{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_41796/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_41796","id":"gutenberg_41796","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41796","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Note: Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See\n      http://archive.org/details/brownieofbodsbec02hogg\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      The Brownie of Bodsbeck has no Chapter IV. and two\n      Chapters III.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK;\n\nAnd other Tales.\n\nEdinburgh:\nPrinted by James Ballantyne & Co.\n\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK;\n\nAnd other Tales.\n\nby\n\nJAMES HOGG,\n\nAuthor of \"The Queen's Wake,\" &c. &c.\n\n   \"What, has this thing appeared again to-night?\"\n\nIn Two Volumes.\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEdinburgh;\nPrinted for William Blackwood, Prince's-Street:\nand\nJohn Murray, Albemarle-Street, London.\n1818.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS TO VOLUME SECOND.\n\n\n                                               PAGE.\n\n    Continuation of the Brownie of Bodsbeck        1\n\n    The Wool-Gatherer                             87\n\n    The Hunt of Eildon                           229\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nNext morning Davie Tait was early astir, and not having any thing better\nto do, he took his plaid and staff and set out towards Whithope-head, to\nsee what was become of his five scores of ewes, the poor remains of a\ngood stock. Davie went slowly up the brae towards Riskinhope-swire, for\nthe events of last night were fresh in his mind, and he was conning a\nnew prayer to suit some other great emergency; for Davie began to think\nthat by fervent prayer very great things might be accomplished--that\nperhaps the floods might be restrained from coming down, and the storms\nof the air from descending; and that even the Piper Hill, or the Hermon\nLaw, might be removed out of its place. This last, however, was rather a\ndoubtful point to be attained, even by prayer through the best grounded\nfaith, for, saving the places where they already stood, there was no\nroom for them elsewhere in the country. He had, however, his eye fixed\non a little green gair before him, where he was determined to try his\ninfluence with heaven once more; for his heart was lifted up, as he\nafterwards confessed, and he was hasting to that little gair to kneel\ndown and ask a miracle, nothing doubting.\n\nLet any one guess, if he can, what Davie Tait was going to ask. It was\nnot that the rains and storms of heaven might be restrained, nor that\nthe mountains might be removed out of their places; but Davie was going\nto pray, that \"when he went over at the Hewn-gate-end, as soon as he\ncame in sight of Whithope, he might see all his master's ewes again;\nall his old friends, every one of which he knew by head-mark, going\nspread and bleating on their old walk from the Earl Hill all the way to\nthe Braid-heads.\" So intent was Davie on this grand project, that he\nwalked himself out of breath against the hill, in order to get quickly\nat the little gair to put his scheme in execution; but, as he sagely\nobserved, it had been graciously fore-ordained that he should not commit\nthis great folly and iniquity. He paused to take his breath; and in\npausing he turned about, as every man does who stops short in climbing a\nhill. The scene that met Davie's eye cut his breath shorter than the\nsteep--his looks were rivetted on the haugh at Chapelhope--he could\nscarcely believe his own eyes, though he rubbed them again and again,\nand tried their effects on all things around.--\"Good Lord!\" said Davie,\n\"what a world do we live in! Gin a hale synat had sworn, I coudna hae\nbelieved this! My sooth but the Brownie o' Bodsbeck has had a busy\nnight!\"\n\nWalter of Chapelhope had ten acres of as good corn as ever grew in a\nmoor-land district. Davie knew that when he went to his bed the evening\nbefore, that corn was all growing in the field, dead ripe, and ready for\nthe sickle; and he had been lamenting that very night that such a crop\nshould be lost for want of reapers, in a season when there was so much\nneed for it. But now Davie saw that one half of that crop at least was\nshorn during the night, all standing in tight shocks, rowed and hooded,\nwith their ends turned to the south-west.--Well might Davie exclaim, \"My\nsooth, but the Brownie of Bodsbeck has had a busy night!\"\n\nDavie thought no more of his five scores of ewes, nor of his prayer, nor\nthe miracle that was to take place in consequence of that, but turned\nand ran back to Riskinhope as fast as his feet would carry him, to\narouse the rest of the people, and apprise them of this wonderful event\nthat had occurred beneath their noses, as he called it. He did so, and\nall of them rose with wonder and astonishment, and agreed to go across\nthe lake and look at the Brownie's workmanship. Away they went in a body\nto the edge of the stubble, but durst not set foot thereon for fear of\nbeing affected by enchantment in some way or another; but they saw that\nthe corn had been shorn exactly like other corn, except that it was\nrather more neat and clean than ordinary. The sheaves were bound in the\nsame way as other bandsters bind them; and in the shocking, the\ncorn-knots were all set outermost. \"Weel, is not he a most unaccountable\nfellow that Brownie of Bodsbeck?\" said Davie Tait.\n\nWhile they were thus standing in a row at the side of the shorn field,\nwondering at the prowess and agility of Brownie, and trying to make some\nrandom calculations of the thousands of cuts that he had made with his\nhook that night, Katharine went by at a little distance, driving her\nfather's cows afield and at the same time directing her father's dog far\nup the hill to turn the ewes from the Quave Brae. She was dressed in her\nusual neat morning habit, with a white short-gown, green petticoat, and\nher dark locks bound up with a scarlet snood; she was scolding and\ncajoling the dog in a blithsome and good-humoured way, and scarcely\nbestowing a look on the workmanship of her redoubted Brownie, or seeming\nto regard it.\n\n\"Ay, ye may speel the brae, Keatie Laidlaw,\" said Davie Tait,\napostrophising her, but shaking his head all the while, and speaking in\na low voice, that his fellow-servants only might hear--\"Ay, ye may speel\nthe brae, Keatie Laidlaw, an' drive your ewes an' your kye where ye\nlike; but wae's me for ye! Ye hae a weel-faurd face o' your ain, an' a\nmak that's liker to an angel than a thing o' flesh an' blude; but och!\nwhat a foul heart ye boud to hae within!--And how are ye to stand the\naftercome? There will be a black reckoning with you some day. I wadna\nthat my fit war i' your shoe the night for a' the ewes on the Lang\nBank.\"\n\nOld Nanny went over, as usual, and assisted her to milk the cows, and\nmake the butter and cheese, but spoke no word that day to her young\nmistress, good or bad. She regarded her with a kind of awe, and often\ntook a long stolen look of her, as one does of a dog that he is afraid\nmay be going mad.\n\nAs the people of Riskinhope went home, Dan chanced to say jocularly,\n\"He's a clever fellow the Brownie--I wish he would come and shear our\ncroft too.\"\n\n\"Foul fa' the tongue that said it,\" quoth Davie, \"an' the heart that\nthought the ill! Ye thinkna how easily he's forespoken. It was but last\nnight I said he hadna wrought to the gudeman for half his meat, an' ye\nsee what he has done already. I spake o' him again, and he came in\nbodily. Ye should take care what ye say here, for ye little ken wha's\nhearing. Ye're i' the very same predicament, billy Dan, as the tod was\nin the orchard,--'Afore I war at this speed,' quo' he, 'I wad rather hae\nmy tail cuttit off,'--he hadna the word weel said before he stepped into\na trap, which struck, and snapt off his tail--'It's a queer place this,'\nquo' he; 'ane canna speak a word but it is taen in nettle-earnest.' I'\nthe same way is Brownie likely to guide you; an' therefore, to prevent\nhim taking you at your word, we'll e'en gang an' begin the shearing\noursels.\"\n\nDavie went in to seek out the hooks; he knew there were half-a-dozen\nlying above the bed in the room where the spirit had been the night\nbefore. They were gone! not a sickle was there!--Davie returned,\nscratching his head, biting his lip, and looking steadily down to the\nground. \"It hasna been Kirky's ghost after a',\" said he; \"it has been\nBrownie, or some o' his gang, borrowing our hooks.\"\n\nDavie lost all hope of working any great change in the country by dint\nof prayer. His faith, which never was great, gave way; but yet he\nalways said, that when he was hasting up to the rash-bush in the little\ngreen gair that morning, to pray for the return of his master's ewes, it\nwas at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed.\n\nAbout eight days after that, when the moon was in the wane, the rest of\nWalter's corn was all cut down in one night, and a part of the first\nsafely stowed in the barnyard. About the same time, too, the shepherds\nbegan to smear their flocks at a small sheep-house and fold, built for\nthe purpose up nigh to the forkings of the Chapelhope-burn. It is a\ncustom with them to mix as much tar with grease before they begin as\nthey deem sufficient to smear all the sheep on the farm, or at least one\nhirsell of them. This the herds of Chapelhope did; but, on the very\nsecond morning after they began, they perceived that a good deal of\ntheir tar was wanting; and judging that it had been stolen, they raised\na terrible affray about it with their neighbours of Riskinhope and\nCorse-cleuch. Finding no marks of it, old John Hay said, \"We must just\ngive it up, callants, for lost; there is nae doubt but some of the\nfishers about Dryhope has stown it for fish-lights. There are a set of\nthe terriblest poachers live there that's in all the Forest.\"\n\nIn the afternoon John went out to the Ox-cleugh-head, to bring in a\nhouseful of white sheep, and to his utter astonishment saw that upwards\nof an hundred ewes had been smeared during the night, by the officious\nand unwearied Brownie of Bodsbeck. \"The plague be in his fingers,\" quoth\nold John to himself, \"gin he haena smeared crocks an' fat sheep, an' a'\nthat has come in his way. This will never do.\"\n\nThough the very hairs of John's head stood, on coming near to the sheep\nthat had been smeared by Brownie, yet seeing that his sensible dog\nKeilder was nothing afraid of them, but managed them in the same way as\nhe did other sheep, John grew by degrees less suspicious of them. He\nconfessed, however, as he was shedding them from the white ones, that\nthere was a ewe of Brownie's smearing came running by very near him, and\nhe could not help giving a great jump out of her way.\n\nAll shepherds are accused of indolence, and not, perhaps, without some\nreason. Though John dreaded as death all connection with Brownie, yet he\nrejoiced at the progress they were likely to make in the smearing, for\nit is a dirty and laborious business, and he was glad by any means to\nget a share of it off his hands, especially as the season was so far\nadvanced. So John took in to the fold twice as many sheep as they needed\nfor their own smearing, put the crocks and the fat sheep out from among\nthem, and left them in the house to their fate, taking good care to be\nout of sight of the place before dark. Next morning a certain quantity\nof tar was again gone, and the sheep were all neatly smeared and keeled,\nand set to the hill. This practice the shepherds continued throughout\nsmearing-time, and whether they housed many or few at night, they were\nstill all smeared and set to the hill again next morning. The smearing\nof Chapelhope was finished in less than one-third of its wonted time.\nNever was the labour of a farm accomplished with such expedition and\nexactness, although there were none to work, to superintend, or direct\nit, but one simple maiden. It became the wonder and theme of the whole\ncountry, and has continued to be a standing winter evening tale to this\nday. Where is the cottager, dwelling between the Lowthers and Cheviot,\nwho has not heard tell of the feats of the Brownie of Bodsbeck?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nWalter was hardly used in prison for some time, but at last Drummelzier\nfound means of rendering his situation more tolerable. Several of his\nassociates that were conducted with him from Dumfries died in jail; he\nsaid they seemed to have been forgotten both by the council and their\nfriends, but they kept up so good a heart, and died with such apparent\nsatisfaction, that he could scarcely be sorry for their release by\ndeath, though he acknowledged, that a happiness beyond the grave was\nalways the last kind of happiness that he wished to his friends. His own\ntrial was a fire-side theme for him as long as he lived, but he\nconfounded names and law terms, and all so much through other, that,\nwere it given wholly in his own words, it would be unintelligible. It\ncame on the 12th of November, and Sir George Lockhart and Mr Alexander\nHay were his counsel. His indictment bore, that he had sheltered on his\nfarm a set of the most notorious and irreclaimable rebels in the whole\nrealm; that sundry of his majesty's right honest liege subjects had been\ncruelly murdered there, very near to the prisoner's house, and a worthy\ncurate in the immediate vicinity. It stated the immense quantity of\nvictuals found in his house, and the numbers of fugitive whigs that were\nseen skulking in the boundaries of his farm; and also how some false\ndelinquents were taken and executed there.\n\nClavers was present, as he had a right to be when he desired it, and\ngave strong and decided evidence against him. The time had been, and not\nlong agone, when, if the latter had manifested such sentiments against\nany one, it had been sufficient for his death-warrant; but the killing\ntime was now nearly over, and those in power were only instituting\ntrials in order to impose heavy fines and penalties, that they might\nglean as much of the latter vintage of that rich harvest as possible,\nbefore the sickle was finally reft from their grasp. Several witnesses\nwere examined to prove the above accusations, and among the rest Daniel\nRoy Macpherson, whose deposition was fair, manly, and candid. As soon as\nhis examination was over, he came and placed himself near to Walter, who\nrejoiced to see him, and deemed that he saw in him the face of a friend.\n\nWitnesses were next called to prove his striking Captain Bruce with his\nfist, and also tripping the heels from Ingles, and tossing him over a\nsteep, while in the discharge of his duty, whereby he was rendered\nunable to proceed in the king's business. Walter, being himself examined\non these points, confessed both, but tried to exculpate himself as well\nas he could.\n\n\"As to Bruce, my masters,\" said he, \"I didna ken that he was a captain,\nor what he was; he pu'd up his bit shabble of a sword an' dang aff my\nbonnet, when I was a free man i' my ain ben-end. I likit nae sic\nfreedoms, as I had never been used wi' them, sae I took up my neive an'\ngae him a yank on the haffat till I gart his bit brass cap rattle\nagainst the wa'. I wonder ye dinna ceete me too for nippin' Jock\nGraham's neck there, as he ca'd himsel, that day, an' his freend Tam\nLiviston--There's nae word o' that the day!--Nah! but I could tell an' I\nlikit what I hae been put to a' this plague for.\"\n\nHere the advocate stopped him, by observing that he was wandering from\nthe point in question, and his own counsel were always trembling for him\nwhen he began to speak for himself. Being asked, what defence he had to\noffer for kicking and maltreating a king's officer in the discharge of\nhis duty?\n\n\"If it was that drunken dirt Ingles that ye mean,\" said Walter, \"I dinna\nken what ye ca' a man's duty here, but it surely coudna be a duty, when\nmy hands war tied ahint my back, to kick me i' the wame; an' that's what\nhe was doing wi' a' his pith, whan I gart him flee heels-ower-head like\na batch o' skins.\"\n\nSir George MacKenzie and Dalrymple of Stair both laughed outright at\nthis answer, and it was some time before the business could proceed. Sir\nGeorge Lockhart, however, compelled them to relinquish these parts of\nthe indictment, on account of the treatment offered to the prisoner, and\nthe trial proceeded on the charges previously mentioned, which were\nfound relevant. Walter was utterly confounded at the defence made for\nhim by Sir George Lockhart. He was wont to say, \"Aih but he's a terrible\nclever body yon Geordie Lockie! od he kend mair about me, and mair that\nwas in my favour, than I did mysel.\"\n\nThe conclusion of this trial must be given in Walter's own phrase. \"I\npretendit to be very crouse, an' no ae bit fear'd--aha! I was unco\nfear'd for a' that--I coudna swally my spittle for the hale day, an' I\nfand a kind o' foost, foost, foostin about my briskit that I coudna win\naneath ava. But when the chield MacKenzie began to clink thegither the\nevidence against me, gude faith I thought it was a' ower wi' me then; I\nsaw nae outgate, an' lost a' hope; mair than aince I tried to think o'\nauld Maron Linton an' the bairns, but I could think about naething, for\nI thought the house was heaving up i' the tae side, and gaun to whommel\na' the judges an' jurymen on the tap o' me. He revertit aye to the\nevidence of Clerk the curate, wha had said that I had a private\ncorrespondence wi' the whigs, an' then he brought a' the ither proof to\nbear upon that, till he made my guilt perfectly plain; an' faith I\ncoudna say that the chiel guessed far wrang. Then my Lord Moray, wha was\nhead judge that day, was just gaun to address the jurymen, an' direct\nthem to hang me, when up gat Geordie Lockie again for the hindmost time;\n(he had as mony links an' wimples in his tail as an eel that body,) an'\nhe argyed some point o' law that gart them a' glowr; at last he said,\nthat it was hard, on a point of life an' death, to take the report of a\nman that wasna present to make oath to the information he had gi'en,\nwhich might be a slander to gain some selfish end; and he prayed, for\nthe satisfaction of the jury, that his client might be examined on that\npoint, (he ca'd me aye _a client_, a name that I abhorred, for I didna\nken the meaning o't, but I trowed it meant nae good,) for, says he, he\nhas answered very freely, and much to the point, a' that ye hae speered\nat him. I was just considering what I should say, but I could get nought\nto say ava, when I was startit wi' a loud Hem! just amaist at my elbow.\nI naturally liftit up my een, very stupit like, I dare say, to see what\nit was; and wha was it but the queer Highland chap Roy Macpherson,\nmakin' sic faces to me as ye never saw. I thought he was wanting to mak\nme recollect something, but what it was I coudna tell. I was\ndumfoundered sae, that when the judge put the question to me about Clerk\nI never answered a word, for I was forefoughten wi' another thought. At\nlength I mindit the daft advice that honest Macpherson gae me at parting\nwith me in Dumfries, which was sic a ridiculous advice I had never\nthought o't mair. But now, thinks I to mysel, things canna be muckle\nwaur wi' me; the scrow's come fairly to the neb o' the miresnipe now;\nan' never had I better reason to be angry than at the base curate whom I\nhad fed an' clad sae aften. Sae I musters a' my wrath up into my face,\nand when the judge, or the advocate, put the question again, I never\nheedit what it was, but set up my birses an' spak to them as they had\nbeen my herd callants. What the deil are ye a' after? quoth I. G----d\nd----n the hale pack o' ye, do ye think that auld Wat Laidlaw's a whig, or\nwad do aught against his king, or the laws o' his country? They ken little\nabout him that say sae! I aince fought twa o' the best o' them armed wi'\nswords, an' wi' nought but my staff I laid them baith flat at my feet;\nan' had I ony twa o' ye on the Chapelhope-flow thegither, if ye dared to\nsay that I was a whig, or a traitor to my king, I wad let ye find\nstrength o' arm for aince. Here the wily chap Geordie Lockie stappit me\nin great agitation, and beggit me to keep my temper, and answer his\nlordship to the point, what defence I had to make against the\ninformation given by Clerk the curate? He be d----d! said I: he kens the\ncontrair o' that ower weel; but he kend he wad be master an' mair when\nhe gat me away frae about the town. He wantit to wheedle my wife out o'\nilk thing she had, an' to kiss my daughter too, if he could. Vile\nbrock! gin I war hame at him I'll dad his head to the wa'; ay, an' ony\ntwa o' ye forby, quo' I, raising my voice, an' shaking that neive at\nthem,--ony twa o' ye that dare set up your faces an' say that I'm a whig\nor a rebel.--A wheen d----d rascals, that dinna ken what ye wad be at!\n\n\"The hale court was thunnerstruck, an' glowred at ane anither like\nwullcats. I gae a sklent wi' my ee to Daniel Roy Macpherson, an' he was\nleaned ower the back o' the seat, and fa'n into a kink o' laughing. The\nhale crowd ahint us got up wi' a great hurra! an' clappit their hands,\nan' I thought the fock war a' gaen mad thegither. As soon as there was a\nwee quiet, my lord the Earl o' Moray he speaks across to Clavers, an' he\nsays: 'This winna do, my lord; that carl's nae whig, nor naething akin\nto them. Gin that be nae a sound worthy man, I never saw ane, nor heard\nane speak.' An' wi' that the croud shoutit an' clappit their hands\nagain. I sat hinging my head then, an' looking very blate, but I was\nunco massy for a' that. They then spak amang themsels for five or sax\nminents, and they cried on my master Drumelzier, an' he gaed up an'\ncrackit wi' them too; an' at last the judge tauld me, that the\nprosecution against me was drappit for the present, an' that gin I could\nraise security for twa thousand merks, to appear again if cited before\nthe first of June, 1686, I was at liberty to go about my business. I\nthankit his lordship; but thinks I to mysel, ye're a wheen queer chaps!\nYe shoot fock for praying an' reading the Bible, an' whan ane curses an'\ndamns ye, ye ca' him a true honest man! I wish ye be nae the deil's\nbairns, the halewort o' ye! Drumelzier an' Lockie cam security for me at\naince, an' away I sets for hame, as weel satisfied as ever I was a' my\nlife, that I mind o'.\n\n\"Weel, when I came out to the closs at the back o' the prison, a' the\nfock croudit about me; an' _he_ shook hands wi' me; an' _he_ shook\nhands wi' me; an' the young chaps they hurra'd an' waved their caps, an'\ncried out, Ettrick Forest for ever!--Auld Braid-Bonnet for ever,--hurra!\nAn' I cam up the Lawn-Market, an' down the Bow, wi' sic an army at my\ntail, as I had been gaun away to fight Boddell-Brigg owre again.\n\n\"I now begoud to think it wad be as weel to gie the lads the slip, for\nmy army was gathering like a snaw-ba', an' I little wist how sic a\nhobbleshue might end; sae I jinkit into Geordie Allan's, at the\nWest-Port, where I had often been afore, when selling my eild ewes and\nchasers; an' I whispered to them to keep out my sodgers, for there were\ntoo many of them for the house to haud; but they not perfectly\nunderstanding my jest, I was not well entered ere I heard a loud\naltercation at the head o' the stair, an' the very first aith that I\nheard I knew it to be Macpherson.\"\n\n\"Py Cot's preath, put she shall pe coing in; were not she her friend and\ncouhnsel?\"\n\n\"You his counsel? A serjeant of dragoons his counsel? That winna do. He\ncharged that nae sodgers should get in. Get aff wi' your Hieland\nimpudence--brazen-faced thief!\"\n\n\"Fat? Tief? Cot t--n y' mack-en dhu na bhaish!\nM'Leadle!--Trocho!--Hollo! Cresorst!\"\n\n\"I ran to the door to take the enraged veteran in my arms, and welcome\nhim as my best friend and adviser, but they had bolted the inner door in\nhis face, through which he had run his sword amaist to the hilt, an' he\nwas tugging an' pu'ing at it to get it out again, swearing a' the time\nlike a true dragoon. I led him into my room, an' steekit the door o't,\nbut there he stood wi' his feet asperr, and his drawn sword at arm's\nlength ahint his back, in act to make a lounge at the door, till he had\nexhausted a' his aiths, baith in Gaelic an' English, at the fock o' the\nhouse, and then he sheathed his sword, and there was nae mair about it.\n\n\"I speered what I could do to oblige him?\"\n\n\"Hu, not creat moach at hall, man; only pe kiffing me your hand. Py\nCot's poy, put if you tit not stonish tem! Vas not I peen telling you\ntat him's hearty curse pe te cood?\"\n\n\"My certy,\" quo' I, \"but ye did do that, or I wad never hae thought o't;\nye're an auld-farrant honest chiel! I am sorry that I canna just now\nmake ye sic a present as ye deserve; but ye maun come out an' see me.\"\n\n\"Present! Poo, poo, poo! Teol more, take te present tat pe coing petween\nfriends, and she may have sharper works tan pe coing visits; put not te\nmore, she pe haifing small favour to seek.\"\n\n\"Od, man,\" says I, \"ye hae been the mean o' preserving my life, an' ye\nsanna ax a thing that I'll refuse, e'en to my ain doughter. An' by the\nby, serjeant, gin ye want a good wife, an' a bonny ane, I'll gie ye sic\na tocher wi' my Keatie, as never was gi'en wi' a farmer's lassie i' the\nForest.\"\n\n\"Hu! Cot pe plessing you! She haif cot wife, and fery hexcellent\nboddach, with two childs after him.\"\n\n\"What is it then, serjeant? Gin the thing be in my power, ye hae\nnaething ado but to say the word.\"\n\n\"Do you know tat her nainsell pe coosin to yourself?\"\n\n\"Od, man,\" quo' I, \"that's hardly possible, or else the taen o' us has\ncome o' the wrang side o' the blanket.\"\n\n\"Now do you just pe holding your paice for a fery less time, for you\nmust halways pe spaik spaiking, without knowing fat to say, unless I\nwere putting it into your haid. I haif tould ould Simon Glas Macrhimmon,\nwho knows all the pedigrees from the creation of the world, and he says\nthat te Lheadles are all Macphersons; for, in the days of Rory More of\nBallindalloch and Invereshie, tere was te Gordons, who would pe making\ngrheat prhogress on te Sassenach, and tere went down wit Strabogie of\nte clan Ahnderson, and te clan Grhaham, and one Letulloch Macpherson of\nStrathneshalloch, vit as bould a clan after her as any and mhore; and\nthey would pe toing creat might upon the Sassenach, and they would pe\nkilling her in tousands, and ten she cot crheat lhands out of King\nRobert on te Bhorder, and Letulloch he had a whoule country to himself.\nBut te people could not pe putting her nhame into worts, and instead of\nLetulloch tey called her _Leadlea_ and te Sassenach she called her\n_Little_, so that all tese are of Macpherson, and you may pe te chief,\nand te forward son of te crheat Strathneshalloch himself. Now tat I\nwould pe te tog, and te shame, and te tisgrhace, not to help my owhn\npoor clansman and prhother out of te evil, tat would pe worse eneuch;\nand te ting tat I would pe asking of you is tis, tat you will always\nlook upon a Macpherson as a prhother until te end of te world, and pe\nstanding py her as long as tere is peing one trop of plood in your whole\npoty.\"\n\n\"Gude faith, serjeant,\" says I, \"I never was sae happy as to find, that\nthe man to whom I hae been sae muckle obliged is sic a noble\ndisinterested chiel; an' there's my hand, I'll never gie up the cause of\na Macpherson, if he's in the right.\"\n\n\"Hu! Cot t--n your _right_! a clansman speak of the right! Any man will\nstand py me when I am in te right, put wit a phrother I must always pe\nin te right. No right or wrong tere, py Cot!--Poo, poo!\"\n\n\"Od, man,\" quo' I, \"that's a stretch o' billyhood that I was never up to\nafore but sin' ye say't, may I never see the Hermon Law again gif I\nwinna stand by it. Come, then, we'll hae a stoup o' brandy, or a bottle\no' wine thegither, for a parting cup.\"\n\n\"Hu!--no, no! None of your prandies or your wines for me!--I must pe on\nduty in less than an hour, and I would not pe tasting any of your tamn\nprandies or wines. No, no!--Cot pless you!--And should she never pe\nseeing your face again, you will pe----\"\n\n\"He could say nae mair, for the muckle round tears were coming hopping\ndown owre his weather-beaten cheek, but he gae my hand a hard squeeze\nan' a shake, an' brak out at the door; an' that was my last sight of\nhonest Daniel Roy Macpherson, a man that I hae met few like! I was tauld\nlang after, that he fell fighting like a lion against the Campbells, at\nthe battle o' Killiekranky, and that, to the last day o' his life, he\nspake o' his kinsman, ould MacLeadle.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nIt was on the inauspicious night of All-Hallow-eve, that Walter arrived\nagain at his own house, after so long an absence; but some of the\nfarmers of Manor-Water, his acquaintances, were so overjoyed at seeing\nhim again, that they persuaded him to go in, taste of their cheer, and\nrelate his adventures and his trial to them; and so long was he detained\nin this way, that it was dark before he left Dollar-Burn; yet so anxious\nwas he to get home to his family, and all unconscious that it was\nHallow-E'en, the great jubilee of the fairies and all the spirits of\nthese mountain regions, he set out on his journey homeward, across the\ndreary moors of Meggat-dale. Walter found his way full well, for he knew\nevery brae, height, and declivity by the way, and many delightful\nlittle dreams was he cherishing in his heart, how he would surprise\nMaron an' the bairns by his arrival, and how extravagantly delighted his\nexcellent and generous dog Reaver would be; for he often said, \"he had\nmair sense about him than what was a beast's good right;\" but, above\nall, his mind dwelt most on his dear lassie Kate, as he called her. He\nhad been informed by Drummelzier of all that she had done for him, who\ngave her a character so high before some friends of his who were\npresent, that Walter never was so proud in his life, and he longed, with\nall a father's fondness, to clasp \"his bit dear kind-heartit lassie\"\nagain in his arms.\n\nWith all these delightful and exhilarating thoughts glowing in his\nbreast, how could that wild and darksome road, or indeed any road, be\ntedious to our honest goodman? For, as to the evil spirits with whom his\nbeloved Keatie was in conjunction, the idea had died away like a thing\nof the imagination, and he barely spent a thought upon it. He crossed\nthe Meggat about eleven o'clock in the night, just as the waning moon\nbegan to peep over the hills to the south-east of the lake,--but such\nscenes, and such adventures, are not worth a farthing, unless described\nand related in the language of the country to which they are peculiar.\n\n\"I fand I was come again into the country o' the fairies an' the\nspirits,\" said Walter; \"an' there was nae denying o't; for when I saw\nthe bit crookit moon come stealing o'er the kipps o' Bowerhope-Law, an'\nthraw her dead yellow light on the hills o' Meggat, I fand the very\nnature an' the heart within me changed. A' the hills on the tae side o'\nthe loch war as dark as pitch, an' the tither side had that ill-hued\ncolour on't, as if they had been a' rowed in their windling sheets; an'\nthen the shadow o' the moon it gaed bobbing an' quivering up the loch\nfornent me, like a streek o' cauld fire. In spite o' my teeth I turned\neiry, an' the mair I feucht against it I grew the eiryer, for whenever\nthe spirits come near ane, that kind o' feeling comes on.\n\n\"Weel, just as I was gaun round the end o' the Wedder-Law, a wee bit\naboon the head o' the Braken Wood, I sees a white thing on the road\nafore me. At the first it appeared to be gaun away, but at length I saw\nit coming nearer an' nearer me, keeping aye a little aboon the road till\nI came amaist close to it, an' then it stood stane-still an' glowred at\nme. What in the wide world can it be that is here at sic an untimely\ntime o' night as this? thinks I to mysel. However, I steps aye on, an'\nwasna gaun to mak nor meddle wi't ava, till at last, just as I was gaun\nby, it says in a soft low voice,--\"Wow, friend, but ye gang late the\nnight!\"\n\n\"Faith, no muckle later than yoursel,\" quo' I, \"gin it be your will.\"\n\n\"O'er late on sic a night!\" quoth the creature again; \"o'er late on\nHallow E'en, an' that ye will find.\"\n\n\"It elyed away o'er the brow, an' I saw nae mair o't. \"Lord sauf us!\nquo' I to mysel, is this Hallow-E'en? I wish I war safe at hame, or in\namang Christian creatures o' ony kind!--Or had I but my fine dog Reaver\nwi' me, to let me ken when the fairies are coming near me--Goodness to\nthe day! I may be amang the mids o' them ere ever I ken what I'm doing.\"\nA' the stories that ever I heard about fairies in my life came linkin\ninto my mind ane after anither, and I almaist thought I was already on\nmy road to the Fairy-land, an' to be paid away to hell, like a\nkane-cock, at the end o' seven years. I likit the boding o' the\napparition I had met wi' unco ill, but yet I had some hopes that I was\no'er muckle, an' o'er heavy metal for the fairies. Hout, thinks I, what\nneed I be sae feared? They'll never take away ane o' my size to be a\nfairy--Od, I wad be the daftest-like fairy ever was seen.\n\n\"I had naething for't but to stride on as fast as I could, an' on I\ncomes till I comes to the bit brae at the side o' the Ox-Cleuch-Lea,\nan' there I heard something fistling amang the brakens, an' making a\nkind o' wheenge, wheenge, wheenging, that gart a' my heart loup to my\nmouth; an' what was this but my poor dog Reaver, coming creeping on his\nwame, an' sae fain to meet me again that he hardly kend what he was\ndoing. I took him up in my arms an' clappit him, an' said a' the kind\nthings to him that I could, an' O sic a wark an' fidgetting as he made!\nBut yet I couldna help thinking there was a kind o' doufness and\nmellancholly in his looks. What ails ye, Reaver man? quo' I. I wish a'\nmay be weel about Chapelhope the night; but ye canna tell me that, poor\nfallaw, or else ye wad. He sometimes lickit my stocking wi' his tongue,\nan' sometimes my hand, but he wadna gang away afore me as he used to do,\ncocking his tail sae massy like; an' I feared sair that a' wasna right\nabout hame, an' can hardly tell ony body how I felt,--fock's ain are aye\ntheir ain!\n\n\"At length I came amaist close to the bit brow o' the Lang Bank that\nbrought me in sight o' my ain house, but when I lookit ower my shoulder\nReaver was fled. I grew fearder than ever, an' wistna what to think; an'\nwi' that I sees a queer-like shapen thing standing straight on the road\nafore me. Now, thinks I, this is the Brownie o' Bodsbeck; I wadna face\nhim for a' the warld; I maun try to gie him the slip. Sae I slides aff\nthe road, an' down a bit howe into the side o' the loch, thinking I wad\nget up within the brae out o' sight o' him--But aha! there was he\nstanding straight afore me on the shore. I clamb the brae again, and sae\ndid he. Now, thinks I, his plan is first to pit me out o' my reason, an'\nthen wear me into the loch and drown me; I'll keep an open side wi' him.\nSae up the hill I scrambles wi' a' my speed, an' doun again, and up\nagain, five or six times; but still he keepit straight afore me. By this\ntime I was come by degrees very near him, an' waxed quite desperate, an\ndesperation made me crouse. 'In the name o' God,' cries I, 'what are ye\nthat winna let me by to my ain house?\"\n\n\"Did you see a woman on your way?\" said the creature in a deep solemn\nvoice.\n\n\"Yes, I did,\" answered I.\n\n\"Did she tell you any thing?\" said the apparition again.\n\n\"No,\" said I.\n\n\"Then I must,\" said the creature. \"You go no nearer to your own house\nto-night.\"\n\n\"Say you sae?\" said I; \"but I'll gang to my ain house the night, though\nsax like you stood atween me an' it.\"\n\n\"I charge you,\" said the thing again, \"that you go not nearer to it. For\nyour own sake, and the sakes of those that are dearest to you, go back\nthe gate you came, and _go not_ to that house.\"\n\n\"An' pray wha may you be that's sae peremptory?\" said I.\n\n\"A stranger here, but a friend to you, Laidlaw. Here you do not pass\nto-night.\"\n\nI never could bide to be braved a' my life. \"Say you sae, friend?\" quo'\nI; \"then let me tell ye, stand out o' my way; or be ye brownie or\nfairy--be ye ghaist, or be ye deil--in the might o' Heaven, I sall gie\nye strength o' arm for aince; an' here's a cudgel that never fell in\nvain.\"\n\n\"So saying, I took my stick by the sma' end wi' baith my hands, an'\nheaving it ower my shoulder I came straight on to the apparition, for I\nhardly kend what I was doing; an' my faith it had gotten a paik! but it\nhad mair sense than to risk it; for when it saw that I was dementit, it\ne'en steppit quietly aff the road, and said, wi' a deep grane, \"Ye're a\nwilfu' man, Laidlaw, an' your wilfu'ness may be your undoing. Pass on\nyour ways, and Heaven protect your senses.\"\n\n\"I dredd sair I was doing wrang, but there was something in my nature\nthat wadna be contrair'd; sae by I went, an' lookit full at the thing as\nI past. It had nouther face nor hands, nor head nor feet; but there was\nit standing like a lang corn sack. L----d tak me, (as Serjeant Macpherson\nsaid,) if I kend whether I was gaun on my feet or the crown o' my head.\n\n\"The first window that I came to was my ain, the ane o' that room where\nMaron and I slept. I rappit at it wi' a rap that wont to be weel kend,\nbut it was barred, an' a' was darkness and vacancy within. I tried every\ndoor and window alang the foreside o' the house, but a' wi' the same\neffect. I rappit an' ca'd at them a', an' named every name that was in\nthe house when I left it, but there was nouther voice, nor light, nor\nsound. 'Lord have a care o' me!' said I to mysel, 'what's come o' a' my\nfock? Can Clavers hae been here in my absence an' taen them a' away? or\nhas the Brownie o' Bodsbeck eaten them up, stoop an' roop? For a' that I\nhae wearied to see them, here I find my house left unto me desolate.\nThis is a waesome welcome hame to a father, an' a husband, an' a\nmaster!--O Lord! O Lord! what will come o' puir auld Wat now?'\n\n\"The Auld Room was a place I never thought o' gangin to; but no kenning\nwhat to mak o' mysel, round the west end o' the house I gaes towards the\ndoor o' the Auld Room. I soon saw through the seam atween the shutters\nthat there was a light in it, an' kenning weel that there was a broken\nlozen, I edged back the shutter naturally to see what was gaun on\nwithin--May never a father's e'e again see sic a sight as mine\nsaw!--There was my dear, my only daughter Katharine, sitting on the bed\nwi' a dead corpse on her knee, and her hands round its throat; and there\nwas the Brownie o' Bodsbeck, the ill-faurd, runkled, withered thing, wi'\nits eildron form and grey beard, standin at the bed side hauding the\npale corpse by the hand. It had its tither hand liftit up, and was\nmutter, muttering some horrid spell, while a crew o' the same kind o'\ngrizly beardit phantoms were standin round them. I had nae doubt but\nthere had been a murder committit, and that a dissection was neist to\ntake place; and I was sae shock'd that I was just gaun to roar out. I\ntried it twice, but I had tint my voice, and could do naething but gape.\n\n\"I now fand there was a kind o' swarf coming o'er me, for it came up,\nup, about my heart, an' up, up, o'er my temples, till it darkened my\neen; an' I fand that if it met on the crown o' my head I was gane. Sae I\nthought it good, as lang as that wee master bit was sound, to make my\nescape, an' aff I ran, an' fell, an' fell, an' rase an' ran again. As\nRiskinhope was the nearest house, I fled for that, where I wakened Davie\nTait out o' his bed in an unco plight. When he saw that I was a'\nbedaubit wi' mire o'er head an' ears, (for I had faun a hunder times,)\nit was impossible to tell wha o' us was maist frightit.\n\n\"Lord sauf us, goodman,\" quo' he, \"are ye hangit?\"\n\n\"Am I hangit, ye blockhead!\" says I; \"what do ye mean?\"\n\n\"I m-m-mean,\" says Davie, \"w-w-war ye ek-ek-execute?\"\n\n\"Dinna be feared for an auld acquaintance, Davie,\" quo I, \"though he\ncomes to you in this guise.\"\n\n\"Guise!\" said Davie, staring and gasping for breath--\"Gui-gui-guise!\nThen it se-e-e-eems ye _are_ dead?\"\n\n\"Gin I were dead, ye fool,\" quoth I, \"how could I be here? Give me your\nhand.\"\n\n\"Uh-uh-uh-uuuh!\" cried Davie, as I wore him up to the nook, and took\nhaud o' his hand by force. \"Uh, goodman, ye are flesh and blude yet! But\nO ye're cauld an' ugsome!\"\n\n\"Davie,\" quoth I, \"bring me a drink, for I hae seen something o'er-bye\nan' I'm hardly just mysel.\"\n\nDavie ran and brought me a hale bowie-fu' milk. \"Tak a gude waught,\ngoodman,\" quo' he, \"an' dinna be discouraged. Ye maun lay your account\nto see and hear baith, sic things as ye never saw or heard afore, gin ye\nbe gaun to bide here. Ye needna wonder that I thought ye war dead,--the\ndead are as rife here now as the living--they gang amang us, work amang\nus, an' speak to us; an' them that we ken to be half-rotten i' their\ngraves, come an' visit our fire-sides at the howe o' the night. There\nhae been sad doings here sin ye gaed away, goodman!\"\n\n\"Sad doings I fear, indeed, Davie!\" says I. \"Can ye tell me what's\nbecome o' a' my family?\"\n\n\"Troth can I, goodman. Your family are a' weel. Keatie's at hame her\nlievahlane, an' carrying on a' the wark o' the farm as weel as there war\na hunder wi' her. Your twa sons an' auld Nanny bide here; an' the honest\ngudewife hersel she's away to Gilmanscleuch. But oh, gudeman, there are\nsad things gaun on o'er-bye yonder; an' mony a ane thinks it will hae a\nblack an' a dreadfu' end. Sit down an' thraw aff your dirty claes, an'\ntell us what ye hae seen the night.\"\n\n\"Na, na, Davie! unless I get some explanation, the thing that I hae seen\nthe night maun be lockit up in this breast, an' be carried to the grave\nwi' it. But, Davie, I'm unco ill; the cauld sweat is brekking on me frae\nhead to foot. I'm feared I gang away athegither.\"\n\n\"Wow, gudeman, what can be done?\" quo' Davie. \"Think ye we sudna tak the\nbeuk?\"\n\n\"I was sae faintish I coudna arguy wi' the fool, an' ere ever I wist he\nhas my bonnet whuppit aff, and is booling at a sawm; and when that was\ndone, to the prayin' he fa's, an' sic nonsense I never heard prayed a'\nmy life. I'll be a rogue gin he wasna speakin' to his Maker as he had\nbeen his neighbour herd; an' then he was baith fleetching an' fighting\nwi' him. However, I came something to mysel again, an' Davie he thought\nproper to ascribe it a' to his bit ragabash prayer.\"\n\nWalter spent a restless and a troubled morning till day-light, and Davie\nsaid, that wearied as he was, he believed he never closed his een, for\nhe heard him frequently turning in the bed, and moaning to himself; and\nhe heard him once saying, with deep sighs as if weeping,--\"O my poor\nKeatie Laidlaw! what is to become o' her! My poor lost, misled lassie!\nWae's my heart for her! I fear she is ruined for this world--an' for the\naftercome, I dare hardly venture to think about it!--O wae's me for my\npoor luckless bairn!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nNext morning Walter and his two sons, and old Nanny, went all over to\nChapelhope together, just as the cows came to the loan; and the farmer\nwas sundry times remarking by the way that \"day-light had mony een!\" The\ntruth was, that the phantoms of superstition had in a measure fled with\nthe shadows of the night, which they seldom fail to do. They, indeed,\nremain in the bosom, hid, as it were, in embryo, ready to be embodied\nagain at the fall of the long shadow in the moon-light, or the evening\ntale round the fading embers; but Walter at this time, perhaps, regarded\nthe visions of last night as dreams scarcely remembered, and less\nbelieved, and things which in the open day he would have been ashamed\nto have acknowledged.\n\nKatharine had begun a-milking, but when she beheld her father coming\nacross the meadow, she left her leglen and ran home. Perhaps it was to\nput his little parlour in order, for no one of the family had set foot\nwithin that house but herself for three weeks--or perhaps she did not\nchoose that their meeting should be witnessed by other eyes. In short,\nshe had something of importance to put to rights--for home she ran with\ngreat haste; and Walter, putting his sons to some work to detain them,\nfollowed her all alone. He stepped into the parlour, but no one being\nthere, he sat down on his elbow chair, and began to look about him. In a\nfew seconds his daughter entered--flung herself on her father's knee and\nbosom--clasped her arms about his neck--kissed him, and shed a flood of\ntears on his breast. At first he felt somewhat startled at her embrace,\nand his arms made a feeble and involuntary effort to press her away\nfrom him; but she grew to him the closer, and welcomed him home with\nsuch a burst of filial affection and tenderness, that nature in a short\ntime regained her empire over the father's heart; and there was to be\nseen old Walter with his large hands pressing her slender waist, keeping\nher at a little distance from him on his knee, and looking stedfastly in\nher face, with the large tear rolling in his eye. It was such a look as\none sometimes takes of the corpse of one that was dearly beloved in\nlife. Well did she read this look, for she had the eye of the eagle for\ndiscernment; but she hid her face again on his shoulder, and\nendeavoured, by familiar enquiries, to wean him insensibly from his\nreserve, and draw him into his wonted freedom of conversation with her.\n\n\"Ye ken o'er well,\" said he at length, \"how deep a haud ye hae o' this\nheart, Keatie. Ye're my ain bairn still, and ye hae done muckle for my\nlife--but\"----\n\n\"Muckle for your life!\" said she, interrupting him--\"I have been but too\nremiss. I have regretted every hour that I was not with you attending\nyou in prison, administering to all my father's wants, and helping to\nmake the time of bondage and suspense pass over more lightsomely; but\ngrievous circumstances have prevented me. I have had sad doings here\nsince you went away, my dear father--there is not a feeling that can\nrack the human heart that has not been my share. But I will confess all\nmy errors to my father, fall at his knees, and beg his forgiveness--ay,\nand I hope to receive it too.\"\n\n\"The sooner ye do sae the better then, Keatie,\" said he--\"I was here\nlast night, an' saw a sight that was enough to turn a father's heart to\nstane.\"\n\n\"_You were here last night!_\" said she emphatically, while her eyes were\nfixed on the ground--\"You were here last night! Oh! what shall become of\nme!\"\n\n\"Ay, weel may ye say sae, poor lost and undone creature! I was here last\nnight, though worn back by some o' your infernals, an' saw ye in the\nmids o' your dreadfu' game, wi' a' your bike o' hell round about ye. I\nwatna what your confession and explanation may do; but without these I\nhae sworn to myself, and I'll keep my aith, that you and I shall never\nnight thegither again in the same house, nor the same part o' the\ncountry--ay, though it should bring down my grey hairs wi' sorrow to the\ngrave, I'll keep that aith.\"\n\n\"I fear it will turn out a rash vow,\" said she, \"and one that we may all\nrepent to the last day that we have to live. There is danger and\njeopardy in the business, and it is connected with the lives and souls\nof men; therefore, before we proceed farther in it, relate to me all the\ncircumstances of your trial, and by what means you are liberated.\"\n\n\"I'll do that cheerfully,\" said Walter, \"gin it war but to teach you\ncompliance.\"\n\nHe then went over all the circumstances of his extraordinary trial, and\nthe conditions on which he was discharged; and ended by requiring her\npositively to give him the promised explanation.\n\n\"So you are only then out on bail,\" said she, \"and liable to be cited\nagain on the same charges?\"\n\n\"No more,\" was the reply.\n\n\"It is not then time yet for my disclosure,\" said she; \"and no power on\nearth shall wring it from me; therefore, my dear father, let me beg of\nyou to urge your request no farther, that I may not be under the painful\nnecessity of refusing you again.\"\n\n\"I hae tauld ye my determination, Keatie,\" returned he; \"an' ye ken I'm\nno very apt to alter. If I should bind ye in a cart wi' my ain hands, ye\nshall leave Chapelhope the night, unless ye can avert that by explaining\nyour connections to me. An' why should ye no?--Things can never appear\nwaur to my mind than they are just now--If hell itself had been opened\nto my e'e, an' I had seen you ane o' the inmates, I coudna hae been\nmair astoundit than I was yestreen. I'll send ye to Edinburgh, an' get\nye safely put up there, for I canna brook things ony langer in this\nstate. I winna hae my family scattered, an' made a bye-word and an\nastonishment to the hale country this gate--Outher tell me the meaning\no't, or lay your account to leave your father's house this day for\never.\"\n\n\"You do not know what you ask, father--the thing is impossible. Was ever\na poor creature so hard bestead! Will not you allow me a few days to\nprepare for such a departure?\"\n\n\"No ae day, nor ae hour either, Kate. Ye see this is a situation o'\nthings that canna' be tholed ony langer.\"\n\nShe sat down as if in deep meditation, but she neither sobbed nor wept.\n\"You are only out on bail,\" said she, \"and liable to be tried again on\nthe same grounds of charge?\"\n\n\"Ay, nae mair,\" said Walter; \"but what need ye harp on that? I'm safe\nenough. I forgot to tell you that the judges were sae thoroughly\nconvinced of my loyalty and _soundness_, (as they ca'd it) that they\nwadna risk me to the vote of a jury; an' that the bit security they\nsought was naething but a mere sham to get honourably quit of me. I was\nlikewise tauld by ane that kens unco weel, that the king has gotten\nither tow to teaze than persecuting whigs ony langer, an' that there\nwill soon be an order put out of a very different nature. There is never\nto be mair blood shed on account of the covenanted reformation in\nScotland.\"\n\nWhen Walter began this speech, his daughter lifted up her downcast eyes,\nand fixed them on his face with a look that manifested a kind of\nhopeless apathy; but as he advanced, their orbs enlarged, and beamed\nwith a radiance as if she had been some superior intelligence. She did\nnot breathe--or, if she did, it stole imperceptibly from between her\nparted ruby lips. \"What did you say, my dear father?\" said she.\n\n\"What did I say!\" repeated Walter, astonished and nettled at the\nquestion--\"What the deil was i' your lugs, that ye didna hear what I\nsaid? I'm sure I spake out. Ye are thinking o' something else, Kate.\"\n\n\"Be so good as repeat every word that you said over again,\" said she,\n\"and tell me whence you drew your intelligence.\"\n\nWalter did so; repeating it in still stronger and more energetic\nlanguage than he had done before, mentioning at the same time how he had\nhis information, which could not be doubted.\n\n\"It is enough, my dear father,\" said she. \"Say not another word about\nit. I will lay open all my errors to my father this instant--come with\nme, and I will show you a sight!\"\n\nAs she said this, she put her arm in her father's to lead him away; but\nWalter looked about him with a suspicious and startled eye, and drew\nsomewhat back.\n\n\"You must go instantly,\" continued she, \"there is no time so fit; and\nwhatever you may see or hear, be not alarmed, but follow me, and do as I\nbid you.\"\n\n\"Nane o' your cantrips wi' me, Kate,\" said Walter--\"I see your drift\nweel eneugh, but ye'll find yoursel disappointit. I hae lang expectit it\nwad come to this; but I'm determined against it.\"\n\n\"Determined against what, my dear father?\"\n\n\"Ye want to mak a warlock o' me, ye imp o' mischief,\" said Walter; \"but\nI hae taen up my resolution there, an' a' the temptations o' Satan sanna\nshake it. Nah! Gudefaith, auld Wat o' the Chapelhope's no gaun to be led\naway by the lug an' the horn to the deil that gate.\"\n\nKatharine's mien had a tint of majesty in it, but it was naturally\nserious. She scarcely ever laughed, and but seldom smiled; but when she\ndid so, the whole soul of delight beamed in it. Her face was like a dark\nsummer day, when the clouds are high and majestic, and the lights on the\nvalley mellowed into beauty. Her smile was like a fairy blink of the sun\nshed through these clouds, than which, there is nothing in nature that I\nknow of so enlivening and beautiful. It was irresistible;--and such a\nsmile beamed on her benign countenance, when she heard her father's wild\nsuspicions expressed in such a blunt and ardent way; but it conquered\nthem all--he went away with her rather abashed, and without uttering\nanother word.\n\nThey walked arm in arm up by the side of the burn, and were soon out of\nsight of Nanny and the boys. Walter was busy all the way trying to form\nsome conjecture what the girl meant, and what was to be the issue of\nthis adventure, and began to suspect that his old friends, the\nCovenant-men, were some way or other connected with it; that it was\nthey, perhaps, who had the power of raising those spirits by which his\ndwelling had been so grievously haunted, for he had heard wonderful\nthings of them. Still there was no coindication of circumstances in any\nof the calculations that he was able to make, for his house had been\nhaunted by Brownie and his tribe long ere he fell in with the fugitive\nCovenanters. None of them had ever given him the least hint about the\nmatter, or the smallest key to it, which he believed they would have\ndone; nor had he ever mentioned a word of his connection with them to\none of his family, or indeed to any one living. Few were the words that\npast between the father and daughter in the course of that walk, but it\nwas not of long duration.\n\nThey soon came to the precipitate linn on the South Grain, where the\nsoldiers had been slain. Katharine being a little way before, began to\nscramble across the face of the rock by a path that was hardly\nperceptible. Walter called after her, \"Where are ye gaun, Keatie? It's\nimpossible to win yont there--there's no outgate for a mouse.\"\n\n\"We will try,\" answered she; \"it is perhaps not so bad as it\nlooks--Follow me--you have nothing to fear.\"\n\nWalter followed; for however much he was affrighted for brownies, and\nfairies, and dead corpses, and all these awful kind of things, he was no\ncoward among rocks and precipices. They soon reached a little dass in\nthe middle of the linn, or what an Englishman would call a small\nlanding-place. Here she paused till her father reached her, and pointed\nout to him the singularity of their situation, with the burn roaring far\nbelow their feet, and the rock fairly overhanging them above.\n\n\"Is it not a romantic and tremendous spot?\" said she.\n\n\"It is that!\" said Walter, \"an' I believe you and I are the first that\never stood on it.\"\n\n\"Well, this is the end of our journey,\" said she; and, turning about,\nshe began to pull at a bush of heath that grew between two rocks.\n\n\"What can she be gaun to do wi' the heather?\" thought Walter to himself,\nwhen instantly a door opened, and showed a cavern that led into the\nhill. It was a door wattled with green heath, with the tops turned\noutward so exactly, that it was impossible for any living to know but\nthat it was a bush of natural heath growing in the interstice. \"Follow\nme, my dear father,\" said she, \"you have still nothing to fear;\" and so\nsaying she entered swiftly in a stooping posture. Walter followed, but\nhis huge size precluded the possibility of his walking otherwise than on\nall fours, and in that mode he fairly essayed to follow his mysterious\nchild; but the path winded--his daughter was quite gone--and the door\nclosed behind him, for it was so constructed as to fall to of itself,\nand as Walter expressed it,--\"There was he left gaun boring into the\nhill like a moudiwort, in utter darkness.\" The consequence of all this\nwas, that Walter's courage fairly gave way, and, by an awkward\nretrograde motion, he made all the haste he was able back to the light.\nHe stood on the shelve of the rock at the door for several minutes in\nconfused consternation, saying to himself, \"What in the wide world is\ncom'd o' the wench? I believe she is gane away down into the pit bodily,\nan' thought to wile me after her; or into the heart o' the hill, to some\nenchantit cave, amang her brownies, an' fairies, an' hobgoblins. L----d\nhave a care o' me, gin ever I saw the like o' this!\" Then losing\nall patience, he opened the door, set in his head, and bellowed\nout,--\"Hollo, lassie!--What's com'd o' ye? Keatie Laidlaw--Holloa!\" He\nsoon heard footsteps approaching, and took shelter behind the door, with\nhis back leaning to the rock, in case of any sudden surprise, but it was\nonly his daughter, who chided him gently for his timidity and want of\nconfidence in her, and asked how he could be frightened to go where a\nsilly girl, his own child, led the way? adding, that if he desired the\nmystery that had so long involved her fate and behaviour to be cleared\nup, he behoved to enter and follow her, or to remain in the dark for\never. Thus admonished, Walter again screwed his courage to the\nsticking-place, and entered in order to explore this mysterious cave,\nfollowing close to his daughter, who led him all the way by the collar\nof the coat as he crept. The entrance was long and irregular, and in one\nplace very narrow, the roof being supported here and there by logs of\nbirch and alder. They came at length into the body of the cave, but it\nwas so dimly lighted from above, the vent being purposely made among\nrough heath, which in part overhung and hid it from view without, that\nWalter was almost in the middle of it ere ever he was aware, and still\ncreeping on his hands and knees. His daughter at last stopped short, on\nwhich he lifted his eyes, and saw indistinctly the boundaries of the\ncave, and a number of figures standing all around ready to receive him.\nThe light, as I said, entered straight from above, and striking on the\ncaps and bonnets which they wore on their heads, these shaded their\nfaces, and they appeared to our amazed goodman so many blackamoors, with\nlong shaggy beards and locks, and their garments as it were falling from\ntheir bodies piece-meal. On the one side, right over against him, stood\na coffin, raised a little on two stones; and on the other side, on a\ncouch of rushes, lay two bodies that seemed already dead, or just in the\nlast stage of existence; and, at the upper end, on a kind of wicker\nchair, sat another pale emaciated figure, with his feet and legs wrapt\nup in flannel, a napkin about his head, and his body wrapped in an old\nduffel cloak that had once belonged to Walter himself. Walter's vitals\nwere almost frozen up by the sight,--he uttered a hollow exclamation,\nsomething like the beginning of a prayer, and attempted again to make\nhis escape, but he mistook the entrance, and groped against the dark\ncorner of the cavern. His daughter pulled him by the arm, intreating him\nto stay, and addressing the inmates of that horrid den, she desired them\nto speak to her father, and explain the circumstances of their case, for\nhe was still bewildered, and the scene was too much for him to bear.\n\n\"That we will do joyfully,\" said one, in a strong intelligent voice.\n\nWalter turned his eyes on the speaker, and who was it but the redoubted\nBrownie of Bodsbeck, so often mentioned before, in all his native\ndeformity; while the thing in the form of a broad bonnet that he wore on\nhis head, kept his features, grey locks and beard, wholly in the shade;\nand, as he approached Walter, he appeared a being without any definitive\nform or feature. The latter was now standing on his feet, with his back\nleaned against the rock that formed the one side of the cave, and\nbreathing so loud, that every whiff sounded in the caverned arches like\nthe rush of the winter wind whistling through the crevices of the\ncasement.\n\nBrownie approached him, followed by others.\n\n\"Be not alarmed, goodman,\" said the creature, in the same solemn and\npowerful voice; \"you see none here but fellow-creatures and\nChristians--none who will not be happy to bestow on you their blessing,\nand welcome you as a father.\"\n\nHe stretched forth his hand to take hold of our goodman's. It was bent\nto his side as by a spasm, and at the same time a volley of breath came\nforth from his capacious chest with such a rush, that it was actually\nlike the snort of a horse that is frightened in the dark. The Brownie,\nhowever, laid hold of it, stiff as it was, and gave it a squeeze and a\nhearty shake. \"You are welcome, sir!\" continued the shapeless mass, \"to\nour dismal habitation. May the God of Heaven particularly bless you in\nyour _family_ and in all your other concerns!\"\n\nThe naming of this name dispelled Walter's wild apprehensions like a\ncharm, for though he was no devotee, yet his mind had a strong bias to\nthe superstitions of the country in which he was bred; therefore this\nbenediction, pronounced in such a tone of ardour and sublimity of\nfeeling, had a powerful effect on his mind. But the circumstance that\nproved the most effective of all, was perhaps the sensible assurance\ngained by the shaking of hands, that Brownie was really and truly a\ncorporeal being. Walter now held out his hand to all the rest as they\ncame forward one by one, and shook hands heartily with them all, while\nevery one of them blessed him in the name of their Maker or Redeemer.\nWalter was still involved in mystery, and all this while he had never\nuttered a word that any man could make meaning of; and after they had\nall shook hands with him, he looked at the coffin; then at the figures\non the couch; then at the pale wretch on the wicker-seat, and then at\nthe coffin again.\n\n\"Let us fully understand one another,\" said Katharine. \"Pray, Brown, be\nso good as detail the circumstances of this party as shortly as you can\nto my father, for, as is natural, he is still perplexed and bewildered.\"\n\n\"You see here before you, sir,\" said the little hunchbacked figure, \"a\nwretched remnant of that long persecuted, and now nearly annihilated\nsect, the covenanted reformers of the west of Scotland. We were expelled\nfrom our homes, and at last hunted from our native mountains like\nwolves, for none of our friends durst shelter any of us on their\ngrounds, on pain of death. Even the rest of the persecuted disowned us,\nand became our adversaries, because our tenets were more stern and\nsevere than theirs; for we acted on the principle of retaliation as far\nas it lay in our power, holding that to be in consistency with the laws\nof God and man; therefore were we expelled from their society, which\nindeed we disdained.\n\n\"We first came to Bodsbeck, where we got shelter for a few weeks. It was\nthere that I was first supposed by the menials, who chanced to see me,\nto be a Brownie, and that superstitious idea the tenant thought meet to\nimprove for our safety; but on the approach of Lag's people he dismissed\nus. We then fled to Leithenhall, from whence in a few days we were again\ncompelled to fly; and at last came to this wild, the only place in the\nsouth that soldiers had never searched, nor could search with any degree\nof success. After much labour we completed this cave, throwing the stuff\ninto the torrent below, so that the most minute investigator could not\ndistinguish the smallest difference in the linn, or face of the\nprecipice; and here we deemed we might live for years without being\ndiscovered; and here we determined to live, till God should see fit, in\nhis own good time, to send some relief to his persecuted church in these\nlands.\n\n\"But alas, the worst evil of all awaited us! We subsisted for a\nconsiderable time by bringing victuals over night from a great distance,\nbut even the means of obtaining these failed us; so that famine, and the\ndampness of the air here, we being compelled to lie inactive in the\nbowels of the earth for days and nights together, brought on us a\nmalignant and pestilential fever. In three days from its first symptoms\nappearing, one half of our number were lying unable to move, or lift an\neye. What could we do? The remnant could not fly, and leave their sick\nand wounded brethren to perish here unseen. We were unable to carry them\naway with us, and if we had, we had no place to which we could have\nconveyed them. We durst not apply to you, for if you had taken pity on\nus, we knew it would cost you your life, and be the means of bereaving\nyour family of all your well-earned wealth. In this great extremity, as\na last resource, I watched an opportunity, and laid our deplorable case\nbefore that dear maid your daughter--Forgive these tears, sir; you see\nevery eye around fills at mention of her name--She has been our guardian\nangel--She has, under Almighty Providence, saved the lives of the whole\nparty before you--has supplied us with food, cordials, and medicines;\nwith beds, and with clothing, all from her own circumscribed resources.\nFor us she has braved every danger, and suffered every privation; the\ndereliction of her parents, and the obloquy of the whole country. That\nyoung man, whom you see sitting on the wicker chair there, is my only\nsurviving son of five--he was past hope when she found him--fast posting\nto the last gaol--her unwearied care and attentions have restored him;\nhe is again in a state of convalescence--O may the Eternal God reward\nher for what she has done to him and us!\n\n\"Only one out of all the distressed and hopeless party has perished, he\nwhose body lies in that coffin. He was a brave, noble, and pious youth,\nand the son of a worthy gentleman. When our dear nurse and physician\nfound your house deserted by all but herself, she took him home to a bed\nin that house, where she attended him for the last seven days of his\nlife with more than filial care. He expired last night at midnight, amid\nour prayers and supplications to heaven in his behalf, while that dear\nsaint supported his head in his dying moments, and shed the tear of\naffliction over his lifeless form. She made the grave-clothes from her\nown scanty stock of linen--tied her best lawn napkin round the head;\nand\"----\n\nHere Walter could contain himself no longer; he burst out a crying, and\nsobbed like a child.\n\n\"An' has my Keatie done a' this?\" cried he, in a loud broken voice--\"Has\nmy woman done a' this, an' yet me to suspect her, an' be harsh till her?\nI might hae kend her better!\" continued he, taking her in his arms, and\nkissing her cheek again and again. \"But she sall hae ten silk gowns, an'\nten satin anes, for the bit linen she has bestowed on sic an occasion,\nan' a' that she has wared on ye I'll make up to her a hunder an' fifty\nfauld.\"\n\n\"O my dear father,\" said she, \"you know not what I have suffered for\nfear of having offended you; for I could not forget that their\nprinciples, both civil and religious, were the opposite of yours--that\nthey were on the adverse side to you and my mother, as well as the\ngovernment of the country.\"\n\n\"Deil care what side they war on, Kate!\" cried Walter, in the same\nvehement voice; \"ye hae taen the side o' human nature; the suffering and\nthe humble side, an' the side o' feeling, my woman, that bodes best in a\nyoung unexperienced thing to tak. It is better than to do like yon bits\no' gillflirts about Edinburgh; poor shilly-shally milk-an'-water things!\nGin ye but saw how they cock up their noses at a whig, an' thraw their\nbits o' gabs; an' downa bide to look at aught, or hear tell o' aught,\nthat isna i' the top fashion. Ye hae done very right, my good\nlassie--od, I wadna gie ye for the hale o' them, an' they war a' hung in\na strap like ingans.\"\n\n\"Then, father, since you approve I am happy. I have no care now save for\nthese two poor fellows on that couch, who are yet far from being out of\ndanger.\"\n\n\"L----d sauf us!\" said Walter, turning about, \"I thought they had been twa\ndead corpse. But now, when my een are used to the light o' the place, I\nsee the chaps _are_ living, an' no that unlife-like, as a body may say.\"\n\nHe went up to them, spoke to them kindly, took their wan bleached sinewy\nhands in his, and said, he feared they were still very ill?\n\n\"Better than we have been,\" was the reply--\"Better than we have been,\ngoodman. Thanks to you and yours.\"\n\n\"Dear father,\" said Katharine, \"I think if they were removed down to\nChapelhope, to dry comfortable lodgings, and had more regular diet, and\nbetter attendance, their health might soon be re-established. Now that\nyou deem the danger over, will you suffer me to have them carried down\nthere?\"\n\n\"Will I no, Kate? My faith, they shall hae the twa best beds i' the\nhouse, if Maron an' me should sleep in the barn! An' ye sal hae naething\nado but to attend them, an' nurse them late an' aire; an' I'll gar Maron\nLinton attend them too, an' she'll rhame o'er bladds o' scripture to\nthem, an' they'll soon get aboon this bit dwam. Od, if outher gude fare\nor drogs will do it, I'll hae them playin' at the pennystane wi' Davie\nTait, an' prayin' wi' him at night, in less than twa weeks.\"\n\n\"Goodman,\" said old Brown, (for this celebrated Brownie was no other\nthan the noted Mr John Brown, the goodman of Caldwell)--\"Goodman, well\nmay you be proud this day, and well may you be uplifted in heart on\naccount of your daughter. The more I see and hear of her, the more am I\nstruck with admiration; and I am persuaded of this, that, let your past\nlife have been as it may, the Almighty will bless and prosper you on\naccount of that maid. The sedateness of her counsels, and the qualities\nof her heart, have utterly astonished me--She has all the strength of\nmind, and energy of the bravest of men, blent with all the softness,\ndelicacy, and tenderness of femininity--Neither danger nor distress can\noverpower her mind for a moment--tenderness does it at once. If ever an\nangel appeared on earth in the form of woman, it is in that of your\ndaughter\"--\n\n\"I wish ye wad haud your tongue,\" said Walter, who stood hanging his\nhead, and sobbing aloud. The large tears were not now dropping from his\neyes--they were trickling in torrents. \"I wish ye wad haud your tongue,\nan' no mak me ower proud o' her. She's weel eneugh, puir woman----It's\na--It's a shame for a great muckle auld fool like me to be booin an'\ngreetin like a bairn this gate!--but deil tak the doer gin I can help\nit!--I watna what's ta'en me the day!--She's weel eneugh, puir lassie.\nI daresay I never learned her ony ill, but I little wat where she has\ngotten a' the gude qualities ye brag sae muckle o', unless it hae been\nfrae Heaven in gude earnest; for I wat weel, she has been brought up but\nin a ramstamphish hamely kind o' way wi' Maron an' me.--But come, come!\nlet us hae done wi' this fuffing an' blawing o' noses, an' making o' wry\nfaces. Row the twa puir sick lads weel up, an' bring them down in the\nbed-claes to my house. An' d'ye hear, callants--gudesake get your beards\nclippit or shaven a wee, an' be something warld like, an' come a' down\nto Chapelhope; I'll kill the best wedder on the Hermon-Law, an' we shall\na' dine heartily thegither for aince; I'll get ower Davie Tait to say\nthe grace, an' we'll be as merry as the times will allow.\"\n\nThey accepted the invitation, with many expressions of gratitude and\nthankfulness, and the rays of hope once more enlightened the dejected\ncountenances that had so long been overshadowed with the gloom of\ndespair.\n\n\"But there's ae thing, callants,\" said Walter, \"that has astonished me,\nan' I canna help speering. Where got ye the coffin sae readily for the\nman that died last night?\"\n\n\"That coffin,\" said Brown, \"was brought here one night by the friends of\none of the men whom Clavers caused to be shot on the other side of the\nridge there, which you saw. The bodies were buried ere they came; it\ngrew day on them, and they left it; so, for the sake of concealment, we\nbrought it into our cave. It has been useful to us; for when the\nwretched tinker fell down among us from that gap, while we were at\nevening worship, we pinioned him in the dark, and carried him in that\nchest to your door, thinking he had belonged to your family. That led to\na bloody business, of which you shall hear anon. And in that coffin,\ntoo, we carried off your ungrateful curate so far on his journey,\ndisgraced for ever, to come no more within twenty miles of Chapelhope,\non pain of a dreadful death in twenty-four hours thereafter; and I\nstand warrandice that he shall keep his distance. In it we have now\ndeposited the body of a beloved and virtuous friend, who always foretold\nthis, from its first arrival in our cell.--But he rejoiced in the\nprospect of his dissolution, and died as he had lived, a faithful and\ntrue witness; and his memory shall long be revered by all the just and\nthe good.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nI hate long explanations, therefore this chapter shall be very short;\nthere are, however, some parts of the foregoing tale, which require that\na few words should be subjoined in elucidation of them.\n\nThis John Brown was a strenuous and desperate reformer. He was the son\nof a gentleman by a second marriage, and half-brother to the Laird of\nCaldwells. He was at the battle of Pentland, with five brave sons at his\nback, two of whom were slain in the action, and he himself wounded. He\nwas again at Bothwell Bridge with the remaining three, where he was a\nprincipal mover of the unhappy commotions in the army that day, owing to\nhis violent irreclaimable principles of retaliation. A little before\nthe rout became general, he was wounded by a musket bullet, which grazed\nacross his back, and deprived him of all power. A dragoon coming up, and\nseeing him alive, struck him again across the back with his sword, which\nsevered the tendons, and cut him to the bone. His sons had seen him\nfall, and, knowing the spot precisely, they returned overnight, and\nfinding him still alive, they conveyed him to a place of safety, and\nafterwards to Glasgow, where he remained concealed in a garret in a\nfriend's house for some months; and, after great sufferings in body and\nmind, recovered of his wounds; but, for want of surgical assistance, he\nwas so crooked and bowed down, that his nearest friends could not know\nhim; for in his youth, though short in stature, he was strong and\nathletic. At length he reached his own home, but found it ransacked and\ndesolate, and learned that his wife was carried to prison, he knew not\nwhether. His powerful eloquence, and wild Cameronian principles, made\nhim much dreaded by the other party; a high reward was offered for\napprehending him, so that he was driven to great straits, yet never\nfailed to wreak his vengeance on all of the persecuting party that fell\nwithin his power, and he had still a number of adherents.\n\nAt length there was one shot in the fields near Kirkconnel that was\ntaken for him, and the promised reward actually paid; on which the\nparticular search after him subsided. His two youngest sons both died\nfor the same cause with the former, but James, his third son, always\nkept by his father, until taken prisoner by Clavers as he was fishing\none day in Coulter Water. Clavers ordered him to be instantly shot, but\nthe Laird of Coulteralloes being present, interceded for him, and he was\ndetained a prisoner, carried about from place to place, and at length\nconfined in the gaol at Selkirk. By the assistance of his father and\nfriends he effected his escape, but not before being grievously wounded;\nand, by reason of the hurts he received, and the fever that attacked\nthem in the cave, when Katharine was first introduced there, he was\nlying past hope; but, by her unwearied care and attention, he, with\nothers, was so far recovered as to be able to sit up, and walk about a\nlittle. He was poor Nanny's own son; and this John was her husband, whom\nshe had long deemed in another and a happier state--No wonder that she\nwas shocked and affrighted when she saw him again in such a form at\nmidnight, and heard him speak in his own natural and peculiar voice.\nTheir meeting that day at Chapelhope must be left to the imagination; it\nis impossible for any pen to do it justice.\n\nIt is only necessary to add, that Walter seems to have been as much\nrespected and beloved by his acquaintances and domestics, at least as\nany neighbour or master of the present day, as will appear from the few\nfollowing remarks. The old session-clerk and precentor at Ettrick said,\n\"It was the luckiest thing that could have happened that he had come\nhome again, for the poor's ladle had been found to be a pund Scots short\nevery Sunday since he and his family had left church.\" And fat Sandy\nCunningham, the conforming clergyman there, a very honest inoffensive\nman, remarked, \"that he was very glad to hear the news, for the goodman\nalways gave the best dinners at the visitations and examinations of any\nfarmer in his parish; and one always felt so comfortable in his house.\"\nDavie Tait said, that \"Divine Providence had just been like a stell dike\nto the goodman. It had bieldit him frae the bitter storm o' the\nadversary's wrath, an' keepit a' the thunner-bolts o' the wicked frae\nbrikking on his head; that, for his part, he wad sit down on his knees\nan' thank Heaven, Sunday and Saturday, for his return, for he could\neasily lend his master as muckle siller as wad stock a' Riskinhope ower\nagain, an' there was little doubt but he wad do it.\" Even old John of\nthe Muchrah remarked, \"that it was just as weel that his master was\ncome back, for he had an unco gude e'e amang the sheep when ought was\ngaun wrang on the hill, an' the ewes wadna win nae mair into the hogg\nfence o' the Quave Brae, i' the day time at ony rate.\"\n\nIf there are any incidents in this Tale that may still appear a little\nmysterious, they will all be rendered obvious by turning to a pamphlet,\nentitled, A CAMERONIAN'S TALE, or _The Life of John Brown, written by\nhimself_. But any reader of common ingenuity may very easily solve them\nall.\n\nEND OF THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOL-GATHERER.\n\nMODERN.\n\n\n\n\nLove is a passion so capricious, so violent, and so productive of\nwhimsical expedients, that there is no end of its varieties. Dramas may\nbe founded, plots arranged, and novels written on the subject, yet the\nsimple truth itself generally outlasts them all. The following story,\nwhich relates to an amiable family still existing, is so like a romance,\nthat perhaps the word of a narrator is insufficient to stamp it with\nthat veracity to which it is entitled. The principal incidents, however,\nare set down precisely as they were related to me; only I have deemed it\nmeet to change the designations of the individuals, so far that they\ncannot be recognised by any one not previously acquainted with the\ncircumstances.\n\nThe late Laird of Earlhall dying in the fiftieth year of his age, as his\ngrave-stone intimates, left behind him a widow, and two sons both in\ntheir minority. The eldest was of a dashing impatient character--he had\na kind and affectionate heart, but his actions were not always tempered\nwith prudence. He entered at an early age into the army, and fell in the\nPeninsular War when scarcely twenty-two years of age. The estate thus\ndevolved wholly on the youngest, whose name for the present shall be\nLindsey, that being his second Christian name, and the one by which his\nmother generally called him. He had been intended for the law, but on\nhis brother's death gave up the study as too laborious for his easy and\ncareless disposition. He was attached to literature; and after his\nreturn home his principal employment consisted in poring over his books,\nand managing a little flower-garden in which he took great delight. He\nwas studious, absent, and sensible, but paid little attention to his\nestate, or the extensive farm which he himself occupied.\n\nThe old lady, who was a stirring, talkative, industrious dame,\nentertained him constantly with long lectures on the ill effects of\nidleness. She called it the _blight_ of youth, the _grub_ of virtue, and\nthe _mildew_ of happiness; and sometimes, when roused into energy, she\nsaid it was _the devil's langsettle_ on which he plotted all his devices\nagainst human weal. Lindsey bore all with great patience, but still\ncontinued his easy and indolent way.\n\nThe summer advanced--the weather became peculiarly fine--labourers were\nbusy in every field, and the shepherd's voice, and the bleating of his\nflocks, sounded from the adjacent mountains by break of day. This lively\nand rousing scene gave a new edge to the old lady's remonstrances; they\ncame upon poor Lindsey thicker and faster, like the continued dropping\nof a rainy day, until he was obliged in some degree to yield. He tried\nto reason the matter with her, in somewhat near to the following words;\nbut there, lawyer as he was, he had no chance. He was fairly overcome.\n\n\"My dear mother,\" said he, \"what does all this signify?--Or what is it\nthat I can effect by my superintendance? Our farmers are all doing well,\nand pay their rents regularly; and as for our farm-servants, they have\neach of them filled the same situation so long and so creditably, that I\nfeel quite awkward when standing looking over them,--it looks as if I\nsuspected their integrity, which has been so often proved. Besides, it\nis a leading maxim with me, that if a man, and more particularly a\nwoman, know or believe that trust is reposed in them, they will, in ten\nout of eleven instances, deserve it; but if once they see that they are\nsuspected, the feeling towards you is changed, and they will in a little\ntime as likely deserve the one as the other. Our wealth is annually\nincreasing, at least as fast as necessary, and it is my principal wish,\nthat every one under us may be as easy and comfortable as possible.\"\n\nThis was true, for the old lady being parsimonious in the extreme, their\nriches had increased rapidly since the death of the late laird. As for\nLindsey, he never spent any thing, save some trifle that he laid out\nyearly in payment of Reviews, and new books, and in relieving some poor\nfamilies in the neighbourhood. The article of dress he left entirely to\nhis mother: Whatever she bought or made for him he approved of, and\nwhatever clothes or linen she laid down in his chamber, he put on\nwithout any observations. He acted upon the same principle with regard\nto his meals, but he sometimes was obliged to insist on a little\naddition being made to the comforts of the family servants, all of whom\nloved him as a friend and benefactor. He could at any time have swayed\nhis mother so far as to make her a little more liberal towards the\nmen-servants, but with regard to the maids he had no such power. She and\nthey lived at constant variance,--an irreconcileable jealousy seemed\nalways to subsist between them, and woe to them if the young laird\ninterested himself in their favour! Matters being in this state, he was\nobliged to witness this mutual animosity; this tyranny on the one hand,\nand discontent on the other, without having the power to amend it.\n\n\"But then, my dear Lindsey,\" returned she to his former remonstrance,\n\"making allowance for a' that you say--allowing that your weel-spoken\narguments are a' foundit in truth, for laith wad you be to say an\nuntruth, an' I never heard an argument that wasna sound come out o' your\nmouth,--but then I say, what's to hinder you to gang a fishing like\nother gentlemen, or shooting moor-cocks, an' paetricks, an' black-cocks,\nas a' ither countrymen o' your age an' station do? Some manly exercise\nin the field is absolutely necessary to keep your form robust, your\ncolour fresh, and your mind active; an', indeed, you maunna be\ndiscontentit, nor displeased, if I insist on it, while the weather is so\nfine.\"\n\n\"With regard to fowling, my dear mother, I am perfectly ignorant; I know\nnothing about the sport, and I never can delight in it, for often has it\ngiven me pain to see others pursuing it. I think the pleasure arising\nfrom it can scarcely originate in any thing else than a principle of\ncruelty. Fishing is little better. I never regret the killing of an ox,\nor sheep, by which we have so much necessary food for our life, but I\nthink it hard to take a precious life for a single mouthful.\"\n\n\"His presence be about us! Lindsey! what's that ye say? Wha heard ever\ntell of a trout's precious life? Or a salmon's precious life? Or a ged's\nprecious life? Wow, man, but sma' things are precious i' your een! Or\nwha can feel for a trout? A cauldrife creature that has nae feeling\nitsel; a greedy grampus of a thing, that worries its ain kind, an' eats\nthem whenever it can get a chance. Na, na, Lindsey, let me hear nae mair\no' sickan lang-nebbit fine-spun arguments; but do take your father's\nrod, like a man, and a gentleman, and gang a fishing, if it were but an\nhour in the day; there are as many hooks and lines in the house as will\nserve you for seven years to come; an' it is weel kend how plenty the\ntrouts are in your ain water. I hae seen the day when we never wanted\nplenty o' them at this time o' the year.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Lindsey, taking up a book, \"I shall go to please you,\nbut I would rather be at home.\"\n\nShe rung the bell, and ordered in old John the barnman, one well skilled\nin the art of angling. \"John,\" said she, \"put your master's fishing-rod\nand tackle in order, he is going a fishing at noon.\"\n\nJohn shrugged up his shoulders when he heard of his master's intent, as\nmuch as to say, \"sic a fisher as he'll mak!\" however, he went away in\nsilence, and the order was quickly obeyed.\n\nThus equipt, away trudged Lindsay to the fishing for the first time in\nhis life; slowly and indifferently he went, and began at the first pool\nhe came to. John offered to accompany him, to which he assented, but\nthis the old lady resisted, and bid him go to his work; he, however,\nwatched his master's motions slyly for some time, and on joining his\nfellow labourers remarked, that \"his master was a real saft hand at the\nfishing.\"\n\nAn experienced angler certainly would have been highly amused at his\nprocedure. He pulled out the line, and threw it in again so fast, that\nhe appeared more like one threshing corn than angling; he, moreover,\nfixed always upon the smoothest parts of the stream, where no trout in\nhis right senses could possibly be inveigled. But the far greater part\nof his employment consisted in loosening the hook from different objects\nwith which it chanced to come in contact. At one time he was to be seen\nstooping to the arm-pits in the middle of the water, disengaging it from\nsome officious twig that had intercepted its progress; at another time\non the top of a tree tearing off a branch on which it had laid hold. A\ncountryman happening to pass by just as he stood stripped to the shirt\ncutting it out of his clothes, in which it had fastened behind,\nobserved, by way of friendly remark, that \"they were fashous things them\nhooks.\" Lindsey answered, that \"they certainly had a singular knack of\ncatching hold of things.\"\n\nHe went through all this without being in the least disconcerted, or\nshowing any impatience; and towards dinner-time, the trouts being\nabundant, and John having put on a fly that answered the weather, he\ncaught some excellent fish, and might have caught many more had he been\ndiligent; but every trout that he brought ashore took him a long time to\ncontemplate. He surveyed his eye, his mouth, and the structure of his\ngills with tedious curiosity; then again laid him down, and fixed his\neyes on him in deep and serious meditation.\n\nThe next day he needed somewhat less persuasion from his mother to try\nthe same amusement; still it was solely to please her that he went, for\nabout the sport itself he was quite careless. Away he set the second\nday, and prudently determined to go farther up the water, as he supposed\nthat part to be completely emptied of fish where he had been the day\nbefore. He sauntered on in his usual thoughtful and indifferent mood,\nsometimes throwing in his line without any manner of success. At length,\non going over an abrupt ridge, he came to a clear pool where the farmers\nhad lately been washing their flocks, and by the side of it a most\ninteresting female, apparently not exceeding seventeen years of age,\ngathering the small flakes of wool in her apron that had fallen from the\nsheep in washing; while, at the same time, a beautiful well-dressed\nchild, about two years old, was playing on the grass. Lindsey was close\nbeside her before any of them were aware, and it is hard to say which of\nthe two were most surprised. She blushed like scarlet, but pretended to\ngather on, as if wishing he would pass without taking any notice of\nthem; but Lindsey was rivetted to the spot; he had never in his life\nseen any woman half so beautiful, and at the same time her array\naccorded with the business in which she was engaged. Her form was the\nfinest symmetry; her dark hair was tucked up behind with a comb, and\nhung waving in ringlets over her cheeks and brow, \"like shadows on the\nmountain snow;\" and there was an elegance in the model of her features,\narms, and hands, that the youth believed he had never before seen\nequalled in any lady, far less a country girl.\n\n\"What are you going to do with that wretched stuff, lassie?\" said\nLindsey; \"it has been trampled among the clay and sand, and is unfit for\nany human use.\"\n\n\"It will easily clean again, sir,\" said she, in a frank and cheerful\nvoice, \"and then it will be as good as ever.\"\n\n\"It looks very ill; I am positive it is for no manner of use.\"\n\n\"It is certainly, as you say, not of great value, sir; but if it is of\nany, I may as well lift it as let it lie and rot here.\"\n\n\"Certainly, there can be no harm in it; only I am sorry to see such a\ngirl at such an employment.\"\n\n\"It is better doing this than nothing,\" was the reply.\n\nThe child now rolled himself over to get his face turned towards them;\nand, fixing his large blue eyes on Lindsey, looked at him with the\nutmost seriousness. The latter observing a striking likeness between the\ngirl and the child, had no doubt that she was his sister; and, unwilling\nto drop the conversation, he added, abruptly enough, \"Has your mother\nsent you to gather that stuff?\"\n\n\"I have neither father nor mother, sir.\"\n\n\"But one who supplies both their places, I hope. You have a husband,\nhave not you?\"\n\n\"Not as yet, sir; but there is no time lost.\"\n\nShe blushed; but Lindsey coloured ten times deeper when he cast his eyes\nupon the child. His heart died within him at the thoughts that now\nobtruded themselves; it was likewise wrung for his imprudence and\nindelicacy. What was his business whether she was married or not, or how\nshe was connected with the child? She seemed likewise to be put into\nsome confusion at the turn the conversation was taking; and, anxious to\nbring it to a conclusion as soon as possible, she tucked up the wool in\nher apron below one arm, and was lifting up the child with the other to\ngo away, when Lindsey stepped forward, saying, \"Will not you shake hands\nwith me, my good little fellow, before you go?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the child, stretching out his little chubby hand; \"how d'ye\ndoo, sil?\"\n\nLindsay smiled, shook his hand heartily, and put a crown piece into it.\n\n\"Ah, sir, don't give him that,\" said she, blushing deeply.\n\n\"It is only a play-thing that he must keep for my sake.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sil,\" said the child. \"Great muckle shilling, mamma.\"\n\nThis last appellation, _mamma_, struck Lindsey motionless;--he had not\nanother word to say;--while the two went away prattling to one another.\n\n\"Vely lalge fine-looking shilling, mamma.\"\n\n\"Ay, it is a very bonny shilling, dear,\" said she, kissing him, and\ncasting a parting look at the petrified fisher.\n\n\"Mamma, mamma!\" repeated Lindsey to himself an hundred times, trying it\nwith every modulation of his voice. \"This is the most extraordinary\ncircumstance I ever witnessed. Now, who in the world can comprehend that\nthing called woman?--Who would not have sworn that that rural beauty\nthere was the most pure, innocent, and untainted of her sex?--And yet,\nbehold! she has a fine boy running at her side, and calling her\n_mamma_!--Poor girl, is she not to be pitied?--When one thinks how some\ntender parent might rejoice over her, anticipating so much better things\nof her! It is plain she has been very indifferently used by the\nworld--most cruelly used--and is she the less interesting on that\naccount? I wish I knew how to make her some amends.\"\n\nThus reasoned our moral fisher with himself, keeping all the while a\nsidelong glance towards her, till he saw her enter a little neat\nwhite-washed cottage not far from the side of the stream; there were\nsundry other houses inhabited by cottagers in the hamlet, and the\nfarm-house stood at the head of the cluster. The ground belonged to\nLindsey, and the farmer was a quiet sober man, a widower, with a large\nfamily. Lindsey now went up the water a-fishing every day; and though he\noften hovered a considerable while at the washing-pool, and about the\ncrook opposite to the cot, pretending all the while to be extremely busy\nfishing, he could never get another sight of the lovely Wool-gatherer,\nthough he desired it above all present earthly things; for, some way\nor other, he felt that he _pitied_ her exceedingly; and though he\nwas not greatly _interested_ in her, yet he was very much so in the\n_child_--he was _certain it was the child_ that interested him so\nmuch--nevertheless, he was sorry too on account of the mother, for she\nseemed _very gentle_, and _very amiable_, and must have been abominably\nused; and therefore he could not help feeling _very sorry for her\nindeed_, as well as deeply _interested in the child_. On the second and\nthird day that he went up, little George came out paddling to meet him\nat the water side, on which he always sent him in again with a fish in\none hand, and some little present in the other; but after that, he\nappeared no more, which Lindsey easily perceived to originate in the\nWool-gatherer's diffidence and modesty, who could not bear the idea of\nher little man receiving such gifts.\n\nThe same course was continued for many days, and always with the same\nsuccess, as far as regarded the principal motive, for the trouts were\nonly a secondary one--the beauteous Wool-gatherer was thenceforward\ninvisible. After three weeks perseverance, it chanced to come on a heavy\nrain one day when he was but a little way above the farm-house. Robin\nthe farmer, expecting that he would fly into his house until the shower\nabated, was standing without his own door to receive him; but he kept\naloof, passed by, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cottage;\nthough not without some scruples of conscience as to the prudence of the\nstep he was taking. When he went in she was singing a melodious Scotch\nair, and plying at her wheel. \"What a thoughtless creature she must be,\"\nsaid he to himself; \"and how little conscious of the state to which she\nhas fallen.\" He desired her to go on with her song, but she quitted both\nthat and her wheel instantly, set a chair for him, and sitting down on a\nlow form herself, lighted sticks on the fire to warm and dry him, at the\nsame time speaking and looking with the utmost cheerfulness, and\nbehaving with all that ease and respect as if she had been his equal,\nand an old intimate acquaintance. He had a heart of the greatest\nintegrity, and this was the very manner that delighted him; and indeed\nhe felt that he was delighted in the highest degree by this fair\nmystery. He would gladly have learned her story, but durst not hint at\nsuch a thing for fear of giving her pain, and he had too much delicacy\nto enquire after her at any other person, or even to mention her name.\nHe observed that though there was but little furniture in the house, yet\nit was not in the least degree like any other he had ever seen in such a\ncottage, and seemed very lately to have occupied a more respectable\nsituation. Little George was mounching at a lump of dry bread, making\nvery slow progress. He kept his eyes fixed on his benefactor, but said\nnothing for a considerable time, till at length he observed him sitting\nsilent as in pleasing contemplation; he then came forward with a bounce\nupon his knee, and smiled up in his face, as much as to say, \"You are\nnot minding little George?\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear little fellow, are you there? Will you have a muckle\nshilling of me to-day?\"\n\n\"Na, na; be vely solly. Mamma quite angly. She scold me.\"\n\n\"Well, but since you have never come to help me to catch the fish for so\nlong a time, I will only give you a very little one to-day.\"\n\n\"Dear sir, if you would not distress me, don't mind him; he is a little\nimpudent fellow.--Go off from the gentleman, George.\"\n\nGeorge clapped both his hands upon his head, and went back without\nhesitation, gloomed at his mamma, and took again up his luncheon of dry\nbread.\n\n\"Nay, pardon me,\" continued Lindsey; \"but you must always suffer me to\ngive my little new acquaintance something.\" So saying, he put a guinea\ninto the child's hand.\n\n\"Hank you, sil,\" said George,--\"O no be angy, mamma--only ittle wee\nhalf-penny--ook ye, mamma.\"\n\n\"Oh sir,\" said she, \"you distress me by these presents. I have no need\nof money, and what can he do with it but throw it away?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; pray don't notice it; that is nothing between two friends\nlike George and me.\"\n\nLindsey dried himself; talked of indifferent matters, and then took the\nchild on his knee and talked to him. The conversation had as yet been as\nfree and unrestrained as possible, but Lindsey, by a blunder quite\nnatural to a studious and absent man, cut it short at once. \"Tell me\nyour name, good lad?\" said he to the child. \"Let me hear you say your\nname?\"\n\n\"Geoge,\" was the reply.\n\n\"But what more than George? Tell me what they call you more than\nGeorge?\"\n\n\"Just Geoge, sil. Mamma's Geoge.\"\n\n\"Pray, what is my young friend's surname?\" said Lindsey, with the\ngreatest simplicity.\n\nThe Wool-gatherer stooped to the floor as if lifting something, in order\nthat she might keep her face out of the light; two or three times an\nanswer seemed trembling on her tongue, but none came. There was a dead\nsilence in the cot, which none had the courage to break. How our\nunfortunate fisher's heart smote him! He meant only to confer happiness,\nin place of which he had given unnecessary pain and confusion. The\nshower was past; he arose abruptly, said, \"Goodb'ye, I will call and see\nmy little George to-morrow,\" and home he went, more perplexed than ever,\nand not overmuch pleased with himself. But the thing that astonished\nhim most of all was, the chearful serenity of her countenance and\nmanners under such grievous misfortunes. He did not know whether to\nblame or approve of her for this; however, he continued to go up the\nwater for the most part every day, and seldom failed to call at the cot.\nHe meant no ill--he was certain he meant no harm to any one--it was only\nto _see the child_ that he went, and why should any man be ashamed to go\nand see a child? Very well reasoned, gentle fisher! but beware that this\nis not the reverse of what you feel within. At all events, it is the\nworld that must judge of your actions and mine, not we ourselves.\nScandal is a busy vixen, and none can make fame fly so fast on an errand\nas she.\n\nRobin, the farmer, was hurt in the tenderest part that day when his\nlaird went by his door, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cot;\nand, on going in, he mentioned it in such a way, that his old maiden\nsister, Meg, took note of it, and circulated it among the men-servants,\nwith strong injunctions of secrecy. The continuation of his visits\nconfirmed their worst suspicions: It was now no longer a matter of doubt\nwith them what was going on, but an obvious certainty. The shameful and\nsudden attachment was blabbed from tongue to tongue, until every ear in\nthe parish had drunk the delicious draught, save those of the parties\nimplicated, and the old lady, the original cause of all. When he was\nseen go into the cot, an event that was strictly watched, the lasses\nwould smile to each other,--the plowmen broke jests upon it,--and Meg\nwould hold up both her hands and say,--\"Hech wow, sirs! I wonder what\nour young gentles will turn to by an' by. It winna be lang till marriage\nbe out o' the fashion a' thegither, an' the fock that pretend to be\nChristians a' living through other like the wild Tartarers.\"\n\nLittle wist the old lady of what was going on! She dreamed not once of a\nbeautiful stranger among the cottagers at Todburn (the name of Robin's\nfarm), that was working such deray, else woe would have been to her and\nall concerned; for there was nothing short of the sin not to be\nforgiven, that she dreaded so much as her son forming any attachment or\nconnection with the country maidens. She had been congratulating herself\nmightily on the success of her expedient, in making him take such\ndelight in a manly and healthful exercise, and one which led him\ninsensibly to be acquainted with his people, and every part of his\nestate. She had even been boasting aloud of it to every one with whom\nshe conversed; indeed her conversation with others was mostly about her\nson, for he being her only surviving child, she loved him with her whole\nheart, and her cares were all for him.\n\nIt happened one day that a little pert girl had come down from one of\nthe cottages at Todburn to buy some milk, which the lady supplied to\nthem from her dairy, and while skimming and measuring it, she fell into\nconversation with this little sly and provoking imp.\n\n\"Did you see my son fishing in the water as you came down?\"\n\n\"Na, na, mim; he was safe landit or I came away. He was fishing wi'\nHoy's net.\"\n\n\"Safe landit? Fishing wi' Hoy's net?--How do you mean?\"\n\n\"He was gane in to tak a rest, mim,--that's a'.\"\n\n\"Oh, that was a'--was it? I'm glad to hear o' that. I never knew he had\ncalled upon his tenants, or looked after them at all!\"\n\n\"I trow he disna look muckle after them, mim. He's keener o' lookin'\nafter something else.\"\n\n\"Oh ay, the trouts! To be sure they hae almaist gane between him an' his\nwits for some time; but he'll aye be seeing something o' his land, an'\nsomething o' his fock. It was I that perswaded him to it. There are some\nlucky hits in life.\"\n\n\"Ay, an' some lucky misses too, mim, that some think he likes as weel.\"\n\n\"He's sae tender-hearted, I believe he may be as happy oft to miss the\nfish as to hit them; but that will soon wear away, as I tell him. He's\ntender-hearted to a fault.\"\n\n\"An' there's mae tender-heartit nor him. There's some other kind o'\nmisses forbye trouts up the water.\"\n\n\"What is it you say?\"\n\n\"I'll say nae mair about it--ane may very easily speak muckle nonsense.\"\n\n\"Didna ye say that my son was gane into Robin's house afore ye came\naway?\"\n\n\"I never said sic a word, begging your pardon, mim. He wadna gang into\nRobin's, though it war raining auld wives and Jeddart staves.\"\n\n\"What house was he gone into then?\"\n\n\"Into Jeany's, mim.\"\n\n\"Jeany's! What Jeany?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken what they ca' her mair than Jeany. Little George's mother,\nye ken, that lives at the head o' the Washing-green.\"\n\n\"Jeany!--Little George's mother!--That lives at the head o' the\nWashing-green!--Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?\"\n\n\"Na, na, mim--nae husband.\"\n\nThe lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever--hasted out to\nthe air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without\nbeing able to accomplish any thing, for her hands trembled like the\naspin leaf; and, finally, after ordering the girl to send Robin down to\nher immediately, she took to her bed, and lay brooding over the great\ncalamity of her son's shameful attachment. These low-bred women were her\nbane; especially if they were beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if\nshe could, would have cleared the country of them. This, therefore, was\na great trial; and before Robin arrived, she had made out to herself a\npicture of as many disagreeable objects as ever a distempered\nimagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected wife, the head of\na lovely family, a disgraceful connection, and an illegitimate\noffspring! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train! She could think of\nnothing else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the\nconsequences appear. Before her messenger _reached_ Robin, she had\nregularly determined on the young woman's dismissal from the estate,\nand, if possible, from the district.\n\nWe shall pass over a long conversation that took place between the old\ndame and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand,\nand servility on the other; but the final resolution was, that Jane\nshould be ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next\nmorning; and if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with\nany moderate sum of money, rather than that she should be suffered to\nremain longer; for the lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead\nastray all the young men in the country side, and would likely, at the\nlong run, cost the parish more than if it were to maintain a company of\nsoldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that their proceedings should be\nkept a profound secret from Lindsey.\n\nRobin went home; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for\nher immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she\ncould not be longer there; and that he would be answerable for her\nfurniture until she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it; that she\nneeded not to ask any questions as to his motives, for that he was\nobliged to do as he did, and the thing was decided that she was not to\nremain longer there.\n\nShe answered not a word; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a\nhalf-smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking\nthat below her arm and little George on her back, she went away, having\nfirst locked the door and given the key to the farmer. \"Farewell,\nRobin,\" said she; \"you are turning two very helpless and friendless\ncreatures out to the open fields; but think you, you may not rue this on\na day when you cannot help it?\"\n\nRobin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and\ntherefore made no defence, but said simply, \"Farewell! Farewell!--God\nhelp thee, poor thing!\"--He then kept an eye on her, that she might not\ncommunicate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of\nthe Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that\ndirection.\n\nAs soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a\nretired spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down\nand gave free vent to her tears. \"My poor child,\" said she, clasping\nlittle George to her breast, \"what is now to become of us, and where\nwill our sorrows terminate? Here we are turned out on the wide world,\nand have neither house nor home to cover our heads; we have no bed now,\nGeorge, but the cold earth, and no covering but that sky that you see\nover us.\"\n\n\"O no geet, mamma--no geet; Geoge vely wae,\" said the child, clasping\nher neck in return, and sobbing aloud; \"no geet, else Geoge tuln bad\nchild, and geet too.\"\n\n\"No, for your sake, my dear, I will not greet; therefore cheer up thy\nlittle kind heart, for there is One who will provide for us still, and\nwill not suffer two helpless inexperienced beings like you and I to\nperish.\"\n\n\"Geoge like 'at man.\"\n\n\"It is no man that we must now depend on, my dear; we must depend on\nGod, who will never forsake us.\"\n\n\"Geoge like God.\"\n\nHere she kissed him and wept anew, yet was all the while trying to\nconsole him. \"Let us be of good cheer, George; while I have health I\nwill work for you, for you have no one else on earth that cares for\nyou.\"\n\n\"But no geet, mamma, I tell you; Geoge wulk too. When Geoge tuln geat\nbig man, Geoge wulk mole 'an two mans.\"\n\nHere their tender prattle was interrupted by a youth named Barnaby, who\nwas close at their side before they observed him. He was one of Robin's\nservants, who herded a few young sheep at the back of the hill where\nJane was sitting. He was fifteen years of age, tall and thin, but had\nfine features, somewhat pitted with the small-pox. He had an\ninexhaustible fund of good-humour and drollery, and playing the fool\namong the rest of the servants to keep them laughing was his chiefest\ndelight; but his folly was all affected, and the better part of his\ncharacter lay concealed behind the screen of a fantastic exterior. He\nnever mended his clothes like the rest of the servant lads, but suffered\nthem to fall into as many holes as they inclined; when any expostulated\nwith him on the subject, he said, \"he likit them nae the waur o' twa or\nthree holes to let in the air;\" and, in truth, he was as ragged a youth\nas one would see in a summer day. His hat was remarkably broad-brimmed\nand supple, and hung so far over his eyes, that, when he looked any\nperson in the face, he had to take the same position as if looking at a\nvertical star. This induced him often, when he wanted to see fairly\nabout him, to fold in the fore part of the brim within the crown, which\ngave it the appearance of half a hat, and in this way was he equipped\nwhen he joined Jane and little George. They had been intimately\nacquainted from the first; he had done many little kind offices for her,\nand had the sagacity to discover that there was something about her\ngreatly superior to the other girls about the hamlet; and he had never\nused the same freedom with her in his frolics that he was wont to do\nwith them.\n\n\"What ails you, Jeany?\" said he; \"I thought I heard you greeting.\"\n\n\"No, no, Barnaby; I do not ail any thing; I was not crying.\"\n\n\"Why, woman, you're _crying_ yet, as you call it; tell me what ails you,\nand whar ye're gaun this wild gate?\"\n\n\"I'm going to leave you, Barnaby. I am going far from this.\"\n\n\"I fear ye're gaun awa frae us a'thegether. Hae ye been obliged to leave\nyour ain wee house for want o' meat?\"\n\n\"I had plenty of meat; but your master has turned me out of my cot at an\nhour's warning; he would not even suffer me to remain overnight, and I\nknow of no place to which I can go.\"\n\n\"O, deil be i' the auld hard-heartit loon! Heard ever ony body the like\no' that?--What ailed him at ye? Hae ye done ony thing, Jeany, or said\nony thing wrang?\"\n\n\"It is that which distresses me. I have not been given to know my\noffence, and I can form no conjecture of it.\"\n\n\"If I had a hame, Jeany, ye should hae a share o't. I dinna ken o' ane I\nwad make mair welcome, even though I should seek a bed for mysel. War ye\nat my father's cottage, I could insure you a month's good hamely\nlodging, but it is far away, an' a wild road till't. I hae indeed an\nauld aunt about twa miles frae this, but she's no muckle to lippen to,\nunless it come frae her ain side o' the house; an' then she's a' hinny\nand joe. If ye like I'll gang that length wi' ye, an' try if she'll put\nye up a while till we see how matters turn.\"\n\nJane was now so much confused in her mind, that, not being able to form\nany better measure for the present, she arose and followed her ragged\nconductor, and they arrived at his aunt's house before sun-set.\n\n\"My dear aunt,\" said Barnaby, \"here is a very good an' a very helpless\nlassie turned away frae her hame this same day, and has nae place to\ngang to; if ye'll be sae good, an' sae kind, as to let her stay a while\nwi' you, I will do ten times as muckle for you again some ither day.\"\n\n\"My faith, stirra!\" said she, setting up a face like a fire-brand, and\nputting her arms a-kimbo--\"My faith, man, but ye're soon begun to a braw\ntrade!--How can ye hae the assurance, ye brazen-faced rascal, to come\nrinning to me wi' a hizzy an' bairn at your tail, an' desire me to keep\nthem for ye? I'll sooner see you an' her, an' that little limb, a' hung\nup by the links o' the neck, than ony o' ye sal crook a hough or break\nbread wi' me.\"\n\n\"There's for't now! There's for't! When the deil gets in, the fire maun\nflee out!--But aunt, I ken the first word's aye the warst wi' ye; ye're\nnever sae ill as ye say. Think like a Christian. How wad ye hae likit,\nwhen ye war as young, to hae been turned out to the open hills wi' a\nbairn in your arms?\"\n\n\"Hear to the tatterdemallion!--Christian! Bairn i' _my_ arms!--Ye\nimpudent, hempy-looking tike that ye are! Pack out o' my house, I say,\nor I'll gar the bluid blind your een--ay, an' your bit toastit pie too,\nwi' its piece barrell'd beef! Gang after your braw gallaunt, wi' your\noxterfu' ket!--A bonny pair, troth!--A light head makes a heavy fitt!\"\n\nBarnaby retired with his back foremost, facing up his aunt all the way\ntill fairly in the open fields, for fear of actual violence; but the\nepithets he bestowed on her there in the bitterness of his heart cannot\nhere be set down. Jane trembled, yet was obliged to smile at his\nextravagance, for it had no bounds; while his aunt stood in her door,\nexulting and calling after him every thing that she could construe to\nmortify and provoke him. Tears for a space choked his utterance; at\nlength he forced out the following sentence in vollies.\n\n\"Wae--wae be to the--the auld randy--witch!--Had I but the--owrance o'\nthe land for ae day--I--I should gar some look about them. My master\nan' she hae this wark to answer for yet; they'll get their dichens for't\nsome day--that's ae comfort! Come away, Jeany--they'll squeel for\nthis--let them tak it!--Come away, Jeany.\"\n\n\"Where would you have me to go now, Barnaby?\"\n\n\"Out-by aff that auld witch at ony rate! I'll hae ye put up though I\nshould travel a hunder mile.\"\n\n\"Let me beseech you to return to your flock, and trouble yourself no\nfarther about my infant and I. Heaven will take care of us.\"\n\n\"It disna look very like it just now. I dinna argy that it is wrang to\ntrust in Heaven--only, gin we dinna use the means, Heaven's no obliged\nto work miracles for us. It is hard upon the gloamin', an' there is not\nanother house near us; if we sit down and trust, ye'll hae to sleep in\nthe fields, an' then baith you an' that dear bairn may get what ye will\nnever cast. Let us make a wee exertion the night, and I hae resolved\nwhat ye shall do to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And what shall I do to-morrow, Barnaby?\"\n\n\"Go with me to my parents; they hae nae doughter o' their ain, an' my\nmither will be muckle the better o' your help, an' they will baith be\nvery glad to see you, Jeany. Gudeness be thankit! the warld's no just a'\nalike. I' the meantime my pickle gimmers dinna need muckle at my hand\njust now, sae I'll gae an' ax my master for a day to see my fock, and\ngang fit for fit wi' ye the morn.\"\n\nShe fixed her humid eyes on him in pleasing astonishment; she had never\nbefore witnessed such earnest and disinterested benevolence; the\nproposal was made in such a way that she could not refuse it, else she\nsaw that she would give a kind and feeling heart pain. \"I have a great\nmind to make trial of your expedient, good Barnaby,\" said she; \"all\nparts of the country are now alike to me; I must go somewhere; and as\nit is but a hard day's journey, I will go and see the parents of so good\na lad.\"\n\n\"Now that's spoken like yoursel, an' I'm glad to hear ye say't--But\nwhat's to come o' ye the night?\"\n\n\"I have some victuals with me, and I can lie in the fields this pleasant\nnight; it is a good one to begin with, for who knows what's before one?\"\n\n\"I canna think o' that ava. If ye war to lay that bonny red cheek on the\ncauld dew, an' the wind blawin' i' little George's face, there wad some\nsleep nane the night; but there is a little snug sheep-house in our\nHope, a wee bit frae this; let us gang there, an' I will take little\nGeorge in my bosom, an' hap _you_ wi' my plaid.--O, but I forgot--that\nwill never do,\" continued he, in a melancholy tone, and looking at his\nragged doublet and riven clothes. Away, however, to the sheep-cot they\nwent, where they found plenty of old hay, and Jane instantly proposed\nthat he should go home and leave them alone, get leave of his master,\nand join them next morning.\n\n\"But I dinna ken about it,\" said Barnaby, hanging his head and looking\nserious; \"that linn's an unco uncanny place for bogles; an' by this time\no' night they'll be keeking ower the black haggs o' the Cairny Moss to\nsee what's gaun on. If ony o' them war to come on ye here, they might\nterrify you out o' your wits, or carry ye baith aff, lith and limb--Is\nthe callant baptized?\"\n\nJane answered in the affirmative, smiling; and farther assured him, that\nhe needed to be under no apprehensions on account of spirits, for she\nwas perfectly at ease on that score, having a good assurance that no\nspirit had power over her.\n\n\"Ay, ye are maybe a gospel minister's bairn, or an auld Cameronian; that\nis, I mean come o' the saints and martyrs--they had unco power--I hae\nheard o' some o' them that fought the deil, hand to fist, for an hour\nand forty minutes, and dang him at the last--yethered him and yerked him\ntill he couldna mou' another curse. But these times are gane! yet it's\nno sae lang sin' auld Macmillan (ye hae heard o' auld Macmillan?) was\ncoming through that linn i' the derk wi' twa o' his elders an' they spak\no' the bogle, but Macmillan jeered at it; an' when they came to the tap\no' yon steep brae they stoppit to take their breath; and there they\nheard a loud nichering voice come out o' the howe o' the linn, an' it\ncried,\n\n    \"Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,\n    Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again.\"\n\n\"Say ye sae, fause loun,\" quo' the auld hardy veteran; \"than be at your\nspeed, for I'll gang through that wood my lane in spite o' your teeth,\nan' a' hell at your back.\" An' what does the carl do, but leaves his twa\nelders yonder, standin glowrin i' the howe night, an' trodges his way\nback through the linn to the very farrest side o't--said the\nhunder-an'-ninth psalm against him, an' came back wi' never a turned\nhair on his head. But yet for a' that, Jeany, dinna lippen ower muckle\nto bygane things; there have been fairy raids i' the Hope, an' mony ane\nill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here!\"\n\nJane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it\nto-morrow as they journeyed. He was passive--left them his plaid--went\nhome and got leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted\nnothing of what had passed in the Hope. He was again back at the\nsheep-house by the time the sun arose; and, early as it was, he found\nJane walking without, while little George was sleeping soundly on the\nhay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she had got a sound and short sleep,\nbut awakening at dawn she had stepped out to taste the fresh mountain\nair, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the child he was somewhat\nfretful--a thing not customary with him; but he was soon pacified, and\nthey proceeded without delay on their journey.\n\nUntil once they had cleared the boundaries of the farm of Todburn,\nBarnaby was silent, and looked always around with a jealous eye, as if\ndreading a surprise. When his fellow-traveller asked the reasons of his\nanxiety, he remained silent; but as soon as they got fairly into the\nnext glen he became as gay and talkative as ever. She deemed it to be\nsome superstitious dread that discomposed him, but was left to guess the\ncause.\n\n\"Jeany,\" said he, \"you said you had a short and sound sleep last\nnight--so had I. Pray, did you dream ony?\"\n\n\"Not that I remember of; but I put no faith in dreams.\"\n\n\"Weel, how different fock's bodies, or their souls, or something about\nthem maun be frae ane anither! For I'm come this length in the warld,\nan' I never yet dreamed a regular dream, in a sound sleep, that I didna\nget as plainly read to me as the A\u00a0B\u00a0C. I had a strange dream last\nnight, Jeany, an' it was about you. I am sure I'll live to see it\nfulfilled; but what it means even now, I canna in the least comprehend.\"\n\n\"Well, Barnaby, suppose you give us it. I have read the Book of\nKnowledge, and may lend you a hand at the interpretation.\"\n\n\"I thought I saw ye lying in a lonesome place, an' no ane in the wide\nworld to help or heed ye, till there was a poor bit black mootit-like\ncorby came down frae the hills an' fed ye. I saw it feeding ye, an' I\nthought ye war as contentit, an' as bonny, an' as happy as ever. But ere\never I wist, down comes there a great majestic eagle some gate frae\nabout the e'e-bree o' the heavens, an' cleeks ye away up to the lowne\nbieldy side o' a sunny hill, where ye had a' braw things. An' I dinna\nken how it was, I thought ye war a she eagle sitting amang your young,\nan' I thought aye ye war a woman too, an' I coudna separate the tane\nfrae the tither; but the poor bit plottit forefoughen corby gaed alang\nw'ye, an' ye war kind to him, an' fed him in your turn, an' I saw him\nhoppin, an' pickin, an' dabbin round about ye, as happy as ever I saw a\nbeast, an' the erne didna chase him away, but was kind to him; but\nsomehow, or I wakened, I thought it was the confusedest thing I ever\nsaw. Na, ye needna laugh nor smile, for we'll baith live to see it\nread.\"\n\n\"Believe me, Barnaby, it will never be apparent; you may force\ncircumstances to agree with it, but these will not be obvious ones.\"\n\n\"It's needless for me to arguy wi' you unless I can bring things hame to\nyour ain conscience; but can ye say that ye never got a dream read?\"\n\n\"Never that I noted; for I never thought of them.\"\n\n\"Or, for instance, have ye never, when you saw a thing for the first\ntime, had a distinct recollection of having seen it sometime afore?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"How wonderfu'! I have done so a thousand an' a thousand times. I have\nremembered of having seen exactly the same scene, the same faces, the\nsame looks, and heard the same words, though I knew all the while that I\nnever had seen them in reality; and that I could only have seen them in\nsome former vision, forgotten, or perhaps never remembered.\"\n\nShe now saw clearly that dreams, visions, and apparitions, were\nBarnaby's region of existence--His very thoughts and language seemed\nelevated whenever he entered on the subject; and it being a trait in the\nshepherd's character that she had never thought of before, she resolved\nto encourage it, and asked for a single instance of that strange\nforesight alluded to.\n\n\"You'll surely acknowledge,\" said Barnaby, \"that it is impossible I\ncould ever have come up that strait swire before with a bairn on my\nback, an' a young woman gaun beside me exactly like you; an' that while\nin that condition, I should have met wi' a bull an' a cow coming out the\npath by themsels, an' thought o' yon craig for a shelter to the bairn\nthat I was carrying; yet when that happened about an hour ago, I\nremembered so distinctly of having gone through it some time long\nbefore, that I knew every step that would next be taken, and every\nword that would next be said. It made me very thoughtful; but I can\nremember nothing of where or when I dreamed it, or what was the issue.\n\n\"There was another instance that I'll never forget. The winter afore\nlast, I gaed out wi' my father in the morning to help him to gather the\nsheep; for the rime had sitten down, an' the clouds war creepin, and we\nkend the drift wad be on. Weel, away we sets, but a' the hills were\nwrappit i' the clouds o' rime as they had been rowed in a fleece o'\nfrosty woo, an' we couldna see a stime; we were little better than fock\ngaun _graeping_ for sheep; an' about twal o'clock, (I mind it weel,)\njust when I was in the very straitest and steepest part o' the\nShielbrae-Hope, the wind gae a swirl, an' I lookit up an' saw the cloud\nscrewing up to heaven--the brow o' the hill cleared, an' I saw like a\nman cringing and hanging ower the point o' the rock, an' there was seven\nwhite ewes an' a black ane gaun bleetin in a raw yont aneath him. That\nwas a'; but the sight strak me motionless. I mindit that I had seen the\nvery thing afore; the very clouds--the very rocks--an' the man standing\ncourin' and keekin' ower, wi' the white rime hingin' about his lugs like\nfeathers; an' I mindit that it endit ill--it endit awsomely!--for I\nthought it endit in death. I could speak nae mair a' that day; for I\nexpectit that either my father or I wad never gang hame living. He aften\nsaid to me, 'What ails ye, callant? Are ye weel eneugh? Od, ye're gane\nstupid.' We saved some sheep, an' lost some, like mony ane, for it was\na dreadfu' afternoon; however, we wan baith safe hame. But that night,\nafore we gaed to bed, our neighbour, auld Robin Armstrang, was brought\ninto our house a corp. Our fock had amaist gane out o' their judgment;\nbut the very features, the white rime frozen about the cauld stiff een,\nan' the iceshogles hangin' at the grey hair, war nae new sight to me: I\nhad seen them a' before, I kendna when. Ah, Jeany! never tell me that we\nhaena some communication wi' intelligences, far ayont our capacity to\ncomprehend.\"\n\nThe seriousness of Barnaby's manner made it evident to his fellow\ntraveller that he believed in the reality of every word he had said;\nthere was an inconceivable sublimity in the whole idea, and she fancied\nherself going to reside, perhaps for a season, in the regions of\nimagination and romance, and she asked him if his father and mother had\nfaith in dreams an' apparitions?\n\n\"Aye, that they hae,\" answered he; \"ye had need to tak care how ye\ndispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions there; ye\nmay as weel dispute the gospel o' Sant Mathew. We dinna believe in a'\nthe gomral fantastic bogles an' spirits that fley light-headed fock up\nan' down the country, but we believe in a' the apparitions that warn o'\ndeath, that save life, an' that discover guilt. I'll tell you what we\nbelieve, ye see.\n\n\"The deil an' his adgents, they fash nane but the gude fock; the\nCameronians, an' the prayin' ministers, an' sic like. Then the bogles,\nthey are a better kind o' spirits, they meddle wi' nane but the guilty;\nthe murderer, an' the mansworn, an' the cheater o' the widow an'\nfatherless, they do for _them_. Then the fairies, they're very harmless;\nthey're keener o' fun an' frolic than aught else; but if fock neglect\nkirk ordinances, they see after _them_. Then the brownie, he's a kind\no' half-spirit half-man; he'll drudge an' do a' the wark about the town\nfor his meat, but then he'll no work but when he likes for a' the king's\ndominions. That's precisely what we a' believe here awa', auld an'\nyoung; an' I'll tell ye twa or three stories that we a' ken to be true,\nan' which I wadna misbelieve for a' that I'm worth.\n\n\"Sandy Shiel, the herd o' the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep\nae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to\nthe size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath; an' there was\nSandy standin' i' the sun afore his sheep, whistling an' singing, and\nknitting his stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken-leggit hare\nby his very foot--Every Scotsman's keen of a hunt--Sandy flings the\nplaid frae him, an' after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and\ncrying on his dog to kep. As he gaed o'er the brow he was close upon\nher, an' had up his stick just to knock her dead--Tut! the hare\nvanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit round-about an' round about--'What\nthe devil's come o' my hare now? Is she santit? or yirdit? or flown\nawa'?'--Sandy lookit up into the air, but she wasna to be seen there\nneither. She was gane, an' for ever! Sandy was amaist swarf'd, the cauld\nsweat brak on him, an' he clew his head. 'Now, gude faith, I hae seen\nmuckle,' quo' Sandy, 'but the like o' that I saw never.' Sandy trodged\nback, wantin' his hare, to lift his plaid. But what think ye? The hale\nvolume o' snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and burried it fifty feet\ndeep; it was nae mair seen till the month o' May. Sandy kneeled down\namong the snaw and thankit his Maker; he saw brawly what the hare had\nbeen.\n\n\"I'll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd's house at\nGlen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had ance been a farm-steading, but it was at\nthe time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd, his\nwife, and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest\ngirl came running in, crying, 'Bless me, sirs, come here--Here is the\ngrandest lady coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.' They\nall ran to the door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at\nthe distance of only about twenty paces--She was never more seen! But\nthat very moment the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful\ncrash; and thus a worthy family was saved from momentary destruction.\nAh! I wadna hae given that man's feelings of gratitude that night toward\nhis Maker and Preserver, for a' the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heartit\nphilosophers!\"\n\n\"Nor would I,\" said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.\n\nBarnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they\ncould agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend\nthat it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk at the\nfarm-houses and cottages as they passed, for there was no house of\naccommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had\nrefreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had\npromised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the\nstory of the profligate laird.\n\n\"That's an awfu' story,\" said Barnaby, \"but it is soon tauld. It was the\nLaird o' Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow's corn, and\nnever had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin' the\nfoundation-stane was laid, an' for a' the grandeur that was about it,\nthere's nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if\nhe didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o'\nhigh kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to\nthe house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an' as blithe\nas a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad,\nand unco pale at times; an' they whiles came on her greetin by hersel.\nIt was ower weel seen how matters stood, an' there was nae mair peace\nabout the house. At length it was spread ower a' the parish that the\nlady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an' up comes\nhurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird's auld companion in\nwickedness, wi' a saddle an' a pad to take her away. When they set her\non ahint him, Molly shook hands wi' a' the servants, but couldna speak,\nfor she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o'\ntaking her away i' the fair day-light, i' the ee o' God an' man, he took\nher away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an' instead o'\ngaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross\nat twal o'clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor\nheard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the\nAlemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was\nsome yellow hair, too, on the scull, that was unco like Molly's, but\nnae body could say.\n\n\"Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer's\ndaughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and\na half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came\nhurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a' hae\nsutten down on their knees wad she gae wi' him; she grat an' pray'd, an'\nthey fleeched an' flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o' their\nteeth, and shamed them a'. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to\nthe nursing, far away some gate, an' there was nae body ony mair fashed\nwi' him.\n\n\"It wad be endless to tell ye ower a' their wickedness, for it can\nhardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at\na distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye\nthe langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that\nthe laird was walking at the back o' his garden, in the moon-light. It\nwas thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that\nwas conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming\ntowards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held\nup her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she\nwas; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he\nuttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard\nthe noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep\ndry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon\ncame to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but\nrather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he\nlived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and\nswore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu' things that folk didna\nunderstand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o' desperation,\nthat the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his\nain hearth-stane, at a time o' life when he should scarcely have been at\nhis prime.\n\n\"But it wasna sae wi' Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life;\nand, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two\nnights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but\nalways a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble\ncries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again.\nThe family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and\nwomen, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his\nconfessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died\nclean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him,\nand put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there\nwere cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed,\nand the voice cried, \"O, Charley, spare my life!--Spare my life! For\nyour own soul's sake and mine, spare my life!\" On which the corpse again\nsat up in the bed, pawled wi' its hands, and stared round wi' its dead\nface. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade\nand ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was\ngane. They sought a' the house, and in behind the bed, and could find\nnaething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain\nhouse, up in the howe o' the Baileylee-linn, a' torn limb frae limb, an'\nthe dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o'er the\nmuir that day, carrying something atween them, an' fock suspectit it was\nCharley's soul, for it was heard makin' a loud maen as they flew o'er\nAlemoor. At the same time it was reportit, that there was to be seen\nevery morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor\nloch, wi' her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck.\nIt's an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o' the day,\nand even then it gars a' my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard\nit, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to\nmony ane.\"\n\nOur fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed\nher,--it having been even more shocking than the former ones were\ndelightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual\nevents, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to\ninform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in\nview of his father's cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very\nwildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the\nconfluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each\nside of the house and _kail-yard_, and mingled their waters immediately\nbelow these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills\non each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long\nblack shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these\nlike streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and\nrepose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane's heart\ndanced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of the\nmountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was\ngoing to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how\nequivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for\nsuch a retreat, and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to\nproffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather\nthan be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen,\nand seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which\nwould not suffer him to pronounce the words aright. Two fine shaggy\nhealthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at\na timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than\nthem both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking\nfiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping\naway from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as\nhe had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was\ntheir old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at his feet,\nand whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion's hand, and\ncapered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby's. The\nwhelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured\nnear; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed\nacquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not\nwhat to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the\ncorner of Jane's mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the\nhouse.--George was perfectly delighted.\n\n\"I think,\" said Jane, \"the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty\nwelcome within!\"\n\n\"Ay, that it does,\" answered Barnaby; \"a dog that is brought up with a\nman in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with\nhimself.\"\n\nStrangers seldom approached that sequestered spot--passengers never.\nThey observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby's mother standing\namid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach,\nand they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, \"Aigh! Geordie,\nyon's our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help's motions; but wha she is that\nhe's bringing wi' him, is ayont my comprehension.\"\n\nShe hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was\nthen to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the\ncolour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the\ncorner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old\nshepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a\nshoe. Barnaby strode up to him. \"How are ye the night, father?\"\n\n\"No that ill, Barny lad--is that you? How are ye yoursel?\" said a\ndecent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time\nwith the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion\nthat he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful,\nand the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son\nwas unutterable. Silence reigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby\nmade holes in the ground with his staff--the old shepherd began again to\nsew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, \"It's a vely good\nbonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp.\"\n\n\"An' how hae ye been sin' we saw ye, Barny?\"\n\n\"Gaylys!\"\n\n\"I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi' ye?\"\n\n\"I wat have I.\"\n\n\"Whar fell ye in wi' them?\"\n\n\"I want to speak a word to you, father.\"\n\nThe old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the\ncorner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had\nsat down on the sod-seat.\n\n\"This is a pleasant evening,\" said he, addressing her.\n\n\"It is a very sweet evening,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Ye'll be weary; ye had better _gang in_ an' rest ye.\"\n\nShe thanked him, and was preparing to go.\n\n\"It's a muckle matter,\" continued he, \"whan fock can depend on their\nain. My Barny never deceived me a' his life, an' you are as welcome here\nas heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to\nthis bit shieling, and your share of a' that's in it. Come your ways in,\nmy bonny woman, an' think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as\neither a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o' oursels.\" So saying he\ntook her hand in both his, and led her into the house.\n\n\"Wife, here's a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi'\nye; mak her welcome i' the mean time, an' ye'll be better acquaintit by\nand by.\"\n\n\"In troth I sal e'en do sae. Come awa in by to the muckle chair--Whar is\nhe himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk?\"\n\n\"Ah, he's coming, poor fellow--he's takin a _pipe_ to himsel at the\nhouse-end--there's a shower i' the heads wi' Barny--his heart can stand\nnaething--it is as saft as a snaw-ba', an' far mair easily thawed, but\nit is aye in the right place for a' that.\"\n\nIt was a happy evening; the conversation was interesting, and kept up\ntill a late hour; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the\nbenevolent disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes\nglowed with delight, and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before\nthey retired to rest, the old shepherd performed family worship, with a\nglow of devotional warmth which Jane had never before witnessed in man.\nThe psalm that he sung, the portion of Scripture that he read, and the\nprayer that he addressed to the throne of Grace, savoured all of charity\nand benevolence to our fellow-creatures. The whole economy of the family\nwas of that simple and primitive cast, that the dwellers in a large city\nnever dream of as existing. There was to be seen contentment without\naffluence or ambition, benevolence without ostentation, and piety\nwithout hypocrisy; but at the same time such a mixture of gaiety, good\nsense, and superstitious ideas, blent together in the same minds, as was\naltogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to our fair\nstranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best\nadvantage.\n\nBut we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby\nto the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every\nday fishing, as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing,\nfrom day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer's cottage was locked, and\nno smoke issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone\non a visit, but at length began to suspect that some alteration had\ntaken place in her circumstances; and the anxiety that he felt to have\nsome intelligence, whether that change was favourable or the reverse,\nwas such that he himself wondered at it. He could not account for it\neven to his own mind. It was certainly _the child_ that so much\ninterested him, else he _could not_ account for it. Lindsey might\neasily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in the\nsentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in\nlove. But no!--all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream\nand brought it back again, went to disprove that. \"That I can be in love\nwith the girl is out of the question--there is no danger of such an\nevent; for, in the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her\naffections, for the whole world; and in the next, I have a certain rank\nand estimation to uphold in society. I am a proprietor to a large\nextent--a freeholder of the county--come of a good family, at least by\nthe father's side, and that I should fall in love with and marry a poor\nvagrant Wool-gatherer, with a\"----! He was going to pronounce a word,\nbut it stuck, not in his throat, but in the very utmost perceptible\navenues that lead to the heart. \"It is a very fine child, however,--I\nwish I had him under my protection, then his mother might come and see\nhim; but I care not for that, provided I had the child. I'll have the\nchild, and for that purpose I will enquire after the mother directly.\"\n\nHe went boldly up to the cot, and peeped in at the little window. The\nhearth was cold, and the furniture neatly arranged. He examined the\ndoor, but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for\nmany days, and the green grass was beginning to peep up around them.\n\"There is something extremely melancholy in this!\" said he to himself.\n\"I could not endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost,\nwithout at least enquiring after him.\"\n\nHe turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but\nlacked the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the\nobject of his thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish,\nor if he did it was against his will.\n\nOn Barnaby's return he made some sly enquiries about the causes that\ninduced to Jane's removal without effect, the farmer had kept all so\nsnug. But haverel Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister,\nknew, and though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own\nsex, yet she could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young\nfellows, which her brother always accounted a very ridiculous\npropensity;--whether or not it is a natural one among old maids, the\nrelater of this tale does not pretend to decide; he is induced to think\nit is, but is not dogmatic on that side, not having bestowed due\nconsideration on the subject.\n\nOne day, when Barnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than\nusual, and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of\nparitch, mixed with butter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time\nsitting with his head leaned on his master's knee, watching the progress\nof every spoonful, thinking the latter was rather going near him that\nday in their wonted proportions--while Barnaby, I say, was thus\ndelightfully and busily employed, in comes Meg, bare-footed, with a\nclean white wrapper and round-eared cap on. \"Barny, will ye hae time to\nhelp me to the water wi' a boucking o' claes? Ye'll just only hae to\ncarry the tae end o' the hand-barrow to the water, wait till I sinde up\nthe sarks, an' help me hame wi' them again.\"\n\n\"That I will, Miss Peggy, wi' heart an' hand.\"\n\n\"Miss Peggy! Snuffs o' tobacco! Meg's good enough! Troth, I'm nane o'\nyour molloping, precise flegaries, that want to be _miss'd_ an'\n_beckit_, an' _bowed_ to--Na, sooth! Meg's good enough--plain downright\n_Meg o' the Todburn_.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel; haud your tongue, I'll do a' that ye bid me, an' mair, Meg,\nmy bonny woman.\"\n\n\"How war a' your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?\"\n\n\"Unco weel, an' they're muckle behadden to you for your kind speering.\"\n\n\"I kend your father weel; he's a good cannie man.\"\n\n\"I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye\nmaybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him.\"\n\n\"Ay, it's weel o' you to say sae; but he's a douse, respectable man, and\nhe's no disgraced in his son.\"\n\nBarnaby rose with his bicker in his hand; gave it a graceful swing, as a\ngentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set\ndown Nimrod his share of the paritch.\n\nWhen they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg\nwent into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much\nsplashing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to\nherself, and was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was\nforthcoming. She cast her eyes towards the laird's house, then looked up\nthe water, then down, in case any one might be angling on it; and after\nperceiving that there was nobody within a mile of them, she spoke as\nfollows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest any one should overhear her.\n\n\"Gude sauf us to the day, Barny man! What think ye o' our laird?\"\n\n\"Very muckle. I think him a decent worthy lad.\"\n\n\"Decent! Shame fa' _his_ decency!--I watna what will be countit\n_un_decent soon! Sae ye haena heard o' his shamfu' connection wi' the\nbit prodigal, dinnagood lassie, that was here?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"It's a' ower true though; but say nae a word about it. My billy Rob was\nobliged to chase her out o' the country for it; an' a burnin shame an' a\ndisgrace it was to the laird to take up wi' the likes o' her.--Deil a\nbit o' her has the pith o' a pipe-stapple!--Fich, fy! Away wi' your\nspindle-shankit babyclouts--they're no the gear.\"\n\n\"As ye say, Meg. I like nane o' the women that _stand pon trifles_.\"\n\n\"Stand on trifles!--Ha! ha! that's real good! that's devilish clever for\na--young man! Ha! ha!--Tut! that water's weetin' a' my claes.--Wad ye\nhae made sic a choice, Barny?\"\n\n\"D'ye think that I'm blind? or that I dinna ken what's what?--Na, na,\nMeg! let me alane; I'm no sae young a cat but I ken a mouse by a\nfeather.\"\n\n\"If a' our young men had the sense o' you, Barny, some o' them might get\na pock an' a wheen rustit nails to jingle in't; they might get something\nbetter than a bit painted doll, wi' a waist like a thread-paper, an' hae\nnought ado foreby but to draw in the chair an' sit down; but _they'll_\nrin after a wheen clay-cakes baken i' the sun, an' leave the good\nsubstantial ait-meal bannocks to stand till they moul, or be pouched by\nthem that draff an' bran wad better hae mensed!--Tut! I'm ower deep into\nthe stream again, without ever thinkin' o't.\"\n\n\"That's a' ower true that ye hae been sayin', Meg--ower true, indeed!\nBut as to your news about the laird and Jane, I dinna believe a word\no't.\"\n\n\"Oh! it's maybe no true, ye ken! It's very likely a lee! There's\nnaething mair likely, than that a' their correspondence was as pure as\nthe morning snaw. For a laird, ye ken, worth three thousand pund o'\nyearly rental, to frequent the house o' a bit lassie for an hour ilka\nday, an' maybe ilka night to, wha kens; ye ken it's a' fair! there's\nnought mair likely than that they're _very_ innocent! An' _sic_ a ane\ntoo as she is! little better, I trow, than she should be, gin a' war\nkend. To be sure she has a son, _that_ may arguy _something_ for her\ndecency. But after a', I dinna blame _her_, for I ken by mysel----\"\n\n\"Haud your tongue now, Meg, my bonny quean; for I ken ye are gaun to lee\non yoursel, an' speak nonsense into the bargain.\"\n\n\"Ah! Barny! but ye are a queer ane!\" (then in a whisper.) \"I\nsay--Barny--What do ye think o' the bit farm o' Hesperslack? How wad ye\nlike to be tenant there yoursel, an' hae servants o' your ain?\"\n\n\"I haena thought about that yet; but yonder's my master keekin ower the\nknowe; he'll be thinkin I'm stayin unco lang frae my sheep.\"\n\n\"Ah! is my billy Rob yonder?--No a _word_ ye ken now, Barny. No a cheip\naboon your breath about yon.\"\n\nSad and heavy were Barnaby's reflections that day as he herded his sheep\nall alone. \"And _this_ is the girl that I have taken and recommended so\nwarmly to my parents! I do not believe the hateful slander; but I will\ngo and inform them of all. It is proper they should know all that I\nknow, and then let them judge for themselves. Poor luckless Jeany! I\nfear she is a ruined creature, be she as innocent and harmless as she\nwill!\"\n\nBarnaby was resolved to go, but day past on after day, and still he had\nnot the heart to go and tell his parents, although every whisper that\nhe heard tended rather to strengthen suspicion than dispel it.\n\nOn the very day that we left Lindsey in such distress for the loss of\nhis amiable Wool-gatherer, Barnaby and he met by the side of the stream,\nat the foot of the Todburn-Hope. They were both alike anxious to speak\nto one another, but neither of them had the courage to begin, although\nboth were burning to talk on the same theme. Lindsey fished away,\nswimming the fly across the ripple as dexterously and provokingly as he\nwas able. Barnaby stood and looked on in silence; at length a yellowfin\nrose. \"Aigh, that was a great chap! I wish your honour had hookit that\nane.\"\n\n\"It was better for him that I did not. Do you ever fish any?\"\n\n\"O yes. I gump them whiles.\"\n\n\"_Gump_ them? pray what mode of fishing is that?\"\n\n\"I guddle them in aneath the stanes an' the braes like.\"\n\n\"I do not exactly understand the terms nor the process. Pray will you\nbe so good,\" continued he, holding out the fishing-rod to Barnaby, \"as\ngive me a specimen how you _gump_ the fish?\"\n\n\"Od bless you, sir, I can do naething wi' that goad; but if ye'll gang\nwi' me a wee piece up the Todburn-Hope, or up to the Rowntree-Linn, I'll\nlet ye see gumping to perfection.\"\n\nOn being assured that it was not above half a mile to either of the\nplaces, the laird accompanied Barnaby without hesitation, to witness\nthis pastoral way of fishing. By the way their converse became very\ninteresting to both parties, but we cannot interrupt the description of\nsuch a favourite rural sport just now. Let it suffice that their\ndiscourse was all concerning a fair unfortunate, of whom the reader has\nheard a good deal already, and of whom he shall hear more in due time.\n\nThey crossed over a sloping ground, at the bottom of a green steep hill,\nand soon came into the Todburn-Hope. It was a narrow level valley\nbetween two high hills, and terminated in the haunted linn, above the\nsheep-house formerly mentioned. Down this narrow vale the Tod Burn ran\nwith a thousand beautiful serpentine windings, and at every one of these\nturns there were one or two clear deep pools, overhung by little green\nbanks. Into the first of these pools Barnaby got with his staff,\nplunging and poaching to make all the fish take into close cover; then\nhe threw off his ragged coat, tucked up the sleeves of his shirt to the\nshoulders, tying them together behind, and into the pool he got again,\nknees and elbows, putting his arms in below the green banks, into the\nclosest and most secret recesses of the trouts. There was no eluding\nhim; he threw them out one after another, sometimes hitting the\nastonished laird on the face, or any other part of the body without\nceremony, for his head being down sometimes close with the water, and\nsometimes below it, he did not see where he flung them. The trouts being\na little startled at this momentary change from one element to another,\njumped about on the grass, and cast so many acute somersets, that the\nlaird had greater difficulty in getting hold of them the second time to\nput them into his basket, than Barnaby had at first; and when the latter\nhad changed the scene of plunder to a new pool, Lindsey was commonly to\nbe seen beside the old one, moving slowly about on his hands and knees.\n\"I think ye're pinched to catch them on the dry grund, sir,\" said\nBarnaby to him.\n\n\"No, no,\" returned he, with the utmost simplicity; \"but I was looking\nlest some of them had made their way among the long grass and eluded me;\nand besides they are so very active and slippery that I seldom can keep\nthe hold of them that I get.\"\n\nAs they were going from one of these little pools to another, he said to\nour shepherd, \"So this is what you call _gumping_?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, this is gumping, or _guddling_, ony o' them ye like to\nca't.\"\n\n\"I do not think this is altogether a fair way of fishing.\"\n\n\"Now, I think it is muckle fairer than the tither way, sir. Your way is\nfounded on the lowest artifice and deceit, but I come as an avowed\nenemy, and let them escape me if they can. I come into a family as a\nbrave mountain robber or free-booter; but you come as a deceitful\nfriend, promising to treat the family with all good things, that you may\npoison them every one unawares. A mountaineer's sports are never founded\non cunning; it's a' sheer and main force wi' us.\"\n\nLindsey confessed that the shepherd's arguments had some foundation in\nnature and truth, but that they savoured of a period exempt from\ncivilization and the fine arts. \"At all events,\" said he, \"it is\ncertainly the most downright way of fishing that I ever beheld.\" In\nshort, it was not long till the laird was to be seen wading in the\npools, and _gumping_ as busily as the other; and, finally, he was\nsometimes so intent on his prey, that the water was running over his\nback, so that when he raised himself up it poured in torrents from his\nfine Holland shirt and stained cambrick ruffles. \"Ye hae settled the\npletts o' your sark,\" said Barnaby. Never did the family of Earlhall\nbehold such a basket of trouts; and never had its proprietor such a\nday's sport at the fishing, as he had at the _gumping_ or _guddling_ the\ntrouts among the links of the Todburn-Hope.\n\nThough the sport occupied their minds completely during the time they\nwere engaged in it, yet it was only a relaxation from concerns of a more\nserious nature. From Barnaby's information the laird now saw exactly how\nthe land lay; and though he got no hint of the part that his mother had\nacted in it, yet he rather suspected, for he well knew her sentiments\nregarding all the young and beautiful part of her own sex. Barnaby gave\nhim no notice that he had ever seen the girl after her dismissal, or\nthat he knew to what part of the world she had retired; and before they\nparted he desired him to tell his master to come down and speak with him\nthat night.\n\nRobin came as appointed; Lindsey and his mother were sitting by\nthemselves in the parlour when the servant announced him; he was ordered\nto join them, and as soon as he came in Lindsey said, \"Come away, Robin.\nI had a piece of information within these few days of you, that has\nsomewhat distressed me, and I sent for you to make enquiry concerning\nit. What reasons had you for turning away the poor stranger girl and\nchild from her cot before the term of your agreement expired?\"\n\nRobin looked to the window, then to the lady, and then to the window\nagain, and finally looked down to the carpet, twirled his bonnet with\nboth hands, and remained silent. Though a strong and speaking look of\nappeal was turned on the old lady by Robin from time to time, yet she,\nhearing her son speak in that determined manner, likewise sat still\nwithout opening her lips.\n\n\"Why don't you answer me?\" continued Lindsey. \"I ask you simply what\nwere your reasons for turning her away? you certainly must be able to\nstate them.\"\n\n\"Hem! We war feared, sir--we war feared that she was a bad ane.\"\n\n\"You were _afraid_ she was bad? Had you no other proofs of her badness\nfarther than your own fears?\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I never saw ony ill behaviour about the lassie. But ye ken\nweel enough that ane wha had forsaken the paths o' virtue and honesty\nsae early as it appears she had done, wi' sic an enchanting manner, an'\nweelfaurd face into the boot, was rather a dangerous neighbour for sae\nmony young chiels.\"\n\n\"I think what Robin says is very true, and good sense,\" said the old\nlady.\n\n\"You certainly ought to have taken all these things into consideration\nbefore you bargained with her at first, Robin,\" said Lindsey. \"I\nsuppose you cannot argue that she is either grown younger or more\nbeautiful since that period? I rather suspect, Robin, that you have used\nthis young woman extremely ill; and if you cannot give any better\nreasons for your severity towards her, I can find out a method of\nforcing you to make an ample retribution.\"\n\n\"Indeed then, sir, sin' I maun tell the truth, I will tell the truth; it\nwas my lady, your worthy mother there, that persuaded, and _ordered_ me\nto turn her away; for we had observed how great a favourite she was with\nyou, and dreaded the consequences.\"\n\n\"It is then exactly as I suspected. You two have done me a great injury,\nand one that will not be easily wiped away. I hope neither of you\nintended it; but I would gladly know what trait in my character\njustified the conclusion you made? I think you might both have known my\ndispositions better than to have so readily believed that I would\ninjure youth and beauty, that had already been unfortunate in the\nworld--that I would add to her state of wretchedness, by annihilating\nfor ever that innate principle of virtue and modesty, inherent in every\nyoung female's breast, which never man loved more, or delighted more to\nview, exerting all its primitive and untainted sway. If you had\nreflected at all, you could not have believed me capable of it. You have\ntaken the readiest means in your power of injuring my character in the\neyes of the world. It must naturally be concluded, that there was a\nprofligate and criminal intercourse subsisting between us, which\nrendered such an act of cruelty and injustice necessary. You have hurt\nmy honour and my feelings, and wronged a defenceless and amiable young\nwoman. It is on my account that she is thus innocently suffering, and I\nam determined, for my own satisfaction, to see her righted, as far as\nredress is in my power, though equivalent for an injured reputation\nthere is none; but every vile insinuation on my account shall be fairly\ndispelled. To make, therefore, an end of all reflections at once, I warn\nyou, Robin, that if she is not found, and restored to her rights, in\nless than a fortnight at farthest, you need not be surprised if _you_\nare some day removed on as short notice as you gave to her.\"\n\nThe old lady and farmer had an inward view of matters in a different\nlight: They perceived that the world would say he had brought her back\nto keep her there as his mistress, but this elegant and inflated\nharangue they were unable to answer. The young man's conscience was\nhurt, and they were no casuists. The lady, it is true, uttered some\ninvoluntary sounds as he was speaking, but it was not easy to determine\nwhether they were groans or hems of approbation. If one might have\njudged from her countenance, they were like the former, but the sounds\nthemselves were certainly modulations of the latter. She was dependant\non her son! Robin was studying a friendly reply, by way of remonstrance,\nall the time of the speech; but Robin was a widower, had a good farm, a\nlarge family, and was a tenant at will, and the conclusion of the said\nspeech was a stumbling-block to Robin.\n\nPray, gentle reader, did you ever see a country maiden baking pease-meal\nbannocks? If you ever did you must have noted, that before she committed\nthem one by one to the gridiron, she always stood straight up, with her\nhead gracefully turned to one side, and moulded them with her two hands\nto an orb, as nearly resembling the full moon as she could. You must\nlikewise have remarked, that while engaged in this becoming part of her\navocation, she was never once looking at her work, but that while her\nhead had that sly cast to the one side, her eyes were ever and anon\nfixed on the window, noting what was going on without, looking perhaps\nfor her lad coming from the hill, or whistling at the plough. If you\nhave ever seen this, you can easily comprehend the attitude I mean--if\nyou have never, it is a great pity!\n\nExactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland,\nplying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way--his head was\nlikewise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the\nwindow--it was the girl's position to a hair. Let any man take his pen\nand describe the two attitudes, there is not the slightest shade of\ndifference to be discerned--the one knee of both is even slackened and\nbent gently forward, the other upright and firm, by its own weight made\nsteadfast and immoveable. Yet how it comes I do not comprehend, and\nshould like much to consult my friend, David Wilkie, about it--it is\nplain that the attitudes are precisely the same, yet the girl's is quite\ndelightful--Robin's was perfectly pitiable. He had not one word to say,\nbut baked his bonnet and stood thus.\n\n\"This is my determination,\" continued Lindsey, \"and you may pay what\nattention to it you please.\"\n\n\"Od, sir, I'm excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae\nletten me see it in its true light, an' I sal do what I can to find her\nagain, an' mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, naebody kens\nwhere she's ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to\nthat outlandish country ayont the sea that they ca' Fife, an' how am I\nto get her? therefore, if I canna an' dinna get her, I hope you will\nexcuse me, especially as neither the contrivance nor the act was mine.\"\n\n\"You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a\ntittle of that I have said; but, to encourage your people in the search,\nor whomsoever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the\nperson who finds her and restores her to her home.\"\n\n\"Aweel, son Lindsey,\" said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum\nof a clock, \"your mother meant ye good, an' nae ill, in what she has\ndone; but them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. For the sake o' Robin\nand his family, and no for the neighbourhood o' this whilly-wha of a\nyoung witch, I shall gi'e the body that finds her half as muckle.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Robin, \"shall gi'e the same, which will make up the reward\nto twenty guineas, an' it is mair than I can weel spare in sic hard\ntimes. I never saw better come o' women's schemes, as I say whiles to my\ntitty Meg.\"\n\nThe company parted, not on the most social terms; and that night, before\nRobin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, \"Lads, my master\ninforms me that I am to be plaguit wi' the law for putting away that\nlassie Jeany an' her bit brat atween term-days. I gi'e ye a' your\nliberty frae my wark until the end o' neist week, if she be not found\nafore that time, to search for her; and whoever finds her, and brings\nher back to her cottage, shall have a reward o' twenty guineas in his\nloof.\"\n\nA long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her; but\nBarnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where\nhis chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday\nclothes, and went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were\nlet out for hire, got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle,\nand pad, and off he set directly for his father's cottage, where he\narrived next morning by the time the sun was up.\n\nTo describe all Barnaby's adventures that night would take a volume by\nitself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he\ntraversed. As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid\nfor none of them meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie;\nyet so hardly was he beset with these at times, that he had no other\nresource but to shut his eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this\nresolute contrivance got on without interruption, but had been so near\nhis infernal adversaries at times, that twice or thrice he felt a glow\non his face as if a breath of lukewarm air had been breathed against it,\nand a smell exactly resembling (he did not like to say brimstone, but)\n_a coal fire just gaun out_!--But it is truly wonderful what a man, with\na conscience void of offence towards God and towards his neighbour, will\ngo through!\n\nWhen the day-light began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what\na blithe and grateful man was Barnaby! \"The bogles will be obliged to\nthraw aff their black claes now,\" said he, \"an' in less than half an\nhour the red an' the green anes too. They'll hae to pit on their\npollonians o' the pale colour o' the fair day-light, that the e'e o'\nChristian maunna see them; or gang away an' sleep in their dew-cups an'\nfoxter-leaves till the gloaming come again. O, but the things o' this\nwarld are weel contrived!\"\n\nSafely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father's cottage\nstood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn; there was\nno dog, nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his\napproach, for his father and canine friends had all gone out to the\nheights at a very early hour to look after the sheep. The morning was\ncalm and lovely; but there was no sound in the glen save the voice of\nhis mother's grey cock, who was perched on the kail-yard dike, and\ncrowing incessantly. The echoes were answering him distinctly from the\nhills; and as these aerial opponents were the only ones he ever in his\nlife had to contend with, he had learned to value himself extremely on\nhis courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving them in a note\nlouder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he himself had been\nstruggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole night;\nso ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to\noverlook our own!\n\nThe smoke was issuing from his mother's chimney in a tall blue spire\nthat reached to the middle of the hill; but when there, it spread\nitself into a soft hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green\nbrae in the most still and moveless position. The rising sun kissed it\nwith his beams, which gave it a light woolly appearance, something like\nfloating down; it was so like a vision that Barnaby durst scarcely look\nat it. \"My mither's asteer,\" said he to himself, \"I ken by her morning\nreek; she'll be fiking up an' down the house, an' putting a' things to\nrights; an' my billies they'll be lying grumphing and snoring i' their\ndens, an' Jeany will be lying waking, listening what's gaun on, an' wee\nGeorge will be sniffing an' sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I think, of\na' things i' the warld a young mother an' her first son is the maist\ninteresting--if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae--to\nsee how she'll sit an' look at him!--(here Barnaby blew his nose.)--I\nwas my mother's first son; if she had been as bonny, an' as gentle, an'\nas feele as Jeany, aih! but I wad hae likit weel!\"\n\nNo one being aware of Barnaby's approach, he rode briskly up to the door\nand rapped, causing at the same time his horse's feet make a terrible\nclamping on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house,\ncame running out with the heather besom in her hand. \"Bless my heart,\ncallant, is that you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten w'ye! What's asteer\nw'ye? or whar ir ye gaun sae early i' the morning on that grand\ncut-luggit beast?\"\n\n\"I'm turned a gentleman now, mother, that's a'; an' I thought I wad g'ye\na ca' as I gaed by for auld lang syne--Hope ye're all well?\"\n\n\"Deed we're a' no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after?--Hae ye\na' your senses about ye?\"\n\n\"I thank ye, I dinna miss ony o' them that I notice. I'm come for my\nwife that I left w'ye--How is she?\"\n\n\"_Your_ wife! Weel I wat ye'll never get the like o' her, great muckle\nhallanshaker-like guff.\"\n\n\"Haud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get; but I can\ntell ye o' something that I'm to get. If I take hame that lassie Jeany\nsafe to her house, ony time these ten days, there's naebody kens where I\nhae her hidden, an' I'm to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o't.\"\n\n\"Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn.\"\n\n\"Ye never tauld me sic a word, mother.\"\n\n\"I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi' another,\nan' that the king may come i' the beggar's way.\"\n\n\"Ramsay's Scots Proverbs tell me that.\"\n\n\"It will begin a bit stock to you, my man; an' I sal say it o' her, gin\nI sude never see her face again, she's the best creature, ae way an' a'\nways, that ever was about a poor body's house. Ah, God bless her!--she's\na dear creature!--Ye'll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae\nta'en about her.\"\n\nJane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted\nBarnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs had taken in her\nfavour, and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the\nearnest enquiries he had made; and likewise how he had put Robin to his\nshifts. She had lived very happy with these poor honest people, and had\nno mind to leave them; indeed, from the day that she entered their house\nshe had not harboured a thought of it; but now, on account of her\nfurniture, which was of considerable value to her, and more particularly\nfor the sake of Barnaby's reward, she judged it best to accompany him.\nSo after they had all taken a hearty breakfast together at the same\nboard, the old shepherd returned thanks to the Bestower of all good\nthings, and then kissing Jane, he lifted her on the horse behind his\nson. \"Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany woman,\" said he; \"I think you will be\nhappy, for I'm sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue to mind the\nthing that's good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye; I come surety\nfor him. An' if ever adversity should again fa' to your lot, ye shall be\nas welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o' ilka thing\nthat's in it; an' if I should see you nae mair, I'll never bow my knee\nbefore my Maker without remembering you. God bless you, my bonny woman!\nFareweel.\"\n\nJane dropped a tear on her benefactor's hand, for who could stand such\nunaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little\nGeorge on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the\nhorse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often\nseen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after\nblowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod,\nwith which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out\nof this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive\na more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents'\nkindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all\nparties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went\non prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a\ngrand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret\nfor the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. \"Geoge\nvely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse.\"\n\nMany were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to\namuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their\ncottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was\noverjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon.\nHe paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour,\nmaking some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, \"They that hide ken\nwhere to seek,\" and without delay sent information to the mansion-house\nthat Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of\nnews which created no little stir at Earlhall.\n\nThe old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found;\nor that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met\nwith, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she\nwished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her\nfond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to\nthe affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful\nbusiness, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all\ncommand of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another,\nquarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two\nprettiest ones warning to leave their places.\n\nLindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his\nfeelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he\nloved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction.\nThe deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene--the woods, the\nfields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such a new and\nexhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean)\ngive to his whole vital frame. \"What a delightful world this is!\" said\nhe to himself; \"and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they\nwould suffer themselves to do so!\" He did not traverse the different\napartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but\nhe took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the\nparlour.\n\nIn the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed\nby the discordant tones of anger and reproach--Proud and haughty\ncontumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but\nhumble dependance on the other.\n\n\"This is some one of my mother's unreasonable imputations,\" said he to\nhimself; \"it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my\nservants, who are in fact _my_ servants, receiving meat and wages from\nme, and whom I most wish to be happy and comfortable in their\ncircumstances should be thus harassed and rendered miserable--I will\ninterfere in spite of all obloquy.\" He went in to the fore-kitchen,\n\"What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?\"\n\n\"Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged\nby such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I\nam determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more\nservants of his hiring.\"\n\nSo saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one\nof the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly\nlooks had roused the lady's resentment, was standing sobbing in a\ncorner. \"What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?\"\n\n\"I hae done naething ava that's wrang, sir; but she's never aff my tap;\nan' I'm glad I'm now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an'\nturned me away, I wad never hae regrettit; but she has ca'd me names\nsic afore a' these witnesses, that I'll never get mair service i' the\ncountry. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate.\"\n\n\"Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very\nfaithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in\nyour place, and _do not_ go away--remember I order it--give no offence\nto my mother that you can avoid--be a good girl, as you have heretofore\nbeen, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair.\"\n\n\"Oh, God bless him for a kind good soul!\" said Sally, as he went out,\nand the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.\n\nHe rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn; but\nit was too late to call and see _the dear child_ that night, so he\nreturned--joined his mother at supper; was more than usually gay and\ntalkative, and at last proposed to invite this fair rambler down to\nEarlhall to breakfast with them next morning. The lady was almost\nparalyzed by this proposal, and groaned in spirit!\n\n\"Certainly, son! certainly! your house is your ain; invite ony body to\nit you like; nane has a better right! a man may keep ony company he\nchooses. Ye'll hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o' the\nparty?\"\n\n\"Very great objections, mother; I wish to see this girl, and learn her\nhistory; if I call privately, you will be offended; is it not better to\ndo this before witnesses? And I am likewise desirous that you should see\nher, and be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being\nprotected from injury. Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little\nvariety--we will invite Robin, and his sister Miss Margaret, and any\nother of that class you chuse.\"\n\n\"O certainly! invite them ilk ane, son--invite a' the riff-raff i' the\nparish; your mother has naething to say.\"\n\nHe was stung with this perversity, as well as with his love for _the\nchild_ on the other hand--he did invite them, and the invitation was\naccepted. Down came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in\nhis blue and gray thread-about coat, with metal buttons, broader than a\nQueen Ann's half-crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured\nleggums (the best things, by the bye, that ever came in fashion;) and\ndown came haverel Meg, his sister, _alias_ Miss Peggy, for that day,\nwith her cork-heeled shoon, and long-waisted gown, covered with broad\nstripes, like the hangings of an ancient bed. She had, moreover, a\nsilken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the lobby, under that a\nsmart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black curly hair,\nslightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morning by\nthe effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in\nsuch style before, and I wish from my heart that any assembly of our\nbelles had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind of _show of\ncattle_ before the laird, in the same way as the young ladies long ago\nwere brought in before King Ahasuerus; and she was determined to bear\ndown Jane to the dust, and carry all before her. The very air and\nswagger with which she walked was quite delightful, while her blue\nribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportionally long, having been\nleft intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like the pennon of a\nship. \"It is rather odd, billy Rob,\" said she, \"that we should thus be\ninvited alang wi' our ain cottar--However, the laird's ha' levels a'--if\nshe be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us--fock maun bow to\nthe bush that they seek beild frae.\"\n\n\"E'en sae, Meg; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day,\nan' no get out wi' ony o' your vollies o' nonsense.\"\n\n\"Deed, Rob, I'll just speak as I think; there sall naething gyzen i' my\nthrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o' your kind o' fock\nthat dare do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like\nthe gouk in a June day. Meg maun hae out her say, if it sude burst\nPowbeit on her head.\"\n\nAs they came down by the washing-green, Jane joined them, dressed in a\nplain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an\nearl's son; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother's side.\n\nThe old lady was indisposed that day, and unable to come down to\nbreakfast; and it was not till after the third visit from her son, who\nfound he was like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was\nprevailed on to appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance; Meg\ncame in with a skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel\nwhen she is sitting on a stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane\nappeared last, leading her boy; her air was modest and diffident, yet it\nhad nothing of that awkward timidity, inseparable from low life, and a\nconsciousness that one has no right to be there. The lady returned a\nslight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly dropt down when she first\ncast her eyes upon her beauty, and elegance of form and manner. It was\nthe last hope that she had remaining, that this girl would be a vulgar\ncreature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty admired in the\nhigher circles; now that last hope was blasted. But that which\nastonished every one most, was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her\nmisfortunes had nothing dimmed; their humid lustre was such, that it was\nimpossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing\nabashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he\ncould, but of that he was no great master; he then lifted little George,\nkissed him, and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. \"And\nwhere have you been so long away from me, my dear little fellow? Tell me\nwhere you have been all this while.\"\n\n\"Fal away, at auld Geoldie's, little Davie's falel, ye ken; him 'at\nhas 'e fine bonny 'halp wi' a stipe down hele, and anolel down\nhele.--Little Davie vely good till Geoge, an vely queel callant.\"\n\nEvery one laughed aloud at George's description of the whelp, and his\ncompanion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover\nwhere their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served;\nthe old lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her\njust with what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or\nsubject on which she was previously talking; for all the time the good\nold dowager was addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of\nher dress--looking at the shape of her stays--casting a glance at the\nlaird, and occasionally at Jane--then adjusting a voluptuous curl that\nhalf-hid her grey eye. She likewise occasionally uttered a vacant hem!\nwhen the lady paused; and, as soon as she ceased, began some observation\nof her own. Robin was quite in the fidgets. \"Dear Meg, woman, that's no\nwhat her ladyship was speaking about. That's no to the purpose ava.\"\n\n\"Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but\nyoursel, hummin an' hawin. Let us hear how weel ye'll speak to the\npurpose.--Whisht, sirs! haud a' your tongues; my billy Rob's gaun to mak\na speech.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.\n\n\"Humph!\" returned Meg, \"what kind of a speech is that? Is that to the\npurpose? If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as\nweel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob's aye wantin to\nbe on his hich horse afore grit folk; now I says till him, Rob, says I,\nfor you to fa' to afore your betters, and be tryin to speak that vile\nnicky-nacky language they ca' English, instead o' being on your hich\nhorse then, ye are just like a heron walkin on stilts, an' that's but a\ndaft-like beast. Ye sude mind, says I,--Rob, man, says I, that her\nladyship's ane o' our ain kind o' fock, an' was bred at the same heck\nan' manger wi' oursels; an' although she has lightit on a good\ntethering, ye're no to think that she's to gi'e hersel airs, an' forget\nthe good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins.\"\n\nThe lady's cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg\nwas fallen on the most unlucky; nothing hurt her feelings half so much\nas hints of her low extraction. Lindsey, though vexed, could not repress\na laugh at the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable\nvulgarity on the other. Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had,\nwould not have regarded it. She went on. \"Ah, Meg, woman! quo' he, ye\nken little thing about it, quo' he; when the sole of a shoe's turned\nuppermost, it maks aye but an unbowsome overleather; if ye corn an auld\nglide-aver weel, she'll soon turn about her heels, and fling i' your\nface.\"\n\nRobin's whole visage changed; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows\nwere screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those\nwere scarcely discernible; his mouth had meanwhile assumed the form and\nlikeness of one of the long S's on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went\non. \"Dear Rob, says I, man, says I, that disna apply to her ladyship\nava, for every thing that she does, an' every thing that she says, shows\nher to be a douse hamely body; the very way that she rins bizzin through\nthe house, an' fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae\npretensions to high gentility.\"\n\nLindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all\ndecorum, began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh\nlooks, and said she was very much of a lady herself.\n\n\"I wat, laird,\" said she, \"I think aye if a body behaves wi' ease, an'\nwithout ony stiffness an' precision, that body never behaves ill; but,\nto be sure, you grand fock can say an' do a hantle o' things that winna\nbe ta'en aff our hands. For my part, when the great fike rase about you\nan' Jeany there, I says--says I\"----\n\nThis was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. \"I\nbeg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy,\" said he; \"we shall attend\nto your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it\nsomewhat. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received\nvery harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous\nof making her some reparation, and to patronize her, as well as this\nboy, if I find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall,\nmoreover, be extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor\nblame shall attach to it; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I\nhave selected you as judges in this matter.--It is impossible,\"\ncontinued he, addressing himself to Jane, \"to be in your company half an\nhour, and not discern that your education has been much above the\nsphere of life which you now occupy; but I trust you will find us all\ndisposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you will be so\ngood as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed\nto your coming among us.\"\n\n\"The events of my life, sir,\" said she, \"have been, like the patriarch's\ndays, few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in\nthis district--not on my own account, but for the sake of their names\nthat are connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless,\nsince you have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be\nungrateful and imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse\nme for the present in withholding my family name, and I will relate to\nyou the incidents of my short life in a very few words.\n\n\"My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or\nnot I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his\ncredit and dealings were very extensive. My mother died twelve years\nago, leaving my father with no more children than another daughter and\nmyself. I received my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who\nwas two years older than I. She began to manage my father's household\naffairs at thirteen years of age, and I went to reside with an aunt in\nEast-Lothian, who had been married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and\noccupied a farm herself.\n\n\"Whether it originated in his not finding any amusement at home, or in\nconsciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, I know not, but our\nfather about this time fell by degrees from attending to his business in\na great measure, and sunk into despondency. My sister's letters to me\nwere full of regret; my aunt being in a declining state of health I\ncould not leave her for some months. At last she died, leaving me a\nlegacy of five hundred pounds, when I hastened home, and did all in my\npower to assist my sister in comforting our father, but he did not long\nsurvive, and dying insolvent, we not only lost our protector, but had\nnothing to depend on save my little legacy and our own industry and\nexertions. We retired to a small lodging; none of our friends thought\nproper to follow us to our retreat; and now, bereaved as we were of our\nnatural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a\nfriendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits; a\ncertain dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey\nupon her, and it was with real sorrow and concern that I perceived it\ndaily gaining ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I\ntried always to console her as much as I could for our loss, and often,\nto cheer her, assumed a gaiety that was foreign to my heart; but we\nbeing quite solitary, her melancholy always returned upon her with\ndouble weight. About this time I first saw a young officer with my\nsister, who introduced him carelessly to me as _the Captain_. She went\nout with him, and when she returned I asked who he was. \"Bless me,\nJane,\" said she, \"do you not know the Captain?\" I was angry at the\nflippancy of her manner, but she gave me no further satisfaction.\"\n\nAt the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient,\nchanging his position on the seat every moment.\n\n\"Things went on in this manner,\" continued Jane, \"for some time longer,\nand still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew\npale, and her eye heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed\non her account.\n\n\"For nine or ten days she went out by herself for an hour or so every\nday, without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I\narose my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any\nbreakfast; but nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with\ndreadful apprehensions. I went about to every place where I thought\nthere was the least chance of hearing any news of her, yet durst I not\nask for her openly at any one for fear of the answer I might receive;\nfor, on considering the late dejected state of her mind, I expected\nnothing else than to hear that she had put an end to her existence. My\nsearch was fruitless; night came, and still no word of my sister; I\npassed it without sleep; but, alas! the next night, and many others,\ncame and past over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a\ngleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict\nand extensive search, and even to have her advertised; yet still all my\nexertions proved of no avail.\n\n\"During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there\ncould not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I\nwas. Only seventeen years of age; the last of all my father's house;\nleft in a lodging by myself; all my neighbours utter strangers to me,\nand not a friend on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs; wretched I\nwas, and deemed it impossible to be more so; but I had over-rated my\ngriefs, and was punished for my despondency.\n\n\"When some months had passed away, one spring morning, I remember it\nwell! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said, _a\nman_ wanted to see me. 'A man!' said I; 'What man wishes to speak with\nme?'\n\n\"'I don't know, mem, he is like a countryman.'\n\n\"He was shown in; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size.\nI was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were\nsingularly marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his\nmessage, and there was something in his air and manner that greatly\nalarmed me. 'So you said your name is so so?' said he again.\n\n\"'I did; pray, tell me what is your business with me?'\n\n\"'There is a lady at our house, who I suppose wishes to speak with\nyou.'\n\n\"'What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?'\n\n\"He named some place on the London road towards Berwick.\n\n\"'What lady can possibly be there,' said I, 'that knows any thing of\nme?'\n\n\"He looked at me again.--'Pray, mem, have you a sister? Or had you ever\nany that you know of?'\n\n\"This query paralyzed me. I sunk down on the sofa; but as soon as I\ncould speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him?\n\n\"'Only since Friday evening last,' said he. 'She was taken ill at the\ninn on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house,\nfor the sake of better and more quiet accommodation; but she has been\nvery ill,--_very_ ill, indeed. There is now hope that she will recover,\nbut she is still _very_ ill. I hope you are the lady she named when all\nwas given over; at all events, you must go and see.'\n\n\"Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise.\nWe reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless\nand impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which I found\nher! My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the\nwoeful spectacle! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or\nlift an eye, and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having\nsome days before been delivered of this dear child on my knee.\"\n\nAt this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing\nstrongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain\nhimself no longer. He started to his feet--stretched his arms toward\nher, and, after gasping a little for breath,--\"Wh--wh--what!\" said he,\nsighing, \"are you not then the _mother_ of little George?\"\n\n\"A poor substitute only for a better, sir; but the only parent he has\never known, or is likely to know.\"\n\n\"And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and\nshame, for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer\na kin to you than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and\nqualities of a female mind deserved admiration--But proceed. I am much\nto blame for interrupting you.\"\n\n\"I never for another moment departed from my sister's bed-side until she\nbreathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival.\nDuring that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or\ntake the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final\nexit; but then she gave me such a look!--So full of kindness and sorrow,\nthat language could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It\nwas a farewell look, which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never\nto be obliterated while that holds intercourse with humanity.\n\n\"The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of\nmy heart, with the mysterious circumstances which accompanied it,\ndeprived me for some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by\nnight, and my reflections during the day, were all so much blent and\ninter-mingled, and so wholly of the same tendency, that they became all\nas a dream together; so that I could not, on a retrospect, discover in\nthe least, nor ever can to this day, what part of my impressions were\nreal, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were the etchings of fancy\nimpressed on my distempered mind. If the man I mentioned before, who\nowned the house, had not looked after the necessary preparations for the\nfuneral, I know not how or when it would have been set about by any\norders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body, which they\nsuffered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly passive.\nThat such a thing as my sister's funeral was approaching, occurred but\nrarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of\nunexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped\naway, leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable\nconfusion.\n\n\"The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant\nweeping, in which I shed abundance of tears. I then manifested an\nardent desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly well. I\nconsidered him as the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and\nwell-descended family, and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon\nearth. When I first saw him, he was lying on an old woman's knee; and\nwhen I stooped to look at him, he, with a start of his whole frame,\nfixed his young unstable eyes on me, and stretched out his little spread\nhands toward me, in which position he remained steadily for a\nconsiderable time. This was so marked and uncommon, that all the\nstanders-by took notice of it; and the woman who held him said, 'See!\nsaw ye ever the like o' that? I never saw the like o' that a' my life!\nIt is surely impossible he can ken ye?'\n\n\"It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could\nnot help viewing it as a movement effected by the Great Spirit of\nuniversal nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his\nhelpless innocence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in\nwhich he had not another friend remaining, until he could think and act\nfor himself. I adopted him that moment in my heart as my son--I took him\ninto my arms as a part of myself!--That simple motion of my dear child\nfixed my resolution with respect to him at once, and that resolution\nnever has been altered nor injured in the smallest part.\n\n\"I hired a nurse for him; and, it being term time, gave up my house, and\nsold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to\na cottage at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally\nwith the nurse and child; and became so fond of him, that no previous\nperiod of my life, from the days of childhood, was ever so happy;\nindeed, my happiness was centered solely in him, and if he was well, all\nother earthly concerns vanished. I found, however, that after paying the\nrent of the house, the expences of the two funerals, and the nurse's\nwages, that my little stock was reduced nearly one-third; and fearing\nthat it would in a little while be wholly exhausted, I thought the\nsooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better; so leaving the\nremainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness or great\nnecessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden from your\nfarmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and\neducating him, independent of charitable assistance; and I cannot\ndescribe to you how happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of\nmy remaining property, with the small earnings of my own industry, was\nlikely to prove more than an equivalent to my yearly expences. I have\nfrom the very first acknowledged little George as my own son. I longed\nfor a retirement, where I should never be recognised by any former\nacquaintance. In such a place I thought my story might gain credit; nor\ncould I think in any degree to stain the name of my dear departed sister\nby any surmises or reflections that might in future attach to it by\ntelling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he really been\nmy son, I cannot judge; but instead of feeling any degradation at being\nsupposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I\ncould not bear the contrary to be supposed.\n\n\"Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable\nmystery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rectitude of her\nbehaviour, and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly\ncarry on an amour without suffering me to perceive any signs of it. She\nhad spoke but little to the people with whom I found her; but their\nimpressions were, that she was not married, and I durst not enquire\nfarther; for, rather than have discovered his father to be unworthy, I\nchose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it, and I could not think\nfavourably of one who had deserted her in such circumstances. There was\nno man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least suspect, if it was\nnot the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was the least\nlikely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw.\"\n\nHere Lindsey again sprung to his feet. \"Good God!\" said he, \"there is\nsomething occurs to my mind--the most extraordinary circumstance--if it\nbe really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surname, but\nthere is a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which\nrenders it absolutely necessary that I should be informed of this.\"\n\nJane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to\nmake it public, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in\nhis ear. She then whispered the name M'----y.\n\n\"What!\" said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, \"of the\nlate firm M'----, Reynolds and Co.?\"\n\n\"The same, sir.\"\n\nThe positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant\nexclamations that he uttered, cannot here be all described. The other\nthree personages in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his\nreason. After repeating, till quite out of breath, \"It is she! it is\nshe! it is the same! it is the same!\" and, pressing both her hands in\nhis, he exclaimed, \"Eternal Providence! how wonderful are thy ways, and\nhow visible is thy superintendance of human affairs, even in the common\nvicissitudes of life! but never was it so visible as in this! My dear\nchild,\" continued he, taking little George in his arms, who looked at\nhim with suspicion and wonder, \"by how many fatal and untoward events,\nall seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of human\ninterference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian! and how\nfirmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee!\nBut thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me; nor shall your\nbeautiful guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her\nvirtues have captivated. This house shall henceforth be a home to you\nboth, and all my friends shall be friends to you, for you are my own.\"\n\nHere the old lady sprung forward, and, laying hold of her son by the\nshoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. \"Consider what you are saying,\nLindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your\nfamily. You are raving mad--that child can no more be yours than it is\nmine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have\nindeed lost your reason? I say, where is the consistency in supposing\nthat child can be yours?\"\n\n\"It is impossible,\" said Robin.\n\n\"I say it's nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob,\" quoth Meg. \"Hand your\ntongue, ye ken naething about it--it's just as possible that it may be\nhis as another's--I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it's no comed there\nby sympathy! Od, if they war to come by sympathy\"----\n\nHere Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence,--a\ncircumstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,--for of\nall things he would have liked to have had Meg's ideas, at full length,\nof children being produced by sympathy.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Lindsey. \"I must have appeared extravagant in\nmy rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the\ncircumstances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very\nsoon, and very easily explained.\"\n\nHe then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another. Jane\nscarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for his\nrhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium of\namazement, which kept every other feeling in suspense.\n\nIn a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his\nhand.--\"Here is the last letter,\" said he, \"ever I received from my\nbrave and only brother; a short extract from which will serve fully to\nclear up the whole of this very curious business.\"\n\nHe then read as follows:--\"Thus, you see, that for the last fortnight\nthe hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and\ngrievous; but TO-MORROW will be decisive one way or another. I have a\nstrong prepossession that I will not survive the battle; yea, so deeply\nis the idea impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute\ncertainty; therefore, I must confide a secret with you which none in the\nworld know, or in the least think of, save another and myself. I was\nprivately married before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her\nperson, and amiable in her manners, but without any fortune. We\nresolved, for reasons that must be obvious to you, to keep our marriage\na secret, until I entered to the full possession of my estate, and if\npossible till my return; but now, (don't laugh at me, my dear brother,)\nbeing convinced that I shall never return, I entreat you, as a last\nrequest, to find her out and afford her protection. It is probable, that\nby this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia M'----y,\ndaughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm M'----y and\nReynolds. She left her home with me in private, at my earnest request,\nthough weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a little angel\nof mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of your\nfriendship and protection. The last letter that I had from her was dated\nfrom London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet\nfor Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near\nBristo-Port, you will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort\nour mother; and O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife! We\nhave an awful prospect before us, but we are a handful of brave\ndetermined friends, resolved to conquer or die together.\"\n\nThe old lady now snatched little George up in her arms, pressed him to\nher bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him.--\"He is indeed my\ngrandson! he is! he is!\" cried she. \"My own dear George's son, and he\nshall henceforth be cherished as my own.\"\n\n\"And he shall be mine too, mother,\" added Lindsey; \"and heir of\nall the land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so\ndisinterestedly adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still\nbe his mother, if she will accept of a heart that renders her virtues\nevery homage, and beats in unison with her own to every tone of pity and\nbenevolence.\"\n\nJane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while\nthe tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the\npleasing intelligence she had received of the honour of her regretted\nsister, and the rank of her child.--She could not answer a word--she\nlooked stedfastly at the carpet, through tears, as if examining how it\nwas wrought--then at a little pearl ring she wore on her finger, and\nfinally fell to adjusting some of little George's clothes. They were all\nsilent--It was a quaker meeting, and might have continued so much\nlonger, had not the spirit fortunately moved Meg.\n\n\"By my certy, laird! but ye hae made her a good offer! an' yet she'll\npretend to tarrow at takin't! But ye're sure o' her, tak my word for\nit.--Ye dinna ken women. Bless ye! the young hizzies mak aye the\ngreatest fike about the things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by\nmysel;--when Andrew Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i'\nthe dark, I wad hae cried whispering, 'Get away wi' ye! ye bowled-like\nshurf!--whar are ye comin pechin an' fuffin to me?' Bless your heart!\ngin Andrew had run away when I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an'\ngrippit him by the coat-tails, an' brought him back. Little wist I this\nmorning, an' little wist mae than I, that things war to turn out this\nway, an' that Jeany was to be our young lady! She was little like it\nthat night she gaed away greetin wi' the callant on her back! Dear Rob,\nman, quo' I to my billy, what had you and my lady to do wi' them?\nBecause her day an' yours are ower, do ye think they'll no be courting\nas lang as the warld stands; an' the less that's said about it the\nbetter--I said sae!\"\n\n\"And you said truly, Meg,\" rejoined Lindsey. \"Now, pray, Miss Jane, tell\nme what you think of my proposal?\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" answered she, \"you overpower me. I am every way unworthy\nof the honour you propose for my acceptance; but as I cannot part with\nmy dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take\ncare of him.\"\n\n\"Well, I consent that you shall stay with my mother as her companion. A\nlonger acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of\nevents has tended so strongly to excite.\"\n\nIt was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds\nof matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their\nacquaintances. Barnaby is the laird's own shepherd, and overseer of all\nhis rural affairs, and he does not fail at times to remind his gentle\nmistress of his dream about the _eagle_ and the _corbie_.\n\n\nEND OF THE WOOL-GATHERER.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUNT OF EILDON.\n\nANCIENT.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\n\"I hope the king will not hunt to-day,\" said Gale, as he sat down on the\ntop of the South Eildon, and stretched out his lazy limbs in the sun.\n\"If he keep within doors to-day with his yelping beagles, I shall have\none day's peace and ease; and my lambs shall have one day's peace and\nease; and poor Trimmy shall have one day's peace and ease too. Come\nhither to me, Trimmy, and tell me what is the reason that you will not\nhunt with the king's two beagles?\"\n\nTrimmy came near, laid her paw on her master's knee, and looked him in\nthe face, but she could not tell him what was the reason that she would\nnot hunt with the king's two beagles, Mooly and Scratch.\n\n\"I say, tell me my good Trimmy, what you ail at these beautiful hounds?\nYou wont to be the best follower of a track in all the Merse and Leader;\nbut now, whenever you hear the sound of the horn, and the opening swell\nof the harriers, you take your tail between your legs and set off for\nhome, as there were something on the hill that were neither good nor\ncannie. You are a very sensible beast, Trimmy, but you have some strange\nfancies and prejudices that I cannot comprehend.\"\n\nTrimming cocked her ears, and looked towards the Abbey, then at her\nmaster, and then at the Abbey again.\n\n\"Ah! I fear you hear them coming that you are cocking your ears at that\nrate. Then if that be the case, good morning to you, Trimmy.\"\n\nIt was neither the king nor his snow-white beagles that Trimmy winded,\nbut poor Croudy, Gale's neighbour shepherd, who was coming sauntering up\nthe brae, with his black lumpish dog at his foot, that was fully as\nstupid as himself, and withal as good-natured. Croudy was never lifting\nhis eyes from the ground, but moving on as if he had been enumerating\nall the little yellow flowers that grew on the hill. Yet it was not for\nwant of thought that Croudy was walking in that singular position, with\nhis body bent forward, and the one ear turned down towards the ground,\nand the other up. No, no! for Croudy was trying to think all that he\ncould; and all that he could do he could make nothing of it. Croudy had\nseen and heard wonderful things! \"Bless me and my horn!\" said he, as he\nsat down on a stone to rest himself, and try if he could bring his\nthoughts to any rallying point. It was impossible--they were like a hive\nof bees when the queen is taken from their head.\n\nHe took out the little crooked ewe-horn that he kept as a charm; he had\ngot it from his mother, and it had descended to him from many\ngenerations; he turned it round in the one hand, and then round in the\nother hand--he put it upon his finger and twirled it. \"Bless me an' my\nhorn!\" said he again. Then leaning forward upon his staff, he looked\naslant at the ground, and began to moralize. \"It is a growing\nworld--ay--the gerse grows; the lambs eat it--they grow--ay--we eat\nthem--we grow--there it goes!--men, women, dogs, bairns, a' eat--a'\ngrow; the yird eats up a'--it grows--men eat women--they grow--what\ncomes o' them?--Hoh! I'm fixed now!--I'm at the end o' my tether.--I\nmight gang up the hill to Gale, an' tell him what I hae seen an' what I\nhae heard; but I hae four great fauts to that chiel. In the first place,\nhe's a fool--good that! In the second place, he's a scholar, an' speaks\nEnglish--bad! In the third place, he likes the women--warst ava!--and,\nfourthly and lastly, he misca's a' the words, and ca's the streamers\nthe Roara Boriawlis--ha! ha! ha!--Wha wad converse wi' a man, or wha\n_can_ converse wi' a man, that ca's the streamers the Roara Boriawlis?\nFools hae aye something about them no like ither fock! Now, gin I war to\ngang to sic a man as that, an' tell him that I heard a dog speakin', and\nanother dog answering it, what wad he say? He wad speak English; sae ane\nwad get nae sense out o' him. If I war to gang to the Master o' Seaton\nan' tak my aith, what wad he say? Clap me up i' the prison for a daft\nman an' a fool. I couldna bide that. Then again, if we lose our\nking--an' him the last o' the race--Let me see if I can calculate what\nwad be the consequence? The English--Tut! the English! wha cares for\nthem? But let me see now--should the truth be tauld or no tauld?--That's\nthe question. What's truth? Ay, there comes the crank! Nae man can tell\nthat--for what's truth to ane is a lee to another--Mumps, ye're very\nhard on thae fleas the day--Truth?--For instance; gin my master war to\ncome up the brae to me an' say, 'Croudy, that dog's useless,' that wadna\nbe truth to me--But gin I war to say to him, 'Master, I heard a dog\nspeak, an' it said sae an' sae; an' there was another dog answered it,\nan' it said sae an' sae,' that wad be truth to me; but then it wadna be\ntruth to him--Truth's just as it is ta'en--Now, if a thing may be outher\ntruth or no truth, then a' things are just the same--No--that disna haud\nneither--Mumps, ye're no gaun to leave a sample o' thae fleas the day,\nman--Look up, like a farrant beast--have ye nae pity on your master, nor\nnae thought about him ava, an' him in sic a plisky?--I wadna be just sae\nlike a stump an' I war you, man----Bless me an' my horn! here's the\nBoreawlis comin' on me--here's the northern light.\"\n\n\"Good-morrow to you, Croudy.\"\n\n\"Humph!\"\n\n\"You seem to be very thoughtful and heavy-hearted to-day, honest Croudy.\nI fear pretty Pery has given you a bad reception last night.\"\n\n\"Humph!--women!--women!\"\n\n\"I hope she did not mention the kiln-logie, Croudy? That was a sad\nbusiness! Croudy; some men are ill to know!\"\n\n\"See, whaten white scares are yon, Gale, aboon the Cowdyknowes an'\nGladswood linn? Look ye, they spread an' tail away a' the gate to the\nLammer-Law--What ca' ye yon, Gale?\"\n\n\"Some exhalation of the morning.\"\n\n\"What?--Bless me an' my horn! that's warst ava!--I thought it wad be\nsome Boriawlis, Gale--some day Boriawlis; but I didna think o' aught sae\nhigh as this--ha! ha! ha! ha!\"\n\nCroudy went his way laughing along the side of the hill, speaking to\nMumps one while, moralizing about truth and the language of dogs and\nfairies another, and always between taking a hearty laugh at Gale. \"Come\naway, Mumps,\" said he; \"I can crack some wi' you, though ye're rather\nslow i' the uptake; but I can crack nane wi' a man that ca's the\nstreamers a Roara Boriawlis, an' a white clud, an' Exaltation--Na, na,\nthat will never do.\"\n\nCroudy sauntered away down into the Bourgeon to be out of sight, and\nGale went lightsomely away to the top of the North-east Eildon; and\nthere, on one of the angles of the old Roman Camp, laid him down to\nenjoy the glorious prospect; and, sure, of all the lovely prospects in\nour isle, this is the most lovely. What must it have been in those days\nwhen all the ruins of monastery, tower, and citadel, which still make\nthe traveller to stand in wonder and admiration, were then in their full\nsplendour. Traveller! would you see Scotland in all its wild and\nmajestic grandeur? sail along its western firths from south to\nnorth--Would you see that grandeur mellowed by degrees into softness?\nlook from the top of Ben-Lomond--But would you see an amphitheatre of\n_perfect beauty_, where nothing is wanting to enrich the scene? seat\nyourself on the spot where Gale now lay, at the angle of the Roman Camp,\non the top of the North-east Eildon.\n\nShort time did he enjoy the prospect and the quiet in which he\ndelighted. First the heads of two noblemen appeared on the hill beneath\nhim, then came a roe by him at full speed. Trimmy would fain have hunted\nher, but as the shepherd deemed that the business was some way connected\nwith the royal sport, he restrained her. The two noblemen some time\nthereafter sounded a bugle, and then in a moment the king and his\nattendants left the Abbey at full speed; and how beautiful was their\nwinding ascent up the hill! The king had betted with the Earl of Hume\nand Lord Belhaven, seven steers, seven palfreys, seven deer-greyhounds,\nand seven gold rings, that his two snow-white hounds, Mooly and Scratch,\nwould kill a roe-deer started on any part of the Eildon hills, and leave\nthe Abbey walk with him after she was started. After the bet was fairly\ntaken, the king said to the two noblemen, \"You are welcome to your\nloss, my lords. Do you know that I could bet the half of my realm on the\nheads of these two hounds?\"\n\nThe two lords held their peace, but they were determined to win if they\ncould, and they did not blow the horn, as agreed on, immediately when\nthe roe started, but sauntered about, to put off time, and suffer the\ntrail to cool. The two hounds were brought up, and loosed at the spot;\nthey scarcely shewed any symptoms of having discovered the scent. The\nking shook his head; and Hume, who loved the joke dearly, jeered the\nking about his wager, which his majesty only answered by speaking to one\nof the hounds that stood next to him. \"Ah! Mooly, Mooly, if you deceive\nme, it is the first time; but I have another matter to think on than you\nthis morning, Mooly.\" Mooly fawned on her royal master; jumped up at the\nstirrup, and took his foot playfully in her mouth, while Keryl, the\nking's steed, laid back his ears, and snapped at her, in a half-angry,\nhalf-playful mood. This done, Mooly turned her long nose to the wind;\nscented this way and that way, and then scampering carelessly over the\nbrow of the hill, she opened in a tone so loud and so sprightly that it\nmade all the Eildons sound in chorus to the music. Scratch joined with\nher elegant treble, and away they went like two wild swans, sounding\nover the hill.\n\n\"Trimmy! Trimmy! my poor Trimmy!\" cried Gale, vexed and astonished;\n\"Trimmy, halloo! hie, hunt the deer, Trimmy! Here, here, here!\"\n\nNo; Trimmy would never look over her shoulder, but away she ran with all\nher might home to Eildon-Hall. \"The plague be in the beast,\" said Gale\nto himself, \"if ever I saw any thing like that! There is surely\nsomething about these two hounds that is scarcely right.\"\n\nRound and round the hills they went side by side, and still the riders\nkept close up with them. The trail seemed to be warm, and the hounds\nkeen, but yet no deer was to be discovered. They stretched their course\nto the westward, round Cauldshields Hill, back over Bothendean Moor, and\nagain betook them to the Eildons; still no deer was to be seen! The two\nhounds made a rapid stretch down towards Melrose; the riders spurred in\nthe same direction. The dogs in a moment turning short, went out between\nthe two eastern hills, distancing all the riders, whom they left\nstraggling up the steep after them as they could, and when these came\nover the height there was a fine roe-deer lying newly slain, and the two\nsnow-white hounds panting and rolling themselves on the grass beside\nher. The king claimed his wager, but Hume objected, unless his majesty\ncould prove that it was the same deer that they had started at the same\nplace in the morning. The king had the greatest number of voices in his\nfavour, but the earl stood to his point. \"Is it true, my liege lord,\"\nsaid an ancient knight to the king, \"that these two beautiful hounds\nhave never yet been unlieshed without killing their prey?\"\n\n\"Never,\" returned the king.\n\n\"And is it equally true,\" continued the old knight, \"that to this day\nthey have never been seen kill either roe, deer, or any other creature?\"\n\n\"That is a most extraordinary circumstance,\" said the king; \"pause until\nI recollect--No; I do not know that any eye hath ever yet seen them take\ntheir prey.\"\n\n\"I heard it averred last night,\" said the old man, \"that if they are\nkept sight of for a whole day the deer is never seen, nor do they ever\ncatch any thing; and that the moment they get out of sight, there the\ndeer is found slain, nobody knows how. I took note of it, and I have\nseen it this day verified. Pray, is this a fact, my liege?\"\n\n\"I never before thought of it, or noted it,\" said the king; \"but as far\nas my memory serves me, I confess that it has uniformly been as you\nsay.\"\n\n\"Will your majesty suffer me to examine these two hounds?\" said the old\nman. \"Methinks there is something very odd about them--Sure there was\nnever any animal on earth had eyes or feet such as they have.\"\n\nThe two beagles kept aloof, and pretended to be winding some game round\nthe top of the hill.\n\n\"They will not come now,\" said the king; \"you shall see them by and by.\"\n\n\"If consistent with your majesty's pleasure,\" continued the aged knight,\n\"where--how--or when did you get these two hounds?\"\n\n\"I got them in a most extraordinary way, to be sure!\" replied the king,\nin a thoughtful and hesitating mood.\n\n\"Your majesty does not then chuse to say how, or where, or from whom it\nwas that you had them?\" said the old knight.\n\nThe king shook his head.\n\n\"I will only simply ask this,\" continued he; \"and I hope there is no\noffence.--Is it true that you got these hounds at the very same time\nthat the beautiful Elen, and Clara of Rosline, were carried off by the\nfairies?\"\n\nThe king started--fixed his eyes upon the ground--raised his hands, and\nseemed gasping for breath. All the lords were momentarily in the same\nposture; the query acted on them all like an electrical shock. The old\nman seemed to enjoy mightily the effect produced by his insinuations--He\ndrew still nearer to the king.\n\n\"What is it that troubles your majesty?\" said he. \"What reflections have\nmy simple questions raised in your mind?--Your majesty, I am sure, can\nhave no unpleasant reflections on that score?\"\n\n\"Would to the Virgin Mary that it were even so!\" said the king.\n\n\"How is it possible,\" continued the officious old man, \"that any thing\nrelating to two dogs can give your majesty trouble? Pray tell us all\nabout them--Who was it you got them from?\"\n\n\"I do not know, and if I did----\"\n\n\"Would you know him again if you saw him?\"\n\nThe king looked at the old man, and held his peace.\n\n\"Did you buy them, or borrow them?\" continued he.\n\n\"Neither!\" was the answer.\n\n\"What then did you give in exchange for them?\"\n\n\"Only a small token.\"\n\n\"And pray, if your majesty pleases, what might that token be?\"\n\n\"Who dares to ask that?\" said the king, with apparent trouble of mind.\n\n\"Would you know your pledge again if you saw it?\" said the old man,\nsarcastically.\n\n\"Who are you, sir?\" said the king, proudly, \"that dares to question your\nsovereign in such a manner?\"\n\n\"Who am I!\" said the old man. \"That is a good jest! That is such a\nquestion to ask at one who has scarcely ever been from your side, since\nyou were first laid in your cradle!\"\n\n\"I know the face,\" said the king, \"but all this time I cannot remember\nwho you are.--My Lord of Hume, do you know who the reverend old\ngentleman is?\" And in saying this his majesty turned a little aside with\nthe earl.\n\n\"Do I know who he is?\" said Hume. \"Yes, by Saint Lawrence I do--I know\nhim as well as I do your majesty. Let me see--It is very singular that I\ncannot recollect his name--I have seen the face a thousand times--Is he\nnot some abbot, or confessor, or----No--Curse me, but I believe he is\nthe devil!\"\n\nThe earl said this in perfect jocularity, because he could not remember\nthe old man's name; but when he looked at the king, he perceived that\nhis eyes were fixed on him in astonishment. The earl's, as by sympathy,\nlikewise settled by degrees into as much seriousness as they were\nmasters of, and there the two stood for a considerable time, gazing at\none another, like two statues.\n\n\"I was only saying so in jest, my liege,\" said Hume; \"I did not once\nthink that the old gentleman was the devil. Why are you thoughtful?\"\n\n\"Because, now when I think of it, he hinted at some things which I am\ncertain no being on earth knew of, save myself, and another, who cannot\npossibly divulge them.\"\n\nThey both turned slowly about at the same instant, curious to take\nanother look of this mysterious old man; but when fairly turned round\nthey did not see him.\n\n\"What has become of the old man,\" said the king, \"that spoke to me just\nnow?\"\n\n\"Here, sire!\" said one.\n\n\"Here!\" said another.\n\n\"Here!\" said a third; all turning at the same time to the spot where\nthe old man and his horse stood, but neither of them were there.\n\n\"How is this?\" said the king, \"that you have let him go from among you\nwithout noting it?\"\n\n\"He must have melted into air, he and his horse both,\" said they; \"else\nhe could not otherwise have left us without being observed.\"\n\nThe king blessed himself in the name of the Holy Virgin, and all the\nchief saints in the calendar. The Earl of Hume swore by the greater part\nof them, and cursed himself that he had not taken a better look at the\ndevil when he was so near him, as no one could tell if ever he would\nhave such a chance again. Douglas said he hoped there was little doubt\nof that.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nThe hunt was now over, and Gale's lambs were all scattered abroad; he\nthrew off his coat and tried to gather them, but he soon found that,\nwithout the assistance of Trimmy, it was impossible; so he was obliged\nto go home and endeavour to persuade her again out to the hill, by\ntelling her that Mooly and Scratch had both left it. Trimmy then came\njoyfully, and performed in half an hour what her master could not have\neffected before night.\n\nWhen he had gotten them all collected, and settled at their food, he\nwent away in the evening to seek for his friend Croudy, to have some\namusement with him. He found him lying in a little hollow, conversing\nwith himself, and occasionally with Mumps, who paid very little\nattention to what he said. He now and then testified his sense of the\nhonour intended to him, by giving two or three soft indolent strokes\nwith his tail upon the ground, but withall neither lifted his head nor\nopened his eyes. Gale addressed his friend Croudy in a jocund and\nrallying manner, who took no notice of it, but continued to converse\nwith Mumps.\n\n\"Ye're nae great gallaunt, after a' now, Mumps. Gin I had been you, man,\nan' had seen sic twa fine beasts as Mooly an' Scratch come to our hills,\nI wad hae run away to them, an' fiddled about them, an' smelt their\nnoses, an' kissed them, an' cockit up my tail on my rigging wi' the best\no' them; but instead o' that, to tak the pet an' rin away far outbye,\nan' there sit turnin up your nose an' bow-wowing as ye war a\nburial-boding!--hoo, man, it is very bairnly like o' ye! Humph! fools do\nay as they are bidden! Ye're nae fool, Mumps, for ye seldom do as ye're\nbidden.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Croudy,\" said Gale, \"does Mumps really run away in a panic\nwhen he perceives the king's hounds?\"\n\n\"_Panic when he perceives the king's hounds!_ Are ye gaun to keep on at\nbletherin' English? Tell me, ye see--for if ye be, I'm gaun to clatter\nnane to ye.\"\n\n\"Dear Croudy, I have often told you that there is not such a thing as\nEnglish and Scotch languages; the one is merely a modification of the\nother, a refinement as it were\"----\n\n\"Ay, an _exaltation_ like--ation! ation! I'm sure nae Scot that isna a\nfool wad ever let that sound, _ation_, come out o' his mouth. Mumps,\nwhat say ye tilt?\"\n\n\"But, Croudy, I have news to tell you that will delight you very much;\nonly, ere I begin, tell me seriously, Does your dog really run off when\nhe sees or hears the king's two white hounds?\"\n\n\"Really he does--Is that ony wonder? D'ye think Mumps sic a fool as no\nto ken a witch by a brute beast?\"\n\n\"What do you mean to insinuate, Croudy?\"\n\n\"_Sinuate_--What's that?\"\n\n\"I mean, What would you infer when you talk of witches? I have some\nstrange doubts about these dogs myself.\"\n\n\"Can you keep a secret?\"\n\n\"Yes, if it is worth keeping.\"\n\n\"At ony rate, swear that if ever you do tell it, it is not to be in\nEnglish. Nane o' your _awlis's_ an' _ations_ in it. Gale, I hae the\nmaist wonderfu' story to tell ye that ever happened sin' Nimrod first\ngaed out to the hunting wi' a bull-dog an' a pouch-fu' stanes. Ye see,\nyesterday at morn, when the hunt began, I clamb up into the Eildon tree,\nan' haid mysel' amang the very thickest o' its leaves, where I could see\nevery thing, but naething could see me. I saw the twa white hounds a'\nthe gate, but nae appearance of a deer; an' aye they came nearer an'\nnearer to me, till at last I saw a bonny, braw, young lady, a' clad i'\nwhite, about a hunder paces frae me, an' she was aye looking back an'\nrinning as gin she wantit to be at the Eildon tree. When she saw the\nhounds comin on hard behind her, she cried out; but they soon o'ertook\nher, threw her down, an' tore her, an' worried her; an' I heard her\nmakin' a noise as gin she had been laughin' ae while an' singin'\nanother, an' O I thought her sang was sweet; it was something about the\nfairies. Weel, this scene, sae contrair to a' nature, didna end here,\nfor I heard the tae dog sayin' to the tither, in plain language,--'Wha's\nthis has been the deer to-day?' An it answered again an' said, 'Lady\nMarrion of Coomsley, ye may see by her goud rings; she is the\ntwenty-third, and our task will soon be dune.'\n\n'Sister, read me my riddle,' said the first.\n\n    'I ate my love an' I drank my love,\n      An' my love she gae me light;\n    An' the heart o' the deer may lie right near\n      Where it lay yesternight.'\n\n'Ha! that's nae riddle!' said the other; 'little does some wat what\nthey're to eat an' what they're to drink the night! Can ye tell me,\nsister, if the wicked deed will be done?--Will the king die to-night?\n\n    'The poison's distill'd, and the monk is won,\n    And to-night I fear it will be done.\n    Hush!--hush!--we are heard an' seen;\n    Wae be to the ears, and wae be to the een!'\n\n\"An wi' that, they rowed themsels on the bonny corpse; and when I lookit\nagain, there was a fine, plump, bausined roe-deer lying, an' the blude\nstreamin' frae her side; an' down comes the king an' his men, an' took\nher away hame to their supper.\"\n\n\"Now, Croudy, of all the tales I ever heard that is the most improbable\nand unnatural! But it is too singular and out of the common course of\nnature for you to have framed it; and besides, I never knew you to tell\na manifest lie--Are you certain that you did not dream it?\"\n\n\"How could I dream on the top of a tree? Ye may either believe it or no\nas ye like--it's a' true.\"\n\n\"I was sure there was something more than ordinary about these dogs; but\nwhat to make of your story I know not. Saint Waldave be our shield! Do\nyou think the king and his nobles have been feasting upon changed human\ncreatures all this while? There is something in the whole business so\nrevolting to human nature, a man cannot think of it! It seems, too, that\nthere is a plot against the life of the king--What shall we do in\nthis?--The fairies have again been seen at the Eildon Tree, that is\ncertain; and it is said some more young people are missing.\"\n\n\"They'll soon hae us a' thegither--I like that way o' turnin' fock into\ndeers an' raes, and worrying them, warst ava--Mumps, lad, how wad ye\nlike to be turned into a deer, an' worried an' eaten?--Aigh, man! ye\n_wad_ like it ill! I think I see how ye wad lay yoursel out for\nfear--Ha, ha! I wad like to see ye get a bit hunt, man, if I thought ye\nwad win away wi' the life--I wad like to see ye streek yoursel for\naince.\"\n\n\"I wonder, Croudy, after seeing such a sight as you have just now\ndescribed, that you can descend from that to speak such nonsense.\"\n\n\"Tongues maun wag--an' when they gang it's no for naething--It's a queer\nthing speaking!--Mumps, ye can speak nane, man--It's no for want of a\ntongue, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"Let us consider what's to be done--The king should be warned.\"\n\n\"I dinna see what's to hinder you to speak, Mumps, as weel as ony white\nbeagle i' the country.\"\n\n\"I have it--I will go home directly and tell pretty Pery--she will\napprize the abbot, and we shall have the two hounds, Mooly and Scratch,\nburnt at the stake to-morrow.\"\n\n\"You tell Pery? No; that will never do; for you will speak English--That\ntale winna tell in English; for the twa witches, or fairies, or changed\nfock, or whatever they may be, didna speak that language themsels--sin'\nthe thing is to be tauld, I'll rather tell Pery mysel, if it is the same\nthing to you.\"\n\nThis Pery was a young volatile maiden at Eildon Hall, who was over head\nand ears in love with Gale. She would have given the whole world for\nhim; and in order to tease him somewhat, she had taken a whim of\npretending to be in love with Croudy. Croudy hated all the women, and\nmore particularly Pery, who had been the plague of his life; but of late\nhe had heard some exaggerated accounts of the kind sentiments of her\nheart respecting him, which had wonderfully altered Croudy, although he\nstill kept up as well as he could the pretence of disliking the sex. He\nwent to Pery that evening as she was gathering in some clothes from the\nbushes, and desired her, with a most important face, to meet him at the\nMoss Thorn in half an hour, for he had something to tell her that would\nsurprise her.\n\n\"Indeed and that I will with all my heart, Croudy,\" said she; \"how glad\nI am that I have got you this length! I can guess what your secret will\nbe.\"\n\n\"Ye can do nae sic thing,\" said Croudy, \"nor nae woman that ever was\nborn.\"\n\n\"I'll wager three kisses with you, Croudy, at the Old Moss Thorn, that I\ndo,\" returned she.\n\nCroudy hung his head to one side, and chuckled, and crowed, and laid on\nthe ground with his staff; and always now and then cast a sly look-out\nat the wick of his eye to Pery.\n\n\"It's a queer creature a woman,\" said Croudy--\"very bonny creature\nthough!\"\n\n\"Well, Croudy, I'll meet you at the Moss Thorn,\" said Pery, \"and pay\nyou your wager too, provided you have either spirit to ask, or accept of\nit when offered.\"\n\nCroudy went away laughing till his eyes blinded with tears, and laying\non the ground with his stick.--\"I watna what I'll do now,\" said he to\nhimself, \"little impudent thing that she is!--She's eneugh to pit a body\nmad!--Mumps--O, man, ye're an unfarrant beast!--Three kisses at the Moss\nThorn!--I wish I had this meeting by!--Mumps, I never saw sic an\nunfeasible creature as you, man, when ane thinks about a bonny woman--A\nwoman!--What is a woman?--Let me see!--'Tis no easy to ken!--But I ken\nthis--that a ewe lamb is a far nicer, bonnier, sweeter, innocenter,\nlittle creature than a toop lamb. Oh! I wish it war night, for I'm no\nweel ava!--Mumps, ye're a perfect blockhead, man!\"\n\nPrecisely while this was going on at Eildon-Hall, there were two ladies\nmet hurriedly on the Abbey Walk. No one knew who they were, or whence\nthey came, but they were lovely beyond expression, although their eyes\nmanifested a kind of wild instability. Their robes were white as snow,\nand they had that light, elegant, sylph-like appearance, that when they\nleaned forward to the evening air, one could hardly help suspecting that\nthey would skim away in it like twin doves.\n\n\"Sister,\" said the one, \"haste and tell me what we are to do?\"\n\n\"There is much to do to-night,\" said the other. \"That clown who saw us,\nand heard us speak, will blab the news; and then, think what the\nconsequences may be! He must be silenced, and that instantly.\"\n\n\"And tell me,\" said the first, \"is the plot against the king's life to\nbe put in execution to-night?\"\n\n\"I fear it is,\" answered the other; \"and the abbot, his own kinsman, is\nin it.\"\n\n\"Alas, sister, what shall we do! Give me Philamy's rod, and trust the\nclown to me. But do you make all possible haste, and find your way into\nthe banquet hall, and be sure to remain there in spite of all\nopposition.\"\n\nThe two sisters parted; and she that got the wand from the other\nrepaired straight to the Moss Thorn, where honest Croudy, and his dog\nMumps, were lying at a little distance from each other; the one very\nbusy biting for fleas, that he supposed had made a lodgment among his\nrough matted hair, and the other conversing with himself about the\nproperties of women, fairies, and witches. All of a sudden he beheld\nthis beautiful angelic creature coming towards him, which made his heart\nthrill within him.\n\n\"Saint Mary be my guide!\" exclaimed Croudy to himself; \"saw ever ony\nbody the like o' yon? I declare Pery has dressed hersel like a princess\nto come an' speak to me!--An' to think o' me kissing a creature like\nyon! I maun do it, too, or else I'll never hear the end o't.--Och! what\nwill I do!--I'll lie down an' pretend to be sleepin.\"\n\nCroudy drew his plaid up over his face, stretched out his limbs, and\nsnored as in a profound sleep. The fair lady came up, gave him three\nstrokes with her wand, and uttered certain words at every stroke; and,\nlo! the whole mortal frame of Croudy was in five seconds changed into\nthat of a huge bristly boar! The transformation was brought about so\nsuddenly, and Mumps was so much engaged, that he never once noticed, in\nthe slightest degree, till all was over, and the lady had withdrawn. Let\nany man judge of the honest colley's astonishment, when, instead of his\nmaster, he beheld the boar standing hanging his ears, and shaking his\nhead at him. He betook himself to immediate flight, and ran towards the\nhouse faster than ever he ran in his life, yelping all the way for\nperfect fright. Croudy was very little better himself. At first he\nsupposed that he was in a dream, and stood a long time considering of\nit, in hopes the fantasy would go off; but on seeing the consternation\nof Mumps, he looked first to the one side, and then to the other, and\nperceiving his great bristly sides and limbs, he was seized with\nindescribable terror, and fled at full speed. It is well known what a\nridiculous figure a hog makes at any time when frightened, and exerting\nitself to escape from the supposed danger--there is not any thing so\ncalculated to make one laugh--his stupid apprehension of some\napproaching mischief--the way that he fixes his head and listens--gives\na grunt like the crack of a musket, and breaks away again. Every one who\nhas witnessed such a scene, will acknowledge, that it is a masterpiece\nof the ludicrous. Consider, then, what it would be to see one in such a\nfright as this poor beast was, and trying to escape from himself;\nrunning grunting over hill and dale, hanging out his tongue with\nfatigue, and always carrying the object of his terror along with him. It\nwas an ineffectual exertion of mind to escape from matter; for, though\nCroudy's form and nature were changed, he still retained the small and\ncrude particles of the reasoning principle which he had before. All\nfeelings else were, however, for the present swallowed up in utter\ndismay, and he ran on without any definitive aim, farther than a kind of\npropensity to run to the end of the world. He did not run a great way\nfor all that; for he lost his breath in a very short time; but even in\nthat short time, he run himself into a most imminent danger.\n\nSquire Fisher of Dernaway Tower had a large herd of cows--they were all\nstanding in the loan, as the milking green is called in that country,\nand the maidens were engaged in milking them, singing the while in full\nchorus, (and a sweet and enlivening chorus it was, for the evening was\nmild and serene), when down comes this unearthly boar into the loan, all\nfatigued as he was, gaping and running on without stop or stay. The kine\nsoon perceived that there was something super-human about the creature,\nfor even the most dull of animals have much quicker perceptions than\nmankind in these matters; and in one moment they broke all to the gate\nas they had been mad, overturning the milk, maidens, and altogether. The\nboar ran on; so did the kine, cocking their heads and roaring in terror,\nas if every one of them had been bewitched, or possessed by some evil\nspirit. It was a most dismal scene!--The girls went home with the rueful\ntidings, that a mad boar had come into the loan, and bitten the whole\nherd, which was all run off mad, along with the furious and dreadful\nanimal. The dogs were instantly closed in for fear of further danger to\nthe country; and all the men of the village armed themselves, and\nsallied out to surround and destroy this outrageous monster.\n\nIt chanced, however, that the boar in his progress ran into a large\nfield of strong standing corn, which so impeded his course that he fell\ndown breathless, and quite exhausted; and thus he lay stretched at full\nlength, panting in a furrow, while all the men of the country were\nrunning round and round him, every one with a sword, spear, or fork,\nready to run into his body.\n\nCroudy, or the Boar, as it is now more proper to designate him, got here\nsome time to reflect. He found that he was transformed by witchcraft or\nenchantment, and as he had never looked up from under his plaid during\nthe moments of his transformation, he conceived it to have been the\nbeautiful and wicked Pery that had wrought this woful change upon him;\ntherefore he had no hopes of regaining his former shape, save in her\nreturning pity and compassion; and he had strong hopes that she would\nere long relent, as he had never wilfully done her any ill. Pery knew\nnothing about the matter; but actually went up with a heart as light as\na feather to have some sport with Croudy at the Old Thorn; and when she\nfound that he was not there, she laughed and went home again, saying to\nherself, that she knew he durst not stand such an encounter.\n\nThe poor boar arose from his furrow in the midst of the field of corn,\nas soon as it was day-light next morning, and with a heavy and forlorn\nheart went away back to the Old Moss Thorn, in hopes that the cruel Pery\nwould seek him there, and undo the enchantment. When he came, he\ndiscovered honest Mumps lying on the very spot where he had last seen\nhis master in his natural shape. He had sought it again over night,\nnotwithstanding the horrible fright that he had got, for he knew not\nwhere else to find his master; and stupid as he was, yet, like all the\nrest of his species, he lived only in his master's eye. He was somewhat\nalarmed when he saw the boar coming slowly toward him, and began first\nto look over the one shoulder, and then over the other, as if meditating\nan escape; but, seeing that it came grunting in such a peaceable and\nfriendly manner, Mumps ventured to await the issue, and by the time the\nmonster approached within twenty paces of him, this faithful animal went\ncowring away to meet him, prostrated himself at the boar's feet, and\nshowed every symptom of obedience and affection. The boar, in return,\npatted him with his cloven hoof, and stroaked him with his bristly\ncheek. Matters were soon made up--thenceforward they were inseparable.\n\nThe boar lay all that day about the Moss Thorn, and Mumps lay in his\nbosom, but no pitying damsel, witch, or fairy, came near him. He grew\nextremely hungry in the evening, and was deeply distressed what to do\nfor food, for he pitied Mumps more than himself. At length he tried to\nplow up the earth with his nose, as he remembered of having seen swine\ndo before, but at that he made small progress, doing it very awkwardly,\nand with great pain to his face. Moreover, for all his exertion, he\nfound nothing to eat, save one or two moss-corns, and a ground walnut,\nwith which he was obliged to content himself; and, for his canine\nfriend, there was nothing at all.\n\nNext morning he saw his neighbour servants seeking for him, and calling\nhis name, but he could make them no answer, save by long and mournful\nsounds between a grunt and groan. He drew near to several of them, but\nthey regarded him in no other light than as a boar belonging to some one\nin the neighbourhood, straying in the fields. His case was most\ndeplorable; but as he still conceived there was one who knew his\nsituation well, he determined to seek her. He went down to Eildon-Hall,\nwith the faithful Mumps walking close by his side--tried to work his way\ninto the laundry, but being repulsed, he waited with patience about the\ndoors for an opportunity to present himself before Pery. She came out at\nlength, and went away singing to the well. The boar followed, uttering\nthe most melancholy sounds that ever issued from the chest of distressed\nanimal. Pery could not help noticing him a little. \"What strange animal\ncan this be?\" said she to herself; but perceiving that Mumps too was\nfollowing her, her attention was soon directed solely to him.\n\n\"Alas, poor Mumps,\" said she, \"you are famishing. What can be become of\nyour master?\"\n\nThe boar laid his ungraceful foot softly on that of Pery, looked\nruefully in her face, and uttered a most melancholly sound; as much as\nto say, \"You know well what is become of him! Have you no pity nor\nremorse in your heart?\"\n\nIt was impossible Pery could comprehend this. She judged, like others,\nthat the animal had strayed from home, and was complaining to her for\nfood. She looked at him, and thought him a very docile and valuable\nswine, and one that would soon be ready for the knife. He was astonished\nat her apparent indifference, as well as moved with grief and vengeance,\nseeing the abject state to which she had reduced him; and in his heart\nhe cursed the whole sex, deeming them all imps of Satan, witches, and\nenchantresses, each one. He followed her back to the house.\n\n\"Come in, Mumps,\" said she, \"and you shall have your breakfast for the\nsake of him you belonged to, whatever is become of him, poor fellow!\"\n\nThe boar ran forward, and kneeled at her feet moaning, on which she\nkicked him, and drove him away, saying, \"What does the vile beast want\nwith me? Mumps, come you in and get some meat, honest brute.\"\n\nMumps would not come in, but when the boar was expelled, turned back\nwith him, looking very sullen. She brought him out a bicker of cold\nparritch mixed with milk, but he would not taste them until the boar had\nfirst taken his share; after which they went and lay down in the yard\ntogether, the dog in the boar's bosom. Thus did they continue for many\ndays. At length the master of Eildon had the boar cried at the\nchurch-door, and at the cross of Melrose, and as no one appeared to\nclaim him, he put him up for slaughter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nBut to return from this necessary digression.--The king and his nobles\nhad a banquet in the Abbey that night on which Croudy was changed, and\nit was agreed by all present, that the venison of the roe-deer of Eildon\nexceeded in quality that of any other part of the kingdom. The king\nappeared thoughtful and absent during the whole of the evening; and at\nmass, it was observed that he was more fervent in his devotions than\never he was wont to be. The words of the old mysterious stranger--his\nsudden disappearance--the rumours of fairies and witchcrafts that were\nabroad, together with another vision which he had seen, but not yet\ndisclosed, preyed upon his mind, as it was little wonder they should,\nand made him apprehend that every step he took was on enchanted ground.\nThe hound, Mooly, had slipt into the banquet-hall at the time of\nvespers, and neither soothing, threatening, nor the lash, would drive\nher hence. She clung to the king's foot until he took pity on her, and\nsaid, \"Cease, and let the poor animal stay, since she insists on it. I\nwill not have her maltreated for the fault of those who have the charge\nof her, and should have put her better up.\" So Mooly got leave to\nremain, and kept her station the whole night without moving.\n\nThe glass circulated until a late hour. At length the king said, \"My\nlords, I crave a cup full to the brim, which I mean to dedicate to the\nhealth of a lady, whom I think I saw yesterday morning; the mentioning\nof whose name will a little astonish you.\"\n\n\"My royal son and sire,\" said the abbot, \"for your majesty is both, in\nthe general acceptation of the terms, shall it not be of your far-famed\nMalmsey that you will drink this beloved toast?\"\n\n\"If you so please,\" said his majesty.\n\n\"Ralpho,\" said the abbot, \"here is the key. You alone know where the\nportion of old Malmsey is to be found among his majesty's stores here\ndeposited; bring one bottle only to his majesty, and pour it carefully\nyourself.\"\n\nRalpho obeyed; poured out the wine till the cup was full, and turned the\nremainder into a sewer. The king then arose, and lifting his cup on\nhigh--\"My lords,\" said he, \"I give you the fairest, the loveliest, and\nthe most angelic maid that ever Scotland bred--I give you Elen of\nRosline.\"\n\nEvery one started at the name till the wine was spilled all around the\ntable. Astonishment was in every look, for the king had said he had seen\nher yesterday at morn.\n\n\"To the bottom,\" cried the king.\n\nEvery one drank off his cup with avidity, anxious to hear the\nexplanation. The king kept the position in which he stood until he saw\nevery cup drained, and then brought his slowly and gracefully to his\nlips, with the intention of emptying it at one draught. But the moment\nthat it reached them, Mooly sprung up, snatched the cup and wine out of\nhis hand, and threw them on the floor.\n\n\"Strike the animal dead,\" cried one.\n\n\"Kick her out of the hall,\" said another.\n\n\"Take her out and let her be hung up,\" cried a third.\n\nMooly cowered at her royal master's feet, as if begging pardon, or\nbegging to remain.\n\n\"Let her alone,\" said the king; \"let us see what the beast means, and if\nshe persists in the outrage.\"\n\nHe filled his cup of the wine before him, and brought it slowly to his\nhead in the same manner as he did before. He even took it away and\nbrought it back several times, in order to see if she would be provoked\nto do the like again. But no!--Mooly appeared perfectly satisfied, and\nsuffered her master to drink it off piece-meal. A certain consternation\nreigned in the royal apartment for some time; sharp arguments followed;\nand, in the mean time, Angus and the abbot were heard whispering apart,\nand the one said, \"It must be accomplished this night, or abandoned for\never.\"\n\nThe nobles again took their seats, and the king appeared as formerly to\nbe growing thoughtful and dejected.\n\n\"Pray cheer up your heart and be merry, my liege,\" said Douglas, \"and\nlet not the casual frolic of a pampered animal tend to cast down your\nmajesty's spirits. Your majesty has not yet drank the extraordinary\ntoast you proposed.\"\n\n\"But that I shall do presently,\" said the king.\n\n\"Ay,\" said the abbot, \"and your majesty shall do it too in the wine of\nwhich I have heard your majesty so much approve. Fetch another bottle,\nRalpho.\"\n\nRalpho brought it.--\"I will pour for myself,\" said the king; and taking\nthe bottle, he poured about one-half of it into his cup; again named the\nname of Elen of Rosline with rapturous enthusiasm, and again as he put\nthe cup to his lips, Mooly sprung up, snatched the cup from his hand,\nand dashed it on the floor more furiously than before, and then cowered\nat her master's feet as if begging not to be struck.\n\n\"There is something more than ordinary in this,\" said the king, \"and I\nwill have it investigated instantly.\"\n\n\"There is nothing in it at all,\" said the abbot. \"Pardon me, sire; but\nit is a fault in your majesty, for which I have grieved, and often done\npenance myself. You are, and have always been a visionary, and nothing\nwill ever wean you from it. You make idols of these two animals; they\nhave sometime been taught a number of pranks, and for one of these would\nyou augur aught against the monastery, your nobles, or your majesty's\nown peace of mind?\"\n\n\"Are you certain that is the genuine Old Malmsey wine, Ralpho?\" said the\nking.\n\n\"I am certain, sire, it is the wine that was shown to me as such.\"\n\nThe king poured out the remainder that was in the bottle. \"Drink thou\nthat, Ralpho,\" said he, \"and tell me if it be really and truly the\ngenuine Malmsey.\"\n\nRalpho thanked his majesty, bowed, and drank off the cup without\nhesitation.\n\n\"Is it genuine, Ralpho?\"\n\n\"I don't know, your majesty; I think it tastes a little of the earth.\"\n\nThe circle laughed at Ralpho's remark; and the conversation began again\nto grow general, when, some time thereafter, Ralpho, who was bustling\nabout, sat down in a languid and sickly posture on one of the window\nseats. They looked at him, and saw that his face was becoming black.\n\n\"What is the matter, Ralpho?\" said one.\n\n\"I do not know what is the matter with me,\" returned he; \"I think I feel\nas if that wine were not like to agree with my stomach.\"\n\nHe fell into immediate convulsions, and in ten minutes he was lying a\nswollen and disfigured corpse.\n\nDouglas was the first to cry out _treason_. He bolted the door, and\nstood inside with his sword drawn, vowing that he would search the soul\nof every traitor in the room. Angus's great power made the other lords\nto stand in awe of him; although it was obvious to them all, that he was\nat least as likely to have a hand in this as any other. Hume charged him\nboldly to his face with it, and made proffer to abide by the proof; but\nhe pretended to receive the charge only with scorn and derision, as one\nwhich no reasonable man could suppose. The king was greatly affected,\nand, upon the whole, showed rather more apprehension on account of his\npersonal safety, than was, perhaps, becoming in a sovereign. He cried\nout that \"they were all of them traitors! and that he would rather be at\nthe head of a band of moss-troopers, than be thus condemned to have such\na set about him whom he could not trust.\"\n\nAfter some expostulation he acquitted the Earl of Angus, more, it was\nthought, through fear, than conviction of his innocence; but from an\ninference, the most natural in the world, he fixed the blame on the\nabbot.\n\n\"My liege,\" said the reverend father, \"I know no more how this has\nhappened than the child that is unborn. There can be no doubt but that,\ninstigated by some of your majesty's enemies, the wretch, Ralpho, has\nmixed the poison himself, and has met with the fate he justly deserved.\"\n\n\"No!\" replied the king, \"If that had been the case, he would not have\nbeen so ready in participating of the draught. I will not believe, but\nthat there is a combination among you to take my life.\"\n\nEvery one protested his innocence more strenuously than another.\n\nThe abbot was seized; and said, in his justification, \"That he would\nshow his majesty the set of wine from which he had ordered Ralpho to\nbring it, and he was willing to drink a share of any bottle of it that\nthey chose;\" which he did.\n\nBut this did not convince the king. He sent off privately a messenger to\nassemble the Border Chiefs, and bring them to his rescue--took his two\nfavourite hounds with him into his chamber, placed a strong guard,\ncounted his beads, and retired to rest.\n\nEvery means were tried next day by the nobles to dispel his majesty's\nfears, and regain his confidence; and as nothing decisive could be\nproduced against any one, they succeeded in some degree. New\nperplexities, however, continued to way-lay him, for he was throughout\nhis whole life the prey of witches and evil spirits; and though he\nwrecked due vengeance on many, they still continued to harass him the\nmore.\n\nAfter high mass he had retired to his chamber to meditate, when the\nnobleman in waiting came in, and said, that a stranger wanted to speak\nwith him on some urgent business. He was introduced, and any one may\njudge of the king's astonishment, when he saw that it was the identical\nold man who had spoken to him on the mountain, and vanished, the day\nbefore. The king's lip grew pale, and quivered as the stranger made his\nobeisance.\n\n\"Thou herald of danger, treason, and confusion, what seekest thou again\nwith me?\" said the king.\n\n\"I come, my liege,\" said he, \"to seek redress for the injured, and\njustice on the offenders. Your two favourite hounds came last night to\nthe houses of two widows in Newstead, and have carried off their two\nchildren from their bosoms, which they have doubtlessly devoured, as no\ntraces of them can be found.\"\n\n\"Thou art a liar!\" said the king, \"and an inventor of lies, if not the\nfather of them; for these two dogs were locked up with me in my chamber\nlast night, and a guard placed on the door, so that what you aver is\nimpossible.\"\n\n\"I declare to your majesty,\" said the stranger, \"by the truth of that\nright hand, that I myself saw the two hounds at liberty this morning at\ndaylight. I saw them come along the Monk's Meadow, carrying something\nacross on their necks.\"\n\n\"It is easy to prove the falsehood of all that thou hast said,\" replied\nthe king; \"and thy malicious intent shall not go unpunished.\"\n\nHe then called in the guards, and bade them declare before that\naudacious stranger, if his two white hounds, Mooly and Scratch, were not\nin his chamber all the night. The guards were mute, and looked one to\nanother.\n\n\"Why are you ashamed to declare the truth?\" said the king to them. \"Say,\nwere the two hounds in my chamber all night, or were they not?\"\n\nThe men answered, \"that the hounds were certainly out. How it came they\nknew not, but that they were let in in the morning.\"\n\n\"There is a conspiracy among you again,\" said the king; \"if not to\ndeprive your king of life, to deprive that life of every kind of quiet\nand social comfort.\"\n\n\"I demand justice,\" said the stranger, \"in the names of two weeping and\ndistracted mothers! In the name of all that is right, and held dear\namong men! I demand that these two obnoxious and devouring animals be\nhung upon a tree, or burnt alive before the sun go down. Then shall the\nmen of Scotland see that their sovereign respects their feelings and\nprivileges, even though they run counter to his own pleasures.\"\n\n\"One of these dogs saved my life last night,\" said the king; \"and it is\nvery hard indeed that I should be compelled to do this. I will have\nbetter testimony; and if I find that these children have actually been\ndevoured, (as most unlikely it is,) the depredators shall be punished.\"\n\nThe old man bowed, and was preparing to reply, when the knight in\nwaiting entered hastily, and told the king that there was a woman in the\nouter court, crying bitterly for justice, and who was very urgent to\nspeak with him. The king ordered that she should be admitted, and in a\nmoment she stood before him, pale, shrivelled, hagard, and wild, and\naltogether such a figure as one scarcely can see, or could see, without\nthe impression that she was scarce earthly. Her appearance was that of a\nlady of quality, of great age; she had large ear-rings, a tremendous\nruff, a head-dress of a thousand intricate flutings, projecting before\nand tapering upward behind, cork-heeled shoes, a low hoop, and a waist\nof length and stiffness, not to be described.\n\n\"Revenge! Revenge! my lord, O king!\" cried she. \"I crave justice of your\nmajesty--justice, and nothing more. You have two hounds, that came into\nmy house early this morning, and have devoured, or taken away my only\ndaughter, my sole stay and hope in this world, and nothing is left but a\npart of her garments. These dogs have some power deputed to them that is\nnot of thy giving, therefore grant me that I may see vengeance done upon\nthem, and their bodies burnt at a stake before the going down of the\nsun.\"\n\n\"That is a true and worthy gentlewoman, my liege,\" said the old\nstranger; \"and you may take her word for whatever she advances.\"\n\nThe ancient dame turned about--stared on the stranger with wild\nastonishment--dropped a low courtesy, and then said, \"I crave you\npardon, my lord and master. I noted not that you were so nigh. I hope\nyour errand here coincides with mine.\"\n\n\"It does,\" said he; \"there are more sufferers than one; and, by the head\nthat bows to thee!--I swear by none greater--we shall have justice if it\nbe in the land!\"\n\n\"This is a combination,\" said the king; \"I pay no regard to it. Bring\nwitnesses to establish your charges, and you shall have justice done.\"\n\nThey went forth to bring their proof, and behold they had them all in\nthe outer court. In the mean time the king sent for some men of the\nplace to come, and made enquiry of them who the old dame was, and what\nwas the character that she bore. They informed him that she was a noted\nwitch, and kept the whole country in terror and turmoil, and that she\nhad indeed an only daughter, who was an impious and malevolent minx,\ndevoted to every species of wickedness.\n\n\"The wrinkled beldame shall be burnt at the stake,\" said the king. \"It\nis proper that the land should be cleansed of these disturbers of its\npeace; as for that old stranger, I have my own surmises concerning him,\nand we shall find a way to deal with his subtilty.\"\n\nHe then sent for a reverend old friar of the name of Rubely, who was\nwell versed in all the minuti\u00e6 of diablery and exorcism, whose skill had\noften been beneficial to the king in the trying and intricate parts of\nhis duty that related to these matters, and with him he conferred on\nthis important subject. Father Rubely desired the king to defer the\nfurther examination of these people for a very little while; and, in the\nmean time, he brought in a basin of holy water, consecrated seven times,\nand set apart for sacred uses, after which the examination went on, and\na curious one it was. The old witch lady deposed, \"That as she was lying\npondering on her bed, and wide awake, about the dawn of the morning, she\nheard a curious and uncommon noise somewhere about the house: That,\nrising, she went out silently to discover what it could be, and to her\nutter astonishment, beheld the king's two hounds, Mooly and Scratch,\nspring from her daughter's casement, and in a short space a beautiful\nroe-deer followed them and bounded away to the Eildons: That she hasted\nto her daughter's apartment, and found that her darling was gone.\" The\nstories of the other two were exactly similar to one another, only that\nthe one blamed one hound, and the other the other. It was as follows: \"I\nwas lying awake in the morning very early, with my son in my arms, when\none of the king's hounds came into my house. I saw it, and wist not how\nit had got there. A short time after I heard it making a strange\nscraping and noise in the other end of the house, on which I arose to\nturn it out; but on going to the place from whence the sound seemed to\ncome, I found nothing. I searched all the house, and called the hound by\nher name, but still could find nothing; and at last I lighted a candle\nand sought all the house over again, without being able to discover any\ntraces of her. I went back to return to my bed, wondering greatly what\nhad become of the animal; but having opened the door before to let her\nmake her escape, I conceived that she had stolen off without my having\nperceived it. At that very instant, however, I beheld her coming softly\nout of the bed where I had left my child, and in a moment she was out at\nthe door and away. I ran to the bed with the light in my hand, but my\ndear child was gone, and no part, not even a palm of his hand,\nremaining!\"\n\n_Ques._ \"Was there any blood in the bed, or any symptoms of the child\nhaving been devoured?\"\n\n_A._ \"No; I could discover none.\"\n\n_Q._ \"Did the hound appear to have any thing carrying in her mouth, or\notherwise, when she escaped from the house?\"\n\n_A._ \"No; I did not notice that she had any thing.\"\n\n_Q._ \"Was there any thing else in the house at the time; any other\nappearance that you could not account for?\"\n\n_A._ \"Yes; there was something like a leveret followed her out at the\ndoor, but I paid no regard to it.\"\n\n_Q._ \"Was the child baptized in a Christian church?\" (No answer.)\n\n_Q._ \"Were you yourself ever baptized in a Christian church?\" (No\nanswer.)\n\n_Q._ \"Why do you not answer to these things?\"\n\n_A._ \"Because I see no connection that they have with the matter in\nquestion.\"\n\n\"None in the least,\" said the old stranger, who still kept by their\nside.\n\nWhen the king heard that the answers of the two women were so exactly\nsimilar, though the one was examined before the other was brought in, he\nsaid,--\"This is some infernal combination; they are all of them witches,\nand their friend there is some warlock or wizard; and they shall all be\nburnt at the stake together before the going down of the sun.\"\n\n\"It is a judgment worthy of such a monarch,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"Father Rubely,\" said the king, \"you who know all the men in this part\nof my dominions, Do you know any thing of this old man, who refuseth to\ngive account of himself?\"\n\n\"I have often seen the face,\" said Rubely; \"but I cannot tell at present\nfrom whence he is.--Pray, sir, are you not he who has supplied the\nmonastery with cattle for these many moons?\"\n\n\"I am the same,\" said the stranger; \"And were they not the best that\never were furnished to the Abbey?\"\n\n\"They were,\" said Rubely.\n\n\"Were they not exquisite and delicious above all food ever before\ntasted?\" said the old man.\n\n\"They were indeed,\" said Rubely; \"and I think I have heard it reported\nthat no one ever knew from whence you brought these cattle.\"\n\n\"I knew myself,\" said the stranger, \"and that was sufficient for me.\"\n\n\"I have heard of this before,\" said the king, \"and I think I divine\nsomething of the matter. Tell me, I insist on it, from whence you\nbrought these cattle?\"\n\n\"I brought them from among the poor and the indigent,\" said the old man,\n\"on whom kings and priests for ever feed. For Christian carrion, I\nprovide food from among themselves.\"\n\n\"They shall all be worried and burnt at the stake,\" said the king; \"and\nthis man's torments shall be doubled.\"\n\n\"Have patience, my lord, O king,\" said Rubely, \"and let us not destroy\nthe reclaimable with those of whom there is no hope.\" Then going near to\nthe first woman who had lost her son, he said to her,--\"It is better to\ndo well late than never--are you content to be baptized even now?\"\n\nThe woman bowed consent. He put the same question to the other, who\nbowed likewise. The old man stood close by their side, and appeared to\nbe in great trouble and wrath. Rubely brought his goblet of consecrated\nwater, and, as he past, he threw a portion of it on the wrinkled face of\nthe old man, pronouncing, at the same time, the sacred words of baptism.\nThe whole form and visage of the creature was changed in a moment to\nthat of a furious fiend: He uttered a yell that made all the Abbey shake\nto its foundations, and forthwith darted away into the air, wrapt in\nflame; and, as he ascended, he heaved his right hand, and shook his\nfiery locks at his inquisitors. The old withered beldame yelped forth\nhysteric gigglings, something between laughing and shrieks--the king\nfell on his knees, clasped the rood and kissed it--the two women\ntrembled--and even old Rubely counted his beads, and stood for a short\nspace in mute astonishment. He next proposed trying the same experiment\nwith the old witch lady, but she resisted it so furiously, with cursing\nand blasphemy, that they abandoned her to her fate, and had her burnt\nat St Miles's Cross before the going down of the sun. It was said by\nsome that the old stranger appeared among the crowd to witness her\nlatter end; and that she stretched out her hands towards him, with loud\nsupplications, but he only flouted and mocked at her, and seemed to\nenjoy the sport with great zest. When Father Rubely heard of this, he\nsaid that it would happen so to every one who sold themselves to be\nslaves of sin in the hour of their extremity.\n\nThe other two women confessed their sins, and received absolution. They\nacknowledged that they had been acquainted with the stranger for a long\nseason; that he had often pressed them to sign and seal, which they had\nalways declined, but that nevertheless he had such an influence over\nthem, that he in a manner led them as he pleased; that at first they\ntook him for a venerable apostle, but at length discovered that he was a\npowerful sorcerer, and could turn people into the shapes of such beasts\nas he pleased, but that they never knew he was the devil till then.\n\nFriar Rubely assured them, that it was only such as slighted\nchurch-ordinances over whom he was permitted to exert that power, and in\nthis the king passionately acquiesced. They confessed farther, that they\nwere still greatly afraid of him, for that he could turn himself into\nany shape or form that he pleased; that he had often tempted them in the\nform of a beautiful young man; and there was nothing more common with\nhim than to tempt men in the form of a lovely and bewitching woman, by\nwhich means he had of late got many of them into his clutches. When the\nking heard that, he counted his beads with redoubled fervency, and again\nkissed the rood, for it reminded him of a lovely vision he had seen of\nlate, as well as some things of a former day. The women added, that the\nstranger had of late complained grievously of two mongrel spirits, who\nhad opposed and counteracted him in every movement; and that they had\ndone it so effectually, that, for every weak Christian that he had\novercome and devoured, they had found means to destroy one of his\nservants, or emissaries, so that his power in the land remained much\nupon a par as in former times, although his means and exertions had both\nbeen increased sevenfold.[1]\n\nA consultation of holy men was next called, and measures adopted for the\nrecovery of the two children. There it was resolved, that prayers should\nbe offered up for them in seven times seven holy chapels and cells at\nthe same instant of time, and the like number of masses said, with all\ndue solemnity; and that then it would be out of the power of all the\nspirits of the infernal regions--all of them that were permitted to\nroam the earth, or any of their agents, to detain the children longer,\ninto whatever shape or form they might change them. But for these\nsolemnities some delay was necessary.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[Footnote 1: From several parts of this traditionary tale it would\nappear, that it is a floating fragment of some ancient allegorical\nromance, the drift of which it is not easy to comprehend.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nGreat was the consumpt of victuals at the Abbey during the stay of the\nroyal visitor!--the parsimonious brethren were confounded, and judged\nthat the country would to a certainty be eaten up, and a dearth of all\nthe necessaries of life ensue on the Border. When they beheld the\nimmense droves of bullocks--the loads of wild hogs and fallow-deer that\narrived daily from the royal forests of Ettrick and the mountains of the\nLowes, together with the flocks of fat black-headed wedders,--they\npressed their hands upon their lank sides, looked at their spare forms,\nand at one another; but not daring to make any verbal remarks, they only\nshaked their heads, and looked up to heaven!\n\nVictuals were again wearing short. Gudgel, the fat caterer for that\nimmense establishment, was out riding from morn till even in search of\nfat things; he delighted in the very sight of a well-fed sleek animal;\nit was health to his stomach, and marrow to his bones. It was observed,\nthat, whenever he came in sight of one, he stroaked down his immense\nprotuberance of paunch with both hands, and smacked his lips. He had\nbeen out the whole day, and was very hungry; and when hungry, he enjoyed\nthe sight of a fat animal most. Gudgel certainly fed by the eye as well\nas the mouth; for it was noted, that when he was very hungry, he would\nhave given the yeomen any price for a well-fed beast.\n\nHe had been out the whole day--had procured but little stuff, and that\nnot of the first metal--but, on his way home, he heard of a fine\nwell-fed boar at Eildon-Hall; so he rode off the road, and alighted to\ntake a look of him. In a little triangular inclosure, at one corner of\nthe yard, there he beheld the notable boar lying at his ease, with\nMumps in his bosom. Of the dog he took no notice, but the sight of the\nboar exhilarated him; he drew in a great mouthful of breath, closed his\nlips, puffed out his cheeks, and made his two hands descend with a\nsemi-circular sweep slowly down over the buttons of his doublet. It is\nimpossible to tell how much the sight of such a carcase delighted\nGudgel!--Immoderately fat himself, his eye feasted on every thing that\nwas so; he could not even pass by a corpulent man, nor a pampered\novergrown matron, without fixing a keen glance upon them, as if\ncalculating exactly, or to a nearness, how much they would weigh,\nsinking offal.\n\n\"Oh, gracious heaven! what a fine hog! Goodman Fletcher, could you think\nof putting such a delicious morsel as that by your masters? For shame,\ngoodman, not to let me know before this time of such a prize as\nthis!--The very thing!--No words: the hog is mine. Name your\nprice--Good security, Goodman Fletcher--a king and a priest--I am so\nglad I have found him--I'll have him slaughtered, and cut neatly up, as\nI shall direct, before I leave the house.\"\n\nA piece of sad news this for the poor boar! (Croudy the shepherd, that\nonce was.) When Gudgel pronounced the last sentence, the animal sprung\nto his feet, gave a great snuff, and grunted out a moan that would have\npierced any heart but Gudgel's. \"St Elijah!\" said he, \"what a fine\nanimal!\" and gave him a lash with his whip as he rose. Mumps snarled,\nand tried to bite the voluptuary in return for the unprovoked attack on\nhis master.\n\nPrecisely about the same time that Gudgel alighted at Eildon-Hall, the\ntwo lovely and mysterious sisters met at their accustomed place in the\nAbbey Walk, for it chanced to be the few minutes of their appearance in\nmortal frame. Their eyes had still the wild unearthly dash of sublimity\nin them; and human eye could not scan to which state of existence they\npertained, but their miens were more beautiful and serene than when they\nlast met.\n\n\"I give you joy, dear sister,\" said the one, \"of our happy release! Our\nadversary is baffled and driven from his usurped habitation--Our woeful\nwork of annihilation will henceforth cease, for the evil principle shall\nnot, as we dreaded, prevail in this little world of man, in which we\nhave received for a time a willing charge. Say what more is to be done\nbefore we leave these green hills and the Eildon Tree.\"\n\n\"Much is yet to be done, my beloved Ellen,\" answered the other. \"As I\nwas this day traversing the air in the form of a wild swan, I saw the\nBorderers coming down in full array; with a Chieftain of most undaunted\nmight at their head. We must find means to warn the haughty Douglas,\nelse they will cut his whole retinue to pieces; and the protector of the\nfaithful must not fall into the hands of such men as these.\"\n\n\"He hath preyed on the vitals of his subjects,\" said she that spoke\nfirst; and as she spoke she fixed her eyes on the ground in a thoughtful\nattitude.\n\n\"It is meet he should,\" said the other--\"And think ye he will not meet\nwith his guerdon better where he is than among these freemen of the\nBorder? Think not so seriously of this matter, for it will not abide a\nthought--from the spider to the king, all live upon one another!--What\nnumbers one overgrown reptile must devour, to keep the balance of nature\nin equipoise!\"\n\nThe two lovely sisters, as she spoke this, held each other by the hand;\ntheir angelic forms were bent gently forward, and their faces toward the\nground; but as they lifted these with a soft movement towards heaven, a\ntear was glistening in each eye. Whether these had their source from the\nfountain of human feelings, or from one more sublimed and pure, no man\nto this day can determine.\n\n\"And then what is to become of the two little changelings?\" said the\nlast speaker. \"All the spells of priests and friars will avail nought\nwithout our aid.--And the wild roe-deer? And the boar of Eildon? He, I\nsuppose, may take his fate--he is not worthy our care farther.--A\nselfish grovelling thing, that had much more of the brute than the man\n(as he should be) at first--without one principle of the heart that is\nworthy of preservation.\"\n\n\"You are ever inclined to be severe,\" said the other. \"If you but saw\nthe guise in which he is lying with his faithful dog, I think your heart\nwould be moved to pity.\"\n\n\"If I thought there was one spark of the heavenly principle of gratitude\nin his heart, even to his dog,\" said she, \"I would again renovate his\nframe to that image which he degraded; but I do not believe it.--Mere\nselfishness, because he cannot live without his dog.\"\n\n\"Here is Philany's rod,\" answered the other, \"go, and reconnoitre for\nyourself, and as you feel so act.\"\n\nShe took the golden wand, and went away toward Eildon Hall; but her\nmotion over the fields was like a thing sailing on the wind. The other\nglided away into the beechen grove, for there were voices heard\napproaching.\n\n\"Let us proceed to business, Goodman Fletcher,\" said Gudgel. \"I insist\non seeing that fine animal properly slaughtered, blooded, and cut up,\nbefore I go away. I have a man who will do it in the nicest style you\never beheld.\" The boar looked pitifully to Gudgel, and moaned so loud\nthat Mumps fell a howling. \"And I'll tell you what we'll do,\" continued\nGudgel; \"we'll have his kidneys roasted on a brander laid on the coals,\nand a stake cut from the inside of the shoulder.--How delicious they\nwill be!--Pooh! I wish they were ready just now--But we'll not be\nlong--And we'll have a bottle of your March beer to accompany\nthem.--Eh? Your charge may well afford that, goodman--Eh?\"\n\nThe boar made a most determined resistance; and it was not till\nafter he was quite spent, and more hands had been procured, that\nhe was dragged at last forcibly to the slaughter-house, and laid upon\nthe killing-stool, with ropes tied round his legs; these they were\nafraid were scarcely strong enough, and at the request of the butcher,\nPery lent her garters to strengthen the tie. Never was there a poor\nbeast in such circumstances! He screamed so incessantly that he even\nmade matters worse. His very heart was like to break when he saw Pery\nlend her garters to assist in binding him. Mumps was very sorry too; he\nwhined and whimpered, and kissed his braying friend.\n\nThe noise became so rending to the ears, that all who were present\nretired for a little, until the monster should be silenced. The butcher\ncame up with his bleeding-knife, in shape like an Andro Ferrara, and\nfully half as long--felt for the boar's jugular vein, and then tried the\nedge and point of his knife against his nail--\"He has a hide like the\nsoal of a shoe,\" said the butcher; \"I must take care and sort him\nneatly.\" And so saying he went round the corner of the house to give his\nknife a whet on the grinding-stone.\n\nAt that very instant the beautiful angelic nymph with the golden rod\ncame into the court-yard at Eildon-Hall, and hearing the outrageous\ncries in the slaughter-house, she looked in as she was passing, that\nbeing the outermost house in the square. There she beheld the woful\nplight of the poor boar, and could not help smiling; but when she saw\nhonest Mumps standing wagging his tail, with his cheek pressed to that\nof the struggling panting victim, and always now and then gently kissing\nhim, her heart was melted with pity. The dog cast the most beseeching\nlook at her as she approached, which when she saw her resolution was\nfixed. She gave the monster three strokes with her wand, at each of\nwhich he uttered a loud squeak; but when these were done, and some\nmystic words of powerful charm uttered, in half a quarter of a minute\nthere lay--no bristly boar--but the identical Croudy the shepherd! in\nthe same garb as when transformed at the Moss Thorn; only that his hands\nand feet were bound with straw ropes, strengthened and secured by the\ncruel Pery's red garters.\n\n\"Bless me an' my horn!\" said Croudy, as he raised up his head from the\nspokes of the killing-stool; \"I believe I'm turned mysel again!--I wad\nlike to ken wha the bonny queen is that has done this; but I'm sair\nmistaen gin I didna see the queen o' the fairies jink by the corner. I\nwonder gin the bloody hash will persist in killing me now. I'm fear'd\nGudgel winna can pit aff wantin' his pork steaks. May Saint Abednego be\nmy shield, gin I didna think I fand my ears birstling on a brander!\"\n\nThe butcher came back, singing to himself the following verse, to the\ntune of _Tibby Fowler_, which augured not well for Croudy.\n\n    \"Beef stakes and bacon hams\n    I can eat as lang's I'm able;\n    Cutlets, chops, or mutton pies,\n    Pork's the king of a' the table.\"\n\nAs he sung this he was still examining the edge of his knife, so that he\ncame close to his intended victim, without once observing the change\nthat had taken place.\n\n\"Gude e'en t'ye, neighbour,\" said Croudy.\n\nThe butcher made an involuntary convulsive spring, as if a thunder-bolt\nhad struck him and knocked him away about six yards at one stroke. There\nhe stood and stared at what he now saw lying bound with the ropes and\ngarters, and the dog still standing by. The knife fell out of his\nhand--his jaws fell down on his breast, and his eyes rolled in their\nsockets.--\"L----d G----d!\" cried the butcher, as loud as he could roar,\nand ran through the yard, never letting one bellow abide another.\n\nThe servants met him, asking what was the matter--\"Was he cut? Had he\nsticked or wounded himself?\"\n\nHe regarded none of their questions; but dashing them aside, ran on,\nuttering the same passionate ejaculation with all the power that the\nextreme of horror could give to such a voice. Gudgel beheld him from a\nwindow, and meeting him in the entry to the house, he knocked him down.\n\"I'll make you stop, you scoundrel,\" said he, \"and tell me what all this\naffray means.\"\n\n\"O L----d, sir! the boar--the boar!\" exclaimed the butcher as he raised\nhimself with one arm from the ground, and defended his head with the\nother.\n\n\"The boar, you blockhead!\" said Gudgel,--\"what of the boar? Is he not\nlike to turn well out?\"\n\n\"He turns out to be the devil, sir--gang an' see, gang an see,\" said the\nbutcher.\n\nGudgel gave him another rap with his stick, swearing that they would not\nget their brandered kidneys, and pork steak from the inside of the\nshoulder, in any reasonable time, by the madness and absurdity of that\nfellow, and waddled away to the slaughter-house as fast as his posts of\nlegs could carry him. When he came there, and found a booby of a clown\nlying bound on the killing-stool, instead of his highly esteemed hog, he\nwas utterly confounded, and wist not what to say, or how to express\nhimself. He was in a monstrous rage, but he knew not on whom to vend it,\nhis greasy wits being so completely bemired, that they were incapable of\nmoving, turning, or comprehending any thing farther than a grievous\nsensation of a want not likely to be supplied by the delicious roasted\nkidneys, and pork steak from the inside of the shoulder. He turned twice\nround, puffing and gasping for breath, and always apparently looking for\nsomething he supposed he had lost, but as yet never uttering a distinct\nword.\n\nThe rest of the people were soon all around him--the Goodman, Pery,\nGale, and the whole household of Eildon-Hall were there, all standing\ngaping with dismay, and only detained from precipitate flight\nby the presence of one another. The defrauded Gudgel first found\nexpression--\"Where is my hog, you scoundrel?\" cried he, in a tone of\nrage and despair.\n\n\"Ye see a' that's to the fore o' him,\" said Croudy.\n\n\"I say, where is my hog, you abominable caitiff?--You miserable\nwretch!--you ugly whelp of a beast!--tell me what you have made of my\nprecious hog?\"\n\n\"Me made o' him!\" said Croudy, \"I made naething o' him; but some ane, ye\nsee, has made a man o' him--It was nae swine, but me.--I tell ye, that\nye see here a' that's to the fore o' him.\"\n\n\"Oh! oh!\" groaned Gudgel, and he stroaked down his immense flanks three\nor four times, every one time harder than the last. \"Pooh! so then I am\ncheated, and betrayed, and deceived; and I shall have nothing to\neat!--nothing to eat!--nothing to eat!--Goodman Fletcher, you shall\nanswer for this;--and you, friend beast, or swine, or warlock, or\nwhatever you may be, shall not 'scape for nought;\" and, so saying, he\nbegan to belabour Croudy with his staff, who cried out lustily; and it\nwas remarked somewhat in the same style and tenor, too, as he exhibited\nlately in a different capacity.\n\nThe rest of the people restrained the disappointed glutton from putting\nan end to the poor clown; and notwithstanding that appearances were\nstrangely against him, yet, so well were they accustomed to Croudy's\ninnocent and stupid face, that they loosed him with trembling hands,\nPery being as active in the work as any, untying her red garters. \"I\nknow the very knots,\" said she,--\"No one can tie them but myself.\"\n\n\"By the Rood, my woman! gin I war but up, I'll _knot_ you weel eneuch,\"\nsaid Croudy; and if he had not been withheld by main force, he would\nhave torn out her hair and her eyes. He, however, accused her of being a\nwitch, and took witnesses on it; and said, he would make oath that she\nhad changed him into a boar on such an evening at the Moss Thorn.\n\nPery only laughed at the accusation, but all the rest saw it in a\ndifferent light. They all saw plainly that Croudy had been metamorphosed\nfor a time by some power of witchcraft or enchantment--they remembered\nhow Mumps had still continued to recognise and acknowledge him in that\ndegraded state; and hearing, as they did, his bold and intrepid accusal\nof Pery, they all judged that it would stand very hard with her.\n\nWhen Gudgel had heard all this, he seized the first opportunity of\ntaking Pery aside, and proposed to her, for the sake of her own\npreservation, instantly to change the clown again; \"And, as it is all\none to you,\" said he, \"suppose you make him a little fatter--if you do\nso, I shall keep your secret--if you do not, you may stand by the\nconsequences.\"\n\nPery bade him, \"Look to himself,--keep the secret, or not keep it, as he\nchose;--there were some others, who should be nameless, that were as\nwell worth changing as Croudy.\"\n\nGudgel's peril appeared to him now so obvious, and the consequences so\nhorrible, that his whole frame became paralysed from head to foot. In\nproportion with his delight in killing and eating the fat things of the\nearth, did his mind revolt at being killed and eaten himself; and when\nhe thought of what he had just witnessed, he little wist how soon it\nmight be his fate. He rode away from Eildon-Hall a great deal more\nhungry and more miserable than he came. The tale, however, soon spread,\nwith many aggravations; and the ill-starred Pery was taken up for a\nwitch, examined, and committed to prison in order to stand her trial;\nand in the mean time the evidences against her were collected.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nThe Keylan Rowe.\n\n    An' round, an' round, an' seven times round,\n      An' round about the Eildon tree!\n    For there the ground is fairy ground,\n      And the dark green ring is on the lea.\n\n    The prayers were pray'd, and the masses said,\n      And the waning Moon was rising slow;\n    And ane dame sits at the Eildon-tree,\n      Whose cheike is pale as April snow.\n\n    Ane cross is claspit in her hand,\n      Ane other lyis on her breiste bone;\n    And the glaize of feire is on her ee,\n      As she looks to the Eildon-stone.\n\n    And aye she sung her holy hymn;\n      It was made to charm the elfin band,\n    And lure the little wilderit things,\n      Whose dwelling is in Fairy-land.\n\n    And first she heard the horses' tread,\n      Like drifting leaves come through the dell;\n    And then she heard their bridles ring,\n      Like rain drops tinkling on a bell.\n\n    Then the wild huntsmen first came on,\n      An' sic ane band was never seen!\n    Some wanted cheike, some wanted chin,\n      And some had nouthir nose nor een;\n\n    One had ane ee in his forehead,\n      That ee was like ane glaizit pole;\n    His breiste was like ane heck of hay;\n      His gobe ane rounde and boral hole.\n\n    And ilk ane held ane bugle horn,\n      And loud they toutit as they gaed by--\n    \"Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!\n      Hie to the weird-hill! huntsmen hie!\n\n    \"The little wee hare o' Eildon Brae\n      May trip it o'er the glen, O;\n    But nane shall bear the prize away.\n      But Keylan and his men, O.\n\n    \"Gil-Mouly's raid, and Keylan's Rowe,\n      Shall sweep the moore and lea, O;\n    And the little wee hare o' Eildon Brae\n      In heaven shall never be, O.\n\n    \"O'er wizard ground, with horse and hound,\n      Like rattling hail we'll bear, O--\n    Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!\n      The quick and dead are here, O!\"\n\n    Then came their collarit phantom tykis,\n      Like ouf-dogs, an' like gaspin grews;\n    An' their crukit tungis were dry for blood,\n        An' the red lowe firled at their flews;\n\n    Then came the troopis of the Fairy folke,\n      And O they wore ane lovely hue!\n    Their robes were greine like the hollin leife,\n      And thin as the web of the wiry dew.\n\n    And first went by the coal-black steedis,\n      And then a troop o' the bonny bay;\n    And then the milk-white bandis came on,\n      An' last the mooned and the merlit gray.\n\n    An' aye the sang, an' the bridles rang,\n      As they rode lightly rank an' file;\n    It was like the sound of ane maydenis voice\n      Heard through the greene-wood many a mile.\n\n    \"Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!\n      On we fly o'er steep and stile!\n    Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!\n      Hunt the hare another mile.\n\n    \"Over fen and over fountain,\n      Over downe and dusky lea;\n    Over moss, and moore, and mountain,\n      We will follow, follow thee!\n\n    \"O'er the dewy vales of even,\n      Over tower and over tree;\n    O'er the clouds and clefts of heaven,\n      We will follow, follow thee!\n\n    \"Nae mair the dame shall young son rock,\n      And sing her lilli-lu the while;\n    Hey, Gil-Mouly! Ho, Gil-Mouly!\n      Hunt the hare another mile!\"\n\n    The phantom huntsmen scaled the steep,\n      \"Ycho! ycho! for Keylan's fame.\"\n    The Fairy barbs were light and fleet;\n      The chirling echoes went and cam.\n\n    The roe fled into the greine-woode,\n      The dun deire boundit far away;\n    But nought wald serve the hunteris rude,\n      But the little wee hare o' Eildon-Brae.\n\n    She heard, she knew, an' sped alone,\n      Away, away, with panting breiste;\n    The fairy houndis are lilting on,\n      Like Redwings wheepling through the mist.\n\n    Around, around the Eildons greine,\n      Dashit the wild huntsmen furiouslye!\n    Och! sic ane night was never seine,\n      Sin' Michael cleft these hills in three!\n\n    The sky was bright, and the dame beheld\n      The brattling chace o'er moonlight brow;\n    Then in the darksome shade they rushit,\n      With yelp, and yowle, and loud halloo.\n\n    O, but the little Fairy grews\n      Swept lightly o'er the Eildon-Brae;\n    The houndis came youffing up behind,\n      As fast as they could win their way.\n\n    And the wild huntsmen's gruesome tykis\n      All urgit the chace, but stop or stande.\n    \"Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe!\n      For earth, an' death, or Fairy-lande!\"\n\n    The dame she claspit the halye roode,\n      And dreddour wilde was in her ee;\n    And round, and round, and seven times round,\n      And round about the Eildon-Tree!\n\n    The hunt still near and nearer drew--\n      Weel moght the matronis herte be wae!\n    For hard they pressit, and aft they turnit\n      The little wee hare o' Eildon-Brae.\n\n    They mouthit her aince, they mouthit her twice;\n      Loud did she scream throu fear and dread;\n    That scream was like ane bairnyis cry\n      Quhen it is piercit in cradle-bed.\n\n    But the dame behelde ane bonny hounde,\n      White as the newly driftit snaw,\n    That close beside the leveret kept,\n      And wore the elfin grews awa.\n\n    Hard did she toil the hare to save,\n      For the little wee hare was sair foreworne;\n    And the ghaistly huntsmen gatherit on,\n      With whoop, and whoo, and bugle-horne.\n\n    O but the hounde was hard bestedd!\n      For round and round they harder press'd,--\n    At length, beneath the Eildon-Tree,\n      The little wee leveret found its rest.\n\n    It sprung into the matronis lap,\n      Wha row'd it in her kirtle gray;\n    And round, and round, came horse and hound,\n      With snort, and neigh, and howl, and bay.\n\n    But the white hounde stood by her side,\n      And wore them back full powerfullye;\n    And round, and round, and seven times round,\n      And round about the Eildon-Tree!\n\n    They turn'd the hare within her arms\n      A cockatrice and adder sterne;\n    They turn'd the hare within her arms\n      A flittering reide het gaud o' ern.\n\n    But still within her kirtle row'd,\n      She sung her hymn and held it fast;\n    And ere the seventh time round was won,\n      Her child clung to his parent's breast.\n\n    \"Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe;\"\n      Away the fairy music sped,\n    \"The day is lost, a maid has wonne,\n      The babe maun lie amang the dead.\n\n    \"The babe maun grow as grass has grown,\n      And live, and die, and live anew,\n    Ycho! ycho! The Keylan Rowe\n      Must vanish like the morning dew.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nAs the beautiful fairy-dame, or guardian spirit, or whatever she was,\nhad predicted, so it came to pass. The Borderers, alarmed at the danger\nof the king, came down a thousand strong, thinking to surprise Douglas,\nand take their monarch out of his hands by force; and they would have\neffected it with ease, had not the Earl received some secret\nintelligence of their design. No one ever knew whence he had this\nintelligence, nor could he comprehend or explain it himself, but it had\nthe effect of defeating the bold and heroic attempt. They found him\nfully prepared--a desperate battle ensued--120 men were left dead on the\nfield--and then things remained precisely in the same state as they had\nbeen before.\n\nThe court left Melrose shortly after--the king felt as if he stood on\nuncertain ground--a sort of mystery always hung around him, which he\nnever could develope; but ere he went, he presided at the trial of the\nmaiden Pery, who stood indicted, as the _Choronikkle of Mailros_ bears,\nfor being \"Ane ranke wytche and enchaunteresse, and leigged hand and\nkneife with the devil.\"\n\nA secret examination of the parties first took place, and the proof was\nso strong against the hapless Pery, that all hopes of escape vanished.\nThere was Croudy ready to make oath to the truth of all that he had\nadvanced with regard to his transmutation, and there were others who had\nseen her coming down from the Moss-Thorn at the very time that Croudy\nappeared to have been changed, just before he made his dashing entry\ninto the loan among the cows; and even old Father Rubely had, after\nminute investigation, discovered the witch-mark, both on her neck and\nthumb-nail. The king would gladly have saved her, when he beheld her\nyouth and beauty, but he had sworn to rid the country of witches, and no\nexcuse could be found. All the people of the country were sorry on\naccount of Pery, but all believed her guilty, and avoided her, except\nGale, who, having had the courage to visit her, tried her with the\nrepetition of prayers and creeds, and found that she not only said them\nwithout hesitation, but with great devotional warmth; therefore he\nbecame convinced that she was not a witch. She told him her tale with\nthat simplicity, that he could not disbelieve it, and withal confessed,\nthat her inquisitors had very nearly convinced her that she was a witch;\nand that she was on the point of making a confession that had not the\nslightest foundation in truth. The shepherd was more enlightened than\nthe worthy clergyman, as shepherds generally are, and accounted for\nthis phenomenon in a truly philosophical way. Pery assented; for\nwhatever Gale said sounded to her heart as the sweetest and most\nsensible thing that ever was said. She loved him to distraction, and\nadversity had subtilized, not abated the flame. Gale found his heart\ninterested--he pitied her, and pity is allied to love. How to account\nfor the transformation of Croudy, both were completely at a loss; but\nthey agreed that it was the age of witchery, and no one could say what\nmight happen! Gale was never from the poor culprit's side: He condoled\nwith her--wept over her--and even took her in his arms, and impressed a\ntender kiss on her pale lips. It was the happiest moment of Pery's\nexistence! She declared, that since she was pure in his eyes, she would\nnot only suffer without repining, but with delight.\n\nAs a last resource, Gale sought out Croudy, and tried to work upon him\nto give a different evidence at the last and final trial; but all that\nhe could say, Croudy remained obstinately bent on her destruction.\n\n\"It's needless for ye to waste your wind clatterin English, man,\" said\nCroudy, \"for foul fa' my gab gin I say ony sic word. She didna only\nchange me intil an ill-faurd he-sow, but guidit me shamefully ill a' the\ntime I was a goossy--kickit me wi' her fit, an' yerkit me wi' a rung\ntill I squeeled, and then leuch at me--An' warst ava, gae the butcher\nher gairtens to bind me, that he might get me bled, an' plottit, an'\nmade into beef-steaks--de'il be on her gin I be nae about wi' her now!\"\n\nGale, hoping that he would relent if he saw her woeful plight, besought\nof him to go and see her; but this he absolutely refused, for fear lest\nshe should \"turn him into some daft-like beast,\" as he expressed it.\n\"Let her tak it,\" said he, \"she weel deserves a' that she's gaun to\nget--the sooner she gets a fry the better--Odd, there's nae body sure o'\nhimsel a minute that's near her--I never gang ower the door but I think\nI'll come in a goossy or a cuddy-ass--How wad ye like to gang plowin up\nthe gittars for worms and dockan-roots wi' your nose, as I did!\"\n\nIt was in vain that Gale assured him of her innocence, and told him how\nreligious she was, and how well she loved him. Croudy remained\nobstinate.\n\n\"I wadna gie a boddle,\" said he, \"for a woman's religion, nor for her\nlove neither--mere traps for moudiworts. They may gar a fool like you\ntrow that ae thing's twa, an' his lug half a bannock--Gin I wad rue an'\nsave her life, it wadna be lang till I saw her carrying you out like a\ntaed in the erntings, an' thrawin ye ower the ass-midden.\"\n\nGale asked if he would save her, if she would pledge herself to marry\nhim, and love him for ever?\n\n\"Me marry a witch!\" said Croudy--\"A bonny hand she would make o' me,\nsooth! Whenever I displeased her, turn me into a beast--But ilka woman\nhas that power,\" added he with a grin,--\"an' I fancy few o' them\nmislippin it. The first kind thought I ever had toward a woman made a\nbeast o' me--an' it will do the same wi' every man as weel as me, gin he\nwist it. As she has made her bed, she may lie down. I shall fling a\nsprot to the lowe.\"\n\nGale was obliged to give him up, but in the deepest bitterness of soul\nhe gave him his malison, which, he assured him, would not fall to the\nground. Pery was tried, and condemned to be choaked and burnt at the\nstake on the following day; and Croudy, instead of relenting, was so\nmuch afraid of himself, that he was all impatience until the cruel scene\nshould be acted. His behaviour had, however, been witnessed and detested\nby some of whom he was not aware; for that very evening, as he was on\nhis way home, he beheld a nymph coming to meet him, whom he took for\nPery, dressed in her Sunday clothes, for one of the mysterious maids had\ntaken her form. He was terrified out of his wits when he beheld her at\nliberty, and falling flat on his face, he besought her, with a loud\nvoice, to have mercy on him.\n\n\"Such as you have bestowed,\" said she; and giving him three strokes with\nher wand, he was changed into a strong brindled cat, in which form, he\nremains to this day; and the place of his abode is no secret to the\nrelater of this tale. He hath power one certain night in the year to\nresume his natural shape, and all the functions of humanity; and that\nnight he dedicates to the relation of the adventures of each preceding\nyear. Many a secret and unsuspected amour, and many a strange domestic\nscene, hath he witnessed, in his capacity of mouser, through so many\ngenerations; and a part of these are now in the hands of a gentleman of\nthis country, who intends making a good use of them.\n\nPoor Pery, having thus fallen a victim to the superstition of the times,\nshe wist not how, was pitied and shunned by all except Gale, whom\nnothing could tear from her side; and all the last day and night that\nwere destined for her to live, they lay clasped in each other's arms.\nWhile they were thus conversing in the most tender and affectionate way,\nPery told her lover a dream that she had seen the night before. She\ndreamed, she said, that they were changed into two beautiful birds, and\nhad escaped away into a wild and delightful mountain, where they lived\nin undecaying happiness and felicity, and fed on the purple blooms of\nthe heath.\n\n\"O that some pitying power--some guardian angel over the just and the\ngood, would but do this for us!\" said Gale, \"and release my dearest Pery\nfrom this ignominious death!\" and as he said this, he clasped his\nbeloved maiden closer and closer in his arms. They both wept, and, in\nthis position, they sobbed themselves sound asleep.\n\nNext morning, before the rising of the sun, two young ladies, beautiful\nas cherubs, came to the jailor and asked admittance to the prisoner, by\norder of the king. The jailor took off his bonnet, bowed his grey head,\nand opened to them. The two lovers were still fast asleep, locked in\neach other's arms, in a way so endearing, and at the same time so\nmodest, that the two sisters stood for a considerable time bending over\nthem in delightful amazement.\n\n\"There is a delicacy and a pathos in this love,\" said the one, \"into\nwhich the joys of sense have shed no ingredient. As their innocence in\nlife hath been, so shall it remain;\" and kneeling down, she gave three\ngentle strokes with her small golden rod, touching both with it at a\ntime. The two lovers trembled, and seemed to be in slight convulsions;\nand in a short time they fluttered round the floor two beautiful\nmoor-fowl, light of heart, and elated with joy. The two lovely and\nmysterious visitors then took them up, wrapt them in their snowy veils,\nand departed, each of them carrying one; and coming to Saint Michael's\nCross, they there dismissed them from their palms, after addressing them\nseverally as follows:\n\n      \"Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen!\n    Keep to the south of the Skelf-hill Pen;\n    Blithe be thy heart, and soft thy bed,\n    Amang the blooms of the heather so red.\n    When the weird is sped that I must dree,\n    I'll come and dwell in the wild with thee.\n    Keep thee afar from the fowler's ken--\n    Hie thee away, my bonny moor-hen.\"\n\n      \"Cock of the mountain, and king of the moor,\n    A maiden's bennison be thy dower;\n    For gentle and kind hath been thy life,\n    Free from malice, and free from strife.\n    Light be thy heart on the mountain grey,\n    And loud thy note at the break of day.\n    When five times fifty years are gone,\n    I'll seek thee again 'mong the heath alone,\n    And change thy form, if that age shall prove\n    An age that virtue and truth can love.\n    True be thy love, and far thy reign,\n    On the Border dale, till I see thee again.\"\n\nWhen the jailor related what had happened, it may well be conceived what\nconsternation prevailed over the whole country. The two moor-fowl were\nsoon discovered on a wild hill in Tiviotdale, where they have remained\never since, until last year, that Wauchope shot the hen. He suspected\nwhat he had done, and was extremely sorry, but kept the secret to\nhimself. On viewing the beauty of the bird, however, he said to\nhimself,--\"I believe I have liked women as well as any man, but not so\nwell as to eat them; however, I'll play a trick upon some, and see its\neffect.\" Accordingly he sent the moor-hen to a friend of his in\nEdinburgh, at whose table she was divided among a circle of friends and\neaten, on the 20th of October 1817, and that was the final end of poor\nPery, the Maid of Eildon. The effect on these gentlemen has been\nprodigious--the whole structure of their minds and feelings has\nundergone a complete change, and that grievously to the worse; and even\ntheir outward forms, on a near inspection, appear to be altered\nconsiderably. This change is so notorious as to have become proverbial\nall over the New Town of Edinburgh. When any one is in a querulous or\npeevish humour, they say,--\"He has got a wing of Wauchope's moor-hen.\"\n\nThe cock is still alive, and well known to all the sportsmen on the\nBorder, his habitation being on the side of Caret Rigg, which no\nmoor-fowl dares to approach. As the five times fifty years are very\nnearly expired, it is hoped no gentleman will be so thoughtless as\nwantonly to destroy this wonderful and mysterious bird, and we may then\nlive to have the history of the hunting, the fowling, fishing, and\npastoral employments of that district, with all the changes that have\ntaken place for the last two hundred and fifty years, by an eye-witness\nof them.\n\nThe king returned towards Edinburgh on the 14th of September, and on\nhis way had twelve witches condemned and burnt at the Cross of Leader,\nafter which act of duty his conscience became a good deal lightened, and\nhis heart cheered in the ways of goodness; he hoped, likewise, to be rid\nof the spells of those emissaries of Satan that had beleaguered him all\nhis life.\n\nAfter they had passed the Esk, his two favourite white hounds were\nmissing; the huntsmen judged them to be following some track, and waited\ntill night, calling them always now and then aloud by their names. They\nwere however lost, and did not return, nor could they ever be found,\nalthough called at every Cross in the kingdom, and high rewards offered.\n\nOn that very eve Elen and Clara of Rosline returned to their native\nhalls, after having been lost for seven weeks. They came to the verge of\nthe tall cliff towards the east, from whence they had a view of the\nstately towers of Rosline, then in their pride of baronial strength.\nThe sun had shed his last ray from the summit of the distant Ochils; the\nEsk murmured in obscurity far below their feet; its peaceful bendings\nhere and there appeared through the profusion of woodland foliage,\nuniting the brightness of crystal with the hues of the raven. All the\nlinns and woody banks of the river re-echoed the notes of the feathered\nchoir. To have looked on such a scene, one might have conceived that he\ndwelt in a world where there was neither sin nor sorrow; but, alas! the\nimperfections of our nature cling to us; they wind themselves round the\nfibres of the conscious heart, so that no draught of pure and untainted\ndelight can ever allay its immortal earnings. How different would such a\nscene appear to perfect and sinless creatures, whose destiny did not\nsubject them to the terrors of death, and the hideous and mouldy\nrecesses of the grave! Were it possible for us to conceive that two\nsuch beings indeed looked on it, we might form some idea of their\nfeelings, and even these faint ideas would lend a triple grandeur and\nbeauty to such an evening, and indeed to every varied scene of nature,\non which our eyes chanced to rest.\n\n\"Sister,\" said Clara, \"we are again in sight of our native home, and the\nwalks of our days of innocence; say, are our earthly forms and\naffections to be resumed, or are our bonds with humanity to be broken\nfor ever? You have now witnessed the king of Scotland's private\nlife--all his moods, passions, and affections--are you content to be his\nqueen, and sovereign of the realm?\"\n\n\"Sooner would I be a worm that crawls among these weeds, than subject\nmyself to the embraces, humours, and caprices of such a thing--A king is\na block, and his queen a puppet--happiness, truth, and purity of heart\nare there unknown--Mention some other tie to nature, or let us bid it\nadieu for ever without a sigh.\"\n\n\"We have a widowed mother, beautiful, affectionate, and kind.\"\n\n\"That is the only bond with mortality which I find it difficult to\nbreak, for it is a wicked and licentious world--snares were laid for us\non every side--our innocence was no shield--and, sister, do not you yet\ntremble to think of the whirlpool of conflicting passions and follies\nfrom which we were so timeously borne away?\"\n\nThe lovely Clara bowed assent; and away they went hand in hand once more\nto visit and embrace their earthly parent. They found her in the arms of\na rude and imperious pirate, to whom she had subjected herself and her\nwide domains. They found themselves step-daughters in the halls that of\nright belonged to them, and instead of fond love and affection, regarded\nwith jealousy and hate. Short and sorrowful was their stay; they\nembraced their mother once again; bade her farewell with looks of\nsorrow, and walking out to the fairy ring in the verge of the wood,\nvanished from the world for ever. It is said, that once in every seven\nyears their forms are still to be seen hovering nigh to the ruins of\nRosline. Many are the wild and incomprehensible traditions that remain\nof them over the country, and there are likewise some romantic scraps of\nsong, besides the verses that are preserved in the foregoing chapter,\nwhich are supposed to relate to them. Many have heard the following\nverses chaunted to a tune resembling a dirge:\n\n    \"Lang may our king look,\n      An' sair mot he rue;\n    For the twin flowers o' Rosline\n      His hand shall never pu'.\n    Lie thy lane, step-dame;\n      An' liefu' be thy lair;\n    For the bonny flowers o' Rosline\n      Are gane for evermair.\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"O tell nae the news in the kitchen,\n      An' tell nae the news in the ha',\n    An' tell nae the news in the hee hee tower\n      Amang our fair ladies a'.\n    How damp were the dews o' the gloamin',\n      How wet were her hose and her shoon;\n    Or wha met wi' fair Lady Rosline\n      By the ee light o' the moon!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"Douglas has lost his bassonet,\n      The king his hawk, and milk-white hound;\n    And merry Maxwell has taen the bent,\n      And its hey! and its ho! for the English ground!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"When seven lang years were come an' gane,\n      By yon auld castle wa';\n    There she beheld twa bonny maids\n      A playing at the ba;\n\n    But wha shall speak to these fair maids\n      Aneath the waning moon;\n    O they maun dree a waesome weird,\n      That never will be doone!\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nEDINBURGH:\n\nPrinted by James Ballantyne & Co.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nDuplicate title headings before each story have been removed.\n\nThe following errors in the printed text have been corrected:\n\np. 3 \"CHAPTER .\" changed to \"CHAPTER I.\"\n\np. 9 \"toher young\" changed to \"to her young\"\n\np. 36 \"mysel However,\" changed to \"mysel. However,\"\n\np. 64 \"creeping o\" changed to \"creeping on\"\n\np. 77 \"femenity\" changed to \"femininity\"\n\np. 100 \"s en equalled\" changed to \"seen equalled\"\n\np. 132 \"si e o't--sa d\" changed to \"side o't--said\"\n\np. 137 \"remembered o\" changed to \"remembered so\"\n\np. 183 \"did not not like\" changed to \"did not like\"\n\np. 183 \"with it\" changed to \"with its\"\n\np. 186 \"guff.\" changed to \"guff.\"\"\n\np. 226 \"whispering),\" changed to \"whispering,\"\n\np. 247 \"Yes, by\" changed to \"\"Yes, by\"\n\np. 248 \"nother\" changed to \"another\"\n\np. 338 \"effect. Accordingly\" changed to \"effect. Accordingly\"\n\n\nThe following possible errors in the printed text have been left as\nprinted:\n\np. 8 \"blithsome\"\n\np. 40 \"ain house?\"\"\n\np. 82 \"knew not whether\"\n\np. 142 \"burried\"\n\np. 165 \"there's nought\"\n\np. 287 \"hagard\"\n\np. 322 \"aye the sang\"\n\n\nQuotation marks are used inconsistently where the narrator reports\ndialogue, and apostrophes are used inconsistently to indicate elision;\nthese inconsistencies have been retained.\n\n\nThe following are used inconsistently in the text:\n\ndaylight and day-light\n\nEildon-Hall and Eildon Hall\n\nEildon-Tree, Eildon Tree, Eildon-tree and Eildon tree\n\nmelancholy, melancholly and mellancholly\n\nmoonlight and moon-light\n\nround-about and round about\n\nstake and steak\n\nsunset and sun-set\n\nweelfaurd and weel-faurd\n\n\nThe following were not clearly printed and are conjectural:\n\np. 165 apostrophe in \"a' fair!\"\n\np. 172 bracketed text in \"informatio[n]\"\n\np. 302 bracketed text in \"triang[u]lar\"\n\np. 323 full stop in \"and cam.\"","title":"The Brownie of Bodsbeck, and Other Tales (Vol. 2 of 2)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":57605}