requested the jailor to send some one with his violin to him to the
place of execution. The request was complied with. The instrument was
put into his hands as he stood at the foot of the gallows, when he
played over the melancholy air known by the name of "Macpherson's
Lament." It had been composed by himself while in prison. On concluding
the pathetic strain, he grasped his violin by the neck, dashed it to
pieces against the gallows, and flung the fragments into the grave
prepared for himself at the foot of the gibbet. In a few minutes after,
that grave was occupied by all that remained of Macpherson the
Freebooter.
We have now, we conceive, to gratify the reader's curiosity on one point
only--and this is accomplished by adverting to Ellen Martin. The unhappy
girl ultimately ascertained, though not till long after his execution,
who her mysterious lover was; but neither the history of her attachment
to him, nor her intimacy with him, was ever known to any one besides his
friend Eneas; for to none other had he ever named her. Nor, during his
confinement, or at any period after his capture, had he ever made the
slightest allusion to her. This, indeed, from motives of delicacy
towards her, he had studiously and carefully avoided.
On Ellen, the effect of a grief--for the discovery of her lover's real
character had not been able to efface the impressions which his handsome
person and gentle manners had made upon her young heart--the effect, we
say, of a grief which she durst not avow, was that of inspiring a
settled melancholy, and determining her on a life of celibacy. In the
grave of Macpherson was buried the object of her first love, and she
never knew another.
THE MONKS OF DRYBURGH.
These worthies were celebrated for "guid kail;" but they were no less
remarkable for their ingenuity in directing the wealth of their
neighbours and dependents into their own coffers. In common with others
of their profession, they assailed the deathbeds of the wealthy, and
persuaded the dying sinner that he had no chance of heaven unless he
came handsomely down for their holy brotherhood before his departure.
It was for such a purpose as this that two of the brethren of Dryburgh
set out, one day, in great haste, to visit the old Laird of Meldrum,
who, they had been informed, was suddenly brought to the point of death;
and the information was but too true--for the old man had not only
arrived at the point of death, but had passed it, and that ere they
came. In other words, the laird was dead when they arrived, and their
services, of course, no longer required.
This was a dreadful disappointment to the holy men; for they had
reckoned on making an excellent thing of the job, as the laird had been
long in their eye, and had been carefully trained up for the _finale_ of
a handsome bequest.
It was with long faces, therefore, and woful looks, that the monks
returned to their monastery, and reported the unlucky accident of the
laird's having slipped away before they had had time to make anything of
him in his last moments. The disappointment was felt by all to be a
grievous one, for the laird had been confidently reckoned upon as sure
game. While in this state of mortification, a bright idea occurred to
one of the brethren, and he mentioned it to the rest, by whom it was
highly approved of.
This idea was to conceal the laird's death for a time; to remove his
body out of the way, and to procure some one to occupy his bed, and pass
for the laird in a dying state: then to procure a notary and witnesses,
having previously instructed the laird's representative how to conduct
himself--that is, to bequeath all his property to the monastery: this
done, the living man to be secretly conveyed away, the dead one restored
to his place again, and his death publicly announced.
This ingenious scheme of the monk met with universal approbation, and it
was determined that it should be instantly acted upon.
Fortunately, so far, for the monks, there was a poor man, a small farmer
in the neighbourhood, of the name of Thomas Dickson, who bore a
singularly strong personal resemblance to the deceased--a circumstance
which at once pointed him out as the fittest person to act the required
part. This person was, accordingly, immediately waited upon, the matter
explained to him, and a handsome gratuity offered him for his services.
"A bargain be't," said Thomas, when the terms were proposed to him;
"never ye fear me. If I dinna mak a guid job o't, blame me. I kent the
laird weel, and can come as near him in speech as I'm said to do in
person."
The monks, satisfied with Thomas's assurances of fidelity, proceeded
with their design; and, when everything was prepared--the laird's body
removed out of the way, Thomas extended on his bed, and the curtains
closely drawn round him--they introduced the notary, to take down the
old man's testament (having previously intimated to the former that he
was required by the latter for that purpose), and four witnesses to
attest the facts that were about to be exhibited. Everything being in
readiness--the lawyer with pen in hand, and the witnesses in the
attitude of profound attention--one of the monks intimated to the dying
man that he might now proceed to dictate his will.
"Very well," replied the latter, in a feeble, tremulous tone. "Hear me,
then, good folks a'. I bequeath to honest Tammas Dickson, wham I hae
lang respeckit for his worth, and pitied for his straits, the hail o' my
movable guids and lyin' money. Put doon that." And down _that_
accordingly went. But if the house had flown into the air with them, or
the ghosts of their great-grandfathers had appeared before them, the
monks could not have expressed more amazement or consternation than they
did, at finding themselves thus so fairly outwitted by the superior
genius of the canny farmer. They dared not, however, breathe a word of
remonstrance, nor take the smallest notice of the trick that was about
being played them; for their own character was at stake in the
transaction, and the least intimation of their design on the laird's
property would have exposed them to public infamy--and this Thomas well
knew. It was in vain, therefore, that they edged round towards the
bed--concealing, however, their movements from those present--and
squeezed and pinched the dying laird. He was not to be so driven from
his purpose. On he went, bequeathing first one thing and then another to
his honest friend Thomas Dickson, till Thomas was fairly put in
possession of everything the laird had worth bequeathing. Some trifles,
indeed, he had the prudence and discretion to bestow upon the monks of
Dryburgh; but trifles they were, truly, when compared to the valuable
legacy he left to himself.
When the dying laird had disposed of everything he had, the scene
closed. The discomfited monks returned to their monastery--the notary
and the witnesses departed--and Thomas Dickson, in due time, stepped
into a comfortable living, and defied the monks of Dryburgh, on the
peril of their good name, even to dare to hint how he had come by it.
END OF VOL. IV