from an otter-hunt, and was within a quarter-of-a-mile of the Ha', when
he was met by two strangers--the one a youth, and the other a man of
middle age.
"Stand!" cried the young man, sternly.
"What do you want, fellow?" inquired the laird, proudly.
"Dismount," retorted the other, "and take this," presenting to him a
pistol. "I come to avenge the murder of Esther Anderson and her father;
and," added he, "wi' your blood to wash the bruise ye have inflicted on
my wounded heart. Did ye think, because her brave brother was with the
dead, that there was none left to revenge the ruin of her innocence?
Beneath the very tree where we now stand, she plighted me her first vow,
and we were happy as the birds that sang upon its branches, until ye, as
a serpent, crossed our path. Dismount, Laird Cochrane, if ye be not
coward as weel as villain."
"Alexander Elliot," replied the laird, "are ye not aware that I am a
magistrate, and have power to commit ye even now as a deserter. Begone,
sir, and take your hand from my horse's head; for it becomes not a
gentleman to quarrel wi' such as you."
"Dismount, ye palsy-spirited slave!" cried Alexander, "and choose your
weapon and your distance. Let your friends that are wi' you see that ye
have fair play. Dismount, or I will shoot ye dead where ye sit." And as
he spoke he dragged him from his horse.
It was an awful tragedy to take place in a peaceable corner of the earth
like this. The stranger that accompanied Alexander took the pistols, and
addressing one of the gentlemen that were wi' the laird, said, coolly,
"This business must be settled, sir, and the sooner the better. Choose
ye one of these weapons, and let the principals take their ground."
They did take their ground, as it was termed, and their pistols were
levelled at each other's heart. Guilt and surprise made the laird to
tremble, but revenge gave steadiness to the hand of young Elliot. Both
fired at the same moment, and with a sudden groan the laird fell dead
upon the ground.
Some said that the earth was weel rid of a prodigal; while others
thought it an awful thing that he should have been cut off in such a
manner, in the very middle of his iniquities and career of wickedness;
and it was generally regretted that he should have fallen by the hand of
a lad so universally respected as Alexander Elliot. Such, sir, was the
end of the young laird; but what has become of Alexander is more than
any one in these parts can tell. I have just now a few words to say
concerning
JOHNNY GRIPPY.
The Grippys were a very remarkable family; and it was a common saying,
that they were weel named. There were originally three brothers of them;
and when I first kenned them, they were ragged, barelegged callants, but
every one of them as keen as a Jew, and as hard as a flinty rock. Two of
them were in the cattle line; and, through stinginess, cheatery, and
such-like means, they amassed a power of money. But both of them died,
and being unmarried, their brother Johnny became sole heir to their
property. He was a man that would have walked ten miles to pick up a
farthing. He keepit a shop, or what the Americans would call a _store_,
in the village, for he sold everything, new and auld, good, bad, and
indifferent--eatable and wearable, or for whatever purpose it was
wanted; for everything ye could think about was to be had for money at
the shop of Johnny Grippy. Of late years, it was weel ascertained that
he dealt extensively in sending whisky into England, and in such a way,
too, that neither the dirdum, the risk, nor the loss could land at his
door. But he had dealings in many concerns, both here and elsewhere.
Wherever he heard of anything by which there was money to be made, he
always endeavoured to get his finger in. It was affirmed that he was
connected wi' some wealthy trading companies about London, and that he
had ships upon the sea. I know for a positive fact, that he went up to
the great city every year, and that he actually begged his way there and
back again. But it is my opinion that he made the greater part of his
wealth by lending out money to usury. By this means a great deal of
property fell into his possession, for he was as cruel as a starving
tiger. He was a despiser of both justice and mercy, and all he cared
about was--"_I maun hae my bargain_." That was always his answer, if
onybody offered to intercede wi' him for ony poor creature that he was
distressing.
The auld knave endeavoured to cover his avarice wi' the cloak o'
religion, and, as I have already informed ye, sought to be made an
elder; and, as ye have been made aware, he never forgave our late worthy
minister for the slight and disappointment, but, even against his
nature, parted wi' money to obtain a cruel revenge. It would tire you,
if I were to inform you of the one-thousandth part of Johnny's meanness,
and the instances of his ravening avariciousness, or the misery which he
caused in the habitations of both high and low. Indeed, I may say, that
he grew rich through the ruin of others; and he sought out objects of
misery on which he might fix his devouring talons, even as a vulture
seeketh out a dead carcase.
At an enormous interest, he lent money to the auld laird; and he
cunningly permitted the interest to accumulate, year after year, until
the laird's death. He also advanced sums to the young laird at a rate
even more usurious, and got the entire title-deeds of the estate into
his hands as security; and when the laird fell in the duel wi' Alexander
Elliot, he seized and took possession of Ha' estate, and all that was
thereon, claiming them as his! The whole parish was thunderstruck wi'
astonishment.
The next kin to the young laird threatened to throw the case into the
Court of Chancery.
"Let them," said Johnny, laughing in his sleeve, "they will live lang
that live to see it settled there--and _I will hae my bargain_."
Weel, the case was thrown into Chancery, and Johnny did not live to see
it settled, for settled it is not until this day, and what some one said
of eternity might be said of it--it is "beginning to begin."
I think ye heard that John had acquired a habit of slipping owre to
Luckie Riddle's on the edge of his foot for a dram before breakfast. He
took a strong liking for her strong bottle, and by way of saving the
expense of the dram, he left off the practice of taking a breakfast; and
when the single dram increased to two and three in the day, he confined
himself to one meal, and that of the poorest and scantiest kind--a
potato and salt, or maybe a herring as a luxury. But it was more than
suspected that the potatoes on which he lived were not all honestly came
by; for I myself have seen him in a field amongst other folks', stooping
down and fingering at the drills, and slipping the potatoes into his
coat-pocket; and when asked what he was doing, he would have said (quite
collectedly, for there was no possibility of confusing him), "Ou, I am
just looking what sort of crop such-a-one is going to have this year."
But the miser's love of drink increased upon him, and the more he spent
on liquor, the more he hungered himself. He became a living skeleton,
and in the depth of a severe winter, he was found sitting dead behind
his desk, with the copy of a letter before him, in which he had
instructed his man of business to sell off, immediately, the husband of
Peggy Lilly.
"The husband of Peggy Lilly!" interrupted the stranger, who had hitherto
listened to the records of the Patriarch in silence--"who was he?"
"That," resumed the old man, "seems to interest you, and wherefore I
cannot divine, as I have no recollection of your face; but, if ye have
patience and hearken, ye shall hear all that I can tell ye of the
history of
PEGGY LILLY.
Peggy was allowed to be the bonniest lass in all the parish; but she
was as prudent and sedate as she was bonny, and everybody wondered that
she keepit company wi' William Archbold sae lang as she did, after he
had gien himself up to a habit o' dissipation; though she, perhaps,
thocht as I did, that it was mere thochtlessness in the young man, that
he was just drawn awa by his friend, Thomas Elliot, and that, if he were
married, he would reform. Luckie Riddle's sign, however, was a black
sight to him, and I doot it has been a heart-sore to puir Peggy. The
difference that the subject gave rise to between them, was perhaps
unlucky for the happiness o' baith parties. In the vexation o' the
moment, she uttered words o' harshness which her heart did not dictate,
and, in leaving as he did, he acted rashly.
When we heard, however, of William Archbold's having left the town, and
the cause of his leaving--that it arose from Peggy having spoken to him
as if disgusted at his conduct--we laughed, and said he would soon come
back again. She thought the same thing; but weeks and months succeeded
each other, and now five-and-twenty years have passed, and the lad has
been no more heard of. How deeply Peggy grieved for her conduct, and
mourned his absence, was visible in her countenance.
About ten years after her sister's death, her parents, who had both
become very frail, were thrown out of their bit farm, after several very
unfortunate seasons in it, and they were left entirely dependent upon
her exertions for their support. They were reduced to very great
straits, and many a time it was a wonder to me how they lived; but late
and early did she toil for their maintenance; and, poor hizzy, the
sorrow that fell upon her face for the loss of William Archbold never
left it.
At that time a very decent man, who had taken a small farm in the
neighbourhood, began to pay attention to her, and often called at her
father's house. She heard his request, that she would marry him, wi' a
sigh--for she hadna forgotten Blithe Willie. But her father and mither
looked at her, wi' the tears in their een, and they besought her night
and day, that they might see her settled and provided for. She at length
yielded to their solicitations, and gied him her hand; but she was
candid enough to confess to him, that her affection couldna accompany
it, though her respect and duty should.
So far as the world could judge, they seemed to live happily together,
and Peggy made an exemplary wife; but there was always like a quiet
settled melancholy on her countenance. Their farm was too dear taken,
and about a year after they were married, it became the property of
Johnny Grippy. Ye have already heard what sort of man he was, reaping
where he had not sown. He exacted his rent to the last farthing, or
without ceremony paid himself double from the stock upon the farm.
Peggy's husband became unable, though he struggled early and late, to
make up his rent, and having fought until his strength was exhausted,
and his health and heart broken, he sank down upon his bed, a dying man;
and Johnny, causing the sheriff's-officer to seize all that was upon the
farm, made them seize also the very bed upon which the dying man lay. He
in fact died in their hands; and Peggy was turned out upon the world, a
friendless widow, with two helpless infants at her knee; and a sore,
sore fight she has had to get the bite and the sup for them, poor
things, from that day to this.
"But," replied the stranger, with emotion, "there is one left who will
provide for her and her children."
"Who may that be?" inquired the patriarch.
"William Archbold," answered the other.
"Preserve us!" said the old man, in surprise; "I daresay I have been
blind not to have recognised ye before--ye are William!"
"I am," replied the other--"Blithe Willie, as you once termed me.
Peggy's cutting and just rebuke roused my pride, and filled me with
self-abasement at the same instant. In a state of mind bordering on
madness, I left the village, where I considered my character to be
blasted for ever. I went to London, and there engaged to go out to
India. I was there fortunate in business, and in a few years became
rich. I there, some years ago, discovered Alexander Elliot (the son of
my old companion), whose regiment had gone to the East, and not to the
West Indies, as you supposed. I purchased his discharge, and employed
him as a clerk. He requested permission to visit this country, and it
was granted; but I knew not the deadly nature of his errand. It was
during that visit that he so fatally avenged the ruin of poor Esther. He
is again in India, and prospering. But you say that Peggy has been
married--that she is a widow--a widow!"
"Yes; a widow, sir," answered the patriarch; "and if ye be single, I
think ye canna do better than make her a wife."
"No, no!" said William, drawing his hand across his eyes; "I cannot; I
will not glean where another has reaped. But here is a bank-order for
five hundred pounds; let it be conveyed to her; but let her never know
the hand from whence it came."
"Hoots! nonsense, Maister William!" said the old man. "See her again,
for auld langsyne, at ony rate, and gie her it yersel."
What course William Archbold would have adopted I cannot tell; but at
that moment Peggy passed down the street, and spoke to the old man as
she passed. William started to his feet, he stretched out his hand, he
exclaimed, "Peggy!"
She was speechless--tears gushed into her eyes. Old love, it is said,
soon kindles again. Be this as it may, within six weeks Peggy left the
village in a coach as the wife of William Archbold, and her children
accompanied her.
THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.
THE DEATH OF JAMES I.
The scrupulous, we might almost say affected, regard for what they
conceive to be historical truth, on the part of many historians, leading
them to admit nothing into their veritable histories but what has been
"proven," and proven in such a manner as to please themselves, has been
productive of at least this effect--that many a fact in history has been
consigned to the regions of fable and romance, because supported only by
that evidence which has hanged millions of God's creatures--namely, the
testimony of witnesses. The weight of tradition, often the very best and
truest evidence, in so far as it combines experience and faith, is, in
the estimation of historiographers, overbalanced by a fragment of paper,
provided it be written upon, and the writing be formed after some old
court-hand or black-letter style; though, after all, the valued
antiquarian scrap, formed by the operation of one goose quill, moved by
one hand, and that hand impelled by the mind of one frail mortal, may be
merely a distorted relic of that very tradition which is so much
despised. We do not profess to be fastidious in the selection of
authorities. Tradition, in our opinion, ought to be tested by the
experience of mankind: where it stands that test, it ought to be
received as a part of veritable history; and sure we are that, if by
this mode anything may be thought to be lost in point of strict truth,
it will be well balanced by what is gained in point of amusement. It is
upon these principles we have selected, and now lay before our readers,
an account of a well-known catastrophe of Scottish history, much more
full in its details than any that has yet been offered to the public.
In the beginning of the winter 1436, Sir Robert Graham (whose nephew,
Patrick Graham, had been married to the daughter of David, Earl of
Strathearn, and who himself bore that dignity) appeared at the royal
residence of Walter Stuart, Duke of Athol, his kinsman (the latter being
uncle to Patrick, Earl of Strathearn's wife), in a state of disguise.
The night was far advanced when he arrived, and the duke was called from
his bed to see the visiter, who had been for some time under the ban of
the stern authority of his sovereign, James I. The duke knew well what
was the main object of the knight, though he was entirely ignorant of
the special intelligence that the latter had to communicate to him. They
met in the large wainscoted hall, which in brighter days had resounded
to the merry sounds of the wassail of King Robert's sons, but which,
ever since the accession of the reigning king, had echoed nothing but
the sighs and groans of the persecuted victims of James' vengeance
against all the relatives and supporters of the unfortunate house of
Albany. The duke and the knight were now both old men, though the former
was much in advance of the latter; they were both grandfathers--the
grandson of the duke being Sir Robert Stuart, chamberlain to the king,
and the grandson of the latter being Malise Graham, who had been
disinherited of his Earldom of Strathearn by the unwise policy of the
monarch; but old and grey-headed as they were, they, true to the
character of the age in which they lived, retained that fierce spirit of
vengeance which was held one of the cardinal virtues of the creed of
nobility and knighthood of that extraordinary period.
As the duke entered the hall, which was lighted only by a small lamp
that stood on the oaken table at which the inhabitants of the castle
dined, he required to use well both his eyes and his ears, obtuse as
his external senses had become by age, before he was apprised of the
situation occupied by the knight, who, musing over his schemes of
revenge, did not observe the duke enter. He was roused from his reverie
by the hand of his old friend, applied by way of slap to his shoulder,
as if for the purpose of wakening him from sleep--a power that seldom
overcomes the restless spirit of vengeance.
"The arm of King James," said the duke, "reaches farther than mine, and
a smaller light than that glimmering taper, that twinkles so mournfully
in this ancient hall of the Stuarts, enables him to see farther than is
now permitted to these old eyes; and yet you are here on the very
borders of the Lowlands, and within a score miles of the court, where
the enemy of our families holds undisputed sway. Are you not afraid of
the Heading-hill of Stirling, which still shows the marks of the blood
of the murdered Stuarts?"
"I have come from the fastnesses of the north," said Graham, as he took
off his plaid, which was covered with snow, to shake it, and exhibited a
belt well stored with daggers and hunting-knives--"I have come from my
residence among the eagles, like one of the old grey-headed birds with
which I am become familiar, to warm the cold blood of a mountain life
with some of the warm stream that nerves the arms of my enemies of the
valley."
"Or rather," replied the duke, smiling, "you have come to ask an old
fox, with a head greyer than that of an eagle, to hunt with you, and
guide you to the caves of your foes; but you have destroyed your scheme
of vengeance, by advising your principal enemy of your intention. Why,
speaking seriously, did you write such an epistle to the king? You have
lived among your grey-headed friends to little purpose, when you have
used one of their feathers as an instrument for telling your victim that
another is to fledge the arrow that is to seek his heart's blood. Such
an act may be said to be noble, when the avenger is to give his enemy a
fair chance for his life; but that you do not intend to do, for your
vengeance (which must be glutted in secret, if it is to be glutted at
all) is not to be stayed by the forms of the laws of chivalry. James is
now on his guard. You have told him you intend to slay him--and slay him
now if you can!"
"And, by the arms of the Grahams of Kincardine, I _will_, Athol--I
_will_, I _shall_! Is it your grace who would dissuade me from my
purpose of revenge, merely because the fire is so furious that it sent
forth a gleam on the victim that is destined to feel its scorching
heat?--you, who have within these few minutes brought up to our burning
imaginations the bloody scene of the Heading-hill of Stirling, whereon
perished so many of your kinsmen--you, whose dukedom has been first
wrested from you, and then bestowed on you in _liferent_, because you
are _old_--you who should" (here he spoke into the ear of the duke) "be
_king_!"--pausing. "Who does not know that Robert III., your brother,
was born out of lawful wedlock? His father never married Elizabeth More;
but who could doubt that Euphemia Ross, your mother, the widow of the
famous Randolph, was joined to him in lawful wedlock? The people of
Scotland know this, and they are sick of the bastard on the
throne"--pausing again, and looking earnestly at the duke through the
gloom of the large hall. "Is it to be tolerated that legitimacy is to be
longer trampled under foot by bastardy? Too long have you overlooked
your right of blood; but it is not yet too late for ample amends. The
usurper has done all in his power, by oppressing you and slaying your
friends, to force you to assert and vindicate your indefeasible right,
and gratify a legitimate revenge. In these veins," seizing the old man's
shrivelled wrist, "runs the blood of _the Bruce_! What a thought is
that!--what heart could resist its impulse? what brain its fire?"
After whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into the ear of
the old duke, Graham paused again, and looked at him. The words had
produced the effect which they might have been expected to produce on
the mind of one who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and
purposes, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had been
prevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates of his judgment,
the call of his ambition, and the spur of revenge. The energetic manner
in which the old fancies had been roused by the wily Graham threw him
into a reverie, the result of which the knight did not think fit to
wait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in stimulating the
lethargy of age, and sending through the shrivelled veins of the scion
of royalty the blood that owned the influence of the passion-struck
heart; it was now his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push
for more; and as the duke still stood muffled up in his morning-gown,
and his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter proceeded--
"Your grace has often declared to me," he continued, "that you have
faith in our Highland seers, and believe the sounds of the _taisch_, as
given forth by the inspired visionary."
"Who can doubt these things?" replied the old duke, looking seriously,
and continuing his musing position. "I certainly never had the
hardihood. I have seen too many instances of their verification, to be
sceptical on that head. The fate of the family of Albany was foretold by
a seer many months before the execution of Duke Murdoch and his sons.
But what has this to do with my persecution, or with my being king of
Scotland? God knows, I have at this moment visions enough!--your remarks
have roused my sleeping mind; yet I could almost say I dream."
"This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my presence at this
late hour, may well produce an illusion; but I deal in no fancies. I
have only truths to tell, and deeds to do--ay, and such deeds as may
well cross the rapt eyes of the seer; Scotland has not seen such for
many a day, sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings. Will
your grace hear _your_ fate from the lips of a seer?"
"I would rather hear that of my enemy, who rules this kingdom with a rod
of iron," replied the duke.
"You will hear the fates and fortunes of both," said Graham--"ay, even
as is seen the scales of justice, which, as the beam moves, lifts one,
only to depress the other. If you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut,
back among your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in store
for you and King James."
"I will," replied the duke, anxiously; "but age requires rest. I was
hunting all day, and feel weary. Let us postpone our visit till
to-morrow evening."
"Ah!" cried Graham, "the _hunter_ may say he is wearied, but the
_hunted_ has no title to speak the language of nature. If we go at all,
we must go _now_. The visions of the seer come on him during night. At
the solemn hour of midnight, futurity is revealed to him--to the hunted
outlaw, whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed the
ordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress--I will lead
your grace's horse through the hills. We have no time to lose--the old
enemy is beforehand with us, and our grizzled locks mock the tardiness
of our revenge. Come!"
"My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words, Graham," said the
old duke. "Tell Malcolm to get my horse in readiness; meanwhile, I will
dress, and be presently with you."