{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_71325/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_71325","id":"gutenberg_71325","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71325","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Cromarty (Scotland)","Legends -- Scotland -- Cromarty"],"text":"SCENES AND LEGENDS\n\n                                  OF\n\n                        THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\n                          SCENES AND LEGENDS\n\n                                  OF\n\n                        THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND;\n\n                                  OR,\n\n                 The Traditional History of Cromarty.\n\n\n                            BY HUGH MILLER,\n             AUTHOR OF \u2018THE OLD RED SANDSTONE,\u2019 ETC. ETC.\n\n\n                           _EIGHTH EDITION._\n\n\n                              EDINBURGH:\n                           WILLIAM P. NIMMO.\n                                 1869.\n\n\n\n\n                              DEDICATION\n\n                                  TO\n\n                        SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER\n\n                 OF GRANGE AND FOUNTAINHALL, BARONET.\n\n\n    HONOURED SIR,\n\nI am not much acquainted with what Goldsmith has termed the ceremonies\nof a dedication. I know, however, that like other ceremonies, they are\nsometimes a little tedious, and often more than a little insincere. But\nit is well that, though dulness be involuntary, no one need deceive\nunless he wills it. There are comparatively few who seem born to think\nvigorously, or to express themselves well; but since all men may be\nhonest, though all cannot be original or elegant, every one, surely,\nmay express only what he feels. In dedicating this little volume to\nyou, I obey the dictates of a real, though perhaps barren, gratitude;\nnor can I think of the kind interest which you have taken in my\namusements as a writer, and my fortunes as a man, without feeling that,\nthough I may be dull, I cannot be insincere.\n\nThere are other motives which have led to this address. He who\ndedicates, more than expresses his gratitude. By his choice of a\nPatron, he intimates also, as if by specimen, the class which he would\nfain select as his readers; or, as I should perhaps rather express\nmyself, he specifies the peculiar cast of intellect and range of\nacquirement from which he anticipates the justest appreciation of his\nlabours, and the deepest interest in the subject of them. Need I say\nthat I regard you, Sir Thomas, as a representative of the class whom\nit is most my ambition to please? My stories, arranged as nearly as\npossible in the chronological order, form a long vista into the past\nof Scotland, with all its obsolete practices and all its exploded\nbeliefs. And where shall I find one better qualified to decide\nregarding the truth of the scenery, the justness of the perspective, or\nthe proportions and costume of the figures, than he whom contemporary\ngenius has so happily designated as the \u201cPoet and Painter of the great\nMorayshire Floods?\u201d I can form no higher wish than that my work may\nprove worthy of so discerning a critic, or that you, Sir, may be as\nfortunate in your _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_ as I in my patron.\n\nI am, I trust, no _hypocrite_ in literature, but a right-hearted\ndevotee to whom composition is quite its own reward. If my little\nvolume succeed, I shall be gratified by reflecting that the pleasure\nderived from it has not been confined to myself; if it fail, there\nwill be some comfort in the thought that it has proved, to at least\none mind, a copious source of entertainment. Besides, I am pretty\nsure, I shall be sanguine enough to transfer to some production of the\nfuture, the few hopes which, in the past, I had founded on it. And when\nthinking of it as the \u201cpoor deceased,\u201d I reflect that, at worst, it\nwas rather dull than wicked, and that it rather failed in performance\nthan erred in intention; I shall not judge the less tenderly regarding\nit, when I further remember that it procured for me the honour of your\nnotice, and furnished me with this opportunity of subscribing myself,\n\n                                  Honoured Sir,\n\n                                        With sincere respect,\n\n                            Your humble friend, and obedient Servant,\n\n                                                             THE AUTHOR.\n\n    CROMARTY, 1834.\n\n\n\n\nNOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION.\n\n\nThe present edition contains about one-third more matter than the\nfirst. The added chapters, however, like those which previously\ncomposed the work, were almost all written about twenty years ago,[1]\nin leisure hours snatched from a laborious employment, or during the\nstorms of winter, when the worker in the open air has to seek shelter\nat home. But it is always less disadvantageous to a traditionary work,\nthat it should have been written early than late. Of the materials\nwrought up into the present volume, the greater part was gathered about\nfrom fifteen to twenty years earlier still; and though some thirty-five\nor forty years may not seem a very lengthened period, such has been\nthe change that has taken place during the lapse of the generation\nwhich has in that time disappeared from the earth, that perhaps scarce\na tithe of the same matter could be collected now. We live in an age\nunfavourable to tradition, in which the written has superseded the\noral. As the sun rose in his strength, the manna wasted away like\nhoar-frost from off the ground.\n\nIn preparing my volume a second time for the press, I have felt\nrather gratified than otherwise, that, at least, much of what it\ncontains should have been preserved. The reader will here and there\nfind snatches of dissertation, which would perhaps not be missed if\naway--which, at all events, had they not been written before, would\nhave remained unwritten now; but which I have spared, partly for the\nsake of the associations connected with them, and partly under the\nimpression that the other portions of the work would have less of\ncharacter if they were wanting. Some of these dissertative fragments\nI have, however, considerably abridged, and there were others of a\nsimilar kind in the first edition which have been wholly suppressed. In\nmy longer stories I have, I find, exercised the same sort of liberty\nin filling up the outlines as that taken by the ancient historians in\ntheir earlier chapters. Livy in the the times of the Empire could write\nspeeches for Romulus and Junius Brutus, and introduce them into his\nnarrative as authentic; and Tacitus details as minutely, in his Life\nof Agricola, the deliberations of the warlike Caledonians as if he\nhad formed one of their councils. Even the sober Hume puts arguments\nfor and against toleration into the mouths of Cardinal Pole and his\nopponents which belonged to neither the men nor the age. But though I\nhave, in some cases, given shade and colour to the original lines, in\nno case have I altered the character of the drawing. I have only to\nstate further, that the reader, when he finds reference made, in the\nindefinite style of the traditionary historian, to the years which have\nelapsed since the events related took place, must add in every instance\ntwenty additional twelvemonths to the number; the some thirty bygone\nyears of my narratives have stretched out into half a century, and the\nhalf century into the threescore years and ten.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    CHAPTER I.\n                                                                    PAGE\n\n    My Old Library and its Contents--The Three Classes of\n    Traditions--Legend of Sludach--Singular Test of\n    Character--The Writer\u2019s Pledge,                                    1\n\n\n    CHAPTER II.\n\n    Alypos--Etymological Legends--Epic Poetry of the Middle\n    Ages--Astorimon--The Spectre Ships--Olaus Rudbeck,                10\n\n\n    CHAPTER III.\n\n    The Bay of Cromarty--The Old Coast Line--The Old Town--The\n    Storms of the Five Winters--Donald Miller\u2019s Wars with the\n    Sea,                                                              25\n\n\n    CHAPTER IV.\n\n    Macbeth--Our earlier Data--The Fions of Knock-Ferril--The King\u2019s\n    Sons--The Obelisks of Easter Ross--Dunskaith--The Urquharts\n    of Cromarty--Wallace--The Foray of the Clans--Paterhemon,         36\n\n\n    CHAPTER V.\n\n    Remains of the Old Mythology--The Devotional Sentiment--Interesting\n    Usages--Rites of the Scottish Halloween--The Charm\n    of the Egg--The Twelfth Rig--Macculloch\u2019s Courtship--The\n    Extinct Spectres--Legend of Morial\u2019s Den--The Guardian Cock,      55\n\n\n    CHAPTER VI.\n\n    A Scottish Town of the 17th Century--The Old Castle of the\n    Urquharts--Hereditary Sheriffship,                                75\n\n\n    CHAPTER VII.\n\n    Sir Thomas Urquhart,                                              86\n\n\n    CHAPTER VIII.\n\n    The Reformation--Outbreaking at Rosemarkie--Sir John Urquhart\n    of Craigfintrie--The Ousted Ministers--Mr. Fraser of\n    Brea--Luggie,                                                    105\n\n\n    CHAPTER IX.\n\n    The Chaplain\u2019s Lair,                                             124\n\n\n    CHAPTER X.\n\n    The Curates--Donald Roy of Nigg--The Breaking of the Burgh--George\n    Earl of Cromartie--The Union,                                    143\n\n\n    CHAPTER XI.\n\n    Important Events which affect the Religious Character--Kenneth\n    Ore--Thomas Hogg and the Man-horse--The Watchman of\n    Cullicuden--The Lady of Ardvrock--The Lady of Balconie,          157\n\n\n    CHAPTER XII.\n\n    The Fisherman\u2019s Widow,                                           177\n\n\n    CHAPTER XIII.\n\n    The Story of John Feddes--Andrew Lindsay,                        194\n\n\n    CHAPTER XIV.\n\n    The Chapel of St. Regulus--Macleod the Smuggler--The Story of\n    Sandy Wood,                                                      209\n\n\n    CHAPTER XV.\n\n    The Poor Lost Lad--A Ballad in Prose--Morrison the Painter,      221\n\n\n    CHAPTER XVI.\n\n    The Economy of Accident--The Black Years--Progress of the\n    Pestilence--The Quarantine--The Cholera,                         235\n\n\n    CHAPTER XVII.\n\n    Martinmas Market--The Herring Drove--The Whale-Fishers--The\n    Flight of the Drove--Urquhart of Greenhill--Poem--William\n    Forsyth--The Caithness Man\u2019s Leap,                               250\n\n\n    CHAPTER XVIII.\n\n    Sandy Wright and the Puir Orphan,                                267\n\n\n    CHAPTER XIX.\n\n    Tarbat Ness--Stine Bheag o\u2019 Tarbat,                              279\n\n\n    CHAPTER XX.\n\n    The Mermaid--The Story of John Reid--Maculloch the Corn-Agent--The\n    Washing of the Mermaid,                                          290\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXI.\n\n    The Bad Year--Sandison\u2019s Spulzie--The Meal Mob,                  305\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXII.\n\n    The Forty-Five--Nanny Miller\u2019s Onslaught--The Retreat--The\n    Battle of Culloden--Old John Dunbar--Jacobite Psalm,             319\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXIII.\n\n    The Dropping Cave--The Legend of Willie Millar--A Boy\n    Adventurer--Fiddler\u2019s Well,                                      329\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXIV.\n\n    Wars of the Town\u2019s-people--Maculloch the Lawyer--The\n    Law-Plea--Roderick and the Captain--Mr. Henderson,               342\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXV.\n\n    The Churchyard Ghost--My Writing Room--The Broken Promise--The\n    Polander--The One-eyed Stepmother--The Pedlar--The\n    Green Lady--Munro the Post,                                      357\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXVI.\n\n    The Literati of Cromarty--Johnie o\u2019 the Shore--Meggie o\u2019 the\n    Shore--David Henderson--Macculloch of Dun-Loth,                  377\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXVII.\n\n    The Gudewife of Minitarf,                                        395\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n    The Old School, and what it produced--Dr. Hossack--The hard\n    Dominie--Mr. Russel the minister--The Cock-Fight--Maculloch\n    the Mechanician,                                                 408\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXIX.\n\n    The Itinerant Sculptor--Kirk-Michael--The Apprentice\u2019s Dream--The\n    Wild Wife--Gordon of Newhall--Sir Robert Munro--Babble\n    Hanah,                                                           432\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXX.\n\n    George Ross, the Scotch Agent,                                   449\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXXI.\n\n    The Burn of Eathie--Donald Calder--The Story of Tom M\u2019Kechan--Fause\n    Jamie,                                                           461\n\n\n    CHAPTER XXXII.\n\n    Our Town Politics--The First Whig--The Revolution--The Democracy--The\n    Procession--Hossack\u2019s Pledge--The County Meeting--The\n    French War--Whiggism of the People,                              473\n\n\n\n\nSCENES AND LEGENDS.\n\nTHE TRADITIONAL HISTORY OF CROMARTY.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    \u201cTradition is a meteor, which, if once it falls, cannot be\n    rekindled.\u201d--JOHNSON.\n\n\nExtremes may meet in the intellectual as certainly as in the moral\nworld. I find, in tracing to its first beginnings the slowly\naccumulated magazine of facts and inferences which forms the stock in\ntrade on which my mind carries on its work of speculation and exchange,\nthat my greatest benefactors have been the philosophic Bacon and an\nignorant old woman, who, of all the books ever written, was acquainted\nwith only the Bible.\n\n[Sidenote: MY OLD LIBRARY AND ITS CONTENTS.]\n\nWhen a little fellow of about ten or twelve years of age, I was much\naddicted to reading, but found it no easy matter to gratify the\npropensity; until, having made myself acquainted with some people in\nthe neighbourhood who were possessed of a few volumes, I was permitted\nto ransack their shelves, to the no small annoyance of the bookworm and\nthe spider. I read incessantly; and as the appetite for reading, like\nevery other kind of appetite, becomes stronger the more it is indulged,\nI felt, when I had consumed the whole, a still keener craving than\nbefore. I was quite in the predicament of the shipwrecked sailor, who\nexpends his last morsel when on the open sea, and, like him too, I set\nmyself to prey on my neighbours. Old greyheaded men, and especially\nold women, became my books; persons whose minds, not having been\npreoccupied by that artificial kind of learning which is the result of\neducation, had gradually filled, as they passed through life, with the\nknowledge of what was occurring around them, and with the information\nderived from people of a similar cast with themselves, who had been\nborn half an age earlier. And it was not long before I at least\n_thought_ I discovered that their narratives had only to be translated\ninto the language of books, to render them as interesting as even the\nbetter kind of written stories. They abounded with what I deemed as\ntrue delineations of character, as pleasing exhibitions of passion, and\nas striking instances of the vicissitudes of human affairs--with the\nvagaries of imaginations as vigorous, and the beliefs of superstitions\nas wild. Alas! the epitaph of the famous American printer may now be\nwritten over the greater part of the volumes of this my second library;\nand so unfavourable is the present age to the production of more,\nthat even that wise provision of nature which implants curiosity in\nthe young, while it renders the old communicative, seems abridged of\none-half its usefulness. For though the young must still learn, the\nold need not teach; the press having proved such a supplanter of the\npast-world schoolmaster, Tradition, as the spinning-wheel proved in\nthe last age to the distaff and spindle. I cannot look back on much\nmore than twenty years of the past; and yet in that comparatively\nbrief space, I see the stream of tradition rapidly lessening as it\nflows onward, and displaying, like those rivers of Africa which lose\nthemselves in the burning sands of the desert, a broader and more\npowerful volume as I trace it towards its source.\n\nIt has often been a subject of regret to me, that this oral knowledge\nof the past, which I deem so interesting, should be thus suffered to be\nlost. The meteor, says my motto, if it once fall, cannot be rekindled.\nPerhaps had I been as conversant, some five or ten years ago, with the\nart of the writer as with the narratives of my early monitors, no one\nat this time of day would have to entertain a similar feeling; but I\nwas not so conversant with it, nor am I yet, and the occasion still\nremains. The Sibyline tomes of tradition are disappearing in this part\nof the country one by one; and I find, like Selkirk in his island when\nthe rich fruits of autumn were dropping around him, that if I myself\ndo not preserve them they must perish. I therefore set myself to the\ntask of storing them up as I best may, and urge as my only apology\nthe emergency of the case. Not merely do I regard them as the produce\nof centuries, and like the blossoms of the Aloe, interesting on this\naccount alone, but also as a species of produce which the harvests of\nfuture centuries may fail to supply. True it is, that superstition\nis a weed indigenous to the human mind, and will spring up in the\nhalf-cultivated corners of society in every coming generation; but then\nthe superstitions of the future may have little in common with those of\nthe past. True it is, that human nature is intrinsically the same in\nall ages and all countries; but then it is not so with its ever-varying\ngarb of custom and opinion, and never again may it wear this garb in\nthe curious obsolete fashion of a century ago.--Geologists tell us\nthat the earth produced its plants and animals at a time when the very\nstones of our oldest ruins existed only as mud or sand; but they were\ncertainly not the plants and animals of Linn\u00e6us or Buffon.\n\n[Sidenote: THE THREE CLASSES OF TRADITIONS.]\n\nThe traditions of this part of the country, and of perhaps every\nother, may be divided into three great classes. Those of the first\nand simplest class are strictly local; they record real events, and\nowe their chief interest to their delineations of character. Those of\nthe second are pure inventions. They are formed mostly after a set of\nmodels furnished perhaps by the later bards, and are common--though\nvarying in different places according to the taste of the several\nimitators who first introduced them, or the chance alterations which\nthey afterwards received--to almost every district of Scotland. The\ntraditions of the third and most complex class are combinations of\nthe two others, with in some instances a dash of original invention,\nand in others a mixture of that superstitious credulity which can\nmisconceive as ingeniously as the creative faculty can invent. The\nvalue of stories of the first class is generally in proportion to their\ntruth, and there is a simple test by which we may ascertain the degree\nof credit proper to be attached to them. There is a habit of minute\nattention almost peculiar to the common people (in no class, at least,\nis it more perfect than in the commonest), which leads them to take a\nkind of microscopic survey of every object suited to interest them;\nand hence their narratives of events which have really occurred are\nas strikingly faithful in all the minor details as Dutch paintings.\nNot a trait of character, not a shade of circumstance, is suffered to\nescape. Nay more, the _dramatis person\u00e6_ of their little histories are\nalmost invariably introduced to tell their own stories in their own\nlanguage. And though this be the easiest and lowest style of narrative,\nyet to invent in this style is so far from being either low or easy,\nthat with the exception of Shakspere, and one or two more, I know not\nany who have excelled in it. Nothing more common than those faithful\nmemories which can record whole conversations, and every attendant\ncircumstance, however minute; nothing less so than that just conception\nof character and vigour of imagination, which can alone construct a\nnatural dialogue, or depict, with the nice pencil of truth, a scene\nwholly fictitious. And thus though any one, even the weakest, can\nmix up falsehoods with the truths related in this way, not one of a\nmillion can make them amalgamate. The iron and clay, to use Bacon\u2019s\nillustration, retain their separate natures, as in the feet of the\nimage, and can as easily be distinguished.\n\nThe traditions of the second class, being in most instances only\nimperfect copies of extravagant and ill-conceived originals, are much\nless interesting than those of the first; and such of them as are\nformed on the commoner models, or have already, in some shape or other,\nbeen laid before the public, I shall take the liberty of rejecting.\nA very few of them, however, are of a superior and more local cast,\nand these I shall preserve. Their merit, such as it is, consists\nprincipally in their structure as stories--a merit, I am disposed\nto think, which, when even at the best, is of no high order. I have\nobserved that there is more of plot and counter-plot in our commonest\nnovels and lowest kind of plays, than in the tales and dramas of our\nbest writers; and what can be more simple than the fables of the Iliad\nand the Paradise Lost!--From the third class of traditions I trust\nto derive some of my choicest materials. Like those of the first,\nthey are rich in character and incident, and to what is natural in\nthem and based on fact, there is added, as in Epic poetry, a kind of\nmachinery, supplied either by invention or superstition, or borrowed\nfrom the fictions of the bards, or from the old classics. In one or\ntwo instances I have met with little strokes of fiction in them, of a\nsimilar character with, some of even the finest strokes in the latter,\nbut which seem to be rather coincidences of invention, if I may so\nexpress myself, than imitations.--There occurs to me a story of this\nclass which may serve to illustrate my meaning.\n\n[Sidenote: LEGEND OF SLUDACH.]\n\nIn the upper part of the parish of Cromarty there is a singularly\ncurious spring, termed Sludach, which suddenly dries up every year\nearly in summer, and breaks out again at the close of autumn. It\ngushes from the bank with an undiminished volume until within a few\nhours before it ceases to flow for the season, and bursts forth on its\nreturn in a full stream. And it acquired this peculiar character, says\ntradition, some time in the seventeenth century. On a very warm day of\nsummer, two farmers employed in the adjacent fields were approaching\nthe spring in opposite directions to quench their thirst. One of them\nwas tacksman of the farm on which the spring rises, the other tenanted\na neighbouring farm. They had lived for some time previous on no very\nfriendly terms. The tacksman, a coarse, rude man, reached the spring\nfirst, and taking a hasty draught, he gathered up a handful of mud,\nand just as his neighbour came up, flung it into the water. \u201cNow,\u201d\nsaid he, turning away as he spoke, \u201cyou may drink your fill.\u201d Scarcely\nhad he uttered the words, however, when the offended stream began to\nboil like a caldron, and after bubbling a while among the grass and\nrushes, sunk into the ground. Next day at noon the heap of grey sand\nwhich had been incessantly rising and falling within it, in a little\nconical jet, for years before, had become as dry as the dust of the\nfields; and the strip of white flowering cresses which skirted either\nside of the runnel that had issued from it, lay withering in the sun.\nWhat rendered the matter still more extraordinary, it was found that\na powerful spring had burst out on the opposite side of the firth,\nwhich at this place is nearly five miles in breadth, a few hours after\nthe Cromarty one had disappeared. The story spread; the tacksman,\nrude and coarse as he was, was made unhappy by the forebodings of his\nneighbours, who seemed to regard him as one resting under a curse; and\ngoing to an elderly person in an adjoining parish, much celebrated for\nhis knowledge of the supernatural, he craved his advice. \u201cRepair,\u201d\nsaid the seer, \u201cto the old hollow of the fountain, and as nearly as\nyou can guess, at the hour in which you insulted the water, and after\nclearing it out with a clean linen towel lay yourself down beside it\nand abide the result.\u201d He did so, and waited on the bank above the\nhollow from noon until near sunset, when the water came rushing up\nwith a noise like the roar of the sea, scattering the sand for several\nyards around; and then, subsiding to its common level, it flowed on as\nformerly between the double row of cresses. The spring on the opposite\nside of the firth withdrew its waters about the time of the rite of\nthe cleansing, and they have not since re-appeared; while those of\nSludach, from that day to the present, are presented, as if in scorn,\nduring the moister seasons, when no one regards them as valuable, and\nwithheld in the seasons of drought, when they would be prized. We\nrecognise in this singular tradition a kind of soul or Naiad of the\nspring, susceptible of offence, and conscious of the attentions paid\nto it; and the passage of the waters beneath the sea reminds us of the\nriver Alpheus sinking at Peloponnesus to rise in Sicily.\n\n[Sidenote: SINGULAR TEST OF CHARACTER.]\n\nNext in degree to the pleasure I have enjoyed in collecting these\ntraditions, is the satisfaction which I have felt in contemplating the\nvarious cabinets, if I may so speak, in which I found them stored up\naccording to their classes. For I soon discovered that the different\nsorts of stories were not lodged indiscriminately in every sort of\nmind--the people who cherished the narratives of one particular class\nfrequently rejecting those of another. I found, for instance, that the\ntraditions of the third class, with all their machinery of wraiths\nand witches, were most congenial to the female mind; and I think I\ncan now perceive that this was quite in character. Women, taken in\nthe collective, are more poetical, more timid, more credulous than\nmen. If we but add to these general traits one or two that are less\nso, and a few very common circumstances; if we but add a judgment\nnot naturally vigorous, an imagination more than commonly active, an\nignorance of books and of the world, a long-cherished belief in the\nsupernatural, a melancholy old age, and a solitary fireside--we have\ncompounded the elements of that terrible poetry which revels among\nskulls, and coffins, and enchantments, as certainly as Nature did\nwhen she moulded the brain of a Shakspere. The stories of the second\nclass I have almost never found in communion with those of the third;\nand never heard well told--except as jokes. To tell a story avowedly\nuntrue, and to tell it as a piece of humour, requires a very different\ncast of mind from that which characterized the melancholy people who\nwere the grand depositories of the darker traditions: they entertained\nthese only because they deemed them mysterious and very awful truths,\nwhile they regarded open fictions as worse than foolish. Nor were\ntheir own stories better received by a third sort of persons, from\nwhom I have drawn some of my best traditions of the first class, and\nwho were mostly shrewd, sagacious men, who, having acquired such a\ntinge of scepticism as made them ashamed of the beliefs of their weaker\nneighbours, were yet not so deeply imbued with it as to deem these\nbeliefs mere matters of amusement. They did battle with them both\nin themselves and the people around them, and found the contest too\nserious an affair to be laughed at. Now, however (and the circumstance\nis characteristic), the successors of this order of people venture\nreadily enough on telling a good ghost story, when they but get one to\ntell. Superstition, so long as it was living superstition, they deemed,\nlike the live tiger in his native woods, a formidable, mischievous\nthing, fit only to be destroyed; but now that it has perished, they\npossess themselves of its skin and its claws, and store them up in\ntheir cabinets.\n\n[Sidenote: THE WRITER\u2019S PLEDGE.]\n\nI have thus given a general character of the contents of my departed\nlibrary, and the materials of my proposed work. My stories form a kind\nof history of the district of country to which they belong--hence\nthe title I have chosen for them; and, to fill up some of those\ninterstices which must always be occurring in a piece of history\npurely traditional, I shall avail myself of all the little auxiliary\nfacts with which books may supply me. The reader, however, need be\nunder no apprehension of meeting much he was previously acquainted\nwith; and, should I succeed in accomplishing what I have purposed, the\nlocal aspect of my work may not militate against its interest. Human\nnature is not exclusively displayed in the histories of only great\ncountries, or in the actions of only celebrated men; and human nature\nmay be suffered to assert its claim on the attention of the beings\nwho partake of it, even though the specimens exhibited be furnished\nby the traditions of an obscure village. Much, however, depends on\nthe manner in which a story is told; and thus far I may vouch for the\nwriter. I have seriously resolved not to be tedious, unless I cannot\nhelp it; and so, if I do not prove amusing, it will be only because I\nam unfortunate enough to be dull. I shall have the merit of doing my\nbest--and what writer ever did more? I pray the reader, however, not to\nform any very harsh opinion of me for at least the first four chapters,\nand to be not more than moderately critical on the two or three that\nfollow. There is an obscurity which hangs over the beginnings of all\nhistory--a kind of impalpable fog--which the writer can hardly avoid\ntransferring from the first openings of his subject to the first pages\nof his book. He sees through this haze the men of an early period \u201clike\ntrees walking;\u201d and, even should he believe them to be beings of the\nsame race with himself, and of nearly the same shape and size--a belief\nnot always entertained--it is impossible for him, from the atmosphere\nwhich surrounds them, to catch those finer traits of form and feature\nby which he could best identify them with the species. And hence a\nnecessary lack of interest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\u201cConsider it warilie; read aftiner than anis.\u201d--GAVIN DOUGLAS.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALYPOS.]\n\nThe histories of single districts of country rarely ascend into so\nremote an antiquity as to be lost like those of nations in the ages of\nfable. It so happens, however, whether fortunately or otherwise, for\nthe writer, that in this respect the old shire of Cromarty differs from\nevery other in the kingdom. Sir Thomas Urquhart, an ingenious native\nof the district, who flourished about the middle of the seventeenth\ncentury, has done for it all that the chroniclers and senachies of\nEngland and Ireland have done for their respective countries; and as\nhe united to a vigorous imagination a knowledge of what is excellent\nin character, instead of peopling it with the caco-demons of the\none kingdom, or the resuscitated antediluvians of the other, he has\nbestowed upon it a longer line of heroes and demigods than can be\nexhibited by the annals of either. I avail myself of his writings on\nthe strength of that argument which O\u2019Flaherty uses in his Ogygia as an\napology for the story of the three fishermen who were driven by tempest\ninto a haven of Ireland fifteen days before the universal deluge.\n\u201cWhere there is no room,\u201d says this historian, \u201cfor just disquisition,\nand no proper field of inquiry, we must rely on the common suffrages of\nthe writers of our country; to whose opinions I voluntarily subscribe.\u201d\n\nAlypos, the forty-third in a direct line from Japhet, was the first,\nsays Sir Thomas, who discovered that part of Scotland which has since\nbeen known by the name of Cromarty. He was contemporary with Rehoboam,\nthe fourth king of Israel, and a very extraordinary personage,\nindependent of his merits as a navigator. For we must regard him as\nconstituting a link which divides into ancestors and descendants--a\nchain that depends unbroken from the creation of Adam to the present\ntimes; and which either includes in itself, or serves to connect by its\nwindings and involutions, some of the most famous people of every age\nof the world. His grandmother was a daughter of Calcido the Tyrian, who\nfounded Carthage, and who must have lived several ages before the Dido\nof Virgil; his mother travelled from a remote eastern country to profit\nby the wisdom of Solomon, and is supposed by many, says Sir Thomas,\nto have been the queen of Sheba. Nor were his ancestors a whit less\nhappy in their friends than in their consorts. There was one of them\nintimately acquainted with Nimrod, the founder of the Assyrian Empire,\nand the builder of Babel; another sat with Abraham in the door of his\ntent, sharing with him his feelings of sorrow and horror when the fire\nof destruction was falling on the cities of the plain; a third, after\naccompanying Bacchus in his expedition to the Indies, and receiving\nfrom him in marriage the hand of Thymelica his daughter, was presented\nwith a rich jewel when passing through Syria, by Deborah, the judge\nand prophetess of Israel. The gem might have been still in the family\nhad not one of his descendants given it to Penthesilea, that queen of\nthe Amazons who assisted the Trojans against Agamemnon. Buchanan has\nexpressed his astonishment that the chroniclers of Britain, instead of\nappropriating to themselves honourable ancestors out of the works of\nthe poets, should rather, through a strange perversity, derive their\nlineage from the very refuse of nations: Sir Thomas seems to have\ndetermined not to furnish a similar occasion of surprise to any future\nhistorian. There were princes of his family who reigned with honour\nover Achaia and Spain, and a long line of monarchs who flourished in\nIreland before the expedition of Fergus I.\n\n[Sidenote: ETYMOLOGICAL LEGENDS.]\n\nThe era of Alypos was one of the most important in the history of\nBritain. It was that in which the inhabitants first began to build\ncities, and to distinguish their several provinces by different names.\nIt witnessed the erection of the city of York by one Elborak, a\nbrother-in-law of Alypos, and saw the castle of Edinburgh founded by a\ncontemporary chieftain of Scotland, who had not the happiness of being\nconnected to him, and whose name has therefore been lost. The historian\nassigns, too, to the same age the first use of the term Olbion as a\nname for the northern division of the island--a term which afterwards,\n\u201cby an Eolic dialect,\u201d came to be pronounced Albion, or Albyn; and\nthe first application of the name Sutors, from the Greek \u03c3\u03c9\u03c4\u03b7\u03be\u03b5\u03c2,\n_preservers_, to those lofty promontories which guard the entrance of\nthe bay of Cromarty--a fact which Aikman the historian recommends, with\nbecoming gravity, to the consideration of Gaelic etymologists. Much\nof a similar character, as appears from Sir Thomas, could have been\nbrought under their notice in the reign of Charles I., when, as he\nstates in one of his treatises, the names of all places in the shire of\nCromarty, whether promontories, fountains, rivers, or lakes, were of\npure and perfect Greek. Since that time, however, many of these names\nhave been converted into choice trophies of the learning and research\nof those very etymologists;--even the derivation of the term Sutors\nhas been disputed, but by the partisans of languages less ancient than\neither Greek or Gaelic. The one party write the contested dissyllable\nSuitors, the other Soutars, and defend their different modes of\nspelling each by a different legend--a species of argument practised at\none time with much ingenuity and success by the contending Orders of\nSt. Dominic and Loyola.\n\nThe promontories which bear this name are nearly equal in height, but\nwhen viewed from the west they differ considerably in appearance.\nThe one, easy of access, crowned with a thick wood of pine, divided\ninto corn-fields, and skirted at the base by a broad line of ash\nand elm, seems feminine in its character; while the other, abrupt,\nstern, broken into precipices, and tufted with furze, is of a cast\nas decidedly masculine. Two lovers of some remote age, had met by\nappointment in a field of Cromarty which commands a full view of the\npromontories in the aspect described. The young man urged his suit\nwith the characteristic warmth of his sex--his mistress was timid and\nbashful. He accused her of indifference; and with all the fervour of\na passion which converts even common men into poets, he exclaimed,\npointing to the promontories, \u201cSee, Ada! they too are lovers--they are\nhastening to embrace; and stern and rugged as that carle-hill of the\nnorth may seem to others, he is not reckoned so by his lady-hill of\nthe south;--see how, with all her woods and her furrows, she advances\nto meet him.\u201d--\u201cAnd think you,\u201d rejoined the maiden, entering into the\npoetry of the feeling, \u201cthat these tongueless _suitors_ cannot express\ntheir mutual regards without the aid of language; or that that carle\nof the north, rude as he is, would once think of questioning the faith\nand affection of his advancing mistress, merely because she advances\nin silence?\u201d Her reply, say the people who contend for the English\nderivation of the word, furnished the promontories with a name; and as\nthose alchemists of mind who can transmute etymology into poetry have\nnot been produced everywhere, few names have anecdotes equally pleasing\nconnected with their origin. The other legend is of a different\ncharacter, and has a merit peculiar to itself, to be amenable to any\nknown law of criticism.\n\nIn some age of the world more remote than even that of Alypos, the\nwhole of Britain was peopled by giants--a fact amply supported by\nearly English historians and the traditions of the north of Scotland.\nDiocletian, king of Syria, say the historians, had thirty-three\ndaughters, who, like the daughters of Danaus, killed their husbands\non their wedding night. The king, their father, in abhorrence of the\ncrime, crowded them all into a ship, which he abandoned to the mercy of\nthe waves, and which was drifted by tides and winds till it arrived\non the coast of Britain, then an uninhabited island. There they lived\nsolitary, subsisting on roots and berries, the natural produce of the\nsoil, until an order of demons, becoming enamoured of them, took them\nfor their wives; and a tribe of giants, who must be regarded as the\ntrue aborigines of the country, if indeed the demons have not a prior\nclaim, were the fruit of these marriages. Less fortunate, however,\nthan even their prototypes the Cyclops, the whole tribe was extirpated\na few ages after by Brutus the parricide, who, with a valour to which\nmere bulk could render no effectual resistance, overthrew Gog-Magog,\nand Termagol, and a whole host of others, with names equally terrible.\nTradition is less explicit than the historians in what relates to\nthe origin and extinction of the race, but its narratives of their\nprowess are more minute. There is a large and very ponderous stone in\nthe parish of Edderton, which a giantess of the tribe is said to have\nflung from the point of a spindle across the Dornoch Firth; and another\nwithin a few miles of Dingwall, still larger and more ponderous,\nwhich was thrown from a neighbouring eminence by a person of the same\nfamily, and which still bears the marks of a gigantic finger and thumb\nimpressed on two of its sides. The most wonderful, however, of all\ntheir achievements was that of a lady, distinguished even among the\ntribe as the _Cailliach-more_, or great woman, who, from a pannier\nfilled with earth and stones, which she carried on her back, formed\nalmost all the hills of Ross-shire. When standing on the site of the\nhuge Ben-Vaichard, the bottom of the pannier is said to have given\nway, and the contents falling through the opening, produced the hill,\nwhich owes its great height and vast extent of base to the accident.\nPrior to the invasion of Brutus, the promontories of Cromarty served as\nwork-stools to two giants of this tribe, who supplied their brethren\nwith shoes and buskins. They wrought together; for, being furnished\nwith only one set of implements, they could not carry on their trade\napart; and these, when needed, they used to fling to each other across\nthe opening of the firth, where the promontories are only about two\nmiles asunder. In process of time the name Soutar, a shoemaker,\nwas transferred by a common metonymy from the craftsmen to their\nstools--the two promontories; and by this name they have ever since\nbeen distinguished. Such are the etymological legends of the Sutors,\nopposed each to the other, and both to the scholarlike derivation of\nSir Thomas; which must be confessed, however, to have been at one time\na piece of mere commonplace, though it has since become learning.\n\nI have seen in the museum of the Northern Institution a very complete\ncollection of stone battle-axes, some of which were formed little\nearlier than the last age by the rude natives of America and the\nSouth Sea Islands; while others, which had been dug out of the cairns\nand tumuli of our own country, witnessed to the unrecorded feuds and\nforgotten battle-fields of twenty centuries ago. I was a good deal\nstruck by the resemblance which they bore to each other--a resemblance\nso complete, that the most practised eye could hardly distinguish\nbetween the weapons of the old Scot and those of the New Zealander.\nBoth seemed to have selected the same rude materials, employed the same\nimperfect implements, and wrought after the same uncouth model. But man\nin a savage state is the same animal everywhere, and his constructive\npowers, whether employed in the formation of a legendary story or of\na battle-axe, seem to expatiate almost everywhere in the same rugged\ntrack of invention. For even the traditions of this first stage may be\nidentified, like its weapons of war, all the world over. Mariner, in\nhis account of the Tonga Islands, tells us that the natives pointed\nout to him a perforated rock, in the hollow of which, they said, one\nof their gods, when employed in fishing, entangled his hook, and that,\npulling lustily to disengage it, he pulled up the whole island (one\nof the largest of the group) from the bottom of the sea. Do not this\nsingular story, and the wild legend of Ben-Vaichard, though the product\nof ages and countries so widely separated, belong obviously to the same\nrude stage of invention?\n\n[Sidenote: EPIC POETRY OF THE MIDDLE AGES.]\n\nThere may be some little interest in tracing the footprints of what\nI may term the more savage traditions of a country in the earlier\npages of its history, and in marking how they blend with its imperfect\nnarratives of real but ill-remembered events, on the one hand, and its\nmutilated imitations of the masterpieces of a classical literature, on\nthe other. The fabulous pages of English history furnish, when regarded\nin this point of view, a not uninteresting field to the legendary\ncritic. They are suited to remind him of those huts of the wild Arab,\ncomposed of the fragments of ruined grandeur which the traveller finds\namid the ruins of Palmyra or Balbec, and in which, as he prosecutes his\nresearches, he sees the capital totter over the architrave, the base\novertop the capital, masses of turf heaped round the delicate volute,\nwhich emulated in granite the curled tresses of a beautiful female,\nand the marble foliage of the acanthus crushed by the rude joist which\nbends under a roof of clay and rushes. Perhaps the reader may indulge\nme in a few brief remarks on this rather curious subject.\n\nDiocletian, the Syrian king of the English legend, is, as Buchanan\njustly remarks, a second Danaus, and owes his existence to the story\nof his prototype; but the story of the marriages of his daughters with\nan order of demons, which, according to that historian, the English\nhave invented through a pride of emulating the Gauls and Germans,\nwho derive their lineage from Pluto, does not appear to me to be so\nlegitimately traced to its original. The oldest of all the traditions\nof Britain seem to be those which describe it as peopled at some remote\nera by giants;--they are the broken vestiges, it is possible, of those\nincidents of Mosaic history which are supposed to be shadowed out in\nthe fables of the giants of Grecian mythology, or they are perhaps\nmutilated remains of the fables themselves. It seems more probable,\nhowever, that they should have originated in that belief, common to the\nvulgar of all countries, that the race of men is degenerating in size\nand prowess with every succeeding generation, and that at some early\nperiod their bulk and strength must have been gigantic. Judging of\nthem from their appearance, they must have been known in a very early\nage--an age as early perhaps as that of the stone battle-axe; and what\nmore probable than that they should have attracted the notice of the\nchroniclers, who would naturally consult tradition for the materials of\ntheir first pages? But tradition, though it records the achievements\nof the giants, is silent respecting their origin. A first link would\ntherefore be wanting, which could only be supplied by imagination; and\nas, like every other class of writers, the chroniclers would find it\neasier to imitate than to invent, it is not difficult to conceive how,\nafter having learned in their cloisters that in an early age of the\nworld the sons of God had contracted marriages with the daughters of\nmen, and that heroes and giants were the fruit of the connexion--they\nshould blend a legend imitative of the event with the stories of the\ngiants of Britain. Their next employment, for it would be too bold an\nattempt to link so terrible a tribe to the people of their own times,\nwould be to show how this tribe became extinct, and the manner in which\nthe country was first peopled with men like themselves.\n\nThere is but one way in which anything probable can be acquired\nconcerning the origin of a people who have no early history; but the\nprocess is both difficult and laborious. There is another sufficiently\neasy, which barely reaches the possible, and which the historians of\neight hundred years ago would have deemed the more eligible of the\ntwo. Instead of setting themselves to ascertain those circumstances\nby which the several families of men are distinguished, or to compare\nthe language, character, and superstitions of the people of their own\ncountry with those of the various tribes of the Continent, they would\napply for such assistance as the imitator derives from his copy, to\nthe histories of other kingdoms. From their connexion with the Latin\nChurch they would be conversant with Roman literature, and acquainted\nwith the story of \u00c6neas as related by the historians, and amplified\nand adorned by Virgil. And thus, what may be termed the third link of\ntheir history, has come to bear a discernible resemblance to the early\nhistory of Rome. The occasion of the wanderings of Brutus resembles\nthat of the expatriation of Tydeus, or rather that of the madness of\n\u0152dipus, but he is the \u00c6neas of England notwithstanding. His history\nis a kind of national epic. Corn\u00e6us is his Achates. He finds hostile\nRutulians, headed by a Turnus, in the giants and their leader; and\nBritain is both his Italy and his Trinacria, though, instead of fleeing\nfrom the Cyclops, he conquers them.\n\nThe legend of Scotland may also be regarded as a national epic. It\nis formed on the same model with the story of Brutus, but it has the\nmerit of being a somewhat more skilful imitation, and there is nothing\noutrageously improbable in any of its circumstances. Galethus, its\nhero, is the \u00c6neas of Scotland. He was the son of Cecrops, the founder\nof Athens, and, like Romulus, made himself famous as a captain of\nrobbers before he became the founder of a nation. Having repeatedly\ninvaded Macedonia and the neighbouring provinces of Greece, he was in\nimminent danger of being overpowered by a confederacy of the states he\nhad injured, when, assembling his friends and followers, he retreated\ninto Egypt, at a time when that kingdom was ravaged from its southern\nboundary to the gates of Memphis by an army of Ethiopians. Assuming on\nthe sudden a new character, he joined his forces to those of Pharaoh,\ngave battle to the invaders, routed them with much slaughter, pursued\nthem into Ethiopia, and after a succession of brilliant victories over\nthem, compelled them to sue for peace. On his return he was presented\nby the king with the hand of his daughter Scota, and made general in\nchief of all the forces of the kingdom. Disgusted, however, by the\ncruelties practised on the Israelites, and warned by Moses and an\noracle of the judgments by which these cruelties were to be punished,\nhe fitted out a fleet, and, accompanied by great numbers of Greeks and\nEgyptians, set sail from the river Nile with the intention of forming a\nsettlement on the shores of the Mediterranean. After a tedious voyage\nhe arrived at a port of Numidia, where no better success awaited him\nthan was met with by \u00c6neas in the scene of his first colony. Again\nputting to sea, he passed the Pillars of Hercules, and after having\nexperienced in the navigation of the straits dangers similar to those\nwhich appalled Ulysses when passing through the Straits of Messina,\nhe landed in that part of Spain which has ever since been known by\nthe name of Portugal. He found in this country a second Tiber in the\nriver Munda, and a fierce army of Rutulians in the inhabitants. But\nhis good fortune did not desert him. He vanquished his enemies in one\ndecisive battle, dispossessed them of their fairest provinces, built\ncities, instituted laws, conquered and colonized Ireland, and, dying\nafter a long and prosperous reign, left his kingdom to his children.\nPrior to his decease, his subjects, both Greeks and Egyptians, were\ntermed Scots, from their having sunk their original designations in\nthat name, out of courtesy to their Queen Scota--a name afterwards\ntransferred to Albyn by a colony from Ireland, who took possession of\nit a few ages subsequent to the age of Galethus. Such is the fable of\nwhat may be regarded both as the historic epic of Scotland, and as the\nmost classical of all the imitations of the \u00c6neid which were fabricated\nduring the middle ages.\n\nSir Thomas has recorded nothing further of his ancestor Alypos, than\nthat he followed up his discovery of Cromarty by planting it with a\ncolony of his countrymen, who, though some of his ancestors had settled\nin Portugal several ages before, seem to have been Greeks. Of sixteen\nof his immediate descendants, it is only known that they were born,\nand that they married--some of them finding honourable consorts in\nIreland, some in Greece, and one in Italy. The wife of that one was a\nsister of Marcus Coriolanus--a daughter of Agesilaus the Spartan, a\ndaughter of Simeon Breck, the first crowned king of the Irish Scots, a\ndaughter of Alcibiades, the friend and pupil of Socrates, and a niece\nof Lycurgus the lawgiver, were wives to some of the others. Never was\nthere a family that owed more to its marriages.\n\n[Sidenote: ASTORIMON.]\n\nNomaster, the son-in-law of Alcibiades, disgusted by the treatment\nwhich that great but ambitious statesman had received from his\ncountry, took leave of Greece, and, \u201cafter many dangerous voyages\nboth by sea and land, he arrived at the harbour Ochoner, now called\nCromarty.\u201d It owed its more ancient name to Bestius Ochoner, one of\nthe sixteen immediate descendants of Alypos, and the father, says the\ngenealogist, of the Irish O\u2019Connors; the name which it now bears is\nderived by Gaelic etymologists from the windings and indentations of\nits shores.[2] Nomaster, immediately on his landing, was recognised\nby the colonists as their legitimate prince, and he reigned over\nthem till his death, when he was succeeded by his son Astorimon, a\nvaliant and accomplished warrior, in whom the genius and heroism of\nhis grandfather seem to have been revived. And the events of his time\nwere suited to find employment. For in this age an immense body of\nScythians, after voyaging along the shores of Europe in quest of a\nsettlement, were incited by the great natural riches of the country\nto make choice of Scotland; and, pouring in upon its western coasts,\nthey dispossessed the natives of some of their fairest provinces. But\nthe little territory of Astorimon, though one of the invaded, was\nnot one of the conquered provinces. The Scythians, under Ethus their\ngeneral, intrenched upon an extensive moor, which now forms the upper\nboundary of the parish of Cromarty; and the grandson of Alcibiades\ndrew out his forces to oppose them. A battle ensued, in which the\nScythian general was killed in single combat by Astorimon; and his\nfollowers, dispirited by his death, and unable to contend with an army\ntrained to every evolution of Greek and Roman discipline, were routed\nwith immense slaughter. The Scythians afterwards became famous as the\nPicts of Scottish history; and _Ethus_, their leader, is reckoned\ntheir first king. Sir Thomas, to the details of this battle, which he\nterms the great battle of _Farna_,[3] has added, that \u201cthe trenches,\nhead-quarters, and castrametation\u201d of the invading army can still be\ntraced on a moor of Cromarty.\n\nThis moor, which formed a few years ago an unappropriated common, but\nwhich was lately divided among the proprietors whose lands border on\nit, has evidently at some remote period been a field of battle. It is\nsprinkled over with tumuli and little heathy ridges resembling the\ngraves of a churchyard. The southern shore of the Cromarty Firth runs\nalmost parallel to it for nearly fourteen miles; and upon a hill in the\nparish of Resolis, which rises between it and the firth, and which is\nseparated from it by a deep valley, there are the vestiges of Danish\nencampments. And there is perhaps scarcely an eminence in Scotland on\nwhich in the early ages an invading army could have encamped with more\nadvantage than on this hill, or a moor upon which the invaders could\nhave been met with on more equal terms than on the moor adjacent. The\neminence is detached on the one side from the other rising grounds of\nthe country by a valley, the bottom of which is occupied by a bog, and\nit commands on the other an extensive bay, in which whole fleets may\nride with safety; while the neighbouring moor is of great extent, and\nhas few inequalities of surface. Towards its eastern boundary, about\nsix miles from the town of Cromarty, there is a huge heap of stones,\nwhich from time immemorial has been known to the people of the place as\n_The Grey Cairn_, a name equally descriptive of other lesser cairns in\nits vicinity, but which with the aid of the definite article serves to\ndistinguish it. Not more than thirty years ago the stones of a similar\ncairn of the moor were carried away for building by a farmer of the\nparish. There were found on their removal human bones of a gigantic\nsize, among the rest a skull sufficiently capacious, according to the\ndescription of a labourer employed by the farmer, to contain \u201ctwo\nlippies of beer.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE SPECTRE SHIPS.]\n\nAbout fifteen years ago, a Cromarty fisherman was returning from\nInverness by a road which for several miles skirts the upper edge of\nthe moor, and passes within a few yards of the cairn. Night overtook\nhim ere he had half completed his journey; but, after an interval of\ndarkness, the moon, nearly at full, rose over the eminence on his\nright, and restored to him the face of the country--the hills which\nhe had passed before evening, but which, faint and distant, were\nsinking as he advanced, the wood which, bordering his road on the one\nhand, almost reached him with its shadow, and the bleak, unvaried,\ninterminable waste, which, stretching away on the other, seemed lost\nin the horizon. After he had entered on the moor, the stillness which,\nat an earlier stage of his journey, had occasionally been broken by\nthe distant lowing of cattle, or the bark of a shepherd\u2019s dog, was\ninterrupted by only his own footsteps, which, from the nature of the\nsoil, sounded hollow as if he trod over a range of vaults, and by\nthe low monotonous murmur of the neighbouring wood. As he approached\nthe cairn, however, a noise of a different kind began to mingle with\nthe other two; it was one with which his profession had made him\nwell acquainted--that of waves breaking against a rock. The nearest\nshore was fully three miles distant, the nearest cliff more than\nfive, and yet he could hear wave after wave striking as if against a\nprecipice, then dashing upwards, and anon descending, as distinctly as\nhe had ever done when passing in his boat beneath the promontories of\nCromarty. On coming up to the cairn, his astonishment was converted\ninto terror.--Instead of the brown heath, with here and there a fir\nseedling springing out of it he saw a wide tempestuous sea stretching\nbefore him, with the large pile of stones frowning over it, like one\nof the Hebrides during the gales of the Equinox. The pile appeared as\nif half enveloped in cloud and spray, and two large vessels, with all\ntheir sheets spread to the wind, were sailing round it.\n\nThe writer of these chapters had the good fortune to witness at this\ncairn a scene which, without owing anything to the supernatural, almost\nequalled the one described. He was, like the fisherman, returning from\nInverness to Cromarty in a clear frosty night in December. There was no\nmoon, but the whole sky towards the north was glowing with the Aurora\nBorealis, which, shooting from the horizon to the central heavens,\nin flames tinged with all the hues of the rainbow, threw so strong a\nlight, that he could have counted every tree of the wood, and every\ntumulus of the moor. There is a long hollow morass which runs parallel\nto the road for nearly a mile;--it was covered this evening by a dense\nfleece of vapour raised by the frost, and which, without ascending, was\nrolling over the moor before a light breeze. It had reached the cairn,\nand the detached clump of seedlings which springs up at its base.--The\nseedlings rising out of the vapour appeared like a fleet of ships, with\ntheir sails dropping against their masts, on a sea where there were\nneither tides nor winds;--the cairn, grey with the moss and lichens of\nforgotten ages, towered over it like an island of that sea.\n\nBut I daresay I have imparted to the reader more of the fabulous\nhistory of Cromarty than he will well know how to be grateful for. One\nother remark, however, in better language, and a more vigorous style\nof thinking than my own, and I shall have done;--it may show that Sir\nThomas, however unique as a man, forms, as a historian, only one of a\nclass.\n\n[Sidenote: OLAUS RUDBECK.]\n\n\u201cThe last century,\u201d says the philosophic Gibbon, \u201cabounded with\nantiquarians of profound learning and easy faith, who, by the dim\nlight of legends and traditions, of conjectures and etymologies,\nconducted the great-grandchildren of Noah from the tower of Babel to\nthe extremities of the globe. Of these judicious critics,\u201d continues\nthe historian, \u201cone of the most entertaining was Olaus Rudbeck,\nprofessor in the university of Upsal. Whatever is celebrated either in\nhistory or fable, this zealous patriot ascribes to his country. From\nSweden, the Greeks themselves derived their alphabetical characters,\ntheir astronomy, and their religion. Of that delightful region (for\nso it appeared to the eyes of a native), the Atlantis of Plato,\nthe country of the Hyperboreans, the Garden of the Hesperides, the\nFortunate Islands, and even the Elysian fields, were all but faint\nand imperfect transcripts. A clime so profusely favoured by nature\ncould not long remain desert after the flood. The learned Rudbeck\nallows the family of Noah a few years to multiply from eight to about\ntwenty thousand persons. He then disperses them into small colonies to\nreplenish the earth and to propagate the human species. The Swedish\ndetachment (which marched, if I am not mistaken, under the command of\nAskenos, the son of Gomer, the son of Japhet), distinguished itself by\nmore than common diligence in the prosecution of this great work. The\nnorthern hive cast its swarms over the greater part of Europe, Africa,\nand Asia; and (to use the author\u2019s metaphor), the blood circulated from\nthe extremities to the heart.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    \u201cThe wild sea, baited by the fierce north-east,\n    So roar\u2019d, so madly raged, so proudly swell\u2019d,\n    As it would thunder full into our streets.\u201d--ARMSTRONG.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE BAY OF CROMARTY]\n\nThe Bay of Cromarty was deemed one of the finest in the world at a time\nwhen the world was very little known; and modern discovery has done\nnothing to lower its standing or character. We find it described by\nBuchanan in very elegant Latin as \u201cformed by the waters of the German\nOcean, opening a way through the stupendous cliffs of the most lofty\nprecipices, and expanding within into a spacious basin, affording\ncertain refuge against every tempest.\u201d The old poet could scarce have\ndescribed it better had he sat on the loftiest pinnacle of the southern\nSutor during a winter storm from the north-east, and seen vessel after\nvessel pressing towards the opening through spray and tempest;--like\nthe inhabitants of an invaded country hurrying to the gateway of some\nimpregnable fortress, their speed quickened by the wild shouts of the\nenemy, and pursued by the smoke of burning villages.\n\nViewed from the Moray Firth in a clear morning of summer, the entrance\nof the bay presents one of the most pleasing scenes I have ever seen.\nThe foreground is occupied by a gigantic wall of brown precipices,\nbeetling for many miles over the edge of the Firth, and crested by\ndark thickets of furze and pine. A multitude of shapeless crags lie\nscattered along the base, and we hear the noise of the waves breaking\nagainst them, and see the reflected gleam of the foam flashing at\nintervals into the darker recesses of the rock. The waters of the\nbay find entrance, as described by the historian, through a natural\npostern scooped out of the middle of this immense wall. The huge\nprojection of cliff on either hand, with their alternate masses of\nlight and shadow, remind us of the out-jets and buttresses of an\nancient fortress; and the two Sutors, towering over the opening, of\nturrets built to command a gateway. The scenery within is of a softer\nand more gentle character. We see hanging woods, sloping promontories,\na little quiet town, and an undulating line of blue mountains, swelling\nas they retire into a bolder outline and a loftier altitude, until they\nterminate, some twenty miles away, in the snow-streaked, cloud-capped\nBen Wevis. When I last gazed on this scene, and contrasted the wild\nsublimity of the foreground with the calm beauty of the interior, I was\nled to compare it, I scarcely knew how, to the exquisite masterpiece of\nhis art which the Saxon sculptor Nahl placed over the grave of a lady\nwho had died in the full bloom of youth and loveliness. It represents\nthe ruins of a tomb shattered as if by the last trumpet; but the chisel\nhas not been employed on it in merely imitating the uncouth ravages of\naccident and decay; for through the yawning rifts and fissures there\nis a beautiful female, as if starting into life, and rising in all the\necstasy of unmingled happiness to enjoy the beatitudes of heaven.\n\n[Sidenote: THE OLD COAST LINE.]\n\nThere rises within the bay, to the height of nearly a hundred feet\nover the sea level, a green sloping bank, in some places covered with\nwood, in others laid out into gardens and fields. We may trace it at a\nglance all along the shores of the firth, from where it merges into the\nsouthern Sutor, till where it sinks at the upper extremity of the bay\nof Udoll; and, fronting it on the opposite side, we may see a similar\nescarpment, winding along the various curves and indentations of the\ncoast--now retiring far into the country, along the edge of the bay of\nNigg--now abutting into the firth, near the village of Invergordon.\nThe Moray and Dornoch firths are commanded by resembling ramparts\nof bank of a nearly corresponding elevation, and a thorough identity\nof character; and, as in the Firth of Cromarty, the space between\ntheir bases and the shore is occupied by a strip of level country,\nwhich in some places encroaches on the sea in the form of long low\npromontories, and is hollowed out in others to nearly the base of the\nescarpment. Wherever we examine, we find data to conclude, that in\nsome remote era this continuous bank formed the line of coast, and\nthat the plain at its base was everywhere covered by the waters of the\nsea. We see headlands, rounded as if by the waves, advancing the one\nbeyond the other, into the waving fields and richly-swarded meadows\nof this lower terrace; and receding bays with their grassy unbeaten\nshores comparatively abrupt at the entrance, and reclining in a flatter\nangle within. We may find, too, everywhere under the vegetable soil\nof the terrace, alternate layers of sand and water-worn pebbles,\nand occasionally, though of rarer occurrence, beds of shells of the\nexisting species, and the bones of fish. In the valley of Munlochy,\nthe remains of oyster-beds, which could not have been formed in less\nthan two fathoms of water, have been discovered a full half mile from\nthe sea; beds of cockles still more extensive, and the bones of a\nporpoise, have been dug up among the fields which border on the bay of\nNigg; similar appearances occur in the vicinity of Tain; and in digging\na well about thirty years ago, in the western part of the town of\nCromarty, there was found in the gravel a large fir-tree, which, from\nthe rounded appearance of the trunk and branches, seems to have been\nat one time exposed to the action of the waves. In a burying-ground\nof the town, which lies embosomed in an angle of the bank, the sexton\nsometimes finds the dilapidated spoils of our commoner shell-fish\nmingling with the ruins of a nobler animal; and in another inflection\nof the bank, which lies a short half mile to the east of the town,\nthere is a vast accumulation of drift peat, many feet in thickness, and\nthe remains of huge trees.\n\nThe era of this old coast line we find it impossible to fix; but\nthere are grounds enough on which to conclude that it must have been\nremote--so remote, perhaps, as to lie beyond the beginnings of our more\nauthentic histories. We see, in the vicinity of Tain, one of the oldest\nruins of the province situated far below the base of the escarpment;\nand meet in the neighbourhood of Kessock, at a still lower level, with\nold Celtic cairns and tumuli. It is a well-established fact, too, that\nfor at least the last three hundred years the sea, instead of receding,\nhas been gradually encroaching on the shores of the Bay of Cromarty;\nand that the place formerly occupied by the old burgh, is now covered\nevery tide by nearly two fathoms of water.\n\n[Sidenote: THE OLD TOWN.]\n\nThe last vestige of this ancient town disappeared about eighteen\nyears ago, when a row of large stones, which had evidently formed the\nfoundation line of a fence, was carried away by some workmen employed\nin erecting a bulwark. But the few traditions connected with it are\nnot yet entirely effaced. A fisherman of the last century is said to\nhave found among the title-deeds of his cottage a very old piece of\nparchment, with a profusion of tufts of wool bristling on one of its\nsides, and bearing in rude antique characters on the other a detail\nof the measurement and boundaries of a garden which had occupied the\nidentical spot on which he usually anchored his skiff. I am old enough\nto have conversed with men who remembered to have seen a piece of\ncorn land, and a belt of planting below two properties in the eastern\npart of the town, that are now bounded by the sea. I reckon among my\nacquaintance an elderly person, who, when sailing along the shore about\nhalf a century ago in the company of a very old man, heard the latter\nremark, that he was now guiding the helm where, sixty years before, he\nhad guided the plough. Of Elspat Hood, a native of Cromarty, who died\nin the year 1701, it is said that she attained to the extraordinary age\nof 120 years, and that in her recollection, which embraced the latter\npart of the sixteenth century, the _Clach Malacha_, a large stone\ncovered with sea-weed, whose base only partially dries during the ebb\nof Spring and Lammas tides, and which lies a full quarter of a mile\nfrom the shore, was surrounded by corn fields and clumps of wood. And\nit is a not less curious circumstance than any of these, that about\nninety years ago, after a violent night storm from the north-east,\nthe beach below the town was found in the morning strewed over with\nhuman bones, which, with several blocks of hewn stone, had been washed\nby the surf out of what had been formerly a burying-place. The bones\nwere carried to the churchyard, and buried beneath the eastern gable\nof the church; and one of the stones--the corner stone of a ponderous\ncornice--is still to be seen on the shore. In the firths of Beauly and\nDornoch the sea seems to have encroached to fully as great an extent as\nin the bay of Cromarty. Below the town of Tain a strip of land, once\nfrequented by the militia of the county for drill and parade, has been\nswept away within the recollection of some of the older inhabitants;\nand there may be traced at low water (says Carey in his notes to Craig\nPhadrig), on the range of shore that stretches from the ferry of\nKessock to nearly Redcastle, the remains of sepulchral cairns, which\nmust have been raised before the places they occupy were invaded by the\nsea, and which, when laid open, have been found to contain beams of\nwood, urns, and human bones.--But it is full time that man, the proper\ninhabitant of the country, should be more thoroughly introduced into\nthis portion of its history. We feel comparatively little interest in\nthe hurricane or the earthquake which ravages only a desert, where\nthere is no intelligent mind to be moved by the majesty of power, or\nthe sublimity of danger; while on the other hand, there is no event,\nhowever trivial in itself, which may not be deemed of importance if it\noperate influentially on human character and human passion.\n\n[Sidenote: THE STORMS OF THE FIVE WINTERS.]\n\nIt is not much more than twenty years since a series of violent\nstorms from the hostile north-east, which came on at almost regular\nintervals for five successive winters, seemed to threaten the modern\ntown of Cromarty with the fate of the ancient. The tides rose higher\nthan tides had ever been known to rise before; and as the soil exposed\nto the action of the waves was gradually disappearing, instead of\nthe gentle slope with which the land formerly merged into the beach,\nits boundaries were marked out by a dark abrupt line resembling a\nturf wall. Some of the people whose houses bordered on the sea looked\nexceedingly grave, and affirmed there was no danger whatever; those who\nlived higher up thought differently, and pitied their poor neighbours\nfrom the bottom of their hearts. The consternation was heightened\ntoo by a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer, handed down for centuries,\nbut little thought of before. It was predicted, it is said, by the\nold wizard, that Cromarty should be twice destroyed by the sea, and\nthat fish should be caught in abundance on the Castle-hill--a rounded\nprojection of the escarpment which rises behind the houses, and forms\nthe ancient coast line.\n\n[Sidenote: DONALD MILLER\u2019S WARS WITH THE SEA.]\n\nMan owes much of his ingenuity to his misfortunes; and who does not\nknow that, were he less weak and less exposed as an animal, he would\nbe less powerful as a rational creature? On a principle so obvious,\nthese storms had the effect of converting not a few of the townsfolk\ninto builders and architects. In the eastern suburb of the town, where\nthe land presents a low yet projecting front to the waves, the shore is\nhemmed in by walls and bulwarks, which might be mistaken by a stranger\napproaching the place by sea for a chain of little forts. They were\nerected during the wars of the five winters by the proprietors of\nthe gardens and houses behind; and the enemy against whom they had\nto maintain them, was the sea. At first the contest seemed well-nigh\nhopeless;--week after week was spent in throwing up a single bulwark,\nand an assault of a few hours demolished the whole line. But skill and\nperseverance prevailed at last;--the storms are all blown over, but\nthe gardens and houses still remain. Of the many who built and planned\nduring this war, the most indefatigable, the most skilful, the most\nsuccessful, was Donald Miller.\n\nDonald was a true Scotchman. He was bred a shoemaker; and painfully\ndid he toil late and early for about twenty-five years with one\nsolitary object in view, which, during all that time, he had never\nlost sight of--no, not for a single moment. And what was that\none?--independence--a competency sufficient to set him above the\nnecessity of further toil; and this he at length achieved, without\ndoing aught for which the severest censor could accuse him of meanness.\nThe amount of his savings did not exceed four hundred pounds; but,\nrightly deeming himself wealthy, for he had not learned to love money\nfor its own sake, he shut up his shop. His father dying soon after,\nhe succeeded to one of the snuggest, though most perilously-situated\nlittle properties within the three corners of Cromarty--the sea\nbounding it on the one side, and a stream, small and scanty during the\ndroughts of summer, but sometimes more than sufficiently formidable in\nwinter, sweeping past it on the other. The series of storms came on,\nand Donald found he had gained nothing by shutting up his shop.\n\nHe had built a bulwark in the old, lumbering, Cromarty style of\nthe last century, and confined the wanderings of the stream by two\nstraight walls. Across the walls he had just thrown a wooden bridge,\nand crowned the bulwark with a parapet, when on came the first of the\nstorms--a night of sleet and hurricane--and lo! in the morning, the\nbulwark lay utterly overthrown, and the bridge, as if it had marched\nto its assistance, lay beside it, half buried in sea-wrack. \u201cAh,\u201d\nexclaimed the neighbours, \u201cit would be well for us to be as sure of\nour summer\u2019s employment as Donald Miller, honest man!\u201d Summer came;\nthe bridge strided over the stream as before; the bulwark was built\nanew, and with such neatness and apparent strength, that no bulwark on\nthe beach could compare with it. Again came winter; and the second\nbulwark, with its proud parapet, and rock-like strength, shared the\nfate of the first. Donald fairly took to his bed. He rose, however,\nwith renewed vigour; and a third bulwark, more thoroughly finished than\neven the second, stretched ere the beginning of autumn between his\nproperty and the sea. Throughout the whole of that summer, from grey\nmorning to grey evening, there might be seen on the shore of Cromarty\na decent-looking, elderly man, armed with lever and mattock, rolling\nstones, or raising them from their beds in the sand, or fixing them\ntogether in a sloping wall--toiling as never labourer toiled, and ever\nand anon, as a neighbour sauntered the way, straightening his weary\nback, and tendering the ready snuff-box. That decent-looking, elderly\nman, was Donald Miller. But his toil was all in vain. Again came winter\nand the storms; again had he betaken himself to his bed, for his third\nbulwark had gone the way of the two others. With a resolution truly\nindomitable, he rose yet again, and erected a fourth bulwark, which has\nnow presented an unbroken front to the storms of twenty years.\n\nThough Donald had never studied mathematics as taught in books or the\nschools, he was a profound mathematician notwithstanding. Experience\nhad taught him the superiority of the sloping to the perpendicular wall\nin resisting the waves; and he set himself to discover that particular\nangle which, without being inconveniently low, resists them best.\nEvery new bulwark was a new experiment made on principles which he had\ndiscovered in the long nights of winter, when, hanging over the fire,\nhe converted the hearth-stone into a tablet, and, with a pencil of\ncharcoal, scribbled it over with diagrams. But he could never get the\nsea to join issue with him by changing in the line of his angles; for,\nhowever deep he sunk his foundations, his insidious enemy contrived\nto get under them by washing away the beach; and then the whole wall\ntumbled into the cavity. Now, however, he had discovered a remedy.\nFirst he laid a row of large flat stones on their edges in the line\nof the foundation and paved the whole of the beach below until it\npresented the appearance of a sloping street--taking care that his\npavement, by running in a steeper angle than the shore, should, at its\nlower edge, lose itself in the sand. Then, from the flat stones which\nformed the upper boundary of the pavement, he built a ponderous wall,\nwhich, ascending in the proper angle, rose to the level of the garden;\nand a neat firm parapet surmounted the whole.--Winter came, and the\nstorms came; but though the waves broke against the bulwark with as\nlittle remorse as against the Sutors, not a stone moved out of its\nplace. Donald had at length fairly triumphed over the sea.\n\nThe progress of character is fully as interesting a study as the\nprogress of art; and both are curiously exemplified in the history of\nDonald Miller. Now that he had conquered his enemy, and might realize\nhis long-cherished dream of unbroken leisure, he found that constant\nemployment had, through the force of habit, become essential to his\ncomfort. His garden was the very paragon of gardens; and a single\nglance was sufficient to distinguish his furrow of potatoes from every\nother furrow in the field; but, now that his main occupation was gone,\nmuch time hung on his hands, notwithstanding his attentions to both.\nFirst, he set himself to build a wall quite round his property; and a\nvery neat one he did build; but unfortunately, when once erected, there\nwas nothing to knock it down again. Then he whitewashed his house, and\nbuilt a new sty for his pig, the walls of which he also whitewashed.\nThen he enclosed two little patches on the side of the stream, to serve\nas bleaching-greens. Then he covered the upper part of his bulwark\nwith a layer of soil, and sowed it with grass. Then he repaired a\nwell, the common property of the town. Then he constructed a path for\nfoot-passengers on the side of a road, which, passing his garden on\nthe south, leads to Cromarty House. His labours for the good of the\npublic were wretchedly recompensed, by, at least, his more immediate\nneighbours. They would dip their dirty pails into the well which he\nhad repaired, and tell him, when he hinted at the propriety of washing\nthem, that they were no dirtier than they used to be. Their pigs would\nbreak into his bleaching-greens, and furrow up the sward with their\nsnouts: and when he threatened to pound them, he would be told \u201chow\nunthriving a thing it was to keep the puir brutes aye in the fauld,\u201d\nand how impossible a thing \u201cto watch them ilka time they gae\u2019d out.\u201d\nHerd-boys would gallop their horses and drive their cattle along the\npath which he had formed for foot-passengers exclusively: and when he\nstormed at the little fellows, they would canter past, and shout out,\nfrom what they deemed a safe distance, that their \u201chorses and kye had\nas good a right to the road as himsel\u2019.\u201d Worse than all the rest, when\nhe had finished whitening the walls of his pigsty, and gone in for a\nfew minutes to the house, a mischievous urchin, who had watched his\nopportunity, sallied across the bridge, and, seizing on the brush,\nwhitewashed the roof also. Independent of the insult, nothing could be\nin worse taste; and yet, when the poor man preferred his complaint to\nthe father of the urchin, the boor only deigned to mutter in reply,\nthat \u201cfolk would hae nae peace till three Lammas tides, joined intil\nane, would come and roll up the _Clach Malacha_\u201d (it weighs about\ntwenty tons) \u201cfrae its place i\u2019the sea till flood watermark.\u201d The\nfellow, rude as he was, had sagacity enough to infer that a tide potent\nenough to roll up the _Clach Malacha_, would demolish the bulwark, and\nconcentrate the energies of Donald for at least another season.\n\nBut Donald found employment, and the neighbours were left undisturbed\nto live the life of their fathers without the intervention of the\nthree Lammas tides. Some of the gentlemen farmers of the parish who\nreared fields of potatoes, which they sold out to the inhabitants in\nsquare portions of a hundred yards, besought Donald to superintend the\nmeasurement and the sale. The office was one of no emolument whatever,\nbut he accepted it with thankfulness; and though, when he had potatoes\nof his own to dispose of, he never failed to lower the market for the\nbenefit of the poor, every one now, except the farmers, pronounced\nhim rigid and narrow to a fault. On a dissolution of Parliament,\nCromarty became the scene of an election, and the honourable\nmember-apparent deeming it proper, as the thing had become customary,\nto whitewash the dingier houses of the town, and cover its dirtier\nlanes with gravel, Donald was requested to direct and superintend the\nimprovements. Proudly did he comply; and never before did the same\nsum of _election_-money whiten so many houses, and gravel so many\nlanes. Employment flowed in upon him from every quarter. If any of his\nacquaintance had a house to build, Donald was appointed inspector. If\nthey had to be enfeoffed in their properties Donald acted as bailie,\nand tendered the earth and stone with the gravity of a judge. He\nsurveyed fields, suggested improvements, and grew old without either\nfeeling or regretting it. Towards the close of his last, and almost\nonly illness, he called for one of his friends, a carpenter, and gave\norders for his coffin; he named the seamstress who was to be employed\nin making his shroud; he prescribed the manner in which his lykewake\nshould be kept, and both the order of his funeral and the streets\nthrough which it was to pass. He was particular in his injunctions to\nthe sexton, that the bones of his father and mother should be placed\ndirectly above his coffin; and professing himself to be alike happy\nthat he had lived, and that he was going to die, he turned him to the\nwall, and ceased to breathe a few hours after. With all his rage for\nimprovement, he was a good old man of the good old school. Often has he\nstroked my head, and spoken to me of my father, a friend and namesake,\nthough not a relative; and when, at an after period, he had learned\nthat I set a value on whatever was antique and curious, he presented me\nwith the fragment of a large black-letter Bible which had once belonged\nto the Urquharts of Cromarty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\u201cAll hail, Macbeth! thou shalt be king hereafter.\u201d--SHAKSPERE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: OUR EARLIER DATA.]\n\nIt is, perhaps, not quite unworthy of remark, that not only is Cromarty\nthe sole district of the kingdom whose annals ascend into the obscure\nages of fable, but that the first passage of even its real history\nderives its chief interest, not from its importance as a fact, but from\nwhat may be termed its chance union with a sublime fiction of poetry.\nFew, I daresay, have so much as dreamed of connecting either its name\nor scenery with the genius of Shakspere, and yet they are linked to\none of the most powerful of his achievements as a poet, by the bonds\nof a natural association. The very first incident of its true history\nwould have constituted, had the details been minutely preserved, the\nearly biography of the celebrated Macbeth; who, according to our\nblack-letter historians, makes his first appearance in public life as\nThane of Cromarty, and Maormor, or great man of Ross. But I am aware I\ndo not derive from the circumstance any right to become his biographer.\nFor though his character was probably formed at a time when he may\nbe regarded as the legitimate property of the provincial annalist,\nno sooner is it exhibited in action than he is consigned over to the\nchroniclers of the kingdom.\n\nFor the earlier facts of our history the evidence is rather\ncircumstantial than direct. We see it stamped on the face of the\ncountry, or inscribed on our older obelisks, or sometimes disinterred\nfrom out of hillocks of sand, or accumulations of moss; but very\nrarely do we find it deposited in our archives. Let us examine it,\nhowever, wherever it presents itself, and strive, should it seem at\nall intelligible, to determine regarding its purport and amount. Not\nmore than sixty years ago a bank of blown sand, directly under the\nnorthern Sutor, which had been heaped over the soil ages before, was\nlaid open by the winds of a stormy winter, when it was discovered that\nthe nucleus on which the hillock had originally formed, was composed of\nthe bones of various animals of the chase, and the horns of deer. It\nis not much more than twelve years since there were dug up in the same\nsandy tract two earthen urns, the one filled with ashes and fragments\nof half-burned bones, the other with bits of a black bituminous-looking\nstone, somewhat resembling jet, which had been fashioned into beads,\nand little flat parallelograms, perforated edgewise, with four holes\napiece. Nothing could be ruder than the workmanship: the urns were\nclumsily modelled by the hand, unassisted by a lathe; the ornaments,\nrough and unpolished, and still bearing the marks of the tool,\nresembled nothing of modern production, except, perhaps, the toys which\nherd-boys sometimes amuse their leisure in forming with the knife.\nWe find remains such as these fraught with a more faithful evidence\nregarding the early state of our country than the black-letter pages\nof our chroniclers. They testify of a period when the chase formed,\nperhaps, the sole employment of the few scattered inhabitants; and of\nthe practice, so prevalent among savages, of burying with their dead\nfriends whatever they most loved when alive. It may be further remarked\nas a curious fact, and one from which we may infer that trinkets\nwrought in so uncouth a style could have belonged to only the first\nstage of society, that man\u2019s inventive powers receive their earliest\nimpulses rather from his admiration of the beautiful, than his sense\nof the useful. He displays a taste in ornament, and has learned to dye\nhis skin, and to tatoo it with rude figures of the sun and moon, before\nhe has become ingenious enough to discover that he stands in need of a\ncovering.\n\n[Sidenote: THE FIONS OF KNOCK-FERRIL.]\n\nThere is a tradition of this part of the country which seems not a\ngreat deal more modern than the urns or their ornaments, and which\nbears the character of the savage nearly as distinctly impressed on it.\nOn the summit of Knock-Ferril, a steep hill which rises a few miles to\nthe west of Dingwall, there are the remains of one of those vitrified\nforts which so puzzle and interest the antiquary; and which was\noriginally constructed, says tradition, by a gigantic tribe of _Fions_,\nfor the protection of their wives and children, when they themselves\nwere engaged in hunting. It chanced in one of their excursions that a\nmean-spirited little fellow of the party, not much more than fifteen\nfeet in height, was so distanced by his more active brethren, that,\nleaving them to follow out the chase, he returned home, and throwing\nhimself down, much fatigued, on the side of the eminence, fell fast\nasleep. Garry, for so the unlucky hunter was called, was no favourite\nwith the women of the tribe;--he was spiritless and diminutive, and\nill-tempered; and as they could make little else of him that they\ncared for, they converted him into the butt of many a teasing little\njoke, and the sport of many a capricious humour. On seeing that he had\nfallen asleep, they stole out to where he lay, and after fastening\nhis long hair with pegs to the grass, awakened him with their shouts\nand laughter. He strove to extricate himself, but in vain; until at\nlength, infuriated by their gibes and the pain of his own exertions, he\nwrenched up his head, leaving half his locks behind him, and, hurrying\nafter them, set fire to the stronghold into which they had rushed for\nshelter. The flames rose till they mounted over the roof, and broke out\nat every slit and opening; but Garry, unmoved by the shrieks and groans\nof the sufferers within, held fast the door until all was silent; when\nhe fled into the remote Highlands, towards the west. The males of the\ntribe, who had, meanwhile, been engaged in hunting on that part of the\nnorthern Sutor which bears the name of the hill of Nigg, alarmed by the\nvast column of smoke which they saw ascending from their dwelling,\ncame pressing on to the Firth of Cromarty, and leaping across on their\nhunting-spears, they hurried home. But they arrived to find only a huge\npile of embers, fanned by the breeze, and amid which the very stones of\nthe building were sputtering and bubbling with the intense heat, like\nthe contents of a boiling caldron. Wild with rage and astonishment,\nand yet collected enough to conclude that none but Garry could be\nthe author of a deed so barbarous, they tracked him into a nameless\nHighland glen, which has ever since been known as Glen-_Garry_, and\nthere tore him to pieces. And as all the women of the tribe perished in\nthe flames, there was an end, when this forlorn and widowed generation\nhad passed away, to the whole race of the _Fions_. The next incident\nof our history bears no other connexion to this story, than that it\nbelongs to a very early age, that of the Viking and Sea-King, and\nthat we owe our data regarding it, not to written records, but to an\ninteresting class of ancient remains, and to a doubtful and imperfect\ntradition.\n\n[Sidenote: THE KING\u2019S SONS.]\n\nIn this age, says the tradition, the Maormor of Ross was married to a\ndaughter of the king of Denmark, and proved so barbarous a husband,\nthat her father, to whom she at length found the means of escape,\nfitted out a fleet and army to avenge on him the cruelties inflicted\non her. Three of her brothers accompanied the expedition; but, on\nnearing the Scottish coast, a terrible storm arose, in which almost\nall the vessels of the fleet either foundered or were driven ashore,\nand the three princes were drowned. The ledge of rock at which this\nlatter disaster is said to have taken place, still bears the name of\nthe King\u2019s Sons; a magnificent cave which opens among the cliffs of\nthe neighbouring shore is still known as the King\u2019s Cave; and a path\nthat winds to the summits of the precipices beside it, as the King\u2019s\nPath. The bodies of the princes, says the tradition, were interred,\none at Shandwick, one at Hilton, and one at Nigg; and the sculptured\nobelisks of these places, three very curious pieces of antiquity, are\nsaid to be monuments erected to their memory by their father. In no\npart of Scotland do stones of this class so abound as on the shores of\nthe Moray Firth. And they have often attracted the notice and employed\nthe ingenuity of the antiquary; but it still appears somewhat doubtful\nwhether we are to regard them as of Celtic or of Scandinavian origin.\nIt may be remarked, however, that though their style of sculpture\nresembles, in its general features, that exhibited in the ancient\ncrosses of Wales, which are unquestionably British, and though they are\ndescribed in a tradition current on the southern shore of the Moray\nFirth, as monuments raised by the inhabitants on the expulsion of the\nDanes, the amount of evidence seems to preponderate in the opposite\ndirection; when we consider that they are invariably found bordering\non the sea; that their design and workmanship display a degree of\ntaste and mechanical ability which the Celt\u00e6 of North Britain seem\nnever to have possessed; that the eastern shores of the German Ocean\nabound in similar monuments, which, to a complexity of ornament not\nmore decidedly Runic, add the Runic inscription; and that the tradition\njust related--which, wild as it may appear, can hardly be deemed less\nauthentic than the one opposed to it, seeing that it belongs to a\ndistrict still peopled by the old inhabitants of the country, whereas\nthe other seems restricted to the lowlands of Moray--assigns their\nerection not to the natives, but to their rapacious and unwelcome\nvisitors, the Danes themselves. The reader may perhaps indulge me\nin a few descriptive notices of the three stones connected with the\ntradition; they all lie within six miles of Cromarty, and their\nweathered and mossy planes, roughened with complicated tracery and\ndoubtful hieroglyphics, may be regarded as pages of provincial\nhistory--as pages, however, which we must copy rather than translate.\nMay I not urge, besides, that men who have visited Egypt to examine\nmonuments not much more curious, have written folios on their return?\n\n[Sidenote: THE OBELISKS OF EASTER ROSS.]\n\nThe obelisk at Hilton, though perhaps the most elegant of its class\nin Scotland, is less known than any of the other two, and it has\nfared more hardly. For, about two centuries ago, it was taken down by\nsome barbarous mason of Ross, who converted it into a tombstone, and,\nerasing the neat mysterious hieroglyphics of one of the sides, engraved\non the place which they had occupied a rude shield and label, and the\nfollowing laughable inscription; no bad specimen, by the bye, of the\ntaste and judgment which could destroy so interesting a monument,\nand of that fortuitous species of wit which lies within the reach of\naccident, and of accident alone.\n\n    HE \u00b7 THAT \u00b7 LIVES \u00b7 WEIL \u00b7 DYES \u00b7 WEIL \u00b7 SAYS \u00b7 SOLOMON \u00b7 THE \u00b7 WISE.\n    HEIR \u00b7 LYES \u00b7 ALEXANDER \u00b7 DVFF \u00b7 AND \u00b7 HIS \u00b7 THRIE \u00b7 WIVES.\n\nThe side of the obelisk which the chisel has spared is surrounded by\na broad border, embossed in a style of ornament that would hardly\ndisgrace the frieze of an Athenian portico;--the centre is thickly\noccupied by the figures of men, some on horseback, some afoot--of wild\nand tame animals, musical instruments, and weapons of war and of the\nchase. The stone of Shandwick is still standing,[4] and bears on the\nside which corresponds to the obliterated surface of the other, the\nfigure of a large cross, composed of circular knobs wrought into an\ninvolved and intricate species of fretwork, which seems formed by the\ntwisting of myriads of snakes. In the spaces on the sides of the shaft\nthere are two huge, clumsy-looking animals, the one resembling an\nelephant, and the other a lion; over each of these a St. Andrew seems\nleaning forward from his cross; and on the reverse of the obelisk the\nsculpture represents processions, hunting-scenes, and combats. These,\nhowever, are but meagre notices; the obelisk at Nigg I shall describe\nmore minutely as an average specimen of the class to which it belongs.\n\nIt stands in the parish burying-ground, beside the eastern gable of\nthe church; and bears on one of its sides, like the stone at Shandwick,\na large cross, which, it may be remarked, rather resembles that of the\nGreek than of the Romish Church, and on the other a richly embossed\nframe, enclosing, like the border of the obelisk at Hilton, the figures\nof a crowded assemblage of men and animals. Beneath the arms of the\ncross the surface is divided into four oblong compartments, and there\nare three above--one on each side, which form complete squares, and one\na-top, which, like the pediment of a portico, is of a triangular shape.\nIn the lower angle of this upper compartment, two priest-like figures,\nattired in long garments, and furnished each with a book, incline\nforwards in the attitude of prayer; and in the centre between them\nthere is a circular cake or wafer, which a dove, descending from above,\nholds in its bill. Two dogs seem starting towards the wafer from either\nside; and directly under it there is a figure so much weathered, that\nit may be deemed to represent, as fancy may determine, either a little\ncircular table, or the sacramental cup. A pictorial record cannot\nbe other than a doubtful one; and it is difficult to decide whether\nthe hieroglyphic of this department denotes the ghostly influence of\nthe priest in delivering the soul from the evils of an intermediate\nstate; for, at a slight expense of conjectural analogy, we may premise\nthat the mysterious dove descends in answer to the prayer of the two\nkneeling figures, to deliver the little emblematical cake from the\n\u201cpower of the dog;\u201d--or, whether it may not represent a treaty of\npeace between rival chiefs whose previous hostility may be symbolized\nby the two fierce animals below, and their pacific intentions by the\nbird above, and who ratify the contract by an oath, solemnized over the\nbook, the cup, and the wafer. A very few such explanations might tempt\none to quote the well-known story of the Professor of signs and the\nAberdeen butcher; the weight of the evidence, however, rests apparently\nwith those who adopt the last. We see the locks of the kneeling figures\ncurling upon their shoulders in unclerical profusion, unbroken by the\ntonsure; while the presence of the two books, with the absence of any\nwritten inscription, seems characteristic of the mutual memorial of\ntribes, who, though not wholly illiterate, possess no common language\nsave the very doubtful language of symbol. If we hold further that the\nstone is of Scandinavian origin--and it seems a rather difficult matter\nto arrive at a different conclusion--we can hardly suppose that the\nnatives should have left unmutilated the monument of a people so little\nbeloved had they had no part in what it records, or no interest in its\npreservation.\n\nWe pass to the other compartments;--some of these and the plane of\nthe cross are occupied by a species of fretwork exceedingly involved\nand complicated, but formed, notwithstanding, on regular mathematical\nfigures. There are others which contain squares of elegantly arrayed\ntracery, designed in a style which we can almost identify with that of\nthe border illuminations of our older manuscripts, or of the ornaments,\nimitative of these, which occur in works printed during the reigns of\nElizabeth and James. But what seem the more curious compartments of\nthe stone are embossed into rows of circular knobs, covered over, as\nif by basket-work, with the intricate foldings of myriads of snakes;\nand which may be either deemed to allude to the serpent and apple of\nthe Fall--thus placed in no inapt neighbourhood to the cross; or to\nsymbolize (for even the knobs may be supposed to consist wholly of\nserpents) that of which the serpent has ever been held emblematic, and\nwhich we cannot regard as less appositely introduced--a complex wisdom,\nor an incomprehensible eternity.\n\nThe hieroglyphics of the opposite side are in lower relief, and though\nthe various fretwork of the border is executed in a style of much\nelegance, the whole seems to owe less to the care of the sculptor.\nThe centre is occupied by what, from its size, we must deem the chief\nfigure of the group--that of a man attired in long garments, caressing\na fawn; and directly fronting him, there are the figures of a lamb\nand a harp. The whole is, perhaps, emblematical of peace, and may be\nsupposed to tell the same story with the upper hieroglyphic of the\nreverse. In the space beneath there is the figure of a man furnished\nwith cymbals, which he seems clashing with much glee, and that of a\nhorse and its rider, surrounded by animals of the chase; while in\nthe upper part of the stone there are dogs, deer, an armed huntsman,\nand, surmounting the whole, an eagle or raven. It may not be deemed\nunworthy of remark, that the style of the more complex ornaments of\nthis stone very much resembles that which obtains in the sculptures\nand tatooings of the New-Zealander. We see exhibited in both the same\nintricate regularity of pattern, and almost similar combinations\nof the same waving lines. And we are led to infer, that though the\nrude Scandinavian of perhaps nine centuries ago had travelled a long\nstage in advance of the New-Zealander of our own times, he had yet\nhis ideas of the beautiful cast in nearly the same mould. Is it not a\ncurious fact, that man, in his advances towards the just and graceful\nin design, proceeds not from the simple to the complex, but from the\ncomplex to the simple?\n\n[Sidenote: DUNSKAITH.]\n\nThe slope of the northern Sutor which fronts the town of Cromarty,\nterminates about a hundred and fifty feet above the level of the shore\nin a precipitous declivity surmounted by a little green knoll, which\nfor the last six centuries has borne the name of Dunskaith (_i.e._ the\nfort of mischief). And in its immediate vicinity there is a high-lying\nfarm, known all over the country as the farm of Castle-Craig. The\nprospect from the edge of the eminence is one of the finest in the\nkingdom. We may survey the entire Firth of Cromarty spread out before\nus as in a map; the town, though on the opposite shore, seems so\ncompletely under our view that we think of looking down into its\nstreets; and yet the distance is sufficient to conceal all but what\nis pleasing in it. The eye, in travelling over the country beyond,\nascends delighted through the various regions of corn, and wood, and\nmoor, and then expatiates unfatigued amid a wilderness of blue-peaked\nhills. And where the land terminates towards the east, we may see\nthe dark abrupt cliffs of the southern Sutor flinging their shadows\nhalf-way across the opening, and distinguish among the lofty crags,\nwhich rise to oppose them, the jagged and serrated shelves of the\nDiamond-rock, a tall beetling precipice which once bore, if we may\ntrust to tradition, a wondrous gem in its forehead. Often, says the\nlegend, has the benighted boatman gazed from amid the darkness, as he\ncame rowing along the shore, on its clear beacon-like flame, which,\nstreaming from the rock, threw a long fiery strip athwart the water;\nand the mariners of other countries have inquired whether the light\nwhich they saw shining so high among the cliffs, right over their mast,\ndid not proceed from the shrine of some saint, or the cell of some\nhermit. But like the carbuncle of the Ward-hill of Hoy, of which the\nauthor of Waverley makes so poetical a use, \u201cthough it gleamed ruddy as\na furnace to them who viewed it from beneath, it ever became invisible\nto him whose daring foot had scaled the precipices from whence it\ndarted its splendour.\u201d I have been oftener than once interrogated on\nthe western coast of Scotland regarding the \u201cDiamond-rock of Cromarty;\u201d\nand an old campaigner who fought under Abercromby has told me that he\nhas listened to the familiar story of its diamond amid the sand wastes\nof Egypt. But the jewel has long since disappeared, and we see only\nthe rock. It used never to be seen, it is said, by day, nor could the\nexact point which it occupied be ascertained; and on a certain luckless\noccasion an ingenious ship-captain, determined on marking its place,\nbrought with him from England a few balls of chalk, and, charging\nwith this novel species of shot, took aim at it in the night-time\nwith one of his great guns. Ere he had fired, however, it vanished,\nas if suddenly withdrawn by some guardian hand; and its place on the\nrock has ever since remained as undistinguishable as the scaurs and\ncliffs around it. And now the eye, after completing its circuit, rests\non the eminence of Dunskaith;--the site of a royal fortress erected\nby William the Lion, to repress, says Lord Hailes in his Annals of\nScotland, the oft-recurring rebellions and disorders of Ross-shire.\nWe can still trace the moat of the citadel, and part of an outwork\nwhich rises towards the hill; but the walls have sunk into low grassy\nmounds, and the line of the outer moat has long since been effaced by\nthe plough. The disorders of Ross-shire seem to have outlived, by many\nages, the fortress raised to suppress them. I need hardly advert to a\nstory so well known as that of the robber of this province who nailed\nhorse-shoes to the feet of the poor widow who had threatened him with\nthe vengeance of James I., and who, with twelve of his followers, was\nbrought to Edinburgh by that monarch, to be horse-shoed in turn. Even\nso late as the reign of James VI. the clans of Ross are classed among\nthe peculiarly obnoxious, in an Act for the punishment of theft, rief,\nand oppression.\n\n[Sidenote: THE URQUHARTS OF CROMARTY.]\n\nBetween the times of Macbeth and an age comparatively recent, there\noccurs a wide chasm in the history of Cromarty. The Thane, magnified\nby the atmosphere of poetry which surrounds him, towers like a giant\nover the remoter brink of the gap, while, in apparent opposition to\nevery law of perspective, the people on its nearer edge seem diminished\ninto pigmies. And yet the Urquharts of Cromarty--though Sir Thomas, in\nhis zeal for their honour, has dealt by them as the poets of ancient\nGreece did by the early history of their country--were a race of\nancient standing and of no little consideration. The editor of the\nsecond edition of Sir Thomas\u2019s _Jewel_, which was not published until\nthe first had been more than a hundred years out of print, states in\nhis advertisement that he had compared the genealogy of his author\nwith another genealogy of the family in possession of the Lord Lyon of\nScotland, and that from the reign of Alexander II. to that of Charles\nI. he had found them perfectly to agree. The lands of the family\nextended from the furthest point of the southern Sutor to the hill of\n_Kinbeakie_ (_i.e._ end of the living), a tract which includes the\nparishes of Cromarty, Kirkmichael, and Cullicuden; and, prior to the\nimprisonment and exile of Sir Thomas, he was vested with the patronage\nof the churches of these parishes, and the admiralty of the eastern\ncoast of Scotland, from Caithness to Inverness.\n\n[Sidenote: WALLACE.]\n\nThe first of his ancestors, whose story receives some shadow of\nconfirmation from tradition, was a contemporary of Wallace and the\nBruce. When ejected from his castle, he is said to have regained it\nfrom the English by a stratagem, and to have held it out with only\nforty men for about seven years. \u201cDuring that time,\u201d says Sir Thomas,\n\u201chis lands were wasted and his woods burnt; and having nothing he\ncould properly call his own but the moat-hill of Cromarty, which he\nmaintained in defiance of all the efforts of the enemy, he was agnamed\n_Gulielmus de monte alto_. At length,\u201d continues the genealogist,\n\u201che was relieved by Sir William Wallace, who raised the siege after\ndefeating the English in a little den or hollow about two miles from\nthe town.\u201d Tradition, though silent respecting the siege, is more\nexplicit than Sir Thomas in her details of the battle.\n\nSomewhat more than four miles to the south of Cromarty, and about the\nmiddle of the mountainous ridge which, stretching from the Sutors to\nthe village of Rosemarkie, overhangs at the one edge the shores of\nthe Moray Firth, and sinks on the other into a broken moor, there\nis a little wooded eminence. Like the ridge which it overtops, it\nsweeps gradually towards the east until it terminates in an abrupt\nprecipice that overhangs the sea, and slopes upon the west into a\nmarshy hollow, known to the elderly people of the last age and a very\nfew of the present as _Wallace-slack_--_i.e._, ravine. The direct line\nof communication with the southern districts, to travellers who cross\nthe Firth at the narrow strait of Ardersier, passes within a few yards\nof the hollow. And when, some time during the wars of Edward, a strong\nbody of English troops were marching by this route to join another\nstrong body encamped in the peninsula of Easter Ross, this circumstance\nis said to have pointed it out to Wallace as a fit place for forming an\nambuscade. From the eminence which overtops it, the spectator can look\ndown on a wide tract of country, while the ravine itself is concealed\nby a flat tubercle of the moor, which to the traveller approaching\nfrom the south or west, seems the base of the eminence. The stratagem\nsucceeded; the English, surprised and panic-struck, were defeated\nwith much slaughter, six hundred being left dead in the scene of the\nattack; and the survivors, closely pursued and wholly unacquainted\nwith the country, fled towards the north along the ridge of hill which\nterminates at the bay of Cromarty. From the top of the ridge the two\nSutors seem piled the one over the other, and so shut up the opening,\nthat the bay within assumes the appearance of a lake; and the English\ndeeming it such, pressed onward, in the hope that a continued tract\nof land stretched between them and their countrymen on the opposite\nshore. They were only undeceived when, on climbing the southern Sutor,\nwhere it rises behind the town, they saw an arm of the sea more than\na mile in width, and skirted by abrupt and dizzy precipices, opening\nbefore them. The spot is still pointed out where they made their final\nstand; and a few shapeless hillocks, that may still be seen among the\ntrees, are said to have been raised above the bodies of those who fell;\nwhile the fugitives, for they were soon beaten from this position, were\neither driven over the neighbouring precipices, or perished amid the\nwaves of the Firth. Wallace, on another occasion, is said to have fled\nfor refuge to a cave of the Sutors; and his metrical historian, Blind\nHarry, after narrating his exploits at St. Johnstone\u2019s, Dunotter, and\nAberdeen, describes him as\n\n    \u201cRaiding throw the North-land into playne,\n    Till at _Crummade_ fell Inglismen he\u2019d slayne.\u201d\n\nHamilton, in his modernized edition of the \u201cAchievements,\u201d renders the\n_Crummade_ here Cromarty; and as shown by an ancient custom-house seal\nor cocket (supposed to belong to the reign of Robert II.), now in the\nInverness Museum, the place was certainly designated of old by a word\nof resembling sound--_Chrombhte_.\n\nOf all the humbler poets of Scotland--and where is there a country with\nmore?--there is hardly one who has not sung in praise of Wallace. His\nexploit, as recorded in the Jewel, connected with the tradition of the\ncave, has been narrated by the muse of a provincial poet, who published\na volume of poems at Inverness about five years ago; and, in the lack\nof less questionable materials for this part of my history, I avail\nmyself of his poem.\n\n      Thus ran the tale:--proud England\u2019s host\n    Lay \u2019trench\u2019d on Croma\u2019s winding coast.\n    And rose the Urquhart\u2019s towers beneath\n    Fierce shouts of wars, deep groans of death.\n    The Wallace heard;--from Moray\u2019s shore\n    One little bark his warriors bore.\n    But died the breeze, and rose the day,\n    Ere gained that bark the destined bay;\n    When, lo! these rocks a quay supplied,\n    These yawning caves meet shades to hide.\n    Secure, where rank the nightshade grew,\n    And patter\u2019d thick th\u2019 unwholesome dew,\n    Patient of cold and gloom they lay,\n    Till eve\u2019s last light had died away.\n      It died away;--in Croma\u2019s hall\n    No flame glanced on the trophied wall,\n    Nor sound of mirth nor revel free\n    Was heard where joy had wont to be.\n    With day had ceased the siege\u2019s din,\n    But still gaunt famine raged within.\n      In chamber lone, on weary bed,\n    That castle\u2019s wounded lord was laid;\n    His woe-worn lady watch\u2019d beside.\n    To pain devote, and grief, and gloom,\n    No taper cheer\u2019d the darksome room;\n    Yet to the wounded chieftain\u2019s sight\n    Strange shapes were there, and sheets of light\n    And oft he spoke, in jargon vain,\n    Of ruthless deed and tyrant reign,\n    For maddening fever fired his brain.\n      O hark! the warder\u2019s rousing call--\n    \u201cRise, warriors, rise, and man the wall!\u201d\n    Starts up the chief, but rack\u2019d with pain,\n    And weak, he backward sinks again:\n    \u201cO Heaven, they come!\u201d the lady cries,\n    \u201cThe Southrons come, and Urquhart dies!\u201d\n      Nay, \u2019tis not fever mocks his sight;\n    His broider\u2019d couch is red with light;\n    In light his lady stands confest,\n    Her hand clasp\u2019d on her heaving breast.\n    And hark; wild shouts assail the ear,\n    Loud and more loud, near and more near\n    They rise!--hark, frequent rings the blade,\n    On crested helm relentless laid;\n    Yells, groans, sharp sounds of smitten mail,\n    And war-cries load the midnight gale;\n    O hark! like Heaven\u2019s own thunder high,\n    Swells o\u2019er the rest one ceaseless cry,\n    Racking the dull cold ear of night,\n    \u201cThe Wallace wight!--the Wallace wight!\u201d\n      Yes, gleams the sword of Wallace there,\n    Unused his country\u2019s foes to spare;\n    Roars the red camp like funeral pyre,\n    One wild, wide, wasteful sea of fire;\n    Glow red the low-brow\u2019d clouds of night,\n    The wooded hill is bathed in light,\n    Gleams wave, and field, and turret height.\n    Death\u2019s vassals dog the spoiler\u2019s horde,\n    Burns in their front th\u2019 unsparing sword;\n    The fired camp casts its volumes o\u2019er;\n    Behind spreads wide a skiffless shore;\n    Fire, flood, and sword, conspire to slay.\n    How sad shall rest morn\u2019s early ray\n    On blacken\u2019d strand, and crimson\u2019d main,\n    On floods of gore, and hills of slain;\n    But bright its cheering beams shall fall\n    Where mirth whoops in the Urquharts\u2019 Hall.\n\n           *       *       *\n\n\nThere occurs in our narrative another wide chasm, which extends from\nthe times of Wallace to the reign of James IV. Like the earlier gap,\nhowever, it might be filled up by a recital of events, which, though\nthey belong properly to the history of the neighbouring districts,\nmust have affected in no slight degree the interests and passions of\nthe people of Cromarty. Among these we may reckon the descents on Ross\nby the Lords of the Isles, which terminated in the battles of Harlaw\nand Driemderfat, and that contest between the Macintoshes and Munros,\nwhich took place in the same century at the village of Clachnaherry. I\nmight avail myself, too, on a similar principle, of the pilgrimage of\nJames IV. to the neighbouring chapel of St. Dothus, near Tain. But as\nall these events have, like the story of Macbeth, been appropriated by\nthe historians of the kingdom, they are already familiar to the general\nreader. In an after age, Cromarty, like Tain, was honoured by a visit\nfrom royalty. I find it stated by Calderwood, that in the year 1589,\non the discovery of Huntly\u2019s conspiracy, and the discomfiture of his\nfollowers at the Bridge of Dee, James VI. rode to Aberdeen, ostensibly\nwith the intention of holding justice-courts on the delinquents;\nbut that, deputing the business of trial to certain judges whom he\ninstructed to act with a lenity which the historian condemns, he set\nout on a hunting expedition to Cromarty, from which he returned after\nan absence of about twenty days.\n\n[Sidenote: THE FORAY OF THE CLANS.]\n\nWe find not a great deal less of the savage in the records of these\nlater times than in those of the darker periods which went before.\nLife and property seem to have been hardly more secure, especially\nin those hapless districts which, bordering on the Highlands, may be\nregarded as constituting the battle-fields on which needy barbarism,\nand the imperfectly-formed vanguard of a slowly advancing civilisation,\ncontended for the mastery. Early in the reign of James IV. the lands of\nCromarty were wasted by a combination of the neighbouring clans, headed\nby Hucheon Rose of Kilravock, Macintosh of Macintosh, and Fraser of\nLovat; and so complete was the spoliation, that the entire property of\nthe inhabitants, to their very household furniture, was carried away.\nRestitution was afterwards enforced by the Lords of Council. We find it\ndecreed in the _Acta Dominorum Concilii_ for 1492, that Hucheon Rose\nof Kilravock do restore, content, and pay to Mr. Alexander Urquhart,\nsheriff of Cromarty, and his tenants, the various items carried off by\nhim and his accomplices; viz., six hundred cows, one hundred horses,\none thousand sheep, four hundred goats, two hundred swine, and four\nhundred bolls of victual. Kilravock is said to have conciliated the\njustice-general on this occasion by resigning into his hands his\ngrand-daughter, the heiress of Calder, then a child; and her lands the\nwily magistrate secured to his family by marrying her to one of his\nsons.\n\n[Sidenote: PATERHEMON.]\n\nThere lived in the succeeding reign a proprietor of Cromarty, who,\nfrom the number of his children, received, says the genealogist, the\ntitle, or agname, of Paterhemon. He had twenty-five sons who arrived\nat manhood, and eleven daughters who ripened into women, and were\nmarried. Seven of the sons lost their lives at the battle of Pinkie;\nand there were some of the survivors who, settling in England, became\nthe founders of families which, in the days of the Commonwealth,\nwere possessed of considerable property and influence in Devonshire\nand Cumberland. Tradition tells the story of Paterhemon somewhat\ndifferently. His children, whom it diminishes to twenty, are described\nas robust and very handsome men; and he is said to have lived in the\nreign of Mary. On the visit of that princess to Inverness, and when,\naccording to Buchanan, the Frasers and Munros, two of the most warlike\nclans of the country, were raised by their respective chieftains to\ndefend her against the designs of Huntly, the Urquhart is said also\nto have marched to her assistance with a strong body of his vassals,\nand accompanied by all his sons, mounted on white horses. At the\nmoment of his arrival Mary was engaged in reviewing the clans, and\nsurrounded by the chiefs and her officers. The venerable chieftain\nrode up to her, and, dismounting with all the ease of a galliard of\nfive-and-twenty, presented to her, as his best gift, his little troup\nof children. There is yet a third edition of the story:--About the\nyear 1652, one Richard Franck, a native of the sister kingdom, and as\ndevoted an angler as Isaac Walton himself, made the tour of Scotland,\nand then published a book descriptive of what he had seen. His notice\nof Cromarty is mostly summed up in a curious little anecdote of the\npatriarch, which he probably derived from some tradition current at\nthe time of his visit. Sir Thomas he describes as his eldest son; and\nthe number of his children who arrived at maturity he has increased\nto forty. \u201cHe had thirty sons and ten daughters,\u201d says the tourist,\n\u201cstanding at once before him, and not one natural child amongst them.\u201d\nHaving attained the extreme verge of human life, he began to consider\nhimself as already dead; and in the exercise of an imagination, which\nthe genealogist seems to have inherited with his lands, he derived\ncomfort from the daily repetition of a kind of ceremony, ingenious\nenough to challenge comparison with any rite of the Romish Church. For\nevery evening about sunset, being brought out in his couch to the base\nof a tower of the castle, he was raised by pulleys, slowly and gently,\nto the battlements; and the ascent he deemed emblematical of the\nresurrection. Or to employ the graphic language of the tourist--\u201cThe\ndeclining age of this venerable laird of Urquhart, for he had now\nreached the utmost limit of life, invited him to contemplate mortality,\nand to cruciate himself by fancying his cradle his sepulchre; therein,\ntherefore, was he lodged night after night, and hauled up by pulleys\nto the roof of his house, approaching, as near as the summits of its\nhigher pinnacles would let him, to the beautiful battlements and\nsuburbs of heaven.\u201d\n\nI find I must devote one other chapter to the consideration of the\ninteresting remains which form almost the sole materials of this\nearlier portion of my history. But the class of these to which I am\nnow about to turn, are to be found, not on the face of the country,\nbut locked up in the minds of the inhabitants. And they are falling\nmuch more rapidly into decay--mouldering away in their hidden recesses,\nlike bodies of the dead; while others, which more resemble the green\nmound and the monumental tablet, bid fair to abide the inquiry of\ncoming generations. Those vestiges of ancient superstition, which are\nto be traced in the customs and manners of the common people, share in\na polite age a very different fate from those impressions of it, if\nI may so express myself, which we find stamped upon matter. For when\nthe just and liberal opinions which originate with philosophers and\nmen of genius are diffused over a whole people, a modification of the\nsame good sense which leads the scholar to treasure up old beliefs\nand usages, serves to emancipate the peasant from their influence or\nobservance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n    \u201cShe darklins grapit for the bauks,\n      And in the blue clue throws then.\u201d--BURNS.\n\n\n[Sidenote: REMAINS OF THE OLD MYTHOLOGY.]\n\nViolence may anticipate by many centuries the natural progress of\ndecay. There are some of our Scottish cathedrals less entire than some\nof our old Picts\u2019 houses, though the latter have been deserted for more\nthan a thousand years, and the former for not more than three hundred.\nAnd the remark is not less applicable to the beliefs and usages of\nother ages, than to their more material remains. It is a curious fact,\nthat we meet among the Protestants of Scotland with more marked traces\nof the Paganism of their earlier, than of the Popery of their later\nancestors. For while Christianity seems to have been introduced into\nthe country by slow degrees, and to have travelled over it by almost\nimperceptible stages--leaving the less obnoxious practices of the\nmythology which it supplanted to the natural course of decay--it is\nmatter of history that the doctrines of the Reformation overspread\nit in a single age, and that the observances of the old system were\neffaced, not by a gradual current of popular opinion, but by the hasty\nsurges of popular resentment. The saint-days of the priest have in\nconsequence been long since forgotten--the festivals of the Druid still\nsurvive.\n\nThere is little risk of our mistaking these latter; the rites of\nHallowe\u2019en, and the festivities of Beltane, possess well-authenticated\ngenealogies. There are other usages, however, which, though they\nbear no less strongly the impress of Paganism, show a more uncertain\nlineage. And regarding these, we find it difficult to determine\nwhether they have come down to us from the days of the old mythology,\nor have been produced in a later period by those sentiments of\nthe human mind to which every false religion owes its origin. The\nsubject, though a curious, is no very tangible one. But should I\nattempt throwing together a few simple thoughts respecting it, in\nthat wandering desultory style which seems best to consort with its\nirregularity of outline, I trust I may calculate on the forbearance of\nthe reader. I shall strive to be not very tedious, and to choose a not\nvery beaten path.\n\nMan was made for the world, and the world for man. Hence we find that\nevery faculty of the human mind has in the things which lie without\nsome definite object, or particular class of circumstances, on which\nto operate. There is a thorough adaptation of that which acts to that\nwhich is acted upon--of the moving power to the machine; and woe be to\nhim who deranges this admirable order, in the hope of rendering it more\ncomplete. It is prettily fabled by the Brahmins, that souls are moulded\nby pairs, and then sent to the earth to be linked together in wedlock,\nand that matches are unhappy merely in consequence of the parties\ndisuniting by the way, and choosing for themselves other consorts. One\nmight find more in this fable than any Brahmin ever found in it yet.\nThere is a prospective connexion of a similar kind formed between the\npowers of the mind and the objects on which these are to be employed,\nand should they be subsequently united to objects other than the\nlegitimate, a wretchedness quite as real as that which arises out of an\nill-mated marriage is the infallible result.\n\nWere I asked to illustrate my meaning by an example or two, I do not\nknow where I could find instances better suited to my purpose than in\nthe imaginative extravagancies of some of our wilder sectaries. There\nis no principle which so deals in unhappy marriages, and as unhappy\ndivorces, as the fanatical; or that so ceaselessly employs itself in\nseparating what Heaven has joined, and in joining what Heaven has\nseparated. Man, I have said, was made for the world he lives in;--I\nshould have added, that he was intended also for another world.\nFanaticism makes a somewhat similar omission, only it is the other way.\nIt forgets that he is as certainly a denizen of the present as an heir\nof the future; that the same Being who has imparted to him the noble\nsentiment which leads him to anticipate an hereafter, has also bestowed\nupon him a thousand lesser faculties which must be employed now; and\nthat, if he prove untrue to even the minor end of his existence, and\nslight his proper though subordinate employments, the powers which\nhe thus separates from their legitimate objects must, from the very\nactivity of their nature, run riot in the cloisters in which they are\nshut up, and cast reproach by their excesses on the cause to which\nthey are so unwisely dedicated. For it is one thing to condemn these\nto a life of celibacy, and quite another to keep them chaste. We may\nshut them up, like a sisterhood of nuns, from the objects to which\nthey ought to have been united, but they will infallibly discover some\nless legitimate ones with which to connect themselves. Self-love, and\nthe natural desire of distinction--proper enough sentiments in their\nown sphere--make but sad work in any other. The imagination, which\nwas so bountifully given us to raise its ingenious theories as a kind\nof scaffolding to philosophical discovery, is active to worse purpose\nwhen revelling intoxicated amid the dim fields of prophecy, or behind\nthe veil of the inner mysteries. Reason itself, though a monarch in\nits own proper territories, can exert only a doubtful authority in the\nprovinces which lie beyond. Indeed, the whole history of fanaticism,\nfrom when St. Anthony retired into the deserts of Upper Egypt to burrow\nin a cell like a fox-earth, down to the times that witnessed some of\nthe wilder heresiarchs of our own country, working what they had faith\nenough to deem miracles, is little else than a detail of the disorders\noccasioned by perversions of this nature.\n\n[Sidenote: THE DEVOTIONAL SENTIMENT.]\n\nThere is an exhibition of phenomena equally curious when the religious\nsentiment, instead of thus swallowing up all the others, is deprived\nof even its own proper object. I once saw a solitary hen bullfinch,\nthat retired one spring into a dark corner of her cage and laid an\negg, over which she sat until it was addled. It is always thus when\nthe devotional sentiment is left to form a religion for itself.\nEncaged like the poor bullfinch, it proves fruitful in just a similar\nway, and moping in its dark recesses, brings forth its pitiful\nabortions unassisted and alone. I have ever thought of the pantheons\nand mythological dictionaries of our libraries as a kind of museums,\nstored, like those of the anatomist, with embryos and abortions.\n\nIt must be remarked further, that the devotional sentiment operates in\nthis way not only when its proper object is wanting, but even, should\nthe mind be dark and uninformed, when that is present. Every false\nreligion may be regarded as a wild irregular production, springing\nout of that basis of sentiment (one of the very foundations of our\nnature) which, when rendered the subject of a right course of culture,\nand sown with the good seed, proves the proper field of the true. But\non this field, even when occupied the better way, there may be the\nweeds of a rank indigenous mythology shooting up below--a kind of\nsubordinate superstition, which, in other circumstances, would have\nbeen not the underwood, but the forest. Hence our difficulty in fixing\nthe genealogy of the Pagan-like usages to which I allude; there are\ntwo opposite sources, from either of which they may have sprung:--they\nmay form a kind of undergrowth, thrown up at no very early period by\na soil occupied by beliefs the most serious and rational, or they may\nconstitute the ancient and broken vestiges of an obsolete and exploded\nmythology. I shall briefly describe a few of the more curious.\n\n[Sidenote: INTERESTING USAGES.]\n\nI. People acquainted with seafaring men, and who occasionally accompany\nthem in their voyages, cannot miss seeing them, when the sails are\ndrooping against the mast, and the vessel lagging in her course,\nearnestly invoking the wind in a shrill tremulous whistling--calling\non it, in fact, in its own language; and scarcely less confident of\nbeing answered than if preferring a common request to one of their\ncompanions. I rarely sail in calm weather with my friends the Cromarty\nfishermen, without seeing them thus employed--their faces anxiously\nturned in the direction whence they expect the breeze; now pausing, for\na light uncertain air has begun to ruffle the water, and now resuming\nthe call still more solicitously than before, for it has died away.\nOn thoughtlessly beginning to whistle one evening about twelve years\nago, when our skiff was staggering under a closely-reefed foresail, I\nwas instantly silenced by one of the fishermen with a \u201cWhisht, whisht,\nboy, we have more than wind enough already;\u201d and I remember being much\nstruck for the first time by the singularity of the fact, that the\nwinds should be as sincerely invoked by our Scottish seamen of the\npresent day, as by the mariners of Themistocles. There was another\nsuch practice common among the Cromarty fishermen of the last age, but\nit is now obsolete. It was termed soothing the waves. When beating\nup in stormy weather along a lee-shore, it was customary for one of\nthe men to take his place on the weather gunwale, and there continue\nwaving his hand in a direction opposite to the sweep of the sea, in\nthe belief that this species of appeal to it would induce it to lessen\nits force. We recognize in both these singular practices the workings\nof that religion natural to the heart, which, more vivid in its\npersonifications than poetry itself, can address itself to every power\nof nature as to a sentient being endowed with a faculty of will, and\nable, as it inclines, either to aid or injure. The seaman\u2019s prayer to\nthe winds, and the thirty thousand gods of the Greek, probably derive\ntheir origin from a similar source.\n\nII. Viewed in the light of reason, an oath owes its sacredness, not\nto any virtue in itself, but to the Great Being to whom it is so\ndirect an appeal, and to the good and rational belief that He knows\nall things, and is the ultimate judge of all. But the same uninformed\nprinciple which can regard the winds and waves as possessed of a\npower independent of His, seems also to have conferred on the oath\nan influence and divinity exclusively its own. I have met with many\namong the more grossly superstitious, who deemed it a kind of ordeal,\nsomewhat similar to the nine ploughshares of the dark ages, which\ndistinguished between right and wrong, truth or falsehood, by some\noccult intrinsic virtue. The innocent person swears, and like the\nguiltless woman when she had drunk the waters of jealousy, thrives none\nthe worse;--the guilty perjure themselves, and from that hour cease to\nprosper. I remember--by the way, a very early recollection--that when a\nJustice of Peace Court was sitting in my native town, many years ago,\na dark cloud came suddenly over the sun; and that a man who had been\nlounging on the street below, ran into the Court-room to see who it was\nthat, _by swearing a false oath_, had occasioned the obscuration. It is\na rather singular coincidence, and one which might lead us to believe\nin the existence of something analogous to principle in even the\nextravagancies of human belief, that the only oath deemed binding on\nthe gods of classical mythology--the oath by the river Styx--was one of\nmerely intrinsic power and virtue. Bacon, indeed, in his \u201cWisdom of the\nAncients\u201d (a little book but a great work), has explained the fable as\nmerely an ingenious allegory; but who does not know that the Father of\nmodern philosophy found half the Novum Organum in superstitions which\nexisted before the days of Orpheus?\n\nIII. There seems to have once obtained in this part of the country\na belief that the natural sentiment of justice had its tutelary\nspirit, which, like the Astr\u00e6a of the Greeks, existed for it, and for\nit alone; and which not only seconded the dictates of conscience,\nbut even punished those by whom they were disregarded. The creed of\nsuperstition is, however, rarely a well defined or consistent one; and\nthis belief seems to have partaken, as much as any of the others, of\nthe incoherent obscurity in which it originated. The mysterious agent\n(the object of it) existed no one knew where, and effected its purposes\nno one knew how. But the traditions which illustrate it, narrate\nbetter than they define. Many years ago, says one of these, a woman\nof Tarbat was passing along the shores of Loch-Slin, with a large web\nof linen on her back. There was a market held that morning at Tain,\nand she was bringing the web there to be sold. In those times it was\nquite as customary for farmers to rear the flax which supplied them\nwith clothing, as the corn which furnished them with food; and it was\nof course necessary, in some of the earlier processes of preparing the\nformer, to leave it for weeks spread out on the fields, with little\nelse to trust to for its protection than the honesty of neighbours.\nBut to the neighbours of this woman the protection was, it would seem,\nincomplete; and the web she carried on this occasion was composed of\nstolen lint. She had nearly reached the western extremity of the lake,\nwhen, feeling fatigued, she seated herself by the water edge, and laid\ndown the web beside her. But no sooner had it touched the earth than\nup it bounded three Scots ells into the air, and slowly unrolling\nfold after fold, until it had stretched itself out as when on the\nbleaching-green, it flew into the middle of the lake, and disappeared\nfor ever. There are several other stories of the same class, but the\none related may serve as a specimen of the whole.\n\nIV. The evils which men dread, and the appearances which they cannot\nunderstand, are invariably appropriated by superstition: if her power\nextend not over the terrible and the mysterious, she is without power\nat all. And not only does she claim whatever is inexplicable in the\ngreat world, but also in some cases what seems mysterious in the\nlittle; some, for instance, of the more paradoxical phenomena of human\nnature. It has been represented to me as a mysterious, unaccountable\nfact, that persons who have been rescued from drowning regard their\ndeliverers ever after with a dislike which borders almost on enmity. I\nhave heard it affirmed, too, that when the crew of some boat or vessel\nhave perished, with the exception of one individual, the relatives of\nthe deceased invariably regard that one with a deep, irrepressible\nhatred; and in both cases the feelings described are said to originate\nin some occult and supernatural cause. Alas! neither envy nor\ningratitude lie out of our ordinary everyday walk. There occurs to me a\nlittle anecdote illustrative of this kind of apotheosis of the envious\nprinciple. Some fifty years ago there was a Cromarty boat wrecked on\nthe rough shores of Eathie. All the crew perished with the exception\nof one fisherman; and the poor man was so persecuted by the relatives\nof the drowned, who even threatened his life, that he was compelled,\nmuch against his inclination, to remove to Nairn. There, however, only\na few years after, he was wrecked a second time, and, as in the first\ninstance, proved the sole survivor of the crew. And so he was again\nsubjected to a persecution similar to the one he had already endured;\nand compelled to quit Nairn as he had before quitted Cromarty. And in\nboth cases the relatives of the deceased were deemed as entirely under\nthe influence of a mysterious, irresistible impulse, which acted upon\ntheir minds from without, as the Orestes of the dramatist when pursued\nby the Furies.\n\nOne may question, as I have already remarked, whether one sees, in\nthese several instances, polytheism in the act of forming, and but\nbarely forming, in the human mind, or the mutilated remnants of\na long-exploded mythology. The usages to which I have alluded as\nmore certain in their lineage, are perhaps less suited to employ\nspeculation. But they are curious; and the fact that they are fast\nsinking into an oblivion, out of which the diligence of no future\nexcavator will be able to restore them, gives them of itself a kind of\nclaim on our notice. I pass over Beltane; its fires in this part of the\ncountry have long since been extinguished; but to its half-surviving\npartner, Halloween, I shall devote a few pages; and this the more\nreadily, as it chances to be connected with a story of humble life\nwhich belongs to that period of my history at which I have now arrived.\nTrue, the festival itself has already sat for its picture, and so\nadmirable was the skill of the artist, that its very name recalls to us\nrather the masterly strokes of the transcript than the features of the\noriginal. But, with all its truth and beauty, the portrait is not yet\ncomplete.\n\n[Sidenote: RITES OF THE SCOTTISH HALLOWEEN.]\n\nThe Scottish Halloween, as held in the solitary farmhouse and described\nby Burns, differed considerably from the Halloween of our villages and\nsmaller towns. In the farmhouse it was a night of prediction only; in\nour towns and villages there were added a multitude of wild mischievous\ngames, which were tolerated at no other season--a circumstance that\nserves to identify the festival with those pauses of license peculiar\nto the nonage of civil government, in which men are set free from\nthe laws they are just learning to respect;--partly, it would seem,\nas a reward for the deference which they have paid them, partly to\nserve them as a kind of breathing-spaces in which to recover from\nthe unwonted fatigue of being obedient. After nightfall, the young\nfellows of the town formed themselves into parties of ten or a dozen,\nand breaking into the gardens of the graver inhabitants, stole the\nbest and heaviest of their cabbages. Converting these into bludgeons,\nby stripping off the lower leaves, they next scoured the streets and\nlanes, thumping at every door as they passed, until their uncouth\nweapons were beaten to pieces. When disarmed in this way, all the\nparties united into one, and providing themselves with a cart, drove\nit before them with the rapidity of a chaise and four through the\nprincipal streets. Woe to the inadvertent female whom they encountered!\nShe was instantly laid hold of, and placed aloft in the cart--brothers,\nand cousins, and even sons, it is said, not unfrequently assisting\nin the capture; and then dragged backwards and forwards over the\nrough stones, amid shouts, and screams, and roars of laughter. The\nyounkers within doors were meanwhile engaged in a manner somewhat less\nannoying, but not a whit less whimsical. The bent of their ingenuity\nfor weeks before, had been turned to the accumulating of little hoards\nof apples--all for this night; and now a large tub, filled with water,\nwas placed in the middle of the floor of some out-house, carefully\ndressed up for the occasion; and into the tub every one of the party\nflung an apple. They then approached it by turns, and, placing their\nhands on the edges, plunged forward to fish for the fruit with their\nteeth. I remember the main chance of success was to thrust the head\nfearlessly into the tub, amid the booming of the water, taking especial\ncare to press down one of the apples in a line with the mouth, and to\nseize it when jammed against the bottom. When the whole party, with\ntheir dripping locks and shining faces, would seem metamorphosed into\nso many mermaids, this sport usually gave place to another:--A small\nbeam of wood was suspended from the ceiling by a cord, and when fairly\nbalanced, an apple was fastened to the one end, and a lighted candle to\nthe other. It was then whirled round, and the boys in turn, as before,\nleaped up and bit at the fruit; not unfrequently, however, merely to\nsinge their faces and hair at the candle. Neither of these games were\npeculiar to the north of Scotland: we find it stated by Mr. Polewhele,\nin his \u201cHistorical Views of Devonshire,\u201d that the Irish peasants\nassembled on the eve of _La Samon_ (the 2d November), to celebrate the\nfestival of the sun, with many rites derived from Paganism, among which\nwas the dipping for apples in a tub of water, and the catching at an\napple stuck on the one end of a kind of hanging beam.\n\n[Sidenote: THE CHARM OF THE EGG.]\n\nThere belonged to the north of Scotland two Halloween rites of augury\nwhich have not been described by Burns: and one of these, an elegant\nand beautiful charm, is not yet entirely out of repute. An ale-glass\nis filled with pure water, and into the water is dropped the white of\nan egg. The female whose future fortunes are to be disclosed (for\nthe charm seems appropriated exclusively by the better sex) lays her\nhand on the glass\u2019s mouth, and holds it there for about the space of\na minute. In that time the heavier parts of the white settle to the\nbottom, while the lighter shoot up into the water, from which they are\ndistinguished by their opacity, into a variety of fantastic shapes,\nresembling towers and domes, towns, fleets, and forests; or, to speak\nmore correctly, into forms not very unlike those icicles which one sees\nduring a severe frost at the edge of a waterfall. A resemblance is next\ntraced, which is termed reading the glass, between the images displayed\nin it and some objects of either art or nature; and these are regarded\nas constituting a hieroglyphic of the person\u2019s future fortunes. Thus,\nthe ramparts of a fortress surmounted by streamers, a plain covered\nwith armies, or the tents of an encampment, show that the female whose\nhand covered the glass is to be united to a soldier, and that her life\nis to be spent in camps and garrisons. A fleet of ships, a church or\npulpit, a half-finished building, a field stripped into furrows, a\ngarden, a forest--all these, and fifty other scenes, afford symbols\nequally unequivocal. And there are melancholy hieroglyphics, too,\nthat speak of death when interrogated regarding marriage;--there are\nthe solitary tomb, the fringed shroud, the coffin, and the skull and\ncross-bones. \u201cAh!\u201d said a young girl, whom I overheard a few years ago\nregretting the loss of a deceased companion, \u201cAh! I knew when she first\ntook ill that there was little to hope. Last Halloween we went together\nto Mrs. ---- to break our eggs. Betsie\u2019s was first cast, and there rose\nunder her hand an ugly skull. Mrs. ---- said nothing, but reversed the\nglass, while poor Betsie laid her hand on it a second time, and then\nthere rose a coffin. Mrs. ---- called it a boat, and I said I saw the\noars; but Mrs. ---- well knew what it meant, and so did I.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE TWELFTH RIG.]\n\nThe other north country charm, which, of Celtic origin, bears evidently\nthe impress of the romance and melancholy so predominant in the Celtic\ncharacter, is only known and practised (if, indeed, still practised\nanywhere) in a few places of the remote Highlands. The person who\nintends trying it must steal out unperceived to a field whose furrows\nlie due south and north, and, entering at the western side, must\nproceed slowly over eleven ridges, and stand in the centre of the\ntwelfth, when he will hear either low sobs and faint mournful shrieks,\nwhich betoken his early death, or the sounds of music and dancing,\nwhich foretell his marriage. But the charm is accounted dangerous.\nAbout twelve years ago, I spent an autumn in the mid-Highlands of\nRoss-shire, where I passed my Halloween, with nearly a dozen young\npeople, at a farmhouse. We burned nuts and ate apples; and when we\nhad exhausted our stock of both, some of us proposed setting out for\nthe steading of a neighbouring farm, and robbing the garden of its\ncabbages; but the motion was overruled by the female members of the\nparty; for the night was pitch dark, and the way rough; and so we had\nrecourse for amusement to story-telling. Naturally enough most of our\nstories were of Halloween rites and predictions; and much was spoken\nregarding the charm of the rig. I had never before heard of it; and,\nout of a frolic, I stole away to a field whose furrows lay in the\nproper direction, and after pacing steadily across the ridges until\nI had reached the middle of the twelfth, I stood and listened. But\nspirits were not abroad:--I heard only the wind groaning in the woods,\nand the deep sullen roar of the Conan. On my return I was greeted with\nexclamations of wonder and terror, and it was remarked that I looked\ndeadly pale, and had certainly heard something very terrible. \u201cBut\nwhatever you may have been threatened with,\u201d said the author of the\nremark, \u201cyou may congratulate yourself on being among us in your right\nmind; for there are instances of people returning from the twelfth rig\nraving mad; and of others who went to it as light of heart as you, who\nnever returned at all.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: MACCULLOCH\u2019S COURTSHIP.]\n\nThe Maccullochs of the parish of Cromarty, a family now extinct, were,\nfor about two centuries, substantial respectable farmers. The first\nof this family, says tradition, was Alaster Macculloch, a native of\nthe Highlands. When a boy he quitted the house of his widow mother,\nand wandered into the low country in quest of employment, which he at\nlength succeeded in procuring in the parish of Cromarty, on the farm of\nan old wealthy tacksman. For the first few weeks he seemed to be one\nof the gloomiest little fellows ever bred among the solitudes of the\nhills;--all the social feelings of his nature had been frozen within\nhim; but they began to flow apace; and it was soon discovered that\nneither reserve nor melancholy formed any part of his real character.\nA little of the pride of the Celt he still retained; when he attended\nchapel he wore a gemmy suit of tartan, and his father\u2019s dirk always\ndepended from his belt; but, in every other respect, he seemed a true\nLowland Scot, and not one of his companions equalled him in sly humour,\nor could play off a practical joke with half the effect.\n\nHis master was a widower, and the father of an only daughter, a\nlaughing warm-hearted girl of nineteen. She had more lovers than half\nthe girls of the parish put together; and when they avowed to her their\nvery sincere attachment, she tendered them her very hearty thanks in\nreturn. But then one\u2019s affections are not in one\u2019s own power; and as\ncertainly as they loved her just because they could not help it, so\ncertainly was she indifferent to them from the same cause. Their number\nreceived one last accession in little Alaster the herd-boy. He shared\nin the kindness of his young mistress, and his cattle shared in it too,\nwith every living thing connected with her father or his farm; but his\nsoul-engrossing love lay silent within him, and not only without words,\nbut, young and sanguine as he was, almost without hope. Not that he was\nunhappy. He had the knack of dreaming when broad awake, and of making\nhis dreams as pleasant as he willed them; and so his passion rather\nincreased than diminished the amount of his happiness. It taught him,\ntoo, the very best species of politeness--that of the heart; and young\nLillias could not help wondering where it was that the manners of the\nred-cheeked Highland boy had received so exquisite a polish, and why it\nwas that she herself was so much the object of his quiet unobtrusive\nattentions. When night released him from labour, he would take up his\nseat in some dark corner of the house, that commanded a full view of\nthe fire, and there would he sit for whole hours gazing on the features\nof his mistress. A fine woman looks well by any light, even by that of\na peat fire; and fine women, it is said, know it; but little thought\nthe maiden of the farmhouse of the saint-like halo which, in the\nimagination of her silent worshipper, the red smoky flames shed around\nher. How could she even dream of it? The boy Alaster was fully five\nyears younger than herself, and it surely could not be forgotten that\nhe herded her father\u2019s cattle. The incident, however, which I am just\ngoing to relate, gave her sufficient cause to think of him as a lover.\n\nThe Halloween of the year 1560 was a very different thing in the parish\nof Cromarty from that of the year 1829. It is now as dark and opaque\na night--unless it chance to be brightened by the moon--as any in the\nwinter season; it was then clear as the glass of a magician;--people\nlooked through it and saw the future. Late in October that year,\nAlaster overheard his mistress and one of her youthful companions--the\ndaughter of a neighbouring farmer--talking over the rites of the\ncoming night of frolic and prediction. \u201cWill you really venture on\nthrowing the clue?\u201d asked her companion; \u201cthe kiln, you ken, is dark\nand lonely; and there\u2019s mony a story no true if folk havena often been\nfrightened.\u201d \u201cThrow it?--oh, surely!\u201d replied the other; \u201cwho would\nthink it worth while to harm the like o\u2019 me? and, besides, you can bide\nfor me just a wee bittie aff. One would like, somehow, to know the name\no\u2019 one\u2019s gudeman, or whether one is to get a gudeman at all.\u201d Alaster\nwas a lover, and lovers are fertile in stratagem. In the presence of\nhis mistress he sought leave from the old man, her father, with whom\nhe was much a favourite, to spend his Halloween at a cottage on a\nneighbouring farm, where there were several young people to meet; and\nhis request was readily granted. The long-expected evening came; and\nAlaster set out for the cottage, without any intention of reaching it\nfor at least two hours. When he had proceeded a little way he turned\nback, crept warily towards the kiln, climbed like a wild-cat up the\nrough circular gable, entered by the chimney, and in a few seconds\nwas snugly seated amid the ashes of the furnace. There he waited for\na full hour, listening to the beatings of his own heart. At length a\nlight footstep was heard approaching; the key was applied to the lock,\nand as the door opened, a square patch of moonshine fell upon the rude\nwall of the kiln. A tall figure stepped timidly forward, and stood in\nthe stream of faint light. It was Alaster\u2019s young mistress. She looked\nfearfully round her, and then producing a small clue of yarn, she threw\nit towards Alaster, and immediately began to wind.[5] He suffered it\nto turn round and round among the ashes, and then cautiously laid\nhold of it. \u201cWha hauds?\u201d said his mistress in a low startled whisper,\nlooking as she spoke, over her shoulder towards the door; \u201cAlaster\nMacculloch,\u201d was the reply; and in a moment she had vanished like a\nspectre. Soon after, the tread of two persons was heard approaching the\ndoor. It was now Alaster\u2019s turn to tremble. \u201cAh!\u201d he thought, \u201cI shall\nbe discovered, and my stratagem come to worse than nothing.\u201d \u201cAn\u2019 did\nye hear onything when you came out yon gate?\u201d said one of the persons\nwithout. \u201cOh, naething, lass, naething!\u201d replied the other, in a voice\nwhose faintest echoes would have been recognised by the lover within;\n\u201csteek too the door an\u2019 lock it;--it\u2019s a foolish conceit.\u201d The door\nwas accordingly locked, and Alaster left to find his way out in the\nmanner he had entered.\n\n[Sidenote: THE EXTINCT SPECTRES.]\n\nIt was late that night before he returned from the cottage to which,\nafter leaving the kiln, he had gone. Next day he saw his mistress. She\nby no means exhibited her most amiable phase of character, for she was\ncold and distant, and not a little cross. In short, it was evident\nshe had a quarrel with destiny. This mood, however, soon changed for\nthe one natural to her; years passed away, and suitor after suitor\nwas rejected by the maiden, until, in her twenty-fourth year, Alaster\nMacculloch paid her his addresses. He was not then a little herd-boy,\nbut a tall, handsome, young man of nineteen, who, active and faithful,\nwas intrusted by his master with the sole management of his farm. A\nbelief in destiny often becomes a destiny of itself; and it became such\nto Alaster\u2019s mistress. How could the predestined husband be other than\na successful lover? In a few weeks they were married; and when the\nold man was gathered to his fathers, his son-in-law succeeded to his\nwell-stocked farm.\n\nThere are a few other traditions of this northern part of the\ncountry--some of them so greatly dilapidated by the waste of years,\nthat they exist as mere fragments--which bear the palpable impress of a\npagan or semi-pagan origin. I have heard imperfectly-preserved stories\nof a lady dressed in green, and bearing a goblin child in her arms, who\nused to wander in the night-time from cottage to cottage, when all the\ninhabitants were asleep. She would raise the latch, it is said, take\nup her place by the fire, fan the embers into a flame, and then wash\nher child in the blood of the youngest inmate of the cottage, who would\nbe found dead next morning. There was another wandering green lady,\nher contemporary, of exquisite beauty and a majestic carriage, who\nwas regarded as the Genius of the smallpox, and who, when the disease\nwas to terminate fatally, would be seen in the grey of the morning,\nor as the evening was passing into night, sitting by the bedside\nof her victim. I have heard wild stories, too, of an unearthly,\nsqualid-looking thing, somewhat in the form of a woman, that used to\nenter farmhouses during the day, when all the inmates, except perhaps\na solitary female, were engaged in the fields. More than a century\nago, it is said to have entered, in the time of harvest, the house of\na farmer of Navity, who had lost nearly all his cattle by disease a\nfew weeks before. The farmer\u2019s wife, the only inmate at the time, was\nengaged at the fireside in cooking for the reapers; the goblin squatted\nitself beside her, and shivering, as if with cold, raised its dingy,\ndirty-looking vestments over its knees. \u201cWhy, ye nasty thing,\u201d said the\nwoman, \u201chae ye killed a\u2019 our cattle?\u201d--\u201cAn\u2019 why,\u201d inquired the goblin\nin turn, \u201cdid the gudeman, when he last roosed them, forget to gie them\nhis blessing?\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: LEGEND OF MORIAL\u2019S DEN.]\n\nImmediately over the sea, the tract of table-land, which forms the\ngreater part of the parish of Cromarty, terminates, as has been already\nsaid, in a green sloping bank, that for several miles sweeps along the\nedge of the bay. In the vicinity of the town, a short half mile to the\nwest, we find it traversed by a deep valley, which runs a few hundred\nyards into the interior; \u2019tis a secluded, solitary place, the sides\nsprinkled over with the sea-hip, the sloe, and the bramble--the bottom\noccupied by a blind pathway, that, winding through the long grass like\na snake, leads to the fields above. It has borne, from the earliest\nrecollections of tradition, the name of _Morial\u2019s Den_, a name which\nsome, on the hint of Sir Thomas Urquhart, ingeniously derive from the\nGreek, and others, still more ingeniously, from the Hebrew; and it has,\nfor at least the last six generations, been a scene of bird-nesting\nand truant-playing during the day, and of witch and fairy meetings, it\nis said, during the night. Rather more than a century ago, it was the\n_locale_, says tradition, of an interesting rencounter with one of the\nunknown class of spectres. On a Sabbath noon a farmer of the parish was\nherding a flock of sheep in a secluded corner of the den. He was an old\ngreyhaired man, who for many years had been affected by a deafness,\nwhich grew upon him as the seasons passed, shutting out one variety of\nsounds after another, until at length he lived in a world of unbroken\nsilence. Though secluded, however, from all converse with his brother\nmen, he kept better company than ever, and became more thoroughly\nacquainted with his Bible, and the fathers of the Reformation, than he\nwould have been had he retained his hearing, or than almost any other\nperson in the parish. He had just despatched his herd-boy to church,\nfor he himself could no longer profit by his attendance there; his\nflock was scattered over the sides of the hollow; and with his Bible\nspread out before him on a hillock of thyme and moss, which served him\nfor a desk, and sheltered on either hand from the sun and wind by a\nthicket of sweetbriar and sloethorn, he was engaged in reading, when he\nwas startled by a low rushing sound, the first he had heard for many\nmonths. He raised his eyes from the book; a strong breeze was eddying\nwithin the hollow, waving the ferns and the bushes; and the portion of\nsea which appeared through the opening was speckled with white;--but to\nthe old man the waves broke and the shrubs waved in silence. He again\nturned to the book--the sound was again repeated; and on looking up a\nsecond time, he saw a beautiful, sylph-looking female standing before\nhim. She was attired in a long flowing mantle of green, which concealed\nher feet, but her breast and arms, which were of exquisite beauty, were\nuncovered. The old man laid his hand on the book, and raising himself\nfrom his elbow, fixed his eyes on the face of the lady. \u201cOld man,\u201d said\nshe, addressing him in a low sweet voice, which found prompt entrance\nat the ears that had so long been shut up to every other sound, \u201cyou\nare reading _the book_; tell me if there be any offer of salvation in\nit to _us_.\u201d--\u201cThe gospel of this book,\u201d said the man, \u201cis addressed\nto the lost children of Adam, but to the creatures of no other race.\u201d\nThe lady shrieked as he spoke, and gliding away with the rapidity of a\nswallow on the wing, disappeared amid the recesses of the hollow.\n\nAbout a mile further to the west, in an inflection of the bank, there\nis the scene of a story, which, belonging to a still earlier period\nthan the one related, and wholly unlike it in its details, may yet be\ndeemed to resemble it in its mysterious, and, if I may use the term,\nunclassified character.\n\n[Sidenote: THE GUARDIAN COCK.]\n\nA shipmaster, who had moored his vessel in the upper roadstead of the\nbay, some time in the latter days of the first Charles, was one fine\nevening sitting alone on deck, awaiting the return of some of his\nseamen who had gone ashore, and amusing himself in watching the lights\nthat twinkled from the scattered farmhouses, and in listening in the\nextreme stillness of the calm to the distant lowing of cattle, or\nthe abrupt bark of the watch-dog. As the hour wore later, the sounds\nceased, and the lights disappeared--all but one solitary taper, that\ntwinkled from the window of a cottage situated about two miles west of\nthe town. At length, however, it also disappeared, and all was dark\naround the shores of the bay as a belt of black velvet. Suddenly a\nhissing noise was heard overhead; the shipmaster looked up, and saw\none of those meteors that are known as falling stars, slanting athwart\nthe heavens in the direction of the cottage, and increasing in size\nand brilliancy as it neared the earth, until the wooded ridge and the\nshore could be seen as distinctly from the ship-deck as by day. A dog\nhowled piteously from one of the out-houses, an owl whooped from the\nwood. The meteor descended until it almost touched the roof, when a\ncock crew from within. Its progress seemed instantly arrested; it stood\nstill; rose about the height of a ship\u2019s mast, and then began again\nto descend. The cock crew a second time. It rose as before, and after\nmounting much higher, sunk yet again in the line of the cottage. It\nalmost touched the roof, when a faint clap of wings was heard, as if\nwhispered over the water, followed by a still louder note of defiance\nfrom the cock. The meteor rose with a bound, and continuing to ascend\nuntil it seemed lost among the stars, did not again appear. Next night,\nhowever, at the same hour, the same scene was repeated in all its\ncircumstances--the meteor descended, the dog howled, the owl whooped,\nthe cock crew. On the following morning the shipmaster visited the\ncottage, and, curious to ascertain how it would fare when the cock was\naway, he purchased the bird; and sailing from the bay before nightfall,\ndid not return until about a month after.\n\nOn his voyage inwards he had no sooner doubled an intervening headland,\nthan he stepped forward to the bows to take a peep at the cottage: it\nhad vanished. As he approached the anchoring ground, he could discern\na heap of blackened stones occupying the place where it had stood; and\nhe was informed, on going ashore, that it had been burnt to the ground,\nno one knew how, on the very night he had quitted the bay. He had it\nrebuilt and furnished, says the story, deeming himself, what one of the\nold schoolmen would have perhaps termed, the _occasional_ cause of the\ndisaster. About fifteen years ago there was dug up, near the site of\nthe cottage, a human skeleton, with the skull and the bones of the feet\nlying together, as if the body had been huddled up twofold into a hole;\nand this discovery led to that of the story, which, though at one time\noften repeated and extensively believed, had been suffered to sleep in\nthe memories of a few elderly people for nearly sixty years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\u201cSubtill muldrie wrocht mony day agone.\u201d--GAVIN DOUGLASS.\n\n\n[Sidenote: A SCOTTISH TOWN OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.]\n\nAs house after house in the old town of Cromarty was yielding its place\nto the sea, the inhabitants were engaged in building new dwellings\nfor themselves in the fields behind. A second town was thus formed,\nthe greater part of which has since also disappeared, though under\nthe influence of causes less violent than those which annihilated the\nfirst. Shortly after the Union, the trade of the place, which prior to\nthat event had been pretty considerable, fell into decay, and the town\ngradually dwindled in size and importance until about the year 1750,\nwhen it had sunk into an inconsiderable village. After this period,\nhowever, trade began to revive, and the town again to increase; and\nas the old site was deemed inconveniently distant from the harbour,\nit was changed for the present. The main street of this second town,\nwhich is still used as a road, and bears the name of the Old Causeway,\nis situated about two hundred yards to the east of the houses, and is\nnow bounded by the fences of gardens and fields, with here and there an\nantique-looking, high-gabled domicile rising over it. A row of large\ntrees, which have sprung up since the disappearance of the town, runs\nalong one of the fences.\n\nAbout the beginning of the last century, the Old Causeway presented an\naspect which, though a little less rural than at present, was still\nmore picturesque. An irregular line of houses thrust forward their\ngables on either side, like two parties of ill-trained cavalry drawn\nup for the charge;--some jutted forward, others slunk backward,\nsome slanted sideways, as if meditating a retreat, others, as if\nmore decided, seemed in the act of turning round. They varied in\nsize and character, from the little sod-covered cottage, with round\nmoor stones sticking out of its mud walls, like skulls in the famous\npyramid of Malta, to the tall narrow house of three storeys, with\nits court and gateway. Between every two buildings there intervened\na deep narrow close, bounded by the back of one tenement and the\nfront of another, and terminating in a little oblong garden, fringed\nwith a deep border of nettles, and bearing in the centre plots of\ncabbage and parsnips;--the latter being a root much used before the\nintroduction of the potato. Here and there a gigantic ash or elm\nsprung out of the fence, and shot its ponderous arms over the houses.\nA low door, somewhat under five feet, and a few stone steps which\ndescended from the level of the soil to that of the floor (for the\nlatter was invariably sunk from one to three feet beneath the former),\ngave access to each of the meaner class of buildings. One little\nwindow, with the sill scarcely raised above the pavement, fronted the\nstreet, another, still smaller and equally low, opened to the close:\nthey admitted through their unbevelled apertures and diminutive panes\nof brownish-yellow, a sort of umbery twilight, which even the level\nsunbeams, as they fell at eve or morn in long rules athwart the motty\natmosphere within, scarce served to dissipate. An immense chimney,\ndesigned for the drying of fish, which formed the staple food of the\npoorer inhabitants, stretched from the edge of the window in the gable\nto near the opposite wall; and on the huge black lintel were inscribed,\nin rude characters, the name of the builder of the tenement, and that\nof his wife, with the date of the erection. The walls, naked and\nuneven, were hollowed in several places into little square recesses,\ntermed _bowels_ or _boles_; and at a height of not more than six feet\nabove the floor, which was formed of clay and stone, and marvellously\nuneven, were the bare rafters varnished over with smoke.\n\nThe larger houses were built in a style equally characteristic of\nthe age and country. A taste for ornamental masonry was considerably\nmore prevalent in our Scottish villages about the beginning of the\nseventeenth century than at present. Palladio began to be studied\nabout that period by a few architects of the southern parts of the\nkingdom; and some of our provincial builders had picked up from them an\nimperfect acquaintance with the old classical style of architecture:\nbut as they could avail themselves of only a few of its forms, and\nknew nothing of its proportions, they became, all unwittingly, the\nfounders of a kind of school of their own. And some of the houses of\nthe old town were no bad specimens of this half Grecian half Gothic\nschool. The high narrow gables, jagged like the teeth of a saw, the\ndiminutive, heavily-framed windows, and chamfered rybats, remained\nunaltered; but there were stuck round the low doors, which still\nretained their Gothic proportions, imitations of Palladio\u2019s simpler\ndoor-pieces; and huge Grecian cornices, more than sufficiently massy\nfor halls twenty feet in height, with circular pateras designed in the\nsame taste, and roughened with vile imitations of the vine and laurel,\nadorned the better rooms within. The closes leading to buildings of\nthis superior class were lintelled at the entrance, and over each\nlintel there was fixed a tablet of stone, bearing the arms and name\nof the proprietor. A large house of this kind, on the eastern side\nof the street, was haunted, it was said, by a _green lady_, one of\nthe old Scottish spectres, who flourished before the introduction\nof shrouds and dead linens; and another on the opposite side, by a\ncapricious brownie, who disarranged the pieces of furniture and the\nplatters every night the domestics set them in order, and set them in\norder every night they were left disarranged. Directly in the middle\nof the street stood the town\u2019s cross, over the low-browed entrance of\na stone vault, furnished with seats, also of stone. The formidable\n_jougs_ depended from one of the abutments. A little higher up was\nthe jail, an antique ruinous structure, with stone floors, and a\nroof of ponderous grey slate. The manse, a mean-looking house of two\nlow storeys, with very small windows, and bearing above the door the\ninitials of the first Protestant minister of the parish, nearly fronted\nit: while the only shop of the place was situated so much lower down,\nthat, like the houses of the earlier town, it was carried away by the\nsea during a violent storm from the north-east. There mingled with the\nother domiciles a due proportion of roofless tenements, with their red\nweather-wasted gables, and melancholy-looking unframed windows and\ndoors; and, as trade decayed, even the more entire began to fall to\npieces, and to show, like so many mouldering carcasses, their bare ribs\nthrough the thatch. Such was the old town of Cromarty in the year 1720.\n\n[Sidenote: THE OLD CASTLE OF THE URQUHARTS.]\n\nDirectly behind the site of the old town, the ground, as described in\na previous chapter, rises abruptly from the level to the height of\nnearly a hundred feet, after which it forms a kind of table-land of\nconsiderable extent, and then sweeps gently to the top of the hill. A\ndeep ravine, with a little stream running through it, intersects the\nrising ground at nearly right angles with the front which it presents\nto the houses; and on the eastern angle, towering over the ravine on\nthe one side, and the edge of the bank on the other, stood the old\ncastle of Cromarty. It was a massy, timeworn building, rising in some\nplaces to the height of six storeys, battlemented at the top, and\nroofed with grey stone. One immense turret jutted out from the corner,\nwhich occupied the extreme point of the angle; and looking down from an\naltitude of at least one hundred and sixty feet on the little stream,\nand the struggling row of trees which sprung up at its edge, commanded\nboth sides of the declivity, and the town below. Other turrets of\nsmaller size, but pierced like the larger one with rows of little\ncircular apertures, which in the earlier ages had given egress to the\nformidable bolt, and in the more recent, when the crossbow was thrown\naside for the petronel, to the still more formidable bullet, were\nplaced by pairs on the several projections that stood out from the main\nbody of the building, and were connected by hanging bartisans. There\nis a tradition that some time in the seventeenth century a party of\nHighlanders, engaged in some predatory enterprise, approached so near\nthe castle on this side, that their leader, when in the act of raising\nhis arm to direct their march, was shot at from one of the turrets\nand killed, and that the party, wrapping up the body in their plaids,\ncarried it away.\n\nThe front of the castle opened to the lawn, from which it was divided\nby a dry moat, nearly filled with rubbish, and a high wall indented\nwith embrasures, and pierced by an arched gateway. Within was a small\ncourt, flagged with stone, and bounded on one of the sides by a\nprojection from the main building, bartisaned and turreted like all\nthe others, but only three storeys in height, and so completely fallen\ninto decay that the roof and all the floors had disappeared. From the\nlevel of the court, a flight of stone steps led to the vaults below;\nanother flight of greater breadth, and bordered on both sides by an\nantique balustrade, ascended to the entrance; and the architect, aware\nof the importance of this part of the building, had so contrived it,\nthat a full score of loopholes in the several turrets and out-jets\nwhich commanded the court, opened directly on the landing-place. Round\nthe entrance itself there jutted a broad, grotesquely-proportioned\nmoulding, somewhat resembling an old-fashioned picture-frame, and\ndirectly over it there was a square tablet of dark blue stone, bearing\nin high relief the arms of the old proprietors; but the storms of\ncenturies had defaced all the nicer strokes of the chisel, and the\nlady with her palm and dagger, the boars\u2019 heads, and the greyhounds,\nwere transformed into so many attenuated spectres of their former\nselves;--no unappropriate emblem of the altered fortunes of the house.\nThe windows, small and narrow, and barred with iron, were thinly\nsprinkled over the front: and from the lintel of each there rose a\ntriangular cap of stone, fretted at the edges, and terminating at\nthe top in two knobs fashioned into the rude semblance of thistles.\nInitials and dates were inscribed in raised characters on these\ntriangular tablets. The aspect of the whole pile was one of extreme\nantiquity. Flocks of crows and jays, that had built their nests in the\nrecesses of the huge tusked cornices which ran along the bartisans,\nwheeled ceaselessly around the gables and the turrets, awakening with\ntheir clamorous cries the echoes of the roof. The walls, grey and\nweather-stained, were tapestried in some places with sheets of ivy; and\nan ash sapling, which had struck its roots into the crevices of the\nouter wall, rose like a banner over the half-dilapidated gateway.\n\nThe castle, for several years before its demolition, was tenanted by\nonly an old female domestic, and a little girl whom she had hired\nto sleep with her. I have been told by the latter, who, at the time\nwhen I knew her, was turned of seventy, that two threshers could have\nplied their flails within the huge chimney of the kitchen; and that\nin the great hall, an immense dark chamber lined with oak, a party\nof a hundred men had exercised at the pike. The lower vaults she had\nnever the temerity to explore; they were dark and gousty, she said,\nand the slits which opened into them were nearly filled up with long\nrank grass. Some of her stories of the castle associated well with the\nfantastic character of its architecture, and the ages of violence and\nsuperstition which had passed over it. A female domestic who had lived\nin it before the woman she was acquainted with, and who was foolhardy\nenough to sleep in it alone, was frightened one night out of her wits,\nand never again so far recovered them as to be able to tell for what.\nAt times there would echo through the upper apartments a series of\nnoises, as if a very weighty man was pacing the floors; and \u201cOh,\u201d said\nmy informant, \u201cif you could but have heard the shrieks, and moans, and\nlong whistlings, that used to come sounding in the stormy evenings of\nwinter from the chimneys and the turrets. Often have I listened to them\nas I lay a-bed, with the clothes drawn over my face.\u201d Her companion was\nsitting one day in a little chamber at the foot of the great stair,\nwhen, hearing a tapping against the steps, she opened the door. The\nlight was imperfect--it was always twilight in the old castle--but she\nsaw, she said, as distinctly as ever she saw any thing, a small white\nanimal resembling a rabbit, rolling from step to step, head over heels,\nand dissolving, as it bounded over the last step, into a wreath of\nsmoke. On another occasion, a Cromarty shoemaker, when passing along\nthe front of the building in a morning of summer, was horrified by the\napparition of a very diminutive, greyheaded, greybearded old man, with\na withered meagre face scarcely bigger than one\u2019s fist, that seemed\nseated at one of the windows. On returning by the same path about half\nan hour after, just as the sun was rising out of the Firth, he saw the\nsame figure wringing its hands over a little cairn in a neighbouring\nthicket, but he had not courage enough to go up to it.\n\nThe scene of all these terrors has long since disappeared; the plough\nand roller have passed over its foundations; and all that it recorded\nof an ancient and interesting, though unfortunate family, with its\nsilent though impressive narratives of the unsettled lives, rude\nmanners, uncouth tastes, and warlike habits of our ancestors, has also\nperished. It was pulled down by a proprietor of Cromarty, who had\npurchased the property a few years before; and, as he was engaged at\nthe time in building a set of offices and a wall to his orchard, the\nmaterials it furnished proved a saving to him of several pounds. He\nwas a man of taste, too, as well as of prudence, and by smoothing down\nthe eminence on which the building had stood, and then sowing it with\ngrass, he bestowed upon it, for its former wild aspect, so workmanlike\nan appearance, that one might almost suppose he had made the whole of\nit himself. Two curious pieces of sculpture were, by some accident,\npreserved entire in the general wreck. In a vaulted passage which\nleads from the modern house to the road, there is a stone slab about\nfive feet in length, and nearly two in breadth, which once served as\na lintel to one of the two chimneys of the great hall. It bears, in\nlow relief, the figures of hares and deer sorely beset by dogs, and\nsurrounded by a thicket of grapes and tendrils. The huntsman stands\nin the centre, attired in a sort of loose coat that reaches to his\nknees, with his horn in one hand, and his hunting-spear in the other,\nand wearing the moustaches and peaked beard of the reign of Mary. The\nlintel of the second chimney, a still more interesting relic, is now in\nKinbeakie Cottage, parish of Resolis: and a good lithographic print of\nit may be seen in the museum of the Northern Institution, Inverness;\nbut of it more anon. All the other sculptures of the castle, including\nseveral rude pieces of Gothic statuary, were destroyed by the workmen.\nAn old stone dial which had stood in front of the gate, was dug up by\nthe writer, out of a corner of the lawn, about twelve years ago, and\nis now in his possession. When entire, it indicated the hour in no\nfewer than nineteen different places, and though sorely mutilated and\ndivested of all its gnomons, it is still entire enough to show that the\nmathematical ability of the artist must have been of no ordinary kind.\nIt was probably cut under the inspection of Sir Thomas, who, among his\nother accomplishments, was a skilful geometrician.\n\n\u201cThe old castle of Cromarty,\u201d says the statistical account of the\nparish (Sir John Sinclair\u2019s), \u201cwas pulled down in the year 1772.\nSeveral urns, composed of earthenware, were dug out of the bank\nimmediately around the building, with several coffins of stone. The\nurns were placed in square recesses formed of flags, and when touched\nby the labourers instantly mouldered away, nor was it possible to get\nup one of them entire. They were filled with ashes mixed with fragments\nof half-burned bones. The coffins contained human skeletons, some of\nwhich wanted the head; while among the others which were entire, there\nwas one of a very uncommon size, measuring seven feet in length.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: HEREDITARY SHERIFFSHIP.]\n\nThe old proprietors of the castle, among the other privileges derived\nto them as the chiefs of a wide district of country, and the system of\ngovernment which obtained during the ages in which they flourished,\nwere hereditary Sheriffs of Cromarty, and vested with the power of pit\nand gallows. The highest knoll of the southern Sutor is still termed\nthe Gallow-hill, from its having been a place of execution; and a low\ncairn nearly hidden by a thicket of furze, which still occupies its\nsummit, retains the name of the gallows. It is said that the person\nlast sentenced to die at this place was a poor Highlander who had\ninsulted the Sheriff, and that when in the act of mounting the ladder,\nhe was pardoned at the request of the Sheriff\u2019s lady. At a remoter\nperiod the usual scene of execution was a little eminence in the\nwestern part of the town, directly above the harbour, where there is\na small circular hollow still known to the children of the place as\nthe _Witch\u2019s Hole_; and in which, says tradition, a woman accused of\nwitchcraft was burnt for her alleged crime some time in the reign of\nCharles II. The Court-hill, an artificial mound of earth, on which, at\nleast in the earlier ages, the cases of the sheriffdom were tried and\ndecided, was situated several hundred yards nearer the old town. Some\nof the sentences passed at this place are said to have been flagrantly\nunjust. There is one Sheriff in particular, whom tradition describes\nas a cruel, oppressive man, alike regardless of the rights and lives\nof his poor vassals; and there are two brief anecdotes of him which\nstill survive. A man named Macculloch, a tenant on the Cromarty estate\n(probably the same person introduced to the reader in the foregoing\nchapter), was deprived of a cow through the injustice of one of the\nlaird\u2019s retainers, and going directly to the castle, disposed rather to\nbe energetic than polite, he made his complaint more in the tone of\none who had a right to demand, than in the usual style of submission.\nThe laird, after hearing him patiently, called for the key of the\ndungeon, and going out, beckoned on Macculloch to follow. He did so;\nthey descended a flight of stone steps together, and came to a massy\noak door, which the laird opened; when suddenly, and without uttering\na syllable, he laid hold of his tenant with the intention of thrusting\nhim in. But he had mistaken his man; the grasp was returned by one of\nmore than equal firmness, and a struggle ensued, in which Macculloch,\na bold, powerful Highlander, had so decidedly the advantage, that he\nforced the laird into his own dungeon, and then locking the door,\ncarried away the key in his pocket. The other anecdote is of a sterner\ncast:--A poor vassal had been condemned on the Court-hill under\ncircumstances more than usually unjust; and the laird, after sentence\nhad been executed on the eminence at the _Witch\u2019s Hole_, was returning\nhomewards through the town, surrounded by his retainers, when he was\naccosted in a tone of prophecy by an old man, one of the Hossacks of\nCromarty, who, though bedridden for years before, had crawled to a seat\nby the wayside to wait his coming up. Tradition has preserved the words\nwhich follow as those in which he concluded his prediction; but they\nstand no less in need of a commentary than the obscurest prophecies of\nMerlin or Thomas the Rhymer:--\u201cLaird, laird, what mayna skaith i\u2019 the\nbrock, maun skaith i\u2019 the stock.\u201d The seer is said to have meant that\nthe injustice of the father would be visited on the children.\n\nThe recollection of these stories was curiously revived in Cromarty\nin the spring of 1829; when a labourer employed in digging a pit on\nthe eminence above the harbour, and within a few yards of the _Witch\u2019s\nHole_, struck his mattock through a human skull, which immediately fell\nin pieces. A pair of shin-bones lay directly below it, and on digging\na little further there were found the remains of two several skeletons\nand a second skull. From the manner in which the bones were blended\ntogether, it seemed evident that the bodies had been thrown into the\nsame hole, with their heads turned in opposite directions, either out\nof carelessness or in studied contempt. And they had, apparently, lain\nundisturbed in this place for centuries. A child, by pressing its\nfoot against the skull which had been raised entire, crushed it to\npieces like the other; and the whole of the bones had become so light\nand porous, that when first seen by the writer, some of the smaller\nfragments were tumbling over the sward before a light breeze, like\nwithered leaves, or pieces of fungous wood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\u201cHe was a veray parfit, gentil knight.\u201d--CHAUCER.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SIR THOMAS URQUHART.]\n\nOf Sir Thomas Urquhart very little is known but what is related by\nhimself, and though as much an egotist as most men, he has related but\nlittle of a kind available to the biographer. But there are characters\nof so original a cast that their more prominent features may be hit\noff by a few strokes; and Sir Thomas\u2019s is decidedly of this class. It\nis impossible to mistake the small dark profile which he has left us,\nsmall and dark though it be, for the profile of any mind except his\nown. He was born in 1613, the eldest son of Sir Thomas Urquhart of\nCromarty, and of Christian, daughter of Alexander Lord Elphinston. Of\nhis earlier years there is not a single anecdote, nor is there anything\nknown of either the manner or place in which he pursued his studies.\nPrior to the death of his father, and, as he himself expresses it,\n\u201cbefore his brains were yet ripened for eminent undertakings,\u201d he made\nthe tour of Europe. In travelling through France, Spain, and Italy,\nhe was repeatedly complimented on the fluency with which he spoke the\nlanguages of these countries, and advised by some of the people to\npass himself for a native. But he was too true a patriot to relish the\nproposal. He had not less honour, he said, by his own poor country\nthan could be derived from any country whatever; for, however much it\nmight be surpassed in riches and fertility--in honesty, valour, and\nlearning, it had no superior. And this assertion he maintained at the\nsword\u2019s point, in single combat three several times, and at each time\ndiscomfited his antagonist. He boasts on another occasion, that not\nin all the fights in which he had ever been engaged, did he yield an\ninch-breadth to the enemy before the day of Worcester battle.\n\nOn the breaking out of the troubles in 1638, he took part with the\nKing against the Covenanters, and was engaged in an obscure skirmish,\nin which he saw the first blood shed that flowed in the protracted\nquarrel, which it took half a century and two great revolutions to\nsettle. In a subsequent skirmish, he succeeded, with eight hundred\nothers, many of them \u201cbrave gentlemen,\u201d in surprising a body of about\ntwelve hundred strong, encamped at Turriff, and broke up their array.\nAnd then marching with his friends upon Aberdeen, which was held by the\nCovenanters, he assisted in ejecting them, and in taking possession\nof the place. Less gifted with conduct than courage, however, the\ncavaliers suffered their troops to disperse, and were cooped up within\nthe town by the \u201cEarl Marischal of Scotland,\u201d who, hastily levying a\nfew hundred men, came upon them, when, according to Spalding, they\n\u201cwere looking for nothing less;\u201d and the \u201cyoung laird of Cromartie,\u201d\nwith a few others, were compelled to take refuge \u201caboard of Andrew\nFinlay\u2019s ship, then lying in the road,\u201d and \u201chastily hoisted sail for\nEngland.\u201d Urquhart had undertaken to be the bearer of despatches to\nCharles, containing the signatures of his associates and neighbours the\nleading anti-covenanters; and in the audience which he obtained of the\nmonarch, he was very graciously received, and favoured with an answer,\n\u201cwhich gave,\u201d he says, \u201cgreat contentment to all the gentlemen of the\nnorth that stood for the king.\u201d In the spring of 1641 he was knighted\nby Charles at Whitehall, and his father dying soon after, he succeeded\nto the lands of Cromarty.\n\nNever was there a proprietor less in danger of sinking into the easy\napathetical indolence of the mere country gentleman; for, impressed\nwith a belief that he was born to enlarge the limits of all science,\nhe applied himself to the study of every branch of human learning,\nand, having _mastered what was already known_, and finding the _amount\nbut little_, he seriously set himself to add to it. And first, as\nlearning can be communicated only by the aid of language, \u201cwords\nbeing the signs of things,\u201d he deemed it evident that, if language\nbe imperfect, learning must of necessity be so likewise; quite on\nthe principle that a defect in the carved figure of a signet cannot\nfail of being transmitted to the image formed by it on the wax. The\nresult of his inquiries on this subject differed only a very little\nfrom the conclusion which, when pursuing a similar course of study,\nthe celebrated Lord Monboddo arrived at more than a hundred years\nafter. His Lordship believed that all languages, except Greek, are a\nsort of vulgar dialects which have grown up rather through accident\nthan design, and exhibit, in consequence, little else than a tissue of\ndefects both in sound and sense. Greek, however, he deemed a perfect\nlanguage; and he accounted for its superiority by supposing that, in\nsome early age of the world, it had been constructed on philosophical\nprinciples, out of one of the old jargons, by a society of ingenious\ngrammarians, who afterwards taught it to the common people. Sir Thomas\nwent a little further; for, not excepting even the Greek, he condemned\nevery language, ancient and modern, and set himself to achieve what,\naccording to Monboddo, had been already achieved by the grammarians of\nGreece. And hence his ingenious but unfortunate work, \u201cThe Universal\nLanguage.\u201d\n\n\u201cA tree,\u201d he thus reasoned, \u201cis known by its leaves, a stone by its\ngrit, a flower by the smell, meats by the taste, music by the ear,\ncolours by the eye,\u201d and, in short, all the several natures of things\nby the qualities or aspects with which they address themselves to\nthe senses or the intellect. And it is from these obvious traits of\nsimilarity or difference that the several classes are portioned by the\nassociative faculty into the corresponding cells of understanding and\nmemory. But it is not thus with words in any of the existing languages.\nThings the most opposite in nature are often represented by signs so\nsimilar that they can hardly be distinguished, and things of the same\nclass by signs entirely different. Language is thus formed so loosely\nand unskilfully, that the associative faculty cannot be brought to\nbear on it;--one great cause why foreign languages are so difficult\nto learn, and when once learned, so readily forgotten. And there is a\nradical defect in the alphabets of all languages; for in all, without\nexception, do the nominal number of letters fall far short of the real,\na single character being arbitrarily made to represent a variety of\nsounds. Hence it happens that the people of one country cannot acquaint\nthemselves by books alone with the pronunciation of another. The words,\ntoo, proper to express without circumvolution all the multiform ideas\nof the human mind, are not to be found in any one tongue; and though\nthe better languages have borrowed largely from each other to supply\ntheir several deficiencies, even the more perfect are still very\nincomplete. Hence the main difficulty of translation. Some languages\nare fluent without exactness. Hence an unprofitable wordiness, devoid\nof force and precision. Others, comparatively concise, are harsh\nand inharmonious. Hence, perhaps, the grand cause why some of the\ncivilized nations (the Dutch for instance), though otherwise ingenious,\nmake but few advances compared with others, in philology and the\n_belles-lettres_.\n\nThese, concluded Sir Thomas, are the great defects of language. In a\nperfect language, then, it is fundamentally necessary that there should\nbe classes of resembling words to represent the classes of resembling\nthings--that every idea should have its sign, and every simple sound\nits alphabetical character. It is necessary, too, that there should be\na complete union of sweetness, energy, and precision. Setting himself\ndown in the old castle of Cromarty to labour on these principles\nfor the benefit of all mankind, and the glory of his country, he\nconstructed his Universal Tongue. There is little difficulty, when we\nremember where he wrote, in tracing the origin of his metaphor, when\nhe says of the existing languages, that though they may be improved in\nstructure \u201cby the striking out of new light and doors, the outjetting\nof kernels, and the erecting of prickets and barbicans,\u201d they are yet\nrestricted to a certain base, beyond which they must not be enlarged.\nIn his own language the base was fitted to the superstructure. His\nalphabet consisted of ten vowels, and twenty-five consonants. His\nradical classes of words amounted to two hundred and fifty, and, to\nuse his own allegory, were the denizens of so many cities divided into\nstreets, which were again subdivided into lanes, the lanes into houses,\nthe houses into storeys, and the storeys into apartments. It was\nimpossible that the natives of one city should be confounded with those\nof another; and by prying into their component letters and syllables,\nthe street, lane, house, storey, and apartment of every citizen, could\nbe ascertained without a possibility of mistake. Simple ideas were\nexpressed by monosyllables, and every added syllable expressed an added\nidea. So musical was this language, that for poetical composition it\nsurpassed every other; so concise, that the weightiest thoughts could\nbe expressed in it by a few syllables, in some instances by a single\nword; so precise, that even sounds and colours could be expressed by it\nin all their varieties of tone and shade; and so comprehensive, that\nthere was no word in any language, either living or dead, that could\nnot be translated into it without suffering the slightest change of\nmeaning. And, with all its rich variety of phrase, so completely was it\nadapted to the associative faculty, that it was possible for a boy of\nten years thoroughly to master it in the short space of three months!\nThe entire work, consisting of a preface, grammar, and lexicon, was\ncomprised in a manuscript of twelve hundred folio pages.\n\nLaborious as this work must have proved, it was only one of a hundred\ngreat works completed by Sir Thomas before he had attained his\nthirty-eighth year, and all in a style so exquisitely original, that\nneither in subject nor manner had he been anticipated in so much as\none of them. He had designed, and in part digested, four hundred more.\nA complete list of these, with such a description of each as I have\nhere attempted of his Universal Language, would be, perhaps, one of\nthe greatest literary curiosities ever exhibited to the world; but so\nunfortunate was he, as an author, that the very names of the greater\nnumber of the works he finished have died with himself, while the names\nof his projected ones were, probably, never known to any one else. He\nprepared for the press a treatise on Arithmetic, intended to remedy\nsome defects in the existing system. The invention of what he terms\nthe \u201cTrissotetrail Trigonometry for the facilitating of calculations\nby representations of letters and syllables,\u201d was the subject of a\nsecond treatise; and the proving of the Equipollencic and Opposition\nboth of Plain and Modal Enunciations by rules of Geometry (I use his\nown language, for I am not scholar enough to render it into common\nEnglish), he achieved in a third. A fourth laid open the profounder\nrecesses of the Metaphysics by a continued Geographical Allegory. He\nwas the author also of ten books of Epigrams, in all about eleven\nhundred in number, which he \u201ccontryved, blocked, and digested,\u201d he\nsays, \u201cin a thirteen weeks tyme;\u201d and of this work the manuscript still\nexists. It is said to contain much bad verse, and much exceptionable\nmorality; but at least one of its stanzas, quoted by Dr. Irvine, in his\nelaborate and scholarlike Biographies of Scottish writers, possesses\nits portion of epigrammatic point.\n\n    \u201cA certain poetaster, not long since,\n      Said I might follow him in verse and prose;\n    But, truly if I should, \u2019tis as a prince\n      Whose ushers walk before him as he goes.\u201d\n\nIn Blackwood\u2019s Magazine for 1820, in a short critique on the _Jewel_,\nit is stated that the writer had \u201cgood reasons to believe Sir Thomas\nto be the real author of that singular production, _A Century of\nNames, and Scantlings of Inventions_, the credit or discredit of which\nwas dishonestly assumed by the Marquis of Worcester.\u201d The \u201cgood\u201d\nreasons are not given; nor am I at all sure that they would be found\nparticularly good; for the Marquis is a well-known man; and yet,\nwere intrinsic evidence to be alone consulted, it might be held that\neither this little tract was written by Sir Thomas, or, what might be\ndeemed less probable, that the world, nay, the same age and island,\nhad produced two Sir Thomases.[6] Some little weight, too, might be\nattached to the facts, that many of his manuscripts were lost in the\ncity of Worcester, with which place, judging from his title, it is\nprobable the Marquis may have had some connexion, by residence or\notherwise; and that the \u201cCentury of Names\u201d was not published until\n1663, two years after death had disarmed poor Sir Thomas of his sword\nand his pen, and rendered him insensible to both his country\u2019s honour\nand his own. If in reality the author of this piece, he must be\nregarded, it is said, as the original inventor of the steam-engine.\n\nBut the merit of the most curious of all his treatises no one has\nventured to dispute with him--a work entitled \u201cThe True Pedigree and\nLineal Descent of the Ancient and Honourable Family of Urquhart.\u201d It\nrecords the names of all the fathers of the family, from the days\nof Adam to those of Sir Thomas; and may be regarded as forming no\nbad specimen of the inverted climax--beginning with God, the creator\nof all things, and ending with the genealogist himself. One of his\nancestors he has married (for he was a professed lover of the useful)\nto a daughter of what the Abb\u00e9 Pluche deemed an Egyptian symbol of\nhusbandry, and another to a descendant of what Bacon regarded as a\npersonification of human fortitude. In his notice of the arms of\nthe family he has surpassed all the heralds who have flourished\nbefore or since. The first whose bearings he describes is Esormon,\nsovereign prince of Achaia, the father of all such as bear the name\nof Urquhart, and the fifth from Japhet by lineal descent. His arms\nwere three banners, three ships, and three ladies in a field; _or_,\nthe crest, a young lady holding in her right hand a brandished sword,\nand in her left a branch of myrtle; the supporters, two Javanites\nattired after the soldier habit of Achaia; and the motto, T\u03b1\u1fe6\u03c4\u03b1 \u1f21\n\u03c4\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u1f00\u03be\u03b9\u03bf\u03b8\u03b5\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1--These three are worthy to behold. Heraldry and Greek\nwere alike anticipated by the genius of this family. The device of\nEsormon was changed about six hundred years after, under the following\nvery remarkable circumstances. Molin, a celebrated descendant of this\nprince, and a son-in-law of Deucalion and Pyrrha, accompanied Galethus,\nthe \u00c6neas of Scotland, to the scene of his first colony, a province of\nAfrica, which in that age, as in the present, was infested with wild\nbeasts. He excelled in hunting; and having in one morning killed three\nlions, he carried home their heads in a large basket, and presented it\nto his wife Panthea, then pregnant with her first child. Unconscious\nof what the basket contained, she raised the lid, and, filled with\nhorror and astonishment by the apparition of the heads, she struck\nher hand against her left side, exclaiming, in the suddenness of her\nsurprise, \u201cO Hercules! what is this?\u201d By a wonderful sympathy, the\nlikeness of the three heads, grim and horrible as they appeared in the\nbasket, was impressed on the left side of the infant, who afterwards\nbecame a famous warrior, and transferred to his shield the badge which\nnature had thus bestowed upon him. The external ornaments of the\nbearings remained unaltered until the days of Astorimon, who, after his\nvictory over Ethus, changed the myrtle branch of the lady for one of\npalm, and the original motto for E\u1f50\u03bd\u03bf\u03b5\u1fd6\u03c4\u03c9, \u03b5\u1f50\u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b5, \u03ba\u03b1\u1f76 \u03b5\u1f50\u03c0\u03c1\u03ac\u03c4\u03c4\u03b5--Mean,\nspeak, and do well. Both the shield and the supporters underwent\nyet another change in the reign of Solvatious of Scotland, who, in\nadmiration of an exploit achieved by the Urquhart and his two brothers\nin the great Caledonian forest, converted the lions\u2019 heads into the\nheads of bears, and the armed Javanites of Esormon into a brace of\ngreyhounds. And such were the arms of the family in the days of Sir\nThomas, as shown by the curious stone lintel now at Kinbeakie.\n\nThis singular relic, which has, perhaps, more of character impressed\nupon it than any other piece of sandstone in the kingdom, is about\nfive feet in length, by three in breadth, and bears date A.M. 5612,\nA.C. 1651. On the lower and upper edges it is bordered by a plain\nmoulding, and at the ends by belts of rich foliage, terminating in a\nchalice or vase. In the upper corner two knights in complete armour on\nhorseback, and with their lances couched, front each other, as if in\nthe tilt-yard. Two Sirens playing on harps occupy the lower. In the\ncentre are the arms--the charge on the shield three bears\u2019 heads, the\nsupporters two greyhounds leashed and collared, the crest a naked woman\nholding a dagger and palm, the helmet that of a knight, with the beaver\npartially raised, and so profusely mantled that the drapery occupies\nmore space than the shield and supporters, and the motto MEANE WEIL,\nSPEAK WEIL, AND DO WEIL. Sir Thomas\u2019s initials, S. T. V. C., are placed\nseparately, one letter at the outer side of each supporter, one in the\ncentre of the crest, and one beneath the label; while the names of the\nmore celebrated heroes of his genealogy, and the eras in which they\nflourished, occupy, in the following inscription, the space between the\nfigures:--ANNO ASTORIMONIS, 2226. ANNO VOCOMPOTIS, 3892. ANNO MOLINI,\n3199. ANNO RODRICI, 2958. ANNO CHARI, 2219. ANNO LUTORCI, 2000. ANNO\nESORMONIS, 3804. It is melancholy enough that this singular exhibition\nof family pride should have been made in the same year in which the\nfamily received its deathblow--the year of Worcester battle.\n\nDuring the eventful period which intervened between the death of Sir\nThomas\u2019s father and this unfortunate year, he was too busily engaged\nwith science and composition to take an active part in the affairs\nof the kingdom. \u201cIn the usual sports of country gentlemen, he does\nnot seem,\u201d says Dr. Irvine, \u201cto have taken any great share;\u201d and a\ncharacteristic anecdote which he relates in his \u201cLogopandacteision,\u201d\nshows that he rated these simply by what they produced, estimated at\ntheir money value, and accordingly beneath the care of a man born to\nextend the limits of all human knowledge. \u201cThere happened,\u201d he says,\n\u201ca gentleman of very good worth to stay awhile at my house, who one\nday, amongst many others, was pleased in the deadest time of all the\nwinter, with a gun upon his shoulder, to search for a shot of some\nwild-fowl; and after he had waded through many waters, taken excessive\npains in quest of his game, and by means thereof had killed some five\nor six moorfowls and partridges, which he brought along with him to\nmy house, he was, by some other gentlemen who chanced to alight at my\ngate as he entered in, very much commended for his love of sport; and\nas the fashion of most of our countrymen is not to praise one without\ndispraising another, I was highly blamed for not giving myself in that\nkind to the same exercise, having before my eyes so commendable a\npattern to imitate. I answered, though the gentleman deserved praise\nfor the evident proof he had given that day of his inclination to\nthrift and laboriousness, that nevertheless I was not to blame, seeing,\nwhilst he was busied about that sport, I was employed in a diversion\nof another nature, such as optical secrets, mysteries of natural\nphilosophie, reasons for the variety of colours, the finding out of\nthe longitude, the squaring of a circle, and wayes to accomplish all\ntrigonometrical calculations by signes, without tangents, with the same\ncomprehensiveness of computation; which, in the estimation of learned\nmen, would be accounted worth six hundred thousand partridges and as\nmany moorfowls. That night past--the next morning I gave sixpence to\na footman of mine to try his fortune with the gun during the time I\nshould disport myself in the breaking of a young horse; and it so fell\nout, that by I had given myself a good heat by riding, the boy returned\nwith a dozen of wildfowls, half moorfowl half partridge; whereat,\nbeing exceedingly well pleased, I alighted, gave him my horse to care\nfor, and forthwith entered in to see my gentlemen, the most especiall\nwhereof was unable to rise out of his bed by reason of the gout and\nsiatick, wherewith he was seized through his former day\u2019s toil.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas, though he had taken part with the king, was by no means a\ncavalier of the extreme class. His grandfather, with all his ancestors\nfor centuries before, had been Papists; and he himself was certainly no\nPresbyterian, and indeed not a man to contend earnestly about religion\nof any kind. He hints somewhat broadly in one of his treatises, that\nTamerlane might possibly be in the right in supposing God to be best\npleased with a diversity of worship. But though lax in his religious\nopinions, he was a friend to civil liberty; and loved his country\ntoo well to be in the least desirous of seeing it sacrificed to the\nambition of even a native prince. And so we find him classing in one\nsentence, the doctrine \u201c_de jure divino_\u201d with \u201c_pi\u00e6 fraudes_\u201d and\n\u201cpolitical whimsies,\u201d and expressing as his earnest wish in another,\nthat a free school and standing library should be established in every\nparish of Scotland. But if he liked ill the tyranny and intolerance\nof Kings and Episcopalians, he liked the tyranny and intolerance of\nPresbyterian churchmen still worse. And there was a circumstance which\nrendered the Consistorial government much less tolerable to him than\nthe Monarchical. The Monarchical recognised him as a petty feudal\nprince, vested with a prerogative not a whit less kingly in his own\nlittle sphere than that which it challenged for itself; while the\nConsistorial pulled him down to nearly the level of his vassals, and\nlegislated after the same fashion for both.\n\nHe found, too, that unfortunately for his peace, the churchmen were\nmuch nearer neighbours than the King. He was patron, and almost sole\nheritor of the churches of Cromarty, Kirkmichael, and Cullicuden,\nand in desperate warfare did he involve himself with all the three\nministers at once. Two of them were born vassals of the house;\nan ancestor of one of these \u201chad shelter on the land, by reason\nof slaughter committed by him, when there was no refuge for him\nanywhere else in Scotland;\u201d and the other owed his admission to his\ncharge solely to the zeal of Sir Thomas, by whom he was inducted in\nopposition to the wishes of both the people and the clergy. And both\nministers, prior to their appointment, had faithfully promised, as\nbecame good vassals, to remain satisfied with the salaries of their\nimmediate predecessors. Their party triumphed, however, and the promise\nwas forgotten. In virtue of a decree of Synod, they sued for an\naugmentation of stipend; Sir Thomas resisted; and to such extremities\ndid they urge matters against him, as to \u201coutlaw and declare him rebel,\nby open proclamation, at the market-cross of the head town of his\nown shire.\u201d He joined issue with Mr. Gilbert Anderson, the minister\nof Cromarty, on a different question. The church he regarded as\nexclusively his own property; and the minister, who thought otherwise,\nhaving sanctioned one of his friends to erect a desk in it, Sir Thomas,\nwho disliked the man, pulled it down. There was no attempt made at\nreplacing it; but for several Sabbaths together, all the worst parts\nof Mr. Anderson\u2019s sermons were devoted entirely to the benefit of the\nknight; who was by much too fond of panegyric not to be affected by\ncensure. Even when a prisoner in the Tower, and virtually stripped of\nall his possessions, he continued to speak of the \u201caconital bitterness\u201d\nof the preacher in a style that shows how keenly he must have felt it.\n\nOn the coronation of Charles II. at Scone, he quitted the old castle,\nto which he was never again to return, and joined the Scottish army:\ncarrying with him, among his other luggage, three huge trunks filled\nwith his hundred manuscripts. He states that on this occasion he\n\u201cwas his own paymaster, and took orders from himself.\u201d The army was\nheterogeneously composed of Presbyterians and Cavaliers; men who had\nnothing in common but the cause which brought them together, and who,\naccording to Sir Thomas, differed even in that. He has produced no\nfewer than four comparisons, all good, and all very original, to prove\nthat the obnoxious Presbyterians were rebels at heart. They make use\nof kings, says he, as we do of card kings in playing at the hundred,\ndiscard them without ceremony, if there be any chance of having a\nbetter game without them;--they deal by them as the French do by their\n_Roi de la f\u00e8ve_, or king of the bean--first honour them by drinking\ntheir health, and then make them pay the reckoning; or as players at\nnine-pins do by the king Kyle, set them up to have the pleasure of\nknocking them down again; or, finally, as the wassailers at Christmas\nserve their king of Misrule, invest him with the title for no other\nend than that he may countenance all the riots and disorders of the\nfamily. He accuses, too, some of the Presbyterian gentlemen, who\nhad been commissioned to levy troops for the army, of the practices\nresorted to by the redoubtable Falstaff, when intrusted with a similar\ncommission; and of returning homewards when matters came to the push,\nout of an unwillingness to \u201chazard their precious persons, lest they\nshould seem to trust to the arm of flesh.\u201d Poor Sir Thomas himself\nwas not one of the people who, in such circumstances, are readiest at\nreturning home. At any rate he stayed long enough on the disastrous\nfield of Worcester to be taken prisoner. Indifferent, however, to\npersonal risk or suffering, he has detailed only the utter woe which\nbefell his hundred manuscripts.\n\nHe had lodged, prior to the battle, in the house of a Mr. Spilsbury, \u201ca\nvery honest sort of man, who had an exceeding good woman to his wife;\u201d\nand his effects, consisting of \u201cscarlet cloaks, buff suits, arms of\nall sorts, and seven large portmantles full of precious commodity,\u201d\nwere stored in an upper chamber. Three of the \u201cportmantles,\u201d as has\nbeen said already, were filled with manuscripts in folio, \u201cto the\nquantity of six score and eight quires and a half, divided into six\nhundred forty and two quinternions, the quinternion consisting of\nfive sheets, and the quire of five-and-twenty.\u201d There were, besides,\nlaw-papers and bonds to the value of about three thousand pounds\nsterling. After the total rout of the king\u2019s forces, the soldiers of\nCromwell went about ransacking the houses; and two of them having\nbroken into Mr. Spilsbury\u2019s house, and finding their way to the upper\nchamber, the scarlet cloaks, the buff suits, the seven \u201cportmantles,\u201d\nand the hundred manuscripts fell a prey to their rapacity. The latter\nhad well-nigh escaped, for at first the soldiers merely scattered them\nover the floor; but reflecting, after they had left the chamber, on\nthe many uses to which they might be applied, they returned and bore\nthem out to the street. Some they carried away with them, some they\ndistributed among their comrades, and the people of the town gathered\nup the rest. One solitary quinternion, containing part of the preface\nto the Universal Language, found its way into the kennel, and was\npicked out two days after by a Mr. Broughton, \u201ca man of some learning,\u201d\nwho restored it to Sir Thomas. His Genealogy was rescued from the\ntobacco-pipes of a file of musketeers, by an officer of Colonel\nPride\u2019s regiment, and also restored. But the rest he never saw. He\nwas committed to the Tower, with some of the other Scottish gentlemen\ntaken at Worcester; and a body of English troops were garrisoned in\nthe old castle, \u201cupon no other pretence but that the stance thereof\nwas stately, and the house itself of a notable good fabric and\ncontrivance.\u201d So oppressive were their exactions, that though he had\npreviously derived from his lands an income of nearly a thousand pounds\nper annum (no inconsiderable sum in the days of the Commonwealth), not\na single shilling found its way to the Tower.\n\nThe ingenuity which had hitherto been taxed for the good of mankind\nand the glory of his country, had now to be exerted for himself. First\nhe published his Genealogy, to convince Cromwell and the Parliament\nthat a family \u201cwhich Saturn\u2019s scythe had not been able to mow in the\nprogress of all former ages, ought not to be prematurely cut off;\u201d but\nneither Cromwell nor the Parliament took any notice of his Genealogy.\nNext he published, in a larger work entitled the Jewel, a prospectus of\nhis Universal Language: Cromwell thought there were languages enough\nalready. He described his own stupendous powers of mind; Cromwell was\nnot in the least astonished at their magnitude. He hinted at the vast\ndiscoveries with which he was yet to enrich the country; Cromwell left\nhim to employ them in enriching himself. In short, notwithstanding the\nmuch he offered in exchange for liberty and his forfeited possessions,\nCromwell disliked the bargain; and so he remained a close prisoner\nin the Tower. It must be confessed that, with all his ingenuity he\nwas little skilled to conciliate the favour of the men in power. They\nhad beheaded Charles I., and he yet tells them how much he hated the\nPresbyterians for the manner in which they had treated that unfortunate\nmonarch; and though they would fain have dealt with Charles II.\nafter the same fashion, he assures them, that in no virtue, moral or\nintellectual, was that prince inferior to any of his hundred and ten\npredecessors. Besides the Genealogy and the Jewel, he published, when\nin the Tower, a translation of the three first books of Rabelais, which\nhas been described by a periodical critic as the \u201cfinest monument of\nhis genius, and one of the most perfect transfusions of an author,\nfrom one language into another, that ever man accomplished.\u201d And it\nis remarked, with reference to this work, by Mr. Motteux, that Sir\nThomas \u201cpossessed learning and fancy equal to the task which he had\nundertaken, and that his version preserves the very style and air of\nthe original.\u201d What is known of the rest of his history may be summed\nup in a few words. Having found means to escape out of prison, he fled\nto the Continent, and there died on the eve of the Restoration (indeed,\nas is said, out of joy at the event), in his forty-eighth year.\n\n\u201cThe character of Sir Thomas Urquhart,\u201d says a modern critic, \u201cwas\nsingular in the extreme. To all the bravery of the soldier and\nlearning of the scholar, he added much of the knight-errant, and\nmore of the _visionnaire_ and projector. Zealous for the honour of\nhis country, and fully determined to wage war, both with his pen and\nhis sword, against all the defaulters who disgraced it--credulous\nyet sagacious--enterprising but rash, he appears to have chosen the\nAdmirable Crichton as his pattern and model for imitation. For his\nlearning he may be denominated the Sir Walter Raleigh of Scotland, and\nhis pedantry was the natural fruit of erudition deeply engrained in his\nmind. To this I may add, he possessed a disposition prone to strike\nout new paths in knowledge, and a confidence in himself that nothing\ncould weaken or disturb. In short, the characters of the humorist,\nthe braggadocio, the schemer, the wit, the pedant, the patriot, the\nsoldier, and the courtier, were all intermingled in his, and, together,\nformed a character which can hardly ever be equalled for excess of\nsingularity, or excess of humour--for ingenious wisdom, or entertaining\nfolly.\u201d He is described by another writer as \u201cnot only one of the most\ncurious and whimsical, but one of the most powerful also, of all the\ngeniuses our part of the island has produced.\u201d\n\nHe was unquestionably an extraordinary man. There occur in some\ncharacters anomalies so striking, that, on their first appearance, they\nsurprise even the most practised in the study of human nature. By a\ncareful process of analysis, however, we may arrive, in most instances,\nat what may be regarded as the simple elements which compose them, and\nsee the mystery explained. But it is not thus with the character of\nSir Thomas. Anomaly seems to have formed its very basis, and the more\nwe analyse the more inexplicable it appears. It exhibits traits so\nopposite, and apparently so discordant, that the circumstance of their\namazing contrariety renders him as decidedly an original as the Caliban\nof Shakspere.\n\nHis inventive powers seem to have been of a high order. The new\nchemical vocabulary, with all its philosophical ingenuity, is\nconstructed on principles exactly similar to those which he divulged\nmore than a hundred years prior to its invention, in the preface to\nhis Universal Language. By what process could it be anticipated that\nthe judgment which had enabled him to fix upon these principles,\nshould have suffered him to urge in favour of that language the\nfacility it afforded in the making of anagrams! As a scholar, he\nis perhaps not much overrated by the critic whose character of him\nI have just transcribed. It is remarked of the Greek language by\nMonboddo, that, \u201cwere there nothing else to convince him of its being\na work of philosophers and grammarians, its dual number would of\nitself be sufficient; for, as certainly as the principles of body\nare the point, the line, and the surface, the principles of number\nare the monad and the duad, though philosophers only are aware of\nthe fact.\u201d His Lordship, in even this--one of the most refined of\nhis speculations--was anticipated by Sir Thomas. He, too, regarded\nthe duad, \u201cnot as number, but as a step towards number--as a medium\nbetween multitude and unity;\u201d and he has therefore assigned the dual\nits proper place in his Universal Language. And is it not strikingly\nanomalous, that, with all this learning, he should not only have\nfailed to detect the silly fictions of the old chroniclers, but that\nhe himself should have attempted to impose on the world with fictions\nequally extravagant! We find him, at one time, seriously pleading with\nthe English Parliament that he had a claim, as the undoubted head\nand representative of the family of Japhet, to be released from the\nTower. We see him at another producing solid and powerful arguments\nto prove that a union of the two kingdoms would be productive of\nbeneficial effects to both. When we look at his literary character in\none of its phases, and see how unconsciously he lays himself open to\nridicule, we wonder how a writer of such general ingenuity should be\nso totally devoid of that sense of the incongruous which constitutes\nthe perception of wit. But, viewing him in another, we find that he\nis a person of exquisite humour, and the most successful of all the\ntranslators of Rabelais. We are struck in some of his narratives\n(his narrative of the death of Crichton, for instance) by a style of\ndescription so gorgeously imaginative, that it seems to partake in no\nslight degree of the grandeur and elevation of epic poetry. We turn\nover a few of the pages in which these occur, and find some of the\nmeanest things in the language. And his moral character seems to have\nbeen equally anomalous. He would sooner have died in prison than have\nconcealed, by a single falsehood, the respect which he entertained\nfor the exiled Prince, at the very time when he was fabricating a\nthousand for the honour of his family. Must we not regard him as a kind\nof intellectual monster--a sort of moral centaur! His character is\nwonderful, not in any of its single parts, but in its incongruity as a\nwhole. The horse is formed like other animals of the same species, and\nthe man much like other men; but it is truly marvellous to find them\nunited.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n                                        \u201c----Times\n    Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour.\u201d--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE REFORMATION.]\n\nPrior to the Reformation there were no fewer than six chapels in the\nparish of Cromarty. The site of one of these, though it still retains\nthe name of the Old Kirk, is now a sand-bank, the haunt of the crab and\nthe sea-urchin, which is covered every larger tide by about ten feet of\nwater; the plough has passed over the foundations of two of the others;\nof two more the only vestiges are a heap of loose stones, and a low\ngrassy mound; and a few broken fragments of wall form the sole remains\nof the sixth and most entire. The very names of the first three have\nshared the fate of the buildings themselves; two of the others were\ndedicated to St. Duthac and St. Bennet; and two fine springs, on which\ntime himself has been unable to effect any change, come bubbling out\nin the vicinity of the ruins, and bear the names of their respective\nsaints. It is not yet twenty years since a thorn-bush, which formed a\nlittle canopy over the spring of St. Bennet, used to be covered anew\nevery season with little pieces of rag, left on it as offerings to\nthe saint, by sick people who came to drink of the water; and near\nthe chapel itself, which was perched like an eyry on a steep solitary\nridge that overlooks the Moray Firth, there was a stone trough,\nfamous, about eighty years before, for virtues derived also from the\nsaint, like those of the well. For if a child was carried away by the\nfairies, and some mischievous unthriving imp left in its place, the\nparents had only to lay the changeling in this trough, and, by some\ninvisible process, their child would be immediately restored to them.\nIt was termed the fairies\u2019 cradle; and was destroyed shortly before\nthe rebellion of 1745, by Mr. Gordon, the minister of the parish, and\ntwo of his elders. The last, and least dilapidated of the chapels,\nwas dedicated to St Regulus; and there is a tradition, that at the\nReformation a valuable historical record, which had belonged to it--the\nwork probably of some literary monk or hermit--was carried away to\nFrance by the priest. I remember a very old woman who used to relate,\nthat when a little girl, she chanced, when playing one day among the\nruins with a boy a few years older than herself, to discover a small\nsquare recess in the wall, in which there was a book; but that she\nhad only time to remark that the volume was a very tattered one, and\napparently very old, and that there were beautiful red letters in it,\nwhen the boy, laying claim to it, forced it from her. What became of\nit afterwards she did not know, and, unconscious of the interest which\nmight have attached to it, never thought of making any inquiry.\n\nThere does not survive a single tradition of the circumstances which,\nin this part of the country, accompanied the great event that consigned\nthe six chapels to solitude and decay. One may amuse one\u2019s-self,\nhowever, in conceiving of the more interesting of these, and, with\nhistory and a little knowledge of human nature for one\u2019s guide, run\nno great risk of conceiving amiss. The port of Cromarty was one of\nconsiderable trade for the age and country, and the people of the\ntown were Lowland Scots. A more inquisitive race live nowhere. First\nthere would come to them wild vague reports, by means of the seamen\nand merchants, of the strange doctrines which had begun to disturb\nthe Continent and the sister kingdom. Shreds of heretic sermons would\nbe whispered over their ale; and stories brought from abroad, of the\nimpositions of the priests, would be eked out, in some instances with\nlittle corroborative anecdotes, the fruit of an experience acquired at\nhome. For there were Liberals even then, though under another name;--a\ncertain proportion of the people of Scotland being born such in every\nage of its independence. Then would come the story of the burning of\ngood Patrick Hamilton, pensionary of the neighbouring abbey of Fearn;\nand everybody would be exceedingly anxious to learn the particular\nnature of his crime. Statements of new doctrines, and objections urged\nagainst some of the old, would in consequence be eagerly listened\nto, and as eagerly repeated. Then there would come among them two or\nthree serious, grave people, natives of the place, who would have\nacquired, when pursuing their occupations in the south, as merchants or\nmechanics, a knowledge, not merely speculative, of the new religion. A\ntraveller of a different cast would describe with much glee to groups\nof the younger inhabitants, the rare shows he had seen acted on the\nCastle-hill of Cupar; and producing a black-letter copy of \u201cThe Thrie\nEstaites\u201d of Davy Lindsay, he would set all his auditors a-laughing\nat the expense of the Church. One of the graver individuals, though\nless openly, and to a more staid audience, would also produce a book,\ndone into plain English, out of a very old tongue, by one Tyndale, and\nstill more severe on the poor priests than even \u201cThe Thrie Estaites.\u201d\nThey would learn from this book that what they were beginning to deem\na rational, but at the same time new religion, was in reality the old\none; and that Popery, with all its boasted antiquity, was by far the\nmore modern of the two. In the meantime, the priests of the chapels\nwould be the angriest men in the parish;--denouncing against all and\nsundry the fire and fagots of this world, and the fire without fagots\nof the next; but one of them, a good honest man, neither the son\nof a churchman himself, nor yet burdened with a family of his own,\nwould set himself, before excommunicating any one, to study the old,\nnewly-translated book, that he might be better able to cope with the\nmaligners of his Church. Before half completing his studies, however,\nhis discourses would begin to assume a very questionable aspect. Little\nwould they contain regarding the Pope, and little concerning the\nsaints; and more and more would he press upon his hearers the doctrines\ntaught by the Apostles. Anon, however, he would assume a bolder style\nof language; and sometimes conclude, after saying a great deal about\nthe spiritual Babylon, and the Man of sin, by praying for godly John\nKnox, and all the other ministers of the Evangel. In short, the honest\npriest would prove the rankest heretic in the whole parish. And thus\nwould matters go on from bad to worse. A few grey heads would be shaken\nat the general defection, but these would be gradually dropping away;\nand the young themselves would be growing old without changing their\nnewly-acquired opinions. They would not all be good Christians;--for\nevery one should know it is quite a possible thing to be a Protestant,\nsound enough for all the purposes of party, without being a Christian\nat all;--but they would almost all be reformers; and when the state\nshould at length set itself to annihilate root and branch of the old\nestablishment, and to build up a new one on the broad basis of the\nkingdom, not a parish in the whole of it would enter more cordially\ninto the scheme than the parish of Cromarty.\n\nBut however readily the people might have closed with the doctrines of\nthe Reformation, they continued to retain a good deal of the spirit\nof the old religion. Having made choice of a piece of land on the\nedge of the ridge which rises behind the houses as a proper site for\ntheir church, they began to collect the materials. It so chanced,\nhowever, that the first few stones gathered for the purpose, being\nthrown down too near the edge of the declivity, rolled to the bottom;\nthe circumstance was deemed supernaturally admonitory; and the church,\nafter due deliberation, was built at the base instead of the top of\nthe ridge, on exactly the spot where the stones had rested. The first\nProtestant minister of the parish was a Mr. Robert Williamson. His\nname occurs oftener than once in Calderwood\u2019s Church History; and\nhis initials, with those of his wife, are still to be seen on a flat\ntriangular stone in the eastern part of the town, which bears date\n1593. It is stated by Calderwood, that \u201cJesuits having libertie to\npasse thorough the countrey in 1583, during the time of the Earle\nof Huntlie\u2019s lieutenantrie, great coldness of religion entered in\nRoss;\u201d and by an act of council passed five years after, this Robert\nWilliamson, and \u201cJohn Urquhart, tutor of Cromartie,\u201d were among the\nnumber empowered to urge matters to an extremity against them.\n\n[Sidenote: OUTBREAKING AT ROSEMARKIE.]\n\nThere awaited Scotland a series of no light evils in the short-sighted\npolicy which attempted to force upon her a religion which she abhorred.\nThe surplice and the service-book were introduced into her churches;\nand the people, who would scarcely have bestirred themselves had\nmerely their civil rights been invaded, began to dread that they could\nnot, without being unhappy in more than the present world, conform to\nthe religion of the state. And so they set themselves seriously to\ninquire whether the power of kings be not restricted to the present\nworld only. They learned, in consequence, that not merely is such\nthe case, but that it has yet other limitations; and the more they\nsought to determine these, the more questionable did its grounds\nbecome. The spirit manifested on this occasion by the people of this\npart of the country, is happily exemplified by Spalding\u2019s narrative\nof a riot which took place at the neighbouring Chanonry of Ross, in\nthe spring of 1638. The service-book had been quietly established by\nthe bishop two years before; but the more thoroughly the people grew\nacquainted with it, the more unpopular it became. At length, on the\nsecond Sunday of March, just as the first bell had rung for sermon,\nbut before the ringing of the second, a numerous party of schoolboys\nbroke into the cathedral, and stripped it in a twinkling of all the\nservice books. Out they rushed in triumph, and, procuring a lighted\ncoal and some brushwood, they marched off in a body to the low sandy\npromontory beneath the town, to make a bonfire of the whole set. But\na sudden shower extinguishing the coal, instead of burning they tore\nthe books into shreds, and flung the fragments into the sea. The bishop\nwent on with his sermon; but it was more than usually brief; and such\nwere the feelings exhibited at its close by the people, that, taking\nhastily to his horse, he quitted the kingdom. \u201cA very busy man was he\nesteemed,\u201d says the annalist, \u201cin the bringing in of the service-book,\nand therefore durst he not, for fear of his life, return again to\nScotland.\u201d In short, the country was fully awakened; and before the\nclose of the following month, the National Covenant was subscribed in\nthe shires of Ross, Cromarty, and Nairn.\n\nSome of the minor events which took place in the sheriffdom of\nCromarty, on the triumph of Presbyterianism, have been detailed,\nas recorded by Sir Thomas, in the foregoing chapter. Even on his\nown testimony, most men of the present day will not feel disposed\nto censure very severely the churchmen of his district. It must be\nconfessed, however, that the principles of liberty, either civil or\necclesiastical, were but little understood in Scotland in the middle\nof the seventeenth century; the parties which divided it deeming\nthemselves too exclusively in the right to learn from the persecutions\nto which they were in turn subjected, that the good old rule of doing\nas we would be done by, should influence the conduct of politicians\nas certainly as that of private men. And there is a simple fact which\nought to convince us, however zealous for the honour of our church,\nthat the Presbyterian synod of Ross, which Sir Thomas has termed \u201ca\npromiscuous knot of unjust men,\u201d was by no means a very exemplary body.\nFive-sixths of its members conformed at the Restoration, and became\ncurates; and as they were notoriously intolerant as Episcopalians,\nit is not at all probable that they should have been strongly\ncharacterized by liberality during the previous period, when they had\nfound it their interest to be Presbyterians.\n\n[Sidenote: SIR JOHN URQUHART OF CRAIGFINTRIE.]\n\nThe restoration of Charles, and the appointment of Middleton as his\ncommissioner for Scotland, were followed by the fatal act which\noverturned Presbyterianism, and set up Episcopacy in its place. It\nis stated by Wodrow, that Middleton, previous to the bringing in of\nthis act, had been strengthened in the resolution which led to it, by\nMackenzie of Tarbat, and Urquhart of Cromarty; and that the latter,\nwho had lately \u201ccounterfeited the Protestor,\u201d ended miserably some\ntime after. In what manner he ended, however, is not stated by the\nhistorian, but tradition is more explicit. On the death of Sir Thomas,\nhe was succeeded by his brother Alexander, who survived him only a\nyear, and dying without male issue, the estate passed to Sir John\nUrquhart of Craigfintrie, the head of a branch of the family which\nhad sprung from the main stock about a century before. This Sir John\nwas the friend and counsellor of Middleton. About eleven years after\nthe passing of the act, he fell into a deep melancholy, and destroyed\nhimself with his own sword in one of the apartments of the old castle.\nThe sword, it is said, was flung into a neighbouring draw-well by one\nof the domestics, and the stain left by his blood on the walls and\nfloor of the apartment, was distinctly visible at the time the building\nwas pulled down.\n\n[Sidenote: THE OUSTED MINISTERS.]\n\nSo well was the deprecated act received by the time-serving Synod of\nRoss, that they urged it into effect against one of their own body,\nmore than a year before the ejection of the other nonconforming\nclergymen. In a meeting of the Synod which took place in 1661,\nthe person chosen as moderator was one Murdoch Mackenzie;--a man\nso strong in his attachments that he had previously sworn to the\nNational Covenant no fewer than fourteen times, and he had now fallen\ndesperately in love with the Bishopric of Moray. One of his brethren,\nhowever, an unmanageable, dangerous person, for he was uncompromisingly\nhonest, and possessed of very considerable talent, stood directly in\nthe way of his preferment. This member, the celebrated Mr. Hogg of\nKiltearn, had not sworn to the Covenant half so often as his superior,\nthe Moderator, but then so wrong-headed was he as to regard his few\noaths as binding; and he could not bring himself to like Prelacy any\nthe better for its being espoused by the king. And so his expulsion\nwas evidently a matter of necessity. The Moderator had nothing to urge\nagainst his practice,--for no one could excel him in the art of living\nwell; but his opinions lay more within his reach; and no sooner had\nthe Synod met, than, singling him out, he demanded what his thoughts\nwere of the Protestors--the party of Presbyterians who, about ten years\nbefore, had not taken part with the king against the Republicans. Mr.\nHogg declined to answer; and on being removed, that the Synod might\ndeliberate, the Moderator rose and addressed them. Their brother of\nKiltearn, he said, was certainly a great man--a very great man--but\nas certainly were the Protestors opposed to the king; and if any\nmember of Synod took part with them, whatever his character, it was\nevidently the duty of the other members to have him expelled. Mr. Hogg\nwas then called in, and having refused, as was anticipated, judicially\nto disown the Protestors, sentence of deposition was passed against\nhim. But the consciences of the men who thus dealt with him, betrayed\nin a very remarkable manner their real estimate of his conduct. It is\nstated by Wodrow, on the authority of an eye-witness, that sentence was\npassed with a peculiar air of veneration, as if they were ordaining\nhim to some higher office; and that the Moderator was so deprived of\nhis self-possession as to remind him, in a consolatory speech, that\n\u201cour Lord Jesus Christ had suffered great wrong from the Scribes and\nPharisees.\u201d\n\nMackenzie received the reward of his zeal shortly after in an\nappointment to the Bishopric of Moray; and one Paterson, a man of\nsimilar character, was ordained Bishop of Ross. On the order of\ncouncil, issued in the autumn of 1662, for all ministers of parishes\nto attend the diocesan meetings, and take the newly-framed oaths, while\nin some of the southern districts of the kingdom only a few ministers\nattended, in the diocese of Ross there were but four absent, exclusive\nof Mr. Hogg. These four were, Mr. Hugh Anderson of Cromarty, Mr. John\nMackilligen of Alness, Mr. Andrew Ross of Tain, and a Mr. Thomas Ross,\nwhose parish is not named in the list. And they were all in consequence\nejected from their charges. Mr. Anderson, a nephew of Sir Thomas\u2019s\nopponent, Mr. Gilbert, who was now dead, retired to Moray, accompanied\nby his _bedral_, who had resolved on sharing the fortunes of his\npastor; and they returned together a few years after to a small estate,\nthe property of Mr. Anderson, situated in the western extremity of the\nparish. Mr. Mackilligen remained at Alness, despite of the council and\nthe bishops, who had enacted that no nonconforming minister should take\nup his abode within twenty miles of his former church. Mr. Ross of\nTain resided within the bounds of the same Presbytery; and Mr. Fraser\nof Brea, a young gentleman of Cromartyshire, who was ordained to the\nministry about ten years after the expulsion of the others, had his\nseat in the parish of Resolis. In short, as remarked by Wodrow, there\nwas more genuine Presbyterianism to be found on the shores of the Bay\nof Cromarty, notwithstanding the general defection, than in any other\npart of the kingdom north of the Tay.\n\nAnd the current of popular feeling seems to have set in strongly\nin its favour about the year 1666. Towards the close of this year,\nPaterson the bishop, in a letter to his son, describes the temper of\nthe country about him as very cloudy; and complains of a change in\nthe sentiments of many who had previously professed an attachment\nto Prelacy. Mr. Mackilligen, a faithful and active preacher of the\nforbidden doctrines, seems to have given him so much trouble, that he\neven threatened to excommunicate him, but the minister regarding his\nthreat in the proper light, replied to it by comparing him to Balaam\nthe wicked prophet, who went forth to curse Israel, and to Shimei the\nson of Gera, who cursed David. The joke spread, for as such was it\nregarded, and Paterson, who had only the sanctity of his office to\noppose to the personal sanctity of his opponent, deemed it prudent to\nurge the threat no further: he had the mortification of being laughed\nat for having urged it so far. There is a little hollow among the\nhills, about three miles from the house of Fowlis, and not much farther\nfrom Alness, in the gorge of which the eye commands a wide prospect\nof the lower lands, and the whole Firth of Cromarty. It lies, too, on\nthe extreme edge of the cultivated part of the country, for beyond\nthere stretches only a brown uninhabited desert; and in this hollow the\nneighbouring Presbyterians used to meet for the purpose of religious\nworship. On some occasions they were even bold enough to assemble in\nthe villages. In the summer of 1675, Mr. Mackilligen, assisted by his\nbrethren of Tain and Cromarty, and the Laird of Brea, celebrated the\nCommunion at Obsdale, in the house of the Lady Dowager of Fowlis. There\nwas an immense concourse of people; and \u201cso plentiful was the effusion\nof the Spirit,\u201d says the historian whom I have so often had occasion to\nquote, \u201cthat the oldest Christians present never witnessed the like.\u201d\nIndisputably, even from natural causes, the time must have been one of\nmuch excitement; and who that believes the Bible, will dare affirm that\nGod cannot comfort his people by extraordinary manifestations, when\ndeprived of the common comforts of earth for their adherence to him?\nOne poor man, who had gone to Obsdale merely out of curiosity, was so\naffected by what he heard, that when some of his neighbours blamed him\nfor his temerity, and told him that the bishop would punish him for it\nby taking away his horse and cow, he assured them that in such a cause\nhe was content to lose not merely all his worldly goods, but his head\nalso. A party had been despatched, at the instance of the bishop, to\ntake Mackilligen prisoner; but, misinformed regarding the place where\nthe meeting was held, they proceeded to his house at Alness, and spent\nso much time in pillaging his garden, that before they reached Obsdale\nhe had got out of their way. But he fell into the hands of his enemy,\nthe bishop, in the following year, and during his long imprisonment on\nthe Bass Rock--for to such punishment was he subjected--he contracted\na disease of which he died. Mr. Ross of Tain, and Mr. Fraser of Brea,\nwere apprehended shortly after, and disposed of in the same manner.\n\nNor was it only a few clergymen that suffered in this part of the\ncountry for their adherence to the church. Among the names of the\nindividuals who, in the shires of Ross and Cromarty, were subjected\nto the iniquitous fine imposed by Middleton on the more rigid\nPresbyterians, I find the name of Sir Robert Munro of Fowlis, the head\nof a family which ranks among the most ancient and honourable in the\nkingdom. Sir John Munro, son of Sir Robert, succeeded to the barony\nin 1668. His virtues, and the persecutions to which he was subjected,\nare recorded by the pen of Doddridge:--\u201cThe eminent piety of this\nexcellent person exposed him,\u201d says this writer, \u201cto great sufferings\nin the cause of religion in those unhappy and infamous days, when the\nbest friends to their country were treated as the worst friends to the\ngovernment. His person was doomed to long imprisonment for no pretended\ncause but what was found against him in the matters of his God; and his\nestate, which was before considerable, was harassed by severe fines and\nconfiscations, which reduced it to a diminution much more honourable,\nindeed, than any augmentation could have been, but from which it has\nnot recovered to this day.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: MR. FRASER OF BREA.]\n\nBut, perhaps, a brief narrative of the sufferings of a single\nindividual may make a stronger impression on the reader than any\ngeneral detail of those of the party. Mr. James Fraser of Brea was\nborn in the western part of the shire of Cromarty, in the year 1639.\nOn the death of his father, whom he lost while in his infancy, he\nsucceeded to the little property of about \u00a3100 per annum, of which\nthe name, according to the fashion of Scotland, is attached to his\nown. His childhood was passed much like the childhood of most other\npeople; but with this difference, that those little attempts at crime\nwhich serve to identify the moral nature of children with that of\nmen, and which, in our riper years, are commonly either forgotten\naltogether, or regarded with an interest which owes nought of its\nintensity to remorse, were considered by him as the acts of a creature\naccountable to the Great Judge for even its earliest derelictions from\nvirtue. But this trait belongs properly to his subsequent character.\nIn his seventeenth year, after a youth spent unhappily, in a series\nof conflicts with himself, for he was imbued with a love of forbidden\npleasures, and possessed of a conscience exquisitely tender, a change\ncame over him, and he became one of the excellent few who live less\nfor the present world than for the future. As he was not wedded by\nthe prejudices of education to any set of religious opinions, he had,\nwith only the Scriptures for his guide, to frame a creed for himself;\nand having come in contact, in Edinburgh, with some Quakers, he was\nwell-nigh induced to join with them. But on more serious consideration,\nhe deemed some of their tenets not quite in unison with those of\nthe Bible. He attended, for some time after the Restoration, the\npreaching of the curates; but, profiting little by their doctrines, he\ndeliberated whether he did right in hearing them, and concluded in the\nnegative, in the very year in which all such conclusions were declared\ntreason by act of Parliament. In short, by dint of reasoning and\nreading, he landed full in Presbyterianism, at a time when there was\nnothing to be gained by it, and a great deal to be lost. And not merely\ndid he embrace it for himself, but deeming it the cause of God, he came\nforward in this season of wrong and suffering, when the bad opposed it,\nand the timid shrunk from it, to preach it to the people. He believed\nhimself called to the ministerial office in a peculiar manner, by the\nGreat Being who had fitted him for it; and the simple fact that he did\nnot, in Scotland at least, gain a single sixpence by all his preaching\nuntil after the Revolution, ought surely to convince the most sceptical\nthat he did not mistake on this occasion the suggestions of interest\nfor those of duty. He began to preach the forbidden doctrines in the\nyear 1672; and he was married shortly after to a lady to whom he had\nbeen long attached.\n\nThe sufferings to which he had been subjected prior to his marriage\naffected only himself. He had been fined and exposed to ridicule;\nand he had had to submit to loss and imposition, out of a despair of\nfinding redress from corrupt judges, whose decisions would have been\nprompted rather by the feelings with which they regarded his principles\nthan by any consideration of the merits of his cause. No sooner,\nhowever, had he married, and become a preacher, than he was visited by\nevils greater in themselves, and which he felt all the more deeply from\nthe circumstance that their effects were no longer confined to himself.\nHe was summoned before councils for preaching without authority, and\nin the fields, and denounced and outlawed for not daring to appear.\nBut he persevered, notwithstanding, wandering under hiding from place\nto place, and preaching twice or thrice every week to all such as had\ncourage enough to hear him. He was among the number intercommuned by\npublic writ; all the people of Scotland, even his own friends and\nrelatives, being charged, under the severest penalties, not to speak to\nhim, or receive him into their houses, or minister even the slightest\ncomfort to his person. And yet still did he persevere on the strength\nof the argument urged by St. Peter before the Jewish Sanhedrim. The\nlady he married was a person every way worthy of such a husband. \u201cIn\nher,\u201d I use his own simple and expressive language, \u201cdid I behold as\nin a glass the Lord\u2019s love to me; and so effectually did she sweeten\nthe sorrows of my pilgrimage, that I have often been too nearly led\nto exclaim, It is good for me to be here!\u201d But she was lent him only\nfor a short season. Four years after his marriage, when under hiding,\nword was brought him that she lay sick of a fever; and hurrying home\nin \u201cgreat horror and darkness of mind,\u201d he reached her bedside only to\nfind that she had departed, and that he was left alone.\n\nHis sorrow at the bereavement oppressed, but it could not overwhelm\nhim; for, with an energy rendered more intense by a sense of\ndesolateness, and a feeling that the world had become as nothing\nto him, he applied afresh to what he deemed his bounden duty, the\npreaching of the Word. He was diligent in ministering to the comfort of\nmany who were less afflicted than himself; and enveloped in the very\nflames of persecution, he confirmed, by his exhortations, such as were\nshrinking from their approach. So well was his character understood by\nthe prelates, that he was one of three expressly named in an act of\ncouncil as peculiarly obnoxious, and a large sum of money was offered\nto any who would apprehend him. Great rewards, too, were promised on\nthe same account by the Archbishop of St. Andrews, out of his private\npurse; and after a series of hair-breadth escapes, he at length fell\ninto his hands through the treachery of a servant. The questions put to\nhim on his trial, with his replies to them, are given at full length\nby Wodrow. Without in the least compromising his principles, he yet\navailed himself of every legal argument which the circumstances of his\ncase admitted; and such was the ingenuity of his defence, that he was\nrepeatedly complimented on the score of ability by the noblemen on the\nbench. He was charged, however, with a breach of good manners; for,\nwhile he addressed his other judges with due respect, he replied to the\naccusations of the archbishop as if they had been urged against him\nby merely a private individual. In answer to the charge, he confessed\nthat he was but a rude man, and hinted, with some humour, that he\nhad surely been brought before their lordships for some other purpose\nthan simply to make proof of his breeding. And, after all, there was\nlittle courtesy lost between himself and the archbishop. He had been\napprehended near midnight, and before sunrise next morning, the servant\nof the latter was seen standing at the prison gate, instructing the\njailer that the prisoner should be confined apart, and none suffered\nto have access to him. When the court met, the archbishop strove to\nentrap him, with an eagerness which only served to defeat its object,\ninto an avowal of the sentiments with which he regarded the king and\nhis ministers; and failing to elicit these, for the preacher was shrewd\nand sagacious, he represented him to the other members of council as a\nperson singularly odious and criminal, and an enemy to every principle\nof civil government. He was a schismatic too, he affirmed--a render\nasunder of the Church of Christ! To the charge that he was a preacher\nof sedition, Mr. Fraser replied with apostolic fervour, that in \u201cnone\nof his discourses had he urged aught disloyal or traitorous; but that\nas the Spirit enabled him, had he preached repentance towards God, and\nfaith towards Jesus Christ, and no other thing but what was contained\nin the Prophets and the New Testament. And so far,\u201d he added, \u201cwas he\nfrom being terrified or ashamed to own himself a minister of Christ,\nthat although of no despicable extraction, yet did he glory most to\nserve God in the gospel of His Son, and deem it the greatest honour to\nwhich he had ever attained.\u201d After trial he was remanded to prison, and\nawakened next morning by the jailer, for he had slept soundly, that he\nmight prepare for a journey to the Bass. He was escorted by the way by\na party of twelve horsemen and thirty foot, and delivered up on landing\nin the island to the custody of the governor.\n\nHere a new series of sufferings awaited him, not perhaps so harassing\nin themselves as those to which he had recently been subjected--for\npunishment in such cases is often less severe than the train of\npersecution which leads to it; but he felt them all the more deeply,\nbecause he could no longer, from his situation, exert that energy of\nmind which had enabled him to divest, on former occasions, an evil\nof more than half its strength, by meeting it, as it were, more than\nhalf-way. He had now to wait in passive expectation until the evil\ncame. There were a number of other prisoners confined to the Bass for\ntheir attachment to Presbyterianism; and the governor, a little-minded,\ncapricious man, who loved to display the extent of his authority, by\nshowing how many he could render unhappy, would sometimes deny them\nall intercourse with each other, by closely confining them to their\nseparate cells. At times, too, when permitted to associate together,\nsome of the profaner officers would break in upon them, and annoy them\nwith the fashionable wit and blasphemy of the period. A dissolute woman\nwas appointed to wait upon them, and scandalous stories circulated at\ntheir expense; all the letters brought them from the land were broken\nopen and made sport of by the garrison; they were neither allowed to\neat nor to worship together; and though their provisions and water were\ngenerally of the worst kind, they had sometimes to purchase them--even\nthe latter--at an exorbitant price. But there were times at which the\npreacher could escape from all his petty vexations. In the higher part\nof the island there are solitary walks, which skirt the edge of the\nprecipices, and command an extensive view of the neighbouring headlands\nand the ocean. On these, when his jailers were in their more tolerant\nmoods, would he be permitted to saunter for whole hours; indulging, as\nthe waves were breaking more than a hundred yards beneath him, and the\nsea-fowl screaming over him, in a not unpleasing melancholy--musing\nmuch on the future, with all its doubtful probabilities, or \u201clooking\nback on the days of old, when he joyed with the wife of his youth.\u201d And\nthere was a considerable part of his time profitably spent in the study\nof Greek and Hebrew. He besides read divinity, and wrote a treatise\non faith, with several other miscellanies: and at length, after an\nimprisonment of two years and a half, during which period his old enemy\nthe archbishop had suffered the punishment which there was no law to\ninflict upon him, he was set at liberty; and he quitted his prison with\nnot less zeal, and with more learning than he had brought into it.\n\nHe still deemed preaching as much his duty as before, and the state\nregarded it as decidedly a crime; and so he had to resume his\nwandering, unsettled life of peril and hardship; \u201clabouring to be\nof some use to every family he visited.\u201d Falling sick of an ague,\ncontracted through this mode of living, he was cited before the\ncouncil, at the instance of some of his old friends the bishops; who,\nreckoning on his inability to appear on the day named, took this way\nof having him outlawed a second time. But they had miscalculated; for\nno sooner had he received the citation, than dragging himself from\nhis bed, he set out on his journey to Edinburgh. Legal oppression he\nrespected as little as he had done six years before; but he was now\ndifferently circumstanced--one of his friends, on his liberation from\nthe Bass, having bound himself as his surety; and sooner would he have\ndied by the way than have subjected him to any loss. When the day\narrived, he presented himself at the bar of the council; and defended\nhimself with such ability and spirit, that his lay judges were on the\neve of acquitting him. Not so the bishops; and the matter, after some\ndebate, being wholly referred to their judgment, he was sentenced to\nbe imprisoned at Blackness until he had paid a fine of five thousand\nmerks, and given security that he should not again preach in Scotland.\nTo Blackness he was accordingly sent; and there he remained in close\nconfinement, and subjected, as he had been at the Bass, to the caprice\nof a tyrannical governor, for about seven weeks; when he was set at\nliberty on condition that he should immediately quit the kingdom. He\npassed therefore into England; and he soon found--for the Christian\nis a genuine cosmopolite--\u201cthat a good Englishman was more truly\nhis countryman than a wicked Scot.\u201d He was much esteemed by English\npeople of his own persuasion; and though he had at first resolved to\nforbear preaching out of the dread of being reckoned a \u201cbarbarian,\u201d\nfor he could not divest himself of his Scotticisms, he yielded to the\nsolicitations of his newly-acquired friends; and soon attained among\nthem, as he had done at home, the character of being a powerful and\nuseful preacher. But bonds and imprisonment awaited him even there. On\nthe execution of Russell and Sydney, he was arrested on the suspicion\nof being one of their confederates; and on refusing to take what was\ntermed the Oxford Oath, he was committed to Newgate, where he was kept\nfor six months. But from his previous experience of the prisons of\nScotland, he seems, with Goldsmith\u2019s sailor, to have deemed Newgate a\nmuch better sort of place than it is usually esteemed;--his apartment\nwas large and lightsome, and the jailers were all very kind. Resuming,\non his release, his old mode of living, he continued to preach and\nstudy by turns, until the Revolution; when, returning to Scotland, he\nwas invited by the people of Culross to preside over them as their\npastor;--a fit pastor for a parish which, during the reign of Prelacy,\nhad suffered and resisted more than almost any other in the kingdom. In\nthis place he continued until his death; grateful for all the mercies\nbestowed upon him, and few men could reckon them better; but peculiarly\ngrateful that, in a season of hot persecution, he had been enabled to\ntake part with God.\n\nNor were strong-minded men, like Fraser of Brea, the only persons who\nespoused this cause in the day of trouble, and dared to suffer for\nit. There is a quiet passive fortitude in the better kind of women,\nwhich lies concealed, as it ought, under a cover of real gentleness\nand seeming timidity, until called forth by some occasion which\nrenders it a duty to resist; and this excellent spirit was exhibited\nduring this period by at least one lady of Cromarty. She was a Mrs.\nGordon, the wife of the parish minister;--a lady who, at an extreme\nold age, retained much of the beauty of youth--a smooth unwrinkled\nforehead, shaded by a profusion of black glossy hair without the\nslightest tinge of grey: and it was said of her, so exquisite was her\ncomplexion, that, when drinking a glass of wine, her neck and throat\nwould assume the ruddy hue of the liquid--an imaginary circumstance,\ndeemed characteristic at one time, by the common people of Scotland, of\nthe higher order of beauties, and which is happily introduced by Allan\nCunningham into one of the most pleasing of his ballads:--\n\n    \u201cFu\u2019 white white was her bonny neck,\n    Twist wi\u2019 the satin twine;\n    But ruddie ruddie grew her hawse,\n    While she sipp\u2019d the bluid-red wine.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: LUGGIE.]\n\nMrs. Gordon could scarcely have attained to her eighteenth year at the\nRevolution; and yet she had been exposed to suffering on the score of\nreligion, in the previous troubles. There was a story among the people,\nthat her ears had been cut off; it was even observed, that her tresses\nwere always so arranged as to conceal the supposed mutilation; and\nsome of the wilder spirits of the place used to call her _Luggie_, in\nallusion to the story; but she was too highly respected for the name\nto take. When a very old woman, she was one day combing her hair in\nthe presence of a little girl, who was employed in dressing up the\napartment in which she sat, and who threw at her from time to time\na very inquisitive glance. \u201cCome here, Maggie,\u201d said the lady, who\nguessed the cause of her solicitude; \u201cyou are a curious little girl,\nand have heard that I have lost my ears--have you not? Here they are,\nhowever,\u201d she continued, shading back her hair as she spoke, and\ndisplaying two very pretty ones; \u201cwicked men once threatened to cut\nthem off, and a knife was sharpened for the purpose, but God permitted\nthem not.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n    \u201cThe scart bears weel wi\u2019 the winter\u2019s cauld,\n      The aik wi\u2019 the gurly win\u2019;\n    But the bonny wee burds, and the sweet wee flowers,\n      Were made for the calm an\u2019 the sun.\u201d--OLD BALLAD.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE CHAPLAIN\u2019S LAIR.]\n\nThe southern Sutor terminates, where it overhangs the junction of\nthe Cromarty and Moray Firths, in a noble precipice, which, planting\nits iron feet in the sea, rears its ample forehead a hundred yards\nover it. On the top there is a moss-covered, partially wooded knoll,\nwhich, commanding from its abrupt height and semi-insular situation a\nwide and diversified prospect, has been known from time immemorial to\nthe town\u2019s-people as \u201cthe Look-out.\u201d It is an exquisite little spot,\nsweet in itself, and sublime in what it commands;--a fine range of\nforest scenery stretches along the background, while in front the eye\nmay wander over the hills of seven different counties, and so vast an\nextent of sea, that, on the soberest calculation, we cannot estimate it\nunder a thousand square miles. Nor need there be any lack of pleasing\nassociation to heighten the effect of a landscape which, among its\nother scenes of the wild and the wonderful, includes the bleak moor\nof Culloden, and the \u201cheath near Forres.\u201d It is, however, to the\nimmense tract of sea which it overlooks that the little knoll owes its\ndeepest interest, and when, after a storm from the west has scattered\nthe shipping bound for port, and day after day has gone by without\nwitnessing their expected return--there are wistful eyes that turn from\nit to the wide waste below, and anxious hearts that beat quicker and\nhigher, as sail after sail starts up, spark-like, on the dim horizon,\nand grows into size and distinctness as it nears the shore. Nor is the\nrock beneath devoid of an interest exclusively its own.\n\nIt is one of those magnificent objects which fill the mind with\nemotions of the sublime and awful; and the effect is most imposing when\nwe view it from below. The strata, strangely broken and contorted, rise\nalmost vertically from the beach. Immense masses of a primary trap crop\nout along their bases, or wander over the face of the precipice in\nbroad irregular veins, which contrast their deep olive-green with the\nferruginous brown of the mass. A whitened projection, which overhangs\nthe sea, has been for untold ages the haunt of the cormorant and the\nsea-mew; the eagle builds higher up, and higher still there is a broad\ninaccessible ledge in a deep angle of the rock, on which a thicket of\nhip and sloethorn bushes and a few wild apple-trees have taken root,\nand which, from the latter circumstance, bears among the town\u2019s-boys\nthe name of the _apple-yardie_. The young imagination delights to dwell\namid the bosky recesses of this little spot, where human foot has never\nyet trodden, and where the crabs and the wild berries ripen and decay\nunplucked and untasted. There was a time, however, when the interest\nwhich attached to it owed almost all its intensity to the horrible.\nThe eastern turret of the old castle of Cromarty has, with all its\nother turrets, long since disappeared; but the deep foliage of the\nledge mantles as thickly as ever, and the precipice of the Look-out\nrears its dark front as proudly over the beach. They were frightfully\nconnected--the shelf and the turret--in the associations of the\ntown\u2019s-people for more than a hundred years; the one was known as the\nChaplain\u2019s Turret--the other as the Chaplain\u2019s Lair; but the demolition\nof the castle has dissolved the union, and there are now scarcely a\ndozen in the country who know that it ever existed.\n\nI have said that the proprietor of the lands of Cromarty, in the\nearly part of the reign of Charles II., was a Sir John Urquhart of\nCraigfintrie, celebrated by Wodrow, though the celebrity be of no\nenviable character, as the person whose advice, strengthened by that of\nSir George Mackenzie of Tarbat, led Commissioner Middleton to introduce\nthe unhappy Act which overturned Presbyterianism in Scotland. He was\na shrewd, strong-minded man, thoroughly acquainted with all the worse\nand some of the better springs of human action--cool, and cautious, and\nskilful, in steering himself through the difficulties of so unsettled\na period by the shifts and evasions of a well-balanced expediency. The\ncurrent of the age had set in towards religion, and Sir John was by\nmuch too prudent to oppose the current. There were few men who excelled\nhim in that most difficult art of computation, the art of estimating\nthe strength of parties; perhaps he was all the more successful in his\ncalculations from his never suffering himself to be disturbed in them\nby an over-active zeal; and believing, with Tamerlane and Sir Thomas,\nthat the Deity usually declares for the stronger party, Sir John was\nalways religious enough to be of the stronger party too.\n\nAbout twelve years before his death, which took place in 1673, there\nresided in his family a young licentiate of the Scottish Church, a\nnephew of his own, who officiated as chaplain. Dallas Urquhart was\nnaturally a soft-tempered, amiable man, of considerable attainments,\nand of no inferior powers of mind, but his character lacked the severer\nvirtues; and it was his fate to live in an age in which a good-natured\nfacility of disposition was of all qualities the worst fitted to supply\ntheir place. He was deemed a person of more than ordinary promise in\nan age when the qualifications of the Presbyterian minister were fixed\nat least as high as in any after period;--there was a charm, too,\nin his pliant and docile disposition, which peculiarly recommended\nhim to his older friends and advisers; for even the wise are apt\nto overvalue whatever flatters themselves, and to decide regarding\nthat modest facility which so often proves in after life the curse\nof its possessor, according to an estimate very different from that\nby which they rate the wilful, because partially developed strength\nwhich thwarts and opposes them. Dallas therefore had many friends;\nbut the person to whom he was chiefly attached was the young minister\nof Cromarty--the \u201cgood Maister Hugh Anderson,\u201d whose tombstone, a\ndark-coloured slab, roughened with uncouth sculpture, and a neat\nLatin inscription, may still be seen in the eastern gable of the\nparish church, and to whom I have already referred as one of the few\nfaithful in this part of the country in a time of fiery trial. The\ntwo friends had passed through college together, associates in study\nand recreation, and, what is better still, for they were both devout\nyoung men, companions in all those acts of religious fellowship which\nrenders Christianity so true a nurse of the nobler affections. And yet\nno two persons could be less similar in the original structure of their\nminds. Dallas was gentle-tempered and imaginative, and imbued, through\na nature decidedly intellectual, with a love of study for its own sake.\nHis friend, on the contrary, was of a bold energetic temperament, and a\nplain, practical understanding, which he had cultivated rather from a\nsense of duty than under the influence of any direct pleasure derived\nin the process. But it is probable that had they resembled one another\nmore closely, they would have loved one another less. Friendship, if\nI may venture the metaphor, is a sort of ball-and-socket connexion.\nIt seems to be a first principle in its economy that its agreements\nshould be founded in dissimilarity--the stronger with the weaker--the\nsofter with the more rugged. And perhaps, in looking round to convince\nourselves of the fact, we have but to note how the sexes--formed for\neach other by God himself--have been created, not after a similar, but\nafter a diverse pattern--and that their natures piece together, not\nbecause they were made to resemble, but to correspond with each other.\n\nThe friends were often together; the huge old castle, grey with the\nlichens of a thousand years, towered on its wooded eminence immediately\nover the town; and the little antique manse, with its narrow serrated\ngables, and with the triangular tablets of its upper windows, rising\nhigh in the roof, occupied, nest-like, an umbrageous recess so directly\nbelow, that the chaplain in his turret was scarcely a hundred yards\ndistant from the minister in his study. There hardly passed a day\nin which Dallas did not spend an hour or two in the manse; at times\nspeculating on some abstruse scholastic question with his friend the\nclergyman, whom he generally found somewhat less than his match on\nsuch occasions; at times still more pleasingly engaged in conversing,\nthough on somewhat humbler terms, with his friend\u2019s only sister.\nMary Anderson was a sylph-looking young creature, rather below the\nmiddle size, and slightly though finely formed. Her complexion, which\nwas pale and singularly transparent, indicated no great strength of\nconstitution; but there was an easy grace in all her motions, that\nno one could associate with the weakness of positive indisposition,\nand an expression in her bright speaking eyes and beautiful forehead,\nthat impressed all who knew her rather with the idea of an active\nand powerful spirit than of a delicate or feeble frame. There was an\nunpretending quietness in her manners, and a simple good sense in all\nshe said and did on ordinary occasions, that seemed to be as much\nthe result of correct feeling as of a discriminating intellect; but\nthere were depths in the character beyond the reach of the ordinary\nobserver--powers of abstract thought which only a superior mind could\nfully appreciate, and a vigorous but well-regulated imagination that\ncould bedeck the perfections of the moral world with all that is\nexquisite among the forms and colours of the natural. No one ever\nseemed less influenced by the tender feelings than Mary Anderson; she\nloved her brother\u2019s friend--loved to study, to read, to converse with\nhim, but in no respect did her regard for him seem to differ from her\nregard for her brother himself. She was his friend--a tender and\nattached one, it is true--but his friend only. But the young chaplain,\nwhose nature it was to cleave to everything nobler and more powerful\nthan himself, was of a different temper, and he had formed a deep\nthough silent attachment to the highly-gifted maiden of the manse.\n\nTroublesome times came on; the politic and strong-minded proprietor\nwas no longer known as the friend of the Presbyterian Church, and the\ncomparatively weak and facile chaplain wavered in all the agonies\nof irresolution, under the fascinating influences of the massier\nand wilier character. All the persuasive powers of Sir John were\nconcentrated on the conversion of his nephew. Acts of kindness,\nexpressions of endearment and good-will, and a well-counterfeited\nzeal for the interests of true religion formed with him merely a sort\nof groundwork for arguments of real cogency so far as they went, and\nfacts which, though of partial selection, could not be well disputed.\nHe had passed, he said, over the ground which Dallas now occupied, and\nwas thus enabled to anticipate some of his opinions on the subject;\nhe, too, had once regarded Christianity and the Presbyterian form\nof it as identical, and associated the excellencies of the one with\nthe peculiarities of the other. He now saw clearly, however; and his\nnephew, he was assured, would soon see it too, that they were things\nas essentially different as soul and body, and that the Presbyterian\nform--the Presbyterian _body_, he might say--was by no means the best\nwhich the true religion could inhabit! He pointed out what he deemed\nthe peculiar defects of Presbyterianism; and summed up with consummate\nskill the various indications of the subdued and unresisting mood which\nat this period formed that of the entire country.\n\n\u201cMen of all classes,\u201d he said, \u201chave been wearied in the long struggle\nof twenty years, from which they have but just escaped, and stand in\nneed of rest. They see, too, that they have been contending, not for\nthemselves, but for others--striving to render kings less powerful,\nthat Churchmen might become more so. They see that they have thus\ninjured the character of a body of men, valuable in their own sphere,\nbut dangerous when invested with the power of the magistrate; and that\nthey have so weakened the hands of Government, that to escape from\nanarchy they have to fling themselves into the arms of comparative\ndespotism. But there are better times coming; and the wiser sort of\nmen are beginning to perceive that religion must work more effectually\nunder the peaceable protection of a paternal Government, than when\nunited to a form which cannot exist without provoking political heats\nand animosities. Not a few of our best men are more than prepared\nfor the movement. You already know something of Leighton; I need not\nsay what sort of a man _he_ is;--and young Burnet and Scougall are\npersons of resembling character. But there are many such among the\nbelied and persecuted Episcopalians; and does it not augur well, that\nsince the one Church must fall, we should have materials of such value\nfor building up the other? I cannot anticipate much opposition to\nthe change. A few good men of narrow capacity, such as your friend\nAnderson, will not acquiesce in it till they are made to distinguish\nbetween form and spirit, which may take some time; and leaders in the\nChurch, who have become influential at the expense of their country\u2019s\nwelfare, must necessarily be hostile to it for another cause; for no\nman willingly parts with power. But certain I am it can meet with no\neffectual opposition.\u201d\n\nDallas had little to urge in reply. Sir John had ever been kind to him,\nnor was his disposition a cold or ungrateful one; and, naturally facile\nand diffident besides, he had been invariably in the habit of yielding\nup his own judgment, in matters of a practical tendency, to the more\nmature and powerful judgment of his uncle. He could feel, however, that\non this occasion there was something criminal in his acquiescence; but\nhis weakness overcame him. He passed sleepless nights, and days of\nrestless inquietude; at times half resolved to seek out Sir John and\nsay that, having cast in his lot with the sinking Church, he could not\nquit her in the day of trouble--at times groaning under a despairing\nsense of his thorough inability to oppose him--yielding to what seemed\nto be the force of destiny, and summing up the various arguments so\noften pressed upon him, less with the view of ascertaining their real\nvalue, than of employing them in his own defence. Meanwhile whole\nweeks elapsed ere he could muster up resolution enough to visit his\nfriend the clergyman; and the report had gone far and wide that he had\ndeclared with his uncle for the court religion. He at length stole down\none evening to the manse with a sinking heart, and limbs that trembled\nunder him.\n\nMary was absent on a visit; her brother he found sitting moodily in\nhis study. The minister had but just returned from a Presbytery, at\nwhich he had to contend single-handed against the arguments of Sir\nJohn, and the votes of all the others; and, under the influence of\nthe angry feelings awakened in a conflict so hopeless and unequal,\nand irritated by the gibes and taunts of his renegade brethren, he at\nonce denounced Dallas as a time-server and an apostate. The temper of\nthe chaplain gave way, and he retorted with a degree of spirit which\nmight have given a different colour to his after life, had it been\nexerted during his earlier interviews with Sir John. The anger of the\nfriends, heightened by mutual reproaches, triumphed over the affection\nof years; and, after a scene of bitter contention, they parted with the\ndetermination of never meeting again. Dallas felt not the ground, as,\nwith throbbing pulses and a flushed brow, he hastily scaled the ascent\nwhich led to the castle; and when, turning round from beside the wall\nto look at the manse, he thought of Mary, and thought, too, that he\ncould now no longer visit her as before, his heart swelled almost to\nbursting. \u201cBut I am like a straw on the current,\u201d he said, \u201cand must\ndrift wherever the force of events carries me. Coward that I am! Why do\nI live in a world for which I am so wretchedly unfitted?\u201d\n\nHe had now passed the Rubicon. His first impressions he had resisted;\nand the feebler suggestions which afterwards arose in his mind, only\nled him to entrench himself the more strongly in the arguments of Sir\nJohn. Besides, he had declared himself a friend to Episcopacy, and thus\nbarred up his retreat by that shrinking dread of being deemed wavering\nand inconsistent, which has so often merely the effect of rendering\nsuch as lie openest to the imputation firm in the wrong place. There\nwas a secret bitterness in his spirit, that vented itself in caustic\nremarks on all whom he had once admired and respected--all save Mary\nand her brother, and of them he never spoke. His former habits of\napplication were broken up; yet, though no longer engrossed by the\nstudies which it had once seemed the bent of his nature to pursue, he\nremained as indifferent as ever to the various pursuits of interest\nand ambition which engaged his uncle. After passing a day of restless\ninactivity among his books, he walked out a little before sunset in the\ndirection of the old chapel of St. Regulus, and, ere he took note of\nwhere his wanderings led him, found himself among the graves.\n\nIt was a lovely evening of October. The ancient elms and wild\ncherry-trees which surrounded the burying-ground still retained\ntheir foliage entire, and the elms were hung in gold, and the wild\ncherry-trees in crimson, and the pale yellow tint of the straggling\nand irregular fields on the hill-side contrasted strongly with the\ndeepening russet of the surrounding moor. The tombs and the ruins were\nbathed in the yellow light of the setting sun; but to the melancholy\nand aimless wanderer the quiet and gorgeous beauty of the scene was\nassociated with the coming night and the coming winter, with the\nsadness of inevitable decay and the gloom of the insatiable grave.\nHe passed moodily onward, and, on turning an angle of the chapel,\nfound Mary Anderson seated among the ruins, on the tombstone of her\nmother, whom she had lost when a child. There was a slight flush on\nher countenance as she rose to meet him, but she held out her hand as\nusual, though the young man thought, but it might not be so, that the\ngrasp was less kindly.\n\n\u201cYou have been a great stranger of late, Dallas,\u201d she said; \u201chow have\nwe been so unhappy as to offend you?\u201d\n\nThe young chaplain looked as if he could have sunk into the ground, and\nwas silent.\n\n\u201cCan it be true,\u201d resumed the maiden, \u201cthat you have left us in our\ndistress, and gone over to the prelates?\u201d\n\nDallas stammered out an apology, and reminded her that Christianity,\nnot Presbyterianism, formed the basis of their friendship. \u201cThe\nChurch,\u201d he said, \u201chad too long paid an overweening regard to mere\nforms; it was now full time to look to essentials. What mattered it\nwhether men went to heaven under the jurisdiction of a Presbyterian or\nof an Episcopalian Church?\u201d He passed rapidly over the arguments of Sir\nJohn.\n\n\u201cYou are deceived, my dear friend,\u201d said Mary. \u201cLook at these cottages\nthat glitter to the setting sun on the hill-side. Eighty years ago\ntheir inmates were the slaves of gross superstition--creatures who\nfeared and worshipped they knew not what; and, with no discipline of\npurity connected with their uncertain beliefs, they could, like mere\nmachines, be set in motion, either for good or ill, at the will of\ntheir capricious masters. These cottages, Dallas, are now inhabited\nby thinking men; there are Bibles in even the humblest of them--in\neven yonder hovel where the old widow lives--and these Bibles are read\nand understood. We may hear even now the notes of the evening psalm!\nWist ye how the change was wrought? or what it was that converted mere\nanimal men into rational creatures? Was it not that very Church which\nyou have, alas! so rashly forsaken, and now denounce as intolerant?\nA strange intolerance, surely, that delivers men from the influence\nof their grosser nature, and delights to arm its vassals with a\npower before which all tyranny must eventually be overthrown. Be not\ndeceived, Dallas! Men sometimes suffer themselves to be misled by\ntheories of a perfect but impossible freedom--impossible, because\nunsuited to the low natures and darkened minds of those on whom\nthey would bestow it--and then submit in despair to the quiet of a\nparalysing despotism, because they cannot realize what they have so\nfondly imagined. Know ye not that none but the wise and the good can\nbe truly free--that the vile and the ignorant are necessarily slaves\nunder whatever form of government they may chance to live? See you\nnot that the deprecated sway of the Scottish Church has been in truth\nbut a paternal tutelage--that her children were feeble in mind, and\nrude and untoward, when she first laid the hand of her discipline upon\nthem--and that she has now well-nigh trained them up to be men? And\nthink you that these, our poor countrymen, already occupy that place\nwhich He who died for them has willed they should attain to? or that\nthe _many_, no longer a brute herd, but moral and thoughtful, and with\nthe Bible in their hands, are to remain the willing, unresisting slaves\nof the _few_? No, Dallas! when men increase in goodness and knowledge,\nthere must be also an onward progress towards civil liberty; and the\npolitical bias which you denounce as unfavourable to religion, is\nmerely the onward groping of this principle. A strange intolerance,\nsurely, that has already broken the fetters of the bondsman; they\nstill clank about him, but being what he now is--intelligent and\nconscientious--they must inevitably drop off, let his master fret as he\nmay, and leave him a freeman.\u201d\n\nThere was a pause, during which Dallas doggedly fixed his eyes on the\nground. \u201cI have viewed the subject,\u201d he at length said, \u201cwith different\neyes. And of this I am sure, there are in the Episcopal Church truly\nexcellent men who cannot exist without doing good.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut look round you,\u201d said Mary, \u201cand say whether the great bulk of\nthose who are now watching as on tiptoe to swell its ranks, are of the\nclass you describe? Can you shut your eyes to the fact, that there is\na winnowing process going on in the one Church, and that the chaff and\ndust are falling into the other? But, Dallas,\u201d she said, laying her\nhand on her breast, \u201cI can no longer dispute with you; and \u2019twould be\nunavailing if I could, for it is not argument but strength that you\nwant--strength to resist the influence of a more powerful but less\nhonest mind than your own. There is assuredly a time of trouble coming;\nbut I feel, Dallas, that your escape from it cannot be more certain\nthan mine.\u201d\n\nDallas, who had hitherto avoided her glance, now regarded her with an\nexpression of solicitude and alarm. She was thin--much thinner than\nusual--and her cheeks were crimsoned by a flush of deadly beauty.\nThe anger which she had excited--for she had convinced him of his\nerror, despite of his determination not to be convinced, and he was\nnecessarily angry--vanished in a moment. He grasped her hand, and\nbursting into tears, \u201cO Mary!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI am a weak, worthless\nthing--pity me--pray for me; but no, it were vain, it were vain; I am\nlost, and for ever!\u201d\n\nThe maiden was deeply affected, and strove to console him. \u201cRetrace\nyour steps,\u201d she said, \u201cin the might of Him whose strength is perfected\nin weakness, and all shall yet be well. My poor brother has mourned\nfor your defection as he would have done for your death; but he loves\nyou still, and deeply regrets that an unfortunate quarrel should have\nestranged you from him. Come and see him as usual; he has a keen\ntemper, but need I tell you that he has an affectionate heart? And I\ndid not think, Dallas, that you could have so soon forgotten myself;\nbut come, that I may have my revenge.\u201d\n\nThe friends parted, and at this time neither of them thought they had\nparted for ever. But so it was. Facile and wavering as nature had\nformed the young chaplain, he yet indulged in a pride that, conscious\nof weakness, would fain solace itself with at least an outside show\nof strength and consistency; and he could not forget that he had now\nchosen his side. Weeks and months passed, and the day arrived on which,\nat the instance of the Bishop of Ross, the nonconforming minister of\nCromarty was to be ejected from his parish.\n\nIt was early in December. There had been a severe and still increasing\nsnow-storm for the two previous days; the earth was deeply covered;\nand a strong biting gale from the north-east was now drifting the snow\nhalf-way up the side-walls of the manse. The distant hills rose like\nso many shrouded spectres over the dark and melancholy sea--their\nheads enveloped in broken wreaths of livid cloud; nature lay dead;\nand the very firmament, blackened with tempest, seemed a huge burial\nvault. The wind shrieked and wailed like an unhappy spirit among the\nturrets and chimneys of the old castle. Dallas undid the covering of\nthe shot-hole that looked down on the manse, and then hastily shutting\nit, flung himself on his bed, where he lay with his face folded in\nthe bedclothes. Ere he had risen, the shades of evening, deepened by\na furious snow-shower, had set in. He again unbolted the shot-hole\nand looked out. The flakes flew so thickly that they obscured every\nnearer object, and wholly concealed the more remote: even the manse\nhad disappeared; but there was a faint gleam of light flickering in\nthat direction through the shower; and as the air cleared, the chaplain\ncould see that it proceeded from two lighted candles placed in one of\nthe windows. Dreading he knew not what, he descended the turret stair,\nand on entering the hall found one of the domestics, an elderly woman,\npreparing to quit it. \u201cThis,\u201d he said, addressing her, \u201cis surely no\nnight for going abroad, Martha?\u201d \u201cAh, no!\u201d replied the woman, \u201cbut I\nam going to the manse; there is distress there. Mary Anderson died\nthis morning, and it will be a thin lykewake.\u201d \u201cMary Anderson! thin\nlykewake!\u201d said Dallas, repeating her words as if unconscious of their\nmeaning: \u201cI\u2019ll go with you.\u201d And, as if moved by some impulse merely\nmechanical, he followed the woman.\n\nThe dead chamber was profusely lighted, according to the custom of the\ncountry, and the bed, with every other piece of furniture which it\ncontained, was hung with white. The bereaved brother had shut himself\nup in his room, where he might be heard at times as if struggling with\ninexpressible anguish in the agony of prayer; and only two elderly\nwomen, one of them the nurse of Mary, watched beside the corpse. With\nan unsteady step and pallid countenance, on the lineaments of which\na quiescent but settled despair was frightfully impressed, Dallas\nentered the apartment and stood fronting the bed. The nurse greeted\nhim in a few brief words, expressive of their mutual loss; but he saw\nher not--heard her not. He saw only the long white shroud with its\nfearfully significant outline--heard only the beatings of his own\nheart. The eyes of the good old woman filled with tears as she gazed on\nhim, and, slowly rising, she uncovered the face of the dead. He bent\nforward; _there_ was the open and beautiful forehead, and there the\nexquisite features, thin and wasted \u2019tis true, but lovely as ever. A\nfaint smile still lingered on the lip; it was a smile that called upon\nthoughts and feelings the most solemn and holy, and whispered of the\njoys of immortality from amid the calm and awful sublimity of death.\n\u201cAh, my bairn!\u201d said the woman, \u201cweel and lang did she loe you, and\nmeikle did she grieve for you and pray for you, when ye went o\u2019er to\nthe prelates. But her griefs are a\u2019 ended now. Ken ye, Dallas, that for\nyears an\u2019 years she loed ye wi\u2019 mair than a sister\u2019s luve, an\u2019 that\nif she didna just meet wi\u2019 your hopes, it was only because she kent\no\u2019er weel she was to die young?\u201d Dallas struck his open palm against\nhis forehead; a convulsive emotion shook his frame; and, bursting into\ntears, he flung himself out of the room.\n\nThe funeral passed over; and the brother of Mary quitted the parish\na homeless and solitary man, with a grieving heart but an unbroken\nspirit. He had to mourn both for the dead and the estranged; and found\nthat the low insults and cruel suspicions of the persecutor dogged\nhim wherever he went. But his state was one of comfort compared with\nthat of his hapless friend. Grief, terror, and remorse, lorded it over\nthe unfortunate chaplain by turns, and what was at first but mere\ninquietude had become anguish. He was sitting a few weeks after the\ninterment in the eastern turret, his eyes fixed vacantly on the fire,\nwhich was dying on the hearth at his feet, when Sir John abruptly\nentered, and drew in his seat beside him.\n\n\u201cYour fire, nephew,\u201d he said, as he trimmed it, \u201cvery much resembles\nyourself. There is no lack of the right material, but it wants just a\nlittle stirring, and is useless for want of it. It is no time, Dallas,\nto be loitering away life when a bright prospect of honourable ambition\nand extensive usefulness is opening full before you. Wot you not that\nour neighbour the bishop, now a worn-out old man, has been confined\nto his room for the last week? And should my cousin of Tarbat and\nmyself agree in recommending a successor, as we unquestionably shall,\nwhere think you lies the influence powerful enough to thwart us? But a\ndiocese so important, nephew, can be the prize of no indolent dreamer.\u201d\n\n\u201cUncle,\u201d said Dallas, in a tone of deep melancholy, \u201cdo you believe\nthat those who have been once awakened to the truth may yet fall away\nand perish?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy perplex yourself with such questions?\u201d replied his uncle. \u201cWe are\ncreatures intended for both this world and the next; each demands that\ncertain duties be performed; and of all men, woe to him of a musing and\nspeculative turn, who, though not devoid of a sense of duty, fails in\nthe requirements of the present state. His thoughts become fiends to\ntorment him. But up, nephew, and act, and you will find that all will\nbe well.\u201d\n\n\u201cAct! How?--to what purpose?--how read you the text--\u2018It is impossible\nfor those who were once enlightened, if they fall away, to renew them\nto repentance?\u2019 I have fallen--fallen for ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cDallas,\u201d said Sir John, \u201cwhat wild thought has now possessed you?--You\nare but one of many thousands;--I know not a more hopeful clergyman of\nyour standing connected with the Church.\u201d\n\n\u201cWretched, wretched Church, if it be so! But what are her ministers?\nTrees twice dead, plucked up by the roots--wandering stars, for whom\nis reserved the blackness of darkness for ever. Yes, I am as hopeful\nas most of her ministers. Mary Anderson told me what was coming; and,\nhypocrite that I am! I believed her, and yet denied that I did. I saw\nher last night;--she was beautiful as ever--but ah! there was no love,\nno pity in her eye--and the wide, wide gulf was between us.\u201d\n\n\u201cDearest nephew, why talk so wildly?\u201d exclaimed Sir John.\n\n\u201cUncle, you have ever been kind to me,\u201d replied Dallas; \u201cbut you have\nruined--no, wretched creature! \u2019twas I, myself, who have ruined my\nsoul; and there is neither love nor gratitude in the place to which I\nam going. O leave me to myself! my thoughts become more fearful when I\nembody them in words;--leave me to myself! and, uncle, while there is\nyet space, seek after that repentance which is denied to me. Avoid the\nunpardonable sin.\u201d\n\nThe strong mind of Sir John was prostrated before the fearfully excited\nfeelings of his nephew, as a massy barrier of iron may be beaten down\nby a cannon-ball; and he descended the turret stair rebuked and humbled\nby an energy more potent than his own--as if, for the time, he and the\nyoung man had exchanged characters. Next morning Dallas was nowhere to\nbe found.\n\nHe was seen about sunrise, by a farmer of the parish, passing hurriedly\nalong the ridge of the hill. The man, a staid Presbyterian, with\nwhom he had once loved to converse, had saluted him as he passed, and\nthen paused for half a second in the expectation that, as usual, he\nwould address him in turn; but he seemed wholly unconscious of his\npresence. His face, he said, was of a deadly paleness, and his pace,\nthough hurried, seemed strangely unequal, as if he were exhausted\nby indisposition or fatigue. The day wore on; and towards evening,\nSir John, who could no longer conceal the anxiety which he felt,\nordered out all his domestics in quest of him. But the night soon\nfell dark and rainy, and the party was on the eve of relinquishing\nthe search, when, in passing along the edge of the _Look-out_, one of\nthe servants observed something white lying on the little grassy bank\nwhich surmounts the precipice. It was an open Bible--the gift, as the\ntitle-page intimated, of Mary Anderson to Dallas Urquhart. Sir John\nstruck his clenched fist against his forehead.\n\n\u201cGracious heaven!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201che has destroyed himself--to the foot\nof the rock--to the foot of the rock;--and haste! for the tide is fast\nrising. But stay--let me forward--I will lead the way myself.\u201d\n\nAnd, passing through his terrified attendants, he began to descend by\na path nearly invisible in the darkness, and which, winding along the\nnarrow shelves of the precipice, seemed barely accessible even by day\nto the light foot of the schoolboy. There was only one of the many who\nnow thronged the rock edge who had courage enough to follow him--a tall\nspare man, wrapped up in a dark-coloured cloak. As the path became\nnarrower and more broken, and overhung still more and more fearfully\nthe dizzy descent, the stranger, who passed lightly and steadily\nalong, repeatedly extended his arm to the assistance of the knight,\nwho, through agitation and the stiffness incident to a period of life\nconsiderably advanced, stumbled frightfully as he hurried down. They\nreached the shore in safety together. All was dismally solitary. They\ncould see only the dark rock towering over them, and the line of white\nwaves which were tumbling over the beach, and had now begun to lash the\nbase of the precipice.\n\n\u201cAlas! my poor lost friend!\u201d ejaculated the stranger--\u201clost, alas!\nfor ever, when I had hoped most for thy return. Wretched, unfortunate\ncreature! with little care of thine own for the things of this world,\nand yet ever led away by those who worshipped them as their only\ngod--alas! alas! how hast thou perished!\u201d\n\n\u201cSpare me, Hugh Anderson!\u201d said Sir John, \u201cspare me!--do not, I implore\nyou, add to the anguish of this miserable night!\u201d\n\nThey walked together in silence to where the waves barred their further\nprogress, and then returned to the top of the precipice. The search\nwas renewed in the morning, but as ineffectually as on the preceding\nnight--there was no trace of the body. Seasons passed away; Sir John,\nas has been already related, perished by his own act; Episcopacy fell;\nand Hugh Anderson, now a greyheaded elderly man, was reappointed, after\nthe lapse of more than thirty years, to his old charge, the parish of\nCromarty.\n\nHe had quitted it amid the snow-wreaths of a severe and boisterous\nwinter; he returned to it after a storm of wind and snow from the sea\nhad heaped the beach with wrack and tangle, and torn their mantles\nof ivy from some of the higher precipices. He revisited with anxious\nsolicitude the well-remembered haunts endeared to him by so many fond,\nyet mournful recollections--Mary\u2019s favourite walks--the cliffs which he\nhad so often scaled with Dallas--and the path which he had descended\nin the darkness with the hapless Sir John. He paused at the foot of\nthe precipice--the storm had swept fiercely over its iron forehead,\nand an immense bush of ivy, that had fallen from the ledge of the\n_apple-yardie_, lay withering at its base. His eye caught something of\nunusual appearance amid the torn and broken foliage--it was a human\nskull, bleached white by the rains and the sunshine of many seasons,\nand a few disjointed and fractured bones lay scattered near it.\nPainfully did he gather them up, and painfully scooping out with his\npointed stick a hollow in the neighbouring bank, he shed, as he covered\nthem up from the sight, the last tears that have fallen to the memory\nof the lost Dallas Urquhart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\u201cA mighty good sort of man.\u201d--BONNEL THORNTON.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE CURATES.]\n\nThe Episcopalian minister of Cromarty was a Mr. Bernard Mackenzie, a\nquiet, timid sort of man, with little force of character, but with what\nserved his turn equally well, a good deal of cunning. He came to the\nparish in the full expectation of being torn to pieces, and with an\naspect so wo-begone and miserable--for his very countenance told how\nunambitious he was of being a martyr--that the people pitied instead\nof insulting him; and, in the course of a few weeks, he had not an\nill-wisher among them, however disaffected some of them were to his\nChurch. No one could be more conversant than the curate with the policy\nof submission, or could become all things to all men with happier\neffect. The people, who, like the great bulk of the people everywhere,\nwere better acquainted with the duties of ministers than with their\nown, were liberal in giving advices, and no person could be more\nsubmissive in listening to these than the curate. Some of them, too,\nhad found out the knack of being religious without being moral, and the\ncurate was by much too polite to hint to them that the knack was a bad\none. And thus he went on, suiting himself to every event, and borrowing\nthe tone of his character from those whom it was his duty rather to\nlead than to follow, until the great event of the Revolution, which\nhe also surmounted by taking the oath of allegiance that recognised\nWilliam as king both in fact and in law. With all his policy, however,\nhe could not help dying a few years after, when he was succeeded by the\nold ejected minister, Hugh Anderson.\n\nThe curate of the neighbouring parish of Nigg, a Mr. James Mackenzie,\nwas in some respects a different sort of person. He was nearly as quiet\nand submissive as his namesake of Cromarty, and he was not much more\nreligious; for when, one Sunday morning, he chanced to meet the girls\nof a fishing village returning home laden with shell-fish, he only\ntold them that they should strive to divide the day so as to avail\nthemselves both of the church and the ebb. He was, however, a simple,\nbenevolent sort of man, who had no harm in him, and never suspected\nit in others; and so little was he given to notice what was passing\naround him, as to be ignorant, it was said, of the exact number of\nhis children, though it was known to every one else in the parish\nthat they amounted to twenty. They were all sent out to nurse, as was\ncustomary at the period; and when the usual term had expired, and they\nwere returned to the manse, it proved a sad puzzle to the poor curate\nto recollect their names. On one occasion, when the whole twenty had\ngathered round his table, there was a little red-cheeked girl among\nthem, who having succeeded in climbing to his knee, delighted him so\nmuch with her prattle, that he told her, after half smothering her\nwith kisses, that \u201cgin she were a bairn o\u2019 his, he would gie her a\ntocher o\u2019 three hunder merk mair nor ony o\u2019 the lave.\u201d \u201cThen haud ye,\ngudeman,\u201d said his wife; \u201cfor as sure as ye\u2019re sitting there, it\u2019s yer\nain Jenny.\u201d The descendants of the curate, as might be anticipated from\nthe number of his children, are widely spread over the country, and\nexhibit almost every variety of fortune and cast of mind. One of them,\na poor pauper, died a few years ago in the last extreme of destitution\nand wretchedness; another, an eminent Scottish lawyer, now sits on\nthe Bench as one of the Lords of Session. One of his elder sons was\ngrandfather to the celebrated Henry Mackenzie of Edinburgh, and the\ngreat-great-grandchild of the little prattling Jenny is the writer of\nthese chapters.\n\n[Sidenote: DONALD ROY OF NIGG.]\n\nThe bulk of the people of Nigg had just as little religion as their\npastor. Every Sunday forenoon they attended church, but the evening\nof the day was devoted to the common athletic games of the country. A\nrobust active young fellow, named Donald Roy, was deemed their best\nclub-player; and, as the game was a popular one, his Sabbath evenings\nwere usually spent at the club. He was a farmer, and the owner of a\nsmall herd of black cattle. On returning home one Sabbath evening,\nafter vanquishing the most skilful of his competitors, he found the\ncarcase of one of his best cattle lying across the threshold, where\nshe had dropt down a few minutes before. Next Sabbath he headed the\nclub-players as usual, and on returning at the same hour, he found\nthe dead body of a second cow lying in exactly the same place. \u201cCan\nit be possible,\u201d thought he, \u201cthat the Whigs are in the right after\nall?\u201d A challenge, however, had been given to the club-players of a\nneighbouring parish, and, as the game was to be played out on the\nfollowing Sabbath, he could not bring himself to resolve the question.\nWhen the day came, Donald played beyond all praise, and, elated by the\nvictory which his exertions had at length secured to his parish, he\nwas striding homeward through a green lane, when a fine cow, which he\nhad purchased only a few days before came pressing through the fence,\nand flinging herself down before him, expired at his feet with a deep\nhorrible bellow. \u201cThis is God\u2019s judgment!\u201d exclaimed Donald, \u201cthe\nWhigamores are in the right;--I have taken _His_ day, and he takes _my_\ncattle.\u201d He never after played at the club; and, such was the change\neffected on his character, that shortly after the Revolution he was\nordained an elder of the church, and he became afterwards one of the\nmost notable worthies of the North. There are several stories still\nextant regarding him, which show that he must have latterly belonged\nto that extraordinary class of men (now extinct) who, living, as it\nwere, on the extreme verge of the natural world, and seeing far into\nthe world of spirits, had in their times of darkness to do battle with\nthe worst inmates of the latter, and saw in their seasons of light the\nextreme bounds of the distant and the future. This class comprised at\none time some of the stanchest champions of the Covenant, and we find\nat its head the celebrated Donald Cargill and Alexander Peden.\n\nSome of the stories told of Donald Roy, which serve to identify him\nwith this class, are worthy of being preserved. On one occasion, it\nis said, that when walking after nightfall on a solitary road, he was\ndistressed by a series of blasphemous thoughts, which came pouring into\nhis mind despite of all his exertions to exclude them. Still, however,\nhe struggled manfully, and was gradually working himself into a better\nframe, when looking downwards he saw what seemed to be a black dog\ntrotting by his side. \u201cAh!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cand so I have got company;\nI might have guessed so sooner.\u201d The thing growled as he spoke, and\nbounding a few yards before him, emitted an intensely bright jet of\nflame, which came streaming along the road until it seemed to hiss and\ncrackle beneath his feet. On he went, however, without turning to the\nright hand or to the left, and the thing bounding away as before, stood\nand emitted a second jet. \u201cNa, na, it winna do,\u201d said the imperturbable\nDonald: \u201cye first tried to loose my haud o\u2019 my Master, and ye would now\nfain gie me a fleg; but I ken baith him and you ower weel for that.\u201d\nThe appearance, however, went on bounding and emitting flame by turns,\nuntil he had reached the outer limits of his farm, when it vanished.\n\nAbout seventy years after the Revolution, he was engaged in what is\ntermed _proofing_ the stacks of a corn-yard, on the hilly farm of\nCastle-Craig. There were other two men with him employed in handing\ndown and threshing the sheaves. The clay was exceedingly boisterous,\nand towards evening there came on a heavy snow-storm. \u201cOur elder,\u201d said\none of the men to his companion, \u201cwill hae deep stepping home through\nthe snaw thraves; he would better stay at the Craig--will you no ask\nhim?\u201d \u201cMan, look,\u201d said the other, \u201cwhat is he about?--look--look!\u201d At\na little distance, in a waste corner of the barn, sat the elder, his\nbroad blue bonnet drawn over his brow, his eyes fixed on the wall; and\never and anon would he raise his hands and then clasp them together, as\nif witnessing some scene of intense and terrible interest. At times,\ntoo, he would mutter to himself like a deranged person; and the men,\nwho had dropped their flails and stood looking at him, could hear him\nexclaiming in a rapid but subdued tone of voice, \u201cLet her drive--let\nher drive!--Dinna haud her side to the sea.\u201d Then striking his palms\ntogether, he shouted out, \u201cShe\u2019s o\u2019er--she\u2019s o\u2019er!--O the puir widows\no\u2019 Dunskaith!--but God\u2019s will be done.\u201d \u201cElder,\u201d said one of the men,\n\u201care ye no weel?--ye wald better gang in till the house.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d said\nDonald, \u201clet\u2019s awa to the burn o\u2019 Nigg;--there has been ill enough\ncome o\u2019 this sad night already--let\u2019s awa to the burn, or there\u2019ll be\nmore.\u201d And rising from his seat with the alacrity of his club-playing\ndays, though he was now turned of ninety, he strode out into the storm,\nfollowed by the two men. \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d asked one of the men, pointing,\nas he reached the burn, to a piece of red tartan which projected from\nthe edge of an immense wreath, \u201cOd! but it\u2019s our Jenny\u2019s _brottie_\nsticking out thro\u2019 the snaw:--An\u2019 oh! but here\u2019s Jenny hersel\u2019.\u201d The\npoor woman, who had been visiting a friend at the other end of the\nparish, had set out for Castle-Craig at the beginning of the storm, and\nexhausted with cold and fatigue, had sunk at the side of the stream a\nfew minutes before. She was carried to the nearest cottage, and soon\nrecovered. And the following morning afforded a sad explanation of the\ndarker vision--the wreck of a Dunskaith boat, and the dead bodies of\nsome of the crew being found on the beach below the Craig.\n\nA grand-daughter of the elder who was married to a respectable Cromarty\ntradesman, was seized in her thirtieth year by a dangerous fever, and\nher life despaired of. At the very crisis of the disease her husband\nwas called by urgent business to the parish of Tarbat. On passing\nthrough Nigg he waited on Donald, and, informing him of her illness,\nexpressed his fears that he would not again see her in life. \u201cStep in\non your coming back,\u201d said the elder, \u201cand dinna tine heart--for she\u2019s\nin gude hands.\u201d The husband\u2019s journey was a hurried one, and in less\nthan three hours after he had returned to the cottage of Donald, who\ncame out to meet him. \u201cCome in, Robert,\u201d he said, \u201cand cool yoursel\u2019;\nye hae travelled ower hard;--come in, and dinna be sae distressed,\nfor there\u2019s nae cause. Kettie will get o\u2019er this, and live to see the\nyoungest o\u2019 her bairns settled in the world, and doing for themselves.\u201d\nAnd his prediction was accomplished to the very letter. The husband,\non his return, found that the fever had abated in a very remarkable\nmanner a few hours before; and in less than a week after, his wife had\nperfectly recovered. More than forty years from this time, when the\nwriter was a little kilted urchin of five summers, he has stood by\nher knee listening to her stories of Donald Roy. \u201cAnd now,\u201d has she\nsaid, after narrating the one in which she herself was so specially\nconcerned, \u201call my bairns are doing for themselves, as the good man\nprophesied; and I have lived to tell of him to you, my little curious\nboy, the bairn of my youngest bairn.\u201d I have little of the pride of\nfamily in my disposition; and, indeed, cannot plume myself much on the\nscore of descent, for, for the last two hundred years, my ancestors\nhave been merely shrewd honest people, who loved their country too well\nto do it any discredit; but I am unable to resist the temptation of\nshowing that I can claim kindred with the good old seer of Nigg, and\nthe Addison of Scotland.\n\nThere is a still more wonderful story told of Donald Roy than any of\nthese. On one of the days of preparation set apart by the Scottish\nChurch previous to the dispensation of the sacrament, it is still\ncustomary in the north of Scotland for the elders to address the people\non what may be termed the internal evidences of religion, tested by\ntheir own experience. The day dedicated to this purpose is termed\n_the day of the men_; and so popular are its duties, that there are\nnone of the other days which the clergyman might not more safely set\naside. When there is a lack of necessary talent among the elders of\na parish, they are called dumb elders, and their places are supplied\non the day of the men by the more gifted worthies of the parishes\nadjoining. Such a lack occurred about a century ago in the eldership\nof Urray, a semi-Highland parish, near Dingwall;--and at the request\nof the minister to the Session of Nigg, that some of the Nigg elders,\nwho at that time were the most famous in the country, should come\nand officiate in the room of his own, Donald Roy and three other men\nwere despatched to Urray. They reached the confines of the parish\ntowards evening, and when passing the house of a gentleman, one of\nthe heritors, they were greeted by the housekeeper, a woman of Nigg,\nwho insisted on their turning aside and spending the evening with\nher. Her mistress, she said, was a stanch Roman Catholic, but one of\nthe best creatures that ever lived, and, if the thing was possible, a\nChristian;--her master was a kind, good-natured man, of no religion at\nall; she was a great favourite with both, and was very sure that any\nof her friends would be made heartily welcome to the best their hall\nafforded. Donald\u2019s companions would have declined the invitation, as\nbeneath the dignity of men of independence and elders of the Church;\nbut he himself, though quite as much a Whig as any of them, joined with\nthe woman in urging them to accept of it. \u201cI am sure,\u201d he said, \u201cwe\nhave been sent here for some special end, and let us not suffer a silly\npride to turn us back without our errand.\u201d\n\nThere was one of the closets of the house converted by the lady into a\nkind of chapel or oratory. A small altar was placed in the centre; and\nthe walls were hollowed into twelve niches, occupied by little brass\nimages of the apostles. The lady was on the eve of retiring to this\nplace to her evening devotions, when the housekeeper came to inform her\nof her guests, and to request that they should be permitted to worship\ntogether, after the manner of their Church, in one of the out-houses.\nLeave was granted, and the lady retired to her room. Instead, however,\nof kneeling before the altar as usual, she seated herself at a window.\nAnd first there rose from the out-house a low mellow strain of music,\nswelling and sinking alternately, like the murmurs of the night wind\nechoing through the apartments of an old castle. When it had ceased\nshe could hear the fainter and more monotonous sounds of reading. Anon\nthere was a short pause, and then a scarcely audible whisper, which\nheightened, however, as the speaker proceeded. Donald Roy was engaged\nin prayer. There were two wax tapers burning on the altar, and as the\nprayer waxed louder the flames began to stream from the wicks, as if\nexposed to a strong current of air, and the saints to tremble in their\nniches. The lady turned hastily from the window, and as she turned, one\nof the images toppling over, fell upon the floor; another and another\nsucceeded, until the whole twelve were overthrown. When the prayer\nhad ceased, the elders were summoned to attend the lady. \u201cLet us take\nour Bibles with us,\u201d said Donald; \u201cDagon has fallen, and the ark o\u2019\nthe Bible is to be set up in his place.\u201d And so it was;--they found\nthe lady prepared to become a willing convert to its doctrines; and\non the following morning the twelve images were flung into the Conan.\nRather more than twenty years ago a fisherman, when dragging for salmon\nin a pool of the river in the immediate neighbourhood of Urray, drew\nashore a little brass figure, so richly gilt, that for some time it\nwas supposed to be of gold; and the incident was deemed by the country\npeople an indubitable proof of the truth of the story.\n\nDonald Roy, after he had been for full sixty years an elder of\nthe Church, was compelled by one of those high-handed acts of\necclesiastical intrusion, which were unfortunately so common in\nScotland about the middle of the last century, to quit it for ever; and\nall the people of the parish following him as their leader, they built\nfor themselves a meeting-house, and joined the ranks of the Secession.\nSuch, however, was their attachment to the National Church, that for\nnearly ten years after the outrage had been perpetrated, they continued\nto worship in its communion, encouraged by the occasional ministrations\nof the most distinguished divine of the north of Scotland in that\nage, Mr. Fraser of Alness, the author of a volume on Sanctification,\nstill regarded as a standard work by our Scottish theologians. The\npresbytery, however, refusing to tolerate the irregularity, the people\nwere at length lost to the Established Church; and the dissenting\ncongregation which they formed still exists as one of the most numerous\nand respectable in that part of the kingdom. We find it recorded by Dr.\nHetherington in his admirable Church History, that \u201cgreat opposition\nwas made by the pious parishioners to the settlement of the obnoxious\npresentee, and equal reluctance manifested by the majority of the\npresbytery to perpetrate the outrage commanded by the superior courts.\nBut the fate of Gillespie was before their eyes; and, under a strong\nfeeling of sorrow and regret, four of the presbytery repaired to the\nchurch at Nigg to discharge the painful duty. The church was empty;\nnot a single member of the congregation was to be seen. While in a\nstate of perplexity what to do in such a strange condition, one man\nappeared who had it in charge to tell them. \u2018That the blood of the\npeople of Nigg would be required of them if they should _settle a man\nto the walls of the kirk_.\u2019 Having delivered solemnly this appalling\nmessage, he departed, leaving the presbytery astonished and paralysed.\nAnd proceeding no further at the time, they reported the case to the\nGeneral Assembly of the following year; by whom, however, the intrusion\nof the obnoxious presentee was ultimately compelled.\u201d I need scarce\nsay, that the one man who on this occasion paralysed the presbytery\nand arrested the work of intrusion for the day, was the venerable\npatriarch of Nigg, at this time considerably turned of eighty. He died\nin the month of January 1774, in the 109th year of his age and the 84th\nof his eldership, and his death and character were recorded in the\nnewspapers of the time.\n\n[Sidenote: THE BREAKING OF THE BURGH.]\n\nIn bearing Donald company into an age so recent, I have wandered far\nfrom the era of the curates, and must now return. Their time-serving\ndogmas seem to have had no very heightening effect on the morals of\nthe burghers of Cromarty. Prior to the year 1670, the town was a\nroyal burgh, and sent its commissioner to the Convention, and its\nrepresentative to Parliament. For the ten years previous, however, its\nprovost and bailies had set themselves with the most perfect unanimity\nto convert its revenues into gin and brandy, the favourite liquors of\nthe period; and then to contract heavy debts on its various properties,\nthat they might carry on the process on a more extensive scale. And\nin this year, when the whole was absorbed, they made over their lands\nto Sir John Urquhart, the proprietor, \u201cin consideration,\u201d says the\ndocument in which the transaction is recorded, \u201cof his having instantly\nadvanced, paid, and delivered to them 5000 merks Scots, for outredding\nthem of their necessary and most urgent affairs.\u201d The burgh was\ndisfranchised shortly after by an act of the Privy Council, in answer\nto a petition from Sir John and the burghers. There is a tradition,\nthat in the previous ten years of license, in which the leading men\nof Cromarty were so successful in imitating the leading men of the\nkingdom, the council met regularly once a day in the little vaulted\ncell beneath the cross, to discuss the affairs of the burgh; and so\nsorely would they be exhausted, it is said, by a press of business and\nthe brandy, that it was generally found necessary to carry them home at\nnight. But it was all for the good of the place; and so perseveringly\nwere they devoted to its welfare, that their last meeting was prolonged\nfor three days together.\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE, EARL OF CROMARTIE.]\n\nSir John did not long enjoy this accession to his property, destroying\nhimself in a fit of melancholy, as has been already related, three\nyears after. He was succeeded by his son Jonathan, the last of the\nUrquharts of Cromarty; for, finding the revenues of his house much\ndilapidated by the misfortunes of Sir Thomas, and perceiving that\nall his father\u2019s exertions had failed to improve them, he brought\nthe estate to sale, when it was purchased by Sir George Mackenzie\nof Tarbat. This accomplished courtier and able man was the scion of\na family that, in little more than a century, had buoyed itself up,\nby mere dint of talent, from a state of comparative obscurity into\naffluence and eminence. The founder, Roderick Mackenzie, was second son\nof Colin of Kintail, a Highland chief of the sixteenth century, whose\neldest son, Kenneth, carried on the line of Seaforth. Roderick, who,\nsays Douglas in his Scottish Peerage, was a man of singular prudence\nand courage, and highly instrumental in civilizing the northern parts\nof the kingdom, was knighted by James VI., and left two sons, John\nand Kenneth. John, the elder, was created a baronet in the succeeding\nreign, and bequeathed at his death his lands to his son George of\nTarbat, the purchaser of the lands of Cromarty. Sir George was born in\nthe castle of Loch-Slin, near Tain, in the year 1630, and devoted a\nlong life to the study of human affairs, and the laws and antiquities\nof the kingdom. He was one of those wary politicians who, according\nto Dryden, neither love nor hate, but are honest as far as honesty is\nexpedient, and never glaringly vicious, because it is impolitic to be\nwicked over-much. And never was there a man more thoroughly conversant\nwith the intrigues of a court, or more skilful in availing himself\nof every chance combination of circumstances. Despite of the various\nchanges which took place in the government of the country, he rose\ngradually into eminence and power during the reigns of Charles and\nJames, and reached, in the reign of Anne, when he was made secretary\nof state and Earl of Cromartie, the apex of his ambition. He found\nleisure, in the course of a very busy life, to write two historical\ndissertations of great research--the one a vindication of Robert III.\nof Scotland from the charge of bastardy, the other an account of the\nGowrie conspiracy. He wrote, besides, a _Synopsis Apocalyptica_,\nand recorded several interesting facts regarding the formation of\npeat-moss, which we find quoted by Mr. Rennie of Kilsyth in his\nelaborate essay. He is the writer, too, of a curious letter on the\nsecond sight, addressed to the Honourable Robert Boyle, which may be\nfound in an appendix attached to the fifth volume of Pepys\u2019 Memoirs. On\nhis death, which took place in 1714, his eldest son John succeeded to\nhis titles and the lands of Tarbat, and his second son Sir Kenneth to\nthe estate of Cromarty.\n\nSome time ago, when on a journey in Easter Ross, I had to take shelter\nfrom a sudden shower in an old ruinous building, which had once been\nthe dwelling-house of Lord Cromartie\u2019s chamberlain. The roof was not\nyet gone, but the floors had fallen, and the windows were divested\nof the frames. Miscellaneous heaps of rubbish were spread over the\npavement; and in one of the corners there was a pile of tattered\npapers, partially glued to the floor and to each other by the rain,\nwhich pattered upon them through the crevices of the roof. The first I\nexamined was written in a cramp old hand, and bore date 1682. At the\nbottom was the name of the writer, George Mackenzie. The next, which\nwas dated nineteen years later, was in the same hand, but still more\ncramp. It was signed Tarbat. The third was scarcely legible, but I\ncould decipher the word Cromartie, appended to it as a signature. Alas!\nI exclaimed, for the sagacious statesman. He was, I perceive, becoming\nold as he was growing great; and I doubt much whether the honours of\nhis age, when united to its infirmities, were half so productive of\nhappiness as the hopes and high spirits of his youth. And what _now_\nis the result of all his busy hours, if they were not completely\nsatisfactory _then_? Here are a few sybilline-like leaves, the sole\nrecords, perhaps, of his common everyday affairs; his literary labours\nfill a few inches of the shelves of our older libraries; and a few\nunnoticed pages in the more prolix histories of our country tell all\nthe rest. Life would not be worth one\u2019s acceptance if it led to nothing\nbetter; and yet of all the mere men of the world who ever designed\nsagaciously, and laboured indefatigably, how very few have been so\nfortunate as the Earl of Cromartie!\n\nThere was no very immediate effect produced by the Revolution in the\nparish of Cromarty, and indeed but little in the north of Scotland.\nThe Episcopalian clergymen in this quarter were quite as unwilling to\nrelinquish their livings, as the Presbyterians had been twenty-eight\nyears before; and setting themselves to reconcile, as they best could,\ntheir interest with what they deemed their duty, they professed their\nwillingness to recognise William as their king in _fact_, though not in\n_law_. To meet this sophism, William demanded, in what was termed the\nAssurance Oath, a recognition of his authority as not only actual but\nlegitimate; and a hundred Episcopal ministers, who complied by taking\nthe oath, were allowed to retain their livings without being restricted\nto the jurisdiction of courts of Presbytery. So large a proportion of\nthese fell to the share of the northern counties, that in that part of\nthe kingdom which extends from the Firth of Beauly to John o\u2019 Groat\u2019s,\nand from sea to sea, there was only one presbytery, consisting, for\nseveral years after the Revolution, of only eight clergymen.\n\n[Sidenote: THE UNION.]\n\nThe next political event of importance which agitated the kingdom was\nthe Union. And there was at least one of the people of Cromarty who\nregarded it with no very complacent feeling. He was a Mr. William\nMorrison, the parish schoolmaster. I have seen a manuscript of 230\npages, written by this person between the years 1710 and 1713,\ncontaining a full detail of his religious experience; and as a good\ndeal of his religion consisted in finding fault, and a good deal more\nin the vagaries of a wild imagination, though the residue seems to have\nbeen sincere, he has introduced into his pages much foreign matter, of\na kind interesting to the local antiquary. He was one of that class\nwho read the Bible in a way it can be made to prove anything; and he\ndeemed it directly opposed not only to the Union and the Abjuration\nOath of the succeeding reign, but to the very Act of Toleration, which\nsecured to the poor curates the privilege of being, like himself, the\nopen opponents of both. \u201cMay we not truly account,\u201d says he, \u201cfor the\ndeadness and carnality of the Church at this present time (1712), by\nthe great hand many of its members had in carrying on the late Union,\nof sorrowful memory, whereby our country\u2019s power to act for herself,\nboth as to religion and libertie, is hung under the belt of idolatrous\nEngland? Woe unto thee, Scotland, for thou hast sold thy birth-right!\nWoe unto thee for the too too much Erastian-like obedience of the most\npart of thy Church to the laws of the men of this generation--men who,\nhaving established a tolleration for all sorts of wickedness, have set\nup Baal\u2019s altars beside the altars of the Lord! Woe unto thee for that\nShibboleth, the oath of abjuration, which the Lord hath permitted to\ntry thy pulse to see how it did beat towards him! Alreadie hath thy\nChurch, through its unvaliant, faint, cowardly, and, I am bold to say,\nungodly spirit, suffered woful encroachments to be made on Christ\u2019s\ntruths in this kingdom, and yet all under a biassing pretence of witt\nand policy--leaving not only hoofs in Egypt, but also many of the best\nof the flock of God\u2019s revealed injunctions. Art thou not discouraged\nand beaten back, O Church! from thy duty, by the sounding of the\nshaking leaf of a parliament of the worms of the earth, that creep,\npeep, and cry, appearing out of their holes and dens in this time in\nScotland\u2019s dark night, when only such creatures come abroad in their\nnative shapes and colours. For if the sun did now as clearly shine on\nthe land as at former times, they would not so appear. It is in the\nnight-time that evil spirits and wild beasts seize on folk, and cry\nin the streets to fleg and flichter them; and such as they find most\nfeared and apprehensive they haunt most. And so, O Scotland! is thy\nChurch affeared and flichtered with the scriekings and worryings of an\nevil Parliament.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n    \u201cGive us, for our abstractions, solid facts--\n    For our disputes, plain pictures.\u201d--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n[Sidenote: IMPORTANT EVENTS WHICH AFFECT THE RELIGIOUS CHARACTER.]\n\nReligion never operates on the human mind without stamping upon it the\nmore prominent traits of its own character, and very rarely without\nbeing impressed in turn (if I may so speak) with some of the peculiar\ntraits of every individual mind on which it acts. Like a chemical\ntest applied to a heterogeneous mixture, it meets much that it must\nnecessarily repel, and much also with which it combines. And we find\nit not only accommodating itself in this way to the peculiarities of\ncharacter, but, in many instances, even adding a new force to these. In\nthe mind of the deep thinker it is moulded into a sublime and living\nphilosophy, and he cannot subsist under its influence without thinking\nmore deeply, and becoming more truly a philosopher than before. And\nwhat does it prove to the ignorant and credulous man?--no superstition\ncertainly, and yet so exceedingly akin in some of its effects to\nsuperstition, that we find it lending, as if it were really such, an\nindirect sanction to at least the less heterodox of his superstitious\nbeliefs--the wonders of Revelation moulding themselves into a kind\nof corroborate evidences of whatever else of the supernatural he\nhad previously credited. It imparts a higher tone of ecstasy to the\nraptures of the enthusiast--furnishes the visionary with his brightest\ndreams--gives a more intense gaiety to the joyous--a deeper gravity to\nthe serious--and not unfrequently a darker gloom to the melancholy.\nLike the most fervent of its apostles, and in much the same degree,\nit becomes all things to all men. And if this hold true in individual\ncharacter, its truth is not less strikingly apparent in the character\nof an age or country. The schoolmaster of Cromarty and the elder of\nNigg belonged each to a numerous class; and the brief notices of\nthese men which I have introduced into the foregoing chapter, may\nproperly enough be regarded rather as national than individual in their\ncharacter. No one who has perused the more popular writings of the\nCovenanters--Naphtali, the Hind let Loose, the Tracts of Peter Walker,\nand the older editions of the Scots Worthies--will fail of recognising,\nin my quotation from Morrison, the self-same spirit which animated the\nwriters of these volumes, or be disposed to question the propriety of\nclassing Donald Roy with our Cargills, Pedens, and Rutherfords.\n\nThe aspect of religion, when thus amalgamated with the enthusiasm\nor the superstitions of a country, is always in accordance with the\ndirection which that enthusiasm has taken, or with the peculiar cast of\nthese superstitions, or with the nature of the circumstances and events\nby which they were modified or produced. These last (circumstances\nand events) must be regarded as primary agents in this process of\namalgamation; and they may be divided into three distinct classes. In\nthe first are great political convulsions, which agitate and unsettle\nthe minds of whole communities. In every period of the history of\nevery country, there exists a certain quantum of superstition and\nenthusiasm--a certain proportion of the men who see visions and dream\ndreams; but in times of quiet, when every visionary has his own\ndistinct province assigned to him by some little chance peculiar to\nhimself, the quantum is variously directed; and thus, flowing in a\nthousand obscure channels, it can have no marked effect on the body of\na people. But it is not thus in times of convulsion, when all men look\none way, are interested in the same events, and direct their energies\non the same objects. The quantum, swollen in bulk by the workings of\nthese storms of the people, flows also in one channel; and thus, to\na force increased in all its details, there is added a collective\nimpetus. Hence its overmastering power. No one acquainted with English\nhistory need be reminded of those times of the Commonwealth, in which,\nthrough an atmosphere of lightning and tempest, whole hordes of\nvisionaries gazed on what they deemed a still brighter, but more placid\nfuture, and called each one on his own little sect to rejoice in the\nprospect. And the first French Revolution was productive of similar\neffects. I need not refer to the singular interest elicited in our own\ncountry among the humbler people by the wild predictions of Brothers,\nor to the many soberer dreamers who were led, by the general excitement\nand portentous events of the period, to interpret amiss a surer word\nof prophecy. No one intimate enough with human nature to recognise its\nimpulses and passions in their various disguises of belief and opinion,\ncan be ignorant that there is a superstition of scepticism as surely as\nof credulity, or fail of identifying the wild infidelity of the French\nCommonwealth with the almost equally wild fanaticism of the English one.\n\nThe second class of circumstances includes famine, pestilence, and\npersecution; and, in particular, the effects of the last are strikingly\nsingular. In the others, the mind, unsettled by suffering and terror,\nceases to deduce the evils which are overwhelming it from the old\nfixed causes which govern the universe, and sends out imagination in\nquest of the new. Demons are abroad--death itself becomes a living\nspirit, voices of lamentation are heard in the air--spectres seen on\nthe earth. In such circumstances, however, the very prostration of the\nmind sets limits to its delusions; the inventive powers are rather\npassive than active; but it is not so in seasons of persecution, when\nour fellow-creature--man--is the visible cause of the evils to which\nwe are subjected, and the combative principle, maddened by oppression,\nis roused into an almost preternatural activity. Hence, and from the\nenergy of excitement and the melancholy of suffering, the persecuted\nenthusiast becomes more enthusiastical, and the superstitions of\nthe credulous assume a darker aspect. Even the true religion seems\nimpressed with a new character. As Solomon has well expressed it--\u201cwise\nmen become mad;\u201d and, seen through the medium of their disturbed\nimaginations, the common traits of character and of circumstance are\nexaggerated into the supernatural. The oppression which is grinding\nthem to the earth, assumes for their destruction a visible form, and\na miraculous control over the laws of nature. The evil spirit is no\nlonger formidable merely from his power of biassing the will, and\nobliterating the better feelings of the heart; for, assuming a still\nmore terrible character, and a real and tangible shape, he assails them\nin their hiding-places--the cavern and the desert. Even their human\nenemies, charmed against the stroke of sword and bullet, are rendered\ninvulnerable by the same power. And there are miracles wrought also in\ntheir behalf. Their places of hiding are discovered by the persecutor;\nbut a sudden blindness falls on him, and he cannot avail himself of\nthe discovery. They are pursued on the hill-side by a troop of horse;\nbut, when exhausted in the flight, a thick cloud is dropped over\nthem, and they escape. The enemy is removed by judgments sudden and\nfearful. Their curse becomes terribly potent. There is a power given\nthem of reading the inmost thoughts of the heart; they have visions of\nthe distant--revelations of the future. These, however, are but the\ntraits of a comparatively sober enthusiasm, which persecution cannot\naltogether goad into madness. In some of the wilder instances we see\neven the moral principle unsettled. The Huguenots of Languedoc, when\ndriven to their mountains by the intolerance of Louis XIV., were headed\nby two leaders, a young man whom they named David, and a prophetess\nwhom they termed the Great Mary. These leaders exercised over them a\ndespotic authority; and, when any of them proved refractory, they were\ncondemned by the prophetess without form of trial, and put to death by\ntheir infatuated companions. A few years after the battle of Bothwell\nBridge, a small party of Covenanters, of whom the greater part, says\nWalker, \u201cwere serious and very gracious souls, though they then\nstumbled and fell,\u201d assembled in a moor near Stirling, and burned their\nBibles. Is it not probable that the terrible feuds which convulsed\nJerusalem during the siege of Titus, aggravating in a tenfold degree\nthe horrors of war and famine, were in part the effects of a similar\nfrenzy?\n\nThe third class of circumstances is of a quieter, but not less\ninfluential character. When a false religion gives place in any country\nto the true, there is commonly a mass of what may be termed neutral\nsuperstitions which survive the change. Thor and Woden are dethroned\nand forgotten, but the witch, the fairy, and the seer, the ghost of the\ndeparted, and the wraith of the dying, the spirits of the moor and the\nforest, of the sea and the river, remain as potent as before. The great\nnational colossuses of heathenism are prostrated before the genius of\nChristianity; but the little idols of the household can be vanquished\nby only philosophy and the arts. For religion, as has been already\nremarked, instead of militating against the minor superstitions,\nlends them, in at least the darker ages, the support of what seems a\ncorroborative evidence. And as, from natural causes, they must still be\nreceiving fresh accessions of strength in every country in which they\nhave taken root, and which remains unvisited by the arts, the testimony\nof the heathen fathers regarding them is confirmed by what is deemed\nthe experience of the Christian children. The visions of the seer are\nas distinct as ever, the witch as malignant, the spectre as terrible.\nEnthusiasm and superstition go hand in hand together as before, and\nunder the supposed sanction of a surer creed. The one works miracles,\nthe other inspires a belief in them; the one predicts, the other traces\nthe prediction to its fulfilment; the one calls up the spirits of the\ndead, the other sees them appear, even when uncalled.\n\nFrom a peculiar circumstance in the past state of this country, its\ntraditional history presents us both with the appearance assumed by\nsuperstition when thus connected with religion, and the very similar\naspect which it bears when left to itself. The country had its two\ndistinct tribes of people, believers in nearly the same superstitions,\nbut as unlike as can well be imagined in their degree of religious\nfeeling. No pagan of the past ages differed more in this respect from\nthe Christians of the present, than the clansmen of the Highland host\ndid from the poor Covenanters, on whom they were turned loose by the\nArchbishop of St. Andrews. And yet neither Peden nor Cargill, nor any\nof the other prophets of the Covenant, were favoured with clearer\nrevelations of the future than some of the Highland seers. What was\ndeemed prophecy in the one class, was reckoned indeed merely the\nsecond-sight in the other; but there seems to be little danger of error\nin referring what are so evidently the same effects to the same causes.\nDonald Roy\u2019s vision of the foundering boat, and of the woman perishing\nin the snow, is quite in character with the visions of the seers. Peden\nwas forty miles from Bothwell Bridge on the day of the battle; but he\nsaw his friends \u201cfleeing and falling before the enemy, with the hanging\nand hashing, and the blood running like water.\u201d \u201cOh the monzies! the\nmonzies!\u201d he exclaimed on another occasion, when foretelling a bloody\ninvasion of the French which was to depopulate the country, \u201cSee how\nthey run! see how they run! they are at our firesides, slaying men,\nwomen, and children.\u201d \u201cBe not afraid,\u201d said Bruce of Anwoth, in a\nsermon preached on the day the battle of Killiecrankie was stricken;\n\u201cbe not afraid, I see the enemy scattered, and Claverhouse no longer a\nterror to God\u2019s people. This day I see him killed--lying a corpse!\u201d But\nthere is no lack of such instances, nor of the stories of second-sight\nwith which they may be so clearly identified. The Tracts of Peter\nWalker, and the Lives of the Scots Worthies, abound with the former;\nsome very striking specimens of the latter may be found in Pepys\u2019\nCorrespondence with Lord Rea.\n\n[Sidenote: KENNETH ORE.]\n\nKenneth Ore, a Highlander of Ross-shire, who lived some time in the\nseventeenth century, may be regarded as the Peden of the class whom\nI have described as superstitious without religion. It is said, that\nwhen serving as a field labourer with a wealthy clansman, who resided\nsomewhere near Brahan Castle, he made himself so formidable to the\nclansman\u2019s wife by his shrewd sarcastic humour, that she resolved on\ndestroying him by poison. With this design, she mixed a preparation of\nnoxious herbs with his food, when he was one day employed in digging\nturf in a solitary morass, and brought it to him in a pitcher. She\nfound him lying asleep on one of those conical fairy hillocks which\nabound in some parts of the Highlands; and her courage failing her,\ninstead of awakening him, she set down the pitcher by his side, and\nreturned home. He awoke shortly after, and, seeing the food, would\nhave begun his repast, but feeling something press coldly against his\nheart, he opened his waistcoat, and found a beautiful smooth stone,\nresembling a pearl, but much larger, which had apparently been dropped\ninto his breast while he slept. He gazed at it in admiration, and\nbecame conscious as he gazed that a strange faculty of seeing the\nfuture as distinctly as the present, and men\u2019s real designs and motives\nas clearly as their actions, was miraculously imparted to him. And\nit was well for him that he should have become so knowing at such a\ncrisis; for the first secret he became acquainted with was that of\nthe treachery practised against him by his mistress. But he derived\nlittle advantage from the faculty ever after, for he led, it is said\ntill extreme old age, an unsettled, unhappy kind of life--wandering\nfrom place to place, a prophet only of evil, or of little trifling\nevents, fitted to attract notice when they occurred, merely from the\ncircumstance of their having been foretold.\n\nThere was a time of evil, he said, coming over the Highlands, when\nall things would appear fair and promising, and yet be both bad in\nthemselves, and the beginnings of what would prove worse. A road would\nbe opened among the hills from sea to sea, and a bridge built over\nevery stream; but the people would be degenerating as their country was\ngrowing better; there would be ministers among them without grace, and\nmaidens without shame; and the clans would have become so heartless,\nthat they would flee out of their country before an army of sheep. Moss\nand muir would be converted into corn-land, and yet hunger press as\nsorely on the poor as ever. Darker days would follow, for there would\narise a terrible persecution, during which a ford in the river Oickel,\nat the head of the Dornoch Firth, would render a passage over the dead\nbodies of men, attired in the plaid and bonnet; and on the hill of\n_Finnbheim_, in Sutherlandshire, a raven would drink her full of human\nblood three times a day for three successive days. The greater part\nof this prophecy belongs to the future; but almost all his minor ones\nare said to have met their fulfilment. He predicted, it is affirmed,\nthat there would be dram-shops at the end of almost every furrow; that\na cow would calve on the top of the old tower of Fairburn; that a fox\nwould rear a litter of cubs on the hearth-stone of Castle Downie; that\nanother animal of the same species, but white as snow, would be killed\non the western coast of Sutherlandshire; that a wild deer would be\ntaken alive at Fortrose Point; that a rivulet in Western Ross would\nbe dried up in winter; and that there would be a deaf Seaforth. But\nit would be much easier to prove that these events have really taken\nplace than that they have been foretold. Some of his other prophecies\nare nearly as equivocal, it has been remarked, as the responses of the\nold oracles, and true merely in the letter, or in some hidden meaning\ncapable of being elicited by only the events which they anticipated.\nHe predicted, it is said, that the ancient Chanonry of Ross, which is\nstill standing, would fall \u201cfull of Mackenzies;\u201d and as the floor of\nthe building has been used, for time immemorial, as a burying-place\nby several powerful families of this name, it is supposed that the\nprophecy cannot fail, in this way, of meeting its accomplishment. He\npredicted, too, that a huge natural arch near the Storhead of Assynt\nwould be thrown down, and with so terrible a crash that the cattle\nof Led-more, a proprietor who lived twenty miles inland, would break\nfrom their fastenings at the noise. It so happened, however, says the\nstory, that some of Led-more\u2019s cattle, which were grazing on the lands\nof another proprietor, were housed within a few hundred yards of the\narch when it fell. The prophet, shortly before his death, is said to\nhave flung the white stone into a lake near Brahan, uttering as his\nlast prediction, that it would be found many years after, when all his\nprophecies would be fulfilled, by a lame humpbacked mendicant.\n\nThere is a superstitious belief which, in the extent to which it has\nbeen received, ranks next in place to that enthusiasm which inspired\nthe visionary and the prophet; and it was alike common in the past age\nto the Highlander and the Presbyterian. I allude to the belief that\nevil spirits have a power of assuming visible forms, in which to tempt\nand affright the good, and sometimes destroy the bad--a belief as old,\nat least, as the days of St. Dunstan, perhaps much older. For it seems\nprobable that Satan is merely a successor in the class of stories which\nillustrates this belief to the infernal deities; indeed, in some of\nour more ancient Scottish traditions, nearly the old designation of\none of these is retained. The victims of Flowden were summoned at the\nCross of Edinburgh in the name of Platcock, _i.e._, Pluto. There is but\none story of this class which I at present remember in the writings of\nWalker--that of Peden in the cave of Galloway; the author of Waverley,\nhowever, in referring to the story, attests the prevalence of the\nbelief. The autobiographies of Methodists of the last century abound\nwith such; they form, too, in this part of the country (for the story\nof Donald Roy and the dog is but one of a thousand) the most numerous\nclass of our traditions. Out of this multitudinous class I shall\nselect, by way of specimen, two stories which belong to the low country\nparty, and two others peculiar to the Highlands.\n\n[Sidenote: THOMAS HOGG AND THE MAN-HORSE.]\n\nNot much more than thirty years ago, a Cromarty fisherman of staid,\nserious character, who had been visiting a friend in the upper part of\nthe parish, was returning home after nightfall by the Inverness road.\nThe night was still and calm, and a thick mantle of dull yellowish\nclouds, which descended on every side from the centre to the horizon,\nso obscured the light of the moon, though at full, that beyond the\nhedges which bounded the road all objects seemed blended together\nwithout colour or outline. The fisherman was pacing along in one of his\nhappiest moods; his mind occupied by serious thoughts, tempered by the\nfeelings of a genial devotion, when the stillness was suddenly broken\nby a combination of the most discordant sounds he had ever heard. At\nfirst he supposed that a pack of hounds had opened in full cry in the\nfield beside him; and then, for the sounds sunk as suddenly as they had\nrisen, that they were ranging the moors on the opposite side of the\nhill. Anon there was a fresh burst, as if the whole pack were baying\nat him through the hedge. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew\nout a handful of crumbs, the residue of his last sea stock; but as he\nheld them out to the supposed dogs, instead of open throats and glaring\neyes, he saw only the appearance of a man, and the sounds ceased. \u201cAh!\u201d\nthought he, \u201chere is the keeper of the pack;--I am safe.\u201d He resumed\nhis walk homewards, the figure keeping pace with him as he went, until,\nreaching a gap in the hedge, he saw it turning towards the road. He\npaused to await its coming up; but what was his astonishment and horror\nto see it growing taller and taller as it neared the gap, and then,\ndropping on all fours, assume the form of a horse. He hurried onwards;\nthe horse hurried too. He stood still; the horse likewise stood. He\nwalked at his ordinary pace; the horse walked also, taking step for\nstep with him, without either outstripping him or falling behind. It\nseemed an ugly misshapen animal, bristling all over with black shaggy\nhair, and lame of a foot. It accompanied him until he reached the gate\nof a burying-ground, which lies about two hundred yards outside the\ntown; where he was blinded for a moment by what seemed an intensely\nbright flash of lightning; and, on recovering his sight, he found that\nhe was alone. There is a much older but very similar story told of\na man of Ferindonald, who, when on a night journey, is said to have\nencountered the evil one in five different shapes, and to have lost his\nsenses through fright a few hours _after_; but this story, unlike the\none related, could be rationally enough accounted for, by supposing the\nman to have lost his senses a few hours _before_.\n\n[Sidenote: THE WATCHMEN OF CULLICUDEN.]\n\nThe parishes of Cullicuden and Kiltearn are situated on opposite sides\nof the bay of Cromarty; and their respective manses, at the beginning\nof the last century, nearly fronted each other; the waters of the bay\nflowing between. Their clergymen, at that period, were much famed for\nthe sanctity of their lives, and their diligence in the duties of their\nprofession; and, from the similarity of their characters, they became\nstrongly attached. They were both hard students; and, for at least two\nhours after midnight, the lights in their closet windows would be seen\nas if twinkling at each other across the Firth. When the light of the\none was extinguished, the other regarded it as a signal to retire to\nrest. \u201cBut, how now,\u201d thought the minister of Kiltearn, as one night,\nin answer to the accustomed sign, he dropped the extinguisher on his\ncandle, \u201chow now are the sleeping watchmen to fulfil their duties?\nWould it not be better that, like sentinels, we should relieve each\nother by turns? There would then be at all times within the bounds\nappointed us, open eyes and a praying heart.\u201d He imparted the thought\nto his friend; and ever after, as long as they lived, the one minister\nnever retired to bed until the casement of the other had given evidence\nthat he had risen to relieve him. A few years after this arrangement\nhad taken place, a parishioner of Cullicuden, who had been detained\nby business till a late hour in some of the neighbouring parishes,\nwas walking homeward over the solitary Maolbuoy, when he was joined\nby a stranger gentleman, who seemed journeying in the same direction,\nand entered with him into conversation. He found him to be one of the\nmost intelligent, amusing men he had ever met with. He seemed to know\neverything; and though he was evidently no friend to the Church, he did\nnothing worse than laugh at it. The man of Cullicuden felt more than\nhalf inclined to laugh at it too, and more than half convinced by the\nludicrous stories of the stranger, that its observances were merely\ngood jokes. In this mood they reached the extreme edge of the Maolbuoy,\nwhere it borders on Cullicuden, when the stranger made a full stop.\n\u201cOur road runs this way,\u201d said the man. \u201cAh!\u201d replied the stranger,\n\u201cbut I cannot accompany you: see you that?\u201d pointing, as he spoke, to a\nfaint twinkling light on the opposite side of the bay--\u201cThe watchman is\nstationed there, and I dare not come a step further.\u201d It was only from\nthis confession that the Cullicuden man learned the true character of\nhis companion.\n\n[Sidenote: THE LADY OF ARDVROCK.]\n\nThe merely superstitious stories of this class are generally of a\nwilder and more imaginative cast than those which have sprung up within\nthe pale of the Church; and the chief actor in them is presented to\nus in a more imposing attitude, and in some instances bears rather a\nbetter character. Somewhat less than a century ago (I am wretchedly\nuncertain in my dates), the ancient castle of Ardvrock in Assynt was\ntenanted by a dowager lady--a wicked old woman, who had a singular\nknack of setting the people in her neighbourhood together by the ears.\nA gentleman who lived with his wife at a little distance from the\ncastle, was lucky enough to escape for the first few years; but on\nthe birth of a child his jealousy was awakened by some insinuations\ndropped by the old lady, and he taxed his wife with infidelity, and\neven threatened to destroy the infant. The poor woman in her distress\nwrote to two of her brothers, who resided in a distant part of the\ncountry; and in a few days after they both alighted at her gate. They\nremonstrated with her husband, but to no effect. \u201cWe have but one\nresource,\u201d said the younger brother, who had been a traveller, and had\nspent some years in Italy; \u201clet us pass this evening in the manner we\nhave passed so many happy ones before, and visit to-morrow the old\nlady of Ardvrock. I will confront her with perhaps as clever a person\nas herself; and whatever else may come of our visit, we shall at least\narrive at the truth.\u201d On the morrow they accordingly set out for the\ncastle--a grey, whinstone building, standing partly on a low moory\npromontory, and partly out of a narrow strip of lake which occupies\na deep hollow between two hills. The lady received them with much\nseeming kindness, and replied to their inquiries on the point which\nmainly interested them with much apparent candour. \u201cYou can have no\nobjection,\u201d said the younger brother to her, \u201cthat we put the matter\nto the proof, by calling in a mutual acquaintance?\u201d She replied in the\nnegative. The party were seated in the low-browed hall of the castle,\na large, rude chamber, roofed and floored with stone, and furnished\nwith a row of narrow, unglazed windows, which opened to the lake. The\nday was calm, and the sun riding overhead in a deep blue sky, unspecked\nby a cloud. The younger brother rose from his seat on the reply of\nthe lady, and bending towards the floor, began to write upon it with\nhis finger, and to mutter in a strange language; and as he wrote and\nmuttered, the waters of the lake began to heave and swell, and a deep\nfleece of vapour, that rose from the surface like an exhalation, to\nspread over the face of the heavens. At length a tall black figure,\nas indistinct as the shadow of a man by moonlight, was seen standing\nbeside the wall. \u201cNow,\u201d said the brother to the husband, \u201cput your\nquestions to _that_, but make haste;\u201d and the latter, as bidden,\ninquired of the spectre, in a brief tremulous whisper, whether his wife\nhad been faithful to him. The figure replied in the affirmative: as it\nspoke, a huge wave from the lake came dashing against the wall of the\ncastle, breaking in at the hall windows; a tremendous storm of wind\nand hail burst upon the roof and the turrets, and the floor seemed to\nsink and rise beneath their feet like the deck of a ship in a tempest.\n\u201cHe will not away from us without his _bountith_,\u201d said the brother\nto the lady, \u201cwhom can you best spare?\u201d She tottered to the door, and\nas she opened it, a little orphan girl, one of the household, came\nrushing into the hall, as if scared by the tempest. The lady pointed\nto the girl: \u201cNo, not the orphan!\u201d exclaimed the appearance; \u201cI dare\nnot take her.\u201d Another immense wave from the lake came rushing in at\nthe windows, half filling the apartment, and the whole building seemed\ntoppling over. \u201cThen take the old witch herself!\u201d shouted out the elder\nbrother, pointing to the lady--\u201ctake her.\u201d--\u201cShe is mine already,\u201d said\nthe shadow, \u201cbut her term is hardly out yet; I take with me, however,\none whom your sister will miss more.\u201d It disappeared as it spoke,\nwithout, as it seemed, accomplishing its threat; but the party, on\ntheir return home, found that the infant, whose birth had been rendered\nthe occasion of so much disquiet, had died at the very time the spectre\nvanished. It is said, too, that for five years after the grain produced\nin Assynt was black and shrivelled, and that the herrings forsook the\nlochs. At the end of that period the castle of Ardvrock was consumed by\nfire, kindled no one knew how; and luckily, as it would seem, for the\ncountry, the wicked lady perished in the flames; for after her death\nthings went on in their natural course--the corn ripened as before, and\nthe herrings returned to the lochs.\n\nThe other Highland story of this class is, if possible, of a still\nwilder character.\n\nThe river Auldgrande, after pursuing a winding course through the\nmountainous parish of Kiltearn for about six miles, falls into the\nupper part of the Firth of Cromarty. For a considerable distance it\nruns through a precipitous gulf of great depth, and so near do the\nsides approach each other, that herd-boys have been known to climb\nacross on the trees, which, jutting out on either edge, interweave\ntheir branches over the centre. In many places the river is wholly\ninvisible: its voice, however, is ever lifted up in a wild, sepulchral\nwailing, that seems the lament of an imprisoned spirit. In one part\nthere is a bridge of undressed logs thrown over the chasm. \u201cAnd here,\u201d\nsays the late Dr. Robertson in his statistical account of the parish,\n\u201cthe observer, if he can look down on the gulf below without any uneasy\nsensation, will be gratified by a view equally awful and astonishing.\nThe wildness of the steep and rugged rocks--the gloomy horror of the\ncliffs and caverns, inaccessible to mortal tread, and where the genial\nrays of the sun never yet penetrated--the waterfalls, which are heard\npouring down in different places of the precipice, with sounds various\nin proportion to their distances--the hoarse and hollow murmuring of\nthe river, which runs at the depth of one hundred and thirty feet below\nthe surface of the earth--the fine groves of pines, which majestically\nclimb the sides of a beautiful eminence that rises immediately from\nthe brink of the chasm--all these objects cannot be contemplated\nwithout exciting emotions of wonder and admiration in the mind of every\nbeholder.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE LADY OF BALCONIE.]\n\nThe house and lands of Balconie, a beautiful Highland property, lie\nwithin a few miles of the chasm. There is a tradition that, about\ntwo centuries ago, the proprietor was married to a lady of very\nretired habits; who, though little known beyond her narrow circle\nof acquaintance, was regarded within that circle with a feeling of\nmingled fear and respect. She was singularly reserved, and it was said\nspent more of her waking hours in solitary rambles on the banks of\nthe Auldgrande, in places where no one else would choose to be alone,\nthan in the house of Balconie. Of a sudden, however, she became more\nsocial, and seemed desirous to attach to herself, by acts of kindness\nand confidence, one of her own maids, a simple Highland girl; but there\nhung a mysterious wildness about her--a sort of atmosphere of dread\nand suspicion--which the change had not removed; and her new companion\nalways felt oppressed, when left alone with her, by a strange sinking\nof the vital powers--a shrinking apparently of the very heart--as if\nshe were in the presence of a creature of another world. And after\nspending with her, on one occasion, a whole day, in which she had been\nmore than usually agitated by this feeling, and her ill-mated companion\nmore than ordinarily silent and melancholy, she accompanied her at her\nbidding, as the evening was coming on, to the banks of the Auldgrande.\n\nThey reached the chasm just as the sun was sinking beneath the hill,\nand flinging his last gleam on the topmost boughs of the birches and\nhazels which then, as now, formed a screen over the opening. All\nbeneath was dark as midnight. \u201cLet us approach nearer the edge,\u201d said\nthe lady, speaking for the first time since she had quitted the house.\n\u201cNot nearer, ma\u2019am,\u201d said the terrified girl; \u201cthe sun is almost set,\nand strange sights have been seen in the _gully_ after nightfall.\u201d\n\u201cPshaw,\u201d said the lady, \u201chow can you believe such stories? Come, I\nwill show you a path which leads to the water: it is one of the finest\nplaces in the world; I have seen it a thousand times, and must see\nit again to-night. Come,\u201d she continued, grasping her by the arm, \u201cI\ndesire it much, and so down we must go.\u201d \u201cNo, lady!\u201d exclaimed the\nterrified girl, struggling to extricate herself, and not more startled\nby the proposal than by the almost fiendish expression of mingled\nanger and fear which now shaded the features of her mistress, \u201cI shall\nswoon with terror and fall over.\u201d \u201cNay, wretch, there is no escape!\u201d\nreplied the lady, in a voice heightened almost to a scream, as, with\na strength that contrasted portentously with her delicate form, she\ndragged her, despite of her exertions, towards the chasm. \u201cSuffer me,\nma\u2019am, to accompany you,\u201d said a strong masculine voice from behind;\n\u201cyour surety, you may remember, must be a willing one.\u201d A dark-looking\nman, in green, stood beside them; and the lady, quitting her grasp with\nan expression of passive despair, suffered the stranger to lead her\ntowards the chasm. She turned round on reaching the precipice, and,\nuntying from her belt a bunch of household keys, flung them up the bank\ntowards the girl; and then, taking what seemed to be a farewell look of\nthe setting sun, for the whole had happened in so brief a space that\nthe sun\u2019s upper disk still peeped over the hill, she disappeared with\nher companion behind the nearer edge of the gulf. The keys struck, in\nfalling, against a huge granitic boulder, and sinking into it as if it\nwere a mass of melted wax, left an impression which is still pointed\nout to the curious visitor. The girl stood rooted to the spot in utter\namazement.\n\nOn returning home, and communicating her strange story, the husband of\nthe lady, accompanied by all the males of his household, rushed out\ntowards the chasm; and its perilous edge became a scene of shouts,\nand cries, and the gleaming of torches. But, though the search was\nprolonged for whole days by an eager and still increasing party, it\nproved fruitless. _There_ lay the ponderous boulder impressed by the\nkeys; immediately beside it yawned the sheer descent of the chasm;\na shrub, half uprooted, hung dangling from the brink; there was a\nfaint line drawn along the green mould of the precipice a few yards\nlower down; and that was just all. The river at this point is hidden\nby a projecting crag, but the Highlanders could hear it fretting and\ngrowling over the pointed rocks, like a wild beast in its den; and\nas they listened and thought of the lady, the blood curdled at their\nhearts. At length the search was relinquished, and they returned to\ntheir homes to wonder, and surmise, and tax their memories, though\nin vain, for a parallel instance. Months and years glided away, and\nthe mystery was at length assigned its own little niche among the\nmultitudinous events of the past.\n\nAbout ten years after, a middle-aged Highlander, the servant of a\nmaiden lady who resided near the Auldgrande, was engaged one day in\nfishing in the river, a little below where it issues from the chasm.\nHe was a shrewd fellow, brave as a lion and kindly-natured withal,\nbut not more than sufficiently honest; and his mistress, a stingy old\nwoman, trusted him only when she could not help it. He was more than\nusually successful this day in his fishing; and picking out some of the\nbest of the fish for his aged mother, who lived in the neighbourhood,\nhe hid them under a bush, and then set out for his mistress with the\nrest. \u201cAre you quite sure, Donald,\u201d inquired the old lady as she turned\nover the contents of his basket, \u201cthat this is the whole of your\nfishing?--where have you hid the rest?\u201d \u201cNot one more, lady, could I\nfind in the burn.\u201d \u201cO Donald!\u201d said the lady. \u201cNo, lady,\u201d reiterated\nDonald, \u201cdevil a one!\u201d And then, when the lady\u2019s back was turned, off\nhe went to the bush to bring away the fish appropriated to his mother.\nBut the whole had disappeared; and a faintly marked track, spangled\nwith scales, remained to show that they had been dragged apparently by\nsome animal along the grass in the direction of the chasm.\n\nThe track went winding over grass and stone along the edge of the\nstream, and struck off, as the banks contracted and became more steep\nand precipitous, by a beaten path which ran along the edge of the crags\nat nearly the level of the water, and which, strangely enough, Donald\nhad never seen before. He pursued it, however, with the resolution of\ntracing the animal to its den. The channel narrowed as he proceeded;\nthe stream which, as he entered the chasm, was eddying beneath him in\nrings of a mossy brown, became one milky strip of white, and, in the\nlanguage of the poet, \u201cboiled, and wheeled, and foamed, and thundered\nthrough;\u201d the precipices on either hand, beetled in some places so\nhigh over his head as to shut out the sky, while in others, where they\nreceded, he could barely catch a glimpse of it through a thick screen\nof leaves and bushes, whose boughs meeting midway, seemed twisted\ntogether like pieces of basket work. From the more than twilight gloom\nof the place, the track he pursued seemed almost lost, and he was quite\non the eve of giving up the pursuit, when, turning an abrupt angle\nof the rock, he found the path terminate in an immense cavern. As he\nentered, two gigantic dogs, which had been sleeping one on each side of\nthe opening, rose lazily from their beds, and yawning as they turned up\ntheir slow heavy eyes to his face, they laid themselves down again. A\nlittle further on there was a chair and table of iron apparently much\ncorroded by the damps of the cavern. Donald\u2019s fish, and a large mass of\nleaven prepared for baking, lay on the table; in the chair sat the lady\nof Balconie.\n\nTheir astonishment was mutual. \u201cO Donald!\u201d exclaimed the lady, \u201cwhat\nbrings you here?\u201d \u201cI come in quest of my fish,\u201d said Donald, \u201cbut, O\nlady! what _keeps_ you here? Come away with me, and I will bring you\nhome; and you will be lady of Balconie yet.\u201d \u201cNo, no!\u201d she replied,\n\u201cthat day is past; I am fixed to this seat, and all the Highlands\ncould not raise me from it.\u201d Donald looked hard at the iron chair;\nits ponderous legs rose direct out of the solid rock as if growing\nout of it, and a thick iron chain red with rust, that lay under it,\ncommunicated at the one end to a strong ring, and was fastened round\nthe other to one of the lady\u2019s ankles. \u201cBesides,\u201d continued the lady,\n\u201clook at these dogs.--Oh! why have you come here? The fish you have\ndenied to your mistress in the name of my jailer, and his they have\nbecome; but how are you yourself to escape!\u201d Donald looked at the\ndogs. They had again risen from their beds, and were now eyeing him\nwith a keen vigilant expression, very unlike that with which they\nhad regarded him on his entrance. He scratched his head. \u201c\u2019Deed,\nmem,\u201d he said, \u201cI dinna weel ken;--I maun first durk the twa tykes,\nI\u2019m thinking.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d said the lady, \u201cthere is but one way; be on the\nalert.\u201d She laid hold of the mass of leaven which lay on the table,\nflung a piece to each of the dogs, and waved her hand for Donald to\nquit the cave. Away he sprang; stood for a moment as he reached the\npath to bid farewell to the lady; and after a long and dangerous\nscramble among the precipices, for the way seemed narrower, and\nsteeper, and more slippery than when he had passed by it to the cave,\nhe emerged from the chasm just as the evening was beginning to darken\ninto night. And no one, since the adventure of Donald, has seen aught\nof the lady of Balconie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n    Fu\u2019 mony a schriek that waefu\u2019 nicht\n      Raise fra the boisterous main,\n    An\u2019 vow\u2019d was mony a bootless vow,\n      An\u2019 praied war\u2019 praiers vaine.\n\n    An\u2019 sair-pyned widows moned forlorn\n      For mony a wearie daye,\n    An\u2019 maidens, ance o\u2019 blithsome mood,\n      Tined heart and dwyned away.--OLD BALLAD.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE FISHERMAN\u2019S WIDOW.]\n\nThe headland which skirts the northern entrance of the Firth is of\na bolder character than even the southern one--abrupt, stern, and\nprecipitous as that is. It presents a loftier and more unbroken wall\nof rock; and where it bounds on the Moray Firth there is a savage\nmagnificence in its cliffs and caves, and in the wild solitude of its\nbeach, which we find nowhere equalled on the shores of the other. It is\nmore exposed, too, in the time of tempest. The waves often rise, during\nthe storms of winter, more than a hundred feet against its precipices,\nfestooning them, even at that height, with wreaths of kelp and tangle;\nand for miles within the bay, we may hear, at such seasons, the savage\nuproar that maddens amid its cliffs and caverns coming booming over\nthe lashings of the nearer waves like the roar of artillery. There is\na sublimity of desolation on its shores, the effects of a conflict\nmaintained for ages, and on a scale so gigantic. The isolated,\nspire-like crags that rise along its base, are so drilled and bored\nby the incessant lashings of the surf, and are ground down to shapes\nso fantastic, that they seem but the wasted skeletons of their former\nselves; and we find almost every natural fissure in the solid rock\nhollowed into an immense cavern, whose very ceiling, though the head\nturns as we look up to it, owes evidently its comparative smoothness to\nthe action of the waves.\n\nOne of the most remarkable of these recesses occupies what we may term\nthe apex of a lofty promontory. The entrance, unlike that of most of\nthe others, is narrow and rugged, though of great height, but it widens\nwithin into a shadowy chamber, perplexed, like the nave of a cathedral,\nby uncertain cross lights, that come glimmering into it through two\nlesser openings which perforate the opposite sides of the promontory.\nIt is a strange ghostly-looking place; there is a sort of moonlight\ngreenness in the twilight which forms its noon, and the denser shadows\nwhich rest along its sides; a blackness so profound that it mocks the\neye, hangs over a lofty passage which leads from it, like a corridor,\nstill deeper into the bowels of the hill; the light falls on a\nsprinkling of half-buried bones, the remains of animals that, in the\ndepth of winter, have creeped into it for shelter and to die; and when\nthe winds are up, and the hoarse roar of the waves comes reverberated\nfrom its inner recesses, it needs no over-active fancy to people its\navenues with the shapes of beings long since departed from every gayer\nor softer scene, but which still rise uncalled to the imagination in\nthose by-corners of nature which seem dedicated, like this cavern, to\nthe wild, the desolate, and the solitary.\n\nA few hundred yards from where the headland terminates towards the\nsouth, there is a little rocky bay, which has been known for ages\nto the seafaring men of the town as the _Cova-Green_. It is such a\nplace as we are sometimes made acquainted with in the narratives of\ndisastrous shipwrecks. First, there is a broad semicircular strip of\nbeach, with a wilderness of insulated piles of rock in front; and so\nsteep and continuous is the wall of precipices which rises behind,\nthat, though we may see directly overhead the grassy slopes of the\nhill, with here and there a few straggling firs, no human foot ever\ngained the nearer edge. The bay of Cova-Green is a prison to which the\nsea presents the only outlet; and the numerous caves which open along\nits sides, like the arches of an amphitheatre, seem but its darker\ncells. It is in truth a wild impressive place, full of beauty and\nterror, and with none of the squalidness of the mere dungeon about it.\nThere is a puny littleness in our brick and lime receptacles of misery\nand languor, which speaks as audibly of the feebleness of man as of his\ncrimes or his inhumanity; but here all is great and magnificent--and\nthere is much, too, that is pleasing. Many of the higher cliffs which\nrise beyond the influence of the spray, are tapestried with ivy; we\nmay see the heron watching on the ledges beside her bundle of withered\ntwigs, or the blue hawk darting from her cell; there is life on every\nside of us--life in even the wild tumbling of the waves, and in the\nstream of pure water which, rushing from the higher edge of the\nprecipice in a long white cord, gradually untwists itself by the way,\nand spatters ceaselessly among the stones over the entrance of one of\nthe caves. Nor does the scene want its old story to strengthen its hold\non the imagination.\n\nSome time early in the reign of Queen Anne, a fishing yawl, after\nvainly labouring for hours to enter the Bay of Cromarty during a\nstrong gale from the west, was forced at nightfall to relinquish\nthe attempt, and take shelter in the Cova-Green. The crew consisted\nof but two persons--an old fisherman and his son. Both had been\nthoroughly drenched by the spray, and chilled by the piercing wind,\nwhich, accompanied by thick snow-showers, had blown all day through\nthe opening from off the snowy top of Ben-Wevis; and it was with no\nordinary satisfaction that, as they opened the bay on their last tack,\nthey saw the red gleam of a fire flickering from one of the caves, and\na boat drawn up on the beach.\n\n\u201cIt must be some of the Tarbat fishermen,\u201d said the old man, \u201cwind\nbound like ourselves; but wiser than us, in having made provision for\nit. I\u2019ll feel willing enough to share their fare with them for the\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut see,\u201d remarked the younger, \u201cthat there be no unwillingness on the\nother side. I am much mistaken if that be not the boat of my cousins\nthe Macinlas! Hap what may, however, the night is getting worse, and\nwe have no choice of quarters. Hard up your helm, father, or we shall\nbarely clear the Skerries;--there now--every nail an anchor!\u201d\n\nHe leaped ashore, carrying with him the small hawser attached to the\nstem, known technically as the _swing_, which he wound securely round\na jutting crag, and then stood for a few seconds until the old man,\nwho moved but heavily along the thwarts, had come up to him. All was\ncomparatively calm under the lee of the precipices; but the wind was\nroaring fearfully in the woods above, and whistling amid the furze and\nivy of the higher cliffs; and the two boatmen as they entered the cave\ncould see the flakes of a thick snow-shower, that had just begun to\ndescend, circling round and round in the eddy.\n\nThe place was occupied by three men--two of them young, and\nrather ordinary-looking persons; the third, a greyheaded old man,\napparently of great muscular strength, though long past his prime,\nand of a peculiarly sinister cast of countenance. A keg of spirits,\nwhich was placed before them, served as a table. There were little\ndrinking-measures of tin on it; and the mask-like, stolid expressions\nof the two younger men, showed that they had been indulging freely. The\nelder was comparatively sober. A fire, composed mostly of fragments of\nwreck and drift wood, threw up its broad cheerful flame towards the\nroof; but so spacious was the cavern, that, except where here and there\na whiter mass of stalactites, or bolder projection of cliff, stood out\nfrom the darkness, the light seemed lost in it. A dense body of smoke,\nwhich stretched its blue level surface from side to side, and concealed\nthe roof, went rolling onwards like an inverted river. On the entrance\nof the fishermen, the three boatmen within started to their feet,\nand one of the younger, laying hold of the little cask, pitched it\nhurriedly into a dark corner of the cave.\n\n\u201cAy, ye do well to hide it, Gibbie!\u201d exclaimed the savage-looking old\nman in a bitter ironical tone, as he recognised the intruders; \u201chere\nare your good friends, William and Ernest Beth come to see if they\ncannot rob and maltreat us a second time. Well! they had better try.\u201d\n\nThere could not be a more luckless meeting. For years before had the\ncrew of the little fishing-yawl been regarded with the bitterest hatred\nby the temporary inmates of the cave; nor was old Eachen of Tarbat one\nof the class whose resentments may be safely slighted. He had passed\nthe first thirty years of his life among the buccaneers of South\nAmerica; he had been engaged in its latter seasons among the smugglers,\nwho even at this early period infested the eastern coasts of Scotland;\nand Eachen, of all his associates, whether smugglers or buccaneers,\nhad ever been deemed one of the fiercest and most unscrupulous. On his\nreturn from America the country was engaged in one of its long wars\nwith Holland, and William Beth, the elder fisherman, who had served\nin the English fleet, was lying in a Dutch prison at the time, and a\nreport had gone abroad that he was dead. He had inherited some little\nproperty from his father in the neighbouring town--a house and a little\nfield, which in his absence was held by an only sister; who, on the\nreport of his death, was of course regarded as a village heiress, and\nwhose affections, in that character, Eachen of Tarbat had succeeded in\nengaging. They were married, but the marriage had turned out singularly\nill; Eachen was dissipated and selfish, and of a harsh, cruel temper;\nand it was the fate of his poor wife, after giving birth to two boys,\nthe younger inmates of the cave, to perish in the middle of her days,\na care-worn, heart-broken creature. Her brother William had returned\nfrom Holland shortly before, and on her death claimed and recovered\nhis property from her husband; and from that hour Eachen of Tarbat had\nregarded him with the bitterest malice. A second cause of dislike, too,\nhad but lately occurred. Ernest Beth, William\u2019s only son, and one of\nhis cousins, the younger son of Eachen, had both fixed their affections\non a lovely young girl, the toast of a neighbouring parish; and Ernest,\na handsome and high-spirited young man, had proved the successful\nlover. On returning with his mistress from a fair, only a few weeks\nprevious to this evening, he had been waylaid and grossly insulted by\nhis two cousins; and the insult he might perhaps have borne for the\nsake of what they seemed to forget--his relationship to their mother;\nbut there was another whom they also insulted, and that he could not\nbear; and as they were mean enough to take odds against him on the\noccasion, he had beaten the two spiritless fellows that did so.\n\nThe old fisherman had heard the ominous remark of the savage as if he\nheard it not. \u201cWe have not met for many years, Eachen,\u201d he said--\u201cnot\nsince the death of my poor sister, when we parted such ill friends;\nbut we are shortlived creatures ourselves, surely our anger should be\nshortlived too. I have come to crave from you a seat by your fire.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was no wish of mine, William Beth,\u201d said Eachen, \u201cthat we should\never meet; but there is room enough for us all beside the fire.\u201d\n\nHe resumed his seat; the two fishermen took their places fronting him,\nand for some time neither party exchanged a word.\n\n\u201cThis is but a gousty lodging-place,\u201d at length remarked the old\nfisherman, looking round him; \u201cbut I have seen worse, and I wish the\nfolk at hame kent we were half sae snug.\u201d\n\nThe remark seemed directed to no one in particular, and there was no\nreply. In a second attempt he addressed himself to the old man.\n\n\u201cIt has vexed me, Eachen,\u201d he said, \u201cthat our young folk, were it but\nfor my sister\u2019s sake, should not be on mair friendly terms; an\u2019 we\nourselves too--why suld we be enemies?\u201d The old man, without deigning a\nreply, knit his grey shaggy brows, and looked doggedly at the fire.\n\n\u201cNay, now,\u201d continued the fisherman, \u201cwe are getting auld men now,\nEachen, an\u2019 wald better bury our hard thoughts o\u2019 ane anither afore we\ncome to be buried oursels.\u201d\n\nEachen fixed his keen scrutinizing glance on the speaker, there was\na tremulous motion of the upper lip as he withdrew it, and a setting\nof the teeth; but the tone of his reply savoured more of sullen\nindifference than of passion.\n\n\u201cWilliam Beth,\u201d he said, \u201cye have tricked my boys out o\u2019 the bit\nproperty that suld have come to them by their mither; it\u2019s no so long\nsince they barely escaped being murdered by your son. What more want\nyou? But, mayhap, ye think it better that the time should be passed in\nmaking boss professions of good-will than employed in clearing off an\nold score.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d hiccuped out the elder of the two sons, \u201cthe houses might come my\nway then; an\u2019, if Helen Henry were to lose her ae joe, the tither might\nhae the better chance.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook ye, uncle,\u201d exclaimed the younger fisherman, \u201cyour threat might\nbe spared. Our little property was my grandfather\u2019s and of right\ndescended to his only son. As for the affair at the tryst, I dare\neither of my cousins to say the quarrel was of my seeking. I have no\nwish to raise my hand against the sons or the husband of my aunt; but\nif forced to it, you will find that neither my father nor myself are\nwholly at your mercy.\u201d He rose to his feet as he spoke.\n\n\u201cWhisht, Ernest,\u201d said the old fisherman calmly, \u201csit down; your uncle\nmaun hae ither thoughts. It is now twenty years, Eachen,\u201d he continued,\n\u201csince I was called to my sister\u2019s deathbed. You cannot forget what\npassed there. There had been grief and hunger beside that bed. I\u2019ll\nno say you were willingly unkind. Few folk are that but when they have\nsome purpose to serve by it, and you could have none; but you laid no\nrestraint on a harsh temper, and none on a craving habit, that forgets\neverything but itself, and sae my poor sister perished in the middle of\nher days, a wasted heart-broken thing. I have nae wish to hurt you. We\nbaith passed our youth in a bad school, and I owre aften feel I havena\nunlearned a\u2019 my own lessons to wonder that you suldna have unlearned a\u2019\nyours. But we\u2019re getting old men, Eachen, why suld we die fools? and\nfools we maun die, if we die enemies.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are likely in the right,\u201d said the stern old man. \u201cBut ye were aye\na luckier man than me, William--luckier for this warld, I\u2019m sure--maybe\nluckier for the next. I had aye to seek, and that without finding, the\ngood that came in your gate o\u2019 itsel\u2019. Now that age is coming upon\nus, ye get a snug rental frae the little house and croft, and I have\nnaething; and ye have character and credit, but wha wald trust me, or\nwha cares for me? Ye hae been made _an elder_ o\u2019 the kirk, too, I hear,\nand I am still a reprobate; but we were a\u2019 born to be just what we are,\nan\u2019 sae we maun submit. And your son, too, shares in your luck: he has\nheart and hand, and my whelps have neither; and the girl Henry, that\nscouts that sot there, likes him; but what wonder of that!--William\nBeth, we needna quarrel; but for peace\u2019 sake let me alone--we have\nnaething in common, and friends we canna and winna be.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe had better,\u201d whispered Ernest to his father, \u201cnot sleep in the cave\nto-night.\u201d\n\nBut why record the quarrels of this unfortunate evening? An hour or\ntwo passed away in disagreeable bickerings, during which the patience\nof even the old fisherman was well-nigh worn out, and that of Ernest\nhad failed him altogether. And at length they both quitted the cave,\nboisterous as the night was, and it was now stormier than ever; and\nheaving off their boat till she rode at the full length of her swing\nfrom the shore, they sheltered themselves under the sail. The Macinlas\nreturned next evening to Tarbat; but though the wind moderated during\nthe day, the yawl of William Beth did not enter the Bay of Cromarty.\nWeeks passed away during which the clergyman of the place corresponded\nregarding the missing fishermen with all the lower ports of the Firth,\nbut they had disappeared as it seemed for ever; and Eachen Macinla,\nin the name of his sons, laid claim to their property, and entered a\nsecond time into possession of the house and the little field.\n\nWhere the northern headland of the Firth sinks into the low sandy\ntract that nearly fronts the town of Cromarty, there is a narrow\ngrassy terrace raised but a few yards over the level of the beach. It\nis sheltered behind by a steep undulating bank--for though the rock\nhere and there juts out, it is too rich in vegetation to be termed a\nprecipice. To the east, the coast retires into a semicircular rocky\nrecess, terminating seawards in a lofty, dark-browed precipice, and\nbristling throughout all its extent with a countless multitude of crags\nthat at every heave of the wave break the surface into a thousand\neddies. Towards the west, there is a broken and somewhat dreary waste\nof sand. The terrace itself, however, is a sweet little spot, with its\ngrassy slopes that recline towards the sun, partially covered with\nthickets of wild-rose and honeysuckle, and studded in their season\nwith violets and daisies, and the delicate rock geranium. Towards\nits eastern extremity, with the bank rising immediately behind, and\nan open space in front which seemed to have been cultivated at one\ntime as a garden, there stood a picturesque little cottage. It was\nthat of the widow of William Beth. Five years had now elapsed since\nthe disappearance of her son and husband, and the cottage bore the\nmarks of neglect and decay. The door and window, bleached white by\nthe sea winds, shook loosely to every breeze; clusters of chickweed\nluxuriated in the hollows of the thatch, or mantled over the eaves;\nand a honeysuckle, that had twisted itself round the chimney, lay\nwithering in a tangled mass at the foot of the wall. But the progress\nof decay was more marked in the widow than in her dwelling. She had had\nto contend with grief and penury;--a grief not the less undermining\nin its effects from the circumstance of its being sometimes suspended\nby hope--a penury so extreme, that every succeeding day seemed as if\nwon by some providential interference from absolute want. And she was\nnow, to all appearance, fast sinking in the struggle. The autumn was\nwell-nigh over; she had been weak and ailing for months before; and she\nhad now become so feeble as to be confined for days together to her\nbed. But happily, the poor solitary woman had at least one attached\nfriend in the daughter of a farmer of the parish, a young and beautiful\ngirl, who, though naturally of no melancholy temperament, seemed to\nderive almost all she enjoyed of pleasure from the society of the widow.\n\nAutumn we have said was near its close. The weather had given\nindications of an early and severe winter; and the widow, whose\nworn-out and delicate frame was affected by every change of atmosphere,\nhad for a few days been more than usually indisposed. It was now long\npast noon, and she had but just risen. The apartment, however, bore\nwitness that her young friend had paid her the accustomed morning\nvisit; the fire was blazing on a clean, comfortable-looking hearth, and\nevery little piece of furniture was arranged with the most scrupulous\ncare. Her devotions were hardly over when the well-known tap and light\nfoot of her friend Helen Henry were again heard at the door.\n\n\u201cTo-morrow, mother,\u201d said Helen, as she took her seat beside her, \u201cis\nErnest\u2019s birthday. Is it not strange that, when our minds make pictures\nof the dead, it is always as they looked best, and kindliest, and most\nlifelike? I have been seeing Ernest all day long, as when I saw him on\nhis _last_ birthday.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my bairn!\u201d said the widow, grasping her young friend by the hand,\n\u201cI see that, sae lang as we continue to meet, our thoughts will be aye\nrunning the ae way. I had a strange dream last night, an\u2019 must tell it\nyou. You see yon rock to the east, in the middle o\u2019 the little bay,\nthat now rises through the back draught o\u2019 the sea, like the hulk o\u2019 a\nship, an\u2019 is now buried in a mountain o\u2019 foam. I dreamed I was sitting\non that rock, in what seemed a bonny simmer\u2019s morning. The sun was\nglancin\u2019 on the water, an\u2019 I could see the white sand far down at the\nbottom, wi\u2019 the reflection o\u2019 the little waves aboon running over it in\nlong curls o\u2019 gowd. But there was no way of leaving the rock, for the\ndeep waters were round an\u2019 round me; an\u2019 I saw the tide covering ae wee\nbittie after anither, till at last the whole was covered. An\u2019 yet I had\nbut little fear, for I remembered that baith Ernest an\u2019 William were in\nthe sea afore me; an\u2019 I had the feeling that I could hae rest nowhere\nbut wi\u2019 them. The water at last closed o\u2019er me, an\u2019 I sank frae aff the\nrock to the sand at the bottom. But death seemed to have no power given\nhim to hurt me, an\u2019 I walked as light as ever I had done on a gowany\nbrae, through the green depths o\u2019 the sea. I saw the silvery glitter o\u2019\nthe trout an\u2019 the salmon shining to the sun, far, far aboon me, like\nwhite pigeons i\u2019 the lift; and around me there were crimson star-fish,\nan\u2019 sea-flowers, and long trailing plants that waved in the tide like\nstreamers; an\u2019 at length I came to a steep rock wi\u2019 a little cave like\na tomb in it. Here, I said, is the end o\u2019 my journey--William is here,\nan\u2019 Ernest. An\u2019 as I looked into the cave, I saw there were bones in\nit, an\u2019 I prepared to take my place beside them. But, as I stooped to\nenter, some one called on me, an\u2019, on looking up, there was William.\n\u2018Lillias,\u2019 he said, \u2018it is not night yet, nor is that your bed; you are\nto sleep, not with me, but, lang after this, with Ernest; haste you\nhome, for he is waiting for you.\u2019 \u2018Oh, take me to him!\u2019 I said; an\u2019\nthen all at once I found mysel\u2019 on the shore dizzied and blinded wi\u2019\nthe bright sunshine; for at the cave there was a darkness like that o\u2019\na simmer\u2019s gloamin; an\u2019 when I looked up for William, it was Ernest\nthat stood before me, lifelike and handsome as ever; an\u2019 you were\nbeside him.\u201d\n\nThe day had been gloomy and lowering, and though there was little wind,\na tremendous sea, that as the evening advanced rose higher and higher\nagainst the neighbouring precipice, had been rolling ashore since\nmorning. The wind now began to blow in long hollow gusts among the\ncliffs, and the rain to patter against the widow\u2019s casement.\n\n\u201cIt will be a storm from the sea,\u201d she said; \u201cthe scarts an\u2019 gulls\nhae been flying landward sin\u2019 daybreak, an\u2019 I hae never seen the\nground-swell come home heavier against the rocks. Waes me for the puir\nsailors that maun bide under it a\u2019!\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the long stormy nights,\u201d said her companion, \u201cI cannot sleep\nfor thinking of them; though I have no one to bind me to them now.\nOnly look how the sea rages among the rocks as if it were a thing of\nlife--that last wave rose to the crane\u2019s nest. And look, yonder is a\nboat rounding the rock with only one man in it. It dances on the surf\nas if it were a cork, and the little bit sail, so black and wet, seems\nscarcely bigger than a napkin. Is it not bearing in for the boat-haven\nbelow?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor old eyes,\u201d replied the widow, \u201care growing dim, an\u2019 surely\nno wonder; but yet I think I should ken that boatman. Is it no Eachen\nMacinla o\u2019 Tarbat?\u201d\n\n\u201cHard-hearted old man!\u201d exclaimed the maiden, \u201cwhat can be taking him\nhere? Look how his skiff shoots in like an arrow on the long roll o\u2019\nthe surf!--and now she is high on the beach. How cruel it was of him to\nrob you of your little property in the very first of your grief! But\nsee, he is so worn out that he can hardly walk over the rough stones.\nAh me, he is down!--wretched old man, I must run to his assistance;\nbut no, he has risen again. See, he is coming straight to the house;\nand now he is at the door.\u201d In a moment after, Eachen entered the\ncottage.\n\n\u201cI am perishing, Lillias,\u201d he said, \u201cwith cold and hunger, an\u2019 can gang\nnae farther--surely ye\u2019ll no shut your door on me in a night like this?\u201d\n\nThe poor widow had been taught in a far different school. She\nrelinquished to the worn-out boatman her seat by the fire, now\nhurriedly heaped with fresh fuel, and hastened to set before him the\nsimple viands which her cottage afforded.\n\nAs the night darkened, the storm increased. The wind roared among the\nrocks like the rattling of a thousand carriages over a paved street;\nand there were times when, after a sudden pause, the blast struck the\ncottage as if it were a huge missile flung against it, and pressed on\nits roof and walls till the very floor rocked, and the rafters strained\nand quivered like the beams of a stranded vessel. There was a ceaseless\npatter of mingled rain and snow--now lower, now louder; and the fearful\nthunderings of the waves as they raged among the pointed crags, were\nmingled with the hoarse roll of the stones along the beach. The old man\nsat beside the fire fronting the widow and her companion, with his head\nreclined nearly as low as his knee, and his hands covering his face.\nThere was no attempt at conversation. He seemed to shudder every time\nthe blast yelled along the roof, and as a fiercer gust burst open the\ndoor, there was a half-muttered ejaculation.\n\n\u201cHeaven itsel\u2019 hae mercy on them! for what can man do in a night like\nthis?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is black as pitch!\u201d exclaimed the maiden, who had risen to draw the\nbolt, \u201cand the drift flees so thick that it feels to the hand like a\nsolid snow-wreath. And, oh, how it lightens!\u201d\n\n\u201cHeaven itsel\u2019 hae mercy on them!\u201d again ejaculated the old man. \u201cMy\ntwo boys,\u201d said he, addressing the widow, \u201care at the far Firth; an\u2019\nhow can an open boat live in a night like this!\u201d\n\nThere seemed something magical in the communication--something that\nawakened all the sympathies of the poor bereaved woman; and she felt\nshe could forgive him every unkindness.\n\n\u201cWaes me!\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cit was in such a night as this, an\u2019 scarcely\nsae wild, that my Ernest perished.\u201d\n\nThe old man groaned and wrung his hands.\n\nIn one of the pauses of the hurricane there was a gun heard from the\nsea, and shortly after a second. \u201cSome puir vessel in distress,\u201d said\nthe widow, \u201cbut, alas! where can succour come frae in sae terrible a\nnight? There is help only in Ane! Waes me! would we no better light up\na blaze on the floor, an\u2019, dearest Helen, draw off the cover frae the\nwindow? My puir Ernest has told me that my light has aften showed him\nhis bearings frae the deadly bed o\u2019 Dunskaith. That last gun,\u201d for a\nthird was now heard booming over the mingled roar of the sea and the\nwind, \u201ccam frae the very rock edge. Waes me! maun they perish, an\u2019 sae\nnear?\u201d Helen hastily lighted a bundle of mire-fir, that threw up its\nred sputtering blaze half-way to the roof, and dropping the covering,\ncontinued to wave it opposite the window. Guns were still heard at\nmeasured intervals, but apparently from a safer offing; and the last,\nas it sounded faintly against the wind, came evidently from the\ninterior of the bay.\n\n\u201cShe has escaped,\u201d said the old man; \u201cit\u2019s a feeble hand that canna do\ngood when the heart is willing;--but what has mine been doing a\u2019 life\nlang?\u201d He looked at the widow and shuddered.\n\nTowards morning the wind fell, and the moon in her last quarter rose\nred and glaring out of the Firth, lighting the melancholy roll of the\nwaves, and the broad white belt of surf that skirted the shore. The\nold fisherman left the cottage, and sauntered along the beach. It was\nheaped with huge wreaths of kelp and tangle, uprooted by the storm,\nand in the hollow of the rocky bay lay the scattered fragments of a\nboat. Eachen stooped to pick up a piece of the wreck, in the fearful\nexpectation of finding some known mark by which to recognise it; when\nthe light fell full on the swollen face of a corpse, that seemed\nstaring at him from out a wreath of sea-weed. It was that of his eldest\nson; and the body of the younger, fearfully gashed and mangled by the\nrocks, lay a few yards further to the east.\n\nThe morning was as pleasant as the night had been boisterous; and,\nexcept that the distant hills were covered with snow, and that a heavy\nswell continued to roll in from the sea, there remained scarce any\ntrace of the recent tempest. Every hollow of the neighbouring hill had\nits little runnel, formed by the rains of the previous night, that now\nsplashed and glistened to the sun. The bushes round the cottage were\nwell-nigh divested of their leaves; but their red berries--hips and\nhaws, and the juicy fruit of the honeysuckle--gleamed cheerfully to the\nlight, and a warm steam of vapour, like that of a May morning, rose\nfrom the roof and the little mossy platform in front. But the scene\nseemed to have something more than merely its beauty to recommend it\nto a young man, drawn apparently to the spot, with many others, by the\nfate of the two unfortunate fishermen, and who now stood gazing on the\nrocks, and the hill, and the cottage, as a lover on the features of his\nmistress. The bodies had been carried to an old storehouse, which may\nstill be seen, a short mile to the west; and the crowds that, during\nthe early part of the morning, had been perambulating the beach, gazing\nat the wreck, and discussing the various probabilities of the accident,\nhad gradually dispersed. But this solitary individual, whom no one\nknew, remained behind. He was a tall and somewhat swarthy, though very\nhandsome man, of about seven-and-twenty, with a slight scar on the\nleft cheek; and his dress, which was plain and neat, was distinguished\nfrom that of the common seaman by three narrow strips of gold lace\non the upper part of one of the sleeves. He had twice stepped towards\nthe cottage door, and twice drawn back, as if influenced by some\nunaccountable feeling--timidity, perhaps, or bashfulness; and yet the\nbearing of the man gave little indication of either. But at length, as\nif he had gathered heart, he raised the latch and went in.\n\nThe widow, who had had many visitors that morning, seemed to be\nscarcely aware of his entrance; she was sitting on a low seat beside\nthe fire, her face covered with her hands, while the tremulous\nrocking motion of her body showed that she was still brooding over\nthe distresses of the previous night. Her companion, who, without\nundressing, had thrown herself across the bed, was fast asleep. The\nstranger seated himself beside the fire, which seemed dying amid its\nashes, and, turning sedulously from the light of the window, laid his\nhand gently on the widow\u2019s shoulder. She started and looked up.\n\n\u201cI have strange news for you,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have long mourned for your\nhusband and your son; but though the old man has been dead for years,\nyour son Ernest is still alive, and is now in the harbour of Cromarty.\nHe is lieutenant of the vessel whose guns you must have heard during\nthe night.\u201d\n\nThe poor woman seemed to have lost all power of reply.\n\n\u201cI am a friend of Ernest\u2019s,\u201d continued the stranger, \u201cand have come to\nprepare you to meet with him. It is now five years since his father\nand he were blown off to sea by a strong gale from the land. They\ndrove before it for four days, when they were picked up by an armed\nvessel cruising in the North Sea, and which soon after sailed for the\ncoast of Spanish America. The poor old man sank under the fatigues he\nhad undergone; though Ernest, better able from his youth to endure\nhardship, was little affected by them. He accompanied us on our Spanish\nexpedition--indeed, he had no choice, for we touched at no British\nport after meeting with him; and through good fortune, and what his\ncompanions call merit, he has risen to be the second man aboard; and\nhas now brought home with him gold enough from the Spaniards to make\nhis old mother comfortable. He saw your light yester evening, and\nsteered by it to the roadstead, blessing you all the way. Tell me, for\nhe anxiously wished me to inquire of you, whether Helen Henry is yet\nunmarried?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is Ernest--it is Ernest himself!\u201d exclaimed the maiden, as she\nstarted from the widow\u2019s bed. In a moment after he had locked her in\nhis arms.\n\nIt was ill before evening with old Eachen Macinla. The fatigues of\nthe previous day, the grief and horror of the following night, had\nprostrated his energies bodily and mental; and he now lay tossing in a\nwaste apartment of the storehouse in the delirium of fever. The bodies\nof his two sons occupied the floor below. He muttered unceasingly in\nhis ravings, of William and Ernest Beth. They were standing beside him,\nhe said, and every time he attempted to pray for his poor boys and\nhimself, the stern old man laid his cold swollen hand on his lips.\n\n\u201cWhy trouble me?\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhy stare with your white dead eyes\non me? Away, old man! the little black shells are sticking in your\ngrey hairs; away to your place! Was it I who raised the wind or the\nsea?--was it I--was it I? Aha!--no--no--you were asleep--you were fast\nasleep, and could not see me cut the _swing_; and, besides, it was only\na piece of rope. Keep away--touch me not! I am a freeman, and will\nplead for my life. Please your honour, I did not murder these two men;\n_I only cut the rope that fastened their boat to the land_. Ha! ha! ha!\nhe has ordered them away, and they have both left me unskaithed.\u201d At\nthis moment Ernest Beth entered the apartment, and approached the bed.\nThe miserable old man raised himself on his elbow, and, regarding him\nwith a horrid stare, shrieked out--\u201cHere is Ernest Beth come for me a\nsecond time!\u201d and, sinking back on the pillow, instantly expired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n                            \u201cThe silent earth\n    Of what it holds shall speak, and every grave\n    Be as a volume, shut, yet capable\n    Of yielding its contents to ear and eye.\u201d--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE STORY OF JOHN FEDDES.]\n\nIn the woods to the east of Cromarty, occupying the summit of a green\ninsulated eminence, is the ancient burying-ground and chapel of St.\nRegulus. Bounding the south there is a deep narrow ravine, through\nwhich there runs a small tinkling streamlet, whose voice, scarcely\nheard during the droughts of summer, becomes hoarser and louder towards\nthe close of autumn. The sides of the eminence are covered with wood,\nwhich, overtopping the summit, forms a wall of foliage that encloses\nthe burying-ground except on the east, where a little opening affords\na view of the northern Sutor over the tops of trees which have not\nclimbed high enough to complete the fence. In this burying-ground the\ndead of a few of the more ancient families of the town and parish\nare still interred; but by far the greater part of it is occupied by\nnameless tenants, whose descendants are unknown, and whose bones have\nmouldered undisturbed for centuries. The surface is covered by a short\nyellow moss, which is gradually encroaching on the low flat stones of\nthe dead, blotting out the unheeded memorials which tell us that the\ninhabitants of this solitary spot were once men, and that they are now\ndust--that they lived, and that they died, and that they shall live\nagain.\n\nNearly about the middle of the burying-ground there is a low flat\nstone, over which time is silently drawing the green veil of oblivion.\nIt bears date 1690, and testifies, in a rude inscription, that it\ncovers the remains of Paul Feddes and his son John, with those of their\nrespective wives. Concerning Paul, tradition is silent; of John Feddes,\nhis son, an interesting anecdote is still preserved. Some time early\nin the eighteenth century, or rather perhaps about the close of the\nseventeenth, he became enamoured of Jean Gallie, one of the wealthiest\nand most beautiful young women of her day in this part of the country.\nThe attachment was not mutual; for Jean\u2019s affections were already\nfixed on a young man, who, both in fortune and elegance of manners,\nwas superior, beyond comparison, to the tall red-haired boatman, whose\nchief merit lay in a kind brave heart, a clear head, and a strong arm.\nJohn, though by no means a dissipated man, had been accustomed to\nregard money as merely the price of independence, and he had sacrificed\nbut little to the graces. His love-suit succeeded as might have been\nexpected; the advances he made were treated with contempt; and the day\nwas fixed on which his mistress was to be married to his rival. He\nbecame profoundly melancholy; and late on the evening which preceded\nthe marriage-day, he was seen traversing the woods which surrounded the\nold castle; frequently stopping as he went, and, by wild and singular\ngestures, giving evidence of an unsettled mind. In the morning after\nhe was nowhere to be found. His disappearance, with the frightful\nconjectures to which it gave rise, threw a gloom over the spirits of\nthe town\u2019s-folk, and affected the gaiety of the marriage party; it was\nremembered, even amid the festivities of the bridal, that John Feddes\nhad had a kind warm heart; and it was in no enviable frame that the\nbride, as her maidens conducted her to her chamber, caught a glimpse\nof several twinkling lights that were moving beneath the brow of the\ndistant Sutor. She could not ask the cause of an appearance so unusual;\nher fears too surely suggested that her unfortunate lover had destroyed\nhimself, and that his friends and kinsfolk kept that night a painful\nvigil in searching after the body. But the search was in vain, though\nevery copse and cavern, and the base of every precipice within several\nmiles of the town, were visited; and though, during the succeeding\nwinter, every wreath of sea-weed which the night-storms had rolled\nupon the beach, was approached with a fearful yet solicitous feeling\nscarcely ever associated with bunches of sea-weed before. Years passed\naway, and, except by a few friends, the kind enterprising boatman was\nforgotten.\n\nIn the meantime it was discovered, both by herself and the neighbours,\nthat Jean Gallie was unfortunate in her husband. He had, prior to his\nmarriage, when one of the gayest and most dashing young fellows in the\nvillage, formed habits of idleness and intemperance which he could not,\nor would not shake off; and Jean had to learn that a very gallant lover\nmay prove a very indifferent husband, and that a very fine fellow may\ncare for no one but himself. He was selfish and careless in the last\ndegree; and unfortunately, as his carelessness was of the active kind,\nhe engaged in extensive business, to the details of which he paid no\nattention, but amused himself with wild vague speculations, which,\njoined to his habits of intemperance, stripped him in the course of a\nfew years of all the property which had belonged to himself and his\nwife. In proportion as his means decreased he became more worthless,\nand more selfishly bent on the gratification of his appetites; and he\nhad squandered almost his last shilling, when, after a violent fit of\nintemperance, he was seized by a fever, which in a few days terminated\nin death. And thus, five years after the disappearance of John Feddes,\nJean Gallie found herself a poor widow, with scarce any means of\nsubsistence, and without one pleasing thought connected with the memory\nof her husband.\n\nA few days after the interment, a Cromarty vessel was lying at anchor,\nbefore sunrise, near the mouth of the Spey. The master, who had been\none of Feddes\u2019s most intimate friends, was seated near the stern,\nemployed in angling for cod and ling. Between his vessel and the\nshore, a boat appeared in the grey light of morning, stretching along\nthe beach under a tight, well-trimmed sail. She had passed him nearly\nhalf a mile, when the helmsman slackened the sheet, which had been\nclose-hauled, and suddenly changing the tack, bore away right before\nthe wind. In a few minutes the boat dashed alongside. All the crew,\nexcept the helmsman, had been lying asleep upon the beams, and now\nstarted up alarmed by the shock. \u201cHow, skipper,\u201d said one of the men,\nrubbing his eyes, \u201chow, in the name of wonder, have we gone so far\nout of our course? What brings us here?\u201d \u201cYou come from Cromarty,\u201d\nsaid the skipper, directing his speech to the master, who, starting at\nthe sound from his seat, flung himself half over the gunwale to catch\na glimpse of the speaker. \u201cJohn Feddes,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cby all that\nis miraculous!\u201d \u201cYou come from Cromarty, do you not?\u201d reiterated the\nskipper; \u201cAh, Willie Mouat! is that you?\u201d\n\nThe friends were soon seated in the snug little cabin of the vessel;\nand John, apparently the less curious of the two, entered, at the\nothers\u2019 request, into a detail of the particulars of his life for the\nfive preceding years. \u201cYou know, Mouat,\u201d he said, \u201chow I felt and what\nI suffered for the last six months I was in Cromarty. Early in that\nperiod I had formed the determination of quitting my native country for\never; but I was a weak foolish fellow, and so I continued to linger,\nlike an unhappy ghost, week after week, and month after month, hoping\nagainst hope, until the night which preceded the wedding-day of Jean\nGallie. Captain Robinson was then on the coast unloading a cargo of\nHollands. I had made it my business to see him; and after some little\nconversation, for we were old acquaintance, I broached to him my\nintention of leaving Scotland. It is well, said he; for friendship\nsake I will give you a passage to Flushing, and, if it suits your\ninclination, a berth in the privateer I am now fitting out for cruising\nalong the coast of Spanish America. I find the free trade doesn\u2019t\nsuit me; it has no scope. I considered his proposals, and liked them\nhugely. There was, indeed, some risk of being knocked on the head in\nthe cruising affair, but that weighed little with me; I really believe\nthat, at the time, I would as lief have run to a blow as avoided\none;--so I closed with him, and the night and hour were fixed when he\nshould land his boat for me in the _hope_ of the Sutors. The evening\ncame, and I felt impatient to be gone. You wonder how I could leave so\nmany excellent friends without so much as bidding them farewell. I have\nsince wondered at it myself; but my mind was filled, at the time, with\none engrossing object, and I could think of nothing else. Positively, I\nwas mad. I remember passing Jean\u2019s house on that evening, and catching\na glimpse of her through the window. She was so engaged in preparing\na piece of dress, which I suppose was to be worn on the ensuing day,\nthat she didn\u2019t observe me. I can\u2019t tell you how I felt--indeed, I do\nnot know; for I have scarcely any recollection of what I did or thought\nuntil a few hours after, when I found myself aboard Robinson\u2019s lugger,\nspanking down the Firth. It is now five years since, and, in that time,\nI have both given and received some hard blows, and have been both poor\nand rich. Little more than a month ago, I left Flushing for Banff,\nwhere I intend taking up my abode, and where I am now on the eve of\npurchasing a snug little property.\u201d \u201cNay,\u201d said Mouat, \u201cyou must come\nto Cromarty.\u201d \u201cTo Cromarty! no, that will scarcely do.\u201d \u201cBut hear me,\nFeddes--Jean Gallie is a widow.\u201d There was a long pause. \u201cWell, poor\nyoung thing,\u201d said John at length with a sigh, \u201cI should feel sorry for\nthat; I trust she is in easy circumstances?\u201d \u201cYou shall hear.\u201d\n\nThe reader has already anticipated Mouat\u2019s narrative. During the\nrecital of the first part of it, John, who had thrown himself on the\nback of his chair, continued rocking backwards and forwards with the\nbest counterfeited indifference in the world. It was evident that Jean\nGallie was nothing to him. As the story proceeded, he drew himself up\nleisurely, and with firmness, until he sat bolt upright, and the motion\nceased. Mouat described the selfishness of Jean\u2019s husband, and his\ndisgusting intemperance. He spoke of the confusion of his affairs. He\nhinted at his cruelty to Jean when he squandered all. John could act\nno longer--he clenched his fist and sprang from his seat. \u201cSit down,\nman,\u201d said Mouat, \u201cand hear me out--the fellow is dead.\u201d--\u201cAnd the poor\nwidow?\u201d said John. \u201cIs, I believe, nearly destitute;--you have heard of\nthe box of broad-pieces left her by her father?--she has few of them\nnow.\u201d \u201cWell, if she hasn\u2019t, I have; that\u2019s all. When do you sail for\nCromarty?\u201d \u201cTo-morrow, my dear fellow, and you go along with me; do you\nnot?\u201d\n\nAlmost any one could supply the concluding part of my narrative. Soon\nafter John had arrived at his native town, Jean Gallie became the\nwife of one who, in almost every point of character, was the reverse\nof her first husband; and she lived long and happily with him. Here\nthe novelist would stop; but I write from the burying-ground of St.\nRegulus, and the tombstone of my ancestor is at my feet. Yet why should\nit be told that John Feddes experienced the misery of living too\nlong--that, in his ninetieth year, he found himself almost alone in\nthe world? for, of his children, some had wandered into foreign parts,\nwhere they either died or forgot their father, and some he saw carried\nto the grave. One of his daughters remained with him, and outlived him.\nShe was the widow of a bold enterprising man, who lay buried with his\ntwo brothers, one of whom had sailed round the world with Anson, in the\ndepths of the ocean; and her orphan child, who, of a similar character,\nshared, nearly fifty years after, a similar fate, was the father of the\nwriter.\n\n[Sidenote: ANDREW LINDSAY.]\n\nA very few paces from the burying-ground of John Feddes, there is a\nlarge rude stone reared on two shapeless balusters, and inscribed\nwith a brief record of the four last generations of the Lindsays of\nCromarty--an old family now extinct. In its early days this family was\none of the most affluent in the burgh, and had its friendships and\nmarriages among the aristocracy of the country; but it gradually sank\nas it became older, and, in the year 1729, its last scion was a little\nragged boy of about ten years of age, who lived with his widow mother\nin one of the rooms of a huge dilapidated house at the foot of the\nChapel hill. Dilapidated as it was, it formed the sole remnant of all\nthe possessions of the Lindsays. Andrew, for so the boy was called,\nwas a high-spirited, unlucky little fellow, too careless of the school\nand of his book to be much a favourite with the schoolmaster, but\nexceedingly popular among his playfellows, and the projector of half\nthe pieces of petty mischief with which they annoyed the village. But,\nabout the end of the year 1731, his character became the subject of a\nchange, which, after unfixing almost all its old traits, and producing\na temporary chaos, set, at length, much better ones in their places. He\nbroke off from his old companions, grew thoughtful and melancholy, and\nfond of solitude, read much in his Bible, took long journeys to hear\nthe sermons of the more celebrated ministers of other parishes, and\nbecame the constant and attentive auditor of the clergyman of his own.\nHe felt comfortless and unhappy. Like the hero of that most popular of\nall allegories, the Pilgrim\u2019s Progress, \u201che stood clothed in rags, with\nhis face from his own house, a book in his hand, and a burden on his\nback. And opening the book, he read thereon, and, as he read, he wept\nand trembled, and, not being able to contain himself, he broke out into\na lamentable cry, saying, What shall I do?\u201d Indeed, the whole history\nof Andrew Lindsay, from the time of his conversion to his death, is\nso exact a counterpart of the journey of Christian, from the day on\nwhich he quitted the City of Destruction until he had entered the\nriver, that, in tracing his course, I shall occasionally refer to the\nallegory; regarding it as the well-known chart of an imperfectly known\ncountry. All other allegories are mere mediums of instruction, and owe\ntheir chief merit to their transparency as such; but it is not thus\nwith the dream of Bunyan, which, through its intrinsic interest alone,\nhas become more generally known than even the truths which are couched\nunder it.\n\nSome time in the year 1732, a pious Scottish clergyman who resided\nin England--a Mr. Davidson of Denham, in Essex, visited some of\nhis friends who lived in Cromarty. He was crossing the Firth at\nthis time on a Sabbath morning, to attend the celebration of the\nSupper in a neighbouring church, when a person pointed out to him a\nthoughtful-looking little boy, who sat at the other end of the boat.\n\u201cIt is Andrew Lindsay,\u201d said the person, \u201ca poor young thing seeking\nanxiously after the truth.\u201d \u201cI had no opportunity of conversing with\nhim,\u201d says Mr. Davidson in his printed tract, \u201cbut I could not observe\nwithout thankfulness a poor child, on a cold morning, crossing the sea\nto hear the Word, without shoe or stocking, or anything to cover his\nhead from the inclemency of the weather.\u201d He saw him again when in\nchurch--his eyes fixed steadfastly on the preacher, and the expression\nof his countenance varying with the tone of the discourse. Feeling much\ninterested in him, he had no sooner returned to Cromarty than he waited\nupon him at his mother\u2019s, and succeeded in engaging him in a long and\ninteresting conversation, which he has recorded at considerable length.\n\n\u201cHow did it happen, my little fellow,\u201d said he, \u201cthat you went so far\nfrom home last week to hear sermon, when the season was so cold, and\nyou had neither shoes nor stockings?\u201d The boy replied in a bashful,\nunassuming manner, that he was in that state of nature which is\ncontrasted by our Saviour with that better state of grace, the denizens\nof which can alone inherit the kingdom of heaven. But, though conscious\nthat such was the case, he was quite unaffected, he said, by a sense\nof his danger. He was anxious, therefore, to pursue those means by\nwhich such a sense might be awakened in him; and the Word preached\nwas one of these. For how, he continued, unless I be oppressed by the\nweight of the evil which rests upon me, and the woe and misery which it\nmust necessarily entail in the future, how can I value or seek after\nthe only Saviour? \u201cBut what,\u201d said Mr. Davidson, \u201cif God himself has\nengaged to work this affecting sense of sin in the heart?\u201d--\u201cHas he so\npromised?\u201d eagerly inquired the boy. The clergyman took out his Bible,\nand read to him the remarkable text in John, in which our Saviour\nintimates the coming of the Spirit to convince the world of _sin_, of\nrighteousness, and of judgment. Andrew\u2019s countenance brightened as he\nlistened, and, losing his timidity in the excitement of the moment, he\ntook the book out of Mr. Davidson\u2019s hand, and, for several minutes,\ncontemplated the passage in silence.\n\n\u201cDo you ever pray?\u201d inquired Mr. Davidson; Andrew shut the book, and,\nhanging down his head, timidly replied in the negative. \u201cWhat! not\npray! Do you go so far from home to attend sermons, and yet not bow the\nknee to God in prayer?\u201d--\u201cAh!\u201d he answered, \u201cI do bow the knee perhaps\nsix or seven times a day, but I cannot call that praying to God--I want\nthe spirit of prayer; I often ask I hardly know what, and with scarce\nany desire to receive; and often, when a half sense of my condition has\ncompelled me to kneel, a vicious wandering imagination carries me away,\nand I rise again, not knowing what I have said.\u201d--\u201cOh!\u201d rejoined the\nclergyman, \u201conly persist. But tell me, was it your ordinary practice,\nin past years, to attend sermons as you do now?\u201d \u201cNo, sir, quite\nthe reverse; once or twice in a season, perhaps, I went to church,\nbut I used to quit it through weariness ere the service was half\ncompleted.\u201d--\u201cAnd how do you account for the change?\u201d \u201cI cannot account\nfor it; I only know, that formerly I had no heart to go and hear of\nGod at any time, and that now I dare not keep away.\u201d Mr. Davidson\nthen inquired whether he had ever conversed on these matters with Mr.\nGordon, the minister of the parish; but was asked with much simplicity,\nin return, what Mr. Gordon would think of a poor boy like him presuming\nto call on him? \u201cI have many doubts and uncertainties,\u201d said he, \u201cbut\nI am afraid to ask any one to solve them. Once, indeed, but only once,\nI plucked up resolution enough to inquire of a friend how I might\nglorify God. He bade me obey God\u2019s commandments, for that was the way\nto glorify Him, and I now see the value of the advice; but I see, also,\nthat only through faith in Jesus Christ can fallen man acquire an\nability to profit by it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis last answer, so much above his years,\u201d says Mr. Davidson,\n\u201coccasioned my asking him how he had become so intimately acquainted\nwith these truths? He modestly answered, \u2018I hear Mr. Gordon preach,\u2019 as\nif he had said, My knowledge bears no proportion to the advantages I\nenjoy.\u201d And thus ended the conference; for, after exhorting him to be\nmuch in secret prayer, and to testify to the world the excellence of\nwhat he sought after, by being a diligent scholar and a dutiful son,\nMr. Davidson bade him farewell. The poor little fellow was wandering,\nat this period, over that middle space which lies between the devoted\ncity and the wicket gate; struggling at times in the deep mire of the\nslough, at times journeying beside the hanging hill. He had received,\nhowever, the roll from Evangelist, and saw the shining light of the\nwicket becoming clearer and brighter as he advanced.\n\nAbout half a year from the time of this conversation, Mr. Davidson had\nagain occasion to visit Cromarty; he called on Andrew, and was struck,\nin the moment he saw him, by a remarkable change in his appearance.\nFormerly, the expression of his countenance, though interesting, was\nprofoundly melancholy; it was now lighted up by a quiet tranquil joy;\nand, though modest and unassuming as before, he was less timid. He had\npassed the wicket. He felt he had become one of the family of God; and\nfound a new principle implanted within him, which so operated on his\naffections, that he now hated the evil he had previously loved, and was\nenamoured of the good he had formerly rejected. Standing, as Bacon has\nbeautifully expressed it, on the \u201cvantage ground of truth,\u201d he could\noverlook the windings of the track on which he had lately journeyed,\nnot knowing whither he went. \u201cI see,\u201d said he to Mr. Davidson, \u201cthat\nthe very bent of my mind was contrary to God--especially to the way\nof salvation by Christ--and that I could no more get rid of this\ndisposition through any effort of my own, than I could pull the sun\nout of the heavens. I see, too, that not only were all my ordinary\nactions tainted by sin, but that even my religious duties were sins\nalso. And yet, out of these actions and duties, was I accumulating to\nmyself a righteousness which I meant to barter for the favour of God;\nand, though he was at much pains with me in scattering the hoard in\nwhich I trusted, yet, after every fresh dispersal, would I set myself\nto gather anew.\u201d--When passing the wicket, he had been shot at from\nthe castle. He was conscious that a power, detached from his mind, had\nbeen operating upon it; for, as it fluctuated on its natural balance\nbetween gaiety and depression, he had felt this power weighing it\ninto despair as it sunk towards the lower extreme, and urging it into\npresumption as it ascended towards the upper. He had seen, also, the\nrarities at the house of the Interpreter. Religion had communicated to\nhim the art of thinking. It first inspired him with a belief in God,\nand an anxious desire to know what was his character; and, as he read\nhis Bible, and heard sermons, his mental faculties, like the wheels\nof a newly-completed engine, felt for the first time the impulse of a\nmoving power, and began to revolve. It next stirred him up to stand\nsentinel over the various workings of his mind, and, as he stood and\npondered, he became a skilful metaphysician, without so much as knowing\nthe name of the science. As a last step in the process, it brought him\nacquainted with those countless analogies by which the natural world is\nrendered the best of all commentaries on the moral. \u201cI am unable,\u201d said\nhe to his friend the clergyman, \u201cto describe the state of my soul as I\nsee it, but I am somewhat helped to conceive of it by the springs which\nrise by the wayside, as I pass westward from the town, along the edge\nof the bay. They contain only a scanty supply of water, and are matted\nover with grass and weeds; but even now in August, when the fierce heat\nhas dried up all the larger pools, that scanty supply does not fail\nthem. On disentangling the weeds I see the water sparkling beneath. It\nis thus, I trust, with my heart. The life of God is often veiled in it\nby the rank luxuriance of evil thoughts, but, when a new manifestation\ndraws these aside, I can catch a glimpse of what they conceal. I can\nhope, too, that as the love of Christ is unchangeable, this element of\nlife will continue to spring up in my soul, however dry and arid the\natmosphere which surrounds it.\u201d\n\nBunyan has described a green pleasant valley, besprinkled with lilies,\nwhich lies between the palace of the virgins and the valley of the\nshadow of death. \u201cIt is blessed,\u201d says he, \u201cwith an exceedingly\nfertile soil, and there have been many labouring men who have been\nfortunate enough to get estates in it.\u201d Andrew was one of these. He\nwas humble and unobtrusive, and but little confident in himself--a\ntrue freeman of the valley of humiliation. Though no longer the\nleader of his schoolfellows--for he had now so little influence among\nthem, that he could not prevail on so much as one of them to follow\nhim--he was much happier than before. Leaving them at their wild\ngames, he would retire to his solitudes, and there hold converse with\nthe Deity in prayer, or seek out in meditation some of the countless\nparallelisms of the two great works which had been spread out before\nhim--Creation and the Bible. He was no longer a leader even to himself.\n\u201cI have been taught,\u201d said he, \u201cby experience, that my heart is too\nstubborn a thing for my own management, and so have given it up to the\nmanagement of Christ.\u201d Mr. Davidson saw him, for the last time, about\nthe beginning of the year 1740, when he complained to him of being\nexposed to many sore temptations. He had met with wild beasts, and\nhad to contend with giants--he had been astonished amid the gloom of\nthe dark valley, and bewildered in the mists of the enchanted ground.\nThe interesting little tract from which I have drawn nearly all the\nmaterials of my memoir, and which at the time of its first appearance\npassed through several editions, and was printed more recently at\nEdinburgh by the publishers for the Sabbath-schools, concludes with a\nbrief notice of this conference. The rest of Andrew\u2019s story may be told\nin a few words. He lived virtuously and happily, supporting himself\nby the labour of his hands, without either seeking after wealth or\nattaining to it; he bore a good name, though not a celebrated one, and\nlived respected, and died regretted. It is recorded on his tombstone,\nin an epitaph whose only merit is its truth, that \u201che was truly pious\nfrom a child--his whole life and conversation agreeable thereto;\u201d and\nthat his death took place in 1769, in the fiftieth year of his age.\n\nI am aware that, in thus tracing the course of my townsman, I lay\nmyself open to a charge of fanaticism. I shall venture, however, on\ncommitting myself still further.\n\nOne night, towards the close of last autumn, I visited the old chapel\nof St. Regulus. The moon, nearly at full, was riding high overhead in a\ntroubled sky, pouring its light by fits, as the clouds passed, on the\ngrey ruins, and the mossy, tilt-like hillocks, which had been raised\nages before over the beds of the sleepers. The deep, dark shadows\nof the tombs seemed stamped upon the sward, forming, as one might\nimagine, a kind of general epitaph on the dead, but inscribed, like\nthe handwriting on the wall, in the characters of a strange tongue. A\nlow breeze was creeping through the long withered grass at my feet; a\nshower of yellow leaves came rustling, from time to time, from an old\ngnarled elm that shot out its branches over the burying-ground--and,\nafter twinkling for a few seconds in their descent, silently took up\ntheir places among the rest of the departed; the rush of the stream\nsounded hoarse and mournful from the bottom of the ravine, like a\nvoice from the depths of the sepulchre; there was a low, monotonous\nmurmur, the mingled utterance of a thousand sounds of earth, air, and\nwater, each one inaudible in itself; and, at intervals, the deep,\nhollow roar of waves came echoing from the caves of the distant\npromontory, a certain presage of coming tempest. I was much impressed\nby the melancholy of the scene. I reckoned the tombs one by one. I\npronounced the names of the tenants. I called to remembrance the\nvarious narratives of their loves and their animosities, their joys\nand their sorrows. I felt, and there was a painful intensity in the\nfeeling, that the gates of death had indeed closed over them, and shut\nthem out from the world for ever. I contrasted the many centuries which\nhad rolled away ere they had been called into existence, and the ages\nwhich had passed since their departure, with the little brief space\nbetween--that space in which the Jordan of their hopes and fears had\nleaped from its source, and after winding through the cares, and toils,\nand disappointments of life, had fallen into the Dead Sea of the grave;\nand as I mused and pondered--as the flood of thought came rushing over\nme--my heart seemed dying within me, for I felt that, as one of this\nhapless race, vanity of vanity was written on all my pursuits and all\nmy enjoyments, and that death, as a curse, was denounced against me.\nBut there was one tomb which I had not reckoned, one name which I had\nnot pronounced, one story which I had not remembered. I had not thought\nof the tomb, the name, the story of that sleeper of hope, who had lived\nin the world as if he were not of the world, and had died in the\nfull belief that because God was his friend, death could not be his\nenemy. My eye at length rested on the burial-ground of the Lindsays,\nand the feeling of deep despondency which had weighed on my spirits\nwas dissipated as if by a charm. I saw time as the dark vestibule of\neternity;--the gate of death which separates the porch from the main\nbuilding, seemed to revolve on its hinges, and light broke in as it\nopened; for the hall beyond was not a place of gloom and horror, nor\nstrewed, as I had imagined, with the bones of dead men. I felt that\nthe sleeper below had, indeed, lived well; the world had passed from\nhim as from the others, but he had wisely fixed his affections, not\non the transitory things of the world, but on objects as immortal as\nhis own soul; and as I mused on his life and his death, on the quiet\nand comfort of the one, and the high joy of the other, I wondered how\nit was that men could deem it wisdom to pursue an opposite course.--I\ncould not, at that time, regard Lindsay as a fanatic, nor am I ashamed\nto confess that I have not since changed my opinion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n    \u201cAround swells mony a grassy heap,\n      Stan\u2019s mony a sculptured stane;\n    An\u2019 yet in a\u2019 this peopled field\n      No being thinks but ane.\u201d--ANON.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE CHAPEL OF ST. REGULUS.]\n\nThe ruins of the old chapel of St. Regulus occupy the edge of a narrow\nprojecting angle, in which the burying-ground terminates towards the\neast. Accident and decay seem to have wrought their worst upon them.\nThe greater part of the front wall has been swallowed up piecemeal by\nthe ravine, which, from the continual action of the stream, and the\nrains, and snows, of so many winters, has been gradually widening and\ndeepening, until it has at length reached the site of the building,\nand is now scooping out what was once the floor. The other walls have\nfound enemies nearly as potent as the stream and the seasons, in the\nlittle urchins of the town, who, for the last two centuries, have been\namusing themselves, generation after generation, in tearing out the\nstones, and rolling them down the sides of the eminence. What is now,\nhowever, only a broken-edged ruin, and a few shapeless mounds, was,\nthree hundred years ago, a picturesque-looking, high-gabled house, of\none story, perforated by a range of narrow, slit-like windows, and\nroofed with ponderous grey slate. A rude stone cross surmounted the\neastern gable. Attached to the gable which fronted the west, there was\na building roofed over like the chapel, but much superior to it in\nits style of masonry. It was the tomb of the Urquharts. A single tier\nof hewn ashlar, with a sloping basement, and surmounted by a Gothic\nmoulding, are now almost its only remains; but from the line of the\nfoundation, which we can still trace on the sward, we see that it was\nlaid out in the form of a square, with a double buttress rising at each\nof the angles. The area within is occupied by a mouldy half-dilapidated\nvault, partially filled with bones and the rubbish of the chapel.\n\nA few yards farther away, and nearly level with the grass, there is\nan uncouth imitation of the human figure with the hands folded on the\nbreast. It bears the name of the \u201cburnt cook;\u201d and from time immemorial\nthe children of the place spit on it as they pass. But though tradition\nbears evidence to the antiquity of the practice, it gives no account\nof its origin, or what perhaps might prove the same thing, of the\ncharacter of the poor cook; which we may infer, however, from the\nnature of the observance, to have been a bad one. I find it stated by\nMr. Brady in his _Clavis Calendaria_, that as late as the last century\nit was customary, in some places of England, for people to spit every\ntime they named the devil.\n\nViewed from the ruins, the tombstones of the burying-ground seem\nclustered together beneath the fence of trees which overtops the\neminence on the west. I have compared them, in some of my imaginative\nmoods, to a covey of waterfowl sleeping beside the long rank grass and\nrushes of a lake. They are mostly all fashioned in that heavy grotesque\nstyle of sculpture, which, after the Reformation had pulled down both\nthe patterns and patrons of the stone-cutter, succeeded, in this part\nof the country, to the lighter and more elegant style of the time\nof the Jameses. The centres of the stones are occupied by the rude\nsemblances of skulls and cross-bones, dead-bells and sand-glasses,\nshovels and sceptres, coffins and armorial bearings; while the\ninscriptions, rude and uncouth as the figures, run in continuous lines\nround the margins. They tell us, though with as little variety as\nelegance of phrase, that there is nothing certain in life except its\ntermination; and, taken collectively, read us a striking lesson on\nthe vicissitudes of human affairs. For we learn from them that we have\nbefore us the burial-place of no fewer than seven landed proprietors,\nnone of whose families now inherit their estates. One of the\ninscriptions, and but only one, has some little merit as a composition.\nIt is simple and modest; and may be regarded, besides, as a specimen of\nthe language and orthography of Cromarty in the reign of Charles II. It\nruns thus--\n\n    HEIR \u00b7 LYES \u00b7 AT \u00b7 REST \u00b7 AN \u00b7 FAITHFVL \u00b7 ONE \u00b7\n    WHOM \u00b7 GOD \u00b7 HAITH \u00b7 PLEASIT \u00b7 TO \u00b7 CAL \u00b7 VPON \u00b7\n    HIR \u00b7 LYE \u00b7 SHEE \u00b7 LIVED \u00b7 BOTH \u00b7 POOR \u00b7 AND \u00b7 IVST \u00b7\n    AND \u00b7 EY \u00b7 IN \u00b7 GOD \u00b7 SHEE \u00b7 PVT \u00b7 HIR \u00b7 TRVST \u00b7\n    GOD\u2019S \u00b7 LAWES \u00b7 OBYED \u00b7 TO \u00b7 SIN \u00b7 WAS \u00b7 LEATH \u00b7\n    NO \u00b7 DOVBT \u00b7 SHEE \u00b7 DYED \u00b7 ANE \u00b7 HAPPIE \u00b7 DATH \u00b7\n\n    IANET \u00b7 IONS^{TON} \u00b7 1679 \u00b7\n\nOn the northern side of the burying-ground there is a low stone,\nsculptured like most of the others, but broken by some accident into\nthree pieces. A few stinted shrubs of broom spread their tiny branches\nand bright blossoms over the figures; they are obscured, besides, by\nrank tufts of moss and patches of lichens; but, despite of neglect\nand accident, enough of the inscription remains legible to tell us\nthat we stand on the burial-place of one John Macleod, a _merchant_ of\nCromarty. He kept, besides, the principal inn of the place. He had an\nonly son, a tall, and very powerful man, who was engaged, as he himself\nhad been in his earlier days, in the free trade, and who, for a series\nof years, had set the officers of the revenue at defiance. Some time\nlate in the reign of Queen Anne, he had succeeded in landing part of a\ncargo among the rocks of the hill of Cromarty, and in transporting it,\nnight after night, from the cavern in which he had first secreted it,\nto a vault in his father\u2019s house, which opened into the cellar. After\nconcealing the entrance, he had seated himself beside the old man at\nthe kitchen fire, when two revenue-officers entered the apartment, and\ntaking their places beside a table, called for liquor. Macleod drew\nhis bonnet hastily over his brow, and edging away from the small iron\nlamp which lighted the kitchen, muffled himself up in the folds of his\ndreadnought greatcoat. His father supplied the officers. \u201cWhere is\nWalter, your son?\u201d inquired the better-dressed of the two, a tall, thin\nman, equipped in a three-cornered hat, and a blue coat seamed with gold\nlace; \u201cI trust he does not still sail the Swacker.\u201d \u201cMaybe no,\u201d said\nthe old man dryly. \u201cFor I have just had intelligence,\u201d continued the\nofficer, \u201cthat she was captured this morning by Captain Manton, after\nfiring on her Majesty\u2019s flag; and it will go pretty hard, I can tell\nyou, with some of the crew.\u201d A third revenue-officer now entered the\nkitchen, and going up to the table whispered something to the others.\n\u201cPlease, Mr. Macleod,\u201d said the former speaker to the innkeeper,\n\u201cbring us a light, and the key of your cellar.\u201d \u201cAnd wherefore that?\u201d\ninquired the old man; \u201cshow me your warrant. What would ye do wi\u2019\nthe key?\u201d \u201cNay, sir, no trifling; you brought here last night three\ncart-loads of Geneva, and stored them up in a vault below your cellar;\nthe key and a light.\u201d There was no sign, however, of procuring either.\n\u201cAway!\u201d he continued, turning to the officer who had last entered;\n\u201caway for a candle and a sledge-hammer!\u201d He was just quitting the room\nwhen the younger Macleod rose from his seat, and took his stand right\nbetween him and the door. \u201cLook ye, gentlemen,\u201d he said in a tone of\nportentous coolness, \u201cI shall take it upon me to settle this affair;\nyou and I have met before now, and are a little acquainted. The man\nwho first moves out of this place in the direction of the cellar,\nshall never move afterwards in any direction at all.\u201d He thrust his\nhand, as he spoke, beneath the folds of his greatcoat, and seemed\nextricating some weapon from his belt. \u201cIn upon him, lads!\u201d shouted\nout the tall officer, \u201cdevil though he be, he is but one; the rest are\nall captured.\u201d In a moment, two of the officers had thrown themselves\nupon him; the third laid hold of his father. A tremendous struggle\nensued;--the lamp was overturned and extinguished. The smuggler, with a\nHerculean effort, shook off both his assailants, and as they rushed in\nagain to close with him, he dealt one of them so terrible a blow that\nhe rolled, stunned and senseless, on the floor. The elder Macleod, a\nhale old man, had extricated himself at the same moment, and mistaking,\nin the imperfect light, his son for one of the officers, and the fallen\nofficer for his son, he seized on the kitchen poker, and just as the\nchampion had succeeded in mastering his other opponent, he struck at\nhim from behind, and felled him in an instant. In less than half an\nhour after he was dead. The unfortunate old man did not long survive\nhim; for after enduring, for a few days, the horrors of mingled grief\nand remorse, his anguish of mind terminated in insanity, and he died in\nthe course of the month.\n\nFor some time after, the house he had inhabited lay without a tenant,\nand stories were circulated among the town\u2019s-folks of it being haunted.\nOne David Hood, a tailor of the place, was frightened almost out of\nhis wits in passing it on a coarse winter night, when neither fire\nnor candle in the whole range of houses on either side, showed him\nthat there was anybody awake in town but himself. A fearful noise\nseemed to proceed from one of the lower rooms, as if a party of men\nwere engaged in some desperate struggle;--he could hear the dashing\nof furniture against the floor, and the blows of the assailants; and\nafter a dull hollow sound twice repeated, there was a fearful shriek,\nand a mournful exclamation in the voice of the deceased shopkeeper, \u201cI\nhave murdered my son! I have murdered my son!\u201d The house was occupied,\nnotwithstanding, some years after, though little to the comfort of the\ntenants. Often were they awakened at midnight, it is said, by noises,\nas if every piece of furniture in the apartment was huddled into the\nmiddle of the floor, though in the morning not a chair or table would\nbe found displaced; at times, too, it would seem as if some person\nheavily booted was traversing the rooms overhead; and some of the\ninmates, as they lay a-bed, have seen clenched fists shaken at them\nfrom outside the windows, and pale, threatening faces looking in upon\nthem through half-open doors. There is one of the stories which, but\nfor a single circumstance, I should deem more authentic, not merely\nthan any of the others, but than most of the class to which it belongs.\nIt was communicated to me by a sensible and honest man--a man, too,\nof very general information. He saw, he said, what he seriously\nbelieved to be the apparition of the younger Macleod; but as he was a\nchild of only six years at the time, his testimony may, perhaps, be\nmore rationally regarded as curiously illustrative of the force of\nimagination at a very early age, than as furnishing any legitimate\nproof of the reality of such appearances. He had a sister, a few\nyears older than himself, who attended some of the younger members\nof the family, which tenanted, about sixty years ago, the house once\noccupied by the shopkeeper. One Sunday forenoon, when all the inmates\nhad gone to church except the girl and her charge, he stole in to see\nher, and then amused himself in wandering from room to room, gazing\nat the furniture and the pictures. He at length reached one of the\ngarrets, and was turning over a heap of old magazines in quest of\nthe prints, when he observed something darken the door, and looking\nup, found himself in the presence of what seemed to be a very tall,\nbroad-shouldered man, with a pale, ghastly countenance, and wrapt up\nin a brown dreadnought greatcoat. A good deal surprised, but not at\nall alarmed, for he had no thought at the time that the appearance was\nother than natural, he stepped down stairs and told his sister that\nthere was a \u201cmuckle big man i\u2019 the top of the house.\u201d She immediately\ncalled in a party of the neighbours, who, emboldened by the daylight,\nexplored every room and closet from the garrets to the cellar, but they\nsaw neither the tall man nor the dreadnought greatcoat.\n\n[Sidenote: THE STORY OF SANDY WOOD.]\n\nThe old enclosure of the burying-ground, which seems originally to\nhave been an earthen wall, has now sunk into a grassy mound, and\non the southern and western sides some of the largest trees of the\nfence--a fine stately ash, fluted like a Grecian column, a huge elm\nroughened over with immense wens, and a low bushy larch with a bent\ntwisted trunk, and weeping branches--spring directly out of it. At one\nplace we see a flat tombstone lying a few yards outside the mound.\nThe trees which shoot up on every side fling so deep a gloom over it\nduring the summer and autumn months, that we can scarcely decipher the\nepitaph; and in winter it is not unfrequently buried under a wreath\nof withered leaves. By dint of some little pains, however, we come to\nlearn from the darkened and half-dilapidated inscription, that the\ntenant below was one Alexander Wood, a native of Cromarty, who died\nin the year 1690; and that he was interred in this place at his own\nespecial desire. His wife and some of his children have taken up their\nplaces beside him; thus lying apart like a family of hermits; while his\nstory--which, almost too wild for tradition itself, is yet as authentic\nas most pieces of written history--affords a curious explanation of the\ncircumstance which directed their choice.\n\nWood was a man of strong passions, sparingly gifted with common sense,\nand exceedingly superstitious. No one could be kinder to one\u2019s friends\nor relatives, or more hospitable to a stranger; but when once offended,\nhe was implacable. He had but little in his power either as a friend or\nan enemy--his course through the world lying barely beyond the bleak\nedge of poverty. If a neighbour, however, dropped in by accident at\nmeal-time, he would not be suffered to quit his house until he had\nshared with him his simple fare. There was benevolence in the very\ngrasp of his hand and the twinkle of his eye, and in the little set\nspeech, still preserved by tradition, in which he used to address his\nwife every time an old or mutilated beggar came to the door:--\u201cAlms,\ngudewife,\u201d he would say; \u201calms to the cripple, and the blin\u2019, and\nthe broken-down.\u201d When injured or insulted, however, and certainly\nno one could do either without being very much in the wrong, there\nwas a toad-like malignity in his nature, that would come leaping out\nlike the reptile from its hole, and no power on earth could shut it\nup again. He would sit hatching his venom for days and weeks together\nwith a slow, tedious, unoperative kind of perseverance, that achieved\nnothing. He was full of anecdote; and, in all his stories, human nature\nwas exhibited in only its brightest lights and its deepest shadows,\nwithout the slightest mixture of that medium tint which gives colour\nto its working, everyday suit. Whatever was bad in the better class,\nhe transferred to the worse, and _vice versa_; and thus not even his\nnarratives of the supernatural were less true to nature and fact than\nhis narratives of mere men and women. And he dealt with the two classes\nof stories after one fashion--lending the same firm belief to both\nalike.\n\nIn the house adjoining the one in which he resided, there lived a stout\nlittle man, a shoemaker, famous in the village for his great wit and\nhis very considerable knavery. His jokes were mostly practical, and\nsome of the best of them exceedingly akin to felonies. Poor Wood could\nnot understand his wit, but, in his simplicity of heart, he deemed\nhim honest, and would fain have prevailed on the neighbours to think\nso too. He knew it, he said, by his very look. Their gardens, like\ntheir houses, lay contiguous, and were separated from each other, not\nby a fence, but by four undressed stones laid in a line. Year after\nyear was the garden of Wood becoming less productive; and he had a\nstrange misgiving, but the thing was too absurd to be spoken of, that\nit was growing smaller every season by the breadth of a whole row of\ncabbages. On the one side, however, were the back walls of his own and\nhis neighbour\u2019s tenements; the four large stones stretched along the\nother; and nothing, surely, could be less likely than that either the\nstones or the houses should take it into their heads to rob him of\nhis property. But the more he strove to exclude the idea the more it\npressed upon him. He measured and remeasured to convince himself that\nit was a false one, and found that he had fallen on just the means of\nestablishing its truth. The garden was actually growing smaller. But\nhow? Just because it was bewitched! It was shrinking into itself under\nthe force of some potent enchantment, like a piece of plaiding in the\nfulling-mill. No hypothesis could be more congenial; and he would have\nheld by it, perhaps, until his dying day, had it not been struck down\nby one of those chance discoveries which destroy so many beautiful\nsystems and spoil so much ingenious philosophy, quite in the way that\nNewton\u2019s apple struck down the vortices of Descartes.\n\nHe was lying a-bed one morning in spring, about daybreak, when his\nattention was excited by a strange noise which seemed to proceed from\nthe garden. Had he heard it two hours earlier, he would have wrapped\nup his head in the bedclothes and lain still; but now that the cock\nhad crown, it could not, he concluded, be other than natural. Hastily\nthrowing on part of his clothes, he stole warily to a back window, and\nsaw, between him and the faint light that was beginning to peep out\nin the east, the figure of a man, armed with a lever, tugging at the\nstones. Two had already been shifted a full yard nearer the houses,\nand the figure was straining over a third. Wood crept stealthily out\nat the window, crawled on all fours to the intruder, and, tripping up\nhis heels, laid him across his lever. It was his knavish neighbour the\nshoemaker. A scene of noisy contention ensued; groups of half-dressed\ntown\u2019s-folk, looming horrible in their shirts and nightcaps through the\ngrey of morning, came issuing through the lanes and the closes; and\nthe combatants were dragged asunder. And well was it for the shoemaker\nthat it happened so; for Wood, though in his sixtieth year, was strong\nenough, and more than angry enough, to have torn him to pieces. Now,\nhowever, that the warfare had to be carried on by words, the case was\nquite reversed.\n\n\u201cNeebours,\u201d said the shoemaker, who had the double advantage of being\nexceedingly plausible, and decidedly in the wrong, \u201cI\u2019m desperately\nill-used this morning--desperately ill-used;--he would baith rob and\nmurder me. I lang jaloused, ye see, that my wee bit o\u2019 a yard was\ngrowing littler and littler ilka season; and, though no very ready\nto suspect folk, I just thought I would keep watch, and see wha was\nshifting the mark-stanes. Weel, and I did;--late and early did I watch\nfor mair now than a fortnight; and wha did I see this morning through\nthe back winnock but auld Sandy Wood there in his verra sark--Oh, it\u2019s\nno him that has ony thought o\u2019 his end!--poking the stones wi\u2019 a lang\nkebar, intil the very heart o\u2019 my grun\u2019? See,\u201d said he, pointing to the\none that had not yet been moved, \u201csee if he hasna shifted it a lang\nell; and only notice the craft o\u2019 the bodie in tirring up the yird\nabout the lave, as if they had been a\u2019 moved frae my side. Weel, I came\nout and challenged him, as wha widna?--says I, Sawney my man, that\u2019s\nno honest; I\u2019ll no bear that; and nae mair had I time to say, when up\nhe flew at me like a wull-cat, and if it wasna for yoursels I daresay\nhe would hae throttled me. Look how I am bleedin\u2019;--and only look till\nhim--look till the cankart deceitful bodie, if he has one word to put\nin for himsel\u2019.\u201d\n\nThere was truth in, at least, this last assertion; for poor Wood, mute\nwith rage and astonishment, stood listening, in utter helplessness,\nto the astounding charge of the shoemaker,--almost the very charge he\nhimself had to prefer. Twice did he spring forward to grapple with him,\nbut the neighbours held him back, and every time he essayed to speak,\nhis words--massed and tangled together, like wreaths of sea-weed in a\nhurricane--stuck in his throat. He continued to rage for three days\nafter, and when the eruption had at length subsided, all his former\nresentments were found to be swallowed up, like the lesser craters of a\nvolcano, in the gulf of one immense hatred.\n\nHis house, as has been said, lay contiguous to the house of the\nshoemaker, and he could not avoid seeing him, every time he went out\nand came in--a circumstance which he at first deemed rather gratifying\nthan otherwise. It prevented his hatred from becoming vapid by setting\nit a-working at least ten times a day, as a musket would a barrel of\nale if discharged into the bunghole. Its frequency, however, at length\nsickened him, and he had employed a mason to build a stone wall,\nwhich, by stretching from side to side of the close, was to shut up\nthe view, when he sickened in right earnest, and at the end of a few\ndays found himself a-dying. Still, however, he was possessed by his one\nengrossing resentment. It mingled with all his thoughts of the past\nand the future; and not only was he to carry it with him to the world\nto which he was going, but also to leave it behind him as a legacy to\nhis children. Among his many other beliefs, there was a superstition,\nhanded down from the times of the monks, that at the day of final doom\nall the people of the sheriffdom were to be judged on the moor of\nNavity; and both the judgment and the scene of it he had indissolubly\nassociated with the shoemaker and the four stones. Experience had\ntaught him the importance of securing a first hearing for his story;\nfor was his neighbour, he concluded, to be beforehand with him, he\nwould have as slight a chance of being righted at Navity as in his own\ngarden. After brooding over the matter for a whole day, he called his\nfriends and children round his bed, and raised himself on his elbow to\naddress them.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m wearing awa, bairns and neebours,\u201d he said, \u201cand it vexes me sair\nthat that wretched bodie should see me going afore him. Mind, Jock,\nthat ye\u2019ll build the dike, and make it heigh, heigh, and stobbie on\nthe top; and oh! keep him out o\u2019 my lykewake, for should he but step\nin at the door, I\u2019ll rise, Jock, frae the verra straiking-board,\nand do murder! Dinna let him so muckle as look on my coffin. I have\nbeen pondering a\u2019 this day about the meeting at Navity, and the\nmarch-stanes; and I\u2019ll tell you, Jock, how we\u2019ll match him. Bury\nme ayont the saint\u2019s dike on the Navity side, and dinna lay me\ndeep. Ye ken the bonny green hillock, spreckled o\u2019er wi\u2019 gowans and\npuddock-flowers--bury me there, Jock; and yoursel\u2019, and the auld wife,\nmay just, when your hour comes, tak up your places beside me. We\u2019ll a\u2019\nget up at the first tout--the ane helping the other; and I\u2019se wad a I\u2019m\nworth i\u2019 the warld, we\u2019ll be half-way up at Navity afore the shochlan,\nshort-legged bodie wins o\u2019er the dike.\u201d Such was the dying injunction\nof Sandy Wood: and his tombstone still remains to testify that it\nwas religiously attended to. An Englishman who came to reside in the\nparish, nearly an age after, and to whom the story must have been\nimparted in a rather imperfect manner, was shocked by what he deemed\nhis unfair policy. The litigants, he said, should start together; he\nwas certain it would be so in England where a fair field was all that\nwould be given to St. Dunstan himself though he fought with the devil.\nAnd that it might be so here, he buried the tombstone of Wood in an\nimmense heap of clay and gravel. It would keep him down, he said, until\nthe little fellow would have clambered over the wall. The town\u2019s-folk,\nhowever, who were better acquainted with the merits of the case,\nshovelled the heap aside; and it now forms two little hillocks which\novertop the stone, and which, from the nature of the soil, are still\nmore scantily covered with verdure than any part of the surrounding\nbank.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n    \u201cOh! I do ponder with most strange delight\n    On the calm slumbers of the dead-man\u2019s night.\u201d\n\n    HENRY K. WHITE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE POOR LOST LAD.]\n\nWe have lingered long in the solitary burying-ground of St. Regulus;\nthe sun hastens to its setting; and the slanting beam of red light that\ncomes pouring in through an opening amid the trees, catches but the\nextreme tops of the loftier monuments, and the higher pinnacles of the\nruin beyond. There is a little bird chirping among the graves; we may\nhear the hum of the bee as it speeds homeward, and the low soothing\nmurmur of the stream in the dell below; all else is stillness and\nsolitude in this field of the dead.\n\nThere are times when, amid scenes such as the present, one can almost\nforget the possible, and wish that the silence were less deep. The most\ncontemplative of modern poets, in giving voice to a similar wish, has\nsublimed it into poetry. \u201cWould,\u201d he says of his churchyard among the\nhills, in the stanza I have already employed as a motto,\n\n    \u201cWould that the silent earth\n    Of what it holds could speak, and every grave\n    Be as a volume, shut, yet capable\n    Of yielding its contents to ear and eye.\u201d\n\nThe dead of a thousand years are sleeping at our feet; the poor peasant\nserf of ten centuries ago, whom the neighbouring baron could have hung\nup at his cottage door, with the intelligent mechanic of yesterday,\nwho took so deep an interest in the emancipation of the negroes.\nWhat strange stories of the past, what striking illustrations of the\ndestiny and nature of man, how important a chronicle of the progress of\nsociety, would this solitary spot present us with, were it not that,\nlike the mysterious volume in the Apocalypse, no man can open the book\nor unloose the seals thereof! There are recollections associated with\nsome of the more recent graves, of interest enough to show us how\ncurious a record the history of the whole would have furnished.\n\nIt is now well-nigh thirty years since Willie Watson returned, after an\nabsence of nearly a quarter of a century, to the neighbouring town. He\nhad been employed as a ladies\u2019 shoemaker in some of the districts of\nthe south; but no one at home had heard of Willie in the interval, and\nthere was little known regarding him at his return, except that when he\nhad quitted town so many years before, he was a neat-handed industrious\nworkman, and what the elderly people called a quiet decent lad. And\nhe was now, though somewhat in the wane of life, even a more thorough\nmaster of his trade than before. He was quiet and unobtrusive, too,\nas ever, and a great reader of serious books. And so the better sort\nof the people were beginning to draw to Willie by a kind of natural\nsympathy; some of them had learned to saunter into his workshop in\nthe long evenings, and some had grown bold enough to engage him in\nserious conversation when they met with him in his solitary walks;\nwhen out came the astounding fact--and important as it may seem, the\nsimple-minded mechanic had taken no pains to conceal it--that, during\nhis residence in the south country, he had laid down Presbyterianism,\nand become the member of a Baptist church. There was a sudden revulsion\nof feeling towards him, and all the people of the town began to speak\nof Willie Watson as \u201ca poor lost lad.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cpoor lost lad,\u201d however, was unquestionably a very excellent\nworkman; and as he made neater shoes than anybody else, the ladies of\nthe place could see no great harm in wearing them. He was singularly\nindustrious, too, and indulged in no extraordinary expense, except\nwhen he now and then bought a good book, or a few flower-seeds for\nhis garden. He was withal a single man, with only himself, and an\nelderly sister who lived with him, to provide for; and, what between\nthe regularity of his gains on the one hand, and the moderation of\nhis desires on the other, Willie, for a person of his condition, was\nin easy circumstances. It was found that all the children in the\nneighbourhood had taken a wonderful fancy to his shop. Willie was\nfond of telling them good little stories out of the Bible, and of\nexplaining to them the prints which he had pasted on the walls. Above\nall, he was anxiously bent on teaching them to read. Some of their\nparents were poor, and some of them were careless; and he saw that,\nunless they learned their letters from him, there was little chance of\ntheir ever learning them at all. Willie in a small way, and to a very\nsmall congregation, was a kind of missionary; and what between his\nstories and his pictures, and his flowers and his apples, his labours\nwere wonderfully successful. Never yet was school or church half so\ndelightful to the little men and women of the place as the workshop of\nWillie Watson, \u201cthe poor lost lad.\u201d\n\nYears of scarcity came on; taxes were high, and crops not abundant; and\nthe soldiery abroad, whom the country had employed to fight against\nBonaparte, had got an appetite at their work, and were consuming a\ngood deal of meat and corn. The price of food rose tremendously; and\nmany of the town\u2019s-people, who were working for very little, were not\nin every case secure of that little when the work was done. Willie\u2019s\nsmall congregation began to find that the times were exceedingly bad;\nthere were no more morning _pieces_ among them, and the porridge was\nless than enough. It was observed, however, that in the midst of their\ndistresses Willie got in a large stock of meal, and that his sister\nbegan to bake as if she were making ready for a wedding. The children\nwere wonderfully interested in the work, and watched it to the end;\nwhen, lo! to their great and joyous surprise, Willie divided the whole\nbaking among them. Every member of the congregation got a cake; there\nwere some who had little brothers and sisters at home who got two;\nand from that day forward, till times got better, none of Willie\u2019s\nyoung people lacked their morning _piece_. The neighbours marvelled at\nWillie; and all agreed that there was something strangely puzzling in\nthe character of the \u201cpoor lost lad.\u201d\n\nI have alluded to Willie\u2019s garden. Never was there a little bit of\nground better occupied; it looked like a piece of rich needlework.\nHe had got wonderful flowers too--flesh-coloured carnations streaked\nwith red, and double roses of a rich golden yellow. Even the\ncommoner varieties--auriculas and anemones, and the party-coloured\npolyanthus--grew better with Willie than with anybody else. A Dutchman\nmight have envied him his tulips, as they stood row beyond row on their\nelevated beds, like so many soldiers on a redoubt; and there was one\nmild dropping season in which two of these beautiful flowers, each\nperfect in its kind, and of different colours, too, sprang apparently\nfrom the same stem. The neighbours talked of them as they would have\ntalked of the Siamese Twins; but Willie, though it lessened the wonder,\nwas at pains to show them that the flowers sprang from different roots,\nand that what seemed to be their common stem, was in reality but a\ngreen hollow sheath formed by one of the leaves. Proud as Willie was\nof his flowers, and with all his humility he could not help being a\nlittle proud of them, he was yet conscientiously determined to have no\nmiracle among them, unless, indeed, the miracle should chance to be a\ntrue one. It was no fault of Willie\u2019s that all his neighbours had not\nas fine gardens as himself; he gave them slips of his best flowers,\nflesh-coloured carnation, yellow rose, and all; he grafted their\ntrees for them too, and taught them the exact time for raising their\ntulip-roots, and the best mode of preserving them. Nay, more than all\nthis, he devoted whole hours at times to give the finishing touches to\ntheir parterres and borders, just in the way a drawing-master lays in\nthe last shadings, and imparts the finer touches, to the landscapes\nof his favourite pupils. All seemed impressed by the unselfish\nkindliness of his disposition; and all agreed that there could not be a\nwarmer-hearted or more obliging neighbour than Willie Watson, \u201cthe poor\nlost lad.\u201d\n\nEverything earthly must have its last day. Willie was rather an\nelderly than an old man, and the childlike simplicity of his tastes\nand habits made people think of him as younger than he really was; but\nhis constitution, never a strong one, was gradually failing; he lost\nstrength and appetite; and at length there came a morning in which\nhe could no longer open his shop. He continued to creep out at noon,\nhowever, for a few days after, to enjoy himself among his flowers,\nwith only the Bible for his companion; but in a few days more he had\ndeclined so much lower, that the effort proved too much for him, and\nhe took to his bed. The neighbours came flocking in; all had begun\nto take an interest in poor Willie; and now they had learned he was\ndying, and the feeling had deepened immensely with the intelligence.\nThey found him lying in his neat little room, with a table bearing\nthe one beloved volume drawn in beside his bed. He was the same quiet\nplacid creature he had ever been; grateful for the slightest kindness,\nand with a heart full of love for all--full to overflowing. He said\nnothing about the Kirk, and nothing about the Baptists, but earnestly\ndid he urge his visitors to be good men and women, and to be availing\nthemselves of every opportunity of doing good. The volume on the table,\nhe said, would best teach them how. As for himself, he had not a single\nanxiety; the great Being had been kind to him during all the long time\nhe had been in the world, and He was now kindly calling him out of it.\nWhatever He did to him was good, and for his good, and why then should\nhe be anxious or afraid? The hearts of Willie\u2019s visitors were touched,\nand they could no longer speak or think of him as \u201cthe poor lost lad.\u201d\n\nA few short weeks went by, and Willie had gone the way of all flesh.\nThere was silence in his shop, and his flowers opened their breasts\nto the sun, and bent their heads to the bee and the butterfly, with\nno one to take note of their beauty, or to sympathize in the delight\nof the little winged creatures that seemed so happy among them.\nThere was many a wistful eye cast at the closed door and melancholy\nshutters by the members of Willie\u2019s congregation, and they could all\npoint out his grave. Yonder it lies, in the red light of the setting\nsun, with a carpeting of soft yellow moss spread over it. This little\nrecess contains, doubtless, to use Wordsworth\u2019s figure, many a curious\nand many an instructive volume, and all we lack is the ability of\ndeciphering the characters; but a better or more practical treatise on\ntoleration than that humble grave, it cannot contain. The point has\noften been argued in this part of the country--argued by men with long\nbeards, who preached bad grammar in behalf of Johanna Southcote, and\nby men who spoke middling good sense for other purposes, and shaved\nonce a day. But of all the arguments ever promulgated, those which told\nwith best effect on the town\u2019s-people were the life and death of Willie\nWatson, \u201cthe poor lost lad.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: A BALLAD IN PROSE.]\n\nWe have perused the grave of the \u201cpoor lost lad,\u201d and it turns out to\nbe a treatise on toleration. The grave beside it may be regarded as\na ballad--a short plaintive ballad--moulded in as common a form of\ninvention, if I may so express myself, as any, even the simplest, of\nthose old artless compositions which have welled out from time to time\nfrom among the people. Indeed, so simple is the story of it, that we\nmight almost deem it an imitation, were we not assured that all the\nvolumes of this solitary recess are originals from beginning to end.\n\nIt was forty years last March since the Champion man-of-war entered\nthe bay below, with her _ancient_ suspended half-way over the deck.\nOld seamen among the town\u2019s-folk, acquainted with that language of\nsigns and symbols in which fleets converse when they meet at sea,\nsaid that either the captain or one of his officers was dead; and the\ntown\u2019s-people, interested in the intelligence, came out by scores to\ngaze on the gallant vessel as she bore up slowly and majestically in\nthe calm, towards the distant roadstead. The sails were furled, and the\nanchors cast; and as the huge hull swung round to the tide, three boats\ncrowded with men were seen to shoot off from her side, and a strain of\nmelancholy music came floating over the waves to the shore. A lighter\nshallop, with only a few rowers, pulled far ahead of the others, and\nas she reached the beach, the shovels and pickaxes, for which the crew\nrelinquished their oars, revealed to the spectators more unequivocally\nthan even the half-hoisted ensign or the music, the sad nature of their\nerrand. The other boats approached with muffled and melancholy stroke,\nand the music waxed louder and more mournful. They reached the shore;\nthe men formed at the water\u2019s edge round a coffin covered by a flag,\nand bearing a sword a-top, and then passed slowly amid the assembled\ncrowds to the burying-ground of St. Regulus. Arms glittered to the sun.\nThe echoes of the tombs and of the deep precipitous dell below were\nawakened awhile by unwonted music, and then by the sharp rattle of\nmusketry; the smoke went curling among the trees, or lingered in a blue\nhaze amid the dingier recesses of the hollow; the coffin was covered\nover: a few of the officers remained behind the others; and there was\none of the number, a tall handsome young man, who burst out, as he was\nturning away, into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. At length the\nwhole pageant passed, and there remained behind only a darkened little\nhillock, with whose history no one was acquainted, but which was known\nfor many years after as the \u201cofficer\u2019s grave.\u201d\n\nTwenty years went by, and the grave came to be little thought of,\nwhen a townsman, on going up one evening to the burying-ground, saw a\nlady in deep mourning sitting weeping beside it, and a tall handsome\ngentleman in middle life, the same individual who had been so much\naffected at the funeral, standing, as if waiting for her, a little\napart. They were brother and sister. The storms of twenty seasons had\npassed over the little mossy hillock. The deep snows had pressed upon\nit in winter; the dead vegetation of succeeding summers and autumns\nhad accumulated around it, and it had gradually flattened to nearly\nthe level of the soil. It had become an old grave; but the grief, that\nfor the first time was now venting itself over it, had remained fresh\nas at first. There are cases, though rare, in which sorrow does not\nyield to time. A mother loses her child just as its mind has begun to\nopen, and it has learned to lay hold of her heart by those singularly\nendearing signs of infantine affection and regard, which show us how\nthe sympathies of our nature, which serve to bind us to the species,\nare awakened to perform their labour of love with even the first dawn\nof intelligence. Little missed by any one else, or at least soon to\nbe forgotten, it passes away; but there is one who seems destined to\nremember it all the more vividly just because it _has_ passed. To\nher, death serves as a sort of _mordant_ to fix the otherwise flying\ncolours in which its portraiture had been drawn on her heart. Time is\nworking out around her his thousand thousand metamorphoses. The young\nare growing up to maturity, the old dropping into their graves; but the\ninfant of her affections ever remains an infant--her charge in middle\nlife, when all her other children have left her and gone out into the\nworld, and, amid the weakness of decay and decrepitude, the child of\nher old age. There arises, however, a more enduring sorrow than even\nthat of the mother, when, in the midst of hopes all but gratified, and\nwishes on the eve of fulfilment, the ties of the softer passion are\nrudely dissevered by death. Feelings, evanescent in their nature, and\nrestricted to one class of circumstances and one stage of life, are\nuneradicably fixed through the event in the mind of the survivor. Youth\nfirst passes away, then the term of robust and active life, and last\nof all, the cold and melancholy winter of old age; but through every\nsucceeding change, until the final close, the bereaved lover remains a\nlover still. Death has fixed the engrossing passion in its tenderest\nattitude by a sort of petrifying process; and we are reminded by the\nfact of those delicate leaves and florets of former creations, which\na common fate would have consigned to the usual decay, but which were\nconverted, when they died by some sudden catastrophe, into a solid\nmarble that endures for ever. The lady who wept this evening beside the\n\u201cofficer\u2019s grave,\u201d was indulging in a hopeless, enduring passion of the\ncharacter described; but all that now remains of her story forms but a\nmere outline for the imagination to fill up at pleasure. Her lover had\nbeen the sole heir of an ancient and affluent family; the lady herself\nbelonged to rather a humbler sphere. He had fixed his affections upon\nher when almost a boy, and had succeeded in engaging hers in turn; but\nhis parents, who saw nothing desirable in a connexion which was to\nadd to neither the wealth nor the honours of the family, interfered,\nand he was sent to sea; where a disappointed attachment, preying on\na naturally delicate constitution, soon converted their fears for\nhis marriage into regret for his death. Did I not say truly that the\n\u201cofficer\u2019s grave\u201d was a simple little ballad, moulded in one of the\ncommonest forms of invention?\n\n[Sidenote: MORRISON THE PAINTER.]\n\nLet us peruse one other grave ere we quit the burying-ground--the\ngrave of Morrison the painter. It treats of morals, like that of \u201cthe\npoor lost lad,\u201d but it enforces them after a different mode. We shall\nfind it in the strangers\u2019 corner, beside the graves of the two foreign\nseamen, whose bodies were cast upon the beach after a storm.\n\nMorrison, some sixty or seventy years ago, was a tall, thin,\ngenteel-looking young man, who travelled the country as a portrait and\nminiature painter. The profession was new at the time to the north\nof Scotland; and the people thought highly of an artist who made\nlikenesses that could be recognised. But they could not think more\nhighly of him than Morrison did of himself. He was one of the class who\nmistake the imitative faculty for genius, and the ambition of rising\nin a genteel profession for that energy of talent whose efforts, with\nno higher object often than the mere pleasure of exertion, buoy up\nthe possessor to his proper level among men. There was a time when\nMorrison\u2019s pictures might be seen in almost every house--in little\nturf cottages even among halfpenny prints and broadsheet ballads; nor\nwere instances wanting of their finding place among the paintings of a\nhigher school:--some proprietor of the district retained an eccentric\npiper or gamekeeper in his establishment, or, like the baron of a\nformer age, kept a fool, and Morrison had been employed to confer on\nall that was droll or picturesque in his appearance, the immortality of\ncolour and canvas. Like the painter in the fable who pleased everybody,\nhe drew, in his serious portraits, all his men after one model, and\nall his women after another; but, unlike the painter, he copied from\nneither Apollo nor Venus. His gentlemen had sloping shoulders and long\nnecks, and looked exceeding grave and formidable; his ladies, on the\ncontrary, were sweet simpering creatures, with waists almost tapering\nto a point, and cheeks and lips of as bright a crimson as that of the\nbunch of roses which they bore in their hands.\n\nI have said that Morrison thought more highly of his genius than even\nhis country-folk. As the member of a highly liberal profession, too,\nhe naturally enough took rank as a gentleman. Geniuses were eccentric\nin those days, and gentlemen not very moral; and Morrison, in his\ndouble capacity of genius and gentleman, was skilful enough to catch\nthe eccentricity of the one class and the immorality of the other. He\nraked a little, and drank a great deal; and when in his cups said and\ndid things which were thought very extraordinary indeed. But though\nall acknowledged his genius, he was less successful in establishing\nhis gentility. There was, indeed, but one standard of gentility in the\ncountry at the time, and fate had precluded the painter from coming\nup to it; no one was deemed a gentleman whose ancestors had not been\nuseless to the community for at least five generations. It must be\nconfessed, too, that some of Morrison\u2019s schemes for establishing his\nclaims were but ill laid. On one occasion he attended an auction of\nvaluable furniture in the neighbouring town, and though a wanderer\nat the time, as he had been all his life long, and miserably poor to\nboot, he deemed it essential to the maintenance of his character,\nthat, as all the other gentlemen present were bidding with spirit,\nhe should now and then give a spirited bid too. He warmed gradually\nas the sale proceeded, offered liberally for beds and carpets, and\nmade a dead set on a valuable pianoforte. The purchasers were sadly\nannoyed; and the auctioneer, who was a bit of a wag, and laboured to\nput down the painter by sheer force of wit, found that he had met\nwith as accomplished a wit as himself. Morrison lost the piano, and\nthen fell in love with a moveable wooden house, which had served as\na sort of meat preserve, and was secured by a strong lock. \u201cYou had\nbetter examine it inside, Mr. Morrison,\u201d said the auctioneer; \u201cin fact,\nthe whole merit of the thing lies inside.\u201d Morrison went in, and the\nauctioneer shut and locked the door. There could not be a more grievous\noutrage on the feelings of a gentleman; but though the poor man went\nbouncing against the cruel walls of his prison like an incarcerated\nmonkey, and grinned with uncontrollable wrath at all and sundry through\nits little wire-woven window, pity or succour was there none; he was\nkept in close durance for four long hours till the sale terminated, and\nfound his claim to gentility not in the least strengthened when he got\nout.\n\nAfter living, as he best could, for about forty years, the painter\ntook to himself a wife. No woman should ever have thought of marriage\nin connexion with such a person as Morrison, nor should Morrison\nhave ever thought of marriage in connexion with such a person as\nhimself. But so it was--for ladies are proverbially courageous in such\nmatters, and Morrison could bid as dauntlessly for a wife as for a\npianoforte--that he determined on marrying, and succeeded in finding a\nwoman bold enough to accept of him for her husband. She was a rather\nrespectable sort of person, who had lived for many years as housekeeper\nin a gentleman\u2019s family, and had saved some money. They took lodgings\nin the neighbouring town; Morrison showed as much spirit, and got as\noften drunk as before; and in little more than a twelvemonth they came\nto be in want. They lingered on, however, in miserable poverty for a\nfew months longer, and then quitted the place, leaving behind them all\nMrs. Morrison\u2019s well-saved wardrobe under arrestment for debt. The\nlarge trunk which contained it lay unopened till about five years after\nthe poor woman had been laid in her grave, the victim of her miserable\nmarriage; and the contents formed a strange comment on her history.\n_There_ were fine silk gowns, sadly marred by mildew, and richly\nflowered petticoats eaten by the moths. _There_, too, were there pretty\nlittle heads of the virgin and the apostles, and beads and a crucifix\nof some value; the loss of which, as the poor owner had been a zealous\nRoman Catholic, had affected her more than the loss of all the rest.\nAnd there, also, like the Babylonish garment among the goods of Achan,\nthere was a packet of Morrison\u2019s letters, full of flames and darts, and\nall those little commonplaces of love which are used by men clever on\na small scale, who think highly of their own parts, and have no true\naffection for any one but themselves.\n\nIt has been told me by an acquaintance, who resided for some time in\none of our northern towns, that when hurrying to his lodgings on a wet\nand very disagreeable winter evening, his curiosity was attracted by\na red glare of light which he saw issuing through the unglazed window\nand partially uncovered rafters of a deserted hovel by the wayside. He\nwent up to it, and found the place occupied by two miserable-looking\nwretches, a man and woman, who were shivering over a smouldering fire\nof damp straw. These were Morrison and his wife, neither of them wholly\nsober; for the woman had ere now broken down in character as well\nas in circumstances. They had neither food nor money; the rain was\ndropping upon them through the roof, and the winter wind fluttering\nthrough their rags; and yet, as if there was too little in all this\nto make them unhappy enough, they were adding to their miseries by\nmutual recriminations. The woman, as I have said, soon sank under\nthe hardships of a life so entirely wretched; her unlucky partner\nsurvived until the infirmities of extreme old age were added to his\nother miseries. It is not easy to conceive how any one who passed\nsuch a life as Morrison should have lived for the greater part of a\ncentury; and yet so it was, that, when he visited the neighbouring\ntown for the last time, he was in his eighty-fifth year. And never,\ncertainly, was the place visited by a more squalid, miserable-looking\ncreature; he resembled rather a corpse set a-walking than a living man.\nHe was still, however, Morrison the painter, feebly eccentric, and\nmeanly proud: even when compelled to beg, which was often, he could\nnot forget that he was an artist and a gentleman. In his younger days\nhe had skill enough to make likenesses that could be recognised; the\nthings he now made scarcely resembled human creatures at all; but he\nwent about pressing his services on every one who had children and\nspare sixpences, till he had at length well-nigh filled the town with\npictures of little boys and girls, which, in every case, the little\nboys and girls got to themselves. On one occasion he went into the\nshop of one of the town traders, and insisted on furnishing the trader\nwith the picture of one of his daughters, a little laughing _blonde_,\nwho was playing in front of the counter. He produced his colours,\nand began the drawing; but the girl, after wondering at him till his\nwork was about half finished, escaped into the street, and one of her\nsisters, a sober-eyed _brunette_, who had heard of the strange old\nman who was \u201cmaking pictures,\u201d came running in, and took her place.\nThe painter held fast the intruder, and continued his drawing. \u201cHold,\nhold, Mr. Morrison, that is another little girl you have got!\u201d said the\ntrader; \u201cthat is but the sister of the first.\u201d \u201cHeaven bless the dear\nsweet creature!\u201d said Morrison, still plying the pencil, \u201cthey are so\nvery like that there can be no mistake.\u201d\n\nThe closing scene to poor Morrison came at last. He left his bed one\nday after an illness of nearly a week, and crawled out into the street\nto beg. A gentleman in passing dropped him a few coppers, and Morrison\nfelt indignant that any one should have offered an artist less than\nsilver. But on second thoughts he corrected himself. \u201cHeaven help me!\u201d\nhe ejaculated, \u201cI have been a fool all life long, and I am not wise\nyet!\u201d He crept onwards along the pavement to the house of a gentleman\nwhom he had known thirty years before. \u201cI am dying,\u201d he said, \u201cand I\nam desirous that you should see my body laid decently under ground; I\nshall be dead in less than a week.\u201d The gentleman promised to attend\nthe funeral; Morrison crept back to his lodgings, and was dead in\nless than a day. Yonder he lies in the strangers\u2019 corner; the parish\nfurnished the shroud and the coffin, and the gentleman whom he had\ninvited to his burial carried his head to the grave, and paid the\nsexton. There are few real stories consistently gloomy throughout.\nNature delights in strange compounds of the _bizarre_ and the serious;\nand Morrison\u2019s story, like some of the old English dramas that\nterminate unfortunately, has a mixture of the comic in it. And yet,\nnotwithstanding its lighter touches, I question whether we shall be\nable to find a deeper tragedy among all the volumes of the churchyard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n    \u201cLike a timeless birth, the womb of fate\n    Bore a new death of unrecorded date,\n    And doubtful name.\u201d--MONTGOMERY.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE ECONOMY OF ACCIDENT.]\n\nIn the history of every community there are periods of comparative\nquiet, when the great machine of society performs all its various\nmovements so smoothly and regularly, that there is nothing to remind\nus of its being in motion. And who has not remarked that when an\nunlooked-for accident sets it a-jarring, by breaking up some minor\nwheel or axis, there follows a whole series of disasters--pressing\nthe one upon the other, with stroke after stroke. We live, perhaps,\nin some quiet village, and see our neighbours, the inhabitants,\nmoving noiselessly around us--the young rising up to maturity, the\nold descending slowly to the grave. Death for a long series of years\ndrafts out his usual number of conscripts from among only the weak\nand the aged; and there is no irregular impressment of the young and\nvigorous in the way of accident. Anon, however, there succeeds a\nseries of disasters. One of the villagers topples over a precipice,\none is engulfed in a morass, one is torn to pieces by the wheels of\nan engine, one perishes in fording a river, one falls by the hand of\nan enemy, one dies by his own. And then in a few months, perhaps, the\nold order of things is again established, and all goes on regularly\nas before. In the phenomena of even the inanimate world we see marks\nof a similar economy. Whoever has mused for a single half hour by the\nside of a waterfall, must have remarked that, without any apparent\nchange in the volume of the stream, the waters descend at one time\nlouder and more furious, at another gentler and more subdued. Whoever\nhas listened to the howlings of the night wind, must have heard it\nsinking at intervals into long hollow pauses, and then rising and\nsweeping onwards, gust after gust. Whoever has stood on the sea-shore\nduring a tempest, must have observed that the waves roll towards their\niron barrier in alternate series of greater and lesser--now fretting\nineffectually against it, now thundering irresistibly over. But between\nthe irregularities of the inanimate world, and those of the rational,\nthere exists one striking difference. We may assign natural causes for\nthe alternate rises and falls of the winds and waters; but it is not\nthus in most instances with those ebbs and flows, gusts and pauses,\nwhich occur in the world of man. They set our reasonings at defiance,\nand we can refer them to only the will of Deity. We can only say\nregarding them, that the climax is a favourite figure in the book of\nProvidence;--that God speaks to us in His dispensations, and, in the\nmore eloquent turns of His discourse, piles up instance upon instance\nwith sublime and impressive profusion.\n\n[Sidenote: THE BLACK YEARS.]\n\nTo the people of Scotland the whole of the seventeenth century was\noccupied by one continuous series of suffering and disaster. And though\nwe can assign causes for every one of the evils which compose the\nseries, just as we can assign causes for every single accident which\nbefalls the villagers, or for the repeated attacks and intervening\npauses of the hurricane, it is a rather different matter to account\nfor the series itself. In flinging a die we may chance on any one\ncertain number as readily as on any other; but it would be a rare\noccurrence, indeed, should the same number turn up some eight or ten\ntimes together. And is there nothing singular in the fact, that, for\na whole century, a nation should have been invariably unfortunate in\nevery change with which it was visited, and have met with only disaster\nin all its undertakings? There turned up an unlucky number at every\ncast of the die. Even when the shout of the persecutor, and the groans\nof his victim, had ceased to echo among our rocks and caverns, the very\nelements arrayed themselves against the people, and wasting famine and\nexterminating pestilence did the work of the priest and the tyrant. I\nam acquainted with no writer who has described this last infliction of\nthe series so graphically, and with such power, as Peter Walker in his\nLife of Cargill. Other contemporary historians looked down on this part\nof their theme from the high places of society;--they were the soldiers\nof a well-victualled garrison, situated in the midst of a wasted\ncountry, and sympathized but little in the misery that approached\nthem no nearer than the outer gate. But it was not thus with the poor\nPedlar;--he was barred out among the sufferers, and exposed to the\nevils which he so feelingly describes.\n\nOne night in the month of August 1694, a cold east wind, accompanied by\na dense sulphurous fog, passed over the country, and the half-filled\ncorn was struck with mildew. It shrank and whitened in the sun, till\nthe fields seemed as if sprinkled with flour, and where the fog had\nremained longest--for in some places it stood up like a chain of hills\nduring the greater part of the night--the more disastrous were its\neffects. From this unfortunate year, till the year 1701, the land\nseemed as if struck with barrenness, and such was the change on the\nclimate, that the seasons of summer and winter were cold and gloomy in\nnearly the same degree. The wonted heat of the sun was with-holden,\nthe very cattle became stunted and meagre, the moors and thickets were\nnearly divested of their feathered inhabitants, and scarcely a fly\nor any other insect was to be seen even in the beginning of autumn.\nNovember and December, and in some places January and February, became\nthe months of harvest; and labouring people contracted diseases which\nterminated in death, when employed in cutting down the corn among ice\nand snow. Of the scanty produce of the fields, much was left to rot on\nthe ground, and much of what was carried home proved unfit for the\nsustenance of either man or beast. There is a tradition that a farmer\nof Cromarty employed his children, during the whole winter of 1694, in\npicking out the sounder grains of corn from a blasted heap, the sole\nproduct of his farm, to serve for seed in the ensuing spring.\n\nIn the meantime the country began to groan under famine. The little\nportions of meal which were brought to market were invariably disposed\nof at exorbitant prices, before half the people were supplied; \u201cand\nthen,\u201d says Walker, \u201cthere would ensue a screaming and clapping of\nhands among the women.\u201d \u201cHow shall we go home,\u201d he has heard them\nexclaim, \u201cand see our children dying of hunger?--they have had no\nfood for these two days and we have nothing to give them.\u201d There was\nmany \u201ca black and pale face in Scotland;\u201d and many of the labouring\npoor, ashamed to beg, and too honest to steal, shut themselves up\nin their comfortless houses, to sit with their eyes fixed on the\nfloor till their very sight failed them. The savings of the careful\nand industrious were soon dissipated; and many who were in easy\ncircumstances when the scarcity came on, had sunk into abject poverty\nere it passed away. Human nature is a sad thing when subjected to\nthe test of circumstances so trying. As the famine increased, people\ncame to be so wrapped up in their own sufferings, that \u201cwives thought\nnot of their husbands, nor husbands of their wives, parents of their\nchildren, nor children of their parents.\u201d \u201cAnd their staff of bread,\u201d\nsays the Pedlar, \u201cwas so utterly broken, that when they ate they were\nneither satisfied nor nourished. They could think of nothing but food,\nand being wholly unconcerned whether they went to heaven or hell, the\nsuccess of the gospel came to a stand.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: PROGRESS OF THE PESTILENCE.]\n\nThe pestilence which accompanied this terrible visitation broke out in\nNovember 1694, when many of the people were seized by \u201cstrange fevers,\nand sore fluxes of a most infectious nature,\u201d which defied the utmost\npower of medicine. \u201cFor the oldest physicians,\u201d says Walker, \u201chad\nnever seen the like before, and could make no help.\u201d In the parish of\nWest Calder, out of nine hundred \u201cexaminable persons\u201d three hundred\nwere swept away; and in Livingston, in a little village called the\nCraigs, inhabited by only six or eight families, there were thirty\ncorpses in the space of a few days. In the parish of Resolis whole\nvillages were depopulated, and the foundations of the houses, for they\nwere never afterwards inhabited, can still be pointed out by old men\nof the place. So violent were the effects of the disease, that people,\nwho in the evening were in apparent health, would be found lying dead\nin their houses next morning, \u201cthe head resting on the hand, and the\nface and arms not unfrequently gnawed by the rats.\u201d The living were\nwearied with burying the dead; bodies were drawn on sledges to the\nplace of interment, and many got neither coffin nor winding-sheet. \u201cI\nwas one of four,\u201d says the Pedlar, \u201cwho carried the corpse of a young\nwoman a mile of way; and when we came to the grave, an honest poor man\ncame and said--\u2018You must go and help me to bury my son; he has lain\ndead these two days.\u2019 We went, and had two miles to carry the corpse,\nmany neighbours looking on us, but none coming to assist.\u201d \u201cI was\ncredibly informed,\u201d he continues, \u201cthat in the north, two sisters, on\na Monday morning, were found carrying their brother on a barrow with\nbearing-ropes, resting themselves many times, and none offering to help\nthem.\u201d There is a tradition that in one of the villages of Resolis the\nsole survivor was an idiot, whose mother had been, of all its more\nsane inhabitants, the last victim to the disease. He waited beside the\ncorpse for several days, and then taking it up on his shoulders carried\nit to a neighbouring village, and left it standing upright beside a\ngarden wall.\n\nSuch were the sufferings of the people of Scotland in the seventeenth\ncentury, and such the phenomena of character which the sufferings\nelicited. We ourselves have seen nearly the same process repeated in\nthe nineteenth, and with nearly the same results. The study of mind\ncannot be prosecuted in quite the same manner as the study of matter.\nWe cannot subject human character, like an earth or metal, to the\ntest of experiments which may be varied or repeated at pleasure; on\nthe contrary, many of its most interesting traits are developed only\nby causes over which we have no control. But may we not regard the\nwhole world as an immense laboratory, in which the Deity is the grand\nchemist, and His dispensations of Providence a course of experiments?\nWe are admitted into this laboratory, both as subjects to be acted upon\nand as spectators; and, though we cannot in either capacity materially\nalter the course of the exhibition, we may acquire much wholesome\nknowledge by registering the circumstances of each process, and its\nvarious results.\n\nIn the year 1817 a new and terrible pestilence broke out in a\ndensely-peopled district of Hindostan. During the twelve succeeding\nyears it was \u201cgoing to and fro, and walking up and down,\u201d in that\nimmense tract of country which intervenes between British India and the\nRussian dominions in Europe. It passed from province to province, and\ncity to city. Multitudes, \u201cwhich no man could number,\u201d stood waiting\nits approach in anxiety and terror; a few solitary mourners gazed at\nit from behind. It journeyed by the highways, and strewed them with\ncarcases. It coursed along the rivers, and vessels were seen drifting\nin the current with their dead. It overtook the caravan in the desert,\nand the merchant fell from his camel. It followed armies to the field\nof battle, struck down their standards, and broke up their array. It\nscaled the great wall of China, forded the Tigris and the Euphrates,\nthreaded with the mountaineer the passes of the frozen Caucasus, and\ntraversed with the mariner the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean. Vainly\nwas it deprecated with the rites of every religion, exorcised in the\nname every god. The Brahmin saw it rolling onwards, more terrible than\nthe car of Juggernaut, and sought refuge in his temple; but the wheel\npassed over him, and he died. The wild Tartar raised his war-cry to\nscare it away, and then, rushing into a darkened corner of his hut,\nprostrated himself before his idol, and expired. The dervish ascended\nthe highest tower of his mosque to call upon Allah and the prophet;\nbut it grappled with him ere he had half repeated his prayer, and he\ntoppled over the battlements. The priest unlocked his relics, and then,\ngrasping his crucifix, hied to the bedside of the dying; but, as he\ndoled out the consolations of his faith, the pest seized on his vitals,\nand he sunk howling where he had kneeled. And alas for the philosopher!\nsilent and listless he awaited its coming; and had the fountains of the\ngreat deep been broken up, and the proud waves come rolling, as of old,\nover wide-extended continents, foaming around the summit of the hills,\nand prostrating with equal ease the grass of the field and the oak of\nthe forest, he could not have met the inundation with a less effective\nresistance. It swept away in its desolating progress a hundred millions\nof the human species.\n\n[Sidenote: THE QUARANTINE.]\n\nIn the spring of 1831 the disease entered the Russian dominions,\nand in a few brief months, after devastating the inland provinces,\nbegan to ravage the shores of the Baltic. The harbours, as is usual\nin the summer season, were crowded with vessels from every port of\nBritain: and the infection spread among the seamen. To guard against\nits introduction into this country, a rigid system of quarantine was\nestablished by the Government; and the Bay of Cromarty was one of the\nplaces appointed for the reception of vessels until their term of\nrestriction should have expired. The whole eastern coast of Britain\ncould not have afforded a better station; as, from the security and\ngreat extent of the bay, entire fleets can lie in it safe from every\ntempest, and at a distance of more than two miles from any shore.\n\nOn a calm and beautiful evening in the month of July 1831, a little\nfleet of square-rigged vessels were espied in the offing, slowly\nadvancing towards the bay. They were borne onwards by the tide, which,\nwhen flowing, rushes with much impetuosity through the narrow opening,\nand, as they passed under the northern Sutor, there was seen from the\nshore, relieved by the dark cliffs which frowned over them, a pale\nyellow flag dropping from the mast-head of each. As they advanced\nfarther on, the tide began to recede. The foremost was towed by her\nboats to the common anchoring-ground; and the burden of a Danish song,\nin which all the rowers joined, was heard echoing over the waves\nwith a cadence so melancholy, that, associating in the minds of the\ntown\u2019s-people with ideas of death and disease, it seemed a coronach\nof lamentation poured out over the dead and the expiring. The other\nvessels threw out their anchors opposite the town;--groups of people,\ntheir countenances shaded by anxiety, sauntered along the beach;\nand children ran about, shouting at the full pitch of their voices\nthat the ships of the plague had got up as far as the ferry. As the\nevening darkened, little glimmering lights, like stars of the third\nmagnitude, twinkled on the mast-heads from whence the yellow flags had\nlately depended; and never did astrologer experience greater dismay\nwhen gazing at the two comets, the fiery and the pale, which preceded\nthose years of pestilence and conflagration that wasted the capital of\nEngland, than did some of the people of Cromarty when gazing at these\nlights.\n\nDay after day vessels from the Baltic came sailing up the bay, and the\nfears of the people, exposed to so continual a friction, began to wear\nout. The first terror, however, had been communicated to the nearer\nparishes, and from them to the more remote; and so on it went, escorted\nby a train of vagabond stories, that, like felons flying from justice,\nassumed new aspects at every stage. The whole country talked of nothing\nbut Cholera and the Quarantine port. Such of the shopkeepers of\nCromarty as were most in the good graces of the countrywomen who came\nto town laden with the produce of the dairy and hen-cot, and return\nwith their little parcels of the luxuries of the grocer, experienced\na marked falling away in their trade. Occasionally, however, a few of\nthe more courageous housewives might be seen creeping warily along our\nstreets; but, in coming in by the road which passes along the edge of\nthe bay, they invariably struck up the hill if the wind blew from off\nthe quarantine vessels, and, winding by a circuitous route among the\nfields and cottages, entered the town on the opposite side. A lad who\nran errands to a neighbouring burgh, found that few of the inhabitants\nwere so desperately devoted to business as to incur the risk of\nreceiving the messages he brought them; and, from the inconvenient\ndistance at which he was held by even the less cautious, he entertained\nserious thoughts of providing himself with a speaking-trumpet. Our poor\nfishermen, too, fared but badly in the little villages of the Firth\nwhere they went to sell their fish. It was asserted on the very best\nauthority, by the villagers, that dead bodies were flung out every day\nover the sides of the quarantine vessels, and might be seen, bloated\nby the water and tanned yellow by disease, drifting along the surface\nof the bay. Who could eat fish in such circumstances? There was one\nperson, indeed, who remarked to them, that he might perhaps venture on\neating a haddock or whiting; but no man in his senses, he said, would\nventure on eating a cod. He himself had once found a bunch of furze\nin the stomach of a fish of this species, and what might not that\nthroat contrive to swallow that had swallowed a bunch of furze? The\nvery fishermen themselves added to the general terror by their wild\nstories. They were rowing homewards one morning, they said, in the\ngrey uncertain light which precedes sunrise, along the rough edge of\nthe northern Sutor, when, after doubling one of the rocky promontories\nwhich jut into the sea from beneath the crags of the hill, they saw\na gigantic figure, wholly attired in white, winding slowly along the\nbeach. It was much taller than any man, or as Cowley would perhaps\nhave described it, than the shadow of any man in the evening; and at\nintervals, after gliding round the base of some inaccessible cliff,\nit would remain stationary for a few seconds, as if gazing wistfully\nupon the sea. No one who believed this apparition to be other than a\nwreath of vapour, entertained at the time the slightest doubt of its\nportending the visitation of some terrible pestilence, which was to\ndesolate the country.\n\nAbout eighty or a hundred years ago the port of Cromarty was occupied,\nas in 1831, by a fleet performing quarantine. Of course none of the\ntown\u2019s-people recollected the circumstance; but a whole host of\ntraditions connected with it, which had been imparted to them by their\nfathers, and had lain asleep in the recesses of some of their memories\nfor a full half century, were awakened at this time, and sent wandering\nover the town, like so many ghosts. Some one had heard it told that a\ncrew of Cromarty fishermen had, either in ignorance or contempt of the\nquarantine laws, boarded one of the vessels on this occasion; and that\naboard they were compelled to remain for six tedious weeks, exposed\nto the double, but very unequally appreciated hardship of getting a\ngreat deal to drink and very little to eat. Another vessel had, it was\nsaid, entered the bay deeply laden; but every morning, for the time\nshe remained there, she was seen to sit lighter on the water, and when\nshe quitted it on her return to Flushing, she had scarcely ballast\nenough aboard to render the voyage practicable. Gin and tobacco were\nrife in Cromarty for twelve months thereafter. A third vessel carried\nwith her into the bay the disease to guard against which the quarantine\nhad been established; and opposite the place where the fleet lately\nlay, there are a few little mounds on a patch of level sward, still\nknown to children of the town as the Dutchmen\u2019s graves. About fifty\nyears ago, when the present harbour of Cromarty was in building, a poor\nhalf-witted man, one of the labourers employed in quarrying stone,\nwas told one day by some of his companions, that a considerable sum\nof money had been deposited in this place with the bodies. In the\nevening he stayed on some pretext in the quarry until the other workmen\nhad gone home, and then repairing to the graves, with his shovel\nand pickaxe he laid one of them open; but, instead of the expected\ntreasure, he found only human bones and wasted fragments of woollen\ncloth. Next morning he was seized by a putrid fever, and died a few\ndays after. Miss Seward tells a similar story in one of her letters;\nbut in the case of the Cromarty labourer no person suffered from his\nimprudence except himself; whereas, in the one narrated by Miss Seward,\na malignant disease was introduced into a village near which the graves\nwere opened, which swept away seventy of the inhabitants.\n\n[Sidenote: THE CHOLERA.]\n\nIn a central part of the churchyard of Nigg there is a rude undressed\nstone, near which the sexton never ventures to open a grave. A wild\napocryphal tradition connects the erection of this stone with the times\nof the quarantine fleet. The plague, as the story goes, was brought\nto the place by one of the vessels, and was slowly flying along the\nground, disengaged from every vehicle of infection, in the shape of\na little yellow cloud. The whole country was alarmed, and groups of\npeople were to be seen on every eminence, watching with anxious horror\nthe progress of the little cloud. They were relieved, however, from\ntheir fears and the plague by an ingenious man of Nigg, who, having\nprovided himself with an immense bag of linen, fashioned somewhat in\nthe manner of a fowler\u2019s net, cautiously approached the yellow cloud,\nand, with a skill which could have owed nothing to previous practice,\nsucceeded in enclosing the whole of it in the bag. He then secured it\nby wrapping it up carefully, fold after fold, and fastening it down\nwith pin after pin; and as the linen was gradually changing, as if\nunder the hands of the dyer, from white to yellow, he consigned it to\nthe churchyard, where it has slept ever since. But to our narrative.\n\nThe cholera was at length introduced into Britain, and shortly after\ninto Ireland; not, however, at any of the quarantine ports, but at\nplaces where scarcely any precautions had been taken to exclude it, or\nany danger apprehended; much in the manner that a beleaguered garrison\nis sometimes surprised at some unnoticed bastion, or untented angle,\nafter the main points of attack have withstood the utmost efforts\nof the besiegers. It had previously been remarked that the disease\ntraversed the various countries which it visited, at nearly the same\npace with the inhabitants. In Persia, where there is little trade, and\nneither roads nor canals to facilitate intercourse, it was a whole year\nin passing over a distance of somewhat less than three hundred leagues;\nwhile among the more active people of Russia, it performed a journey\nof seven hundred in less than six months. In Britain it travelled\nthrough the interior with the celerity of the mail, and voyaged along\nthe coasts with the speed of the trading vessels; and in a few weeks\nafter its first appearance, it was ravaging the metropolis of England,\nand the southern shores of the Firth of Forth. It was introduced by\nsome south country fishermen into the town of Wick, and a village of\nSutherlandshire, in the month of July 1832; and from the latter place\nin the following August, into the fishing villages of the peninsula of\nEaster Ross. It visited Inverness, Nairn, Avoch, Dingwall, Urquhart,\nand Rosemarkie, a few weeks after.\n\nI shall pass hurriedly over the sad story of its ravages. Were I\nto dwell on it to the extent of my information, and I know only a\nlittle of the whole, the reader might think I was misanthropically\naccumulating into one gloomy heap all that is terrible in the judgments\nof God, and all that is mean and feeble in the character of man. The\npangs of the rack, the boot, the thumbscrew--all that the Dominican\nor the savage has inflicted on the heretic or the white man, were\nrealized in the tortures of this dreadful disease. Utter debility,\nintense thirst, excruciating cramps of the limbs, and an unimpaired\nintellect, were its chief characteristics. And the last was not the\nleast terrible. Amid the ruins of the body, from which it was so soon\nto part, the melancholy spirit looked back upon the past with regret,\nand on the future with terror. Or even if the sufferer amid his fierce\npain \u201claid hold on the hope that faileth not;\u201d with what feelings must\nhe have looked around the deserted cottage, when the friends in whom\nhe had trusted proved unfaithful--or, more melancholy still, on the\naffectionate wife or the dutiful child struck down by the bedside in\nagonies as mortal as his own.\n\nIn the villages of Ross the disease assumed a more terrible aspect\nthan it had yet presented in any other part of Britain. In the little\nvillage of Portmahomack one-fifth of the inhabitants were swept away;\nin the still smaller village of Inver, one-half. So abject was the\npoverty of the people, that in some instances there was not a candle\nin any house in a whole village; and when the disease seized on the\ninmates in the night-time, they had to grapple in darkness with its\nfierce agonies and mortal terrors, and their friends, in the vain\nattempt to assist them, had to grope round their beds. The infection\nspread with frightful rapidity. At Inver, though the population did\nnot much exceed a hundred persons, eleven bodies were committed to the\nearth, without shroud or coffin, in one day; in two days after they had\nburied nineteen more. Many of the survivors fled from the village, and\ntook shelter, some in the woods, some among the hollows of an extensive\ntract of sandhills. But the pest followed them to their hiding-places,\nand they expired in the open air. Whole families were found lying\ndead on their cottage floor. In one instance, an infant, the only\nsurvivor, lay grovelling on the body of its mother--the sole mourner in\na charnel-house of the pestilence. Rows of cottages, entirely divested\nof their inhabitants, were set on fire and burned to the ground. The\nhorrors of the times of Peter Walker were more than realized. Two young\npersons, a lad and his sister, were seen digging a grave for their\nfather in the churchyard of Nigg; and then carrying the corpse to it\non a cart, no one venturing to assist them. The body of a man who\ndied in a cottage beside the ferry of Cromarty, was borne to a hole,\nhurriedly scooped out of a neighbouring sand-bank, by his brother and\nhis wife. During the whole of the preceding day, the unfortunate woman\nhad been seen from the opposite shore, flitting around the cottage\nlike an unhappy ghost; during the whole of the preceding night had she\nwatched alone by the dead. The coffin lay beside the door; the corpse\nin the middle of the apartment.--Never shall I forget the scene which\nI witnessed from the old chapel of St. Regulus on the evening of the\nfollowing Sabbath.\n\nIt was one of those lovely evenings which we so naturally associate\nwith ideas of human enjoyment; when, from some sloping eminence, we\nlook over the sunlit woods, fields, and cottages, of a wide extent of\ncountry, and dream that the inhabitants are as happy as the scene is\nbeautiful. The sky was without a cloud, and the sea without a wrinkle.\nThe rocks and sandhills on the opposite shore lay glistening in the\nsun, each with its deep patch of shadow resting by its side; and the\neffect of the whole, compared with the aspect which it had presented\na few hours before, was as if it had been raised on its groundwork of\nsea and sky from the low to the high relief of the sculptor. There were\nboats drawn up on the beach, and a line of houses behind; but where\nwere the inhabitants? No smoke rose from the chimneys; the doors and\nwindows were fast closed; not one solitary lounger sauntered about\nthe harbour or the shore; the inanity of death and desertion pervaded\nthe whole scene. Suddenly, however, the eye caught a little dark\nspeck moving hurriedly along the road which leads to the ferry. It\nwas a man on horseback. He reached the cottages of the boatmen, and\nflung himself from his horse; but no one came at his call to row him\nacross. He unloosed a skiff from her moorings, and set himself to tug\nat the oar. The skiff flew athwart the bay. The watchmen stationed\non the shore of Cromarty moved down to prevent her landing. There was\na loud cry passed from man to man; a medical gentleman came running\nto the beach, he leapt into the skiff, and laying hold of an oar as\nif he were a common boatman, she again shot across the bay. A case of\ncholera had just occurred in the parish of Nigg. I never before felt so\nstrongly the force of contrast. There is a wild poem of the present age\nwhich presents the reader with a terrible picture of a cloak of utter\ndarkness spread over the earth, and the whole race of man perishing\nbeneath its folds, like insects of autumn in the chills of a night of\nOctober. There is another modern poem, less wild, but not less sublime,\nin which we see, as in a mirror of a magician, the sun dying in the\nheavens, and the evening of an eternal night closing around the last of\nour species. I trust I am able in some degree to appreciate the merits\nof both; and yet, since witnessing the scene which I have so feebly\nattempted to describe, I am led to think that the earth, if wholly\ndivested of its inhabitants, would present a more melancholy aspect,\nshould it still retain its fertility and beauty, than if wrapped up in\na pall of darkness, surrounded by dead planets and extinguished suns.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\u201cHe sat upon a rock and bobbed for whale.\u201d--KENRICK.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARTINMAS MARKET.]\n\nOn the fourth Tuesday of November every year, there is a kind of market\nheld at Cromarty, which for the last eighty years has been gradually\ndwindling in importance, and is now attended by only the children of\nthe place, and a few elderly people, who supply them with toys and\nsweetmeats. Early in the last century, however, it was one of the most\nconsiderable in this part of the country; and the circumstance of its\ngradual decline is curiously connected with the great change which has\ntaken place since that period in the manners and habits of the people.\nIt flourished as long as the Highlander legislated for himself and\nhis neighbour on the good old principle so happily described by the\npoet,[7] and sunk into decay when he had flung down his broadsword,\nand become amenable to the laws of the kingdom. The town of Cromarty,\nas may be seen by consulting the map, is situated on the extremity\nof a narrow promontory, skirted on three of its sides by the sea,\nand bordered on the fourth by the barren uninhabited waste described\nin a previous chapter. And though these are insurmountable defects\nof situation for a market of the present day, which ought always to\nbe held in some central point of the interior that commands a wide\ncircumference of country, about a century ago they were positive\nadvantages. It was an important circumstance that the merchants who\nattended the fair could convey their goods to it by sea, without\npassing through any part of the Highlands; and the extent of moor which\nseparated it by so broad a line from the seats of even the nearer\nclans, afforded them no slight protection when they had arrived at it.\nFor further security the fair was held directly beneath the walls of\nthe old castle, in the gorge of a deep wooded ravine, which now forms\npart of the pleasure-grounds of Cromarty House.\n\nThe progress of this market, from what it was once to what it is at\npresent, was strongly indicative of several other curious changes which\nwere taking place in the country. The first achievement of commerce\nis the establishment of a market. In a semi-barbarous age the trader\njourneys from one district to another, and finds only, in a whole\nkingdom, that demand for his merchandise which, when in an after period\ncivilisation has introduced her artificial wants among the people, may\nbe found in a single province. So late as the year 1730, one solitary\nshopkeeper more than supplied the people of Cromarty with their few,\neveryday necessaries, of foreign manufacture or produce; I say more\nthan supplied them, for in summer and autumn he travelled the country\nas a pedlar. For their occasional luxuries and finery they trusted to\nthe traders of the fair. Times changed, however, and the shopkeeper\nwholly supplanted the travelling merchant; but the fair continued to\nbe frequented till a later period by another class of traders, who\ndealt in various articles, the produce and manufacture of the country.\nAmong these were a set of dealers who sold a kind of rude harness for\nhorses and oxen, made of ropes of hair and twisted birch; a second\nset who dealt in a kind of conical-shaped carts made of basket-work;\nand a third who supplied the house-builders of the period with split\nlath, made of moss-fir, for thatched roofs and partitions. In time,\nhowever, the harness-maker, cart-wright, and house-carpenter of modern\ntimes, dealt by these artists as the shopkeeper had done by the\nmarket-trader. The broguer, or maker of Highland shoes, kept the field\nin spite of the regular shoemaker half a century later, and disappeared\nonly about five years ago. The dealer in home-grown lint frequented\nit until last season; but the low wages, and sixteen-hour-per-day\nemployment of the south country weaver, were gradually undermining his\ntrade, and the steam-loom seems to have given it its deathblow.\n\n[Sidenote: THE HERRING DROVE.]\n\nPrior to the Revolution, and as late as the reign of Queen Anne,\nCromarty drove a considerable trade in herrings. About the middle of\nJuly every year, immense bodies of this fish came swimming up the\nMoray Firth; and after they had spawned on a range of banks not more\nthan eight miles from the town, quitted it for the main sea in the\nbeginning of September. In the better fishing seasons they filled the\nbays and creeks of the coast, swimming in some instances as high as the\nferries of Fowlis and Ardersier. There is a tradition that, shortly\nafter the Union, a shoal of many hundred barrels, pursued by a body\nof whales and porpoises, were stranded in a little bay of Cromarty,\na few hundred yards to the east of the town. The beach was covered\nwith them to the depth of several feet, and salt and casks failed the\npackers when only an inconsiderable part of the shoal was cured. The\nresidue was carried away for manure by the neighbouring farmers; and so\ngreat was the quantity used in this way, and the stench they caused so\noffensive, that it was feared disease would have ensued. The season in\nwhich this event took place is still spoken of as the \u201char\u2019st of the\nHerring-drove.\u201d\n\nAbout thirty years ago some masons, in digging a foundation in the\neastern extremity of the town, discovered the site of a packing-yard of\nthis period; and threw out vast quantities of scales which glittered\nas bright as if they had been stripped from the fish only a few weeks\nbefore. Near the same place, there stood about twenty years earlier\na little grotesque building two storeys in height, and with only a\nsingle room on each floor. The lower was dark and damp, and had the\nappearance of a cellar or storehouse; the upper was lighted on three\nsides, and finished in a style which, at the period of its erection,\nmust have led to a high estimate of the taste of the builder. A rich\ncornice, designed doubtless on the notion of Ramsay, that good herrings\nand good claret are very suitable companions, curiously united bunches\nof grapes with clusters of herrings, and divided the walls from the\nceiling. The walls were neatly panelled, the centre of the ceiling was\noccupied by a massy circular patera, round which a shoal of neatly\nrelieved herrings were swimming in a sea of plaster. This building was\nthe place of business of Urquhart of Greenhill, a rich herring merchant\nand landed proprietor, and a descendant of the old Urquharts of\nCromarty. But it was destined long to survive the cause of its erection.\n\n[Sidenote: THE WHALE-FISHERS.]\n\nIn a fishing season late in this period, two men of the place,\nwho, like most of the other inhabitants, were both tradesfolks and\nfishermen, were engaged one morning in discussing the merits of an\nanker of Hollands which had been landed from a Dutch lugger a few\nevenings before. They nodded to each other across the table with\nincreasing heartiness and good-will, until at length their heads\nalmost met; and as quaich after quaich was alternately emptied and\nreplenished, they began to find that the contents of the anker were\nbest nearest the bottom. They were interrupted, however, before they\nhad fully ascertained the fact, by the woman of the house tapping at\nthe window, and calling them out to see something extraordinary; and,\non going to the door, they saw a plump of whales blowing, and tumbling,\nand pursuing one another, in a long line up the bay. A sudden thought\nstruck one of the men: \u201cIt would be gran\u2019 fun, Charlie man,\u201d said he,\naddressing his companion, \u201cto hook ane o\u2019 yon chiels on Nannie Fizzle\u2019s\ncrook.\u201d \u201cAy, if we had but bait,\u201d rejoined the other; \u201cbut here\u2019s a gay\nfresh codling on Nannie\u2019s hake, an\u2019 the yawl lies on the tap o\u2019 the\nfu\u2019 sea.\u201d The crook--a chain about six feet in length, with a hook at\none end, and a large ring at the other, and which, when in its proper\nplace, hung in Nannie\u2019s chimney to suspend her pots over the fire--was\naccordingly baited with the cod, and fastened to a rope; and the two\nmen, tumbling into their yawl rowed out to the _cossmee_. Like the\ngiant of the epigram they sat bobbing for whale, but the plump had gone\nhigh up the Firth; and, too impatient to wait its return, they hollowed\nto a friend to row out his skiff for them; and leaving their own at\nanchor, with the crook hanging over the stern, they returned to Nannie\nFizzle\u2019s, where they soon forgot both the yawl and the whales.\n\nThey were not long, however, in being reminded of both. A person came\nbellowing to the window, \u201cCharlie, Willie, the yawl! the yawl!\u201d and, on\nstaggering out, they saw the unfortunate yawl darting down the Firth\nwith twice the velocity of a king\u2019s cutter in a fresh breeze. Ever and\nanon she would dance, and wheel, and plunge, and then shoot off in a\nstraight line. Wonderful to relate! one of the whales had swallowed\nthe crook; the little skiff was launched and manned; but the Hollands\nhad done its work; one of the poor fellows tumbled over the thaft, the\nother snapped his oar;--all was confusion. Luckily, however, the rope\nfastened to the crook broke at the ring; and the yawl, after gradually\nlosing way, began to drift towards the shore. The adventure was bruited\nall over the town; and every one laughed at the whale-fishers except\nNannie Fizzle, who was inconsolable for the loss of her crook.\n\nIt was rumoured a few weeks after that the carcass of a whale had\nbeen cast ashore somewhere in the Firth of Beauly, near Redcastle,\nand the two fishermen set off together to the place, in the hope of\nidentifying the carcass with the fish in which they had enfeoffed\nthemselves at the expense of Nannie Fizzle. The day of the journey\nchanced to be also that of a Redcastle market; and, as they approached\nthe place, they were encountered by parties of Highlanders hurrying\nto the fair. Most of them had heard of the huge fish, but none of\nthem of the crook. When the Cromarty men came up to the carcass,\nthey found it surrounded by half the people of the fair, who were\ngazing, and wondering, and pacing it from head to tail, and poking\nat it with sticks and broadswords. \u201cIt is our property every inch,\u201d\nsaid one of the men, coming forward to the fish; \u201cwe hooked it three\nweeks ago on the _cossmee_, but it broke off; and we have now come\nhere to take possession. It carried away our tackle, a chain and a\nhook. Lend me your dirk, honest man,\u201d he continued, addressing a\nHighlander; \u201cwe shall cut out hook and chain, and make good our claim.\u201d\n\u201cO ay! nae doubt,\u201d said the Highlander, as he obligingly handed him\nthe weapon; \u201cbut och! it\u2019s no me that would like to eat her, for\nshe maun be a filthy meat.\u201d The crowd pressed round to witness the\ndissection, which ended in the Cromarty man pulling out the crook\nfrom among the entrails, and holding it up in triumph. \u201cDid I no tell\nyou?\u201d he exclaimed; \u201cthe fish is ours beyond dispute.\u201d \u201cThen,\u201d said a\nsmart-looking little pedlar, who had just joined the throng, \u201cye have\nmade the best o\u2019 this day\u2019s market. I\u2019se warrant your fishing worth\na\u2019 the plaiding sold to-day.\u201d The Highlanders stared. \u201cFor what is it\nworth?\u201d asked a tacksman of the place. \u201cOh, look there! look there!\u201d\nreplied the pedlar, tapping the blubber with his elwand, \u201culzie clear\nas usquebaugh. I\u2019se be bound it\u2019s as richly worth four hunder punds\nScots as ony booth at the fair.\u201d This piece of mischievous information\nentirely altered the circumstances of the case as it regarded the two\nfishermen; for the tacksman laid claim to the fish on his own behalf\nand the laird\u2019s, and, as he could back his arguments by a full score\nof broadswords, the men were at length fain to content themselves\nwith being permitted to carry away with them Nannie Fizzle\u2019s crook. I\nam afraid it is such of our naturalists as are best acquainted with\nthe habits of the _cetacea_ that will be most disposed to question\nthe truth of the tradition just related. But, however doubtful its\nfoundation, a tradition it is.\n\n[Sidenote: THE FLIGHT OF THE DROVE.]\n\nThe mishap of the whale-fishers was followed by a much greater\nmishap--the total failure of the herring fishery. The herring is one\nof the most eccentric little fishes that frequents our seas. For many\nyears together it visits regularly in its season some particular firth\nor bay;--fishing villages spring up on the shores, harbours are built\nfor the reception of vessels; and the fisherman and merchant calculate\non their usual quantum of fish, with as much confidence as the farmer\non his average quantum of grain. At length, however, there comes a\nseason, as mild and pleasant as any that have preceded it, in which the\nherring does not visit the firth. On each evening, the fisherman casts\nout his nets on the accustomed bank, on each morning he draws them in\nagain, but with all the meshes as brown and open as when he flung them\nout; in the following season he is equally unsuccessful; and, ere the\nshoal returns to its accustomed haunts, the harbour has become a ruin,\nand the village a heap of green mounds. It happened thus, late in the\nreign of Queen Anne, with the herring trade of the Moray Firth. After\na busy and successful fishing, the shoal as usual left the Firth in a\nsingle night; preparations were made for the ensuing season; the season\ncame, but not the herrings; and for more than half a century from this\ntime Cromarty derived scarcely any benefit from its herring fishery.\n\nMy town\u2019s-folk in this age--an age in which every extraordinary effect\nwas coupled with a supernatural cause--were too ingenious to account\nfor the failure of the trade by a simple reference to the natural\nhistory of the herring; and two stories relating to it still survive,\nwhich show them to have been strangely acute in rendering a reason,\nand not a little credulous in forming a belief. Great quantities of\nfish had been caught and brought ashore on a Saturday, and the packers\ncontinued to work during the night; yet on the Sunday morning much\nstill remained to be done. The weather was sultry, and the fish were\nbecoming soft; and the merchants, unwilling to lose them, urged on the\nwork throughout the Sabbath. Towards evening the minister of the parish\nvisited the packers; and, as they had been prevented from attending\nchurch, he made them a short serious address. They soon, however,\nbecame impatient; the diligent began to work, the mischievous to pelt\nhim with filth; and the good man abruptly concluded his exhortation\nby praying that the besom of judgment would come and sweep every\nherring out of the Firth. On the following Monday the boats went to\nsea as usual, but returned empty; on the Tuesday they were not more\nsuccessful, and it was concluded that the shoal had gone off for the\nseason; but it proved not for the season merely; for another and\nanother season came, and still no herrings were caught. In short, the\nprayer, as the story goes, was so fully answered, that none of the\nunlucky packers who had insulted the minister witnessed the return of\nthe shoal.\n\nThe other story accounts for its flight in a different and somewhat\nconflicting manner. Tradition, who, as I have already shown, is even\na more credulous naturalist than historian, affirms that herrings\nhave a strong antipathy to human blood, especially when spilt in a\nquarrel. On the last day of the fishing, the nets belonging to two\nboats became entangled; the crew that first hauled applied the knife\nto their neighbours\u2019 baulks and meshes, and, with little trouble or\ndamage to themselves, succeeded in unravelling their own. A quarrel was\nthe consequence; and one of the ancient modes of naval warfare, the\nonly one eligible in their circumstances, was resorted to--they fought\nleaning over the gunwales of their respective boats. Blood was spilt,\nunfortunately spilt in the sea; the affronted herrings took their\ndeparture, and for more than half a century were not the cause, in even\nthe remotest degree, of any quarrel which took place on the Moray Firth\nor its shores. One of the combatants, who distinguished himself either\nby doing or suffering in this unlucky fray, was known ever after by the\nname of Andrew _Bleed_; and there are men still living who remember to\nhave seen him.\n\n[Sidenote: URQUHART OF GREENHILL.]\n\nThe failure of the herring trade was followed by that of Urquhart of\nGreenhill. He is said to have been a shrewd industrious man, of great\nforce of character, and admirably fitted by nature and habit, had he\nlived in better times, to have restored the dilapidated fortunes of\nhis house. During the reign of William he was adding ship to ship, and\nfield to field, until about the year 1700, when he was possessed of\nnearly one-half the lands of the parish, and of five large vessels.\nBut it was his lot to speculate in an unfortunate age; and having,\nwith almost all the other merchants of Scotland, suffered severely\nfrom the Union, the failure of the herring fishery completed his ruin.\nHe sank by inches; striving to the last, with a proud heart and a\nbitter spirit, against the evils which assailed him. All his ships\nwere at length either knocked down by the hammer of the auctioneer,\nor broken up by the maul of the carpenter, except one; and that one,\nthe Swallow of Cromartie, when returning homewards from some port\nof the Continent, was driven ashore in a violent night-storm on the\nrocky coast of Cadboll, and beaten to pieces before morning. It was\nwith difficulty the crew was saved. One of them, a raw young fellow,\na much better herdsman than sailor, escaped to his friends, full of\nthe wild scenes he had just witnessed, and set himself to relate to\nthem the particulars of his voyage;--it was his first and his last.\nSmooth water and easy sailing may be delineated in common language;\nhe warmed, however, as the narrative proceeded. He described the\ngathering of the tempest, the darkening of the night, the dashing of\nthe waves, the howling of the winds, and the rolling of the vessel; but\nbeing unfortunately no master of climax, language failed him in the\nconcluding scene, where there were rocks, and breakers, and midnight\ndarkness, and a huge ship wallowing in foam, like a wounded boar in\nthe toils of the hunters. \u201cOh!\u201d exclaimed the sailor herdsman, \u201cI can\nthink o\u2019 nae likening to that puir ship, and the awfu\u2019 crags and awfu\u2019\njaws, except the nowt i\u2019 the byre, when they break their fastenings\ni\u2019 the mirk night, and rout and gore, and rout and gore, till the\nroof-tree shakes wi\u2019 the brattle.\u201d The people of the present age may\nnot think much of the comparison; but it was deemed a piece of very\ntolerable humour in Cromarty in the good year 1715. Greenhill\u2019s remark,\nwhen informed of the disaster, had more of philosophy in it. \u201cAweel,\u201d\nsaid he, taking a deliberate pinch of snuff, and then handing the box\nto his informant, \u201cI have lang warstled wi\u2019 the warld, and fain would I\nhave got on the tap o\u2019t; but I may be just as weel as I am. Diel haet\ncan harm me now, if the laird o\u2019 Cadboll, honest man, doesna put me to\nthe law for dinting the Swallow against his march-stanes.\u201d\n\nOne other passage relating to the Greenhill branch of the family of the\nUrquharts, ere I take leave of it for the time. It has produced, in a\nlady of Aberdeenshire, one of the most pleasing poetesses of our age\nand country--not, however, one of the most celebrated. Her exquisite\nlittle pieces, combining with singular felicity the simplicity and\npathos of the old ballad with the refinement and elegance of our\nclassical poets, have been flung as carelessly into the world as the\nrich plumes of the birds of the tropics on the plains and forests of\nthe south. But they have not lain altogether unnoticed. The nameless\nlittle foundlings have been picked out from among the crowd, and\nintroduced into the best company on the score of merit alone.--The\ngenealogist was of a different spirit from his relative; he would have\ninscribed his name on the face of the sun could he have but climbed to\nit;--but may not there be something to regret in even the more amiable\nextreme? The prophecies of that sibyl who committed her writings to\nthe loose leaves of the forest, were lost to the world on the first\nslight breeze. I present the reader with a pleasing little poem of\nthis descendant of the Urquharts, in which, though perhaps not one of\nthe most finished of her pieces, he will find something better than\nmere finish. It may not be quite new to him, having found its way into\nMacdiarmid\u2019s Scrap-Book, and several other collections of merit; but he\nmay peruse it with fresh interest, as the production of a relative of\nSir Thomas, who seems to have inherited all his genius, undebased by\nany mixture of his eccentricity.\n\n\n[Sidenote: POEM.]\n\nON HEARING A LIVELY PIECE OF MUSIC,\n\n\u201cTHE WATERLOO WALTZ.\u201d\n\n    A moment pause, ye British fair,\n      While pleasure\u2019s phantom ye pursue,\n    And say if dance and sprightly air\n      Suit with the name of Waterloo.\n        Dearly bought the victory,\n        Chasten\u2019d should the triumph be;\n        \u2019Midst the laurels she has won,\n        Britain weeps for many a son.\n\n    Veil\u2019d in clouds the morning rose,\n      Nature seem\u2019d to mourn the day\n    Which consign\u2019d before its close\n      Thousands to their kindred clay.\n        How unfit for courtly ball,\n        Or the giddy festival,\n        Was the grim and ghastly view\n        Ere evening closed on Waterloo.\n\n    See the Highland warrior rushing,\n      First in danger, on the foe,\n    Till the life-blood, stemless gushing,\n      Lays the plaided hero low.\n        His native pipe\u2019s heart-thrilling sound,\n        \u2019Mid war\u2019s infernal concert drown\u2019d,\n        Cannot soothe his last adieu,\n        Nor wake his sleep on Waterloo.\n\n    Crashing o\u2019er the cuirassier,\n      See the foaming charger flying,\n    Trampling in his wild career,\n      All alike, the dead and dying.\n        See the bullets pierce his side,\n        See, amid a crimson tide,\n        Helmet, horse, and rider too,\n        Roll on bloody Waterloo.\n\n    Shall sights like these the dance inspire,\n      Or wake the jocund notes of mirth?\n    Oh, shiver\u2019d be the recreant lyre\n      That gave the base idea birth!\n        Other sounds, I ween, were there,\n        Other music rent the air,\n        Other _Waltz_ the warriors knew,\n        When they closed at Waterloo.\n\n    Forbear, till time with lenient hand\n      Has heal\u2019d the wounds of recent sorrow,\n    And let the picture distant stand,\n      The softening hue of years to borrow.\n        When our race has pass\u2019d away,\n        Hands unborn may wake the lay,\n        And give to joy alone the view\n        Of victory at Waterloo.\n\n[Sidenote: WILLIAM FORSYTH.]\n\nAbout the time of the Rebellion, or a little after, the trade of\nthe place began to recover itself much through the influence of a\nvigorous-minded man, a merchant of the period. Urquhart of Greenhill\nhad sunk with the sinking trade of the country; his townsman, William\nForsyth, enjoyed the advantage of being born at least forty years\nlater, and rose as it revived. The nature of the business which the\nlatter pursued may be regarded as illustrating, not inaptly, the\ncondition of society in the north of Scotland at the time. It was of\na miscellaneous character, as became the state of a country so poor\nand so thinly peopled, and in which, as there was scarce any division\nof labour, one merchant had to perform the part of many. He supplied\nthe proprietors with teas, wines, and spiceries; with broad-cloths,\nglass, Delft ware, Flemish tiles, and pieces of japanned cabinet-work;\nhe furnished the blacksmith with iron from Sweden, the carpenter with\ntar and spars from Norway, and the farmer with flax-seed from Holland.\nHe found, too, in other countries, markets for the produce of our own.\nThe exports of the north of Scotland, at this period, were mostly malt,\nwool, and salmon. Almost all rents were paid in kind or in labour--the\nproprietors retaining in their hands a portion of their estates, termed\ndemesnes or _mains_, which was cultivated mostly by their tacksmen or\nfeuars as part of their proper service. Each proprietor, too, had his\nstorehouse or girnal--a tall narrow building, the strong-box of the\ntime--which, at the Martinmas of every year, used to be filled from\ngable to gable with the grain-rents paid him by his tenants, and the\nproduce of his own farm. His surplus cattle found their way south under\ncharge of the drovers of the period; but it proved a more difficult\nmatter to dispose to advantage of his surplus corn, mostly barley,\nuntil some one, more fertile in speculation than the others, originated\nthe scheme of converting it into malt, and exporting it into England\nand Flanders. And to so great an extent was this trade carried on about\nthe middle of the last century, that in the town of Inverness the\nEnglish under Cumberland found almost every second building a malt-barn.\n\nIt is quite according to the nature of the herrings to resume their\nvisits as suddenly and unexpectedly as they have broken them off,\nthough not until after a lapse of so many seasons, that the fishermen\nhave ceased to watch for their appearance in their old haunts, or to\nprovide the tackle necessary for their capture; and in this way a\nnumber of years are sometimes suffered to pass after the return of\nthe fish, ere the old trade is re-established. It was a main object\nwith William Forsyth to guard against any such waste of opportunity\non the part of his town\u2019s-people; and representing the case to the\nmore intelligent gentlemen of the district, and some of the wealthier\nmerchants of Inverness, he succeeded in forming them, for the\nencouragement of the herring fishery, into a society, which provided a\nyearly premium of twenty merks Scots for the first barrel of herrings\ncaught every season in the Moray Firth. The sum was small; but as\nmoney at the time was greatly more valuable than now, it proved a\nsufficient inducement to the fishermen and tradespeople of the place\nto fit out, about the beginning of autumn every year, a few boats that\nswept over the various fishing banks for the herrings; and there were\nnot many seasons in which some one crew or other did not catch enough\nto entitle them to the premium. At length, however, their tackle wore\nout, and Mr. Forsyth, in pursuance of his scheme, provided himself,\nat some little expense, with a complete _drift_ of nets, which were\ncarried to sea each season by a crew of boatmen, and the search kept\nup. His exertions, however, could only merit success, without securing\nit. The fish returned for a few seasons in considerable bodies, and\nthe fishermen procuring nets, several thousand barrels were caught;\nbut they soon deserted the Firth as entirely as before. It was at the\nperiod of this second return that the \u201cHerring Fishery,\u201d according to\nGoldsmith, \u201cemployed all Grub Street;\u201d and \u201cformed the topic of every\ncoffee-house, and the burden of every ballad.\u201d The sober English of\nthe times of George II. had got sanguine on the subject, and hope had\nbroken out into poetry. They were \u201cto drag up oceans of gold from the\nbottom of the sea, and to supply all Europe with herrings on their\nown terms;\u201d but their expectations outran the capabilities of the\nspeculation; \u201cthey fished up very little gold\u201d that the essayist \u201cever\nheard of, nor did they furnish the world with herrings.\u201d Their herring\nfishery turned out in short to be a mere herring fishery, and not even\nthat for any considerable length of time.\n\n[Sidenote: THE CAITHNESS-MAN\u2019S LEAP.]\n\nSir John Sinclair marks the autumn of the year 1770 as a season in\nwhich the herring fishery of Caithness suddenly doubled its amount.\n\u201cFrom that time,\u201d he adds, \u201cthe fishery gradually increased for a\nfew years, but afterwards fell off again, and did not revive with\nspirit until the year 1788.\u201d During the short period in which it was\nplied with success, it was prosecuted by several crews of Cromarty\nfishermen; and their first visit to the coast of this northern county,\nI find connected with a curious anecdote of the class whose extreme\nsingularity gives in some measure evidence of their truth. Invention\ngenerally loves a beaten track--it has its rules and its formulas,\nbeyond which it rarely ventures to expatiate; but the course of\nreal events is narrowed by no such contracting barrier; the range\nof possibility is by far too extensive to be fully occupied by the\nanticipative powers of imagination; and hence it is that true stories\nare often stranger than fictions, and that their very strangeness, and\ntheir dissimilarity from all the models of literary plot and fable,\nguarantee in some measure their character as authentic.\n\nThe hill of Cromarty is skirted, as I have said, by dizzy precipices,\nsome of them more than a hundred yards in height; and one of these,\nfor the last hundred and fifty years, has borne the name of the\nCaithness-man\u2019s Leap. The sheer descent is broken by projecting\nshelves, covered with a rank vegetation, and furrowed by deep sloping\nhollows, filled at the bottom with long strips of loose _d\u00e9bris_,\nwhich, when set in motion by the light foot of the goat, falls rattling\nin continuous streams on the beach. The upper part of the precipice is\nscooped out by a narrow and perilous pathway, which, rising slantways\nfrom the shore, along the face of the neighbouring precipices, makes\nan abrupt turn on the upper edge of the \u201cleap,\u201d and then gains the\ntop. Immediately above, on a sloping acclivity, covered for the last\ncentury by a thick wood, there was a little field, the furrows of which\ncan still be distinctly traced among the trees, and which, about the\ntime of the Revolution, was tenanted by a wild young fellow, quite\nas conversant with his fowling-piece as with his plough. He was no\nfavourite with such of the neighbouring proprietors as most resembled\nhimself; the game-laws in Scotland were not quite so stringent at\nthat period as they are now, but game had its value; and sheriffs and\nbarons, addicted to hunting and the chase, who had dungeons in their\ncastles, and gibbets on their Gallow Hills, neither lacked the will nor\nthe power to protect it. And so the tacksman of the the little field\nfound poaching no safe employment; but the dangers he incurred had\nonly the effect common in such cases, of imparting to his character\na sort of Irish-like recklessness--a carelessness both of his own\nlife and the lives of others. He had laid down his little field with\npeas, and was seriously annoyed, when they began to ripen, by the\ntown\u2019s boys--mischievous little fellows--who, when on their fishing\nexcursions, would land in a little rocky bay, immediately below the\npathway, and ascending the cliffs, carry away his property by armfuls\nat a time. The old northern pirates were scarcely more obnoxious to\nthe early inhabitants of Scotland than the embryo fishermen to the\nman of the gun: nay, the man of the gun was himself scarcely more\nobnoxious to the proprietors. There was no possibility of laying hold\nof the intruders; a few minutes were sufficient on the first alarm,\nto bring them from the top to the bottom of the cliffs--a few strokes\nof the oar set them beyond all reach of pursuit--and he saw that,\nunless he succeeded in terrifying them into honesty with his gun, they\nmight go on robbing him with impunity until they had left nothing\nbehind them to rob. Matters were in this state when a Caithness boat,\nladen with timber, moored one morning in the bay below, and one of\nthe crew, a young fellow of eighteen, after climbing the pathway on\nan excursion of discovery, found out the field of peas. The farmer,\non this unlucky morning, had been rated and collared by the laird for\nshooting a hare, and, very angry, and armed with the gun as usual, he\ncame up to his field, and found the Caithness-man employed in leisurely\nfilling his pockets. He presented his piece and drew the trigger,\nbut the powder flashed in the pan. \u201cThe circumstance of being shot,\u201d\nsays the ingenious author of Cyril Thornton, \u201cproduces a considerable\nconfusion in a man\u2019s ideas.\u201d The ideas of the Caithness-man became\nconfused in circumstances one degree less trying; for starting away\nwith the headlong speed of a hare roused out of her form, instead of\nfollowing the windings of the path, he shot right over the precipice\nat the abrupt angle. Downwards he went from shelf to shelf--now\ntearing away with him a huge bush of ivy--now darting along a stream\nof _d\u00e9bris_--now making somersets in mid-air over the perpendicular\nwalls of rock which alternate with the shelving terraces. The fear of\nthe gun precluded every other fear; he reached the beach unharmed,\nexcept by a few slight sprains and a few scratches, and bolting up,\ntumbled himself into the boat, and dived for shelter under the folds of\nthe sail. The farmer had pursued him to the top of the rock, and had\nturned the angle just in time to see him dash over; when, horror-struck\nat so terrible an accident, for he had intended only to shoot the\nman, he flung away his gun and ran home. Years and generations passed\naway; the good King William was succeeded by the good Queen Anne,\nand Anne by the three Georges, successively; the farmer and all his\ncontemporaries passed to the churchyard--his very fields were lost\nin the thickets of a deep wood;--the story of the Caithness-man\nhad become traditional--elderly men said it had happened in their\ngrandfather\u2019s days, and pointing out to the \u201cleap,\u201d they adverted to\nthe name which the rock still continued to bear, as proofs that the\nincident had really occurred--incredible as it might seem that a human\ncreature could possibly have survived such a fall. Ninety years had\nelapsed from the time, ere the Cromarty fishermen set out on their\nCaithness expedition. In the first year of the enterprise one of their\nfleet was storm-bound in a rocky bay, and the crew found shelter in a\nneighbouring cottage. There was a spectral-looking old man seated in\na corner beside the fire. On learning they had come from Cromarty, he\nseemed to shake off the apathy of extreme age, and began to converse\nwith them; and they were astonished to learn from his narrative that\nthey had before them the hero of the \u201cleap,\u201d at that time in his\nhundred and eighth year.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n    \u201cHe whom my restless gratitude has sought\n    So long in vain.\u201d--THOMSON.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SANDY WRIGHT AND THE PUIR ORPHAN.]\n\nEarly in the month of April 1734, three Cromarty boatmen, connected\nwith the custom-house, were journeying along the miserable road which\nat this period winded between the capital of the Highlands and that\nof the kingdom. They had already travelled since morning more than\nthirty miles through the wild highlands of Inverness-shire, and were\nnow toiling along the steep side of an uninhabited valley of Badenoch.\nA dark sluggish morass, with a surface as level as a sheet of water,\noccupied the bottom of the valley; a few scattered tufts of withered\ngrass were mottled over it, but the unsolid, sooty-coloured spaces\nbetween were as bare of vegetation as banks of sea-mud left by the\nreceding tide. On either hand, a series of dreary mountains thrust up\ntheir jagged and naked summits into the middle sky. A scanty covering\nof heath was thrown over their bases, except where the frequent streams\nof loose _d\u00e9bris_ which had fallen from above, were spread over them;\nbut higher up, the heath altogether disappeared, and the eye rested on\nwhat seemed an endless file of bare gloomy cliffs, partially covered\nwith snow.\n\nThe evening, for day was fast drawing to a close, was as melancholy\nas the scene. A dense volume of grey cloud hung over the valley like\na ceiling, and seemed descending along the cliffs. There was scarcely\nany wind, but at times a wreath of vapour would come rolling into a\nlower region of the valley, as if shot out from the volume above; and\nthe chill bleak air was filled with small specks of snow, so light\nand fleecy that they seemed scarcely to descend, but, when caught by\nthe half perceptible breeze, went sailing past the boatmen in long\nhorizontal lines. It was evident there impended over them one of those\nterrible snow-storms which sometimes overwhelm the hapless traveller in\nthese solitudes; and the house in which they were to pass the night was\nstill nearly ten miles away.\n\nThe gloom of evening, deepened by the coming storm, was closing around\nthem as they entered one of the wildest recesses of the valley, an\nimmense precipitous hollow scooped out of the side of one of the hills;\nthe wind began to howl through the cliffs, and the thickening flakes of\nsnow to beat against their faces. \u201cIt will be a terrible night, lads,\nin the Moray Firth,\u201d said the foremost traveller, a broad-shouldered,\ndeep-chested, strong-looking man, of about five feet eight; \u201cI would\nill like to hae to beat up through the drift along the rough shores o\u2019\nCadboll. It was in just such a night as this, ten year ago, that old\nWalter Hogg went down in the Red Sally.\u201d--\u201cIt will be as terrible a\nnight, I\u2019m feared, just where we are, in the black strath o\u2019 Badenoch,\u201d\nsaid one of the men behind, who seemed much fatigued; \u201cI wish we were\na\u2019 safe i\u2019 the clachan.\u201d--\u201cHoot, man,\u201d said Sandy Wright, the first\nspeaker, \u201cit canna now be muckle mair than sax miles afore us, an\u2019\nwe\u2019ll hae the tail of the gloamin\u2019 for half an hour yet. But, gude safe\nus! what\u2019s that?\u201d he exclaimed, pointing to a little figure that seemed\nsitting by the side of the road, about twenty yards before him; \u201cit\u2019s\nsurely a fairy!\u201d The figure rose from its seat, and came up, staggering\napparently from extreme weakness, to meet them. It was a boy scarcely\nmore than ten years of age. \u201cO my puir boy!\u201d said Sandy Wright, \u201cwhat\ncan hae taken ye here in a night like this?\u201d--\u201cI was going to Edinburgh\nto my friends,\u201d replied the boy, \u201cfor my mother died and left me among\nthe _freme_; but I\u2019m tired, and canna walk farther; and I\u2019ll be lost,\nI\u2019m feared, in the _yowndrift_.\u201d--\u201cThat ye winna, my puir bairn,\u201d said\nthe boatman, \u201cif I can help it; gi\u2019es a haud o\u2019 your han\u2019,\u201d grasping,\nas he spoke, the extended hand of the boy; \u201cdinna tine heart, an\u2019 lean\non me as muckle\u2019s ye can.\u201d But the poor little fellow was already\nexhausted, and, after a vain attempt to proceed, the boatman had to\ncarry him on his back. The storm burst out in all its fury; and the\ntravellers, half suffocated, and more than half blinded, had to grope\nonwards along the rough road, still more roughened by the snow-wreaths\nthat were gathering over it. They stopped at every fiercer blast,\nand turned their backs to the storm to recover breath; and every few\nyards they advanced, they had to stoop to the earth to ascertain the\ndirection of their path, by catching the outline of the nearer objects\nbetween them and the sky. After many a stumble and fall, however, and\nmany a groan and exclamation from the two boatmen behind, who were\nwell-nigh worn out, they all reached the clachan in safety about two\nhours after nightfall.\n\nThe inmates were seated round an immense peat fire, placed, according\nto the custom of the country, in the middle of the floor. They made way\nfor the travellers; and Sandy Wright, drawing his seat nearer the fire,\nbegan to chafe the hands and feet of the boy, who was almost insensible\nfrom cold and fatigue. \u201cBring us a mutchkin o\u2019 brandy here,\u201d said the\nboatman, \u201cto drive out the cauld frae our hearts; an\u2019, as supper canna\nbe ready for a while yet, get me a piece bread for the boy. He has had\na narrow escape, puir little fellow; an\u2019 maybe there\u2019s some that would\nmiss him, lanerly as he seems. Only hear how the win\u2019 roars on the\ngable, an\u2019 rattles at the winnocks and the door. It\u2019s an awfu\u2019 night in\nthe Moray Firth.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no gude,\u201d continued the boatman, as he tendered a half glass\nof the brandy and a cake of bread to his _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_, \u201cit\u2019s no gude to\nbe ill-set to boys. My own loon, Willie, that\u2019s the liftenant now,\ntaught me a lesson o\u2019 that. He was a wild roytous laddie, fu\u2019 o\u2019 droll\nmischief, an\u2019 desperately fond o\u2019 doos an\u2019 rabbits. He had a doo\u2019s\nnest out in the Crookburn Wood; but he was muckle in the dread o\u2019\nfighting Rob Moffat, the gamekeeper; an\u2019, on the day it was ripe for\nharrying, what did he do but set himself to watch Rob, at his house\nat the Mains? He saw him setting off to the hill, as he thought, wi\u2019\nhis gun an\u2019 his twa dogs; an\u2019 then awa sneaks he to the burn, thinking\nhimsel\u2019 out o\u2019 Rob\u2019s danger. He could climb like a cat, an\u2019 so up he\nclamb to the nest; an\u2019 then wi\u2019 his bonnet in his teeth, an\u2019 the twa\ndoos in his bonnet, he drapped down frae branch to branch. But, as ill\nluck would hae it, the first thing he met at the bottom was muckle Rob.\nThe cankered wretch raged like a madman, an\u2019 laying hold on the twa\nbirds by the feet, he dawded them about Willie\u2019s face till they were\nbaith massacred. It was an ill-hearted cruel thing; an\u2019, had I been\nthere, I would hae tauld him sae on the deafest side o\u2019 his head, lang\nthough he be. Willie cam\u2019 hame wi\u2019 his chafts a\u2019 swelled an\u2019 bluidy,\nan\u2019 the greet, puir chield, in his throat, for he was as muckle vexed\nas hurt. He was but a thin slip o\u2019 a callant at the time; but he had a\nhigh spirit, an\u2019, just out o\u2019 the healey, awa he went in young Captain\nRobinson\u2019s lugger, an\u2019 didna come near the place, though he sent his\nmither pennies now an\u2019 then by the Campvere traders, for about five\nyears. Weel, back he cam\u2019 at last, a stalwart young fallow o\u2019 sax feet,\nwi\u2019 a grip that would spin the bluid out at the craps o\u2019 a chield\u2019s\nfingers; an\u2019 we were a\u2019 glad to see him! \u2018Mither,\u2019 said he, \u2018is\nfighting Rob Moffat at the Mains yet?\u2019 \u2018O ay!\u2019 quo\u2019 she. \u2019Weel, then, I\nthink I\u2019ll call on him in the morning,\u2019 says he, \u2018an\u2019 clear aff an old\nscore wi\u2019 him;\u2019 an\u2019 his brow grew black as he spoke. We baith kent what\nwas working wi\u2019 him; an\u2019, after bedtime, his mither, puir body, gaed up\na\u2019 the length o\u2019 the Mains to warn Rob to keep out o\u2019 the way. An\u2019 weel\ndid he do that; for, for the three weeks that Willie stayed at hame wi\u2019\nus, not a bit o\u2019 Rob was to be seen at either kirk or market.--Puir\nWillie! he has got fighting enough sinsyne.\u201d\n\nSandy Wright shared with the boy his supper and his bed; and, on\nsetting out on the following morning, he brought him along with him,\ndespite the remonstrances of the other boatmen, who dreaded his proving\nan incumbrance. The story of the little fellow, though simple, was very\naffecting. His mother, a poor widow, had lived for the five preceding\nyears in the vicinity of Inverness, supporting herself and her boy by\nher skill as a seamstress. As early as his sixth year he had shown\na predilection for reading; and, with the anxious solicitude of a\nScottish mother, she had wrought late and early to keep him at school.\nBut her efforts were above her strength, and, after a sore struggle of\nnearly four years, she at length sank under them. \u201cOh!\u201d said the boy to\nhis companion, \u201coften would she stop in the middle of her work, and lay\nher hand on her breast, and then she would ask me what would I do when\nshe would be dead--and we would both greet. Her fingers grew white and\nsma\u2019, and she couldna sit up at nights as before; but her cheeks were\nredder and bonnier than ever, and I thought that she surely wouldna\ndie;--she has told me that she wasna eighteen years older than mysel\u2019.\nOften, often when I waukened in the morning, she would be greetin\u2019 at\nmy bedside; and I mind one day, when I brought home the first prize\nfrom school, that she drew me till her, an\u2019 told me wi\u2019 the tear in\nher ee, that the day would come, when her head would be low, that my\nfather\u2019s gran\u2019 friends, who were ashamed o\u2019 her because she was poor,\nwould be proud that I was connected wi\u2019 them. She soon couldna hold\nup her head at all, and if it wasna for a neighbour woman, who hadna\nmuckle to spare, we would have starved. I couldna go to the school,\nfor I needed to stay and watch by her bedside, and do things in the\nhouse; and it vexed her more that she was keeping me from my learning,\nthan that hersel\u2019 was sae ill. But I used to read chapters to her out\nof the Bible. One day when she was very sick, two neighbour women came\nin, and she called me to her and told me, that when she would be dead\nI would need to go to Edinburgh, for I had no friends anywhere else.\nHer own friends were there, she said, but they were poor, and couldna\ndo muckle for me; and my father\u2019s friends were there too, and they were\ngran\u2019 and rich, though they wadna own her. She told me no to be feared\nby the way, for that Providence kent every bit o\u2019t, and He would make\nfolk to be kind to me; and then she kissed me, and grat, and bade me go\nto the school. When I came out she was lying wi\u2019 a white cloth on her\nface, and the bed was all white. She was dead; and I could do nothing\nbut greet a\u2019 that night; and she was dead still. I\u2019m now travelling to\nEdinburgh, as she bade me, and folk are kind to me just as she said;\nand I have letters to show me the way to my mother\u2019s friends when I\nreach the town; for I can read write.\u201d Such was the narrative of the\npoor boy.\n\nThroughout the whole of the journey, Sandy Wright was as a father to\nhim. He shared with him his meals and his bed, and usually for the\nlast half dozen miles of every stage, he carried him on his back. On\nreaching the Queensferry, however, the boatman found that his money\nwas well-nigh expended. I must just try and get him across, thought\nhe, without paying the fare. The boat had reached the middle of the\nferry, when one of the ferrymen, a large gruff-looking fellow, began to\ncollect the freight. He passed along the passengers one after one, and\nmade a dead stand at the boy. \u201cOh!\u201d said Sandy Wright, who sat by him,\n\u201cdinna stop at the boy;--it\u2019s a puir orphan; see, here\u2019s my groat.\u201d\nThe ferryman still held out his hand. \u201cIt\u2019s a puir orphan,\u201d reiterated\nthe boatman; \u201cwe found him bewildered, on the bursting out o\u2019 the last\nstorm, in a dismal habitless glen o\u2019 Badenoch, an\u2019 we\u2019ve ta\u2019en him wi\u2019\nus a\u2019 the way, for he\u2019s going to seek his friends at Edinburgh; surely\nye\u2019ll no grudge him a passage?\u201d The ferryman, without deigning him a\nreply, plucked off the boy\u2019s bonnet; the boatman instantly twitched\nit out of his hand. \u201cHoot, hoot, hoot!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthe puir\nfatherless and motherless boy!--ye\u2019ll no do that?\u201d \u201cTake tent, my man,\u201d\nhe added, for the ferryman seemed doggedly resolved on exacting the\nhire; \u201ctake tent; we little ken what may come o\u2019 oursel\u2019s yet, forbye\nour bairns.\u201d \u201cBy ----, boatman, or whatever ye be,\u201d said the ferryman,\n\u201cI\u2019ll hae either the fare or the fare\u2019s worth, though it should be his\njacket;\u201d and he again laid hold on the boy, who began to cry. Sandy\nWright rose from his seat in a towering passion. \u201cLook ye, my man,\u201d\nsaid he, as he seized the fellow by the collar with a grasp that would\nhave pulled a bull to the ground, \u201clittle hauds me from pitching ye\nout owre the gunwale. Only crook a finger on the poor thing, an\u2019 I\u2019ll\nknock ye down, man, though ye were as muckle as a bullock. Shame!\nshame ye for a man!--ye hae nae mair natural feeling than a sealchie\u2019s\nbubble.\u201d[8] The cry of shame! shame! was echoed from the other\npassengers, and the surly ferryman gave up the point.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 now, my boy,\u201d said the boatman as they reached the West Port, \u201cI\nhae business to do at the Customhouse, an\u2019 some money to get; but I\nmaun first try and find out your friends for ye. Look at the letters\nand tell me the street where they put up.\u201d The boy untied his little\nbundle, which contained a few shirts and stockings, a parcel of papers,\nand a small box.--\u201cWhat\u2019s a\u2019 the papers about?\u201d inquired the boatman;\n\u201can\u2019 what hae ye in the wee box?\u201d \u201cMy mither,\u201d said the boy, \u201cbade me\nbe sure to keep the papers, for they tell of her marriage to my father;\nand the box hauds her ring. She could have got money for it when she\nwas sick and no able to work, but she would sooner starve, she said,\nthan part wi\u2019 it; and I widna like to part wi\u2019 it, either, to ony bodie\nbut yoursel\u2019--but if ye would take it?\u201d He opened the box and passed\nit to his companion. It contained a valuable diamond ring. \u201cNo, no, my\nboy,\u201d said the boatman, \u201cthat widna do; the ring\u2019s a bonny ring, an\u2019\nsomething bye ordinar, though I be no judge; but, blessings on your\nheart! tak ye care o\u2019t, an\u2019 part wi\u2019t on no account to ony bodie;--Hae\nye found out the direction?\u201d The boy named some place in the vicinity\nof the Cowgate, and in a few minutes they were both walking up the\nGrassmarket.\n\n\u201cO, yonder\u2019s my aunt!\u201d exclaimed the boy, pointing to a young woman who\nwas coming down the street; \u201cyonder\u2019s my mither\u2019s sister;\u201d and away he\nsprang to meet her. She immediately recognised and welcomed him; and he\nintroduced the boatman to her as the kind friend who had rescued him\nfrom the snow-storm and the ferryman. She related in a few words the\nstory of the boy\u2019s parents. His father had been a dissipated young man\nof good family, whose follies had separated him from his friends; and\nthe difference he had rendered irreconcilable by marrying a low-born\nbut industrious and virtuous young woman, who, despite of her birth,\nwas deserving of a better husband. In a few years he had sunk into\nindigence and contempt; and in the midst of a wretchedness which\nwould have been still more complete had it not been for the efforts\nof his wife, he was seized by a fever, of which he died. \u201cTwo of his\nbrothers,\u201d said the woman, \u201cwho are gentlemen of the law, were lately\ninquiring about the boy, and will, I hope, interest themselves in his\nbehalf.\u201d In this hope the boatman cordially acquiesced. \u201cAn\u2019 now, my\nboy,\u201d said he, as he bade him farewell, \u201cI have just one groat left\nyet;--here it is; better in your pocket than wi\u2019 the gruff carle at the\nferry. It\u2019s an honest groat, anyhow; an\u2019 I\u2019m sure I wish it luck.\u201d\n\nEighteen years elapsed before Sandy Wright again visited Edinburgh. He\nhad quitted it a robust, powerful man of forty-seven, and he returned\nto it a greyheaded old man of sixty-five. His humble fortunes, too,\nwere sadly in the wane. His son William, a gallant young fellow, who\nhad risen in a few years, on the score of merit alone, from the\nforecastle to a lieutenancy, had headed, under Admiral Vernon, some\ndesperate enterprise, from which he never returned: and the boatman\nhimself, when on the eve of retiring on a small pension from his\nlong service in the Customhouse, was dismissed without a shilling,\non the charge of having connived at the escape of a smuggler. He was\nslightly acquainted with one of the inferior clerks in the Edinburgh\nCustomhouse; and in the slender hope that this person might use his\ninfluence in his behalf, and that that influence might prove powerful\nenough to get him reinstated, he had now travelled from Cromarty to\nEdinburgh, a weary journey of nearly two hundred miles. He had visited\nthe clerk, who had given him scarcely any encouragement, and he was now\nwaiting for him in a street near Brown Square, where he had promised\nto meet him in less than half an hour. But more than two hours had\nelapsed; and Sandy Wright, fatigued and melancholy, was sauntering\nslowly along the street, musing on his altered circumstances, when a\ngentleman, who had passed him with the quick hurried step of a person\nengaged in business, stopped abruptly a few yards away, and returning\nat a much slower pace, eyed him steadfastly as he repassed. He again\ncame forward and stood. \u201cAre you not Mr. Wright?\u201d he inquired. \u201cMy\nname, sir, is Sandy Wright,\u201d said the boatman, touching his bonnet.\nThe face of the stranger glowed with pleasure, and grasping him by\nthe hand, \u201cOh, my good kind friend, Sandy Wright!\u201d he exclaimed,\n\u201coften, often, have I inquired after you, but no one could tell me\nwhere you resided, or whether you were living or dead. Come along with\nme--my house is in the next square. What! not remember me; ah, but it\nwill be ill with me when I cease to remember you! I am Hamilton, an\nadvocate--but you will scarcely know me as that.\u201d\n\nThe boatman accompanied him to an elegant house in Brown Square,\nand was ushered into a splendid apartment, where there sat a\nMadonna-looking young lady engaged in reading. \u201cWho of all the world\nhave I found,\u201d said the advocate to the lady, \u201cbut good Sandy Wright,\nthe kind brave man who rescued me when perishing in the snow, and who\nwas so true a friend to me when I had no friend besides.\u201d The lady\nwelcomed the boatman with one of her most fascinating smiles, and held\nout her hand. \u201cHow happy I am,\u201d she said, \u201cthat we should have met\nwith you! Often has Mr. Hamilton told me of your kindness to him, and\nregretted that he should have no opportunity of acknowledging it.\u201d The\nboatman made one of his best bows, but he had no words for so fine a\nlady.\n\nThe advocate inquired kindly after his concerns, and was told of his\ndismissal from the Customhouse. \u201cI\u2019ll vouch!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cit was\nfor nothing an honest man should be ashamed of.\u201d \u201cOh! only a slight\nmatter, Mr. Hamilton,\u201d said the boatman; \u201can\u2019 troth I couldna\u2019 weel do\nother than what I did though I should hae to do\u2019t o\u2019er again. Captain\nRobinson o\u2019 the Free Trade was on the coast o\u2019 Cadboll last har\u2019st,\nabout the time o\u2019 the _Equinoxal_, unlading a cargo o\u2019 Hollands, whan\non cam\u2019 the storm o\u2019 the season, an\u2019 he had to run for Cromarty to\navoid shipwreck. His loading was mostly out, except a few orra kegs\nthat might just make his lugger seizable if folk gied a wee owre\nstrict. If he could but show, however, that he had been at the Isle o\u2019\nMan, an\u2019 had been forced into the Firth by mere stress o\u2019 weather frae\nhis even course to Flushing, it would set him clear out o\u2019 our danger.\nI had a strong liking to the Captain, for he had been unco kind to my\npoor Willie, that\u2019s dead now; an\u2019 when he tauld our officer that he had\nbeen at Man, an\u2019 the officer asked for proof, I contrived to slide twa\nManks baubees intil his han\u2019, an\u2019 he held them out just in a careless\nway, as if he had plenty mair proof besides. Weel, this did, an\u2019 the\npuir chield wan off; but hardly was he down the Firth when out cam\u2019\nthe haill story. Him they coudna harm, but me they could; an\u2019 after\nmuckle ill words, (an\u2019 I had to bear them a\u2019, for I\u2019m an auld failed\nman now,) instead o\u2019 getting retired on a pension for my forty years\u2019\nservice, I was turned aff without a shilling. I have an acquaintance\nin the Customhouse here, Mr. Scrabster the clerk; an\u2019 I came up ance\nerrand to Edinburgh in the hope that he might do something for me; but\nhe\u2019s no verra able I\u2019m thinking, an\u2019 I\u2019m feared no verra willing; an\u2019\nso, Mr. Hamilton, I just canna help it. My day, o\u2019 coorse o\u2019 nature,\ncanna be verra lang, an\u2019 Providence, that has aye carried me through\nas yet, winna surely let me stick now.\u201d--\u201cAh no, my poor friend!\u201d said\nthe advocate. \u201cMake up your mind, however, to stay for a few weeks with\nHelen and me, and I\u2019ll try in the meantime what my little influence may\nbe able to do for you at the Customhouse.\u201d\n\nA fortnight passed away very agreeably to the boatman. Mrs. Hamilton,\na fascinating young creature of very superior mental endowments, was\ndelighted with his character and his stories:--the latter opened to her\na new chapter in her favourite volume--the book of human life; and the\nadvocate, a man of high talent and a benevolent heart, seemed to regard\nhim with the feelings of an affectionate son. At length, however, he\nbegan to weary sadly of what he termed the life of a gentleman, and to\nsigh after his little smoky cottage, and \u201cthe puir auld wife.\u201d \u201cJust\nremain with us one week longer,\u201d said the advocate, \u201cand I shall learn\nin that time the result of my application. You are not now quite so\nactive a man as when you carried me ten miles through the snow, and\nfrightened the tall ferryman, and so I shall secure for you a passage\nin one of the Leith traders.\u201d In a few days after, when the boatman\nwas in the middle of one of his most interesting stories, and Mrs.\nHamilton hugely delighted, the advocate entered the apartment, his eyes\nbeaming with pleasure, and a packet in his hand. \u201cThis is from London,\u201d\nhe said, as he handed it to the lady; \u201cit intimates to us, that\n\u2018Alexander Wright, Customhouse boatman,\u2019 is to retire from the service\non a pension of twenty pounds per annum.\u201d--But why dwell longer on\nthe story? Sandy Wright parted from his kind friends, and returned to\nCromarty, where he died in the spring of 1769, in the eighty-second\nyear of his age. \u201cFolk hae aye to learn,\u201d he used to say, \u201can\u2019, for my\nown pairt, I was a saxty-year-auld scholar afore I kent the meaning o\u2019\nthe verse, \u2018Cast thy bread on the waters, and thou shalt find it after\nmany days.\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll give thee a wind.\u201d--SHAKSPERE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: TARBAT NESS.]\n\nFor about thirty years after the failure of the herring fishery, the\npopulation of the town of Cromarty gradually decreased. Many of the\nyoung men became sailors and went into foreign parts, from whence few\nof them returned. One of their number, poor Lieutenant Wright, the\nboatman\u2019s son, served in the unfortunate expedition of Vernon, and\nleft his bones under the walls of Carthagena; another, after sailing\nround the world with Anson, died on his passage homewards when within\nsight of the white cliffs of England; a third was barbarously murdered\non the high seas by the notorious Captain James Lowrie. Such of the\ntown\u2019s-people as had made choice of the common mechanical professions,\nplied their respective trades in the fishing towns of the north of\nScotland; and I have seen, among old family papers, letters of these\nemigrants written from Lerwick, Kirkwall, and Stornoway. As the\npopulation gradually decreased in this way, house after house became\ntenantless and fell into decay; until the main street was skirted by\nroofless tenements, and the town\u2019s cross, which bears date 1578, was\nbounded by a stone wall on the one side, and a hawthorn hedge on the\nother.\n\nThe domestic economy of the people, who still continue to inhabit\nthe town, differed considerably from what it had been when their\ncircumstances were more prosperous. There was now no just division of\nlabour among them--working people of all the different denominations\nencroaching each on the bounds of the others\u2019 profession. Fishermen\nwrought as labourers, tradesfolk as fishermen, and both as farmers.\nIn the latter part of spring every year, and the two first months of\nsummer, the town\u2019s-people spent their evenings in angling with rods and\nhand-lines in their boats, or from the rocks at the entrance of the\nbay; towards the end of July they formed themselves into parties of\neight or ten, and sailed to Tarbat Ness, a fishing station of the Moray\nFirth, where they remained for several weeks catching and storing up\nfish for winter. At night they converted their sails into tents, ranged\nin the manner of an encampment, at the edge of the little bay where\nthey moored their boats.\n\nThe long low promontory of Tarbat Ness forms the north-eastern\nextremity of Ross-shire. Etymologists derive its name from the practice\nwhich prevailed among mariners in this country during the infancy\nof navigation, of drawing their light shallops across the necks of\nsuch promontories instead of sailing round them. On a moor of this\nheadland there may be traced the vestiges of an encampment, which\nsome have deemed Roman, and others Danish; and there is a cave among\nthe low rocks by which it is skirted, which, according to tradition,\ncommunicates with another cave on the coast of Caithness. The scenery\nof Tarbat Ness is of that character which Addison regarded as the\nmost sublime; but it has something more to recommend it than a mere\nexpansiveness, like that predicated by the poet, in which no object,\ntree, house, or mountain, contracts the view of the vast arch of\nheaven or the huge circle of earth. Instead of a low plain bounded by\nthe sky, there is here a wide expanse of ocean encircling a narrow\nheadland--brown, sterile, solitary, edged with rock, and studded with\nfragments of stone. On the one hand, the mountains of Sutherland\nare seen rising out of the sea like a volume of blue clouds; on the\nother, at a still greater distance, the hills of Moray stretch along\nthe horizon in a long undulating strip, so faintly defined in the\noutline that they seem almost to mingle with the firmament. Instead,\nhowever, of contracting the prospect, they serve but to enhance, by\ntheir diminished bulk, the immense space in which they are included.\nSpace--wide, interminable space--in which he who contemplates it finds\nhimself lost, and is oppressed by a sense of his own littleness, is\nat all times the circumstance to which the prospect owes most of its\npower; but it is only during the storms of winter, when the firmament\nin all its vastness seems converted into a hall of the tempest, and\nthe earth in all its extent into a gymnasium for contending elements,\nthat the scene assumes its full sublimity and grandeur. On the north\na chain of alternate currents and whirlpools howl, toss, and rage, as\nif wrestling with the hurricane; on the east the huge waves of the\nGerman ocean come rolling against the rocky barrier, encircling it with\na broad line of foam, and join their voices of thunder to the roar\nof current and whirlpool; cloud after cloud sweeps along the brown\npromontory, flinging on it their burdens as they pass; the sea-gull\nshrieks over it as he beats his wings against the gale; the distant\nhills seem blotted from the landscape; occasionally a solitary bark,\nhalf enveloped in cloud and spray, with its dark sails furled to the\nyards, and its topmasts lowered to the deck, comes drifting over the\nfoam; and the mariner, anxious, afraid, and lashed to the helm, looks\nwistfully over the waves for the headlands of the distant haven.\n\nA party of Cromarty tradesfolk, who had prosecuted the fishing on the\npromontory of Tarbat Ness for part of the summer and autumn of 1738,\nhad been less successful that season than most of their neighbours,\nand had lingered for several days on the station after the tents of\nthe encampment had been struck, and the boats had sailed for home. At\nlength, however, a day was fixed for their return, but when it arrived\nthe wind had set in strongly from the south-west; and, instead of\nprosecuting their voyage, they were compelled to haul up their boat\nto the site of the encampment. The storm continued for more than two\nweeks, accompanied by heavy showers, which extinguished their fire,\nand so saturated the cover of their tent, that the water dropped on\ntheir faces as they lay folded in the straw and blankets with which\nthey had covered the floor. Their provisions too, except the salted\nfish, which they had secured in barrels, began to fail them; and they\nbecame exceedingly anxious for a change of wind. But the storm seemed\nto mock at their anxiety; night after night were they awakened by the\nrain pattering against the sail, and when they raised its edge every\nsucceeding morning, they saw the sea whitened by the gale, and clouds\nladen with water rolling heavily from the south-west.\n\n[Sidenote: STINE BHEAG O\u2019 TARBAT.]\n\nNot more than a mile from the tent there stood an inhabited cottage.\nThe solitary tenant, an elderly woman, still known to tradition as\n_Stine Bheag o\u2019 Tarbat_, was famous at this time as one in league with\nSatan, and much consulted by seafaring men when windbound in any of\nthe neighbouring ports. And her history, as related by her neighbours,\nformed, like the histories of all the other witches of Scotland,\na strange medley of the very terrible and the very ludicrous. A\nshipmaster, who had unwittingly offended her, had moored his vessel one\nevening within the rocky bay of Portmahomack, a haven of Tarbat; but on\ngoing on deck next morning, he found that the vessel had been conveyed\nduring the night over the rocks and the beach, a broad strip of meadow,\ntwo corn-fields, and a large moor, into a deep muddy ditch; and there\nwould she have lain till now had he not found means to conciliate\nthe witch, who on the following night transported her to her former\nmoorings. With all this power, however, it so happened, that only a few\nweeks after a farmer of the parish, whom she had long annoyed in the\nshape of a black beetle, succeeded in laying hold of her as she hummed\nround his bonnet, and confined her for four days in his snuff-box.\n\nShortly before the arrival of the Cromarty men, a small sloop had been\nweather-bound for a few days in a neighbouring port; and the master\napplied to _Stine_ for a wind. Part of his cargo consisted of foreign\nspirits; and on taking leave of the witch he brought with him two empty\nbottles, which he promised to fill, and send to her by the ship-boy. It\nwas evening, however, before he reached the vessel; the boy would not\nventure on carrying the bottles by night to the witch\u2019s cottage; and on\nthe following morning they were forgotten in the hurry of sailing. The\nwind blew directly off the land, from what the master deemed the very\nbest point of the compass; the vessel scudded down the Firth before it\nunder a tight sail; it freshened as the land receded, and the mainsail\nwas lowered reef after reef, until as the evening was darkening it\nhad increased into a hurricane. The master stood by the helm, and in\ncasting an anxious glance at the binnacle, to ascertain his course, his\neye caught the two bottles of _Stine Bheag_. \u201cAh, witch!\u201d he muttered,\n\u201cI must get rid of thee;\u201d and taking up one of the bottles he raised\nhis arm to throw it over the side, when he was interrupted by a hoarse\ncroaking above-head, and on looking up saw two ravens hovering round\nthe vane. The bottle was replaced. An immense wave came rolling behind\nin the wake of the vessel; it neared; it struck the stern, and, rushing\nover the deck, washed everything before it, spars, coops, cordage;\nbut only the bottles were carried overboard. In the moment they rose\nto the surface the ravens darted upon them like sea-gulls on a shoal\nof coal-fish; and the master, as the vessel swept along, could see\nthem bearing the bottles away. The hurricane gradually subsided into\na moderate breeze, and the rest of the voyage was neither rough nor\nunprosperous; but the shipmaster, it was said, religiously determined\nnever again to purchase a wind. And the Cromarty men, who had heard the\nstory, were so much of the master\u2019s opinion, that it was not until the\nsecond week after the wind had set so stiffly into the south-west, and\nwhen all their provisions were expended, that they resolved on risking\na visit to _Stine Bheag_.\n\nOne of them, a tall robust young fellow, named Macglashan, accompanied\nby two others, after collecting all the placks and boddles of the\nparty--little pieces of copper coin, with the head of Charles II.\non one side, and the Scotch thistle on the other--set out for the\nhovel of the witch. It was situated on the shore of a little sandy\nbay, which opens into the Dornoch Firth, and formed one of a range,\nfour in number, three of which were now deserted. The roof of one\nhad fallen in; the two others, with their doors ajar, the casements\nof the windows bleached white by the sea winds, and with wreaths of\nchickweed mantling over the sloping sides, and depending from the\neaves, seemed very dwellings of desolation. From the door and window\nof the inhabited hovel, which joined to the one which had fallen, and\nwhich in appearance was as ruinous and weather-beaten as either of\nthe other two, there issued dense volumes of smoke, accompanied by a\nheavy oppressive scent, occasioned apparently by the combustion of some\nmarine vegetable. The range had been inhabited about ten years before\nby a crew of fishermen and their families; one of them the husband,\nanother the son of _Stine Bheag_. The son had unluckily chanced to come\nupon her when she was engaged in some of her orgies, and telling his\nfather of what he had seen, they deliberated together, it was said, on\ndelating her as a witch before the presbytery of Tain; but ere they\ncame to a full determination they unluckily went to sea. _Stine_ was\nnot idle;--there arose a terrible hurricane, and the boat was driven on\na quicksand, where she was swallowed up with all her crew. The widows,\ndisturbed by supernatural sights and noises, deserted their cottages\nsoon after, and _Stine Bheag_ became the sole tenant of the range.\n\nMacglashan walked up to the door, which hung half open, and tapped\nagainst it, but the sound was lost in a loud crackling noise,\nresembling a ceaseless discharge of pocket pistols, which proceeded\nfrom the interior. He tapped a second time, but the crackling\ncontinued, and, despairing of making himself heard, he stooped and\nentered. The apartment was so filled with smoke, that for the first\nfew seconds he could only distinguish a red glare of light upon the\nhearth, and a small patch of sky, which appeared of a rusty-brown\ncolour through the dense volume which issued out at the window. The hag\nsat on a low stool beside the wall, and fronting the fire, into which\nat intervals she flung handfuls of dried sea-weed, of that kind (_Fucus\nnodosus_) which consists of chains of little brown bladders filled with\nair, and which is used in the making of kelp. As the bladders, one\nafter one, expanded and burst with the heat, she continued to mutter a\nGaelic rhyme. The thick smoke circled round her as she bent over the\nfire, and when the flame shot up through the eddies, Macglashan could\nsee her long sharp features, but when it sunk her eyes were alone\nvisible. Her grizzled hair escaped from a red coif, and fell over her\nshoulders, round which there was wrapped a square of red tartan, held\non by a large silver brooch. The imagination of a poet could scarcely\nhave invested one of the ancient sibyls with more circumstances of\nthe wild and terrible, or have placed her in a scene of a character\nso suited to her own. \u201cSad weather this,\u201d said Macglashan;--the hag\nstarted at the unexpected address, and rising up gazed at the intruder\nwith a mixed expression of anger and surprise. \u201cI come,\u201d he continued,\n\u201cfrom _the point_, where I and my companions have been windbound for\nthe last fortnight, and half starved with cold and hunger to boot.\nCould you not favour us with a breeze that would serve for Cromarty?\u201d\nWithout waiting a reply, he thrust into her hand the joint contribution\nof the crew. She spread out her palm to the light, looked at the\ncoins, then at Macglashan, and shook her head. \u201cFor _that_!!\u201d she\nsaid contemptuously. He shook his head in turn. \u201cBad times, mother,\nbad times; not a rap more among us; but we will not forget you should\nwe once reach home.\u201d \u201cThen send one of your companions,\u201d said the\nwitch, \u201cfor your lugged water-stoup.\u201d--\u201cAy, an\u2019 so you know of them,\nand of the stoup,\u201d muttered Macglashan;--\u201cJock, Sandy, this way,\nlads.\u201d The two men entered the apartment. \u201cRun, Sandy,\u201d continued the\nyoung fellow, \u201cfor the muckle stoup,\u201d and drawing in a huge settle of\nplank which stood in the middle of the floor, he seated himself, all\nunbidden, before the fire of _Stine Bheag_.\n\nThe place was darkened, as I have said, with smoke, but at intervals\nthe flames glanced on the naked walls of turf and stone, and on\na few rude implements of housewifery which were ranged along the\nsides, together with other utensils of a more questionable form and\nappearance. A huge wooden trough, filled with water, from whence there\nproceeded a splashing bubbling noise, as if it were filled with live\nfish, occupied one of the corners; and was sentinelled by a black cat,\nthat sat purring on a stool beside it, and that on every louder splash\nrose from her seat, and stretched her neck over the water. A bundle of\ndried herbs; a table bearing the skeleton of some animal, round part\nof which a kind of red clay had been moulded, as if by a statuary; a\nstaff, with the tail of a fish fastened to one end, and the wings of\na raven to the other; and a large earthen vessel, like that in which\nHercules sailed to release Prometheus, with a white napkin tied in the\nmanner of a sail to a stick, which served for a mast, were ranged along\nthe wall. As Macglashan surveyed the apartment, _Stine_ seemed lost\nin a reverie, with her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon the fire;\nbut as if struck by a sudden thought, she started into a more erect\nposture, and regarded him with a malignant scowl, clutched her hands\ninto a hill of dried weed, and flung a fresh heap on the fire, which\nfor a few seconds seemed extinguished. \u201cOd, mother,\u201d said the young\nfellow, nothing appalled by the darkness, \u201cye lead a terrible lonely\nlife of it here; were I in your place I would die of sheer longing in\nless than a fortnight.\u201d \u201cLonely,\u201d muttered the hag, who seemed in no\ncommunicative mood; \u201chow ken ye that?\u201d As she spoke the croak of a\nraven was heard from the chimney, accompanied by the flutter of wings.\n\u201cUg, ug!\u201d ejaculated Macglashan\u2019s companion; \u201clet\u2019s out, Mac, and see\nwhat\u2019s keeping Sandy.\u201d \u201cNay, here he comes,\u201d said the other; and as he\nspoke Sandy entered with the stoup. \u201cAnd now,\u201d said _Stine_, rising and\nlaying hold of it, \u201cye maun out, an\u2019 bide at the rock yonder till I\ncall.\u201d\n\nMacglashan and his companions waited for nearly half an hour; night\nwas fast falling, and the ruinous cottages, as the twilight darkened\nround them, assumed a more dismal appearance. From the window of the\ninhabited one there glimmered a dull red light, which was repeatedly\neclipsed, as if by the shadows of persons passing between the window\nand the fire. At length the door opened, and the sharp harsh voice of\n_Stine Bheag_ was heard calling from the entrance. Macglashan stepped\nup to her, and received the stoup, stoppled with a bunch of straw. \u201cSet\noff,\u201d said she, as she delivered it, \u201con the first blink of to-morrow;\nbut as ye love life, touch not the wisp till ye reach Cromarty.\u201d\nMacglashan promised a strict observance of the injunction, and, taking\nhis leave, set out with his companions for the tent.\n\nThe wind lowered during the night, and when early next morning\nMacglashan raised the edge of the sail, the wide extent of the Moray\nFirth presented a surface as glassy as that of a mirror; though it\nstill heaved in long ridges, on which the reflection of the red light\nthat preceded sunrise, danced and flickered like sheets of flame. He\nroused his companions; the tent was struck, the boat launched, the\nthwarts manned; and before the sun had risen, the whole party were\ntoiling at the oar. A light breeze from the north-east began to ruffle\nthe surface of the water; it increased into a brisk gale, and the boat,\nwith both her sails set, was soon scudding before it. The ancient\ntowers of Balone, the still more ancient towers of Cadboll, Hilton\nwith its ruinous chapel, and Shandwick with its sculptured obelisk,\nneared and then receded, as she swept along the shore; and the sun\nwas yet low in the sky, when, after passing the steep overhanging\nprecipices of the hill of Nigg, she opened the bay of Cromarty. \u201cWhat\nin the name of wonder,\u201d asked one of the crew, \u201ccan _Stine Bheag_\nhae put in the stoup?\u201d \u201cRax it this way,\u201d said another; \u201cwe would\nbetter be ony gate than in Cromarty should the minister come to hear\nof it; I\u2019m thinking Mac had as weel fling out the wisp here as on the\nshore.\u201d--\u201cThink you so?\u201d said Macglashan, \u201cthen send the stoup this\nway.\u201d He drew out the stopple, and flung it over his head into the sea;\nbut in the next moment, when half-a-dozen necks were stretched out\nto pry into the vessel, which proved empty, the man stationed at the\nbows roared out, \u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, lads, mind your haulyards! lower,\nlower, a squall from the land! we shall back-fill and go down like a\nmussel-shell.\u201d The crew clustered round the sails, and had succeeded\nin lowering them, when the squall struck the boat ahead with the fury\nof a tornado, and almost forced her out of the water. The thwarts were\nmaimed, but ere the rowers had bent to the first stroke, the oars were\nwrested out of their hands by the force of the hurricane. The bay\naround them was agitated as if beaten by rods; the wind howled in one\ncontinuous gust, without pause or intermission; and a cloud of spray\nwhich arose from the waves, like a sheet of drift from a field of snow,\nswept over them in so dense a volume, that it hid the land and darkened\nthe heavens. As the boat drifted before the tempest, the bay receded,\nthe cliffs, the villages, the castles, were passed in hasty succession,\nand before noon the crew had landed at Tarbat Ness, where they found\n_Stine Bheag_ sitting on the shore, as if waiting their arrival.\n\n\u201cDonnart deevils, what tak\u2019s ye here?\u201d was the first salutation of\nthe witch. \u201cAh, mother, that cursed wisp!\u201d groaned out Macglashan.\n\u201cWisp!--Look ye, my frack young man, your weird may have hemp in it,\nan\u2019 sae ye may tempt salt water when ye like; but a\u2019 the ither drookit\nbodies there have nae such protection. An\u2019 now ye may tak\u2019 the road,\nfor here maun your boat gizzen till the drift o\u2019 Januar be heapit\noure her gunwale.\u201d \u201cAh, mother!\u201d said Macglashan, \u201cwhat could we do\non the road? and home were but a cold home without either our fish or\nour winbread. Od, it were better for us to plenish the old bothies at\nthe bay, and go and live wi\u2019 yoursel\u2019; but ye must just try and put\nanother wisp in the stoup.\u201d To this she at length consented; and on\nthe following morning the party arrived in Cromarty without any new\nadventure. The one detailed did not become history until many years\nafter, when it was related by Macglashan. He was probably well enough\nacquainted with the tenth book of Homer\u2019s Odyssey to know of that\nill-improved gift bestowed on Ulysses by old king \u00c6olus, when\n\n    \u201cThe adverse winds in leathern bags he braced,\n    Compressed their force, and locked each struggling blast,\n    Securely fettered by a silver thong.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n    \u201cImplore his aid, for Proteus only knows\n    The secret cause and cure of all thy woes,\n    But first the wily wizard must be caught,\n    For unconstrain\u2019d he nothing tells for naught,\n    Nor is with prayers, or bribes, or flattery bought,\n    Surprise him first, and with strong fetters bind.\u201d--GEORGICS.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE MERMAID.]\n\nOf all the old mythologic existences of Scotland--half earth, half\nair--there was none with whom the people of Cromarty were better\nacquainted than with the mermaid. Thirty years have not yet gone by\nsince she has been seen by moonlight sitting on a stone in the sea,\na little to the east of the town; and scarce a winter passed, forty\nyears earlier, in which she was not heard singing among the rocks,\nor seen braiding up her long yellow tresses on the shore. Like her\ncontemporaries the river-wraiths and fairies--like the nymphs and\ndeities, too, of the Greeks and Romans--she was deemed scarcely less\nmaterial than the favoured individuals of our own species, who, in\nthe grey of the morning or at the close of evening, had marked her\nsitting on some desert promontory, or frolicking amid the waves of some\nsolitary arm of the sea. But it is not so generally known, that though\nin some respects less potent even than men--than at least the very\nstrong and very courageous--she had a power through her connexion with\nthe invisible world over human affairs, and could control and remodel\neven the decrees of destiny. A robust, fearless man might treat her, it\nis said, as Ulysses did Circe, or Diomedes Venus; but then, more potent\nthan these goddesses, she could render all his future undertakings\neither successful or unfortunate, or, if a seafaring man, could either\nbury him in the waves or protect him from their fury. It is said, too,\nthat like the Proteus of classical mythology (and the coincidence,\nif merely such, is at least a curious one), she never exerted this\npower in a good direction except when compelled to it. She avoided in\nthe daytime shores frequented by man, and when disturbed by him in\nher retreats, escaped into her native element; but if he succeeded\nin seizing and overpowering her, she always purchased her release by\ngranting him any three wishes he might form, connected with either\nhis own fortunes or those of his friends. Her strength, however, was\nsuperior to that of most men; and, if victorious in the struggle, she\ncarried the unfortunate assailant with her into the sea.\n\n[Sidenote: THE STORY OF JOHN REID.]\n\nIt is now nearly a hundred and twenty years since honest John Reid, the\nCromarty shipmaster, was positively the most unhappy man in the place.\nHe was shrewd, sensible, calculating, good-humoured, in comparatively\neasy circumstances, and at this time in his thirtieth year. The early\npart of his life had been spent abroad; he had voyaged over the\nwide Pacific, and traded to China and both the Indies; and to such\npurpose--for he was quite the sort of person one would most like to\nhave for one\u2019s grandfather--that in about fourteen years after sailing\nfrom Cromarty a poor ship-boy, he had returned to it with money enough\nto purchase a fine large sloop, with which he engaged in the lucrative\ntrade carrying on at this period between Holland and the northern ports\nof Scotland. His good luck still followed him; nor was he of the class\nwho are ingenious in discovering imaginary misfortunes. What is more,\ntoo, he was of so cool a temperament, that when nature rendered him\ncapable of the softer passion at all, it seemed as if she had done so\nby way of after-thought, and contrary to her original intention. And\nyet, John Reid, with all his cool prudence, and his good humour and\ngood fortune to boot, was one of the unhappiest men in the place--and\nall this because he had been just paying his addresses to one of its\nprettiest girls.\n\nHe had first seen Helen Stuart when indulging in a solitary walk on the\nhill of Cromarty, shortly after his return from the Indies. Helen was\nfully twelve years younger than himself, slightly but elegantly formed,\nwith small regular features, and a complexion in which the purest white\nwas blended with the most exquisite red. Never before had the sailor\nseen a creature half so lovely; he thought of her all the evening\nafter, and dreamed of her all the night. But there was no corresponding\nimpression on the other side; the maiden merely remembered that she had\nmet in the wood with the newly-arrived shipmaster and described him\nto one of her companions as a strongly-built man of barely the middle\nsize, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a set of irregular,\ngood-humoured features, over which a tropical sun had cast its tinge\nof the deepest bronze. Helen was a village heiress, with a good deal\nof the pride of beauty in her composition, and a very little of the\npride of wealth, and, with what was perhaps as unfavourable to the\nnewly-formed passion of Reid as either, a romantic attachment to that\nmost perfect man of the imagination, the _maid\u2019s husband_--a prince in\ndisguise, the Admirable Crichton in a revised edition, or the hero of\nan old ballad.\n\nThis dangerous, though shadowy rival of the true lover, who assumes\nin almost every feminine mind a shape of its own, was in the present\ninstance handsome as Helen herself, with just such a complexion and\nsuch eyes and hair; and, excelling all men in fine clothes, fine\nspeeches, and fine manners, he excelled them in parts, and wealth,\nand courage too. What had the robust, sunburned sailor of thirty to\ncast into the opposite scale? Besides, Helen, though she had often\ndreamed of courtship, had never seriously thought of marriage; and\nso, partly for the sake of her ideal suitor, partly through a girlish\nunwillingness to grapple with the realities of life, the real suitor\nwas rejected. Grave natures, says Bacon, are ever the most constant in\ntheir attachments. Weeks and months passed away, and still there was\nan uneasy void in the mind of the sailor, which neither business nor\namusement could fill--a something which differed from grief, without\naffecting him less painfully. He could think and dream of only Helen\nStuart. Her image followed him into Holland among the phlegmatic\nDutchmen, who never break their hearts for the sake of a mistress, and\nwatched beside him for many a long hour at the helm. He ever saw her as\nhe had first seen her on the hill; there were trees in the background,\nand the warm mellow flush of a setting sun, while in front there\ntripped lightly along a sylph-looking creature, with bright happy eyes,\nand cheeks glowing with crimson.\n\nHe had returned from one of his voyages late in April, and had risen,\nwhen May-day arrived, ere the first peep of daylight, in the hope of\nagain meeting Helen among the woods of the hill. Were he but to see\nher, barely see her, he could be happy, he thought, for months to\ncome; and he knew she would be gathering May-dew this morning, with\nall her companions, on the green slopes of Drieminory. Morning rose\nupon him as he sauntered eastward along the edge of the bay; the stars\nsunk one by one into the blue; and on reaching a piece of rocky beach\nthat stretches along the brow of the hill, the sun rose all red and\nglorious out of the Firth, and flung a broad pathway of flame across\nthe waters to the shore. The rocks, the hill, the little wavelets which\ncame toppling against the beach, were tinged with the orange light of\nmorning; and yet, from the earliness of the hour, and the secluded\ncharacter of the scene, a portion of terror might well have mingled\nwith one\u2019s quieter feelings of admiration when in the vicinity of a\nplace so famous for the wild and the wonderful as the Dropping-Cave.\nBut of the cave more anon. Darkness and solitude are twin sisters, and\nfoster nearly the same emotions; but they failed this morning to awaken\na single fear in the mind of the shipmaster, sailor as he was, and\nacquainted, too, with every story of the cave. He could think of only\nHelen Stuart.\n\nAn insulated pile of rock, roughened with moss and lichens, which\nstands out of the beach like an old ruinous castle, surmounted by\nhanging bartisans and broken turrets, conceals the cave itself, and the\nskerries abreast of it, from the traveller who approaches them from the\nwest. It screened them this morning from the view of the shipmaster,\nas, stepping lightly along the rough stones, full of impossible wishes\nand imaginings, he heard the low notes of a song. He looked round to\nascertain whether a boat might not be passing, or a shepherd seated on\nthe hill; but he could see only a huge overgrown seal that had raised\nits head over the waves, and seemed listening to the music with its\nface towards the east. On turning, however, the edge of the cliff, he\nsaw the musician, apparently a young girl, who seemed bathing among the\ncliffs, and who was now sitting half on the rock, half in the water,\non one of the outer skerries, opposite the cave. Her long yellow hair\nfell in luxuriant profusion on her snowy shoulders, and as she raised\nherself higher on the cliff, the sun shone on the parts below her waist\nwith such dazzling brightness, that the sailor raised his hands to his\neyes, and a shifting speck of light, like the reflection of a mirror,\nwent dancing over the shaded roughnesses of the opposite precipice.\nHer face was turned towards the cave, and the notes of her song seemed\nat times to be answered from it in a chorus, faint and low indeed, but\nwhich could not, he thought, be wholly produced by echo.\n\nReid was too well acquainted with the beliefs of the age not to know\nthat he looked upon the mermaid. And were he less a lover than he\nwas, he would have done nothing more. But, aware of her strange power\nover the destinies of men, he only thought that now or never was his\nopportunity for gaining the hand of Helen. \u201cWould that there were some\nof my lads here to see fair play!\u201d he muttered, as, creeping amid the\ncrags, and availing himself of every brake that afforded the slightest\ncover, he stole towards the shelf on which the creature was seated. She\nturned round in the moment he had gained it; the last note of her song\nlengthened into a shriek; and with an expression of mingled terror and\nsurprise, which clouded a set of the loveliest features, she attempted\nto fling herself into the water; but in the moment of the attempt, the\nbrawny arms of the shipmaster were locked round her waist. Her arms\nclasped his shoulders in turn, and with a strength scarcely inferior\nto that exerted by the snake of India when struggling with the tiger,\nshe strove to drag him to the edge of the rock; but though his iron\nsinews quivered under her grasp like the beams of his vessel when\nstraining beneath a press of canvas, he thought of Helen Stuart, and\nbore her down by main force in the opposite direction. A fainter and\na still fainter struggle ensued, and she then lay passive against the\ncliff. Never had Reid seen aught so beautiful--and he was convinced of\nit, lover as he was--as the half-fish half-woman creature that now lay\nprostrate before him.\n\n\u201cMan, what with me?\u201d she said, in a tone of voice which, though sweet\nas the song of a bird, had something so unnatural in it that it made\nhis blood run cold. \u201cWishes three,\u201d he replied, in the prescribed\nformula of the demonologist, and then proceeded to state them. His\nfather, a sailor like himself, had been drowned many years before;\nand the first wish suggested to him by the circumstance was, that\nneither he himself nor any of his friends should perish by the sea.\nThe second--for he feared lest Helen, so lady-looking a person, and an\nheiress to boot, might yet find herself the wife of a poor man--was,\nthat he should be uninterruptedly fortunate in all his undertakings.\nThe third wish he never communicated to any one except the mermaid,\nand yet no one ever failed to guess it. \u201cQuit, and have,\u201d replied\nthe creature. Reid slackened his hold; and pressing her tail against\nthe rock until it curled to her waist, and raising her hands, the\npalms pressed together, and the edge to her face, she sprang into the\nsea. The spray dashed to the sun; the white shoulders and silvery\ntail gleamed for a moment through the green depths of the water. A\nslight ripple splashed against the beach, and when it subsided, every\ntrace of the mermaid had vanished. Reid wiped his brow, and ascending\nby one of the slopes of the hill towards the well-known resorts of\nhis town\u2019s-women--not the less inclined to hope from the result of\nhis strange contest--he found Helen Stuart seated with one of her\ncompanions, a common acquaintance, on the grassy knoll over the Lover\u2019s\nLeap. The charm, thought he, already begins to work.\n\nHe bowed to Helen, and addressed her companion. \u201cThe man of all the\nworld,\u201d said the latter, \u201cwhom we most wished to see. Helen has been\ntelling me one of the strangest dreams; and it is not half an hour\nyet since we both thought we were going to see it realized; but you\nmust assist us in reading it. She had just fallen asleep last night,\nwhen she found herself on the green slope covered with primroses and\ncuckoo-flowers, that lies, you know, to the west of the Dropping-Cave;\nand there she was employed, she thought, as we have been this morning,\nin gathering May-dew. But the grass and bushes seemed dry and parched,\nand she had gathered only a few drops, when, on hearing some one\nsinging among the rocks beside the cave, she looked that way, and saw\nyou sleeping on the beach, and the singer, a beautiful lady, watching\nbeside you. She turned again to the bushes, but all was dry; and she\nwas quite unhappy that she could get no dew, and unhappy, too, lest the\nstrange lady should suffer you to sleep till you were covered by the\ntide; when suddenly you stood beside her, and began to assist her in\nshaking the bushes. She looked for the lady, and saw her far out among\nthe skerries, floating on the water like a white sea-gull; and as she\nlooked and wondered, she heard a shower of drops which you had shaken\ndown, tinkling against the bottom of the pitcher. And only think of the\nprettiness of the fancy!--the drops were all drops of pure gold, and\nfilled the pitcher to the brim. So far the dream. But this is not all.\nWe both passed the green primrose slope just as the sun was rising,\nand--can you believe it?--we heard from among the rocks the identical\nsong which Helen heard in her dream. It was like nothing else I ever\nlistened to; and now here are you to fill our pitchers with gold, like\nthe genie of a fairy tale.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you have really heard music from among the rocks?\u201d said Reid.\n\u201cWell, but I have more than heard it--I have seen and conversed with\nthe musician; the strange unearthly lady of Helen\u2019s dream. I have\nvisited every quarter of the globe, and sailed over almost every ocean,\nbut never saw the mermaid before.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeen the mermaid!\u201d exclaimed Helen.\n\n\u201cSeen and conversed with the mermaid!\u201d said her companion; \u201cHeaven\nforbid! The last time she appeared at the Dropping-Cave was only a few\ndays before the terrible storm in which you lost your father. Take care\nyou repeat not her words--for they thrive ill who carry tales from the\nother world to this.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I am the creature\u2019s master,\u201d said the sailor, \u201cand need not be so\nwary.\u201d\n\nHe told his story; how he had first seen the mysterious creature\nsitting in the sea, and breathing exquisite music, as she combed down\nher long yellow tresses; how he had stolen warily among the crags,\nwith a heart palpitating betwixt dread and eagerness; and how, after\nso fearful a struggle, she had lain passive against the cliff. Helen\nlistened with feelings of wonder and admiration, dashed with terror;\nand in returning home, though the morning was far advanced, and the\nDropping-Cave a great way below, she leaned for support and protection\non the arm of the sailor--a freedom which no one would have remarked as\nover great at May-day next year, for the sailor had ere then become\nher husband. For nearly a century after, the family was a rising\none; but it is now extinct. Helen, for the last seventy years, has\nbeen sleeping under a slab of blue marble within the broken walls of\nthe Chapel of St. Regulus; her only daughter, the wife of Sir George\nMackenzie of Cromarty, lies in one of the burying-grounds of Inverness,\nwith a shield of I know not how many quarterings over her grave; and\nit is not yet twenty years since her grandson, the last of the family,\ndied in London, bequeathing to one of his Cromarty relatives several\nsmall pieces of property, and a legacy of many thousand pounds.\n\n[Sidenote: THE POT.]\n\nThere is on the northern side of the Firth of Cromarty, a shallow arm\nof the sea several miles in length, which dries during stream tides\nthroughout almost its entire extent, and bears the name of the sands\nof Nigg. Like the sands of the Solway, it has been a frequent scene of\naccidents. Skirting a populous tract of country on both sides, it lies\nmuch in the way of travelers; and the fords, which shift during land\nfloods and high winds, are often attempted at night, and occasionally\nat improper times of the tide. A narrow river-like channel in the\nmiddle, fed by the streams which discharge themselves into the estuary\nfrom the interior, and which never wholly dries, bears the name of\n\u201cThe Pot,\u201d and was infamous during even the present century for its\ndeath-lights and its wraiths, and for the strange mysterious noises\nwhich used to come sounding from its depths to either shore previous\nto \u201ca drowning.\u201d Little more than half a century ago, a farmer of the\ndistrict who had turned aside to see an acquaintance, an old man who\nlived on the northern shore of the sands of Nigg, found him leaning\nover the fence of his little garden, apparently so lost in thought\nthat he seemed unconscious of his presence. \u201cWhat ails you, Donald?\u201d\ninquired the visitor. \u201cThere will be a drowning to-day in the Pot,\u201d\nreplied Donald. \u201cA drowning in the Pot!--what makes you say so?\u201d \u201cDo\nyou hear nothing?\u201d \u201cNo\u2019o--and yet I rather think I do;--there are faint\nsounds as of a continual knocking--are there not?--so very faint, that\nthey seem rather within the ear, than without; and yet they surely come\nfrom the Pot;--knock, knock, knock--what can it mean?\u201d \u201cThat knocking,\u201d\nsaid the old man, \u201chas been sounding in my ears all this morning. I\nhave never known a life lost on the sands but that knocking has gone\nbefore.\u201d As he spoke, a horseman was seen riding furiously along the\nroad which skirts the opposite shore of the estuary. On reaching the\nusual ford, though the rise of the tide had rendered it impracticable\nfor more than an hour before, he spurred his horse across the beach\nand entered the water. \u201cSurely,\u201d said the old man to his friend, \u201cthat\nmadman is not taking the ford, and the sea nearly at full?\u201d \u201cAy, but\nhe is though,\u201d said the other; \u201cif the distance does not deceive me,\nit is Macculloch the corn-agent, in hot haste for the Tain market. See\nhow he spurs through the shallows; and see, he has now reached the Pot,\nand the water deepens--he goes deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Merciful\nheavens! he is gone!\u201d Horse and rider had sunk into one of the hollows.\nThe horse rose to the surface a moment after, and swam to the shore;\nbut the rider had disappeared for ever. A story of nearly the same part\nof the country connects the mysterious knocking with the mermaid.\n\n[Sidenote: MACCULLOCH THE CORN-AGENT.]\n\nIn the immediate neighbourhood of the Old Abbey of Fearn, famous for\nits abbot, Patrick Hamilton, our first Protestant martyr, there stood,\nrather more than ninety years ago, a little turf cottage, inhabited by\na widow, whose husband, a farmer of the parish, had died suddenly in\nthe fields about ten years before. The poor woman had been within doors\nwith her only child, a little girl of seven years of age, at the time;\nand when, without previous preparation, she had opened the door on a\nhurried summons, and seen the corpse of her husband on the threshold,\nher mind was totally unhinged by the shock. For the ten following years\nshe went wandering about like a ghost, scarce conscious apparently of\nanything; no one ever heard her speak, or saw her listen; and save\nthat she retained a few of the mechanical neatnesses of her earlier\nyears--which, standing out alone on a groundwork of vacuity, seemed\nakin to the instincts of the inferior animals--her life appeared to be\nnearly as much a blank as that of the large elm-tree which stretched\nits branches over her cottage. Her husband\u2019s farm, shortly after his\ndeath, had been put into the hands of a relation of the family, a\nnarrow sordid man who had made no generous use, it was thought, of\nthe power which the imbecility of the poor woman and the youth of her\ndaughter gave him over their affairs; it was at least certain that he\nbecame comparatively wealthy, and they very poor; and in the autumn of\n1742, the daughter, now a pretty girl of seventeen, had to leave her\nmother on the care of a neighbour, and to engage as a reaper with a\nfarmer in the neighbouring parish of Tarbat. She had gone with a heavy\nheart to work for the first time among strangers, but her youth and\nbeauty, added to a quiet timidity of manner, that showed how conscious\nshe was of having no one to protect her, had made her friends; and now\nthat harvest was over, she was returning home, proud of her slender\nearnings, and full of hope and happiness. It was early on a Sabbath\nmorning, and her path winded along the southern bank of Loch-Slin,\nwhere the parish of Tarbat borders on that of Fearn.\n\n[Sidenote: THE WASHING OF THE MERMAID.]\n\nLoch-Slin is a dark sluggish sheet of water, bordered on every side\nby thick tangled hedges of reeds and rushes; nor has the surrounding\nscenery much to recommend it. It is comparatively tame--tamer perhaps\nfor the last thirty years than at any former period; for the plough\nhas been busy among its green undulating slopes, and many of its\nmore picturesque thickets of alders and willows have disappeared. It\npossesses, however, its few points of interest; and its appearance\nat this time in the quiet of the Sabbath morning, was one of extreme\nseclusion. The tall old castle of Loch-Slin, broken and weather-worn,\nand pregnant with associations of the remote past, stood up over it\nlike some necromancer beside his mirror; and the maiden, as she tripped\nhomewards along the little blind pathway that went winding along the\nquiet shore--now in a hollow, anon on a height--could see the red image\nof the ruins heightened by the flush of the newly-risen sun, reflected\non the calm surface that still lay dark and grey under the shadow of\nthe eastern bank. All was still as death, when her ear suddenly caught\na low indistinct sound as of a continuous knocking, which heightened\nas she went, until it was at length echoed back from the old walls;\nand which, had she heard it on a week morning, she would have at once\nset down as that of the knocking of clothes at a washing. But who,\nshe thought, can be \u201cknocking claes\u201d on the Sabbath? She turned a\nprojecting angle of the bank, and saw, not ten yards away, what seemed\nto be a tall female standing in the water immediately beyond the line\nof flags and rushes which fringed the shore, and engaged apparently in\nknocking clothes on a stone, with the sort of bludgeon still used in\nthe north country for the purpose. The maiden hurried past, convinced\nthat the creature before her could be none other than the mermaid of\nLoch-Slin; but in the midst of her terror she was possessed enough\nto remark that the beautiful goblin seemed to ply its work with a\nmalignant pleasure, and that on a grass plot directly opposite where it\nstood, there were spread out as if to dry, more than thirty smocks and\nshirts, all horribly dabbled with blood. As the poor girl entered her\nmother\u2019s cottage, the excitement that had borne her up in her flight\nsuddenly failed, and she sunk insensible upon the floor. For a moment\nthe mother seemed roused by the circumstance, but as her daughter\nrecovered, she again relapsed into her accustomed apathy.\n\nThe spirits of the maiden were much flurried, and there was one to\nwhom she would have fain communicated her strange story, and sought\nrelief in his society from the terror that made her heart still\npalpitate against her side. But her young cousin (the son of her\nunkind relation, the farmer), with whom she had so often herded on\nthe same knoll, and wrought on the same harvest-furrow, had set out\nfor a neighbouring farm, on his way to church, and so there was no\nprobability of her seeing him before evening. She sickened at the gloom\nof her mother\u2019s cottage, where the scowling features of the mermaid\nseemed imprinted on every darker recess; and, taking her mother by the\nhand, she walked out with her to the fields. It was now about an hour\nafter noon, and the sun in his strength was looking down in the calm\non the bare stubbly campaign, and the old abbey in the midst, with\nits steep roof of lichened stone, and its rows of massy buttresses.\nThe maiden could hear the higher notes of the congregational psalm as\nthey came floating along the slope from the building, when--fearful\ncatastrophe!--sudden as the explosion of a powder magazine, or the\nshock of an earthquake, there was a tremendous crash heard, accompanied\nby a terrific cry; a dense cloud of dust enveloped the ancient abbey,\nand when it cleared away, it was seen that the ponderous stone roof\nof the building had sunk in. \u201cO wretched day!\u201d exclaimed the widow,\nmysteriously restored by the violence of one shock to that full command\nof her faculties which she had lost by another, and starting at once\nfrom the deathlike apathy of years, \u201cO wretched day! the church has\nfallen, and the whole congregation are buried in the ruins. Fearful\ncalamity!--a parish destroyed at a blow. Dear, dear child, let us haste\nand see whether something cannot be done--whether some may not be\nleft.\u201d The maiden followed her mother to the scene of the accident in\ndistraction and terror.\n\nAs they approached the churchyard gate they met two young women covered\nwith blood, who were running shrieking along the road, and shortly\nafter an elderly man so much injured, that he was creeping for support\nalong the wall. \u201cGo on,\u201d he said to the widow, who had stopped to\nassist him; \u201cI have gotten my life as a ransom, but there are hundreds\nperishing yonder.\u201d They entered the churchyard; two-thirds of the\nroof had fallen, and nearly half the people were buried in the ruins;\nand they could see through the shattered windows men all covered with\nblood and dust, yelling, like maniacs, and tearing up the stones\nand slates that were heaped over their wives and children. As the\nsufferers were carried out one by one, and laid on the flat tombstones\nof the churchyard, the widow, so strangely restored to the energies\nof her better years, busied herself in stanching their wounds, or\nrestoring them to animation; and her daughter, gathering heart, strove\nto assist her. A young man came staggering from among the ruins, his\nface suffused with blood, and bearing a dead body on his shoulders,\nwhen, laying down his charge beside them, he sunk over it in a swoon.\nIt was the young cousin of the maiden, and the mutilated corpse which\nhe carried was that of his father. She sobbed over him in an agony\nof grief and terror; but the exertions of the widow, who wonderfully\nretained her self-possession, soon recovered him to consciousness,\nthough in so weak a state from exhaustion and loss of blood, that some\ntime elapsed ere he was able to quit the burying-ground, leaning on\nthe arm of his cousin. Thirty-six persons were killed on the spot, and\nmany more were so dreadfully injured that they never recovered. The\ntombstones were spread over with dead bodies, some of them so fearfully\ngashed and mangled that they could scarce be recognised, and the paths\nthat wended throughout the churchyard literally ran with blood. It\nwas not until the maiden had reached her mother\u2019s cottage, and the\nheart-rending clamour had begun to fall more faintly on the ear, that\nshe thought of the mysterious washing of Loch-Slin, with its bloody\nshirts, and felt that she could understand it.\n\nThere were lights that evening in many a cottage, and mourners beside\nmany a bed. The widow and her daughter watched beside the bed of their\nyoung relative, and though the struggle for life was protracted and\ndoubtful, the strength of his constitution at length prevailed, and\nhe rose, pale and thin, and taller than before, with a scar across\nhis left temple. But ere the first spring had passed, with its balmy\nmornings and clear sunshine days, he had recovered his former bloom,\nand more than his former strength. The widow retained the powers so\nwonderfully restored to her; for the dislocation of faculty effected by\none shock had been completely reset by another, and the whole intellect\nrefitted. She had, however, her season of grief to pass through, as if\nher husband had died only a few days before; and when the relations of\nthe lately perished came to weep over the newly-formed graves that rose\nso thickly in the burying-place, and around which the grass and hemlock\nstalks still bore the stain of blood, the widow might be seen seated by\na grave covered with moss and daisies, and sunk so low that it was with\ndifficulty its place could be traced on the sward. Of the ten previous\nyears she retained only a few doubtful recollections, resembling those\nof a single night spent in broken and feverish dreams. At length,\nhowever, her grief subsided; and though there were louder and gayer\nguests at the bridal of her daughter and her young cousin, which took\nplace about two years after the washing of the mermaid, there were none\nmore sincerely happy on that occasion than the widow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n    \u201cThey said they were an hungry; sigh\u2019d forth proverbs--\n    That hunger broke stone walls; that dogs must eat;\n    That meat was made for mouths; that the gods sent not\n    Corn for the rich men only:--With these shreds\n    They vented their complainings.\u201d--CORIOLANUS.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE BAD YEAR.]\n\nThe autumn and winter of the year 1740 were, like the black years\nwhich succeeded the Revolution, long remembered all over Scotland, and\nmore especially to the north of the Grampians. One evening late in the\nsummer of this year, crops of rich promise were waving on every field,\nand the farmer anticipated an early harvest; next morning, a chill\ndense fog had settled on the whole country, and when it cleared up, the\nhalf-filled ears drooped on their stalks, and the long-pointed leaves\nslanted towards the soil, as if scathed by fire. The sun looked out\nwith accustomed heat and brilliancy, and a light breeze from the south\nrolled away every lingering wreath of vapour; there succeeded pleasant\ndays and mild evenings: but the hope of the season was blasted; the sun\nonly bleached and shrivelled the produce of the fields, and the breeze\nrustled through unproductive straw. Harvest came on, but it brought\nwith it little of the labour and none of the joy of other harvests.\nThe husbandman, instead of carousing with his reapers, brooded in the\nrecesses of his cottage over the ruin which awaited him; and the poor\ncraftsman, though he had already secured his ordinary store of fish,\nlaunched his boat a second time to provide against the impending famine.\n\nTowards the close of autumn not an ounce of meal was to be had in\nthe market; and the housewives of Cromarty began to discover that the\nappetites of their children had become appallingly voracious. The\npoor things could not be made to understand why they were getting so\nmuch less to eat than usual, and the monotonous cry of \u201cBread, mammy,\nbread!\u201d was to be heard in every house. Groups of the inhabitants\nmight be seen on the beach below the town watching the receding tide,\nin the expectation of picking up a few shell-fish; and the shelves\nand ledges of the hill were well-nigh stripped by them of their dulce\nand tangle: but with all their industry they throve but ill. Their\neyes receded, and their cheekbones stuck out; they became sallow, and\nlank of jaw, and melancholy; and their talk was all about the price\nof corn, bad times, and a failing trade. Poor people! it was well for\nboth themselves and the Government, that politics had not yet come into\nfashion; for had they lived and been subjected to such misery eighty\nyears later, they would have become Radicals to a man: they would have\nset themselves to reform the State; and, as they were very hungry, no\nmoderate reform would have served.\n\nThe winter was neither severe nor protracted, but to the people of\nCromarty it was a season of much suffering; and with the first month of\nspring there came down upon them whole shoals of beggars from the upper\npart of the country, to implore the assistance which they were, alas!\nunable to render them, and to share with them in the spoils of the sea.\nThe unfortunate paupers, mostly elderly men and women, were so modest\nand unobtrusive, so unlike common beggars in their costume, which in\nmost instances was entire and neat, and so much more miserable in\naspect, for they were wasted by famine, that the hearts of the people\nof the town bled for them. It is recorded of a farmer of the parish,\nwhose crops did not suffer quite so much as those of his neighbours,\nthat he prepared every morning a pot of gruel, and dealt it out by\nmeasure to the famishing strangers--giving to each the full of a small\nladle. There was a widow gentlewoman, too, of the town, who imparted\nto them much of her little, and yet, like the widow of Zarephath,\nfound enough in what remained. On a morning of this spring, she saw a\nthin volume of smoke rising from beside the wall of a corn-yard, which\nlong before had been emptied of its last stack; and approaching it,\nshe found that it proceeded from a little fire, surrounded by four old\nwomen, who were anxiously watching a small pot suspended over the fire\nby a pin fixed in the wall. Curiosity induced her to raise the lid; and\nas she stretched out her hand the women looked up imploringly in her\nface. The little pot she found about half filled with fish entrails,\nwhich had been picked up on dunghills and the shore; her heart smote\nher, and hastening home for a cake of bread, she divided it among the\nwomen. And never till her dying day did she forget the look which they\ngave her when, breaking the cake, she doled out a portion to each.\n\nTowards the end of the month of February, when the sufferings of\nthe people seemed almost to have reached their acme, a Mr. Gordon,\none of the most considerable merchants of the town, set out to the\ncountry, armed with a warrant from the Sheriff, and backed by a small\nparty in quest of meal. The old laws of the sheriffdom, though still\nunrepealed, were well-nigh exploded, but what was lacking in authority\nwas made up by force; and so, when Mr. Gordon entered their houses to\nransack the girnals and meal-chests, there were many attempts made at\nconcealment, but none at open resistance. The magistrate found one\ningenious gudewife buried in a mountainous heap of bedclothes; the\ngudeman, it was said, had gone for the _howdie_; but one of the party\nmistrusting the story, raised the edge of a blanket, and lo! two sacks\nwere discovered lying quietly by her side. She was known ever after by\nthe name of \u201cthe pocks\u2019 mither.\u201d The meal procured by the party was\ncarefully portioned out, a quantity deemed sufficient for the farmer\nand his household being left with him, and the remainder, which was\npaid for by Mr. Gordon, was carried to town, and sold out to the people\nin pounds and half-pounds.\n\nIn the midst of the general distress, a small sloop from the village\nof Gourac entered the Firth, to take in a lading of meal, which, by\ndint of grievous pinching and hoarding, had been scraped together by\nsome of the farmers of Easter Ross. The vessel was the property of a\nMr. Matthew Simpson, who acted as skipper and supercargo; and she lay\non the sands of Nigg, the creek or inlet to which, in the foregoing\nchapter, I have had occasion to refer. Twice every twenty-four hours\nwas she stranded on the bottom of the inlet, and the wicker carts,\nladen with sacks, could be seen from the shore of Cromarty driving\nup to her side;--it was evident, too, that she floated heavier every\ntide; and many were the execrations vented by the half-starved\ntown\u2019s-people against Simpson and the farmers. Plans innumerable were\nformed among them for seizing on the vessel and disposing of her cargo;\nbut their schemes fell to the ground, for there was none of them bold\nor skilful enough to take the lead in such an enterprise; and, in all\nsuch emergencies, a party without a leader is a body without a soul.\nMeanwhile the sloop left the creek deeply laden, and threw out her\nanchors opposite the town, where she lay waiting a fair wind.\n\nTowards the evening of the 9th of April 1741, a shopkeeper of Cromarty\nwas half sitting, half reclining, on his counter, humming a tune,\nand beating time with his ellwand on the point of his shoe. He was a\nspruce, dapper, little personage, of great flexibility of countenance,\nfull of trick and intrigue, and much noted among his simple town\u2019s-folk\nfor a lawyer-like ingenuity. He was, withal, a man of considerable\ncourage when contemplating a distant danger, but somewhat of a coward\nwhen it came near. His various correspondents addressed him by the name\nof Mr. Alexander Ross--the town\u2019s-people called him Silken Sawney.\nOn an opposite angle of the counter sat Donald Sandison, a tall,\nrobust, red-haired man, who wrought in wood, but whose shop, from\nthe miserable depression of trade, had been shut up for the last two\nmonths. He had resided at Edinburgh about five years before; and when\nthere, with another man at Cromarty named Bain, had the satisfaction of\nescorting the notorious Porteous from the Tolbooth to the Grassmarket;\nand had been much edified, for he was in at the death, by the earnest\nremonstrances and dying ejaculations of that worthy. A few days\nafterwards, however, he found his services to the commonwealth on this\noccasion so ill appreciated, that he deemed it prudent to quit the\nmetropolis for the place of his nativity. No one had ever heard him\nboast of the exploit; but Bain, who was a tailor, was not so prudent,\nand so the story came out.\n\n[Sidenote: SANDISON\u2019S SPULZIE.]\n\n\u201cWeel, Sandison, what are we gaun to do wi\u2019 the meal ship?\u201d said the\nshopkeeper, laying down his ellwand, and sitting up erect.\n\n\u201cDo wi\u2019 the ship?\u201d replied the mechanic, scratching his head with a\nhalf-perplexed, half-humorous expression; \u201cman, I dinna weel ken. It\u2019s\nbad enough to see a\u2019 yon meal going down the Firth, an\u2019 folk at hame\ndying o\u2019 hunger!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Sandison,\u201d rejoined the wily shopkeeper, \u201cif it does a\u2019 go down\nthe Firth, I\u2019m just thinking it will be nobodie\u2019s wyte but your ain.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow that, man?\u201d rejoined Sandison.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you how that, an\u2019 in your ain words too. Whig as ye are, ye\nsay that all men are no born alike. Some come intil the world to do\njust what they\u2019re bid, an\u2019 go just where they\u2019re bid, and say just what\nthey hear their neebours saying; while ithers, again, come into it to\nthink baith for themsels an\u2019 the folk round them.--Is that no your own\nsentiment?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, an\u2019 is it no true?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, an\u2019 I\u2019ll gie you a proof o\u2019t. What takes the town\u2019s-folk to your\nshop when any thrawart matter comes in their way that they canna redd\nup o\u2019 themselves? And why do they ask your advice before entering\ninto a law-plea? or whether they should try the fishing? or whether\nthe strange minister gied a gude discoorse; you\u2019re no a lawyer, nor a\nboatman, nor a divine. Why do they call for you to lay a tulzie when\nyou\u2019re no a magistrate? and why do folk that quarrel wi\u2019 everybody\nelse, take care an\u2019 no quarrel wi\u2019 you? Just because they ken that you\nwere born wi\u2019 a bigger mind an\u2019 a bolder heart than themsels--born a\ngentleman, as it were, in spite o\u2019 your hamely birth an\u2019 your serge\ncoat; an\u2019 now that the puir folk are starving, an\u2019 a shipful o\u2019 meal\ngoing down the Firth, you slink awa from your proper natural office o\u2019\nleader, an\u2019 just let them starve on.\u201d\n\n\u201cSawney,\u201d said the mechanic, \u201cye have such a natural turn for flattery,\nthat ye fleech without hope o\u2019 fee or bountith. But even allowing that\nI am a clever enough chiel to make an onslaught on the shipman\u2019s meal\n(a man wi\u2019 mair wit, I\u2019m fear\u2019d, would be hungrier than ony o\u2019 us afore\nhe would think o\u2019t), I may hesitate a wee in going first in the ploy.\nI have a wife an\u2019 twa bairnies. Were there naething to fear but the\nstroke o\u2019 a cutlass, or the flash o\u2019 a musket, I widna muckle hesitate,\nmaybe; but the law\u2019s a rather bad thing in these quiet times; an\u2019 I\ndaresay \u2019twould be better to want cravat an\u2019 nightcap a\u2019 thegither than\nto hae the ane o\u2019 brown hemp an\u2019 the ither o\u2019 white cotton.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoot, man, ye\u2019re thinking o\u2019 Jock Porteous--we can surely get the meal\nwithout hanging onybodie. Hunger breaks through stone walls, an\u2019 our\napology will be written on the verra face o\u2019 the affair. Besides, we\u2019re\nno going to steal the meal; we\u2019re only going to sell it out on behalf\no\u2019 the inhabitants, as Mr. Gordon did the meal o\u2019 the parish. An\u2019 as\nfor risk--gang ye first, and here\u2019s my hand I\u2019ll go second:--if I had\nonly your brow, I would willingly go first mysel.\u201d\n\nBut why record the whole dialogue? Sandison, though characteristically\nwary, was, in reality, little averse from the scheme: he entered into\nit; and, after fully digesting it with the wily shopkeeper, set out to\nimpart it to some of the bolder townsmen. \u201cNow haud ye in readiness,\u201d\nsaid he to the man of silk as he quitted his shop; \u201cI shall call ye up\nat midnight.\u201d\n\nThe hour of midnight arrived, and a party of about thirty men, their\nfaces blackened, and their persons enveloped, some in women\u2019s cloaks,\nsome in their own proper vestments turned inside out, marched down\nthe lane which, passing the shopkeeper\u2019s door, led to the beach. They\nwere headed by a tall active-looking man, wrapped up in a seaman\u2019s\ngreatcoat. No one, in the uncertain gloom of midnight, could have\nidentified his sooty features with those of the peaceable mechanic\nSandison; but there was light enough to show the but-ends of two\npistols stuck in the leathern belt which clasped his middle, and that\nthere hung by his side an enormous basket-hilted broadsword. Stopping\nshort at the domicile of the shopkeeper, he tapped gently against a\nwindow;--no one made answer. He tapped again. \u201cWha\u2019s there?\u201d exclaimed\na shrill female voice from within. \u201cSawney, man, Sawney, wauken\nup!\u201d--\u201cOh, Sawney\u2019s frae hame!\u201d rejoined the voice; \u201cthere came an\nexpress for him ance errand, just i\u2019 the gloamin\u2019, an\u2019 he\u2019s awa to\nthe sheriffdom to see his sick mither.\u201d--\u201cDaidlin\u2019 deceitfu\u2019 body!\u201d\nexclaimed Sandison; \u201cwha could hae reckoned on this! But it were shame,\nlads, to turn back now that we hae gane sae far; an\u2019 besides, if ill\ncomes o\u2019 the venture, he canna escape. An\u2019 now, shaw yoursels to be\nmen, an\u2019 keep as free frae fear or anger as if ye were in the parish\nkirk. Launch down the yawls ane by ane, and dinna let their keels\nskreigh alang the stanes; an\u2019 be sure an\u2019 put in the spile plugs,\nthat we mayna swamp by the way. Let ilk rower muffle his oar wi\u2019 his\nneckcloth, just i\u2019 the clamp; an\u2019, for gudesake, skaith nane o\u2019 the\ncrew. Willie, dinna forget the nails an\u2019 the hammer; Bernard, man,\nbring up the rear.\u201d The cool resolution of the leader seemed imparted\nto his followers; and, in a few minutes after, they were portioned into\nthree boats, which, with celerity and in silence, glided towards the\nmeal sloop.\n\nThe first was piloted by Sandison. It contained nearly two-thirds of\nthe whole party; and when the other two boats prepared to moor close\nto the vessel, one on each side, and their crews, as they had been\ninstructed, remained at their respective posts, Sandison steered under\nthe stern, and laying hold of the taffrail, leaped aboard. He was\nfollowed by about twelve of his companions, and the boat then dropped\nalongside. Every man\u0153uvre had been planned with the utmost deliberation\nand care. One of Sandison\u2019s apprentices nailed down the forecastle\nhatchway, and thus imprisoned the crew; the others opened the hold,\nunslung the tackling on each side, and immediately commenced lowering\nthe meal-sacks into their boats; while Sandison himself, accompanied\nby a neighbour, groped his way down the cabin stairs to secure the\nmaster. Simpson, a large powerful man, had got out of bed, alarmed by\nthe trampling on deck, and, with no other covering than his shirt, was\ncautiously climbing the stairs, when, coming in sudden contact with the\ndescending mechanic, he lost footing, and rolled down the steps he had\nascended, drawing the other along with him. \u201cMurder, murder, thieves!\u201d\nhe roared out; and a desperate struggle ensued on the floor of the\ncabin. The place was pitch dark, and when the other Cromarty man rushed\ninto the fray, he received, all unwittingly, from his Herculean leader,\nwho had half wrested himself out of the grasp of Simpson, a blow that\nsent him reeling against the vessel\u2019s side. Again the combatants closed\nin an iron grapple, and rolled over the floor. But the mechanic proved\nthe more powerful; he rose over his antagonist, and then flinging\nhimself upon him, the basket-hilt of the broadsword dashed full against\nhis breast. \u201cOh, oh, oh!\u201d he exclaimed; \u201cmercy, hae mercy--onything\nbut the sweet life;\u201d and coiling himself up like a huge snake, he lay\npassive under the grasp of the mechanic, who, kneeling by his side,\ndrew a pistol, which he had taken the precaution to load with powder\nonly, and discharged it right above his face; disclosing to him for a\nmoment the blackened features that frowned over him, and a whole group\nof dingy faces that now thronged the cabin stairs. Meanwhile the work\nproceeded; the sloop gradually lightened as the boats became heavier,\nand at length a signal from the deck informed Sandison that the object\nof the expedition was accomplished. Before liberating Simpson, however,\nthe Cromarty men forced him upon his knees, and extorted an oath from\nhim that he should not again return to the north of Scotland for meal.\n\n[Sidenote: THE MEAL MOB.]\n\nBefore morning, about sixty large sacks, the lading of the three\nboats, were lodged in a cellar, possessed, says my authority, by Mr.\nJames Rabson, a meal and corn merchant of Cromarty; but James, though\nfully authorized by all his neighbours to dole out the contents to the\ninhabitants, and account to Simpson for the money, prudently lodged\nhis key under the door, and set out for the country on some pretext\nof business. In the meanwhile Simpson applied to the Sheriff of the\ncounty, a warrant was granted him, the meal was seized in behalf of\nthe proper owner; and the pacific Mr. Donald Sandison was appointed,\non the recommendation of the Sheriff, to stand sentry over it. On the\nfollowing day, a posse of law-officers from the ancient burgh of Tain,\nthe farmers and farm-servants of Easter-Ross, and Simpson and the\nsailors, were to come, it was said, to transport his charge from the\ncellar to the vessel. Sandison, with a half-ludicrous, half-melancholy\nexpression of face, took up his station before the door; and enveloped\nin his greatcoat, but encumbered with neither pistols nor broadsword,\nhe stalked up and down before it until morning.\n\nAbout two hours after sunrise, four large boats, crowded with\npeople, were seen approaching the town, and, in a few minutes after,\nseven-eighths of the whole inhabitants, men, women, and children, armed\nwith stones and bludgeons, were drawn out on the beach to oppose their\nlanding. Such an assemblage! _There_ were the parish schoolboys, active\nlittle fellows, that could hit to a hair\u2019s-breadth; and _there_ the\ntown apprentices of all denominations, stripped of their jackets, and\nwith their aprons puffed out before them with well-selected pebbles.\n_There_, too, were the women of the place, ranged tier beyond tier,\nfrom the water\u2019s edge to the houses behind, and of all ages and\naspects, from the girl that had not yet left school, to the crone\nthat had hobbled from her cottage assisted by her crutch. The lanes\nwere occupied by full-grown men, who, armed with bludgeons, reserved\nthemselves for the final charge, and now crouched behind their wives\nand sisters to avoid being seen from the boats. A few young lads,\nchoice spirits of the place, had climbed up to the ridges of the low\ncottages, which at that time presented, in this part of the town, a\nline parallel to the beach. Some of them were armed with pistols, some\nwith satchels full of stones; and farther up the lanes there was a\nsecond party of women, who meditated an attack on Rabson\u2019s cellar. Dire\nwas the combination of sound. The boys shouted, the girls shrieked,\nthe apprentices, tapping their fingers against their throats, bleated\nlike sheep in mockery of the farmers, the women yelled out their\ndefiance in one continuous howl, interrupted occasionally by the\nhoarse exclamations and loud huzzas of the men. The boats advanced by\ninches. After every few strokes, the rowers would pause over their\noars, and wrench themselves half round to reconnoitre the myriads of\nwaving arms and threatening faces which thronged the beach. As they\ncreeped onwards, a few stones flung from slings by some of the boys\nwent whizzing over their heads, \u201cNow pull hard, and at once!\u201d shouted\nout Simpson; \u201cwe have to deal with but women and children, and shall\ndisperse them before they have fired half a broadside.\u201d The rowers\nbent them to their oars, the boats started shorewards like arrows from\nthe string, there arose a shout from the assembled multitude, which\nthe distant hills echoed back to them in low thunder, and a shower of\nstones from the boys, the apprentices, the women, the men--from the\nshore, the lanes, the cottage roofs, the chimney tops, came hailing\ndown upon them thick and ceaseless, rattling, pattering, crashing,\nlike the _d\u00e9bris_ of a mountain rolled over its precipices by an\nearthquake. The water was beaten into foam as if lashed by a hurricane.\nEvery individual of the four crews disappeared in an instant; the oars\nswung loose on the gunwales, or slipped overboard. At length, however,\nthe boats, propelled partly by the wind, partly by the force of the\nmissiles, drifted from the shore; and melancholy was the appearance\nof the people within, when, after the stones began to fall short,\nthey gathered themselves up, and looked cautiously over the sides.\nThere were broken and contused heads among them beyond all reach of\nreckoning; and one poor man of Easter-Ross, who had been marked out\nby a young fellow named Junor, the best slinger in town, had carried\ntwo good eyes with him into the conflict, and only one out of it. They\nrowed slowly to the other side, and the victors could see them, until\nthey landed, unfolding neckcloths and handkerchiefs, and binding up\nheads and limbs.\n\nThe attack on the boats had no sooner commenced, than the female party,\nwho had been stationed in the lanes, proceeded to Rabson\u2019s cellar. \u201cWe\nmaun hae meal!\u201d said the women to Sandison, who was lounging before\nthe door with his arms folded in his greatcoat, and a little black\ntobacco-pipe in his mouth. \u201cPuff,\u201d replied the mechanic, shooting a\nhuge burst of smoke into the face of the fairest of the speakers. \u201cWe\nmaun hae meal!\u201d reiterated the women. \u201cPuff--weel neebours--puff--I\nmauna betray trust, ye ken--puff; an\u2019 what else am I stationed here\nfor, but just to keep the meal frae you?--puff, puff.\u201d \u201cBut we maun\nhae\u2019t, an\u2019 we will hae\u2019t, an\u2019 we sall hae\u2019t, whether you will or no!\u201d\nshrieked out a virago armed with a huge axe, which the mechanic at once\nrecognised as his own, and who dealt, as she spoke, a tremendous blow\non the door. \u201cGudesake, Jess!\u201d said the mechanic, losing in his fear\nfor his favourite tool somewhat of his self-possession; \u201cGudesake,\nJess, keep the edge frae the nails!\u201d Stepping back a few paces, he\nleisurely knocked out the ashes of his pipe against his thumb-nail; and\nwith the remark, that \u201cstrong han\u2019 (force) was a masterfu\u2019 argument;\nand that one puir working man, who hadna got his night\u2019s rest, was no\nmatch for a score o\u2019 idle queans,\u201d he relinquished his post, and took\nsanctuary in his own dwelling. In less than half an hour after, the\nwhole contents of the cellar had disappeared. There was a hale old\nwoman, a pauper of the place, who did not claim her customary goupens\nfor two whole years thereafter; and a shoemaker named Millar was not\nseen purchasing an ounce of meal for a much longer time.\n\nNinety years after the year of the meal mob, and when every one who\nhad either shared in it or remembered it were sleeping in their\ngraves, I was amusing myself, one wet day, in turning over some old\npapers stored up in the drawers of a moth-eaten scrutoire, which had\nonce belonged to Donald Sandison, when a small parcel of manuscripts,\nwrapped up with a piece of tape, which had once been red, attracted\nmy notice. The first manuscript I drew out bore date 1742, and was\nentitled, \u201cRepresentation, Condescendence, and Interlocutors, in the\nprocess of Matthew Simpson against the Cromarty men.\u201d It contained\na grievous complaint made by the town\u2019s-folk to the Right Hon. Lord\nBalmerino. \u201cSimpson was a person of a rancorous and very litigious\nspirit,\u201d urged the paper; \u201cand it was surely not a little unreasonable\nin him to expect, as he did in the suit, that the people of a whole\ncountry-side, indubitably innocent of every act of violence alleged\nagainst them, should be compelled to undertake a weary pilgrimage to\nEdinburgh to answer to his charges, when, from the circumstances of\nthe case, anything they could have to depone anent the spulzie, would\nyield exactly the same result, whether deponed at Edinburgh, Cromarty,\nor Japan.\u201d It went on to show that the people were miserably depressed\nby poverty; and that, if compelled to set out on such a journey, they\nwould have to beg by the way; while their wives and children would be\nreduced to starvation at home, without even the resource of begging\nitself, seeing that all their neighbours were as wretchedly poor as\nthemselves. Next in order in the parcel followed the statements of\nMr. Matthew Simpson, addressed also to his Lordship. He had been\nrobbed, he affirmed, by the men of the north three several times;\ntwice by the people, and once by the lawyers; and having lost in this\nway a great deal of money, he could not well afford to lose more.\nIt was stated, further, by the master, that Edinburgh could not be\nfarther from Cromarty than Cromarty from Edinburgh; and that it was\nquite as reasonable, and fully as safe for the weaker party, that the\nconspirators should have to defend themselves in the metropolis, as\nthat he, the prosecutor, should have to assail them in the village.\nBoth manuscripts seemed redolent of that old school of Scotch law in\nwhich joke was so frequently called in to the assistance of argument,\nand dry technicalities relieved by dry humour. A third paper of the\nparcel bore date 1750, and was entitled, \u201cDischarge from Matthew\nSimpson to Donald Sandison and others.\u201d The fourth and last was a piece\nof barbarous rhyme, dignified, however, with the name of poetry, and\nwhich, after describing mealmongers as \u201cdamned rascals,\u201d and \u201cthe worst\nof all men,\u201d assured them, with a proper contempt for both the law of\nthe land and the doctrine of purgatory, that there is an executive\npower vested in the people, which enables them to take summary justice\non their oppressors, and that the \u201cdevil gets villains as soon as they\nare dead.\u201d\n\nSilken Sawney, the first projector of the spulzie, did not escape\nin the process, though he contrived a few years after to save his\ncoin by running the country. He was the only person in Cromarty who,\nin the year 1745, assumed the white cockade; and no sooner had he\nappeared with it on the street than he was apprehended by a party of\nhis neighbours, who were kingsmen, and incarcerated in an ale-house.\nA guard was mounted before the door, and, on the morrow, the poor\nman of silk was to be sent aboard a sloop of war then lying in the\nbay; but as his neighbours, when they took the precaution of mounting\nguard, did not think proper to call to memory that his apartment\nhad a door of its own, which opened into a garden behind, he deemed\nit prudent, instead of waiting the result, to pass through it on a\njourney to the Highlands, and he never again returned to Cromarty.\nThe other conspirators suffered in proportion, not to what they had\nperpetrated, but to what they possessed. A proprietor named Macculloch\nwas stripped of his little patrimony, while some of his poorer\ncompanions escaped scot-free. Sandison contrived to pay his portion\nof the fine, and made chairs and tables for forty years after. He was\ndeemed one of the most ingenious mechanics in the north of Scotland.\nI have spent whole days in the house of his grandson, half buried in\ndusty volumes and moth-eaten drawings which had once been his; and\nderived my earliest knowledge of building from Palladio\u2019s First Book of\nArchitecture, in the antique translation of Godfrey Richards, which,\nas the margins testified, he had studied with much care. At a sale of\nhousehold furniture, which took place in Cromarty about thirty years\nago, the auctioneer, after examining a very handsome though somewhat\nold-fashioned table with minute attention, recommended it to the\npurchasers by assuring them, in a form of speech at least as old as the\ndays of Erasmus, that it was certainly the workmanship of either the\nDevil or of Donald Sandison.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n      \u201cOld sithes they had with the rumples set even,\n    And then into a tree fast driven;\n    And some had hatchets set on a pole--\n    Mischievous weapons, antic and droll.\n      Each where they lifted tax and cess,\n    And did the lieges sore oppress,\n    And cocks and hens, and churns and cheese,\n    Did _kill_ and eat when they could seize.\u201d\n    DUGALD GRAHAM\u2019S _History of the Rebellion._\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE FORTY-FIVE.]\n\nWith the solitary exception mentioned in the previous chapter, the\nwhole people of Cromarty were loyal to the house of Hanover. They were\nall sound Protestants to the utmost of their ability, and never failed\ndoing justice in a bumper to the \u201cbest in Christendom\u201d but when the\nliquor was bad. It was therefore with no feelings of complacency, that,\nin the autumn of 1745, they learned that the Pretender, after landing\nin the western Highlands, had set off with a gathering of Gaelic Roman\nCatholics to take London from the King. They affirmed, however, that\nthe redcoats were too numerous, and London too strong, to leave the\nenterprise a chance of success; and it was not until Cope had been set\na-scampering, and the bayonets of England proved insufficient to defend\nit on the Scottish side, that they began to pity George Rex (poor man),\nand to talk about the downfall of the Kirk. Their attention, however,\nwas called off from all such minor matters to a circumstance connected\nwith the outbreaking which directly affected themselves. Parties of\nwild Highlanders, taking advantage of the defenceless state of the\nLowlands, and the cause of the Pretender, went prowling about the\ncountry, robbing as the smith fought, \u201cevery man to his own hand;\u201d\nand stories of their depredations began to pour into the town. They\nwere doing great skaith, it was said, to victual and drink, spulzieing\nwomen of their yarn, and men of their shoes and bonnets; as for money,\nthere was luckily very little in the country. Nor was it possible to\nconciliate them by any adaptation whatever of one\u2019s politics to the\nJacobite code. A man of Ferindonald, a genuine friend to the Stuart,\nhad gone out to meet with them, and in the fulness of his heart, after\nperching himself on a hillock by the wayside, he continued to cry out,\n\u201cYou\u2019re welcome! you\u2019re welcome!\u201d from their first appearance until\nthey had come up to him. \u201cWelcomes or na welcomes,\u201d said a bareheaded,\nbarefooted Highlander, as stooping down he seized him by the ankles;\n\u201cwelcomes or na welcomes, _thoir dho do brougan_.\u201d (Give me your shoes.)\n\nEvery day brought a new story of the marauders;--a Navity tacksman,\nwho had listened himself half crazy, and could speak or think of\nnothing else, was enough of himself to destroy the quiet of the whole\nparish. Some buried casks of meal under their barn floors, others\nchests of plaiding and yarn. The tacksman interred an immense girnal,\ncontaining five bolls of oatmeal, which escaped the rebels only to be\ndevoured by the rats. So thoroughly had he prepared himself for the\nworst, that, when week after week went by, and still no Highlanders,\nhe seemed actually disappointed. One morning, however, in the end of\nJanuary 1746, he was called out to his cottage door to see something\nunusual on the hill of Eathie; a number of fairy-like figures seemed\nmoving along the ridge, and then, as they descended in a dark compact\nbody to the hollow beneath, there were seen to shoot out from them,\nat uncertain intervals, quick, sudden flashes, like lightnings from\na cloud. \u201cOch, och!\u201d exclaimed the tacksman, who well knew what the\napparition indicated, \u201cthe longest day that e\u2019er came, even came at\nlast.\u201d And away he went to reside, until the return of quieter times,\nin a solitary cave of the hill.\n\n[Sidenote: NANNIE MILLER\u2019S ONSLAUGHT.]\n\nThe marauders entered the town about mid-day. They were armed every\none after his own fashion, some with dirks and broadswords, some with\npistols and fowling-pieces, and not a few with scythes, pikes, and\nLochaber-axes. Some carried immense bunches of yarn, some webs of\nplaiding, some bundles of shirts and stockings. Most of the men of the\nplace, who would readily enough have joined issue with them at the\ncudgel, but bore no marked affection to broadswords and Lochaber-axes,\nhad conveyed themselves out of the way, leaving their wives to settle\nwith them as they best might. They entered the better-looking houses\nby half-dozens, turned the furniture topsy-turvy, emptied chests and\ndrawers, did wonderful execution on dried salmon and hung beef, and\nset ale-barrels abroach. One poor woman, in attempting to rescue a\nbundle of yarn, had her cheek laid open by a fellow who dashed the\nmuzzle of his pistol into her face; another was thrown down and robbed\nof her shoes. There lived at this time one Nannie Miller, a matron\nof the place, who sold ale. She was a large-boned, amazon-looking\nwoman, about six feet in height, of immense strength, and no ordinary\nshare of courage. Two of the Highlanders entered her cottage, and\nwith much good-nature (for they had had a long walk, she said) she\nset down before them a pint of her best ale and a basket of scones,\nwith some dried fish. They ate and drank, and then rose to spulzie;\nbut they were too few, as it proved, for the enterprise; for when one\nof them was engaged in ransacking a large meal-barrel, and the other\nin breaking open a chest, Nannie made a sudden onslaught, bundled the\none fellow head-foremost into the barrel, and turning on his companion\nas he rushed in to the rescue, floored him with a single blow. The\nday was all her own in a twinkling; the Highlanders fled, one of them\nhalf-choked by the meal, the other more than half-throttled by Nannie;\nbut glad, notwithstanding, to get off so well.\n\n[Sidenote: THE RETREAT.]\n\nIn the middle of the spulzie a sloop of war hove in sight, and a boat\nwas seen shooting out to meet her from under the rocks of the hill.\nSail after sail was run out on her yards as soon as the boat touched\nher side, and she came careering up the Firth like an angry giant. The\nHighlanders gathered in the street, and, according to old Dunbar,\n\n    Fu\u2019 loud in Ershe they begowt to clatter,\n    And rouped like revin and ruke.\n\nOne of them, who seemed to have drunk freely, was hacking with his\nbroadsword at the rails of a wooden bridge, and swearing furiously at\nthe ship; and a little girl, who chanced to be passing with a jug of\nmilk, was so terrified that she fell and broke the jug. \u201cPoor sing,\npoor sing!\u201d said the Highlander, as he raised her and wiped her face\nwith the corner of his plaid, \u201chersel\u2019 widna hurt a pit o\u2019 you.\u201d The\nparty, in their retreat, took the road that passes towards the west,\nalong the edge of the bay; and no sooner had the sloop cleared the\nintervening headland, than she began to fire on them. One of the\nbullets struck off a piece from a large granite boulder on the shore\ntermed the _Pindler_, and in less than half a minute the Highlanders\nwere scattered over the face of the hill. They did not again return to\nCromarty. Though they fared better in their predatory excursions than\nmost of their countrymen who accompanied the Prince, and transferred to\ntheir homes much of the \u201cplenishing\u201d of the Lowlands, it was observed\nthat in few instances did their gains enrich their descendants. I once\nwrought in the same shed with an old mason, a native of the parish of\nUrquhart, who, in giving me a history of his early life, told me that\nhis father had left at his death a considerable sum of money to himself\nand three brothers, and that not one of them was sober for two days\ntogether until they had squandered the whole. \u201cAnd no wonder,\u201d remarked\nanother mason from the same parish, who was hewing beside him; \u201cyour\nfather went out a-harrying in the Forty-Five, and muckle did he bring\nback with him, but it was ill gotten, and couldna last.\u201d\n\nAs spring came on, a new set of stories began to pass current among\nthe people of the town. The Pretender had failed, it was said, in\nhis enterprise, and was falling back on the Highlands. But there was\nsomething anomalous in the stories; for it was affirmed that he was\nboth running away and gaining all the battles. This they could not\nunderstand; and when, early in March, Lord Louden entered the town at\nthe head of sixteen hundred men, in full retreat before the rebels,\nthey began to ask whether it was customary for one flying army to\npursue another. His Lordship dealt by them more hardly than even\nthe marauders; for, after transporting his men across the ferry, he\nbroke all their boats. \u201cIt\u2019s a sair time for puir folk,\u201d said an old\nfisherman when witnessing the destruction of his skiff; \u201cgain King,\ngain Pretender, waes me, I\u2019m the loser gain wha like.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN.]\n\nAmid all the surmises and uncertainties of the town\u2019s-people, matters\nwere fast drawing to a crisis with the Highlanders. On the 15th\nof April a sloop from Lossiemouth entered the Firth, and brought\nintelligence that Duke William and his army had crossed the Spey, and\nwere on the march for Inverness, then occupied by the rebels. On the\nfollowing morning nearly all the males of the place, and not a few of\nthe women, had climbed the neighbouring hill to watch the progress of\ntheir march. The weather was dull and unpleasant. There was a cold\nbreeze from the east, accompanied by a thick drizzling rain, and the\nhills of Moray and Inverness were girdled with wreaths of mist. The\nlower grounds, which lie along the Firth, looked dim and blue through\nthe haze, and the eye vainly commanded the whole tract of country\nwhich stretches between Inverness and Nairn. A little after noon,\nhowever, the weather began to clear up, and a sailor, who had brought\nwith him the ship-glass, thought he could discover something unusual\non the moor of Culloden. Every eye was turned in that direction.\nSuddenly there rose a little dense cloud of smoke, as if a volcano had\nburst out on the moor; then succeeded the booming of cannon and the\nrattle of musketry. \u201cThey are at it, God wi\u2019 the right!\u201d shouted out\nDonald Sandison; \u201clook, Sandy Wright, is the smoke no going the way\no\u2019 Inverness?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s but the easterly haar,\u201d said Sandy; \u201cauld as I\nam, Donald, I could wish to be near enough to gae ae stroke for the\nking!\u201d The smoke continued to rise in clouds that went rolling towards\nthe west, and the roar of cannon to rebound among the hills. At length\nthey could hear only the smart pattering of musketry, and the tide of\nbattle seemed evidently sweeping towards Inverness. The cloud passed\nfrom the moor; and when, at intervals, a fresh burst shot up through\nthe haze, it seemed to rise from among the fields in the vicinity of\nthe town. Anon all was silence; and the people, after lingering till\nnear nightfall, returned to their homes to tell that Duke William had\nbeaten the rebels, and to drink healths to the King. They spoke always\nof the Duke\u2019s army as \u201cour folk,\u201d and his victory as \u201cour victory.\u201d I\nhave heard an old woman of the place repeat a rude song, expressive of\ntheir triumph on this occasion, which she had learned from her nurse\nwhen almost an infant. My memory has retained only one of the verses,\nand a horrible verse it is:--\n\n    Lovat\u2019s head i\u2019 the pat,\n      Horns and a\u2019 thegither,\n    We\u2019ll mak brose o\u2019 that,\n      An\u2019 gie the swine their supper.\n\n[Sidenote: OLD JOHN DUNBAR.]\n\nIn after years they thought less hardly of the cause of the Stuarts;\nand I have heard some of their old men relate stories of the poor\npeople who suffered at this time, with a good deal of feeling. There\nwas a Highlander named Robertson, a man of rare wit and humour, who\nhad been crippled of an arm at Culloden. He used, in after years,\nto come to the place as a sort of travelling merchant, and always\nmet with much kindness from them. So much attached was he to the\nPrince that he would willingly have lost the other arm for him too.\nAnother Highlander, who had also been wounded on the moor, was a great\nfavourite with them likewise. On seeing the battle irretrievably lost,\nand further resistance unavailing, he was stealing warily out of the\nfield, when two English dragoons came galloping up to him to cut him\ndown. He turned round, drew a pistol from his belt, shot the foremost\nthrough the body, and then hurled his weapon at the head of the other,\nwho immediately drew rein and rode off. The sword of the dying man\nwounded him in its descent in the fleshy part of the hand, between the\nthumb and the forefinger; and he retained the scar while he lived.\nThere was another Highlander who resided near Kessock, who had vowed,\nimmediately after the battle of Preston, that he would neither cut nor\ncomb the hair of his head until Charles Stuart was placed on the throne\nof his ancestors. And he religiously observed his vow. My grandfather\nsaw him twenty years after the battle. He was then a strange,\ngrotesque-looking thing, not very unlike a huge cabbage set a-walking;\nfor his hair stuck out nearly a foot on each side of his head, and was\nmatted into a kind of felt. But truce with such stories! Fifty years\nago they formed an endless series; but they have now nearly all passed\naway, or only live, if I may so express myself, in those echoes of the\ndeparted generations which still faintly reverberate among the quieter\nrecesses of the present. Of all the people who witnessed the smoke of\nCulloden from the hill of Cromarty I remember only three.\n\nAbout eighteen years ago, when quite a boy, I was brought by a\nrelation to see a very old man then on his deathbed, who resided in a\nsmall cottage among the woods of the hill. My kinsman for the twenty\npreceding years had lived with him on terms of the closest intimacy,\nand had been with him, about ten months before, when he met with an\naccident from a falling tree, by which he received so serious an\ninjury that it proved the occasion of this his final illness. A thick\ndarkness, however, had settled over all the events of his latter life,\nand he remembered neither his acquaintance of twenty years nor the\naccident. His daughter named the father of my friend, in the hope of\nawakening some early train of thought that might lead him into the\nmore recent period; but his knowledge of even the father had commenced\nduring the forty previous years, and his name sounded as strangely to\nhim as that of his son. \u201cHe is a great-grandchild,\u201d said the woman,\n\u201cof your old friend Donald Roy, the Nigg elder.\u201d \u201cOf Donald Roy!--a\ngreat-grandchild of Donald Roy!\u201d he exclaimed, holding out his hard\nwithered hand; \u201coh, how glad I am to see him! How kind it is of him,\u201d\nhe added, \u201cthus to visit a poor bedridden old man! I have now lived in\nthe world for more than a hundred years, and during my long sojourn\nhave known few men I could compare with Donald Roy.\u201d\n\nThe old man raised himself in his bed, for his strength had not yet\nquite failed him, and began to relate to my friend, in a full unbroken\nvoice, some of the stories regarding the Nigg elder, which I have\nimparted to the reader in a former chapter. His mind was full of the\nearly past, and he seemed to see its events all the more clearly from\nthe darkness of the intervening period--just as the stars may be\ndiscerned at noonday at the bottom of a deep mine, impenetrably gloomy\nin all its nearer recesses, when they are invisible from the summit\nof a hill. He ran over the incidents of his early life. He told how,\nin his thirtieth year, when the country resounded with the clash of\narms, he had quitted his peaceful avocations as a gardener, and joined\nthe army of the king. He fought at Culloden, and saw the clans broken\nbefore the bayonets of Cumberland. His heart bled, he said, for his\ncountrymen. They lay bleeding on the moor, or were scattered over it;\nand he saw the long swords of the horsemen plied incessantly in the\npursuit. Still more melancholy were his feelings, when, from a hill of\nInverness-shire, he looked down on a wide extent of country, and saw\nthe smoke of a hundred burning cottages ascending in the calm morning\nair.--He died a few weeks after our visit, aged a hundred years and ten\nmonths. His death took place in winter;--it was an open, boisterous\nwinter, that bore heavy on the weak and aged; and in less than a month\nafter, two very old men besides were also gathered to their fathers.\nAnd they, too, had had a share in the Forty-five.\n\nThe younger was a ship-boy at the time, and the ship in which he\nsailed was captured with a lading of Government stores, by a party\nof the rebels. He was named Robertson, and there were several of the\nRobertsons of Struan among the party. He was soon on excellent terms\nwith them; and on one occasion, when rallying some of the Struans on\ntheir undertaking, he spoke of their leader as the Pretender. \u201cBeware,\nmy boy,\u201d said an elderly Highlander, \u201cand do not again repeat that\nword; there are men in the ship who, if they but heard you, would\nperhaps take your life for it; for remember we are not all Robertsons.\u201d\nThe other old man who died at this time, had been an officer, it was\nsaid, in the Prince\u2019s army; but he was a person of a distant, reserved\ncast of character; and there was little known of his history, except\nthat he had been bred to the profession of medicine, and had been\nunfortunate through his adherence to the Prince. It was remarked by\nthe town\u2019s-people that his spirit and manners were superior to his\ncondition.\n\nAmong the old papers in Sandison\u2019s scrutoire, I found a curious version\nof the 137th Psalm, the production of some unfortunate Jacobite of\nthis period. It seems to have been written at Paris shortly after the\nfailure of the enterprise, and when the Prince and his party were in\nno favour at court; for the author, a man apparently of keen feelings,\napplies, with all the sorrowful energy of a wounded spirit, the curses\ndenounced against Edom and Babylon to England and France.\n\n[Sidenote: JACOBITE PSALM.]\n\nPSALM CXXXVII.\n\n    By the sad Seine we sat and wept\n      When Scotland we thought on;\n    Reft of her brave and true, and all\n      Her ancient spirit gone.\n\n    \u201cRevenge,\u201d the sons of Gallia said,\n      \u201cRevenge your native land;\n    Already your insulting foes\n      Crowd the Batavian strand.\u201d\n\n    How shall the sons of freedom e\u2019er\n      For foreign conquest fight?\n    How wield anew the luckless sword\n      That fail\u2019d in Scotland\u2019s right?\n\n    If thee, O Scotland! I forget\n      Till fails my latest breath,\n    May foul dishonour stain my name,\n      Be mine a coward\u2019s death!\n\n    May sad remorse for fancied guilt\n      My future days employ,\n    If all thy sacred rights are not\n      Above my chiefest joy!\n\n    Remember England\u2019s children, Lord,\n      Who on Drumossie day,\n    Deaf to the voice of kindred love,\n      \u201cRaze, raze it quite,\u201d did say.\n\n    And thou, proud Gallia! faithless friend,\n      Whose ruin is not far,\n    Just Heaven on thy devoted head\n      Pour all the woes of war!\n\n    When thou thy slaughter\u2019d little ones\n      And ravish\u2019d dames shalt see,\n    Such help, such pity mayst thou have\n      As Scotland had from thee.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n    \u201c_Mop._--Is it true, think you?\n    _Aut._--Very true;--why should I carry lies abroad?\u201d\n\n                                                          WINTER\u2019S TALE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE DROPPING-CAVE.]\n\nIn perusing in some of our older Gazetteers the half page devoted to\nCromarty, we find that, among the natural curiosities of the place,\nthere is a small cavern termed the Dropping-Cave, famous for its\nstalactites and its petrifying springs. And though the progress of\nmodern discovery has done much to lower the wonder, by rendering it\nmerely one of thousands of the same class--for even among the cliffs\nof the hill in which the cavern is perforated, there is scarcely a\nspring that has not its border of coral-like petrifactions, and its\nmoss and grass and nettle-stalks of marble--the Dropping-Cave may well\nbe regarded as a curiosity still. It is hollowed, a few feet over\nthe beach, in the face of one of the low precipices which skirt the\nentrance of the bay. From a crag which overhangs the opening there\nfalls a perpetual drizzle, which, settling on the moss and lichens\nbeneath, converts them into stone; and on entering the long narrow\napartment within, there may be seen by the dim light of the entrance\na series of springs, which filter through the solid rock above,\ndescending in so continual a shower, that even in the sultriest days\nof midsummer, when the earth is parched and the grass has become brown\nand withered, we may hear the eternal drop pattering against the rough\nstones of the bottom, or tinkling in the recess within, like the\nstring of a harp struck to ascertain its tone. A stone flung into the\ninterior, after rebounding from side to side of the rock, falls with a\ndeep hollow plunge, as if thrown into the sea. Had the Dropping-Cave\nbeen a cavern of Greece or Sicily, the classical mythology of these\ncountries would have tenanted it with the goddess of rains and vapour.\n\nThe walk to the cave is one of the most agreeable in the vicinity of\nthe town, especially in a fine morning of midsummer, an hour or so\nafter the sun has risen out of the Firth. The path to it has been\nhollowed out of the hill-side by the feet of men and animals, and goes\nwinding over rocks and stones--now in a hollow, now on a height, anon\nlost in the beach. In one of the recesses which open into the hill, a\nclump of forest-trees has sprung up, and, lifting their boughs to the\nedge of the precipice above, cover its rough iron features as if with\na veil; while, from the shade below, a fine spring, dedicated in some\nremote age to \u201cOur Ladye,\u201d comes bubbling to the light with as pure and\ncopious a stream as in the days of the priest and the pilgrim. We see\nthe beach covered over with sea-shells and weeds, the cork buoys of the\nfishermen, and fragments of wrecks. The air is full of fragrance. Only\nlook at yonder white patch in the hollow of the hill; \u2019tis a little\ncity of flowers, a whole community of one species--the meadow-sweet.\nThe fisherman scents it over the water, as he rows homeward in the cool\nof the evening, a full half-mile from the shore. And see how the hill\nrises above us, roughened with heath and fern and foxglove, and crested\na-top with a dark wood of fir. See how the beeches which have sprung\nup on the declivity recline in nearly the angle of the hill, so that\ntheir upper branches are only a few feet from the soil; reminding us,\nin the midst of warmth and beauty, of the rough winds of winter and\nthe blasting influence of the spray. The insect denizens of the heath\nand the wood are all on wing; see, there is the red bee, and there the\nblue butterfly, and yonder the burnet-moth with its wings of vermilion,\nand the large birdlike dragon-fly, and a thousand others besides,\nall beautiful and all happy. And then the birds;--But why attempt a\ndescription? The materials of thought and imagination are scattered\nprofusely around us; the wood the cliffs and the spring--the flowers\nthe insects and the birds--the shells the broken fragments of wreck and\nthe distant sail--the sea the sky and the opposite land--are all tones\nof the great instrument Nature, which need only to be awakened by the\nmind to yield its sweet music. And now we have reached the cave.\n\nThe Dropping-Cave ninety years ago was a place of considerable\ninterest; but the continuous shower which converted into stone the\nplants and mosses on which it fell, and the dark recess which no one\nhad attempted to penetrate, and of whose extent imagination had formed\na thousand surmises, constituted some of merely the minor circumstances\nthat had rendered it such. Superstition had busied herself for ages\nbefore in making it a scene of wonders. Boatmen, when sailing along\nthe shore in the night-time, had been startled by the apparition of a\nfaint blue light, which seemed glimmering from its entrance: on other\noccasions than the one referred to in a former chapter, the mermaid\nhad been seen sitting on a rock a few yards before it, singing a low\nmelancholy song, and combing her long yellow hair with her fingers; and\na man who had been engaged in fishing crabs among the rocks, and was\nreturning late in the evening by the way of the cave, almost shared\nthe fate of its moss and lichens, when, on looking up, he saw an old\ngreyheaded man, with a beard that descended to his girdle, sitting in\nthe opening, and gazing wistfully on the sea.\n\nI find some of these circumstances of terror embodied in verse by the\nprovincial poet whom I have quoted in an early chapter as an authority\nregarding the Cromarty tradition of Wallace; and now, as then, I will\navail myself of his description:--\n\n\n              ----\u201cWhen round the lonely shore\n        The vex\u2019d waves toil\u2019d with deaf\u2019ning roar,\n        And Midnight, from her lazy wain,\n        Heard wild winds roar and tides complain,\n        And groaning woods and shrieking sprites;--\n        Strange sounds from thence, and fearful lights,\n        Had caught the sailor\u2019s ear and eye,\n        As drove his storm-press\u2019d vessel by.\n\n          More fearful still, Tradition told\n        Of that dread cave a story old--\n        So very old, ages had pass\u2019d\n        Since he who made had told it last.\n        \u2019Twas thus it ran:--Of strange array\n        An aged man, whose locks of grey,\n        Like hill stream, flow\u2019d his shoulders o\u2019er,\n        For three long days on that lone shore\n        Sat moveless as the rocks around,\n        Moaning in low unearthly sound;\n        But whence he came, or why he stay\u2019d,\n        None knew, and none to ask essay\u2019d.\n        At length a lad drew near and spoke,\n        Craving reply. The figure shook\n        Like mirror\u2019d shape on dimpling brook,\n        Or shadow flung on eddying smoke--\n        And the boy fled. The third day pass\u2019d--\n        Fierce howl\u2019d at night the angry blast\n        Brushing the waves; wild shrieks of death\n        Were heard these bristling cliffs beneath,\n        And cries for aid. The morning light\n        Gleam\u2019d on a scene of wild affright.\n        Where yawns the cave, the rugged shore\n        With many a corse lay cover\u2019d o\u2019er,\n        And many a gorgeous fragment show\u2019d\n        How fair the bark the storm subdued.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE LEGEND OF WILLIE MILLAR.]\n\nThere was a Cromarty mechanic of the last age, named Willie Millar,\nwho used to relate a wonderful adventure which befell him in the cave.\nWillie was a man of fertile invention, fond of a good story, and\nzealous in the improvement of bad ones; but his zeal was evil spoken\nof--the reformations he effected in this way being regarded as little\nbetter than sinful, and his finest inventions as downright lying. There\nwas a smithy in the place, which, when he had become old and useless,\nwas his favourite resort. He would take up his seat on the forge\neach evening, regularly as the evening came, and relate to a group\nof delighted but too incredulous youngsters, some new passage in his\nwonderful autobiography; which, though it seemed long enough to stretch\nbeyond the flood, received new accessions every night. So little,\nindeed, had he in common with the small-minded class who, possessed of\nonly a limited number of narratives and ideas, go over and over these\nas the hands of a clock pass continually over the same figures, that,\nwith but one exception in favour of the adventure of the cave, he\nhardly ever told the same story twice.\n\nThere was a tradition current in Cromarty, that a town\u2019s-man had once\npassed through the Dropping-Cave, until he heard a pair of tongs rattle\nover his head on the hearth of a farmhouse of Navity, a district of\nthe parish which lies fully three miles from the opening; and Willie,\nwho was, it seems, as hard of belief in such matters as if he himself\nhad never drawn on the credulity of others, resolved on testing the\nstory by exploring the cave. He sewed sprigs of rowan and wych-elm in\nthe hem of his waistcoat, thrust a Bible into one pocket and a bottle\nof gin into the other, and providing himself with a torch, and a staff\nof buckthorn which had been cut at the full of the moon, and dressed\nwithout the assistance of iron or steel, he set out for the cave on a\nmorning of midsummer. It was evening ere he returned--his torch burnt\nout, and his clothes stained with mould and slime, and soaked with\nwater.\n\nAfter lighting the torch, he said, and taking a firm grasp of the\nstaff, he plunged fearlessly into the gloom before him. The cavern\nnarrowed and lowered as he proceeded; the floor, which was of a white\nstone resembling marble, was hollowed into cisterns, filled with a\nwater so exceedingly pure that it sparkled to the light like spirits in\ncrystal, and from the roof there depended clusters of richly embossed\nicicles of white stone, like those which, during a severe frost, hang\nat the edge of a waterfall. The springs from above trickled along\ntheir channelled sides, and then tinkled into the cisterns, like rain\nfrom the eaves of a cottage after a thunder-shower. Perhaps he looked\ntoo curiously around him when remarking all this; for so it was, that\nat the ninth and last cistern he missed his footing, and, falling\nforwards shattered his bottle of gin against the side of the cave.\nThe liquor ran into a little hollow of the marble, and, unwilling to\nlose what he regarded as very valuable, and what certainly had cost\nhim some trouble and suffering to procure (for he had rowed half way\nacross the Firth for it in terror of the custom-house and a cockling\nsea), he stooped down and drank till his breath failed him. Never was\nthere better Nantz; and, pausing to recover himself, he stooped and\ndrank, again and again. There were strange appearances when he rose.\nA circular rainbow had formed round his torch; there was a blue mist\ngathering in the hollows of the cave; the very roof and sides began to\nheave and reel, as if the living rock were a Flushing lugger riding on\nthe ground-swell; and there was a low humming noise that came sounding\nfrom the interior, like that of bees in a hawthorn thicket on an\nevening of midsummer. Willie, however, had become much less timorous\nthan at first, and, though he could not well account for the fact, much\nless disposed to wonder. And so on he went.\n\nHe found the cavern widen, and the roof rose so high that the light\nreached only the snowy icicles which hung meteor-like over his head.\nThe walls were formed of white stone, ridged and furrowed like pieces\nof drapery, and all before and around him there sparkled myriads of\ncrystals, like dewdrops in a spring morning. The sound of his footsteps\nwas echoed on either hand by a multitude of openings, in which the\nmomentary gleam of his torch was reflected, as he passed, on sheets of\nwater and ribs of rock, and which led, like so many arched corridors,\nstill deeper into the bowels of the hill. Nor, independently of the\ncontinuous humming noise, were all the sounds of the cave those of\necho. At one time he could hear the wind moaning through the trees of\nthe wood above, and the scream of a hawk as if pouncing on its prey;\nthen there was the deafening blast of a smith\u2019s bellows, and the clang\nof hammers on an anvil; and anon a deep hollow noise resembling the\ngrowling of a wild beast. All seemed terribly wild and unnatural; a\nbreeze came moaning along the cave, and shook the marble drapery of\nthe sides, as if it were formed of gauze or linen; the entire cave\nseemed turning round like the cylinder of an engine, till the floor\nstood upright and the adventurer fell heavily against it; and as the\ntorch hissed and sputtered in the water, he could see by its expiring\ngleam that a full score of dark figures, as undefined as shadows by\nmoonlight, were flitting around him in the blue mist which now came\nrolling in dense clouds from the interior. In a moment more all was\ndarkness, and he lay insensible amid the chill damps of the cave.\n\nThe rest of the adventure wonderfully resembled a dream. On returning\nto consciousness, he found that the gloom around him had given place to\na dim red twilight, which flickered along the sides and roof like the\nreflection of a distant fire. He rose, and grasping his staff staggered\nforward. \u201cIt is sunlight,\u201d thought he, \u201cI shall find an opening\namong the rocks of Eathie, and return home over the hill.\u201d Instead,\nhowever, of the expected outlet, he found the passage terminate in a\nwonderful apartment, so vast in extent, that though an immense fire\nof pine-trees, whole and unbroken from root to branch, threw up a red\nwavering sheet of flame many yards in height, he could see in some\nplaces neither the walls nor the roof. A cataract, like that of Foyers\nduring the long-continued rains of an open winter, descended in thunder\nfrom one of the sides, and presenting its broad undulating front of\nfoam to the red gleam of the fire, again escaped into darkness through\na wide broken-edged gulf at the bottom. The floor of the apartment\nappeared to be thickly strewed with human bones, half-burned and\nblood-stained, and gnawed as if by cannibals; and directly in front of\nthe fire there was a low tomblike erection of dark-coloured stone, full\ntwenty yards in length, and roughened with grotesque hieroglyphics,\nlike those of a Runic obelisk. An enormous mace of iron, crusted with\nrust and blood, reclined against the upper end; while a bugle of gold\nhung by a chain of the same metal from a column at the bottom. Willie\nseized the bugle, and winded a blast till the wide apartment shook\nwith the din; the waters of the cataract disappeared, as if arrested at\ntheir source; and the ponderous cover of the tomb began to heave and\ncrackle, and pass slowly over the edge, as if assailed by the terrific\nstrength of some newly-awakened giant below. Willie again winded the\nbugle; the cover heaved upwards, disclosing a corner of the chasm\nbeneath; and a hand covered with blood, and of such fearful magnitude\nas to resemble only the conceptions of Egyptian sculpture, was slowly\nstretched from the darkness towards the handle of the mace. Willie\u2019s\nresolution gave way, and, flinging down the horn, he rushed hurriedly\ntowards the passage. A yell of blended grief and indignation burst from\nthe tomb, as the immense cover again settled over it; the cataract came\ndashing from its precipice with a heavier volume than before; and a\nfurious hurricane of mingled wind and spray that rushed howling from\nthe interior, well-nigh dashed the adventurer against the sides of the\nrock. He succeeded, however, in gaining the passage, sick at heart\nand nearly petrified with terror; a state of imperfect consciousness\nsucceeded, like that of a feverish dream, in which he retained a sort\nof half conviction that he was lingering in the damps and darkness of\nthe cave, obstinately and yet unwillingly; and, on fully regaining his\nrecollection, he found himself lying across the ninth cistern, with the\nfragments of the broken bottle on the one side, and his buckthorn staff\non the other. He could hear from the opening the dash of the advancing\nwaves against the rocks, and on leaping to the beach below, found that\nhis exploratory journey had occupied him a whole day.\n\n[Sidenote: A BOY ADVENTURER.]\n\nThe adventure of Willie Millar formed at one time one of the most\npopular traditions of Cromarty. It was current among the children not\nmore than eighteen years ago, when the cave was explored a second time,\nbut with a very different result, by a boy of the school in which the\nwriter of these legends had the misfortune of being regarded as the\ngreatest dunce and truant of his time. The character of Willie forms\nthe best possible commentary on _his_ story--the character of the boy\nmay perhaps throw some little light on his. When in his twelfth year,\nhe was by far the most inquisitive little fellow in the place. His\ncuriosity was insatiable. He had broken his toys when a child, that\nhe might see how they were constructed; and a watch which the owner\nhad thoughtlessly placed within his reach, narrowly escaped sharing a\nsimilar fate. He dissected frogs and mice in the hope of discovering\nthe seat of life; and when one day found dibbling at the edge of a\nspring, he said he was trying to penetrate to the source of water.\nHis schoolmaster nicknamed him \u201cThe _Senachie_,\u201d for the stories with\nwhich he beguiled his class-fellows of their tasks were without end or\nnumber; the neighbours called him _Philosopher_, for he could point out\nthe star of the pole, with the Great Bear that continually walks round\nit; and he used to affirm that there might be people in the moon, and\nthat the huge earth is only a planet. Having heard the legend of Willie\nMillar, he set out one day to explore the cave; and when he returned\nhe had to tell that the legend was a mere legend, and that the cave,\nthough not without its wonders, owed, like the great ones of the earth,\nmuch of its celebrity to the fears and the ignorance of mankind.\n\nIn climbing into the vestibule of the recess, his eye was attracted by\na piece of beautiful lacework, gemmed by the damps of the place, and\nthat stretched over a hollow in one of the sides. It was not, however,\na work of magic, but merely the web of a field-spider, that from its\nacquaintance with lines and angles, seemed to have discovered a royal\nroad to geometry. The petrifying spring next attracted his notice. He\nsaw the mosses hardening into limestone--the stems already congealed,\nand the upper shoots dying that they might become immortal. And there\ncame into his mind the story of one Niobe, of whom he had read in a\nschool-book, that, like the springs of the cave, wept herself into\nstone, and the story too of the half-man half-marble prince of the\nArabian tale. \u201cStrange,\u201d thought the boy, \u201cthat these puny dwarfs of\nthe vegetable kingdom should become rock and abide for ever, when its\nvery giants, the chestnut trees of Etna and the cedars of Lebanon,\nmoulder away in the deep solitude of their forests, and become dust or\nnothing.\u201d Lighting his torch, he proceeded to examine the cavern. A\nfew paces brought him to the first cistern. He found the white table\nof marble in which it is hollowed raised knee-height over the floor,\nand the surface fretted into little cavities by the continual dropping,\nlike the surface of a thawing snow-wreath when beaten by a heavy\nshower. As he strided over the ledge, a drop from above extinguished\nhis torch;--he groped his way back and rekindled it. He had seen the\nfirst cistern described by the adventurer; and of course all the\nothers, with the immense apartment, the cataract, the tomb, the iron\nmace, and the golden bugle, lay in the darkness beyond. But, alas!\nwhen he again stepped forward, instead of the eight other hollows he\nfound the floor covered with one continuous pool, over which there rose\nfast-contracting walls and a descending roof; and though he pressed\nonward amid the water that splashed below, and the water that fell from\nabove--for his curiosity was unquenchable, and his clothes of a kind\nwhich could not be made worse--it was only to find the rock closing\nhopelessly before him, after his shoulders had at once pressed against\nthe opposite sides, and the icicles had passed through his hair. There\nwas no possibility of turning round, and so, creeping backwards like\na crab, he reached the first cistern, and in a moment after stood in\nthe lighted part of the cave. His feelings on the occasion were less\nmelancholy than those of the traveller, who, when standing beside the\ntwo fountains of the Nile, \u201cbegan in his sorrow to treat the inquiry\nconcerning its source as the effort of a distempered fancy.\u201d But next\nto the pleasure of erecting a system, is the pleasure of pulling\none down; and he felt it might be so even with regard to a piece of\ntraditionary history. Besides, there was a newly-fledged thought\nwhich had come fluttering round him for the first time, that more than\nhalf consoled him under his disappointment. He remembered that when\na child no story used to please him that was not both marvellous and\ntrue--that a fact was as nothing to him disunited from the wonderful,\nnor the wonderful disunited from fact. But the marvels of his childhood\nhad been melting away, one after one--the ghost, and the wraith, and\nthe fairy had all disappeared; and the wide world seemed to spread out\nbefore him a tame and barren region, where truth dwelt in the forms of\ncommonplace, and in these only. He now felt for the first time that\nit was far otherwise; and that so craving an instinct, instead of\nperishing for lack of sustenance, would be fed as abundantly in the\nfuture by philosophy and the arts, as it had been in the past by active\nimaginations and a superstitious credulity.\n\n[Sidenote: FIDDLER\u2019S WELL.]\n\nThe path which, immediately after losing itself on the beach where it\npasses the cave, rises by a kind of natural stair to the top of the\nprecipices, continues to ascend till it reaches a spring of limpid\nwater, which comes gushing out of the side of a bank covered with\nmoss and daisies: and which for more than a century has been known to\nthe town\u2019s-people by the name of Fiddler\u2019s Well. Its waters are said\nto be medicinal, and there is a pretty tradition still extant of the\ncircumstance through which their virtues were first discovered, and to\nwhich the spring owes its name.\n\nTwo young men of the place, who were much attached to each other, were\nseized at nearly the same time by consumption. In one the progress\nof the disease was rapid--he died two short months after he was\nattacked by it; while the other, though wasted almost to a shadow,\nhad yet strength enough left to follow the corpse of his companion\nto the grave. The name of the survivor was Fiddler--a name still\ncommon among the seafaring men of the town. On the evening of the\ninterment he felt oppressed and unhappy; his imagination was haunted\nby a thousand feverish shapes of open graves with bones mouldering\nround their edges, and of coffins with the lids displaced; and after\nhe had fallen asleep, the images, which were still the same, became\nmore ghastly and horrible. Towards morning, however, they had all\nvanished; and he dreamed that he was walking alone by the sea-shore\nin a clear and beautiful day of summer. Suddenly, as he thought, some\nperson stepped up behind, and whispered in his ear, in the voice of\nhis deceased companion, \u201cGo on, Willie; I shall meet you at _Stormy_.\u201d\nThere is a rock in the neighbourhood of Fiddler\u2019s Well, so called from\nthe violence with which the sea beats against it when the wind blows\nstrongly from the east. On hearing the voice he turned round, and\nseeing no one, he went on, as he thought, to the place named, in the\nhope of meeting his friend, and sat down on a bank to wait his coming;\nbut he waited long--lonely and dejected; and then remembering that he\nfor whom he waited was dead, he burst into tears. At this moment a\nlarge field-bee came humming from the west, and began to fly round his\nhead. He raised his hand to brush it away; it widened its circle, and\nthen came humming into his ear as before. He raised his hand a second\ntime, but the bee would not be scared off; it hummed ceaselessly round\nand round him, until at length its murmurings seemed to be fashioned\ninto words, articulated in the voice of his deceased companion--\u201cDig,\nWillie, and drink!\u201d it said; \u201cDig, Willie, and drink!\u201d He accordingly\nset himself to dig, and no sooner had he torn a sod out of the bank\nthan a spring of clear water gushed from the hollow; and the bee\ntaking a wider circle, and humming in a voice of triumph that seemed\nto emulate the sound of a distant trumpet, flew away. He looked after\nit, but as he looked the images of his dream began to mingle with those\nof the waking world; the scenery of the hill seemed obscured by a dark\ncloud, in the centre of which there glimmered a faint light; the rocks,\nthe sea, the long declivity, faded into the cloud; and turning round\nhe saw only a dark apartment, and the faint beams of morning shining in\nat a window. He rose, and after digging the well, drank of the water\nand recovered. And its virtues are still celebrated; for though the\nwater be only simple water, it must be drunk in the morning, and as it\ngushes from the bank; and with pure air, exercise, and early rising for\nits auxiliaries, it continues to work cures.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n      \u201cFechtam memorate blod\u00e6am,\n    Fechtam terribilem.\u201d--DRUMMOND\u2019S _Polemo Middinia_.\n\n      \u201cTulzies lang-remember\u2019d an\u2019 bluidy,\n    Terrible tulzies.\u201d--_Muckle-Vennel Translation._\n\n\n[Sidenote: WARS OF THE TOWN\u2019S-PEOPLE.]\n\nIt is well for human happiness in the ruder ages, that cowardice is\nrarely or never the characteristic of a people who have either no laws,\nor laws that cannot protect them; for, in the more unsettled stages of\nsociety, personal courage is a necessary policy, and no one is less\nsafe than he who attempts to escape danger by running away. During\nthe early part of the last century, Cromarty was well-nigh as rude a\nvillage of the kingdom as any it contained. The statute-book had found\nits way into the place at a much remoter period, but its authority had\nnot yet travelled so far; and so the inhabitants were left to protect\nthemselves by their personal courage and address, in the way their\nancestors had done for centuries before. It was partly a consequence\nof the necessity, and partly from the circumstance that two or three\nfamilies of the place were deeply imbued for several generations with\na warlike spirit, which seemed born with them, that for years, both\nbefore and after the Rebellion, the prowess of the people, as exhibited\nin their quarrels with folk of the neighbouring districts, was\ncelebrated all over the country. True it was, they had quailed before\nthe rebels, but then the best soldiers of the crown had done the same.\nOn one occasion two of them, brothers of the name of Duff--gigantic\nfellows of six feet and a half--had stood back to back for an entire\nhour in the throng of a Redcastle market, defending themselves against\nhalf the cudgels of Strathglass. On another, at the funeral of a\ntown\u2019s-man, who was interred in the burial-ground of Kilmuir, a party\nof them had fought with the people of the parish, and defeated them\nin their own territories. On a third, after a battle which lasted for\nseveral hours, they had beaten off the men of Rosemarkie and Avoch\nfrom a peat-moss in an unappropriated moor; and this latter victory\nthey celebrated in a song, in which it was humorously proposed that,\nas their antagonists had been overpowered by the _men_ of the parish,\nthey should, in their next encounter, try their chance of war with\nthe women. In short, their frays at weddings, funerals, and markets,\nwere multiplied beyond number, until at length the cry of \u201cHiloa! Help\nfor Cromarty!\u201d had become as formidable as the war-cry of any of the\nneighbouring clans.\n\nBut there are principles which are good or evil according to the\ndirection in which they operate; and of this class is that warlike\nprinciple whose operations I am attempting to describe. It was well\nfor the people of Cromarty that, when there was no law powerful enough\nto protect them, they had courage enough to protect themselves; and\nparticularly well at a period when the neighbouring Highlanders were\nstill united by the ties of clanship into formidable bodies, ready to\nassert to a man the real or pretended rights of any individual of their\nnumber. It was not well, however, that these men of Cromarty should\nhave broken the heads of half the men of Kilmuir, for merely insisting\non a prescriptive right of carrying the corpse of a native to the\nchurchyard when it had entered the limits of their own parish, and such\nwas the sole occasion of the quarrel; or that, after appropriating to\nthemselves, much at the expense of justice, the moss of the Maolbuoy\nCommon, they should have deemed it legitimate sport to insult, in\nbad rhyme, the poor people whom they had deprived of their winter\u2019s\nfuel, and who were starving for want of it. Occasionally, however,\nthey avenged on themselves the wrongs done to their neighbours;\nfor, though no tribe of men could be more firmly united at a market\nor tryst, where an injury done to any one of them was regarded as an\ninjury done to every one, they were not quite so friendly when in town,\nwhere their interests were separate, and not unfrequently at variance.\nTheir necessities abroad had taught them how to fight, and their\nresentments at home often engaged them in repeating the lesson. Their\nvery enjoyments had caught hold of it, and Martinmas and the New-Year\nwere not more the festivals of good ale than of broken heads. The\nlesson, sufficiently vexatious at any time, except when conned in its\nproper school, became peculiarly a misfortune to them upon the change\nwhich began to take place in the northern counties about the year\n1740, when the law of Edinburgh--as it was termed by a Strathcarron\nfreebooter--arrived at the ancient burgh of Tain, and took up its seat\nthere, much to the terror and annoyance of the neighbouring districts.\n\n[Sidenote: MACCULLOCH THE LAWYER.]\n\nSubsequent to this unfortunate event, a lawyer named Macculloch fixed\nhis place of residence among the people of Cromarty, that he might live\nby their quarrels; and, under the eye of this sagacious personage, the\nstroke of a cudgel became as potent as that of the wand of a magician.\nHouses, and gardens, and corn-furrows vanished before it. Law was not\nyet sold at a determined price. It was administered by men who, having\nspent the early part of their lives amid feuds and bickerings, were\nstill more characterized by the leanings of the partisan than the\nimpartiality of the judge; and, under these men, the very statute-book\nitself became a thing of predilections and antipathies; for while in\nsome instances justice, and a great deal more, cost almost nothing, in\nothers it was altogether beyond price. Macculloch, however, who dealt\nit out by retail, rendered it sufficiently expensive, even when at the\ncheapest. Fines and imprisonments, and accounts which his poor clients\ncould not read, but which they were compelled to pay, were only the\nminor consequences of his skill; for on one occasion he contrived that\nalmost half the folk of the town should be cited, either as pannels\nor witnesses, to the circuit court of Inverness; where, through the\nwrongheadedness of a jury, and the obstinacy of a judge, a good\ntown\u2019s-man and powerful combatant, who would willingly harm no one, but\nfight with anybody, ran a very considerable risk of being sent to the\nplantations. The people were distressed beyond measure, and their old\nantagonists of Kilmuir and Rosemarkie fully avenged.\n\nIn course of time, however, they became better acquainted with law;\nand their knowledge of the lawyer (which, like every other species of\nknowledge, was progressive), while it procured him in its first stages\nmuch employment, prevented him latterly from being employed at all.\nHe was one of the most active of village attorneys. No one was better\nacquainted with the whole art of recovering a debt, or of entering on\nthe possession of a legacy--of reclaiming property, or of conveying\nit; but it was ultimately discovered that his own particular interests\ncould not always be identified with those of the people who employed\nhim; and that the same lawsuit might be gained by him and lost by his\nclient. It was one thing, too, for Macculloch to recover a debt, and\nquite another for the person to whom it had been due. In cases of\nthe latter description he was an adept in the art of promising. Day\nafter day would he fix his term of settlement; though the violation\nof the promise of yesterday proved only a prelude to the violation\nof that of to-day, and though both were found to be typical of the\npromise which was to be passed on the morrow. He had determined, it\nwas obvious, to render his profession as lucrative as possible; but\nsomehow or other--it could only be through an excess of skill--he\ncompletely overshot the mark. No one would, at length, believe his\npromises, or trust to his professions; his great skill began to border\nin its effects, as these regarded himself, on the opposite extreme;\nand he was on the eve of being starved out of the place, when Sir\nGeorge Mackenzie, the proprietor, made choice of him as his factor, and\nintrusted to him the sole management of all his concerns.\n\nSir George in his younger days had been, like his grandfather the Earl,\na stirring, active man of business. He was a stanch Tory, and on the\ndownfall of Oxford, and the coming in of the Whigs, he continued to\nfret away the energies of his character, in a fruitless, splenetic\nopposition; until at length, losing heart in the contest, he became,\nfrom being one of the most active, one of the most indolent men in\nthe country. He drank hard, lived grossly, and seemed indifferent to\neverything. And never were there two persons better suited to each\nother than the lawyer and Sir George. The lawyer was always happiest\nin his calculations when his books were open to the inspection of no\none but himself; and the laird, though he had a habit of reckoning\nover the bottle, commonly fell asleep before the amount was cast up.\nBut an untoward destiny proved too hard for Macculloch in even this\noffice. Apathetical as Sir George was deemed, there was one of his\nfeelings which had survived the wreck of all the others;--that one a\nrooted aversion to the town of Cromarty, and in particular to that part\nof the country adjacent which was his own property. No one--least of\nall himself--could assign any cause for the dislike, but it existed\nand grew stronger every day: and the consequences were ruinous to\nMacculloch; for in a few years after he had appointed him to the\nfactorship, he disposed of all his lands to a Mr. William Urquhart\nof Meldrum--a transaction which is said to have had the effect of\nconverting his antipathy into regret. The factor set himself to seek\nout for another master; and in a manner agreeable to his character. He\nprofessed much satisfaction that the estate should have passed into the\nhands of so excellent a gentleman as Mr. Urquhart; and proposed to some\nof the town\u2019s-folk that they should eat to his prosperity in a public\ndinner, and light up a constellation of bonfires on the heights which\noverlook the bay. The proposal took; the dinner was attended by a party\nof the more respectable inhabitants of the place, and the bonfires by\nall the children.\n\nA sister of Sir George\u2019s, the Lady Margaret, who a few years before\nhad shared in the hopes of her attainted cousin, Lord Cromartie, and\nhad witnessed, with no common sensations of grief, the disastrous\ntermination of the enterprise in which he had been led to engage, was\nat this time the only tenant of Cromarty Castle. She had resided in\nthe house of Lord George previous to his attainder, but on that event\nshe had come to Cromarty to live with her brother. His low habits of\nintemperance proved to her a fruitful source of vexation; but how was\nthe feeling deepened when, in about a week after he had set out on a\nhasty journey, the purpose of which he refused to explain, she received\na letter from him, informing her that he had sold all his lands! She\nsaw, in a step so rash and unadvised, the final ruin of her family, and\nfelt with peculiar bitterness that she had no longer a home. Leaning\nover a window of the castle, she was indulging in the feelings which\nher circumstances suggested, and looking with an unavailing but natural\nregret on the fields and hamlets that had so soon become the property\nof a stranger, when Macculloch and his followers came marching out on\nthe lawn below from the adjoining wood, and began to pile on a little\neminence in front of the castle the materials of a bonfire. It seemed,\nfrom the effect produced on the poor lady, that, in order entirely\nto overpower her, it was only necessary she should be shown that the\ncircumstance which was so full of distress to her, was an occasion of\nrejoicing to others. For a few seconds she seemed stupified by the\nshouts and exultations of the party below; and then, clasping her hands\nupon her breast, she burst into tears and hurried to her apartment. As\nthe evening darkened into night, the light of the huge fire without was\nreflected through a window on the curtains of her bed. She requested\nher attendant to shut it out; but the wild shouts of Macculloch\u2019s\nfollowers, which were echoed until an hour after midnight by the\nturrets above and the vaults below, could not be excluded. In the\nmorning Lady Margaret was in a high fever, and in a few days after she\nwas dead.\n\nThe first to welcome the new laird to his property was Macculloch the\nfactor. Urquhart of Meldrum, or Captain Urquhart, as he was termed, had\nmade his money on sea--some said as a gallant officer in the Spanish\nservice, some as the master of a privateer, or even, it was whispered,\nas a pirate. He was a rough unpolished man, fond of a rude joke, and\ndisposed to seek his companions among farmers and mechanics, rather\nthan among the people of a higher sphere. But, with all his rudeness,\nhe was shrewd and intelligent, and qualified, by a peculiar tact, to\nbe a judge of men. When Macculloch was shown into his room, he neither\nreturned his bow nor motioned him to a seat, though the lawyer, no\nway daunted, proceeded to address him in a long train of compliments\nand congratulations. \u201cHumph!\u201d replied the Captain. \u201cAh!\u201d thought the\nlawyer, \u201cyou will at least hear reason.\u201d He proceeded to state, that\nas he had been intrusted with the sole management of Sir George\u2019s\naffairs, he was better acquainted than any one else with the resources\nof the estate and the character of the tenants; and that, should Mr.\nUrquhart please to continue him in his office, he would convince him\nhe was the fittest person to occupy it to his advantage. \u201cHumph!\u201d\nreplied the Captain; \u201cfor how many years, Sir lawyer, have you been\nfactor to Mackenzie?\u201d \u201cFor about five,\u201d was the reply. \u201cAnd was he not\na good master?\u201d \u201cYes, sir, rather good, certainly--but his unfortunate\nhabits.\u201d \u201cHis habits!--he drank grog, did he not? and served it out\nfor himself? So do I. Mark me, Sir factor! You are a ---- mean rascal,\nand shall never finger a penny of mine. You found in Mackenzie a good\nsimple fellow, who employed you when no one else would; but no sooner\nhad he unshipped himself than you hoisted colours for me, ---- you,\nwhom, I suppose, you could tie up to the yard-arm for somewhat less\nthan a bred hangman would tie up a thief for;--ay, that you would! I\nhave heard of your dinner, sir, and your bonfires, and of the death\nof Lady Margaret (had you another bonfire for that?) and now tell you\nonce for all, that I despise you as one of the meanest ---- rascals\nthat ever turned tail on a friend in distress. Off, sir--there is the\ndoor!\u201d Such was the reward of Macculloch. In a few years after, he had\nsunk into poverty and contempt; one instance of many, that rascality,\nhowever profitable in the degree, may be carried to a ruinous extreme,\nand that he who sets out with a determination of cheating every one,\nmay at length prove too cunning for even himself.\n\nThe people of the town, not excepting some of those who had shouted\nround the bonfires and sat down to the dinner, were much gratified by\nthe result of Macculloch\u2019s application; and for some time the laird was\nso popular that there was no party in opposition to him. An incident\nsoon occurred, however, which had the effect of uniting nine-tenths of\nthe whole parish into a confederacy, so powerful and determined, that\nit contended with him in a lawsuit for three whole years.\n\n[Sidenote: THE LAW PLEA.]\n\nThe patronage of the church of Cromarty, on the attainder of Lord\nGeorge Mackenzie, in whom it had been vested, devolved upon the\nCrown. It was claimed, however, by Captain Urquhart, and the Crown,\nunacquainted with the extent of many of the privileges derived to it\nby the general forfeiture of the late Rebellion, and of this privilege\namong the others, seemed no way inclined to dispute with him the claim.\nHe therefore nominated to the parish, on the first vacancy, a Mr.\nSimpson of Meldrum as a proper minister. This Meldrum was a property\nof Mrs. Urquhart\u2019s, and the chief qualification of Mr. Simpson arose\nfrom the circumstance of his having been born on it. The Captain was\nhimself a Papist, and had not set a foot within the church of Cromarty\nsince he had come to the estate; his wife was an Episcopalian, and,\nmore liberal than her husband, she had on one occasion attended it\nin honour of the wedding of a favourite maid. The people of the town,\nin the opinion that the presentation could not be in worse hands, and\ndissatisfied with the presentee, rejected the latter on the ground that\nCaptain Urquhart was not the legitimate patron; and, binding themselves\nby contract, they subscribed a considerable sum that they might join\nissue with him in a lawsuit. They were, besides, assisted by the\nneighbouring parishes; and, after a tedious litigation, the suit was\ndecided in their favour; but not until they had expended upon it, as I\nhave frequently heard affirmed with much exultation, the then enormous\nsum of five hundred pounds. They received from the Crown their choice\nof a minister.\n\n[Sidenote: RODERICK AND THE CAPTAIN.]\n\nUrquhart, whose obstinacy, sufficiently marked at any time, had been\nroused by the struggle into one of its most determined attitudes,\nresisted the claims of the people until the last; and, when he could\nno longer dictate to them as a patron, he set himself to try whether\nhe could not influence them as a landlord. A day was fixed for the\nparishioners to meet in the church, that they might avail themselves\nof the gift of the Crown by making choice of a minister; and, before\nit arrived, the Captain made the round of his estate, visiting his\ntenants and dependants, and every one whom he had either obliged, or\nhad the power of obliging, with the intention of forming a party to\nvote for Mr. Simpson. All his influence, however, proved insufficient\nto accomplish his object. His tenants preserved either a moody silence\nwhen he urged them to come into his plans, or replied to his arguments,\nwhich savoured sadly of temporal interests, in rude homilies about\nliberty of conscience and the rights of the people. Urquhart was not\nnaturally a very patient man; he had been trained, too, in a rough\nschool; and, long before he had accomplished the purposed round, he\nhad got into one of his worst moods. His arguments had been converted\ninto threats, and his threats met by sturdy defiances. In the evening\nof this vexatious day he stood in front of the steadings of Roderick\nRoss of the Hill, a plain decent farmer, much beloved by the poor for\nthe readiness with which he imparted to them of his substance, and not\na little respected by Urquhart himself for his rough strong sense and\nsterling honesty. A grey, weather-wasted headstone still marks out his\ngrave; but of the cottage which he inhabited, of his garden fence,\nand the large gnarled elms which sprung out of it, of his barns, his\ncow-houses, and his sheep-folds, there is not a single vestige. They\noccupied, eighty years ago, the middle of one of the parks which are\nlaid out on the hill of Cromarty where it overlooks the town--the third\npark in the upper range from the eastern corner. In rainy seasons,\nthe spring which supplied his well comes bursting out from among the\nfurrows. Roderick came from the barn to meet the laird; and, after the\ncustomary greeting, was informed of the cause of his visit. The merits\nof the case he had discussed at mill and smithy with every farmer on\nthe estate; and, with his usual bluntness, he now inquired at the laird\nwhat interest he, a Papist, could have in the concerns of a Protestant\nchurch. \u201cFor observe, Captain,\u201d said he, \u201cif ye ettle at serving us wi\u2019\na minister, sound after your way o\u2019 belief, I maun in conscience gie\nyou a\u2019 the hinderance I can, as the man must be an unsound Papisher\nto me; an\u2019 if, what\u2019s mair likely, ye only wuss to oblige the callant\nSimpson wi\u2019 a glebe, stipend, an\u2019 manse, without meddling wi\u2019 ony\nreligion, it\u2019s surely my part to oppose ye baith;--you, for making\nGod\u2019s kirk meat an\u2019 drink to a hireling; him, for taking it on sic\nterms.\u201d The Captain, though he used to admire Roderick\u2019s natural logic,\nregarded it with a very different feeling when he found it brandished\nagainst himself. \u201cRoderick,\u201d said he, and he swore a deadly oath, \u201cyou\nshall either vote for Mr. Simpson or quit your farm at Whitsunday\nfirst.\u201d \u201cYou at least gie me my choice,\u201d said the honest farmer, and\nturning abruptly from him he stalked into the barn.\n\nRoderick left his plough in the furrow on the day fixed for the\nmeeting, and went into the house to prepare for it, by dressing\nhimself in his best clothes. His wife had learned the result of his\nconference with the laird, and, in her opinion, the argument of\nthreatened ejection was a more powerful one than any that could be\nadvanced by the opposite party. Repeatedly did she urge it, but to\nno effect; Roderick was stubborn as an old Covenanter. She watched,\nhowever, her opportunity; and when he went in to dress, which he always\ndid in a small apartment formed by an outjet of the cottage, she\nfollowed him, as if once more to repeat what she had so often repeated\nalready, but in reality with a very different intention. She suffered\nhim to throw off his clothes, piece by piece, without the slightest\nattempt to prevent him; but at the moment when his head and arms were\ninvolved in the intricacies of a stout linen shirt, she snatched up\nhis holiday bonnet, coat, and waistcoat, together with the articles of\ndress he had just relinquished, and rushing out of the apartment with\nthem, shut and bolted the door behind her. To place against it every\narticle of furniture which the outer room afforded, was the work of the\nfirst minute; and to advise her liege lord to betake himself to the\nbed which his prison contained until the kirk should have _skailed_,\nwas her employment in the second. Roderick was not to be baulked so.\nThere was a window in the apartment, which, had the walls been of\nstone, would scarcely have afforded passage to an ordinary-sized cat,\nbut luckily they were of turf. Into this opening he insinuated first\nhis head, next his shoulders, and wriggling from side to side until\nthe whole wall heaved with the commotion, he wormed himself into\nliberty; and then set off for the church of Cromarty, without bonnet,\ncoat, or waistcoat. An angry man was Roderick; and the anger, which\nhe well knew would gain him nothing if wreaked on the gudewife, was\nboiling up against the Captain and Mr. Simpson. He entered the church,\nand in a moment every eye in it was turned on him. The schoolmaster,\na thin serious-looking person, sat in the precentor\u2019s desk, with his\nwriting materials before him, to take down the names of the voters,\nhundreds of whom thronged the body of the church. Captain Urquhart, in\nan attitude between sitting and standing, occupied one of the opposite\npews; about half a dozen of his servants lounged behind him. He was a\nformidable-looking, dark-complexioned, square-shouldered man, of about\nfifty; and over his harsh weather-beaten features, which were in some\nlittle degree the reverse of engaging at any time, the occasion of\nthe meeting seemed to have flung a darker expression than was common\nto them. As Roderick advanced, he started up as if to reconnoitre so\nterrible an apparition. Roderick\u2019s shirt and breeches were stained by\nthe damp mouldy turf of the window, his face had not escaped, and,\ninstead of being marked by its usual expression of quiet good-nature,\nbore a portentous ferocity of aspect, which seemed to indicate a man\nnot rashly to be meddled with. \u201cIn the name of wonder, what brings you\nhere in such plight?\u201d was the question put to him by an acquaintance\nin the aisle. \u201cI come here,\u201d said Roderick, in a voice sufficiently\naudible all over the building, \u201cto gie my vote as a free member o\u2019\nthis kirk in the election o\u2019 this day; an\u2019 as for the particular\nplight,\u201d lowering his tone into a whisper, \u201cspeer about that at the\ngudewife.\u201d--\u201cAnd whom do you vote for?\u201d said the schoolmaster, \u201cfor\nthe time is up;--there are two candidates, Simpson and Henderson.\u201d\n\u201cFor honest Mr. Henderson,\u201d said the farmer; \u201can\u2019 ill be his luck this\nday wha votes for ae Roman out o\u2019 the fear o\u2019 anither, or lets the\nluve o\u2019 warld\u2019s gear stan\u2019 atween him an\u2019 his conscience.\u201d The Captain\ngrasped his stick; Roderick clenched his fist. \u201cLook ye, Captain,\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201cafter flinging awa, for the sake o\u2019 the puir kirk, the\nbonny rigs o\u2019 Driemonorie, an\u2019 I ken I have done it, ye needna think\nto daunt me wi\u2019 a kent. Come out, Captain, yoursel, or ony twa o\u2019 your\ngang, an\u2019 in this quarrel I shall bide the warst. Nay, man, glower as\nye list; I\u2019m no obliged to be feart though ye choose to be angry.\u201d\nThe shout of \u201cNo Popish patron!--no Popish patron!\u201d which shook the\nvery roof that stretched over the heads of the hundreds who joined in\nit, served as a kind of chorus to this fearless defiance. The Captain\nsuffered his stick to slip through his fingers until the knob rested\non his palm, and then, striding over the pew, he walked out of church.\nIn less than half an hour after, the popular candidate was declared\nduly elected, and at Whitsunday first Roderick was ejected from his\nfarm. His character, however, as a man of probity and a skilful farmer,\nwas so well established throughout the country, that he suffered less\non the occasion than almost any other person would have done. He died\nmany years after, the tacksman of Peddieston, possessed of ingear and\noutgear, and of a very considerable sum of money, with which he had the\ntemerity to intrust a newfangled kind of money-borrower, termed a bank.\n\n[Sidenote: MR. HENDERSON.]\n\nAfter all they had achieved and suffered on this occasion, the people\nof Cromarty were unfortunate in their minister. He was a person of\nconsiderable talent, and an amiable disposition; and beloved by\nevery class of his parishoners. The young spoke well of him for his\ngood-nature; the old for the deference which he paid to the opinions\nof his lay advisers. He was, besides, deeply read in theology, and\nacquainted with the various workings of religion in the various\nconstitutions of mind. But of all his friends and advisers, there\nwere none sufficiently acquainted with his character to give him the\nadvice which he most needed. He was naturally amiable and unassuming,\nand when he became a convert to Christianity, scarcely any change took\nplace in his external conduct. He continued to act from principle\nin the manner he had previously acted from the natural bent of his\ndisposition. For the first few years he was much impressed by a sense\nof the importance of spiritual concerns, and he became a minister of\nthe church that he might press their importance upon others; but there\nare ebbs and flows of the mind in its moral as certainly as in its\nintellectual operations; and that flow of zeal which characterizes the\nyoung convert is very often succeeded by a temporary ebb, during which\nhe sinks into comparative indifference. It was thus with Henderson.\nHis first impressions became faint, and he continued to walk the round\nof his duties, rather from their having become matters of custom to\nhim, and that it was necessary for him to maintain the character\nof being consistent, than from a due sense of their importance. He\ncontinued, too, to instruct his people by delineations of character\nand expositions of doctrine; but his knowledge of the first was the\nresult of studies which he had ceased to prosecute, and in which he\nhimself had been both the student and the thing studied, and the\nefficacy of the latter was neutralized by their having become to him\nless the objects of serious belief than of metaphysical speculation.\nHis peculiar character, too, with all its seeming advantages of natural\nconstitution, was perhaps as much exposed to evil as others of a less\namiable stamp. There are passions and dispositions so unequivocally\nbad, that even indifference itself is roused to oppose them; but when\nthe current of nature and the course of duty seem to run parallel,\nwe suffer ourselves to be borne away by the stream, and are seldom\nsufficiently watchful to ascertain whether the parallelism be alike\nexact in every stage of our progress. Henderson\u2019s character precluded\nboth suspicion and advice. What were the feelings of his people, when,\non summoning the elders of the church, he told them, that, having\nformed an improper connexion with a girl of the place, he had become a\ndisgrace to the order to which he belonged! He was expelled from his\noffice, and after remaining in town until a neighbouring clergyman\nhad dealt to him the censures of the Church, from the pulpit which he\nhimself had lately occupied, and in presence of a congregation that had\nonce listened to him with pleasure, and now beheld him with tears, he\nwent away, no one knew whither, and was never again seen in Cromarty.\n\nAbout twenty years after, a young lad, a native of the place, was\njourneying after nightfall between Elgin and Banff, when he was joined\nby two persons who were travelling in the same direction, and entered\ninto conversation with them. One of them seemed to be a plain country\nfarmer; the other was evidently a man of education and breeding. The\nfarmer, with a curiosity deemed characteristic of Scotchmen of a\ncertain class, questioned him about the occasion of his journey, and\nhis place of residence. The other seemed less curious; but no sooner\nhad he learned that he was a native of Cromarty, than he became the\nmore inquisitive of the two; and his numberless inquiries regarding the\npeople of the town, showed that at some period he had been intimately\nacquainted with them. But many of those after whom he inquired had been\nlong dead, or had removed from the place years before. The lad whose\ncuriosity was excited, was mustering up courage to ask him whether he\nhad not at some time or other resided in Cromarty, when the stranger,\nhastily seizing his hand with the cordiality of an old friend, bade him\nfarewell, and turning off at a cross-road, left him to the company of\nthe farmer. \u201cWho is that gentleman?\u201d was his first question. \u201cThe Mr.\nHenderson,\u201d was the reply, \u201cwho was at one time minister of Cromarty.\u201d\nThe lad learned further, that he supported himself as a country\nschoolmaster, and was a devout, excellent man, charitable and tender\nto others, but severe to himself beyond the precedents of Reformed\nChurches. \u201cI wish,\u201d said the farmer, \u201cyou had seen him by day;--he has\nthe grey locks and bent frame of old age though he is not yet turned\nof fifty. There is a hill in a solitary part of the country, near his\nschool, on which he frequently spends the long winter nights in prayer\nand meditation; and a little below its summit there is a path which\nruns quite round, and which can be seen a full mile away, that has been\nhollowed out by his feet.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n    \u201cUnquiet souls\n    Risen from the grave, to ease the heavy guilt\n    Of deeds in life concealed.\u201d--AKENSIDE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE CHURCHYARD GHOST.]\n\nOf all the wilder beliefs of our forefathers, there is none which so\ntruly continues to exist as the belief in the churchyard spectre.\nTreat it as we may, it has assuredly a fast hold of our nature. We\nmay conceal, but we cannot smother it;--we may deny it as pointedly\nas the lackey does his master when the visitor is an unwelcome one,\nbut it is not from that circumstance a whit the less at home. True or\nfalse, too, it seems to act no unimportant part in the moral economy of\nthe world. For without a deeper sense of religion to set in its place\nthan most people entertain, men would be greatly the worse for wanting\nit. There are superstitions which perform, in some measure, the work\nof the devotional sentiment, when the latter is either undeveloped\nor misdirected; and the superstition of the churchyard ghost is\nunquestionably one of the number.\n\n[Sidenote: MY WRITING-ROOM.]\n\nI am fortunate, so far as the sympathy of place can have any influence\non the mind, in the little antique room in which I have set myself to\nillustrate the belief. Just look round you for one brief minute, and\nsee how the little narrow windows rise into the thatch, and how very\nprofoundly one requires to stoop ere one can enter by the door. The\nceiling rises far into the roof. There is a deep recess in the wall\noccupied by a few pieces of old china, and a set of shelves laden\nwith old books; and only see how abruptly the hearth-stone rises\nover the sanded floor, and how well the fashion of yonder old oaken\ntable agrees with that of the old oaken scrutoire in the opposite\ncorner. Humble as my apartment may seem, it is a place of some little\nexperience in the affairs of both this world and the other. It has\nseen three entire generations come into being and pass away, and it\nnow shelters the scion of a fourth. It has been a frequent scene of\nchristenings, bridals, and lykewakes--of the joys and sorrows, the\ncares and solicitudes of humble life. Nor were these all. There is the\nidentical door at which it is said a great-grand-aunt of the writer\nsaw a sheeted spectre looking in upon her as she lay a-bed; and there\nthe window at which another and nearer relative was sitting in a\nstormy winter evening, thinking of her husband far at sea, when, after\na dismal gust had howled over the roof, the flapping of a sail and\nthe cry of distress were heard, and she wrung her hands in anguish,\nconvinced that her sailor had perished. And so indeed it was. Strange\nvoices have echoed from the adjoining apartment; the sounds of an\nunknown foot have been heard traversing its floor; and I have only to\ndescend the stair ere I stand on the place where a shadowy dissevered\nhand was once seen beckoning on one of the inmates. How incalculably\nnumerous must such stories have once been, when the history of one\nlittle domicile furnishes so many?\n\n[Sidenote: THE BROKEN PROMISE.]\n\nAbout sixteen years ago, I accompanied an elderly relative--now,\nalas! no more--on a journey through the parishes of Nigg, Fearn, and\nTarbat. He was a shrewd, clear-headed man, of great warmth of heart,\nwho continued to bear a balmy atmosphere of the enthusiasm of early\nyouth about him, despite of the hard-earned experience of fifty-five.\nThere could not be a more delightful companion even to a boy. I never\nknew one half so well acquainted with the traditionary history of the\ncountry. Every hamlet we passed, almost every green mound, had its\nstory; and there was that happy mixture of point and simplicity in\nhis style of narrative, which almost every one knows how to admire,\nand scarcely one of a thousand how to imitate. He had, I suspect, a\ngood deal of the sceptic in his composition, and regarded his ghost\nstories rather as the machinery of a sort of domestic poetry than as\npieces of real history; but then, no one could value them more as\ncurious illustrations of human belief, or show less of the coldness\nof infidelity in his mode of telling them. \u201cYonder lofty ridge,\u201d said\nhe, as we passed along, \u201cis the hill of Nigg, so famous, you know,\nas a hunting-place of the Fions. Were we on the other side, where it\noverhangs the sea, I could point out to you the remains of a cottage\nthat has an old ghost story connected with it--a story that dates, I\nbelieve, some time in the early days of your grandmother. Two young\ngirls, who had grown up together from the days of their childhood,\nand were mutually attached, had gone to the lykewake of a female\nacquaintance, a poor orphan, and found some women employed in dressing\nthe body. There was an indifference and even light-heartedness shown\non the occasion that shocked the two friends; and they solemnly\nagreed before parting, that should one of them outlive the other, the\nsurvivor, and no one besides, should lay out the corpse of the departed\nfor the grave. The feeling, however, passed with the occasion out of\nwhich it arose, and the mutual promise was forgotten, until several\nyears after, when one of the girls, then the mistress of a solitary\nfarmhouse on the hill of Nigg, was informed one morning, by a chance\npassenger, that her old companion, who had become the wife of a farmer\nin the neighbouring parish of Fearn, had died in childbed during the\nprevious night. She called to mind her promise, but it was only to\nreflect how impossible it was for her to fulfill it. She had her infant\nto tend, and no one to intrust it to--her maid having left her scarcely\nan hour before for a neighbouring fair, to which her husband and his\nploughman had also gone. She spent an anxious day, and it was with no\nordinary solicitude, as she saw the evening gradually darkening, and\nthought of her promise and her deceased companion, that she went out\nto a little hillock beside the house, which commanded a view of the\nmoor over which her husband and the servants had to pass on their way\nfrom the fair, to ascertain whether any of them were yet returning.\nAt length she could discern through the deepening twilight, a female\nfigure in white coming along the moor, and supposing it to be the\nmaid, and unwilling to appear so anxious for her return, she went into\nthe house. The outer apartment, as was customary at the period, was\noccupied as a cow-house; some of the animals were in their stalls,\nand on their beginning to snort and stamp as if disturbed by some one\npassing, the woman half turned her to the door. What, however, was her\nastonishment to see, instead of the maid, a tall figure wrapped up\nfrom head to foot in a winding-sheet! It passed round to the opposite\nside of the fire, where there was a chair drawn in for the farmer, and\nseating itself, raised its thin chalky arms and uncovered its face.\nThe features, as shown by the flame, were those of the deceased woman;\nand it was with an expression of anger, which added to the horror of\nthe appearance, that the dead and glassy eyes were turned to her old\ncompanion, who, shrinking with a terror that seemed to annihilate\nevery feeling and faculty except the anxious solicitude of the mother,\nstrained her child to her bosom, and gazed as if fascinated on the\nterrible apparition before her. She could see every fold of the sheet;\nthe black hair seemed to droop carelessly over the forehead; the livid,\nunbreathing lips were drawn apart, as if no friendly hand had closed\nthem after the last agony; and the reflection of the flame seemed to\nrise and fall within the eyes--varying by its ceaseless flicker the\nstatue-like fixedness of the features. As the fire began to decay,\nthe woman recovered enough of her self-possession to stretch her hand\nbehind her, and draw from time to time out of the child\u2019s cradle a\nhandful of straw, which she flung on the embers; but she had lost all\nreckoning of time, and could only guess at the duration of the visit\nby finding the straw nearly expended. She was looking forward with a\nstill deepening horror to being left in darkness with the spectre, when\nvoices were heard in the yard without. The apparition glided towards\nthe door; the cattle began to snort and stamp, as on its entrance;\nand one of them struck at it with its feet in the passing; when it\nuttered a faint shriek and disappeared. The farmer entered the cottage\na moment after, barely in time to see his wife fall over in a swoon on\nthe floor, and to receive the child. Next morning, says the story, the\nwoman attended the lykewake, to fulfil all of her engagement that she\nyet could; and on examining the body, discovered that, by a strange\nsympathy, the mark of a cow\u2019s hoof was distinctly impressed on its left\nside.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE POLANDER.]\n\nWe passed onwards, and paused for a few seconds where the parish of\nNigg borders on that of Fearn, beside an old hawthorn hedge and a few\ngreen mounds. \u201cAnd here,\u201d said my companion, \u201cis the scene of another\nghost story, that made some noise in its day; but it is now more than\na century old, and the details are but imperfectly preserved. You\nhave read, in Johnson\u2019s Life of Denham, that Charles II., during his\nexile in France, succeeded in procuring a contribution of ten thousand\npounds from the Scotch that at that time wandered as itinerant traders\nover Poland. The old hedge beside you, and the few green mounds beyond\nit, once formed the dwelling-house and garden fence of one of these\nPolish traders, who had returned in old age to his native country,\npossessed, as all supposed, of very considerable wealth. He was known\nto the country folk as the \u2018Rich Polander.\u2019 On his death, however,\nwhich took place suddenly, his strong-box was found to contain only a\nwall, bequeathing to his various relations large sums that were vested,\nno one knew where. Some were of opinion that he had lent money to a\nconsiderable amount to one or two neighbouring proprietors; and some\nhad heard him speak of a brother in Poland, with whom he had left the\ngreater part of his capital, and who had been robbed and murdered by\nbanditti, somewhere on the frontier territories, when on his return\nto Scotland. In the middle of these surmisings, however, the Polander\nhimself returned, as if to settle the point. The field there to the\nright, in front of the ruins, was at that time laid out as a lawn;\nthere was a gate in the eastern corner, and another in the west; and\nthere ran between them a road that passed the front of the house. And\nalmost every evening the apparition of the Polander, for years after\nhis decease, walked along that road. It came invariably from the east,\nlingered long in front of the building, and then, gliding towards\nthe west, disappeared in passing through the gateway. But no one had\ncourage enough to meet with it, or address it; and till this day the\nlegacies of the Polander remain unpaid. I was acquainted in my younger\ndays with a very old man, who has assured me that he repeatedly saw\nthe apparition when on its twilight peregrinations along the road; and\nonce as he lay a-bed in the morning in his mother\u2019s cottage, long after\nthe sun had risen. There was a broad stream of light falling through\nan opening in the roof, athwart the grey and mottled darkness of the\ninterior, and the apparition stood partly in the light, partly in the\nshadow. The richly-embroidered waistcoat, white cravat, and small\nclothes of crimson velvet, were distinctly visible; but he could see\nonly the faint glitter of the laced hat and of the broad shoe-buckles;\nand though the thin withered hands were clearly defined, the features\nwere wholly invisible.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE ONE-EYED STEPMOTHER.]\n\nWe had now entered the parish of Fearn. \u201cAnd here,\u201d continued my\ncompanion, as we approached the abbey, \u201cis the scene of two other\nghost stories, both, like the last, somewhat meagre in their details,\nbut they may serve to show how, in a rude and lawless age, the cause\nof manners and of morals must have found no inefficient ally in a\ndeeply-seated belief in the supernatural. A farmer of the parish, who\nhad just buried his wife, had gone on the evening of the funeral to\npay his addresses to a young woman who lived in a cottage beside the\nburying-ground yonder. There was, it would seem, little of delicacy\non either side; and his suit proved so acceptable, that shortly\nafter nightfall he had his new mistress seated on his knee. They\nwere laughing and joking together beside a window that opened to the\nchurchyard, when the mother of the young girl entered the apartment,\nand, shocked by their levity, reminded him that the corpse of the woman\nso lately deceased lay in all the entireness and almost all the warmth\nof life not forty yards from where they sat. \u2018No, no, mother,\u2019 said\nthe man; \u2018entire she may be, but she was cold enough in all conscience\nbefore we laid her there.\u2019 He turned round as he spoke, and saw his\ndeceased wife looking in upon him through the window. And returning\nhome, he took to his bed, and died of a brain fever only a fortnight\nafter. Depend on\u2019t, that widowers in this part of the country would be\nless hasty ever after in courting their second wives.\n\n\u201cThe cottage higher up the hill--that one with the roof nearly gone,\nand the old elm beside it--was occupied about sixty years ago by a\nfarmer of the parish and a harsh-tempered one-eyed woman, his wife.\nHe had a son and daughter, the children of a former marriage, who\nfound the dame a very stepmother. The boy was in but his fifth, the\ndaughter in but her seventh year; and yet the latter was shrewd enough\nto remark on one occasion, when beaten by the woman for transferring\na little bit of leaven from the baking-trough to her mouth, that her\nsecond mother could see better with her one eye than her first mother\nwith her two. The deceased, an industrious housewife, had left behind\nher large store of blankets and bed-linen; but the bed of the two\nchildren for the summer and autumn after the marriage of their father,\nwas covered by only a few worn-out rags, and when the winter set in,\nthe poor things had to lie in one another\u2019s arms for the early part of\nevery night shuddering with cold. For a week together, however, they\nwere found every morning closely wrapt up in some of their mother\u2019s\nbest blankets. The stepdame stormed, and threatened, and replaced the\nblankets in a large store-chest, furnished with lock and hasp; but it\nwas all in vain--they were found, notwithstanding, each morning on the\nchildren\u2019s bed regularly as the morning came; and the poor things,\nthough threatened and beaten, could give no other account of the\nmatter than that they had been very cold when they fell asleep, and\nwarm and comfortable when they awoke. At length, however, the girl was\nenabled to explain the circumstance in a manner that had the effect\nof tempering the severity of the stepmother all her life after. Her\nbrother had fallen asleep, she said, but _she_ was afraid, and could\nnot sleep; she was, besides, very cold, and so she lay awoke till near\nthe middle of the night, when the door opened, and there entered a lady\nall dressed in white. The fire was blazing brightly, and she could\nsee as clearly as by day the large chest lying locked in the corner;\nbut when the lady went to it the hasp flew open, and she took out the\nblankets and wrapt them carefully round her brother and herself in the\nbed. The lady then kissed her brother, and was going to kiss her too,\nwhen she looked up in her face, and saw it was her first mother. And\nthen she went away without opening the door.\n\n[Sidenote: THE PEDLAR.]\n\n\u201cI remember another ghost story,\u201d continued my companion, \u201cthe scene\nof which I shall point out to you when we have entered the parish of\nTarbat. There is a little muddy lake in the upper part of the parish\nwhich almost dries up in the warmer seasons, and on the further edge\nof which we shall be able to trace the remains of what was once a\nfarmhouse. Considerably more than a century ago, a young man who\ntravelled the country as a packman suddenly disappeared, no one knew\nhow; and several years after, in a dry summer, which reduced the lake\nto less than half its usual size, there was found a human skeleton\namong the mud and rushes at the bottom. Long ere the discovery,\nhowever, the farmhouse was haunted by a restless, mischievous spectre,\nwrapped up in a grey plaid. Like most murdered folk of those days, the\npedlar walked, restricting his appearance, however, to the interior\nof the cottage, which at length came to be deserted; and falling into\ndecay, it lay for the greater part of a half century as a roofless\ngrass-covered ruin. Its old inmates had died off in extreme penury and\nwretchedness, and both they and the pedlar were nearly forgotten, when\na young man, no way related to either, availing himself of the site of\nthe cottage and the portions of its broken walls which still remained,\nrebuilt it when on the eve of his marriage, and removed to it with\nhis young wife. On the third evening, when all the wedding guests had\nreturned to their respective homes, the young couple were disturbed by\nstrange noises in an adjoining room, and shortly after the door of the\napartment fell open, and there entered a figure wrapped up in a grey\nplaid. \u2018Who are you?\u2019 said the man, leaping out of bed and stretching\nforth his arms to grapple with the figure. \u2018The unhappy pedlar,\u2019\nreplied the spectre, stepping backwards, \u2018who was murdered sixty years\nago in this very room, and his body thrown into the loch below. But I\nshall trouble you no more. The murderer has gone to his place, and in\ntwo short hours the permitted time of my wanderings on earth shall be\nover; for had I escaped the cruel knife, I would have died in my bed\nthis evening a greyheaded old man.\u2019 It disappeared as it spoke; and\nfrom that night was never more seen nor heard by the inmates of the\nfarmhouse.\u201d According to Hogg--\n\n    \u201cCertain it is, from that day to this,\n    The ghaist of the pedlar was never mair seen.\u201d\n\nIt seems curious enough that such a story should have been received\nfor many years as true in a district of country in which the people\nhold, as strict Calvinists, that no man, however sudden or violent his\ndeath, can die before his appointed time. It may, however, belong to\na somewhat remoter period than that assigned to it--some time in the\nearly half of the last century--and may have originated in the age\nof the curates, whose theology is understood to have been Arminian.\nAnother of my companion\u2019s stories, communicated on this occasion, had\nits scene laid in a district of country full sixty miles away.\n\n[Sidenote: THE GREEN LADY.]\n\nThe wife of a Banffshire proprietor, of the minor class, had been about\nsix months dead, when one of her husband\u2019s ploughmen, returning on\nhorseback from the smithy in the twilight of an autumn evening, was\naccosted, on the banks of a small stream, by a stranger lady, tall and\nslim, and wholly attired in green, with her face wrapped up in the hood\nof her mantle--who requested to be taken up behind him on the horse,\nand carried across. There was something in the tones of her voice that\nseemed to thrill through his very bones, and to insinuate itself in the\nform of a chill fluid between his skull and the scalp. The request,\ntoo, seemed a strange one; for the rivulet was small and low, and could\npresent no serious bar to the progress of the most timid traveller. But\nthe man, unwilling ungallantly to disoblige a lady, turned his horse\nto the bank, and she sprang up lightly behind him. She was, however,\na personage that could be better seen than felt; and came in contact\nwith the ploughman\u2019s back, he said, as if she had been an ill-filled\nsack of wool. And when, on reaching the opposite side of the streamlet,\nshe leaped down as lightly as she had mounted, and he turned fearfully\nround to catch a second glimpse of her, it was in the conviction\nthat she was a creature considerably less earthly in her texture\nthan himself. She opened with two pale, thin arms, the enveloping\nhood, exhibiting a face equally pale and thin, which seemed marked,\nhowever, by the roguish, half-humorous expression of one who had just\nsucceeded in playing off a good joke. \u201cMy dead mistress!\u201d exclaimed the\nploughman. \u201cYes, John, _your mistress_,\u201d replied the ghost. \u201cBut ride\nhome, my bonny man, for it\u2019s growing late; you and I will be better\nacquainted erelong.\u201d John accordingly rode home, and told his story.\n\nNext evening, about the same hour, as two of the laird\u2019s servant-maids\nwere engaged in washing in an out-house, there came a slight tap to\nthe door. \u201cCome in,\u201d said one of the maids; and the lady entered,\ndressed, as on the previous night, in green. She swept past them to\nthe inner part of the washing-room; and seating herself on a low\nbench, from which, ere her death, she used occasionally to superintend\ntheir employment, she began to question them, as if still in the body,\nabout the progress of their work. The girls, however, were greatly too\nfrightened to reply. She then visited an old woman who had nursed the\nlaird, and to whom she used to show, ere her departure, considerably\nmore kindness than her husband. And she now seemed as much interested\nin her welfare as ever. She inquired whether the laird was kind to her;\nand, looking round her little smoky cottage, regretted she should be so\nindifferently lodged, and that her cupboard, which was rather of the\nemptiest at the time, should not be more amply furnished. For nearly\na twelvemonth after, scarce a day passed in which she was not seen by\nsome of the domestics--never, however, except on one occasion, after\nthe sun had risen, or before it had set. The maids could see her in the\ngrey of the morning flitting like a shadow round their beds, or peering\nin upon them at night through the dark window-panes, or at half-open\ndoors. In the evening she would glide into the kitchen or some of the\nout-houses--one of the most familiar and least dignified of her class\nthat ever held intercourse with mankind--and inquire of the girls\nhow they had been employed during the day; often, however, without\nobtaining an answer, though from a different cause from that which\nhad at first tied their tongues. For they had become so regardless of\nher presence, viewing her simply as a troublesome mistress who had no\nlonger any claim to be heeded, that when she entered, and they had\ndropped their conversation, under the impression that their visitor\nwas a creature of flesh and blood like themselves, they would again\nresume it, remarking that the entrant was \u201conly the green lady.\u201d Though\nalways cadaverously pale and miserable-looking, she affected a joyous\ndisposition, and was frequently heard to laugh, even when invisible.\nAt one time, when provoked by the studied silence of a servant girl,\nshe flung a pillow at her head, which the girl caught up and returned;\nat another, she presented her first acquaintance, the ploughman, with\nwhat seemed to be a handful of silver coin, which he transferred to\nhis pocket, but which, on hearing her laugh immediately after she\nhad disappeared, he drew out again, and found to be merely a handful\nof slate-shivers. On yet another occasion, the man, when passing on\nhorseback through a clump of wood, was repeatedly struck from behind\nthe trees by little pellets of turf; and, on riding into the thicket,\nhe found that his assailant was the green lady. To her husband she\nnever appeared; but he frequently heard the tones of her voice echoing\nfrom the lower apartments, and the faint peal of her cold unnatural\nlaugh.\n\nOne day at noon, a year after her first appearance, the old nurse was\nsurprised to see her enter the cottage, as all her previous visits had\nbeen made early in the morning or late in the evening; whereas now,\nthough the day was dark and lowering, and a storm of wind and rain had\njust broken out, still it _was_ day. \u201cMammie!\u201d she said, \u201cI cannot\nopen the heart of the laird, and I have nothing of my own to give you;\nbut I think I can do something for you now. Go straight to the White\nHouse [that of a neighbouring proprietor], and tell the folk there to\nset out, with all the speed of man and horse, for the black rock at\nthe foot of the crags, or they\u2019ll rue it dearly to their dying day.\nTheir bairns, foolish things, have gone out to the rock, and the sea\nhas flowed round them; and if no help reach them soon, they\u2019ll be all\nscattered like seaware on the shore ere the fall of the tide. But if\nyou go and tell your story at the White House, mammie, the bairns will\nbe safe for an hour to come; and there will be something done by their\nmother to better you, for the news.\u201d The woman went as directed, and\ntold her story; and the father of the children set out on horseback\nin hot haste for the rock--a low, insulated skerry, which, lying on\na solitary part of the beach, far below the line of flood, was shut\nout from the view of the inhabited country by a wall of precipices,\nand covered every tide by several feet of water. On reaching the edge\nof the cliffs, he saw the black rock, as the woman had described,\nsurrounded by the sea, and the children clinging to its higher crags.\nBut, though the waves were fast rising, his attempts to ride out\nthrough the surf to the poor little things were frustrated by their\ncries, which so frightened his horse as to render it unmanageable; and\nso he had to gallop on to the nearest fishing village for a boat. So\nmuch time was unavoidably lost, in consequence, that nearly the whole\nbeach was covered by the sea, and the surf had begun to lash the feet\nof the precipices behind; but, until the boat arrived, not a single\nwave dashed over the black rock; though immediately after the last of\nthe children had been rescued, an immense wreath of foam rose twice a\nman\u2019s height over its topmost pinnacle.\n\nThe old nurse, on her return to the cottage, found the green lady\nsitting beside the fire. \u201cMammie,\u201d she said, \u201cyou have made friends to\nyourself to-day, who will be kinder to you than your foster-son. I must\nnow leave you: my time is out, and you\u2019ll be all left to yourselves;\nbut I\u2019ll have no rest, mammie, for many a twelvemonth to come. Ten\nyears ago a travelling pedlar broke into our garden in the fruit\nseason, and I sent out our old ploughman, who is now in Ireland, to\ndrive him away. It was on a Sunday, and everybody else was in church.\nThe men struggled and fought, and the pedlar was killed. But though I\nat first thought of bringing the case before the laird, when I saw\nthe dead man\u2019s pack with its silks and its velvets, and this unhappy\npiece of green satin (shaking her dress), my foolish heart beguiled me,\nand I bade the ploughman bury the pedlar\u2019s body under our ash-tree, in\nthe corner of our garden, and we divided his goods and money between\nus. You must bid the laird raise his bones, and carry them to the\nchurchyard; and the gold, which you will find in the little _bole_\nunder the tapestry in my room, must be sent to a poor old widow, the\npedlar\u2019s mother, who lives on the shore of Leith. I must now away\nto Ireland to the ploughman; and I\u2019ll be e\u2019en less welcome to him,\nmammie, than at the laird\u2019s; but the hungry blood cries loud against us\nboth--him and me--and we must suffer together. Take care you look not\nafter me till I have passed the knowe.\u201d She glided away as she spoke in\na gleam of light; and when the old woman had withdrawn her hand from\nher eyes, dazzled by the sudden brightness, she saw only a large black\ngreyhound crossing the moor. And the green lady was never afterwards\nseen in Scotland. But the little hoard of gold pieces, stored in a\nconcealed recess of her former apartment, and the mouldering remains\nof the pedlar under the ash-tree, gave evidence to the truth of her\nnarrative.\n\n[Sidenote: MUNRO THE POST.]\n\nI shall present the reader with one other story under this head--a\nghost story of the more frightful class; which, though not at all\ninexplicable on natural principles, has as many marks of authenticity\nabout it as any of the kind I am acquainted with. For many years the\nCromarty Post-office, which, from the peninsular situation of the\nplace, lies considerably out of the line of the mail, was connected\nwith Inverness by a brace of pedestrian postmen, who divided the road\nbetween them into two stages; the last, or Cromarty stage, commencing\nat Fortrose. The post who, about half a century ago, travelled over\nthis terminal stage six times every week was an elderly Highlander\nof the clan Munro--a staid, grave-featured man, somewhat tinged, it\nwas said, by the constitutional melancholy of his country-folk, and\nnot a little influenced by their peculiar beliefs. He had set out\nfor Fortrose on his way home one evening, when he was overtaken by\ntwo acquaintances--the one a miller of Resolis, the other a tacksman\nof the parish of Cromarty--both considerably in liquor, and loud and\nangry in dispute. One of the Fortrose fairs had been held that day;\nand they had quarrelled in driving a bargain. Saunders Munro strove to\npacify them, but to little purpose--they bickered idly on with drunken\npertinacity; and it was with no little anxiety that, as they reached\nthe Burn of Rosemarkie, where the White-bog and Scarfs-craig roads part\ncompany, he saw them pause for a moment, as if to determine their route\nhomewards. The miller was a tall athletic Highlander; the tacksman\na compact, nervous man, not above the middle size, but resolute and\nstrongly built. He could scarce, however, be deemed a full match for\nthe Highlander; and under some such impression, old Saunders, unluckily\nas it proved, laid hold of him as he stood hesitating. \u201cYou must not\ngo by that White-bog road,\u201d he said; \u201cit is the near road for the\nmiller, but not for you; you must come with me by the Scarfs-craig.\u201d\n\u201cNo, Saunders,\u201d said the tacksman; \u201cI know what you mean; you do not\nlike that I should cross the Maolbuie moor with the miller; but, big\nas he is, he\u2019ll be bigger yet or he daunt me; and I\u2019ll just go by\nthe White-bog road to show him that.\u201d \u201cHoot, man,\u201d replied Saunders,\n\u201cI\u2019m no thinking o\u2019 that at all; I\u2019m just no very weel to-night, and\nwould be the better for your company; and so ye\u2019ll come hame this way\nwith me.\u201d \u201cNot a foot,\u201d doggedly rejoined the tacksman; and, shaking\noff the old man, he took the White-bog road with the miller. Saunders\nstood gazing anxiously after them as they descended the precipitous\nsides of the burn, until a jutting crag hid them from his sight. And\nfor the rest of the evening, when pursuing his journey homewards, he\nfelt burdened by an overpowering anxiety, which, disproportioned as it\nseemed to the occasion, he could not shake off.\n\nThe tacksman reached his home in less than two hours after he had\nparted from old Saunders; but two full days elapsed ere any one heard\nof the miller. In the evening of the second day, two young girls, the\nmiller\u2019s sisters, who, after many fruitless inquiries regarding him,\nhad at length come to learn in whose company he had quitted the fair,\ncalled at the farmhouse, and found the tacksman sitting moodily beside\nthe fire. He started up, however, as one of them addressed him, and\nseemed strangely confused on being asked where he had parted from their\nbrother. \u201cI do not remember,\u201d he said, \u201cbeing with your brother at all;\nand yet, now that I think of it, we must surely have left Rosemarkie\ntogether. The truth is, we had both rather too much drink in our heads.\nBut I have some remembrance of passing the Grey Cairn in his company;\nand--and;--but--I must surely have left him at the Grey Cairn.\u201d \u201cIt\nmust be ill with my brother,\u201d exclaimed one of the girls, \u201cif he be\nstill at the Grey Cairn!\u201d \u201cIn truth,\u201d replied the tacksman, \u201cI cannot\nwell say where we parted, or whether I did not leave him at Rosemarkie\nwith old Saunders Munro the post.\u201d\n\nThe evening was by this time merging into night, but the two terrified\ngirls set out for the cairn; and the tacksman, taking down his bonnet,\nseemed as if he purposed accompanying them. On reaching, however, the\nouter wall of his yard, he stood for a few seconds as if undecided, and\nthen, turning fairly round, left them to proceed alone. They entered\none of the blind pathways that go winding in every direction through\nthe long heath of the Maolbuie--a bleak, desolate, tumulus-mottled\nmoor--the scene in some remote age of a battle unrecorded by the\nhistorian; and its grey cairn, a vast accumulation of lichened stone,\nis said to cover, as I have already stated in an early chapter, the\ngrave of a Pictish monarch, who, with half his army, perished in the\nfray. They reached the cairn; but all was silent, save that a chill\nbreeze was moaning through the interstices of the shapeless pile, and\nsullenly waving the few fir seedlings that skirt its base; and they\nhad turned to leave the spot, when they were startled by the howling\nof a dog a few hundred yards away. There was a dolorous wildness blent\nwith an ominous familiarity in the sounds, that smote upon their\nhearts; and they struck out into the moor in the direction whence they\nproceeded, convinced that they were at length to learn the worst. On\ncoming up to the animal, they found it standing beside the dead body\nof its master, their brother. The corpse was examined next morning by\nsome of the neighbouring farmers; but nothing could be conclusively\ndetermined respecting the manner in which the unfortunate man had met\nhis death. The neckcloth seemed straitened, and the folds somewhat\ncompressed, as if it had been grasped by the hand; but then the throat\nand neck were scarce at all discoloured, nor were the features more\ndistorted than if the death had been a natural one. The heath and\nmosses, too, in which the body had half sunk, rose as unbroken on every\nside of it as if they had never been pressed by the foot. There was no\ninterference of the magistrate in the case, nor examination of parties.\nThe body was conveyed to the churchyard and buried; and a little pile\nof moor-stones, erected by the herd-boys who tend their cattle on the\nmoor, continued to mark, when I last passed the way, the spot where it\nhad been found.\n\nOne evening, a few weeks after the interment, as old Saunders the\npostman was coming slowly down upon the town of Cromarty through the\ndark Navity woods, his eye caught a tall figure coming up behind him,\nand mistaking it in the uncertain light for an acquaintance, a farmer,\nhe paused for a moment by the wayside, and placed his hand almost\nmechanically on the ready snuff-box. What, however, was his horror and\nastonishment to find, that what he had mistaken for his acquaintance\nthe farmer was the dead miller of Resolis, attired, as was the wont of\nthe deceased when in holiday trim, in the Highland costume. He could\nsee, scarce less distinctly than when he had parted from him at the\nBurn of Rosemarkie, the chequers of the tartan and the scarlet of the\ngay hose garter, and--a circumstance I have never known omitted in any\nedition of the story--the glimmer of the large brass pin which fastened\nthe kilt at the waist. For an instant Saunders felt as if rooted to\nthe spot; and then starting forward he hurried homewards, half beside\nhimself with a terror that seemed to obliterate every idea of space\nand time, but collected enough to remark that the spectre kept close\nbeside him, taking step for step with him as he went, until, at the\ngate of a burying-ground immediately over the town, it disappeared. On\nthe following evening, when again passing through the Navity woods,\nnervous with the recollection of the previous night\u2019s adventure, he was\nstartled by a rustling in the bushes; a shadowy figure came gliding\nout from among them to the middle of the road, and he found himself\na second time in the presence of the spectre, which accompanied him,\nas before, to the gate of the burying-ground. He contrived on the day\nafter to leave Fortrose at so early an hour, that he had reached the\nouter skirts of the town of Cromarty as the sun was setting; but on\ncrossing the street to his own house, the spectre started up beside him\nin the clear twilight, and, regarding him with an expression of grieved\nanxiety, disappeared as he entered the door. An aunt of the writer, who\nhad occasion to call at his house on this evening, found him in bed in\na corner of the sitting-room of his domicile, and on inquiring whether\nhe was ill, was informed by his wife, who sat beside him, the cause of\nhis indisposition.\n\nOn his next day\u2019s journey, Saunders, instead of following his usual\nroad, struck, on his return, across the fields in the direction of a\nwooded ravine, which, forming part of the pleasure-grounds of Cromarty\nHouse, bears the name of the Ladies\u2019 Walk. The evening was cloudless\nand bright; and the sun had but just disappeared behind the hill,\nwhen he entered the wooded hollow and crossed the little stream which\nruns along its bottom. But on rising along the opposite acclivity,\nhe found that the apparition of the dead miller, true to him as his\nshadow, was climbing the hill by his side; and where the path becomes\nso narrow--bounded on the one side by a steep descending bank, and\non the other by a line of flowering shrubs--that two can hardly walk\nabreast, it glided onwards through the bushes as lightly as a column of\nsmoke, not a leaf stirring as it passed. On reaching the broken wall\nwhich separates the pleasure-grounds from the old parish-churchyard,\nit stood, and, as Saunders was stepping over the fence, spoke for the\nfirst time. \u201cStop, Saunders,\u201d it said, \u201cI must speak to you.\u201d \u201cI have\nneither faith nor strength,\u201d replied Saunders, hurrying away, \u201cto speak\nto the like of you.\u201d\n\nThe minister of the parish at the time was a gentleman of strong\ngood sense and a liberal tone of mind; and when the old man waited\non him in the course of the evening, and imparted to him his story,\nhe questioned him regarding the state of his nerves and stomach, and\ngave him an advice which very considerably resembled the prescription\nof a physician. But though it might be the best possible in the\ncircumstances, it wholly failed to satisfy Saunders; and so he\nunburdened his mind on the matter to one of the elders of the parish,\na worthy sensible Udoll farmer, a high specimen of the class well\nknown in the north country as \u201cthe Men,\u201d who, considerably advanced in\nlife, had formed his beliefs at an earlier period than his minister,\nand was not in the least disposed to treat the case medicinally. He\narranged with Saunders a meeting for the following evening at the hill\nof Eathie, a few miles from his journey\u2019s end; and at Eathie they\naccordingly met, and passed on through the Navity woods together. But\nthough it was late and long ere they reached town, the details of what\nbefell them by the way they never communicated to any one. Saunders\nMunro, however, did not again see the apparition, though he travelled\nfor years after at all hours of the day and night. The elder, when\nrallied regarding the story by a town\u2019s-man whom I well knew, and who\nrelated the circumstance to me, looked him full in the face, and, with\nan expression of severe gravity, \u201cbade him never select that subject\nfor a joke again.\u201d \u201cYoung man,\u201d he said, \u201cit was no joking business!\u201d\n\nNo one, however, evinced so deep an anxiety on the subject of the\nmiller\u2019s ghost, and its supposed interview with the elder, as the\nsuspected tacksman. It is known that on one occasion he placed himself\nin the elder\u2019s way when the latter was returning from a funeral, and\nsolicited a few minutes\u2019 private conversation with him; but was sternly\nrepelled. \u201cYou can have but one business with me,\u201d the elder said;\n\u201cand, if your conscience be clear from blood, not one itself.\u201d Whatever\nhand the tacksman may have had in the miller\u2019s death, no one who knew\nhim, or the circumstances in which he had parted on the fatal night\nfrom old Saunders, could regard him as a murderer; though few real\nmurderers ever wore out life in greater apparent unhappiness than he.\nHe never after held up his head, but went about his ordinary labours\ndejected and spiritless, and invincibly taciturn; and, some few years\nsubsequent to the event, he fell into a lingering illness, of which\nhe died. Were one _making_ a ghost story, it would be no difficult\nmatter to make a more satisfactory one. Never was there a ghost that\nappeared to less purpose than that of the miller, or was less fortunate\nin securing a publisher for its secret; but sure I am, never was there\na ghost story more firmly believed in the immediate scene of it, or\nnarrated with greater truth-like minuteness of detail, or with less\nsuspicion of at least the _honesty_ of the parties on whose testimony\nit rested. Nor was it without its effect in adding strength, within the\nsphere of its influence, to the fence set around the sacred tabernacle\nof the human soul. Where such stories are credited, the violent\nspilling of man\u2019s life is never regarded as merely \u201cthe diverting of a\nlittle red puddle from its source.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n    \u201cOh, many are the poets that are sown\n    By nature; men endow\u2019d with highest gifts,\n    The vision and the faculty divine,\n    Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.\u201d--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE LITERATI OF CROMARTY.]\n\nDuring even the early part of last century, there were a few of the\nmechanics of Cromarty conversant in some little degree with books and\nthe pen. They had their libraries of from ten to twenty volumes of\nsermons and controversial divinity, purchased at auctions or from the\nbooksellers of the south; and I have seen letters and diaries written\nby them, which would have done no discredit to the mechanics of a more\nliterary age. Donald Sandison\u2019s library consisted of nearly a hundred\nvolumes; and his son, whom I remember a very old man, and who had at\none time been the friend and companion of the unfortunate Ferguson\nthe poet, had made so good a use of his opportunities of improvement,\nthat in his latter days, when his sight began to fail him, he used to\nbring with him to church a copy of Beza\u2019s Latin New Testament, which\nhappened to be printed in a clearer type than his English one. The\npeople in general, however, were little acquainted with the better\nliterary models. So late as the year 1750, a copy of Milton\u2019s Paradise\nLost, which had been brought to town by a sailor, was the occasion of\nmuch curious criticism among them; some of them alleging that it was\nheterodox, and ought to be burnt, others deeming it prophetic. One\nman affirmed it to be a romance, another said it was merely a poem;\nbut a Mr. Thomas Hood, a shopkeeper of the place, set the matter at\nrest by remarking, that it seemed to him to be a great book, full of\nmystery like the Revelation of St. John, but certainly no book for\nthe reading of simple unlearned people like him or them. And yet, at\neven this period, Cromarty had its makers of books and writers of\nverses; men of a studious imitative turn--prototypes in some respects\nof those provincial poets of our own times, who become famous for\nnearly half an age in almost an entire county. A few brief notices of\nthe more remarkable of my town\u2019s-men of this first class may prove\nnot unacceptable to the reader; for, of all imitators, the poetical\nimitator is the most eccentric;--though his verses be imitations, in\ncharacter he is always an original.\n\n[Sidenote: JOHNIE O\u2019 THE SHORE.]\n\nOn the southern shore of the Bay of Cromarty, two miles to the west\nof the town, there stood, about ninety years ago, a meal-mill and the\ncottage of the miller. The road leading to the country passed in front,\nbetween the mill and the beach; and a ridge of low hills, intersected\nby deep narrow ravines, and covered with bushes of birch and hazel,\nrose directly behind. There was a straggling line of alders which\nmarked the course of the stream that turned the mill-wheel; while\ntwo gigantic elms, which rose out of the fence of a little garden,\nspread their arms over both the mill and the cottage. The view of the\nneighbouring farm-steadings was shut out by the windings of the coast\nand the ridge behind; and to the traveller who passed along the road\nin front, and saw no other human dwelling nearer him than the little\nspeck-like houses which mottled the opposite shore of the bay, this\none seemed to occupy one of the most secluded spots in the parish. Its\ninmates at this period were John Williamson, the miller, or, as he was\nmore commonly termed, Johnie o\u2019 the Shore, and his sister Margaret--two\nof the best and most eccentric people of their day in the country-side.\nJohn was a poet and a Christian, and much valued by all the serious\nand all the intelligent people of the place; while his sister, who was\nremarkable in the little circle of her acquaintance for the acuteness\nof her judgment in nice points of divinity, was scarcely less esteemed.\n\nThe duties of John\u2019s profession left him much leisure to write and to\npray. During the droughts of summer, his mill-pond would be dried up\nfor months together; and in these seasons he used to retire almost\nevery day to a green hillock in the vicinity of his cottage, which\ncommands an extensive view of the bay and the opposite coast. And\nthere, in a grassy opening among the bushes, would he remain until\nsunset, with only the Bible and his pen for his companions. He was so\nmuch attached to this spot, that he was once heard to say there was no\nplace in which he thought he could so patiently await the resurrection,\nand he intimated to his friends his wish of being buried in it; but, on\nhis deathbed, he changed his mind, and requested to be laid beside his\nmother. It is now covered by a fir-wood, and roughened by thickets of\nfurze and juniper, but enough may still be seen to justify his choice.\nOn one side it descends somewhat abruptly into a narrow ravine, through\nthe bottom of which there runs a little tinkling streamlet; on the\nother, it slopes gently towards the shore. We look on the one hand,\nand see, through the chance vistas which have been opened in the wood,\nthe country rising above us in long undulations of surface, like waves\nof the sea after a storm, and variegated with fields, hedge-rows, and\nclumps of copse-wood. On the other, the wide expanse of the bay lies\nstretched at our feet, with all its winding shores and blue jutting\nheadlands: we look down on the rower as he passes, and hear the notes\nof his song and the measured dash of his oars; and when the winds\nare abroad, we may see them travelling black over the water before\nthey wave the branches that spread over our heads. Many of the poet\u2019s\nhappiest moments were passed in the solitude of this retreat; and from\nthe experience derived in it, though one of the most benevolent of men,\nand at times one of the most sociable, whenever he wished to be happy\nhe sought to be alone. In going to church every Sabbath, instead of\nfollowing the public road, he used invariably to strike across the\nbeach and walk by the edge of the sea; and, on reaching the churchyard,\nhe always retired into some solitary corner, to ponder in silence among\nthe graves. To a person of so serious a cast, a life of solitude and\nself-examination cannot be a happy, unless it be a blameless one; and\nJohnie o\u2019 the Shore was one of the rigidly just. Like the Pharisees of\nold, he tithed mint, and anise, and cumin; but, unlike the Pharisees,\nhe did not neglect the weightier matters of the law. It is recorded of\nhim, that on descending one evening from his hillock, he saw his only\ncow browsing on the grass-plot of a neighbour, and that, after having\nher milked as usual, he despatched his sister with the milk to the\nowner of the grass.\n\nNinety years ago, the press had not found its way into the north\nof Scotland, and the people were unacquainted with the scheme of\npublishing by subscription. And so the writings of Johnie o\u2019 the Shore,\nlike those of the ancients before the invention of printing, existed\nonly in manuscript; and, like them too, they have suffered from the\nGoths. A closely written fragment of about eighty pages, which once\ncomposed part of a bulky quarto volume, is now all that survives of his\nworks, though at his death they formed of themselves a little library.\nOne of the volumes, written wholly in prose, and which minutely\ndetailed, it is said, all the incidents of his life, with his thoughts\non God and heaven, the world and himself, fell into the hands of a\ndistant relative who resided somewhere in Easter-Ross. It must have\nbeen no small curiosity in its way, and for some time I was flattered\nby the hope that it still existed and might be recovered; but I have\ncome to find that it has shared the fate of all his other volumes. The\nexisting fragment is now in my possession. It bears date 1743, and is\noccupied mostly with hymns, catechisms, and prayers. His models for\nthe hymns seem to have been furnished by our Scotch version of the\nPsalms; his catechisms were formed, some on the catechisms of Craig and\nthe Palatine, and some on that of the Assembly Divines; his prayers\nremind me of those which are still to be heard in the churches of our\nnorthern parishes on \u201cthe day of the men.\u201d Some of his larger poems are\nalphabetical acrostics;--the first line of the first stanza of each\nbeginning with the letter A, and the first line in the last with the\nletter Z. Most of them, however--and the fact is a singular one, for\nJohn and his sister were stanch Presbyterians--are commemorative of\nthe festival-days of the English Church. There are hymns for Passion\nFriday, for Christ\u2019s Incarnation-day, for Circumcision-day, and for\nChristmas:--a proof that he must have had little in him of that\nabhorrence of Prelacy which characterized most of the Presbyterians of\nhis time. And he seems, too, to have been of a more tolerating spirit;\nand, in the simple benevolence of his heart, to have come perhaps as\nnear the truth on some dark points as men considerably more skilled\nin dialectics, and more deeply learned. \u201cThere are some people,\u201d\nremarks the querist in one of his catechisms, \u201cwho say that those who\nhave never heard of Christ cannot be saved?\u201d \u201cIt is surely not our\nbusiness,\u201d is the reply, \u201cto search into the deep things of God, except\nso far as He is pleased to reveal them; and, as He has not revealed to\nus that He condemns all those who have not heard of Christ, it is rash\nto say so, and uncharitable besides.\u201d[9]\n\nOne of the most curious poems in the manuscript, is a little piece\nentitled \u201cAn Imagination on the Thunder-claps.\u201d It was written before\nthe discoveries of Franklin; and so the imagination is rather a wild\none--not wilder, however, than some of the soberest speculations of\nthe ancients on the same phenomena. The green hillock on this occasion\nappears to have been both his Observatory and his Parnassus;--he seems\nto have watched upon it every change of the heavens and earth, from\nthe first rising of the thunder-clouds until they had broken into a\ndeluge, and a blue sky looked down on the red tumbling of streams as\nthey leaped over the ridges, or came rushing from out the ravines.\nThough quite serious himself, his uncouth phraseology will hardly fail\nin eliciting the smile of the reader.\n\n\nAN IMAGINATION ON THE THUNDER-CLAPS.\n\n    Lo! pillars great of wat\u2019ry clouds\n      On firmament appear,\n    And mounting up with curl\u00e9d heads,\n      Towards the north do steer.\n    East wind the same doth contradict,\n      And round and round they run;\n    And earth and sea are dark below,\n      And blackness hides the sun.\n\n    Like wrestling tides that in the bay\n      Do bubble, boil, and foam,\n    When seas grow angry at the wind,\n      And boatmen long for home;\n    Ev\u2019n so the black and heavy clouds\n      Do fierce together jar--\n    They meet, and rage, and toss, and whirl,\n      And break, and broken are.\n\n    Up to the place where fire abides\n      These wat\u2019ry clouds have gone\n    And all the waters which they hold\n      Are flung the fire upon.\n    And the vex\u2019d fire boils in the cloud,\n      And lifts a fearful voice,\n    Like rivers toss\u2019d o\u2019er mighty rocks,\n      Or stormy ocean\u2019s noise.\n\n    It roars, and rolls, and hills do shake,\n      And heavens do seem to rend;\n    And should the fierce unquench\u00e9d flame\n      Through the dark clouds descend,\n      Like clay \u2019twould grind the hardest rocks,\n    Like dust the strongest brass,\n      And prostrate pride and strength of man\n    Like pride and strength of grass.\n\n    And now the broken clouds fall down\n      In _groff_ rain from on high;\n    And many streams do rise and roar,\n      That heretofore were dry.\n    And when the red speat will be o\u2019er,\n      And wild storm pass\u2019d away,\n    Rough stones will lie upon the fields,\n      And heaps of sand and clay.\n\n    But I, though great my sins, am spared,\n      These fields to turn and tread:\n    Which surely had not been the case\n      If Jesus had not died.\n\n    _Quod_ JOHNIE O\u2019 THE SHORE.\n\n[Sidenote: MEGGIE O\u2019 THE SHORE.]\n\nJohnie\u2019s sister Margaret (after his death she seems to have fallen\nheir to his title, for she then became Meggie o\u2019 the Shore) survived\nher brother for many years, and died at an extreme old age, about the\nyear 1785. The mill, on its falling into other hands, was thrown down,\nand rebuilt a full half mile further to the west, but the cottage was\nspared for Meggie. She had always been characterized by the extreme\nneatness of her dress and her personal cleanliness, by her taste in\narranging the homely furniture of her cottage, and her hospitality: and\nnow, though the death of her brother had rendered her as poor as it is\npossible for a contented person to become, she was as much marked by\nher neatness, and as hospitable as ever. On one occasion, a Christian\nfriend who had come to visit her (the late Mr. Forsyth of Cromarty),\nwas so charmed with her conversation, as to prolong his stay from\nnoon until evening, when he rose to go away. She asked him, somewhat\nhesitatingly, whether he would not first \u201cbreak bread with her.\u201d He\naccordingly sat down again; and a half cake of bread and a jug of water\n(it was all her larder afforded) were set before him. It was the feast\nof the promise, she said, \u201cThy bread shall be given thee, and thy water\nshall be sure.\u201d Her circumstances, she added, were not quite so easy as\nthey had been during the lifetime of her brother, but the change was\nperhaps for the better; for it had led her to think much oftener than\nbefore, when rising from one meal, that God had kindly pledged Himself\nfor the next.\n\nMeggie lived in a credulous age, and she was one of the credulous\nherself. Like most of her acquaintance, she heard at times the voices\nof spirits in the dash of waves and the roar of winds, and saw wraiths\nand dead-lights; but she was naturally courageous, and had a strong\nreliance on Providence; and so, with all her credulity, she was not\nafraid to live alone, with, as she used to say, only God for her\nneighbour. On a boisterous winter evening, two young girls who were\ntravelling from the country to the town, were forced by the breaking\nout of a fierce snow-storm to take shelter in her cottage. She received\nthem with her wonted kindness, and entertained them as she had done\nher friend. They heard the waves thundering on the beach, and the wind\nhowling in the woods, but peace and safety were with them at Meggie\u2019s\nfireside. About midnight there was a pause in the storm, and they could\nhear strange sounds, like the cries of people in distress, mingling\nwith the roar of the sea. \u201cRaise the window-curtain,\u201d said Meggie, \u201cand\nlook out.\u201d The terrified girls raised the curtain. \u201cDo you see aught?\u201d\nshe inquired. \u201cThere is a bright light,\u201d said the girls, \u201cin the middle\nof the bay of Udoll. It hangs over the water at about the height of a\nship\u2019s mast; and we can see something below it like a boat riding at\nanchor, with the white sea raging round her.\u201d \u201cNow drop the curtain,\u201d\nshe replied; \u201cI am no stranger, my lassies, to sights and noises like\nthese--sights and noises of another world; but I have been taught that\nGod is nearer to me than any other spirit can be; and so have learned\nnot to be afraid.\u201d A few nights after, as the story goes, a Cromarty\nyawl foundered in the bay of Udoll, and all on board perished.\n\nMeggie was always a rigid Presbyterian, and jealous of innovations in\nthe Church; and, as she advanced in years, she became more rigid and\nmore jealous. She is said to have regarded with no great reverence the\nyoung divines that filled up in the parishes around her the places\nof her departed contemporaries; and who too often substituted, as\nshe alleged, the learning which they had acquired at college for a\nknowledge of the human heart and of the Bible. She could ill brook,\ntoo, any interference of the State in the concerns of the Kirk:--an\nAct of Parliament, when read from the pulpit, she deemed little better\nthan blasphemy, and a King\u2019s fast a day desecrated above every other.\nHer zeal in one unlucky instance brought her in contact with the civil\nlaw. Her favourite preacher was Mr. Porteous of Kilmuir, a divine of\nthe old and deeply learned cast--eloquent and pious--not unacquainted\nwith the book of nature, and thoroughly conversant with that of God.\nAfter hearing him deliver, in the church of Nigg, a powerful and\nimpressive discourse, what was her horror and indignation when she\nsaw him descending from the pulpit to read from the precentor\u2019s desk\nsome Proclamation or Act of Council! Had he been less a favourite, or\nanybody else than Mr. Porteous, she could have shut her ears and sat\nstill; as it was, she sprang from her seat, and twitching the paper out\nof his hand, flung it to the floor and stamped upon it with her feet.\nShe was apprehended and sent to the jail of Tain; but she found the\njail a very comfortable sort of place, and, for the three days during\nwhich she was confined to it, she had for her visitors some of the very\nbest people in the country; among the rest, Mr. Porteous himself, who\nhad enough of the old Covenanter in him to feel that she had, perhaps,\ndone only her duty, and that he had very possibly failed in his.\n\nThe story of her death is curious and affecting. A friend, in passing\nher cottage on a journey to the country called in, as usual, to see\nher. She was as neatly dressed as ever, and the little apartment in\nwhich she sat was fastidiously clean; but her countenance was of a\ndeadly paleness, and there was an air of languor about her that seemed\nthe effect of indisposition. \u201cYou are unwell, Meggie?\u201d said her friend.\n\u201cNot quite well, perhaps,\u201d she replied, \u201cbut I shall be so very soon.\nYou must stay and take breakfast with me.\u201d The visitor knew too well\nthe value of one of Meggie\u2019s breakfasts to refuse, and the simple fare\nwhich her cottage afforded was set before him; but he was disappointed\nof the better part of the repast, for she spoke but little, and seemed\nunable to eat. \u201cGod has been exceedingly good to me,\u201d she remarked,\nas she rose when he had eaten to replace in her cupboard the viands\nwhich still remained before him; \u201cwith no one to provide for me but\nHimself, I have not known what it was to want a meal since the death of\nmy brother. You return this way in the evening?\u201d said she, addressing\nher friend. He replied in the affirmative. \u201cThen promise that you will\nnot pass without coming in to see me; I am indisposed at present, but I\nfeel--nay, am certain--that you will find me quite well. Do promise.\u201d\nHer friend promised, and set out on his journey. Twilight had set in\nbefore his return. He raised the latch and entered her apartment,\nwhere all was silent, and the fire dying on the hearth. In a window\nwhich opened to the west, sat Meggie, with her brother\u2019s Bible lying\nopen before her, and her face turned upwards. The faint light of\nevening shone full on her features, and their expression seemed to be\nthat of a calm yet joyous devotion. \u201cI have returned, Meggie,\u201d said\nthe man after a pause of a few minutes. There was no answer. \u201cI have\nreturned, Meggie,\u201d he reiterated, \u201cand have come to see you, to redeem\nmy promise.\u201d Still there was no answer. He went up to her and found she\nwas dead.\n\nAbout twenty years after her death, the grave in which she had been\nburied was opened to admit the corpse of a distant relative. A woman of\nmy acquaintance, who was then a little girl, was at play at the time\namong the stones of the churchyard; but on seeing an elderly female,\na person much of Meggie\u2019s cast of character, go up to the grave, she\nwent up to it too. She saw the woman looking anxiously at the bones and\nthere was one skull in particular which seemed greatly to engage her\nattention. It still retained a few locks of silvery hair, and over the\nhair there were the remains of a linen cap fastened on by two pins.\nShe stooped down, and drawing out the pins, put them up carefully in a\nneedle case, which she then thrust into her bosom. \u201cNot death itself\nshall part us!\u201d she muttered, as if addressing herself to the pins;\n\u201cyou shall do for me what you have done for Meggie o\u2019 the Shore.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: DAVID HENDERSON.]\n\nBut, in holding this _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ with Meggie, I have suffered myself\nto lose sight of the poets, and must now return to them. Next in the\nlist to Johnie o\u2019 the Shore was David Henderson, a native of Cromarty,\nborn some time in the early part of the last century, and who died in\nthe beginning of the present. He was one of that interesting class,\nconcerning whom Nature and Fortune seem at variance; the one marking\nthem out for a high, the other for a low destiny. They are fitted, by\nthe gifts of mind bestowed upon them by the one, to think and act for\nthemselves and others; and then flung by the other into some obscure\nlumber-corner of the world, where these gifts prove useless to them at\nbest, and not unfrequently serve only to encumber them. From Nature\nDavid received talents of a cast considerably superior to those which\nshe commonly bestows; by Fortune he was placed in one of the obscurest\nwalks of life, and prevented from ever quitting it. He acquired his\nlittle education when employed in tending a flock of sheep; the\nherd-boys with whom he associated taught him to read, and he learned to\nwrite by imitating the letters of one of the copy-books used in schools\nupon the smooth flat stones which he found on the sea-shore.\n\nFrom his earliest years his life was one of constant toil. He was a\nherd-boy in his seventh, and a ploughman in his sixteenth year. He was\nthen indentured to a mason; and he soon became one of the most skilful\nworkmen in this part of the country, especially in hewing tombstones\nand engraving epitaphs. There is not a churchyard within ten miles\nof Cromarty in which there may not be seen some of his inscriptions.\nHis heart was an affectionate one, and open to love and friendship;\nand when he had served his apprenticeship, and began to be known as a\nyoung man of superior worth and a good clear head, his company came\nto be much courted by the better sort of people. In his twenty-fifth\nyear he became attached to a young girl of Cromarty, named Annie\nWatson, much celebrated in her day for her charms personal and mental.\nShe was beautiful to admiration, rationally yet fervently pious, and\npossessed of a mind at once powerful and delicate. It was no wonder\nthat David should love such a one; and, as no disparity of condition\nformed an obstacle to the union--as she was a woman of sense and he a\nman of merit--in all probability she would have made him happy. But,\nalas! in the bloom of youth she was taken from him by that insidious\ndisease, which, while it preys on the vitals of its victims, renders\ntheir appearance more interesting, as if to make their loss the more\nregretted. She died of consumption, and David was left behind to mourn\nover her grave, and, when his grief had settled into a calm melancholy,\nto write a simple ballad-like elegy to her memory. I have heard my\nmother say, that it was left by David at the grave of his mistress,\nwhere it was afterwards picked up by a person who gave copies of it\nto several of his acquaintance; but I do not know that any of these\nare now to be found. I have failed in recovering more than a few\nstanzas of it; and these I took down as they were repeated to me by my\nmother, who had committed them to memory when a child. They may prove\ninteresting, rude and fragmentary as they are, to such of my readers\nas love to contemplate the poetic faculty wrapt up in the dishabille\nof an imperfect education. Besides, the writer may be regarded less as\nan insulated individual than as representative of a class. The unknown\nauthors of some of our simpler old ballads, such as Edom o\u2019 Gordon,\nGilmorice, and the Bonny Earl of Moray, were, it is probable, men of\nsimilar acquirements, and a resembling cast of intellect.\n\n\nELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG WOMAN.\n\n    She\u2019s slain by death, that spareth none,\n      An object worthy love;\n    And for her sake was many a sigh,--\n      No doubt she\u2019s now above.\n\n           *       *       *\n\n    In dress she lov\u00e9d to be neat,\n      In handsome trim would go;\n    She lov\u00e9d not to be above\n      Her station, nor below.\n\n           *       *       *\n\n    But, in brief sentence, to have done\n      Of all I have to say--\n    In midst of all her prospects here,\n      She on a deathbed lay.\n\n    And when she on a deathbed lay,\n      To her were visits made\n    By good and reverend elders, who\n      In her great pleasure had.\n\n    For she though in her pleasant youth,\n      When time speeds sweetly by,\n    Esteem\u2019d it, trusting in her God,\n      A blessed thing to die.\n\n    And she their questions unto them\n      Who sought her state to know,\n    Did answer wisely every one,\n      In pleasant words and low.\n\n           *       *       *\n\n    Her lykewake it was piously spent\n      In social prayer and praise,\n    Perform\u00e9d by judicious men,\n      Who stricken were in days.\n\n    And many a sad and heavy heart\n      Was in that mournful place;\n    And many a weary thought was there\n      On her who slept in peace.\n\n    And then the town\u2019s-folk gather\u2019d all\n      To bear her corpse away,\n    And bitter tears by young and old\n      Were shed that mournful day.\n\n    And sure, if town\u2019s-folk griev\u00e9d sore,\n      Sore grieve may I and pine;\n    They much deplored their heavy loss--\n      But what was theirs to mine?\n\n    For her loved voice, I only hear\n      Winds o\u2019er her dust that sigh\n    For her sweet smile, I only see\n      The rank grass waving high.\n\n    And I no option have but think\n      How I am left alone;\n    With none on earth to care for me,\n      Since she who cared is gone.\n\n           *       *       *\n\n    She was the first that ever I\n      In beauty\u2019s bloom did see\n    Departing from the stage of time,\n      Into eternity.\n\n    O may her sex her imitate,\n      Example from her take,\n    And strive t\u2019 employ the day of grace,\n      And wicked ways forsake!\n\nDavid survived his mistress for more than forty years. For thirty of\nthese he was an elder of the Church--a man conversant with deathbeds,\nand a visitor of the fatherless and the widow. Few persons die so\nregretted as David died, or leave behind them so fair a name; nor will\nthe reader fail to recognise something uncommon in his character when\nI tell him, that he was steady and prudent though a poet, and of a\ngrave deportment, good-natured, and a Christian, though of a ready wit.\nHe left behind him, treasured up in the memories of his many friends,\nshrewd, pithy remarks on men and things--specimens of mind, if I may so\nexpress myself, which exhibit the quality of the mass from off which\nthey were struck. His wit, too, was equally popular. I have heard some\nof his _bon-mots_ repeated and laughed at more than twenty years after\nhis death; but his writings were so much less fortunate, that there\nwere few of the people with whom I have conversed concerning him, who\neven knew that he made verses, though none of them were ignorant of his\nhaving been a good man.\n\n[Sidenote: MACCULLOCH OF DUN-LOTH.]\n\nThe last of the Cromarty poets who lived and wrote before the beginning\nof the present century, was Macculloch of Dun-Loth. He was, for nearly\nsixty years, a Society schoolmaster in that parish of Sutherlandshire\nwhose name, for some cause or other, is always attached to his own. But\nI shall attempt introducing him to the reader in the manner in which he\nhas been introduced to myself.\n\n\u201cAbout twenty-eight years ago,\u201d said my informant, \u201cI resided for a few\nweeks with the late Dr. R---- at the manse of Kiltearn. I was lounging\none evening beside the front door, when a singular-looking old man came\nup to me, and asked for the Doctor. He was such an equivocal-looking\nsort of person, that it was quite a puzzle to me whether I should show\nhim into the parlour;--he might be little better than a beggar; he\nmight be worth half a million; but whether a rich man or a poor one,\nno one could look at him and doubt of his being a _particular_ man. He\nwas very little, and very much bent, with just such a grotesque cast of\ncountenance as I have seen carved on the head of a walking-stick. His\nouter man was cased in an old-fashioned suit of raven grey, and he had\nimmense plated buckles in his shoes and in his breeches. I thought of\nthe legend of the Seven Sleepers, and wondered where this fragment of\nthe old world could have lain for the last hundred years. The Doctor\nrelieved me from my perplexity. He had seen him from a window, and,\ncoming out, he welcomed the little old man with his wonted cordiality,\nand ushered him into the parlour as the poet of Dun-Loth.\n\n\u201cHe stayed with us this evening, and never was there a gayer evening\nspent in the manse. The Doctor had the art of eliciting all that was\neccentric in the little man\u2019s character, and that was not a little.\nHe plied him with compliments and jokes, and rallied him on his\nlove-adventures and his poetry. The old man seemed swelling like a\nlittle toad, only it was with conceit, not venom. He chuckled, every\nnow and then, at the more piquant of the Doctor\u2019s good things, with a\nstrange unearthly gaiety that seemed to savour of another world--of\nanother age at least; and then he would jest and compliment in turn.\nWhat he said was, to be sure, great nonsense; but then it was the most\noriginal nonsense that might be, full of small conceits and quibbles,\nand so old-fashioned that we all felt it could not be other than\nthe identical nonsense that had flourished in the early days of our\ngreat-grandmothers. The young people were all delighted--the little\nold man seemed delighted too, and laughed as heartily as any of us.\nMrs. R----, when a young lady, had been eminently beautiful, and the\npoet had celebrated her in a song. It was a miserable composition,\nand some of his neighbours, who wrote nearly as ill as himself, made\nit the occasion of a furious attack upon him. There were remarks,\nreplies, and rejoinders beyond number; until at length, by mere dint of\nperseverance, the poet silenced all his opponents, and took to himself\nthe credit of having gained a signal victory. The Doctor brought up\nthe story of the song, and got him to repeat all the replies and\nrejoinders, which he did with much glee. Next morning he took leave of\nus, and I never again saw the poet of Dun-Loth.\u201d\n\nMacculloch was, as I have stated, a native of the parish of Cromarty,\nand passed the greater part of a long life as a Society schoolmaster,\non a salary of twelve pounds per annum. Out of this pittance he\ncontrived to furnish himself with a library, which, among other works\nof value, contained the whole of the Encyclop\u00e6dia Britannica in its\nsecond edition. Though full of compliment and gallantry in his younger\ndays, he was for the last forty years of his life, so thoroughly a\nwoman-hater, that he would not suffer one of the sex to enter his\ncottage, cook his victuals, or wash his linen. His wardrobe consisted\nof four suits--one of black, one of brown, one of raven grey, and\none of tartan; and he wore them week about, without suffering the\nseparate pieces of any one suit to encroach on the week of another.\nIt has been told me that, in his eightieth year, he attended the\ndispensation of the sacrament in the Highland parish of Lairg, dressed\nin his tartans--kilt, hose, and bonnet. I do not well know whether to\nconsider his singularities as those of the rhymer, the most eccentric\nof all men, or his predilection for rhyming as merely one of his\nsingularities. His compositions were mostly satirical; but his only art\nof satire was the art of calling names in rhyme; and he seems to have\nhad no positive pleasure in bestowing these, but to have flung them,\njust as he used to do his taws when in school, at the heads of all who\noffended him. His death took place about twenty years ago. I subjoin\ntwo of the \u201cpasquils\u201d pointed against him in his war with his brother\nrhymers, and the pieces in which he replied to them. They may show,\nshould they serve no other purpose, what marvellous bad verse could be\nwritten in the classical age of Johnson and Goldsmith, and with what\njustice Dun-Loth piqued himself on having vanquished his opponents.\n\n\nTO DUN-LOTH.\n\n    Dunloth, be wise, take my advice,\n      Silence thy muse in time;\n    For thy thick skull it is too dull\n      To furnish prose or rhyme.\n    But if thy pride will still thee guide\n      To sing thy horrid lays;\n    For any sake, my counsel take,\n      And ne\u2019er attempt to praise.\n    Thy wit\u2019s too low, thyself says so,\n      In this we both agree;\n    The Kilmote flower is, I am sure,\n      A theme too high for thee.\n\n\nANSWER.\n\n    To notice much, base trash as such,\n      I think it were a crime;\n    Or yet to stoop, thou nincompoop,\n      For thy poor paltry rhyme.\n    Thy saucy gee shows thee to be\n      Like a blind muzzled mole:\n    Or like a rat chased by the cat\n      To a dark muddy hole.\n    The first time I thy place pass by,\n      For thy poetic lesson,\n    Thou\u2019lt crouch, be sure, behind the door,\n      Like a poor yelping messan.\n\n\nTO ----\n\n    How hard is thy lot, fair flower of Kilmote,\n      To be sung by a poet so dull;\n    Thy symmetry fine, is a theme too divine\n      For a blockhead with such a thick skull.\n\n\nANSWER.\n\n    So hard is thy lot, poor scurrilous sot,\n      Thy poetry brings thee to shame;\n    So high to aspire, thou\u2019rt thrust in the mire,\n      And laugh\u2019d at by all for the same.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n    \u201cThere are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,\n    Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.\u201d--HAMLET.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE GUDEWIFE OF MINITARF.]\n\nI had passed the three first milestones after leaving Forres, when the\nclouds began to lour on every side of me, as if earth and sky were\ncoming together, and the rain to descend in torrents. The great forest\nof Darnaway looked shaggy and brown through the haze, as if greeting\nthe heavens with a scowl as angry as their own; and a low, long wreath\nof vapour went creeping over the higher lands to the left, like a huge\nsnake. On the right, the _locale_ of Shakspere\u2019s witch scene, half moor\nhalf bog, with the old ruinous castle of Inshoch standing sentry over\nit, seemed ever and anon to lessen its area as the heavily-laden clouds\nbroke over its farther edge like waves of the sea; and the intervening\nmorass--black and dismal at all times--grew still blacker and more\ndismal with every fitful thickening of the haze and the rain. And then,\nhow the furze waved to the wind, and the few scattered trees groaned\nand creaked! The thunder and the witches were alone wanting.\n\nI passed on, and the storm gradually sank. The evening, however,\nwas dark and damp, and more melancholy than even the day, and I was\nthoroughly wet, and somewhat fatigued to boot. I could not, however,\nhelp turning a little out of my way to pause for a few minutes amid\nthe ruins of the old farmhouse of Minitarf, just as I had paused\nin the middle of the storm to fill my mind with the sublimities of\nthe Harmoor, and do homage to the genius of Shakspere. But why at\nMinitarf? Who is not acquainted with the legend of the \u201cHeath near\nForres\u201d--who knows anything of the history of the Farm-house? Both\nstories, however, are characteristic of the very different ages to\nwhich they belong; and the moral of the humbler story is at once the\nmore general in its application, and the more obvious of the two.\n\nIsabel Rose, the gudewife of Minitarf, was a native of Easter-Ross,\nand having lost both her parents in infancy, she had passed some of\nthe earlier years of her life with a married sister in the town of\nCromarty. She had been famed for her beauty, and for being the toast of\nthree parishes; and of all her lovers, and few could reckon up more,\nshe had been lucky enough to lose her heart to one of the best. The\nfavoured suitor was a handsome young farmer of the province of Moray--a\nperson somewhat less shrewd, perhaps, than many of his countrymen, but\ninflexibly honest, and perseveringly industrious; and, as he was a\nnamesake of her own, she became his wife and the mistress of Minitarf,\nand yet remained Isabel Rose as before. The wife became a mother--the\nmother of two boys. Years passed by; the little drama of her life, like\none of the dramas of antiquity, had scarce any change of circumstance,\nand no shifting of scenes; and her two sons grew up to maturity, as\nunlike one another in character as if they had not been born to the\nsame parents, nor brought up under the same roof.\n\nJohn, the elder son, was cautious and sensible, and of great kindliness\nof disposition. There was nothing bright or striking about him; but\nhe united to his father\u2019s integrity and firmness of purpose much more\nthan his father\u2019s shrewdness, and there was a homely massiveness in\nthe character that procured him respect. He was of a mechanical turn;\nand making choice of the profession of a house-carpenter--for he\nwas as little ambitious as may be--he removed to Glasgow, where his\nsteadiness and skill recommended him to the various contractors of\nthe place, until in the course of years he became, a good deal to\nhis own surprise, a contractor himself. Sandy, the younger son, was\nvolatile and unsettled, and impatient of labour and restraint, and yet\nno piece of good fortune could have surprised Sandy. He had somehow\ncome to the conclusion that he was born to be a gentleman, and took\nrank accordingly, by being as little useful, and dressing as showily as\nhe could. His principles were of a more conventional cast than those\nof his brother, and his heart less warm; still, however, there was\nno positive vice in the character; and as he was decidedly cleverer\nthan John, and a great deal more genteel, his mother could not help\nsharing with him in the hope that he was born to be the gentleman of\nthe family--a hope which, of course, was not lessened when she saw him\nbound apprentice in his seventeenth year to a draper in a neighbouring\ntown.\n\nSandy\u2019s master was what is termed a clever man of business; one of\nthose smart fellows who want only honesty, and that soundness of\njudgment which seems its natural accompaniment to make headway in the\nworld. He had already threaded his way through the difficulties of\nthree highly respectable failures; he had thrice paid his debts at the\nrate of fifteen shillings per pound, and had thus realized on each\noccasion a profit of twenty-five per cent. on the whole. And yet, from\nsome inexplicable cause, he was not making more money than traders much\nless fertile in expedient than himself. His ordinary gains were perhaps\nthe less considerable from the circumstance, that men came to deal with\nhim as completely on their guard as if they had come to fight with\nhim; and, though a match for any single individual, he was, somehow,\nno match for every body, even though, after the manner of Captain\nBobadil\u2019s opponents, they came only one at a time. His scheme, too, of\noccasionally suspending his payments, had this disadvantage, that the\noftener it was resorted to, the risk became greater and the gain less.\n\nThe shop of such a person could not be other than a rare school of\ningenuity--a place of shifts and expedients--and where, according to\nthe favourite phrase of its master, things were done in a business-like\nmanner; and Sandy Rose was no very backward pupil. There are ingenious\nyoung men who are a great deal too apt to confound the idea of talent\nitself with the knavish exercise of it; and who, seeing nothing very\nknowing in simple honesty, exert their ingenuity in the opposite\ntract, rather out of a desire of doing clever things than from any\nvery decided bias to knavery. And Sandy Rose was unfortunately one of\nthe number. It is undoubtedly an ingenious thing to get possession\nof a neighbour\u2019s money without running the risk of stealing it; and\nthere can be no question that it requires more of talent to overreach\nanother than to be overreached one\u2019s-self. The three years of Sandy\u2019s\napprenticeship came to their close, and with the assistance of his\nfather, who in a long course of patient industry had succeeded in\nsaving a few hundred pounds, he opened shop for himself in one of the\nprincipal streets of the town.\n\nSandy\u2019s shop, or _warehouse_, as he termed it--for the latter name\nwas deemed the more respectable of the two--was decidedly the most\nshowy in the street. He dealt largely in fancy goods, and no other\nkind in the \u201csoft way\u201d show equally well in a window. True, the risk\nwas greater, for among the ordinary chances of loss he had to reckon\non the continual changes of fashion; but then, from the same cause,\nthe profits were greater too, and Sandy had a decided turn for the\nmore adventurous walks of his profession. Nothing so respectable as a\nlarge stock in trade; the profits of a thousand pounds are necessarily\ngreater than the profits of five hundred. And so, what between the\nready money advanced to him by his father, and the degree of credit\nwhich the money procured for him, Sandy succeeded in rendering his\nstock a large one. He had omitted only two circumstances in his\ncalculation--the proportion which one\u2019s stock should bear to one\u2019s\ncapital, and the proportion which it should bear to the trade of the\nplace in which one has settled. When once fairly behind his counter,\nhowever, no shopkeeper could be more attentive to his customers, or\nto the appearance of his shop; and all allowed that Sandy Rose was\na clever man of business. He wrote and figured with such amazing\nfacility, and made such dashes at the end of every word! He was so\nindefatigable in his assertions, too, that he made it a rule in every\ncase to sell under prime cost! He was, besides, so amazingly active--a\nsquirrel in its cage was but a type of Sandy! He was withal so\nunexceptionably genteel! His finest cloths did not look half so well on\nhis shelves as they did on his dapper little person; and it was clear,\nfrom his everyday appearance, that he was one of his own best customers.\n\nSandy\u2019s first half year of business convinced him that a large stock\nin trade may resemble a showy equipage in more points than one: it may\nlook as respectable in its way, but then it may cost as much. Bills\nwere now falling due almost every week, and after paying away the money\nsaved during the earlier months, the everyday custom of the shop proved\ntoo little to meet the everyday demand. Fortunately, however, there\nwere banks in the country--\u201c_more banks than one_;\u201d and his old master\nwas content to lend him the use of his name, simply on the condition of\nbeing accommodated with Sandy\u2019s name in turn. Bill, therefore, was met\nby bill, and the paper of one bank pitted against the paper of another;\nand as Sandy was known to have started in trade with a few hundreds,\nthere was no demur for the first twelvemonth or so on the part of the\nbankers. They then, however, began to demand indorsations, and to\nhint that the farmer, his father, was a highly respectable man. Sandy\nexpressed his astonishment that any such security should be deemed\nnecessary; his old master expressed his astonishment too; nothing could\nbe more unbusiness-like, he said; but the bankers, who were quite\naccustomed to the astonishment of all their more doubtful customers,\nwere inflexible notwithstanding, and the old man\u2019s name was procured.\nThe indorsation was quite a matter of course, he was told--a thing\n\u201cneither here nor there,\u201d but necessary just for form\u2019s sake; and from\nthat day forward all the accommodation-bills of Sandy and his master\nbore the name of the simple-minded old man.\n\nI have said that Sandy was one of the most indefatigable of\nshopkeepers. It was but for the first few months, however, when all\nwas smooth water and easy sailing; in a few months more, when the tide\nhad begun to set in against him, he became less attentive. Some of his\nfancy goods were becoming old-fashioned, and in consequence unsaleable,\nand his stock, large at first, was continuing large still. What between\nthe price of stamps, too, the rate of discount, and the expense of\ntravelling to the several banks in which he did business, he found that\nthe profits of his trade were more than balanced by the expenditure.\nSandy\u2019s heart, therefore, began to fail him; and, setting himself to\nseek amusement elsewhere than behind his counter, he got a smart young\nlad to take charge of the shop in his absence; and, as it could not add\nvery materially to the inevitable expense, he provided himself with\na horse. He was now every day on the road doing business as his own\ntraveller. He rode twenty miles at a time to secure a five-shilling\norder, or crave payment of a five-shilling debt. He attended every\nhorse-race and fox-hunt in the country, and paid the king\u2019s duty for\na half-starved greyhound: Sandy was happy outside his shop, and his\nlad was thriving within. Matters went on in this train for so long as\ntwo years, and the hapless shopkeeper began to perceive that the few\nhundreds advanced him by his father had totally disappeared in the\ntime, and to wonder what had become of them. Still, however, his stock\nin trade, though somewhat less showy than at first, was nearly equal in\nvalue to one-third his liabilities; the other two-thirds were debts\nincurred by his old master; and at worst there lay no other obstacle\nbetween him and a highly respectable settlement with his creditors than\nthe unlucky indorsations of his father. He rose, however, one morning\nto learn that his master had absconded during the night, leaving the\nshop-key under the door-sill; in a few days after, Sandy had absconded\ntoo; and his poor father, who had paid all his debts till now, and had\ntaken a pride in paying them, found that his unfortunate indorsations\nhad involved him in irretrievable ruin. Bankruptcy was a very different\nmatter to the rigidly honest old man from what it was to either Sandy\nor his master.\n\nFor the first few days after the shock, he went wandering about his\nfields, muttering ceaselessly to himself, and wringing his hands.\nHis whole faculties seemed locked up in a feeling of bewilderment\nand terror, and every packet of letters which the postman brought\nhim--letters urging the claims of angry creditors, or intimating the\ndishonour of bills--added to his distress. His son was in hiding no one\nknew where; and though it was perhaps well that he should have kept out\nof the way at such a time, poor Isabel could not help feeling that it\nwas unkind. He might surely be able to do something, she thought, to\nlighten the distress of which he had been so entirely the cause, were\nit but to tell them what course yet remained for them to pursue. It was\nin vain that, almost broken-hearted herself, she strove by soothing\nthe old man to restore him to himself: he remained melancholy and\nabstracted as at first, as if the suddenness of his ruin had deprived\nhim of his faculties. He hardly ever spoke, took scarce any food during\nthe day, and scarce any sleep during the night; and, finally, taking\nto his bed, he died after a few days\u2019 illness--died of a broken heart.\nOn the evening after the interment, his son John Rose, the carpenter,\narrived from Glasgow, and found his mother sitting alone in the\nfarmhouse, wholly overwhelmed with grief for the loss of her husband,\nand the utter ruin which she saw closing around her.\n\nTheir meeting was a sad one; but after the widow\u2019s first burst of\nsorrow was over, her son strove to comfort her, and in part succeeded.\nShe might yet look forward, he said, to better days. He was in rather\neasy circumstances, employing about half-a-dozen workmen, and at times\nfinding use for more. And though he could not well be absent from\nthem, he would remain with her until he saw how far it was possible\nto wind up his father\u2019s affairs, and she would then go with him, and\nfind what he trusted she should deem a comfortable home in Glasgow.\nIsabel was soothed by his kindness; but it did not escape the anxious\neye of the mother, that her son, at one time so robust and strong, had\ngrown thin, and pale, and hollow-eyed, like a person in the latter\nstages of consumption, and that, though he seemed anxious to appear\notherwise, he was evidently much exhausted by his journey. He rallied,\nhowever, on the following day. The sale of his father\u2019s effects was\ncoming on in about a week; and as the farmhouse at such a time could be\nno comfortable home for the widow, he brought her with him across the\nFirth to her sister\u2019s in Cromarty, and then returned to Minitarf.\n\nHer sister\u2019s son was a saddler, a sagacious, well-informed man,\ntruthful and honest, and as little imaginative as may be. He was\nemployed at the time at the _Mains_ of Invergordon--some six or seven\nmiles from Cromarty--and slept in an apartment of the old castle, since\nburnt down. No one could be less influenced by superstitious beliefs\nof the period; and yet when, after scaling the steep circular stair\nthat led to his solitary room, he used to shut the ponderous door and\npass his eye along the half-lighted walls, here and there perforated\nby a narrow arched window, there was usually something in the tone of\nhis feelings which served to remind him that there is a dread of the\nsupernatural too deeply implanted in man\u2019s nature to be ever wholly\neradicated. On going to bed one evening, and awakening as he supposed\nafter a short slumber, he was much surprised to see the room filled\nas with a greyish light, in which the walls and the floor could be\nseen nearly as distinctly as by day. Suddenly the door fell open and\nthere entered a tall young man in black, his hat wrapped up in crape,\nand with muslin weepers on his sleeves. Another and another entered,\nattired after the same fashion, until their number might, as he\nsupposed, amount to about fifty. He lay gazing at them in astonishment,\nconscious of a kind of indistinct wish to ascertain whether he was in\nreality waking or asleep--a feeling of common enough experience in\nthe dreams of imperfect slumber--when the man who had first come in,\ngliding up to his bedside, moved his lips as if addressing him, and\npassing off entered the staircase and disappeared. A second then came\nup, and heartily shaking him by the hand, also quitted the apartment,\nfollowed by all the others in the order in which they had entered, but\nwithout shutting the door; and the last recollection of the sleeper\nwas of an emotion of intense terror, which seemed wholly to overpower\nhim when gazing on the dark opening of the stair beyond. It was broad\ndaylight ere he awoke, and his first glance, as the dream of the\nprevious evening flashed on his mind, was at the door, which sure\nenough lay open. \u201cI must have missed slipping on the latch,\u201d he said,\n\u201cor some of the servants must have entered during the night;--but how\nstrange a coincidence!\u201d The particulars of his dream--and it cost him\nno slight effort to deem it such--employed his thoughts until evening;\nwhen, setting out for his mother\u2019s, he found his aunt Isabel, in much\ngrief and dejection, seated beside the fire. He had taken his place\nbeside her, and was striving as he best could to lighten the melancholy\nwhich he saw preying on her spirits, when a young man, bespattered\nwith travel, and apparently much fatigued, entered the apartment.\nIsabel started from her seat, and clasping her hands with a fearful\npresentiment of some overwhelming calamity, inquired of him what had\nhappened at Minitarf? He stood speechless for a few seconds as if\novercome by some fearful emotion, and then bursting into tears, \u201cYour\nson John,\u201d he said, \u201cdied this morning!\u201d The poor woman fainted away.\n\n\u201cFor the two last days of the sale,\u201d said the messenger, \u201cthere was\na marked alteration in John\u2019s manner and appearance. There was a\nsomething so fixed-like in his expression, and so mournful in his way\nof looking at things; and then his face was deadly pale, and he took\nscarce any food. It was evident that the misfortunes of his family\npreyed deeply on his mind. Yester evening,\u201d continued the lad, \u201che\ncomplained for the first time of being unwell, and retired to bed\nbefore the usual hour. The two servant-maids rose early in the morning\nto prepare for leaving the place, and were surprised, on entering the\n\u2018ha\u2019,\u2019 to find him sitting in the great arm-chair fronting the fire.\nHis countenance had changed during the night; he looked much older,\nand very like his father; and he was so weak that he could hardly sit\nup in the chair. The girls were alarmed, and would have called for\nassistance, but he forbade them. \u2018My watch,\u2019 he said, \u2018hangs over my\npillow; go tell me what o\u2019clock it is.\u2019 It was just twenty minutes past\nfour. \u2018Well,\u2019 said he, when they had told him, \u2018it is the last hour\nto me! there is a crook in my lot; but it\u2019s God\u2019s doing, not man\u2019s.\u2019\nAnd, leaning back in the chair, he never spake more.\u201d The messenger had\nseen the corpse laid on the bed, and wrapped up in a winding-sheet,\nbefore setting out on his melancholy journey. Need I say aught of the\nfeelings of Isabel? The saddler and his mother strove to persuade her\nto remain with them till at least after the funeral, but she would not;\nshe would go and take one last look of her son, she said--of her _only_\nson, for the other was a murderer. Early, therefore, on the following\nmorning, the saddler hired a small yawl to bring her across the Firth,\nand, taking his place in the stern beside her, the boatmen bent them to\ntheir oars, and the hill of Nigg soon lessened behind them.\n\nAfter clearing the bay, however, their progress was much impeded\nby adverse currents; there came on a chill drizzling rain, and the\nwind, which was evidently rising, began, after veering about oftener\nthan once, to blow right ahead, and to raise a short tumbling sea.\nGrief of itself is cold and comfortless, and the widow, wrapped up in\nher cloak, sat shivering in the bottom of the yawl, drenched by the\nrain and the spray. But she thought only of her son and her husband.\nThe boatmen toiled incessantly till evening; and when night came\non, dark and boisterous, they were still two long miles from their\nlanding-place--the effluence of the Nairn. Directly across the mouth of\nthe river there runs a low dangerous bar, and as they approached they\ncould hear the roaring of the breakers above all the hoarse sighings\nof the wind, and the dash of the lesser waves that were bursting\naround them. \u201cThere,\u201d said the saddler, as his eye caught a few faint\nlights that seemed twinkling along the beach; \u201cthere is the town of\nNairn right abreast of us; but has not the tide fallen too low for\nour attempting the bar?\u201d The boatmen replied in the negative, and in\na minute after they were among the breakers. For a single instant the\nskiff seemed riding on the crest of an immense wave, which came rolling\nfrom the open sea, and which, as it folded over and burst into foam,\ndashed her forward like an arrow from the string. She sank, however, as\nit receded, till her keel grated against the bar beneath. Another huge\nwave came rolling behind, and, curling its white head like the former,\nrushed over her stern, filling her at once to the gunwale, and at the\nsame instant propelling her into the deep water within. The saddler\nsprang from his seat, and raising his aunt to the hinder thwart, and\ncharging her to hold fast, he shouted to the boatmen to turn the boat\u2019s\nhead to the shore. In a few minutes after, they had landed.\n\nPoor Isabel, well-nigh insensible--for grief and terror, added to cold\nand fatigue, had prostrated all her energies, bodily and mental--was\ncarried to the town and lodged in the house of an acquaintance. When\nmorning came she was unable to leave her bed, and so the saddler had\nto set out for Minitarf alone, which he reached about noon; and on\nbeing recognised as a cousin of the deceased, he was ushered into the\nroom where the body lay. He seated himself on the edge of the bed,\nand raising the coffin-lid, gazed for a few seconds on the face of\nthe dead; on hearing a footstep approaching the door, he replaced\nthe cover. There entered a genteel-looking young man dressed for the\nfuneral; but not the apparition of an inhabitant of the other world\nwould have started the saddler more. He recognised in the stranger\nthe young man of his dream. Another person entered, and him he also\nrecognised as the man who had shaken hands with him; and who now, on\nbeing introduced to him as a relative of the deceased tacksman of\nMinitarf, sure enough, grasped him warmly by the hand. As the room\nfilled around him with the neighbouring farmers attired in their\nsoberest and best, he felt as if he still dreamed, for these were\nthe very men whom he had seen in the old castle; and it was almost\nmechanically, when the coffin was carried out and laid on the bier,\nthat, as the nearest relative of the dead he took his place as chief\nmourner. As the funeral proceeded, however, he collected his scattered\nthoughts. \u201cHave I indeed had experience,\u201d said he to himself, \u201cof one\nof those mysterious intimations of coming evil, the bare possibility\nof which few thinking men, in these latter times, seem disposed to\ncredit on testimony alone? And little wonder, truly, that they should\nbe so sceptical; for, for what purpose could such a warning have been\ngiven? It has enabled me to ward off no impending disaster;--nay, it\nhas told its story so darkly and doubtfully, that the event alone has\nenabled me to interpret it. Could a purpose so idle have employed an\nagent of the invisible world? And yet,\u201d thought he again, as the train\nof his cogitations found way into the deeper recesses of his mind, \u201can\nend _has_ been accomplished by it, and a not unimportant end either.\nThe evil has befallen as certainly and heavily as if there had been\nno previous warning; but, is _my mind_ in every respect the same?\nSomething _has_ been accomplished. And surely He who in His providence\ncares for all my bodily wants, without sinking, in the littleness of\nthe object cared for, aught of the _greatness_ of His character, might,\nwithout lessening in aught His character for _wisdom_, have taken this\nway of making me see, more distinctly than in all my life before, that\nthere is indeed an invisible world, and that all the future is known to\nHim.\u201d There was seriousness in the thought, and never did he feel more\nstrongly that the present scene of things is not the last, than when\nbending over the open grave he saw the corpse lowered down and heard\nthe earth falling hollow on the coffin-lid.\n\nBut why dwell longer on the details of a story so mournful! The\nsaddler, on his return to Nairn, found the widow in the delirium of a\nfever, from which she never recovered. Her younger son was seen in the\nWest Indies ten years after, a miserable slave-driver, with a broken\nconstitution and an unquiet mind. And there he died--no one caring\nwhere or how. I am not fond of melancholy stories; but \u201cto purge the\nheart by pity and terror\u201d is the true end of tragedy--an end which the\ngorgeous creations of the poets are not better suited to accomplish\nthan the domestic tragedies which we see every day enacting around us.\nIt is well, too, to note how immensely the folly and knavery of mankind\nadd to the amount of human suffering; and how, according to the wise\nsaying of the Preacher, \u201cOne sinner destroyeth much good.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n\u201cAlack-a-day! it was the school-house indeed; but, to be sure, sir,\nthe squire has pulled it down, because it stood in the way of his\nprospects.\u201d--MACKENZIE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE OLD SCHOOL AND WHAT IT PRODUCED.]\n\nThe old school of Cromarty was situated in a retired little corner,\nbehind the houses where the parish burying-ground bordered on the\nwoods of the old castle. It was a low, mean-looking building, with\nits narrow latticed windows, which were half buried in the thatch,\nopening on the one side to the uncouth monuments of the churchyard,\nand on the other, through a straggling line of willows which fringed\nthe little stream in front, to the ancient timeworn fortalice perched\non the top of the hill. Mean, however, as it seemed--and certainly\nno public edifice could owe less to the architect--it formed one of\nKnox\u2019s strongholds of the Reformation, and was erected by the united\nlabours of the parishioners, agreeably to the scheme laid down in the\nFirst Book of Discipline, long previous to the Education Act of 1646.\nIt had become an old building ere the Restoration, and fell into such\ndisrepair during the reign of Episcopacy, that for a time it no longer\nsheltered the scholars. I find it enacted in the summer of 1682, by\nthe Kirk-Session--for, curious as it may seem, even the curates in\nthe north of Scotland had their kirk-sessions and their staffs of\nelders--that \u201cthe hail inhabitants of the burgh, especially masons and\nsuch as have horse, do repayre and bigg the samin in the wonted place,\nand that the folk upland do provide them with feal and diffiot.\u201d And,\nin the true spirit of the reign of Charles II., a penalty of four\npounds Scots enforced the enactment.\n\nThe scheme of education drawn up by our first Reformers was stamped\nby the liberality of men who had learned from experience that tyranny\nand superstition derive their chief support from ignorance. Almost all\nthe knowledge which books could supply at the time was locked up in\nthe learned languages; and so it was necessary that these languages\neven the common people should acquire. It was appointed, therefore,\n\u201cthat young men who purposed to travail in some handicraft for the\ngood of the commonwealth, should first devote ane certaine time to\nGrammar and the Latin tongue, and ane certaine time to the other\ntongues and the study of philosophy.\u201d Even long after the enactment,\nwhen we had got authors of our own in every department of literature,\nand a man could have become learned, if knowledge be learning,\nsimply as an English reader, an acquaintance with Latin formed no\nunimportant part of a common Scotch education. Our fathers pursued\nthe course which circumstances had rendered imperative in the days of\ntheir great-grandfathers, merely because their great-grandfathers had\npursued it, and because people find it easier to persist in hereditary\npractices than to think for themselves. And so the few years which\nwere spent in school by the poorer pupils of ordinary capacity, were\nabsurdly frittered away in acquiring a little bad Latin and a very\nlittle worse Greek. So strange did the half-learning of our common\npeople (derived in this way) appear to our southern neighbours, that\nthere are writers of the last century who, in describing a Scotch\nfootman or mechanic, rarely omit making his knowledge of the classics\nan essential part of his character. The barber in Roderick Random\nquotes Horace in the original; and Foote, in one of his farces,\nintroduces a Scotch valet, who, when some one inquires of him whether\nhe be a Latinist, indignantly exclaims, \u201cHoot awa, man! a Scotchman and\nno understand Latin!\u201d\n\nThe school of Cromarty produced, like most of the other schools of the\nkingdom, its Latinists who caught fish and made shoes; and it is not\nmuch more than thirty years since the race became finally extinct. I\nhave heard stories of an old house-painter of the place, who, having\nsurvived most of his schoolfellows and contemporaries, used to regret,\namong his other vanished pleasures, the pleasure he could once derive\nfrom an inexhaustible fund of Latin quotation, which the ignorance of\na younger generation had rendered of little more value to him than the\npaper-money of an insolvent bank; and I have already referred to an\nold cabinetmaker whom I remember, who was in the practice, when his\nsight began to fail him, of carrying his Latin New Testament with him\nto church, as it chanced to be printed in a clearer type than any of\nhis English ones. It is said, too, of a learned fisherman of the reign\nof Queen Anne, that when employed one day among his tackle, he was\naccosted in Latin by the proprietor of Cromarty, who, accompanied by\ntwo gentlemen from England, was sauntering along the shore, and that,\nto the surprise of the strangers, he replied with no little fluency in\nthe same language.\n\nThe old castle rose, I have said, direct in front of the old school,\nabout three hundred yards away; and, tall itself, and elevated by the\ngreen hill on which it stood, it formed, with all its timeworn turrets,\nand all its mouldering bartisans, a formidable spectre of the past.\nLittle thought the proud hereditary sheriffs of the stern old tower,\nthat the humble building at the foot of the hill was a masked battery\nraised against their authority, which was to burst open their dungeon\ndoor and to beat down their gallows. But a very formidable battery it\nproved. There is a class of nature\u2019s aristocracy that has but to arise\nfrom among the people, in order that the people may become influential\nand free; and the lowly old school did its part in separating from\nthe general mass its due proportion of these, as mercury separates\ngold from the pulverized rock in which it is contained. If, in passing\nalong the streets, we see a handsomer domicile than the low tenements\naround it, we may safely conclude that the builder spent his boyhood\nin the old school; that if he went out to some of the colonies, he\ncarried with him as his stock in trade a knowledge of figures and the\npen, and returned with both that and a few thousands on which to employ\nit; or if his inclination led him to sea, that he became, through his\nsuperior intelligence, the commander of a vessel; if to London, that\nhe rose into wealth as a merchant; or if he remained at home, that\nhe gained a competency as a shopkeeper, general trader, or master\nmechanic. I am not making too much of my subject when I affirm, that\nthe little thatched hovel at the foot of the Castle-hill gave merchants\nto the Exchange, ministers to the Church, physicians to the Faculty,\nprofessors to Colleges, and members to Parliament.\n\n[Sidenote: DR. HOSSACK.]\n\nOne of the pupils reared within its walls--the son of old Clerk\nDavidson, a humble subordinate of the hereditary sheriff--became\na wealthy London merchant, and, after establishing in the city a\nrespectable firm, which still exists, represented his native county in\nParliament. Another of its boys, the late Mr. William Forsyth, to whom\nI have already had occasion to refer, revived the sinking trade of the\ntown; and, though the son of a man who had once worked as a mechanic,\nhe took his well-merited place among the aristocracy of the district,\nnot less from the high tone of his character, and the liberality of\nhis views and sentiments, than from the extent of his resources. Yet\nanother of its boys, a Mr. James Ross, entered life as a common sailor,\nand, after rising by his professional skill to a command in the navy,\npublished a work on the management of nautical affairs, which attracted\na good deal of notice at the time among the class to which it was\nspecially addressed. The late Dr. James Robertson, librarian of the\nUniversity of Edinburgh, and its Professor of the Oriental Tongues, was\na native of Cromarty, of humble parentage, and experienced his first\nstirrings of scholastic ambition in the old school. He was the author\nof a Hebrew grammar, to which the self-taught linguist, Dr. Alexander\nMurray, owed, as he tells us in his interesting Autobiography, his\nfirst introduction to Hebrew; and we learn from Boswell, in his Journal\nof a Tour to the Hebrides, that Dr. Johnson, when in Edinburgh, \u201cwas\nmuch pleased with the College library, and with the conversation of Dr.\nJames Robertson, the librarian.\u201d Provost Hossack of Inverness, whom\nthe author of the \u201cJacobite Memoirs\u201d terms, in relating his spirited\nremonstrance with the Duke of Cumberland in behalf of the conquered\nrebels, \u201ca man of humanity, and the Sir Robert Walpole of Inverness,\nunder the direction of President Forbes,\u201d was also a Cromarty man, the\nchild of seafaring parents, and received the education through which\nhe rose, in its school. And his namesake and contemporary, Dr. Hossack\nof Greenwich, one of the first physicians of his time, was likewise\na native of Cromarty--not of the town, however, but of the landward\npart of the parish; and owed his first knowledge of letters to the\ncharity of the schoolmaster. There is, unfortunately, not much of the\nDoctor\u2019s story known; but to the little which survives there attaches a\nconsiderable amount of interest.\n\nHe had lost both his parents when an infant; all his other nearer\nkindred were also dead: and so he was dependent in his earlier years\nfor a precarious subsistence on the charity of a few distant relatives,\nnot a great deal richer than himself. Among the rest there was a poor\nwidow, a namesake of his own, who earned a scanty subsistence by her\nwheel, but who had heart enough to impart a portion of her little\nto the destitute scholar. The boy was studious and thoughtful, and\nsurpassed in his tasks most of his schoolfellows; and after passing\nwith singular rapidity through the course pursued at school, he\nsucceeded in putting himself to college. The struggle was arduous and\nprotracted; sometimes he wrought as a common labourer, sometimes he\ntaught an adventure school; he deemed no honest employment too mean or\ntoo laborious that forwarded his scheme; and thus he at length passed\nthrough the University course. His town\u2019s-people then lost sight of\nhim for nearly twenty years. It was understood, meanwhile, that some\nnameless friend in the south had settled a small annuity on poor old\nWidow Hossack; and that a Cromarty sailor, who had been attacked by a\ndangerous illness when at London, had owed his life to the gratuitous\nattentions of a famous physician of the place, who had recognised him\nas a town\u2019s-man. No one, however, thought of the poor scholar; and it\nwas not until his carriage drove up one day through the main street of\nthe town, and stopped at the door of his schoolfellow, William Forsyth,\nthat he was identified with \u201cthe great Doctor\u201d who had attended the\nseaman, and the benefactor of the poor widow. On entering the cottage\nof the latter, he found her preparing gruel for supper, and was asked,\nwith the anxiety of a gratitude that would fain have rendered him some\nreturn, \u201cO Sir! will ye no tak\u2019 _brochan_?\u201d He is said to have been a\ntruly excellent and benevolent man--the Abercromby of a former age;\nand the ingenious and pious Moses Browne (a clergyman who, to the\ndisgrace of the English Church, was suffered to languish through life\nin a curacy of fifty pounds per annum) thus addresses him in one of his\nlarger poems, written immediately after the recovery of the author from\na long and dangerous illness:--\n\n    \u201cThe God I trust with timeliest kind relief\n    Sent the beloved physician to my aid,\n    (Generous, humanest, affable of soul,\n    Thee, dearest Hossack;--Oh! long known, long loved,\n    Long proved; in oft found tenderest watching cares,\n    The Christian friend, the man of feeling heart;)\n    And in his skilful, heaven-directed hand,\n    Put his best pleasing, _only_ fee, my cure.\u201d\n\n    SUNDAY THOUGHTS, Part iv.\n\n[Sidenote: THE HARD DOMINIE.]\n\nThe reputation of the old school necessarily varied with the character\nand acquirements of its several teachers. About a century ago, it\nwas one of the most celebrated in this part of the kingdom, and was\nattended by the children of country gentlemen for sixty miles round.\nThe teacher, a Mr. David Macculloch, was a native of the parish; and\nso highly were his services appreciated by the people, especially by\nsuch among them as kept lodgers, that they used to allege he was the\nmeans of circulating more money among them than all their shopkeepers\nand tradesfolk put together. He was a licentiate of the Church, and was\nlost to the place by receiving an appointment to a semi-Highland parish\nsomewhere in Perthshire; when his fame as a teacher was transferred for\nhalf an age to the parish schoolmaster of Fortrose, a Mr. Smith. It was\nunder this man, who is said to have done for the burghers of Chanonry\nand Rosemarkie all that Mr. Macculloch had done for the householders of\nCromarty, that Sir James Mackintosh, so well known in after years as\na statesman and philosopher, received the rudiments of his education.\nNext in course the burgh of Nairn became famous for the skill of its\nparish teacher, a Mr. Strath; and there still survive a few of his\npupils to testify to his merits and to express their gratitude. Since\nhis death, however, the fame of educational ability has failed to\nbe associated in any very marked degree with our northern parochial\nschools--in part a consequence, it is probable, of that change in the\ntactics of tuition which, by demanding a division of labour in the\neducational as in other departments, at once lessens the difficulty and\nincreases the efficiency of teaching. It is at least obvious that few\nsucceed well in what is very difficult; and that every improvement in\nany art must add either to the value of what the art produces, or, what\nseems to have happened in this case, to the facility of production.\n\nThe successor of Mr. Macculloch in the old school--a Mr. Russel--though\nnot equally celebrated as a teacher, was in other respects a more\nremarkable man. About twelve years after his appointment, he\nrelinquished his pedagogical charge for a chapel in Kilmarnock, and\nthere he came in contact and quarrelled with our great national poet,\nwho, bold and unyielding as he was, seems to have regarded the stern\npedagogue of the north as no weak or puny antagonist; at least, against\nnone of his other clerical opponents did he open so powerful a battery.\nWe find him figuring in the \u201cHoly Fair,\u201d in the \u201cOrdination,\u201d in the\n\u201cKirk\u2019s Alarm,\u201d and in the \u201cTwa Herds,\u201d one of whom was the \u201cwordy\nRussel.\u201d Some degree of interest must necessarily attach to the memory\nof a man who seems destined never to be wholly forgotten; and as I have\nknown and often conversed with several of his pupils, and remember even\nsome of his mature contemporaries, I must communicate to the reader a\nfew of their more characteristic recollections of the man of whom they\nwere accustomed to speak and think as Russel the \u201chard schoolmaster.\u201d\n\nIt is now somewhat more than eighty years since John Russel, a native\nof Moray, and one of the Church\u2019s probationers, was appointed to the\nparish school of Cromarty. He was a large, robust, dark-complexioned\nman, imperturbably grave, and with a singularly stern expression\nstamped on his dusky forehead, that boded the urchins of the place\nlittle good. And in a few months he had acquired for himself the\ncharacter of being by far the most rigid disciplinarian in the country.\nHe was, I believe, a good, conscientious man, but unfortunate in a\ntemper at once violent and harsh, and in sometimes mistaking its\ndictates for those of duty. At any rate, whatever the nature of the\nmistake, never was there a schoolmaster more thoroughly feared and\ndetested by his pupils; and with dread and hatred did many of them\ncontinue to regard him long after they had become men and women. His\nmemory was a dark morning cloud resting on their saddened boyhood,\nthat cast its shadows into after life. I have heard of a lady who was\nso overcome by sudden terror on unexpectedly seeing him, many years\nafter she had quitted school, in one of the pulpits of the south, that\nshe fainted away in the pew; and of another of his scholars named\nM\u2019Glashan--a robust, daring young man of six feet--who, when returning\nto Cromarty from some of the colonies, solaced himself by the way with\nthoughts of the hearty drubbing with which he was to clear off all his\nold scores with the dominie. Ere his return, however, Mr. Russel had\nquitted the parish; nor, even if it had chanced otherwise, might the\nyoung fellow have gained much in an encounter with one of the boldest\nand most powerful men in the country.\n\nBut Polyphemus himself, giant as he was, and a demigod to boot, could\nnot always be cruel with impunity. The schoolmaster had his vulnerable\npoint; he was a believer in ghosts; at all events he feared them very\nheartily, whether he believed in them or no; and some of his boys, much\nas they dreaded him, contrived on one occasion to avenge themselves\nupon him through his fears. In the long summer evenings he was in the\nhabit of prosecuting his studies to a late hour in the schoolroom;\nfrom which, in returning to his lodgings, he had to pass through the\nchurchyard. And when striding homewards one night, laden with books\nand papers, so affrighted was he by a horrible apparition, all over\nwhite, which started up beside him from beneath one of the tombstones,\nthat, casting his burden to the winds, and starting off like wildfire,\nhe never once looked behind him until he had gained his landlady\u2019s\nfireside. It is said that he never after prosecuted his evening studies\nin the school. The late minister of Knockbain, Mr. Roderick M\u2019Kenzie,\nfor many years father of the Presbytery of Chanonry, used to tell with\nmuch glee that he knew a very great deal about the urchin who, in\nbehalf of the outraged youthhood of the place, wore the white sheet\non this interesting occasion. \u201cI was quite as much afraid of ghosts,\u201d\nhe used to say, \u201cas Mr. Russel himself; but three of my companions\nlay fast ensconced, to keep me in heart and countenance, under a\nneighbouring gravestone.\u201d\n\nThere was among Russel\u2019s pupils a poor boy named Skinner, who, as\nwas customary in Scottish schools of the period, blew the horn for\ngathering the scholars, and kept the catalogue and the key, and who, in\nreturn for his services, was educated by the master, and received some\nlittle gratuity from the boys besides. To the south of the Grampians he\nwould have been termed the Janitor of the school; whereas in the north,\nin those days, the name attached to him, in virtue of his office, was\nthe humbler one of \u201cThe Pauper.\u201d Unluckily, on one occasion, the key\ndropped out of his pocket; and, when school time came, the irascible\ndominie had to burst open the door with his foot. He raged at the boy\nwith a fury so insane, and beat him with such relentless severity, that\nin the extremity of the case, the other boys rose up shrieking around\nhim as if they were witnessing the perpetration of a murder; and the\ntyrant, brought suddenly to himself by so strange an exhibition, flung\naway the rod and sat down. And such, it is said, was the impression\nmade on the mind of poor \u201cPauper Skinner,\u201d that though he quitted the\nschool shortly after, and plied the profession of a fisherman until\nhe died an old man, he was never from that day seen disengaged for a\nmoment, without mechanically thrusting his hand into the key-pocket. If\nexcited too by any unexpected occurrence, whatever its nature, he was\nsure to grope hastily, in his agitation, for the missing key. One other\nanecdote illustrative of Mr. Russel\u2019s temper. He was passing along the\nmain street of the town, in a day of wind and rain from the sea, with\nhis head half-buried in his breast, when he came violently in contact\nwith a thatcher\u2019s ladder, which had been left sloping from the roof of\none of the houses. A much less matter would have sufficed to awaken the\nwrath of Mr. Russel: he laid hold of the ladder, and, dashing it on the\npavement, broke with his powerful foot, ere he quitted it, every one of\nthe \u201crounds.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: MR. RUSSEL THE MINISTER.]\n\nFor at least the last six years of his residence in Cromarty he\nwas not a little popular as a preacher. His manner was strong and\nenergetic, and the natural severity of his temper seems to have been\nmore than genius to him when expatiating, which he did often, on the\nmiseries of the wicked in a future state. The reader will scarce fail\nto remember the picture of the preacher dashed off by Burns in the Holy\nFair; or to see that the poet\u2019s arrows, however wickedly shot, came\nfrom no bow drawn at venture:--\n\n    \u201cBlack Russel is nae spairin\u2019;\n      His piercing words, like Highland swords,\n    Divide the joints an\u2019 marrow\n      His talk o\u2019 hell, where devils dwell,\n      Our verra sauls does harrow\n                  Wi\u2019 fright that day.\n\n    \u201cA vast unbottom\u2019d, boundless pit,\n      Fill\u2019d fou o\u2019 lowin\u2019 brunstane,\n    Whase ragin\u2019 flame and scorchin\u2019 heat\n      Wad melt the hardest whunstane.\n    The half-asleep start up wi\u2019 fear,\n      And think they hear it roarin\u2019,\n    When presently it does appear\n      \u2019Twas but some neebor snorin\u2019\n                  Asleep that day.\u201d\n\nI have seen one of Russel\u2019s sermons in print; it is a controversial\none, written in a bold rough style, and by no means inferior as a piece\nof argument; but he was evidently a person rather to be listened to\nthan read. He was quite as stern in Church matters, it is said, as in\nthose of the school; but men are less tractable than boys; and his\nseverity proved more effectual in making his pupils diligent than in\nreforming the town\u2019s-people. He converted a few rather careless boys\ninto not very inferior scholars; but though he set himself so much\nagainst the practice of Sabbath-evening walking, that he used to take\nhis stand every Sunday, after the church had dismissed, full in the\nmiddle of the road which leads from the town to the woods and rocks\nof the Southern Sutor, and sometimes turned back the walkers by the\nshoulders after he had first shaken them by the breast, the practice of\nSabbath-evening walking became even more common than before. Instead\nof addressing himself to the moral sense of the people, he succeeded in\nbut arousing their combative propensities; and these, once awakened,\ntook part against a good cause, simply because it had been unwisely and\nunjustifiably defended.\n\nI have an uncle in Cromarty, now an elderly man, who, when residing in\nGlasgow in the year 1792, walked about ten miles into the country to\nattend a sacramental _occasion_, at which he was told Mr. Russel was\nto officiate, and which proved to be such a one as Burns has described\nin his \u201cHoly Fair.\u201d There were excellent sermons to be heard from the\n_tent_, and very tempting drink to be had in an ale-house scarcely a\nhundred yards away; and between the tent and the ale-house were the\npeople divided, according to their tastes and characters. A young man\npreached in the early part of the day--his discourse was a long one;\nand, ere it had come to a close, the mirth of the neighbouring topers,\nwhich became louder the more deeply they drank, had begun to annoy the\ncongregation. Mr. Russel was standing beside the tent. At every fresh\nburst of sound he would raise himself on tiptoe, look first, with a\nportentous expression of countenance, towards the ale-house, and then\nat the clergyman; who at length, concluding his part of the service,\nyielded to him his place. He laid aside the book, and, without psalm\nor prayer, or any of the usual preliminaries, launched at once into a\npowerful extempore address, directed, over the heads of the people,\nat the ale-house. I have been assured by my relative that he never\nbefore or since heard any thing half so energetic. His ears absolutely\ntingled, as the preacher thundered out, in a voice almost superhuman,\nhis solemn and terrible denunciations. Every sound of revelry ceased\nin a moment; and the Bacchanals, half-drunk, as most of them had ere\nnow become, were so thoroughly frightened as to be fain to steal out\nthrough a back window, and slink away along bypaths through the fields.\nMr. Russel was ultimately appointed one of the ministers of Stirling.\nA Cromarty man, a soldier in a Highland regiment, when stationed in\nStirling Castle, had got involved one day in some street quarrel,\nand was swearing furiously, when a tall old man in black came and\npulled him out of the crowd. \u201cWretched creature that ye are!\u201d said\nthe old man; \u201ccome along with me.\u201d He drew him into a quiet corner,\nand began to expostulate with him on his profanity, in a style to\nwhich the soldier, an intelligent though by no means steady man, and\nthe child of religious parents, could not but listen. Mr. Russel--for\nit was no other than he--seemed pleased with the attention he paid\nhim; and on learning whence he had come, and the name of his parents,\nexclaimed with much feeling, \u201cWae\u2019s me! that your father\u2019s son should\nbe a blackguard soldier on the streets of Stirling! But come awa.\u201d\nHe brought him home with him, and added to the serious advice he had\ngiven him an excellent dinner. The temper of the preacher softened a\ngood deal as he became old; and he was much a favourite with the more\nserious part of his congregation. He was, with all his defects, an\nhonest, pious man; and had he lived in the days of Renwick or Cargill,\nor, a century earlier, in the days of Knox or Wishart, he might have\nbeen a useful one. But he was unlucky in the age in which he lived,\nin his temper, and in coming in contact with as hard-headed people as\nhimself.\n\n[Sidenote: THE COCK-FIGHT.]\n\nThe parish schools of Scotland had their annual saturnalian feast, of\nwhat may be well deemed an extraordinary character, if we consider\ntheir close connexion with the National Church, and that their teachers\nwere in so many instances licensed clergymen waiting for preferment.\nOn Fasten\u2019s-eve, just when all Rome was rejoicing in the license of\nthe Carnival, the schoolmaster, after closing the service of the day\nwith prayer, would call on the boys to divide and choose for themselves\n\u201c_Head-stocks_,\u201d _i.e._, leaders, for the yearly cock-fight of the\nensuing Shrove-Tuesday. A sudden rush would immediately take place\namong the pigmy population of the school to two opposing desks, which,\npiled up with urchin a-top of urchin half-way to the rafters, would\nstraightway assume the appearance of two treacled staves, covered with\nblack-bottle flies in a shopkeeper\u2019s yard, on a day of midsummer. The\ngrave question of leadership soon settled, in consequence of previous\nout-of-door arrangement, the master, producing the catalogue, would\nnext proceed to call the boys in alphabetical order; and each boy\nto intimate, in reply, under what \u201chead-stock\u201d he purposed fighting\nhis cocks, and how many cocks he intended bringing into the pit. The\nmaster, meanwhile, went on recording both items in a book--in especial\nthe number of the cocks--as, according to the registered figure, which\nalways exceeded the array actually brought into the fight, he received,\nas a fixed perquisite of his office, a fee of twopence per head. The\nschool then broke up; and for the two ensuing days, which were given\nas holidays for the purpose of preparation, the parish used to be\ndarkened by wandering scholars going about from farmhouse to farmhouse\nin quest of cocks. Most boys brought at least one cock to the pit; and\n\u201chead-stocks\u201d--selected usually for the wealth of their parents, and\nwith an eye to the entertainment with which the festival was expected\nto close--would sometimes bring up as many as ten or twelve. The\ncock-fight ball, given by the victorious \u201chead-stock\u201d on the eve of his\nvictory, was always regarded as the crowning item in the festival.\n\nOn the morning of Shrove Tuesday, the floor of the school, previously\ncleared of all the forms, and laid out into a chalked circle,\nrepresentative of the cockpit, became a scene of desperate battle.\nThe master always presided on these occasions as umpire; while his\nboys clustered in a ring, immediately under his eye, a little beyond\nthe chalked line. The cocks of the lads who ranged under the one\n\u201chead-stock\u201d were laid down one after one on the left, those of the\nother, as a bird dropped exhausted or ran away, upon the right; and\nthus the fight went on from morning till far in the evening; when\nthe \u201chead-stock\u201d whose last bird remained in possession of the field,\nand whose cocks had routed the greatest number in the aggregate, was\ndeclared victor, and formally invested with a tinsel cap, in a ceremony\ntermed the \u201ccrowning.\u201d The birds, however, were permitted to share in\nthe honour of their masters--and in many schools there was a small\nsilver bell, the property of the institution, attached to the neck of\nthe poor cock who had beaten the largest number of opponents; but very\nrarely did he long survive the honour. I remember seeing one gallant\nbird, who had vanquished six cocks in succession, stand in the middle\nof the pit, one of his eyes picked out, and his comb and bells all\nin a clot of blood, and then, in about half a minute after his last\nantagonist had fled, fall dead upon the floor. It is really wonderful\nhow ingenious boys can be made, in even the more occult mysteries of\nthe cockpit, when their training has been good. Some hopeful scholars\nhad learned to provide themselves with medicated grains for drugging,\nas the opportunity offered, the birds of an opponent; and it was no\nunusual thing for a lad who carried his cock under his arm in the\ncrowd, to find the creature rendered unfit for the combat by the\nskilful application of the pin of an antagonist, who, having stolen\nstealthily upon him from behind, succeeded in serving the poor animal\nas the minions of Mortimer served the hapless Edward II. Game-birds\nwho, in inconsistency with their previous character, refused to fight,\nwere often found, on examination, to have pins thrust up more than two\ninches into their bowels. The birds who, without any such apology,\npreferred running away to fighting, were converted into _droits_,\nunder the ill-omened name of _fugies_, and forfeited to the master of\nthe school. And these were rendered by him the subject of yet another\nlicensed amusement of the period. The _fugies_ were fastened to a\nstake in the playground, and destroyed, one after one, in the noble\ngame of cock-throwing, by such of the pupils or of the town\u2019s-people\nas could indulge in the amusement at the rate of a halfpenny the\nthrow. The master not only pocketed all the halfpennies, but he also\ncarried home with him all the carcases. It is perhaps not very strange\nthat good men, of naturally severe temper, like Mr. Russel, should\nhave said grace over their _cock-a-leekie_ thus procured, without once\nsuspecting that there was anything wrong in the practice; but that\nschoolmasters like M\u2019Culloch, who was a person of humanity, should\nhave done so, serves strikingly to show how blinding and tyrannical\nmust be that influence which custom exercises over even the best of\nmen; and that not only does religion exert a beneficial effect on\ncivilisation, but that civilisation may, in turn, react with humanizing\ninfluence on the religious. The very origin of the festival is said\nto have been ecclesiastical. It was instituted, we find it intimated\nin the _Clavis Calendaria_, \u201cin allusion to the indignities offered\nto our Saviour by the Jews before the crucifixion;\u201d but how it should\nhave survived the Reformation, and been permitted not only to shelter,\nlike the Gibeonites of old, in the house of the enemy, but have also\nbecome an object of the direct patronage of many of our best men of the\nevangelical school, seems a problem of somewhat difficult solution.\nIt is just possible, however, that the Reformers, who were well\nenough acquainted with human nature to be aware of the necessity of\nrelaxation, might have seen nothing very barbarous in the practice;\nseeing that the tone of men\u2019s feelings in such matters depends more\non the degree of refinement which has been attained to by the age or\ncountry in which they live, than on the severity of their general\nmorals or the purity of their creed. I may add, that the practice\nof cock-throwing was abolished in the old school of Cromarty by Mr.\nRussel\u2019s immediate successor--the late Rev. Mr. Macadam of Nigg; but\nthe annual cock-fight survived until put down, a few years ago,[10] by\nthe present incumbent of the parish.\n\n[Sidenote: M\u2019CULLOCH THE MECHANICIAN.]\n\nThere was one other Cromarty man of the last century who became eminent\nin his own walk and day, and to whom I must therefore refer; but I know\nnot that he owed much, if anything, to the old school of the burgh.\n\nIn the _Scots Magazine_ for May 1789, there is a report by Captain\nPhilip d\u2019Auvergne, of the Narcissus frigate, on the practical utility\nof Kenneth M\u2019Culloch\u2019s sea compasses. The captain, after an eighteen\nmonths\u2019 trial of their merits, compared with those of all the other\nkinds in use at the time, describes them as immensely superior, and\nearnestly recommends to the Admiralty their general introduction into\nthe navy. In passing, on one occasion, through the race of Alderney in\nthe winter of 1787, there broke out a frightful storm, and so violent\nwas the opposition of the wind and tide, that while his vessel was\nsailing at the rate of eleven miles on the surface, she was making\nscarce any headway by the land. The sea rose tremendously--at once\nshort, high, and irregular; and the motions of the vessel were so\nfearfully abrupt and violent, that scarce a seaman aboard could stand\non deck. At a time so critical, when none of the compasses supplied\nfrom his Majesty\u2019s stores _would stand_, but vacillated more than\nthree points on each side, \u201cit commanded,\u201d says the captain, \u201cthe\nadmiration of the whole crew, winning the confidence of even the most\ntimorous--to see how quickly and readily M\u2019Culloch\u2019s steering compass\nrecovered the vacillations communicated to it by the motion of the\nship and the shocks of the sea, and how truly in every brief interval\nof rest the needle pointed to the Pole.\u201d It is further added, that on\nthe Captain\u2019s recommendation these compasses were tried on board the\nAndromeda, commanded at the time by Prince William Henry, our present\nking, and so satisfied was the Prince of the utility of the invention,\nthat he too became a strenuous advocate for their general introduction,\nand testified his regard for the ingenious inventor, by appointing\nhim his compass-maker. M\u2019Culloch, however, did not long survive the\nhonour, dying a few years after, and I have been unable to trace with\nany degree of certainty the further history of his improved compasses.\nBut though only imperfectly informed regarding his various inventions,\nand they are said to have been many, and singularly practical, I am\ntolerably well acquainted with the story of his early life; and as it\nfurnishes a striking illustration of that instinct of genius, if I may\nso express myself, which leads the possessor to exactly the place in\nwhich his services may be of most value to the community, by rendering\nhim useless and unhappy in every other, I think I cannot do better than\ncommunicate it to the reader.\n\nThere stood, about forty years ago, on the northern side of the parish\nof Cromarty, an old farmhouse--one of those low, long, dark-looking\nerections of turf and stone which still survive in the remoter\ndistricts of Scotland, as if to show how little man may sometimes\nimprove, in even a civilized country, on the first rude shelter which\nhis necessities owed to his ingenuity. A worn-out barrel, fixed\nslantwise in the ridge, served as a chimney for the better apartment\n(the spare room of the domicile), which was also furnished with a\nglazed window; but in the others the smoke was suffered to escape, and\nthe light to enter, as chance or accident might direct. The eaves,\noverhung by stonecrop and studded by bunches of the houseleek, drooped\nheavily above the small blind openings and low door; and a row of\nancient elms, which rose from out the fence of a neglected garden,\nspread their gnarled and ponderous arms over the roof. Such was the\nfarmhouse of Woodside, in which Kenneth M\u2019Culloch, the son of the\nfarmer, was born some time in the early half of the last century. The\nfamily from which he sprang--a race of honest, plodding tacksmen--had\nheld the place from the proprietor of Cromarty for considerably more\nthan a hundred years before, and it was deemed quite a matter of\ncourse that Kenneth, the eldest son, should succeed his father in the\nfarm. Never was there a time, in at least this part of the country,\nin which agriculture stood more in need of the services of original\nand inventive minds. There was not a wheeled cart in the parish, nor\na plough constructed on the modern principle. There was no changing\nof seed to suit the varieties of soil, no green cropping, no rotatory\nsystem of production; it almost seemed as if the main object of the\nfarmer was to raise the least possible amount of grain at the greatest\npossible expense of labour. The farm of Woodside was primitive enough\nin its usages and modes of tillage to have formed a study to the\nantiquary. Towards autumn, when the fields vary most in colour, it\nresembled a rudely executed chart of some large island, so irregular\nwere the patches which composed it, and so broken on every side by\na surrounding sea of brown sterile moor, that went here and there\nwinding into the interior in long river-like strips, or expanded within\ninto firths and lakes. In one corner there stood a heap of stones,\nin another a thicket of furze--here a piece of bog--there a broken\nbank of clay. The implements, too, with which the fields were tilled,\nwere quite as uncouth in their appearance as the fields themselves.\nThere was the single-stilted plough, that did little more than scratch\nthe surface; the wooden-toothed harrow, that did hardly so much; the\ncumbrous sledge--no inconsiderable load of itself, for carrying home\nthe corn in harvest; and the basket-woven conical cart, with its\nrollers of wood, for bearing out the manure in spring. With these, too,\nthere was the usual misproportion to the extent and produce of the\nfarm, of lean inefficient cattle--four half-starved animals performing,\nwith incredible labour, the work of one. And yet, now that a singularly\ninventive mind had come into existence on this very farm, and though\nits attentions had been directed, as far as external influences could\ndirect them, on the various employments of the farmer, the interests\nof husbandry were to be in no degree improved by the circumstance.\nNature, in the midst of her wisdom, seems to cherish a dash of the\neccentric. The ingenuity of the farmer\u2019s son was to be employed, not\nin facilitating the labours of the farmer, but in inventing binnacle\nlamps, which would yield an undiminished light amid the agitations of\na tempest, and in constructing mariners\u2019 compasses on a new principle.\nThere are instances of similar character furnished by the experience of\nalmost every one. In passing, some years since, over a dreary moor in\nthe interior of the country, my curiosity was excited by a miniature\nmast, furnished, like that of a ship, with shrouds and yards, and\nbearing a-top a gaudy pinnet, which rose beside a little Highland\ncottage. And on inquiring regarding it at the door, I was informed\nthat it was the work of the cottager\u2019s son, a lad who, though he had\nscarcely ever seen the sea, had taken a strange fancy to the life of\na sailor, and had left his father only a few weeks before, to serve\naboard a man-of-war.\n\nKenneth\u2019s first employment was the tending of a flock of sheep, the\nproperty of his father; and wretchedly did he acquit himself of the\ncharge. The farm was bounded on the eastern side by a deep bosky\nravine, through the bottom of which a scanty runnel rather trickled\nthan flowed; and when it was discovered on any occasion that Kenneth\u2019s\nflock had been left to take care of themselves, and of his father\u2019s\ncorn to boot--and such occasions were wofully frequent--Kenneth\nhimself was almost invariably to be found in the ravine. There would\nhe sit for hours among the bushes, engaged with his knife in carving\nuncouth faces on the heads of walking-sticks, or in constructing little\nwater-mills, or in making Liliputian pumps of the dried stalks of the\nlarger hemlock, and in raising the waters of the runnel to basins dug\nin the sides of the hollow. Sometimes he quitted his charge altogether,\nand set out for a meal-mill about a quarter of a mile from the farm,\nwhere he would linger for half a day at a time watching the motion\nof the wheels. His father complained that he could make nothing of\nhim--\u201cThe boy,\u201d he said, \u201cseemed to have nearly as much sense as other\nboys of his years, and yet for any one useful purpose he was nothing\nbetter than an idiot.\u201d His mother, as is common with mothers, and who\nwas naturally an easy kind-hearted sort of woman, had better hopes of\nhim. Kenneth, she affirmed, was only a little peculiar, and would turn\nout well after all. He was growing up, however, without improving in\nthe slightest, and when he became tall enough for the plough, he made\na dead stand. He would go and be a tradesman, he said--a mason, or\nsmith, or house-carpenter--anything his friends chose to make him; but\na farmer he would not be. His father, after a fruitless struggle to\novercome his obstinacy, carried him with him to a friend in Cromarty,\nour old acquaintance, Donald Sandison, and after candidly confessing\nthat he was of no manner of use at home, and would, he was afraid, be\nof little use anywhere, bound him by indenture to the mechanic for four\nyears.\n\nKenneth\u2019s new master, as I have already had occasion to state, was one\nof the best workmen in his profession in the north of Scotland. His\nscrutoires and wardrobes were in repute up to the close of the last\ncentury, and in the ancient art of wainscot-carving he had no equal\nin the country. He was an intelligent man too, as well as a superior\nmechanic; but with all his general intelligence, and all his skill,\nhe failed to discover the latent capabilities of his apprentice.\nKenneth was dull and absent, and had no heart to his work; and though\nhe seemed to understand the principles on which his master\u2019s various\ntools were used and the articles of his trade constructed, as well as\nany workman in the shop, there were none among them who used the tools\nso awkwardly, or constructed the articles so ill. An old botching\ncarpenter who wrought in a little shop at the other end of the town,\nwas known to the boys of the place by the humorous appellation of\n\u201cSpull (_i.e._ spoil)-the-wood,\u201d and a lean-sided, ill-conditioned,\ndangerous boat which he had built, as \u201cthe Wilful Murder.\u201d Kenneth came\nto be regarded as a sort of second \u201cSpull-the-Wood,\u201d as a fashioner of\nrickety tables, ill-fitted drawers, and chairs that, when sat upon,\ncreaked like badly-tuned organs; and the boys, who were beginning to\nregard him as fair game, sometimes took the liberty of asking him\nwhether he, too, was not going to build a Wilful Murder? Such, in\nshort, were his deficiencies as a mechanic, that in the third year of\nhis apprenticeship his master advised his father to take him home with\nhim and set him to the plough--an advice, however, on which the farmer,\nwarned by his previous experience, sturdily refused to act.\n\nIt was remarked that Kenneth acquired more of his profession in the\nlast year of his apprenticeship than in all the others. His skill\nas a workman came to rank but little below the average ability of\nhis shopmates; and he seemed to enjoy more, and had become less\nbashful and awkward. His master on one occasion brought him aboard a\nvessel in the harbour, to repair some injury which her bulwarks had\nsustained in a storm; and Kenneth, for the first time in his life, was\nintroduced to the mariner\u2019s compass. The master in after days, when\nhis apprentice had become a great man, used to relate the circumstance\nwith much complacency, and compare him, as he bent over the instrument\nin wonder and admiration, to a negro of the Kanga tribe worshipping\nthe elephant\u2019s tooth. On the close of his apprenticeship he left this\npart of the country for London, accompanied by his master\u2019s eldest\nson, a lad of a rather careless disposition, but, like his father, a\nfirst-rate workman.\n\nKenneth soon began to experience the straits and hardships of the\ninferior mechanic. His companion found little difficulty in procuring\nemployment, and none at all in retaining it when once procured.\nKenneth, on the contrary, was tossed about from shop to shop, and from\none establishment to another; and for a full twelvemonth, during the\nhalf of which he was wholly unemployed, he did not work for more than a\nfortnight together with any one master. It would have fared worse with\nhim than it did, had it not been for his companion, Willie Sandison,\nwho generously shared his earnings with him every time he stood in\nneed of his assistance. In about a year after they had gone to London,\nhowever, Willie, an honest and warm-hearted but thoughtless lad, was\ninveigled into a disreputable marriage, and lost in consequence his\nwonted ability to assist his companion. I have seen one of Kenneth\u2019s\nletters to his old master, written about this time, in which he bewails\nWillie\u2019s mishap, and dwells gloomily on his own prospects. How these\nfirst began to brighten I am unable to say, for there occurs about this\nperiod a wide gap in his story, which all my inquiries regarding him\nhave not enabled me to fill; but in a second letter to his master, now\nbefore me, which bears date 1772, just ten years after the other, there\nare the evidences of a surprising improvement in his circumstances and\ncondition.\n\nHe writes in high spirits. Just before sitting down to his desk he\nhad heard from his old friend Willie, who had gone out to one of the\ncolonies, where he was thriving in spite of his wife. He had heard,\ntoo, by the same post from his mother, who had been so kind to him\nduring his luckless boyhood; and the old woman was well. He had,\nbesides, been enabled to remove from his former lodgings to a fine\nairy house in Duke\u2019s Court, opposite St. Martin\u2019s Church, for which\nhe had engaged, he said, to pay a rent of forty-two pounds per annum,\na very considerable sum nearly sixty years ago. Further, he had\nentered into an advantageous contract with Catherine of Russia, for\nfurnishing all the philosophical instruments of a new college then\nerecting in Petersburgh--a contract which promised to secure about two\nyears\u2019 profitable employment to himself and seven workmen. In the ten\nyears which intervened between the dates of his two letters, Kenneth\nM\u2019Culloch had become one of the most skilful and inventive mechanicians\nof London. He rose gradually into affluence and celebrity, and for\na considerable period before his death his gains were estimated at\nabout a thousand a year. His story, however, illustrates rather the\nwisdom of nature than that of Kenneth M\u2019Culloch. We think all the more\nhighly of Franklin for being so excellent a printer, and of Burns for\nexcelling all his companions in the labours of the fields; nor did the\nskill or vigour with which they pursued their ordinary employments\nhinder the one from taking his place among the first philosophers and\nfirst statesmen of the age, nor prevent the other from achieving his\nwidespread celebrity as the most original and popular of modern poets.\nBe it remembered, however, that there is a narrow and limited cast\nof genius, unlike that of either Burns or Franklin, which, though of\nincalculable value in its own sphere, is of no use whatever in any\nother; and to precipitate it on its proper object by the pressure of\nexternal circumstances, and the general inaptitude of its possessor for\nother pursuits, seems to be part of the wise economy of Providence. Had\nKenneth M\u2019Culloch betaken himself to the plough, like his father and\ngrandfather, he would have been, like them, the tacksman of Woodside,\nand nothing more; had he found his proper vocation in cabinet-making,\nhe would have made tables and chairs for life, like his ingenious\nmaster, Donald Sandison.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n    \u201cTo a mysteriously consorted pair\n    This place is consecrate, to Death and Life,\n    And to the best affections that proceed\n    From their conjunction.\u201d--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE ITINERANT SCULPTOR.]\n\nWere I to see a person determined on becoming a hermit, through a\ndisgust of the tame aspect of manners and low tone of feeling which\nseem characteristic of what is termed civilized society, I should be\ninclined to advise that, instead of retiring into a desert, he should\ntake up his place of residence in a country churchyard.\n\nPerhaps no personage of real life can be more properly regarded as a\nhermit of the churchyard than the itinerant sculptor, who wanders from\none country burying-ground to another, recording on his tablets of\nstone the tears of the living and the worth of the dead. If possessed\nof an ordinary portion of feeling and imagination, he can scarce fail\nof regarding his profession as a school of benevolence and poetry. For\nmy own part, I have seldom thrown aside the hammer and trowel of the\nstone-mason for the chisel of the itinerant sculptor, without receiving\nsome fresh confirmation of the opinion. How often have I suffered\nmy mallet to rest on the unfinished epitaph, when listening to some\nfriend of the buried expatiating, with all the eloquence of grief, on\nthe mysterious warning--and the sad deathbed--on the worth that had\ndeparted--and the sorrow that remained behind! How often, forgetting\nthat I was merely an auditor, have I so identified myself with the\nmourner as to feel my heart swell, and my eyes becoming moist! Even\nthe very aspect of a solitary churchyard seems conducive to habits of\nthought and feeling. I have risen from my employment to mark the shadow\nof tombstone and burial-mound creeping over the sward at my feet, and\nhave been rendered serious by the reflection, that as those gnomons\nof the dead marked out no line of hours, though the hours passed as\nthe shadows moved, so, in that eternity in which even the dead exist,\nthere is a nameless tide of continuity, but no division of time. I\nhave become sad, when, looking on the green mounds around me, I have\nregarded them as waves of triumph which time and death have rolled over\nthe wreck of man; and the feeling has deepened, when, looking down with\nthe eye of imagination through this motionless sea of graves, I have\nmarked the sad remains of both the long-departed and the recent dead\nthickly strewed over the bottom. I have grieved above the half-soiled\nshroud of her for whom the tears of bereavement had not yet been dried\nup, and sighed over the mouldering bones of him whose very name had\nlong since perished from the earth.\n\n[Sidenote: KIRK-MICHAEL.]\n\nNot long ago I wrought for about a week in the burying-ground of\nKirk-Michael, a ruinous chapel in the eastern extremity of the parish\nof Resolis, distant about six miles from the town of Cromarty. It is\na pleasant solitary spot, lying on the sweep of a gentle declivity.\nThe sea flows to within a few yards of the lower wall; but the beach\nis so level, and so little exposed to the winds, that even in the time\nof tempest there is heard within its precincts only a faint rippling\nmurmur, scarcely loud enough to awaken the echoes of the ruin. Ocean\nseems to muffle his waves in approaching this field of the dead. A row\nof elms springs out of the fence, and half encircles the building in\nthe centre. Standing beside the mouldering walls, the foreground of the\nscene appears thickly sprinkled over with graves and tablets; and we\nsee the green moss creeping round the rude sculptures of a primitive\nage, imparting lightness and beauty to that on which the chisel had\nbestowed a very opposite character. The flake-like leaves and gnarled\ntrunks of the elms fill up what a painter would term the midground of\nthe picture; and seen from between the boughs, the Bay of Cromarty,\nshut in by the Sutors so as to present the appearance of a huge lake,\nand the town beyond half enveloped in blue smoke--the windows sparkling\nthrough the cloud like spangles on a belt of azure--occupy the distance.\n\nThe western gable of the ruin is still entire, though the very\nfoundations of part of the walls can no longer be traced on the\nsward, and it is topped by a belfry of hewn stone, in which the _dead\nbell_ is still suspended. From the spires and balls with which the\ncornice is surmounted, the moss and lichens which bristle over the\nmouldings, and the stalks of ragweed which shoot out here and there\nfrom between the joints, the belfry, though designed in a barbarous\nstyle of architecture, is rich in the true picturesque. It furnished\nme, when the wind blew from the east, with an agreeable music, not,\nindeed, either gay or very varied, but of a character which suited well\nwith that of the place. I wrought directly under it, and frequently\npaused in my labours to hearken the blast moaning amid its spires, and\nwhistling through its apertures; and I have occasionally been startled\nby the mingling deathlike tones produced by the hammer, when forced\nby the wind against the sides of the bell. I was one day listening\nto this music, when, by one of those freaks which fling the light of\nrecollection upon the dark recesses of the past, much in the manner\nthat I have seen a child throwing the gleam of a mirror from the\nsunshine into the shade, there were brought before me the circumstances\nof a dream, deemed prophetic of the death of him whose epitaph I was\nthen inscribing. It was one of those auguries of contingency which,\naccording to Bacon, men mark when they hit, and never mark when they\nmiss.\n\n[Sidenote: THE APPRENTICE\u2019S DREAM.]\n\nIn the latter part of 1822 a young lad, a mason\u2019s apprentice,\nwas employed with his master in working within the policies of\nPointzfield--a gentleman\u2019s seat about a mile from the burying-ground.\nHe wished much to visit the tombs and chapel, but could find no\nopportunity; for the day had so shortened that his employments engaged\nhim from the first peep of light in the morning until half an hour\nafter sunset. And perhaps the wish was the occasion of the dream.\nHe had no sooner fallen asleep, after the fatigues of the day, than\nhe found himself approaching the chapel in one of the finest of\nmidsummer evenings. The whole western heavens were suffused with the\nblush of sunset--the hills, the woods, the fields, the sea, all the\nlimbs and members of the great frame of nature, seemed enveloped in\na mantle of beauty. He reached the burying-ground, and deemed it the\nloveliest spot he had ever seen. The tombs were finished after the most\nexquisite designs, chastely Grecian, or ornately Gothic; and myriads\nof flowering shrubs winded around the urns, and shaded the tablets\nin every disposition of beauty. The building seemed entire, but it\nwas so encrusted with moss and lichens as to present an appearance of\nextreme antiquity; and on the western gable there was fixed a huge\ngnomon of bronze, fantastically carved like that of an antique dial,\nand green with the rust of ages. Suddenly a low breeze began to moan\nthrough the shrubs and bushes, the heavens became overcast, and the\ndreamer, turning towards the building, beheld with a sensation of fear\nthe gnomon revolving slowly as on an axis, until the point rested\nsignificantly on the sward. He fled the place in deep horror, the\nnight suddenly fell, and when floundering on in darkness and terror,\nthrough a morass that stretches beyond the southern wall of the chapel,\nhe awoke, and lo! it was a dream. Only five weeks elapsed from this\nevening, until he followed to the burying-ground the corpse of a\nrelative, and saw that the open grave occupied the identical spot on\nwhich the point of the gnomon had rested.\n\nDuring the course of the week which I spent in the burying-ground, I\nbecame acquainted with several interesting traditions connected with\nits mute inhabitants. There are some of these which show how very\nunlike the beliefs entertained in the ages which have departed, are\nto those deemed rational in the present; while there are others which\nrender it evident that though men at different eras think and believe\ndifferently, human nature always remains the same. The following\npartakes in part of the character of both.\n\n[Sidenote: THE WILD WIFE.]\n\nThere lived, about a century ago, in the upper part of the parish of\nCromarty, an elderly female of that disposition of mind which Bacon\ndescribes as one of the very errors of human nature. Her faculties of\nenjoyment and suffering seemed connected by some invisible tie to the\nfortunes of her neighbours; but the tie, unlike that of sympathy, which\nbinds pleasure to pleasure, and sorrow to sorrow, united by a strange\nperversity the opposite feelings; for she was happy when the people\naround her were unfortunate, and miserable when they prospered. So\ndecided a misanthropy was met by a kindred feeling in those acquainted\nwith her; nor was she regarded with only that abhorrence which attaches\nto the evil wish, and the malignant intention, but also with the\ncontempt due to that impotency of malice which can only wish and intend.\n\nHer sphere of mischief, however, though limited by her circumstances,\nwas occupied to its utmost boundary; and she frequently made up\nfor her want of power by an ingenuity, derived from what seemed an\nalmost instinctive knowledge of the weaknesses of human nature. It\nwas difficult to tell how she effected her schemes, but certain it\nwas that in her neighbourhood lovers became estranged, and families\ndivided. Late in the autumn of her last year, she formed one of a\nband of reapers employed in cutting down the crops of a Cromarty\nfarmer. Her partner on the ridge was a poor widow, who had recently\nlost her husband, and who, though wasted by grief and sickness, was\nnow toiling for her three fatherless children. Every person on the\nfield pitied her but one; and the malice of even that one, perverted\nas her dispositions were, would probably have been disarmed by the\nhelplessness of its object, had it not chanced, that about five years\nbefore, when the poor woman and her deceased husband were on the eve of\ntheir marriage, she had attempted to break off the match, by casting\nsome foul aspersions on her character. Those whom the wicked injure,\nsays the adage, they never forgive; and with a demoniac abuse of her\nknowledge of the dispositions of the people with whom she wrought,\nshe strained beyond her strength to get ahead of them, knowing that\na competition would necessarily take place, in which, she trusted,\nthe widow would have either to relinquish her employment as above her\nstrength, or so exhaust herself in the contest as to relapse into\nsickness. The expected struggle ensued, but, to the surprise of every\none, the widow kept up her place in the foremost rank until evening,\nwhen she appeared less fatigued than almost any individual of the\nparty. The wretch who had occasioned the contest, and who had fallen\nbehind all the others, seemed dreadfully agitated for the two last\nhours it continued; and she was heard by the persons who bound up the\nsheaves, muttering, during the whole time, words apparently of fearful\nmeaning, which were, however, drowned amid the rustling of the corn,\nand the hurry and confusion of the competition. Next morning she alone\nof all the reapers was absent; and she was found by the widow, who\nseemed the only one solicitous to know what had become of her, and who\nfirst entered her hovel to inquire after her, tossing in the delirium\nof fever. The poor woman, though shocked and terrified by her ravings\nand her agony, tended her till within half an hour of midnight, when\nshe expired.\n\nAt that late hour a solitary traveller was passing the road which winds\nalong the southern shore of the bay. The moon, in her last quarter,\nhad just risen over the hill on his right, and, half-veiled by three\nstrips of cloud, rather resembled a heap of ignited charcoal seen\nthrough the bars of a grate, than the orb which only a few nights\nbefore had enabled the reaper to prosecute his employments until near\nmorning. The blocks of granite scattered over the neighbouring beach,\nand bleached and polished by the waves, were relieved by the moonshine,\nand resembled flocks of sheep ruminating on a meadow; but not a single\nray rested on the sea beyond, or the path or fields before;--the\nbeam slided ineffectually along the level;--it was light looking at\ndarkness. On a sudden, the traveller became conscious of that strange\nmysterious emotion which, according to the creed of the demonologist,\nindicates the presence or near approach of an evil spirit. He felt his\nwhole frame as if creeping together, and his hair bristling on his\nhead; and, filled with a strange horror, he heard, through the dead\nstillness of the night, a faint uncertain noise, like that of a sudden\nbreeze rustling through a wood at the close of autumn. He blessed\nhimself, and stood still. A tall figure, indistinct in the darkness,\ncame gliding along the road from the east, and inquired of him in a\nvoice hollow and agitated, as it floated past, whether it could not\nreach Kirk-Michael before midnight? \u201cNo living person could,\u201d answered\nthe traveller; and the appearance, groaning at the reply, was out of\nsight in a moment. The sounds still continued, as if a multitude of\nleaves were falling from the boughs of a forest, and striking with a\npattering sound on the heaps congregated beneath, when another figure\ncame up, taller, but even less distinct, than the former. It bore the\nappearance of a man on horseback. \u201cShall I reach Kirk-Michael before\nmidnight?\u201d was the query again put to the terrified traveller; but\nbefore he could reply, the appearance had vanished in the distance, and\na shriek of torment and despair, which seemed re-echoed by the very\nfirmament, roused him into a more intense feeling of horror. The moon\nshone out with supernatural brightness; the noise, which had ceased for\na moment, returned, but the sounds were different--for they now seemed\nto be those of faint laughter, and low indistinct murmurings in the\ntone of ridicule; and the gigantic rider of a pale horse, with what\nappeared to be a female shape bent double before him, and accompanied\nby two dogs, one of which tugged at the head and the other at the feet\nof the figure, was seen approaching from the west. As this terrible\napparition passed the traveller, the moon shone full on the face of\nthe woman bent across the horse, and he distinctly perceived, though\nthe features seemed convulsed with agony, that they were those of the\nfemale who, unknown to him, had expired a few minutes before. None of\nthe other stories are of so terrible a character.\n\n[Sidenote: GORDON OF NEWHALL.]\n\nAttached to the eastern gable of the ruin, there is a tomb which\nencloses several monuments; among the rest a plain slab of marble\nbearing an epitaph, the composition of which would reflect honour\non the pen even of Pope. Like most of the other tablets of the\nburying-ground, it has its history. Somewhat more than fifty years\nago, the proprietor of Newhall, an estate in the neighbourhood, was a\nyoung man of very superior powers of mind, and both a gentleman and a\nscholar. When on a visit at the house of his uncle, the proprietor of\nInvergordon, he was suddenly taken ill, and died a few hours after,\nleaving behind him a sister, who entertained for him the warmest\naffection, and the whole of his tenants, who were much attached to him,\nto regret his loss. He was buried in the family vault of his uncle, who\ndid not long survive him; and whose estate, including the vault, was\nsold soon after by the next of kin--a circumstance which aggravated, in\nno slight degree, the grief of his sister. There was one gloomy idea\nthat continually occupied her mind--the idea that even the dust of her\nbrother had, like the earth and stones of his cemetery, become the\nproperty of a stranger. Sleeping or waking, the interior of the vault\nwas continually before her. I have seen it. It is a damp melancholy\napartment of stone, so dimly lighted that the eye cannot ascertain its\nextent, with the sides hollowed into recesses, partly occupied by the\ndead, and with a few rusty iron lamps suspended from the ceiling, that\nresemble in the darkness a family of vampire bats clinging to the roof\nof a cavern. A green hillock, covered with moss and daisies, would have\nsupplied the imagination of the mourner with a more pleasing image, and\nhave associated better with the character of the dead.\n\nHis sister was the wife of a gentleman who was at that time the\nproprietor of Braelanguil. One evening, about half a year after the\nsale of her uncle\u2019s property, she was prevailed upon by her husband to\nquit her apartment, to which she had been confined for months before,\nand to walk with him in a neighbouring wood. She spoke of the virtues\nand talents of the deceased, the only theme from which she could derive\nany pleasure; and she found that evening in her companion a more deep\nand tender sympathy than usual. The walk was insensibly prolonged,\nand she was only awakened from her reverie of tenderness and sorrow,\nby finding herself among the graves of Kirk-Michael. The door of her\nhusband\u2019s burying-ground lay open. On entering it, she perceived that a\nfresh grave had been added to the number of those which had previously\noccupied the space, and that one of the niches in the wall was filled\nup by a new slab of marble. It was the grave and monument of her\nbrother. The body had been removed from the vault, and re-interred in\nthis place by her consort; and it would perhaps be difficult to decide\nwhether the more delicate satisfaction was derived by the sister or the\nhusband from the walk of the evening. The epitaph is as follows:--\n\n    What science crown\u2019d him, or what genius blest,\n    No flattering pencil bids this stone attest;\n    Yet may it witness with a purer pride,\n    How many virtues sunk when Gordon died.\n    Clear truth and nature, noble rays of mind,\n    Open as day, that beam\u2019d on all mankind;\n    Warm to oblige, too gentle to offend,\n    He never made a foe nor lost a friend.\n    Nor yet from fortune\u2019s height, or learning\u2019s shade,\n    It boasts the tribute to his memory paid;\n    But that around, in grateful sorrow steep\u2019d,\n    The humble tenants of the cottage wept;\n    Those simple hearts that shrink from grandeur\u2019s blaze,\n    Those artless tongues that know not how to praise,\n    Feel and record the worth that hallow here\n    A friend\u2019s remembrance, and a sister\u2019s tear.[11]\n\nHalf-way between the chapel and the northern wall of the\nburying-ground, there is a square altar-like monument of hewn ashlar,\nenclosing in one of its sides a tablet of grey freestone. It was\nerected about sixty years ago by a baronet of Fowlis to the memory of\nhis aunt, Mrs. Gordon of Ardoch, a woman whose singular excellence of\ncharacter is recorded by the pen of Doddridge. She was the only sister\nof three brothers--men who ranked among the best and bravest of their\nage, and all of whom died in the service of their country--two in the\nfield of battle, the third when pursuing a flying enemy.\n\n[Sidenote: SIR ROBERT MUNRO.]\n\nThe eldest son of the family was Sir Robert Munro, twenty-seventh\nbaronet of Fowlis, a man whose achievements, as recorded by the sober\npen of Doddridge, seem fitted to associate rather with ideas derived\nfrom the high conceptions of poetry and romance, than with those\nwhich we usually acquire from our experience of real life. He was a\nperson of calm wisdom, determined courage, and unassuming piety. On\nquitting the university, which he did when very young, he passed into\nFlanders, where he served for several years under Marlborough, and\nbecame intimate with the celebrated James Gardiner, then a cornet of\ndragoons. And the intimacy ripened into a friendship which did not\nterminate until death; perhaps not even then. On the peace of 1712 he\nreturned to Scotland; and the Rebellion broke out three years after.\nAt the head of his clan, the Munros, in union with the good Earl of\nSutherland, he so harassed a body of three thousand Highlanders, who,\nunder the Earl of Seaforth, were on the march to join the insurgents at\nPerth, that the junction was retarded for nearly two months--a delay\nwhich is said to have decided the fate of the Stuarts in Scotland. In\nthe following year he was appointed one of the commissioners of inquiry\ninto the forfeited estates of the attainted; and he exerted himself\nin this office in erecting parishes in the remote Highlands, which\nderived their stipends from the confiscated lands. In this manner, says\nhis biographer, new presbyteries were formed in counties where the\ndiscipline and worship of Protestant Churches had before no footing. It\nis added, that by his influence with Government he did eminent service\nto the wives and children of the proscribed. He was for thirty years a\nmember of Parliament, and distinguished himself as a liberal consistent\nWhig--the friend both of the people and of the king. In the year 1740,\nwhen the country was on the eve of what he deemed a just war, though\nhe had arrived at an age at which the soldier commonly begins to think\nof retiring from the fatigues of the military life, he quitted the\nbusiness of the senate for the dangers of the field, and passed a\nsecond time into Flanders. He now held the rank of lieutenant-colonel,\nand such was his influence over the soldiers under him, and such\ntheir admiration of his character, that his spirit and high sense of\nhonour seemed to pervade the whole regiment. When a guard was granted\nto the people of Flanders for the protection of their property, they\nprayed that it should be composed of Sir Robert\u2019s Highlanders; and the\nElector-Palatine, through his envoy at the English court, tendered to\nGeorge I. his thanks for this excellent regiment; for the sake of whose\nlieutenant-colonel, it was added, he would for the future always esteem\na Scotchman.\n\nThe life of Sir Robert resembled a well-wrought drama, whose scenes\nbecome doubly interesting as it hastens to a close. In the battle of\nFontenoy he was among the first in the field, and having obtained\nleave that his Highlanders should fight after the manner of their\ncountry, he surprised the whole army by a display of extraordinary yet\nadmirable tactics, directed against the enemy with the most invincible\ncourage. He dislodged from a battery, which he was ordered to attack,\na force superior to his own, and found a strong body of the enemy,\nwho were stationed beyond it, preparing to open on him a sweeping\nfire. Commanding his regiment to prostrate itself to avoid the shot,\nhe raised it when the French were in the act of reloading, and, sword\nin hand, rushed at its head upon them with so irresistible a charge\nas forced them precipitately through their lines. Then retreating,\naccording to the tactics of his country, he again brought his men to\nthe charge as before, and with similar effect. And this man\u0153uvre of\nalternate flight and attack was frequently repeated during the day.\nWhen after the battle had become general, the English began to give\nground before the superior force of the enemy, Sir Robert\u2019s regiment\nformed the rearguard in the retreat. A strong body of French horse came\ngalloping up behind; but, when within a few yards of the Highlanders,\nthe latter turned suddenly round, and received them with a fire so well\ndirected and effectual, that nearly one-half of them were dismounted.\nThe rest, wheeling about, rode off, and did not again return to the\nattack. It was observed, that during the course of this day, when\nthe Highlanders had thrown themselves on the ground immediately as\nthe enemy had levelled their pieces for firing, there was one person\nof the regiment who, instead of prostrating himself with the others,\nstood erect, exposed to the volley. That one was Sir Robert Munro.\nThe circumstances of his death, which took place about eight months\nafter, at the battle of Falkirk, were adapted to display still more\nhis indomitable heroism of character. He had recently been promoted\nto the command of a regiment, which, unlike his brave Highlanders at\nFontenoy, deserted him in the moment of attack, and left him enclosed\nby the enemy. Defending himself with his half-pike against six of their\nnumber, two of whom he killed, he was not overpowered, though alone,\nuntil a seventh coming up shot him dead with a musket. His younger\nbrother, who accompanied the regiment, and who had been borne along by\nthe current of the retreat, returned in time only to witness his fate\nand to share it.\n\nIt has been told me by a friend, who, about forty years ago,\nresided for some time in the vicinity of Fowlis, that he could have\ncollected, at that period, anecdotes of Sir Robert from among his\ntenantry sufficient to have formed a volume. They were all of one\ncharacter:--tints of varied but unequivocal beauty, which animated into\nthe colour and semblance of life the faint outline of heroism traced by\nDoddridge. There was an old man who used to sit by my friend for hours\ntogether narrating the exploits of his chief. He was a tall, upright,\ngreyhaired Highlander, of a warm heart and keen unbending spirit, who\nhad fought at Dettingen, Fontenoy, Culloden, and Quebec. One day, when\ndescribing the closing scene in the life of his almost idolized leader,\nafter pouring out his curse on the dastards who had deserted him, he\nstarted from his seat, and grasping his staff as he burst into tears,\nexclaimed in a voice almost smothered by emotion, \u201cOchon, ochon, had\nhis ain folk been there!!\u201d\n\nThe following anecdote of Sir Robert, which I owe to tradition, sets\nhis character in a very amiable light. On his return from Flanders\nin 1712, he was introduced to a Miss Jean Seymour, a beautiful\nEnglish lady. The young soldier was smitten by her appearance, and\nhad the happiness of perceiving that he had succeeded in at least\nattracting her notice. So happy an introduction was followed up into\nan intimacy, and at length, what had been only a casual impression on\neither side, ripened into a mutual passion of no ordinary warmth and\ndelicacy. On Sir Robert\u2019s quitting England for the north, he arranged\nwith his mistress the plan of a regular correspondence, and wrote to\nher immediately on his arrival at Fowlis. After waiting for a reply\nwith all the impatience of the lover, he sent off a second letter\ncomplaining of her neglect, which had no better success than the first,\nand shortly after a third, which shared the fate of the two others.\nThe inference seemed too obvious to be missed; and he strove to forget\nMiss Seymour. He hunted, fished, visited his several friends, involved\nhimself in a multiplicity of concerns, but all to no purpose; she\nstill continued the engrossing object of his affections, and, after\na few months\u2019 stay in the Highlands, he again returned to England, a\nvery unhappy man. When waiting on a friend in London, he was ushered\nprecipitately into the midst of a fashionable party, and found himself\nin the presence of his mistress. She seemed much startled by the\nrencounter; the blood mounted to her cheeks; but, suppressing her\nemotion, she turned to the lady who sat next her, and began to converse\non some common topic of the day. Sir Robert retired, and beckoning on\nhis friend, entreated him to procure for him an interview with Miss\nSeymour, which was effected, and an explanation ensued. The lady had\nnot received a single letter; and forming at length, from the seeming\nneglect of her lover, an opinion of him similar to that from which she\nherself was suffering in his esteem, she attempted to banish him from\nher affections;--an attempt, however, in which she was scarcely more\nsuccessful than Sir Robert. They were gratified to find that they had\nnot been mistaken in their first impressions of each other, and parted\nmore attached, and more convinced that the attachment was mutual, than\never. And in less than two months after Miss Seymour had become Lady\nMunro.\n\nSir Robert succeeded in tracing all his letters to one point, a kind of\npost-office on the confines of Inverness-shire. There was a proprietor\nin the neighbourhood, who was deeply engaged in the interests of the\nStuarts, and decidedly hostile to Sir Robert, the scion of a family\nwhich had distinguished itself from the first dawn of the Reformation\nin the cause of civil and religious liberty. There was, therefore,\nlittle difficulty in assigning an author to the contrivance; but Sir\nRobert was satisfied in barely tracing it to a discovery; for, squaring\nhis principles of honour rather by the morals of the New Testament than\nby the dogmas of that code which regards death as the only expiation of\ninsult or injury, he was no duellist. An opportunity, however, soon\noccurred of his avenging himself in a manner agreeable to his character\nand principles. On the breaking out of the Rebellion of 1715, the\nperson who had so wantonly sported with his happiness joined the Earl\nof Mar, and, after the failure of the enterprise, was among the number\nof the proscribed. Sir Robert\u2019s influence with the Government, and\nthe peculiar office to which he was appointed, gave him considerable\npower over the confiscated properties, and this power he exerted to its\nutmost in behalf of the wife and children of the man by whom he had\nbeen injured. \u201cTell your husband,\u201d said he to the lady, \u201cthat I have\nnow repaid him for the interest he took in my correspondence with Miss\nSeymour.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: BABBLE HANAH.]\n\nSir Robert\u2019s second brother (the other, as has been related, died with\nhim at Falkirk) was killed, about seven months after the battle, in\nthe Highlands of Lochaber. His only sister survived him for nearly\ntwenty years, \u201ca striking example (I use the language of Doddridge)\nof profound submission and fortitude, mingled with the most tender\nsensibility of temper.\u201d She was the wife of a Mr. Gordon of Ardoch (now\nPointzfield), whom she survived for several years; and her later days\nwere spent in Cromarty, where there are still a few elderly people who\nremember her, and speak of her many virtues and gentle manners with a\nfeeling bordering on enthusiasm. There was a poor half-witted girl who\nlived in her neighbourhood, known among the town\u2019s-people by the name\nof _Babble_ Hanah. The word in italics is a Scottish phrase applied to\npersons of an idiotical cast of mind, and yet though poor Hanah had\nno claim to dispute the propriety of its application in her own case,\nher faint glimmering of reason proved quite sufficient to light her\non the best possible track of life. She had learned from revelation\nof the immortality of the soul, and the two states of the future;\nand experience had taught even her, what indeed it would teach every\none, did every one but attend to its lessons, that there is a radical\ndepravity in the nature of man, and a continual succession of evil\nin the course of life. She had learned, too, that she was one of the\nleast wise of a class of creatures exceedingly foolish at best, and\nthat to escape from evil needed much wisdom. She was, therefore earnest\nin her prayers to the Great Spirit who was so kind to her--and to even\nthose feeble animals who, though they enjoy no boon of after life, have\na wisdom to provide for the winter, and to dig their houses in the\nrocks--that in this world He would direct her walk agreeably to His own\nwill, and render her wiser in the world to come. Socrates could have\ntaught all this to Xenophon and Plato, but God only could have taught\nit to Hanah. The people of the place, with dispositions like those\nof the great bulk of people in every place, were much more disposed\nto laugh at the poor thing for what she wanted, than to form right\nestimates of the value of what she had. Not so Lady Ardoch;--Hanah\nwas one of her friends. The lady\u2019s house was a place where, in the\nlanguage of Scripture, \u201cprayer was wont to be made;\u201d and no one was\na more regular attendant on the meetings held for this purpose, than\nher friend the half-witted girl. The poor thing always sat at her\nfeet, and was termed by her, her own Hanah. Years, however, began to\nweigh down the frame of the good lady; and after passing through all\nthe gradations of bodily decay, with a mind which seemed to brighten\nand grow stronger as it neared to eternity, she at length slept with\nher fathers. Hanah betrayed no emotion of grief; she spoke to no one\nof the friend whom she had lost; but she moped and pined away, and\nbecame indifferent to everything; and a few months after, when on her\ndeathbed, she told a friend of the deceased who had come to visit her,\nthat she was going to the country of Lady Ardoch.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n    \u201cRise, honest muse, and sing the man of Ross.\u201d--POPE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT.]\n\nIn the letter in which Junius accuses the Duke of Grafton of having\nsold a patent place in the collection of customs to one Mr. Hine, he\ninforms the reader that the person employed by his Grace in negotiating\nthe business, was \u201cGeorge Ross, the Scotch Agent and worthy confidant\nof Lord Mansfield. And no sale by the candle,\u201d he adds, \u201cwas ever\nconducted with greater formality.\u201d Now, slight as this notice is, there\nis something in it sufficiently tangible for the imagination to lay\nhold of. If the reader thinks of the Scotch Agent at all, he probably\nthinks of him as one of those convenient creatures so necessary to the\npractical statesman, whose merit does not consist more in their being\ningenious in a great degree, than in their being honest in a small\none. So mixed a thing is poor human nature, however, that though the\nstatement of Junius has never been fairly controverted, no possible\nestimate of character could be more unjust. The Scotch Agent, whatever\nmay have been the nature of his services to the Duke of Grafton, was\nin reality a high-minded, and, what is more, a truly patriotic man;\nso good a person indeed, that, in a period of political heats and\nanimosities like the present, his story, fairly told, may teach us a\nlesson of charity and moderation. I wish I could transport the reader\nto where his portrait hangs, side by side with that of his friend the\nLord Chief-Justice, in the drawing-room of Cromarty House. The air of\ndignified benevolence impressed on the features of the handsome old\nman, with his grey hair curling round his temples, would secure a fair\nhearing for him from even the sturdiest of the class who hate their\nneighbours for the good of their country. Besides, the very presence\nof the noble-looking lawyer, so much more like the Murray eulogized by\nPope and Lyttelton, than the Mansfield denounced by Junius, would of\nitself serve as a sort of guarantee for the honour of his friend.\n\nGeorge Ross was the son of a petty proprietor of Easter-Ross, and\nsucceeded, on the death of his father, to the few barren acres on\nwhich, for a century or two before, the family had been ingenious\nenough to live. But he possessed besides what was more valuable than\ntwenty such patrimonies--an untiring energy of disposition, based on a\nsubstratum of sound good sense; and, what was scarcely less important\nthan either, ambition enough to turn his capacity of employment to the\nbest account. Ross-shire, a century ago, was no place for such a man;\nand as the only road to preferment at this period was the road that\nled south, George Ross left, when very young, his mother\u2019s cottage\nfor England, where he spent nearly fifty years amongst statesmen\nand courtiers, and in the enjoyment of the friendship of such men\nas President Forbes and Lord Mansfield. At length he returned, when\nan old greyheaded man, to rank amongst the greatest capitalists and\nproprietors of the county; and purchased, with other lesser properties\nin the neighbourhood, the whole estate of Cromarty. Perhaps he had\ncome to rest him ere he died; but there seems to be no such thing\nas changing one\u2019s natural bent when confirmed by the habits of half\na lifetime; and the energies of the Scotch Agent, now that they had\ngained him fortune and influence, were as little disposed to fall\nasleep as they had been forty years before. As it was no longer\nnecessary, however, that they should be employed on his own account, he\ngave them full scope in behalf of his poorer neighbours. The country\naround him lay dead. There were no manufactories, no knowledge of\nagriculture, no consciousness that matters were ill, and consequently\nno desire of making them better; and the herculean task imposed upon\nhimself by the Scotch Agent, now considerably turned of sixty, was to\nanimate and revolutionize the whole. And such was his statesmanlike\nsagacity in developing the hitherto undiscovered resources of the\ncountry, joined to a high-minded zeal that could sow liberally, in the\nhope of a late harvest for others to reap, that he fully succeeded.\n\nHe first established in the town an extensive manufactory of hempen\ncloth, which has ever since employed about two hundred persons within\nits walls, and fully twice that number without. He next built an ale\nbrewery, which, at the time of its erection, was by far the largest in\nthe north of Scotland. He then furnished the town at a great expense\nwith an excellent harbour, and set on foot a trade in pork, which,\nfor the last thirty years, has been carried on by the people of the\nplace to an extent of from about fifteen to twenty thousand pounds\nannually. He set himself, too, to initiate his tenantry in the art of\nrearing wheat; and finding them wofully unwilling to become wiser on\nthe subject, he tried the force of example, by taking an extensive\nfarm under his own management, and conducting it on the most approved\nprinciples of modern agriculture. He established a nail and spade\nmanufactory; brought women from England to instruct the young girls in\nthe art of working lace; provided houses for the poor; presented the\ntown with a neat substantial building, the upper part of which still\nserves for a council-room and court-house, and the lower as a prison;\nand built for the accommodation of the poor Highlanders, who came\nthronging into the town to work on his lands and his manufactories, a\nhandsome Gaelic chapel. He built for his own residence an elegant house\nof hewn stone; surrounded it with pleasure-grounds designed in the best\nstyle of the art; planted many hundred acres of the less improvable\nparts of his property, and laid open the hitherto scarcely accessible\nbeauties of the hill of Cromarty, by crossing and recrossing it with\nwell-nigh as many walks as there are veins in the human body. He was\nproud of his exquisite landscapes, and of his own skill in heightening\ntheir beauty, and fully determined, he said, if he but lived long\nenough, to make Cromarty worth an Englishman\u2019s while coming all the way\nfrom London to see.\n\nWhen Oscar fell asleep, says the old Irish bard, it was impossible to\nawaken him before his time except by cutting off one of his fingers,\nor flinging a rock at his head; and wo to the poor man who disturbed\nhim! The Agent found it every whit as difficult to awaken a sleeping\ncountry, and in some respects almost as unsafe. I am afraid human\nnature is nearly the same thing in the people that it is in their\nrulers, and that both are alike disposed to prefer the man who flatters\nthem to the man who merely does them good. George Ross was by no means\nthe most popular of proprietors--he disturbed old prejudices, and\nunfixed old habits. The farmers thought it hard that they should have\nto break up their irregular maplike patches of land, divided from each\nother by little strips and corners not yet reclaimed from the waste,\ninto awkward-looking rectangular fields; and that they durst no longer\nfasten their horses to the plough by the tail--a piece of natural\nharness evidently formed for the purpose. The town\u2019s-people deemed the\nhempen manufactory unwholesome, and found that the English lacewomen,\nwho to a certainty were tea-drinkers, and even not very hostile, it was\nsaid, to gin, were in a fair way of teaching their pupils something\nmore than the mere weaving of lace. What could be more heathenish, too,\nthan the little temple covered with cockle-shells which the laird had\njust reared on a solitary corner of the hill; but the temple they soon\nsent spinning over the cliff into the sea, a downward journey of a\nhundred yards. And then his odious pork trade! There was no prevailing\non the people to rear pigs for him, and so he had to build a range of\noffices in an out-of-the-way nook of his lands, which he stocked with\nhordes of these animals, that he might rear them for himself. The\nherds increased in size and number, and, voracious beyond calculation,\nalmost occasioned a famine. Even the great wealth of the speculatist\nproved insufficient to supply them with the necessary food, and the\nvery keepers were in danger of being eaten alive. The poor animals\nseemed departing from their very nature, for they became long, and\nlank, and bony as the griffins of heraldry, until they looked more like\nrace-horses than pigs; and as they descended with every ebb in huge\ndroves to browse on the sea-weed, or delve for shell-fish among the\npebbles, there was no lack of music befitting their condition, when the\nlarge rock-crab revenged with his nippers on their lips the injuries\ninflicted on him by their teeth. Now, all this formed a fine subject\nfor joking to people who indulged in a half-Jewish dislike of the pig,\nand who could not guess that the pork trade was one day to pay the\nrents of half the widows\u2019 cottages in the country. But no one could lie\nmore open than George Ross to that species of ridicule which the men\nwho see further than their neighbours, and look more to the advantage\nof others than to their own, cannot fail to encounter. He was a worker\nin the dark, and that at no slight expense; for though all his many\nprojects were ultimately found to be benefits conferred on his country,\nnot one of them proved remunerative to himself. But he seems to have\nknown mankind too well to have expected a very great deal from their\ngratitude; though, on one occasion at least, his patience gave way.\n\nThe town in the course of years had so entirely marched to the west,\nthat, as I have already had occasion to remark, the town\u2019s cross came\nat length to be fairly left behind, with a hawthorn hedge on the one\nside and a garden fence on the other; and when the Agent had completed\nthe house which was to serve as council-room and prison to the place,\nthe cross was taken down from its stand of more than two centuries,\nand placed in front of the new building. That people might the better\nremember the circumstance, there was a showy procession got up;\nhealths were drunk beside the cross in the Agent\u2019s best wine, and not\na little of his crystal broken against it; and the evening terminated\nin a ball. It so happened, however, through some cross chance, that,\nthough all the gentility of the place were to be invited, three young\nmen, who deemed themselves as genteel as the best of their neighbours,\nwere passed over--the foreman of the hemp manufactory had received no\ninvitation, nor the clever superintendent of the nail-work, nor yet\nthe spruce clerk of the brewery; and as they were all men of spirit,\nit so happened that, during the very next night, the cross was taken\ndown from its new pedestal, broken into three pieces, and carried\nstill further to the west, to an open space where four lanes met; and\nthere it was found in the morning--the pieces piled over each other,\nand surrounded by a profusion of broken ale-bottles. The Agent was\namazingly angry--angrier, indeed, than even those who best knew him had\ndeemed him capable of becoming; and in the course of the day the town\u2019s\ncrier went through the streets proclaiming a reward of ten pounds in\nhand, and a free room in Mr. Ross\u2019s new buildings for life, to any one\nwho would give such information as might lead to the conviction of the\noffenders.\n\nIn one of his walks a few days after, the Agent met with a poor\nmiserable-looking Highland woman, who had been picking a few withered\nsticks out of one of his hedges, and whose hands and clothes seemed\ntorn by the thorns. \u201cPoor old creature!\u201d he said, as she dropped her\ncourtesy in passing; \u201cyou must go to my manager and tell him I have\nordered you a barrel of coals. And stay--you are hungry; call at my\nhouse in passing, and the servants will find you something to take home\nwith you.\u201d The poor woman blessed him, and looked up hesitatingly in\nhis face. She had never betrayed any one, she said; but his honour was\nso good a gentleman--so very good a gentleman; and so she thought she\nhad best tell him all she knew about the breaking of the cross. She\nlived in a little garret over the room of Jamie Banks the nailer; and\nhaving slept scarcely any all the night in which the cross was taken\ndown, for the weather was bitterly cold, and her bedclothes very thin,\nshe could hear weighty footsteps traversing the streets till near\nmorning, when the house-door opened and in came Jamie with a tottering\nunequal step, and disturbed the whole family by stumbling over a stool\ninto his wife\u2019s washing tub. Besides, she had next day overheard his\nwife rating him for staying out to so _untimeous_ an hour, and his\nremark in reply, that she would do well to keep quiet unless she wished\nto see him hanged. This was the sort of clue the affair required, and\nin following it up, the unlucky nailer was apprehended and examined;\nbut it was found, that, through a singular lapse of memory, he had\nforgotten every circumstance connected with the night in question,\nexcept that he had been in the very best company, and one of the\nhappiest men in the world.\n\nJamie Banks was decidedly the most eccentric man of his day in at\nleast one parish; full of small wit and little conceits, and famous\nfor a faculty of invention fertile enough to have served a poet. On\none occasion when the gill of whisky had risen to three-halfpence\nin Cromarty, and could still be bought for a penny in Avoch, he had\nprevailed on a party of his acquaintance to accompany him to the latter\nplace, that they might drink themselves rich on the strength of the old\nproverb; and as they actually effected a saving of two shillings in\nspending six, it was clear, he said, that had not their money failed\nthem, they would have made fortunes apiece. Alas for the littleness\nof that great passion, the love of fame! I have observed that the\ntradespeople among whom one meets with most instances of eccentricity,\nare those whose shops, being places of general resort, furnish them\nwith space enough on which to achieve a humble notoriety, by rendering\nthemselves unlike everybody else. To secure to Jamie Banks due leisure\nfor recollection, he was committed to jail.\n\nHe was sitting one evening beside the prison fire with one of his\nneighbours and the jailer, and had risen to exclude the chill night air\nby drawing a curtain over the open barred window of the apartment, when\na man suddenly started from behind the wall outside, and discharged\na large stone with tremendous force at his head. The missile almost\nbrushed his ear as it sung past, and, rebounding from the opposite\nwall, rolled along the floor. \u201cThat maun be Rob Williamson!\u201d exclaimed\nJamie, \u201cwanting to keep _me_ quiet; out, neebour Jonathan, an\u2019 after\nhim.\u201d Neebour Jonathan, an active young fellow, sprang to the door,\ncaught the sounds of retreating footsteps as he turned the gate,\nand dashing after like a greyhound, succeeded in laying hold of the\ncoat-skirts of Rob Williamson, as he strained onwards through the gate\nof the hemp manufactory. He was immediately secured and lodged in\nanother apartment of the prison; and in the morning Jamie Banks was\nfound to have recovered his memory.\n\nHe had finished working, he said, on the evening after the ball, and\nwas just putting on his coat preparatory to leaving the shop, when\nthe superintendent called him into his writing-room, where he found\nthree persons sitting at a table half covered with bottles. Rob\nWilliamson, the weaver, was one of them; the other two were the clerk\nof the brewery and the foreman of the hemp manufactory; and they were\nall arguing together on some point of divinity. The superintendent\ncleared a seat for him beside himself, and filled his glass thrice in\nsuccession, by way of making up for the time he had lost--nothing could\nbe more untrue than that the superintendent was proud! They then all\nbegan to speak about morals and Mr. Ross; the clerk was certain that,\nwhat with his harbour and his piggery, and his heathen temples and his\nlacewomen, he would not leave a rag of morality in the place; and Rob\nwas quite as sure he was no friend to the gospel. He a builder of\nGaelic kirks, forsooth! had he not, yesterday, put up a Popish Dagon of\na cross, and made the silly mason bodies worship it for the sake o\u2019 a\ndram? And then, how common ale-drinking had become in the place since\nhe had built his brewery--in his young days they drank naething but\ngin;--and what would their grandfathers have said to a _whigmaleerie_\nof a ball! \u201cI sipped and listened,\u201d continued Jamie, \u201cand thought the\ntime couldna have been better spent at an elder\u2019s meeting in the kirk;\nand as the night wore later, the conversation became more edifying\nstill, until at length all the bottles were emptied, when we sallied\nout in a body, to imitate the old reformers by breaking the cross. \u2018We\nmay suffer, Jamie, for what we have done,\u2019 said Rob to me, as we parted\nfor the night; \u2018but remember it was duty, Jamie--it was duty. We have\nbeen testifying wi\u2019 our hands, an\u2019 when the hour o\u2019 trial comes, we\nmauna be slow in testifying wi\u2019 our tongues too.\u2019 He wasna slack, the\ndeceitfu\u2019 bodie!\u201d concluded Jamie, \u201cin trying to stop mine.\u201d And thus\nclosed the evidence. The Agent was no vindictive man; he dismissed\nhis two superintendents and the clerk, to find for themselves a more\nindulgent master; but the services of Jamie Banks he still retained,\nand the first employment which he found for him after his release, was\nthe fashioning of four iron bars for the repair of the cross.\n\nThe Agent, in the closing scene of his life, was destined to experience\nthe unhappiness of blighted hope. He had an only son, a weak and very\nobstinate young man, who, without intellect enough to appreciate his\nwell-calculated schemes, and yet conceit enough to sit in judgment\non them, was ever showing his spirit by opposing a sort of selfish\nnonsense, that aped the semblance of common sense, to the expansive and\nbenevolent philosophy of his father. But the old man bore patiently\nwith his conceit and folly. Like the great bulk of the class who attain\nto wealth and influence through their own exertions, he was anxiously\nambitious to live in his posterity, and be the founder of a family; and\nhe knew it was quite as much according to the nature of things, that a\nfool might be the father, as that he should be the son, of a wise man.\nHe secured, therefore, his lands to his posterity by the law of entail;\ndid all that education and example could do for the young man; and\nsucceeded in getting him married to a sweet amiable Englishwoman, the\ndaughter of a bishop. But, alas! his precautions and the hopes in which\nhe indulged, proved equally vain. The young man, only a few months\nafter his marriage, was piqued when at table by some remark of his\nfather regarding his mode of carving--some slight allusion, it is said,\nto the maxim, that little men cannot afford to neglect little matters;\nand rising with much apparent coolness from beside his wife, he stepped\ninto an adjoining room, and there blew out his brains with a pistol.\nThe stain of his blood may still be seen in two large brownish-coloured\nblotches on the floor.\n\nIt was impossible that so sad an event should have occurred in this\npart of the country fifty years ago, without exciting as marked an\ninterest in the supernatural world as in our own. For weeks before,\nstrange unearthly sounds had been heard after nightfall from among\nthe woods of the hill. The forester, when returning homewards in the\nstillness of evening, had felt the blood curdling round his heart,\nas low moans, and faint mutterings, and long hollow echoes, came\nsounding along the pathways, which then winded through the thick wood\nlike vaulted passages through an Egyptian cemetery; and boys of the\ntown who had lingered among the thickets of the lower slopes until\nafter sunset, engaged in digging sweet-knots or pig-nuts, were set\na-scampering by harsh sudden screams and loud whistlings, continued in\none unvaried note for minutes together. On the evening that preceded\nthe commission of the rash act, a party of schoolboys had set out for\nthe hill to select from among the young firs some of the straightest\nand most slender, for fishing-rods; and aware that the forester might\nhave serious objections to any such appropriation of his master\u2019s\nproperty, they lingered among the rocks below till the evening had set\nin; when they stole up the hill-side, and applied themselves to the\nwork of choosing and cutting down, in a beautiful little avenue which\nleads from the edge of the precipices into the recesses of the wood.\nAll at once there arose, as if from the rock-edge, a combination of\nthe most fearful sounds they had ever heard;--it seemed as if every\nbull in the country had congregated in one little spot, and were\nbellowing together in horrid concert. The little fellows looked at\none another, and then, as if moved by some general impulse--for they\nwere too panic-struck to speak--they darted off together like a shoal\nof minnows startled from some river-side by a shadow on the bank. The\nterrible sounds waxed louder and louder, like the sounds of the dread\nhorn which appalled Wallace at midnight in the deserted fortress, after\nthe death of Faudon; and, long ere they had reached the town, the\nweaker members of the party began to fall behind. One little fellow,\non finding himself left alone, began to scream in utter terror, scarce\nless loudly than the mysterious bellower in the wood; but he was waited\nfor by a bold, hardy boy--a grandchild and name-son of old Sandy Wright\nthe boatman--who had not even relinquished his rod, and who afterwards\ndid his country no dishonour when, in like fashion, he grasped his pike\nat the landing in Egypt. To him I owe the story. He used to say, it\nwas not until he had reached with his companions the old chapel of St.\nRegulus, a full mile from the avenue, that the sounds entirely ceased.\nThey were probably occasioned by some wandering bittern, of that\nspecies whose cry is said by naturalists to resemble the interrupted\nbellowings of a bull, but so much louder that it may be distinctly\nheard at a mile\u2019s distance.\n\nGeorge Ross survived his son for several years, and he continued,\nthough a sadder and graver man, to busy himself with all his various\nspeculations as before. It was observed, however, that he seemed to\ncare less than formerly for whatever was exclusively his own--for\nhis fine house and his beautiful lands--and that he chiefly employed\nhimself in maturing his several projects for the good of his\ncountry-folk. Time at length began to set his seal on his labours, by\ndiscovering their value; though not until death had first affixed _his_\nto the character of the wise and benevolent projector. He died full of\nyears and honour, mourned by the poor, and regretted by every one; and\neven those who had opposed his innovations with the warmest zeal, were\ncontent to remember him, with all the others, as \u201cthe good laird.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n    \u201cFriends, _No-man_ kills me; _No-man_ in the hour\n    Of sleep oppresses me with fraudful power.\n\n    If no man hurt thee, but the hand divine\n    Inflict disease, it fits thee to resign.\u201d--ODYSSEY.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THE BURN OF EATHIE.]\n\nSome of the wildest and finest pieces of scenery in the neighbourhood\nof Cromarty, must be sought for in an upper corner of the parish, where\nit abuts on the one hand on the parish of Rosemarkie, and on the other\non the Moray Firth. We may saunter in this direction over a lonely\nshore, overhung by picturesque crags of yellow sandstone, and roughened\nby so fantastic an arrangement of strata, that one might almost\nimagine the riblike bands, which project from the beach, portions of\nthe skeleton of some huge antediluvian monster. No place can be more\nsolitary, but no solitude more cheerful. The natural rampart, that\nrises more than a hundred yards over the shore, as if to shut us out\nfrom the world, sweeps towards the uplands in long grassy slopes and\ngreen mossy knolls;--or juts out into abrupt and weathered crags,\ncrusted with lichens and festooned with ivy;--or recedes into bosky\nhollows, roughened by the sloethorn, the wild-rose, and the juniper.\nOn the one hand, there is a profusion of the loveliest light and\nshadow--the softest colours and the most pleasing forms; on the other,\nthe wide extent of the Moray Firth stretches out to the dim horizon,\nwith all its veinlike currents and its undulating lines of coast;\nwhile before us we see far in the distance the blue vista of the great\nCaledonian valley, with its double wall of jagged and serrated hills;\nand directly in the opening the grey diminished spires of Inverness.\nWe saunter onwards towards the west, over the pebbles and the shells,\ntill where a mossy streamlet comes brattling from the hill; and see,\non turning a sudden angle, the bank cleft to its base, as if to yield\nthe waters a passage. \u2019Tis the entrance to a deeply-secluded dell, of\nexquisite though savage beauty; one of those hidden recesses of nature,\nin which she gratefully reserves the choicest of her sweets for the\nmore zealous of her admirers; and mingles for them in her kindliest\nmood all that expands and delights the heart in the contemplation of\nthe wild and beautiful, with all that gratifies it in the enjoyment of\na happy novelty, in which pleasure comes so unlooked for, that neither\nhope nor imagination has had time to strip it of a single charm.\n\nWe enter this singular recess along the bed of the stream, and find\nourselves shut out, when we have advanced only a few paces, from\nwell-nigh the entire face of nature and the whole works of man. A line\nof mural precipices rises on either hand--here advancing in gigantic\ncolumns, like those of an Egyptian portico--there receding into deep\nsolitary recesses tapestried with ivy, and darkened by birch and\nhazel. The cliffs vary their outline at every step, as if assuming in\nsuccession all the various combinations of form which constitute the\nwild and the picturesque; and the pale yellow hue of the stone seems,\nwhen brightened by the sun, the very tint a painter would choose to\nheighten the effect of his shades, or to contrast most delicately with\nthe luxuriant profusion of bushes and flowers that waves over every\nshelve and cranny. A colony of swallows have built from time immemorial\nin the hollows of one of the loftiest precipices; the fox and the\nbadger harbour in the clefts of the steeper and more inaccessible\nbanks. As we proceed, the dell becomes wilder and more deeply wooded,\nthe stream frets and toils at our feet--here leaping over an opposing\nridge, there struggling in a pool, yonder escaping to the light from\nunder some broken fragment of cliff--there is a richer profusion of\nflowers; a thicker mantling of ivy and honeysuckle;--and, after passing\na semicircular inflection of the bank, which, waving from summit to\nbase with birch and hawthorn, seems suited to remind one of some vast\namphitheatre on the morning of a triumph, we find the passage shut up\nby a perpendicular wall of rock about thirty feet in height, over which\nthe stream precipitates itself in a slender column of foam into a dark\nmossy basin. The long arms of an intermingled clump of birches and\nhazels stretch half-way across, trebling with their shade the apparent\ndepth of the pool, and heightening in an equal ratio the whole flicker\nof the cascade, and the effect of the little bright patches of foam\nwhich, flung from the rock, incessantly revolve on the eddy.\n\n[Sidenote: DONALD CALDER.]\n\nThere is a natural connexion, it is said, between wild scenes and\nwild legends; and some of the traditions connected with this romantic\nand solitary dell illustrate the remark. Till a comparatively late\nperiod, it was known at many a winter fireside as a favourite haunt\nof the fairies, the most poetical of all our old tribes of spectres,\nand at one time one of the most popular. I have conversed with an old\nwoman, one of the perished volumes of my library, who, when a very\nlittle girl, had seen myriads of them dancing as the sun was setting\non the further edge of the dell; and with a still older man, who had\nthe temerity to offer one of them a pinch of snuff at the foot of the\ncascade. Nearly a mile from where the ravine opens to the sea, it\nassumes a gentler and more pastoral character; the sides, no longer\nprecipitous, descend towards the stream in green sloping banks; and\na beaten path, which runs between Cromarty and Rosemarkie, winds\ndown the one side and ascends the other. More than sixty years ago,\none Donald Calder, a shopkeeper of Cromarty, was journeying by this\npath shortly after nightfall. The moon, at full, had just risen, but\nthere was a silvery mist sleeping on the lower grounds that obscured\nthe light, and the dell in all its extent was so overcharged by the\nvapour, that it seemed an immense overflooded river winding through\nthe landscape. Donald had reached its further edge, and could hear the\nrush of the stream from the deep obscurity of the abyss below, when\nthere rose from the opposite side a strain of the most delightful music\nhe had ever heard. He stood and listened: the words of a song of such\nsimple beauty, that they seemed, without effort on his part, to stamp\nthemselves on his memory, came wafted on the music, and the chorus, in\nwhich a thousand tiny voices seemed to join, was a familiar address\nto himself. \u201cHe! Donald Calder! ho! Donald Calder!\u201d There are none of\nmy Navity acquaintance, thought Donald, who sing like that; \u201cWha can\nit be?\u201d He descended into the cloud; but in passing the little stream\nthe music ceased; and on reaching the spot on which the singers had\nseemed stationed, he saw only a bare bank sinking into a solitary moor,\nunvaried by either bush or hollow, or the slightest cover in which the\nmusician could have lain concealed. He had hardly time, however, to\nestimate the marvels of the case when the music again struck up, but on\nthe opposite side of the dell, and apparently from the very knoll on\nwhich he had so lately listened to it; the conviction that it could not\nbe other than supernatural overpowered him, and he hurried homewards\nunder the influence of a terror so extreme, that, unfortunately for our\nknowledge of fairy literature, it had the effect of obliterating from\nhis memory every part of the song except the chorus. The sun rose as\nhe reached Cromarty; and he found that, instead of having lingered at\nthe edge of the dell for only a few minutes--and the time had seemed no\nlonger--he had spent beside it the greater part of the night.\n\n[Sidenote: THE MEAL-MILL OF EATHIE.]\n\nAbove the lower cascade the lofty precipitous banks of the dell recede\ninto a long elliptical hollow, which terminates at the upper extremity\nin a perpendicular precipice, half cleft to its base by a narrow chasm,\nout of which the little stream comes bounding in one adventurous\nleap to the bottom. A few birch and hazel bushes have anchored in the\ncrannies of the rock, and darkened by their shade an immense rounded\nblock of granite many tons in weight, which lies in front of the\ncascade. Immediately beside the huge mass, on a level grassy spot,\nwhich occupies the space between the receding bank and the stream,\nthere stood about a century ago a meal-mill. It was a small and very\nrude erection, with an old-fashioned horizontal water-wheel, such as\nmay still be met with in some places of the remote Highlands; and so\ninconsiderable was the power of the machinery, that a burly farmer of\nthe parish, whose bonnet a waggish neighbour had thrown between the\nstones, succeeded in arresting the whole with his shoulder until he\nhad rescued his Kilmarnock. But the mill of Eathie was a celebrated\nmill notwithstanding. No one resided near it, nor were there many men\nin the country who would venture to approach it an hour after sunset;\nand there were nights when, though deserted by the miller, its wheels\nwould be heard revolving as busily as ever they had done by day, and\nwhen one who had courage enough to reconnoitre it from the edge of the\ndell, might see little twinkling lights crossing and recrossing the\nwindows in irregular but hasty succession, as if a busy multitude were\nemployed within. On one occasion the miller, who had remained in it\nrather later than usual, was surprised to hear outside the neighing\nand champing of horses and the rattling of carts, and on going to the\ndoor he saw a long train of basket-woven vehicles laden with sacks,\nand drawn by shaggy little ponies of every diversity of form and\ncolour. The attendants were slim unearthly-looking creatures, about\nthree feet in height, attired in grey, with red caps; and the whole\nseemed to have come out of a square opening in the opposite precipice.\nStrange to relate, the nearer figures seemed to be as much frightened\nat seeing the miller as the miller was at seeing them; but, on one of\nthem uttering a shrill scream, the carts moved backwards into the\nopening, which shut over them like the curtain of a theatre as the last\ndisappeared.\n\n[Sidenote: THE STORY OF TAM M\u2019KECHAN.]\n\nThere lived in the adjoining parish of Rosemarkie, when the fame of\nthe mill was at its highest, a wild unsettled fellow, named M\u2019Kechan.\nHad he been born among the aristocracy of the country, he might have\npassed for nothing worse than a young man of spirit; and after sowing\nhis wild oats among gentlemen of the turf and of the fancy, he would\nnaturally have settled down into the shrewd political landlord, who,\nif no builder of churches himself, would be willing enough to exert\nthe privilege of giving clergymen, exclusively of his own choosing,\nto such churches as had been built already. As a poor man, however,\nand the son of a poor man, Tam M\u2019Kechan seemed to bid pretty fair for\nthe gallows; nor could he plead ignorance that such was the general\nopinion. He had been told so when a herd-boy; for it was no unusual\nmatter for his master, a farmer of the parish, to find him stealing\npease in the corner of one field, when the whole of his charge were\nravaging the crops of another. He had been told so too when a sailor,\nere he had broken his indentures and run away, when once caught among\nthe casks and packages in the hold, ascertaining where the Geneva\nand the sweetmeats were stowed. And now that he was a drover and a\nhorse-jockey, people, though they no longer told him so, for Tam had\nbecome dangerous, seemed as certain of the fact as ever. With all his\nroguery, however, when not much in liquor he was by no means a very\ndisagreeable companion; few could match him at a song or the bagpipe,\nand though rather noisy in his cups, and somewhat quarrelsome, his\ncompany was a good deal courted by the bolder spirits of the parish,\nand among the rest by the miller. Tam had heard of the piebald horses\nand their ghostly attendants; but without more knowledge than fell to\nthe share of his neighbours, he was a much greater sceptic, and after\nrallying the miller on his ingenuity and the prettiness of his fancy,\nhe volunteered to spend a night at the mill, with no other companion\nthan his pipes.\n\nPreparatory to the trial the miller invited one of his neighbours, the\nyoung farmer of Eathie, that they might pass the early part of the\nevening with Tam; but when, after an hour\u2019s hard drinking, they rose\nto leave the cottage, the farmer, a kind-hearted lad, who was besides\nwarmly attached to the jockey\u2019s only sister, would fain have dissuaded\nhim from the undertaking. \u201cI\u2019ve been thinking, Tam,\u201d he said, \u201cthat\nflyte wi\u2019 the miller as ye may, ye would better let the _good people_\nalone;--or stay, sin\u2019 ye are sae bent on playing the fule, I\u2019ll e\u2019en\nplay it wi\u2019 you;--rax me my plaid; we\u2019ll trim up the fire in the\nkillogie thegether; an\u2019 you will keep me in music.\u201d \u201cNa, Jock Hossack,\u201d\nsaid Tam, \u201cI maun keep my good music for the _good people_, it\u2019s rather\nlate to flinch now; but come to the burn-edge wi\u2019 me the night, an\u2019 to\nthe mill as early in the morning as ye may; an\u2019 hark ye, tak a double\ncaulker wi\u2019 you.\u201d He wrapt himself up closely in his plaid, took the\npipes under his arm, and, accompanied by Jock and the miller, set out\nfor the dell, into which, however, he insisted on descending alone.\nBefore leaving the bank, his companions could see that he had succeeded\nin lighting up a fire in the mill, which gleamed through every bore and\nopening, and could hear the shrill notes of a pibroch mingling with the\ndash of the cascade.\n\nThe sun had risen high enough to look aslant into the dell, when Jock\nand the miller descended to the mill, and found the door lying wide\nopen. All was silent within; the fire had sunk into a heap of white\nashes, though there was a bundle of fagots untouched beside it, and the\nstool on which Tam had been seated lay overturned in front. But there\nwere no traces of Tam, except that the miller picked up, beside the\nstool, a little flat-edged instrument, used by the unfortunate jockey\nin concealing the age of his horses by effacing the marks on their\nteeth, and that Jock Hossack found one of the drones of his pipes\namong the extinguished embers. Weeks passed away and there was still\nnothing heard of Tam; and as every one seemed to think it would be in\nvain to seek for him anywhere but in the place where he had been lost,\nJock Hossack, whose marriage was vexatiously delayed in consequence of\nhis strange disappearance, came to the resolution of unravelling the\nmystery, if possible, by passing a night in the mill.\n\nFor the first few hours he found the evening wear heavily away; the\nonly sounds that reached him were the loud monotonous dashing of\nthe cascade, and the duller rush of the stream as it swept past the\nmill-wheel. He piled up fuel on the fire till the flames rose half-way\nto the ceiling, and every beam and rafter stood out from the smoke as\nclearly as by day; and then yawning, as he thought how companionable a\nthing a good fire is, he longed for something to amuse him. A sudden\ncry rose from the further gable, accompanied by a flutter of wings,\nand one of the miller\u2019s ducks, a fine plump bird came swooping down\namong the live embers. \u201cPoor bird!\u201d said Jock, \u201cfrom the fox to the\nfire; I had almost forgotten that I wanted my supper.\u201d He dashed the\nduck against the floor--plucked and embowelled it--and then, suspending\nthe carcass by a string before the fire, began to twirl it round and\nround to the heat. The strong odoriferous fume had begun to fill the\napartment, and the drippings to hiss and sputter among the embers, when\na burst of music rose so suddenly from the green without, that Jock,\nwho had been so engaged with the thoughts of his supper as almost to\nhave forgotten the fairies, started half a yard from his seat. \u201cThat\nmaun be Tam\u2019s pipes,\u201d he said; and giving a twirl to the duck he rose\nto a window. The moon, only a few days in her wane, was looking aslant\ninto the dell, lighting the huge melancholy cliffs with their birches\nand hazels, and the white flickering descent of the cascade. The little\nlevel green on the margin of the stream lay more in the shade; but Jock\ncould see that it was crowded with figures marvellously diminutive in\nstature, and that nearly one-half of them were engaged in dancing. It\nwas enough for him, however, that the music was none of Tam\u2019s making;\nand, leaving the little creatures to gambol undisturbed, he returned to\nthe fire.\n\nHe had hardly resumed his seat when a low tap was heard at the door,\nand shortly after a second and a third. Jock sedulously turned his duck\nto the heat, and sat still. He had no wish for visitors, and determined\non admitting none. The door, however, though firmly bolted, fell open\nof itself, and there entered one of the strangest-looking creatures\nhe had ever seen. The figure was that of a man, but it was little\nmore than three feet in height; and though the face was as sallow and\nwrinkled as that of a person of eighty, the eye had the roguish sparkle\nand the limbs all the juvenile activity of fourteen. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name,\nman?\u201d said the little thing, coming up to Jock, and peering into his\nface till its wild elfish features were within a few inches of his.\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d \u201c_Mysel\u2019 an\u2019 Mysel\u2019_,\u201d--_i.e._, myself--said Jock,\nwith a policy similar to that resorted to by Ulysses in the cave of\nthe giant. \u201cAh, _Mysel\u2019 an\u2019 Mysel\u2019_!\u201d rejoined the creature; \u201c_Mysel\u2019\nan\u2019 Mysel\u2019!_ and what\u2019s that you have got there, _Mysel\u2019 an\u2019 Mysel\u2019_?\u201d\ntouching the duck as it spoke with the tip of its finger, and then\ntransferring part of the scalding gravy to the cheek of Jock. Rather\nan unwarrantable liberty, thought the poor fellow, for so slight an\nacquaintance; the creature reiterated the question, and dabbed Jock\u2019s\nother cheek with a larger and still more scalding application of the\ngravy. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d he exclaimed, losing in his anger all thought of\nconsequences, and dashing the bird, with the full swing of his arm,\nagainst the face of his visitor, \u201cIt\u2019s that!\u201d The little creature,\nblinded and miserably burnt, screamed out in pain and terror till the\nroof rung again; the music ceased in a moment, and Jock Hossack had\nbarely time to cover the fire with a fresh heap of fuel, which for a\nfew seconds reduced the apartment to total darkness, when the crowd\nwithout came swarming like wasps to every door and window of the mill.\n\u201cWho did it, Sanachy--who did it?\u201d was the query of a thousand voices\nat once. \u201cOh, \u2019twas _Mysel\u2019 an\u2019 Mysel\u2019_,\u201d said the creature; \u201c\u2019twas\n_Mysel\u2019 an\u2019 Mysel\u2019_.\u201d \u201cAnd if it was yoursel\u2019 and yoursel\u2019, who, poor\nSanachy,\u201d replied his companions, \u201ccan help that?\u201d They still, however,\nclustered round the mill; the flames began to rise in long pointed\ncolumns through the smoke, and Jock Hossack had just given himself up\nfor lost, when a cock crew outside the building, and after a sudden\nbreeze had moaned for a few seconds among the cliffs and the bushes,\nand then sunk in the lower recesses of the dell, he found himself\nalone. He was married shortly after to the sister of the lost jockey,\nand never again saw the _good people_, or, what he regretted nearly\nas little, his unfortunate brother-in-law. There were some, however,\nwho affirmed, that the latter had returned from fairyland seven years\nafter his mysterious disappearance, and supported the assertion by the\nfact, that there was one Thomas M\u2019Kechan who suffered at Perth for\nsheep-stealing a few months after the expiry of the seventh year.\n\n[Sidenote: FAUSE JAMIE.]\n\nOne other tradition of the burn of Eathie, and I have done. But I need\nrun no risk of marring it in the telling. More fortunate than most of\nits contemporaries, it has been preserved by the muse of one of those\nforgotten poets of our country, who, thinking more of their subjects\nthan of themselves, \u201csaved others\u2019 names and left their own unsung.\u201d\nAnd I have but to avail myself of his ballad.\n\n\nFAUSE JAMIE.\n\nPART FIRST.\n\n    \u201cWhar hae ye been, my dochter deir,\n      I\u2019 the cauld an\u2019 the plashy weet?\n    There\u2019s snaw i\u2019 the faulds o\u2019 your silken hair,\n      An\u2019 bluid on your bonny feet.\n\n    There\u2019s grief and fright, my dochter deir,\n      I\u2019 the wand\u2019rin\u2019 blink o\u2019 your ee;\n    An\u2019 ye\u2019ve stayed arout i\u2019 the sleet an\u2019 the cauld\n      The livelang nicht frae me.\u201d\n\n    \u201cO mither deir! mak\u2019 ye my bed,\n      For my heart it\u2019s flichtin\u2019 sair;\n    An\u2019 oh! gin I\u2019ve vexed ye, mither deir,\n      I\u2019ll never vex ye mair.\n\n    I\u2019ve stayed arout the lang mirk nicht,\n      I\u2019 the sleet an\u2019 the plashy rain;\n    But, mither deir, mak\u2019 ye my bed,\n      An\u2019 I\u2019ll ne\u2019er gang out again.\n\n    An\u2019 oh, put by that maiden snood,\n      Whar nane may evir see;\n    For Jamie\u2019s ta\u2019en a richer joe,\n      An\u2019 left but shame to me.\u201d\n\n    An\u2019 she has made her dochter\u2019s bed,\n      An\u2019 her auld heart it was wae;\n    For as the lang mirk hours gaed by,\n      Her lassie wore away.\n\n    The dead wirk i\u2019 her bonny hause\n      Was wirkin\u2019 a\u2019 that day an\u2019 nicht;\n    An\u2019 or the morning she was gane,\n      Wi\u2019 the babe that nevir saw the licht.\n\n    The mither grat by her dochter\u2019s bed,\n      An\u2019 she has cursed curses three:\n    That he wha wrocht her deidly ill\n      Ane happy man mocht never be.\n\n\nFAUSE JAMIE.\n\nPART SECOND.\n\n    There was licht i\u2019 the widow\u2019s lonesome shiel.\n      An\u2019 licht i\u2019 the farmer\u2019s ha\u2019;\n    For the widow was sewin\u2019 her dochter\u2019s shroud,\n      An\u2019 the bride\u2019s folk dancin\u2019 a\u2019.\n\n    But aye or the tither reel was danced out,\n      The wae bridegroom begoud to tire;\n    An\u2019 a spale on the candil turn\u2019d to the bride,\n      An\u2019 a coffin loup\u2019d frae the fire.\n\n    An\u2019 whan to the kirkin\u2019 the twasome went\n      Sae trig, i\u2019 the burrow\u2019s toune below,\n    Their first feet as they left the kirk\n      Was the burial o\u2019 Jamie\u2019s joe.\n\n    Jamie he labourt air an\u2019 late,\n      An\u2019 mickle carit for pleugh an\u2019 kye;\n    But laigher aye he sank i\u2019 the warl\u2019\n      As the weary years gaed by.\n\n    His puir gudewife was dowie an\u2019 wae;\n      His threesome bairns a grief to see--\n    The tane it was deaf, the tither blin\u2019,\n      The third a lamiter like to be.\n\n    The burns were rinnin\u2019 big wi\u2019 spate,\n      Lentron win\u2019s blew gurly and snell;\n    Whan Jamie cam to Cromartie town\n      Wi\u2019 a cart o\u2019 bear to sell.\n\n    \u201cO why do ye daidle so late i\u2019 the toune,\n      Jamie, it\u2019s time ye were boune to ride?\u201d\n    \u201cIt\u2019s because that I dinna like to gang,\n      An\u2019 I kenna how to bide.\n\n    Pic-mirk nicht it\u2019s settin\u2019 in,\n      The wife at hame sits dowie and wae;\n    An\u2019, Elder, I maunna bide i\u2019 the toune,\n      An\u2019 I kenna how to gae.\n\n    _It_ saw\u2019d on my rigs or the drouchts cam on,\n      _It_ milk\u2019d i\u2019 my byre or my kye did dee;\n    _It_ follows me aye wharevir I gang,\n      An\u2019 I see _it_ now though ye canna see.\u201d\n\n    \u201cGin it follows ye aye wharevir ye gang,\n      There\u2019s anither Jamie that follows ye too;\n    An\u2019 gin that ye nevir wrangit the dead,\n      The dead will nevir be mastir o\u2019 you.\u201d\n\n    Jamie he gripit the elder\u2019s han\u2019,\n      An\u2019 syne he slackit the branks to ride,\n    An\u2019 doun he gied to the Eathie burn;\n      But he nevir cam up on the ither side.\n\n    There\u2019s a maisterless colly at Jamie\u2019s door,\n      Eerie it manes to the wife arin,\n    There\u2019s a gled an\u2019 a craw on the Eathie crag,\n      And a broken corp at the fit o\u2019 the linn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n    \u201c----He heard amazed, on every side\n    His church insulted, and her priests belied,\n    The laws reviled, the ruling powers abused,\n    The land derided, and her foes excused,\n    He heard and ponder\u2019d. What to men so vile\n    Should be his language? For his threatening style\n    They were too many. If his speech were meek,\n    They would despise such vain attempts to speak:\n    ----These were reformers of each different sort.\u201d--CRABBE.\n\n\n[Sidenote: OUR TOWN POLITICS.]\n\nIn former times people knocked one another on the head for the sake\nof their masters--fellows whom they had made too great to care at\nall about them; in the present age they have become so much wiser,\nthat they quarrel on their own behalf alone. An entire people might\nbe regarded in the past as an immense engine, with perhaps a single\nmind for its moving power; we may now compare every petty district\nto a magazine, stored like the warehouse of a watchmaker with little\ndetached machines, each one furnished with a moving power of its own.\nBut though politics and party spirit change almost every ten years,\nhuman nature is always the same;--aspects vary, and circumstances\nalter, but the active principle, through all its windings and amid all\nits disguises, is ever consistent with itself.\n\nThe people of Cromarty who lived ninety years ago were quite as\nunskilled in politics as their neighbours, and thought as little\nfor themselves. They were but the wheels and pinions of an immense\nengine; and regarding their governors as men sent into the world to\nrule--themselves, as men born to obey--they troubled their heads no\nmore about the matter. Even the two Rebellions had failed of converting\nthem into politicians; for, viewing these in only their connexion\nwith religion, they exulted in the successes of Hanover as those of\nProtestantism, and identified the cause of the Stuarts with Popery and\npersecution. Their Whiggism was a Whiggism of the future world only;\nand the liberty of preparing themselves for heaven was the only liberty\nthey deemed worth fighting for.\n\nPrinciples such as these, and the dominancy of the Protestant\ninterest, rendered the people of Cromarty, for two whole reigns, as\nquiet subjects as any in the kingdom. In latter times, too, there\nwas a circumstance which thoroughly attached them to the Government,\nby shutting out from among them the Radicalism of modern times for\nwell-nigh a whole age. The Scotch, early in the reign of George\nIII., had risen high at court;--Earl Bute had become Premier, and\nMansfield Lord Chief-Justice; and the English, who would as lief have\nwitnessed the return of William and his Normans, grumbled exceedingly.\nThe Premier managed his business like most other premiers;--the\nChief-Justice conducted _his_ rather better than most other\nchief-justices; but both gentlemen, says Smollett, \u201chad the misfortune\nof being born natives of North Britain; and this circumstance was,\nin the opinion of the people, more than sufficient to counterbalance\nall the good qualities which human nature could possess.\u201d Junius,\nand Wilkes, and Churchhill, and hundreds more, who, with as much\nill-nature, but less wit, were forgotten as soon as the public ceased\nto be satisfied with ill-nature alone, opened in full cry against the\nKing, the Ministry, and the Scotch. The hollo reached Cromarty, and\nthe town\u2019s-folk were told, with all the rest of their countrymen, that\nthey were proud, and poor, and dirty, and not very honest, and that\nthey had sold their King; all this, too, as if they hadn\u2019t known the\nwhole of it before. Now it so happened, naturally enough I suppose,\nthat they could bear to be dirty, but not to be told of it, and poor,\nbut not to be twitted with their poverty, and that they could be quite\nas angry as either Junius or Churchhill, though they could not write\nletters like the one, nor make verses like the other. And angry they\nwere--desperately angry at Whiggism and the English, and devotedly\nattached to the King, poor man, who was suffering so much for his\nattachment to the Scotch. Nothing could come amiss to them from so\nthorough a friend of their country; and when, on any occasion, they\ncould not wholly defend his measures, they contented themselves with\ncalling him an honest man.\n\nOn came the ill-fated, ill-advised American War, and found the\npeople of Cromarty as loyal as ever. Washington, they said, was a\nrascal; Franklin, an ill-bred mechanic; and the people of the United\nStates, rebels to a man. There was a ballad, the composition of some\nprovincial poet of this period, which narrated, in very rude verse, the\ntragical death of two brothers, natives of Ross-shire, who were killed\nunwittingly by their father, a soldier of the Republic; and this simple\nballad did more for the cause of the King among the people of Cromarty,\nthan all the arguments in Locke could have done for that of the\nAmericans; there was not an old woman in either town or parish who did\nnot thoroughly understand it. The unfortunate father, Donald Munro, had\nemigrated to America, says the ballad, many years before; leaving his\ntwo infant sons with his brother, a farmer of Ross-shire. The children\nhad shot up into active young men, when the war broke out; and, unable\nto pay for their passage, had enlisted into a regiment destined for\nthe colonies, in the hope of meeting with their father. They landed in\nAmerica; and finding themselves one evening, after a long and harassing\nmarch, within a few miles of the place where he resided, they set out\ntogether to pay him a visit; but in passing through a wood on their\nway, they were shot at from among the trees, and with so fatal an\naim that the one was killed, and the other mortally wounded. A stout\nelderly man, armed with a double-barrelled rifle, came pressing\ntowards them through the bushes, as a fowler would to the game he had\njust knocked down. It was their father, Donald Munro; and the ballad\nconcludes with the ravings of his horror and despair on ascertaining\nthe nature of his connexion with his victims, blent with the wild\nexpressions of his grief and remorse for having joined in so unnatural\na rebellion.\n\n[Sidenote: THE FIRST WHIG.]\n\nEven in this age, however, as if to show that there can be nothing\ncompletely perfect that has human nature in it, Cromarty had its one\nWhig;--a person who affirmed that Franklin was a philosopher, and\nWashington a good man, and that the Americans were very much in the\nright. Could anything be more preposterous? The town\u2019s-folk lacked\npatience to reason with a fellow so amazingly absurd. He was a slater,\nand his name was John Holm;--a name which became so proverbial in the\nplace for folly, that, when any one talked very great nonsense, it was\nsaid of him that he talked like John Holm. The very children, who had\ncarried the phrase with them to the playground and the school, used to\ncut short the fudge of a comrade, or, at times, even some unpopular\nremark of the master, with a \u201cHo! ho! John Holm!\u201d John, however, held\nstiffly to his opinions, and the defence of Washington; and some of the\ngraver town\u2019s-men, chafed by his pertinacity, were ill-natured enough\nto say that he was little better than Washington himself. Curious as it\nmay appear, he was, notwithstanding the modern tone of his politics,\na rare and singular piece of antiquity;--one of that extinct class of\nmechanics described by Coleridge, \u201cto whom every trade was an allegory,\nand had its own guardian saint.\u201d He was a connecting link between two\ndifferent worlds--the worlds of popular opinion and of popular mystery;\nand, strange as it may seem, both a herald of the Reform Bill, and a\nlast relic of the age \u201cin which\u201d (to use the language of the writer\njust quoted) \u201cthe detail of each art was ennobled in the eyes of its\nprofessors, by being spiritually improved into symbols and mementos\nof all doctrines and all duties.\u201d John had, besides, a strong turn for\nmilitary architecture, and used to draw plans and construct models. He\nwas one evening descanting to an old campaigner on the admirable works\nat Fort George (a very recent erection at that time), and illustrating\nhis descriptions with his stick on a hearth-stone strewed over with\nashes, when by came the cat, and with one sweep of her tail demolished\nthe entire plan. \u201cOch, Donald!\u201d said John, \u201cit\u2019s all in vain;\u201d a remark\nwhich, simple as it may seem, passed into a proverb. When an adventure\nproved unsuccessful, or an effort unavailing, it was said to be \u201cAll\nin vain, like John Holm\u2019s plan of the fort.\u201d But John\u2019s day was at\nhand.--We, the people, are excellent fellows in our way, but I must\nconfess not very consistent. I have seen the principles which we would\nhang a man for entertaining at the beginning of one year, becoming\nquite our own before the end of the next.\n\n[Sidenote: THE REVOLUTION.]\n\nThe American War was followed by the French Revolution, and the crash\nof a falling throne awakened opinion all over Europe. The young\ninquired whether men are not born equal; the old shook their heads,\nand asked what was to come next? There were gentlemen of the place who\nbegan to remark that the tradesfolk no longer doffed to them their\nbonnets, and tradesfolk that the gentlemen no longer sent them their\nnewspapers. But the people got newspapers for themselves;--these,\ntoo, of a very different stamp from the ones they had been accustomed\nto; and a crop of young Whigs began to shoot up all over the place,\nlike nettles in spring. They could not break into the meanings of\nall the new, hard-shelled words they were meeting with--words ending\nin _acy_ and _archy_; but no people could understand better that a\nking is only a kind of justice of the peace, who may be cashiered for\nmisconduct just like any other magistrate; that all men are naturally\nequal; and that one whose grandfather had mended shoes, was every\nwhit as well-born as one whose grandfather was the bastard of an\nemperor. And seldom were there people more zealous or less selfish in\ntheir devotion than the new-made politicians of Cromarty. Their own\nconcerns gave place, as they ought, to the more important business of\nthe state; and they actually hurt their own heads, and sometimes, when\nthe ale was bad, their own bellies, in drinking healths to the French.\nLight after light gleamed upon them, like star after star in a frosty\nevening. First of all, Paine\u2019s Rights of Man shone upon them through\nthe medium of the newspapers, with the glitter of fifty constellations;\nthen the Resolutions of the Liberty and Equality clubs of the south\nlooked down upon them with the effulgence of fifty more; at length,\nup rose the scheme for the division of property, like the moon at\nfull, and, flaring with portentous splendour, cast all the others into\ncomparative obscurity. The people looked round them at the parks which\nthe modern scheme of agriculture had so conveniently fenced in with\ndikes and hedges; and spoke of the high price of potato-land and the\ncoming Revolution.--A countryman went into one of the shops about this\ntime, craving change for a pound-note. \u201cA pound-note!\u201d exclaimed the\nshopkeeper, snapping his fingers;--\u201ca pound-note!--Man, I widna gie you\ntippence for\u2019t.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: THE DEMOCRACY.]\n\nThere was a young man of the place, the son of a shopkeeper, who\nhad been marked from his earliest boyhood by a smart precocity of\nintellect, and the boldness of his opinions; his name (for I must not\nforget that, to borrow one of Johnson\u2019s figures, I am walking over\nashes the fires of which are not yet extinguished) I shall conceal. He\nwas one of those persons who, like the stormy petrel of the tropics,\ncome abroad when the seas begin to rise, and the heavens to darken;\nand who find their proper element in a wild mixture of all the four\nelements jumbled into one. He read the newspapers, and, it was said,\nwrote for them; he corresponded, too, with the Jacobin clubs of the\nsouth, and strove to form similar clubs at home; but the people were\nnot yet sufficiently ripe. No one could say that he was disobliging or\nill-tempered; on the contrary, he was a favourite with, at least, his\nhumbler town\u2019s-men for being much the reverse of both; but he was poor\nand clever, and alike impatient of poverty, and of seeing the wealth\nof the country in the hands of duller men than himself; and so the\nman who was unfortunate enough to be born to a thousand pounds a year\nhad little chance of finding him either well-tempered or obliging. He\nhad stept into the ferry-boat one morning, and the ferrymen had set\nthemselves to their oars, when a neighbouring proprietor came down to\nthe beach, and called on them to return and take him aboard. \u201cGet on!\u201d\nshouted the Democrat, \u201cand let the fellow wait;--\u2019tis I who have hired\nyou this time.\u201d \u201cO Sir! it\u2019s a shentleman,\u201d said one of the ferrymen,\npropelling the boat sternwards, as he spoke, by a back stroke of the\noar. \u201cGentleman!\u201d exclaimed the Democrat, seizing the boat-hook and\npushing lustily in a contrary direction--\u201cGentleman truly!--we are all\ngentlemen, or shall be so very soon.\u201d The proprietor, meanwhile, made\na dash at the rudder, and held fast, but with such good-will did the\nother ply the boat-hook, that ere he had made good a lodgment he was\ndrenched to the armpits. \u201cNothing like being accustomed to hardship in\ntime,\u201d muttered the Democrat, as, glancing his eye contemptuously on\nthe dripping vestments of the proprietor, he laid down the pole and\nquietly resumed his seat.\n\n[Sidenote: THE PROCESSION.]\n\nThere were about a dozen young men in the place who were so excited by\nthe newspaper accounts of the superb processions of their south-country\nfriends, that they resolved on having a procession of their own.\nThey procured a long pole with a Kilmarnock cap fixed to the one end\nof it, which they termed the cap of liberty, and a large square of\ncotton, striped blue, white, and red, which they called the tricolor of\nindependence. In the middle stripe there were inscribed in huge Roman\ncapitals, the words Liberty and Equality; and a stuffed cormorant,\nintended to represent an eagle, was perched on the top of the staff.\nThey got a shipmaster of the place prevailed on to join with them. He\nwas a frank, hearty sailor, who saw nothing unfair in the anticipated\ndivision of property, and hated a pressgang as he hated the devil. \u201cBut\nhow,\u201d said he, \u201cwill we manage, after all hands have been served out,\nshould a few of us take a _bouse_ and melt our portions? just divide\nagain, I suppose?\u201d \u201cHighly probable,\u201d replied the revolutionists; \u201cbut\nwe have not yet fully determined on that.\u201d \u201cI see, I see,\u201d rejoined\nthe sailor; \u201ceverything can\u2019t be done at once.\u201d On the day of the\nprocession he brought with him his crew attired in their best, and\nwith all the ship flags mounted on poles. The revolutionists demurred.\n\u201cTo be sure,\u201d they said, \u201cnothing could be finer; but then the flags\nwere British flags.\u201d \u201cAnd ---- it,\u201d said the master, \u201cwould you have\nme bring French flags?\u201d It was no time, however, to dispute the point;\nand the procession moved on, followed by all the children of the\nplace. It reached an eminence directly above the links; and drawing\nup beside an immense pile of brushwood, and a few empty tar-barrels,\nits leader planted the tree of liberty amid shouts, and music, and\nthe shooting of muskets, on the very spot on which the town gallows\nhad been planted about two centuries before. No one, however, so\nmuch as thought of the circumstance; for people were too thoroughly\nexcited to employ themselves with anything but the future; besides,\na very little ingenuity could have made it serve the purpose of\neither party. After planting the tree, the brushwood was fired, and a\ncask of whisky produced, out of which the republicans drank healths\nto liberty and the French. \u201cThe French! the French!\u201d exclaimed the\nshipmaster. \u201cWell, ---- them, I don\u2019t care though I do; here\u2019s health\nto the French; may they and I live long enough to speak to one another\nthrough twelve-pounders!\u201d All the boys and all the sailors huzza\u2019d; the\nrepublicans said nothing, but thought they had got rather a queer ally.\nThe evening, however, passed off in capital style; and, ere the crowd\ndispersed, they had burnt two fishing-boats, a salmon coble, and almost\nall the paling of the neighbouring fields and gardens.\n\n[Sidenote: HOSSACK\u2019S PLEDGE.]\n\nThe day of the procession was also that of a Redcastle market; at\nthat time one of the chief cattle fairs of the north. It was largely\nattended on this occasion by Highlanders from the neighbouring straths,\nmany of whom had fought for the Prince, and remembered the atrocities\nof Cumberland; it was attended, too, by parties of drovers from\nEngland and the southern counties of Scotland, all of them brimful of\nthe modern doctrines, and scarcely more loyal than the Highlanders\nthemselves; it was attended, besides, by a Cromarty salmon-fisher,\nGeorge Hossack, a man of immense personal strength and high spirit,\nnow a little past his prime perhaps, but so much a politician of the\nold school, that he would have willingly fought for his namesake the\nKing with any two men at the fair. But he was no match for everybody,\nand everybody to-day seemed to hold but one opinion. \u201cAwfu\u2019 expensive\ngovernment this of ours,\u201d said an East-Lothian drover; \u201cwe maun just\ntry whether we canna manage it mair cheaply for ourselves.\u201d \u201cAy, and\nwhat a blockhead of a king have we got!\u201d said an Englishman; \u201cnot\nfit, as Tom Paine says, for a country constable; but, poor wretch, we\nmust turn him about his business, and see whether he can\u2019t work like\nourselves.\u201d \u201cOch, but he\u2019s a limmer anyhow, and a creat plack whig!\u201d\nremarked an old Highlander, \u201cand has nae right till ta crown. Na,\nna, Charlie my king!\u201d Poor George was almost broken-hearted by the\nabuse poured out against his sovereign on every side of him; but what\ncould he do? He would look first at one speaker, then at another, and\nrepress his rising wrath by the consideration, that there was little\nwit in being angry with about three thousand people at once. He had\ndriven a bargain with two Englishmen, and on going in to drink with\nthem, according to custom, was shown into a room which chanced at\nthe time, unlike every other room in the house, to be unoccupied. The\nEnglishmen seated themselves at the table; George cautiously fastened\nthe door, and took his place fronting them. \u201cNow, gentlemen,\u201d said\nhe, filling the glasses, \u201cpermit me to propose a toast:--Health and\nprosperity to George the Third.\u201d He drank off his glass, and set it\ndown before him. One of the Englishmen, a bit of a wag in his way,\nlooked at him with a droll, quizzical expression, and took up his.\n\u201cHealth and prosperity,\u201d he said, \u201cto George the _herd_.\u201d--\u201cWell, young\nman,\u201d remarked George, \u201che is, as you say, a herd, and a very excellent\none;--allow me, however, to wish him a less unruly charge.\u201d \u201cHealth\nand prosperity,\u201d shouted out the other, \u201cto George the ----.\u201d This was\nunbearable: George sprang from his seat, and repaid the insult with a\nblow on the ear, which drove both man and glass to the floor. Up rose\nthe other Englishman--up rose, too, the fallen one, and fell together\nupon George; but the cause of the king was never yet better supported.\nDown they both went, the one over the other, and down they went a\nsecond, and a third, and a fourth time; till at length, convinced that\nnothing could be more imprudent than their attempts to rise, they lay\njust where they fell. George departed, after discharging the reckoning,\nleaving them to congratulate one another on their liberalism and their\nwit; and reached Cromarty as the last gleam of the Jacobin bonfire was\ndancing on the chimney-tops, to learn that there was scarcely more\nloyalty among his town\u2019s-men than at the market, and that his favourite\nsalmon-coble had perished among the flames about two hours before. I\nremember George--a shrewd, clear-headed man of eighty-two, full of\nanecdote and remark; and I have derived not a few of my best traditions\nfrom him. But he is gone, and well-nigh forgotten; and when the sexton\nof some future age shall shovel up his huge bones, the men who come to\ngaze on them may descant, as they turn them over, on modern degeneracy\nand the might of their fathers, but who among them all will know that\nthey belonged to the last of the loyalists!\n\n[Sidenote: THE COUNTY MEETING.]\n\nThe day after the procession came on, pregnant with mystery and\nconjecture. Rider after rider entered the town, and assembled in front\nof the council-house;--the town\u2019s officer was sent for, together with\nthe sergeant of a small recruiting party that barracked in one of the\nneighbouring lanes; they then entered the hall, and made fast the\ndoors. The country gentlemen, it was said, had come in to put down the\nrevolutionists. Shortly after, two of the soldiers and a constable\nglided into the house of the young democrat, and producing a warrant\nfor his apprehension, and the seizure of all his papers, hurried him\naway to the hall--the soldiers, with their bayonets fixed, guarding him\non either side, and the constable, laden with a hamper of books and\npapers, bringing up the rear. In they all went, and the door closed as\nbefore. The curiosity of the town\u2019s-people was now awakened in right\nearnest, and an immense crowd gathered in front of the council-house;\nbut they could see or hear nothing. At length the door opened, and the\nsergeant came out; he looked round about him, and beckoned on George\nHossack. \u201cGeorge,\u201d he said, \u201cone of the London smacks has just entered\nthe bay; you must board her and seize on all the parcels addressed to\n* * * * the Jacobin merchant; there is an information lodged that he\nis getting a supply of pikes from London for arming the town\u2019s-people.\nTake the custom-house boatmen with you; and bring whatever you find\nto the hall. And, hark ye, we must see and get up an effigy of the\nblackguard Tom Paine;--try and procure some oakum and train-oil, and\nI\u2019ll furnish powder enough to blow him to Paris.\u201d Away went George,\ndelighted with the commission, and returned in about an hour after,\naccompanied by some boatmen bearing two boxes large enough to contain\npistols and pike-heads for all the men of the place. They were admitted\ninto the hall, where they found the bench occupied by the town and\ncounty gentlemen--the soldiers ranged in the area in front, and the\nRepublican, nothing abashed, standing at the bar. He had baffled all\nhis judges, and had given them so much more wit and argument than they\nwanted, that they had ceased questioning him, and were now employed\nin turning over his papers. A letter written in cipher had been found\non his person, and a gentleman, somewhat skilled in such matters, was\nexamining it with much interest, while his more immediate neighbours\nwere looking over his shoulders. \u201cBring forward the boxes, George,\u201d\nsaid one of the gentlemen. George placed them both on the large table\nfronting the bench, and proceeded to uncord them. The first he opened\nwas filled with gingerbread, the other with girls\u2019 dolls and boys\u2019\nwhistles, and an endless variety of trinkets and toys of a similar\nclass. Some of the elderly gentlemen took snuff and looked at one\nanother;--the younger laughed outright. \u201cHave you deciphered that\nscrawl, Pointzfield?\u201d inquired one of the more serious, with a view\nof restoring the court to its gravity. \u201cYes,\u201d said Pointzfield dryly\nenough, \u201cI rather think I have.\u201d--\u201cTreasonable of course,\u201d remarked the\nother. \u201cNo, not quite that now,\u201d rejoined the other, \u201cwhatever it might\nhave been fifty years ago. It is merely a copy in shorthand of the old\nJacobitical ballad, the Sow\u2019s Tail to Geordie.\u201d A titter ran along the\nbench as before, and the court broke up after determining that the\nDemocrat should be sent to the jail of Tain to abide further trial,\nand that Paine should be burnt in effigy at the expense of the county.\nPaine was accordingly burnt; and all the children were gratified with\na second procession and a second bonfire, quite as showy in their way\nas those of the preceding evening. The prisoner was escorted to Tain\nby a party of soldiers; and on his release, which took place shortly\nafter, he quitted the country for London, where he became the editor\nof a newspaper on the popular side, which he conducted for many years\nwith much spirit and some ability. Meanwhile the revolutionary cause\nlanguished for lack of a leader; and, on the declaration of war with\nFrance, sunk entirely amid the stormy ebullitions of a feeling still\nmore popular than the Republican one.\n\n[Sidenote: THE FRENCH WAR.]\n\nThere are some passions and employments of the human mind which give\nit a sceptical bias, and others, apparently of a very similar nature,\nwhich incline it to credulity. So long as the revolutionary spirit\nstalked abroad, it seemed as if every other spirit stayed at home. The\nspectre slept quietly in its churchyard, and the wraith in its pool;\nthe dead-light was hooded by an extinguisher, and the witch minded\nher own business without interfering with that of her neighbours. On\nthe breaking out of the war, however, there came on a season of omens\nand prodigies, and the whole supernatural world seemed starting into\nas full activity as the fears and hopes of the community. Armies were\nseen fighting in the air, amid the waving of banners and the frequent\nflashing of cannon; and the whole northern sky appeared for three\nnights together as if deluged with blood. In the vicinity of Inverness,\nshadowy bands of armed men were descried at twilight marching across\nthe fields--at times half enveloped in smoke, at times levelling their\narms as if for the charge. There was an ominously warlike spirit, too,\namong the children, which the elderly people did not at all like;--they\nwent about, just as before the American war, with their mimic drums and\nfifes, and their muskets and halberts of elder, disturbing the whole\ncountry with uncouth music, and their zeal against the French. Then\ncame the tug of war; trade sank; and many of the mechanics of the place\nflung aside their tools and entered either the army or navy. Party\nspirit died; the Whigs forgot everything but that they were Britons;\nand when orders came that such of the males of the place as volunteered\ntheir services should be embodied into a kind of domestic militia, old\nmen of seventy and upwards, some of whom had fought at Culloden, and\nstriplings of fifteen, who had not yet left school, came to the house\nof their future colonel, begging to be enrolled and furnished with\narms. In less than two days every man in the town and parish was a\nsoldier. Then came the stories of our great sea victories: the glare of\nilluminations and bonfires; the general anxiety when the intelligence\nfirst arrived that a battle had been fought, and the general sadness\nwhen it was ascertained that a town\u2019s-man had fallen. When the news of\nDuncan\u2019s victory came to the town, a little girl, who had a brother a\nsailor, ran more than three miles into the country, to a field in which\nher mother was employed in digging potatoes, and falling down at her\nfeet, had just breath enough left to say, \u201cMither, mither, the Dutch\nare beaten, and Sandy\u2019s safe.\u201d The report of a threatened invasion\nknit the people still more firmly together, and they began to hate\nthe French, not merely as national, but also as personal enemies. And\nthus they continued to feel, till at length the battle of Waterloo,\nby terminating the war, reduced them to the necessity of seeking, as\nbefore, their enemies at home.\n\n[Sidenote: WHIGGISM OF THE PEOPLE.]\n\nFor more than twenty years the words Whig and Tory had well-nigh gone\nout; and the younger town\u2019s-men were for some time rather doubtful\nabout their meaning. At length, however, they learned that _the Whigs_\nmeant the people, and _the Tories_ those who wished to live by them,\nand yet call them names. The town\u2019s-people, therefore, became Whigs\nto a man, execrated the Holy Alliance and the massacre at Manchester,\ndrank healths to Queen Caroline and Henry Brougham; and though they\npetitioned against Catholic emancipation--for, like most Scotch folks,\nthey had too thorough a respect for their grandfathers to be wholly\nconsistent--they were yet shrewd enough to inquire whether any one had\never boasted of his country because the great statesmen opposed to that\nmeasure were his countrymen. The Reform Bill, however, set them all\nright again, by turning them full in the wake of their old leaders; and\nyet, no sooner was Whiggism intrusted with the keys of office, than\nthey began to make discoveries which had the effect of considerably\nmodifying the tone of their politics. They began to discover--will it\nbe believed?--that all men are not born equal, and that there exists an\naristocracy in the very economy of nature. It was not merely the choice\nof his countrymen that made Washington a great general, or Franklin\na profound statesman. They have also begun to discover, that a good\nWhig may be a bad man; nay, that one may be at once Whig and Tory--a\nTory to his servants and dependants, a Whig to his superiors and his\ncountry. For my own part, I am a Whig--a born Whig; but no similarity\nof political principle will ever lead me to put any confidence in\nthe man to whom I could not intrust my private concerns; and as for\nthe Whiggism that horsewhipped the poor woman who was picking a few\nwithered sticks out of its hedge, it may wear the laurel leaf and the\nblue ribbon in any way it pleases, but I assure it--it won\u2019t be of my\nparty.\n\n\n_Sanson & Co., Printers, Edinburgh._\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Chiefly between the years 1829 and 1832, inclusive. A few of the\nparagraphs were, however, introduced at a later time.\n\n[2] _Cromba_, _i.e._, crooked bay.\n\n[3] Two ancient farms in the neighbourhood bear the names of Meikle and\nLittle _Farness_, and a third that of _Eathie_.\n\n[4] Since, however, blown down during a storm, and broken into three\npieces.\n\n[5] See Burns\u2019s Halloween.\n\n[6] The resemblance between the inventions of Sir Thomas as described\nin the _Jewel_, and of the Marquis as intimated in the _Century_, is\nsingularly close. The following passages, selected chiefly for their\nbrevity as specimens, may serve to show how very much the minds that\nproduced them must have been of a piece.\n\n    FROM THE JEWEL.                       FROM THE CENTURY.\n\n    \u201cIn the denominations of the          \u201cTo write\n    fixed stars, the Universal            by a knotted silk string, so\n    Language affordeth the most           that every knot shall signify\n    significant way imaginary; for        any letter, with a comma,\n    by the single word alone which        full point, or interrogation,\n    represents the star you shall         and as legible as with pen\n    know the magnitude, together with     and ink upon white paper. The\n    the longitude and latitude, both      like by the smell, by the\n    in degrees and minutes, of the        taste, by the touch, by these\n    star that is expressed by it.         three senses, as perfectly,\n                                          distinctly, and unconfusedly,\n                                          yea, as readily as by the\n    \u201cSuch as will hearken to my           sight.\n    instructions, if some strange\n    word be proposed to them, whereof     \u201cHow to compose\n    there are many thousands of           an universal character,\n    millions devisable by the wit         methodical, and easy to be\n    of man, which never hitherto by       written, yet intelligible\n    any breathing have been uttered,      in any language; so that\n    shall be able, although they know     if an Englishman write it\n    not the ultimate signification        in English, a Frenchman,\n    thereof, to declare what part         Italian, Spaniard, Irish,\n    of speech it is; or if a noun,        Welch, being scholars, yea,\n    to what predicament or class it       Grecian or Hebritan, shall\n    is to be reduced; whether it be       as perfectly understand\n    the sign of a real or natural         it in their own tongue,\n    thing, or somewhat concerning         distinguishing the verbs\n    mechanic trades in their tools        from the nouns, the numbers,\n    or terms; or if real, whether         tenses, and cases, as\n    natural or artificial, complete       properly expressed in their\n    or incomplete.\u201d                       own language as it was in\n                                          English.\u201d\n\n[7]\n\n    For why? because the good old rule\n      Sufficeth them, the simple plan,\n    That they should take who have the power,\n      And they should keep who can.\n\n\n[8] Sea-nettle.\n\n[9] Cowper has said quite as much, and rather more, in his \u201cTRUTH.\u201d\n\n    \u201cLet heathen worthies, whose exalted mind\n    Left sensuality and dross behind,\n    Possess for me their undisputed lot,\n    And take unenvied the reward they sought.\u201d\n\n\n[10] It was abolished by the late Rev. Mr. Stewart, in the second year\nof his incumbency (1826.)\n\n[11] These fine couplets were written, I have since learned, by\nHenry Mackenzie, \u201cThe Man of Feeling,\u201d an attached friend of the\ndeceased. Mackenzie has also dedicated to his memory one of his most\ncharacteristic _Mirrors_--the ninetieth. After making a few well-turned\nremarks on the unhappiness of living too long, \u201cI have been led to\nthese reflections,\u201d we find him saying, \u201cby a loss I lately sustained\nin the sudden and unlooked-for death of a friend, to whom, from my\nearliest youth, I have been attached by every tie of the most tender\naffection. Such was the confidence that subsisted between us, that in\nhis bosom I was wont to repose every thought of my mind, and every\nweakness of my heart. In framing him, nature seemed to have thrown\ntogether a variety of opposite qualities, which, happily tempering\neach other, formed one of the most engaging characters I have ever\nknown;--an elevation of mind, a manly firmness, a Castilian sense of\nhonour, accompanied with a bewitching sweetness, proceeding from the\nmost delicate attention to the feelings of others. In his manners,\nsimple and unassuming; in the company of strangers, modest to a degree\nof bashfulness; yet possessing a fund of knowledge and an extent of\nability, which might have adorned the most exalted station. But it was\nin the small circle of his friends that he appeared to the highest\nadvantage; there the native benignity of his soul diffused, as it were,\na kindly influence on all around him, while his conversation never\nfailed at once to amuse and instruct.\n\n\u201cNot many months ago, I paid him a visit at his seat in a remote part\nof the kingdom. I found him engaged in embellishing a place, of which\nI had often heard him talk with rapture, and the beauties of which\nI found his partiality had not exaggerated. He showed me all the\nimprovements he had made, and pointed out those he had meant to make.\nHe told me all his schemes and all his projects. And while I live I\nmust ever retain a warm remembrance of the pleasure I then enjoyed in\nhis society.\n\n\u201cThe day I meant to set out on my return he was seized with a slight\nindisposition, which he seemed to think somewhat serious; and indeed,\nif he had a weakness, it consisted in rather too great anxiety with\nregard to his health. I remained with him till he thought himself\nalmost perfectly recovered; and, in order to avoid the unpleasant\nceremony of taking leave, I resolved to steal away early in the\nmorning, before any of the family should be astir. About daybreak I got\nup and let myself out. At the door I found an old and favourite dog of\nmy friend\u2019s, who immediately came and fawned upon me. He walked with\nme through the park. At the gate he stopped and looked up wistfully\nin my face; and though I do not well know how to account for it, I\nfelt at that moment, when I parted with the faithful animal, a degree\nof tenderness, joined with a melancholy so pleasing, that I had no\ninclination to check it. In that frame of mind I walked on (for I\nhad ordered my horses to wait me at the first stage) till I reached\nthe summit of a hill, which I knew commanded the last view I should\nhave of the habitation of my friend. I turned to look back on the\ndelightful scene. As I looked, the idea of the owner came full into\nmy mind; and while I contemplated his many virtues, and numberless\namiable qualities, the suggestion arose, if he should be cut off, what\nan irreparable loss it would be to his family, to his friends, and to\nsociety. In vain I endeavoured to combat this melancholy foreboding by\nreflecting on the uncommon vigour of his constitution, and the fair\nprospect it afforded of his enjoying many days. The impression still\nrecurred, and it was some considerable time before I had strength of\nmind sufficient to conquer it.\n\n\u201cI had not been long at home, when I received accounts of his being\nattacked by a violent distemper; and, in a few days after, I learned it\nhad put an end to his life.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes\n\nObvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations\nin hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other\nspelling and punctuation remains unchanged.\n\nItalics are represented thus _italic_, bold thus =bold=, and\nsuperscripts thus y^{n}.","title":"Scenes and legends of the north of Scotland : $b or, The traditional history of Cromarty","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":172192}