of her husband, and honest Jamie proposed numerous plans--but each was,
in its turn, rejected as being unsafe. More than an hour had passed in
these anxious deliberations; within three hours more, and the king's
troops would be at his gate. Grizel had, till now, remained silent, and
dashing away the first tear that rolled down her cheek, she flung her
arms around her father's neck, and exclaimed, in an eager and breathless
whisper--
"I ken a place, faither--I ken a place that the king's troopers and his
spies will never find out; and I'll stop beside ye, to bear ye company."
"Bless the bairn!" said Sir Patrick, pressing her to his breast; "and
where's the place, dearest?"
"The aisle below Polwarth Kirk, faither," returned Grizel. "Nae trooper
will find out such a hiding-place; for the mouth's a bit wee hole, and
the long grass, and the docks, and the nettles grow owre it, and I could
slip out and in without trampling them down; and naebody would think o'
seeking ye there, faither."
Lady Polwarth shuddered, and Sir Patrick pressed the cheek of his lovely
daughter to his lips.
"Save us a', bairn!" said Jamie, "there's surely something no earthly
about yer young laddyship, for ye hae mair sense than us a' put
thegither. The aisle is the very place. I'll steal awa, and hae a kind
o' bed put up in it, and tak ither twa or three bits o' necessary
things; and, Sir Patrick, ye'll slip out o' the house and meet me there
as soon as possible."
Within an hour, Sir Patrick had joined Jamie Winter in the dark and
dismal aisle. The humble bed was soon and silently fitted up, and the
faithful servant, wishing his master "farewell," left him alone in his
dreary prison-house. Slow and heavily the hours of darkness moved on. He
heard the trampling of the troopers' horses galloping in quest of him.
The oaths and the imprecations of the riders fell distinctly on his
ears. Amidst such sounds he heard them mention his name. But his heart
failed not. He knelt down upon the cold damp floor of his
hiding-place--upon the bones of his fathers--and there, in soundless,
but earnest prayer, supplicated his father's God to protect his
family--to save his country--to forgive his persecutors, and to do with
him as seemed good in his sight. He arose; and, laying himself upon his
cold and comfortless bed, slept calmly. He awoke shivering and benumbed.
Faint streaks of light stole into the place of death through its narrow
aperture, dimly revealing the ghastly sights of the charnel-house, and
the slow reptiles that crawled along the floor. Again night came on, and
the shadows of light, if I may use the expression, which revealed his
cell, died away. A second morning had come, and a second time the feeble
rays had been lost in utter darkness. It was near midnight, and the
slender stock of provisions which he had brought with him were nigh
exhausted. He started from his lowly couch--he heard a rustling among
the weeds at the mouth of the aisle--he heard some one endeavouring to
remove the fragment of an old gravestone that covered it.
"Faither!" whispered an eager voice--"faither--it is me--yer ain
Grizel!"
"My own, devoted, my matchless child!" said Sir Patrick, stretching his
hands towards the aperture, and receiving her in his arms.
She sat down beside him on the bed--she detailed the search of the
troopers--she stated that they were watched in their own house--that a
spy was set over the very victuals that came from their table, lest he
should be concealed near, and fed by his family.
"But what of that?" continued the light-hearted and heroic girl; "while
my plate is supplied, my faither's shall not be empty; and here," added
she, laughing--"here is a flask of wine, cakes, and a sheep's-head. But
I will tell you a story about the sheep's-head. It was placed on a plate
before me at dinner-time. The servant was out o' the room, naebody was
looking, and I whupped it into my apron. Little Sandy wanted a piece,
and, turning round for it, and missing the head, 'Ah, mother!' he cried,
'our Grizzy has swallowed a sheep's-head, bones and a', in a
moment!'--'Wheesht, laddie!' said my mother; 'eat ye next ane
then.'--'Oh, ye greedy Grizzy!' said Sandy, shaking his little nieve in
my face, 'I'll mind you for this.'--'I'm sure Sandy will ne'er forget
me,' said I, and slipped away out to hide the sheep's-head in my own
room; and as soon as I thought naebody was astir, I creeped out quietly
by the window, and got down here behint the hedges; and I'll come every
nicht, faither. But last nicht the troopers were still about the house."
In spite of his misery, Sir Patrick laughed at the ingenuity of his
beloved and heroic daughter; then wept and laughed again, and pressed
her to his bosom.
He had passed many weeks in this cheerless dungeon, with no companion
during the day save a volume of Buchanan's Psalms; but every night he
was visited by his intrepid daughter, who at once supplied him with
food, and beguiled the hours of his solitude. He was sitting in the
gloomy cell, conning over his favourite volume--the stone at the
aperture had been pushed aside a few inches to admit the light more
freely, and the weeds at the entrance were now bowed down and withered
by the frost--a few boys were playing in the churchyard, and tossing a
ball against the kirk. Being driven from the hand of an unskilful
player, it suddenly bounded into the aisle. Sir Patrick started, and the
book dropped from his hand. Immediately the aperture was surrounded by
the boys, and the stone removed. They stood debating who should enter,
but none had sufficient courage. At length one more hardy than the rest
volunteered to enter, if another would follow him. The laird gave
himself up as lost, for he knew that even the tale of a schoolboy would
effect his ruin. He was aware he could disperse them with a single
groan; but even that, when told to his enemies, might betray him. At
length three agreed to enter, and the feet of the first already
protruded into the aisle. Sir Patrick crept silently to its farthest
corner, when the gruff voice of the old gravedigger reached his ear,
shouting--
"The mischief's in the callants, and nae guid. What are ye doing there?
Do ye want the ghaists o' the auld Humes aboot yer lugs?"
The boys fled amain, and the old man came growling to the mouth of the
aisle.
"The deevil's in the bairns o' Polwarth," said he; "for they wad disturb
the very dead in their graves. I'll declare, they've the stane frae the
mouth o' the aisle!"
He stooped down, and Sir Patrick saw his grim visage through the
aperture, and heard him thus continue his soliloquy, as he replaced the
stone--
"Sorrow tak the hands that moved the stane! Ye're hardly worth the
covering up again, for ye're a profitless hole to me; and I fancy him
that I should lay in ye next, be he whaur he likes, will gang the gate
that his freend Bailie gaed yesterday on a scaffold. A gravedigger's a
puir bisness, I am sorry to say, in our king's reign; and the fient a
ane thrives but the common executioner."
So saying, he enveloped Sir Patrick in utter darkness. That night Grizel
and her father left the aisle together, and from her he learned the
particulars of what he had heard muttered by the gravedigger, that his
friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode, had been executed the previous day.
Disguised, and in the character of a surgeon, he by byways reached
London, and from thence fled to France. On the death of Charles, and
when the bigot James ascended the throne, Sir Patrick was one of the
leaders of the band of patriots who drew their swords in behalf of a
Protestant succession.
That enterprise was unsuccessful; and, after contending, almost
singlehanded, against the enemies of his religion and his country, he
and his family sought refuge in a foreign land. He assumed the name of
Dr Peter Wallace, and they took up their abode in Utrecht. There poverty
and privations sought and found the exiles. They had parted with every
domestic, and the lovely Grizel was the sole servant and helper of her
mother, and, when their work was done, the assistant of her father in
the education of the younger children; for he had no longer the means of
providing them a tutor. Yet theirs was a family of love--a family of
happiness; and poverty purified their affections. But their remittances
from Scotland were not only scanty but uncertain. Till now Sir Patrick
had borne his misfortunes with resignation, and even cheerfulness; he
cared not that he was stripped of attendants, and of every luxury of
life; yet at times the secret and unbidden tears would start into his
eyes, as he beheld his wife and his fair daughter performing, without a
murmur, the most menial offices. But the measure of his trials was not
yet full--luxuries were not only denied him, but he was without food to
set before his children. The father wept, and his spirit heaved with
anguish. Grizel beheld his tears, and she knew the cause. She spoke not;
but, hastening to her little cabinet, she took from it a pair of
jewelled bracelets, and, wrapping herself up in a cloak, she took a
basket under her arm, and hurried to the street. The gentle being glided
along the streets of Utrecht, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and
shunning the glance of the passengers, as if each knew her errand. She
stood before a shop in which all manner of merchandise was exposed, and
three golden balls were suspended over the door. She cast a timid gaze
into the shop--thrice she passed and repassed it, and repeated the timid
glance. She entered--she placed the bracelets upon the counter.
"How much?" was the laconic question of the shopman.
Grizel burst into tears. He handed her a sum of money across the
counter, and deposited the bracelets in his desk. She bounded from the
shop with a heart and a step light as a young bird in its first pride of
plumage. She hastened home with her basket filled. She placed it upon
the table. Lady Polwarth wept, and fell upon her daughter's neck.
"Where have you been, Grizel?" faltered her father.
"Purchasing provisions for a bauble," said she; and the smile and the
tear were seen on her cheek together.
But many were the visits which the gentle Grizel had to pay to the
Golden Balls, while one piece of plate was pledged after another, that
her father, and her mother, and her brethren, might eat, and not die;
and even then the table of Sir Patrick, humble as it was, and
uncertainly provided for, was open to the needy of his countrymen. Thus
three years passed--the memorable 1688 arrived. Sir Patrick was the
friend, the counsellor, and supporter of King William--he arrived with
him in England--he shared in his triumph. He was created Lord Polwarth,
and appointed Sheriff of Berwickshire; and in 1696, though not a lawyer,
but an upright man, he was made Lord Chancellor of Scotland, and created
Earl of Marchmont, and Lord of Polwarth, Redbraes, and Greenlaw. He was
one of the most ardent promoters of the Union; and with it ceased his
political career. In 1710, when the Tories came into power, the earl
being the staunchest Whig in Scotland, he was deprived of the office of
Sheriff of Berwickshire, but was reinstated in 1715. His lady being
dead, he came to take up his residence in Berwick-upon-Tweed; and there,
when the heroic Grizel, who was now a wife and a mother (being married
to the son of his unfortunate friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode), came
with her children and friends to visit him for the last time, as they
danced in the hall, though unable to walk, he desired to be carried into
the midst of them, and, beating time with his foot--
"See, Grizel," exclaimed the old patriot, "though your father is unable
to dance, he can still beat time with his foot."
Shortly after this, he died in Berwick, on the 1st of August, 1724, in
the eighty-third year of his age--leaving behind him an example of
piety, courage, and patriotism, worthy the imitation of posterity.
THE SERJEANT'S TALES.
THE PACKMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON.
At the next opportunity, I got Serjeant Square to resume the narrative
of his adventures.
No feeling that the human mind is called upon to sustain (said he) is
more depressing than the consciousness of being alone in a strange place
without friend or acquaintance--the populous city and the desert are
alike lonely. I have been, in the wildernesses of America and in London,
the victim of this saddening sensation, and felt it perhaps less keenly
when a solitary wanderer in the trackless wilds; for there bodily
exertion, and the hopes of soon being in the haunts of men, deadened its
force; while, in the populous city, I felt as if I had, after severe
suffering and toil, attained an object to me worse than worthless.
Amidst the densest crowds, after all, a man can only feel himself truly
alone when no hand is held out to him, no eye beams the glance of
recognition, and all is strange as a dream. Such were my feelings on the
morning after my arrival in Berwick, on my way to London on foot.
Fortune had been adverse to me in my native city, Edinburgh--in truth, I
had hitherto been her plaything; and, even now, had no definite object
in view. Tired of my walk, I had agreed with the captain of a trader for
my passage by sea, for the remainder of my journey; and lay upon my bed,
awaiting the morning light, a prey to my feelings, and musing upon my
chequered fortunes. The wind began gradually to rise and mourn sadly
through the windows and in the chimney of the room where I lay. As the
morning advanced, the storm increased and raged, so that no vessel could
put to sea. After walking down to the harbour, I returned back to my
inn, half resolved not to proceed to the south, but return to Leith in a
vessel that was also ready to sail, loaded with grain. I felt myself as
if I had been a child, without a will of my own, not caring what became
of me. Had I been seized with a mortal disease, I would, I thought, have
welcomed death as a relief; so completely had my spirits, somehow or
other, become depressed. How I escaped the pressgang, I have often
wondered since; for they were very diligent in impressing seamen at this
time, and I was in seamen's clothes. Perhaps the fearless manner in
which I walked about had led them and the informers to suppose that I
had a protection, or was belonging to some ship, and at large on leave
of absence.
After breakfast, as I sat conversing with one of the captains about the
weather and other trivial matters, a person entered the room with a pack
upon his back, and inquired if any of the gentlemen would be so kind as
look over his assortment of goods; strongly recommending some silk
handkerchiefs.
"No," said the person with whom I was conversing, gruffly. "I want none
of your goods. You packmen are all swindling knaves."
"Not all knaves, my good sir. There are knaves in all trades, I allow;
but there are honest men, too." And, addressing himself to me, he
repeated his request.
His voice at first had sounded in my ears like some well-known sound,
and roused my attention; but in vain I endeavoured to call to mind where
I had heard it. I had not yet looked towards him; but the instant I did,
a mutual recognition took place. He set his pack upon one of the tables
of the tap-room. Our hands were clasped in each other's. "Square!" and
"Wilson!" were uttered with mutual feelings of joy and surprise. I had
met a companion of my early days and sufferings. Often had we spent the
long and chilling winter nights, huddled together to keep each other
warm, in the snuggest corner we could find; hungry and ill clothed,
often had we shared the precarious morsel of charity with each other,
when either could have devoured it all. We had not met since I had first
left Edinburgh, many years before; and, if a tear was shed for my
mysterious disappearance, it was by Bill Wilson. A glow of pleasure,
such as I had never felt before, thawed the icy feeling that had chilled
my mind. How delightful must some of the stronger affections be, when
the meeting of an early associate can cause so much pleasure! We stood
gazing in silence upon each other for some time, ere we could find words
to express our feelings. At length they were poured forth in
congratulations and kind inquiries. To be alone, we retired to my
bedroom, where I gave him a full account of all that had befallen me
since we last met, and the present unsettled state of my resolves. He
heard me with varying interest, until I had concluded.
"Square," said he, "you have been sorely knocked about, a passive agent,
without an object, save to enjoy or suffer the present hour. Now, to
succeed, we must have an aim, and hold it in sight, whatever may befall;
even should it often elude our grasp, we must not despair or relinquish
it for another. My wish is an old age of independence. I may die this
night, or I may live until old age has long impaired my energies. To
obtain this, my wish, I have, from circumstances, chosen my present
calling; nor have I allowed the most adverse fortune to shake my
resolve, or change my method of recovering it; for perseverance is the
only road that leads to success. Fortune placed you in America at your
outset in life. You forsook the path others have trod in with success.
You prospered at sea, and threw the golden opportunity away for a whim;
a third time you were placed in fortune's way; a dark cloud passed over
it; you gave way to your feelings, and are once more, with years of lost
time, where you commenced."
As he spoke, a feeling anything but gratifying passed over my mind. I
felt that what he said was strictly true; that I had been living, until
now, without an aim, either of avarice or ambition--my thoughts never
having extended to the future, nor a care for to-morrow having ever
occupied my mind. His cares, again, were all for to-morrow. This
difference could not have arisen from education; for in this we were
both alike. He, in short, had more prudence. But to proceed. I requested
him to give me an account of the manner in which he had lived since we
had been separated.
"You know, John," he began, "that we were twins in adversity upon the
streets of Edinburgh, equally friendless and penniless. After your
departure, I felt for a few days very sad and lonely. I sought you
everywhere in vain, and made every inquiry; but who cared aught about a
homeless beggar-boy? Had a dog as strangely disappeared, the public
crier would have proclaimed him through the streets. I began, young as I
was, seriously to reflect upon my desolate situation, and plan in my
mind ways to mend it. The childish wishes we had often formed of being
rich, and the happy dreams of what we would do if we were so, rose with
tenfold force into my memory, and I resolved to be rich; but how to
attain my aim was the rub. Wishing, I knew well, brought no gain. It
must be toiled for, and steadily pursued. A tradesman I could not hope
to be. No one would receive me for my labour during my apprenticeship,
and clothe and feed me; and I was too young and weak for labouring work
in town or country. There was one way alone open to me--to commence
merchant. You may smile at the word; but you shall see. It was not my
choice; but what have the poor to do with choice? My object now was to
obtain a capital to commence business upon. I was far from fortunate. It
was nearly a month before I had accumulated a groat; yet my labour and
anxiety were intense. No gentleman appeared on horseback in the city,
whom I did not follow, in anxious hopes to get, by holding his horse, a
penny, to increase my capital. In messages I was more indefatigable than
usual. No length of space or weight of load daunted me, if a penny was
to be earned; but it appeared to my eager mind that the gentlemen, at
this time, required less service than usual, and those that employed me
were more liberal of their food than halfpence. Still I steadily held on
unflinching, adding halfpenny to halfpenny, my mind a prey to a new
fear, that of losing my treasure. But I had joys mixed with my fears;
for, when I retired to a quiet corner, and counted again and again my
increasing store, what a pleasure I felt in adding a halfpenny to it,
and carefully wrapping up the paper! When I had reached my eightpence, I
could delay my undertaking no longer. I felt I had attained my first
step; and, with a feeling of importance to be envied, proceeded to a
bookseller's shop, and purchased ballads, of which I got, for my groat,
one dozen and three, with a piece of paper to wrap them in, and left the
shop, exulting that I was now a merchant, and had goods to dispose of.
"As it was not my intention to sing them on the streets--for from this
my pride revolted--I set off in the direction of Lasswade, calling at
every door to offer my wares. In two days I had sold off my whole stock,
and returned to town for more ballads. After a time, I added other small
books, and my trade prospered amazingly. My living cost me nothing; my
voice was good, and a supper and bed to the pedlar-boy, were the
purchase of my songs, at the cottar's or the farmer's ingle. During the
first year my two groats had grown to nearly a pound, and my ambition
had grown with it. Pins, tapes, and thread were added to my store; my
excursions were extended, and Bill Wilson was a known and a welcome
guest over the whole county of Mid-Lothian. My toil was great, but my
strength seemed to increase with my load. I had now in view my second
step in advance, a horse and cart to carry my load. Years had passed on;
my pack, worth twenty pounds, was all my own, and I had two pounds in my
pocket; it was far on in the year, and the day was short and louring. I
had some goods bespoke for a bridal, which required to be delivered on
the following day. My route lay over the Soutra Hill; and had the
weather kept up, my task was easy of accomplishment--so I cheerily
plodded on, counting my gains; but scarce had I reached the ascent, when
the wind began to moan along the dreary waste, and thin flakes of snow
to fall, while the blast, from the east, blew right in my face. I
quickened my pace; but the storm increased before I reached the top, the
drifting snow blinding me, and the fitful gusts almost lifting me off my
feet. Cold and biting as was the air, I was wet with perspiration, from
my load and my struggles against the blast. I could not see two yards
before me; I was truly alone in the howling waste, yet I yielded not to
despondency, but struggled on for life. I had, it seemed, deviated from
the road, for all was now a trackless waste, when suddenly I stumbled
and fell on the edge of a declivity, and my pack, the whole of my
wealth, bounded from me, in what direction I knew not. It was vain to
look for it in such a situation, in such a storm; but what is wealth
under such circumstances, when life is scarcely to be hoped for?