CHAPTER IV.

As I was wending my way from the hospitable mansion of Whithaugh, up

Hermitage Water, I was decoyed, by the near appearance of the old

castle, to deviate a little from the straight but steep and difficult

road to Hawick, to visit the ruins of this old Border keep--where Queen

Mary once lodged, and Bothwell once met her--where still sleeps the

stern ghost of Soulis, and the tremendous bones of the Count of Baldar.

As the stream abounded in fish, I undid my pack, and, from the upper

corner, extracted a fishing-rod, which I had purchased at Kendal, and

amused myself, for an hour or two, in this most fascinating amusement.

Alas! I have lived to see other times and other circumstances!--rivers

without fish, and fishers without spirit: the one spoiled of their

finny inhabitants by every chemical abomination, and the other contented

with a brace of parr or a triad of minnows. But to my narrative. I soon

filled a bag which I carried for the purpose, and was at last compelled

to give up the sport, from my inability to carry any additional weight.

By this time, I had reached the old castle, and taken an eye measurement

of its meaningless and monotonous architecture. Strength and security

seem to have been the only objects pursued in its erection. But time had

destroyed the one, and the other had ceased to be an object. I was on

the point of leaving this keep--with many suitable reflections on the

changes which time had wrought since Soulis roasted his foes, or cut

them to pieces in the dungeon with the saw-mill--when I thought that I

perceived a little thread of blue smoke escaping through the loose

stones by which the interior of the ruined walls was occupied. This

naturally excited my suspicion that there were more doings going on than

I was aware of; so, depositing my trouts and my pack on the green bank

of the Hermitage Water, I began to peer and poke about, with the end of

my fishing-rod, amongst the stones. Neptune, too, had smelt a rat, and

was busy, nose, and feet, and tongue, in assisting me in some mighty

discovery. But all our efforts were in vain: the smoke ceased to issue,

if indeed it had been smoke at all; and, although Neptune encompassed

the old tower as often as Moses did the city of Jericho, yet still the

immense walls stood true to their foundation; and, night coming on, we

were compelled, though reluctantly, to leave the spot. Having determined

to reach Hawick this night, I pushed on, there being good moonlight,

though the evening was cold; and Neptune, as usual, kept on the advance,

giving me timely intimation of whatever might, or might seem, to

approach us. At or near the top of the ridge which separates the vale of

the Hermitage from that of the Kitterick, there stood, and perhaps

still stands, a small public-house, built for the accommodation of such

travellers as pass this way, dreary and difficult as it is. Into this,

Neptune and I thrust our noses, and found a large family of children

gathered around a blazing peat fire. We took our position immediately by

the fire, and learned from the children that their mother was milking

the cow--that their father had been killed in a quarry some months

ago--and that there was a great number of fine-dressed gentlemen _ben_

the house. The mother, a decent, melancholy-looking woman, soon entered,

with the milk-stoup in her hand, and immediately proceeded to replenish

the gill-stoup with a very different beverage, for the use of her

ben-house customers.

"She didna ken weel what to mak o' them," she said; "but she thought, by

their way o' speaking, and their dress, and ither accoutrements, they

were maybe limbs o' the law--the deil's agents, excisemen--wha wadna let

a puir body live, if they could prevent it."

At this time, one, who seemed to be the commander of the party, entered

the kitchen, manifestly flustered with drink; and, seeing my fish-bag

lying on the dresser, immediately seized it, exclaiming, "By G--! what

have we got here?" However, he was soon disabused, if he imagined it to

contain any illicit commodity; and, slipping a half-crown into my hand

(which I willingly accepted), he ordered the fish to be immediately

prepared for his supper, and that of his companions. They were, indeed,

a jolly company, and, after a little while, invited me to partake of the

produce of my own sport, and of a due qualification of whisky. In the

course of an hour or two, we got exceedingly well acquainted; and I

found, at last, from several incidental observations, that they had

received information of an illicit still being in the neighbourhood, and

were about to surprise those engaged in it so soon as the moon should

set, and their approach might be covered by the darkness.

Upon finding how the land lay, it immediately occurred to me that my

uncle would have contrived to turn this incident to his professional

advantage. It was manifest that, although their information extended to

the whereabouts, they were ignorant of the exact spot where the illicit

manufacture of whisky was, in all probability, going forward. In fact,

they were led to believe that an old shieling, or shepherd's hut,

constructed out of a mountain cairn, was probably the place where the

work was proceeding. I opened my mind to them somewhat cautiously, by

proposing that they should deal with me in such goods as my pack, so

recently replenished at Manchester, would supply. They were all very

shy, and expressed their _contempt_ indeed of any such preposterous

proposal. But, when I hinted that I was in possession of such

information as might lead to the accomplishment of their object, they

took at once at the bait, and agreed that, not only they, but their

wives and families, should be supplied from my stores. Fancy waistcoats,

watch-chains, twelve-bladed knives, razors, snuff-boxes, and

pocket-books, were immediately secured, and handsomely paid for; and

Neptune and I (for I verily believe he understood the whole transaction)

had the pleasure of making a very considerable profit, by gaining at

least 100 per cent. upon the whole concern. About 11 o'clock--for they

were now impatient to secure their prize--we advanced, seven strong

(exclusive of Neptune), upon the old tower of Hermitage.

But our approach had been anticipated, and the bird was flown. Some

friendly imp, one of the family where we had so recently been convened,

had probably given the necessary intimation to the illicit distillers;

and, after much searching, and some curious discoveries of dark

passages, and dungeons half filled with rubbish, we found a cask or two

of recently distilled spirit, with a few vats or tubs which had not been

removed. It was manifest, however, from what we had discovered, that my

information had been correct, and that, though flown, the bird would not

be at any great distance. The whisky was removed to the public-house

which we had just left; and, when we were in the act of returning upon

our footsteps, we were met by a bare and curly-headed callant, about

twelve years of age, who seemed inclined, when too late, to avoid any

encounter. This excited our suspicion; and he was immediately secured,

and questioned hard, whether he knew anything about the distillery in

the Auld Tower.

"Na," said the urchin, "I ken naething about tilleries; but I ken weel

there's something no canny about the place."

"What makes you think so, my man?"

"Ou, I dinna ken--I reckon it will be Auld Soulis' ghost; for he was an

awfu wicked man, my mither says, and canna get rest in his grave at nae

rate. I hae seen lichts about the auld place mysel."

And hereupon the rascal looked about him, as if afraid to speak out,

and, in a low voice, gave us to understand that he had just met an

awesome sight: it rowed owre the body, and owre the body, and rumbled

away down the linn into the miller's house yonder. It was for a' the

warl' like a whean corn-sacks, dyed black, and clinking ane against

anither.

"Why, man, corn sacks dinna clink."

"Maybe no; but the deil's sacks are different. I reckon they wadna stand

fire, unless they clinked."

There was no resisting this logic; so our informant was desired to show

us the direction in which the apparition had gone. He pointed to a glen

or linn on Hermitage Water, and to a light which flitted before us,

appearing and disappearing at intervals. Down the glen we instantly

rushed, through some brushwood, and along a narrow pass. When we had

reached the mill-steading, the light had disappeared; and, on

investigation, our informant likewise. We found the miller still at

work, and not a little surprised at our untimely and really unwelcome

visit. It was manifest now, that we had been imposed upon by the knowing

urchin, who, to give time for escape to the illicit traders, had trumped

up the ghost story, well knowing that a direct information might have

been suspected. In a word, we were completely out; and, where the

distillers betook themselves, whether across the Border, or into some of

the almost inaccessible mountains of Eskdalemuir, remains to this day a

secret. However, I had made my market, and earned additional patronage

by a chance adventure, which was quite in my uncle's way, and gave me

assurance that, by pursuing a similar course in future, I should

undoubtedly prosper.

My next advantageous hit was made at Moffat. To this favourite resort of

the invalid, the idle, and the wealthy, there had been added this season

a dinner, given by the advocates in Edinburgh to the future _author_ of

the poems of Ossian. Macpherson had just published some fragments of the

Gaelic poetry, and had excited the attention of the learned world, by

his announcing that, if he had the means, he would collect through the

Highlands many larger and more valuable works of Ossian and other bards.

I had been lucky enough to have purchased, when at Glasgow, a cheap

remnant of the Macpherson tartan, having heard that it would take in

England--but I was mistaken; and I could not prevail upon a single

gentleman or lady of any note, betwixt Carlisle and Manchester, to

patronise it.

Their patronage, in my trade, as in most others, is everything. Only get

some celebrated country belle to sport a particular and uncommon pattern

at a market or at church, and the fate of your napkin-web is fixed. Only

get the laird's eldest son to appear in the gallery, at church, in a

waistcoat of a particular stripe and combination of colours, and every

boor in the parish will purchase the like, at three or four prices. Only

get a bride, on her wedding-day, to sport the newest ribbon, and your

box is immediately emptied. It is thus that pedlar profit is realized,

and a certain degree of notoriety, if not popularity, is obtained. I had

got a waistcoat made, for my own use, out of this bit of unsaleable

tartan--not, indeed, at the time anticipating any advantage, but the

ordinary wear, from the garment. But, as good fortune would have it--and

she has much to say in all professions--this very waistcoat was, in a

sense, the making of me. I appeared in the town of Moffat in this tartan

waistcoat, and had the good fortune, as I stood opposite to the inn-door

where the company were to dine, adjusting my pack, and preparing to

expose my goods to public view, to be observed from the window by

Macpherson himself. He immediately announced the fact of the nature of

the tartan which I wore to the gentlemen around him. They immediately

began to wonder if the pedlar had any more of the same pattern in his

pack; and, from one thing to another, it was agreed, at last, to address

me on the subject. Down they came--for they had yet half-an-hour to wait

for dinner; and, having made the necessary inquiries, were answered,

somewhat shyly, by me, that I "didna ken but I micht hae a wee bit o'

the same web." (In fact, I had upwards of two hundred yards deposited

snugly in a friend's house, as I passed to England, besides the remnant

carried along with me!) So I opened out my supply, and, in a few

seconds, I sold the whole of it.

Next day, my pack was exposed at the principal well; and, to my no small

delight, I saw Macpherson himself, with upwards of a score of advocates,

all sporting the tartan. The thing took like wildfire; piece after

piece, (always the last!) I produced and sold; and had I been possessed

of double, or even ten times the quantity, I verily believe I might have

sold it, at any price. The very shepherd lads, from Queensberry and

Errickstane, were down upon me, coaxing and urging me to let them have a

waistcoat-piece, at any price. But the more fixed merchants of the place

saw my advantage; and, by dismissing an express to Glasgow, in two or

three days had their windows filled with the Macpherson. The fever,

however, was over. Macpherson himself, waistcoat and all, had set out on

his celebrated Highland search; the advocates had returned to their

briefs; and the Moffat haberdashers had reason to regret their hasty

proceedings in this matter. I had, however, realized a round sum of

profit--not less than forty pounds--on this hit; and was content to

limit my sale to the more ordinary commodities of my pack, for the rest

of the time which I sojourned here.

From Moffat, I took the road, across the hills, to Durrisdeer. At this

time, the famous M'Gill was minister of this parish. He was a man

celebrated, in his day, for fervency in preaching; for marrying a Miss

Goodfellow, (who had paid for his education, and was on the wrong

side--I don't say of fifty, but at least of seventeen;) and for his

extensive powers and experience in _haggis_-eating. The "Kirkton" of

Durrisdeer--a small cluster of houses around the church--has been

celebrated by Burns, in his "Tam o' Shanter"--

"And at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' _Kirkton_ Jean till Monday."

This parish is principally mountainous, and, consequently, pastoral; and

the shepherds and sheep-farmers were, at the time of which I speak, in

the habit of transacting their worldly affairs, after church time, on

the sabbath evenings. This traffic was carried on in small, thatched

ale-houses, some of which still remain, kept in general, by old women.

(one of whom lived to see 114 years!) and, in one particular exception,

by a jolly young lass, yclept "Kirkton Jean." Nobody knew Jean better

than Burns; and though, in his admirable poem, he places her near the

Doon, yet, in fact, she was a nymph of the Carron, and a parishioner of

Durrisdeer. It grieves me sore to say it, but Jean, though a stanch and

steady believer and kirk-goer, though a great favourite with the

minister, and with all the younger part of the plaided mountaineers, was

detested by many decent women, and, in particular, by Mrs. M'Gill, who

said she could not bear the sight of her. Her house, however, was much

resorted to, and her company, as well as her ale, much sought after;

and, when I reposed my pack on Jean's chest-lid, she gave me a hearty

welcome, and, telling the old, blind body, her grandmother, that here

was the pedlar, greeted me in the most kind and couthy manner possible.

It was not my usual wont to put up in a public-house, where I had to pay

for my food and bed; but I had my reasons in this case, as the reader

will see anon. I arrived on the Tuesday of the sacrament, and attended

sermon on Thursday and Saturday, as well as on Sunday.

Monday, however, came at last; and it was towards this Monday that I was

looking during all the previous days; for this Monday was, in fact, the

great market day of the parish. After M'Gill had preached in the open

air to a vast multitude, (for he was the most popular preacher of the

presbytery,) man, wife, and wean, master, servant, merchant--all classes

and denominations of Christians--were immediately up to the ears in

drink and traffic, buying, selling, hiring, _niffering_, as if religion

and its observances had been unknown amongst them. The mind of man is a

_queer_ concern--at least, the heart, on the best authority, is

"deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked;" and, really, the

"Kirkton" of Durrisdeer, in the days of M'Gill, and on the Monday of the

sacrament in particular, but too manifestly exhibited the truth of this

observation. I had placed my pack on a stand, by the kirk-stile; and, as

the congregation dispersed, they had one and all an opportunity of

seeing my goods in a state of full display. I had no rival, unless a

very decent old woman might be considered as such. She sold a few

articles of dress, such as stockings and plaids, all of her own and her

daughter's manufacture; but mine were Manchester and Glasgow goods of

the very newest fashion, and worn by every lady and gentleman of quality

betwixt the two great marts. As the evening advanced, Jean's house

became more and more difficult of access. My station was what is termed

the spence, or the mid-room or closet, betwixt the kitchen and the

_ben_. There I stood, with my ellwand in my hand, measuring off

waistcoat-pieces, displaying shawls, and exhibiting watch-chains and

knives, till late in the evening. Some moorland farmers purchased

largely on credit--a mode of dealing which I greatly relished, for two

reasons: first, because it gave me an opportunity of visiting them in

their mountain homes; and, secondly, because I could then with a safe

conscience, or, at least, without challenge, charge double the original

price. I need not, and I shall not, proceed with the sequel of the

evening's events. From Jean, I learned that old Fingland, who was now a

widower, had actually asked her in marriage; and that, in a few days,

she should, in all probability, be Mrs. Gibson. The poor, doited,

drunken body had a good farm from the Duke of Buccleuch; and, having got

rid of his family by his first spouse, thought himself entitled to enter

anew into the hallowed and often-tried state. He lived to repent his

precipitancy and indiscretion; for Jean ruined him in a few months, and

making a moonlight flitting, was afterwards found in the Grassmarket of

Edinburgh, mistress of the public-house called the Harrow. But here my

narrative must conclude for the present.

DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT.[2]

[Footnote 2: The vision here recorded will carry a greater interest to

the reader, when he knows that it is not a _mere_ fancy. Many still

living can recognize in the narrative all the circumstances of the real

adventure. We think proper thus to authenticate our tale, to prevent it

from being classed among current versions (taken from our own original),

which have no more foundation than may be claimed for other good

stories.--ED.]

Well, it is always the same. We are fed by the moralities just as we are

by potatoes. We must be always repeating the dose to keep the world in

order, and thus it is that we go on. We see many examples of the

extraordinary discovery of evil designs attempted to be concealed by all

the craft of cunning man; nay, it is impossible to doubt, even with the

many cases before us of the apparent success of criminal schemes, that

it is a part of God's providence to lay open the secret actings--often

the secret thoughts--of those who contravene his laws. The modes by

which this purpose is fulfilled are as various as the designs

themselves; and though some of them may not appear to be consistent with

the seriousness and gravity of an avenging and punishing retribution, we

are not, on that account, to doubt their authority or undervalue their

effect. Now, we have a case to record of an extraordinary and ludicrous

discovery of roguery, which, as well on account of its truth as the

moral which, amidst all its grotesqueness, it inculcates, deserves to be

remembered. It may do good too to that "muckle ne'er-do-weel," Human

Nature, who is still enjoying his grin at the schoolmaster, the

philanthropist, and the bible.

In that manufacturing town which has lately risen to considerable

eminence, called Dunfermline, there lived, some time ago, a person of

the name of Duncan Schulebred, by trade a weaver--or, as he chose rather

to be called, a manufacturer, a term which the inhabitants love to apply

to every man who can boast the property of a loom and its restless

appendage. We believe the people of that town to be as honest and

industrious as those of any mercantile place in the kingdom; but they

have too much good sense to think of claiming for their entire

community, a total exemption from the inroads of dishonesty and

deceit--vices which prevail in every corner of this land. Unhappily, the

individual we have mentioned had allowed himself to become a slave to

those evil propensities which are concerned in the collecting together

of ill-gotten wealth, and never left any feasible plan unattempted,

which might present any chance of gratifying the ruling passion by which

he was mastered. He was a little man, with a florid complexion, and the

small twinkling eye which almost invariably accompanies cunning. His

walk was that of a man accustomed to carry under his left arm a web of

huckaback, and in his right hand a staff ellwand; and his style of

speech, bland, conciliating, and persuasive, was derived from the habit

of wheedling customers into exorbitant terms. He was a great coward, as

well physical as moral--the consequence, doubtless, of being a dishonest

trader. Altogether too contemptible to be hated, his greatest enemy was

his own conscience, of which he stood in such terrible awe, that his

wife was often obliged, during the dark hours of the reign of that

mysterious agent, to rise and light a lamp for the purpose of exorcising

the spirit which, seated on his heart, tormented him with the gnawing

inflictions of its pain.

This trick of his conscience had hitherto been unable to prevent Duncan

from using his short ellwand, and acting dishonestly. The moment he got

into daylight and active life, he, like all other cowards, despised the

enemy from which he thought himself at the time safe. In a

strong-minded man, conscience produces resolution; in a weak, it gives

rise merely to fears and vacillation. It is not often that greedy,

cunning men are given to intoxication; yet we are obliged to add this

vice to the character of Duncan Schulebred, who, exhibiting, however,

the one vice in the other, never failed to get intoxicated, if he could

effect his purpose at the cost of his neighbour--a result he often

achieved, by leaving the tavern after he had got enough--on pretence of

returning in a few minutes to the company of his unsuspecting victim.

Like many others of the peripatetic manufacturers of Dunfermline, Duncan

Schulebred sold through the country the cloth he fabricated at home; so

that, for one half, the winter, of the year, he _sat_, and for the

other, the summer, he _travelled_. By the same means and ratio, Duncan

Schulebred was one half of the year sober, and the other inebriated; for

he could fleece no pot companion in his native town, where he was known;

while, throughout the country, he could walk deliberately out of every

ale-house on the road, and leave his travelling companions to pay for

his drink, in exchange for that society which they had enjoyed.

Now, in the course of his journey, this individual had occasion, during

the latter end of a summer, to be in Edinburgh, where he usually sold a

considerable part of his stock. During the day, he had been in treaty

with a person of the name of Andrew Gavin, a pettifogging writer,

residing near the Luckenbooths, for the sale of a web of linen, which

the latter, like a trout with a bait on a clear day, approached and

examined, and looked at and felt, and yet still seemed irresolute in his

determination to be caught. The weaver's twinkling eye saw and admired

the gudgeon; the linen, to a _safe_ extent, was unrolled, its texture

felt with a "miller's thumb," its qualities extolled, and its price

wondered at by him who fixed it and smiled inwardly at his profit and

the trick by which he realized it. The unwary purchaser, though a man of

the law, was at last caught--the bargain was struck, the money paid; and

all that remained was, that Duncan Schulebred, in addition to cheating

him in the manner to be explained, should, after his usual practice, get

drunk at the expense of his customer.

The two parties accordingly repaired to a tavern known by the name of

The Barleycorn, where they sat down deliberately, to indulge in a deep

potation. In the midst of their orgies, the customer, who had a humour

of his own, took many "rises" out of his companion, who submitted to his

fun, in consideration of his determination to leave him to pay "the

score," which would put "the laugh on the other side." As they went on

in their potations, Duncan Schulebred gradually drifted from one

condition of evil to another. Originally his desire was simply to cheat

the writer as a man. This was mere vulgar selfishness. He would have

"done" any man after the same fashion, because it was his nature. But in

this instance, he was concerned in the purpose of cheating a

pettifogger, whose very occupation it was to cheat every poor litigant

that came in his way. Here was a great occasion for Duncan Schulebred.

He felt another motive prompting him to the gratification of his

wickedness, and that was pride--the pride of circumventing those who

circumvent others. Ah, Duncan Schulebred! you never thought of the

ugliness of this peculiar aggravation of sin, when the evil genius

rejoices in itself--when it is puffed up with the glory of exaltation,

when instead of being checked by conscience, it is rather inspired by

conscience "turned back side fore--all the wrong way." Neither did he

consider that the said conscience has an ugly trick of springing round

into the normal state, with a jerk not over pleasant to sinners. But

even here Duncan Schulebred did not stop, for his pride of overcoming

the "devil's limb," was inflamed by revenge, in consequence of the

pettifogger having traduced Dunfermline; not that Duncan Schulebred had

any patriotism, even in Dr. Johnson's sense of that virtue; but that he

felt all the hits as directed against himself, just as every knave is

always trying on the cap, and declaring that it is no fit. Behold

selfishness, pride, and revenge, all met in one purpose; and as probably

the writer had as many motives for attempting, by urging Duncan to

drink, to enlarge the bill--the two were antagonists worthy of each

other.

Their wordy war only made the writer and the weaver more thirsty; every

argument was followed by a draught, which slaked at once both thirst and

revenge. The more they drank the warmer they grew in defence of their

respective towns, till they came to that condition of topers, when, by

the mere operation of their potations, they become unable even to

_dispute_. All confirmed drunkards have in their drunkenness some ruling

principle, which; however far gone they may be, regulates their wayward

movements. The writer's habit was to sit when he thought he could not

stand--one which many sober men might do well to adopt. The weaver's,

again, was to _walk_ when he wished not to stand the reckoning--a

prudent maxim which never left him, even when all other ideas had been

washed from his brain. It was now about one o'clock in the morning, and

they had drank so much that neither of them could tell--for neither had

any interest in a matter which did not seem to concern his pocket--how

much would require to be paid; it was enough for Duncan Schulebred, that

he knew that something, and not little, _must_ be paid--and now was the

time for escape.

"We were speakin o' the law," said Duncan Schulebred, winking with

cunning and hiccuping with drink--"I fancy they never refuse siller at

the _bar_ here, ony mair than they do in Dumfarlan. There is only this

difference atween the twa--that the folk wha resort to _your_ bar pay

when they enter, we (hiccup) pay as we gae oot. Rest yersel there till I

cast up the bill, and if I hae ony _plea_ wi' the landlord, ye can come

and plead it."

"That's kind, Duncan," said the writer--"it will be the only plea I ever

had from a Dunfermline weaver. If I gain it, we must have a--another

gill."

"Twa o' them," replied Duncan, trying to rise. "We maun, at ony rate,

hae (hiccup) the stirrup-cup, ye ken"--laughing and twinkling again his

reeling eyes.

"O yes, but I--I fancy I must pay for _that_, seeing you are the

traveller, and--and are besides to pay all this tremendous bill, that

lies, doubtless, on the bar like a--a lawyer's memorial."

"Ye're an example o' an honest, ay, a generous writer," said Duncan

Schulebred--"wha could hae thocht ye wad hae offered to pay the

stirrup-cup? I'll send yer wife a piece o' dornock for that, as weel as

a screed o' huckaback and harn, to keep up a gratefu' recollection o' me

after I'm awa. I'll no be a minute at the bar; for it's a place (hiccup)

I dinna like."

"Here," cried the writer, riping his pocket--"take with you and pay at

the same time the price of the stirrup-gill--one settling will serve

all."

"Ye're richt, Mr. Gavin," replied Duncan Schulebred, receiving the

money; "but that's a sma sum (hiccup) in comparison o' what I hae to

pay; but it's pleasant to discharge the obligations o' honour."

Now, the wily huckaback manufacturer was, as he spoke, approaching the

corner where his staff ellwand lay--an article he stood more in need of

at that time (short measure as it was) than ever, on any other occasion

of _taking off_, he had encountered. The recourse to it for the purpose

of merely going to the bar, could not fail to raise suspicions in the

mind of the writer; but then, again, was he to lose a _short_ measure,

which, getting into the hands of a writer, might be sent--in revenge of

the trick he had already played him, in selling a web of linen damaged

in the heart, and that he was about to play--to the public authorities,

who would hunt him to Dunfermline, and ruin him by the exposure? Not he.

He besides required it for his support, for he could scarcely stand. In

this dilemma, he had again recourse to his wits.

"I'm no sure aboot thae folk ben the hoose," said Duncan Schulebred,

holding up the ellwand. "They may try to cheat me, seein I'm a simple

cratur, besides being twa _sheets_ i' the wind--(hiccup)--dinna ye think

that I should tak my stick i' my hand, as a kind o' lawburrows and

protection? No to say I would think o' usin't, but simply to keep the

publican in awe, and within just and lawfu measure."

"Take it with thee, take it with thee, man," said the writer. "Say it is

a--a Dunfermline baton, the sign of your constableship, and you will

find the bill two inches shorter."

"Ingenious cratur!" ejaculated Duncan, with a hiccup, and the old leer

of his grey eyes. "A law plea never can fail, surely, in the hands o' a

man wi' sic a power o' suggestion as ye hae. But ye forget that

Dumfarlan batons are no sae lang as Dumfarlan ellwands--(hiccup)--the

power o' authority there's short, but the reach o' oor honesty's

prodigious. That's a guid sign: our batons are short because we are

quiet and civil, and our ellwands are lang because we are honest. Wad ye

believe it, noo, that that ellwand o' mine, in spite o' the wear and

tear o' walkin wi't, is a haiil inch different frae yer Edinburgh

yards?"

This attack against the honesty of Edinburgh roused the blood of the

writer, and another wordy battle was like to commence; but Duncan

Schulebred saw at once, that, if he put off more time, the people of the

house might, from the lateness of the hour, come and insist upon the

reckoning on the spot--a measure which all his wits would not enable him

to counteract. The open mouth of the writer was therefore shut, by a few

conciliatory words from the aggressor:--

"I dinna say, Mr. Gavin," added Duncan Schulebred, "whether the inch

belanged to Dumfarlan or Edinburgh. Ye may tak the benefit o' a

_presumption_ in yer ain favour till I come back. Mony ane o'

yer tribe stick langer by a presumption than that, and, till it grows

into a fact, it canna injure an honest man like me. Guid"--(he was

going to add "night," and leered grotesquely at his own

imprudence)--"guid--(hiccup)--guid luck to my speedy settlement o' the

lawin!"

Then Duncan Schulebred staggered to the door, which he opened so gently

that the writer might, if he had not been drunk, have suspected him of

foul play. His foot was scarcely heard on the passage; but a sound, as

if from the end of the stairs, indicated that some one had missed a

step. No notice of it was taken by the writer, who sat with his eye

fixed on the candle, concocting, like a good poet, one of those works of

imagination called a preliminary or dilatory defence. Formerly, these

works of fancy were very rife among lawyers, and, before the judicature

act, they used to reach a second or even a third edition, under the form

of "amended defences," "re-amended defences," and so forth. They are not

now so much in favour, though the fancy which produces them is still as

vivid as ever. How long Andrew Gavin sat dreaming over his intended work

we cannot say; but never was poet more rudely, importunately, and

unpleasantly roused from his dream, by the hand of a messenger-at-arms,

than was the unsuspecting victim of Duncan Schulebred's treachery, as he

was called upon by the landlord to pay the bill. He had no money upon

him--the small sum he had given to the weaver to pay the last or

stirrup gill, and which the varlet had carried away with him, having

been all his remaining cash, after paying the price of the linen. He

requested the importunate landlord to wait a little, to ascertain if

Duncan would return; but the man wished to get to bed; and Andrew's

credit being somewhat worn, like that of many others of his overdone

profession, the publican insisted upon him leaving his watch, as a

pledge for the payment of the money. The writer's pride--a quality never

awanting in the race, especially when they're in liquor--was roused; he

roared; he refused to _impignorate_, as he called it, his watch; he

swore that he would rather remain in durance all night than succumb to

the unreasonable demand of the publican. The man was as resolute as he,

and, without saying a word, turned the key in the lock, and left the

writer to dream over his legal works of fancy in the dark.

Meanwhile, the wily Duncan Schulebred, having recovered from a fall on

the last step of the stair--produced by that impatience of slight

obstacles which seizes an ambidexter at the successful termination of a

well-concerted and better-executed scheme--proceeded down the Canongate.

He was out and out intoxicated; but the wish to cheat, so long as it was

in operation, kept his mind from that confusion which, his purpose being

effected, immediately seized him. He was not certain of the direction in

which he was moving; but he was satisfied with the idea that he was

going _from_ the sign of The Barleycorn, and any destination was better

than that. A confused intention of sleeping all night in the town of

Leith, with the view of catching the Fife boat in the morning, at last

wrought its way through the cloud which overhung his mind; and having

found himself as far as the Watergate, he continued his progress until

he came to what is called the Easter Road, leading directly down to the

Links. The air produced its usual effect upon a man who was filled to

the throat with liquor; and every step he took he found himself getting

more and more unsteady, and more and more unfit for prosecuting his

journey. He was, however, still conscious of his condition, and felt

great alarm lest some one should assail him, and take from him his

money. By and by, even his consciousness left him, and he rolled from

side to side, engrossing, for his own particular ambulation, the whole

breadth of the road. Several times he came down, and, being unable to

rise without many repeated attempts, lay on the ground for considerable

periods. The necessity of motion of some kind is the last idea parted

with by an intoxicated traveller; and Duncan Schulebred still retained

it, even after he had lost his ellwand, his chief means of support. On

and on he struggled, falling, and lying, and rising, and to it again,

till he got at length as far as the green called the Links of Leith--an

open space always as disadvantageous to the drunk man as it is pleasant

to the sober. A road with two sides may be got over--the dikes keep him

on; but an extended area of grass, with radiating openings all round, is

a kind of place which a man in Duncan Schulebred's position, without the

rudder or compass of consciousness, must always view with great

uneasiness. Accordingly, Duncan Schulebred did beat about in this large

circle for several hours, and at last entered a street which leads down

to that called Salamander Street.

Having reached the south side of this street, Duncan Schulebred kept

close by the walls and houses, stepping along, unwilling to trust

himself again to open space. Alas! he knew nothing of whither he was

progressing; he had lost all recollection of what he had been engaged

in; he was unconscious of what he was doing; and he was utterly ignorant

of all localities. As he moved past the houses, he came to an opening,

and, staggering to a side, entered a small avenue into which it led, and

proceeded along it, still holding by the wall, until he got into what

he thought was a large house. There he lay down, and fell in an instant

into a sleep, disturbed by those frightful dreams that haunt the pillow

of the dissolute and the wicked.

Having lain for hours, Duncan Schulebred began at last to show some

signs of returning consciousness, rolling his body backwards and

forwards, as if under the effect of a night-mare of the fancy, or of

that more terrible night-mare of the conscience by which he was often at

home so relentlessly ridden. And so he was. Frightful dreams had filled

his mind with terrors; and, having produced a kind of half-waking state,

were followed, as they usually were, by the gnawing of his old enemy. A

dim recollection came on him of all the wickedness he had committed--the

number of innocent individuals he had cheated by his short measure and

his damaged linen; the shirking of publicans, the duping of travellers,

his drunkenness, his lies, his false pretences--all his thoughts being

accompanied by the terrors of his roused conscience, which whispered

punishment by fire and brimstone, and filled his half-sleeping fancy

with vivid images of the place of punishment. It is not unlikely that

this half-waking, dreamy cogitation, was aided insensibly by the painful

operation of external sense, conveying some dim intelligence of what was

going on around him--the operations of glass-blowing on a great scale.

A large furnace was lighted, and blown up to a red heat; vivid flames

shot forth from a fire, which was, from time to time, supplied with

great quantities of fuel; at every blow of a large pair of bellows, the

living light flashed through the space around, which was comparatively

dark, from the disproportion between the large area, and the few lights

yet lighted. Obscure-looking beings were occupied about the furnace, the

light striking on their sallow faces, and leaving all again in an

instant nearly dark; a number of others were busy in the distance,

performing other operations, dipping long tubes in some substance, and

inflating a ball, till, red and glowing, it expanded into a fire globe.

The dark beings were active in their movements, darting backwards and

forwards between the furnace and the reservoirs, with the hot, red,

glaring globes at the end of the tubes, and crossing and recrossing each

other, in the dark obscure, so as to present the appearance of demons

engaged in some mysterious doings of their avenging spirits. In all

this, the fiery globes were the only appearances clearly discernible in

continuation; the figures and faces of the individuals being only at

intervals shown by the glare thrown upon them by the glowing furnace, as

it responded to the loud murmuring bellow of the inflating and

fire-producing blast.

This condition did not last long; Duncan Schulebred awoke to the full

conviction of being in the very place of the damned. He heard the

roaring of the bellows; then he saw huge red walls rising up to heaven;

then his eyes turned round on that terrific furnace, vomiting forth its

living fire, while the bearers of the burning globes, hurrying to and

fro past him and around him, and plunging their fiery weapons into the

receptacles, doubtless, of the condemned wicked--claimed, on every side,

his rapt and terrified gaze. Fear prevented him from moving; his

cogitations took the form of a soliloquy; and he communed with himself

on his awful condition.

"Mercy on my puir soul!" exclaimed Duncan Schulebred, but so as not to

let any eavesdropping devil hear him--"am I _here_ at last? When I was

in the body, how aften did I think and dream o' the bottomless pit?--can

it be that I'm now in it? Alas! it's owre true! What hae I, a wicked

cratur, now to expect frae thae fiends for a' the sins dune i' the body?

But when did I dee? I dinna recollect the circumstance o' my

death--dootless apoplexy--ay, ay, I was aye fear't for't. Yet did I no

fa' doon the stair o' The Barleycorn? I did--that's it--I had been

killed by the fa'. Death's a sma' affair to this. What a fiery furnace

for a puir sinner! See hoo the devils run wi' their burning brands,

forkin them into thae pits, whar lie craturs in the same condition wi'

mysel! But why do they no come to me? Ah! the furnace is for me. I see

Satan himsel at the bellows, and it's no for ilka sinner _he_ wad

condescend to work. It's for Duncan Schulebred, wha cheated the folk by

a short ellwand at the rate o' thirty-six inches o' claith a-week for

fifteen years--wha drank, and lee'd, and deceived--wha committed sins

redder than scarlet and mair numerous than the mots i' the sun--wha

dee'd i' the very act o' cheating Andrew Gavin, by selling him a wab o'

damaged linen, and leaving him to pay the bill at The Barleycorn. Alas!

am I at last in this awfu place!"

As he ended, he heard pronounced in a hollow voice, by some Belphegor

behind him:

"Now, Duncan, thou wilt get thy fairin',

For here they'll roast thee like a herrin'."

"Ay, ay!" groaned Duncan.

Then a dark figure appeared before him, holding in his hand one of the

fiery globes:--"Where," cried he, "is the weaver who cheated the public

at the rate of thirty-six inches of cloth per week, and died in the very

act of cheating our _special friend_, Andrew Gavin the writer (for every

writer is our special friend, and must be protected by us, so long as he

writes lying defences and long memorials), by selling him damaged linen,

and leaving him to pay his tavern bill? Where is the scarlet rogue, that

we may burn out the red of his sins by the red fire of this glowing

furnace?"

A loud yell uttered by the Mephistophileses and Asmodeuses was the reply

to this speech, and went to the very heart of the devoted Duncan

Schulebred. The principal, followed by his demons, approached him; he

was lying, shaking and groaning, upon his back, and looked at the

legion, with their flaming brands, with an expression of countenance

transcending anything that could be produced by mere earthly agony, or

described by a mere goose quill of the upper world.

"What is thy name, sinner?" asked the Prince.

"Mercy on me!" ejaculated Duncan Schulebred, "I'm in for't now! An'

please your excellent Majesty," replied he, in a voice scarcely audible,

from the pure effect of terror, "Duncan Schulebred, wha, when in the

upper warld, was by trade a puir weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did

yer Honour some service i' my sma' way, and hope ye winna be sae ill to

me as ye threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi' their burning

torches frae me, and I'll confess to ye a' my crimes. Be mercifu' to a

puir sinner!"

"What service didst thou ever do to me?" said Satan.

"I made ye some freens," replied Duncan Schulebred, still groaning. "I

did a' that was i' my power to get the craturs i' the upper warld to

drink wi' me till they were sae drunk that ye might hae run awa wi' them

as easily as ye carried aff Doctor Faustus or danced awa wi' the

exciseman. Oh, think o' that, and save me frae that awfu furnace!"

"Confess, sinner," said the Devil, "that thou didst that for the purpose

of getting more easily quit of the tavern bills. Thou didst also cheat

the lieges by a false measure."

"Lord, he kens everything," muttered Duncan--"I confess I did cheat the

lieges; but I assure yer Majesty, upon my soul--now no muckle

worth--that I never cheated ony o' yer Majesty's freens; for I aye dealt

wi' honest folk. Surely that's a reason for some mercy."

"Recollect thyself, varlet," said Satan--"didst never cheat a writer?"

"How correct he is!" muttered Duncan Schulebred, with a groan. "Ou

ay--true, true--a' writers are yer Majesty's freens. I forgot. I did

cheat Andrew Gavin, by sellin him a wab o' rotten linen, and leavin him

to pay the lawin at The Barleycorn--a name your Majesty, dootless, weel

kens."

"I think I should," replied Satan, "seeing _that_ is _my_ grain,

wherewith I work greater wonders than ever came out of the mustard seed.

This place is fed with barleycorns--we bait our hooks with

barleycorns--we spread barleycorns under our men-nets--the very man who

sang the praises of the grain, under the personification of 'John

Barleycorn,' and of its juice, under the soubriquet of 'barley-bree,'

took our bait; but a redeeming angel touched him on the fore part of the

stomach, and made him throw it, and heaven now boasts that glorious

prize."

"Miserable as I am, I'm very glad o't," said Duncan, whose fears began

to decline. "I wadna like to see our darling poet in sic a place as

this."

"Impudent varlet!" said the Devil. "In with him into the furnace! Yet,

stay. How much money did you cheat our friend Andrew Gavin of?"

"I needna try to conceal it," said Duncan to himself. "He kens it as

weel as I do. Here it is" (speaking out) "and some mair--ye may hae it

a', if ye'll no consign me to that red-hot fiery furnace. Fearfu, fearfu

place!"

"Count it out," said Satan.

Duncan complied with trembling hands and Beelzebub took up the money.

"That is a most precious commodity," said he. "They say, above, that our

dwelling is paved with good intentions--they should rather say, that it

is paved with gold, a metal with which the ancient infidels said heaven

was constructed. Never was there a greater error. 'The root of all evil'

cannot surely be found in the very birth-place of good."

"I ken, at least," said Duncan Schulebred "that it was gowd that brought

me here. Cursed trash! It is the gowd, and no the puir sinners deceived

by't, that should be put into the furnace. Weel, weel has it been ca'd

the root o' a' evil. Oh, cursed dross! what am I to suffer for ye?

'Yon warld's gear, when I think on

Its pride, and a' the lave o't;

Fie! fie! on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.'"

"Doth the creature malign our staple commodity," said Satan, "and say it

should be melted? Well, away with him, Asmody, to the furnace!--melt

_him_!"

Now did Duncan scream for mercy, while the dark spirits laid hold of

him, and proceeded to carry him to the mouth of the furnace, at last

blown up into a fearful red heat. He continued to roar with very great

vociferation, making all the cone ring, and casting about his legs and

arms, like one distracted. Those who were not engaged in carrying him,

brought within an inch of his face, their burning globes of glass, and

made indications as if they would apply them to his body; the bearers,

turning his head to the fiery volcano, laid it within a foot of the

burning coal; the whole ceremony was accompanied by a chorus of really

frightful yells, set up by the operators, and made to echo and

reverberate throughout the area of the cone. Independently, altogether,

of the conviction of being in the hands of the Evil One and his legions,

the situation of Duncan, with his head within a foot of a furnace, and

surrounded by wild-looking howling beings, intent apparently on his

destruction, would have terrified a pretty stout heart; but he _truly_

believed himself on the very eve of being punished for his crimes, by

being thrust head-foremost into the burning furnace, from which no power

could save him. And who could contemplate that position without horror?

His agony was, in short, inexpressible, except by screams; and it was

cruelly prolonged by affected manoeuvres, such as blowing the bellows,

and stirring and restirring the coals, to make them burn more fiercely,

for the more adequate reception of the greatest of human sinners that

had ever been consigned to the pit.

Having held him for some time in this position, Satan, seeming to

recollect himself, cried out--

"Meph, do thou get the red-hot pincers. We were oblivious. He has not

confessed all his crimes. We will pinch him for a few hours before we

consign him to the fire, which is not, at any rate, red enough for so

great a sinner. Asmody, lay him down close to the furnace, and now, a

pair of pincers for each leg and arm. We will make him cry as loud as I

did myself when St. Dunstan had me by the nose."

Then was Duncan Schulebred laid before the furnace, screaming at the top

of his voice, and his eyes rolling about like fiery balls. The pincers

were brought and put into the furnace, and the bellows again sent forth

their dreadful sound; the howling was increased; and all the dark

spirits, as they uttered their yells, danced round him, waving their red

globes, and every now and then bringing them within a few inches of his

face. The pincers were getting hot apace, by the fierce blowing of the

bellows; and one of the legion held the head of the victim so as to

force him to contemplate the instruments of his torture. Still the

confusion grew worse confounded--the noise of the blowing forge, the

howling of the legion, the groaning and screaming of Duncan, the loud

word of command of the Prince, all blending together; while the rapid

motions of the dancers, and the rising and falling of the bellows, again

made the eyes of the distracted being reel like those of a maniac.

This punishment was continued until it appeared that the terrified

Duncan Schulebred was about to faint. His cries ceased, and fear seemed

to lose its effect over him. It was surely time to stop, as even

amusement may be carried to the verge of death--and the unfortunate

Duncan was more like death than life. The Prince accordingly gave the

sign to his legion, and in an instant the bellows ceased to blow, and

the men to dance, and all was as still as death. Apprehensive of having

killed the victim by pure fright, the Prince, assisted by some of the

crew, lifted him to a distance from the furnace, and having held up his

head so as to get him to sit, some whisky was brought in by a

Mephistophiles. As he sat pale and trembling, and looking wistfully

about him, the chief actor filled up a glass of the spirits, and offered

it to him. He seemed irresolute and timid--looking first at the whisky,

then at the devils, and much at a loss what to think of his position.

His grotesque appearance forced the chief actor to smile: the effect was

instantaneous--Duncan caught the favourable indication, and took the

glass into his hands.

"I didna think," said he, "that there was ony o' _this_ kind o' liquor

here. I expected naething but melted brimstone, said to be the staple

drink o' your dominions. But is it really whisky? It's surely

impossible--if the circumstance got wind aboon, that there was whisky in

_these parts_, there wad be nae keepin folk out. How dinna ye spread the

intelligence? Surely ye're no sae keen for recruits as ye were when ye

danced awa wi' the exciseman."

"It is already known on earth that whisky was first brewed in

Pandemonium," said the actor. "The nectar belongs to heaven, the wine to

earth, and the whisky to the infernal regions. A thousand poets have

sung about the drink of the gods, and a little old fellow--a Greek--who

lies in one of these troughs, getting his wine-heated pate cooled with

brimstone every five minutes, danced and sang the praises of wine till I

got hold of him at the age of eighty. The only poet who has let out the

secret of whisky being first brewed in our regions was a person of _the_

name of M'Neil, who sang--

'Of a' the ills puir Caledonia

E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,

Brewed in Hell's black Pandemonia,

Whisky's ill has scaithed her maist.'

I tried to get hold of the fellow, for his impudence in maligning our

favourite liquor; but he wrote some sweet poems, and the gods took him

under their wing."

"Ye were muckle indebted, I think, to Hector," replied Duncan

Schulebred, "for tellin the folk that whisky was brewed here. It will

save your Majesty a warld o' trouble; for customers, o' their ain

accord, will come 'linkin to the black pit' in millions, if they're sure

o' the _spark_."

"They _are_ sure of the _spark_," replied the Prince. "But we give it

here only as a medicine whereby we recover our patients that they may be

the more able to feel our torments. The moment thou drinkest, the

pincers will be applied."

"Then I beg leave to decline the liquor," said Duncan Schulebred, "I see

nae use for fire baith ootside and in; besides, I hae renounced the

practice o' drinkin at another person's expense--a tred I followed owre

lang in the upper regions, to my sad cost this day."

"Thou hast paid for this with the money thou gavest me," said the actor.

"That's mair than I ever did upon earth," said Duncan with a leer which

he could not restrain.

Now, it will have been seen that the truth had for some time been

dawning upon the mind of Duncan Schulebred. He looked round and round

him, and every look added fresh proof of the delusion under which he

laboured. Peering into the face of Satan, he even was bold enough to

smile, accompanying the act with one of his inimitable leers. It was

impossible to resist this look of sly humour; and the whole company

broke out into a fit of laughter, which made all the cone ring again.

Then seizing the whisky he looked round upon all the parties, and,

bowing, said--

"Gentlemen, I'm obleeged to ye for the trouble ye hae taen on my

account. I see now how the land lies; but though I ken the haill extent

o' this awfu delusion, dinna think that the part ye hae played is a

piece o' mere fun and humour, to form afterwards the foundation o' a

guid story. Ye hae dune mair this mornin for the regeneration o' a puir

sinner than was effected by a' the sermons I ever heard frae the pulpits

o' Scotland. I've confessed my crimes to ye, and I canna expect that

this cone is to confine for ever my evil reputation. It maun gae abroad

and condemn me, and ruin me; but" (lowering his voice seriously) "I will

defy it to prevent me frae following the course I hae this day

determined to pursue. Frae this hour henceforth, to that moment when it

may please Heaven to tak me frae this warld, I shall be an upright, a

sober, and a religious man; the folk I hae injured, cheated, and robbed,

I will try to benefit to the utmost extent o' my puir ability; every day

o' my life will be dedicated to the service o' the Almighty, and the

guid o' his craturs. My first step will be to gang to Edinburgh, and pay

back to Andrew Gavin the price o' the damaged linen he purchased frae

me, and to settle the tavern bill at The Barleycorn, to assist me

whereunto ye will dootless gie me back my siller. This resolution I

confirm thus." And he flung the whisky into the furnace, which blazed

up, a kind of holocaust, as a thanksgiving for the regeneration of a

sinner.

Duncan Schulebred's money was paid back to him honestly, and the actors

were well pleased that they had, out of their amusement, wrought so

extraordinary a miracle. The regenerated man departed from the

glass-works, and proceeded, according to his intention, direct to

Edinburgh. He called first at Andrew Gavin's house.

"Is Mr. Gavin within?" said he to Mrs. Gavin.

"My husband," said the disconsolate wife, "has not been at home all

night. The last time I saw him was when he departed with you. What have

you done with him? I fear some sad mischief has befallen him; for unless

he is at a proof or after a _fugy_, he never stays out of his own house

at night. But what kind of linen was that ye sold him?"

"It was a piece o' _rotten_ linen I sauld him," replied Duncan

Schulebred.

Mrs. Gavin looked at him in amazement.

"Ay, and," he continued, "your husband is dootless locked up in The

Barleycorn, because he couldna--puir man!--pay the lawin that I should

hae paid, and ran awa and left him to pay."

Mrs. Gavin's amazement was increased.

"Ay, and," continued he, "I hae cheated thoosands besides you and yer

husband--a greater sinner than I hae been, ye wadna find between the

Mull o' Galloway and John o' Groats. If I had got my due, I wad hae been

hanged, or at least sent to Botany Bay."

"Are you mad, or do you glory in your wickedness?" said Mrs. Gavin.

"Nane o' the twa," said Duncan. "I am as wise as ye are; and, in place

o' gloryin in my wickedness, I am as repentant as a deein martyr."

"Repentance is nothing without works," replied she.

"Warks!" ejaculated Duncan. "Bring, bring me the rotten linen."

The astonished woman went and brought the article.

"There's the siller," said Duncan, "I got fra yer husband for that wab.

I'll sell it noo for what it is--a piece o' vile deception. Need ye a

commodity o' that description?"

"I think I could find use for it," said Mrs. Gavin. "It has one good

end, but you will come to an ill one when you"----"roll it down," she

would have said, but Duncan caught her:--

"When ye cheat yer neighbour," added he. "Ye're quite right, madam; a

rotten-hearted wab is just like a rotten-hearted man--they baith come to

an ill _end_. Oh, hoo gratefu I am to thae glass-blawers, wha hae blawn

awa my crimes, and converted and reformed me!"

"He is surely mad, after all," muttered Mrs. Gavin, to herself--"who

ever heard of glass-blowers converting sinners? I have always understood

that glass-blowers are free livers, and need repentance themselves as

much as other folk. How could they convert you, man?"

"There are strange mysteries i' the warld," said Duncan; "but we will

better let that subject alane. We only, after a', see 'as through a

glass darkly.' Stick to the linen--what is it worth?"

Mrs. Gavin stated a price, Duncan accepted her offer, and the damaged

linen was sold.

"Noo," said Duncan, "I'll send ye yer husband."

"I will be obliged to you," said Mrs. Gavin; "and if you can get the

glass-blowers to give him a blast, your kindness would be increased far

beyond my poor powers of recompense."

"Ah, madam," said Duncan, "writers are owre well accustomed to _blasts

o' the horn_, to care for ordinary wind-fa's. I ken nae better thing for

an ill husband (no sayin that Andrew is liable to that charge) than a

blast o' a wife's tongue. God be praised, Janet Schulebred will hae nae

mair cause to lecture me! We will now live happily durin the remaining

portion o' the time o' oor pilgrimage. I hae aye taen something hame to

her. Last year I took some whisky bottles--probably made at the

glass-warks o' Leith; this time I intend to tak a family Bible. Guid

day, madam, I'm awa to The Barleycorn; and frae that I gang to a Bible

repository, and then hame."

He repaired to The Barleycorn. He saw the landlord standing at the door,

with a sombre face. He had the key of the room in his hand, and looked

the very picture of a jailor. He knew Duncan instantly, and was

proceeding to seize him, when the latter surrendered himself with so

much good humour that the publican gave up his purpose and smiled at the

prospect of getting his money.

"You forgot to come back last night," said the man. "Mr. Gavin says that

you were the principal debtor to me for my drink, and that he was merely

surety or cautioner. Is that true?"

"Perfectly true," replied Duncan. "I promised to pay the bill, and

should hae paid the bill; but I was determined I wadna pay the bill.

Accordingly, I ran awa for nae ither purpose than to avoid payin it."

"A trick ye'll no play a second time," said the publican seizing him.

"No," said Duncan, taking out the money, "seein I am come to pay ye

plack and farthin. Let us adjourn to Mr. Gavin's prison."

"The vera place I intended to tak ye to," said the man.

They proceeded to the room where Andrew was confined, and found him

sitting in a sombre fit of melancholy. As they entered, he looked at

Duncan with an appearance of mixed anger and satisfaction. The latter

feeling predominated, as his mind suggested that the poor weaver had

been prevented by drunkenness from returning immediately to pay the

bill, and had now come to make amends.

"I have been angry at you, Duncan," said he; "but I might have had more

faith in your honour, than to doubt you, without better proof of

dishonesty than not returning (when you were not able) to pay your

debts."

"Ye couldna hae a better proof o' my dishonesty," replied Duncan,

sternly; "for, last nicht, when I ran awa withoot payin the lawin, I had

nae mair intention o' comin back than I had o' gangin doun to the

bottomless pit."

Andrew looked at the speaker with the same amazement as was exhibited by

his wife.

"How comes it, then," said the writer, "that thou hast returned here

this morning?"

"I hae got some new _licht_," replied Andrew. "Ye ken--

'So long's the lamp hold's on to burn

The greatest sinner may return.'

I hae returned, no only to this tavern to pay my debt, but to a proper

sense o' what is due to Heaven and to my fellow-creatures. I am a

changed man, sir. Nae 'vision o' judgment,' penned by Southey or Byron,

ever transcended that o' the bottle-blawers o' Leith."

The writer considered him mad, and trembled for the payment of the bill,

which could not be extorted from a maniac. The tavern-keeper took a

calmer view, and thought he was still drunk.

"What are ye starin at?" said Duncan. "Did ye never before see a

repentant sinner? Bring yer bill, sir. And, Mr. Gavin, I refer ye to

Mrs. Gavin for some information, regarding a wab o' rotten linen I sauld

ye yesterday, bought back again, and sauld again to her this mornin."

The tavern-keeper brought the bill, which Duncan discharged.

"I cheated ye, Mr. Gavin, also o' the price o' the stirrup-cup."

"Let us drink it now," said Mr. Gavin--"Bring us a gill"--to the

tavern-keeper.

The whisky was brought, and the writer took cleverly his morning dram,

a practice which the craft has latterly renounced, but which they should

have recourse to again, as a glass of whisky is a good beginning to a

day's roguery, and has, besides, sometimes the same effect upon the

conscience that it produces on the toothache--stills the pain. A glass

was next filled out for Duncan. He took it up and held it in his hand.

"Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I saw last nicht," he said to the

tavern-keeper.

"It is only newly lighted," was the apology of the host.

"It may be the better o' that," said the other, throwing the whisky into

the grate, and making the fire blaze up. "Sae should a' burnin, fiery

liquors be used. They might then warm the outsides, in place o' burnin

the insides o' sinners. Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my

repentance. This is ane o' them. Ye may hear and sae mair, if ye

consider Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer consideration, and trace his

conduct through this weary, wicked, waefu warld, during the remainin

period o' an ill-begun but (I hope) weel-ended life."

ARCHY ARMSTRONG.

For thirty years Sandy Armstrong of the Cleughfoot had been one of the

most daring and successful freebooters of his clan. His name was a sound

of terror on the Borders, and was alike disagreeable to Scotch and

English ears; for, like Esau, Sandy's hand was against every man, and

every man's hand against him. His clan had been long broken and without

a leader, and the Armstrongs were regarded as outlaws by both nations.

Cleughfoot, in which Sandy resided, was a small square building of

prodigious strength, around it was a court-yard, or rather an enclosure

for cattle, surrounded by a massy wall, in which was an iron gate strong

as the wall itself. The door of the dwelling was also of iron, and the

windows, which were scarce larger than loop-holes, were barred. It was

generally known by the name of "Lang Sandy's _Keep_," and was situated

on the side of the Tarras, about ten miles from Langholm. Around it was

a desolate morass, the passes of which were known only to Sandy and his

few followers, and beyond the morass was a decaying but almost

impenetrable forest. Sandy, like his forefathers, knew no law, save

"The good old law--the simple plan--

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can."

He had had seven sons, and of these five had fallen while following him

in the foray, the sixth had been devoured by a blood-hound, and he had

but one, Archy, his youngest, left, to whom he could bequeath his

stronghold, a fleet steed, and his sword. Land he had none, and he knew

not its value: he found it more profitable to levy blackmail, to the

right and to the left, on Englishman and on Scot; and he laughed at the

authority of Elizabeth and of James, and defied the power of the Wardens

of their Marches--"Bess may be Queen o' England," said he, "and

book-learned Jamie, King o' braid Scotland, but Sandy Armstrong is lord

o' the wilds o' Tarras."

On the death of Elizabeth, Sandy and his handful of retainers had been

out in the raid to Penrith; in that desperate attempt, some of them had

fallen, and others had been seized and executed at Carlisle. But Sandy

had escaped, driving his booty through the wilds before him to

Cleughfoot. On one side of the court-yard stood a score of oxen and six

fleet steeds, and on the other was provender for them for many days. On

the flat roof of Cleughfoot Keep sat Sandy Armstrong; before him was a

wooden stoup filled with _aqua vitae_, and in his hand he held a small

quegh, neatly hooped round, and formed of wood of various colours. It

had a short handle for the finger and thumb, was about two inches in

diameter, and three quarters of an inch in depth, and out of this vessel

Sandy, ever and anon, quaffed his strong potations, while his son Archy,

a boy of twelve years old, stood by his side, receiving from his parent

a Borderer's education. But, leaving the freebooter and his son on the

turret of their fastness, we shall also, for a few moments, leave

Dumfriesshire, and carrying back our narrative for some weeks, introduce

the reader to the ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.

On Wednesday, the 8th of April, 1603, every soul in the good town of

Berwick was up by daybreak;--wife and maiden flaunted in their newest

gowns, with ample fardingales, and the sweating mechanic looked as

spruce in his well brushed "jack," as a courtly cavalier. By sunrise,

the cannon thundered from the ramparts. Before noon, the Marshal, Sir

John Carey, at the head of the garrison, composed of horse and foot,

marched out of the town towards Lamberton, firing _feu-d'-joies_ as they

went, while the cannon still pealed and the people shouted. The thunder

of the artillery became more frequent--the bells rang merrily--the

volleys of the garrison became louder and more loud, as though they

again approached, and "He comes!--He comes!" shouted the crowd; "Hurra!

Hurra!--the King! the King!" The garrison again entered the town, they

filed to the right and left, lining the street. In front of Marygate

stood William Selby, the gentleman porter, with the keys of the town.

The voice of the artillery, the muskets, and the multitude, again

mingled together. James of Scotland and of England stood before the

gate--Selby bent upon his knee, he placed the keys of the town in the

hands of the monarch, who instantly returned them, saying, "Rise, _Sir_

William Selby, an' saul o' me, man, but ye should take it as nae sma'

honour to be the first knight made by James, by the grace of God, an'

the love o' our gracious cousin, King o' England an' Scotland likewise."

His Majesty, followed by the multitude, proceeded down Marygate, through

the files of the garrison, to the market-place, where the worshipful

Hugh Gregson, the mayor, his brother aldermen, the bailiffs, and others

of the principal burgesses, waited to receive him. The mayor knelt and

presented him with a purse of gold and the corporation's charter. "Ye

are a leal and considerate gentleman," said the king, handing the purse

to one of his attendants--"worthy friends are ye a'; and now take back

your charter, an' ye sall find in us a gracious and affectionate

sovereign, ready to maintain the liberty and privileges it confers upon

our trusty subjects o' our town o' Berwick." Mr. Christopher Parkinson,

the recorder, then delivered a set and solemn speech, after which the

king proceeded to the church, where the Rev. Toby Mathews, Bishop of

Durham, preached a sermon suited to royal ears. On the following day,

the demonstrations of rejoicing were equally loud, and his Majesty

visited the garrison and fortifications; and as he walked upon the

ramparts surrounded by lords from Scotland and from England, and while

the people shouted, and the artillery belched forth fire, smoke, and

thunder, the monarch, in order to give an unquestionable demonstration

of his courage, in the presence of his new subjects, boldly advanced to

the side of one of the cannon, and took the match from the hands of the

soldier who was about to fire it. Once--twice--thrice, the monarch

stretched forth his hand to the touch-hole, but touched it not. It was

evident the royal hand trembled--the royal eyes were closed--yea, the

royal cheeks became pale. At length the quivering match touched the

powder, back bounded the thundering cannon, and back sprang the

terrified monarch, knocking one of his attendants down--dropping the

match upon the ground, and thrusting his fingers in his ears--stammering

out, as plainly as his throbbing heart would permit, that "he feared

their drum was split in twa!" Scarce had his Majesty recovered from this

demonstration of his bravery, when a messenger arrived with the

intelligence that the Armstrongs and other clans had committed grievous

depredations on the Borders, and had even carried their work of

spoliation and plunder as far as Penrith.

"Borders, man!" quoth the king, "our kingdom hath nae _borders_ but the

sea. It is our royal pleasure that the word _borders_ sall never mair be

used: wat ye not that what were the _extremities_ or _borders_ o' the

twa kingdoms, are but the _middle_ o' _our_ kingdom, an' in future it is

our will an' decree that ye ca' them nae langer the borders, but the

_middle_ counties. An' now, Sir William Selby, as we were graciously

pleased yesterday by our ain hand, to confer on ye the high honour o'

knighthood, take ye twa hundred and fifty horsemen, and gae ye up our

middle counties, commanding every true man in our name, capable o'

bearing arms, to join ye in crushing and in punishing sic thieves and

rievers; hang ilka Armstrong and Johnstone amang them that resists our

royal will--an' make the iron yetts o' their towers be converted into

ploughshares. Away, sir, an' do your wark surely an' right quickly."

On the following day, Sir William Selby set out upon his mission; and

before he had proceeded far, he found himself at the head of a thousand

horsemen. They burned and destroyed the strongholds of the Borderers, as

they went, and the more desperate amongst them who fell into their hands

were sent in fetters to Carlisle.

It was early in May, and the young leaves, bursting into beauty and

being, were spreading their summer livery over Tarras forest, and the

breeze wafted their grateful fragrance over the morass; even on the

morass itself, a thousand simple flowers, like fragments of beauty

scattered in hand-fuls amidst the wide-spread desolation, peeped forth;

and over the sharp cry of the wheeling lapwing rang the summer hymn of

the joyful lark, when, as we have said before, Sandy Armstrong sat on

the turret of Cleughfoot with his son by his side.

"Archy," said the freebooter, "this warld is turning upside down, an'

honest men hae nae chance in't. We hear o' naething noo but law! law!

law!--but the fient a grain o' justice is to be met wi' on the Borders.

A man canna take a bit beast or twa in an honest way, or make a bonfire

o' an enemy's haystack, but there's naethin' for't but Carlisle and a

hempen cravat. But mind, callant, ye ha'e the bluid o' the Armstrongs in

your veins, and their hands never earned bread by ony instrument but the

sword, and it winna be the son o' Sandy o' Cleughfoot that will disgrace

his kith and kin by trudging at a ploughtail, or learning some beggarly

handicraft. Swear to me, Archy, that ye will live by the sword like your

faithers afore ye--swear to your faither, callant, an' fear neither

Jamie Stuart, his twa kingdoms, nor his horsemen--they'll ha'e stout

hearts that cross Tarras moss, and there will be few sheep in Liddesdale

before the pot at Cleughfoot need nae skimming."

"I will live like my faither before me--king o' Tarras-side," said the

youth.

"That shall ye, Archy," rejoined the freebooter; "an' though the Scotts

an' the Elliots may, like fause louns, make obeisance to the king, and

get braid lands for bending their knees, what cares Sandy Armstrong for

their lands, their manrents, or their sheep-skins, scrawled owre by a

silk-fingered monk--his twa-handed blade and his Jeddart-staff shall be

a better title to an Armstrong than an acre o' parchment."

The boy caught the spirit of his sire, and flourished his

Jedburgh-staff, or battle-axe, in his hand. The father raised the quegh

to his lips--"Here's to ye, Archy," he cried, "ye'll be cooper o' Fogo!"

He crossed his arms upon his breast--he sat thoughtful for a few

minutes, and again added--"Archy--but my heart fills to look on ye--ye

are a brave bairn, but this is nae langer the brave man's country.

Courage is persecuted, and knaves only are encouraged, that can scribble

like the monks o' Melrose. Ye had sax brithers, Archy--sax lads whase

marrows warna to be found on a' the lang Borders--wi' them at my back

an' I could hae ridden north and south, an' made the name o' Sandy

Armstrong be feared; but they are gane--they're a' gane, and there's

nane left but you to protect and defend your poor mother when I am gane

too; and now they would hunt me like a deer if they durst, for they are

butchering guid and true men for our bit raid to Penrith, as though the

life o' an Armstrong were o' less value than an English nowt. If ye live

to be a man, Archy, and to see your poor auld mother's head laid in the

mould, take my sword and leave this poor, pitifu', king-ridden, an'

book-ruined country; an' dinna ye disgrace your faither by makin'

bickers like the coopers o' Nicolwood, or pinglin' wi' an elshin like

the souters o' Selkirk."

The sleuth-dog, which lay at their feet, started up, snuffed the air,

growled and lashed its tail. "Ha! Tiger! what is't, Tiger?" cried Sandy,

addressing the dog, and springing to his feet.

"Troopers! troopers, faither!" cried Archy, "an' they are comin' frae

ilka side o' the forest."

"Get ready the dags,[3] Archy," said the freebooter; "it's twa lang

spears' length to the bottom o' Tarras moss, an they'll be light men and

lighter horses that find na a grave in't--get ready the dags, and cauld

lead shall welcome the first man that mentions King Jamie's name before

the walls o' Cleughfoot."

[Footnote 3: Pistols.]

The boy ran and brought his father's pistols--his mother accompanied him

to the turret. She gazed earnestly on the threatening bands of horsemen

as they approached, for a few seconds, then taking her husband's

hand--"Sandy," said she, "I hae lang looked for this; but others that

are wives the now shall gang widows to bed the night, as well as Elspeth

Armstrong!"

"Fear naething, Elspeth, my doo," replied the riever; "there will be

blood in the way if they attack the lion in his den. But there's a lang

and tangled moss atween them an' Cleughfoot. We hae seen an enemy nearer

an' be glad to turn back again."

"They will reach us, faither," cried Archy; "do ye no see they hae

muffled men before them?"

"Muffled men! then, bairn, your faither's betrayed!" exclaimed the

freebooter, "an' there's naething but revenge and death left for Sandy

Armstrong!"

He stalked rapidly around the turret--he examined his pistols, the edge

of his sword, his Jedburgh-staff, and his spear. Elspeth placed a steel

cap on his head, and, from beneath it, his dark hair, mingled with grey,

fell upon his brow. He stood with his ponderous spear in one hand and a

pistol in the other, and the declining sun cast his shadow across the

moss, to the very horses' feet of his invaders. Still the horsemen, who

amounted to several hundreds, drew nearer and nearer on every side, and

impenetrable as the morass was to strangers, yet, by devious windings,

as a hound tracks its prey, the muffled men led them on, till they had

arrived within pistol shot of Cleughfoot.

"What want ye, friends?" shouted the outlaw--"think ye that a poor man

like Sandy Armstrong can gi'e upputtin' and provender for five hundred

horse?"

"We come," replied an officer, advancing in front of the company, "by

the authority o' our gracious prince, James, king o' England and

Scotland, and in the name o' his commissioner, Sir William Selby, to

punish and hand over to justice Border thieves and outlaws, o' whom we

are weel assured that you, Sandy Armstrong, o' the Cleughfoot, are habit

and repute, amangst the chief."

"Ye lie! ye lie!" returned the outlaw; "ye dyvors in scarlet an'

cockades, ye lie! I hae lived thir fifty years by my ain hand, an' the

man was never born that dared say Sandy Armstrong laid finger on the

widow's cow or the puir man's mare, or that he scrimpit the orphan's

meal. But I hae been a protector o' the poor and helpless, an' a

defender o' the cowan-hearted, for a sma' but honest blackmail, that

other men, wi' no half the strength o' Sandy Armstrong, wadna ta'en up

at their foot.

"Do ye surrender in peace, ye boastin' rebel?" replied the herald, "or

shall we burn your den about your ears?"

"I ken it is death ony way ye take it," rejoined the outlaw--"ye would

show me an' mine the mercy that was shown to my kinsman, John o'

Gilnokie,[4] and I shall surrender as an Armstrong surrenders--when the

breath is out."

[Footnote 4: This subject forms another of the Border Tales.]

Fire flashed from a narrow crevice which resembled a cross in the

turrets--the report of a pistol was heard, and the horse of the herald

bounded, and fell beneath him.

"That wasna done like an Armstrong, Archy," said the freebooter; "ye hae

shot the horse, an' it might hae been the rider--the man was but doing

his duty, an' it was unfair and cowardly to fire on him till the affray

began."

"I shall mind again, faither," said Archy, "but I thought, wi' sic odds

against us, that every advantage was fair."

While these events transpired, Elspeth was busied placing powder and

balls upon the roof of the turret; she brought up also a carabine, and

putting it in her husband's hands, said--"Tak ye that, Sandy, to aim at

their leaders, and gie Archy an' me the dags."

The horsemen encompassed the wall; Sandy, his wife, and his son, knelt

upon the turret, keeping up, through the crevices, a hurried but deadly

fire on the besiegers. It was evident the assailants intended to blow up

the wall. The freebooter beheld the train laid, and the match applied.

Already his last bullet was discharged. "Let us fire the straw among the

cattle!" cried little Archy. "Weel thought, my bairn!" exclaimed the

riever. The boy rushed down into the house, and in an instant returned

with a flaming pine torch in his hand. He dropped it amongst the cattle.

He dashed a handful of powder on the spot, and in a moment half of the

court-yard burst into a flame. At the same instant a part of the

court-wall trembled--exploded--fell. The horned cattle and the horses

were rushing wildly to and fro through the fire. The invaders burst

through the gap. Elspeth tore a pearl drop from her ears,[5] and,

thrusting it into the pistol, discharged it at the head of the first man

who approached the house. It was evident they intended to blow up the

house, as they had done the wall. Sandy had now no weapon that he could

render effective but his spear, and he said--"They shall taste the prick

of the hedgehog before I die." He thrust it down furiously upon them,

and several of them fell at his threshold, but the deadly instrument was

grasped by a number of the besiegers, and wrenched from his hands.

[Footnote 5: The wives and daughters of the Borderers, at this period,

wore numerous trinkets--spoils, no doubt, presented them by their

husbands and wooers.]

The sun had already set, darkness was gathering over the morass, and

still the fire burned, and the cattle rushed amongst the armed men in

the court-yard.

"Elspeth," said the freebooter, "it is not your life they seek, and they

canna hae the heart to harm our bairn. Gie me my Jeddard-staff in my

hand--an' fareweel to ye, Elspeth--fareweel!--an eternal fareweel!

Archy, fareweel, my gallant bairn!--never disgrace yer faither!--but ye

winna--ye winna--an' if I am murdered, mind ye revenge me, Archy! Now we

maun unbar the door, and I maun cut my way through them or perish."

Thus spoke the Borderer, and with his battle-axe in his hand, he

embraced his wife and his son, and wept. "Now, Archy," said he, "slip

and open the door--saftly!--saftly!--an' let me rush out."

Archy silently drew back the massy bars; in a moment the iron door stood

ajar, and Sandy Armstrong, battle-axe in hand, burst into the

court-yard, and into the midst of his besiegers. There was not a man

amongst them that had not heard of the "terrible Jeddart-staff o' Sandy

Armstrong." He cleaved them down before him--his very voice augmented

their confusion--they shrank back at his approach; and while some fled

from the infuriated cattle, others fled from the arm of the freebooter.

In a few seconds he reached the gap in the court-wall--he rushed upon

the moss;--darkness had begun, and a thick vapour was rising from the

morass. "Follow me who dare!" shouted Sandy Armstrong.

Archy withdrew into a niche in the passage, as his father rushed

out;--and as the besiegers speedily burst into the house, amongst them

was one of the muffled men[6] bearing a torch in his hand. Revenge fired

the young Borderer, and, with his Jedburgh-staff, he made a dash at the

hand of the traitor. The torch fell upon the floor, and with it three of

the fingers that grasped it. The besiegers were instantly enveloped in

gloom, and Archy, escaping from the niche from whence he had struck the

blow, said unto himself--"I've gien ye a mark to find out who you are,

neighbour."

[Footnote 6: A muffled man was one who, for his future safety, assumed a

mask or disguise in leading the enemy to the haunt of his neighbours or

associates whom he betrayed.]

The besiegers took possession of Cleughfoot, and the chief men of the

party remained in it daring the night, while a portion of their

followers occupied the court-yard, and others, with their horses,

remained on the morass. Archy and his mother were turned from their

dwelling, and placed under a guard upon the moss, where they remained

throughout the night; and, in the morning, Cleughfoot was blown up

before them. They were conveyed as prisoners to Sir William Selby, who

had fixed his quarters near Langholm.

"Whom do ye bring me here?" inquired the new-made knight; "a wife and

bairn!--Hae ye been catching sparrows and let the eagle escape?--Whar

hae ye the head and the hand o' the outlaw?"

"Troth, Sir Knight," replied an officer, "and his head is where it

shouldna be--on his ain shouthers. At the darkenin' he escaped upon the

moss; three troopers, guided by a muffler and a sleuth-dog, pursued him;

an' as we crossed the bog this mornin', we found ane o' the troopers

sunk to the middle in't, an' his horse below him; and far'er on were the

dead bodies o' the other twa, the sleuth-dog, and the muffled man. I am

sorry, therefore, to inform ye, Sir Knight, that Sandy Armstrong has

escaped, but we hae made a bonefire o' his keep, an' brought ye his wife

and his son--wha are Armstrongs, soul and body o' them--to do wi' them

as ye may judge proper."

"Tuts, man," replied Sir William, "wad he hae us to disgrace our royal

commission by hangin' an auld wife an a bairn? Gae awa, ye limmer,

ye--gae awa wi' your brat," he added, addressing Elspeth, "an' learn to

live like honest folk; or, if ye fa' in my way again, ye shall dance by

the crook frae a woodie."

"Where can I gang?" said she sorrowfully, as she withdrew. "O Archy! we

hae neither house nor hauld--friend nor kindred!--an' wha will shelter

the wife and bairn o' poor persecuted Sandy Armstrong!"

"Dinna fret, mother," said Archy; "though they hae burned Cleughfoot,

the stanes are still left, an' I can soon big a bit place to stop in;

nor, while there's a hare in Tarras wood, or a sheep on the Leadhills,

shall ye ever want, mother."

They returned in sorrow to the heap of ruins that had been their

habitation; and Elspeth, in the bitterness of her spirit, sat down upon

the stones and wept. But after she had wept long, and the sound of her

lamentation had howled across the desert, she arose and assisted her son

in constructing a hut from the ruins, in which they might lay their

heads. In two days it was completed, but, on the third day, the

disconsolate wife of the freebooter sank on her bed of rushes, and the

sickness of death was in her heart.

"Oh, speak to me, mother!" cried Archy; "what--what can I do for ye?"

"Naethin', my bairn!--naethin'!" groaned the dying woman--"the sun's

fa'in dark on the een o' Elspeth Armstrong; but, oh, may the saunts o'

heaven protect my poor Archy!"

She tried to repeat the only prayer she had ever learned--for religion

was as little understood in the house of a freebooter as the eighth

commandment. Poor Archy wrung his hands and sobbed aloud.

"Dinna die, mother--oh! dinna die!" he exclaimed, "or what will become

o' your Archy!" He rushed from the hut, and with a broken vessel which

he had found among the ruins, he brought water from the rivulet. He

applied it to her lips--he bathed her brow--"O mother! mother, dinna

die!" he cried again, "and I will get you bread too!" He again hurried

from the hut, and bounded across the moss with the fleetness of a young

deer. It was four long miles to the nearest habitation, and in it dwelt

Ringan Scott, a dependent of the Buccleuchs. There had never been

friendship between his family and that of Sandy Armstrong, but, in the

agony of Archy's feelings, he stopped not to think of that nor of aught

but his dying mother. He rushed into the house--"Gie me bread!" he

exclaimed wildly, "for the love o' heaven gie me bread, for my mother is

perishin'!"

"Let her perish!--an may ye a' perish!" said a young man, the son of

Ringan, who stood by the fire with his right hand in a sling, "ye's get

nae bread here."

"I maun!--I shall!" cried Archy, vehemently. Half of a coarse cake lay

upon the table; he snatched it up, and rushed out of the house. They

pursued him for a time, but affection and despair gave wings to his

speed. Breathless, he reached the wretched hut, and, on entering, he

cried--"Mother, here is bread! I have gotten't! I have gotten't!" But

his mother answered him not. "Speak, mother! O mother, speak! here is

bread now--eat it an' ye'll be better," he cried, but his mother was

still silent. He took her hand in his--"Are ye sleepin', mother?" he

added--"here is bread!" He shook her gently, but she stirred not. He

placed his hand upon her face; it was cold as the rude walls of the hut,

and her extended arms were stiff and motionless. He raised them, and

they fell heavily and lifeless. "Mother!--mother!" screamed Archy; but

his mother was dead! He rushed from the hut wildly, tearing his hair--he

flung himself upon the ground--he called upon his father, and the glens

of Tarras echoed the cry; but no father was near to answer. He flew back

to the hut. He knelt by his mother's corpse--he rubbed her face and her

bosom--he placed his lips to hers, and again he invoked her to speak.

Night drew on, and, as darkness fell over the ghastly features of the

corpse, he fled with terror from the hut, and wandered weeping

throughout the night upon the moss. At sunrise he returned, and again

sat down and wept by the dead body of his mother. He became familiar

with death, and his terror died away. Two nights more passed on, and the

boy sat in the desolate hut in the wilderness, watching and mourning

over the lifeless body of his mother. On the fourth day, he took a

fragment of the iron gate, and began to dig her grave. He raised the

dead body in his arms, and weeping, screaming, as he went, he bore it to

the tomb he had prepared for it. He gently placed it in the cold earth,

and covered it with the moss and the green sod. All the day long he

toiled in rolling and carrying stones from the ruins of his father's

house, to erect a cairn over his mother's grave. When his task was done;

he wrung his hands, and exclaimed, "Now, poor Archy Armstrong hasna a

friend in the wide world!" While he yet stood mourning over the new-made

grave, a party of horsemen, who were still in quest of his father, rode

up and accosted him. His tragic tale was soon told, and, in the

bitterness of his heart, he accused them as being the murderers of his

father and his mother. Amongst them was one of the chief men of the

Elliot clan, who held lands in the neighbourhood. He felt compassion for

Archy, and he admired his spirit; and, desiring him to follow him, he

promised to provide for him. Archy reluctantly obeyed, and he was

employed to watch the sheep of his protector on the hills.

Eighteen years passed away. Archy was now thirty years of age; he had

learned to read, and even to write, like the monks that were in Melrose.

He was the principal herdsman of his early benefactor, and was as much

beloved as his father had been feared. But at times the spirit of the

freebooter would burst forth; and he had not forgiven the persecutors,

or, as he called them, the murderers of his parents. Amongst these was

one called "Fingerless Dick," the son of Ringan Scott, of whom we have

spoken. Archy had long known that he was one of the muffled men who had

conducted Selby's horsemen to his father's house, and that he was the

same from whose hand he had dashed the torch with his battle-axe. Now,

there was to be a football fray in Liddesdale, and the Borderers

thronged to it from many miles. Archy was there, and there also was his

enemy--"Fingerless Dick." They quarrelled--they closed--both came to the

ground, but Scott was undermost. He drew his knife--he stabbed his

antagonist in the side--he was repeating the thrust, when Archy wrenched

the weapon from his hand, and, in the fury of the moment, plunged it in

his breast. At first the wound was believed to be mortal, and an attempt

was made to seize Archy, but clutching an oaken cudgel from the hands of

one who stood near him--"Lay hands on me wha dare!" he cried, as he

brandished it in the air, and fled at his utmost speed.

Archy knew that though his enemy might recover, the Scotts would let

loose the tender mercies of the law upon his head, and instead of

returning to the house of his master, he sought safety in concealment.

On the third day after the fray in Liddesdale, he entered Dumfries. He

was weary and wayworn, for he had fled from hill to hill, and from glen

to glen, fearing pursuit. He inquired for a lodging, and was shown to a

small house near the foot of a street leading to the river, and which,

we believe, is now called the Bank Vennel; and in which, he was told,

"the pig folk and other travellers put up for the night." There was a

motley group in the house, beggars and chapmen, and amongst the former

was an old man of uncommon stature; and his hair, as white as snow,

descended down upon his shoulders. His beard was of equal whiteness, and

fell upon his breast. An old grey cloak covered his person, which was

fastened round his body with a piece of rope instead of a girdle. He

appeared as one who had been in foreign wars, and he wore a shade or

patch over his left eye. He spoke but little, but he gazed often and

wistfully on the countenance of Archy, and more than once a tear found

its way down his weather-beaten cheeks. In the morning when Archy rose

to depart, "Whither gang ye, young man?" inquired the old beggar,

earnestly--"are ye for the north or for the south?"

"Wherefore spier ye, auld man?" replied Archy.

"I hae a cause, an' ane that winna harm ye," said the stranger, "if ye

will thole an auld man's company for a little way."

Archy agreed that he should accompany him, and they took the road

towards Annan together. It was a calm and glorious morning: the Solway

flashed in the sunlight like a silver lake, and not a cloud rested on

the brow of the majestic Criffel. For the space of three miles they

proceeded in silence, but the old man sighed oft and heavily, as though

his spirit were troubled. "Let us rest here for a few minutes," said he,

as he sat down on a green knoll by the way-side, and gazing steadfastly

in Archy's face--"Young man," he added, "your face brings owre my heart

the memories o' thirty years--and, oh! persecuted as the name is--answer

me truly if your name be Armstrong?"

"It is!" replied Archy, "and perish the son o' Sandy Armstrong when he

disowns it!"

"An' your faither--your mother," continued the old man, hesitating as he

spoke--"do they--does she live?"

In a few words Archy told of his father's persecution--of his being

hunted from the country like a wild beast--of the destruction of the

home of his childhood--of his mother's death, and of her burial by his

own hands in the wilderness.

"Oh! my poor Elspeth!" cried the aged beggar, "Archy! my son! my son! I

am your faither! Sandy Armstrong, the outlaw!"

"My faither!" exclaimed Archy, pressing the beggar to his breast. When

they had wept together,--"Let us gae nae farer south," said the old man,

"but let us return to Tarras moss, that when the hand o' death comes, ye

may lay me down in peace by the side of my Elspeth."

With a sorrowful heart Archy told his father that he was flying from the

law and the vengeance of the Scotts. "Gie them gowd as a

peace-offering," said the old man, and he pulled from beneath his coarse

cloak a leathern purse, filled with gold, and placed it in the hands of

his son. For nearly twenty years Sandy had served in foreign wars, and

obtained honours and rewards; and on visiting his native land, he had

assumed the beggar's garb for safety. They returned to Tarras-side

together, and a few yellow coins quashed the prosecution of "Fingerless

Dick." Archy married the daughter of his former employer, and became a

sheep-farmer; and, at the age of fourscore years and ten, the old

freebooter closed his eyes in peace in the house of his son, and in the

midst of his grandchildren, and was buried, according to his own

request, by the side of Elspeth in the wilderness.

THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM.

"Say you love

His person--be not asham'd of't; he's a man,

For whose embraces, though Endymion

Lay sleeping by, Cynthia would leave her orb,

And exchange kisses with him."

_Massinger._

The morn was fair, the sky was clear, when Mr. Andrew Micklewhame set

his foot aboard one of the "Stirling, Alloa, and Kincardine Steam

Company's" boats, at the Chain Pier, Newhaven, for the purpose of

proceeding to the first-named place, on a visit to his old friend, Davie

Kerr, who had been, for upwards of twenty years, a respectable

iron-monger in that romantic town. On reaching Alloa, however, where, as

every one knows, the steamers pause for such length of time as enables

them to take in a supply of coals, and the tide to run up, it began to

rain, in the manner best expressed by the household phrase, "auld wives

and pipe stapples." Notwithstanding this, Andrew being determined to

make the most of his time--for a week was the utmost limit of his leave

of absence from the Edinburgh cloth establishment, in which he was in

the habit of wearing away his days and his coat sleeves--ascended from

the cabin where he had been luxuriating over the only volume--the first

of "Wilson's Tales of the Borders"--of which its library could boast;

and unfurling his umbrella, walked ashore in the fond hope of seeing or

hearing something worth the seeing or hearing. And Andrew was not

disappointed; for, to his unspeakable delight, he descried against the

gable-end of a white house, a play-bill, on which "Venice Preserved,"

appeared in letters of half-an-inch deep; the part of Pierre, by Mr.

Ferdinand Gustavus Trash, and Jaffier, by Mr. Henry Watkins. The

afterpiece, "Rob Roy." Being extremely partial to theatrical amusements,

of whatever description, and, moreover, being a contributor to a

dramatic review published weekly in the Scottish metropolis, it occurred

to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that here he might, in all probability, find

materials sufficient on which to establish a funny critique, that would

print to the extent of at least six of the twelve pages of the aforesaid

dramatic review, and yield him good pay. Such an opportunity was not to

be lost. He, therefore, resolved on remaining at Alloa that night to

witness the performances, and proceeding to Stirling next morning by the

earliest conveyance.

Having arranged this to his own content, he stalked majestically into an

inn--without stopping to notice the sign which projected angularly over

the door, bearing the representation of a ship in full sail, among

emerald waves, with moon-rakers and sky-scrapers ingeniously mixed up

with the indigo clouds above--and stoutly called for a pint of porter

and a biscuit, to take the edge off his appetite. This inn rejoiced not

in a landlord; he that _was_ the landlord had, some twelve years before,

taken himself off to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no

traveller returns;" and his widow had not been lucky enough to meet with

another ready and willing to let himself become entangled with her in

the meshes of matrimony. The waiters who had, in her husband's time,

been wont to serve the customers, had either died out, or gone to other

and better situations, and left her with one solitary maid of all

work--the same who had officiated as barmaid to the inn for fifteen

years.

This maid of all work--Kirsty by name--was a tall, hard-featured woman,

of--by her own acknowledgment--two-and-forty; not very tidy in her

adornment, nor very bewitching in her manner. She it was who brought

Mr. Andrew Micklewhame the pint of porter and the biscuit.

"I suppose, my dear!" said Andrew--(he had been a gay deceiver in his

youth, and, ever since that period, the phrase, "my dear!" had stuck to

him, and always when speaking to a female did he use it)--"I suppose, my

dear," continued he, "I can have tea, and a beef-steak, or something of

that kind, to it, in"--(here he stopped, and looked at his watch, from

which he ascertained that it was then half-past four o'clock)--"in an

hour and a half; and, as I purpose staying here to-night, I should like

a bed. Will you arrange this for me?"

"Ye can easily get yer tea, sir," said the woman of forty-two, looking

pleased at being addressed, "my dear;" "but, as for the bed, unless ye

like to sleep in a dooble-bedded room, we canna gie ye accomodation. The

lad that sleeps in ane o' the beds, is a decent sort o' a callant. We

dinna ken much aboot him though; for he only comes here at nicht for his

bed; and in the mornings, after his breakfast, awa' he gangs, and we

never sees his face till nicht again; except upon the Sundays, when he

aye has a pairty o' braw leddies an' gentlemen to dinner wi' him. He has

leeved that way for a fortnicht or three weeks; an' my mistress hasna

been the woman to ask him for a penny. Fegs! I'm thinkin' she has taen a

notion o' the callant. What he is or what he diz we dinna ken, an'

naebody can tell us."

"Mysterious being!" inwardly ejaculated (as the novelists' phrase goes)

Mr. Micklewhame; then turning to Kirsty, with an inquiring look, he

said--"Is he genteel in appearance? of good address? of pleasing manner?

Is he"----

"Ou, ay!" was the reply; "he's a' that--I never see'd a genteeler young

man in a' my days; and sae handsome too; sic black whiskers, an' sae

broad aboot the shouthers. My certie, he's a stalworth chiel. An', as

for his address; heth man, he often gies me a kiss in the mornings as

he gangs oot, and promises me anither whan he comes back again. Ye

needna be the least feared to sleep in the same room wi' him."

"Feared!" muttered Micklewhame. "Afraid of a man with black whiskers and

broad shoulders! I flatter myself I never was afraid in my life." So

saying, he elevated himself on his pins to the same degree as he rose at

that moment in his own estimation. Then turning to the table whereon he

had deposited his hat, he seized it up, and, with a dexterous jerk,

stuck it on his head, at the same time exclaiming--"You may prepare the

bed for me--I'll sleep in the room with this mysterious man; and, while

the tea is getting ready, I'll just take a short stroll."

With these words he left the inn.

Mr. Andrew Micklewhame was a middle-aged man, with a rotundity of

corpus, and a bachelor to boot. In his youthful days his love for the

fair sex had partaken more of a general than a particular character; and

now that he had arrived at the meridian of life, his taste had grown too

particular for him to choose a partner for the remainder of his days

from among those unmarried ladies whom he ranked among his

acquaintances. "Girls," he would say, "are not now half so pretty, nor

half so domestic, as they were in my young days." Then he would enter

into a long tirade against the march of intellect, usually ending with a

few observations upon pianoforte playing, and cooking a beef-steak, the

latter accomplishment being in his opinion--as it is in that of every

well-thinking person--the greater accomplishment of the two. One lady

was too young; another was too old; a third was too tall; a fourth was

too small; a fifth had no money; a sixth _had_ money, but was downright

ugly; a seventh was ill-tempered: in short, with every one on whom his

matrimonial ideas had condescended to settle, he had some fault to

find. There is no pleasing one who is predetermined not to be pleased.

Once, indeed, at a party to which he had been accidentally invited, he

had felt a kind of a sort of a nervous tremulousness come over him on

being set down at the supper table beside a lady, who, he discovered,

was a widow; not from her garb, however; for widows--that is, young

widows free of encumbrance--usually dress themselves in a much gayer

manner than they were wont to do when "nice young maidens." He had made

himself as agreeable as it was in his power to do, drinking wine with

her at least half-a-dozen times, and otherwise doing, as he supposed,

"the polite." Nay, he even went so far as to volunteer his services in

seeing her home; and on the way over (she was from the country, and,

_pro tempore_, resided with a friend in Bruntisfield Place, fronting the

Links), he had the boldness to pop the question. He was accepted, and

invited to breakfast with the lady the following morning. The morning

came; but Andrew did not go--the fumes of the wine having subsided, and

"Richard being himself again." He had taken a second thought on the

subject, and determined on remaining a bachelor; by which arrangement

the Widow Brown was, like Lord Ullin for his daughter, "left lamenting."

Who her husband had been? whether she had money? what was her situation

in life? were what Andrew tried long and earnestly to discover, but in

vain--the Widow Brown seemed wrapped in mystery; and, from that hour,

when he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, under a lamp-post, at two

o'clock in the morning, in Bruntisfield Place, he had neither seen nor

heard of her. Years--six in number--had elapsed since then, and Andrew

had not ventured to accept another invitation to an evening party; but,

as soon as his business for the day was over, he returned to his

solitary lodging in Richmond Street; and, for the remainder of the

evening, followed the example of the gentlemen of England, and "lived

at home at ease," never stirring out, except to pay an occasional visit

to the theatre.

The localities of Alloa were quite unknown to Andrew, for the best

reason in the world--he had never been in it before; but, by dint of

attending to the usual expedient resorted to on like occasions--that of

following his nose--in the space of a few minutes he discovered that his

feet, or fate, had led him into a dockyard, where a vessel was just upon

the point of being wedded to the ocean. Some women and men--the former,

as usual, predominant--were seated on logs beneath a shed; others, the

more impatient seemingly, were walking about with umbrellas and parasols

above their heads--young men with young misses--old men and babes.

Children in their first childhood, of various shapes and sizes, chiefly

barefooted, were scampering among the wet sawdust, round about the logs

of wood, in the shed and out of it, quite absorbed in the

spirit-stirring game of "tig"--ever and anon yelping out each other's

names, and otherwise expressing their joy at not being "it." Among their

seniors there was a great deal of gabble to very little purpose, with a

preponderate share of bustle and agitation.

Carpenters were thumping away at the blocks on which the vessel rested,

making more noise than progress. At length the blocks were fairly driven

out, and away boomed the vessel into the Forth, amid the cheers of the

assembled spectators. The general interest then subsided; and in a few

minutes thereafter, with exception of the carpenters and some stray

children, the dockyard presented the picture of emptiness. The din had

ended; and the multitude, reversing the condition of Rob Roy, had left

desolation where they had found plenty.

Tea over, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame, having first seen to his accommodation

for the night, and secured a place in the Stirling omnibus, which was

advertised to start the next morning precisely at nine, wended his way

quietly to the theatre. It was in the Assembly Room--a rumbling old

mansion, on the windows of which "time's effacing fingers" had taken

_pains_ to leave their mark so effectually, that sundry detachments of

old soot-bedizzened "clouts" filled up those interstices where glass had

once been. "The nonpareil company of comedians" entertained their

audiences and held their orgies on the second floor--the first being

occupied as an academy, where "young gentlemen are taken in and done

for." The scenes in which the establishment rejoiced were five in

number. Luckily, "Venice Preserved" did not require so many; but in "Rob

Roy" the manager was compelled to make them perform double duty; and,

consequently, the same scene was thrust on for the inside of a village

inn apartment in Bailie Nicol Jarvie's, and the interior of Jean

M'Alpine's change-house. The audience department was most gorgeous;

there were boxes, pit, and gallery; or, in other words, front, middle,

and back seats--the term "boxes" being applied to the front form, to

which there was a back attached, most aristocratically garnished with

green cloth, with brass nails in relief. At the farther end of this form

"an efficient orchestra" was placed. It consisted of a boy to play the

panpipes and the triangles at one and the same moment, a lad to thump

away at the bass drum, and a blind man to perform on the clarionet--the

last being dignified in the bills by the title of "leader of the

orchestra, and conductor of music." The whole under the immediate

superintendence of Mr. Ferdinand Gustavus Trash.

After an immensity of preliminary puffs into the clarionet, occasional

rattles on the drum, and consultations among themselves as to the air to

be played, the musicians struck up the spirit-stirring "All Round my

Hat;" which, though achieved in beautiful disregard of time and concord,

was received with great--ay, with very great applause, by the

momentarily increasing audience, some of whom mistook it for "God Save

the King," and, in an extreme fit of loyalty, bawled out--"Off hats!

stand up!" with which command many did not hesitate to comply.

There was a pause, interrupted at length by the loudly expressed wish of

the gods that the curtain should draw up. Up it went accordingly, and

"Venice Preserved" commenced with some show of enthusiasm. Belvidera was

personated by an interesting female of five-and-thirty, who, after

parting in tears from Jaffier, a youth of eighteen, as the means of

acquainting the audience with her extraordinary vocal abilities,

consoled herself and them with that very appropriate ditty--"Within a

Mile of Edinburgh Town," accompanied by the orchestra. The Doge of

Venice, not to be outdone, as it were, left his throne after the

terrific disclosures of Jaffier, and, in honest exultation at the

discovery of the horrid plot, solaced the mysterious Council of Ten

with--"I was the boy for bewitching them." The bass drum was

particularly distinguished in the accompaniment.

In a critique of the performances which Mr. Micklewhame wrote, he

says--"It would have greatly added to the delight of those conversant

with the pure English idiom, had many of the actors paid a visit, for a

short time, to the _first_ floor of the Assembly Room, ere venturing to

appear on the second."

The meagreness of the company compelled several of the principal

performers to play inferior parts, in addition to those against which

their names appeared in the bill. For instance, in "Rob Roy," the same

person who performed Rashleigh had to "go on" in the capacity of a

peasant, and sing a bass solo in the opening glee. Owen and Major

Galbraith were _done_ by the same individual. Mattie sung in the opening

glee, and danced the Highland Fling at the Pass of Lochard, with Dougal

and Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Some of the audience were scandalized at the

appearance of Mattie on this occasion, and began to entertain great

doubts of the morality of the bailie, when they saw his handmaid in his

company so far from the Trongate.

Seated on _the_ front form, with green cloth back studded with brass

nails, and immediately behind a row of six penny dipped candles,

tastefully arranged in order among an equivalent number of holes in a

stick placed in front of the drop-scene to divide the audience from the

actors, Andrew Micklewhame gazed on all this with the stoical

indifference of one who is used to such things: in short, he gazed on it

with the eye of an experienced critic--the best of all possible ways to

mar one's enjoyment of a play. Occasionally, however, he felt inclined

to indulge in a hearty laugh; but the dignity of the critic came to his

aid, and he restrained it by turning away his face from the stage and

casting his scrutinizing glance around the inhabitants of the seats in

the rear, or listened to the remarks of those in the pit. It was during

the latter part of the performance of the first act, and the interval

between it and the second, that he, in this manner, overheard the

fragments of a conversation carried on, _sotto voce_, in the seat

immediately behind him. He had the curiosity to steal a glance at the

speakers. They were a young woman, with fine dark eyes, and a young man,

of apparently five-and-twenty years of age, with cheeks _red_olent of

rouge, enveloped in a faded Petersham greatcoat, whom Andrew immediately

set down as belonging to the company of comedians. He could hear the

young woman with the dark eyes upbraiding the young man with the

coloured cheeks for deserting her; then the young man said he had

intended to write her soon, with some money, so she ought not to have

followed him.

"I am pretty well situated in lodgings here at present," continued the

young man; "but I cannot venture to take you there to-night, for the

fact of my being a married man would not, were it known, raise me in

the estimation of the landlady. But I will procure other lodgings for

you after the play is over; and if you do not hear from me in the

morning, at farthest by ten, you may call for me at the inn where I am

staying." He ended by observing that he was wanted in the next act to go

on as a Highlander; and, accordingly, he left her, and crept in behind

the curtain.

There was nothing very extraordinary in all this; yet, though Andrew

knew that such occurrences happened daily, he could not help thinking of

what he had just overheard, and feeling interested in the damsel of the

sparkling eyes. He did not dare, however, to take another peep at her,

as he thought it would be too marked; and when he rose, at the

termination of the performances, to go away, the seat behind him was

quite vacant; nor could he discern, among the dense mass of human beings

that obstructed the door-way, the slightest vestige of her, or the youth

in the shabby greatcoat who had acknowledged himself her husband.

The rain had not ceased when Mr. Micklewhame left the Assembly Room, so

he hurried to his inn with all possible despatch. Mr. Micklewhame prided

himself on his knowledge of the principles of economy; and when he

travelled he invariably made it a point to take no more than two meals

per diem--breakfast and tea--both with a meat accompaniment; but this

evening--this particular evening--as he sat toasting his toes before an

excellent fire, in a comfortable parlour of a comfortable inn, and heard

the rain pattering against the casement, it, somehow or other, entered

into his head that a tumbler of punch would be by no means amiss. A

tumbler of punch was ordered in accordingly; after that came a second;

and a third; and--no, we can't exactly say that there was a fourth. At

all events, there was a marked inclination, first towards one side of

the staircase, and then towards the other, in Mr. Andrew Micklewhame's

ascent to his bedroom that evening. Nay, more; he attempted to kiss

Kirsty as she was depositing the candlestick upon the table; but he

missed his aim, and measured his length on the floor. By the time he was

up again, Kirsty had vanished.

Mr. Micklewhame was a little annoyed that he could not use the

precaution of bolting his door. The mysterious man, with the black

whiskers and broad shoulders, had not yet claimed his bed, although it

was pretty well on towards

"The wee short hour ayont the twal."

"I don't half like this sleeping in a double-bedded room, with a man I

never saw," he thought, but did not venture to say it aloud, lest some

one might be within ear-shot, and set him down as a coward. "I wonder,"

exclaimed he, as he proceeded to undress before the yet glowing embers

of a consumptive fire, "whether--hic--whether the f--f--fellow snores. I

sha'n't sleep, I'm sure--hic--I sha'n't--hic--sleep, if the f--f--fellow

snores."

Having delivered himself of this very sensible observation, he got into

one of the beds in the best way he could, covered himself up warm, and

fell fast asleep.

Dreams visited his pillow; distorted visions, in which Kirsty, the

dark-eyed damoiselle, and the man with the black whiskers, bore

prominent parts, flitted across his fancy. Then he felt himself borne

through the air by a vulture in a shabby brown greatcoat, which set him

down on the top of a high house, and flew away. He thought he got up and

groped his way along the house-top; but, missing his footing, he fell

over, and would certainly have had his brains dashed out upon the

pavement below, had not the motion of his descent caused him to start

and awaken. All was still within the chamber. He looked out of bed, but

could discover no signs of the appearance of his mysterious neighbour;

so he composed himself to sleep again. This time, however, he was not so

successful as at first; for it was only after some time that he could

coax himself into a sort of doze--something betwixt sleeping and waking.

While in this state, he fancied he saw the man in the brown greatcoat

enter the room; then he saw a flash of light; then he imagined he smelt

sulphur; and then, all of a sudden, he felt himself in reality pulled

half out of bed.

"Hollo, hollo!" cried he; "what the deuce is the matter?" and he rubbed

his eyes until he found himself wide awake.

"Sir, sir!" cried a voice, "you've made a mistake--you've got into my

bed in place of your own."

Any one in Andrew's place but Andrew himself would have cursed and sworn

like a trooper at a person daring to awaken him from a comfortable

snooze upon such slight pretences; but Andrew was a peaceable man--he

never liked to make any disturbance--and he actually, without saying a

word, turned out of the bed he had warmed for himself, and allowed the

stranger to get into his place. He was sure, at all events, that he had

not given up his bed to any but the lawful tenant of the room; for a

blink of fire-light gleamed upon a pair of extensive whiskers, with

shoulders to correspond. The features struck Andrew as being familiar to

him; but he could not, though he tried, for the life of him, recollect

where he had before seen them. He cursed the fellow's impudence, as he

discovered that the smell of sulphur which had saluted his olfactory

nerves, was _not_ the smell of sulphur, but of a candle having been

blown out. He did not dare, though, to utter a word on the subject. He

felt very much afraid--indeed, so much so, that it was not till after an

hour's perambulation through the room, that he could prevail on himself

to lie down in the empty bed. Again he fell fast asleep.

When he awoke, the morning light was streaming into the room through the

chinks of the shutters. He wondered very much what o'clock it was, as he

remembered that he purposed setting off by the omnibus at nine, and

groped about for his watch. Horror!--he had left it beneath the pillow

of the other bed.

Jumping to the floor with considerable agility, and opening the shutters

with a bang, in the hope that noise and daylight would bring him

courage, the first objects that met his astonished gaze, were a shabby

brown greatcoat and a shocking bad hat, lying carelessly on a chair. Had

any one asked Andrew to shave his head without soap, or give sixpence

for a penny loaf, he could not have been more amazed or terror-stricken

than he was at that moment. That the shabby brown greatcoat and the

shocking bad hat belonged to the mysterious man with the black whiskers,

and that the mysterious man with the black whiskers, and he who had sat

beside the damsel with the bright eyes at the play, were one and the

same individual, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame had not the smallest doubt, and

thereupon he began to get a little fidgetty regarding his watch. The

curtains of the bed were closely drawn--so closely that Andrew could not

see in; and he did not just like at first to open the curtains and

disturb the whiskered youth in the same manner as the whiskered youth

had disturbed him. No. Andrew was a more generous-minded man than that.

He paced the room for some time, fancying all sorts of things about the

owner of the shabby brown greatcoat, but never taking his eye off the

curtains, resolved to rush forward on the first appearance of their

opening.

"'Tis for no good this fellow lives here," thought Andrew. "All a sham,

too, his being connected with these players. I have no doubt in my own

mind that he is either the murderer of Begbie in disguise, or a

resurrectionist. Ah! perhaps he has run away from the world, and come

here for the purpose of committing suicide in a quiet way. But, no; why

should he? That's quite improbable." And, after thinking all this, he

paused for about five minutes, then exclaimed, not aloud, however--"I

can bear this suspense no longer. Ecod! I'll ask the fellow who he is,

and, at the same time, claim my watch!"

So saying, he rushed forward with a determined air, drew the curtains,

and discovered--the bed was empty!