THE EDITOR'S NARRATIVE

It appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still

extant, that the lands of Dalcastle (or Dalchastel, as it is often

spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of Colwan, about one

hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century previous to

that period. That family was supposed to have been a branch of the

ancient family of Colquhoun, and it is certain that from it spring the

Cowans that spread towards the Border. I find that, in the year 1687,

George Colwan succeeded his uncle of the same name, in the lands of

Dalchastel and Balgrennan; and, this being all I can gather of the

family from history, to tradition I must appeal for the remainder of

the motley adventures of that house. But, of the matter furnished by

the latter of these powerful monitors, I have no reason to complain: It

has been handed down to the world in unlimited abundance; and I am

certain that, in recording the hideous events which follow, I am only

relating to the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four

counties of Scotland matters of which they were before perfectly well

informed.

This George was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was married, when

considerably advanced in life, to the sole heiress and reputed daughter

of a Baillie Orde, of Glasgow. This proved a conjunction anything but

agreeable to the parties contracting. It is well known that the

Reformation principles had long before that time taken a powerful hold

of the hearts and affections of the people of Scotland, although the

feeling was by no means general, or in equal degrees; and it so

happened that this married couple felt completely at variance on the

subject. Granting it to have been so, one would have thought that the

laird, owing to his retiring situation, would have been the one that

inclined to the stern doctrines of the reformers; and that the young

and gay dame from the city would have adhered to the free principles

cherished by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in

opposition to their severe and carping contemporaries.

The contrary, however, happened to be the case. The laird was what his

country neighbours called "a droll, careless chap", with a very limited

proportion of the fear of God in his heart, and very nearly as little

of the fear of man. The laird had not intentionally wronged or offended

either of the parties, and perceived not the necessity of deprecating

their vengeance. He had hitherto believed that he was living in most

cordial terms with the greater part of the inhabitants of the earth,

and with the powers above in particular: but woe be unto him if he was

not soon convinced of the fallacy of such damning security! for his

lady was the most severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of

the Reformation. Hers were not the tenets of the great reformers, but

theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. Theirs was an unguent hard

to be swallowed; but hers was that unguent embittered and overheated

until nature could not longer bear it. She had imbibed her ideas from

the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine alone; and these

were so rigid that they became a stumbling block to many of his

brethren, and a mighty handle for the enemies of his party to turn the

machine of the state against them.

The wedding festivities at Dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not of

that stern age, but of one previous to it. There was feasting, dancing,

piping, and singing: the liquors were handed, around in great fulness,

the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in capacious horns of

oxen. The laird gave full scope to his homely glee. He danced--he

snapped his fingers to the music--clapped his hands and shouted at the

turn of the tune. He saluted every girl in the hall whose appearance

was anything tolerable, and requested of their sweethearts to take the

same freedom with his bride, by way of retaliation. But there she sat

at the head of the hall in still and blooming beauty, absolutely

refusing to tread a single measure with any gentleman there. The only

enjoyment in which she appeared to partake was in now and then stealing

a word of sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine

things; for he had accompanied her home after marrying her to her

husband, to see her fairly settled in her new dwelling. He addressed

her several times by her new name, Mrs. Colwan; but she turned away her

head disgusted, and looked with pity and contempt towards the old

inadvertent sinner, capering away in the height of his unregenerated

mirth. The minister perceived the workings of her pious mind, and

thenceforward addressed her by the courteous title of Lady Dalcastle,

which sounded somewhat better, as not coupling her name with one of the

wicked: and there is too great reason to believe that, for all the

solemn vows she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding,

particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if not

abhorred him, in her heart.

The good parson again blessed her, and went away. She took leave of him

with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit her in that

heathen land of the Amorite, the Hittite, and the Girgashite: to which

he assented, on many solemn and qualifying conditions--and then the

comely bride retired to her chamber to pray.

It was customary, in those days, for the bride's-man and maiden, and a

few select friends, to visit the new-married couple after they had

retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their happiness, and

a numerous posterity. But the laird delighted not in this: he wished to

have his jewel to himself; and, slipping away quietly from his jovial

party, he retired to his chamber to his beloved, and bolted the door.

He found her engaged with the writings of the Evangelists, and terribly

demure. The laird went up to caress her; but she turned away her head,

and spoke of the follies of aged men, and something of the broad way

that leadeth to destruction. The laird did not thoroughly comprehend

this allusion; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and

disposed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off his

shoes and stockings, that, "whether the way was broad or narrow, it was

time that they were in their bed."

"Sure, Mr. Colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an important

period of your life, without first saying prayers for yourself and me."

When she said this, the laird had his head down almost to the ground,

loosing his shoe-buckle; but when he heard of prayers, on such a night,

he raised his face suddenly up, which was all over as flushed and red

as a rose, and answered:

"Prayers, Mistress! Lord help your crazed head, is this a night for

prayers?"

He had better have held his peace. There was such a torrent of profound

divinity poured out upon him that the laird became ashamed, both of

himself and his new-made spouse, and wist not what to say: but the

brandy helped him out.

"It strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be somewhat out

of place to-night," said he. "Allowing that it is ever so beautiful,

and ever so beneficial, were we to ride on the rigging of it at all

times, would we not be constantly making a farce of it: It would be

like reading the Bible and the jestbook, verse about, and would render

the life of man a medley of absurdity and confusion."

But, against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning can

aught avail. If you would argue until the end of life, the infallible

creature must alone be right. So it proved with the laird. One

Scripture text followed another, not in the least connected, and one

sentence of the profound Mr. Wringhim's sermons after another, proving

the duty of family worship, till the laird lost patience, and tossing

himself into bed, said carelessly that he would leave that duty upon

her shoulders for one night.

The meek mind of Lady Dalcastle was somewhat disarranged by this sudden

evolution. She felt that she was left rather in an awkward situation.

However, to show her unconscionable spouse that she was resolved to

hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down and prayed in terms so potent

that she deemed she was sure of making an impression on him. She did

so; for in a short time the laird began to utter a response so fervent

that she was utterly astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her

orisons. He began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary

calibre--the notes being little inferior to those of a military

trumpet. The lady tried to proceed, but every returning note from the

bed burst on her ear with a louder twang, and a longer peal, till the

concord of sweet sounds became so truly pathetic that the meek spirit

of the dame was quite overcome; and, after shedding a flood of tears,

she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with her

Bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation till such

time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a sense of propriety.

The laird did not awake in any reasonable time; for, he being overcome

with fatigue and wassail, his sleep became sounder, and his Morphean

measures more intense. These varied a little in their structure; but

the general run of the bars sounded something in this way:

"Hic-hoc-wheew!" It was most profoundly ludicrous; and could not have

missed exciting risibility in anyone save a pious, a disappointed, and

humbled bride.

The good dame wept bitterly. She could not for her life go and awaken

the monster, and request him to make room for her: but she retired

somewhere, for the laird, on awaking next morning, found that he was

still lying alone. His sleep had been of the deepest and most genuine

sort; and, all the time that it lasted, he had never once thought of

either wives, children, or sweethearts, save in the way of dreaming

about them; but, as his spirit began again by slow degrees to verge

towards the boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more buoyant

from the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that

buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly expressible. He dreamed of the reel,

the jig, the strathspey, and the corant; and the elasticity of his

frame was such that he was bounding over the heads of maidens, and

making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, enjoying, the while, the

most ecstatic emotions. These grew too fervent for the shackles of the

drowsy god to restrain. The nasal bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in

one moment, and a sort of hectic laugh took its place. "Keep it

going--play up, you devils!" cried the laird, without changing his

position on the pillow. But this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their

work fairly awakened the delighted dreamer, and, though he could not

refrain from continuing, his laugh, beat length, by tracing out a

regular chain of facts, came to be sensible of his real situation.

"Rabina, where are you? What's become of you, my dear?" cried the

laird. But there was no voice nor anyone that answered or regarded. He

flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as he

had seen her, but she was not there, either sleeping or waking.

"Rabina! Mrs. Colwan!" shouted he, as loud as he could call, and then

added in the same breath, "God save the king--I have lost my wife!"

He sprung up and opened the casement: the day-light was beginning to

streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were short, and the

mornings very long. The laird half dressed himself in an instant, and

strode through every room in the house, opening the windows as he went,

and scrutinizing every bed and every corner. He came into the hall

where the wedding festival had been held; and as he opened the various

windowboards, loving couples flew off like hares surprised too late in

the morning among the early braird. "Hoo-boo! Fie, be frightened!"

cried the laird. "Fie, rin like fools, as if ye were caught in an

ill-turn!" His bride was not among them; so he was obliged to betake

himself to further search. "She will be praying in some corner, poor

woman," said he to himself. "It is an unlucky thing this praying. But,

for my part, I fear I have behaved very ill; and I must endeavour to

make amends."

The laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in the

same bed with her Glasgow cousin who had acted as bridesmaid. "You sly

and malevolent imp," said the laird; "you have played me such a trick

when I was fast asleep! I have not known a frolic so clever, and, at

the same time, so severe. Come along, you baggage you!"

"Sir, I will let you know that I detest your principles and your person

alike," said she. "It shall never be said, Sir, that my person was at

the control of a heathenish man of Belial--a dangler among the

daughters of women--a promiscuous dancer--and a player of unlawful

games. Forgo your rudeness, Sir, I say, and depart away from my

presence and that of my kinswoman.

"Come along, I say, my charming Rab. If you were the pink of all

puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do as

I command you."

"Sir, I will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your godless

will; therefore I say, desist, and begone with you."

But the laird regarded none of these testy sayings: he rolled her in a

blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his chamber, taking care to

keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her mouth, in

case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise.

The next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her appearance.

Her maid asked to see her; but George did not choose that anybody

should see her but himself. He paid her several visits, and always

turned the key as he came out. At length breakfast was served; and

during the time of refreshment the laird tried to break several jokes;

but it was remarked that they wanted their accustomed brilliancy, and

that his nose was particularly red at the top.

Matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-married

couple; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her quarters,

and returned to her father's house in Glasgow, after having been a

night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats having then no

existence in that quarter.

Though Baillie Orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration regarding

the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he never loved or

admired her greatly; therefore this behaviour nothing astounded him. He

questioned her strictly as to the grievous offence committed against

her, and could discover nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught

with disagreeable consequences. So, after mature deliberation, the

baillie addressed her as follows:

"Aye, aye, Raby! An' sae I find that Dalcastle has actually refused to

say prayers with you when you ordered him; an' has guidit you in a rude

indelicate manner, outstepping the respect due to my daughter--as my

daughter. But, wi' regard to what is due to his own wife, of that he's

a better judge nor me. However, since he has behaved in that manner to

MY DAUGHTER, I shall be revenged on him for aince; for I shall return

the obligation to ane nearer to him: that is, I shall take pennyworths

of his wife--an' let him lick at that."

"What do you mean, Sir?" said the astonished damsel.

"I mean to be revenged on that villain Dalcastle," said he, "for what

he has done to my daughter. Come hither, Mrs. Colwan, you shall pay for

this."

So saying, the baillie began to inflict corporal punishment on the

runaway wife. His strokes were not indeed very deadly, but he made a

mighty flourish in the infliction, pretending to be in a great rage

only at the Laird of Dalcastle. "Villain that he is!" exclaimed he, "I

shall teach him to behave in such a manner to a child of mine, be she

as she may; since I cannot get at himself, I shall lounder her that is

nearest to him in life. Take you that, and that, Mrs. Colwan, for your

husband's impertinence!"

The poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the baillie would not

abate aught of his severity. After fuming and beating her with many

stripes, far drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up to her

chamber, five stories high, locked her in, and there he fed her on

bread and water, all to be revenged on the presumptuous Laird of

Dalcastle; but ever and anon, as the baillie came down the stair from

carrying his daughter's meal, he said to himself: "I shall make the

sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw in her life."

Lady Dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate; but

she was at a great loss for one to dispute with about religious tenets;

for she found that, without this advantage, about which there was a

perfect rage at that time, the reading and learning of Scripture texts,

and sentences of intricate doctrine, availed her naught; so she was

often driven to sit at her casement and look out for the approach of

the heathenish Laird of Dalcastle.

That hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his

appearance. Matters were not hard to adjust; for his lady found that

there was no refuge for her in her father's house; and so, after some

sighs and tears, she accompanied her husband home. For all that had

passed, things went on no better. She WOULD convert the laird in spite

of his teeth: the laird would not be converted. She WOULD have the

laird to say family prayers, both morning and evening: the laird would

neither pray morning nor evening. He would not even sing psalms, and

kneel beside her while she performed the exercise; neither would he

converse at all times, and in all places, about the sacred mysteries of

religion, although his lady took occasion to contradict flatly every

assertion that he made, in order that she might spiritualize him by

drawing him into argument.

The laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience wore

out; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at spiritualization,

and mocked at her wire-drawn degrees of faith, hope, and repentance. He

also dared to doubt of the great standard doctrine of absolute

predestination, which put the crown on the lady's Christian resentment.

She declared her helpmate to be a limb of Antichrist, and one with whom

no regenerated person could associate. She therefore bespoke a separate

establishment, and, before the expiry of the first six months, the

arrangements of the separation were amicably adjusted. The upper, or

third, story of the old mansion-house was awarded to the lady for her

residence. She had a separate door, a separate stair, a separate

garden, and walks that in no instance intersected the laird's; so that

one would have thought the separation complete. They had each their own

parties, selected from their own sort of people; and, though the laird

never once chafed himself about the lady's companies, it was not long

before she began to intermeddle about some of his.

"Who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and

always by herself?" said she to her maid Martha one day.

"Oh dear, mem, how can I ken? We're banished frae our acquaintances

here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances."

"Find me out who that jolly dame is, Martha. You, who hold communion

with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no loss to attain

this information. I observe that she always casts her eye up toward our

windows, both in coming and going; and I suspect that she seldom

departs from the house emptyhanded."

That same evening Martha came with the information that this august

visitor was a Miss Logan, an old an intimate acquaintance of the

laird's, and a very worthy respectable lady, of good connections, whose

parents had lost their patrimony in the civil wars.

"Ha! very well!" said the lady; "very well, Martha! But, nevertheless,

go thou and watch this respectable lady's motions and behaviour the

next time she comes to visit the laird--and the next after that. You

will not, I see, lack opportunities."

Martha's information turned out of that nature that prayers were said

in the uppermost story of Dalcastle house against the Canaanitish

woman, every night and every morning; and great discontent prevailed

there, even to anathemas and tears. Letter after letter was dispatched

to Glasgow; and at length, to the lady's great consolation, the Rev.

Mr. Wringhim arrived safely and devoutly in her elevated sanctuary.

Marvellous was the conversation between these gifted people. Wringhim

had held in his doctrines that there were eight different kinds of

FAITH, all perfectly distinct in their operations and effects. But the

lady, in her secluded state, had discovered another five, making twelve

[sic] in all: the adjusting of the existence or fallacy of these five

faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly seventeen

hours; in the course of which the two got warm in their arguments,

always in proportion as they receded from nature, utility, and common

sense. Wringhim at length got into unwonted fervour about some disputed

point between one of these faiths and TRUST: when the lady, fearing

that zeal was getting beyond its wonted barrier, broke in on his

vehement asseverations with the following abrupt discomfiture: "But,

Sir, as long as I remember, what is to be done with this case of open

and avowed iniquity?"

The minister was struck dumb. He leaned him back on his chair, stroked

his beard, hemmed--considered, and hemmed again, and then said, in an

altered and softened tone: "Why, that is a secondary consideration; you

mean the case between your husband and Miss Logan?"

"The same, Sir. I am scandalized at such intimacies going on under my

nose. The sufferance of it is a great and crying evil."

"Evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. To them it is an

evil, but to us none. We have no more to do with the sins of the wicked

and unconverted here than with those of an infidel Turk; for all

earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and swallowed up in the holy

community of the Reformed Church. However, if it is your wish, I shall

take him to task, and reprimand and humble him in such a manner that he

shall be ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out

of mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the

deed, may be. To the wicked, all things are wicked; but to the just,

all things are just and right."

"Ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, Mr. Wringhim! How

delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! Who would

not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? Go to my husband, that

poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open his eyes to his

degenerate and sinful state; for well are you fitted to the task."

"Yea, I will go in unto him, and confound him. I will lay the strong

holds of sin and Satan as flat before my face as the dung that is

spread out to fatten the land."

"Master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private word o'

ye."

"Tell him I'm engaged: I can't see any gentleman to-night. But I shall

attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases."

"'He's coming straight in, Sir. Stop a wee bit, Sir, my master is

engaged. He cannot see you at present, Sir."

"Stand aside, thou Moabite! My mission admits of no delay. I come to

save him from the jaws of destruction!"

"An that be the case, Sir, it maks a wide difference; an', as the

danger may threaten us a', I fancy I may as weel let ye gang by as

fight wi' ye, sin' ye seem sae intent on 't.--The man says he's comin'

to save ye, an' canna stop, Sir. Here he is."

The laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against Waters,

his servant; but, before he got a word pronounced, the Rev. Mr.

Wringhim had stepped inside the room, and Waters had retired, shutting

the door behind him.

No introduction could be more mal-a-propos: it was impossible; for at

that very moment the laird and Arabella Logan were both sitting on one

seat, and both looking on one book, when the door opened. "What is it,

Sir?" said the laird fiercely.

"A message of the greatest importance, Sir," said the divine, striding

unceremoniously up to the chimney, turning his back to the fire, and

his face to the culprits. "I think you should know me, Sir?" continued

he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face half turned round.

"I think I should," returned the laird. "You are a Mr.

How's--tey--ca'--him, of Glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever I got

done to me in my life. You gentry are always ready to do a man such a

turn. Pray, Sir, did you ever do a good job for anyone to

counterbalance that? For, if you have not, you ought to be--"

"Hold, Sir, I say! None of your profanity before me. If I do evil to

anyone on such occasions, it is because he will have it so; therefore,

the evil is not of my doing. I ask you, Sir, before God and this

witness, I ask you, have you kept solemnly and inviolate the vows which

I laid upon you that day? Answer me!"

"Has the partner whom you bound me to kept hers inviolate? Answer me

that, Sir! None can better do so than you, Mr. How's--tey--ca'--you."

"So, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the profligacy of

your life. And this person here is, I suppose, the partner of your

iniquity--she whose beauty hath caused you to err! Stand up, both of

you, till I rebuke you, and show you what you are in the eyes of God

and man."

"In the first place, stand you still there, till I tell you what you

are in the eyes of God and man. You are, Sir, a presumptuous,

self-conceited pedagogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in

church, in state, in families, and communities. You are one, Sir, whose

righteousness consists in splitting the doctrines of Calvin into

thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up a system of

justifying-grace against all breaches of all laws, moral or divine. In

short, Sir, you are a mildew--a canker-worm in the bosom of the

Reformed Church, generating a disease of which she will never be

purged, but by the shedding of blood. Go thou in peace, and do these

abominations no more; but humble thyself, lest a worse reproof come

upon thee."

Wringhim heard all this without flinching. He now and then twisted his

mouth in disdain, treasuring up, meantime, his vengeance against the

two aggressors; for he felt that he had them on the hip, and resolved

to pour out his vengeance and indignation upon them. Sorry am I that

the shackles of modern decorum restrain me from penning that famous

rebuke; fragments of which have been attributed to every divine of old

notoriety throughout Scotland. But I have it by heart; and a glorious

morsel it is to put into the hands of certain incendiaries. The

metaphors are so strong and so appalling that Miss Logan could only

stand them a very short time; she was obliged to withdraw in confusion.

The laird stood his ground with much ado, though his face was often

crimsoned over with the hues of shame and anger. Several times he was

on the point of turning the officious sycophant to the door; but good

manners, and an inherent respect that lie entertained for the clergy,

as the immediate servants of the Supreme Being, restrained him.

Wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them for marks

of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches farther than ever

divine ventured to do in a similar case. When he had finished, to

prevent further discussion, he walked slowly and majestically out of

the apartment, making his robes to swing behind him in a most

magisterial manner; he being, without doubt, elated with his high

conquest. He went to the upper story, and related to his metaphysical

associate his wonderful success; how he had driven the dame from the

house in tears and deep confusion, and left the backsliding laird in

such a quandary of shame and repentance that he could neither

articulate a word nor lift up his countenance. The dame thanked him

most cordially, lauding his friendly zeal and powerful eloquence; and

then the two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making

distinctions in religion where none existed.

They being both children of adoption, and secured from falling into

snares, or anyway under the power of the wicked one, it was their

custom, on each visit, to sit up a night in the same apartment, for the

sake of sweet spiritual converse; but that time, in the course of the

night, they differed so materially on a small point somewhere between

justification and final election that the minister, in the heat of his

zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the floor, and maintained his point

with such ardour that Martha was alarmed, and, thinking they were going

to fight, and that the minister would be a hard match for her mistress,

she put on some clothes, and twice left her bed and stood listening at

the back of the door, ready to burst in should need require it. Should

anyone think this picture over-strained, I can assure him that it is

taken from nature and from truth; but I will not likewise aver that the

theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. If the listener's words

were to be relied on, there was no love, no accommodating principle

manifested between the two, but a fiery burning zeal, relating to

points of such minor importance that a true Christian would blush to

hear them mentioned, and the infidel and profane make a handle of them

to turn our religion to scorn.

Great was the dame's exultation at the triumph of her beloved pastor

over her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house; and she

boasted of it to Martha in high-sounding terms. But it was of short

duration; for, in five weeks after that, Arabella Logan came to reside

with the laird as his housekeeper, sitting at his table and carrying

the keys as mistress-substitute of the mansion. The lady's grief and

indignation were now raised to a higher pitch than ever; and she set

every agent to work, with whom she had any power, to effect a

separation between these two suspected ones. Remonstrance was of no

avail: George laughed at them who tried such a course, and retained his

housekeeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair; for,

though she would not consort with her husband herself, she could not

endure that any other should do so.

But, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted

dame, in due time, was safely delivered of a fine boy whom the laird

acknowledged as his son and heir, and had him christened by his own

name, and nursed in his own premises. He gave the nurse permission to

take the boy to his mother's presence if ever she should desire to see

him; but, strange as it may appear, she never once desired to see him

from the day that he was born. The boy grew up, and was a healthful and

happy child; and, in the course of another year, the lady presented him

with a brother. A brother he certainly was, in the eye of the law, and

it is more than probable that he was his brother in reality. But the

laird thought otherwise; and, though he knew and acknowledged that he

was obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to acknowledge

him in other respects. He neither would countenance the banquet nor

take the baptismal vows on him in the child's name; of course, the poor

boy had to live and remain an alien from the visible church for a year

and a day; at which time, Mr. Wringhim out of pity and kindness, took

the lady herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptized him by the name

of Robert Wringhim--that being the noted divine's own name.

George was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the

parish school, and partly at home, by a tutor hired for the purpose. He

was a generous and kind-hearted youth; always ready to oblige, and

hardly ever dissatisfied with anybody. Robert was brought up with Mr.

Wringhim, the laird paying a certain allowance for him yearly; and

there the boy was early inured to all the sternness and severity of his

pastor's arbitrary and unyielding creed. He was taught to pray twice

every day, and seven times on Sabbath days; but he was only to pray for

the elect, and, like Devil of old, doom all that were aliens from God

to destruction. He had never, in that family into which he had been as

it were adopted, heard aught but evil spoken of his reputed father and

brother; consequently he held them in utter abhorrence, and prayed

against them every day, often "that the old hoary sinner might be cut

off in the full flush of his iniquity, and be carried quick into hell;

and that the young stem of the corrupt trunk might also be taken from a

world that he disgraced, but that his sins might be pardoned, because

he knew no better."

Such were the tenets in which it would appear young Robert was bred. He

was an acute boy, an excellent learner, had ardent and ungovernable

passions, and, withal, a sternness of demeanour from which other boys

shrunk. He was the best grammarian, the best reader, writer, and

accountant in the various classes that he attended, and was fond of

writing essays on controverted points of theology, for which he got

prizes, and great praise from his guardian and mother. George was much

behind him in scholastic acquirements, but greatly his superior in

personal prowess, form, feature, and all that constitutes gentility in

the deportment and appearance. The laird had often manifested to Miss

Logan an earnest wish that the two young men should never meet, or at

all events that they should be as little conversant as possible; and

Miss Logan, who was as much attached to George as if he had been her

own son, took every precaution, while he was a boy, that he should

never meet with his brother; but, as they advanced towards manhood,

this became impracticable. The lady was removed from her apartments in

her husband's house to Glasgow, to her great content; and all to

prevent the young laird being tainted with the company of her and her

second son; for the laird had felt the effects of the principles they

professed, and dreaded them more than persecution, fire, and sword.

During all the dreadful times that had overpast, though the laird had

been a moderate man, he had still leaned to the side of kingly

prerogative, and had escaped confiscation and fines, without ever

taking any active hand in suppressing the Covenanters. But, after

experiencing a specimen of their tenets and manner in his wife, from a

secret favourer of them and their doctrines, he grew alarmed at the

prevalence of such stern and factious principles, now that there was no

check or restraint upon them; and from that time he began to set

himself against them, joining with the Cavalier party of that day in

all their proceedings.

It so happened that, under the influence of the Earls of Seafield and

Tullibardine, he was returned for a Member of Parliament in the famous

session that sat at Edinburgh when the Duke of Queensberry was

commissioner, and in which party spirit ran to such an extremity. The

young laird went with his father to the court, and remained in town all

the time that the session lasted; and, as all interested people of both

factions flocked to the town at that period, so the important Mr.

Wringhim was there among the rest, during the greater part of the time,

blowing the coal of revolutionary principles with all his might, in

every society to which he could obtain admission. He was a great

favourite with some of the west country gentlemen of that faction, by

reason of his unbending impudence. No opposition could for a moment

cause him either to blush, or retract one item that he had advanced.

Therefore the Duke of Argyle and his friends made such use of him as

sportsmen often do of terriers, to start the game, and make a great

yelping noise to let them know whither the chase is proceeding. They

often did this out of sport, in order to tease their opponent; for of

all pesterers that ever fastened on man he was the most insufferable:

knowing that his coat protected him from manual chastisement, he spared

no acrimony, and delighted in the chagrin and anger of those with whom

he contended. But he was sometimes likewise of real use to the heads of

the Presbyterian faction, and therefore was admitted to their tables,

and of course conceived himself a very great man.

His ward accompanied him; and, very shortly after their arrival in

Edinburgh, Robert, for the first time, met with the young laird his

brother, in a match at tennis. The prowess and agility of the young

squire drew forth the loudest plaudits of approval from his associates,

and his own exertion alone carried the game every time on the one side,

and that so far as all I along to count three for their one. The hero's

name soon ran round the circle, and when his brother Robert, who was an

onlooker, learned who it was that was gaining so much applause, he came

and stood close beside him all the time that the game lasted, always

now and then putting in a cutting remark by way of mockery.

George could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his

impertinent remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he

several times impeded him in his rapid evolutions, and of course got

himself shoved aside in no very ceremonious way. Instead of making him

keep his distance, these rude shocks and pushes, accompanied sometimes

with hasty curses, only made him cling the closer to this king of the

game. He seemed determined to maintain his right to his place as an

onlooker, as well as any of those engaged in the game, and, if they had

tried him at an argument, he would have carried his point; or perhaps

he wished to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and aversion, and

draw the attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means; for,

like his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in

opposition. George took him for some impertinent student of divinity,

rather set upon a joke than anything else. He perceived a lad with

black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he

disliked exceedingly, several times in his way, and that was all the

notice he took of him the first time they two met. But the next day,

and every succeeding one, the same devilish-looking youth attended him

as constantly as his shadow; was always in his way as with intention to

impede him and ever and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of

his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled

him.

The very next time that George was engaged at tennis, he had not struck

the ball above twice till the same intrusive being was again in his

way. The party played for considerable stakes that day, namely, a

dinner and wine at the Black Bull tavern; and George, as the hero and

head of his party, was much interested in its honour; consequently the

sight of this moody and hellish-looking student affected him in no very

pleasant manner. "Pray Sir, be so good as keep without the range of the

ball," said he.

"Is there any law or enactment that can compel me to do so?" said the

other, biting his lip with scorn.

"If there is not, they are here that shall compel you," returned

George. "So, friend, I rede you to be on your guard."

As he said this, a flush of anger glowed in his handsome face and

flashed from his sparkling blue eye; but it was a stranger to both, and

momently took its departure. The black-coated youth set up his cap

before, brought his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, put his hands

in the pockets of his black plush breeches, and stepped a little

farther into the semicircle, immediately on his brother's right hand,

than he had ever ventured to do before. There he set himself firm on

his legs, and, with a face as demure as death, seemed determined to

keep his ground. He pretended to be following the ball with his eyes;

but every moment they were glancing aside at George. One of the

competitors chanced to say rashly, in the moment of exultation, "That's

a d--d fine blow, George!" On which the intruder took up the word, as

characteristic of the competitors, and repeated it every stroke that

was given, making such a ludicrous use of it that several of the

onlookers were compelled to laugh immoderately; but the players were

terribly nettled at it, as he really contrived, by dint of sliding in

some canonical terms, to render the competitors and their game

ridiculous.

But matters at length came to a crisis that put them beyond sport.

George, in flying backward to gain the point at which the ball was

going to light, came inadvertently so rudely in contact with this

obstreperous interloper that lie not only overthrew him, but also got a

grievous fall over his legs; and, as he arose, the other made a spurn

at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its aim, would

undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of Dalcastle

and Balgrennan. George, being irritated beyond measure, as may well be

conceived, especially at the deadly stroke aimed at him, struck the

assailant with his racket, rather slightly, but so that his mouth and

nose gushed out blood; and, at the same time, he said, turning to his

cronies: "Does any of you know who the infernal puppy is?"

"Do you know, Sir?" said one of the onlookers, a stranger, "the

gentleman is your own brother, Sir--Mr. Robert Wringhim Colwan!"

"No, not Colwan, Sir," said Robert, putting his hands in his pockets,

and setting himself still farther forward than before, "not a Colwan,

Sir; henceforth I disclaim the name."

"No, certainly not," repeated George. "My mother's son you may be--but

not a Colwan! There you are right." Then, turning around to his

informer, he said: "Mercy be about us, Sir! Is this the crazy

minister's son from Glasgow?"

This question was put in the irritation of the moment, but it was too

rude, and far too out of place, and no one deigned any answer to it. He

felt the reproof, and felt it deeply; seeming anxious for some

opportunity to make an acknowledgment, or some reparation.

In the meantime, young Wringhim was an object to all of the uttermost

disgust. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose he took no pains to

stem, neither did he so much as wipe it away; so that it spread over

all his cheeks, and breast, even off at his toes. In that state did he

take up his station in the middle of the competitors; and he did not

now keep his place, but ran about, impeding everyone who attempted to

make at the ball. They loaded him with execrations, but it availed

nothing; he seemed courting persecution and buffetings, keeping

steadfastly to his old joke of damnation, and marring the game so

completely that, in spite of every effort on the part of the players,

he forced them to stop their game and give it up. He was such a

rueful-looking object, covered with blood, that none of them had the

heart to kick him, although it appeared the only thing he wanted; and,

as for George, he said not another word to him, either in anger or

reproof.

When the game was fairly given up, and the party were washing their

hands in the stone fount, some of them besought Robert Wringhim to wash

himself; but he mocked at them, and said he was much better as he was.

George, at length, came forward abashedly towards him, and said: "I

have been greatly to blame, Robert, and am very sorry for what I have

done. But, in the first instance, I erred through ignorance, not

knowing you were my brother, which you certainly are; and, in the

second, through a momentary irritation, for which I am ashamed. I pray

you, therefore, to pardon me, and give me your hand."

As he said this, he held out his hand towards his polluted brother; but

the froward predestinarian took not his from his breeches pocket, but

lifting his foot, he gave his brother's hand a kick. "I'll give you

what will suit such a hand better than mine," said he, with a sneer.

And then, turning lightly about, he added: "Are there to be no more of

these d---d fine blows, gentlemen? For shame, to give up such a

profitable and edifying game!"

"This is too bad," said George. "But, since it is thus, I have the less

to regret." And, having made this general remark, he took no more note

of the uncouth aggressor. But the persecution of the latter terminated

not on the play-ground: he ranked up among them, bloody and disgusting

as he was, and, keeping close by his brother's side, he marched along

with the party all the way to the Black Bull. Before they got there, a

great number of boys and idle people had surrounded them, hooting and

incommoding them exceedingly, so that they were glad to get into the

inn; and the unaccountable monster actually tried to get in alongst

with them, to make one of the party at dinner. But the innkeeper and

his men, getting the hint, by force prevented him from entering,

although he attempted it again and again, both by telling lies and

offering a bribe. Finding he could not prevail, he set to exciting the

mob at the door to acts of violence; in which he had like to have

succeeded. The landlord had no other shift, at last, but to send

privately for two officers, and have him carried to the guard-house;

and the hilarity and joy of the party of young gentlemen, for the

evening, was quite spoiled by the inauspicious termination of their

game.

The Rev. Robert Wringhim was now to send for, to release his beloved

ward. The messenger found him at table, with a number of the leaders of

the Whig faction, the Marquis of Annandale being in the chair; and, the

prisoner's note being produced, Wringhim read it aloud, accompanying it

with some explanatory remarks. The circumstances of the case being thus

magnified and distorted, it excited the utmost abhorrence, both of the

deed and the perpetrators, among the assembled faction. They declaimed

against the act as an unnatural attempt on the character, and even the

life, of an unfortunate brother, who had been expelled from his

father's house. And, as party spirit was the order of the day, an

attempt was made to lay the burden of it to that account. In short, the

young culprit got some of the best blood of the land to enter as his

securities, and was set at liberty. But, when Wringhim perceived the

plight that he was in, he took him, as he was, and presented him to his

honourable patrons. This raised the indignation against the young laird

and his associates a thousand-fold, which actually roused the party to

temporary madness. They were, perhaps, a little excited by the wine and

spirits they had swallowed; else a casual quarrel between two young

men, at tennis, could not have driven them to such extremes. But

certain it is that, from one at first arising to address the party on

the atrocity of the offence, both in a moral and political point of

view, on a sudden there were six on their feet, at the same time,

expatiating on it; and, in a very short time thereafter, everyone in

the room was up talking with the utmost vociferation, all on the same

subject, and all taking the same side in the debate.

In the midst of this confusion, someone or other issued from the house,

which was at the back of the Canongate, calling out: "A plot, a plot!

Treason, treason! Down with the bloody incendiaries at the Black Bull!"

The concourse of people that were assembled in Edinburgh at that time

was prodigious; and, as they were all actuated by political motives,

they wanted only a ready-blown coal to set the mountain on fire. The

evening being fine, and the streets thronged, the cry ran from mouth to

mouth through the whole city. More than that, the mob that had of late

been gathered to the door of the Black Bull had, by degrees, dispersed;

but, they being young men, and idle vagrants, they had only spread

themselves over the rest of the street to lounge in search of further

amusement: consequently, a word was sufficient to send them back to

their late rendezvous, where they had previously witnessed something

they did not much approve of.

The master of the tavern was astonished at seeing the mob again

assembling; and that with such hurry and noise. But, his inmates being

all of the highest respectability, he judged himself sure of

protection, or at least of indemnity. He had two large parties in his

house at the time; the largest of which was of the Revolutionist

faction. The other consisted of our young Tennis-players, and their

associates, who were all of the Jacobite order; or, at all events,

leaned to the Episcopal side. The largest party were in a front room;

and the attack of the mob fell first on their windows, though rather

with fear and caution. Jingle went one pane; then a loud hurrah; and

that again was followed by a number of voices, endeavouring to restrain

the indignation from venting itself in destroying the windows, and to

turn it on the inmates. The Whigs, calling the landlord, inquired what

the assault meant: he cunningly answered that he suspected it was some

of the youths of the Cavalier, or High-Church party, exciting the mob

against them. The party consisted mostly of young gentlemen, by that

time in a key to engage in any row; and, at all events, to suffer

nothing from the other party, against whom their passions were mightily

inflamed.

The landlord, therefore, had no sooner given them the spirit-rousing

intelligence than everyone, as by instinct, swore his own natural oath,

and grasped his own natural weapon. A few of those of the highest rank

were armed with swords, which they boldly drew; those of the

subordinate orders immediately flew to such weapons as the room,

kitchen, and scullery afforded--such as tongs, pokers, spits, racks,

and shovels; and breathing vengeance on the prelatic party, the

children of Antichrist and the heirs of d--n--t--n! the barterers of

the liberties of their country, and betrayers of the most sacred

trust--thus elevated, and thus armed, in the cause of right, justice,

and liberty, our heroes rushed to the street, and attacked the mob with

such violence that they broke the mass in a moment, and dispersed their

thousands like chaff before the wind. The other party of young

Jacobites, who sat in a room farther from the front, and were those

against whom the fury of the mob was meant to have been directed, knew

nothing of this second uproar, till the noise of the sally made by the

Whigs assailed their ears; being then informed that the mob had

attacked the house on account of the treatment they themselves had

given to a young gentleman of the adverse faction, and that another

jovial party had issued from the house in their defence, and was now

engaged in an unequal combat, the sparks likewise flew, to the field to

back their defenders with all their prowess, without troubling their

heads about who they were.

A mob is like a spring tide in an eastern storm, that retires only to

return with more overwhelming fury. The crowd was taken by surprise

when such a strong and well-armed party issued from the house with so

great fury, laying all prostrate that came in their way. Those who were

next to the door, and were, of course, the first whom the imminent

danger assailed, rushed backwards among the crowd with their whole

force. The Black Bull standing in a small square half-way between the

High Street and the Cowgate, and the entrance to it being by two

closes, into these the pressure outwards was simultaneous, and

thousands were moved to an involuntary flight, they knew not why.

But the High Street of Edinburgh, which they soon reached, is a

dangerous place in which to make an open attack upon a mob. And it

appears that the entrances to the tavern had been somewhere near to the

Cross, on the south side of the street; for the crowd fled with great

expedition, both to the cast and west, and the conquerors, separating

themselves as chance directed, pursued impetuously, wounding and

maiming as they flew. But it so chanced that, before either of the

wings had followed the flying squadrons of their enemies for the space

of a hundred yards each way, the devil an enemy they had to pursue! the

multitude had vanished like so many thousands of phantoms! What could

our heroes do? Why, they faced about to return towards their citadel,

the Black Bull. But that feat was not so easily, nor so readily

accomplished as they divined. The unnumbered alleys on each side of the

street had swallowed up the multitude in a few seconds; but from these

they were busy reconnoitring; and perceiving the deficiency in the

number of their assailants, the rush from both sides of the street was

as rapid, and as wonderful, as the disappearance of the crowd had been

a few minutes before. Each close vomited out its levies, and these

better armed with missiles than when they sought it for a temporary

retreat. Woe then to our two columns of victorious Whigs! The mob

actually closed around them as they would have swallowed them up; and,

in the meanwhile, shower after shower of the most abominable weapons of

offence were rained in upon them. If the gentlemen were irritated

before, this inflamed them still further; but their danger was now so

apparent they could not shut their eyes on it; therefore, both parties,

as if actuated by the same spirit, made a desperate effort to join, and

the greater part effected it; but some were knocked down, and others

were separated from their friends, and blithe to become silent members

of the mob.

The battle now raged immediately in front of the closes leading to the

Black Bull; the small body of Whig gentlemen was hardly bested, and it

is likely would have been overcome and trampled down every man, had

they not been then and there joined by the young Cavaliers; who, fresh

to arms, broke from the wynd, opened the head of the passage, laid

about them manfully, and thus kept up the spirits of the exasperated

Whigs, who were the men in fact that wrought the most deray among the

populace.

The town-guard was now on the alert; and two companies of the

Cameronian Regiment, with the Hon. Captain Douglas, rushed down from

the Castle to the scene of action; but, for all the noise and hubbub

that these caused in the street, the combat had become so close and

inveterate that numbers of both sides were taken prisoners fighting

hand to hand, and could scarcely be separated when the guardsmen and

soldiers had them by the necks.

Great was the alarm and confusion that night in Edinburgh; for everyone

concluded that it was a party scuffle, and, the two parties being so

equal in power, the most serious consequences were anticipated. The

agitation was so prevailing that every party in town, great and small,

was broken up; and the lord-commissioner thought proper to go to the

Council Chamber himself, even at that late hour, accompanied by the

sheriffs of Edinburgh and Linlithgow, with sundry noblemen besides, in

order to learn something of the origin of the affray.

For a long time the court was completely puzzled. Every gentleman

brought in exclaimed against the treatment he had received, in most

bitter terms, blaming a mob set on him and his friends by the adverse

party, and matters looked extremely ill until at length they began to

perceive that they were examining gentlemen of both parties, and that

they had been doing so from the beginning, almost alternately, so

equally had the prisoners been taken from both parties. Finally, it

turned out that a few gentlemen, two-thirds of whom were strenuous

Whigs themselves, had joined in mauling the whole Whig population of

Edinburgh. The investigation disclosed nothing the effect of which was

not ludicrous; and the Duke of Queensberry, whose aim was at that time

to conciliate the two factions, tried all that he could to turn the

whole fracas into a joke--an unlucky frolic, where no ill was meant on

either side, and which yet had been productive of a great deal.

The greater part of the people went home satisfied; but not so the Rev.

Robert Wringhim. He did all that he could to inflame both judges and

populace against the young Cavaliers, especially against the young

Laird of Dalcastle, whom he represented as an incendiary, set on by an

unnatural parent to slander his mother, and make away with a hapless

and only brother; and, in truth, that declaimer against all human merit

had that sort of powerful, homely, and bitter eloquence which seldom

missed affecting his hearers: the consequence at that time was that he

made the unfortunate affair between the two brothers appear in

extremely bad colours, and the populace retired to their homes

impressed with no very favourable opinion of either the Laird of

Dalcastle or his son George, neither of whom were there present to

speak for themselves.

As for Wringhim himself, he went home to his lodgings, filled with gall

and with spite against the young laird, whom he was made to believe the

aggressor, and that intentionally. But most of all he was filled with

indignation against the father, whom he held in abhorrence at all

times, and blamed solely for this unmannerly attack made on his

favourite ward, namesake, and adopted son; and for the public

imputation of a crime to his own reverence in calling the lad his son,

and thus charging him with a sin against which he was well known to

have levelled all the arrows of church censure with unsparing might.

But, filled as his heart was with some portion of these bad feelings,

to which all flesh is subject, he kept, nevertheless, the fear of the

Lord always before his eyes so far as never to omit any of the external

duties of religion, and farther than that man hath no power to pry. He

lodged with the family of a Mr. Miller, whose lady was originally from

Glasgow, and had been a hearer and, of course, a great admirer of Mr.

Wringhim. In that family he made public worship every evening; and that

night, in his petitions at a throne of grace, he prayed for so many

vials of wrath to be poured on the head of some particular sinner that

the hearers trembled, and stopped their ears. But that he might not

proceed with so violent a measure, amounting to excommunication,

without due scripture warrant, he began the exercise of the evening by

singing the following verses, which it is a pity should ever have been

admitted into a Christian psalmody, being so adverse to all its mild

and benevolent principles:

Set thou the wicked over him,

And upon his right hand

Give thou his greatest enemy,

Even Satan, leave to stand.

And, when by thee he shall be judged,

Let him remembered be;

And let his prayer be turned to sin

When he shall call on thee.

Few be his days; and in his room

His charge another take;

His children let be fatherless;

His wife a widow make:

Let God his father's wickedness

Still to remembrance call;

And never let his mother's sin

Be blotted out at all.

As he in cursing pleasure took

So let it to him fall;

As he delighted not to bless,

So bless him not at all.

As cursing he like clothes put on,

Into his bowels so,

Like water, and into his bones

Like oil, down let it go.

Young Wringhim only knew the full purport of this spiritual song; and

went to his bed better satisfied than ever that his father and brother

were castaways, reprobates, aliens from the Church and the true faith,

and cursed in time and eternity.

The next day George and his companions met as usual--all who were not

seriously wounded of them. But, as they strolled about the city, the

rancorous eye and the finger of scorn was pointed against them. None of

them was at first aware of the reason; but it threw a damp over their

spirits and enjoyments, which they could not master. They went to take

a forenoon game at their old play of tennis, not on a match, but by way

of improving themselves; but they had not well taken their places till

young Wringhim appeared in his old station, at his brother's right

hand, with looks more demure and determined than ever. His lips were

primmed so close that his mouth was hardly discernible, and his dark

deep eye flashed gleams of holy indignation on the godless set, but

particularly on his brother. His presence acted as a mildew on all

social intercourse or enjoyment; the game was marred, and ended ere

ever it was well begun. There were whisperings apart--the party

separated, and, in order to shake off the blighting influence of this

dogged persecutor, they entered sundry houses of their acquaintances,

with an understanding that they were to meet on the Links for a game at

cricket.

They did so; and, stripping off part of their clothes, they began that

violent and spirited game. They had not played five minutes till

Wringhim was stalking in the midst of them, and totally impeding the

play. A cry arose from all corners of: "Oh, this will never do. Kick

him out of the play-ground! Knock down the scoundrel; or bind him, and

let him lie in peace."

"By no means," cried George. "It is evident he wants nothing else. Pray

do not humour him so much as to touch him with either foot or finger."

Then, turning to a friend, he said in a whisper: "Speak to him, Gordon;

he surely will not refuse to let us have the ground to ourselves, if

you request it of him."

Gordon went up to him, and requested of him, civilly, but ardently, "to

retire to a certain distance, else none of them could or would be

answerable, however sore he might be hurt."

He turned disdainfully on his heel, uttered a kind of pulpit hem! and

then added, "I will take my chance of that; hurt me, any of you, at

your peril."

The young gentlemen smiled, through spite and disdain of the dogged

animal. Gordon followed him up, and tried to remonstrate with him; but

he let him know that "it was his pleasure to be there at that time;

and, unless he could demonstrate to him what superior right he and his

party had to that ground, in preference to him, and to the exclusion of

all others, he was determined to assert his right, and the rights of

his fellow-citizens, by keeping possession of whatsoever part of that

common field he chose."

"You are no gentleman, Sir," said Gordon.

"Are you one, Sir?" said the other.

"Yes, Sir. I will let you know that I am, by G--!"

"Then, thanks be to Him whose name you have profaned, I am none, If one

of the party be a gentleman, I do hope in God am not!"

It was now apparent to them all that he was courting obloquy and manual

chastisement from their hands, if by any means he could provoke them

to the deed; and, apprehensive that he had some sinister and deep-laid

design in hunting after such a singular favour, they wisely restrained

one another from inflicting the punishment that each of them yearned to

bestow, personally, and which he so well deserved.

But the unpopularity of the younger George Colwan could no longer be

concealed from his associates. It was manifested wherever the populace

were assembled; and his young and intimate friend, Adam Gordon, was

obliged to warn him of the circumstance that he might not be surprised

at the gentlemen of their acquaintance withdrawing themselves from his

society, as they could not be seen with him without being insulted.

George thanked him; and it was agreed between them that the former

should keep himself retired during the daytime while he remained in

Edinburgh, and that at night they should meet together, along with such

of their companions as were disengaged.

George found it every day more and more necessary to adhere to this

system of seclusion; for it was not alone the hisses of the boys and

populace that pursued him--a fiend of more malignant aspect was ever at

his elbow, in the form of his brother. To whatever place of amusement

he betook himself, and however well he concealed his intentions of

going there from all flesh living, there was his brother Wringhim also,

and always within a few yards of him, generally about the same

distance, and ever and anon darting looks at him that chilled his very

soul. They were looks that cannot be described; but they were felt

piercing to the bosom's deepest core. They affected even the onlookers

in a very particular manner, for all whose eyes caught a glimpse of

these hideous glances followed them to the object towards which they

were darted: the gentlemanly and mild demeanour of that object

generally calmed their startled apprehensions; for no one ever yet

noted the glances of the young man's eye, in the black coat, at the

face of his brother, who did not at first manifest strong symptoms of

alarm.

George became utterly confounded; not only at the import of this

persecution, but how in the world it came to pass that this

unaccountable being knew all his motions, and every intention of his

heart, as it were intuitively. On consulting his own previous feelings

and resolutions, he found that the circumstances of his going to such

and such a place were often the most casual incidents in nature--the

caprice of a moment had carried him there, and yet he had never sat or

stood many minutes till there was the selfsame being, always in the

same position with regard to himself, as regularly as the shadow is

cast from the substance, or the ray of light from the opposing denser

medium.

For instance, he remembered one day of setting out with the intention

of going to attend divine worship in the High Church, and when, within

a short space of its door, he was overtaken by young Kilpatrick of

Closeburn, who was bound to the Grey-Friars to see his sweetheart, as

he said: "and if you will go with me, Colwan," said he, "I will let you

see her too, and then you will be just as far forward as I am."

George assented at once, and went; and, after taking his seat, he

leaned his head forwards on the pew to repeat over to himself a short

ejaculatory prayer, as had always been his custom on entering the house

of God. When he had done, he lifted his eye naturally towards that

point on his right hand where the fierce apparition of his brother had

been wont to meet his view: there he was, in the same habit, form,

demeanour, and precise point of distance, as usual! George again laid

down his head, and his mind was so astounded that he had nearly fallen

into a swoon. He tried shortly after to muster up courage to look at

the speaker, at the congregation, and at Captain Kilpatrick's

sweetheart in particular; but the fiendish glances of the young man in

the black clothes were too appalling to be withstood--his eye caught

them whether he was looking that way or not: at length his courage was

fairly mastered, and he was obliged to look down during the remainder

of the service.

By night or by day it was the same. In the gallery of the Parliament

House, in the boxes of the play-house, in the church, in the assembly,

in the streets, suburbs, and the fields; and every day, and every hour,

from the first rencounter of the two, the attendance became more and

more constant, more inexplicable, and altogether more alarming and

insufferable, until at last George was fairly driven from society, and

forced to spend his days in his and his father's lodgings with closed

doors. Even there, he was constantly harassed with the idea that, the

next time he lifted his eyes, he would to a certainty see that face,

the most repulsive to all his feelings of aught the earth contained.

The attendance of that brother was now become like the attendance of a

demon on some devoted being that had sold himself to destruction; his

approaches as undiscerned, and his looks as fraught with hideous

malignity. It was seldom that he saw him either following him in the

streets, or entering any house or church after him; he only appeared in

his place, George wist not how, or whence; and, having sped so ill in

his first friendly approaches, he had never spoken to his equivocal

attendant a second time.

It came at length into George's head, as he was pondering, by himself,

on the circumstances of this extraordinary attendance, that perhaps his

brother had relented, and, though of so sullen and unaccommodating a

temper that he would not acknowledge it, or beg a reconciliation, it

might be for that very purpose that he followed his steps night and day

in that extraordinary manner. "I cannot for my life see for what other

purpose it can be," thought he. "He never offers to attempt my life;

nor dares he, if he had the inclination; therefore, although his manner

is peculiarly repulsive to me, I shall not have my mind burdened with

the reflection that my own mother's son yearned for a reconciliation

with me and was repulsed by my haughty and insolent behaviour. The next

time he comes to my hand, I am resolved that I will accost him as one

brother ought to address another, whatever it may cost me; and, if I am

still flouted with disdain, then shall the blame rest with him."

After this generous resolution, it was a good while before his

gratuitous attendant appeared at his side again; and George began to

think that his visits were discontinued. The hope was a relief that

could not be calculated; but still George had a feeling that it was too

supreme to last. His enemy had been too pertinacious to abandon his

design, whatever it was. He, however, began to indulge in a little more

liberty, and for several days he enjoyed it with impunity.

George was, from infancy, of a stirring active disposition and could

not endure confinement; and, having been of late much restrained in his

youthful exercises by this singular persecutor, he grew uneasy under

such restraint, and, one morning, chancing to awaken very early, he

arose to make an excursion to the top of Arthur's Seat, to breathe the

breeze of the dawning, and see the sun arise out of the eastern ocean.

The morning was calm and serene; and as he walked down the south back

of the Canongate, towards the Palace, the haze was so close around him

that he could not see the houses on the opposite side of the way. As he

passed the Lord-Commissioner's house, the guards were in attendance,

who cautioned him not to go by the Palace, as all the gates would be

shut and guarded for an hour to come, on which he went by the back of

St. Anthony's gardens, and found his way into that little romantic

glade adjoining to the saint's chapel and well. He was still involved

in a blue haze, like a dense smoke, but yet in the midst of it the

respiration was the most refreshing and delicious. The grass and the

flowers were loaden with dew; and, on taking off his hat to wipe his

forehead, he perceived that the black glossy fur of which his chaperon

was wrought was all covered with a tissue of the most delicate

silver--a fairy web, composed of little spheres, so minute that no eye

could discern any of them; yet there they were shining in lovely

millions. Afraid of defacing so beautiful and so delicate a garnish, he

replaced his hat with the greatest caution, and went on his way light

of heart.

As he approached the swire at the head of the dell--that little

delightful verge from which in one moment the eastern limits and shores

of Lothian arise on the view--as he approached it, I say, and a little

space from the height, he beheld, to his astonishment, a bright halo in

the cloud of haze, that rose in a semicircle over his head like a pale

rainbow. He was struck motionless at the view of the lovely vision; for

it so chanced that he had never seen the same appearance before, though

common at early morn. But he soon perceived the cause of the

phenomenon, and that it proceeded from the rays of the sun from a pure

unclouded morning sky striking upon this dense vapour which refracted

them. But, the better all the works of nature are understood, the more

they will be ever admired. That was a scene that would have entranced

the man of science with delight, but which the uninitiated and sordid

man would have regarded less than the mole rearing up his hill in

silence and in darkness.

George did admire this halo of glory, which still grew wider, and less

defined, as he approached the surface, of the cloud. But, to his utter

amazement and supreme delight, he found, on reaching the top of

Arthur's Seat, that this sublunary rainbow, this terrestrial glory, was

spread in its most vivid hues beneath his feet. Still he could not

perceive the body of the sun, although the light behind him was

dazzling; but the cloud of haze lying dense in that deep dell that

separates the hill from the rocks of Salisbury, and the dull shadow of

the hill mingling with that cloud made the dell a pit of darkness. On

that shadowy cloud was the lovely rainbow formed, spreading itself on a

horizontal plain, and having a slight and brilliant shade of all the

colours of the heavenly bow, but all of them paler and less defined.

But this terrestrial phenomenon of the early morn cannot be better

delineated than by the name given of it by the shepherd boys, "The

little wee ghost of the rainbow."

Such was the description of the morning, and the wild shades of the

hill, that George gave to his father and Mr. Adam Gordon that same day

on which he had witnessed them; and it is necessary that the reader

should comprehend something of their nature to understand what follows.

He seated himself on the pinnacle of the rocky precipice, a little

within the top of the hill to the westward, and, with a light and

buoyant heart, viewed the beauties of the morning, and inhaled its

salubrious breeze. "Here," thought he, "I can converse with nature

without disturbance, and without being intruded on by any appalling or

obnoxious visitor." The idea of his brother's dark and malevolent looks

coming at that moment across his mind, he turned his eyes instinctively

to the right, to the point where that unwelcome guest was wont to make

his appearance. Gracious Heaven! What an apparition was there presented

to his view! He saw, delineated in the cloud, the shoulders, arms, and

features of a human being of the most dreadful aspect. The face was the

face of his brother, but dilated to twenty times the natural size. Its

dark eyes gleamed on him through the mist, while every furrow of its

hideous brow frowned deep as the ravines on the brow of the hill.

George started, and his hair stood up in bristles as he gazed on this

horrible monster. He saw every feature and every line of the face

distinctly as it gazed on him with an intensity that was hardly

brookable. Its eyes were fixed on him, in the same manner as those of

some carnivorous animal fixed on its prey; and yet there was fear and

trembling in these unearthly features, as plainly depicted as murderous

malice. The giant apparition seemed sometimes to be cowering down as in

terror, so that nothing but his brow and eyes were seen; still these

never turned one moment from their object--again it rose imperceptively

up, and began to approach with great caution; and, as it neared, the

dimensions of its form lessened, still continuing, however, far above

the natural size.

George conceived it to be a spirit. He could conceive it to be nothing

else; and he took it for some horrid demon by which he was haunted,

that had assumed the features of his brother in every lineament, but,

in taking on itself the human form, had miscalculated dreadfully on the

size, and presented itself thus to him in a blown-up, dilated frame of

embodied air, exhaled from the caverns of death or the regions of

devouring fire. He was further confirmed in the belief that it was a

malignant spirit on perceiving that it approached him across the front

of a precipice, where there was not footing for thing of mortal frame.

Still, what with terror and astonishment, he continued riveted to the

spot, till it approached, as he deemed, to within two yards of him; and

then, perceiving that it was setting itself to make a violent spring on

him, he started to his feet and fled distractedly in the opposite

direction, keeping his eye cast behind him lest he had been seized in

that dangerous place. But the very first bolt that he made in his

flight he came in contact with a real body of flesh and blood, and that

with such violence that both went down among some scragged rocks, and

George rolled over the other. The being called out "Murder"; and,

rising, fled precipitately. George then perceived that it was his

brother; and being confounded between the shadow and the substance, he

knew not what he was doing or what he had done; and, there being only

one natural way of retreat from the brink of the rock, he likewise

arose and pursued the affrighted culprit with all his speed towards the

top of the hill. Wringhim was braying out, "Murder! murder!" at which

George, being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment from some

hurried idea of intended harm, the moment he came up with the craven he

seized him rudely by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his mouth.

"Murder, you beast!" said he; "what do you mean by roaring out murder

in that way? Who the devil is murdering you, or offering to murder you?"

Wringhim forced his mouth from under his brother's hand, and roared

with redoubled energy: "Eh! Egh! Murder! murder!" etc. George had felt

resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest someone might hear it

and fly to the spot, or draw inferences widely different from the

truth; and, perceiving the terror of this elect youth to be so great

that expostulation was vain, he seized him by the mouth and nose with

his left hand so strenuously that he sank his fingers into his cheeks.

But, the poltroon still attempting to bray out, George gave him such a

stunning blow with his fist on the left temple that he crumbled, as it

were, to the ground, but more from the effects of terror than those of

the blow. His nose, however, again gushed out blood, a system of

defence which seemed as natural to him as that resorted to by the race

of stinkards. He then raised himself on his knees and hams, and raising

up his ghastly face, while the blood streamed over both ears, he

besought his life of his brother, in the most abject whining manner,

gaping and blubbering most piteously.

"Tell me then, Sir," said George, resolved to make the most of the

wretch's terror--"tell me for what purpose it is that you haunt my

steps? Tell me plainly, and instantly, else I will throw you from the

verge of that precipice."

"Oh, I will never do it again! I will never do it again! Spare my life,

dear, good brother! Spare my life! Sure I never did you any hurt."

"Swear to me, then, by the God that made you, that you will never

henceforth follow after me to torment me with your hellish threatening

looks; swear that you will never again come into my presence without

being invited. Will you take an oath to this effect?"

"Oh yes! I will, I will!"

"But this is not all: you must tell me for what purpose you sought me

out here this morning?"

"Oh, brother! For nothing but your good. I had nothing at heart but

your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good."

"So, then, you indeed knew that I was here?"

"I was told so by a friend, but I did not believe him; a--a--at least I

did not know that it was true till I saw you."

"Tell me this one thing, then, Robert, and all shall be forgotten and

forgiven. Who was that friend?"

"You do not know him."

"How then does he know me?"

"I cannot tell."

"Was he here present with you to-day?"

"Yes; he was not far distant. He came to this hill with me."

"Where then is he now?"

"I cannot tell."

"Then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you I

was here, and who came here with you. None else could possibly know of

my being here."

"Ah! how little you know of him! Would you argue that there is neither

man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to deduce natural

conclusions from previous actions and incidents but the devil? Alas,

brother! But why should I wonder at such abandoned notions and

principles? It was fore-ordained that you should cherish them, and that

they should be the ruin of your soul and body, before the world was

framed. Be assured of this, however, that I had no aim of seeking you

but your good!"

"Well, Robert, I will believe it. I am disposed to be hasty and

passionate: it is a fault in my nature; but I never meant, or wished

you evil; and God is my witness that I would as soon stretch out my

hand to my own life, or my father's, as to yours." At these words,

Wringhim uttered a hollow exulting laugh, put his hands in his pockets,

and withdrew a space to his accustomed distance. George continued: "And

now, once for all, I request that we may exchange forgiveness, and that

we may part and remain friends."

"Would such a thing be expedient, think you? Or consistent with the

glory of God? I doubt it."

"I can think of nothing that would be more so. Is it not consistent

with every precept of the Gospel? Come, brother, say that our

reconciliation is complete."

"Oh yes, certainly! I tell you, brother, according to the flesh: it is

just as complete as the lark's is with the adder, no more so, nor ever

can. Reconciled, forsooth! To what would I be reconciled?"

As he said this, he strode indignantly away. From the moment that he

heard his life was safe, he assumed his former insolence and revengeful

looks--and never were they more dreadful than on parting with his

brother that morning on the top of the hill. "Well, go thy way," said

George; "some would despise, but I pity thee. If thou art not a limb of

Satan, I never saw one."

The sun had now dispelled the vapours; and, the morning being lovely

beyond description, George sat himself down on the top of the hill, and

pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that had befallen to him

that morning. He could in no-wise comprehend it; but, taking it with

other previous circumstances, he could not get quit of a conviction

that he was haunted by some evil genius in the shape of his brother, as

well as by that dark and mysterious wretch himself. In no other way

could he account for the apparition he saw that morning on the face of

the rock, nor for several sudden appearances of the same being, in

places where there was no possibility of any foreknowledge that he

himself was to be there, and as little that the same being, if he were

flesh and blood like other men, could always start up in the same

position with regard to him. He determined, therefore, on reaching

home, to relate all that had happened, from beginning to end, to his

father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although he knew full

well that his father was not the fittest man in the world to solve such

a problem. He was now involved in party politics, over head and ears;

and, moreover, he could never hear the names of either of the Wringhims

mentioned without getting into a quandary of disgust and anger; and all

that he would deign to say of them was, to call them by all the

opprobrious names he could invent.

It turned out as the young man from the first suggested: old Dalcastle

would listen to nothing concerning them with any patience. George

complained that his brother harassed him with his presence at all

times, and in all places. Old Dal asked why he did not kick the dog out

of his presence whenever he felt him disagreeable? George said he

seemed to have some demon for a familiar. Dal answered that he did not

wonder a bit at that, for the young spark was the third in a direct

line who had all been children of adultery; and it was well known that

all such were born half-deils themselves, and nothing was more likely

than that they should hold intercourse with their fellows. In the same

style did he sympathize with all his son's late sufferings and

perplexities.

In Mr. Adam Gordon, however, George found a friend who entered into all

his feelings, and had seen and known everything about the matter. He

tried to convince him that at all events there could be nothing

supernatural in the circumstances; and that the vision he had seen on

the rock, among the thick mist, was the shadow of his brother

approaching behind him. George could not swallow this, for he had seen

his own shadow on the cloud, and, instead of approaching to aught like

his own figure, he perceived nothing but a halo of glory round a point

of the cloud that was whither and purer than the rest. Gordon said, if

he would go with him to a mountain of his father's, which he named, in

Aberdeenshire, he would show him a giant spirit of the same dimensions,

any morning at the rising of the sun, provided he shone on that spot.

This statement excited George's curiosity exceedingly; and, being

disgusted with some things about Edinburgh, and glad to get out of the

way, he consented to go with Gordon to the Highlands for a space. The

day was accordingly set for their departure, the old laird's assent

obtained, and the two young sparks parted in a state of great

impatience for their excursion.

One of them found out another engagement, however, the instant after

this last was determined on. Young Wringhim went off the hill that

morning, and home to his upright guardian again without washing the

blood from his face and neck; and there he told a most woeful story

indeed: how he had gone out to take a morning's walk on the hill, where

he had encountered with his reprobate brother among the mist, who had

knocked him down and very near murdered him; threatening dreadfully,

and with horrid oaths, to throw him from the top of the cliff.