{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_75771/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_75771","id":"gutenberg_75771","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75771","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scotland -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"[Frontispiece: \"He visited again and again the fountain in the grove,\nand at last won from the lady the acceptance of his suit.\"--_p._ 60.]\n\n\n\n\n  THE\n\n  FAA'S REVENGE\n\n  And Other Tales\n\n\n\n  By\n\n  JOHN MACKAY WILSON,\n\n  AND OTHERS.\n\n\n  London:\n  GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n  AND EDINBURGH.\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\nTHE FAA'S REVENGE . . . . . . .  J. M. Wilson\n\nTHE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS . . . . . .  Alexander Campbell\n\nTHE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS  . .  Walter Logan\n\nCOUNTRY QUARTERS  . . . . . . .  Theodore Martin\n\nTHE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER . . . .  Alexander Campbell\n\nMAY DARLING . . . . . . . . . .  J. F. Smith\n\nMORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MORTON  .  James Maidment\n\nMAJOR WEIR'S COACH  . . . . . .  George Howell\n\nWE'LL HAVE ANOTHER  . . . . . .  J. M. Wilson\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nFAA'S REVENGE\n\nOR THE\n\nLaird of Clennel\n\nBY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.\n\nBrown October was drawing to a close--the breeze had acquired a\ndegree of sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing--and the\nfire, as the saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden,\nfor the hardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves,\nor their flowers had shrivelled at the breath of approaching\nwinter--when a stranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the\nThree-Half-Moons Inn, in Rothbury.  He had sat for the space of\nhalf-an-hour when a party entered, who, like himself (as appeared\nfrom their conversation), were strangers, or rather visitors of the\nscenery, curiosities, and antiquities in the vicinity.  One of them\nhaving ordered the waiter to bring each of them a glass of brandy and\nwarm water, without appearing to notice the presence of the first\nmentioned stranger, after a few remarks on the objects of interest in\nthe neighbourhood, the following conversation took place amongst\nthem:--\n\n\"Why,\" said one, \"but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the\nworld, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted\nplace.  It was here that the ancient and famous northern bard, and\nunrivalled ballad writer, Bernard Rumney, was born, bred, and died.\nHere, too, was born Dr Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the\ncharacters of divine and dramatist, and was the author of\n'_Barbarossa_,' '_The Cure of Saul_,' and other works of which\nposterity and his country are proud.  The immediate neighbourhood,\nalso, was the birthplace of the inspired boy, the heaven-taught\nmathematician, George Coughran, who knew no rival, and who bade fair\nto eclipse the glory of Newton, but whom death struck down ere he had\nreached the years of manhood.\"\n\n\"Why, I can't tell,\" said another; \"I don't know much about what\nyou've been talking of; but I know, for one thing, that Rothbury was\na famous place for every sort of games; and, at Fastren's E'en times,\nthe rule was, every male inhabitant above eight years of age to pay a\nshilling, or out to the foot-ball.  It was noted for its gamecocks,\ntoo--they were the best breed on the Borders.\"\n\n\"May be so,\" said the first speaker; \"but though I should be loath to\nsee the foot-ball, or any other innocent game which keeps up a manly\nspirit, put down, yet I do trust that the brutal practice of\ncock-fighting will be abolished, not only on the Borders, but\nthroughout every country which professes the name of Christian; and I\nrejoice that the practice is falling into disrepute.  But, although\nmy hairs are not yet honoured with the silver tints of age, I am old\nenough to remember, that, when a boy at school on the Scottish side\nof the Border, at every Fastren's E'en which you have spoken of,\nevery schoolboy was expected to provide a cock for the battle, or\nmain, and the teacher or his deputy presided as umpire.  The same\npractice prevailed on the southern Border.  It is a very old, savage\namusement, even in this country; and perhaps the preceptors of youth,\nin former days, considered it classical, and that it would instil\ninto their pupils sentiments of emulation; inasmuch as the practice\nis said to have taken rise from Themistocles perceiving two cocks\ntearing at and fighting with each other, while marching his army\nagainst the Persians, when he called upon his soldiers to observe\nthem, and remarked that they neither fought for territory, defence of\ncountry, nor for glory, but they fought because the one would not\nyield to, or be defeated by, the other; and he desired his soldiers\nto take a moral lesson from the barn-door fowls.  Cock-fighting thus\nbecame among the heathen Greeks a political precept and a religious\nobservance--and the _Christian_ inhabitants of Britain, disregarding\nthe _religious and political moral_, kept up the practice, adding to\nit more disgusting barbarity, for _their amusement_.\n\n\"Coom,\" said a third, who, from his tongue, appeared to be a thorough\nNorthumbrian, \"we wur talking about Rothbury, but you are goin' to\ngive us a regular sarmin on cock-fighting.  Let's hae none o' that.\nYou was saying what clever chaps had been born here--but none o' ye\nmentioned Jamie Allan, the gipsy and Northumberland piper, who was\nborn here as weel as the best o' them.  But I hae heard that\nRothbury, as weel as Yetholm and Tweedmouth Moor, was a great resort\nfor the Faa or gipsy gangs in former times.  Now, I understand that\nthae folk were a sort o' bastard Egyptians; and though I am nae\nscholar, it strikes me forcibly that the meaning o' the word\n_gipsies_ is just _Egypts_, or _Gypties_--a contraction and\ncorruption o' _Gyptian_!\"\n\n\"Gipsies,\" said he who spoke of Rumney and Brown, and abused the\npractice of cock-fighting, \"still do in some degree, and formerly did\nin great numbers, infest this county; and I will tell you a story\nconcerning them.\"\n\n\"Do so,\" said the thorough Northumbrian; \"I like a story when it's\nweel put thegither.  The gipsies were queer folk.  I've heard my\nfaither tell many a funny thing about them, when he used to whistle\n'Felton Loanin,' which was made by awd piper Allan--Jamie's faither.\"\nAnd here the speaker struck up a lively air, which, to the stranger\nby the fire, seemed a sort of parody on the well-known tune of\n\"Johnny Cope.\"\n\nThe other then proceeded with his tale, thus:--\n\nYou have all heard of the celebrated Johnny Faa, the Lord and Earl of\nLittle Egypt, who penetrated into Scotland in the reign of James IV.,\nand with whom that gallant monarch was glad to conclude a treaty.\nJohnny was not only the king, but the first of the Faa gang of whom\nwe have mention.  I am not aware that gipsies get the name of Faas\nanywhere but upon the Borders; and though it is difficult to account\nfor the name satisfactorily, it is said to have its origin from a\nfamily of the name of _Fall_ or _Fa'_, who resided here (in\nRothbury), and that their superiority in their cunning and desperate\nprofession, gave the same cognomen to all and sundry who followed the\nsame mode of life upon the Borders.  One thing is certain, that the\nname _Faa_ not only was given to individuals whose surname might be\n_Fall_, but to the Winters and Clarkes--_id genus omne_--gipsy\nfamilies well known on the Borders.  Since waste lands, which were\ntheir hiding-places and resorts, began to be cultivated, and\nespecially since the sun of knowledge snuffed out the taper of\nsuperstition and credulity, most of them are beginning to form a part\nof society, to learn trades of industry, and live with men.  Those\nwho still prefer their father's vagabond mode of life--finding that,\nin the northern counties, their old trade of fortune-telling is at a\ndiscount, and that thieving has thinned their tribe and is\ndangerous--now follow the more useful and respectable callings of\nmuggers, besom-makers, and tinkers.  I do not know whether, in\netiquette, I ought to give precedence to the besom-maker or tinker;\nthough, as compared with them, I should certainly suppose that the\n\"muggers\" of the present day belong to the Faa aristocracy; if it be\nnot that they, like others, derive their nobility from descent of\nblood rather than weight of pocket--and that, after all, the mugger\nwith his encampment, his caravans, horses, crystal, and crockery, is\nbut a mere wealthy plebeian or _bourgeois_ in the vagrant\ncommunity.--  But to my tale.\n\nOn a dark and tempestuous night in the December of 1628, a Faa gang\nrequested shelter in the out-houses of the laird of Clennel.  The\nlaird himself had retired to rest; and his domestics being fewer in\nnumber than the Faas, feared to refuse them their request.\n\n\"Ye shall have up-putting for the night, good neighbours,\" said\nAndrew Smith, who was a sort of major-domo in the laird's household,\nand he spoke in a tone of mingled authority and terror.  \"But, sir,\"\nadded he, addressing the chief of the tribe--\"I will trust to your\nhonour that ye will allow none o' your folk to be making free with\nthe kye, or the sheep, or the poultry--that is, that you will not\nallow them to mistake ony o' them for your own, lest it bring me into\ntrouble.  For the laird has been in a fearful rage at some o' your\npeople lately; and if onything were to be amissing in the morning, or\nhe kenned that ye had been here, it might be as meikle as my life is\nworth.\"\n\n\"Tush, man!\" said Willie Faa, the king of the tribe, \"ye dree the\ndeath ye'll never die.  Willie Faa and his folk maun live as weel as\nthe laird o' Clennel.  But, there's my thumb, not a four-footed\nthing, nor a feather o' a bird, shall be touched by me or mine.  But\nI see the light is out in the laird's chamber window--he is asleep\nand high up amang the turrets--and wherefore should ye set human\nbodies in byres and stables in a night like this, when your Ha' fire\nis bleezing bonnily, and there is room eneugh around it for us a'?\nGie us a seat by the cheek o' your hearth, and ye shall be nae loser;\nand I promise ye that we shall be off, bag and baggage, before the\nskreigh o' day, or the laird kens where his head lies.\"\n\nAndrew would fain have refused this request, but he knew that it\namounted to a command; and, moreover, while he had been speaking with\nthe chief of the tribe, the maid-servants of the household, who had\nfollowed him and the other men-servants to the door, had divers of\nthem been solicited by the females of the gang to have futurity\nrevealed to them.  And whether it indeed be that curiosity is more\npowerful in woman than in man (as it is generally said to be), I do\nnot profess to determine; but certain it is, that the laird of\nClennel's maid-servants, immediately on the hint being given by the\ngipsies, felt a very ardent desire to have a page or two from the\nsybilline leaves read to them--at least that part of them which\nrelated to their future husbands, and the time when they should\nobtain them.  Therefore, they backed the petition or command of King\nWillie, and said to Andrew--\n\n\"Really, Mr Smith, it would be very unchristian-like to put poor\nwandering folk into cauld out-houses on a night like this; and, as\nWillie says, there is room enough in the Ha'.\"\n\n\"That may be a' very true, lasses,\" returned Andrew, \"but only ye\nthink what a dirdum there would be if the laird were to waken or get\nwit o't!\"\n\n\"Fearna the laird,\" said Elspeth, the wife of King Willie--\"I will\nlay a spell on him that he canna be roused frae sleep, till I, at\nsunrise, wash my hands in Darden Lough.\"\n\nThe sybil then raised her arms and waved them fantastically in the\nair, uttering, as she waved them, the following uncouth rhymes by way\nof incantation--\n\n  \"Bonny Queen Mab, bonny Queen Mab,\n    Wave ye your wee bits o' poppy wings\n  Ower Clennel's laird, that he may sleep\n    Till I hae washed where Darden springs.\"\n\n\nThus assured, Andrew yielded to his fears and the wishes of his\nfellow-servants, and ushered the Faas into his master's hall for the\nnight.  But scarce had they taken their seats upon the oaken forms\naround the fire, when--\n\n\"Come,\" said the Faa king, \"the night is cold, pinching cold, Mr\nSmith; and, while the fire warms without, is there naething in the\ncellar that will warm within?  See to it, Andrew, man--thou art no\nchurl, or thy face is fause.\"\n\n\"Really, sir,\" replied Andrew--and, in spite of all his efforts to\nappear at ease, his tongue faltered as he spoke--\"I'm not altogether\ncertain what to say upon that subject; for ye observe that our laird\nis really a very singular man; ye might as weel put your head in the\nfire there as displease him in the smallest; and though Heaven kens\nthat I would gie to you just as freely as I would tak to mysel, yet\nye'll observe that the liquor in the cellars is not mine, but\nhis--and they are never sae weel plenished but I believe he would\nmiss a thimblefu'.  But there is some excellent cold beef in the\npantry, if ye could put up wi' the like o' it, and the home-brewed\nwhich we servants use.\"\n\n\"Andrew,\" returned the Faa king, proudly--\"castle have I none, flocks\nand herds have I none, neither have I haughs where the wheat, and the\noats, and the barley grow--but, like Ishmael, my great forefather,\nevery man's hand is against me, and mine against them--yet, when I am\nhungry, I never lack the flesh-pots o' my native land, where the\nmoorfowl and the venison make brown broo together.  Cauld meat agrees\nnae wi' my stomach, and servants' drink was never brewed for the lord\no' Little Egypt.  Ye comprehend me, Andrew?\"\n\n\"Oh, I daresay I do, sir,\" said the chief domestic of the house of\nClennel; \"but only, as I have said, ye will recollect that the drink\nis not mine to give; and if I venture upon a jug, I hope ye winna\nthink o' asking for another.\"\n\n\"We shall try it,\" said the royal vagrant.\n\nAndrew, with trembling and reluctance, proceeded to the cellar, and\nreturned with a large earthen vessel filled with the choicest\nhome-brewed, which he placed upon a table in the midst of them.\n\n    \"Then each took a smack\n    Of the old black jack,\n  While the fire burned in the hall.\"\n\n\nThe Faa king pronounced the liquor to be palatable, and drank to his\nbetter acquaintance with the cellars of the laird of Clennel; and his\ngang followed his example.\n\nNow, I should remark that Willie Faa, the chief of his tribe, was a\nman of gigantic stature; the colour of his skin was the dingy brown\npeculiar to his race; his arms were of remarkable length, and his\nlimbs a union of strength and lightness; his raven hair was mingled\nwith grey; while, in his dark eyes, the impetuosity of youth and the\ncunning of age seemed blended together.  It is in vain to speak of\nhis dress, for it was changed daily as his circumstances or\navocations directed.  He was ever ready to assume all characters,\nfrom the courtier down to the mendicant.  Like his wife, he was\nskilled in the reading of no book but the book of fate.  Now, Elspeth\nwas a less agreeable personage to look upon than even her husband.\nThe hue of her skin was as dark as his.  She was also of his age--a\nwoman of full fifty.  She was the tallest female in his tribe; but\nher stoutness took away from her stature.  Her eyes were small and\npiercing, her nose aquiline, and her upper lip was \"bearded like the\npard.\"\n\nWhile her husband sat at his carousals, and handing the beverage to\nhis followers and the domestics of the house, Elspeth sat examining\nthe lines upon the palms of the hands of the maid-servants--pursuing\nher calling as a spaewife.  And ever as she traced the lines of\nmatrimony, the sybil would pause and exclaim--\n\n\"Ha!--money!--money!--cross my loof again, hinny.  There is fortune\nbefore ye!  Let me see!  A spur!--a sword!--a shield!--a gowden\npurse!  Heaven bless ye!  They are there!--there, as plain as a\npikestaff; they are a' in your path.  But cross my loof again, hinny,\nfor until siller again cross it, I canna see whether they are to be\nyours or no.\"\n\nThus did Elspeth go on until her \"loof had been crossed\" by the last\ncoin amongst the domestics of the house of Clennel; and when these\nwere exhausted, their trinkets were demanded and given to assist the\nspell of the prophetess.  Good fortune was prognosticated to the most\nof them, and especially to those who crossed the loof of the reader\nof futurity most freely; but to others, perils, and sudden deaths,\nand disappointments in love, and grief in wedlock, were hinted,\nthough to all and each of these forebodings, a something like\nhope--an undefined way of escape--was pended.\n\nNow, as the voice of Elspeth rose in solemn tones, and as the mystery\nof her manner increased, not only were the maid-servants stricken\nwith awe and reverence for the wondrous woman, but the men-servants\nalso began to inquire into their fate.  And as they extended their\nhands, and Elspeth traced the lines of the past upon them, ever and\nanon she spoke strange words, which intimated secret facts; and she\nspoke also of love-makings and likings; and ever, as she spoke, she\nwould raise her head and grin a ghastly smile, now at the individual\nwhose hand she was examining, and again at a maid-servant whose\nfortune she had read; while the former would smile and the latter\nblush, and their fellow domestics exclaim--\n\n\"That's wonderfu'!--that dings a'!--ye are queer folk! hoo in the\nworld do ye ken?\"\n\nEven the curiosity of Mr Andrew Smith was raised, and his wonder\nexcited; and, after he had quaffed his third cup with the gipsy king,\nhe, too, reverentially approached the bearded princess, extending his\nhand, and begging to know what futurity had in store for him.\n\nShe raised it before her eyes, she rubbed hers over it.\n\n\"It is a dark and a difficult hand,\" muttered she: \"here are ships\nand the sea, and crossing the sea, the great danger, and a way to\navoid it--but the gowd!--the gowd that's there!  And yet ye may lose\nit a'!  Cross my loof, sir--yours is an ill hand to spae--for it's\nset wi' fortune, and danger, and adventure.\"\n\nAndrew gave her all the money in his possession.  Now, it was\nunderstood that she was to return the money and the trinkets with\nwhich her loof had been crossed; and Andrew's curiosity overcoming\nhis fears, he ventured to intrust his property in her keeping; for,\nas he thought, it was not every day that people could have everything\nthat was to happen unto them revealed.  But when she had again looked\nupon his hand--\n\n\"It winna do,\" said she--\"I canna see ower the danger ye hae to\nencounter, the seas ye hae to cross, and the mountains o' gowd that\nlie before ye yet--ye maun cross my loof again.\"  And when, with a\nwoful countenance, he stated that he had crossed it with his last\ncoin--\n\n\"Ye hae a chronometer, man,\" said she--\"it tells you the minutes now,\nit may enable me to show ye those that are to come!\"\n\nAndrew hesitated, and, with doubt and unwillingness, placed the\nchronometer in her hand.\n\nElspeth wore a short cloak of faded crimson; and in a sort of pouch\nin it, every coin, trinket, and other article of value which was put\ninto her hands were deposited, in order, as she stated, to forward\nher mystic operations.  Now, the chronometer had just disappeared in\nthe general receptacle of offerings to the oracle, when heavy\nfootsteps were heard descending the staircase leading to the hall.\nPoor Andrew, the ruler of the household, gasped--the blood forsook\nhis cheeks, his knees involuntarily knocked one against another, and\nhe stammered out--\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, gie me my chronometer!--Oh, gie me it!--we are a'\nruined!\"\n\n\"It canna be returned till the spell's completed,\" rejoined Elspeth,\nin a solemn and determined tone--and her countenance betrayed nothing\nof her dupe's uneasiness; while her husband deliberately placed his\nright hand upon a sort of dagger which he wore beneath a large coarse\njacket that was loosely flung over his shoulders.  The males in his\nretinue, who were eight in number, followed his example.\n\nIn another moment, the laird, with wrath upon his countenance, burst\ninto the hall.\n\n\"Andrew Smith,\" cried he, sternly, and stamping his foot fiercely on\nthe floor, \"what scene is this I see?  Answer me, ye robber, answer\nme;--ye shall hang for it!\"\n\n\"O sir! sir!\" groaned Andrew, \"mercy!--mercy!--O sir!\" and he wrung\nhis hands together and shook exceedingly.\n\n\"Ye fause knave!\" continued the laird, grasping him by the neck--and\ndashing him from him, Andrew fell flat upon the floor, and his terror\nhad almost shook him from his feet before--\"Speak, ye fause knave!\"\nresumed the laird; \"what means your carousin' w' sic a gang?  Ye\nrobber, speak!\"  And he kicked him with his foot as he lay upon the\nground.\n\n\"O sir!--mercy, sir!\" vociferated Andrew, in the stupor and wildness\nof terror; \"I canna speak!--ye hae killed me outright!  I am\ndead--stone dead!  But it wasna my blame--they'll a' say that, if\nthey speak the truth.\"\n\n\"Out! out, ye thieves!--ye gang o' plunderers, born to the\ngallows!--out o' my house!\" added the laird, addressing Willie Faa\nand his followers.\n\n\"Thieves! ye acred loon!\" exclaimed the Faa king, starting to his\nfeet, and drawing himself up to his full height--\"wha does the worm\nthat burrows in the lands o' Clennel ca' thieves?  Thieves, say\nye!--speak such words to your equals, but no to me.  Your forebears\ncame ower wi' the Norman, invaded the nation, and seized upon\nland--mine invaded it also, and only laid a tax upon the flocks, the\ncattle, and the poultry--and wha ca' ye thieves?--or wi' what grace\ndo ye speak the word?\"\n\n\"Away, ye audacious vagrant!\" continued the laird; \"ken ye not that\nthe king's authority is in my hands?--and for your former\nplunderings, if I again find you setting foot upon ground o' mine, on\nthe nearest tree ye shall find a gibbet.\"\n\n\"Boast awa--boast awa, man,\" said Willie; \"ye are safe here for me,\nand mine winna harm ye; and it is a fougie cock indeed that darena\ncraw in its ain barn-yard.  But wait until the day when we may meet\nupon the wide moor, wi' only twa bits o' steel between us, and see\nwha shall brag then.\"\n\n\"Away!--instantly away!\" exclaimed Clennel, drawing his sword, and\nwaving it threateningly over the head of the gipsy.\n\n\"Proud, cauld-hearted, and unfeeling mortal,\" said Elspeth, \"will ye\nturn fellow-beings from beneath your roof in a night like this, when\nthe fox darena creep frae its hole, and the raven trembles on the\ntree?\"\n\n\"Out! out! ye witch!\" rejoined the laird.\n\n\"Farewell, Clennel,\" said the Faa king; \"we will leave your roof, and\nseek the shelter o' the hill-side.  But ye shall rue!  As I speak,\nman, ye shall rue it!\"\n\n\"Rue it!\" screamed Elspeth, rising--and her small dark eyes flashed\nwith indignation--\"he shall rue it--the bairn unborn shall rue\nit--and the bann o' Elspeth Faa shall be on Clennel and his kin,\nuntil his hearth be desolate and his spirit howl within him like the\ntempest which this night rages in the heavens!\"\n\nThe servants shrank together into a corner of the hall to avoid the\nrage of their master; and they shook the more at the threatening\nwords of the weird woman, lest she should involve them in his doom;\nbut he laughed with scorn at her words.\n\n\"Proud, pitiless fool,\" resumed Elspeth, more bitterly than before,\n\"repress your scorn.  Whom, think ye, ye treat wi' contempt?  Ken ye\nnot that the humble adder which ye tread upon can destroy ye--that\nthe very wasp can sting ye, and there is poison in its sting?  Ye\nlaugh, but for your want of humanity this night, sorrow shall turn\nyour head grey, lang before age sit down upon your brow.\"\n\n\"Off! off! ye wretches!\" added the laird; \"vent your threats on the\nwind, if it will hear ye, for I regard them as little as it will.\nBut keep out o' my way for the future, as ye would escape the honours\no' a hempen cravat, and the hereditary exaltation o' your race.\"\n\nWillie Faa made a sign to his followers, and without speaking they\ninstantly rose and departed; but, as he himself reached the door, he\nturned round, and significantly striking the hilt of his dagger,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Clennel! ye shall rue it!\"\n\nAnd the hoarse voice of Elspeth without, as the sound was borne away\non the storm, was heard crying--\"He shall rue it!\" and repeating her\nimprecations.\n\nUntil now, poor Andrew Smith had lain groaning upon the floor more\ndead than alive, though not exactly \"stone dead\" as he expressed it;\nand ever, as he heard his master's angry voice, he groaned the more,\nuntil in his agony he doubted his existence.  When, therefore, on the\ndeparture of the Faas, the laird dragged him to his feet, and feeling\nsome pity for his terror, spoke to him more mildly, Andrew gazed\nvacantly around him, his teeth chattering together, and he first\nplaced his hands upon his sides, to feel whether he was still indeed\nthe identical flesh, blood, and bones of Andrew Smith, or his\ndisembodied spirit; and being assured that he was still a man, he put\ndown his hand to feel for his chronometer, and again he groaned\nbitterly--and although he now knew he was not dead, he almost wished\nhe were so.  The other servants thought also of their money and their\ntrinkets, which, as well as poor Andrew's chronometer, Elspeth, in\nthe hurry in which she was rudely driven from the house, had, by a\nslip of memory, neglected to return to their lawful owners.\n\nIt is unnecessary to dwell upon the laird's anger at his domestics,\nor farther to describe Andrew's agitation; but I may say that the\nlaird was not wroth against the Faa gang without reason.  They had\ncommitted ravages on his flocks--they had carried off the choicest of\nhis oxen--they destroyed his deer--they plundered him of his\npoultry--and they even made free with the grain that he reared, and\nwhich he could spare least of all.  But Willie Faa considered every\nlanded proprietor as his enemy, and thought it his duty to quarter on\nthem.  Moreover, it was his boisterous laugh, as he pushed round the\ntankard, which aroused the laird from his slumbers, and broke\nElspeth's spell.  And the destruction of the charm, by the appearance\nof their master, before she had washed her hands in Darden Lough,\ncaused those who had parted with their money and trinkets to grieve\nfor them the more, and to doubt the promises of the prophetess, or to\n\n  \"Take all for gospel that the spaefolk say.\"\n\n\nMany weeks, however, had not passed until the laird of Clennel found\nthat Elspeth the gipsy's threat, that he should \"_rue it_,\" meant\nmore than idle words.  His cattle sickened and died in their stalls,\nor the choicest of them disappeared; his favourite horses were found\nmaimed in the mornings, wounded and bleeding in the fields; and,\nnotwithstanding the vigilance of his shepherds, the depredations on\nhis flocks augmented tenfold.  He doubted not but that Willie Faa and\nhis tribe were the authors of all the evils which were besetting him:\nbut he knew also their power and their matchless craft, which\nrendered it almost impossible either to detect or punish them.  He\nhad a favourite steed, which had borne him in boyhood, and in battle\nwhen he served in foreign wars, and one morning when he went into his\npark, he found it lying bleeding upon the ground.  Grief and\nindignation strove together in arousing revenge within his bosom.  He\nordered his sluthhound to be brought, and his dependants to be\nsummoned together, and to bring arms with them.  He had previously\nobserved foot-prints on the ground, and he exclaimed--\n\n\"Now the fiend take the Faas, they shall find whose turn it is to rue\nbefore the sun gae down.\"\n\nThe gong was pealed on the turrets of Clennel Hall, and the kempers\nwith their poles bounded in every direction, with the fleetness of\nmountain stags, to summon all capable of bearing arms to the presence\nof the laird.  The mandate was readily obeyed; and within two hours\nthirty armed men appeared in the park.  The sluthhound was led to the\nfoot-print; and after following it for many a weary mile over moss,\nmoor, and mountain, it stood and howled, and lashed its lips with its\ntongue, and again ran as though its prey were at hand, as it\napproached what might be called a gap in the wilderness between\nKeyheugh and Clovencrag.\n\nNow, in the space between these desolate crags stood some score of\npeels, or rather half hovels, half encampments--and this primitive\ncity in the wilderness was the capital of the Faa king's people.\n\n\"Now for vengeance!\" exclaimed Clennel; and his desire of revenge was\nexcited the more from perceiving several of the choicest of his\ncattle, which had disappeared, grazing before the doors or holes of\nthe gipsy village.\n\n\"Bring whins and heather,\" he continued--\"pile them around it, and\nburn the den of thieves to the ground.\"\n\nHis order was speedily obeyed, and when he commanded the trumpet to\nbe sounded, that the inmates might defend themselves if they dared,\nonly two or three men and women of extreme age, and some half-dozen\nchildren, crawled upon their hands and knees from the huts--for it\nwas impossible to stand upright in them.\n\nThe aged men and women howled when they beheld the work of\ndestruction that was in preparation, and the children screamed when\nthey heard them howl.  But the laird of Clennel had been injured, and\nhe turned a deaf ear to their misery.  A light was struck, and a\ndozen torches applied at once.  The whins crackled, the heather\nblazed, and the flames overtopped the hovels which they surrounded,\nand which within an hour became a heap of smouldering ashes.\n\nClennel and his dependants returned home, driving the cattle which\nhad been stolen from him before them, and rejoicing in what they had\ndone.  On the following day, Willie Faa and a part of his tribe\nreturned to the place of rendezvous--their city and home in the\nmountains--and they found it a heap of smoking ruins, and the old men\nand the old women of the tribe--their fathers and their\nmothers--sitting wailing upon the ruins, and warming over them their\nshivering limbs, while the children wept around them for food.\n\n\"Whose work is this?\" inquired Willie, while anxiety and anger\nflashed in his eyes.\n\n\"The Laird o' Clennel!--the Laird o' Clennel!\" answered every voice\nat the same instant.\n\n\"By this I swear!\" exclaimed the king of the Faas, drawing his dagger\nfrom beneath his coat, \"from this night henceforth he is laird nor\nman nae langer.\"  And he turned hastily from the ruins, as if to put\nhis threat in execution.\n\n\"Stay, ye madcap!\" cried Elspeth following him, \"would ye fling away\nrevenge for half a minute's satisfaction?\"\n\n\"No, wife,\" cried he, \"nae mair than I would sacrifice living a free\nand a fu' life for half an hour's hangin'.\"\n\n\"Stop, then,\" returned she, \"and let our vengeance fa' upon him, so\nthat it may wring his life away, drap by drap, until his heart be\ndry; and grief, shame, and sorrow burn him up, as he has here burned\nhouse and home o' Elspeth Faa and her kindred.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, woman?\" said Willie, hastily; \"if I thought ye would\ncome between me and my revenge, I would drive this bit steel through\nyou wi' as goodwill as I shall drive it through him.\"\n\n\"And ye shall be welcome,\" said Elspeth.  She drew him aside, and\nwhispered a few minutes in his ear.  He listened attentively.  At\ntimes he seemed to start, and at length, sheathing his dagger and\ngrasping her hand, he exclaimed--\"Excellent, Elspeth!--ye have\nit!--ye have it!\"\n\nAt this period the laird of Clennel was about thirty years of age,\nand two years before he had been married to Eleanor de Vere, a lady\nalike distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments.  They had an\ninfant son, who was the delight of his mother, and his father's\npride.  Now, for two years after the conflagration of their little\ntown, Clennel heard nothing of his old enemies the Faas, neither did\nthey molest him, nor had they been seen in the neighbourhood, and he\nrejoiced in having cleared his estate of such dangerous visitors.\nBut the Faa king, listening to the advice of his wife, only \"nursed\nhis wrath to keep it warm,\" and retired from the neighbourhood, that\nhe might accomplish, in its proper season, his design of vengeance\nmore effectually, and with greater cruelty.\n\nThe infant heir of the house of Clennel had been named Henry, and he\nwas about completing his third year--an age at which children are,\nperhaps, most interesting, and when their fondling and their\nprattling sink deepest into a parent's heart--for all is then beheld\non childhood's sunny side, and all is innocence and love.  Now, it\nwas in a lovely day in April, when every bird had begun its annual\nsong, and flowers were bursting into beauty, buds into leaves, and\nthe earth resuming its green mantle, when Lady Clennel and her infant\nson, who then, as I have said, was about three years of age, went\nforth to enjoy the loveliness and the luxuries of nature, in the\nwoods which surrounded their mansion, and Andrew Smith accompanied\nthem as their guide and protector.  They had proceeded somewhat more\nthan a mile from the house, and the child, at intervals breaking away\nfrom them, sometimes ran before his mother, and at others sauntered\nbehind her, pulling the wild flowers that strewed their path, when a\nman, springing from a dark thicket, seized the child in his arms, and\nagain darted into the wood.  Lady Clennel screamed aloud, and rushed\nafter him.  Andrew, who was coming dreaming behind, got but a glance\nof the ruffian stranger--but that glance was enough to reveal to him\nthe tall, terrible figure of Willie Faa, the gipsy king.\n\nThere are moments when, and circumstances under which even cowards\nbecome courageous, and this was one of those moments and\ncircumstances which suddenly inspired Andrew (who was naturally no\nhero) with courage.  He, indeed, loved the child as though he had\nbeen his own; and following the example of Lady Clennel, he drew his\nsword and rushed into the wood.  He possessed considerable speed of\nfoot, and he soon passed the wretched mother, and came in sight of\nthe pursued.  The unhappy lady, who ran panting and screaming as she\nrushed along, unable to keep pace with them, lost all trace of where\nthe robber of her child had fled, and her cries of agony and\nbereavement rang through the woods.\n\nAndrew, however, though he did not gain ground upon the gipsy, still\nkept within sight of him, and shouted to him as he ran, saying that\nall the dependants of Clennel would soon be on horseback at his\nheels, and trusting that every moment he would drop the child upon\nthe ground.  Still Faa flew forward, bearing the boy in his arm, and\ndisregarding the cries and threats of his pursuer.  He knew that\nAndrew's was not what could be called a heart of steel, but he was\naware that he had a powerful arm, and could use a sword as well as a\nbetter man; and he knew also that cowards will fight as desperately,\nwhen their life is at stake, as the brave.\n\nThe desperate chase continued for four hours, and till after the sun\nhad set, and the gloaming was falling thick on the hills.  Andrew,\nbeing younger and unencumbered, had at length gained ground upon the\ngipsy, and was within ten yards of him when he reached the Coquet\nside, about a mile below this town, at the hideous Thrumb, where the\ndeep river, for many yards, rushes through a mere chasm in the rock.\nThe Faa, with the child beneath his arm, leaped across the fearful\ngulf, and the dark flood gushed between him and his pursuer.  He\nturned round, and, with a horrid laugh, looked towards Andrew and\nunsheathed his dagger.  But even at this moment the unwonted courage\nof the chief servant of Clennel did not fail him, and as he rushed up\nand down upon one side of the gulf, that he might spring across and\navoid the dagger of the gipsy, the other ran in like manner on the\nother side; and when Andrew stood as if ready to leap, the Faa king,\npointing with his dagger to the dark flood that rolled between them,\ncried--\n\n\"See, fool! eternity divides us!\"\n\n\"And for that bairn's sake, ye wretch, I'll brave it!\" exclaimed\nAndrew, while his teeth gnashed together; and he stepped back, in\norder that he might spring across with the greater force and safety.\n\n\"Hold, man!\" cried the Faa; \"attempt to cross to me, and I will\nplunge this bonny heir o' Clennel into the flood below.\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious! gracious!\" cried Andrew, and his resolution and\ncourage forsook him; \"ye monster!--ye barbarian!--oh, what shall I do\nnow!\"\n\n\"Go back whence you came,\" said the gipsy, \"or follow me another step\nand the child dies.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye butcher!--ye murderer!\" continued the other--and he tore his\nhair in agony--\"hae ye nae mercy?\"\n\n\"Sic mercy as your maister had,\" returned the Faa, \"when he burned\nour dwellings about the ears o' the aged and infirm, and o' my\nhelpless bairns!  Ye shall find in me the mercy o' the fasting wolf,\no' the tiger when it laps blood!\"\n\nAndrew perceived that to rescue the child was now impossible, and\nwith a heavy heart he returned to his master's house, in which there\nwas no sound save that of lamentation.\n\nFor many weeks, yea months, the Laird of Clennel, his friends, and\nhis servants, sought anxiously throughout every part of the country\nto obtain tidings of his child, but their search was vain.  It was\nlong ere his lady was expected to recover the shock, and the\naffliction sat heavy on his soul, while in his misery he vowed\nrevenge upon all of the gipsy race.  But neither Willie Faa nor any\nof his tribe were again seen upon his estates, or heard of in their\nneighbourhood.\n\nFour years were passed from the time that their son was stolen from\nthem, and an infant daughter smiled upon the knee of Lady Clennel;\nand oft as it smiled in her face, and stretched its little hands\ntowards her, she would burst into tears, as the smile and the\ninfantine fondness of her little daughter reminded her of her lost\nHenry.--They had had other children, but they had died while but a\nfew weeks old.\n\nFor two years there had been a maiden in the household named Susan,\nand to her care, when the child was not in her own arms, Lady Clennel\nintrusted her infant daughter; for every one loved Susan, because of\nher affectionate nature and docile manners--she was, moreover, an\norphan, and they pitied while they loved her.  But one evening, when\nLady Clennel desired that her daughter might be brought her in order\nthat she might present her to a company who had come to visit them\n(an excusable, though not always a pleasant vanity in mothers),\nneither Susan nor the child were to be found.  Wild fears seized the\nbosom of the already bereaved mother, and her husband felt his heart\nthrob within him.  They sought the woods, the hills, the cottages\naround; they wandered by the sides of the rivers and the mountain\nburns, but no one had seen, no trace could be discovered of either\nthe girl or the child.\n\nI will not, because I cannot, describe the overwhelming misery of the\nafflicted parents.  Lady Clennel spent her days in tears and her\nnights in dreams of her children, and her husband sank into a settled\nmelancholy, while his hatred of the Faa race became more implacable,\nand he burst into frequent exclamations of vengeance against them.\n\nMore than fifteen years had passed, and though the poignancy of their\ngrief had abated, yet their sadness was not removed, for they had\nbeen able to hear nothing that could throw light upon the fate of\ntheir children.  About this period, sheep were again missed from the\nflocks, and, in one night, the hen-roosts were emptied.  There needed\nno other proof that a Faa gang was again in the neighbourhood.  Now,\nNorthumberland at that period was still thickly covered with wood,\nand abounded with places where thieves might conceal themselves in\nsecurity.  Partly from a desire of vengeance, and partly from the\nhope of being able to extort from some of the tribe information\nrespecting his children, Clennel armed his servants, and taking his\nhounds with him, set out in quest of the plunderers.\n\nFor two days their search was unsuccessful, but on the third the dogs\nraised their savage cry, and rushed into a thicket in a deep glen\namongst the mountains.  Clennel and his followers hurried forward,\nand in a few minutes perceived the fires of the Faa encampment.  The\nhounds had already alarmed the vagrant colony, they had sprung upon\nmany of them and torn their flesh with their tusks; but the Faas\ndefended themselves against them with their poniards, and, before\nClennel's approach, more than half his hounds lay dead upon the\nground, and his enemies fled.  Yet there was one poor girl amongst\nthem, who had been attacked by a fierce hound, and whom no one\nattempted to rescue, as she strove to defend herself against it with\nher bare hands.  Her screams for assistance rose louder and more\nloud; and as Clennel and his followers drew near, and her companions\nfled, they turned round, and, with a fiendish laugh, cried--\n\n\"Rue it now!\"\n\nMaddened more keenly by the words, he was following on in pursuit,\nwithout rescuing the screaming girl from the teeth of the hound, or\nseeming to perceive her, when a woman, suddenly turning round from\namongst the flying gipsies, exclaimed--\n\n\"For your sake!--for Heaven's sake!  Laird Clennel! save my bairn.\"\n\nHe turned hastily aside, and, seizing the hound by the throat, tore\nit from the lacerated girl, who sank, bleeding, terrified, and\nexhausted, upon the ground.  Her features were beautiful, and her\nyellow hair contrasted ill with the tawny hue of her countenance and\nthe snowy whiteness of her bosom, which in the struggle had been\nrevealed.  The elder gipsy woman approached.  She knelt by the side\nof the wounded girl.\n\n\"O my bairn!\" she exclaimed, \"what has this day brought upon\nme!--they have murdered you!  This is rueing, indeed; and I rue too!\"\n\n\"Susan!\" exclaimed Clennel, as he listened to her words, and his eyes\nhad been for several seconds fixed upon her countenance.\n\n\"Yes!--Susan!--guilty Susan!\" cried the gipsy.\n\n\"Wretch!\" he exclaimed, \"my child!--where is my child?--is this\"--and\nhe gazed on the poor girl, his voice failed him, and he burst into\ntears.\n\n\"Yes!--yes!\" replied she bitterly.  \"it is her--there lies your\ndaughter--look upon her face.\"\n\nHe needed, indeed, but to look upon her countenance--disfigured as it\nwas, and dyed with weeds to give it a sallow hue--to behold in it\nevery lineament of her mother's, lovely as when they first met his\neye and entered his heart.  He flung himself on the ground by her\nside, he raised her head, he kissed her cheek, he exclaimed, \"my\nchild!--my child!--my lost one!  I have destroyed thee!\"\n\nHe bound up her lacerated arms, and applied a flask of wine, which he\ncarried with him, to her lips, and he supported her on his knee, and\nagain kissing her cheek, sobbed, \"my child!--my own!\"\n\nAndrew Smith also bent over her and said, \"Oh, it is her! there isna\nthe smallest doubt o' that.  I could swear to her among a thousand.\nShe's her mother's very picture.\"  And, turning to Susan, he added,\n\"O Susan, woman, but ye hae been a terrible hypocrite!\"\n\nClennel having placed his daughter on horseback before him,\nsupporting her with his arm, Susan was set between two of his\nfollowers, and conducted to the hall.\n\nBefore the tidings were made known to Lady Clennel, the wounds of her\ndaughter were carefully dressed, the dye that changed the colour of\nher countenance was removed, and her gipsy garb was exchanged for\nmore seemly apparel.\n\nClennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her\nthe tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce\nit.  He knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than\nexcess of grief, and his countenance was troubled, though its\nexpression was less sad than it had been for many years.\n\n\"Eleanor,\" he at length began, \"cheer up.\"\n\n\"Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear,\" replied she, in her wonted\ngentle manner; \"and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has\nendured my sorrows.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" said he, \"but our affliction may not be so severe as we\nhave thought--there may be hope--there may be joy for us yet.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, husband?\" inquired she, eagerly; \"have ye heard\naught--aught of my children?--you have!--you have!--your countenance\nspeaks it.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear Eleanor,\" returned he, \"I have heard of our daughter.\"\n\n\"And she lives?--she lives?--tell me that she lives!\"\n\n\"Yes, she lives.\"\n\n\"And I shall see her--I shall embrace my child again?\"\n\n\"Yes, love, yes,\" replied he, and burst into tears.\n\n\"When--oh, when?\" she exclaimed, \"can you take me to her now?\"\n\n\"Be calm, my sweet one.  You shall see our child--our long-lost\nchild.  You shall see her now--she is here.\"\n\n\"Here!--my child!\" she exclaimed, and sank back upon her seat.\n\nWords would fail to paint the tender interview--the mother's joy--the\ndaughter's wonder--the long, the passionate embrace--the tears of\nall--the looks--the words--the moments of unutterable feeling.\n\nI shall next notice the confession of Susan.  Clennel promised her\nforgiveness if she would confess the whole truth; and he doubted not,\nthat from her he would also obtain tidings of his son, and learn\nwhere he might find him, if he yet lived.  I shall give her story in\nher own words.\n\n\"When I came amongst you,\" she began, \"I said that I was an orphan,\nand I told ye truly, so far as I knew myself.  I have been reared\namongst the people ye call gipsies from infancy.  They fed me before\nI could provide for myself.  I have wandered with them through many\nlands.  They taught me many things; and, while young, sent me as a\nservant into families, that I might gather information to assist them\nin upholding their mysteries of fortune-telling, I dared not to\ndisobey them--they kept me as their slave--and I knew that they would\ndestroy my life for an act of disobedience.  I was in London when ye\ncruelly burned down the bit town between the Keyhaugh and Clovencrag.\nThat night would have been your last, but Elspeth Faa vowed more\ncruel vengeance than death on you and yours.  After our king had\ncarried away your son, I was ordered from London to assist in the\nplot o' revenge.  I at length succeeded in getting into your family,\nand the rest ye know.  When ye were a' busy wi' your company, I\nslipped into the woods wi' the bairn in my arms, where others were\nready to meet us; and long before ye missed us, we were miles across\nthe hills, and frae that day to this your daughter has passed as\nmine.\"\n\n\"But tell me all, woman,\" cried Clennel, \"as you hope for either\npardon or protection--where is my son, my little Harry?  Does he\nlive?--where shall I find him?\"\n\n\"As I live,\" replied Susan, \"I cannot tell.  There are but two know\nconcerning him--and that is the king and his wife Elspeth; and there\nis but one way of discovering anything respecting him, which is by\ncrossing Elspeth's loof, that she may betray her husband; and she\nwould do it for revenge's sake, for an ill husband has he been to\nher, and in her old days he has discarded her for another.\"\n\n\"And where may she be found?\" inquired Clennel, earnestly.\n\n\"That,\" added Susan, \"is a question I cannot answer.  She was with\nthe people in the glen to-day, and was first to raise the laugh when\nyour dog fastened its teeth in the flesh of your ain bairn.  But she\nmay be far to seek and ill to find now--for she is wi' those that\ntravel fast and far, and that will not see her hindmost.\"\n\nDeep was the disappointment of the laird when he found he could\nobtain no tidings of his son.  But, at the intercession of his\ndaughter (whose untutored mind her fond mother had begun to\ninstruct), Susan was freely pardoned, promised protection from her\ntribe, and again admitted as one of the household.\n\nI might describe the anxious care of the fond mother, as, day by day,\nshe sat by her new-found and lovely daughter's side, teaching her,\nand telling her of a hundred things of which she had never heard\nbefore, while her father sat gazing and listening near them,\nrejoicing over both.\n\nBut the ray of sunshine which had penetrated the house of Clennel was\nnot destined to be of long duration.  At that period a fearful cloud\noverhung the whole land, and the fury of civil war seemed about to\nburst forth.\n\nThe threatening storm did explode; a bigoted king overstepped his\nprerogative, set at nought the rights and the liberties of the\nsubject, and an indignant people stained their hands with blood.  A\npolitical convulsion shook the empire to its centre.  Families and\nindividuals became involved in the general catastrophe; and the house\nof Clennel did not escape.  In common with the majority of the\nEnglish gentry of that period, Clennel was a stanch loyalist, and if\nnot exactly a lover of the king, or an ardent admirer of his acts,\nyet one who would fight for the crown though it should (as it was\nexpressed about the time) \"hang by a bush.\"  When, therefore, the\nparliament declared war against the king, and the name of Cromwell\nspread awe throughout the country, and when some said that a prophet\nand deliverer had risen amongst them, and others an ambitious\nhypocrite and a tyrant, Clennel armed a body of his dependants, and\nhastened to the assistance of his sovereign, leaving his wife and his\nnewly-found daughter with the promise of a speedy return.\n\nIt is unnecessary to describe all that he did or encountered during\nthe civil wars.  He had been a zealous partizan of the first Charles,\nand he fought for the fortunes of his son to the last.  He was\npresent at the battle of Worcester, which Cromwell calls his\n\"crowning mercy,\" in the September of 1651, where the already\ndispirited royalists were finally routed; and he fought by the side\nof the king until the streets were heaped with dead; and when Charles\nfled, he, with others, accompanied him to the borders of\nStaffordshire.\n\nHaving bid the young prince an affectionate farewell, Clennel turned\nback, with the intention of proceeding on his journey, on the\nfollowing day, to Northumberland, though he was aware, that, from the\npart which he had taken in the royal cause, even his person was in\ndanger.  Yet the desire again to behold his wife and daughter\novercame his fears, and the thought of meeting them in some degree\nconsoled him for the fate of his prince, and the result of the\nstruggle in which he had been engaged.\n\nBut he had not proceeded far when he was met by two men dressed as\nsoldiers of the Parliamentary army--the one a veteran with grey\nhairs, and the other a youth.  The shades of night had set in; but\nthe latter he instantly recognised as a young soldier whom he had\nthat day wounded in the streets of Worcester.\n\n\"Stand!\" said the old man, as they met him; and the younger drew his\nsword.\n\n\"If I stand!\" exclaimed Clennel, \"it shall not be when an old man and\na boy command me.\"  And, following their example, he unsheathed his\nsword.\n\n\"Boy!\" exclaimed the youth; \"whom call ye boy?--think ye, because ye\nwounded me this morn, that fortune shall aye sit on your arm?--yield\nor try.\"\n\nThey made several thrusts at each other, and the old man, as an\nindifferent spectator, stood looking on.  But the youth, by a\ndexterous blow, shivered the sword in Clennel's hand, and left him at\nhis mercy.\n\n\"Now yield ye,\" he exclaimed; \"the chance is mine now--in the morning\nit was thine.\"\n\n\"Ye seem a fair foe,\" replied Clennel, \"and loath am I to yield, but\nthat I am weaponless.\"\n\n\"Despatch him at once!\" growled the old man.  \"If he spilled your\nblood in the morning, there can be no harm in spilling his the\nnight--and especially after giein' him a fair chance.\"\n\n\"Father,\" returned the youth, \"would ye have me to kill a man in cold\nblood?\"\n\n\"Let him submit to be bound then, hands and eyes, or I will,\" cried\nthe senior.\n\nThe younger obeyed, and Clennel, finding himself disarmed, submitted\nto his fate; and his hands were bound, and his eyes tied up, so that\nhe knew not where they led him.\n\nAfter wandering many miles, and having lain upon what appeared the\ncold earth for a lodging, he was aroused from a comfortless and\ntroubled sleep, by a person tearing the bandage from his eyes, and\nordering him to prepare for his trial.  He started to his feet.  He\nlooked around, and beheld that he stood in the midst of a gipsy\nencampment.  He was not a man given to fear, but a sickness came over\nhis heart when he thought of his wife and daughter, and that, knowing\nthe character of the people in whose power he was, he should never\nbehold them again.\n\nThe males of the Faa tribe began to assemble in a sort of half circle\nin the area of the encampment, and in the midst of them, towering\nover the heads of all, he immediately distinguished the tall figure\nof Willie Faa, in whom he also discovered the grey-haired\nParliamentary soldier of the previous night.  But the youth with whom\nhe had twice contended and once wounded, and by whom he had been made\nprisoner, he was unable to single out amongst them.\n\nHe was rudely dragged before them, and Willie Faa cried--\"Ken ye the\nculprit?\"\n\n\"Clennel o' Northumberland!--our enemy!\" exclaimed twenty voices.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Willie, \"Clennel, our enemy--the burner o' our\nhumble habitations--that left the auld, the sick, the infirm, and the\nhelpless, and the infants o' our kindred to perish in the flaming\nruins.  Had we burned his house, the punishment would have been\ndeath; and shall we do less to him than he would do to us?\"\n\n\"No! no!\" they exclaimed with one voice.\n\n\"But,\" added Willie, \"though he would have disgraced us wi' a\ngallows, as he has been a soldier, I propose that he hae the honour\no' a soldier's death, and that Harry Faa be appointed to shoot him.\"\n\n\"All! all! all!\" was the cry.\n\n\"He shall die with the setting sun,\" said Willie, and again they\ncried, \"Agreed!\"\n\nSuch was the form of trial which Clennel underwent, when he was again\nrudely dragged away, and placed in a tent round which four strong\nFaas kept guard.  He had not been alone an hour, when his judge, the\nFaa king, entered, and addressed him---\n\n\"Now, Laird Clennel, say ye that I haena lived to see day about wi'\nye.  When ye turned me frae beneath your roof, when the drift was\nfierce and the wind howled in the moors, was it not tauld to ye that\n_ye would rue it!_--but ye mocked the admonition and the threat, and,\nafter that, cruelly burned us out o' house and ha'.  When I came\nhame, I saw my auld mother, that was within three years o' a hunder,\ncouring ower the reeking ruins, without a wa' to shelter her, and\ncrooning curses on the doer o' the black deed.  There were my\nyoungest bairns, too, crouching by their granny's side, starving wi'\nhunger as weel as wi' cauld, for ye had burned a', and haudin' their\nbits o' hands before the burnin' ruins o' the house that they were\nborn in, to warm them!  That night I vowed vengeance on you; and even\non that night I would have executed it, but I was prevented; and glad\nam I now that I was prevented, for my vengeance has been complete--or\na' but complete.  Wi' my ain hand I snatched your son and heir from\nhis mother's side, and a terrible chase I had for it; but revenge\nlent me baith strength and speed.  And when ye had anither bairn that\nwas like to live, I forced a lassie, that some o' our folk had stolen\nwhen an infant, to bring it to us.  Ye have got your daughter back\nagain, but no before she has cost ye mony a sad heart and mony a saut\ntear; and that was some revenge.  But the substance o' my\nsatisfaction and revenge lies in what I hae to tell ye.  Ye die this\nnight as the sun gaes down; and, hearken to me now--the young soldier\nwhom ye wounded on the streets o' Worcester, and who last night made\nyou prisoner, was your son--your heir--your lost son!  Ha!\nha!--Clennel, am I revenged?\"\n\n\"My son!\" screamed the prisoner--\"monster, what is it that ye say?\nStrike me dead, now I am in your power--but torment me not!\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\" again laughed the grey-haired savage--\"man, ye are\nabout to die, and ye know not that ye are born.  Ye have not heard\nhalf I have to tell.  I heard that ye had joined the standard o' King\nCharles.  I, a king in my ain right, care for neither your king nor\nparliament; but I resolved to wear, for a time, the cloth o' old\nNoll, and to make your son do the same, that I might hae an\nopportunity o' meeting you as an enemy, and seeing _him_ strike you\nto the heart.  That satisfaction I had not; but I had its equivalent.\nYesterday, I saw you shed his blood on the streets o' Worcester, and\nin the evening he gave you a prisoner into my hands that desired you.\"\n\n\"Grey-haired monster!\" exclaimed Clennel, \"have ye no feeling--no\nheart?  Speak ye to torment me, or tell me truly, have I seen my son?\"\n\n\"Patience, man!\" said the Faa, with a smile of sardonic triumph--\"my\nstory is but half finished.  It was the blood o' your son ye shed\nyesterday at Worcester--it was your son who disarmed ye, and gave ye\ninto my power; and best o' a'! now, hear me! hear me! lose not a\nword!--it is the hand o' your son that this night, at sunset, shall\nsend you to eternity!  Now, tell me, Clennel, am I no revenged?  Do\nye no rue it?\"\n\n\"Wretch! wretch!\" cried the miserable parent, \"in mercy strike me\ndead.  If I have raised my sword against my son, let that suffice\nye!--but spare, oh, spare my child from being an involuntary\nparricide!\"\n\n\"Hush, fool!\" said the Faa; \"I have waited for this consummation o'\nmy revenge for twenty years, and think ye that I will be deprived o'\nit now by a few whining words?  Remember, sunset!\" he added, and left\nthe tent.\n\nEvening came, and the disk of the sun began to disappear behind the\nwestern hills.  Men and women, the old and the young, amongst the\nFaas, came out from their encampment to behold the death of their\nenemy.  Clennel was brought forth between two, his hands fastened to\nhis sides, and a bandage round his mouth, to prevent him making\nhimself known to his executioner.  A rope was also brought round his\nbody, and he was tied to the trunk of an old ash tree.  The women of\nthe tribe began a sort of yell or coronach; and their king, stepping\nforward, and smiling savagely in the face of his victim, cried aloud--\n\n\"Harry Faa! stand forth and perform the duty your tribe have imposed\non you.\"\n\nA young man, reluctantly, and with a slow and trembling step, issued\nfrom one of the tents.  He carried a musket in his hand, and placed\nhimself in front of the prisoner, at about twenty yards from him.\n\n\"Make ready!\" cried Willie Faa, in a voice like thunder.  And the\nyouth, though his hands shook, levelled the musket at his victim.\n\nBut, at that moment, one who, to appearance, seemed a maniac, sprang\nfrom a clump of whins behind the ash tree where the prisoner was\nbound, and, throwing herself before him, she cried--\"Hold!--would you\nmurder your own father?  Harry Clennel!--would you murder your\nfather?  Mind ye not when ye was stolen frae your mother's side, as\nye gathered wild flowers in the wood?\"\n\nIt was Elspeth Faa.\n\nThe musket dropped from the hands of the intended executioner--a\nthousand recollections, that he had often fancied dreams, rushed\nacross his memory.  He again seized the musket, he rushed forward to\nhis father, but, ere he reached, Elspeth had cut the cords that bound\nthe laird, and placed a dagger in his hand for his defence, and, with\nextended arms, he flew to meet the youth, crying--\"My son!--my son!\"\n\nThe old Faa king shook with rage and disappointment, and his first\nimpulse was to poniard his wife--but he feared to do so; for although\nhe had injured her, and had not seen her for years, her influence was\ngreater with the tribe than his.\n\n\"Now, Willie,\" cried she, addressing him, \"wha rues it now?  Fareweel\nfor ance and a'--and the bairn I brought up will find a shelter for\nmy auld head.\"\n\nIt were vain to tell how Clennel and his son wept on each other's\nneck, and how they exchanged forgiveness.  But such was the influence\nof Elspeth, that they departed from the midst of the Faas unmolested,\nand she accompanied them.\n\nImagination must picture the scene when the long-lost son flung\nhimself upon the bosom of his mother, and pressed his sister's hand\nin his.  Clennel Hall rang with the sounds of joy for many days; and,\nere they were ended, Andrew Smith placed a ring upon the finger of\nSusan, and they became one flesh--she a respectable woman.  And old\nElspeth lived to the age of ninety and seven years beneath its roof.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS.\n\nBY ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.\n\nIn the neighbourhood of the suburban village of Bridgeton, near\nGlasgow, there lived, a good many years ago, a worthy man, and an\nexcellent weaver, of the name of Thomas Callender, and his wife, a\nbustling, active woman, but, if anything, a little of what is called\nthe randy.  We have said that Thomas's occupation was the loom.  It\nwas so; but, be it known, that he was not a mere journeyman\nweaver--one who is obliged to toil for the subsistence of the day\nthat is passing over him, and whose sole dependence is on the labour\nof his hands.  By no means.  Thomas had been all his days, a careful,\nthrifty man, and had made his hay while the sun shone;--when wages\nwere good, he had saved money--as much as could keep him in a small\nway, independent of labour, should sickness or any other casualty\nrender it necessary for him to fall back on his secret resources.\nBeing, at the time we speak of, however, suffering under no bodily\naffliction of any kind, but, on the contrary, being hale and hearty,\nand not much past the meridian of life, he continued at his loom,\nalthough, perhaps, not altogether with the perseverance and assiduity\nwhich had distinguished the earlier part of his brilliant career.\nThe consciousness of independence, and, probably, some slight\npreliminary touches from approaching eild, had rather abated the\nenergy of his exertions; yet Thomas still made a fair week's wage of\nit, as matters went.  Now, with a portion of the honest wealth which\nhe had acquired, Mr Callender had built himself a good substantial\ntenement--the first floor of which was occupied by looms, which were\nlet on hire; the second was his own place of residence; and the third\nwas divided into small domiciles, and let to various tenants.  To the\nhouse was attached a small garden, a kail-yard, in which he was wont,\noccasionally, to recreate himself with certain botanical and\nhorticultural pursuits, the latter being specially directed to the\ncultivation of greens, cabbages, leeks, and other savoury and useful\npot herbs.\n\nBut Thomas's mansion stood not alone in its glory.  A rival stood\nnear.  This was the dwelling of Mr John Anderson, in almost every\nrespect the perfect counterpart of that of Mr Thomas Callender--a\nsimilarity which is in part accounted for by the facts that John was\nalso a weaver, that he too had made a little money by a life of\nindustry and economy, and that the house was built by himself.  By\nwhat we have just said, then, we have shown, we presume, that Thomas\nand John were near neighbours; and, having done so, it follows, of\ncourse, that their wives were near neighbours also; but we beg to\nremark, regarding the latter, that it by no means, therefore, follows\nthat they were friends, or that they had any liking for each other.\nThe fact, indeed, was quite otherwise.  They hated each other with\ngreat cordiality--a hatred in which a feeling of jealousy of each\nother's manifestations of wealth, whether in matters relating to\ntheir respective houses or persons, or those of their husbands, was\nthe principal feature.  Any new article of dress which the one was\nseen to display, was sure to be immediately repeated, or, if\npossible, surpassed by the other; and the same spirit of retaliation\nwas carried throughout every department of their domestic economy.\n\nBetween the husbands, too, there was no great good will; for, besides\nbeing influenced, to a certain extent, in their feelings towards each\nother by their wives, they had had a serious difference on their own\naccount.  John Anderson, on evil purpose intent, had once stoned some\nducks of Thomas Callender's out of a dub, situated in the rear of,\nand midway between the two houses; claiming said dub for the especial\nuse of his ducks alone; and, on that occasion, had maimed and\notherwise severely injured a very fine drake, the property of his\nneighbour, Thomas Callender.  Now, Thomas very naturally resented\nthis unneighbourly proceeding on the part of John; and, further,\ninsisted that his ducks had as good a right to the dub as Anderson's.\nAnderson denied the justice of this claim; Callender maintained it;\nand the consequence was a series of law proceedings, which mulcted\neach of them of somewhere about fifty pounds sterling money, and\nfinally ended in the decision that they should divide the dub between\nthem in equal portions, which was accordingly done.\n\nThe good-will, then, towards each other, between the husbands, was\nthus not much greater than between their wives; but, in their case,\nof course, it was not marked by any of those outbreaks and overt acts\nwhich distinguished the enmity of their better halves.  The dislike\nof the former was passive, that of the latter active--most\nindefatigably active; for Mrs Anderson was every bit as spirited a\nwoman as her neighbour, Mrs Callender, and was a dead match for her\nin any way she might try.\n\nThus, then, stood matters between these two rival houses of York and\nLancaster, when Mrs Callender, on looking from one of her windows one\nday, observed that the head of her rival's husband, who was at the\nmoment recreating himself in his garden, was comfortably set off with\na splendid, new striped Kilmarnock nightcap.  Now, when Mrs Callender\nsaw this, and recollected the very shabby, faded article of the same\ndenomination--\"mair like a dish-cloot,\" as she muttered to herself,\n\"than onything else\"--which her Thomas wore, she determined on\ninstantly providing him with a new one; resolved, as she also\nremarked to herself, not to let the Andersons beat her, even in the\nmatter of a nightcap.  But Mrs Callender not only resolved on\nrivalling her neighbour, in the matter of having a new nightcap for\nher husband, but in surpassing her in the quality of the said\nnightcap.  She determined that her \"man's\" should be a red one; \"a\nfar mair genteeler thing,\" as she said to herself, \"than John\nAnderson's vulgar striped Kilmarnock.\"  Having settled this matter to\nher own satisfaction, and having dexterously prepared her husband for\nthe vision of a new nightcap--which she did by urging sundry reasons,\ntotally different from those under whose influence she really acted,\nas she knew that he would never give in to such an absurdity as a\nrivalship with his neighbour in the matter of a nightcap: this matter\nsettled then, we say, the following day saw Mrs Callender sailing\ninto Glasgow, to purchase a red nightcap for her husband--a mission\nwhich, we need not say, she very easily accomplished.  Her choice was\none of the brightest hue she could find--a flaming article, that\nabsolutely dazzled Thomas with the intensity of its glare, when it\nwas triumphantly unrolled before him.\n\n\"Jenny,\" said the latter, in perfect simplicity of heart, and utter\nignorance of the true cause of his wife's care of his comfort in the\npresent instance--\"Jenny, but that _is_ a bonny thing,\" he said,\nlooking admiringly at the gaudy commodity, into which he had now\nthrust his hand and part of his arm, in order to give it all possible\nextension, and thus holding it up before him as he spoke.\n\n\"Really it _is_ a bonny thing,\" he replied, \"and, I warrant, a\ncomfortable.\"\n\n\"Isna't?\" replied his wife, triumphantly.  And she would have added,\n\"How far prettier and mair genteeler a thing than John Anderson's!\"\nBut as this would have betrayed secrets, she refrained, and merely\nadded, \"Now, my man, Tammas, ye'll just wear't when ye gang about the\ndoors and the yard.  It'll mak' ye look decent and respectable--what\nye wasna in that creeshy cloot that ye're wearin', that made ye look\nmair like a tauty bogle than a Christian man.\"\n\nThomas merely smiled at these remarks, and made no reply in words.\n\nThus far, then, Mrs Callender's plot had gone on swimmingly.  There\nonly wanted now her husband's appearance in the garden in his new red\nnightcap, where the latter could not but be seen by her rival, to\ncomplete her triumph; and this satisfaction she was not long denied.\nThomas, at her suggestion (warily and cautiously urged, however)\ninstantly took the field in his new nightcap; and the result was as\ncomplete and decisive as the heart of woman, in Mrs Callender's\ncircumstances, could desire.  Mrs Anderson saw the nightcap, guessed\nthe cause of its appearance, and resolved to be avenged.  In that\nmoment, when her sight was blasted, her pride humbled, and her\nspirits roused, which they were all at one and the same time by the\nvision of Thomas Callender's new red nightcap, she resolved on\ngetting her husband to strike the striped cap, and mount one of\nprecisely the same description--better, if possible, but she was not\nsure if this could be had.\n\nNow, on prevailing on _her_ husband to submit to the acquisition of\nanother new nightcap, Mrs Anderson had a much more difficult task to\nperform than her rival; for the cap that John was already provided\nwith, unlike Thomas's, was not a week out of the shop, and no earthly\ngood reason, one would think, could therefore be urged why he should\nso soon get another.  But what will not woman's wit accomplish?\nAnything!  As proof of this, if proof were wanted, we need only\nmention that Mrs Anderson _did_ succeed in this delicate and\ndifficult negotiation, and prevailed upon John, first, to allow her\nto go into Glasgow to buy him a new red nightcap, and to promise to\nwear it when it should be bought.  How she accomplished this--what\nsort of reasoning she employed--we know not; but certain it is that\nit was so.  Thus fully warranted, eagerly and cleverly did Mrs\nAnderson, on the instant, prepare to execute the mission to which\nthis warrant referred.  In ten minutes she was dressed, and in one\nmore was on her way to Glasgow, to make the desiderated purchase.\nExperiencing of course as little difficulty in effecting this matter\nas her rival had done, Mrs Anderson soon found herself in possession\nof a red nightcap, as bright, every bit, as Mr Callender's; and this\ncap she had the happiness of drawing on the head of her unconscious\nhusband, who, we need scarcely add, knew as little of the real cause\nof his being fitted out with this new piece of head-gear as his\nneighbour, Callender.\n\nThus far, then, with Mrs Anderson too, went the plot of the nightcaps\nsmoothly; and all that she also now wanted to attain the end she\naimed at, was her husband's appearance in _his_ garden, with his new\nacquisition on.\n\nThis consummation she also quickly brought round.  John sallied out\nwith his red nightcap; and, oh, joy of joys!  Mrs Callender saw it.\nAy, Mrs Callender saw it--at once recognised in it the spirit which\nhad dictated its display; and deep and deadly was the revenge that\nshe vowed.\n\n\"Becky, Becky!\" she exclaimed, in a tone of lofty indignation--and\nthus summoning to her presence, from an adjoining apartment, her\ndaughter, a little girl of about ten years of age--\"rin owre dereckly\nto Lucky Anderson's and tell her to gie me my jeely can immediately.\"\nAnd Mrs Callender stamped her foot, grew red in the face, and\nexhibited sundry other symptoms of towering passion.  Becky instantly\nobeyed the order so peremptorily given; and, while she is doing so,\nwe may throw in a digressive word or two, by the way of more fully\nenlightening the reader regarding the turn which matters seemed now\nabout to take.  Be it known to him, then, that the demand for the\njelly pot, which was now about to be made on Mrs Anderson, was not a\n_bon\u00e2 fide_ proceeding.  It was not made in good faith; for Mrs\nCallender knew well, and had been told so fifty times, that the said\njelly pot was no longer in existence as a jelly pot; and, moreover,\nshe had been, as often as she was told this, offered full\ncompensation, which might be about three farthings sterling money of\nthis realm, for the demolished commodity.  Moreover, again, it was\nthree years since it had been borrowed.  From all this, the reader\nwill at once perceive what was the fact--that the sending for the\nsaid jelly pot, on the present occasion, and in the way described,\nwas a mere breaking of ground previous to the performance of some\nother contemplated operations.  It was, in truth, entirely a tactical\nproceeding--a dexterously and ingeniously-laid pretext for a certain\nintended measure which could not decently have stood on its own\nsimple merits.  In proof of this, we need only state, that it is\nbeyond all question that nothing could have disappointed Mrs\nCallender more than the return of the desiderated jelly pot.  But\nthis, she knew, she had not to fear, and the result showed that she\nwas right.  The girl shortly came back with the usual reply--that the\npot was broken; but that Mrs Anderson would cheerfully pay the value\nof it, if Mrs Callender would say what that was.  To the\ninexpressible satisfaction of the latter, however, the message, on\nthis occasion, was accompanied by some impertinences which no woman\nof spirit could tamely submit to.  She was told, for instance, that\n\"she made mair noise aboot her paltry, dirty jelly mug, a thousand\ntimes, than it was a' worth,\" and was ironically, and, we may add,\ninsultingly entreated, \"for ony sake to mak' nae mair wark aboot it,\nand a dizzen wad be sent her for't.\"\n\n\"My troth, and there's a stock o' impidence for ye!\" said Mrs\nCallender, on her little daughter's having delivered herself of all\nthe small provocatives with which she had been charged.  \"There's\nimpidence for ye!\" she said, planting her hands in her sides, and\nlooking the very personification of injured innocence.  \"Was the like\no't ever heard?  First to borrow, and then to break my jeely mug, and\nnoo to tell me, whan I'm seekin' my ain, that I'm makin' mair noise\naboot it than it's a' worth.  My certy, but she _has_ a brazen face.\nThe auld, wizzened, upsettin' limmer that she is!  Set _them_ up,\nindeed, wi' red nichtcaps!\"  Now, this was the last member of Mrs\nCallender's philippic, but it was by no means the least.  In fact, it\nwas the whole gist of the matter--the sum and substance, and we need\nnot add, the real and true cause of her present amiable feeling\ntowards her worthy neighbours, John Anderson and his wife.  Adjusting\nher _mutch_ now on her head, and spreading her apron decorously\nbefore her, Mrs Callender intimated her intention of proceeding\ninstantly to Mrs Anderson's, to demand her jelly pot in person, and\nto seek, at the same time, satisfaction for the insulting message\nthat had been sent her.  Acting on this resolution, she forthwith\ncommenced her march towards the domicile of John Anderson, nursing\nthe while her wrath to keep it warm.  On reaching the door, she\nannounced her presence by a series of sharp, open-the-door-instantly\nknocks, which were promptly attended to, and the visitor courteously\nadmitted.\n\n\"Mrs Anderson,\" said Mrs Callender, on entering, and assuming a\ncalmness and composure of demeanour that was sadly belied by the\nsuppressed agitation, or rather fury, which she could not conceal,\n\"I'm just come to ask ye if ye'll be sae guid, _Mem_, as gie me my\njeely mug.\"\n\n\"Yer jeely mug, Mrs Callender!\" exclaimed Mrs Anderson, raising\nherself to her utmost height, and already beginning to exhibit\nsymptoms of incipient indignation.  \"Yer jeely mug, Mrs Callender!\"\nshe repeated, with a provokingly ironical emphasis.  \"Dear help me,\nwoman, but ye _do_ mak' an awfu' wark aboot that jeely mug o' yours.\nI'm sure it wasna sae muckle worth; and ye hae been often tell't that\nit was broken, but that we wad willingly pay ye for't.\"\n\n\"It's no payment I want, Mrs Anderson,\" replied Mrs Callender, with a\nhigh-spirited toss of the head.  \"I want my mug, and my mug I'll hae.\nDo ye hear that?\"  And here Mrs Callender struck her clenched fist on\nthe open side of her left hand, in the impressive way peculiar to\nsome ladies when under the influence of passion.  \"And, since ye come\nto that o't, let me tell ye ye're a very insultin' ill-bred woman, to\ntell me that it wasna muckle worth, after ye hae broken't.\"\n\n\"My word, lass,\" replied Mrs Anderson, bridling up, with flushed\ncountenance, and head erect, to the calumniator, \"but ye're no blate\nto ca' me thae names i' my ain house.\"\n\n\"Ay, I'll ca' ye thae names, and waur too, in yer ain house, or\nonywhar else,\" replied the other belligerent, clenching her teeth\nfiercely together, and thrusting her face with most intense ferocity\ninto the countenance of her antagonist.  \"Ay, here or onywhar else,\"\nshe replied, \"I'll ca' ye a mean-spirited, impident woman--an\nupsettin' impident woman!  Set your man up, indeed, wi' a red\nnichtkep!\"\n\n\"An' what for no?\" replied Mrs Anderson with a look of triumphant\ninquiry.  \"He's as weel able to pay for't as you, and maybe, if a'\nwas kent, a hantle better.  A red nichtkep, indeed, ye impertinent\nhizzy!\"\n\n\"'Od, an' ye hizzy me, I'll te-e-eer the liver out o' ye!\" exclaimed\nthe now infuriated Mrs Callender, at the same instant seizing her\nantagonist by the hair of the head and mutch together, and, in a\ntwinkling, tearing the latter into a thousand shreds.  Active\nhostilities being now fairly commenced, a series of brilliant\noperations, both offensive and defensive, immediately ensued.  The\nfirst act of aggression on the part of Mrs Callender--namely,\ndemolishing her opponent's head-gear--was returned by the latter by a\nprecisely similar proceeding; that is, by tearing her mutch into\nfragments.\n\nThis preliminary operation performed, the combatants resorted to\ncertain various other demonstrative acts of love and friendship; but\nnow with such accompaniments of screams and exclamations as quickly\nfilled the apartment which was the scene of strife with neighbours,\nwho instantly began to attempt to effect a separation of the\ncombatants.  While they were thus employed, in came John Anderson,\nwho had been out of the way when the tug of war began, and close upon\nhis heels came Mr Callender, whose ears an alarming report of the\ncontest in which his gallant spouse was engaged, had reached.  Both\ngentlemen were, at the moment, in their red nightcaps, and might thus\nbe considered as the standard bearers of the combatants.\n\n\"What's a this o't?\" exclaimed Mr Anderson, pushing into the centre\nof the crowd by which the two women were surrounded.\n\n\"Oh, the hizzy!\" exclaimed his wife, who had, at the instant, about a\nyard of her antagonist's hair rolled about her hand.  \"It's a' aboot\nyour nichtkep, John, and her curst jeely mug.  A' aboot your\nnichtkep, and the jeely mug.\"\n\nNow, this allusion to the jelly pot John perfectly understood, but\nthat to the nightcap he did not, nor did he attend to it; but, as\nbecame a dutiful and loving husband to do in such circumstances,\nimmediately took the part of his wife, and was in the act of\nthrusting her antagonist aside, which operation he was performing\nsomewhat rudely, when he was collared from behind by his neighbour,\nThomas Callender, who, naturally enough, enrolled himself at once on\nthe side of his better half.\n\n\"Hauns aff, John!\" exclaimed Mr Callender--their old grudge fanning\nthe flame of that hostility which was at this moment rapidly\nincreasing in the bosoms of both the gentlemen, as he gave Mr\nAnderson sundry energetic tugs and twists, with a view of putting him\n_hors de combat_.  \"Hauns aff, neebor!\" he said.  \"Hauns aff, if ye\nplease, till we ken wha has the rich' o' this bisiness, and what it's\na' aboot.\"\n\n\"Pu' doon their pride, Tam!--pu' doon their pride!\" exclaimed Mrs\nCalender, who, although intently engaged at the moment in tearing out\na handful of her opponent's hair, was yet aware of the reinforcement\nthat had come to her aid.  \"Pu' doon their pride, Tam.  Tak a claught\no' John's nichtkep.  The limmer says they're better able to afford\nane than we are.\"\n\nWhile Mrs Callender was thus expressing the particular sentiments\nwhich occupied her mind at the moment, John Anderson had turned round\nto resent the liberty which the former had taken of collaring him;\nand this resentment expressed, by collaring his assailant in turn.\nThe consequence of this proceding was a violent struggle, which\nfinally ended in a close stand-up fight between the male combatants,\nwho both showed great spirit, although, not a great deal of science.\nJohn Anderson, in particular, had a fitting antagonist in Tom\nCallender, and the battle was so even between them that the other\ncombatants with one consent paused to watch the struggle.  As\nneither, however, seemed likely to be the conqueror, the fight again\nbecame general--the wives having quitted their holds of each other,\nand flown to the rescue of their respective husbands, now much in\nneed of some wifely comfort.  They were thus all bundled together in\none indiscriminate and unintelligible mel\u00e9e.  One leading object or\npurpose, however, was discernible on the part of the female\ncombatants.  This was to get hold of the red nightcaps--each that of\nher husband's antagonist; and, after a good deal of scrambling, and\nclutching, and pouncing, they both succeeded in tearing off the\nobnoxious head-dress, with each a handful of the unfortunate wearer's\nhair along with it.  While this was going on, the conflicting, but\nfirmly united mass of combatants, who were all bundled, or rather\nlocked together in close and deadly strife, was rolling heavily,\nsometimes one way, and sometimes another, sometimes ending with a\nthud against a partition, that made the whole house shake, sometimes\nwith a ponderous lodgment against a door, which, unable to resist the\nshock, flew open, and landed the belligerents at their full length on\nthe floor, where they rolled over one another in a very edifying and\npicturesque manner.\n\nBut this could not continue very long, and neither did it.  A\nconsummation or catastrophe occurred, which suddenly, and at once,\nput an end to the affray.  In one of those heavy lee-lurches which\nthe closely united combatants made, they came thundering against the\nfrail legs of a dresser, which was ingeniously contrived to support\ntwo or three tiers of shelves, which, again, were laden with\nstoneware, the pride of Mrs Anderson's heart, built up with nice and\ndexterous contrivance, so as to show to the greatest advantage.  Need\nwe say what was the consequence of this rude assault on the legs of\nthe aforementioned dresser, supporting, as it did, this huge\nsuperstructure of shelves and crockery?  Scarcely.  But we will.\nDown, then, came the dresser; and down, as a necessary corollary,\ncame also the shelves, depositing their contents with an astounding\ncrash upon the floor--not a jug out of some eight or ten, of various\nshapes and sizes, not a plate out of some scores, not a bowl out of a\ndozen, not a cup or saucer out of an entire set, escaping total\ndemolition.  The destruction was frightful--unprecedented in the\nannals of domestic mishaps.\n\nOn the combatants, the effect of the thundering crash of the\ncrockery, or smashables, as they have been sometimes\ncharacteristically designated, was somewhat like that which has been\nknown to be produced in a sea-fight by the blowing up of a ship.\nHostilities were instantly suspended; all looking with silent horror\non the dreadful scene of ruin around them.  Nor did any disposition\nto renew the contest return.  On the contrary, there was an evident\ninclination, on the part of two of the combatants--namely, Mr\nCallender and his wife--to evacuate the premises.  Appalled at the\nextent of the mischief done, and visited with an awkward feeling of\nprobable responsibility, they gradually edged towards the door, and\nfinally sneaked out of the house without saying a word.\n\n\"If there's law or justice in the land,\" exclaimed Mrs Anderson, in\nhigh excitation, as she swept together the fragments of her\ndemolished crockery, \"I'll hae't on Tam Callender and his wife.  May\nI never see the morn, if I haena them afore the Shirra before a week\ngangs owre my head!  I hae a set aff, noo, against her jeely mug, I\nthink.\"\n\n\"It's been a bonny business,\" replied her husband; \"but what on earth\nwas't a' aboot?\"\n\n\"What was't a' aboot!\" repeated his wife, with some asperity of\nmanner, but now possessed of presence of mind enough to shift the\nground of quarrel, which, she felt, would compromise her with her\nhusband.  \"Didna I tell ye that already?  What should it be a' aboot\nbut her confounded jeely mug!  But I'll mak her pay for this day's\nwark, or I'm sair cheated.  It'll be as bad a job this for them as\nthe duck dub, I'm thinkin.\"\n\n\"We hadna muckle to brag o' there, oursels, guidwife,\" interposed her\nhusband, calmly.\n\n\"See, there,\" said Mrs Anderson, either not heeding, or not hearing\nJohn's remark.  \"See, there,\" she said, holding up a fragment of one\nof the broken vessels, \"there's the end o' my bonny cheeny jug, that\nI was sae vogie o', and that hadna its neebor in braid Scotland.\"\nAnd a tear glistened in the eye of the susceptible mourner, as she\ncontemplated the melancholy remains, and recalled to memory the\ndeparted splendours of the ill-fated tankard.  Quietly dashing,\nhowever, the tear of sorrow aside, both her person and spirit assumed\nthe lofty attitude of determined vengeance; and, \"_she'll_ rue this,\"\nshe now went on, \"if there be ony law or justice in the kingdom.\nIt'll be a dear jug to _her_, or my name's no what it is.\"\n\nEqually indignant with his wife at the assault and battery committed\nby the Callenders, but less talkative, John sat quietly ruminating on\nthe events of the evening, and, anon, still continuing to raise his\nhand, at intervals, to his mangled countenance.  With the same\ntaciturnity, he subsequently assisted Mrs Anderson to throw the\ncollected fragments of the broken dishes into a hamper, and to carry\nand deposit said hamper in an adjoining closet, where, it was\ndetermined, they should be carefully kept, as evidence of the extent\nof the damage which had been sustained.\n\nIn the meantime, neither Mrs Thomas Callender nor Mr Thomas Callender\nfelt by any means at ease respecting the crockery catastrophe.\nAlthough feeling that it was a mere casualty of war, and an\nunforeseen and unpremeditated result of a fair and equal contest,\nthey yet could not help entertaining some vague apprehension for the\nconsequences.  They felt, in short, that it might be made a question\nwhether they were not liable for the damage done, seeing that they\nhad intruded themselves into their neighbour's house, where they had\nno right to go.  It was under some such awkward fear as this that Mr\nCallender, who had also obtained an evasive account of the cause of\nquarrel, said, with an unusually long and grave face to his wife, on\ntheir gaining their own house, and holding at the same time a\nhandkerchief to his still bleeding and now greatly swollen proboscis--\n\n\"Yon was a deevil o' a stramash, Mirran.  I never heard the like o't.\nIt was awfu.  I think I hear the noise o' the crashin' plates and\nbowls in my lugs yet.\"\n\n\"Deil may care!  Let them tak it!\" replied Mrs Callender,\nendeavouring to assume a disregard of consequences which she was\nevidently very far from feeling.  \"She was aye owre vain o' her\ncrockery; so that better couldna happen her.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied her husband; \"but yon smashing o't was rather a serious\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"It was just music to my lugs, then,\" said Mrs Callender, boldly.\n\n\"Maybe,\" rejoined her husband, \"but I doot we'll hae to pay the\npiper.  They'll try't ony way, I'm jalousin.\"\n\n\"Let them.  There'll be nae law or justice in the country if they mak\nthat oot,\" responded Mrs Callender, and exhibiting, in this\nsentiment, the very striking difference of opinion between the two\nladies, of the law and justice of the land.\n\nThe fears, however, which Mr Callender openly expressed, as above\nrecorded, and which his wife felt but concealed, were not groundless.\nOn the evening of the very next day after the battle of the\nnightcaps, as Thomas Callender was sitting in his elbow chair, by the\nfire, luxuriously enjoying its grateful warmth, and the ease and\ncomfort of his slippers and red nightcap, which he had drawn well\ndown over his ears, he was suddenly startled by a sharp, loud rap at\nthe door.  Mrs Callender hastened to open it, when two papers were\nthrust into her hands by an equivocal-looking personage, who, without\nsaying a word, wheeled round on his heel the instant he had placed\nthe mysterious documents in her possession, and hastened away.\n\nWith some misgivings as to the contents of these papers, Mrs\nCallender placed them before her husband.\n\n\"What's this?\" said the latter, with a look of great alarm, and\nplacing his spectacles on his nose, preparatory to a deliberate\nperusal of the suspicious documents.  His glasses wiped and adjusted,\nThomas unfolded the papers, held them up close to the candle, and\nfound them to be a couple of summonses, one for himself and one for\nhis wife.  These summonses, we need hardly say, were at the instance\nof their neighbour, John Anderson, and exhibited a charge of assault\nand battery, and claim for damages to the extent of two pounds\nfourteen shillings sterling, for demolition of certain articles of\nstoneware, &c., &c.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Thomas, laying down the fatal papers.  \"Faith, here it is,\nthen!  We're gaun to get it ruch and roun', noo, Jenny.  I was dootin\nthis.  But we'll defen', we'll defen',\" added Thomas, who was, or we\nrather suspect imagined himself to be, a bit of a lawyer, ever since\nthe affair of the duck-dub, during which he had picked up some law\nterms, but without any accompanying knowledge whatever of their\nimport or applicability.  \"We'll defen', we'll defen',\" he said, with\ngreat confidence of manner, \"and gie them a revised condescendence\nfor't that they'll fin gayan teuch to chow.  But we maun obey the\nceetation, in the first place, to prevent decreet in absence, whilk\nwad gie the pursuer, in this case, everything his ain way.\"\n\n\"Defen'!\" exclaimed Mrs Callender, with high indignation; \"my faith,\nthat we wull, I warrant them, and maybe a hantle mair.  We'll maybe\nno be content wi' defendin', but strike oot, and gar _them_ staun\naboot.\"\n\n\"Noo, there ye show yer ignorance o' the law, Jenny,\" said her\nhusband, with judicial gravity; \"for ye see\"--\n\n\"Tuts, law or no law,\" replied Mrs Callender, impatiently--\"I ken\nwhat's justice and common-sense; an' that's eneuch for me.  An'\njustice I'll hae, Tam,\" she continued, with such an increase of\nexcitement as brought on the usual climax in such cases, of striking\none of her clenched hands on her open palm--\"An' justice I will hae,\nTam, on thae Andersons, if it's to be had for love or money.\"\n\n\"We'll try't ony way,\" said her husband, folding up the summonses,\nand putting them carefully into his breeches-pocket.  \"Since it has\ncome to this, we'll gie them law for't.\"\n\nIn the spirit and temper of bold defiance expressed in the preceding\ncolloquy, Mr Callender and his wife awaited the day and hour\nappointed for their appearance in the Sheriff-Court at Glasgow.  This\nday and hour in due time came, and, when it did, it found both\nparties, pursuers and defenders, in the awful presence of the judge.\nBoth the ladies were decked out in their best and grandest attire,\nwhile each of their husbands rejoiced in his Sunday's suit.  It was a\ngreat occasion for both parties.  On first recognising each other,\nthe ladies exchanged looks which were truly edifying to behold.  Mrs\nAnderson's was that of calm, dignified triumph; and which, if\ntranslated into her own vernacular, would have said, \"My word, lass,\nbut ye'll fin' whar ye are noo.\"  Mrs Calender's, again, was that of\nbold defiance, and told of a spirit that was unconquerable--game to\nthe last being the most strongly marked and leading expression, at\nthis interesting moment, of her majestic countenance.  Close beside\nwhere Mrs Anderson sat, and evidently under her charge, there stood\nan object which, from the oddness of its appearing in its present\nsituation, attracted a good deal of notice, and excited some\nspeculation amongst those present in the Court, and which\nparticularly interested Mrs Callender and her worthy spouse.  This\nwas a hamper--a very large one.  People wondered what could be in it,\nand for what purpose it was there.  They could solve neither of these\nproblems; but the reader can, we dare say.  He will at once\nconjecture--and, if he does so, he will conjecture rightly--that the\nhamper in question contained the remains of the smashables spoken of\nformerly at some length, and that it was to be produced in Court, by\nthe pursuers, as evidence of the nature and extent of the damage done.\n\nThe original idea of bringing forward this article, for the purpose\nmentioned, was Mrs Anderson's; and, having been approved of by her\nhusband, it had been that morning carted to the Courthouse, and\nthereafter carried to and deposited in its present situation by the\nunited exertions of the pursuers, who relied greatly on the effect it\nwould produce when its lid should be thrown open, and the melancholy\nspectacle of demolished crockery it concealed exhibited.\n\nThe case of Mr and Mrs Anderson _versus_ Mr and Mrs Callender being\npretty far down in the roll, it was nearly two hours before it was\ncalled.  This event, however, at length took place.  The names of the\npursuers and defenders resounded through the courtroom, in the slow,\ndrawling, nasal-toned voice of the crier.  Mrs Anderson, escorted by\nher loving spouse, sailed up the middle of the apartment, and placed\nherself before the judge.  With no less dignity of manner, and with,\nat least, an equal stateliness of step, Mrs Callender, accompanied by\nher lord and master, sailed up after her, and took her place a little\nto one side.  The parties bong thus arranged, proceedings commenced.\nMrs Anderson was asked to state her case.  Mrs Anderson was not slow\nto accept the invitation.  She at once began:--\n\n\"Ye see, my Lord, sir, the matter was just this--and I daur _her_\nthere\" (a look of intense defiance at Mrs Callender) \"to deny a word,\nmy Lord, sir, o' what I'm gaun to say; although.  I daur say she wad\ndo't if she could.\"\n\n\"My good woman,\" here, interposed the judge, who had a nervous\napprehension of the forensic eloquence of such female pleaders as the\none now before him, \"will you have the goodness to confine yourself\nstrictly to a simple statement of your case?\"\n\n\"Weel, my Lord, sir, I will.  Ye see, then, the matter is just this.\"\n\nAnd Mrs Anderson forthwith proceeded to detail the particulars of the\nquarrel and subsequent encounter, with a minuteness and\ncircumstantiality which, we fear, the reader would think rather\ntedious were we here to repeat.  In this statement of her case, Mrs\nAnderson, having the fear of her husband's presence before her eyes,\nmade no allusion whatever to the nightcaps, but rested the whole\nquarrel on the jelly pot.  Now, this was a circumstance which Mrs\nCallender noted, and of which she, on the instant, determined to take\na desperate advantage.  Regardless of all consequences, and, amongst\nthe rest, of discovering to her husband the underhand part she had\nbeen playing in regard to the affair of the nightcap, she resolved on\npublicly exposing, as she imagined, the falsehood and pride of her\nhated rival, by stating the facts of the case as to the celebrated\nnightcaps.  To this revenge she determined on sacrificing every other\nconsideration.  To return, however, in the meantime, to the\nproceedings in Court.\n\nThe statements of the pursuers being now exhausted, the defenders\nwere called upon to give their version of the story.  On this\nsummons, both Mrs Callender and her husband pressed themselves into a\ncentral position, with the apparent intention of both entering on the\ndefence at the same time.  And this proved to be the fact.  On being\nspecially and directly invited by the judge to open the case--\n\n\"Ye see, my Lord,\" began _Mr_ Thomas Callender; \"and--\"\n\n\"My Lord, sir, ye see,\" began, at the same instant _Mrs_ Thomas\nCallender.\n\n\"Now, now,\" here interposed the judge, waving his hand impatiently,\n\"one at a time, if you please.  One at a time.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" replied Mr Callender.  \"Staun aside, guidwife, staun\naside,\" he said; at the same time gently pushing his wife back with\nhis left hand as he spoke.  \"_I'll_ lay doon the case to his\nLordship.\"\n\n\"Ye'll do nae sic a thing, Tammas, _I'll_ do't,\" exclaimed Mrs\nCallender, not only resisting her husband's attempt to thrust her\ninto the rear, but forcibly placing _him_ in that relative position;\nwhile she herself advanced a pace or two nearer to the bench.  On\ngaining this vantage ground, Mrs Callender at once began, and with\ngreat emphasis and circumstantiality detailed the whole story of the\nnightcaps; carefully modelling it so, however, as to show that her\nown part in the transaction was a _bon\u00e2 fide_ proceeding; on the part\nof her rival, the reverse; and that the whole quarrel, with its\nconsequent demolition of crockery, was entirely the result of Mrs\nAnderson's \"upsettin pride, and vanity, and jealousy.\"  During the\ndelivery of these details, the Court was convulsed with laughter, in\nwhich the Sheriff himself had much difficulty to refrain from joining.\n\nOn the husbands of the two women, however, they had a very different\neffect.  Amazed, confounded, and grievously affronted at this\nunexpected disclosure of the ridiculous part they had been made to\nperform by their respective wives, they both sneaked out of Court,\namidst renewed peals of laughter, leaving the latter to finish the\ncase the best way they could.  How this was effected we know not, as\nat this point ends our story of the Rival Nightcaps.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.\n\nBY WALTER LOGAN.\n\n  \"The maid that loves,\n  Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank,\n  And puts her trust in miracles for safety.\"--_Old Play._\n\n\nI am a peripatetic genius--a wanderer by profession--a sort of\nSalathiel Secundus, \"doomed for a term,\" like the ghost of Hamlet's\npapa, \"to walk the earth,\" whether I will or not.  Here, however, the\nsimile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he\nchose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations\nis, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more,\nnecessarily be confined to the northern extremity of \"our tight\nlittle island\"--_vulgo vocato_--Scotland.  In my day I have seen many\nstrange sights, and met with many strange faces--made several\nhairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and\nfield.  On the wings of the wind--that is, on the top of a\nstage-coach--I have passed through many known and unknown towns and\nvillages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special\nedification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts,\ninteresting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish\nstory.  But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has\ntrod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers' shops north of\nthe Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.\n\nIn this capacity, I have, for years, perambulated among the chief\ntowns of Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give\nthem to me, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take\nthem from me, unless with a _douceur_ in perspective--viz., coachmen,\nwaiters, barmaids, _et hoc gittus omne_.  From those of the third\nclass, many are the witching smiles lighting up pretty faces--many\nthe indignant glances shot from deep love-darting eyes, when their\nunder neighbours, the lips, were invaded without consent of\nparties--which have saluted me everywhere; for the same varied\nfeelings, the same sudden and unaccountable likings and dislikings,\nhave place in the breasts of barmaids as in those of other women.  As\nis the case too with the rest of their sex, there are among them the\nclumsy and the handsome, the plain and the pretty, the scraggy and\nthe plump, the old and the young; but of all the barmaids I ever met\nwith, none charmed me more than did Mary of the Black Swan, at\nAltonby.  In my eyes she inherited all the good qualities I have here\nenumerated,--that is to say, she was handsome, pretty, plump, and\nyoung, with a form neither too tall nor too short; but just the\nindescribable happy size between, set off by a manner peculiarly\ngraceful.\n\nIt was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found\nmyself seated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour\npertaining to the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me--she being the\nchief, nay, almost the only person in the establishment, who could\nserve a table.  I was struck with her loveliness, as well as\ncaptivated with her engaging manner, and though I had for thirty\nyears defied the artifices of blind Cupid, I now felt myself all at\nonce over head and ears in love with this village beauty.  Although\nplaced in so low a sphere as that in which I then beheld her, there\nwas a something about her that proclaimed her to be of gentle birth.\nWhoever looked upon her countenance, felt conscious that there was a\nrespect due to her which it is far from customary to extend to girls\nin waiting at an inn.  Hers were\n\n  \"Eyes so pure, that from their ray\n  Dark vice would turn abashed away.\"\n\nHer feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice,\nredolent of musical softness--that thing so desirable in woman--had\nnot already informed me, I should have set her down as being of\nEnglish extraction.\n\nSeveral months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby.\nDuring all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary--sleeping\nor waking, her form was ever present to my fancy.  On entering the\nBlack Swan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a\ndelighted smile.  She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no\nless so at the cordiality of my reception.  The month was July, and\nthe evening particularly fine; so, not having business of much\nconsequence to transact in the place, and Mary having to attend to\nthe comforts of others beside myself, then sojourning at the Black\nSwan, I sallied forth alone--\n\n  \"To take my evening's walk of meditation.\"\n\nWhen one happens to be left _per se_ in a provincial town, where he\nis alike unknowing and unknown--where there is no theatre or other\nplace of amusement in which to spend the evening--it almost\ninvariably happens that he pays a visit to the churchyard, and\ndelights himself, for an hour or so, with deciphering the\ntombstones,--a recreation extremely healthful to the body, and\nsoothing to the mind.  It was to the churchyard on that evening I\nbent my steps, thinking, as I went along, seriously of Mary.\n\n\"What is she to me?\" I involuntarily exclaimed; \"I have no time to\nwaste upon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly\ngear.  In my present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her;\nand to think of her in any other light were villanous.  No, no!  I\nwill no longer cherish a dream which can never be realised.\"\n\nAnd I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for\never.  Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel\ngreat reluctance in disclosing to me.  All I could glean from her\nwas, that she was an orphan--that she had had a sister who had formed\nan unfortunate attachment, and broken their mother's heart--that all\nof her kindred that now remained was a brother, and he was in a\nforeign land.\n\nThe sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and\nthe yew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I\nentered the burial-place of Altonby.  The old church was roofless and\nin ruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of\nthose who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had\nbeen laid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect.  In a\ndistant corner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had\nbeen placed to indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave\nof a stranger, and seemed to have been placed in that spot more for\nthe purpose of being out of the way than for any other.  At a short\ndistance from it was another mound, overtopped with grass of a\nfresher kind.  As I stood leaning over a marble tombstone, gazing\naround me, a figure slowly entered at the farther end of the aisle,\nand, with folded arms and downcast eyes, passed on to those two\ngraves.  It was that of a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty,\nthough a settled melancholy, which overspread his countenance, made\nhim look five years older.  I crouched behind the stone on which I\nhad been leaning, fearful of disturbing him with my presence, or\nrousing his attention by my attempting to leave the place.\n\nAfter gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he\nknelt down between them.  His lips began to move, but I heard not\nwhat he said.  I thought he was praying for the souls of the\ndeparted; and I was confirmed in this by hearing him at last say,\nwith an audible voice:--\n\n\"May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!\"\n\nAs he uttered these last words, he turned his eyes to the newer\ngrave.  I thought he was about to continue his prayer; but, as if the\nsight of the grave had awakened other feelings, he suddenly started\nup, and, raising his hands to heaven, invoked curses on the head of\none whom he termed their \"murderer!\"  That done, he rushed madly from\nthe church.  All this was very strange to me; and I determined, if\npossible, to ascertain whose remains those graves entombed.\n\nOn leaving the churchyard, I was fortunate enough to forgather with\nan old man, from whom I learned the melancholy story of her who\noccupied the older-looking grave.  She was young and beautiful.\nAccident had deprived her father of that wealth which a long life of\nuntiring industry had enabled him to lay past for his children; and\nhe did not long survive its loss.  Fearful of being a burden to her\nmother, who had a son and another daughter besides herself to provide\nfor out of the slender pittance which remained to her on her\nhusband's death, Clara Douglas accepted a situation as a governess,\nand sought to earn an honourable independence by those talents and\naccomplishments which had once been cultivated for mere amusement.\nThe brother of Clara, shortly afterwards, obtained an appointment in\nthe island of Madeira.  Unfortunately for Clara, a young officer, a\nrelative of the family in which she resided, saw her, and was smitten\nwith her charms.  He loved, and was beloved again.  The footing of\nintimacy on which he was in the house, procured him many interviews\nwith Clara.  Suddenly his regiment was ordered to the Continent; and\nwhen the young ensign told the sorrowful tidings to Clara, he\nelicited from her a confession of her love.\n\nMonths passed away--Waterloo was fought and won--and Ensign Malcolm\nwas among those who fell.\n\nWhen the death list reached Scotland, many were the hearts it\noverpowered with grief; but Clara Douglas had more than one grief to\nmourn: sorrow and shame were too much to bear together, and she fled\nfrom the house where she had first met him who was the cause of all.\nNone could tell whither she had gone.  Her mother and sister were\nagonised when the news of her disappearance reached them.  Every\nsearch was made, but without effect.  A year all but two weeks passed\naway, and still no tidings of her, till that very day, two boys\nseeking for pheasants' nests upon the top of a hillock overgrown with\nfurze--which the old man pointed out to me at a short distance from\nthe place where we stood--accidentally stumbled upon an object\nbeneath a fir-tree.  It was the remains of a female in a kneeling\nposture.  Beneath her garments, by which she was recognised as Clara\nDouglas, not a vestige of flesh remained.  There was still some upon\nher hands, which had been tightly clasped together; and upon her\nface, which leant upon them.  Seemingly she had died in great agony.\nIt was supposed by some that she had taken poison.\n\n\"If your time will permit,\" added the old man, as he wiped away a\ntear, \"I will willingly show you the place where her remains were\nfound.  It is but a short distance.  Come.\"\n\nI followed the old man in silence.  He led the way into a field.  We\nclimbed over some loose stones thrown together, to serve as a wall of\ndivision at the farther extremity of it, and slowly began to ascend\nthe grassy acclivity, which was on both sides bordered by a thick\nhedge, placed apart, at the distance of about thirty feet.  When half\nway up, I could not resist the inclination I felt to turn and look\nupon the scene.  It was an evening as fair as I had ever gazed on.\nThe wheat was springing in the field through which we had just\npassed, covering it, as it were, with a rich green carpet.  Trees and\nhills bounded the view, behind which the sun was on the point of\nsinking, and the red streaks upon the western sky \"gave promise of a\ngoodly day to-morrow.\"\n\nIf, thought I, the hour on which Clara Douglas ascended this hill was\nas lovely as this evening, she must indeed have been deeply bent upon\nher own destruction, to look upon the world so beautifully fair, and\nnot wish to return to it again.  We continued our ascent, passing\namong thick tangled underwood, in whose kindly grasp the light\nflowing garments of Clara Douglas must have been ever and anon caught\nas she wended on her way.  Yet had she disregarded the friendly\ninterposition.  Along the margin of an old stone quarry we now\nproceeded, where the pathway was so narrow that we were occasionally\ncompelled to catch at the furze bushes which edged it, to prevent\nourselves from falling over into the gulf beneath.  And Clara\nDouglas, thought I, must have passed along here, and must have been\nexposed to the same danger of toppling headlong over the cliff, yet\nshe had exerted herself to pass the fatal spot unharmed, to save a\nlife which she knew would almost the instant afterwards be taken by\nher own hand.  Such is the inconsistency of human nature.\n\nOur course lay once more through the midst of underwood, so thickly\ngrown that one would have supposed no female foot would dare to enter\nit.\n\n\"Here,\" cried the old man, stopping beside a dwarfish fir-tree, \"here\nis the spot where we found the mortal remains of Clara Douglas.\"\n\nI pressed forward, and, to my surprise, beheld one other being than\nmy old guide looking on the place.  It was the same I had noticed at\nthe grave of Clara Douglas, within the walls of the ruined church of\nAltonby.  I thought it a strange coincidence.\n\nSummer passed away, winter and spring succeeded, and summer came\nagain, and with it came the wish to see Mary once more.  However much\nI had before doubted the truth of the axiom, that \"absence makes the\nheart grow fonder,\" I now felt the full force of its truth.  My\naffection for Mary was, day after day, becoming stronger; and, in\nspite of the dictates of prudence, my determination never to see her\nagain began to falter; and one evening I unconsciously found myself\nin the yard of the Black Swan.  Well, since I had come there at any\nrate, it would be exceedingly foolish to go away again without\nspeaking to Mary; so I called to the stable boy to put up my horse.\nThe boy knew me, for I had once given him a sixpence for running a\nmessage, and he came briskly forward at my first call, no doubt with\nsome indistinct idea of receiving another sixpence at some no very\ndistant date.\n\n\"Eh!  Mr Moir,\" said the boy, while I was dismounting, in answer to\nmy question, \"What news in the village?\"  \"Ye'll no guess what's gaun\nto happen?  Our Mary, the folk say, is gaun to be married!\"\n\nOur Mary! thought I, can _our_ Mary be _my_ Mary?  And, to ascertain\nwhether they were one and the same personage, I inquired of the boy\nwho our Mary was.\n\n\"Ou!\" replied he, \"she's just barmaid at the inn here.\"\n\nI started, now that this disclosure had unhinged my doubts; and\nsubduing, as well as I was able, my rising emotion, I boldly asked,\nwho was \"the happy man.\"\n\n\"They ca' him a captain!\" said the boy innocently; \"but whether he's\na sea captain, an offisher in the army, or a captain o' police, I'm\nno that sure.  At ony rate, he aye gangs aboot in plain claes.  He's\nbeen staying for a month here, an' he gangs oot but seldom, an' that\nonly in the gloamin.\"\n\nAfter thanking the boy, and placing the expected silver coin in his\nhand, I turned the corner of the house in my way towards the\nentrance, determined, with my own eyes and ears, to ascertain the\ntruth of the boy's statement.  The pace at which I was proceeding was\nso rapid, that, ere I was aware of the vicinity of any one, I came\nbump against the person of a gentleman, whom, to my surprise, I\ninstantly recognised as the mysterious visitant to the grave of Clara\nDouglas, and to the spot where her relics were found.  He seemed to\nregard me with a suspicious eye; for he shuffled past without\nuttering a word.  His air was disordered, his step irregular, and his\nwhole appearance was that of a man with whom care, and pain, and\nsorrow, had long been familiar.\n\nCan this be the captain? was the thought which first suggested itself\nto me.  It was a question I could not answer; yet I entered the Black\nSwan half persuaded that it was.\n\n\"Ah!  Mr Moir,\" cried Mary, coming forward to welcome me in her usual\nway, the moment she heard my voice, \"you have been long a stranger.\nI fancied that, somehow or other, I was the cause of it, for you went\naway last time without bidding me good-bye.\"  I held her hand in\nmine, I saw her eyes sparkle, and the blush suffuse her cheek, and I\nmuttered a confused apology.  \"Well!  I am so glad to see you,\" she\ncontinued.  \"It was but yesterday I spoke of you to the captain.\"\n\n\"The captain,\" I repeated, while the pangs of jealousy, which had,\nduring the last five minutes, been gradually lulled over to sleep,\nsuddenly roused themselves.  \"Who is the captain, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh?  I'm sure you will like him when you become acquainted with\nhim,\" said she, blushing.  \"There is something so prepossessing about\nhim, that really I defy any one not to like him.\"  The animation with\nwhich she gave utterance to these words made me miserable, and I\ncursed the captain in my heart.\n\nThe next day passed over without my being able to obtain a sight of\nmy rival; and, when I walked out in the afternoon, he had not yet\nrisen.  Mary's assigned reason for this was, that he was an invalid;\nbut his was more the disease of the mind than of the body.  In his\nmemory there was implanted a deep sorrow, which time could never root\nout.  In my walk, the churchyard and the venerable ruins of the\nchurch were visited--I stood again beside the grave of the hapless\nClara Douglas, and her melancholy story afforded me a theme for sad\nreflection, which, for a while, banished Mary and all jealous fears\nfrom my mind.\n\nIt was evening when I reached \"mine inn.\"  On passing the parlour\nwindow, a sight met my eye which brought the colour to my cheeks.  A\ntall, noble-looking man lay extended upon the sofa, while Mary leant\nover him in kindly solicitude, and, with marked assiduity, placed\ncushions for his head, and arranged his military cloak.  This, then,\nmust be the captain, and he and my mysterious friend were not the\nsame.  That was some consolation, however.\n\nThus as he lay, he held Mary's hand in his.  My breast was racked\nwith agony intense; for\n\n  Oh! what a host of killing doubts and fears,\n  Of melancholy musings, deep perplexities,\n  Must the fond heart that yields itself to love\n  Struggle with and endure.\"\n\n\nOnce I determined on flying from the scene, and leaving my rival in\nundisputed possession of the village beauty; but, having been\nresolved that no woman should ever have it in her power to say she\nmade me wretched, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and, on\nseeing Mary leave the parlour, I shortly afterwards entered it.\n\nThe stranger scarcely noticed my entrance, so intently was his\nattention fixed upon the perusal of a newspaper which he held in his\nhand.  I sat down at the window, and, for want of something better to\ndo, gazed with a scrutinising eye upon the gambols of the ducks and\ngeese outside.\n\nAfter some time, Mary came in to ask the captain what he would have\nfor supper.\n\n\"This is the gentleman I spoke of,\" she said, directing her\nexpressive glance towards me.\n\n\"Mr Moir must pardon my inattention!\" said the stranger, laying down\nthe paper; \"I was not aware that my pretty Mary's friend was in the\nroom.\"\n\nHis urbane manner, his soft winning voice, made me feel an\nirresistible impulse to meet his advances.  He proposed that we\nshould sup together, and I sat down at the table with very different\nfeelings from those which had been mine on entering the parlour that\nevening.  I felt inclined to encourage an intimacy with the man whom,\nbut a short while before, I had looked upon with aversion.\n\nAs the night wore on, I became more and more captivated with the\nstranger.  His conversation was brilliant and intellectual; and, when\nwe parted for the night, I began to find fault with myself for having\nfor a moment harboured dislike towards so perfect a gentleman.  I\nresolved to stay a few days longer at Altonby, for the purpose of\nimproving our acquaintance.  The stranger--or, as he was called at\nthe inn, \"the captain,\" expressed delight when he was informed of my\nresolution; and, although he seldom rose before the afternoon, we\nspent many pleasant hours together.\n\nOn the evening of the third day of my sojourn, he expressed a wish\nthat I would accompany him in a short walk.  Notwithstanding his\nerect and easy carriage, there was a feebleness in his gait, which he\nstrove in vain to contend against; and it was but too evident that a\nbroken spirit, added to a shattered constitution, would speedily\nbring him to his grave.\n\nLeading the way into the churchyard, to my surprise he stopped at the\nresting-place of the ill-starred lady, the story of whose untimely\nend I had so patiently listened to the last time I visited Altonby.\n\n\"I am exceedingly fortunate,\" said the captain, \"in having met with\none so kind as you, to cheer the last moments of my earthly\npilgrimage.  You smile--nay, I can assure you that I feel I am not\nlong for this world.  The object of my visit to this spot to-night,\nis to ask you to do me the favour, when I am dead, of seeing my\nremains laid here--here, beside this grave, o'er which the grass\ngrows longer than on those around;\" and he pointed to the grave of\nClara Douglas.  After a moment, he continued:--\"Unlike other men, you\nhave never annoyed me by seeking to inquire of me who or what I am;\nand, believe me, I feel grateful for it.  I would not wish that you\nshould ever know the history of the being who stands before you.\nWhen the earth closes over my coffin, think of him no more.\"\n\nAlthough the captain had done me the honour of calling me unlike\nother men--a distinction most folks are so exceedingly desirous of\nobtaining--I must own that I had hitherto felt no common degree of\ncuriosity concerning him; and now that there was no prospect of it\nbeing gratified, its desire increased tenfold, and I would now have\ngiven worlds, if I had had them, to have learned something of the\nbirth, parentage, and education of the captain.\n\n\"And now,\" he added, \"I beseech you, leave me for a short time--I\nwould be alone.\"\n\nIn silence I complied, sauntering outside the ruins, and seeking to\nfind, in my old avocation of perusing the tombstones, the wherewithal\nto kill the time during which the captain held communion with the\ndead; for I could not help thinking that it was for such a cause he\nhad desired to be left to himself.\n\nTen--twenty minutes passed, and the captain did not appear.  I\nretraced my steps, and again entered the ruins, by the farther end.\nThe gloom which prevailed around--the monuments which\nintervened--and, above all, the distance at which I then was from the\ngrave of Clara Douglas--prevented me from descrying the captain.  I\nhad advanced a few paces when I heard voices in high altercation.  I\nstopped; and, as I did so, one of the speakers, in whose clear\nintonation I could recognise the captain, said--\"On my word, I\nreturned here the instant my wounds were healed--I returned to marry\nher--and my grief could not be equalled by yours when I heard of her\nmelancholy fate.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" exclaimed the other; \"you ne'er intended such.  My sister's\nwrongs call out aloud for vengeance; and here--here, between her\ngrave and that of our sainted mother--your blood shall be offered up\nin atonement.\"\n\nThis was instantly followed by the report of a pistol.  I rushed\nforward, and beheld, O horror! the captain stretched upon the ground,\nand the blood streaming from a wound in his breast.  I caught a\nglimpse of his assassin, as he fled from the church; it was the\nstranger whom I had seen, on a former visit, at the grave of Clara\nDouglas, and beside the fir-tree where her remains had been found.  I\nmade a motion to follow him, but the captain waved me back--\"Let him\ngo,\" said he; \"I forgive him.  I have no wish that he should die upon\nthe scaffold.\"  So saying, he fell back exhausted; and, in my haste\nto procure assistance for him, I quite forgot the assassin, until it\nwas too late.\n\nThe captain was conveyed to the Black Swan, where, with Mary to\nattend to his every want, he was, no doubt, as comfortable as if he\nhad had a home to go to, and a beloved wife to smooth his dying\npillow.  Mary bestowed more than ordinary care and attention upon\nhim, which, although she had declared to me that she could never love\nthe captain so well as to marry him, should he ever condescend to\nmake the offer, brought back occasionally a pang of jealousy to my\nheart.  I could not exactly understand the extent of her regard for\nhim.\n\nHaving business to transact at a neighbouring town, I left Altonby\nthe next day, with a determination to return, ere the lapse of a\nweek, to see the captain, I feared, for the last time.  I had been\nbut two days gone, when I received a note from Mary, informing me\nthat he was daily becoming worse, and that it was the fear of his\nmedical attendant that he could not live four-and-twenty hours.  With\nthe utmost speed, I therefore hastened back to the Black Swan, where,\nindeed, I saw that the surgeon had had quite sufficient reason for\nhis prediction--the captain was greatly altered since I last saw him.\nWan and emaciated, he lay in resignation upon his couch, calmly\nwaiting the approach of death.  He seemed quite composed.\n\nTaking my hand in his, he reminded me of his wish regarding his\nburial-place.  I assured him that it should strictly be complied\nwith.  A smile lighted up his pale countenance for an instant, as I\npledged myself to this.  He then drew from under his pillow a parcel\nof letters, tied together with a faded ribbon, and desired me to\nconsign them one by one to the flames.  With an eager eye, and a\ncountenance full of excitement, did he watch them as they consumed\naway.  I did not dare to examine minutely the address on the letters,\nbut, from the glance I had of them, I could see they were all written\nin an elegant female hand.  When all were gone--\"And this,\" said he,\n\"is like to human life--a blaze but for an instant, and then all is\nashes.\"  He paused, and then continued, as he held a small packet in\nhis hand, more in soliloquy than if he were addressing me--\"Here is\nthe last sad relic I possess--shall I?--Yes! yes! it shall go as the\nothers have gone.  How soon may I follow it?\"  He stretched forth his\nhand towards me.  I took the packet.  Instantly, as if the last tie\nwhich bound him to the earth had been hastily snapped asunder, the\ncaptain fell backwards upon his couch.  I thrust the packet into my\nbosom, and ran to afford him assistance.  He was beyond human\nhelp--he was dead!\n\nThe grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were\nconveyed to her; she was like one distracted.  Mine was more\nchastened and subdued.\n\nThe remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth\nhe had pointed out to me.  After his death, there was found a\nconveyance of all his property, which was pretty considerable, to\nMary, accompanied with a wish that I would marry her.  To this\narrangement Mary was quite agreeable; and, accordingly, our nuptials\nwere solemnised in about six months after the death of the captain.\nIt was then that Mary confided to me that she was the sister of Clara\nDouglas; but when I made inquiry at her concerning the nature of her\nattachment to the captain, she always avoided answering, and seemed\nnot to wish that his name should be mentioned in her hearing.\n\nSeveral years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which\nthe captain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in\nlooking for something else, which, of course, I could not find--(no\none ever finds what he wants)--I accidentally stumbled upon the\npacket.  Curiosity induced me to open it.  A lock of black hair, tied\nwith a piece of light-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents.\nPart of the letter ran thus:--\"Enclosed is some of my hair--I don't\nexpect you to keep it, for I have heard you say you did not like to\nhave any such thing in your possession.  I will not _ask_ you, lest I\nmight be refused; but if you give me some, I'll get it put into one\nof my rings, and shall never, never part with it.\"  This letter bore\nthe signature of Clara Douglas!\n\nHere, then, was a solution of all the mystery.  The captain was the\nlover of Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with\nhim.\n\nOf the fate of the brother I afterwards heard.  He was killed in a\nstreet brawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the\nassassin of the captain.\n\n\n\n\nBON GUALTIER'S TALES.\n\nBY THEODORE MARTIN.\n\n\nCOUNTRY QUARTERS.\n\nA pleasanter little town than Potterwell does not exist in that part\nof her Majesty's dominions called Scotland.  On one side, the hand of\ncultivation has covered a genial soil with richness and fertility.\nThe stately mansion, \"bosomed high in tufted trees,\" occasionally\ninvites the eye, as it wanders over the landscape; while here and\nthere the river Wimpledown may be seen peeping out amid the luxuriant\nverdure of wood and plain, and seeming to concentrate on itself all\nthe radiance of any little sunshine that may be going.  On the other\nside, again, are nothing but impracticable mountains--fine bluff old\nfellows--that evidently have an extensive and invincible contempt for\nTime, and, like other great ones of the earth, never carry any change\nabout them.  Look beyond these, and the prospect is indeed a fine\none--a little monotonous, perhaps, but still a fine one--peak\nreceding behind peak in endless series, a multitudinous sea of\nmountain tops, with noses as blue as a disappointed man's face, or\nMiss Harriet Martineau's stockings.\n\nWith a situation presenting such allurements for the devotees of the\npicturesque, is it wonderful that Potterwell became a favourite\nresort?  By the best of good fortune, too, a spring close by, of a\npeculiarly nauseous character, had, a few years before the period we\nwrite of, attracted attention by throwing into violent convulsions\nsundry cows that had been so far left to themselves as to drink of\nit, besides carrying off an occasional little boy or so, as a sort of\njust retribution for so far suppressing his natural tastes as to\nadmit it within his lips.  Dr Scammony, however, had taken the\nmineral water under his patronage; and his celebrated pamphlet upon\nthe medicinal properties of the Potterwell Mephitic Assaf\u0153tida\nWaters at once fixed their reputation, while it materially augmented\nhis own.  A general subscription was projected, with a view to the\nerection of a pump-room.  The plan took amazingly; and, from being\nleft to work its way out, as best it might, through the diseased and\nmiserable weeds with which it was overgrown, the spring all at once\nfound itself established in a handsome apartment, fitted up with a\nmost benevolent attention to the wants of such persons as might\nrepair thither with the probable chance--however little they might be\nconscious of the fact--of dying by a watery death.\n\nIt was a bright sparkling morning in August, and there was an\nexhilarating freshness in the air, that caused the heart to leap up,\nand make the spirit as unclouded as the blue sky overhead.  The\npump-room was thronged, and every one congratulated his neighbour on\nthe beauty of the morning.\n\n\"At your post as usual, Stukely!\" said a smartly dressed young man\nstepping up to Mr Stukeley--a well-known frequenter of the wells\nsince their first celebrity--and shaking him warmly by the hand.  \"I\ndo believe you are retained as a check upon the pump woman, that you\nkeep such a strict look-out after her customers.  How many doses has\nshe administered to-day?  Come now, out with your notebook, and let\nme see.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear Frank, if you really want to know, I am the man for\nyou--Old Cotton of Dundee, four and a half and his daughter, took off\nthe balance of the six.  What do you think I heard him whisper to\nher?--'Hoot, lassie, tak it aff, it's a' paid for;' and she, poor\nsoul, was forced to gulp it down, that he might have the satisfaction\nof knowing that full value had been given for his penny.  Then there\nwas Runrig the farmer from Mid-Lothian, half-a-dozen.  The man has a\nframe of iron, and a cheek as fresh as new-mown hay; but somebody had\ntold him the water would do him good, and he has accordingly taken\nenough to make him ill for a fortnight.  Then there was Deacon\nDobie's rich widow--fat, fair, and forty--she got pretty well through\nthe seventh tumbler; but, it's a way with her, when she begins\ndrinking, not to know when to stop; which, by the way, may account\nfor her having been, for some time, as she elegantly expresses it,\n'gey an nervish ways, whiles.'  After her came\"----  And Stukeley was\ngoing on to enumerate the different visitors of the morning, checking\nthem off upon his fingers as he proceeded, when his friend, Frank\nPreston, stopped him.\n\n\"For mercy's sake, have done; and tell me, if you can, who those two\nfops of fellows are at the foot of the room?  They only came a week\nago; and, though nobody knows who they are, they have made the\nacquaintance of half the people here.\"\n\n\"I see nothing very odd in that.  I know nothing of the men; but they\ndress well, and are moderately good-looking, and have just sufficient\nassurance to pass off upon the uninitiated for ease of manner and\nfashionable breeding.  A pair of parvenus, no doubt; but what is your\nmotive for asking so particularly about them?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, nothing!  Only I am to meet them at the Cheeshams\nto-night, and I wished to know something of them.\"\n\n\"So, so!  sets the wind in that quarter?  A rival, Master Frank?  It\nis there the shoe pinches, is it?\"\n\n\"A rival--nonsense!  What should I care whether the puppies are\nattentive to Emily Cheesham or not?\"\n\n\"Why more to her than to her sister Fanny?  I mentioned no names.\nHa!  Master Frank, you see I have caught you.  Come, come, tell me\nwhat it is annoys you?\"\n\n\"Well,\" stammered out Frank Preston,--\"well, the fact is--the fact\nis, one of them has been rather particular in his attentions to\nEmily, and I am half-inclined to think she gives him encouragement.\"\n\n\"And, suppose she does, I see nothing in that but the harmless vanity\nof a girl, pleased to have another dangler under her spell.\"\n\n\"That is all very well, but I don't like it a bit.  It may be so, and\nit may not.  Her encouragement to him is very marked, and I don't\nfeel easy under it at all, I don't.\"\n\n\"Why, Frank, you must both have a very poor opinion of Miss Emily,\nand be especially soft yourself, to give yourself any concern in the\nmatter.  If you have deemed her worthy of your regards, and she has\ngiven you warrant for thinking you have a claim upon them, and yet\nshe now throws you off to make way for this newer lover, your course\nis a clear one.  Turn from her at once, and fortify yourself with old\nWither's lines--\n\n  'If she be not made for me,\n  What care I for whom she be?'\"\n\n\n\"Excellent philosophy, if one could but act upon it.  But what annoys\nme about the business is, that I am sure these fellows are a pair of\nsnobs, and are playing themselves off for something greater than they\nare.\"\n\n\"Very possibly; but that is just a stronger reason for taking my\nadvice.  If Miss Emily can be gratified with the attentions of such\npersons, leave her to the full enjoyment of them.  Don't make\nyourself miserable for her folly.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't make myself miserable at all, not in the least; only, I\nshould like to find out who the fellows are.\"\n\nThe young men of whom Preston and Stukeley had been speaking, and who\nnow lounged up the room, describing semicircles with their legs at\nevery step they took, were certainly never meant for the ordinary\ntear and wear of the hard-working every-day world.  Their dress had\ntoo fine a gloss upon it for that, their hair much too gracefully\ndisposed.  They were both rather below the middle size, both dark in\nthe complexion, but one of them much more so than the other.  The\ndarker slip of humanity had cultivated the growth of his hair with\nsingular success.  It fell away in masses from his forehead and\ntemples, and curled, like the rings of the young vine, over the\nvelvet collar that capped a coat of symmetrical proportions.\nCircling round the cheeks and below the chin, it somewhat obtruded\nupon the space which is generally occupied by the face, so that his\nhead might truly be said to be a mass of hair, slightly interspersed\nwith features.  His friend, again, to avoid monotony, had varied the\nstyle of his upper works, and his locks were allowed to droop in\nlong, lanky, melancholy tangles down his sallow cheeks; while,\nperched upon either lip, might be seen a feathery looking object, not\nto be accounted for, but on the supposition that it was intended to\nseduce the public into a belief of its being a moustache.  Both were\nshowily dressed.  Both had stocks terminating in a cataract of satin\nthat emptied itself into tartan velvet waistcoats, worn probably in\nhonour of the country; both had gold chains innumerable, twisting in\na multiplicity of convolutions across these waistcoats; both had on\nyellow kid gloves of unimpeachable purity, and both carried minute\ncanes of imitation ebony, with which, at intervals, they flogged, one\nthe right and the other the left leg, with the most painful ferocity.\nThey were a noble pair; alike, yet, oh, how different!\n\n\"Eugene, my boy,\" said the darker of the two, in a tone of voice loud\nenough to let half the room hear the interesting communication, \"we\nmust see what sort of stuff this here water is--we must, positively.\"\n\n\"Roost eggs, Adolph, whisked in bilge-water, with a rusty tenpenny\nnail.  Faugh!  I'm smashed if I taste it.\"\n\n\"Not so bad that for you,\" returned Adolph, smiling faintly; \"but you\nmust really pay your respects to the waters.\"\n\n\"'Pon my soul, I shawn't.  I had enough of that so't of thing in\nJummany, the time I was ova with Ned Hoxham.\"\n\n\"That was the time, wasn't it, that you brought me over that choice\nlot of cigaws?\"\n\n\"I believe it was,\" responded Eugene, with the most impressive\nindifference, as if he wished it to be understood that he had been so\noften there that he could not recall the particulars of any one visit.\n\n\"I know something of Seidlitz and Seltzer myself,\" resumed the darker\nAdonis, \"and soda water too, by Jove! for that matter, and they're\nnot bad things either, when one's been making a night of it; so I'll\nhave a try at this Potterwell fluid, and see how it does for a\nchange.\"\n\nIn this manner the two friends proceeded, to the infinite\nenlightenment of those about them, who, being greatly struck with\ntheir easy and facetious manners, stood admiringly by with looks of\nevident delight!  The young men saw the impression they were making,\nand, desirous of keeping it up, went on to ask the priestess of the\nspring how often, and in what quantities, she found it necessary to\ndoctor it with Glauber salts, brimstone, and assaf\u0153tida.  The joke\ntook immensely.\n\nSuch of the bystanders as could laugh--for the internal agitation\nproduced by the cathartic properties of their morning draught, made\nthat a somewhat difficult and dangerous experiment--did so; and\nvarious young men, of no very definite character, but who seemed to\nsupport the disguise of gentlemen with considerable pain to\nthemselves, sidled up, and endeavoured to strike into conversation\nwith our Nisus and Euryalus, thinking to share by contact the glory\nwhich they had won.  All they got for their pains, however, was a\nstare of cool indifference.  The friends were as great adepts in the\nart and mystery of _cutting_, as the most fashionable tailor could\nbe; and, after volunteering a few ineffectual efforts at\nsprightliness, these awkward aspirants to fame were forced to fall\nback, abashed and crestfallen, into the natural insignificance of\ntheir character.\n\nThese proceedings did not pass unnoticed by Preston and his elderly\nfriend, who made their own observations upon them, but were prevented\nfrom saying anything on the subject to each other by the entrance of\na party, which diverted their attention in a different direction.\nThese were no other than Mrs Cheesham and her two accomplished\ndaughters, Miss Emily and Miss Fanny Cheesham.  Mrs Cheesham's\npersonal appearance may be passed over very briefly; as no one, so\nfar as is known, ever cared about it but herself.  She was vain,\nvulgar, and affected; fond of finery and display; and the one\ndominant passion of her life was to insinuate herself and her family\ninto fashionable society, and secure a brilliant match for her\ndaughters.  They, again, were a pair of attractive, showy girls;\nEmily flippant, sparkling, lively; Fanny demure, reserved, and cold.\nEmily's eyes were dark and lustrous--you saw the best of them at\nonce; and her look, alert and wicked.  These corresponded well with a\nwell-rounded figure, a rosy complexion, and full pouting lips, that\nwere \"ruddier than the cherry.\"  Fanny was tall and \"stately in her\ngoing;\" pale, but without that look of sickliness which generally\naccompanies such a complexion; and her eyes, beautiful as they were\nwhen brought into play, were generally shrouded by the drooping of\nher eyelids, like those of one who is accustomed to be frequently\nself-inwrapt.  With Emily you might sport in jest and raillery by the\nhour; but with Fanny you always felt, as it were, bound to be upon\nyour best behaviour.  They passed up the room, distributing nods of\nrecognition, and occasionally stopping to allow Mrs Cheesham to give\nher invitations to a _soir\u00e9e musicale_ which she intended to get up\nthat evening.\n\n\"Your servant, ladies,\" said old Stukeley, raising his hat, while his\nfriend followed his example.  \"You are late.  I was afraid we were\nnot to have the pleasure of seeing you this morning.  Pray, Miss\nEmily, what new novel or poem was it that kept you awake so late last\nnight that you have lost half this glorious morning?  Tell me the\nauthor's name, that I may punish the delinquent, by cutting up his\nbook, in the next number of our Review?\"\n\n\"Cut it up, and you will do more than I could; for I found myself\nnodding over the second page, and I feel the drowsiness about me\nstill.\"\n\n\"The opiate--the opiate, Miss Emily?  Who was its compounder?  He\nmust be a charmer indeed.\"\n\n\"Himself and his printer knows.  Only some unhappy bard, who dubs us\nwomen 'the angels of life,' and misuses us vilely through a dozen\ncantos of halting verse.  The poor man has forgot the story\n\n  'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit\n  Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste\n  Brought death into the world and all our woe,\n\nor he would have christened us daughters of Eve by a very different\nname.\"\n\n\"O you little rogue! you are too hard upon this devotee to your dear\ndeluding sex.  It is only his excess of politeness that has made him\nforget his historical reading.\"\n\n\"His politeness!  Fiddlestick!  I would as soon have a troop of boys\ninflict the intolerable tediousness of their calf-love upon me as\nendure the rhapsodies of a booby, who strips us of our good flesh and\nblood, frailties and all, to etherealize us into an incomprehensible\ncompound of tears, sighs, moonshine, music, love, flowers, and\nhysterics.\"\n\n\"Emily, how you run on!\" broke in Mrs Cheesham.  \"My dear Mr\nStukeley, really you must not encourage the girl in her nonsense.  I\ndeclare I sometimes think her tongue runs away with her wits.\"\n\n\"Better that, I'm sure, madam, than have it run away without them,\"\nresponded Stukeley, in a deprecating tone, which threw Mrs Cheesham,\nwhose intellect was none of the acutest, completely out.\n\n\"Girls, there are Mr Blowze and Mr Lilylipz,\" said Mrs Cheesham,\nlooking in the direction of the friends, Adolph and Eugene; \"you had\nbetter arrange with them about coming this evening.\"\n\nEmily advanced with her sister to the engaging pair, who received\nthem with that peculiar contortion of the body, between a jerk and a\nshuffle, which young men are in the habit of mistaking for a bow, and\nwas soon deep in the heart of a flirtation with Adolph, while Fanny\nstood listening to the vapid nothings of Eugene, a very model of\npassive endurance.  Frank Preston was anything but an easy spectator\nof this movement; nor was Emily blind to this; but, like a wilful\nwoman, she could not forbear playing the petty tyrant, and exercising\nfreely the power to torment which she saw that she possessed.\n\n\"You will be of our party to-night, gentlemen,\" continued Mrs\nCheesham.  \"We are to have a little music.  You are fond of music, Mr\nStukeley, I know; and no pressing can be necessary to an ama_toor_\nlike you, Mr Francis.  I can assure you, you'll meet some very nice\npeople.  Mr and Mrs M'Skrattachan, highly respectable people--an old\nHighland family, and with very high connections.  Mr M'Skrattachan's\nmother's sister's aunt--no, his aunt's mother's sister--yes, that was\nit--Mr M'Skrattachan's aunt's mother's sister; and yet I don't\nknow--I dare say I was right before--at all events, it was one or\nother of them--married a second cousin--something of that kind--of\nthe Duke of Argyle, by the mother's side They had a large estate in\nSkye a Ross-shire--I am not sure which, but it was somewhere\nthereabout.\"\n\nStukeley and Preston were glad to cover their retreat by acceptance\nof Mrs Cheesham's invitation; and, leaving her to empty the dregs of\nthe details which she had begun into the willing ears of some of her\nmore submissive friends, they made their escape from the pump-room.\n\nSlopbole Cottage, where the Cheeshams were domiciliated during their\nsojourn at Potterwell, was situated upon the banks of the Wimpledown,\nat a distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the\nburgh.  It had, at one time, been a farm-house; but, within a few\nyears, it had been recast; and, by the addition of a bow window, a\ntrellised door, and a few of the usual _et ceteras_, it had been\nconverted into what is by courtesy termed a cottage orn\u00e9e.  It was an\nagreeable place for all that, shaded by the remnants of a fine old\nwood--the rustling of whose foliage made pleasant music, as it\nblended with the ever-sounding plash and rushing of the stream.\n\nWhen Frank Preston arrived at Slopbole Cottage that evening, he found\nthe drawing-room already well stocked with the usual components of a\ntea-party.  The two exquisites of the morning he saw, to his dismay,\nwere already there.  Adolph was assiduously sacrificing to the charms\nand wit of Miss Emily, while his shadow, Eugene, was--but Preston did\nnot care about that--as much engaged in Macadamising his great\nconceptions into small talk suitable for the intellectual capacity of\nMiss Fanny.  Mrs Cheesham regarded these proceedings with entire\nsatisfaction.  The friends, to her mind, were men of birth, fashion,\nand fortune, and the very men for her daughters.  Besides, there was\na mystery about them that was charming.  Nobody knew exactly who they\nwere, although everybody was sure they were somebody.  None but great\npeople ever travel incog.  They were evidently struck by her\ndaughters.  Things were in a fair train; and, if she could but make a\nmatch of it, Mrs Cheesham thought she might then fold her hands\nacross, and make herself easy for life.  Her daughters would be the\nwives of great men, and she was their mother, and every one knows\nwhat an important personage a wife's mother is.\n\n\"Two very fine young men, Mr Francis,\" said Mrs Cheesham.  \"Extremely\nintelligent people.  And so good looking!  Quite _distingue_, too.\nIt is not every day one meets such people.\"\n\nFrank Preston threw in the necessary quantity of \"yes's,\"\n\"certainly's,\" and so forth, while Mrs Cheesham continued--\n\n\"They seem rather taken with my girls, don't they?  Mr Blowze is\nnever away from Emily's side.  His attentions are quite marked.\nDon't you think, now, they'd make a nice pair?  They're both so\nlively--always saying such clever things.  I never knew Emily so\nsmart either; but that girl's all animation--all spirit.  I always\nsaid Emily would never do but for a rattle of a husband--a man that\ncould talk as much as herself.  It does not do, you know, really it\ndoes not do, for the wife to have too much of the talk to herself.  I\nmake that a principle; and, as I often tell Cheesham, I let him have\nit all his own way, rather than argue a point with him.\"\n\nThis was, of course, an exceedingly agreeable strain of conversation\nto the lover, to whom it was no small relief, when Mrs Cheesham\nquitted his side to single out her musical friends for the\nperformance of a quartette.  At her summons, these parties were seen\nto emerge from the various recesses where they had been concealing\nthemselves, in all the majesty of silence, as is the way with musical\namateurs in general.  Miss Fanny, who was really an accomplished\nperformer, was called to preside at the pianoforte, and Mr Lilylipz\nrushed before to adjust the music-stool and turn over the leaves for\nher.  Mr Blewitt got out his flute, and, after screwing it together,\ncommenced a series of blasts upon it, which were considered necessary\nto the process of tuning.  Mr Harrower, the violoncello player,\nturned up the wristbands of his coat, placed his handkerchief on his\nleft knee, and, after a preliminary flourish or two of his hands,\nbegan to grind his violoncello into a proper sharpness of pitch.  Not\nto be behind the rest, Mr Fogle screwed his violin strings first up,\nand then he screwed them down, and then he proceeded to screw them up\nagain, with a waywardness of purpose that might have been extremely\ndiverting, if its effects had not been so very distressing to the\nears.  Having thus begot a due degree of attention in their audience,\nthe performers thought of trying how the results of their respective\npreparations tallied.\n\n\"Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to sound your A?\" lisped Mr\nBlewitt.\n\nMiss Fanny did sound her A, and again a dissonance broke forth that\nwould have thrown Orpheus into fits.  It was then discovered that the\ndamp had reduced the piano nearly a whole tone below pitch, and Mr\nBlewitt's flute could not be brought down to a level with it by any\ncontrivance.  The musicians, however, were not to be baulked in their\npurpose for this, and they agreed to proceed with the flute some half\na tone higher than the other instruments.  But there was a world of\npreliminary work yet to be gone through; tables had to be adjusted,\nand books had to be built upon music stands.  But the tables would\nnot stand conveniently, and the books would fall, and then all the\nwork of adjustment and library architecture had to be gone over\nagain.  At last these matters were put to rights, and after a few\nmore indefinite vagaries by Messrs Blewitt, Harrower and Fogle, the\njunto made a dash into the heart of one of Haydn's quartettes.  The\npiano kept steadily moving through the piece.  Miss Fanny knew her\nwork, and she did it.  The others did not know theirs, and they _did\nfor_ it.  After a few faint squeaks at the beginning, Mr Blewitt's\nflute dropped out of hearing altogether, and, just as everybody had\nset it down as defunct, it began to give token of its existence by a\nwail or two rising through the storm of sounds with which the\nperformance closed, and then made up its leeway by continuing to\nvapour away for some time after the rest had finished.\n\n\"Bless my heart, are you done?\" cried Mr Blewitt, breaking off in the\nmiddle of a solo, which he found himself performing to his own\nastonishment.\n\nMr Harrower and Mr Fogle threw up their eyes with an intensity of\ncontempt that defies description.  To be sure, neither of them had\nkept either time or tune all the way through.  Mr Harrower's\nvioloncello had growled and groaned, at intervals, in a manner truly\npitiable; and Mr Fogle's bow had done nothing but dance and leap, in\na perpetual staccato from the first bar to the last, to the entire\nconfusion of both melody and concord.  But they had both managed to\nbe in at the death, and were therefore entitled to sneer at the\nunhappy flutist.  Mr Eugene Lilylipz, who had annoyed Miss Fanny\nthroughout the performance, by invariably turning over the leaf at\nthe wrong place, now broke into a volley of raptures, of which the\nwords \"Devaine\" and \"Chawming,\" were among the principal symbols.  A\nbuzz of approbation ran round the room, warm in proportion to the\nrelief which the cessation of the Dutch concert afforded.  Mr\nHarrower and his coadjutors grew communicative, and vented an\ninfinite quantity of the jargon of dilettanteism upon each other, and\nupon those about them.  They soon got into a discussion upon the\nmerits of different composers, whose names served them to bandy to\nand fro in the battledore and shuttlecock of conversation.  Beethoven\nwas cried up to the seventh heaven by Mr Harrower for his grandeur\nand sublimity, and all that sort of thing.\n\n\"There is a Miltonic greatness about the man!\" he exclaimed, throwing\nhis eyes to the ceiling, in the contemplation of a visionary demigod.\n\"A vastness, a massiveness, an incomprehensible--eh, eh?--ah, I can't\nexactly tell what, that places him far above all other writers.\"\n\n\"Every man to his taste,\" insinuated Mr Blewitt; \"but I certainly\nlike what I can understand best.  Now I don't understand Beethoven;\nbut I _can_ understand Mozart, or Weber, or Haydn.\"\n\n\"It is very well if you do!\" retorted the violoncellist, reflecting\nprobably on the recent specimen Mr Blewitt had given of his powers.\n\"It is more than everybody does, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"Od, gentlemen, but it's grand music onyhow, and exceeding justice\nyou have done it, if I may speak my mind.  But ye ken I'm no great\nshakes of a judge.\"\n\nThis was the opinion volunteered by Mr Cheesham, who saw the\nmusicians were giving symptoms of that tendency to discord for which\nthey are proverbial, and threw out a sop to their vanity, which at\nonce restored them to order.  As he said himself, Mr Cheesham was no\ngreat judge of music, nor, indeed, of any of the fine arts.  He had\nread little, and thought less; and yet, since he had become\nindependent of the world, he was fond of assuming an air of\nknowledge, that was exceedingly amusing.  There was nothing, for\ninstance, that he liked better to be talking about than history; and,\nnevertheless, that Hannibal was killed at the battle of Drumclog, and\nJulius C\u00e6sar beheaded by Henry the Eight, were facts which he would\nprobably have had no hesitation in admitting, upon any reasonable\nrepresentation.\n\nBy this time, Mr Stukeley had joined the party, and was going his\nrounds, chatting, laughing, quizzing, and prosing, according to the\ndifferent characters of the people whom he talked with.  When he\nreached Mr Cheesham, he found him in earnest conversation with Mr\nLilylipz regarding the ruins of Tinglebury, an abbey not far from\nPotterwell, of which the architecture was pronounced by Mr Lilylipz\nto be \"_suttinly_ transcendent beyond anything.  It is of that pure\nGr\u00e6co-Gothic, which was brought over by William the Conqueror, and\nwent out with the Saxons.\"\n\nStukeley encouraged the conversation, drawing out the presumptuous\nignorance of Mr Lilylipz and the rusty nomeanings of the parent\nCheesham into strong relief.\n\n\"Gentlemen, excuse me for breaking up your _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_.  Have you\ngot upon 'Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses?'\" said Miss\nEmily, joining the trio.  \"Mr Lilylipz, your friend tells me you\nsing.  Will you break the dulness, and favour us?\"\n\n\"Oh, I never do sing; and besides, I am suffering from hoarseness.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" replied Miss Emily, \"none of these excuses, or we shall\nexpect to find a very Braham, at least.\"\n\n\"Now, _re_ally,\" remonstrated Mr Lilylipz.\n\n\"Oh, never mind his nonsense, Miss Cheesham,\" exclaimed Mr Blowze,\nfrom the other side of the room.  \"Lilylipz sings an uncommonly good\nsong when he likes.  Give us 'the Rose of Cashmere,' or 'She wore a\nwreath of Roses.'  Come away, now--no humbug!\"\n\n\"Oh, that will be delightful!--pray, do sing!\" were the exclamations\nof a dozen voices at least.  \"Mr Lilylipz' song!\" shouted the elderly\ngentlemen of the party; and, forthwith, an awful stillness reigned\nthroughout the apartment.  Upon this, Mr Lilylipz blew his nose,\ncoughed thrice, and, throwing himself back in his chair, riveted his\neyes, with the utmost intensity, upon a corner of the ceiling.  Every\none held back his breath in expectation, and the interesting young\nman opened upon the assemblage with a ballad all about an Araby maid,\nto whom a Christian knight was submitting proposals of elopement,\nwhich the lady appeared to be by no means averse to, for each stanza\nended with the refrain, \"Away, away, away!\" signifying that the\nparties meant to be off somewhere as fast as possible.  Mr Lilylipz\nhad just concluded verse the first, and the \"Away, away, away!\" had\npowerfully excited the imagination of the young ladies present, when\nthe door opened, and the clinking of crystal ware announced the\ninopportune entrance of a maidservant, bearing a trayful of glasses\nfilled with that vile imbroglio of hot water and sugar, coloured with\nwine, which passes in genteel circles by the name of negus.  All eyes\nturned towards the door, and Mrs Cheesham exclaimed, \"Sally, be\nquiet!\" but Mr Eugene was too much enrapt by his own performance to\nfeel the disturbance, and he tore away through verse the second with\nkindling enthusiasm.  \"Away, away, away!\" sang the vocalist, when a\ncrash and a scream arrested his progress.  The servant maid had\ndropped the tray, and the glasses were rolling to and fro upon the\nfloor in a confusion of fragments, while the delinquent, Sally,\nshrieking at the top of her voice, was making her way out at the door\nwith all the speed she was mistress of.\n\n\"What can that be?\" cried one.  \"The careless slut!\" screamed\nanother.  \"Such thoughtlessness!\" suggested a third.  \"What the deuce\ncould the woman mean?\" asked a fourth.  \"It's the last night she sets\nfoot in my house!\" exclaimed Mrs Cheesham, thrown off her dignity by\nthe sudden shock.\n\n\"Bless me, you look unwell!\" said Mr Cheesham to Mr Lilylipz, who had\nturned deadly pale, and was altogether looking excessively unhappy.\n\n\"Oh, it is nothing.  Only a constitutional nervousness.  The start,\nthe surprise, that sort of thing, you know; but it will go off in a\nmoment.  I shall just take a turn in the air for a little, and I'll\nbe quite better.\"\n\nThe ladies were engaged in the contemplation of the wreck at the\nother end of the room, and Mr Lilylipz, accompanied by his friend,\nstepped out at one of the drawing-room windows, which opened out upon\nthe lawn.  Frank Preston looked after them, and saw them in the\nmoonlight, passing down the banks of the river among the trees,\napparently engaged in earnest conversation.\n\n\"What do you think of this business, eh?\" said Stukeley, rousing him\nfrom a reverie by a tap upon the shoulder.  \"Queerish a little, isn't\nit?\"\n\n\"Queerish not a little, I think; and blow me if I don't get to the\nbottom of it, or a devil's in it.  That girl knows something of Mr\nEugene, I'll be sworn.  We must get out of her what it is.\"\n\n\"Oh, no doubt she does.  It wasn't the song that threw her off,\nalthough it was certainly vile enough for anything; it was himself;\nthat is as clear as day.  Let us off, hunt out the wench, and get the\nsecret from her.\"\n\nThey left the room by the open window, and passing round the house to\nthe servants' entrance, walked into the kitchen, where they found\nSally labouring under strong excitement, as she narrated the incident\nwhich had led to her precipitate retreat from the drawing-room.\n\n\"To think of seeing him here; the base deceitful wretch!  Cocked up\nin the drawing-room, forsooth, as if that were a place for him or the\nlikes of him.  Set him up, indeed--a pretty story.  But I know'd as\nhow he'd never come to no good!\"\n\n\"Who is he, my dear?\" inquired Stukeley.\n\n\"Who is he, sir!--who should he be but Tom Newlands, the son of Dame\nNewlands of our village.\"\n\n\"Oh, you must certainly be mistaken.\"\n\n\"Never a bit mistaken am I, sir.  I have too good reason for\nremembering him, the wretch!  Oh, if I had him here, I wouldn't give\nit him, I wouldn't?  I'd sarve him out, the deludin' scoundrel.  But\nhe never was good for nothing since he went into the haberdashery\nline.\"\n\n\"A haberdasher, is he?  Capital!--capital!  The man of fashion, eh,\nFrank?\"\n\n\"The young man of _distingue_ appearance!\"\n\n\"And who's his friend, Sally?\"\n\n\"What! the other chap?  Oh, I don't know anything about him, except\nthat he's one of them man millinery fellows; and a precious bad lot\nthey are, I know.\"\n\n\"Glorious!--glorious!\" cried Stukeley, crying with delight, as he\nwalked out of the place with his friend.  \"Here's a discovery for\nsome folks, isn't it?  The brilliant alliance, the high family, _et\ncetera, et cetera_, all dwindled into a measurer of tapes.  Aren't\nyou proud of having had such a rival?\"\n\n\"Oh, come, don't be too hard upon me on that point.  Mum, here we are\nat the drawing-room again.  Not a word of what we have heard.  If\nthese scamps have made themselves scarce, as I think they have, good\nand well.  But if they venture to show face here again, I shall\ncertainly feel it to be my duty to pull their noses, and eject them\nfrom the premises by a summary process.\"\n\n\"Oh, never fear, they will not put you to the trouble.  They are off\nfor good and all, or I am no prophet.\"\n\nStukeley was right.  The evening passed on, and the friends returned\nnot.  Infinite were the surmises which their absence occasioned, but\nthe general conclusion was, that the interesting Mr Lilylipz had\nfound himself worse, and had retired to his inn for the night, along\nwith his faithful Achates.  Morning came, but the friends did not\nmake their appearance at the pumproom as usual.  They were not at\ntheir inn; they were not in Potterwell.  Whither they had wended, no\none knew; but, like the characters in the ballad, which had been so\noddly broken off, they were \"away, away, away.\"  They had come like\nshadows, and like shadows they had departed.\n\nSome months afterwards, Mrs Cheesham and her daughter Emily entered\none of the extensive drapery warehouses of Edinburgh, to invest a\nportion o' their capital in the purchase of _mousseline de laine_.\nThey had seen an advertisement which intimated that no lady ought, in\njustice to herself, to buy a dress of this description without first\ninspecting that company's stock of the article.  They were determined\nto do themselves justice, and they went accordingly.\n\n\"Eugene,\" said the superintendent of the place, \"show these ladies\nthat parcel of goods.  A very superior article, indeed.\"  Eugene!\nEugene! the ladies had good reason to remember the name; and what was\ntheir surprise, on looking round, to see the exquisite of Potterwell\nbending under a load of dress pieces!  If their surprise was great,\ninfinitely greater was his dismay.  His knees shook; his eyes grew\ndim; his head giddy.  His hands lost their power, and, dropping the\nbundle, the unhappy Eugene stumbled over it in a manner painfully\nignoble.  Mrs and Miss Cheesham turned to quit the shop, when there,\nbehind them, stood the dashing Adolph.  \"The enemy!\" he exclaimed,\nand, ducking dexterously under the counter, disappeared among sundry\nbales that were piled beyond it.  The lesson was not lost.  Mrs\nCheesham had had quite enough of quality-hunting to satisfy her; and\nMiss Emily found out that it was desirable to be wise as well as\nwitty, and gave her hand to Frank Preston, who forgave her temporary\napostacy, not only because it had been smartly punished by the\nresult, but for the sake of the many estimable qualities which Miss\nCheesham really possessed.  Miss Fanny still roams, \"in maiden\nmeditation, fancy free;\" but she cannot do so long, or there is no\nskill in man.  At all events, when she does want a husband, she will\nnot go in search of him to COUNTRY QUARTERS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.\n\nBY ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.\n\nOn the western skirts of the Torwood--famous in Scottish story for\nits association with the names of Wallace and Bruce--there stood, in\nthe middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior\nappearance for the period.\n\nThis house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of\nthe name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in\nthe neighbourhood.\n\nHenderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in\ntolerably easy circumstances.\n\nThe night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the\nyear 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one.  The ancient oaks of\nthe Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the\nstorm; and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were\nrendered visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses\nby the flashing lightning.\n\nThe night, too, was pitch-dark; and to add to its dismal character, a\nheavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth,\nand beat with violence on all opposing objects.\n\n\"A terrible night this, goodwife,\" said Henderson to his helpmate, as\nhe double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a\ncandle to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.\n\n\"I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north\nmay not bode some ill to poor Scotland.  They were seen, I mind, just\nas they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of\nFlodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster\nwas at hand.\"\n\n\"But I have heard you say, goodman,\" replied David Henderson's\nbetter-half, who--the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a\nbar into its place--was still detained in her situation of\ncandle-holder, \"that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's\ndescending from his vantage-ground.\"\n\n\"True, good wife,\" said David; \"but was not his doing so but a means\nof fulfilling the prognostication?  How could it have been brought\nabout else?\"\n\nThe door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without\nfurther colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now\nlate, retired to bed.\n\nIn the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence.\nThe rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first\nfaintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the\ndescending deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining\nriver on the blast as it boiled and raged along.\n\nHenderson had been in bed about an hour--it was now midnight--but had\nbeen kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently\njogging his slumbering helpmate--\n\n\"Goodwife,\" he said, \"listen a moment.  Don't you hear the voice of\nsome one shouting without?\"\n\nThey now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon\ndistinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.\n\nIn the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the\ndoor, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the\nexclamations of--\n\n\"Ho! within there! house, house!\" gave intimation that the rider\nsought admittance.\n\n\"Who can this be?\" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in\nwhich, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back,\nsaying--\n\n\"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on.  This is no time to\nadmit visitors.  Who can tell who they may be?\"\n\n\"And who cares who they may be?\" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing\nhimself out of bed.  \"I'll just see how they look from the window,\nMary;\" and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and\nsaw beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black\nhorse, with a lady seated behind him.\n\n\"Dreadful night, friend,\" said the stranger, looking up to the window\noccupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the\nnoise made in raising it.  \"Can you give my fellow-traveller here\nshelter till the morning?  She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched\nwith wet, and so exhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that\nshe can proceed no further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to\nmake out.\"\n\n\"This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers,\"\nreplied the farmer.  \"I am not in the habit of admitting strangers\ninto my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this.\"\n\n\"Had I been asking for myself,\" rejoined the horseman, \"I should not\nhave complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish\nas refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this.  She can scarce\nretain her seat on the saddle.  Besides, you shall be handsomely paid\nfor any trouble you may be put to.\"\n\n\"Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am\nindeed very much fatigued,\" came up to the ear of Henderson, in\nfeeble but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman,\nwith the addition, after a short pause, of \"You shall be well\nrewarded for the kindness.\"\n\nAt a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but,\nscratching his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his\nwife.\n\nLearning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this\ncircumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to\nbe intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance,\nto her husband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be\nadmitted.\n\nOn this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window,\nand thrusting out his head, exclaimed, \"Wait there a moment, and I\nwill admit you.\"\n\nIn the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped\nout to assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this\ncourtesy by her companion, who had already placed her on the ground.\n\n\"Shall I put up your horse, sir?\" said Henderson, addressing the\nstranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress\nand manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more\nclosely, he had no doubt he was a man of rank.\n\n\"Oh no, thank you, friend,\" replied the latter.  \"My business is\npressing, an I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady\nto your kindest attention.  To-morrow I will return and carry her\naway.\"\n\nSaying this, he again threw himself on his horse--a noble-looking\ncharger--took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and\nregardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the\nnight, darted off with the speed of the wind.\n\nIn an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but\ntheir furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they\nhad disappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce\ncollision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was\ntearing his way with such desperate velocity.\n\nHenderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the\nhouse, and had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now\nrisen for the purpose of attending her.\n\nA servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on\nthe hearth of the best apartment in the house--that into which the\nstrange lady had been ushered.\n\nThe kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with\ndry clothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power\nto render her as comfortable as possible.\n\nTo this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted\nher; but an additional motive presented itself in the youth and\nextreme beauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife\nafterwards remarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes\never beheld.  Nor was her manner less captivating; it was mild and\ngentle, while the sweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an\nadditional charm to the graces of her person.\n\nHer apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest\ndescription; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the\nshape of rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after\nanother on a table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of\none accustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great\nvalue.\n\nA purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound\nindicated, was likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent\nmanner.\n\nThe wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the\neyes of her humble, unsophisticated attendant.\n\nThe comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the\noffer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely\npartook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone\nin the apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room\ncontaining a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for\nstrangers.\n\nOn rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and\nearnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who\nor what the strangers could be.  They supposed, they conjectured,\nthey imagined, but all to no purpose.  They could make nothing of it\nbeyond the conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural\npoliteness of the \"guidwife\" had prevented her asking the young lady\nany questions touching her history, and she had made no communication\nwhatever on the subject herself.\n\nAs to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one\nof the family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall,\ndark man, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak,\nthat he could not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme\ndarkness of the night, make out his features distinctly.\n\nHenderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his\ndeparture, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which\nhe had ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of\nall obstacles that might be in the way.\n\nIt was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of\nthe ground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great\nmarvel he held it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards\nwithout horse and man coming down, to the utter destruction of both.\n\nSuch was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife\nregarding the horseman.  The latter's to him was of the youth and\nexceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently\nprodigious wealth.  The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and\nlooks of excessive wonderment, her glowing descriptions of the\nsparkling jewels and heavily laden purse which she had seen the\nstrange lady deposit on the table; and greatly did these descriptions\nadd to his perplexity as to who or what this lady could possibly be.\n\nTired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest,\ntrusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which\nso sadly puzzled them.\n\nIn due time that morning came, and, like many of those mornings that\nsucceed a night of storm, it came fair and beautiful.  The wind was\nlaid, the rain had ceased, and the unclouded sun poured his cheerful\nlight through the dark green glades of the Torwood.\n\nOn the same morning another sun arose, although to shine on a more\nlimited scene.  This was the fair guest of David Henderson of\nWoodlands, whose beauty, remarkable as it had seemed on the previous\nnight under all disadvantages, now appeared to surpass all that can\nbe conceived of female perfection.\n\nMrs Henderson looked, and, we may say, gazed on the fair stranger\nwith a degree of wonder and delight, that for some time prevented her\ntendering the civilities which she came for the express purpose of\noffering.  For some seconds she could do nothing but obey a species\nof charm, for which, perhaps, she could not have very well accounted.\nThe gentle smile, too, and melodious voice of her guest, seemed still\nmore fascinating than on the previous evening.\n\nIn the meantime the day wore on, and there was yet no appearance of\nthe lady's companion of the former night, who, as the reader will\nrecollect, had promised to Henderson to return and carry away his\nfair lodger.\n\nNight came, and still he appeared not.  Another day and another night\npassed away, and still he of the black charger was not forthcoming.\n\nThe circumstance greatly surprised both Henderson and his wife; but\nit did not surprise them more than the lady's apparent indifference\non the subject.  She indeed joined, in words at least, in the wonder\nwhich they once or twice distantly hinted at the conduct of the\nrecreant knight; but it was evident that she did not feel much of\neither astonishment or disappointment at his delay.\n\nAgain and again, another and another day came and passed away, and\nstill no one appeared to inquire after the fair inmate of Woodlands.\n\nIt will readily be believed that the surprise of Henderson and his\nwife at this circumstance increased with the lapse of time.  It\ncertainly did.  But however much they might be surprised, they had\nlittle reason to complain, so far, at any rate, as their interest was\nconcerned, for their fair lodger paid them handsomely for the trouble\nshe put them to.  She dealt out the contents of her ample and\nwell-stocked purse with unsparing liberality, besides presenting her\nhostess with several valuable jewels.\n\nOn this score, therefore, they had nothing to complain of; and\nneither needed to care, nor did care, how long it continued.\n\nDuring all this time the unknown beauty continued to maintain the\nmost profound silence regarding her history,--whence she had come,\nwhither she was going, or in what relation the person stood to her\nwho had brought her to Woodlands, and who now seemed to have deserted\nher.\n\nAll that the most ingeniously-put queries on the subject could elicit\nwas, that she was an entire stranger in that part of the country; and\nan assurance that the person who brought her would return for her one\nday, although there were reasons why it might be some little time\ndistant.\n\nWhat these reasons were, however, she never would give the most\nremote idea; and with this measure of information were her host and\nhostess compelled to remain satisfied.\n\nThe habits of the fair stranger, in the meantime, were extremely\nretired.  She would never go abroad until towards the dusk of the\nevening; and when she did she always took the most sequestered\nroutes; her favourite, indeed only resort on these occasions, being a\ncertain little retired grove of elms, at the distance of about a\nquarter of a mile from Woodlands.\n\nThe extreme caution the young lady observed in all her movements when\nshe went abroad, a good deal surprised both Henderson and his wife;\nbut, from a feeling of delicacy towards their fair lodger, who had\nwon their esteem by her affable and amiable manners, they avoided all\nremark on the subject, and would neither themselves interfere in any\nway with her proceedings, nor allow any other member of their family\nto do so.\n\nThus was she permitted to go out and return whensoever she pleased\nwithout inquiry or remark.\n\nAlthough, however, neither Henderson nor his wife would allow of any\none watching the motions of their fair but mysterious lodger when she\nwent abroad, there is nothing to hinder us from doing this.  We shall\ntherefore follow her to the little elm grove by the wayside, on a\ncertain evening two or three days after her arrival in Woodlands.\n\nDoing this, we shall find the mysterious stranger seated beside a\nclear sparkling fountain, situated a little way within the grove,\nthat, first forming itself into a little pellucid lake in the midst\nof the greensward, afterwards glided away down a mossy channel eked\nwith primroses.\n\nAll alone by this fountain sat the young lady, looking, in her\nsurpassing features and the exquisite symmetry of her light and\ngraceful form, the very nymph of the crystal waters of the\nspring--the goddess of the grove.\n\nAs she thus sat on the evening in question--it being now towards the\ndusk--the bushes, by which the fountain was in part shut in, were\nsuddenly and roughly parted, and in the next moment a young man of\nelegant exterior, attired in the best fashion of the period, and\nleading a horse behind him by the bridle, stood before the\nhalf-alarmed and blushing damsel.\n\nThe embarrassment of the lady, however, was not much greater than\nthat of the intruder, who appeared to have little expected to find so\nfair and delicate a creature in such a situation, or indeed to find\nany one else.  He himself had sought the fountain, which he knew\nwell, and had often visited, merely to quench his thirst.\n\nAfter contemplating each other for an instant with looks of surprise\nand embarrassment, the stranger doffed his bonnet with an air of\ngreat gallantry, and apologised for his intrusion.\n\nThe lady, smiling and blushing, replied, that his appearance there\ncould be no intrusion, as the place was free to all.\n\n\"True, madam,\" said the former, again bowing low; \"but your presence\nshould have made it sacred, and I should have so deemed it, had I\nbeen aware of your being here.\"\n\nThe only reply of the young lady to this gallant speech, was a\nprofound curtsey, and a smile of winning sweetness which was natural\nto her.\n\nUnable to withdraw himself from the fascinations of the fair\nstranger, yet without any apology for remaining longer where he was,\nthe young man appeared for a moment not to know precisely what he\nshould say or do next.  At length, however, after having vainly\nhinted a desire to know the young lady's name and place of residence,\nhis courtesy prevailed over every other more selfish feeling, and he\nmounted his horse, and, bidding the fair wood-nymph a respectful\nadieu, rode off.\n\nThe young gallant, however, did not carry all away with him that he\nbrought,--he left his heart behind him; and he had not ridden far\nbefore he found that he had done so.\n\nThe surpassing beauty of the fair stranger, and the captivating\nsweetness of her manner, had made an impression upon him which was\ndestined never to be effaced.\n\nHis, in short, was one of those cases in the matter of love, which,\nit is said, are laughed at in France, doubted in England, and true\nonly of the warm-tempered sons and daughters of the sunny\nsouth,--love at first sight.\n\nIt was so.  From that hour the image of the lovely nymph of the grove\nwas to remain for ever enshrined in the inmost heart of the young\ncavalier.\n\nHe had met with no encouragement to follow up the accidental\nacquaintance he had made.  Indeed, the lady's reluctance to give him\nany information whatever as to her name or residence, he could not\nbut consider as an indirect intimation that she desired no further\ncorrespondence with him.\n\nBut, recollecting the old adage, that \"faint heart never won fair\nlady,\" he visited again and again the fountain in the grove, and at\nlast won from the lady the acceptance of his suit.\n\nHaving brought our story to this point, we shall retrace our steps a\nlittle way, and take note of certain incidents that occurred in the\ncity of Glasgow on the day after the visit of him of the black\ncharger at Woodlands.\n\nEarly on the forenoon of that day, the Drygate, then one of the\nprincipal streets of the city above named, exhibited an unusual\ndegree of stir and bustle.\n\nThe causeway was thronged with idlers, who were ever and anon dashed\naside, like the wave that is thrown from the prow of a vessel, by\nsome prancing horseman, who made his way towards an open space formed\nby the junction of three different streets.\n\nAt this point were mustering a band of riders, consisting of the\ncivil authorities of the city, together with a number of its\nprincipal inhabitants, and other gentlemen from the neighbourhood.\n\nThe horsemen were all attired in their best,--hat and feathers, long\ncloaks of Flemish broad-cloth, and glittering steel-handed rapiers by\ntheir sides.\n\nHaving mustered to about the number of thirty, they formed themselves\ninto something like regular order, and seemed now to be but awaiting\nthe word to march.  And it was indeed so; but they were also awaiting\nhe who was to give it.  They waited the appearance of their leader.\nA shout from the populace soon after announced his approach.\n\n\"The Provost! the Provost!\" exclaimed a hundred voices at once, as a\nman of large stature, and of a bold and martial bearing, mounted on a\n\"coal-black steed,\" came prancing alongst the Drygate-head, and made\nfor the point at which the horsemen were assembled.\n\nOn his approach, the latter doffed their hats respectfully--a\ncivility which was gracefully returned by him to whom it was\naddressed.\n\nTaking his place at the head of the cavalcade, the Provost gave the\nword to march, when the whole party moved onwards; and after\ncautiously footing it down the steep and ill-paved descent of the\nDrygate, took, at a slow pace, the road towards Hamilton.\n\nThe chief magistrate of Glasgow, who led the party of horsemen on the\npresent occasion, was Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod--a powerful and\nwealthy baron of the neighbourhood, who had been chosen to that\nappointment, as all chief magistrates were chosen in those wild and\nturbulent times, on account of his ability to protect the inhabitants\nfrom those insults and injuries to which they were constantly liable\nat the hands of unprincipled power, and from which the laws were too\nfeeble to shield them.\n\nAnd to better hands than those of Sir Robert Lindsay, who was a man\nof bold and determined character, the welfare of the city and the\nsafety of the citizens could not have been entrusted.\n\nIn return for the honour conferred on him, and the confidence reposed\nin him, he watched over the interests of the city with the utmost\nvigilance.  But it was not to the general interest alone that he\nconfined the benefits of his guardianship.  Individuals, also, who\nwere wronged, or threatened to be wronged, found in him a ready and\nefficient protector, let the oppressor or wrongdoer be whom he might.\n\nHaving given this brief sketch of the leader of the cavalcade, we\nresume the detail of its proceedings.\n\nHolding on its way in a south-easterly direction, the party soon\nreached and passed Rutherglen Bridge; the road connecting Hamilton\nwith Glasgow being then on the south side of the Clyde.  But a little\nway farther had they proceeded, when the faint sound of a bugle was\nheard, coming apparently from a considerable distance.\n\n\"There he comes at last,\" said Sir David Lindsay, suddenly checking\nhis I horse to await the coming up of his party, of which he had been\nriding a little way in advance, immersed in a brown study.  \"There he\ncomes at last,\" he exclaimed, recalled from his reverie by the sound\nof the bugle.  \"Look to your paces gentlemen, and let us show some\norder and regularity as well as respect.\"\n\nObeying this hint, the horsemen, who had been before jogging along in\na confused and careless manner, now drew together into a closer body;\nthe laggards coming forward, and those in advance holding back.\n\nIn this order, with the Provost at their head, the party continued to\nmove slowly onwards; but they had not done so for many minutes, when\nthey descried, at the farther extremity of a long level reach of the\nroad, a numerous party of horse approaching at a rapid, ambling pace,\nand seemingly straining hard to keep up with one who rode a little\nway in their front.\n\nThe contrast between this party and the Provost's was striking enough.\n\nThe latter, though exceedingly respectable and citizen-like, was of\nextremely sober hue compared to the former, in which flaunted all the\ngayest dresses of the gayest courtiers of the time.  Long plumes of\nfeathers waved and nodded in velvet bonnets, looped with gold bands;\nand rich and brilliant colours, mingling with the glitter of steel\nand silver, gave to the gallant cavalcade at once an imposing and\nmagnificent appearance.  In point of horsemanship, too, with the\nexception of Sir Robert Lindsay himself, and one or two other men of\nrank who had joined his party, the approaching cavaliers greatly\nsurpassed the worthy citizens of St Mungo,--coming on at a showy and\ndashing pace, while the latter kept advancing with the sober, steady\ngait assimilative of their character.\n\nOn the two parties coming within about fifty paces of each other, Sir\nRobert Lindsay made a signal to his followers to halt, while he\nhimself rode forward, hat in hand, towards the leader of the opposite\nparty.\n\n\"Our good Sir Robert of Dunrod,\" said the latter, who was no other\nthan James V., advancing half-way to meet the Provost, and taking him\nkindly and familiarly by the hand as he spoke.  \"How did'st learn of\nour coming?\"\n\n\"The movements of kings are not easily kept secret,\" replied Sir\nRobert, evasively.\n\n\"By St Bridget, it would seem not,\" replied James, laughingly.  \"My\nvisit to your good city, Sir Robert, I did not mean to be a formal\none, and therefore had mentioned it only to one or two.  In truth,\nI--I\"--added James, with some embarrassment of manner--\"I had just\none particular purpose, and that of a private nature, in view.  No\nstate matter at all Sir Robert--nothing of a public character.  So\nthat, to be plain with you, Sir Robert, I could have dispensed with\nthe honour you have done me in bringing out these good citizens to\nreceive me; that being, I presume, your purpose.  Not but that I\nshould have been most happy to meet yourself, Sir Robert; but it was\nquite unnecessary to trouble these worthy people.\"\n\n\"It was our bounden duty, your Grace,\" replied Sir Robert, not at all\ndisconcerted by this royal damper on his loyalty.  \"It was our\nbounden duty, on learning that your Grace was at Bothwell Castle, and\nthat you intended visiting our poor town of Glasgow, to acknowledge\nthe favour in the best way in our power.  And these worthy gentlemen\nand myself could think of no better than coming out to meet and\nwelcome your Grace.\"\n\n\"Well, well, since it is so, Sir Robert,\" replied the king,\ngood-humouredly, \"we shall take the kindness as it is meant.  Let us\nproceed.\"\n\nRiding side by side, and followed by their respective parties, James\nand the Provost now resumed their progress towards Glasgow, where\nthey shortly after arrived, and where they were received with noisy\nacclamations by the populace, whom rumour had informed of the king's\napproach.\n\nOn reaching the city, the latter proceeded to the Bishop's\nCastle,--an edifice which has long since disappeared, but which at\nthis time stood on or near the site of the Infirmary,--in which he\nintended taking up his residence.\n\nHaving seen the king within the castle gates, his citizen escort\ndispersed, and sought their several homes; going off, in twos and\nthrees, in different directions.\n\n\"Ken ye, Sir Robert, what has brought his Grace here at present?\"\nsaid an old wealthy merchant, who had been one of the cavalcade that\nwent to meet James, and whom the Provost overtook as he was leisurely\njogging down the High Street, on his way home.\n\n\"Hem,\" ejaculated Sir Robert.  \"Perhaps I have half a guess, Mr\nMorton.  The king visits places on very particular sorts of errands\nsometimes.  His Grace didn't above half thank us for our attendance\nto-day.  He would rather have got somewhat more quietly into the\ncity; but I had reasons for desiring it to be otherwise, so did not\nmind his hints about his wish for privacy.\"\n\n\"And no doubt he had his reasons for the privacy he hinted at,\" said\nSir Robert's companion.\n\n\"You may swear that,\" replied the latter, laughingly.  \"Heard ye\never, Mr Morton, of a certain fair and wealthy young lady of the name\nof Jessie Craig?\"\n\n\"John Craig's daughter?\" rejoined the old merchant.  \"The same,\" said\nSir Robert.  \"The prettiest girl in Scotland, and one of the\nwealthiest too.\"\n\n\"Well; what if the king should have been smitten with her beauty,\nhaving seen her accidently in Edinburgh, where she was lately? and\nwhat, if his visit to Glasgow just now should be for the express\npurpose of seeing this fair maiden? and what, if I should not exactly\napprove of such a proceeding, seeing that the young lady in question\nhas, as you know, neither father nor mother to protect her, both\nbeing dead?\"\n\n\"Well, Sir Robert, and what then?\" here interposed Mr Morton,\navailing himself of a pause in the former's suppositious case.\n\n\"Why, then, wouldn't it be my bounden duty, worthy sir, as Provost of\nthis city, to act the part of guardian towards this young maiden in\nsuch emergency, and to see that she came by no wrong?\"\n\n\"Truly, it would be a worthy part, Sir Robert,\" replied the old\nmerchant; \"but the king is strong, and you may not resist him openly.\"\n\n\"Nay, that I would not attempt,\" replied the Provost.  \"I have taken\nquieter and more effectual measures.  Made aware, though somewhat\nlate, through a trusty channel, of the king's intended visit and its\npurpose, I have removed her out of the reach of danger, to where his\nGrace will, I rather think, have some difficulty in finding her.\"\n\n\"So, so.  And this, then, is the true secret of the honour which has\njust been conferred on us!\" replied Sir Robert's companion, with some\nindignation.  \"But the matter is in good hands when it is in yours,\nProvost.  In your keeping we consider our honours and our interests\nare safe.  I wish you a good day, Provost.\"  And the interlocutors\nhaving by this time arrived at the foot of the High Street, where\nfour streets joined, the old merchant took that which conducted to\nhis residence, Sir Robert's route lying in an opposite direction.\n\nFrom the conversation just recorded, the reader will at once trace a\nconnection between Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod and he of the black\ncharger who brought to Woodlands the fair damsel whom we left there.\nThey were the same; and that fair damsel was the daughter of John\nCraig, late merchant of the city of Glasgow, who left an immense\nfortune, of which this girl was the sole heir.\n\nIn carrying the young lady to Woodlands, and leaving her there, Sir\nRobert, although apparently under the compulsion of circumstances,\nwas acting advisedly.  He knew Henderson to be a man of excellent\ncharacter and great respectability; and in the secrecy and mystery he\nobserved, he sought to preclude all possibility of his interference\nin the affair ever reaching the ears of the king.  What he had told\nto old Morton, he knew would go no further; that person having been\nan intimate friend of the young lady's father, and of course\ninterested in all that concerned her welfare.\n\nThe palace of a bishop was not very appropriate quarters for one who\ncame on such an errand as that which brought James to Glasgow.  But\nthis was a circumstance that did not give much concern to that merry\nand somewhat eccentric monarch; and the less so, that the bishop\nhimself happened to be from home at the time, on a visit to his\nbrother of St Andrews.\n\nHaving the house thus to himself, James did not hesitate to make as\nfree use of it as if he had been at Holyrood.  It was not many hours\nafter his arrival at the castle, that he summoned to his presence a\ncertain trusty attendant of the name of William Buchanan, and thus\nschooled him in the duties of a particular mission in which he\ndesired his services.\n\n\"Willie,\" said the good-humoured monarch, \"at the further end of the\nRottenrow of this good city of Glasgow--that is, at the western end\nof the said row--there stands a fair mansion on the edge of the brae,\nand overlooking the strath of the Clyde.  It is the residence of a\ncertain fair young lady of the name of Craig.  Now, Willie, what I\ndesire of you to do is this: you will go to this young lady from me,\ncarrying her this gold ring, and say to her that I intend, with her\npermission, doing myself the honour of paying her a visit in the\ncourse of this afternoon.\n\n\"Make your observations, Willie, and let me know how the land lies\nwhen you return.  But, pray thee, keep out of the way of our worthy\nknight of Dunrod; and if thou shouldst chance to meet him, and he\nshould question thee, seeing that you wear our livery, breathe no\nsyllable of what thou art about, otherwise he may prove somewhat\ntroublesome to both of us.  At any rate, to a certainty, he would\ncrop thy ears, Willie; and thou knowest, king though I be, I could\nnot put them on again, nor give thee another pair in their stead.  So\nkeep those thou hast out of the hands of Sir Robert Lindsay of\nDunrod, I pray thee.\"\n\nCharged with his mission, Willie, who had been often employed on\nmatters of this kind before, proceeded to the street with the\nunsavoury name already mentioned; but, not knowing exactly where to\nfind the house he wanted, he looked around him to see if he could see\nany one to whom he might apply for information.  There happened to be\nnobody on the street at the time; but his eye at length fell on an\nold weaver--as, from the short green apron he wore, he appeared to\nbe--standing at a door.\n\nTowards this person Willie now advanced, discarding, however, as much\nas possible, all appearance of having any particular object in view;\nfor he prided himself on the caution and dexterity with which he\nmanaged all such matters as that he was now engaged in.\n\n\"Fine day, honest man,\" said Willie, approaching the old weaver.\n\"Gran wather for the hairst.\"\n\n\"It's just that, noo,\" replied the old man, gazing at Willie with a\nlook of inquiry.  \"Just uncommon pleesant wather.\"\n\n\"A bit nice airy place up here,\" remarked the latter.\n\n\"Ou ay, weel aneuch for that,\" replied the weaver.  \"But air 'll no\nfill the wame.\"\n\n\"No very substantially,\" said Willie.  \"Some gran hooses up here,\nthough.  Wha's in that?\" and he pointed to a very handsome\nmansion-house opposite.\n\n\"That's the rector o' Hamilton's,\" replied the weaver.\n\n\"And that ane there?\"\n\n\"That's the rector o' Carstairs'.\"\n\n\"And that?\"\n\n\"That's the rector o' Erskine's.\"\n\n\"'Od, but ye do leeve in a godly neighbourhood here,\" said Willie,\nimpatient with these clerical iterations.  \"Do a' the best houses\nhereawa belang to the clergy?\"\n\n\"Indeed, the maist feck o' them,\" said the weaver.  \"Leave ye them\nalane for that.  The best o' everything fa's to their share.\"\n\n\"Yonder's anither handsome hoose, noo,\" said Willie, pointing to one\nhe had not yet indicated.  \"Does yon belang to the clergy too?\"\n\n\"Ou no; yon's the late Mr Craig's,\" replied the weaver; \"ane o' oor\nwalthiest merchants, wha died some time ago.\"\n\n\"Ou ay,\" said Willie, drily; \"just sae.  Gude mornin', friend.\"  And\nthinking he had managed his inquiries very dexterously, he sauntered\nslowly away--still assuming to have no special object in\nview--towards the particular house just spoken of, and which, we need\nnot say, was precisely the one he wanted.\n\nIt was a large isolated building, with an extensive garden behind,\nand stretching down the face of what is now called the Deanside Brae.\nOn the side next the street, the entrance was by a tall, narrow, iron\ngate.  This gate Willie now approached, but found it locked hard and\nfast.  Finding this, he bawled out, at the top of his voice, for some\none to come to him.  After a time, an old woman made her appearance,\nand, in no very pleasant mood, asked him what he wanted.\n\n\"I hae a particular message, frae a very particular person, to the\nyoung leddy o' this hoose,\" replied Willie.\n\n\"Ye maun gang and seek the young leddy o' this hoose ither whars than\nhere, then,\" said the old dame, making back to the house again,\nwithout intending any further communication on the subject.\n\n\"Do you mean to say that she's no in the hoose?\" shouted Willie.\n\n\"Ay, I mean to say that, and mair too,\" replied the old crone.  \"She\nhasna been in't for a gey while, and winna be in't for a guid while\nlanger; and sae ye may tell them that sent ye.\"\n\nSaying this, she passed into the house; and by doing so, would have\nput an end to all further conference.\n\nBut Willie was not to be thus baffled in his object.  Changing his\ntactics from the imperative to the wheedling, in which last he\nbelieved himself to be exceedingly dexterous--\n\n\"Mistress--I say, Mistress,\" he shouted, in a loud, but coaxing tone;\n\"speak a word, woman--just a word or two.  Ye maybe winna fare the\nwaur o't.\"\n\nWhether it was the hint conveyed in the last clause of Willie's\naddress, or that the old woman felt some curiosity to hear what so\nurgent a visitor had to say, she returned to the door, where,\nstanding fast, and looking across the courtyard at Willie, whose sly\nthough simple-looking face was pressed against the iron bars of the\nouter gate, she replied to him with a--\n\n\"Weel, man, what is't ye want?\"\n\n\"Tuts, woman, come across--come across,\" said Willie, wagging her\ntowards him with his forefinger.  \"I canna be roarin' out what I hae\nto say to ye a' that distance.  I might as weel cry it oot at the\ncross.  See, there's something to bring ye a wee nearer.\"\n\nAnd he held out several small silver coin through the bars of the\ngate.  The production of the cash had the desired effect.  The old\nwoman, who was lame, and who walked by the aid of a short thick stick\nwith a crooked head, hobbled towards him, and, having accepted the\nproffered coin, again asked, though with much more civility than\nbefore, what it was he wanted?\n\n\"Tuts, woman, open the yett,\" said Willie in his cagiest manner, \"and\nI'll 'ell ye a' aboot it.  It's hardly ceevil to be keeping a body\nspeakin' this way wi' his nose thrust through atwixt twa cauld bars\no' airn, like a rattin atween a pair o' tangs.\"\n\n\"Some folks are safest that way.  though,\" replied the old woman,\nwith something like an attempt at a laugh.  \"Bars o' airn are amang\nthe best freens we hae sometimes.  But as ye seem a civil sort o' a\nchiel, after a', I'll let ye in, although I dinna see what ye'll be\nthe better o' that.\"\n\nSo saying, she took a large iron key from her girdle, inserted it in\nthe lock, and in the next moment the gate grated on its hinges;\nyielding partly to the pressure of Willie from without, and partly to\nthe co-operative efforts of the old woman from within.\n\n\"Noo,\" said Willie, on gaining the interior of the courtyard--\"Noo,\"\nhe said, affecting his most coaxing manner, \"you and me'll hae a bit\ncrack thegither, guidwife.\"\n\nAnd, sitting down on a stone bench that ran along the front of the\nhouse, he motioned to the old lady to take a seat beside him, which\nshe did.\n\n\"I understand, guidwife,\" began Willie, who meant to be very cunning\nin his mode of procedure, \"that she's just an uncommon bonny leddy\nyour mistress; just wonderfu'.\"\n\n\"Whaever tell't ye that, didna misinform ye,\" replied the old woman\ndrily.\n\n\"And has mints o' siller?\" rejoined Mr Buchanan.\n\n\"No ill aff in that way either,\" said the old woman.\n\n\"But it's her beauty--it's her extraordinar beauty--that's the\nwonder, and that I hear everybody speakin' aboot,\" said Willie.  \"I\nwad gie the price o' sax fat hens to see her.  Could ye no get me a\nglisk o' her ony way, just for ae minute?\"\n\n\"Didna I tell ye before that she's no at hame?\" said the old dame,\nthreatening again to get restive on Willie's hands.\n\n\"Od, so ye did; I forgot,\" said Mr Buchanan, affecting obliviousness\nof the fact.  \"Whaur may she be noo?\" he added in his simplest and\n_couthiest_ manner.\n\n\"Wad ye like token?\" replied the old, lady with a satirical sneer.\n\n\"'Deed wad I; and there's mae than me wad like to ken,\" replied\nWillie; \"and them that wad pay handsomely for the information.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said the old dame, with a continuation of the same sneer,\nand long ere this guessing what Willie was driving at.  \"And wha may\nthey be noo, if I may speer?\"\n\n\"They're gey kenspeckled,\" replied Mr Buchanan; \"but that doesna\nmatter.  If ye canna, or winna tell me whaur Mistress Craig is, could\nye no gie's a bit inklin' o' whan ye expect her hame?\"\n\n\"No; but I'll gie ye a bit inklin' o' whan ye'll walk out o' this,\"\nsaid the old woman, rising angrily from her seat; \"and that's this\nminute, or I'll set the dug on ye.  Hisk, hisk--Teeger, Teeger!\"\n\nAnd a huge black dog came bouncing out of the house, and took up a\nposition right in front of Willie; wagging his tail, as if in\nanticipation of a handsome treat in the way of worrying that worthy.\n\n\"Gude sake, woman,\" said Willie, rising in great alarm from his seat,\nand edging towards the outer gate--\"What's a' this for?  Ye wadna set\nthat brute on a Christian cratur, wad ye?\"\n\n\"Wadna I?  Ye'd better no try me, frien', but troop aff wi' ye.\nTeeger,\" she added, with a significant look.  The dog understood it,\nand, springing on Willie, seized him by one of the skirts of his\ncoat, which, with one powerful tug, he at once separated from the\nbody.\n\nPressed closely upon by both the dog and his mistress, Willie\nkeeping, however, his face to the foe, now retreated towards the\ngate, when, just at the moment of his making his exit, the old lady,\nraising her staff, hit him a parting blow, which, taking effect on\nthe bridge of his nose, immediately enlarged the dimensions of that\norgan, besides drawing forth a copious stream of claret.  In the next\ninstant the gate was shut and locked in the sufferer's face.\n\n\"Confound ye, ye auld limmer,\" shouted Willie furiously, and shaking\nhis fist through the bars of the gate as he spoke, \"if I had ye here\non the outside o' the yett, as ye're in the in, if I wadna baste the\nauld hide o' ye.  But my name's no Willie Buchanan if I dinna gar ye\nrue this job yet, some way or anither.\"\n\nTo these objurgations of the discomfited messenger the old lady\ndeigned no word of answer, but merely shaking her head, and indulging\nin a pretty broad smile of satisfaction, hobbled into the house,\nfollowed by Tiger, wagging his tail, as much as to say, \"I think\nwe've given yon fellow a fright, mistress.\"\n\nDistracted with indignation and resentment, Willie hastened back to\nthe castle, and, too much excited to think of his outward appearance,\nhurried into the royal presence with his skirtless coat and\ndisfigured countenance.  which he had by no means improved by sundry\nwipes with the sleeve of his coat.  On Willie making his appearance\nin this guise, the merry monarch looked at him for an instant in\nsilent amazement, then burst into an incontrollable fit of laughter,\nwhich the grave, serious look of Willie showed he by no means\nrelished.  There was even a slight expression of resentment in the\nmanner in which the maltreated messenger bore the merry reception of\nhis light-hearted master.\n\n\"Willie, man,\" at length said James, when his mirth had somewhat\nsubsided, \"what's this has happened thee?  Where gottest thou that\nenormous nose, man?\"\n\n\"Feth, your Majesty, it may be a joke to you, but it's unco little o'\nane to me,\" replied Willie, whose confidential duties and familiar\nintercourse with his royal master had led him to assume a freedom of\nspeech which was permitted to no other, and which no other would have\ndared to attempt.\n\n\"I hae gotten sic a worryin' the day,\" he continued, \"as I never got\nin my life before.  Between dugs and auld wives, I hae had a bonny\ntime o't.  Worried by the tane and smashed by the tither, as my nose\nand my coat-tails bear witness.\"\n\n\"Explain yourself, Willie.  What does all this mean?\" exclaimed\nJames, again laughing.\n\nWillie told his story, finishing with the information that the bird\nwas flown--meaning Jessie Craig.  \"Aff and awa, naebody kens, or 'll\ntell whaur.\"\n\n\"Off--away?\" exclaimed the king, with an air of mingled\ndisappointment and surprise.  \"Very odd,\" he added, musingly; \"and\nmost particularly unlucky.  But we shall wait on a day or two, and\nshe will probably reappear in that time; or we may find out where she\nhas gone to.\"\n\nOn the day following that on which the incidents just related\noccurred, the curiosity of the good people in the neighbourhood of\nthe late Mr Craig's house in Rottenrow was a good deal excited by\nseeing a person in the dress of a gentleman hovering about the\nresidence just alluded to.\n\nAnon he would walk to and fro in front of the house, looking\nearnestly towards the windows.  Now he would descend the Deanside\nBrae, and do the same by those behind.  Again he would return to the\nfront of the mansion, and taking up his station on the opposite side\nof the street, would resume his scrutiny of the windows.\n\nThe stranger was thus employed, when he was startled by the\nappearance of some one advancing towards him, whom, it was evident,\nhe would fain have avoided if he could.  But it was too late.  There\nwas no escape.  So, assuming an air of as much composure and\nindifference as he could, he awaited the approach of the unwelcome\nintruder.  This person was Sir Robert Lindsay.\n\nComing up to the stranger with a respectful air, and with an\nexpression of countenance as free from all consciousness as that\nwhich had been assumed by the former--\n\n\"I hope your Grace is well?\" he said, bowing profoundly as he spoke.\n\n\"Thank you, Provost--thank you,\" replied James; for we need hardly\nsay it was he.\n\n\"Your Grace has doubtless come hither,\" said the former gravely, \"to\nenjoy the delightful view which this eminence commands.\n\n\"The precise purpose, Sir Robert,\" replied James, recovering a little\nfrom the embarrassment which, after all his efforts, he could not\nentirely conceal.  \"The view is truly a fine one, Provost,\" continued\nthe king.  \"I had no idea that your good city could boast of anything\nso fair in the way of landscape.  Our city of Edinburgh hath more\nromantic points about it; but for calm and tranquil beauty, methinks\nit hath nothing superior to the scene commanded by this eminence.\"\n\n\"There are some particular localities on the ridge of the hill here,\nhowever,\" said Sir Robert, \"that exhibit the landscape to much better\nadvantage than others, and to which, taking it for granted that your\nGrace is not over familiar with the ground, it will afford me much\npleasure to conduct you.\"\n\n\"Ah! thank you, good Sir Robert--thank you,\" replied James.  \"But\nsome other day, if you please.  The little spare time I had on my\nhands is about exhausted, so that I must return to the castle.  I\nhave, as you know, Sir Robert, to give audience to some of your\nworthy councillors, who intend honouring me with a visit.\n\n\"Amongst the number I will expect to see yourself, Sir Robert.\"  And\nJames, after politely returning the loyal obeisance of the Provost,\nhurried away towards the castle.\n\nOn his departure, the latter stood for a moment, and looked after him\nwith a smile of peculiar intelligence; then muttered, as he also left\nthe spot--\n\n\"Well do I know what it was brought your Grace to this quarter of the\ntown; and knowing this, I know it was for anything but the sake of\nits view.  Fair maidens have more attractions in your eyes than all\nthe views between this and John o' Groat's.  But I have taken care\nthat your pursuit in the present instance will avail thee little.\"\nAnd the good Provost went on his way.\n\nFor eight entire days after this did James wait in Glasgow for the\nreturn of Jessie Craig; but he waited in vain.  Neither in that time\ncould he learn anything whatever of the place of her sojournment.\nHis patience at length exhausted, he determined on giving up the\npursuit for the time at any rate, and on quitting the city.\n\nThe king, as elsewhere casually mentioned, had come last from\nBothwell Castle.  It was now his intention to proceed to Stirling,\nwhere he proposed stopping for two or three weeks; thence to\nLinlithgow, and thereafter returning to Edinburgh.\n\nThe purpose of James to make this round having reached the ears of a\ncertain Sir James Crawford of Netherton, whose house and estate lay\nabout half-way between Glasgow and Stirling, that gentleman sent a\nrespectful message to James, through Sir Robert Lindsay, to the\neffect that he would feel much gratified if his Grace would deign to\nhonour his poor house of Netherton with a visit in passing, and\naccept for himself and followers such refreshment as he could put\nbefore them.\n\nTo this message James returned a gracious answer, saying that he\nwould have much pleasure in accepting the invitation so kindly sent\nhim, and naming the day and hour when he would put the inviter's\nhospitality to the test.\n\nFaithful to his promise, the king and his retinue, amongst whom was\nnow Sir Robert Lindsay, who had been included in the invitation,\npresented themselves at Netherton gate about noon on the day that had\nbeen named.\n\nThey were received with all honour by the proprietor, a young man of\nprepossessing appearance, graceful manners, and frank address.\n\nOn the king and gentlemen of his train entering the house, they were\nushered into a large banqueting ball, where was an ample table spread\nwith the choicest edibles, and glittering with the silver goblets and\nflagons that stood around it in thick array.  Everything, in short,\nbetokened at once the loyalty and great wealth of the royal party's\nentertainer.\n\nThe king and his followers having taken their places at table, the\nfullest measure of justice was quickly done to the good things with\nwhich it was spread.  James was in high spirits, and talked and\nrattled away with as much glee and as entire an absence of all kingly\nreserve as the humblest good fellow in his train.\n\nEncouraged by the affability of the king, and catching his humour,\nthe whole party gave way to the most unrestrained mirth.  The joke\nand the jest went merrily round with the wine flagon; and he was for\na time the best man who could start the most jocund theme.\n\nIt was while this spirit prevailed that Sir Robert Lindsay, after\nmaking a private signal to Sir James Crawford, which had the effect\nof causing him to quit the apartment on pretence of looking for\nsomething he wanted, addressing the king, said--\n\n\"May I take the liberty of asking your Grace if you have seen any\nparticularly fair maidens in the course of your present\nperegrinations?  I know your Grace has a good taste in these matters.\"\n\nJames coloured a little at this question and the remark which\naccompanied it but quickly regaining his self-possession and\ngood-humour--\n\n\"No, Sir Robert,\" he said laughingly, \"I cannot say that I have been\nso fortunate on the present occasion.  As to the commendation which\nyou have been pleased to bestow on my taste, I thank you, and am glad\nit meets with your approbation.\"\n\n\"Yet, your Grace,\" continued Sir Robert, \"excellent judge as I know\nyou to be of female beauty, I deem myself, old and staid as I am,\nyour Grace's equal, craving your Grace's pardon; and, to prove this,\nwill take a bet with your Grace of a good round sum, that you have\nnever seen, and do not know, a more beautiful woman than the lady of\nour present host.\"\n\n\"Take care, Provost,\" replied James.  \"Make no rash bets.  I know the\nmost beautiful maiden the sun ever shone upon.  But it would be\nungallant and ungracious to make the lady of our good host the\nsubject of such a bet on the present occasion.\"\n\n\"But our host is absent, your Grace,\" replied the Provost\npertinaciously; \"and neither he nor any one else, but your Grace's\nfriends present, need know anything at all of the matter.  Will your\nGrace take me up for a thousand merks?\"\n\n\"But suppose I should,\" replied James, \"how is the thing to be\nmanaged? and who is to decide?\"\n\n\"Both points are of easy adjustment, your Grace,\" said Sir Robert.\n\"Your Grace has only to intimate a wish to our host, when he returns,\nthat you would feel gratified by his introducing his lady to you; and\nas to the matter of decision, I would, with your Grace's permission\nand approval, put that into the hands of the gentlemen present.  Of\ncourse, nothing need be said of the purpose of this proceeding to\neither host or hostess.\"\n\n\"Well, be it so,\" said James, urged on by the madcaps around him, who\nwere delighted with the idea of the thing.  \"Now, then, gentlemen,\"\nhe continued, \"the lady on whose beauty I stake my thousand merks is\nJessie Craig, the merchant's daughter of Glasgow, whom, I think, all\nof you have seen.\"\n\n\"Ha! my townswoman,\" exclaimed Sir Robert, with every appearance of\nsurprise.  \"On my word, you have made mine a hard task of it; for a\nfairer maiden than Jessie Craig may not so readily be found.\nNevertheless, I adhere to the terms of my bet.\"\n\nThe Provost had just done speaking, when Sir James Crawford entered\nthe apartment, and resumed his seat at table.  Shortly after he had\ndone so, James addressing him said--\n\n\"Sir James, it would complete the satisfaction of these gentlemen and\nmyself with the hospitality you have this day shown us, were you to\nafford us an opportunity of paying our respects to your good lady;\nthat is, if it be perfectly convenient for and agreeable to her.\"\n\n\"Lady Crawford will be but too proud of the honour, your Grace,\"\nreplied Sir James, rising.  \"She shall attend your Grace presently.\"\n\nSaying this, the latter again withdrew; and soon after returned,\nleading a lady, over whose face hung a long and flowing veil, into\nthe royal presence.\n\nIt would require the painter's art to express adequately the looks of\nintense and eager interest with which James and his party gazed on\nthe veiled beauty, as she entered the apartment and advanced towards\nthem.  Their keen and impatient scrutiny seemed as if it would pierce\nthe tantalizing obstruction that prevented them seeing those features\non whose beauty so large a sum had been staked.  In this state of\nannoying suspense, however, they were not long detained.  On\napproaching within a few paces of the king, and at the moment Sir\nJames Crawford said, with a respectful obeisance, \"My wife, Lady\nCrawford, your Grace,\" she raised her veil, and exhibited to the\nastonished monarch and his courtiers a surpassingly beautiful\ncountenance indeed; but it was that of Jessie Craig.\n\n\"A trick! a trick!\" exclaimed James, with merry shout, and amidst a\npeal of laughter from all present, and in which the fair cause of all\nthis stir most cordially joined.  \"A trick, a trick, Provost! a\ntrick!\" repeated James.\n\n\"Nay, no trick at all, your Grace, craving your Grace's pardon,\"\nreplied the Provost gravely.  \"Your Grace betted that Jessie Craig\nwas mere beautiful than Lady Crawford.  Now is it so?  I refer the\nmatter, as agreed upon, to the gentlemen around us.\"\n\n\"Lost! lost!\" exclaimed half-a-dozen gallants at once.\n\n\"Well, well, gentlemen, since you so decide,\" said James, \"I will\ninstantly give our good Provost here an order upon our treasurer for\nthe sum.\"\n\n\"Nay, your Grace, not so fast.  The money is as safe in your hands as\nmine.  Let it there remain till I require it.  When I do, I shall not\nfail to demand it.\"\n\n\"Be it so, then,\" said James, when, placing his fair hostess beside\nhim, and after obtaining a brief explanation--which we will, in the\nsequel, give at more length--of the odd circumstance of finding\nJessie Craig converted into Lady Crawford, the mirth and hilarity of\nthe party were resumed, and continued till pretty far in the\nafternoon, when the king and his courtiers took horse,--the former at\nparting having presented his hostess with a massive gold chain which\nhe wore about his neck, in token of his good wishes,--and rode off\nfor Stirling.\n\nTo our tale we have now only to add the two or three explanatory\ncircumstances above alluded to.\n\nIn Sir James Crawford the reader is requested to recognise the young\nman who discovered Jessie Craig, then the unknown fair one, by the\nside of the fountain in the little elm grove at Woodlands.\n\nEncouraged by and acting on the adage already quoted,--namely, that\n\"faint heart never won fair lady,\"--he followed up his first\naccidental interview with the fair fugitive from royal importunity\nwith an assiduity that in one short week accomplished the wooing and\nwinning of her.\n\nWhile the first was in progress, Sir James was informed by the young\nlady of the reasons for her concealment.  On this and the part Sir\nRobert Lindsay had acted towards her being made known to him, he lost\nno time in opening a communication with that gentleman, riding\nrepeatedly into Glasgow himself to see him on the subject of his fair\ncharge; at the same time informing him of the attachment he had\nformed for her, and finally obtaining his consent, or at least\napprobation, to their marriage.  The bet, we need hardly add, was a\nconcerted joke between the Provost, Sir James, and his lady.\n\nWhen we have added that the circumstance of Sir Robert Lindsay's\ndelay in returning for Jessie Craig, which excited so much surprise\nat Woodlands, was owing to the unlooked-for prolongation of the\nking's stay in Glasgow, we think we have left nothing unexplained\nthat stood in need of such aid.\n\n\n\n\nMAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE.\n\nBY J. F. SMITH.\n\nIt is a lovely spot, Grassyvale--\"beautiful exceedingly.\"  But its\nbeauty is of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic\nfeature of the landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator\nwho surveyed it from the highest neighbouring eminence, is\nsimply--repose.  There are no mountains, properly so called, within a\ncircuit of many miles--none of those natural pyramids which, in\nvarious parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle\nand of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of adamant to\nsupport the vault of heaven.  The nearest are situated at such a\ndistance that they appear like clouds, and might readily be mistaken\nfor such, but for their deathlike stillness, and the everlasting\nmonotony of their outline.  No waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid\ncrystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to\nthe thunder of their fall since the birth of time.  There is no\nfar-spreading forest--no yawning ravine, with \"ebon shades and\nlow-browed rocks\"--no beetling cliff or precipice, \"shagged\" with\nbrushwood, as Milton hath it.  There is nothing of the grand, the\nsublime, the terrible, or the magnificent--there is only quiet; or,\nif the terms do not sound dissonant to \"ears polite,\" modest,\nunassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in\nthe zenith, might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of.\nNature has not here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic\nscale.  What, then, is so attractive about Grassyvale? it will be\nasked.  We are not sure but we may be as much stultified with this\nquestion, as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem, \"We are\nseven\" (which the reader may turn up at leisure, when the propriety\nof the comparison will be seen), and may be forced, after an\nunsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves for holding such an\nopinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic obstinacy--it is\nbeautiful.  But the length of our story compels us to exclude a\ndescription of the landscape, which we had prepared.\n\n* * * *\n\nThe village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small\nstream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly\nwhitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering\nshrub--wild brier, honeysuckle, or the like--whilst a \"kail-yard\" in\nthe rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage.  There is one of\nthose dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from\nthem, and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it\nwears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere.  It is\nliterally covered with a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine,\nthe deep green of whose unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous\n\"the bright profusion of its scattered stars.\"  The windows are\nliterally darkened by a multitude of roses, which seem clustering and\ncrowding together to gain an entrance, and scatter their \"perfumed\nsweets\" around the apartment.  Near the cottage, there is also a\nholly planted--that evergreen tree which seems providentially\ndesigned by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter, and, when all\nis withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual promise of\nspring.  But we have more to do with this beautiful little dwelling\nthan merely to describe its exterior.\n\nBehind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into\nelevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the\nparish church, like the ark resting on Ararat--faith's triumph, and\nmercy's symbol.  Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate\nthe cemetery where \"the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.\"\nAmongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the\nrecollection of virtue for a few generations--and which, with their\nappropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the\nheart, and realize to the letter Shakspeare's memorable words,\n\"sermons in stones\"--there is one which always attracts attention.\nIt is not a \"storied urn, an animated bust\"--one of those profusely\ndecorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in\npompous but vain magnificence, over departed pride.  No; it is only a\nsmall, unadorned slab, of rather dingy-coloured freestone; and the\ninscription is simply--\"To the memory of May Darling, who was removed\nfrom this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen.  She was\nan affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian.\n\n  'Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er;\n  She is not lost, but only gone before.'\"\n\nAh! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass\nthat humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her\nwho sleeps beneath--her who was so beloved, so admired by every one,\nas well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose\nromantic and untimely fate (cut off \"i' the morn and liquid dew of\nyouth\") was the village talk for many a day.\n\nJohn Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great\nphenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious,\nhonest man.  In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent\nfarmer, whose marriage portion enabled him to commence life under\nvery favourable auspices.  But, in spite of obedience to the natural\nlaws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however\nwisely our plans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously\nand judiciously they may be pursued.  Untoward circumstances, which\nit would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced\nhim, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a\nfield labourer.  Death had, likewise, been busy singling out victims\nfrom amongst those who surrounded his humble, but cheerful fireside;\nand, of a large family, there only remained three, and he was a\nwidower besides.  May was the oldest; and, accordingly, the\nsuperintendence of the household devolved upon her.  The deceased\nparent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the\nrecollection of former affluence never forsook her; and this\ncircumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and\nsophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict\nfamily disciplinarian.  She concentrated her mind almost entirely\nupon the affairs of her own household; and her children were\naccordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with\nmore scrupulous care, than was usual with those around her.  It was\nher pride, and \"let it be her praise,\" to see them arrayed in more\nshowy habiliments than those worn by their associates; and, to\naccomplish this darling object, what serious transmutation did her\nfinery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from\nchild to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise\nsuffering a metamorphosis at every remove!  The dress of May, in\nparticular--her first-born bud of bliss, the doted on of her\nbosom--was always attended to with special care; nor was the\ncultivation of her mind in any way overlooked.  She very early\ninspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the\ndevelopment of her faculties, and many a day survived her by whom the\npassion had been awakened.\n\nIn person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was\neminently handsome.  Hair and eyes of intense depth of black\ncontrasted admirably with a countenance which may be designated as\ntransparent--it was nearly colourless; and only on occasions of\nunusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the\ncheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate over\nher pure skin.  It can scarcely be called pale, however--it had\nnothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the\npresence of disease.\n\n  \"Oh, call it _fair_, not pale!\"\n\n\nThe expression was at once amiable and intellectual--mellowed or\nblended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually but most\nerroneously called melancholy.  Melancholy had nothing to do with a\n\"mind at peace with all below--a heart, whose love was innocent.\"\nThe countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental\ncharacter--it takes its \"form and pressure,\" as it were, from the\npredominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of\nthought and feeling.  It is there that thought and feeling, those\nsubtle essences, are made visible to the eye--it is there that mind\nmay be seen.  The most casual observer could not fail to perceive\nthat the soul which spoke eloquently in the eye, \"and sweetly\nlightened o'er the face\" of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature,\nof poetry, and of virtue; for they are often combined--they have a\nnatural relation to each other; and, when they exist simultaneously\nin one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying\nthe most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible.  May\nDarling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very high degree;\nand books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of \"untold\nwealth\" to her.\n\n  \"Many are poets who have never penned\n  Their inspirations.\"\n\nAnd, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble\nvillage-maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she\nenjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration.  In short, both in her\nmental character, and in the style of her personal attractions, she\nrose far above her companions of the village.  Need it be told that\noften, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping,\nlaughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and\nwrapt in a vision of \"_sweet_ coming fancies,\" follow the course of\nthe stream which intersected her native vale, flowing along, pure and\nnoiseless, like the current of her own existence?\n\nThe favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was\na beautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village.  It was\na place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there--(but then\nall these fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in\nNature's own hallowed pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or\nbroken by science--why should this be?)--there, if anywhere, the\nGenius of Solitude might be supposed to have fixed his abode.  It was\na broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks,\nhere projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale,\nhowever), and there, clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old\ngnarled thorn.  The earth was carpeted with its usual covering of\nemerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were\nnumerous wild flowers: the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac\nblossoms; the hyacinth, whose enameled blue looks so charmingly in\nthe light of the setting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the\nlike--throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by\nnature for some gentle creature, like May Darling, to gather up and\nlay upon her bosom.  The air, of course, was permanently impregnated\nwith the perfume which they breathed out--the everlasting incense of\nthe flowers rising from the altars of Nature to her God.  Such was\nthe sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of\nothers, or held communion with her own; and well was it adapted for\nnursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender\nfeeling.\n\nThe personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased\nwith her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and\nall the country round.  It followed, as a matter of course, that her\nadmirers outnumbered her years; and that the possession of her\naffections was, with many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled\nthe little kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment.  At\nevery village fete--a wedding, a harvest home, or other rural\nfestival--hers was the step most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand\nmost frequently solicited, hers the form and face that riveted all\neyes, and thrilled the heart of the ardent admirer \"too much\nadoring.\"  Amongst the other accomplishments of our heroine, skill in\nmusic was not the least prominent.  Not that she excelled in those\nintricate graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to\nconceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expression;\nbut her \"wood-note wild\" was eminently characterised by the latter\nqualities of singing; and the effect which she produced was,\naccordingly, calculated to be lasting.\n\nIt must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of\nadulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, \"but\nhalf-concealed,\" had any pernicious influence over her mind.  She was\nneither puffed up with vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve\nand distance towards those who numbered fewer worshippers than\nherself; still humility of heart, which was \"native there and to the\nmanner born,\" characterised her deportment--nor was there any\nrelaxation in the discharge of the household duties which devolved\nupon her; and the comfort of her father, and the proper care and\nculture of the younger branches of the family, were as faithfully\nattended to as if her deformity, instead of her beauty, had been\nproverbial.  She folded the little flutterers under her wing, like a\nmother bird; and, if there was one thing more than another that she\ntook delight in, it was the training of their young minds to the love\nand practice of virtue and religion, the only fountains whence\nhappiness, pure and uncontaminated, can be drawn in this life.\n\n  \"So passed their life--a clear united stream\n  By care unruffled; till, in evil hour\"--\n\nBut we anticipate.\n\nIt was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little\nsisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town.  Such\nan event naturally excites considerable interest over all the country\nround; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour\nalong the public ways--not in \"weary,\" but in light-hearted\n\"droves\"--full of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the\npool of Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual\ndescent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters; for there there\nis to be found variety of amusement for every mind--from the\nKaterfelto wonderer, \"wondering for his bread,\" down to the more\nhumble establishment of the halfpenny showman, with his \"glorious\nvictory of Waterloo,\" his \"golden beetle,\" or \"ashes from the burning\nmountains.\"  But, on the occasion to which we refer, there was an\nexhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which presented\nextraordinary attractions for May Darling; and, accordingly, after\ndeliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated, with\nthe expense which it would cost (her exchequer was, of course, not\nvery rich), she at length found herself comfortably seated near the\nfront of the stage.  The tragedy of \"George Barnwell\" was going off\nwith prodigious _eclat_; and the performers had arrived at that scene\nwhere the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure\nprops that supported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to\ndisencumber themselves of their burden, and, at last, finally gave\nway.  The confusion which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and\nother vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to\ndescribe--these have nothing to do with our tale.  Barnwell, instead\nof imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even \"in jest,\" became the\nmost active agent in rescuing his hapless audience from their\nperilous situation.  He was a tall, handsome young man, of a very\nprepossessing exterior, and appeared to great advantage in his showy\nstage habiliments.  The general rush was towards the door, the most\nlikely avenue of escape which presented itself to the astonished\nrustics; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, with more collected\njudgment and presence of mind, found a place of security on the\nstage.  May was slightly bruised in her endeavours to shelter her\nyoung charge; and, although not much injured, her forlorn yet\ninteresting appearance drew the attention of the histrionic\nSamaritan, and he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of\nthe theatre.  The affair was not of such a serious nature as might\nhave been anticipated.  A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two\nof trifling contusions, made up the sum total of the damage.  A hat\nor two might have changed owners in the confusion; but these are\nthings beneath the dignity of a tragedian to look after; and as soon\nas matters were adjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he\nreturned to the object of his first solicitude.  She was seated on a\nstool, in what was dignified with the sounding appellation of a\ngreen-room--looking paler, and lovelier, and more loveable than ever.\nHe quieted her apprehensions with respect to the catastrophe; for he\nwas an adept in the art of imitation, and politely requested the\nhonour of conducting her to her place of residence.  It is not\ndifficult to conceive what was the first impression which the request\nmade upon the mind of May Darling; but the scruples of modest virgin\ninnocence yielded at last to the importunities of the actor, and they\nleft the scene of mirth and confusion together.\n\nOn their journey homewards, the conversation naturally turned upon\nthe drama; and many a fine passage, which May admired, was recited to\nher with all the eloquence and stage artifice which the actor was\nmaster of.  And he would speak feelingly of \"the gentle lady married\nto the Moor;\" her love--the love of Desdemona--pure, exalted,\nall-enduring--such as death alone could quench; her woe and her fate,\nso replete with all that can agonize the human soul, and awaken its\nprofoundest sympathies;--of Ophelia--\"the fair Ophelia,\" the young,\nthe beautiful, and the gentle--her devoted, childlike affection, her\nmournful distraction, and her untimely doom;--of Miranda, the island\nbride--the being of enchantment--half earthly, half heavenly--around\nwhom the spirits of the air hovered, and ministered unto as\nvassals;--of Imogen, the fair and faithful--the patient,\nlong-suffering, and finally fortunate Imogen;--of Cordelia--she of\nthe seraph-spirit, pure and peaceful--whose love for a father\nsurpassed that of the Roman daughter;--of Perdita--\"the prettiest\nlow-born lass that ever ran on the greensward\"--the shepherdess and\nthe princess;--of Juliet--the martyr of passion--she who drew poison\nfrom earth's sweetest flower--love--and died thereby, by love's own\nflame \"kindled she was and blasted.\"  These, and many other creations\nof fancy, which omnipotent genius has rendered almost real historical\npersonages--not shadow but substance--were the topics of discourse\nwhich were handled by our hero of the buskin, until the cottage of\nJohn Darling was reached.  From the description which has been given\nof May's character, it need be no matter of surprise that the\nimpression made upon her gentle bosom was profound; and, on taking\nleave of her, a request, on the part of Mr Henry Wilkinson (such was\nthe tragedian's name) to be permitted to visit her on some future\noccasion, made under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of\nher health, was acceded to.  Again and again Mr Wilkinson visited the\ncottage, and poured into the ear of the humble, unsuspecting, and\nhappy inmate, many a story of love, and hope, and joy--such as his\nknowledge of the drama, which was great, supplied him with.\n\n          \"These things to hear\n  Would Desdemona seriously incline;\n  But still the house affairs would draw her thence:\n  Which ever as she could with haste dispatch\n  She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear.\n  Devour up his discourse.\"\n\n\nSubstitute the name of May Darling for that of Desdemona, and the\ndescription becomes perfect of our heroine's situation, whilst the\nresult was similar: in a short time, the happiness of our village\nmaiden was entirely at the disposal of Mr Wilkinson.  Hitherto her\nheart had slept, like some untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven,\nand nature grand and beautiful around; but now its waters were\ndarkened and disturbed by one single image--and that was her lover's.\nHer ears were no longer open to the murmurs of her native stream, or\nthe gush of song from the fairy-winged and fairy-plumaged birds, whom\nshe almost knew one from another: she only heard the music of her\nlover's voice.  Her secluded dell was no longer visited alone; her\nwalks were no longer solitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet\nhim whom her heart loved, and to see if his speed \"kept pace with her\nexpectancy.\"  Everything was beheld through one all-hallowing\natmosphere--and that was love.  It lay upon her soul like the shadow\non the sundial, and time was measured by it.  How, it will be asked,\nwas all this looked upon by her father?  With no favourable eye--nay,\nwith many suspicious forebodings and prophetic fears.\n\nIt was about three months after the catastrophe which took place in\nthe provincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson made proposals of a union\nto May, which being accepted, the consent of her parent was next\napplied for.  The advances of the actor were for a time checked by an\nuncompromising refusal; but May's father gradually became less\nperemptory, until there remained only one objection, but that was\ninsurmountable--namely, the profession of Mr Wilkinson--one, in\ngeneral, very obnoxious to a Scottish peasant.  It was, however,\nfinally obviated by the actor's promising to abandon it, and become a\nteacher of elocution in the town of H--.  The father's consent was\nobtained at last, though with reluctance, and the day of their\nnuptials was fixed.\n\nIt was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day when May\nDarling was to give her hand to the man for whom her heart cherished\na love as deep, intense, and concentrated, as ever was awakened and\nnursed in woman's gentle bosom.  The sun--just sinking through those\nvast masses of clouds which usually attend his exit, and assume, as\nhe descends, various wild and fantastical shapes, and catch every\nhue, from the intense purple to the scarcely perceptible\nyellow--showered on the face of nature a stream of rich but mellowed\nradiance, which softened without obliterating the outlines of\nobjects, and produced that \"clear obscure, so softly dark, so darkly\npure,\" which is so favourable to indulgence in tender emotions.\n\n  \"Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart!\"--\n\nsweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling most\nprofound--when the mind, abroad all day, busied with the concerns of\nthis work-a-day world, comes home to itself, and broods, and sleeps,\nand dreams golden dreams--sunny, hope-illuminated dreams!--sweet\nhour, when the ties of social being which the day had severed are\nreunited, and around the household hearth the \"old familiar faces\"\nare assembled!--sweet hour, when the shades of evening, gradually\ndeepening, are sufficient to conceal the blush which might mantle\nbeauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly pressed, as, in a voice half\nsighs, half whispers, she confesses the secret of her love; and when,\nin the arms which gently enfold her yielding form, she seems, in the\nfine language of Rogers, to become less and less earthly,\n\n  \"And fades at last into a spirit from heaven!\"\n\n\n'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his betrothed set\nout on one of those charming walks during which they had so often\nexchanged vows of mutual and eternal love.  The road which they at\nfirst took was sufficiently retired to admit of their conversing\naloud with unreserved confidence; but, continuing their journey,\nunconscious where they were going, they found themselves at last in\nthe vicinity of the high road which leads to the town of H--.\nTurning to strike down a narrow hedge-row path, a moving spectacle\npresented itself to their observation.  Upon a grassy knoll lay a\nfemale fast asleep, with a child at her breast, vainly attempting to\nforce its little fingers within the folds of the handkerchief which\nconcealed the bosom of its mother.  May uttered a faint exclamation,\nsomewhat between pity and fear; for she was taken by surprise.  But\nher lover's astonishment was still greater than hers; for, after he\nhad contemplated the careworn features of the wayfarer, he started,\nand, had not the increasing gloom of evening prevented any change of\ncountenance from being perceptible, May might have seen his face turn\nashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly locked to\ntremble distinctly.\n\n\"This touches your feelings, Henry,\" said May; \"but can we not, love,\ndo something to alleviate the sufferings of this, no doubt,\nunfortunate female?  Had I not better awake her, and conduct her to\nmy father's, where refreshment and rest can be procured?\"\n\n\"Nay, dearest love,\" said Wilkinson--\"sleep is to the wretched the\ngreatest boon that can be bestowed: let us leave her alone, nor\ndeprive her of the only comfort which, possibly, she is capable of\nenjoying.\"\n\nSo saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat reluctantly,\nhomewards; for her sympathy was much excited, and she would fain have\ncarried her generous purpose into effect; but gave way to the\nentreaties of her lover, who had some miles to walk ere he could\nreach his place of residence.  After seeing May safely beneath the\ndomestic roof, Wilkinson bade farewell for the night to his betrothed\nbride, and took his departure, with the intention, he said, of\nimmediately returning to H--.  He did not proceed directly home,\nhowever; but, making a retrograde movement, he fell back upon the\nplace where the fatigued traveller had been seen.  She was gone when\nhe arrived; and whether the circumstance gave him pleasure or the\nreverse, we have never been able to ascertain; but, at all events, he\nnow set out in good earnest for H--.  What should have interested\nWilkinson so much in this apparently wandering mendicant?\n\nOn the evening which we have described, let the reader picture to\nhimself two aged crones, comfortably seated upon a rough slab of\nwood, elevated two feet or so above the ground, by a massive block of\ngranite which supported either end.  This, together with the cottage\nwall against which their backs reclined, might, even with individuals\nmore fastidious than its present occupants, have appeared a luxury\nlittle inferior to a sofa, especially in that bland and beautiful\nhour when daylight dies along the hills, and our feelings, partaking\nof the softness of the scene and hour, dispose us to be pleased, we\nask not why and care not wherefore.  On either hand was situated a\ndoor, over which hung suspended a very homely signboard.  From one of\nthese, the wayfarer might learn that good entertainment for man and\nbeast could be supplied within, by Janet Baird, who, it appeared,\nwas, by special permission of government, permitted to retail\nspirits, porter, ale, and other items.  Lest any mistake should occur\nas to the nature of the invitation (or, perhaps, it was a _ruse_ to\nprovoke the alimentary faculties), there was a painting of the\ninterior, representing a table, which seemed to groan under the\nweight of bottles, glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, cheese, and\nwhat not; whilst two jolly companions, with rubicund faces, where an\ninfinity of good nature predominated, sat round it, each with a cup\nin hand, and both evidently sublimed by their potations far above\nthis \"dirty planet, the earth.\"  At the entrance to the apartment was\nseen the landlady, who, with one hand pushed open the door, whilst\nthe other, projecting forwards, supported a huge tankard, charged\nwith the favourite beverage, which mantled or effloresced at the top,\nlike a cauliflower.  The neighbouring sign had fewer attractions for\nthe weary traveller or the droughty villager, throwing out merely\nhints as to the condition of the reader's linen, by intimating that\nclothes might here undergo purification, and be mangled by the hour\nor _peace_ (such was the orthography) by Nelly Gray.\n\nThe two neighbours lived on terms of the utmost harmony; for there\nwas no rivalry of interests.  Their callings were antipodes to each\nother--one being devoted to the decoration and comfortable appearance\nof the human exterior, whilst the other took special cognizance of\nthe internal condition of the animal economy.  They, of course,\ncarried on a mutual traffic; but it was on the primitive principle of\nbarter--the weekly account for washing and dressing which Janet owed,\nbeing duly balanced by her accommodating Nelly with a certain potent\nnostrum, which we shall not name, but merely describe as a sovereign\nremedy for aching bones and pains, and other complaints of the\nstomach, to which this petticoat Diogenes (for she likewise practised\nin a tub) was very subject, especially after washing a whole day, or\nimpelling her crazy creaking machine for the same space of time.  It\nwas their invariable practice to spend an hour or two every evening\nin what is termed in the vernacular a \"twa-handed crack,\" either\nseated out doors, or snugly immured in Janet's back parlour--a small\ndark room, encumbered with sundry articles of retail The subject of\ntheir conversation, on the present occasion, will immediately become\napparent.\n\n\"They say he's gaun to learn folk ellykeashun,\" said Janet, in\nreference to May's lover.\n\n\"An' what's that, Janet?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Ne'er a bit o' me kens very weel,\" rejoined Janet, \"but, I'm thinkin\nit's the way the gentry speak, eghin an' owin, and sichin and sabbin,\nan' makin yer voice gang up an doun, like daft Jock playin on the\nfife.\"\n\n\"Hech, sirs, that's an idle kind o' way o' making ane's bread,\"\nsighed Janet.  \"It's naething else than begging.  He'd better pit a\nnapping hammer in his hand an' tak the roadside for an honest\nlivelihood.\"\n\n\"'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's been on the road before,\nfollowing anither trade,\" said Janet.  \"I'm sair mistaen if he's no a\nhempie; an' we'll maybe hear mair aboot him yet than some folks wad\nlike to ken o'.  I never liked your land-loupers an' spoutin gentry\na' my days.  They're nae better than tinklers, that carry off\nwhatever they lay their han's on, nae matter whether it's beast or\nbody.  It cowes the gowan hoo sae sensible a man as John Darling wad\ne'er hae looten his dochter tak up wi' sic like clamjamfrey.  But he\nwas aye owre easy wi' his family, an' gied them owre muckle o' their\nain wull frae the first.  But the mother was sair to blame in pittin\nsic daft-like notions intil a bairn's head as to read playactorin\nbooks an' novels.  Wae am I to say sae, noo that she's whar the Lord\nwull.\"\n\n\"Is't true, Janet, that they're to be coupled i' the kirk?\" asked\nNelly.  \"They say the minister's taen an unco likin' to the lad; an',\nto mak' things look as genteel as possible, he's offered the use o'\nthe kirk for marrying them in; an's to gie them a ploy forbye, after\nit's a' owre.\"\n\n\"Guid faith, it's a true saying--'The fat sow gets a' the draff,'\"\nrejoined Janet.  \"It wad be lang or he did a turn like that for ony\npuir body like oorsels.  The birkie doesna stand in need o' cash; for\nhe gies saxpence to this ane, an' a shilling to the ither ane, for\ngauging errans.  He micht hae provided something for the waddin folks\ndoun at Michael Crummie's, whase tred's no sae brisk noo, sin' that\nkick-up wi' him an' the Mason Lodge folk, wha swore he gied them up\nill whusky--an' that was, maybe, nae lee.  He ne'er, since ever I\nmind, keepit the real stuff, like that o' mine.  But see, Nelly,\nwhatna puir, waebegone looking creature's that coming alang the road,\nscarcely able to trail ae leg after anither?--an' a bairn, too, help\nus a'!\"\n\nThe object which drew the attention of the honest ale-wife was, as\nthe reader may have already sagaciously conjectured, the same forlorn\nbeing whom May Darling and her lover had accidentally encountered.\nWith a slow and faltering step, she approached the village dames, and\ninquired of them how far it was from the town of H--.\n\n\"Five miles guid,\" said Janet Baird, and continued--\"but ye'll no'\nthink o' gaun there the nicht; it's gettin dark, an' ye've mair need\no' a while's rest; an', maybe, ye wa'dna be the waur o' something to\nsupport nature; for, wae's me! ye do look thin an' hungert like!\nTak' her in by, Nelly, an' I'll fetch her some cordial, as weel as a\nmorsel to eat.\"\n\nSo saying, she proceeded to her shop, for the purpose of making good\nher word, whilst Nelly followed up that part of the duty of relieving\nthe stranger which devolved upon her, and conducted the \"wearied one\"\ninto the interior of her humble domicile.\n\n\"Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, na, I sudna wonder?\" said\nNelly.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the stranger, whom we shall now designate as Mrs B.\n\"Since morning, I have prosecuted my journey with all the speed which\nwant and weariness would permit of.  But these were nothing, did I\nonly know how it was to terminate.\"\n\nMeantime, Janet had returned, bearing in her apron an ample stock of\nprovisions; and, having heard the latter part of Mrs B.'s reply to\nNelly, her curiosity was not a little excited to know something of\nher history.  This she set about with the characteristic _pawkiness_\n(there is no purely English word sufficiently expressive) of the\nScotch--that style of speaking which is half asking, half answering a\nquestion; and she was successful in her endeavours.\n\n\"It'll be the guidman that ye're gaun to meet at H--?\" said Janet.\n\"He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae doot; for there's little\nelse done there; an', indeed, that itsel has faun sair aff sin' that\ndirt o' machinery was brought in to tak' the bread out o' the puir\nman's mouth.\"\n\n\"Yes--no; he is not in that line, nor do I know, indeed, if he is to\nbe found there at all; but--but--excuse me, kind friends, for showing\na little reserve touching one who\"--\n\nHere, however, her feelings overcame her; and, turning round to gaze\non the helpless being that clung to her bosom, tears from her\nsuffused eyes began to find a ready passage down her pale emaciated\ncheek--a channel with which they appeared to be familiar.\n\n\"He never saw thee, my little Henry, my sweet boy!  Methinks, that\ncherub smile of innocence which lies upon that countenance, would be\npowerful enough to melt the icy feelings of his soul, and recall--.\nPardon me, kind friends,\" she continued; \"but the name of husband is\nassociated in my mind with all that human nature can suffer of\nunmitigated, hopeless wretchedness.  You see before you the victim\nof--.  But you shall hear all.\"\n\nShe then commenced her history, recounting every circumstance of a\ntale of misery but too common.  As it is, in some measure, connected\nwith that of May Darling, we shall give a few of of its leading facts.\n\nShe was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the north of England,\nand, being an only child, received an accomplished education; and,\nfrom her engaging manners, personal attractions, and skill in music,\nshe was much courted even by those who moved in the higher circles.\nAt the house of a neighbouring clergyman, Mr G--, she was a very\nfrequent visitor; and her charms captivated the heart of Dr G--, a\nyoung medical gentleman, and the nephew of the clergyman.  On her\npart, however, there was no attachment, although the ardour with\nwhich Dr G-- pressed his suit might have captivated a bosom less\nstubborn than hers.  But another idol was shrined and secretly\nworshipped there.  This was a Mr Henry Bolton, a fellow-student of Dr\nG--'s, who, in calling at the house of Mr G--, to see his friend the\nDoctor, was induced to spend a few days with him.  His stay was\nprotracted to weeks, months--in short, till the farmer's daughter and\nhe, having come to an understanding with respect to the all important\nmatter of love, agreed to join hands for better for worse.  The\nmarriage took place at a neighbouring town, where the couple remained\nfor several months, living in a state of great privacy, for no one\nwas in the secret of their union, not even the lady's father.  The\nfinances of Mr Bolton became exhausted; and a letter from his father\nhaving shut out all hope of succour from that quarter, he was thrown\ninto a state of extreme dejection.  His temper soured, and harshness\ntowards his wife soon followed; for an application on her part to her\nfather, to whom she was compelled by necessity to reveal her\nsituation, met with a reception similar to the other.  One day he\ndressed himself with more than usual care, packed up in a small\nparcel the principal part of his body clothes, and having told his\nwife that he meant to go as far as ----, naming a considerable town,\nwhich was situated at some miles distance, parted from her, like Ajut\nin \"The Rambler,\" never to return.  The sun arose and set, and arose\nagain and again, and week after week, but still he came not; nor was\nshe ever able to obtain the faintest trace of him.  Her health began\nto droop, and, in the depth of her humiliation and misery, like the\nprodigal of old, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the\npaternal roof.  Her father received her even with kindness; for time,\nthe softener of affliction, the soother of wrath, had not passed over\nhis head without exercising its due influence upon his feelings.\nHere she gave birth to a child, the baby which now lay at her breast.\nTime passed away, and still no intelligence of her runaway husband\nreached her, till, \"about a week back,\" she said, \"communication was\nmade me by letter, that, if I would repair to the town of H--, I\nwould hear something of my lost husband.  Without the knowledge of my\nfather, I have undertaken the journey; and God alone knows whether\nthe information, so mysteriously conveyed to me, be true or\nfalse--whether my hopes will be disappointed or realised.  A few\nhours, however, will be sufficient to set my mind at rest.  I have\nwearied you, I fear; but my present wretched appearance required some\nexplanation on my part--for, oh, it is difficult to lie under the\nsuspicion of being a vagrant or vagabond, as heaven knows I am\nneither.\"  And, clasping her hands and raising her eyes, she remained\nfor a few minutes in that reverential but death-like attitude which\nis assumed when a human soul prays in agony.\n\nHer painful narrative had its due influence upon the minds of those\nto whom it was addressed; and, although both admitted the propriety\nof proceeding to the town of H--, yet they earnestly exhorted her to\nremain with them for a night; and to this proposal she acceded.\nAfter breakfast next morning, Mrs B. (who must now be looked upon as\none of the principal of our _dramatis person\u00e6_) set out for the town\nof H--.  What the nature of her reflections were, as she drew near\nthe termination of her journey, may be readily conceived; but of\ntheir intensity no idea can be formed by any one except by the\nbroken-hearted female who has passed through the same fiery ordeal of\ndesertion and despair.  She had arrived within a short distance of\nthe town, when a chaise, driving rapidly down the principal entrance\nto it, attracted her attention.  It approached; and from the favours\nwhich profusely adorned the driver, his team, and his vehicle, it was\nevident that some happy pair were destined soon to become its\noccupants.  The blinds were all drawn up; but, as the chaise passed\nher, one of them was partially let down, and she heard some one from\nwithin instruct the driver to proceed to the manse by a road more\nretired than that usually taken.  There was something in the tone of\nthe voice (though indistinctly heard from the rattling of the wheels)\nwhich startled Mrs B. from a reverie in which she had been indulging,\nand made every fibre of her body to thrill, as if an electric\ndischarge had shot through it.  In mute astonishment, not unmingled\nwith thick coming fancies, horrible forebodings, which, without\nassuming any definite form, were prophetic of woe, she fixed her eyes\nupon the retiring vehicle, and, rooted to the spot where she stood,\nmotionless as a Niobe of stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs\nached.  \"Can it be?\" she at last exclaimed, with wild emotion--\"can\nit be?--No--no--'tis but fancy; yet the place!--gracious powers!\"\nHer eyes continued to follow the retiring wheels, fixed upon them she\nknew not by what mysterious power; and long she might have remained\nin this position, had not some person from behind softly addressed\nher.  She turned round, and her eyes fell upon her former suitor, Dr\nG--.  Let her astonishment be imagined--we will not attempt to give\nwords to her feelings.\n\n\"It is to you, then,\" she said, after recovering from her\nsurprise--\"it is to you, Dr G--, that I am indebted for information\nregarding my lost husband.\"\n\n\"It is,\" he replied; \"but not a moment is to be lost.  Things are in\na worse condition than they were when I dispatched my letter to you.\nBut let us proceed instantly to Grassyvale.  On the way I will inform\nyou of all that has come to my knowledge regarding that monster--it\nwere a profanation of language to call him husband.\"  So saying, they\ncommenced their journey, which we shall leave them to prosecute\nwhilst we bring up some parts of our narrative necessarily left in\nthe rear.\n\nWe need hardly say that the morning of her marriage was an anxious\nand a busy one to May Darling.  It is true that she had plenty of\nassistance afforded her by the village matrons, and by a few youthful\nassociates, whom she had singled out as especial favourites from\namongst many who were regarded by her with affection.  But still a\nfastidiousness of taste always seizes people on those occasions when\nthey are desirous of appearing to the best advantage.  Besides, when\nthere are a number of lady's maids, all busily engaged in decorating\na single individual, a difference of opinion relative to the various\nitems of dress always takes place, and occasions much delay.  One of\nthem is clear that such and such a colour of ribbon will best suit\nthe complexion of the wearer; another holds out strongly for an\nopposite hue; and a third silences them both by asserting that\nneither answer the colour of the bonnet.  What sort of flowers would\nmost fittingly ornament the hair, was also a subject of protracted\ndebate; and half-an-hour was wasted in determining whether the ribbon\nwhich was to circle her waist like a zone, should hang down or not.\nMatters, however, were at last adjusted--the bride was arrayed, the\nhour of twelve was struck by a small wooden clock which ticked behind\nthe door; and with the hour there arrived at the cottage a sort of\nrude palanquin, fashioned of birch-tree boughs, which intertwisted\nwith each other, and were interwoven with branches of flowering\nshrubs; and upon this some of the kindest and blithest-hearted of the\nvillagers had agreed to bear May to the kirk.  Some modest scruples\nrequired to be overcome before she would be induced to avail herself\nof this mode of conveyance; and, after being seated, with the\nbridesmaid walking on one side, and John Darling on the other, the\ncavalcade began to move.  Many hearty good wishes for the happiness\nof the bride from the elder people, and many joyous shouts from the\nyounger part of the villagers, greeted the ears of the marriage\nparty; whilst a pretty long train which drew itself out in the rear,\nsent up its rejoicings on the wind from a distance.  But one step\nmust bring us to the altar of Hymen.  Side by side stood the\nbridegroom and the bride; and a more interesting, handsome, and\napparently well-matched pair, never were seen in the same situation,\nas we are informed by the clergyman who officiated on the occasion.\nThe ceremony proceeded with due formality--one moment more would have\njoined their hands, when a person who had just entered the church\ncalled to the clergyman to stay the nuptials; and, at the same\nmoment, a shriek from a female who had entered along with him, rose\nso wild, thrilling, and distracted, that every bosom shook beneath\nits glittering attire.\n\n\"Base, inhuman miscreant!\" shouted Dr G--, addressing himself to\nWilkinson (which name must now be supplanted by his real one,\nBolton), at the same time rushing forward to seize the bridegroom.\n\nHe, however, had ere this dropped the hand of May Darling--that hand\nwhich, till now, like Desdemona's, had \"felt no age, nor known no\nsorrow\"--and, unsheathing a dagger which was concealed about his\nperson (doubtless one of his theatrical weapons), he threatened to\nmake a ghost of any one who disputed his retreat from the church.\nHis menacing attitude and wild gesticulations terrified every\nbeholder, and even Dr G-- gave way, allowing him unmolested to quit\nthe sacred place which he was about to profane, and possibly might\nhave stained with blood.  Only one attempted to arrest him, and, for\na short time, succeeded.  It was his wife--she who the night\npreviously had kindled up in his soul the fires of conscience, as she\nlay asleep, unsheltered save by heaven's blue canopy, and apparently\nan abandoned outcast.\n\n\"Henry,\" she said, holding up their child, and stretching forth her\narms--\"Henry, look on this dear pledge of our affection, the child of\nlove, though born in bitterness and tears, the offspring of your\nchoice--look on him, Henry, and let the voice of conscience in your\nbreast, which must be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf.\nThe helpless darling innocent--of what crime has he been guilty, that\nhis natural protector should cast him forth to meet the buffetings of\nfate without a shield--that he should be launched upon the sea of\nlife without an oar?  If not for my sake, at least for the sake of\nlittle Henry--for he bears your name--restore us both to honour and\nsociety, by returning to the path of duty.  The arms that have so\noften embraced you, will again encircle the neck to which they have\nclung so often and so fondly.  O Henry.  Henry! reflect for an\ninstant on my destitute, outcast condition--without you, I am a weed\ncast from the rock, to be driven whithersoever the storm sets\nwildest.  Think what my sufferings have been and must be!--God alone\ncan estimate them.  Henry, hear me.\"  And, taking her child in one\narm, she stretched out the other to detain him; but the heartless\nvillain shook her rudely from him, and darted from the church.\n\nWhat were May Darling's feelings during this heart-rending scene?\nShe was not a spectator of it.  The moment that the dreadful truth\nflashed upon her mind, she sank into the arms of her father, dead to\nconsciousness and time.  By the same conveyance which had brought her\nin triumph to the church, she was borne to her father's cottage, a\nwretched but a gentle maniac.\n\nDays, weeks, months passed away, and she remained the same listless,\nmild, and inoffensive creature--a baby-woman, a human being ripe in\nyears and an infant in thought, feeling, and everything mental.  'Tis\npainful to contemplate the situation of an individual overwhelmed by\nsuch a calamity under any circumstances; but, under the present, how\nterrible indeed!  To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in bridal\nrobes, and with all her hopes blooming around her--how does it humble\nhuman pride, set at nought all calculations of human happiness, and\nassign narrow limits to human hope!  And yet there was mercy in the\ndispensation.  Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than\nalive to all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling.  Better\nthe vacant stare, and the look of silent indifference on all beneath\nthe sun, than the wild gesticulations of violent grief, the shriek of\nwoe, or the agony of despair, for the alleviation of which \"hope\nnever comes that comes to all.\"\n\nEvery means were had recourse to for rousing her from the dismal\ntrance into which she had fallen, to dispel from her thoughts the\ngloomy, the dead images by which they were haunted; but in vain.\nSometimes she would sit amongst her gay companions; and, whilst they\nlaughed, chatted, and sung, as in former happy days, a faint smile\nwould rekindle about her lips, so rosy once, so wan and withered now,\nand for a moment playing like a mental coruscation, would suddenly\nexpire, and then she would droop again into the gloom of moody\nmadness, and weep amidst all the gaiety that surrounded her--weep\neven like a child.  If spoken to, she made no reply; but, lifting up\nher dark streaming eyes, sparkling through the humid medium in which\nthey were suffused, like a star in motionless water, she would sing\nsnatches of old songs about disappointed love, blighted hopes, and\nbroken hearts.  And the melancholy tones of her voice would sadden\nall around her, as if some powerful spell had suddenly passed over\ntheir minds like a cold wind, and frozen up the fount of joyous\nfeeling; and they would weep, too--weep along with her; for she was\nso beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy once, and so woe-begone\nand wretched now.  Then would the gentle maniac start up on a sudden,\nas if some one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards home,\nwould mutter, in a quick tone of voice--\"I am coming--I am coming!  I\nknew we would be in time!--I knew we would be in time!  He is\nthere!--he--he!--Who?\"  She was silent now.  Many an eye was filled\nwith tears as she passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale.\n\nWinter had passed away--the vernal eruption of spring had been\nmatured into the bloom, and the promise which spring gives of autumn,\nwhen May Darling, one evening, wandered forth from her father's\ncottage, attended only by a little sister.  Striking into that\nbeautiful and unfrequented path where she had last walked with him\nwho, on the following day, was to have become her husband, she had\narrived at the very spot where lay asleep, on the grassy bank, by the\nhedge-side, the wife of Bolton.  A train of thought seemed suddenly\nto rush through her mind; for she sat, or rather dropped gently down.\n'Twas the recollection of former events which had begun to be\nreanimated within her; and, though faint, it was sufficient to cause\na temporary suspension of muscular energy: her sight became dim, only\nvague images being presented to the eye; and she might probably have\nfallen backwards, had not a person sprung through the hedge, and,\nputting his arms around her slender form, maintained her in an erect\nposition.  The individual who had thus so opportunely come to her\nassistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the warmth\nof the weather rendered such a covering scarcely necessary.  The\nupper part of his countenance was concealed by a slouched hat drawn\npretty far down; but from what of it was visible, it was plain that\ncare, remorse, and dissipation had gone far to modify its natural\nexpression.\n\nMay gradually revived from her partial swoon; and the stranger,\nuncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid features\nwhich began to assume the hue of life and the expression of conscious\nbeing, said, in a low, trembling voice--\n\n\"May Darling, hear me--do not curse me--I am miserable enough without\nthe malison of her whom\"--But his feelings for a moment choked his\nutterance.  \"Through a thousand dangers and difficulties have I\nsought this interview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and\nacceptance of this small gift.\"  Here he flung a purse down by her\nside.  \"Say you forgive me, May--breathe but the word, and, in a few\ndays, an ocean shall roll between us.\"\n\nBut he spoke to ears which heard not.  The moment that May recognised\nBolton, reason was restored, but animation fled, and she sank dead\nfor a time in his arms.  He was about to take measures for her\nrestoration, when the rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his\nattention in another direction; and, looking over the hedge-row, he\nperceived two horsemen, at a very little distance, advancing towards\nthe village.  He seemed to be aware of their errand and the cause of\ntheir speed; for, no sooner had he cast his eyes on them, than his\nhead instinctively slunk down behind the hedge.  But his precaution\nwas too late.  He had been seen; and, that night, he was led, a\nfettered man, to the gaol of H--, charged with highway robbery.  We\nmay as well conclude his history, as well as that of the other\nindividuals who have been interwoven with our tale, before returning\nto May Darling.\n\nMr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with which he was\ncharged, and condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was\nonly his first offence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the\ncrime for the purpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to\nrequite May Darling for the injury which she had received at his\nhands.  How wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the\nguilty!  Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits\na capital crime, and the woman whom he had wronged becomes,\nunconsciously to herself, the ultimate cause of his punishment!\nHowever, by powerful intercession on the part of his friends, the\nsentence was commuted to transportation for life.  But it was\ndestined that he should end his days miserably.  \"Whoso sheddeth\nman's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.\"  Bolton was virtually a\nmurderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded by the\ndecision of any earthly tribunal.  'Twas vain to attempt to fly from\nit.  The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the\nregions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness\nand disguise, would have struck its victim down.  In a skirmish with\nthe natives of the place to which he had been transported, he was\ntaken prisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death.\n\nAfter the painful interview with her husband in the church of\nGrassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from\nthe world, and devoting her time to household duties and the\neducation of her son.  Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated\nat last to the remote part of the country where she resided, and, on\nits being officially authenticated, Dr G--, who had commenced\npractice in a neighbouring town, became a frequent visitor at the\nfarm-house.  His former courtship was renewed; and, when the days of\nmourning were over, and time had done much to alleviate grief, to\nrestore the faded charms of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of\nthe past into dimness and distance, they were united; and are still,\naccording to the last accounts, living happily together, surrounded\nby a family of thriving children.  Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still\npursue their respective callings in Grassyvale; the latter never\nfailing, on every possible occasion, to boast of her sagacity in\ndetecting the real character of Mr Henry Wilkinson, _alias_ Bolton.\nBut let us return to the suffering May Darling.\n\nShe was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she\nremained all that night, and next day revived only to know that she\nwas dying.  Yes--the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the\nvenom, though fatal, worked slow.  Gold is refined by fire, and the\nmore intense the heat applied, the purer will the metal become.  So\nis it with the human soul.  It is made perfect through suffering; and\nthe more it is destined to endure, the fitter will it become for\ntaking a part with the choirs of saints and angels, when it shall\nhave thrown aside the garment of mortality and mounted on high, like\nthe unshadowed moon, through parted clouds.  But May was happy,\nnotwithstanding.  In all her looks and movements were disclosed the\npeace of mind which passeth understanding.  It was diffused, like\nlight from heaven, over her countenance; it was heard, like a rich\nchord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every word and action\nbetrayed its presence and all-prevailing power.  Her Bible, although\nalways a favourite study, became now her sole one; and by its\nall-hallowing influence, her mind looking down with calm complacency\non all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of immortality, in\nmany a delightful contemplation of that abode and that felicity which\nshall reward the just.\n\n\"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn,\" says the\nworthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts\nof the foregoing narrative, \"that I was hastily summoned, by John\nDarling, to visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying.  I lost\nno time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture\nwas but too true.  In an easy chair, placed at an open window which\nfaced the west, reclined the victim of a broken heart.  On her pale\ncheek death had impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose\ntint fluctuated, which was not so in her days of health and hope.\nHer words, when she spake, and that was seldom, seemed to come forth\nwithout her breath; and the lightest down that ever was wafted\nthrough summer's air might have slept unfluttered on her lips.  I\nkneeled down and prayed that the gentle spirit which was about to be\nreleased from its mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms\nof life and light.  She understood distinctly that she was dying; and\nin token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when\nI had finished--\"Yes! oh, yes!--Heaven! he--!\"  The words died\nunfinished on her tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky.\n\n\n\n\nMORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MERTON.\n\nBY JAMES MAIDMENT.\n\n\"Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you\npresume to set your foot on my grounds?  Have I not already warned\nyou; and if I use you now severely, the blame must rest with\nyourself.\"\n\nThese words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an\nevident state of excitement, to a young lad apparently about\nnineteen, but in reality not much above sixteen, whom he met\ntraversing the grounds of Merton.  Tom Vallance did not condescend to\ninform his interrogator why he had presumed to intrude where his\npresence seemed far from welcome, or explain why, on the present\noccasion, he happened to have in his hand a gun, which suspicious\nfolks might be apt to suppose was intended to create some little\nconfusion among the game on this well-preserved estate.  He returned\nno very distinct answer; but some inarticulate sounds issued from his\nmouth, which, no doubt, were intended to deprecate the rage of the\nhasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed to have the effect only\nof heightening his ire, as he turned round to his keeper, who, with\none of the servants, was at his back, and bade them secure the\nfowling-piece with which the youth was furnished--a command which was\ninstantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the sudden attack,\nwas without difficulty disarmed.\n\n\"Now, my lad,\" quoth Sir Thomas, \"you had better be off, unless you\nwish me to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be\ntrespassed upon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you.\"\n\nTom stood firm, scowling on the baronet.  At length he gained nerve\nenough to say--\n\n\"Give me back my gun.  You have no right to rob me, nor shall you.\"\n\n\"But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow.  Don't suppose I want\nto keep your twopenny-halfpenny pop gun.  Here, John, just take\nMaster Tom by the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you,\nPeter, carry this rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it\nwould better become her to keep her son behind the counter of her\nshop, to serve her customers with farthing candles and brown soap,\nthan allow him to vagabondize about the country poaching.  If he does\nnot mend his manners, I've a pretty good guess that some of those\ndays he'll either take a voyage at the expense of his country, or get\nhis neck thrust into a noose.\"\n\nThis was certainly impertinent.  It was, moreover, unjust and\nuncalled for; as whatever might be laid to the charge of Tom\nVallance, on account of his predilection for field sports, no\nimpeachment lay otherwise to his moral character.  But Sir Thomas was\nin a passion; and, like all persons in that state, spoke without\nreflection.  Naturally of a hasty and irritable temper, he had\nreceived a letter that morning which excited his ire excessively, and\nas, upon issuing from the mansion, the lad Vallance crossed his path,\nthe first burst of his wrath fell on his devoted head.  Tom felt\ndeeply the insult.  He had been accustomed to a shake of the head,\nand sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the whole, used him\nwell enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in the family\nduring the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had married the\nheiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he looked upon\nhimself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds.  To be deprived\nof his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse; and,\nforgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed--\n\n\"I am no thief--I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas; and bitterly,\nbitterly, shall you rue this day.  When I set my foot next time on\nyour grounds, it will be for no good to you.\"\n\nSaying this he turned on his heel, and extricating himself suddenly\nfrom the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his\nretreat, and was speedily out of reach.\n\nThe passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply,\nfollowed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom\nwas out of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who\nwere scolded in the most exemplary style, for not knocking the young\nrascal down.  After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation,\nhe returned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said,\n\"like a bear wi' a sair head.\"\n\nSir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of\nancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and\nafterwards sole heiress of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the county of\nRoxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family.  He had\nthree brothers, two elder and one younger than himself.  By the\nmarriage contract, the English estate, which was considerable, was\ndestined to the elder son, the Scotch one to the second son.  Thomas\ngot a commission, went abroad, and, after much battling about,\nattained the rank of General, when, by the death of his brother\nWilliam, he succeeded to Merton; and, a few years afterwards, the\ndemise of the eldest brother, who broke his neck whilst fox-hunting,\ngave him the extensive manor of Vavasour Castle, and the title of a\nbaronet.  The younger brother married an heiress, by whom he had one\nson, who, after his demise, he left under the guardianship of Sir\nThomas--excluding Mrs Vavasour from all control.  The uncle carefully\nsuperintended the education of his ward, became much attached to him,\nand, during the holidays, frequently took him to Merton, to the\ninfinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour, who cordially hated her\nbrother-in-law.  When he grew up, those visits were discontinued,\npartly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to please his\nmother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate as much\nas he could--rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious fine\nlady, with violent and vindictive feelings.  Edward was about\nfour-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady--his equal in\nbirth and fortune--but who did not meet with the mother's\napprobation.  She demanded that the match should be broken\noff--Edward remonstrated--she persisted; and, after a war of words,\nmatters remained precisely as they originally were, he avowing a\nfixed determination to make himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs\nVavasour's threats of vengeance.  This he accordingly did, and his\nmother, bursting a bloodvessel, soon afterwards died, leaving a\nsealed letter to be sent, after her demise, to Sir Thomas, whom she\nhated.\n\nThree weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one\nevening early in the month of September, a party of farmers--for it\nwas market day--were sitting after dinner in the public inn of the\ncounty town, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming--\n\n\"Gracious!--a dreadful murder has just been committed.  The laird of\nMerton has been killed in his own house!\"\n\nThis announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by\nthose assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to\nanswer as to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled\nbrains of those present could devise; and, such a babel of voices\narose in sweet discord, that a gentleman, who sat in the parlour\nalone, and who had arrived by that day's mail, was so much disturbed\nas to ring violently to know why his meditations were thus so\nunharmoniously interrupted.\n\n\"Waiter!\" said he, \"why this disturbance?  Cannot your farmers dine\nhere without kicking up a riot?\"\n\n\"O sir!--it's the murder!\"\n\n\"What murder?\"\n\n\"The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own\nsitting-room, sir!\"\n\n\"Stabbed! do you say?  It cannot be?\"\n\n\"Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter!  And they have got the murderer in\ncustody.\"\n\n\"Murderer!--impossible!  What mean you?\" exclaimed the traveller,\nhastily.\n\n\"Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I\nthink they call it.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Just Tom Vallance, sir--an idle fellow to be sure, but the last\nperson that I would have thought would do such a thing.\"\n\n\"What! the son of the old housekeeper?\"\n\n\"Yes--do you know him, sir?\"\n\n\"Not I--but I've heard of his mother.  What inducement could he have\nto commit so dreadful a crime?\"\n\n\"Revenge, sir!--The General, some two or three weeks since, seized\nhis gun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one\nof his terrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his\ngrounds he would do for him--at least so it is said.\"\n\n\"Dreadful!--and what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?\"\n\n\"Nothing, sir!  His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was\nnot that bad fellow, neither--but dreadfully idle.  He had a good\neducation; but his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and\nhis mother, in place of sending him back, kept him at home: she was\nso fond of him that she let him do whatever he liked.\"\n\n\"How can she afford to maintain him?\"\n\n\"She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him,\nevery penny she could scrape together went into his pockets.\"\n\n\"Where is the accused?\"\n\n\"Tom, sir, do you mean?--Why, before the Sheriff, making his\ndeclaration.\"\n\n\"Who succeeds the late baronet?\"\n\n\"His nephew--a very nice chap.  He was often at Merton when a lad;\nbut he has not been here for many years.  He'll be better liked than\nhis uncle, though the old fellow was not so bad neither.  But I must\ngo, sir, for I hear the bell ringing in the travellers' room.\"  So\nsaying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with\npraiseworthy celerity.\n\nThe unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently\nvery much perplexed in his mind.  He muttered--\"Strange!--very\nstrange!--caught in the room--a previous threat--all concurs.\"\nShortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his\nbill; and, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only\nuntil the mail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses,\nand, having procured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis.\n\nThe investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas\nproceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused.  The\ntwo servants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly\nthe waiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not\nhaving heard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing\nby generalizing.  \"He threatened,\" they said, \"to be revenged, and\nthat he would come to the grounds for that purpose;\" or used some\nsuch words, shewing a determined resolution of getting \"_amends_\" of\ntheir master.  That the General met his death by a stab in the heart\nwas plain enough; and that the servants found Tom beside him,\ngrasping a bloody knife, was equally so.  Presumptions were,\ntherefore, strongly against him; nor did his declaration nor judicial\nstatement help him much; for he admitted, after some little\nhesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to redeem his threat\nof revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of which the\nGeneral was very proud, and which he intended as a present to a\nneighbouring nobleman.  Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to\ntake his siesta immediately after dinner, which was usually at\nfive--for he followed a fashion of his own in this respect, which\nhas, since his time, become popular--and that the gardener left at\nsix, he lurked about the grounds till after that period, and then,\neasily getting into the garden, thought it prudent to see how the\nland lay before he proceeded to his labour of love.\n\nThe house of Merton was an old-fashioned building, or rather series\nof buildings, erected at different times; and the present possessor,\nwho had a fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which\nopened by a glass door upon a terrace from which, by descending a few\nsteps, he entered the garden.  This room was, necessarily, remote\nfrom the rest of the mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined,\nsummer and winter.  After dinner was removed, and the dessert and\nwine placed on the table, the servants withdrew, and were forbidden\nto enter till seven o'clock, when coffee was served.  Of all this Tom\nwas perfectly cognizant.\n\nNow Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to\npeep into the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was\nasleep before he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass door\nwhich led into the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly,\ntill he got there, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying\non the floor on his face.  Astonished at this, and forgetting all\nsense of personal risk, he advanced to raise the baronet, when he\ndiscovered that he was dead, and a knife lying beside the body, which\nhe picked up.  Fear tied up his tongue for some few seconds, and he\nhad barely time to give utterance to an exclamation of horror, when,\nthe door opening, the servant gave the alarm, and before he had time\nto collect his scattered senses he was a prisoner.  All this might\nhave been true, and perhaps the story would have been treated with\nmore consideration than it obtained, had it not been for the\n_previous threat_, which naturally induced a strong suspicion against\nTom.  The result was that, after the ordinary form had been gone\nthrough, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his trial for\nthe murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour and\nMerton, Baronet.\n\nThe heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body\nwas transmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum.\n\nMeanwhile, Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail in a\ncondition far from enviable.  All attempts to induce a confession of\nguilt were abortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence;\nbut, as parties accused are not usually in the habit of confessing\ntheir crimes, these protestations were not considered worth much.\nIndeed, the only person he could convince was his poor mother, who\ngave implicit confidence to his assertions.\n\nA change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in\nprison.  How bitterly did he regret his former idle moments--how\ndeeply did he lament the burden he had been on his mother.  Many a\nvow did he make, that if he could get quit of this charge, he would\neschew his former course of life, and be all a fond parent could ask.\nAbout the tenth day before the approaching sittings, Tom was visited\nby a gentleman, who proffered his assistance as his adviser.  He had\nheard, he said, of the case; and was anxious, on his mother's\naccount, to afford his aid: but he required a full and ample\nstatement, without any concealment.  Tom answered he had nothing to\nconceal; and he recapitulated everything he had formerly stated.\n\nThe stranger listened attentively and, after his client had\nconcluded, shook his head.  \"Tom! you may be innocent--there is the\nimpress of truth in what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but\nstill the evidence against you is so strong, that if you go to trial,\nI am fearful--very fearful of the result.\"\n\nTom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became\nclouded ere the remarks were finished; and, when they terminated, he\nburst into tears.  \"O sir!\" he sobbed, \"have pity on a poor misguided\nlad, who never meant evil to any one--who is as innocent of the crime\nof which he is accused as you are.  Save me, sir!  O save me! if not\non my own account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break\nher heart if I am condemned.\"\n\n\"I would willingly save you if I could,\" was the rejoinder; \"but I\ncannot influence juries--I cannot sway the Court.\"\n\n\"And must I die, then?  Must I, before my time, go down to my grave\ndishonoured and disgraced?  O sir! if it had pleased Heaven to visit\nme with a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one\nsigh except for my mother.  But to be degraded as a felon--to be\nbranded as a murderer--it is too--too much.\"  He became so agitated\nthat grief choked his utterance.\n\nThe stranger, obviously affected, look his hand.  \"Tom, have you\nfirmness?  There is a way, perhaps.\"\n\n\"How!\" exclaimed the lad, eagerly.\n\n\"This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is\npossible.\"\n\n\"Escape!  No! no!  The windows are barred with iron; besides, if I\nescape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that.\"\n\n\"But, will staying behind prove your innocence?  Will your suffering\nthe last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not\ncommit the murder?\"\n\n\"True--very true!  If I live, my innocence may yet be proved--but how\nto get through the window.\"\n\n\"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man.  It is now\nearly.  I will be with you again before the prison shuts.  Remember!\nnot one word to your mother.  You may console her by saying that your\nagent--for such I am--has given you hopes.  Nothing more.  Remember!\"\nSo saying, he departed.\n\n* * * * * *\n\nIt was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake,\nreturned.  Tom had kept his promise; and, by affording his mother\nhopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her\nbosom had been for many a week a stranger.\n\n\"Now, Tom!\" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, \"attend to me.  I have\nbrought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder.  Apply the\nliquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron--then use\nyour file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed.\nNext fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy.  Do not\nbegin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep.  You\nmay get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow.\nAs the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend\nwith the first stroke, if all is right.  Some one will be waiting for\nyou.  He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as\nspeedily as possible.  But, again, I caution you to keep this a\nsecret from your mother.  Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of\nyour acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from\nEdinburgh.  This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your\nintended escape.  Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and\nbe assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of\nsuspense than is absolutely necessary.  You will not see me again in\nprison, I hope.\"\n\nTom's feelings were overcome.  He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed\nit to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes.  He\ncould not speak.\n\nMortlake was affected.  \"And yet, poor kind-hearted boy,\" he said,\n\"people could deem you guilty of a murder--how little did they know\nyou.  But away with tears.  Be a man.  You have a difficult part\nbefore you.  See you flinch not!\"  Then changing his tone, and\nspeaking loudly, \"Well!  I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see\nAndrew Crosbie.  I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a\ngreedy man, I dare say, Tom, I may get him to come here.\"\n\nAt this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and\nMortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return\nfrom Edin burgh.\n\nTom treasured every word in his heart--not one syllable escaped his\nlips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he\ncontemplated flight.  He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his\nmother, and one or two persons, whom curiosity had prompted to visit\nhim, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the\nfame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an\nable lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.\n\nWhen the evening came, Tom commenced operations.  He applied the\nliquid as directed, which soon corroded the iron at the bottom.  The\nsides and top were more difficult, but their partial destruction was\nin time accomplished; and, when the eventful evening came, he had\nlittle difficulty in removing the grating.  It was, of course, only\ninjured at the ends; and, as the window was oblong, by altering the\nposition of the grating, he obtained a substance sufficiently strong\nto which he attached the rope-ladder.  Getting up to the window, he\nplaced the grating reversed in the inside, and threw the ladder on\nthe outside.  To soften the fall of the iron after he had descended,\nhe placed his mattress and bedclothes below; and, having thus made\nevery preliminary arrangement, with the first stroke of twelve he\ncommenced his descent; and, ere the last had died upon the breeze,\nthe ground was reached in safety.\n\nA figure, enveloped in a cloak, approached hurriedly, and whispered\n\"follow!\"  He tossed a bundle to the fugitive, then turned to the\nleft.  The order was obeyed; and, after the lapse of an hour and\na-half, Tom found himself in a wood, and the stranger opening a dark\nlantern--sliding shades at the side of which had previously been\npulled down--disclosed to the eyes of Vallance the features of his\nagent, Mortlake.\n\nThe bundle was untied, and Tom found it to contain a capacious\nwrapper, a shawl, and bonnet with a veil.  Those Tom was required to\nput on, and this matter being accomplished, the journey was resumed,\nand in about two hours they arrived at a small hamlet or village,\nwhere they found a gig waiting for them.  Mortlake then addressed his\ncompanion:--\"My dear Emily! be more composed--never mind your\nfather--I will write to him, and all will yet be put to rights.\"\n\nTom, who had been previously instructed, spoke \"small like a woman;\"\nand, after some affected coyness, entered the carriage, when the\nparties drove off, leaving the man who had taken charge of the\nvehicle under the evident conviction that the strange man was a sad\nblackguard, and that the veiled lady was some unfortunate young woman\nwho had been deluded away by his devices.\n\nThe news of Tom's escape excited universal astonishment, and no means\nwere left untried to trace his footsteps; but every exertion was in\nvain, and his pursuers were completely at fault.  It was universally\nadmitted that some one must have furnished him with the implements\nthat had procured his liberation; and his mother was, as a matter of\ncourse, the first one on whom suspicion lighted.  The poor old woman,\nwhen the fact was announced, was equally amazed and pleased; but she\ncould furnish no clue.  Tom had seen a few people in prison, yet it\nwas evident they had nothing to do with the escape.  It was at last\nresolved that the agent was the accessory; but here the good people\nwere at fault again, for no one, except the jailer, remembered having\nseen him, and he could give but a very imperfect description of him.\nHe might be tall or so--rather think he was, but not sure--wore\npowder, and had, he believes, a black coat, but did not think he\nwould know him again.  This was all that could be elicited.\n\nA reward of fifty pounds was offered by the magistrates for the\ncapture of Tom; and Sir Edward Bruce Vavasour increased it to one\nhundred and fifty, expressing, at same time, his anxiety that the\naccused should be retaken.\n\nWhilst all were in a state of excitement, fresh fuel was added to the\nflame by the following letter, bearing the Liverpool post-mark, which\nMrs Vallance received from her son:--\n\n\n\"DEAREST MOTHER,--I am well, and as happy as one unjustly accused can\nbe.  Though fate has sundered us, you are ever in my thoughts.  I\nhave found a protector--fear not for me.  You shall regularly hear\nfrom\n\n\"Your affectionate son,\" &c.\n\n\nBeneath was written:--\"Your son will yet be a blessing to you.\nAccept this trifle.\"  And a twenty pound note was found enclosed.\n\n\"What a fool!\" said the wise ones, \"only to think of letting us know\nwhere he is.\"  And, upon the hint, away trotted the officers with a\ncriminal warrant, to be backed, as it is termed, by an English\njustice in Liverpool, where, to their great vexation, he was not to\nbe found.\n\nMeanwhile, the object of their pursuit was out of all danger.  His\nfriend and he at last found themselves on the road to Wooler.\n\n\"Tom!\" said Mortlake, when they alighted at the inn, \"you must pass\nfor my wife.  I have everything provided for that purpose in my\nportmanteau; meanwhile, keep down your veil, and wrap your cloak\nabout you.\"\n\nHe then took out a complete suit of female apparel, and speedily his\nproteg\u00e9e was metamorphosed into a tall and handsome, although\nsomewhat masculine, female.  We need not tire our readers with a\ndetail of the subsequent journey southward, and may only mention that\nMortlake left the horse and gig at Wooler, where, obtaining a seat\nfor himself and his companion in the mail, they arrived in safety at\nBarnet.  Here Tom resumed his sex; and, in a new suit of clothes,\nappeared, as he really was, a good and intelligent looking young man.\n\nFrom Barnet, the travellers proceeded in a chaise to London, where\nMortlake took lodgings, and, after the lapse of a few days, disclosed\nto the youth his ulterior purposes.\n\n\"Mr Vallance!\" said he.\n\n\"Do not call me 'Mr'--if you do, I shall think I have offended you.\"\n\n\"Well, Tom, then.  Listen to what I have to say.  You have been my\ncompanion now for nearly three weeks.  During that time I have\nstudied you, and the opinion I have formed is favourable.  You\npossess good qualities and excellent talents: these have been\nobscured but not extinguished by your recent follies, not to give\nthem a harsher name.  By giving way to passion and using threats,\nwhich, from you, were ill-judged and ill-timed, you have barely\nescaped an ignominious death.  Far be it from me to say that the late\nowner of Merlon was justified in the intemperate language he used;\nbut you know that at times he had no control over himself, and you\nshould have made allowances for what was really a disease.  Of your\ninnocence I have not the slightest doubt, otherwise I would never\nhave aided your escape from jail.  I think the lesson you have had is\none you can never forget; and I prophesy that Thomas Vallance may yet\nassume that position in society which good conduct and perseverance\never secure.\"\n\nTom heard this eulogium, qualified as it was, with great delight.\n\"Try me!  O try me, my best friend!--give me an opportunity of\nevincing, by the propriety of my conduct, how much I feel your\nbenevolence.  To please you shall be the study of my future life.\"\n\n\"Well, Tom, you shall have a trial; but you must leave me, and cross\nthe seas.  It is not safe for either of us that you remain here.\"\n\nTom's countenance fell.  \"And must I leave _you_--the only being in\nthe world, save my mother, whom I love? but your commands are to me\nas laws, and they shall be obeyed.\"\n\n\"Well, then--the family with which I am connected have large\npossessions in Antigua, and there is a wealthy mercantile\nestablishment over which I have no inconsiderable control--so much\nso, that any recommendation from me or mine will meet with immediate\nattention.  I shall place you there as a clerk; and if you discharge\nthe duties of the office satisfactorily, means shall be afforded of\nadvancing you: in one word, everything shall be made to depend upon\nyour good behaviour.  Preparations have already been making for your\ndeparture, and I have procured from the senior partner of Mortlake,\nTresham, & Co., an order for your appointment, with a letter of\nrecommendation to Mr Tresham, the resident partner, whose good graces\nI sincerely wish you may acquire.\"\n\n\"Mortlake!--is he a relation of yours?\"\n\n\"Yes! but you must ask no questions--seek to know nothing beyond what\nI choose to disclose.  You must renounce your name.  You will\ntherefore, in future, be known as Thomas Mortlake, the son of a\ndistant relation of mine.  Such is the legend that must be\ncirculated.  Now, write to your mother.  Would to heavens! I could\npermit an interview, but that cannot be.  Give me the letter, sealed\nif you choose, as I have a particular mode of transmitting it to her;\nand I wish it to appear, as the former one did, that it came from\nLiverpool.  Be cautious and guarded in what you communicate, but\nmention that, in future, she shall have such an allowance as will\nmake her easy for life.  Now, farewell for a few hours, and be sure\nto have your letter ready when I return.\"\n\nTom was left to his own reflections.  The letter to Mrs Vallance was\nwritten; and, by the time that Mortlake returned, Tom was\nsufficiently composed to veil his feelings, and meet him as of old.\n\n\"Everything is arranged,\" said Mortlake; \"in a few days you sail from\nthe Thames by the brig _Tresham_.  You will have every accommodation\nafforded that a gentleman can require: a suitable wardrobe is\npreparing: in short, my dear young friend, you shall appear to these\nWest Indians as their equal, and in such guise as suits the proud\nname of Mortlake.  One thing more, and I have done.  The present\nBaronet of Vavasour has, through his mother, property in Antigua, and\nis distantly related to the elder partner of the firm.  You will,\ntherefore, seem as if you knew him not; and even in regard to myself,\nI wish little or nothing said.  That curiosity will be excited, I\ndoubt not, but I leave you to baffle it.\"\n\nTime passed with unusual rapidity--so, at least, Mr Thomas Mortlake\nopined; and the day of his departure having at length arrived, he was\nnot a little startled when his friend made a very early appearance,\naccompanied by a young lady.  Advancing towards him, she said--\"Mr\nMortlake!  I am happy to have had this opportunity of seeing you\nprevious to your departure, and of personally wishing you every\nsuccess in the calling in which you are about to engage.  Your friend\nhas no secrets from me, and I am acquainted with every particular of\nyour singular history.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" exclaimed his protector; \"I conceal nothing from this lady,\nand she feels as much interest in you as I do myself.  We propose to\naccompany you to the ship.\"\n\nTom felt somewhat confused by this unexpected introduction; but that\nnatural sense of propriety which is inherent in some minds, and which\nothers vainly endeavour to acquire, enabled him to acquit himself in\na manner that gave equal satisfaction to both visitors.  The party\nthen proceeded to the vessel, where Mortlake and the lady satisfied\nthemselves that due provision had been made for the accommodation of\ntheir proteg\u00e9.\n\n\"Mr Mortlake!\" said the lady at parting, \"I have used the freedom of\nan old friend, and placed in your cabin a small collection of books,\nwhich, I have no doubt, will materially help to deprive your voyage\nof half its tedium; and, when you arrive at the place of your\ndestination, if you could devote any leisure hours to their study, be\nassured the benefit will be incalculable.\"\n\n\"Believe me,\" he answered, \"my kind patrons, whatever may be my fate,\nI never can forget the wondrous acts of kindness that have been\nlavished on me.  If an anxious desire to discharge the duties of my\noffice--if a determination to surmount difficulties, coupled with a\nfirm resolution to act fairly and honourably by my neighbours--can be\ntaken as an earnest of my anxiety to please, on this you may rely;\nand if my exertions be crowned with success, the pleasure will be\ndoubled when I remember it is all owing to you.\"\n\n\"Tom,\" said Mr Mortlake, \"you are eloquent; but time flies, and we\nmust part.\"\n\n\"I have but one request more--no doubt it is needless.  Be kind!  O\nbe kind to my poor mother!\"\n\n\"On that,\" replied the lady, \"you may depend.  And now, farewell!\"\n\nTom took her hand, and pressed it respectfully to his lips; then,\nturning to his friend, tried to give utterance to \"farewell!\"  The\nword would not pass his lips.  Forgetting all difference of rank, he\nthrew his arms around Mortlake's neck, and wept.  In a moment, as if\nashamed of his freedom, or want of manliness, he hastily withdrew\nfrom his embrace.\n\nMortlake was moved.  He pressed the lad affectionately to his\nbreast--\"God bless you, my dear fellow; in me you have ever a steady\nfriend.  And now, farewell!\"\n\nThey separated; and years elapsed ere Mortlake and his friend again\nmet.\n\n* * * *\n\nYoung Mortlake--for so he must in future be termed--suffered the\nusual inconveniences of a sea voyage; and if ever his boyish\ninclination, influenced by a perusal of the fascinating fiction of\n\"Robinson Crusoe,\" had given him a fancy for the pleasures of a\nseafaring life, they yielded speedily to the irresistible effects of\nsea-sickness.\n\nThe vessel reached the island in about six weeks, and Tom presented\nhis credentials to Mr Tresham, from whom he met a favourable\nreception.  He had an apartment assigned to him in the house, and was\ntreated as one of the family.  To the duties of the counting-house,\nirksome in the outset, he soon became reconciled.  His anxiety to\nplease was not overlooked by his master, who, finding him able and\napt, gradually raised both his rank and his salary.  Before five\nyears had elapsed, he was head clerk in the establishment.\nFavourites are not much liked; but Tom bore his honours so meekly,\nand was so obliging, without being obsequious, that his rise neither\nexcited envy nor surprise--indeed, it was looked upon as a matter of\ncourse; and the astonishment would have been, not that he had risen,\nbut that he had not risen in the establishment.\n\nWhen he first arrived, he was pestered with questions as to birth,\nparentage, and education.  These ordinary, but impertinent queries,\nhe parried with equal good humour and tact.  All that could be\nextracted from him was, that he was protected by Mr Mortlake, and\nthat that was his own name.  Mr Tresham, however, put no questions.\nSir Edward Vavasour was rarely mentioned.  Little was known of him,\nexcepting that several thousands a-year were annually remitted to\nEngland as the produce of his estates.  Latterly, Tom observed that\nthese returns were made to account of Lord Mortlake.  This puzzled\nhim; and, upon a question to Tresham being hazarded, he coldly\nanswered--\n\n\"The possessions of Sir Edward Vavasour belong now to Lord Mortlake;\nbut remember the request of your benefactor--to ask no questions.\"\n\nOther matters of more importance now occupied our hero's mind, and he\ngave himself no farther thoughts on the subject.  The firstfruits of\nhis labour were piously remitted to his mother, through his English\ncorrespondent.  From her he (through the same channel) learned that\nSir Edward Vavasour had given her a nice little cottage and garden,\non the Vavasour estate, in England, rent-free, and that she had sold\noff everything in Merton, as the recollections there were\nunpleasant--the reason assigned being her former services as\nhousekeeper in the family.  No attempt had been made by him to elicit\na confession of her son's residence.  She farther stated, that she\nregularly received twenty pounds every half-year from some unknown\nperson; and that she was, therefore, as happy as she could be in the\nabsence of her son.\n\nThe letters from his patron were warm and affectionate.  Some little\npresents Tom had ventured to make; and a few of those lovely tropical\nshells, transmitted to the unknown young lady, were cordially\naccepted, not so much for their value, as for the indications they\nafforded of the unabated regard of the giver.  Tom devoted a certain\nportion of each day to study.  His early education had been, so far\nas it went, good; and he was enabled, by severe application, to\nmaster the Roman authors, and enjoy their beauties.\n\nThe death of his mother, during the fourth year of his residence in\nthe tropics, was a heavy blow to him.  He had lived in hopes of\ncoming back to Britain with a fortune sufficient to support her in\naffluence; but his pious intention was frustrated.  One consolation\nhe had, that the kind lady who, with his patron, took such an\nespecial interest in his affairs, had watched over her dying moments,\nand afforded her every comfort.\n\nIn the tenth year of his sojourn, a great revolution in his fortunes\ntook place.  One morning, Mr Tresham called him into his private room.\n\n\"Mortlake,\" said he, \"you have been now ten years in our service;\nand, during that time, I have never had cause to find the slightest\nfault with you.  The demise of the senior partner compels me to visit\nEngland.  Your patron has written me urgently to admit you as a\npartner; now, although his recommendation must have weight with me, I\ncan assure you that I need no solicitation to do an act of justice.\nI rejoice, by adding your name to the firm, to show you how much I\nesteem you, and what unbounded confidence I have in you.\"\n\nTom justly felt gratified by this communication.  He was grateful for\nthe never-slumbering care of his English patron, and equally so for\nthe personal regard of Tresham, who, having thus removed a\nconsiderable portion of the burdens of commerce upon his younger\npartner, left the island, and safely arrived in London, where, for\nseveral months, he was engaged in adjusting the company's accounts,\nand effecting a settlement with the representatives of the deceased.\nThe business, meanwhile, went on under the name of Tresham, Mortlake,\n& Co., and was managed with as much prudence and profit by the junior\npartner as it had previously been by the senior one.\n\nTresham having realized a fortune, at the age of fifty resolved to\nreturn to England to enjoy it.  Upon this occasion, his nephew, who\nhad come out sometime after Tom, became a partner; and, just twenty\nyears from the period of his advent, did Thomas Mortlake, Esq.,\nresolve, at the age of thirty-six, to return to his native land,\nleaving the affairs of the company to be exclusively managed by young\nTresham, who was fully adequate to the task.\n\nHe embarked in a vessel of the company's; and having had a fair wind,\nin a few weeks beheld the chalky cliffs of Old Albion.  He found his\npatron and Tresham awaiting his landing, and a carriage ready to bear\nhim away.  The meeting was cordial.  Twenty years had not affected\nhis patron much.  He was about forty-five years of age, but looked\nperhaps a little younger.  There was a dignity about his manner which\nTom had never previously remarked; but there was no lack of kindness;\non the contrary, it was obvious at a glance that his return was most\nacceptable to his friend.  Nor was Tresham less friendly.\n\nAs Tom stepped into the carriage, he was thunderstruck to observe a\ncoat of arms on the panels, with a _baron's_ coronet.\n\n\"Bless me, Mr Tresham, have you been raised to the Peerage?\"\n\nTresham smilingly replied--\n\n\"Not yet.  We don't know, however, what may happen.  Irish peerages\nmay be had cheap.  The carriage is not mine: it belongs to one of our\nbest customers, Lord Mortlake.\"\n\n\"Bless me!--how kind of his lordship!\" was the rejoinder.  \"Is he,\nsir, a friend of yours?\" turning to his patron.\n\n\"I think,\" was the answer, \"I should know him better than most\npeople; but come, tell me how affairs are going on in Antigua.\"\n\nA desultory conversation followed, which lasted nearly the whole\nperiod of their journey.  At last the vehicle approached a\nmagnificent baronial seat, through a long avenue of lime trees, then\nin full blossom.\n\n\"Here we are!\" said the older Mortlake.  Upon leaving the carriage,\nTom and his companions entered a spacious hall of the olden time, the\nproprieties of which had been carefully preserved, and which was\npretty much in the same state as it had been during the reign of\nElizabeth.  Taking Tom by the hand, his friend welcomed him to his\nfamily residence, and told him that a lady up stairs--an old friend\nof his--was waiting to receive him.  \"But,\" added he, \"you will\nperhaps require to go to your apartments.\"\n\nTom having put himself to rights, was led by Mortlake to the\ndrawing-room, where he beheld his mysterious female visitant and a\nyoung lady of about nineteen, who, from her resemblance, it was not\ndifficult to discover was the daughter of his host.  Two fine-looking\naristocratic lads, the one aged perhaps sixteen, and the other nearly\neighteen, were standing beside their sister, chatting and laughing\nwith Mr Tresham.\n\nThe lady rose to receive her guest, when Tresham interposing,\nexclaimed:--\n\n\"Allow me--Lady Mortlake, Mr Mortlake; Mr Mortlake, Lady Mortlake.\"\n\nTom was confused, certainly; but his good manners did not forsake\nhim, and he expressed his gratification at again beholding the lady,\nin appropriate and feeling terms.\n\n\"Mr Mortlake,\" said she, \"I am happy--very happy--to receive you at\nVavasour, which, I trust, you will consider as your home.\"  Turning\nto her daughter--\"Emily, my love, this is Mr Mortlake, whom you have\nheard your father and myself talk of so frequently.\"  He was then\nintroduced to the sons, by whom he was received with equal kindness.\nHis patron next took Tom aside.\n\n\"The mystery,\" said he, \"will soon be explained; in me you behold\nLord Mortlake; but, on that account, not less your sincere friend.\nNo one, not even Tresham, but believes you to be a relation of the\nfamily, except Lady Mortlake and myself; so be collected, and assume\na character which, some day or other, I hope confidently may be yours\nlegally.\"\n\nThe latter words sounded strangely in our hero's ears; but this was a\nday of wonders, and when they were to end he could not conjecture.\n\n\"Sir Edward Vavasour?\" he whispered.\n\n\"Is no more!\" was the reply.\n\nA week passed happily, and Mortlake, in the society he esteemed and\nrespected, was superlatively blessed.  One morning after breakfast,\nLord Mortlake took him into the library, and, locking the door, bade\nhim be seated.\n\n\"Mortlake,\" said his lordship, \"the time for explanation is at hand;\nit ought not any longer to be delayed; but, before disclosing much\nthat may astonish you, be assured that I make the disclosure without\nseeking any pledge of secrecy from you.  I shall leave it entirely to\nyourself, when you have heard all, to take what course you may judge\nexpedient.\"\n\n\"My Lord! do not think so meanly of the creature of your bounty as to\nsuppose that, whatever may be the nature of your communication, I\nshall ever use it to your prejudice.\"\n\n\"Make no rash promises, Mr Mortlake.  Here me, and decide.  I told\nyou Sir Edward Vavasour was no more and yet he is only so in one\nsense--his title is merged in a higher one: he is now Lord Mortlake!\"\n\n\"Gracious Providence!  Sir Edward Vavasour Lord Mortlake?  Can it be\npossible?\"\n\n\"It _is_ possible; Lord Mortlake is before you.  But hear me out.\nYou are probably aware that the late Sir Thomas Vavasour had a\nyounger brother Richard; and it has perhaps come to your knowledge\nthat he was married to Miss Mortlake, a lady of birth and fortune,\nthe daughter of an extensive proprietor in Antigua.  Mrs Vavasour was\na Creole by birth, and a woman of violent passions.  Her husband led\na very unenviable life--but let me pass that over.  Of that marriage\nI was the sole offspring, and was named heir by my grandfather to his\nlarge estates, after the demise of my parents.  This equitable\narrangement of his property created a prejudice in my mother's mind\nagainst me, as she could not brook the idea of being interfered with\nin the use of that which she thought she was entitled to enjoy\nwithout control.  When my father died, I was placed under the\nsuperintendence of my uncle, Sir Thomas, who, himself a proud and\npassionate man, had a great contempt for his equally proud and\npassionate sister-in-law; hence a new seed of enmity was sown.\n\n\"My mother wished to make a fine gentleman of me: my uncle detested\nthe whole tribe of 'puppies,' and determined to make a man of me.  He\ncarefully provided for my education; and, at the proper time, sent me\nto the Temple, where I studied jurisprudence for a few years with\nconsiderable success.  The heir of a large estate, my uncle never\nwished me to do more than acquire habits of industry and application.\nMy mother did all she could to unsettle me--but in vain.  I had a\nwill of my own, and was by no means disposed to be come her vassal.\n\n\"She was descended, through the intermarriage of one of the Mortlakes\nwith a co-heiress, of the ancient Baron: de Mortuo or Malo Lacu, who\nfigured during the reign of the Edwards.  This Mortlake was heir-male\nof the last baron; but his stock had come off before the family were\nennobled.  Now, Mrs Vavasour had a very intense desire to become\nBaroness de Malo Lacu, or Mortlake; and as she had a legal\nclaim--being the undoubted representative of a co-heiress--it\nrequired political influence only to accomplish her object.  My uncle\ncould have effected this; but he gave the most decided opposition.\nHe had no idea that the Vavasour name should be entombed, even in the\nsepulchre of the peerage.  In his estimation, the Vavasours, who had\nfought with C\u0153ur de Lion in the Holy Land, who had perished by\ndozens in the wars of the Roses, who had bled with Richmond at\nBosworth, and who had taken up arms against the omnipotent Cromwell,\nwere worth all the Mortlakes that ever breathed.\n\n\"For this opposition my uncle was never forgiven by Mrs Vavasour.\nShe vowed vengeance, and she kept her vow.  She presented a petition\nto the king, which was referred to the peers; and, after incurring\nenormous expense in proving her pedigree, she succeeded in obtaining\na decision finding the barony in abeyance amongst the co-heirs of the\nlast Lord Mortlake, and that she was the representative of the eldest\nco-heir.  Thus far she got, but not one step farther.  The desired\nwrit of summons was withheld.  Meanwhile, she got entangled in\npecuniary difficulties.  In this situation, she, to my surprise,\napplied to Sir Thomas for a loan.  The result of this application may\nbe anticipated; for, while refusing her request, my uncle took the\nopportunity of reading her a severe lecture upon her extravagance and\nambition.  She was in a towering rage upon receipt of his answer;\nbut, as I was of age, I thought it my duty, especially as the Peerage\nproceedings were to my ultimate advantage, to raise a sum of money\nupon my eventual interest, by which means her debts were paid off.\nThe consequence of this was that, whilst I propitiated my mother on\nthe one hand, I offended my uncle on the other.\n\n\"I was at this time in love with the present Lady Mortlake.  She was\nwell connected, had fortune, and was sufficiently accomplished; but\nshe did not come within my mother's list of advantageous wives.  She\nwas neither fashionable, nor cared about fashion; and could not\ndisguise her contempt of idle and silly women of quality.  My mother\nplaced her interdict upon my nuptials.  I remonstrated, but to no\npurpose; and, although under no obligation to consult my relatives, I\nwished at least to have the countenance of Sir Thomas, and I took the\nbold step of writing to him.  To my gratification and surprise, I\nreceived a gracious answer; and, I presume, my mother's opposition\nwas itself, in the estimation of my uncle, a sufficient\nrecommendation.  Acting upon his consent and approbation, I married;\nbut the result was fatal to Mrs Vavasour, who, upon learning what had\ntaken place, got into one of her tremendous passions, and burst a\nbloodvessel.  After lingering a few weeks, she died, leaving behind\nher a letter, which was fated to be the cause of both our troubles.\nA few days after its transmission, I received an epistle from my\nuncle, which, from its incoherency, indicated, as I supposed,\npositive insanity.  I resolved to lose no time in visiting him; but,\nas I wished my intended journey to be kept quiet, I gave out that I\nwas merely going to Liverpool for a few days, where my wife had some\nrelations.  I arrived at Jedburgh; and, as Merton was not far off, I\nresolved to walk there; and I calculated that I should arrive about\nthe time that my uncle was taking his evening _siesta_.  Leaving my\nportmanteau at the inn, I proceeded on my way; and, as I was familiar\nwith every inch of ground, took a by-path, which led into the policy,\nand which terminated in a door that opened into the garden.  This\ndoor was kept open until the gardeners left their work, when it was\nlocked for the night.  I passed through, towards the stairs which\ndescended from the terrace into the garden; and, in a few minutes,\nfound myself in the presence of Sir Thomas.\n\n\"My uncle was not a little startled at my unexpected appearance.  He\nhad apparently partaken freely of wine--at least was in a state of\nexcitement.\n\n\"'By what right do you come here'?  was the first inquiry.\n\n\"'Why, my dear uncle, I was surprised at your late letter, and came\npersonally to ascertain what you meant.'\n\n\"'Mean! and do you pretend, sir, to be ignorant of my meaning?'\n\n\"'Indeed, uncle, I am.'\n\n\"'Uncle--don't uncle me, sir--I am no uncle of yours.'\n\n\"I now thought his insanity undoubted.\n\n\"'Be composed, my dear sir,' I rejoined; 'do you not know Edward\nVavasour, your attached nephew?'\n\n\"He rose--his eyes had a peculiar expression--one I had never\nwitnessed before: naturally of a dark-grey, they seemed to take the\nhue of a fiery red, and they glared fearfully.\n\n\"'The house of Vavasour is doomed--its last hour has come;' and,\nsaying these words, he drew from his pocketbook a letter, which he\nthrew towards me.  I seized it; and judge of my horror when I\nperceived this paper.\"\n\nLord Mortlake then took from his escritoire the following letter:--\n\n\"SIR THOMAS,--You have had your triumph--my triumph comes now.  The\ndespised Mortlake rejoices in the extinction of the proud Vavasour.\nKnow, haughty man, Edward is not the son of your brother!\"\n\n\"It is not possible to describe my feelings, Tom, at this instant--my\nhead turned round.  That the statement was false, I doubted not; for\nI knew better than Sir Thomas the deep feeling of hatred my mother\ncould entertain, and did entertain, against us both.\n\n\"'Uncle, this letter is the legacy of an enemy--allow me to retain\nit, and I will bring positive evidence to disprove the assertion it\ncontains.'\n\n\"My uncle was too much excited to listen to me.  In a hoarse and\nangry voice, he muttered--\n\n\"'Give me the letter, you villain!'\n\n\"I endeavoured to pacify him, but without success; when, suddenly\nrising, he seized a knife, and, rushing forward, made a thrust at me\nwith it.  I avoided the blow, and retreated.  He, incautiously\nadvancing, lost his footing, and fell with the knife underneath.  I\nhastily stepped forward to raise him, but had not strength to do so;\nfor, by one of those strange and unaccountable accidents, which not\nunfrequently give the air of romance to real life, the point of the\nknife had been turned towards his body, and, passing between his\nribs, had pierced his heart.  He died in an instant.  I endeavoured\nagain to raise the body, but in vain.  I drew out the knife, and\nblood then came with it.  To describe my situation at this terrible\nmoment is impossible: my uncle dead at my feet--no one to witness how\nthe accident happened--I might be dragged as a felon to trial for his\nsupposed murder.  My grief for his unhappy end was soon absorbed in\nfears for my own safety--for, here was I, the apparent heir,\ndiscovered with the man to whom I was to succeed, a bleeding corpse\nbeside me; then the quarrel between us--the stigma thrown upon me by\nmy vindictive parent, which, for aught I knew, Sir Thomas might have\nbruited abroad--all this made me tremble.  Even if acquitted, still\nthe suspicious circumstances of the case would be greedily seized\nupon by the public, which never judges favourably, and a stain would\nhave been cast upon the family name never to be effaced.  My uncle\nwas past all human assistance, and my remaining could not aid him.  I\ntherefore fled, unobserved by any one; and barely three hours had\nelapsed from my leaving the inn, until I was again its inmate.  At a\nlate hour I heard a noise of voices, which accorded ill with my\nmorbid state of feeling.  I rang to know the cause; and the answer to\nmy inquiry was the announcement that a dreadful murder had been\ncommitted upon Sir Thomas Vavasour, and that you, Tom, had been taken\ninto custody, under such circumstances as warranted the strongest\npresumption of your guilt.\n\n\"My astonishment could only be equalled by the horror I felt at\nhaving caused an innocent fellow-creature to be placed in hazard of\nhis life.  However, I was sufficiently collected; and, having learned\nthat you could not be brought to trial for some time, I left the\nplace with the firm resolution that, be the consequences what they\nmight, not one hair of your head should be injured.\n\n\"I had no secrets from my wife, and to her I disclosed everything.\nAfter some deliberation, we agreed that it was best, if possible, to\nprocure your escape from prison; as, if that could be accomplished,\nthere would be no necessity for any disclosures to gratify the\ninquisitive and malicious.  I resolved to act by myself, without the\nassistance of any one.  My first object was to prevent any\ninterference with yourself by any of the country writers; and this I\naccomplished easily enough, by creating an impression, that they\nwould give offence to the new Baron of Merton if they ventured to\nassist you.  Thus I deprived you of the advice of these worthies,\nwhich, after all, was no great loss.  I should have regretted your\nimprisonment, had I not been informed that you were a _mauvais\nsujet_, and that the restraint would do you no harm, as it might\ninduce you to reflect.\n\n\"With my wife's assistance, I procured a female dress, bonnet, and\ncloak.  I also bought a file, a rope-ladder, and some aquafortis, as\nI thought it would be no very difficult matter to help you out of an\nold Scotch county jail.  Lady Mortlake had an uncle resident a mile\nor two from Liverpool.  This fact presented an ostensible object for\na trip, and we set off together.  I left her with her relative; and,\ncrossing the country, I got to Jedburgh in good time.  I was quite\nunknown, as, prior to my last eventful visit, many years had passed\nby since I had been in the county of Roxburgh.  I gave myself out to\nbe an Edinburgh writer, which was believed.\n\n\"I thus got free access to you, and the result I need not repeat.\nThe gig I bought for the purpose, as well as the horse.  I had them\nin readiness at a village at some distance, having given the landlord\nof the inn to believe that it was merely an ordinary case of\nelopement.  In order to mystify the folks of Jedburgh, your letter\nwas enclosed under cover to my wife, who herself drove to the\npost-office, and put it in the box, in this way destroying every\npossibility of detection.  I caused the body of Sir Thomas to be\ninterred at Vavasour, where his two brothers had previously been\nburied.  This prevented the necessity of my personal presence at\nMerton, where perchance I might have been recognised as the person\nwho left the counting-house so hurriedly on the day of the supposed\nmurder.  I have never lived at Merton since; it is occupied by the\nfactor, and, in virtue of the deed of entail, the Scottish estates\nbelong now to my second son.  I induced your mother to reside on the\nEnglish estate, where my wife could personally attend to her comfort.\nThe rest you know.  Our travels made me intimately acquainted with\nyou, and I found you had talent, tolerable acquirements, and an\naffectionate heart; and I was determined to aid you, if you would be\nbut true to yourself.  Your vices were the result of idleness, and\nthe foolish indulgence of a fond mother.  Do not think me harsh when\nI say so; but, Tom, had you not been removed from her, you would have\nbeen lost.  Oh, what have parents to answer for, by allowing their\nchildren to take their own way!  From my connection with Antigua, I\nhad no difficulty in providing for you.  My cousin, Mr Edward\nMortlake, managed my East India estates--a source of revenue to the\ncompany of which he was senior partner.  I had merely to signify my\nwishes to place a young friend in his counting-house, and it was\ngranted.  Neither he nor Tresham knew your real history--they both\nthought you some off-shoot of the Mortlakes.  The latter was\nexpressly desired to conceal my name, and to avoid notice of the\nVavasour family as much as possible.  And he kept the secret well.\nMy accession to the Vavasour estates brought without any trouble that\nwhich my misguided mother so much coveted; for, as my political\nsupport was not to be despised, ministers induced the king to\nterminate the abeyance, and I received my summons as Baron Mortlake.\nThe story imposed upon my poor uncle by Mrs Vavasour was, as I was\nfrom the first assured, a malicious fiction of her own; for, luckily,\nI was able to trace out the whole circumstances connected with my\nbirth; and the testimony of the nurse and medical man, which I\nobtained in a quiet way, were perfectly conclusive.  Indeed, legally,\nmy mother's declaration availed nothing; but I was anxious, morally,\nto satisfy myself, as far as I could, that I was the son of her\nmarriage with Mr Richard Vavasour.  I have now told you all.  As I\nwas the accidental cause of your perilous situation and loss of\ncharacter, it was but common justice to assist you as far as lay in\nmy power.  You have raised yourself to respectability and affluence,\npartly by my recommendation, but principally by your own exertions.\nYou owe me, therefore, nothing; and, on the contrary, I am still\nconsiderably your debtor.  If, after reflection, you think a\ndisclosure necessary to clear the reputation of Tom Vallance, you\nhave my full permission to make it.\"\n\n\"Never, my dear lord--or, if you will allow me to term you, my dear\nfriend--shall I make the slightest use of your confidence.  You have,\nfrom a worthless and idle vagabond, metamorphosed me into a reputable\nand honest man.  Tom Vallance has ceased to exist; but the heart of\nTom Mortlake is too deeply attached to his benefactor ever to do\nanything that would cause him the slightest pain.\"\n\n\"You are a noble fellow, Tom, and well deserve your fortune.\"\n\nSeveral months after this conversation, the public journals announced\nthat \"Thomas Mortlake, Esq., of the firm of Tresham, Mortlake, &\nTresham, was married, by special licence, at Vavasour, to Emily,\neldest daughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lord Mortlake.\"  If an\naccomplished and sweet-tempered wife, a fine family, an attached\nfriend, good health, and a competent fortune, could make any one\nhappy, then was Tom Mortlake the happiest of men.\n\n\n\n\nMAJOR WEIR'S COACH: A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.*\n\nBY GEORGE HOWELL.\n\n\n* A legend similar to that here given was current in Glasgow a number\nof years ago, and for ages before.  The hero's name was Bob Dragon,\nwhose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a minute.\nHis coachman and horses were said, as those of the Major, to want the\nheads.  The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was that\nthey went to the river to drink, although they had no heads.  The\nsuperstitions of most European countries have a similar origin; the\nGermans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major\nWeir and Bob Dragon are of the same character.  The antiquary will\nfind the trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's \"Criminal Trials;\" and the\nlover of such stories may consult \"Satan's Invisible World\nDiscovered.\"\n\n\nIt was towards the end of September, early in the seventies of the\nlast century, or it might be the end of the sixties--it matters not\nmuch as to the year--but it was in the month of September, when\nparties and politics had set the freemen and burgesses of the Royal\nBurghs by the ears--when feasting and caballing formed almost their\nwhole employment.  The exaltation of themselves or party friends to\nthe civic honours engrossed their whole attention, and neither money\nnor time was grudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects.  The\nembellishment and improvement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly\nurged and carried on by one party, at the head of which was Provost\nDrummond.  He was keenly opposed by another, which, though fewer in\nnumber, and not so well organized, was not to be despised; for it\nonly wanted a leader of nerve to stop or utterly undo all that had\nbeen done, and keep the city, as it had been for more than a century,\nin a position of stately decay.  The wild project of building a\nbridge over the North Loch was keenly contested; and ruin and\nbankruptcy were foretold to the good town, if the Provost and his\nparty were not put out of the Council before it was begun to be\ncarried into execution.\n\nThe heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her\nsouthings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark\navenue; the dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few\nand far between, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms--as two\nportly figures were seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with\nsteady step, up the High Street.\n\n\"By my troth, Deacon!\" said one of them, \"I fear Luckie Bell has had\ntoo much of our company this night.  I had no idea it was so late.\nThere is the eighth chime of St Giles: what hour will strike?\"\n\n\"Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!\" hiccuped the Deacon.\n\n\"Preserve me, Deacon!\" replied the Treasurer, \"it has struck twelve!\nWhat shall I say to the wife?  It's to-morrow, Deacon! it's\nto-morrow!\"\n\n\"Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice,\"\nsaid the other.  \"Are you afraid of Kate?  What have we to do with\nto-morrow?  It is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long\nas Methusalem; for, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.'  It's\nalways to come with its cares or joys.\"  And the Deacon stood and\nlaughed aloud at his conceit.  \"Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom,\nsay I.  What can Kate say to you?  What the deil need you care?  Have\nwe not had a happy evening?  Have we not been well employed?\"  And\nthey again moved on towards the Castlehill, where the Deacon resided.\n\nThomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this\nelection to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the\nincorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time,\nhis humble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him--so much\nso, that, although his own domicile was in St Mary's Wynd, at the\nother extremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his\nfears of his better half, and, still ascending the long street, he\nresolved to accompany the Deacon home; not, however, without some\nstrong misgivings as to what he might encounter on his return.  Both\nwere in that happy state of excitement when cares and fears press\nlightly on the human mind; but the Deacon, who had presided at the\nmeeting, and spoken a good deal, was much more overcome than his\nTreasurer; and the liquor had made him loquacious.\n\n\"Tom, man,\" again said the Deacon, \"you walk by my side as douce as\nif you were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach, on your way down\nthe wynd to Kate.  Be cheerful, man, as I am.  Tell her she will be\nDeaconess in a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know\nnot what will please her; they are all fond of honours.  We have done\ngood work this night--secured two votes against Drummond; other three\nwould graze him.  Pluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we\nfail, the whole town will be turned upside down--confound him, and\nhis wild projects, of what he calls improvements!  The deil be in me\nif I can help thinking--and it sticks in my gizzard yet--that he was\nat the bottom of the pulling down of my outside stair, by these\ndrunken fellows of masons; the more by token that, when, after much\ntrouble, I discovered them, and had them all safe in the guardhouse,\nhe took a small bail, and only fined them two shillings a-piece, when\nit caused me an expense of ten good pounds to repair the mischief\nthey had done; and, more than that, I was forced to erect it inside\nthe walls; for they would not allow me to put it as it was, or grant\nme a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms.  They said it cumbered\nthe foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood for fifty\nyears.  From that day to this, I have been his firm opponent, in and\nout of the Council.  Tom, are you asleep?  Where are your eyes?  What\nhigh new wall is this?  See, see, man!\"\n\n\"This beats all he has done yet!\" said the Treasurer; \"a high white\nwall across the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can\nsee!  Wonderful, wonderful!  A strange man that Provost!\"\n\n\"He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's,\"\nreplied the Deacon.  \"It was not there in the early part of the\nevening.  He must have had a hundred masons at it.  But I'll make him\nrepent this frolic to-morrow in the Council, or my name is not Deacon\nDickson!\"\n\n\"What can he mean by it, Deacon?\" rejoined the other.  \"I see no\npurpose it can serve, for my part.\"\n\n\"But it does serve a purpose,\" hiccuped the Deacon; \"it will prevent\nme from getting home.  It was done through malice against me, for the\nefforts I am making to get him and his party out of the Council.\"\n\nDuring the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather\nstruggled, from side to side of the street.  Between the pillars\nthat, before the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the\nhigh tenement standing there, and St Giles' Church, being the\nentrance into the Parliament Square, and between St Giles' and the\nExchange buildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling\nboth the openings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep\nshade.  It was the moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and\nreaching up to the second windows of the houses, that formed the wall\nwhich the two officials observed.\n\n\"Deil tak' me,\" ejaculated the Deacon, \"but this is a fine trick to\nplay upon the Deacon of an incorporation in his own town!  Were it\nnot for exposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the\ntown, and pull it down at the head of the people.  Faith, Tom, I will\ndo it!\"  And he was on the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of\nhis voice, when the more prudent Treasurer put his hand upon the\nmouth of the enraged Deacon.\n\n\"For mercy's sake, be quiet!\" said he.  \"What are you going to be\nabout?  Is this a time of night for a member of Council to make a\nriot, and expose himself in the High Street?  To-morrow will be time\nenough to pull it down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the\nCouncil to authorize it.  No doubt that is a round about way and a\nsair climb; but just, like a wise and prudent man, as you always are,\nput up with it for one night, and come along down the Fishmarket\nClose, up the Cowgate, and climb the West Bow, to the Deaconess, who,\nI have no doubt, is weary waiting on you.\"\n\n\"Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once,\"\nreplied the Deacon; \"so I will act upon it, although I am your\nDeacon, and all advice ought to come from me.\"\n\nAnd away they trudged.  Both were corpulent men; but the Deacon\nhaving been several times in the Council, was by much the heavier of\nthe two.  Down they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate,\nthe Deacon, sulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance\nagainst the Provost; but, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his\npatience entirely left him; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the\nperspiration from his brow, recover his breath, and mutter curses on\nthe head of the official.  At length they reached the Deacon's home,\nwhere his patient spouse waited his arrival.  Without uttering a\nword, he threw himself upon a chair, placing his hat and wig upon a\ntable.  It was some minutes before he recovered his breath\nsufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious wife, or give\nvent to the anger that was consuming him.  At length, to the fifty\ntimes put questions of--\n\n\"Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you\nso late?\" he broke forth--\n\n\"What vexes me? what has kept me so late?  You may with good reason\ninquire that, woman.  Our pretty Provost is the sole cause.  You may\nbe thankful that you have seen my face this night.\"  And he commenced\nand gave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the Provost\nhad caused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange,\nreaching as high as the third storey of the houses; and the great\nlength of time he had been detained in examining it, to discover a\nway to get over or through it--all which the simple Deaconess\nbelieved, and heartily joined her husband in abusing the Provost.\n\n\"Had a wall been built across the Castlehill,\" she said, \"when the\nHighlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the\nstreet, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between\nthe Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and\nCastlehill people from kirk and market--surely the man's mad!\"\n\nThe Treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple\nretired to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on\nthe morrow, for the downfall of the innovating Provost.  The morning\nwas still grey, the sun was not above the horizon, when the\nDeaconess, as was her wont, arose to begin her household duties; but,\nanxious to communicate the strange conduct of the Provost, in raising\nthe wall of partition in the city, she seized her water stoups, and\nhurried to the public well at the Bow-head, to replenish them, and\nease her overcharged mind of the mighty circumstance.  Early as the\nhour was, many of the wives of the good citizens were already there,\nseated on their water stoups, and awaiting their turn to be\nsupplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the more sonorous\ntones of the Highland water-carriers, and rising in violent\ncontention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion of\nBabel.\n\nThe sensation caused by the relation of the Deaconess of her\nhusband's adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by\nthe story being related at second-hand.  Arms were raised in\nastonishment as she proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high\nwall built in so short a space by the Provost.  After some time spent\nin fruitless debate, it was agreed that they should go down in a body\nand examine this bold encroachment upon the citizens--and away they\nwent, with the indignant Deaconess at their head.\n\nFor some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail\nand Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of\nAmazons; but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was\nsaid to stand, they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter\nand derision burst from the band.  The Deaconess stood petrified, the\nimage of shame and anger.  No wall was there--everything stood as it\nhad done for years!\n\n\"Lucky Dickson,\" cried one, \"ye hae gien us a gowk's errand.  I trow\nthe Deacon has been fu' yestreen.  Where is the fearfu' wa' ye spak'\no', that he neither could get through nor owre?  Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs Dickson?\" screamed\nanother.  \"It was a silly excuse for being owre late out with his\ncronies.  He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales.\nWere my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the\ndeafest side of his head.\"\n\n\"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it,\" responded the\nDeaconess; \"and that before long.  But, dear me, there must have been\nsome witchcraft played off upon him and the Treasurer last night;\nfor, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een.\nThere's been glamour in it.  I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks\nin the town than riding his coach.  There was no cause to tell me a\nlie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at\nony hour.\"\n\nBy this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their\nwater vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure\nthe Deacon had encountered the evening before, and the Deaconess to\ntell her better half of the delusion he had been under.  Before\nbreakfast time, the story was in everyone's mouth, from the Castle to\nthe Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended.  On a clear\nmoonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was\npointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties, we have heard\nit said--\"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get\nover Deacon Dickson's wall.\"\n\nThe Treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's\nentertainment as the Deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the\nwall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached\nthe Deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or\nrather morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock.  As he approached\nthe Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the\nnight: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot\nfrom whence the sound came, urged by `humanity, he\ndrew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by\nthe dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support\nherself.  As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief\nand surprise he exclaimed--\n\n\"Mrs Horner!--what has happened?  Why are you here at this untimeous\nhour?  What's the cause of your grief?\"\n\n\"Thomas Kerr,\" replied she, \"I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God\nalone can help.  Pass on, and leave me to my misery.\"  And she buried\nher face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled\nthrough her withered fingers.\n\n\"I cannot leave you here in such a state,\" said he again.  \"Come\nhome, my good woman, and I shall accompany you.\"\n\n\"I have no home,\" washer sad reply.  \"Alas!  I have no home, but the\ngrave.  I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age.\nComfortable, and even rich as I was, I am now destitute.  I have\nneither house nor hall to cover my grey hairs.  Oh, if I were only\ndead and buried out of this sinful world, to hide the shame of my own\nchild.  An hour is scarce passed since I thought my heart would burst\nin my bosom before I would be enabled to reach the Greyfriars'\nChurchyard, to lay my head upon Willie Horner's grave, and the graves\nof my innocent babes, that sleep in peace by his side.  I feared my\nstrength would fail; for all I wish, is to die there.  I did reach\nthe object of my wish, and laid myself upon the cold turf, and prayed\nfor Death to join as he had separated us; but my heart refused to\nbreak, and tears that were denied me before, began to stream from my\neyes.  The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me, stronger\neven than my grief.  Strange moaning and sounds came on the faint\nnight wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight\nmade the tombstones look like unearthly things.  I rose and fled.  I\nwill tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was\nhere my only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun;\nand on the fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my\ngrandfather cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights\nof a persecuted kirk.  Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny.\nI can die here with pleasure; and it is time I were dead.  To whom\ncan a mother look for comfort or pity, when her own son has turned\nher out upon a cold world?  I am as Rachel mourning for her children.\nI will not be comforted.\"  And the mourner wrapped her mantle round\nher head with the energy of despair, and, bending it upon the well,\nburst anew into an agony of sobs and tears.\n\nThe Treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation.  He paused, and\nbegan to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the\nmoment--whether to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity.  His\nbetter feeling prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the\nmourner, whom he had known in happier times; but his caution and\navarice, backed by the dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force\nhe felt every moment less able to resist, to leave her and hurry\nhome.  As he stood irresolute, the voice of the stern monitor sounded\nin the auricles of his heart like the knell of doom, and roused into\nfearful energy feelings he had long treated lightly, or striven to\nsuppress when they rose upon him with great force.  He ran like a\nguilty criminal from the spot.  The wailings of the crushed and\npitiable object he had left, had given them a force he had never\nbefore known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate-head as if he\nwished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments\nhaving fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an\nawakened conscience.  There was, indeed, too much cause for his\nagitation, often hinted at by his acquaintance, but in its full\nextent only known in his own family--a striking similarity between\nthe situation of his own mother and that of Widow Horner.  The cases\nof the two aged individuals agreed in all points, save that he had\nnot yet turned her out of doors; and conscience told him that even\nthat result had been prevented, more by the patient endurance of his\nworthy parent herself, than any kindly feeling upon the part of her\nson.\n\nThe father of the Treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had\nboth been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses\nof the city.  At their death, they had left their widows with an only\nchild to succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had\nstruggled hard to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were\nof age to succeed and manage it for themselves.  Their sole and rich\nreward, as they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the\nprosperity of their sons.  That they would be ungrateful, was an idea\nso repugnant to their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was\nnever harboured in their bosoms.  A cruel reality was fated to\nfalsify their anticipations.\n\nThe Treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a\nwoman whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to\nprevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her\npower.  Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten\nthe event she wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place;\nthe consequence was, that the hated alliance was completed several\nweeks before she was made aware of it by the kindness of a gossiping\nneighbour or two.  Much as she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung,\nshe, like a prudent woman, shed her tears of bitter anguish at the\nwant of filial regard in her son, in secret.  She at once resolved to\npardon this act of ingratitude, and, for her son's sake, to receive\nher unwelcome daughter-in-law with all the kindness she could assume\non the trying occasion.  Not so her daughter-in-law, who was of an\noverbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn of mind.  The mother of her\nhusband had wounded her pride: she resolved never to forget or\nforgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a deep revenge\nwas vowed against her as soon as it was in her power to execute it.\nThe first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had feelings\nto contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to outward\nappearance--the widow, from love to her son, striving to love his\nwife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting\nto gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part,\nthat, before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas\nwas requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the\nfamily, and to save the expense of a separate establishment.  From\nthat hour the house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for\nthe first few months almost imperceptibly.  Thomas, although a\nspoiled child, was not naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but\nselfish and capricious from over-indulgence.  Amidst all his faults,\nthere was still a love and esteem of his mother, which his wife,\nseeing it would be dangerous openly to attack, had resolved to\nundermine, and therefore laid her wicked schemes accordingly.  In the\npresence of her husband, she was, for a time, all smiles and\naffability; but, in his absence, she said and did a thousand little\nnameless things to tease and irritate the good old dame.  This\nproduced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his wife of\nthem, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the misery\nshe suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike.  To himself\nshe referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his\nmother.  These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were\nso artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in\nthe fault.  Gradually the son's affection became deadened towards his\nparent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence.  For\nher there was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made\nover to her son all she possessed in the world; she was thus in his\npower; yet her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty.  The revenge\nof the wife was not complete even after the spirit of the victim was\ncompletely crushed, and she had ceased to complain.  Often the\nmalignant woman would affect lowness of spirits, and even tears,\nrefusing to tell the cause of her grief until urged by endearments,\nand obtaining an assurance that he would not regard her folly in\nyielding to her feeling; but she could not help it--were it not for\nher love to him, she knew not in what she had ever offended his\nmother, save in preferring him to every other lover who had sought\nher hand.  Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her imperious turn\nof mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the Treasurer was\ncompletely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just retribution, he\nwas punished for his want of filial affection, for he was as much the\nsufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of her malice.\nWith a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the kitchen,\nmoistened by her tears.  Even her grandchildren were taught to insult\nand wound her feelings.  So short-sighted is human nature, the\nparents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying\nrods in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought\ninto use, when the recollection of their own conduct would give\ntenfold poignancy to every blow.\n\nOn the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailing\nof Widow Horner still rung in the ears of the Treasurer.  All his\nacts of unkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous\nphantasmagoria as he hurried down the Cowgate.  He even became afraid\nof himself, as scene after scene arose to his awakened\nconscience--all the misery and indignities that had been heaped upon\nhis parent by his termagant wife, he himself either looking on with\nindifference, or supporting his spouse in her cruelty.  Goaded by\nremorse, he still hurried on.  The celerity of his movements seemed\nto relieve him.  He had formed no fixed resolution as to how he was\nto act upon his arrival at home.  A dreamy idea floated in his\ntortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it, and\ndo justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution\nto dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the\nthought of encountering one who had, in all contentions ever been the\nvictor, and riveted her chains the more closely around him on every\nattempt he had made to break them.  In this pitiable state, he had\ngot as far towards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the\nsound of a carriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and\nput all other thoughts to flight.  With a start of horror and alarm,\nhe groaned--\"The Lord have mercy upon me!  The Major's coach!  If I\nsee it, my days are numbered.\"  And, with an effort resembling the\nenergy of despair, he rushed into a stair-foot, and, placing both his\nhands upon his face to shut out from his sight the fearful object,\nsupported himself by leaning upon the wall.  As the sound increased,\nso did the Treasurer's fears; but what words can express his agony\nwhen it drew up at the foot of the very stair in which he stood, and\na sepulchral voice issued from it--\n\n\"Is he here?\"\n\n\"Just come,\" was the reply in a similar tone.\n\n\"Then all's right.\"\n\n\"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!\" screamed the Treasurer, as he\nsank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.\n\nHow long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval,\nhe could give no account.  When he awoke to consciousness, he found\nhimself seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed,\nsupported on each side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for\nthe bright moonlight shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited\ntwo heads detached from their bodies dangling from the top.  The\nglance was momentary.  Uttering a deep groan, he shut his eyes to\navoid the fearful sight.  He would have spoken; but his palsied\ntongue refused to move, even to implore for mercy.  Wringing his\nhands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom of the coach upon\nhis knees, but was restrained by the two figures.  He felt their\ngrasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices.  The same fearful\nvoice he had first heard fell again on his ear--\"Sit still.  Utter no\ncry.  Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the Major's\ntribunal.  He knows you well, but wishes to test your truth.\nProceed!\"\n\nWith a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to\nnothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he\nseemed as if he now stood before his Creator.  All his days on earth\nappeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected\nduties.  His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance\nmoistened his bosom.  When he had finished his minute confession, a\npause ensued of a few minutes.  The moon, now far in the west, was\nsinking behind a dense mass of clouds.  The wind began to blow\nfitfully, with a melancholy sound, along the few objects that\ninterrupted its way, and around the fearful conveyance in which he\nsat, more dead than alive.  The measured tramp of the horses, and\nrattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like the knell of death.\nHe felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused to leave it and\nperform its functions.  Human nature could not have sustained itself\nunder such circumstances much longer.  The carriage stopped; the door\nopened with violence; his breathing became like a quick succession of\nsobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness.  Still he was\nfearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality seemed to\nendow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were in\naction at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed\nto quiver on his bones.  The same hollow voice broke the silence.\n\n\"Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my\npower this once.  Beware of a relapse.  Go; do the duty of a son to\nyour worthy parent.  You have been a worse man than ever I was on\nearth.  I have my parents' blessing with me in the midst of my\nsufferings; and there is a soothing in it which the wretched can\nalone feel.\"\n\nQuick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the\nground.  With the speed of a whirlwind, as it ap peared to him, the\ncarriage disappeared and the sound died away.  For some time he sat\nbewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds.  Gradually he began\nto breathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful nightmare had just\npassed away.  Slowly the events of the night rose in regular\nsuccession.  The forlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in\nthe coach, that, without heads, spake and moved with such energy--the\nwhole now passed before him so vividly that he shuddered.  At first\nhe hoped all had been a fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on\nwhich he sat banished the fond idea.  He felt, in all its force, that\nhe was now wide awake, as he groped with his hands and touched the\ndamp grass beneath him.  All around was enveloped in impenetrable\ndarkness.  Not one star shone in the murky sky.  How much of the\nnight had passed, or where he at present was, he had no means to\nascertain.  The first use he made of his restored faculties was to\nrise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God, imploring pardon\nand protection in this hour of suffering.  He rose with a heart much\nlightened, and felt his energies restored.  Stumbling onwards, he\nproceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and faint\nfrom exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait\npatiently the approach of dawn.  Thus, melancholy and pensive, he\nsat, eager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the\ngrave, save the faint rustling of the long grass waving around him in\nthe night breeze that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful\ngusts, swept past him.  The hope of surviving the night had almost\nforsaken him, when the distant tramp of a horse fell on his longing\nears.  Then the cheerful sound of a popular air, whistled to cheer\nthe darkness, gladdened his heart.  In an ecstasy of pleasure, he\nsprung to his feet.  The rolling of wheels over the rugged road was\nsoon added to the cheering sounds.  With caution he approached them\nover hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was, he could discern the\nobject of his search almost before him--a carrier's cart, with the\ndriver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his whip to the\ntime.\n\n\"Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you.\"\n\n\"Na, na,\" replied the carrier; \"I will do no such foolish action.\nHap, Bassie! hap!\"  And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its\nspeed.  \"Come not near my cart, or I will make C\u00e6sar tear you in\npieces.  Look to him, C\u00e6sar!\"  And the snarling of a dog gave fearful\nwarning to the poor Treasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered\ndesperate by his situation, he continued to follow, calling out--\n\n\"Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me.  I\nam a poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to\nreward you, if you will save my life.  I am no robber, but a decent\nburgess and freeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot\ntell.\"\n\n\"Woo, Bassie! woo!\" responded the carrier.  \"Silence, C\u00e6sar!\nPreserve us from all evil!  Amen!  Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr,\nwhose shop is in Saint Mary's Wynd?\"\n\n\"The very same; but who are you that know my voice?\"\n\n\"Who should I be,\" rejoined he, \"but Watty Clinkscales, the Berwick\ncarrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well enough that\nWednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up beside\nme, man, and do not stand longer there.  If you have lost yourself,\nas you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this dark\nmorning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing\nat the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed?  I am\nthinking, friend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last\nnight.\"\n\nWhile the carrier was speaking, the Treasurer mounted the cart, and\ntook his seat beside him.  They moved slowly on.  To all the\nquestions of the carrier, evasive answers were returned; the\nTreasurer felt no desire to be communicative.  As they reached the\nWatergate, the first rays of morning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the\nCalton Hill.  Before they entered, the Treasurer dismounted, having\nfirst rewarded the carrier for his trouble, and proceeded to his home\nby the South Back of the Canongate, faint and unwell.  When he\nreached his own door, he was nearly exhausted.  It was opened to him\nby his anxious mother, who had watched for him through the whole\nnight.  Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance, timidly she\ninquired what had happened to him, to cause such an alteration in his\nlooks in so short a time.  The tears started into his eyes as he\nlooked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire.  He took her\nhand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out--\n\n\"Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son?  Only say you will\nforgive me.\"\n\n\"Tammy, my bairn,\" she replied, \"what have I to pardon?  Is not all\nmy pleasure in life to see you happy?  What signifies what becomes of\nme the few years I have to be on earth?  But you are ill, my son--you\nare very ill!\"\n\n\"I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind,\" said he.  \"Say you\npardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated\nsince my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without\nhearing you pronounce it.\"\n\n\"Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my\nblessing, and the blessing of God, which is above all riches!  But go\nto your bed, my bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family.\"\n\nAt this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began,\nin her usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous\nhours.  Still holding his mother's hand in his, he commanded her, in\na voice he had never before assumed to her, to be silent.  She looked\nat him in amazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his\npresence; and was on the point of becoming more violent, when his\nfierce glance, immediately followed by the sunken, sickly look which\none night of suffering had given him, alarmed her for his safety, and\nshe desisted, anxiously assisting his mother to undress and put him\nto bed.\n\nHe soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the\nafternoon, unrefreshed and feverish.  His wife was seated by his bed\nwhen he awoke.  Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for\nhis mother.  A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he\nwas too ill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his\nspouse.  The anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards\nthe evening.  A physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his\nlife to be in extreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was\ndespaired of.\n\nThe horrors of that night were the theme of his discourse while the\nfever raged in his brain.  The smallest noise, even the opening of a\ndoor, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched\nhim.  His efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major\nWeir; his bed was the coach, and his wife and mother the headless\nphantoms.  Clinkscales had told the manner and where he had found\nhim, on the morning he was taken ill.  The sensation this excited\nthrough the city became extreme.  Deacon Dickson told the hour in\nwhich he left his house, and the language of the sufferer filled up\nthe space until he was met by the carrier.  The nocturnal apparition\nof the Major's carriage had, for many years, been a nursery tale of\nEdinburgh.  Many firmly believed in its reality.  There were not\nawanting several who affirmed they had seen it; and scarce an\ninhabitant of the Cowgate or St Mary's Wynd, but thought they had\nheard it often before the present occurrence.\n\nThat the Treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate\nWhins in the Major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of\nthe incorporation, on the same night, had been alarmed by a coach\ndriving furiously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its\nappearance, as they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of\nseeing the spectre carriage and its unearthly attendants.  It was at\nleast certain that, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep\nby the noise of a carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the\nterror of the citizens became so great that few chose to be upon any\nof the streets after twelve at night, unless urged by extreme\nnecessity.  This state of foolish alarm, as the magistrates called\nit, could not be allowed to continue within their jurisdiction; and\nthey resolved to investigate the whole affair.  Several were examined\nprivately; but the Treasurer was too ill to be spoken to, even by his\nfriend the Deacon.  There was a strange harmony in the statements of\nseveral who had really distinctly heard the sounds of horses' feet,\nand the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings of the unfortunate\nTreasurer.  The authorities were completely at a stand how to\nproceed.  Several shook their heads, and looked grave; others\nproposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the Major's\ncarriage, and pray it out of the city.  But the Provost's committee\nsent for the captain of the train bands, and consulted with him: he\nagreed to have twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in\nreadiness by twelve at night, to waylay the cause of annoyance,\nshould it make its appearance, and unravel the mystery.  That there\nwas some unlawful purpose connected with it, several of the Council\nhad little doubt.  These meetings were private, and the proceedings\nare not on record to guide us.  It was with considerable difficulty\nthe captain could get the number of his band required for the duty;\nthey chose rather to pay the fine, believing it to be a real affair\nof diabeleria; for their earliest recollections were associated with\nthe truth of the Major's night airings.  For several nights the watch\nwas strictly kept by many of the citizens; but in vain.  No\nappearance disturbed the usual stillness of the night in the city;\nnot even the sound of a carriage was heard.  The whole affair\ngradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the engrossing\ntheme of conversation.  The sceptics triumphed over their believing\nacquaintance, and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to rest.\n\nThe election week for Deacon of the Crafts at length arrived.  All\nwas bustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and\ntreating, and their partisans bustling about everywhere.  City\npolitics ran high; but the Treasurer, although recovered, was still\ntoo weak to take an active part in the proceedings.  Deacon Dickson,\non this account, redoubled his exertions--for the indisposition of\nhis Treasurer had deranged his plans; and it was of great importance,\nin his eyes, to have one of his party elected in his place.  Had Kerr\nbeen able to move about, to visit and flatter his supporters, his\nelection was next to certain, so well had the whole affair been\nmanaged.  Kerr was accordingly dropped by him, and a successor\npitched upon, who could at this eventful period aid him in his\nefforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the supporters\nof the Provost were called.\n\nOn the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the Deacon carried\nhis list, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the\ninnovations of the Provost and his party.  The Deacon was in great\nspirits, and told the Treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his\ntriumph was secure, that, if not cut off the list, in shortening the\nleet, his election was sure.  On the list coming down from the\nCouncil, neither Kerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet;\nboth had been struck off; and the choice behoved to fall upon one of\nthree, none of whom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office.\nTheir joy was so much the greater, and the election dinner not less\nsubstantial.\n\nIt was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the\nmorning--for all respected the Sabbath Day, and, even on this joyous\noccasion, would not infringe upon it--that a party of some ten or\ntwelve were seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High\nStreet, two and two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of\nfashion, with bushy wigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes.  At\ntheir head was, now Old Deacon Dickson, and his successor in office.\nThey were on their way, accompanying their new Deacon home to his\nresidence, near the foot of Saint Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to\ncongratulate the Deaconess on her husband's elevation to the Council.\nNone of them were exactly tipsy; but in that middle state when men do\nnot stand upon niceties, neither are scared by trifles.  The fears of\nthe Major's coach were not upon them; or, if any thought of it came\nover them, their numbers gave them confidence.  Leaving the High\nStreet, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd to the Cowgate.  Scarce had\nthe head of the procession emerged from the dark thoroughfare, when\nthe sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell on their astonished\nears.  The front stood still, and would have retreated back into the\nWynd, but could not; for those behind, unconscious of the cause of\nthe stoppage, urged on and forced them out into the street.  There\nwas not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter a cry, before the\nfearful equipage was full upon them.  Retreat was still impossible;\nand those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming desperate\nby their situation, the two Deacons seized the reins of the horses,\nto prevent their being ridden over.  In a second, the head of the\ncoachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so\ntrue an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his\nhat and wig.  Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did\nnot forsake him.  Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the\nhorses, he called lustily for his companions to cut the traces.  The\nhead of the coachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and\nbeen launched forth with various effect, on the aggressors.  Other\nheads flew from the windows on each side, and from the coach-box, in\nrapid, darting motions.  The cries of the assailants resounded\nthrough the stillness of the night; fear had fled their bosoms; there\nwas scarce one but had received contusions from the flying heads, and\nrage urged them to revenge.  Candles began to appear at the windows,\nexhibiting faces pale with fear.  Some of the bolder of the male\ninhabitants, recognising the voice of some relative or acquaintance\nin the cries of the assailants, ran to the street and joined the\nfray.  Dickson, who had never relinquished his first hold, recovered\nhimself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of the horses, which\nwere urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the College Wynd, in\nspite of the resistance.  At the moment the carriage reached the foot\nof the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two figures leaped\nout, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued.  In the\nconfusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared.  No one\ncould tell how, or in what manner he had fled: he appeared to fall\nfrom the box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and\nsecure him, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat with\nbasket work within the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head\nand neck of the wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other\nend of which was attached to an artificial head, entangled in the\nstrife between the horses and the pole of the coach.  Two similar\ndresses were also found inside.  The coach was heavily laden; but\nwith what, the authorities never could discover, although envious\npersons said that several of the tradesmen's wives in the Cowgate\nafterwards wore silk gowns that had never before had one in their\nfamily, had better and stronger tea at their parties, and absolutely\nabounded in tobacco for many weeks.  But whether these were the\nspoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or the natural results\nof successful industry, was long a matter of debate.\n\nAs for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson\nand his friends, never having been claimed by the Major.  The\nsensation created on the following day by the exaggerated reports of\nthe fearful recountre and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in\nproportion to the occasion.  Several of the assailants were reported\nto have been killed, and, among the rest, the Deacon.  For several\ndays, the inn-yard of the White Hart was crowded to excess to view\nthe carriage and horses.  As for the Deacon, no doubt, he was\nconsiderably bruised about the legs; but the glory he had acquired\nwas a medicine far more efficacious to his hurts than any the Faculty\ncould have prescribed.  At the first toll of the bells for church, he\nwas seen descending from the Castle Hill towards the Tron Church,\nlimping much more, many thought, than there was any occasion for,\nsupported by his golden-headed cane on one side, and holding by the\narm of the Deaconess on the other.  With an affected modesty, which\nno general after the most brilliant victory could better have\nassumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to receive.\nWhen he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it, and all\neyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered.  This was\nthe proudest moment of his life.  He had achieved, with the\nassistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city guard had\nfailed to accomplish; that it was more by accident and against his\nwill he had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his\nmind, and stoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who\nenvied him the glory he had acquired.\n\nAs soon as the afternoon service was over, he proceeded to the\nTreasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the\ntreasurership, and give a full account of his adventure.  To his\nexaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a\nfeeling of horror crept over his frame as the Deacon dwelt upon the\nblow he had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious\nmanner in which the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding\nwith--\n\n\"It was a fearful and unequal strife--devils against mortal men.\"\n\n\"Do you really think they were devils, Deacon?  Was it really their\nown heads they threw about?\" said the Treasurer.\n\n\"I am not clear to say they were devils,\" replied the other; \"but\nthey fought like devils.  Severe blows they gave, as I feel at this\nmoment.  They could not be anything canny; for they got out from\namong our hands like a flash of light.\"\n\nThe Deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to\nbe not of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him.  Where\nthere had been so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no\nopportunity of learning their sentiments; and, above all things, he\nhated to be in a minority, or made an object of ridicule.  Turning\naside the direct question of the Treasurer, he continued--\n\n\"Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any\ngentleman could wish to put into his carriage.  By my troth, I have\nmade a good adventure of it.  I mean to propose, and I have no doubt\nI shall carry my motion, that they and the Major's coach be sold, and\nthe proceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation.  Make haste, man,\nand get better.  You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one\nof those present; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the\nglory of putting Major Weir and his devils to the rout--and no small\nglory it is, on the word of a deacon, Treasurer.\"\n\nThe load that had for many days pressed down the Treasurer's spirits\ngradually passed off as the Deacon proceeded, and a new light shone\non his mind; his countenance brightened up.\n\n\"Deacon,\" he said, \"the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a\nnew man.  Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of\nthe smugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real\nMajor's coach.  It was a bold game, Deacon, and, like all unlawful\ngames, a losing one in the end.  Still, it is strange what inducement\nthey could have had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable\nnight, or how I was enabled to survive, or retained my reason.  I\nhave been often lost in fearful misery upon this subject since the\nfever left me; but you, my friend, have restored peace to my mind.\"\n\nAnd they parted for the evening.  The Treasurer's recovery was now\nmost rapid.  In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly\nobliterated, and he went about his affairs as formerly.  An altered\nman--all his wife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and\ndispassionately he remonstrated with her; for a few days she\nstruggled hard to retain her abused power; tears and threatened\ndesertion of his house were used--but he heard her unmoved, still\nkeeping his stern resolve with a quietness of manner which her\ncunning soon perceived it was not in her power to shake.  She ceased\nto endeavour to shake it.  His mother was restored to her proper\nstation, and all was henceforth peace and harmony.\n\nSeveral years had rolled on.  The deaconship was, next election,\nbestowed upon Treasurer Kerr.  He had served with credit, and his\nbusiness prospered.  The adventure with the Major's coach was only\ntalked of as an event of times long past, when, one forenoon, an\nelderly person, in a seaman's dress, much soiled, entered his\nworkshop, and, addressing him by name, requested employment.  Being\nvery much in want of men at the time, he at once said he had no\nobjections to employ him, if he was a good hand.\n\n\"I cannot say I am now what I once was in this same shop,\" he\nreplied.  \"It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are\nwilling to employ me, I will do my best.\"\n\nThe stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his\nemployer--betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the\nfamily, and that were only traditionary to his master.  His curiosity\nbecame awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening,\nafter his day's work was over.  For some time after they entered the\nhouse, the stranger became pensive and reserved--his eyes, every\nopportunity, wandering to the mother of his master with a look of\nanxious suspense.  At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a\nvoice tremulous with emotion--\n\n\"Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty\nBrown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?\"\n\n\"Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie,\" ejaculated she, \"I can never\nforget.  He was always a favourite of mine.  You cannot be him; your\nhair is grey.\"\n\n\"My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me,\" said he, \"I am\nWatty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach\nit white as you see.  My master here was but an infant in your arms\nwhen I left Edinburgh.  Often have I rocked him in his cradle.  After\nall that has passed, I am here again, safe.  I am sure there is no\none present would bring me into trouble for what is now so long past.\"\n\n\"How time flies!\" said she.  \"The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it\nhad happened last week.  O Watty! you were always a reckless lad.\nSore, sore you have rued, I do not doubt, that night.  Do tell us\nwhat has come of you since.\"\n\n\"Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the\napprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous.  All this might have\npassed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his\nbrutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the\ntownsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman.  Well, as all\nthe land knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the\nguilty was to suffer.  But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the\ninnocent was to leave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong!  Was\nthis to be endured?  Murmurs and threats were in every tradesman's\nmouth; the feuds of the apprentices were quelled for a time; all\ncolours joined in hatred of the murderer.  Yet no plan of operations\nwas adopted.  In this combustible frame of mind, the drums of the\ncity beat to arms.  I rushed from this very house to know the cause,\nand saw the trades' lads crowding towards the jail.  I inquired what\nwas their intention.\n\n\"'To execute righteous judgment!'\" a strange voice said, in the crowd.\n\n\"I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer as the best\nweapon I could find in my haste, with good will joined, and was at\nthe door amongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it\nopen.  Numbers had torches.  Lustily did I apply my hammer to its\nstudded front.  Vainly did I exert myself, until fire was put to it,\nwhen it at length gave way.  As I ceased from my efforts, one of the\ncrowd, carrying a torch, put a guinea into my hand, and said--\n\n\"'Well done, my good lad.  Take this; you have wrought for it.  If\nyou are like to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to\nAnstruther, and you will find a friend.'\"\n\n\"While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging\nPorteous down the stairs.  My heart melted within me at the piteous\nsight.  My anger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy.  I\nleft the throng, who were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and\nhastened back to the workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and\nthrew myself upon my bed; but I could not remain.  The image of the\nwretched man, as he was dragged forth, appeared to be by my side.\nPartly to know the result, partly to ease my mind, I went again into\nthe street.  The crowds were stealing quietly to their homes.  From\nsome neighbour apprentices I learned the fatal catastrophe.  I now\nbecame greatly alarmed for my safety, as numbers who knew me well had\nseen my efforts against the door of the jail.  Bitterly did I now\nregret the active part I had taken.  My immediate impulse was to fly\nfrom the city; but in what direction I knew not.  Thus irresolute, I\nstood at the Netherbow Port, where the same person that gave me the\nguinea at the jail-door approached to where I stood.  Embracing the\nopportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being informed upon,\nwhen the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour to discover\nthose who had been active in the affair.\n\n\"'Well, my good fellow, follow me.  It will not serve your purpose\nstanding there.'\n\n\"There were about a dozen along with him.  We proceeded to the beach\nat Fisherrow--going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston--and were\njoined by many others.  Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a\ndistance from the harbour.  We went on board, and set sail for Fife,\nwhere we arrived before morning dawned.  I found my new friend and\nacquaintance was captain and owner of a small vessel, and traded to\nthe coast of Holland.  He scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own\naccount, without putting the revenue officers to any trouble, either\nmeasuring or weighing it.  He had been the intimate friend of\nRobinson, and often sailed in the same vessel.  I joined his crew;\nand, on the following day, we sailed for Antwerp.  But why should I\ntrouble you with the various turns my fortunes have taken for the\nlast thirty-seven years?  At times, I was stationary, and wrought at\nmy trade; at others, I was at sea.  My home has principally been in\nRotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld Reekie.  Many a time I\njoined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my proportion of the\nadventure; my object being--more than the gain--to get a sight of it;\nfor I feared to come to town, being ignorant as to how matters stood\nregarding my share in the Porteous riot.  We heard, in Holland, only\nof the threats of the Government; but I was always rejoiced to hear\nthat no one had been convicted.  Several years had passed before it\nwas safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the\nthought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few\nmonths of my engagement that were to run when I left my master.\nYears passed on.  I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with\nthe view of coming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted\nwith a townsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line.  I\nunfortunately embarked my all.  He had some associates in the\nCowgate, who disposed of, to great advantage, any goods he succeeded\nin bringing to them.  His colleagues on shore had provided a coach\nand horses, with suitable dresses, to personate Major Weir's\ncarriage, agreeably to the most approved description.  The coach and\nhorses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom they supplied with\nliquors at a low rate.  My unfortunate adventure left the port, and I\nanxiously waited its return for several months; but neither ship nor\nfriend made their appearance.  At length he came to my lodgings in\nthe utmost poverty--all had been lost.  Of what use was complaint?\nHe had lost ten times more than I had--everything had gone against\nhim.  His narrative was short.  He reached the coast in safety, and\nlanded his cargo in port, when he was forced to run for it, a revenue\ncutter coming in sight.  After a long chase, he was forced to run his\nvessel on shore, near St Andrew's, and got ashore with only his\nclothes, and the little cash he had on board.  He returned to where\nhis goods were deposited--all that were saved.  The coach was rigged\nout, and reached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was\nattacked and captured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of\ncitizens.  What of the goods remained in the neighbourhood of\nMusselburgh were detained for the loss of the horses and coach.  I\nwas now sick of Holland, and resolved to return, poor as I left it,\nto the haunts of my happiest recollections.  To be rich, and riches\nstill accumulating, in a foreign land, the idea of what we can at any\ntime enjoy--a return--makes it bearable.  But poverty and\ndisappointment sadden the heart of the exile; and make the toil that\nwould be counted light at home, a burden that sinks him early in a\nforeign grave.\n\n\"Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen\nin the coach?\" said the Treasurer.\n\n\"Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it,\" replied Walter.  \"He did\ngive me a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said;\nand regretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he\nwas forced to do in self-preservation.  When you fell out of the\nstair he meant to enter, he knew not who you were--a friend he knew\nyou could not be, for only other two in the city had his secret.\nThat you were a revenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his\nfirst idea.  He was as much alarmed as you, until he found you were\ninsensible.  Not a moment was to be lost.  The goods were hurried\nout, and you placed in the carriage, which was on its way from town,\nbefore you showed any symptoms of returning consciousness.  His first\nintention was to carry you on board his lugger, and convey you to\nHolland, then sell you to the Dutch East India Company, that you\nmight never return to tell what you had been a witness of that night.\nThe terror you were in, the sincerity of your confession, and belief\nthat you were in the power of the Major, saved you from the miserable\nfate he had fixed for you.  Pity struggled against the caution and\navarice which urged him to take you away.  Pity triumphed--you had\nbeen both play and school-fellows in former years.  You were\nreleased--you know the rest.\"\n\nThe wife and mother scarce breathed, while Wattie related the danger\nthe Treasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder.  All thanked\nGod for his escape.  Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman\nover his work, and died about the year 1789.  Widow Horner did not\nlong survive that night of intense anguish--she died of a broken\nheart in her son's house.  It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas\nKerr prospered, Walter Horner, who was at one time much the richer\nman, gradually sank into the most abject circumstances, and died a\npensioner on his incorporation, more despised than pitied.  And thus\nends our tale of Major Weir's famous night airings in Edinburgh.\n\n\n\n\nWE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.\n\nBy JOHN MACKAY WILSON.\n\nWhen the glass, the laugh, and the social \"crack\" go round the\nconvivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words,\n\"_We'll have another!_\"  It is an oft-repeated phrase--and it seems a\nsimple one; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal\ninfluence.  The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly\ntemptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which\nscandal catcheth its thousand echoes--that it is a phrase which has\nblasted reputation--withered affection's heart--darkened the fairest\nprospects--ruined credit--conducted to the prison-house, and led to\nthe grave.  When our readers again hear the words, let them think of\nour present story.\n\nAdam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow who kept a small shop\nin a village near the banks of the Teviot.  From his infancy, Adam\nwas a mild retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports\nof his schoolmates.  On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over\na book by the fire, while his mother would say--\"Dinna stir up the\nfire, bairn; ye dinna mind that coals are dear; and I'm sure ye'll\nhurt yoursel' wi' pore, poring ower your books--for they're never out\no' your hand.\"  In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the\nnoise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river side;\nand there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in\nhis hand, \"crack wi' kings,\" or \"hold high converse with the mighty\ndead.\"  He was about thirteen when his father died; and the Rev. Mr\nDouglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afflicted widow,\nshe said \"she had had a sair bereavement, yet she had reason to be\nthankfu' that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great\nconsolation to her; every night he had read a chapter to his younger\nbrithers--and, oh, sir,\" she added, \"it wad make your heart melt to\nhave heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother.\"  Mr Douglas became\ninterested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, placed him for\nanother year at the parish school at his own expense.  Adam's\nprogress was all that his patron could desire.  He became a frequent\nvisitor at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's\nlibrary.  Mr Douglas had a daughter who was nearly of the same age as\nhis young _proteg\u00e9_.  Mary Douglas was not what could be called\nbeautiful, but she was a gentle and interesting girl.  She and Adam\nread and studied together.  She delighted in a flower-garden, and he\nwas wont to dress it, and he would often wander miles, and consider\nhimself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it.\n\nAdam was now sixteen.  It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin\nof many, to be _without an aim_.  His mother declared that she \"was\nat a loss what to make him; but,\" added she, \"he is a guid scholar,\nthat is ae thing, and CAN DO is easy carried about.\"  Mr Douglas\nhimself became anxious about Adam's prospects: he evinced a dislike\nto be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to\nremain longer a burden upon his mother.  At the suggestion of Mr\nDouglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a\nneighbouring village.  Some said that he was too young; others, that\nhe was too simple, that he allowed the children to have all their own\nway; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to\nthe manse in the adjoining parish to pay attention to his school.\nHowever these things might be, certain it is the school did not\nsucceed; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to\ntry his fortune in London.\n\nHe was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to\nbe forwarded by the carrier.  Adam was to leave his mother's house\nearly on the following morning; and, on the evening preceding his\ndeparture, he paid his farewell visit to the manse.  Mr Douglas\nreceived him with his wonted kindness; he gave him one or two letters\nof recommendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man\nwas nearly as ignorant of what is called the world, as the youth who\nwas about to enter it.  Adam sat long and said little, for his heart\nwas full and his spirit heavy.  He had never said to Mary Douglas, in\nplain words, that he loved her--he had never dared to do so; and he\nnow sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her\nfarewell.  She, too, was silent.  At length he rose to depart; he\nheld out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affectionately,\nadding--\"Farewell, Adam!--may Heaven protect you against the numerous\ntemptations of the great city.\"  He turned towards Mary--he\nhesitated, his hands dropped by his side--\"Could I speak wi' you a\nmoment?\" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke.  With a tear\nglistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his\nconsent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door.  They walked\ntowards the flower-garden--he had taken her hand in his--he pressed\nit, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it.  He seemed\nstruggling to speak; and, at length, in a tone of earnest fondness,\nhe nervously said, \"Will you not forget me, Mary?\"\n\nA half-smothered sob Was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand.\n\n\"Say you will not,\" he added, yet more earnestly.\n\n\"O Adam!\" returned she, \"how can you say _forget_!--never!--never!\"\n\n\"Enough! enough!\" he continued, and they wept together.\n\nIt was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his departure, and to\nbid his mother and his brethren farewell.  \"Oh!\" exclaimed she, as\nshe placed his breakfast before him; \"is this the last meal that my\nbairn's to eat in my house?\"  He ate but little; and she continued,\nweeping as she spoke--\"Eat, hinny, eat; ye have a lang road before\nye;--and, O Adam, aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me\nevery week; never think o' the postage--for, though it should tak' my\nlast farthing, I maun hear frae ye.\"\n\nHe took his staff in his hand, and prepared to depart.  He embraced\nhis younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu.\nHis parent sobbed aloud.  \"Fareweel, mother!\" said he, in a voice\nhalf choked with anguish--\"Fareweel!\"\n\n\"God bless my bairn!\" she exclaimed, wringing his hand; and she\nleaned her head upon his shoulder and wept as though her heart would\nburst.  In agony he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from\nthe house; and, during the first miles of his journey, at every\nrising ground, he turned anxiously round, to obtain another lingering\nlook of the place of his nativity; and, in the fulness and bitterness\nof his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his\nbrethren, and of Mary Douglas, in the same breath.\n\nWe need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood\ngazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amazement, as the vessel\nwinded up the Thames, through the long forest of masts, from which\nwaved the flags of every nation.\n\nIt was about mid-day, early in the month of April, when the smack\ndrew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie\nof astonishment by a waterman, who had come upon deck, and who,\npulling him by the button-hole, said--\"Boat, master? boat?\"  Adam did\nnot exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers\ngetting their luggage into the boats, he followed their example.  On\nlanding, he was surrounded by a group of porters, several of whom\ntook hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he\nwished it taken to.  This was a question he could not answer.  It was\none he had never thought of before.  He looked confused, and replied,\n\"I watna.\"\n\n\"_Watna!_\" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers--\"_Watna!_ there\nain't such a street in all London.\"\n\nAdam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among\nits millions of inhabitants.  He knew not where to go; but,\nrecollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglas had\nrecommended him was a Mr Davidson, a merchant in Cornhill, he\ninquired--\n\n\"Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill?\"\n\n\"Vy, I can't say as how I know him,\" replied a porter; \"but, if you\nwish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a\ntwinkling.\"\n\n\"And what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there?\" said Adam, in\na manner betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution.\n\n\"Hasking?\" replied the other--\"vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to\ncarry it for less than four shillings.\"\n\n\"I canna afford four shillings,\" said Adam, \"and I'll be obleeged to\nye if ye'll gi'e me a lift on to my shoulder wi' it, and I'll carry\nit mysel'.\"\n\nThey uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get\nhis trunk upon his shoulders as he best might.  Adam said truly that\nhe could not afford four shillings; for, after paying his passage, he\nhad not thirty shillings left in the world.\n\nIt is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly\nto our readers.  He was dressed in a coarse grey coat, with trowsers\nof the same colour, a striped waistcoat, a half-worn broad-brimmed\nhat, and thick shoes studded with nails, which clattered as he went.\nThus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went\ntramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Towerhill, and\nalong the Minories, inquiring at every turning--\"If any one could\ndirect him to Mr Davison's, the merchant in Cornhill?\"  There was\nmany a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went\ntrudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground as he\ncame in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him.  He had\nbeen directed out of his way; but at length he arrived at the place\nhe sought.  He placed his burden on the ground--he rang the bell--and\nagain and again he rung, but no one answered.  His letter was\naddressed to Mr Davison's counting-house.  It was past business\nhours, and the office was locked up for the day.  Adam was now tired,\ndisappointed, and perplexed.  He wist not what to do.  He informed\nseveral \"decent-looking people,\" as he said, \"that he was a stranger,\nand he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a\nlodging.\"  He was shown several, but the rent per week terrified\nAdam.  He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of\nNewgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if \"she\ncould inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the\nrate of eighteenpence or two shillings a-week?\"\n\n\"Sure, and it's I who can, jewel,\" replied she, \"and an iligant room\nit is, with a bed his Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and\nnever a one slapes in it at all but my own boy, Barney; and, barring\nwhen Barney's in dhrink--and that's not above twice a-week--you'll\nmake mighty pleasant sort of company together.\"\n\nAdam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-place of any sort\nbefore him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he\nfollowed the old orange-woman.  She conducted him to Green Dragon\nCourt, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair,\nushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by\na broken sky-light, while the entire furniture consisted of four\nwooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated\nchair, and a low wooden stool.  \"Now, darlint,\" said she, observing\nAdam fatigued, \"here is a room fit for a prince; and, sure, you won't\nbe thinking half-a-crown too much for it?\"\n\n\"Weel,\" said Adam, for he was ready to lie down anywhere, \"we'll no'\nquarrel about a sixpence.\"\n\nThe orange-woman left him, having vainly recommended him \"to christen\nhis new tenement with a drop of the cratur.\"  Adam threw himself upon\nthe bed, and, in a few minutes, his spirit wandered in its dreams\namidst the \"bonny woods and braes\" of Teviotdale.  Early on the\nfollowing day he proceeded to the counting-house of Mr Davison, who\nreceived him with a hurried sort of civility--glanced over the letter\nof introduction--expressed a hope that Mr Douglas was well--said he\nwould be happy to serve him--but he was engaged at present, and if Mr\nBrown would call again, if he should hear of anything he would let\nhim know.  Adam thanked him, and, with his best bow (which was a very\nawkward one), withdrew.  The clerks in the outer office tittered as\npoor Adam, with his heavy hob-nailed shoes, tramped through the midst\nof them.  He delivered the other letter of introduction, and the\ngentleman to whom it was addressed received him much in the same\nmanner as Mr Davison had done, and his clerks also smiled at Adam's\ngrey coat, and gave a very peculiar look at his clattering shoes, and\nthen at each other.  Day after day he repeated his visits to the\ncounting-houses of these gentlemen--sometimes they were too much\nengaged to see him, at others they simply informed him that they were\nsorry they had heard of nothing to suit him, and continued writing,\nwithout noticing him again; while Adam, with a heavy heart, would\nstand behind their desk, brushing the crown of his brown\nbroad-brimmed hat with his sleeve.  At length, the clerks in the\nouter office merely informed him their master had heard of nothing\nfor him.  Adam saw it was in vain--three weeks had passed, and the\nthirty shillings which he had brought to London were reduced to ten.\n\nHe was wandering disconsolately down Chancery Lane, with his hands\nthrust in his pockets, when his attention was attracted to a shop,\nthe windows and door of which were covered with written placards, and\non these placards were the words, \"_Wanted, a\nBook-keeper_\"--\"_Wanted, by a Literary Gentleman, an Amanuensis_\"--in\nshort, there seemed no sort of situation for which there was not a\nperson wanted, and each concluded with \"_inquire within_.\"  Adam's\nheart and his eyes overflowed with joy.  There were at least\nhalf-a-dozen places which would suit him exactly--he was only at a\nloss now which to choose upon--and he thought also that Mr Douglas's\nfriends had used him most unkindly in saying they could hear of no\nsituation for him, when here scores were advertised in the streets.\nAt length he fixed upon one.  He entered the shop.  A sharp,\nJewish-looking little man was writing at a desk--he received the\nvisitor with a gracious smile.\n\n\"If you please, sir,\" said Adam, \"will ye be so good as inform me\nwhere the gentleman lives that wants the bookkeeper?\"\n\n\"With pleasure,\" said the master of the register office; \"but you\nmust give me five shillings, and I will enter your name.\"\n\n\"Five shillings!\" repeated Adam, and a new light began to dawn upon\nhim.  \"Five shillings, sir, is a deal o' money, an', to tell you the\ntruth, I can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a\nsituation, maybe you wad tak' half-a-crown.\"\n\n\"Can't book you for that,\" said the other; \"but give me your\nhalf-crown, and you may have the gentleman's address.\"\n\nHe directed him to a merchant in Thames Street.  Adam quickly found\nthe house; and, entering with his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and\nscraping the hob-nails along the floor--\"Sir,\" said he, \"I'm the\nperson Mr Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a bookkeeper.\"\n\n\"Mr Daniells--Mr Daniells,\" said the merchant; \"don't know any such\nperson--have not wanted a bookkeeper these six months.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Adam, \"are ye no' Mr Robertson, o' 54 Thames Street?\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied the merchant; \"but,\" added he, \"I see how it is.\nPray, young man, what did you give this Mr Daniells to recommend you\nto the situation?\"\n\n\"Half-a-crown, sir,\" returned Adam.\n\n\"Well,\" said the other, \"you have more money than wit.  Good morning,\nsir, and take care of another Mr Daniells.\"\n\nPoor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he\nsaid London was a den o' thieves.  I might tell you how his last\nshilling was expended--how he lived upon bread and water--how he fell\ninto arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret--how\nshe persecuted him--how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of\nthe generous words, \"_Money lent_;\" how the orange-woman, in order to\nobtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the _three golden balls_;\nand how the shirts--which his mother had made him from a web of her\nown spinning--and his books, all that he had, save the clothes upon\nhis back, were pledged--and how, when all was gone, the old landlady\nturned him to the door, houseless, friendless, pennyless, with no\ncompanion but despair.  We might have dwelt upon these things, but\nmust proceed with his history.\n\nAdam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder,\nobtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office.\nThe employment was humble, but he received it joyfully.  He was\nsteady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed\nwarehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good\nqualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his\nconfidential clerks.  He had held the situation about two years.  The\nrust, as his brother-clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off\nScotch Adam.  His hodden grey was laid aside for the dashing green,\nhis hob-nailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat\nfor a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling\nof the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same\ninoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's\ncottage.\n\nHis companions were wont \"to roast\" Adam, as they termed it, on what\nthey called his Methodism.  They had often urged him to accompany\nthem to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood\ntheir temptations.  The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge\nwas to his first namesake and progenitor.  He had been counselled\nagainst it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it;\nbut had never been within the walls of a theatre.  _The_ Siddons, and\nher brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were\nfilling not only London but Europe with their names.  One evening\nthey were to perform, together--Adam had often heard of them--he\nadmired Shakspeare--his curiosity was excited, he yielded to the\nsolicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent\nGarden.  The curtain was drawn up.  The performance began.  Adam's\nsoul was riveted, his senses distracted.  The Siddons swept before\nhim like a vision of immortality--Kemble seemed to draw a soul from\nthe tomb of the C\u00e6sars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music\npealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened\nbefore him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight.  When the\nperformance was concluded, his companions proposed to have a single\nbottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was\nprevailed upon to accompany them.  Several of the players\nentered--they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote,\nand song.  The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam.  He took no\nnote of time.  He was unused to drink, and little affected him.  The\nfirst bottle was finished.  \"WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER,\" said one of his\ncompanions.  It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words,\nand he offered no opposition.  He drank again--he began to expatiate\non divers subjects--he discovered he was an orator.  \"Well done, Mr\nBrown,\" cried one of his companions, \"there's hope of you yet--_we'll\nhave another_, my boy--three's band!\"  A third bottle was brought;\nAdam was called upon for a song.  He could sing, and sing well too;\nand, taking his glass in his hand, he began--\n\n  \"Stop, stop, we'll ha'e anither gill,\n    Ne'ermind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter;\n  They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill\n    For ony wife's infernal clatter.\n\n  \"There's Bet, when I gang hame the night,\n    Will set the hail stairhead a ringin'--\n  Let a' the neebours hear her flyte,\n    Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin'.\n\n  \"She'll yelp about the bairns' rags--\n    Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin'!\n  She'll curse my throat an' drouthy bags,\n    An' at me thraw their duddy claethin'!\n\n\n\"Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!\" cried Adam, and continued--\n\n  \"The fient a supper I'll get there--\n    A _dish o' tongues_ is a' she'll gie me!\n  She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,\n    An' wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!\n  She vows to leave me, an' I say,\n    'Gang, gang! for dearsake!--that's a blessin'!'\n  She rins to get her claes away,\n    But--_o' the kist the key's amissin!_\n\n  \"The younkers a' set up a skirl,\n    They shriek an' cry--'O dinna, mither!'\n  I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel\n    Neither ae way nor anither.\n  Bet creeps beside me unco dour,\n    I clap her back, an' say--'My dawtie!'\n  Quo' she--'Weel, weel, my passion's ower,\n    But dinna gang a-drinkin', Watty.'\"\n\n\n\"Bravo, Scotchy!\" shouted one.  \"Your health and song, Mr Brown,\"\ncried another.  Adam's head began to swim--the lights danced before\nhis eyes--he fell from his chair.  One of his friends called a\nhackney coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed\nto his lodgings.  It was afternoon on the following day before he\nappeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the\nlanguid look of one who has spent a night in revelry.  That night he\nwas again prevailed upon to accompany his brother-clerks to the\nclub-room, \"just,\" as they expressed it, \"to have one bottle to put\nall right.\"  That night he again heard the words--\"_We'll have\nanother_,\" and again he yielded to their seduction.\n\nBut we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares\nby which he departed from virtue and became entangled in vice.  He\nbecame an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or\nboth, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness.\nStill he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle\nobject of his young affections, and for a time her endeared\nremembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his\near and saving him from depravity.  But his religious principles were\nalready forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre\nof affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in\nthe path of virtue.  As the influence of company grew upon him, her\nremembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all\nthe pleasures and temptations of the metropolis.\n\nStill he was attentive to business--he still retained the confidence\nof his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds\na-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart,\nthough he was changed--fatally changed.  He had been about four years\nin his situation when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his\nnative village.  It was on a summer afternoon when a chaise from\nJedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the\nvillage.  A fashionably dressed young man alighted, and, in an\naffected voice, desired the landlord to send a porter with his\nluggage to Mrs Brown's.  \"A porter, sir?\" said the\ninnkeeper--\"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get\ntwa callants to tak' it alang.\"\n\nHe hastened to his mother's.  \"Ah! how d'ye do?\" said he, slightly\nshaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his\neye as his mother kissed his cheek.  She, good soul, when the first\nsurprise was over, said \"she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine\ngentleman.\"  He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the\nchange in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the\nless; but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young\nfriend, and grieved over them.\n\nHe had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand,\nand they set out for London together.\n\nFor a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their\nown fireside, and they were blest in the society of each other.  But\nit was not long until company again spread its seductive snares\naround him.  Again he listened to the words--\"_We'll have\nanother_\"--again he yielded to their temptations, and again the\n_force of habit_ made him its slave.  Night followed night, and he\nwas irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon\ncompanions.  Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted\nwife; but she upbraided him not--she spoke not of her sorrows.\nHealth forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet\nas she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered,\nshe welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an\nimprecation or a frown.  They had been married about two years.  Mary\nwas a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the\ncradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father.\n\nIt was her birthday, her father had come to London to visit them; she\nhad not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to\ndine with them.  They had assembled; but Adam was still absent.  He\nhad been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect\nfrom him.  They were yet awaiting, when a police-officer entered.\nHis errand was soon told.  Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well\nas a drunkard--he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement--his\nguilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him.  Mr\nDouglas wrung his hands and groaned.  Mary bore the dreadful blow\nwith more than human fortitude.  She uttered no scream--she shed no\ntears; for a moment she sat motionless--speechless.  It was the\ndumbness of agony.  With her child at her breast, and, in the midst\nof her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet.  \"Father!\" she\nexclaimed, \"for my sake!--for my helpless child's sake--save! oh,\nsave my poor husband!\"\n\n\"For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest,\" groaned the old\nman.\n\nA coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her\nfather hastened to the office of her husband's employer.\n\nWhen Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered\nfrom a companion, he was carousing with others in a low\ngambling-house.  Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room, but\nreturned in a few minutes.  \"_We'll have another!_\" he exclaimed, in\na tone of frenzy--and another was brought.  He half filled a\nglass--he raised it to his lips--he dashed into it a deadly poison,\nand, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed.\nHe had purchased a quantity of arsenic when he rushed from the house.\n\nHis fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife\nand her grey-headed father entered the room.  \"Away, tormentors!\" he\nexclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand\nbefore his face.\n\n\"My husband! my dear husband!\" cried Mary, flinging her arms around\nhis neck.  \"Look on me, speak to me!\"\n\nHe gazed on her face--he grasped her hand.  \"Mary, my injured Mary!\"\nhe exclaimed convulsively, \"can _you_ forgive me--_you--you_?  O God;\nI was once innocent!  Forgive me, dearest!--for our child's sake,\ncurse not its guilty father!\"\n\n\"Husband!--Adam!\" she cried, wringing his hand--\"come with me, love,\ncome--leave this horrid place--you have nothing to fear--your debt is\npaid.\"\n\n\"Paid!\" he exclaimed, wildly--\"Ha! ha!--Paid!\"  These were his last\nwords--convulsions came upon him, the film of death passed over his\neyes, and his troubled spirit fled.\n\nShe clung round his neck--she yet cried \"Speak to me!\"--she refused\nto believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with\nhis spirit.\n\nShe was taken from his body and conveyed home.  The agony of grief\nsubsided into a stupor approaching imbecility.  She was unconscious\nof all around; and, within three weeks from the death of her husband,\nthe broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned\nin sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale.","title":"The Faa's revenge, and other tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":73410}