We have already alluded to the origin of_The Catholic World, Vol. 20, October 1874‐March 1875

Fuller, in his _Worthies of England_, says they are called moss‐troopers

“because dwelling in the mosses (marshes or morasses), and riding in

troops together; they dwell in the bounds or meeting of the two kingdoms,

but obey the laws of neither. They come to church as seldom as the 29th of

February comes in the calendar.” Their customs and laws are even more

interesting than the details of their forays. Loyalty to each other was

their first principle, and on occasions when money could purchase the

freedom of one of their number they invariably cast in their lots, and

made up a large common purse. They were scrupulous in keeping their word

of honor when passed to a traveller, and Fuller likens their dogged

fidelity in these cases to that of a “Turkish janizary”; but otherwise,

woe to him that fell into their hands! Their own _self_‐imposed laws they

observed for the most part faithfully, and a breach of them was punished

far more summarily than modern crimes in modern courts of law. Several

species of offences peculiar to the Border constituted what was called

March‐treason. Among others was the crime of riding or causing to ride

against the opposite country (or clan) during the time of truce. Such was

the offence committed by Rowland Foster in his raid on the “Blind Baron,”

though in his case the criminal was probably too powerful to be punished.

In one of the many truces signed in the olden time is one of 1334 between

the Percys and the Douglases, in which it is accorded: “Gif ony stellis

(steals) anthir on the ta part or on the tothyr, that he shall be hanget

or beofdit (beheaded); and gif ony company stellis any gudes within the

trieux (truce) beforesayd, are of that company shall be hanget or beofdit,

and the remanant sail restore the gudys stolen in the dubble.”(61) In

doubtful cases the innocence of Border criminals was often referred to

their own oath. The same work that quotes the above agreement also gives

us the form of excusing bills by Border oaths: “You shall swear by the

heaven above you, hell beneath you, by your part of paradise, by all that

God made in six days and seven nights, and by God himself, you are whart

out sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd kenning, having, or

recetting of any of the goods and cattels named in the bill. So help you

God.” It seems almost as if the Borderers had consulted the catechism as

to the nine ways of being accessory to another’s sin, so minute is the

nomenclature of treasonable possibilities.

Trial by single combat was also a favorite mode of clearing one’s self

from a criminal charge. This was common in feudal times and throughout the

XVIth century; but time stood still in the Borders, as far as civilizing

changes were concerned, and even in the XVIIth century a ceremonious

indenture was signed between two champions of name and position, binding

them to fight to prove the truth or falsity of a charge of high treason

made by one against the other.

The most ancient known collection of regulations for the Border sets forth

that in 1468, on the 18th day of December, Earl William Douglas assembled

the whole lords, freeholders, and eldest Borderers, that best knowledge

had, at the College of Linclouden, “where he had them bodily sworn, the

Holy Gospel touched, that they justlie and trulie after their cunning

should decrete ... the statutes, ordinances, and uses of the marche.” The

earl further on is said to have thought these “right speedful and

profitable to the Borders.”

During the truces it was not unusual to have merry‐makings and fairs, to

which, however, both Scotch and English came fully armed. Foot‐ball was

from time immemorial a favorite Border game, but the national rivalry was

such that the play often ended in bloodshed. Still, there was no personal

ill‐feeling, and a rough sort of good‐fellowship was kept up, which was

strengthened by intermarriages, and was not supposed to debar either party

from the right of prosecuting private vengeance, even to death. When,

however, this revenge had been taken, it would have been against Border

etiquette to retain any further ill‐will. Patten, in his _Account of

Somerset’s Expedition into Scotland_, remarks on the disorderly conduct of

the English Borderers who followed the Lord Protector. He describes the

camp as full of “troublous and dangerous noyses all the nyghte longe, ...

more like the outrage of a dissolute huntynge than the quiet of a well‐

ordered armye.” The Borderers, like masterless hounds, howling, whooping,

whistling, crying out “A Berwick, a Berwick! a Fenwick, a Fenwick! a

Bulmer, a Bulmer!” paraded the camp, creating confusion wherever they

went, and disturbing the more sober southern troops; they used their own

slogan or battle‐cry out of pure mischief and recklessness, and totally

disregarded all camp discipline. Yet in this land of defiles, caverns, and

marshes their aid was too precious to be dispensed with, and remonstrance

was practically useless.

The pursuit of Border marauders was often followed by the injured party

and his friends with bloodhounds and bugle‐horn, and was called the _hot‐

trod_. If his dog could trace the scent, he was entitled to follow the

invaders into the opposite kingdom, which practice often led to further

bloodshed. A sure way of stopping the dog was to spill blood on the track;

and a legend of Wallace’s adventurous life relates a terrible instance of

this. An Irishman in Wallace’s train was slain by the Scottish fugitive,

and when the English came up with their hounds their pursuit was baffled.

But poetical justice required some counterbalancing doom, and accordingly

the legend tells us that, when Wallace took refuge in the lonely tower of

Gask, and fancied himself safe, he was speedily disturbed by the blast of

a horn. It was midnight. He sent out attendants, cautiously to

reconnoitre, but they could see nothing. When he was left alone again, the

summons was repeated, and, sword in hand, he went down to face the

unknown. At the gate of the tower stood the headless spectre of Fawdoim,

the murdered man. Wallace, in unearthly terror, fled up into the tower,

tore open a window, and leaped down fifteen feet to the ground to continue

his flight as best he could. Looking back to Gask, he saw the tower on

fire, and the form of his victim, dilated to an immense size, standing on

the battlements, holding in his hand a blazing rafter.

The system of signals by beacon‐fires was common on the Borders. Smugglers

and their friends have now become the only remaining heirs to this

practice, which was once that in use by the noblest warriors of Gaelic

race in either island. The origin of this custom was perfectly lawful;

indeed, the Scottish Parliament, in 1445, directed that one bale or

beacon‐fagot should be warning of the approach of the English in any

manner; two bales, that they are coming indeed; four bales blazing beside

each other, that the enemy are in great force. A Scotch historian tells us

that in later times these beacons consisted of a long and strong tree set

up, with a long iron pole across the head of it, and an iron brander fixed

on a stalk in the middle of it for holding a tar‐barrel.

It was a custom on the Border, and indeed in the Highlands also, for those

passing through a great chieftain’s domains to repair to the castle in

acknowledgment of the chief’s authority, explain the purpose of their

journey, and receive the hospitality due to their rank. To neglect this

was held discourtesy in the great and insolence in the inferior traveller;

indeed, so strictly was this etiquette insisted upon by some feudal lords

that Lord Oliphaunt is said to have planted guns at his Castle of Newtyle

in Angus, so as to command the high‐road, and compel all passengers to

perform this act of homage. Sir Walter Scott, in his _Provincial

Antiquities_, has hunted up a curious instance of the non fulfilment of

this custom. The Lord of Crichtoun Castle, on the Tyne, heard that Scott

of Buccleugh was to pass his dwelling on his return from court. A splendid

banquet was prepared for the expected guest, who nevertheless rode past

the castle, neglecting to pay his duty‐visit. Crichtoun was terribly

incensed, and pursued the discourteous traveller with a body of horse,

made him prisoner, and confined him for the night in the castle dungeon.

He and his retainers, meanwhile, feasted on the good cheer that had been

provided, and doubtless made many valiant boasts against the imprisoned

lord. But with morning cometh prudence. A desperate feud with a powerful

clan was not desirable, and such would infallibly have been the result of

so rough a proceeding. Indeed, it would have justified the Buccleugh in

biting his glove or his thumb—a gesture indicative on the Border of a

resolution of mortal revenge for a serious insult. So, to put matters

right, Crichtoun not only delivered his prisoner and set him in the place

of honor at his board the following day, but himself retired into his own

dungeon, where he remained as many hours as his guest had done. This

satisfaction was accepted and the feud averted.

The Borderers had a rough, practical kind of symbolism in vogue among

them; and, though they were not afraid of calling a spade a spade, yet

loved a significant allegory. It is told of one of the marauding chiefs,

whose castle was a very robber’s den, that his mode of intimating to his

retainers that the larder was bare, and that they must ride for a supply

of provisions, was the appearance on the table of a pair of clean spurs in

a covered dish. Like many brigand chiefs, this Scott of Harden had a wife

of surpassing beauty, famed in song as the “Flower of Yarrow.” Some very

beautiful pastoral songs are attributed to a young captive, said to have

been carried as an infant to this eagle’s nest, built on the brink of a

dark and precipitous dell. He himself tells the story of how “beauteous

Mary, Yarrow’s fairest flower, rescued him from the rough troopers who

brought him into the courtyard of the castle.”

“Her ear, all anxious, caught the wailing sound:

With trembling haste, the youthful matron flew,

And from the hurried heaps an infant drew.

Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,

Nor loved the scenes that scared his infant view,

He lived o’er Yarrow’s Flower to shed the tear,

To strew the holly‐leaves o’er Harden’s bier.

He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,

Saved other names, and left his own unsung.”

Work and pleasure were sometimes mingled in those royal expeditions called

a chase, which had so little to distinguish them from regular Border

forays. Law and no law were so curiously tangled together that each bore

nearly the same outward features as the other—features especially

romantic, which both have now equally lost. Ettrick Forest, now a

mountainous range of sheep‐walks, was anciently a royal pleasure‐ground.

The hunting was an affair of national importance, and in 1528 James V. of

Scotland “made proclamation to all lords, barons, gentlemen, landward‐men,

and freeholders to pass with the king where he pleased, to danton _the

thieves_ of Teviotdale, Annandale, and Liddesdale (we have heard this

expression before in another mouth), and other parts of that country, and

also warned all gentlemen that had good dogs to bring them, that he might

hunt in the said country as he pleased.”

A very interesting account is given by one Taylor, a poet, of the mode in

which these huntings were conducted in the Highlands. This, however, is a

sketch of a later day than that in which the moss‐troopers were at their

best, but many of the characteristics of the scene suggest the earlier and

hardly yet forgotten time of the true Borderers. He begins by enumerating

the many “truly noble and right honorable lords” who were present, and

gives a detailed description of the dress which they wore in common with

the peasantry, “as if Lycurgus had been there and made laws of equality.”

The dress is the Highland costume of to‐day—a dress that has never changed

since at least the beginning of this century. The English poet evidently

finds it very primitive, and takes no notice of the difference of color or

of mixing of color that distinguishes the various tartans. He says: “As

for their attire, any man of what degree so‐ever who comes amongst them

must not disdain to wear it; for if they do, then they will disdain to

hunt or willingly to bring in their dogs; but if men be kind to them and

be in their habit, then they are conquered with kindness, and the sport

will be plentiful.” The gathering is of some fourteen or fifteen hundred

or more men—a little city or camp. Small cottages built on purpose to

lodge in, and called _lonquhards_, are here for the chiefs, the kitchens

whereof are always on the side of a bank. A formidable list of provisions

follows; there are “many kettles and pots boiling, and many spits turning

and winding, with great variety of cheer, as venison baked, sodden, rost,

and stewed beef, mutton, goats, kids, hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens,

capons, chickens, partridges, muir‐coots (water‐fowl), heath‐cocks,

capercailzies and ptarmigans, good ale, sacke, white and claret (red)

tent, or allegant, with the most potent _aqua‐vitæ_. All these, and more

than these, we had continually in superfluous abundance, caught by

falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by my lord’s tenants and

purveyors to victual our camp, which consisteth of fourteen or fifteen

hundred men and horses. The manner of the hunting is this: Five or six

hundred men do rise early in the morning, and they do disperse themselves

divers ways, and seven, eight, or ten miles compass; they do bring or

chase in the deer, in many herds (two, three, or four hundred in a herd),

to such or such a place as the noblemen shall appoint them; then, when day

is come, the lords and gentlemen of their companies do ride or go to the

said places, sometimes wading up to the middles through burns (streams)

and rivers, and then they, being come to the place, do lie down upon the

ground till those foresaid scouts, which are called the _tinkhell_, do

bring down the deer. But as the proverb says of a bad cook, so these

_tinkhell_ men do lick their own fingers; for, besides their bows and

arrows, which they carry with them, we can hear now and then a harquebuss

or a musket go off, which they do seldom discharge in vain. Then after we

had stayed there three hours or thereabouts, we might perceive the deer

appear on the hills round about us (their heads making a show like a

wood), which, being followed close by the _tinkhell_, are chased down into

the valley where we lay; then all the valley, on each side, being waylaid

with a hundred couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are all let loose,

as occasion serves, upon the herd of deer, that with dogs, guns, arrows,

durks, and daggers, in the space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were

slain, which after are disposed of, some one way and some another, twenty

and thirty miles, and more than enough left for us, to make merry withal

at our rendezvous.”

Doubtless the scene must have been very picturesque before the _battue_

began; but as sport what could be more unsatisfactory? For once modern

customs seem to excel ancient ones, and the Scotch deer‐stalker of to‐day,

in his arduous, solitary walk over the moors and through the forests, is a

much more enviable personage than the high and mighty huntsman of King

James’ train. The best sport recorded in this curious narrative was the

result of the unauthorized shots heard in the distance, when the

_tinkhell_ men could not resist the temptation of “licking their own

fingers.”

It was the result of all these centuries of wild life and romantic

lawlessness that made Scotland so safe a retreat for the unfortunate

Prince Charlie after the last stand had been so loyally and unsuccessfully

made at Culloden in 1745. Personal fidelity to a beloved chieftain, and an

habitual disregard of all laws of the “Southron” that clashed with their

own immemorial customs, made of the Scottish people the most perfect

partisans in the world. Even at this day, when they are famed for their

thriftiness, their amenableness to law, their eminently peaceful

qualities, a strong undercurrent of romance lies at the bottom of their

surface tranquillity. The organization of clanship has disappeared, but

the feeling that put life into that system is itself living yet. The

humblest Scotsman is a born genealogist, and privately considers the blood

of the laird under whose protection or in whose service he lives as

immeasurably _bluer_ than that of the German royal family that sits in the

high places of England; and a characteristic instance of the clinging

affection with which the national nomenclature of rank is still looked

upon by the Scottish peasantry was afforded not many years ago, when the

tenants of Lord Breadalbane were required to conform to modern usage, and

address their master as “my lord.” “What!” they exclaimed, “call the

Breadalbane _my lord_, like any paltry Southron chiel (fellow)?” They

thought—and rightly, as it seems to us—that the old appellation, “_the_

Breadalbane,” as if he were sovereign on his own lands, and the only one

of the name who needed no title to distinguish him from others of his kin,

was the only fitting one for their chief. The English title of marquis was

nothing to that.

The superstitions of the Border, those of early times and those whose

traces remain even to this day, are another interesting phase in the

annals of the moss‐troopers, but they would occupy more space than we have

now at command. We will close this sketch by quoting an old saying that

shows that some at least of the Border chieftains, doubtless through the

influence of their wives, had not relinquished all reverent belief in the

things of the world to come. They may not always have acted up to what

they believed; and indeed so wise a maxim as the following, if carried out

in practice to its furthest limit, would have caused the pious Borderer to

retire altogether from his adventurous “profession,” unless, indeed, the

obscure sentence in the second line of the couplet, “Keep well the rod,”

could have been twisted into an injunction to him to become an embodiment

of poetical justice in the eyes of less discriminating moss‐troopers. The

inscription is found over an arched door at Branxholm or Branksome Castle,

and is in old black‐letter type:

In varld. is. nocht. nature. hes. vrought. yat. sal. lest. ay.

Tharefore. serve. God. keip. veil. ye. rod. thy. fame. sal. nocht.

dekay. (62)

Assunta Howard. IV. Convalescence.

“I have almost made up my mind to go back to bed again, and play possum.

Truly, I find but little encouragement in my tremendous efforts to get

well, in the marked neglect which I am suffering from the feminine portion

of my family. Clara is making herself ridiculous by returning to the days

of her first folly, against which I protest to unheeding ears, and of

which I wash my hands. Come here, Assunta; leave that everlasting writing

of yours, and enliven the ‘winter of my discontent’ by the ‘glorious

summer’ of your presence, of mind as well as of body.”

Mr. Carlisle certainly looked very unlike the neglected personage he

described himself to be. He was sitting in a luxurious chair near the open

window; and he had but to raise his eyes to feast them upon the ever‐

changing, never‐tiring beauties of the Alban hills, while the soft spring

air was laden with the fragrance of many gardens. Beside him were books,

flowers, and cigars—everything, in short, which could charm away the

tediousness of a prolonged convalescence. And it must be said, to his

credit, that he bore the monotony very well _for a man_—which, it is to be

feared, is after all damning his patience with very faint praise.

Assunta raised her eyes from her letter, and, smiling, said:

“Ingratitude, thy name is Severn Carlisle! I wish Clara were here to give

you the benefit of one of her very womanly disquisitions on man. You would

be so effectually silenced that I should have a hope of finishing my

letter in time for the steamer.”

“Never mind the letter,” said Mr. Carlisle. “Come here, child; I am pining

to have you near me.”

Assunta laughed, as she replied:

“Would it not do just as well if I should give you the opera‐glass, and

let you amuse yourself by making believe bring me to you?”

“Pshaw! Assunta, I want you. Put away your writing. You know very well

that it is two days before the steamer leaves, and you will have plenty of

time.” And Mr. Carlisle drew a chair beside his own.

Assunta did know all about it; but, now that the invalid was so much

better, she was trying to withdraw a little from any special attentions.

She felt that, under the circumstances, it would not be right to make

herself necessary to his comfort; she did not realize how necessary he

thought her to his very life. However, though she would skirmish with and

contradict him, she had never yet been able sufficiently to forget how

near he had been to death to actually oppose him. Besides, she had not

thought him looking quite as strong this morning; so she put the

unfinished letter back in the desk, and, taking her work‐basket, sat down

beside her guardian, and tried to divert him from herself by pointing out

the wonderful loveliness of the view. His face did have a weary

expression, which his quondam nurse did not fail to perceive. She at once

poured out a glass of wine, and, handing it to him, said:

“Tell me the truth, my friend; you do not feel very well to‐day?”

“I do not feel quite as strong as Samson,” he replied; “but you forget,

Dalila, how you and the barber have shorn off the few locks the fever left

me. Of course my strength went too.”

“Well, fortunately,” said Assunta, “there are no gates of Gaza which

require immediate removal, and no Philistines to be overcome.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr. Carlisle, putting down the wine‐

glass. “There are some things harder to overcome than Philistines, and

some citadels so strong as to bid defiance to Samson, even in the full

glory of his wavy curls. What chance is there, then, for him now, cruel

Dalila?”

Assunta wilfully misunderstood him, and, taking her work from her pretty

basket, she answered, laughing:

“Well, one thing is very certain: your illness has not left you in the

least subdued. Clara and I must begin a course of discipline, or by the

time your brown curls have attained their usual length you will have

become a regular tyrant.”

“Give me your work, _petite_,” said Mr. Carlisle, gently disengaging it

from her hand. “I want this morning all to myself. And please do not

mention Clara again. I cannot hear her name without thinking of that

miserable Sinclair business. It is well for him that I am as I am, until I

have had time to cool. I am not very patient, and I have an irresistible

longing to give him a horse‐whipping. It is a singular psychological fact

that Clara has been gifted with every womanly attraction but common sense.

But I believe that even you Catholics allow to benighted heretics the plea

of invincible ignorance as an escape from condemnation; so we must not be

too severe in our judgment of my foolish sister.”

“Hardly a parallel case,” said Assunta, smiling.

“I grant it,” replied her guardian; “for in my illustration the acceptance

of the plea, so you hold, renders happiness possible to the heretic, to

whom a ‘little knowledge’ would have been so ‘dangerous a thing’ as to

lose him even a chance among the elect; whereas Clara’s invincible

ignorance of the world, of human nature, and in particular of the nature

of George Sinclair, serves only to explain her folly, but does not prevent

the inevitable evil consequences of such a marriage. But enough of the

subject. Will you not read to me a little while? Get Mrs. Browning, and

let us have ‘Lady Geraldine,’ if you will so far compassionate a man as to

make him forget that he is at sword’s points with himself and all the

world, the exception being his fair consoler. Thank you, _petite_,” he

continued, as Assunta brought the book. “There is plenty of trash and an

incomprehensible expression or two in the poem; but, as a whole, I like

it, and the end, the vision, would redeem it, were it ten times as bad.

Well, I too have had a vision! Do you know, Assunta, that the only thing I

can recall of those weeks of illness is your dear form flitting in and out

of the darkness? But—may I dare say it?—the vision had in it a certain

tenderness I do not find in the reality. I could almost believe in your

doctrine of guardian angels, having myself experienced what their ministry

might be.”

“I am afraid,” interrupted Assunta, “that your doctrine would hardly

stand, if it has no other basis than such very human evidence. Shall I

begin?”

“No, wait a minute longer,” said Mr. Carlisle. “ ‘Lady Geraldine’ will

keep. I wish to put a question to your sense of justice. When I was sick,

and almost unconscious, and entirely unappreciative, there was a person—so

the doctor tells me—who lavished attentions upon me, counted nothing too

great a sacrifice to be wasted upon me. But now that I am myself again,

and longing to prove myself the most grateful of men, on the principle

that ‘gratitude is a lively sense of favors _to come_,’ that person

suddenly retires into the solitude of her own original indifference (to

misquote somewhat grandiloquently), and leaves me wondering on what hidden

rock my bark struck when I thought the sea all smooth and shining,

shivering my reanimated hopes to atoms. But,” he added, turning abruptly

towards her, and taking in his the hand which rested on the table beside

him, “you saved my life. Bless you, child, and remember that the life you

have saved is yours, now and always.”

The color had rushed painfully into Assunta’s face, but her guardian

instantly released her hand, and she answered quietly:

“It really troubles me, Mr. Carlisle, that you should attach so much

importance to a mere service of duty and common humanity. I did no more

than any friend so situated would have had a right to claim at my hands.

Your thanks have far outweighed your indebtedness.”

“Duty again!” exclaimed Mr. Carlisle bitterly. “I wish you had let me die.

I want no _duty_ service from you; and you shall be gratified, for I do

_not_ thank you for my life on those conditions. You spare no opportunity

to let me understand that I am no more to you than all the rest of the

world. Be it so.” And he impatiently snatched the _Galignani_ from the

table, and settled himself as if to read.

Assunta’s temper was always roused by the unjust remarks her guardian

sometimes made, and she would probably have answered with a spirit which

would have belied the angel had she not happened to glance at the paper,

and seen that it was upside down; and then at Mr. Carlisle’s pale and

troubled features, to which even the crimson facings of his rich dressing‐

gown hardly lent the faintest glow. The same sentiment of common humanity

which had prompted those days of care and nights of watching now checked

the reproach she would have uttered. She turned over the leaves of Mrs.

Browning, until her eye lighted upon that exquisite valediction, “God be

with thee, my beloved.” This she read through to herself; and then, laying

the book upon the table, she said with the tone and manner of a subdued

child:

“May I finish my letter, please?”

Mr. Carlisle scarcely raised his eyes, as he replied:

“Certainly, Assunta. I have no wish to detain you.”

It was with a very womanly dignity that Assunta left her seat; but,

instead of returning to her writing‐desk, she went to the piano. For

nearly an hour she played, now passages from different sonatas, and then

selections from the grander music of the church. Without seeming to

notice, she saw that the paper at last fell from her guardian’s hand; and

understanding, as she did, every change in his expressive face, she knew

from the smoothing of the brow and the restful look of the eyes that peace

was restored by the charm she wrought. When she was sure that the evil

spirit had been quite exorcised by the power of music, she rose from the

piano, and rang the bell. When Giovanni appeared, she said:

“I think that Mrs. Grey will not return until quite late, as she has gone

to Tivoli; so you may serve dinner here for me as well as for Mr.

Carlisle. If any one calls, I do not receive this afternoon.”

“Very well, signorina,” replied Giovanni. “I will bring in the small table

from the library.” And he left the room.

“It will be much pleasanter than for each of us to dine separately in

solitary state,” said Assunta, going towards her guardian, and speaking as

if there had been no cloud between them; “though I know that dining in the

drawing‐room must, of necessity, be exceptional.”

“It was a very bright thought of yours,” answered Mr. Carlisle, “and a

very appetizing one to me, I can assure you. Will you read ‘Lady

Geraldine’ now? There will be just time before dinner.”

Without a word Assunta took the book, and began to read. She had nothing

of the dramatic in her style, but her voice was sweet, her enunciation

very clear and distinct, and she showed a thorough apprehension of the

author’s meaning; so her reading always gave pleasure, and Mr. Carlisle

had come to depend upon it daily. The vision to which he had referred was

robbed, perhaps fortunately, of some of its sentiment, by Giovanni’s table

preparations; and his presence prevented all but very general comment.

When they were once more by themselves—Giovanni having left them to linger

over the fruit and wine—Mr. Carlisle said:

“By the way, Assunta, you have not told me yet what your friend Miss

Percival had to say for herself in her last letter. You know I am always

interested in her; though I fear it is an interest which partakes largely

of the nature of jealousy.”

“Well,” replied Assunta, “she tells me that she is going to be married.”

“Sensible girl! What more?”

“She regrets very much that her brother, whom she dearly loves, will not

return from his year’s exile in time for the ceremony.”

“So much the better,” exclaimed Mr. Carlisle with unusual energy. “I hope

he may lose himself in the deserts of Arabia, or wander off to further

India, and there remain.”

Assunta laughed. “Truly, my guardian is most charitable! I should not be

surprised if he did, one of these days, follow in the footsteps of S.

Francis Xavier. But what has he done to merit sentence of banishment from

you?”

“You know I am a student of human nature,” rejoined her guardian, “and I

have always observed that where a young girl has a brother and a friend,

she cannot conceive of any other destiny for the two objects of her

affection than to make of them one united object in the holy bonds of

matrimony; and, in order to bring about the desired consummation, she

devotes herself to intrigue in a manner and with a zeal truly feminine.

Mary Percival has a brother and a friend; ergo, may her brother be—induced

to become an Oriental; that is all.”

“In this case,” replied the young girl with a merry laugh, “your

observations are quite at fault. I am truly grieved to be compelled to

spoil such a pretty romance. But, seriously, Mary has a far higher choice

for her brother than her most unworthy friend. She has but one desire and

prayer for him, and that is that he may enter the holy priesthood. I

believe she will not be disappointed. Did you ever see Mr. Percival?”

“No, I have never had the pleasure,” replied Mr. Carlisle.

“I wish you might know him,” said Assunta enthusiastically. “I am sure you

would like him. He is not what would generally be considered handsome, but

I think his face beautiful, it is so very spiritual. It is the beauty of a

remarkable soul, which literally shines in his eyes. He has taken the

highest honors at college, and, if his health is only re‐established, I

think his sister’s very laudable ambition will be more than gratified.”

“He certainly has a most ardent admirer. I did not know you could be so

enthusiastic about any member of the _genus homo_,” said Mr. Carlisle.

Assunta was not to be daunted by the perceptible sneer, and she at once

added:

“I can hardly be said to admire him, but rather the power of grace in him.

I have so great a reverence for Augustine Percival that I could not

imagine it possible for any human affection to turn him from what I firmly

believe to be his great vocation. So my guardian may see him return to the

West with equanimity, and may perhaps even be induced to look with favor

upon another part of the letter.”

“And what is that?” asked Mr. Carlisle.

“Mary invites me very urgently to pass next winter with her in Baltimore.

Her husband‐elect is a naval officer, and his leave of absence expires in

October. She wishes me as a substitute, you understand.”

“Is it your wish to go, my child?” said her guardian, looking at her

earnestly.

“I never like to make any definite plan so long beforehand; but it seemed

to me a very suitable arrangement. You remember,” added Assunta, “that

Clara will probably be married before then.”

“I do not wish Clara to be mentioned; she has nothing to do with it,” said

Mr. Carlisle imperiously; and then he added more gently, “May I ask,

_petite_, what answer you have given her?”

“None, as yet; you remember you interrupted my letter. But I think I will

tell her that my guardian is such an ogre that I dare not reply to her

invitation until after August. Will that do?”

“Tell her what you will,” said Mr. Carlisle; “only, for heaven’s sake, say

no more to me upon the subject. I am not Augustine Percival, and

consequently not elevated above the power of human feeling.”

Poor Assunta! she too was not above human feeling, and sometimes it was

very hard for her to keep her heart from being rebellious; but she had

learned to put God before every earthly consideration, and to find her

strength in his presence. But it required constant watchfulness and

untiring patience to conquer herself. Therefore she could not but feel

great compassion for her friend, who must bear his disappointment with no

help outside of his own strong nature. She rose from the table, and moved

it a little to one side, in order that she might arrange the cushions for

her guardian, who looked unusually weary to‐night.

“Are you angry with me, Mr. Carlisle?” said she softly, as he sank back in

his chair.

“Angry, _petite_?” he repeated, looking steadily in her face. “Yes, I am

angry, but not with you, or with anything you have said to‐night, but

rather with that accursed barrier. Go, child, ring for Giovanni, or I

shall say what you will not like to hear.” As she turned away, he caught

her hand, saying:

“One moment. I have been very rude, and yet I would die for you! There, I

will not say another word. Please ring for Giovanni, since I am compelled

to be so ungallant as to request the favor of you; and then let us talk a

little about the Sienna plans. I must try and put myself into a good‐humor

before Clara comes; for she will have something to say about her handsome

Sinclair, and then I would not give much for my temper.”

The table having been removed, and the wood which had been laid ready in

the fire‐place kindled into a blaze—for the evenings were still cool

enough to admit of its cheery influence—the two, whose lives seemed so

united, and yet were, in reality, so far apart, drew towards the fire. The

heavy curtains, which had been put aside to admit the warm, genial air and

sunshine of mid‐day, were now closely drawn, in order to shut out the

chilling dampness of evening. A hanging lamp cast a soft, mellow light

through its porcelain shade upon an exquisite basket of roses and

carnations adorning the centre of the table, which was covered elsewhere

with books, arranged with studied negligence, and numberless little

suggestions of refinement and feminine occupation. Everything seemed

favorable to a most harmonious conversation, except that inevitable

something which, like a malicious sprite, awakens us from our dreams just

when they are brightest; breaks the spell of our illusions at the moment

when we are clinging to them most persistently; ruthlessly crosses, with

its fatal track, our promised pleasures; and unfeelingly interrupts us in

some hour of complete rest and satisfaction. Ah! we may fret in our

impatience, and wonder at the fatality which seems to pursue us. It is no

mischief‐loving Puck, no evil‐minded genie, but a good angel, who thus

thwarts us. This is no time to dream and cherish illusions which can but

deceive. It is no time for repose. To detach ourselves from all these

things which would make this world a satisfaction to us is the labor we

must all perform, more or less generously and heroically, if we would one

day enjoy the reality of the one dream that never fades—the vision of the

Apocalypse; the one repose that never palls—the rest that remaineth for

the people of God. Welcome, then, those misnamed “juggling fiends” that

“keep the word of promise to our ear, and break it to our hope.” Welcome

the many disappointments, trifling in themselves, the daily crossings of

our will and pleasure, which seem so petty; they perform a great mission

if they succeed in loosening ever so little the cords which bind down to

earth the souls that were meant for heaven. Thrice welcome whatever helps

to turn the sweetness of this world to bitterness!

Poor Mrs. Grey! it had never occurred to her that she had a mission, still

less such an one as we have now assigned to her. For it was her voice

which caused Mr. Carlisle to sigh so profoundly that Assunta could not but

smile, in spite of the regretful feeling in her own heart. It was

better—and she knew it—that the softening influence of the hour should be

thus rudely interrupted; but nature will not be crushed without an

occasional protest. The expression of annoyance still lingered on Mr.

Carlisle’s face when Clara entered the room, exclaiming:

“Come, _caro mio_, they have had the livelong day to themselves, and must

have talked out by this time, even if they had the whole encyclopædia in

their brains.” And as Mr. Sinclair followed with an apologetic bow, she

continued:

“This ridiculous man has conscientious objections to interrupting your

_tête‐à‐tête_. I am sure, Severn, if Assunta is not tired to death of you

by this time, she ought to be, particularly if you have been as solemn all

day as you look now. I would much rather spend the whole day in church—and

that is the most gloomy thing I can think of—than be condemned to the

company of a man in a mood. Make a note of that, George.

“I think, Clara,” said her brother, somewhat coldly, “that Mr. Sinclair

was judging others by himself, and in doing so he judged kindly in my

regard and gallantly in yours; but this is not always the true criterion.

Mr. Sinclair, I beg you will be seated, and excuse me if I do not rise. I

am still obliged to claim the invalid’s cloak of charity. No doubt a cup

of tea will be acceptable after your long drive; and it will soon be

served.”

The eyes of the two men met. They had measured each other before now, and

understood each other well; and each knew that he was most cordially

disliked by the other. Their ceremonious politeness was all the more

marked on that account. Assunta’s tact came to the rescue, and made a

diversion. As she assisted Mrs. Grey in removing her shawl and hat, she

said:

“And how have you enjoyed the day, Clara? You must be very tired!”

“Oh! I am nearly dead with fatigue,” replied the lady, looking very bright

and very much alive for a moribund; “but we have had a delicious time. You

should have seen George trying to support his dignity on a donkey which he

could easily have assisted in walking, as his feet touched the ground on

both sides; and which started with a spasmodic jerk every two or three

minutes when the donkey boy brought down a small club on its back. I

laughed so much at Mr. Sinclair’s gravity and the ludicrous figure he cut

that I narrowly escaped falling off my own donkey down a precipice.”

“ ‘Now, what a thing it is to be an ass,’ ” quoted Mr. Carlisle. “My

lovely sister visits a spot whose present beauty is hardly surpassed by

the richness of its classic associations; where romance lurks, scarcely

hidden, in the memory of Zenobia; where the olives that cover the

hillsides have a primeval look; and, like a very Titania under the love‐

spell, she wakes from her dream of the past, and, behold! her vision is—a

donkey!—no, I beg pardon—_two_ donkeys; one that nearly lost its burden;

and the other that its burden nearly lost!”

“How foolish you are, Severn!” said Clara, pouting very becomingly, while

the others laughed heartily. “Besides, you need not expect me to get up

any sentiment about Zenobia. The mistake of her life was that she did not

die at the proper time, instead of retiring to a country town—of all

places in the world—living a comfortable life, and dying a commonplace

death in her bed, for all I know. It was just stupid in her!”

Her brother smiled. “I think you are right, Clara. Zenobia should never

have survived her chains and the Roman triumph, if she had wished to leave

a perfect picture of herself to posterity. However, I doubt if we have the

right to exact the sacrifice of her merely to gratify our ideas of

romantic propriety. By living she only proved herself less heroine, more

woman. But, Clara, what _did_ you see?—besides the donkeys, I mean.”

Mr. Carlisle felt so keenly the antagonism of Mr. Sinclair’s presence,

that he must either leave the room or find some vent; and therefore his

sister was compelled to be safety‐valve, and submit to his teasing mood.

Perhaps she was not altogether an innocent victim, since she it was who

had somewhat wilfully introduced the discordant element into the family.

“We saw ruins and waterfalls, of course,” she replied to the last

question—a little petulance in her tone, which soon, however, disappeared.

“But the most enjoyable thing of the whole day was the dinner. I usually

cannot see any pleasure in eating out of doors, but today we were obliged

to do so, for the hotel was not at all inviting; and then it is the proper

thing to do to have the table spread in the portico of the Temple of

Vesta. Gagiati had put up a delicious dinner at Mr. Sinclair’s order, so

we were not dependent upon country fries and macaroni. Just as we were

sitting down Lady Gertrude came up with her mother and lover, and we

joined forces. I assure you we were not silent. I never enjoyed a meal

We have already alluded to the origin of the name of the Border riders.