by the Highlanders, after every other living thing had been sacked by
them, and a most eventful, hazardous, and very ludicrous chase after
them immediately took place. Full of the most anxious apprehensions
as to the result, John planted himself in front of the killogie, and
between it and the scene of action; and as all the old sow's efforts
were directed towards her stronghold in the kiln, it was with the
greatest difficulty that he repeatedly succeeded in driving her from
the dangerous post. At length, by one exertion, greater than the rest,
he had the good fortune to force the sow once more fairly a-field
again, with all her grunting young ones running scattering after her,
whilst the Highlanders, deceived by his shouting to them in Gaelic,
and encouraging them to the pursuit, believed that he had no other
object in view than honestly to aid them in catching her. To blind
them still more, he now started off full tilt at the head of them,
and soon outran the swiftest of them. With amazing dexterity, he first
clutched up one pig, and then another, until he had one in each hand,
swinging by the tail, and squeaking so fearfully, as to excite the
maternal anxiety and rage of the sow mother, to so great an extent,
that she followed him, fast and furiously grunting, wheresoever he
turned. John inwardly chuckled at the thought of having thus got
so easily and so perfectly the command of her motions. But a sudden
onset from the Highlanders speedily dispersed the remainder of her
progeny; and the pursuers naturally scattered themselves to follow
after individual grunters, so that the race was seen to rage over all
parts of the field. This distracted the attention of the old sow, and
she went cantering about, hither and thither, like a frantic creature,
until, by degrees, she found herself at the very farthest end of
the bog. There, seized by a panic, she suddenly turned, and bolted
desperately back again, with her snout pointed directly towards the
kiln. Winged by terror, she pushed wildly on at a bickering pace,
and running her head right between John's legs, ere ever he wist,
she carried him off for several yards, horsed upon her back, with his
face to the tail; and in the blindness of her alarm, she ran headlong
with him into a great peat-pot, where he was instantly launched all
his length among the black chaotic fluid which it contained. John
scrambled out of the hole with some difficulty, and, starting to his
legs, and shaking his ears like a water-spaniel, and clearing the dirt
from his eyes, he, to his great horror, beheld the sow scouring away
as hard as she could gallop, in a direct course for that chamber in
the killogie, which prescriptive right had so long made her believe to
be her own. John saw her hurrying thither, pursued by one or two of
the Highlanders. It was evident that she must soon reach it; and he
felt certain that she would instantly dart in among the straw where
the Pensassenach was lying, and that so the lady must be exposed to
certain discovery, and consequently to instant death. What was to
be done? Not a moment was to be lost. Taking advantage of a double
which the sow was compelled to make, in consequence of some one having
headed her course, and which forced her to swerve considerably from
the straight line of the chase, John seized a gun from the hand of a
Highlander near him, and aiming at the animal as she thus presented
her great broadside to him, he fired at her, and rolled her over and
over, by a bullet that passed through her very heart. There she lay
dead before her pursuers, within some thirty or forty yards of her
perilous place of refuge. A shout of applause at so wonderful a shot
arose from all who witnessed it.
"Tat's ta learn her, mockel fusome beast tat she is, for tummelin
Shon Smiss inta ta peat-hole!" cried John, infinitely relieved from
all his terrors.
The pigs were now very speedily secured in detail, and the great sow
was dragged up to the farm-house, and quietly deposited, with her
slaughtered family, in one of the carts.
"My brave fellow!" said Captain M'Taggart, the leader of the party,
now advancing towards John, and shaking him heartily by the hand,
"you must come along with us. A young man, so handsome, so active,
so spirited, and so soldierly-looking,--and, above all, so capital a
shot as you are,--was never intended by nature to hold the stilts of a
plough, or to fill dung-carts. You were born to be an officer at the
very least, and, for aught I know, to be a colonel or a general. We
are already aware that you are stanch to the righteous cause of the
true Prince. Now is the time for you to raise yourself in the world,
by joining his royal standard. Come, then, and lend us your powerful
aid in placing our lawful King upon the throne of his ancestors!--Come
along with us, and I shall forthwith introduce you to Prince Charles,
who may yet make a lord of you before you die."
John Smith was, in truth, all that M'Taggart had called him,
being a handsome, good looking man, as brave as a lion, and not
altogether devoid of a certain natural ambition. But he was ignorant,
thoughtless, and credulous, owing to his having been, up to that
day, entirely without experience. He had never before seen anything
like military array, and irregular and deficient, in many respects,
as that was which he now beheld, still it was enough to captivate
his unpractised eye. John had a strong attachment to his master and
mistress, who had always been very kind to him. But his devotion
to the Prince, whom he had never seen, was of a higher and holier
order. Bestowing a few moments of reflection on the ceaseless and
profitless plodding, and slavish drudgery of his present duties,
all, in themselves, absolutely repugnant to the very nature of a
Highlander, and comparing them with the ideal picture he had drawn to
himself, of the gallant, gentlemanlike service of the Prince, whose
soldiers, he believed, had not only daily opportunities of enriching
themselves with honourable plunder,--a small specimen of which he
had just witnessed--but who had the prospect opened to them of one
day becoming great men, the contrast was by far too flattering in
favour of the latter not to dazzle him. But if it had not had that
effect, the promise which M'Taggart made him of introducing him to
Prince Charles, the son of the true and legitimate King of Scotland,
was enough of itself to have gained John's consent in a moment.
"Ou, troth, she'll no be lang o' gangin' wi' her," said John,
"an she'll but stop till she clean hersel' a wee frae ta durt o' ta
fulthy bog, tat ta soo beast pat her intill,--and syne bids fereweel
to ta leddy."
"Whoo!" exclaimed M'Taggart.--"The lady! What, then, the Pensassenach
is somewhere about the place after all, and you know where she
is?--By holy St. Mary, but I will burn every house here, and force
the rancorous whig she-devil to unkennel out of her hiding place!"
"Teel purn her nane sell's fooliss tongue for namin' ta leddy ava
ava!" said John bitterly. "But she may e'en purn ta hale toon gin
she likes--fint a bit o' ta leddy can she purn."
"Ha, my good fellow," said M'Taggart, "since you have the secret
knowledge of her place of concealment locked up in your bosom, what
is to hinder me to use a thumbikin as a key to unlock it.--I have a
great mind to try."
"She may e'en puts ta toomkin on her nanesell's neck, and she'll no
tell after a'," said John resolutely. "And ponny pounties tat wad be
surely for Shon Smiss to serve ta Prince."
"Nay, my good fellow, I was only joking," said M'Taggart, afraid to
lose so good a volunteer; "trust me I meant you no harm."
"Gin she purns ta toon, or gin she do ony mair ill aboot ta place,
fouk wull be sayin' tat Shon Smiss bid her do it," continued John--"an
tat wad be doin' Shon mockell harm. Teevil ae stap wull Shon be gangin'
wi' her at a' at a', an she do ony mair bad sings here."
"Well well," said M'Taggart, soothing him, "go in and dress yourself,
and make your mind easy; and the sooner we are away from here the
better."
John thought so too. He ran to the stable for his breachcan; [2]
put on his best coat, kilt, and hose; tied up his only two shirts,
and a spare pair of hose, in a napkin, and placed the bundle into the
fold of his plaid; and then seizing a trusty old broad-sword, he put on
his new Sunday's bonnet, smartly cocked up,--and he strode so erectly
forth to M'Taggart, and with so martial an air, that, added to the
wonderful change created in his personal appearance by his dress, made
the captain hesitate for a moment in believing him to be the same man.
"She be ready noo," said John; "put fare be ta rest o' ta men,
Captain!"
"They are hunting the Pensassenach," replied M'Taggart with a
careless laugh.
"She pe verra idle loons tan," said John, "for gin she wad seek a'
tay she wad na' find her." And then, by way of diverting the Captain's
attention from the search by a joke, he pointed to Morag, who stood
at the door, weeping bitterly at the prospect of his departure,
and added,--"see, tat pe ta Pensassenach."
"That the Pensassenach!" said M'Taggart.--"That's a good joke truly. I
know well enough that's not the Pensassenach that we are after."
"She pe a verra ponny Pensassenach," said John, going up to Morag,
and hastily delivering to her, in a Gaelic whisper, directions how
and when she should relieve her mistress from her confinement, and
also where she was to look for the packman, that she might get him
taken out of the water.
"That Pensassenach seems to be a favourite of yours, John," said
the Captain.
"She wunna say put she is," replied John, his heart filling a
little with sympathy for Morag's tears, and at the prospect of
leaving her.--"Petter tak tiss Pensassenach wi' huss,"--and then,
rather as a parting word of kindness than anything else, he added,
"will she go, Morag?"
This was too much for poor Morag. Her heart was too full for her to
command words to reply. She rushed forward, and threw her arms around
John. She fixed her hands into the folds of that breachcan, in which,
in their days of herding, when she was but a lassie, and he but a boy,
she had been so often wrapped by her lover as a shelter from the stormy
elements, and she gave way to a burst of grief that at length enabled
her to find utterance for her feelings. She implored him, in all the
anguish of despair, not to leave her. John's heart was softened by
her words, and her tears, and he blubbered like a child. M'Taggart,
fearing that the martial influence in John's soul might be overpowered
and extinguished by that of love, and setting a much greater value on
him as a recruit, than on the capture of the Pensassenach, he thought
it advisable to put an end to this tender interview as speedily as
might be. He ordered the piper to play up therefore, and the men,
abandoning their fruitless search after the English wife, were speedily
gathered around him. The train of carts and horses, with the plunder,
were driven on--the order of march was formed. John, after a severe
struggle with his heart, rent himself away from the arms of Morag,
and followed M'Taggart, without daring to speak, or to look behind him;
whilst the poor girl, bereft of her support, fell upon the green--where
she lay beating her breast and tearing her hair in utter despair,
till the sound of the distant pipe died away, and the presence of
some of her fellow-servants brought her back to her reason.
Morag was no sooner sufficiently calm and collected, than she hastened
to execute John Smith's last injunctions. The poor Pensassenach was
taken from the killogie more dead than alive. Morag would have had
her to go to bed, but, having recovered herself a little, she became
too much excited to rest; and, having arranged her dress, she began to
bustle about her affairs, and to take a full note of her loss. It was,
indeed, severe. But she felt that she endured it for a glorious cause,
and that reflection made her bear it with wonderful philosophy. She
was grieved, and even angry to learn that John Smith had enlisted
with the Prince's men, but she felt deeply grateful to him for having
saved her life; and especially so, when she heard from Morag the story
of the packman's treachery, and John's ingenuity in defeating it,
as well as of the whole of his exertions for her preservation.
"Where has John bestowed the villain?" demanded the Pensassenach.
"Toon in ta lint pot, memm," replied Morag; "I maun gang toon an get
him oot o' ta holl noo."
"I'll go with you, Morag," said the Pensassenach; and so mistress and
maid proceeded together towards the pond. "What noise is that?" cried
the Pensassenach, as they drew near to it.
"Aw--yaw!--yaw--aw!" cried the packman from the pool.
"Where are you, wretched man?" cried the Pensassenach.
"Yaw--aw!--yaw--aw!" replied Mr. Dallas.
"Why don't you speak distinctly?" demanded the lady.
"Aw--aw!--yaw--aw!" replied Dallas again.
"The sound would seem to come from under that loose heap of rushes
at the margin of the pool yonder," said the Pensassenach.
"Oich aye, she's here memm," cried Morag, removing the covering from
the packman's head.
"Ya--aw!--aw--aw!" cried Dallas, raising his eyes with an expression
of intense agony.
"Ah, I see how it is," said the Pensassenach; "John has gagged him,
to prevent his vile tongue from betraying me. Loosen that string,
Morag, and take out the gag."
"Oh, Heeven be praised that I hae fand freends at last," cried the
packman in a hoarse voice. "Hech, my jaws are stiff, stiff, and sair,
sair, wi' that plaguit bit o' a rung that John Smith pat into my
mooth. Hech me! kind souls that ye are, pu' me oot, pu' me oot o'
this, or I maun e'en drap awthegither owerhead into the pool, for
I haena mair poor to stand on this ae leg o' mine, and I canna rest
ony at a' on the short ane, mind ye, without sinkin' my mooth below
the water. Och, memm, pu' me out!"
"How can you ask me to assist you, base wretch that you are?" cried
the Pensassenach; "you who would have sold my life to have saved your
own. I shall push you as gently under the water as I can, but drowned
you must be."
"Oh, for the love o' Heeven hae mair charity!" cried the packman
most piteously. "I'm a sad sinner, nae doot. But I'm a puir, wake,
nervish craytur,--and fan that deevil incarnate, Captain M'Taggart,
spak o' hangin' me, my brains whurled sae i' my head, that I didna
ken what I was sayin'. But I'm sure I never thocht o' doin' harm till
you or ony o' your hoose. Pu' me oot, memm; pu' me oot for the love o'
Heeven, or the very life'll leave my legs wi' cauld."
"Pull you out," exclaimed the Pensassenach; "pull you out,--you
who would have helped the Highlanders to my murder: pull you out,
who wilfully spoke treason, to aid, abet, and comfort the rebel
Captain. My loyalty to my King and my country forbids me to assist
you, and compels me to make a sacrifice of you immediately. So,
prepare for instant death."
"Och, hae mercy on my puir sowl," cried the packman in despair;
"surely, surely, ye're no gawin' till droon me?"
"What can you say in exculpation of your treason?" demanded the
Pensassenach, laying hold of the upper part of the sack with both
her hands, and giving Mr. Dallas a gentle shake.
"Och, naething--naething ava," cried Mr. Dallas. "Oh, I'm a dead man--a
dead man: hae mercy--hae mercy upon me. I'm a great sinner--a wicked,
and hardened sinner."
"Perhaps it were well to allow you a few moments, wretch that you are,
to confess your sins and repent, before you are sent into the other
world," said the Pensassenach. "So make haste--lose not the fleeting
space of time which I thus mercifully grant to you, and lighten your
soul of as much load as you can."
"Oh, hae mercy--hae mercy on me!" cried Dallas.
"I'll have no mercy on you, more than this," cried the Pensassenach,
in a terrible voice. "If you will not confess yourself, your last
moment is at hand;" and so saying, she ducked Mr. Dallas's head under
the water.
"O! O! O! Oh!--hech! ech!" cried Mr. Dallas, panting for breath;
"I'm a dead man! I'm a dead man! Oh, Lord forgie me for sellin'
pastes for precious stanes."
"Come! is that all?" cried the Pensassenach, shaking him again.
"Hae mercy on me for sellin' rock crystal for diamunts," cried Dallas.
"Come! out with it all!" said the Pensassenach.
"Oh! Och! Forgie me for sellin' bits o' ayster shells for pearls,"
cried Dallas again, "and pinchbeck for gold; and watches wi' worn
out auld warks for new anes."
"Come! nothing else to confess?" said the Pensassenach.
"Oh, yes. Heaven help me, and hae mercy on me, for keepin' fause
weights and a fause ell-wand," cried Dallas.
"Are these all your sins, villain?" exclaimed the Pensassenach.
"Oh, hey, aye, aye," said Dallas piteously, "and ower muckle,
gude kens."
"Well, then," said the Pensassenach, taking a more determined grasp
of the sack; "now, that you have duly confessed, here goes."
"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Dallas, in great fear. "Stop, stop! no yet! no
yet! I hae mair to tell o' yet. I hae noo an' than picked up an odd
silver spoon, or sae, or ony siccan wee article whan it cam in my way,
just tempin' me like, in ony o' the hooses whaur I had quarters. But
I never was a great fief--no, no."
"'Twas you belike who stole my silver punch-ladle," said the
Pensassenach. "I missed it immediately after you were last here."
"I canna just charge my memory wi' the punch-ladle," said Mr. Dallas,
unwilling to admit that he had in any way wronged the Pensassenach.
"Nay, then, your thefts must have been too numerous for you to note
such a trifling item as that," said the Pensassenach; "but it is
clear you did steal my punch-ladle, so now you shall die for not
confessing. Now!"
"Oh, stop, stop, for mercy's sake!" cried Dallas, in livid
apprehension. "I mind noo! I mind noo! I did tak' it--I did tak'
the ladle! It shined sae tempin' through the glass door o' the bit
corner cupboard, and the door was open, sae that I may amaist say
that the deevil himsel' handed it oot till me, and pat it intil my
very pack. But I'll never wrang you ony mair."
"I'll take good care you shall not," said the lady; "you shall never
wrong me, nor any one else more. So now, prepare, for this is your
last moment."
"Oh, mercy, mercy," cried the packman again. "I hae mair yet to
confess! Oh, dinna droun me just yet!"
"Well, be quick," said the Pensassenach; "what more have ye to tell?"
"Oh, mercy, mercy!" cried Dallas. "That woman that I telled ye o'
yestreen; that woman that I clippit out o' the Spey, was na just
awthegither dead--"
"What!" exclaimed the Pensassenach, in horror; "wretch that you are,
did you murder the woman?"
"Eh, na, na!" cried Dallas; "ill as I am, I didna do that. I just
took her roklay and her gown, an some ither wee things aperteenin'
till her, and syne I gade aff wi' mysel', leaving her to come roond
to life at her nain leisure and convenience."
"Leaving her to die without help you mean, you murdering thief!" said
the Pensassenach, shrinking back with horror from the very touch
of him. "Wretch, you are unworthy of life! But I shall not be your
executioner. You will grace a gallows yet, I'll warrant you. I shall
now leave Morag to pull you out of the water. But hark ye, Mr. Dallas,
before I leave you, I may as well tell you, that though I have spared
your life, as indeed I never had the least intention of taking it,
I advise you never to darken my door again; for, if you do, I promise
you that you shall have another and a deeper taste of this lint-pot."
"Oh, bless you, memm!" cried Mr. Dallas, with an earnestness which
showed how much he was relieved by her words; "I'll never come
within five miles o' your farm. Noo, Morag, my dawty," continued he,
addressing the maid after the mistress was gone; "gudesake, woman, be
quick an' pu' me oot; or, as sure as death, I'll dee o't awthegither."
"Fawse loons tat she is," said Morag, looking terribly at him. "She
will no pu' her oot; she wull pit her toon in ta holl, an' troon
her! She is a wicked vullian--she wull pit her toon in ta holl an'
troon her wissout nae mercy at a' at a'."
"Oh!" cried the terrified Dallas, with his eye-balls again starting
from his head with apprehension. "Oh, dinna droon me, noo that your
mistress has spared me! I wus ragin' fu' wi' brandy last nicht, and
I didna ken what I wus doin'; and maybe I wus a wee unceevil till ye,
or the like. But oh, hae mercy, hae mercy on me!"
"She'll no be ta waur o' a gude tooky tan," said Morag, seizing
the sack, and plunging the gasping Mr. Dallas two or three times
successively under the water; "tat'll cool ta hot speerits in her
stamick, or she pe far mistane."
"Oh! O! O! Och! hech! och! oh!--O!" cried Dallas, gasping and
panting. "O, mercy, mercy! an' I hadna drucken a' yon oceans o' brandy
yester nicht, I had assuredly been a dead man this day, just frae very
cauld itsel'. But the brandy o' yestreen has saved me frae a' the water
that my body has imbibit frae this nasty lint-pot, by actuwully makin'
a kind o' wake punch o' me. Oh, gude lassie that ye are, pu' me oot,
pu me oot!"
"Its mair nor she's weel deservan'," said Morag, now putting forth all
her strength to pull the sack and its contents up out of the water;
"but Morag canna let a man be trooned an she can help it, pad man so
she pe."
Having hauled up the sack, she laid it upon the grass, undid the
fastenings of its mouth, and, with some difficulty, extricated
Mr. Dallas from its durance vile. The worthy packman arose to his feet,
and, shaking himself heartily, and stretching out first his short,
and then his long leg, two or three times alternately, to relieve
that killing cold cramp which possessed them, he hobbled off without
uttering a word of thanks, and shivering so, that his teeth were
rattling in his head, as if his jaws had contained a corps of drummers,
beating the rogue's march. Morag looked after him with a hearty laugh,
and then picking up the wet sack, she hastened to join her mistress.
Let us now follow the march of John Smith.
COMFORTS OF A LONDON CLUB-HOUSE.
Author.--Pray, stop for one moment, Mr. Macpherson, if you please. Let
me throw a few more peats on the fire. With the rain still beating
thus without, and the picture of the half-drowned shivering chapman
brought so vividly before our mind's eyes by your description,
we shall have our teeth rattling in our jaws from very sympathy,
if we don't keep up the caloric we have already generated.
Grant.--It is right not to allow it to be too much reduced,
certainly. But I declare I am as comfortable here in Inchrory, as if
I were in my club-house in London.