"Out on ye, blasphemer!" interrupted the Covenanter--"wad ye apply

siccan epithets to a bairn o' mine? Once for all, hear me, Philip; there

are but twa ways o't, and ye can tak yer choice. It's the first time I

hae spoken to ye roughly, but it isna the first time my spirit has

mourned ower ye. I hae tried to lead ye in the right path; ye hae had

baith precept and example afore ye; but the leaven o' this warld--the

leaven o' the persecutors o' the Kirk and the Covenant--was in yer very

bluid; an' I believe, if opportunity had offered, ye wad hae drawn yer

sword in the unholy cause. A' that I could say, an' a' that I could do,

religion has ne'er had ony place in yer heart; but ye hae yearned aboot

yer faither, and ye hae mourned aboot yer mother--an' that was natural

aneugh--but oh! ye hae also desired to cling to the cauld formality o'

Episcopacy, as they nae doot did: an' should ye e'er discover that yer

parents hae been Papists, I believe that ye wad become ane too! An'

aften, when the conversation turned upon the apostate Montrose, or the

gallant Lesly, I hae seen ye manifest the spirit an' the very look o' a

persecutor. Were I to gie up my dochter to such a man, I should be worse

than the heathen wha sacrifice their offspring to the abomination o'

idols. Noo, Philip, as I hae tauld ye, there are but twa ways o't.

Either this very hour gie me your solemn promise that ye will think o'

Mary as to be yer wife nae mair, or, wi' the risin' o' to-morrow's sun,

leave this house for ever!"

"Sir," said Philip bitterly, "your last command I can obey, though it

would be with a sad heart--though it would be in despair--your first I

cannot--I will not!"

"You must--you _shall_!" replied the Covenanter.

"Never," answered Philip.

"Then," replied the old man, "leave the roof that has sheltered ye frae

yer cradle!"

"I will!" said Philip, and the tears ran down his cheeks. He walked

towards Mary, and, with a faltering voice, said--"Farewell,

Mary!--Farewell! I did not expect this; but do not forget me--do

not give your hand to another--and we shall meet again!"

"You shall not!" interrupted the inexorable old man.

Mary implored her father, for her sake, and for the sake of her departed

mother, who had loved Philip as her own son, that he would not drive him

from the house, and Daniel, too, entreated; but their supplications were

vain.

"Farewell, then!" said Philip; "and, though I depart in misery, let it

not be with thy curse, but let the blessing of him who has been to me a

father until now, go with me."

"The blessin' o' Heaven be wi' ye and around ye, Philip!" groaned the

Covenanter, struggling to conceal a tear: "but, if ye will follow the

dictates o' yer rebellious heart and leave us, tak wi' ye yer property."

"My property!" replied Philip.

"Yer property," returned the old man. "Twenty years has it lain in that

drawer, an' during that time eyes hae not seen it, nor fingers touched

it. It will assist ye noo; an' when ye enter the warld, may throw some

light upon yer parentage."

He went to a small drawer, and, unlocking it, took out the jewels, the

bracelet, the ring, and the purse of gold, and, placing them in Philip's

hands, exclaimed--"Fareweel!--fareweel!--but it maun be!" and he turned

away his head.

"O Mary!" cried Philip, "keep--keep this in remembrance of me," as he

attempted to place the ring in her hand.

"Awa, sir!" exclaimed the old man, vehemently, "wad ye bribe my bairn

into disobedience, by the ornaments o' folly an' iniquity! Awa, ye son

o' Belial, an' provoke me not to wrath!"

Philip groaned, he dashed his hand upon his brow, and rushed from the

house. Mary wept long and bitterly, and Daniel walked to and fro across

the room, mourning for one whom he loved as a brother. The old man went

out into the fields to conceal the agony of his spirit; and, when he had

wandered for a while, he communed with himself, saying, "I hae dune

foolishly, an' an ungodly action hae I performed this nicht; I hae

driven oot a young man upon a wicked warld, wi' a' his sins an' his

follies on his head; an', if evil come upon him, or he plunge into the

paths o' wickedness, his bluid an' his guilt will be laid at my hands!

Puir Philip!" he added; "after a', he had a kind heart!" And the stern

old man drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. In this frame of

mind he returned to the house. "Has Philip not come back?" said he, as

he entered. His son shook his head sorrowfully, and Mary sobbed more

bitterly.

"Rin ye awa doun to Melrose, Daniel," said he, "an' I'll awa up to

Selkirk, an' inquire for him, an' bring him back. Yer faither has

allowed passion to get the better o' him, an' to owercome baith the man

an' the Christian."

"Run, Daniel, run!" cried Mary eagerly. And the old man and his son went

out in search of him.

Their inquiries were fruitless. Days, weeks, and months rolled on, but

nothing more was heard of poor Philip. Mary refused to be comforted; and

the exhortations, the kindness, and the tenderness shown towards her by

the Rev. Mr. Duncan, if not hateful, were disagreeable. Dark thoughts,

too, had taken possession of her father's mind, and he frequently sank

into melancholy; for the thought haunted him that his adopted son, on

being driven from his house, had laid violent hands upon his own life;

and this idea embittered every day of his existence.

More than ten years had passed since Philip had left the house of John

Brydone. The Commonwealth was at an end, and the second Charles had been

recalled; but exile had not taught him wisdom, nor the fate of his

father discretion. He madly attempted to be the lord and ruler of the

people's conscience, as well as King of Britain. He was a libertine with

some virtues--a bigot without religion. In the pride, or rather folly of

his heart, he attempted to force Prelacy upon the people of Scotland;

and he let his bloodhounds loose, to hunt the followers of the Covenant

from hill to hill, to murder them on their own hearths, and, with the

blood of his victims, to blot out the word _conscience_ from the

vocabulary of Scotchmen. The Covenanters sought their God in the desert

and on the mountains which He had reared; they worshipped him in the

temples which His own hands had framed; and there the persecutor sought

them, the destroyer found them, and the sword of the tyrant was bathed

in the blood of the worshipper! Even the family altar was profaned; and

to raise the voice of prayer and praise in the cottage to the King of

kings, was held to be as treason against him who professed to represent

Him on earth. At this period, too, Graham of Claverhouse--whom some have

painted as an angel, but whose actions were worthy of a fiend--at the

head of his troopers, who were called by the profane, _the ruling elders

of the kirk_, was carrying death and cold-blooded cruelty throughout the

land.

Now, it was on a winter night in the year 1677, a party of troopers were

passing near the house of old John Brydone, and he was known to them not

only as being one who was a defender of the Covenant, but also as one

who harboured the preachers, and whose house was regarded as a

conventicle.

"Let us rouse the old psalm-singing heretic who lives here from his

knees," said one of the troopers.

"Ay, let us stir him up," said the sergeant who had the command of the

party; "he is an old offender, and I don't see we can make a better

night's work than drag him along, bag and baggage, to the captain. I

have heard as how it was he that betrayed our commander's kinsman, the

gallant Montrose."

"Hark! hark!--softly! softly!" said another, "let us dismount--hear how

the nasal drawl of the conventicle moans through the air! My horse

pricks his ears at the sound already. We shall catch them in the act."

Eight of the party dismounted, and, having given their horses in charge

to four of their comrades, who remained behind, walked on tiptoe to the

door of the cottage. They heard the words given and sung--

"When cruel men against us rose

To make of us their prey!"

"Why, they are singing treason," said one of the troopers. "What more do

we need?"

The sergeant placed his forefinger on his lips, and for about ten

minutes they continued to listen. The song of praise ceased, and a

person commenced to read a chapter. They heard him also expound to his

hearers as he read.

"It is enough," said the sergeant; and, placing their shoulders against

the door, it was burst open. "You are our prisoners!" exclaimed the

troopers, each man grasping a sword in his right hand, and a pistol in

the left.

"It is the will of Heaven!" said the Rev. Mr. Duncan; for it was he

who had been reading and expounding the Scriptures; "but, if ye stretch

forth your hands against a hair o' our heads, HE, without whom a sparrow

cannot fall to the ground, shall remember it against ye at the great day

o' reckoning, when the trooper will be stripped of his armour, and his

right hand shall be a witness against him!"

The soldiers burst into a laugh of derision. "No more of your homily,

reverend oracle," said the sergeant; "I have an excellent recipe for

short sermons here; utter another word and you shall have it!" The

troopers laughed again, and the sergeant, as he spoke, held his pistol

in the face of the preacher.

Besides the clergyman, there were in the room old John Brydone, his son

Daniel, and Mary.

"Well, old greybeard," said the sergeant, addressing John, "you have

been reported as a dangerous and disaffected Presbyterian knave, as

we find you to be; you are also accused of being a harbourer and an

accomplice of the preachers of sedition; and, lo! we have found also

that your house is used as a conventicle. We have caught you in the act,

and we shall take every soul of you as evidence against yourselves. So

come along, old boy--I should only be doing my duty by blowing your

brains against the wall; but that is a ceremony which our commander may

wish to see performed in his own presence!"

"Sir," said John, "I neither fear ye nor your armed men. Tak me to the

bloody Claverhouse, if you will, and at the day o' judgment it shall be

said--'_Let the murderers o' John Brydone stand forth!_'"

"Let us despatch them at once," said one of the troopers.

"Nay," said the sergeant; "bind them together, and drive them before us

to the captain: I don't know but he may wish to _do justice_ to them

with his own hand."

"The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel," groaned Mr. Duncan.

Mary wrung her hands--"Oh, spare my father!" she cried.

"Wheesht, Mary!" said the old man; "as soon wad a camel pass through the

eye o' a needle, as ye wad find compassion in the hands o' these men!"

"Bind the girl and the preacher together," said the sergeant.

"Nay, by your leave, sergeant," interrupted one of the troopers, "I

wouldn't be the man to lift a hand against a pretty girl like that, if

you would give me a regiment for it."

"Ay, ay, Macdonald," replied the sergeant--"this comes of your serving

under that canting fellow, Lieutenant Mowbray--he has no love for the

service; and confound me if I don't believe he is half a Roundhead in

his heart. Tie the hands of the girl, I command you."

"I will not!" returned Macdonald; "and hang me if any one else shall!"

And, with his sword in his hand, he placed himself between Mary and his

comrades.

"If you do not bind her hands, I shall cause others to bind yours," said

the sergeant.

"They may try that who dare!" returned the soldier, who was the most

powerful man of the party; "but what I've said I'll stand to."

"You shall answer for this to-morrow," said the sergeant, sullenly, who

feared to provoke a quarrel with the trooper.

"I will answer it," replied the other.

John Brydone, his son Daniel, and the Rev. Mr. Duncan, were bound

together with strong cords, and driven from the house. They were

fastened, also, to the horses of the troopers. As they were dragged

along, the cries and the lamentations of Mary followed them; and the

troopers laughed at her wailing, or answered her cries with mockery,

till the sound of her grief became inaudible in the distance, when again

they imitated her cries, to harrow up the feelings of her father.

Claverhouse, and a party of his troops, were then in the neighbourhood

of Traquair; and before that man, who knew not what mercy was, John

Brydone, and his son, and the preacher were brought. It was on the

afternoon of the day following that on which they had been made

prisoners, that Claverhouse ordered them to be brought forth. He was

sitting, with wine before him, in the midst of his officers; and amongst

them was Lieutenant Mowbray, whose name was alluded to by the sergeant.

"Well, knaves!" began Claverhouse, "ye have been singing, praying,

preaching, and holding conventicles.--Do ye know how Grahame of

Claverhouse rewards such rebels?"

As the prisoners entered, Lieutenant Mowbray turned away his head, and

placed his hand upon his brow.

"Sir," said John, addressing Claverhouse, "I'm neither knave nor

rebel--I hae lifted up my voice to the God o' my faithers, according to

my conscience; and, unworthy as I am o' the least o' His benefits, for

threescore years and ten he has been my shepherd and deliverer, and, if

it be good in His sight, He will deliver me now. My trust is in Him, and

I fear neither the frown nor the sword o' the persecutor."

"Have done, grey-headed babbler!" cried Claverhouse.

Lieutenant Mowbray, who still sat with his face from the prisoners,

raised his handkerchief to his eyes.

"Captain," said Mr. Duncan, "there's a day coming when ye shall stand

before the great Judge, as we now stand before you; and when the

remembrance o' this day, and the blood o' the righteous which ye hae

shed, shall be written with letters o' fire on yer ain conscience, and

recorded against ye; and ye shall call upon the rocks and mountains to

cover ye"----

"Silence!" exclaimed Claverhouse. "Away with them!" he added, waving his

hand to his troopers--"shoot them before sunrise!"

Shortly after the prisoners had been conveyed from the presence of

Claverhouse, Lieutenant Mowbray withdrew; and having sent for the

soldier who had interfered on behalf of Mary--"Macdonald," he began,

"you were present yesterday when the prisoners, who are to die

to-morrow, were taken. Where did you find them?"

"In the old man's house," replied the soldier; and he related all that

he had seen, and how he had interfered to save the daughter. The heart

of the officer was touched, and he walked across his room, as one whose

spirit was troubled. "You did well, Macdonald!" said he, at length--"you

did well!" He was again silent, and again he added--"And you found the

preacher in the old man's house--_you found_ HIM _there_!" There was an

anxious wildness in the tone of the lieutenant.

"We found him there," replied the soldier.

The officer was again silent--again he thoughtfully paced across the

floor of his apartment. At length, turning to the soldier, he added--"I

can trust you, Macdonald. When night has set in, take your horse and

ride to the house of the elder prisoner, and tell his daughter--the

maiden whom you saved--to have horses in readiness for her father,

her brother, and--and her--her _husband!_" said the lieutenant,

faltering as he spoke; and when he had pronounced the word _husband_,

he again paused, as though his heart were full. The soldier was

retiring--"Stay," added the officer, "tell her, her father, her brother,

and--the preacher, shall not die; before daybreak she shall see them

again; and give her this ring as a token that ye speak truly."

He took a ring from his finger, and gave it into the hands of the

soldier.

It was drawing towards midnight. The troops of Claverhouse were

quartered around the country, and his three prisoners, still bound

to each other, were confined in a small farm-house, from which the

inhabitants had been expelled. They could hear the heavy and measured

tread of the sentinel pacing backward and forward in front of the house;

the sound of his footsteps seemed to measure out the moments between

them and eternity. After they had sung a psalm and prayed together--"I

am auld," said John Brydone, "and I fear not to die, but rather glory to

lay down my life for the great cause; but, oh, Daniel! my heart yearns

that yer bluid also should be shed--had they only spared ye, to hae been

a protector to our puir Mary!--or had I no driven Philip frae the

house"----

"Mention not the name of the cast-away," said the minister.

"Dinna mourn, faither," answered Daniel, "an arm mair powerful than that

of man will be her supporter and protector."

"Amen!" responded Mr. Duncan. "She has aye been cauld to me, and has

turned the ear o' the deaf adder to the voice o' my affection; but even

noo, when my thochts should be elsewhere, the thocht o' her burns in my

heart like a coal."

While they yet spoke, a soldier, wrapt up in a cloak, approached the

sentinel, and said--

"It is a cold night, brother."

"Piercing," replied the other, striking his feet upon the ground.

"You are welcome to a mouthful of my spirit-warmer," added the first,

taking a bottle from beneath his cloak.

"Thank ye!" rejoined the sentinel; "but I don't know your voice. You

don't belong to our corps, I think."

"No," answered the other; "but it matters not for that--brother soldiers

should give and take."

The sentinel took the bottle and raised it to his lips; he drank, and

swore the liquor was excellent.

"Drink again," said the other; "you are welcome; it is as good as a

double cloak around you." And the sentinel drank again.

"Good night, comrade," said the trooper. "Good night," replied the

sentinel; and the stranger passed on.

Within half an hour, the same soldier, still muffled up in his cloak,

returned. The sentinel had fallen against the door of the house, and was

fast asleep. The stranger proceeded to the window--he raised it--he

entered. "Fear nothing," he whispered to the prisoners, who were bound

to staples that had been driven into the opposite wall of the room. He

cut the cords with which their hands and their feet were fastened.

"Heaven reward ye for the mercy o' yer heart, and the courage o' this

deed," said John.

"Say nothing," whispered their deliverer, "but follow me."

Each man crept from the window, and the stranger again closed it behind

them. "Follow me, and speak not," whispered he again; and, walking at

his utmost speed, he conducted them for several miles across the hills;

but still he spoke not. Old John marvelled at the manner of their

deliverer; and he marvelled yet more when he led them to Philiphaugh,

and to the very spot where, more than thirty years before, he had found

the child on the bosom of its dead mother; and there the stranger stood

still, and, turning round to those he had delivered--"Here we part,"

said he; "hasten to your own house, but tarry not. You will find horses

in readiness, and flee into Westmoreland; inquire there for the person

to whom this letter is addressed; he will protect you." And he put a

sealed letter into the hands of the old man, and, at the same time,

placed a purse in the hands of Daniel, saying, "This will bear your

expenses by the way--Farewell!--farewell!" They would have detained him,

but he burst away, again exclaiming, as he ran--"Farewell!"

"This is a marvellous deliverance," said John; "it is a mystery, an'

for him to leave us on this spot--on _this very spot_--where puir

Philip"---- And here the heart of the old man failed him.

We need not describe the rage of Claverhouse, when he found, on the

following day, that the prisoners had escaped; and how he examined and

threatened the sentinels with death, and cast suspicious glances upon

Lieutenant Mowbray; but he feared to accuse him, or quarrel with him

openly.

As John, with the preacher and his son, approached the house, Mary heard

their footsteps, rushed out to meet them, and fell weeping upon her

father's neck. "My bairn!" cried the old man; "we are restored to ye as

from the dead! Providence has dealt wi' us in mercy an' in mystery."

His four farm-horses were in readiness for their flight; and Mary told

him how the same soldier who had saved her from sharing their fate, had

come to their house at midnight, and assured her that they should not

die, and to prepare for their flight; "and," added she, "in token that

he who had sent him would keep his promise towards you, he gave me this

ring, requesting me to wear it for your deliverer's sake."

"It is Philip's ring!" cried the old man, striking his hand before his

eyes--"it is Philip's ring!"

"_My_ Philip's!" exclaimed Mary; "oh, then, he lives!--he lives!"

The preacher leaned his brow against the walls of the cottage and

groaned.

"It is still a mystery," said the old man, yet pressing his hands before

his eyes in agony; "but it is--it maun be him. It was Philip that saved

us--that conducted us to the very spot where I found him! But, oh," he

added, "I wad rather I had died, than lived to ken that he has drawn his

sword in the ranks o' the oppressor, and to murder the followers after

the truth."

"Oh, dinna think that o' him, father!" exclaimed Mary; "Philip wadna--he

couldna draw his sword but to defend the helpless!"

Knowing that they had been pursued and sought after, they hastened their

flight to England, to seek the refuge to which their deliverer had

directed them. But as they drew near to the Borders, the Rev. Mr. Duncan

suddenly exclaimed--"Now, here we must part--part for ever! It is not

meet that I should follow ye farther. When the sheep are pursued by

the wolves, the shepherd should not flee from them. Farewell, dear

friends--and, oh! farewell to you, Mary! Had it been sinful to hae loved

you, I would hae been a guilty man this day--for, oh! beyond a' that is

under the sun, ye hae been dear to my heart, and your remembrance has

mingled wi' my very devotions. But I maun root it up, though, in so

doing, I tear my very heart-strings. Fareweel!--fareweel! Peace be wi'

you--and may ye be a' happier than will ever be the earthly lot o'

Andrew Duncan!"

The tears fell upon Mary's cheeks; for, though she could not love, she

respected the preacher, and she esteemed him for his worth. Her father

and brother entreated him to accompany them. "No! no!" he answered; "I

see how this flight will end. Go--there is happiness in store for you;

but my portion is with the dispersed and the persecuted." And he turned

and left them.

Lieutenant Mowbray was disgusted with the cold-blooded butchery of the

service in which he was engaged; and, a few days after the escape of

John Brydone and his son, he threw up his commission, and proceeded to

Dumfriesshire. It was a Sabbath evening, and near nightfall; he had

wandered into the fields alone, for his spirit was heavy. Sounds of rude

laughter broke upon his ear; and, mingled with the sound of mirth, was a

voice as if in earnest prayer. He hurried to a small wood from whence

the sounds proceeded, and there he beheld four troopers, with their

pistols in their hands, and before them was a man, who appeared to be

a preacher, bound to a tree.

"Come, old Psalmody!" cried one of the troopers, raising his pistol, and

addressing their intended victim, who was engaged in prayer; "make

ready--we have other jobs on hand--and we gave you time to speak a

prayer, but not to preach."

Mowbray rushed forward. He sprang between the troopers and their victim.

"Hold! ye murderers, hold!" he exclaimed. "Is it thus that ye disgrace

the name of soldiers by washing your hands in the blood of the

innocent?"

They knew Mowbray, and they muttered, "You are no officer of ours now;

he is our prisoner, and our orders ere to shoot every conventicle knave

who falls into our hands."

"Shame on him who would give such orders!" said Mowbray; "and shame on

those who would execute them! There," added he, "there is money! I will

ransom him."

With an imprecation, they took the money that was offered them, and left

their prisoner to Mowbray. He approached the tree where they had bound

him--he started back--it was the Rev. Andrew Duncan!

"Rash man!" exclaimed Mowbray, as he again stepped forward to unloose

the cords that bound him. "Why have ye again cast yourself into the

hands of the men who seek your blood? Do you hold your life so cheap,

that, in one week, ye would risk to sell it twice? Why did not ye, with

your father, your brother, and your _wife_, flee into England, where

protection was promised!"

"My father!--my brother!--my wife!--mine!--mine!" repeated the preacher

wildly. "There are no such names for my tongue to utter!--none!--none to

drop their love as morning dew upon the solitary soul o' Andrew Duncan!"

"Are they murdered?" exclaimed Mowbray, suddenly, in a voice of agony.

"Murdered!" said the preacher, with increased bewilderment. "What do you

mean?--or wha' do you mean?"

"Tell me," cried Mowbray, eagerly; "are not you the husband of Mary

Brydone?"

"Me!--me!" cried the preacher. "No!--no!--I loved her as the laverock

loves the blue lift in spring, and her shadow cam between me and my ain

soul--but she wadna hearken unto my voice--she is nae wife o' mine!"

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Mowbray; and he clasped his hands together.

It is necessary, however, that we now accompany John Brydone and his

family in their flight into Westmoreland. The letter which their

deliverer had put into their hands was addressed to a Sir Frederic

Mowbray; and, when they arrived at the house of the old knight, the

heart of the aged Covenanter almost failed him for a moment; for it was

a proud-looking mansion, and those whom he saw around wore the dress of

the Cavaliers.

"Who are ye?" inquired the servant who admitted them to the house.

"Deliver this letter into the hands of your master," said the

Covenanter; "our business is with him."

"It is the handwriting of Master Edward," said the servant, as he took

the letter into his hand; and, having conducted them to a room, he

delivered it to Sir Frederic.

In a few minutes the old knight hurried into the room, where the

Covenanter, and his son and his daughter, stood. "Welcome, thrice

welcome!" he cried, grasping the hand of the old man; "here you shall

find a resting-place and a home, with no one to make you afraid."

He ordered wine and food to be placed before them, and he sat down with

them.

Now John marvelled at the kindness of his host, and his heart burned

within him; and, in the midst of all, he thought of the long-lost

Philip, and how he had driven him from his house--and his cheek glowed

and his heart throbbed with anxiety. His son marvelled also, and Mary's

bosom swelled with strange thoughts--tears gathered in her eyes, and she

raised the ring that had been the token of her father's deliverance to

her lips.

"Oh, sir," said the Covenanter, "pardon the freedom o' a plain blunt

man, and o' ane whose bosom is burning wi' anxiety; but there is a

mystery, there is _something_ attending my deliverance, an' the

letter, and your kindness, that I canna see through--and I hope, and

I fear--and I canna--I _daurna_ comprehend how it is!--but, as it were,

the past--the lang bygane past, and the present, appear to hae met

thegither! It is makin' my head dizzy wi' wonder, for there seems in a'

this a something that concerns you, and that concerns me, and _one_ that

I mayna name."

"Your perplexity," said Sir Frederic, "may be best relieved, by stating

to you, in a few words, one or two circumstances of my history. Having,

from family affliction, left this country, until within these four

years, I held a commission in the army of the Prince of Orange. I was

present at the battle of Seneff; it was my last engagement; and in the

regiment which I commanded, there was a young Scottish volunteer, to

whose bravery, during the battle, I owed my life. In admiration and

gratitude for his conduct, I sent for him after the victory, to present

him to the prince. He came. I questioned him respecting his birth and

his family. He was silent--he burst into tears. I urged him to speak.

He said, of his real name he knew nothing--of his family he knew

nothing--all that he knew was, that he had been the adopted son of a

good and a Christian man, who had found him on Philiphaugh, on the

lifeless bosom of his mother!"

"Merciful Heaven! my puir, injured Philip!" exclaimed the aged

Covenanter, wringing his hands.

"My brother!" cried Daniel eagerly. Mary wept.

"Oh, sir!" continued Sir Frederic, "words cannot paint my feelings as he

spoke! I had been at the battle of Philiphaugh! and, not dreaming that a

conflict was at hand, my beloved wife, with our infant boy, my little

Edward, had joined me but the day before. At the first noise of Lesly's

onset, I rushed from our tent--I left my loved ones there! Our army was

stricken with confusion--I never beheld them again! I grasped the hand

of the youth--I gazed in his face as though my soul would have leaped

from my eyelids. 'Do not deceive me!' I cried; and he drew from his

bosom the ring and the bracelets of my Elizabeth!"

Here the old knight paused and wept, and tears ran down the cheeks of

John Brydone, and the cheeks of his children.

They had not been many days in Westmoreland, and they were seated around

the hospitable hearth of the good knight in peace, when two horsemen

arrived at the door.

"It is our friend, Mr. Duncan, and a stranger!" said the Covenanter, as

he beheld them from the window.

"They are welcome--for your sake, they are welcome," said Sir Frederic;

and while he yet spoke, the strangers entered. "My son, my son!" he

continued, and hurried forward to meet him.

"Say also your _daughter_!" said Edward Mowbray, as he approached

towards Mary, and pressed her to his breast.

"Philip!--my own Philip!" exclaimed Mary, and speech failed her.

"My brother!" said Daniel.

"He was dead, and is alive again--he was lost, and is found," exclaimed

John. "O, Philip, man! do ye forgi'e me?"

The adopted son pressed the hand of his foster-father.

"It is enough," replied the Covenanter.

"Yes, he forgives you!" exclaimed Mr. Duncan; "and he has forgiven me.

When we were in prison and in bonds waiting for death, he risked his

life to deliver us, and he did deliver us; and a second time he has

rescued me from the sword of the destroyer, and from the power of the

men who thirsted for my blood. He is no enemy o' the Covenant--he is the

defender o' the persecuted; and the blessing o' Andrew Duncan is all he

can bequeath, for a life twice saved, upon his deliverer, and Mary

Brydone."

Need we say that Mary bestowed her hand upon Edward Mowbray? but, in the

fondness of her heart, she still called him "her Philip!"

THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON.

My departure from Edinburgh was sudden and mysterious; and it was high

time that I was away, for I was but a reckless boy at the best. My uncle

was both sore vexed and weary of me, for I was never out of one mishap

until I was into another; but one illumination night in the city put

them all into the rear--I had, by it, got far ahead of all my former

exploits. Very early next morning, I got notice from a friend that the

bailies were very desirous of an interview with me; and, to do me more

honour, I was to be escorted into their presence. I had no inclination

for such honour, particularly at this time. I saw that our discourse

could not be equally agreeable to both parties; besides they, I

knew, would put questions to me I could not well answer to their

satisfaction--though, after all, there was more of devilry than

roguery in anything I had been engaged in.

I was not long in making up my mind; for I saw Archibald Campbell and

two of the town-guard at the head of the close as I stepped out at the

stair-foot. I had no doubt that I was the person they wished to honour

with their accompaniment to the civic authorities. I was out at the

bottom of the close like thought. I believe they never got sight of me.

I kept in hiding all day--neither my uncle nor any of my friends knew

where I was to be found. After it was dark, I ventured into town; but no

farther than the Low Calton, where dwelt an old servant of my father's,

who had been my nurse after the death of my mother. She was a widow, and

lived in one of the ground flats, where she kept a small retail shop.

Poor creature! she loved me as if I had been her own child, and wept

when I told her the dilemma I was in. She promised to conceal me until

the storm blew over, and to make my peace once more with my uncle, if I

would promise to be a good boy in future. She made ready for me a

comfortable supper, and a bed in her small back room. Weary sitting

alone, I went to rest, and soon fell into a sound sleep. I had lain

thus, I know not how long, when I was roused by a loud noise, as if some

person or persons had fallen on the floor above; and voices in angry

altercation struck my ear.

The weather being cold, my nurse had put on a fire in the grate, which

still burned bright, and gave the room a cheerful appearance. I looked

up--the angry voices continued, and there was a continued beating upon

the floor at intervals, and, apparently, a great struggling, as if two

people were engaged in wrestling. I attempted to fall asleep again, but

in vain. For half an hour there had been little intermission of the

noise. The ceiling of the room was composed only of the flooring of the

story above; so that the thumping and scuffling were most annoying,

reminding one of the sound of a drum overhead. I rose in anger from my

bed, and, seizing the poker, beat up upon the ceiling pretty smartly.

The sound ceased for a short space, and I crept into bed again. I was

just on the point of falling asleep when the beating and struggling were

renewed, and with them my anger. I rose from bed in great fury, resolved

at least to make those who annoyed me rise from the floor. I looked

round for something sharp, to prick them through the joinings of the

flooring-deals. By bad luck, I found upon the mantel-piece an old worn

knife, with a thin and sharp point. I mounted upon the table, and thus

reached the ceiling with my hand. The irritating noise seemed to

increase. I placed the point in one of the joints, and gave a push

up--it would not enter. I exerted my strength, when--I shall never

forget that moment--it ran up to the hilt!--a heavy groan followed; I

drew it back covered with blood! I stood upon the table stupified with

horror, gazing upon the ensanguined blade; two or three heavy drops of

blood fell upon my face and went into my eyes. I leaped from the table,

and placed the knife where I had found it. The noise ceased; but heavy

drops of blood continued to fall and coagulate upon the floor at my

feet. I felt stupified with fear and anguish--my eyes were riveted upon

the blood which--drop, drop, drop--fell upon the floor. I had stood thus

for some time before the danger I was in occurred to me. I started,

hastily put on my clothes, and, opening the window, leapt out, fled by

the back of the houses, past the Methodist chapel, up the back stairs

into Shakspeare square, and along Princes' street; nor did I slacken my

pace until I was a considerable way out of town.

I was now miserable. The night was dark as a dungeon; but not half so

dark as my own thoughts. I had deprived a fellow-creature of life! In

vain did I say to myself that it was done with no evil intention on my

part. I had been too rash in using the knife; and my conscience was

against me. I was at this very time, also, in hiding for my rashness

and folly in other respects. I trembled at the first appearance of

day, lest I should be apprehended as a murderer. Dawn found me in the

neighbourhood of Bathgate. Cold and weary as I was, I dared not approach

a house or the public road, but lay concealed in a wood all day, under

sensations of the utmost horror. Towards evening, I cautiously emerged

from my hiding-place. Compelled by hunger, I entered a lonely house

at a distance from the public road, and, for payment, obtained some

refreshment, and got my benumbed limbs warmed. During my stay, I avoided

all unnecessary conversation. I trembled lest they would speak of the

murder in Edinburgh; for, had they done so, my agitation must have

betrayed me. After being refreshed, I left the hospitable people, and

pursued, under cover of the night, my route to Glasgow, which I reached

a short time after daybreak. Avoiding the public streets, I entered the

first change-house I found open at this early hour, where I obtained a

warm breakfast and a bed, of both which I stood greatly in need. I soon

fell asleep, in spite of the agitation of my mind; but my dreams were

far more horrifying than my waking thoughts, dreadful as they were. I

awoke early in the afternoon, feverish and unrefreshed.

After some time spent in summoning up resolution, I requested my

landlady to procure for me a sight of any of the Edinburgh newspapers

of the day before. She brought one to me. My agitation was so great

that I dared not trust myself to take it out of her hand, lest she had

perceived the tremor I was in; but requested her to lay it down, while

I appeared to be busy adjusting my dress--carefully, all the time,

keeping my back to her. I had two objects in view: I wished to see the

shipping-list, as it was my aim to leave the country for America by the

first opportunity; and, secondly, to see what account the public had got

of my untoward adventure. I felt conscious that all the city was in

commotion about it, and the authorities despatched for my apprehension;

for I had no doubt that my nurse would at once declare her innocence,

and tell who had done the deed. With an anxiety I want words to express,

I grasped the paper as soon as the landlady retired, and hurried over

its columns until I reached the last. During the interval, I believe I

scarcely breathed; I looked it over once more with care; I felt as if a

load had been lifted from my breast--there was not in the whole paper a

single word of a death by violence or accident. I thought it strange,

but rejoiced. I felt that I was not in such imminent danger of being

apprehended; but my mind was still racked almost to distraction.

I remained in my lodging for several days, very ill, both from a severe

cold I had caught and distress of mind. I had seen every paper during

the time. Still there was nothing in them applicable to my case. I was

bewildered, and knew not what to think. Had the occurrences of that

fearful night, I thought, been only a delusion--some horrid dream or

nightmare? Alas! the large drops of blood that still stained my shirt,

which, in my confusion, I had not changed, drove from my mind the

consoling hope; they were damning evidence of a terrible reality. My

mind reverted back to its former agony, which became so aggravated by

the silence of the public prints that I was rendered desperate. The

silence gave a mystery to the whole occurrence, more unendurable than if

I had found it narrated in the most aggravated language, and my person

described, with a reward for my apprehension.

As soon as my sickness had a little abated, and I was able to go out, I

went in the evening, a little before ten o'clock, to the neighbourhood

of where the coach from Edinburgh stopped. I walked about until its

arrival, shunning observation as much as possible. At length it came. No

one descended from it whom I recollected ever to have seen. Rendered

desperate, I followed two travellers into a public-house which they

entered, along with the guard. For some time, I sat an attentive

listener to their conversation. It was on indifferent subjects; and I

watched an opportunity to join in their talk. Speaking with an air of

indifference, I turned the conversation to the subject I had so much at

heart--the local news of the city. They gave me what little they had;

but not one word of it concerned my situation. I inquired at the guard

if he would, next morning, be so kind as take a letter to Edinburgh, for

Widow Neil, in the Low Calton.

"With pleasure," he said--"I know her well, as I live close by her shop;

but, poor woman, she has been very unwell for these two or three days

past. There has been some strange talk of a young lad who vanished from

her house, no one can tell how; she is likely to get into trouble from

the circumstance, for it is surmised he has been murdered in her house,

and his body carried off, as there was a quantity of blood upon the

floor. No one suspects her of it; but still it is considered strange

that she should have heard no noise, and can give no account of the

affair."

This statement of the guard surprised me exceedingly. Why was the affair

mentioned in so partial and unsatisfactory a manner? Why was I, a

murderer, suspected of being myself murdered? Why did not this lead to

an investigation, which must have exposed the whole horrid mystery of

the death of the individual up stairs? I could not understand it. My

mind became the more perplexed, the more I thought of it. Yet, so

far, I had no reason to complain. Nothing had been said in any respect

implicating me. Perhaps I had killed nobody; perhaps I had only wounded

some one who did not know whence the stab came; or perhaps the person

killed or wounded was an outlaw, and no discovery could be made of his

situation. All these thoughts rushed through my mind as I sat beside the

men. I at last left them, being afraid to put further questions.

I went to my lodgings and considered what I should do. I conceived it

safest to write no letters to my friends, or say anything further on the

subject. I meditated upon the propriety of going to America, and had

nearly made up my mind to that step. Every day, the mysterious affair

became more and more disagreeable and painful to me. I gave up making

further inquiries, and even carefully avoided, for a time, associating

with any person or reading any newspaper. I gradually became easier, as

time, which brought no explanation to me, passed over; but the thought

still lay at the bottom of my heart, that I was a murderer.

I went one day to a merchant's counting-house, to take my passage for

America. The man looked at me attentively. I shook with fear, but he

soon relieved me by asking--"Why I intended to leave so good a country

for so bad a one?" I replied, that I could get no employment here. My

appearance had pleased him. He offered me a situation in his office. I

accepted it. I continued in Glasgow, happy and respected, for several

years, and, to all likelihood, was to have settled there for life. I was

on the point of marriage with a young woman, as I thought, every way

worthy of the love I had for her. Her parents were satisfied; the day of

our nuptials was fixed--the house was taken and furnished wherein we

were to reside, and everything prepared. In the delirium of love, I

thought myself the happiest of men, and even forgot the affair of the

murder.

It was on the Monday preceding our union--which was to take place

in her father's house on the Friday evening--that business of the utmost

importance called me to the town of Ayr. I took a hasty farewell of my

bride, and set off, resolved to be back upon the Thursday at farthest.

Early in the forenoon of Tuesday, I got everything arranged to my

satisfaction; but was too late for the first coach. To amuse myself

in the best manner I could, until the coach should set off again, I

wandered down to the harbour; and, while there, it was my misfortune to

meet an old acquaintance, Alexander Cameron, the son of a barber in the

Luckenbooths. Glad to see each other, we shook hands most cordially;

and, after chatting about "auld langsyne" until we were weary wandering

upon the pier, I proposed to adjourn to my inn. To this proposal he at

once acceded, on condition that I should go on board of his vessel

afterwards, when he would return the visit in the evening. To this I had

no objection to make. The time passed on until the dusk. We left the

inn; but, instead of proceeding to the harbour, we struck off into the

country for some time, and then made the coast at a small bay, where I

could just discern, through the twilight, a small lugger-rigged vessel

at anchor. I felt rather uneasy, and began to hesitate; when my friend,

turning round, said--

"That is my vessel, and as fine a crew mans her as ever walked a

deck;--we will be on board in a minute."

I wished, yet knew not how, to refuse. He made a loud call; a boat with

two men pushed from under a point, and we were rowing towards the vessel

ere I could summon resolution to refuse. I remained on board not above

an hour. I was treated in the most kindly manner. When I was coming

away, Cameron said--

"I have requested this visit from the confidence I feel in your honour.

I ask you not, to promise not to deceive me--I am sure you will not. My

time is very uncertain upon this coast, and I have papers of the utmost

importance, which I wish to leave in safe hands. We are too late to

arrange them to-night; but be so kind as promise to be at the same spot

where we embarked to-morrow morning, at what hour you please, and I will

deliver them to you. Should it ever be in my power to serve you, I will

not flinch from the duty of gratitude, cost what it may."

There was a something so sincere and earnest in his manner, that I could

not refuse. I said, that as I left Ayr on the morrow, I would make it an

early hour--say, six o'clock; which pleased him. We shook hands and

parted, when I was put on shore, and returned to my inn, where I

ruminated upon what the charge could be I was going to receive from my

old friend in so unexpected a manner.

I was up betimes, and at the spot by the appointed hour. The boat was in

waiting; but Cameron was not with her. I was disappointed, and told one

of the men so; he replied that the captain expected me on board to

breakfast. With a reluctance much stronger than I had felt the preceding

night, I consented to go on board. I found him in the cabin, and the

breakfast ready for me. We sat down, and began to converse about the

papers. Scarce was the second cup filled out, when a voice called down

the companion, "Captain, the cutter!" Cameron leaped from the table, and

ran on deck. I heard a loud noise of cordage and bustle; but could not

conceive what it was, until the motion of the vessel too plainly told

that she was under way. I rose in haste to get upon deck; but the cover

was secured. I knocked and called; but no one paid any attention to my

efforts. I stood thus knocking, and calling at the stretch of my voice,

for half an hour, in vain. I returned to my seat, and sat down, overcome

with anger and chagrin. Here was I again placed in a disagreeable

dilemma--evidently going far out to sea, when I ought to be on my way to

Glasgow to my wedding. In the middle of my ravings, I heard first one

shot, then another; but still the ripple of the water and the noise

overhead continued. I was now convinced that I was on board of a

smuggling lugger, and that Cameron was either sole proprietor or

captain. I wished with all my heart that the cutter might overtake and

capture us, that I might be set ashore; but all my wishes were vain--we

still held on our way at a furious rate. As I heard no more shots, I

knew that we had left the cutter at a greater distance. Again,

therefore, I strove to gain a hearing, but in vain: I then strove to

force the hatch, but it resisted all my efforts. I yielded myself at

length to my fate; for the way of the vessel was not in the least

abated.

Towards night, I could find, by the pitching of the vessel and the

increased noise above, that the wind had increased fearfully, and that

it blew a storm. It was with difficulty that I could keep my seat, so

much did she pitch. During the whole night and following day, I was so

sick that I thought I would have died. I had no light; there was no

human creature to give me a mouthful of water; and I could not help

myself even to rise from the floor of the cabin, on which I had sunk.

The agony of my mind was extreme: the day following was to have been

that of my marriage; I was at sea, and knew not where I was. I blamed

myself for my easy, complying temper; my misery increased; and, could I

have stood on my feet, I know not what I might have done in my desperate

situation. Thus I spent a second night; and the day which I had thought

was to shine on my happiness, dawned on my misery.

Towards the afternoon, the motion of the vessel ceased, and I heard the

anchor drop. Immediately the hatch was opened, and Cameron came to me. I

rose in anger, so great that I could not give it utterance. Had I not

been so weak from sickness, I would have flown and strangled him. He

made a thousand apologies for what had happened. I saw that his concern

was real; my anger subsided into melancholy, and my first utterance was

employed to inquire where we were.

"I am sorry to say," replied he, "that I cannot but feel really grieved

to inform you that we are at present a few leagues off Flushing."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, as I buried my face in my hands, while I

actually wept for shame--"I am utterly undone! What will my beloved

Eliza say? How shall I ever appear again before her and her friends?

Even now, perhaps, she is dressing to be my wife, or weeping in the arms

of her bridesmaid. The thought will drive me mad. For Godsake, Cameron,

get under way, and land me again either at Greenock or where you first

took me up, or I am utterly undone. Do this, and I will forget all I

have suffered and am suffering."

"I would, upon my soul," he said, "were it in my power, though I should

die in a jail; but, while this gale lasts, it were folly to attempt it.

Besides, I am not sole proprietor of the lugger--I am only captain. My

crew are sharers in the cargo. I would not get their consent. The

thought of the evil I was unintentionally doing you, gave me more

concern than the fear of capture. Had the storm not come on, I would

have risked all to have landed you somewhere in Scotland; but it was so

severe, and blowing from the land, that there was no use to attempt it.

I hope, however, the weather will now moderate, and the wind shift, when

I will run you back, or procure you a passage in the first craft that

leaves for Scotland."

I made no answer to him, I was so absorbed in my own reflections. I

walked the deck like one distracted, praying for a change in the

weather. For another three days it blew, with less or more violence,

from the same point--during which time I scarcely ever ate or drank, and

never went to bed. On the forenoon of Monday, the wind shifted. I went

immediately ashore in the boat, and found a brig getting under way for

Leith. I stepped on board, and took farewell of Captain Cameron, whom I

never saw again, and wish I had never seen him in my life.

After a tedious passage of nine days, during which we had baffling winds

and calms, we reached Leith Roads about seven in the evening. It was low

water, and the brig could not enter the harbour for several hours. I was

put ashore in the boat, and hastened up to the Black Bull Inn, in order

to secure a seat in the mail for Glasgow, which was to start in a few

minutes. As I came up Leith Walk, my feelings became of a mixed nature.

I thought of Widow Niel and the murder, as I looked over at the Calton;

then my mind reverted to my bride. I got into the coach, and was soon

on the way to Glasgow. I laid myself back in a corner, and kept a

stubborn silence. I could not endure to enter into conversation with my

fellow-travellers: I scarce heard them speak--my mind was so distracted

by what had befallen me, and what might be the result.

Pale, weary, and exhausted, I reached my lodgings between three and four

o'clock of the morning of the seventeenth day from that in which I had

left it in joy and hope. After I had knocked, and was answered, my

landlady almost fainted at the sight of me. She had believed me dead;

and my appearance was not calculated to do away the impression, I looked

so ghastly from anxiety and the want of sleep. Her joy was extreme when

she found her mistake. I undressed and threw myself on my bed, where I

soon fell into a sound sleep, the first I had enjoyed since my

involuntary voyage.

I did not awake until about eight o'clock, when I arose and dressed. I

did not haste to Eliza, as my heart urged me, lest my sudden appearance

should have been fatal to her. I wrote her a note, informing her I was

in health, and would call and explain all after breakfast. I sent off my

card, and immediately waited upon my employers. They were more surprised

than pleased at my return. Another had been placed in my situation, and

they did not choose to pay him off when I might think proper to return

after my unaccountable absence. My soul fired at the base insinuation;

my voice rose, as I demanded to know if they doubted my veracity. With

an expression of countenance that spoke daggers, one of them said--"We

doubt, at least, your prudence in going on board an unknown vessel; but

let us proceed to business--we have found all your books correct to a

farthing, and here is an order for your salary up to your leaving. Good

morning!"

I received it indignantly; and, bowing stiffly, left them. I was not

much cast down at this turn my affairs had taken so unexpectedly. I had

no doubt of finding a warm reception from Eliza, hurried to her parent's

house, and rung the bell for admittance. Judge my astonishment when her

brother opened the door, with a look as if we had never met, and

inquired what I wanted. The blood mounted to my face--I essayed to

speak; but my tongue refused its office; I felt bewildered, and stood

more like a statue than a man. In the most insulting manner, he

said--"There is no one here who wishes any intercourse with you." And he

shut the door upon me.

Of everything that befell me for a length of time, from this moment, I

am utterly unconscious; when I again awoke to consciousness, I was in

bed at my lodgings, with my kind landlady seated at my bedside. I was so

weak and reduced I could scarce turn myself; the agitation I had

undergone, and the cruel receptions I had met on my return, had been too

much for my mind to bear; a brain fever had been the consequence, and my

life had been despaired of for several days. I would have questioned

my landlady; but she urged silence upon me, and refused to answer my

inquiries. I soon after learned all. I had been utterly neglected by

those to whom I might have looked for aid or consolation; but the

bitterest thought of all was, that Eliza should cast me off without

inquiry or explanation. I could not bring my mind to believe she did

so of her own accord. She must, I thought, be either cruelly deceived

or under restraint; for she and her friends could not but know the

situation I was in. I vainly strove to call my wounded pride to my aid,

and drive her from my thoughts; but the more I strove, the firmer hold

she took of me. As soon as I could hold my pen, I wrote to her in the

most moving terms; and, after stating the whole truth and what I had

suffered, begged an interview, were it to be our last--for my life or

death, I said, appeared to depend upon her answer. In the afternoon I

received one: it was my own letter, which had been opened, and enclosed

in an envelope. The writing was in her own hand. Cruel woman! all it

contained was, that she had read, and now returned my letter as of her

own accord, and by the approbation of her friends; for she was firmly

resolved to have no communication with one who had used her so cruelly,

and exposed her to the ridicule of her friends and acquaintances. This

unjust answer had quite an opposite effect from what I could have

conceived a few hours before; pity and contempt for the fickle creature

took the place of love; my mind became once more tranquil; I recovered

rapidly, and soon began to walk about and enjoy the sweets of summer. I

met my fickle fair by accident more than once in my walks, and found I

could pass her as if we had never met. Her brother I had often a mind

to have horsewhipped; but the thought that I would only give greater

publicity to my unfortunate adventure, and be looked upon as the guilty

aggressor, prevented me from gratifying my wish.

Glasgow had now become hateful to me, otherwise I would have commenced

manufacturer upon my own account, as was my intention had I married

Eliza. In as short a period as convenient, I sold off the furniture of

the house I had taken, at little or no loss, and found that I still was

master of a considerable sum. Having made a present to my landlady for

her care of me, I bade a long adieu to Glasgow, and proceeded by the

coach to Leeds, where I procured a situation in a house with which our

Glasgow house had had many transactions.

As I fear I am getting prolix, I shall hurry over the next few years I

remained in Leeds. I became a partner of the house; our transactions

were very extensive, more particularly in the United States of America,

where we were deeply engaged in the cotton trade. It was judged

necessary that one of the firm should be on the spot, to extend the

business as much as possible. The others being married men, I at once

volunteered to take this department upon myself, and made arrangements

accordingly. I proceeded towards Liverpool by easy stages on horseback,

as the coaches at that period were not so regular as they are at

present.

On the second day after my leaving Leeds, the afternoon became extremely

wet towards evening; so that I resolved to remain all night in the first

respectable inn I came to. I dismounted, and found it completely filled

with travellers, who had arrived a short time before. It was with

considerable difficulty I prevailed upon the hostess to allow me to

remain. She had not a spare bed; all had been already engaged; the

weather continued still wet and boisterous, and I resolved to proceed no

farther that night, whether I could obtain a bed or not. I, at length,

arranged with her that I should pass the night by the fireside, seated

in an arm-chair. Matters were thus all set to rights, and supper over,

when a loud knocking was heard at the door. An additional stranger

entered the kitchen where I sat, drenched with rain and benumbed with

cold; and, after many difficulties upon the side of the hostess, the

same arrangements were made for him.

As our situations were so similar, we soon became very intimate. I felt

much interest in him. He was of a frank and lively turn in conversation,

and exceedingly well informed on every subject we started. A shrewd

eccentricity in the style and matter of his remarks, forced the

conviction upon his hearers, that he was a man of no mean capacity;

there was also a restless inquietude in his manner, which gave him the

appearance of having a slight shade of insanity. At one time his bright

black eye was lighted up with joy and hilarity, as he chanted a few

lines of some convivial song. In a few minutes, a change came over him,

and furtive, timid glances stole from under his long dark eyelashes.

Then would follow a glance so fierce, that it required a firm mind to

endure it unmoved. These looks became more frequent as his libations

continued; for he had consumed a great quantity of liquor, and seemed to

me to be in that frame of mind when one strives in vain to forget his

identity.

The other inmates of the house had long retired, and all was hushed save

the voice of my companion. I felt no inclination to sleep; the various

scenes of my life were floating over my mind, as I gazed into the bright

fire that glowed before me, while the storm raged without. My companion

had at length sunk into a troubled slumber; his head resting upon his

hand, which was supported by the table, and his intelligent face half

turned from me. While I sat thus, my attention was roused by a low,

indistinct murmuring from the sleeper: he was evidently dreaming--for,

although there were a few disjointed words here and there pronounced, he

still slept soundly.

Gradually his articulation became more distinct and his countenance

animated; but his eyes were closed. I became much interested; for this

was the first instance of a dreamer talking in his sleep I had ever

witnessed. I watched him. A gleam of joy and pleasure played around

his well-formed mouth, while the few inarticulate sounds he uttered

resembled distant shouts of youthful glee. Gradually the tones became

connected sentences; care and anxiety, at times, came over his

countenance; in heart-touching language, he bade farewell to his parent

and the beloved scenes of his youth; large drops of moisture stole from

under his closed eyelids. The transitions of his mind were so quick,

that it required my utmost attention to follow them; but I never heard

such true eloquence as came from this dreamer. I had seen most of the

performers of our modern stage, and appreciated their talents; but what

I at this time witnessed, in the actings of genuine nature, surpassed

all their efforts.

Gradually the shades of innocence departed from his countenance; his

language became adulterated by slang phrases, and his features assumed

a fiendish cast that made me shudder. He showed that he was familiar

with the worst of company; care and anxiety gradually crept over his

countenance; he had, it seemed, commenced a system of fraud upon his

employers and been detected; grief and despair threw over him their

frightful shadows; pale and dejected, he pleaded for mercy, for the sake

of his father, in the most abject terms. He now spoke with energy and

connection--it was to his companions in jail; but hope had fled, and a

shameful death seemed to him inevitable.

His trial came on. He proceeded to court--his lips appeared pale and

parched--a convulsive quiver agitated the lower muscles of his face and

neck--he seemed to breathe with difficulty--his head sank lower upon

the hand that supported it--he had been condemned--he was now in his

solitary cell--his murmurs breathed repentance and devotion--his

sufferings appeared to be so intense that large drops of perspiration

stood upon his forehead--he was engaged with the clergyman, preparing

for death. Remembering what I had suffered in my own dreams, I resolved

to awake him, and, to do so, gave the arm that lay upon the table a

gentle shake. A shudder passed over his frame, and he sank upon the

floor.

All that I have narrated had occurred in a space of time remarkably

short. I rose to lift him to his seat, and make an apology for the

surprise I had given him; but he was quite unconscious. The noise of his

fall had alarmed the landlady, who, with several of the guests, entered

as I was stooping with him in my arms, attempting to raise him. I was so

much shocked when I found the state he was in, that I let him drop, and

recoiled back in horror, exclaiming, "Good God! have I killed him! Send

for a surgeon." The idea that I had endeavoured to awake him in an

improper time came with strong conviction upon me, and forced the words

out of my mouth.

They raised him up and placed him on his seat. I could not offer the

smallest assistance. Every effort was used to restore him in vain, and a

surgeon sent for, but life had fled. During all this time I had remained

in a stupor of mind; suspicion fell upon me that I had murdered him; I

had been alone with him, and seen stooping over the body when they

entered; and my exclamation at the time, and my confusion, were all

construed as sure tokens of my guilt. I was strictly guarded until a

coroner's inquest could be held upon the body.

I told the whole circumstances as they had occurred; but my narrative

made not the smallest impression. I was not believed--an incredulous

smile, or a dubious shake of the head, was all that I obtained from my

auditors. I then kept silence, and refused to enter into any further

explanation, conscious that my innocence would be made manifest at the

inquest, which must meet as soon as the necessary steps could be taken.

I was already tried and condemned by those around me--every circumstance

was turned against me, and the most prominent was that I was Scotch.

Many remarks were made, all to the prejudice of my country, but aimed

at me. My heart burned to retort their unjust abuse; but I was too

indignant to trust myself to utter the thoughts that swelled my heart

almost to bursting.

The surgeon had come, and was busy examining the body of the unfortunate

individual, when a new traveller arrived. He appeared to be about sixty

years of age, of a pleasing countenance, which was, however, shaded by

anxiety and grief. Sick and weary of those around me, I had ceased to

regard them, but I raised my eyes as the new comer entered; and was

at once struck by a strong resemblance, as I thought, between him

and the deceased. The stranger appeared to take no interest in what

was going on, but urged the landlady to make haste and procure him

some refreshment, while his horse was being fed. He was in the utmost

hurry to depart, as important business required his immediate attendance

in London. The loquacious landlady forced him to listen to a most

exaggerated account of the horrid murder which the Scotchman had

committed in her house. The story was so much distorted by her

inventions, that I could not have recognised the event, if the time and

place, and her often pointing to me and the bed on which the body was

laid, had not identified it. I could perceive a faint shudder come over

his frame, as she finished her romance. The surgeon came from his

examination of the body. He was a man well advanced in years, of an

intelligent and benevolent cast of countenance. She inquired with what

instrument the murder had been perpetrated.

"My good lady," said the surgeon, "I can find no marks of violence upon

the body, and I cannot say whether the individual met his death by

violence or the visitation of God."

"Oh, sir," cried the hostess, "I am certain he was murdered; for I saw

them struggling on the floor as I entered the room; and he said himself

that he had murdered him."

"Peace, good woman," said the surgeon, who turned to me, and requested

to know the particulars from myself; "for I am persuaded," he continued,

"that no outward violence has been sustained by the deceased."

I once more began to narrate to him the whole circumstance. As I

proceeded with the dream, the stranger suddenly became riveted in his

attention; his eyes were fixed upon me; the muscles of his face were

strangely agitated, as if he was restraining some strong emotion; wonder

and anxiety were strongly expressed by turns, until I mentioned one of

the names I had heard in the dream. Uttering a heart-rending groan, or

rather scream, he rose from his seat and staggered to the bed, where he

fell upon the inanimate body, and sobbed audibly as he kissed the cold

forehead, and parted the long brown hair that covered it.

"Oh, Charles," he cried, "my son, my dear lost son! have I found you

thus, who was once the stay and hope of my heart!"

There was not a dry eye in the room after this burst of agonized nature.

He rose from the bed and approached me. Looking mildly in my face, he

said--

"Stranger, be so good as to continue your account of this sad accident;

for both our sakes, I hope you are innocent of any violence upon my

son."

Overcome by his manner, in kindness to him I suggested that it would be

better were only the surgeon and himself present at the recital. Several

of those present protested loudly against my proposal, saying I would

make my escape if I was not guarded. My anger now rose--I could restrain

myself no longer--I cast an indignant glance around, and, in a voice at

its utmost pitch, dared any one present to say I had used violence

against the unfortunate young man. All remained silent. In a calmer

manner, I declared I had no wish to depart, urgent as my business was,

until the inquest was over; and, if they doubted my word, they were

welcome to keep strict watch at the door and windows.

The old man perceived the kindness of my motive for withdrawing with

him, and his looks spoke his gratitude as we retired.

I once more stated every circumstance as it had occurred, from the time

of his son's arrival until he fell from the chair. As I repeated the

words I could make out in the early part of the dream, his father wept

like a child, and said--"Would to God he had never left me!" When I came

to the London part, he groaned aloud and wrung his hands. I was inclined

more than once to stop; but he motioned me to proceed, while tears

choked his utterance. When I had made an end, he clasped his hands, and,

raising his face to heaven, said--"I thank Thee, Father of mercies! Thy

will be done. He was the last of five of Thy gifts. I am now childless,

and have nothing more worth living for but to obey Thy will. I thank

Thee that in his last moments it can be said of him as it was of thy

apostle--'Behold, he prayeth!'"

For some time we remained silent, reverencing the old man's grief. The

surgeon first broke silence:--"Stranger," he said, "I have not a doubt

of your innocence of any intention to injure the person of the deceased,

but your humane intention to awaken him was certainly the immediate

cause of his death; for, had you tried to rouse him from sleep, either

sooner or later in his dream, all might have been well. The gentle shake

you gave his arm, in all likelihood, was felt as the fatal fall of the

platform or push of the executioner, which caused, from fright, a sudden

collapse of the heart, that put a final stop to the circulation and

caused immediate death. We regret it; but cannot say there was any bad

intention on your part."

I thanked the surgeon for the justice he had done me in his remarks; and

then addressing the bereaved father, I begged his forgiveness for my

unfortunate interference with his son; I only did so to put a period to

his dream, as his sufferings appeared to me to be of the most acute

description.

He stretched out his hand, and grasping mine, which he held for some

time, while he strove to overcome his emotions, he at length said--

"Young man, from my heart I acquit you of every evil intention, and

believe you from evidence that cannot be called in question. What you

have told coincides with facts I already possess. For some time back the

conduct of Charles gave me serious cause of uneasiness; but I knew not

half the extent of his excesses, although his requests for money were

incessant. I supplied them as far as was in my power; for he accompanied

them with dutiful acknowledgments and plausible reasons. Until of late

I had fulfilled his every wish; but I found I could no longer comply

with prudence. Alas! you have let me at length understand that the

gaming-table was the gulf that swallowed up all. I had for some time

resolved to go personally and reason with him upon the folly of his

extravagances; but, unfortunately, delayed it from day to day and week

to week. I felt it to be my duty as a parent; but my heart shrunk from

it. Fatal delay! Oh, that I had done as my duty urged me!" (Here his

feelings overpowered him for a few minutes.) "Had I only gone even a few

days before I received that fatal letter that at once roused me from my

guilty supineness," (here he drew a letter from his pocket and gave it

me,) "he might have been saved! Read it."

I complied. It was as follows:--

"WORTHY FRIEND,--I scarce know how to communicate the

information; but, I fear, no one here will do so in so gentle

a manner. Your son Charles, I am grieved to say, has not been

acting as I could have wished for this some time back. One of

the partners called here this morning to inquire after him,

as he had absconded from their service on account of some

irregularity that had been discovered in his cash entries, and

made me afraid, by his manner, that there might be something

worse. Do, for your own and his sake, come to town as quickly

as possible. In the meantime, I shall do all in my power to

avert any evil that may threaten.--Adieu!

"JOHN WALKER."

"I was on my way," he proceeded, "to save my poor Charles from shame,

had even the workhouse been my only refuge at the close of my days.

Alas! as he told in his dream, I fear he had forfeited his life by that

fatal act, forgery, for which there is no pardon with man. If so, the

present dispensation is one of mercy, for which I bless His name, who in

all things doeth right."

My heart ached for the pious old man. We left the room, he leaning upon

my arm. The surgeon and parent both pronounced me innocent of the young

man's death. Those who still remained in the house, more particularly

the hostess, appeared disappointed, and did not scruple to hint their

doubts. Until the coroner's inquest sat, which was in the afternoon,

the father of the stranger never left my side, but seemed to take a

melancholy pleasure in conversing about his son. The jury, after a

patient investigation, returned their verdict, "Died by the visitation

of God."

I immediately bade farewell to the surgeon and the parent of the young

man, and proceeded for Liverpool, musing upon my strange destiny. It

appeared to me that I was haunted by some fatality, which plunged me

constantly into misfortune. I rejoiced that I was on the point of

leaving Britain, and hoped that in America I should be freed from my

bad fortune.

When I arrived in Liverpool I found the packet on the eve of sailing;

and, with all expedition, I made everything ready and went on board. We

were to sail with the morning tide. There were a good many passengers;

but all of them appeared to be every-day personages--all less or more

studious about their own comforts. After an agreeable voyage of five

weeks, we arrived safe, and all in good health, in Charleston. In a few

months I completed our arrangement satisfactorily, and began to make

preparations for my return to England again. A circumstance, however,

occurred, which overturned all my plans for a time, and gave a new turn

to my thoughts. Was it possible that, after the way in which I had been

cast off before by one of the bewitching sex, I could ever do more than

look upon them again with indifference? I did not hate or shun their

company, but a feeling pretty much akin to contempt, often stole over me

as I recollected my old injury. I could feel the sensation at times give

way for a few hours in the company of some females, and again return

with redoubled force upon the slightest occasion, such as a single word

or look. I was prejudiced, and resolved not again to submit to the power

of the sex. But vain are the resolves of man. This continued struggle, I

really believe, was the reason of my again falling more violently in

love than ever, and that, too, against my own will. When I strove to

discover faults, I only found perfections.

I had boarded in the house of a widow lady who had three daughters, none

of them exceeding twelve years of age. A governess, one of the sweetest

creatures that I had ever seen, or shall ever see again, had the charge

of them. On the second evening after my arrival, I retired to my

apartment, overcome by heat and fatigue. I lay listlessly thinking of

Auld Reekie, the mysterious murder, and all the strange occurrences of

my past life. My attention was awakened by a voice the sweetest I had

ever heard. I listened in rapture. It was only a few notes, as the

singer was trying the pitch of her voice, and soon ceased. I was

wondering which of the family it could be who sang so well, when I heard

one of the daughters say, "Do, governess, sing me one song, and I will

be a good girl all to-morrow. Pray do!" I became all attention--again

the voice fell upon my ear. It was low and plaintive--the air was

familiar to me--my whole soul became entranced--the tear-drop swam in

my eyes--it was one of Scotland's sweetest ditties--"The Broom o' the

Cowdenknowes." No one who has not heard, unexpected, in a foreign land

the songs he loved in his youth, can appreciate the thrill of pleasing

ecstasy that carries the mind, as it were, out of the body, when the

ears catch the well-known sounds.

Next day I was all anxiety to see the individual who had so fascinated

me the evening before. I found her all that my imagination had pictured

her. A new feeling possessed me. In vain I called pride to my aid--I

could not drive her from my thoughts. Sleeping or waking, her voice and

form were ever present. I left the town for a time to free myself from

these unwelcome feelings, pleasing as they were. I felt angry at myself

for harbouring them; but all my endeavours were vain--go where I would,

I was with my Mary on the Cowdenknowes.

I know not how it was. I had loved with more ardour in my first passion,

and been more the victim of impulse; a dreamy sensation occupied my

mind, and my whole existence seemed concentrated in her alone; now, my

mind felt cool and collected--I weighed every fault and excellence;

still I was hurried on, and felt like one placed in a boat in the

current of a river, pulling hard to get out of the stream in vain. I at

length laid down my oars, and yielded to the impulse. In short, I made

up my mind to win the esteem and love of Mary; nor did I strive in vain.

My humble attentions were kindly received, and dear to my heart is the

remembrance of the timid glances I first detected in her full black

eyes. For some weeks I sought an opportunity to declare my love. She

evidently shunned being alone with me; and I often could discern, when I

came upon her by surprise, that she had been weeping. Some secret sorrow

evidently oppressed her mind, and, at times, I have seen her beautiful

face suffused with scarlet and her eyes become wet with tears, when

my pompous landlady spoke of the ladies of Europe and "the _true_

white-blooded females of America." I dreamed not at this time of the

cause; but the truth dawned upon me afterwards.

It was on a delightful evening, after one of the most sultry days in

this climate, I had wandered into the garden to enjoy the evening

breeze, with which nothing in these northern climes will bear

comparison; the fire-flies sported in myriads around, and gave animation

to the scene; the fragrance of plants and the melody of birds filled the

senses to repletion. I wanted only the presence of Mary to be completely

happy. I heard a low warbling at a short distance, from a bower covered

with clustering vines. It was Mary's voice! I stood overpowered with

pleasure--she sung again one of our Scottish tunes.

As the last faint cadence died away, I entered the arbour; the noise

of my approach made her start from her seat; she was hurrying away in

confusion, when I gently seized her hand, and requested her to remain,

if it were only for a few moments, as I had something to impart of the

utmost importance to us both. She stood; her face was averted from my

gaze; I felt her hand tremble in mine. Now that the opportunity I so

much desired had been obtained, my resolution began to fail me. We had

stood thus for sometime.

"Sir, I must not stay here longer," she said. "Good evening!"

"Mary," said I, "I love you. May I hope to gain your regard by any

length of service? Allow me to hope, and I shall be content."

"I must not listen to this language," she replied. "Do not hope. There

is a barrier between us that cannot be removed. I cannot be yours. I am

unworthy of your regard. Alas! I am a child of misfortune."

"Then," said I, "my hopes of happiness are fled for ever. So young, so

beautiful, with a soul so elevated as I know yours to be, you can have

done nothing to render you unworthy of me. For heaven's sake, tell me

what that fatal barrier is. Is it love?"

"I thank you," she replied. "You do me but justice. A thought has never

dwelt upon my mind for which I have cause to blush; but Nature has

placed a gulf between you and me, you will not pass." She paused, and

the tears swam in her eyes.

"For mercy's sake, proceed!" I said.

"_There is black blood in these veins_," she cried, in agony.

A load was at once removed from my mind. I raised her hand to my

lips:--"Mary, my love, this is no bar. I come from a country where the

aristocracy of blood is unknown, where nothing degrades man in the eyes

of his fellow-man but vice."

Why more? Mary consented to be mine, and we were shortly after wed. I

was blessed in the possession of one of the most gentle of beings.

We had been married about six or seven weeks, when business called me

from Charleston to one of the northern States. I resolved to take Mary

with me, as I was to go by sea; and our arrangements were completed. The

vessel was to sail on the following day. I was seated with her, enjoying

the cool of the evening, when a stranger called and requested to see me

on business of importance. I immediately went to him, and was struck

with the coarseness of his manners, and his vulgar importance. I bowed,

and asked his business.

"You have a woman in this house," said he, "called Mary De Lyle, I

guess."

"I do not understand the purport of your question," said I. "What do you

mean?"

"My meaning is pretty clear," said he. "Mary De Lyle is in this house,

and she is my property. If you offer to carry her out of the State, I

will have her sent to jail, and you fined. That is right ahead, I

guess."

"Wretch," said I, in a voice hoarse with rage, "get out of my house, or

I will crush you to death. Begone!"

I believe I would have done him some fearful injury, had he not

precipitately made his escape. In a frame of mind I want words to

express, I hurried to Mary, and sank upon a seat, with my face buried in

my hands. She, poor thing, came trembling to my side, and implored me to

tell her what was the matter. I could only answer by my groans. At

length, I looked imploringly in her face:--

"Mary, is it possible that you are a slave?" said I.

She uttered a piercing shriek, and sank inanimate at my feet. I lifted

her upon the sofa; but it was long before she gave symptoms of returning

life.

As soon as I could leave her, I went to a friend to ask his advice and

assistance. Through him, I learned that what I feared was but too true.

By the usages and laws of the State, she was still a slave, and liable

to be hurried from me and sold to the highest bidder, or doomed to any

drudgery her master might put her to, and even flogged at will. There

was only one remedy that could be applied; and the specific was dollars.

My friend was so kind as to negotiate with the ruffian. One thousand was

demanded, and cheerfully paid. I carried the manumission home to my

sorrowing Mary. From her I learned, as she lay in bed--her beautiful

face buried in the clothes, and her voice choked by sobs--that the

wretch who had called on me was her own father, whose avarice could not

let slip this opportunity of extorting money. With an inconsistency

often found in man, he had given Mary one of the best of educations,

and for long treated her as a favoured child, during the life of her

mother, who was one of his slaves, a woman of colour, and with some

accomplishments, which she had acquired in a genteel family. At her

death, Mary had gone as governess to my landlady; but, until the day of

her father's claim, she had never dreamed of being a slave. I allowed

the vessel to sail without me, wound up my affairs, and bade adieu for

ever to the slave States. 'Tis now twenty years since I purchased a

wife, after I had won her love, and I bless the day she was made mine;

for I have had uninterrupted happiness in her and her offspring. The

slave is now the happy wife and mother of five lovely children, who

rejoice in their mother. After remaining some years in Leeds, I returned

to Edinburgh. Widow Neil was dead; but one day I discovered, by mere

chance, that the murder I committed in her house was on a _sheep_.

MY BLACK COAT;

OR,

THE BREAKING OF THE BRIDE'S CHINA.

Gentle reader, the simple circumstances I am about to relate to you,

hang upon what is termed--a bad omen. There are few amongst the

uneducated who have not a degree of faith in omens; and even amongst the

better educated and well informed there are many who, while they profess

to disbelieve them, and, indeed, do disbelieve them, yet feel them in

their hours of solitude. I have known individuals who, in the hour of

danger, would have braved the cannon's mouth, or defied death to his

teeth, who, nevertheless, would have buried their heads in the

bedclothes at the howling of a dog at midnight, or spent a sleepless

night from hearing the tick, tick, of the spider, or the untiring song

of the kitchen-fire musician--the jolly little cricket. The age of

omens, however, is drawing to a close; for truth in its progress is

trampling delusion of every kind under its feet; yet, after all, though

a belief in omens is a superstition, it is one that carries with it a

portion of the poetry of our nature. But to proceed with our story.

Several years ago I was on my way from B---- to Edinburgh; and

being as familiar with every cottage, tree, shrub, and whin-bush on the

Dunbar and Lauder roads as with the face of an acquaintance, I made

choice of the less-frequented path by Longformacus. I always took a

secret pleasure in contemplating the dreariness of wild spreading

desolation; and, next to looking on the sea when its waves dance to the

music of a hurricane, I loved to gaze on the heath-covered wilderness,

where the blue horizon only girded its purple bosom. It was no season

to look upon the heath in the beauty of barrenness, yet I purposely

diverged from the main road. About an hour, therefore, after I had

descended from the region on the Lammermoors, and entered the Lothians,

I became sensible I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my

footsteps to Edinburgh. It was December; the sun had just gone down; I

was not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to

trust to chance for finding a comfortable resting-place for the night.

Perceiving a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from

the road, I resolved to turn towards them, and make inquiry respecting

the right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest

inn.

The "town," as the three or four houses and mill were called, was

all bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and

scouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned that all this note

of preparation arose from the "maister" being to be married within three

days. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a

tall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of

accosting me partook more of kindness than civility; and his inquiries

were not free from the familiar, prying curiosity which prevails in

every corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular.

"Where do you come fra, na--if it be a fair question?" inquired he.

"From B----," was the brief and merely civil reply.

"An' hae ye come frae there the day?" he continued.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Ay, man, an' ye come frae B----, do ye?" added he; "then, nae doot,

ye'll ken a person they ca' Mr. ----?"

"Did he come originally from Dunse?" returned I, mentioning also the

occupation of the person referred to.

"The vera same," rejoined the miller; "are ye acquainted wi' him, sir?"

"I ought to be," replied I; "the person you speak of is merely my

father."

"Your faither!" exclaimed he, opening his mouth and eyes to their

full width, and standing for a moment the picture of surprise--"Gude

gracious! ye dinna say sae!--is he really your faither? Losh, man, do

you no ken, then, that I'm your cousin! Ye've heard o' your cousin,

Willie Stewart."

"Fifty times," replied I.

"Weel, I'm the vera man," said he--"Gie's your hand; for, 'odsake, man,

I'm as glad as glad can be. This is real extraordinar'. I've often heard

o' you--it will be you that writes the buiks--faith ye'll be able to mak

something o' this. But come awa' into the house--ye dinna stir a mile

far'er for a week, at ony rate."

So saying, and still grasping my hand, he led me to the farm-house. On

crossing the threshold--

"Here, lassie," he cried, in a voice that made roof and rafters ring,

"bring ben the speerits, and get on the kettle--here's a cousin that I

ne'er saw in my life afore."

A few minutes served mutually to confirm and explain our

newly-discovered relationship.

"Man," said he, as we were filling a second glass, "ye've just come in

the very nick o' time; an' I'll tell ye how. Ye see I'm gaun to be

married the day after the morn; an' no haein' a friend o' ony kin-kind

in this quarter, I had to ask an acquaintance to be the best man. Now,

this was vexin' me mair than ye can think, particularly, ye see, because

the sweetheart has aye been hinting to me that it wadna be lucky for me

no to hae a bluid relation for a best man. For that matter, indeed,

luck here, luck there, I no care the toss up o' a ha'penny about omens

mysel'; but now that ye've fortunately come, I'm a great deal easier,

an' it will be ae craik out o' the way, for it will please her; an' ye

may guess, between you an' me, that she's worth the pleasin', or I wadna

had her; so I'll just step ower an' tell the ither lad that I hae a

cousin come to be my best man, an' he'll think naething o't."

On the morning of the third day, the bride and her friends arrived. She

was the only child of a Lammermoor farmer, and was in truth a real

mountain flower--a heath blossom; for the rude health that laughed upon

her cheeks approached nearer the hue of the heather-bell, than the rose

and vermillion of which poets speak. She was comely withal, possessing

an appearance of considerable strength, and was rather above the middle

size--in short, she was the very belle ideal of a miller's wife!

But to go on. Twelve couples accompanied the happy miller and his bride

to the manse, independent of the married, middle-aged, and grey-haired

visitors, who followed behind and by our side. We were thus proceeding

onward to the house of the minister, whose blessing was to make a couple

happy, and the arm of the blooming bride was through mine, when I heard

a voice, or rather let me say a sound, like the croak of a raven,

exclaim--

"Mercy on us! saw ye e'er the like o' that!--the best man, I'll declare,

has a black coat on!"

"An' that's no lucky!" replied another.

"Lucky!" responded the raven voice--"just perfectly awfu'! I wadna it

had happened at the weddin' o' a bairn o' mine for the king's

dominions."

I observed the bride steal a glance at my shoulder; I felt, or thought I

felt, as if she shrunk from my arm; and when I spoke to her, her speech

faltered. I found that my cousin, in avoiding one omen, had stumbled

upon another, in my black coat. I was wroth with the rural prophetess,

and turned round to behold her. Her little grey eyes, twinkling through

spectacles, were wink, winking upon my ill-fated coat. She was a crooked

(forgive me for saying an ugly), little, old woman; she was "bearded

like a pard," and walked with a crooked stick mounted with silver. (On

the very spot[L] where she then was, the last witch in Scotland was

burned.) I turned from the grinning sibyl with disgust.

[L] The last person burned for witchcraft in Scotland was at

Spot--the scene of our present story.

On the previous day, and during part of the night, the rain had fallen

heavily, and the Broxburn was swollen to the magnitude of a little

river. The manse lay on the opposite side of the burn, which was

generally crossed by the aid of stepping-stones, but on the day in

question the tops of the stones were barely visible. On crossing the

burn the foot of the bride slipped, and the bridegroom, in his eagerness

to assist her, slipped also--knee-deep in the water. The raven voice was

again heard--it was another omen.

The kitchen was the only room in the manse large enough to contain the

spectators assembled to witness the ceremony, which passed over smoothly

enough, save that, when the clergyman was about to join the hands of the

parties, I drew off the glove of the bride a second or two before the

bridesmaid performed a similar operation on the hand of the bridegroom.

I heard the whisper of the crooked old woman, and saw that the eyes of

the other women were upon me. I felt that I had committed another omen,

and almost resolved to renounce wearing "blacks" for the future. The

ceremony, however, was concluded; we returned from the manse, and

everything was forgotten, save mirth and music, till the hour arrived

for tea.

The bride's mother had boasted of her "daughter's double set o' real

china" during the afternoon; and the female part of the company

evidently felt anxious to examine the costly crockery. A young woman was

entering with a tray and the tea equipage--another, similarly laden,

followed behind her. The "sneck" of the door caught the handle of the

tray, and down went china, waiting-maid, and all! The fall startled her

companion--their feet became entangled--both embraced the floor, and the

china from both trays lay scattered around them in a thousand shapes and

sizes! This was an omen with a vengeance! I could not avoid stealing a

look at the sleeve of my black coat. The bearded old woman seemed

inspired. She declared the luck of the house was broken! Of the double

set of real china not a cup was left--not an odd saucer. The bridegroom

bore the misfortune as a man; and, gently drawing the head of his young

partner towards him, said--

"Never mind them, hinny--let them gang--we'll get mair."

The bride, poor thing, shed a tear; but the miller threw his arm round

her neck, stole a kiss, and she blushed and smiled.

It was evident, however, that every one of the company regarded this as

a real omen. The mill-loft was prepared for the joyous dance; but scarce

had the fantastic toes (some of them were not light ones) begun to move

through the mazy rounds, when the loft-floor broke down beneath the

bounding feet of the happy-hearted miller; for, unfortunately, he

considered not that his goodly body was heavier than his spirits. It was

omen upon omen--the work of breaking had begun--the "luck" of the young

couple was departed.

Three days after the wedding, one of the miller's carts was got in

readiness to carry home the bride's mother. On crossing the unlucky

burn, to which we have already alluded, the horse stumbled, fell, and

broke its knee, and had to be taken back, and another put in its place.

"Mair breakings!" exclaimed the now almost heart-broken old woman. "Oh,

dear sake! how will a' this end for my puir bairn!"

I remained with my new-found relatives about a week; and while there

the miller sent his boy for payment of an account of thirty pounds, he

having to make up money to pay a corn-factor at the Haddington market on

the following day. In the evening the boy returned.

"Weel, callant," inquired the miller, "hae ye gotten the siller?"

"No," replied the youth.

"Mercy me!" exclaimed my cousin, hastily, "hae ye no gotten the siller?

Wha did ye see, or what did they say?"

"I saw the wife," returned the boy; "an' she said--'Siller! laddie,

what's brought ye here for siller?--I daresay your maister's daft! Do ye

no ken we're broken! I'm sure a'body kens that we broke yesterday!'"

"The mischief break them!" exclaimed the miller, rising and walking

hurriedly across the room--"this is breaking in earnest."

I may not here particularize the breakings that followed. One misfortune

succeeded another, till the miller broke also. All that he had was put

under the hammer, and he wandered forth with his young wife a broken

man.

Some years afterwards, I met with him in a different part of the

country. He had the management of extensive flour mills. He was again

doing well, and had money in his master's hands. At last there seemed to

be an end of the breakings. We were sitting together when a third person

entered, with a rueful countenance.

"Willie," said he, with the tone of a speaking sepulchre, "hae ye heard

the news?"

"What news, now?" inquired the miller, seriously.

"The maister's broken!" rejoined the other.

"An' my fifty pounds?" responded my cousin, in a voice of horror.

"Are broken wi' him," returned the stranger. "Oh, gude gracious!" cried

the young wife, wringing her hands, "I'm sure I wish I were out o' this

world!--will ever thir breakings be done!--what tempted my mother to buy

me the cheena?"

"Or me to wear a black coat at your wedding," thought I.

A few weeks afterwards a letter arrived, announcing that death had

suddenly broken the thread of life of her aged father, and her mother

requested them to come and take charge of the farm which was now theirs.

They went. The old man had made money on the hills. They got the better

of the broken china and of my black coat. Fortune broke in upon them. My

cousin declared that omens were nonsense, and his wife added that she

"really thought there was naething in them. But it was lang an' mony a

day," she added, "or I could get your black coat and my mother's cheena

out o' my mind."

They began to prosper and they prosper still.

END OF VOLUME II.

_Tubbs, Brook, & Chrystal, Printers, Manchester._