E-text prepared by David Clarke, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
In the THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, Charles' brother is referred
to both as Harry and Henry on numerous occasions.
WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.
Historical, Traditionary, & Imaginative.
With a Glossary.
Revised by
ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,
One of the Original Editors and Contributors.
VOL. VI.
London:
Walter Scott, 14 Paternoster Square.
and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
1885.
CONTENTS.
Page
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 1
THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alex. Leighton_)--
THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH, 22
THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, (_Oliver Richardson_), 47
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER,
(_John Mackay Wilson_), 80
GEORDIE WILLISON, AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER,
(_Alexander Leighton_), 93
THE SNOW STORM OF 1825, (_Alexander Campbell_), 117
GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY, (_Anon._), 149
THE SERGEANT'S TALES, (_John Howell_)--
THE PALANTINES, 181
THE PARSONAGE: MY FATHER'S FIRESIDE, (_Alexander Peterkin_), 213
THE SEERS' CAVE, (_William Hethrington, D.D._), 245
THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH,
(_John Mackay Wilson_), 260
THE SABBATH WRECKS, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 276
WILSON'S
TALES OF THE BORDERS,
AND OF SCOTLAND.
THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM;
OR,
THE SURPRISE OF FAST CASTLE.
Near where St. Abb stretches, in massive strength, into the sea, still
terrible, even in ruins, may be seen the remains of Fast Castle, one
of the most interesting in its history--as it is the most fearfully
romantic in its situation--of all the mouldering strongholds which are
still to be traced among the Borders, like monuments of war, crumbling
into nothingness beneath the silent but destroying touch of time. After
the death of the bluff Harry the Eighth of England, who had long kept
many of the corruptible amongst the Scottish nobility and gentry in his
pay, the ambitious Somerset, succeeding to the office of guardian of the
young king, speedily, under the name of Protector, acquired an authority
nothing inferior to the power of an absolute monarch. He had not long
held the reins of government when he rendered it evident, that it was a
part of his ambition to subdue Scotland, or the better portion of it,
into a mere province of England.
The then governor of Scotland, Hamilton, Earl of Arran, (for Queen Mary
was but a child,) was not ignorant of the designs of Somerset, and every
preparation was made to repel him on his crossing the Borders. It was
drawing towards evening on the first of September, 1547, when the
Protector, at the head of an army of eighteen thousand men, arrived
at Berwick; and nearly at the same instant, while the gloaming yet lay
light and thin upon the sea, a fleet, consisting of thirty-four vessels
of war, thirty transports, and a galley, were observed sailing round
Emmanuel's head--the most eastern point of Holy Island. On the moment
that the fleet was perceived, St. Abb's lighted up its fires, throwing a
long line of light along the darkening sea, from the black shore to the
far horizon: and scarce had the first flame of its alarm-fire waved in
the wind, till the Dow Hill repeated the fiery signal; and, in a few
minutes, Domilaw, Dumprender, and Arthur's Seat, exhibited tops of fire
as the night fell down on them, bearing the tidings, as if lightnings
flying on different courses revealed them, through Berwickshire and the
Lothians, and enabling Roxburghshire and Fife to read the tale; while
Binning's Craig, repeating the telegraphic fire, startled the burghers
of Linlithgow on the one hand, and on the other aroused the men of
Lanarkshire.
Before, therefore, the vessels had arrived in the bay, or the
Protector's army had encamped in the Magdalen Fields around
Berwick--Berwickshire, Roxburgh, the Lothians, Fife, and Lanark were
in arms. The cry from the hills and in the glens was, "The enemy is
come--the English--to arms!" The shepherd drove his flocks to the
inaccessible places in the mountains; he threw down his crook and
grasped his spear.
At the same time that Somerset crossed the Borders on the east, the Earl
of Lennox, who, from disappointed ambition, had proved false to his
country, entered it at the head of another English army to the west.
But I mean not to write a history of Somerset's invasion--of the
plausible proposals which he made, and which were rejected--nor of the
advantages which the Scots, through recklessness or want of discipline,
flung away, and of the disasters which followed. All the places of
strength upon the Borders fell into his hands, and he garrisoned them
from his army and set governors over them. The first place of his attack
was Fast Castle; in which, after taking possession of it, he left a
governor and strong garrison, composed of English troops and foreign
mercenaries, causing also the people around, for their own safety, to
take to him an oath of fealty, renouncing their allegiance to the young
queen. But while there were many who obeyed his command with reluctance,
there were others who chose rather to endanger or forfeit their lives
and property than comply with it. It had not, however, been two years
in the hands of the English, when, by a daring and desperate act of
courage, it was wrested from them.
A decree went forth from the English governor of the castle, commanding
them to bring into it, from time to time, all necessary provisions
for the use of the garrison, for which they should receive broad money
in return; for Somerset and his chief officers--the Lord Grey and
others--had caused it to be published, that they considered the
inhabitants of that part of Scotland as the subjects of young Edward, in
common with themselves, and not as a people with whom they were at war,
or from whom their soldiers might collect provisions and pay them with
the sword.
The English, indeed, paid liberally for whatsoever they received;
and there was policy in their so doing, for there were not a few who
preferred lucre to their country, and the effigy of a prince upon a
coin to allegiance to their lawful monarch. But, while such obeyed
with alacrity the command of the governor of Fast Castle, to bring
provisions to his garrison, there were many others who acquiesced in it
reluctantly, and only obeyed from the consciousness that disobedience
would be the price of their lives.
At this period there dwelt in Coldingham a widow, named Madge Gordon.
She was a tall and powerful woman, and her years might be a little below
fifty. Daily she indulged in invectives against the English, and spoke
contemptuously of the spirit of her countrymen in submitting to the
mandate of the governor of Fast Castle. She had two cows and more than a
score of poultry; but she declared that she would spill the milk of the
one upon the ground every day, and throw the eggs of the other over the
cliffs, rather than that either the one or the other should be taken
through the gates of the castle while an English garrison held it.
Often, therefore, as Madge beheld her neighbours carrying their baskets
on their arms, their creels or sacks upon their backs, or driving their
horses, laden with provisions, towards the castle, her wrath would rise
against them, and she was wont to exclaim--
"O ye slaves!--ye base loun-hearted beasts o' burden! hoo lang will ye
boo before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the foot that tramples on
ye? Throw doun the provisions, and gang hame and bring what they better
deserve; for, if ye will gie them bread, feed them on the point o' yer
faithers' spears."
Some laughed as Madge spoke; but her words sank deep into the hearts of
others; and a few answered--
"Ye are as daft as ever, Madge; but a haveral woman's tongue is nae
scandal, and ye ken that the governor winna tak cognizance o' ye."
"Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless coofs, ye!" she replied; "gae
tell him that Madge Gordon defies him and a' his men, as she despises
you, and wad shake the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane and the
other o' ye. Shame fa' ye, ye degenerate, mongrel race! for, if ye had
ae drap o' the bluid o' the men in yer veins wha bled wi' Wallace and
wi' Bruce, before the sun gaed doun, the flag o' bonny Scotland wad wave
frae the castle towers."
"Mother! mother!" said an interesting-looking girl of nineteen, who
had come to the door as the voice of Madge waxed louder and more
bitter--"dinna talk foolishly--ye will bring us a' into trouble."
"Trouble! ye silly lassie, ye!" rejoined Madge; "these are times indeed
to talk o' the like o' us being brought into trouble, when our puir
bluiding country is groaning beneath the yoke o' an enemy, and we see
them harrying us not only oot o' hoose and ha', but even those that
should be our protectors oot o' their manhood! See," added she, "do ye
see wha yon is, skulking as far as he can get frae our door wi' the
weel-filled sack upon his shouthers? It is yer ain dearie, Florence
Wilson! O the betrayer o' his country!--He's a coward, Janet, like the
rest o' them, and shall ne'er ca' ye his wife while I live to ca' ye
daughter."
"O mother!" added the maiden, in a low and agitated voice--"what could
poor Florence do? It isna wi' a man body as it is wi' the like o' us. If
he didna do as the lave do, he wad be informed against, and he maun obey
or die!"
"Let him die, then, as a man, as a Scotchman!" said the stern guidwife
of Coldingham.
Florence Wilson, of whom Madge had spoken, was a young man of three or
four and twenty, and who then held, as his fathers had done before him,
sheep lands under the house of Home. He was one of those who obeyed
reluctantly the command of the governor to bring provisions to the
garrison; and, until the day on which Madge beheld him with the sack
upon his shoulders, he had resisted doing so. But traitors had whispered
the tale of his stubbornness and discontent in the castle; and, in
order to save himself and his flocks, he that day took a part of his
substance to the garrison. He had long been the accepted of Janet
Gordon; and the troubles of the times alone prevented them, as the
phrase went, from "commencing house together." He well knew the fierce
and daring patriotism of his intended mother-in-law, and he took a
circuitous route, in order to avoid passing her door, laden with a
burden of provisions for the enemy. But, as has been told, she perceived
him.
In the evening, Florence paid his nightly visit to Janet.
"Out! out! ye traitor!" cried Madge, as she beheld him crossing her
threshold; "the shadow of a coward shall ne'er fall on my floor while I
hae a hand to prevent it."
"I'm nae coward, guidwife," retorted Florence indignantly.
"Nae coward!" she rejoined; "what are ye, then? Did not I, this very
day, wi' my ain een, behold ye skulking, and carrying provisions to the
enemy!"
"Ye might," said Florence; "but ae man canna tak a castle, nor drive
frae it five hundred enemies. Bide ye yet. Foolhardy courage isna
manhood; and, had mair prudence and caution, and less confidence, been
exercised by our army last year, we wouldna hae this day to mourn owre
the battle o' Pinkie. I tell ye, therefore, again, just bide ye yet."
"Come in, Florence," said Madge; "draw in a seat and sit doun, and tell
me what ye mean."
"Hoots, Florence," said Janet, in a tone partaking of reproach and
alarm, "are ye gaun to be as daft as my mother? What matters it to us
wha's king or wha's queen?--it will be lang or either the ane or the
ither o' them do onything for us. When ye see lords and gentry in the
pay o' England, and takin its part, what can the like o' you or my
mother do?"
"Do! ye chicken-hearted trembler at yer ain shadow!" interrupted Madge;
"though somewhat past its best, I hae an arm as strong and healthy as
the best o' them, and the blood that runs in it is as guid as the
proudest o' them."
Now, the maiden name of Madge was Home; and when her pride was touched,
it was her habit to run over the genealogical tree of her father's
family, which she could illustrate upon her fingers, beginning on all
occasions--"I am, and so is every Home in Berwickshire, descended frae
the Saxon kings o' England and the first Earls o' Northumberland." Thus
did she run on, tracing their descent from Crinan, chief of the Saxons
in the north of England, to Maldredus, his son, who married Algatha,
daughter of Uthred, prince of Northumberland, and grand-daughter of
Ethelrid, king of England; and from Maldredus to his son Cospatrick,
of whose power William the Conqueror became jealous, and who was,
therefore, forced to fly into Scotland in the year 1071, where Malcolm
Canmore bestowed on him the manor of Dunbar, and many baronies in
Berwickshire. Thus did she notice three other Cospatricks, famous and
mighty men in their day, each succeeding Cospatrick the son of his
predecessor; and after them a Waldreve, and a Patrick, whose son,
William, marrying his cousin, he obtained with her the lands of Home,
and, assuming the name, they became the founders of the clan. From the
offspring of the cousin, the male of whom took the name of Sir William
Home, and from him through eleven other successors, down to George,
the fourth Lord Home, who had fallen while repelling the invasion of
Somerset a few months before, did Madge trace the roots, shoots, and
branches of her family, carrying it back through a period of more than
six hundred years; and she glowed, therefore, with true aristocratic
indignation at the remark of her daughter to Florence--"What can the
like o' you or my mother do?" And she concluded her description of her
genealogical tree by saying--"Talk noo the like o' yer mother, hizzy!"
"Aweel, mother," said Janet, mildly--"that may a' be; but there is
nae cause for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, for nae harm was
meant. I only dinna wish Florence to be putting his life in jeopardy for
neither end nor purpose. I'm sure I wish that oor nobility would keep to
their bargain, and allow the queen, though she is but a lassie yet, to
be married to young king Edward, and then we might hae peace in the
land, and ither folk would be married as weel as them."
"We shall be married, Janet, my doo," said Florence, gazing on her
tenderly--"only ye bide a wee."
Now, it must not be thought that Janet loved her country less than
did her mother or her betrothed husband; but, while the land of blue
mountains was dear to her heart, Florence Wilson was yet more dear; and
it was only because they were associated with thoughts of him that they
became as a living thing, as a voice and as music in her bosom. For,
whence comes our fondness for the woods, the mountains, the rivers
of nativity, but from the fond remembrances which their associations
conjure up, and the visions which they recall to the memory of those who
were dear to us, but who are now far from us, or with the dead? We may
have seen more stupendous mountains, nobler rivers, and more stately
woods--but they were not _ours_! They were not the mountains, the
rivers, and the woods, by which we played in childhood, formed first
friendships, or breathed love's tender tale in the ear of her who was
beautiful as the young moon or the evening star, which hung over us
like smiles of heaven; nor were they the fountains, the woods, and the
rivers, near which our kindred, the flesh of our flesh, and the bone of
our bone, SLEEP! But I digress.
"Tell me, Florence," said Madge, "what mean ye by 'bide a wee?' Is
there a concerted project amongst ony o' ye, an' are ye waiting for an
opportunity to carry it into effect?"
"No," answered he, "I canna say as how we hae devised ony practicable
scheme o' owrecoming our oppressors as yet; but there are hundreds o' us
ready to draw our swords an' strike, on the slightest chance o' success
offering--and the chance may come."
"An' amongst the hundreds o' hands ye speak o'," returned Madge, "is
there no a single head that can plot an' devise a plan to owrecome an'
drive our persecutors frae the castle?"
"I doot it--at least I hae ne'er heard ony feasible-like plan proposed,"
said Florence, sorrowfully.
Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, her chin resting on her hand. At
length she inquired--"When go ye back to sell provisions to them again?"
"This day week," was the reply.
"Then I shall tak my basket wi' eggs an' butter, an' gae wi' ye,"
answered Madge.
"O mother! what are ye sayin?" cried Janet. "Ye maun gang nae sic
gate. I ken yer temper would flare up the moment ye heard a word spoken
against Scotland, or a jibe broken on it; an' there is nae tellin' what
might be the consequence."
"Leave baith the action an' the consequence to me, Janet, my woman,"
said the patriotic mother; "as I brew, I will drink. But ye hae naething
to fear; I will be as mim in the castle as ye wad be if gieing Florence
yer hand in the kirk."
The day on which the people were again to carry provisions to the
garrison in Fast Castle arrived; and to the surprize of every one,
Madge, with a laden basket on each arm, mingled amongst them. Many
marvelled, and the more mercenary said--
"Ay, ay!--Madge likes to turn the penny as weel as ither folk. The
English will hae guid luck if ony o' them get a bargain oot o' her
baskets."
She, therefore, went to the castle, bearing provisions with the rest of
the peasantry; but, under pretence of disposing of her goods to the best
advantage, she went through and around the castle, and quitted it not
until she had ascertained where were its strongest, where its weakest
points of defence, and in what manner it was guarded.
When, therefore, Florence Wilson again visited her dwelling, she
addressed him, saying--
"Noo, I hae seen oor enemies i' the heart o' their strength; an' I hae
a word to say to ye that will try yer courage, and the courage o' the
hunders o' guid men an' true that ye hae spoken o' as only bidin' their
time to strike. Noo, is it yer opinion that, between Dunglass an'
Eyemouth, ye could gather a hundred men willing an' ready to draw the
sword for Scotland's right, an' to drive the invaders frae Fast Castle,
if a feasible plan were laid before them?"
"I hae nae doot o't," replied he.
"Doots winna do," said she; "will ye try it?"
"Yes," said he.
"Florence, ye _shall_ be my son," added she, taking his hand--"I see
there is spirit in ye yet."
"Mother," said Janet earnestly, "what dangerous errand is this ye wad
set him upon?--what do ye think it could matter to me wha was governor
o' Fast Castle, if Florence should meet his death in the attempt?"
"Wheesht! ye silly lassie, ye," replied her mother; "had I no borne ye,
I wad hae said that ye hadna a drap o' my bluid i' yer veins. What is't
that ye fear? If they'll abide by my counsel, though it may try their
courage, oor purpose shall be accomplished wi' but little scaith."
"Neither fret nor fear, dear," said Florence, addressing Janet; "I hae a
hand to defend my head, an' a guid sword to guard baith." Then turning
to her mother, he added--"An' what may be yer plan, that I may
communicate it to them that I ken to be zealous in oor country's cause?"
"Were I to tell ye noo," said she, "that ye might communicate it to
them, before we were ready to put it into execution, the story wad
spread frae the Tweed to John o' Groat's, and frae St. Abb's to the
Solway, and our designs be prevented. Na, lad, my scheme maun be laid
before a' the true men that can be gathered together at the same moment,
an' within a few hours o' its being put in execution. Do ye ken the dark
copse aboon Houndwood, where there is a narrow and crooked opening
through the tangled trees, but leading to a bit o' bonny green sward,
where a thousand men might encamp unobserved?"
"I do," answered Florence.
"And think ye that ye could assemble the hundred men ye speak o' there,
on this night fortnight?"
"I will try," replied he.
"Try, then," added she, "and I will meet ye there before the new moon
sink behind the Lammermoors."
It was a few days after this that Madge was summoned to the village of
Home, to attend the funeral of a relative; and while she was yet there,
the castle of her ancestors was daringly wrested from the hands of the
Protector's troops, by an aged kinsman of her own, and a handful of
armed men. The gallant deed fired her zeal more keenly, and strengthened
her resolution to wrest Fast Castle from the hands of the invaders. She
had been detained at Home until the day on which Florence Wilson was
to assemble the stout-hearted and trust-worthy in the copse above
Houndwood. Her kindred would have detained her longer; but she resisted
their entreaties, and took leave of them saying, that "her bit lassie,
Janet, would be growing irksome wi' being left alane, an' that, at ony
rate, she had business on hand that couldna be delayed."
She proceeded direct to the place of rendezvous, without going onwards
to her own house; and, as she drew near the narrow opening which led to
the green space in the centre of the dark copse, the young moon was
sinking behind the hills. As she drew cautiously forward she heard the
sound of voices, which gradually became audible.
"Well, Florence," said one, "what are ye waiting for? Where is the grand
project that ye was to lay before us?"
"Florence," said others, "let us proceed to business. It is gaun to be
very dark, and ye will remember we have to gang as far as the Peaths[A]
the night yet."
[A] The Pease Bridge.
Florence answered as one perplexed, but in his wonted words--"Hae
patience--bide a wee;" and added, in a sort of soliloquy, but loud
enough to be overheard by his companions--"She promised to be here
before the moon gaed down upon the Lammermoors."
"Wha did?--wha promised to be here?" inquired half a dozen voices.
"I did!" cried Madge, proudly, as she issued from the narrow aperture in
the copse, and her tall figure was revealed by the fading moonbeams.
With a stately step, she walked into the midst of them, and gazed round
as though the blood and dignity of all the Homes had been centred in her
own person.
"Weel, Madge," inquired they, "and, since ye are come, for what hae ye
brought us here?"
"To try," added she, "whether, inheriting, as ye do, yer faithers'
bluid, ye also inherit their spirit--to see whether ye hae the manhood
to break the yoke o' yer oppressors, or if ye hae the courage to follow
the example which the men o' Home set ye the other nicht."
"What have they done?" inquired Florence.
"Hearken," said she, "ane and a' o' ye, and I will tell ye; for, wi' my
ain een, I beheld a sicht that was as joyfu' to me as the sight o' a
sealed pardon to a condemned criminal. Ye weel ken that, for near twa
years, the English have held Home Castle, just as they still hold Fast
Castle, beside us. Now, it was the other nicht, and just as the grey
gloam was darkening the towers, that an auld kinsman o' mine, o' the
name o' Home, scaled the walls where they were highest, strongest, and
least guarded; thirty gallant countrymen had accompanied him to their
foot, but before they could follow his example, he was perceived by a
sentinel, wha shouted out--'To arms!--to arms!' 'Cower, lads, cower!'
said my auld kinsman, in a sort o' half whisper, to his followers; and
he again descended the wall, and they lay down, with their swords in
their hands, behind some whin bushes at the foot o' the battlements.
There was running, clanking, and shouting through the castle for a time;
but, as naething like the presence o' an enemy was either seen or heard,
the sentry that had raised the alarm was laughed at, and some gaed back
to their beds, and others to their wine. But, after about two hours, and
when a'thing was again quiet, my kinsman and his followers climbed the
walls, and, rushing frae sentinel to sentinel, they owrecam ane after
anither before they could gie the alarm to the garrison in the castle;
and, bursting into it, shouted--'Hurra!--Scotland and Home for ever!'
Panic seized the garrison; some started frae their sleep--others reeled
frae their cups--some grasped their arms--others ran, they knew not
where--but terror struck the hearts o' ane and a'; and still, as the
cry, 'Scotland and Home for ever!' rang frae room to room, and was
echoed through the lang high galleries, it seemed like the shouting o'
a thousand men; and, within ten minutes, every man in the garrison was
made prisoner or put to the sword! And noo, neebors, what my kinsman
and a handfu' o' countrymen did for the deliverance o' the Castle o'
Home, can ye not do for Fast Castle, or will ye not--and so drive every
invader oot o' Berwickshire?"
"I dinna mean to say, Madge," answered one, who appeared to be the
most influential personage amongst her auditors--"I dinna mean to say
but that your relation and his comrades hae performed a most noble
and gallant exploit--one that renders them worthy o' being held in
everlasting remembrance by their countrymen--and glad would I be if we
could this night do the same for Fast Castle. But, woman, the thing is
impossible; the cases are not parallel. It mightna be a difficult matter
to scale the highest part o' the walls o' Home Castle, and ladders could
easily be got for that purpose; but, at Fast Castle, wi' the draw-brig
up, and the dark, deep, terrible chasm between you and the walls, like
the bottomless gulf between time and eternity!--I say, again, for my
part, the thing is impossible. Wha has strength o' head, even for a
moment, to look doun frae the dark and dizzy height o' the Wolf's
Crag?--and wha could think o' scaling it? Even if it had been possible,
the stoutest heart that ever beat in a bosom would, wi' the sickening
horror o' its owner's situation, before he was half-way up, be dead as
the rocks that would dash him to pieces as he fell! Na, na, I should hae
been glad to lend a helping and a willing hand to ony practicable plan,
but it would be madness to throw away our lives where there couldna be
the slightest possibility o' success."
"Listen," said Madge; "I ken what is possible, and what is impossible,
as weel as ony o' ye. I meant that ye should tak for example the
dauntless spirit o' my kinsman and the men o' Home, and no their manner
o' entering the castle. But, if yer hearts beat as their hearts did,
before this hour the morn's nicht, the invaders will be driven frae
Fast Castle. In the morning we are ordered to take provisions to the
garrison. I shall be wi' ye, and in the front o' ye. But, though my left
arm carries a basket, beneath my cloak shall be hidden the bit sword
which my guidman wore in the wars against King Harry; and, as I reach
the last sentinel--'Now, lads! now for Scotland and our Queen!' I shall
cry; and wha dare follow my example?"
"I dare! I will!" said Florence Wilson, "and be at yer side to strike
doun the sentinel; and sure am I that there isna a man here that winna
do or die, and drive oor enemies frae the castle, or leave his body
within its wa's for them to cast into the sea. Every man o' us, the
morn, will enter the castle wi' arms concealed about him, and hae them
ready to draw and strike at a moment's warning. Ye canny say, freends,
but that this is a feasible plan, and ye winna be outdone in bravery by
a woman. Do ye agree to it?"
There were cries of--"Yes, Florence, yes!--every man o' us!"--and "It
is an excellent plan--it is only a pity that it hadna been thocht o'
suner," resounded on all sides; but "Better late than never," said
others.
"Come round me, then," said Madge; and they formed a circle around
her. "Ye swear now," she continued, "in the presence o' Him who see'th
through the darkness o' night and searcheth the heart, that nane o' ye
will betray to oor enemies what we hae this nicht determined on; but
that every man o' ye will, the morn, though at the price o' his life, do
yer utmost to deliver oor groaning country frae the yoke o' its invaders
and oppressors! This ye swear?"
And they bowed their heads around her.
"Awa, then," added she, "ilka man to his ain hoose, and get his weapons
in readiness." And, leaving the copse, they proceeded in various
directions across the desolate moor. But Florence Wilson accompanied
Madge to her dwelling; and, as they went, she said--
"Florence, if ye act as weel the morn as ye hae spoken this nicht, the
morn shall my dochter, Janet, be yer wife, wi' a fu' purse for her
portion that neither o' ye kens aboot."
He pressed her hand in the fulness of his heart; but she added--
"Na, na, Florence, I'm no a person that cares aboot a fuss being made
for the sake o' gratitude--thank me wi' deeds. Remember I have said--a'
depends on yer conduct the morn."
When they entered the house, poor Janet was weeping, because of her
mother's absence, for she had expected her for two days; and her
apprehensions were not removed when she saw her in the company of
Florence, who, although her destined husband, and who, though he had
long been in the habit of visiting her daily, had called but once during
her mother's absence, and then he was sad and spoke little. She saw that
her parent had prevailed on him to undertake some desperate project, and
she wept for his sake.
When he arose to depart, she rose also and accompanied him to the door.
"Florence," said she, tenderly, "you and my mother hae some secret
between ye, which ye winna communicate to me."
"A' that is a secret between us," said he, "is, that she consents that
the morn ye shall be my winsome bride, if ye be willing, as I'm sure ye
are; and that is nae secret that I wad keep frae ye; but I didna wish to
put ye aboot by mentioning it before her."
Janet blushed, and again added--
"But there is something mair between ye than that, Florence, and why
should ye hide it frae me?"
"Dear me, hinny!" said he, "I wonder that ye should be sae apprehensive.
There is nae secret between yer mother an' me that isna weel-kenned to
every ane in the country-side. But just ye hae patience--bide a
wee--wait only till the morn; and, when I come to lead ye afore the
minister, I'll tell ye a'thing then."
"An' wherefore no tell me the noo, Florence?" said she. "I am sure that
there is something brewing, an' a dangerous something too. Daur ye no
trust me? Ye may think me a weak an' silly creature; but, if I am not
just so rash and outspoken as my mother, try me if I haena as stout a
heart when there is a necessity for showing it."
"Weel, Janet, dear," said Florence, "I winna conceal frae ye that there
is something brewing--but what that something is I am not at liberty
to tell. I am bound by an oath not to speak o't, and so are a hunder
others, as weel as me. But the morn it will be in my power to tell ye
a'. Noo, just be ye contented, and get ready for our wedding."
"And my mother kens," Janet was proceeding to say, when her mother's
voice was heard, crying from the house--
"Come in, Janet--what are ye doing oot there in the cauld?--ye hae been
lang enough wi' Florence the nicht--but the morn's nicht ye may speak to
him as lang as ye like. Sae come in, lassie."
As the reader may suppose, Madge was not one whose commands required to
be uttered twice; and, with a troubled heart, Janet bade Florence
"good-night," and returned to the cottage.
It was a little after sunrise on the following day, when a body of more
than a hundred peasantry, agreeably to the command of the governor,
appeared before the castle, laden with provisions. Some of them had the
stores which they had brought upon the backs of horses, but which they
placed upon their own shoulders as they approached the bridge. Amongst
them were fishermen from Eyemouth and Coldingham, shepherds from the
hills with slaughtered sheep, millers, and the cultivators of the
patches of arable ground beyond the moor. With them, also, were a few
women carrying eggs, butter, cheese, and poultry; and at the head of the
procession (for the narrowness of the drawbridge over the frightful
chasm, beyond which the castle stood, caused the company to assume the
form of a procession as they entered the walls) was Madge Gordon, and
her intended son-in-law, Florence Wilson.
The drawbridge had been let down to them; the last of the burden-bearers
had crossed it; and Madge had reached the farthest sentinel, when
suddenly dropping her basket, out from beneath her grey cloak gleamed
the sword of her dead husband!
"Now, lads!--now for Scotland and our Queen!" she exclaimed, and as she
spoke, the sword in her hand pierced the body of the sentinel. At the
same instant every man cast his burden to the ground, a hundred hidden
swords were revealed, and every sentinel was overpowered.
"Forward, lads! forward!" shouted Madge.
"Forward!" cried Florence Wilson, with his sword in his hand, leading
the way. They rushed into the interior of the castle; they divided into
bands. Some placed themselves before the arsenal where arms were kept,
while others rushed from room to room, making prisoners of those of the
garrison who yielded willingly, and showing no quarter to those who
resisted. Many sought safety in flight, some flying half-naked, aroused
from morning dreams after a night's carouse, and almost all fled without
weapons of defence. The effect upon the garrison was as if a thunderbolt
had burst in the midst of them. Within half an hour, Fast Castle was in
the hands of the peasantry, and the entire soldiery who had defended it
had either fled, were slain, or made prisoners.
Besides striking the first blow, Madge had not permitted the sword of
her late husband to remain idle in her hands during the conflict. And,
as the conquerors gathered round Florence Wilson, to acknowledge to him
that to his counsel, presence of mind, and courage, as their leader, in
the midst of the confusion that prevailed, they owed their victory, and
the deliverance of the east of Berwickshire from its invaders, Madge
pressed forward, and, presenting him her husband's sword, said--
"Tak this, my son, and keep it--it was the sword o' a brave man, and to
a brave man I gie it--and this night shall ye be my son indeed."
"Thank ye, mother--mother!" said Florence. And as he spoke a faint smile
crossed his features.
But scarce had he taken the sword in his hand, ere a voice was heard,
crying--
"Where is he?--where shall I find him?--does he live?--where is my
mother?"
"Here, love!--here! It is my Janet!" cried Florence; but his voice
seemed to fail him as he spoke.
"Come here, my bairn," cried her mother, "and in the presence of these
witnesses receive a hand that ye may be proud o'."
As part of the garrison fled through Coldingham, Janet had heard of
the surprise by which the castle had been taken, and ran towards it to
gather tidings of her mother and affianced husband; for she now knew the
secret which they would not reveal to her.
As she rushed forward, the crowd that surrounded Florence gave way,
and, as he moved forward to meet her, it was observed that he shook or
staggered as he went; but it was thought no more of; and when she fell
upon his bosom, and her mother took their hands and pressed them
together, the multitude burst into a shout and blessed them. He strove
to speak--he muttered the word "Janet!" but his arms fell from her neck,
and he sank as lifeless on the ground.
"Florence! my Florence!--he is wounded--murdered!" cried the maiden, and
she flung herself beside him on the ground.
Madge and the spectators endeavoured to raise him; but his eyes were
closed; and, as he gasped, they with difficulty could understand the
words he strove to utter--"Water--water!"
He had, indeed, been wounded--mortally wounded--but he spoke not of it.
They raised him in their arms and carried him to an apartment in the
castle; but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had
fled.
Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now
cried--"Florence!--Florence!--we shall be married
to-night?--yes!--yes!--I have everything ready!" And again she spoke
bitter words to her mother, and said that she had murdered her Florence.
The spectators lifted her from his body, and Madge stood as one on whom
affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy,
depriving her of speech and action.
"My poor bereaved bairn!" she at length exclaimed; and she took her
daughter in her arms and kissed her--"ye hae indeed cause to mourn,
for Florence was a noble lad!--but, oh, dinna say it was my doing,
hinny!--dinna wyte yer mother!--will ye no, Janet? It is a great comfort
that Florence has died like a hero."
But Janet never was herself again. She became, as their neighbours
said, a poor, melancholy, maundering creature, going about talking of
her Florence and the surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending her
story--"But I maun awa hame and get ready, for Florence and I are to be
married the nicht."
Madge followed her, mourning, wheresoever she went, bearing with and
soothing all her humours. But she had not long to bear them; for, within
two years, Janet was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, in Coldingham
kirkyard; and, before another winter howled over their peaceful graves,
Madge lay at rest beside them.
THE SURGEON'S TALES.
THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH.
It is now many years since I visited a patient, at the distance of some
sixty miles from the proper circuit of my practice. On one occasion,
when with him, I received a letter from a gentleman, who subscribed
himself as one of the trustees of Mr. Bernard[B] of Redcleugh,
requesting me to visit, on my return home, the widow of that gentleman,
who still resided in the old mansion, and whose mind had received a
shock from some domestic affliction, any allusion to which was, for some
reason, very specially reserved. I may remark, that I believe I owed
this application to some opinions I was known to entertain on the
subject of that species of insanity produced by moral causes, and which
is to be carefully distinguished from the diathetic mania, so often
accompanied by pathological changes in the brain. It is scarcely
necessary to inform the reader, that we have always a better chance for
a cure in the one case than in the other, insomuch indeed as, in the
first, we have merely functional derangement; in the second, organic
change. I always maintain there is no interest about insane people,
except to the man of science; and even he very soon gets to that "ass's
bridge," on the other side of which Nature, as the genius of occult
things, stands with a satirical smile on her face, as she sees the proud
savans toppling over into the Lethe of sheer ignorance, and getting
drowned for their insane curiosity. In the asylum in France, mentioned
by De Vayer, the inmates enjoyed exceedingly the imputed madness of the
visiting physician. The same play is acted in the world all throughout.
Our insanity has only a little more method in it--and while I avoid any
description of the madness of Mrs. Bernard, I will have to set forth a
story, which, leading to that madness, has in it apparently as much of
insanity as may be found in the ravings of a maniac.
[B] I find it more convenient, in this tale, to give names to
my personages, in place of initials.
I obeyed the call to Redcleugh, where I found the _res domi_ in a
peculiar position. There were few inmates in the large old house.
Besides the invalid herself, there was an old cook and a butler, by name
Francis, who had been in the family for many years, and whose garrulity
was supplied from an inexhaustible fountain--the fate and fortunes of
the Bernards. My patient was a lovely woman in body--a maniac in mind.
Her affliction had suddenly shot up into her brain, and left untouched
the lineaments of her beauty, excepting the expression of the eye, which
had become nervous and furtive, oscillating between the extreme of
softness and the intensity of ferocity. Having been cautioned by Francis
to make no allusion to her husband or to certain children, whom he
named, or to the word "book," and many other things, I contented myself,
in the first instance, with a general examination of her symptoms; and,
as it was late before I arrived, I resolved upon remaining all night,
which would enable me to see her again in the morning. I had supper
served up to me by Francis, who brought me some wine which had been in
the house for fifty years, and told me stories of the family, extending
back twice that period. Sometimes these old legends would be interrupted
for a moment by a shrill cry, coming from a source which we both knew.
All else in this house was under the spell of Angerana, the genius of
silence. There is something peculiar in the sound of a common voice in
a large house, filled with memorials of those who had lived in it, and
yet with no living sounds to break the dull heavy air, which seems to
thicken by not being moved. It appeared as if I had been suddenly thrown
into a region of romance, but my experiences were not pleasant. I wished
to escape to my own professional thoughts again, and desired to go to
bed.
I was accordingly, not without some efforts on the part of my
entertainer to prolong his stories, ushered into my bed-room--a large
apartment, hung with pictures, some very old, and some very new. Francis
put the candle down, and left me. It was not long before I was undressed
and under the bed-clothes; but not being sure about sleeping, I left the
candle burning, intending to rise and extinguish it when I found myself
more inclined to fall over into the rest I required. The old legends
began to pass through my mind, and I was engrossed with the spirit of
the past. Time makes poetry out of very common things, and then we are
to remember, what we do not often think of, that the most ordinary life
cannot be passed without encountering some incidents which smack of the
romantic. Nay, every man's life, as a bright gleam thrown on the dark
abyss which separates him from eternity, is all through a romance, in
the midst of that greater one, seen by us only as shadows--the negatives
of some positives, perhaps, witnessed by eyes on the other side. I
have always been tinged by something of the spirit of old Bruno,
that dreamer, whose most real realities were no other than umbery
forms--flakes of shadow--cast off by a central light from the real
objects, of which we are the mere shadowy representatives. All the
breathing, throbbing, active beings, who for two hundred years had run
along these narrow passages of the old house, and peered into half-open
doors, or out of the small skew-topped windows--danced, sang, laughed
and wept--died, and been carried out--were to each other as such umbery
things; and I, the present subsisting shadow, received them all into my
living microcosm, where, as in a mirror, they existed again, scarcely
less shadowy than before.
Somehow or another I could not get to sleep; not that I had any fears:
these were out of the question with me. My vigils were attributable to
a fancy, wrought upon by the recitals of the old butler, illustrated
by the very concrete things which had been used by the personages he
described. There were the chairs they sat on, the beds they slept on,
the piano they played on, all as they had been left. It was impossible
for me to conceive that there was yet no connection between these things
and the old family. The pictures, too, were still there, in the various
rooms, some of them in my bed-room. The light of my eyes seemed to have
disenchanted these silent staring personages. They came forth and
occupied themselves as they had been wont before they became pictures.
The chair of the first of the late Mr. Bernard's two wives--that "angel
whose look was an eternal smile," as Francis poetically described
her--appeared to have the power of drawing her down into it; but then
the attraction was not less for the second wife, "whose fate was a
terrible mystery;" and thus would I get confused. Then, to which of
these did the little dark fellow on the south wall belong--he who seemed
to have been scorched by too strong a sun--and the girl beside them, who
looked as if she had been blanched by too bright a moon--which of the
two was her mother?
At last I got out of bed, and rummaged for some stray volume to
disenchant me out of the imaginary world of these Bernards. I drew out
one or two drawers, which had been so long shut that they had lost their
allegiance to the hand. I peered into an escritoire, and another old
cabinet, which creaked and groaned at being disturbed by a hand not a
Bernard's. All was empty. There was one drawer which refused to come
out to the full extent. Something seemed to be jammed between it and
the back of the escritoire. Man is an enterprising animal; a little
resistance sets his energies a-spring. I would not be baulked. I
would know what the impediment was and work out the solution of the
difficulty. By pulling hard the obstacle gave way. The drawer followed
my hand, while my body fell back on the floor. Psha! some stray leaves
of an old pamphlet fluttered about. I had dismembered the obstacle, and
would now collect the fragments. I had got for my pains an old brochure,
embellished by dreadful woodcuts, of the old Newgate calender style, and
entitled, "The true and genuine history of the murderer, Jane Grierson,
who poisoned her mistress, and thereby became the wife of her master,
Josiah Temple;" the date 1742. I was no fancier of awful histories of
murderers, yet I would read myself asleep amidst horrors rather than
lie with my imagination in wakeful subjugation to the images of these
eternal Bernards. Bernard still! on the top of the title page was
written "Amelia Bernard." The charm was here too. Which of these fair
creatures on the wall was the proprietor of this brochure? She had read
it surely with care. She must have cherished it, or why identify it as
her own? Perhaps she was a lover of old books; it could not be that she
was a lover of cruel stories. Those eyes were made for throwing forth
the lambent light of affection and love; how unlike to the staring
blood-shot orbs of that Jane Grierson on that terrific woodcut! Yet,
true to the nature of my species, at least my sex, I found in the grim
pamphlet that inexpressible something which recommends coarse recitals
of human depravity even to cultivated minds, and which consists probably
in the conformity between the thing itself and the description of it;
the rugged words, semblances of the rugged implements, and the savage
actions of cruelty, address themselves to the latent barbarism which
lies as the lowest stratum of our many piled nature, and receive the
savage response at the moment we blush for humanity. These dire images
of the murderer's story were stronger than those of the Bernards--even
of those lovely faces on the wall--and as the candle burned down, and
the red wick grew up, I read and read on, how the cruel fiend did
destroy while she fawned upon her victim; how that victim, overcome by
the kindness of her enemy, praised her to her husband, who loved his
wife to distraction; and how she, even in her devoted gratitude,
recommended her murderer as her successor to the bed she lay on, and to
those arms where she so often had enjoyed the pressure of his love. Nor
was the recommendation ineffectual, for the said wicked Jane did become
the wife of her victim's husband. The old horrid savagery of our
criminal literature!--not yet abated--never to be abated--only glossed
with tropes and figures more hideous than the plain narrative of blood.
It was a vain thought that I should read myself asleep among the
terrible images suggested by my brochure. I was even more vigilant than
before. Then, that Francis seemed never at rest; I heard him clambering
up stairs, tramping along passages, shutting doors, speaking to himself,
just as if all the actions of his prior life were being gone over again.
I would have another visit, and another long narrative of some Bernard,
whose picture was somewhere in a red or blue room, and who had been, as
usual, with all those bearded individuals who hung on walls, either at
the crusades under Peter the hermit, or at Flodden under James, or at
Culloden under Charles. The clock struck, with a sound of grating rust,
two; and--tramp, tramp--he trudged along the passage. The door opened,
and in came my chronicler.
"Doctor, I saw your light," said he, "and you know it was always my
duty, when the family were in their old home here, to see that all the
lights were out o' nights; aye ever after the east wing was burned down,
through aunt Marjory's love of reading old romances. I hope I did not
disturb you."
"No," replied I; "pray, Francis, I need not ask which of these two
pictured beauties is Amelia, my patient? The likeness is good."