On fire for high-born dame,
To win her smile, with sword and spear,
I’d seek a warrior’s fame;
But since no more stern deeds of blood
The gentle fair may move,
I’ll woo in softer—better mood,
The ladye that I love.
For helmet bright with steel and gold,
And plumes that flout the sky,
I’ll bear a mind of hardier mould,
And thoughts that sweep as high.
For scarf athwart my corslet cast,
With her fair name y-wove,
I’ll have her pictured in my breast—
The ladye that I love.
No mettled steed through battle-throng,
Shall bear me bravely on,
But pride shall make my spirit strong,
Where honours may be won:
Among the great of mind and heart,
My prowess I will prove;
And thus I’ll win, by gentler art,
The ladye that I love.
R. C.
PAY YOUR DEBT!
Jock Colquhoun was a clever journeyman painter of the famous Old Town
of Edinburgh, very much given, unfortunately, to Saturday evening
potations, which was the cause why he never found himself, poor fellow,
any richer one Monday than another, and generally lived during the rest
of the week in, to say the least of it, a very desultory manner. Jock
was a long slip of a lad, with a bright intelligent face and a wofully
battered hat, and the whole man of him was encased, from neck to
heel, in one glazed suit—I was going to say, of clothes, but I should
rather say, of oil-paint; for, to tell the truth, his attire consisted
rather more of the one material than the other. He was universally
reputed as a very clever workman; but, then, every body said, what
matters it that he can make five shillings a-week more than any of
his fellow-journeymen, if he is sure every Saturday, when he gets his
wages, _to go upon the scuff_, and so pass the half of the week in
spending, not in gaining? Jock, however, had many good points about
him; and it was, perhaps, less owing to his own dispositions than to
the influence of evil company, that he got into such bad habits. He was
such a good fellow that he would at any time part his money with an old
crony out of bread, or treat to a can or a bottle any working brother
who had got through his money a little before him, and who happened to
feel rather dry upon some sunshiny Wednesday. In his profession he was
matchless at all superior kinds of work. If his employers had any thing
to do that required an extraordinary degree of taste or dexterity, Jock
was set to it, and he invariably managed it (beer and whisky aside) to
their entire satisfaction. Jock might have long ago been foreman to
his masters: nay, he might have set up as a general artist, and, with
perseverance equal to his talent, would have been sure to do well. But
gill-stoups were his lions in the way, and the deceitfulness of drink
had beset him; and Jock, from year to year, was just the same glazed
and battered, but withal rather spruce-looking fellow, as ever.
It would have been altogether impossible for any such man as Jock to
carry on the war, if he had not had one howff,[4] above all others,
where he enjoyed a little credit. This was an eating-house in the
Canongate, kept by one Luckie Wishart, a decent widow of about forty,
with four or five children, who had been pleased to cast an eye of
particular favour upon the shining exterior of our hero. A pot sable
upon a ground argent pointed out this house to the passers by, even
if they had not been informed of its character by the savoury steam
which always proceeded from it between the hours of one and five P. M.,
and certain spectral and unfinished pies which ran in a row along the
sole of her little window, level with the street, as well as a larger
display of the same article on a board half way down her somewhat
steep and whitewashed stair. Luckie Wishart also sold liquors; but she
was far too respectable a person to let Jock spend his wages at one
bouse in her house. She always, as she said, shanked him off, whenever
he came there of a Saturday night, and it was only when his pockets
were empty, and no provisions to be had for the working days of the
week, that he resorted to her. Generally about the Tuesdays, Jock came
briskly down into her culinary Tartarus, quite sobered and hungry,
sending his voice briskly along the passage before him, as if defending
himself by anticipation from a shower of reproaches which he knew she
would bestow upon him:—“Nothing of the kind,” he would cry; “nothing
of the kind—all a mistake—’pon my honour.” There was generally, it
may be supposed, fully as much scolding and railing as he could have
anticipated; but the end of the jest always was, that Jock got snug
into some corner of Luckie’s own particular den, where he was regaled
with a plate of something or other, garnished always with a few last
words of rebuke from the lady, like the droppings after a thunderstorm,
which he always contrived, however, to stomach with his beef, without
manifesting any very great degree of irritation. There is something
ominous in the act of drawing in one’s stool at the fireside of a
comfortable widow. It is apt to make a young man feel rather ticklish,
even although he may never have thought of her before, except as a
good cook. So it was with Jock, and the idea might have been fatal to
his visits to Luckie Wishart’s (for, to speak the truth, she was no
great beauty), if dire hunger, which tames lions, had not absolutely
compelled him to continue the practice. In general, when Jock came in
with his week’s gains, he flung a few shillings upon the dresser, as
part payment of what he had ate and drank during the past few days,
reserving the rest for the bouse-royal. But, notwithstanding all these
occasional deposits to account, his score got always the longer the
longer, until it at last went fairly off at the bottom of a cupboard
door, and had to be “brought forward” on the end of a chest of drawers.
“That’s a shocking bad hat you’ve got,” said Luckie to him one day,
without any idea that she was anticipating a favourite English phrase
by some years. “Of course, there’s nae chance of such a drucken
blackguard as you ever being able to buy a new ane. But what wad you
say, John, if I were to gie ye ane mysel’?”
“I would say, much oblige t’ye, ma’am,” answered Jock, now for the
first time in his life called by his proper Christian name.
“Here is one, then,” said the widow, and at the same time produced a
decent-looking chapeau, which, she said, had belonged to _him that was
away_—meaning her late husband—and had only been three times on his
head at the kirk, when, puir man, he was carried without it to the
kirk-yard.
Jock accepted the hat with great thankfulness, and made his old one
skimmer into Luckie’s fire, where, it is needless to say, it was
speedily roasted in its own grease.
“Dear sake, Jock, man,” said Mrs Wishart, some days afterwards, “what
kind o’ a landlady hae ye got at hame? She maun be nae hand at the
shirts, I reckon; for fient a bit can ane ken ye on a Monday frae what
ye are on a Saturday. Ye may be as touzly as ye like i’ the outside o’
your claes, but I wad aye like to see a man decent-like next the skin.”
“Deed, mistress,” said Jock, “to let ye into a secret, I have nae great
stock o’ linen, and whiles Mrs Ormiston’s a wee hurried in getting a
shirt ready for me. I’m a gude deal between the hand and the mouth in
that respect.”
“Ye’re just the greatest ne’er-do-weel ever I kenned,” replied Mrs
Wishart; “but yet, reprobate as ye are, I canna think o’ seeing ye gaun
that gate frae ae week’s end to anither. Here’s four gude shirts that
I hae unco little use for now-a-days. Better ye should wear them, than
that they should gang to the moths. Tak them hame wi’ ye, man, and mak
yoursel’ something trig, and dinna gang to think that I’m aye to be
gi’ing ye the buffet without the bite.”
Jock did as he was bid, and towards the end of the week Luckie Wishart
asked him “if he ever thought o’ taking a walk on a Sunday evening wi’
his lass to Restalrig, to treat her wi’ curds and cream, or ony thing
o’ that kind?”
“Oh, I daresay I have, mistress,” said Jock, “in my day. But,” added
he, looking askance at his resplendent sleeves, “somehow or other I’ve
fallen out of a suit of Sunday claes, and, of course, nae lass ’ll gang
wi’ a chiel like a beggar.”
“Weel, Jock,” said the lady, “I think ye canna do better than just step
into my auld gudeman’s claes bodily, and let us hae nae mair wark about
it.”
This was accompanied with a look so significant, that Jock could not
pretend to misunderstand it. He all at once felt as if the stool which
he had drawn in towards the fireside was burning under him, while all
the burnished covers on the opposite wall looked like so many moons
dancing in troubled water. “Od, mistress,” he stammered out, “are ye
serious?”
“Ay, that I am,” answered she; “and dinna let your modesty wrang ye, my
man, an’ ye be wise. Ye see every thing here ready to your hand; and if
ye just be steady a bit, as I’m sure ye will be, wi’ me to look after
baith your meat and your winnings, ye may be the snuggest painter lad
in the town. What wi’ what _ye_ can make, and what wi’ what _I_ can
make, we’ll be very weel, or I’m muckle mista’en.”
“But, Luckie,” said Jock, “I maun get my ain consent first; and that,
I’m feared, it’ll not be sae easy to get. There was a lass ——”
“Oh, very weel, John,” said Mrs Wishart; “of course ae man may lead a
horse to the water, but twenty winna gar him drink. There’s some folk
that dinna ken what’s gude for them, and ye’re ane o’ them. But see,
lad,” she added, opening up the cupboard door, “what a score ye hae
here! Twa pounds fifteen shillings and eightpence. When will ye be gaun
to pay that?”
“I suppose I maun pay’t when I can,” said Jock, striding sturdily up
stairs into the street.
Next day he was served with a summons to the sheriff’s court for two
pounds fifteen shillings and eightpence, and as he never appeared to
dispute the claim, a writ was allowed against him, warranting either
the incarceration of his person, or the distraining of his goods. Goods
Jock had none; his person therefore came into immediate request among
certain individuals of whose companionship he was not ambitious. It
would be vain to tell all the strange miracles by which he was enabled
for some weeks to elude the pursuit instituted against him. Sometimes
as the officers were entering at the door, he was escaping by the back
window. Once he had to drop himself down two stories into an alley.
At another time, he sprang across a gulf about ten feet wide, between
two garret windows, nine floors from the ground. This course of life
could not continue long. He could not get rest any where to pursue his
ordinary business, and of course he soon found himself upon very short
allowance both as to meat and drink. Just at this crisis, Jock heard
of an expedition which was about to sail from Leith, for the purpose
of colonising Poyais, and through the intervention of an old chum, who
was going thither, he was permitted to join the corps. On the night
before the vessel was to sail, he skulked down to Newhaven, and got
on board along with the family of his friend. He now, for the first
time during three weeks, found himself, as he thought, safe from the
avenging persecution of Luckie Wishart. For one happy night he slept
amidst a parcel of sacks in a corner of the cabin, surrounded on all
hands by squalid and squalling children, whose cries, however, were
nothing to the dread which he had recently entertained for the fell
Dido of the Canongate. Next morning, the sun rose bright, the sails
were set loose, the heart of every man on board beat high with hope,
and Jock’s bosom’s lord sat lightly on his throne—when, oh manacles and
fetters! a boat came alongside, containing a whole bevy of sheriff’s
officers. Jock now thought that it was all over with him; for, simple
man, he believed that he was the sole individual in request. The case,
however, was quite different. On a demand being made for admission
into the vessel, the whole of the passengers, with one consent, raised
their voices against it. “What! let these fellows in!—as well give
up the whole expedition!” The officers pleaded to have at least a
representative sent on board, to show their case to the captain, which,
after a great deal of difficulty, was consented to. One messenger
was accordingly hoisted on board, and proceeded to call the names
of the persons for whom they had captions—Jock Colquhoun among the
number. But personalities of this kind were not to be endured. The
passengers rose in absolute mutiny against the captain, demanded that
he should instantly proceed on the voyage, even although one member
of the expedition was yet to join; and as they feared to let the boat
once more approach the vessel, they insisted that the messenger should
be retained where he was, and carried out to Poyais and back again,
as a punishment for his temerity. It was a mad affair altogether,
and so small an addition to the general frenzy was of little moment.
So the boatswain, or somebody else, “gave the dreadful word,” and,
notwithstanding all the remonstrances of the _detenú_, which were both
loud and vehement, the lessening boat of the officers was soon seen
unwillingly rowing to land, while, instead of any white hand to wave
adieu to those on board, the fist of big Pate Forsyth, the chief of the
fraternity, was observed shaking in impotent rage over the stern, as
much as to say to the captain, “If ever you come back to Leith, ye ken
what ye’ll get.”
Jock soon found himself tolerably comfortable in his new situation.
He had, no doubt, come on board without much luggage, and he was
still the same greasy Pict as ever in respect of his attire. But
then he was not, after all, much behind his neighbours; for if ever
a fit garrison for the care of Adullam was collected since the days
of King David, it was this ship’s company. The whole set resembled a
troop of strolling players, going to act a grand historical drama in
some country town. A gentleman in tartan trousers was to be a kind of
Cincinnatus, alternating between the plough and the cares of state.
A young lad, in a blue bonnet, was to be Chamberlain, and Supreme
Director of Literature and the Arts. Another carried with him all the
materials of a bank, except credit and specie. The other _characters_
and _properties_, to speak theatrically, were all on the same scale;
and if a state could have been founded as easily as a castle of cards
is built, or a puppet-show set in motion, Poyais could have immediately
taken its place among the nations of the earth. In such a system it
was easy to find a place for Jock. The Chamberlain was good enough
to divest himself, in favour of this new friend, of that part of his
commission which referred to the fine arts. Jock was therefore styled
from this day forward, Director Colquhoun; and every one, including
himself, agreed that the case could have only been improved, if he had
happened to have any paints. However, nobody pretended to doubt that,
so far as the fine arts could be cultivated without materials, Mr
Colquhoun would prove himself an efficient member of the corps.
The voyage was a pleasant one, and during the whole time nothing was to
be heard in the vessel but pæans of homage and gratitude to the Cazique
Macgregor, who had sent them out to take possession of his territories.
The only individual who did not partake of the general joy was the
poor _detenú_, whose long gaunt person did not agree with a tropical
climate, and who, therefore, sickened, and threatened to die before
reaching the land. It was in vain that the Chamberlain promised to make
him Lord High Constable of the Kingdom, if he would only keep up his
spirits. Like the poor sparrow, who, in its last moment, refuses the
very finest crumbs held to its mouth, he said it was all humbug to make
him these offers, when it was clear he could never live in such a hot
part of the world as this. He would lay his death, he said, to their
door, and, if at all possible, he would be sure to haunt them after
death. To the great grief of the company, the unfortunate messenger
died on the very day when they cast anchor off the shores of Poyais.
About seventy or eighty individuals, from the Old Town of
Edinburgh—forming the staff of a great empire—now landed on a flat
bushy part of the Mosquito Territory—ominous name!—in the Bay of
Honduras, with the expectation of immediately falling into the
enjoyment of all the luxuries and pleasures which this world can
bestow. They were, indeed, somewhat surprised to find that every thing
was still in its primeval state, and that even their houses were as
yet to be built. However, having found one small opening in the forest
of brushwood, they established themselves there, with such goods and
chattels as they had; and their first duty was to give a decent burial
to the _detenú_, whose body they had brought ashore for that purpose. A
grave having been dug, the Chamberlain, assuming the character of High
Priest of the Kingdom, for want of a better, mounted an old shirt over
his clothes, by way of sacerdotal vestment, and proceeded to read the
funeral service of the church of England over the body. In the very
middle of the most solemn part of this ceremony, a large bird, with a
curious beaky face, somewhat resembling that of the deceased, alighted
upon a tree immediately above the funeral group, and cried, with a loud
shrill voice, what was interpreted by all present (with the aid, no
doubt, of a stricken conscience) into the phrase, “Pay your debt!”
The colonists saw and heard with terror, believing that the spirit
which had lately animated the body before them was now addressing them
in character, according to his threat before death; and, but for the
protection which daylight always gives to the superstitious, the whole
set, including both the civil and military departments of the state,
would have fled from the spot. The Chamberlain saw the nature of the
case, and drew hurriedly towards a conclusion; but yet, at every brief
pause of his voice, there still came in the ear-piercing cry, “Pay your
debt!” Before the grave had been closed, another and another bird of
the same species drew towards the spot, and each lifted up his voice
to the same tune—“Pay your debt”—“Pay your debt”—“Pay your debt”—till
the whole forest seemed possessed by one spirit, and the ghost of the
sheriff’s officer appeared to the distracted senses of the settlers to
have dispersed itself into a whole legion of harpies. The fact was,
that the birds were brought forth by the coolness of the evening,
according to their usual habits, and were now innocently amusing
themselves with their accustomed cry, without the least idea of any
personality towards the Poyaisians. The Chamberlain of the colonists,
who had learned from books of travels that many American birds uttered
something like a sentence of English as their habitual cry, endeavoured
to assuage the alarm of his companions; but, nevertheless, a very
general sense of terror remained.
“It may be all very true,” said Jock Colquhoun, “that the birds of this
country have each a particular word to say; but, od, it’s gayan queer
that the Poyais bird should have pitched upon a thing that jags our
consciences sae sair.”
The first night was spent in a very uncomfortable manner. To a day of
intense heat succeeded a cold dewy night, which struck the limbs of
the unprotected settlers with such severe cramps, that hardly a man
could stir next morning. Their sleep, moreover, was broken occasionally
by the cry of “Pay your debt!” which a few of their feathered friends
kept up at intervals all night. Next day, instead of setting about
the erection of their metropolis and sea-port, as was intended, they
had to attend each other’s sick-beds. Before night several of the
women and children had expired. Next day, and the next again, the same
sickness continued; and in less than a week, half their number were
under the earth. Jock, who had fortunately escaped every mishap except
a rheumatic shoulder, now began to think how much more comfortable he
would have been in Luckie Wishart’s _laigh shop_ in the Canongate of
Edinburgh, than he was on this inhospitable coast, where there was
no prospect of raising so much as a potato for a twelvemonth. “What
a fool I was,” said he, “not to make my quarters good there, as the
honest woman proposed! Oh, to be walking wi’ her down the King’s Park
on a Sunday nicht, even wi’ a’ the five bairns running after us! I’se
warrant the gardens at Restalrig hae nae birds about the bushes that
tell folk to pay their debt; naething o’ the kind there, unless it
be the boord, black letters on a white ground, that says, ‘Pay on
delivery.’”
Hardship had now dispelled from every mind the magnificent ideas with
which they had hitherto been inspired. If the vessel had yet remained
on the coast, the whole of the surviving company, prime minister and
all, would have willingly exchanged their brilliant appointments under
the Cazique for a snug berth on board. But it had departed immediately
after landing them; and there only remained the chance that some other
vessel would pass that way, and take pity on their distress. This,
fortunately, happened in the course of a few days. A vessel bound to
Belize came along the shore, and, on a signal from the unfortunate
Poyaisians, sent a boat to inquire into their case. As only a few
remained alive, it was soon arranged that they should be carried to the
port for which the vessel was bound. With grateful and subdued hearts,
and casting many a mournful glance towards the graves of their friends,
the small remnant of the Poyais expedition betook themselves to the
boat, and sailed off to the vessel. As a sort of parting admonition,
a bird came up at the moment of their departure from the land, and,
pronouncing one shrill, clear “Pay your debt!” flew off into the
interior.
It were needless to relate the various hardships and adventures which
befel Jock Colquhoun before he regained his native shore. Be it enough,
that he immediately sought the cozy den of Luckie Wishart, and _paid
his debt_ in the way originally desired by the lady, who, under the
name of Mrs Colquhoun, continued for many years, with the assistance of
her reformed husband, to regale the good people of the Canongate.
“A flichty chield,” she used to remark to her female friends, “was
whyles the better o’ finding the grund o’ his stamack.”
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Alehouse of particular resort.
CHILDREN.
I may begin with the question of Henry the Fourth of France, when
found by an ambassador at romps with his children, “Are you a father?”
If you are, we may go on with the game—if not, you must pass to the
next article. A curious thing it is, this same fact, that children in
general are only interesting in the eyes of those who are parents,
while brats in particular are held as pests by all but their immediate
father and mother. Some lightheaded author has compared the rush of
children which takes place at the conclusion of family dinners, to
the incursion of the Goths and Vandals. Perhaps it is all true, that
children out of place are not agreeable; but is any thing agreeable
that is out of place? Children, abstracted from the homely details
of their management, and the anxiety which they always occasion, are
a delightful study—a study, I maintain, fitted alike to engage the
speculations of the philosophic, and the affections of the benevolent,
mind. I cannot, I must say, form the idea of a man of extended views
and sympathies, who does not like children.