CHAPTER I.

THE BOOK

OF

SCOTTISH STORY:

_HISTORICAL, HUMOROUS, LEGENDARY, AND IMAGINATIVE_.

SELECTED FROM THE

Works of Standard Scottish Authors.

“_Stories to read are delitable,

Suppose that they be nought but fable;

Then should stories that soothfast were,

And they were said on gude manner,

Have double pleasance in hearing._”

BARBOUR.

EDINBURGH:

THE EDINBURGH PUBLISHING COMPANY.

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED BY THE COMMERCIAL PRINTING COMPANY,

22 HOWE STREET.

PREFACE.

Next to its Ballads and Songs, the Stories of Scottish Literature are

the most characteristic exponents of the national spirit. Allowing for

the changes which time and the progress of civilization have effected in

the national manners and character since the beginning of the present

century—the era to which the Stories chiefly refer—they shall be found

to delineate the social and domestic features of Scottish life as

faithfully as the Ballads do the spirit and sentiment of an earlier age;

or as the daily press reflects, rather than portrays, those of the

present day. While Songs—the simple expressions of feelings and

sentiments, musically rendered—change, in so far as they exhibit habits

and manners, yet their form is lasting. Not so the Ballads, whose true

historical successors are Prose Stories, as Novels are those of

Romances.

Whether we account for it on the theory that a larger infusion of the

imaginative and romantic elements, characteristic of the Celtic race,

gives additional fervour to the Scottish character, or otherwise, it is

a fact that in no other community, on the same social level as that of

the peasantry and working-classes of Scotland, has this form of

literature had so enthusiastic a reception. There can be no doubt that

this widely diffused and keen appreciation, by an earnest and

self-respecting people, of Stories which are largely graphic

delineations of their own national features, has been the chief stimulus

to the production of so large and excellent a supply as our literature

contains.

The present Selection is made on the principle of giving the best

specimens of the most popular authors, with as great a variety, as to

subjects, as is compatible with these conditions.

The favourable reception of the issue in the serial form, both by the

press and the public, is looked upon by the projectors as an earnest—now

that the book is completed—that its further reception will be such as to

assure them that they have not fallen short of the aim announced in

their prospectus, viz., to form a Collection of Standard Scottish Tales

calculated to delight the imagination, to convey interesting

information, and to elevate and strengthen the moral principles of the

young.

EDINBURGH, _August 1876_.

CONTENTS.

The Henpecked Man, _John Mackay Wilson_

Duncan Campbell, _James Hogg_

The Lily of Liddisdale, _Professor Wilson_

The Unlucky Present, _Robert Chambers_

The Sutor of Selkirk “_The Odd Volume_,”

Elsie Morrice, _Aberdeen Censor_,

How I won the Laird’s Daughter, _Daniel Gorrie_

Moss-Side, _Professor Wilson_

My First Fee, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

The Kirk of Tullibody, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

The Progress of Inconstancy, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

Adam Bell, _James Hogg_

Mauns’ Stane; or, Mine Host’s Tale, _Aberdeen Censor_,

The Freebooter of Lochaber, _Sir Thomas Dick

Lauder_

An Hour in the Manse, _Professor Wilson_

The Warden of the Marches, _Edin. Literary

Gazette_,

The Alehouse Party, “_The Odd Volume_,”

Auchindrane; or, the Ayrshire Tragedy, _Sir Walter Scott_

A Tale of the Plague in Edinburgh, _Robert Chambers_

The Probationer’s First Sermon, _Daniel Gorrie_

The Crimes of Richard Hawkins, _Thomas Aird_

The Headstone, _Professor Wilson_

The Widow’s Prediction, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

The Lady of Waristoun, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

A Tale of Pentland, _James Hogg_

Graysteel _John o’ Groat

Journal_,

The Billeted Soldier, _Eminent Men of Fife_,

Bruntfield, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

Sunset and Sunrise, _Professor Wilson_

Miss Peggy Brodie, _Andrew Picken_

The Death of a Prejudice, _Thomas Aird_

Anent Auld Grandfaither, &c., _D. M. Moir_

John Brown; or, the House in the Muir, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

Traditions of the Old Tolbooth of Edinburgh, _Robert Chambers_

The Lover’s Last Visit, _Professor Wilson_

Mary Queen of Scots and Chatelar, _Literary Souvenir_,

A Night in Duncan M‘Gowan’s, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

The Miller and the Freebooter, _Sir Thomas Dick

Lauder_

Benjie’s Christening, _D. M. Moir_

The Minister’s Widow, _Professor Wilson_

The Battle of the Breeks, _Robert Macnish_

My Sister Kate, _Andrew Picken_

Wat the Prophet, _James Hogg_

The Snow-Storm, _Professor Wilson_

Love at one Glimpse, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

Nanny Welsh, the Minister’s Maid, _Daniel Gorrie_

Lady Jean, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

The Monkey, _Robert Macnish_

The Ladder-Dancer, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

The Elder’s Death-Bed, _Professor Wilson_

A Highland Feud, _Sir Walter Scott_

The Resurrection Men, _D. M. Moir_

Mary Wilson, _Aberdeen Censor_,

The Laird of Cassway, _James Hogg_

The Elder’s Funeral, _Professor Wilson_

Macdonald, the Cattle-Riever, _Literary Gazette_,

The Murder Hole, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

The Miller of Doune, “_The Odd Volume_,”

The Headless Cumins, _Sir Thomas Dick

Lauder_

The Lady Isabel, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

The Desperate Duel, _D. M. Moir_

The Vacant Chair, _John Mackay Wilson_

Colkittoch, _Literary Gazette_,

The Covenanters, _Robert Macnish_

The Poor Scholar, _Professor Wilson_

The Crushed Bonnet, _Glasgow Athenæum_,

The Villagers of Auchincraig, _Daniel Gorrie_

Perling Joan, _John Gibson Lockhart_

Janet Smith, _Professor Thomas

Gillespie_

The Unlucky Top Boots, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

My First and Last Play, _D. M. Moir_

Jane Malcolm, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

Bowed Joseph, _Robert Chambers_

The Laird of Wineholm, _James Hogg_

An Incident in the Great Moray Floods of 1829, _Sir Thomas Dick

Lauder_

Charlie Graham, the Tinker, _George Penny_

The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

Ezra Peden, _Allan Cunningham_

Young Ronald of Morar, _Literary Gazette_,

The Broken Ring, “_The Odd Volume_,”

A Passage of My Life, _Paisley Magazine_,

The Court Cave, _Drummond Bruce_

Helen Waters, _John Malcolm_

Legend of the Large Mouth, _Robert Chambers_

Richard Sinclair; or, the Poor Prodigal, _Thomas Aird_

The Barley Fever—and Rebuke, _D. M. Moir_

Elphin Irving, the Fairies’ Cupbearer, _Allan Cunningham_

Choosing a Minister, _John Galt_

The Meal Mob, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

The Flitting, “_My Grandfather’s

Farm_,”

Ewen of the Little Head, _Literary Gazette_,

Basil Rolland, _Aberdeen Censor_,

The Last of the Jacobites, _Robert Chambers_

The Grave-Digger’s Tale, “_The Auld Kirk Yard_,”

The Fairy Bride, _Edin. Literary

Journal_,

The Lost Little Ones, “_The Odd Volume_,”

An Orkney Wedding, _John Malcolm_

The Ghost with the Golden Casket, _Allan Cunningham_

Ranald of the Hens, _Literary Gazette_,

The French Spy, _John Galt_

The Minister’s Beat, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,

A Scottish Gentlewoman of the Last Century, _Miss Ferrier_

The Faithless Nurse, _Edin. Literary

Gazette_,

Traditions of the Celebrated Major Weir, _Robert Chambers_

The Windy Yule, _John Galt_

Grizel Cochrane, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

The Fatal Prayer, _Literary Melange_,

Glenmannow, the Strong Herdsman, _William Bennet_

My Grandmother’s Portrait, _Daniel Gorrie_

The Baptism, _Professor Wilson_

The Laird’s Wooing, _John Galt_

Thomas the Rhymer, _Sir Walter Scott_

Lachlan More, _Literary Gazette_,

Alemoor, _Chambers’s Edin.

Journal_,

Tibby Fowler, _John Mackay Wilson_

Daniel Cathie, Tobacconist, _Edin. Literary

Almanac_,

The Haunted Ships, _Allan Cunningham_

A Tale of the Martyrs, _James Hogg_

The Town Drummer, _John Galt_

The Awful Night, _D. M. Moir_

Rose Jamieson, _Anon._

A Night at the Herring Fishing, _Hugh Miller_

The Twin Sisters, _Alexander Balfour_

Albert Bane, _Henry Mackenzie_

The Penny Wedding, _Alexander Campbell_

Peat-Casting Time, _Thomas Gillespie_

An Adventure with the Press-Gang, _Paisley Magazine_,

The Laird of Cool’s Ghost, _Old Chap Book_,

Allan-a-Sop, _Sir Walter Scott_

John Hetherington’s Dream, _Old Chap Book_,

Black Joe o’ the Bow, _James Smith_

The Fight for the Standard, _James Paterson_

Catching a Tartar, _D. M. Moir_

THE BOOK OF

SCOTTISH STORY.

THE HENPECKED MAN.

BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

Every one has heard the phrase, “Go to Birgham!” which signifies much

the same as bidding you go to a worse place. The phrase is familiar not

only on the borders, but throughout all Scotland, and has been in use

for more than five hundred years, having taken its rise from Birgham

being the place where the Scottish nobility were when they dastardly

betrayed their country into the hands of the first Edward; and the

people, despising the conduct and the cowardice of the nobles, have

rendered the saying, “Go to Birgham!” an expression of contempt until

this day. Many, however, may have heard the saying, and even used it,

who know not that Birgham is a small village, beautifully situated on

the north side of the Tweed, about midway between Coldstream and Kelso;

though, if I should say that the village itself is beautiful, I should

be speaking on the wrong side of the truth. Yet there may be many who

have both heard the saying and seen the place, who never heard of little

Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive stature, and

he followed the profession (if the members of the _learned_ professions

be not offended at my using the term) of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in

Birgham for many years. His neighbours used to say of him, “The puir

body’s henpecked.”

Patie was in the habit of attending the neighbouring fairs with the

water-cogs, cream-bowies, bickers, piggins, and other articles of his

manufacture. It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he “had done

extraordinar’ weel—the sale had been far beyond what he expeckit.” His

success might be attributed to the circumstance that, when out of the

sight and hearing of his better half, for every bicker he sold he gave

his customers half-a-dozen jokes into the bargain. Every one, therefore,

liked to deal with little Patie. The fair being over, he retired with a

crony to a public-house in the Castle Wynd, to crack of old stories over

a glass, and inquire into each other’s welfare. It was seldom they met,

and it was as seldom that Patie dared to indulge in a single glass; but,

on the day in question, he thought they could manage another gill, and

another was brought. Whether the sight of it reminded him of his

domestic miseries, and of what awaited him at home, I cannot tell; but

after drinking another glass, and pronouncing the spirits excellent, he

thus addressed his friend:—

“Ay, Robin” (his friend’s name was Robin Roughead), “ye’re a happy

man—ye’re maister in your ain hoose, and ye’ve a wife that adores and

_obeys_ ye; but I’m nae better than naebody at my ain fireside. I’ll

declare I’m waur: wife an’ bairns laugh at me—I’m treated like an

outlan’ body an’ a fule. Though without me they micht gang an’ beg,

there is nae mair respeck paid to me than if I were a pair o’ auld

bauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen years syne I couldna believed it

o’ Tibby, though onybody had sworn it to me. I firmly believe that a

gude wife is the greatest blessin’ that can be conferred upon a man on

this earth. I can imagine it by the treasure that my faither had in my

mither; for, though the best may hae _words_ atween them occasionally,

and I’m no saying that they hadna, yet they were just like passin’

showers, to mak the kisses o’ the sun upon the earth mair sweet after

them. Her whole study was to please him and to mak him comfortable. She

was never happy but when he was happy; an’ he was just the same wi’ her.

I’ve heard him say that she was worth untold gold. But, O Robin! if I

think that a guid wife is the greatest blessin’ a man can enjoy, weel do

I ken that a scoldin’, domineerin’ wife is his greatest curse. It’s a

terrible thing to be snooled in your ain house—naebody can form an idea

o’t but they wha experience it.

“Ye remember when I first got acquainted wi’ Tibby, she was doing the

bondage work at Riselaw. I first saw her coming out o’ Eccles kirk ae

day, and I really thocht that I had never seen a better-faured or a more

gallant-looking lass. Her cheeks were red and white like a half-ripe

strawberry, or rather, I should say, like a cherry; and she seemed as

modest and meek as a lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew up; and

though she didna gie me ony great encouragement at first, yet, in a week

or twa, after the ice was fairly broken, she became remarkably ceevil,

and gied me her oxter on a Sunday. We used to saunter about the

loanings, no saying meikle, but unco happy; and I was aye restless whan

I was out o’ her sight. Ye may guess that the shoemaker was nae loser by

it during the six months that I ran four times a-week, wet or dry,

between Birgham and Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing nigh, and I

put the important question, and pressed her to name the day. She hung

her head, and she seemed no to ken weel what to say; for she was sae mim

and sae gentle then, that ye wad hae said ‘butter wadna melt in her

mouth.’ And when I pressed her mair urgently—

“‘I’ll just leave it to yoursel, Peter,’ says she.

“I thocht my heart wad louped out at my mouth. I believe there never was

a man sae beside himsel wi’ joy in this warld afore. I fairly danced

again, and cut as many antics as a merryandrew. ‘O Tibby,’ says I,

‘I’m ower happy now!—Oh, haud my head!

This gift o’ joy is like to be my dead.’

“‘I hope no, Peter,’ said she; ‘I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for

me.’

“I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than

baith.

“Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, and everything

passed ower as agreeably as onybody could desire. I thocht Tibby turning

bonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin’,

everything was ‘hinny,’ and ‘my love,’ and ‘Tibby, dear,’ or ‘Peter,

dear.’ But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday nicht,

I mind, just afore I was gaun to drap work, that three or four

acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they insisted I

should pay off for the weddin’. Ye ken I never was behint hand; and I

agreed that I wad just fling on my coat and step up wi’ them to Orange

Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat, which was

hangin’ behint the bed; and after that I gaed to the kist to tak out a

shilling or twa; for, up to that time, Tibby had not usurped the office

of Chancellor o’ the Exchequer. I did it as cannily as I could; but she

had suspected something, and heard the jinkin’ o’ the siller.

“What are ye doing, Patie?’ says she; ‘whar are ye gaun?’

“I had never heard her voice hae sic a sound afore, save the first time

I drew up to her, when it was rather sharp than agreeable.

“‘Ou, my dear,’ says I, ‘I’m just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.’

“‘To Orange Lane!’ says she; ‘what in the name of fortune’s gaun to tak

ye there?’

“‘O hinny,’ says I, ‘it’s just a neebor lad or twa that’s drapped in to

wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.’

“‘Ay! the sorrow joy them!’ says she, ‘and neebor too!—an’ how meikle

will that cost ye?’

“‘Hoot, Tibby,’ says I, for I was quite astonished at her, ‘ye dinna

understand things, woman.’

“‘No understand them!’ says she; ‘I wish to gudeness that ye wad

understand them though! If that’s the way ye intend to mak the siller

flee, it’s time there were somebody to tak care o’t.’

“I had put the siller in my pocket, and was gaun to the door mair

surprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me—

“‘Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.’

“‘Ye need be under nae apprehensions o’ that, hinny,’ said I, wishing to

pacify her.

“‘See that it be sae,’ cried she, as I shut the door.

“I joined my neebors in a state of greater uneasiness o’ mind than I had

experienced for a length o’ time. I couldna help thinkin’ but that Tibby

had rather early begun to tak the upper hand, and it was what I never

expected from her. However, as I was saying, we went up to Orange Lane,

and we sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither. Tibby’s health and mine

were drunk; we had several capital sangs; and, I daresay, it was weel on

for ten o’clock afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae mair affected wi’

drink than I am at this moment. But, somehow or ither, I was uneasy at

the idea o’ facing Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible thing to

quarrel wi’ her. I opened the door, and, bolting it after me, slipped

in, half on the edge o’ my fit. She was sitting wi’ her hand at her

haffit by the side o’ the fire, but she never let on that she either saw

or heard me—she didna speak a single word. If ever there was a woman—

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,

it was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared

to speak—

“‘What’s the matter, my pet?’ says I—‘what’s happened ye?’

“But she sat looking into the fire, and never let on she heard me.

‘E’en’s ye like, Meg Dorts,’ thought I, as Allan Ramsay says; but I

durstna say it, for I saw that there was a storm brewing. At last, I

ventured to say again—

“‘What ails ye, Tibby, dear?—are ye no weel?’

“‘Weel!’ cried she—‘wha can be weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry

on? What a time o’ nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting

on o’ ye, their lane? Do you no think shame o’ yoursel?’

“‘Hoot, woman,’ says I, ‘I’m surprised at ye; I’m sure ye hae naething

to mak a wark about—it’s no late yet.’

“‘I dinna ken what ye ca’ late,’ said she; ‘it wadna be late amang yer

cronies, nae doubt; but if it’s no late, it’s early, for I warrant it’s

mornin’.’

“‘Nonsense!’ says I.

“‘Dinna tell me it’s nonsense,’ said she, ‘for I’ll be spoken to in nae

sic way—I’ll let you ken that. But how meikle has it cost ye? Ye wad be

treating them, nae doubt—and how meikle hae ye spent, if it be a fair

question?’

“‘Toots, Tibby!’ said I, ‘whar’s the cause for a’ this? What great deal

could it cost me?’

“‘But hair by hair maks the carle’s head bare,’ added she—‘mind ye that;

and mind ye that ye’ve a house to keep aboon your head noo. But, if ye

canna do it, I maun do it for ye—sae gie me the key o’ that kist—gie me

it instantly; and I’ll tak care how ye gang drinkin’ wi’ ony body and

treatin’ them till mornin’ again.’

“For the sake o’ peace I gied her the key; for she was speakin’ sae loud

that I thocht a’ the neebors wad hear—and she had nae suner got it, than

awa she gaed to the kist and counted every shilling. I had nae great

abundance then mair than I’ve now; and—

“‘Is that a’ ye hae?’ said she; ‘an’ yet ye’ll think o’ gaun drinkin’

and treatin’ folk frae Saturday nicht till Sabbath mornin’! If this is

the life ye intend to lead, I wush to gudeness I had ne’er had onything

to say to ye.’

“‘And if this is the life ye intend to lead me,’ thought I, ‘I wush the

same thing.’

“But that was but the beginnin’ o’ my slavery. From that hour to this

she has continued on from bad to worse. No man livin’ can form an idea

o’ what I’ve suffered but mysel. In a mornin’, or rather, I may say, in

a forenoon, for it was aye nine or ten o’clock afore she got up, she sat

doun to her tea and white scones and butter, while I had to be content

wi’ a scrimpit bicker o’ brose and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was this

the warst o’t; for, when I cam in frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin’

after mornin’, the fire was black out; and there had I, before I could

get a bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun upon my knees and blaw it,

and blaw it, till I was half-blind wi’ ashes—for we hadna a pair o’

bellowses; and there wad she lie grumblin’ a’ the time, ca’in’ me

useless _this_, and useless _that_; and I just had to put up wi’ it. But

after our first bairn was born, she grew far worse, and I becam mair and

mair miserable every day. If I had been sleeping through the nicht, and

the bairn had begun a kickin’, or whingin’—then she was at the scoldin’,

and I was sure to be started out o’ my sleep wi’ a great drive atween

the shouthers, and her cryin’—

“‘Get up, ye lazy body, ye—get up, and see what’s the maiter wi’ this

bairn.’

“An’ this was the trade half-a-dizen o’ times in a nicht.

“At last, there was ae day, when a’ that I had dune was simply saying a

word about the denner no bein’ ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I

was, a cracky-stool that she had bought for the bairn cam fleein’ across

the room, and gied me a dirl on the elbow, that made me think my arm was

broken. Ye may guess what a stroke it was, when I tell ye I couldna lift

my hand to my head for a week to come. Noo, the like o’ that, ye ken,

was what mortal man couldna stand.

“‘Tibby,’ said I, and I looked very desperate and determined, ‘what do

ye mean by this conduct? By a’ that’s gracious, I’ll no put up wi’ it

ony langer!’

“‘Ye’ll no put up wi’ it, _ye cratur_!’ said she; ‘if ye gie me ony mair

o’ yer provocation, I’ll pu’ yer lugs for ye—wull ye put up wi’ that?’

“It was terrible for a man to hear his ain wife ca’ him _a cratur_!—just

as if I had been a monkey or a laup-doug!

“‘O ye disdainfu’ limmer,’ thought I; ‘but if I could humble your proud

spirit, I wad do it!’ Weel, there was a grand new ballant hawkin’ about

the country at the time—it was ca’d ‘Watty and Meg’—ye have nae doubt

seen’t. Meg was just such a terrible termagant as my Tibby; and I

remembered the perfect reformation that was wrought upon her by Watty’s

bidding her fareweel, and threatenin’ to list. So it just struck me that

I wad tak a leaf out o’ the ballant. Therefore, keeping the same serious

and determined look, for I was in no humour to seem otherwise—‘Tibby,’

says I, ‘there shall be nae mair o’ this. But I will gang and list this

very day, and ye’ll see what will come ower ye then—ye’ll maybe repent

o’ yer conduct whan it’s ower late.’

“‘List! ye _totum_ ye!’ said she; ‘do ye say _list_?’ and she said this

in a tone and wi’ a look o’ derision that gaed through my very soul.

‘What squad will ye list into?—what regiment will tak ye? Do ye intend

to list for a fifer laddie?’ And as she said this, she held up her

oxter, as if to tak me below’t.

“I thought I wad hae drapped doun wi’ indignation. I could hae strucken

her, if I durst. Ye observe, I am just five feet twa inches and an

eighth, upon my stockin’-soles. That is rather below the army

standard—and I maun say it’s a very foolish standard; for a man o’ my

height stands a better chance to shoot anither than a giant that wad

fire ower his head. But she was aware that I was below the mark, and my

threat was of no avail; so I had just to slink awa into the shop,

rubbin’ my elbow.

“But the cracky-stool was but the beginning o’ her drivin’; there wasna

a week after that but she let flee at me whatever cam in the way,

whenever I by accident crossed her cankered humour. It’s a wonder that

I’m in the land o’ the living; for I’ve had the skin peeled off my

legs—my arms maistly broken—my head cut, and ither parts o’ my body a’

black and blue, times out o’ number. I thought her an angel when I was

courtin’ her; but, O Robin! she has turned out—I’ll no say what—an

adder!—a teeger!—a she fury!

“As for askin’ onybody into the house, it’s a thing I durstna do for the

life that’s in my body. I never did it but ance, and that was when an

auld schulefellow, that had been several years in America, ca’ed at the

shop to see me. After we had cracked a while—

“‘But I maun see the wife, Patie,’ says he.

“Whether he had heard aboot her behaviour or no, I canna tell; but, I

assure ye, his request was onything but agreeable to me. However, I took

him into the house, and I introduced him wi’ fear and tremblin’.

“‘Tibby, dear,’ said I—and I dinna think I had ca’ed her _dear_ for ten

years afore—‘here’s Mr W——, an auld schulefellow o’ mine, that’s come a’

the way frae America, an’ ca’ed in to see ye.’

“‘Ye’re aye meetin’ wi’ auld schulefellows, or some set or ither, to tak

ye aff yer wark,’ muttered she, sulkily, but loud enough for him to

hear.

“I was completely at a loss what to do or say next; but, pretending as

though I hadna heard her, I said, as familiarly and kindly as I could,

though my heart was in a terrible swither—‘Bring out the bottle, lass.’

“‘Bottle!’ quo’ she, ‘what bottle?—what does the man mean?—has he

pairted wi’ the little sense that he ever had?’ But had ye seen her as

she said this!—I’ve seen a cloud black when driven wi’ a hurricane, and

I’ve seen it awfu’ when roarin’ in the agony o’ thunder; but never did I

see onything that I was mair in fear o’ than my wife’s face at that

moment. But, somehow or ither, I gathered courage to say—‘Hoots, woman,

what’s the use o’ behavin’ that way? I’m sure ye ken weel aneugh it’s

the speerit bottle.’

“‘The speerit bottle!’ cried she, wi’ a scream; ‘and when was there a

speerit bottle within this door? Dinna show yoursel off to your American

freend for a greater man than ye are, Patie. I think, if wi’ a’ that ye

bring in I get meat and bits o’ duds for your bairns, I do very weel.’

“This piece o’ impudence completely knocked me stupid, for, wad ye

believe it, Robin? though she had lang driven a’ my freends frae about

the house, yet, did ony o’ _her_ freends ca’,—and that was maistly every

Sunday, and every Coldstream market-day,—there was the bottle out frae

the cupboard, which she aye kept under lock and key; and a dram, and a

bit short-bread nae less, was aye and to this day handed round to every

ane o’ them. They hae discovered that it’s worth while to make Patie the

bicker-maker’s a half-way house. But if I happen to be in when they ca’,

though she pours out a fu’ glass a-piece for them, she takes aye gude

care to stand in afore me when she comes to me, between them and me, so

that they canna see what she is doing, or how meikle she pours out; and,

I assure ye, it is seldom a thimblefu’ that fa’s to my share, though she

hauds the bottle lang up in her hand—mony a time, no a weetin’; and

again and again have I shoved my head past her side, and said, ‘Your

health, Mrs So-and-so’—or, ‘Yours, Mr Such-a-thing,’ wi’ no as meikle in

my glass as wad droun a midge. Or, if I was sae placed that she durstna

but, for shame, fill a glass within half-an-inch o’ the tap or sae, she

wad gae me a look, or a wink, or mak a motion o’ some kind, which weel

did I ken the meanin’ o’, and which was the same as saying—‘Drink it if

ye daur!’ O Robin, man! it’s weel for ye that kens no what it is to be a

footba’ at your ain fireside. I daresay, my freend burned at the bane

for me; for he got up, and—

“‘I wish you good-day, Mr Crichton,’ said he; ‘I have business in Kelso

to-night yet, and can’t stop.’

“I was perfectly overpowered wi’ shame; but it was a relief to me when

he gaed awa—and I slipped out after him, and into the shop again.

“But Tibby’s isna the only persecution that I hae to put up wi’; for we

hae five bairns, and she’s brought them a’ up to treat me as she does

hersel. If I offer to correct them, they cry out—‘I’ll tell my

mither!’—and frae the auldest to the youngest o’ them, when they speak

aboot me, it is _he_ did this, or _he_ did that—they for ever talk o’ me

as _him!—him!_ I never get the name o’ _faither_ frae ane o’ them—and

it’s a’ her doings. Now, I just ask ye simply if ony faither would put

up wi’ the like o’ that? But I maun put up wi’t. If I were offering to

lay hands upon them for’t, I’m sure and persuaded she wad rise a’

Birgham about me—my life wadna be safe where she is—but, indeed, I

needna say that, for it never is.

“But there is ae thing that grieves me beyond a’ that I hae mentioned to

ye. Ye ken my mither, puir auld body, is a widow now. She is in the

seventy-sixth year o’ her age, and very frail. She has naebody to look

after her but me—naebody that has a natural right to do it; for I never

had ony brothers, as ye ken; and, as for my twa sisters, I daresay they

have just a sair aneugh fecht wi’ their ain families, and as they are at

a distance, I dinna ken how they are situated wi’ their gudemen—though I

maun say for them, they send her a stane o’ oatmeal, an ounce o’

tobacco, or a pickle tea and sugar, now and then, which is very likely

as often as they hae it in their power; and that is a great deal mair

than I’m _allowed_ to do for her—me that has a right to protect and

maintain her. A’ that she has to support her is fifteenpence a-week aff

the parish o’ Mertoun. O Robin, man!—Robin, man!—my heart rugs within

me, when I talk to you about this. A’ that I hae endured is naething to

it! To see my puir auld mither in a state o’ starvation, and no to be

allowed to gie her a saxpence! O Robin, man!—Robin, man!—is it no awfu’?

When she was first left destitute, and a widow, I tried to break the

matter to Tibby, and to reason wi’ her.

“‘O Tibby, woman!’ said I, ‘I’m very distressed. Here’s my faither laid

in the grave, and I dinna see what’s to come o’ my mither, puir body—she

is auld, and she is frail—she has naebody to look after or provide for

her but me.’

“‘You!’ cried Tibby—‘you! I wush ye wad mind what ye are talkin’ about!

Ye have as many dougs, I can tell ye, as ye hae banes to pike! Let your

mither do as ither widows hae done afore her—let the parish look after

her.’

“‘O Tibby, woman!’ said I; ‘but if ye’ll only consider—the parish money

is very sma’, and, puir body, it will mak her heart sair to receive a

penny o’t; for she weel kens that my faither would rather hae dee’d in a

ditch than been behauden to either a parish or an individual for a

saxpence.’

“‘An’ meikle they hae made by their pride,’ said Tibby. ‘I wush ye wud

haud your tongue.’

“‘Ay, but Tibby,’ says I, for I was nettled mair than I durst show it,

‘but she has been a gude mother to me, and ye ken yoursel that she’s no

been an ill gude-mother to ye. She never stood in the way o’ you an’ me

comin’ thegither, though I was payin’ six shillings a-week into the

house.’

“‘And what am I obliged to her for that?’ interrupted my Jezebel.

“‘I dinna ken, Tibby,’ says I; ‘but it’s a hard thing for a son to see a

mother in want, when he can assist her. Now, it isna meikle she

takes—she never was used wi’ dainties; and, if I may just tak her hame,

little will serve her, and her meat will ne’er be missed.’

“‘Ye born idiot!’ cried Tibby. ‘I aye thought ye a fule—but ye are warse

than a fule! Bring your mither here! An auld, cross-grained,

faut-finding wife, that I ne’er could hae patience to endure for ten

minutes in my days! Bring her here, say ye! No! while I live in this

house, I’ll let ye ken that I’ll be mistress.’

“Ay, and maister too, thought I. I found it was o’ nae use to argue wi’

her. There was nae possibility o’ gettin’ my mither into the house; and

as to assisting her wi’ a shillin’ or twa at a time by chance, or paying

her house rent, or sending her a load o’ coals, it was perfectly out o’

the question, and beyond my power. Frae the nicht that I went to Orange

Lane to this moment, I hae never had a saxpence under my thumb that I

could ca’ my ain. Indeed, I never hae money in my hands, unless it be on

a day like this, when I hae to gang to a fair, or the like o’ that; and

even then, before I start, her leddyship sees every bowie, bicker, and

piggin, that gangs into the cart—she kens the price o’ them as weel as I

do; and if I shouldna bring hame either money or goods according to her

valuation, I actually believe she wad murder me. There is nae cheatin’

her. It is by mere chance that, having had a gude market, I’ve

outreached her the day by a shillin’ or twa; and ane o’ them I’ll spend

wi’ you, Robin, and the rest shall gang to my mither. O man! ye may

bless your stars that ye dinna ken what it is to hae a termagant wife.”

“I am sorry for ye, Patie,” said Robin Roughead; “but really I think, in

a great measure, ye hae yoursel to blame for it a’!”

“Me!” said Patie—“what do ye mean, Robin?”

“Why, Patie,” said Robin, “I ken it is said that every ane can rule a

bad wife but he that has her—and I believe it is true. I am quite

convinced that naebody kens sae weel where the shoe pinches as they that

hae it on; though I am quite satisfied that, had my case been yours, I

wad hae brought her to her senses long afore now, though I had

Dauded her lugs wi’ Rab Roryson’s bannet,

or gien her a _hoopin’_, like your friend the cooper o’ Coldingham.”

“Save us, man!” said Patie, who loved a joke, even though at secondhand,

and at his own expense; “but ye see the cooper’s case is not in point,

though I am in the same line; for, as I hae observed, I am only five

feet twa inches and an eighth in height—my wife _is not the weaker

vessel_—that I ken to my sorrow.”

“Weel, Patie,” said Robin, “I wadna hae ye to lift your hand—I was but

jokin’ upon that score, it wadna be manly;—but there is ae thing that ye

can do, and I am sure it wad hae an excellent effect.”

“Dear sake! what is that?” cried Patie.

“For a’ that has happened ye,” said Robin, “ye hae just yoursel to

blame, for giein’ up the key and the siller to her management that nicht

ye gaed to Orange Lane. That is the short and the lang o’ a’ your

troubles, Patie.”

“Do you think sae?” inquired the little bicker-maker.

“Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say it,” said Robin; “and there is but

ae remedy left.”

“And what is that?” asked Patie, eagerly.

“Just this,” said Robin—“_stop the supplies_.”

“_Stop the supplies!_” returned Patie—“what do you mean, Robin? I canna

say that I fully comprehend ye.”

“I just mean this,” added the other; “be your ain banker—your ain

cashier—be maister o’ your ain siller—let her find that it is to you she

is indebted for every penny she has the power to spend; and if ye dinna

bring Tibby to reason and kindness within a month, my name’s no Robin

Roughead.”

“Do ye think that wad do it?” said Patie.

“If that wadna, naething wad,” answered Robin; “but try it for a

twelvemonth—begin this very nicht; and if we baith live and be spared to

this time next year, I’ll meet ye again, and I’ll be the death o’ a

mutchkin, but that ye tell me Tibby’s a different woman—your bairns

different—your hale house different—and your auld mither comfortable.”

“O man, if it might be sae,” said Patie; “but this very nicht, the

moment I get hame, I’ll try it—and, if I succeed, I’ll try ye wi’ a

bottle o’ wine, and I believe I never drank ane in my life.”

“Agreed,” said Robin; “but mind ye’re no to do things by halves. Ye’re

no to be feared out o’ your resolution because Tibby may fire and storm,

and let drive the things in the house at ye—nor even though she should

greet.”

“I thoroughly understand ye,” said Patie; “my resolution’s ta’en, and

I’ll stand by it.”

“Gie’s your hand on’t,” said Robin; and Patie gave him his hand.

Now, the two friends parted, and it is unnecessary for me either to

describe their parting, or the reception which Patie, on his arriving at

Birgham, met with from his spouse.

Twelve months went round, Dunse fair came again, and after the fair was

over, Patie Crichton once more went in quest of his old friend, Robin

Roughead. He found him standing in the horse market, and—

“How’s a’ wi’ ye, my freend?” says Patie.

“Oh, hearty, hearty,” cries the other; “but how’s a’ wi’ ye?—how is yer

family?”

“Come and get the bottle o’ wine that I’ve to gie ye,” said Patie, “and

I’ll tell ye a’ about it.”

“I’ll do that,” said Robin, “for my business is dune.”

So they went into the same house in the Castle Wynd where they had been

twelve months before, and Patie called for a bottle of wine; but he

found that the house had not the wine license, and was therefore content

with a gill of whisky made into toddy.

“O, man,” said he to Robin, “I wad pay ye half-a-dizen bottles o’ wine

wi’ as great cheerfulness as I raise this glass to my lips. It was a

grand advice that o’ yours—_stop the supplies_.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Robin; “I was sure it was the only thing

that would do.”

“Ye shall hear a’ about it,” said Patie. “After parting wi’ ye, I

trudged hame to Birgham, and when I got to my house—before I had the

sneck o’ the door weel out o’ my hand—

“‘What’s stopped ye to this time o’ nicht, ye fitless, feckless cratur,

ye?’ cried Tibby—‘whaur hae ye been? Gie an account o’ yoursel.’

“An account o’ mysel!’ says I; and I gied the door a drive ahint me, as

if I wad driven it aff the hinges—‘for what should I gie an account o’

mysel?—or wha should I gie it to? I suppose this house is my ain, and I

can come in and gang out when I like!’

“‘Yours!’ cried she; ‘is the _body_ drunk?’

“‘No,’ says I, ‘I’m no drunk, but I wad hae you to be decent. Where is

my supper?—it is time that I had it.’

“‘Ye micht hae come in in time to get it then,’ said she; ‘folk canna

keep suppers waitin’ on you.’

“‘But I’ll gang whar I can get it,’ said I; and I offered to leave the

house.

“‘I’ll tak the life o’ ye first,’ said she. ‘Gie me the siller. Ye had

five cogs, a dizen o’ bickers, twa dizen o’ piggins, three bowies, four

cream dishes, and twa ladles, besides the wooden spoons that I packed up

mysel. Gie me the siller—and, you puir profligate, let me see what ye

hae spent.’

“‘Gie you the siller!’ says I; ‘na, na, I’ve dune that lang aneugh—_I

hae stopped the supplies_, my woman.’

“‘Stop your breath!’ cried she; ‘gie me the siller, every farthin’, or

wo betide ye!’

“It was needless for her to say _every farthin’_; for, had I dune as I

used to do, I kenned she wad search through every pocket o’ my claes the

moment she thocht me asleep—through every hole and corner o’ them, to

see if I had cheated her out o’ a single penny—ay, and tak them up, and

shake them, and shake them, after a’ was dune. But I was determined to

stand fast by your advice.

“‘Do as ye like,’ says I; ‘I’ll bring ye to your senses—_I’ve stopped

the supplies_.’

“She saw that I wasna drunk, and my manner rather dumfoundered her a

little. The bairns—wha, as I have tauld you, she aye encouraged to mock

me—began to giggle at me, and to mak game o’ me, as usual. I banged out

o’ the house, and into the shop, and took down the belt o’ the bit

turning-lathe, and into the house I goes again wi’ it in my hand.

“‘Wha maks a fule o’ me now?’

“And they a’ laughed thegither, and I up wi’ the belt, and loundered

them round the house and round the house, till ane screamed and anither

screamed, and even their mither got clouts in trying to run betwixt them

and me; and it was wha to squeel loudest. Sae, after I had brocht them

a’ to ken what I was, I awa yont to my mither’s, and gaed her five

shillin’s, puir body; and after stoppin’ an hour wi’ her, I gaed back to

the house again. The bairns were a’ abed, and some o’ them were still

sobbin’, and Tibby was sittin’ by the fire; but she didna venture to say

a word—I had completely astonished her—and as little said I.

“There wasna a word passed between us for three days; I was beginning to

carry my head higher in the house; and on the fourth day I observed that

she had nae tea to her breakfast. A day or twa after, the auldest lassie

cam to me ae morning about ten o’clock, and says she—

“‘Faither, I want siller for tea and sugar.’

“‘Gae back to them that sent ye,’ says I, ‘and tell them to fare as I

do, and they’ll save the tea and sugar.’

“But it is of nae use dwellin’ on the subject. I did stop the supplies

most effectually. I very soon brocht Tibby to ken wha was her

bread-winner. An’ when I saw that my object was accomplished, I showed

mair kindness and affection to her than ever I had dune. The bairns

becam as obedient as lambs, and she soon cam to say—‘Peter, should I do

this thing?’—or, ‘Peter, should I do that thing?’ So, when I had brocht

her that far—‘Tibby,’ says I, ‘we hae a but and a ben, and it’s grievin’

me to see my auld mither starvin’, and left by hersel wi’ naebody to

look after her. I think I’ll bring her hame the morn—she’ll aye be o’

use about the house—she’ll can knit the bairns’ stockin’s, or darn them

when they are out o’ the heels.’

“‘Weel, Peter,’ said Tibby, ‘I’m sure it’s as little as a son can do,

and I’m perfectly agreeable.’

“I banged up—I flung my arms round Tibby’s neck—‘Oh! bless ye, my dear!’

says I; ‘bless ye for that!—there’s the key o’ the kist and the

siller—from this time henceforth do wi’ it what ye like.’

“Tibby grat. My mother cam hame to my house the next day. Tibby did

everything to mak her comfortable-a’ the bairns ran at her biddin’—and,

frae that day to this, there isna a happier man on this wide world than

Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker o’ Birgham.”

DUNCAN CAMPBELL.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”

Duncan Campbell came from the Highlands, when six years of age, to live

with an old maiden aunt in Edinburgh, and attend the school. His mother

was dead; but his father had supplied her place by marrying his

housekeeper. Duncan did not trouble himself about these matters, nor,

indeed, about any other matters, save a black foal of his father’s and a

large sagacious collie, named Oscar, which belonged to one of the

shepherds. There being no other boy save Duncan about the house, Oscar

and he were constant companions; with his garter tied round Oscar’s

neck, and a piece of deal tied to his big bushy tail, Duncan would often

lead him about the green, pleased with the idea that he was conducting a

horse and cart. Oscar submitted to all this with great cheerfulness, but

whenever Duncan mounted to ride on him, he found means instantly to

unhorse him, either by galloping, or rolling himself on the green. When

Duncan threatened him, he looked submissive and licked his face and

hands; when he corrected him with the whip, he cowered at his feet.

Matters were soon made up. Oscar would lodge nowhere during the night

but at the door of the room where his young friend slept, and woe be to

the man or woman who ventured to enter it at untimely hours.

When Duncan left his native home he thought not of his father, nor any

of the servants. He was fond of the ride, and some supposed that he

scarcely even thought of the black foal; but when he saw Oscar standing

looking him ruefully in the face, the tears immediately blinded both his

eyes. He caught him round the neck, hugged and kissed him—“Good-bye,

Oscar,” said he, blubbering; “good-bye. God bless you, my dear Oscar.”

Duncan mounted before a servant, and rode away—Oscar still followed at a

distance, until he reached the top of the hill—he then sat down and

howled; Duncan cried till his little heart was like to burst.

“What ails you?” said the servant.

“I will never see my poor honest Oscar again,” said Duncan, “an’ my

heart canna bide it.”

Duncan stayed a year in Edinburgh, but he did not make great progress in

learning. He did not approve highly of attending the school, and his

aunt was too indulgent to compel his attendance. She grew extremely ill

one day—the maids kept constantly by her, and never regarded Duncan. He

was an additional charge to them, and they never loved him, but used him

harshly. It was now with great difficulty that he could obtain either

meat or drink. In a few days after his aunt was taken ill she died. All

was in confusion, and poor Duncan was like to perish with hunger. He

could find no person in the house; but hearing a noise in his aunt’s

chamber, he went in, and beheld them dressing the corpse of his kind

relation. It was enough. Duncan was horrified beyond what mortal breast

was able to endure; he hasted down the stair, and ran along the High

Street and South Bridge, as fast as his feet could carry him, crying

incessantly all the way. He would not have entered that house again if

the world had been offered to him as a reward. Some people stopped him,

in order to ask what was the matter; but he could only answer them by

exclaiming, “O! dear! O! dear!” and struggling till he got free, held on

his course, careless whither he went, provided he got far enough from

the horrid scene he had so lately witnessed. Some have supposed, and I

believe Duncan has been heard to confess, that he then imagined he was

running for the Highlands, but mistook the direction. However that was,

he continued his course until he came to a place where two ways met, a

little south of Grange Toll. Here he sat down, and his frenzied passion

subsided into a soft melancholy; he cried no more, but sobbed

excessively, fixed his eyes on the ground, and made some strokes in the

dust with his finger.

A sight just then appeared which somewhat cheered, or at least

interested his heavy and forlorn heart—it was a large drove of Highland

cattle. They were the only creatures like acquaintances that Duncan had

seen for a twelvemonth, and a tender feeling of joy, mixed with regret,

thrilled his heart at the sight of their white horns and broad dew-laps.

As the van passed him, he thought their looks were particularly gruff

and sullen; he soon perceived the cause, they were all in the hands of

Englishmen;—poor exiles like himself—going far away to be killed and

eaten, and would never see the Highland hills again! When they were all

gone by, Duncan looked after them and wept anew; but his attention was

suddenly called away to something that softly touched his feet; he

looked hastily about—it was a poor, hungry, lame dog, squatted on the

ground, licking his feet, and manifesting the most extravagant joy.

Gracious heaven! it was his own beloved and faithful Oscar! starved,

emaciated, and so crippled that he was scarcely able to walk. He was now

doomed to be the slave of a Yorkshire peasant (who, it seems, had either

bought or stolen him at Falkirk), the generosity and benevolence of

whose feelings were as inferior to those of Oscar, as Oscar was inferior

to him in strength and power. It is impossible to conceive a more tender

meeting than this was; but Duncan soon observed that hunger and misery

were painted in his friend’s looks, which again pierced his heart with

feelings unfelt before. “I have not a crumb to give you, my poor Oscar!”

said he—“I have not a crumb to eat myself, but I am not so ill as you

are.” The peasant whistled aloud. Oscar well knew the sound, and,

clinging to the boy’s bosom, leaned his head upon his thigh, and looked

in his face, as if saying, “O Duncan, protect me from yon ruffian.” The

whistle was repeated, accompanied by a loud and surly call. Oscar

trembled, but, fearing to disobey, he limped away reluctantly after his

unfeeling master, who, observing him to linger and look back, imagined

he wanted to effect his escape, and came running back to meet him. Oscar

cowered to the earth in the most submissive and imploring manner, but

the peasant laid hold of him by the ear, and, uttering many

imprecations, struck him with a thick staff till he lay senseless at his

feet.

Every possible circumstance seemed combined to wound the feelings of

poor Duncan, but this unmerited barbarity shocked him most of all. He

hasted to the scene of action, weeping bitterly, and telling the man

that he was a cruel brute, and that if ever he himself grew a big man he

would certainly kill him. He held up his favourite’s head that he might

recover his breath, and the man, knowing that he could do little without

his dog, waited patiently to see what would be the issue. The animal

recovered, and staggered away at the heels of his tyrant without daring

to look behind. Duncan stood still, but kept his eyes eagerly fixed upon

Oscar; and the farther he went from him, the more strong his desire grew

to follow him. He looked the other way, but all there was to him a

blank,—he had no desire to stand where he was, so he followed Oscar and

the drove of cattle.

The cattle were weary and went slowly, and Duncan, getting a little goad

in his hand, assisted the men greatly in driving them. One of the

drivers gave him a penny, and another gave him twopence; and the lad who

had charge of the drove, observing how active and pliable he was, and

how far he had accompanied him on the way, gave him sixpence. This was a

treasure to Duncan, who, being extremely hungry, bought three penny

rolls as he passed through a town; one of these he ate himself, another

he gave to Oscar; and the third he carried below his arm in case of

further necessity. He drove on all the day, and at night the cattle

rested upon a height, which, by his description, seems to have been that

between Gala Water and Middleton. Duncan went off at a side, in company

with Oscar, to eat his roll, and, taking shelter behind an old earthen

wall, they shared their dry meal most lovingly between them. Ere it was

quite finished, Duncan, being fatigued, dropped into a profound slumber,

out of which he did not awake until the next morning was far advanced.

Englishmen, cattle, and Oscar, all were gone. Duncan found himself alone

on a wild height, in what country or kingdom he knew not. He sat for

some time in a callous stupor, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head,

but quite irresolute what was farther necessary for him to do, until he

was agreeably surprised by the arrival of Oscar, who (although he had

gone at his master’s call in the morning) had found means to escape and

seek the retreat of his young friend and benefactor. Duncan, without

reflecting on the consequences, rejoiced in the event, and thought of

nothing else but furthering his escape from the ruthless tyrant who now

claimed him. For this purpose he thought it would be best to leave the

road, and accordingly he crossed it, in order to go over a waste moor to

the westward. He had not got forty paces from the road, until he beheld

the enraged Englishman running towards him without his coat, and having

his staff heaved over his shoulder. Duncan’s heart fainted within him,

knowing it was all over with Oscar, and most likely with himself. The

peasant seemed not to have observed them, as he was running and rather

looking the other way; and as Duncan quickly lost sight of him in a

hollow place that lay between them, he crept into a bush of heath, and

took Oscar in his bosom. The heath was so long that it almost closed

above them. The man had observed from whence the dog started in the

morning, and hasted to the place, expecting to find him sleeping beyond

the old earthen dyke; he found the nest, but the birds were flown;—he

called aloud; Oscar trembled and clung to Duncan’s breast; Duncan peeped

from his purple covert, like a heath-cock on his native waste, and again

beheld the ruffian coming straight towards them, with his staff still

heaved, and fury in his looks. When he came within a few yards he stood

still, and bellowed out: “Oscar, yho, yho!” Oscar quaked, and kept still

closer to Duncan’s breast; Duncan almost sank in the earth. “D——n him,”

said the Englishman, “if I had hold of him I should make both him and

the little thievish rascal dear at a small price; they cannot be far

gone,—I think I hear them.” He then stood listening, but at that instant

a farmer came up on horseback, and having heard him call, asked him if

he had lost his dog? The peasant answered in the affirmative, and added,

that a blackguard boy had stolen him. The farmer said that he met a boy

with a dog about a mile forward. During this dialogue, the farmer’s dog

came up to Duncan’s den,—smelled upon him, and then upon Oscar,—cocked

his tail, walked round them growling, and then behaved in a very

improper and uncivil manner to Duncan, who took all patiently, uncertain

whether he was yet discovered. But so intent was the fellow upon the

farmer’s intelligence, that he took no notice of the discovery made by

the dog, but ran off without looking over his shoulder.

Duncan felt this a deliverance so great that all his other distresses

vanished; and as soon as the man was out of his sight, he arose from his

covert, and ran over the moor, and ere long, came to a shepherd’s house,

where he got some whey and bread for his breakfast, which he thought the

best meat he had ever tasted, yet shared it with Oscar.

Though I had his history from his own mouth, yet there is a space here

which it is impossible to relate with any degree of distinctness or

interest. He was a vagabond boy, without any fixed habitation, and

wandered about Heriot Moor, from one farmhouse to another, for the space

of a year, staying from one to twenty nights in each house, according as

he found the people kind to him. He seldom resented any indignity

offered to himself; but whoever insulted Oscar, or offered any

observations on the impropriety of their friendship, lost Duncan’s

company the next morning.

He stayed several months at a place called Dewar, which he said was

haunted by the ghost of a piper; that piper had been murdered there many

years before, in a manner somewhat mysterious, or at least

unaccountable; and there was scarcely a night on which he was not

supposed either to be seen or heard about the house. Duncan slept in the

cowhouse, and was terribly harassed by the piper; he often heard him

scratching about the rafters, and sometimes he would groan like a man

dying, or a cow that was choked in the band; but at length he saw him at

his side one night, which so discomposed him, that he was obliged to

leave the place, after being ill for many days. I shall give this story

in Duncan’s own words, which I have often heard him repeat without any

variation.

“I had been driving some young cattle to the heights of Willenslee—it

grew late before I got home—I was thinking, and thinking, how cruel it

was to kill the poor piper! to cut out his tongue, and stab him in the

back. I thought it was no wonder that his ghost took it extremely ill;

when, all on a sudden, I perceived a light before me;—I thought the wand

in my hand was all on fire, and threw it away, but I perceived the light

glide slowly by my right foot, and burn behind me;—I was nothing afraid,

and turned about to look at the light, and there I saw the piper, who

was standing hard at my back, and when I turned round, he looked me in

the face.”

“What was he like, Duncan?” “He was like a dead body! but I got a short

view of him; for that moment all around me grew dark as a pit!—I tried

to run, but sank powerless to the earth, and lay in a kind of dream, I

do not know how long. When I came to myself, I got up, and endeavoured

to run, but fell to the ground every two steps. I was not a hundred

yards from the house, and I am sure I fell upwards of a hundred times.

Next day I was in a high fever; the servants made me a little bed in the

kitchen, to which I was confined by illness many days, during which time

I suffered the most dreadful agonies by night, always imagining the

piper to be standing over me on the one side or the other. As soon as I

was able to walk, I left Dewar, and for a long time durst neither sleep

alone during the night, nor stay by myself in the daytime.”

The superstitious ideas impressed upon Duncan’s mind by this unfortunate

encounter with the ghost of the piper, seem never to have been

eradicated—a strong instance of the power of early impressions, and a

warning how much caution is necessary in modelling the conceptions of

the young and tender mind, for, of all men I ever knew, he is the most

afraid of meeting with apparitions. So deeply is his imagination tainted

with this startling illusion, that even the calm disquisitions of reason

have proved quite inadequate to the task of dispelling it. Whenever it

wears late, he is always on the look-out for these ideal beings, keeping

a jealous eye upon every bush and brake, in case they should be lurking

behind them, ready to fly out and surprise him every moment; and the

approach of a person in the dark, or any sudden noise, always deprives

him of the power of speech for some time.

After leaving Dewar he again wandered about for a few weeks; and it

appears that his youth, beauty, and peculiarly destitute situation,

together with his friendship for his faithful Oscar, had interested the

most part of the country people in his behalf; for he was generally

treated with kindness. He knew his father’s name, and the name of his

house; but as none of the people he visited had ever before heard of

either the one or the other, they gave themselves no trouble about the

matter.

He stayed nearly two years in a place called Cowhaur, until a wretch,

with whom he slept, struck and abused him one day. Duncan, in a rage,

flew to the loft and cut all his Sunday hat, shoes, and coat in pieces;

and, not daring to abide the consequences, decamped that night.

He wandered about for some time longer among the farmers of Tweed and

Yarrow; but this life was now become exceedingly disagreeable to him. He

durst not sleep by himself, and the servants did not always choose to

allow a vagrant boy and his great dog to sleep with them.

It was on a rainy night, at the close of harvest, that Duncan came to my

father’s house. I remember all the circumstances as well as the

transactions of yesterday. The whole of his clothing consisted only of a

black coat, which, having been made for a fullgrown man, hung fairly to

his heels; the hair of his head was rough, curly, and weather-beaten;

but his face was ruddy and beautiful, bespeaking a healthy body and a

sensible, feeling heart. Oscar was still nearly as large as himself, and

the colour of a fox, having a white stripe down his face, with a ring of

the same colour round his neck, and was the most beautiful collie I have

ever seen. My heart was knit to Duncan at the first sight, and I wept

for joy when I saw my parents so kind to him. My mother, in particular,

could scarcely do anything else than converse with Duncan for several

days. I was always of the party, and listened with wonder and

admiration; but often have these adventures been repeated to me. My

parents, who soon seemed to feel the same concern for him as if he had

been their own son, clothed him in blue drugget, and bought him a smart

little Highland bonnet, in which dress he looked so charming that I

would not let them have peace until I got one of the same. Indeed, all

that Duncan said or did was to me a pattern; for I loved him as my own

life. At my own request, which he persuaded me to urge, I was permitted

to be his bedfellow, and many a happy night and day did I spend with

Duncan and Oscar.

As far as I remember, we felt no privation of any kind, and would have

been completely happy if it had not been for the fear of spirits. When

the conversation chanced to turn upon the Piper of Dewar, the Maid of

Plora, or the Pedlar of Thirlestane Mill, often have we lain with the

bed-clothes drawn over our heads till nearly suffocated. We loved the

fairies and the brownies, and even felt a little partiality for the

mermaids, on account of their beauty and charming songs; but we were a

little jealous of the water-kelpies, and always kept aloof from the

frightsome pools. We hated the devil most heartily, although we were not

much afraid of him; but a ghost! oh, dreadful! the names, ghost, spirit,

or apparition, sounded in our ears like the knell of destruction, and

our hearts sank within us, as if pierced by the cold icy shaft of death.

Duncan herded my father’s cows all the summer—so did I: we could not

live asunder. We grew such expert fishers, that the speckled trout, with

all his art, could not elude our machinations; we forced him from his

watery cove, admired the beautiful shades and purple drops that were

painted on his sleek sides, and forthwith added him to our number

without reluctance. We assailed the habitation of the wild bee, and

rifled her of all her accumulated sweets, though not without

encountering the most determined resistance. My father’s meadows

abounded with hives; they were almost in every swath—in every hillock.

When the swarm was large, they would beat us off, day after day. In all

these desperate engagements Oscar came to our assistance, and, provided

that none of the enemy made a lodgment in his lower defiles, he was

always the last combatant of our party on the field. I do not remember

of ever being so much diverted by any scene I ever witnessed, or

laughing as immoderately as I have done at seeing Oscar involved in a

moving cloud of wild bees, wheeling, snapping on all sides, and shaking

his ears incessantly.

The sagacity which this animal possessed is almost incredible, while his

undaunted spirit and generosity would do honour to every servant of our

own species to copy. Twice did he save his master’s life; at one time

when attacked by a furious bull, and at another time when he fell from

behind my father, off a horse in a flooded river. Oscar had just swimmed

across, but instantly plunged in a second time to his master’s rescue.

He first got hold of his bonnet, but that coming off, he quitted it, and

again catching him by the coat, brought him to the side, where my father

reached him. He waked Duncan at a certain hour every morning, and would

frequently turn the cows of his own will, when he observed them wrong.

If Duncan dropped his knife, or any other small article, he would fetch

it along in his mouth; and if sent back for a lost thing, would

infallibly find it. When sixteen years of age, after being unwell for

several days, he died one night below his master’s bed. On the evening

before, when Duncan came in from the plough, he came from his

hiding-place, wagged his tail, licked Duncan’s hand, and returned to his

deathbed. Duncan and I lamented him with unfeigned sorrow, buried him

below the old rowan tree at the back of my father’s garden, placing a

square stone at his head, which was still standing the last time I was

there. With great labour, we composed an epitaph between us, which was

once carved on that stone; the metre was good, but the stone was so

hard, and the engraving so faint, that the characters, like those of our

early joys, are long ago defaced and extinct.

Often have I heard my mother relate with enthusiasm the manner in which

she and my father first discovered the dawnings of goodness and facility

of conception in Duncan’s mind, though, I confess, dearly as I loved

him, these circumstances escaped my observation. It was my father’s

invariable custom to pray with the family every night before they

retired to rest, to thank the Almighty for his kindness to them during

the bygone day, and to beg His protection through the dark and silent

watches of the night. I need not inform any of my readers that that

amiable (and now too much neglected and despised) duty consisted in

singing a few stanzas of a psalm, in which all the family joined their

voices with my father’s, so that the double octaves of the various ages

and sexes swelled the simple concert. He then read a chapter from the

Bible, going straight on from beginning to end of the Scriptures. The

prayer concluded the devotions of each evening, in which the downfall of

antichrist was always strenuously urged, the ministers of the gospel

remembered, nor was any friend or neighbour in distress forgot.

The servants of a family have, in general, liberty either to wait the

evening prayers, or retire to bed as they incline, but no consideration

whatever could induce Duncan to go one night to rest without the

prayers, even though both wet and weary, and entreated by my parents to

retire, for fear of catching cold. It seems that I had been of a more

complaisant disposition; for I was never very hard to prevail with in

this respect; nay, my mother used to say, that I was extremely apt to

take a pain about my heart at that time of the night, and was, of

course, frequently obliged to betake me to bed before the worship

commenced.

It might be owing to this that Duncan’s emotions on these occasions

escaped my notice. He sung a treble to the old church tunes most

sweetly, for he had a melodious voice; and when my father read the

chapter, if it was in any of the historical parts of Scripture, he would

lean upon the table, and look him in the face, swallowing every sentence

with the utmost avidity. At one time, as my father read the 45th chapter

of Genesis, he wept so bitterly, that at the end my father paused, and

asked what ailed him? Duncan told him that he did not know. At another

time, the year following, my father, in the course of his evening

devotions, had reached the 19th chapter of the book of Judges; when he

began reading it, Duncan was seated on the other side of the house, but

ere it was half done, he had stolen up close to my father’s elbow.

“Consider of it, take advice, and speak your minds,” said my father, and

closed the book. “Go on, go on, if you please, Sir,” said Duncan—“go on,

and let’s hear what they said about it.” My father looked sternly in

Duncan’s face, but seeing him abashed on account of his hasty breach of

decency, without uttering a word, he again opened the Bible, and read

the 20th chapter throughout, notwithstanding of its great length. Next

day Duncan was walking about with the Bible below his arm, begging of

every one to read it to him again and again. This incident produced a

conversation between my parents, on the expenses and utility of

education; the consequence of which was, that the week following, Duncan

and I were sent to the parish school, and began at the same instant to

the study of that most important and fundamental branch of literature,

the A, B, C; but my sister Mary, who was older than I, was already an

accurate and elegant reader.

This reminds me of another anecdote of Duncan, with regard to family

worship, which I have often heard related, and which I myself may well

remember. My father happening to be absent over night at a fair, when

the usual time of worship arrived, my mother desired a lad, one of the

servants, to act as chaplain for that night; the lad declined it, and

slunk away to his bed. My mother testified her regret that we should all

be obliged to go prayerless to our beds for that night, observing, that

she did not remember the time when it had so happened before. Duncan

said he thought we might contrive to manage it amongst us, and instantly

proposed to sing the psalm and pray, if Mary would read the chapter. To

this my mother, with some hesitation, agreed, remarking, that if he

prayed as he could, with a pure heart, his prayer had as good a chance

of being accepted as some others that were “better worded.” Duncan could

not then read, but having learned several psalms from Mary by rote, he

caused her to seek out the place, and sung the 23d Psalm from end to end

with great sweetness and decency. Mary read a chapter in the New

Testament, and then (my mother having a child on her knee) we three

kneeled in a row, while Duncan prayed thus:—“O Lord, be Thou our God,

our guide, and our guard unto death, and through death,”—that was a

sentence my father often used in prayer; Duncan had laid hold of it, and

my mother began to think that he had often prayed previous to that time.

“O Lord, Thou”—continued Duncan; but his matter was exhausted; a long

pause ensued, which I at length broke by bursting into a loud fit of

laughter. Duncan rose hastily, and without once lifting up his head,

went crying to his bed; and as I continued to indulge in laughter, my

mother, for my irreverent behaviour, struck me across the shoulders with

the tongs. Our evening devotions terminated exceedingly ill; I went

crying to my bed after Duncan, even louder than he, and abusing him for

his “useless prayer,” for which I had been nearly felled.

By the time that we were recalled from school to herd the cows, next

summer, we could both read the Bible with considerable facility, but

Duncan far excelled me in perspicacity; and so fond was he of reading

Bible history that the reading of it was now our constant amusement.

Often have Mary and he and I lain under the same plaid by the side of

the corn or meadow, and read chapter about in the Bible for hours

together, weeping over the failings and fall of good men, and wondering

at the inconceivable might of the heroes of antiquity. Never was man so

delighted as Duncan was when he came to the history of Samson, and

afterwards of David and Goliath; he could not be satisfied until he had

read it to every individual with whom he was acquainted, judging it to

be as new and as interesting to every one as it was to himself. I have

seen him standing by the girls as they were milking the cows, reading to

them the feats of Samson; and, in short, harassing every man and woman

about the hamlet for audience. On Sundays, my parents accompanied us to

the fields, and joined in our delightful exercise.

Time passed away, and so also did our youthful delights; but other cares

and other pleasures awaited us. As we advanced in years and strength, we

quitted the herding, and bore a hand in the labours of the farm. Mary,

too, was often our assistant. She and Duncan were nearly of an age; he

was tall, comely, and affable; and if Mary was not the prettiest girl in

the parish, at least Duncan and I believed her to be so, which, with us,

amounted to the same thing. We often compared the other girls in the

parish with one another, as to their beauty and accomplishments, but to

think of comparing any of them with Mary was entirely out of the

question. She was, indeed, the emblem of truth, simplicity, and

innocence, and if there were few more beautiful, there were still fewer

so good and amiable; but still, as she advanced in years, she grew

fonder and fonder of being near Duncan; and by the time she was

nineteen, was so deeply in love that it affected her manner, her

spirits, and her health. At one time she was gay and frisky as a kitten;

she would dance, sing, and laugh violently at the most trivial

incidents. At other times she was silent and sad, while a languishing

softness overspread her features, and added greatly to her charms. The

passion was undoubtedly mutual between them; but Duncan, either from a

sense of honour, or some other cause, never declared himself farther on

the subject than by the most respectful attention and tender

assiduities. Hope and fear thus alternately swayed the heart of poor

Mary, and produced in her deportment that variety of affections which

could not fail of rendering the sentiments of her artless bosom legible

to the eye of experience.

In this state matters stood, when an incident occurred which deranged

our happiness at once, and the time arrived when the kindest and most

affectionate little social band of friends that ever panted to meet the

wishes of each other were obliged to part.

About forty years ago, the flocks of southern sheep, which have since

that period inundated the Highlands, had not found their way over the

Grampian Mountains; and the native flocks of that sequestered country

were so scanty that it was found necessary to transport small quantities

of wool annually to the north, to furnish materials for clothing the

inhabitants. During two months of each summer, the hill countries of the

Lowlands were inundated by hundreds of women from the Highlands, who

bartered small articles of dress, and of domestic import, for wool;

these were known by the appellation of “norlan’ netties;” and few nights

passed, during the wool season, that some of them were not lodged at my

father’s house. It was from two of these that Duncan learned one day who

and what he was; that he was the Laird of Glenellich’s only son and

heir, and that a large sum had been offered to any person that could

discover him. My parents certainly rejoiced in Duncan’s good fortune,

yet they were disconsolate at parting with him; for he had long ago

become as a son of their own; and I seriously believe, that from the day

they first met, to that on which the two “norlan’ netties” came to our

house, they never once entertained the idea of parting. For my part, I

wished that the “netties” had never been born, or that they had stayed

at their own home; for the thought of being separated from my dear

friend made me sick at heart. All our feelings were, however, nothing

when compared with those of my sister Mary. From the day that the two

women left our house, she was no more seen to smile; she had never yet

divulged the sentiments of her heart to any one, and imagined her love

for Duncan a profound secret,—no,

She never told her love;

But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek;—she pined in thought;

And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

Our social glee and cheerfulness were now completely clouded; we sat

down to our meals, and rose from them in silence. Of the few

observations that passed, every one seemed the progeny of embarrassment

and discontent, and our general remarks were strained and cold. One day

at dinner-time, after a long and sullen pause, my father said, “I hope

you do not intend to leave us very soon, Duncan?” “I am thinking of

going away to-morrow, sir,” said Duncan. The knife fell from my mother’s

hand; she looked him steadily in the face for the space of a minute.

“Duncan,” said she, her voice faltering, and the tears dropping from her

eyes,—“Duncan, I never durst ask you before, but I hope you will not

leave us altogether?” Duncan thrust the plate from before him into the

middle of the table—took up a book that lay on the window, and looked

over the pages. Mary left the room. No answer was returned, nor any

further inquiry made; and our little party broke up in silence.

When we met again in the evening, we were still all sullen. My mother

tried to speak of indifferent things, but it was apparent that her

thoughts had no share in the words that dropped from her tongue. My

father at last said, “You will soon forget us, Duncan; but there are

some among us who will not soon forget you.” Mary again left the room,

and silence ensued, until the family were called together for evening

worship. There was one sentence in my father’s prayer that night which I

think I yet remember, word for word. It may appear of little importance

to those who are nowise interested, but it affected us deeply, and left

not a dry cheek in the family. It runs thus—“We are an unworthy little

flock Thou seest here kneeling before Thee, our God; but, few as we are,

it is probable we shall never all kneel again together before Thee in

this world. We have long lived together in peace and happiness, and

hoped to have lived so much longer; but since it is Thy will that we

part, enable us to submit to that will with firmness; and though Thou

scatter us to the four winds of heaven, may Thy almighty arm still be

about us for good, and grant that we may all meet hereafter in another

and a better world.”

The next morning, after a restless night, Duncan rose early, put on his

best suit, and packed up some little articles to carry with him. I lay

panting and trembling, but pretended to be fast asleep. When he was

ready to depart, he took his bundle below his arm, came up to the side

of the bed, and listened if I was sleeping. He then stood long

hesitating, looking wistfully to the door, and then to me, alternately;

and I saw him three or four times wipe his eyes. At length he shook me

gently by the shoulder, and asked if I was awake. I feigned to start,

and answered as if half asleep.

“I must bid you farewell,” said he, groping to get hold of my hand.

“Will you not breakfast with us, Duncan?” said I.

“No,” said he, “I am thinking that it is best to steal away, for it

would break my heart to take leave of your parents, and—”

“Who, Duncan?” said I.

“And you,” said he.

“Indeed, but it is not best, Duncan,” said I; “we will all breakfast

together for the last time, and then take a formal and kind leave of

each other.”

We did breakfast together, and as the conversation turned on former

days, it became highly interesting to us all. When my father had

returned thanks to Heaven for our meal, we knew what was coming, and

began to look at each other. Duncan rose, and after we had all loaded

him with our blessings and warmest wishes, he embraced my parents and

me. He turned about. His eyes said plainly, “There is somebody still

wanting,” but his heart was so full, he could not speak.

“What is become of Mary?” said my father. Mary was gone. We searched the

house, the garden, and the houses of all the cottagers, but she was

nowhere to be found. Poor lovelorn, forsaken Mary! She had hid herself

in the ancient yew that grows in front of the old ruin, that she might

see her lover depart, without herself being seen, and might indulge in

all the luxury of woe. Poor Mary! how often have I heard her sigh, and

seen her eyes red with weeping, while the smile that played on her

languid features, when aught was mentioned in Duncan’s commendation,

would have melted a heart of adamant.

I must pass over Duncan’s journey to the north Highlands; but on the

evening of the sixth day after leaving my father’s house, he reached the

mansion-house of Glenellich, which stands in a little beautiful woody

strath, commanding a view of part of the Hebrides; every avenue, tree,

and rock was yet familiar to Duncan’s recollection; and the feelings of

his sensible heart, on approaching the abode of his father, whom he had

long scarcely thought of, can only be conceived by a heart like his own.

He had, without discovering himself, learned from a peasant that his

father was still alive, but that he had never overcome the loss of his

son, for whom he lamented every day; that his wife and daughter lorded

it over him, holding his pleasure at naught, and rendered his age

extremely unhappy; that they had expelled all his old farmers and

vassals, and introduced the lady’s vulgar, presumptuous relations, who

neither paid him rents, honour, nor obedience.

Old Glenellich was taking his evening walk on the road by which Duncan

descended the strath to his dwelling. He was pondering on his own

misfortunes, and did not even deign to lift his eyes as the young

stranger approached, but seemed counting the number of marks which the

horses’ hoofs had made on the way.

“Good e’en to you, sir,” said Duncan. The old man started and stared him

in the face, but with a look so unsteady and harassed, that he seemed

incapable of distinguishing any lineament or feature of it.

“Good e’en, good e’en,” said he, wiping his brow with his arm, and

passing by.

What there was in the voice that struck him so forcibly it is hard to

say. Nature is powerful. Duncan could not think of aught to detain him;

and being desirous of seeing how matters went on about the house,

thought it best to remain some days _incog._ He went into the

fore-kitchen, conversed freely with the servants, and soon saw his

step-mother and sister appear. The former had all the insolence and

ignorant pride of vulgarity raised to wealth and eminence; the other

seemed naturally of an amiable disposition, but was entirely ruled by

her mother, who taught her to disdain her father, all his relations, and

whomsoever he loved. On that same evening he came into the kitchen,

where she then was chatting with Duncan, to whom she seemed attached at

first sight.

“Lexy, my dear,” said he, “did you see my spectacles?”

“Yes,” said she; “I think I saw them on your nose to-day at breakfast.”

“Well, but I have lost them since,” said he.

“You may take up the next you find then, sir,” said she.

The servants laughed.

“I might well have known what information I would get of you,” said he,

regretfully.

“How can you speak in such a style to your father, my dear lady?” said

Duncan. “If I were he I would place you where you should learn better

manners. It ill becomes so pretty a young lady to address an old father

thus.”

“He!” said she, “who minds him? He’s a dotard, an old whining,

complaining, superannuated being, worse than a child.”

“But consider his years,” said Duncan; “and, besides, he may have met

with crosses and losses sufficient to sour the temper of a younger man.

You should at all events pity and reverence, but never despise, your

father.”

The old lady now joined them.

“You have yet heard nothing, young man,” said the old laird; “if you saw

how my heart is sometimes wrung. Yes, I have had losses indeed.”

“You losses!” said his spouse; “no; you have never had any losses that

did not in the end turn out a vast profit.”

“Do you then account the loss of a loving wife and a son nothing?” said

he.

“But have you not got a loving wife and a daughter in their room?”

returned she. “The one will not waste your fortune as a prodigal son

would have done, and the other will take care of both you and that, when

you can no longer do either. The loss of your son, indeed! It was the

greatest blessing you could have received!”

“Unfeeling woman,” said he; “but Heaven may yet restore that son to

protect the grey hairs of his old father, and lay his head in an

honoured grave.”

The old man’s spirits were quite gone; he cried like a child; his lady

mimicked him, and at this his daughter and servants raised a laugh.

“Inhuman wretches!” said Duncan, starting up and pushing them aside,

“thus to mock the feelings of an old man, even although he were not the

lord and master of you all. But, take notice, the individual among you

all that dares to offer such another insult to him, I’ll roast on that

fire.”

The old man clung to Duncan, and looked him ruefully in the face.

“You impudent, beggarly vagabond!” said the lady, “do you know to whom

you speak? Servants, turn that wretch out of the house, and hunt him

with all the dogs in the kennel.”

“Softly, softly, good lady,” said Duncan, “take care that I do not turn

you out of the house.”

“Alas, good youth!” said the old laird; “you little know what you are

about; for mercy’s sake, forbear. You are brewing vengeance both for

yourself and me.”

“Fear not,” said Duncan, “I will protect you with my life.”

“Pray, may I ask you what is your name?” said the old man, still looking

earnestly at him.

“That you may,” replied Duncan; “no man has so good a right to ask

anything of me as you have—I am Duncan Campbell, your own son.”

“M-m-m-my son!” exclaimed the old man, and sunk back on a seat with a

convulsive moan.

Duncan held him in his arms; he soon recovered, and asked many

incoherent questions; looked at the two moles on his right leg, kissed

him, and then wept on his bosom for joy.

“O God of heaven!” said he, “it is long since I could thank Thee

heartily for anything; now, I do thank Thee, indeed, for I have found my

son! my dear and only son!”

Contrary to what might have been expected, Duncan’s pretty, only sister,

Alexia, rejoiced most of all in his discovery. She was almost wild with

joy at finding such a brother. The old lady, her mother, was said to

have wept bitterly in private, but knowing that Duncan would be her

master, she behaved to him with civility and respect. Everything was

committed to his management, and he soon discovered that, besides a good

clear estate, his father had personal funds to a great amount. The halls

and cottages of Glenellich were filled with feasting, joy, and gladness.

It was not so at my father’s house. Misfortunes seldom come singly.

Scarcely had our feelings overcome the shock which they received by the

loss of our beloved Duncan, when a more terrible misfortune overtook us.

My father, by the monstrous ingratitude of a friend whom he trusted,

lost at once the greater part of his hard-earned fortune. The blow came

unexpectedly, and distracted his personal affairs to such a degree that

an arrangement seemed almost totally impracticable. He struggled on with

securities for several months; but perceiving that he was drawing his

real friends into danger by their signing of bonds which he might never

be able to redeem, he lost heart entirely, and yielded to the torrent.

Mary’s mind seemed to gain fresh energy every day. The activity and

diligence which she evinced in managing the affairs of the farm, and

even in giving advice with regard to other matters, is quite incredible.

Often have I thought what a treasure that inestimable girl would have

been to an industrious man whom she loved. All our efforts availed

nothing; my father received letters of horning on bills to a large

amount, and we expected every day that he would be taken from us and

dragged to a prison.

We were all sitting in our little room one day, consulting what was best

to be done. We could decide upon nothing, for our case was desperate; we

were fallen into a kind of stupor, but the window being up, a sight

appeared that quickly thrilled every heart with the keenest sensations

of anguish. Two men came riding sharply up by the back of the old

school-house.

“Yonder are the officers of justice now,” said my mother; “what shall we

do?”

We hurried to the window, and all of us soon discerned that they were no

other than some attorney, accompanied by a sheriff’s officer. My mother

entreated of my father to escape and hide himself until this first storm

was overblown, but he would in no wise consent, assuring us that he had

done nothing of which he was ashamed, and that he was determined to meet

every one face to face, and let them do their worst; so, finding all our

entreaties vain, we could do nothing but sit down and weep. At length we

heard the noise of their horses at the door.

“You had better take the men’s horses, James,” said my father, “as there

is no other man at hand.”

“We will stay till they rap, if you please,” said I.

The cautious officer did not, however, rap, but, afraid lest his debtor

should make his escape, he jumped lightly from his horse, and hasted

into the house. When we heard him open the outer door, and his footsteps

approaching along the entry, our hearts fainted within us. He opened the

door and stepped into the room—it was Duncan! our own dearly beloved

Duncan. The women uttered an involuntary scream of surprise, but my

father ran and got hold of one hand, and I of the other; my mother, too,

soon had him in her arms; but our embrace was short, for his eyes fixed

on Mary, who stood trembling with joy and wonder in a corner of the

room, changing her colour every moment. He snatched her up in his arms

and kissed her lips, and ere ever she was aware, her arms had encircled

his neck.

“O my dear Mary,” said he, “my heart has been ill at ease since I left

you, but I durst not then tell you a word of my mind, for I little knew

how I was to find affairs in the place where I was going; but ah! you

little illusive rogue, you owe me another for the one you cheated me out

of then;” so saying, he pressed his lips again to her cheek, and then

led her to a seat.

Duncan then recounted all his adventures to us, with every circumstance

of his good fortune. Our hearts were uplifted almost past bearing; all

our cares and sorrows were now forgotten, and we were once more the

happiest little group that ever perhaps sat together. Before the cloth

was laid for dinner, Mary ran out to put on her white gown, and comb her

yellow hair, but was surprised at meeting with a smart young gentleman

in the kitchen with a scarlet neck on his coat and a gold-laced hat.

Mary, having never seen so fine a gentleman, made him a low courtesy,

and offered to conduct him to the room; but he smiled, and told her he

was the squire’s servant. We had all of us forgot to ask for the

gentleman that came with Duncan.

Duncan and Mary walked for two hours in the garden that evening. We did

not know what passed between them, but the next day he asked her in

marriage of my parents, and never shall I forget the supreme happiness

and gratitude that beamed in every face on that happy occasion. I need

not tell my readers that my father’s affairs were soon retrieved, or

that I accompanied my dear Mary a bride to the Highlands, and had the

satisfaction of saluting her as Mrs Campbell and Lady of Glenellich.

THE LILY OF LIDDISDALE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

The country all around rang with the beauty of Amy Gordon; and, although

it was not known who first bestowed upon her the appellation, yet now

she bore no other than the Lily of Liddisdale. She was the only child of

a shepherd, and herself a shepherdess. Never had she been out of the

valley in which she was born; but many had come from the neighbouring

districts just to look upon her as she rested with her flock on the

hill-side, as she issued smiling from her father’s door, or sat in her

serener loveliness in the kirk on Sabbath-day. Sometimes there are

living beings in nature as beautiful as in romance; reality surpasses

imagination; and we see breathing, brightening, and moving before our

eyes, sights dearer to our hearts than any we ever beheld in the land of

sleep.

It was thus that all felt who looked on the Lily of Liddisdale. She had

grown up under the dews, and breath, and light of heaven, among the

solitary hills; and now that she had attained to perfect womanhood,

nature rejoiced in the beauty that gladdened the stillness of these

undisturbed glens. Why should this one maiden have been created lovelier

than all others? In what did her surpassing loveliness consist? None

could tell; for had the most imaginative poet described this maiden,

something that floated around her, an air of felt but unspeakable grace

and lustre, would have been wanting in his picture. Her face was pale,

yet tinged with such a faint and leaf-like crimson, that though she well

deserved the name of the Lily, yet was she at times also like unto the

Rose. When asleep, or in silent thought, she was like the fairest of all

the lilied brood; but, when gliding along the braes, or singing her

songs by the river-side, she might well remind one of that other

brighter and more dazzling flower. Amy Gordon knew that she was

beautiful. She knew it from the eyes that in delight met hers, from the

tones of so many gentle voices, from words of affection from the old,

and love from the young, from the sudden smile that met her when, in the

morning, she tied up at the little mirror her long raven hair, and from

the face and figure that looked up to her when she stooped to dip her

pitcher in the clear mountain-well. True that she was of lowly birth,

and that her manners were formed in a shepherd’s hut, and among

shepherdesses on the hill. But one week passed in the halls of the

highly-born would have sufficed to hide the little graceful symptoms of

her humble lineage, and to equal her in elegance with those whom in

beauty she had far excelled. The sun and the rain had indeed touched her

hands, but nature had shaped them delicate and small. Light were her

footsteps upon the verdant turf, and through the birchwood glades and

down the rocky dells she glided or bounded along, with a beauty that

seemed at once native and alien there, like some creature of another

clime that still had kindred with this—an Oriental antelope among the

roes of a Scottish forest.

Amy Gordon had reached her nineteenth summer, and as yet she knew of

love only as she had read of it in old Border songs and ballads. These

ancient ditties were her delight; and her silent soul was filled with

wild and beautiful traditions. In them love seemed, for the most part,

something sad, and, whether prosperous or unhappy, alike terminating in

tears. In them the young maiden was spoken of as dying in her prime, of

fever, consumption, or a pining heart; and her lover, a gallant warrior,

or a peaceful shepherd, killed in battle, or perishing in some midnight

storm. In them, too, were sometimes heard blessed voices whispering

affection beneath the greenwood tree, or among the shattered cliffs

overgrown with light-waving trees in some long, deep, solitary glen. To

Amy Gordon, as she chanted to herself, in the blooming or verdant

desert, all these various traditionary lays, love seemed a kind of

beautiful superstition belonging to the memory of the dead. With such

tales she felt a sad and pleasant sympathy; but it was as with something

far remote—although at times the music of her own voice, as it gave an

affecting expression to feelings embodied in such artless words, touched

a chord within her heart, that dimly told her that heart might one day

have its own peculiar and overwhelming love.

The summer that was now shining had been calm and sunny beyond the

memory of the oldest shepherd. Never had nature seemed so delightful to

Amy’s eyes and to Amy’s heart; and never had she seemed so delightful to

the eyes and the hearts of all who beheld her with her flock. Often

would she wreathe the sprigs of heather round her raven ringlets, till

her dark hair was brightened with a galaxy of richest blossoms. Or

dishevelling her tresses, and letting fall from them that shower of

glowing and balmy pearls, she would bind them up again in simpler

braiding, and fix on the silken folds two or three waterlilies, large,

massy, and whiter than the snow. Necklaces did she wear in her playful

glee, of the purple fruit that feeds the small birds in the moors, and

beautiful was the gentle stain then visible over the blue veins of her

milk-white breast. So were floating by the days of her nineteenth summer

among the hills. The evenings she spent by the side of her greyheaded

father—and the old man was blessed. Her nights passed in a world of

gentle dreams.

But, though Amy Gordon knew not yet what it was to love, she was herself

the object of as deep, true, tender, and passionate love, as ever

swelled and kindled within a human breast. Her own cousin, Walter

Harden, now lived and would have died for her, but had not hitherto

ventured to tell his passion. He was a few years older than her, and had

long loved her with the gentle purity of a brother’s affection. Amy had

no brother of her own, and always called Walter Harden by that endearing

name. That very name of brother had probably so familiarised her heart

towards him, that never had she thought of him, even for a single

moment, in any other light. But, although he too called Amy sister, his

heart burned with other feelings, and he must win her to be his bride,

and possess her as his wife, or die. When she was a mere child he had

led her by the hand—when a fair girl he had in his arms lifted her

across the swollen burns, and over the snow-drifts—now that she was a

woman he had looked on her in silence, but with a soul overcharged with

a thousand thoughts, hopes, and desires, which he feared to speak of to

her ear; for he knew, and saw, and felt, in sorrow, that she loved him

but as a brother. He knew, however, that she loved none else; and in

that—and that alone—was his hope,—so he at last determined to woo the

Lily of Liddisdale, and win her, in her beauty and fragrance, to bloom

within his house.

The Lily was sitting alone in a deep hollow among the hills, with her

sheep and lambs pasturing or playing around her, while over that little

secluded circle a single hawk was hanging far up in the sky. She was

glad, but not surprised, to see her brother standing beside her; and

when he sat down by her side, and took her hand into his, she looked

upon him with a gentle smile, and asked if he was going upon business

further on among the hills. Walter Harden instantly poured forth, in a

torrent, the passion of his soul, beseeched her not to shut up her sweet

bosom against him, but to promise to become, before summer was over, his

wedded wife. He spoke with fervour but trepidation; kissed her cheek;

and then awaited, with a fast-throbbing and palpitating heart, his Amy’s

reply.

There was no guile, no art, no hypocrisy in the pure and happy heart of

the Lily of Liddisdale. She took not away her hand from that of him who

pressed it; she rose not up from the turf, although her gentle side just

touched his heart; she turned not away her face so beautiful, nor

changed the silvery sweetness of her speech. Walter Harden was such a

man as in a war of freemen, defending their mountains against a tyrant,

would have advanced his plume in every scene of danger, and have been

chosen a leader among his pastoral compeers. Amy turned her large

beaming hazel eyes upon his face, and saw that it was overshadowed.

There was something in its expression too sad and solemn, mingling with

the flush of hope and passion, to suffer her, with playful or careless

words, to turn away from herself the meaning of what she had heard. Her

lover saw in her kind but unagitated silence, that to him she was but a

sister; and, rising to go, he said, “Blessed be thou all the days of thy

life; farewell, my sweet Amy, farewell!”

But they did not thus part. They walked together on the lonely

hill-side, down the banks of the little wimpling burn, and then out of

one small glen into another, and their talk was affectionate and kind.

Amy heard him speak of feelings to her unknown, and almost wondered that

she could be so dear to him, so necessary to his life, as he

passionately vowed. Nor could such vows be unpleasant to her ear,

uttered by that manly voice, and enforced by the silent speech of those

bold but gentle eyes. She concealed nothing from him, but frankly

confessed, that hitherto she had looked upon him even as her own

father’s son. “Let us be happy, Walter, as we have been so long. I

cannot marry you—oh—no—no; but since you say it would kill you if I

married another, then I swear to you by all that is sacred—yes, by the

Bible on which we have often read together, and by yonder sun setting

over the Windhead, that you never will see that day.” Walter Harden was

satisfied; he spoke of love and marriage no more; and in the sweet,

fresh, airless, and dewy quiet of evening, they walked together down

into the inhabited vale, and parted, almost like brother and sister, as

they had been used to do for so many happy years.

Soon after this, Amy was sent by her father to the Priory, the ancient

seat of the Elliots, with some wicker-baskets which they had made for

the young ladies there. A small plantation of willows was in the corner

of the meadow in which their cottage stood, and from them the old

shepherd and his daughter formed many little articles of such elegance

and ingenuity, that they did not seem out of place even in the splendid

rooms of the Priory. Amy had slung some of these pieces of rural

workmanship round her waist, while some were hanging on her arms, and

thus she was gliding along a footpath through the old elm-woods that

shelter the Priory, when she met young George Elliot, the heir of that

ancient family, going out with his angle to the river-side. The youth,

who had but a short time before returned from England, where he had been

for several years, knew at the first glance that the fair creature

before him could be no other than the Lily of Liddisdale. With the

utmost gentleness and benignity he called her by that name, and after a

few words of courtesy, he smilingly asked her for one small

flower-basket to keep for her sake. He unloosened one from her graceful

waist, and with that liberty which superior rank justified, but, at the

same time, with that tenderness which an amiable mind prompted, he

kissed her fair forehead, and they parted—she to the Priory, and he down

to the linn at the Cushat-wood.

Never had the boy beheld a creature so perfectly beautiful. The silence

and the songs of morning were upon the dewy woods, when that vision rose

before him; his soul was full of the joy of youth; and when Amy

disappeared, he wondered how he could have parted so soon—in a few

moments—from that bright and beaming Dryad. Smiles had been in her eyes

and round her pearly teeth while they spoke together, and he remembered

the soft and fragrant lock of hair that touched his lips as he gently

kissed her forehead. The beauty of that living creature sank into his

soul along with all the sweet influences of nature now rejoicing in the

full, ripe, rich spirit of summer, and in fancy he saw that Lily

springing up in every glade through which he was now roaming, and when

he had reached the linn, on the bank too of every romantic nook and bay

where the clear waters eddied or slept. “She must recross the bridge on

her way home,” said the enamoured boy to himself; and, fearing that Amy

Gordon might already be returning from the Priory, he clambered up the

face of the shrubby precipice, and, bounding over the large green mossy

stones, and through the entangling briers and brushwood, he soon was at

the bridge, and sat down on a high bank, under a cliff, commanding a

view of the path by which the fair maiden must approach on her homeward

journey.

The heart of the innocent Amy had fluttered, too, as the tall, slim,

graceful stripling had kissed her brow. No rudeness, no insult, no

pride, no haughty freedom had been in his demeanour towards her; but she

felt gladly conscious in her mind, that he had been delighted with her

looks, and would, perhaps, think now and then afterwards, as he walked

through the woods, of the shepherd’s daughter, with whom he had not

disdained to speak. Amy thought, while she half looked back, as he

disappeared among the trees, that he was just such a youth as the old

minstrels sang of in their war or love ballads, and that he was well

worthy some rich and noble bride, whom he might bring to his hall on a

snow-white palfrey with silken reins, and silver bells on its mane. And

she began to recite to herself, as she walked along, one of those old

Border tales.

Amy left her baskets at the Priory, and was near the bridge, on her

return, when she beheld the young heir spring down from the bank before

her, and come forward with a sparkling countenance. “I must have that

sweet tress that hangs over thy sweeter forehead,” said he, with a low

and eager voice; “and I will keep it for the sake of the fairest Flower

that ever bloomed in my father’s woods—even the Lily of Liddisdale.” The

lock was given—for how could it be refused? And the shepherdess saw the

young and high-born heir of the Priory put it into his breast. She

proceeded across the hill, down the long Falcon-glen, and through the

Witch-wood—and still he was by her side. There was a charm in his

speech, and in every word he said, and in his gentle demeanour, that

touched poor Amy’s very heart; and as he gave her assistance, although

all unneeded, over the uneven hollows, and the springs and marshes, she

had neither the courage, nor the wish, nor the power, to request him to

turn back to the Priory. They entered a small quiet green circlet, bare

of trees, in the bosom of a coppicewood; and the youth, taking her hand,

made her sit down on the mossy trunk of a fallen yew, and said—“Amy—my

fair Amy!—before we part, will you sing me one of your old Border songs?

and let it be one of love. Did not the sons of nobles, long ago, often

love the daughters of them that dwelt in huts?”

Amy Gordon sat there an hour with the loving, but honourable boy, and

sang many a plaintive tune, and recited many a romantic story. She

believed every word she uttered, whether of human lovers, or of the

affection of fairies, the silent creatures of the woods and knowes,

towards our race. For herself, she felt a constant wild delight in

fictions, which to her were all as truths; and she was glad and proud to

see how they held in silent attention him at whose request she recited

or sang. But now she sprang to her feet, and, beseeching him to forgive

the freedom she had used in thus venturing to speak so long in such a

presence, but at the same time remembering that a lock of her hair was

near his heart, and perceiving that the little basket she had let him

take was half filled with wild-flowers, the Lily of Liddisdale made a

graceful obeisance, and disappeared. Nor did the youth follow her—they

had sat together for one delightful hour—and he returned by himself to

the Priory.

From this day the trouble of a new delight was in the heart of young

Elliot. The spirit of innocence was blended with that of beauty all over

Amy, the shepherdess; and it was their perfect union that the noble boy

so dearly loved. Yet what could she be to him more than a gleam of

rainbow light—a phantom of the woods—an imagination that passed away

into the silence of the far-off green pastoral hills? She belonged

almost to another world—another life. His dwelling, and that of his

forefathers, was a princely hall. She, and all her nameless line, were

dwellers in turf-built huts. “In other times,” thought he, “I might have

transplanted that Lily into mine own garden; but these are foolish

fancies! Am I in love with poor Amy Gordon, the daughter of a shepherd?”

As these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was bounding along a

ridge of hills, from which many a sweet vale was visible; and he formed

a sudden determination to visit the cottage of Amy’s father, which he

had seen some years ago pointed out when he was with a gay party of

lords and ladies, on a visit to the ruins of Hermitage Castle. He

bounded like a deer along; and as he descended into a little vale, lo!

on a green mound, the Lily of Liddisdale herding her sheep!

Amy was half terrified to see him standing in his graceful beauty before

her in that solitary place. In a moment her soul was disquieted within

her, and she felt that it indeed was love. She wished that she might

sink into that verdant mound, from which she vainly strove to rise, as

the impassioned youth lay down on the turf at her side, and, telling her

to fear nothing, called her by a thousand tender and endearing names.

Never till he had seen Amy had he felt one tremor of love; but now his

heart was kindled, and in that utter solitude, where all was so quiet

and so peaceful, there seemed to him a preternatural charm over all her

character. He burst out into passionate vows and prayers, and called God

to witness, that if she would love him, he would forget all distinction

of rank, and marry his beautiful Amy, and she should live yet in his own

hall. The words were uttered, and there was silence. Their echo sounded

for a moment strange to his own ears; but he fixed his soul upon her

countenance, and repeated them over and over again with wilder emphasis,

and more impassioned utterance. Amy was confounded with fear and

perplexity; but when she saw him kneeling before her, the meek,

innocent, humble girl could not endure the sight, and said, “Sir, behold

in me one willing to be your servant. Yes, willing is poor Amy Gordon to

kiss your feet. I am a poor man’s daughter. Oh, sir! you surely came not

hither for evil? No—no, evil dwells not in such a shape. Away then—away

then, my noble master; for if Walter Harden were to see you!—if my old

father knew this, his heart would break!”

Once more they parted. Amy returned home in the evening at the usual

hour; but there was no peace now for her soul. Such intense and

passionate love had been vowed to her—such winning and delightful

expressions whispered into her heart by one so far above her in all

things, but who felt no degradation in equalling her to him in the

warmth and depth of his affection, that she sometimes strove to think it

all but one of her wild dreams awakened by some verse or incident in

some old ballad. But she had felt his kisses on her cheek; his thrilling

voice was in her soul; and she was oppressed with a passion, pure, it is

true, and most innocently humble, but a passion that seemed to be like

life itself, never to be overcome, and that could cease only when the

heart he had deluded—for what else than delusion could it be?—ceased to

beat. Thus agitated, she had directed her way homewards with hurried and

heedless steps. She minded not the miry pits—the quivering marshes—and

the wet rushy moors. Instead of crossing the little sinuous moorland

streams at their narrow places, where her light feet used to bound

across them, she waded through them in her feverish anxiety, and

sometimes, after hurrying along the braes, she sat suddenly down,

breathless, weak, and exhausted, and retraced in weeping bewilderment

all the scene of fear, joy, endearments, caresses, and wild persuasions,

from which she had torn herself away, and escaped. On reaching home, she

went to her bed trembling, and shivering, and drowned in tears; and

could scarcely dare, much as she needed comfort, even to say her

prayers. Amy was in a high fever; during the night she became delirious;

and her old father sat by her bedside till morning, fearing that he was

going to lose his child.

There was grief over the great strath and all its glens when the rumour

spread over them that Amy Gordon was dying. Her wonderful beauty had but

given a tenderer and brighter character to the love which her unsullied

innocence and simple goodness had universally inspired; and it was felt,

even among the sobbings of a natural affection, that if the Lily of

Liddisdale should die, something would be taken away of which they were

all proud, and from whose lustre there was a diffusion over their own

lives. Many a gentle hand touched the closed door of her cottage, and

many a low voice inquired how God was dealing with her; but where now

was Walter Harden when his Lily was like to fade? He was at her bed’s

foot, as her father was at its head. Was she not his sister, although

she would not be his bride? And when he beheld her glazed eyes wandering

unconsciously in delirium, and felt her blood throbbing so rapidly in

her beautiful transparent veins, he prayed to God that Amy might

recover, even although her heart were never to be his, even although it

were to fly to the bosom of him whose name she constantly kept repeating

in her wandering fantasies. For Amy, although she sometimes kindly

whispered the name of Walter Harden, and asked why her brother came not

to see her on her deathbed, yet far oftener spake beseechingly and

passionately as if to that other youth, and implored him to break not

the heart of a poor simple shepherdess who was willing to kiss his feet.

Neither the father of poor Amy nor Walter Harden had known before that

she had ever seen young George Elliot—but they soon understood, from the

innocent distraction of her speech, that the noble boy had left pure the

Lily he loved, and Walter said that it belonged not to that line ever to

enjure the helpless. Many a pang it gave him, no doubt, to think that

his Amy’s heart, which all his life-long tenderness could not win, had

yielded itself up in tumultuous joy to one—two—three meetings of an

hour, or perhaps only a few minutes, with one removed so high and so far

from her humble life and all its concerns. These were cold, sickening

pangs of humiliation and jealousy, that might, in a less generous

nature, have crushed all love. But it was not so with him; and

cheerfully would Walter Harden have taken the burning fever into his own

veins, so that it could have been removed from hers—cheerfully would he

have laid down his own manly head on that pillow, so that Amy could have

lifted up her long raven tresses, now often miserably dishevelled in her

raving, and, braiding them once more, walk out well and happy into the

sunshine of the beautiful day, rendered more beautiful still by her

presence. Hard would it have been to have resigned her bosom to any

human touch; but hideous seemed it beyond all thought to resign it to

the touch of death. Let heaven but avert that doom, and his affectionate

soul felt that it could be satisfied.

Out of a long deep trance-like sleep Amy at last awoke, and her eyes

fell upon the face of Walter Harden. She regarded long and earnestly its

pitying and solemn expression, then pressed her hand to her forehead and

wept. “Is my father dead and buried—and did he die of grief and shame

for his Amy? Oh! that needed not have been, for I am innocent. Neither,

Walter, have I broken, nor will I ever break, my promise unto thee. I

remember it well—by the Bible—and yon setting sun. But I am weak and

faint. Oh! tell me, Walter! all that has happened! Have I been ill—for

hours—or for days—or weeks—or months? For that I know not,—so wild and

so strange, so sad and so sorrowful, so miserable and so wretched, have

been my many thousand dreams!”

There was no concealment and no disguise. Amy was kindly and tenderly

told by her father and her brother all that she had uttered, as far as

they understood it, during her illness. Nor had the innocent creature

anything more to tell. Her soul was after the fever calm, quiet, and

happy. The form, voice, and shape of that beautiful youth were to her

little more now than the words and the sights of a dream. Sickness and

decay had brought her spirit back to all the humble and tranquil

thoughts and feelings of her lowly life. In the woods, and among the

hills, that bright and noble being had for a time touched her senses,

her heart, her soul, and her imagination. All was new, strange,

stirring, overwhelming, irresistible, and paradise to her spirit. But it

was gone; and might it stay away for ever: so she prayed, as her kind

brother lifted up her head with his gentle hand, and laid it down as

gently on the pillow he had smoothed. “Walter! I will be your wife! for

thee my affection is calm and deep,—but that other—oh! that was only a

passing dream!” Walter leaned over her, and kissed her pale lips. “Yes!

Walter,” she continued, “I once promised to marry none other, but now I

promise to marry thee; if indeed God will forgive me for such words,

lying as I am, perhaps, on my deathbed. I utter them to make you happy.

If I live, life will be dear to me only for thy sake; if I die, walk

thou along with my father at the coffin’s head, and lay thine Amy in the

mould. I am the Lily of Liddisdale,—you know that was once the vain

creature’s name!—and white, pale, and withered enough indeed is, I trow,

the poor Lily now!”

Walter Harden heard her affectionate words with a deep delight, but he

determined in his soul not to bind Amy down to these promises, sacred

and fervent as they were, if, on her complete recovery, he discovered

that they originated in gratitude, and not in love. From pure and

disinterested devotion of spirit did he watch the progress of her

recovery, nor did he ever allude to young Elliot but in terms of respect

and admiration. Amy had expressed her surprise that he had never come to

inquire how she was during her illness, and added with a sigh, “Love at

first sight cannot be thought to last long. Yet surely he would have

wept to hear that I was dead.” Walter then told her that he had been

hurried away to France the very day after she had seen him, to attend

the deathbed of his father, and had not yet returned to Scotland; but

that the ladies of the Priory had sent a messenger to know how she was

every day, and that to their kindness were owing many of the

conveniences she had enjoyed. Poor Amy was glad to hear that she had no

reason to think the noble boy would have neglected her in her illness;

and she could not but look with pride upon her lover, who was not afraid

to vindicate the character of one who, she had confessed, had been but

too dear to her only a few weeks ago. This generosity and manly

confidence on the part of her cousin quite won and subdued her heart,

and Walter Harden never approached her now without awakening in her

bosom something of that delightful agitation and troubled joy which her

simple heart had first suffered in the presence of her young, noble

lover. Amy was in love with Walter almost as much as he was with her,

and the names of brother and sister, pleasant as they had ever been,

were now laid aside.

Amy Gordon rose from her sickbed, and even as the flower whose name she

bore, did she again lift up her drooping head beneath the dews and the

sunshine. Again did she go to the hillside, and sit and sing beside her

flock. But Walter Harden was oftener with her than before, and ere the

harvest moon should hang her mild, clear, unhaloed orb over the late

reapers on the upland grain-fields, had Amy promised that she would

become his wife. She saw him now in his own natural light—the best, the

most intelligent, the most industrious, and the handsomest shepherd over

all the hills; and when it was known that there was to be a marriage

between Walter Harden and Amy Gordon, none felt surprised, although

some, sighing, said it was seldom, indeed, that fortune so allowed those

to wed whom nature had united.

The Lily of Liddisdale was now bright and beautiful as ever, and was

returning homewards by herself from the far-off hills during one rich

golden sunset, when, in a dark hollow, she heard the sound of horses’

feet, and in an instant young George Elliot was at her side. Amy’s dream

was over—and she looked on the beautiful youth with an unquaking heart.

“I have been far away, Amy,—across the seas. My father—you may have

heard of it—was ill, and I attended his bed. I loved him, Amy—I loved my

father—but he is dead!” and here the noble youth’s tears fell fast.

“Nothing now but the world’s laugh prevents me making you my wife—yes,

my wife, sweetest Lily; and what care I for the world? for thou art both

earth and heaven to me.

The impetuous, ardent, and impassioned boy scarcely looked in Amy’s

face; he remembered her confusion, her fears, her sighs, her tears, his

half-permitted kisses, his faintly repelled embraces, and all his

suffered endearments of brow, lip, and cheek, in that solitary dell; so

with a powerful arm he lifted her upon another steed, which, till now,

she had scarcely observed; other horsemen seemed to the frightened, and

speechless, and motionless maiden to be near; and away they went over

the smooth turf like the wind, till her eyes were blind with the rapid

flight, and her head dizzy. She heard kind words whispering in her ear;

but Amy, since that fever, had never been so strong as before, and her

high-blooded palfrey was now carrying her fleetly away over hill and

hollow in a swoon.

At last she seemed to be falling down from a height, but softly, as if

borne on the wings of the air; and as her feet touched the ground, she

knew that young Elliot had taken her from that fleet courser, and,

looking up, she saw that she was in a wood of old shadowy trees of

gigantic size, perfectly still, and far away from all known dwellings

both on hill and plain. But a cottage was before her, and she and young

Elliot were on the green in its front. It was thickly covered with

honeysuckle and moss-roses that hung their beautiful full-blown shining

lamps high as the thatched roof; and Amy’s soul sickened at the still,

secluded, lovely, and lonely sight. “This shall be our bridal abode,”

whispered her lover into her ear, with panting breath. “Fear me

not—distrust me not; I am not base, but my love to thee is tender and

true. Soon shall we be married—ay, this very evening must thou be mine;

and may the hand that now clasps thy sweet waist wither, and the tongue

that woos thee be palsied, if ever I cease to love thee as my Amy—my

Lily—my wedded wife!”

The wearied and half-fainting maiden could as yet make no reply. The

dream that she had believed was gone for ever now brightened upon her in

the intense light of reality, and it was in her power to become the wife

of him for whom she had, in the innocence and simplicity of her nature,

once felt a consuming passion that had brought her to the brink of the

grave. His warm breath was on her bosom; words charged with bewitching

persuasion went thrilling through her heartstrings; and if she had any

pride (and what human heart has it not?) it might well mingle now with

love, and impel her into the embrace that was now open to clasp her

close to a burning heart.

A stately and beautiful lady came smiling from the cottage door, and Amy

knew that it was the sister of Elliot, and kneeled down before her. Last

time the shepherdess had seen that lady, it was when, with a fearful

step, she took her baskets into the hall, and blushing, scarcely lifted

up her eyes, when she and her high-born sisters deigned to commend her

workmanship, and whisper to each other that the Lily of Liddisdale

deserved her name. “Amy,” said she, with a gentle voice, as she took her

hand, “Amy Gordon! my brother loves you; and he has won me to

acknowledge you as my sister. I can deny my brother nothing; and his

grief has brought low the pride—perhaps the foolish pride—of my heart.

Will you marry him, Amy? Will you, the daughter of a poor shepherd,

marry the young heir of the Priory, and the descendant, Amy, of a noble

race? Amy, I see that thou art beautiful; I know that thou art good; may

God and my mother forgive me this, but my sister must thou be; behold my

brother is at his shepherdess’s feet!”

Amy Gordon had now nothing to fear. That sweet, young, pure, noble lady

was her friend; and she felt persuaded now that in good truth young

Elliot wished to make her his wife. Might she indeed live the Lady of

the Priory—be a sister to these beautiful creatures—dwell among those

ancient woods, and all those spacious lawns and richest gardens; and

might she be, not in a dream, but in living reality, the wife of him on

whose bosom her heart had died with joy in that lonely dell, and love

him and yield him her love even unto the very hour till she was dead?

Such changes of estate had been long ago, and sung of in many a ballad;

and was she to be the one maiden of millions, the one born in hundreds

of years, to whom this blessed lot was to befall? But these thoughts

passed on and away like sun-rays upon a stream; the cloud, not a dark

one, of reality returned over her. She thought of Walter Harden, and in

an instant her soul was fixed; nor from that instant could it be shaken

by terror or by love, by the countenance of death, or the countenance,

far more powerful than of death—that of the youth before her, pale and

flushed alternately with the fluctuations of many passions.

Amy felt in her soul the collected voice, as it were, of many happy and

humble years among her hills, and that told her not to forsake her own

natural life. The flower that lived happily and beautifully in its own

secluded nook, by the side of the lonely tarn or torrent, might lose

much both of its fragrance and its lustre, when transplanted into a

richer soil and more sheltered bed. Could she forget for ever her

father’s ingle—the earthen floor—its simple furniture of day and night?

Could she forget all the familiar places round about the hut where she

was born? And if she left them all, and was taken up even in the arms of

love into another sphere of life, would not that be the same, or worse

than to forget them, and would it not be sacrilege to the holiness of

the many Sabbath nights on which she had sat at her widowed father’s

knees? Yet might such thoughts have been destroyed in her beating heart

by the whispered music of young Elliot’s eloquent and impassioned voice.

But Walter Harden, though ignorant of her present jeopardy, seemed to

stand before her, and she remembered his face when he sat beside her

dying bed, his prayers over her when he thought she slept, and their

oaths of fidelity mutually sworn before the great God.

“Will you, my noble and honoured master, suffer me, all unworthy as I am

to be yours, to leave your bosom? Sir, I am too miserable about you, to

pretend to feel any offence, because you will not let me go. I might

well be proud of your love, since, indeed, it happens so that you do

love me; but let me kneel down at your beautiful sister’s feet, for to

her I may be able to speak—to you I feel that it may not be, for humble

am I, although unfortunately I have found favour in your eyes.”

The agitated youth released Amy from his arms, and she flung herself

down upon her knees before that lovely lady.

“Lady! hear me speak—a simple uneducated girl of the hills, and tell me

if you would wish to hear me break an oath sworn upon the Bible, and so

to lose my immortal soul? So have I sworn to be the wife of Walter

Harden—the wife of a poor shepherd; and, lady, may I be on the left hand

of God at the great judgment-day, if ever I be forsworn. I love Walter

Harden. Do you counsel me to break his kind, faithful heart? Oh, sir—my

noble young master! how dare a creature such as I speak so freely to

your beautiful sister? how dare I keep my eyes open when you are at your

servant’s feet? Oh, sir, had I been born a lady, I would have lived—died

for you—gone with you all over the world—all over the sea, and all the

islands of the sea. I would have sighed, wept, and pined away, till I

had won your love, for your love would have been a blessed thing—that do

I well know, from the few moments you stooped to let your heart beat

against the bosom of a low-born shepherdess. Even now, dearly as I love

Walter Harden, fain would I lay me down and die upon this daisied green,

and be buried beneath it, rather than that poor Amy Gordon should affect

the soul of her young master thus; for never saw I, and never can I

again see, a youth so beautiful, so winning, so overwhelming to a

maiden’s heart, as he before whom I now implore permission to grovel in

the dust. Send me away—spurn me from you—let me crawl away out of your

presence—I can find my way back to my father’s house.”

It might have been a trying thing to the pride of this high-minded and

high-born youth, to be refused in marriage by the daughter of one of his

poorest shepherds; so would it have been had he loved less; but all

pride was extinguished, and so seemed for ever and ever the light of

this world’s happiness. To plead further he felt was in vain. Her soul

had been given to another, and the seal of an oath set upon it, never to

be broken but by the hand of death. So he lifted her up in his arms,

kissed her madly a hundred times, cheek, brow, neck, and bosom, and then

rushed into the woods. Amy followed him with her streaming eyes, and

then turned again towards the beautiful lady, who was sobbing audibly

for her brother’s sake.

“Oh! weep not, lady! that I, poor Amy Gordon, have refused to become the

wife of your noble brother. The time will come, and soon too, when he

and you, and your fair sisters and your stately mother, will all be

thankful that I yielded not to entreaties that would then have brought

disgrace upon your house! Never—never would your mother have forgiven

you; and as for me, would not she have wished me dead and buried rather

than the bride of her only and darling son? You know that, simple and

innocent as I am, I now speak but the truth; and how, then, could your

noble brother have continued to love me, who had brought dishonour, and

disagreement, and distraction, among those who are now all so dear to

one another? O yes—yes, he would soon have hated poor Amy Gordon, and,

without any blame, perhaps broken my heart, or sent me away from the

Priory back to my father’s hut. Blessed be God, that all this evil has

not been wrought by me! All—all will soon be as before.”

She to whom Amy thus fervently spoke felt that her words were not wholly

without truth. Nor could she help admiring the noble, heroic, and

virtuous conduct of this poor shepherdess, whom all this world’s

temptations would have failed to lure from the right path. Before this

meeting she had thought of Amy as far her inferior indeed, and it was

long before her proper pride had yielded to the love of her brother,

whose passion she feared might otherwise have led to some horrible

catastrophe. Now that he had fled from them in distraction, this terror

again possessed her, and she whispered it to the pale, trembling

shepherdess.

“Follow him—follow him, gentle lady, into the wood; lose not a moment;

call upon him by name, and that sweet voice must bring him back. But

fear not, he is too good to do evil; fear not, receive my blessing, and

let me return to my father’s hut; it is but a few miles, and that

distance is nothing to one who has lived all her life among the hills.

My poor father will think I have died in some solitary place.”

The lady wept to think that she, whom she had been willing to receive as

her sister, should return all by herself so many miles at night to a

lonely hut. But her soul was sick with fear for her brother; so she took

from her shoulders a long rich Indian silk scarf of gorgeous colours,

and throwing it over Amy’s figure, said, “Fair creature and good, keep

this for my sake; and now, farewell!” She gazed on the Lily for a moment

in delighted wonder at her graceful beauty, as she bent on one knee,

enrobed in that unwonted garb, and then, rising up, gathered the flowing

drapery around her, and disappeared.

“God, in His infinite mercy, be praised!” cried Walter Harden, as he and

the old man, who had been seeking Amy for hours all over the hills, saw

the Lily gliding towards them up a little narrow dell, covered from head

to foot with the splendid raiment that shone in a soft shower of

moonlight. Joy and astonishment for a while held them speechless, but

they soon knew all that had happened; and Walter Harden lifted her up in

his arms and carried her home, exhausted now and faint with fatigue and

trepidation, as if she were but a lamb rescued from a snow-wreath.

Next moon was that which the reapers love, and before it had waned Amy

slept in the bosom of her husband, Walter Harden. Years passed on, and

other flowers beside the Lily of Liddisdale were blooming in his house.

One summer evening, when the shepherd, his fair wife, and their children

were sitting together on the green before the door, enjoying probably

the sight and the noise of the imps much more then the murmurs of the

sylvan Liddal, which perhaps they did not hear, a gay cavalcade rode up

to the cottage, and a noble-looking young man, dismounting from his

horse, and gently assisting a beautiful lady to do the same, walked up

to her whom he had known only by a name now almost forgotten, and with a

beaming smile said, “Fair Lily of Liddisdale, this is my wife, the lady

of the Priory; come—it is hard to say which of you should bear off the

bell.” Amy rose from her seat with an air graceful as ever, but

something more matronly than that of Elliot’s younger bride; and while

these two fair creatures beheld each other with mutual admiration, their

husbands stood there equally happy, and equally proud—George Elliot of

the Priory, and Walter Harden of the Glenfoot.

THE UNLUCKY PRESENT.

BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.

A Lanarkshire minister (who died within the present century) was one of

those unhappy persons who, to use the words of a well-known Scottish

adage, “can never see any green cheese but their een reels.” He was

_extremely covetous_, and that not only of nice articles of food, but of

many other things which do not generally excite the cupidity of the

human heart. The following story is in corroboration of this assertion.

Being on a visit one day at the house of one of his parishioners, a

poor, lonely widow, living in a moorland part of the parish, Mr L——

became fascinated by the charms of a little cast-iron pot, which

happened at the time to be lying on the hearth, full of potatoes for the

poor woman’s dinner, and that of her children. He had never in his life

seen such a nice little pot. It was a perfect conceit of a thing. It was

a gem. No pot on earth could match it in symmetry. It was an object

altogether perfectly lovely.

“Dear sake! minister,” said the widow, quite overpowered by the reverend

man’s commendations of her pot; “if ye like the pot sae weel as a’ that,

I beg ye’ll let me send it to the manse. It’s a kind o’ orra pot wi’ us;

for we’ve a bigger ane, that we use oftener, and that’s mair convenient

every way for us. Sae ye’ll just tak a present o’t. I’ll send it ower

the morn wi’ Jamie, when he gangs to the schule.”

“Oh,” said the minister, “I can by no means permit you to be at so much

trouble. Since you are so good as to give me the pot, I’ll just carry it

home with me in my hand. I’m so much taken with it, indeed, that I would

really prefer carrying it myself.”

After much altercation between the minister and the widow, on this

delicate point of politeness, it was agreed that he should carry home

the pot himself.

Off, then, he trudged, bearing this curious little culinary article

alternately in his hand and under his arm, as seemed most convenient to

him. Unfortunately, the day was warm, the way long, and the minister

fat; so that he became heartily tired of his burden before he had got

half-way home. Under these distressing circumstances, it struck him that

if, instead of carrying the pot awkwardly at one side of his person, he

were to carry it on his head, the burden would be greatly lightened; the

principles of natural philosophy, which he had learned at college,

informing him, that when a load presses directly and immediately upon

any object, it is far less onerous than when it hangs at the remote end

of a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat, which he resolved to carry

home in his hand, and having applied his handkerchief to his brow, he

clapped the pot in inverted fashion upon his head, where, as the reader

may suppose, it figured much like Mambrino’s helmet upon the crazed

capital of Don Quixote, only a great deal more magnificent in shape and

dimensions. There was at first much relief and much comfort in this new

mode of carrying the pot; but mark the result. The unfortunate minister

having taken a by-path to escape observation, found himself, when still

a good way from home, under the necessity of leaping over a ditch, which

intercepted him in passing from one field to another. He jumped; but

surely no jump was ever taken so completely _in_, or, at least, _into_,

the dark as this. The concussion given to his person in descending,

caused the helmet to become a hood: the pot slipped down over his face,

and resting with its rim upon his neck, stuck fast there; enclosing his

whole head as completely as ever that of a new-born child was enclosed

by the filmy bag with which nature, as an indication of future good

fortune, sometimes invests the noddles of her favourite offspring. What

was worst of all, the nose, which had permitted the pot to slip down

over it, withstood every desperate attempt on the part of its proprietor

to make it slip back again; the contracted part or neck of the _patera_

being of such a peculiar formation as to cling fast to the base of the

nose, although it found no difficulty in gliding along its hypothenuse.

Was ever minister in a worse plight? Was there ever _contretemps_ so

unlucky? Did ever any man—did ever any minister—so effectually hoodwink

himself, or so thoroughly shut his eyes to the plain light of nature?

What was to be done? The place was lonely; the way difficult and

dangerous; human relief was remote, almost beyond reach. It was

impossible even to cry for help. Or, if a cry could be uttered, it might

reach in deafening reverberation the ear of the utterer; but it would

not travel twelve inches farther in any direction. To add to the

distresses of the case, the unhappy sufferer soon found great difficulty

in breathing. What with the heat occasioned by the beating of the sun on

the metal, and what with the frequent return of the same heated air to

his lungs, he was in the utmost danger of suffocation. Everything

considered, it seemed likely that, if he did not chance to be relieved

by some accidental wayfarer, there would soon be _Death in the Pot_.

The instinctive love of life, however, is omni-prevalent: and even very

stupid people have been found when put to the push by strong and

imminent peril, to exhibit a degree of presence of mind, and exert a

degree of energy, far above what might have been expected from them, or

what they have ever been known to exhibit or exert under ordinary

circumstances. So it was with the pot-ensconced minister of C——. Pressed

by the urgency of his distresses, he fortunately recollected that there

was a smith’s shop at the distance of about a mile across the fields,

where, if he could reach it before the period of suffocation, he might

possibly find relief. Deprived of his eyesight, he could act only as a

man of feeling, and went on as cautiously as he could, with his hat in

his hand. Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge and furrow, ditch and

hedge, somewhat like Satan floundering over chaos, the unhappy minister

travelled, with all possible speed, as nearly as he could guess in the

direction of the place of refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive

the surprise, the mirth, the infinite amusement of the smith and all the

hangers-on of the “smiddy,” when, at length, torn and worn, faint and

exhausted, blind and breathless, the unfortunate man arrived at the

place, and let them know (rather by signs than by words) the

circumstances of his case. In the words of an old Scottish song,

Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;

Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;

And a’ the town-neighbours were gathered about it;

And there was he, I trow!

The merriment of the company, however, soon gave way to considerations

of humanity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with such an object where

his head should have been, and with the feet of the pot pointing upwards

like the horns of the great Enemy, it was, nevertheless, necessary that

he should be speedily restored to his ordinary condition, if it were for

no other reason than that he might continue to live. He was accordingly,

at his own request, led into the smithy, multitudes flocking around to

tender him their kindest offices, or to witness the process of his

release; and having laid down his head upon the anvil, the smith lost no

time in seizing and poising his goodly forehammer.

“Will I come sair on, minister?” exclaimed the considerate man of iron

in at the brink of the pot.

“As sair as ye like,” was the minister’s answer; “better a chap i’ the

chafts than dying for want of breath.”

Thus permitted, the man let fall a hard blow, which fortunately broke

the pot in pieces without hurting the head which it enclosed, as the

cook-maid breaks the shell of the lobster without bruising the delicate

food within. A few minutes of the clear air, and a glass from the

gudewife’s bottle, restored the unfortunate man of prayer; but assuredly

the incident is one which will long live in the memory of the

parishioners.—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

THE SUTOR OF SELKIRK:

_A REMARKABLY TRUE STORY_.

BY ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF “THE ODD VOLUME.”

Once upon a time, there lived in Selkirk a shoemaker, by name Rabbie

Heckspeckle, who was celebrated both for dexterity in his trade, and for

some other qualifications of a less profitable nature. Rabbie was a

thin, meagre-looking personage, with lank black hair, a cadaverous

countenance, and a long, flexible, secret-smelling nose. In short, he

was the Paul Pry of the town. Not an old wife in the parish could buy a

new scarlet rokelay without Rabbie knowing within a groat of the cost;

the doctor could not dine with the minister but Rabbie could tell

whether sheep’s-head or haggis formed the staple commodity of the

repast; and it was even said that he was acquainted with the grunt of

every sow, and the cackle of every individual hen, in his neighbourhood;

but this wants confirmation. His wife, Bridget, endeavoured to confine

his excursive fancy, and to chain him down to his awl, reminding him it

was _all_ they had to depend on; but her interference met with exactly

that degree of attention which husbands usually bestow on the advice

tendered by their better halves—that is to say, Rabbie informed her that

she knew nothing of the matter, that her understanding required

stretching, and finally, that if she presumed to meddle in his affairs,

he would be under the disagreeable necessity of giving her a

topdressing.

To secure the necessary leisure for his researches, Rabbie was in the

habit of rising to his work long before the dawn; and he was one morning

busily engaged putting the finishing stitches to a pair of shoes for the

exciseman, when the door of his dwelling, which he thought was carefully

fastened, was suddenly opened, and a tall figure, enveloped in a large

black cloak, and with a broad-brimmed hat drawn over his brows, stalked

into the shop. Rabbie stared at his visitor, wondering what could have

occasioned this early call, and wondering still more that a stranger

should have arrived in the town without his knowledge.

“You’re early afoot, sir,” quoth Rabbie. “Lucky Wakerife’s cock will no

craw for a good half hour yet.”

The stranger vouchsafed no reply; but taking up one of the shoes Rabbie

had just finished, deliberately put it on, and took a turn through the

room to ascertain that it did not pinch his extremities. During these

operations, Rabbie kept a watchful eye on his customer.

“He smells awfully o’ yird,” muttered Rabbie to himself; “ane would be

ready to swear he had just cam frae the plough-tail.”

The stranger, who appeared to be satisfied with the effect of the

experiment, motioned to Rabbie for the other shoe, and pulled out a

purse for the purpose of paying for his purchase; but Rabbie’s surprise

may be conceived, when, on looking at the purse, he perceived it to be

spotted with a kind of earthy mould.

“Gudesake,” thought Rabbie, “this queer man maun hae howkit that purse

out o’ the ground. I wonder where he got it. Some folk say there are

dags o’ siller buried near this town.”

By this time the stranger had opened the purse, and as he did so, a toad

and a beetle fell on the ground, and a large worm crawling out wound

itself round his finger. Rabbie’s eyes widened; but the stranger, with

an air of nonchalance, tendered him a piece of gold, and made signs for

the other shoe.

“It’s a thing morally impossible,” responded Rabbie to this mute

proposal. “Mair by token, that I hae as good as sworn to the exciseman

to hae them ready by daylight, which will no be long o’ coming” (the

stranger here looked anxiously towards the window); “and better, I tell

you, to affront the king himsel, than the exciseman.”

The stranger gave a loud stamp with his shod foot, but Rabbie stuck to

his point, offering, however, to have a pair ready for his new customer

in twenty-four hours; and, as the stranger, justly enough perhaps,

reasoned that half a pair of shoes was of as little use as half a pair

of scissors, he found himself obliged to come to terms, and seating

himself on Rabbie’s three-legged stool, held out his leg to the Sutor,

who, kneeling down, took the foot of his taciturn customer on his knee,

and proceeded to measure it.

“Something o’ the splay, I think, sir,” said Rabbie, with a knowing air.

No answer.

“Where will I bring the shoon to when they’re done?” asked Rabbie,

anxious to find out the domicile of his visitor.

“I will call for them myself before cock crowing,” responded the

stranger in a very uncommon and indescribable tone of voice.

“Hout, sir,” quoth Rabbie, “I canna let you hae the trouble o’ coming

for them yoursel; it will just be a pleasure for me to call with them at

your house.”

“I have my doubts of that,” replied the stranger, in the same peculiar

manner; “and at all events, my house would not hold us both.”

“It maun be a dooms sma’ biggin,” answered Rabbie; “but noo that I hae

ta’en your honour’s measure——”

“Take your own!” retorted the stranger, and giving Rabbie a touch with

his foot that laid him prostrate, walked coolly out of the house.

This sudden overturn of himself and his plans for a few moments

discomfited the Sutor; but quickly gathering up his legs, he rushed to

the door, which he reached just as Lucky Wakerife’s cock proclaimed the

dawn. Rabbie flew down the street, but all was still; then ran up the

street, which was terminated by the churchyard, but saw only the

moveless tombs looking cold and chill under the grey light of a winter

morn. Rabbie hitched his red nightcap off his brow, and scratched his

head with an air of perplexity.

“Weel,” he muttered, as he retraced his steps homewards, “he has warred

me this time, but sorrow take me if I’m no up wi’ him the morn.”

All day Rabbie, to the inexpressible surprise of his wife, remained as

constantly on his three-legged stool as if he had been “yirked” there by

some brother of the craft. For the space of twenty-four hours, his long

nose was never seen to throw its shadow across the threshold of the

door; and so extraordinary did this event appear, that the neighbours,

one and all, agreed that it predicted some prodigy; but whether it was

to take the shape of a comet, which would deluge them all with its fiery

tail, or whether they were to be swallowed up by an earthquake, could by

no means be settled to the satisfaction of the parties concerned.

Meanwhile, Rabbie diligently pursued his employment, unheeding the

concerns of his neighbours. What mattered it to him, that Jenny

Thrifty’s cow had calved, that the minister’s servant, with something in

her apron, had been seen to go in twice to Lucky Wakerife’s, that the

laird’s dairy-maid had been observed stealing up the red loan in the

gloaming, that the drum had gone through the town announcing that a

sheep was to be killed on Friday?—The stranger alone swam before his

eyes; and cow, dairymaid, and drum kicked the beam. It was late in the

night when Rabbie had accomplished his task, and then placing the shoes

at his bedside, he lay down in his clothes, and fell asleep; but the

fear of not being sufficiently alert for his new customer, induced him

to rise a considerable time before daybreak. He opened the door and

looked into the street, but it was still so dark he could scarcely see a

yard before his nose; he therefore returned into the house, muttering to

himself—“What the sorrow can keep him?” when a voice at his elbow

suddenly said—

“Where are my shoes?”

“Here, sir,” said Rabbie, quite transported with joy; “here they are,

right and tight, and mickle joy may ye hae in wearing them, for it’s

better to wear shoon than sheets, as the auld saying gangs.”

“Perhaps I may wear both,” answered the stranger.

“Gude save us,” quoth Rabbie, “do ye sleep in your shoon?”

The stranger made no answer; but, laying a piece of gold on the table

and taking up the shoes, walked out of the house.

“Now’s my time,” thought Rabbie to himself, as he slipped after him.

The stranger paced slowly on, and Rabbie carefully followed him; the

stranger turned up the street, and the Sutor kept close to his heels.

“’Odsake, where can he be gaun?” thought Rabbie, as he saw the stranger

turn into the churchyard; “he’s making to that grave in the corner; now

he’s standing still; now he’s sitting down. Gudesake! what’s come o’

him?” Rabbie rubbed his eyes, looked round in all directions, but, lo

and behold! the stranger had vanished. “There’s something no canny about

this,” thought the Sutor; “but I’ll mark the place at ony rate;” and

Rabbie, after thrusting his awl into the grave, hastily returned home.

The news soon spread from house to house, and by the time the red-faced

sun stared down on the town, the whole inhabitants were in commotion;

and, after having held sundry consultations, it was resolved, _nem.

con._, to proceed in a body to the churchyard, and open the grave which

was suspected of being suspicious. The whole population of the Kirk Wynd

turned out on this service. Sutors, wives, children, all hurried

pell-mell after Rabbie, who led his myrmidons straight to the grave at

which his mysterious customer had disappeared, and where he found his

awl still sticking in the place where he had left it. Immediately all

hands went to work; the grave was opened; the lid was forced off the

coffin; and a corpse was discovered dressed in the vestments of the

tomb, but with a pair of perfectly new shoes upon its long bony feet. At

this dreadful sight the multitude fled in every direction, Lucky

Wakerife leading the van, leaving Rabbie and a few bold brothers of the

craft to arrange matters as they pleased with the peripatetic skeleton.

A council was held, and it was agreed that the coffin should be firmly

nailed up and committed to the earth. Before doing so, however, Rabbie

proposed denuding his customer of his shoes, remarking that he had no

more need for them than a cart had for three wheels. No objections were

made to this proposal, and Rabbie, therefore, quickly coming to

extremities, whipped them off in a trice. They then drove half a hundred

tenpenny nails into the lid of the coffin, and having taken care to

cover the grave with pretty thick divots, the party returned to their

separate places of abode.

Certain qualms of conscience, however, now arose in Rabbie’s mind as to

the propriety of depriving the corpse of what had been honestly bought

and paid for. He could not help allowing, that if the ghost were

troubled with cold feet, a circumstance by no means improbable, he might

naturally wish to remedy the evil. But, at the same time, considering

that the fact of his having made a pair of shoes for a defunct man would

be an everlasting blot on the Heckspeckle escutcheon, and reflecting

also that his customer, being dead in law, could not apply to any court

for redress, our Sutor manfully resolved to abide by the consequences of

his deed.

Next morning, according to custom, he rose long before day, and fell to

his work, shouting the old song of the “Sutors of Selkirk” at the very

top of his voice. A short time, however, before the dawn, his wife, who

was in bed in the back room, remarked, that in the very middle of his

favourite verse, his voice fell into a quaver; then broke out into a

yell of terror; and then she heard a noise, as of persons struggling;

and then all was quiet as the grave. The good dame immediately huddled

on her clothes, and ran into the shop, where she found the three-legged

stool broken in pieces, the floor strewed with bristles, the door wide

open, and Rabbie away! Bridget rushed to the door, and there she

immediately discovered the marks of footsteps deeply printed on the

ground. Anxiously tracing them, on—and on—and on—what was her horror to

find that they terminated in the churchyard, at the grave of Rabbie’s

customer! The earth round the grave bore traces of having been the scene

of some fearful struggle, and several locks of lank black hair were

scattered on the grass. Half distracted, she rushed through the town to

communicate the dreadful intelligence. A crowd collected, and a cry

speedily arose to open the grave. Spades, pickaxes, and mattocks, were

quickly put in requisition; the divots were removed; the lid of the

coffin was once more torn off, and there lay its ghastly tenant, with

his shoes replaced on his feet, and Rabbie’s red night-cap clutched in

his right hand!

The people, in consternation, fled from the churchyard; and nothing

further has ever transpired to throw any additional light upon the

melancholy fate of the Sutor of Selkirk.

ELSIE MORRICE.

FROM THE “ABERDEEN CENSOR.”

Oh, wert thou of the golden-wingèd host,

Who, having clad thyself in human weed,

To earth, from thy prefixèd seat didst post,

And, after short abode, fly back with speed,

As if to show what creatures Heav’n doth breed,

Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire,

To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav’n aspire?—_Milton._

In the neighbourhood of the pleasant village of ——, on the east coast of

Scotland, lived Janet Morrice and her grand-daughter Elsie. A small

cottage, overlaid with woodbine on the exterior, and neat and clean in

the interior, contained this couple; and a small farm attached to it

served to supply all their humble desires. The place was no doubt

agreeable to look on; but it was a pair of bright blue eyes, some light

brown locks, and a sweet and modest face, that drew all the male

visitors to the house of Janet Morrice. Elsie Morrice, her grandchild,

had been left a young orphan to her charge. She was the only child of an

only son, and thus came with a double call on the feelings of her old

grandmother. Dearly was she loved by her, and well did she deserve it;

for a better and a kindlier girl was not in all the country round. Out

of the many young men that paid their attentions to Elsie, it was soon

evident that her favourite was William Gordon. In his person he had

nothing particular to recommend him above his companions; but there was

in him that respectful demeanour, that eagerness to please, and that

happiness in serving the object of his affections, which the eyes of a

young woman can so soon perceive, and her heart so readily appreciate.

In their dispositions, though not similar, they were drawn to each

other. She was timid, loving, enthusiastic—in every respect a woman. He

was gifted with those firmer qualities which bespeak a manly mind, but

he had a heart that could love deeply and feel acutely;

And, if sometimes, a sigh should intervene,

Or down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wished not to control.

There was also some resemblance in their situations; for William’s

mother was dead, and though he still had a father, yet this parent had

never seen him, and took no concern about him; so that he was entirely

dependent upon his maternal uncle. To his uncle’s farm he was to

succeed; and William Gordon and Elsie Morrice were considered by all the

neighbours as soon to be man and wife.

William was seated one evening in the public-house of the village,

reading the newspaper, when a party of sailors entered, and, calling for

some drink, casually asked if there were any seamen in the village. The

landlady civilly replied in the negative; but William, looking up,

remarked, without noticing the winks of the landlord, that he had seen

Tom Sangster arrive that morning.

“And where lives Tom Sangster, my hearty cock?” said the principal of

the party, slapping him on the back, while the rest got betwixt the

landlady and the door. He immediately informed them; and, drinking off

their liquor quickly, they left the house.

“Willie,” cried the landlady, “what hae ye done? It’s the press-gang,

and Tam Sangster ’ll be torn frae his wife and bairns!”

In a moment William was past her, and, running with full speed, by a

nearer cut, he arrived before the gang at the house. He had just time to

make the seaman strip his jacket, and put on his coat, and jump out at

the back window, when the gang entered. William, without turning round,

knocked out the lamp, when a struggle ensued, which he contrived to keep

up so long as that Tom Sangster might be out of the way. He was at last

overpowered and carried aboard the tender, when they discovered they had

lost the regular sailor; but the one they had got was too likely a young

man to be suffered to depart. The consciousness of having remedied an

error he had committed, even though in ignorance, partly consoled

William for parting with his beloved Elsie for a little. It was at the

time when the news of the glorious victory of the Nile had arrived, and

many a young and aspiring bosom burned to be under the command of so

gallant an admiral. William’s father belonged to the navy; he knew that

he fought under Nelson; and the thought that he might be able to combat

by his side, and under the eye of the hero who was his country’s boast,

somewhat palliated the idea of leaving his love. Besides, he would soon

return laden with honours and riches, and Elsie would share both.

Auspicious hope! in thy sweet garden grow

Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe.

And thus he consoled himself with a flattering vision in circumstances

that he could not alter. As for poor Elsie, her timid mind had never

contemplated bloodshed and war. She loved, fervently loved, and her life

had been one scene of pleasure. She was a dreamer that all the night

long had quaffed the brimful cup of happiness, and in the morning waked

to wretchedness. To lamentations, however, succeeded some consultation

for a remedy; and she was advised, by her sorrowing neighbours, to apply

to the laird for his interest. Loose, unprincipled, and broken down in

fortune, he had returned, from the fashionable life he could no longer

support, to live on his estate; and he was not beloved by his tenants.

But when a woman loves, and the object of her affection is in danger,

where is the obstacle that can oppose her? Elsie exerted herself to call

on him.

The poet has beautifully said,

Ah, too convincing, dangerously dear,

In woman’s eye th’ unanswerable tear,

The weapon of her weakness she can wield

To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield.

But there are some men that can look on woman’s grief, and yet coolly

calculate on turning it to their own purposes; and so it was in the

present case. Elsie Morrice was lovely, and that was enough for him. He

promised everything, and her heart overflowed with gratitude. He not

only promised this, but he requested her grandmother’s lease, to draw it

out anew in her name. Elsie ran home, and, in a few minutes, without

consulting her grandmother, the lease was in his hands: for who could

doubt the intentions of him who had pledged his word that William Gordon

should be put ashore? This was no sooner done, than came the sneer at

her lover, the information that his Majesty’s navy must be manned, the

hint at the injury to the landlord in old leases, and the proposal of

the remedy that was to remove all these evils. The colour fled from

Elsie’s face. She stood the picture of complete despair, and, for a

little time, reason had to dispute for her sovereignty in her mind. She

rushed from his presence, and, in her way back to Sunnybrae, saw,

without shedding one tear, the vessel that contained her lover spread

her broad sails to the wind and depart. Janet Morrice reproached her not

when she told her what she had done, but, taking her in her arms, said,

“Come, my Elsie, we maunna bide to be putten out. I’ve sitten here, and

my fathers afore me, an’ I’m wae to leave it; but age and innocence will

find a shelter somewhere else.” Next day they removed to a cottage on a

neighbouring estate. A verbal message was all that William could send

her; but it was the assurance he would be soon back to her. Elsie seemed

now to live in another state of existence. She toiled in the fields, and

seemed anxious to make up to her grandmother the effects of her

imprudence. Time passed on, and no letter arrived from William, and

Elsie grew sorrowful and melancholy. Grief and labour bore down a

constitution naturally delicate, and she drooped.

There is something to my mind particularly holy and heavenly in the

death-bed of a lovely woman. When I look on the pale cheek, which now

and then regains more than its former colour in some feverish flush—on

the sunk eye which occasionally beams with a short and transient hope—on

the pale lips which utter low sounds of comfort to those around—and,

more especially, on that whole countenance and appearance which bespeak

patient resignation and a trust in that Word which has said there is

another and a better world—I cannot help thinking that the being, even

in her mortality, is already a deserving inmate of that place where all

is immortality. I have stood at the grave while some of my earliest

friends have been lowered into the ground, and I have wept to think that

the bright hopes of youth were for ever fled—that the fair promises of

youthful genius were wrapt within the clay-cold tomb—and that all the

anticipations of the world’s applause had ended in the one formal bow of

a few friends over mouldering ashes; but I confess I have sorrowed more

at the grave of a young and lovely woman who had nothing to excite my

compassion but her beauty and her helplessness; and often have the lines

of that poet, who could be pathetic as well as sublime, come to my

lips,—

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,

Or that thy corpse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,

Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,

Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb.

It was on a lovely morning in the month of May that a sad and sorrowful

company assembled to accompany the remains of poor Elsie Morrice to her

last cold dwelling-place. According to that old-fashioned and most

becoming custom, she was borne on the bier, and carried, as is the

practice in that part of the country, for some way by the young maidens

dressed in white. No mother had she to weep for her, no relation to bear

her head to the grave; but her old grandmother followed her corpse to

the door—farther she could not; and, when it was placed on the bier, she

attempted not to speak or to moan, but she leaned her palsied hands on

her staff, and followed the coffin with her eyes, while down her

furrowed cheeks rolled two big tears that told too well her inward

grief. Elsie’s young companion, May Leslie, who was to have been her

bestmaid at the marriage, who had promised to assist at her marriage

dress, and make her marriage bed, had, in sorrow and in grief, fashioned

that last dress in which beauty is offered, not to the arms of a lover,

but to the crawling worm, now supported her head for a few steps to that

bed from which there is no rising till the last dread trumpet shall

sound. The females then gave the corpse to the young men, and I could

perceive, as they returned, that many a handkerchief was soaked in briny

tears, and many a head turned to take a last look at the departure of

her who had been their companion and their pride. We moved on, and,

after an hour’s walking, arrived at the old churchyard of ——. It is

situated on the front of a bleak and barren hill, with neither tree nor

shrub for some way around it; and a few moss-covered tombstones alone

told us that it was the resting place for the dead. The church had been

rebuilt in a more convenient place; but, like the sojourner in distant

lands, who sighs for his native soil, however barren, there are some

that still cling to the spot which is the grave of their fathers. Though

it may betray some weakness in reason, still I hope it is an excusable

failing, in feeling minds, that they desire to mingle in their ashes

with their friends. Here we deposited the remains of Elsie Morrice, and,

when the grave had been closed over, the company departed in groups,

chiefly engaged in talking over her unfortunate love.

The heather sods had long become fast, and the hare-bell had blossomed

and withered for some summers on the grave of Elsie Morrice, when one

day a seaman, singing a merry sea-song to himself, tript up the pathway

leading to Sunnybrae. It was William Gordon. The joy he had felt on

again entering amongst scenes so well known to him, sent itself forth in

a song; but, as he approached the house, it died away, and gave place to

far different feelings. He had never heard from Elsie; but, while aboard

of ship, he had hushed any fears that arose, by ascribing this to the

letters miscarrying from the ever changing station of a sailor. Still he

was not well at ease; and as he came in front of the house, and saw the

woodbine torn from the walls, the windows here and there broken and

covered with paper, and the pretty flower-garden of Elsie turned into a

kail-yard, the most fearful forebodings arose in his breast, and with a

trembling and hurried hand he lifted the latch. He started back on

perceiving some children playing on the floor, but again advanced when

he saw a middle-aged woman nursing a child, and asked, in the best way

he was able, if she could tell him where Janet Morrice lived? She gave

him a direction, and, without taking one other look at the cottage he

had so often visited, he made his way to the new dwelling, and on

entering, addressed her in the usual salutation, “How are you, Granny,

and how is Elsie?”

The old woman was seated with her face to the hearth, and perceived not

his entrance; but on hearing his voice, without starting or moving, she

immediately answered, “An’ ye’re come back, Willie Gordon; an’ sae ye’re

come back! I kent a’ this. I kent, when the house and the ha’ o’ the

stranger would be closed against ye, ye would come back to your ain

country. I saw her yestreen, as I hae seen her ilka night, and she tauld

me ye would come. But this fire’s out,” continued she, stirring about

the embers with her stick; “I tried to blaw that peat, but I wasna able

to raise the low: an’ when she comes and seats hersel on that stool, it

’ill be sae cauld, an’ she winna complain o’t, but her bonny face ’ill

be sae wan, and her braw white gown ’ill be sae damp and dewy. Ye’ll see

her, Willie, ye’ll see her wi’ the bonny new mutch on that May Leslie

made wi’ her ain hand. An’ I’ll shiver and tremble in my cauld bed, and

she winna lie down wi’ me, but she’ll sit by the fire an’ aye deck

hersel wi’ the black kerchief that Willie Gordon tied roun’ her neck

lang afore he gaed awa.”

William, who had stood riveted to the earth all this time, now exerted

himself, and, seizing her arm, asked loudly, “Where is Elsie Morrice?”

“Whaur is Elsie Morrice?—and wha speirs that question? They took her awa

frae me lang ago, dressed in white, like a bride, and mony ane gaed wi’

her, but I wasna able, though they dressed me fine in my braw

Sunday-claithes.”

“Granny, ye knew me already,” said he; “for God’s sake, tell me what has

become of Elsie?”

“There were twa bonny voices ca’d me granny, and I liket to hear them;

but the little feathered flock picks the craw-berries, an’ the bee sooks

the honey frae the heather on the grave o’ the ane, and the ither is a

faithless love, and broke the heart o’ the leal young bairn that lay in

my bosom.”

William now knew the worst. He threw himself in agony on the dais, and

wept and cursed his hard lot. Elsie Morrice was dead, and dead, as

appeared, through his neglect. When his grief had found some vent, he

again asked the old woman if they had received no letters from him?

She raised her shaking hand, and tracing every feature of his face,

said, “Though I canna see sae weel that face, I ken ye’re Willie Gordon;

but oh, Willie, Willie, ye hae come when the flame ye should hae

nourished has been quenched. We never got ony letters, or else Elsie

would hae tried to live.”

It was with great exertion that he was able to gather from her

disjointed sentences, that the laird had turned them out of Sunnybrae,

and continued to annoy them, and that Elsie had broken her heart when he

left them and sent no letters. Many a kind letter had William written,

but they were directed, for security’s sake, to the care of the laird,

and the mystery of his never receiving any answer was now cleared away.

“But the laird shall answer for this!” said he, stepping to the door.

“Na, Willie Gordon,” said she, taking hold of him, “he manna answer

for’t to you. There is Anither that will judge him for abusing the widow

and the orphan. Ay, he is already cursed for it,” continued she,

stretching out her lean and shrivelled arm, and raising herself like a

Sibyl; “his lang list of ancestors is at end in him. He walks the world

the last of his proud race. A few years, and yon lordly house will be

the dwalling o’ the hoodie-craw and the rook; an’ the present proud man

will be lying in his leaden coffin, wi’ the worms o’ his ain body

devouring him, and the winds o’ heaven will dash his lie-telling

tombstone to pieces, an’ the beasts will tread on his grave, an’ the

rains level it, an’ none will repair it, for his name shall be forgotten

for ever. But whisht, Willie, I canna greet wi’ you. Ye’ll see her, when

the hen has been lang on the roost, an’ the tod has left his hole to

worry the puir beasty, an we’ll get May Leslie, an’ we’ll hae a blazing

fire, an’ we’ll be merry again in Sunnybrae.” A shrill and unearthly

laugh followed, and she sank again into her former querulous muttering.

William suddenly left the house and was never more seen; but some weeks

after, the grave of Elsie Morrice was found finely dressed, and a stone,

with her name and age carved on it by the hand of no regular sculptor,

at the head of it. And every spring the greedy moss was found cleaned

away from the stone, and the grave trimmed. While Janet Morrice lived,

her garden was delved, and money deposited on her table, by the same

invisible hand. No one knew what became of William Gordon; but

occasionally, in the gray of a May morning, as the shepherd was merrily

driving his flocks with the sun to the pasture, he saw the dark figure

of a man chiselling at the stone, or stretched on the grave of Elsie

Morrice. About three years ago a shepherd’s dog, one day, prowling about

the old churchyard, returned, and, by his howling, urged his master to

the spot, where he found the dead body of a seaman. The letters W. G.

and an anchor on his forearm, and W. S. and E. M., with a heart between

them, and the Saviour on the cross above, on his left breast, done with

China ink or gunpowder, after that fashion which sailors have in order

that their bodies may be known, if picked up after shipwreck, told too

well who had chosen this place for his death-bed. Sufficient money was

found on him to pay the expenses of his burial, and he was laid in the

grave he had died upon. Last summer I visited the spot. The grave was

running into wildness; but, in a state of mind pleasing yet sad, I spent

half a day in dressing the resting-place of this unfortunate pair.

HOW I WON THE LAIRD’S DAUGHTER.

BY DANIEL GORRIE.

CHAPTER I.

Soon after I had obtained my diploma, and was dubbed M.D., an opening

for a medical practitioner occurred in the pleasant village of St

Dunstan, situated on the beautiful banks of the Tweed. Knowing well that

I might be forestalled by a day’s delay, I bundled up my testimonials

and letters of recommendation, and departed at once for the scene of

action. The shadows of a calm October evening were drooping over the

Eildon Hills, and the Tweed was murmuring peacefully along its winding

course, when I entered the principal street of the village, and took up

my quarters at the inn. After refreshing myself with such entertainment

as the house afforded, I called in the landlord, told him the object of

my visit, and inquired if any other medical gentlemen had yet made their

appearance. Mine host was a canny, cautious Scotsman, and manifested due

deliberation in a matter of so much moment. He surveyed me quietly for a

short time, and did not reply until he seemed satisfied with his

scrutiny.

“Na, sir,” he said at length; “ye’re the first that’s come to the toun

yet, and a’ the folk are wearying for anither doctor. Ye see, we canna

tell what may happen. The shoemaker’s wife took unco onweel last nicht,

and, frail as he is himsel, puir man, he had to gang a’ the way to

Melrose for medical advice. Ye look young like, sir; hae ye been in ony

place afore?”

“No,” I replied; “it is not very long since I passed.”

“Ay, weel, that’s no sae gude; we rather like a skeely man here. Dr

Sommerville had a great deal o’ experience, and we were a’ sorry when he

left for Glasgow.”

“I am glad that the good people of St Dunstan liked their last doctor so

well,” I rejoined, somewhat nettled at the plain-spokenness of the

worthy landlord of the Cross-Keys. “But although my youth may be against

me,” I continued, “here are some testimonials which I hope may prove

satisfactory, and I have several letters of recommendation besides to

gentlemen in the village and neighbourhood.”

The landlord was a person whom I saw that it was necessary to gain over.

He was vastly pleased when I recognised his importance by producing my

testimonials for his inspection. It was amusing to observe the gravity

and dignity with which he adjusted his spectacles across the bridge of

his nose, and proceeded to carefully inspect the documents. At intervals

as he read he gave such running comments as “gude”—“very

gude”—“excellent”—“capital sir, capital!” I was glad to see the

barometer rising so rapidly. After mine host had finished the perusal of

the papers, he shook me heartily by the hand, and said, “You’re the very

man we want, sir; ye hae first-rate certificats.”

So far, so good. It was a great thing to have gained the confidence and

goodwill of one important personage, and I felt desirous to make further

conquests that evening.

“Do you think I might venture to call to-night upon any of the parties

in the village to whom I have letters of recommendation?” I inquired.

“Surely, surely,” responded the landlord; “the sooner the better. Just

read me ower their names, sir, and I’ll tak ye round to their houses. We

hae a better chance o’ gettin’ them in at nicht than through the day.”

Accompanied by the lord of the Cross-Keys, I accordingly visited the

leading inhabitants of the village, and made what an expectant member of

Parliament would consider a very satisfactory canvass. I was received

with much courtesy and civility; and the minister of the parish, to whom

I had a letter of introduction from a brother clergyman in Edinburgh,

paid me the most flattering attentions, and pressed me to take up my

abode immediately at St Dunstan. The ladies, married and unmarried, with

whom I entered into conversation, were all unanimous in expressing their

desire that I should remain in their midst. Indeed, I have observed that

the female sex invariably take the greatest interest in the settlement

of ministers and doctors. I could easily understand why the unmarried

ladies should prefer a single gentleman like myself; but I could not

comprehend at the time why their mothers seemed to take so much interest

in a newly-fledged M.D. It struck me that the landlord of the inn must

have committed a great mistake in describing Dr Sommerville as the

favourite of all classes.

From many of the people upon whom we called I received kind invitations

to spend the night in their houses, and I could have slept in a dozen

different beds if I had felt so inclined; but I preferred returning to

the Cross-Keys, that, like the Apostle, I might be burdensome to none.

It is a piece of worldly prudence to give as little trouble as possible

to strangers; and medical practitioners, of all men in the world,

require to be wary in their ways, and circumspect in their actions.

On our return to the inn, the landlord appeared to regard my settlement

in St Dunstan as a certainty.

“Ye’ve got on grandly the nicht, Dr Wilson,” he said, dropping the “sir”

when he considered me almost installed in office. “Ye’ve carried

everything afore ye—I never saw the like o’t. Ye hae got the promise o’

practice frae the hale lot o’ them—that’s to say, when they need the

attendance o’ a medical man; and, ’od, doctor, but the womenkind are

aften complainin’.”

“Well, Mr Barlas,” I said (such was the landlord’s name), “I have

experienced much kindness and civility, and in the course of a few hours

I have far outstripped my expectations. If I only succeed as well with

the ladies and gentlemen in the neighbourhood, I will not hesitate for a

moment in settling down in the midst of you.”

“There’s nae danger o’ that, doctor. What’s sauce or senna for the goose

is sauce or senna for the gander. I’ve seen aften eneuch that the grit

folk are no sae ill to please as the sma’. If ye get ower the Laird,—an’

I think ye’ve as gude a chance as ony ither body,—ye needna fear muckle

for the rest.”

“And who is the Laird, Mr Barlas?” I asked.

“Oh, just the Laird, ye ken—Laird Ramsay o’ the Haugh; ye’ll surely hae

heard o’ him afore you cam south?”

“Ramsay,” I said; “Ramsay—oh, yes,—I have a letter of introduction to a

gentleman of that name from a professor in Edinburgh. Does he rule the

roast in this neighbourhood?”

“I’ll tell you aboot him i’ the noo; but wait a wee, doctor, till I

bring ye something warm.”

I did not disapprove of the medicine proposed by the host of the

Cross-Keys of St Dunstan, as I was anxious to know as much as possible

about the place and people; and the influence of hot punch in making

even silent persons communicative is quite proverbial. Mr Barlas, after

a brief absence, returned to the snug little parlour, bearing his own

private blue bottle, capable, I should think, of holding a good

half-gallon of Islay or Glenlivet; and we were soon sitting comfortably,

with steaming tumblers before us, beside a blazing fire.

“This is something social like, noo, doctor,” said the composed and

considerate landlord. “Ye were wantin’ to hear aboot the Laird. Weel,

I’ll tell ye what sort o’ a being he is, that ye may be on your guard

when ye gang to the Haugh the morn. Laird Ramsay has mair gear, doctor,

than ony half-dozen o’ his neighbours for mony miles roond, and he’s a

queer character wi’d a’. He’s unco auld-fashioned for a man in his

station, an’ speaks muckle sic like as ye hear me speakin’ i’ the noo.

He gets the name o’ haudin’ a gude grip o’ his siller; but I’ve nae

reason to compleen, as he spends freely eneuch when he comes to the

Cross-Keys, no forgettin’ the servant-lass and the ostler; an’ I ken for

a fac’ that he slips a canny shillin’ noo and again into the loofs o’

the puir folk o’ St Dunstan. He’s unco douce and proud,—ye micht maist

say saucy,—until ye get the richt side o’ him, an’ then he’s the best o’

freends; an’ nane better than the Laird at a twa-handed crack.”

“And how do you get to the right side of him, Mr Barlas?” I interjected.

“That’s the very thing I was gaun to tell ye, doctor. Lay on the butter

weel. Butter him on baith sides, an’ then ye easy get to the richt side.

Praise his land, his craps, his nowte, his house, his garden, his

Glenlivet, his everything; but tak care what ye say o’ his dochter to

his face.”

“The Laird has got a daughter, then, it seems?”

“Ay, that he has, an’ a comely quean she is; but he’ll be a clever man

wha can rin awa wi’ her frae the Haugh. The Laird just dotes upon her,

an’ he wouldna pairt wi’ her for love or siller. If she has a

sweetheart, I’m thinkin’ he’ll need to sook his thoomb, an’ bide a wee.”

In answer to my inquiries the landlord informed me that Miss Jessie

Ramsay was the Laird’s only daughter, and that her mother had been dead

for several years. His information and anecdotes regarding the eccentric

character of the old-fashioned proprietor of the Haugh, excited my

curiosity so much that I resolved to pay him an early visit on the

following day. After sitting for an hour or two, during which time Mr

Barlas became more and more loquacious, I seized the first favourable

opportunity to propose an adjournment, and receiving the reluctant

assent of mine host, I retired to rest, and slept soundly in spite of

all the crowing cocks of St Dunstan.

In the morning the tidings were through the whole village that a new

doctor had come, and several people became suddenly unwell, for the

express purpose, I presume, of testing my skill. Three urgent cases I

found to be ordinary headache, and, fearing lest my trip to the Haugh

might be delayed for two weeks, I hired the best hack the Cross-Keys

could afford, and made off for the domicile of the eccentric Laird. The

owner of the hack was very anxious to accompany me, but I preferred

making the excursion alone. The weather was mild and delightful; the

trees seemed lovelier in decay than in the fulness of summer life; and

the Tweed flowed and murmured softly as the waters of Siloah.

Half-an-hour’s riding brought me to the Haugh—an ancient edifice

embosomed among trees. In the prime of its youth it would doubtless be

considered a splendid mansion; but in its old age it had an ungainly

appearance, although not altogether destitute of a certain picturesque

air. After disposing of my hack to a little Jack-of-all-work urchin, who

was looking about for some work to do, or meditating mischief, I knocked

at the door, and was ushered, by an old serving-woman, into a quaint

apartment, crammed with antique furniture. The mantelpiece absolutely

groaned under its load of ornaments, while a great spreading plume of

peacock’s feathers waved triumphantly over all. This must be the Laird’s

fancy, I thought, and not the taste of Miss Jessie. Several pictures

illustrative of fox-hunting, and two portraits, adorned the walls. None

of them could be considered as belonging to any particular school, or as

masterpieces in art. On the window-blinds a besieging force was

represented as assaulting a not very formidable castle.

While I sat amusing myself with the oddities of the apartment, the door

opened, and the Laird entered. He was a gray-haired, ruddy-faced,

shrewd-looking man of fifty or thereabouts. I was rather taken with his

dress. He wore a blue coat of antique cut, knee breeches, long brown

gaiters with metal buttons, and his vest was beautified with

perpendicular yellow stripes. There was an air of dignity about him when

he entered as though he were conscious that he was Laird of the Haugh,

and that I had come to consult him about some important business. Being

a Justice of the Peace, as I afterwards learned, he probably wished to

impress a stranger with a sense of his official greatness. I did not

know very well whether to address him as Mr Ramsay or the “Laird;” but

he relieved me of the difficulty by saying in broad Scotch, “This is a

grand day, sir; hae ye ridden far?”

“No,” I replied, “only from St Dunstan.”

“Just that—just that,” said the Laird, with a peculiar tone. “I thocht

as much when I met the callant leadin’ awa the Cross-Key’s charger,—puir

beast!”

I handed the Laird the letter of introduction which I had received from

one of the medical professors in Edinburgh. He read it very slowly, as

though he were spelling and weighing every word, and he had perused it

twice from beginning to end before he rose and welcomed me to the Haugh.

“He’s a clever man, that professor,” quoth Laird Ramsay; “an’ he speaks

o’ ye, doctor, in a flattering way; but the proof o’ the puddin’ is the

preein’ o’t, ye ken. Ye’ve shown some spunk in comin’ sae quick to St

Dunstan; but ye’re young eneuch to be on your ain coat-tail yet.”

“We must begin somewhere and sometime, Mr Ramsay,” I rejoined.

“Ye’re richt there,” answered the Laird; and then added with a chuckle,

“but patients dinna like to be made victims o’. However, we’ll think

aboot that. Ye’ll be nane the worse o’ something to eat and drink, I’m

thinkin’; an’ to tell the truth, I want to weet my ain whistle.”

So saying, the Laird o’ the Haugh rose and rang the bell, and told the

old serving-woman, the handmaiden of the household, to bid Jessie speak

to him. In a short time Jessie, a tall, handsome, hearty,

fresh-coloured, black-haired beauty, came tripping into the room. The

Laird was not very ceremonious so far as the matter of introduction was

concerned, but Jessie was one of those frank girls who can introduce

themselves, and make you feel perfectly at home at once. The father and

daughter were evidently strongly attached to each other.

“Bring us some wine first, like a gude lass,” said the Laird, “an’ then

we’ll tak something mair substantial when ye’re ready.”

Jessie, like a dutiful daughter, placed the decanters and glasses on the

table. There was an elasticity in her step, a grace in her every motion,

and an irresistible charm in her frank and affectionate smile. The Laird

did not seem altogether to relish the manner in which my eyes

involuntarily followed her movements; and remembering what mine host of

the Cross-Keys had told me on the previous night, I resolved to be as

circumspect as possible, both in look and word. The Laird o’ the Haugh

pledged the young doctor, and the young doctor pledged the Laird.

Meanwhile, Jessie had disappeared to look after the substantials. A

glass or two of his capital wine warmed Laird Ramsay into a fine

conversational mood, and we got on famously together. After dinner, when

the punch was produced, our intimacy increased, and I began to love the

eccentric Laird for the sake of his beautiful and accomplished daughter.

I discovered that he had a hearty relish for humorous stories and

anecdotes, and I plied him with them in thick succession, until the

fountain of laughter ran over in tears. I was determined to take the old

gentleman by storm, and Miss Jessie, with quick feminine instinct,

appeared to be more than half aware of my object. However, I carefully

abstained from exciting his suspicion by conversing directly with

Jessie, even when he appeared to be in the most genial and pleasant

mood.

The evening was pretty far advanced when I left his hospitable board.

“Mind, you’re to be the doctor o’ St Dunstan,” he said, as I mounted the

Cross-Key’s charger. “We’ll hae naebody but yoursel, an’ ye mun be sure

an’ come back soon again to the Haugh.” I rode home to mine inn fully

resolved to locate myself in the village, and firmly persuaded that if I

had not captivated the Laird’s daughter, I had at least conquered the

Laird himself.

CHAPTER II.

“Weel, doctor, is it a’ richt wi’ the Laird?” inquired Mr Barlas when I

returned to the Cross-Keys.

“Yes,” I rejoined, “it’s all right. Laird Ramsay is now my warmest and

staunchest supporter, and a most companionable old gentleman he is.”

“I never heard the like o’ that,” said the landlord, lifting up his

eyebrows in astonishment. “’Od, doctor, ye’re jist like that auld Roman

reiver, Cæsar, wha gaed aboot seein’ and conquerin’. Ye hae a clear

coast noo, when ye hae gotten the gudewill o’ the Laird and the

minister. An’ what think ye o’ the dochter? Isna she a comely lass, Miss

Ramsay?”

“She is, indeed, Mr Barlas,” I replied. “The young lady seems to do her

best to make her father feel happy and comfortable, and I have no doubt

that many ‘braw wooers’ will frequently find their way to the Haugh.”

“Na, doctor, na. As I tell’t ye afore, the Laird is unco fond o’ Miss

Jessie, an’ I dinna believe he would pairt wi’ her to the best man i’

the kintra-side. But ye hae sic an uncommon power o’ comin’ roond folk

that I wouldna wonner to see ye tryin’t yersel.”

“Stranger things have happened, Mr Barlas,” I rejoined. “Meantime, my

mind is made up to settle down in St Dunstan. I like the place and the

people, the Eildon Hills, the Tweed, and Laird Ramsay.”

“No to speak o’ his dochter,” interjected mine host with a knowing look.

“But where,” I continued, “am I to take up my quarters?”

“Ye needna put yersel in a peck o’ troubles aboot that, doctor. There’s

Dr Sommerville’s cottage just waitin’ for ye alang the road a bit. It’s

a commodious hoose, wi’ trees roond it an’ a bonny garden at the back,

slopin’ to the south. Dr Sommerville was fond o’ flowers, an’ I never

saw a pleasanter place than it was in simmer. But the fac’ is, ye’ll hae

to tak it, doctor, because there’s no anither hoose to let in the hale

toun.”

“Such being the case, Mr Barlas, there is no choice, and the matter is

settled.”

“Just that—just that,” responded the worthy landlord, and then added,

with an eye to business, “Ye can mak the Cross-Keys yer hame till ye get

the cottage a’ painted an’ furnished to your mind.”

“So be it, Mr Barlas; and now that the house is settled, what about a

housekeeper? Was Dr Sommerville married?”

“Married? of course, he was married, an’ had lots o’ weans to the

bargain. But just try yer hand wi’ Miss Ramsay. I would like grand to

see ye at that game, doctor.”

“Nonsense,” I rejoined. “I do not want to steal the Laird’s ewe-lamb,

and break with him at the very commencement of my course. Is there no

quiet, decent, honest body about St Dunstan who would make a good and

active housekeeper?”

“They’re a’ honest an’ decent thegither, except it be twa or three o’

the canglin’ mugger folk wha mend auld pans and break ane anither’s

heads. Let me see—stop a wee—ou, ay—I have ye noo, doctor; there’s Mrs

Johnston—a clean, thrifty, tidy woman o’ forty or thereabouts; she’ll

fit ye to a T, an’ keep yer hoose like a new leek. Her gudeman was an

elder; but he took an inward trouble aboot a year syne, an’ a’ the skill

o’ Doctor Sommerville couldna keep his life in when his time was come.

I’ll speak to Mrs Johnston the morn, so ye can keep yer mind easy aboot

a housekeeper.”

“We’re getting on famously, Mr Barlas. The house and housekeeper are

both disposed of. What next?”

“What next, doctor? The next thing, I’m thinkin’, ’ill be a horse. Folk

will be sendin’ for ye post-haste to gang sax or seven miles awa, an’ ye

canna get on without a beast. Are ye onything skeely in horseflesh?”

“No,” I replied, “not particularly. I would require to purchase a horse

by proxy.”

This reply appeared to give mine host considerable satisfaction. After a

brief pause he said, “Weel, doctor, what think ye o’ the beastie that

took ye to the Haugh the day? It’s fine an’ canny, an’ free frae a’ kind

o’ pranks. It would never fling ye aff an’ break your banes when ye were

gaun to mend ither folk’s bodies. It’ll no cost ye muckle siller, and

ye’ll get a capital bargain wi’ the beast.”

I could not help smiling when the landlord detailed the excellent

qualities of the Rosinante of the Cross-Keys—the superb steed which

excited the compassion of Laird Ramsay.

“It is an admirable animal, Mr Barlas,” I replied, always careful to

avoid giving offence; “but the truth is, there is a friend of mine in

Edinburgh who is great in horses, and who would never forgive me if I

did not permit him to make the selection and the purchase.”

“Vera weel, doctor—vera well,” rejoined the landlord, professing

contentment, although apparently somewhat chagrined. “Ye may get a

stronger and mair speerity beast; but, tak my word for’t, ye’ll no get

ane to answer yer purpose better. It’s an extraordinar’ sensible animal,

an’ kens a’ the roads aboot the kintra-side. In the darkest winter nicht

ye micht fling the bridle on its neck, and it would bring ye hame to St

Dunstan safe an’ soond. Ye can tak anither thocht about it, doctor, an’

I mun awa an’ gie the beast its supper.”

A few weeks after the above confab with the sagacious landlord of the

Cross-Keys, I was quietly domiciled in Oakbank Cottage, on the outskirts

of St Dunstan, and had commenced the routine work of a medical

practitioner. Mrs Johnston was duly installed as housekeeper; and a

capital riding-horse, which Mr Barlas was compelled to allow “micht do,”

arrived from the metropolis. I liked my cottage very much. It stood

apart from the public road, and was quiet and secluded. Rows of poplar

trees surrounded the green, and flower pots in front, and a tall

beechen-hedge girdled on all sides the sloping garden in the rear. The

high banks of the Tweed, adorned with many-tinted foliage, swept along

close at hand, and the strong deep gush of that noble river was borne

abroad on every swell of wind. Oakbank Cottage was, in my estimation,

the sweetest residence in and around St Dunstan; and as I, like my

predecessor, was fond of floriculture, I resolved to make the place look

like a little paradise when the spring and summer months came round

again. I was not long in getting into a good practice. There was not

much opposition from other gentlemen in the district, and many miles I

rode both by night and by day. It always vexed the heart of my worthy

housekeeper, Mrs Johnston, when a special messenger called me away to a

distance after nightfall, and there was no end to the instructions she

gave me—M.D. though I was—about the best means of preventing sore

throats and rheumatisms. Mrs Johnston had never listened to the learned

prelections of medical professors at any of our universities;

nevertheless, like many other sensible and sedate women, in her own

sphere of life, she had managed to pick up no inconsiderable amount of

sound medical knowledge.

I was soon on the best of terms with all the people of the village, for

it will generally be found that while a clergyman has admirers and

detractors among his own hearers, a doctor who is gifted with a modicum

of amiability can easily make himself a favourite with all classes. Of

course, when any person dies, the friends of the deceased will not

unfrequently declaim against the imperfection of the medical treatment;

but grumblings such as these are natural and pardonable, and fail to

shake the general esteem in which the practitioner is held. The minister

of the parish was a frequent visitor at Oakbank, and in order to

strengthen our good fellowship, I became a member of his congregation.

He was an upright and honest-hearted man, although somewhat too

polemical for my taste. I used to think that he was in the habit of

airing his argumentative speeches in my presence before he delivered

himself of them at Presbytery meetings.

None of the people in the district seemed better satisfied than Laird

Ramsay o’ the Haugh that I had located myself in St Dunstan. He called

one day at Oakbank, soon after my settlement, just as I was preparing to

set out on a rural ride. The Laird was attired in the ordinary dress

which he wore at the Haugh. The brown hat, the blue antique coat, the

knee-breeches, the long gaiters, and the yellow-striped vest, seemed to

form a part of his eccentric character.

“Gude day t’ye, Dr Wilson—gude day,” said the Laird, as he shook me by

the hand. “What way hae ye been sae lang in comin’ ower my way? I’m

wearyin’ sair to get anither firlot o’ yon queer humoursome stories oot

o’ ye. Can ye come ower to the Haugh the morn, and tak a bit check o’

dinner wi’ some freends that I’m just on the road to inveet to meet you,

doctor?”

“It will afford me much pleasure, Mr Ramsay.”

“That’s richt—that’s richt. Gie a’ yer patients a double dram o’

medicine the day, an’ that’ll save ye trouble the morn. I’ll no deteen

ye langer i’ the noo, since I see ye’re for takin’ the road. Man,

doctor, that’s a capital horse ye’ve gotten. I’ll try ye a steeplechase

some day, auld as I am.”

Next day I did not forget to mount my horse, which I had christened

Prince Charlie, and ride over to the Haugh. It was more the desire to

meet again the handsome and black-haired Jessie, than the expectation of

a good dinner,—in which the laird was said to excel,—that made me keep

my appointment with scrupulous care, although two or three of my distant

patients thereby missed an expected visit. I found a goodly company

assembled in the Laird’s old-fashioned mansion. Several neighbouring

lairds with their wives were present, my excellent friend the minister

of the parish, and some of the “chief men” of St Dunstan. A few young

ladies graced the company; but it struck me as something singular that I

was the only young gentleman who had been honoured with an invitation.

Does the Laird really think, I asked myself, that he will keep away the

dangerous disease of love from his charming daughter’s heart by

excluding chivalrous youths from his dinner-table? What intense

selfishness there may be in the warmest paternal affection! Nor was

selfishness altogether absent from my own heart. I began to feel a kind

of secret satisfaction that the coast was clear, and that undivided

attentions could be given and received. Jessie was all smiles, grace,

and beauty; and before dinner was finished, I was more than charmed—I

was bewitched with her manners and conversation. When the ladies retired

from table I endeavoured, as on the former occasion, to keep the Laird

o’ the Haugh in good humour, being now determined, for a particular

reason, to rise rather than fall in his estimation. When the minister

introduced polemics I flung out a shower of puns; when oxen became the

topic I spiced the talk with some racy stories. The ruse succeeded.

Between the strong waters and the stories, Laird Ramsay was elevated

into a hilarious region, and he would have forgiven his worst enemy on

the spot. He was not aware that I was playing with him and upon him for

a purpose. When my stock was getting exhausted I started the minister on

his everlasting expedition to Rome, and managed, at the commencement of

his narrative, to escape from table unperceived. I was not particularly

anxious to “join the ladies;” but I was excessively desirous to have, if

possible, some private conversation with Jessie Ramsay. There could be

no denying the fact that I—the young medical practitioner of St

Dunstan—had fallen in love, how or why it boots not to inquire, with the

beautiful daughter of the Laird o’ the Haugh. I felt it through every

vein of my body, and every fibre of my heart, and I fondly imagined from

sundry stealthy glances and sweet suggestive smiles that the dear

creature had perceived and reciprocated my attachment. The golden

silence of love is the highest eloquence, and the most entrancing song.

As good luck and favouring fortune would have it, I had no sooner left

the dining-hall than the object of my adoration came tripping down

stairs alone. In looking over the drawing-room window a rich flower from

her lustrous hair had fallen to the ground, and the lovely creature was

now hastening to secure the lost treasure. Here was an opportunity

little anticipated, but long remembered. It was impossible that I could

be so ungallant as allow her to search for the fallen flower by herself,

and we therefore went out into the open air together. There was no moon,

but the stars were shining full and brilliant in the firmament. Tall

holly bushes and other shrubs surrounded the house within the outer

circle of trees. The only two sounds I distinctly heard were the beating

of my heart, and the humming sound of the minister’s voice as he

narrated the incidents of his pilgrimage to the Eternal City. I blessed

the good man for his unconscious kindness in granting me this

opportunity. Jessie and I proceeded to the place where the flower was

supposed to be. I saw it at once, and she saw it at once; but both of us

pretended that we had not seen it, and so the sweet search continued.

Need I describe, O amiable reader! how in searching and stooping I felt

the touch of her ringleted hair, the warmth of her breath, the delicate

softness of her cheek, and imbibed the honey-balm of her lips? At last

the flower was found,—I blessed it unaware,—and, under the starlight,

replaced it on that lovely head from which it had not been untimely

plucked, but had most opportunely fallen.

We returned to the house undiscovered. The Laird, I knew, was in that

pleased and placid state when he could have listened for many hours to

the Man of the Moon describing the incidents of his celestial travels

and the wonders he had seen from his specular tower. I parted with

Jessie at the foot of the staircase, pressed her soft warm hand, and

re-entered the room which I had rather unceremoniously left. The

minister had got upon the Pope, and all the symptoms of “tired nature”

were apparent on the faces of most of the listeners. They had the look

of a congregation when the thirteenth “head” is being propounded with

due deliberation from the pulpit. The Laird had not seen me depart, but

he saw me enter. He evidently placed in me the most implicit reliance,

and there was no suspicion in his look.

“Hae ye been snuffin’ the caller air, doctor?” he inquired.

I answered in the affirmative with a look of perfect innocence, and then

the Laird added, wishing apparently to cut short the minister’s

harangue, “Ay, weel, let’s join the leddies noo.”

After that evening I was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Haugh.

Prince Charlie soon knew the way to his own stall in the Laird’s

stables. Some golden opportunities occurred when the Laird was absent

for interviews and conversations with Jessie. We plighted our mutual

troth, and were devoted to each other heart and soul. The one grand

difficulty in the way of our happiness was the removal of the Laird’s

scruples with regard to the marriage of his daughter. At last, when

jogging leisurely homeward to Oakbank one evening, I hit upon a scheme

which ultimately resulted in complete success, and gave me possession of

the being whom I loved dearer than life.

A wealthy and winsome widow lady resided in the neighbourhood of St

Dunstan, and the project entered my brain to make her believe that Laird

Ramsay had some notions of her, and also to make him believe that she

had a warm side of her heart to him. If I could only get the Laird to

marry the widow, I knew that Jessie would soon thereafter be mine. The

Laird was open to flattery; he was fond of what Mr Barlas called

“butter;” and I did not despair of being able to make him renew his

youth. Tact was required in such a delicate undertaking, and I resolved

to do my spiriting gently. I began with the Laird first one evening when

he was in his mellow after-dinner state. I praised the graces and

winsome ways of Mrs Mackinlay, and drew from the Laird the confession

that he thought her a “very gude and sociable-like leddy.” I then tried

a few dexterous passes before hinting that she had a warm side to the

Laird o’ the Haugh.

“Ye dinna mean to say that Mrs Mackinlay is castin’ a sheep’s e’e at me,

do ye, doctor?”

“I can assure you, Mr Ramsay,” I rejoined, “that she speaks of you

always with great respect, and seems to wonder why you do not honour her

with a visit occasionally.”

“Ay, doctor, it’s queer what way I never thocht o’ that. She’s a

sensible leddy after a’, Mrs Mackinlay. I think I could do worse than

look ower at her hoose some o’ these days.”

“It’s the very thing you ought to do, Mr Ramsay,” I replied. “You will

find her company highly entertaining. She has an accumulated fund of

stories and anecdotes.”

“Has she, doctor?—has she? Weel, I’ll gang; but what would Jessie say, I

wunner?”

I had now put the Laird on the right scent, and I tried my best also

with Mrs Mackinlay. I made her aware of the Laird’s intended visit, and

hinted tenderly its probable object. After a lengthened conversation, in

which I exercised all the ingenuity I possessed, I left her with the

impression on my mind that Laird Ramsay’s addresses when he called would

be met half-way. The meeting did take place—it was followed by another

and another—and the upshot of the matter was that the eccentric Laird

and the wealthy widow were duly wedded, to the astonishment of the whole

district. I allowed six months of their wedded bliss to slip past before

I asked the Laird’s consent to have Jessie removed from the Haugh to

Oakbank. A sort of dim suspicion of the whole affair seemed to cross the

Laird’s mind when I addressed him. A pawky twinkle lit up his eye as he

replied, “Ah, ye rogue!—tak her, an’ my blessin’ alang wi’ her. Ye ken

whaur to look for a gude wife, an’ I daursay ye’ll no mak the warst o’

gudemen.” Thus I won the Laird’s daughter, and the paradise of Oakbank,

in the village of St Dunstan, was complete in happiness.

MOSS-SIDE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man; and he had been a poor man all the days

of his life, which were not few, for his thin hair was now waxing gray.

He had been born and bred on the small moorland farm which he now

occupied; and he hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had

done before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants of

this world. Labour, hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life; but,

although sometimes severely tried, he had never repined; and through all

the mist and gloom, and even the storms that had assailed him, he had

lived on from year to year in that calm and resigned contentment which

unconsciously cheers the hearthstone of the blameless poor. With his own

hands he had ploughed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest,

assisted, as they grew up, by three sons, who, even in boyhood, were

happy to work along with their father in the fields. Out of doors or in,

Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The spade, the shears, the ploughshaft,

the sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped them

well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a garment

worn there, that was not honestly, severely, nobly earned. Gilbert

Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and deep

affection. The thraldom under which he lived God had imposed, and it

only served to give his character a shade of silent gravity, but not

austere; to make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm his soul

at grace before and after meals, and to kindle it in morning and evening

prayer.

There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a man. Meek

and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her heaven was in her

house; and her gentler and weaker hands helped to bar the door against

want. Of ten children that had been born to them, they had lost three;

and as they had fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they

give them who died a respectable funeral. The living did not grudge to

give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts for the sake of the

dead; and bought, with the little sums which their industry had saved,

decent mournings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully laid by. Of the

seven that survived, two sons and a daughter were farm-servants in the

neighbourhood, while two daughters and two sons remained at home,

growing, or grown up, a small, happy, hard-working household.

Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and many such humble

and virtuous cottagers as were now beneath its roof of straw. The eye of

the passing traveller may mark them, or mark them not, but they stand

peacefully in thousands over all the land; and most beautiful do they

make it, through all its wide valleys and narrow glens—its low holms,

encircled by the rocky walls of some bonny burn—its green mounts, elated

with their little crowning groves of plane-trees—its yellow

corn-fields—its bare pastoral hill-sides, and all its heathy moors, on

whose black bosom lie shining or concealed glades of excessive verdure,

inhabited by flowers, and visited only by the farflying bees. Moss-side

was not beautiful to a careless or hasty eye; but, when looked on and

surveyed, it seemed a pleasant dwelling. Its roof, overgrown with grass

and moss, was almost as green as the ground out of which its

weather-stained walls appeared to grow. The moss behind it was separated

from a little garden, by a narrow slip of arable land, the dark colour

of which showed that it had been won from the wild by patient industry,

and by patient industry retained. It required a bright sunny day to make

Moss-side fair, but then it was fair indeed; and when the little brown

moorland birds were singing their short songs among the rushes and the

heather, or a lark, perhaps lured thither by some green barley-field for

its undisturbed nest, rose ringing all over the enlivened solitude, the

little bleak farm smiled like the paradise of poverty, sad and affecting

in its lone and extreme simplicity. The boys and girls had made some

plots of flowers among the vegetables that the little garden supplied

for their homely meals; pinks and carnations, brought from walled

gardens of rich men farther down in the cultivated strath, grew here

with somewhat diminished lustre; a bright show of tulips had a strange

beauty in the midst of that moorland; and the smell of roses mixed well

with that of the clover, the beautiful fair clover that loves the soil

and the air of Scotland, and gives the rich and balmy milk to the poor

man’s lips.

In this cottage, Gilbert’s youngest child, a girl about nine years of

age, had been lying for a week in a fever. It was now Saturday evening,

and the ninth day of the disease. Was she to live or die? It seemed as

if a very few hours were between the innocent creature and heaven. All

the symptoms were those of approaching death. The parents knew well the

change that comes over the human face, whether it be in infancy, youth,

or prime, just before the departure of the spirit; and as they stood

together by Margaret’s bed, it seemed to them that the fatal shadow had

fallen upon her features. The surgeon of the parish lived some miles

distant, but they expected him now every moment, and many a wistful look

was directed by tearful eyes along the moor. The daughter who was out at

service came anxiously home on this night, the only one that could be

allowed her; for the poor must work in their grief, and servants must do

their duty to those whose bread they eat, even when nature is sick—sick

at heart. Another of the daughters came in from the potato-field beyond

the brae, with what was to be their frugal supper. The calm, noiseless

spirit of life was in and around the house, while death seemed dealing

with one who, a few days ago, was like light upon the floor, and the

sound of music, that always breathed up when most wanted; glad and

joyous in common talk—sweet, silvery, and mournful, when it joined in

hymn or psalm. One after the other, they all continued going up to the

bedside, and then coming away sobbing or silent, to see their merry

little sister, who used to keep dancing all day like a butterfly in a

meadowfield, or, like a butterfly with shut wings on a flower, trifling

for a while in the silence of her joy, now tossing restlessly on her

bed, and scarcely sensible to the words of endearment whispered around

her, or the kisses dropped with tears, in spite of themselves, on her

burning forehead.

Utter poverty often kills the affections; but a deep, constant, and

common feeling of this world’s hardships, and an equal participation in

all those struggles by which they may be softened, unite husband and

wife, parents and children, brothers and sisters, in thoughtful and

subdued tenderness, making them happy indeed, while the circle round the

fire is unbroken, and yet preparing them every day to bear the

separation, when some one or other is taken slowly or suddenly away.

Their souls are not moved by fits and starts, although, indeed, nature

sometimes will wrestle with necessity; and there is a wise moderation

both in the joy and the grief of the intelligent poor, which keeps

lasting trouble away from their earthly lot, and prepares them silently

and unconsciously for heaven.

“Do you think the child is dying?” said Gilbert, with a calm voice, to

the surgeon, who, on his wearied horse, had just arrived from another

sick-bed, over the misty range of hills, and had been looking

steadfastly for some minutes on the little patient. The humane man knew

the family well, in the midst of whom he was standing, and replied,

“While there is life there is hope; but my pretty little Margaret is, I

fear, in the last extremity.” There was no loud lamentation at these

words; all had before known, though they would not confess it to

themselves, what they now were told; and though the certainty that was

in the words of the skilful man made their hearts beat for a little with

sicker throbbings, made their pale faces paler, and brought out from

some eyes a greater gush of tears, yet death had been before in this

house, and in this case he came, as he always does, in awe, but not in

terror. There were wandering and wavering and dreamy delirious fantasies

in the brain of the innocent child; but the few words she indistinctly

uttered were affecting, not rending to the heart, for it was plain that

she thought herself herding her sheep in the green silent pastures, and

sitting wrapped in her plaid upon the lown and sunny side of the

Birk-knowe. She was too much exhausted—there was too little life, too

little breath in her heart—to frame a tune; but some of her words seemed

to be from favourite old songs; and at last her mother wept, and turned

aside her face, when the child, whose blue eyes were shut, and her lips

almost still, breathed out these lines of the beautiful twenty-third

Psalm:—

The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.

He makes me down to lie

In pastures green: He leadeth me

The quiet waters by.

The child was now left with none but her mother by the bedside, for it

was said to be best so; and Gilbert and his family sat down round the

kitchen fire, for a while, in silence. In about a quarter of an hour,

they began to rise calmly, and to go each to his allotted work. One of

the daughters went forth with the pail to milk the cow, and another

began to set out the table in the middle of the floor for supper,

covering it with a white cloth. Gilbert viewed the usual household

arrangements with a solemn and untroubled eye; and there was almost the

faint light of a grateful smile on his cheek, as he said to the worthy

surgeon, “You will partake of our fare, after your day’s travel and toil

of humanity?” In a short silent half-hour, the potatoes and oat-cakes,

butter and milk, were on the board; and Gilbert, lifting up his

toil-hardened but manly hand, with a slow motion, at which the room was

as hushed as if it had been empty, closed his eyes in reverence, and

asked a blessing. There was a little stool, on which no one sat, by the

old man’s side. It had been put there unwittingly, when the other seats

were all placed in their usual order; but the golden head that was wont

to rise at that part of the table was now wanting. There was silence—not

a word was said—their meal was before them—God had been thanked, and

they began to eat.

While they were at their silent meal a horseman came galloping to the

door, and, with a loud voice, called out that he had been sent express

with a letter to Gilbert Ainslie; at the same time rudely, and with an

oath, demanding a dram for his trouble. The eldest son, a lad of

eighteen, fiercely seized the bridle of his horse, and turned its head

away from the door. The rider, somewhat alarmed at the flushed face of

the powerful stripling, threw down the letter and rode off. Gilbert took

the letter from his son’s hand, casting, at the same time, a

half-upbraiding look on his face, that was returning to its former

colour. “I feared,”—said the youth, with a tear in his eye,—“I feared

that the brute’s voice, and the trampling of the horse’s feet, would

have disturbed her.” Gilbert held the letter hesitatingly in his hand,

as if afraid at that moment to read it; at length he said aloud to the

surgeon:—“You know that I am a poor man, and debt, if justly incurred,

and punctually paid when due, is no dishonour.” Both his hand and his

voice shook slightly as he spoke; but he opened the letter from the

lawyer, and read it in silence. At this moment his wife came from her

child’s bedside, and, looking anxiously at her husband, told him “not to

mind about the money, that no man who knew him would arrest his goods,

or put him into prison. Though, dear me, it is cruel to be put to thus,

when our bairn is dying, and when, if so it be the Lord’s will, she

should have a decent burial, poor innocent, like them that went before

her.” Gilbert continued reading the letter with a face on which no

emotion could be discovered; and then, folding it up, he gave it to his

wife, told her she might read it if she chose, and then put it into his

desk in the room, beside the poor dear bairn. She took it from him,

without reading it, and crushed it into her bosom: for she turned her

ear towards her child, and thinking she heard it stir, ran out hastily

to its bedside.

Another hour of trial passed, and the child was still swimming for its

life. The very dogs knew there was grief in the house, and lay without

stirring, as if hiding themselves, below the long table at the window.

One sister sat with an unfinished gown on her knees, that she had been

sewing for the dear child, and still continued at the hopeless work, she

scarcely knew why; and often, often putting up her hand to wipe away a

tear. “What is that?” said the old man to his eldest daughter. “What is

that you are laying on the shelf?” She could scarcely reply that it was

a riband and an ivory comb that she had brought for little Margaret,

against the night of the dancing-school ball. And at these words the

father could not restrain a long, deep, and bitter groan; at which the

boy, nearest in age to his dying sister, looked up weeping in his face;

and, letting the tattered book of old ballads, which he had been poring

on, but not reading, fall out of his hands, he rose from his seat, and,

going into his father’s bosom, kissed him, and asked God to bless him:

for the holy heart of the boy was moved within him; and the old man, as

he embraced him, felt that, in his innocence and simplicity, he was

indeed a comforter. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” said

the old man; “blessed be the name of the Lord!”

The outer door gently opened, and he whose presence had in former years

brought peace and resignation hither, when their hearts had been tried

even as they now were tried, stood before them. On the night before the

Sabbath, the minister of Auchindown never left his manse, except, as

now, to visit the sick or dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to his

first question about his child, when the surgeon came from the bedroom,

and said—“Margaret seems lifted up by God’s hand above death and the

grave: I think she will recover. She has fallen asleep; and, when she

wakes, I hope—I—believe—that the danger will be past, and that your

child will live.”

They were all prepared for death; but now they were found unprepared for

life. One wept that had till then locked up all her tears within her

heart; another gave a short palpitating shriek; and the tender-hearted

Isobel, who had nursed the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The

youngest brother gave way to gladsome smiles; and calling out his dog

Hector, who used to sport with him and his little sister on the moor, he

told the tidings to the dumb irrational creature, whose eyes, it is

certain, sparkled with a sort of joy. The clock for some days had been

prevented from striking the hours; but the silent fingers pointed to the

hour of nine; and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the

stated hour of family worship. His own honoured minister took the Book,—

He waled a portion with judicious care,

And, “Let us worship God,” he said, with solemn air.

A chapter was read—a prayer said; and so, too, was sung a psalm; but it

was sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest the child’s saving sleep

might be broken; and now and then the female voices trembled, or some

one of them ceased altogether; for there had been tribulation and

anguish, and now hope and faith were tried in the joy of thanksgiving.

The child still slept; and its sleep seemed more sound and deep. It

appeared almost certain that the crisis was over, and that the flower

was not to fade. “Children,” said Gilbert, “our happiness is in the love

we bear to one another; and our duty is in submitting to and serving

God. Gracious, indeed, has He been unto us. Is not the recovery of our

little darling, dancing, singing Margaret, worth all the gold that ever

was mined? If we had had thousands of thousands, would we not have

filled up her grave with the worthless dross of gold, rather than that

she should have gone down there with her sweet face and all her rosy

smiles?” There was no reply, but a joyful sobbing all over the room.

“Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father,” said the eldest daughter.

“We have all some little thing of our own,—a few pounds,—and we shall be

able to raise as much as will keep arrest and prison at a distance. Or

if they do take our furniture out of the house, all except Margaret’s

bed, who cares? We will sleep on the floor; and there are potatoes in

the field, and clear water in the spring. We need fear nothing, want

nothing; blessed be God for all His mercies!”

Gilbert went into the sick-room, and got the letter from his wife, who

was sitting at the head of the bed, watching, with a heart blessed

beyond all bliss, the calm and regular breathings of her child. “This

letter,” said he, mildly, “is not from a hard creditor. Come with me

while I read it aloud to our children.” The letter was read aloud, and

it was well fitted to diffuse pleasure and satisfaction through the

dwelling of poverty. It was from an executor to the will of a distant

relative, who had left Gilbert Ainslie £1500.

“The sum,” said Gilbert, “is a large one to folks like us, but not, I

hope, large enough to turn our heads, or make us think ourselves all

lords and ladies. It will do more, far more, than put me fairly above

the world at last. I believe that, with it, I may buy this very farm, on

which my forefathers have toiled. But God, whose providence has sent

this temporal blessing, may He send us wisdom and prudence how to use

it, and humble and grateful hearts to us all.”

“You will be able to send me to school all the year round now, father,”

said the youngest boy. “And you may leave the flail to your sons, now,

father,” said the eldest. “You may hold the plough still, for you draw a

straighter furrow than any of us; but hard work for young sinews; and

you may sit now oftener in your arm-chair by the ingle. You will not

need to rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy winter mornings, and keep

threshing corn in the barn for hours by candlelight, before the late

dawning.”

There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little sleep in

Moss-side, between the rising and the setting of the stars, that were

now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling over the unclouded

sky. Those who had lain down for an hour or two in bed could scarcely be

said to have slept; and when about morning little Margaret awoke, an

altered creature, pale, languid, and unable to turn herself on her lowly

bed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affection in her

heart, and coolness in all her veins, a happy group were watching the

first faint smile that broke over her features; and never did one who

stood there forget that Sabbath morning on which she seemed to look

round upon them all with a gaze of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one

half conscious of having been rescued from the power of the grave.

MY FIRST FEE.

A CHAPTER FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ADVOCATE.

“Fee him, father, fee him.”

Seven long yearning years had elapsed since, with the budding

anticipation of youthful hope, I had assumed the lugubrious insignia of

the bar. During that dreadful time, each morn, as old St Giles told the

hour of nine, might I be seen insinuating my emaciated figure within the

penetralia of the Parliament House, where, begowned and bewigged, and

with the zeal of a Powell or a Barclay, I paced about till two. These

peripatetic practices had well-nigh ruined me in Wellingtons, and

latterly in shoes. My little Erskine was in pawn; while my tailor and my

landlady threw out unmistakable and ominous hints regarding their long

bills and longer credit. I dared not understand them, but consoled

myself with the thought, that the day would come when my tailor would

cease his dunning, and my landlady her clamour.

I had gone the different circuits, worn and torn my gown, seated myself

in awful contemplation on the side benches, maintained angry argument on

legal points with some more favoured brother, within earshot of a wily

writer. In fine, I had resorted to every means that fancy could suggest,

or experience dictate; but as yet my eyes had not seen, nor my pocket

felt—a Fee. Alas! this was denied. I might be said to be, as yet, no

barrister: for what is a lawyer without a fee? A nonentity! a shadow! To

my grief, I seemed to be fast verging to the latter; and I doubt much

whether the “Anatomie vivant” could have stood the comparison—so much

had my feeless fast fed on my flesh!

I cannot divine the reason for this neglect of my legal services. In my

own heart, I had vainly imagined the sufficiency of my tact and subtlety

in unravelling a nice point; neither had I been wanting in attention to

my studies; for Heaven and my landlady can bear witness, that my

consumption of coal and candle would have sufficed any two ordinary

readers. There was not a book or treatise on law which I had not dived

into. I was insatiable in literature; but the world and the writers

seemed ignorant of my brain be-labouring system, and sedulously

determined that my _fee-ling_ propensities should not be gratified.

Never did I meet an agent either in or out of Court, but my heart and

hand felt a pleasing glow of hope and of joy at the prospect of

pocketing a fee; but how often have they turned their backs without even

the mortifying allusion to such a catastrophe! How often have I turned

round in whirling ecstacy as I felt some seemingly patronising palm tap

gently on my shoulders with such a tap as writers’ clerks are wont to

use; but oh, ye gods! a grinning wretch merely asked me how I did, and

passed on!

Nor were my non-legal friends more kind. There was an old gentleman,

who, I knew (for I made it my business to enquire), had some thoughts of

a law-plea. From him I received an invitation to dinner. Joyfully, as at

all times, but more so on this occasion, was the summons obeyed. I had

laid a train to introduce the subject of his wrongs at a time which

might _suit_ best, and with this plan I commenced my machinations. The

old fox was too cunning even for me; he too had his plot, and had hit

upon the expedient of obtaining my opinion without a fee—the skinflint!

Long and doubtful was the contest; hint succeeded hint, question after

question was put, till at last my entertainer was victorious, and I

retired crestfallen and feeless from the field! By the soul of Erskine,

had it not been for his dinners, I should have cut him for ever! Still I

grubbed with this one, cultivated an acquaintance with that, but all to

no purpose; no one pitied my position. My torments were those of the

lost! Hope (not the President) alone buoyed me up; visions of future

sovereigns, numerous as those which appeared to Banquo of old, but of a

better and more useful kind, flitted before my charmed imagination.

Pride, poverty, and starvation pushed me on. What! said I, shall it be

hinted that I am likely neither to have a fee nor a feed? Tell it not in

the First Division; publish it not in the Outer House! All my thoughts

were riveted to one object—to one object all my endeavours were bent,

and to accomplish this seemed the ultimatum of bliss.

Often have I looked with envy upon the more favoured candidates for

judicial fame—those who never return to their domicile or their dinner,

but to find their tables groaning with briefs! How different from my

case! My case? What case? I have no case! Not one fee to work its own

desolateness! Months and months passed on, still success came not! The

hoped-for event came not; resolution died within me; I formed serious

intentions of being even with the profession. As the profession had cut

me, I intended to have cut the profession. In my wants, I would have

robbed, but my hand was withheld by the thought that the jesters of the

stove might taunt me thus: “He could not live, so he died, by the law.”

I have often thought that there is a great similarity between the

hangman and the want of a fee; the one is the finisher of the law, the

other of lawyers!

Pondering on my griefs, with my feet on the expiring embers of a seacoal

fire, the chair in that swinging position so much practised and approved

in Yankee-land,—the seat destined for a clerk occupied by my cat, for I

love everything of the _fe-line_ species,—my cogitations were disturbed

by an application for admittance at the outer door. It was not the

rat-tat of the postman, nor the rising and falling attack of the man of

fashion, but a compound of both, which evidently bespoke the knockee

unaccustomed to town. I am somewhat curious in knocks; I admire the true

principles of the art, by which one may distinguish the peer from the

postman—the dun from the dilettante—the footman from the furnisher. But

there was something in this knock which baffled all my skill; yet sweet

withal, thrilling through my heart with a joy unfelt before. Some spirit

must have presided in the sound, for it seemed to me the music of the

spheres.

A short time elapsed, and my landlady “opened wide the infernal doors.”

Now hope cut capers—(Lazenby, thou wert not to blame, for of thy

delicacies I dared not even dream!)—now hope cut capers within me! Heavy

footsteps were heard in the passage, and one of the lords of the

creation marched his calves into the apartment. With alacrity, I

conveyed my _corpus juris_ to meet him, and, with all civility, I

requested him to be seated. My landlady with her apron dusted the

arm-chair (I purchased it at a sale of Lord M——’s _effects_, not

_causes_,—expecting to catch inspiration). In this said chair my man

ensconced his clay.

I had commenced my survey of his person, when my eyes were attracted by

a basilisk-like bunch of papers which the good soul held in his hand. In

ecstasy I gazed—characters were marked on them which could not be

mistaken; a less keen glance than mine might have discovered their

import. My joy was now beyond all bounds, testifying itself by sundry

kickings and contortions of the body. I began to fear the worthy man

might think me mad, and repent him of his errand; I calmed myself, and

sat down. My guest thrust into my hands the papers, and then proceeded

to issue letters of open doors against his dexter pocket. His intentions

were evident; with difficulty could I restrain myself. For some minutes

he “groped about the vast abyss,” during which time my agitation

increased so much that I could not have answered one question, even out

of that favourite chapter of one of our institutional writers, “On the

Institution of Fees.” But let me describe the man to whom I owe so much.

He was a short, squat, farmer-looking being, who might have rented some

fifty acres or so. Though stinted in his growth upwards, Dame Nature

seemed determined to make him amends by an increase of dimension in

every other direction. His nose and face spoke volumes—ay, libraries—of

punch and ale; these potations had also made themselves manifested lower

down, by the magnitude of the _belli-gerent_ powers. There was in his

face a cunning leer, in his figure a knowing _tournure_, which was still

further heightened by his dress; this consisted of a green coat, which

gave evident signs of its utter incapability of ever being identified

with Stultz; cords and continuations encased the lower parts of his

carcase; a belcher his throat; while the whole was surmounted by a

castor of the most preposterous breadth of brim, and shallow capacity.

But in this man’s appearance there was something that pleased me;

something of a nature superior to other mortals. I might have been

prejudiced, but his face and figure seemed to me more beautiful than

morning.

Never did I gaze with a more complacent benevolence on a

breeches-pocket. At last he succeeded in dragging from its depths a huge

old stocking, through which “the yellow-lettered Geordie’s keeked.” With

what raptures did I look on that old stocking, the produce, I presumed,

of the stocking of his farm. It seemed to possess the power of

fascination, for my eyes could not quit it. Even when my client (for now

I calculated upon him) began to speak, my attention still wandered to

the stocking. He told me of a dispute with his landlord about some

matters relating to his farm, that he was wronged, and would have the

law of the laird, though he should spend his last shilling (here I

looked with increased raptures at the stocking). On the recommendation

of the minister (good man!), he had sought me for advice. He then opened

wide the jaws of his homely purse—he inserted his paw—now my heart

beat—he made a jingling noise—my heart beat quicker still—he pulled

forth his two interesting fingers—oh, ecstasy! he pressed five guineas

into my extended hand—they touched the virgin palm, and oh, ye gods! I

was FEE’D!!!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

THE KIRK OF TULLIBODY.

The parish of Tullibody, in Clackmannanshire, now united with Alloa,

was, before the Reformation, an independent ecclesiastical district. The

manner in which it lost its separate character is curious. In the year

1559, when Monsieur D’Oysel commanded the French troops on the coast of

Fife, they were alarmed by the arrival of the English fleet, and thought

of nothing but a hasty retreat. It was in the month of January, and at

the breaking of a great storm. William Kirkaldy of Grange, commander of

the congregational forces, attentive to the circumstances in which his

enemies were caught, took advantage of this situation, and marched with

great expedition towards Stirling, and cut the bridge of Tullibody,

which was over the Devon, to prevent their retreat. By this manœuvre,

the French found themselves completely enclosed. They were driven to an

extremity which obliged them to resort to an extraordinary expedient to

effect their escape. They lifted the roof off the church of Tullibody,

and laid it along the broken part of the bridge, by which means they

effected a safe retreat to Stirling.

Such a dilapidation of the church caused the Tullibodians to proceed to

the adjacent kirk of Alloa, and in a short time the parish ceased to be

independent. The burying-ground round the ancient place of worship, now

repaired, still remains; and on the north side of it, where there had

been formerly an entry, there is a stone coffin, with a niche for the

head, and two for the arms, covered with a thick hollowed lid like a

tureen. The lid is a good deal broken, but a curious tradition is

preserved of the coffin. It is related that in early times a young lady

of the neighbourhood had declared her affection for the minister, who,

either from his station or want of inclination, made no returns. So

vexed was the lady on perceiving his indifference, that, in a short

while, she sickened, and at last died of grief. While on her deathbed,

she left it as her last request, that she should not be buried in the

earth, but that her body should be placed in a stone coffin, and laid at

the entry to the church; which was done, and to this day, the stone

retains the name of the “Maiden’s Stone.”—_Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal_,

1832.

THE PROGRESS OF INCONSTANCY;

_OR_, _THE SCOTS TUTOR_.

“Sweet, tender sex! with snares encompassed round,

On others hang thy comforts and thy rest.”—HOGG.

Nature has made woman weak, that she might receive with gratitude the

protection of man. Yet how often is this appointment perverted! How

often does her protector become her oppressor! Even custom seems leagued

against her. Born with the tenderest feelings, her whole life is

commonly a struggle to suppress them. Placed in the most favourable

circumstances, her choice is confined to a few objects; and unless where

singularly fortunate, her fondest partialities are only a modification

of gratitude. She may reject, but cannot invite: may tell what would

make her wretched, but dare not even whisper what would make her happy;

and, in a word, exercises merely a negative influence upon the most

important event of her life. Man has leisure to look around him, and may

marry at any age, with almost equal advantage; but woman must improve

the fleeting moment, and determine quickly, at the hazard of determining

rashly. The spring-time of her beauty will not last; its wane will be

the signal for the flight of her lovers; and if the present opportunity

is neglected, she may be left to experience the only species of

misfortune for which the world evinces no sympathy. How cruel, then, to

increase the misery of her natural dependence! How ungenerous to add

treachery to strength, and deceive or disappoint those whose highest

ambition is our favour, and whose only safety is our honesty!

William Arbuthnot was born in a remote county of Scotland, where his

father rented a few acres of land, which his own industry had reclaimed

from the greatest wildness to a state of considerable fertility. Having

given, even in his first attempts at learning, those indications of a

retentive memory, which the partiality of a parent easily construes into

a proof of genius, he was early destined for the Scottish Church, and

regarded as a philosopher before he had emerged from the nursery. While

his father pleased himself with the prospect of seeing his name

associated with the future greatness of his son, his mother, whose

ambition took a narrower range, thought she could die contented if she

should see him seated in the pulpit of his native church; and perhaps,

from a pardonable piece of vanity, speculated as frequently upon the

effect his appearance would have upon the hearts of the neighbouring

daughters, as his discourses upon the minds of their mothers. This

practice, so common among the poorer classes in Scotland, of making one

of their children a scholar, to the prejudice, as is alleged, of the

rest, has been often remarked, and sometimes severely censured. But

probably the objections that have been urged against it, derive their

chief force from the exaggerations upon which they are commonly founded.

It is not in general true that parents, by bestowing the rudiments of a

liberal education upon one of the family, materially injure the

condition or prospects of the rest. For it must be remembered that the

plebeian student is soon left to trust to his own exertions for support,

and, like the monitor of a Lancastrian seminary, unites the characters

of pupil and master, and teaches and is taught by turns.

But to proceed with our little narrative. The parish schoolmaster having

intimated to the parents of his pupil, that the period was at hand when

he should be sent to prosecute his studies at the university, the usual

preparations were made for his journey, and his departure was fixed for

the following day, when he was to proceed to Edinburgh under escort of

the village carrier and his black dog Cæsar, two of the eldest and most

intimate of his acquaintance. Goldsmith’s poetical maxim, that little

things are great to little men, is universally true; and this was an

eventful day for the family of Belhervie, for that was the name of the

residence of Mr Arbuthnot. The father was as profuse of his admonitions

as the mother was of her tears, and had a stranger beheld the afflicted

group, he would have naturally imagined that they were bewailing some

signal calamity, in place of welcoming an event to which they had long

looked forward with pleasure. But the feelings of affectionate regret,

occasioned by this separation, were most seasonably suspended by the

receipt of a letter from Mr Coventry, a respectable farmer in the

neighbourhood, in which that gentleman offered to engage their son for a

few years, as a companion and tutor to his children. This was an offer

which his parents were too prudent to reject, particularly as it might

prove the means of future patronage as well as of present emolument. It

was therefore immediately agreed upon, that William should himself be

the bearer of their letter of acceptance, and proceed forthwith to his

new residence. On this occasion he was admonished anew; but the advices

were different from those formerly given, and were delivered by a

different person. His mother was now the principal speaker; and, instead

of warning him against the snares that are laid for youth in a great

city, she furnished him with some rude lessons on the principles of

good-breeding, descending to a number of particulars too minute to be

enumerated here. William listened to her harangue with becoming

reverence and attention, and on the following morning, for the first

time, bade farewell to his affectionate parents.

On the afternoon of the same day, he arrived at Daisybank, where he was

welcomed with the greatest cordiality. His appearance was genteel and

prepossessing, and it was not long before his new friends discovered,

that the slight degree of awkwardness which at first clung to his

manners, proceeded more from bashfulness and embarrassment than natural

rusticity. But as he began to feel himself at home, this embarrassment

of manner gradually gave place to an easy but unobtrusive politeness.

Indeed it would not have been easy for a youth of similar views, at his

first outset in life, to have fallen into more desirable company. Mr and

Mrs Coventry were proverbial among their neighbours for the simplicity

and purity of their manners, and they had laboured, not unsuccessfully,

to stamp a similar character upon the minds of their children. Their

family consisted of two sons and two daughters, the former of whom were

confided to the care of William.

Mary, the eldest of the four, now in her sixteenth or seventeenth year,

was in every respect the most interesting object at Daisybank. To a mind

highly cultivated for her years, she united many of those personal

graces and attractions which command little homage in the crowd, but

open upon us in the shade of retirement, and lend to the domestic circle

its most irresistible charms. In stature she scarcely reached the middle

size. To the beauty derived from form and colour she had few

pretensions; yet when her fine blue eyes moistened with a tear at a tale

of distress, or beamed an unaffected welcome to the stranger or the

friend, he must have been more or less than man who felt not for her a

sentiment superior to admiration. Hers, in a word, was the beauty of

expression—the beauty of a mind reflected, in which the dullest disciple

of Lavater could not for a moment have mistaken her real character. Her

education had been principally conducted under the eye of her parents,

and might be termed domestic rather than fashionable. Not that she was

entirely a stranger to those acquirements which are deemed indispensable

in modern education. She had visited occasionally the great metropolis,

though, owing to the prudent solicitude of her parents, her residence

there had been comparatively short, yet probably long enough to acquire

all its useful or elegant accomplishments, without any admixture of its

fashionable frivolities.

From this hasty portraiture of Miss Coventry, it will be easily believed

that it was next to impossible for a youth nearly of the same age, and

not dissimilar in his dispositions, to remain long insensible to charms

that were gradually maturing before his eyes, and becoming every day

more remarkable. Fortunately, however, the idea of dependence attached

to his situation, and a temper naturally diffident determined him to

renounce for ever a hope which he feared in his present circumstances

would be deemed ungrateful and even presumptuous. But this was waging

war with nature, a task which he soon found to be above his strength. He

had now, therefore, to abandon the hope of victory for the safety of

retreat, and content himself with concealing those sentiments he found

it impossible to subdue. Yet so deceitful is love, that even this modest

hope was followed with disappointment. One fine evening in June, when he

was about to unbend from the duties of the day, and retire to muse on

the amiable Mary, he encountered the fair wanderer herself, who was

probably returning from a similar errand. He accosted her in evident

confusion; and, without being conscious of what he said, invited her to

join him in a walk to a neighbouring height. His request was complied

with in the same spirit it had been made in, for embarrassment is often

contagious, particularly the embarrassment arising from love. On this

occasion he intended to summon up all his powers of conversation, and

yet his companion had never found him so silent. Some commonplace

compliments to the beauty of the evening were almost the only

observations which escaped his lips, and these he uttered more in the

manner of a sleep-walker than a lover. They soon reached the limit of

their walk, and rested upon an eminence that commanded the prospect of

an extensive valley below. Day was fast declining to that point which is

termed twilight, when the whole irrational creation seem preparing for

rest, and only man dares to intrude upon the silence of nature. Miss

Coventry beheld the approach of night with some uneasiness, and dreading

to be seen with William alone, she began to rally him upon his apparent

absence and confusion, and proposed that they should immediately return

to the house. At mention of this, William started as from a dream, and

being unable longer to command his feelings, he candidly confessed to

her the cause of his absence and dejection. He dwelt with much emotion

upon his own demerit, and voluntarily accused himself for the

presumption of a hope which he never meant to have revealed until the

nearer accomplishment of his views had rendered it less imprudent and

romantic. He declared that he would sooner submit to any hardship that

incur the displeasure of her excellent parents, and entreated that,

whatever were her sentiments with regard to the suit he was so

presumptuous as to prefer, she might assist him in concealing from them

a circumstance which he feared would be attended with that consequence.

To this tender and affectionate appeal, the gentle Mary could only

answer with her sighs and blushes. She often indeed attempted to speak,

but the words as often died upon her lips, and they had nearly reached

home before she could even whisper an answer to the reiterated question

of her lover. But she did answer at last; and never was a monarch more

proud of his conquest, or the homage of tributary princes, than William

was of the simple fealty of the heart of Mary.

In the bosom of this happy family William now found his hours glide away

so agreeably that he looked forward with real regret to the termination

of his engagement. His condition was perhaps one of those in which the

nearest approach is made to perfect happiness; when the youthful mind,

unseduced by the blandishments of ambition, confines its regards to a

few favourite objects, and dreads a separation from them as the greatest

of evils. The contrast between the patriarchal simplicity of his

father’s fireside, and the comparative elegance of Mr Coventry’s

parlour, for a season dazzled him with its novelty; while the ripening

graces of Mary threw around him a fascination which older and more

unsusceptible minds than his might have found it difficult to resist. In

his domestic establishment Mr Coventry aimed at nothing beyond comfort

and gentility. William was therefore treated in every respect as an

equal, and was never banished from his patron’s table to make room for a

more important guest, or condemned to hold Lent over a solitary meal,

while the family were celebrating a holiday.

All our ideas are relative, and we estimate every thing by comparison.

Upon this principle, William thought no female so lovely or amiable as

Miss Coventry, and no residence so delightful as Daisybank. And he would

not have exchanged his feelings, while seated on a winter evening amidst

his favourite circle, scanning, for their amusement, a page of history,

or the columns of a newspaper, while the snugness and comfort that

reigned within made him forget the storm that pelted without, for the

most delicious paradise an eastern imagination ever painted.

It will thus readily be imagined, that the saddest day of our tutor’s

life was that on which he parted from this amiable family. He had here,

he believed, spent the happiest moments of his existence, and instead of

rejoicing that he had passed through one stage of his apprenticeship, he

dwelt upon the past with pleasure, and looked forward to the future with

pain.

Fortune, however, presented an insuperable obstacle to his spending his

days in the inaction of private study; and he knew that he could neither

gain, nor deserved to gain, the object of his affection, without

establishing himself in life, by pursuing the course which had been

originally chalked out to him. After, therefore, “pledging oft to meet

again,” he bade adieu to Daisybank, loaded with the blessings of the

best of parents, and followed with the prayers of the best of daughters.

He now paid a farewell visit to his own parents; and, after remaining

with them a few days, he proceeded to Edinburgh, and for a short period

felt his melancholy relieved, by the thousand novelties that attract the

notice of a stranger in a great city. But this was only a temporary

relief, and as he had no friend in whom he could confide, he soon felt

himself solitary in the midst of thousands. Often, when the Professor

was expatiating upon the force of the Greek particles, his imagination

was hovering over the abodes he had forsaken; and frequently it would

have been more difficult for him to have given an account of the

lectures he had been attending, than to have calculated the probability

of what was passing at a hundred miles’ distance. But this absence and

dejection at last wore off; and as he possessed good natural talents,

and had been an industrious student formerly, he soon distinguished

himself in his classes, and before the usual period was engaged as a

tutor in one of the best families in Scotland.

This event formed another important era in his life. His prospects were

now flattering; and as vanity did not fail to exaggerate them, he soon

dropped a considerable portion of his humility, and began to regard

himself as a young man of merit, to whom fortune was lavish of her

favours. In his leisure hours he was disposed to mingle much in society,

and, as his manners and address were easy and engaging, scarcely a week

elapsed that that did not add to the number of his friends. The

affections, when divided into many channels, cannot run deep in any,

and, probably, for every new acquaintance whom William honoured with his

esteem, it required a sacrifice of friendship at the expense of love,

and produced some abatement of that devotion of soul which accompanies

every true and permanent attachment. At Daisybank he had seen a simple

favourite of the graces, but here he beheld the daughters of wealth and

of fashion, surrounded with all the gloss of art, and soon began to

waver in his attachment, and even to regard his engagement as little

more than a youthful frolic. Still this temper of mind was not attained

without many struggles between love and ambition, honour and interest;

nor could he ever for a moment commune with himself, without feeling

remorse for his inconstancy and ingratitude. He could not annihilate the

conviction, that Miss Coventry was as faithful and worthy as ever, and

had she been present to appeal to his senses, it is probable he might

have been preserved from the crime of apostasy. But these were fits of

reflection and repentance which repetition soon deprived of their

poignancy. The world, the seductive world, returned with all its opiates

and charms, to stifle in his bosom the feelings of honour, and

obliterate every trace of returning tenderness. After this he became

less punctual in his correspondence with Miss Coventry, and in place of

anticipating the arrival of her letters, as he was wont to do, he

allowed them to be sent slowly to his lodgings, opened them without

anxiety, and read them without interest. Of all this inconstancy,

ingratitude, and neglect, the simple Mary remained a silent, though not

unconcerned spectator. Kind and generous by nature, and judging of

others by herself, she framed a thousand excuses for his negligence; and

when he did condescend to write to her, answered him as though she had

been unconscious of any abatement in his attentions.

Matters remained in this uncertain state for the space of three long

years—at least they seemed long to Miss Coventry—when William received

his licence as a preacher. He now therefore thought of redeeming a

pledge he had given to the minister of his native parish, to make his

first public appearance in his pulpit; and after giving due intimation,

he departed for the parish of ——, with his best sermon in the pocket of

his best coat. The account of his visit spread with telegraphic

despatch, long before telegraphs were invented, and was known over half

the county many days before his arrival. This was another great and

eventful day for his mother. She blessed Providence that she had lived

to see the near fulfilment of her most anxious wish, and rising a little

in her ambition, thought she could now die contented, if she should see

him settled in a living of his own, and be greeted by her neighbours

with the envied name of grandmother.—As William was expected to dine

with his parents on his way to the parsonage, or, as it is called in

Scotland, the manse, of ——, great preparations were made for his

reception, and for the appearance of the whole family at church on the

following Sunday. Mrs Arbuthnot drew from the family-chest her

wedding-gown, which had only seen the sun twice during thirty summers;

and her husband, for the first time, reluctantly applied a brush to his

holiday suit, which appeared, from the antiquity of its fashion, to have

descended, like the garments of the Swiss, through many successive

generations of the Arbuthnots.

The little church of H—— was crowded to the door, perhaps for the first

time, long before the bellman had given the usual signal. Mr Coventry,

though residing in a different parish, had made a journey thither with

several of his family, for the purpose of witnessing the first public

appearance of his friend. In this party was the amiable Mary, who took a

greater interest in the event than any one, save the preacher, was aware

of.

William, on this occasion, recited a well written discourse with ease

and fluency, and impressed his audience with a high opinion of his

talents and piety. Some of the elder of them, indeed, objected to his

gestures and pronunciation, which they thought “new fangled” and

theatrical; but they all agreed in thinking him a clever lad, and a

great honour to his parents. His mother was now overwhelmed with

compliments and congratulations from all quarters, which she received

with visible marks of pride and emotion. Mr Coventry waited in the

churchyard till the congregation had retired, to salute his friend, and

invite him to spend a few days at Daisybank. Mary, who hung on her

father’s arm, curtsied, blushed, and looked down. She had no well-turned

compliment to offer on the occasion, but her eyes expressed something at

parting, which once would have been sweeter to his soul than the

applause of all the world beside.

Ambition, from the beginning, has been the bane of love. War and peace

are not more opposite in their nature and effects than those rival

passions, and the bosom that is agitated with the cares of the one has

little relish for the gentle joys of the other. William beheld in the

person of Miss Coventry all he had been taught to regard as amiable or

estimable in woman; but the recollection of the respect that had been

shown him by females of distinction, mixed with exaggerated notions of

his own merit, made him undervalue those simple unobtrusive graces he

once valued so highly, and think almost any conquest easy after he had

been settled in the rich living of B——, which had been promised him by

his patron.

On the following day he paid a visit to Daisybank, and received the most

cordial welcome from a family who sympathised almost equally with his

parents in his prospects and advancement. During his stay there, he had

frequent opportunities of seeing Miss Coventry alone, but he neglected,

or rather avoided them all; and when rallied on the subject of marriage,

declaimed on the pleasures of celibacy, and hinted, with a good deal of

insincerity, his intention of living single. Although these speeches

were like daggers to the mind of her who regretted she could not rival

him in inconstancy and indifference, they produced no visible alteration

in her behaviour. Hers was not one of those minds in which vanity

predominates over every other feeling, and where disappointment is

commonly relieved by the hatred or resentment which it excites. Her soul

was soft as the passion that enslaved it, and the traces of early

affection are not easily effaced from a mind into which the darker

passions have never entered.

William bade adieu to Miss Coventry without dropping one word upon which

she could rear the superstructure of hope, and carried with him her

peace of mind, as he had formerly carried with him her affections. From

that hour she became pensive and melancholy, in spite of all her efforts

to appear cheerful and happy. She had rejected many lovers for the

inconstant’s sake, but that gave her no concern. Her union with him had

been long the favourite object of her life, and she could have patiently

resigned existence, now that its object was lost. But she shuddered at

the thought of the shock it would give her affectionate parents, for the

softer feelings of our nature are all of one family, and the tenderest

wives have ever been the most dutiful daughters.

It was impossible for Mary long to conceal the sorrow which consumed

her. Her fading cheeks and heavy eyes gave daily indications of what her

lips refused to utter. Her parents became deeply alarmed at these

symptoms of indisposition, and anxiously and unceasingly inquired into

the cause of her illness; but her only answer was, that she felt no

pain. The best physicians were immediately consulted upon her case, who

recommended change of air and company; but all these remedies were tried

without effect. The poison of disappointment had taken deep root in her

heart, and defied the power of medicine.

Her attendants, when they found all their prescriptions ineffectual,

began to ascribe her malady to its real cause, and hinted to her parents

their apprehensions that she had been crossed in love. The good people,

though greatly surprised at the suggestion, had too much prudence to

treat it with indifference, and they left no means untried, consistent

with a regard for the feelings of their child, to wile from her the

important secret. At first she endeavoured to evade their inquiries; but

finding it impossible to allay their apprehensions without having

recourse to dissimulation, she confessed to her mother her attachment to

William, concealing only the promises he had made to her, and every

circumstance that imputed to him the slightest degree of blame. At the

same time she entreated them, with the greatest earnestness, that no use

might be made of a secret which she wished to have carried with her to

the grave. This was a hard task imposed upon her parents. They felt

equally with herself the extreme delicacy of making the disclosure; but,

on the other hand, they contemplated nothing but the probable loss of

their child; an event, the bare apprehension of which filled their minds

with the bitterest anguish. After many anxious consultations, Mr

Coventry determined, unknown to any but his wife, to pay a visit to

William, and ascertain his sentiments with regard to his daughter.

Upon his arrival at Edinburgh, he found that his friend had departed for

the manse of B——, with which he had been recently presented. This event,

which in other circumstances would have given him the liveliest

pleasure, awakened on this occasion emotions of a contrary nature, as he

feared it would make his now reverend friend more elevated in his

notions, and consequently more averse to a union with his daughter. He

did not, however, on that account conceal the real object of his

journey, or endeavour to accomplish his purpose by stratagem or deceit.

He candidly disclosed his daughter’s situation and sentiments,

requesting of his friend that he would open to him his mind with equal

candour; and added, that although he held wealth to be an improper

motive in marriage, and hoped that his daughter did not require such a

recommendation, in the event of this union, whatever he possessed would

be liberally shared with him.

On hearing of the situation of Miss Coventry, William became penetrated

with the deepest remorse; and being aware that his affection for her was

rather stifled than estranged, he declared his willingness to make her

his wife. These words operated like a charm upon the drooping spirits of

the father, who embraced his friend with ardour, and besought him

immediately to accompany him home, that they might lose no time in

making a communication, which he fondly hoped would have a similar

effect upon the spirits of his daughter.

They departed accordingly together, indulging in the pleasing hope that

all would yet be well; but on their arrival at Daisybank, they were

seriously alarmed to hear that Miss Coventry had been considerably worse

since her father left home. She was now entirely confined to her

chamber, and seemed to care for nothing so much as solitude, and an

exemption from the trouble of talking. As soon as she was informed of

the arrival of their visitor, she suspected he had been sent for, and

therefore refused to see him; but upon being assured by her mother, who

found deceit in this instance indispensable, that his visit was

voluntary and accidental, she at last consented to give him an

interview.

On entering the room, which had formerly been the family parlour,

William was forcibly struck with the contrast it exhibited. Every object

seemed to swim before his sight, and it was some moments before he

discovered Miss Coventry, who reclined upon a sofa at the farther end of

the room. He advanced with a beating heart, and grasped the burning hand

that was extended to meet him. He pressed it to his lips and wept, and

muttered something incoherent of forgiveness and love. He looked

doubtingly on Mary’s face for an answer,—but her eye darted no reproach,

and her lips uttered no reflection. A faint blush, that at this moment

overspread her cheek, seemed a token of returning strength, and inspired

him with confidence and hope. It was the last effort of nature,—and ere

the blood could return to its fountain, that fountain had closed for

ever. Death approached his victim under the disguise of sleep, and

appeared divested of his usual pains and terrors.

William retired from this scene of unutterable anguish, and for a long

period was overwhelmed with the deepest melancholy and remorse. But time

gradually softened and subdued his sorrow, and I trust perfected his

repentance. He is since married and wealthy, and is regarded by the

world as an individual eminently respectable and happy. But, amidst all

his comforts, there are moments when he would exchange his identity with

the meanest slave that breathes, and regards himself as the murderer of

Mary Coventry.—_J. M‘D., in Blackwood’s Magazine_, 1817.

ADAM BELL.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”

This tale, which may be depended on as in every part true, is singular,

from the circumstance of its being insolvable, either from the facts

that have been discovered relating to it, or by reason; for though

events sometimes occur among mankind, which at the time seem

inexplicable, yet there being always some individuals acquainted with

the primary causes of these events, they seldom fail of being brought to

light before all the actors in them, or their confidants, are removed

from this state of existence. But the causes which produced the events

here related have never been accounted for in this world; even

conjecture is left to wander in a labyrinth, unable to get hold of the

thread that leads to the catastrophe.

Mr Bell was a gentleman of Annandale, in Dumfriesshire, in the south of

Scotland, and proprietor of a considerable estate in that district, part

of which he occupied himself. He lost his father when he was an infant,

and his mother dying when he was about 20 years of age, left him the

sole proprietor of the estate, besides a large sum of money at interest,

for which he was indebted, in a great measure, to his mother’s parsimony

during his minority. His person was tall, comely, and athletic, and his

whole delight was in warlike and violent exercises. He was the best

horseman and marksman in the county, and valued himself particularly

upon his skill in the broad sword. Of this he often boasted aloud, and

regretted that there was not one in the county whose skill was in some

degree equal to his own.

In the autumn of 1745, after being for several days busily and silently

employed in preparing for his journey, he left his own house, and went

to Edinburgh, giving at the same time such directions to his servants as

indicated his intention of being absent for some time.

A few days after he had left his home, one morning, while his

housekeeper was putting the house in order for the day, her master, as

she thought, entered by the kitchen door, the other being bolted, and

passed her in the middle of the floor. He was buttoned in his greatcoat,

which was the same he had on when he went from home; he likewise had the

same hat on his head, and the same whip in his hand which he took with

him. At sight of him she uttered a shriek, but recovering her surprise,

instantly said to him, “You have not stayed so long from us, Sir.” He

made no reply, but went sullenly into his own room, without throwing off

his greatcoat. After a pause of about five minutes, she followed him

into the room. He was standing at his desk with his back towards her.

She asked him if he wished to have a fire kindled, and afterwards if he

was well enough; but he still made no reply to any of these questions.

She was astonished, and returned into the kitchen. After tarrying about

other five minutes, he went out at the front door, it being then open,

and walked deliberately towards the bank of the river Kinnel, which was

deep and wooded, and in that he vanished from her sight. The woman ran

out in the utmost consternation to acquaint the men who were servants

belonging to the house; and coming to one of the ploughmen, she told him

that their master was come home, and had certainly lost his reason, for

that he was wandering about the house and would not speak. The man

loosed his horses from the plough and came home, listened to the woman’s

relation, made her repeat it again and again, and then assured her that

she was raving, for their master’s horse was not in the stable, and of

course he could not be come home. However, as she persisted in her

asseveration with every appearance of sincerity, he went into the linn

to see what was become of his mysterious master. He was neither to be

seen nor heard of in all the country. It was then concluded that the

housekeeper had seen an apparition, and that something had befallen

their master; but on consulting with some old people, skilled in those

matters, they learned that when a “wraith,” or apparition of a living

person, appeared while the sun was up, instead of being a prelude of

instant death, it prognosticated very long life; and, moreover, that it

could not possibly be a ghost that she had seen, for they always chose

the night season for making their visits. In short, though it was the

general topic of conversation among the servants and the people in the

vicinity, no reasonable conclusion could be formed on the subject.

The most probable conjecture was, that as Mr Bell was known to be so

fond of arms, and had left his home on the very day that Prince Charles

Stuart and his Highlanders defeated General Hawley on Falkirk Muir, he

had gone either with him or the Duke of Cumberland to the north. It was,

however, afterwards ascertained, that he had never joined any of the

armies. Week passed after week, and month after month, but no word of Mr

Bell. A female cousin was his nearest living relation; her husband took

the management of his affairs; and concluding that he had either joined

the army, or drowned himself in the Kinnel, when he was seen go into the

linn, made no more inquiries after him.

About this very time, a respectable farmer, whose surname was M‘Millan,

and who resided in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, happened to be in

Edinburgh about some business. In the evening he called upon a friend

who lived near Holyrood-house; and being seized with an indisposition,

they persuaded him to tarry with them all night. About the middle of the

night he grew exceedingly ill, and not being able to find any rest or

ease in his bed, imagined he would be the better of a walk. He put on

his clothes, and, that he might not disturb the family, slipped quietly

out at the back door, and walked in St Anthony’s garden behind the

house. The moon shone so bright, that it was almost as light as noonday,

and he had scarcely taken a single turn, when he saw a tall man enter

from the other side, buttoned in a drab-coloured greatcoat. It so

happened, that at that time M‘Millan stood in the shadow of the wall,

and perceiving that the stranger did not observe him, a thought struck

him that it would not be amiss to keep himself concealed, that he might

see what the man was going to be about. He walked backwards and forwards

for some time in apparent impatience, looking at his watch every minute,

until at length another man came in by the same way, buttoned likewise

in a greatcoat, and having a bonnet on his head. He was remarkably stout

made, but considerably lower in stature than the other. They exchanged

only a single word; then turning both about, they threw off their coats,

drew their swords, and began a most desperate and well-contested combat.

The tall gentleman appeared to have the advantage. He constantly gained

ground on the other, and drove him half round the division of the garden

in which they fought. Each of them strove to fight with his back towards

the moon, so that it might shine full in the face of his opponent; and

many rapid wheels were made for the purpose of gaining this position.

The engagement was long and obstinate, and by the desperate thrusts that

were frequently aimed on both sides, it was evident that they meant one

another’s destruction. They came at length within a few yards of the

place where M‘Millan still stood concealed. They were both out of

breath, and at that instant a small cloud chancing to overshadow the

moon, one of them called out, “Hold, we cannot see.” They uncovered

their heads, wiped their faces, and as soon as the moon emerged from the

cloud, each resumed his guard. Surely that was an awful pause! And

short, indeed, was the stage between it and eternity with the one! The

tall gentleman made a lounge at the other, who parried and returned it;

and as the former sprung back to avoid the thrust, his foot slipped, and

he stumbled forward towards his antagonist, who dexterously met his

breast in the fall with the point of his sword, and ran him through the

body. He made only one feeble convulsive struggle, as if attempting to

rise, and expired almost instantaneously.

M‘Millan was petrified with horror; but conceiving himself to be in a

perilous situation, having stolen out of the house at that dead hour of

the night, he had so much presence of mind as to hold his peace, and to

keep from interfering in the smallest degree.

The surviving combatant wiped his sword with great composure;—put on his

bonnet, covered the body with one of the greatcoats, took up the other,

and departed. M‘Millan returned quietly to his chamber without awakening

any of the family. His pains were gone, but his mind was shocked and

exceedingly perturbed; and after deliberating until morning, he

determined to say nothing of the matter, and to make no living creature

acquainted with what he had seen, thinking that suspicion would

infallibly rest on him. Accordingly, he kept his bed next morning, until

his friend brought him the tidings that a gentleman had been murdered at

the back of the house during the night. He then arose and examined the

body, which was that of a young man, seemingly from the country, having

brown hair, and fine manly features. He had neither letter, book, nor

signature of any kind about him that could in the least lead to a

discovery of who he was; only a common silver watch was found in his

pocket, and an elegant sword was clasped in his cold bloody hand, which

had an A. and B. engraved on the hilt. The sword had entered at his

breast, and gone out at his back a little below the left shoulder. He

had likewise received a slight wound on the sword arm.

The body was carried to the dead-room, where it lay for eight days, and

though great numbers inspected it, yet none knew who or whence the

deceased was, and he was at length buried among the strangers in

Grayfriars churchyard.

Sixteen years elapsed before M‘Millan mentioned to any person the

circumstance of his having seen the duel, but at that period, being in

Annandale receiving some sheep that he had bought, and chancing to hear

of the astonishing circumstances of Bell’s disappearance, he divulged

the whole. The time, the description of his person, his clothes, and

above all, the sword with the initials of his name engraved upon it,

confirmed the fact beyond the smallest shadow of doubt that it was Mr

Bell whom he had seen killed in the duel behind the Abbey. But who the

person was that slew him, how the quarrel commenced, or who it was that

appeared to his housekeeper, remains to this day a profound secret, and

is likely to remain so, until that day when every deed of darkness shall

be brought to light.

Some have even ventured to blame McMillan for the whole, on account of

his long concealment of facts, and likewise in consideration of his

uncommon bodily strength and daring disposition, he being one of the

boldest and most enterprising men of the age in which he lived; but all

who knew him despised such insinuations, and declared them to be

entirely inconsistent with his character, which was most honourable and

disinterested; and besides, his tale has every appearance of truth.

“Pluris est oculatus testis unus quam auriti decem.”

MAUNS’ STANE; OR, MINE HOST’S TALE.

In the latter end of the autumn of ——, I set out by myself on an

excursion over the northern part of Scotland; and, during that time, my

chief amusement was to observe the little changes of manners, language,

&c., in the different districts. After having viewed, on my return, the

principal curiosities in Buchan, I made a little alehouse, or “public,”

my head-quarters for the night. Having discussed my supper in solitude,

I called up mine host to enable me to discuss my bottle, and to give me

a statistical account of the country around me. Seated in the “blue”

end, and well supplied with the homely but satisfying luxuries which the

place afforded, I was in an excellent mood for enjoying the

communicativeness of my landlord; and, after speaking about the cave at

Slaines, the state of the crop, and the neighbouring franklins, edged

him, by degrees, to speak about the Abbey of Deer, an interesting ruin

which I had examined in the course of the day, formerly the stronghold

of the once powerful family of Cummin.

“It’s dootless a bonny place about the Abbey,” said he, “but naething

like what it was when the great Sir James the Rose cam to hide i’ the

Buchan woods, wi’ a’ the Grahames rampagin’ at his tail, whilk you

that’s a beuk learned man ’ill hae read o’; an’ maybe ye’ll hae heard o’

the saughen bush where he forgathered wi’ his joe; or aiblins ye may

have seen’t, for it’s standing yet just at the corner o’ gaukit Jamie

Jamieson’s peat-stack. Ay, ay, the abbey was a brave place ance; but a’

thing, ye ken, comes till an end.” So saying, he nodded to me, and

brought his glass to an end.

“This place, then, must have been famed in days of yore, my friend?”

“Ye may tak my word for that,” said he. “’Od, it _was_ a place! Sic a

sight o’ fechtin’ as they had about it! But gin ye’ll gang up the

trap-stair to the laft, an’ open Jenny’s kist, ye’ll see sic a story

about it, prented by ane o’ your learned Aberdeen’s fouk, Maister Keith,

I think; she coft it in Aberdeen for twal pennies, lang ago, an’

battered it to the lid o’ her kist. But gang up the stair canny, for

fear that you should wauken her, puir thing;—or, bide, I’ll just wauken

Jamie Fleep, an’ gar him help me down wi’t, for our stair’s no just that

canny for them ‘t’s no acquaint wi’t, let alane a frail man wi’ your

infirmity.”

I assured him that I would neither disturb the young lady’s slumber, nor

Jamie Fleep’s, and begged him to give me as much information as he could

about this castle.

“Weel, wishin’ your gude health again.—Our minister ance said, that

Soloman’s Temple was a’ in ruins, wi’ whin bushes, an’ broom an’

thristles growin’ ower the bonny carved wark an’ the cedar wa’s, just

like our ain Abbey. Noo, I judge that the Abbey o’ Deer was just the

marrow o’t, or the minister wadna hae said that. But when it was biggit,

Lord kens, for I dinna. It was just as you see it, lang afore your

honour was born; an’ aiblins, as the by-word says, may be sae after

ye’re hanged. But that’s neither here nor there. The Cummins o’ Buchan

were a dour and surly race; and, for a fearfu’ time, nane near han’ nor

far awa could ding them, an’ yet mony a ane tried it. The fouk on their

ain lan’ likit them weel enough; but the Crawfords, an’ the Grahames,

an’ the Mars, an’ the Lovats, were aye trying to comb them against the

hair, an’ mony a weary kempin’ had they wi’ them; but, some way or

ither, they could never ding them; an’ fouk said that they gaed and

learned the black art frae the Pope o’ Room, wha, I mysel heard the

minister say, had aye a colleague wi’ the Auld Chiel. I dinna ken fou it

was; in the tail o’ the day, the hale country rase up against them, an’

besieged them in the Abbey o’ Deer. Ye’ll see, my frien’ [by this time

mine host considered me as one of his cronies], tho’ we ca’ it the

Abbey, it had naething to do wi’ Papistry; na, na, no sae bad as a’ that

either, but just a noble’s castle, where they keepit sodgers gaun about

in airn an’ scarlet, wi’ their swords an’ guns, an’ begnets, an’

sentry-boxes, like the local militia in the barracks o’ Aberdeen.

“Weel, ye see, they surrounded the castle, an’ lang did they besiege it;

but there was a vast o’ meat in the castle, an’ the Buchan fouk fought

like the vera deil. They took their horse through a miscellaneous

passage, half a mile long, aneath the hill o’ Saplinbrae, an’ watered

them in the burn o’ Pulmer. But a’ wadna do; they took the castle at

last, and a terrible slaughter they made amo’ them; but they were sair

disappointed in ae partic’ler, for Cummin’s fouk sank a’ their goud an’

siller in a draw-wall, an’ syne filled it up wi’ stanes. They gat

naething in the way of spulzie to speak o’; sae out o’ spite they dang

doon the castle, an’ it’s never been biggit to this day. But the Cummins

were no sae bad as the Lairds o’ Federat, after a’.”

“And who were these Federats?” I inquired.

“The Lairds o’ Federat?” said he, moistening his mouth again as a

preamble to his oration. “Troth, frae their deeds, ane would maist think

that they had a drap o’ the deil’s blude, like the pyets. Gin a’ tales

be true, they hae the warmest place at his bink this vera minute. I

dinna ken vera muckle about them, though, but the auldest fouk said they

were just byous wi’ cruelty. Mony a gude man did they hing up i’ their

ha’, just for their ain sport; ye’ll see the ring to the fore yet in the

roof o’t. Did ye ever hear o’ Mauns’ Stane, neebour?”

“Mauns’ what?” said I.

“Ou, Mauns’ Stane. But it’s no likely. Ye see it was just a queer clump

o’ a roun’-about heathen, waghtin’ maybe twa tons or thereby. It wasna

like ony o’ the stanes in our countra, an’ it was as roun’ as a fit-ba’;

I’m sure it wad ding Professor Couplan himsel to tell what way it cam

there. Noo, fouk aye thought there was something uncanny about it, an’

some gaed the length o’ saying, that the deil used to bake ginshbread

upon’t; and, as sure as ye’re sitting there, frien’, there was

knuckle-marks upon’t, for my ain father has seen them as aften as I have

taes an’ fingers. Aweel, ye see, Mauns Crawford, the last o’ the Lairds

o’ Federat, an’ the deil had coost out (maybe because the Laird was just

as wicked an’ as clever as he was himsel), an’ ye perceive the evil ane

wantit to play him a trick. Noo, Mauns Crawford was ae day lookin’ ower

his castle wa’, and he saw a stalwart carl, in black claes, ridin’ up

the loanin’. He stopped at this chuckie o’ a stane, an’, loutin’ himsel,

he took it up in his arms, and lifted it three times to his saddle-bow,

an’ syne he rade awa out o’ sight, never comin’ near the castle, as

Mauns thought he would hae done. ‘Noo,’ says the baron till himsel, says

he, ‘I didna think that there was ony ane in a’ the land that could hae

played sic a ploy; but deil fetch me if I dinna lift it as weel as he

did.’ Sae aff he gaed, for there was na sic a man for birr in a’ the

countra, an’ he kent it as weel, for he never met wi’ his match. Weel,

he tried, and tugged, and better than tugged at the stane, but he coudna

mudge it ava; an’, when he looked about, he saw a man at his elbuck, a’

smeared wi’ smiddy-coom, snightern’ an’ laughin’ at him. The Laird d——d

him, an’ bade him lift it, whilk he did as gin’t had been a little

pinnin. The Laird was like to burst wi’ rage at being fickled by sic a

hag-ma-hush carle, and he took to the stane in a fury, and lifted it

till his knee; but the weight o’t amaist ground his banes to smash. He

held the stane till his een-strings crackit, when he was as blin’ as a

moudiwort. He was blin’ till the day o’ his death,—that’s to say, if

ever he died, for there were queer sayings about it—vera queer! vera

queer! The stane was ca’d Mauns’ Stane ever after; an’ it was no thought

that canny to be near it after gloaming; for what says the psalm—hem!—I

mean the sang—

’Tween Ennetbutts an’ Mauns’ Stane

Ilka night there walks ane.

“There never was a chief of the family after; the men were scattered,

an’ the castle demolished. The doo and the hoodie craw nestle i’ their

towers, and the hare maks her form on their grassy hearthstane.”

“Is this stone still to be seen?”

“Ou na. Ye see, it was just upon Johnie Forbes’s craft, an’ fouk cam far

an’ near to leuk at it, an’ trampit down a’ the puir cottar body’s corn;

sae he houkit a hole just aside it, an’ tumbled it intil’t: by that

means naebody sees’t noo, but its weel kent that it’s there, for they’re

livin’ yet wha’ve seen it.”

“But the well at the Abbey—did no one feel a desire to enrich himself

with the gold and silver buried there?”

“Hoot, ay; mony a ane tried to find out whaur it was, and, for that

matter, I’ve maybe done as foolish a thing mysel; but nane ever made it

out. There was a scholar, like yoursel, that gaed ae night down to the

Abbey, an’, ye see, he summoned up the deil.”

“The deuce he did!” said I.

“Weel, weel, the _deuce_, gin ye like it better,” said he. “An’ he was

gaun to question him where the treasure was, but he had eneugh to do to

get him laid without deaving him wi’ questions, for a’ the deils cam

about him, like bees bizzin’ out o’ a byke. He never coured the fright

he gat, but cried out, ‘Help! help!’ till his very enemy wad hae been

wae to see him; and sae he cried till he died, which was no that lang

after. Fouk sudna meddle wi’ sic ploys!”

“Most wonderful! And do you believe that Beelzebub actually appeared to

him?”

“Believe it! What for no?” said he, consequentially tapping the lid of

his snuff-horn. “Didna my ain father see the evil ane i’ the schule o’

Auld Deer?”

“Indeed!”

“Weel I wot he did that. A wheen idle callants, when the dominie was out

at his twal-hours, read the Lord’s Prayer backlans, an’ raised him, but

coudna lay him again; for he threepit ower them that he wadna gang awa

unless he gat ane o’ them wi’ him. Ye may be sure this put them in an

awfu’ swither. They were a’ squallin’, an’ crawlin’, and sprawlin’ amo’

the couples to get out o’ his grips. Ane o’ them gat out an’ tauld the

maister about it; an’ when he cam down, the melted lead was rinnin’ aff

the roof o’ the house wi’ the heat; sae, flingin’ to the Black Thief a

young bit kittlen o’ the schule-mistress’s, he sank through the floor

wi’ an awsome roar. I mysel have heard the mistress misca’in’ her man

about offering up the puir thing, baith saul and body, to Baal. But,

troth, I’m no clear to speak o’ the like o’ this at sic a time o’ night;

sae, if your honour be na for anither jug, I’ll e’en wus you a gude

night, for its wearin’ late, an’ I maun awa’ to Skippyfair i’ the

mornin’.”

I assented to this, and quickly lost in sleep the remembrance of all

these tales of the olden time.—_Aberdeen Censor_, 1825.

THE FREEBOOTER OF LOCHABER.

BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.

Towards the end of the seventeenth century, there lived a certain

notorious freebooter, in the county of Moray, a native of Lochaber, of

the name of Cameron, but who was better known by his cognomen of _Padrig

Mac-an-Ts’agairt_, which signifies, “Peter, the Priest’s Son.” Numerous

were the “creachs,” or robberies of cattle on a great scale, driven by

him from Strathspey. But he did not confine his depredations to that

country; for, some time between the years 1690 and 1695, he made a clean

sweep of the cattle from the rich pastures of the Aird, the territory of

the Frasers. That he might put his pursuers on a wrong scent, he did not

go directly towards Lochaber, but, crossing the river Ness at Lochend,

he struck over the mountains of Strathnairn and Strathdearn, and

ultimately encamped behind a hill above Duthel, called, from a copious

spring on its summit, _Cairn-an-Sh’uaran_, or the Well Hill. But,

notwithstanding all his precautions, the celebrated Simon Lord Lovat,

then chief of the Frasers, discovered his track, and despatched a

special messenger to his father-in-law, Sir Ludovick Grant of Grant,

begging his aid in apprehending Mac-an-Ts’agairt, and recovering the

cattle.

It so happened that there lived at this time, on the laird of Grant’s

ground, a man also called Cameron, surnamed Mugach More, of great

strength and undaunted courage; he had six sons and a stepson, whom his

wife, formerly a woman of light character, had before her marriage with

Mugach, and, as they were all brave, Sir Ludovick applied to them to

undertake the recapture of the cattle. Sir Ludovic was not mistaken in

the man. The Mugach no sooner received his orders, than he armed himself

and his little band, and went in quest of the freebooter, whom he found

in the act of cooking a dinner from part of the spoil. The Mugach called

on Padrig and his men to surrender, and they, though numerous, dreading

the well-known prowess of their adversary, fled to the opposite hills,

their chief threatening bloody vengeance as he went. The Mugach drove

the cattle to a place of safety, and watched them till their owners came

to recover them.

Padrig did not utter his threats without the fullest intention of

carrying them into effect. In the latter end of the following spring, he

visited Strathspey with a strong party, and waylaid the Mugach, as he

and his sons were returning from working at a small patch of land he had

on the brow of a hill, about half-a-mile above his house. Padrig and his

party concealed themselves in a thick covert of underwood, through which

they knew that the Mugach and his sons must pass; but seeing their

intended victims well-armed, the cowardly assassins lay still in their

hiding-place, and allowed them to pass, with the intention of taking a

more favourable opportunity for their purpose. That very night they

surprised and murdered two of the sons, who, being married, lived in

separate houses, at some distance from their father’s; and, having thus

executed so much of their diabolical purpose, they surrounded the

Mugach’s cottage.

No sooner was his dwelling attacked, than the brave Mugach, immediately

guessing who the assailants were, made the best arrangements for defence

that time and circumstances permitted. The door was the first point

attempted; but it was strong, and he and his four sons placed themselves

behind it, determined to do bloody execution the moment it should be

forced. Whilst thus engaged, the Mugach was startled by a noise above

the rafters, and, looking up, he perceived, in the obscurity, the figure

of a man half through a hole in the wattled roof. Eager to despatch his

foe as he entered, he sprang upon a table, plunged his sword into his

body, and down fell—his stepson, whom he had ever loved and cherished as

one of his own children! The youth had been cutting his way through the

roof, with the intention of attacking Padrig from above, and so creating

a diversion in favour of those who were defending the door. The brave

young man lived no longer than to say, “Dear father, I fear you have

killed me!”

For a moment the Mugach stood petrified with horror and grief, but rage

soon usurped the place of both. “Let me open the door!” he cried, “and

revenge his death, by drenching my sword in the blood of the villain!”

His sons clung around him, to prevent what they conceived to be madness,

and a strong struggle ensued between desperate bravery and filial duty;

whilst the Mugach’s wife stood gazing on the corpse of her first-born

son, in an agony of contending passions, being ignorant from all she had

witnessed but that the young man’s death had been wilfully wrought by

her husband. “Hast thou forgotten our former days?” cried the wily

Padrig, who saw the whole scene through a crevice in the door. “How

often hast thou undone thy door to me, and wilt thou not open it now, to

give me way to punish him who has, but this moment, so foully slain thy

beloved son?” Ancient recollections, and present affliction, conspired

to twist her to his purpose. The struggle and altercation between the

Mugach and his sons still continued. A frenzy seized on the unhappy

woman; she flew to the door, undid the bolt, and Padrig and his

assassins rushed in.

The infuriated Mugach no sooner beheld his enemy enter, than he sprang

at him like a tiger, grasped him by the throat, and dashed him to the

ground. Already was his vigorous sword-arm drawn back, and his broad

claymore was about to find a passage to the traitor’s heart, when his

faithless wife, coming behind him, threw over it a large canvas

winnowing-sheet, and, before he could extricate the blade from the

numerous folds, Padrig’s weapon was reeking in the best heart’s-blood of

the bravest Highlander that Strathspey could boast of. His four sons,

who had witnessed their mother’s treachery, were paralyzed. The

unfortunate woman herself, too, stood stupified and appalled. But she

was quickly recalled to her senses by the active clash of the swords of

Padrig and his men. “Oh, my sons, my sons!” she cried; “spare my boys!”

But the tempter needed her services no longer,—she had done his work.

She was spurned to the ground and trampled under foot by those who soon

strewed the bloody floor around her with the lifeless corpses of her

brave sons.

Exulting in the full success of this expedition of vengeance,

Mac-an-Ts’agairt beheaded the bodies, and piled the heads in a heap on

an oblong hill that runs parallel to the road on the east side of Carr

Bridge, from which it is called _Tom-nan-Cean_, the Hill of the Heads.

Scarcely was he beyond the reach of danger, than his butchery was known

at the Castle Grant, and Sir Ludovick immediately offered a great reward

for his apprehension; but Padrig, who had anticipated some such thing,

fled to Ireland, where he remained for seven years. But the restlessness

of the murderer is well known, and Padrig felt it in all its horrors.

Leaving his Irish retreat, he returned to Lochaber. By a strange

accident, a certain Mungo Grant, of Muckrach, having had his cattle and

horses carried away by some thieves from that quarter, pursued them hot

foot, recovered them, and was on his way returning with them, when, to

his astonishment, he met Padrig Mac-an-Ts’agairt, quite alone in a

narrow pass, on the borders of his native country. Mungo instantly

seized and made a prisoner of him. But his progress with his beasts was

tedious; and as he was entering Strathspey at _Lag-na-caillich_, about a

mile to the westward of Aviemore, he espied twelve desperate men, who,

taking advantage of his slow march, had crossed the hills to gain the

pass before him, for the purpose of rescuing Padrig. But Mungo was not

to be daunted. Seeing them occupying the road in his front, he grasped

his prisoner with one hand, and brandishing his dirk with the other, he

advanced in the midst of his people and animals, swearing potently that

the first motion at an attempt at rescue by any one of them should be

the signal for his dirk to drink the life’s-blood of Padrig

Mac-an-Ts’agairt. They were so intimidated by his boldness that they

allowed him to pass without assault, and left their friend to his fate.

Padrig was forthwith carried to Castle Grant. But the remembrance of the

Mugach’s murder had been by this time much obliterated by many events

little less strange, and the laird, unwilling to be troubled with the

matter, ordered Mungo and his prisoner away.

Disappointed and mortified, Mungo and his party were returning with

their captive, discussing, as they went, what they had best do with him.

“A fine reward we have had for all our trouble!” said one. “The laird

may catch the next thief her nainsel, for Donald!” said another. “Let’s

turn him loose!” said a third. “Ay, ay,” said a fourth; “what for wud we

be plaguing oursels more wi’ him?” “Yes, yes! brave, generous men!” said

Padrig, roused by a sudden hope of life from the moody dream of the

gallows-tree in which he had been plunged, whilst he was courting his

mournful muse to compose his own lament, that he might die with an

effect striking, as all the events of his life had been. “Yes, brave

men, free me from these bonds! It is unworthy of Strathspey men,—it is

unworthy of Grants to triumph over a fallen foe! Those whom I killed

were no clansmen of yours, but recreant Camerons, who betrayed a

Cameron! Let me go free, and that reward of which you have been

disappointed shall be quadrupled for sparing my life.” Such words as

these, operating on minds so much prepared to receive them favourably,

had well-nigh worked their purpose. But “No!” said Muckrach sternly, “it

shall never be said that a murderer escaped from my hands. Besides, it

was just so that he fairly spake the Mugach’s false wife. But did he

spare her sons on that account? If ye let him go, my men, the fate of

the Mugach may be ours; for what bravery can stand against treachery and

assassination?” This opened an entirely new view of the question to

Padrig’s rude guards, and the result of the conference was that they

resolved to take him to Inverness, and to deliver him up to the sheriff.

As they were pursuing their way up the south side of the river Dulnan,

the hill of _Tom-nan-Cean_ appeared on that opposite to them. At sight

of it the whole circumstances of Padrig’s atrocious deed came fresh in

to their minds. It seemed to cry on them for justice, and with one

impulse they shouted out, “Let him die on the spot where he did the

bloody act!” Without a moment’s farther delay, they determined to

execute their new resolution. But on their way across the plain, they

happened to observe a large fir tree, with a thick horizontal branch

growing at right angles from the trunk, and of a sufficient height from

the ground to suit their purpose; and doubting if they might find so

convenient a gallows where they were going, they at once determined that

here Padrig should finish his mortal career. The neighbouring birch

thicket supplied them with materials for making a withe; and whilst they

were twisting it, Padrig burst forth in a flood of Gaelic verse, which

his mind had been accumulating by the way. His song and the twig rope

that was to terminate his existence were spun out and finished at the

same moment, and he was instantly elevated to a height equally beyond

his ambition and his hopes.

AN HOUR IN THE MANSE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

In a few weeks the annual sacrament of the Lord’s Supper was to be

administered in the parish of Deanside; and the minister, venerable in

old age, of authority by the power of his talents and learning, almost

feared for his sanctity, yet withal beloved for gentleness and

compassion that had never been found wanting, when required either by

the misfortunes or errors of any of his flock, had delivered for several

successive Sabbaths, to full congregations, sermons on the proper

preparation of communicants in that awful ordinance. The old man was a

follower of Calvin; and many, who had listened to him with a resolution

in their hearts to approach the table of the Redeemer, felt so

awe-stricken and awakened at the conclusion of his exhortations, that

they gave their souls another year to meditate on what they had heard,

and by a pure and humble course of life, to render themselves less

unworthy to partake the mysterious and holy bread and wine.

The good old man received in the manse, for a couple of hours every

evening, such of his parishioners as came to signify their wish to

partake of the sacrament; and it was then noted, that, though he in

nowise departed, in his conversation with them at such times, from the

spirit of those doctrines which he had delivered from the pulpit, yet

his manner was milder, and more soothing, and full of encouragement; so

that many who went to him almost with quaking hearts, departed in

tranquillity and peace, and looked forward to that most impressive and

solemn act of the Christian faith with calm and glad anticipation. The

old man thought, truly and justly, that few, if any, would come to the

manse, after having heard him in the kirk, without due and deep

reflection; and therefore, though he allowed none to pass through his

hands without strict examination, he spoke to them all benignly, and

with that sort of paternal pity which a religious man, about to leave

this life, feels towards all his brethren of mankind, who are entering

upon, or engaged in, its scenes of agitation, trouble, and danger.

On one of those evenings, the servant showed into the minister’s study a

tall, bold-looking, dark-visaged man, in the prime of life, who, with

little of the usual courtesy, advanced into the middle of the room, and

somewhat abruptly declared the sacred purpose of his visit. But before

he could receive a reply, he looked around and before him; and there was

something so solemn in the old minister’s appearance, as he sat like a

spirit, with his unclouded eyes fixed upon the intruder, that that

person’s countenance fell, and his heart was involuntarily knocking

against his side. An old large Bible, the same that he read from in the

pulpit, was lying open before him. One glimmering candle showed his

beautiful and silvery locks falling over his temples, as his head half

stooped over the sacred page; a dead silence was in the room dedicated

to meditation and prayer; the old man, it was known, had for some time

felt himself to be dying, and had spoken of the sacrament of this summer

as the last he could ever hope to administer; so that altogether, in the

silence, the dimness, the sanctity, the unworldliness of the time, the

place, and the being before him, the visitor stood like one abashed and

appalled; and bowing more reverently, or at least respectfully, he said,

with a quivering voice, “Sir, I come for your sanction to be admitted to

the table of our Lord.”

The minister motioned to him with his hand to sit down; and it was a

relief to the trembling man to do so, for he was in the presence of one

who, he felt, saw into his heart. A sudden change from hardihood to

terror took place within his dark nature; he wished himself out of the

insupportable sanctity of that breathless room; and a remorse, that had

hitherto slept, or been drowned within him, now clutched his

heartstrings, as if with an alternate grasp of frost and fire, and made

his knees knock against each other where he sat, and his face pale as

ashes.

“Norman Adams, saidst thou that thou wilt take into that hand, and put

into those lips, the symbol of the blood that was shed for sinners, and

of the body that bowed on the cross, and then gave up the ghost? If so,

let us speak together, even as if thou wert communing with thine own

heart. Never again may I join in that sacrament, for the hour of my

departure is at hand. Say, wilt thou eat and drink death to thine

immortal soul?”

The terrified man found strength to rise from his seat, and, staggering

towards the door, said, “Pardon, forgive me!—I am not worthy.”

“It is not I who can pardon, Norman. That power lies not with man; but

sit down—you are deadly pale—and though, I fear, an ill-living and a

dissolute man, greater sinners have repented and been saved. Approach

not now the table of the Lord, but confess all your sins before Him in

the silence of your own house, and upon your naked knees on the

stone-floor every morning and every night; and if this you do

faithfully, humbly, and with a contrite heart, come to me again when the

sacrament is over, and I will speak words of comfort to you (if then I

am able to speak)—if, Norman, it should be on my deathbed. This will I

do for the sake of thy soul, and for the sake of thy father, Norman,

whom my soul loved, and who was a support to me in my ministry for many

long, long years, even for two score and ten, for we were at school

together; and had your father been living now, he would, like myself,

have this very day finished his eighty-fifth year. I send you not from

me in anger, but in pity and love. Go, my son, and this very night begin

your repentance, for if that face speak the truth, your heart must be

sorely charged.”

Just as the old man ceased speaking, and before the humble, or at least

affrighted culprit had risen to go, another visitor of a very different

kind was shown into the room—a young, beautiful girl, almost shrouded in

her cloak, with a sweet pale face, on which sadness seemed in vain to

strive with the natural expression of the happiness of youth.

“Mary Simpson,” said the kind old man, as she stood with a timid

courtesy near the door, “Mary Simpson, approach, and receive from my

hands the token for which thou comest. Well dost thou know the history

of thy Saviour’s life, and rejoicest in the life and immortality brought

to light by the gospel. Young and guileless, Mary, art thou; and dim as

my memory now is of many things, yet do I well remember the evening,

when first beside my knee, thou heardst read how the Divine Infant was

laid in a manger, how the wise men from the East came to the place of

His nativity, and how the angels were heard singing in the fields of

Bethlehem all the night long.”

Alas! every word that had thus been uttered sent a pang into the poor

creature’s heart, and, without lifting her eyes from the floor, and in a

voice more faint and hollow than belonged to one so young, she said, “O

sir! I come not as an intending communicant; yet the Lord my God knows

that I am rather miserable than guilty, and He will not suffer my soul

to perish, though a baby is now within me, the child of guilt, and sin,

and horror. This, my shame, come I to tell you; but for the father of my

babe unborn, cruel though he has been to me,—oh! cruel, cruel,

indeed,—yet shall his name go down with me in silence to the grave. I

must not, must not breathe his name in mortal ears; but I have looked

round me in the wide moor, and when nothing that could understand was

by, nothing living but birds, and bees, and the sheep I was herding,

often have I whispered his name in my prayers, and beseeched God and

Jesus to forgive him all his sins.”

At these words, of which the passionate utterance seemed to relieve her

heart, and before the pitying and bewildered old man could reply, Mary

Simpson raised her eyes from the floor, and fearing to meet the face of

the minister, which had heretofore never shone upon her but with smiles,

and of which the expected frown was to her altogether insupportable, she

turned them wildly round the room, as if for a dark resting-place, and

beheld Norman Adams rooted to his seat, leaning towards her with his

white, ghastly countenance, and his eyes starting from their sockets,

seemingly in wrath, agony, fear, and remorse. That terrible face struck

poor Mary to the heart, and she sank against the wall, and slipped down,

shuddering, upon a chair.

“Norman Adams, I am old and weak, but do you put your arm round that

poor lost creature, and keep her from falling down on the hard floor. I

hear it is a stormy night, and she has walked some miles hither; no

wonder she is overcome. You have heard her confession, but it was not

meant for your ear; so, till I see you again, say nothing of what you

have now heard.”

“O sir! a cup of water, for my blood is either leaving my heart

altogether, or it is drowning it. Your voice, sir, is going far, far

away from me, and I am sinking down. Oh, hold me!—hold me up! Is it a

pit into which I am falling?—Saw I not Norman Adams?—Where is he now?”

The poor maiden did not fall off the chair, although Norman Adams

supported her not; but her head lay back against the wall, and a sigh,

long and dismal, burst from her bosom, that deeply affected the old

man’s heart, but struck that of the speechless and motionless sinner,

like the first toll of the prison bell that warns the felon to leave his

cell and come forth to execution.

The minister fixed a stern eye upon Norman, for, from the poor girl’s

unconscious words, it was plain that he was the guilty wretch who had

wrought all this misery. “You knew, did you not, that she had neither

father nor mother, sister nor brother, scarcely one relation on earth to

care for or watch over her; and yet you have used her so? If her beauty

was a temptation unto you, did not the sweet child’s innocence touch

your hard and selfish heart with pity? or her guilt and grief must

surely now wring it with remorse. Look on her—white, cold, breathless,

still as a corpse; and yet, thou bold bad man, thy footsteps would have

approached the table of thy Lord!”

The child now partly awoke from her swoon, and her dim opening eyes met

those of Norman Adams. She shut them with a shudder, and said, sickly

and with a quivering voice, “Oh spare, spare me, Norman! Are we again in

that dark, fearful wood? Tremble not for your life on earth, Norman, for

never, never will I tell to mortal ears that terrible secret; but spare

me, spare me, else our Saviour, with all His mercy, will never pardon

your unrelenting soul. These are cruel-looking eyes; you will not surely

murder poor Mary Simpson, unhappy as she is, and must for ever be—yet

life is sweet! She beseeches you on her knees to spare her life!”—and,

in the intense fear of phantasy, the poor creature struggled off the

chair, and fell down indeed in a heap at his feet.

“Canst thou indeed be the son of old Norman Adams, the industrious, the

temperate, the mild, and the pious—who so often sat in this very room

which thy presence has now polluted, and spake with me on the mysteries

of life and of death? Foul ravisher, what stayed thy hand from the

murder of that child, when there were none near to hear her shrieks in

the dark solitude of the great pine-wood?”

Norman Adams smote his heart and fell down too on his knees beside the

poor ruined orphan. He put his arm round her, and, raising her from the

floor, said, “No, no, my sin is great, too great for Heaven’s

forgiveness; but, oh sir! say not—say not that I would have murdered

her; for, savage as my crime was, yet may God judge me less terribly

than if I had taken her life.”

In a little while they were both seated with some composure, and silence

was in the room. No one spoke, and the old grayhaired man sat with his

eyes fixed, without reading, on the open Bible. At last he broke silence

with these words out of Isaiah, that seemed to have forced themselves on

his heedless eyes:—“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as

white as snow: though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

Mary Simpson wept aloud at these words, and seemed to forget her own

wrongs and grief in commiseration of the agonies of remorse and fear

that were now plainly preying on the soul of the guilty man. “I forgive

you, Norman, and will soon be out of the way, no longer to anger you

with the sight of me.” Then, fixing her streaming eyes on the minister,

she besought him not to be the means of bringing him to punishment and a

shameful death, for that he might repent, and live to be a good man and

respected in the parish; but that she was a poor orphan for whom few

cared, and who, when dead, would have but a small funeral.

“I will deliver myself up into the hands of justice,” said the offender,

“for I do not deserve to live. Mine was an inhuman crime, and let a

violent and shameful death be my doom.”

The orphan girl now stood up as if her strength had been restored, and

stretching out her hands passionately, with a flow of most affecting and

beautiful language, inspired by a meek, single, and sinless heart that

could not bear the thought of utter degradation and wretchedness

befalling any one of the rational children of God, implored and

beseeched the old man to comfort the sinner before them, and promise

that the dark transaction of guilt should never leave the concealment of

their own three hearts. “Did he not save the lives of two brothers once

who were drowning in that black mossy loch, when their own kindred, at

work among the hay, feared the deep sullen water, and all stood aloof

shuddering and shaking, till Norman Adams leapt in to their rescue, and

drew them by the dripping hair to the shore, and then lay down beside

them on the heather as like to death as themselves? I myself saw it

done; I myself heard their mother call down the blessing of God on

Norman’s head, and then all the haymakers knelt down and prayed. When

you, on the Sabbath, returned thanks to God for that they were saved,

oh! kind sir, did you not name, in the full kirk, him who, under

Providence, did deliver them from death, and who, you said, had thus

showed himself to be a Christian indeed? May his sin against me be

forgotten, for the sake of those two drowning boys, and their mother,

who blesses his name unto this day.”

From a few questions solemnly asked, and solemnly answered, the minister

found that Norman Adams had been won by the beauty and loveliness of

this poor orphan shepherdess, as he had sometimes spoken to her when

sitting on the hill-side with her flock, but that pride had prevented

him from ever thinking of her in marriage. It appeared that he had also

been falsely informed, by a youth whom Mary disliked for his brutal and

gross manners, that she was not the innocent girl that her seeming

simplicity denoted. On returning from a festive meeting, where this

abject person had made many mean insinuations against her virtue, Norman

Adams met her returning to her master’s house, in the dusk of the

evening, on the footpath leading through a lonely wood; and, though his

crime was of the deepest dye, it seemed to the minister of the religion

of mercy, that by repentance, and belief in the atonement that had once

been made for sinners, he, too, might perhaps hope for forgiveness at

the throne of God.

“I warned you, miserable man, of the fatal nature of sin, when first it

brought a trouble over your countenance, and broke in upon the peaceful

integrity of your life. Was not the silence of the night often terrible

to you, when you were alone in the moors, and the whisper of your own

conscience told you, that every wicked thought was sacrilege to your

father’s dust? Step by step, and almost imperceptibly, perhaps, did you

advance upon the road that leadeth to destruction; but look back now,

and what a long dark journey have you taken, standing, as you are, on

the brink of everlasting death! Once you were kind, gentle, generous,

manly, and free; but you trusted to the deceitfulness of your own heart;

you estranged yourself from the house of the God of your fathers; and

what has your nature done for you at last, but sunk you into a

wretch—savage, selfish, cruel, cowardly, and in good truth a slave? A

felon are you, and forfeited to the hangman’s hands. Look on that poor

innocent child, and think what is man without God. What would you give

now, if the last three years of your reckless life had been passed in a

dungeon dug deep into the earth, with hunger and thirst gnawing at your

heart, and bent down under a cartload of chains? Yet look not so

ghastly, for I condemn you not utterly; nor, though I know your guilt,

can I know what good may yet be left uncorrupted and unextinguished in

your soul. Kneel not to me, Norman; fasten not so your eyes upon me;

lift them upwards, and then turn them in upon your own heart, for the

dreadful reckoning is between it and God.”

Mary Simpson had now recovered all her strength, and she knelt down by

the side of the groaner. Deep was the pity she now felt for him, who to

her had shown no pity; she did not refuse to lay her light arm tenderly

upon his neck. Often had she prayed to God to save his soul, even among

her rueful sobs of shame in the solitary glens; and now that she beheld

his sin punished with a remorse more than he could bear, the orphan

would have willingly died to avert from his prostrate head the wrath of

the Almighty.

The old man wept at the sight of so much innocence, and so much guilt,

kneeling together before God, in strange union and fellowship of a

common being. With his own fatherly arms he lifted up the orphan from

her knees, and said, “Mary Simpson, my sweet and innocent Mary Simpson,

for innocent thou art, the elders will give thee a token, that will, on

Sabbath-day, admit thee (not for the first time, though so young) to the

communion-table. Fear not to approach it; look at me, and on my face,

when I bless the elements, and be thou strong in the strength of the

Lord. Norman Adams, return to your home. Go into the chamber where your

father died. Let your knees wear out the part of the floor on which he

kneeled. It is somewhat worn already; you have seen the mark of your

father’s knees. Who knows, but that pardon and peace may descend from

Heaven upon such a sinner as thou? On none such as thou have mine eyes

ever looked, in knowledge, among all those who have lived and died under

my care, for three generations. But great is the unknown guilt that may

be hidden even in the churchyard of a small quiet parish like this. Dost

thou feel as if God-forsaken? Or, oh! say it unto me, canst thou, my

poor son, dare to hope for repentance?”

The pitiful tone of the old man’s trembling voice, and the motion of his

shaking and withered hands, as he lifted them up almost in an attitude

of benediction, completed the prostration of that sinner’s spirit. All

his better nature, which had too long been oppressed under scorn of holy

ordinances, and the coldness of infidelity, and the selfishness of

lawless desires that insensibly harden the heart they do not dissolve,

now struggled to rise up and respect its rights. “When I remember what I

once was, I can hope—when I think what I now am, I only, only fear.”

A storm of rain and wind had come on, and Mary Simpson slept in the

manse that night. On the ensuing Sabbath she partook of the sacrament. A

woeful illness fell upon Norman Adams; and then for a long time no one

saw him, or knew where he had gone. It was said that he was in a distant

city, and that he was a miserable creature, that never again could look

upon the sun. But it was otherwise ordered. He returned to his farm,

greatly changed in face and person, but even yet more changed in spirit.

The old minister had more days allotted to him than he had thought, and

was not taken away for some summers. Before he died, he had reason to

know that Norman Adams had repented in tears of blood, in thoughts of

faith, and in deeds of charity; and he did not fear to admit him, too,

in good time, to the holy ordinance, along with Mary Simpson, then his

wife, and the mother of his children.

THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES:

_A TRADITIONARY STORY OF ANNANDALE_.

The predatory incursions of the Scots and English borderers, on each

other’s territories, are known to every one in the least acquainted with

either the written or traditional history of his country. These were

sometimes made by armed and numerous bodies, and it was not uncommon for

a band of marauders to take advantage of a thick fog or a dark night for

plundering or driving away the cattle, with which they soon escaped over

the border, where they were generally secure. Such incursions were so

frequent and distressing to the peaceable and well-disposed inhabitants

that they complained loudly to their respective governments; in

consequence of which some one of the powerful nobles residing on the

borders was invested with authority to suppress these depredations,

under the title of Warden of the Marches. His duty was to protect the

frontier, and alarm the country by firing the beacons which were placed

on the heights, where they could be seen at a great distance, as a

warning to the people to drive away their cattle, and, collecting in a

body, either to repel or pursue the invaders, as circumstances might

require. The wardens also possessed a discretionary power in such

matters as came under their jurisdiction. The proper discharge of this

important trust required vigilance, courage, and fidelity, but it was

sometimes committed to improper hands, and consequently the duty was

very improperly performed.

In the reign of James V. one of these wardens was Sir John Charteris of

Amisfield, near Dumfries, a brave but haughty man, who sometimes forgot

his important trust so far as to sacrifice his public duties to his

private interests.

George Maxwell was a young and respectable farmer in Annandale, who had

frequently been active in repressing the petty incursions to which that

quarter of the country was exposed. Having thereby rendered himself

particularly obnoxious to the English borderers, a strong party was

formed, which succeeded in despoiling him, by plundering his house and

driving away his whole live stock. At the head of a large party he

pursued and overtook the “spoil-encumbered foe;” a fierce and bloody

contest ensued, in which George fell the victim of a former feud,

leaving his widow, Marion, in poverty, with her son Wallace, an only

child in the tenth year of his age. By the liberality of her neighbours,

the widow was replaced in a small farm; but by subsequent incursions she

was reduced to such poverty that she occupied a small cottage, with a

cow, which the kindness of a neighbouring farmer permitted to pasture on

his fields. This, with the industry and filial affection of her son, now

in his twentieth year, enabled her to live with a degree of comfort and

contented resignation.

With a manly and athletic form, Wallace Maxwell inherited the courage of

his father, and the patriotic ardour of the chieftain after whom he had

been named; and Wallace had been heard to declare, that although he

could not expect to free his country from the incursions of the English

borderers, he trusted he should yet be able to take ample vengeance for

the untimely death of his father.

But although his own private wrongs and those of his country had a

powerful influence on the mind of Wallace Maxwell, yet his heart was

susceptible of a far loftier passion.

His fine manly form and graceful bearing had attractions for many a

rural fair; and he would have found no difficulty in matching with

youthful beauty considerably above his own humble station. But his

affections were fixed on Mary Morrison, a maiden as poor in worldly

wealth as himself; but nature had been more than usually indulgent to

her in a handsome person and fine features; and, what was of infinitely

more value, her heart was imbued with virtuous principles, and her mind

better cultivated than could have been expected from her station in

life. To these accomplishments were superadded a native dignity,

tempered with modesty, and a most winning sweetness of manner. Mary was

the daughter of a man who had seen better days; but he was ruined by the

incursions of the English borderers; and both he and her mother dying

soon after, Mary was left a helpless orphan in the twentieth year of her

age. Her beauty procured her many admirers; and her unprotected state

(for she had no relations in Annandale) left her exposed to the

insidious temptations of unprincipled villainy; but they soon discovered

that neither flattery, bribes, nor the fairest promises, had the

slightest influence on her spotless mind. There were many, however, who

sincerely loved her, and made most honourable proposals; among whom was

Wallace Maxwell, perhaps the poorest of her admirers, but who succeeded

in gaining her esteem and affection. Mary and he were fellow-servants to

the farmer from whom his mother had her cottage; and, on account of the

troublesome state of the country, Wallace slept every night in his

mother’s house as her guardian and protector. Mary and he were about the

same age, both in the bloom of youthful beauty; but both had

discrimination to look beyond external attractions; and, although they

might be said to live in the light of each other’s eyes, reason

convinced them that the time was yet distant when it would be prudent to

consummate that union which was the dearest object of their wishes.

A foray had been made by the English, in which their leader, the son of

a rich borderer, had been made prisoner, and a heavy ransom paid to Sir

John, the warden, for his release. This the avaricious warden considered

a perquisite of his office; and it accordingly went into his private

pocket. Soon after this, the party who had resolved on ruining Wallace

Maxwell for his threats of vengeance, took advantage of a thick fog

during the day, succeeded by a dark night, in making an incursion on

Annandale, principally for the purpose of capturing the young man. By

stratagem they effected their purpose; and the widow’s cow, and Wallace

her son, were both carried off as part of the spoil. The youth’s life

might have been in considerable danger, had his capture not been

discovered by the man who had recently paid a high ransom for his own

son, and he now took instant possession of Wallace, resolving that he

should be kept a close prisoner till ransomed by a sum equal to that

paid to the warden.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, to say whether the grief of

Widow Maxwell for her son, or that of Mary Morrison for her lover, was

greatest. But early in the ensuing morning the widow repaired to

Amisfield, related the circumstance to Sir John, with tears beseeching

him, as the plunderers were not yet far distant, to despatch his forces

after them, and rescue her son, with the property of which she had been

despoiled, for they had carried off everything, even to her bed-clothes.

Wallace Maxwell had some time before incurred the warden’s displeasure,

whose mind was not generous enough either to forget or forgive. He

treated Marion with an indifference approaching almost to contempt, by

telling her that it would be exceedingly improper to alarm the country

about such a trivial incident, to which every person in that quarter was

exposed; and although she kneeled to him, he refused to comply with her

request, and proudly turned away.

With a heavy and an aching heart, the widow called on Mary Morrison on

her way home to her desolate dwelling, relating the failure of her

application, and uttering direful lamentations for the loss of her son;

all of which were echoed by the no less desponding maiden.

In the anguish of her distress, Mary formed the resolution of waiting on

the warden, and again urging the petition which had already been so

rudely rejected. Almost frantic, she hastened to the castle, demanding

to see Sir John. Her person was known to the porter, and he was also now

acquainted with the cause of her present distress; she therefore found a

ready admission. Always beautiful, the wildness of her air, the liquid

fire which beamed in her eyes, from which tears streamed over her

glowing cheeks, and the perturbation which heaved her swelling bosom,

rendered her an object of more than ordinary interest in the sight of

the warden. She fell at his feet and attempted to tell her melancholy

tale; but convulsive sobs stifled her utterance. He then took her

unresisting hand, raised her up, led her to a seat, and bade her compose

herself before she attempted to speak.

With a faltering tongue, and eyes which, like the lightning of heaven,

seemed capable of penetrating a heart of adamant, and in all the energy

and pathos of impassioned grief, she told her tale,—imploring the

warden, if he ever regarded his mother, or if capable of feeling for the

anguish of a woman, to have pity on them, and instantly exert himself to

restore the most dutiful of sons, and the most faithful of lovers, to

his humble petitioners, whose gratitude should cease only with their

lives.

“You are probably not aware,” said he, in a kindly tone, “of the

difficulty of gratifying your wishes. Wallace Maxwell has rendered

himself the object of vengeance to the English borderers; and, before

now, he must be in captivity so secure, that any measure to rescue him

by force of arms would be unavailing. But, for your sake, I will adopt

the only means which can restore him, namely, to purchase his ransom by

gold. But you are aware that it must be high, and I trust your gratitude

will be in proportion.”

“Everything in our power shall be done to evince our gratitude,” replied

the delighted Mary, a more animated glow suffusing her cheek, and her

eyes beaming with a brighter lustre,—“Heaven reward you.”

“To wait for my reward from heaven, would be to give credit to one who

can make ready payment,” replied the warden. “You, lovely Mary, have it

in your power to make me a return, which will render me your debtor,

without in any degree impoverishing yourself;”—and he paused, afraid or

ashamed to speak the purpose of his heart. Such is the power which

virgin beauty and innocence can exert on the most depraved inclinations.

Although alarmed, and suspecting his base design, such was the rectitude

of Mary’s guileless heart, that she could not believe the warden in

earnest; and starting from his proffered embrace, she with crimson

blushes replied, “I am sure, sir, your heart could never permit you so

far to insult a hapless maiden. You have spoken to try my affection for

Wallace Maxwell; let me therefore again implore you to take such

measures as you may think best for obtaining his release;” and a fresh

flood of tears flowed in torrents from her eyes, while she gazed

wistfully in his face, with a look so imploringly tender, that it might

have moved the heart of a demon.

With many flattering blandishments, and much artful sophistry, he

endeavoured to win her to his purpose; but perceiving that his attempts

were unavailing, he concluded thus:—“All that I have promised I am ready

to perform; but I swear by Heaven, that unless you grant me the favour

which I have so humbly solicited, Wallace Maxwell may perish in a

dungeon, or by the hand of his enemies; for he shall never be rescued by

me. Think, then, in time, before you leave me, and for his sake, and

your own future happiness, do not foolishly destroy it for ever.”

With her eyes flashing indignant fire, and her bosom throbbing with the

anguish of insulted virtue, she flung herself from his hateful embrace,

and, rushing from his presence, with a sorrowful and almost bursting

heart, left the castle.

Widow Maxwell had a mind not easily depressed, and although in great

affliction for her son, did not despair of his release. She was ignorant

of Mary’s application to the warden, and had been revolving in her mind

the propriety of seeking an audience of the king, and detailing her

wrongs, both at the hands of the English marauders and Sir John. She was

brooding on this when Mary entered her cottage, and, in the agony of

despairing love and insulted honour, related the reception she had met

from the warden. The relation confirmed the widow’s half formed

resolution, and steeled her heart to its purpose. After they had

responded each other’s sighs, and mingled tears together, the old woman

proposed waiting on her friend the farmer, declaring her intentions,

and, if he approved of them, soliciting his permission for Mary to

accompany her.

The warden’s indolent neglect of duty was a subject of general

complaint; the farmer, therefore, highly approved of the widow’s

proposal, believing that it would not only procure her redress, but

might be of advantage to the country. He urged their speedy and secret

departure, requesting that whatever answer they received might not be

divulged till the final result was seen; and next morning, at early

dawn, the widow and Mary took their departure for Stirling. King James

was easy of access to the humblest of his subjects; and the two had

little difficulty in obtaining admission to the royal presence. Widow

Maxwell had in youth been a beautiful woman, and, although her early

bloom had passed, might still have been termed a comely and attractive

matron, albeit in the autumn of life. In a word, her face was still such

as would have recommended her suit to the king, whose heart was at all

times feelingly alive to the attraction of female beauty. But, on the

present occasion, although she was the petitioner, the auxiliary whom

she had brought, though silent, was infinitely the more powerful

pleader; for Mary might be said to resemble the half-blown rose in the

early summer, when its glowing leaves are wet with the dews of morning.

James was so struck with their appearance, that, before they had spoken,

he secretly wished that their petitions might be such as he could with

justice and honour grant, for he already felt that it would be

impossible to refuse them.

Although struck with awe on coming into the presence of their sovereign,

the easy condescension and affability of James soon restored them to

comparative tranquillity; and the widow told her “plain, unvarnished

tale” with such artless simplicity, and moving pathos, as would have

made an impression on a less partial auditor than his Majesty. When she

came to state the result of Mary’s application to Sir John, she paused,

blushed, and still remained silent. James instantly conjectured the

cause, which was confirmed when he saw Mary’s face crimsoned all over.

Suppressing his indignation, “Well, I shall be soon in Annandale,” said

he, “and will endeavour to do you justice. Look at this nobleman,”

pointing to one in the chamber; “when I send him for you, come to me

where he shall guide. In the meantime, he will find you safe lodgings

for the night, and give you sufficient to bear your expenses home,

whither I wish you to return as soon as possible, and be assured that

your case shall not be forgotten.”

It is generally known that James, with a love of justice, had a

considerable share of eccentricity in his character, and that he

frequently went over the country in various disguises—such as that of a

pedlar, an itinerant musician, or even a wandering beggar. These

disguises were sometimes assumed for the purpose of discovering the

abuses practised by his servants, and not unfrequently from the love of

frolic, and, like the Caliph in the “Arabian Nights,” in quest of

amusement. On these occasions, when he chose to discover himself, it was

always by the designation of the “Gudeman of Ballengeich”. He had a

private passage by which he could leave the palace, unseen by any one,

and he could make his retreat alone, or accompanied by a disguised

attendant, according to his inclination.

On the present occasion, he determined to visit the warden of the March

_incog._; and, making the necessary arrangements, he soon arrived in

Annandale. His inquiries concerning the widow and Mary corroborated the

opinion he had previously formed, and learning where Mary resided, he

resolved to repair thither in person, disguised as a mendicant. On

approaching the farmer’s, he had to pass a rivulet, at which there was a

girl washing linen, and a little observation convinced him it was Mary

Morrison. When near, he pretended to be taken suddenly ill, and sat down

on a knoll, groaning piteously. Mary came instantly to him, tenderly

enquiring what ailed him, and whether she could render him any

assistance. James replied, it was a painful distemper, by which he was

frequently attacked; but if she could procure him a draught of warm

milk, that, and an hour’s rest, would relieve him. Mary answered, that

if he could, with her assistance, walk to the farm, which she pointed

out near by, he would be kindly cared for. She assisted him to rise,

and, taking his arm, permitted him to lean upon her shoulder, as they

crept slowly along. He met much sympathy in the family, and there he

heard the history of Mary and Wallace Maxwell (not without execrations

on the warden for his indolence), and their affirmations that they were

sure, if the king knew how he neglected his duty, he would either be

dismissed or severely punished; although the former had spoken plainer

than others whom James had conversed with, he found that Sir John was

generally disliked, and he became impatient for the hour of retribution.

Marching back towards Dumfries, James rendezvoused for the night in a

small village called Duncow, in the parish of Kirkmahoe, and next

morning he set out for Amisfield, which lay in the neighbourhood,

disguised as a beggar. Part of his retinue he left in Duncow, and part

he ordered to lie in wait in a ravine near Amisfield till he should

require their attendance. Having cast away his beggar’s cloak, he

appeared at the gate of the warden’s castle in the dress of a plain

countryman, and requested the porter to procure him an immediate

audience of Sir John. But he was answered that the warden had just sat

down to dinner, during which it was a standing order that he should

never be disturbed on any pretence whatever.

“And how long will he sit?” said James.

“Two hours, perhaps three; he must not be intruded on till his bell

ring,” replied the porter.

“I am a stranger, and cannot wait so long; take this silver groat, and

go to your master, and say that I wish to see him on business of

importance, and will detain him only a few minutes.”

The porter delivered the message, and soon returned, saying—“Sir John

says, that however important your business may be, you must wait his

time, or go the way you came.”

“That is very hard. Here are two groats; go again, and say that I have

come from the Border, where I saw the English preparing for an

incursion, and have posted thither with the information; and that I

think he will be neglecting his duty if he do not immediately fire the

beacons and alarm the country.”

This message was also carried, and the porter returned with a sorrowful

look, and shaking head.

“Well, does the warden consent to see me?” said the anxious stranger,

who had gained the porter’s goodwill by his liberality.

“I beg your pardon, friend,” replied the menial; “but I must give Sir

John’s answer in his own words. He says if you choose to wait two hours

he will then see whether you are a knave or a fool; but if you send

another such impertinent message to him, both you and I shall have cause

to repent it. However, for your civility, come with me, and I will find

you something to eat and a horn of good ale, to put off the time till

Sir John can be seen.”

“I give you hearty thanks, my good fellow, but, as I said, I cannot

wait. Here, take these three groats; go again to the warden, and say

that the Gudeman of Ballengeich insists upon seeing him immediately.”

No sooner was the porter’s back turned, than James winded his buglehorn

so loudly that its echoes seemed to shake the castle walls; and the

porter found his master in consternation, which his message changed into

fear and trembling.

By the time the warden had reached the gate, James had thrown off his

coat, and stood arrayed in the garb and insignia of royalty, while his

train of nobles were galloping up in great haste. When they were

collected around him, the king, for the first time, condescended to

address the terrified warden, who had prostrated himself at the feet of

his sovereign.

“Rise, Sir John,” said he, with a stern and commanding air. “You bade

your porter tell me that I was either knave or fool, and you were right,

for I have erred in delegating my power to a knave like you.”

In tremulous accents the warden attempted to excuse himself by

stammering out that he did not know he was wanted by his Majesty.

“But I sent you a message that I wished to speak with you on business of

importance, and you refused to be disturbed. The meanest of my subjects

has access to me at all times. I hear before I condemn, and shall do so

with you, against whom I have many and heavy charges.”

“Will it please your Majesty to honour my humble dwelling with your

presence, and afford me an opportunity of speaking in my own defence?”

said the justly alarmed warden.

“No, Sir John, I will not enter beneath that roof as a judge, where I

was refused admission as a petitioner. I hold my court at Hoddam Castle,

where I command your immediate attendance; where I will hear your answer

to the charges I have against you. In the meantime, before our

departure, you will give orders for the entertainment of my retinue, men

and horses, at your castle, during my stay in Annandale.”

The king then appointed several of the lords in attendance to accompany

him to Hoddam Castle, whither he commanded the warden to follow him with

all possible despatch.

Sir John was conscious of negligence, and even something worse, in the

discharge of his duty, although ignorant of the particular charges to be

brought against him; but when ushered into the presence of his

sovereign, he endeavoured to assume the easy confidence of innocence.

James proceeded to business, by inquiring if there was not a recent

incursion of a small marauding party, in which a poor widow’s cow was

carried off, her house plundered, and her son taken prisoner; and if she

did not early next morning state this to him, requesting him to recover

her property.

“Did you, Sir John, do your utmost in the case?”

“I acknowledge I did not; but the widow shall have the best cow in my

possession, and her house furnished anew. I hope that will satisfy your

Majesty.”

“And her son, how is he to be restored?”

“When we have the good fortune to make an English prisoner, he can be

exchanged.”

“Mark me! Sir John. If Wallace Maxwell is not brought before me in good

health within a week from this date, you shall hang by the neck from

that tree waving before the window. I have no more to say at present. Be

ready to wait on me in one hour when your presence is required.”

The warden knew the determined resolution of the king, and instantly

despatched a confidential servant, vested with full powers to procure

the liberation of Wallace Maxwell, at whatever price, and to bring him

safely back without a moment’s delay. In the meantime, the retinue of

men and horses, amounting to several hundreds, were living at free

quarters, in Sir John’s castle, and the visits of the king diffusing

gladness and joy over the whole country.

Next morning James sent the young nobleman, whom he had pointed out to

the widow at Stirling, to bring her and Mary Morrison to Hoddam Castle.

He received both with easy condescension; when the widow, with much

grateful humility, endeavoured to express her thanks, saying that Sir

John had last evening sent her a cow worth double that she had lost;

also blankets, and other articles of higher value than all that had been

carried away; but, with tears in her eyes, she said, all these were as

nothing without her dear son. Assuring them that their request had not

been neglected, James dismissed them, with the joyful hope of soon

seeing Wallace, as he would send for them immediately on his arrival.

The distress of the warden increased every hour, for he was a prisoner

in his own castle; and his feelings may be conjectured, when he received

a message from the king, commanding him to come to Hoddam Castle next

day by noon, and either bring Wallace Maxwell along with him, or prepare

for a speedy exit into the next world. He had just seen the sun rise, of

which it seemed probable he should never see the setting, when his

servant arrived with Wallace, whose liberty had been purchased at an

exorbitant ransom. Without allowing the young man to rest, Sir John

hurried him off to Hoddam Castle, and sent in a message that he waited

an audience of his Majesty.

To make sure of the youth’s identity, the king sent instantly for his

mother, and the meeting called forth all the best feelings of his heart,

for maternal affection triumphed over every other emotion, and it was

only after the first ebullition of it had subsided, that she bade him

kneel to his sovereign, to whom he owed his liberty, and most probably

his life. Wallace gracefully bent his knee, and took Heaven to witness

that both should be devoted to his Majesty’s service.

James was delighted with the manly appearance and gallant behaviour of

Wallace; and, after having satisfied himself of the sincerity of his

attachment to Mary, he ordered him to withdraw.

He next despatched a messenger for Mary, who, the moment she came, was

ushered into the presence of Sir John; James marking the countenance of

both,—that of Mary flushed with resentment, while her eye flashed with

indignant fire. The pale and deadly hue which overspread the warden’s

cheek was a tacit acknowledgment of his guilt.

“Do you know that young woman, Sir John? Reply to my questions truly;

and be assured that your life depends upon the sincerity of your

answers,” said the king, in a determined and stern voice.

“Yes, my liege, I have seen her,” said Sir John, his lip quivering, and

his tongue faltering.

“Where?”

“At Amisfield.”

“On what occasion?”

“She came to me for the release of Wallace Maxwell.”

“And you refused her, except upon conditions which were an insult to

her, and a disgrace to yourself. Speak; is it not so?”

“To my shame, my sovereign, I confess my guilt; but I am willing to make

all the reparation in my power; and I leave it to be named by your

Majesty.”

“You deserve to be hanged, Sir John; but when I look on that face, I

acknowledge your temptation, and it pleads a mitigation of punishment.

You know that Mary loves and is beloved by Wallace Maxwell, whom you

have already ransomed; you shall give him a farm of not less than fifty

acres of good land, rent-free, during his life, or that of the woman he

marries; and, further, you shall stock it with cattle, and every article

necessary, with a comfortable dwelling;—all this you shall perform

within three months from this date. If you think these conditions hard,

I give you the alternative of swinging from that tree before sunset.

Take your choice.”

“My sovereign, I submit to the conditions, and promise that I shall do

my best to make the couple happy.”

Wallace was now called in, when Mary clasped him in her arms, both

falling on their knees before their sovereign. He raised them up and

said, “I have tried both your loves, and found them faithful. Your Mary

is all that you believed her, and brings you a dowry which she will

explain. I shall see your hands united before I leave Annandale, and

preside at the feast. Let your care of the widow be a remuneration for

what she has done for both, and I trust all of you will long remember

the Gudeman of Ballengeich’s visit to Annandale.”—_Edinburgh Literary

Gazette._

THE ALEHOUSE PARTY:

_A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL_.

BY THE AUTHORS OF “THE ODD VOLUME.”

The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,

And aye the ale was growing better.—BURNS.

On the evening of that day which saw Mrs Wallace enter Park a bride,

Robin Kinniburgh and a number of his cronies met at the village alehouse

to celebrate the happy event. Every chair, stool, and bench being

occupied, Robin and his chum, Tammy Tacket, took possession of the top

of the meal girnel; and as they were elevated somewhat above the

company, they appeared like two rival provosts, looking down on their

surrounding bailies.

“It’s a gude thing,” said Tammy, “that the wives and weans are keepit

out the night; folk get enough o’ them at hame.”

“I wonder,” said Jamie Wilson, “what’s become o’ Andrew Gilmour.”

“Hae ye no heard,” said Robin, “that his wife died yesterday?”

“Is she dead?” exclaimed Tammy Tacket. “Faith,” continued he, giving

Robin a jog with his elbow, “I think a man might hae waur furniture in

his house than a dead wife.”

“That’s a truth,” replied Jamie Wilson, “as mony an honest man kens to

his cost.—But send round the pint stoup, and let us hae a health to the

laird and the leddy, and mony happy years to them and theirs.”

When the applause attending this toast had subsided, Robin was

universally called on for a song.

“I hae the hoast,” answered Robin; “that’s aye what the leddies say when

they are asked to sing.”

“Deil a hoast is about you,” cried Wattie Shuttle; “come awa wi’ a sang

without mair ado.”

“Weel,” replied Robin, “what maun be, maun be; so I’ll gie ye a sang

that was made by a laddie that lived east-awa; he was aye daundering,

poor chiel, amang the broomie knowes, and mony’s the time I hae seen him

lying at the side o’ the wimpling burn, writing on ony bit paper he

could get haud o’. After he was dead, this bit sang was found in his

pocket, and his puir mother gied it to me, as a kind o’ keepsake; and

now I’ll let you hear it,—I sing it to the tune o’ ‘I hae laid a herrin’

in saut.’”

SONG.

It’s I’m a sweet lassie, without e’er a faut;

Sae ilka ane tells me,—sae it maun be true;

To his kail my auld faither has plenty o’ saut,

And that brings the lads in gowpens to woo.

There’s Saunders M‘Latchie, wha bides at the Mill,

He wants a wee wifie, to bake and to brew;

But Saunders, for me, at the Mill may stay still,

For his first wife was pushioned, if what they say’s true.

The next is Tam Watt, who is grieve to the Laird,—

Last Sabbath, at puir me a sheep’s e’e he threw;

But Tam’s like the picters I’ve seen o’ Blue Beard,

And sic folk’s no that chancie, if what they say’s true.

Then there’s Grierson the cobbler, he’ll fleech an’ he’ll beg,

That I’d be his awl in awl, darlin’ and doo;

But Grierson the cobbler’s a happity leg,

And nae man that hobbles need come here to woo.

And there’s Murdoch the gauger, wha rides a blind horse,

And nae man can mak a mair beautifu’ boo;

But I shall ne’er tak him, for better, for worse,

For, sax days a week, gauger Murdoch is fou.

I wonder when Willie Waught’s faither ’ll dee;

(I wonder hoo that brings the blude to my brow;)

I wonder if Willie will then be for me;—

I wonder if then he’ll be coming to woo?

“It’s your turn now to sing, Tammy,” said Robin, “although I dinna ken

that ye are very gude at it.”

“Me sing!” cried Tammy, “I canna even sing a psalm, far less a sang; but

if ye like, I’ll tell you a story.”

“Come awa then, a story is next best; but haud a’ your tongues there,

you chiels,” cried Robin, giving the wink to his cronies; “we a’ ken

Tammy is unco gude at telling a story, mair especially if it be about

himsel.”

“Aweel,” said Tammy, clearing his throat, “I’ll tell you what happened

to me when I was ance in Embro’. I fancy ye a’ ken the Calton hill?”

“Whatna daftlike question is that, when ye ken very weel we hae a’ been

in Embro’ as weel as yoursel?”

“Weel then,” began Tammy, “I was coming ower the hill—”

“What hill?” asked Jamie Wilson. “Corstorphine hill?”

“Corstorphine fiddlestick!” exclaimed Tammy. “Did ye no hear me say the

Calton hill at the first, which, ye ken, is thought there the principal

hill?”

“What’s that ye’re saying about Principal Hill?” asked Robin. “I kent

him weel ance in a day.”

“Now, Tammy,” cried Willie Walkinshaw, “can ye no gang on wi’ your

story, without a’ this balwavering and nonsense about coming ower ane o’

our Professors; my faith, it’s no an easy matter to come ower some o’

them.”

“Very weel,” said Tammy, a little angrily, “I’ll say nae mair about it,

but just drap the hill.”

“Whaur, whaur?” cried several voices at once.

“I’m thinkin’,” said Robin, drily, “some o’ the Embro’ folk would be

muckle obliged to ye if ye would drap it in the Nor’ Loch.”

“Ye’re a set o’ gomerals!” exclaimed Tammy, in great wrath. “I meant

naething o’ the sort; but only that I would gie ower speaking about it.”

“So we’re no to hae the story after a’?” said Matthew Henderson.

“Yes,” said Tammy; “I’m quite agreeable to tell’t, if ye will only sit

still and haud your tongues. Aweel, I was coming ower the hill ae

night.”

“’Odsake, Tammy,” cried Robin, “will ye ne’er get ower that hill? Ye hae

tell’t us that ten times already; gang on, man, wi’ the story.”

“Then, to mak a lang story short, as I was coming ower the hill ae night

about ten o’clock I fell in—”

“Fell in!” cried Matthew Henderson, “Whaur? Was’t a hole, or a well?”

“I fell in,” replied Tammy, “wi’ a man.”

“Fell in wi’ a man!” said Willie Walkinshaw. “Weel, as there were twa o’

ye, ye could help ane anither out.”

“Na, na,” roared Tammy, “I dinna mean that at a’; I just cam up wi’

him.”

“I doubt, Tammy,” cried Robin, giving a sly wink to his cronies, “if ye

gaed up the Calton hill wi’ a man at ten o’clock at night, I’m thinking

ye’ll hae been boozing some gate or ither wi’ him afore that.”

“Me boozing?” cried Tammy. “I ne’er saw the man’s face afore or since;

unless it was in the police office the next day.”

“Now, Tammy Tacket,” said Robin, gravely, “just tak a’ frien’s advice,

and gie ower sic splores; they’re no creditable to a decent married man

like you; and dinna be bleezing and bragging about being in the police

office; for it stands to reason ye wouldna be there for ony gude.”

“Deil tak me,” cried Tammy, jumping up on the meal girnel, and

brandishing the pint stoup, “if I dinna fling this at the head of the

first man who says a word afore I be done wi’ my story:—And, as I said

before, I fell in—”

Poor Tammy was not at all prepared for his words being so soon verified,

for, in his eagerness to enforce attention, he stamped violently with

his hobnailed shoe on the girnel, which giving way with a loud crash,

Tammy suddenly disappeared from the view of the astonished party. Robin,

who had barely time to save himself from the falling ruins, was still

laughing with all his might, when Mrs Scoreup burst in upon them,

saying, “What the sorrow is a’ this stramash about?”—but seeing a pale

and ghastly figure rearing itself from the very heart of her meal

girnel, she ejaculated, “Gude preserve us!” and, retreating a few steps,

seized the broth ladle, and prepared to stand on the defensive.

At this moment Grizzy Tacket made her appearance at the open door,

saying, “Is blethering Tam here?”

“Help me out, Robin, man,” cried Tammy.

“Help ye out!” said Grizzy; “What the sorrow took you in there, ye

drucken ne’er-do-weel?”

“Dinna abuse your gudeman, wife,” said Jamie Wilson.

“Gudeman!” retorted Grizzy; “troth, there’s few o’ ye deserve the name;

and as for that idle loon, I ken he’ll no work a stroke the morn, though

wife and weans should want baith milk and meal.”

“’Odsake, wife,” cried Robin, “if ye shake Tammy weel, he’ll keep ye a’

in parritch for a week.”

“_She’ll_ shake him,” cried the angry Mrs Scoreup; “cocks are free o’

horses’ corn; _I’ll_ shake him,” making, as she spoke, towards the

unfortunate half-choked Tammy.

“Will ye, faith?” screamed Grizzy, putting her arms akimbo. “Will ye

offer to lay a hand on my gudeman, and me standing here? Come out this

minute, ye Jonadub, and come hame to your ain house.”

“No ae fit shall he steer frae this,” cried Mrs Scoreup, slapping-to the

door, “till I see wha is to pay me for the spoiling o’ my gude new

girnel, forby the meal that’s wasted.”

“New girnel!” exclaimed Grizzy, with a provoking sneer, “it’s about as

auld as yoursel, and as little worth.”

“Ye ill-tongued randy!” cried Mrs Scoreup, giving the ladle a most

portentous flourish.

“Whisht, whisht, gudewife,” said Robin; “say nae mair about it, we’ll

mak it up amang us; and now, Grizzy, tak Tammy awa hame.”

“It’s no right in you, Robin,” said Grizzy, “to be filling Tammy fou,

and keeping decent folks out o’ their beds till this time o’ night.”

“It’s a’ Tammy’s faut,” replied Robin; “for ye ken as well as me, that

when ance he begins to tell a story, there’s nae such thing as stopping

him; he has been blethering about the Calton hill at nae allowance.”

The last words seemed to strike on Tammy’s ear; who hiccuped out, “As I

cam ower the Calton hill—”

“Will naebody stap a peat in that man’s hause?” exclaimed Matthew

Henderson. “For ony sake, honest woman, tak him awa, or we’ll be keepit

on the Calton hill the whole night.”

“Tak haud o’ me, Tammy,” said Robin; “I’ll gang hame wi’ ye.”

“I can gang mysel,” said Tammy, giving Robin a shove, and staggering

towards the door.

“Gang yoursel!” cried Grizzy, as she followed her helpmate; “ye dinna

look very like it:” and thus the party broke up—

And each went aff their separate way,

Resolved to meet anither day.

AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

John Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane, was a gentleman of an ancient family

and good estate, in the west of Scotland, bold, ambitious, treacherous

to the last degree, and utterly unconscientious,—a Richard the Third in

private life, inaccessible alike to pity and remorse. His view was to

raise the power and extend the grandeur of his own family. This

gentleman had married the daughter of Thomas Kennedy of Barganie, who

was, excepting the Earl of Cassilis, the most important person in all

Carrick, the district of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and where the name

of Kennedy held so great a sway as to give rise to the popular rhyme,—

’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr,

Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree,

No man need think for to bide there,

Unless he court the Kennedie.

Now, Muir of Auchindrane, who had promised himself high advancement by

means of his father-in-law, saw, with envy and resentment, that his

influence remained second and inferior to the house of Cassilis, chief

of all the Kennedies. The Earl was indeed a minor, but his authority was

maintained and his affairs well managed by his uncle, Sir Thomas Kennedy

of Culleyne, the brother to the deceased earl, and tutor and guardian to

the present. This worthy gentleman supported his nephew’s dignity and

the credit of the house so effectually that Barganie’s consequence was

much thrown into the shade, and the ambitious Auchindrane, his

son-in-law, saw no better remedy than to remove so formidable a rival as

Culleyne by violent means.

For this purpose, in the year 1597, he came with a party of followers to

the town of Maybole (where Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culleyne resided), and

lay in ambush in an orchard through which he knew that his destined

victim was to pass, in returning homewards from a house where he was

engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came alone and unattended, when he

was suddenly seized and fired upon by Auchindrane and his accomplices,

who, having missed their aim, drew their swords and rushed upon him to

slay him. But the party thus assailed at disadvantage had the good

fortune to hide himself for that time in a ruinous house, where he lay

concealed till the inhabitants of the place came to his assistance.

Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted Muir for this assault, who, finding

himself in danger from the law, made a sort of apology and agreement

with the Lord of Culleyne, to whose daughter he united his eldest son,

in testimony of the closest friendship in future. This agreement was

sincere on the part of Kennedy, who, after it had been entered into,

showed himself Auchindrane’s friend and assistant on all occasions. But

it was most false and treacherous on that of Muir, who continued the

purpose of murdering his new friend and ally on the first opportunity.

Auchindrane’s first attempt to effect this was by means of the young

Gilbert Kennedy of Barganie (for old Barganie, Auchindrane’s

father-in-law, was dead), whom he persuaded to brave Cassilis, as one

who usurped an undue influence over the rest of the name. Accordingly,

this hot-headed youth, at the instigation of Auchindrane, rode past the

gate of the Earl of Cassilis without waiting on his chief, or sending

him any message of civility. This led to mutual defiance, being regarded

by the earl, according to the ideas of the time, as a personal insult.

Both parties took the field with their followers, at the head of about

two hundred and fifty men on each side. The action which ensued was

shorter and less bloody than might have been expected. Young Barganie,

with the rashness of headlong courage, and Auchindrane, fired by deadly

enmity to the house of Cassilis, made a precipitate attack on the earl,

whose men were strongly posted and under cover. They were received by a

heavy fire. Barganie was slain. Muir of Auchindrane, severely wounded in

the thigh, became unable to sit on his horse, and the leaders thus slain

or disabled, their party drew off without continuing the action. It must

be particularly observed that Sir Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in this

quarrel, considering his connection with Auchindrane as too intimate to

be broken even by his desire to assist his nephew.

For this temperate and honourable conduct he met a vile reward; for

Auchindrane, in resentment of the loss of his relative Barganie, and the

downfall of his ambitious hopes, continued his practices against the

life of Sir Thomas of Culleyne, and chance favoured his wicked purpose.

The knight of Culleyne, finding himself obliged to go to Edinburgh on a

particular day, sent a message by a servant to Muir, in which he told

him, in the most unsuspecting confidence, the purpose of his journey,

and named the road which he proposed to take, inviting Muir to meet him

at Duppill, to the west of the town of Ayr, a place appointed for the

purpose of giving him any commissions which he might have for Edinburgh,

and assuring his treacherous ally he would attend to any business which

he might have in the Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to his own. Sir

Thomas Kennedy’s message was carried to the town of Maybole, where his

messenger, for some trivial reason, had the import committed to writing

by a schoolmaster in that town, and despatched it to its destination by

means of a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead of carrying it to the

house of Auchindrane in person.

This suggested to Muir a diabolical plot. Having thus received tidings

of Sir Thomas Kennedy’s motions, he conceived the infernal purpose of

having the confiding friend who sent the information waylaid and

murdered at the place appointed to meet with him, not only in

friendship, but for the purpose of rendering him service. He dismissed

the messenger Dalrymple, cautioning the lad to carry back the letter to

Maybole, and to say that he had not found him, Auchindrane, in his

house. Having taken this precaution, he proceeded to instigate the

brother of the slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy of Drumurghie

by name, and Walter Muir of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take

this opportunity of revenging Barganie’s death. The fiery young men were

easily induced to undertake the crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting Sir

Thomas of Culleyne at the place appointed to meet the traitor

Auchindrane, and the murderers having in company five or six servants

well mounted and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered him with many

wounds.

The revenge due for his uncle’s murder was keenly pursued by the Earl of

Cassilis. As the murderers fled from trial, they were declared outlaws;

which doom being pronounced by three blasts of a horn, was called “being

put to the horn, and declared the king’s rebel.” Muir of Auchindrane was

strongly suspected of having been the instigator of the crime. But he

conceived there could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he could keep

the boy Dalrymple out of the way, who delivered the letter which made

him acquainted with Culleyne’s journey, and the place at which he meant

to halt. Muir brought Dalrymple to his house, but the youth tiring of

this confinement, Muir sent him to reside with a friend, Montgomery of

Skelmorley, who maintained him under a borrowed name amid the desert

regions of the then almost savage island of Arran. Being confident in

the absence of this material witness, Auchindrane, instead of flying

like his agents Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented himself boldly at

the bar, demanded a fair trial, and offered his person in combat to the

death against any of Lord Cassilis’ friends who might impugn his

innocence. This audacity was successful, and he was dismissed without

trial.

Still, however, Muir did not consider himself safe so long as Dalrymple

was within the realm of Scotland; and the danger grew more pressing,

when he learned that the lad had become impatient of the restraint which

he sustained in the island of Arran, and returned to some of his friends

in Ayrshire. Muir no sooner heard of this than he again obtained

possession of the boy’s person, and a second time concealed him in

Auchindrane, until he found an opportunity to transport him to the Low

Countries, where he contrived to have him enlisted in Buccleuch’s

regiment; trusting, doubtless, that some one of the numerous chances of

war might destroy the poor young man whose life was so dangerous to him.

But after five or six years’ uncertain safety, bought at the expense of

so much violence and cunning, Auchindrane’s fears were exasperated with

frenzy, when he found this dangerous witness, having escaped from all

the perils of climate and battle, had left, or been discharged from, the

Legion of Borderers, and had again accomplished his return to Ayrshire.

There is ground to suspect that Dalrymple knew the nature of the hold

which he possessed over Auchindrane, and was desirous of extorting from

his fears some better provision than he had found either in Arran or the

Netherlands. But, if so, it was a fatal experiment to tamper with the

fears of such a man as Auchindrane, who determined to rid himself

effectually of this unhappy young man.

Muir now lodged him in a house of his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted

by a vassal and connection of his, named James Bannatyne. This man he

commissioned to meet him at ten o’clock at night, on the sea-sands, near

Girvan, and bring with him the unfortunate Dalrymple, the object of his

fear and dread. The victim seems to have come with Bannatyne without the

least suspicion. When Bannatyne and Dalrymple came to the appointed

spot, Auchindrane met them, accompanied by his eldest son James. Old

Auchindrane, having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody purpose

of ridding himself of Dalrymple for ever, by murdering him on the spot.

His own life and honour were, he said, endangered by the manner in which

this inconvenient witness repeatedly thrust himself back into Ayrshire,

and nothing could secure his safety but taking the lad’s life, in which

action he requested James Bannatyne’s assistance. Bannatyne felt some

compunction, and remonstrated against the cruel expedient, saying it

would be better to transport Dalrymple to Ireland, and take precautions

against his return. While old Auchindrane seemed disposed to listen to

this proposal, his son concluded that the time was come for

accomplishing the purpose of their meeting, and without waiting the

termination of his father’s conference with Bannatyne, he rushed

suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the ground, and kneeling down upon

him, with his father’s assistance accomplished the crime, by strangling

the unhappy object of their fear and jealousy. Bannatyne, the witness,

and partly the accomplice, of the murder, assisted them in their attempt

to make a hole in the sand with a spade which they had brought on

purpose, in order to conceal the dead body. But as the tide was coming

in, the hole which they made filled with water before they could get the

body buried; and the ground seemed, to their terrified consciences, to

refuse to be accessory to concealing their crime. Despairing of hiding

the corpse in the manner they proposed, the murderers carried it out

into the sea as deep as they dared wade, and there abandoned it to the

billows, trusting that the wind, which was blowing off the shore, would

drive these remains of their crime out to sea, where they would never

more be heard of. But the sea, as well as the land, seemed unwilling to

conceal their cruelty. After floating for some hours, or days, the body

was, by the wind and tide, again driven on shore, near the very spot

where the murder had been committed.

This attracted general attention; and when the corpse was known to be

that of the same William Dalrymple whom Auchindrane had so often

spirited out of the country, or concealed when he was in it, a strong

and general suspicion arose that this young person had met with foul

play from the bold bad man, who had shown himself so much interested in

his absence. Auchindrane, indeed, found himself so much the object of

suspicion from this new crime that he resolved to fly from justice, and

suffer himself to be declared a rebel and an outlaw rather than face a

trial. He accordingly sought to provide himself with some ostensible

cause for avoiding the law, with which the feelings of his kindred and

friends might sympathise; and none occurred to him as so natural as an

assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis. Should he

kill such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from

being infamous, would be accounted the natural consequence of the avowed

quarrel between the families. With this purpose, Muir, with the

assistance of a relative, of whom he seems always to have had some ready

to execute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne, a

follower of the earl, against whom they had especial ill-will, fired

their pistols at him, and used other means to put him to death. But

Garriehorne, a stout-hearted man and well-armed, defended himself in a

very different manner from the unfortunate knight of Culleyne, and beat

off the assailants, wounding young Auchindrane in the right hand, so

that he wellnigh lost the use of it.

But though Auchindrane’s purpose did not entirely succeed, he availed

himself of it to circulate a report that if he could obtain a pardon for

firing upon his feudal enemy with pistols, weapons declared unlawful by

Act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his trial for the death of

Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The king,

however, was decidedly of opinion that the Muirs, both father and son,

were alike guilty of both crimes, and used intercession with the Earl of

Abercorn, as a person of power in these western counties, as well as in

Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoners to Edinburgh. In

consequence of the Earl’s exertions, old Auchindrane was made prisoner,

and lodged in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh.

Young Auchindrane no sooner heard that his father was in custody, than

he became as apprehensive of Bannatyne, the accomplice in Dalrymple’s

murder, telling tales, as ever his father had been of Dalrymple. He

therefore hastened to him, and prevailed on him to pass over for a while

to the neighbouring coast of Ireland, finding him money and means to

accomplish the voyage, and engaging in the meantime to take care of his

affairs in Scotland. Secure, as they thought, in this precaution, old

Auchindrane persisted in his innocence, and his son found security to

stand his trial. Both appeared with the same confidence at the day

appointed. The trial was, however, postponed, and Muir the elder

dismissed, under high security to return when called for.

But King James, being convinced of the guilt of the accused, ordered

young Auchindrane, instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under

the force of torture, in order to compel him to tell whatever he knew of

the things charged against him. He was accordingly severely tortured;

but the result only served to show that such examinations are as useless

as they are cruel.

Young Auchindrane, a strong and determined ruffian, endured the torture

with the utmost firmness, and by the constant audacity with which, in

spite of the intolerable pain, he continued to assert his innocence, he

spread so favourable an opinion of his case, that the detaining him in

prison, instead of bringing him to open trial, was censured as severe

and oppressive. James, however, remained firmly persuaded of his guilt,

and by an exertion of authority quite inconsistent with our present

laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still detained in close custody

till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings.

In the meanwhile, old Auchindrane being, as we have seen, at liberty on

pledges, skulked about in the west, feeling how little security he had

gained by Dalrymple’s murder, and that he had placed himself by that

crime in the power of Bannatyne, whose evidence concerning the death of

Dalrympie could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have told

concerning Auchindrane’s accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas

Kennedy of Culleyne. But though the event had shown the error of his

wicked policy, Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case

than that which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man’s life

became inconsistent with his own safety, no idea seems to have occurred

to this inveterate ruffian save to murder the person by whom he might

himself be any way endangered. Bannatyne, knowing with what sort of men

he had to deal, kept on his guard, and by this caution disconcerted more

than one attempt to take his life. At length Bannatyne, tiring of this

state of insecurity, and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and

also feeling remorse for the crime to which he had been accessory,

resolved rather to submit himself to the severity of the law than remain

the object of the principal criminal’s practices. He surrendered himself

to the Earl of Abercorn, and was conveyed to Edinburgh, where he

confessed before the king and council all the particulars of the murder

of Dalrymple, and the attempt to hide his body by committing it to the

sea.

When Bannatyne was confronted with the two Muirs before the Privy

Council, they denied with vehemence every part of the evidence he had

given, and affirmed that the witness had been bribed to destroy them by

a false tale. Bannatyne’s behaviour seemed sincere and simple, that of

Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell upon

his knees, invoking God to witness that all the land in Scotland could

not have bribed him to bring a false accusation against a master whom he

had served, loved, and followed in so many dangers, and calling upon

Auchindrane to honour God by confessing the crime he had committed. Muir

the elder, on the other hand, boldly replied, that he hoped God would

not so far forsake him as to permit him to confess a crime of which he

was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess the

practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehoods against

him.

The two Muirs, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn

trial, along with Bannatyne, in 1611, and after a great deal of evidence

had been brought in support of Bannatyne’s confession, all three were

found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of counselling and

directing the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culleyne, and also of the

actual murder of the lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the younger Muir were

found guilty of the latter crime, and all three were sentenced to be

beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the accomplice, received the king’s

pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and confession. The

two Muirs were both executed. The younger was affected by the

remonstrances of the clergy who attended him, and he confessed the guilt

of which he was accused. The father also was at length brought to avow

the fact, but in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived; and

so ended this dark and extraordinary tragedy.

A TALE OF THE PLAGUE IN EDINBURGH.

BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.

In several parts of Scotland, such things are to be found as “tales” of

the Plague. Amidst so much human suffering as the events of a pestilence

necessarily involved, it is of course to be supposed that, occasionally,

circumstances would occur of a peculiarly disastrous and affecting

description,—that many loving hearts would be torn asunder, or laid side

by side in the grave, many orphans left desolate, and patriarchs bereft

of all their descendants, and that cases of so painful a sort as called

forth greater compassion at the time, would be remembered, after much of

the ordinary details was generally forgotten. The celebrated story of

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray is a case in point. So romantic, so mournful a

tale, appealing as it does to every bosom, could not fail to be

commemorated, even though it had been destitute of the great charm of

locality. Neither could such a tale of suffering and horror as that of

the Teviotdale shepherd’s family ever be forgotten in the district where

it occurred,—interesting at it is, has been, and will be, to every

successive generation of mothers, and duly listened to and shuddered at

by so many infantine audiences. In the course of our researches, we have

likewise picked up a few extraordinary circumstances connected with the

last visit paid by the plague to Edinburgh; which, improbable as they

may perhaps appear, we believe to be, to a certain extent, allied to

truth, and shall now submit them to our readers.

When Edinburgh was afflicted, for the last time, with the pestilence,

such was its effect upon the energies of the citizens, and so long was

its continuance, that the grass grew on the principal street, and even

at the Cross, though that Scottish Rialto was then perhaps the most

crowded thoroughfare in Britain. Silence, more than that of the stillest

midnight, pervaded the streets during the day. The sunlight fell upon

the quiet houses as it falls on a line of sombre and neglected

tombstones in some sequestered churchyard—gilding, but not altering,

their desolate features. The area of the High Street, on being entered

by a stranger, might have been contemplated with feelings similar to

those with which Christian, in the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” viewed the

awful courtyard of Giant Despair; for, as in that well-imagined scene,

the very ground bore the marks of wildness and desolation; every window

around, like the loopholes of the dungeons in Doubting Castle, seemed to

tell its tale of misery within, and the whole seemed to lie prostrate

and powerless under the dominion of an unseen demon, which fancy might

have conceived as stalking around in a bodily form, leisurely dooming

its subjects to successive execution.

When the pestilence was at its greatest height, a strange perplexity

began, and not without reason, to take possession of the few physicians

and nurses who attended the sick. It was customary for the distempered

to die, or, as the rare case happened, to recover, on a particular day

after having first exhibited symptoms of illness. This was an understood

rule of the plague, which had never been known to fail. All at once, it

began to appear that a good many people, especially those who were left

alone in their houses by the death or desertion of friends, died before

the arrival of the critical day. In some of these cases, not only was

the rule of the disease broken, but, what vexed the physicians more, the

powers of medicine seemed to have been set at defiance; for several

patients of distinction, who had been able to purchase good attendance

and were therefore considered as in less than ordinary danger, were

found to have expired after taking salutary drugs, and being left with

good hopes by their physicians. It almost seemed as if some new disease

were beginning to engraft itself upon the pestilence—a new feature

rising upon its horrid aspect. Subtle and fatal as it formerly was, it

was now inconceivably more so. It could formerly be calculated upon; but

it was now quite arbitrary and precarious. Medicine had lost its power

over it. God, who created it in its first monstrous form, appeared to

have endowed it with an additional sting, against which feeble mortality

could present no competent shield. Physicians beheld its new ravages

with surprise and despair; and a deeper shade of horror was spread, in

consequence, over the public mind.

As an air of more than natural mystery seemed to accompany this truly

calamitous turn of affairs, it was, of course, to be expected, in that

superstitious age, that many would attribute it to a more than natural

cause. By the ministers, it was taken for an additional manifestation of

God’s wrath, and as such held forth in not a few pulpits, accompanied

with all the due exhortations to a better life, which it was not

unlikely would be attended with good effect among the thin congregations

of haggard and terrified scarecrows, who persisted in meeting regularly

at places of worship. The learned puzzled themselves with conjectures as

to its probable causes and cures; while the common people gave way to

the most wild and fanciful surmises, almost all of which were as far

from the truth. The only popular observation worthy of any attention,

was that the greater part of those who suffered from this new disease

died during the night, and all of them while unattended.

Not many days after the alarm first arose, a poor woman arrested a

physician in the street, and desired to confer with him a brief space.

He at first shook her off, saying he was at present completely engaged,

and could take no new patients. But when she informed him that she did

not desire his attendance, and only wished to communicate something

which might help to clear up the mystery of the late premature deaths,

he stopped and lent a patient ear. She told him that on the previous

night, having occasion to leave her house, in order to visit a sick

neighbour, who lay upon a lonely death-bed in the second flat below her

own garret, she took a lamp in her hand, that she might the better find

her way down. As she descended the stair, which she described as a

“turnpike,” or spiral one, she heard a low and inexpressibly doleful

moan, as if proceeding from the house of her neighbour,—such a moan, she

said, as she had ever heard proceed from any of the numerous death-beds

it had been her lot to attend. She hastened faster down the stair than

her limbs were well able to carry her, under the idea that her friend

was undergoing some severe suffering, which she might be able to

alleviate. Before, however, she had reached the first landing-place, a

noise, as of footsteps, arose from the house of pain, and caused her to

apprehend that all was not right in a house which she knew no one ever

visited, in that time of desolation, but herself. She quickened her pace

still more than before, and soon reached the landing-place at her

neighbour’s door. Something, as she expressed it, seeming to “swoof”

down the stair, like the noise of a full garment brushing the walls of a

narrow passage, she drew in the lamp, and looking down beyond it, saw

what she conceived to be the dark drapery of the back of a tall human

figure, loosely clad, moving, or rather gliding, out of sight, and in a

moment gone. So uncertain was she at first of the reality of what she

saw, that she believed it to be the shadow of the central pile of the

stair gliding downwards as she brought round the light; but the state of

matters in the inside of the house soon convinced her, to her horror,

that it must have been something more dreadful and real—the unfortunate

woman being dead; though as yet it was three days till the time when,

according to the old rules of the disease, she might have lived or died.

The physician heard this story with astonishment; but as it only

informed his mind, which was not free from superstition, that the whole

matter was becoming more and more mysterious, he drew no conclusions

from it; but simply observing, with a professional shake of the head,

that all was not right in the town, went upon his way.

The old woman, who, of course, could not be expected to let so good a

subject of gossip and wonderment lie idle in her mind, like the guinea

kept by the Vicar of Wakefield’s daughters, forthwith proceeded to

dissipate it abroad among her neighbours, who soon (to follow out the

idea of the coin) reduced it into still larger and coarser pieces, and

paid it away, in that exaggerated form, to a wider circle of neighbours,

by whom it was speedily dispersed in various shapes over the whole town.

The popular mind, like the ear of a sick man, being then peculiarly

sensitive, received the intelligence with a degree of alarm, such as the

news of a lost battle has not always occasioned amongst a people; and,

as the atmosphere is best calculated for the conveyance of sound during

the time of frost, so did the air of the plague seem peculiarly well

fitted for the propagation of this fearful report. The whole of the

people were impressed, on hearing the story, with a feeling of undefined

awe, mixed with horror. The back of a tall figure, in dark long clothes,

seen but for a moment! There was a picturesque indistinctness in the

description, which left room for the imagination; taken in conjunction,

too, with the moan heard at first by the old woman on the stair, and the

demise of the sick woman at the very time, it was truly startling. To

add to the panic, a report arose next day, that the figure had been seen

on the preceding evening, by different persons, flitting about various

stairs and alleys, always in the shade, and disappearing immediately

after being first perceived. An idea began to prevail that it was the

image of Death—Death, who had thus come in his personated form, to a

city which seemed to have been placed so peculiarly under his dominion,

in order to execute his office with the greater promptitude. It was

thought, if so fantastic a dream may be assigned to the thinking

faculty, that the grand destroyer, who, in ordinary times is invisible,

might, perhaps, have the power of rendering himself palpable to the

sight in cases where he approached his victims under circumstances of

peculiar horror; and this wild imagination was the more fearful,

inasmuch as it was supposed that, with the increase of the mortality, he

would become more and more distinctly visible, till, perhaps, after

having despatched all, he would burst forth in open triumph, and roam at

large throughout a city of desolation.

It happened on the second day after the rise of this popular fancy, that

an armed ship, of a very singular construction, and manned by a crew of

strangely foreign-looking men, entered Leith harbour. It was a Barbary

rover; but the crew showed no intention of hostility to the town of

Leith, though at the present pass it would have fallen an easy prey to

their arms, being quite as much afflicted with the pestilence as its

metropolitan neighbour. A detachment of the crew, comprising one who

appeared to be the commander, immediately landed, and proceeded to

Edinburgh, which they did not scruple to enter. They inquired for the

provost, and, on being conducted to the presence of that dignitary,

their chief disclosed their purpose in thus visiting Edinburgh, which

was the useful one of supplying it in its present distress with a cargo

of drugs, approved in the East for their efficacy against the plague,

and a few men who could undertake to administer them properly to the

sick. The provost heard this intelligence with overflowing eyes; for,

besides the anxiety he felt about the welfare of the city, he was

especially interested in the health of his daughter, an only child, who

happened to be involved in the common calamity. The terms proposed by

the Africans were somewhat exorbitant. They demanded to have the half of

the wealth of those whom they restored to health. But the provost told

them that he believed many of the most wealthy citizens would be glad to

employ them on these terms; and, for his own part, he was willing to

sacrifice anything he had, short of his salvation, for the benefit of

his daughter. Assured of at least the safety of their persons and goods,

the strangers drew from the ship a large quantity of medicines, and

began that very evening to attend as physicians those who chose to call

them in. The captain—a man in the prime of life, and remarkable amongst

the rest for his superior dress and bearing—engaged himself to attend

the provost’s daughter, who had now nearly reached the crisis of the

distemper, and hitherto had not been expected to survive.

The house of Sir John Smith, the provost of Edinburgh, in the year 1645,

was situated in the Cap-and-Feather close, an alley occupying the site

of the present North Bridge. The bottom of this alley being closed,

there was no thoroughfare or egress towards the North Loch; but the

provost’s house possessed this convenience, being the tenement which

closed the lower extremity, and having a back-door that opened upon an

alley to the eastward, namely, Halkerston’s Wynd. This house was, at the

time we speak of, crammed full of valuable goods, plate, &c., which had

been deposited in the provost’s hands by many of his afflicted

fellow-citizens, under the impression that, if they survived, he was

honest enough to restore them unimpaired, and, if otherwise, he was

worthy to inherit them. His daughter, who had been seized before it was

found possible to remove her from the town, lay in a little room at the

back of the house, which, besides one door opening from the large

staircase in the front, had also a more private entry communicating with

the narrower and obsolete “turnpike” behind. At that time, little

precaution was taken anywhere in Scotland about the locking of doors. To

have the door simply closed, so that the fairies could not enter, was in

general considered sufficient, as it is at the present day in many

remote parts. In Edinburgh, during the time of the plague, the greatest

indifference to security of this sort prevailed. In general, the doors

were left unlocked from within, in order to admit the cleansers, or any

charitable neighbour who might come to minister to the bed-rid sick.

This was not exactly the case in Sir John Smith’s house; for the

main-door was scrupulously locked, with a view to the safety of the

goods committed to his charge. Nevertheless, from neglect, or from want

of apprehension, the posterior entrance was afterwards found to have

been not so well secured.

The Barbary physician had administered a potion to his patient soon

after his admission into the house. He knew that symptoms either

favourable or unfavourable would speedily appear, and he therefore

resolved to remain in the room in order to watch the result. About

midnight, as he sat in a remote corner of the room, looking towards the

bed upon which his charge was extended, while a small lamp burned upon a

low table between, he was suddenly surprised to observe something like a

dark cloud, unaccompanied by any noise, interpose itself slowly and

gradually between his eyes and the bed. He at first thought that he was

deceived,—that he was beginning to fall asleep,—or that the strange

appearance was occasioned by some peculiarity of the light, which, being

placed almost directly between him and the bed, caused him to see the

latter object very indistinctly. He was soon undeceived by hearing a

noise,—the slightest possible,—and perceiving something like motion in

the ill-defined lineaments of the apparition. “Gracious Heaven!” thought

he, “can this be the angel of death hovering over his victim, preparing

to strike the mortal blow, and ready to receive the departing soul into

the inconceivable recesses of its awful form?” It almost appeared as if

the cloud stooped over the bed for the performance of this task.

Presently, the patient uttered a half-suppressed sigh, and then

altogether ceased the regular respirations, which had hitherto been

monotonous and audible throughout the room. The awe-struck attendant

could contain himself no longer, but permitted a sort of cry to escape

him, and started to his feet. The cloud instantly, as it were, rose from

its inclined posture over the bed, turned hastily round, and, in a

moment contracting itself into a human shape, glided softly, but

hastily, from the apartment. “Ha!” thought the African, “I have known

such personages as this in Aleppo. These angels of death are sometimes

found to be mortal themselves—I shall pursue and try.” He, therefore,

quickly followed the phantom through the private door by which it had

escaped, not forgetting to seize his semicircular sword in passing the

table where it lay. The stair was dark and steep; but he kept his feet

till he reached the bottom. Casting, then, a hasty glance around him, he

perceived a shadow vanish from the moon-lit ground, at an angle of the

house, and instantly started forward in the pursuit. He soon found

himself in the open wynd above-mentioned, along which he supposed the

mysterious object to have gone. All here was dark; but being certain of

the course adopted by the pursued party, he did not hesitate a moment in

plunging headlong down its steep profundity. He was confirmed in his

purpose by immediately afterwards observing, at some distance in

advance, a small jet of moonlight, proceeding from a side alley,

obscured for a second by what he conceived to be the transit of a large

dark object. This he soon also reached, and finding that his own person

caused a similar obscurity, he was confirmed in his conjecture that the

apparition bore a substantial form. Still forward and downward he boldly

rushed, till, reaching an open area at the bottom, part of which was

lighted by the moon, he plainly saw, at the distance of about thirty

yards before him, the figure as of a tall man, loosely enveloped in a

prodigious cloak, gliding along the ground, and apparently making for a

small bridge, which at this particular place crossed the drain of the

North Loch, and served as a communication with the village called the

Mutries Hill. He made directly for the fugitive, thinking to overtake

him almost before he could reach the bridge. But what was his surprise,

when in a moment the flying object vanished from his sight, as if it had

sunk into the ground, and left him alone and objectless in his headlong

pursuit. It was possible that it had fallen into some concealed well or

pit, but this he was never able to discover.

Bewildered and confused, he at length returned to the provost’s house,

and re-entered the apartment of the sick maiden. To his delight and

astonishment he found her already in a state of visible convalescence,

with a gradually deepening glow of health diffusing itself over her

cheek. Whether his courage and fidelity had been the means of scaring

away the evil demon it is impossible to say; but certain it is, that the

ravages of the plague began soon afterwards to decline in Edinburgh, and

at length died away altogether.

The conclusion of this singular traditionary story bears that the

provost’s daughter, being completely restored to health, was married to

the foreigner who had saved her life. This seems to have been the result

of an affection which they had conceived for each other during the

period of her convalescence. The African, becoming joint-heir with his

wife of the provost’s vast property, abandoned his former piratical

life, became, it is said, a douce Presbyterian, and settled down for the

remainder of his days in Edinburgh. The match turned out exceedingly

well; and it is even said that the foreigner became so assimilated with

the people of Edinburgh, to whom he had proved so memorable a

benefactor, that he held at one time an office of considerable civic

dignity and importance. Certain it is, that he built for his residence a

magnificent “land” near the head of the Canongate, upon the front of

which he caused to be erected a statue of the emperor of Barbary, in

testimony of the respect he still cherished for his native country; and

this memorial yet remains in its original niche, as a subsidiary proof

of the verity of the above relation.

THE PROBATIONER’S FIRST SERMON.

BY DANIEL GORRIE.

On a cold March evening, and in the metropolis of Scotland, I received

licence as a probationer. The reverend fathers of the Presbytery were so

satisfied with my orthodoxy that they gave me most cordially the right

hand of fellowship, and warmly wished me success. I had half-anticipated

a reprimand for heretical tendencies; but as no censure was uttered, I

was at once overcome by their kindness, and charmed with their

unexpected liberality. I hastened home to receive the congratulations of

my friends, and then I repaired to a clothier’s for a suit of canonical

blacks. My mother had already provided a boxful of white cravats

sufficient to supply the whole bench of bishops. To err is human, and it

is also human for a humble man to feel considerably elated in certain

circumstances, and at certain times.

I need not be ashamed to confess that a new dignity seemed to rest upon

me, like the mantle of the prophet, on that eventful evening. I saw the

reflection of my face on the bowl of a silver spoon, and wondered at the

resemblance it bore to the bold, heroic countenance of Edward Irving.

High were my hopes, and few were my fears, for I only expected to speak

and conquer. The responsibilities of the profession were great, I knew,

but they only cast their shadow before. The kind of life on which I was

about to enter possessed all the attractions of novelty. I was to

exchange passivity for action—the quiet of the cloister for the stir of

the field. Yet, while thus I thought of the battle, and made my vows,

the still picture of a rural manse, girdled with incense-breathing

flowerplots, and shaded with murmuring trees, stole upon my slumbers ere

I awoke at the dawn of the next day—a vision, alas! too often resembling

the unreal beauty of the mirage in the desert.

It may be pardoned in a novitiate, standing on the threshold, if I saw

only the sunny side of preacher-life. Spring was coming, like Miriam and

her maidens, with timbrels and with dances, and the golden summer-tide

was following in her wake, and I knew that I would look on many lovely

scenes, receive kindness from strangers, enjoy the hospitality of the

humble, and haply sow some seeds of goodness and truth in receptive

hearts.

I had frequently heard strange stories about preachers, and several

times I had met some curious specimens of the class. One, it was said,

travelled over the country with a sermon and a-half and a tobacco-pipe.

Another, it was averred, carried neither parchments nor portmanteau,

went gadding abroad, and was in fact the generalissimo of gossips. A

third poked his nose into presses, supped jelly and jam, pocketed lumps

of sugar, and performed other absurdities not at all creditable to his

cloth. I had also learned from ministers’ wives in the country, that

some were as unsocial and morose as turnkeys, and others quite the

reverse—lively young fellows, who could rock the cradle, and keep all

the children in high glee. It was necessary for me, then, I felt, to be

circumspect, to abstain from all eccentricities, to be sociable among

social people, and dignified when occasion required. Experience soon

taught me that a joke from clerical lips sounds like profanity in the

ears of the rigidly righteous. A kind friend told me to beware of elders

who wished to discuss the doctrine of reprobation, and to avoid walking

arm-in-arm with any rural beauty.

“Were you, in your unsuspecting innocence,” he said, “to commit this

last enormity, the village gossips would tell it to the beadle, the

beadle to the managers, the managers to the elders, and your glory would

depart.”

The advice was a wise one, as I afterwards found; but gallantry is more

a characteristic of youth than prudence.

I had prepared a considerable supply of discourses. They were

elaborately written, and I looked with paternal affection upon the

companions of my future wanderings. I shunned those dry doctrinal

discussions which shed so sweet an opiate over the eyes of old, young,

and middle-aged. The topics selected were such as I believed would

interest and instruct all classes of people. I had enlarged upon the

zeal and self-sacrifice of the sainted men of old, pictured the Holy One

silent in the death chamber, and weeping at the tomb, and drawn

illustrations from the heavens above, and the earth beneath. Something

fresh was needed, I thought—a Christianity rich in blossoms as in fruit.

I received an appointment for the first Sabbath after licence, and on

Saturday afternoon I was rattling along Princes’ Street in the

Queensferry omnibus. A small town across the Firth, in the kingdom of

Fife, not far from the coast, was my destination. Although the sermon I

was to deliver on the morrow had been well committed to memory, and

frequently declaimed during the week, yet I found myself conning it over

again ere we had crossed the Dean Bridge, and certain passages became

mysteriously blended in my mind with the images of Craigcrook and

Corstorphine. Then I began to wonder if the other passengers suspected I

was a preacher on my maiden expedition. One woman was occupied in gazing

very fondly upon the face of a dozing child three months old; a

red-faced, purple-nosed old gentleman was sucking the round head of a

walking-stick; a stout elderly lady seemed to find the leathern cushion

very uncomfortable, since of her down-sitting and up-rising there was no

end; a young gentleman of the Tittlebat Titmouse tribe breathed heavily,

and at intervals snored; and a young lady, my _vis-a-vis_ in the

opposite corner, was the only one who seemed really to be aware of my

presence, and the only one who appeared willing to break the unsocial

silence. I remembered my friend’s advice, and was somewhat afraid to

speak. Besides, heads, and particulars, and practical applications, were

making such a thoroughfare of my mind, that there was considerable

danger of committing absurd mistakes in conversation. I became really

sorry for the young lady, she looked at me so inquiringly, and seemed so

anxious that I should speak. There was a keen frost in the air, and one

or two outsiders were flapping their hands across their shoulders—might

I not say that the afternoon was cold? Gray-white clouds were gathering

from horizon to horizon and dimming the day—might I not suggest the

possibility of snow? Suddenly the light wavering crystals slid down the

window-glass, and with uplifted eyebrows and look of innocent surprise,

the fair young traveller exclaimed, “Oh! it snows.”

“So it does, ma’am,” I rejoined, and spoke no more.

She might think of me that evening as very silent or very surly; but she

no doubt changed her opinion next day, for I saw her sitting in the

front gallery of the church when I rose to give out the first psalm.

In crossing the ferry, I thought not of the royal dames and princely

pageants that so often in the days of other years passed to and from the

shores of Fife. The waters of the Forth were dreary enough. Inchcolm and

the opposite coast were shrouded from view in the streaming skirts of

the snow-clouds. I rolled myself up in a corner of the boat where no

deacon’s eye could intrude, and warmed my heart with a cigar. Then some

limping fiend whispered in my ears the awful words, “What if you should

_stick_?” Once I had witnessed an unfortunate being in that painful

predicament in the pulpit. I had marked, with sickening apprehensions,

the string of unconnected sentences, the hesitation, the pallor

overspreading his face, the terrible stammer, the convulsive clutch, the

pause, the sudden gulp, the dead stop, and portentous silence. A

“stickit minister,” like Dominie Sampson, is nothing to a preacher who

“sticks.” It was a horrid idea. I resisted the fiend, knit my brow,

clenched my fist, and determined to speak or die. “Always keep your

mouth open,” was the charge of a learned divine to his son, and the

words afforded me much consolation.

The night was falling fast, and the snow was falling faster when I

reached the outskirts of the little inland town where I had been

appointed to officiate. Here my rapid march was arrested by an elderly

man who inquired if I was the expected preacher, and receiving an answer

in the affirmative, he relieved me of my portmanteau, which contained my

precious parchment, and led the way to my lodgings. He gave me to

understand that he was the beadle, and that I was to lodge with Mrs

M‘Bain, who kept a small grocery shop, and had a room to spare in her

house. The congregation, with much saving grace, had let the manse until

a new minister was obtained. Old John, like the great proportion of

country beadles, was a simple, decent man, and a sort of character in

his way. He was particularly inquisitive, and asked me some very plain

questions as we trudged along the narrow street, getting gradually

whitened by the falling snow. He told me that my predecessor on the

previous Sabbath was a very clever young man, but only a “wee thocht

new-fangled.” From further inquiry I found that the learned Theban had

been astonishing John and several members of the congregation by

describing the revolution of the earth on its axis.

“Noo, sir,” said the worthy beadle, “can ye tell me, if the world is aye

whirlin’ round aboot, what’s the reason we never come to the warm

countries?”

I endeavoured to make the matter plain to his apprehension by supposing

a rotatory motion of the human head, and the nose always maintaining its

dignified position in the centre between the right ear and the left—an

illustration which honest John did not seem to regard as satisfactory in

the slightest degree.

Mrs M‘Bain’s house was of a very humble description; but she appeared to

be a tidy woman, and the room allotted to me, though small, was clean

and comfortable. John put down my portmanteau on a chair, with the mien

and manner of one who has done his duty, and informed me that one of the

elders and the precentor would likely call in a short time. For the

precentor I was perfectly prepared, knowing well the psalms that would

best suit my discourse; but I was not so sure what motive an elder could

have for visiting me on a Saturday night. I inwardly hoped, at least,

that if he did make his appearance, he would have the good sense not to

trouble me long with his presence or his conversation, as I was again

anxious to rehearse my discourse to silent chairs and an attentive

table.

When Mrs M‘Bain was placing the tea-dishes on the table, she seemed

disposed for a little talk, while I, on the contrary, was not at all in

a communicative mood. However, she persevered, and drew me on by

degrees, until at last she brought a series of queries to a climax by

asking if I had been long a preacher. Now, this was a most absurd

question for me to answer in my peculiar circumstances. If the people

knew that I had never “wagged my head in a poupit” before, they would be

sure to listen to me with the most dreadful silence, so that the

slightest stammer would be multiplied and magnified by a hundred echoes.

What was to be done? The question must be answered, and the truth must

be told, despite the consequences. Mustering up courage, I told my

landlady how the matter stood. Astonished she was, as might naturally

have been expected. She uplifted her eyebrows, opened wide her eyes,

drew a long breath, and said—“Dearie me, sir, ye’ll be awfu’ feared!”

With this ejaculation, which afforded me little consolation indeed, Mrs

M‘Bain left the apartment, and I knew that the tidings would be over the

town, and talked about at every fireside in less than twenty minutes. It

could not be helped; courage and resignation alone were required.

I had just finished swallowing in haste three cups of very hot tea, when

the precentor entered. He was a man past middle age, with a countenance

somewhat grim and gaunt, and a very unmusical mouth. His hair was

sandy-coloured, and he was Sawney all over. I saw at once, from his

steady stare, and the peculiar expression of his face, that Mrs M‘Bain

had communicated to him the very pleasant intelligence that the new

arrival was a “green hand.” He was not long in making me know that he

was aware of the fact, although he did so in a very cautious, provoking

kind of style. When the ice was fairly broken, he said, “It’s a kittle

thing standin’ up afore an audience the first time. I mind fine yet what

an awfu’ state I was in when I first sang i’ the desk. I kent the Auld

Hunderd as weel as I kent my mither; but I wasna lang begun when I ran

awa’ wi’ the harrows.” This kind of talk was rapidly becoming

unendurable, and I entertained anything but a Christian sentiment of

brotherly love towards the conductor of the psalmody.

“How long have you acted as precentor,” I enquired, anxious to change

the current of conversation.

“I’ve precented in oor kirk,” he replied, “for twunty years, and,

barrin’ three days last simmer, I’ve never missed a Sabbath.”

“That is very extraordinary,” I rejoined; “and what was wrong with you

last summer?”

“Weel, sir, ye see I was howkin’ tatties for the denner in oor yaird ae

day, when I coupit ower a skep by mistake, and I was awfu’ stung by

bees.”

“Dear me,” I rejoined (for I could not resist such a favourable

opportunity of stinging him again), “it was curious how the bees should

have taken you for a drone!”

This remark had the desired effect. The precentor soon took himself off,

and I was left in undisputed possession of the room. I had offended the

beadle, and insulted the precentor—how was it possible that I could

preach with acceptation to the people? I became nervous lest the elder

also should enter, for I was perfectly persuaded that I could not escape

incurring his reprobation by some unfortunate reply.

As the night wore on, my trepidation increased. I paced up and down the

room, repeating and re-repeating my discourse from beginning to end, and

from the end to the beginning. Every period, colon, hyphen, point of

exclamation, point of interrogation, and comma was engraved upon my

mind, and yet I was not satisfied. Something might escape me—some

sounding sentence might take wings and flee away. I heard Mrs M‘Bain

listening at times behind the door when I went humming and thrumming

across the room; and I felt a strong inclination to call her in, and

punish her by making her act the part of a popular audience. I cooled

down somewhat before bedtime, and, at my landlady’s request, retired

early to bed.

“A gude sleep,” she said, “is the forerunner of a good sermon.”

“Yes,” I rejoined, “and a good sleep is the ordinary accompaniment of a

bad one.”

Mrs M‘Bain chuckled, and looked as if she thought there was something

promising in the young man after all.

To bed I went, but not to slumber, knowing well that sleep, like some

eccentric daughters of Eve, must be won without being wooed. I did not

try to “fall over.” None but the rankest fool ever thinks of

perpetrating such absurdity. I commenced for the five hundredth

time—what else could I do?—to con over my discourse. I had just finished

the introduction, without missing a syllable, when—horror of

horrors!—the first head had vanished—evaporated—gone to some outrageous

limbo and could not, would not be recalled. What was to be done? I sat

up in bed—a villanous crib it was—and the perspiration stood beaded on

my brow. The tingling darkness filled the room; the snow-flakes fussled

on the window panes. Mrs M‘Bain was in bed; the candle was out; there

were no lucifers; my precious manuscript was under my pillow; the

missing head was there, but I could neither see nor seize it. It was a

_caput mortuum_. I cannot describe the agony that I endured, the feeling

of despair that I experienced. My heart beat loudly, and the inexorable

clock tick-ticked, as if everything in the world were going on with the

utmost smoothness and regularity. I must have sat for an hour groping

about in my benighted brain for my lost head. But sleep at length came,

and fantastic dreams, born of fear and excitement, took possession of

me. I thought that I stood on Mars Hill, and that around me was gathered

a great crowd of Stoics, Epicureans, Methodists, Mormons, and

Mahommedans. They listened attentively for a time, but as soon as I had

finished the introduction to my discourse, they immediately commenced to

grin and make grimaces, shouting, howling, roaring like legions of

demons. In the twinkling of an eye, the scene changed, and I stood in

the centre of a vast camp-meeting in the backwoods of America. Negroes

and Red Indians were there as well as stalwart planters with their wives

and families. A hymn, pealed with a sea-like sound from a thousand

voices, had just died away, and I was preparing to address the mighty

multitude, when a sudden storm came crashing down among the woods, and

the assemblage was scattered abroad like the leaves of autumn. I was

tossed throughout the night from one wildered dream to another, and

finally awoke in the morning rather jaded than refreshed. With the

return of consciousness, however, returned the lost head, and I was

delighted to discover before rising that my memory was master of my

discourse.

The morning wore on, stiller for the snow that lay one or two inches

deep on the ground. The hour of service approached, the bells began to

sound; I never heard them pealing so loudly before, even in the largest

cities. My heart beat to the beating of the bells. At last the beadle

came, cool, calm, imperturbable, hoisted the pulpit Bible under his arm,

and signified to me, with an easy inclination of his head, that all was

now ready. Mrs M‘Bain was standing in the passage as we came out of the

room, holding the door-key in one hand, and her Bible wrapped in a white

pocket handkerchief in the other. I walked along the street as steadily

and sedately as my perturbation would permit, and all the little boys

and girls, I thought, knew that I was to preach my first sermon that

day. There was a death-like stillness in the church when I entered. My

look was concentrated on the pulpit, but I knew that every eye in the

church was fixed upon the untried preacher. I managed to get through the

introductory services with more fluency and calmness than I anticipated,

only I invariably found myself conning over the first head of my

discourse while the assembled worshippers were singing the psalms. The

precentor _was_ a drone. Even that afforded me some satisfaction,

although the unmelodious tones agitated still more my excited nervous

system. At the close of the second psalm, the time of my great trial

came. I rose and announced the text with great deliberation. Then every

eye was fixed upon me; the moment was awful; the silence was dreadful.

The ready manner in which the first dozen of sentences came to my

recollection made me feel somewhat calm, comfortable, and composed; but

a sudden sense of the peculiar nature of my situation, the consciousness

that all the people knew it was my first appearance in public, disturbed

my equanimity and shook my self-possession. A dizziness came over me;

the congregation revolved around the pulpit. I grasped the Bible, and

declaimed vehemently in order if possible to recover myself; but from

the beginning of the first head to the last application, although I must

have adhered to my manuscript, I was speaking like one in a dream, not

master of myself, the will passive, and memory alone awake. When I

concluded the last period, I could scarcely believe that I had preached

my discourse. The weakness of my limbs told me of the struggle. On

leaving the church I overheard some remarks concerning myself pass

between two of the officials.

“He’s a brisk bit birkie that,” quoth the beadle.

“’Od ay,” responded the precentor, but “he has a bee in his bannet.”

Sweet reader, if you are studying for the Church, do not be deterred by

vain fears from prosecuting your labours. It is a glorious thing to

succeed, even when you are unconscious of your success, and thus it

happened with “My First Sermon.”

THE CRIMES OF RICHARD HAWKINS.

BY THOMAS AIRD.

When a young man, Richard Hawkins was guilty of the heinous crime of

betraying the daughter of a respectable farmer in the west of Galloway,

of the name of Emily Robson. As he yet loved the injured maiden, he

would have married her, but in this he was determinedly opposed by her

relatives, and particularly by her only brother, betwixt whom and

himself an inveterate hostility had, from various causes, been growing

up since their earliest boyhood. From remorse partly, and shame and

disappointment, and partly from other causes, Hawkins hereupon left his

home and went abroad; but after making a considerable sum of money he

returned to Scotland, determined to use every remonstrance to win over

Emily’s friends to allow him yet by marriage to make reparation to the

gentle maiden, the remembrance of whose beauty and faithful confiding

spirit had unceasingly haunted him in a foreign land. He arrived first

at Glasgow, and proceeded thence to Edinburgh, where he purposed to stay

a week or a fortnight before going southward to his native county, in

which also Emily Robson resided.

During his stay in the metropolis, having been one evening invited to

sup at the house of a gentleman, originally from the same county with

himself, scarcely had he taken his seat in his host’s parlour, when

Emily’s brother entered, and, instantly recognizing him, advanced with a

face of grim wrath, denounced him as a villain, declared he would not

sit a moment in his company, and to make good his declaration, instantly

turned on his heel and left the house. The violent spirit of Hawkins was

in a moment stung to madness by this rash and unseasonable insolence,

which was offered him, moreover, before a number of gentlemen; he rose,

craved their leave for a moment, that he might follow, and show Mr

Robson his mistake; and sallying out of the house, without his hat, he

overtook his aggressor on the street, tapped him on the shoulder, and

thus bespoke him, with a grim smile:—“Why, sir, give me leave to

propound to you that this same word and exit of yours are most

preciously insolent. With your leave, now, I must have you back, gently

to unsay me a word or two; or, by heaven! this night your blood shall

wash out the imputation!”

“This hour—this hour!” replied Robson, in a hoarse compressed whisper;

“my soul craves to grapple with you, and put our mutual affair to a

mortal arbitrament. Hark ye, Hawkins, you are a stranger in this city, I

presume, and cannot reasonably be expected easily to provide yourself

with a second; moreover, no one would back such a villain;—now, will you

follow me this moment to my lodgings, accept from my hand one of a pair

of pistols, and let us, without farther formality, retire to a

convenient place, and do ourselves a pleasure and a justice. I am weary

of living under the same sun with you, and if I can shed your foul blood

beneath yon chaste stars of God, I would willingly die for it. Dare you

follow me?—and, quickly, before those fellows think of looking after

us?”

To Hawkins’ boiling heart of indignation ’twas no hard task so to

follow, and the above proposal of Robson was strictly and instantly

followed up. We must notice here particularly, that, as the parties were

about to leave the house, a letter was put into Robson’s hand, who,

seeing that it was from his mother, and bore the outward notification of

mourning, craved Hawkins’ permission to read it, which he did with a

twinkling in his eye, and a working, as of deep grief, in the muscles of

his face; but in a minute he violently crushed the letter, put it into

his pocket, and, turning anew to his foe with glaring eyes of anger,

told him that all was ready. And now we shall only state generally, that

within an hour from the first provocation of the evening, this mortal

and irregular duel was settled, and left Robson shot through the body by

his antagonist.

No sooner did Hawkins see him fall, than horror and remorse for his deed

rushed upon him; he ran to the prostrate youth, attempted to raise him

up, but dared not offer pity or ask forgiveness, for which his soul yet

panted. The wounded man rejected his assistance—waved him off, and thus

faintly but fearfully spoke:—“Now, mine enemy! I will tell you, that you

may sooner know the curse of God, which shall for ever cling and warp

itself round all the red cords of your heart. That letter from my

mother, which you saw me read, told me of the death of that sister Emily

whom I so loved; whom you—oh, God!—who never recovered from your

villany. And my father, too!—Off, fiend, nor mock me! You shall not so

triumph—you shall not see me die!” So saying, the wounded youth, who was

lying on his back, with his pale writhen features upturned, and dimly

seen in the twilight, with a convulsive effort now threw himself round,

with his face upon the grass.

In a fearful agony stood Hawkins, twisting his hands, not knowing

whether again to attempt raising his victim, or to run to the city for a

surgeon. The former he at length did, and found no resistance; for,

alas! the unhappy youth was dead. The appearance of two or three

individuals now making towards the bloody spot, which was near the

suburbs of the town, and to which, in all probability, they had been

drawn by the report of the pistols, roused Hawkins, for the first time,

to a sense of his own danger. He quickly left the ground, dashed through

the fields, and, without distinctly calculating his route, instinctively

turned towards his native district.

As he proceeded onwards, he began to consider the bearings of his

difficult situation, and at last resolved to hasten on through the

country, to lay his case before his excellent friend Frank Dillon, who

was the only son of a gentleman in the western parts of Galloway, and

who, he knew, was at present residing with his father. Full of the most

riotous glee, and nimble-witted as Mercutio, Frank, he was aware, could

be no less gravely wise as an adviser in a difficult emergency, and he

determined, in the present case, to be wholly ruled by his opinion.

Invigorated from thus having settled for himself a definite course, he

walked swiftly forward through the night, which shone with the finest

beauty of the moon. Yet what peace to the murderer, whose red title not

the fairest duellist, who has slain a human being, can to his own

conscience reduce? The cold glittering leaves on the trees, struck with

a quick, momentary gust, made him start as he passed; and the shadowy

foot and figure of the lover, coming round from the back window of the

lone cottage, was to his startled apprehension the avenger of blood at

hand. As he looked afar along the glittering road, the black fir trees

upon the edge of the moor seemed men coming running down to meet him;

and the long howl of some houseless cur, and the distant hoof of the

traveller, which struck his listening ear with two or three beatings,

seemed all in the track of pursuit and vengeance.

Morning came, and to the weary fugitive was agreeably cloudy; but the

sun rose upon him in the forenoon, shining from between the glassy,

glistering clouds with far greater heat than it does from a pure blue

sky. Hawkins had now crossed many a broad acre of the weary moorlands,

fatigued and thirsty, his heart beating in his ears, and not a drop of

water that he could see to sprinkle the dry pulses of his bosom, when he

came to a long morass, which barred his straightforward path. His first

business was to quench his thirst from a dull stank, overgrown with

paddowpipe, and black with myriads of tadpoles. There, finding himself

so faint from fatigue that he could not brook the idea of going round by

the end of the moss, and being far less able to make his way through the

middle of it, by leaping from _hagg_ to _hagg_, he threw himself down on

the sunny side of some long reeds, and fell fast asleep.

He was waked by the screaming of lapwings, and the noise of a

neighbouring bittern, to a feeling of violent throbbing, headache, and

nausea, which were probably owing to the sun’s having beat upon him

whilst he lay asleep, aggravated by the reflection from the reeds. He

arose, but finding himself quite unable to pursue his journey, again

threw himself down on a small airy brow of land, to get what breeze

might be stirring abroad. There were several companies of people at work

digging peats in the moss, and one party now sat down very near him to

their dinner. One of them, a young woman, had passed so near him, as to

be able to guess, from his countenance, that he was unwell; and in a few

minutes, with the fine charity of womanhood, she came to him with some

food, of which, to satisfy her kindness, rather than his own hunger, he

ate a little. The air changed in the afternoon, and streaming clouds of

hail crossed over that wild country, yet he lay still. Party after party

left the moss, and yet he was there. He made, indeed, a show of leaving

the place at a quick rate, to disappoint the fears of the people who had

seen him at noon, and who, as they again came near to gather up their

supernumerary clothes, were evidently perplexed on his account, which

they showed by looking first towards him and then at each other. It was

all he could do to get quite out of their sight beyond a little

eminence; and there, once more, he lay down in utter prostration of mind

and body.

Twilight began to darken upon the pools of that desolate place. The wild

birds were gone to their heathy nests, all save the curlew, whose

bravura was still sung over the fells, and borne far away into the dim

and silent night. At length a tall, powerful-looking man came stepping

through the moss, and as he passed near the poor youth, asked, in slow

speech, who he was. In the reaction of nature, Hawkins was, in a moment,

anxious about his situation, and replied to him that he had fallen sick

on his way, and was unable to go in quest of a resting-place for the

night. Approaching and turning himself round to the youth as he arose,

the genius of the place had him on his back in a moment, and went off

with him carelessly and in silence over the heath. In about half an hour

they came to a lonely cottage, which the kind creature entered; and,

setting the young man down, without the least appearance of fatigue on

his part, “Here, gudewife,” said he, “is a bairn t’ye, that I hae foun’

i’ the moss: now, let us see ye be gude to him.” Either this injunction

was very effective, or it was not at all necessary; for, had the youth

been her own son, come from a far country to see her, this hostess of

the cottage could not have treated him more kindly. From his little

conversation during the evening, her husband, like most very bulky men,

appeared to be of dull intellect; but there was a third personage in the

composition of his household, a younger brother, a very little man,—the

flower of the flock,—who made ample amends for his senior brother’s

deficiencies as a talker. A smattering of Church-history had filled his

soul with a thousand stories of persecution and martyrdom, and, from

some old history of America, he had gained a little knowledge of Upper

Canada, for which, Hawkins was during the night repeatedly given to

understand, he was once on the very point of setting out, an abiding

embryo of bold travel, which, in his own eye, seemed to invest him with

all the honours and privileges of _bona fide_ voyagers. His guest had a

thousand questions put to him on these interesting topics, less for his

answers, it was evident, than for an opportunity to the little man of

setting forth his own information. All this was tolerably fair; but it

was truly disgusting when the little oracle took the Bible after supper,

and, in place of his elder brother, who was otherwise also the head of

the family, performed the religious services of the evening, presuming

to add a comment to the chapter which he read; to enforce which, his

elbow was drawn back to the sharpest angle of edification, from which,

ever and anon unslinging itself like a shifting rhomboid, it forced

forward the stiff information in many a pompous instalment. The

pertinacious forefinger was at work too; and before it trembled the

mystic Babylon, which, in a side argument, that digit was uplifted to

denounce. Moreover, the whole lecture was given in a squeaking,

pragmatic voice, which sounded like the sharping of thatchers’ knives.

Next morning the duellist renewed his journey, hoping against

eveningtide to reach Dillon’s house, which he guessed could not now be

more than forty miles distant. About mid-afternoon, as he was going

through a small hamlet of five or six cottages, he stepped into one of

them, and requested a little water to drink. There was a hushed

solemnity, he could see in a moment, throughout the little apartment

into which, rather too unceremoniously, he had entered; and a

kind-looking matron, in a dark robe, whispered in his ear, as she gave

him a porringer of sweet water, with a little oatmeal sprinkled upon it,

that an only daughter of the house, a fine young woman, was lying “a

corpse.” Without noticing his presence, and indeed with her face hid,

sat the mother doubtless of the maiden, heedless of the whispered

consolations of two or three officious matrons, and racking in that full

and intense sorrow with which strangers cannot intermeddle. The sloping

beams of the declining sun shone beautifully in through a small lattice,

illumining a half-decayed nosegay of flowers which stood on the sunny

whitewashed sill—emblem of a more sorrowful decay!—and after traversing

the middle of the apartment, with a thin deep bar of light, peopled by a

maze of dancing motes, struck into the white bed, where lay something

covered up and awfully indistinct, like sanctified thing not to be gazed

at, which the fugitive’s fascinated eye yet tried to shape into the

elegant body of the maiden, as she lay before her virgin sheets purer

than they, with the salt above her still and unvexed bosom. The

restricted din of boys at play—for that buoyant age is yet truly

reverential, and feels most deeply the solemn occasion of death—was

heard faint and aloof from the house of mourning. This, and the lonely

chirrup of a single sparrow from the thatch; the soft purring of the cat

at the sunny pane; the muffled tread of the mourners over the threshold;

and the audible grief of that poor mother, seemed, instead of

interruption, rather parts of the solemn stillness.

As Hawkins was going out, after lingering a minute in this sacred

interior, he met, in the narrow passage which led to the door, a man

with the coffin, on the lid of which he read, as it was pushed up to his

very face, “Emily Robson, aged 22.” The heart of the murderer—the

seducer—was in a moment as if steeped in the benumbing waters of

petrifaction; he was horrified; he would fain have passed, but could not

for want of room; and as the coffin was not to be withdrawn in

accommodation to him, he was pushed again into the interior of the

cottage to encounter a look of piercing recognition from Emily’s

afflicted mother, who had started up on hearing the hollow grating of

the coffin as it struck occasionally on the walls of the narrow

entrance. “Take him away—take him away—take him away!” she screamed,

when she saw Hawkins, and pressed her face down on the white bed of

death. As for the youth, who was fearfully conscious of another bloody

woe which had not yet reached her heart, and of which he was still the

author, and who saw, moreover, that this poor mother was now come to

poverty, probably from his own first injury against the peace of her

family, he needed not to be told to depart. With conscience, that truest

conducting-rod, flashing its moral electricities of shame and fear, and

with knees knocking against each other, he stumbled out of the house,

and making his way by chance to an idle quarry, overgrown with weeds, he

there threw himself down, with his face on the ground. In this situation

he lay the whole night and all next forenoon; and in the afternoon—for

he had occasionally risen to look for the assembling of the funeral

train—he joined the small group who carried his Emily to the churchyard,

and saw her young body laid in the grave. Oh! who can cast away

carelessly, like a useless thing, the finely-moulded clay, perfumed with

the lingering beauty of warm motions, sweet graces, and young charities!

But had not the young man, think ye, tenfold reason to weep for her whom

he now saw laid down within the dark shadow of the grave?

In the evening, he found his way to Frank Dillon’s; met his friend by

chance at a little distance from his father’s house, and told him at

once his unhappy situation. “My father,” replied Frank, “cannot be an

adviser here, because he is a Justice of the Peace. But he has been at

London for some time, and I do not expect him home till to-morrow; so

you can go with me to our house for this night, where we shall

deliberate what next must be done in this truly sad affair of yours.

Come on.”

It is unnecessary for us to explain at length the circumstances which

frustrated the friendly intentions of Dillon, and which enabled the

officers of justice to trace Hawkins to his place of concealment. They

arrived that very evening; and, notwithstanding the efforts of Frank to

save his friend, secured the unhappy duellist, who, within two days

afterwards, found himself in Edinburgh, securely lodged in jail.

The issue of Hawkins’ trial was that he was condemned to death as a

murderer. This severe sentence of the law was, however, commuted into

that of banishment for seven years. But he never again returned to his

native country. And it must be told of him also, that no happiness ever

shone upon this after-life of his. Independent of his first crime, which

brought a beautiful young woman prematurely to the grave, he had broken

rashly “into the bloody house of life,” and, in the language of Holy

Writ, “slain a young man to his hurt.”

Oh! for that still and quiet conscience—those third heavens within a

man—wherein he can soar within himself and be at peace, where the image

of God shines down, never dislimned nor long hid by those wild racks and

deep continents of gloom which come over the soul of the blood-guilty

man!

THE HEADSTONE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

The coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the planks were

removed from the heaped-up brink, the first rattling clods had struck

their knell, the quick shovelling was over, and the long, broad,

skilfully cut pieces of turf were aptly joined together, and trimly laid

by the beating spade, so that the newest mound in the churchyard was

scarcely distinguishable from those that were grown over by the

undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant spring. The burial was soon

over; and the party, with one consenting motion, having uncovered their

heads in decent reverence of the place and occasion, were beginning to

separate, and about to leave the churchyard. Here some acquaintances,

from distant parts of the parish, who had not had an opportunity of

addressing each other in the house that had belonged to the deceased,

nor in the course of the few hundred yards that the little procession

had to move over from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands, quietly

but cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare of each other’s

families. There, a small knot of neighbours were speaking, without

exaggeration, of the respectable character which the deceased had borne,

and mentioning to one another little incidents of his life, some of them

so remote as to be known only to the grayheaded persons of the group;

while a few yards farther removed from the spot, were standing together

parties who discussed ordinary concerns, altogether unconnected with the

funeral, such as the state of the markets, the promise of the season, or

change of tenants; but still with a sobriety of manner and voice that

was insensibly produced by the influence of the simple ceremony now

closed, by the quiet graves around, and the shadow of the spire and gray

walls of the house of God.

Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, with countenances

of sincere but unimpassioned grief. They were brothers, the only sons of

him who had been buried. And there was something in their situation that

naturally kept the eyes of many directed upon them for a longer time,

and more intently, than would have been the case had there been nothing

more observable about them than the common symptoms of a common sorrow.

But these two brothers, who were now standing at the head of their

father’s grave, had for some years been totally estranged from each

other, and the only words that had passed between them, during all that

time, had been uttered within a few days past, during the necessary

preparations for the old man’s funeral.

No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers, and neither of

them could distinctly tell the cause of this unnatural estrangement.

Perhaps dim jealousies of their father’s favour—selfish thoughts that

will sometimes force themselves into poor men’s hearts respecting

temporal expectations—unaccommodating manners on both sides—taunting

words that mean little when uttered, but which rankle and fester in

remembrance—imagined opposition of interests, that, duly considered,

would have been found one and the same—these, and many other causes,

slight when single, but strong when rising up together in one baneful

band, had gradually but fatally infected their hearts, till at last they

who in youth had been seldom separate, and truly attached, now met at

market, and, miserable to say, at church, with dark and averted faces,

like different clansmen during a feud.

Surely if anything could have softened their hearts towards each other,

it must have been to stand silently, side by side, while the earth,

stones, and clods, were falling down upon their father’s coffin. And,

doubtless, their hearts were so softened. But pride, though it cannot

prevent the holy affections of nature from being felt, may prevent them

from being shown; and these two brothers stood there together,

determined not to let each other know the mutual tenderness that, in

spite of them, was gushing up in their hearts, and teaching them the

unconfessed folly and wickedness of their causeless quarrel.

A headstone had been prepared, and a person came forward to plant it.

The elder brother directed him how to place it—a plain stone, with a

sand-glass, skull, and cross-bones, chiselled not rudely, and a few

words inscribed. The younger brother regarded the operation with a

troubled eye, and said, loudly enough to be heard by several of the

bystanders, “William, this was not kind in you;—you should have told me

of this. I loved my father as well as you could love him. You were the

elder, and, it may be, the favourite son; but I had a right in nature to

have joined you in ordering this headstone, had I not?”

During these words, the stone was sinking into the earth, and many

persons who were on their way from the grave returned. For a while the

elder brother said nothing, for he had a consciousness in his heart that

he ought to have consulted his father’s son in designing this last

becoming mark of affection and respect to his memory; so the stone was

planted in silence, and now stood erect, decently and simply among the

other unostentatious memorials of the humble dead.

The inscription merely gave the name and age of the deceased, and told

that the stone had been erected “by his affectionate sons.” The sight of

these words seemed to soften the displeasure of the angry man, and he

said, somewhat more mildly, “Yes, we were his affectionate sons, and

since my name is on the stone, I am satisfied, brother. We have not

drawn together kindly of late years, and perhaps never may; but I

acknowledge and respect your worth; and here, before our own friends,

and before the friends of our father, with my foot above his head, I

express my willingness to be on better and other terms with you, and if

we cannot command love in our hearts, let us, at least, brother, bar out

all unkindness.”

The minister, who had attended the funeral, and had something intrusted

to him to say publicly before he left the churchyard, now came forward,

and asked the elder brother why he spake not regarding this matter. He

saw that there was something of a cold and sullen pride rising up in his

heart—for not easily may any man hope to dismiss from the chamber of his

heart even the vilest guest, if once cherished there. With a solemn and

almost severe air, he looked upon the relenting man, and then, changing

his countenance into serenity, said gently,—

Behold how good a thing it is,

And how becoming well,

Together such as brethren are

In unity to dwell.

The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of a natural

sentiment, quite overcame a heart in which many kind, if not warm,

affections dwelt; and the man thus appealed to bowed down his head and

wept.

“Give me your hand, brother;” and it was given, while a murmur of

satisfaction arose from all present, and all hearts felt kindlier and

more humanely towards each other.

As the brothers stood fervently, but composedly, grasping each other’s

hands, in the little hollow that lay between the grave of their mother,

long since dead, and that of their father, whose shroud was haply not

yet still from the fall of dust to dust, the minister stood beside them

with a pleasant countenance, and said, “I must fulfil the promise I made

to your father on his deathbed. I must read to you a few words which his

hand wrote at an hour when his tongue denied its office. I must not say

that you did your duty to your old father; for did he not often beseech

you, apart from one another, to be reconciled, for your own sakes as

Christians, for his sake, and for the sake of the mother who bare you,

and, Stephen, who died that you might be born? When the palsy struck him

for the last time, you were both absent, nor was it your fault that you

were not beside the old man when he died. As long as sense continued

with him here, did he think of you two, and of you two alone. Tears were

in his eyes; I saw them there, and on his cheek too, when no breath came

from his lips. But of this no more. He died with this paper in his hand;

and he made me know that I was to read it to you over his grave. I now

obey him:

“‘My sons, if you will let my bones lie quiet in the grave, near the

dust of your mother, depart not from my burial till, in the name of God

and Christ, you promise to love one another as you used to do. Dear

boys, receive my blessing.’”

Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that needed not to be

hidden; and when the brothers had released each other from a long and

sobbing embrace, many went up to them, and in a single word or two

expressed their joy at this perfect reconcilement. The brothers

themselves walked away from the churchyard, arm in arm with the

minister, to the manse. On the following Sabbath they were seen sitting

with their families in the same pew; and it was observed that they read

together off the same Bible when the minister gave out the text, and

that they sang together, taking hold of the same psalm-book. The same

psalm was sung (given out at their own request), of which one verse had

been repeated at their father’s grave; and a larger sum than usual was

on that Sabbath found in the plate for the poor, for Love and Charity

are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and the troubles of

this life, the hearts of the brothers were as one, and in nothing were

they divided.

THE WIDOW’S PREDICTION:

_A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF NAMUR_.

On the morning of the 30th August 1695, just as the sun began to tinge

the dark and blood-stained battlements of Namur, a detachment of

Mackay’s Scottish regiment made their rounds, relieving the last

night-sentinels, and placing those of the morning. As soon as the party

returned to their quarters, and relaxed from the formalities of military

discipline, their leader, a tall, muscular man, of about middle age,

with a keen eye and manly features, though swarthy and embrowned with

toil, and wearing an expression but little akin to the gentle or the

amiable, moved to an angle of the bastion, and, leaning on his spontoon,

fixed an anxious gaze on the rising sun. While he remained in this

position, he was approached by another officer, who, slapping him

roughly on the shoulder, accosted him in these words—

“What, Monteith! are you in a musing mood? Pray, let me have the benefit

of your morning meditations.”

“Sir!” said Monteith, turning hastily round. “Oh! ’tis you, Keppel. What

think you of this morning?”

“Why, that it will be a glorious day for some; and for you and me, I

hope, among others. Do you know that the Elector of Bavaria purposes a

general assault to-day?”

“I might guess as much, from the preparations going on. Well, would it

were to-morrow!”

“Sure you are not afraid, Monteith?”

“Afraid! It is not worth while to quarrel at present; but methinks you,

Keppel, might have spared that word. There are not many men who might

utter it and live.”

“Nay, I meant no offence; yet permit me to say, that your words and

manner are strangely at variance with your usual bearing on a

battle-morn.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Monteith; “and, but that your English prejudices

will refuse assent, it might be accounted for. That sun will rise

to-morrow with equal power and splendour, gilding this earth’s murky

vapours, but I shall not behold his glory.”

“Now, do tell me some soothful narrative of a second-sighted seer,” said

Keppel. “I promise to do my best to believe it. At any rate, I will not

laugh outright, I assure you.”

“I fear not that. It is no matter to excite mirth; and, in truth, I feel

at present strangely inclined to be communicative. Besides, I have a

request to make; and I may as well do something to induce you to grant

it.”

“That I readily will, if in my power,” replied Keppel. “So, proceed with

your story, if you please.”

“Listen attentively, then—and be at once my first and my last confidant.

“Shortly after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, I joined the troop

commanded by Irvine of Bonshaw; and gloriously did we scour the country,

hunting the rebel Covenanters, and acting our pleasure upon man, woman,

and child, person and property. I was then but young, and, for a time,

rather witnessed than acted in the wild and exciting commission which we

so amply discharged. But use is all in all. Ere half-a-dozen years had

sped their round, I was one of the prettiest men in the troop at

everything. It was in the autumn of 1684, as I too well remember, that

we were engaged in beating up the haunts of the Covenanters on the

skirts of Galloway and Ayrshire. A deep mist, which covered the moors

thick as a shroud—friendly at times to the Whigs, but, in the present

instance, their foe—concealed our approach, till we were close upon a

numerous conventicle. We hailed, and bade them stand; but, trusting to

their mosses and glens, they scattered and fled. We pursued in various

directions, pressing hard upon the fugitives. In spite of several

morasses which I had to skirt, and difficult glens to thread, being well

mounted, I gained rapidly on a young mountaineer, who, finding escape by

flight impossible, bent his course to a house at a short distance, as

hoping for shelter there, like a hare to her form. I shouted to him to

stand; he ran on. Again I hailed him; but he heeded not; when, dreading

to lose all trace of him, should he gain the house, I fired. The bullet

took effect. He fell, and his heart’s blood gushed on his father’s

threshold. Just at that instant an aged woman, alarmed by the gallop of

my horse, and the report of the pistol, rushed to the door, and

stumbling, fell upon the body of her dying son. She raised his drooping

head upon her knee, kissed his bloody brow, and screamed aloud, ‘Oh, God

of the widow and the fatherless, have mercy on me!’ One ghastly

convulsive shudder shook all her nerves, and the next moment they were

calm as the steel of my sword; then raising her pale and shrivelled

countenance, every feature of which was fixed in the calm, unearthly

earnestness of utter despair, or perfect resignation, she addressed me,

every word falling distinct and piercing on my ear like dropping

musketry.

“‘And hast thou this day made me a widowed, childless mother? Hast thou

shed the precious blood of this young servant of Jehovah? And canst thou

hope that thy lot will be one of unmingled happiness? Go, red-handed

persecutor! Follow thine evil way! But hear one message of truth from a

feeble and unworthy tongue. Remorse, like a bloodhound, shall dog thy

steps; and the serpent of an evil conscience shall coil around thy

heart. From this hour thou shalt never know peace. Thou shalt seek

death, and long to meet it as a friend; but it shall flee thee. And when

thou shalt begin to love life, and dread death, then shall thine enemy

come upon thee; and thou shalt not escape. Hence to thy bloody comrades,

thou second Cain! Thou accursed and banished from the face of Heaven and

of mercy!—

“‘Foul hag!’ I exclaimed, it would take little to make me send thee to

join thy psalm-singing offspring!’

“‘Well do I know that thou wouldst if thou wert permitted!’ replied she.

‘But go thy way, and bethink thee how thou wilt answer to thy Creator

for this morning’s work!’

“And, ceasing to regard me, she stooped her head over the dead body of

her son. I could endure no more, but wheeled around, and galloped off to

join my companions.

“From that hour, I felt myself a doomed and miserable man. In vain did I

attempt to banish from my mind the deed I had done, and the words I had

heard. In the midst of mirth and revelry, the dying groan of the youth,

and the words of doom spoken by his mother, rung for ever in my ears,

converting the festal board to a scene of carnage and horror, till the

very wine-cup seemed to foam over with hot bubbling gore. Once I

tried—laugh, if you will—I tried to pray; but the clotted locks of the

dying man, and the earnest gaze of the soul-stricken mother, came

betwixt me and Heaven,—my lip faltered—my breath stopped—my very soul

stood still, for I knew that my victims were in Paradise, and how could

I think of happiness—_I_, their murderer—in one common home with them?

Despair took possession of my whole being. I rushed voluntarily to the

centre of every deadly peril, in hopes to find an end to my misery.

Yourself can bear me witness that I have ever been the first to meet,

the last to retire from, danger. Often, when I heard the battle-signal

given, and when I passed the trench, or stormed the breach, in front of

my troop, it was less to gain applause and promotion than to provoke the

encounter of death. ’Twas all in vain. I was doomed not to die, while I

longed for death. And now—”

“Well, by your own account, you run no manner of risk, and at the same

time are proceeding on a rapid career of military success,” said Keppel;

“and, for my life, I cannot see why that should affect you, supposing it

all perfectly true.”

“Because you have not yet heard the whole. But listen a few minutes

longer. During last winter, our division, as you know, was quartered in

Brussels, and was very kindly entertained by the wealthy and

good-natured Flemings. Utterly tired of the heartless dissipation of

life in a camp, I endeavoured to make myself agreeable to my landlord,

that I might obtain a more intimate admission into his family circle. To

this I was the more incited, that I expected some pleasure in the

society of his daughter. In all I succeeded to my wish. I became quite a

favourite with the old man, and procured ready access to the company of

his child. But I was sufficiently piqued to find, that in spite of all

my gallantry, I could not learn whether I had made any impression upon

the heart of the laughing Fanchon. What peace and playful toying could

not accomplish, war and sorrow did. We were called out of winter

quarters, to commence what was anticipated to be a bloody campaign. I

obtained an interview to take a long and doubtful farewell. In my arms

the weeping girl owned her love, and pledged her hand, should I survive

to return once more to Brussels. Keppel, I am a doomed man; and my doom

is about to be accomplished! Formerly I wished to die; but death fled

me. Now I wish to live; and death will come upon me! I know I shall

never more see Brussels, nor my lovely little Fleming. Wilt thou carry

her my last farewell; and tell her to forget a man who was unworthy of

her love—whose destiny drove him to love, and be beloved, that he might

experience the worst of human wretchedness? You’ll do this for me,

Keppel?”

“If I myself survive, I will. But this is some delusion—some strong

dream. I trust it will not unnerve your arm in the moment of the storm.”

“No! I may die—_must_ die; but it shall be in front of my troop, or in

the middle of the breach. Yet how I long to escape this doom! I have won

enough of glory; I despise pillage and wealth; but I feel my very

heartstrings shrink from the now terrible idea of final dissolution. Oh!

that the fatal hour were past, or that I had still my former eagerness

to die! Keppel, if I dared, I would to-day own myself a coward.”

“Come with me,” said Keppel, “to my quarters. The night air has made you

aguish. The cold fit will yield to a cup of as generous Rhine wine as

ever was drunk on the banks of the Sambre.” Monteith consented, and the

two moved off to partake of the stimulating and substantial comforts of

a soldier’s breakfast in the Netherlands.

It was between one and two in the afternoon. An unusual stillness

reigned in the lines of the besiegers. The garrison remained equally

silent, as watching in deep suspense on what point the storm portended

by this terrible calm would burst. A single piece of artillery was

discharged. Instantly a body of grenadiers rushed from the

intrenchments, struggled over masses of ruins, and mounted the breach.

The shock was dreadful. Man strove with man, and blow succeeded to blow,

with fierce and breathless energy. The English reached the summit, but

were almost immediately beaten back, leaving numbers of their bravest

grovelling among the blackened fragments. Their leader, Lord Cutts, had

himself received a dangerous wound in the head; but disregarding it, he

selected two hundred men from Mackay’s regiment, and putting them under

the command of Lieutenants Cockle and Monteith, sent them to restore the

fortunes of the assault. Their charge was irresistible. Led on by

Monteith, who displayed a wild and frantic desperation, rather than

bravery, they broke through all impediments, drove the French from the

covered way, seized on one of the batteries, and turned the cannon

against the enemy. To enable them to maintain this advantage, they were

reinforced by parties from other divisions. Keppel, advancing in one of

those parties, discovered the mangled form of his friend Monteith, lying

on heaps of the enemy on the very summit of the captured battery. He

attempted to raise the seemingly lifeless body. Monteith opened his

eyes,—“Save me!” he cried; “save me! I will not die! I dare not—I must

not die!”

It were too horrid to specify the ghastly nature of the mortal wounds

which had torn and disfigured his frame. To live was impossible. Yet

Keppel strove to render him some assistance, were it but to soothe his

parting spirit. Again he opened his glazing eyes,—“I will resist thee to

the last!” he cried, in a raving delirium. “I killed him but in the

discharge of my duty. What worse was I than others? Poor consolation

now! The doom—the doom! I cannot—dare not—must not—_will not_ die!” And

while the vain words were gurgling in his throat, his head sunk back on

the body of a slaughtered foe, and his unwilling spirit forsook his

shattered body.—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

THE LADY OF WARISTOUN.

The estate of Waristoun, near Edinburgh, now partly covered by the

extended streets of the metropolis on its northern side, is remarkable

in local history for having belonged to a gentleman, who in the year

1600, was cruelly murdered at the instigation of his wife. This

unfortunate lady, whose name was Jean Livingstone, was descended from a

respectable ancestry, being the daughter of Livingstone, the laird of

Dunipace, in Stirlingshire, and at an early age was married to John

Kincaid, the laird of Waristoun, who, it is believed, was considerably

more advanced in years than herself. It is probable that this disparity

of age laid the foundation of much domestic strife, and led to the

tragical event now to be noticed. The ill-fated marriage and its results

form the subject of an old Scottish ballad, in which the proximate cause

of the murder is said to have been a quarrel at the dinner-table:

It was at dinner as they sat,

And when they drank the wine,

How happy were the laird and lady

Of bonny Waristoun!

But he has spoken a word in jest;

Her answer was not good;

And he has thrown a plate at her,

Made her mouth gush with blude.

Whether owing to such a circumstance as is here alluded to, or a bite

which the laird is said to have inflicted upon her arm, is immaterial;

the lady, who appeared to have been unable to restrain her malignant

passions, conceived the diabolical design of having her husband

assassinated. There was something extraordinary in the deliberation with

which this wretched woman approached the awful gulf of crime. Having

resolved on the means to be employed in the murder, she sent for a

quondam servant of her father, Robert Weir, who lived in the

neighbouring city. He came to the place of Waristoun, to see her; but it

appeares her resolution failed, and he was not admitted. She again sent

for him, and he again went. Again he was not admitted. At length, on his

being called a third time, he was introduced to her presence. Before

this time she had found an accomplice in the nurse of her child. It was

then arranged that Weir should be concealed in a cellar till the dead of

night, when he should come forth, and proceed to destroy the laird as he

lay in his chamber. The bloody tragedy was acted precisely in accordance

with this plan. Weir was brought up at midnight from the cellar to the

hall by the lady herself, and afterwards went forward alone to the

laird’s bedroom. As he proceeded to his bloody work, she retired to her

bed, to wait the intelligence of her husband’s murder. When Weir entered

the chamber, Waristoun awoke with the noise, and leant inquiringly over

the bed. The murderer then leapt upon him. The unhappy man uttered a

great cry. Weir gave him some severe blows on vital parts, particularly

one on the flank vein. But as the laird was still able to cry out, he at

length saw fit to take more effective measures. He seized him by the

throat with both hands, and, compressing that part with all his force,

succeeded, after a few minutes, in depriving him of life.

When the lady heard her husband’s first death-shout, she leapt out of

bed, in an agony of mingled horror and repentance, and descended to the

hall; but she made no effort to countermand her mission of destruction.

She waited patiently till Weir came down to inform her that all was

over. Weir made an immediate escape from justice, but Lady Waristoun and

the nurse were apprehended before the deed was half-a-day old. Being

caught, as the Scottish law terms it, “red-hand,”—that is, while still

bearing unequivocal marks of guilt,—they were immediately tried by the

magistrates of Edinburgh, and sentenced to be strangled and burnt at the

stake.

The lady’s father, the Laird of Dunipace, who was a favourite of King

James VI., made all the interest he could with his Majesty to procure a

pardon; but all that could be obtained from the king was an order that

the unhappy lady should be executed by decapitation, and that at such an

early hour in the morning as to make the affair as little of a spectacle

as possible. The space intervening between her sentence and her

execution was only thirty-seven hours, yet in that little time Lady

Waristoun contrived to become converted from a blood-stained and

unrelenting murderess into a perfect saint on earth. One of the then

ministers of Edinburgh has left an account of her conversion, which was

lately published, and would be extremely amusing, were it not for the

loathing which seizes the mind on beholding such an instance of

perverted religion. She went to the scaffold with a demeanour which

would have graced a martyr. Her lips were incessant in the utterance of

pious exclamations. She professed herself confident of everlasting

happiness. She even grudged every moment which she spent in this world

as so much taken from that sum of eternal felicity which she was to

enjoy in the next. The people who came to witness the last scene,

instead of having their minds inspired with a salutary horror for her

crime, were engrossed in admiration of her saintly behaviour, and

greedily gathered up every devout word which fell from her tongue. It

would almost appear, from the narrative of the clergyman, that her fate

was rather a matter of envy than of any other feeling. Her execution

took place at four in the morning of the 5th of July, at the Watergate,

near Holyrood-house; and at the same hour her nurse was burned on the

Castlehill. It is some gratification to know that the actual murderer,

Weir, was eventually seized and executed, though not till four years

afterwards.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1832.

A TALE OF PENTLAND.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”

Mr John Haliday having been in hiding on the hills, after the battle of

Pentland, became impatient to hear news concerning the sufferings of his

brethren who had been in arms; and in particular, if there were any

troops scouring the district in which he had found shelter. Accordingly,

he left his hiding-place in the evening, and travelled towards the

valley until about midnight, when, coming to the house of Gabriel

Johnstone, and perceiving a light, he determined on entering, as he knew

him to be a devout man, and one much concerned about the sufferings of

the Church of Scotland.

Mr Haliday, however, approached the house with great caution, for he

rather wondered why there should be a light there at midnight, while at

the same time he neither heard psalms singing nor the accents of prayer.

So, casting off his heavy shoes, for fear of making a noise, he stole

softly up to the little window from whence the light beamed, and peeped

in, where he saw, not Johnstone, but another man, whom he did not know,

in the very act of cutting a soldier’s throat, while Johnstone’s

daughter, a comely girl, about twenty years of age, was standing

deliberately by, and holding the candle to him.

Haliday was seized with an inexpressible terror; for the floor was all

blood, and the man was struggling in the agonies of death, and from his

dress he appeared to have been a cavalier of some distinction. So

completely was the Covenanter overcome with horror, that he turned and

fled from the house with all his might. So much had Haliday been

confounded that he even forgot to lift his shoes, but fled without them;

and he had not run above half a bowshot before he came upon two men

hastening to the house of Gabriel Johnstone. As soon as they perceived

him running towards them they fled, and he pursued them; for when he saw

them so ready to take alarm, he was sure they were some of the

persecuted race, and tried eagerly to overtake them, exerting his utmost

speed, and calling on them to stop. All this only made them run faster;

and when they came to a feal-dyke they separated, and ran different

ways, and he soon thereafter lost sight of them both.

This house, where Johnstone lived, is said to have been in a lonely

concealed dell, not far from West Linton, in what direction I do not

know, but it was towards that village that Haliday fled, not knowing

whether he went, till he came to the houses. Having no acquaintances

here whom he durst venture to call up, and the morning having set in

frosty, he began to conceive that it was absolutely necessary for him to

return to the house of Gabriel Johnstone, and try to regain his shoes,

as he little knew when or where it might be in his power to get another

pair. Accordingly, he hasted back by a nearer path, and coming to the

place before it was day, found his shoes. At the same time he heard a

fierce contention within the house, but as there seemed to be a watch he

durst not approach it, but again made his escape.

Having brought some victuals along with him, he did not return to his

hiding-place that day, which was in a wild height, south of Biggar, but

remained in the moss of Craigengaur; and as soon as it drew dark,

descended again into the valley. Again he perceived a light in the

distance, where he thought no light should have been. But he went

towards it, and as he approached he heard the melody of psalm-singing

issuing from the place, and floating far on the still breeze of the

night. He hurried to the spot, and found the reverend and devout Mr

Livingston, in the act of divine worship, in an old void barn on the

lands of Slipperfield, with a great number of serious and pious people,

who were all much affected both by his prayers and discourse.

After the worship was ended, Haliday made up to the minister, among many

others, to congratulate him on the splendour of his discourse, and

implore “a further supply of the same milk of redeeming grace, with

which they found their souls nourished, cherished, and exalted.” The

good man complied with the request, and appointed another meeting at the

same place on a future night.

Haliday having been formerly well acquainted with the preacher, convoyed

him on his way home, where they condoled with one another on the

hardness of their lots; and Haliday told him of the scene he had

witnessed at the house of Gabriel Johnstone. The heart of the good

minister was wrung with grief, and he deplored the madness and malice of

the people who had committed an act that would bring down tenfold

vengeance on the heads of the whole persecuted race. At length it was

resolved between them that, as soon as it was day, they would go and

reconnoitre, and if they found the case of the aggravated nature they

suspected, they would themselves be the first to expose it, and give the

perpetrators up to justice.

Accordingly, next morning they took another man into the secret, a

William Rankin, one of Mr Livingston’s elders, and the three went away

to Johnstone’s house, to investigate the case of the cavalier’s murder;

but there was a guard of three armed men opposed them, and neither

promises nor threatenings, nor all the minister’s eloquence, could

induce them to give way one inch. The men advised the intruders to take

themselves off, lest a worse thing should befall them; and as they

continued to motion them away, with the most impatient gestures, the

kind divine and his associates thought meet to retire, and leave the

matter as it was; and thus was this mysterious affair hushed up in

silence and darkness for that time, no tongue having been heard to

mention it further than as above recited. The three armed men were all

unknown to the others, but Haliday observed that one of them was the

very youth whom he saw cutting off the soldier’s head with a knife.

The rage and cruelty of the Popish party seemed to gather new virulence

every day, influencing all the counsels of the king; and the persecution

of the Nonconformists was proportionably severe. One new act of council

was issued after another, all tending to root the Covenanters out of

Scotland, but it had only the effect of making their tenets still dearer

to them. The longed-for night of the meeting in the old hay-barn at

length arrived, and it was attended by a still greater number than on

the night preceding. A more motley group can hardly be conceived than

appeared in the barn that night, and the lamps being weak and dim

rendered the appearance of the assembly still more striking. It was,

however, observed that about the middle of the service a number of

fellows came in with broad slouch bonnets, and watch-coats or cloaks

about them, who placed themselves in equal divisions at the two doors,

and remained without uncovering their heads, two of them being busily

engaged taking notes. Before Mr Livingston began the last prayer,

however, he desired the men to uncover, which they did, and the service

went on to the end; but no sooner had the minister pronounced the word

_Amen_, than the group of late comers threw off their cloaks, and

drawing out swords and pistols, their commander, one General Drummond,

charged the whole congregation in the king’s name to surrender.

A scene of the utmost confusion ensued. The lights being extinguished,

many of the young men burst through the roof of the old barn in every

direction, and though many shots were fired at them in the dark, great

numbers escaped; but Mr Livingston and other eleven were retained

prisoners, and conveyed to Edinburgh, where they were examined before

the council and cast into prison. Among the prisoners were Mr Haliday

and the identical young man whom he had seen in the act of murdering the

cavalier, and who turned out to be a Mr John Lindsay, from Edinburgh,

who had been at the battle of Pentland, and in hiding afterwards.

Great was the lamentation for the loss of Mr Livingston, who was so

highly esteemed by his hearers. The short extracts from his sermons in

the barn, that were produced against him on his trial, prove him to have

been a man endowed with talents somewhat above the greater part of his

contemporaries. His text that night it appears had been taken from

Genesis:—“And God saw the wickedness of man that it was great in the

earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only

evil continually.” One of the quoted passages concludes thus:—

“Let us join together in breaking the bands of the oppressors, and

casting their cords from us. As for myself, as a member of this poor

persecuted Church of Scotland, and an unworthy minister of it, I hereby

call upon you all, in the name of God, to set your faces, your hearts,

and your hands against all such acts, which are or shall be passed

against the covenanted work of reformation in this kingdom; that we here

declare ourselves free of the guilt of them, and pray that God may put

this in record in heaven.”

These words having been sworn to, and Mr Livingston not denying them, a

sharp debate arose in the council what punishment to award. The king’s

advocate urged the utility of sending him forthwith to the gallows; but

some friends in the council got his sentence commuted to banishment; and

he was accordingly banished the kingdom. Six more, against whom nothing

could be proven farther than their having been present at a conventicle,

were sentenced to imprisonment for two months; among this number,

Haliday was one. The other five were condemned to be executed at the

cross of Edinburgh, on the 14th of December following; and among this

last unhappy number was Mr John Lindsay.

Haliday now tried all the means he could devise to gain an interview

with Lindsay, to have some explanation of the extraordinary scene he had

witnessed in the cottage at midnight, for it had made a fearful

impression upon his mind, and he never could get rid of it for a moment;

having still in his mind’s eye a beautiful country maiden standing with

a pleased face, holding a candle, and Lindsay in the meantime at his

horrid task. His endeavours, however, were all in vain, for they were in

different prisons, and the jailer paid no attention to his requests. But

there was a gentleman in the privy council that year, whose name, I

think, was Gilmour, to whose candour Haliday conceived that both he and

some of his associates owed their lives. To this gentleman, therefore,

he applied by letter, requesting a private interview with him, as he had

a singular instance of barbarity to communicate, which it would be well

to inquire into while the possibility of doing so remained, for the

access to it would soon be sealed for ever. The gentleman attended

immediately, and Haliday revealed to him the circumstances previously

mentioned, stating that the murderer now lay in the Tolbooth jail, under

sentence of death.

Gilmour appeared much interested, as well as astonished at the

narrative, and taking out a note-book, he looked over some dates, and

then observed—“This date of yours tallies exactly with one of my own,

relating to an incident of the same sort; but the circumstances narrated

are so different, that I must conceive either that you are mistaken, or

that you are trumping up this story to screen some other guilty person

or persons.”

Haliday disclaimed all such motives, and persevered in his attestations.

Gilmour then took him along with him to the Tolbooth prison, where the

two were admitted to a private interview with the prisoner, and there

charged him with the crime of murder in such a place and on such a

night; but he denied the whole with disdain. Haliday told him that it

was in vain for him to deny it, for he beheld him in the very act of

perpetrating the murder with his own eyes, while Gabriel Johnstone’s

daughter stood deliberately and held the candle to him.

“Hold your tongue, fellow!” said Lindsay, disdainfully, “for you know

not what you are saying. What a cowardly dog you must be by your own

account! If you saw me murdering a gentleman cavalier, why did you not

rush in to his assistance?”

“I could not have saved the gentleman then,” said Haliday, “and I

thought it not meet to intermeddle in such a scene of blood.”

“It was as well for you that you did not,” said Lindsay.

“Then you acknowledge being in the cottage of the dell that night?” said

Gilmour.

“And if I was, what is that to you? Or what is it now to me or any

person? I _was_ there on the night specified; but I am ashamed of the

part I there acted, and am now well requited for it. Yes, requited as I

ought to be, so let it rest; for not one syllable of the transaction

shall any one hear from me.”

Thus they were obliged to leave the prisoner, and forthwith Gilmour led

Haliday up a stair to a lodging in the Parliament Square, where they

found a gentleman lying sick in bed, to whom Mr Gilmour said, after

inquiring after his health, “Brother Robert, I conceive that we two have

found out the young man who saved your life at the cottage among the

mountains.”

“I would give the half that I possess that this were true,” said the

sick gentleman. “Who or where is he?”

“If I am right in my conjecture,” said the privy councillor, “he is

lying in the Tolbooth jail, under sentence of death, and has but a few

days to live. But tell me, brother, could you know him, or have you any

recollection of his appearance?”

“Alas! I have none,” said the other, mournfully, “for I was insensible,

through the loss of blood, the whole time I was under his protection;

and if I ever heard his name I have lost it, the whole of that period

being a total blank in my memory. But he must be a hero in the first

rank; and therefore, oh, my dear brother, save him whatever his crime

may be.”

“His life is justly forfeited to the laws of his country, brother,” said

Gilmour, “and he must die with the rest.”

“He shall not die with the rest if I should die for him,” cried the sick

man, vehemently. “I will move heaven and earth before my brave deliverer

shall die like a felon.”

“Calm yourself, brother, and trust that part to me,” said Gilmour. “I

think my influence saved the life of this gentleman, as well as the

lives of some others, and it was all on account of the feeling of

respect I had for the party, one of whom, or, rather, two of whom, acted

such a noble and distinguished part toward you. But pray, undeceive this

gentleman by narrating the facts to him, in which he cannot fail to be

interested.” The sick man, whose name, if I remember aright, was Captain

Robert Gilmour, of the volunteers, then proceeded as follows:—

“There having been high rewards offered for the apprehension of some

south-country gentlemen, whose correspondence with Mr Welch, and some

other of the fanatics, had been intercepted, I took advantage of

information I obtained regarding the place of their retreat, and set

out, certain of apprehending two of them at least.

“Accordingly, I went off one morning about the beginning of November,

with only five followers, well armed and mounted. We left Gilmerton long

before it was light, and having a trusty guide, rode straight to their

hiding-place, where we did not arrive till towards the evening, when we

started them. They were seven in number, and were armed with swords and

bludgeons; but, being apprized of our approach, they fled from us, and

took shelter in a morass, into which it was impossible to follow them on

horseback. But perceiving three more men on another hill, I thought

there was no time to lose, so giving one of my men our horses to hold,

the rest of us advanced into the morass with drawn swords and loaded

horse-pistols. I called to them to surrender, but they stood upon their

guard, determined on resistance; and just when we were involved to the

knees in the mire of the morass, they broke in upon us, pell-mell, and

for about two minutes the engagement was very sharp. There was an old

man struck me a terrible blow with a bludgeon, and was just about to

repeat it, when I brought him down with a shot from my pistol. A young

fellow then ran at me with his sword, and as I still stuck in the moss,

I could not ward the blow, so that he got a fair stroke at my neck,

meaning, without doubt, to cut off my head; and he would have done it

had his sword been sharp. As it was, he cut it to the bone, and opened

one of the jugular veins. I fell; but my men firing a volley in their

faces, at that moment they fled. It seems we did the same, without loss

of time; for I must now take my narrative from the report of others, as

I remember no more that passed. My men bore me on their arms to our

horses, and then mounted and fled, trying all that they could to stanch

the bleeding of my wound. But perceiving a party coming down a hill, as

with the intent of cutting off their retreat, and losing all hopes of

saving my life, they carried me into a cottage in a wild lonely retreat,

commended me to the care of the inmates; and after telling them my name,

and in what manner I had received my death wound, they thought proper to

provide for their own safety, and so escaped.

“The only inmates of that lonely house, at least at that present time,

were a lover and his mistress, but intercommuned Whigs; and when my men

left me on the floor, the blood, which they had hitherto restrained in

part, burst out afresh and deluged the floor. The young man said it was

best to put me out of my pain, but the girl wept and prayed him rather

to render me some assistance. ‘Oh, Johnny, man, how can you speak that

gate?’ cried she. ‘Suppose he be our mortal enemy, he is aye ane o’

God’s creatures, an’ has a soul to be saved as well as either you or me;

and a soldier is obliged to do as he is bidden. Now Johnny, ye ken ye

were learned to be a doctor o’ physic; wad ye no rather try to stop the

bleeding, and save the young officer’s life, as either kill him, or let

him bleed to death on our floor, when the blame o’ the murder might fa’

on us!’

“‘Now, the blessing of heaven light on your head, my dear Sally!’ said

the lover, ‘for you have spoken the very sentiments of my heart; and,

since it is your desire, though we should both rue it, I here vow to you

that I will not only endeavour to save his life, but I will defend it

against our own party to the last drop of my blood.’

“He then began, and, in spite of my feeble struggles, who knew not

either what I was doing or suffering, sewed up the hideous gash in my

throat and neck, tying every stitch by itself; and the house not being

able to produce a pair of scissors, it seems that he cut off all the

odds and ends of the stitching with a large sharp gully knife, and it

was likely to have been during the operation that this gentleman chanced

to look in at the window. He then bathed the wound for an hour with

cloths dipped in cold water, dressed it with plaster of wood-betony, and

put me to bed, expressing to his sweetheart the most vivid hopes of my

recovery.

“These operations were scarcely finished when the maid’s two brothers

came home from their hiding-place; and it seems they would have been

there much sooner had not this gentleman given them chase in the

contrary direction. They, seeing the floor all covered with blood,

inquired the cause with wild trepidation of manner. Their sister was the

first to inform them of what had happened, on which both the young men

gripped to their weapons, and the eldest, Samuel, cried out with the

vehemence of a maniac, ‘Blessed be the righteous avenger of blood! Hoo!

Is it then true that the Lord hath delivered our greatest enemy into our

hands!’ ‘Hold, hold, dearest brother!’ cried the maid, spreading out her

arms before him. ‘Would you kill a helpless young man, lying in a state

of insensibility! What! although the Almighty hath put his life in your

hand, will He not require the blood of you, shed in such a base and

cowardly way?’

“‘Hold your peace, foolish girl,’ cried he, in the same furious strain.

‘I tell you, if he had a thousand lives I would sacrifice them all this

moment! Wo be to this old rusty and fizenless sword that did not sever

his head from his body when I had a fair chance in the open field!

Nevertheless he shall die; for you do not yet know that he hath, within

these few hours, murdered our father, whose blood is yet warm around him

on the bleak height.’

“‘Oh! merciful heaven! killed our father!’ screamed the girl, and

flinging herself down on the resting-chair, she fainted away. The two

brothers regarded not, but with their bared weapons made towards the

closet, intent on my blood, and both vowing I should die if I had a

thousand lives. The stranger interfered, and thrust himself into the

closet door before them, swearing that, before they committed so

cowardly a murder they should first make their way through his body.

“Samuel retreated one step to have full sway for his weapon, and the

fury depicted on his countenance proved his determination. But in a

moment his gallant opponent closed with him, and holding up his wrist

with his left hand, he with the right bestowed on him a blow with such

energy that he fell flat on the floor among the soldier’s blood. The

youngest then ran on their antagonist with his sword and wounded him,

but the next moment he was lying beside his brother. As soon as her

brothers came fairly to their senses, the young woman and her lover

began and expostulated with them, at great length, on the impropriety

and unmanliness of the attempt, until they became all of one mind, and

the two brothers agreed to join in the defence of the wounded gentleman,

from all of their own party, until he was rescued by his friends, which

they did. But it was the maid’s simple eloquence that finally prevailed

with the fierce Covenanters.

“When my brothers came at last, with a number of my men, and took me

away, the only thing I remember seeing in the house was the corpse of

the old man whom I had shot, and the beautiful girl standing weeping

over the body; and certainly my heart smote me in such a manner that I

would not experience the same feeling again for the highest of this

world’s benefits. That comely young maiden, and her brave intrepid

lover, it would be the utmost ingratitude in me, or in any of my family,

ever to forget; for it is scarcely possible that a man can ever be again

in the same circumstances as I was, having been preserved from death in

the house of the man whom my hand had just deprived of life.”

Just as he ended, the sick nurse peeped in, which she had done several

times before, and said, “Will your honour soon be disengaged, d’ye

think? for ye see because there’s a lass wanting till speak till ye.”

“A lass, nurse? what lass can have any business with me? what is she

like?”

“Oo, ’deed, sir, the lass is weel enough for that part o’t, but she may

be nae better than she should be for a’ that; ye ken, I’se no answer for

that, for ye see because “like is an ill mark”; but she has been aften

up, speiring after ye, an’ gude troth she’s fairly in nettle-earnest

now, for she winna gang awa till she see your honour.”

The nurse being desired to show her in, a comely girl entered, with a

timid step, and seemed ready to faint with trepidation. She had a mantle

on, and a hood that covered much of her face. The privy councillor spoke

to her, desiring her to come forward and say her errand, on which she

said that “she only wanted a preevat word wi’ the captain, if he was

that weel as to speak to ane,” He looked over the bed, and desired her

to say on, for that gentleman was his brother, from whom he kept no

secrets. After a hard struggle with her diffidence, but, on the other

hand, prompted by the urgency of the case, she at last got out, “I’m

unco glad to see you sae weel comed round again, though I daresay ye’ll

maybe no ken wha I am. But it was me that nursed ye, an’ took care o’ ye

in our house, when your head was amaist cuttit off.”

There was not another word required to draw forth the most ardent

expressions of kindness from the two brothers, on which the poor girl

took courage, and, after several showers of tears, she said, with many

bitter sobs, “There’s a poor lad wha, in my humble opinion, saved your

life; an’ wha is just gaun to be hanged the day after the morn. I wad

unco fain beg your honour’s interest to get his life spared.”

“Say not another word, my dear good girl,” said the councillor; “for

though I hardly know how I can intercede for a rebel who has taken up

arms against the government, yet, for your sake and his, my best

interest shall be exerted.”

“Oh, ye maun just say, sir, that the poor Whigs were driven to

desperation, and that this young man was misled by others in the fervour

and enthusiasm of youth. What else can ye say? But ye’re good—oh, ye’re

very good! and on my knees I beg that ye winna lose ony time, for indeed

there is nae time to lose!”

The councillor lifted her kindly by both hands, and desired her to stay

with his brother’s nurse till his return, on which he went away to the

president, and in half-an-hour returned with a respite for the convict,

John Lindsay, for three days, which he gave to the girl, along with an

order for her admittance to the prisoner. She thanked him with the tears

in her eyes, but added, “Oh, sir, will he and I then be obliged to part

for ever at the end of three days?”

“Keep up your heart, and encourage your lover,” said he, “and meet me

here again, on Thursday, at this same hour, for, till the council meet,

nothing further than this can be obtained.”

It may well be conceived how much the poor forlorn prisoner was

astonished when his own beloved Sally entered to him with a reprieve in

her hand, and how much his whole soul dilated when, on the Thursday

following, she presented him with a free pardon. They were afterwards

married, when the Gilmours took them under their protection. Lindsay

became a highly qualified surgeon, and the descendants of this intrepid

youth occupy respectable situations in Edinburgh to the present day.

GRAYSTEEL:

_A TRADITIONARY STORY OF CAITHNESS_.

In a beautiful valley in the highlands of Caithness, lies embosomed a

small mountain tarn, called the Loch of Ranag. The hill of Bencheildt,

which ascends abruptly from the water’s edge, protects it on the north.

On the south it is overlooked by a chain of lofty mountains,

individually named Scarabine, Morven, and the Pap, which form a natural

barrier betwixt Sutherland and Caithness. Morven, the highest in the

range, is nearly two thousand feet above the level of the sea, and turns

up conspicuously over the neighbouring summits, like a huge pyramid. The

extensive wild lying between this magnificent chain of hills and Ranag,

is clothed in the autumnal season with rich purple heather; and here the

plover and the grouse, the denizens of the solitary waste, live

unmolested, except by the murderous gun of the sportsman. Near the north

edge of the loch to which we have just alluded, there is a small island,

on which may be still seen the ruins of an old keep or castle. The last

proprietor of this fortalice is said to have been a noted freebooter of

the name of Graysteel, who kept the whole county in alarm by his

predatory incursions from the Ord to Duncansbay Head, and, like Rob Roy

and others of the same stamp, rigorously exacted “black mail,” or

protection money. Tradition also reports, that, besides being possessed

of great bodily strength, he was an expert swordsman, and a person of

such a jealous and tyrannical disposition, that none durst venture to

hunt or shoot on his grounds, without being challenged to single combat;

and it may be added, that none whom he encountered trespassing in this

way ever escaped alive out of his hands. It happened that one of the

family of Rollo, while pursuing his sport in the direction, one day

unfortunately encroached on the sacred property of the robber. Being

informed by some of his retainers that a stranger was hunting on the

west side of the lake, Graysteel immediately sallied forth, and, running

up towards the sportsman with menacing looks and gestures, gave him the

accustomed challenge. Rollo saw he had no alternative but to give him

combat, and being a high-spirited young man, he instantly drew his

sword; and, although he defended himself for some time with great skill

and courage, it is needless to say that he sank at last, mortally

wounded, under the more powerful arm of his antagonist. The ruffian

afterwards stripped the dead body of every thing that was of any value,

and then threw it into the loch.

The account of this melancholy occurrence, as soon as it reached the

family and relatives of the unfortunate youth, plunged them into the

deepest distress; but none did it inspire with more poignant regret than

the young laird of Durie, who was his bosom friend, and had just been

affianced to his sister, a very beautiful and interesting girl of

sixteen. The moment he heard of Rollo’s tragical death, he determined to

avenge it, although he knew he had little chance of surviving a personal

encounter with such a desperado as Graysteel. Accordingly, having

furnished himself with a good Highland broadsword, and without

communicating his intention to any one, he set off for the residence of

the freebooter. Nor was the route he had to take, any more than the

occasion of the journey, agreeable. A trackless moor, of some miles in

extent, lay between him and Ranag, so very bleak and barren, that, in

the words of the poet,

The solitary bee

Flew there on restless wing,

Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.

He had not gone far, however, when he was overtaken by a severe storm,

which rendered it impossible for him to continue his journey. The wind,

which blew at times with irresistible fury, dashed the rain in his face,

mingled with hail, and howled like a maniac on the naked moor. Clouds of

turbid vapour, issuing, as it were, from a vast furnace, hurried across

the sky; and now and then the rolling of thunder, while it

prognosticated a continuance of the storm, added not a little to its

terrors. Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain, our traveller

began anxiously to look around him for some place of shelter. At length,

to his great joy, he espied, a few hundred yards distant, a small

solitary cottage, situated on the edge of the moor. Thither he

immediately directed his steps, and, on entering, found its sole

occupant to be a poor aged widow, who lived upon the gratuitous bounty

of the public. There was something, however, in her appearance, though

bent down with years and infirmities, that spoke of better days. On a

small stool beside her lay the Bible, which she seemed to have been just

reading. She welcomed in the stranger with a look of much cheerfulness,

and kindly offered him such accommodation for the night as her scanty

means could afford. As the storm continued to rage with unabated

violence, Durie gladly accepted the proffered hospitality; and, in the

meantime, the venerable hostess did all in her power to make him

comfortable, by putting an additional peat or two on the hearth, and

furnishing him with something to eat. On examining the scanty furniture

of the apartment, which was now more distinctly seen by the light of a

blazing turf-fire, he observed, in one corner, a very uncommon-looking

sword, with the appearance of which he was not a little struck. The hilt

and blade were covered over with a variety of strange characters and

fantastic devices, plainly indicating that it was of foreign

manufacture, and belonged to a remote period. His curiosity was

powerfully excited; and on asking the old woman how she came by such a

magnificent weapon, she gave him the following particulars regarding it.

The sword, which had originally belonged to a noble Saracen, was that of

her deceased husband, who had been a volunteer in the regiment of

Highlanders that had gone over to Holland under the command of Lord

Reay. He had received it as a present from a Polish Jew, whose life he

had saved in a moment of extreme danger. She, moreover, informed him

that her husband, while on his deathbed, had strictly enjoined her not

to sell or dispose of it in any way, but to preserve it as an heirloom

of the family. On getting this account of the sword, Durie told the

woman who he was, and the errand on which he was going, and begged of

her to give him the use of it for a single day. After much entreaty, she

at last agreed to give it, on the condition that it should be strictly

returned.

The storm, which was short-lived in proportion to its violence,

gradually died away towards morning; and at the first peep of dawn our

hero, who burned with impatience to measure weapons with the murderer of

his friend, was up, and, with his enchanted sword firmly girt on his

side, pursuing his solitary route across the moors. His spirits were now

buoyant with hope; and he beheld with a feeling of sympathy the

universal gladness which, after the late convulsion of its elements, was

diffused over the face of nature. Already the “bird of the wilderness”

sang blithely overhead, whilst the beams of a brilliant morning sun were

beginning to dissipate the mists which lay thick and heavy upon the

hills. Our traveller was not long in reaching the brow of Benchieldt;

and scarcely had he descended half way down the side fronting the

castle, when he was met by Graysteel, who, as usual, challenged him for

intruding on his grounds, and desired him to draw and defend himself.

“Villain!” cried Durie, unsheathing his weapon, which flashed in his

hand like the Scandinavian monarch’s celebrated elfin sword—“villain!

you wantonly slew my friend, and you shall this day atone for it with

your heart’s blood!”

The robber chief laughed scornfully at what he considered an empty

bravado, and immediately made a thrust at his opponent, which the latter

parried off with admirable dexterity. A desperate struggle now ensued.

Graysteel fought with the fury of an enraged mastiff; but young Durie

pressed upon him so hard with his never-failing blade, that he was

obliged to give way, and at last received a mortal wound. After this,

the hero of our tale went immediately home, and, having raised a body of

stout followers, proceeded back to Ranag, took the castle, and nearly

levelled it with the ground.

The _denouement_ of our little story may be anticipated. After a decent

period for mourning had elapsed, Durie led his beautiful bride to the

hymeneal altar. Nor, in the midst of his happiness, did he forget his

good friend, the old woman of the moor. The sword, which had proved so

invaluable an auxiliary to him in the hour of need, he not only returned

to her, but he took her under his protection, and kept her comfortable

for the rest of her days—

Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam

Of setting life shone on her evening hours.

—_John O’Groat Journal_, 1836.

THE BILLETED SOLDIER.

In the autumn of 1803, the Forfar and Kincardine militia,—then an

infantry regiment of about 1000 strong,—_en route_ from the south of

Scotland to Aberdeen, along the coast road, happened to perform the

march between the towns of Montrose and Bervie on a Saturday. The want

of the required accommodation in Bervie for so many men rendered it

necessary that a considerable portion should be billeted in the

adjoining villages of Johnshaven and Gourdon, and on farmers and others

on the line of march. In carrying out this arrangement, it so happened

that one private soldier was billeted on a farmer or crofter of the name

of Lyall, on the estate of East Mathers, situated about a mile

north-west of the village of Johnshaven. David Lyall, gudeman of

Gateside, was a douce, respectable individual, a worthy member, if not

an elder, of the secession church, Johnshaven. His wife, Mrs Lyall,

possessed many of the good qualities of her worthy husband, whom she

highly venerated, and pithily described as being “as gude a man as ever

lay at a woman’s side.” Mrs Lyall was a rigid seceder, a strict

Sabbatarian, stern and rigorous in everything relating to the kirk and

kirk affairs, deeply learned in polemical disquisitions, had a wondrous

“gift of gab,” and by no means allowed the talent to lie idle in a

napkin.

The soldier produced his billet, was kindly received, treated to the

best as regarded bed and board, was communicative, and entered into all

the news of the day with the worthy couple. Everything ran smoothly on

the evening of Saturday, and an agreeable intimacy seemed to be

established in the family; but the horror of Mrs Lyall may be conceived,

when, on looking out in the morning rather early, she saw the soldier

stripped to the shirt, switching, brushing, and scrubbing his clothes on

an eminence in front of the house.

“Get up, David Lyall,” she said, “get up; it ill sets you to be lying

there snoring, an’ that graceless pagan brackin’ the Lord’s day wi’ a’

his might, at oor door.”

David looked up, and quietly composing himself again, said, “The

articles of war, gudewife, the articles of war; puir chiel, he canna

help himsel—he maun do duty Sunday as well as Saturday.”

The soldier, after cleaning his clothes and taking a stroll in the

romantic dell of Denfenella adjoining, returned in time to breakfast,

which was a silent meal. With Mrs Lyall there was only “mony a sad and

sour look,” and on the table being cleared, she placed on it, or rather

thrust, the “big ha’ Bible” immediately in front of the soldier.

“Weel, mistress,” said the soldier, “what book is this?”

“That’s a beuk, lad,” said the gudewife, “that I muckle doubt that you

and the like o’ ye ken unco little about.”

“Perhaps,” was the reply; “we shall see.”

On opening the book the soldier said, “I have seen such a book before.”

“Gin ye’ve seen sic a book before,” said Mrs Lyall, “let’s hear gin ye

can read ony.”

“I don’t mind though I do,” said the soldier, and taking the Bible he

read a chapter that had been marked by Mrs Lyall as one condemnatory of

his seeming disregard of the Sabbath. The reading of the soldier was

perfect.

“There, lad,” said David Lyall, “ye read like a minister.”

“An’ far better than mony ane o’ them,” said the mistress; “but gifts

are no graces,” she continued; “it’s nae the readin’ nor the hearin’

that maks a gude man—na, na, it’s the right and proper application—the

practice, that’s the real thing.”

David saw that “the mistress was aboot to mount her favourite

hobbyhorse,” and cut her lecture short by remarking that “it was time to

make ready for the kirk.”

“Aye, ye’ll gae to the kirk,” said Mrs Lyall, “an’ tak the sodger wi’

ye; and see that ye fesh the sermon hame atween ye, as I am no gaun

mysel the day.”

The soldier acquiesced, and on their way to church Mr Lyall remarked,

among other things, that “the gudewife was, if anything, precise and

conceited about kirk matters an’ keepin’ the Sabbath day, but no that

ill a body, fin fouk had the git o’ her and latten gang a wee thing her

ain git. I keep a calm sough mysel, for the sake o’ peace, as she an’

her neebour wife, Mrs Smith, gudewife o’ Jackston, count themselves the

Jachin an’ Boaz o’ our temple. Ye’ll mind as muckle o’ the sermon as ye

can, as depend upon it she will be speirin’.” The soldier said he would

do his best to satisfy her on that head.

The parish church of Benholm, as well as the secession church of

Johnshaven, were that day filled to overflowing more by red coats than

black. On their return from church, and while dinner was discussing, Mrs

Lyall inquired about the text at David. He told her the text.

“A bonnie text,” she said; “Mr Harper” (the name of the minister) “would

say a hantle upon that; fu did he lay out his discourse?”

“Weel, gudewife,” said David, “I can tell ye little mair aboot it; ye

may speir at the sodger there. I can tell ye he held the killivine

(pencil) gaun to some tune a’ the time.”

“Ye’ve ta’en a note o’ the sermon, lad?” said the mistress. “I will see

it when we get our dinner.”

After dinner, and after the soldier had read the chapter of which the

text formed part, in the same correct and eloquent style as he did in

the morning, Mrs Lyall asked him to “favour her with a sight of the

sermon.” After adjusting her spectacles, Mrs Lyall examined with seeming

seriousness the manuscript, page after page, glancing a look now and

then at the soldier and her husband. She took off her specks, and

handing back the sheets to the soldier, said—

“Weel, lad, ye are the best reader that ever I heard, an’ the warst

writer I ever saw; there’s naething there but dots an’ strokes an’

tirliewhirlies; I canna mak a word o’ sense o’t; ye’ve sairly neglected

yer handwrite—sairly.”

“That may be,” replied the soldier, “but I can assure you the sermon is

all there.”

“Ye can read it yoursel, then,” said the gudewife.

The soldier took the manuscript and read, or rather re-delivered, the

sermon, each head and particular, word for word as Mr Harper had given

it. When he had concluded it, David Lyall, looking triumphantly at the

mistress, said—

“Weel, gudewife, ye’ve gotten the sermon to Amen. Fat think ye o’ that?”

She sat in silent amazement for a considerable time, and at length

ejaculated—“Fat do I think o’ that? Fat do I think o’ that? Fa’ wadna

think o’ that? I may just say this, that I never believed before that a

red coat had sae muckle grace about it, but I’ve been thinkin’, lad,

that ye are no a sodger—at ony rate if ye are ane, ye could be something

else,—I’m doon sure o’ that.”

The soldier stated that he was only a private soldier, that there was

nothing extraordinary in what he had done, that all or nearly all the

men in his regiment could just do the same thing, and that many of them

were better scholars than he pretended to be; and taking from his

knapsack a copy of the Greek New Testament, he laid it before her,

saying that “as she had been so kind as allow him to read her Bible, he

would favour her with a look of his, and hoped that she would now in

turn read for his edification.”

Mrs Lyall examined the volume with deep attention for some time, and

shaking her head, said—

“Na, na, lad; they maun be deeper beuk-learned than me that read that

beuk; yer far ayont my thumb.”

He told her what book it was, employed the afternoon or evening of that

Sabbath in reading, expounding, and giving literal translations of many

of the passages of the New Testament that seemed doubtful or difficult

to Mrs Lyall. She found the soldier equally conversant with all her

theological authors—Bunyan, Baxter, Brown, and Boston, were at his

finger-ends; the origin and history, as well as the fathers, of the

Secession Church were nothing new to him. The soldier conducted family

worship that evening in a most solemn and becoming manner for David

Lyall.

On resuming his march in the morning he was urgently pressed by Mrs

Lyall to accept of some of her country cheer, such as cheese or butter;

in fact, she would have filled his knapsack. A complete revolution had

been effected in her opinion regarding the moral, religious, and

intellectual qualities of soldiers. “I aye took them for an ignorant,

graceless pack, the affscourings o’ creation, but I now see that I have

been far mista’en;” and until the day of her death, which occurred many

years afterwards, she would tolerate no insinuation in her presence to

the prejudice of the profession. When such was attempted in her hearing,

she instantly kindled up with—“Awa wi’ yer lees an’ yer havers, I’ll

hear nane o’ them; there shall nae chield speak ill o’ sodgers in my

presence, na, na. Mony’s the minister that I hae seen in my house,—some

better, some waur,—but nane o’ them had either the wisdom, the learning,

the ready unction, of a gallant single sodger.”

The name of “the gallant single sodger” was Robert Mudie, afterwards

editor of the _Dundee Advertiser_ newspaper.—_Eminent Men of Fife._

BRUNTFIELD:

_A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY_.

The war carried on in Scotland, by the friends and enemies of Queen

Mary, after her departure into England, was productive of an almost

complete dissolution of order, and laid the foundation of many feuds,

which were kept up by private families and individuals long after all

political cause of hostility had ceased. Among the most remarkable

quarrels which history or tradition has recorded as arising out of that

civil broil, I know of none so deeply cherished or accompanied by so

many romantic and peculiar circumstances, as one which took place

between two old families of gentry in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.

Stephen Bruntfield, laird of Craighouse, had been a zealous and

disinterested partisan of the queen. Robert Moubray of Barnbougle was

the friend successively of Murray and Morton, and distinguished himself

very highly in their cause. During the year 1572, when Edinburgh Castle

was maintained by Kirkaldy of Grange in behalf of the queen, Stephen

Bruntfield held out Craighouse in the same interest, and suffered a

siege from a detachment of the forces of the Regent, commanded by the

laird of Barnbougle. The latter baron, a man of fierce and brutal

nature, entered life as a younger brother, and at an early period chose

to cast his fate among the Protestant leaders, with a view of improving

his fortunes. The death of his elder brother in rebellion at Langside

enabled the Regent Murray to reward his services with a grant of the

patrimonial estate, of which he did not scruple to take possession by

the strong hand, to the exclusion of his infant niece, the daughter of

the late proprietor. Some incidents which occurred in the course of the

war had inspired a mutual hatred of the most intense character into the

breasts of Bruntfield and Moubray; and it was therefore with a feeling

of strong personal animosity, as well as of political rancour, that the

latter undertook the task of watching the motions of Bruntfield at

Craighouse. Bruntfield, after holding out for many months, was obliged,

along with his friends in Edinburgh Castle, to yield to the party of the

Regent. Like Kirkaldy and Maitland of Lethington, he surrendered upon a

promise of life and estate; but while his two friends perished, one by

the hand of the executioner, the other by his own hand, he fell a victim

to the sateless spite of his personal enemy, who, in conducting him to

Edinburgh as a prisoner, took fire at some bitter expression on the part

of the captive, and smote him dead upon the spot.

Bruntfield left a widow and three infant sons. The lady of Craighouse

had been an intimate of the unfortunate Mary from her early years; was

educated with her in France, in the Catholic faith; and had left her

court to become the wife of Bruntfield. It was a time calculated to

change the natures of women, as well as of men. The severity with which

her religion was treated in Scotland, the wrongs of her royal mistress,

and finally the sufferings and death of her husband, acting upon a mind

naturally enthusiastic, all conspired to alter the character of Marie

Carmichael, and substitute for the rosy hues of her early years the

gloom of the sepulchre and the penitentiary. She continued, after the

restoration of peace, to reside in the house of her late husband; but

though it was within two miles of the city, she did not for many years

re-appear in public. With no society but that of her children, and the

persons necessary to attend upon them, she mourned in secret over past

events, seldom stirring from a particular apartment, which, in

accordance with a fashion by no means uncommon, she had caused to be

hung with black, and which was solely illuminated by a lamp. In the most

rigorous observances of her faith she was assisted by a priest, whose

occasional visits formed almost the only intercourse which she

maintained with the external world. One strong passion gradually

acquired a complete sway over her mind,—REVENGE,—a passion which the

practice of the age had invested with a conventional respectability, and

which no kind of religious feeling then known was able either to check

or soften. So entirely was she absorbed by this fatal passion, that her

very children at length ceased to have interest or merit in her eyes,

except in so far as they appeared likely to be the means of gratifying

it. One after another, as they reached the age of fourteen, she sent

them to France, in order to be educated; but the accomplishment to which

they were enjoined to direct their principal attention was that of

martial exercise. The eldest, Stephen, returned at eighteen, a strong

and active youth, with a mind of little polish or literary information,

but considered a perfect adept at swordplay. As his mother surveyed his

noble form, a smile stole into the desert of her wan and widowed face,

as a winter sunbeam wanders over a waste of snows. But it was a smile of

more than motherly pride; she was estimating the power which that frame

would have in contending with the murderous Moubray. She was not alone

pleased with the handsome figure of her firstborn child; but she thought

with a fiercer and faster joy upon the appearance which it would make in

the single combat against the slayer of his father. Young Bruntfield,

who, having been from his earliest years trained to the purpose now

contemplated by his mother, rejoiced in the prospect, now lost no time

in preferring before the king a charge of murder against the laird of

Barnbougle, whom he at the same time challenged, according to a custom

then not altogether abrogated, to prove his innocence in single combat.

The king having granted the necessary licence, the fight took place in

the royal park, near the palace; and to the surprise of all assembled,

young Bruntfield fell under the powerful sword of his adversary. The

intelligence was communicated to his mother at Craighouse, where she was

found in her darkened chamber, prostrate before an image of the Virgin.

The priest who had been commissioned to break the news opened his

discourse in a tone intended to prepare her for the worst; but she cut

him short at the very beginning with a frantic exclamation,—“I know what

you would tell—the murderer’s sword has prevailed; and there are now but

two, instead of three, to redress their father’s wrongs!” The melancholy

incident, after the first burst of feeling, seemed only to have

concentrated and increased that passion by which she had been engrossed

for so many years. She appeared to feel that the death of her eldest son

only formed an addition to that debt which it was the sole object of her

existence to see discharged. “Roger,” she said, “will have the death of

his brother, as well as that of his father, to avenge. Animated by such

a double object, his arm can hardly fail to be successful.”

Roger returned about two years after, a still handsomer, more athletic,

and more accomplished youth than his brother. Instead of being daunted

by the fate of Stephen, he burned but the more eagerly to wipe out the

injuries of his house with the blood of Moubray. On his application for

a licence being presented to the court, it was objected by the crown

lawyers that the case had been already closed by _mal fortune_ of the

former challenger. But, while this was the subject of their

deliberation, the applicant caused so much annoyance and fear in the

court circle by the threats which he gave out against the enemy of his

house, that the king, whose inability to procure respect either for

himself or for the law is well-known, thought it best to decide in

favour of his claim. Roger Bruntfield, therefore, was permitted to fight

in barras with Moubray; but the same fortune attended him as that which

had already deprived the widow of her first child. Slipping his foot in

the midst of the combat, he reeled to the ground embarrassed by his

cumbrous armour. Moubray, according to the barbarous practice of the

age, immediately sprang upon and despatched him. “Heaven’s will be

done!” said the widow, when she heard of the fatal incident; “but

_gratias Deo!_ there still remains another chance.”

Henry Bruntfield, the third and last surviving son, had all along been

the favourite of his mother. Though apparently cast in a softer mould

than his two elder brothers, and bearing all the marks of a gentler and

more amiable disposition, he in reality cherished the hope of avenging

his father’s death more deeply in the recesses of his heart, and longed

more ardently to accomplish that deed than any of his brothers. His

mind, naturally susceptible of the softest and tenderest impressions,

had contracted the enthusiasm of his mother’s wish in its strongest

shape; as the fairest garments are capable of the deepest stain. The

intelligence, which reached him in France, of the death of his brothers,

instead of bringing to his heart the alarm and horror which might have

been expected, only braced him to the adventure which he now knew to be

before him. From this period he forsook the elegant learning which he

had heretofore delighted to cultivate. His evenings were spent in poring

over the memoirs of distinguished knights; his days were consumed in the

tilt-yard of the sword-player. In due time he entered the French army,

in order to add to mere science that practical hardihood, the want of

which he conceived to be the cause of the death of his brothers. Though

the sun of chivalry was now declining far in the occident, it was not

yet altogether set. Montmorency was but just dead; Bayard was still

alive,—Bayard, the knight of all others who has merited the motto, “Sans

peur et sans reproche.” Of the lives and actions of such men, Henry

Bruntfield was a devout admirer and imitator. No young knight kept a

firmer seat upon his horse,—none complained less of the severities of

campaigning,—none cherished lady’s love with a fonder, purer, or more

devout sensation. On first being introduced at the court of Henry III.,

he had signalised, as a matter of course, Catherine Moubray, the

disinherited niece of his father’s murderer, who had been educated in a

French convent by her other relatives, and was now provided for in the

household of the queen. The connection of this young lady with the tale

of his own family, and the circumstance of her being a sufferer in

common with himself by the wickedness of one individual, would have been

enough to create a deep interest respecting her in his breast. But when,

in addition to these circumstances, we consider that she was beautiful,

was highly accomplished, and in many other respects qualified to engage

his affections, we can scarcely be surprised that such was the result of

their acquaintance. Upon one point alone did these two interesting

persons ever think differently. Catherine, though inspired by her

friends from infancy with an entire hatred of her cruel relative,

contemplated with fear and aversion the prospect of her lover being

placed against him in deadly combat, and did all in her power to

dissuade him from his purpose. Love, however, was of little avail

against the still more deeply-rooted passion which had previously

occupied his breast. Flowers thrown upon a river might have been as

effectual in staying its course towards the cataract, as the gentle

entreaties of Catherine Moubray in withholding Henry Bruntfield from the

enterprise for which his mother had reared him—for which his brothers

had died—for which he had all along moved and breathed.

At length, accomplished with all the skill which could then be acquired

in arms, glowing with all the earnest feelings of youth, Henry returned

to Scotland. On reaching his mother’s dwelling, she clasped him, in a

transport of varied feeling, to her breast, and for a long time could

only gaze upon his elegant person. “My last and dearest,” she at length

said, “and thou too art to be adventured upon this perilous course! Much

have I bethought me of the purpose which now remains to be accomplished.

I have not been without a sense of dread lest I be only doing that which

is to sink my soul in flames at the day of reckoning; but yet there has

been that which comforts me also. Only yesternight I dreamed that your

father appeared before me. In his hand he held a bow and three goodly

shafts; at a distance appeared the fierce and sanguinary Moubray. He

desired me to shoot the arrows at that arch traitor, and I gladly

obeyed. A first and a second he caught in his hand, broke, and trampled

on with contempt. But the third shaft, which was the fairest and

goodliest of all, pierced his guilty bosom, and he immediately expired.

The revered shade at this gave me an encouraging smile, and withdrew. My

Henry, thou art that _third arrow_, which is at length to avail against

the shedder of our blood. The dream seems a revelation, given especially

that I may have comfort in this enterprise, otherwise so revolting to a

mother’s feelings.”

Young Bruntfield saw that his mother’s wishes had only imposed upon her

reason, but he made no attempt to break the charm by which she was

actuated, being glad, upon any terms, to obtain her sanction for that

adventure to which he was himself impelled by feelings considerably

different. He therefore began, in the most deliberate manner, to take

measures for bringing on the combat with Moubray. The same legal

objections which had stood against the second duel were maintained

against the third; but public feeling was too favourable to the object

to be easily withstood. The laird of Barnbougle, though somewhat past

the bloom of life, was still a powerful and active man, and instead of

expressing any fear to meet this third and more redoubted warrior,

rather longed for a combat which promised, if successful, to make him

one of the most renowned swordsmen of his time. He had also heard of the

attachment which subsisted between Bruntfield and his niece; and in the

contemplation of an alliance which might give some force to the claims

of that lady upon his estate, found a deeper and more selfish reason for

accepting the challenge of his youthful enemy. King James himself

protested against stretching the law of the _per duellum_ so far; but,

sensible that there would be no peace between either the parties or

their adherents till it should be decided in a fair combat, he was fain

to grant the required licence.

The fight was appointed to take place on Cramond Inch, a low grassy

island in the Frith of Forth, near the Castle of Barnbougle. All the

preparations were made in the most approved manner by the young Duke of

Lennox, who had been the friend of Bruntfield in France. On a level

spot, close to the northern beach of the islet, a space was marked off,

and strongly secured by a paling. The spectators, who were almost

exclusively gentlemen (the rabble not being permitted to approach), sat

upon a rising ground beside the enclosure, while the space towards the

sea was quite clear. At one end, surrounded by his friends, stood the

laird of Barnbougle, a huge and ungainly figure, whose features

displayed a mixture of ferocity and hypocrisy, in the highest degree

unpleasing. At the other, also attended by a host of family allies and

friends, stood the gallant Harry Bruntfield, who, if divested of his

armour, might have realised the idea of a winged Mercury. A seat was

erected close beside the barras for the Duke of Lennox and other

courtiers, who were to act as judges; and at a little distance upon the

sea lay a small decked vessel, with a single female figure on board.

After all the proper ceremonies which attended this strange legal custom

had been gone through, the combatants advanced into the centre, and

planting foot to foot, each with his heavy sword in his hand, waited the

command which should let them loose against each other, in a combat

which both knew would only be closed with the death of one or other. The

word being given, the fight commenced. Moubray almost at the first pass

gave his adversary a cut in the right limb, from which the blood was

seen to flow profusely. But Bruntfield was enabled by this mishap to

perceive the trick upon which his adversary chiefly depended, and, by

taking care to avoid it, put Moubray nearly _hors de combat_. The fight

then proceeded for a few minutes, without either gaining the least

advantage over the other. Moubray was able to defend himself pretty

successfully from the cuts and thrusts of his antagonist, but he could

make no impression in return. The question then became one of time. It

was evident that, if no lucky stroke should take effect beforehand, he

who first became fatigued with the exertion would be the victim. Moubray

felt his disadvantage as the elder and bulkier man, and began to fight

desperately and with less caution. One tremendous blow, for which he

seemed to have gathered his last strength, took effect upon Bruntfield,

and brought him upon his knee, in a half-stupified state, but the elder

combatant had no strength to follow up the effort. He reeled towards his

youthful and sinking enemy, and stood for a few moments over him, vainly

endeavouring to raise his weapon for another and final blow. Ere he

could accomplish his wish, Bruntfield recovered sufficient strength to

draw his dagger, and thrust it up to the hilt beneath the breastplate of

his exhausted foe. The murderer of his race instantly lay dead beside

him, and a shout of joy from the spectators hailed him as the victor. At

the same instant a scream of more than earthly note arose from the

vessel anchored near the island; a lady descended from its side into a

boat, and, rowing to the land, rushed up to the bloody scene, where she

fell upon the neck of the conqueror, and pressed him with the most

frantic eagerness to her bosom. The widow of Stephen Bruntfield at

length found the yearnings of twenty years fulfilled,—she saw the

murderer of her husband, the slayer of her two sons, dead on the sward

before her, while there still survived to her as noble a child as ever

blessed a mother’s arms. But the revulsion of feeling produced by the

event was too much for her strength; or, rather, Providence, in its

righteous judgement, had resolved that so unholy a feeling as that of

revenge should not be too signally gratified. She expired in the arms of

her son, murmuring _Nunc dimittis, Domine_, with her latest breath.

The remainder of the tale of Bruntfield may be easily told. After a

decent interval, the young laird of Craighouse married Catherine

Moubray; and as the king saw it right to restore that young lady to a

property originally forfeited for service to his mother, the happiness

of the parties might be considered as complete. A long life of

prosperity and peace was granted to them by the kindness of Heaven; and

at their death they had the satisfaction of enjoying that greatest of

all earthly blessings, the love and respect of a numerous and virtuous

family.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1832.[1]

Footnote 1:

The tale of Bruntfield is founded upon facts alluded to in “Birrel’s

Diary,” “Anderson’s History of Scotland” (MS., Advocates’ Library),

&c.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

“This is the evening on which, a few days ago, we agreed to walk to the

bower at the waterfall, and look at the perfection of a Scottish sunset.

Everything on earth and heaven seems at this hour as beautiful as our

souls could desire. Come then, my sweet Anna, come along, for by the

time we have reached the bower, with your gentle steps, the great bright

orb will be nearly resting its rim on what you call the Ruby Mountain.

Come along, and we can return before the dew has softened a single

ringlet on your fair forehead.” With these words, the happy husband

locked kindly within his own the arm of his young English wife; and even

in the solitude of his unfrequented groves, where no eye but his own now

beheld her, looked with pride on the gracefulness and beauty that seemed

so congenial with the singleness and simplicity of her soul.

They reached the bower just as the western heaven was in all its glory.

To them, while they stood together gazing on that glow of fire that

burns without consuming, and in whose mighty furnace the clouds and the

mountaintops are but as embers, there seemed to exist no sky but that

region of it in which their spirits were entranced. Their eyes saw

it—their souls felt it; but what their eyes saw or their souls felt they

knew not in the mystery of that magnificence. The vast black bars, the

piled-up masses of burnished gold, the beds of softest saffron and

richest purple, lying surrounded with continually fluctuating dyes of

crimson, till the very sun himself was for moments unheeded in the

gorgeousness his light had created; the show of storm, but the feeling

of calm, over all that tumultuous, yet settled world of cloud, that had

come floating silently and majestically together, and yet in one little

hour was to be no more;—what might not beings endowed with a sense of

beauty, and greatness, and love, and fear, and terror, and eternity,

feel when drawing their breath together, and turning their steadfast

eyes on each other’s faces, in such a scene as this?

But from these high and bewildering imaginations, their souls returned

insensibly to the real world in which their life lay; and, still feeling

the presence of that splendid sunset, although now they looked not

towards it, they let their eyes glide, in mere human happiness, over the

surface of the inhabited earth. The green fields, that in all varieties

of form lay stretching out before them, the hedgerows of hawthorn and

sweetbrier, the humble coppices, the stately groves, and, in the

distance, the dark pine-forest loading the mountain side, were all their

own—and so, too, were a hundred cottages, on height or hollow,