blushes at bits o't; but now that she's awa, I may just as weel finish,
by letting ye know that the scamp wha had seen, and fallen in love, as
he called it, with her at Dornoch, had watched her down to the beach,
and having hired some accomplice in the person of one of the sailors,
had her misdirected in the first place, and lifted off her feet in the
second, and placed beside the well-known gentleman in a post-chaise,
which drove off immediately in an inland direction. In vain were all her
struggles and entreaties. The young blackguard immediately proceeded to
inform her that her struggles and her shouts were of no avail; that he
could not promise her marriage, as he was already engaged, to please his
mother; but he would give her love in abundance, and a cottage
residence, which he had provided for her on his father's property, at no
great distance. It was in vain for her to resist; but she had resolved
rather to die than to yield to his wishes; so, when they had arrived at
the centre of an extensive plantation, he caused her to alight, and
dismissing, as it was now nearly dark, the chaise and driver, proceeded
to conduct her, as he said, on foot to the cottage which he had
provided. He half dragged her a few paces from the road, or rather track
through the wood, and, unveiling all at once the fiend within him,
proceeded to open and undisguised violence. But, sir," said the old man,
with emphasis, "he thought himself alone, but he was not alone--God saw
him, and had marked his proceedings; and God sent a deliverer, in the
person of him owre by yonder" (pointing to the mills). "God sent Sam
Rogers, with a guid oak plank, to free the captive, and make the captor
flee for his life: in short, sir--for I fear I have tired ye wi' my
lang-winded story--Sam, by the mercy of God, had just landed at Dornoch
as we sailed from it; and being on his way to Edderachills, for the very
purpose of asking my Nelly in marriage, he had pushed on, meaning to
travel all night across the country, when the providential occurrence
took place. Weel, we went now to Ely, where we remained for a time--old
grandy, that is, myself, my son, and his family; but times became tight
there, and the family kept still increasing; so at last we got
acquainted with the worthy gentleman, Mr Yool, to whom all these great
works and these neat cottages belong, and he brought us up here, and set
us down comfortably, where not only my son-in-law, but every wean, male
and female, above seven years of age, can earn its own clothes and
subsistence. We are now, sir, in comparative affluence; and all this,
sir, is owing to these improvements in machinery and in chemistry, which
at one time drove me from my native land. 'SECOND THOUGHTS, THEY SAY,
ARE BEST;' at least so it has been with me, as I sit here in my old age,
in comparative ease and comfort, and see my grandchildren growing up in
domestic affection and public usefulness around me. Here is no
scattering of the young family--one going east, and one west, never to
meet again; but here, every night, all congregate around _one hearth_,
whilst a psalm is sung, a chapter is read, and a prayer said by grandy
himself!"
I shall never regret the loss of my old and favourite amusement, whilst
I can recollect this old man's narrative, and the many happy and
comfortable homes which now occupy the once solitary holms of _Dura
Den_.
[Footnote A: A sword has lately been discovered in one of the caves,
rusted and broken--probably once the sword of Burley!--19th Oct., 1839.]
[Footnote B: _Vide_ recent discoveries of extinct species of fish found
in this den. "Fife Illustrated." Glasgow: James Swan.]
[Footnote C: Very different this deliverance from that of Mrs Trollope
in her "Factory Boy."]
THE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW
Have any of our readers ever been at the Hague? It doesn't much signify
whether they have or not. They know that it is one of the most beautiful
towns in the Netherlands, and that it is not a little famous in ancient
story; and their knowing this is quite enough for our present purpose.
If, however, they knew the town a little more intimately, they would
know that one of its principal and most ancient streets is called the
Hoogstraat; and that here, once on a time, stood the principal inn or
hostelry of the town. It was an oldfashioned house, with a great variety
of projecting and excrescent structures, of all sorts and sizes, stuck
to it, to increase its internal accommodation, and to puzzle the curious
inquirer--at least this seemed a part of the design--who, while taking
an outside view, wondered what they could all be intended for.
Notwithstanding, however, the somewhat uncouth and perplexing appearance
of the exterior of the Drouthsloken--which was the name of the ancient
hostel in question--it was a sufficiently handsome and comfortable house
within. Its kitchen, in particular, was a sight; it was so clean, so
bright, and so cheerful: shining all round with pewter trenchers and
brass utensils of various descriptions, all as lustrous as whiting and
hard rubbing could make them. The place was a treat to look at; and no
less a treat to look at was its jolly landlord, Thonder Vander Tromp.
From stem to stern, Thonder was of the regular Dutch build; which,
without descending to particulars, we may say consists, as our readers
know, in exhibiting an amplitude of material at all points of the
person. In this respect, our good friend Thonder might be considered a
_chef d'oeuvre_; for he was of the most magnificent dimensions,
especially latitudinally. In longitude, indeed, he might be considered
as a little deficient. He was of no great height; but his girth was
superb, and told a tale of good living, with an unction which no
language could approach. In this tale the ruddy, jovial countenance of
mine host of the Drouthsloken cordially joined; and supported by its
hilarious testimony the facts therein set forth.
Having thus shortly described both mine host and his hostel, we proceed
to say that, on a certain evening in the middle of the winter of 1651, a
stranger, carrying a small bundle under his arm, walked, or rather
stalked--for there was something uncouth in his gait--into the passage
of the Drouthsloken. He was wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, and wore on
his head the well-known flat blue bonnet of the Scottish Lowlands. In
person, he was tall and spare, with the grave and serious cast of
countenance so characteristic of that people whose national dress he
wore. Unpolished, however, as the exterior of this person bespoke him to
be, there was yet, in his light grey eye, a mingled expression of
determination and intelligence, that never failed to secure the respect
which his manner and first appearance might well have forfeited. His age
seemed about forty or forty-five.
Finding no one to whom he might address himself in the passage of the
inn, the stranger held on his way to its further extremity--no trifling
distance; towards which he was attracted by sounds of laughter and
merriment, issuing from the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, which was
situated at the farther end of the passage by which the house was
intersected, and the same with that which he was now traversing.
The sounds of merriment by which the stranger had been attracted
proceeded from a group of young men, who, standing in the form of a
semicircle in front of the jolly landlord of the house--who, again,
stood with his back to the fire, wielding a huge black bottle in his
hand--were indulging in uproarious laughter at the witty sayings which
he, the latter, seemed throwing amongst them like so many squibs and
crackers.
At the moment that our friend of the plaid and bonnet entered the
kitchen of the Drouthsloken, our jovial host was standing, as we have
said, with his back to the fire--a roaring one, by the way--and looking
the very personification of all that's joyous, and comfortable, and
care-dispelling. A bright and broad red waistcoat covered his portly
front; but buttoned so short a way up as to expose a dazzling display of
snow-white linen beneath. Across this brilliant garment there lay also
the folds of a pure white apron, tucked up with business-like smartness.
Dark velveteen small-clothes, with well-polished shoes, on which shone a
pair of massive silver buckles, completed the outer man of Thonder
Vander Tromp.
Amongst the merry group of which Tromp was one, something like a
sensation was created by the entrance of the stranger. The career of
badinage was instantly arrested, and the eyes of the whole party turned
towards him. Undismayed by the general attention he had excited, the
stranger coolly deposited his bundle on a side-table, and, approaching
at once the fire, and the group by which it was surrounded, delivered
himself, as he did so, of the very simple and homely remark--
"There's a wat nicht, gentlemen."
Now, the stranger, although he had thus expressed himself, had not
ventured to hope that his language would be understood. He had spoken
mechanically as it were, and delivered himself in his usual way, simply
because he could do no otherwise, and because he thought it necessary to
say something. Great, therefore, was his surprise, and, we may add, his
joy also, when one of the young men of the party, of singularly graceful
manners and bearing, acknowledged his greeting in excellent English, and
with great politeness and civility of speech.
Delighted at having met with a native of Great Britain, which he could
not doubt the young man who had addressed him was--
"Feth, but I am richt glad, sir," said the stranger--"excuse my
freedom--at having met wi' a countryman, as I tak ye to be, sir--in this
outlandish place. It's mair than I expeckit, I'm sure. I had nae thochts
o' meetin wi' ony but ane."
"And pray who was that one, my good friend?" said the young man,
throwing, at the same time, a rapid look of intelligence around on his
companions, who seemed at once to comprehend its meaning. "Who was that
one, my good friend," he said, "if I may ask, without subjecting myself
to a charge of impertinence?"
"Ou, nae impertinence at a', sir; only ye'll excuse me keepin my thoom
on the mater ye inquire aboot till I ken better wha's speerin. Excuse
me, sir, excuse me, for this plainness," continued the stranger,
smiling; "but I hae come frae a country whar a slip o' the tongue, in
thae times, micht cost a man his head; and that maks folks wary, ye
ken."
"Faith, and good reason it should, friend," replied the young man,
laughingly. "Thou hast well accounted for thy caution. But recollect
thou art now in a different country, mine honest friend, and hast no
need to be so guarded in thy speech."
"Feth, sir, I dinna ken. That may be; but, if ye had fan the ticklin o'
a tow aboot yer craig, as I hae dune, ye wadna forget it in a hurry, nor
the lesson it taught ye to keep yer tongue atween yer teeth."
"Well, no doubt; that certainly is rough schooling," said the young
cavalier; "but I repeat again, that thou art now in a different country,
friend; and one where thou hast nothing to fear from a reasonable use of
thy tongue."
"Aweel, it may be sae, sir," replied the imperturbable stranger; "but I
ken o' nae country whar a calm sough's no guid counsel."
"Ha! ha! ha! right, friend, right," roared mine jolly host of the
Drouthsloken, with open mouth and noisy laugh. "It is not goot to say
too moosh anywhere; no more in the Hague as any oder place. But here is
all honourable gentlemen," he added, casting a furtive glance of
good-humoured meaning at the young man who had first addressed the
Scotch visiter, "who will not make bad use of what you shall say."
"Ou, I hae nae doot o' that at a', sir," replied the latter; "but, to be
plain wi' ye, it's no my intention to say onything that onybody can mak
ony use o', either guid, bad, or indifferent." And, having said this,
the speaker showed a very palpable desire to put an end to the
conference, which he evidently began to think was studiously directed by
the other party towards an elucidation of his purposes in visiting the
Hague. In this disposition, however, he was by no means joined by the
party in whose presence he was, particularly by the young man by whom he
had been first addressed, who evinced a gratification in the peculiar
humour of the stranger, and an interest in him altogether that would not
permit of his being shaken off. So far indeed, was he from permitting
this, that he insisted on the latter's joining him in a bottle of wine,
which he instantly ordered mine jolly host of the Drouthsloken to
produce.
On the return of the latter, bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and a
screw in the other--
"Will your--your----" he said, but was here interrupted by a wink from
the person he addressed, which had the evident effect of making him
substitute a different word for that which he had intended to use, and
he added "your honour." "Will your honour not go up-stairs to your own
favourite apartment, de leetle blue parlour?"
"No, no, Mynheer Tromp," replied the young cavalier, "we'll just stay
where we are. The night is cold, and I have always thought your kitchen
the most comfortable and cheerful apartment in your house. So place us a
table here, close by the fire, if you please."
Mynheer Vander Tromp bowed a humble assent; and, in an instant after, a
small round table of walnut-tree, shining like a mirror, was placed in
the desired situation. Bottles and glasses covered it in a twinkling,
and in a twinkling also was the party seated around it, including our
friend of the bonnet and plaid. This worthy person at first shied the
good fellowship thus thrust upon him; but, gradually warming with the
wine he drank--for bottle succeeded bottle with marvellous celerity--he
became by degrees less and less reserved in his manner, until at length
his natural caution giving way altogether before the increasing pressure
of the vinous influence, he became as communicative as he had before
been the reverse.
Availing himself of the altered disposition of the stranger, the young
cavalier, whom we have represented as having more especially attached
himself to the former, again endeavoured to extract from him the purpose
of his visit to the Hague; and his attempt was now successful.
"Aweel, I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, gentlemen," he said, in answer
to a question, or rather hint, on the subject of explanation which had
just been addressed to him by his young friend; and for the reply to
which all waited--"I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, as I think ye're a'
honourable men, and wadna willingly bring a man into trouble, wha has
gien ye nae cause o' offence. Ye see, then freends, I hae just arrived
frae Scotland, and hae come here to see our unfortunate young king,
Charles the Second that should be, whase unhappy story ye dootless a'
ken. I hae been ruined oot o' hoose and ha' for the part I took in his
puir faither's behalf, and hae been obliged to flee my ain country,
besides, for the same reason; and hae noo come here, to see if His
Majesty, God bless him, could afford me ony sort o' protection till the
storm that's noo tearin a' up by the roots in Scotland blaws by; and
that's just the hail affair, gentlemen."
Long ere the stranger had concluded this account of the purpose of his
visit to the Hague, a look of intelligence, which originated with his
young friend, had passed amongst his auditors, and, in the case of the
former, was associated with a peculiar expression of sympathy. Both,
however, the look alluded to, and the latter symptom of a yet deeper
feeling, was unobserved by the person whose communication had given rise
to them. Becoming now querist in turn, he asked, "if ony o' the
gentlemen could tell him whar the king leeved, and if they could put him
on a way o' gettin introduced to him?"
"Thou couldst not have lighted more luckily for that, my friend," said
the young man to whom we have already so often alluded, "than thou hast
done in coming amongst us; for it happens that I hold a confidential
place near the person of Charles, and will have much pleasure in
exerting my influence in procuring you the introduction you desire."
"Mony thanks to ye, freend," replied the martyr to royalty--"mony thanks
to ye, if ye mean, by Charles, His Majesty the King o' England--God
bless him!"
"I certainly do, my friend. I mean him and no other."
"Weel, sir--excuse my freedom--if ye do, I think ye micht ca' him sae.
Wha can dispute his title, although his back be at the wa'?"
"Oh! no one--no one, my good friend, I believe--that is, lawfully,"
replied the young cavalier, laughingly; "but, seeing his present
circumstances--a wandering exile in a foreign land, crownless and
coinless--we, somehow or other, cannot get our tongues about those
sounding titles that are his birthright. We prefer calling him simply
Charles, or English Charles; and I rather think he prefers it himself.
His titles he thinks best left in abeyance in the meantime."
"Aweel, if it be his ain pleasure, I hae nae mair to say. Perhaps it's
as prudent and becomin; for, as ye say, sir, a king that has neither a
croon on his head nor in his pouch is in but a sair condition for his
dignity. That maun be allowed."
There was not much in this remark itself to excite merriment; but there
was certainly something in the naive manner in which it was delivered
that was calculated to produce this effect; and it did. A shout of
laughter, in which the speaker's young friend was the loudest and
heartiest performer, acknowledged the peculiarity to which we have
alluded. On the laugh subsiding, the latter again addressed the former,
saying--
"But, friend, you have not yet told us by what name we should address
you."
"As to that," replied the stranger, smilingly, "I believe the maist
appropriate name or title ye could gie me at the present moment wad be
that o' the Launless Laird. But it wasna aye sae. I had a bit guid
property in the Loudans, ca'ed Lucky's How, every clod o't my ain, wi' a
yearly rental o' forty merks, guid siller, forby the thirlage o' the
Mill o' Meldrum, that was worth a guid twa or three merks mair. But a's
gane awa like a handfu o' ingan peelins on a windy day; that cursed
battle o' Worcester settled a', and left me withoot a groat, and withoot
as much grund as wad mak the hillock o' a moudiwart. But it's a' gane in
a guid cause; I dinna begrudge't; and, besides, things 'll maybe come
roond again; and, if they dinna, there's nae help for't."
"So you were at the battle of Worcester, laird?" said the speaker's
young friend.
"Feth! that I was, sir; and there," he added, holding out his right
hand, which was minus the forefinger and thumb--"there's a certificate
o' the truth o' my statement, gien under the hand o' ane o' Crum'll's
praying dragoons. It was an ugly lick; but there were a hantle o' uglier
anes than it gaun whar it was gotten. It was a coorse business
athegither."
"It was no less, my good friend," said the young cavalier. "I was there,
too."
"Was ye, feth?" replied the laird. "Then, if ye was, sir, ye saw a bonny
stramash--mair than ye'll forget in a hurry, I daursay. It was an awfu
scene yon, when the dragoons cam in upon us in the streets o' Worcester.
'Od! they sliced and slapped aboot them as if they had gotten into a
plantation o' lang kale, and no amang Christian men like themsels."
"It was indeed a sad business," replied the young man, with a melancholy
smile. "Saw ye the king on that day?"
"I did," replied the laird.
"Wouldst know him again?"
"No; I canna think I wad. I just got a glisk o' him, for the first and
last time, in the middle o' the dirdum at Worcester. When I saw him, the
puir lad was fechtin like a Turk; but it was a' to nae purpose. He was
obleeged to rin for't at last, and to perk himsel up in a tree, like a
hoolet, to keep oot o' the way o' Crum'll's sodgers. If they had gotten
the puir lad--as it was a God's mercy they didna--they wad hae taen aff
his head, nae doot, as they did his unfortunate faither's; and then, as,
indeed, it's said they proposed to do, made a buttonmaker o' his sister,
and maybe a Spitalfields weaver o' his brither, the Duke o' Gloucester."
"I _have_ heard," replied the young cavalier, with a contemptuous smile,
while a blush of deep feeling, it might be indignation, overspread his
intelligent countenance--"I have heard that some such idea was actually
entertained by the Parliament as that thou hast alluded to."
"There's nae doot that such a report was current, sir; but whether true
or no, I winna tak upon me to say. They may hae been belied in't."
"I hope they may," replied the young cavalier, musingly. Then, suddenly
recovering himself, and assuming his usual cheerfulness of manner--"And
what are the king's friends about in Scotland?" he said, slapping the
laird good-humouredly on the knee.
"Dooms little, sir," replied the laird. "They daurna cheep. Monk has
gotten his heel fairly on their necks; so that deil a ane o' them can
wag either tongue or finger. There's a wheen o' them taen to the hills
wi' Glencairn and Balcarras; but what can they do? Naething. It's a puir
thing to be in that way, sir. I had a trial o' that mysel. Tak my word
for't, that sleepin in a moss hag, or in the lee o' a whin-bush, and
leevin upon lavrocks, or raw turnips and bog-water, is nae better than
it's ca'ed."
"Well, well, laird, I hope times will mend with our poor friends in
Scotland," replied the young cavalier, to whom this picture of the
sufferings of the royalists, notwithstanding the strong tincture it
exhibited of the speaker's natural humour, seemed to give much pain. "I
hope times will mend with them yet, and that feasting and feather-beds
will make them forget the raw turnips and whin-bushes ye speak of. In
the meantime, my good friend, push round the bottle, and let us talk of
other matters; for these make me sad."
Nothing loth, the Laird of Lucky's How filled up a brimming bumper, and,
drinking "better times," sent it down after some two or three dozen that
had preceded it.
The party were now getting into high glee. The laugh, the joke, and the
bottle went merrily round, and the merriest, and apparently the most
jovial of the company, was the young gentleman whom we have hitherto
represented as expressly attaching himself to the laird, and whose name,
as the latter learned from himself, was Jones. This roysterer was the
life and soul of the company, when roystering became the order of the
evening; but his mirth was tempered with a gentleness of demeanour, and
an air of polished hilarity, if such a phrase may be permitted, as
inspired the idea of the presence of a perfect gentleman. His whole
manner, in short, was exceedingly captivating. His fancy was ready and
playful; his wit brilliant and appropriate; and the affability and
winning character of his smile irresistible. Altogether, he was a most
delightful companion, and admirably calculated to figure in such
circumstances as those in which he was now placed. How he might acquit
himself in a scene of a more grave and serious character, it would not
perhaps have been easy to guess.
The mirth of the party in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken had just
attained its height, when a circumstance occurred which did not affect
its humour, but somewhat changed its character. This was the entrance of
two of the landlord's daughters. Dressed in the neat and simple,
although somewhat peculiar, costume of their country, with their hair
tightly braided up, and bound with a broad silver frontlet, so as to
exhibit in bold relief the contour of their full and fair countenances,
two prettier girls than Juliana and Joan Vander Tromp were not within
the walls of the Hague.
As they entered the kitchen, to which they had come merely, or, perhaps,
we should have said ostensibly, to look after some household affairs,
the girls curtsied slightly but gracefully to the company by which it
was occupied, and, smiling pleasantly and good-naturedly the while,
passed on to the upper end of the apartment, and began to occupy
themselves in some little domestic duties. They had not, however, been
permitted to enter unnoticed. On their appearance, the whole party got
up from their seats, and acknowledged their presence by a gallant
greeting; and in this courtesy, Mr Jones again shone pre-eminent by the
greater grace and deeper devotion he displayed in his chivalrous welcome
to the fair visitors.
It might have been observed, too, that to him, in turn, were the
curtsies and the looks also of the young ladies most especially
directed; but in this case these were associated with a degree of
respect for which it would not have been easy to account.