CHAPTER I.

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Transcriber's note:

The Brownie of Bodsbeck has no Chapter IV. and two

Chapters III.

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK;

And other Tales.

Edinburgh:

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK;

And other Tales.

by

JAMES HOGG,

Author of "The Queen's Wake," &c. &c.

"What, has this thing appeared again to-night?"

In Two Volumes.

VOL. II.

Edinburgh;

Printed for William Blackwood, Prince's-Street:

and

John Murray, Albemarle-Street, London.

1818.

CONTENTS TO VOLUME SECOND.

PAGE.

Continuation of the Brownie of Bodsbeck 1

The Wool-Gatherer 87

The Hunt of Eildon 229

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK.

CHAPTER I.

Next morning Davie Tait was early astir, and not having any thing better

to do, he took his plaid and staff and set out towards Whithope-head, to

see what was become of his five scores of ewes, the poor remains of a

good stock. Davie went slowly up the brae towards Riskinhope-swire, for

the events of last night were fresh in his mind, and he was conning a

new prayer to suit some other great emergency; for Davie began to think

that by fervent prayer very great things might be accomplished--that

perhaps the floods might be restrained from coming down, and the storms

of the air from descending; and that even the Piper Hill, or the Hermon

Law, might be removed out of its place. This last, however, was rather a

doubtful point to be attained, even by prayer through the best grounded

faith, for, saving the places where they already stood, there was no

room for them elsewhere in the country. He had, however, his eye fixed

on a little green gair before him, where he was determined to try his

influence with heaven once more; for his heart was lifted up, as he

afterwards confessed, and he was hasting to that little gair to kneel

down and ask a miracle, nothing doubting.

Let any one guess, if he can, what Davie Tait was going to ask. It was

not that the rains and storms of heaven might be restrained, nor that

the mountains might be removed out of their places; but Davie was going

to pray, that "when he went over at the Hewn-gate-end, as soon as he

came in sight of Whithope, he might see all his master's ewes again;

all his old friends, every one of which he knew by head-mark, going

spread and bleating on their old walk from the Earl Hill all the way to

the Braid-heads." So intent was Davie on this grand project, that he

walked himself out of breath against the hill, in order to get quickly

at the little gair to put his scheme in execution; but, as he sagely

observed, it had been graciously fore-ordained that he should not commit

this great folly and iniquity. He paused to take his breath; and in

pausing he turned about, as every man does who stops short in climbing a

hill. The scene that met Davie's eye cut his breath shorter than the

steep--his looks were rivetted on the haugh at Chapelhope--he could

scarcely believe his own eyes, though he rubbed them again and again,

and tried their effects on all things around.--"Good Lord!" said Davie,

"what a world do we live in! Gin a hale synat had sworn, I coudna hae

believed this! My sooth but the Brownie o' Bodsbeck has had a busy

night!"

Walter of Chapelhope had ten acres of as good corn as ever grew in a

moor-land district. Davie knew that when he went to his bed the evening

before, that corn was all growing in the field, dead ripe, and ready for

the sickle; and he had been lamenting that very night that such a crop

should be lost for want of reapers, in a season when there was so much

need for it. But now Davie saw that one half of that crop at least was

shorn during the night, all standing in tight shocks, rowed and hooded,

with their ends turned to the south-west.--Well might Davie exclaim, "My

sooth, but the Brownie of Bodsbeck has had a busy night!"

Davie thought no more of his five scores of ewes, nor of his prayer, nor

the miracle that was to take place in consequence of that, but turned

and ran back to Riskinhope as fast as his feet would carry him, to

arouse the rest of the people, and apprise them of this wonderful event

that had occurred beneath their noses, as he called it. He did so, and

all of them rose with wonder and astonishment, and agreed to go across

the lake and look at the Brownie's workmanship. Away they went in a body

to the edge of the stubble, but durst not set foot thereon for fear of

being affected by enchantment in some way or another; but they saw that

the corn had been shorn exactly like other corn, except that it was

rather more neat and clean than ordinary. The sheaves were bound in the

same way as other bandsters bind them; and in the shocking, the

corn-knots were all set outermost. "Weel, is not he a most unaccountable

fellow that Brownie of Bodsbeck?" said Davie Tait.

While they were thus standing in a row at the side of the shorn field,

wondering at the prowess and agility of Brownie, and trying to make some

random calculations of the thousands of cuts that he had made with his

hook that night, Katharine went by at a little distance, driving her

father's cows afield and at the same time directing her father's dog far

up the hill to turn the ewes from the Quave Brae. She was dressed in her

usual neat morning habit, with a white short-gown, green petticoat, and

her dark locks bound up with a scarlet snood; she was scolding and

cajoling the dog in a blithsome and good-humoured way, and scarcely

bestowing a look on the workmanship of her redoubted Brownie, or seeming

to regard it.

"Ay, ye may speel the brae, Keatie Laidlaw," said Davie Tait,

apostrophising her, but shaking his head all the while, and speaking in

a low voice, that his fellow-servants only might hear--"Ay, ye may speel

the brae, Keatie Laidlaw, an' drive your ewes an' your kye where ye

like; but wae's me for ye! Ye hae a weel-faurd face o' your ain, an' a

mak that's liker to an angel than a thing o' flesh an' blude; but och!

what a foul heart ye boud to hae within!--And how are ye to stand the

aftercome? There will be a black reckoning with you some day. I wadna

that my fit war i' your shoe the night for a' the ewes on the Lang

Bank."

Old Nanny went over, as usual, and assisted her to milk the cows, and

make the butter and cheese, but spoke no word that day to her young

mistress, good or bad. She regarded her with a kind of awe, and often

took a long stolen look of her, as one does of a dog that he is afraid

may be going mad.

As the people of Riskinhope went home, Dan chanced to say jocularly,

"He's a clever fellow the Brownie--I wish he would come and shear our

croft too."

"Foul fa' the tongue that said it," quoth Davie, "an' the heart that

thought the ill! Ye thinkna how easily he's forespoken. It was but last

night I said he hadna wrought to the gudeman for half his meat, an' ye

see what he has done already. I spake o' him again, and he came in

bodily. Ye should take care what ye say here, for ye little ken wha's

hearing. Ye're i' the very same predicament, billy Dan, as the tod was

in the orchard,--'Afore I war at this speed,' quo' he, 'I wad rather hae

my tail cuttit off,'--he hadna the word weel said before he stepped into

a trap, which struck, and snapt off his tail--'It's a queer place this,'

quo' he; 'ane canna speak a word but it is taen in nettle-earnest.' I'

the same way is Brownie likely to guide you; an' therefore, to prevent

him taking you at your word, we'll e'en gang an' begin the shearing

oursels."

Davie went in to seek out the hooks; he knew there were half-a-dozen

lying above the bed in the room where the spirit had been the night

before. They were gone! not a sickle was there!--Davie returned,

scratching his head, biting his lip, and looking steadily down to the

ground. "It hasna been Kirky's ghost after a'," said he; "it has been

Brownie, or some o' his gang, borrowing our hooks."

Davie lost all hope of working any great change in the country by dint

of prayer. His faith, which never was great, gave way; but yet he

always said, that when he was hasting up to the rash-bush in the little

green gair that morning, to pray for the return of his master's ewes, it

was at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed.

About eight days after that, when the moon was in the wane, the rest of

Walter's corn was all cut down in one night, and a part of the first

safely stowed in the barnyard. About the same time, too, the shepherds

began to smear their flocks at a small sheep-house and fold, built for

the purpose up nigh to the forkings of the Chapelhope-burn. It is a

custom with them to mix as much tar with grease before they begin as

they deem sufficient to smear all the sheep on the farm, or at least one

hirsell of them. This the herds of Chapelhope did; but, on the very

second morning after they began, they perceived that a good deal of

their tar was wanting; and judging that it had been stolen, they raised

a terrible affray about it with their neighbours of Riskinhope and

Corse-cleuch. Finding no marks of it, old John Hay said, "We must just

give it up, callants, for lost; there is nae doubt but some of the

fishers about Dryhope has stown it for fish-lights. There are a set of

the terriblest poachers live there that's in all the Forest."

In the afternoon John went out to the Ox-cleugh-head, to bring in a

houseful of white sheep, and to his utter astonishment saw that upwards

of an hundred ewes had been smeared during the night, by the officious

and unwearied Brownie of Bodsbeck. "The plague be in his fingers," quoth

old John to himself, "gin he haena smeared crocks an' fat sheep, an' a'

that has come in his way. This will never do."

Though the very hairs of John's head stood, on coming near to the sheep

that had been smeared by Brownie, yet seeing that his sensible dog

Keilder was nothing afraid of them, but managed them in the same way as

he did other sheep, John grew by degrees less suspicious of them. He

confessed, however, as he was shedding them from the white ones, that

there was a ewe of Brownie's smearing came running by very near him, and

he could not help giving a great jump out of her way.

All shepherds are accused of indolence, and not, perhaps, without some

reason. Though John dreaded as death all connection with Brownie, yet he

rejoiced at the progress they were likely to make in the smearing, for

it is a dirty and laborious business, and he was glad by any means to

get a share of it off his hands, especially as the season was so far

advanced. So John took in to the fold twice as many sheep as they needed

for their own smearing, put the crocks and the fat sheep out from among

them, and left them in the house to their fate, taking good care to be

out of sight of the place before dark. Next morning a certain quantity

of tar was again gone, and the sheep were all neatly smeared and keeled,

and set to the hill. This practice the shepherds continued throughout

smearing-time, and whether they housed many or few at night, they were

still all smeared and set to the hill again next morning. The smearing

of Chapelhope was finished in less than one-third of its wonted time.

Never was the labour of a farm accomplished with such expedition and

exactness, although there were none to work, to superintend, or direct

it, but one simple maiden. It became the wonder and theme of the whole

country, and has continued to be a standing winter evening tale to this

day. Where is the cottager, dwelling between the Lowthers and Cheviot,

who has not heard tell of the feats of the Brownie of Bodsbeck?

CHAPTER II.

Walter was hardly used in prison for some time, but at last Drummelzier

found means of rendering his situation more tolerable. Several of his

associates that were conducted with him from Dumfries died in jail; he

said they seemed to have been forgotten both by the council and their

friends, but they kept up so good a heart, and died with such apparent

satisfaction, that he could scarcely be sorry for their release by

death, though he acknowledged, that a happiness beyond the grave was

always the last kind of happiness that he wished to his friends. His own

trial was a fire-side theme for him as long as he lived, but he

confounded names and law terms, and all so much through other, that,

were it given wholly in his own words, it would be unintelligible. It

came on the 12th of November, and Sir George Lockhart and Mr Alexander

Hay were his counsel. His indictment bore, that he had sheltered on his

farm a set of the most notorious and irreclaimable rebels in the whole

realm; that sundry of his majesty's right honest liege subjects had been

cruelly murdered there, very near to the prisoner's house, and a worthy

curate in the immediate vicinity. It stated the immense quantity of

victuals found in his house, and the numbers of fugitive whigs that were

seen skulking in the boundaries of his farm; and also how some false

delinquents were taken and executed there.

Clavers was present, as he had a right to be when he desired it, and

gave strong and decided evidence against him. The time had been, and not

long agone, when, if the latter had manifested such sentiments against

any one, it had been sufficient for his death-warrant; but the killing

time was now nearly over, and those in power were only instituting

trials in order to impose heavy fines and penalties, that they might

glean as much of the latter vintage of that rich harvest as possible,

before the sickle was finally reft from their grasp. Several witnesses

were examined to prove the above accusations, and among the rest Daniel

Roy Macpherson, whose deposition was fair, manly, and candid. As soon as

his examination was over, he came and placed himself near to Walter, who

rejoiced to see him, and deemed that he saw in him the face of a friend.

Witnesses were next called to prove his striking Captain Bruce with his

fist, and also tripping the heels from Ingles, and tossing him over a

steep, while in the discharge of his duty, whereby he was rendered

unable to proceed in the king's business. Walter, being himself examined

on these points, confessed both, but tried to exculpate himself as well

as he could.

"As to Bruce, my masters," said he, "I didna ken that he was a captain,

or what he was; he pu'd up his bit shabble of a sword an' dang aff my

bonnet, when I was a free man i' my ain ben-end. I likit nae sic

freedoms, as I had never been used wi' them, sae I took up my neive an'

gae him a yank on the haffat till I gart his bit brass cap rattle

against the wa'. I wonder ye dinna ceete me too for nippin' Jock

Graham's neck there, as he ca'd himsel, that day, an' his freend Tam

Liviston--There's nae word o' that the day!--Nah! but I could tell an' I

likit what I hae been put to a' this plague for."

Here the advocate stopped him, by observing that he was wandering from

the point in question, and his own counsel were always trembling for him

when he began to speak for himself. Being asked, what defence he had to

offer for kicking and maltreating a king's officer in the discharge of

his duty?

"If it was that drunken dirt Ingles that ye mean," said Walter, "I dinna

ken what ye ca' a man's duty here, but it surely coudna be a duty, when

my hands war tied ahint my back, to kick me i' the wame; an' that's what

he was doing wi' a' his pith, whan I gart him flee heels-ower-head like

a batch o' skins."

Sir George MacKenzie and Dalrymple of Stair both laughed outright at

this answer, and it was some time before the business could proceed. Sir

George Lockhart, however, compelled them to relinquish these parts of

the indictment, on account of the treatment offered to the prisoner, and

the trial proceeded on the charges previously mentioned, which were

found relevant. Walter was utterly confounded at the defence made for

him by Sir George Lockhart. He was wont to say, "Aih but he's a terrible

clever body yon Geordie Lockie! od he kend mair about me, and mair that

was in my favour, than I did mysel."

The conclusion of this trial must be given in Walter's own phrase. "I

pretendit to be very crouse, an' no ae bit fear'd--aha! I was unco

fear'd for a' that--I coudna swally my spittle for the hale day, an' I

fand a kind o' foost, foost, foostin about my briskit that I coudna win

aneath ava. But when the chield MacKenzie began to clink thegither the

evidence against me, gude faith I thought it was a' ower wi' me then; I

saw nae outgate, an' lost a' hope; mair than aince I tried to think o'

auld Maron Linton an' the bairns, but I could think about naething, for

I thought the house was heaving up i' the tae side, and gaun to whommel

a' the judges an' jurymen on the tap o' me. He revertit aye to the

evidence of Clerk the curate, wha had said that I had a private

correspondence wi' the whigs, an' then he brought a' the ither proof to

bear upon that, till he made my guilt perfectly plain; an' faith I

coudna say that the chiel guessed far wrang. Then my Lord Moray, wha was

head judge that day, was just gaun to address the jurymen, an' direct

them to hang me, when up gat Geordie Lockie again for the hindmost time;

(he had as mony links an' wimples in his tail as an eel that body,) an'

he argyed some point o' law that gart them a' glowr; at last he said,

that it was hard, on a point of life an' death, to take the report of a

man that wasna present to make oath to the information he had gi'en,

which might be a slander to gain some selfish end; and he prayed, for

the satisfaction of the jury, that his client might be examined on that

point, (he ca'd me aye _a client_, a name that I abhorred, for I didna

ken the meaning o't, but I trowed it meant nae good,) for, says he, he

has answered very freely, and much to the point, a' that ye hae speered

at him. I was just considering what I should say, but I could get nought

to say ava, when I was startit wi' a loud Hem! just amaist at my elbow.

I naturally liftit up my een, very stupit like, I dare say, to see what

it was; and wha was it but the queer Highland chap Roy Macpherson,

makin' sic faces to me as ye never saw. I thought he was wanting to mak

me recollect something, but what it was I coudna tell. I was

dumfoundered sae, that when the judge put the question to me about Clerk

I never answered a word, for I was forefoughten wi' another thought. At

length I mindit the daft advice that honest Macpherson gae me at parting

with me in Dumfries, which was sic a ridiculous advice I had never

thought o't mair. But now, thinks I to mysel, things canna be muckle

waur wi' me; the scrow's come fairly to the neb o' the miresnipe now;

an' never had I better reason to be angry than at the base curate whom I

had fed an' clad sae aften. Sae I musters a' my wrath up into my face,

and when the judge, or the advocate, put the question again, I never

heedit what it was, but set up my birses an' spak to them as they had

been my herd callants. What the deil are ye a' after? quoth I. G----d

d----n the hale pack o' ye, do ye think that auld Wat Laidlaw's a whig, or

wad do aught against his king, or the laws o' his country? They ken little

about him that say sae! I aince fought twa o' the best o' them armed wi'

swords, an' wi' nought but my staff I laid them baith flat at my feet;

an' had I ony twa o' ye on the Chapelhope-flow thegither, if ye dared to

say that I was a whig, or a traitor to my king, I wad let ye find

strength o' arm for aince. Here the wily chap Geordie Lockie stappit me

in great agitation, and beggit me to keep my temper, and answer his

lordship to the point, what defence I had to make against the

information given by Clerk the curate? He be d----d! said I: he kens the

contrair o' that ower weel; but he kend he wad be master an' mair when

he gat me away frae about the town. He wantit to wheedle my wife out o'

ilk thing she had, an' to kiss my daughter too, if he could. Vile

brock! gin I war hame at him I'll dad his head to the wa'; ay, an' ony

twa o' ye forby, quo' I, raising my voice, an' shaking that neive at

them,--ony twa o' ye that dare set up your faces an' say that I'm a whig

or a rebel.--A wheen d----d rascals, that dinna ken what ye wad be at!

"The hale court was thunnerstruck, an' glowred at ane anither like

wullcats. I gae a sklent wi' my ee to Daniel Roy Macpherson, an' he was

leaned ower the back o' the seat, and fa'n into a kink o' laughing. The

hale crowd ahint us got up wi' a great hurra! an' clappit their hands,

an' I thought the fock war a' gaen mad thegither. As soon as there was a

wee quiet, my lord the Earl o' Moray he speaks across to Clavers, an' he

says: 'This winna do, my lord; that carl's nae whig, nor naething akin

to them. Gin that be nae a sound worthy man, I never saw ane, nor heard

ane speak.' An' wi' that the croud shoutit an' clappit their hands

again. I sat hinging my head then, an' looking very blate, but I was

unco massy for a' that. They then spak amang themsels for five or sax

minents, and they cried on my master Drumelzier, an' he gaed up an'

crackit wi' them too; an' at last the judge tauld me, that the

prosecution against me was drappit for the present, an' that gin I could

raise security for twa thousand merks, to appear again if cited before

the first of June, 1686, I was at liberty to go about my business. I

thankit his lordship; but thinks I to mysel, ye're a wheen queer chaps!

Ye shoot fock for praying an' reading the Bible, an' whan ane curses an'

damns ye, ye ca' him a true honest man! I wish ye be nae the deil's

bairns, the halewort o' ye! Drumelzier an' Lockie cam security for me at

aince, an' away I sets for hame, as weel satisfied as ever I was a' my

life, that I mind o'.

"Weel, when I came out to the closs at the back o' the prison, a' the

fock croudit about me; an' _he_ shook hands wi' me; an' _he_ shook

hands wi' me; an' the young chaps they hurra'd an' waved their caps, an'

cried out, Ettrick Forest for ever!--Auld Braid-Bonnet for ever,--hurra!

An' I cam up the Lawn-Market, an' down the Bow, wi' sic an army at my

tail, as I had been gaun away to fight Boddell-Brigg owre again.

"I now begoud to think it wad be as weel to gie the lads the slip, for

my army was gathering like a snaw-ba', an' I little wist how sic a

hobbleshue might end; sae I jinkit into Geordie Allan's, at the

West-Port, where I had often been afore, when selling my eild ewes and

chasers; an' I whispered to them to keep out my sodgers, for there were

too many of them for the house to haud; but they not perfectly

understanding my jest, I was not well entered ere I heard a loud

altercation at the head o' the stair, an' the very first aith that I

heard I knew it to be Macpherson."

"Py Cot's preath, put she shall pe coing in; were not she her friend and

couhnsel?"

"You his counsel? A serjeant of dragoons his counsel? That winna do. He

charged that nae sodgers should get in. Get aff wi' your Hieland

impudence--brazen-faced thief!"

"Fat? Tief? Cot t--n y' mack-en dhu na bhaish!

M'Leadle!--Trocho!--Hollo! Cresorst!"

"I ran to the door to take the enraged veteran in my arms, and welcome

him as my best friend and adviser, but they had bolted the inner door in

his face, through which he had run his sword amaist to the hilt, an' he

was tugging an' pu'ing at it to get it out again, swearing a' the time

like a true dragoon. I led him into my room, an' steekit the door o't,

but there he stood wi' his feet asperr, and his drawn sword at arm's

length ahint his back, in act to make a lounge at the door, till he had

exhausted a' his aiths, baith in Gaelic an' English, at the fock o' the

house, and then he sheathed his sword, and there was nae mair about it.

"I speered what I could do to oblige him?"

"Hu, not creat moach at hall, man; only pe kiffing me your hand. Py

Cot's poy, put if you tit not stonish tem! Vas not I peen telling you

tat him's hearty curse pe te cood?"

"My certy," quo' I, "but ye did do that, or I wad never hae thought o't;

ye're an auld-farrant honest chiel! I am sorry that I canna just now

make ye sic a present as ye deserve; but ye maun come out an' see me."

"Present! Poo, poo, poo! Teol more, take te present tat pe coing petween

friends, and she may have sharper works tan pe coing visits; put not te

more, she pe haifing small favour to seek."

"Od, man," says I, "ye hae been the mean o' preserving my life, an' ye

sanna ax a thing that I'll refuse, e'en to my ain doughter. An' by the

by, serjeant, gin ye want a good wife, an' a bonny ane, I'll gie ye sic

a tocher wi' my Keatie, as never was gi'en wi' a farmer's lassie i' the

Forest."

"Hu! Cot pe plessing you! She haif cot wife, and fery hexcellent

boddach, with two childs after him."

"What is it then, serjeant? Gin the thing be in my power, ye hae

naething ado but to say the word."

"Do you know tat her nainsell pe coosin to yourself?"

"Od, man," quo' I, "that's hardly possible, or else the taen o' us has

come o' the wrang side o' the blanket."

"Now do you just pe holding your paice for a fery less time, for you

must halways pe spaik spaiking, without knowing fat to say, unless I

were putting it into your haid. I haif tould ould Simon Glas Macrhimmon,

who knows all the pedigrees from the creation of the world, and he says

that te Lheadles are all Macphersons; for, in the days of Rory More of

Ballindalloch and Invereshie, tere was te Gordons, who would pe making

grheat prhogress on te Sassenach, and tere went down wit Strabogie of

te clan Ahnderson, and te clan Grhaham, and one Letulloch Macpherson of

Strathneshalloch, vit as bould a clan after her as any and mhore; and

they would pe toing creat might upon the Sassenach, and they would pe

killing her in tousands, and ten she cot crheat lhands out of King

Robert on te Bhorder, and Letulloch he had a whoule country to himself.

But te people could not pe putting her nhame into worts, and instead of

Letulloch tey called her _Leadlea_ and te Sassenach she called her

_Little_, so that all tese are of Macpherson, and you may pe te chief,

and te forward son of te crheat Strathneshalloch himself. Now tat I

would pe te tog, and te shame, and te tisgrhace, not to help my owhn

poor clansman and prhother out of te evil, tat would pe worse eneuch;

and te ting tat I would pe asking of you is tis, tat you will always

look upon a Macpherson as a prhother until te end of te world, and pe

standing py her as long as tere is peing one trop of plood in your whole

poty."

"Gude faith, serjeant," says I, "I never was sae happy as to find, that

the man to whom I hae been sae muckle obliged is sic a noble

disinterested chiel; an' there's my hand, I'll never gie up the cause of

a Macpherson, if he's in the right."

"Hu! Cot t--n your _right_! a clansman speak of the right! Any man will

stand py me when I am in te right, put wit a phrother I must always pe

in te right. No right or wrong tere, py Cot!--Poo, poo!"

"Od, man," quo' I, "that's a stretch o' billyhood that I was never up to

afore but sin' ye say't, may I never see the Hermon Law again gif I

winna stand by it. Come, then, we'll hae a stoup o' brandy, or a bottle

o' wine thegither, for a parting cup."

"Hu!--no, no! None of your prandies or your wines for me!--I must pe on

duty in less than an hour, and I would not pe tasting any of your tamn

prandies or wines. No, no!--Cot pless you!--And should she never pe

seeing your face again, you will pe----"

"He could say nae mair, for the muckle round tears were coming hopping

down owre his weather-beaten cheek, but he gae my hand a hard squeeze

an' a shake, an' brak out at the door; an' that was my last sight of

honest Daniel Roy Macpherson, a man that I hae met few like! I was tauld

lang after, that he fell fighting like a lion against the Campbells, at

the battle o' Killiekranky, and that, to the last day o' his life, he

spake o' his kinsman, ould MacLeadle."

CHAPTER III.

It was on the inauspicious night of All-Hallow-eve, that Walter arrived

again at his own house, after so long an absence; but some of the

farmers of Manor-Water, his acquaintances, were so overjoyed at seeing

him again, that they persuaded him to go in, taste of their cheer, and

relate his adventures and his trial to them; and so long was he detained

in this way, that it was dark before he left Dollar-Burn; yet so anxious

was he to get home to his family, and all unconscious that it was

Hallow-E'en, the great jubilee of the fairies and all the spirits of

these mountain regions, he set out on his journey homeward, across the

dreary moors of Meggat-dale. Walter found his way full well, for he knew

every brae, height, and declivity by the way, and many delightful

little dreams was he cherishing in his heart, how he would surprise

Maron an' the bairns by his arrival, and how extravagantly delighted his

excellent and generous dog Reaver would be; for he often said, "he had

mair sense about him than what was a beast's good right;" but, above

all, his mind dwelt most on his dear lassie Kate, as he called her. He

had been informed by Drummelzier of all that she had done for him, who

gave her a character so high before some friends of his who were

present, that Walter never was so proud in his life, and he longed, with

all a father's fondness, to clasp "his bit dear kind-heartit lassie"

again in his arms.

With all these delightful and exhilarating thoughts glowing in his

breast, how could that wild and darksome road, or indeed any road, be

tedious to our honest goodman? For, as to the evil spirits with whom his

beloved Keatie was in conjunction, the idea had died away like a thing

of the imagination, and he barely spent a thought upon it. He crossed

the Meggat about eleven o'clock in the night, just as the waning moon

began to peep over the hills to the south-east of the lake,--but such

scenes, and such adventures, are not worth a farthing, unless described

and related in the language of the country to which they are peculiar.

"I fand I was come again into the country o' the fairies an' the

spirits," said Walter; "an' there was nae denying o't; for when I saw

the bit crookit moon come stealing o'er the kipps o' Bowerhope-Law, an'

thraw her dead yellow light on the hills o' Meggat, I fand the very

nature an' the heart within me changed. A' the hills on the tae side o'

the loch war as dark as pitch, an' the tither side had that ill-hued

colour on't, as if they had been a' rowed in their windling sheets; an'

then the shadow o' the moon it gaed bobbing an' quivering up the loch

fornent me, like a streek o' cauld fire. In spite o' my teeth I turned

eiry, an' the mair I feucht against it I grew the eiryer, for whenever

the spirits come near ane, that kind o' feeling comes on.

"Weel, just as I was gaun round the end o' the Wedder-Law, a wee bit

aboon the head o' the Braken Wood, I sees a white thing on the road

afore me. At the first it appeared to be gaun away, but at length I saw

it coming nearer an' nearer me, keeping aye a little aboon the road till

I came amaist close to it, an' then it stood stane-still an' glowred at

me. What in the wide world can it be that is here at sic an untimely

time o' night as this? thinks I to mysel. However, I steps aye on, an'

wasna gaun to mak nor meddle wi't ava, till at last, just as I was gaun

by, it says in a soft low voice,--"Wow, friend, but ye gang late the

night!"

"Faith, no muckle later than yoursel," quo' I, "gin it be your will."

"O'er late on sic a night!" quoth the creature again; "o'er late on

Hallow E'en, an' that ye will find."

"It elyed away o'er the brow, an' I saw nae mair o't. "Lord sauf us!

quo' I to mysel, is this Hallow-E'en? I wish I war safe at hame, or in

amang Christian creatures o' ony kind!--Or had I but my fine dog Reaver

wi' me, to let me ken when the fairies are coming near me--Goodness to

the day! I may be amang the mids o' them ere ever I ken what I'm doing."

A' the stories that ever I heard about fairies in my life came linkin

into my mind ane after anither, and I almaist thought I was already on

my road to the Fairy-land, an' to be paid away to hell, like a

kane-cock, at the end o' seven years. I likit the boding o' the

apparition I had met wi' unco ill, but yet I had some hopes that I was

o'er muckle, an' o'er heavy metal for the fairies. Hout, thinks I, what

need I be sae feared? They'll never take away ane o' my size to be a

fairy--Od, I wad be the daftest-like fairy ever was seen.

"I had naething for't but to stride on as fast as I could, an' on I

comes till I comes to the bit brae at the side o' the Ox-Cleuch-Lea,

an' there I heard something fistling amang the brakens, an' making a

kind o' wheenge, wheenge, wheenging, that gart a' my heart loup to my

mouth; an' what was this but my poor dog Reaver, coming creeping on his

wame, an' sae fain to meet me again that he hardly kend what he was

doing. I took him up in my arms an' clappit him, an' said a' the kind

things to him that I could, an' O sic a wark an' fidgetting as he made!

But yet I couldna help thinking there was a kind o' doufness and

mellancholly in his looks. What ails ye, Reaver man? quo' I. I wish a'

may be weel about Chapelhope the night; but ye canna tell me that, poor

fallaw, or else ye wad. He sometimes lickit my stocking wi' his tongue,

an' sometimes my hand, but he wadna gang away afore me as he used to do,

cocking his tail sae massy like; an' I feared sair that a' wasna right

about hame, an' can hardly tell ony body how I felt,--fock's ain are aye

their ain!

"At length I came amaist close to the bit brow o' the Lang Bank that

brought me in sight o' my ain house, but when I lookit ower my shoulder

Reaver was fled. I grew fearder than ever, an' wistna what to think; an'

wi' that I sees a queer-like shapen thing standing straight on the road

afore me. Now, thinks I, this is the Brownie o' Bodsbeck; I wadna face

him for a' the warld; I maun try to gie him the slip. Sae I slides aff

the road, an' down a bit howe into the side o' the loch, thinking I wad

get up within the brae out o' sight o' him--But aha! there was he

standing straight afore me on the shore. I clamb the brae again, and sae

did he. Now, thinks I, his plan is first to pit me out o' my reason, an'

then wear me into the loch and drown me; I'll keep an open side wi' him.

Sae up the hill I scrambles wi' a' my speed, an' doun again, and up

again, five or six times; but still he keepit straight afore me. By this

time I was come by degrees very near him, an' waxed quite desperate, an

desperation made me crouse. 'In the name o' God,' cries I, 'what are ye

that winna let me by to my ain house?"

"Did you see a woman on your way?" said the creature in a deep solemn

voice.

"Yes, I did," answered I.

"Did she tell you any thing?" said the apparition again.

"No," said I.

"Then I must," said the creature. "You go no nearer to your own house

to-night."

"Say you sae?" said I; "but I'll gang to my ain house the night, though

sax like you stood atween me an' it."

"I charge you," said the thing again, "that you go not nearer to it. For

your own sake, and the sakes of those that are dearest to you, go back

the gate you came, and _go not_ to that house."

"An' pray wha may you be that's sae peremptory?" said I.

"A stranger here, but a friend to you, Laidlaw. Here you do not pass

to-night."

I never could bide to be braved a' my life. "Say you sae, friend?" quo'

I; "then let me tell ye, stand out o' my way; or be ye brownie or

fairy--be ye ghaist, or be ye deil--in the might o' Heaven, I sall gie

ye strength o' arm for aince; an' here's a cudgel that never fell in

vain."

"So saying, I took my stick by the sma' end wi' baith my hands, an'

heaving it ower my shoulder I came straight on to the apparition, for I

hardly kend what I was doing; an' my faith it had gotten a paik! but it

had mair sense than to risk it; for when it saw that I was dementit, it

e'en steppit quietly aff the road, and said, wi' a deep grane, "Ye're a

wilfu' man, Laidlaw, an' your wilfu'ness may be your undoing. Pass on

your ways, and Heaven protect your senses."

"I dredd sair I was doing wrang, but there was something in my nature

that wadna be contrair'd; sae by I went, an' lookit full at the thing as

I past. It had nouther face nor hands, nor head nor feet; but there was

it standing like a lang corn sack. L----d tak me, (as Serjeant Macpherson

said,) if I kend whether I was gaun on my feet or the crown o' my head.

"The first window that I came to was my ain, the ane o' that room where

Maron and I slept. I rappit at it wi' a rap that wont to be weel kend,

but it was barred, an' a' was darkness and vacancy within. I tried every

door and window alang the foreside o' the house, but a' wi' the same

effect. I rappit an' ca'd at them a', an' named every name that was in

the house when I left it, but there was nouther voice, nor light, nor

sound. 'Lord have a care o' me!' said I to mysel, 'what's come o' a' my

fock? Can Clavers hae been here in my absence an' taen them a' away? or

has the Brownie o' Bodsbeck eaten them up, stoop an' roop? For a' that I

hae wearied to see them, here I find my house left unto me desolate.

This is a waesome welcome hame to a father, an' a husband, an' a

master!--O Lord! O Lord! what will come o' puir auld Wat now?'

"The Auld Room was a place I never thought o' gangin to; but no kenning

what to mak o' mysel, round the west end o' the house I gaes towards the

door o' the Auld Room. I soon saw through the seam atween the shutters

that there was a light in it, an' kenning weel that there was a broken

lozen, I edged back the shutter naturally to see what was gaun on

within--May never a father's e'e again see sic a sight as mine

saw!--There was my dear, my only daughter Katharine, sitting on the bed

wi' a dead corpse on her knee, and her hands round its throat; and there

was the Brownie o' Bodsbeck, the ill-faurd, runkled, withered thing, wi'

its eildron form and grey beard, standin at the bed side hauding the

pale corpse by the hand. It had its tither hand liftit up, and was

mutter, muttering some horrid spell, while a crew o' the same kind o'

grizly beardit phantoms were standin round them. I had nae doubt but

there had been a murder committit, and that a dissection was neist to

take place; and I was sae shock'd that I was just gaun to roar out. I

tried it twice, but I had tint my voice, and could do naething but gape.

"I now fand there was a kind o' swarf coming o'er me, for it came up,

up, about my heart, an' up, up, o'er my temples, till it darkened my

een; an' I fand that if it met on the crown o' my head I was gane. Sae I

thought it good, as lang as that wee master bit was sound, to make my

escape, an' aff I ran, an' fell, an' fell, an' rase an' ran again. As

Riskinhope was the nearest house, I fled for that, where I wakened Davie

Tait out o' his bed in an unco plight. When he saw that I was a'

bedaubit wi' mire o'er head an' ears, (for I had faun a hunder times,)

it was impossible to tell wha o' us was maist frightit.

"Lord sauf us, goodman," quo' he, "are ye hangit?"

"Am I hangit, ye blockhead!" says I; "what do ye mean?"

"I m-m-mean," says Davie, "w-w-war ye ek-ek-execute?"

"Dinna be feared for an auld acquaintance, Davie," quo I, "though he

comes to you in this guise."

"Guise!" said Davie, staring and gasping for breath--"Gui-gui-guise!

Then it se-e-e-eems ye _are_ dead?"

"Gin I were dead, ye fool," quoth I, "how could I be here? Give me your

hand."

"Uh-uh-uh-uuuh!" cried Davie, as I wore him up to the nook, and took

haud o' his hand by force. "Uh, goodman, ye are flesh and blude yet! But

O ye're cauld an' ugsome!"

"Davie," quoth I, "bring me a drink, for I hae seen something o'er-bye

an' I'm hardly just mysel."

Davie ran and brought me a hale bowie-fu' milk. "Tak a gude waught,

goodman," quo' he, "an' dinna be discouraged. Ye maun lay your account

to see and hear baith, sic things as ye never saw or heard afore, gin ye

be gaun to bide here. Ye needna wonder that I thought ye war dead,--the

dead are as rife here now as the living--they gang amang us, work amang

us, an' speak to us; an' them that we ken to be half-rotten i' their

graves, come an' visit our fire-sides at the howe o' the night. There

hae been sad doings here sin ye gaed away, goodman!"

"Sad doings I fear, indeed, Davie!" says I. "Can ye tell me what's

become o' a' my family?"

"Troth can I, goodman. Your family are a' weel. Keatie's at hame her

lievahlane, an' carrying on a' the wark o' the farm as weel as there war

a hunder wi' her. Your twa sons an' auld Nanny bide here; an' the honest

gudewife hersel she's away to Gilmanscleuch. But oh, gudeman, there are

sad things gaun on o'er-bye yonder; an' mony a ane thinks it will hae a

black an' a dreadfu' end. Sit down an' thraw aff your dirty claes, an'

tell us what ye hae seen the night."

"Na, na, Davie! unless I get some explanation, the thing that I hae seen

the night maun be lockit up in this breast, an' be carried to the grave

wi' it. But, Davie, I'm unco ill; the cauld sweat is brekking on me frae

head to foot. I'm feared I gang away athegither."

"Wow, gudeman, what can be done?" quo' Davie. "Think ye we sudna tak the

beuk?"

"I was sae faintish I coudna arguy wi' the fool, an' ere ever I wist he

has my bonnet whuppit aff, and is booling at a sawm; and when that was

done, to the prayin' he fa's, an' sic nonsense I never heard prayed a'

my life. I'll be a rogue gin he wasna speakin' to his Maker as he had

been his neighbour herd; an' then he was baith fleetching an' fighting

wi' him. However, I came something to mysel again, an' Davie he thought

proper to ascribe it a' to his bit ragabash prayer."

Walter spent a restless and a troubled morning till day-light, and Davie

said, that wearied as he was, he believed he never closed his een, for

he heard him frequently turning in the bed, and moaning to himself; and

he heard him once saying, with deep sighs as if weeping,--"O my poor

Keatie Laidlaw! what is to become o' her! My poor lost, misled lassie!

Wae's my heart for her! I fear she is ruined for this world--an' for the

aftercome, I dare hardly venture to think about it!--O wae's me for my

poor luckless bairn!"

CHAPTER III.

Next morning Walter and his two sons, and old Nanny, went all over to

Chapelhope together, just as the cows came to the loan; and the farmer

was sundry times remarking by the way that "day-light had mony een!" The

truth was, that the phantoms of superstition had in a measure fled with

the shadows of the night, which they seldom fail to do. They, indeed,

remain in the bosom, hid, as it were, in embryo, ready to be embodied

again at the fall of the long shadow in the moon-light, or the evening

tale round the fading embers; but Walter at this time, perhaps, regarded

the visions of last night as dreams scarcely remembered, and less

believed, and things which in the open day he would have been ashamed

to have acknowledged.

Katharine had begun a-milking, but when she beheld her father coming

across the meadow, she left her leglen and ran home. Perhaps it was to

put his little parlour in order, for no one of the family had set foot

within that house but herself for three weeks--or perhaps she did not

choose that their meeting should be witnessed by other eyes. In short,

she had something of importance to put to rights--for home she ran with

great haste; and Walter, putting his sons to some work to detain them,

followed her all alone. He stepped into the parlour, but no one being

there, he sat down on his elbow chair, and began to look about him. In a

few seconds his daughter entered--flung herself on her father's knee and

bosom--clasped her arms about his neck--kissed him, and shed a flood of

tears on his breast. At first he felt somewhat startled at her embrace,

and his arms made a feeble and involuntary effort to press her away

from him; but she grew to him the closer, and welcomed him home with

such a burst of filial affection and tenderness, that nature in a short

time regained her empire over the father's heart; and there was to be

seen old Walter with his large hands pressing her slender waist, keeping

her at a little distance from him on his knee, and looking stedfastly in

her face, with the large tear rolling in his eye. It was such a look as

one sometimes takes of the corpse of one that was dearly beloved in

life. Well did she read this look, for she had the eye of the eagle for

discernment; but she hid her face again on his shoulder, and

endeavoured, by familiar enquiries, to wean him insensibly from his

reserve, and draw him into his wonted freedom of conversation with her.

"Ye ken o'er well," said he at length, "how deep a haud ye hae o' this

heart, Keatie. Ye're my ain bairn still, and ye hae done muckle for my

life--but"----

"Muckle for your life!" said she, interrupting him--"I have been but too

remiss. I have regretted every hour that I was not with you attending

you in prison, administering to all my father's wants, and helping to

make the time of bondage and suspense pass over more lightsomely; but

grievous circumstances have prevented me. I have had sad doings here

since you went away, my dear father--there is not a feeling that can

rack the human heart that has not been my share. But I will confess all

my errors to my father, fall at his knees, and beg his forgiveness--ay,

and I hope to receive it too."

"The sooner ye do sae the better then, Keatie," said he--"I was here

last night, an' saw a sight that was enough to turn a father's heart to

stane."

"_You were here last night!_" said she emphatically, while her eyes were

fixed on the ground--"You were here last night! Oh! what shall become of

me!"

"Ay, weel may ye say sae, poor lost and undone creature! I was here last

night, though worn back by some o' your infernals, an' saw ye in the

mids o' your dreadfu' game, wi' a' your bike o' hell round about ye. I

watna what your confession and explanation may do; but without these I

hae sworn to myself, and I'll keep my aith, that you and I shall never

night thegither again in the same house, nor the same part o' the

country--ay, though it should bring down my grey hairs wi' sorrow to the

grave, I'll keep that aith."

"I fear it will turn out a rash vow," said she, "and one that we may all

repent to the last day that we have to live. There is danger and

jeopardy in the business, and it is connected with the lives and souls

of men; therefore, before we proceed farther in it, relate to me all the

circumstances of your trial, and by what means you are liberated."

"I'll do that cheerfully," said Walter, "gin it war but to teach you

compliance."

He then went over all the circumstances of his extraordinary trial, and

the conditions on which he was discharged; and ended by requiring her

positively to give him the promised explanation.

"So you are only then out on bail," said she, "and liable to be cited

again on the same charges?"

"No more," was the reply.

"It is not then time yet for my disclosure," said she; "and no power on

earth shall wring it from me; therefore, my dear father, let me beg of

you to urge your request no farther, that I may not be under the painful

necessity of refusing you again."

"I hae tauld ye my determination, Keatie," returned he; "an' ye ken I'm

no very apt to alter. If I should bind ye in a cart wi' my ain hands, ye

shall leave Chapelhope the night, unless ye can avert that by explaining

your connections to me. An' why should ye no?--Things can never appear

waur to my mind than they are just now--If hell itself had been opened

to my e'e, an' I had seen you ane o' the inmates, I coudna hae been

mair astoundit than I was yestreen. I'll send ye to Edinburgh, an' get

ye safely put up there, for I canna brook things ony langer in this

state. I winna hae my family scattered, an' made a bye-word and an

astonishment to the hale country this gate--Outher tell me the meaning

o't, or lay your account to leave your father's house this day for

ever."

"You do not know what you ask, father--the thing is impossible. Was ever

a poor creature so hard bestead! Will not you allow me a few days to

prepare for such a departure?"

"No ae day, nor ae hour either, Kate. Ye see this is a situation o'

things that canna' be tholed ony langer."

She sat down as if in deep meditation, but she neither sobbed nor wept.

"You are only out on bail," said she, "and liable to be tried again on

the same grounds of charge?"

"Ay, nae mair," said Walter; "but what need ye harp on that? I'm safe

enough. I forgot to tell you that the judges were sae thoroughly

convinced of my loyalty and _soundness_, (as they ca'd it) that they

wadna risk me to the vote of a jury; an' that the bit security they

sought was naething but a mere sham to get honourably quit of me. I was

likewise tauld by ane that kens unco weel, that the king has gotten

ither tow to teaze than persecuting whigs ony langer, an' that there

will soon be an order put out of a very different nature. There is never

to be mair blood shed on account of the covenanted reformation in

Scotland."

When Walter began this speech, his daughter lifted up her downcast eyes,

and fixed them on his face with a look that manifested a kind of

hopeless apathy; but as he advanced, their orbs enlarged, and beamed

with a radiance as if she had been some superior intelligence. She did

not breathe--or, if she did, it stole imperceptibly from between her

parted ruby lips. "What did you say, my dear father?" said she.

"What did I say!" repeated Walter, astonished and nettled at the

question--"What the deil was i' your lugs, that ye didna hear what I

said? I'm sure I spake out. Ye are thinking o' something else, Kate."

"Be so good as repeat every word that you said over again," said she,

"and tell me whence you drew your intelligence."

Walter did so; repeating it in still stronger and more energetic

language than he had done before, mentioning at the same time how he had

his information, which could not be doubted.

"It is enough, my dear father," said she. "Say not another word about

it. I will lay open all my errors to my father this instant--come with

me, and I will show you a sight!"

As she said this, she put her arm in her father's to lead him away; but

Walter looked about him with a suspicious and startled eye, and drew

somewhat back.

"You must go instantly," continued she, "there is no time so fit; and

whatever you may see or hear, be not alarmed, but follow me, and do as I

bid you."

"Nane o' your cantrips wi' me, Kate," said Walter--"I see your drift

weel eneugh, but ye'll find yoursel disappointit. I hae lang expectit it

wad come to this; but I'm determined against it."

"Determined against what, my dear father?"

"Ye want to mak a warlock o' me, ye imp o' mischief," said Walter; "but

I hae taen up my resolution there, an' a' the temptations o' Satan sanna

shake it. Nah! Gudefaith, auld Wat o' the Chapelhope's no gaun to be led

away by the lug an' the horn to the deil that gate."

Katharine's mien had a tint of majesty in it, but it was naturally

serious. She scarcely ever laughed, and but seldom smiled; but when she

did so, the whole soul of delight beamed in it. Her face was like a dark

summer day, when the clouds are high and majestic, and the lights on the

valley mellowed into beauty. Her smile was like a fairy blink of the sun

shed through these clouds, than which, there is nothing in nature that I

know of so enlivening and beautiful. It was irresistible;--and such a

smile beamed on her benign countenance, when she heard her father's wild

suspicions expressed in such a blunt and ardent way; but it conquered

them all--he went away with her rather abashed, and without uttering

another word.

They walked arm in arm up by the side of the burn, and were soon out of

sight of Nanny and the boys. Walter was busy all the way trying to form

some conjecture what the girl meant, and what was to be the issue of

this adventure, and began to suspect that his old friends, the

Covenant-men, were some way or other connected with it; that it was

they, perhaps, who had the power of raising those spirits by which his

dwelling had been so grievously haunted, for he had heard wonderful

things of them. Still there was no coindication of circumstances in any

of the calculations that he was able to make, for his house had been

haunted by Brownie and his tribe long ere he fell in with the fugitive

Covenanters. None of them had ever given him the least hint about the

matter, or the smallest key to it, which he believed they would have

done; nor had he ever mentioned a word of his connection with them to

one of his family, or indeed to any one living. Few were the words that

past between the father and daughter in the course of that walk, but it

was not of long duration.

They soon came to the precipitate linn on the South Grain, where the

soldiers had been slain. Katharine being a little way before, began to

scramble across the face of the rock by a path that was hardly

perceptible. Walter called after her, "Where are ye gaun, Keatie? It's

impossible to win yont there--there's no outgate for a mouse."

"We will try," answered she; "it is perhaps not so bad as it

looks--Follow me--you have nothing to fear."

Walter followed; for however much he was affrighted for brownies, and

fairies, and dead corpses, and all these awful kind of things, he was no

coward among rocks and precipices. They soon reached a little dass in

the middle of the linn, or what an Englishman would call a small

landing-place. Here she paused till her father reached her, and pointed

out to him the singularity of their situation, with the burn roaring far

below their feet, and the rock fairly overhanging them above.

"Is it not a romantic and tremendous spot?" said she.

"It is that!" said Walter, "an' I believe you and I are the first that

ever stood on it."

"Well, this is the end of our journey," said she; and, turning about,

she began to pull at a bush of heath that grew between two rocks.

"What can she be gaun to do wi' the heather?" thought Walter to himself,

when instantly a door opened, and showed a cavern that led into the

hill. It was a door wattled with green heath, with the tops turned

outward so exactly, that it was impossible for any living to know but

that it was a bush of natural heath growing in the interstice. "Follow

me, my dear father," said she, "you have still nothing to fear;" and so

saying she entered swiftly in a stooping posture. Walter followed, but

his huge size precluded the possibility of his walking otherwise than on

all fours, and in that mode he fairly essayed to follow his mysterious

child; but the path winded--his daughter was quite gone--and the door

closed behind him, for it was so constructed as to fall to of itself,

and as Walter expressed it,--"There was he left gaun boring into the

hill like a moudiwort, in utter darkness." The consequence of all this

was, that Walter's courage fairly gave way, and, by an awkward

retrograde motion, he made all the haste he was able back to the light.

He stood on the shelve of the rock at the door for several minutes in

confused consternation, saying to himself, "What in the wide world is

com'd o' the wench? I believe she is gane away down into the pit bodily,

an' thought to wile me after her; or into the heart o' the hill, to some

enchantit cave, amang her brownies, an' fairies, an' hobgoblins. L----d

have a care o' me, gin ever I saw the like o' this!" Then losing

all patience, he opened the door, set in his head, and bellowed

out,--"Hollo, lassie!--What's com'd o' ye? Keatie Laidlaw--Holloa!" He

soon heard footsteps approaching, and took shelter behind the door, with

his back leaning to the rock, in case of any sudden surprise, but it was

only his daughter, who chided him gently for his timidity and want of

confidence in her, and asked how he could be frightened to go where a

silly girl, his own child, led the way? adding, that if he desired the

mystery that had so long involved her fate and behaviour to be cleared

up, he behoved to enter and follow her, or to remain in the dark for

ever. Thus admonished, Walter again screwed his courage to the

sticking-place, and entered in order to explore this mysterious cave,

following close to his daughter, who led him all the way by the collar

of the coat as he crept. The entrance was long and irregular, and in one

place very narrow, the roof being supported here and there by logs of

birch and alder. They came at length into the body of the cave, but it

was so dimly lighted from above, the vent being purposely made among

rough heath, which in part overhung and hid it from view without, that

Walter was almost in the middle of it ere ever he was aware, and still

creeping on his hands and knees. His daughter at last stopped short, on

which he lifted his eyes, and saw indistinctly the boundaries of the

cave, and a number of figures standing all around ready to receive him.

The light, as I said, entered straight from above, and striking on the

caps and bonnets which they wore on their heads, these shaded their

faces, and they appeared to our amazed goodman so many blackamoors, with

long shaggy beards and locks, and their garments as it were falling from

their bodies piece-meal. On the one side, right over against him, stood

a coffin, raised a little on two stones; and on the other side, on a

couch of rushes, lay two bodies that seemed already dead, or just in the

last stage of existence; and, at the upper end, on a kind of wicker

chair, sat another pale emaciated figure, with his feet and legs wrapt

up in flannel, a napkin about his head, and his body wrapped in an old

duffel cloak that had once belonged to Walter himself. Walter's vitals

were almost frozen up by the sight,--he uttered a hollow exclamation,

something like the beginning of a prayer, and attempted again to make

his escape, but he mistook the entrance, and groped against the dark

corner of the cavern. His daughter pulled him by the arm, intreating him

to stay, and addressing the inmates of that horrid den, she desired them

to speak to her father, and explain the circumstances of their case, for

he was still bewildered, and the scene was too much for him to bear.

"That we will do joyfully," said one, in a strong intelligent voice.

Walter turned his eyes on the speaker, and who was it but the redoubted

Brownie of Bodsbeck, so often mentioned before, in all his native

deformity; while the thing in the form of a broad bonnet that he wore on

his head, kept his features, grey locks and beard, wholly in the shade;

and, as he approached Walter, he appeared a being without any definitive

form or feature. The latter was now standing on his feet, with his back

leaned against the rock that formed the one side of the cave, and

breathing so loud, that every whiff sounded in the caverned arches like

the rush of the winter wind whistling through the crevices of the

casement.

Brownie approached him, followed by others.

"Be not alarmed, goodman," said the creature, in the same solemn and

powerful voice; "you see none here but fellow-creatures and

Christians--none who will not be happy to bestow on you their blessing,

and welcome you as a father."

He stretched forth his hand to take hold of our goodman's. It was bent

to his side as by a spasm, and at the same time a volley of breath came

forth from his capacious chest with such a rush, that it was actually

like the snort of a horse that is frightened in the dark. The Brownie,

however, laid hold of it, stiff as it was, and gave it a squeeze and a

hearty shake. "You are welcome, sir!" continued the shapeless mass, "to

our dismal habitation. May the God of Heaven particularly bless you in

your _family_ and in all your other concerns!"

The naming of this name dispelled Walter's wild apprehensions like a

charm, for though he was no devotee, yet his mind had a strong bias to

the superstitions of the country in which he was bred; therefore this

benediction, pronounced in such a tone of ardour and sublimity of

feeling, had a powerful effect on his mind. But the circumstance that

proved the most effective of all, was perhaps the sensible assurance

gained by the shaking of hands, that Brownie was really and truly a

corporeal being. Walter now held out his hand to all the rest as they

came forward one by one, and shook hands heartily with them all, while

every one of them blessed him in the name of their Maker or Redeemer.

Walter was still involved in mystery, and all this while he had never

uttered a word that any man could make meaning of; and after they had

all shook hands with him, he looked at the coffin; then at the figures

on the couch; then at the pale wretch on the wicker-seat, and then at

the coffin again.

"Let us fully understand one another," said Katharine. "Pray, Brown, be

so good as detail the circumstances of this party as shortly as you can

to my father, for, as is natural, he is still perplexed and bewildered."

"You see here before you, sir," said the little hunchbacked figure, "a

wretched remnant of that long persecuted, and now nearly annihilated

sect, the covenanted reformers of the west of Scotland. We were expelled

from our homes, and at last hunted from our native mountains like

wolves, for none of our friends durst shelter any of us on their

grounds, on pain of death. Even the rest of the persecuted disowned us,

and became our adversaries, because our tenets were more stern and

severe than theirs; for we acted on the principle of retaliation as far

as it lay in our power, holding that to be in consistency with the laws

of God and man; therefore were we expelled from their society, which

indeed we disdained.

"We first came to Bodsbeck, where we got shelter for a few weeks. It was

there that I was first supposed by the menials, who chanced to see me,

to be a Brownie, and that superstitious idea the tenant thought meet to

improve for our safety; but on the approach of Lag's people he dismissed

us. We then fled to Leithenhall, from whence in a few days we were again

compelled to fly; and at last came to this wild, the only place in the

south that soldiers had never searched, nor could search with any degree

of success. After much labour we completed this cave, throwing the stuff

into the torrent below, so that the most minute investigator could not

distinguish the smallest difference in the linn, or face of the

precipice; and here we deemed we might live for years without being

discovered; and here we determined to live, till God should see fit, in

his own good time, to send some relief to his persecuted church in these

lands.

"But alas, the worst evil of all awaited us! We subsisted for a

considerable time by bringing victuals over night from a great distance,

but even the means of obtaining these failed us; so that famine, and the

dampness of the air here, we being compelled to lie inactive in the

bowels of the earth for days and nights together, brought on us a

malignant and pestilential fever. In three days from its first symptoms

appearing, one half of our number were lying unable to move, or lift an

eye. What could we do? The remnant could not fly, and leave their sick

and wounded brethren to perish here unseen. We were unable to carry them

away with us, and if we had, we had no place to which we could have

conveyed them. We durst not apply to you, for if you had taken pity on

us, we knew it would cost you your life, and be the means of bereaving

your family of all your well-earned wealth. In this great extremity, as

a last resource, I watched an opportunity, and laid our deplorable case

before that dear maid your daughter--Forgive these tears, sir; you see

every eye around fills at mention of her name--She has been our guardian

angel--She has, under Almighty Providence, saved the lives of the whole

party before you--has supplied us with food, cordials, and medicines;

with beds, and with clothing, all from her own circumscribed resources.

For us she has braved every danger, and suffered every privation; the

dereliction of her parents, and the obloquy of the whole country. That

young man, whom you see sitting on the wicker chair there, is my only

surviving son of five--he was past hope when she found him--fast posting

to the last gaol--her unwearied care and attentions have restored him;

he is again in a state of convalescence--O may the Eternal God reward

her for what she has done to him and us!

"Only one out of all the distressed and hopeless party has perished, he

whose body lies in that coffin. He was a brave, noble, and pious youth,

and the son of a worthy gentleman. When our dear nurse and physician

found your house deserted by all but herself, she took him home to a bed

in that house, where she attended him for the last seven days of his

life with more than filial care. He expired last night at midnight, amid

our prayers and supplications to heaven in his behalf, while that dear

saint supported his head in his dying moments, and shed the tear of

affliction over his lifeless form. She made the grave-clothes from her

own scanty stock of linen--tied her best lawn napkin round the head;

and"----

Here Walter could contain himself no longer; he burst out a crying, and

sobbed like a child.

"An' has my Keatie done a' this?" cried he, in a loud broken voice--"Has

my woman done a' this, an' yet me to suspect her, an' be harsh till her?

I might hae kend her better!" continued he, taking her in his arms, and

kissing her cheek again and again. "But she sall hae ten silk gowns, an'

ten satin anes, for the bit linen she has bestowed on sic an occasion,

an' a' that she has wared on ye I'll make up to her a hunder an' fifty

fauld."

"O my dear father," said she, "you know not what I have suffered for

fear of having offended you; for I could not forget that their

principles, both civil and religious, were the opposite of yours--that

they were on the adverse side to you and my mother, as well as the

government of the country."

"Deil care what side they war on, Kate!" cried Walter, in the same

vehement voice; "ye hae taen the side o' human nature; the suffering and

the humble side, an' the side o' feeling, my woman, that bodes best in a

young unexperienced thing to tak. It is better than to do like yon bits

o' gillflirts about Edinburgh; poor shilly-shally milk-an'-water things!

Gin ye but saw how they cock up their noses at a whig, an' thraw their

bits o' gabs; an' downa bide to look at aught, or hear tell o' aught,

that isna i' the top fashion. Ye hae done very right, my good

lassie--od, I wadna gie ye for the hale o' them, an' they war a' hung in

a strap like ingans."

"Then, father, since you approve I am happy. I have no care now save for

these two poor fellows on that couch, who are yet far from being out of

danger."

"L----d sauf us!" said Walter, turning about, "I thought they had been twa

dead corpse. But now, when my een are used to the light o' the place, I

see the chaps _are_ living, an' no that unlife-like, as a body may say."

He went up to them, spoke to them kindly, took their wan bleached sinewy

hands in his, and said, he feared they were still very ill?

"Better than we have been," was the reply--"Better than we have been,

goodman. Thanks to you and yours."

"Dear father," said Katharine, "I think if they were removed down to

Chapelhope, to dry comfortable lodgings, and had more regular diet, and

better attendance, their health might soon be re-established. Now that

you deem the danger over, will you suffer me to have them carried down

there?"

"Will I no, Kate? My faith, they shall hae the twa best beds i' the

house, if Maron an' me should sleep in the barn! An' ye sal hae naething

ado but to attend them, an' nurse them late an' aire; an' I'll gar Maron

Linton attend them too, an' she'll rhame o'er bladds o' scripture to

them, an' they'll soon get aboon this bit dwam. Od, if outher gude fare

or drogs will do it, I'll hae them playin' at the pennystane wi' Davie

Tait, an' prayin' wi' him at night, in less than twa weeks."

"Goodman," said old Brown, (for this celebrated Brownie was no other

than the noted Mr John Brown, the goodman of Caldwell)--"Goodman, well

may you be proud this day, and well may you be uplifted in heart on

account of your daughter. The more I see and hear of her, the more am I

struck with admiration; and I am persuaded of this, that, let your past

life have been as it may, the Almighty will bless and prosper you on

account of that maid. The sedateness of her counsels, and the qualities

of her heart, have utterly astonished me--She has all the strength of

mind, and energy of the bravest of men, blent with all the softness,

delicacy, and tenderness of femininity--Neither danger nor distress can

overpower her mind for a moment--tenderness does it at once. If ever an

angel appeared on earth in the form of woman, it is in that of your

daughter"--

"I wish ye wad haud your tongue," said Walter, who stood hanging his

head, and sobbing aloud. The large tears were not now dropping from his

eyes--they were trickling in torrents. "I wish ye wad haud your tongue,

an' no mak me ower proud o' her. She's weel eneugh, puir woman----It's

a--It's a shame for a great muckle auld fool like me to be booin an'

greetin like a bairn this gate!--but deil tak the doer gin I can help

it!--I watna what's ta'en me the day!--She's weel eneugh, puir lassie.

I daresay I never learned her ony ill, but I little wat where she has

gotten a' the gude qualities ye brag sae muckle o', unless it hae been

frae Heaven in gude earnest; for I wat weel, she has been brought up but

in a ramstamphish hamely kind o' way wi' Maron an' me.--But come, come!

let us hae done wi' this fuffing an' blawing o' noses, an' making o' wry

faces. Row the twa puir sick lads weel up, an' bring them down in the

bed-claes to my house. An' d'ye hear, callants--gudesake get your beards

clippit or shaven a wee, an' be something warld like, an' come a' down

to Chapelhope; I'll kill the best wedder on the Hermon-Law, an' we shall

a' dine heartily thegither for aince; I'll get ower Davie Tait to say

the grace, an' we'll be as merry as the times will allow."

They accepted the invitation, with many expressions of gratitude and

thankfulness, and the rays of hope once more enlightened the dejected

countenances that had so long been overshadowed with the gloom of

despair.

"But there's ae thing, callants," said Walter, "that has astonished me,

an' I canna help speering. Where got ye the coffin sae readily for the

man that died last night?"

"That coffin," said Brown, "was brought here one night by the friends of

one of the men whom Clavers caused to be shot on the other side of the

ridge there, which you saw. The bodies were buried ere they came; it

grew day on them, and they left it; so, for the sake of concealment, we

brought it into our cave. It has been useful to us; for when the

wretched tinker fell down among us from that gap, while we were at

evening worship, we pinioned him in the dark, and carried him in that

chest to your door, thinking he had belonged to your family. That led to

a bloody business, of which you shall hear anon. And in that coffin,

too, we carried off your ungrateful curate so far on his journey,

disgraced for ever, to come no more within twenty miles of Chapelhope,

on pain of a dreadful death in twenty-four hours thereafter; and I

stand warrandice that he shall keep his distance. In it we have now

deposited the body of a beloved and virtuous friend, who always foretold

this, from its first arrival in our cell.--But he rejoiced in the

prospect of his dissolution, and died as he had lived, a faithful and

true witness; and his memory shall long be revered by all the just and

the good."

CHAPTER V.

I hate long explanations, therefore this chapter shall be very short;

there are, however, some parts of the foregoing tale, which require that

a few words should be subjoined in elucidation of them.

This John Brown was a strenuous and desperate reformer. He was the son

of a gentleman by a second marriage, and half-brother to the Laird of

Caldwells. He was at the battle of Pentland, with five brave sons at his

back, two of whom were slain in the action, and he himself wounded. He

was again at Bothwell Bridge with the remaining three, where he was a

principal mover of the unhappy commotions in the army that day, owing to

his violent irreclaimable principles of retaliation. A little before

the rout became general, he was wounded by a musket bullet, which grazed

across his back, and deprived him of all power. A dragoon coming up, and

seeing him alive, struck him again across the back with his sword, which

severed the tendons, and cut him to the bone. His sons had seen him

fall, and, knowing the spot precisely, they returned overnight, and

finding him still alive, they conveyed him to a place of safety, and

afterwards to Glasgow, where he remained concealed in a garret in a

friend's house for some months; and, after great sufferings in body and

mind, recovered of his wounds; but, for want of surgical assistance, he

was so crooked and bowed down, that his nearest friends could not know

him; for in his youth, though short in stature, he was strong and

athletic. At length he reached his own home, but found it ransacked and

desolate, and learned that his wife was carried to prison, he knew not

whether. His powerful eloquence, and wild Cameronian principles, made

him much dreaded by the other party; a high reward was offered for

apprehending him, so that he was driven to great straits, yet never

failed to wreak his vengeance on all of the persecuting party that fell

within his power, and he had still a number of adherents.

At length there was one shot in the fields near Kirkconnel that was

taken for him, and the promised reward actually paid; on which the

particular search after him subsided. His two youngest sons both died

for the same cause with the former, but James, his third son, always

kept by his father, until taken prisoner by Clavers as he was fishing

one day in Coulter Water. Clavers ordered him to be instantly shot, but

the Laird of Coulteralloes being present, interceded for him, and he was

detained a prisoner, carried about from place to place, and at length

confined in the gaol at Selkirk. By the assistance of his father and

friends he effected his escape, but not before being grievously wounded;

and, by reason of the hurts he received, and the fever that attacked

them in the cave, when Katharine was first introduced there, he was

lying past hope; but, by her unwearied care and attention, he, with

others, was so far recovered as to be able to sit up, and walk about a

little. He was poor Nanny's own son; and this John was her husband, whom

she had long deemed in another and a happier state--No wonder that she

was shocked and affrighted when she saw him again in such a form at

midnight, and heard him speak in his own natural and peculiar voice.

Their meeting that day at Chapelhope must be left to the imagination; it

is impossible for any pen to do it justice.

It is only necessary to add, that Walter seems to have been as much

respected and beloved by his acquaintances and domestics, at least as

any neighbour or master of the present day, as will appear from the few

following remarks. The old session-clerk and precentor at Ettrick said,

"It was the luckiest thing that could have happened that he had come

home again, for the poor's ladle had been found to be a pund Scots short

every Sunday since he and his family had left church." And fat Sandy

Cunningham, the conforming clergyman there, a very honest inoffensive

man, remarked, "that he was very glad to hear the news, for the goodman

always gave the best dinners at the visitations and examinations of any

farmer in his parish; and one always felt so comfortable in his house."

Davie Tait said, that "Divine Providence had just been like a stell dike

to the goodman. It had bieldit him frae the bitter storm o' the

adversary's wrath, an' keepit a' the thunner-bolts o' the wicked frae

brikking on his head; that, for his part, he wad sit down on his knees

an' thank Heaven, Sunday and Saturday, for his return, for he could

easily lend his master as muckle siller as wad stock a' Riskinhope ower

again, an' there was little doubt but he wad do it." Even old John of

the Muchrah remarked, "that it was just as weel that his master was

come back, for he had an unco gude e'e amang the sheep when ought was

gaun wrang on the hill, an' the ewes wadna win nae mair into the hogg

fence o' the Quave Brae, i' the day time at ony rate."

If there are any incidents in this Tale that may still appear a little

mysterious, they will all be rendered obvious by turning to a pamphlet,

entitled, A CAMERONIAN'S TALE, or _The Life of John Brown, written by

himself_. But any reader of common ingenuity may very easily solve them

all.

END OF THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK.

THE WOOL-GATHERER.

MODERN.

Love is a passion so capricious, so violent, and so productive of

whimsical expedients, that there is no end of its varieties. Dramas may

be founded, plots arranged, and novels written on the subject, yet the

simple truth itself generally outlasts them all. The following story,

which relates to an amiable family still existing, is so like a romance,

that perhaps the word of a narrator is insufficient to stamp it with

that veracity to which it is entitled. The principal incidents, however,

are set down precisely as they were related to me; only I have deemed it

meet to change the designations of the individuals, so far that they

cannot be recognised by any one not previously acquainted with the

circumstances.

The late Laird of Earlhall dying in the fiftieth year of his age, as his

grave-stone intimates, left behind him a widow, and two sons both in

their minority. The eldest was of a dashing impatient character--he had

a kind and affectionate heart, but his actions were not always tempered

with prudence. He entered at an early age into the army, and fell in the

Peninsular War when scarcely twenty-two years of age. The estate thus

devolved wholly on the youngest, whose name for the present shall be

Lindsey, that being his second Christian name, and the one by which his

mother generally called him. He had been intended for the law, but on

his brother's death gave up the study as too laborious for his easy and

careless disposition. He was attached to literature; and after his

return home his principal employment consisted in poring over his books,

and managing a little flower-garden in which he took great delight. He

was studious, absent, and sensible, but paid little attention to his

estate, or the extensive farm which he himself occupied.

The old lady, who was a stirring, talkative, industrious dame,

entertained him constantly with long lectures on the ill effects of

idleness. She called it the _blight_ of youth, the _grub_ of virtue, and

the _mildew_ of happiness; and sometimes, when roused into energy, she

said it was _the devil's langsettle_ on which he plotted all his devices

against human weal. Lindsey bore all with great patience, but still

continued his easy and indolent way.

The summer advanced--the weather became peculiarly fine--labourers were

busy in every field, and the shepherd's voice, and the bleating of his

flocks, sounded from the adjacent mountains by break of day. This lively

and rousing scene gave a new edge to the old lady's remonstrances; they

came upon poor Lindsey thicker and faster, like the continued dropping

of a rainy day, until he was obliged in some degree to yield. He tried

to reason the matter with her, in somewhat near to the following words;

but there, lawyer as he was, he had no chance. He was fairly overcome.

"My dear mother," said he, "what does all this signify?--Or what is it

that I can effect by my superintendance? Our farmers are all doing well,

and pay their rents regularly; and as for our farm-servants, they have

each of them filled the same situation so long and so creditably, that I

feel quite awkward when standing looking over them,--it looks as if I

suspected their integrity, which has been so often proved. Besides, it

is a leading maxim with me, that if a man, and more particularly a

woman, know or believe that trust is reposed in them, they will, in ten

out of eleven instances, deserve it; but if once they see that they are

suspected, the feeling towards you is changed, and they will in a little

time as likely deserve the one as the other. Our wealth is annually

increasing, at least as fast as necessary, and it is my principal wish,

that every one under us may be as easy and comfortable as possible."

This was true, for the old lady being parsimonious in the extreme, their

riches had increased rapidly since the death of the late laird. As for

Lindsey, he never spent any thing, save some trifle that he laid out

yearly in payment of Reviews, and new books, and in relieving some poor

families in the neighbourhood. The article of dress he left entirely to

his mother: Whatever she bought or made for him he approved of, and

whatever clothes or linen she laid down in his chamber, he put on

without any observations. He acted upon the same principle with regard

to his meals, but he sometimes was obliged to insist on a little

addition being made to the comforts of the family servants, all of whom

loved him as a friend and benefactor. He could at any time have swayed

his mother so far as to make her a little more liberal towards the

men-servants, but with regard to the maids he had no such power. She and

they lived at constant variance,--an irreconcileable jealousy seemed

always to subsist between them, and woe to them if the young laird

interested himself in their favour! Matters being in this state, he was

obliged to witness this mutual animosity; this tyranny on the one hand,

and discontent on the other, without having the power to amend it.

"But then, my dear Lindsey," returned she to his former remonstrance,

"making allowance for a' that you say--allowing that your weel-spoken

arguments are a' foundit in truth, for laith wad you be to say an

untruth, an' I never heard an argument that wasna sound come out o' your

mouth,--but then I say, what's to hinder you to gang a fishing like

other gentlemen, or shooting moor-cocks, an' paetricks, an' black-cocks,

as a' ither countrymen o' your age an' station do? Some manly exercise

in the field is absolutely necessary to keep your form robust, your

colour fresh, and your mind active; an', indeed, you maunna be

discontentit, nor displeased, if I insist on it, while the weather is so

fine."

"With regard to fowling, my dear mother, I am perfectly ignorant; I know

nothing about the sport, and I never can delight in it, for often has it

given me pain to see others pursuing it. I think the pleasure arising

from it can scarcely originate in any thing else than a principle of

cruelty. Fishing is little better. I never regret the killing of an ox,

or sheep, by which we have so much necessary food for our life, but I

think it hard to take a precious life for a single mouthful."

"His presence be about us! Lindsey! what's that ye say? Wha heard ever

tell of a trout's precious life? Or a salmon's precious life? Or a ged's

precious life? Wow, man, but sma' things are precious i' your een! Or

wha can feel for a trout? A cauldrife creature that has nae feeling

itsel; a greedy grampus of a thing, that worries its ain kind, an' eats

them whenever it can get a chance. Na, na, Lindsey, let me hear nae mair

o' sickan lang-nebbit fine-spun arguments; but do take your father's

rod, like a man, and a gentleman, and gang a fishing, if it were but an

hour in the day; there are as many hooks and lines in the house as will

serve you for seven years to come; an' it is weel kend how plenty the

trouts are in your ain water. I hae seen the day when we never wanted

plenty o' them at this time o' the year."

"Well, well," said Lindsey, taking up a book, "I shall go to please you,

but I would rather be at home."

She rung the bell, and ordered in old John the barnman, one well skilled

in the art of angling. "John," said she, "put your master's fishing-rod

and tackle in order, he is going a fishing at noon."

John shrugged up his shoulders when he heard of his master's intent, as

much as to say, "sic a fisher as he'll mak!" however, he went away in

silence, and the order was quickly obeyed.

Thus equipt, away trudged Lindsay to the fishing for the first time in

his life; slowly and indifferently he went, and began at the first pool

he came to. John offered to accompany him, to which he assented, but

this the old lady resisted, and bid him go to his work; he, however,

watched his master's motions slyly for some time, and on joining his

fellow labourers remarked, that "his master was a real saft hand at the

fishing."

An experienced angler certainly would have been highly amused at his

procedure. He pulled out the line, and threw it in again so fast, that

he appeared more like one threshing corn than angling; he, moreover,

fixed always upon the smoothest parts of the stream, where no trout in

his right senses could possibly be inveigled. But the far greater part

of his employment consisted in loosening the hook from different objects

with which it chanced to come in contact. At one time he was to be seen

stooping to the arm-pits in the middle of the water, disengaging it from

some officious twig that had intercepted its progress; at another time

on the top of a tree tearing off a branch on which it had laid hold. A

countryman happening to pass by just as he stood stripped to the shirt

cutting it out of his clothes, in which it had fastened behind,

observed, by way of friendly remark, that "they were fashous things them

hooks." Lindsey answered, that "they certainly had a singular knack of

catching hold of things."

He went through all this without being in the least disconcerted, or

showing any impatience; and towards dinner-time, the trouts being

abundant, and John having put on a fly that answered the weather, he

caught some excellent fish, and might have caught many more had he been

diligent; but every trout that he brought ashore took him a long time to

contemplate. He surveyed his eye, his mouth, and the structure of his

gills with tedious curiosity; then again laid him down, and fixed his

eyes on him in deep and serious meditation.

The next day he needed somewhat less persuasion from his mother to try

the same amusement; still it was solely to please her that he went, for

about the sport itself he was quite careless. Away he set the second

day, and prudently determined to go farther up the water, as he supposed

that part to be completely emptied of fish where he had been the day

before. He sauntered on in his usual thoughtful and indifferent mood,

sometimes throwing in his line without any manner of success. At length,

on going over an abrupt ridge, he came to a clear pool where the farmers

had lately been washing their flocks, and by the side of it a most

interesting female, apparently not exceeding seventeen years of age,

gathering the small flakes of wool in her apron that had fallen from the

sheep in washing; while, at the same time, a beautiful well-dressed

child, about two years old, was playing on the grass. Lindsey was close

beside her before any of them were aware, and it is hard to say which of

the two were most surprised. She blushed like scarlet, but pretended to

gather on, as if wishing he would pass without taking any notice of

them; but Lindsey was rivetted to the spot; he had never in his life

seen any woman half so beautiful, and at the same time her array

accorded with the business in which she was engaged. Her form was the

finest symmetry; her dark hair was tucked up behind with a comb, and

hung waving in ringlets over her cheeks and brow, "like shadows on the

mountain snow;" and there was an elegance in the model of her features,

arms, and hands, that the youth believed he had never before seen

equalled in any lady, far less a country girl.

"What are you going to do with that wretched stuff, lassie?" said

Lindsey; "it has been trampled among the clay and sand, and is unfit for

any human use."

"It will easily clean again, sir," said she, in a frank and cheerful

voice, "and then it will be as good as ever."

"It looks very ill; I am positive it is for no manner of use."

"It is certainly, as you say, not of great value, sir; but if it is of

any, I may as well lift it as let it lie and rot here."

"Certainly, there can be no harm in it; only I am sorry to see such a

girl at such an employment."

"It is better doing this than nothing," was the reply.

The child now rolled himself over to get his face turned towards them;

and, fixing his large blue eyes on Lindsey, looked at him with the

utmost seriousness. The latter observing a striking likeness between the

girl and the child, had no doubt that she was his sister; and, unwilling

to drop the conversation, he added, abruptly enough, "Has your mother

sent you to gather that stuff?"

"I have neither father nor mother, sir."

"But one who supplies both their places, I hope. You have a husband,

have not you?"

"Not as yet, sir; but there is no time lost."

She blushed; but Lindsey coloured ten times deeper when he cast his eyes

upon the child. His heart died within him at the thoughts that now

obtruded themselves; it was likewise wrung for his imprudence and

indelicacy. What was his business whether she was married or not, or how

she was connected with the child? She seemed likewise to be put into

some confusion at the turn the conversation was taking; and, anxious to

bring it to a conclusion as soon as possible, she tucked up the wool in

her apron below one arm, and was lifting up the child with the other to

go away, when Lindsey stepped forward, saying, "Will not you shake hands

with me, my good little fellow, before you go?"

"Ay," said the child, stretching out his little chubby hand; "how d'ye

doo, sil?"

Lindsay smiled, shook his hand heartily, and put a crown piece into it.

"Ah, sir, don't give him that," said she, blushing deeply.

"It is only a play-thing that he must keep for my sake."

"Thank you, sil," said the child. "Great muckle shilling, mamma."

This last appellation, _mamma_, struck Lindsey motionless;--he had not

another word to say;--while the two went away prattling to one another.

"Vely lalge fine-looking shilling, mamma."

"Ay, it is a very bonny shilling, dear," said she, kissing him, and

casting a parting look at the petrified fisher.

"Mamma, mamma!" repeated Lindsey to himself an hundred times, trying it

with every modulation of his voice. "This is the most extraordinary

circumstance I ever witnessed. Now, who in the world can comprehend that

thing called woman?--Who would not have sworn that that rural beauty

there was the most pure, innocent, and untainted of her sex?--And yet,

behold! she has a fine boy running at her side, and calling her

_mamma_!--Poor girl, is she not to be pitied?--When one thinks how some

tender parent might rejoice over her, anticipating so much better things

of her! It is plain she has been very indifferently used by the

world--most cruelly used--and is she the less interesting on that

account? I wish I knew how to make her some amends."

Thus reasoned our moral fisher with himself, keeping all the while a

sidelong glance towards her, till he saw her enter a little neat

white-washed cottage not far from the side of the stream; there were

sundry other houses inhabited by cottagers in the hamlet, and the

farm-house stood at the head of the cluster. The ground belonged to

Lindsey, and the farmer was a quiet sober man, a widower, with a large

family. Lindsey now went up the water a-fishing every day; and though he

often hovered a considerable while at the washing-pool, and about the

crook opposite to the cot, pretending all the while to be extremely busy

fishing, he could never get another sight of the lovely Wool-gatherer,

though he desired it above all present earthly things; for, some way

or other, he felt that he _pitied_ her exceedingly; and though he

was not greatly _interested_ in her, yet he was very much so in the

_child_--he was _certain it was the child_ that interested him so

much--nevertheless, he was sorry too on account of the mother, for she

seemed _very gentle_, and _very amiable_, and must have been abominably

used; and therefore he could not help feeling _very sorry for her

indeed_, as well as deeply _interested in the child_. On the second and

third day that he went up, little George came out paddling to meet him

at the water side, on which he always sent him in again with a fish in

one hand, and some little present in the other; but after that, he

appeared no more, which Lindsey easily perceived to originate in the

Wool-gatherer's diffidence and modesty, who could not bear the idea of

her little man receiving such gifts.

The same course was continued for many days, and always with the same

success, as far as regarded the principal motive, for the trouts were

only a secondary one--the beauteous Wool-gatherer was thenceforward

invisible. After three weeks perseverance, it chanced to come on a heavy

rain one day when he was but a little way above the farm-house. Robin

the farmer, expecting that he would fly into his house until the shower

abated, was standing without his own door to receive him; but he kept

aloof, passed by, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cottage;

though not without some scruples of conscience as to the prudence of the

step he was taking. When he went in she was singing a melodious Scotch

air, and plying at her wheel. "What a thoughtless creature she must be,"

said he to himself; "and how little conscious of the state to which she

has fallen." He desired her to go on with her song, but she quitted both

that and her wheel instantly, set a chair for him, and sitting down on a

low form herself, lighted sticks on the fire to warm and dry him, at the

same time speaking and looking with the utmost cheerfulness, and

behaving with all that ease and respect as if she had been his equal,

and an old intimate acquaintance. He had a heart of the greatest

integrity, and this was the very manner that delighted him; and indeed

he felt that he was delighted in the highest degree by this fair

mystery. He would gladly have learned her story, but durst not hint at

such a thing for fear of giving her pain, and he had too much delicacy

to enquire after her at any other person, or even to mention her name.

He observed that though there was but little furniture in the house, yet

it was not in the least degree like any other he had ever seen in such a

cottage, and seemed very lately to have occupied a more respectable

situation. Little George was mounching at a lump of dry bread, making

very slow progress. He kept his eyes fixed on his benefactor, but said

nothing for a considerable time, till at length he observed him sitting

silent as in pleasing contemplation; he then came forward with a bounce

upon his knee, and smiled up in his face, as much as to say, "You are

not minding little George?"

"Ah, my dear little fellow, are you there? Will you have a muckle

shilling of me to-day?"

"Na, na; be vely solly. Mamma quite angly. She scold me."

"Well, but since you have never come to help me to catch the fish for so

long a time, I will only give you a very little one to-day."

"Dear sir, if you would not distress me, don't mind him; he is a little

impudent fellow.--Go off from the gentleman, George."

George clapped both his hands upon his head, and went back without

hesitation, gloomed at his mamma, and took again up his luncheon of dry

bread.

"Nay, pardon me," continued Lindsey; "but you must always suffer me to

give my little new acquaintance something." So saying, he put a guinea

into the child's hand.

"Hank you, sil," said George,--"O no be angy, mamma--only ittle wee

half-penny--ook ye, mamma."

"Oh sir," said she, "you distress me by these presents. I have no need

of money, and what can he do with it but throw it away?"

"Nay, nay; pray don't notice it; that is nothing between two friends

like George and me."

Lindsey dried himself; talked of indifferent matters, and then took the

child on his knee and talked to him. The conversation had as yet been as

free and unrestrained as possible, but Lindsey, by a blunder quite

natural to a studious and absent man, cut it short at once. "Tell me

your name, good lad?" said he to the child. "Let me hear you say your

name?"

"Geoge," was the reply.

"But what more than George? Tell me what they call you more than

George?"

"Just Geoge, sil. Mamma's Geoge."

"Pray, what is my young friend's surname?" said Lindsey, with the

greatest simplicity.

The Wool-gatherer stooped to the floor as if lifting something, in order

that she might keep her face out of the light; two or three times an

answer seemed trembling on her tongue, but none came. There was a dead

silence in the cot, which none had the courage to break. How our

unfortunate fisher's heart smote him! He meant only to confer happiness,

in place of which he had given unnecessary pain and confusion. The

shower was past; he arose abruptly, said, "Goodb'ye, I will call and see

my little George to-morrow," and home he went, more perplexed than ever,

and not overmuch pleased with himself. But the thing that astonished

him most of all was, the chearful serenity of her countenance and

manners under such grievous misfortunes. He did not know whether to

blame or approve of her for this; however, he continued to go up the

water for the most part every day, and seldom failed to call at the cot.

He meant no ill--he was certain he meant no harm to any one--it was only

to _see the child_ that he went, and why should any man be ashamed to go

and see a child? Very well reasoned, gentle fisher! but beware that this

is not the reverse of what you feel within. At all events, it is the

world that must judge of your actions and mine, not we ourselves.

Scandal is a busy vixen, and none can make fame fly so fast on an errand

as she.

Robin, the farmer, was hurt in the tenderest part that day when his

laird went by his door, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cot;

and, on going in, he mentioned it in such a way, that his old maiden

sister, Meg, took note of it, and circulated it among the men-servants,

with strong injunctions of secrecy. The continuation of his visits

confirmed their worst suspicions: It was now no longer a matter of doubt

with them what was going on, but an obvious certainty. The shameful and

sudden attachment was blabbed from tongue to tongue, until every ear in

the parish had drunk the delicious draught, save those of the parties

implicated, and the old lady, the original cause of all. When he was

seen go into the cot, an event that was strictly watched, the lasses

would smile to each other,--the plowmen broke jests upon it,--and Meg

would hold up both her hands and say,--"Hech wow, sirs! I wonder what

our young gentles will turn to by an' by. It winna be lang till marriage

be out o' the fashion a' thegither, an' the fock that pretend to be

Christians a' living through other like the wild Tartarers."

Little wist the old lady of what was going on! She dreamed not once of a

beautiful stranger among the cottagers at Todburn (the name of Robin's

farm), that was working such deray, else woe would have been to her and

all concerned; for there was nothing short of the sin not to be

forgiven, that she dreaded so much as her son forming any attachment or

connection with the country maidens. She had been congratulating herself

mightily on the success of her expedient, in making him take such

delight in a manly and healthful exercise, and one which led him

insensibly to be acquainted with his people, and every part of his

estate. She had even been boasting aloud of it to every one with whom

she conversed; indeed her conversation with others was mostly about her

son, for he being her only surviving child, she loved him with her whole

heart, and her cares were all for him.

It happened one day that a little pert girl had come down from one of

the cottages at Todburn to buy some milk, which the lady supplied to

them from her dairy, and while skimming and measuring it, she fell into

conversation with this little sly and provoking imp.

"Did you see my son fishing in the water as you came down?"

"Na, na, mim; he was safe landit or I came away. He was fishing wi'

Hoy's net."

"Safe landit? Fishing wi' Hoy's net?--How do you mean?"

"He was gane in to tak a rest, mim,--that's a'."

"Oh, that was a'--was it? I'm glad to hear o' that. I never knew he had

called upon his tenants, or looked after them at all!"

"I trow he disna look muckle after them, mim. He's keener o' lookin'

after something else."

"Oh ay, the trouts! To be sure they hae almaist gane between him an' his

wits for some time; but he'll aye be seeing something o' his land, an'

something o' his fock. It was I that perswaded him to it. There are some

lucky hits in life."

"Ay, an' some lucky misses too, mim, that some think he likes as weel."

"He's sae tender-hearted, I believe he may be as happy oft to miss the

fish as to hit them; but that will soon wear away, as I tell him. He's

tender-hearted to a fault."

"An' there's mae tender-heartit nor him. There's some other kind o'

misses forbye trouts up the water."

"What is it you say?"

"I'll say nae mair about it--ane may very easily speak muckle nonsense."

"Didna ye say that my son was gane into Robin's house afore ye came

away?"

"I never said sic a word, begging your pardon, mim. He wadna gang into

Robin's, though it war raining auld wives and Jeddart staves."

"What house was he gone into then?"

"Into Jeany's, mim."

"Jeany's! What Jeany?"

"I dinna ken what they ca' her mair than Jeany. Little George's mother,

ye ken, that lives at the head o' the Washing-green."

"Jeany!--Little George's mother!--That lives at the head o' the

Washing-green!--Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?"

"Na, na, mim--nae husband."

The lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever--hasted out to

the air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without

being able to accomplish any thing, for her hands trembled like the

aspin leaf; and, finally, after ordering the girl to send Robin down to

her immediately, she took to her bed, and lay brooding over the great

calamity of her son's shameful attachment. These low-bred women were her

bane; especially if they were beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if

she could, would have cleared the country of them. This, therefore, was

a great trial; and before Robin arrived, she had made out to herself a

picture of as many disagreeable objects as ever a distempered

imagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected wife, the head of

a lovely family, a disgraceful connection, and an illegitimate

offspring! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train! She could think of

nothing else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the

consequences appear. Before her messenger _reached_ Robin, she had

regularly determined on the young woman's dismissal from the estate,

and, if possible, from the district.

We shall pass over a long conversation that took place between the old

dame and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand,

and servility on the other; but the final resolution was, that Jane

should be ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next

morning; and if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with

any moderate sum of money, rather than that she should be suffered to

remain longer; for the lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead

astray all the young men in the country side, and would likely, at the

long run, cost the parish more than if it were to maintain a company of

soldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that their proceedings should be

kept a profound secret from Lindsey.

Robin went home; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for

her immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she

could not be longer there; and that he would be answerable for her

furniture until she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it; that she

needed not to ask any questions as to his motives, for that he was

obliged to do as he did, and the thing was decided that she was not to

remain longer there.

She answered not a word; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a

half-smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking

that below her arm and little George on her back, she went away, having

first locked the door and given the key to the farmer. "Farewell,

Robin," said she; "you are turning two very helpless and friendless

creatures out to the open fields; but think you, you may not rue this on

a day when you cannot help it?"

Robin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and

therefore made no defence, but said simply, "Farewell! Farewell!--God

help thee, poor thing!"--He then kept an eye on her, that she might not

communicate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of

the Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that

direction.

As soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a

retired spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down

and gave free vent to her tears. "My poor child," said she, clasping

little George to her breast, "what is now to become of us, and where

will our sorrows terminate? Here we are turned out on the wide world,

and have neither house nor home to cover our heads; we have no bed now,

George, but the cold earth, and no covering but that sky that you see

over us."

"O no geet, mamma--no geet; Geoge vely wae," said the child, clasping

her neck in return, and sobbing aloud; "no geet, else Geoge tuln bad

child, and geet too."

"No, for your sake, my dear, I will not greet; therefore cheer up thy

little kind heart, for there is One who will provide for us still, and

will not suffer two helpless inexperienced beings like you and I to

perish."

"Geoge like 'at man."

"It is no man that we must now depend on, my dear; we must depend on

God, who will never forsake us."

"Geoge like God."

Here she kissed him and wept anew, yet was all the while trying to

console him. "Let us be of good cheer, George; while I have health I

will work for you, for you have no one else on earth that cares for

you."

"But no geet, mamma, I tell you; Geoge wulk too. When Geoge tuln geat

big man, Geoge wulk mole 'an two mans."

Here their tender prattle was interrupted by a youth named Barnaby, who

was close at their side before they observed him. He was one of Robin's

servants, who herded a few young sheep at the back of the hill where

Jane was sitting. He was fifteen years of age, tall and thin, but had

fine features, somewhat pitted with the small-pox. He had an

inexhaustible fund of good-humour and drollery, and playing the fool

among the rest of the servants to keep them laughing was his chiefest

delight; but his folly was all affected, and the better part of his

character lay concealed behind the screen of a fantastic exterior. He

never mended his clothes like the rest of the servant lads, but suffered

them to fall into as many holes as they inclined; when any expostulated

with him on the subject, he said, "he likit them nae the waur o' twa or

three holes to let in the air;" and, in truth, he was as ragged a youth

as one would see in a summer day. His hat was remarkably broad-brimmed

and supple, and hung so far over his eyes, that, when he looked any

person in the face, he had to take the same position as if looking at a

vertical star. This induced him often, when he wanted to see fairly

about him, to fold in the fore part of the brim within the crown, which

gave it the appearance of half a hat, and in this way was he equipped

when he joined Jane and little George. They had been intimately

acquainted from the first; he had done many little kind offices for her,

and had the sagacity to discover that there was something about her

greatly superior to the other girls about the hamlet; and he had never

used the same freedom with her in his frolics that he was wont to do

with them.

"What ails you, Jeany?" said he; "I thought I heard you greeting."

"No, no, Barnaby; I do not ail any thing; I was not crying."

"Why, woman, you're _crying_ yet, as you call it; tell me what ails you,

and whar ye're gaun this wild gate?"

"I'm going to leave you, Barnaby. I am going far from this."

"I fear ye're gaun awa frae us a'thegether. Hae ye been obliged to leave

your ain wee house for want o' meat?"

"I had plenty of meat; but your master has turned me out of my cot at an

hour's warning; he would not even suffer me to remain overnight, and I

know of no place to which I can go."

"O, deil be i' the auld hard-heartit loon! Heard ever ony body the like

o' that?--What ailed him at ye? Hae ye done ony thing, Jeany, or said

ony thing wrang?"

"It is that which distresses me. I have not been given to know my

offence, and I can form no conjecture of it."

"If I had a hame, Jeany, ye should hae a share o't. I dinna ken o' ane I

wad make mair welcome, even though I should seek a bed for mysel. War ye

at my father's cottage, I could insure you a month's good hamely

lodging, but it is far away, an' a wild road till't. I hae indeed an

auld aunt about twa miles frae this, but she's no muckle to lippen to,

unless it come frae her ain side o' the house; an' then she's a' hinny

and joe. If ye like I'll gang that length wi' ye, an' try if she'll put

ye up a while till we see how matters turn."

Jane was now so much confused in her mind, that, not being able to form

any better measure for the present, she arose and followed her ragged

conductor, and they arrived at his aunt's house before sun-set.

"My dear aunt," said Barnaby, "here is a very good an' a very helpless

lassie turned away frae her hame this same day, and has nae place to

gang to; if ye'll be sae good, an' sae kind, as to let her stay a while

wi' you, I will do ten times as muckle for you again some ither day."

"My faith, stirra!" said she, setting up a face like a fire-brand, and

putting her arms a-kimbo--"My faith, man, but ye're soon begun to a braw

trade!--How can ye hae the assurance, ye brazen-faced rascal, to come

rinning to me wi' a hizzy an' bairn at your tail, an' desire me to keep

them for ye? I'll sooner see you an' her, an' that little limb, a' hung

up by the links o' the neck, than ony o' ye sal crook a hough or break

bread wi' me."

"There's for't now! There's for't! When the deil gets in, the fire maun

flee out!--But aunt, I ken the first word's aye the warst wi' ye; ye're

never sae ill as ye say. Think like a Christian. How wad ye hae likit,

when ye war as young, to hae been turned out to the open hills wi' a

bairn in your arms?"

"Hear to the tatterdemallion!--Christian! Bairn i' _my_ arms!--Ye

impudent, hempy-looking tike that ye are! Pack out o' my house, I say,

or I'll gar the bluid blind your een--ay, an' your bit toastit pie too,

wi' its piece barrell'd beef! Gang after your braw gallaunt, wi' your

oxterfu' ket!--A bonny pair, troth!--A light head makes a heavy fitt!"

Barnaby retired with his back foremost, facing up his aunt all the way

till fairly in the open fields, for fear of actual violence; but the

epithets he bestowed on her there in the bitterness of his heart cannot

here be set down. Jane trembled, yet was obliged to smile at his

extravagance, for it had no bounds; while his aunt stood in her door,

exulting and calling after him every thing that she could construe to

mortify and provoke him. Tears for a space choked his utterance; at

length he forced out the following sentence in vollies.

"Wae--wae be to the--the auld randy--witch!--Had I but the--owrance o'

the land for ae day--I--I should gar some look about them. My master

an' she hae this wark to answer for yet; they'll get their dichens for't

some day--that's ae comfort! Come away, Jeany--they'll squeel for

this--let them tak it!--Come away, Jeany."

"Where would you have me to go now, Barnaby?"

"Out-by aff that auld witch at ony rate! I'll hae ye put up though I

should travel a hunder mile."

"Let me beseech you to return to your flock, and trouble yourself no

farther about my infant and I. Heaven will take care of us."

"It disna look very like it just now. I dinna argy that it is wrang to

trust in Heaven--only, gin we dinna use the means, Heaven's no obliged

to work miracles for us. It is hard upon the gloamin', an' there is not

another house near us; if we sit down and trust, ye'll hae to sleep in

the fields, an' then baith you an' that dear bairn may get what ye will

never cast. Let us make a wee exertion the night, and I hae resolved

what ye shall do to-morrow."

"And what shall I do to-morrow, Barnaby?"

"Go with me to my parents; they hae nae doughter o' their ain, an' my

mither will be muckle the better o' your help, an' they will baith be

very glad to see you, Jeany. Gudeness be thankit! the warld's no just a'

alike. I' the meantime my pickle gimmers dinna need muckle at my hand

just now, sae I'll gae an' ax my master for a day to see my fock, and

gang fit for fit wi' ye the morn."

She fixed her humid eyes on him in pleasing astonishment; she had never

before witnessed such earnest and disinterested benevolence; the

proposal was made in such a way that she could not refuse it, else she

saw that she would give a kind and feeling heart pain. "I have a great

mind to make trial of your expedient, good Barnaby," said she; "all

parts of the country are now alike to me; I must go somewhere; and as

it is but a hard day's journey, I will go and see the parents of so good

a lad."

"Now that's spoken like yoursel, an' I'm glad to hear ye say't--But

what's to come o' ye the night?"

"I have some victuals with me, and I can lie in the fields this pleasant

night; it is a good one to begin with, for who knows what's before one?"

"I canna think o' that ava. If ye war to lay that bonny red cheek on the

cauld dew, an' the wind blawin' i' little George's face, there wad some

sleep nane the night; but there is a little snug sheep-house in our

Hope, a wee bit frae this; let us gang there, an' I will take little

George in my bosom, an' hap _you_ wi' my plaid.--O, but I forgot--that

will never do," continued he, in a melancholy tone, and looking at his

ragged doublet and riven clothes. Away, however, to the sheep-cot they

went, where they found plenty of old hay, and Jane instantly proposed

that he should go home and leave them alone, get leave of his master,

and join them next morning.

"But I dinna ken about it," said Barnaby, hanging his head and looking

serious; "that linn's an unco uncanny place for bogles; an' by this time

o' night they'll be keeking ower the black haggs o' the Cairny Moss to

see what's gaun on. If ony o' them war to come on ye here, they might

terrify you out o' your wits, or carry ye baith aff, lith and limb--Is

the callant baptized?"

Jane answered in the affirmative, smiling; and farther assured him, that

he needed to be under no apprehensions on account of spirits, for she

was perfectly at ease on that score, having a good assurance that no

spirit had power over her.

"Ay, ye are maybe a gospel minister's bairn, or an auld Cameronian; that

is, I mean come o' the saints and martyrs--they had unco power--I hae

heard o' some o' them that fought the deil, hand to fist, for an hour

and forty minutes, and dang him at the last--yethered him and yerked him

till he couldna mou' another curse. But these times are gane! yet it's

no sae lang sin' auld Macmillan (ye hae heard o' auld Macmillan?) was

coming through that linn i' the derk wi' twa o' his elders an' they spak

o' the bogle, but Macmillan jeered at it; an' when they came to the tap

o' yon steep brae they stoppit to take their breath; and there they

heard a loud nichering voice come out o' the howe o' the linn, an' it

cried,

"Ha, ha, Macky! had ye been your lane,

Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again."

"Say ye sae, fause loun," quo' the auld hardy veteran; "than be at your

speed, for I'll gang through that wood my lane in spite o' your teeth,

an' a' hell at your back." An' what does the carl do, but leaves his twa

elders yonder, standin glowrin i' the howe night, an' trodges his way

back through the linn to the very farrest side o't--said the

hunder-an'-ninth psalm against him, an' came back wi' never a turned

hair on his head. But yet for a' that, Jeany, dinna lippen ower muckle

to bygane things; there have been fairy raids i' the Hope, an' mony ane

ill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here!"

Jane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it

to-morrow as they journeyed. He was passive--left them his plaid--went

home and got leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted

nothing of what had passed in the Hope. He was again back at the

sheep-house by the time the sun arose; and, early as it was, he found

Jane walking without, while little George was sleeping soundly on the

hay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she had got a sound and short sleep,

but awakening at dawn she had stepped out to taste the fresh mountain

air, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the child he was somewhat

fretful--a thing not customary with him; but he was soon pacified, and

they proceeded without delay on their journey.

Until once they had cleared the boundaries of the farm of Todburn,

Barnaby was silent, and looked always around with a jealous eye, as if

dreading a surprise. When his fellow-traveller asked the reasons of his

anxiety, he remained silent; but as soon as they got fairly into the

next glen he became as gay and talkative as ever. She deemed it to be

some superstitious dread that discomposed him, but was left to guess the

cause.

"Jeany," said he, "you said you had a short and sound sleep last

night--so had I. Pray, did you dream ony?"

"Not that I remember of; but I put no faith in dreams."

"Weel, how different fock's bodies, or their souls, or something about

them maun be frae ane anither! For I'm come this length in the warld,

an' I never yet dreamed a regular dream, in a sound sleep, that I didna

get as plainly read to me as the A B C. I had a strange dream last

night, Jeany, an' it was about you. I am sure I'll live to see it

fulfilled; but what it means even now, I canna in the least comprehend."

"Well, Barnaby, suppose you give us it. I have read the Book of

Knowledge, and may lend you a hand at the interpretation."

"I thought I saw ye lying in a lonesome place, an' no ane in the wide

world to help or heed ye, till there was a poor bit black mootit-like

corby came down frae the hills an' fed ye. I saw it feeding ye, an' I

thought ye war as contentit, an' as bonny, an' as happy as ever. But ere

ever I wist, down comes there a great majestic eagle some gate frae

about the e'e-bree o' the heavens, an' cleeks ye away up to the lowne

bieldy side o' a sunny hill, where ye had a' braw things. An' I dinna

ken how it was, I thought ye war a she eagle sitting amang your young,

an' I thought aye ye war a woman too, an' I coudna separate the tane

frae the tither; but the poor bit plottit forefoughen corby gaed alang

w'ye, an' ye war kind to him, an' fed him in your turn, an' I saw him

hoppin, an' pickin, an' dabbin round about ye, as happy as ever I saw a

beast, an' the erne didna chase him away, but was kind to him; but

somehow, or I wakened, I thought it was the confusedest thing I ever

saw. Na, ye needna laugh nor smile, for we'll baith live to see it

read."

"Believe me, Barnaby, it will never be apparent; you may force

circumstances to agree with it, but these will not be obvious ones."

"It's needless for me to arguy wi' you unless I can bring things hame to

your ain conscience; but can ye say that ye never got a dream read?"

"Never that I noted; for I never thought of them."

"Or, for instance, have ye never, when you saw a thing for the first

time, had a distinct recollection of having seen it sometime afore?"

"Never."

"How wonderfu'! I have done so a thousand an' a thousand times. I have

remembered of having seen exactly the same scene, the same faces, the

same looks, and heard the same words, though I knew all the while that I

never had seen them in reality; and that I could only have seen them in

some former vision, forgotten, or perhaps never remembered."

She now saw clearly that dreams, visions, and apparitions, were

Barnaby's region of existence--His very thoughts and language seemed

elevated whenever he entered on the subject; and it being a trait in the

shepherd's character that she had never thought of before, she resolved

to encourage it, and asked for a single instance of that strange

foresight alluded to.

"You'll surely acknowledge," said Barnaby, "that it is impossible I

could ever have come up that strait swire before with a bairn on my

back, an' a young woman gaun beside me exactly like you; an' that while

in that condition, I should have met wi' a bull an' a cow coming out the

path by themsels, an' thought o' yon craig for a shelter to the bairn

that I was carrying; yet when that happened about an hour ago, I

remembered so distinctly of having gone through it some time long

before, that I knew every step that would next be taken, and every

word that would next be said. It made me very thoughtful; but I can

remember nothing of where or when I dreamed it, or what was the issue.

"There was another instance that I'll never forget. The winter afore

last, I gaed out wi' my father in the morning to help him to gather the

sheep; for the rime had sitten down, an' the clouds war creepin, and we

kend the drift wad be on. Weel, away we sets, but a' the hills were

wrappit i' the clouds o' rime as they had been rowed in a fleece o'

frosty woo, an' we couldna see a stime; we were little better than fock

gaun _graeping_ for sheep; an' about twal o'clock, (I mind it weel,)

just when I was in the very straitest and steepest part o' the

Shielbrae-Hope, the wind gae a swirl, an' I lookit up an' saw the cloud

screwing up to heaven--the brow o' the hill cleared, an' I saw like a

man cringing and hanging ower the point o' the rock, an' there was seven

white ewes an' a black ane gaun bleetin in a raw yont aneath him. That

was a'; but the sight strak me motionless. I mindit that I had seen the

very thing afore; the very clouds--the very rocks--an' the man standing

courin' and keekin' ower, wi' the white rime hingin' about his lugs like

feathers; an' I mindit that it endit ill--it endit awsomely!--for I

thought it endit in death. I could speak nae mair a' that day; for I

expectit that either my father or I wad never gang hame living. He aften

said to me, 'What ails ye, callant? Are ye weel eneugh? Od, ye're gane

stupid.' We saved some sheep, an' lost some, like mony ane, for it was

a dreadfu' afternoon; however, we wan baith safe hame. But that night,

afore we gaed to bed, our neighbour, auld Robin Armstrang, was brought

into our house a corp. Our fock had amaist gane out o' their judgment;

but the very features, the white rime frozen about the cauld stiff een,

an' the iceshogles hangin' at the grey hair, war nae new sight to me: I

had seen them a' before, I kendna when. Ah, Jeany! never tell me that we

haena some communication wi' intelligences, far ayont our capacity to

comprehend."

The seriousness of Barnaby's manner made it evident to his fellow

traveller that he believed in the reality of every word he had said;

there was an inconceivable sublimity in the whole idea, and she fancied

herself going to reside, perhaps for a season, in the regions of

imagination and romance, and she asked him if his father and mother had

faith in dreams an' apparitions?

"Aye, that they hae," answered he; "ye had need to tak care how ye

dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions there; ye

may as weel dispute the gospel o' Sant Mathew. We dinna believe in a'

the gomral fantastic bogles an' spirits that fley light-headed fock up

an' down the country, but we believe in a' the apparitions that warn o'

death, that save life, an' that discover guilt. I'll tell you what we

believe, ye see.

"The deil an' his adgents, they fash nane but the gude fock; the

Cameronians, an' the prayin' ministers, an' sic like. Then the bogles,

they are a better kind o' spirits, they meddle wi' nane but the guilty;

the murderer, an' the mansworn, an' the cheater o' the widow an'

fatherless, they do for _them_. Then the fairies, they're very harmless;

they're keener o' fun an' frolic than aught else; but if fock neglect

kirk ordinances, they see after _them_. Then the brownie, he's a kind

o' half-spirit half-man; he'll drudge an' do a' the wark about the town

for his meat, but then he'll no work but when he likes for a' the king's

dominions. That's precisely what we a' believe here awa', auld an'

young; an' I'll tell ye twa or three stories that we a' ken to be true,

an' which I wadna misbelieve for a' that I'm worth.

"Sandy Shiel, the herd o' the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep

ae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to

the size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath; an' there was

Sandy standin' i' the sun afore his sheep, whistling an' singing, and

knitting his stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken-leggit hare

by his very foot--Every Scotsman's keen of a hunt--Sandy flings the

plaid frae him, an' after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and

crying on his dog to kep. As he gaed o'er the brow he was close upon

her, an' had up his stick just to knock her dead--Tut! the hare

vanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit round-about an' round about--'What

the devil's come o' my hare now? Is she santit? or yirdit? or flown

awa'?'--Sandy lookit up into the air, but she wasna to be seen there

neither. She was gane, an' for ever! Sandy was amaist swarf'd, the cauld

sweat brak on him, an' he clew his head. 'Now, gude faith, I hae seen

muckle,' quo' Sandy, 'but the like o' that I saw never.' Sandy trodged

back, wantin' his hare, to lift his plaid. But what think ye? The hale

volume o' snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and burried it fifty feet

deep; it was nae mair seen till the month o' May. Sandy kneeled down

among the snaw and thankit his Maker; he saw brawly what the hare had

been.

"I'll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd's house at

Glen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had ance been a farm-steading, but it was at

the time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd, his

wife, and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest

girl came running in, crying, 'Bless me, sirs, come here--Here is the

grandest lady coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.' They

all ran to the door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at

the distance of only about twenty paces--She was never more seen! But

that very moment the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful

crash; and thus a worthy family was saved from momentary destruction.

Ah! I wadna hae given that man's feelings of gratitude that night toward

his Maker and Preserver, for a' the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heartit

philosophers!"

"Nor would I," said Jane; and they walked on in deep silence.

Barnaby always carried the child one-half of the way as nearly as they

could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend

that it was but one; they got plenty of bread and milk at the

farm-houses and cottages as they passed, for there was no house of

accommodation near the whole of their track. One time, after they had

refreshed and rested themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had

promised the evening before to entertain her on their journey with the

story of the profligate laird.

"That's an awfu' story," said Barnaby, "but it is soon tauld. It was the

Laird o' Errickhaw; he that biggit his house amang the widow's corn, and

never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin' the

foundation-stane was laid, an' for a' the grandeur that was about it,

there's nae man at this day can tell where the foundation has been, if

he didna ken afore. He was married to a very proud precise lady, come o'

high kin, but they greed aye weel eneugh till bonny Molly Grieve came to

the house to serve. Molly was as light-hearted as a kid, an' as blithe

as a laverock, but she soon altered. She first grew serious, then sad,

and unco pale at times; an' they whiles came on her greetin by hersel.

It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an' there was nae mair peace

about the house. At length it was spread ower a' the parish that the

lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh, an' up comes

hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird's auld companion in

wickedness, wi' a saddle an' a pad to take her away. When they set her

on ahint him, Molly shook hands wi' a' the servants, but couldna speak,

for she little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o'

taking her away i' the fair day-light, i' the ee o' God an' man, he took

her away just when the lave war gaun to their beds: an' instead o'

gaeing the road to Edinburgh, they war seen riding ower the Cacra-cross

at twal o'clock at night. Bonny Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor

heard of mair in this world! But there war some banes found about the

Alemoor Loch that the doctors said had belanged to a woman. There was

some yellow hair, too, on the scull, that was unco like Molly's, but

nae body could say.

"Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer's

daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and

a half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came

hurkle-backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a' hae

sutten down on their knees wad she gae wi' him; she grat an' pray'd, an'

they fleeched an' flait; but she stayed in the parish in spite o' their

teeth, and shamed them a'. She had a son, but Charley got him to take to

the nursing, far away some gate, an' there was nae body ony mair fashed

wi' him.

"It wad be endless to tell ye ower a' their wickedness, for it can

hardly be believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at

a distance. They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye

the langer the waur, and took less pains to hide it; till ae night that

the laird was walking at the back o' his garden, in the moon-light. It

was thought he was waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that

was conjecture, for he never said sae. At length he saw ane coming

towards him, and hasted to meet her, but just as he approached, she held

up her hand at him, as it war to check him, or make him note who she

was; and when he lookit in her face, and saw what it was like, he

uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the ground. Some fock heard

the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him lying streekit in a deep

dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried him in, and he soon

came to himself; but after that he was never like the same man, but

rather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by himsel while he

lived; but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and drank, and

swore, and blasphemed, and said dreadfu' things that folk didna

understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o' desperation,

that the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his

ain hearth-stane, at a time o' life when he should scarcely have been at

his prime.

"But it wasna sae wi' Charley! He wore out a lang and hardened life;

and, at the last, when death came, he coudna die. For a day and two

nights they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but

always a few minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble

cries of infants arose from behind the bed, and wakened him up again.

The family were horrified; but his sons and daughters were men and

women, and for their ain sakes they durstna let ane come to hear his

confessions. At last, on the third day at two in the morning, he died

clean away. They watched an hour in great dread, and then streekit him,

and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna weel done before there

were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came from behind the bed,

and the voice cried, "O, Charley, spare my life!--Spare my life! For

your own soul's sake and mine, spare my life!" On which the corpse again

sat up in the bed, pawled wi' its hands, and stared round wi' its dead

face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade

and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was

gane. They sought a' the house, and in behind the bed, and could find

naething; but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain

house, up in the howe o' the Baileylee-linn, a' torn limb frae limb, an'

the dead-claes beside him. There war twa corbies seen flying o'er the

muir that day, carrying something atween them, an' fock suspectit it was

Charley's soul, for it was heard makin' a loud maen as they flew o'er

Alemoor. At the same time it was reportit, that there was to be seen

every morning at two a clock, a naked woman torfelling on the Alemoor

loch, wi' her hands tied behind her back, and a heavy stane at her neck.

It's an awsome story. I never dare tell it but in the middle o' the day,

and even then it gars a' my flesh creep; but the hale country has heard

it, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It has been a warning to

mony ane."

Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed

her,--it having been even more shocking than the former ones were

delightful; so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual

events, save that she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to

inform his parents, with strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in

view of his father's cottage before sunset. It was situated in the very

wildest and most romantic glen in the shire of Peebles, at the

confluence of two rough but clear mountain streams, that ran one on each

side of the house and _kail-yard_, and mingled their waters immediately

below these. The valley was level, green, and beautiful, but the hills

on each side high, steep, and romantic; and while they cast their long

black shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were shed over these

like streamers in the middle air. It was a scene of tranquillity and

repose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane's heart

danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scenery of the

mountains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was

going to seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how

equivocal her appearance there must be; but she longed and thirsted for

such a retreat, and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to

proffer more for her board than she could well afford to pay, rather

than be refused. Barnaby also spoke less as they advanced up the glen,

and seemed struggling with a kind of dryness about his tongue, which

would not suffer him to pronounce the words aright. Two fine shaggy

healthy-looking collies came barking down the glen to meet them, and at

a timid distance behind them, a half-grown puppy, making more noise than

them both. He was at one time coming brattling forward, and barking

fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at another, running yelping

away from them with his tail between his legs. Little George laughed as

he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came near, and saw that it was

their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they coured at his feet,

and whimpered for joy; they even licked his fair companion's hand, and

capered around her, as if glad to see any friend of Barnaby's. The

whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up, likewise ventured

near; and though he had never seen any of them before, claimed

acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not

what to do; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the

corner of Jane's mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the

house.--George was perfectly delighted.

"I think," said Jane, "the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty

welcome within!"

"Ay, that it does," answered Barnaby; "a dog that is brought up with a

man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with

himself."

Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot--passengers never.

They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby's mother standing

amid her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach,

and they heard her calling distinctly to her husband, "Aigh! Geordie,

yon's our ain Barny, I ken by auld Help's motions; but wha she is that

he's bringing wi' him, is ayont my comprehension."

She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was

then to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the

colour of peat-ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the

corner of the house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old

shepherd was sitting on his divot-seat, without the door, mending a

shoe. Barnaby strode up to him. "How are ye the night, father?"

"No that ill, Barny lad--is that you? How are ye yoursel?" said a

decent-looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time

with the awl, and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion

that he had brought with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful,

and the child in her arms, the enquiring look that he cast on his son

was unutterable. Silence reigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby

made holes in the ground with his staff--the old shepherd began again to

sew his shoe, and little George prattled to his mamma, "It's a vely good

bonny halp, mamma; Geoge nevel saw sic a good halp."

"An' how hae ye been sin' we saw ye, Barny?"

"Gaylys!"

"I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi' ye?"

"I wat have I."

"Whar fell ye in wi' them?"

"I want to speak a word to you, father."

The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the

corner of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had

sat down on the sod-seat.

"This is a pleasant evening," said he, addressing her.

"It is a very sweet evening," was the reply.

"Ye'll be weary; ye had better _gang in_ an' rest ye."

She thanked him, and was preparing to go.

"It's a muckle matter," continued he, "whan fock can depend on their

ain. My Barny never deceived me a' his life, an' you are as welcome here

as heart can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to

this bit shieling, and your share of a' that's in it. Come your ways in,

my bonny woman, an' think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as

either a beggar or borrower here, but just ane o' oursels." So saying he

took her hand in both his, and led her into the house.

"Wife, here's a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi'

ye; mak her welcome i' the mean time, an' ye'll be better acquaintit by

and by."

"In troth I sal e'en do sae. Come awa in by to the muckle chair--Whar is

he himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk?"

"Ah, he's coming, poor fellow--he's takin a _pipe_ to himsel at the

house-end--there's a shower i' the heads wi' Barny--his heart can stand

naething--it is as saft as a snaw-ba', an' far mair easily thawed, but

it is aye in the right place for a' that."

It was a happy evening; the conversation was interesting, and kept up

till a late hour; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the

benevolent disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes

glowed with delight, and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before

they retired to rest, the old shepherd performed family worship, with a

glow of devotional warmth which Jane had never before witnessed in man.

The psalm that he sung, the portion of Scripture that he read, and the

prayer that he addressed to the throne of Grace, savoured all of charity

and benevolence to our fellow-creatures. The whole economy of the family

was of that simple and primitive cast, that the dwellers in a large city

never dream of as existing. There was to be seen contentment without

affluence or ambition, benevolence without ostentation, and piety

without hypocrisy; but at the same time such a mixture of gaiety, good

sense, and superstitious ideas, blent together in the same minds, as was

altogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to our fair

stranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best

advantage.

But we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby

to the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every

day fishing, as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing,

from day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer's cottage was locked, and

no smoke issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone

on a visit, but at length began to suspect that some alteration had

taken place in her circumstances; and the anxiety that he felt to have

some intelligence, whether that change was favourable or the reverse,

was such that he himself wondered at it. He could not account for it

even to his own mind. It was certainly _the child_ that so much

interested him, else he _could not_ account for it. Lindsey might

easily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in the

sentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in

love. But no!--all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream

and brought it back again, went to disprove that. "That I can be in love

with the girl is out of the question--there is no danger of such an

event; for, in the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her

affections, for the whole world; and in the next, I have a certain rank

and estimation to uphold in society. I am a proprietor to a large

extent--a freeholder of the county--come of a good family, at least by

the father's side, and that I should fall in love with and marry a poor

vagrant Wool-gatherer, with a"----! He was going to pronounce a word,

but it stuck, not in his throat, but in the very utmost perceptible

avenues that lead to the heart. "It is a very fine child, however,--I

wish I had him under my protection, then his mother might come and see

him; but I care not for that, provided I had the child. I'll have the

child, and for that purpose I will enquire after the mother directly."

He went boldly up to the cot, and peeped in at the little window. The

hearth was cold, and the furniture neatly arranged. He examined the

door, but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for

many days, and the green grass was beginning to peep up around them.

"There is something extremely melancholy in this!" said he to himself.

"I could not endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost,

without at least enquiring after him."

He turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but

lacked the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the

object of his thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish,

or if he did it was against his will.

On Barnaby's return he made some sly enquiries about the causes that

induced to Jane's removal without effect, the farmer had kept all so

snug. But haverel Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister,

knew, and though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own

sex, yet she could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young

fellows, which her brother always accounted a very ridiculous

propensity;--whether or not it is a natural one among old maids, the

relater of this tale does not pretend to decide; he is induced to think

it is, but is not dogmatic on that side, not having bestowed due

consideration on the subject.

One day, when Barnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than

usual, and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of

paritch, mixed with butter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time

sitting with his head leaned on his master's knee, watching the progress

of every spoonful, thinking the latter was rather going near him that

day in their wonted proportions--while Barnaby, I say, was thus

delightfully and busily employed, in comes Meg, bare-footed, with a

clean white wrapper and round-eared cap on. "Barny, will ye hae time to

help me to the water wi' a boucking o' claes? Ye'll just only hae to

carry the tae end o' the hand-barrow to the water, wait till I sinde up

the sarks, an' help me hame wi' them again."

"That I will, Miss Peggy, wi' heart an' hand."

"Miss Peggy! Snuffs o' tobacco! Meg's good enough! Troth, I'm nane o'

your molloping, precise flegaries, that want to be _miss'd_ an'

_beckit_, an' _bowed_ to--Na, sooth! Meg's good enough--plain downright

_Meg o' the Todburn_."

"Weel, weel; haud your tongue, I'll do a' that ye bid me, an' mair, Meg,

my bonny woman."

"How war a' your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?"

"Unco weel, an' they're muckle behadden to you for your kind speering."

"I kend your father weel; he's a good cannie man."

"I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye

maybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him."

"Ay, it's weel o' you to say sae; but he's a douse, respectable man, and

he's no disgraced in his son."

Barnaby rose with his bicker in his hand; gave it a graceful swing, as a

gentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set

down Nimrod his share of the paritch.

When they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg

went into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much

splashing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to

herself, and was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was

forthcoming. She cast her eyes towards the laird's house, then looked up

the water, then down, in case any one might be angling on it; and after

perceiving that there was nobody within a mile of them, she spoke as

follows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest any one should overhear her.

"Gude sauf us to the day, Barny man! What think ye o' our laird?"

"Very muckle. I think him a decent worthy lad."

"Decent! Shame fa' _his_ decency!--I watna what will be countit

_un_decent soon! Sae ye haena heard o' his shamfu' connection wi' the

bit prodigal, dinnagood lassie, that was here?"

"Never."

"It's a' ower true though; but say nae a word about it. My billy Rob was

obliged to chase her out o' the country for it; an' a burnin shame an' a

disgrace it was to the laird to take up wi' the likes o' her.--Deil a

bit o' her has the pith o' a pipe-stapple!--Fich, fy! Away wi' your

spindle-shankit babyclouts--they're no the gear."

"As ye say, Meg. I like nane o' the women that _stand pon trifles_."

"Stand on trifles!--Ha! ha! that's real good! that's devilish clever for

a--young man! Ha! ha!--Tut! that water's weetin' a' my claes.--Wad ye

hae made sic a choice, Barny?"

"D'ye think that I'm blind? or that I dinna ken what's what?--Na, na,

Meg! let me alane; I'm no sae young a cat but I ken a mouse by a

feather."

"If a' our young men had the sense o' you, Barny, some o' them might get

a pock an' a wheen rustit nails to jingle in't; they might get something

better than a bit painted doll, wi' a waist like a thread-paper, an' hae

nought ado foreby but to draw in the chair an' sit down; but _they'll_

rin after a wheen clay-cakes baken i' the sun, an' leave the good

substantial ait-meal bannocks to stand till they moul, or be pouched by

them that draff an' bran wad better hae mensed!--Tut! I'm ower deep into

the stream again, without ever thinkin' o't."

"That's a' ower true that ye hae been sayin', Meg--ower true, indeed!

But as to your news about the laird and Jane, I dinna believe a word

o't."

"Oh! it's maybe no true, ye ken! It's very likely a lee! There's

naething mair likely, than that a' their correspondence was as pure as

the morning snaw. For a laird, ye ken, worth three thousand pund o'

yearly rental, to frequent the house o' a bit lassie for an hour ilka

day, an' maybe ilka night to, wha kens; ye ken it's a' fair! there's

nought mair likely than that they're _very_ innocent! An' _sic_ a ane

too as she is! little better, I trow, than she should be, gin a' war

kend. To be sure she has a son, _that_ may arguy _something_ for her

decency. But after a', I dinna blame _her_, for I ken by mysel----"

"Haud your tongue now, Meg, my bonny quean; for I ken ye are gaun to lee

on yoursel, an' speak nonsense into the bargain."

"Ah! Barny! but ye are a queer ane!" (then in a whisper.) "I

say--Barny--What do ye think o' the bit farm o' Hesperslack? How wad ye

like to be tenant there yoursel, an' hae servants o' your ain?"

"I haena thought about that yet; but yonder's my master keekin ower the

knowe; he'll be thinkin I'm stayin unco lang frae my sheep."

"Ah! is my billy Rob yonder?--No a _word_ ye ken now, Barny. No a cheip

aboon your breath about yon."

Sad and heavy were Barnaby's reflections that day as he herded his sheep

all alone. "And _this_ is the girl that I have taken and recommended so

warmly to my parents! I do not believe the hateful slander; but I will

go and inform them of all. It is proper they should know all that I

know, and then let them judge for themselves. Poor luckless Jeany! I

fear she is a ruined creature, be she as innocent and harmless as she

will!"

Barnaby was resolved to go, but day past on after day, and still he had

not the heart to go and tell his parents, although every whisper that

he heard tended rather to strengthen suspicion than dispel it.

On the very day that we left Lindsey in such distress for the loss of

his amiable Wool-gatherer, Barnaby and he met by the side of the stream,

at the foot of the Todburn-Hope. They were both alike anxious to speak

to one another, but neither of them had the courage to begin, although

both were burning to talk on the same theme. Lindsey fished away,

swimming the fly across the ripple as dexterously and provokingly as he

was able. Barnaby stood and looked on in silence; at length a yellowfin

rose. "Aigh, that was a great chap! I wish your honour had hookit that

ane."

"It was better for him that I did not. Do you ever fish any?"

"O yes. I gump them whiles."

"_Gump_ them? pray what mode of fishing is that?"

"I guddle them in aneath the stanes an' the braes like."

"I do not exactly understand the terms nor the process. Pray will you

be so good," continued he, holding out the fishing-rod to Barnaby, "as

give me a specimen how you _gump_ the fish?"

"Od bless you, sir, I can do naething wi' that goad; but if ye'll gang

wi' me a wee piece up the Todburn-Hope, or up to the Rowntree-Linn, I'll

let ye see gumping to perfection."

On being assured that it was not above half a mile to either of the

places, the laird accompanied Barnaby without hesitation, to witness

this pastoral way of fishing. By the way their converse became very

interesting to both parties, but we cannot interrupt the description of

such a favourite rural sport just now. Let it suffice that their

discourse was all concerning a fair unfortunate, of whom the reader has

heard a good deal already, and of whom he shall hear more in due time.

They crossed over a sloping ground, at the bottom of a green steep hill,

and soon came into the Todburn-Hope. It was a narrow level valley

between two high hills, and terminated in the haunted linn, above the

sheep-house formerly mentioned. Down this narrow vale the Tod Burn ran

with a thousand beautiful serpentine windings, and at every one of these

turns there were one or two clear deep pools, overhung by little green

banks. Into the first of these pools Barnaby got with his staff,

plunging and poaching to make all the fish take into close cover; then

he threw off his ragged coat, tucked up the sleeves of his shirt to the

shoulders, tying them together behind, and into the pool he got again,

knees and elbows, putting his arms in below the green banks, into the

closest and most secret recesses of the trouts. There was no eluding

him; he threw them out one after another, sometimes hitting the

astonished laird on the face, or any other part of the body without

ceremony, for his head being down sometimes close with the water, and

sometimes below it, he did not see where he flung them. The trouts being

a little startled at this momentary change from one element to another,

jumped about on the grass, and cast so many acute somersets, that the

laird had greater difficulty in getting hold of them the second time to

put them into his basket, than Barnaby had at first; and when the latter

had changed the scene of plunder to a new pool, Lindsey was commonly to

be seen beside the old one, moving slowly about on his hands and knees.

"I think ye're pinched to catch them on the dry grund, sir," said

Barnaby to him.

"No, no," returned he, with the utmost simplicity; "but I was looking

lest some of them had made their way among the long grass and eluded me;

and besides they are so very active and slippery that I seldom can keep

the hold of them that I get."

As they were going from one of these little pools to another, he said to

our shepherd, "So this is what you call _gumping_?"

"Yes, sir, this is gumping, or _guddling_, ony o' them ye like to

ca't."

"I do not think this is altogether a fair way of fishing."

"Now, I think it is muckle fairer than the tither way, sir. Your way is

founded on the lowest artifice and deceit, but I come as an avowed

enemy, and let them escape me if they can. I come into a family as a

brave mountain robber or free-booter; but you come as a deceitful

friend, promising to treat the family with all good things, that you may

poison them every one unawares. A mountaineer's sports are never founded

on cunning; it's a' sheer and main force wi' us."

Lindsey confessed that the shepherd's arguments had some foundation in

nature and truth, but that they savoured of a period exempt from

civilization and the fine arts. "At all events," said he, "it is

certainly the most downright way of fishing that I ever beheld." In

short, it was not long till the laird was to be seen wading in the

pools, and _gumping_ as busily as the other; and, finally, he was

sometimes so intent on his prey, that the water was running over his

back, so that when he raised himself up it poured in torrents from his

fine Holland shirt and stained cambrick ruffles. "Ye hae settled the

pletts o' your sark," said Barnaby. Never did the family of Earlhall

behold such a basket of trouts; and never had its proprietor such a

day's sport at the fishing, as he had at the _gumping_ or _guddling_ the

trouts among the links of the Todburn-Hope.

Though the sport occupied their minds completely during the time they

were engaged in it, yet it was only a relaxation from concerns of a more

serious nature. From Barnaby's information the laird now saw exactly how

the land lay; and though he got no hint of the part that his mother had

acted in it, yet he rather suspected, for he well knew her sentiments

regarding all the young and beautiful part of her own sex. Barnaby gave

him no notice that he had ever seen the girl after her dismissal, or

that he knew to what part of the world she had retired; and before they

parted he desired him to tell his master to come down and speak with him

that night.

Robin came as appointed; Lindsey and his mother were sitting by

themselves in the parlour when the servant announced him; he was ordered

to join them, and as soon as he came in Lindsey said, "Come away, Robin.

I had a piece of information within these few days of you, that has

somewhat distressed me, and I sent for you to make enquiry concerning

it. What reasons had you for turning away the poor stranger girl and

child from her cot before the term of your agreement expired?"

Robin looked to the window, then to the lady, and then to the window

again, and finally looked down to the carpet, twirled his bonnet with

both hands, and remained silent. Though a strong and speaking look of

appeal was turned on the old lady by Robin from time to time, yet she,

hearing her son speak in that determined manner, likewise sat still

without opening her lips.

"Why don't you answer me?" continued Lindsey. "I ask you simply what

were your reasons for turning her away? you certainly must be able to

state them."

"Hem! We war feared, sir--we war feared that she was a bad ane."

"You were _afraid_ she was bad? Had you no other proofs of her badness

farther than your own fears?"

"Indeed, sir, I never saw ony ill behaviour about the lassie. But ye ken

weel enough that ane wha had forsaken the paths o' virtue and honesty

sae early as it appears she had done, wi' sic an enchanting manner, an'

weelfaurd face into the boot, was rather a dangerous neighbour for sae

mony young chiels."

"I think what Robin says is very true, and good sense," said the old

lady.

"You certainly ought to have taken all these things into consideration

before you bargained with her at first, Robin," said Lindsey. "I

suppose you cannot argue that she is either grown younger or more

beautiful since that period? I rather suspect, Robin, that you have used

this young woman extremely ill; and if you cannot give any better

reasons for your severity towards her, I can find out a method of

forcing you to make an ample retribution."

"Indeed then, sir, sin' I maun tell the truth, I will tell the truth; it

was my lady, your worthy mother there, that persuaded, and _ordered_ me

to turn her away; for we had observed how great a favourite she was with

you, and dreaded the consequences."

"It is then exactly as I suspected. You two have done me a great injury,

and one that will not be easily wiped away. I hope neither of you

intended it; but I would gladly know what trait in my character

justified the conclusion you made? I think you might both have known my

dispositions better than to have so readily believed that I would

injure youth and beauty, that had already been unfortunate in the

world--that I would add to her state of wretchedness, by annihilating

for ever that innate principle of virtue and modesty, inherent in every

young female's breast, which never man loved more, or delighted more to

view, exerting all its primitive and untainted sway. If you had

reflected at all, you could not have believed me capable of it. You have

taken the readiest means in your power of injuring my character in the

eyes of the world. It must naturally be concluded, that there was a

profligate and criminal intercourse subsisting between us, which

rendered such an act of cruelty and injustice necessary. You have hurt

my honour and my feelings, and wronged a defenceless and amiable young

woman. It is on my account that she is thus innocently suffering, and I

am determined, for my own satisfaction, to see her righted, as far as

redress is in my power, though equivalent for an injured reputation

there is none; but every vile insinuation on my account shall be fairly

dispelled. To make, therefore, an end of all reflections at once, I warn

you, Robin, that if she is not found, and restored to her rights, in

less than a fortnight at farthest, you need not be surprised if _you_

are some day removed on as short notice as you gave to her."

The old lady and farmer had an inward view of matters in a different

light: They perceived that the world would say he had brought her back

to keep her there as his mistress, but this elegant and inflated

harangue they were unable to answer. The young man's conscience was

hurt, and they were no casuists. The lady, it is true, uttered some

involuntary sounds as he was speaking, but it was not easy to determine

whether they were groans or hems of approbation. If one might have

judged from her countenance, they were like the former, but the sounds

themselves were certainly modulations of the latter. She was dependant

on her son! Robin was studying a friendly reply, by way of remonstrance,

all the time of the speech; but Robin was a widower, had a good farm, a

large family, and was a tenant at will, and the conclusion of the said

speech was a stumbling-block to Robin.

Pray, gentle reader, did you ever see a country maiden baking pease-meal

bannocks? If you ever did you must have noted, that before she committed

them one by one to the gridiron, she always stood straight up, with her

head gracefully turned to one side, and moulded them with her two hands

to an orb, as nearly resembling the full moon as she could. You must

likewise have remarked, that while engaged in this becoming part of her

avocation, she was never once looking at her work, but that while her

head had that sly cast to the one side, her eyes were ever and anon

fixed on the window, noting what was going on without, looking perhaps

for her lad coming from the hill, or whistling at the plough. If you

have ever seen this, you can easily comprehend the attitude I mean--if

you have never, it is a great pity!

Exactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland,

plying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way--his head was

likewise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the

window--it was the girl's position to a hair. Let any man take his pen

and describe the two attitudes, there is not the slightest shade of

difference to be discerned--the one knee of both is even slackened and

bent gently forward, the other upright and firm, by its own weight made

steadfast and immoveable. Yet how it comes I do not comprehend, and

should like much to consult my friend, David Wilkie, about it--it is

plain that the attitudes are precisely the same, yet the girl's is quite

delightful--Robin's was perfectly pitiable. He had not one word to say,

but baked his bonnet and stood thus.

"This is my determination," continued Lindsey, "and you may pay what

attention to it you please."

"Od, sir, I'm excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae

letten me see it in its true light, an' I sal do what I can to find her

again, an' mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, naebody kens

where she's ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to

that outlandish country ayont the sea that they ca' Fife, an' how am I

to get her? therefore, if I canna an' dinna get her, I hope you will

excuse me, especially as neither the contrivance nor the act was mine."

"You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a

tittle of that I have said; but, to encourage your people in the search,

or whomsoever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the

person who finds her and restores her to her home."

"Aweel, son Lindsey," said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum

of a clock, "your mother meant ye good, an' nae ill, in what she has

done; but them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. For the sake o' Robin

and his family, and no for the neighbourhood o' this whilly-wha of a

young witch, I shall gi'e the body that finds her half as muckle."

"And I," said Robin, "shall gi'e the same, which will make up the reward

to twenty guineas, an' it is mair than I can weel spare in sic hard

times. I never saw better come o' women's schemes, as I say whiles to my

titty Meg."

The company parted, not on the most social terms; and that night, before

Robin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, "Lads, my master

informs me that I am to be plaguit wi' the law for putting away that

lassie Jeany an' her bit brat atween term-days. I gi'e ye a' your

liberty frae my wark until the end o' neist week, if she be not found

afore that time, to search for her; and whoever finds her, and brings

her back to her cottage, shall have a reward o' twenty guineas in his

loof."

A long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her; but

Barnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where

his chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday

clothes, and went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were

let out for hire, got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle,

and pad, and off he set directly for his father's cottage, where he

arrived next morning by the time the sun was up.

To describe all Barnaby's adventures that night would take a volume by

itself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he

traversed. As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid

for none of them meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie;

yet so hardly was he beset with these at times, that he had no other

resource but to shut his eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this

resolute contrivance got on without interruption, but had been so near

his infernal adversaries at times, that twice or thrice he felt a glow

on his face as if a breath of lukewarm air had been breathed against it,

and a smell exactly resembling (he did not like to say brimstone, but)

_a coal fire just gaun out_!--But it is truly wonderful what a man, with

a conscience void of offence towards God and towards his neighbour, will

go through!

When the day-light began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what

a blithe and grateful man was Barnaby! "The bogles will be obliged to

thraw aff their black claes now," said he, "an' in less than half an

hour the red an' the green anes too. They'll hae to pit on their

pollonians o' the pale colour o' the fair day-light, that the e'e o'

Christian maunna see them; or gang away an' sleep in their dew-cups an'

foxter-leaves till the gloaming come again. O, but the things o' this

warld are weel contrived!"

Safely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father's cottage

stood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn; there was

no dog, nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his

approach, for his father and canine friends had all gone out to the

heights at a very early hour to look after the sheep. The morning was

calm and lovely; but there was no sound in the glen save the voice of

his mother's grey cock, who was perched on the kail-yard dike, and

crowing incessantly. The echoes were answering him distinctly from the

hills; and as these aerial opponents were the only ones he ever in his

life had to contend with, he had learned to value himself extremely on

his courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving them in a note

louder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he himself had been

struggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole night;

so ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to

overlook our own!

The smoke was issuing from his mother's chimney in a tall blue spire

that reached to the middle of the hill; but when there, it spread

itself into a soft hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green

brae in the most still and moveless position. The rising sun kissed it

with his beams, which gave it a light woolly appearance, something like

floating down; it was so like a vision that Barnaby durst scarcely look

at it. "My mither's asteer," said he to himself, "I ken by her morning

reek; she'll be fiking up an' down the house, an' putting a' things to

rights; an' my billies they'll be lying grumphing and snoring i' their

dens, an' Jeany will be lying waking, listening what's gaun on, an' wee

George will be sniffing an' sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I think, of

a' things i' the warld a young mother an' her first son is the maist

interesting--if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae--to

see how she'll sit an' look at him!--(here Barnaby blew his nose.)--I

was my mother's first son; if she had been as bonny, an' as gentle, an'

as feele as Jeany, aih! but I wad hae likit weel!"

No one being aware of Barnaby's approach, he rode briskly up to the door

and rapped, causing at the same time his horse's feet make a terrible

clamping on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house,

came running out with the heather besom in her hand. "Bless my heart,

callant, is that you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten w'ye! What's asteer

w'ye? or whar ir ye gaun sae early i' the morning on that grand

cut-luggit beast?"

"I'm turned a gentleman now, mother, that's a'; an' I thought I wad g'ye

a ca' as I gaed by for auld lang syne--Hope ye're all well?"

"Deed we're a' no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after?--Hae ye

a' your senses about ye?"

"I thank ye, I dinna miss ony o' them that I notice. I'm come for my

wife that I left w'ye--How is she?"

"_Your_ wife! Weel I wat ye'll never get the like o' her, great muckle

hallanshaker-like guff."

"Haud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get; but I can

tell ye o' something that I'm to get. If I take hame that lassie Jeany

safe to her house, ony time these ten days, there's naebody kens where I

hae her hidden, an' I'm to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o't."

"Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn."

"Ye never tauld me sic a word, mother."

"I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi' another,

an' that the king may come i' the beggar's way."

"Ramsay's Scots Proverbs tell me that."

"It will begin a bit stock to you, my man; an' I sal say it o' her, gin

I sude never see her face again, she's the best creature, ae way an' a'

ways, that ever was about a poor body's house. Ah, God bless her!--she's

a dear creature!--Ye'll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae

ta'en about her."

Jane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted

Barnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs had taken in her

favour, and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the

earnest enquiries he had made; and likewise how he had put Robin to his

shifts. She had lived very happy with these poor honest people, and had

no mind to leave them; indeed, from the day that she entered their house

she had not harboured a thought of it; but now, on account of her

furniture, which was of considerable value to her, and more particularly

for the sake of Barnaby's reward, she judged it best to accompany him.

So after they had all taken a hearty breakfast together at the same

board, the old shepherd returned thanks to the Bestower of all good

things, and then kissing Jane, he lifted her on the horse behind his

son. "Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany woman," said he; "I think you will be

happy, for I'm sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue to mind the

thing that's good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye; I come surety

for him. An' if ever adversity should again fa' to your lot, ye shall be

as welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o' ilka thing

that's in it; an' if I should see you nae mair, I'll never bow my knee

before my Maker without remembering you. God bless you, my bonny woman!

Fareweel."

Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor's hand, for who could stand such

unaffected goodness? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little

George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the

horse, and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often

seen, every feature being lengthened extremely the cross way; but after

blowing his nose two or three times he recovered the use of his rod,

with which he instantly began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out

of this flood of tenderness and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive

a more happy man than he was that day, he was so proud of his parents'

kindness to Jane, and of the good he thought he was doing to all

parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was a fortune to him. He went

on prating to George, who was quite delighted with the ride on such a

grand horse; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and testified his regret

for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them all. "Geoge

vely solly fol poole holse, Balny! Geoge no like to be a holse."

Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to

amuse his fellow travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their

cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was

overjoyed to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them,) so soon.

He paid Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour,

making some mention, meantime, of an old proverb, "They that hide ken

where to seek," and without delay sent information to the mansion-house

that Jane was found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of

news which created no little stir at Earlhall.

The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found;

or that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met

with, and the suspicions that were raised against her; in short, she

wished her not to return, and she hoped she would not; but now all her

fond hopes were extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to

the affair. It was like to turn out a love intrigue; a low and shameful

business, her son might pretend what he chose. She instantly lost all

command of her temper, hurried from one part of the house to another,

quarrelled with every one of the maid servants, and gave the two

prettiest ones warning to leave their places.

Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his

feelings were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race; he

loved the little birds that sung upon the trees almost to distraction.

The deep blue of the heavens never appeared so serene--the woods, the

fields, and the flowers, never so delightful! such a new and

exhilarating tone did the return of this beautiful girl (child, I mean)

give to his whole vital frame. "What a delightful world this is!" said

he to himself; "and how happy might all its inhabitants live, if they

would suffer themselves to do so!" He did not traverse the different

apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his mother did, but

he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again to the

parlour.

In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed

by the discordant tones of anger and reproach--Proud and haughty

contumely on the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but

humble dependance on the other.

"This is some one of my mother's unreasonable imputations," said he to

himself; "it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my

servants, who are in fact _my_ servants, receiving meat and wages from

me, and whom I most wish to be happy and comfortable in their

circumstances should be thus harassed and rendered miserable--I will

interfere in spite of all obloquy." He went in to the fore-kitchen,

"What is the matter? What is the meaning of all this disturbance here?"

"Matter, son! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged

by such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I

am determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more

servants of his hiring."

So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one

of the maidens that wrought afield, whose bright complexion and sly

looks had roused the lady's resentment, was standing sobbing in a

corner. "What is this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?"

"I hae done naething ava that's wrang, sir; but she's never aff my tap;

an' I'm glad I'm now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an'

turned me away, I wad never hae regrettit; but she has ca'd me names

sic afore a' these witnesses, that I'll never get mair service i' the

country. I see nae right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate."

"Nor I either, Sally; but say no more about it; I know you to be a very

faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often enquired; remain in

your place, and _do not_ go away--remember I order it--give no offence

to my mother that you can avoid--be a good girl, as you have heretofore

been, and here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair."

"Oh, God bless him for a kind good soul!" said Sally, as he went out,

and the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.

He rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn; but

it was too late to call and see _the dear child_ that night, so he

returned--joined his mother at supper; was more than usually gay and

talkative, and at last proposed to invite this fair rambler down to

Earlhall to breakfast with them next morning. The lady was almost

paralyzed by this proposal, and groaned in spirit!

"Certainly, son! certainly! your house is your ain; invite ony body to

it you like; nane has a better right! a man may keep ony company he

chooses. Ye'll hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o' the

party?"

"Very great objections, mother; I wish to see this girl, and learn her

history; if I call privately, you will be offended; is it not better to

do this before witnesses? And I am likewise desirous that you should see

her, and be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being

protected from injury. Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little

variety--we will invite Robin, and his sister Miss Margaret, and any

other of that class you chuse."

"O certainly! invite them ilk ane, son--invite a' the riff-raff i' the

parish; your mother has naething to say."

He was stung with this perversity, as well as with his love for _the

child_ on the other hand--he did invite them, and the invitation was

accepted. Down came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in

his blue and gray thread-about coat, with metal buttons, broader than a

Queen Ann's half-crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured

leggums (the best things, by the bye, that ever came in fashion;) and

down came haverel Meg, his sister, _alias_ Miss Peggy, for that day,

with her cork-heeled shoon, and long-waisted gown, covered with broad

stripes, like the hangings of an ancient bed. She had, moreover, a

silken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the lobby, under that a

smart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black curly hair,

slightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morning by

the effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in

such style before, and I wish from my heart that any assembly of our

belles had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind of _show of

cattle_ before the laird, in the same way as the young ladies long ago

were brought in before King Ahasuerus; and she was determined to bear

down Jane to the dust, and carry all before her. The very air and

swagger with which she walked was quite delightful, while her blue

ribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportionally long, having been

left intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like the pennon of a

ship. "It is rather odd, billy Rob," said she, "that we should thus be

invited alang wi' our ain cottar--However, the laird's ha' levels a'--if

she be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us--fock maun bow to

the bush that they seek beild frae."

"E'en sae, Meg; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day,

an' no get out wi' ony o' your vollies o' nonsense."

"Deed, Rob, I'll just speak as I think; there sall naething gyzen i' my

thrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o' your kind o' fock

that dare do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like

the gouk in a June day. Meg maun hae out her say, if it sude burst

Powbeit on her head."

As they came down by the washing-green, Jane joined them, dressed in a

plain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an

earl's son; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother's side.

The old lady was indisposed that day, and unable to come down to

breakfast; and it was not till after the third visit from her son, who

found he was like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was

prevailed on to appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance; Meg

came in with a skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel

when she is sitting on a stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane

appeared last, leading her boy; her air was modest and diffident, yet it

had nothing of that awkward timidity, inseparable from low life, and a

consciousness that one has no right to be there. The lady returned a

slight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly dropt down when she first

cast her eyes upon her beauty, and elegance of form and manner. It was

the last hope that she had remaining, that this girl would be a vulgar

creature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty admired in the

higher circles; now that last hope was blasted. But that which

astonished every one most, was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her

misfortunes had nothing dimmed; their humid lustre was such, that it was

impossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing

abashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he

could, but of that he was no great master; he then lifted little George,

kissed him, and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. "And

where have you been so long away from me, my dear little fellow? Tell me

where you have been all this while."

"Fal away, at auld Geoldie's, little Davie's falel, ye ken; him 'at

has 'e fine bonny 'halp wi' a stipe down hele, and anolel down

hele.--Little Davie vely good till Geoge, an vely queel callant."

Every one laughed aloud at George's description of the whelp, and his

companion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover

where their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served;

the old lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her

just with what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or

subject on which she was previously talking; for all the time the good

old dowager was addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of

her dress--looking at the shape of her stays--casting a glance at the

laird, and occasionally at Jane--then adjusting a voluptuous curl that

half-hid her grey eye. She likewise occasionally uttered a vacant hem!

when the lady paused; and, as soon as she ceased, began some observation

of her own. Robin was quite in the fidgets. "Dear Meg, woman, that's no

what her ladyship was speaking about. That's no to the purpose ava."

"Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but

yoursel, hummin an' hawin. Let us hear how weel ye'll speak to the

purpose.--Whisht, sirs! haud a' your tongues; my billy Rob's gaun to mak

a speech."

"Humph!" quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.

"Humph!" returned Meg, "what kind of a speech is that? Is that to the

purpose? If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as

weel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob's aye wantin to

be on his hich horse afore grit folk; now I says till him, Rob, says I,

for you to fa' to afore your betters, and be tryin to speak that vile

nicky-nacky language they ca' English, instead o' being on your hich

horse then, ye are just like a heron walkin on stilts, an' that's but a

daft-like beast. Ye sude mind, says I,--Rob, man, says I, that her

ladyship's ane o' our ain kind o' fock, an' was bred at the same heck

an' manger wi' oursels; an' although she has lightit on a good

tethering, ye're no to think that she's to gi'e hersel airs, an' forget

the good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins."

The lady's cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg

was fallen on the most unlucky; nothing hurt her feelings half so much

as hints of her low extraction. Lindsey, though vexed, could not repress

a laugh at the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable

vulgarity on the other. Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had,

would not have regarded it. She went on. "Ah, Meg, woman! quo' he, ye

ken little thing about it, quo' he; when the sole of a shoe's turned

uppermost, it maks aye but an unbowsome overleather; if ye corn an auld

glide-aver weel, she'll soon turn about her heels, and fling i' your

face."

Robin's whole visage changed; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows

were screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those

were scarcely discernible; his mouth had meanwhile assumed the form and

likeness of one of the long S's on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went

on. "Dear Rob, says I, man, says I, that disna apply to her ladyship

ava, for every thing that she does, an' every thing that she says, shows

her to be a douse hamely body; the very way that she rins bizzin through

the house, an' fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae

pretensions to high gentility."

Lindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all

decorum, began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh

looks, and said she was very much of a lady herself.

"I wat, laird," said she, "I think aye if a body behaves wi' ease, an'

without ony stiffness an' precision, that body never behaves ill; but,

to be sure, you grand fock can say an' do a hantle o' things that winna

be ta'en aff our hands. For my part, when the great fike rase about you

an' Jeany there, I says--says I"----

This was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. "I

beg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy," said he; "we shall attend

to your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it

somewhat. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received

very harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous

of making her some reparation, and to patronize her, as well as this

boy, if I find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall,

moreover, be extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor

blame shall attach to it; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I

have selected you as judges in this matter.--It is impossible,"

continued he, addressing himself to Jane, "to be in your company half an

hour, and not discern that your education has been much above the

sphere of life which you now occupy; but I trust you will find us all

disposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you will be so

good as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed

to your coming among us."

"The events of my life, sir," said she, "have been, like the patriarch's

days, few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in

this district--not on my own account, but for the sake of their names

that are connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless,

since you have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be

ungrateful and imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse

me for the present in withholding my family name, and I will relate to

you the incidents of my short life in a very few words.

"My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or

not I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his

credit and dealings were very extensive. My mother died twelve years

ago, leaving my father with no more children than another daughter and

myself. I received my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who

was two years older than I. She began to manage my father's household

affairs at thirteen years of age, and I went to reside with an aunt in

East-Lothian, who had been married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and

occupied a farm herself.

"Whether it originated in his not finding any amusement at home, or in

consciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, I know not, but our

father about this time fell by degrees from attending to his business in

a great measure, and sunk into despondency. My sister's letters to me

were full of regret; my aunt being in a declining state of health I

could not leave her for some months. At last she died, leaving me a

legacy of five hundred pounds, when I hastened home, and did all in my

power to assist my sister in comforting our father, but he did not long

survive, and dying insolvent, we not only lost our protector, but had

nothing to depend on save my little legacy and our own industry and

exertions. We retired to a small lodging; none of our friends thought

proper to follow us to our retreat; and now, bereaved as we were of our

natural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a

friendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits; a

certain dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey

upon her, and it was with real sorrow and concern that I perceived it

daily gaining ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I

tried always to console her as much as I could for our loss, and often,

to cheer her, assumed a gaiety that was foreign to my heart; but we

being quite solitary, her melancholy always returned upon her with

double weight. About this time I first saw a young officer with my

sister, who introduced him carelessly to me as _the Captain_. She went

out with him, and when she returned I asked who he was. "Bless me,

Jane," said she, "do you not know the Captain?" I was angry at the

flippancy of her manner, but she gave me no further satisfaction."

At the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient,

changing his position on the seat every moment.

"Things went on in this manner," continued Jane, "for some time longer,

and still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew

pale, and her eye heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed

on her account.

"For nine or ten days she went out by herself for an hour or so every

day, without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I

arose my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any

breakfast; but nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with

dreadful apprehensions. I went about to every place where I thought

there was the least chance of hearing any news of her, yet durst I not

ask for her openly at any one for fear of the answer I might receive;

for, on considering the late dejected state of her mind, I expected

nothing else than to hear that she had put an end to her existence. My

search was fruitless; night came, and still no word of my sister; I

passed it without sleep; but, alas! the next night, and many others,

came and past over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a

gleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict

and extensive search, and even to have her advertised; yet still all my

exertions proved of no avail.

"During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there

could not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I

was. Only seventeen years of age; the last of all my father's house;

left in a lodging by myself; all my neighbours utter strangers to me,

and not a friend on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs; wretched I

was, and deemed it impossible to be more so; but I had over-rated my

griefs, and was punished for my despondency.

"When some months had passed away, one spring morning, I remember it

well! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said, _a

man_ wanted to see me. 'A man!' said I; 'What man wishes to speak with

me?'

"'I don't know, mem, he is like a countryman.'

"He was shown in; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size.

I was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were

singularly marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his

message, and there was something in his air and manner that greatly

alarmed me. 'So you said your name is so so?' said he again.

"'I did; pray, tell me what is your business with me?'

"'There is a lady at our house, who I suppose wishes to speak with

you.'

"'What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?'

"He named some place on the London road towards Berwick.

"'What lady can possibly be there,' said I, 'that knows any thing of

me?'

"He looked at me again.--'Pray, mem, have you a sister? Or had you ever

any that you know of?'

"This query paralyzed me. I sunk down on the sofa; but as soon as I

could speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him?

"'Only since Friday evening last,' said he. 'She was taken ill at the

inn on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house,

for the sake of better and more quiet accommodation; but she has been

very ill,--_very_ ill, indeed. There is now hope that she will recover,

but she is still _very_ ill. I hope you are the lady she named when all

was given over; at all events, you must go and see.'

"Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise.

We reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless

and impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which I found

her! My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the

woeful spectacle! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or

lift an eye, and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having

some days before been delivered of this dear child on my knee."

At this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing

strongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain

himself no longer. He started to his feet--stretched his arms toward

her, and, after gasping a little for breath,--"Wh--wh--what!" said he,

sighing, "are you not then the _mother_ of little George?"

"A poor substitute only for a better, sir; but the only parent he has

ever known, or is likely to know."

"And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and

shame, for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer

a kin to you than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and

qualities of a female mind deserved admiration--But proceed. I am much

to blame for interrupting you."

"I never for another moment departed from my sister's bed-side until she

breathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival.

During that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or

take the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final

exit; but then she gave me such a look!--So full of kindness and sorrow,

that language could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It

was a farewell look, which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never

to be obliterated while that holds intercourse with humanity.

"The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of

my heart, with the mysterious circumstances which accompanied it,

deprived me for some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by

night, and my reflections during the day, were all so much blent and

inter-mingled, and so wholly of the same tendency, that they became all

as a dream together; so that I could not, on a retrospect, discover in

the least, nor ever can to this day, what part of my impressions were

real, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were the etchings of fancy

impressed on my distempered mind. If the man I mentioned before, who

owned the house, had not looked after the necessary preparations for the

funeral, I know not how or when it would have been set about by any

orders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body, which they

suffered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly passive.

That such a thing as my sister's funeral was approaching, occurred but

rarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of

unexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped

away, leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable

confusion.

"The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant

weeping, in which I shed abundance of tears. I then manifested an

ardent desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly well. I

considered him as the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and

well-descended family, and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon

earth. When I first saw him, he was lying on an old woman's knee; and

when I stooped to look at him, he, with a start of his whole frame,

fixed his young unstable eyes on me, and stretched out his little spread

hands toward me, in which position he remained steadily for a

considerable time. This was so marked and uncommon, that all the

standers-by took notice of it; and the woman who held him said, 'See!

saw ye ever the like o' that? I never saw the like o' that a' my life!

It is surely impossible he can ken ye?'

"It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could

not help viewing it as a movement effected by the Great Spirit of

universal nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his

helpless innocence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in

which he had not another friend remaining, until he could think and act

for himself. I adopted him that moment in my heart as my son--I took him

into my arms as a part of myself!--That simple motion of my dear child

fixed my resolution with respect to him at once, and that resolution

never has been altered nor injured in the smallest part.

"I hired a nurse for him; and, it being term time, gave up my house, and

sold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to

a cottage at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally

with the nurse and child; and became so fond of him, that no previous

period of my life, from the days of childhood, was ever so happy;

indeed, my happiness was centered solely in him, and if he was well, all

other earthly concerns vanished. I found, however, that after paying the

rent of the house, the expences of the two funerals, and the nurse's

wages, that my little stock was reduced nearly one-third; and fearing

that it would in a little while be wholly exhausted, I thought the

sooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better; so leaving the

remainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness or great

necessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden from your

farmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and

educating him, independent of charitable assistance; and I cannot

describe to you how happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of

my remaining property, with the small earnings of my own industry, was

likely to prove more than an equivalent to my yearly expences. I have

from the very first acknowledged little George as my own son. I longed

for a retirement, where I should never be recognised by any former

acquaintance. In such a place I thought my story might gain credit; nor

could I think in any degree to stain the name of my dear departed sister

by any surmises or reflections that might in future attach to it by

telling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he really been

my son, I cannot judge; but instead of feeling any degradation at being

supposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I

could not bear the contrary to be supposed.

"Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable

mystery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rectitude of her

behaviour, and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly

carry on an amour without suffering me to perceive any signs of it. She

had spoke but little to the people with whom I found her; but their

impressions were, that she was not married, and I durst not enquire

farther; for, rather than have discovered his father to be unworthy, I

chose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it, and I could not think

favourably of one who had deserted her in such circumstances. There was

no man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least suspect, if it was

not the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was the least

likely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw."

Here Lindsey again sprung to his feet. "Good God!" said he, "there is

something occurs to my mind--the most extraordinary circumstance--if it

be really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surname, but

there is a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which

renders it absolutely necessary that I should be informed of this."

Jane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to

make it public, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in

his ear. She then whispered the name M'----y.

"What!" said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, "of the

late firm M'----, Reynolds and Co.?"

"The same, sir."

The positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant

exclamations that he uttered, cannot here be all described. The other

three personages in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his

reason. After repeating, till quite out of breath, "It is she! it is

she! it is the same! it is the same!" and, pressing both her hands in

his, he exclaimed, "Eternal Providence! how wonderful are thy ways, and

how visible is thy superintendance of human affairs, even in the common

vicissitudes of life! but never was it so visible as in this! My dear

child," continued he, taking little George in his arms, who looked at

him with suspicion and wonder, "by how many fatal and untoward events,

all seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of human

interference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian! and how

firmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee!

But thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me; nor shall your

beautiful guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her

virtues have captivated. This house shall henceforth be a home to you

both, and all my friends shall be friends to you, for you are my own."

Here the old lady sprung forward, and, laying hold of her son by the

shoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. "Consider what you are saying,

Lindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your

family. You are raving mad--that child can no more be yours than it is

mine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have

indeed lost your reason? I say, where is the consistency in supposing

that child can be yours?"

"It is impossible," said Robin.

"I say it's nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob," quoth Meg. "Hand your

tongue, ye ken naething about it--it's just as possible that it may be

his as another's--I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it's no comed there

by sympathy! Od, if they war to come by sympathy"----

Here Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence,--a

circumstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,--for of

all things he would have liked to have had Meg's ideas, at full length,

of children being produced by sympathy.

"I beg your pardon," said Lindsey. "I must have appeared extravagant in

my rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the

circumstances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very

soon, and very easily explained."

He then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another. Jane

scarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for his

rhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium of

amazement, which kept every other feeling in suspense.

In a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his

hand.--"Here is the last letter," said he, "ever I received from my

brave and only brother; a short extract from which will serve fully to

clear up the whole of this very curious business."

He then read as follows:--"Thus, you see, that for the last fortnight

the hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and

grievous; but TO-MORROW will be decisive one way or another. I have a

strong prepossession that I will not survive the battle; yea, so deeply

is the idea impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute

certainty; therefore, I must confide a secret with you which none in the

world know, or in the least think of, save another and myself. I was

privately married before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her

person, and amiable in her manners, but without any fortune. We

resolved, for reasons that must be obvious to you, to keep our marriage

a secret, until I entered to the full possession of my estate, and if

possible till my return; but now, (don't laugh at me, my dear brother,)

being convinced that I shall never return, I entreat you, as a last

request, to find her out and afford her protection. It is probable, that

by this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia M'----y,

daughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm M'----y and

Reynolds. She left her home with me in private, at my earnest request,

though weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a little angel

of mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of your

friendship and protection. The last letter that I had from her was dated

from London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet

for Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near

Bristo-Port, you will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort

our mother; and O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife! We

have an awful prospect before us, but we are a handful of brave

determined friends, resolved to conquer or die together."

The old lady now snatched little George up in her arms, pressed him to

her bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him.--"He is indeed my

grandson! he is! he is!" cried she. "My own dear George's son, and he

shall henceforth be cherished as my own."

"And he shall be mine too, mother," added Lindsey; "and heir of

all the land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so

disinterestedly adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still

be his mother, if she will accept of a heart that renders her virtues

every homage, and beats in unison with her own to every tone of pity and

benevolence."

Jane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while

the tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the

pleasing intelligence she had received of the honour of her regretted

sister, and the rank of her child.--She could not answer a word--she

looked stedfastly at the carpet, through tears, as if examining how it

was wrought--then at a little pearl ring she wore on her finger, and

finally fell to adjusting some of little George's clothes. They were all

silent--It was a quaker meeting, and might have continued so much

longer, had not the spirit fortunately moved Meg.

"By my certy, laird! but ye hae made her a good offer! an' yet she'll

pretend to tarrow at takin't! But ye're sure o' her, tak my word for

it.--Ye dinna ken women. Bless ye! the young hizzies mak aye the

greatest fike about the things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by

mysel;--when Andrew Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i'

the dark, I wad hae cried whispering, 'Get away wi' ye! ye bowled-like

shurf!--whar are ye comin pechin an' fuffin to me?' Bless your heart!

gin Andrew had run away when I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an'

grippit him by the coat-tails, an' brought him back. Little wist I this

morning, an' little wist mae than I, that things war to turn out this

way, an' that Jeany was to be our young lady! She was little like it

that night she gaed away greetin wi' the callant on her back! Dear Rob,

man, quo' I to my billy, what had you and my lady to do wi' them?

Because her day an' yours are ower, do ye think they'll no be courting

as lang as the warld stands; an' the less that's said about it the

better--I said sae!"

"And you said truly, Meg," rejoined Lindsey. "Now, pray, Miss Jane, tell

me what you think of my proposal?"

"Indeed, sir," answered she, "you overpower me. I am every way unworthy

of the honour you propose for my acceptance; but as I cannot part with

my dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take

care of him."

"Well, I consent that you shall stay with my mother as her companion. A

longer acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of

events has tended so strongly to excite."

It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds

of matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their

acquaintances. Barnaby is the laird's own shepherd, and overseer of all

his rural affairs, and he does not fail at times to remind his gentle

mistress of his dream about the _eagle_ and the _corbie_.

END OF THE WOOL-GATHERER.

THE HUNT OF EILDON.

ANCIENT.

CHAPTER I.

"I hope the king will not hunt to-day," said Gale, as he sat down on the

top of the South Eildon, and stretched out his lazy limbs in the sun.

"If he keep within doors to-day with his yelping beagles, I shall have

one day's peace and ease; and my lambs shall have one day's peace and

ease; and poor Trimmy shall have one day's peace and ease too. Come

hither to me, Trimmy, and tell me what is the reason that you will not

hunt with the king's two beagles?"

Trimmy came near, laid her paw on her master's knee, and looked him in

the face, but she could not tell him what was the reason that she would

not hunt with the king's two beagles, Mooly and Scratch.

"I say, tell me my good Trimmy, what you ail at these beautiful hounds?

You wont to be the best follower of a track in all the Merse and Leader;

but now, whenever you hear the sound of the horn, and the opening swell

of the harriers, you take your tail between your legs and set off for

home, as there were something on the hill that were neither good nor

cannie. You are a very sensible beast, Trimmy, but you have some strange

fancies and prejudices that I cannot comprehend."

Trimming cocked her ears, and looked towards the Abbey, then at her

master, and then at the Abbey again.

"Ah! I fear you hear them coming that you are cocking your ears at that

rate. Then if that be the case, good morning to you, Trimmy."

It was neither the king nor his snow-white beagles that Trimmy winded,

but poor Croudy, Gale's neighbour shepherd, who was coming sauntering up

the brae, with his black lumpish dog at his foot, that was fully as

stupid as himself, and withal as good-natured. Croudy was never lifting

his eyes from the ground, but moving on as if he had been enumerating

all the little yellow flowers that grew on the hill. Yet it was not for

want of thought that Croudy was walking in that singular position, with

his body bent forward, and the one ear turned down towards the ground,

and the other up. No, no! for Croudy was trying to think all that he

could; and all that he could do he could make nothing of it. Croudy had

seen and heard wonderful things! "Bless me and my horn!" said he, as he

sat down on a stone to rest himself, and try if he could bring his

thoughts to any rallying point. It was impossible--they were like a hive

of bees when the queen is taken from their head.

He took out the little crooked ewe-horn that he kept as a charm; he had

got it from his mother, and it had descended to him from many

generations; he turned it round in the one hand, and then round in the

other hand--he put it upon his finger and twirled it. "Bless me an' my

horn!" said he again. Then leaning forward upon his staff, he looked

aslant at the ground, and began to moralize. "It is a growing

world--ay--the gerse grows; the lambs eat it--they grow--ay--we eat

them--we grow--there it goes!--men, women, dogs, bairns, a' eat--a'

grow; the yird eats up a'--it grows--men eat women--they grow--what

comes o' them?--Hoh! I'm fixed now!--I'm at the end o' my tether.--I

might gang up the hill to Gale, an' tell him what I hae seen an' what I

hae heard; but I hae four great fauts to that chiel. In the first place,

he's a fool--good that! In the second place, he's a scholar, an' speaks

English--bad! In the third place, he likes the women--warst ava!--and,

fourthly and lastly, he misca's a' the words, and ca's the streamers

the Roara Boriawlis--ha! ha! ha!--Wha wad converse wi' a man, or wha

_can_ converse wi' a man, that ca's the streamers the Roara Boriawlis?

Fools hae aye something about them no like ither fock! Now, gin I war to

gang to sic a man as that, an' tell him that I heard a dog speakin', and

another dog answering it, what wad he say? He wad speak English; sae ane

wad get nae sense out o' him. If I war to gang to the Master o' Seaton

an' tak my aith, what wad he say? Clap me up i' the prison for a daft

man an' a fool. I couldna bide that. Then again, if we lose our

king--an' him the last o' the race--Let me see if I can calculate what

wad be the consequence? The English--Tut! the English! wha cares for

them? But let me see now--should the truth be tauld or no tauld?--That's

the question. What's truth? Ay, there comes the crank! Nae man can tell

that--for what's truth to ane is a lee to another--Mumps, ye're very

hard on thae fleas the day--Truth?--For instance; gin my master war to

come up the brae to me an' say, 'Croudy, that dog's useless,' that wadna

be truth to me--But gin I war to say to him, 'Master, I heard a dog

speak, an' it said sae an' sae; an' there was another dog answered it,

an' it said sae an' sae,' that wad be truth to me; but then it wadna be

truth to him--Truth's just as it is ta'en--Now, if a thing may be outher

truth or no truth, then a' things are just the same--No--that disna haud

neither--Mumps, ye're no gaun to leave a sample o' thae fleas the day,

man--Look up, like a farrant beast--have ye nae pity on your master, nor

nae thought about him ava, an' him in sic a plisky?--I wadna be just sae

like a stump an' I war you, man----Bless me an' my horn! here's the

Boreawlis comin' on me--here's the northern light."

"Good-morrow to you, Croudy."

"Humph!"

"You seem to be very thoughtful and heavy-hearted to-day, honest Croudy.

I fear pretty Pery has given you a bad reception last night."

"Humph!--women!--women!"

"I hope she did not mention the kiln-logie, Croudy? That was a sad

business! Croudy; some men are ill to know!"

"See, whaten white scares are yon, Gale, aboon the Cowdyknowes an'

Gladswood linn? Look ye, they spread an' tail away a' the gate to the

Lammer-Law--What ca' ye yon, Gale?"

"Some exhalation of the morning."

"What?--Bless me an' my horn! that's warst ava!--I thought it wad be

some Boriawlis, Gale--some day Boriawlis; but I didna think o' aught sae

high as this--ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Croudy went his way laughing along the side of the hill, speaking to

Mumps one while, moralizing about truth and the language of dogs and

fairies another, and always between taking a hearty laugh at Gale. "Come

away, Mumps," said he; "I can crack some wi' you, though ye're rather

slow i' the uptake; but I can crack nane wi' a man that ca's the

streamers a Roara Boriawlis, an' a white clud, an' Exaltation--Na, na,

that will never do."

Croudy sauntered away down into the Bourgeon to be out of sight, and

Gale went lightsomely away to the top of the North-east Eildon; and

there, on one of the angles of the old Roman Camp, laid him down to

enjoy the glorious prospect; and, sure, of all the lovely prospects in

our isle, this is the most lovely. What must it have been in those days

when all the ruins of monastery, tower, and citadel, which still make

the traveller to stand in wonder and admiration, were then in their full

splendour. Traveller! would you see Scotland in all its wild and

majestic grandeur? sail along its western firths from south to

north--Would you see that grandeur mellowed by degrees into softness?

look from the top of Ben-Lomond--But would you see an amphitheatre of

_perfect beauty_, where nothing is wanting to enrich the scene? seat

yourself on the spot where Gale now lay, at the angle of the Roman Camp,

on the top of the North-east Eildon.

Short time did he enjoy the prospect and the quiet in which he

delighted. First the heads of two noblemen appeared on the hill beneath

him, then came a roe by him at full speed. Trimmy would fain have hunted

her, but as the shepherd deemed that the business was some way connected

with the royal sport, he restrained her. The two noblemen some time

thereafter sounded a bugle, and then in a moment the king and his

attendants left the Abbey at full speed; and how beautiful was their

winding ascent up the hill! The king had betted with the Earl of Hume

and Lord Belhaven, seven steers, seven palfreys, seven deer-greyhounds,

and seven gold rings, that his two snow-white hounds, Mooly and Scratch,

would kill a roe-deer started on any part of the Eildon hills, and leave

the Abbey walk with him after she was started. After the bet was fairly

taken, the king said to the two noblemen, "You are welcome to your

loss, my lords. Do you know that I could bet the half of my realm on the

heads of these two hounds?"

The two lords held their peace, but they were determined to win if they

could, and they did not blow the horn, as agreed on, immediately when

the roe started, but sauntered about, to put off time, and suffer the

trail to cool. The two hounds were brought up, and loosed at the spot;

they scarcely shewed any symptoms of having discovered the scent. The

king shook his head; and Hume, who loved the joke dearly, jeered the

king about his wager, which his majesty only answered by speaking to one

of the hounds that stood next to him. "Ah! Mooly, Mooly, if you deceive

me, it is the first time; but I have another matter to think on than you

this morning, Mooly." Mooly fawned on her royal master; jumped up at the

stirrup, and took his foot playfully in her mouth, while Keryl, the

king's steed, laid back his ears, and snapped at her, in a half-angry,

half-playful mood. This done, Mooly turned her long nose to the wind;

scented this way and that way, and then scampering carelessly over the

brow of the hill, she opened in a tone so loud and so sprightly that it

made all the Eildons sound in chorus to the music. Scratch joined with

her elegant treble, and away they went like two wild swans, sounding

over the hill.

"Trimmy! Trimmy! my poor Trimmy!" cried Gale, vexed and astonished;

"Trimmy, halloo! hie, hunt the deer, Trimmy! Here, here, here!"

No; Trimmy would never look over her shoulder, but away she ran with all

her might home to Eildon-Hall. "The plague be in the beast," said Gale

to himself, "if ever I saw any thing like that! There is surely

something about these two hounds that is scarcely right."

Round and round the hills they went side by side, and still the riders

kept close up with them. The trail seemed to be warm, and the hounds

keen, but yet no deer was to be discovered. They stretched their course

to the westward, round Cauldshields Hill, back over Bothendean Moor, and

again betook them to the Eildons; still no deer was to be seen! The two

hounds made a rapid stretch down towards Melrose; the riders spurred in

the same direction. The dogs in a moment turning short, went out between

the two eastern hills, distancing all the riders, whom they left

straggling up the steep after them as they could, and when these came

over the height there was a fine roe-deer lying newly slain, and the two

snow-white hounds panting and rolling themselves on the grass beside

her. The king claimed his wager, but Hume objected, unless his majesty

could prove that it was the same deer that they had started at the same

place in the morning. The king had the greatest number of voices in his

favour, but the earl stood to his point. "Is it true, my liege lord,"

said an ancient knight to the king, "that these two beautiful hounds

have never yet been unlieshed without killing their prey?"

"Never," returned the king.

"And is it equally true," continued the old knight, "that to this day

they have never been seen kill either roe, deer, or any other creature?"

"That is a most extraordinary circumstance," said the king; "pause until

I recollect--No; I do not know that any eye hath ever yet seen them take

their prey."

"I heard it averred last night," said the old man, "that if they are

kept sight of for a whole day the deer is never seen, nor do they ever

catch any thing; and that the moment they get out of sight, there the

deer is found slain, nobody knows how. I took note of it, and I have

seen it this day verified. Pray, is this a fact, my liege?"

"I never before thought of it, or noted it," said the king; "but as far

as my memory serves me, I confess that it has uniformly been as you

say."

"Will your majesty suffer me to examine these two hounds?" said the old

man. "Methinks there is something very odd about them--Sure there was

never any animal on earth had eyes or feet such as they have."

The two beagles kept aloof, and pretended to be winding some game round

the top of the hill.

"They will not come now," said the king; "you shall see them by and by."

"If consistent with your majesty's pleasure," continued the aged knight,

"where--how--or when did you get these two hounds?"

"I got them in a most extraordinary way, to be sure!" replied the king,

in a thoughtful and hesitating mood.

"Your majesty does not then chuse to say how, or where, or from whom it

was that you had them?" said the old knight.

The king shook his head.

"I will only simply ask this," continued he; "and I hope there is no

offence.--Is it true that you got these hounds at the very same time

that the beautiful Elen, and Clara of Rosline, were carried off by the

fairies?"

The king started--fixed his eyes upon the ground--raised his hands, and

seemed gasping for breath. All the lords were momentarily in the same

posture; the query acted on them all like an electrical shock. The old

man seemed to enjoy mightily the effect produced by his insinuations--He

drew still nearer to the king.

"What is it that troubles your majesty?" said he. "What reflections have

my simple questions raised in your mind?--Your majesty, I am sure, can

have no unpleasant reflections on that score?"

"Would to the Virgin Mary that it were even so!" said the king.

"How is it possible," continued the officious old man, "that any thing

relating to two dogs can give your majesty trouble? Pray tell us all

about them--Who was it you got them from?"

"I do not know, and if I did----"

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

The king looked at the old man, and held his peace.

"Did you buy them, or borrow them?" continued he.

"Neither!" was the answer.

"What then did you give in exchange for them?"

"Only a small token."

"And pray, if your majesty pleases, what might that token be?"

"Who dares to ask that?" said the king, with apparent trouble of mind.

"Would you know your pledge again if you saw it?" said the old man,

sarcastically.

"Who are you, sir?" said the king, proudly, "that dares to question your

sovereign in such a manner?"

"Who am I!" said the old man. "That is a good jest! That is such a

question to ask at one who has scarcely ever been from your side, since

you were first laid in your cradle!"

"I know the face," said the king, "but all this time I cannot remember

who you are.--My Lord of Hume, do you know who the reverend old

gentleman is?" And in saying this his majesty turned a little aside with

the earl.

"Do I know who he is?" said Hume. "Yes, by Saint Lawrence I do--I know

him as well as I do your majesty. Let me see--It is very singular that I

cannot recollect his name--I have seen the face a thousand times--Is he

not some abbot, or confessor, or----No--Curse me, but I believe he is

the devil!"

The earl said this in perfect jocularity, because he could not remember

the old man's name; but when he looked at the king, he perceived that

his eyes were fixed on him in astonishment. The earl's, as by sympathy,

likewise settled by degrees into as much seriousness as they were

masters of, and there the two stood for a considerable time, gazing at

one another, like two statues.

"I was only saying so in jest, my liege," said Hume; "I did not once

think that the old gentleman was the devil. Why are you thoughtful?"

"Because, now when I think of it, he hinted at some things which I am

certain no being on earth knew of, save myself, and another, who cannot

possibly divulge them."

They both turned slowly about at the same instant, curious to take

another look of this mysterious old man; but when fairly turned round

they did not see him.

"What has become of the old man," said the king, "that spoke to me just

now?"

"Here, sire!" said one.

"Here!" said another.

"Here!" said a third; all turning at the same time to the spot where

the old man and his horse stood, but neither of them were there.

"How is this?" said the king, "that you have let him go from among you

without noting it?"

"He must have melted into air, he and his horse both," said they; "else

he could not otherwise have left us without being observed."

The king blessed himself in the name of the Holy Virgin, and all the

chief saints in the calendar. The Earl of Hume swore by the greater part

of them, and cursed himself that he had not taken a better look at the

devil when he was so near him, as no one could tell if ever he would

have such a chance again. Douglas said he hoped there was little doubt

of that.