laird himself; and, though far exceeding Helen in years, having had
frequent opportunities of seeing her, particularly at church on Sabbath,
he had become enamoured of so much beauty and innocence. Proposals had
been made to the father, which were immediately accepted; and the young
lady had been dealt with, as young ladies in such situations generally
are, by arguments of interest, and worldly comfort, and even grandeur.
First impressions are deep (oh, how deep!); and Helen could not yet
entirely exclude the image of her beloved William from her recollection.
Laird M'Wharry was urgent in his suit--her father, whom she
affectionately loved, was troubled and anxious--her mother, too, pressed
home upon her attention prudential considerations--so, after long delays
and many internal struggles, Helen at last consented to become, but not
till some months afterwards, Mrs or Lady M'Wharry, as the peasantry
styled the laird's wife. It was during her visit (previous to her
marriage) to M'Wharry that the incident took place which thus connects
our narrative, and brings us up to the point of time when William
M'Pherson arrived at Denhead.
William, learning from Helen, as well as from his father and mother, how
matters were situated, suddenly disappeared, and left no means of
tracing the place of his retreat. Days, and even weeks, passed, but no
letter arrived, and no message came. In the meantime, the day appointed
for the marriage approached, and Helen seemed to have made up her mind
to submit to necessity; at least she tried to look cheerful, and put as
good a face upon it as many tears, shed in private, would permit.
Laird M'Wharry was a true Highlander--he had much of that clannish
feeling which is peculiar to the Celt. He was, besides, exceedingly
passionate, and had more than once got into trouble from having used
hasty and unguarded expressions. Nay, he had once been prosecuted in the
Court of Session, and damages had been obtained to a considerable
amount, by one of his servants, or rather slaves, whom he had beat most
unmercifully. In attending a Perth market, he had occasion to ride
homewards, after dark, with a brother proprietor, who had lately bought
an estate in his neighbourhood. This proprietor could not boast a Celtic
name or origin. He was plain Mr Monnipenny, from the town of Kirkcaldy,
in Fife. They had both been drinking during the course of the day, and
were, therefore, more liable to get into some dispute or quarrel.
M'Wharry began by deprecating Mr Monnipenny's horse, whose character the
master supported with some warmth; so, to settle the matter, they both
set off at the gallop, and the fire flashed from the horses' heels as
they passed through Dunkeld. Unfortunately for Laird M'Wharry, however,
about a mile beyond the above town, the saddle-girth gave way, and he
came to the ground head foremost. He was dead when Mr Monnipenny came up
with him. He had suffered a concussion of the brain; and,
notwithstanding that medical aid was immediately obtained from Dunkeld,
nothing could be done.
Poor Helen M'Pherson really mourned his fate; for, though she had no
love for him, she had brought herself to think that it was her duty to
fulfil her promise. But where was he whom her young heart held in its
core? No one knew--no one could tell. Helen had inwardly resolved to
live single on his account, even if no further accounts were received of
William M'Pherson. But her father in the meantime died of a fever; and
her mother was compelled to remove from the farm to the village of
Dunkeld, where, in order to support herself and her lovely daughter, she
set up a little shop with a small sum which her husband and she had
saved, and was highly respected by all who knew her. In the meantime,
the parish schoolmaster, an excise officer, and a wealthy sheep-farmer,
all solicited Helen's hand; but she lent a deaf ear to all these offers,
still thinking, and speaking, and dreaming about her William.
One day, when she was standing at the shop-door, she observed a crowd
gathered about a horse and gig, out of which a person had just been
thrown, and was taken up as was feared lifeless. Helen, from motives of
humanity, rushed into the crowd to make inquiries, and saw the person
carried into an adjoining apothecary's shop; there he was immediately
bled, and, to the infinite satisfaction of all, had begun to recover.
The fact turned out to be, that he had been stunned by the fall on his
head, but no concussion or fracture had taken place. The gentleman, she
learned, had been put to bed, but was mighty unruly, as he insisted upon
pursuing his journey that very evening into the Highlands; and a
post-chaise, with two horses and a steady driver, had been brought to
the apothecary's door, and the traveller was passing into it, with his
head and arm tied up, when all at once Helen uttered a scream, and stood
trembling betwixt him and the conveyance. It was her own William,
returned from sea--to which he had again fled--and making all despatch
to reach Denhead, as he had learned, on his way towards the Highlands,
the fate that had overtaken the bridegroom, Laird M'Wharry. Now, reader,
you and I part--I can do no more for you; for, if you cannot far better
conceive than I can describe what followed, you can be no reader of
mine--you will never have perused the story at all. William was now
comfortably circumstanced, pensioned, and dismissed the service; and the
last time I had a week's fishing at Amalrie, I spent my evenings and
nights under his roof. He is now, like myself, a grandfather; and Helen,
though not quite so young as she was some thirty or forty years ago, is
still in my mind a perfect beauty, and has blessed her husband, during a
pretty long life, with all that kind husbands can expect or obtain by
marriage. She has made him a happy father, and a fond, foolish,
indulgent grandpapa.
DURA DEN; OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST.
I took my way, a few days ago, fishing-rod in hand, from Cupar in Fife,
by Dura Den, up towards the healthy and sequestered village of Ceres.
Dura Den was once romantic and secluded. Its brawling stream, which
empties the waters of the upper basin into the Eden, leaped and tumbled
over igneous, and penetrated its way through aqueous, formations, till
it mingled into rejoicing union with the lovely Eden immediately under
the old towers of Spottiswood, and the fine Gothic church of Dairsie.
This deep and beautifully-winding ravine was covered from rock to rock,
on each successively sunny side, by trees of various name and leaf, from
the scented sloe and hawthorn, up to the hazel, the birch, and the oak.
It was a perfect aviary during the spring months. A few wild deer
browsed amidst recesses, and various love-smitten maids and men repaired
to this retreat, to talk of many things which were only interesting to
themselves. The soft projecting sandstone rocks had been water-run into
caves and recesses; and in some of these report had fixed the residence,
for a night at least, of the famous Balfour of Burley, after the affair
of Magus Muir.[A] It is not, however, to this, but to a more recent
occurrence, that I am now about to solicit your attention, after,
however, premising the change which has now been wrought upon this once
rural, secluded, romantic, lovely spot. At the very entrance, there
stands a bone-mill, grinding, with grating activity and horrible crunch,
into powder the mingled bones of man and beast. You have scarcely
escaped from the horrible jarring sound of the modern ogre, than you
come full plump upon a spinning-mill, with as many windows as there are
days in the year. There it stands bestriding the valley like a colossus,
and commanding all the collected energies of the once pure and solitary
stream. Bless me! how it thunders: the very rocks seem to shake under
the whirl of the tremendous machinery; whilst at every open window out
flies in clouds the imprisoned dust and stour. A single door opens, and
the sound maddens on your ear into a screwing torture. It shuts again.
You are greatly relieved by the compressed and imprisoned horror. A
little further up this once delightful den, a pillar of smoke shoots out
on the eye, like an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. This is an evidence that
(as in the formation of this globe) fire has been called upon to assist
water. Again and again, another and another hulking dirty erection fixes
its hideous trail in the lovely localities, till the landscape still
onwards opens upon green fields, all covered and whitened over, _not_
with daisies, but with _yarn_, which has just been removed from the
vitriolic vat. I had essayed here and there to fish, but had not even a
nibble. A little factory urchin, who saw my mistake, immediately
accosted me with--
"Ye needna fish here about, sir, for the fish are a' dead."
"What has _deaded_ them?" said I.
"Oh! I dinna ken, except maybe it's the vitriol--they dinna tak wi' the
vitriol ava."
"No wonder," thought I. "I suspect neither you nor I would tak weel with
such a beverage." So I at once rolled in my line, put up my rod, and was
on the eve of returning, somewhat disappointed, from my forenoon's
ramble, when my attention was attracted by an old, though fresh-looking
man _in his "cruda viridisque senectus_," who was sitting on a bench in
the sunshine, betwixt the door and the window of one of those very neat
and cleanly cottages, which have been erected for the convenience and
accommodation of the mill-spinners, and which, from the name of the
spirited proprietor, has been called "Yoolfield."
"James," said the old man--"come here, James, and tell me what's that ye
waur saying to the gentleman."
"Ou, I was only telling him there waur nae trouts, except _stane
anes_,[B] here."
In the meantime, I had approached the old man's seat, and thinking that
he motioned me to be seated, I at once took my place, as if I had been
an old acquaintance, by his side. It turned out that he was the
grandfather of this urchin, who in a few minutes reappeared with a face
of great comfort and vigorous health; "_causa erat in aperto_"--he had
dined.
"Ye'll be a stranger hereaboots, I mak nae doubt?" said the old man.
I replied that I had been so for some time past; that I had stopped, on
my way north, a day in Cupar, in order to revisit this romantic retreat;
but that it was now sadly changed, and I had not the heart to pursue my
walk any further. I miss, added I, everything which I expected to see:
the solitude, the green banks, the trees, the pure waters, the yellow
trouts, the all of innocence and nature by which this den was marked,
ere these vile spinning-jennies had entered, with noise, confusion, and
defilement in their train.
"And so," said the aged Nestor, "ye are up in arms against the late
erections, because ye canna get an hour or twa's fishing, nor pursue
your own fancies about solitude, and innocence, and that! I will tell
ye, my good sir--for ye're but a bairn in comparison wi' me--that had ye
experienced what I hae experienced, ye wad hae blessed the day which
converted this solitary and useless den into a source of comfortable
living to hundreds of families, who might otherwise be starving at home,
or banished from all that they hold dear into a foreign land."
"Grandfather," hereupon said a fine rosy girl about fourteen, "dinner's
ready: will ye come in, or will I bring it out to you?"
"I think," said the ancient patriarch, "I'll just rest whar I am; it's a
bonny sunny day, and the den is a' loun and sheltered. Just bring out
the broth and the wee bit Irish stew here, and maybe this gentleman, now
tired wi' nae fishing, will no scorn to tak a spoonfu' and a bit
alangside o' a puir auld body."
I immediately assured my kind host that I had provisions in my basket,
which I soon disengaged, together with a flask containing a sufficiency
of old Nantz. To it, therefore, we set, exchanging viands: I partaking
of the excellent and savoury stew, and he of a wee drap, only a very wee
drap, of the brandy. Like Sir Walter Scott's minstrel, the soul of the
old yet vigorous Trojan waxed strong within him; and, after having duly
returned thanks to the Giver of all good, he drew me close to his elbow,
and proceeded thus:--
"Indeed, sir, I'm now considerably upwards of eighty years--the period
at which the psalmist says the strength of man is but grief and labour;
but I haena found it sae, for a' my griefs and labours were confined to
the earlier pairt o' my life, and no to the latter day--His name be
praised for the same."
I instinctively answered "Amen;" and, partly encouraged by this, and
partly by an additional pull at the brandy-flask, the old man pursued
his egotism.
"Well, ye see, ye are against spinning-jennies and large manufactures,
ye say; but they are the freends o' the puir, sir--the blessed
supporters o' thousands and millions in these lands.[C] You shall hear;
for, as you seem to have time on your hands, I will, for your father's
sake" (I had made him acquainted with my descent from a worthy clergyman
in the north), "unfold to you my whole history, and that of my children,
up to this hour:--
"My name, sir, is Donald Sutherland. I belong originally to the county
of that name; and I was bred a farmer on the estates of the Duchess of
Sutherland. But there was neither duke nor duchess then, oh dear!"
(Hereupon the old man absolutely cried; having, however, checked himself
by observing that he was an old fool, he again proceeded):--"I had, as I
said, a small sheep-farm, of about one thousand acres, in the western
district of that county. I see, sir, you are surprised at my saying
_small_; but, sir, when land is let at a shilling an acre, as it was in
my day, such a farm is but small--a thousand shillings, ye ken, is just
fifty pounds o' yearly rent: and that was my rent at _Edderachills_,
near by Loch Assynt. I am now, as ye see, an auld man, and a grey; but I
was ance young, and stout, and foolish too, nae doobt. I thought
naething wad war me, sae I just married whan I was a young,
inexperienced callan, about nineteen; and, having got a brother of my
puir father's to be security (ye see my puir father was only a hind on
the estate o' Sutherland, and had neither money nor credit), I took my
dear Helen M'Roy home to no that ill a bigging--wi' a hantle o'
blankets, a peat-fire, a herd callan, and twa as canny and sensible dogs
as ever followed a herd, or turned a hirsel. Aweel, ye ken, Helen and me
war very happy, for we loved each other dearly; we had been acquainted
frae the time we could climb a brae or eat a cranberry; and things went
on no that ill ava. We had twa bairns in the course o' twal years, a
lassie, and a fine lad, wha was drowned, as ye shall hear; but oh my
heart is sair whan I think o't. It was one awful night in the month of
January. A vessel had stranded in Loch Assynt. The men were seen,
through a stormy moonshine, hanging to the topmast, which, however, went
from side to side, with a fearful swing. At every turn or jerk, another
and another human being was plunged into the roaring foam. My son
Archibald, my shepherd, and I, pushed from the shore in a fishing-boat,
which was lying high and dry--we heard the fearful screams of perishing
men--we rowed off at all hazards, but had not neared the vessel, when
our boat fairly swamped. We were still, however, within wading depth,
and with difficulty regained our feet and the boat. We again pushed hard
from land, and at last came under the lee of the wreck. My son was
young, active, and daring; and, in order to ascertain how matters were,
or what remained of the deck, he caught a rope, and leaped on board. In
an instant, a young man, a passenger, with his wife and child, were
slung, as it were, miraculously on board our little boat. The waves went
up in spouting foam betwixt the wreck and the boat, and then subsiding,
heaved us with a tremendous crash against the side of the vessel; and I
remember no more till I awoke to misery, in a kelp hut by the sea-shore.
I found that my son, with the woman and child, had perished; but that
the husband, my shepherd, and myself, had been cast ashore, and with
difficulty resuscitated. My grief and his mother's grief were loud and
severe. But 'what cannot be cured must be endured.' The stranger was a
native of Fife, who had been to America on a mercantile speculation, and
having married at New York, and become a father, was on his way towards
Kirkcaldy, his native place, when this dreadful accident occurred. He
had lost all his effects, and some money in the wreck, and was content
to take part of my humble dwelling for a season. In the meantime, my
lease expired, and another proprietor had arisen, who knew not Donald
Sutherland. The rent offered by my next and more wealthy neighbour was
far above what I would think of promising, so I behoved to leave sweet
Edderachills, with all its heath, and moss, and muir, for a sea-shore
appointment in the manufacturing of kelp from sea-weed--at that time a
very flourishing employment in the West Highlands in particular. The
stranger about this time took his departure, but not without many
promises of returning again to visit the grave of his wife and child,
and to renew his acquaintance with my wife, my daughter, and myself. For
a time the kelp concern did pretty well; we had good and regular payment
for the article, and an increasing demand; and we contrived to live at
least as comfortably as we had done as sheep-farmers. But man is always
finding out inventions; a method was devised of dispensing, by means of
a chemical discovery, with our kelp entirely; and we were suddenly and
entirely ruined. It was at this period that I, in a manner, _cursed_,
like you, the spirit of discovery and invention. I was disgusted by the
change which the progress of science had made, and I did not know how to
turn myself for a bare subsistence. In this situation of affairs, my
daughter Nelly within there (pointing to the door) was courted by a
neighbouring sheep-farmer's son, of a somewhat disreputable character,
but of considerable reputed wealth. This was a sad trial to us all; for,
though the marriage might have benefited us somewhat, in a worldly point
of view, we did not like to see our blooming and virtuous child
sacrificed, it might be, to the momentary feelings of a known deceiver.
Nelly could not bear the thoughts of such a union; and one night she
told her lover as much. In consequence of this unfortunate affair, we
were very soon after turned out of house and hold--the old farmer having
contracted with the proprietor for the huts and steadings which had once
been peopled with busy and prosperous hands, but which now were nearly
empty. Baser proposals than before were made by the degraded and
vindictive young man; and we set off, one moonlight night, across the
hills, for the town of Dornoch. We were three wanderers in the
wilderness--my wife Helen, my daughter Nelly, and myself. I was still
comparatively strong, and was determined to work, but could find no
employment. For days we slept (for the weather was fine) on the heath,
and lived on what little of our means yet remained. I was resolved, come
what might, that I would not beg. My wife and daughter bore up
amazingly; for we trusted that our God--the God of the hills, as well as
of the valleys; of the poor and the outcast, as well as of the rich and
provided--would not forget us. I found temporary work, at last, in a
stone quarry, and occupied a hut close upon the sea-shore. This, to us
all, was luxury; for it was independence. Contentment _kitchened_
labour, and we slept soundly in our poverty and innocence. But this, I
saw, could not long continue; my strength was not equal to this severe
labour, to which I was unaccustomed; so I persuaded, not without
difficulty, my wife and daughter to accompany me to Canada, to which the
Countess of Sutherland was then offering a free passage from Cromarty
Frith, in the good ship Aurora. I should, however, have mentioned that,
whilst residing at Dornoch, I had observed the son of a neighbouring
proprietor--a somewhat smart-looking gentleman--frequently passing our
door, and sometimes conversing with my wife and daughter; but I took no
notice of the affair, as I felt secure in the virtue and prudence of
both parties. No proposals, honourable or otherwise, were made to my
daughter, and I conceived the matter to be at an end. On the day of the
ship's sailing, we were all on the quay, and ready to embark. My wife
and I had entered the boat, and were waiting for my daughter, who had
been sent by us on a message to a shop. She did not return in time for
the boat in which we were conveyed to the Aurora; but we were told by
the sailors that she would probably arrive in the next. One boat,
however, arrived, but our dear Nelly was not in it; another came, but
with it no daughter. Meantime the ship was under sail, and the captain
said he would not lose the favourable breeze for all the girls in
Scotland. My dear wife was inconsolable, and I petitioned hard to be let
out, even on one of the Western Isles; but the weather was exceeding
stormy, and we kept as far as possible from land. 'God,' said I to my
grieving partner, 'will protect Nelly; for she is good and virtuous. God
can be father and mother, and more than all that, to those who fear and
obey him.' We landed at Quebec, and maintained ourselves for some
time--I acting as a kind of shore-porter, and my wife assisting in
assorting furs in a great warehouse. But our means were but small; so we
bethought us of removing more inland. So we arrived ultimately at
Montreal, where I had the good fortune to meet with a distant relative
in pretty good circumstances. He had long been engaged in a mercantile
house, and had now obtained a considerable and a profitable share in it.
He immediately found employment for me as a warehouse servant, whilst my
wife washed and dressed for himself and a few friends. Year after year
passed by, and many a letter did we write to Edderachills and Dornoch;
but we received no answer. At last it pleased God to remove my dear
Helen by death; and my friend having resolved to remove to Kirkcaldy,
his native place, I took shipping with him in the ship St John, and we
arrived off the Land's End in safety. But it came on to blow dreadfully
from the north and the east, as we rounded the island; and one dark
night in the month of November we struck upon a rock in the
neighbourhood of Ely. The ship fired signals of distress, and a boat
came out, which saved the passengers and crew; but the ship and cargo
were lost. What was my surprise, upon arriving at the inn, to find, in
the person of one of the boatmen, the shipwrecked stranger, Sam Rogers,
who had lodged so long with us at Edderachills. He insisted upon my
immediately repairing to his cabin, as he termed it, on the shore, with
the view of introducing me to his wife and a large family of children.
"'Have you ever heard,' continued he, after we were seated, 'anything of
your daughter Nelly?'
"'Not a word,' said I, eagerly. 'Have you?'
"'Would you know her,' continued he, 'if you were again to see her?'
"'Know her,' said I; 'to be sure I would--her image is ever before me. I
see her, at this moment, as plainly as if she were still alive. Oh!
what--horrible!--stand off!--stand off! Do these old eyes deceive me, or
art thou indeed my own darling, lost child?' said I; whilst Nelly--the
real flesh-and-blood Nelly--clasped me to her arms, and burst into a
flood of tears.
"'My father!--my father!' she exclaimed, whilst the young ones gathered
around us in stupid amazement; and my son-in-law, Sam Rogers, rubbed his
hands and flapped his arms in perfect delight. It was indeed my dear
Nelly, in the person of Helen Rogers, the still handsome mother of seven
children.
"But, Helen, I say--Helen, set down the bairn a wee bit, and tell this
honest gentleman the Dornoch story, ye ken."
"Hout," said Helen, "I hae nae time, father, to enter into a' the outs
and ins o' thae langsyne tales; besides, I see Sam waving me up to the
mill--I'm wanted, father, an' ye maun look after the bairn till I come
back again."
Being foiled in his wish to set his daughter's tongue agoing to the tune
of her own adventures, the old man placed the child on the greensward in
front of the cottage, and, after once more paying his respects to my
brandy-flask, proceeded as follows:--