CHAPTER VIII.

"Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from

necessity; but--I _will say_ it!--the sterling of his honest

worth, poverty could not debase; and his independent British

spirit oppression might bend, but could not subdue."--_Letter

to Mr. Graham_.

I have been listening for the last half hour to the wild music of an

Eolian harp. How exquisitely the tones rise and fall!--now sad, now

solemn--now near, now distant. The nerves thrill, the heart softens, the

imagination awakes as we listen. What if that delightful instrument be

animated by a living soul, and these finely-modulated tones be but the

expression of its feelings! What if these dying, melancholy cadences,

which so melt and sink into the heart, be--what we may so naturally

interpret them--the melodious sinkings of a deep-seated and hopeless

unhappiness! Nay, the fancy is too wild for even a dream. But are there

none of those fine analogies, which run through the whole of nature and

the whole of art, to sublime it into truth? Yes, _there have_ been such

living harps among us; beings, the tones of whose sentiments, the melody

of whose emotions, the cadences of whose sorrows, remain to thrill, and

delight, and humanize our souls. They seem born for others, not for

themselves. Alas, for the hapless companion of my early youth! Alas, for

him, the pride of his country, the friend of my maturer manhood!--But my

narrative lags in its progress.

My vessel lay in the Clyde for several weeks during the summer of 1794,

and I found time to indulge myself in a brief tour along the western

coasts of the kingdom, from Glasgow to the Borders. I entered Dumfries

in a calm, lovely evening, and passed along one of the principal

streets. The shadows of the houses on the western side were stretched

half-way across the pavement, while, on the side opposite, the bright

sunshine seemed sleeping on the jutting irregular fronts, and high

antique gables. There seemed a world of well-dressed company this

evening in town; and I learned, on inquiry, that all the aristocracy of

the adjacent country, for twenty miles round, had come in to attend a

county ball. They went fluttering along the sunny side of the street,

gay as butterflies--group succeeding group. On the opposite side, in the

shade, a solitary individual was passing slowly along the pavement. I

knew him at a glance. It was the first poet, perhaps the greatest man,

of his age and country. But why so solitary? It had been told me that he

ranked among his friends and associates many of the highest names in the

kingdom, and yet to-night not one of the hundreds who fluttered past

appeared inclined to recognise him. He seemed too--but perhaps fancy

misled me--as if care-worn and dejected; pained, perhaps, that not one

among so many of the _great_ should have humility enough to notice a

poor exciseman. I stole up to him unobserved, and tapped him on the

shoulder; there was a decided fierceness in his manner as he turned

abruptly round, but, as he recognised me, his expressive countenance

lighted up in a moment, and I shall never forget the heartiness with

which he grasped my hand.

We quitted the streets together for the neighbouring fields, and, after

the natural interchange of mutual congratulations--"How is it," I

inquired, "that you do not seem to have a single acquaintance among all

the gay and great of the country?"

"I lie under quarantine," he replied; "tainted by the plague of

liberalism. There is not one of the hundreds we passed to-night whom I

could not once reckon among my intimates."

The intelligence stunned and irritated me. "How infinitely absurd!" I

said. "Do they dream of sinking you into a common man?"

"Even so," he rejoined. "Do they not all know I have been a gauger for

the last five years!"

The fact had both grieved and incensed me long before. I knew, too, that

Pye enjoyed his salary as poet laureate of the time, and Dibdin, the

song writer, his pension of two hundred a-year, and I blushed for my

country.

"Yes," he continued--the ill-assumed coolness of his manner giving way

before his highly excited feelings--"they have assigned me my place

among the mean and the degraded, as their best patronage; and only

yesterday, after an official threat of instant dismission, I was told

it was my business to act, not to think. God help me! what have I done

to provoke such bitter insult? I have ever discharged my miserable

duty--discharged it, Mr. Lindsay, however repugnant to my feelings,

as an honest man; and though there awaited me no promotion, I was

silent. The wives or sisters of those whom they advanced over me had

bastards to some of the ---- family, and so their influence was

necessarily greater than mine. But now they crush me into the very dust.

I take an interest in the struggles of the slave for his freedom; I

express my opinions as if I myself were a free man; and they threaten

to starve me and my children if I dare so much as speak or think."

I expressed my indignant sympathy in a few broken sentences; and he went

on with kindling animation:--

"Yes, they would fain crush me into the very dust! They cannot forgive

me, that, being born a man, I should walk erect according to my nature.

Mean-spirited and despicable themselves, they can tolerate only the

mean-spirited and the despicable; and were I not so entirely in their

power, Mr. Lindsay, I could regard them with the proper contempt. But

the wretches can starve me and my children--and they _know_ it; nor does

it mend the matter that I _know_ in turn, what pitiful, miserable,

little creatures they are. What care I for the butterflies of

to-night?--they passed me without the honour of their notice; and I, in

turn, suffered them to pass without the honour of mine; and I am more

than quits. Do I not know that they and I are going on to the fulfilment

of our several destinies?--they to sleep, in the obscurity of their

native insignificance, with the pismires and grasshoppers of all the

past, and I to be whatever the millions of my unborn countrymen shall

yet decide. Pitiful little insects of an hour! what is their notice to

me! But I bear a heart, Mr. Lindsay, that can feel the pain of treatment

so unworthy; and I must confess it moves me. One cannot always live upon

the future, divorced from the sympathies of the present. One cannot

always solace one's self under the grinding despotism that would

fetter one's very thoughts, with the conviction, however assured, that

posterity will do justice both to the oppressor and the oppressed. I am

sick at heart; and were it not for the poor little things that depend so

entirely on my exertions, I could as cheerfully lay me down in the grave

as I ever did in bed after the fatigues of a long day's labour. Heaven

help me! I am miserably unfitted to struggle with even the natural evils

of existence--how much more so when these are multiplied and exaggerated

by the proud, capricious inhumanity of man!"

"There is a miserable lack of right principle and right feeling," I

said, "among our upper classes in the present day; but, alas for poor

human nature! it has ever been so, and, I am afraid, ever will. And

there is quite as much of it in savage as in civilized life. I have seen

the exclusive aristocratic spirit, with its one-sided injustice, as

rampant in a wild isle of the Pacific as I ever saw it among ourselves."

"'Tis slight comfort," said my friend, with a melancholy smile, "to be

assured, when one's heart bleeds from the cruelty or injustice of our

fellows, that man is naturally cruel and unjust, and not less so as a

savage than when better taught. I knew you, Mr. Lindsay, when you were

younger and less fortunate; but you have now reached that middle term of

life when man naturally takes up the Tory and lays down the Whig; nor

has there been aught in your improving circumstances to retard the

change; and so you rest in the conclusion that, if the weak among us

suffer from the tyranny of the strong, 'tis because human nature is so

constituted, and the case therefore cannot be helped."

"Pardon me, Mr. Burns," I said, "I am not quite so finished a Tory as

that amounts to."

"I am not one of those fanciful declaimers," he continued, "who set out

on the assumption that man is free-born. I am too well assured of the

contrary. Man is not free-born. The earlier period of his existence,

whether as a puny child or the miserable denizen of an uninformed and

barbarous state, is one of vassalage and subserviency. He is not born

free, he is not born rational, he is not born virtuous; he is born to

_become_ all these. And woe to the sophist who, with arguments drawn

from the unconfirmed constitution of his childhood, would strive to

render his imperfect, because immature, state of pupilage a permanent

one! We are yet far below the level of which our nature is capable, and

possess in consequence but a small portion of the liberty which it is

the destiny of our species to enjoy. And 'tis time our masters should be

taught so. You will deem me a wild Jacobin, Mr. Lindsay; but persecution

has the effect of making a man extreme in these matters. Do help me to

curse the scoundrels!--my business to act, not to think!"

We were silent for several minutes.

"I have not yet thanked you, Mr. Burns," I at length said, "for the most

exquisite pleasure I ever enjoyed. You have been my companion for the

last eight years."

His countenance brightened.

"Ah, here I am boring you with my miseries and my ill-nature," he

replied; "but you must come along with me and see the bairns and Jean;

and some of the best songs I ever wrote. It will go hard if we hold not

care at the staff's end for at least one evening. You have not yet seen

my stone punch-bowl, nor my Tam o'Shanter, nor a hundred other fine

things beside. And yet, vile wretch that I am, I am sometimes so

unconscionable as to be unhappy with them all. But come along."

We spent this evening together with as much of happiness as it has ever

been my lot to enjoy. Never was there a fonder father than Burns, a more

attached husband, or a warmer friend. There was an exuberance of love

in his large heart, that encircled in its flow, relatives, friends,

associates, his country, the world; and, in his kinder moods, the

sympathetic influence which he exerted over the hearts of others seemed

magical. I laughed and cried this evening by turns; I was conscious of

a wider and warmer expansion of feeling than I had ever experienced

before; my very imagination seemed invigorated by breathing, as it were,

in the same atmosphere with his. We parted early next morning--and when

I again visited Dumfries, I went and wept over his grave. Forty years

have now passed since his death, and in that time many poets have arisen

to achieve a rapid and brilliant celebrity; but they seem the meteors of

a lower sky; the flush passes hastily from the expanse, and we see but

one great light looking steadily upon us from above. It is Burns who is

exclusively the poet of his country. Other writers inscribe their names

on the plaster which covers for the time the outside structure of

society; his is engraved, like that of the Egyptian architect, on the

ever-during granite within. The fame of the others rises and falls with

the uncertain undulations of the mode on which they have reared it;

his remains fixed and permanent, as the human nature on which it is

based. Or, to borrow the figures Johnson employs in illustrating the

unfluctuating celebrity of a scarcely greater poet--"The sand heaped by

one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its

place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble

fabrics of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of

Shakspeare."

THE PROFESSOR'S TALES.

THE CONVIVIALISTS.

We must introduce our readers, with an apology for our abruptness, into

a party of about half-a-dozen young gallants, who had evidently been

making deep and frequent libations at the shrine of Bacchus. The loud

bursts of hearty laughter which rang round the room like so many triple

bobmajors, the leering eyes, the familiar diminutives with which the

various parties addressed each other, and the frequent locking of hands

together in a grasp the force of which was meant to express an ardour of

social friendship which words were too weak to convey--all showed that

the symposiasts had cleared the fences which prudence or selfishness set

up in the sober intercourse of life, and were now, with loosened reins,

spurring away over the free wild fields of fancy and fun. An immense

quantity of walnut-shells--which the mercurial compotators had been

amusing themselves by throwing at each other--lay scattered about the

table and on the floor; two or three shivered wine glasses had been

shoved into the centre of the table, the fragments glittering upon a

pile of glorious Woodvilles, all speckled over, like Jacob's sheep; each

man had one of the weeds stuck rakishly in the corner of his mouth, and

was knocking off the ashes upon his deviled biscuits; and, to the right

of the president's chair, a long straggling regiment of empty bottles

gave dumb but eloquent proof of the bibulous capabilities of the

company. Each man was talking vehemently to his neighbour, and every one

for himself; in order, as a wag among them said, to get through the

work quickly, and jump at once to a conclusion. They were, as Sheridan

has it, "arguing in platoons." There was one exception, however, to the

boisterous mirth of the convivialists, in the person of Frank Elliot, in

celebration of whose obtaining his medical degree the feast had been

given. He was leaning back in his chair, gazing, with a slight curl

of contempt on his lip, at the rude glee of his associates. He had

distinguished himself so highly among his fellow-students, that one of

the professors had, in the ceremony of the morning, singled him out,

before all his contemporaries, with the highest eulogiums, and had

predicted, in the most flattering manner, his certain celebrity in his

profession. Perhaps the natural vanity which these public honours had

created, the bright prospect which lay before him, and his being less

excited than his companions--caused him to turn, with disgust, from the

silly ribaldry and weak witticisms which circled round his table. Amid

the uproar his silence was for some time unheeded; but at length Harry

Whitaker, his old college chum, now lieutenant in his Majesty's navy,

and with a considerable portion of broad sailor's humour and slang,

observed it, and slapping him roundly on the back, cried, "Hilloa,

Frank! what are you dodging about?--quizzing the rig of your convoy,

because they have too much light duck set to walk steadily through the

water?"

"Frank! why, isn't he asleep all this time? I haven't heard his voice

this half hour," exclaimed another.

"'Parce meum, quisquis tanges cava marmora somnum

Rumpere; sive bibas, sive lavere, tace,'"

said Elliot beseechingly.

"Come, come," said Harry, "none of your heathenish lingo over the

mahogany. Boys! I move that Frank be made to swallow a tumbler of port

for using bad language, and to make him fit company for the rest of us

honest fellows."

"_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_," squeaked a first year medical

student, shoving the lighted end of his cigar, by mistake, into his

mouth when he had delivered his sentence, and then springing up and

sputtering out a mighty oath and a quantity of hot tobacco ashes.

"Ashes to ashes," cried Harry, filling up a tumbler to the brim; "we'll

let you off this time, as you're a fire-eater; but rally round, lads,

and see this land shark swallow his grog."

"Nay, but, my friends"----began Frank, seeing, with horror,

that the party had gathered round him, and that Harry held the glass

inexorably in his mouth.

"Get a gag rigged," shouted the young sailor; "we'll find a way into his

grog shop."

"Upon my word, Whitaker," said Frank, with a ludicrous intonation of

voice, between real anger and distress, "this is too hard on one who has

filled fairly from the first--to punish him without an inquiry into the

justice of the case."

"Jeddart justice--hang first, and judge after!" roared a student from

the sylvan banks of the Jed.

"No freeman can, under any pretence," hiccupped a young advocate, who

was unable to rise from his chair, "be condemned, except by the legal

decision of his peers, or by the law of the land. So sayeth the Magna

Charta--King John--(_hic_)--right of all free-born Englishmen--including

thereby all inhabitants of Great Britain, incorporated at the

Union--_hic_--and Ireland."

Whitaker set the tumbler down in despair, finding that his companions,

like the generality of raw students, were so completely wedded to their

pedantry, that the fine, if insisted on, would have to go all round.

"Let's have a song, Rhimeson," cried Frank, very glad to escape from

his threatened bumper, and still fearful that it might be insisted upon,

"a song extempore, as becomes a poet in his cups, and in thine own vein;

for what says Spenser?--

'For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise;

And when, with wine, the brain begins to sweat,

The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.'"

"By Jove, boys! you shall have it," cried Rhimeson, filling his glass

with unsteady hand, and muttering, from the same prince of poets--

"'Who can counsell a thirstie soule,

With patience to forbeare the offred bowle?'"

"That is the pure well of English undefiled, old fellows, and so here

goes--'The Lass we Love!'

TUNE--'_Duncan Davison._'

"Come, fill your glass, my trusty friend,

And fill it sparkling to the brim--

A flowing bumper, bright and strong--

And push the bottle back again;

For what is man without his drink?

An oyster prison'd in his shell;

A rushlight in the vaults of death;

A rattlesnake without his tail.

CHORUS.

This world, we know, is full of cares,

And sorrow darkens every day;

But wine and love shall be the stars

To light us on our weary way.

Beyond yon hills there lives a lass,

Her name I dare not even speak;

The wine that sparkles in my glass

Was ne'er so rosy as her cheek.

Her neck is clearer than the spring

That streams the water lilies on;

So, here's to her I long have loved--

The fairest flower in Albion.

Let knaves and fools this world divide,

As they have done since Adam's time;

Let misers by their hoards abide,

And poets weave their rotten rhyme;

But ye, who, in an hour like this,

Feel every pulse to rapture move,

Fill high! each lip the goblet kiss--

The pledge shall be--'The Lass we Love!'"

After a good deal of roaritorious applause, the young gentlemen began to

act upon the hint contained in the song, and each to give, as a toast,

the lady of his heart. When it came to Elliot's turn, he declared he was

unable to fulfil the conditions of the toast, as there was not a woman

in the world for whom he had the slightest predilection.

"Why, thou personified snowball! thou human icicle!" cried Whitaker.

"Say an avalanche," interrupted Frank; "for, when once my heart is

shaken, it will be as irresistible in its course as one of these

'thunderbolts of snow.'"

"Still, it's nothing but cold snow, for all that," cried Harry.

"Who talks of Frank Elliot and love in the same breath?" cried Rhimeson;

"why, his heart is like a rock, and love, like a torpid serpent,

enclosed in it."

"True," replied Frank; "but, you know, these same serpents sting as hard

as ever when once they get into the open air; besides, love, as the

shepherd in Virgil discovered, is an inhabitant of the rocks."

"Confound the fellow! he's a walking apothegm--as consequential as a

syllogism!" muttered Harry; "but come now, Frank, let us have the

inexpressive she, without backing and filling any longer."

"Upon my word, Harry, it is out of my power; but, in a few weeks, I hope

to"----said Elliot.

"Hope, Frank, hope, my good fellow, is a courtier very pleasant and

agreeable in his conversation, but very much given to forget his

promises. But I'll tell you, Frank, since you won't give a toast, I

will, because I know it will punish you--so, gentlemen"----

The toast was only suited for the meridian of the place in which it

was given, and we will, therefore, be excused from repeating it. But

Whitaker had judged rightly that he had punished his friend, who,

from the strictness of his education, and a certain delicacy in his

opinions respecting women, could never tolerate the desecration of these

opinions by the libertine ribaldry which forms so great a part of the

conversation of many men after the first bottle. Frank's brow darkened,

his keen eye turned with a glance of indignation to Harry; and he was

prevented only by the circumstance of being in his own house, from

instantly kicking him out of the room.

"Look at Frank now, gentles," continued the young sailor, when the mirth

had subsided; "his face is as long as a ropewalk, while every one of

yours is as broad as the main hatchway. He has a reverence for women as

great as I have for my own tight, clean, sprightly craft; but because a

fellow kicks one of my loose spars, or puts it to a base use, I'm not to

quarrel with him, as if he had called my vessel a collier, eh? Frank, my

good fellow, you're too sober; you're thinking too much of yourself;

you're looking at the world with convex glasses; and thus the world

seems little--you yourself only great; but, recollect, everybody looks

through a convex glass; and that's vanity, Frank:--there, now! the

murder's out."

"Nay, Harry," cried Rhimeson, good-naturedly; for he saw Elliot's nether

lip grow white with suppressed passion; "don't push Frank too hard, for

charity's sake."

"Charity, to be sure!" interrupted Harry; "but consider what I must have

suffered if I had not got that dead weight pitched overboard. I was

labouring in the trough, man, and would have foundered with that spite

in my hold. Charity begins at home."

"'Tis a pity that the charity of many persons ends there too," said

Frank drily.

"Frank's wit is like the King of Prussia's regiment of death," said the

young seaman--"it gives no quarter. But come now, my lads, rig me out a

female craft fit for that snow-blooded youngster to go captain of in the

voyage of matrimony; do it shipshape, and bear a hand. I would try it

myself; but the room looks, to my eyes, as it were filled with dancing

logarithms; and then he's so cold, slow, misty-hearted"----

"That if," cried Rhimeson, interrupting him, "he addresses a lady as

cold, slow, and misty-hearted as himself, they may go on courting the

whole course of their natural lives, like the assymptotes of a

hyperbola, which approach nearer and nearer, _ad infinitum_, without

the possibility of ever meeting."

"Ha, ha, ha!--ay," shouted Harry; "and if he addresses one of a sanguine

temperament, there will be a pretty considerable traffic of quarrels

carried on between them, typified and illustrated very well by the

constant commerce of heat which is maintained between the poles and the

equator, by the agency of opposite currents in the atmosphere. By Jove!

Frank, matrimony presents the fire of two batteries at you; one rakes

you fore and aft, and the other strikes between wind and water."

"And pray, Harry, what sort of a consort will you sail with yourself?"

inquired Rhimeson. This was, perhaps, a question, of all others, that

the young sailor would have wished to avoid answering at that time. He

was the accepted lover of the sister of his friend Elliot--and, at the

moment he was running Frank down, to be, as he himself might have said,

brought up standing, was sufficiently disagreeable.

"Come, come, Harry," cried the young poet, seeing the sailor hesitate;

"let's have her from skysail-mast fid to keel--from starboard to

larboard stunsails--from the tip of the flying, jib-boom to the

taffrail."

"They're all fireships, Rhimeson!" replied Harry, with forced

gaiety--for he was indignant at Elliot's keen and suspicious

glance--"and, if I do come near them, it shall always be to windward,

for the Christian purpose of blowing them out of the water."

"A libertine," said Frank, significantly, "reviles women just in the

same way that licentious priests lay the blame of the disrespect with

which parsons are treated on the irreligion of the laity."

"I don't understand either your wit or your manner, Frank," replied

Harry, giving a lurch in his chair; "but this I know, that I don't care

a handful of shakings for either of them; and I say still, that women

are all fireships--keep to windward of them--pretty things to try your

young gunners at; but, if you close with them, you're gone, that's all."

"I'll tell you what you're very like, just now, Harry," said Frank--who

had been pouring down glass after glass of wine, as if to quench his

anger--"you're just like a turkey cock after his head has been cut off,

which will keep stalking on in the same gait for several yards before he

drops."

"Elliot! do you mean to insult me?" cried Whitaker, springing furiously

from his seat.

"I leave that to the decision of your own incomparable judgment, sir,"

replied Elliot, bowing, with a sneer just visible on his features.

"If I thought so, Frank, I would----but it's impossible; you

are my oldest friend." And the young sailor sat down with a moody brow.

"What would you, sir?" said Elliot, in a tone of calm contempt; "bear

it meekly, I presume? Nay, do not look big, and clench your hands, sir,

unless, like Bob Acres, you feel your valour oozing out at your palms,

and are striving to retain it!"

"I'll tell you what, Elliot," cried the young sailor, again springing to

his feet, and seizing a decanter of wine by the neck, "I don't know what

prevents me from driving this at your head."

"It would be quite in keeping with the rest of your gentlemanly conduct,

sir," replied Frank, still keeping his seat, and looking at Harry with

the most cool and provoking derision; "but I'll tell you why you

don't--you dare not!"

"But that you are Harriet Elliot's brother"----began Harry,

furiously.

"Scoundrel!" thundered Elliot, rising suddenly, and making a stride

towards the young sailor, while the veins of his brow protruded like

lines of cordage; "utter that name again, before me, with these

blasphemous lips"----

Elliot had scarce, however, let fall the opprobrious epithet, ere the

decanter flew, with furious force, from Whitaker's hand, and, narrowly

missing Frank's head, was shivered on the wall beyond.

In a moment the young sailor was in the nervous grasp of Frank, who,

apparently without the slightest exertion of his vast strength, lifted

up the comparatively slight form of Whitaker, and laid him on his back

on the floor.

"Be grateful, sir," said he, pressing the prostrate youth firmly down

with one hand; "be grateful to the laws of hospitality, which, though

you may think it a slight matter to violate, prevent me from striking

you in my own house, or pitching you out of the window. Rise, sir, and

begone."

Harry rose slowly; and it was almost fearful to see the change which

passion had wrought in a few moments on his features. The red flush of

drunken rage was entirely gone, and the livid cheek, the pale quivering

lip, and collected eye, which had usurped its place, showed that the

degradation he had just undergone had completely sobered him, and given

his passion a new but more malignant character. He stood for a brief

period in moody silence, whilst the rest of the young men closed round

him and Frank, with the intention of reconciling them. At length he

moved away towards the door, pushing his friends rudely aside; but

turning, before he left the room, he said, in a voice trembling with

suppressed emotion--

"I hope to meet Mr. Elliot where his mere brute strength will be laid

aside for more honourable and equitable weapons."

"I shall be happy, at any place or time, to show my sense of Mr.

Whitaker's late courtesy," replied Frank, bowing slightly, and then

drawing up his magnificent figure to its utmost height.

"Let it be _now_, then, sir," said the young sailor, stepping back into

the centre of the room, and pointing to a brace of sharps, which, among

foils and masks, hung on one of the walls.

"Oh, no, no!--for God's sake, not now!" burst from every one except

Frank.

"It can neither be now nor here, sir," replied he, firmly, motioning

Whitaker haughtily to the door.

"Gentlemen," said Harry, turning round to his friends with a loud laugh

of derision, "you see that vanity is stronger than valour. Pompey's

troops were beaten at the battle of Pharsalia, only because they were

afraid of their pretty faces. Upon my soul, I believe Mr. Elliot's

handsome features stand in the way of his gallantry."

"Begone, trifler!" cried Frank, relapsing into fury.

"Coward!" shouted the young sailor at the top of his voice.

"Ha!" exclaimed Elliot, starting, as if an adder had stung him; then,

with a convulsive effort controlling his rage, he took down the swords,

threw one of them upon the table, and putting his arm into Rhimeson's,

beckoned the young sailor to follow him, and left the apartment. As it

was in vain that the remainder of the young men attempted to restrain

Whitaker, they agreed to accompany him in a body, in order, if possible,

to prevent mischief; all but the young advocate whom we have before

mentioned, who, having too great a respect for the law to patronise

other methods of redressing grievances, ran off to secure the assistance

of the city authorities.

The moon, which had been wading among thick masses of clouds, emerged

into the clear blue sky, and scattered her silver showers of light on

the rocks and green sides of Arthur's Seat, as the young men reached a

secluded part in the valley at its foot.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the young poet to Frank, as they turned to

wait for Whitaker and his companions, "how horrible it is to desecrate

a scene and hour like this by violence--perhaps, Elliot, by _murder_!"

Frank did not reply; his thoughts were at that time with his aged mother

and his now unprotected sister; and he bitterly reflected that to

whoever of them, in the approaching contest, wounds or death might fall,

poor Harriet would have equally to suffer. But the young sailor, still

boiling with rage, at that moment approached, and throwing his cloak on

a rock, cried, "Now, sir!" and placed himself in attitude.

Their swords crossed, and, for a brief space, nothing was heard but the

hard breathing of the spectators and the clashing of the steel, as the

well-practised combatants parried each other's thrusts. Elliot was,

incomparably, the cooler of the two, and he threw away many chances in

which his adversary placed himself open to a palpable hit, his aim being

to disarm his antagonist without wounding him. An unforeseen accident

prevented this. Whitaker, pressing furiously forward, struck his foot

against a stone, and falling, received Elliot's sword in his body, the

hilt, striking with a deep, quick, sullen sound against his breast. The

young sailor fell with a sharp aspiration of anguish; and his victorious

adversary, horrified by the sight, and rendered silent by the sudden

revulsion of his feelings, stood, for some time, gazing at his sword,

from the point of which the blood drops trickled slowly, and fell on the

dewy sward. "'Tis the blood of my dearest, oldest friend--of my brother;

and shed by my hand!" he muttered at length, flinging away the guilty

blade. His only answer was the groans of his victim, and the shrill

whistle of the weapon as it flew through the air.

"Harry, my friend, my brother!" cried the young man, in a tone of

unutterable anguish, kneeling down on the grass, and pressing the

already cold clammy hand of his late foe.

"Your voice is pleasant to me, Frank, even in death," muttered the young

sailor, in a thick obstructed voice. "I have done you wrong--forgive me

while I can hear you; and tell Harriet--oh!"

"I do, I do forgive you; but, oh! how shall I forgive myself? Speak to

me, Harry!" And Elliot, frantic at the sight of the bloody motionless

heap before him, repeated the name of his friend till his voice rose

into a scream of agony that curdled the very blood of his friends, and

re-echoed among the rocks above, like the voices of tortured demons.

Affairs were in this situation when the young advocate came running

breathless up to them, and saw, at a glance, that he was too late. "Fly,

for Heaven's sake! fly, Elliot; here is money; you may need it," he

cried; "the officers will be here instantly, and your existence may be

the forfeit of this unhappy chance. Fly! every moment lost is a stab at

your life!"

"Be it so," replied the wretched young man, rising and gazing with

folded arms down upon his victim; "what have I to do with life?--_he_

has ceased to live. I will not leave him."

His friends joined in urging Elliot to instant flight; but he only

pointed to the body, and said, in the low tones of calm despair: "Do you

think I can leave him now, and thus? Let those fly who are in love with

life; I shall remain and meet my fate."

"Frank Elliot!" muttered the wounded man, reviving from the fainting fit

into which he had fallen; "come near to me, for I am very weak, and

swear to grant the request I have to make, as you would have my last

moments free from the bitterest agony."

Elliot flung himself on the ground by the side of his friend, and, in a

voice broken by anguish, swore to attend to his words. "Then leave this

spot immediately," said the young sailor, speaking slowly and with

extreme difficulty; "and should this be my last request--as I feel it

must be--get out of the country till the present unhappy affair is

forgotten; and moreover, mark, Frank--and, my friends, attend to my

words:--I entreat, I _command_ you to lay the entire blame of this

quarrel and its consequences on me. One of you will write to my poor

father, and say it was my last request that he should consider Elliot

innocent, and that I give my dying curse to any one who shall attempt to

revenge my death. Ah! that was a pang! How dim your faces look in the

moonlight! Your hand, dearest Frank, once more; and now away! Keep this,

I charge you, from my Harriet--_my_ Harriet! O God!" And, with a

shudder, that shook visibly his whole frame, the unfortunate youth

relapsed into insensibility. There was a brief pause, during which

the feelings of the spectators may be better imagined than described,

though, assuredly, admiration of the generous anxiety of the young

sailor to do justice to his friend was the prevailing sentiment of

their minds. At length the stifled sound of voices, and the dimly seen

forms of two or three men stealing towards them, within the shadow of

the mountain, roused them from their reverie; and Rhimeson, who had

not till now spoken, entreated Elliot to obey the dying request of his

friend, and fly before the police reached them. "I have not before urged

you to this," he said, "lest you should think it was from a selfish

motive; for, as your second, I am equally implicated with you in this

unhappy affair; but _now_," continued he, with melancholy emphasis,

"there is nothing to be gained and everything to be hazarded by

remaining."

The generous argument of the poet at length overcame Elliot's

resolution; he bent down quickly and kissed the cold lips of his friend,

then waving a silent adieu to the others, he quitted the melancholy

scene. The police--for it proved to be they--were within a hundred

yards of the spot when the young men left the rest of the group, and,

instantly emerging from the shadow which had till now partially

concealed them, the leader of the party directed one of his attendants

to remain with the body, and set off, with two or three others, in

pursuit of the fugitives.

"Follow me," cried Rhimeson, when he saw this movement of the pursuers;

and springing as he spoke towards the entrance of a narrow defile which

lay entirely in the shadow of the mountain. A deep convulsive sob burst

from the pent-up bosom of Elliot ere he replied: "Leave me to my fate,

my friend; I cannot fly; the weight of his blood crushes me!"

"This is childish, unjust," said Rhimeson, with strong emotion; "but

once more, Frank, will you control this weakness and follow me, or will

you slight the last wish of one friend, and sacrifice another, by

remaining? for without you I will not stir. Now, choose."

"Lead on," said Elliot, rousing himself with a convulsive effort; and,

striking into the gloom, the two young men sped forward with a step as

fleet as that of the hunted deer.

Their pursuers having seen them stand, had slackened their pace, or it

is probable the fugitives would have been captured before Rhimeson had

prevailed on his friend to fly; but now, separating so as to intercept

them if they deviated from the direct path, the policemen raised a loud

shout and instantly gave chase. But the young poet, in his solitary

rambles amid the noble scenery of Arthur's Seat and the adjoining

valleys, had become intimately acquainted with every path which led

through their romantic recesses; and he now sped along the broken

footway which skirted the mountain-side with as much confidence as if

he had trod on a level sward in the light of noonday. Elliot, having

his mind diverted by the necessity of looking to his immediate

preservation--for the path, strewed with fragments of rock, led along

what might well be termed a precipice, of two or three hundred feet in

height--roused up all his energies, and followed his friend with a speed

which speedily left their pursuers far behind. Thus they held on for

about a quarter of an hour, gradually and obliquely ascending the

mountain side, until the voices of the policemen, calling to each other

far down in the valley, proved that they had escaped the immediate

danger which had threatened them. Still, however, Rhimeson kept on,

though he relaxed his pace in order to hold some communication with his

companion.

"We have distanced the bloodhounds for the nonce, Frank," he said;

"these ale-swilling rascals cannot set a stout heart to a stey brae; but

whither shall we go now? Edinburgh, perhaps Scotland, is too hot to hold

us, and the point is how to get out of it. What do you advise?"

"I am utterly careless about it, Rhimeson; do as you think best,"

replied Elliot, in a tone of deep despondency.

"Cheer up, cheer up! my dear Frank," said the young poet, feigning a

confidence of hope which his heart belied. "Whitaker may still recover;

he is too gallant a fellow to be lost to us in a drunken brawl; and even

if the worst should happen, it must still keep you from despair to

reflect that you were forced into this rencontre, and that it was

an unhappy accident, resulting from his own violence and not your

intention, which deprived him of his life." Elliot stopped suddenly, and

gazing down from the height which they had now reached into the valley,

seemed to be searching for the spot where the fatal accident had taken

place, as if to assist him in the train of thought which his friend's

words had aroused. The dark group of human beings were seen dimly in the

moonlight, moving with a slow pace along the hollow of the gorge towards

the city, bearing along with them the body of the young sailor.

"Dear, dear Frank," said Rhimeson, deeply commiserating the anguish

which developed itself in the clasped uplifted hands and shuddering

frame of his unhappy friend, "bear up against this cruel accident like

a man--he may still recover." Elliot moved away from the ridge which

overlooked the valley, muttering, as if unconsciously--

"'Action is momentary--

The motion of a muscle this way or that;

Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite!'[G]

How profound and awful is that sentiment!"

[G] Wordsworth.

The sound of a piece of rock dislodged from the mountain side, and

thundering and crashing down the steep, awakened Rhimeson from his

contemplation of Elliot's grief; and, springing again to the brink of

the almost precipitous descent, he saw that one of their pursuers had

crept up by the inequalities of the rock, and was within a few yards of

the summit.

"Dog!" cried the young man, heaving off a fragment of rock, and in the

act of dashing it down upon the unprotected head of the policeman,

"offer to stir, and I will scatter your brains upon the cliffs!"

A shrill cry of terror burst from the poor fellow's lips as he gazed

upwards at the frightful attitude of his enemy, and expected every

moment to see the dreadful engine hurled at his head. The cry was

answered by the shouts of his companions, who, by different paths, had

arrived within a short distance of the fugitives.

"Retire miscreant! or I will send your mangled carcass down to the foot

without your help," shouted Rhimeson, swinging the huge stone up to the

extent of his arms. His answer was a pistol shot, which, whistling past

his cheek, struck the uplifted fragment of rock with such force as to

send a stunning feeling up to his very shoulders. The stone fell from

his benumbed grasp, and, striking the edge of the cliff, bounded

innocuous over the head of the policeman, who, springing upwards, was

within a few feet of Rhimeson before he had fully recovered himself.

"Away!" he cried, taking again the path up the mountain, and closely

followed by Elliot, who, during the few moments in which the foregoing

scene was being enacted, had remained almost motionless--"Away! give

them a flying shot at least," continued he, feeling all the romance of

his nature aroused by the circumstances in which he was placed. The

policeman, however, who had only fired in self-defence, refrained from

using his other pistol, now that the danger was past; but grasping it

firmly in his hand, he followed the steps of the young men with a

speed stimulated by the desire of revenge, and a kind of professional

eagerness to capture so daring an offender. But, in spite of his

exertions, the superior agility of the fugitives gradually widened the

distance between them; and at length, as they emerged from the rocky

ground upon the smooth short grass, where a footfall could not be

heard, the moon became again obscured by dark clouds, and Rhimeson,

whispering his companion to observe his motions, turned short off the

path they had been following, and struck eastward among the green hills

towards the sea. They could hear the curse of the policeman, and the

click of his pistol lock, as if he had intended to send a leaden

messenger into the darkness in search of them. But the expected report

did not follow; and, favoured by the continued obscurity of the night,

they were, in a short time, descending the hill behind Duddingstone,

which lies at the opposite extremity of the King's Park. Still

continuing their route eastward, they walked forward at a rapid pace,

consulting on their future movements. The sound of wheels rapidly

approaching, interrupted their conversation. It was the south mail.

In a short time they were flying through the country towards Newcastle,

at the rate of ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Elliot was at the

river side, searching for a vessel to convey them to some part of the

continent, and Rhimeson was dozing over a newspaper in the Turk's Head

in that town, when a policeman entered, and, mistaking him for Elliot,

took him into custody. How their route had been discovered, Rhimeson

knew not; but he was possessed of sufficient presence of mind to

personate his friend, and offer to accompany the police officer

instantly back to Edinburgh, leaving a letter and a considerable sum of

money for Elliot. In a few minutes, the generous fellow leaped into the

post-chaise, with a heart as light as many a bridegroom when flying on

the wings of love and behind the tails of four broken-winded hacks to

some wilderness, where "transport and security entwine"--the anticipated

scene of a delicious honeymoon. Elliot, while in search of a vessel, had

fallen in with a young man whom he had known as a medical student at

Edinburgh, and who was now about to go as surgeon of a Greenland vessel,

in order to earn, during the summer, the necessary sum for defraying his

college expenses. He accompanied Elliot to his inn, and heard, during

the way, the story of his misfortunes. It is unnecessary to describe

Frank's surprise and grief at the capture of his friend, Rhimeson. At

first, he determined instantly to return and relieve him from durance.

But, influenced by the entreaties contained in Rhimeson's note, and by

the arguments of the young Northumbrian, he at length changed this

resolution, and determined on accepting the situation of surgeon in the

whaling vessel for which his present companion had been about to depart.

Frank presented the Northumbrian with a sum more than equal to the

expected profits of the voyage, and received his thanks in tones wherein

the natural roughness of his accent was increased to a fearful degree by

the strength of his emotion. All things being arranged, Frank shook his

acquaintance by the hand, and remarked that it would be well for him to

keep out of the way for a while. So bidding the man of harsh aspirations

adieu, he made his way to the coach, and, in twenty-four hours, was

embarked in the _Labrador_, with a stiff westerly breeze ready to carry

him away from all that he loved and dreaded.

Let the reader imagine that six months have passed over--and let him

imagine, also, if he can, the anguish which the mother and sister of

Elliot suffered on account of his mysterious disappearance. It was now

September. The broad harvest moon was shining full upon the bosom of

Teviot, and glittering upon the rustling leaves of the woods that

overhang her banks, and pouring a flood of more golden light upon the

already golden grain that waved--ripe for the sickle--along the margin

of the lovely stream, the stars, few in number, but most brilliant, had

taken their places in the sky; the owl was whooping from the ivied

tower; the corn-craik was calling drowsily; now and then the distant

baying of a watch-dog startled the silence, otherwise undisturbed, save

by the plaintive murmuring of the stream, which, as it flowed past,

uttered such querulous sounds, that, as some one has happily expressed

it, "one was almost tempted to ask what ailed it." A traveller was

moving slowly up the side of the river, and ever and anon stopping, as

if to muse over some particular object. It was Elliot. He had returned

from Greenland, and, in disguise, had come to the place of his birth--to

the dwelling of his mother and his sister; he had heard that his mother

was ill--that anxiety, on his account, had reduced her almost to the

grave--and that she was now but slowly recovering. He had been able to

acquire no information respecting Whitaker; and the weight of his

friend's blood lay yet heavy on his soul, for he considered himself as

his murderer. It was with feelings of the most miserable anxiety that he

approached the place of his birth. The stately beeches that lined the

avenue which led to his mother's door were in sight; they stooped and

raised their stately branches, with all the gorgeous drapery of leaves,

as if they welcomed him back; the very river seemed to utter, in accents

familiar to him, that he was now near the hall of his fathers. Oh! how

is the home of our youth enshrined in our most sacred affections! by

what multitudinous fibres is it entwined with our heart-strings!--it is

part of our being--its influences remain with us for ever, though years

spent in foreign lands divide us from "our early home that cradled life

and love." Elliot was framed to feel keenly these sacred influences--and

often, even after brief absences from home, he had experienced them in

deep intensity; but now the throb of exultation was kept down by the

crushing weight of remorse, and the gush of tenderness checked by bitter

fears. He entered the avenue which led up to the house. Yonder were the

windows of his mother's chamber--there was a light in it. He would have

given worlds to have seen before him the interior. As he quickened his

pace, he heard the sound of voices in the avenue. He turned aside out of

the principal walk; and, standing under the branches of a venerable

beech, which swept down almost to the ground, and fully concealed him,

he waited the approach of the speakers, in hopes of hearing some

intelligence respecting his family. Through the screen of the leaves he

presently saw that it was a pair of lovers, for their arms were locked

around each other, and their cheeks were pressed together as they came

down the avenue--treading as slowly as though they were attempting to

show how much of rest there might be in motion.

"To-morrow, then, my sweet Harriet," said the young man, "I leave you;

and though it is torture to me to be away from your side, yet I have

resolved never again to see you until I have made the most perfect

search for your brother; until I can win a dearer embrace than any I

have yet received, by placing him before you."

"Would to heaven it may be so!" replied the young lady; "but my

mother--how will I be able to support her when you are gone, dearest

Henry? She is kept up only by the happy strains of hope which your

very voice creates. How shall I, myself unsupported, ever keep her from

despondency? Oh! she will sink--she will die! Remain with us, Henry; and

let us trust to providence to restore my brother to us--if he be yet

alive!"

"Ask it not, my beloved Harriet, I beseech you," said the young man,

"lest I be unable to deny you. If your brother, as is likely, has sought

some foreign land, and remains in ignorance of my recovery from the

wounds I received from him, how shall I answer to myself--how shall I

even dare to ask for this fair hand--how shall I ever hope to rest upon

your bosom in peace--if I do not use every possible means to discover

him? O my dear Elliot--friend of my youth--if thou couldest translate

the language of my heart, as it beats at this moment--if thou couldest

hear my sacred resolve!"--

"Whitaker, my friend! Harriet, my beloved sister!" cried Elliot,

bursting out from beneath the overspreading beech, and snatching his

sister in his arms--"I am here--I see all--I understand the whole of the

events--how much too graciously brought about for me, Father of mercies!

I acknowledge. Let us now go to my mother."

It is in scenes such as this that we find how weak words are to describe

the feelings of the actors--the rapid transition of events--the passions

that chase one another over the minds and hearts of those concerned,

like waves in a tempest. Nor is it necessary. The reader who can feel

and comprehend such situations as those in which the actors in our

little tale are placed, are able to draw, from their own hearts and

imaginations, much fitter and more rapidly sketched portraitures of the

passions which are awakened, the feelings that develop themselves in

such situations and with such persons, than can be painted in words.

The harvest moon was gone, and another young moon was in the skies, when

Whitaker, and the same young lady of whom we before spoke, trode down

the avenue, locked in each other's arms, and with cheek pressed to

cheek. They talked of a thousand things most interesting to persons

in their situation--for they were to be married on the morrow--but,

perhaps, not so interesting to our readers, many of whom may have

performed in the same scenes.

Elliot's mother was recovered; and he himself was happy, or, at least,

he put on all the trappings of happiness; for, in a huge deer-skin

Esquimaux dress, which he had brought from Greenland, he danced at his

sister's wedding until the great bear had set in the sea, and the autumn

sun began to peer through the shutters of the drawing-room of his

ancient hall.

PHILIPS GREY.

"Death takes a thousand shapes:

Borne on the wings of sullen slow disease,

Or hovering o'er the field of bloody fight,

In calm, in tempest, in the dead of night,

Or in the lightning of the summer moon;

In all how terrible!"

Among the many scenes of savage sublimity which the lowlands of Scotland

display, there is none more impressive in its solitary grandeur, than

that in the neighbourhood of Loch Skene, on the borders of Moffatdale.

At a considerable elevation above the sea, and surrounded by the

loftiest mountains in the south of Scotland, the loch has collected

its dark mass of waters, astonishing the lovers of nature by its great

height above the valley which he has just ascended, and, by its still

and terrible beauty, overpowering his mind with sentiments of melancholy

and awe. Down the cliffs which girdle in the shores of the loch, and

seem to support the lofty piles of mountains above them, a hundred

mountain torrents leap from rock to rock, flashing and roaring, until

they reach the dark reservoir beneath. A canopy of grey mist almost

continually shrouds from the sight the summits of the hills, leaving the

imagination to guess at those immense heights which seem to pierce the

very clouds of heaven. Occasionally, however, this veil is withdrawn,

and then you may see the sovereign brow of Palmoodie encircled with his

diadem of snow, and the green summits of many less lofty hills arranged

round him, like courtiers uncovered before their monarch. Amid this

scene, consecrated to solitude and the most sombre melancholy, no sound

comes upon the mountain breeze, save the wail of the plover, or the

whir of the heathcock's wing, or, haply, the sullen plunge of a trout

leaping up in the loch.

At times, indeed, the solitary wanderer may be startled by the scream of

the grey eagle, as dropping with the rapidity of light from his solitary

cliff, he shoots past, enraged that his retreat is polluted by the

presence of man, and then darts aloft into the loftiest chambers of

the sky; or, dallying with the piercing sunbeams, is lost amid their

glory.[H] At the eastern extremity of the loch, the superfluous waters

are discharged by a stream of no great size, but which, after heavy

showers, pours along its deep and turbid torrent with frightful

impetuosity.

[H] Round about the shores of Loch Skene the Ettrick Shepherd

herded the flocks of his master, and fed his boyish fancies with the

romance and beauty which breathes from every feature of the scene. One

day, when we were at Loch Skene on a fishing excursion with him, he

pointed up to the black crag overhanging the water, and said--"You see

the edge o' that cliff; I ance as near dropped frae it intil eternity as

I dinna care to think o'. I was herdin' aboot here, and lang and lang I

thocht o' speelin' up to the eyry, frae which I could hear the young

eagles screamin' as plain as my ain bonny Mary Gray (his youngest

daughter) when she's no pleased wi' the colley; but the fear o' the auld

anes aye keepit me frae the attempt. At last, ae day, when I was at the

head o' the cliff, and the auld eagle away frae the nest, I took heart

o' grace, and clambered down (for there was nae gettin' up). Weel, sir,

I was at the maist kittle bit o' the craig, wi' my foot on a bit ledge

just wide enough to bear me, and sair bothered wi' my plaid and stick,

when, guid saf's! I heard the boom o' the auld eagle's wings come whaff,

whaffing through the air, and in a moment o' time she brought me sic a

whang wi' her wing, as she rushed enraged by, and then turning short

again and fetching me anither, I thought I was gane for ever; but

providence gave me presence o' mind to regain my former resting-place,

and there flinging off my plaid, I keepit aye nobbing the bird wi' my

stick till I was out o' danger. It was a fearsome time!" It would have

been dreadful had the pleasure which "Kilmeny," "Queen Hynde," and the

hundred other beautiful creations which the glorious old bard has given

us, been all thus destroyed "at one fell swoop."

After running along the mountain for about half a mile, it suddenly

precipitates itself over the edge of a rocky ridge which traverses its

course, and, falling sheer down a height of three hundred feet, leaps

and bounds over some smaller precipices, until, at length, far down in

Moffatdale, it entirely changes its character, and pursues a calm and

peaceful course through a fine pastoral country. Standing on the brow

of a mountain which overlooks the fall, the eye takes in at once the

whole of the course which we have described; and, to a poetical mind,

which recognises in mountain scenery the cradle of liberty and the

favourite dwelling-place of imagination, the character of the stream

seems a type of the human mind: stormy, bounding, and impetuous, when

wrapped up in the glorious feelings which belong to romantic countries;

peaceful, dull, and monotonous, amid the less interesting lowlands. Yet,

after indulging in such a fancy for a time, another reflection arises,

which, if it be less pleasing and poetical, is, perhaps, more

useful--that the impetuous course of the mountain torrent, though

gratifying to the lover of nature, is unaccompanied with any other

benefit to man, while the stream that pursues its unpretending path

through the plains, bestows fertility on a thousand fields. Such

thoughts as these, however, only arise in the mind when it has become

somewhat familiar with the surrounding scenes. The roar of the cataract,

the savage appearance of the dark rocks that border the falling waters,

and that painful feeling which the sweeping and inevitable course of the

stream produces, at first paralyze the mind, and, for some time after it

has recovered its tone, occupy it to the exclusion of every other

sentiment.

And now, gentle reader, let us walk toward the simple stone seat, which

some shepherd boy has erected under yon silvery-stemmed birch tree,

where the sound of the waterfall comes only in a pleasant monotone, and

where the most romantic part of old Scotland is spread beneath our feet.

There you see the eternal foam of the torrent, without being distracted

with its roar; and you can trace the course of the stream till it

terminates in yon clear and pellucid pool at the foot of the hill,

which seems too pure for aught but--

"A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters;"

yet, beautiful in its purity as it seems, it is indeed the scene of the

following true and terrible tale:--

Philips Grey was one of the most active young shepherds in the parish of

Traquair. For two or three years he had carried off the medal given at

the St. Ronan's border games to him who made the best high leap; and,

at the last meeting of the games, he had been first at the running

hop-step-and-jump; had beat all competitors in running; and, though but

slightly formed, had gained the second prize for throwing the hammer--a

favourite old Scottish exercise, but almost unknown in England. Athletic

sports were, indeed, his favourite pursuit, and he cultivated them with

an ardour which very few of our readers will be able to imagine. But

among the shepherds, and, indeed, all inhabitants of pastoral districts,

he who excels in these sports possesses a superiority over his

contemporaries, which cannot but be gratifying in the highest degree to

its possessor. His name is known far and wide; his friendship is courted

by the men; and his hand, either as a partner in a country dance, or in

a longer "minuet of the heart," marriage, is coquetted for by the

maidens: he, in fact, possesses all the power which superiority of

intellect bestows in more populous and polished societies. But it is by

no means the case, as is often said, that ardour in the pursuit of

violent sports is connected with ignorance or mediocrity of intellect.

On the contrary, by far the greater number of victors at games of

agility and strength, will be found to possess a degree of mental

energy, which is, in fact, the power that impels them to corporeal

excitement, and is often the secret of their success over more muscular

antagonists. Philips Grey, in particular, was a striking instance of

this fact. Notwithstanding his passion for athletic sports, he had found

time, while on the hillside tending his flock, or in the long winter

nights, to make himself well acquainted with the Latin classics. This

is by no means uncommon among the Scottish peasantry. Smith, and Black,

and Murray, are not singular instances of self-taught scholars; for

there is scarce a valley in Scotland in which you will not hear of one

or more young men of this stamp. Philips also played exquisitely on the

violin, and had that true taste for the simple Scottish melody which

can, perhaps, be nowhere cultivated so well as among the mountains and

streams which have frequently inspired them. Many a time, when you ask

the name of the author of some sweet ballad which the country girl is

breathing amongst these hills, the tear will start into her eye as she

answers--"Poor Philips Grey, that met a dreadful death at the Grey

Mare's Tail." With these admirable qualities, Philips unfortunately

possessed a mood of mind which is often an attendant on genius--he was

subject to attacks of the deepest melancholy. Gay, cheerful, humorous,

active, and violent in his sports as he was, there were periods when the

darkest gloom overshadowed his mind, and when his friends even trembled

for his reason. It is said that he frequently stated his belief that he

should die a dreadful death. Alas! that this strange presentiment should

have indeed been prophetic! It is not surprising that Philips Grey, with

his accomplishments, should have won the heart of a maiden somewhat

above his own degree, and even gained the consent of her father to his

early marriage. The old man dwelt in Moffatdale; and the night before

Philips' wedding-day, he and his younger brother walked over to his

intended father-in-law's house, in order to be nearer the church. That

night the young shepherd was in his gayest humour; his bonny bride was

by his side, and looking more beautiful than ever; he sang his finest

songs, played his favourite tunes, and completely bewitched his

companions. All on a sudden, while he was relating some extraordinary

feat of strength which had been performed by one of his acquaintances,

he stopped in the middle of the story, and exchanged the animation with

which he was speaking for silence and a look of the deepest despair. His

friends were horror-struck; but as he insisted that nothing was the

matter with him, and as his younger brother said that he had not been in

bed for two nights, the old man dismissed the family, saying--"Gang awa

to bed, Philips, my man, and get a sound sleep; or if you do lie wauken

a wee bittie, it's nae great matter: odd! it's the last nicht my bonny

Marion 'll keep ye lying wauken for her sake. Will't no, my bonnie doo?"

"Deed, faither, I dinna ken," quoth Marion, simply, yet archly; and the

party separated.

Philips, however, walked down the burn side, in order to try if the cool

air would dissipate his unaccountable anxiety. But, in spite of his

efforts, a presentiment of some fatal event gathered strength in his

mind, and he involuntarily found himself revolving the occurrences of

his past life. Here he found little to condemn, for he had never

received an unkind word from his father, who was now in the grave; and

his mother was wearing out a green and comfortable old age beneath his

own roof. He had brought up his younger brothers, and they were now in

a fair way to succeed in life. He could not help feeling satisfied at

this, yet why peculiarly at this time he knew not. Then came the thought

of his lovely Marion, and the very agony which at once rushed on his

heart had well nigh choked him. Immediately, however, the fear which had

hung about him seemed to vanish; for, strange and mysterious as it was,

it was not sufficiently powerful to withstand the force of that other

horrible imagination. So he returned to the house, and was surprised to

find himself considering how his little property should be distributed

after his death. When he reached the door, he stopped for a moment,

overcome with this pertinacity in the supernatural influence which

seemed exercised over him; and at length, with gloomy resolution,

entered the house. His brother was asleep, and a candle was burning on

the table. He sank down into a chair, and went on with his little

calculations respecting his will. At length, having decided upon all

these things, and having fixed upon the churchyard of St. Mary's for his

burial place, he arose from his chair, took up the candle and crossed

the room towards his brother, intending to convey his wishes to him.

The boy lay on the front side of one of those beds with sliding doors,

so common in Scotland; and beyond him there was room for Philips to lie

down. Something bright seemed gleaming in the dark recess of the bed. He

advanced the candle, and beheld--oh, sight of horror!--a plate upon what

bore the shape of a coffin, bearing the words--"Philips Grey, aged 23."

For a moment he gazed steadily upon it, and was about to stretch out his

hand towards it, when the lid slowly rose, and he beheld a mutilated and

bloody corpse, the features of which were utterly undistinguishable, but

which, by some unearthly impulse, he instantly knew to be his own. Still

he kept a calm and unmoved gaze at it, though the big drops of sweat

stood on his brow with the agony of his feelings; and, while he was thus

contemplating the dreadful revelation, it gradually faded away, and at

length totally vanished. The power which had upheld him seemed to depart

along with the phantom; his sight failed him, and he fell on the floor.

Presently he recovered, and found himself in bed, with his brother by

his side chafing his temples. He explained everything that had occurred,

seemed calm and collected, shook his head when his brother attempted to

explain away the vision, and finally sank into a tranquil sleep.

Whether the horrible resemblance of his own coffin and mutilated corpse

was in reality revealed to him by the agency of some supernatural power,

or whether it was (as sceptics will say) the natural effect of his

hypochondriac state of mind, producing an optical deception, we will not

take upon us to determine; certain, however, it is, that with a calm

voice and collected manner he described to his brother James, a scene

the dreadful reality of which was soon to be displayed.

In the morning Philips awoke, cheerful and calm, the memory of last

night's occurrences seeming but a dreadful dream. On the grass before

the door he met his beloved Marion, who, on that blessed Sabbath, was to

become his wife. The sight of her perfect loveliness, arrayed in a white

dress, emblem of purity and innocence, filled his heart with rapture;

and as he clasped her in his arms, every sombre feeling vanished away.

It is not our intention to describe the simplicity of the marriage

ceremony, or the happiness which filled Philips Grey's heart during that

Sabbath morning, while sitting in the church by the side of his lovely

bride.

They returned home, and, in the afternoon, the young couple, together

with James Grey and the bride's-maid, walked out among the glades of

Craigieburn wood, a spot rendered classic by the immortal Burns.

Philips had gathered some of the wild flowers that sprang among their

feet--the pale primrose, the fair anemone, and the drooping blue bells

of Scotland--and wove them into a garland. As he was placing them on

Marion's brow, and shading back the long flaxen tresses that hung across

her cheek, he said, gaily--"There wants but a broad water lily to place

in the centre of thy forehead, my sweet Marion; for where should the

fairest flower of the valley be, but on the brow of its queen? Come with

me, Jamie, and in half an hour we will bring the fairest that floats on

Loch Skene." So, kissing the cheek of his bride, Philips and his

brother set off up the hill with the speed of the mountain deer. They

arrived at the foot of the waterfall, panting, and excited with their

exertions. By climbing up the rocks close to the stream, the distance to

the loch is considerably shortened; and Philips, who had often clambered

to the top of the Bitch Craig, a high cliff on the Manor Water, proposed

to his brother that they should "speel the height." The other, a supple

agile lad, instantly consented. "Gie me your plaid then, Jamie, my

man--it will maybe fash ye," said Philips; "and gang ye first, and keep

weel to the hill side." Accordingly the boy gave his brother the plaid

and began the ascent. While Philips was knotting his brother's plaid

round his body above his own, a fox peeped out of his hole half way up

the cliff, and thinking flight advisable, dropped down the precipice.

Laughing till the very echoes rang, Philips followed his brother.

Confident in his agility, he ascended with a firm step till he was

within a few yards of the summit. James was now on the top of the

precipice, and looking down on his brother, and not knowing the cause of

his mirth, exclaimed--"Daursay, callant, ye're fey."[I] In a moment the

memory of his last night's vision rushed on Philips Grey's mind, his

eyes became dim, his limbs powerless, he dropped off the very edge of

the giddy precipice, and his form was lost in the black gulf below. For

a few minutes, James felt a sickness of heart which rendered him almost

insensible, and sank down on the grass lest he should fall over the

cliff. At length, gathering strength from very terror, he advanced to

the edge of the cataract and gazed downwards. There, about two-thirds

down the fall, he could perceive the remains of his brother, mangled and

mutilated; the body being firmly wedged between two projecting points of

rock, whereon the descending water streamed, while the bleeding head

hung dangling, and almost separated from the body--and, turned upwards,

discovered to the horrified boy the starting eye-balls of his brother,

already fixed in death, and the teeth clenched in the bitter agony which

had tortured his passing spirit.

[I] "Fey," a Scottish word, expressive of that unaccountable

and violent mirth which is supposed frequently to portend sudden

death.--ED.

It is scarcely necessary to detail the consequences of this cruel

accident. Assistance was procured, and the mangled body conveyed to

the house of Marion's father, whence, a few short hours ago, the young

shepherd had issued in vigour and happiness. When the widowed bride saw

James Grey return to them with horror painted on his features, she

seemed instantly to divine the full extent of her misfortune; she sank

down on the grass, with the unfinished garland of her dead lover in her

hand, and in this state was carried home. For two days she passed from

one fit to another; but on the night of the second day she sank into a

deep sleep. That night, James Grey was watching the corpse of his

brother; the coffin was placed on the very bed where they had slept

two nights ago. The plate gleamed from the shadowy recess, and the

words--"Philips Grey, aged 23," were distinctly visible. While James was

reflecting on the prophetic vision of his brother, a figure, arrayed in

white garments, entered the room and moved towards the dead body. It was

poor Marion.

She slowly lifted the lid of the coffin, and gazed long and intently on

the features of her dead husband. Then, turning round to James, she

uttered a short shrill shriek, and fell backwards on the corpse. She

hovered between life and death for a few days, and at length expired.

She now lies by the side of her lover, in the solitary burial ground of

St. Mary's.

Such is the event which combines, with others not less dark and

terrible, to throw a wild interest around those gloomy rocks. Many a

time you will hear the story from the inhabitants of those hills; and,

until fretted away by the wind and rain, the plaid and the bonnet of the

unfortunate Philips Grey hung upon the splintered precipice to attest

the truth of the tale.

DONALD GORM.

In a remote corner of Assynt, one of the most remote and savage

districts in the Highlands of Scotland, there is a certain wild and

romantic glen, called Eddernahulish. In the picturesqueness of this

glen, however, neither wood nor rock has any share; and, although it may

be difficult to conceive of any place possessing that character without

these ordinary adjuncts, it is, nevertheless, true, that Eddernahulish,

with neither tree nor precipice, is yet strikingly picturesque. The wide

sweep of the heath-clad hills whose gradual descents form the spacious

glen, and the broad and brawling stream careering through its centre,

give the place an air of solitude and of quiet repose that,

notwithstanding its monotony, is exceedingly impressive.

On gaining any of the many points of elevation that command a view of

this desolate strath, you may descry, towards its western extremity, a

small, rude, but massive stone bridge, grey with age; for it was erected

in the time of that laird of Assynt who rendered himself for ever

infamous by betraying the Duke of Montrose, who had sought and obtained

the promise of his protection, to his enemies.

Close by this bridge stands a little highland cottage, of, however, a

considerably better order than the common run of such domiciles in this

quarter of the world; and bespeaking a condition, as to circumstances,

on the part of its occupants, which is by no means general in the

Highlands.

"Well what of this cottage?" says the impatient reader.

"What of it?" say we, with the proud consciousness of having something

worth hearing to tell of it. "Why, was it not the birthplace of Donald

Gorm?"

"And, pray, who or what was Donald Gorm?"

"We were just going to tell you when you interrupted us; and we will now

proceed to the fulfilment of that intention."

Donald Gorm was a rough, rattling, outspoken, hot-headed, and

warm-hearted highlander, of about two-and-thirty years of age. Bold as a

lion, and strong as a rhinoceros, with great bodily activity, he feared

nobody; and having all the irascibility of his race, would fight with

anybody at a moment's notice. Possessing naturally a great flow of

animal spirits and much ready wit, Donald was the life and soul of every

merry-making in which he bore a part. In the dance, his joyous whoop and

haloo might be heard a mile off; and the hilarious crack of his finger

and thumb, nearly a third of that distance. Donald, in short, was one of

those choice spirits that are always ready for anything, and who, by the

force of their individual energies, can keep a whole country-side in a

stir. As to his occupations, Donald's were various--sometimes farming,

(assisting his father, with whom he lived,) sometimes herring fishing,

and sometimes taking a turn at harvest work in the Lowlands--by which

industry he had scraped a few pounds together; and, being unmarried,

with no one to care for but himself, he was thus comparatively

independent--a circumstance which kept Donald's head at its highest

elevation, and his voice, when he spoke, at the top of its bent.

The tenor of our story requires that we should now advert to another

member of Donald's family. This is a brother of the latter's, who bore

the euphonious and high-flavoured patronymic of Duncan Dhu M'Tavish

Gorm, or, simply, Duncan Gorm, as he was, for shortness, called,

although certainly baptized by the formidable list of names just given.

This Duncan Gorm was a man of totally different character from his

brother Donald. He was of a quiet and peaceable disposition and

demeanour--steady, sober, and conscientious; qualities which were

thought to adapt him well for the line of life in which he was

placed. This was as a domestic servant in the family of an extensive

highland proprietor, of the name of Grant. In this capacity Duncan

had, about a year or so previous to the precise period when our story

commences--which, by the way, we beg the reader to observe, is now some

ninety years past--gone to the continent, as a personal attendant on the

elder son of his master, whose physicians had recommended his going

abroad for the benefit of his health.

It was, then, about a year after the departure of Duncan and his master,

that Donald's father received a letter from his son, intimating the

death of his young master, which had taken place at Madrid, and, what

was much more surprising intelligence, that the writer had determined on

settling in the city just named, as keeper of a tavern or wine-house, in

which calling he said he had no doubt he would do well. And he was not

mistaken; in about six months after, his family received another letter

from him, informing them that he was succeeding beyond his most sanguine

expectations--and hereby hangs our tale.

On Donald these letters of his brother's made a very strong impression;

and, finally, had the effect of inducing him to adopt a very strange and

very bold resolution. This was neither more nor less than to join his

brother in Madrid--a resolution from which it was found impossible to

dissuade him, especially after the receipt of Duncan's second letter,

giving intimation of his success.

With most confused and utterly inadequate notions, therefore, of either

the nature, or distance, or position of the country to which he was

going, Donald made preparations for his journey. But they were merely

such preparations as he would have made for a descent on the Lowlands,

at harvest time. He put up some night-caps, stockings, and shirts in a

bundle, with a quantity of bread and cheese, and a small flask of his

native mountain dew. This bundle he proposed to suspend, in the usual

way, over his shoulder on the end of a huge oak stick, which he had

carefully selected for the purpose. And it was thus prepared--with,

however, an extra supply of his earnings in his pocket, of which he

had a vague notion he would stand in need--that Donald contemplated

commencing his journey to Madrid from the heart of the Highlands of

Scotland. In one important particular, however, did Donald's outfit on

this occasion, differ from that adopted on ordinary occasions. On the

present, he equipped himself in the full costume of his country--kilt,

plaid, bonnet and feather, sword, dirk, and pistols; and thus arrayed,

his appearance was altogether very striking, as he was both a stout and

exceedingly handsome man.

Before starting on his extraordinary expedition, Donald had learned

which was the fittest seaport whereat to embark on his progress to

Spain; and it was nearly all he had learned, or indeed cared to inquire

about, as to the place of his destination. For this port, then, he

finally set out; but over his proceedings, for somewhere about three

weeks after this, there is a veil which our want of knowledge of facts

and circumstances will not enable us to withdraw. Of all subsequent to

this, however, we are amply informed; and shall now proceed to give the

reader the full benefit of that information.

Heaven knows how Donald had fought his way to Madrid, or what particular

route he had taken to attain this consummation; but certain it is, that,

about the end of the three weeks mentioned, the identical Donald Gorm

of whom we speak, kilted and hosed as he left Eddernahulish, with a huge

stick over his shoulder bearing a bundle suspended on its farthest

extremity, was seen, early in the afternoon, approaching the gate of

Alcala, one of the principal and most splendid entrances into the

Spanish capital. Donald was staring about him, and at everything he saw,

with a look of the greatest wonder and amazement; and strange were the

impressions that the peculiar dresses of those he met, and the odd

appearance of the buildings within his view, made upon his

unsophisticated mind and bewildered sensorium.

He, in truth, felt very much as if he had by some accident got into the

moon, or some other planet than that of which he was a born inhabitant,

and as if the beings around him were human only in form and feature. The

perplexity and confusion of his ideas were, indeed, great--so great that

he found it impossible to reduce them to such order as to give them one

single distinct impression. There were, however, two points in Donald's

character, which remained wholly unaffected by the novelty of his

position. These were his courage and bold bearing. Not all Spain, nor

all that was in Spain, could have deprived Donald of these for a moment.

He was amazed, but not in the least awed. He was, in truth, looking

rather fiercer than usual, at this particular juncture, in consequence

of a certain feeling of irritation, caused by what he deemed the

impertinent curiosity of the passers-by, who, no less struck with his

strange appearance than he with theirs, were gazing and tittering at him

from all sides--treatment this, at which Donald thought fit to take

mortal offence. Having arrived, however, at the gate of Alcala, Donald

thought it full time to make some inquiries as to where his relative

resided. Feeling impressed with the propriety of this step, he made

up to a group of idle, equivocal-looking fellows, who, wrapped up in

long buttoned dilapidated cloaks, were lounging about the gate; and,

plunging boldly into the middle of them, he delivered himself thus, in

his best English:--

"I say, freens, did you'll know, any of you, where my broder stops?"

The men, as might be expected, first stared at the speaker, and then

burst out a-laughing in his face. They, of course, could not comprehend

a word of what he said; a circumstance on the possibility of which

it had never struck Donald to calculate, and to which he did not

now advert. Great, therefore, was his wrath, at this, apparently,

contemptuous treatment by the Spaniards. His highland blood mounted to

his face, and with the same rapidity rose his highland choler. Donald,

in truth, already contemplated doing battle in defence of his insulted

consequence, and at once hung out his flag of defiance.

"You tam scarecrow-lookin rascals!" he sputtered out, in great fury,

at the same time shaking his huge clenched brown fist in the faces

of the whole group, their numbers not in the least checking his

impetuosity--"You cowartly, starvation-like togs! I've a goot mind to

make smashed potatoes o' the whole boilin o' ye. Tam your Spanish noses

and whiskers!"

The fierce and determined air of Donald had the effect of instantly

restoring the gravity of the Spaniards, who, totally at a loss to

comprehend what class of the human species he represented, looked at him

with a mingled expression of astonishment and respect. At length, one of

their number discharged a volley of his native language at Donald; but

it was, apparently, of civil and good-natured import, for it was

delivered in a mild tone, and accompanied by a conciliatory smile. On

Donald, the language was, of course, utterly lost--he did not comprehend

a word of it; but not so the indications of a friendly disposition to

which we have alluded; these he at once appreciated, and they had the

effect of allaying his wrath a little, and inducing him to make another

attempt at a little civil colloquy.

"Well," said Donald, now somewhat more calmly, "I was shust ask you a

ceevil question, an' you laugh in my face, which is not ceevil. In my

country we don't do that to anybody, far less a stranger. Noo, may pe,

you'll not know my broder, and there's no harm in that--none at all; but

you should shust have say so at once, an' there would be no more apout

it. Can none of you speak Gaelic?"

To this inquiry, which was understood to be such, there was a general

shaking of heads amongst the Spaniards.

"Oich, oich, it must be a tam strange country where there's no Gaelic.

But, never mind--you cannot help your misfortunes. I say, lads, will ye

teuk a tram. Hooch, hurra! prof, prof! Let's get a dram." And Donald

flung up one of his legs hilariously, while he gave utterance to these

uncouth expletives, which he did in short joyous shouts. "Where will we

go, lads? Did you'll know any decen' public-house, where we'll can

depend on a goot tram?"

To this invitation, and to the string of queries by which it was

accompanied, Donald got in reply only a repetition of that shake of the

head which intimated non-comprehension. But it was an instance of the

latter that surprised him more than all the others.

"Well, to be surely," he said, "if a man'll not understand the offer of

a tram, he'll understand nothing, and it's no use saying more. Put maybe

you'll understand the sign, if not the word." And, saying this, he

raised his closed hand to his lips and threw back his head, as if taking

off a _caulker_ of his own mountain dew; pointing, at the same time, to

a house which seemed to him to have the appearance of one of public

entertainment. To Donald's great satisfaction, he found that he had now

made himself perfectly intelligible; a fact which he recognised in the

smiles and nods of his auditory, and, still more unequivocally, in the

general movement which they made after him to the "public-house," to

which he immediately directed his steps.

At the head, then, of this troop of tatterdemallions, and walking with

as stately a step as a drum-major, Donald may be said to have made his

entrance into Madrid; and rather an odd first appearance of that worthy

there, it certainly was. On entering the tavern or inn which he had

destined for the scene of his hospitalities, he strode in much in

the same style that he would have entered a public-house in

Lochaber--namely, slapping the first person he met on the shoulder, and

shouting some merry greeting or other appropriate to the occasion. This

precisely Donald did in the present instance, to the great amazement and

alarm of a very pretty Spanish girl, who was performing the duty of

ushering in customers, inclusive of that of subsequently supplying

their wants. On feeling the enormous paw of Donald on her shoulder,

and looking at the strange attire in which he was arrayed, the girl

uttered a scream of terror, and fled into the interior of the house.

Unaccustomed to have his rude but hearty greetings received in this way,

or to find them producing an effect so contrary to that which, in his

honest warm-heartedness, he intended them to produce, Donald was rather

taken aback by the alarm expressed by the girl; but soon recovering his

presence of mind--

"Oich, oich!" he said, laughing, and turning to his ragged crew behind

him, "ta lassie's frightened for Shon Heelanman. Puir thing! It's weel

seen she's no peen procht up in Lochaber, or maype's no been lang in the

way o' keepin a public. It's--

"'Haut awa, bite awa,

Haut awa frae me, Tonal;

What care I for a' your wealth,

An' a' that ye can gie, Tonal?'"

And, chanting this stanza of a well-known Scottish ditty, at the top of

his voice, Donald bounced into the first open door he could find, still

followed by his tail. These having taken their seats around a table

which stood in the centre of the apartment, he next commenced a series

of thundering raps on the board with the hilt of his dirk, accompanied

by stentorian shouts of, "Hoy, lassie! House, here! Hoy, hoy, hoy!" a

summons which was eventually answered by the landlord in person, the

girl's report of Donald's appearance and salutation to herself having

deterred any other of the household from obeying the call of so wild and

noisy a customer.

"Well, honest man," said Donald, on the entrance of his host, "will you

pe bringing us two half mutchkins of your pest whisky. Here's some

honest lads I want to treat to a tram."

The landlord, as might be expected, stared at this strange guest, in

utter unconsciousness of the purport of his demand. Recollecting

himself, however, after a moment, his professional politeness returned,

and he began bowing and simpering his inability to comprehend what had

been addressed to him.

"What for you'll boo, boo, and scrape, scrape there, you tam ass!"

exclaimed Donald, furiously. "Co and pring us the whisky. Two half

mutchkins, I say."

Again the polite landlord of the Golden Eagle, which was the name of the

inn, bowed his non-comprehension of what was said to him.

"Cot's mercy! can you'll not spoke English, either?" shouted Donald,

despairingly, on his second rebuff, and at the same time striking the

table impatiently with his clenched fist. "Can you'll spoke Gaelic,

then?" he added; and, without waiting for a reply, he repeated his

demand in that language. The experiment was unsuccessful. Mine host of

the Golden Eagle understood neither Gaelic nor English. Finding this,

Donald had once more recourse to the dumb show of raising his hand to

his mouth, as if in the act of drinking; and once more he found the sign

perfectly intelligible. On its being made, the landlord instantly

retired, and in a minute after returned with a couple of bottles in

hand, and two very large-sized glasses, which he placed on the table.

Eyeing the bottles contemptuously:--"It's no porter; it's whisky I'll

order," exclaimed Donald, angrily, conceiving that it was the former

beverage that had been brought him. "Porter's drink for hocs, and not

for human podies." Finding it wholly impossible, however, to make this

sentiment understood, Donald was compelled to content himself with the

liquor which had been brought him. Under this conviction, he seized one

of the bottles, filled up a glass to the brim, muttering the while "that

it was tam white, strange-looking porter," started to his feet, and,

holding the glass extended in his hand, shouted the health of his ragged

company, in Gaelic, and bolted the contents. But the effect of this

proceeding was curious. The moment the liquor, which was some of the

common wine of Spain, was over Donald's throat, he stared wildly, as

if he had just done some desperate deed--swallowed an adder by mistake,

or committed some such awkward oversight. This expression of horror

was followed by the most violent sputterings and hideous grimaces,

accompanied by a prodigious assemblage of curses of all sorts, in Gaelic

and English, and sometimes of an equal proportion of both.

"Oich, oich! poisoned, by Cot!--vinekar, horrid vinekar! Lanlort, I

say, what cursed stuffs is this you kive us?" And again Donald sputtered

with an energy and perseverance that nothing but a sense of the utmost

disgust and loathing could have inspired. Both the landlord and Donald's

own guests, at once comprehending his feelings regarding the wine,

hastened, by every act and sign they could think of, to assure him that

he was wrong in entertaining so unfavourable an opinion of its character

and qualities. Mine host, filling up a glass, raised it to his mouth,

and, sipping a little of the liquor, smacked his lips, in token of high

relish of its excellences. He then handed the glass round the company,

all of whom tasted and approved, after the same expressive fashion; and

thus, without a word being said, a collective opinion, hollow against

Donald, was obtained.

"Well, well, trink the apominations, and be curst to you!" said Donald,

who perfectly understood that judgment had gone against him, "and much

goot may't do you! but mysel would sooner trink the dirty bog water of

Sleevrechkin. Oich, oich! the dirts! But I say, lanlort, maype you'll

have got some prandies in the house? I can make shift wi' that when

there's no whisky to be cot."

Fortunately for Donald, mine host of the Golden Eagle at once understood

the word brandy, and, understanding it, lost no time in placing a

measure of that liquor before him; and as little time did Donald lose

in swallowing an immense bumper of the inspiring alcohol.

"Ay," said Donald, with a look of great satisfaction, on performing

this feat, "that's something like a human Christian's trink. No your

tam vinekar, as would colic a horse." Saying this, he filled up and

discussed another modicum of the brandy; his followers, in the meantime,

having done the same duty by the two bottles of wine, which were

subsequently replaced by another two, by the order of their hospitable

entertainer. On Donald, however, his libations were now beginning to

produce, in a very marked manner, their usual effects. He was first

getting into a state of high excitation; thumping the table violently

with his fist, and sputtering out furious discharges of Gaelic and

English, mingled in one strange and unintelligible mess of words, and

seemingly oblivious of the fact that not a syllable of what he said

could be comprehended by his auditory. This, then, was a circumstance

which did not hinder him from entertaining his friends with a graphic

description of Eddernahulish, and a very animated account of a

particular deer-chase in which he had once been engaged. In short, in

the inspiration of the hour, Donald seemed to have entirely forgotten

every circumstance connected with his present position. He appeared to

have forgotten that he was in a foreign land; forgotten the purpose that

brought him there; forgotten his brother; forgotten those associated

with him were Spaniards, not Atholemen; in truth, forgotten everything

he should have recollected. In this happy state of obfuscation, Donald

continued to roar, to drink, and to talk away precisely as he was wont

to do in Rory M'Fadyen's "public" in Kilnichrochokan. From being

oratorical, Donald became musical, and insisted on having a song from

some of his friends; but failing to make his request intelligible, he

volunteered one himself, and immediately struck up, in a strong nasal

twang, and with a voice that made the whole house ring:--

"Ta Heelan hills are high, high, high,

An' ta Heelan miles are long;

But, then, my freens, rememper you,

Ta Heelan whisky's strong, strong, strong!

Ta Heelan whisky's strong,

"And who shall care for ta length o' ta mile,

Or who shall care for ta hill,

If he shall have, 'fore he teukit ta way,

In him's cheek one Heelan shill?

In him's cheek one Heelan shill?

"An' maype he'll pe teukit twa;

I'll no say is no pe tree;

And what although it should pe four?

Is no pussiness you or me, me, me--

Is no pussiness you or me."

Suiting the action to, at least, the spirit of the song, Donald tossed

off another bumper of the alcohol, which had the rather odd effect of

recalling him to some sense of his situation, instead of destroying, as

might have been expected, any little glimmering of light on that subject

which he might have previously possessed. On discussing the last glass

of brandy--

"Now, lads," said Donald, "I must pe going. It's gettin late, and I must

find oot my brother Tuncan Gorm, as decen' a lad as between this and

Eddernahulish." Having said this, and paid his reckoning, Donald began

shaking hands with his friends, one after the other, previous to leaving

them; but his friends had no intention whatever of parting with him in

this way. Donald had incautiously exposed his wealth when settling with

the landlord; and of his wealth, as well as his wine, they determined on

having a share. The ruffians, in short, having communicated with each

other, by nods and winks, resolved to dog him; and, when fitting place

and opportunity should present themselves, to rob and murder him.

Fortunately for Donald, however, they had not exchanged intelligence so

cautiously as to escape his notice altogether. He had seen and taken

note of two or three equivocal acts and motions of his friends; but had

had sufficient prudence, not only to avoid all remark on them, but to

seem as if he had not observed them. Donald, indeed, could not well

conceive what these secret signals meant; but he felt convinced that

they meant "no goot;" and he therefore determined on keeping a sharp

look-out, not only while he was in the presence of his boon companions,

but after he should have left them; for he had a vague notion that they

might possibly follow him for some evil purpose.

Under this latter impression--which had occurred to him only at the

close of their orgie, no suspicion unfavourable to the characters of his

guests having before struck him--Donald, on parting from the latter at

the door of the inn in which they had been regaling, might have been

heard muttering to himself, after he had got to some little distance:--

"Tam rogues, after all, I pelieve."

Having thus distinctly expressed his sentiments regarding his late

companions, Donald pursued his way, although he was very far from

knowing what that way should be. Street after street he traversed,

making frequent vain inquiries for his "broder, Tuncan Gorm," until

midnight, when he suddenly found himself in a large, open space,

intersected by alleys formed by magnificent trees, and adorned by

playing fountains of great beauty and elegance. Donald had got into the

Prado, or public promenade of Madrid; but of the Prado Donald knew

nothing; and much, therefore, did he marvel at what sort of a place he

had got into. The fountains, in particular, perplexed and amazed him;

and it was while contemplating one of these, with a sort of bewildered

curiosity, that he saw a human figure glide from one side to the other

of the avenue in which the object of his contemplation was situated,

and at the distance of about twenty yards. Donald was startled by the

apparition; and, recollecting his former associates, clapped his right

hand instinctively on the hilt of his broadsword, and his left on the

butt of a pistol--one of those stuck in his belt--and in this attitude

awaited the re-appearance of the skulker; but he did not make himself

again visible. Donald, however, felt convinced that there was danger at

hand, and he determined to keep himself prepared to encounter it.

"Some o' ta vinekar-drinking rascals," muttered Donald. "It was no

honest man's drink; nor no goot can come o' a country where they swallow

such apominable liquors."

Thus reasoned Donald with himself, as he stood vigilantly scanning

the localities around him, to prevent a sudden surprise. While thus

engaged, four different persons, all at once, and as if they had acted

by concert, started each from behind a tree, and approached Donald from

four different points, with the purpose, evidently, of distracting his

attention. At once perceiving their intention, and not doubting that

their purposes were hostile, the intrepid Celt, to prevent himself

being surrounded, hastily retreated to a wall which formed part of the

structure of the fountain on which he had been gazing, and, placing his

back against it, awaited, with his drawn sword in one hand and a pistol

in the other, the approach of his enemies, as he had no doubt they were.

"Well, my friends," said Donald, as they drew near him, and discovered

to him four tall fellows, swathed up to the eyes in their cloaks, and

each with a drawn sword in his hand, "what you'll want with me?" No

answer having been returned to this query, and the fellows continuing to

press on, although now more cautiously, as they had perceived that their

intended victim was armed, and stood on the defensive: "Py Shoseph!"

said Donald, "you had petter keep your distance, lads, or my name's no

Tonal Gorm if I don't gif some of you a dish of crowdy."

And, as good as his word, he almost instantly after fired at the

foremost of his assailants, and brought him down. This feat performed,

instead of waiting for the attack of the other three, he instantly

rushed on them sword in hand, and, by the impetuosity of his attack, and

fury of his blows, rendered all their skill of fence useless. With his

huge weapon and powerful arm, both of which he plied with a rapidity and

force which there was no resisting, he broke through their guards as

easily as he would have beat down so many osier wands, and wounded

severely at every blow. It was in vain that Donald's assailants kept

retiring before him, in the hope of getting him at a disadvantage--of

finding an opportunity of having a cut or a thrust at him. No time

was allowed them for any such exploit. Donald kept pressing on, and

showering his tremendous blows on them so thickly, that not an instant

was left them for aggression in turn. They were, besides, rapidly losing

relish for the contest, from the ugly blows they were getting, without a

possibility of returning them. Finding, at length, that the contest was

a perfectly hopeless one, Donald's assailants fairly took to their

heels, and ran for it; but there was one of their number who did not

run far--a few yards, when he fell down and expired. His hurts had been

mortal.

"Oich, oich, lad!" said Donald, peering into the face of the dead man,

"you'll no pe shust that very weel, I'm thinkin. The heelan claymore 'll

not acree with your Spanish stomach. But it's goot medicine for rogues,

for all that." Having thus apostrophized the slain man, Donald sheathed

his weapon, muttering as he did so: "Ta cowartly togs can fight no

more's a turkey hens."

And, cocking his bonnet proudly, he commenced the task of finding his

way back to the city; a task which, after a good many unnecessary, but,

from his ignorance of the localities, unavoidable deviations, he at

length accomplished.