandmother, and\nbrought her lamp to the house; but, to their infinite surprise, there\nwas nobody there save the very cursing trooper whom she had seen so\nrecently ride off. His voice was loud, and his complainings fearful; but\nneither Tibby nor her granddaughter durst go near him, as they were\nfully convinced that he was a devil, and no man, since he had the power\nat once of mounting a horse and flying rather than riding away, and, at\nthe same time, of lying cursing and swearing in a press bed in the\n_ben_. At last a neighbour heard the tale, and, being less\nsuperstitions, relieved the unfortunate prisoner from his rather awkward\npredicament. He swore revenge, and to cut poor old Tibby into two with\nhis sword; but he found, upon searching for his weapon, that it was\nabsent, as well as his clothes, which had been forcibly stripped from\nhim when he was tied--and that without leave--and that he had nothing\nfor it but to thrust himself into canonicals--in which garb he actually\nwalked home to his quarters, amidst the shouts of his companions, and to\nthe astonishment of all the staring villagers.\n\nAs he was making the best of his way to hide his disgrace in the Spread\nEagle, he was told that his commanding officer, Sir Robert Grierson, had\nbeen wishing to speak with him, for some time past. Upon appearing\nimmediately in the presence of authority, he was questioned in regard to\nthe mission on which he had been despatched, and was scarcely credited\nwhen he narrated the treatment which he had met with, and the loss which\nhe had sustained. A detachment was immediately despatched in quest of\nthe thief, the _wool-merchant_, who had so cleverly supplied himself\nwith a passport from the king; and, after our soldier's person had been\nunrobed, and attired for the present in his stable undress, Lag set out\nwith a few followers, to examine the cave, in order to be assured of Mr\nLawson's death. \"They may gallop off with our horses,\" said Lag, in a\njocular manner, by the way; \"but they will not easily gallop off with\nthe old choked hound, who has led us so many dances over the hills of\nQueensberry and Auchenleck.\" At last, they arrived at the mouth of the\ncave, and entered. Black and blue, and severely bruised, lay the dead\nbody before them. \"Ah, ha!\" said Lag, making his boot, as he expressed\nit, acquainted with old Canticle's posteriors. \"Ah, ha! my fleet bird of\nthe mountain, and we have caught you at last, and caught you\n_napping_--ha, ha! Why don't you speak, old fire and brimstone? What!\nnot a word now!--and yet you had plenty when you preached from the Gouk\nThorn, to upwards of two thousand of your prick-eared, purse-mouthed,\ncanting followers. Come, my lads, we have less work to do now; we will\ne'en back to quarters, and drink a safe voyage into the Holy Land, to\nold Dumb-and-flat there!\" So saying, he reined up his horse, and was on\nthe point of withdrawing the men, when one of them, who had eyed the\nbody, which was imperfectly seen in the dark cave, more nearly than the\nrest, exclaimed--\"And, by the Lord Harry, and we are all at fault, and\nthe game is off, on four living legs, after all--off and away! and we\nstanding drivelling here, when we should be many miles off in hot\npursuit of this cunning fox who has contrived to give us the slip once\nmore.\"\n\n\"What means the idiot?\" vociferated Grierson.\n\n\"Mean!--why, what should I mean, Sir Robert, but that this here piece\nof carrion is no more the stinking corpse of old Closeburn, than I am a\nson of the Covenant!\"\n\nIt turned out, upon investigation, that this was the body of the\ninformer Watson, who had preceded Lag to the cave during the terrible\ndrift; had been observed by John Harkness and Sandy Gibson, who were\nthen employed in removing Lawson to the small inn; and, after a drubbing\nwhich disabled him from moving, he had been left the only tenant of the\ncave. When Grierson came, as above mentioned, from the drift and the\ncold, as well as the beating, he was unable to speak; but his groans\nbrought his miserable death upon him; and Lawson, by assuming the\ndragoon's garb and steed, was enabled to escape, and to officiate, as\nhas been already mentioned in a former paper, for several years before\nhis death, in his own church, from which he had been so long and so\nunjustly driven. Thus did it please God to punish the infamous conduct\nof Watson, and to enable his own servant to effect his escape. The\ndragoon's horse was found, one morning at day-light, neighing and\nbeating the hoof at old Tibby's door. It soon found an owner, but told\nno stories respecting its late occupant, who was now snugly lodged in\nWilliam Graham's parlour in the guid town of Kendal. Graham and he were\ncousins-german.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.--THE VIOLATED COFFIN.\n\n\nAN effort has, of late, been made to repel the allegations which, for\npast ages, have been made against the infamous instruments of cruelty\nduring the twenty-eight years' persecution. The Covenanters have been\nrepresented as factious democrats, setting at defiance all constituted\nauthority, and exposing themselves to the vengeance of law and justice.\nThese sentiments are apt to identify themselves with modern politics;\nbut we hope we will never see our country again devastated by\noppression, cruelty, and all the shootings, and headings, and hangings\nof the Stuart despotism repeated. It becomes, therefore, the duty of\nevery friend of good and equal government to put his hand to the work,\nand to support those principles under which Britain has flourished so\nlong, and every man has sat in safety and in peace under his own vine\nand his own fig-tree. No train of reasoning, or of demonstration,\nhowever, will suffice for this. The judgment is, in many occasions,\nconvinced of error and injustice, whilst the heart and the conduct\nremain the same. There must be something in accordance with the\ndecisions of the judgment pressed home upon the feelings. There must be\nvivid pictures of the workings of a system of misrule placed before the\nmind's eye, so that a deep and a human interest may be felt in the\npicture. The reader must open the doors of our suffering peasantry, and\nwitness their family and fireside bereavements. He must become their\ncompanion under the snow-wreath and the damp cave--he must mount the\nscaffold with them, and even listen to their last act and testimony. How\nvast is the impression which a painter can, in this way, make upon the\nspirit of the spectator! Let Allan's famous Circassian slave be an\ninstance in point; but the painter is limited to a single point of time,\nand the relation which that bears and exhibits to what has gone before\nor will come after; but the writer of narrative possesses the power of\nshifting his telescope from eminence to eminence--of varying, _ad\nlibitum_, time, place, and circumstances--and thus of making up for the\nacknowledged inferiority of written description of narratives to what is\nsubmitted, as Horace says, \"_Oculis fidelibus_,\" by his vast and\nunlimited power of variety. The means, therefore, by which past\ngenerations have been made to feel and acknowledge the inhumanities, the\nscandalous atrocities of those blood-stained times, still remain\nsubservient to their original and long tried purposes; and it becomes\nthe imperious duty of every succeeding age to transmit and perpetuate\nthe impressions of abhorrence with which those times were regarded and\nrecollected. This duty, too, becomes so much the more necessary, as the\ntimes become the more remote. The object which is rapidly passed and\ndistanced by the speed of the steam-engine, does not more naturally\ndiminish in dimensions to the eye, as it recedes into the depths of\ndistance, than do the events which, in passing, figured largely and\nimpressively, lose their bulk and their interest when removed from us by\nthe dim and darkening interval of successive centuries; and the only\nmethod by which their natural and universal law can be modified, or in\nany degree counteracted, is by a continuous and uninterrupted reference\nto the past--by making what is old, recent by description and\nimagination; and by more carefully tracing and acknowledging the\nconnection which past agents and times have, or may be supposed to have,\nupon the present advancement and happiness of man. Had the devotedness\nof the Covenanter and Nonconformist been less entire than it was--had\nthe arbitrary desires of a bigoted priesthood and a tyrant prince been\nsubmitted to--then had the Duke of York been king to the end of his\ndays--Rome had again triumphed in her priesthood; and we at this hour,\nif at all awakened from the influence of surrounding advancement to a\nsense of our degradation, had been only enacting bloody Reformation,\ninstead of bloodless Reform, and suffering the incalculable miseries\nwhich our forefathers, centuries ago, anticipated. Nay, more, but for\nthe lesson taught us by the friends of the Covenant and the conventicle,\nwhere had been the great encouragement to resist political oppression in\nall time to come, when the proudly elevated finger may point to the\nrecord, which said, and still says, in letters indeed of blood--\"A\npeople resolved to be free, can never be ultimately enslaved.\" The\nCovenant had its use--and, immense in its own day, and in its immediate\nefforts, it placed William, and law, and freedom on the throne of\nBritain; but that is as nothing in the balance, when compared with the\nless visible and more remote effects of this distinguished triumph:--It,\nthroughout all the last century, maintained a firm and unyielding\nstruggle with despotism, sometimes indeed worsted, but never altogether\nsubdued; and it has, of late years, issued in events and triumphs too\nrecent and too agitating to be now fairly and fully discussed. Nor will\nthe influence of the Covenant cease to be felt in our land, till God\nshall have deserted her, and left her entirely to the freedom of her own\nwill, to the debasing influence of that luxury and corruption which has\nformed the grave of every kingdom that has yet lived out its limited\nperiod.\n\nThese Gleanings of the Covenant have been written under the impression,\nand with the view above expressed; and it is hoped that the following\nnarrative, true in all its leading circumstances, and more than true in\nthe \"vraisemblable,\" may contribute something to the object thus\ndistinctly stated.\n\nThe funeral of Thomas Thomson had advanced from the Gaitend to the\nLakehead. The accompaniment was numerous--the group was denser. Thomas\nhad lived respected, and died regretted. He was the father of five\nhelpless children, all females, and his wife was manifestly about to be\ndelivered of a sixth. Just as the procession had advanced to the house\nof Will Coultart, a troop of ten men rode up. They had evidently been\ndrinking, and spoke not only blasphemously, but in terms of\nintimidation.--\"Stop, you cursed crew,\" said the leader. \"He has escaped\nlaw, but he shall not escape justice. Come here, lad;\" and at once they\nalighted from their horses, seized the coffin, and opening the lid, were\nabout to penetrate the corpse through and through. \"Stop a little,\" said\nJohn Ferguson, the famous souter of Closeburn; \"there are maybe twa at\na bargain-making;\" so saying, he lifted an axe which he took up at a\nwright's door, and dared any one to disturb them in their Christian\nduty. A \"pell-mell\" took place, in the midst of which poor Ferguson was\nkilled. He had two sons in the company, who, seeing how their father had\nbeen used, rushed upon the dragoons, and were both of them severely\nwounded. In the meantime, Douglas of Drumlanrig came up, and,\nunderstanding how things went, ordered the soldiers to give in, and the\nwounded men to be taken care off. All this was wondrous well; but what\nfollows is not so. The body of Ferguson was carried to Croalchapel; and\nthe two sons accompanied it, with many tears. Douglas seemed to feel\nwhat had happened, and could not avoid accompanying the party home. He\nentered the house of mourning, where there was a dead father, a weeping\nwidow, and two wounded sons. He entered, but he saw nothing but Peggy.\nPoor Peggy was an only sister of these lads--an only daughter of her\nmurdered father. Douglas was a man of the world! Oh, my God, what a term\nthat is! and how much misery and horror does it not contain. Peggy was\nreally beautiful; not like Georgina Gordon, or Lady William, or Mrs\nNorton, or Lady Blessington; for her beauty depended in no degree upon\nart. Had you arrayed her in rags, and placed her in a poor's-house, she\nwould have appeared to advantage. Peggy, too, (the God who made her\nknows,) was pure in soul, and innocent in act as is the angel Gabriel!\nshe never once thought of sinning, as a woman may, and does (sometimes)\nsin; she lived for her father, whom she loved--and for her mother, whom\nshe did not greatly dislike. But her mother was a stepmother, and Peggy\nliked her father. Guess, then, her grief, when Peggy saw her father\nmurdered, her brothers wounded, and knew the cause thereof. \"Lift her,\"\nsaid Douglas to his men, after he had, in seeming humanity, seen the\ncorpse and brothers home; \"lift her into Red Hob's saddle, and carry\nher to Drumlanrig.\" No sooner said than done. The weeping, screaming\ngirl was lifted into the saddle, and conveyed, per force, to Drumlanrig.\nAt that gate there stood a figure clothed in dyed garments. It was the\nelder brother of Peggy, he who had been least injured of the two. He\nstood with his sword in his hand, and dared any one who would conduct\nhis sister into the abode of dishonour. Douglas snapped, and then fired\na pistol at him, but neither took effect. In the meantime, the brother\nwas secured, and the sister was carried into the \"Blue Room,\" well known\nafterwards as the infamous sleeping-chamber of old \"Q.\" The not less\ninfamous, though ultimately repentant Douglas, advanced into the\nchamber. The poor girl seemed as if she had seen a snake; she shrunk\nfrom his approach and from his blandishments. She had previously opened\nthe window into the green walk; she had taken her resolve, and, in a few\ninstants, lay a maimed, almost mangled being, on the beautiful walks of\nDrumlanrig. Douglas was manifestly struck by the incident, but not\nconverted. He took sufficient care to have the poor girl conveyed home,\nand to have the brothers provided for, but his hour was not yet come. It\nwas not till after his frequent conversations with the minister of\nCloseburn, that he came to a proper sense of his horrible conduct. But\nwhat was the awful devastation of this family. The poor beauteous flower\nPeggy, who was about to have been married to a farmer's son,\n(Kirkpatrick of Auchincairn,) was by him rejected. He called at the\nhouse sometime afterwards, with a view to see her; but he came full of\nsuspicion, and therefore unwilling to receive the truth. He had heard\nthe whole story, and must have known that his Peggy was at least as pure\nin mind as she had been beautiful in person; but he belonged not\nnaturally to the noble stock of the family to which he was to have been\nallied, and gave himself up to prejudice. The girl was still in bed, to\nwhich, from her bruises, she had been confined for months. The meeting\nmight have been one which a poet would have gloried in describing, or a\npainter in delineating and embellishing, with hues stolen from the arc\nof Heaven! Alas! it was one only worthy of the pencil of a\nRibera--fraught with cruelty, and abounding in selfishness and\ndishonour. The girl, as she turned her pale yet beautiful face on him,\ntold him the truth, and watched, with tears in her eyes, the effect of\nher narrative on one whose image had never been absent from her mind, if\nindeed it had not supported her in her struggle, and nerved her to the\npurpose which preferred death to dishonour. Her bruises and wounds spoke\nfor her, and, to any one but her lover, would have proved that he was a\npart of the object of her sacrifice. It was all to no purpose. The\neloquence of truth, of love, of nature, were lost upon him; nothing\nwould persuade him that the object of his love had not been degraded. He\nturned a cold glance of doubt upon her, and turned to leave the room.\nPeggy rushed out of bed, and, maimed and weak as she was, would have\nstopped him. Her energies failed her--her lover was gone; and her\nmother, roused by the cries of her pain, came and assisted her again\ninto bed. Poor Peggy heard no more of Kirkpatrick. She sickened and\ndied?--no! far worse!--she became desperate, married a blackguard, and\nlived a drunkard; the sons were banished for firing at Douglas, as he\npassed in his carriage through Thornhill; and the poor mother of the\nwhole family became--shall I tell it I--an object of charity! Thus was,\nto my certain knowledge, at least to that of my ancestors, a most\ncreditable and well-doing family ruined, root and branch, by the\npersecutors--or, in other words, by those who, without knowing what they\ndid, regarded the \"Covenant\" as an unholy thing, and fought the foremost\nin the ranks of oppression and uniformity.\n\nNow, there is not a word of this in Woodrow, or Burns, or even in the\nMS. of the Advocate's Library; and yet we can assure the reader, that\nthe material facts are as true as is the death of Darnley, or the murder\nof Rizzio! God bless you, madam! you have, and can have, and ought to\nhave no notion whatever of the united current of _horribility_, which\nran through the whole ocean of cruelty during these awful and most\nterrific times! May the God that made, the Saviour that redeemed, and\nthe Holy Spirit that prepares us for heaven, make us thankful that in\n_those times_ we do not live; and that such men as Woodrow and Burns\n(the first and the last) have been raised up, to vindicate and to\njustify such men as then suffered in their families, or in their\npersons, for the covenanted cause of the Great Head of our Presbyterian\nChurch!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONOMANIAC.\n\n\nIn some of my prior papers, I have had occasion to make some oblique\nreferences to that disease called _pseudoblepsis imaginaria_--in other\nwords, a vision of objects not present. Cullen places it among local\ndiseases, as one of a depraved action of the organs contributing to\nvision; whereby, of course, he would disjoin it from those cases of\nmadness where a depraved action of the brain itself produces the same\neffect. In this, Cullen displays his ordinary acuteness; for we see many\ninstances where there is a fancied vision of objects not present,\nwithout insanity; and, indeed, the whole doctrine of spirits has\nlatterly been founded on this distinction.[2] From the very intimate\nconnection, however, which exists between the visual organs and the\nbrain itself, it must always be a matter of great difficulty--if indeed,\nin many cases, it be not entirely impossible--to make the distinction\navailable; for there are cases--such as that of the conscience-spectre,\nand those that generally depend upon thoughts and feelings of more than\nordinary intensity--that seem to lie between the two extremes of merely\ndiseased visual organs and diseased brains; and, in so far as my\nexperience goes, I am free to say that I have seen more cases of\nimaginary visions of distant objects, resulting from some terrible\nexcitement of the emotions, than from the better defined causes set\nforth by the medical writers. Among the passions and emotions, again,\nthat in their undue influence over the sane condition of the mind, are\nmost likely to give rise to the diseased vision of _phantasmata_, I\nwould be inclined to place that which usually exerts so much absorbing\npower over the young female heart. The cause lies on the surface. In the\ncase of the passions--of anger, revenge, fear, and so forth--the feeling\ngenerally works itself out; and, in many cases, the object is so\nunpleasant that the mind seeks relief from it, and flies it; while, in\nthe emotions of love, there is a morbid brooding over the cherished\nimage that takes hold of the fancy; the object is called up by the spell\nof the passion placed before the mind's eye, and held there for hours,\ndays, and years, till the image becomes almost a stationary impression,\nand is invested with all the attributes of a real presence. I do not\nfeel that I would be justified in saying that I am able to substantiate\nthe remark I have now made by many cases falling under my own\nobservation; the examples of _monomania_ in sane persons are not very\noften to be met with; and I have heard many of my professional brethren\nsay, that they never experienced a single instance in all their\npractice.\n\nThe case I am now to detail, occurred within two miles of the town of\n----. The patient was a lady, Mrs C----, an individual of a nervous,\nirritable temperament, and possessed of a glowing fancy, that, against\nher will, brought up by-past scenes with a distinctness that was painful\nto her. She had lately returned from India, whither she had accompanied\nher husband, whom she left buried in a deep, watery grave in the channel\nof the Mozambique. I had been attending her for a nervous ailment, which\nhad shattered her frame terribly, while it increased the powers of her\ncreative fancy, as well as the sensibility by which the mental images\nwere invested with their chief powers over her. She suffered also from a\ntenderness in the _retina_, which forced her to shun the light. How this\nlatter complaint was associated with the other, I cannot explain,\nunless upon the principle which regulates the connection between the\nsensibility of the eye and the heated brains of those who labour under\ninflammation of that organ. I was informed by her mother, Mrs L----, as\nwell as her sister, that she had come from India a perfect wreck, both\nof mind and body; and, for a period of eighteen months afterwards, could\nscarcely be prevailed upon to see any of her friends--shutting herself\nup for whole days in her room, the windows of which were kept dark, to\nprevent the light, which operated like a sharp sting, from falling upon\nher irritable eyes. It was chiefly with a view to the removal of this\nopthalmic affection, that I was requested to visit her; and I could very\nsoon perceive, that the visionary state of her mind was closely\nconnected with the habit of dark seclusion to which she was necessitated\nto resort, for the purpose of avoiding the pain produced by the rays of\nthe sun. On my first interview, I found her sitting alone in the\ndarkened room, brooding over thoughts that seemed to exert a strong\ninfluence over her; but she soon joined me in a conversation which,\ndiverging from the subject of her complaint, embraced topics that\nbrought out the peculiarity of her mind--a strong enthusiastic power of\nportraying scenes of grief which she had witnessed, and which, as she\nproceeded, seemed to rise before her with almost the vividness of\npresence; yet, with her, judgment was as strong and healthy as that of\nany day-dreamer among the wide class of mute poets, of whom there are\nmore in the world than of philosophers.\n\nI could not detect properly her ailment, and resolved to question her\nmother alone.\n\n\"Did you not notice anything peculiar about my daughter?\" she said.\n\n\"The love of a shaded room, resulting from an irritability in the organs\nof sight, is to me no great rarity,\" I replied.\n\n\"Though her fit has not been upon her,\" rejoined she, with an air of\nmelancholy, \"it is not an hour gone since her scream rung shrilly\nthrough this house, as if she had been in the hands of fiends; and, to\nbe plain with you, I left you to discover yourself what may be too soon\napparent. I fear for her mind, sir.\"\n\n\"I have seen no reason for the apprehension; but her scream, was it not\nbodily pain?\"\n\n\"I could wish that it had been mere bodily pain; but it was not. You\nhave not heard Isabella's history,\" she continued, in a low, whispering\ntone. \"She has experienced what might have turned the brain of any one.\nI discovered something extraordinary in her about six months ago. One\nevening, when the candles were shaded for the relief of her eyes, and I\nand Maria were sitting by her, she stopped suddenly in the midst of our\nconversation, and sat gazing intensely at something between her and the\nwall; pointing out her finger, her mouth open, and scarcely drawing her\nbreath. I was terror-struck; for the idea immediately rushed into my\nmind, that it was a symptom of insanity; but I had no time for\nthought--a scream burst from her, and she fell at my feet in a faint.\nWhen she recovered, she told us that she had seen, in the shaded light\nof the candle, which assumed the blue tinge of the moonlight, the figure\nof a dead body sitting upright in the waters, with the sailcloth in\nwhich he was committed to the deep wrapped around him, and his pale face\ndirected towards her. At the recollection of the vision, she shuddered,\nwould not recur to the subject again, but betrayed otherwise no\nwandering of the fancy. Several times since, the same object has\npresented itself to her; and, what is extraordinary, it is always when\nthe candle is shaded; yet she exhibits the same judgment, and I could\nnever detect the slightest indication of a defect in the workings of her\nmind. I sent for you to treat her eyes, and left it to you to see if\nyou could discover any symptoms of a diseased mind.\"\n\n\"Was the object she thus supposes present to her, ever exposed in\nreality to the true waking sense?\" said I, suspecting a case of\n_monomania_.\n\n\"Did she not tell you?\" rejoined she. \"Come.\"\n\nAnd leading me again into her daughter's darkened apartment, she\nwhispered something in her ear, retired, and left us together.\n\n\"Your mother informs, me, madam,\" said I, \"that you have seen _what\nexists not_; and I am anxious, from professional reasons, to know from\nyourself whether I am to attribute it to the creative powers of an\nactive fancy, or to an affection of the visual organs, that I have read\nmore of than I have witnessed.\"\n\nShe started, and I saw I had touched a tender part--probably that\nconnected with her own suspicions that her mother and sister deemed her\ninsane.\n\n\"It was for this purpose, then, that you have been called to see me?\"\nshe replied, hastily. \"It is well; I shall be tested by one who at least\nis not prejudiced. My mother and sister think that I am deranged. I need\nnot tell you that I consider myself sane, although I confess that this\nillusion of the sense, to which I am subjected, makes me sometimes\nsuspicious of myself. Will you listen to my story?\"\n\nI replied that I would; and thus she began:--\n\nExperience, sir, is a world merely to those who live in it--it exists\nnot--its laws cannot be communicated to the heart of youth; the\ntransfusion of the blood of the aged into the veins of the young to\nproduce wisdom, is not more vain than the displacing of the hopes of the\nyoung mind by the cold maxims of what man has felt, trembled to feel,\nand wished he could have anticipated, that he might have been prepared\nfor it. Such has ever been, such is, such will ever be, the history of\nthe sons and daughters of Adam. What but the changes into which I--still\ncomparatively a young woman--have passed--not, it would almost seem,\nmutations of the same principle, but rather new states of\nexistence--could have wrung from a heart, where hope should still have\nlighted her lamp, and illuminated my paths, these sentiments of a dearly\npurchased experience? When I and George Cunningham, my schoolfellow, my\nfirst and last lover, and subsequently my husband, passed those\nbrilliant days of youth's sunshine among the green holms and shaggy\ndells of ----; following the same pursuits--conning the same\nlessons--indulging in the same dreams of future happiness, and training\neach other's hearts into a community of feeling and sentiment, till we\nseemed one being, actuated by the same living principle: in how happy a\nstate of ignorance of those changes that awaited me in the world, did I\nexist? I would fall into the hackneyed strain of artificial fiction\nwriting, were I to portray the pleasures of a companionship and love\nthat had its beginning in the very first impulses of feeling; with a\nview to set off by contrast the subsequent events that awaited us, when\nour happiness should have been realized.\n\nWhen a woman of sensibility says she loves a man, she has told, through\na medium that works out the conditions of the responding powers of our\ncommon nature, the heart, more than all the eulogistic eloquence of the\ntongue could achieve, to show the estimate she forms of the qualities of\nthe object of her affections; but when she adds that that love\noriginated in the friendship of children, grew with the increase of the\npowers of mind and body, and entered as a part into every feeling that\nactuated the young hearts, she has expressed the terms of an endearment\nso pure, tender, exclusive, and lasting, that it transcends all the\nordinary forms of the communion of spirits on earth. The attachment is\ndifferent from all others--it stands by itself; and to endeavour to\nconceive its purity and force by any factitious mixture of friendship,\nand the ordinary endearments of limited time and favourable\ncircumstances of meeting, would be as vain as all hypothetical\ninvestigation into the nature of feeling must ever be. I cannot tell\nwhen I first knew the young man whose name I have mentioned under an\nemotion that shakes my frame; the syllables were a part of my early\nlispings, and I cannot yet think that they are unconnected with a being\nthat has now no local habitation upon earth. Our parents were intimate\nneighbours; and the woods and waters of ----, if their voices--sweeter\nthan articulated intelligence--could imitate the accents of man, would\ntell best when they wooed us into that communion, which they cherished,\nand witnessed, with an apparent participation of our joy, to open into\nan early affection. The power of mutual objects of pleasure and\ninterest, especially if they are a part of the lovely province of\nnature--the rural landscape, secluded and secreted from the eyes of all\nthe world besides, with its dells and fountains, birds and flowers--in\nincreasing the attachment of young hearts, has been often observed and\ndescribed; but we felt it. These inanimate objects are generally, and\nwere to us, not only a tie, but they shared a part of our love, as if in\nsome mysterious way they had become connected with, and a part of us.\nThe often imputed association of ideas is a poor and inadequate solution\nof this work of nature: it is the effect put for the cause; the common,\nboasted philosophy of man, who invents terms of familiar sound to\nexplain secrets eternally hidden from him. If we who felt, as few have\never felt, the influence of these green, umbrageous shades--with their\nnut-trees, bushes, flowers, and gowany leas; their singing birds, and\nnests with speckled eggs; their half-concealed fountains of limpid\nwater, and running streams, and beds of white pebbles--in nourishing and\nincreasing our young loves, could not tell how or why they were invested\nwith such power; the philosopher, I deem, may resign the task, and say,\nwith a sigh, that it was nature, and nature alone, who did all this; and\nthe secret will remain unexplained.\n\nWe enjoyed ten years of this intercourse--I calculate from the fifth to\nthe fifteenth year of our youth--and every one of these years, as it\nevolved the ripening powers of our minds, so it strengthened the\nmingling affections of our hearts. We became lovers long before we knew\nthe sanctions and rights, and duties of pledged faith; we were each\nother's by a troth, a thousand times spoken; exchanged and felt in the\nthrobbing embrace, the burning sighs, and the eloquent looks, that were\nbut the natural impulses of a feeling we rejoiced in, yet scarcely\ncomprehended. My heart, recoiling from the thoughts of after years,\nluxuriates in the memory of these blissful hours; and, were not the\ntheme exhausted a thousand times by the eloquence of rapt feeling,\nspeaking with the tongue of inspiration, I could dwell on these early\nrejoicings of unsullied spirits for ever.\n\nMy dream was not scattered--it was only changed in its form and hues,\nwhen my youthful betrothed was removed from home, to go through a course\nof navigation to fit him for the service of the sea, to which the\nintentions of his father, and his own early wishes, led him. I could\nhave doubted my existence sooner than the faith of his heart; and he was\nonly gone to make those preparations for attaining a position in society\nthat would enable him to realize those fond and bright prospects we had\nindulged in contemplating among the woods that resounded to pledges\nexchanged in the face of heaven. The first place of his destination was\nLondon, from whence, for a period of about three years, I heard from him\nregularly by letters, which breathed with an increased warmth the same\nsentiments we had repeated and interchanged so often during the long\nperiod of our prior intercourse. Some time after this, he sailed to\nIndia; then were my thoughts first tinged by the changing hues of\nsolitude; and my hopes and fears bound to the wayward circumstances of a\nworld which had as yet been to me a paradise.\n\nI heard nothing from him for two long years after he left London. A\nportrayment of my thoughts during that period would be a thousand times\nmore difficult than for the painter to seize and represent the changing\nhues of the gem that, thrown on a tropic strand, reflects the endless\nhues of the earth and sky. I trembled and hoped by turns but every idea\nand every feeling were so strongly mingled with reminiscences of former\npleasures, the prospects of future happiness, the fears of a change in\nhis affections, or of his death, that I could not pronounce my mind as\nbeing, at any given moment, aught but a medium of impressions that I\ncould not seize or fix, so as to contemplate myself. All I can say is,\nthat he was the presiding genius of every emotion with which my heart\nwas influenced; and, to those who have loved, that may be sufficient to\nshew the utter devotion of every pulse of my being to the deified image\nenshrined within my bosom. Now came the period of the realizing of my\ndreams. George Cunninghame came back, and married me.\n\nWe had scarcely been two months married when my husband, whom I loved\nmore and more every day, got, by the influence of powerful friends, the\ncommand of a large vessel--the _Griffin_--engaged in the trade to India.\nIt was arranged that I should accompany him, that, as we had been\nassociated from our earliest infancy, (our separation had been only that\nof the body, and interfered not with the union of the immaterial\nessence), we should still be together. In this resolution I rejoiced;\nand, though by nature a coward, my love overcame all my terrors of the\ngreat deep. The day was fixed for our departure. A lady passenger and\ntwo servants were to go with us to the Cape, from whose society I\nexpected pleasure; and every preparation which love could suggest was\nmade to render me happy. We left the Downs on a calm day of December,\nand went down the Channel with a rattling gale from the north. Life on\nboard of an Indiaman has been a thousand times described; and, would to\nheaven I had nothing to detail but the ordinary conduct of civilized\nmen! Our chief officer was one Crawley, and our second a person of the\nname of Buist--the only individual my husband had no confidence in being\nHans Kreutz, the steward, a German, who was whispered to have been\nengaged as a maritime venatic, or pirate, in the West Indies: and, if\nany man's character might be detected in his countenance, this\nforeigner's disposition might have been read in lineaments marked by the\ngraver of passion. Part of what I have now said may have been the result\nof after experience; yet I could perceive shadowings of evil at this\ntime, which I had not the knowledge of human nature to enable me to turn\nto any account.\n\nWith a series of gentle breezes and fine weather, we came to the Cape,\nwhere Mrs Hardy and her two servants were put ashore. One of the\nservants had agreed to accompany me to Madras, and was to have come on\nboard again, to join us, before we left Table Bay. Whether she had\nchanged her mind, or been detained by some unforeseen cause, I know not,\nbut the boat came off without her; and all the information that I could\nget was, that she was not to be found. I trembled to be left on board of\na vessel without a female companion, and strongly insisted upon George\nto delay his departure until another effort should be made to endeavour\nto find a servant in Cape Town; but, a favourable wind having sprung up\nat that moment, Crawley remonstrated, in his peculiar mode of abject\npetitioning; and my husband, having himself seen the advantage of\nseizing the favourable opportunity for taking and accomplishing the\npassage of the Mozambique, we departed, under a stiff gale; and, in a\nshort time, reached the middle of that famous Channel, where the fears\nof the seamen have been so often excited by the reputed cannibalism of\nthe natives of Madagascar. At this time I was strangely beset by nightly\nvisions of terror, which I could impute to no other cause than the\nstories that George had repeated to me of the wild character of these\nsavages. During the day, but more especially during the blue,\nsulphurous, flame-coloured twilight of that region--I often fixed my eye\non the long, dark, umbrageous coast--followed the ranges of receding\nheights--threaded the deep recesses of the valleys, that seemed to end\nin dark caves, and peopled every haunt with festive savages performing\ntheir unholy rites over a human victim, destined to form food for\ncreatures bearing that external impress of God's finger which marks the\nlords of the creation. Those visions were always connected, in some way,\nwith myself; and I could not banish the idea, which clung to me with a\nmorbid power of adherence, that I might, alone and unprotected, be cast\ninto some of these cimmerian recesses, and be subjected to the\nunutterable miseries of a fate a thousand times worse than death, and\nwhat might follow death, by the usages of of eaters of human beings.\nThere was no cause for any such apprehensions; and I am now satisfied\nthat these dark creations of my fancy were in some mysterious way\nconnected with a disordered state of my physical economy; but I was not\nthen aware of such predisposing causes of mental gloom, and still\nbrooded over my imagined horrors, till I drove rest and sleep from my\npillow, and disturbed my husband with my pictured images of a danger\nthat he said was far removed from me. From him I got some support and\nrelief; but the faces of the men I saw around me, and especially those\nof Crawley and Kreutz, seemed, to me, rather to reflect a corroboration\nof my fears, than to afford me encouragement and support. The grim\nvisions retained their power over me; and, the wind having fallen off\nalmost to a dead calm, I found myself fixed in the very midst of the\nscenes that thus nourished and perpetuated them. The depression of mind\nproduced by these frightful day-dreams and nightmares, made me sickly\nand weak. I could scarcely take any food; every piece of flesh presented\nto me, reminded me of the feasts of the inhabitants of that dark, dismal\nisland that lay stretching before me in the vapours of a tropical\nclimate, like a land of enchantment called up by fiends from the great\ndeep; the dyspeptic nausea of sickness was the very food of my gloomy\nthoughts; and the co-operative powers of mind and body tended to the\nincrease of my misery, till I seemed a victim of confirmed hypochondria.\n\nWe were still fixed immovably in the same place: all motive powers\nseemed to have forsaken the elements--the sea was like a sheet of glass,\nthe sails hung loose from the masts, and the men lay listless about,\novercome with heat, and yawning in lethargy. It was impossible to keep\nme below. I required air to keep me breathing, and felt a strange\nmelancholy relief from fixing my eyes on the very scene of my terrors.\nEvery effort to occupy my mind was vain; and I lay, for hours at a time,\nwith my eyes fixed on the shore, piercing the deep, wooded hollows,\nfollowing the faint traces of the savages as they disappeared among the\nthick trees, and investing every naked demon with all the\ncharacteristics of the followers of the mysterious midnight rites in\nwhich I conceived they engaged when the hour of their orgies came. I\noften saw individuals--rendered gigantic by the magnifying medium of the\nthick vapour--come down to the beach, and fix their gaze on us for a\ntime, and then pace back again to the wooded recesses. Sometimes, when\nunable to sleep, I crept up from the cabin, and sat and surveyed the\nsilent scene around me--the hazy moon, throwing her thick beams over the\ncalm sea--the dark shadows of unknown birds sailing slowly through the\nair, and uttering at intervals sounds I had never heard before--the\nfires of the inhabitants among the trees on the coast, that sent up a\nlong column of red light through the atmosphere, and exhibited the\nflitting bodies of the naked beings as they danced round the objects of\ntheir rites. It is impossible for me, by any language of which I have\nthe power, to convey an adequate conception of my feelings during these\nhours. They were realities to me; and, therefore, whatever may be said\nagainst fanciful creations, I have a right to claim attention to states\nof the mind and feelings that belong to our nature in certain positions.\nAt a late hour one night, I was engaged in those gloomy watchings and\nreveries, when Kreutz came to me, and said the captain had been taken\nsuddenly ill. I turned my eyes from the scene along the shore I was\nsurveying, and fixed them for a moment on his face, where the light of\nthe moon sat in deep contrast with the long bushy hair that flowed round\nhis temples. A shudder--that might have been accounted for from the\nstate of my mind and the nature of the communication he had made to me,\nbut which I instinctively attributed, at the time, to the expression of\nhis face--passed over me, and, starting up, I hurried into the cabin off\nthe cuddy, where I found George under the grasp of relentless spasms of\nthe chest and stomach. He was stretched along on the floor, grasping the\ncarpet, which he had wound up into a coil, and vomiting violently into a\nbason which he had hurriedly seized before he fell.\n\n'Good God, Isabella!' he exclaimed, 'what is this? I am dying. That\nvillain Cr ----'\n\nAnd, whether from weakness or prudence, he stopped, with the guttural\nsound of these two letters, Cr, which applied equally to Crawley as to\nKreutz, and left me in doubt which of them he meant. At this moment\nBuist the mate entered the cabin; and my agitation and the necessity of\naffording relief to the sufferer, took my mind off the fearful subject\nhinted at by the broken sentence I had heard. With the assistance of\nBuist, I got him placed on the bed. There was no doctor on board, and I\nwas left to the suggestions of my own mind, for adopting means to save\nhim. These were applied, but without imparting any relief. The painful\nsymptoms continued, and he got every moment worse. Neither Crawley nor\nKreutz appeared; and when Buist went out to bring what was deemed\nnecessary for the patient, I hung over him, and asked him what he\nconceived to have been the cause of his illness; but my question\nstartled him--he looked up wildly in my face; his mind was directed\ntowards heaven; and the means of salvation through the redeeming\ninfluence of a believed divinity of Him who died on the cross, was the\nsubject alone on which he would speak. The scene, at this moment, around\nme was extraordinary, and, though I cannot say I had any distinct\nperception of the individual circumstances that combined to make up the\nsum of my horrors, I can now see, as through a dark medium, the\nco-operating elements. There was no candle in the cabin; the light of\nthe moon through the windows filling the apartment with a blue glare,\nand tinging his pallid face with its hues. My mind, wrought up by the\ndreamy visions I had indulged in previously, and labouring under a\ndisease which imparted to every feeling its own eliminated gloom, saw\neven the darkest circumstances of my condition in a false and unnatural\naspect. The scenes of our youth and early love; the impressions of the\nreligious sentiments he was muttering in broken snatches; the view of\nhis approaching death; the dark means by which it was accomplished; my\ncondition after he should die, in the power of men I feared; the orgies\nof the natives I had been contemplating; the deep grave, so fearful in\nits dead calmness; and the monsters that revelled in it, to which he\nwould be consigned--all flitted through my brain; but with such\nrapidity--driving out, by short energies, the more engrossing thoughts\nconcerned in the manner of his recovery--that I could not particularize\nthem, while I drew, by some synthetic process of the mind, their general\nattributes, and thus increased the terror of the scene.\n\nTwo hours passed, and every moment made it more apparent that my husband\nwas posting to death. There was no sound heard throughout the ship\nexcept the dull tread of the watch; and, at intervals, the whispers of\nCrawley, as he communed stealthily with Buist, who went out of the cabin\nrepeatedly, to carry intelligence of the state of the sufferer. For\nabout three quarters of an hour he had been raving wildly. The detached\nwords he uttered raised, by their electric power, the working of my\nfancy which filled up, by a train of thoughts scarcely more within the\nprovince of reason, the chain of his wandering ideas. No connected\ndiscourse on the subject of his illness, though mixed up with all the\nreminiscences of an affection that had lasted since the period of\ninfancy, or the prospects that awaited me in the unprecedented position\nin which I was about to be thrown, could have distracted me in the\nmanner effected by these insulated vocables, wrung by madness from\nexpiring life and reason. They ring in my ears even yet, when the beams\nof the moon shine through the casements; and, even now, I think I see\nthat dimly lighted cabin, and my husband lying before me in the agonies\nof death. I became, as if by some secret sympathy, as much deranged as\nhimself. As I watched him, I cast rapid looks around me--out upon the\nstill deep, in the direction of the fearful island--upon the articles of\ndomestic use lying in confusion, and exhibiting dimly-illuminated sides\nand dark shades. It seemed to me some frightful dream; and, when I\nturned my eyes again on the pale face which had been the object of my\nexcited fancy for so many years, saw the struggles of expiring nature,\nand heard the wild accents that still came from his parched lips, I\nscreamed, and tore my hair in handfuls from my head. In that condition,\nI saw him die; and the increase of my frenzy, produced by that\nconsummation of all evils, made me rush out, and forward to the side of\nthe ship. I felt all the stinging madness of the resolution to die--to\nfly from the man who, I feared, had murdered him--to escape from that\nisland of cannibals, where I thought I would be left by my relentless\nfoes, by plunging into the deep, when Crawley, who had heard of his\ndemise, seized me, and dragged me back.\n\nThis paroxysm was succeeded by a kind of stupor that seized my whole\nmind and body. I sat down on a cot in the side of the cabin, and saw\nKreutz bring in a light. The glare of it startled me; but it was only as\na vision that could not awake the sleeper. They proceeded to lay out my\nhusband on a table. They undressed him--for his clothes were still on;\nand I saw them take a large sheet, wrap it round him, and pin it firmly\nat all the folds. When their labours were finished, they took each a\nlarge portion of brandy, and Crawley came forward and offered me a\nportion. I had no power to push it from me. He held it to my mouth; but\nmy lips were motionless; and, tossing it off himself, he and the others\nwent out of the cabin. No precaution was taken to keep me within; but\nthe frenzy that had previously impelled me to self-destruction had\nsubsided, and I shuddered at what a few moments before appeared to me to\nbe a source of relief. I sat for hours in the position in which they\nleft me, gazing upon the dead body before me, but without the energy to\nrise and look at the features of him who had formed the object of my\nearliest devotions, the subject of all my fondest dreams of early youth\nand matured womanhood, now lying there lifeless. I had scarcely, during\nthat period, consciousness of any object, but of a long, white figure\nextended on the table, with the moonlight reflected from it. The stupor\nleft me--I cannot tell at what hour; and the first movement of living\nenergy in my brain was a stinging impulse to rush forward and seize the\nbody. I obeyed it, without a power to resist; and, tearing off the\nfolds, laid bare the face, which was as placid as I had ever seen it,\nwhen, watching over him, I used to steal a look of him, during the hours\nof night, as he slept by my side, in the moonlight that stole through\nthe cabin-window. In my agony, I clung to him--kissed the cold\nlips--called out 'George! George!'--threw the folds of the sheet over\nthe face--again looked round me for some one to comfort me--felt the\nconsciousness of my perilous position--and, as a kind of refuge from the\ndespair that met me on every hand, withdrew again the folds, and acted\nover again the frenzied parts of a madness that mocked the miseries of\nthe inmates of an asylum.\n\nI must have exhausted myself by the excitement into which I was thrown;\nfor, some time afterwards, I found myself lying upon the cot, and\nwakening again to a consciousness of all the ills that surrounded me.\nThe light of the moon had given place to the dull beams of earliest\ndawn, which were only sufficient to shew me the extended figure on the\ntable, and the confusion into which the furniture of the cabin was\nthrown. I heard the sounds of several footsteps in the cuddy. Sounds of\nvoices struck my ear; and, rising up, I crawled forward to a situation\nwhere I could hear the communings from which my fate might be known.\n\n'When the wind starts,' said Crawley--'it will be from the north--we\nshould turn and make all speed for Rio, where we may dispose of the\ncargo, and then run the vessel to the West Indies. How do the men feel\ndisposed, Kreutz--all braced and steady?'\n\n'All but Wingate and Ryder, who are watched by the others,' replied the\nGerman. 'These dogs would mutiny, ha! ha!--mein gut friend Buist is\nagainst their valking the plank; but they must either come in or go out.\nTeufel! no mutineers aboard the Griffin.'\n\n'Right, Hans,' said Crawley. 'Get Murdoch to knock together the\nboards--we will bury him to-morrow; but the wife, man, what is to be\ndone with her?'\n\n'Put her ashore, to be sure,' responded Kreutz. 'There is not von\ndifficulty there. The natives will be glad of her, and we want her not.\nIf this calm were gone, all would be gut and recht. That is the von\nthing only that troubles me.'\n\n'If there is no wind,' said Crawley, 'to carry us out of the channel,\nthere is none to bring any one to us.'\n\nAt this moment, I thought they heard some movements, produced by a\nnervous trembling that came over me, and forced me to hold by a chair.\nSome whisperings followed. Kreutz went away, and Crawley entered. I had\njust time to retreat to the other side of the body of my husband. His\nmanner was now that which was natural to him--harsh and repulsive. He\nordered me peremptorily to the lower cabin. I had no power to resist, or\neven to speak; but I saw, in the order, the eternal separation of me and\nGeorge; and, rushing forward, I withdrew the covering from his face, to\ntake the last look--to imprint the last kiss on his cold lips. The act\noperated like the stirrings of conscience on the cowardly man of blood.\nHis averted eye glanced for an instant on the body, and, seizing the\ncoverlet, he wrapped up the countenance, and, taking me by the arm,\nhurried me down to the apartment set apart for passengers. This cabin\nwas darker than the captain's, from some of the windows having been\nchanged into dead lights; and I considered myself pent up in a dungeon.\nHitherto my feelings had been, in a great measure, the result of\nexisting moving circumstances; but now I was left to reflection, in so\nfar as that act of the mind could be concerned in the attempt to picture\nthe extremities of a fate that seemed as unavoidable as unparalleled.\nThe diseased visions that had distracted me before any real evil\noccurred, were changed, from their dreamy, shadowy character, to\nrealities. The lengthened trains of images that were required to satisfy\nthe cravings of hypochondria, fled; and, in their place, there was one\ngeneral, overwhelming fear, that seemed to engross all my thinking\nenergies, and left no power to particularize the visions of danger that\nawaited me among the savages. There was only one presiding, prevailing\nidea that served as the rallying point of my terrors; and that was the\ndead body of George, with the white sheet in which he was swathed, and\nthe peculiarly-formed oaken table on which he was placed, and at which\nwe used to dine upon all the dainties to be found on board an Indiaman.\nIt was the steadfastness of this idea that excluded the images of the\nfearful deep recesses--the Bacchanalian orgies of the savages--their\nanthropophagous rites, their midnight revels; but retained, as it were,\nhanging round it, the fear they had engendered, as a more complex\nfeeling. After Crawley had left me, I had thrown myself down on a\ncouch--an act of which I retained no consciousness; for afterwards, when\ndaylight began to break in through the only window that was not closed\nup, I started to my feet, and did not know, for some time, that I was\nseparated from the corpse; the vision of which had, during the interval,\nbeen so vivid, that it combined the conditions of figure and locality as\nperfectly as if the object had been before me.\n\nOn the deck I now heard the sound of several loud voices, and afterwards\na scuffle, accompanied with the tramping of feet. There was then silence\nfor a time; but my ears were stung, on a sudden, by a scream, succeeded\nby a plash, as if some one had been precipitated into the sea. A\ngurgling noise, as if the individual were drowning, followed; and the\nsuspicion rushed into my mind, that they had made an example (to terrify\nthe others) of one of the men who had rebelled against the authority of\nthe mutineers. A silence, as deep as that of death, succeeded, which\nlasted about an hour, at the end of which period the sound of the saw\nand hammer were distinctly heard. I recollected the orders of Crawley,\nfor Murdoch, the carpenter, to prepare George's coffin. The knocking\ncontinued for a considerable time, and produced such an effect upon me\nthat the ideas, which had been, as it were, chained up by the freezing\ninfluence of the prevailing vision of the extended and rolled-up body,\nbroke away and careered through my mind with the velocity,\nunconnectedness, and intensity, that belong to certain states of excited\nmania. Images of the past and the future were mixed up in confusion; and\nevery succeeding thought stung me with increased pain, till the idea of\nsuicide again suggested itself, bringing in its train that which\ndestroyed it--the terror of an avenging God, who will pass judgment on\nthe takers of their own lives. I started, and sought forgiveness; and,\nfor the first time under this agony, felt the soft action of the balm of\na confided trust in Him who has mercy in endless stores for the good,\nbut who poured his fury even upon the house of Israel, for the blood\nthey shed upon the land. But, must I confess it, the relief I felt from\nthis high source was immediately again lost in the cold shiverings of\ninstinctive fear, as I heard the knocking cease, knew the coffin was\nfinished, and perceived, from the sounds in the cabin off the cuddy,\nthat they were putting the body into the rudely constructed box, with a\nview of burying him in the deep sea.\n\nSome indescribable emotion, at this time, forced me towards the cabin\nwindow, although the sight of the water was frightful to me. It was\nstill and calm as ever, and the light was already sufficient to enable\nme to see far down in its green recesses. I could not take my eye from\nit. There were numerous creatures swimming about in it, some of which I\nhad got described to me, but many of them I had never seen before. They\nseemed more hideous to me now than they had ever appeared when, on\nformer occasions, I sat and watched their motions. The large\nbull-mouthed shark was there, rolling his huge body in apparent\nlethargy, and turning up his white belly in grim playfulness, as if in\nmockery of my misery. It had a charm about its truculent savageness that\nriveted my attention, while it shook my frame. It was connected in my\nmind with the fate of George's body, which, every moment, I expected to\nhear plash in the sea, in the midst of that shoal of creatures with\nstrange forms and ravenous maws. An exacerbation of these sickly\nfeelings made me lift my eyes; but it was only to fix them on the not\nless fearful island that lay before in the far distance, and now, in the\nfogs of the morning, through which the red sun struggled to send his\nbeams, appeared a huge mass of inspissated vapour lying motionless on\nthe surface of the sea. The very indistinctness of this hazy vision\nstimulated my fancy to its former morbid activity, and I saw again the\nmystic wooded ravines, sacred to the rights of cannibalism, of which I\nmyself was doomed to be the object.\n\nFrom this dream I was roused by the loud tread of men's feet over my\nhead, as if the individuals were bearing a load that increased the\nheaviness of their steps. I was at no loss for the cause--they were\ncarrying the coffin with the body in it to midship, where it was to be\nlet down into its watery grave. In a short time afterwards, a gurgling\nof the waters met my ear, and, struggling to the foot of the companion\nladder, I would have rushed upon deck if my strength would have\npermitted; but I fell upon the steps, and, lying there, heard a cry from\nsome of them. I gathered, from the detached words I heard, that the\nbottom of the coffin had given way, from its insufficiency and the\nweight that had been put in it to make it sink; and that the body had\ngone down, while the chest swam on the surface. Several feet were now\nheard rapidly in motion, and the voice of Kreutz, who was running aft,\nfell on my ear.\n\n'Teufel!' I heard him say, 'we shall have that grim corpse when the\ngallenblase--ha!--ha!--the gall bladder has burst, rising like von geist\nfrom the bottom of the deep sea, and staring at us. Hell take the\nstumper, Murdoch!'\n\nThese words, uttered by the German, were followed by some expression\nfrom Crawley, no part of which I could make out, except the oaths\ndirected against the carpenter. The sounds died away; but I heard enough\nto satisfy me of the fact that George's body had been consigned to the\ndeep with only the shroud to defend it against the attacks of the\nravenous creatures I had been contemplating. My mind was again forced,\nand with increased energy, into the train of gloomy meditations\nsuggested by what I had heard; and so vivid were the visions that obeyed\nthe excited powers of my imagination, that I forgot, as I lay brooding\nover them on the sofa to which I had staggered, the danger that next\nawaited myself. I could not now look at the sea, for I feared to meet\nthe fact which would add probation to my imaginations--that the animals\nI had seen there had disappeared to crowd round the prey that had been\ngiven to them. Yet the actual vision of that dear form, mutilated, torn,\nand devoured, could not, I am satisfied, have produced more insufferable\nagony, than accompanied and resulted from the diseased imaginings in\nwhich my fancy was engaged. The process that I pictured going on in the\nbottom of the sea, was coloured by hues so sickly, and attended by\ncircumstances so distorted and grim, that all natural appearances,\nhowever harrowing, must have fallen short of the power they exercised\nover me. The positions in which I imagined him to be placed, were varied\nin a greater degree than ever I had seen the human body; the expressions\nof the countenance, though fixed by death, and not likely to be changed,\nbecame as Protean as the changing postures of the limbs; and the marine\nmonsters that gambolled or fought around him for the prize, were\ninvested with forms, colours, and attributes, of a kind not limited to\nwhat I had ever seen in the deep. The only idea that seemed to remain\nstationary, and not liable to the mutations into which all the others\nwere every moment gliding, was the colour of the body, which was that of\nthe green medium in which he lay. That sickly hue pervaded all parts;\nand even the dark or light colours of the inhabitants of the deep,\npartook, more or less, of the prevailing tint. It seemed to be the\nuniversal of all particulars, as time or space is the medium or\ncondition of existence of all thought and matter; I felt the\nimpossibility of any idea being true that did not partake of it; and, so\nstrongly was the feeling of the ex-natural that accompanied it, that\neven now I cannot look at anything green without shuddering.\n\nI cannot tell how long I was under the dominion of this train of\nthought. I was, in a manner, torn from it by the entrance of Kreutz with\nsome food for me. He growled out a few words of mixed German and\nEnglish, and left it on the table. It is needless to say that I could\neat nothing. Even before these misfortunes overtook me, my appetite had\nleft me; but now I loathed all edibles. After having been roused from\nthe train of morbid imaginings in which I had been engaged, and which I\nclung to as if they imparted to me some unnatural satisfaction, I felt\n(and it is a curious fact) a recoiling disinclination to resume the grim\nsubject, and even resorted to some imbecile and despairing efforts to\navoid it. It was not that I expected any relief from forbearing: every\nother subject that could be suggested by my position was equally fraught\nwith tears and pains; but that having, as I now suppose, exhausted, for\nthe time, the diseased workings, the view of an effort to call up again\nthe thoughts that had been as it were supplied by disease, penetrated me\nwith a sensation beyond the powers of endurance. For two or three hours\nafterwards, my attention was directed to the proceedings upon deck; but\nI could hear little beyond indistinct mutterings, and occasional sounds\nof the treading of feet over me. The calm, which had lasted for many\ndays, still continued; and, until a wind sprung up, no effort could be\nmade by the mutineers to retrace their progress through the channel, and\nproceed to their projected destination. At last the shades of night\nbegan to fall; exhausted nature claimed some relief from her sufferings;\nbut the drowsiness that overcame me, was only a medium of a new series\nof imaginings still more grotesque and unnatural than those that had\nhaunted me during the day.\n\nWhen the morning dawned, I expected every moment the execution of the\npurpose I had heard declared by Crawley, to put me ashore on the island;\nand, during moments of more rational reflection, I could not account for\nmy not having been disposed of in this way on the previous day. The\nterrors of that destiny were as strong upon me as ever; but, I must\nconfess, that the view of real evil, almost unprecedented, as it seemed,\nin its extent and peculiarity, produced feelings entirely different from\nwhat resulted from the prior musings of my hypochondriac fancy: I would\nnot be believed were I to say that the expected reality was not much\nmore painful than the sickly vision. The miseries were of different\nkinds, proceeding from different causes, operating upon a mind in two\ndifferent states. There was something in my own power. I was not\njustified in committing suicide as a mode of escape from an affliction\nthat God might have seen meet to put upon me; but all my reasonings on\nthis subject fled before the view of this next calamity that awaited me.\nAn extraordinary thought seized me, that I was not bound to hold life,\nwhen, through my own body and sensibilities, God's laws were to be\noverturned, and my sufferings were to be made a shame in the face of\nheaven. I secreted a knife in my bosom, and sat in silent expectation of\nthe issue. I was again supplied with meat; but, on this occasion,\nCrawley brought it to me--and here began a new evil. He resumed,\npartially, his former dastardly sneaking manner; made love to me;\noffered me the honour of being still a captain's wife, and accompanied\nthe offer with, obliquely-hinted threats of a due consequence of my\nrejection of his suit. I spurned him; but I cannot dwell on the details\nof this proceeding. His suit was persisted in for two or three days,\nwhen, roused to madness, he told me, that next day, if I consented not,\nI would be wedded to the natives of Madagascar. I traced the outline of\nthe knife through the covering of my bosom, and defied him.\n\nThe next night was clear, and somewhat chill--indications of a cessation\nof the calm. The rudeness of Crawley had had the effect of keeping my\nmind from falling into the grasp of the demon of diseased fantasy; but,\nnow my fate was fixed, I had no more to fear from him; and towards\nmidnight, I fell again into the train of imaginings that had formerly\nhaunted me. I had opened the cabin window for air--having felt a\nsuffocating oppression of the chest during the day, proceeding from the\nextreme heat and the confined apartment. My eyes were again fixed in the\ndirection of the island. I could see the dark shade of the land lying\nupon the gilded waters. All was still; my thoughts sought again the\ndeep--the grave of George, the fancied condition of his body; and, as my\nideas diverged to the calm scene around, it appeared to me as if all\nnature were dead, and that my own pulsations were the only living\nmovements on earth. Lights now began to move along the shore, and then a\nfire blazed up into the firmament. The bodies of the savages flitted\nbefore it; I had seen the same appearances before; but I was now\nconnected with these orgies in a more _real_ manner than formerly. They\nceased, and my mind again sought the recesses of the green deep, where\nall I loved on earth lay engulfed. My eye at times wandered over the\nsurface of the waters; but I feared to look downwards into their bosom.\nMy attention was suddenly fixed by an object in the sea. I put up my\nhands and rubbed my eyes. Was I deceived by a fancy? No! a dead body was\nthere, not four yards distant from where I sat. It was that of my\nhusband, rolled up in the same white sheet in which I had seen him\nextended on the oak table, and with his head raised somewhat above the\nsurface, by the weights placed in the shroud having, as I afterwards\nthought, descended to the feet. A part of the sewing had been torn off\nthe head, which was bare--the face was openly exposed to me, the moon\nshone upon it; I could perceive the very features, and even the\nlustreless eyes, that seemed fixed on the ship. There was not a breath\nof wind to ruffle the surface of the sea, which shone with a blue lustre\nin the light of the moon; and the body was as motionless as if it had\nbeen fixed on the earth. I have described, hitherto, what actually\nbefell me, with the various states of my mind under extraordinary\ncircumstances of pain and depression. My fancies belonged as much to\nnature as the facts which excited and nourished them, and must be\nbelieved by those who have studied the workings of the mind, even\nunconnected with the principles and facts of pathology. This was,\nhowever, no vision of the fancy, but a reality resulting from well-known\nphysical laws. I sat, fixed immovably, at the window, and felt no more\npower of receding from it, than I formerly had of resigning my musings.\nMy eyes were fixed upon that countenance which had been the _beau ideal_\nof love's idolatry--the fairest thing on earth, and the archetype of my\ndreams of heaven. I could not fly from it, horrible as it seemed in its\nblue glare and ghastly expression. I loved it while it shocked me; and\nall my powers of thinking were bound up in freezing terror. I felt the\nhair on my head move as the shrivelling skin became corrugated over my\ntemples. That, and the occasional throbbings of my heart, were the only\nmotions of any part of my being; but the body I gazed at seemed to be as\nimmovable, and its eyes seemed not less steadfastly fixed on me than\nmine were on it.\n\nHow long I sat in this position I know not. There was no internal\nimpulse that moved me to desist. I could, I thought, have looked for\never. Certain fearful objects possess a charm over the mind--and this\nwas one of them; but I have sometimes thought that the power lay in\nproducing the negative state of mental paralysis; for the instant my\nattention was called to a strange noise upon the deck, I was suddenly\nrecalled to a natural sense of the fear it inspired. The sounds I heard\nwere a mixture of exclamations and objections, pronounced in tones of\nfear and anger. I turned away my face from the dead body, with a strong\nfeeling of repugnance to contemplate it again; and, groping my way to\nthe companion-ladder, listened to what was going on above. Kreutz and\nCrawley were in communication.\n\n'There is more than chance in that frightful appearance,' I heard\nCrawley say. 'And this calm too--it will never end. God have mercy on\nus! Is there no man that will undertake to sink the body? I cannot stand\nthe gaze of these white balls. See! the face is directed towards me; and\nyet I did not do the deed, though I authorized it. Will no one save me\nfrom the glare of the grim avenger? I will give twenty gold pieces to\nthe man who will remove it to the deep. Go forward, Kreutz, and try if\nyou can prevail upon a bold heart to undertake the task!'\n\n'Pho, man!' responded the German--'all von phantasy--anybody would have\nrisen in the same way--Teufel! I heed it not von peterpfenning. But the\nmen are alarmed, and begin to say that the captain has not got fair\nplay. Hush! seize your degen. There is von commotion before the mast.'\n\nI now heard a tumult in the fore part of the vessel and began to\nsuspect that the crew had been led to believe that George had died a\nnatural death, and had been by some means prevailed upon to work the\nvessel, when the wind rose in another direction, under the command of\nCrawley. The noise increased, and with it the fears of the cowardly\nvillain whose conscience had been awakened by such strange means. Kreutz\nhad left him to try to pacify the men; and the tones of his\nterror-struck voice continued to murmur around.\n\n'There it still is,' he groaned, as his attention seemed to be divided\nbetween the sight he contemplated and the tumult, 'gazing steadfastly\nwith these lack-lustre eyes for revenge. It is on me they are\nfixed--immovably fixed--as a victim which the spirit that floats over\nthe body in that dead light of the moon demands, and will get. There is\na God above in that blue firmament, who sees all things. I am lost.\nThese men obey the call of a power that chooses that grim apparition as\nits instrument to call down destruction on my head. Ha! Kreutz has no\ninfluence here; the avengers are prepared.'\n\nA step now came rapidly forward, and Kreutz's voice was again heard.\n\n'If you will not try to quell them,' said he, 'all is lost. They swear\nthe captain has been murdered, and that verdamt traitor Buist heads them\non. Donner! shall Hans Kreutz die like one muzzled dog? On with degen in\nhand, and it may not be too late! We have friends among the caitiffs;\nstrike down the first man; his blut will terrify them more than that\nstaring geist, which is, after all, only von natural body, with no more\nspirit in it than the bones of my grandmutter. Frisch! frisch! auf, man!\ncome, come, dash in and strike the first mutineer!'\n\nThe cowardly spirit of Crawley was acted upon by the stern German; for I\nheard him cry out--\n\n'Hold there, men! what means this tumult--'sdeath?'\n\nThe rest of his words were drowned by the noise; but I heard the sounds\nof his and Kreutz's feet as they rushed forward. In an instant, the\nsound like that of a man falling prostrate on the deck, met my ear; and\nthen there rose a yell that rung through every cranny of the ship. All\nseemed engaged in a desperate struggle. The words 'Revenge for our\ncaptain!' often rose high above all the other sounds. The clanging of\nmany daggers followed; several bodies fell with a crash upon the deck,\nand loud groans, as if from persons in the agonies of death, were mixed\nwith the cries of those who were struggling for victory. The tramping\nand confusion increased, till all distinct sound seemed lost in a\ngeneral uproar. I got alarmed, and left my station at the foot of the\ncompanion-ladder; but I knew not whither to fly. I took again my seat at\nthe window, as if I felt that there was an opening for me from which I\nmight fly from the fearful scene. My agitation had banished from my mind\nfor an instant the vision of the body; and I started again with\nincreased fear as my eyes fell upon the corpse that had apparently been\nthe cause of the uproar. It was still there, as motionless as before;\nyet, I thought, still nearer to me. I saw the features still more\ndistinctly than ever, and found my mind again chained down by the charm\nit threw over me. The sounds for a time seemed to come upon my ear from\na far, far distance, or like those heard in a dream; and like a dreamer,\ntoo, I struggled to get away from a vision that I at once loved and\ntrembled at. The noises on deck seemed as those of the world, and the\nobject before me the creation of the fancy that bound my soul, but left\nthe sense of hearing open to living sounds. While in this state, I was\nsuddenly roused by a rush of several men into the cabin; they held\ndaggers in their hands and their countenances were besmeared with blood.\nI looked at them, under the impression that they were my enemies, and\nthat the cause of Crawley had triumphed; but I was soon undeceived--they\ntold me that both he and Kreutz lay dead upon the deck, and that the\nvictorious party were determined to complete the voyage and take the\nship to Madras. The removal of one evil from a mind borne down by the\nweight of many, only leaves a greater power of susceptibility of the\npain of what remains. The moment I heard of my own personal safety, I\nrecurred again to the subject that affected me more deeply than even the\nfears of being consigned to the natives of the island--the dead body of\nGeorge was still in the waters. The men understood and appreciated my\nsufferings. I again went to the cabin window, and, pointing to the\ncorpse, implored Buist, who was present, to get it taken up and buried.\nHe replied, that that had already been agreed upon, and orders were\ngiven to that effect. Several of the men volunteered of themselves to\nassist. A boat was put out, and I watched the solemn process. I saw them\ndrag up the body from the sea, and would have flown to the deck to\nembrace once more the dearest object of my earthly affections; but I was\nrestrained from motives of humanity. I had reason to suppose that it had\nbeen dreadfully mutilated, and that was the reason why I was saved the\npain of the sad sight. That same evening it was consigned again to the\ndeep; and with it sunk the bodies of his murderers, Crawley and Kreutz.\n\nNext day, a breeze sprang up, and bore us away from that fatal place. My\neyes were fixed on it till I could see no longer any traces of that\nisland which had caused me so many fears. In a short time, we arrived in\nIndia, where I remained about two months, and returned again with the\nGriffin to Britain.\n\n\"Now, sir,\" she continued, \"all these things are in the course of man's\ndoings in this strange world. It is also very natural that I should\nthink of him. But a more dreadful effect has followed. I shudder when I\nthink of it.\"\n\nShe stopped and looked at me, as if she were afraid to touch upon the\nsubject of the visual illusion. I told her that I understood the cause\nof her fears; and having questioned her, I satisfied myself from her\nanswers that I had at last discovered a case of true _monomania_, in\nwhich the patient conceived that she saw, with the same distinctness as\nwhen she looked from the cabin window of the _Griffin_ the corpse of her\nhusband swimming in the sea, with the head and chest above the waters,\nsurrounded with the same blue moonlight, and every minute circumstance\nattending the real presence.\n\nI meditated a cure; but I frankly confess that it was my anxious wish to\nwitness her under the influence of the fit; and, with that view, I\npurposed waiting upon her repeatedly in the evenings, when, under the\nshaded light of the candle, it generally came over her. I was baffled in\nthis for several weeks, chiefly, I presume, from the circumstance of my\npresence operating as an engagement of her mind; but one evening when I\nwas sitting with her mother in another room, the sister came suddenly,\nand beckoned me into that occupied by my patient. The door was opened\nquietly and, on looking in, I saw, for the first time, a vision-struck\nvictim of this extraordinary disease. She sat as if under a spell, her\narms extended, her eyes fixed on the imaginary object, and every sense\nbound up in that which contemplated the spectre vision. The fit\nended with a loud scream; she fell back in her chair, crying\nwildly--\"George!--George!\" and lay, for a minute or two, apparently\ninsensible.\n\nI continued my study of this extraordinary case for a considerable\nperiod; and, while I administered to her relief, I got her to explain to\nme some things which may be of use to our profession. I need not say\nthat I was able to penetrate the dark secret of the seat of either the\npathology or the metaphysique of the disease. That it was connected with\nthe irritability of her nerves, and the affection of the eyes, there can\nbe little doubt; because, as she mended in health, the fits diminished\nin number, and latterly went off. I may, however, state that, from all I\ncould learn from her, the fit was something of the nature of a\ndream--all the objects around her, at the time, being as much unnoticed\nas if they existed not; and although she was possessed with an absolute\nconviction that the body of her husband was actually at the time\npresent, it was precisely that kind of conviction that we feel in a\nvivid dream.\n\n[Footnote 2: HIBBERT'S _Philosophy of Apparitions_; BREWSTER'S _Letters on\nNatural Magic_; SCOTT'S _Letters on Witchcraft_, _&c._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOUNDLING AT SEA.\n\n\nAbout the year 1708 or 1710, the good ship _Isabella_, Captain Hardy,\nsailed from the port of Greenock for Bombay, being chartered by the East\nIndia Company to carry out a quantity of arms and ammunition for the use\nof the Company's forces.\n\nThe _Isabella_ carried out with her several passengers; amongst whom\nwere a lady, her child--a girl about three years of age--and a\nservant-maid. This lady, whose name was Elderslie, was the wife of a\nlieutenant in the British army, who was then with his regiment at\nCalcutta, whither she was about to follow him; he having written home\nthat, as he had been fortunate enough to obtain some semi-civil\nappointments in addition to his military services, he would, in all\nprobability, be a residenter there for many years. The lieutenant added\nthat, under these circumstances, he wished his \"dear Betsy, and their\ndarling little Julia, to join him as soon as possible.\" And this, he\nsaid, he had the less hesitation in requiring, that the appointments he\nalluded to would render their situation easy and comfortable. It was\nthen in obedience to this invitation that Mrs Elderslie and her child\nwere now passengers on board the _Isabella_.\n\nFor about six weeks the gallant ship pursued her way prosperously--that\nwhole period being marked only by alternatives of temporary calms and\nfair winds. The vessel was now off the coast of Guinea; and here an\ninscrutable Providence had decreed that her ill-fated voyage--for it was\ndestined to be so, flattering as had been its outset--should terminate.\nA storm arose--a dreadful storm--one of those wild bursts of elemental\nfury which mock the might of man, and hoarsely laugh at his puny and\nfeeble efforts to resist their destructive powers. For two days and\nnights the vessel, stript of every inch of canvass, drove wildly before\nthe wind; and, on the morning of the third day, struck furiously on a\nreef of rocks, at about half a mile's distance from the shore. On the\nship striking, the crew--not doubting that she would immediately go to\npieces, for a dreadful sea was beating over her, and she was, besides,\nevery now and then, surging heavily against the rock on which she now\nlay--instantly took to their boats, accompanied by the passengers. All\nthe passengers? No, not all. There was one amissing. It was Mrs\nElderslie. About ten minutes before the ship struck, that unfortunate\nlady, together with two men and a boy, were swept from the deck by a\nhuge sea that broke over the stern; sending, with irresistible fury, a\nrushing deluge of water, of many feet in depth, over the entire length\nof the ship. Neither Mrs Elderslie nor any of the unhappy participators\nin her dismal fate were seen again.\n\nIn the hurry and confusion of taking to the boats, none recollected that\nthere was still a child on board--the child of the unfortunate lady who\nhad just perished; or, if any did recollect this, none chose to run the\nrisk of missing the opportunity of escape presented by the boats, by\ngoing in search of the hapless child, who was at that moment below in\nthe cabin. In the meantime, the overloaded boats--for they were much too\nsmall to carry the numbers who were now crowded into them, especially in\nsuch a sea as was then raging--had pushed off, and were labouring to\ngain the shore. It was a destination they were doomed never to reach.\nBefore they had got half-way, both boats were swamped--the one\nimmediately after the other--and all on board perished, after a brief\nstruggle with the roaring and tumbling waves that were bellowing around\nthem.\n\nFrom this moment, the storm, as if now satisfied with the mischief it\nhad wrought, began to abate. In half an hour it had altogether subsided;\nand the waves, though still rolling heavily, had lost the violence and\nenergy of their former motion. They seemed worn out and exhausted by\ntheir late fury.\n\nThe crew of the unfortunate vessel had left her, as we have said, in the\nexpectation that she would shortly go to pieces; but it would have been\nbetter for them had they had more confidence in her strength, and\nremained by her; for, strange to tell, she withstood the fury of the\nelements, and, though sorely battered and shaken, her dark hull still\nrested securely on the rock on which she had struck. The wreck of the\n_Isabella_ had been witnessed from the shore by a crowd of the natives,\nwho had assembled directly opposite the fatal reef on which she had\nstruck. They would fain have gone out in their canoes to the unfortunate\nvessel when she first struck, as was made evident by some unsuccessful\nattempts they made to paddle towards her; but whether with a friendly or\nhostile purpose, cannot be known. On the storm subsiding, however, they\nrenewed their attempts. A score of canoes started for the wreck, reached\nit, and, in an instant after, the deck of the unfortunate vessel was\ncovered with wild Indians. Whooping and yelling in the savage excitement\noccasioned by the novelty of everything around, they flew madly about\nthe deck, scrambled down into the hold, tore open bales and packages,\nand possessed themselves of whatever most attracted their whimsical and\ncapricious fancies. While some were thus occupied in the hold, others\nwere ransacking the cabin. It was here, and at this moment, that a scene\nof extraordinary interest took place. A huge savage, who was peering\ncuriously into one of the cabin beds, suddenly uttered a yell, so\npiercing and unusual, that it attracted the notice of all his wild\ncompanions; then, plunging his hand into the bed, drew forth, and held\nup to the wondering gaze of the latter, a beautiful little girl of about\nthree years old. It was the daughter of the unfortunate Mrs Elderslie.\nThe unconscious child had slept during the whole of the catastrophe,\nwhich had deprived her, first of her parent, and subsequently of her\nprotectors, and had only awoke with the shout of the savage who now held\nher in his powerful, but not unfriendly grasp; for he seemed delighted\nwith his prize. He hugged the infant in his bosom, looked at it, laughed\nover it, and performed a thousand antics expressive of his admiration\nand affection for the fair and blooming child of which he had thus\nstrangely become possessed. The child, for some time, expressed great\nterror of her new protector and his sable companions, calling loudly on\nher mother; but the anxious and eager endearments of the former\ngradually calmed her fears and quieted her cries.\n\nIn the meantime, the plunder of the vessel was going on vigorously in\nall directions--above and below, in the cabin and forecastle, till, at\nlength, as much was collected as the savages thought their canoes would\nsafely carry. These, therefore, were now loaded with the booty; and the\nwhole fleet, shortly after, made for the shore.\n\nIn one of these canoes was little Julia Elderslie and her new protector,\nwho, by still maintaining his friendly charge over her, shewed that he\nmeant to appropriate her as a part of his share of the plunder.\n\nOn reaching the shore, the kind-hearted savage, as his whole conduct in\nthe affair shewed him to be, consigned his little protegee to the care\nof a female--one of the group of women who were on the beach awaiting\nthe arrival of the canoes, and who appeared to be his wife.\n\nThe woman received the child with similar expressions of surprise and\ndelight with those which had marked her husband's conduct on his first\nfinding her. She turned her gently round and round, examined her with a\ndelighted curiosity, patted her cheeks, felt her legs and arms, and, in\nshort, handled her as if she had been some strange toy, or as if she\nwished to be assured that she was really a thing of flesh and blood.\n\nFor two days the natives continued their plunder of the wreck. By the\nthird, the vessel had been cleared of every article of any value that\ncould be carried away; and on this being ascertained, a general division\nof the spoil, accumulated on the shore, took place.\n\nIt was a scene of dreadful confusion and uproar, and more than once\nthreatened to terminate in bloodshed; but it eventually closed without\nany such catastrophe. The partition was effected, the encampment was\nbroken up, and the whole band--men, women, and children, all loaded with\nplunder--commenced their march into the interior; the little Julia\nforming part of the burden of the man who had first appropriated her; a\nlabour in which he was from time to time relieved by his wife.\n\nFrom three to four years after the occurrence of the events just\nrelated, a Scotch merchant ship, the _Dolphin_ of Ayr, Captain\nClydesdale, bound for the Cape of Good Hope, while prosecuting her\nvoyage, unexpectedly run short of water, in consequence of the bursting\nof a tank, when off the Gold Coast of Africa.\n\nOn being informed of the accident, the captain determined on running for\nthe land for the purpose of endeavouring to procure a further supply of\nthe indispensable necessary of which he had just sustained so serious a\nloss.\n\nThe vessel was, accordingly, directed towards the coast, which she\nneared in a few hours; and, finally, entered a small bay, which seemed\nlikely to afford at once the article wanted, and a safe anchorage for\nthe ship while she waited for its reception.\n\nBy a curious chance, the bay which the _Dolphin_ now entered was the\nsame in which the _Isabella_ had been wrecked upwards of three years\nbefore. But of that ill-fated vessel there was now no trace; a\nsuccession of storms, similar to that which had first hurled her on the\nrocks, had at length accomplished her entire destruction: she had, in\ntime, been beaten to pieces, and had now wholly disappeared.\n\nThere was then no appearance of any kind, no memorial nor vestige by\nwhich those on board the _Dolphin_ might learn, or at all suspect that\nthe locality they were now in had been the scene of so deep a tragedy as\nthat recorded in the early part of our tale.\n\nAll unconscious of this, the _Dolphin_ came to within pistol-shot not\nonly of the reef, but of the identical spot on which the _Isabella_ had\nbeen wrecked.\n\nHaving come to anchor, a boat, filled with empty watercasks, was\ndespatched from the ship for the shore. In this boat was the captain,\nfirst mate, and a pretty numerous party of men, all well armed, in case\nof any interruption from the natives.\n\nOn landing, Captain Clydesdale, the mate, and two men, leaving the\nothers in the boat, set out in quest of water. The search was not a\ntedious one. When they had walked about a quarter of a mile inland, the\ngratifying noise of a waterfall struck upon their ears. Following the\ndelightful sound, they quickly reached a rocky dell into which a crystal\nsheet of water, of considerable breadth, was falling from a height of\nabout fifteen feet; and, after sportively circling about for a moment in\na deep but clear pool below, sought the channel which conducted to the\nsea, found it, and glided noiselessly away.\n\nDelighted with this opportune discovery, Captain Clydesdale despatched\none of the men who was along with him to the boat, to order the others\nup with the water casks.\n\nHaving seen the people commence the task of filling the latter, the\ncaptain and mate, each armed with a musket, cutlass, and brace of\npistols, started for a walk a little farther inland, in order to obtain\na view of the country. For nearly an hour they wandered on, now scaling\nheights, and now forcing their way through patches of tangled brushwood,\nwithout meeting with any adventure, or seeing anything at all\nextraordinary. They had now gained the banks of the stream which, lower\ndown, formed the cascade at which the water casks were filling; and this\nthey proposed to trace downwards, as its banks presented a clear and\nopen route, till they should reach the point whence they had started.\n\nWhile jogging leisurely along this route, the adventurers, by turning a\nprojecting rock, suddenly opened a small bight or hollow, sheltered on\nall sides, except towards the river, by the high grounds around it. In\nthe centre of this little glen was an Indian encampment! Alarmed at this\nunexpected sight, the captain and mate abruptly halted, and would have\nagain retreated behind the projecting rock or knoll which had first\nconcealed them, and taken another route, but they perceived they were\nseen by a group of male natives who were lolling on the grass in front\nof the wigwams. On seeing the white men--who now stood fast, aware that\nit was useless to attempt to retreat--the Indians sprang to their feet\nwith a loud yell, and rushed towards them. The captain and mate\ninstinctively brought down their muskets; for reason would have shown\nthem that resistance was equally useless with flight. The hostile\nattitude, however, which they had assumed, had the effect of checking\nthe advance of the natives, who suddenly halted, and, to the great\nrelief of the captain and mate, made friendly signs of welcome to them.\n\nConfiding in and returning these signs, the latter raised their muskets\nand advanced towards the party, who now also resumed their march towards\nthe strangers. They met, when, after some attempts at conversation,\nconducted on the part of the natives with great good-humour, but, on\nboth sides, altogether in vain, one of the former suddenly ran off at\nfull speed towards the wigwams, into one of which he plunged, and\ninstantly reappeared, leading a female child of six or seven years of\nage by the hand. As he advanced towards the captain and mate, he kept\npointing to the child's face, then to his own, then towards those of the\nstrangers, and laughing loudly the while.\n\nWith an amazement which they would have found it difficult to express,\nClydesdale and his companion perceived that the child, now produced, was\nfair, of regular features, smooth hair, and without any trace of African\norigin. Exposure to a tropical sun had deeply embrowned her little\ncheeks; but enough of bloom still remained, as, when coupled with other\ncharacteristics, left no doubt on the minds of the captain and his mate\nthat the child, however it had come into its present situation, was of\nEuropean parentage.\n\nHis curiosity greatly excited by this extraordinary circumstance, Mr\nClydesdale now endeavoured to obtain some account of the child from the\nnatives; but he could make little or nothing of the attempted conference\non this subject. From what, however, he did gather, he came to the\nconclusion--a very accurate one, as the reader may guess--that a\nshipwreck had taken place on the coast, and that the child had been\nsaved by the natives.\n\nBelieving this to be the case, Captain Clydesdale now became anxious to\nknow whether any others had escaped; but could not make himself\nunderstood. At length one of the savages, of more apt comprehension than\nthe others, seemed to have obtained a glimmering of the import of the\ncaptain's queries, and fell upon an ingenious mode of replying to them.\nGrasping Mr Clydesdale by the arm, he conducted him to a small pool of\nwater that was hard by. He then took a piece of bark that was lying on\nthe ground, placed about a dozen small pebbles on it, and launched it\ninto the pool. Then stooping down, he edged it over, till the stones\nslid, one after the other, into the water, until one only remained.\nAllowing the piece of bark now to right itself, and to float on the\nwater, he pointed to the single stone it carried, and then to the child;\nthus intimating, as Mr Clydesdale understood it, and as it was evidently\nmeant to signify, that all had perished excepting the little girl.\n\nWhile this primitive mode of communication was going on, the man who had\nbrought the child to Captain Clydesdale had returned to his wigwam, and\nnow reappeared, carrying several articles in his hand, which he held up\nto the former. Mr Clydesdale took them in his hand, and found them to\nconsist of fragments of a child's dress, made, as he thought, after the\nfashion of those in use in Scotland. On the corner of what appeared to\nbe the remains of a little shift, he discovered the initials, J. E. But\nthe most interesting relic produced on this occasion, was a small\nlocket, containing some rich black hair on one side, and on the other\nthe miniature of a young man in a military uniform, with the same\ninitials, J. E., engraven on the rim. This locket, the man who brought\nit gave Captain Clydesdale to understand, had been found hanging around\nthe neck of the child when first discovered.\n\nSatisfied now, beyond all doubt, of the child's European descent, Mr\nClydesdale approached her, took her kindly by the hand, and, hoping to\nmake something of her own testimony, began to put some questions to her;\nbut, to his great disappointment, found that she did not understand him,\nalthough he spoke to her both in French and English. The little girl, in\ntruth, he soon discovered, neither understood nor spoke any language but\nthat of the tribe in whose hands she was.\n\nIt appeared, however, sufficiently clear to Captain Clydesdale, that a\nshipwreck had taken place on the coast, and that at no very great\ndistance of time, and that the child before him had been on board of the\nunfortunate vessel. Various circumstances, too, led him to the belief\nthat the ship had been a British one; and in this opinion he was joined\nby the mate.\n\nThe result of the Captain's reflections on these points, was a\ndetermination to take the child to Scotland with him, if he could\nprevail upon her present possessors to part with her, and to take his\nchance of making some discovery regarding her on his return home.\n\nHaving come to this resolution, he hastened to make known to the natives\nhis wish to have the little girl; and was well pleased to perceive that\nthe proposal, which they seemed at once to comprehend, was not received\nwith any surprise, far less indignation. Encouraged by this reception of\nhis overture, Captain Clydesdale now addressed himself particularly to\nthe man who appeared to be the guardian, or, perhaps, proprietor of the\nchild, and, unbuckling his cutlass from his side, presented it to\nhim--making him, at the same time, to understand that he offered it as\nthe price of the little girl. The man demurred. Captain Clydesdale\npulled a clasp-knife out of his pocket, and made signs that he would\ngive that also, provided the locket and fragment of shift, with the\ninitials on it, were given along with the child. This addition to the\nfirst offer had the desired effect. The cutlass and knife were accepted,\nthe locket and shift given in exchange, and the little hand of the girl\nplaced in Captain Clydesdale's, to signify that she was now his\nproperty. After some farther interchange of civilities with the natives,\nthe captain, his mate, and the little Julia Elderslie--for, we presume,\nthe reader has been all along perfectly aware that the child in question\nwas no other than that unfortunate little personage--proceeded on their\nway towards the place where the watering party had been left. This spot\nthey reached in safety, after about an hour's walking, and found the men\nwaiting their return--the casks having been already all filled and\nshipped.\n\nIn half an hour after, the boat was alongside the _Dolphin_, and little\nJulia was handed upon deck; and, in less than another hour, the ship was\nunder weigh, and prosecuting her voyage to the Cape, where she\nultimately arrived in safety. During this time, Captain Clydesdale had\ndiscovered in his Ponakonta--the name given to little Julia by the\nAfricans, and by which he delighted to call her--a disposition so docile\nand affectionate, and a manner so gentle and unobtrusive, that he\nalready loved her with all the tenderness of a parent, and had secretly\nresolved that he would adopt her as his own, and as such bring her up\nand educate her, if no one possessed of a better right to discharge this\nduty to her should ever appear.\n\nIn about six months after the occurrence of the events just related, the\ngood ship _Dolphin_ arrived safely at the harbour of Ayr, all well; and\nthe little demi-savage, Ponakonta, in high spirits, and already\nbeginning to jabber very passable English--an acquisition which still\nmore endeared her to her kind-hearted protector, who took great delight\nin listening to her prattle, and in questioning her regarding her life\namongst the Africans--of which she was now able to give a tolerably\nintelligible account. She had, however, no recollection whatever of the\nshipwreck, nor of any incident connected with it. Some dreamy\nreminiscences, indeed, she had of her mother; but, as might have been\nexpected, considering how very young she was when that catastrophe\nhappened which had deprived her of her parent, they were too vague and\nindefinite to be of the slightest avail towards throwing any light on\nher parentage.\n\nOn arriving at Ayr, Captain Clydesdale's first step, with regard to his\nlittle charge, was to avail himself of every means he could think of to\nmake her singular history, with all its particulars, publicly known, in\nthe hope that it might bring some one forward who stood in some\nrelationship to her. The worthy man, however, took this step merely as\none that was right and proper in the case, and not, by any means, from\nany desire to get rid of his little protegee. On the contrary, if truth\nbe told, he would have been sadly disappointed had any one appeared to\nclaim her. Nothing of this kind occurring, after a lapse of several\nweeks, Captain Clydesdale--who, although pretty far advanced in years,\nwas unmarried, and had no domestic establishment of his own, being\nalmost constantly at sea--placed little Julia under the charge of some\nfemale relatives, with instructions to give her every sort of education\nbefitting her years; for all of which--boarding, clothing, and\ntuition--he came under an obligation to pay quarterly--giving a handsome\nsum, in the meantime, to account. Having thus disposed of his protegee,\nand satisfied that he had placed her in good hands, which was indeed the\ncase, Captain Clydesdale went again to sea--his destination, on this\noccasion, being South America.\n\nThe worthy man, however, did not go away before having a parting\ninterview with his little Ponakonta, whom he kissed a thousand times,\nnor before he had entreated for her every kindness and attention, during\nhis absence, at the hands of those whom he had now constituted her\nguardians. It was upwards of two years before Captain Clydesdale\nreturned from this voyage; for it included several trading trips between\nforeign ports; and thus was his absence prolonged.\n\nGreat was the good man's delight with the improvement which he found had\ntaken place on his little charge since his departure. She now spoke\nEnglish fluently; had made rapid progress in her education; and gave\npromise of being more than ordinarily beautiful. Captain Clydesdale had\nthe farther satisfaction of learning that she was a universal\nfavourite--her gentle manners and affectionate disposition having\nendeared her to all.\n\nOn first casting eyes on her protector, after his return from South\nAmerica, little Julia at once recognised him, flew towards him, flung\nher arms about his neck, and wept for joy--calling him, in muttered\nsounds, her father, her dear father. Deeply affected by the warmth of\nthe grateful child's regard, Captain Clydesdale, with streaming eyes,\ntook her up in his arms, hugged her to his bosom, and kissed her with\nall the fervour of parental love. Soon after, Captain Clydesdale again\nwent to sea; and, by and by, again returned. Voyage after voyage\nfollowed, of various lengths; and, after the termination of each, the\nworthy man found his interesting protegee still advancing in the way of\nimprovement, and still strengthening her hold on the affections of those\naround her.\n\nTime thus passed on, until a period of nine years had slipped away; and\nwhen it had, Julia Elderslie--who now bore, and had all along, since her\narrival in Scotland, borne, the name of Maria Clydesdale--was a blooming\nand highly accomplished girl of sixteen.\n\nIt was about this period that Captain Clydesdale began to think of\nretiring from the sea, and of settling at home for the remainder of his\nlife. He was now upwards of sixty years of age, and found himself fast\ngetting incompetent to the arduous duties of his profession.\nFortunately, he was in a condition, as regarded circumstances, to enable\nhim to effect the retirement he meditated. He was by no means rich; but,\nhaving never married, he had accumulated sufficient to live upon, for\nthe few remaining years that might be vouchsafed him.\n\nPart of Captain Clydesdale's little plan, on this occasion, was to rent\nor purchase a small house in the neighbourhood of the village of\nFernlee, his native place, in the west of Scotland; to furnish it, and\nto take his adopted daughter to live with him as his housekeeper. All\nthis was accordingly done; a house, a very pretty little cottage, with\ngarden behind, and flower-plot in front, was taken, furnished, and\noccupied by Mr Clydesdale and his protegee. Here, for two years, they\nenjoyed all the happiness of which their position and circumstances were\ncapable--and it was a happiness of a very enviable kind. No daughter,\nhowever deep her love, could have conducted herself towards her parent\nwith more tenderness, or with more anxious solicitude for his ease and\ncomfort, than did Maria Clydesdale towards her protector. Nor could any\nparent more sensibly feel, or more gratefully mark the affectionate\nattentions of a child, than did Captain Clydesdale those of his Maria.\n\nHe doated on her, and to such a degree, that he never felt happy when\nshe was out of his sight.\n\nMore than satisfied with her lot, Maria sought no other scenes of\nenjoyment than those of her humble home; and coveted no other happiness\nthan what she found in contributing to that of her benefactor.\n\nThus happily, then, flew two delightful years over the old man and his\nadopted child; and, wrapped up in their felicity, they dreamt not of\nreverses. But reverses came; Misfortune found her way even into their\nlonely retirement. Within one week, Captain Clydesdale received\nintelligence of the total loss of two vessels of which he was the\nprincipal owner, and in which nearly all that he was worth was invested.\nThe blow was a severe and unexpected one, and affected the old man\ndeeply. Not on his own account, as he told his Maria, with a tear\nstanding in his eye, but on hers. \"I had hoped,\" he said, \"to leave you\nin independence--an humble one indeed, but more than sufficient to place\nyou far beyond the reach of want. But now----\" And the old man wrung his\nhands in exquisite agony of grief.\n\nInfinitely more distressed by the sight of her benefactor's unhappiness\nthan by the misfortune which occasioned it, Maria flung her arms about\nhis neck, and said everything she could think of to assuage his grief\nand to reconcile him to what had happened. Amongst other things, she\ntold him that the accomplishments which his generosity had put her in\npossession were more than sufficient to secure her an independence, or,\nat least, the means of living comfortably; and that she would\nimmediately make them available for their common support.\n\n\"There are a number of wealthy families around us, my dear father,\" she\nsaid, \"from which I have no doubt of obtaining ample employment. I can\nteach music, drawing, French, sewing, etc.; and will instantly make\napplication to the various quarters where I am likely to succeed in\nturning them to account. Besides, father,\" she continued, \"it is\nprobable that we shall soon have some great family in Park House; and,\nin such case, I might calculate on obtaining some employment\nthere--perhaps enough of itself to occupy all my time.\"\n\nTo all this the old man made no reply--he could make none. He merely\ntook the amiable girl in his arms, embraced her, and bade God bless her.\n\nAlthough the mention by Miss Clydesdale of the particular residence\nabove named appears a merely incidental circumstance, and one,\nseemingly, of no great importance, it is yet one, as the sequel will\nshew, so connected with our story, that a particular or two regarding it\nmay not be deemed superfluous.\n\nPark House was a large, a magnificent mansion, with a splendid estate\nattached, both of which were, at this moment, in the market. The house\nwas within a quarter of a mile of Captain Clydesdale's cottage, and the\nreference in the advertisements to those who wished to see the house and\ngrounds, was made to the captain, who, with his usual readiness to\noblige, had undertaken this duty--a duty which he had already discharged\ntowards several visitors--none of whom, however, had become purchasers.\nIt was about a week after the period last referred to--namely, that\nmarked by the circumstance of Mr Clydesdale's losses--that a gentleman's\ncarriage drove up to the little gate which conducted to that worthy\nman's residence. From this carriage descended a tall military-looking\nman, of apparently about sixty years of age, who immediately advanced\ntowards the house. Captain Clydesdale, who saw him approaching, hastened\nout to meet him. The latter, on seeing the captain, bowed politely, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Captain Clydesdale, I presume, sir?\"\n\n\"The same, at your service, sir,\" replied the honest seaman.\n\n\"You are referred, to, sir, I think, as the person to whom those wishing\nto see Park House and grounds should apply.\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied Mr Clydesdale; \"and will be happy to shew them to you,\nsir.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the visitor. \"It is precisely for that purpose I have\ntaken the liberty of calling on you. I have some idea of purchasing the\nestate, if I find it to answer my expectations.\"\n\n\"Will you have the goodness to step into the house, sir, for a few\nmoments, and I will then be at your service?\" said Captain Clydesdale.\n\nThe gentleman bowed acquiescence, and, conducted by the former, walked\ninto the house, and was ushered into a little front parlour, in which\nMiss Clydesdale was at the moment engaged in sewing. On the entrance of\nthe visitor, she rose, in some confusion, and was about to retire, when\nthe latter, entreating that he might not be the cause of driving her\naway, she resumed her seat and her work. Having also seated himself, the\nstranger now made some remarks of an ordinary character, by way of\nfilling up the interval occasioned by the absence of Captain Clydesdale.\nMany words, however, had he not spoken, nor long had he looked on the\nfair countenance of his companion, when he seemed struck by something in\nher appearance which appeared at once to interest and perplex him. From\nthe moment that this feeling took possession of the stranger, he spoke\nno more, but continued gazing earnestly at the downcast countenance of\nMaria Clydesdale; who, conscious of, and abashed by the gaze, kept her\nface close over the work in which she was engaged. From this awkward\nsituation, however, she was quickly relieved by the entrance of Captain\nClydesdale, who came to say that he was now ready to accompany his\nvisitor to Park House. The latter rose, wished Miss Clydesdale a good\nmorning; accompanying the expressions, however, with another of those\nlooks of interest and perplexity with which he had been from time to\ntime contemplating her for the last five or ten minutes, and followed\nthe captain out of the apartment.\n\n\"That interesting and very beautiful young lady whom I saw at your house\nis your daughter, sir, I presume?\" said the stranger to Captain\nClydesdale, as they proceeded together towards Park House.\n\n\"Yes, sir, she is: that is, I may _say_ she is; for I have brought her\nup since she was a child; and she has never, at least, not since she was\nfive or six years of age, had any other protector than myself. She never\nknew her parents.\"\n\n\"Ah! a foundling,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"Yes, but under rather extraordinary circumstances. I found her amongst\nthe savages of the coast of Guinea.\"\n\n\"On the coast of Guinea!\" exclaimed the stranger, in much amazement.\n\"Very extraordinary, indeed. What are the circumstances, if I may\ninquire?\"\n\nCaptain Clydesdale related them as they are already before the reader;\nnot omitting to mention the fragment of shift, with the initials on it,\nand the locket with hair and miniature, which he still carefully kept.\n\nOn Captain Clydesdale concluding, the stranger suddenly stopped short,\nand, looking at the former with a countenance pale with emotion,\nsaid--\"Good God, sir, what is this? I am bewildered, confounded. I know\nnot what to think. It is possible. Yet it cannot be. My name, sir, is\nElderslie, General Elderslie. I have just returned from the East Indies,\nwhere I have been for the last seventeen years. Shortly after my going\nout, my wife and child, a daughter, embarked on board the _Isabella_\nfrom Greenock, to join me at Calcutta. The ship never reached her\ndestination; she was never more heard of; but there was a report that\nshe was seen, if not bespoken, off the Gold Coast; and from there being\nno trace of her afterwards, it is more than probable that she was\nwrecked on these shores; and, O God! it is probable also, although I\ndare not allow myself to believe it, that this girl is--is my child! Let\nus return, let us return instantly,\" he added, with increasing\nagitation, and now grasping Captain Clydesdale by the arm, \"that I may\nsee this locket you speak of. I gave such a trinket to my beloved, my\nunfortunate wife. The initials you mention correspond exactly. My\nchild's name was Julia Elderslie; my own Christian name is James; and\nthe same initials are thus also on the rim of the locket.\"\n\n\"It is precisely so!\" said Captain Clydesdale, with a degree of surprise\nand emotion not less intense than those of the general's. \"There _are_\nthe initials of J. E. also on the locket; and now that my attention is\ncalled to the circumstance, there is a strong resemblance between the\nminiature it encloses, and the person now before me.\"\n\n\"Let us hasten to the house, for God's sake! captain,\" said the general,\nwith breathless eagerness, \"and have this matter cleared up, if\npossible.\"\n\nThey returned to the house. Captain Clydesdale put the locket and the\nfragment of the little shift, which bore the initials J. E., into the\nhands of the general. He glanced at the latter, examined the former for\nan instant with trembling hands, staggered backwards a pace or two, and\nsank into a chair. It was the identical locket which, some twenty years\nbefore, he had given to his wife. The miniature it contained, introduced\ninto the trinket at a subsequent period, was his own likeness.\n\n\"Bring me my child, Captain Clydesdale,\" said the general, on recovering\nhis composure; \"for I can no longer doubt that your adopted daughter is,\nindeed, my Julia.\"\n\nCaptain Clydesdale left the apartment, and in a moment returned leading\nin Julia Elderslie, who had hitherto been kept in ignorance of what was\npassing. On her entrance the general rushed towards her, took her by the\nleft hand, gently pushed the sleeve of her gown a little way up the\nwrist, saw that the latter exhibited a small brown mole, and\nexclaiming--\"The proof is complete; you are--you are my daughter, the\nimage of your darling but ill-fated mother,\" took her in his arms in a\ntransport of joy.\n\nThe feelings of Julia Elderslie, on this extraordinary occasion, we need\nnot describe, they will readily be conceived. Neither need we detain the\nreader with any further detail; seeing that, with the incident just\nmentioned, the interest of our story terminates.\n\nIt will be enough now, then, to say, that General Elderslie, who had\namassed a princely fortune, bought the estate and mansion of Park House.\nThat he took every opportunity, and adopted every means he could think\nof, of shewing his gratitude to Captain Clydesdale, for the generous\npart he had acted towards his daughter. That this daughter ultimately\ninherited his entire fortune; the general having never married a second\ntime; and that she finally married into a family of high rank and\nextensive influence in the west of Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ASSASSIN.\n\n\nAt a late hour of an evening in the beginning of the year 1569, mine\nhost of the Stag and Hounds--the principal hostelry of Linlithgow at the\nperiod referred to--was suddenly called from his liquor--the which\nliquor he was at the moment enjoying with a few select friends who were\nassembled in the public room of the house--to receive a traveller who\nhad just ridden up to the door.\n\nMuch as Andrew Nimmo--for such was the name of mine host--much, we say,\nas Andrew loved custom, it was not without reluctance that he rose to\nleave his party to attend the duties of his calling on the present\noccasion. He would rather he had not been disturbed; for he was in the\nmiddle of an exceedingly interesting story, when the summons reached\nhim, and was very unwilling to leave it unfinished. But business must be\nattended to; its demands are imperative; and no man, after all, could be\nmore sensible of this than mine host of the Stag and Hounds. So, however\nreluctant, from his seat he rose, and, telling his friends he would\nrejoin them presently, hastened out of the apartment.\n\nOn reaching the door, Andrew found the traveller had dismounted. He was\nstanding by the head of his horse--a powerful black charger--and\nseemingly waiting for some one to relieve him of the animal.\n\nThis duty Andrew now performed; he took hold of the bridle, after a word\nor two of welcome to his guest, and asked whether he should put up the\nhorse and supper him?\n\n\"What else have I come here for?\" replied the stranger, gruffly. \"Surely\nput him up; but I must see myself to his being properly suppered and\ntended. If we expect a horse to do his duty, we must do our duty by\nhim. So lead the way, friend!\"\n\nDamped by the uncourteous manner of the traveller, Andrew made no\nfurther reply than a muttered acquiescence in the justice of the remark\njust made, but instantly led the horse away towards the stable; calling\nout, as he went, on John Ramsay, the ostler, to come out with the\nbuet--_i.e._ lantern; for it was pitch dark, and a light, of course,\nindispensable.\n\nWith the scrutinizing habits of his calling, mine host of the Stag and\nHounds had been secretly but anxiously endeavouring to make out his\ncustomer; to arrive at some idea of his rank and profession, if he had\nany; but the darkness of the night had prevented him from noting more\nthan that he was a man of tall stature, and, he thought, of a singularly\nstern aspect.\n\nWhen Ramsay had brought the light, however, mine host obtained farther\nand better opportunities of pursuing his study of the stranger; and,\nbesides having his former remarks confirmed, now discovered that he had\nthe appearance of a person of some consideration, his dress being that\nof a gentleman.\n\n\"Fine beast that, sir!\" adventured mine host, after a silence of some\ntime, during which the latter and his guest had been standing together\noverlooking the operation of John Ramsay as he fed and littered the\nanimal, whose noble proportions had elicited the remark. \"Poorfu' beast,\nsir,\" continued Mr Nimmo. \"I think I hae never seen a better.\"\n\n\"Not often, friend, I daresay,\" replied the stranger, who was standing\nerect, with folded arms, and carefully marking every proceeding of the\nostler. \"For a long run and a swift, he is the animal for a man to trust\nhis life to.\"\n\nMine host was startled a little by the turn given to this remark: it\nsmelt somewhat, he thought, of the highway; or, at any rate, seemed to\ncarry with it a somewhat suspicious sort of reference. He was, however,\nmuch too prudent a man to exhibit any indication of an opinion so\ninjurious to the character of his guest, and, therefore, merely said\nlaughingly--\n\n\"That he weel believed that if a man war in sic jeopardy as required his\ntrusting to horse legs for his life, he wad be safe aneuch on sic a\nbeast as that, especially if he got onything o' a reasonable start.\"\n\n\"Yes, give him ten minutes of a start, and there's not a witch that ever\nrode over North Berwick Law on a broomstick that'll throw salt on his\ntail, let alone a horse and rider of flesh and blood!\" replied the\nstranger, with a grim smile. \"_I'll_ trust my life to him,\" he added,\nemphatically, \"and have no fears for the result.\"\n\nThe tendence on the much prized animal which was the subject of these\nremarks having now been completed, mine host and his guest left the\nstable, and proceeded to the house, which having entered, the former\nushered the latter into the public room, being the best in the house,\nand the only one fit for the reception, as our worthy landlord deemed\nit, of a personage of the stranger's apparent quality.\n\nThe latter at first shewed some reluctance to enter an apartment in\nwhich there was already so many people assembled; for it was still\noccupied by the company formerly alluded to; but, on being told by mine\nhost that he should have a table to himself, in a distant part of the\nroom, if he did not wish for society, he expressed himself reconciled to\nthe arrangement, and, walking into the apartment, took his place at its\nupper end; then throwing himself down in a chair, having previously laid\naside his hat, cloak, and sword, he commenced a vigilant but silent\nscrutiny of the party by which the table that occupied the centre of the\napartment was surrounded. While he was thus employed, the landlord, who\nhad gone for a moment about some household business, approached him to\nreceive his orders regarding his night's entertainment. The result of\nthe conference on this subject, was an order for supper, and for a\nmeasure of wine to be brought in, in the meantime, until the former\nshould be prepared. The landlord bowed, and retired to execute his\ncommissions. In a minute after, a pewter measure of claret, with a tall\ndrinking glass, stood before the stranger. He filled up the latter from\nthe former, drank it off, and again set himself to the task of\nscrutinizing the company before him--a task to which he now added that\nof listening to their conversation, which seemed to be of a nature to\ninterest him much, if one might judge from the earnest intensity of his\nlook, and the varying but strongly marked expression of countenance with\nwhich he listened to the various sentiments of the various speakers. The\nsubject of the conversation was the Regent Murray--his proceedings,\ngovernment, and character.\n\n\"Aweel, folk may say what they like o' the Regent,\" said one of the\nspeakers, \"but I think he's managing matters very weel on the whole, and\nI wish we may never hae a waur in his place. He's no a man to be trifled\nwi'; and if he keeps a tight rein hand, he doesna o'erride the strength\no' his steed. He's a strict, justice-loving man; that I'll say o' him.\"\n\n\"Then ye say mair o' him than I wad, deacon,\" said another of the party.\n\"His strictness I grant ye; but as to his justice, there was unco little\no't, I think, in his treatment o' his sister: his conduct to that poor\nwoman has been most unnatural, most savage, selfish, and unfeelin.\nThat's my opinion o't, and it's the opinion o' mony a ane besides me.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel; every are has his ain mind o' thae things, Mr Clinkscales,\"\nreplied the first speaker; \"but for my part, I'll ay ride the ford as I\nfind it; that's my creed.\"\n\n\"Has ony o' ye heard,\" here interposed another of the party, \"o' that\ncruel case o' Hamilton's o' Bothwellhaugh? Ane o' the Queen's\nHamilton's,\" added the querist.\n\nSome said they had, others that they had not. For the benefit of the\nlatter, the speaker explained. He said that Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh\nwas one of those who had been forfeited for the part he took at the\nbattle of Langside. That the person to whom his property was given by\nthe Regent, had turned Hamilton's wife out of her home, unclothed, and\nin a wild and stormy night; and that the poor woman had died in\nconsequence of this cruel treatment.\n\n\"An' what's Hamilton sayin to that?\" inquired one of the party.\n\n\"They say he's in an awfu takin about it,\" replied the first speaker,\n\"an' threatenin vengeance, richt an' left; particularly against the\nRegent.\"\n\n\"I think little wonder o't,\" said another of the party. \"It's a shamefu\nbusiness, and aneuch to mak ony man desperate.\"\n\n\"But is't true?\" here inquired another.\n\nThe reply to this question came from a very unexpected quarter: it came\nfrom the stranger, who, starting fiercely to his feet, and stretching\ntowards the company with a look and gesture of great excitement,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Yes, gentlemen, true it is--true as God is in heaven--true in every\nparticular. An eternal monument to the justice and clemency of the\ntyrant Murray. The wife of Bothwellhaugh was turned naked out of her own\nhouse in a cold and bitter night, and died of bodily suffering and a\nbroken heart. She did--she did. But\"--and the stranger ground his teeth\nand clenched his fist as he pronounced the word--\"there will be a day of\ncount and reckoning. The vengeance, the deadly vengeance of a ruined,\ndeeply injured, and desperate man, will yet overtake the ruthless,\nremorseless tyrant.\"\n\nHaving thus delivered himself, the stranger again retired to his former\nplace, reseated himself, and relapsed into his former silence; although\nthe deep and laboured respiration of recent excitement, which he could\nnot subdue, might still be distinctly heard even from the farthest end\nof the apartment.\n\nIt was some time after the stranger had retired to his place before the\ncompany felt disposed to resume their conversation. The incident which\nhad just occurred, the energy with which the stranger had spoken, and\nthe extreme excitement he had evinced, had had the effect of throwing\nthem all into that silent and reflective mood which the sudden display\nof anything surprising or interesting is so apt to produce even in our\nmerriest and most thoughtless moments.\n\nAt length, however, the chill gradually wore off; the conversation was\nresumed, at first in an under tone, and by fits and starts; by and by it\nbecame more continuous; and, finally, began to flow with all its\noriginal volume and freedom. No more allusion, however, was made by any\nof the party to the case of Bothwellhaugh. This was a subject to which,\nafter what had taken place, none seemed to care about returning. Neither\ndid the stranger evince any desire to hold farther correspondence with\nthe revellers; but, on the contrary, appeared anxious to avoid it; nay,\none might almost have supposed that he regretted having obtruded himself\nupon them at all, and that he could have wished that what he had uttered\nin an unguarded moment had remained unsaid. Be this as it may, however,\nhe sought no farther intercourse with the party, but having hastily\ndespatched the supper which was placed before him, and finished his\nmeasure of wine, he glided unobserved out of the apartment, and,\nconducted by his host, retired to the sleeping chamber which had been\nappointed for him.\n\nOn the following morning, the stranger, who was sojourning at the Stag\nand Hounds, went out to transact, as he told his landlord, some business\nin the town; saying, besides, that he would not probably return till\nevening.\n\nStrongly impressed by the manner and appearance of his guest, and not a\nlittle awed by his grim and fierce aspect, he of the Stag and Hounds\ncould not help following him to the door, when he departed, and\nfurtively looking after him as he stalked down the main street of the\ntown; and much, as he looked at him, did he marvel what sort of business\nit could be he was going about. This, however, was a point on which the\nworthy man had no means of enlightening himself, and he was therefore\nobliged to be content with the privilege of muttering some expressions\nof the wonder he felt.\n\nIn the meantime, the stranger had turned an angle of the street, and\ndisappeared--at least from the view of the landlord of the Stag and\nHounds. Not from ours; for we shall follow and keep sight of him, and\nendeavour to make out what he was so curious to know.\n\nHaving passed about half-way down the main street of the town, the\nformer suddenly halted before a large unoccupied house, with a balcony\nin front. It was a residence of the Archbishop of St Andrew's. Standing\nin front of this house, the stranger seemed to scan it with earnest\nscrutiny. He looked from window to window with the most cautious and\ndeliberate vigilance, and appeared to be noting carefully their various\nheights and positions. While pursuing this inquiry, he might also have\nbeen frequently observed glancing, from time to time, on either side, as\nif to see that no one was marking the earnestness of his examination of\nthe building.\n\nHaving apparently completed his survey of the front of the house, the\nstranger passed round to the back part of the building, and proceeded to\nthe gate of the garden, which lay behind, and through which only was the\nhouse accessible on that side. On reaching the gate, the stranger\npaused, looked cautiously around him for a few seconds, when, observing\nno one in sight, he hastily plunged his hand beneath his cloak, drew out\na key, applied it to the lock, opened the gate, passed quickly in, and\nclosed the door cautiously behind him.\n\nWith hurried step the intruder now proceeded to the house, drew forth\nanother key, inserted it into the lock of the main door, turned it\nround, applied his foot to the latter, pushed it open, and entered the\nbuilding; having previously, as in the former instance, secured the door\nbehind him. Ascending the stair in the inside of the house, the\nmysterious visitant now commenced a careful examination of the various\napartments on the second floor; and at length adopting one--a small\nroom, with one window to the front--made it the scene of his future\noperations. These were, the laying on the floor a straw mattress, which\nhe dragged from another apartment, and hanging a piece of black\ncloth--which he also found in the lumber-room, from whence he had taken\nthe mattress--against the wall of the apartment opposite the window.\n\nHaving completed these preparations, the secret workman went up to the\nwindow, knelt down on the mattress, and levelling a stick, or staff,\nwhich he found in the apartment, as if it had been a musket, seemed to\nbe trying where he might be best situated for firing at an object\nwithout. This experiment he tried repeatedly; shifting his position from\nplace to place, until he appeared to have hit upon one that promised to\nsuit his purpose.\n\nThis ascertained, he rose from his knees; threw down the staff; glanced\naround the apartment, as if to see that all was right; descended the\nstair; came out of the house, locking the door after him; crossed the\ngarden, and passed out at the gate, locking that also before he left,\nand with the same precaution that he had used at entering; that is,\nlooking around him to see that no one marked his proceedings.\n\nThe guest of the Stag and Hounds now returned to his inn, from which he\nhad been absent about two hours. At the door he was met by mine host,\nwho, touching his cap, asked if \"his honour intended dining at his\nhouse, as it was now about one of the clock,\" the general dinner-hour of\nthe period.\n\nWithout noticing the inquiry of his landlord--\n\n\"Be there any armourers in this town of yours, friend?\" he said, \"where\nI could fit me with some weapons I want.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, there be one, and a main good one he is,\" replied the\nother. \"Tom Wilson, I warrant me, will fit your honour with any weapon\nyou can desire, from a pistolet to a culverin; from a two-handed sword\nof six feet long, to a dagger like a bodkin. And as for armour, you may\nhave anything, everything from head-piece to leg-splent; all of the best\nmaterial, and first-rate workmanship.\"\n\n\"Where is this man Wilson's shop?\" inquired the stranger.\n\n\"See you, sir,\" replied the other; \"see you yonder projecting corner,\nbeyond the palace entrance?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, three doors beyond that, you will find Wilson's shop; and,\nif your honour chooses, you may use my name with him, and he will not\nserve you the worse, or the less reasonably, I warrant me. It is always\na recommendation to Tom to be a guest at the Stag and Hounds.\"\n\nWithout saying whether or not he would avail himself of the privilege\noffered him of using his name, the mysterious stranger hastened away in\nthe direction pointed out to him, and, in half a minute after, he was in\nthe workshop of Wilson the armourer.\n\n\"Your pleasure, sir,\" said that person, advancing towards his customer\nfrom an inner apartment.\n\n\"Have you a good store of fire-arms, friend?\" inquired the latter.\n\n\"Pretty fair, sir; pretty fair,\" replied the armourer \"What description\nmay you want?\"\n\n\"Why, I want a carbine, friend--something of a sure piece--that will\ncarry its ball well to the mark. None of your bungling articles, that\nfirst hang fire, and then throw their shot in every direction but the\nright one. I would have a piece of good and certain execution.\"\n\n\"Here, then, sir, here is your commodity,\" said the armourer,\ndisengaging a short and heavy gun from an arms'-rack that occupied one\nside of the shop. \"Here is a piece that I can recommend. It will be the\nfault of the hand or the eye when this barker misses its mark, I warrant\nye. I'd take in hand myself to smash an egg with it, with single ball,\nat fifty yards distance. I have done it before now with a worse gun.\"\n\n\"I will not require any such feat from the piece as that, friend,\" said\nWilson's customer, drily; and having taken the gun in his hand, he began\nto examine the lock, and to see that the piece was otherwise in\nserviceable condition. Being satisfied that it was, he demanded the\nprice. It was named. The money was tendered, and accepted, and the\nstranger departed with his purchase; having, however, previously\nreceived from the armourer, in lieu of luck's-penny, although he offered\nto pay for them, half a dozen balls, and a few charges of powder, to put\nthe capability of the gun to immediate trial. This, however, its new\nproprietor did not think necessary; but, instead, returned to the\narchbishop's house with it; and, after loading and priming it, placed it\nin a corner of the apartment, which we have described him as having put\ninto so strange a state of preparation.\n\nLeaving the house with the same cautious and stealthy step as before,\nthe stranger again returned to his inn; but it was now to leave it no\nmore for the night.\n\n\"What news stirring, friend?\" said he to the landlord.\n\n\"Naething, sir,\" replied he, as he laid the cloth for his dinner; \"only\nthat the Regent will pass through the town to-morrow. I hear he'll be\nthis way about twelve o'clock. The magistrates, I understand, hae gotten\nnotice to that effect.\"\n\n\"So,\" replied the stranger. \"Then we shall have a sight.\"\n\n\"A brave sight, sir, for he is to be accompanied by a gallant cavalcade,\nand the trades of the town are to turn out with banners and music to do\nhim honour. It will be a stirring day, sir, and I trust a good one for\nmy poor house here; for such doings make people as thirsty as so many\ndry sponges.\"\n\nTo these remarks the guest made no reply, but proceeded with his dinner;\nthe materials for which having, in the meantime, been brought in, and\nplaced on the table by another attendant.\n\nOn the following morning, the little town of Linlithgow exhibited a\nscene of unusual bustle. Hosts of idlers were seen gathered here and\nthere, along the whole line of the main street; and persons carrying\ntrades' banners--as yet, however, carefully rolled up--might be seen\nhurrying in all directions to the various mustering-places of their\ncrafts. An occasional discharge of a culverin too; and, as the morning\nadvanced, a merry peal of bells heightened the promise of some impending\nevent of unusual occurrence. By and by, these symptoms of public\nrejoicing became more and more marked: the groups of idlers increased;\nthe banners were unfurled; the firing of the culverins became more\nfrequent; and the bells either really did ring, or appeared to ring more\nfuriously.\n\nIt was when matters thus bespoke the near approach of a crisis--which\ncrisis, we may as well say at once, was the advent of the Regent--that\nthe mysterious lodger at the Stag and Hounds ordered his horse to be\nbrought to the door. The horse was brought; the stranger settled his\nbill; and, saying to his landlord that he would witness the sight from\nhorseback more advantageously than on foot, mounted, and rode off in the\ndirection of the approaching cavalcade. In this direction, however, he\ndid not ride far; for, on gaining the eastern extremity of the town, he\nsuddenly wheeled round, and rode back in rear of the line of street,\nuntil he reached the gate of the garden behind the mansion of the\nArchbishop of St Andrew's, in which the mysterious preparation before\ndescribed had been made.\n\nHaving arrived at the gate, he dismounted, opened it, led in his horse,\nand fastened him to a tree close by. This done, he removed the lintel,\nor cross-bar, over the gate. The latter, contrary to his practice on\nformer occasions, he now left wide open, and proceeded towards the\nhouse, into which he disappeared.\n\nIn less than a quarter of an hour after, the Regent had entered the\ntown. He was on horseback, surrounded by a number of friends, also\nmounted, and followed by a numerous party of armed retainers.\n\nAs the cavalcade penetrated into the town, the crowd, which the occasion\nhad assembled, gradually became more and more dense, and the progress of\nthe Regent and his party consequently more slow; until, at length, they\nwere so packed in the narrow street, with the human wedges that were\nforcing themselves around them, that it was with great difficulty they\ncould make any forward progress at all.\n\nBecoming impatient with the delay thus occasioned, although carefully\nconcealing this impatience, the Regent, who was now directly opposite\nthe house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, kept waving his hand to the\ncrowd, as if entreating them not to press so closely, that he might pass\non with more speed. The crowd endeavoured to comply with the wishes of\nthe Regent, but their efforts only added to the confusion, without\nmending the matter in other respects. It was at this moment that all\neyes were suddenly directed towards the house of the Archbishop of St\nAndrew's, in consequence of a shot being fired from one of the windows.\nWhen these eyes looked an instant after again towards the Regent, he was\nnot to be seen; he had fallen from his horse, mortally wounded: a ball\nhad passed through his body. It was Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh who had\nfired the fatal shot.\n\nThe friends and retainers of the Regent, seconded by the town's people,\nflew to the house of the archbishop, and endeavoured to force the door,\nin order to get at the murderer but it had been barricaded by the wily\nassassin, and resisted their efforts long enough to allow of his\nescaping from the house, mounting his horse, and darting through the\ngarden gate at the top of his utmost speed. He was pursued; but, thanks\nto his good steed, pursued in vain, and subsequently escaped to France;\nhaving done a deed which the moralist must condemn, but which cannot be\nlooked upon as altogether without palliation.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRISONER OF WAR.\n\n\nI had been preserved, through divine mercy, from one of the most\nlingering and fearful deaths. I was rescued, I scarce knew how, after\nthe grim king of terror held me in his embrace, and all hope had fled.\nAs consciousness returned, my heart thrilled at the recollection of the\nmiseries I had endured while floating, a helpless being, on the bosom of\nthe ocean.[3] I shuddered to think, while I lay feeble as an infant in\nthe cabin of the vessel which was bearing me to my home, and whose\nhumane crew had been the means of my deliverance, that I was still at\nthe mercy of the winds and waves; but kind nursing, aided by youth and a\ngood constitution, quickly brought strength; and I was enabled, after a\nfew days, to come upon deck. On my first attempt, when my head rose\nabove the deck as I ascended the companion-ladder, and my eyes fell upon\nthe boundless waste of waters, a chill of horror shot through my frame.\nLike a lone traveller who had suddenly met a lion in his path, I stood\nparalysed; every nerve and muscle refused to act. I must have fallen\nback into the cabin, had not my hand instinctively clung to their hold\nfor a few seconds. I could not withdraw my fixed gaze, while all I had\nsuffered rushed upon me like a hideous dream. Slowly my faculties\nreturned, when I ascended the deck, where I sat for a few hours. Each\nday after this brought additional strength; so that, before we made\nsoundings, I was as strong and cheerful as I had ever been in my life.\nThe weather was squally, and I assisted the crew as much as was in my\npower; and, when not so occupied, lay listlessly looking over the ship's\nbows that bravely dashed aside the waves that rolled between me and the\nhome I now longed to reach, or walked the deck musing upon the joy my\nreturn would impart to my over-indulgent parents.\n\nAs we neared the shores of Scotland, a circumstance occurred that both\ngreatly surprised and alarmed me. This was a sudden change in the\nmanners and temper of the crew. Care and anxiety took the place of their\nwonted cheerfulness; the joyous laugh, or snatch of song, no longer\nbroke the monotonous hissing of the waves that rippled along the sides\nof the vessel, or the dull whistle of the wind through the rigging. At\nthe first appearance of every sail that hove in sight, I could perceive\nevery eye turned to it with a look of alarm until she was made out.\nFearful of giving offence to my benefactors, I made no remark on the\nsubject for some time, although I felt disappointed at what I\nsaw--attributing it to cowardice; yet they were all stout, young,\nresolute-looking fellows at other times. This scene of alarm, and\nappearance of a wish to skulk below or conceal themselves, had occurred\ntwice in the course of the forenoon. After the last ship we encountered\nwas made out to be a merchant-brig, I could no longer refrain from\ndelivering my sentiments of the greater number of the crew, but\naddressing the mate, said--\n\n\"Mr Ross, it is fortunate for us that these strange sails have turned\nout to be British merchantmen. Had they proved to be French privateers,\nwe should have made but a poor stand, I fear, notwithstanding our eight\ncarronades.\"\n\n\"What makes you think so?\" said he.\n\n\"Why, there is not a vessel that heaves in sight,\" said I, \"but the men\nlook as if they wished themselves anywhere but where they are.\"\n\n\"Avast there, my man!\" said he. \"What! do you mean to say that they\nwould not stand by their guns while there was a chance? Yes, they would,\nand long after; and, if you think otherwise, all I say is, you form\nopinions and talk of what you know nothing about.\"\n\nCasting an angry look at me--the only one he ever gave--he squirted his\nquid over the bulwarks, and was walking away, when I stopped him.\n\n\"If I have given you offence, Mr Ross, nothing was farther from my\nintention. I cannot but observe the alarm caused by every sail that\nheaves in sight until she is made out to be a friend. Now, the little\ntime I was at sea, before I fell overboard and was saved by you, every\nsail that hove in sight made the hearts of all on board leap for joy.\"\n\n\"Ho! ho!\" and he laughed aloud. \"Are you on that tack, my messmate? You\nare quite out in your reckoning, and becalmed in a fog; but I shall soon\nblow it away. There is not a man on board with whom I would not go into\naction with the fullest reliance upon his courage; and, were we to meet\na French privateer, you would quickly see such a change as would satisfy\nyou that my confidence is not misplaced. Every face, that the moment\nbefore expressed anxiety and alarm, would brighten up with joy; every\nman would stand to his gun as cheerfully as to the helm. It is their\nliberty the poor fellows are afraid of being deprived of by our own\nmen-of-war--the liberty to toil for their parents or wives where they\ncan get better wages than the Government allows. Danger, in any form,\nthey meet undaunted when duty calls; it is for their countrymen they\nquail. Were the smallest sloop-of-war in the British navy to heave in\nsight, and a boat put off from her with a boy of a midshipman and eight\nor ten men, every one on board, who had not a protection, would shake in\nhis shoes at her approach; yet, against an enemy, every man would stand\nto his gun until his ship was blown out of the water.\"\n\nA new and painful feeling came over me as he spoke. I was myself an\nentered seaman, and, of course, liable to impressment; but the idea of\nbeing taken had never occurred to me. I wondered that it had not, after\nthe scenes I had witnessed in the frigate; but my longing for home had\nentirely engrossed my mind. I was, indeed, home-sick, and weary of the\nsea. From this moment, no one on board felt more alarm than I did at the\nsight of a top-royal rising out of the distant waters. My feelings were\nnear akin to those of a felon in concealment.\n\nAt length we reached the Moray Firth, in the evening, and arrangements\nwere made for as many of the crew as could be spared to be landed at\nCromarty, where the vessel was to put in. This was to avoid the danger\nof impressment in the Firth of Forth. I gave the captain an order upon\nmy father for my passage, and the expense he had been at on my account,\nas I was to leave, with the others in the boat, as soon as we were off\nthe town, which we hoped to reach in the morning. My anxiety was so\ngreat that I had kept the deck since nightfall. It was intensely dark;\nnothing broke the gloom but the flashes of light that gleamed for a\nmoment upon the waves, as they rippled along the sides of the vessel,\nand the dull rays of the binnacle-lamp before the man at the helm. Bell\nafter bell was struck, still I stood at the bows, leaning upon the\nbowsprit, unmindful of the chill wind from under the foretopsail,\nanxiously watching for the first tints of dawn. Tediously as the night\nwore on, I thought, when morning dawned, it had fled far too fast.\n\nThe dark clouds began at length to melt away in the east, and the\ndistant mountain-tops to rise like grey clouds above the darkness that\nstill hid the shores from our view. Gradually the whole face of nature\nbegan to emerge from the morning mists. We were just off the Sutors of\nCromarty. My heart leapt for joy at the near prospect of being once more\non firm ground, and so near home. Several of the crew had now joined\nme, and all eyes were directed to the entrance of the bay. Only a few\nminutes had elapsed in this pleasing hope--for it was still dullish on\nthe horizon--when the report of a gun from seaward of us, so near that I\nthought it was alongside, made us start and look round. Each of us\nseemed as if we had been turned into stone by the alarming sound; while,\nso sudden was the revulsion of feeling, in my own case, that my heart\nalmost ceased to beat. There, not half-a-league to windward of us, lay a\nfrigate, with her sails shaking in the wind, and a boat, well-manned,\nwith an officer in her stern, putting off from her.\n\nSo completely were we overcome by the sudden appearance of this dreaded\nobject, which seemed to emerge from darkness, as the sun's first rays\nfell upon and whitened her sails, that we stood incapable of thought or\naction. The well-manned barge was carried, by the faint breeze and\nimpetus of her oars, almost as swift as a gull on the wing. The report\nof the gun brought the captain and mate upon deck before we had\nrecovered from our stupor.\n\n\"Bear a hand, men!\" cried Ross, as he sprung upon deck. \"Man the\ntacklefalls! clear the boat! and give them a run for it at least.\"\n\nRoused by his voice, every nerve was strained, the boat lowered, and we\nin her, ready to push off, when the captain called over the side--\n\n\"My lads, do as you think for the best; but it is of no use to try. The\nfrigate's boat will be under our stern ere you can gain way.\"\n\nI stood in the act of pushing off, when the object we were going to\nstrain every nerve to avoid swept round the stern, and grappled us. We\nhopelessly threw our oars upon the thwarts, and prepared to reascend the\nvessel, to settle with the captain and bring away our chests. As for\nmyself, I had no call to leave the boat. All I possessed in the world\nwas upon my person, and half-a-guinea given me by the captain to carry\nme home. The other three were getting their bags and chests ready to\nlower into the boat, having got their wages from the captain, when he\ncalled me to come on deck. I obeyed; when he said to the midshipman in\ncommand of the boat--\n\n\"Sir, to prevent any unpleasant consequences arising to this poor\nfellow, Elder, here, I shall let you know how he came on board of us. He\nbelonged to the _Latona_, and is no deserter, I assure you. Ross, bring\nhere our log-book, and satisfy the gentleman if he wishes.\" Ross obeyed;\nand having examined it, the captain told the wretched state in which I\nhad been picked up, and the way in which I had accounted to him for the\naccident. During the recital, he looked hard at me, no muscle of his\nface indicating either pity or surprise. When the captain ceased to\nspeak, he only said--\n\n\"Well, my lad, you have for once had a narrow escape--you must hold\nbetter on in future. I shall report to the captain, and get the D from\nbefore your name. Tumble into the boat, my lads. Good day, captain.\"\nAnd, in a few minutes afterwards, I was on board the _Edgar_,\nseventy-four, and standing westwards for the Firth of Forth.\n\nIt was strange the change that came over the impressed men, when there\nwas no longer any hope of escape. Like true seamen, they bent to the\ncircumstance they could not remedy, and were, as soon as they got on\nboard, as much at home, and more cheerful, than they had been for many\ndays before. As for myself, I took it much to heart, and was very\nmelancholy when we entered the Firth and stood up to the roadstead. I\ncould hardly restrain my feelings when the city of Edinburgh came in\nsight, and when I thought of the short distance in miles that divided me\nfrom my parents and home--that home I had left so foolishly in the hopes\nof being back at the conclusion of the war, which I now found was raging\nmore furiously, if possible, than when I left, and with much less\nprospect of its termination. I would stand for hours gazing upon the\nWhite Craig, the eastern extremity of the Pentland Hills, and wish I was\nupon it, until my eyes were suffused with tears. I begged hard for the\nfirst lieutenant to give me leave to go on shore, if only for\neight-and-forty hours, to visit my parents; but he refused my request,\nfearful of my not returning. Several of the hands on board, natives of\nEdinburgh, who had been long in the _Edgar_, obtained leave. With one of\nthem I sent a letter to my father, who came the following day. It was a\nmeeting of sorrow, not unmixed with upbraidings, on his part, for what I\nhad done; but we parted with regret--he to do what he could to obtain my\ndischarge, I under promise not to act so precipitately in future, if I\nwas once more a free agent. What steps were taken I know not, for next\nmorning we received orders to sail for the Nore. We had many faces on\nboard that looked as long as my own, for there were still several who\nhad obtained promise of leave whose turn had not come round. Wallace,\none of the mess I was in, had not been in his native city for ten years,\nhaving been all that time voluntarily on board of men-of-war, either at\nhome or on foreign stations. He was to have had two days' leave the very\nmorning we sailed, and had doomed ten gold guineas, which he had long\nkept for such purpose, to be expended in a blow-out in Edinburgh, among\nhis relations and friends. When the boatswain piped to weigh anchor,\nWallace, who was captain of the foretop, ran to his berth, opened his\nchest, took out his long-hoarded store, and came on deck with it in his\nhand. His looks bespoke rage and disappointment, bordering upon\ninsanity. He gazed upon the distant city that shone upon the gently\nswelling hills glancing back the sun's rays, then at the purse of gold\nin his hand. He seemed incapable of speech. A bitter smile curled his\nlip, bespeaking the most intense scorn. I looked on, wondering what he\nmeant to do. It was but the scene of a minute. Suddenly raising his\nhand, he threw the purse and gold over the side with all his force,\nexclaiming:--\"Go, vile trash! what use have I for you now? The first\naction may lay me low!\" Then, as if relieved from some oppressive load,\nhe mounted the rattlings to his duty with a smile of satisfaction; and\nwe bore away for the Nore, where I was draughted on board the _Repulse_,\nsixty-four, and departed upon a cruise along the coast of Brittany; at\ntimes lying off Brest harbour, and at others, standing along the coast\nin search of the enemy. Employed in this monotonous duty, month followed\nmonth, and year after year passed away.\n\nIt was now the year 1799. The century was drawing to a close; but the\ninterminable war seemed only commencing. I had become almost callous to\nmy fate. We were standing along, under a steady breeze, as close in\nshore as we could with safety to the vessel. It was the dog-watch; and I\nhad only been a short time turned in when our good ship struck upon some\nsunken rocks with such force that I thought she had gone to pieces.\nEvery one in a moment turned out. The night was as dark as pitch, and\nthe sea breaking over us, while we lay hard and fast. Everything was\ndone to lighten her in vain. She was making water very fast, in spite of\nall our exertions at the pumps. Still there was not the smallest\nconfusion on board. Our discipline was as strict, and our officers as\npromptly obeyed, as they were before our accident. As the tide rose, the\nwind shifted, and blew a gale right upon the shore, causing the ship to\nbeat violently. Day at length dawned, and there, not one hundred fathoms\nfrom our deck, lay a rocky and desolate-looking shore. We had been\nforced over a reef of sunken rocks that were not in our charts; and,\nduring the darkness, as was supposed, had been carried in-shore by some\ncurrent; but, however it had happened, there we were, in a serious\nscrape, the sea breaking over our decks, and our hold full of water.\n\nSoon after daybreak we could perceive the peasantry crowding down to the\nwater's edge. Everything had been done that skill and resolution could\naccomplish, to save the vessel, but in vain. We had nothing before our\neyes but instant death. The sea ran so high that no boat could live for\na moment in the broken water between us and the shore. The French\npeasantry were making no effort for our safety, but running about and\nlooking on our deplorable situation, with apparently no other feeling\nthan that of curiosity. At this time, James Paterson, an Edinburgh lad,\nvolunteered to make the attempt to swim to the shore with a log-line,\nand fearlessly let himself over the side. It was, to all appearance, a\nhopeless attempt; for every one felt assured that he would be beat to\ndeath against the rocks that lined the beach, on which the waves were\nbeating with great fury.\n\nIt was a period of fearful suspense; yet, dreadful as our situation was,\nthere was not the least unnecessary noise on board. All was prompt\nattention and obedience. The weather was extremely cold, and the sea, at\ntimes, making a complete breach over the ship, which we expected every\nmoment to go to pieces. As for myself, I meant to stow below and perish\nwith her, rather than to float about, bruised and maimed, and drown at\nlast. One half of the crew were only dressed in their shirts and\ntrousers, without shoes or stockings, as they had leaped from their\nhammocks. When she struck, we had no leisure to put on more than our\ntrousers. Thus we stood, holding on by the nettings, or anything we\ncould lay hold of, to prevent our being washed off the decks, with our\neyes anxiously watching the progress of the brave Paterson, who swam\nlike an otter, the boatswain and his mates serving out the line to him.\nWe saw him near the rocks, and the people making signs to him. This was\nthe point of greatest danger, but, by the aid of the peasants, he\nsurmounted it.\n\nThose on the beach gave a shout, which we replied to from the deck. A\nhawser was made fast to the line, and secured on shore. It was not until\nnow that we began to hope; and with this hope arose an anxiety on the\npart of every one to save what they could. I strove to reach my chest,\nin which were a pair of new shoes and five guineas, but my efforts, like\nthose of the others, were vain; our under decks were flooded several\ninches, and everything was loose and knocking about in the most furious\nmanner, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel upon the rocks, so\nthat I was but too happy to reach the decks without being crushed to\ndeath. All I regretted was my shoes; the money I cared not for, and do\nnot think I would have taken it, as we expected to be plundered as soon\nas we got to the beach.\n\nAfter a great deal of fatigue, we all got safe to land, and now the\nplundering began. There were no regular soldiers on the spot, but a\ngreat many of the peasantry had firelocks and bayonets, and stood over\nus, stripping those of the men, who had them, of their jackets and hats.\nAt first, we were disposed to resist, but soon found it to be of no use.\nOne of the fellows seized the chain of the watch belonging to one of our\nmen, and was in the act of pulling it from the pocket, when the owner,\nJack Smith, struck him to the ground with a blow of his fist. The next\nmoment poor Smith lay a lifeless corpse upon the sand, felled by a\nstroke from the butt end of a musket.\n\nThere was no one present who seemed to have or who assumed any\nauthority, to whom our officers might appeal for protection; they were\nnot more respected than the men; all were searched and robbed as soon as\nthey arrived from the wreck. Poor Smith's fate taught us submission,\neven while our bosoms burned with a desire for vengeance. One of my\nmessmates said aloud--\"I would cheerfully stand before the muzzle of one\nof the old _Repulse's_ thirty-twos, were she charged to the mouth with\ngrape well laid, to sweep these French robbers from the face of the\nearth.\" As for myself, they took nothing from me. I had twopence in the\npocket of my trousers; when I saw what was going on, I took it out and\nheld it in my hand while they searched me. I more than once thought they\nwere going to strip me of my nether garments, and give me in exchange a\npair of their own gun-mouthed rags, which would scarcely have reached my\nknees; for several of them looked at them as if they felt inclined to\nmake the exchange; but I escaped, and felt thankful.\n\nWe stood for several hours shivering upon the beach without food, fire,\nor water, while the plunderers were busy picking up anything that\ndrifted ashore, but still keeping a strict watch over us; at length, the\nchief magistrate of a neighbouring small town arrived, and to him our\nofficers complained of the usage we had received. He only shook his\nhead, and shrugged his shoulders, when the body of Smith was pointed out\nto him. What could we do? A grave was dug for him on the spot where he\nwas murdered, and we were marched off into the interior. It was well on\nin the afternoon before we reached the place where we were to halt. It\nwas a small poverty-stricken-like town, with an old ruinous church and\nchurchyard, surrounded by high walls, with an iron gate close by. Into\nthis chill, desolate place, we were crowded by the soldiers, the gate\nlocked upon us, and sentinels placed around the building. Here we\nremained until the evening, when there was served out to every man a\nsmall loaf, black as mud; yet, black as it was, I never ate a sweeter\nmorsel; for neither I nor any of my companions had tasted any food since\nthe evening before.\n\nBut how shall I express the horror we felt when we found we were to\nremain where we were, in this old, ruined charnel-house of a church,\nwhich could scarcely contain us all, unless we stood close together. To\nlie down was out of the question; and, although we could, there were\nneither straw, blankets, nor covering of any kind, to screen us from the\ncold. We implored in vain to be removed; but these privations, bad as\nthey were, did not annoy us so much as the idea of spending the long\ndark night in such a miserable place. By far the greater number of us\nbelieved as firmly in the reality of ghosts as we did in our own\nexistence; and, of all places in the world, a church and churchyard,\nfrom time immemorial, have been their favourite haunts, and the terror\nof all who believe in their reality--even those who affect to disbelieve\nin the visits of spirits to this earth, feel sensations which they would\nnot choose to own, when in a churchyard, in a dark night, with\ngravestones and crumbling human bones around them. Of all men seamen are\nthe most superstitious, and give the most ready credence to ghost\nstories. The unmanning feeling of fear, that had not touched a single\nheart in the extremity of our danger from the storm, was now strongly\nmarked in every face, exaggerated by a horror of we knew not what. Fear\nis contagious--we huddled together, and peered fearfully around,\nexpecting every moment to see some appalling vision or hear some\ndreadful sound. Our sense of hearing was painfully acute--the smallest\nnoise made us start; but our feelings were too much racked to remain\nlong at the same intensity--they gradually became more obtuse as the\nnight wore on, until we at length began to entertain each other with\nfearful stories of ghosts; feeling a strange satisfaction in increasing\nthe gloomy excitement under which we laboured. Had any of us begun a\nhumorous story, with the view of diverting our thoughts from their\npresent bent, and the circumstances we were in, I am certain he would\nhave been silenced in no gentle manner.\n\nWe might have been about two hours or less in this state, in the most\nintense darkness--our own whispers being all that we could recognise of\neach other, even although in contact--when a low pleasant murmur\nsuddenly fell upon our ears: It was the voice of Dick Bates, who, having\neither been requested, or, moved by his present situation, had, of his\nown accord, commenced singing in an under tone his favourite ballad of\n\"Hozier's Ghost.\" Now, Dick was the best singer in the whole crew, with\na voice like a singing bird; it was at this moment so low that, had it\nbeen broad daylight, he would have appeared only to have been breathing\nhard; yet it was at this time distinctly heard by all, and made our\nflesh creep upon our bones, although a strange kind of pleasure was\nmingled with the feeling. We scarcely breathed when he came to the\nlines--\n\n    \"With three thousand ghosts beside him,\n    And in groans did Vernon hail--\n    Heed, O heed my fatal story,\n    I am Hozier's injured Ghost.\"\n\nI thought the whole was present before me, and I could see the scene the\npoet described, and shuddered when he breathed forth--\n\n    \"See these ghastly spectres sweeping\n      Mournful o'er this hated wave,\n    Whose pale cheeks are stained with weeping--\n      These were English captains brave.\n\n    \"See these numbers pale and horrid!\n      These were once my seamen bold.\n    Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead\n      While his mournful tale is told.\"\n\nI believe there was not a man in the old church who did not think he saw\nthe ghastly train of spectres flitting before his eyes, and who did not\nfeel every nerve thrill, and every hair of his head stand on end. Many\nwere the tales of superstition and of terror related, until overpowered\nnature sank into sleep; but I have since often reflected that, of all\nthe accounts of fearful sights I heard, they were all related at second\nhand, from the authority of others. No one asserted they themselves had\never seen anything out of the ordinary course of nature except Bob\nNelson, and his was calculated to lead a more prejudiced observer\nastray. It was as follows--\n\n\"It was during a voyage I made to New York from Greenock, in the brig\n_Cochrane_, that I once saw, with my own eyes, a strange sight, such as\nI hope never to witness again. Our cargo consisted of dry goods, and we\nhad several emigrants as passengers; in particular, a family of six in\nthe cabin, the husband and wife, with four children; they were wealthy,\nand had sold off their farm stock to purchase land, and settle somewhere\nin America. When they came on board at the quay of Greenock, they were\naccompanied by a great many relations and friends, who took a most\naffectionate leave of them; in particular one old woman, the mother of\nthe emigrant's wife. Her wailings were most pitiable; she wrung her\nhands, and stood as if rooted to our decks. I heard her say more than\nonce--\n\n\"'Mary, I feel I shall never see you more, nor these lovely babes. O why\nwill you leave your aged mother to go mourning to her grave?'\n\n\"Her daughter looked more like one dead than alive, as she lay sobbing\nupon the breast of her husband, her mother holding one of her hands\nbetween both of her's. Poor soul, she looked as if her heart was\nbreaking, but spoke not; at length, the husband said--\n\n\"'O woman, have you no feeling for your daughter?'\n\n\"The old woman's grief seemed, all at once, turned into rage: she let\nher daughter's hand drop, and, raising her hands, cursed him for\ndepriving her of her daughter; concluding with--\n\n\"'But, James, remember what I say; dead or alive, I shall yet see my\nMary.'\n\n\"The poor young woman was carried below in a faint and the old dame was\nconveyed from the deck by the friends, for we were by this time cast\nloose, and leaving our berth. For several days I saw nothing of the\nfarmer's family, as they were very sick; but the children had now begun\nto play about the deck, and their father would leave the cabin for a\nshort time, once or twice a-day, for his wife remained very ill, and\nconfined to her bed. The haglike appearance of the old woman, in her\nrage, had made a great impression on me, and had evidently sunk the\nspirits of the young people; for I often saw, when the husband came on\ndeck, that he was much dejected. I felt it strange that the figure of\nthe old woman often occurred to my mind when I looked at him; and I\nseveral times dreamed I saw her in my sleep, as I had seen her in\nGreenock, but her appearance was more pale and hideous, and had so great\nan effect upon me, that I always awoke in an agony, and cursed her from\nmy heart.\n\n\"About mid-passage we met with westerly gales and rough weather, which\ncaused the passengers to keep below for several days, and retarded our\npassage much. It was blowing very hard. It was my turn at the wheel. In\nthe midwatch we had occasional showers. The clouds were scudding along\nin immense bodies over the face of the moon, which was just at the full,\nso that we had, at times, bright moonlight for a minute or two, then\ngloom; but the night was not dark. I might have been at the wheel half\nmy time or so. My eye was fixed ahead to watch the set of the waves,\nsave when I glanced to the compass. I thought I saw something upon the\nbowsprit in the gloom that was not there a moment before. I looked aloft\nto see for a break in the clouds that the moon might shew me more\ndistinctly what it was. I looked ahead again, and there it still was,\nbut nearer the bows of the vessel. Still I could not make out what it\nwas. Soon a burst of moonlight shone forth, and I saw it resembled a\nhuman figure, but whether man or woman I could not tell, for the moon\nwas as suddenly obscured as it had shone forth. I felt very queer; being\ncertain it was none of the crew--for the whole watch was aft at the\ntime--and I was sure that all the passengers were below, and no one had\ncome on deck since the watch had been changed. I looked at the spot\nwhere I had seen it, and it was gone. I felt the greatest inclination to\ntell what I had seen; but the fear of being laughed at, made me say\nnothing of it at this time; I, however, never wished so much for\nanything in my life as that my spell at the wheel was over, and the\nwatch passed. When, at length, I was released, I crept to the foxa, and\ntumbled into my hammock, but could not close an eye for thinking of what\nI had seen.\n\n\"Well, my mates, I was then, as I am now, in a pretty mess, and wished\nmyself as heartily out of the _Cochrane_ as we all do ourselves out of\nthis old foundered hulk of a church. I was fairly aground with fear, and\nfelt all of a tremble for the nights I must pass on board before we\nreached New York, where I was determined to leave the brig if I saw any\nmore such sights. For a few days the gale continued, sometimes blowing\nvery hard, at others more moderate, but nothing uncommon occurred. At\nlength it abated, and we had pleasant weather. I began to think I had\nbeen deceived, and was glad I had not spoken of what I had seen to any\nof the crew. It was the afternoon, towards evening. I was again at the\nwheel. The sun was setting in a bed of clouds, as gaily coloured as a\nship rejoicing--the colours of all nations floating aloft, from the\npoint of her bowsprit to the end of her jib-boom. The four children were\nplaying upon deck, laughing and full of joy at being once more relieved\nfrom their long confinement in the cabin. I looked at their innocent\ngambols and at the beautiful sky by turns, as much as my duty would\nallow, and felt more happy than I had done since we sailed. It was so\npleasant to look ahead; for every face on deck wore a pleasing and\nhappy aspect. I looked again at the children's gambols; but I almost\ndropped at the wheel. My hands and limbs refused to do their office.\nThere, before me, close by the children, stood the exact representation\nof the old woman--so stern, so unearthly was her look, that I cannot\nexpress it; but she was pale as the foam on the crest of a wave. I could\nnot call out. I had no power either to move tongue or limb. The yawing\nof the vessel called the attention of the mate to me, who sung out to\nhold her steady. I heard him, but could not obey. My whole faculties\nwere engrossed by the fearful vision. My eyes appeared as if they would\nhave started out of my head. One of the crew seized the wheel. All\nlooked at me with astonishment. I stood rivetted to the spot, pointing\nto where the spectre stood; but no one saw anything but myself. The\ncaptain was below in the cabin, with the farmer and his wife--the latter\nof whom was known to all the crew to be very ill. As I looked to the\nunearthly figure, attracted by a power I could not resist, the children\ncontinued their play. The features of the old woman, I thought, relaxed,\nand a sadness came over them, but it was of unearthly expression. The\nfigure glided from the children to the cabin-companion, and disappeared\nbelow, when it as suddenly came again upon deck, accompanied by the\nfarmer's wife, pale and wasted. Both gazed upon the children. The young\nwoman appeared to wring her hands in great distress, as I had seen her\nbefore she was carried below; but the old woman hurried her over the\nside of the brig, and I saw no more of them. When they disappeared, my\nfaculties returned. I trembled as if I had been in an ague, and the cold\nsweat stood in large drops upon my forehead. The mate and crew thought\nthat I had been in a fit, until I told them what I had seen. They looked\nrather serious, but were much inclined to laugh at me. The mate began to\njaw me a little on my fancies. All had passed in a minute or two.\nScarce had the mate spoken a dozen of words, when the captain hurried\nupon deck, much affected, and called to one of the female steerage\npassengers to go instantly to the cabin and assist, as he feared the\nfarmer's wife was dead. The mate ceased to speak, and the rest of the\ncrew looked as amazed as I did at the strange occurrence. The captain\ncame to us. When he heard my strange story, he shook his head, and only\nsaid it was a remarkable occurrence; but I had been deceived by some\nillusion, and commanded us not to speak of it, for distressing the poor\nhusband. We resolved to obey him, as we were by this time nearly in with\nthe land, and expected to make it next day, which we did; and the poor\nfarmer was helped ashore, almost as death-like as the body of his wife,\nwhich was buried in New York. I sailed several trips afterwards in the\n_Cochrane_, but never saw anything out of the common afterwards in her\nor anywhere else.\"\n\nThe first rays of the rising sun shone upon us all sound asleep, as\nquiet and undisturbed as if we had passed the night under the roofs of\nour fathers' houses; but I was cold, stiff, and sore when I awoke. I had\npassed the night upon a flat gravestone outside of the church, for want\nof room within, without any covering but my shirt and trousers--all I\nhad saved from the wreck. There was not a character engraved on the\nstone that was not as distinctly marked on my body. It was of no use\ngrumbling or being cast down--we were fairly adrift, and must go with\nthe current. It was now that the buoyancy of a sailor's mind burst\nforth. The old church and churchyard resounded with shouts and laughter,\nthat made the French sentinels think we had all gone mad. Some were busy\nat leap-frog, others were pursuing each other among the ruins and\ntomb-stones--all were in active exertion for the sake of warmth, and to\nbeguile the time; while the French gathered outside wherever they could\nobtain a sight of us, and looked on in amazement at our frolics. I am\ncertain they were not without fear for us; for a few of the lads had\ncontrived to clamber to the top of the ruins; and were amusing\nthemselves by antics, at the hazard of their necks, and throwing small\npieces of lime at us below. The officer in command called to them to\ncome down; but they knew not what he said. Some of them cried out, in\nanswer to his call--\"Speak like a Christian if you want us to understand\nyou, and don't wow like a dog.\" At this moment, Nick Williams, one of\nour maintop men, had scaled the highest point of the walls, and had, at\nthe risk of his life, contrived to perch himself upon the crumbling\nstone, and was huzzaing most vociferously. It was a daring and foolhardy\nfeat. A shout of admiration rose from the outside of the walls, when a\nreal British cheer answered it from within. Whether the officer was\nenraged at the apparent defiance and disobedience to his commands, I\nknow not, but several muskets were fired through the rails of the gate,\nand the balls recoiled from the walls. A shout of rage burst from us;\nand a serious conflict was only prevented by the prudence of the petty\nofficers who were among us; for the enraged seamen had begun to collect\nstones from the base of the ruined walls to hurl at the dastardly\nguards, who were shouting, _\"Vive la Nation!\" \"Vive la Republique!\"_ Our\nboatswain, who was a cool and resolute old tar, seeing that the storm\nwas still on the verge of bursting out--for we looked upon their cries\nas insulting as their balls--by a happy thought, struck up the national\nair, \"God save the King,\" which we sung with an enthusiasm and strength\nof lungs never, I am certain, surpassed before or since. If it had no\nmelody, it had a tone and sound equivalent to both. Many who still held\nthe stones in their hands, which they had lifted to hurl at the guards,\nstruck them together like cymbals, in regular time, to increase the\nnoise. The effect was most exhilarating and produced the desired effect\nof turning our angry feeling into good-humour. So pleased were we, that\nwe gave them \"Rule Britannia\" in the same style, until we forgot, in our\nenthusiasm, that we were prisoners, hungry, cold, and naked. Scarce had\nthe last loud cadence died away, when the gate was thrown open, and a\nmiserable allowance of the same black bread was served out to us, with\nplenty of water, and the gate once more shut against us.\n\nIt was very strange that, among more than five hundred of us, not one\nknew a word of French, and there were none of those who entered the\nenclosure could speak a word of English, so that we knew not what those\nwho had the power over us meant to do. We conjectured that they intended\nto keep us where we were until we were exchanged; and had already begun\nto canvass the possibility of breaking out of the hated church and yard,\nand making a bold push for our liberty, in the following night, by\noverpowering our guards, seizing their arms, and passing along the\ncoast, until we reached some of the small ports, and making prizes of\nall the vessels in it, and setting sail for England. A council was\nactually deliberating in the church, composed of the petty officers and\na few of our picked hands, when our attention was roused by the sound of\nmartial music approaching the churchyard, where it halted, and we were\nsoon after turned out, and numbered to the officer in command.\n\nThe party who had just arrived consisted of two companies of soldiers of\nthe line, regularly clothed and armed, as the French troops were; while\nthose under whose charge we had been were only the armed peasantry of\nthe neighbourhood. We hoped the change would be for our advantage. We\nsaw at once we were going to be conveyed into the interior. Go where we\nmust, we felt we could not be worse fed, lodged, or used than we had\nbeen. No harsh word was used to us by the regular troops; and, before we\nhad been a few hours on the road, we understood each other well enough\nby dumb show, and marched on in good humour; we walking in the middle of\nthem like a drove of bullocks, as frolicsome as children, singing,\nlaughing, and putting practical jokes upon each other, to beguile the\nway. Scarce had we travelled a couple of miles, until my bare feet\nbecame sore from the small stones and bruises; yet I limped on in the\nbest manner I could, and as cheerfully as possible. I was in the front\nas we were on the point of entering a village; the soldiers in file\nenclosing us on either side, and bringing up the rear, so that we could\nnot walk faster or slower than they chose. A few hundred yards from the\nentrance of the village, those in front turned round, and pointing to\nthe fowls of various kinds that were feeding on the highway before us,\nmade signs which we readily understood, and nodded significantly; they\nthen drew to each side of the road, and we behind them, leaving a gap in\nthe middle of the way like the prongs of a fork closed at the base. The\nducks, hens, and other fowls became alarmed as we came close upon them,\nand ran for shelter to the vacant space in the middle, when the front\nclosed, and all were secured by those in the centre; the poor people,\ntheir owners, calling in vain for restitution of their property. The\nsoldiers would not allow them to come within their ranks; and, at night,\nwhen we stopped, the former procured wood for us to dress the stolen\nfowls, after having received their proportion. This, I confess, was a\nspecies of robbery; but we were starved by the allowance of government,\nand we were in an enemy's country, who had plundered the shipwrecked\nmariner cast upon their shores. We thought, therefore, although, of\ncourse, the reasoning was wrong, that, in appropriating whatever we\ncould lay hands upon, we were merely making fair and just reprisals for\nthe losses we had sustained at the hands of our captors; but, the truth\nis, we troubled ourselves very little about the right or wrong of the\nmatter, for we were lodged either in large empty barns, or ruined\nchurches, all the way to Rennes, and could, from hunger, have eaten a\njackass when we were allowed to rest for the night. Even yet, I remember\nthe relish a small piece of a roast pig or fowl had, without either\nbread or salt, at this time, for we were not scrupulous what we lifted\nthat would eat, if we could carry it. In one village, five pigs\ndisappeared in this manner, and only the great weight of the parent\nprevented her following them. At the time, it had not the appearance of\ntheft; there was so much fun in it that it resembled a great hunt, for\nevery eye was in quest of game, and all was done so quietly and\ndexterously that there was not the least confusion or noise. We closed\nso rapidly that the prey had no means of escape, nor room to move until\nit was despatched; yet the people, as we passed, were often very kind to\nus, so far as was in their power, for they appeared to be miserably\npoor. When we reached Rennes my feet were so sore, swelled, and cut,\nthat I walked with great pain; numbers of us were in the same situation.\nWe did not pass straight through the town, but were halted, for some\ntime, in the market-place, while the inhabitants came in crowds to gaze\nat the English prisoners; and a miserable sight we were. We might have\nbeen here about half an hour, when a beautiful young lady came to where\nwe were, with a young woman behind her carrying a large basket filled\nwith shoes. I thought she had come to sell them, as so many were\nbarefoot. I saw her giving them to the men, and hirpled to the spot, and\nlooked with an anxious eye at the store which was diminishing fast. I\nhad still retained the twopence, and resolved to make an effort to\nobtain a pair, but felt backward, conscious I had no equivalent to give\nfor them; holding out my coppers, I pointed to a pair which I thought\nwould answer me; I felt ashamed, and looked to the ground, pointing to\nmy feet when I had attracted her attention, for she was looking in\nanother direction. She took the shoes and gave them to me. I proffered\nmy little cash; she gently put my hand aside, and, by a sign, made me\nknow that I was welcome to them. I never saw a female so lovely as this\nyoung lady; her clear, black eyes were swimming in tears, and her face\ncovered with blushes; her looks were so mild, so benevolent, she looked\nlike an angel sent from heaven to administer to our wants. Never before\nor since have I felt the same sensation so intensely. It was delightful;\nit was painful. I felt a choking in my throat. I could have wept, and\nhave found relief in it, but I was surrounded by those who would have\nmade sport of my emotion. I retired a few paces to make way for others,\nin silence. I dared not utter a sound, lest my feelings had overpowered\nme, but stood and gazed at the lovely creature until she retired. I felt\nas if everything to be esteemed on earth was concentrated in her person\nand mind. Had I been an admiral I would have gloried in calling her\nmine; had it been necessary I could have faced death or any danger, to\nfree her from trouble or grief, with a feeling of joy and exultation.\nMany a time has this fair creature been embodied in my mind's eye, as\nfair and lovely as she was then, but I never saw her again.\n\nMany others of the good inhabitants of Rennes administered to our wants.\nI got, besides the shoes, a substitute for a jacket, and a straw hat\nfrom an old man. Indeed, we saw in our route scarce any others except\nold men, women, and boys. Women were driving the carts, and working in\nthe fields, and doing the work done by the men in Britain. From Rennes\nwe were marched to Perche, our final destination, in the same manner as\nwe had been from the coast, and lodged in prison; but I found it no\nprison to me: men were so scarce at this time in France that we were\nallowed to work out of prison if we chose, and only visited once a-week\nto pass muster, and receive our allowance--so I soon found a master, or,\nmore properly, he found me in prison--a cart and plough-wright residing\na short distance from town.\n\nCitizen Vauquin, in secret, was a staunch Royalist; but, in his common\nconversation, a Republican. To me he was extremely kind, but our\ncommunications were very limited, from my want of knowledge of French;\nbut I was picking it up with rapidity, and we soon contrived to\nunderstand each other pretty well.\n\nIt was now well on in the spring, and the weather warm and agreeable. I\nwas busy at my work, when Vauquin, who was a stout, hale old man, came\nto me; there was something comic in the expression of his countenance,\njoy and vexation seemed by turns to pass over it, and at times to\nstruggle for mastery; he looked cautiously around lest any one might\noverhear us, then said--\n\n\"Ah, France! beautiful France! these cursed Democrats have dimmed your\nglory, and ruined you! We have lost our fleet in Egypt, and we fly\nbefore the Germans. What can we have but defeat, while the best blood in\nFrance either has been shed by her sons, or languishes in obscurity.\nCould we be freed from the ruffians that tyrannize over us in any way\nbut this? We have suffered much, and must suffer more, before we see the\nglories of France shine as they once shone in the courts of her kings.\nHa! Elder, your sailors are the devils that humble France; from your\nriches the seas are covered with your ships, and the brave French,\nplundered by their rulers, have few. What could be done with sixteen\nships when fifty were upon them?\"\n\nPiqued by his national vanity, I replied--\n\n\"Had Nelson had half the number, there would have been no fighting.\"\n\n\"Why no fighting, Monsieur?\" said he.\n\n\"Because they would have run if they could,\" replied I; \"or struck when\nthey saw no chance--that's all I have to say on the subject. If you\nplease let us change it, my friend.\"\n\n\"By all means,\" said he, \"let us change it. We are a ruined and undone\npeople since we lost our King. The great nation are a people without a\nhead; and, when a house wants the head, all goes wrong.\"\n\n\"You and I are at one on this point,\" replied I. \"But how comes it that\nyou are as democratic as any one in the neighbourhood when politics is\nthe subject of discourse? It is not so in Britain. Every man speaks his\nmind; yet we have a king and a kingly government. I was led to believe,\nbefore I left home, that in France alone there was liberty: for all men\nwere equal--freedom and equality being the law of the land.\"\n\n\"O Monsieur Elder!\" exclaimed he, \"freedom and equality are the worst\ntyranny, as I shall shew you by my sad experience. When all men make the\nlaw, who is to obey? Better one tyrant than one million; for, when every\none thinks he is a law-maker, no one thinks of obeying the law farther\nthan it pleases himself. Listen to me; and you shall hear the truth as I\nhave experienced it, and many thousands in France as well as I:--\n\n\"When first the people of France began to give attention to the writers\nand haranguers against the oppression which we, no doubt, suffered, no\none was more enthusiastic than I was for the removal of the abuses; and\nI thought no sacrifice could be too great to have them removed. I was,\nat the time, carpenter to the great chateau which you see in the\ndistance. Our old lord, who was a severe master, had died only a few\nyears before, and had not the love of a single peasant in his wide\ndomains; but his son was the reverse of his parent--the friend and\nbenefactor of every one on his estate; yet he inherited a fund of\nanimosity which it would have taken years of his kindness and humanity\nto have obliterated. In this state of matters, the troubles broke out.\nHe was on the side of the people, and aided, as far as in him lay, the\ncause of improvement in the state, until the factions in Paris--who,\nruling the silly multitude, led them to believe that they were ruled by\nthem--struck at the root of all good government by insulting and\nimprisoning the King. From this time, he took no active part in the\ncommotions, but remained at his chateau. I was his overseer, and managed\nhis affairs. I loved him with all my soul, for he was worthy of my love.\nMy ideas went still farther than his went, and I felt not displeased\nwith anything that had as yet occurred; for I knew the tenacity with\nwhich the aristocracy clung to their privileges; but the cunning and\ndesigning men who, under the faint shew of obeying the people, ruled\nthem at their will for mischief and disorder, ultimately, by taking the\nlife of the King, took the key-stone out of the arch which sheltered the\npeople, and brought the whole fabric of civil order about their ears. I\nwas confounded at the blindness I had laboured under; and, from that\nhour, my whole ideas changed. But, alas! it was too late; and even those\nthat had lent a willing hand trembled at the mischief they had done.\nBenefits are soon forgot; but the remembrance of injuries are indelible.\nNumbers of needy plunderers had arrived from Paris, and overspread these\npeaceful plains like evil spirits, rousing the worst feeling of our\npeasantry into action. As yet, no serious outrage had been committed in\nthis quarter; but I too plainly saw that it would not long be deferred.\nI requested my dear master to fly, as many others had done; for blood\nhad begun to flow like water in Paris and the provinces--not the blood\nof the guilty, but the blood of the noble and virtuous; for, alas!\nFrance had become the arena in the remorseless war of poverty against\nproperty. The whole fabric of social order had been dissolved, and men\nhad returned to their original state of barbarism; like jackalls or\nwolves, only banding together when they scented plunder. To be rich or\nnobly born was a crime of the deepest dye, only to be atoned by blood.\nI, with extreme pain, saw the storm gathering, and could only deplore\nit; and what added to my anguish, was, I dared not argue against them;\nfor our old and worthy magistrates had been deposed, and others, more in\nthe spirit of the times, appointed. As yet, no blood had been shed in\nPerche, but numbers were immured in prison; and, had I given the least\ncause of suspicion, I would have been placed beyond the power of lending\nthat aid to the distressed which I was resolved to afford them, or\nperish in the attempt. Several times I had entreated my young lord to\nfly, and avoid the storm; but my entreaties were in vain. He thought far\ntoo well of his fellow-men.\n\n\"At length a rumour reached us that two commissioners were on their way\nto the chateau to sequestrate it for the use of the state: immediately\nthere was a violent commotion amongst the people--fearful of losing\ntheir share of the plunder, all marched in a tumultuous manner to\nassault it. Aware of what might ensue--for blood had begun to flow--I\ngot my young lord disguised as one of my workmen, and set to his\nbench--that very one at which you work--and joined the crowd as they\napproached the chateau. To prevent suspicion, no one shouted louder than\nI, 'Down with the Tyrants!'--'Down with the Aristocrats!'--'_Vive la\nNation!_'--'_Vive la Republique!_' We entered the chateau, which was\nsearched in vain for my young lord. It was now that the true spirit of\nthe peasantry shewed itself in all its deformity; everything of value\nwas in a short time carried off or destroyed; while every quarter\nresounded with execrations and cries for blood--the oppressions of the\nfather were alone remembered. How it occurred I have yet to learn, but\nthe youthful aristocrat was discovered in my shop; this was a severe\nblow to me, for I was immediately seized by the furious crowd, charged\nby them with the worst of crimes in their eyes, the concealing from them\na victim of their rage. It was a fearful hour. I expected to have been\ntorn to pieces upon the spot. My presence of mind did not forsake me: I\nbegged to be heard before the fatal daggers that were brandished around\nreached my heart. I stood firm until a pause of the storm, when I\nappealed to them not for mercy, but for revenge--revenge upon my lord\nbefore I died. \"I have been betrayed,\" I cried, \"by some one. I appeal\nto yourselves for my former love of my country. Let me die, but let it\nbe for my country, and let me be revenged upon the tyrants. Fire the\nchateau!--'_Vive la Nation_,' '_A bas les Aristocrats_,' '_Vive la\nRepublique_'--and let me die by the light of the stronghold of tyranny\nenveloped in flames.\"\n\n\"I now breathed more freely. Shouts rent the air; for like a weathercock\nis a mob--ever pointing as the last breath of wind blows. '_Vive\nVauquin!_' resounded from every lip; the chateau was enveloped in\nflames; its owner immersed in a dungeon to await his doom, already fixed\nbefore the mock forms of justice were gone through. Think not the worse\nof me for the part I acted; every paper and article of plate had been\nconcealed for some days before. To save, if possible, his life, no one\nwas louder in denouncing my lord than myself, for his having dared to\nconceal himself in my shop. At my return, I began seriously to turn over\nin my mind what steps I was next to pursue for his safety, now rendered\ndifficult, almost beyond my power to overcome. I feared not death, nor\nany danger to myself, could my object have been attained by it. There\nwas not a moment to be lost; the following day was to have been the day\nof his trial and death. The commissioners had arrived from Paris, and a\nfete was resolved to be got up to welcome them. In a state of anxiety I\ncan hardly describe, I bustled about and waited upon the commissioners;\nbut my chief object was to ascertain the exact spot where the\naristocrats were confined. My lord was my chiefest care, for however\nmuch I had, at the commencement of the revolution, wished for the\nabused power of the nobles to be reduced, I had no wish for their ruin,\nfar less their murder; judge my horror when I learned that he was in the\nlower dungeon of the prison, to which there was only one entrance\nthrough the guard-room, which was constantly filled by the soldiers on\nguard. With a heart void of hope I returned to my home. In an agony of\nmind I threw myself upon my couch, that if possible I might exclude\nevery other thought but the one that I wished to fix my whole attention\nupon: while I walked about, I felt like one distracted. At length, I was\nso fortunate as to call to mind having, when a boy, heard my father tell\nthat he had assisted my grandfather in securing a door into the lower\ndungeon, that led into another even more loathsome, where the Huguenots\nwere wont to be confined in the time of Louis the Fourteenth; this had a\ndoor which led into the outer court of the prison, the walls of which\nwere in the hinder part, ruinous and neglected, as few of the present\npeople in authority knew of such a dungeon; the old door having been\nlong built up. A faint ray of hope shot through my mind; I started from\nmy bed, and, concealing what tools I judged to be necessary, proceeded\nto the jail without being perceived--this was rendered the more easy as\nevery one was engaged preparing for the fete. I remained under the\nshelter of the ruined wall until it was quite dark. A voice of mirth and\nrevelry sounded in the front of that prison, whose gloomy walls and\nstrong iron barred windows might, and no doubt did, enclose hearts more\nsorrowful than mine, but none more anxious. My situation, solitary as it\nwas, was full of peril--I might be missed at the fete, and suspicion\nroused if I was so fortunate as to succeed; but I allowed no selfish\nthought to intrude. I was so fortunate as to find the low arched door I\nhad heard my father speak of; after considerable labour it yielded to my\nefforts, and I entered the low and noisesome vault which had heard and\nre-echoed the groans of so many victims of tyranny whose only fault was\nadhering to the dictates of their consciences against an intolerant\npriesthood. So baleful was the air I breathed, that I was forced to\nretire, or I had fallen to the damp floor; again I entered, for I heard\nthe voice of my lord in prayer, and felt a new sort of assurance arise\nin my mind; there was no distinguishing one object from another, so\nimpenetrable was the darkness, and the faint sound appeared to come from\nno particular side of the dungeon. I commenced groping with my hands,\nfrom the entrance, along the walls; it was a loathsome task, for they\nwere damp and ropy, and loathsome reptiles ever and anon made me\nwithdraw my fingers; still I groped on. At length I succeeded; the door\nwas forced to yield to my skill and efforts; all that divided me from\nhim I sought was the strong planks and plaster. I struck a sharp single\nblow upon it, and paused--the voice of my master had ceased from the\ncommencement of my work upon the second door. It was a period of intense\nanxiety, lest he should alarm his guards, if any of them had been in his\ndungeon. To my first signal no answer was made: he knew not that he had\na friend so near, willing to sacrifice everything for his rescue. I\nstruck a second blow, and again listened; I heard him utter a faint\nexclamation of surprise, and all was again still. The third time I\nstruck, and I heard a movement on the other side: the plaster was\nstruck, piercing a small hole, and we were enabled to communicate. I\nfound he was alone in his dismal dungeon. It was agreed that I was to\nreturn in two hours with a disguise for him, after I had appeared at the\nfete; and, in the meantime, I loosened the fastening so as he could\neasily force it away should any thing happen to prevent my return; and,\nthese arrangements being made, I took my departure, in the same stealthy\nmanner in which I had reached him.\n\n\"With my heart still anxious but more at ease, I joined the festive\nthrong, and, joining in the dance for a short time, then retired, got\nall ready, returned, with a view to relieve my lord from his dungeon,\nand had the unspeakable pleasure to see him beyond its walls, dressed as\na peasant girl. Our parting was brief but sincere, my wishes for his\nsafety were equal to the extent of my love, but I have never heard of\nhim since; whether he went for La Vendee, or joined the allied army, I\nnever knew. As soon as I saw him safe out of the town, I returned to the\njoyous group, and was among the last to leave it. My share in the escape\nof my noble master was never even suspected; but from this time I have\nwished the fall of the tyrants that have ruled France with a rod of\niron, and for the return of our King and nobility, until which time we\ncan never hope for tranquillity. I am not displeased at what can assist\nin aiding their overthrow but I feel, as a true Frenchman, humbled at\nevery defeat our brave forces sustain. I love the beautiful fields of\nFrance and all her sons, but I hate the demagogues who at present rule\nher destinies.\"\n\nHad I not been an exile against my will, I never had been more happy in\nmy life than I was at this time. I, no doubt, was a prisoner of war; but\nit was only in name. I never saw my prison but once a-week, when I\nappeared at the muster to receive my jail allowance, and returned to\ncitizen Vauquin's in a few hours after, or strayed where I chose within\nthe proscribed distance. Our visits to the prison always gave rise to an\nafternoon of merriment and pleasure--a meeting of friends. Not one of us\nwished to escape, or desired an exchange.\n\nI was always a fortunate fellow. The four months I was here I improved\nmuch in my drawing, and found the instructions of poor Walden of the\nutmost service to me; and I was much benefited by a relation of\nVauquin's, who had studied the arts at Paris. It was thus I spent my\nevenings; but I was never as yet allowed to enjoy my good fortune long.\nWe were ordered to be marched to the coast at Saint Malos, where a\ncartel was to be in readiness to receive us. I bade adieu to my kind\nfriend, Citizen Vauquin, not without regret, and set out for the coast.\nThere was not a trace of pleasure at our release among us; we had no\ncause, at least nine-tenths of us. For, as Bill Wates had foretold, off\nJersey we were brought too by the _Ramillies_, and crowded on board her.\nThe greater part were draughted to other men-of-war, but in her I\nremained until she was paid off, at the peace.\n\n[Footnote 3: See \"The Man-of-war's Man.\"]\n\n\n\n\nWILLIE WASTLE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS WIFE.\n\n    \"Sic a wife as Willie had!\n    I wadna gie a button for her.\"\n                               BURNS.[4]\n\n\n\"It was a very cruel dune thing in my neebor, Robert Burns, to mak a\nsang aboot my wife and me,\" said Mr William Wastle, as he sat with a\nfriend over a jug of reeking toddy, in a tavern near the Bridge-end in\nDumfries where he had been attending the cattle market; \"I didna think\nit was neebor-like,\" he added; \"indeed it was a rank libel upon baith\nher and me; and I took it the worse, inasmuch as I always had a very\nhigh respect for Maister Burns. Though he said that I 'dwalt on Tweed,'\nand that I 'was a wabster,' yet everybody kenned wha the sang was aimed\nat. Neither did my wife merit the description that has been drawn o'\nher; for, though she was nae beauty, and hadna a face like a wax-doll,\nyet there were thousands o' waur looking women to be met wi' than my\nKirsty; and to say that her mither was a 'tinkler,' was very\nunjustifiable, for her parents were as decent and respectable people, in\ntheir sphere o' life, as ye would hae found in a' Nithsdale. Her faither\nhad a small farm which joined on with one that I took a lease o', when I\nwas about one-and-twenty. Kirsty was about three years aulder; and,\nthough not a bonny woman, she was, in many respects, as ye shall hear in\nthe coorse o' my story, a very extraordinary one. I was in the habit o'\nseeing her every day, and as I sometimes was working in a field next to\nher, I had every opportunity o' observing her industry, and that, frae\nmornin' till nicht, she was aye eident. This gave me a far higher\nopinion o' her than if I had seen her gaun about wi' a buskit head; and\noften, at meal-times, I used to stand and speak to her owre the dyke.\nBut, after we had been acquainted in this manner for some months, when\nthe cheerfu' summer weather came in, and the grass by the dyke-sides was\nwarm and green, and the bonny gowans blossomed among it, I louped owre\nthe dyke, and we sat doun and took our dinners together. I couldna have\nbelieved it possible that a bit bare bannock and a drap skim milk wad\ngang doun sae deliciously, but never before had I partaken o' onything\nthat was sae pleasant to the palate. One day I was quite surprised, when\nI found that my arm had slipped unconsciously round her waist, and,\ndrawing her closer to my side, I seighed, and said--'O Kirsty, woman!'\n\n\"She pulled away my hand from her waist, and looking me in the face,\nsaid--'Weel, Willie, man, what is't?'\n\n\"'Kirsty,' said I, 'I like ye.'\"\n\n\"'I thocht as meikle,' quoth she, 'but could ye no hae said sae at\nance.'\"\n\n\"'Perhaps I could, dear,' said I; 'but ye ken true love is aye blate;\nhowever, if ye hae nae objections, I'll gang yont, after fothering time\nthe micht, and speak to yer faither and mither; and if they hae nae\nobjections, and ye have yer providin' ready, wi' yer guid-will and\nconsent, I shall gie up oor names, and we shall be cried on Sabbath\nfirst.'\n\n\"'Oh,' said she, 'I haena lived for five-and-twenty years without\nexpectin' to get a guidman some day; and I hae had my providin' ready\nsince I was eighteen, an' a' o' my ain spinnin' and bleachin', an' the\nlint bocht wi' what I had wrocht for; so that I am behauden to naebody.\nMy faither and mither have mair sense than to cast ony obstacle in the\nway o' my weelfare; and, as ye are far frae bein' disagreeable to me, if\nwe are to be married, it may as weel be sune as syne, and we may be\ncried on Sunday if ye think proper.'\n\n\"'O Kirsty, woman!' cried I, and I drew my arm round her waist again,\n'ye hae made me as happy as a prince! I hardly ken which end o' me is\nupmost!'\n\n\"'Na, Willie,' said she, 'there is nae necessity for ony nonsensical\nraptures, ye ken perfectly weel that yer head is upmost, though I hae\nheard my faither talk about some idiots that he ca's philosophers, who\nsay that the world whirls roond aboot like a cart-wheel on an axle-tree,\nand that ance in every twenty-four hours our feet are upmost, and our\nhead downmost; but it will be lang or onybody get me to believe in sic\nbalderdash! As to yer being happy at present, it shall be nae faut o'\nmine if ye are not aye sae; and if ye be aye as I would wish ye to be,\nye will never be unhappy.'\n\n\"Such, as near as I can recollect, is not only the history, but the\nexact words o' oor courtship. Her faither and mither gied their consent\nwithout the slightest hesitation. I remember her faither's words to me\nwere--'Weel, William, frae a' that I hae seen o' ye, ye appear to be a\nvery steady and industrious young man, and ane that is likely to do weel\nin the world. I hae seen, also, wi' great satisfaction, that ye are very\nregular in yer attendance upon the ordinances; there hasna been a\nSabbath, since ye cam to be oor neebor, that I hae missed ye oot o' yer\nseat in the kirk. Frae a' that I hae heard concernin' ye, also, ye hae\nalways been a serious, sober, and weel-behaved young man. These things\nare a great satisfaction to a faither when he finds them in the lad that\nhis dochter wishes to marry. Ye hae my consent to tak Kirsty; and,\nthough I say it, I believe ye will find her to mak as industrious,\ncarefu', and kind a wife, as ye would hae found if ye had sought through\na' broad Scotland for ane. I will say it, however, and before her face,\nthat there are some things in which she takes it o' her mother, and in\nwhich she will hae her ain way. But this is her only faut. I'm sure\nye'll ne'er hae cause to complain o' her wasting a bawbee, or o' her\nallowing even the heel o' a kebbuck to gang to unuse. It is needless for\nme to say mair; but ye hae my full and free consent to marry when ye\nlike.'\n\n\"Then up spoke the auld guidwife, and said--'Weel, Willie, lad, if you\nand Kirsty hae made up yer minds to mak a bargain o' it, I am as little\ndisposed to oppose yer inclinations as her faither is. A guid wife, I\nsincerely believe, ye will find her prove to ye; and though her faither\nsays that in some things she will be like me, and have her ain way, let\nme tell ye, lad, that is owre often necessary for a woman to do, wha is\nstriving everything in her power for the guid o' her husband and the\nfamily, and sees him, just through foolishness, as it were, striving\nagainst her. Ye are strange beings you men-folk to deal wi'. But ye\nwinna find her a bare bride, for she has a kist fu' o' linen o' her ain\nspinnin', that may serve ye a' yer days, and even when ye are dead,\nthough ye should live for sixty years.'\n\n\"I thought it rather untimeous that the auld woman should hae spoken\naboot linen for oor grave-claes, before we were married; and I suppose\nmy countenance had hinted as much, for Kirsty seemed to hae observed it,\nand she said--'My mother says what is and ought to be. It is aye best\nto be provided for whatever may come; and as Death often gies nae\nwarning, I wadna like to be met wi' it, and to hae naething in the house\nto lay me out in like a Christian.'\n\n\"I thought there was a vast deal o' sense and discretion in what she\nsaid; and though I didna like the idea o' such a premature providing o'\nwinding-sheets, yet, after she spoke, I highly approved o' her prudence\nand forethought.\n\n\"It was on a Monday afternoon, about three weeks after the time I have\nbeen speaking o', that Kirsty, wi' her faither, and mother, and another\nyoung lass, an acquaintance o' hers, that was to be best-maid, cam yont\nto my house for her and me to be married. I had sent for ane o' my\nbrothers to be best-man, and he was with me waiting when they came. She\nwas not in the least discomposed, but behaved very modestly. In a few\nminutes the minister arrived, when the ceremony immediately began, and\nwithin a quarter of an hour she was mine, and I was hers, for the term\no' oor natural lives.\n\n\"From the time that I took the farm, I had no kind o' dishes in the\nhouse, save a wooden bowie or twa, four trenchers, three piggins, and\ntwa bits o' tin cans, that I had bought from a travelling tinker for\ntwopence a-piece, and which Kirsty afterwards told me, were each a\nhalfpenny a-piece aboon their value. I dinna think that I had tasted tea\naboon a dozen times in the whole course o' my life; but, as it was\ncoming into general use, I thought it would look respectfu' to my bride,\nbefore her faither and mother, if I should hae tea upon oor marriage\nday, and I could ask the minister to stop and tak a dish wi' us. I\nthought it would gie a character o' respectability to oor wedding.\nTherefore, on the Saturday afore the marriage, I went to Dumfries, and\nbought half a dozen o' bonny blue cups and saucers. I never durst tell\nKirsty how meikle I gied for them. It was with great difficulty that I\ngot them carried hame without breaking. I also bought two ounces o' the\nbest tea, and a whole pound o' brown sugar.\n\n\"I had a servant lassie at the time, the doohter o' a hind in the\nneighbourhood; she was necessary to me to do the work about the house,\nand to milk twa kye that I kept, to mak the cheese, and a part o' the\nday to help the workers out wi' the bondage.\n\n\"'Lassie,' said I, when I got hame; 'do ye ken hoo to mak tea?'\n\n\"'I'm no very sure,' said she; 'but I think I do. I ance got a cup when\nI wasna weel, frae the farmer's wife that my faither lives wi'. I'll\ntry.'\n\n\"'Here, then,' says I; 'tak care o' thir, and see that ye dinna break\nthem, or it will mak a breaking that ye wouldna like in your quarter's\nwages.' So I gied her the cups and saucers to put awa carefully into the\npress.\n\n\"'O maister,' says she; 'but noo, when I recollect, ye'll need a\ntea-kettle, and a tea-pat, and a cream-pat, and teaspoons.'\n\n\"'Preserve me!' quoth I, 'the lassie is surely wrang in the head! Hoo\nmony articles o' _tea_ and _cream_ hae ye there? The parritch kettle\nwill do as weel as a tea-kettle--where can be the difference? Your\ntea-pats I ken naething aboot, and as for a cream-pat, set down the\ncream-bowie; and as for spoons, ye fool, they dinna sip tea--they drink\nit--just sirple it, as it were, oot o' the saucer.'\n\n\"'O sir,' said she; 'but they need a little spoon to stir it round to\nmak the sugar melt--and that is weel minded, ye'll also require a\nsugar-basin.'\n\n\"'Hoots! toots! lassie,' cried I, 'do ye intend to ruin me? By yer\naccount o' the matter, it would be almost as expensive to set up a tea\nequipage, as a chariot equipage. No, no; just do as the miller's wife o'\nNewmills did.'\n\n\"'And what way micht that be, sir?' inquired she.\n\n\"'Why,' said I, 'she took such as she had, and she never wanted! Just\nye tak such as ye have--cogie, bowie, or tinniken, never ye mind--show\nye your dexterity.'\n\n\"'Very weel, sir,' said she; 'I'll do the best I can.'\n\n\"But, just to exemplify another trait in my wife's character, I will\ntell ye the upshot o' my cups and saucers. I confess that I was in a\nstate of very considerable perturbation; not only on account o' what the\nlassie had told me about the want o' a tea-kettle, tea-pat, and so\nforth, but also that, including the minister, there were seven o' us,\nwhile I had but six cups; and I consoled mysel by thinking that, as\nKirsty and I were now _one_, she might drink oot o' the cup and I wad\ntak the saucer, so that a cup and saucer would serve us baith; and I was\ntrustin to the ingenuity o' the lassie to find substitutes for the other\ndeficiencies, when she came ben to where we were sitting, and going\nforward to Kirsty, says she--'Mistress, I have had the twa ounces o' tea\non boiling in a chappin o' water, for the last twa hoors--do ye think it\nwill be what is ca'ed _masked_ noo?'\n\n\"'Tea!' said my new-made wife, wi' a look o' astonishment; 'is the\nlassie talking aboot _tea_? While I am to be in this house--and I\nsuppose that is to be for my life--there shall nae poisonous foreign\nweed be used in it, nor come within the door, unless it be some drug\nthat a doctor orders. Take it off the fire, and throw the broo awa. My\ncertes! if young folk like us were to begin wi' sic extravagance, where\nwould be the upshot? Na, na, Willie,' said she, turning round to me,\n'let us just begin precisely as we mean to end. At all events, let us\nrather begin meanly, than end beggarly. I hae seen some folk, no aboon\noor condition in life, mak a great dash on their wedding-day; and some\no' them even hire gigs and coaches, forsooth, to tak a jaunt awa for a\ndozen o' miles! Poor things! it was the first and last time that ony o'\nthem was either in gig or coach. But there shall be nae extravagance o'\nthat kind for me. My faither and mither care naething about tea, for\nthey hae never been used to it, and I'm sure that our friends here care\nas little; and, asking the minister's pardon, I am perfectly sure and\ncertain, that tea can be nae treat to him, for he has it every day, and\nit will be standing ready for him when he gangs hame. The supper will be\nready by eight o'clock, and those who wish it, may tak a glass o'\nspeerits in the meantime--as it isna every day that they are at my\nwedding.'\n\n\"Her faither and mother looked remarkable proud and weel-pleased like at\nwhat she said, just as if they wished to say to me--'There's a wife for\nye!' But I thought the minister seemed a good deal surprised, and in a\nfew minutes he took up his hat, wished us much joy, and went away. For\nmy part, I didna think sae much aboot my bride's lecture, as I rejoiced\nthat she thereby released me from the confusion I should have\nexperienced in exposing the poverty o' my tea equipage.\n\n\"It was on the very morning after oor marriage, and just as I was gaun\noot to my wark--'Willie,' says she, 'I think we should single the\nturnips in the field west o' the hoose the day. The cotters' twa bondage\nlasses, and me, will be able to manage it by the morn's nicht.'\n\n\"'O, my dear,' quoth I, 'but I hae nae intention that ye should gang out\ninto the fields to work, noo that ye are my wife. Let the servant-lass\ngang out, and ye can look after the meat.'\n\n\"'Her! the idle taupie!' said she, 'we hae nae mair need for her than a\ncart has for a third wheel. Mony a time it has grieved me to observe her\nmotions, when ye were out o' the way--and there would she and the other\ntwa wenches been standing, clashing for an hour at a time, and no\nworkin' a stroke. I often had it in my mind to tell ye, but only I\nthought ye might think it forward in me, as I perceived ye had a\nkindness for me. But I can baith do all that is to do in-doors, and\nwork out-by also, and at the end o' the quarter she shall leave.'\n\n\"'Wi' a' my heart,' says I, 'if ye wish it;' for it struck me she micht\nbe a wee thocht jealous o' the lassie; 'but there is no the sma'est\nnecessity for you working out in the fields; for though she leaves, we\ncan get a callant at threepence a-day, that would just do as muckle\nout-work as she does, and ye would hae naething to attend to but the\naffairs o' the hoose.'\n\n\"'O William!' replied she, 'I'm surprised to hear ye speak. Ye talk o'\nthreepence a-day just as if it were naething. Hoo mony starving families\nare there, that threepence a-day would mak happy? It is my maxim never\nto spend a penny unless it be laid out to the greatest possible\nadvantage. Ye should always keep that in view, every time ye put yer\nhand in your pocket. He that saves a penny has as mony thanks, in the\nlang run, as he that gies it awa. Threepence a-day, not including the\nSabbath, is eighteenpence a-week; noo, you that are a scholar, only\nthink how much that comes to in a twelvemonth. There are fifty-twa weeks\nin the year--that is fifty-twa shillings; and fifty-twa sixpences\nis--how much?'\n\n\"'Twenty-six shillings, my dear,' said I, for I was quite amused at her\ncalculation--the thing had never struck me before.\n\n\"'Weel,' added she, 'fifty-two shillings and twenty-six shillings, put\nthat together, and see how much it comes to.'\n\n\"'Oh,' says I, after half a minute's calculation, 'it will just be three\npounds, eighteen shillings, to a farthing.'\n\n\"'Noo,' cried she, 'only think o' that!--three pounds eighteen shillings\na-year; and ye would throw it away, just as if it were three puffs o'\nbreath! Now, William, just listen to me and tak tent--that is within twa\nshillings o' four pounds. It would far mair than cleed you and me, out\nand out, frae head to foot, from year's end to year's end. But at\npresent the wench's meat and wages come to three times that, and\ntherefore I am resolved, William, that while I am able to work, we shall\nneither throw away the one nor the other. It is best that we should\nunderstand each other in time: therefore, I just tell ye plainly, as I\nsaid yesterday, that as I wish to end, I mean to begin. This very day,\nthis very morning and hour, I go out wi' the bondage lassies to single\nthe turnips; and, at the end o' the quarter, the lazy taupie\nbutt-a-house maun walk aboot her business.'\n\n\"'Weel, Kirsty, my darling,' says I, 'your way be it. Only I maun again\nsay, that I had no wish or inclination whatever to see you toiling and\nthinning turnips beneath a burning sun, or maybe taking them up and\nshawing them, when the cauld drift was cutting owre the face keener than\na razor.'\n\n\"'Weel, William,' quoth she, 'it is needless saying any more words about\nit--it is my fixed and determined resolution.'\n\n\"'Then, hinny,' says I, 'if ye be absolutely resolved upon that, it is\no' no manner o' use to say ony mair upon the subject, of course--your\nway be it.'\n\n\"So the servant lassie was discharged accordingly, and Kirsty did\neverything hersel. Wet day and dry day, whatever kind o' wark was to be\ndone, there was she in the middle o' it, by her example spurring on the\nbondagers. Even when we began to hae a family, I hae seen her working in\nthe fields wi' an infant on her back; and I am certain that for a dozen\no' harvests, while she was aye at the head o' the shearers, there was\naye our bairn that was youngest at the time, lying rowed up in a blanket\nat the foot o' the rig, and playing wi' the stubble to amuse itsel.\n\n\"There were many that said that I was entirely under her thumb, and that\nshe had the maister-skep owre me. But that was a grand mistake, for she\nby no means exercised onything like maistership owre me; though I am\nfree to confess, that I at all times paid a great degree o' deference to\nher opinions, and that she had a very particular and powerfu' way o'\nenforcing them. Yet, although I was in no way cowed by her, there wasna\na bairn that we had, from the auldest to the youngest, that durst play\n_cheep_ before her. She certainly had her family under great subjection,\nand their bringing up did her great credit. They were allowed time to\nplay like ither bairns--but from the time that they were able to make\nuse o' their hands, ye would hardly hae found it possible to come in\nupon us, and seen ane o' them idle. All were busy wi' something; and no\nane o' them durst hae stepped owre a prin lying on the floor, without\nstooping doun to tak it up, or passed onything that was out o' its place\nwithout putting it right. For I will say for her again, that, if my\nKirsty wasna a bonny wife, she was not only a thrifty but a tidy ane,\nand keepit every ane and every thing tidy around her.\n\n\"She was a strange woman for abhorring everything that was new-fangled.\nShe was a most devout believer in, and worshipper o' the wisdom o' oor\nancestors. She perfectly hated everything like change; and as to\nonything that implied speculation, ye micht as weel hae spoken o'\nprofanation in her presence. She said she liked auld friends, auld\ncustoms, auld fashions; and was the sworn enemy o' a' the innovations on\nthe practices and habits that had been handed doun frae generation to\ngeneration. I dinna ken if ever she heard the names Whig or Tory in her\nlife; but if Tory mean an enemy o' change, then my Kirsty certainly was\na Tory o' the very purest water.\n\n\"I dinna suppose that she believed there was such a word as\n_improvement_ in the whole Dictionary. She would hae allooed everything\nto stand steadfast as Lot's wife, for ever and for ever. But, however,\njust to gie ye a specimen or twa o' her remarkable disposition:--I think\nit was about sixteen years after we were married, that I took a tack o'\nan adjoining farm, which was much larger than the ane we occupied. I was\nconscious it would require every penny we had scraped thegither, and\nthat we had saved, to stock it. My wife was by no means favourable to my\ntaking it. She said we kenned what we had done, but we didna ken what we\nmight do; and it was better to go on as we were doing, than to risk oor\na'. I acknowledge that there was a vast deal o' truth in what she said;\nbut, however, I saw that the farm was an excellent bargain, and I was\nresolved to tak it, say what she might; and therefore, though she was\nsaid to domineer owre me, yet, just to prove to every person round about\nthat I was not under a wife's government, I did tak it. I had not had it\ntwa years, when I began to find that thrashing wi' the flail would never\nanswer. Often, when the markets were on the rise, and when I could hae\nturned owre many pounds into my ain pocket, I found it was a'thegither\nimpossible for me to get my corn thrashed in time to catch the markets\nwhile they were high; and I am certain that, in the second year that I\nhad the new farm, I lost at least a hundred pounds frae that cause\nalone--that is, I didna get a hundred pounds that I micht hae got, and\nthat was much the same as losing it oot o' my pocket. Thrashing machines\nat that period were just beginning to come into vogue, but there was a\nterrible outcry against them; and mony a ane said that they were an\ninvention o' the Prince o' Darkness; for my part I wish he would\nnever do mair ill upon the earth, than invent sic things as\nthrashing-machines. Hooever, I saw plain and clearly the advantage that\nthe machine had owre the flail, and I was determined to hae ane. But\nnever did I see a woman in such a steer as the mention o' the thing put\nKirsty in! She went perfectly wild aboot it.\n\n\"'What, William!' she cried, 'what do ye talk aboot?' Losh me, man, have\nye nae mair sense?--have ye nae discretion whatever? Will ye really rush\nupon ruin at a horse-race? Ye talk aboot getting a machine! How, I ask\nye, how do ye expect that ever ye could prosper for a single day after,\nif ye were to throw oor twa decent barn-men oot o' employment, and their\nfamilies oot o' bread? I just ask ye that question, William. Does na the\nproverb say--'Live and let live;' and hoo are men to live, if, by an\ninvention o' the Enemy o' mankind, ye tak work oot o' their hands, and\nbread oot o' their mouths?\"\n\n\"'Dear me, Kirsty!' said I, 'hoo is it possible that a woman o' your\nexcellent sense can talk such nonsense? Ye see very weel that, if I had\nhad a machine, I micht hae made a hundred pounds mair than I did by last\nyear's crops--that, certainly, would hae been a good turn to us--and,\ntak my word for it, it is neither in the power nor in the nature o' the\nEvil One to do a guid turn to onybody.'\n\n\"'Willie,' quoth she, 'ye talk like a silly man--like a very silly man,\nindeed. If the Enemy o' mankind hadna it in his power to do for us what\nwe tak to be for oor guid, hoo in the warld do ye think he could tempt\nus to our hurt? I say, that thrashing-machines are an invention o' his,\nand that they are ane o' the instruments he is bringing up for the ruin\no' this country. It is him, and him alone, that is putting it into your\nhead to buy ane o' his infernal devices, in order that he may not only\nruin you, baith soul and body, by filling ye wi' a desire o' riches, an'\nmaking ye the oppressor and the robber o' the poor, but that, through\nyour oppression and robbery, he may ruin them also, and bring them to\nshame or the gallows!'\n\n\"'Forgie me, Kirsty,' said I, 'what in a' the world do ye mean? Hoo is\nit possible that ye can talk aboot me as likely to be either an\noppressor or a robber o' the poor? I'll declare there never was a beggar\npassed either me or my door, that ever I saw, but I gied him something.\nI'm sure, guidwife, ye baith ken better o' me, and think better o' me\nthan to talk sae.'\n\n\"'Yes, William,' said she, 'I did think better o' ye; but I noo see\ndistinctly that the Enemy is leading ye blindfolded to your ruin. First,\nthrough the pride o' your heart, he tempted ye to tak this big farm,\nthat, as ye thocht, ye might hasten to be rich; and now he is seducing\nye to buy ane o' his diabolical machines for the same end, and in order\nthat ye may not only deprive honest men and their families o' bread,\nbut, belike, rather than starve, tempt them to steal! And what ca' ye\nthat but oppressing and robbing the poor? Hooever, buy a machine!--buy\nane, and ye'll see what will be the upshot! If ye dinna repent it, say\nI'm no your wife.'\n\n\"I confess her words were onything but agreeable to me, and they rather\nset me a hesitating hoo to act. Hooever my mind was bent upon buying the\nmachine. I had said to several o' my neebors that I intended to hae ane\nput up; and I was convinced that, if I drew back o' my word, it would be\nsaid that my wife wouldna let me get it, and I would be made a general\nlaughing-stock--and that was a thing that I held in greater dread than\neven my wife's lectures, severe as they sometimes were; therefore,\nreason or nane, I got a machine put up. It caused a very general outcry\namongst a' the 'datal' men and their wives for miles round. At ae time I\neven thocht that they would mob me and pull it to pieces. But all their\nclamour was a mere snaw-flake fa'ing in the sea, compared wi' the\nperpetual dirdum that Kirsty rang in my ears about it. She actually\nthreatened that judgments would follow, and I didna ken a' what. But, on\nthe morning o' the day that I yoked the horses into it, and began to\nthrash wi' it for the first time I declare to you that she took the six\nbairns wi' her, and absolutely went to her faither's, vowing to work for\nthem until the blood sprang from her finger-ends, rather then live wi' a\nman that would be guilty o' such madness and iniquity.\n\n\"But having heard before dinner-time that I had had to employ a woman at\nsixpence a-day to feed into the machine she came back as fast as her\nfeet could carry her, wi' a' the bairns behint her, and ordering the\nstranger away, began to feed the machine hersel', and the bairns carried\nher the sheaves.\n\n\"I saw that out o' a spirit o' pure wickedness, she was distressing\nhersel' far beyond what there was the sma'est occasion for. It was as\nclear as day, that indignation was working in her heart, like barm\nfermenting in a bottle, and just about half an hour before we were to\nleave off thrashing for the nicht, she was seized with a very alarming\npain in the breast. I saw and said it was a hysterical affection, and\nwas altogether the consequence o' the passion that she had given way to\non account o' the unlucky machine. She, however, denied that there were\nsuch diseases in existence as either hysterical or nervous affections.\nThey were sham disorders, she said, that cam into the country wi' tea\nand spirit-drinking; and she assuredly was free from indulging in either\nthe ane or the other. But she grew worse and worse, and was at last\nobliged to sit down upon some straw on the barn-floor. I ventured\nforward to her, and said--'Kirsty, woman, ye had better gang awa into\nthe house. Ye will do yersel' mair ill by sittin there, for there is a\ncurrent o' air through the loft, which, after you being warm with\nworking, may gie ye your death o' cauld. Rise up, dear, and gang awa\ninto the house, and try if a glass o' usquebae will do ye ony guid.'\n\n\"Maister Burns, the poet, has said--\n\n    'She has an ee, she has but _ane_;'\n\nbut, certes, had he seen the look that she gied me as I then spoke to\nher, he would hae been satisfied that she had _twa_! I saw it was o' nae\nmanner o' use for me either to offer advice or to express sympathy. The\nwife o' an auld man that was called John Neilson, and who for several\nyears had been our barn-man, came into the machine-loft at the time, and\nwi' a great deal o' concern she asked my wife what was like the matter\nwi' her. Now this auld Peggy Neilson had the reputation, for miles\nround, o' being an extraordinary _skilly_ woman. There wasna a bairn in\nthe parish took a sair throat, or got a burnt foot, or a cut finger, or\ntook a _dwam_ for a day or twa, but its mother said--'I maun hae Peggy\nNeilson spoken to aboot that bairn, before it be owre late.' Kirsty,\ntherefore, told her hoo she was affected, when the other, wi' the\nconfidence o' a doctor o' medicine brought up at the first college in\nthe kingdom, said--'Then, ma'am, if that be the way ye feel, there is\nnaething in the warld sae guid for ye as a blast o' the pipe. I aye\ncarry a tinder-box and flint and steel wi' me, and ye are welcome to a\nwhuff o' my cutty.'\n\n\"Now, Kirsty was a bitter enemy to baith smoking and snuffing in\ngeneral; but she had great faith in the skill o' Peggy Neilson, and wad\nfar rather hae done whatever she advised than followed the prescription\no' the best doctor in a' the land. She took the auld woman's pipe,\ntherefore, and began to blaw through a spirit o' pain and perverseness\nat the same moment. As I anticipated, it soon made her dizzy in the\nhead, and she had to be led to the house. Hooever, in a short time, the\npain she had been suffering was greatly abated, though whether the\nsmoking contributed towards removing it or not, I dinna pretend to say.\nJust as she had been taen to the house, we were dune wi' thrashing for\nthe day, and I was very highly gratified wi' the day's wark.\n\n\"But I was very tired, and as soon as I had had my sowens I went to bed.\nI several times thought, and remarked it, that there was a sort o' burnt\nsmell about.\n\n\"'Ay,' said Kirsty, who by this time was a great deal better; 'they who\nwill use the engines o' forbidden agents maun expect to smell them, as\nin the end they will feel them.'\n\n\"Being conscious it was o' nae use to reason wi' her, for she in general\nhad the better o' me in an argument, I tried to compose mysel' to\nsleep. But it was in vain to think o' closing my een, for the smell o'\nburning grew stronger and stronger, and I was rising again,\nsaying--'There is something burning aboot somewhere, and I canna rest\nuntil I hae seen what it is.'\n\n\"'Nor let other folk rest either,' said Kirsty.\n\n\"Just at that moment, oor eldest dochter, who was as perfect a picture\no' beauty as ever man looked upon wi' eyes o' admiration, and who being\nalarmed by the smell, as well as me, had gane oot to examine from what\nit proceeded came running oot o' breath, crying--'Faither! faither!-the\nbarn and everything is on fire!'\n\n\"'O goodness!' cried I, as I threw on part o' my claes in the twinkling\no' an ee; 'what wretch can hae been sae wicked as to do it!'\n\n\"'It's a judgment upon ye,' said Kirsty, 'for having such a thing about\nthe place, after a' the admonitions ye had against it. I said ye would\nsee what would be the upshot, and it hasna been lang o' coming.'\n\n\"'O ye tormenter o' my life!' cried I, as I ran oot o' the house; 'it's\nyour handy-work!'\n\n\"'Mine!' exclaimed she. 'O ye heartless man that ye are, how dare ye\npresume either to say or think sic a thing!' and she followed me out.\n\n\"The whole stackyard was black wi' smoke--it was hardly possible to\nbreathe--and a great sheet o' fire, like the mouth o' a fiery dragon,\nwas rushing and roaring out at the barn-door. I didna ken what to do; I\nwas ready to rush head foremost into the middle o' the flames, as if\nthat I could hae crushed them out wi' the weight o' my body; and I am\npersuaded that I would hae darted right into the machine loft, where the\nflames were bursting through the very tiles, as frae the mouth o' a\nvolcano, had not my wife, and our eldest daughter Janet, flewn after me\nand held me in their arms, the one crying--'Be calm, William--do\nnaething rashly--let us see to save what can be saved;' and the other\nsaying--'Faither! faither! dinna risk your life.'\n\n\"Now, there was a hard frost owre the entire face o' the ground, and\nthere wasna a drop o' water to be got within a quarter o' a mile; and\nthe whole o' my year's crop, with, the exception o' what had that day\nbeen thrashed, was in the stackyard. I shouted at the pitch of my voice\nfor assistance, but the devouring flames soon roared louder than I did.\nKirsty, wi' her usual presence o' mind, began to clear away the straw\nfrom around the barn, to prevent the fire from spreading, and she called\nupon the bairns and me to follow her example. She also ordered a laddie\nto set the horses out o' the stables, and the nowt oot o' the\n'courtine,' and drive them into a field, where they would be oot o'\ndanger. A' our neighbours round aboot, in a short time arrived to our\nassistance; but a' our combined efforts were unavailing. The wood wark\no' the machine was already on fire--the barn roof fell in, and up flew\nsuch a volley o' smoke and firmament o' fire as man had never witnessed.\nThe sparks ascended in millions upon millions; and as they poured down\nagain like a shower o' fire, every stack that I had broke into a blaze,\nand the whole produce o' my farm, corn, straw, and hay became as a\nburning fiery furnace. It became impossible for ony living thing to\nremain in the stackyard. From end to end, and round and round, it was\none fierce and awful flame. The heat was scorching, and the dense smoke\nwas baith blinding and suffocating. Every person was obliged to flee\nfrom it. The very cattle in the field ran about in confusion, and moaned\nwi' terror, and the horses neighed wi' fright, and pranced to and fro. I\nstood at a distance, as motionless as a dead man, gazing wi' horror upon\nthe terrific scene o' desolation, beholding the destruction o' my\nproperty--the burning up, as I may say, o' a' my prospects. The teeth in\nmy head chattered thegither, and every joint in my body seemed oot o'\nits socket; and the raging o' destruction in the stackyard was naething\nto the raging o' misery in my breast; and especially because I coudna\nbanish frae my brain the awfu' thought that the hand o' the wife o' my\nbosom had lighted the conflagration. While I was standing in this state\no' speechless agony, and some around about me were pitying me, while\nothers in whispers said--'He had nae business to get a thrashing\nmachine, and the thing woudna hae happened,' Kirsty came forward to me,\nand takin' me by the hand, said--'William, dinna be silly--appear like a\nman before folk. Our loss is nae doubt great, but in time we may get\nower it; and be thankfu' that it is nae waur than it is like to be--for\nyour wife and bairns are spared to ye, and we have escaped unskaithed.'\n\n\"'Awa, ye descendant o' Judas Iscariot!' cried I; 'dinna speak to me!'\n\n\"'William,' said she, calmly, 'what infatuation possesses ye,\nman?--dinna mak a fool o' yoursel'.'\n\n\"'Awa wi' ye!' cried I, perfectly shaking wi' rage.\n\n\"'Dear me!' I heard a neighbour remark to another; 'how gruffly he\nspeaks to Kirsty! I aye thought that she had the upperhand o' him, but\nit doesna appear by his manner o' speaking to her.'\n\n\"Distracted, wretched, and angry as I was, I experienced a sort o'\nsecret pleasure at hearing the observation. I had shewn them that I\nwasna a slave tied to my wife's apron-strings, as they supposed me to\nbe. Kirsty left me wi' a look that had baith scorn and pity in it. But\noor auldest lassie, my bonny fair-haired Janet--to look upon whose face\nI always delighted beyond everything on earth--came running forward to\nme; and throwing her arms about my neck, sobbed wi' her face upon my\nbreast, and softly whispered--'Dinna stand that way, faither, a' body is\nlooking at ye; and dinna speak harshly to my poor mother--she is\ndistressed enough without you being angry wi' her.' I bent my head upon\nmy bairn's shouther, and the tears ran doun my cheeks.\n\n\"By this time, everything was oot o' the house; and the fire was\nprevented from reaching it, chiefly through the daring exertions o' a\nhafflins laddie, whose name was James Patrick, who was the son o' a\nneebor farmer, and who, though no aboon seventeen years o' age, I\nobserved was very fond o' oor bonny Janet; for I had often observed the\nyoung creatures wandering in the loaning thegither; and when ye\nmentioned the name o' the ane before the other, the blood rose to their\nface.\n\n\"Next morning, the stackyard, barn, byres, and stables, presented a\nfearful picture o' devastation. There was naething to be seen but the\nstill smoking heaps o' burnt straw and roofless buildings, wi' wreck and\nruin to the richt hand and to the left. Some thought that the calamity\nwould knock me aff my feet, and cause me to become a broken man--and I\nthought myself that that would be its effect. But Kirsty was determined\nthat we should never sink while we had a finger to wag to keep us aboon\nthe water. Cheap as she had always maintained the house, she now keepit\nit at almost no expense whatever. For more than two years, nothing was\nallowed to come into it but what the farm produced, and what we had\nwithin ourselves, neither in meat nor in claething.\n\n\"But though I witnessed all her exertions, nothing could satisfy my mind\nthat she was not the cause o' the destruction o' the machine, and\nthrough it o' all that was in and about the stackyard. The idea haunted\nme perpetually, and rendered me miserable, and I could not look upon my\nwife without saving to mysel--'Is it possible that she could hae been\nguilty o' such folly and great wickedness.' I was the more confirmed in\nmy suspicion, because she never again mentioned the subject o' the\nmachine in my hearing, neither would she allow it to be spoken aboot by\nony ane else.\n\n\"What gratified me maist, during the years that we had to undergo\nprivation, was the cheerfulness wi' which all the bairns submitted to\nit; and I couldna deny that it was solely to her excellent manner o'\nbringing them up. Our Janet, who was approaching what may be called\nwomanhood, was now talked o' through the hale country-side for her\nbeauty and sweet temper; and it pleased me to observe, that, during our\nmisfortune, the attentions o' James Patrick (through whose skilful\nexertions oor house was saved frae the conflagration) increased. It was\nadmitted, on all hands, that a more winsome couple were never seen in\nNithsdale.\n\n\"Oor auldest son, David, who was only fifteen months younger than his\nsister, had also grown to be o' great assistance to me. Before he was\nseventeen he was capable o' man's work, which enabled me to do with a\nhind less than I had formerly employed. My landlord, also, was very\nconsiderate; and, the first year after the burning, he gave me back the\nhalf o' the rent, which I, with great difficulty, had been able to\nscrape thegether. But when I went hame, and, in the gladness o' my\nheart, began to count down the money upon the table before Kirsty and\nthe bairns, and to tell them how good the laird had been--'Tak it up,\nWilliam!' cried she, 'tak it up, and gang back wi' it--he would consider\nit an obligation a' the days o' our lives. I will be beholden to neither\nlaird nor lord! nor shall ony ane belonging to me--sae, tak back the\nmoney, for it isna ours!'\n\n\"'Bless me!' thought I, 'but this is something very remarkable. This is\ncertainly another proof that she really is at the bottom o' the\nfire-raising. It is the consciousness o' her guilt that makes her\nshudder at and refuse the kind kindness o' the laird.'\n\n\"'It is braw talking, Kirsty,' said I, 'but I see nae necessity for\npersons that hae been visited wi' a misfortune such as we met wi', and\nwha hae suffered sae much on account o' it, to let their pride do them\nan injury or exceed their discretion. Consider that we hae a rising\nfamily to provide for.'\n\n\"'Consider what ye like,' quoth she, 'but, if ye accept the siller,\nconsider what will be the upshot. Ye would hae to be hat in hand to him\nat all times and on all occasions. Yer very bairns would be, as it were,\nhis bought slaves. No, William, tak back the money--I order ye!'\n\n\"'Ye _order_ me!' cried I, 'there's a guid ane!--and where got ye\nauthority to order me. If ye will hae the siller taen back, tak it back\nyersel.'\n\n\"Without saying another word, she absolutely whipped it off the table,\nevery plack and bawbee, into her apron; and, throwing on her rockelay\nand hood, set aff to the laird's wi' it, where, as I was afterwards\ngiven to understand, she threw it down upon his table wi' as little\nceremony as she had sweept it aft' mine.\n\n\"Ye may weel imagine that baith my astonishment and vexation were very\nconsiderable. I had seen a good deal o' Kirsty, but the act o' taking\nback the siller crowned a'!\n\n\"'Losh!' said I, in the pure bitterness o' my spirit, 'that caps\na'!--that is even worse than destroying the machine, wi' the stacks and\nstabling into the bargain!'\n\n\"'What do ye mean about destroying the machine, faither?' inquired Janet\nand David, almost at the same instant--'who do ye say destroyed it?'\n\n\"'Naebody,' said I, angrily, 'naebody!'--for I found I had said what I\nought not to hae said.\n\n\"'Really, faither,' said Janet, 'whatever it may be that ye think and\nhint at, I am certain that ye do my mother a great injustice if ye\nharbour a single thought to her prejudice. It may appear rather\nproud-spirited her takin back the siller, though I hae na doubt, in the\nlang run, but we'll a' approve o' it.'\n\n\"'That is exactly what I think, too,' said David.\n\n\"'Oh, nae dout!' said I, 'nae dout o' that!--for she has ye sae learned,\nthat everything she does, or that ony o' ye does, is always right; and\nwhatever I do must be wrang!' and I went oot o' the house in a pet,\ndriving the door behind me, and thinking about the machine and the loss\no' the siller.\n\n\"Hooever, I am happy to say, that although Kirsty did tak back the money\nto the laird and leave it wi' him, yet, as I have already hinted to ye,\nthrough her frugal management, within a few years we got the better o'\nthe burning. But there is a saying, that some folk are no sooner weel\nthan they're ill again--and I'm sure I may say that at that time. I no\nsooner got the better o' the effects o' ae calamity, until another\novertook me. Ye hae heard what a terrible dirdum the erecting o'\ntoll-bars caused throughout the country, and upon the Borders in\nparticular. Kirsty was one o' those who cried oot most bitterly against\nthem. She threatened, that if it were attempted to place ane within ten\nmiles o' oor farm, she would tear it to pieces with her ain hands.\n\n\"'Here's a bonny time o' day, indeed!' said she, 'that a body canna gang\nfor a cart-load o' coals or peats, or tak their corn, or whatever it may\nbe, to the market, but they must pay whatever a set o' Justices o' the\nPeace please to charge them for the liberty o' driving along the road.\nNa, na! the roads did for our faithers before us, and they will do for\nus. They went alang them free and without payment, and so will we; for I\ndefy any man to claim, what has been a public road for ages, as his\nproperty. Only submit to such an imposition, and see what will be the\nupshot. But, rather than they shall mak sic things in this\nneighbourhood, I will raise the whole countryside.'\n\n\"Unfortunately in this, as in everything else, she verified her words. A\ntoll-bar was erected within half-a-mile o' oor door Kirsty was clean\nmad about it. She threatened not only to break the yett to pieces, but\nto hang the toll-keeper owre the yett-post if he offered resistance. I\nthought o' my machine, and said little; and the more especially because\nevery ane, baith auld and young, and through the whole country, so far\nas I could hear, were o' the same sentiments as Kirsty. There never was\nonything proposed in this kingdom that was mair unpopular. And, I am\nfree to confess, that, with regard to the injustice o' toll-bars, I was\nprecisely o' the same way o' thinkin' as my wife--only I by no means\nwished to carry things to the extremes that she wished to bring them to.\n\n\"I ought to tell ye, that our laird was more than suspected o' being the\nprincipal cause o' us having a toll-bar placed so near us, so that we\ncould neither go to lime, coals, nor market, without gaun through it. I\nwas, therefore, almost glad that my wife had taken back the siller to\nhim, lest--as I was against raising a disturbance about the matter--folk\nshould say that my hands and tongue were tied wi' the siller which he\nhad given me back; for, if I didna wish to be considered the slave o' my\nwife, as little did I desire to be thought the tool o' my landlord. But,\nae day, I had been in at Dumfries in the month o' July, selling my wool;\nI had met wi' an excellent market, and a wool-buyer from Leeds and I got\nvery hearty thegether. He had bought from me before; and, on that day,\nhe bought all that I had. I knew him to be an excellent man, though a\nkeen Yorkshireman--and, ye ken, that the Yorkshire folk and we Scotchmen\nare a gay tight match for ane anither--though I believe, after a', they\nrather beat us at keeping the grip o' the siller; but as I intended to\nsay, I treated him, and he treated me, and a very agreeable day we had.\nI recollect when he was pressing me to hae the other gill, I sang him a\nbit hamely sang o' my ain composing. Ye shall hear it.\n\n    Nay, dinna press, I winna stay,\n      For drink shall ne'er abuse me;\n    It's time to rise and gang away--\n      Sae neibors ye'll excuse me.\n\n    It's true I like a social gill,\n      A friendly crack wi' cronies;\n    But I like my wifie better still,\n      Our Jennies an' our Johnnies.\n\n    There's something by my ain fireside--\n      A saft, a haly sweetness;\n    I see, wi' mair than kingly pride,\n      My hearth a heaven o' neatness\n\n    Though whisky may gie care the fling,\n      It's triumph's unco noisy;\n    A jiffy it may pleasure bring,\n      But comfort it destroys aye.\n\n    But I can view my ain fireside\n      Wi' a' a faither's rapture;--\n    Wee Jenny's hand in mine will slide,\n      While Davy reads his chapter.\n\n    I like your company and yer crack,\n      But there's ane I loo dearer,\n    Ane wha will sit till I come back,\n      Wi' ne'er a ane to cheer her.\n\n    A waff o' joy comes owre her face\n      The moment that she hears me;\n    The supper--a' thing's in its place,\n      An' wi' her smiles she cheers me.\n\nHowever, I declare to you, it was very near ten o'clock before I left\nthe house we are sitting in at present, and put my foot in the stirrup.\nBut, as my friend Robin says--\n\n    'Weel mounted on my grey mare Meg,'\n\nI feared for naething; and, though I had sixteen lang Scots miles to\nride, I thought naething aboot it; for, as he says again--\n\n    'Kings may be great, but I was glorious,\n     Owre a' the ills o' life victorious!'\n\nBut, just as I had reached within about half a mile o' the toll-bar\nthat had been erected near my farm, I saw a sort o' light rising frae\nthe ground, and reflected on the sky. My heart sank within me in an\ninstant. I remembered the last time I had seen such a light. I thought\no' my burning stackyard, o' my ruined machine, and o' Kirsty! My first\nimpulse was to gallop forward, but a thousand thoughts, a thousand fears\ncam owre me in an instant; and I thought that evil tidings come quick\nenough o' their ain accord, without galloping to meet them. As I\napproached the toll-bar, the flame and the reflection grew brighter and\nbrighter; and I heard the sound o' human voices, in loud and discordant\nclamour. My forebodings told me, to use Kirsty's words, what would be\nthe upshot. I hadna reached within a hundred yards o' the bar, when,\naboon a' the shouting and the uproar, I heard her voice, the voice o' my\nain wife, crying--'Mak him promise that it shall ne'er be put up\nagain--mak him swear to it--or let his yett gang the gaet o' the\ntoll-yett!'\n\n\"In a moment all that I had dreaded I found to be true. At the sound o'\nher voice, hounding on the enraged multitude, (though I didna altogether\ndisapprove o' what they were doing,) I plunged my spurs into my horse,\nand galloped into the middle o' the outrageous crowd, crying--'Kirsty! I\nsay, Kirsty! awa hame wi' ye! What right or what authority had ye to be\nthere?'\n\n\"'Hear him! hear him!' cried the crowd, 'Willie has turned a toll-bar\nman, and a laird man, because the Laird once offered him the half o' his\nrent back again! Never mind him, Kirsty!--we'll stand yer friends!'\n\n\"'I thank ye, neighbours,' said she, 'but I require nae body to stand as\nfriends between my guidman and me. I ken it is my duty to obey him, that\nis, when he is himsel', and comes hame at a reasonable time o' nicht;\nbut not when he is in a way that he doesna ken what he's saying, as he\nis the nicht.'\n\n\"'Weel done, Mistress Wastle!' cried a dozen o' them; 'we see ye hae the\nwhip-hand o' him yet!'\n\n\"'The mischief tak ye!' cried I, 'for a wheen ill-mannered scoundrels;\nbut I'll let every mother's son and dochter among ye ken whase hand the\nwhip is in!'\n\n\"And, wi' that, I began to lay about me on every side; but, before I had\nbrought the whip half-a-dozen o' times round my head, I found that the\nhorse was out from under me; and there was I wi' my back upon the\nground, while, on the one side, was a heavy foot upon my breast, and, on\nthe other, Kirsty threatening ony ane that would injure a hair o' her\nhusband's head; and my son David and James Patrick rushing forward,\nseized the man by the throat that had his foot upon my breast, and, in\nan instant, they had him lying where I had lain; for they were stout,\npowerfu' lads.\n\n\"But when I got upon my feet, and began to recover from the surprise\nthat I had met wi', there did I see the laird himsel, standing trembling\nlike an ash leaf in the middle o' the unruly mob--and, as ringleader o'\nthe whole, my wife Kirsty shaking her hand in his face, and endeavouring\nto extort from him a promise, that there never should be another\ntoll-bar erected upon his grounds, while he was laird!\n\n\"'Kirsty!' I exclaimed, 'what are ye after? Are ye mad?'\n\n\"'No, William!' cried she, 'I am not mad, but I am standing out for our\nrights against injustice; and sorry am I to perceive that, at a time\nwhen everybody is crying out and raising their hand against the\noppression that is attempted to be practised upon them, my guidman\nshould be the only coward in the countryside.'\n\n\"'William Wastle!' said the terrified laird, whom some o' them were\nhandling very roughly, (and principally, I must confess, at the\ninstigation o' Kirsty,) 'I am glad to see that I have one tenant upon my\nestate who is a true man; and I ask your protection.'\n\n\"'Such protection as I can afford, sir,' said I, 'ye shall have; but,\nafter the rough handling winch I have experienced this very moment, I\ndout it is not much that is in my power to afford ye.'\n\n\"'Get yer faither awa to his bed, bairns!' cried my wife, as I was\ndriving my way through the crowd to the assistance o' the laird; and\nI'll declare, if my son David, and James Patrick, didna actually come\nbehind me, and, lifting me aff my feet, carried me shouther-high a' the\nway to my bedroom; and, in spite o' my threats, expostulations, and\ncommands, locked me into it.\n\n\"Weel, thought I, as I threw myself down upon the bed, without taking\naff my claes, (partly because I found my head wanted ballast to tak them\naff,) I said unto mysel--'This comes o' having a wise and headstrong\nwife, and bairns o' her way o' bringing up. But if ever I marry again\nand hae a family, I shall ken better how to act.'\n\n\"Notwithstanding all that I had undergone and witnessed, in the space o'\nten minutes, I fell fast asleep; and the first thing that I awoke to\nrecollect--that is, to be conscious o'--was my daughter Janet rushing to\nmy bedside, and crying--'Faither! faither! my mother is a prisoner!--my\npoor dear mother, and James Patrick also!--and I heard the laird saying\nthat they would baith be transported, as the very least that could\nhappen them for last night's work, which I understand will be punished\nmore severely than even highway robbery!'\n\n\"I awoke like a man born to a consciousness o' horror, and o' naething\nbut horror. All that I had seen and heard and encountered on the night\nbefore, was just as a dream to me, but a dismal dream I trow.\n\n\"'Where is yer mother?' I gasped, 'or what is it that ye are saying,\nhinny? and--where is James Patrick?'\n\n\"'Oh!' cried my darling daughter, 'before this time they are baith in\nDumfries jail, for pu'ing down and burning the toll-yetts, and\nthreatening the life o' the laird. But everybody says it will gang\nparticularly hard against my mother and poor James; for, though every\none was to blame, they were what they ca' ringleaders.'\n\n\"I soon recollected enough o' the previous night's proceedings to\ncomprehend what my daughter said. I hurried on my claes, and awa I flew\nto Dumfries. But I ought to tell ye, that the laird's servants had\nridden in every direction for assistance; and having got three or four\nconstables, and about a dozen o' the regular military, all armed wi'\nswords and pistols, they made poor Kirsty and James Patrick, wi' about a\ndozen others, prisoners, and conveyed them to Dumfries jail.\n\n\"When I was shewn into the prison, Kirsty and James, and the whole o'\nthem, were together. 'O Kirsty, woman!' said I, in great distress,\n'could ye no hae keepit at hame while my back was turned! Why hae ye\nbrought the like o' this upon us? I'm sure ye kenned better! _Was the\ndestruction o' the machine and the stackyard no a warning to ye!_'\n\n\"'William,' answered she, 'what is it that ye mean?--is this a time to\ncast upon me yer low-minded suspicions? Had ye last nicht acted as a\nman, we micht hae got the laird to comply wi' our request; but it is\nthrough you, and such as you, that everything in this unlucky country is\ngaun to destruction; and sorry am I to say that ill o' ye--for a kind, a\ngood, and a faithfu' husband hae ye been to me, William.'\n\n\"'O sir!' said James Patrick, coming forward and taking me by the hand,\n'may I just beg that ye will tak my respects to yer dochter Janet; and,\nI hope, that whatever may be the issue o' this awkward affair, that she\nwill in no way look down upon me, because I happen to be as a sort o'\nprisoner in a jail.' My heart rose to my mouth, and I hadna a word to\nsay to either my wife or him.\n\n\"'Weel,\" said I, as I left them, 'I must do the best I can to bring\nbaith o' ye aff; and, to accomplish it, the best lawyers in a' Scotland\nshall be employed.'\n\n\"But to go on--at a very great expense, I, and the faither o' James\nPatrick, had employed the very principal advocates that went upon the\nDumfries circuit; and they tauld us that we had naething to fear, and\nthat we might keep ourselves quite at ease.\n\n\"I was glad that my son David hadna been seized and imprisoned, as weel\nas his mother and James Patrick, for he also had been ane o' the\nringleaders in the breaking doun and burning o' the toll-bars, and in\nthe assault upon the laird. But he escaped apprehension at the time, and\nI suppose they thought that they had enough in custody to answer the\nends o' justice and the law, and, therefore, he was permitted to remain\nunmolested.\n\n\"Now, sir, comes the most melancholy part o' my story. I had a quantity\no' wool to deliver to the Yorkshire buyer, I hae already mentioned, upon\na certain day. My son David was to drive the carts wi' it to Annan. It\nwas sair wark, and he had but little sleep for a fortnight thegether. It\ncaused him to travel night and day, load after load. Now, I needna tell\nye, that at that period the roads were literally bottomless. The horse\njust went plunge, plunging, and the cart jerking, now to ae side, and\nnow to another, or giein a shake sufficient to drive the life out o' ony\nbody that was in it. Now, the one wheel was on a hill, and the other in\na hollow; or, again, baith were up to the axle-tree in mud, or the horse\nhalf-swimming in water! And yet people cried out against toll-bars! But,\nas I hae been telling ye, my son David had driven wool to Annan for a\nfortnight, and he was sair worn out. The roads were in a dreadful\nstate--worse than if, now-a-days, ye were to attempt to drive through a\nbog.\n\n\"Ae night, when he was expected hame, his sister Janet, and mysel' sat\nlang up waiting upon him, and wondering what could be keeping him, when\na stranger rode up to the door, and asked if 'one Mr William Wastle\nlived there?' I replied 'Yes!' And, oh! what think ye were his tidings,\nbut that my name had been seen upon the carts, that the horses had stuck\nfast in the roads, and that my son David, who had fallen from the\nshafts, had either been killed, or drowned among the horses' feet!\n\n\"I thought his brothers and sisters, and especially Janet, would have\ngane oot o' their judgment. As for me, a' the trials I had had were but\nas a drap in a bucket when compared wi' this!\n\n\"But, after I had mourned for a night, the worst was to come. Hoo was I\nto tell his poor imprisoned mother!--imprisoned as she wis for opposing\nthe very thing that would hae saved her son's life!\n\n\"Next day I went to Dumfries; but I declare that I never saw the light\no' the sun hae sic a dismal appearance. The fields appeared to me as if\nI saw them through a mist. Even distance wasna as it used to be. I was\nadmitted into the prison, but I winna--oh no! I canna repeat to ye the\nmanner in which I communicated the tidings to his mother! It was too\nmuch for her then--it would be the same for me now! for naething in the\nwhole coorse o' my life ever shook me so much as the death o' my poor\nDavid. But I remember o' saying to her, and I declare to you upon the\nword o' a man, unthinkingly--'O Kirsty, woman! had we had toll-bars,\nDavid might still hae been living!'\n\n\"'William, William!' she cried, and fell upon my neck, 'will ye kill me\noutright!' And, for the first time in my life, I saw the tears gushing\ndown her cheeks. Those tears washed away the very remembrance o' the\nmachine, and the burning o' the stacks. I pressed her to my heart, and\nmy tears mingled wi' hers.\n\n\"I believe it was partly through our laird that baith Kirsty and James\nPatrick were liberated without being brought to a trial. Her\nimprisonment, and the death o' our son, had wrought a great change upon\nmy wife; and I think it was hardly three months after her being set at\nliberty, that we were baith sent for to auld John Neilson the barnman's,\nwhose wife Peggy lay upon her death-bed. When we approached her bedside,\nshe raised herself upon her elbow, and said--'The burning o' yer barn\nand stackyard has always been a mystery--hear the real truth from the\nwords o' a dying and guilty woman. Yer machine had thrown my husband out\no' employment, and when yer wife there gied me back the pipe, a whuff o'\nwhich I said would do her good, _I let the burning dottle drap among the\nstraw_--nane o' ye observed it--ye were a' leaving the barn. Now, ye ken\nthe cause--on my death-bed I make the confession.'\n\n\"I declare I thought my heart would hae louped out o' my body. I pressed\nmy wife, against whom I had harboured such vile suspicions, to my\nbreast. She saw my meaning--she read my feelings.\n\n\"'William,' said she, kindly, 'if ye hae onything on yer mind that ye\nwish to forget, so hae I; let us baith forget and forgie!'\n\n\"I felt Kirsty's bosom heaving upon mine, and I was happy.\n\n\"Within six months after this, James Patrick and our dochter Janet were\nmarried; and an enviable couple they then were, and such they are unto\nthis day. And, as for my Kirsty, auld though she is, and though the sang\nsays--\n\n    'I wadna gie a button for her,'\n\nauld, I say, as she is, and wi' a' her faults, I would gie a' the\nbuttons upon my coat for her still, and a' the siller that ever was in\nmy pouch into the bargain.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: Mr Allan Cunningham, in his Life of Burns, states the\nfollowing particulars respecting Willie's wife:--viz., that \"He was a\nfarmer, who lived near Burns, at Ellisland. She was a very singular\nwoman--tea, she said, would be the ruin of the nation; sugar was a sore\nevil; wheaten bread was only fit for babes; earthenware was a\npickpocket; wooden floors were but fit for thrashing upon; slated roofs,\ncold; feathers good enough for fowls. In short, she abhorred change: and\nwhenever anything new appeared--such as harrows with iron teeth--'Ay!\nay!' she would exclaim, 'ye'll see the upshot!' Of all modern things she\ndisliked china most--she called it 'burnt clay,' and said 'it was only\nfit for haudin' the broo o' stinkin' weeds,' as she called tea. On one\noccasion, an English dealer in cups and saucers asked so much for his\nwares, that he exasperated a peasant, who said, 'I canna purchase, but I\nken ane that will. Gang there,' said he, pointing to the house of\nWillie's wife, 'dinna be blate or burd-moothed; ask a guid penny--she\nhas the siller!' Away went the poor dealer, spread out his wares before\nher, and summed up all by asking a double price. A blow from her\ncrummock was his instant reward, which not only fell on his person, but\ndamaged his china. 'I'll learn ye,' quoth she, as she heard the saucers\njingle, 'to come wi' yer brazent English face, and yer bits o' burnt\nclay to me!' She was an unlovely dame--her daughters, however, were\nbeautiful.\"--ED.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STONE-BREAKER.\n\n\nIf any of our readers had had occasion to go out, for a couple of miles\nor so, on the road leading from Edinburgh to the village of Carlops, any\ntime during the summer of the year 1836, they would have seen a little\nold man--very old--employed in breaking metal for the roads. The exact\nspot where _we_ saw him, was at the turn of the eastern shoulder of the\nPentland Hills; but the nature of his employment rendering him somewhat\nmigratory, he may have been seen by others in a different locality. In\nthe appearance of the old stone-breaker, there was nothing particularly\ninteresting--nothing to attract the attention of the passer-by--unless\nit might be his great age. This, however, certainly was calculated to do\nso; and when it did, it must have been accompanied by a painful feeling\nat seeing one so old and feeble still toiling for the day that was\npassing over him; and toiling, too, at one of the most dreary,\nlaborious, and miserable occupations which can well be conceived. Had\nthe old man no children who could provide for the little wants of their\naged parent, without the necessity of his still labouring for them--who\ncould secure him in that ease which exhausted nature demanded? It\nappeared not. Perhaps it was a spirit of independence that nerved his\nweak arm, and kept him toiling so far beyond the usual term of human\ncapability. Probably the proud-spirited old man would break no bread but\nthat which he had earned by the sweat of his brow and the labour of his\nhands. Perhaps it was so. At any rate, this we know, that, at the early\nhour of five in the morning, as regularly as the morning came, the old\nstone-breaker had already commenced his monotonous labour. But this was\nnot all. He had also, by this early hour, walked upwards of four\nmiles--for so far distant was the scene of his occupation from the place\nof his residence, Edinburgh. He must, therefore, have left home between\nthree and four o'clock, and this was his daily round, without\nintermission, without variation, and without relaxation. A bottle of\nbutter-milk and a penny loaf formed each day's sustenance. His daily\nearnings, labouring from five in the morning till six at night, averaged\nabout ninepence! Hear ye this, ye who ride in emblazoned carriages! Hear\nye this, ye loungers on the well-stuffed couch!--and hear it, ye\nrevellers at the festive board, who have never toiled for the luxuries\nye enjoy! Hear it, and think of it! But of this person we have other\nthings to tell; and to these we proceed.\n\nOne morning, just after he had commenced the labours of the day, a young\nman, of about four or five and twenty years of age, accosted him, wished\nhim a good morning, and seated himself on the heap of broken metal on\nwhich the old man was at work, and did so seemingly with the intention\nof entering into conversation with him. This was a proceeding to which\nthe latter was much accustomed, it being a frequent practice with the\nhumbler class of wayfarers. The advances of the stranger, therefore, in\nthe present instance, did not for a moment interrupt his labours, or\nslacken his assiduity. He hammered on without raising his head, even\nwhile returning the greetings that were made him.\n\n\"A delightful view from this spot,\" said the young man, breaking in upon\na silence which had continued for some time after the first salutations\nhad passed between them.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the old man, drily; and, continuing his operations, he again\nrelapsed into his usual taciturnity; for, in truth, he was naturally of\na morose and uncommunicative disposition. Undeterred by his cold,\nrepulsive manner, the stranger again broke silence, and said, with a\ndeep-drawn sigh--\n\n\"How I envy these little birds that hop so joyously from spray to spray!\nTheir life is a happy one. Would to God I were one of them!\"\n\nThe oddness of the expressions, and the earnestness with which they were\npronounced, had an effect on the labourer which few things had. They\ninduced him to pause in his work, to raise his head, and to look in the\nface of the speaker, which he did with a smile of undefinable meaning.\nIt was the first full look he had taken of him, and it discovered to him\na countenance open and pleasing in its expression, but marked with deep\nmelancholy, and telling, in language not to be misunderstood, a tale of\nheart-sickness of the most racking and depressing kind.\n\n\"Has your lot been ill cast, young man, that ye envy the bits o' burds\no' the air the freedom and the liberty that God has gien them?\" said the\nold man, eyeing the stranger scrutinizingly, with a keen, penetrating\ngrey eye, that had not even yet lost all its fire.\n\n\"It has,\" replied the latter. \"I have been unfortunate in the world. I\nhave struggled hard with my fate, but it has at length overwhelmed me.\"\n\nThe old man muttered something unintelligibly, and, without vouchsafing\nany other reply, resumed his labours. After another pause of some\nduration, which, however, he had evidently employed in _thinking_ on the\ndeclaration of unhappiness which had just been made him--\n\n\"Some folly o' your ain, young man, very likely,\" said he, carelessly,\nand still knapping the stones, whose bulk it was his employment to\nreduce.\n\n\"No,\" replied the young man, blushing; but it was a blush which he who\ncaused it did not see. \"I cannot blame myself.\"\n\n\"Nae man does,\" interposed the stone-breaker; \"he aye blames his\nneighbours.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" rejoined the stranger; \"but you will allow that it is\nperfectly possible for a man to be unfortunate without any fault on his\nown part.\"\n\n\"I hae seldom seen't,\" replied the ungracious and unaccommodating old\nman; and he hammered on.\n\n\"Well, perhaps so,\" said the youth; \"but I hope you will not deny that\nsuch things _may_ be.\"\n\n\"Canna say,\" was the brief, but sufficiently discouraging rejoinder.\n\n\"Then let us drop the subject,\" said the stranger, smilingly. \"Each will\nstill judge of the world by his own experience. But, methinks, your own\ncase, my friend, is a hard enough one. To see a man of your years\nlabouring at this miserable employment, is a painful sight. Your debt to\nfortune is also light, I should believe.\"\n\n\"I hae aye trusted mair to my ain industry than to fortune, young man. I\nnever pat it in her power to jilt me. I never trusted her, and\ntherefore, she has never deceived me; so her and me are quits.\" And the\nold man plied away with his long, light hammer.\n\n\"Yet your earnings must be scanty?\"\n\n\"I dinna compleen o' them.\"\n\n\"I daresay not; but will you not take it amiss my offering this small\naddition to them?\" And he tendered him a half-crown piece. \"I have but\nlittle to spare, and that must be my apology for offering you so\ntrifling a gift.\"\n\nThe man here again paused in his operations, and again looked full in\nthe face of the stranger, but without making any motion towards\naccepting the proffered donation.\n\n\"I thocht ye said ye war in straits, young man,\" he said, and now\nresting his elbow on the end of his hammer.\n\n\"And I said truly,\" replied the former, again colouring.\n\n\"Then hoo come ye to be sportin yer siller sae freely? I wad hae thocht\nye wad hae as muckle need o' a half-croon as I hae?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I may,\" replied the stranger; \"but that's not to hinder me from\nfeeling for others, nor from relieving their distresses so far as I\ncan.\"\n\n\"Foolish doctrine, young man, an' no' for this warl. It's nae wunner\nthat ye're in difficulties. I guessed the faut was yer ain, and noo I'm\nsure o't. Put up yer half-croon, sir. I dinna tak charity.\"\n\n\"I hope, however, I have not offended you by the offer? It was well\nmeant.\"\n\n\"Ou, I daresay--I'm no the least offended; but tak an auld man's advice,\nan' dinna let yer feelins hae the command o' yer purse-strings,\notherwise ye'll never hae muckle in't.\"\n\nAnd the churlish old stone-breaker resumed his labours, and again\nrelapsed into taciturnity. Silent as he was, however, it was evident\nthat he was busily thinking, although none but himself could possibly\ntell what was the subject of his thoughts; but this soon discovered\nitself. After a short time, he again spoke--\n\n\"What may the nature an' cause o' yer defeeculties be, young man, an' I\nmay speer?\" he said--\"and I fancy I may, since ye hae been sae far free\non the subject o yer ain accord.\"\n\n\"That's soon told,\" replied the stranger. \"Three years ago, an aunt,\nwith whom I was an especial favourite, left me two hundred and fifty\npounds. With this sum I set up in business in Edinburgh in the\nironmongery line, to which I was bred. My little trade prospered, and\ngradually attained such an extent that I found I could not do without an\nefficient assistant, who should look after the shop while I was out on\nthe necessary calls of business. In this predicament I bethought me of\nmy brother, who was a year older than myself, and accordingly sent for\nhim to Selkirkshire, where he resided with our father, assisting him in\nhis small farming operations; this being the business of the latter. My\nbrother came; and, for some time, was everything I could have\nwished--sober, regular, and attentive; and we thus got on swimmingly.\nThis, however, was a state of matters which was not long to continue.\nWhen my brother had about completed a year with me, I began to perceive\na gradual falling off in his anxiety about the interests of our little\nbusiness. I remonstrated with him on one or two occasions of palpable\nneglect; but this, instead of inducing him to greater vigilance, had the\neffect only of rendering him more and more careless. But I did not then\nknow the worst. I did not then know that, in place of aiding, he was\nrobbing me. This was the truth, however. He had formed an infamous\nconnection with a woman of disreputable character, and the consequence\nwas the adoption of a regular system of plunder on my little property,\nto answer the calls which she was constantly making on my unfortunate\nrelative.\n\n\"About this time I took ill, and, not suspecting the integrity of my\nbrother, although aware of his carelessness, I did not hesitate to trust\nhim with the entire conduct of my affairs. Indeed, I could not help\nmyself in this particular; he best knowing my business, and being,\nbesides, the natural substitute for myself in such a case. For three\nmonths was I confined, unable to leave my own room; and, when I did come\nout, I found myself a ruined man. In this time, my brother had\nappropriated almost every farthing that had been drawn to his own\npurposes; and had, moreover, done the same by some of my largest and\nbest outstanding accounts; and, to sum up all, he had fled, I knew not\nwhither, on the day previous to that on which I made my first appearance\nin my shop after my recovery. That is about ten days since.\"\n\n\"Did the rascal harry ye oot an' oot?\" here interposed the old\nstone-breaker, knapping away with great earnestness.\n\n\"No; there was a little on which he could not lay his hands--some\nconsiderable accounts which are payable only yearly; there was also some\nstock in the shop; but these, of course, are now the property of my\ncreditors.\"\n\n\"But could ye no get a settlement wi' them, an' go on?\" inquired the\nother, still knapping away assiduously. \"I'm sure if you stated your\ncase, your creditors wadna be owre hard on ye.\"\n\n\"Perhaps they might not; but there is one circumstance that puts it out\nof my power to make any attempt at arrangement. There is one bill of\nfifty pounds, due to a Sheffield house, on which diligence has been\nraised, and on which I am threatened with instant incarceration. In\ntruth, it is this proceeding that has brought me here so early this\nmorning. I expected to have been taken in my bed, as the charge was out\nyesterday, and I am here to keep out of the way of the messengers. I am\nthus deprived of the power of helping myself--of taking any steps\ntowards the adjustment of my affairs.\"\n\n\"An' could ye do any guid, think ye, if that debt wur paid, or in some\nway arranged?\" inquired the other.\n\n\"I think I could;\" said the party questioned. \"My good outstanding debts\nare yet considerable, and so is the stock in the shop; so that, had a\nlittle time been allowed me, I could have got round. But all that is\nknocked on the head, by the impending diligence against me. That settles\nthe matter at once, by depriving me of the necessary liberty to go about\nmy affairs.\"\n\n\"It's a pity,\" said the man, drily. \"Wha's the man o' business in\nEdinburgh that thae Sheffield folk hae employed to prosecute ye? What\nca' ye him?\"\n\n\"Mr Langridge.\"\n\n\"Ou ay, I hae heard o' him. An will he no gie ye ony indulgence?\"\n\n\"He cannot. His instructions are imperative, otherwise he would, I am\nconvinced; for he is an excellent sort of man, and knows all about me\nand my affairs. Indeed, so willing was he to have assisted me, that,\nwhen the bill was first put into his hands, he wrote to his clients,\nstrongly recommending lenient measures and bearing testimony, on his own\nknowledge, to the hardship of my case; but their reply was brief and\nperemptory. It was to proceed against me instantly, and threatening him\nwith the loss of their business if he did not. For this uncompromising\nseverity they assigned as a reason, their having been lately 'taken in,'\nas they expressed it, to a large extent, by a number of their Scotch\ncustomers. So Mr. Langridge had no alternative but to do his duty, and\nlet matters take their course.\"\n\n\"True,\" replied the monosyllabic stone-breaker. It was all he said, or,\nif he had intended to say more, which, however, is not probable, no\nopportunity was afforded him; for at this moment three labouring men of\nhis acquaintance, who were on their way to their work, came up and began\nconversing. On this interruption taking place, the young man rose,\nwished him a good morning, which was merely replied to by a slight nod,\nand went his way.\n\nAt this point in our story, we change the scene to the writing chambers\nof Mr. Langridge, and the time we advance to the evening of the day on\nwhich our tale opens.\n\nIt will surprise the reader to find our old stone-breaker, still wearing\nthe patched and threadbare clothes, the battered and torn hat, and the\ncoarse, strong shoes, which had never rejoiced in the contact of\nblacking brush, in which he prosecuted his daily labours, ringing the\ndoor-bell of Mr Langridge's house, about eight o'clock in the evening.\nIt will still more surprise him, perhaps, to find this man received,\nnotwithstanding the homeliness, we might have said wretchedness, of his\nappearance, by Mr Langridge himself with great courtesy, and even with a\nslight air of deference.\n\nOn his entering the apartment in which that gentleman was, the latter\nimmediately rose from his seat, and advanced, with extended hand,\ntowards him.\n\n\"Ah, Mr Lumsden,\" he exclaimed, \"how do you do? I hope I see you well.\nCome, my dear sir, take a chair.\" And he ran with eager civility for the\nconvenience he named, and placed it for the accommodation of his\nvisiter.\n\nWhen the old man was seated--\n\n\"Well, my dear sir,\" said Mr Langridge, \"I am sorry to say that _your\nrents_ have not come so well in this last half-year as usual. We are\nconsiderably short.\" And the man of business hurried to a large green\npainted tin box, that stood amongst some others on a shelf, and bore on\nits front the name of Lumsden, and from this drew forth what appeared to\nbe a list or rent roll, which he spread out on the table. \"We are\nconsiderably short,\" he said. \"There's six or eight of your folks who\nhave paid nothing yet, and as many more who have made only partial\npayments.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the man, crustily, \"what's the meanin' o' that? Ye maun just\nscrew them up, Mr Langridge; for I canna want my siller, and I winna\nwant it. Hae thae folk Thamsons, paid yet?\"\n\n\"Not a shilling more than you know of,\" replied Mr Langridge.\n\n\"Weel, then, Mr Langridge, ye maun just tak the necessary steps to\nrecover; for I'm determined to hae my rent. I'm no gaun to aloo mysel'\nto be ruined this way. They wadna leave me a sark to my back, if I wad\nlet them. Ye maun just sequestrate, Mr Langridge--ye maun just\nsequestrate, an' we'll help oorsels to payment, since they winna help\nus.\"\n\n\"Oh, surely, surely, my dear sir. All fair and right. But I would just\nmention to you, that though, latterly, they have been dilatory payers--I\nwould say, shamefully so--they are yet decent, honest, well-meaning\npeople, these Thomsons; and that, moreover, there is some reason for\ntheir having been so remiss of late, although it is, certainly, none\nwhatever why you should want your rent.\"\n\n\"No, I fancy no,\" here interposed the other, with a triumphant chuckle.\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" went on Mr Langridge, who seemed to know well how\nto manage his eccentric client; \"but only, I would just mention to you,\nthat the _reason_ of the dilatoriness of the Thomsons, is the husband's\nhaving been unable, from illness, to work for the last three months, and\nthat, in that time, they have also lost no less than two children. It is\nrather a piteous case.\"\n\n\"An' what hae I to do wi' a' that?\" exclaimed the other, impatiently.\n\"What hae I to do wi' a' that, I wad like to ken? Am I to be ca'ed on to\nrelieve a' the distress in the world? That wad be a bonny set o't. Am I\nto be robbed o' my richts that others may be at ease? That I winna, I\nwarrant you. See that ye recover me thae folk's arrears, Mr Langridge,\nby hook or by crook, and that immediately, though ye shouldna leave them\na stool to sit upon. That's _my_ instructions to _you_.\"\n\n\"And they shall be obeyed, Mr Lumsden,\" replied the man of\nbusiness--\"obeyed to the letter. I merely mentioned the circumstance to\nyou, in order that you might be fully apprized of everything relating to\nyour tenants, which it is proper you should know.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, but there's nae use in troublin' me wi' thae stories. I\ndinna want to be plagued wi' folk makin' puir mouths. There's aye a\ndesign on ane's pouch below't. By the bye, Mr Langridge,\" continued he,\nafter a momentary pause, \"hae ye a young chield o' an airnmonger in your\nhauns enow about some bill or anither that he canna pay.\"\n\n\"The name?\" inquired Mr Langridge, musingly.\n\n\"Troth that I cannot tell you; for I never heard it, and forgot to\nspeer.\"\n\n\"Let me see--oh, ay--you will mean, I dare say, a young man of the name\nof John Reid, poor fellow?\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said the client; \"Is he a young man, an airnmonger to\nbusiness, and hae ye diligence against him enow on a fifty pound bill,\ndue to a Sheffield hoose?\"\n\n\"The same,\" replied Mr Longridge. \"These are exactly the circumstances.\nHow came you, Mr Lumsden,\" he added, smilingly, \"to be so well informed\nof them?\"\n\n\"I'll maybe explain that afterwards; but, in the meantime, will ye tell\nme what sort o' a lad this Mr Reid is? Is he a decent, weel-doin' young\nman?\"\n\n\"Remarkably so,\" replied Mr Langridge, \"remarkably so, Mr Lumsden. I can\nanswer for that; for I have known him now for a good while, and have had\nmany opportunities of estimating his character.\"\n\n\"Then hoo cam he into his present difficulties?\"\n\n\"Through the misconduct of a brother--entirely through the misconduct of\na brother.\" And Mr Langridge proceeded to give precisely the same\naccount of the young man's misfortunes, and of the present state of his\naffairs, that he himself had given to the old stone-breaker, as already\ndetailed to the reader. When he had concluded--\n\n\"It seems to me rather a hard sort o' case,\" said the client. \"But could\nyou no help him a wee on the score o' lenity?\"\n\n\"I would willingly do it if I could; but it's not in my power. My\ninstructions are peremptory. I dare not do it but with a certainty of\nlosing the business of the pursuers, the best clients I have.\"\n\n\"Naething, then, 'll do but payin' the siller, I suppose?\" said the\nother.\n\n\"Nothing, nothing, I fear. My clients seem quite determined. They are\nenraged at some smart losses which they have lately sustained in\nScotland, and will give no quarter.\"\n\n\"Then I suppose if they _war_ paid, they would be satisfied,\" said the\nstone-breaker.\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha! Mr Lumsden, no doubt of _that_,\" exclaimed Mr Langridge,\nlaughing. \"That would settle the business at once.\"\n\n\"I fancy sae,\" said the other, musingly. Then, after a pause--\"An' think\nye the lad wad get on if this stane were taen frae aboot his neck?\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it--not the least,\" replied Mr Langridge, \"for I\nhave every confidence in the young man's industry and uprightness of\nprinciple. But he has no friend to back him, poor fellow: no one to help\nhim out of the scrape.\"\n\n\"Ye canna be quite sure o' that, Mr Langridge,\" said the old man. \"What\nif I hae taen a fancy to help him mysel?\"\n\n\"You, Mr Lumsden!--you!\" exclaimed Mr Langridge in great surprise. \"What\nmotive on earth can you have for assisting him?\"\n\n\"I didna say that I meant to assist him--I only asked ye, what if I took\na fancy to do't?\"\n\n\"Why, to that I can only say that, if you have, he is all right, and\nwill get his head above water yet. But you surprise me, Mr Lumsden, by\nthis interest in Reid. May I ask how it comes about?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you a' that presently, but I'll first tell you that I _do_\nmean to assist the young man in his straits. I'll advance the money to\npay that bill for him. Will ye see to that, then, Mr Langridge? Put me\ndoon for the amount oot o' the funds in your hauns, and stay further\nproceedins.\"\n\nMr Langridge could not express the surprise he felt on this\nextraordinary intimation from a man who, although there were some good\npoints in his character, notwithstanding of the outward crust of\nchurlishness in which it was encased, he never believed capable of any\nvery striking act of generosity. Mr Langridge, we say, could not\nexpress the surprise which this unlooked-for instance of that quality\nin Mr Lumsden inspired, nor did he attempt it; for he justly considered\nthat such expression would be offensive to the old man, as implying a\nbelief that he had been deemed incapable of doing a benevolent thing. Mr\nLangridge, therefore, kept his feelings, on the occasion, to himself,\nand contented himself with promising compliance, and venturing a\nmuttered compliment or two, which, however, were ungraciously enough\nreceived, on the old man's generosity.\n\n\"But whar's the young man to be fand?\" inquired the latter.\n\n\"Why, that I cannot well tell you,\" replied Mr Langridge; \"for I was\ninformed, in the course of the day, by the messengers whom I employed to\napprehend him, that he had left his lodging early in the morning, no\ndoubt in order to avoid them, and they could not ascertain where he had\ngone to.\"\n\n\"Humph, that's awkward,\" replied the client. \"I wad like to find him.\"\n\n\"I fear that will be difficult,\" replied Mr Langridge; \"but I will call\noff the bloodhounds in the meantime, and terminate proceedings.\"\n\n\"Ay, do sae, do sae. But can we no get haud o' the lad ony way?\"\n\nAt this moment, a rap at the door of the apartment in which was Mr\nLangridge and his client, interrupted further conversation on the\nsubject.\n\n\"Come in,\" exclaimed the former.\n\nThe door opened, and in walked two messengers, with Reid a prisoner\nbetween them. We leave it to the reader to conceive the latter's\nsurprise, on beholding his acquaintance of the morning, the old\nstone-breaker, seated in an arm-chair in Mr Langridge's writing-chamber.\nBut while he looked this surprise, he also seemed to feel acutely the\nhumiliation of his position. After a nod of recognition, he said, with\nan attempt at a smile, and addressing himself to the old man--\n\n\"You see they have got me after all, my friend. But it was my own doing.\nOn reflection, I saw no use in endeavouring to avoid them, and gave\nmyself up, at least, threw myself in their way, in order to encounter\nthe worst at once, and be done with it.\"\n\n\"I daresay ye was richt, after a',\" replied the stone-breaker; \"it was\nthe best way. Mr Langridge,\" he added, and now rising from his seat,\n\"wad ye speak wi' me for a minnit, in another room?\"\n\n\"Certainly, Mr Lumsden,\" replied Mr Langridge.\n\n\"Will we proceed with the prisoner?\" inquired one of the messengers.\n\n\"No, remain where you are a moment, till I return;\" and Mr Langridge led\nthe way out of the apartment, followed by the old stone-breaker. When\nthey had reached another room, and the door had been secured--\n\n\"Noo, Mr Langridge, anent what I was speaking to ye about regarding this\nyoung man wha has come in sae curiously upon us, juist whan we were\nwanting him--I dinna care to be seen in the matter, sae ye maun juist\nmanag't for me yersel.\"\n\n\"Had ye no better enjoy the satisfaction of your own good deed in\nperson, Mr Lumsden, by telling Mr Reid of the important service you\nintend doing him?\"\n\n\"I'll do naething o' the kind,\" replied the old stone-breaker, testily.\n\"I dinna want to be bothered wi't. Sae juist pay ye his bill and\ncharges, Mr Langridge, an' keep an e'e on his proceedins afterwards, an'\nlet me ken frae time to time hoo he's gettin on.\"\n\nWith these instructions Mr Langridge promised compliance; and, on his\nhaving done so, the stone-breaker proposed to depart; but, just as he\nwas about doing so, he turned suddenly round to his man of business,\nand said--\n\n\"About the Tamsons, Mr Langridge, ye needna, for a wee while, tak thae\nstaps again them that I was speakin aboot. Let them alane a wee till\nthey get roun a bit.\"\n\n\"I'll do so, Mr Lumsden,\" replied the worthy writer, who, the reader\nwill observe, had accomplished his generous purpose dexterously. He knew\nhis man, and acted accordingly.\n\n\"What's their arrears, again?\" inquired the other.\n\n\"Half-a-year's rent--L3, 17s.,\" replied Mr Langridge.\n\n\"Ay, it's a heap o' siller--no to be fan at every dyke side. An' then,\nthere's this half-year rinning on, an' very near due. That'll mak--hoo\nmuch?\"\n\n\"Just L7, 14s. exactly, Mr Lumsden.\"\n\n\"Ay, exactly,\" replied the latter, who had been making a mental\ncalculation of the amount, and had arrived, although more slowly than\nhis experienced lawyer, at the same result. \"A serious soom,\" added the\nclient.\n\n\"No trifle, indeed, Mr Lumsden,\" said Mr Langridge; \"but it's safe\nenough. They're honest people.\"\n\n\"Ye'r aye harpin on that string,\" replied the stone-breaker, surlily;\n\"but what signifies their honesty to me, if they'll no pay me my rent?\"\n\n\"True, very true,\" said the law agent. \"That's the only practical\nhonesty.\"\n\n\"See you an' get thae arrears, at ony rate, oot o' them, _if_ ye can, Mr\nLangridge; an', if ye canna, I suppose we maun juist want them. Ye\nneedna push owre hard for them either, since they're in the state ye\nsay. But ye'll surely mak the present half-year oot o' them. That maun\nbe paid. Mind _that_, at ony rate, maun be paid, Mr Langridge.\" And\nsaying this, he placed his old tattered hat, which he had hitherto held\nin his hand, on his head, and left the house.\n\nOn his departure, Mr Langridge hastily entered the apartment in which,\nhe had left the messengers with their prisoner.\n\n\"We're just waiting marching orders, Mr Langridge,\" said the latter, on\nhis entering, and making an attempt at playfulness, with which his\nspirit but ill accorded. \"My friends here are getting tired of their\ncharge, and anxious to be relieved of him.\"\n\n\"Are they so, Mr Reid?\" replied Mr Langridge, smiling.\n\n\"Why, then, we had best relieve them at once.\" Then turning to the\nprincipal officer--\"Quit your prisoner, Maxwell--the debt is settled. Mr\nReid, you are at liberty.\"\n\nThe blood rushed to poor Reid's face, and then withdrew, leaving it as\npale as death, and yet he could express no part of the feelings which\ncaused these violent alternations. At length--\n\n\"Mr Langridge,\" he said, \"what is the meaning of this? How do I come to\nbe liberated?\"\n\n\"By the simplest and most effectual of all processes, Mr Reid,\" replied\nthe worthy writer, smiling; \"by the payment of the debt.\"\n\n\"But _I_ have not paid the debt, Mr Langridge. I _could_ not pay the\ndebt.\"\n\n\"No; but somebody else might. The short and the long of it is, Mr Reid,\nthat a _friend_ has come forward, and settled the claim on which\ndiligence was raised against you. The bill, with interest and all\nexpenses, _is_ paid, and you are again a free man.\"\n\nAgain overwhelmed by his feelings, which were a thousand times more\neloquently expressed by a flood of silent tears than they could have\nbeen by the most carefully rounded periods, it was some time before the\nyoung man could pursue the conversation, or ask for the further\ninformation which he yet intensely longed to possess. On recovering from\nthe burst of emotion which had, for the moment, deprived him of the\npower of utterance--\n\n\"And _who_, pray, Mr Langridge, is this friend--this friend indeed?\"\n\n\"Why, I do not know exactly whether I am at liberty to tell you, Mr\nReid,\" replied Mr Langridge. \"The friend you allude to declined\ntransacting this matter personally with you, which seems to imply that\nhe did not care that you should know who he was; yet, as he certainly\ndid not expressly forbid me to disclose him, and as I think it but right\nthat you should know to whom you are indebted, I will venture to tell\nyou. Had you some conversation, at an early hour this morning, with an\nold stone-breaker, on the highway side, about three or four miles from\ntown?\"\n\n\"I had. The old man that was sitting here when I came in.\"\n\n\"The same. Well, what would you think if _he_ should have been the\nfriend in question? Would you expect from his manner, that he _would_ do\nsuch a thing? or, from his appearance and occupation, that he could?\"\n\n\"Certainly not--certainly not. The old man--the poor old man, to whom I\noffered half-a-crown--who works for ninepence a-day--who never saw me in\nhis life before this morning--who knows nothing of me! Impossible, Mr\nLangridge--impossible; he cannot be the man. You do not say that he is?\"\n\n\"But I do though, Mr Reid, and that most distinctly. It is he, and no\nother, I assure you, who has done you this friendly service.\"\n\n\"Then, if it be so, I know not what to say to it, Mr Langridge. I can\nsay nothing. I trust, however, I shall not be found wanting on the score\nof gratitude. I can say no more. But will you be so good as inform me,\nif you can, how the good man has come to do me so friendly a service?\nWho on earth, or what is he?\"\n\n\"Sit down, sit down, Mr Reid, and I'll answer all your questions--I'll\ntell you all about him,\" replied Mr Langridge.\n\nMr Reid having complied with this invitation, the latter began:--\n\n\"The history of the old stone-breaker, my good sir, is a very short and\na very simple one. It contains no vicissitude, and to few, besides\nourselves, would be found possessing any particular interest. Your\nfriend was, in his youth, a soldier, and served, I believe, in the\nAmerican war. At his return home on the conclusion of that war, he was\ndischarged, still a young man, and shortly after married a woman with a\nfortune\" (smilingly) \"of some five-and-twenty or thirty pounds. With\nthis sum the thrifty pair purchased two or three cows, and commenced the\nbusiness of cowfeeders. They prospered; for they were both saving and\nindustrious, and, in time, realized a considerable sum of money, which\nthey went on increasing. This they invested in house property from time\nto time, till their possessions of this kind became very valuable.\n\n\"For upwards of forty years they continued in this way, when Mrs Lumsden\ndied, leaving her husband a lonely widower; for they had no children. On\nthe death of the former, the latter, who was now an old man, and unequal\nto conducting, alone, the business in which his wife's activity and\nindustry had hitherto aided him, sold off his cows, and proposed to live\nin retirement on the rents of his property; and this he did for some\ntime. Accustomed, however, to a life of constant labour and exertion,\nthe old man soon found the idleness on which he had thrown himself,\nintolerably irksome. He became miserable from a mere want of having\nsomething to do. While in this state of ennui, chancing one day to\nstroll into the country, (this is what he told me himself,) he saw some\nlabouring men knapping stones by the way-side; and strange as the fancy\nmay seem, he was instantly struck with a desire of taking to this\noccupation. He did so, and has, from that day to the present, now\nupwards of ten years, pursued it with as much assiduity as if it was\nhis only resource for a subsistence. He has, as I already told you, no\nfamily of his own; neither has he, I believe, any relation living; or,\nif there be, they must be very remote; and, as he strictly confines his\nexpenditure to his daily earnings as a stone-breaker--some ninepence\na-day, I believe--his wealth is rapidly increasing, and is, at this\nmoment, no trifle, I assure you. Now, my good sir, when I tell you that\nI am the law agent of this strange, eccentric person, and that I manage\nall his business for him, I have told you everything about him that is\nworth mentioning.\"\n\n\"There is just one thing, Mr Langridge,\" said Mr Reid, who had been an\nattentive listener to the tale just told him, \"that wants explanation:\ncan you give me the smallest shadow of a reason for the part he has\nacted towards me?\"\n\n\"Nay, there you puzzle me; I cannot. It appears as unaccountable to me\nas to you, although I have known Mr Lumsden now for upwards of fifteen\nyears.\"\n\n\"Did you ever know him do a thing of this kind before?\"\n\n\"Never! and I must say candidly, that, although he is by no means\ndeficient in kindness of heart, notwithstanding his rough exterior, I\ndid not believe him capable of such an act of generosity.\"\n\n\"It is an extraordinary matter,\" said Mr Reid; \"and although I can have\nbut little right to inquire into the _motives_ for an act by which I am\nso largely benefited--it seems ungracious to do so--yet would I give a\ngood round sum, if I had it to spare, to know the real cause of this\ngood man's friendship towards me.\"\n\n\"Why, that I suspect neither you nor I shall ever know. I question much,\nindeed, if the principal actor in this affair himself could give a\nreason for what he has done. It seems to me just one of those odd and\nunaccountable things which eccentric men, like Mr Lumsden, will\nsometimes do; and with this solution of the mystery, and the benefit it\nhas produced to you, I rather think, Mr Reid, you must be content. I\nwould, however, add, in order to redeem Mr Lumsden's act of generosity\nfrom the character of a mere whim, that your case was one eminently\ncalculated to excite any latent feeling of benevolence which he might\npossess; and that your manner and appearance--no flattery--are equally\nwell calculated to second a claim so established. Yourself, and your\npeculiar circumstances, in short, had chanced to touch the right chord\nin a right man's breast, and hence the response on which we are\nspeculating.\"\n\nHaving thus discussed the knotty point of the old stonebreaker's sudden\nact of generosity, Mr Langridge invited Mr Reid to put his affairs into\nhis hands, promising that they should have the advantage, on his part,\nof something more than mere professional zeal. This friendly invitation\nthe latter gladly accepted, and shortly after consigned all his business\nmatters to the care of the worthy writer, who exerted himself in behalf\nof his client with an efficiency that soon placed the latter once more\nin the way of well-doing. And well he did; having subsequently realised\na very handsome independency. In the success of the young man, no one\nrejoiced more than the old stone-breaker, who frequently visited him in\nhis shop; sometimes merely for the purpose of seeing him; at others, to\npurchase some of those little articles of ironmongery which the due\npreservation of his dwelling-house property demanded. Let us state, too,\nthat, amongst his purchases, were, at different times, the hammer-heads\nwhich he used in his occupation of stone-breaking.\n\nIn their first transaction in this way, there was something curiously\ncharacteristic of the old man's peculiarities of temper. Mr Reid, not\nyet perfectly aware of these peculiarities, declined, for some time,\nputting any price on a couple of hammer-heads which his friend had\npicked out. He would have made him a present of them; and, to the\nlatter's inquiry as to their price, replied, evasively, and laughing\nwhile he spoke, that he would tell him that afterwards.\n\n\"I tak nae credit, young man,\" said the stone-breaker, crustily, \"tell\nme enow their cost.\" And he pulled out a small greasy leathern purse,\nand was undoing its strings, when Mr Reid laid his hand on his arm to\nprevent him, at the same time telling him that he would do him a favour\nby accepting the hammer-heads in a present. \"What is such a trifle\nbetween you and me, Mr Lumsden--you to whom I owe everything?\"\n\n\"You owe me a great deal mair than ye're ever likely to pay me, at ony\nrate, young man, if this be the way ye transact business,\" replied the\nother, with evident signs of displeasure. \"Tell me the price o' thae\nhammer-heads at ance, an' be dune wi't. I hae nae broo o' folk that\nfling awa their guids as ye seem inclined to do.\"\n\nMr Reid blushed at the reproof, but, seeing at once how the land lay,\nwith regard to his customer's temper, he now plumply named the price of\nthe hammers, sevenpence each.\n\n\"Sevenpence!\" exclaimed the old man. \"I'll gie ye nae such price.\nDoonricht robbery! I can get them as guid in ony shop in the toon for\nsaxpence ha'penny. If ye like to tak that price for them, ye may hae't.\nIf no, ye can keep them.\"\n\nMr Reid, now knowing his man somewhat better than he did at first,\ndemurred, but at length agreed to the abatement, and the transaction was\nthus brought to a close.\n\nWe need hardly add, that the L50 advanced by the old man to Mr Reid were\nsubsequently repaid; but the call is more imperative on us to state,\nthat, on the former's death, which took place about two years after, the\nlatter found himself named in his will for a very considerable sum. One,\nsomewhat larger, was bequeathed by the same document to Mr Langridge.\nThe remainder was appropriated to various charities. And here, good\nreader, ends the story of the Stone-Breaker.\n\n\n\n\nLAIRD RORIESON'S WILL.\n\n\nIn the little town of Maybole there lived, some fifty years ago or more,\nan old man of the name of George Rorieson, more commonly called Laird\nRorieson. He had been a kind of general merchant, or trafficker in any\nkind of commodities which he thought would yield him a profit; and, by\ndint of great sagacity, had made some very fortunate hits, and realised\na large sum of money. Having begun the world with a penny, he was\nemphatically the maker of his own fortunes--a circumstance he was very\nproud of, and loved to sound in the ears of certain individuals who\nenvied him his riches. Having amassed his money by an accumulation of\nsmall sums, for a long course of years, he had gradually become narrower\nand narrower, as his wealth increased; and, by the time he arrived at\nthe age of sixty, his penurious feelings had become so strong and\ndeeprooted that he could scarcely afford himself the means of a\ncomfortable subsistence.\n\nIt is almost needless to say that Laird Rorieson never had courage or\nliberality of sentiment sufficient to give him an impulse towards\nmatrimony; and truly it was alleged that he never oven looked on\nwomankind with any feelings different from those with which he\ncontemplated his fellow-creatures generally; and these had always some\nconnection, one way or another, with making profit of them. But, though\nhe had no wife, he had a good store of nephews and nieces--somewhere\nabout twenty--all poor enough, God knows! but all as hopeful as brides\nand bridegrooms of a great store of wealth and bliss being awaiting them\non the death of Uncle Geordie.\n\nThe affection which these twenty nephews and nieces shewed to Uncle\nGeorge was remarkable; but, somehow or another, the good uncle hated\nthem mortally, and, the bitterer he became, the more loving they\nwaxed--so that it was very wonderful to see so much human love and\nsympathy thrown away upon an old churl who could have seen all the\ndevoted creatures at the devil.\n\nIt was indeed alleged that this crabbed miser had no love for any one,\nall his affection being expended upon his money-bags: but we are bound\nto say that this is not quite the truth; for there was a neighbour of\nthe name of Saunders Gibbieson, a bachelor, for whom the Laird really\nfelt some small twinges of human kindness. Saunders Gibbieson was as\ntrue a Scotchman as ever threw the pawkie glamour of a twinkling grey\neye over the open face of an English victim. He was, as already said, a\nbachelor; but unlike his friend Geordie, he loved the fair sex, and\nvowed he would marry the bonniest lass o' Maybole the moment he was able\nto sustain her \"in bed, board, and washing.\" He had scraped together a\nfew pounds, maybe to the extent of a hundred or two, and looked forward\nto making himself happy at no very distant period. He was a famous hand\nat a political argument; and there was not a man in Maybole who could\ntouch him at driving a bargain.\n\nAs already said, Geordie had a kind of feeling towards Saunders, and\nthere can be no doubt that Saunders had as strong an affection for the\n\"auld rich grub,\" as he called him in his throat, as ever had any of the\ntwenty nephews and nieces already alluded to. In the evenings he often\nwent in and sat with him; and, by dint of curious jokes, \"humorous\nlees,\" and political anecdotes, he contrived to wile, for a few minutes,\nthe creature's heart from his money-bags, and unbend his puckered cheeks\nand lips into a species of compromise between a laugh and a grin. It was\nno wonder, then, that Geordie had a kind of liking for Saunders--seeing\nhe got value in amusement from him, without so much cost as even a\npiece of old dry cheese, of a waught of thin ale. On the other hand, it\nwas difficult to see how Saunders could love the laird; and, indeed, it\nwas a matter of gossip what could induce a man so much in request as\nSaunders Gibbieson to take so much pains in pouring into the \"leather\nlugs\" of an old miser the precious jokes that would have set the biggest\ntable in Maybole in a roar.\n\nNow the time came when Laird Rorieson began to feel the first touches of\nthat big black angel who loves to hug so fondly the sons of men. He was\nill--he was indeed very ill--and it would have done any man's heart good\nto see the kindness and sympathy which his twenty nephews and nieces\npaid him. Every hour one or other of them was calling at his house; and\nhis ears were regaled by the sympathetic tones which their love for\ntheir dear uncle wrung from their tender hearts. Oh, it was beautiful to\nbehold! Such things do credit to our fallen nature. But the old grub\nloved it not; and it was even said he cursed and swore in the very faces\nof the kind creatures, just as if they had had an eye on the heavy\ncoffers of gold that lay in his house. This kindness on the part of his\nnephews and nieces was thus converted into a kind of poison; for every\ntime they called, their uncle got into such a passion that his remaining\nstrength was well-nigh worn out. But he had still enough left to sign\nhis name; and the ungrateful creature resolved upon leaving all his gold\nto found an hospital. He sent for a man of the law, and had a\nconsultation with locked doors, and all things seemed in a fair way for\nthe poor nephews and nieces being sacrificed for ever.\n\nThis circumstance came to the ears of Saunders Gibbieson, who had not\nbeen an unattentive spectator of the extraordinary proceedings going on\nin the house of his neighbour. As soon as he heard the news, he retired\nand meditated, and communed with himself three hours on matters of deep\nconcernment to him and the generations that might descend from him. The\nresult of all this study was a resolution alike remarkable for its\neccentricity and sagacity; but Saunders' spirit dipped generally so deep\nin the wells of wisdom that there was no wonder it should come forth\ndrunk, as it were, with the golden policy of cunning.\n\nNow, all of a sudden, Saunders grew (as he said) very ill--as ill\nindeed, or nearly as ill, as Laird Rorieson himself, but, so full was he\nof brotherly love towards his neighbour, that his sudden illness did not\nprevent him calling upon the latter one night, when there seemed to be\nno great chance of their being disturbed by any of the sympathetic\nnephews and nieces. He found Geordie very weakly, and sat down by the\nbedside, to pour the balm of his friendship and consolation into the\nsick man's ear. The Laird received him kindly, and as was his custom,\nSaunders got him into a pleasant humour, by telling him something of a\ncurious nature that had occurred, or had been supposed by Saunders to\nhave occurred, during the day. He then began the more important part of\nhis work.\n\n\"You are ill, Laird,\" said he; \"but I question muckle if ye're sae ill\nas I am myself. For a long time I've been in a dwinin way, and, though I\nhae kept up a fair appearance and good spirits, I've been gradually\ngetting thinner and weaker. I fear I'm in a fair way for anither warld.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear't,\" replied the Laird. \"It's a sad thing to dee.\" And\nhe shook as he uttered the word.\n\n\"Ay, an' it's a sad thing,\" said Saunders, \"to be tormented in your\nillness, wi' thae cursed corbies o' puir relations. The moment I began\nto complain I've been tormented wi' a host o' nephews and nieces, wha\ncome and stare into my hollow een, as if they would count the draps o'\nblude that are yet left in my heart.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, are you in that plight too, Saunders?\" groaned the Laird. \"The\nravens have been croaking owre me for twa lang years. They come and\nperch on the very bedposts, they croak, they whet their nebs, they look\ninto my face, and peer into my very heart. It's dreadful--and there's\nnae remedy. I've tried to terrify them awa; but they come aye back\nagain. They've worn me fairly out.\"\n\n\"I've had many a meditation on the subject, Laird,\" said Saunders; \"and,\nbetween you and me, if there's a goose quill in a' Scotland, I'll hae a\nshot at them. I haena muckle i' the warld--a thousand or twa maybe, hard\nwon, Geordie, as a' gowd is in thae hard times; but the deil a plack o't\nthey'll ever touch.\"\n\n\"Ye'll be to found an hospital?\" said the Laird.\n\n\"Na, na,\" answered Saunders. \"I'll found nae beggar's palace. I've\nstudied political economy owre lang to be ignorant o' the bad effects o'\npublic charities. They relax the sinews o' industry, and mak learned\nmendicants. Besides, wha thanks the founder o' an hospital for his\ncharity? Nane!--nane! A puff or twa in the newspapers about Gibbieson's\nmortification would be the hail upshot o' my reward; and sensible folk\nwould set me doun as an auld curmudgeon, wha hadna heart to love and\nbenefit a friend.\"\n\n\"There's some truth in that,\" muttered the Laird. \"It's a pity a body\ncanna tak his gear wi' him. Sair hae I toiled for it, and, oh! it's\nmiserable! cruel! cruel! that I should be obliged to leav't to a\nthankless warld! But what are ye to do wi'fc, Saivjders?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I'm just to leave it a' to you, Laird,\" said Saunders. \"I have\nlang liked ye wi' a' the luve o' honest, leal friendship; and, after\nmuckle meditation, I canna fix on a mortal creature wha is mair deservin\no't than you, my guid auld freend. You have a fair chance o' recovering;\nI have nane. Ye may enjoy my gear lang after the turf has grown\nthegither owre my grave; and God bless the gift!\"\n\n\"Kind, guid man!\" cried the Laird, in a voice evincing strong emotion,\neither of love or greed. \"That _is_ kindness--ay, very different frae\nthe friendship o' my sisters' and brothers' bairns. After a', I believe\nyer richt, Saunders--an hospital has nae gratitude; and what have we to\ndo wi' a cauld and heartless warld?\"\n\n\"There's just ae difficulty I hae,\" said Saunders. \"The will's written\nand signed; but I dinna weel ken whar to lay it; for, when I'm dead,\nthae deevils o' corbies may smell the bit paper and put it in the fire.\nMaybe you would tak the charge o't for me, Laird.\"\n\n\"Ou ay,\" answered the Laird. \"I'll keep it. The deil o' are o' them will\nget it oot o' my clutches.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, my dear friend,\" said Saunders. \"I'll put it into a tin\nbox; the key ye'll find, after my breath's out, in the little cupboard\nthat's at the foot o' my bed--ye ken the place. They can mak naething o'\nthe key without the box; and, if you canna find the key, you can force\nthe box open. Oh, I would like to see you reading the will in the midst\no' the harpies.\"\n\n\"That's weel arranged, Saunders; ye can set about it as soon as you\nlike.\"\n\n\"I intend to do it instantly, Laird,\" replied the man. \"I'll about it\nthis moment.\" And he rose and went out of the house.\n\nIn a short time, Saunders returned, holding in his hand a small tin box.\nHe laid it down upon the table, and, taking out a small key, opened it,\nand took out a paper, entitled--\"Last Will and Testament.\"\n\n\"There it is, my good friend,\" he said; and, replacing the paper in the\nbox, he locked it and placed it in an escritoire pointed out by the\nLaird. He then went away.\n\nNext day, the lawyer came to carry into effect the charitable resolution\nof Laird Rorieson; but he found that a great change had taken place upon\nthe old man's sentiments. He was now adverse to a mortification, and\nsaid he was resolved upon leaving his fortune to one whom he considered\nto be a _real friend_, and, indeed, the only real friend he had upon\nearth. The lawyer was surprised when he ascertained that this friend was\nSaunders Gibbieson; but it was not his province to object--so he\ndeparted straightway to carry into effect the new resolution of the\ntestator.\n\nTwo days afterwards, the Laird sent a message to Saunders to come and\nspeak with him. Saunders obeyed; walking in to him slowly, and\napparently with great effort, as if he had been labouring under a strong\ndisease.\n\n\"I have been thinking again and again, Saunders,\" said the Laird, \"o'\nyer great kindness. You are the first man that ever left me a farthing.\nThe warld has rugged aff me since ever I had a feather to pick. Nane has\never offered me either a bite or a sup. You are the only friend I've\never met upon earth.\"\n\n\"I hae only obeyed the dictates o' my heart,\" replied Saunders; \"and I\nam glad I have dune it, for I feel mysel very weakly, and fear the clock\no' this world's time will be wound up wi' me in a very short period.\"\n\n\"Maybe no so sune as ye think, Saunders,\" replied the Laird. \"But my\npurpose is executed. Saunders, you are my heir. Hand me that box there.\"\n\nSaunders took up a small mahogany box that lay on the table, and handed\nit to him.\n\n\"Here,\" continued the Laird, taking out a paper; \"here is my will. It's\na' in your favour, Saunders--lands, houses, guids, and chattels,\nheritable and moveable. Say naething; you are my heir. Ha! ha! let the\ncorbies croak. You've dune me a guid service; I winna be ahint ye. Tak\nthe box into yer ain keeping. I'll keep the key. Awa wi't this instant.\nHa! ha! let the corbies croak.\"\n\nSaunders obeyed. He carried the box into his own house, placed it in his\ncupboard, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.\n\nIn about a month afterwards, old Laird Rorieson departed this life. On\nthe day of his death, his nephews and nieces were in great commotion,\nand there was a terrible running to and fro, and much whispering, and\nwondering, and gossiping--all on the great subject of the death of Uncle\nGeordie. On the day of his funeral, they were all collected, to see\nwhether there was any will. They, of course, wished that there should be\nnone, because they, being his heirs, would succeed to all, if there was\nno disposition of the old man's effects. By some means, Saunders\nGibbieson contrived to be present along with the expectants. Perhaps he\nwas allowed to be among them in the character of a witness; but indeed,\nso certain were the nephews and nieces of having succeeded in their\nefforts to please the dear old man, that they could afford to allow the\npresence of any number of witnesses who could vouch for the sacred\ngravity of their countenances, and the deep sorrows of their bereaved\nhearts. Nor was Saunders less under the affection of lugubriousness\nhimself; so that it was altogether one of those beautiful sights so\noften witnessed on such melancholy occasions, where every indication of\nselfishness is banished, and nothing can be observed save that Christian\nsolemnity which proveth that \"the devil hath been cast out of the heart\nof man, even when he did appear to be strong.\" The nephews and the\nnieces looked at Saunders, and Saunders looked at them, and so solemn\nwere these looks, that though the writer was searching about for a will,\nno one seemed to care whether he found one or not. It has been said that\n\"the heart of man is deceitful above all things;\" but of a surety the\nadage could not have been spoken there, except with the determination to\nget it disproved for once in the world, and the blessed object of\nshewing to us sons of the seed of Abraham that we are not so wicked as\nwe are called.\n\nAt length the ominous little box was laid hold of and broken open,\namidst a pretty nonchalance, and lo! there was indeed a paper, bearing\nthe fearful word \"Will,\" and the faces of the heirs turned as pale as\nthe paper itself. It was opened; but it was a fair, clean sheet of\npaper, and not a drop of ink had stained its purity. \"All safe, all\nsafe,\" muttered the heirs.\n\n\"Here is another box,\" said Saunders Gibbieson, holding up the mahogany\none; \"let us try it.\" And he opened it, and took out Geordie's will. The\nwriter read it aloud. Saunders was sole heir to all the old miser's\npossessions, amounting to L10,000. No one could tell the reason why\nthere were two papers marked \"Will,\" and one of them a blank sheet; and\nSaunders, simple man, did not trouble himself to give any explanation.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XVIII.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Transcriber's Notes: Hyphen variations left as printed","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 18","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":95227}