Scotland.
Bright was the summer of 1296. The war which had desolated Scotland
was then at an end. Ambition seemed satiated; and the vanquished,
after having passed under the yoke of their enemy, concluded they might
wear their chains in peace. Such were the hopes of those Scottish
noblemen who, early in the preceding spring, had signed the bond of
submission to a ruthless conqueror, purchasing life at the price of all
that makes life estimable-liberty and honor.
Prior to this act of vassalage, Edward I., King of England, had entered
Scotland at the head of an immense army. He seized Berwick by
stratagem; laid the country in ashes; and, on the field of Dunbar,
forced the Scottish king and his nobles to acknowledge him their liege
lord.
But while the courts of Edward, or of his representatives, were crowded
by the humbled Scots, the spirit of one brave man remained unsubdued.
Disgusted alike at the facility with which the sovereign of a warlike
nation could resign his people and his crown into the hands of a
treacherous invader, and at the pusillanimity of the nobles who had
ratified the sacrifice, William Wallace retired to the glen of
Ellerslie. Withdrawn from the world, he hoped to avoid the sight of
oppressions he could not redress, and the endurance of injuries beyond
his power to avenge.
Thus checked at the opening of life in the career of glory that was his
passion-secluded in the bloom of manhood from the social haunts of
men--he repressed the eager aspirations of his mind, and strove to
acquire that resignation to inevitable evils which alone could
reconcile him to forego the promises of his youth, and enable him to
view with patience a humiliation of Scotland, which blighted her honor,
menaced her existence, and consigned her sons to degradation or
obscurity. The latter was the choice of Wallace. Too noble to bend
his spirit to the usurper, too honest to affect submission, he resigned
himself to the only way left of maintaining the independence of a true
Scot; and giving up the world at once, all the ambitions of youth
became extinguished in his breast, since nothing was preserved in his
country to sanctify their fires. Scotland seemed proud of her chains.
Not to share in such debasement, appeared all that was now in his
power; and within the shades of Ellerslie he found a retreat and a
home, whose sweets beguiling him of every care, made him sometimes
forget the wrongs of his country in the tranquil enjoyments of wedded
love.
During the happy mouths of the preceding autumn, while Scotland was yet
free, and the path of honorable distinction still open before her young
nobility, Wallace married Marion Braidfoot, the beautiful heiress of
Lammington. Nearly of the same age, and brought up from childhood
together, reciprocal affection had grown with their growth; and
sympathy of tastes and virtues, and mutual tenderness, made them so
entirely one, that when at the age of twenty-two the enraptured lover
was allowed to pledge that faith publicly at the altar, which he had so
often vowed in secret to his Marion, he clasped her to his heart, and
softly whispered: "Dearer than life! part of my being! blessed is this
union, that mingles thy soul with mine, now, and forever!"
Edward's invasion of Scotland broke in upon their innocent joys.
Wallace threw aside the wedding garment for the cuirass and the sword.
But he was not permitted long to use either--Scotland submitted to her
enemies; and he had no alternative but to bow to her oppressors, or to
become an exile from man, amid the deep glens of his country.
The tower of Ellerslie was henceforth the lonely abode of himself and
his bride. The neighboring nobles avoided him, because the principles
he declared were a tacit reproach on their proceedings; and in the
course of a short time, as he forbore to seek them, they even forgot
that he was in existence. Indeed, all occasions of mixing with society
he now rejected. The hunting-spear with which he had delighted to
follow the flying roebuck from glade to glade, the arrows with which he
used to bring down the heavy ptarmigan or the towering eagle, all were
laid aside. Scottish liberty was no more; and Wallace would have
blushed to have shown himself to the free-born deer of his native
hills, in communion of sports with the spoilers of his country. Had he
pursued his once favorite exercises, he must have mingled with the
English, now garrisoned in every town, and who passed their hours of
leisure in the chase.
Being resigned to bury his youth--since its strength could no longer be
serviceable to his country-books, his harp, and the sweet converse of
his tender Marion, became the occupations of his days. Ellerslie was
his hermitage; and there, closed from the world, with an angel his
companion, he might have forgotten Edward was lord in Scotland, had not
that which was without his little paradise made a way to its gates, and
showed him the slavery of the nobles and the wretchedness of the
people. In these cases, his generous hand gave succor where it could
not bring redress. Those whom the lawless plunderer had driven from
their houses or stripped of their covering, found shelter, clothing,
and food at the house of Sir William Wallace.
Ellerslie was the refuge of the friendless, and the comfort of the
unhappy. Wherever Lady Wallace moved--whether looking out from her
window on the accidental passenger, or taking her morning or moonlight
walks through the glen, leaning on the arm of her husband--she had the
rapture of hearing his steps greeted and followed by the blessings of
the poor destitute, and the prayers of them who were ready to perish.
It was then that this happy woman would raise her husband's hands to
her lips, and in silent adoration, thank God for blessing her with a
being made so truly in his own image.
Several months of this blissful and uninterrupted solitude had elapsed,
when Lady Wallace saw a chieftain at her gate. He inquired for its
master--requested a private conference--and retired with him into a
remote room. They remained together for an hour. Wallace then came
forth, and ordering his horse, with four followers, to be in readiness,
said he meant to accompany his guest to Douglas Castle. When he
embraced his wife at parting, he told her that as Douglas was only a
few miles distant, he should be at home again before the moon rose.
She passed the tedious hours of his absence with tranquillity, till the
appointed signal of his return appeared from behind the summits of the
opposite mountains. So bright were its beams, that Marion did not need
any other light to show her the stealing sands of her hour-glass, as
they numbered the prolonged hours of her husband's stay. She dismissed
her servants to their rest; all, excepting Halbert, the gray-haired
harper of Wallace; and he, like herself, was too unaccustomed to the
absence of his master to find sleep visit his eyes while Ellerslie was
bereft of its joy and its guard.
As the night advanced, Lady Wallace sat in the window of her
bed-chamber, which looked toward the west. She watched the winding
pathway that led from Lanark down the opposite heights, eager to catch
a glimpse of the waving plumes of her husband when he should emerge
from behind the hill, and pass under the thicket which overhung the
road. How often, as a cloud obscured for an instant the moon's light,
and threw a transitory shade across the path, did her heart bound with
the thought that her watching was at an end! It was he whom she had
seen start from the abrupt rock! They were the folds of his tartan
that darkened the white cliff! But the moon again rolled through her
train of clouds and threw her light around. Where then was her
Wallace? Alas! it was only a shadow she had seen! the hill was still
lonely, and he whom she sought was yet far away! Overcome with
watching, expectation, and disappointment, unable to say whence arose
her fears, she sat down again to look; but her eyes were blinded with
tears, and in a voice interrupted by sighs she exclaimed, "Not yet, not
yet! Ah, my Wallace, what evil hath betided thee?"
Trembling with a nameless terror, she knew not what to dread. She
believed that all hostile recounters had ceased, when Scotland no
longer contended with Edward. The nobles, without remonstrance, had
surrendered their castles into the hands of the usurper; and the
peasantry, following the example of their lords, had allowed their
homes to be ravaged without lifting an arm in their defense.
Opposition being over, nothing could then threaten her husband from the
enemy; and was not the person who had taken him from Ellerslie a friend?
Before Wallace's departure he had spoken to Marion alone; he told her
that the stranger was Sir John Monteith, the youngest son of the brave
Walter Lord Monteith,** who had been treacherously put to death by the
English in the early part of the foregoing year. This young man was
bequeathed by his dying father to the particular charge of his friend
William Lord Douglas, at that time governor of Berwick. After the fall
of that place and the captivity of its defender, Sir Jon Monteith had
retired to Douglas Castle, in the vicinity of Lanark, and was now the
sole master of that princely residence: James Douglas, the only son of
its veteran lord, being still at Paris, whither he had been dispatched,
before the defeat at Dunbar, to negotiate a league between the French
monarch and the then King of Scots.
**Walter Stewart, the father of Sir John Monteith, assumed the name and
earldom of Monteith in right of his wife, the daughter and heiress of
the preceding earl. When his wife died he married an Englishwoman of
rank, who, finding him ardently attached to the liberties of his
country, cut him off by poison, and was rewarded by the enemies of
Scotland for this murder with the hand of a British nobleman.-(1809.)
Informed of the privacy in which Wallace wished to live, Monteith had
never ventured to disturb it until this day; but knowing the steady
honor of his old school-companion, he came to entreat him, by the
respect he entertained for the brave Douglas, and by his love for his
country, that he would not refuse to accompany him to the brave exile's
castle.
"I have a secret to disclose to you," said he, "which cannot be
divulged on any other spot."
Unwilling to deny so small a favor, Wallace, as has been said before,
consented; and accordingly was conducted by Monteith toward Douglas.
While descending the heights which led to the castle, Monteith kept a
profound silence; and when crossing the drawbridge toward it, he put
his finger to his lips, in token to the servants for equal caution.
This was explained as they entered the gate and looked around. It was
guarded by English soldiers. Wallace would have drawn back; but
Monteith laid his hand on his arm, and whispered, "For your country!"
At these words, a spell to the ear of Wallace, he proceeded; and his
attendants followed into the courtyard.
The sun was just setting as Monteith led his friend into the absent
earl's room. Its glowing reflection on the distant hills reminded
Wallace of the stretch he had to retread to reach his home before
midnight; and thinking of his anxious Marion, he awaited with
impatience the development of the object of his journey.
Monteith closed the door, looked fearfully around for some time; then,
trembling at every step, approached Wallace. When drawn quite near, in
a low voice he said, "You must swear upon the cross that you will keep
inviolate the secret I am going to reveal."
Wallace put aside the hilt of the sword which Monteith presented to
receive his oath. "No," said he, with a smile; "in these times I will
not bind my conscience on subjects I do not know. If you dare trust
the word of a Scotsman and a friend, speak out; and if the matter be
honest, my honor is your pledge."
"You will not swear?"
"No."
"Then I must not trust you."
"Then our business is at an end," returned Wallace, rising, "and I may
return home."
"Stop!" cried Monteith. "Forgive me, my old companion, that I have
dared to hesitate. These are, indeed, times of such treason to honor,
that I do not wonder you should be careful how you swear; but the
nature of the confidence reposed in me will. I hope, convince you that
I ought not to share it rashly. Of any one but you, whose truth stands
unsullied, amidst the faithlessness of the best, I would exact oaths on
oaths; but your words is given, and on that I rely. Await me here."
Monteith unlocked a door which had been concealed by the tapestry, and
after a short absence re-entered with a small iron box. He set it on
the table near his friend, then went to the great door, which he had
before so carefully closed, tried that the bolts were secure, and
returned, with a still more pallid countenance, toward the table.
Wallace, surprised at so much actions, awaited with wonder the promised
explanation. Monteith sat down with his hand on the box, and fixing
his eyes on it, began:
"I am going to mention a name, which you may hear with patience, since
its power is no more. The successful rival of Bruce, and the enemy of
your family, is now a prisoner in the Tower of London."
"Baliol?"
"Yes," answered Monteith; "and his present sufferings will, perhaps,
avenge to you his vindictive resentment of the injury he received from
Sir Ronald Crawford."
"My grandfather never injured him, nor any man!" interrupted Wallace:
"Sir Ronald Crawford was as incapable of injustice as of flattering the
minions of his country's enemy. But Baliol is fallen, and I forgive
him."
"Did you witness his degradation," returned Monteith, "you would even
pity him."
"I always pity the wicked," continued Wallace; "and as you seem
ignorant of the cause of his enmity against Sir Ronald and myself, in
justice to the character of that most venerable of men, I will explain
it. I first saw Baliol four years ago, when I accompanied my
grandfather to witness the arbitration of the King of Scotland between
the two contending claimants for the Scottish crown. Sir Ronald came
on the part of Bruce. I was deemed too young to have a voice in the
council; but I was old enough to understand what was passing there, and
to perceive, that it was the price for which he sold his country.
However, as Scotland acknowledged him sovereign, and as Bruce
submitted, my grandfather silently acquiesced. But Baliol did not
forget former opposition. His behavior to Sir Ronald and myself at the
beginning of this year, when, according to the privilege of our birth,
we appeared in the field against the public enemy, fully demonstrated
what was the injury Baliol complains of, and how unjustly he drove us
from the standard of Scotland. 'None,' said he, 'shall serve under me,
who presumed to declare themselves the friends of Bruce.' Poor weak
man. The purchased vassal of England; yet so vain of his ideal throne,
he hated all who had opposed his elevation, even while his own
treachery sapped its foundation! Edward having made use of him, all
these sacrifices of honor and of conscience are insufficient to retain
his favor; and Baliol is removed from his kingdom to an English prison!
Can I feel anything so honoring as indignation against a wretch so
abject? No! I do indeed pity him. And now that I have cleared my
grandfather's name of such calumny, I am ready to hear you further."
Monteith, after remarking on the well-known honor of Sir Ronald
Crawford, resumed.
"During the massacre at the capture of Berwick, Lord Douglas, wounded,
and nearly insensible, was taken by a trusty band of Scots out of the
citadel and town. I followed him to Dunbar, and witnessed with him
that dreadful day's conflict, which completed the triumph of the
English. When the few nobles who survived the battle dispersed,
Douglas took the road to Forfar, hoping to meet King Baliol there, and
to concert with him new plans of resistance. When we arrived, we found
his majesty in close conversation with the Earl of Athol, who had
persuaded him the disaster at Dunbar was decisive, and that if he
wished to save his life, he must immediately go to the King of England,
then at Montrose, and surrender himself to his mercy.**
**This treacherous Scot, who persuaded Baliol to his ruin, was John
Cummin of Strathbogie, Earl of Athol in right of his wife, the heiress
of that earldom.-(1809.)
"Douglas tried to alter Baliol's resolution, but without effect. The
king could not return any reasonable answers to the arguments which
were offered to induce him to remain, but continued to repeat, with
groans and tears. 'It is my fate.' Athol sat knitting his black brows
during this conversation; and at last throwing out some sullen remarks
to Lord Douglas on exhorting the king to defy his liege lord, he
abruptly left the room.
"As soon as he was gone, Baliol rose from his seat with a very anxious
countenance, and taking my patron into an adjoining room, they
continued there a few minutes, and then reentered. Doublas brought
with him this iron box. 'Monteith,' said he, 'I confide this to your
care.' Putting the box under my arm and concealing it with my
cloak--'Carry it,' continued he, 'directly to my castle in Lanarkshire.
I will rejoin you there, in four-and-twenty hours after your arrival.
Meanwhile, by your affection for me and fidelity to your king, breathe
not a word of what has passed.'
"'Look on that, and be faithful!' said Baliol, putting this ruby ring
on my finger. I withdrew, with the haste his look dictated; and as I
crossed the outward hall, was met by Athol. He eyed me sternly, and
inquired whither I was going. I replied, 'To Douglas, to prepare for
the coming of its lord.' The hall was full of armed men in Athol's
colors. Not one of the remnant who had followed my patron from the
bloody field of Dunbar was visible. Athol looked round on his
myrmidons: 'Here,' cried he, 'see that you speed this fellow on his
journey. We shall provide lodgings for his master.' I foresaw danger
to Lord Douglas, but I durst not attempt to warn him of it; and, to
secure my charge, which a return to the room might have hazarded, I
hastened into the courtyard, and being permitted to mount my horse, set
off at full speed.
"On arriving at this place, I remembered the secret closet, and
carefully deposited the box within it. A week passed, without any
tidings of Lord Douglas. At last a pilgrim appeared at the gate, and
requested to see me alone; fearing nothing from a man in so sacred a
habit, I admitted him. Presenting me with a packet which had been
intrusted to him by Lord Douglas, he told me my patron had been
forcibly carried on board a vessel at Montrose, to be conveyed with the
unhappy Baliol to the Tower of London. Douglas, on this outrage, sent
to the monastery at Aberbrothick, and under the pretense of making a
religious confession before he sailed, begged a visit from the
sub-prior. 'I am that prior,' continued the pilgrim; 'and having been
born on the Douglas lands, he well knew the claim he had to my
fidelity. He gave me this packet, and conjured me to lose no time in
conveying it to you. The task was difficult; and, as in these
calamitous seasons we hardly know whom to trust, I determined to
execute it myself.'
"I inquired whether Lord Douglas had actually sailed. 'Yes,' replied
the father; 'I stood on the beach till the ship disappeared.'"
A half-stifled groan burst from the indignant breast of Wallace. It
interrupted Monteith for an instant, but without noticing it he
proceeded:
"Not only the brave Douglas was then wrested from his country, with our
king, but also that holy pillar of Jacob** which prophets have declared
to be the palladium of Scotland!"
**The tradition respecting this stone is as follows: Hiber, or Iber,
the Phoenician, who came from the Holy Land to inhabit the coast of
Spain, brought this sacred relic along with him. From Spain he
transplanted it with the colony he sent to people the south of Ireland;
and from Ireland it was brought into Scotland by the great Fergus, the
son of Ferchard. He placed it in Argyleshire; but MacAlpine removed it
to Scone, and fixed it in the royal chair in which all the succeeding
kings of Scotland were inaugurated. Edward I. of England caused it to
be carried to Westminster Abbey, where it now stands. The tradition
is, that empire abides where it stays.-(1809.)
"What!" inquired Wallace, with a yet darker frown, "has Baliol robbed
Scotland of that trophy of one of her best kings? Is the sacred gift of
Fergus to be made the spoil of a coward?"
"Baliol is not the robber," rejoined Monteith; "the halloed pillar was
taken from Scone by the command of the King of England, and, with the
sackings of Iona, was carried on board the same vessel with the
betrayed Douglas. The archives of the kingdom have also been torn from
their sanctuary, and were thrown by Edward's own hands into the fire."
"Tyrant!" murmured Wallace, "thou mayest fill the cup too full."
"His depredations," continued Monteith, "the good monk told me, have
been wide as destructive. He has not left a parchment, either of
public records or of private annals, in any of the monasteries or
castles round Montrose; all have been searched and plundered. And
besides, the faithless Earl of March and Lord Sculis are such
parricides of their country, as to have performed the like robberies,
in his name, from the eastern shores of the Highlands to the furthiest
of the Western Isles."
"Do the traitors think," cried Wallace, "that by robbing Scotland of
her annals and of that stone they really deprive her of her palladium?
Scotland's history is in the memories of her sons; her palladium is in
their hearts; and Edward may one day find that she remembers the
victory of Largs,** and needs not talismans to give her freedom."
**This battle was fought by Alexander III, on the 1st of August, 1263,
against Acho, King of Norway. That monarch invaded Scotland with a
large army, and drew up his forces before Largs, a town in Ayrshire.
He met with a great defeat, and, covered with disgrace, retired to his
own country. Wallace's father signalized himself on that field.-(1809.)
"Alas! not in our time!" answered Monteith. "The spear is at our
breasts, and we must submit. You see this castle is full of Edward's
soldiers. Every house is a garrison for England--but more of this by
and by; I have yet to tell you the contents of the packet which the
monk brought. It contained two others. One directed to Sir James
Douglas, at Paris, and the other to me. I read as follows:
"'Athol has persuaded Baliol to his ruin, and betrayed me into the
hands of Edward. I shall see Scotland no more. Send the inclosed to
my son at Paris; it will inform him what is the last wish of William
Douglas for his country. The iron box I confided to you, guard as your
life, until you can deposit it with my son. But should he remain
abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict charge
to the worthiest Scot you know; and tell him that it will be at the
peril of his soul, who dares to open it, till Scotland be again free!
When that hour comes, then let the man by whose valor God restores her
rights, receive the box as his own; for by him only it is to be opened.
Douglas.'"
Monteith finished reading the letter, and remained silent. Wallace,
who had listened to it with increasing indignation against the enemies
of Scotland, spoke first: "Tell me in what I can assist you: or how
serve these last wishes of the imprisoned Douglas."
Monteith replied by reading over again this sentence-"'Should my son
remain abroad, and you ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict
charge to the worthiest Scot you know.' I am in that extremity now.
Edward determined on desolation, when he placed English governors
throughout our towns; and the rapacious Heselrigge, his representative
in Lanark, not backward to execute the despot's will, has just issued
an order, for the houses of all the absent chiefs to be searched for
records and secret correspondence. Two or three, in the neighborhood
have already gone through this ordeal; but the even has proved that it
was not papers they sought, but plunder, and an excuse for dismantling
the castles, or occupying them with English officers.
"The soldiers you saw were sent, by daybreak this morning, to guard
this castle until Heselrigge could in person be present at the
examination. This ceremony is to take place to-morrow; and as Lord
Douglas is considered a traitor to Edward, I am told the place will be
sacked to its walls. In such an extremity, to you, noble Wallace, as
to the worthiest Scot I know, I apply to take charge of this box.
Within the remote cliffs of Ellerslie it must be safe; and when James
Douglas arrives from Paris, to him you will resign it. Meanwhile, as I
cannot resist the plunderers, after delivering the keys of the state
apartments to Heselrigge to-morrow, I shall submit to necessity, and
beg his permission to retire to my lodge on Ben Venu."
Wallace made no difficulty in granting Monteith's request; and, there
being two iron rings on each side of his charge, the young chief took
off his leathern belt, and putting it through them, swung the box
easily under his left arm, while covering it with his plaid.
Monteith's eyes now brightened--the paleness left his cheek--and with a
firmer step, as if suddenly relieved of a heavy load, he called a
servant to prepare Sir William Wallace's attendants.
While Wallace shook him by the hand, Monteith, in a low and solemn
voice, exhorted him to caution respecting the box. "Remember," added
he, "the penalty that hangs over him who looks into it."
"Be not afraid," answered Wallace; "even the outside shall never be
seen by other eyes than my own, unless the same circumstance which now
induces you, mortal extremity, should force me to confide it to safer
hands."
"Beware of that!" exclaimed Monteith; "for who is there that would
adhere to the prohibition as I have done--as you will do? and besides,
as I have no doubt it contains holy relics, who knows what new
calamities a sacrilegious look might bring upon our already devoted
country?"
"Relics or no relics," replied Wallace, "it would be an equal sin
against good faith to invade what is forbidden: but from the weight I
am rather inclined to suspect it contains gold; probably a treasure,
with which the sordid Baliol thinks to compensate the hero who may free
his country from all the miseries a traitor king and a treacherous
usurper have brought upon it."
"A treasure!" repeated Monteith; "I never thought of that;-it is indeed
heavy!-and, as we are responsible for the contents of the box, I wish
we were certain of what it contains; let us consider that!"
"It is no consideration of ours," returned Wallace. "With what is in
the box we have no concern; all we have to do is, to preserve the
contents unviolated by even our own eyes; and to that, as you have now
transferred the charge to me, I pledge myself--farewell."
"But why this haste?" rejoined Monteith, "indeed, I wish I had
thought--stay only a little."
"I thank you," returned Wallace, proceeding to the courtyard; "but it
is now dark, and I promised to be at home before the moon rises. If
you wish me to serve you further, I shall be happy to see you at
Ellerslie to-morrow. My Marion will have pleasure in entertaining, for
days or weeks, the friend of her husband."
While Wallace spoke, he advanced to his horse, to which he was lighted
by the servants of the castle. A few English soldiers lingered about
in idle curiosity. As he put his foot in the stirrup, he held the
sword in his hand, which he had unbuckled from his side to leave space
for his charge. Monteith, whose dread of detection was ever awake,
whispered: "Your loosened weapon may excite suspicion!" Fear incurred
what it sought to avoid. He hastily pulled aside Wallace's plaid to
throw it over the glittering hilt of the sword, and thus exposed the
iron box. The light of the torches striking upon the polished rivets,
displayed it to all lookers on, but no remark was made. Wallace, not
observing what was done, again shook hands with Monteith, and calling
his servants about him, galloped away. A murmur was heard, as if of
some intention to follow him; but deeming it prudent to leave the open
and direct road, because of the English marauders who swarmed there, he
was presently lost amid the thick shades of Clydesdale.