everywhere among both parties extorting the groan or the yell, pulled
down the proudest and the bravest; but their places were not seen after
their heads fell, for the mass was so thick that there scarcely seemed
room for the arm to do the work of the will. Still victory boded well
for Buccleugh; and again, as the opposing party began to recede, the
cries commenced, "Bellenden! Bellenden!" but they were not destined to
be many times repeated. A loud cheer came from the king's party, even
when they were retiring. It was soon explained. They were being joined
by the two clans of the Homes and Kers, who had come up hot with revenge
against their old enemy, but with less loyalty than possessed by Scott.
The onset of the newcomers was a repetition of that of the Borderers,
fierce, and bearing the aspect of victory before it was won.
All this was seen by the mistress of Darnick, and heard by Heiton with
the feelings of a caged lion. It was now her time, she saw how victory
pointed. It was impossible for Buccleugh to hold out.
"Now," she said, "thou knowest whom to fight for with safety. Ere a
quarter-of-an-hour the king's party will prevail. Get thee into the
thick of the fight, but as far from Wat Scott as you can. Thou'lt save
thy head and thy lands, without injuring thy old friend."
The portal was opened, and the master of Darnick was soon fighting
desperately in the ranks of the king, his nervous arm dealing death at
every stroke. "Heiton to the rescue!" was sounded; and his retainers,
returning, took the Scotts in flank. This movement was decisive. In a
short time the Borderers were in retreat, and the wounded of the king's
party conveyed to the tower, where the kind attentions and hospitality
of the laird hastened their recovery.
The policy of the mistress of Darnick was soon apparent from the
treatment inflicted not only upon the retainers of Scott, but on all
those who did not come forward to the help of Angus;[15] and it was this
latter consequence, foreseen by her, which dictated her stratagem. She
knew that it was necessary for Heiton to be on the one side or the
other; and the good effects of her wisdom were shown in another way.
About thirty years after the battle of Darnick, a new charter was
bestowed on Heiton; a good sign that he was held in remembrance for
having been found in the ranks of the king; that charter was, no doubt,
not by James, who was supposed to favour the design of Scott, but by
Mary, whose counsellors were not led by these distinctions, and who
looked only at the open evidences of loyalty.
[Footnote 15: Scott himself was outlawed.--ED.]
THE BROKEN HEART.
A TALE OF THE REBELLION.
Early in the November of 1745, the news reached Cambridge that Charles
Stewart, at the head of his hardy and devoted Highlanders, had crossed
the Borders, and taken possession of Carlisle. The inhabitants gazed
upon each other with terror, for the swords of the clansmen had
triumphed over all opposition; they were regarded, also, by the
multitude as savages, and by the more ignorant as cannibals. But there
were others who rejoiced in the success of the young adventurer, and
who, dangerous as it was to confess their joy, took but small pains to
conceal it. Amongst these was James Dawson, the son of a gentleman in
the north of Lancashire, and then a student at St John's College. That
night he invited a party of friends to sup with him, who entertained
sentiments similar to his own. The cloth was withdrawn, and he rose and
gave, as the toast of the evening, "_Prince Charles, and success to
him_!" His guests, fired with his own enthusiasm, rose, and received the
toast with cheers. The bottle went round, the young men drank deep, and
other toasts of a similar nature followed. The song succeeded the toast,
and James Dawson sang the following, which seemed to be the composition
of the day:--
"Free o'er the Borders the tartan is streaming,
The dirk is unsheath'd, and the claymore is gleaming,
The prince and his clansmen in triumph advance,
Nor needs he the long-promised succours of France.
From the Cumberland mountains and Westmoreland lake,
Each brave man shall snatch up a sword for his sake;
And the 'Lancashire Witch' on her bosom shall wear
The snow-white cockade, by her lover placed there."
But while he yet sang, and as he completed but the first verse, two
constables and three or four soldiers burst into the room, and denounced
them as traitors and as their prisoners.
"Down with them!" exclaimed James Dawson, springing forward, and
snatching down a sword which was suspended over the mantelpiece. The
students vigorously resisted the attempt to make them prisoners, and
several of them, with their entertainer, escaped.
He concealed himself for a short time, when, his horse being brought, he
took the road towards Manchester, in order to join the ranks of the
adventurer. It was about mid-day on the 29th when he reached the town,
which is now the emporium of the manufacturing world. On proceeding down
Market Street, he perceived a confused crowd, some uttering threats, and
others with consternation expressed on their countenance; and, in the
midst of the multitude, was Serjeant Dickson, a young woman, and a
drummer-boy, beating up for recruits. The white cockade streamed from
the hat of the serjeant; the populace vented their indignation against
him, but no man dared to seize him, for he continued to turn round and
round, with a blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd on all sides,
and threatening to shoot the first man that approached, who was not
ready to serve the Prince, and to mount the white cockade. The young
woman carried a supply of the ribands in her hand, and ever and anon
waved them in triumph, exclaiming, "Charlie yet!" Some dozen recruits
already followed at the heels of the serjeant. James Dawson spurred his
horse through the crowd.
"Give me one of your favours," said he, addressing the serjeant.
"Ay, a dozen, your honour," replied Dickson.
He received the riband, and tied it to his breast, and placed another at
his horse's head. His conduct had an effect upon the multitude; numbers
flocked around the serjeant; his favours became exhausted; and when the
Prince and the army entered the town in the evening, he brought before
him a hundred and eighty men, which he had that day enlisted.
The little band so raised were formed into what was called the
Manchester Regiment, of which the gallant Townly was made colonel, and
James Dawson one of the captains.
Our business at present is not with the movements of Charles Edward; nor
need we describe his daring march towards Derby, which struck terror
throughout all England, and for a time seemed to shake the throne and
the dynasty; nor dwell upon the particulars of his masterly retreat
towards Scotland--suffice it to say, that on the 19th of December the
Highland army again entered Carlisle.
On the following morning they evacuated it; but the Manchester Regiment,
which was now composed of about three hundred men, was left as a
garrison to defend the town against the entire army of proud Cumberland.
They were devoted as a sacrifice, that the prince and the main army
might be saved. The dauntless Townly, and the young and gallant Dawson,
were not ignorant of the desperateness and the hopelessness of their
situation; but they strove to impart their own heroism to the garrison,
and to defend the town to the last. On the morning of the 21st, the
entire array of the Duke of Cumberland arrived before Carlisle, and took
possession of the fortifications that commanded it. He ordered the
garrison to surrender, and they answered him by a discharge of musketry.
They had withstood a siege of ten days, during which time Cumberland had
erected batteries, and procured cannon from Whitehaven; before their
fire the decaying and neglected walls of the city gave way, to hold out
another day was impossible; and there was no resource left for the
devoted band but to surrender or perish. On the 30th, a white flag was
hoisted on the ramparts. On its being perceived, the cannon ceased to
play upon the town, and a messenger was sent to the Duke of Cumberland,
to inquire what terms he would grant to the garrison.
"Tell them," he replied, haughtily, "I offer no terms but these--that
they shall not be put to the sword, but they shall be reserved for His
Majesty to deal with them as he may think proper."
There was no alternative, and these doubtful and evasive terms were
accepted. The garrison were disarmed, and under a numerous guard placed
in the cathedral.
James Dawson and seventeen others were conveyed to London, and cast into
prison, to wait the will of His Majesty. Till now his parents were
ignorant of the fate of their son, though they had heard of his being
compelled to flee from the university, and feared that he had joined the
standard of the Prince. Too soon their worst fears were realised, and
the truth revealed to them. But there was another who trembled for him,
whose heart felt keenly as a parent's--she who was to have been his
wife, to whom his hand was plighted and his heart given. Fanny Lester
was a young and gentle being, and she had known James Dawson from their
childhood. Knowledge ripened to affection, and their hearts were twined
together. On the day on which she was made acquainted with his
imprisonment, she hastened to London to comfort him--to cheer his gloomy
solitude--at the foot of the throne to sue for his pardon.
She arrived at the metropolis--she was conducted to the prison-house,
and admitted. On entering the gloomy apartment in which he was confined,
she screamed aloud, she raised her hands, and springing forward, fell
upon his neck and wept.
"My own Fanny!" he exclaimed, "you here! Weep not, my sweet one--come,
be comforted--there is hope--every hope--I shall not die--my own Fanny,
be comforted."
"Yes!--yes, there is hope!--the king will pardon you," she exclaimed.
"He will spare my James--I will implore your life at his feet!"
"Nay, nay, love--say not the king," interrupted the young enthusiast for
the house of Stewart; "it will be but imprisonment till all is
over--the _Elector_ cannot seek my life."
He strove long and earnestly to persuade, to assure her, that his life
was not in danger--that he would be saved--and what she wished she
believed. The jailer entered, and informed them it was time that she
should depart; and again sinking her head upon his breast, she wept
"goodnight."
But each day she revisited him, and they spoke of his deliverance
together. At times, too, she told him with tears of the efforts she had
made to obtain his pardon--of her attempts to gain admission to the
presence of the king--of the repulses she met with--of her applications
to the nobility connected with the court--of the insult and inhumanity
she met with from some--the compassion she experienced from others--the
interest that they took in his fate, and the hopes and the promises
which they held out. Upon those hopes and those promises she fondly
dwelt. She looked into his eyes to perceive the hope that they kindled
there, and as joy beamed from them, she half forgot that his life hung
upon the word of a man.
But his parents came to visit him; hers followed her, and they joined
their efforts to hers, and anxiously, daily, almost hourly, they exerted
their energies to obtain his pardon. His father possessed an influence
in electioneering matters in Lancashire, and hers could exercise the
same in an adjoining county. That influence was now urged--the members
they had supported were importuned. They promised to employ their best
exertions. Whatever the feelings or principles of the elder Dawson might
be, he had never avowed disaffection openly--he had never evinced a
leaning to the family of Stewart--he had supported the government of the
day; and the father of Fanny Lester was an upholder of the house of
Hanover. The influence of all their relatives, and of all their friends,
was brought into action; peers and commoners were supplicated, and they
pledged their intercession. Men high in office took an interest in the
fate of James Dawson, or professed to take it; promises, half official,
were held out; and when his youth, the short time that he had been
engaged in the rebellion, and the situation that he held in the army of
the Adventurer, were considered, no one doubted but that his pardon was
certain--that he would not be brought to trial. Even his parents felt
assured; but the word of the king was not passed.
They began to look forward to the day of his deliverance with
impatience, but still with certainty. There was but one heart that
feared, and it throbbed in the bosom of poor Fanny. She would start from
her sleep, crying, "Save him!--save him!" as she fancied she beheld them
dragging him to execution. In order to soothe her, her parents and his,
in the confidence that pardon would be extended to him, agreed that the
day of his liberation should be the day of their bridal. She knew their
affection, and her heart struggled with her fears to believe the
"flattering tale."
James tried also to cheer her; he believed that his life would be
spared; he endeavoured to smile and to be happy.
"Fear not my own Fanny," he would say; "your apprehensions are idle. The
Elector----"
And here his father would interfere. "Speak not so, my son," said the
old man earnestly--"speak not against princes in your bedchamber, for a
bird of the air can carry the tidings. Your life is in the hands of a
king--of a merciful one, and it is safe--only speak not thus!--do not,
as you love me--as you love our Fanny, do not."
Then would they chase away her fears, and speak of the arrangements for
the bridal; and Fanny would smile pensively while James held her hand in
his, and as he gazed on her finger he raised it to his lips, as though
he took the measure of the ring.
But "hope deferred maketh the heart sick;" and though they still
retained their confidence that he would be pardoned, yet their anxiety
increased, and Fanny's heart seemed unable longer to contain its agony
and suspense. More than six months had passed, but still no pardon came
for James Dawson. The fury of the civil war was spent, the royal
Adventurer had escaped, the vengeance of the sword was satisfied, and
the law of the conquerors, and the scaffolds of the law, called for the
blood of those whom the sword had saved. The soldier laid down his
weapon, and the executioner took up his. On the leaders of the
Manchester regiment the vengeance of the bloodthirsty law first fell. It
was on the evening of the 14th of July, 1746, James Dawson sat in his
prison; Fanny sat by his side, with her hand in his, and his parents
were ready also, when the jailer entered, and ordered him to prepare to
hold himself in readiness for his trial in the court-house at St.
Margaret's, Southwark, on the following day. His father groaned--his
mother exclaimed, "My son!"--but Fanny sat motionless. No tear was in
her eye--no muscle in her countenance moved. Her fingers grasped his
with a firmer pressure--but she evinced no other symptom of having heard
the mandate that was delivered. They rose to depart, and a low deep sigh
issued from her bosom; but she showed no sign of violent grief; her
feelings were already exhausted--her heart could bear no more.
On the following day, eighteen victims, with the gallant Townly at their
head, were brought forth for trial before a grand jury. Amongst them,
and as one of the chief, was James Dawson. Fanny had insisted on being
present. She heard the word _guilty_ pronounced with a yet deeper apathy
than she had evinced at the announcement of his trial. She folded her
hands upon her bosom, her lips moved as in prayer, but she shed not a
single tear, she breathed not a single sigh. She arose, she beckoned to
her attendants, and accompanied them from the court-house.
Still his friends entertained the hope that the Pardon Power might be
moved--they redoubled their exertions--they increased their
importunities--they were willing to make any sacrifice so that his life
might be but saved--and even then, at the eleventh hour, they hoped
against hope. But Fanny yielded not to the vain thought. Day after day
she sat by her lover's side, and she, in her turn, became his comforter.
She no longer spoke of their bridal--but she spoke of eternity; she
spoke of their meeting where the ambition, the rivalry, and the power of
princes should be able to cast no cloud over the happiness of the soul.
Fourteen days had passed, and during that he betrayed no sign of terror;
she evinced none of a woman's weakness. She seemed to have mastered her
griefs, and her soul was prepared to meet them. Yet, save only when she
spoke to him, her soul appeared entranced, and her body lifeless. On the
29th of July an order was brought for the execution of the victims on
the following day. James Dawson bowed his head to the officer who
delivered the warrant, and calmly answered, "I am prepared!"
The cries of his mother rang through the prison-house. She tore her
hair--she sank upon the floor--she entreated Heaven to spare her child.
His father groaned, he held the hand of his son in his, and the tears
gushed down his furrowed cheeks. Fanny alone was silent--she alone was
tranquil. No throe of agony swelled her bosom, flushed in her
countenance, or burned in her eye. She was calm, speechless, resigned.
He pressed her to his bosom, as they took their last farewell.
"Adieu!--adieu!--my own!" he cried. "My Fanny--farewell!--an eternal
farewell!"
"Nay, nay," she replied; "say not eternal--we shall meet again. 'Tis a
short farewell--I feel it--I feel it. Adieu, love!--adieu! Die firmly.
We shall meet soon."
Next morning the prisoners were to be dragged on sledges to Kensington
Common, which was the place appointed for their execution. In the first
sledge was the executioner, sitting over his pinioned victims with a
drawn sword in his hand. No priest--no minister of religion attended
them; and around the sledges followed thousands, some few expressing
sympathy, but the majority following from curiosity, and others venting
their execrations against all traitors. In the midst of the multitude
was a hackney coach, following the sledges, and in it was the gentle
Fanny Lester, accompanied by a relative and a female friend. They had
endeavoured to persuade her from the fearful trial; but she was calm,
resolute, and not to be moved, and they yielded to her wish. The coach
drew up within thirty yards of the scaffold; Fanny pulled down the
window, and leaning over it, she beheld the piles of faggots lighted
around the scaffold--she saw the flames ascend, and the soldiers form a
circle round them. She saw the victims leave the sledge; she looked upon
him whom her heart loved as he mounted the place of death, and his step
was firm, his countenance unmoved. She saw him join in prayer with his
companions, and her eyes were fixed on him as he flung papers and his
hat among the multitude. She saw the fatal signal given, and the drop
fall--she heard the horrid shout, the yell that burst from the
multitude, but not a muscle of her frame moved. She gazed calmly, as
though it had been on a bridal ceremony. She beheld the executioner
begin the barbarities which the law awards to treason--the clothes were
torn from the victims; one by one they were cut down; and the finisher
of the law with the horrid knife in his hand, proceeded to lay open
their bosoms, and taking out their hearts, flung them on the faggots
that blazed around the scaffold. The last spectacle of barbarity was
James Dawson, and when the executioner had plunged the knife in his
breast, he raised his heart in his hand, and holding it a moment before
the horror stricken and disgusted multitude, he cast it into the flames,
exclaiming, as he flung it from him, "God save King George!" Fanny
beheld this--her eyes became blind--she heard not the shout of the
multitude--she drew back her head into the coach--it dropped upon the
shoulder of her companion. "My dear! I follow thee!--I follow thee!" she
exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Sweet Jesus! receive both our
souls together!" They attempted to raise her head, to support her in
their arms, but she sank back lifeless. Her spirit had accompanied him
it loved--she died of stifled agony and a broken heart.
THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY.
"Were I to lose sight of my native hills, my heart would sink, and my
arm would wither like fern i' the winter blast."--ROB ROY.
"And so, my dear lads, you wish me to relate my passage with the
Caterans of Lochloy?" said General Dangerfield.
"Do, father; you will so oblige me," replied the younger of his two
sons.
"Well, then," continued the general, laying his hand upon the boy's
head, "you shall have it; but, remember, no interruption; I must tell my
story my own way."
"Agreed!" replied his eldest son, Edmund, a fine youth of sixteen.
"Well, to begin at the beginning:--I am a native of Scotland--born on
the Borders--of a respectable family well known there--the Jardines of
that ilk. I entered the army young, and continued there the best part of
my days. I became acquainted in very peculiar circumstances with your
angel mother, who, having succeeded to the family estates in
Northumberland, which had belonged to your uncle and godfather, I
assumed his name, that these possessions might still be inherited at
least nominally by a Dangerfield.
"I was on service during that lamentable rebellion in which so much
blood was poured out in an abortive attempt to restore a doomed race to
their kingly possessions. I fought at Culloden; and well remember, and
with horror witnessed, the cruelties that followed the victory. The
Saxons, as we were called, were in consequence execrated; and the
Highlanders burned with a fierce desire to avenge their slaughtered
friends and kinsmen. So circumstanced, it is almost unnecessary to
remark, that the government troops were peculiarly obnoxious; and it was
consequently very dangerous for them to wander to any distance from
their respective stations; as, in many instances where they had been so
foolhardy as disregard the strict injunctions on the subject, they never
returned to tell the tale.
"I had leave of absence for a short time; and I therefore quitted my
quarters, which were at Inverness, in order to spend my Christmas with
my relations in Kelso--for I was not then married. As is usual, where
friends are happy and comfortable, they were not fond of separating too
soon, and I was loth to leave the hospitable board of my entertainers;
so I lingered as long as I could, and thus made it a matter of necessity
to proceed northwards with the utmost despatch. It is a long way between
Kelso and Inverness; and I had to proceed on horseback, accompanied by a
single servant. We got on very well till we reached Glasgow, after which
the journey was both tedious and vexatious.
"On the second day after quitting the western metropolis, there came on
a great fall of snow, partially obstructing the roads, which, in those
days, were not in the very best state, even in good weather; and, after
pursuing, apparently, the proper route for at least a couple of hours, I
found that we had lost our way--no very agreeable discovery, especially
towards the close of day. However, there is nothing like putting the
best face on a thing when you cannot help it; so we boldly pushed on, in
the vain hope of at last getting into the right path. Vain it assuredly
was; for, after wandering about till it became dark, we made the
important discovery that we were just as far off as ever from escaping
from our difficulties.
"'Is not yon a light, sir?' exclaimed my servant. 'See! it is very high
up.'
"I looked up, and certainly there was a light; but from what it
proceeded I could not conjecture. It could hardly be from a house, as it
was too much elevated. I desired my servant to follow, and we made for
the mysterious place, which was with some difficulty reached; and where,
to our infinite dismay, in place of finding ourselves in the vicinity of
a house, we discovered that we were at the foot of a tremendous
precipice, and the light that had guided us was still glimmering at an
apparently inaccessible height above our heads.
"In this state of desperation, we hallooed, and made as much noise as
possible, and were speedily answered by a human voice, inquiring why we
made such a disturbance, and what we wanted. I answered,
"'Shelter for the night, and food; for we are nearly dead from hunger.'
"To this no reply was made for a few moments, when a voice again
answered,
"'Remain where you are, and I will descend and remove you from this
place of danger.'