suitable dwelling, and that was no sooner in a habitable state, than he
brought that courtship, which he began with Rosa MacDermot, before she
was carried off from the harvest-rig by the eagle, to a proper period,
by a mutual submission of the parties to that holy yoke, which was
imposed upon them by the priest, who then lived at Dounan. The poor old
Howlet's prophecy was thus verified, by Rosa MacDermot thus becoming
a landed lady, and marrying a man with a knight's spurs at his heels,
and this, too, precisely according to the happy interpretation which
the Lady Kilmaichly had herself put upon it. Among the few people who
were bidden to the marriage, and certainly one who was by no means the
least happy or jovial among the company, was the good old knight Sir
Piers Gordon. Nor was his niece, the Lady Marcella, absent, though,
strange to say, she was very much metamorphosed from what she once
was. Some time after those events, which caused the flight of Charley
Stewart to Edinburgh, and which deprived her of all farther hope of
him, she was one day riding with her uncle's retainers, when they
fell in accidentally with a party of Catteranes. She charged them
boldly at the head of her people, and, in the midst of the mellée,
she had one eye scooped out by the point of a lance, and half of her
nose, and a considerable portion of one cheek, carried off by the
slash of a claymore, and, had it not been for the intrepidity of an
honest, stalwart, broad-shouldered, and wide-chested man-at-arms,
who came to her rescue, beat off the enemy single-handed, and then
carried her off in his brawny arms, it is probable that she might have
died gloriously upon the battlefield. Recovering from her wounds,
the bravery of this hero touched her heart; and, notwithstanding
the loss of so many of her charms, the bold yeoman, declaring that
there was quite enough left of her to make a very fine woman still,
and being altogether undeterred by her Amazonian temper, he had no
scruple in buckling with the heiress of Sir Piers Gordon. Although a
good-natured fellow, he was by no means a man to be bullied. A very
great reformation was therefore speedily worked upon her disposition;
and by the time she appeared as a guest at the marriage of Sir Charles
Stewart of Kilmaichly, she exhibited the countenance of a gorgon,
with a temper and spirit subdued and gentle as those of a lamb.
I have little to add now, gentlemen, to this true history, except to
recount to you a very curious occurrence, that took place soon after
Sir Charles Stewart and his lady were married, and comfortably settled
at Kilmaichly, and which threatened to interrupt the peacefulness of
their lives for a time. A dispute arose between Sir Charles's people
and those of the Laird of Ballindalloch, about the march between
the farm of Ballanluig, belonging to Kilmaichly, and Craigroy,
which was the property of his powerful neighbour. The House of
Ballindalloch being likely to prove too strong for him, in a matter
which he foresaw must probably be determined by the arm of force,
the prudent Sir Charles took the precaution to send a messenger into
Athol, to his father's relative, the Laird of Fincastle, craving
his aid. To his no small comfort, his petition was readily granted,
and Fincastle sent him sixty well-armed men, and a capital piper,
to stir up their souls to battle. Sir Charles being now in every
respect a match for his opponent, turned out bravely to make good
his plea, whilst Ballindalloch came with an equal force to dispute
the point. Each of the two parties reached its respective ground at
night, with the intent of joining battle by the earliest dawn. That
of Sir Charles Stewart took up its position in and about a kiln,
whilst Ballindalloch's little army was similarly posted at or near
a house at no great distance. Both sides were breathing horrid war,
and anticipating dreadful slaughter, when daylight should enable them
to see each other, for the night was dark as pitch. Some time before
daybreak, the lightning flashed, and a fearful peal of thunder crashed
suddenly over their heads, so that every man present was stricken with
awe. A water-spout then broke upon the hills, and came down upon them
so tremendously, as to produce a roaring noise, as if a sea had been
descending upon them. Both sides were appalled, and sinking in terror
upon their knees, they remained in that position until the morning
dawned. By that time the sky had cleared, and the sun rose smiling,
and then it was, that they beheld by his light, that a large and
frightful ravine had been cut out between them, by the water-spout,
where nothing of the sort had existed before. Both parties felt that
Providence had interfered to settle their dispute, and to save the
effusion of human blood. Accordingly the two leaders at once agreed,
that the ravine thus strangely and miraculously opened, by the sudden
descent of this transient torrent, from the hills, should be the march
between their properties in all time coming; and thus, they who came
to the ground as deadly foes, separated as sworn brethren and allies.
Thus it seemed, that Heaven itself had ruled, that peace should be
secured to those who so well merited it, and who so well knew how
to enjoy it; and the felicity of Sir Charles Stewart and his lady
was complete. Years rolled on, and still the sunshine of their
countenances, aye, and the sunshine of the faces of their merry
children, would often conjure up an angelic smile of gratitude,
upon the pale and pensive features of Alice Asher. Nor were the
grateful feelings of this highly favoured family expended in barren
expressions, for all around them were loud in praise of their
hospitality, benevolence, and charity.
In the course of some generations Kilmaichly fell to an heiress,
and the Laird of Ballindalloch having married her, she carried the
estate into that family where it now remains.
THE AUTHOR FLOORED.
It is not very easy to tell how we all bestowed ourselves after
Serjeant Archy Stewart's story of Tàillear-Crubach, but it was no
sooner brought to a close, than each of us proceeded to exert his
own ingenuity, in making up a bed for himself. Some things there were
indeed resembling beds in an upper room, but those who occupied them
were perhaps not much more fortunate than those who chose a dry, and
tolerably even corner of the floor, and there disposed of themselves,
rolled up in their plaids. My own experience tells me, that sweeter,
sounder, or more refreshing repose is nowhere to be enjoyed, than on
such a bed as this, especially after fatigue; and the great proof of
its excellence, upon the present occasion, was, that five minutes did
not elapse, ere we had all succeeded in our courtship of that sleep
which our day's walk, and the lateness of the hour, had conspired
to make it no very difficult matter for us to woo. Next morning, the
roaring of the Aven, now turbid and discoloured, and flowing wide over
the haughs, the rain still drizzling on, and the wet air and gloomy
sky, and the plashy footing on the meadow where Clifford ventured out
to experiment and explore, whilst we stood clustered within the door,
with our heads out, to mark his proceedings, very speedily made us
draw them back again, with a determined resolution to see a fairer
promise of weather, before we should venture to thrust them forth to
tempt our fate in travel.
Clifford (mincing his steps on tiptoe through a flock of ducklings
rejoicing clamorously in the wet.)--Fine weather for you young
gentlemen, indeed! Well, if the day will neither fish nor walk, we
may be thankful that we are well provisioned with food both for the
body and the mind.
Dominie.--That is a great consolation indeed, Mr. Clifford, and leaves
us little to be pitied.
Clifford.--Come, then, let us have breakfast; and, after that, let
us resume our sitting of last night, and, since we cannot budge out,
let us spend the day rationally, with legends and cigars, at Inchrory.
Author.--Pray, Mr. Serjeant, what is supposed to be the origin of
the name of Inchrory?
Sergeant.--Why, sir, the place was so called from a certain Rory
Mackenzie of Turfearabrad, or Fairburn, as it is called in modern
language, who, about the sixteen hundred or so, was wont to drive
great herds of cattle from his place in Ross-shire to the south
country markets, by this way up Glen-Aven. His story is a sad one.
Grant.--Pray let us have it, Archy.
Serjeant.--With your leave, sir, I'll rather tell it to you on our
way up the glen, when we come near to the place where the cruel deed
was done. You will be the better able to understand some of its most
important circumstances.
Author.--You are right, Serjeant.
Clifford (taking out his tablets.)--Well, Mr. Serjeant, I'll book
you for it, at all events.--Rory Mackenzie of Turfearabrad.
Serjeant.--I'll not forget it, sir. But, in the meanwhile, gentlemen,
I may tell you, that as this Rory Mackenzie used to bring his beasts
up this glen, which, as I formerly mentioned, was so full of woods at
that time as to make an open patch of pasture a thing of great value,
he was so tempted by the fineness and richness of the grass on the
meadow that lies hereabouts, all produced, as you will naturally see,
from the marly matter brought down upon it by the streams from the
hill, that he used to make a regular practice of lodging himself and
his animals here for some days, in order to rest and refresh them for
their journey; and so, at last, the place got its name from him. But
there was no house here in his day.
Dominie.--We have vurra great reason to be thankful, Serjeant, that
we have so good a house over our heads now, then.
Clifford.--House! why in such weather, a house like this in the
wilderness is as good as a palace in a city. Soldier though I be,
I by no means envy Rory, the laird of Turfearabrad, his sylvan
bivouacks. What think you, Mr. Serjeant?
Serjeant.--Troth, sir, I can lie out when I am obliged to do it. But
I am grown old enough now to think, that, in an ill day, the nearer to
the fire-side the better, and still better is it in an ill night. What
say you to that, Mr. Macpherson?
Dominie.--If my last night's scramble hither, and the deep mud of that
filthy peat pot into which I fell, has not convinced me of that truth,
Serjeant, I must be a stubborn bubo indeed.
Clifford.--Truth is generally found at the bottom of a well, but
to find it, as you seem to have done, at the bottom of a peat pot,
is a new discovery, Mr. Macpherson.
Clifford (after all are done with breakfast.)--Come, then, gentlemen,
shall we adjourn to the fire, and commence our sitting?
Grant.--Allons!
Author.--Now, my good woman, take away these things, and make the
room a little tidy, and then bring us plenty of peats.
Clifford.--Aye, that will do.
Grant.--Who is to be story-teller?
Clifford.--Mr. Macpherson is the man. Now then, Mr. Macpherson,
your Serjeant John Smith is the first for duty. He may mount guard
as speedily as you please.
Dominie.--He shall obey the captain's orders without a moment's delay.
END OF VOLUME SECOND.