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WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
REVISED BY
ALEXANDER LEIGHTON
ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
VOL. IV.
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
1885.
CONTENTS.
THE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
THE MAIDEN FEAST OF CAIRNKIBBIE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A SON OF THE HILLS
THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE
THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL, _(HUGH MILLER)_
THE LINTON LAIRDS, OR EXCLUSIVES AND INCLUSIVES, _(ALEXANDER
LEIGHTON)_
BON GUALTIER'S TALES, _(THEODORE MARTIN)_
COUNTRY QUARTERS
THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS, _(WALTER LOGAN)_
THE FAIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
THE SLAVE, _(JOHN HOWELL)_
THE KATHERAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
THE MONKS OF DRYBURGH, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.
THE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE.
On the banks of the Tweed, and about half a mile above where the
Whitadder flows into it on the opposite side, there is a small and
singular cave. It is evidently not an excavation formed by nature, but
the work of man's hands. To the best of my recollection, it is about ten
feet square, and in the midst of it is a pillar or column, hewn out of
the old mass, and reaching from the floor to the roof. It is an
apartment cut out of the solid rock, and must have been a work of great
labour. In the neighbourhood, it is generally known by the name of the
King's Cove, and the tradition runs, that it was once the hiding-place
of a Scottish king. Formerly, it was ascended from the level of the
water by a flight of steps, also hewn out of the rock; but the
mouldering touch of time, the storms of winter, and the undermining
action of the river, which continually appears to press southward, (as
though nature aided in enlarging the Scottish boundary,) has long since
swept them away, though part of them were entire within the memory of
living men. What king used it as a hiding-place, tradition sayeth not:
but it also whispers that it was used for a like purpose by the "great
patriot hero," Sir William Wallace. These things may have been; but
certainly it never was formed to be a mere place of concealment for a
king, though such is the popular belief. Immediately above the bank
where it is situated, are the remains of a Roman camp; and it is more
than probable that the cave is coeval with the camp, and may have been
used for religious purposes--or, perchance, as a prison.
But our story has reference to more modern times. Almost ninety years
have fallen as drops into the vast ocean of eternity, since a strange
and solitary man took up his residence in the cave. He appeared a
melancholy being--he was seldom seen, and there were few with whom he
would hold converse. How he lived no one could tell, nor would he allow
any one to approach his singular habitation. It was generally supposed
that he had been "out," as the phrase went, with Prince Charles, who,
after being hunted as a wild beast upon the mountains, escaped to France
only a few months before the appearance of the Solitary on Tweedside.
This, however, was merely a conjecture. The history and character of the
stranger were a mystery; and the more ignorant of the people believed
him to be a wizard or wicked man, who, while he avoided all manner of
intercourse with his fellow-mortals, had power over and was familiar
with the spirits of the air; for, at that period, the idle belief in
witchcraft was still general. His garments were as singular as his
habits, and a large coarse cloak or coat, of a brown colour, fastened
around him with a leathern girdle, covered his person; while on his head
he wore a long, conical cap, composed of fox-skins, somewhat resembling
those worn now-a-days by some of our regiments of dragoons. His beard,
which was black, was also permitted to grow. But there was a dignity in
his step, as he was occasionally observed walking upon the banks over
his hermitage, and an expression of pride upon his countenance and in
the glance of his eyes, which spoke him to have been a person of some
note.
For three years he continued the inhabitant of the cave; and, throughout
that period, he permitted no one to enter it. But, on its appearing to
be deserted for several days, some fishermen, apprehending that the
recluse might be dying, or perchance dead, within it, ascended the
flight of steps, and, removing a rude door which merely rested against
the rock and blocked up the aperture, they perceived that the cave was
tenantless. On the farther side of the pillar, two boards, slightly
raised as an inclined plane, and covered with dried rushes, marked what
had been the bed of the Solitary. A low stool, a small and rude table,
with two or three simple cooking utensils, completed the furniture of
the apartment. The fishermen were about to withdraw, when one of them
picked up a small parcel of manuscripts near the door of the cave, as
though the hermit had dropped them by accident at his departure. They
appeared to be intended as letters to a friend, and were entitled--
"MY HISTORY."
Dear Lewis, (they began,) when death shall have sealed up the eyes, and
perchance some stranger dug a grave for your early friend, Edward
Fleming, then the words which he now writes for your perusal may meet
your eye. You believe me dead--and would to Heaven that I had died, ere
my hands became red with guilt, and my conscience a living fire which
preys upon and tortures me, but will not consume me! You remember--for
you were with me--the first time I met Catherine Forrester. It was when
her father invited us to his house in Nithsdale, and our hearts, like
the season, were young. She came upon my eyes as a dream of beauty, a
being more of heaven than of earth. You, Lewis, must admit that she was
all that fancy can paint of loveliness. Her face, her form, her auburn
ringlets, falling over a neck of alabaster!--where might man find their
equal? She became the sole object of my waking thoughts, the vision that
haunted my sleep. And was she not good as beautiful? Oh! the glance of
her eyes was mild as a summer morning breaking on the earth, when the
first rays of the sun shoot like streaks of gold across the sea. Her
smile, too--you cannot have forgotten its sweetness! never did I behold
it, but I thought an angel was in my presence, shedding influence over
me. There was a soul, too, in every word she uttered. Affectation she
had none; but the outpourings of her mind flowed forth as a river, and
her wit played like the ripple which the gentle breeze makes to sport
upon its bosom. You may think that I am about to write you a maudlin
tale of love, such as would draw tears from a maiden in her teens, while
those of more sober age turned away from it, and cried--'Pshaw!' But
fear not--there is more of misery and madness than of love in my
history. And yet, why should we turn with affected disgust from a tale
of the heart's first, best, purest, and dearest affections? It is
affectation, Lewis--the affectation of a cynic, who cries out, 'vanity
of vanities, all is vanity,' when the delicacy of young affection has
perished in his own breast. Who is there bearing the human form that
looks not back upon those days of tenderness and bliss, with a feeling
akin to that which our first parents might have experienced, when they
looked back upon the Eden from which they had been expelled? Whatever
may be your feelings, forgive me, while, for a few moments, I indulge in
the remembrance of this one bright spot in my history, even although you
are already in part acquainted with it.
We had been inmates beneath the roof of Sir William Forrester for
somewhat more than two months, waiting to receive intelligence regarding
the designs of his Excellency, or the landing of the Prince. It was
during the Easter holidays, and you had gone to Edinburgh for a few
days, to ascertain the feelings and the preparations of the friends of
the cause there. I remained almost forgetful of our errand, dreaming
beneath the eyes of Catherine. It was on the second day after your
departure, Sir William sat brooding over the possible results of the
contemplated expedition, now speaking of the feeling of the people, the
power of the house of Hanover, the resources of Prince Charles, and the
extent of the assistance he was likely to receive from France--drowning,
at the same time, every desponding thought that arose in an additional
glass of claret, and calling on me to follow his example. But my
thoughts were of other matters. Catherine sat beside me, arranging
Easter gifts for the poor; and I, though awkwardly, attempted to assist
her. Twilight was drawing on, and the day was stormy for the season, for
the snow fell, and the wind whirled round the drift in fantastic
columns; but with us, the fire blazed blithely, mingling its light with
the fading day, and though the storm raged without, and Sir William
seemed ready to sink into melancholy, I was happy--more than happy. But
attend, Lewis, for I never told you this; at the very moment when my
happiness seemed tranquil as the rays of a summer moon at midnight,
showering them on a mountain and casting its deep, silent shadow on a
lake, as though it revealed beneath the waters a bronzed and a silent
world, the trampling of a horse's feet was heard at the gate. I looked
towards the narrow window. A blackish-brown, shaggy animal attempted to
trot towards the door. It had rough hanging ears, a round form, and
hollow back; and a tall lathy-looking figure, dismounting from it, gave
the bridle to Sir William's groom, and uttered his orders respecting it,
notwithstanding of the storm, with the slowness and solemnity of a
judge. And, fearful that, although so delivered, they might not be
obeyed to the letter--
'A merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' said he, and stalked
to the stable behind them.
'There go a brace of originals,' thought I; and, with difficulty, I
suppressed a laugh.
But Catherine smiled not, and her father left the room to welcome the
vistant.
The tall, thin man now entered. I call him tall, for his stature
exceeded six feet; and I say thin, for nature had been abundantly
liberal with bones and muscle, but wofully niggard in clothing them with
flesh. His limbs, however, were lengthy enough for a giant of seven
feet; and it would be difficult for me to say, whether his swinging
arms, which seemed suspended from his shoulders, appeared more of use or
of incumbrance. His countenance was a thoughtful blank, if you will
allow me such an expression. He had large, grey, fixture-like, unmeaning
eyes; and his hair was carefully combed back and plaited behind, to show
his brow to the best advantage. He gave two familiar stalks across the
floor, and he either did not see me, or he cared not for seeing me.
'A good Easter to ye, Catherine, my love!' said he. 'Still employed wi'
works o' love an' charity? How have ye been, dear?' And he lifted her
fair hand to his long blue lips.
Catherine was silent--she became pale, deadly pale. I believe her hand
grew cold at his touch, and that she would have looked to me; but she
could not--she dared not. _Something forbade it._ But with me the spell
was broken--the chain that bound me to her father's house, that withheld
me from accompanying you to Edinburgh, was revealed. The uncouth
stranger tore the veil from my eyes--he showed me the first glance of
love in the mirror of jealousy. My teeth grated together--my eyes
flashed--drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. My first impulse was to
dash the intruder to the ground; but, to hide my feelings, I rose from
my seat, and was about to leave the room.
'Sir, I ask your pardon,' said he--'I did not observe that ye was a
stranger; but that accounts for the uncommon dryness o' my Katie. Yet,
sir, ye mustna think that, though she is as modest as a bit daisy
peeping out frae beneath a clod to get a blink o' the sun, but that we
can hae our ain crack by our twa sels for a' that.'
'Sir Peter Blakely,' said Catherine, rising with a look expressive of
indignation and confusion, 'what mean ye?'
'Oh, no offence, Miss Catherine--none in the world,' he was beginning to
say, when, fortunately, her father entered, as I found that I had
advanced a step towards the stranger, with I scarce know what intention;
but it was not friendly.
'Sir Peter,' said Sir William, 'allow me to introduce you to my young
friend, Mr. Fleming; he is _one of us_--a supporter of the good cause.'
He introduced me in like manner. I bowed--trembled--bowed again.
'I am very happy to see you, Mr. Fleming,' said Sir Peter--'very happy,
indeed.' And he stretched out his huge collection of fingers to shake
hands with me.
My eyes glared on his, and I felt them burn as I gazed on him. He
evidently quailed, and would have stepped back; but I grasped his hand,
and scarce knowing what I did, I grasped it as though a vice had held
it. The blood sprang to his thin fingers, and his glazed orbs started
farther from their sockets.
'Save us a'! friend! friend! Mr Fleming! or what do they ca' ye?' he
exclaimed in agony; 'is that the way you shake hands in your country? I
would hae ye to mind my fingers arena made o' cauld iron.
The cold and the snow had done half the work with his fingers before,
and the grasp I gave them squeezed them into torture; and he stood
shaking and rattling them in the air, applying them to his lips and
again to the fire and, finally, dancing round the room, swinging his
tormented hand, and exclaiming--
'Sorrow take ye! for I dinna ken whether my fingers be off or on!'
Sir William strove to assure him it was merely the effect of cold, and
that I could not intend to injure him, while, with difficulty, he kept
gravity at the grotesque contortions and stupendous strides of his
intended son-in-law. Even Catherine's countenance relapsed into a
languid smile, and I, in spite of my feelings, laughed outright, while
the object of our amusement at once wept and laughed to keep us company.
You will remember that I slept in an apartment separated only by a thin
partition from the breakfast parlour. In the partition which divided my
chamber from the parlour was a door that led to it, one half of which
was of glass, and in the form of a window, and over the glass fell a
piece of drapery. It was not the door by which I passed from or entered
my sleeping room, but through the drapery I could discover (if so
minded) whatever took place in the adjoining apartment.
Throughout the night I had not retired to rest; my soul was filled with
anxious and uneasy thoughts; and they chased sleep from me. I felt how
deeply, shall I say how madly, I loved my Catherine; and, in Sir Peter
Blakely, I beheld a rival who had forestalled me in soliciting her hand;
and I hated him. My spirit was exhausted with its own bitter and
conflicting feelings; and I sat down as a man over whom agony of soul
has brought a stupor, with my eyes vacantly fixed upon the curtain which
screened me from the breakfast parlour. Sir Peter entered it, and the
sound of his footsteps broke my reverie. I could perceive him approach
the fire, draw forward a chair, and place his feet on each side of the
grate. He took out his tobacco-box, and began to enjoy the comforts of
his morning pipe in front of a 'green fire;' shivering--for the morning
was cold--and edging forward his chair, until his knees almost came in
conjunction with the mantelpiece. His pipe was finished, and he was
preparing to fill it a second time. He struck it over his finger, to
shake out the dust which remained after his last whiff; he struck it a
second time, (he had been half dreaming, like myself,) and it broke in
two and fell among his feet. He was left without a companion. He arose
and began to walk across the room; his countenance bespoke anxiety and
restlessness. I heard him mutter the words--
'I will marry her!--yea, I will!--my sweet Catherine!'
Every muttered word he uttered was a dagger driven into my bosom. At
that moment, Sir William entered the parlour.
'Sir,' said Sir Peter, after their morning salutations, 'I have been
thinking it is a long way for me to come over from Roxburgh to
here'--and he paused, took out his snuff-box, opened the lid, and
added--'Yes, sir, it is a long way'--he took a pinch of snuff, and
continued--'Now, Sir William, I have been thinking that it would be as
well, indeed a great deal better, for you to come over to my lodge at a
time like this.' Here he paused, and placed the snuff-box in his pocket.
'I can appreciate your kind intentions,' said Sir William, 'but'----
'There can be no _buts_ about it,' returned the other--'I perceive ye
dinna understand me, Sir William. What I mean is this'--but here he
seemed at a loss to explain his meaning; and, after standing with a look
of confusion for a few moments, he took out his tobacco-box, and
added--'I would thank you, sir, to order me a pipe.' The pipe was
brought--he put it in the fire, and added--'I have been thinking, Sir
William, very seriously have I been thinking, on a change of life. I am
no great bairn in the world now; and, I am sure, sir, none knows better
than you (who for ten years was my guardian), that I never had such a
degree of thoughtlessness about me as to render it possible to suppose
that I would make a bad husband to any woman that was disposed to be
happy.' Once more he became silent, and taking his pipe from the fire,
after a few thoughtful whiffs, he resumed--'Servants will have their own
way without a mistress owre them; and I am sure it would be a pity to
see onything going wrong about my place, for every body will say, that
has seen it, that the sun doesna wauken the birds to throw the soul of
music owre a lovelier spot, in a' his journey round the globe. Now, Sir
William,' he added, 'it is needless for me to say it, for every person
within twenty miles round is aware that I am just as fond o' Miss
Catherine as the laverock is o' the blue lift; and it is equally sure
and evident to me, that she cares for naebody but mysel.'
Lewis! imagine my feelings when I heard him utter this! There was a word
that I may not write, which filled my soul, and almost burst from my
tongue. I felt agony and indignation burn over my face. Again, I heard
him add--'When I was over in the middle o' harvest last, ye remember
that, in your presence, I put the question fairly to her; and, although
she hung down her head and said nothing, yet that, sir, in my opinion,
is just the way a virtuous woman ought to consent. I conceive that it
shewed true affection, and sterling modesty; and, sir, what I am now
thinking is this--Catherine is very little short of one-and-twenty, and
I, not so young as I have been, am every day drawing nearer to my sere
and yellow leaf; and I conceive it would be great foolishness--ye will
think so yourself--to be putting off time.'
'My worthy friend,' said Sir William, 'you are aware that the union you
speak of is one from which my consent has never been withheld; and I am
conscious that, in complying with your wishes, I shall bestow my
daughter's hand upon one whose heart is as worthy of her affections as
his actions and principles are of her esteem.'
Sir Peter gave a skip (if I may call a stride of eight feet by such a
name) across the room, he threw the pipe in the grate, and, seizing the
hand of Sir William, exclaimed--
'Oh, joy supreme! oh, bliss beyond compare!
My cup runs owre--Heaven's bounty can nae mair!'
'Excuse the quotation from a profane author,' he added, 'upon such a
solemn occasion; but he expresses exactly my feelings at this moment;
for, oh, could you feel what I feel here!'--And he laid his hand upon
his breast. 'Whatever be my faults, whatever my weakness, I am strong in
gratitude.'
You will despise me for having played the part of a mean listener. Be it
so, Lewis--I despise, I hate myself. I heard it proposed that the
wedding-day should take place within a month: but the consent of
Catherine was not yet obtained. I perceived her enter the apartment; I
witnessed her agony when her father communicated to her the proposal of
his friend, and his wish that it should be agreed to. Shall I tell it
you, my friend, that the agony I perceived on her countenance kindled a
glow of joy upon mine? Yes, I rejoiced in it, for it filled my soul with
hope, it raised my heart as from the grave.
Two days after this, and I wandered forth among the woods, to nourish
hope in solitude. Every trace of the recent storm had passed away, the
young buds were wooing the sunbeams, and the viewless cuckoo lifted up
its voice from afar. All that fell upon the ear, and all that met the
eye, contributed to melt the soul to tenderness. My thoughts were of
Catherine, and I now thought how I should unbosom before her my whole
heart; or, I fancied her by my side, her fair face beaming smiles on
mine, her lips whispering music. My spirit became entranced--it was
filled with her image. With my arms folded upon my bosom, I was
wandering thus unconsciously along a footpath in the wood, when I was
aroused by the exclamation--
'Edward!'
It was my Catherine. I started as though a disembodied spirit had met me
on my path. Her agitation was not less than mine. I stepped forward--I
would have clasped her to my bosom--but resolution forsook me--her
presence awed me--I hesitated and faltered--
'_Miss_ Forrester!'
I had never called her by any other name; but, as she afterwards told
me, the word then went to her heart, and she thought, 'He cares not for
me, and I am lost!' Would to Heaven that such had ever remained her
thoughts, and your friend would have been less guilty and less wretched
than he this day is!
I offered her my arm, and we walked onward together; but we spoke not to
each other--we could not speak. Each had a thousand things to say, but
they were all unutterable. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and
mine responded to it. We had approached within a quarter of a mile of
her father's house. Still we were both silent. I trembled--I stood
suddenly still.
'Catherine!' I exclaimed, and my eyes remained fixed upon the ground--my
bosom laboured in agony--I struggled for words, and, at length, added,
'I cannot return to your father's--Catherine, I cannot!'
'Edward!' she cried, 'whither--whither would you go?--you would not
leave me thus? What means this?'
'Means! Catherine!' returned I--'are ye not to be another's? Would that
I had died before I had looked upon thy face, and my soul was lighted
with a fleeting joy, only that the midnight of misery might sit down on
it for ever!'
'Oh, speak not thus!' she cried, and her gentle form shook as a blighted
leaf in an autumnal breeze; 'speak not language unfit for you to utter
or me to hear. Come, _dear_ Edward!'
'_Dear_ Edward!' I exclaimed, and my arms fell upon her neck--'that word
has recalled me to myself! _Dear_ Edward!--repeat those words
again!--let the night-breeze whisper them, and bear them on its wings
for ever! Tell me, Catherine, am I indeed _dear_ to you?'
She burst into tears, and hid her face upon my bosom.
'Edward!' she sobbed, 'let us leave this place--I have said too
much--let us return home.'
'No, loved one!' resumed I; 'if you have said too much, we part now, and
eternity may not unite us! Farewell, Catherine!--be happy! Bear my
thanks to your father, and say--but, no, no!--say nothing,--let not the
wretch he has honoured with his friendship blast his declining years!
Farewell, love!' I pressed my lips upon her snowy brow, and again I
cried--'Farewell!'
'You must not--shall not leave me!' she said, and trembled; while her
fair hands grasped my arm.
'Catherine,' added I, 'can I see you another's? The thought chokes me!
Would you have me behold it?--shall my eyes be withered by the sight?
Never, never! Forgive me!--Catherine, forgive me! I have acted rashly,
perhaps cruelly; but I would not have spoken as I have done--I would
have fled from your presence--I would not have given one pang to your
gentle bosom--your father should not have said that he sheltered a
scorpion that turned and stung him; but, meeting you as I have done
to-day, I could no longer suppress the tumultuous feelings that
struggled in my bosom. But it is past. Forgive me--forget me!'
Still memory hears her sighs, as her tears fell upon my bosom, and,
wringing her hands in bitterness, she cried--
'Say not, _forget_ you! If, in compliance with my father's will, I must
give my hand to another, and if to him my vows must be plighted, I will
keep them sacred--yet my heart is yours!'
Lewis! I was delirious with joy, as I listened to this confession from
her lips. The ecstasy of years was compressed into a moment of deep,
speechless, almost painful luxury. We mingled our tears together, and
our vows went up to heaven a sacrifice pure as the first that ascended,
when the young earth offered up its incense from paradise to the
new-born sun.
I remained beneath her father's roof until within three days of the time
fixed for her becoming the bride of Sir Peter Blakely. Day by day, I
beheld my Catherine move to and fro like a walking corpse--pale,
speechless, her eyes fixed and lacking their lustre. Even I seemed
unnoticed by her. She neither sighed nor wept. A trance had come over
her faculties. She made no arrangements for her bridal; and when I at
times whispered to her that _she should be mine_! O Lewis! she would
then smile--but it was a smile where the light of the soul was not--more
dismal, more vacant than the laugh of idiotcy! Think, then, how unlike
they were to the rainbows of the soul which I had seen radiate the
countenance of my Catherine!
Sir Peter Blakely had gone into Roxburghshire, to make preparations for
taking home his bride, and her father had joined you in Edinburgh,
relative to the affairs of Prince Charles, in consequence of a letter
which he had received from you, and the contents of which might not even
be communicated to me. At any other time, and this lack of confidence
would have provoked my resentment; but my thoughts were then of other
things, and I heeded it not. Catherine and I were ever together; and for
hour succeeding hour we sat silent, gazing on each other. O my friend!
could your imagination conjure up our feelings and our thoughts in this
hour of trial, you would start, shudder, and think no more. The glance
of each was as a pestilence, consuming the other. As the period of her
father's return approached, a thousand resolutions crowded within my
bosom--some of magnanimity, some of rashness. But I was a
coward--morally, I was a coward. Though I feared not the drawn sword nor
the field of danger more than another man, yet misery compels me to
confess what I was. Every hour, every moment, the sacrifice of parting
from her became more painful. Oh! a mother might have torn her infant
from her breast, dashed it on the earth, trampled on its outstretched
hands, and laughed at its dying screams, rather than that I now could
have lived to behold my Catherine another's.
Suddenly, the long, the melancholy charm of my silence broke. I fell
upon my knee, and, clenching my hands together, exclaimed--
'Gracious Heaven!--if I be within the pale of thy mercy, spare me this
sight! Let me be crushed as an atom--but let not mine eyes see the day
when a tongue speaks it, nor mine ears hear the sound that calls her
another's.'
I started to my feet, I grasped her hands in frenzy, I exclaimed--'You
_shall_ be mine!' I took her hand. 'Catherine!' I added, 'you will
not--you SHALL not give your hand to another! It is mine, and from mine
it shall not part! And I pressed it to my breast as a mother would her
child from the knife of a destroyer.
'It SHALL be yours!' she replied wildly; and the feeling of life and
consciousness again gushed through her heart. But she sank on my breast,
and sobbed--
'My father! O my father!'
'Your father is Sir Peter Blakely's friend,' replied I, 'and he will not
break the pledge he has given him. With his return, Catherine, my hopes
and life perish together. Now only can you save yourself--now only can
you save me. Fly with me!--be mine, and your father's blessing will not
be withheld. Hesitate now, and farewell happiness.'
She hastily raised her head from my breast, she stood proudly before me,
and, casting her bright blue eyes upon mine, with a look of piercing
inquiry, said--
'Edward! what would you have me to do? Deep as my love for you is--and I
blush not to confess it--would you have me to fly with you accompanied
by the tears of blighted reputation--followed by the groans and
lamentations of a heart-broken father--pointed at by the finger of the
world as an outcast of human frailty? Would you have me to break the
last cord that binds to existence the only being to whom I am related on
earth--for whom have I but my father? My _hand_ I shall _never_ give to
another; but I cannot, I will not leave my father's house. If Catherine
Forrester has gained your _love_, she shall not forfeit your _esteem_. I
may droop in secret, Edward, as a bud broken on its stem, but I will not
be trampled on in public as a worthless weed.'
'Nay, my beloved, mistake me not,' returned I--'when the lamb has
changed natures with the wolf, then, but not till then, could I breathe
a thought, a word in your presence, that I would blush to utter at the
gate of Heaven. Within two days, your father and his intended son-in-law
will return, and the father's threats and tears will subdue the
daughter's purpose. Catherine will be a wife!--Edward a----
'Speak not impiously,' she cried, imploringly--'what--what can we do?'
'The present moment only is left us,' replied I. 'To-night, become the
wife of Edward Fleming, and happiness will be ours.'
Her pulse stood still; the blood rushed into her face and back to her
heart, while her bosom heaved, and her cheeks glowed with the agony of
incertitude, as she resolved and re-resolved.
But wherefore should I tire you with a recital of what you already know.
That night, my Catherine became my wife. For a few months her father
disowned us; but when the fortunes of the Prince began to ripen, through
his instrumentality we were again received into his favour. Yet I was
grieved to hear, that, in consequence of our marriage, Sir Peter
Blakely's mind had become affected; for, while I detested him as a
rival, I was compelled to esteem him as a man.
But now, Lewis, comes the misery of my story. You are aware that, before
I saw my Catherine, I was a ruined man. Youthful indiscretions--but why
call them indiscretions?--rather let me say my headlong sins--before I
had well attained the age of manhood, contributed to undermine my
estate, and the unhappy political contest in which we were engaged had
wrecked it still more. I had ventured all that my follies had left me
upon the fortunes of Prince Charles. You know that I bought arms, I kept
men ready for the field, I made voyages to France, I assisted others in
their distress; and, in doing all this, I anticipated nothing less than
an earldom, when the Stuarts should again sit on the throne of their
fathers. You had more sagacity, more of this world's wisdom; and you
told me I was wrong--that I was involving myself in a labyrinth from
which I might never escape. But I thought myself wiser than you. I knew
the loyalty and the integrity of my own actions, and with me, at all
times, to feel was to act. I had dragged ruin around me, indulging in a
vague dream of hope; and now I had obtained the hand of my Catherine,
and I had not the courage to inform her that she had wed that of a
ruined man.
It was when you and I were at the University together, that the spirit
of gambling threw its deceitful net around me, and my estate was sunk
to half its value ere I was of age to enjoy it; the other half I had
wrecked in idle schemes for the restoration of the Stuarts. When,
therefore, a few weeks after our marriage, I removed with my Catherine
to London, I was a beggar, a bankrupt, living in fashionable misery. I
became a universal borrower, making new creditors to pacify the clamours
of the old, and to hide from my wife the wretchedness of which I had
made her a partner. And, O Lewis! the thought that she should discover
our poverty, was to me a perpetual agony. It came over the fondest
throbbings of my soul like the echo of a funeral bell, for ever pealing
its sepulchral boom through the music of bridal joy. I cared not for
suffering as it might affect myself; but I could not behold her suffer,
and suffer for my sake. I heard words of tenderness fall from her
tongue, in accents sweeter than the melody of the lark's evening song,
as it chirming descends to fold its wings for the night by the side of
its anxious mate. I beheld her smiling to beguile my care, and fondly
watching every expression of my countenance, as a mother watches over
her sick child; and the half-concealed tear following the smile when her
efforts proved unavailing; and my heart smote me that she should weep
for me, while her tears, her smiles, and her tenderness, added to my
anguish, and I was unable to say in my heart, 'Be comforted.' It could
not be affection which made me desirous of concealing our situation from
her, but a weakness which makes us unwilling to appear before each other
as we really are.
For twelve months I concealed, or thought that I had concealed, the
bankruptcy which overwhelmed me as a helmless vessel on a tempestuous
sea. But the Prince landed in Scotland, and the war began. I was
employed in preparing the way for him in England, and, for a season,
wild hopes, that made my brain giddy, rendered me forgetful of the
misery that had hung over and haunted me. But the brilliant and
desperate game was soon over; our cause was lost, and with it my hopes
perished; remorse entered my breast, and I trembled in the grasp of
ruin. Sir William Forrester effected his escape to France, but his
estates were confiscated, and my Catherine was robbed of the inheritance
that would have descended to her. With this came another pang, more
bitter than the loss of her father's fortune; for he, now a fugitive in
a strange land, and unconscious of my condition, had a right to expect
assistance from me. The thought dried up my very heart's blood, and made
it burn within me--and I fancied I heard my Catherine soliciting me to
extend the means of life to her father, which I was no longer able to
bestow upon herself: for, with the ruin of our cause, my schemes of
borrowing, and of allaying the clamour of creditors, perished.
But it is said that evils come not singly--nor did they so with me; they
came as a legion, each more cruel than that which preceded it. Within
three weeks after the confiscation of the estates of Sir William
Forrester, the individual who held the mortgage upon mine died, and his
property passed into the hands--of whom?--heaven and earth! Lewis, I can
hardly write it. His property, including the mortgage on my estate,
passed into the hands of--Sir Peter Blakely! I could have died a
thousand deaths rather than have listened to the tidings. My estate was
sunk beyond its value, and now I was at the mercy of the man I had
injured--of him I hated. I could not doubt but that, now that I was in
his power, he would wring from me his 'pound o' flesh' to the last
grain--and he has done it!--the monster has done it! But to proceed with
my history.
My Catherine was now a mother, and longer to conceal from her the
wretchedness that surrounded us, and was now ready to overwhelm us, was
impossible; yet I lacked the courage, the manliness to acquaint her with
it, or prepare her for the coming storm.
But she had penetrated my soul--she had read our condition; and, while I
sat by her side buried in gloom, and my soul groaning in agony, she took
my hand in hers, and said--
'Come, dear Edward, conceal nothing from me. If I cannot remove your
sorrows, let me share them. I have borne much, but, for you, I can bear
more.'
'What mean ye, Catherine?' I inquired, in a tone of petulance.
'My dear husband,' replied she, with her wonted affection, 'think not I
am ignorant of the sorrow that preys upon your heart. But brood not on
poverty as an affliction. You may regain affluence, or you may not; it
can neither add to nor diminish my happiness but as it affects you. Only
smile upon me, and I will welcome penury. Why think of degradation or of
suffering? Nothing is degrading that is virtuous and honest; and where
honesty and virtue are, there alone is true nobility, though their owner
be a hewer of wood. Believe not that poverty is the foe of affection.
The assertion is the oft-repeated, but idle falsehood of those who never
loved. I have seen mutual love, joined with content, within the clay
walls of humble cotters, rendering their scanty and coarse morsel
sweeter than the savoury dainties of the rich; and affection increased,
and esteem rose, from the knowledge that they endured privation
together, and for each other. No, Edward,' she added, hiding her face
upon my shoulder, 'think not of suffering. We are young, the world is
wide, and Heaven is bountiful. Leave riches to those who envy them, and
affection will render the morsel of our industry delicious.'
My first impulse was to press her to my bosom; but pride and shame
mastered me, and, with a troubled voice, I exclaimed--'Catherine!'
'O Edward!' she continued, and her tears burst forth, 'let us study to
understand each other--if I am worthy of being your wife, I am worthy of
your confidence.'
I could not reply. I was dumb in admiration, in reverence of virtue and
affection of which I felt myself unworthy. A load seemed to fall from my
heart, I pressed her lips to mine.
'Cannot Edward be as happy as his Catherine,' she continued; 'we have,
at least, enough for the present, and, with frugality, we have enough
for years. Come, love, wherefore will you be unhappy? Be you our
purser.' And, endeavouring to smile, she gently placed her purse in my
hands.
'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed, striking my forehead, and the purse dropped
upon the floor; 'am I reduced to this? Never, Catherine!--never! Let me
perish in my penury; but crush me not beneath the weight of my own
meanness! Death!--what must you think of me?'
'Think of you?' she replied, with a smile, in which affection,
playfulness, and sorrow met--'I did not think that you would refuse to
be your poor wife's banker.'
'Ah, Catherine!' cried I, 'would that I had half your virtue--half your
generosity.'
'The half?' she answered laughingly--'have you not the whole? Did I not
give you hand and heart--faults and virtues?--and you, cruel man, have
lost the half already! Ungenerous Edward!'
'Oh!' exclaimed I, 'may Heaven render me worthy of such a wife!'
'Come, then,' returned she, 'smile upon your Catherine--_it is all over
now_.'
'What is all over, love?' inquired I.
'Oh, nothing, nothing,' continued she, smiling--'merely the difficulty a
young husband has in making his wife acquainted with the state of the
firm in which she has become a partner.'
'And,' added I, bitterly, 'you find it bankrupt.'
'Nay, nay,' rejoined she, cheerfully, 'not bankrupt; rather say,
beginning the world with a small capital. Come, now, dearest, smile, and
say you will be cashier to the firm of Fleming & Co.'
'Catherine!--O Catherine!' I exclaimed, and tears filled my eyes.
'Edward!--O Edward!' returned she, laughing, and mimicking my emotion;
'good by, dear--good by!' And, picking up the purse, she dropped it on
my knee, and tripped out of the room, adding gaily--
'For still the house affairs would call her hence.'
Fondly as I imagined that I loved Catherine, I had never felt its
intensity until now, nor been aware of how deeply she deserved my
affection. My indiscretions and misfortunes had taught me the use of
money--they had made me to know that it was an indispensable agent in
our dealings with the world; but they had not taught me economy. And I
do not believe that a course of misery, continued and increasing
throughout life, would ever teach this useful and prudent lesson to one
of a warm-hearted and sanguine temperament; nor would any power on
earth, or in years, enable him to put it in practice, save the daily and
endearing example of an affectionate and virtuous wife. I do not mean
the influence which all women possess during the oftentimes morbid
admiration of what is called a honeymoon; but the deeper and holier
power which grows with years, and departs not with grey hairs--in our
boyish fancies being embodied, and our young feelings being made
tangible, in the never-changing smile of her who was the sun of our
early hopes, the spirit of our dreams--and who, now, as the partner of
our fate, ever smiles on us, and, by a thousand attentions, a thousand
kindnesses and acts of love, becomes every day dearer and more dear to
the heart where it is her only ambition to reign and sit secure in her
sovereignty--while her chains are soft as her own bosom, and she spreads
her virtues around us, till they become a part of our own being, like an
angel stretching his wings over innocence. Such is the power and
influence of every woman who is as studious to reform and delight the
husband as to secure the lover.
Such was the influence which, I believed, I now felt over my spirit, and
which would save me from future folly and from utter ruin. But I was
wrong, I was deceived--yes, most wickedly I was deceived. But you shall
hear. On examining the purse, I found that it contained between four and
five hundred pounds in gold and bills.
'This,' thought I, 'is the wedding present of her father to my poor
Catherine, and she has kept it until now! Bless her! Heaven bless her.'
I wandered to and fro across the room, in admiration of her excellence,
and my bosom was troubled with a painful sense of my own unworthiness. I
had often, when my heart was full, attempted to soothe its feelings by
pouring them forth in rhyme. There were writing materials upon the table
before me. I sat down--I could think of nothing but my Catherine, and I
wrote the following verses
TO MY WIFE.
Call woman--angel, goddess, what you will--
With all that fancy breathes at passion's call,
With all that rapture fondly raves--and still
That one word--WIFE--outvies--contains them all.
It is a word of music which can fill
The soul with melody, when sorrows fall
Round us, like darkness, and her heart alone
Is all that fate has left to call our own.
Her bosom is a fount of love that swells,
Widens, and deepens with its own outpouring,
And, as a desert stream, for ever wells
Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring,
Dry up its very blood, and man rebels
Against his being!--When despair is lowering,
And ills sweep round him, like an angry river,
She is his star, his rock of hope for ever.
Yes; woman only knows what 'tis to mourn
She only feels how slow the moments glide
Ere those her young heart loved in joy return
And breathe affection, smiling by her side.
Hers only are the tears that waste and burn--
The anxious watchings, and affection's tide
That never, never ebbs!--hers are the cares
No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares
Cares, like her spirit, delicate as light
Trembling at early dawn from morning stars,
Cares, all unknown to feeling and to sight
Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom wars
With each fierce passion in its fiery might;
Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars
Affection's silver cords by woman wove,
Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is--LOVE.
I left the verses upon the table, that she might find them when she
entered, and that they might whisper to her that I at least appreciated
her excellence, however little I might have merited it.
Lewis, even in my solitary cell, I feel the blush upon my cheek, when I
think upon the next part of my history. My hand trembles to write it,
and I cannot now. Methinks that even the cold rocks that surround me
laugh at me derision, and I feel myself the vilest of human things. But
I cannot describe it to-day--I have gone too far already, and I find
that my brain burns. I have conjured up the past, and I would hide
myself from its remembrance. Another day, when my brain is cool, when my
hand trembles not, I may tell you all; but, in the shame of my own
debasement, my reason is shaken from its throne.
Here ended the first part of the Hermit's manuscript; and on another,
which ran thus, he had written the words--
"MY HISTORY CONTINUED."
I told you, Lewis, where I last broke off my history, that I left the
verses on the table for the eye of my Catherine. I doubted not that I
would devise some plan of matchless wisdom, and that, with the money so
unexpectedly come into my possession, I would redeem my broken fortunes.
I went out into the streets, taking the purse with me, scarce knowing
what I did, but musing on what to do. I met one who had been a
fellow-gambler with me, when at the University.
'Ha! Fleming!' he exclaimed, 'is such a man alive! I expected that you
and your Prince would have crossed the water together, or that you would
have exhibited at Carlisle or Tower Hill.'
He spoke of the run of good fortune he had had on the previous
night--(for he was a gambler still.) 'Five thousand!' said he, rubbing
his hands, 'were mine within five minutes.'
'Five thousand!' I repeated. I took my Catherine's purse in my hand.
Lewis! some demon entered my soul, and extinguished reason. 'Five
thousand!' I repeated again; 'it would rescue my Catherine and my child
from penury.' I thought of the joy I should feel in placing the money
and her purse again in her hands. I accompanied him to the table of
destruction. For a time fortune, that it might mock my misery, and not
dash the cup from my lips until they were parched, seemed to smile on
me. But I will not dwell on particulars; my friend 'laughed to see the
madness rise' within me. I became desperate--nay, I was insane--and all
that my wife had put into my hands, to the last coin, was lost. Never,
until that moment, did I experience how terrible was the torture of
self-reproach, or how fathomless the abyss of human wretchedness. I
would have raised my hand against my own life; but, vile and
contemptible as I was, I had not enough of the coward within me to
accomplish the act. I thought of my mother. She had long disowned me,
partly from my follies, and partly that she adhered to the house of
Hanover. But, though I had squandered the estates which my father had
left me, I knew that she was still rich, and that she intended to bestow
her wealth upon my sister; for there were but two of us. Yet I
remembered how fondly she had loved me, and I did not think that there
was a feeling in a mother's breast that could spurn from her a penitent
son--for nature, at the slightest spark, bursteth into a flame. I
resolved, therefore, to go as the prodigal in the Scriptures, and to
throw myself at her feet, and confess that I had sinned against Heaven,
and in her sight.
I wrote a note to my injured Catherine, stating that I was suddenly
called away, and that I would not see her again perhaps for some weeks.
Almost without a coin in my pocket, I took my journey from London to
Cumberland, where my mother dwelt.