The red cross glares on Frazer’s towers,
My love, I dare not stay;
The bugle peals through Lovat’s bowers,
My love, I must away.—_Old Ballad._
We shall now conduct the reader to a shop in the Broadgate, over which
appeared in ancient characters,—
=Patrick Leslie & Samuel Fairtext.=
It is not to be supposed that the street had the same appearance which
it now exhibits; neither are the unsophisticated to imagine that the
shops resembled those of our own times, with lofty roofs, gigantic
windows, mahogany counters, splendid chandeliers, and elegant gas
burners. The windows were not much larger than the loop-holes of a
modern prison; the roof was low and covered with cobwebs, and the goods
exposed for sale were all lying at sixes and sevens. The forepart of the
shop extended about ten feet forward into the street, and was decorated
on the outside with swatches of the various commodities that were to be
sold within. In the back shop, which was nearly as dark as midnight,
were deposited the whole of the goods, except the specimens just
mentioned. In the inmost recess of these penetralia, was Provost Leslie,
with three or four stout fellows, removing, under his command, the goods
in the back shop or warehouse.
“Saunders,” said the provost, “ye’ll tak awa yon silks an’ velvets, and
put them into the vault i’ the dryest—ay, that’s anither flask broken,
ye careless gowk! I’ll set ye about your business gin ye wunna tak mair
tent. As soon’s you get that barrel awa, ye’ll tak down the Prayer-Books
from that shelf, and put up twa or three dozen o’ Confessions o’ Faith.
An’, my little man, ye’ll run up to my lasses, and tell them to leave a’
their wark an’ come down to grease the sword blades, for fear that they
rust in the cellar, an’ syne tell the same to Sammy Fairtext’s maidens,
an’ bring them a’ wi’ you as fast’s ye can.—Ay, Basil, are ye there?
Troth, gentle or semple, ye maun help’s the day. You are a canny lad,
sae try if ye can collect a’ the trinkets and the siller cups and
spoons, and take them up by to my chamber.—Ye ne’er-do-weel! ye haverel,
Sandie Hackit, what garred you spill the wine on that web? Ye needna
mind it now, ye sorrow; it’s nae worth puttin’ out o’ Montrose’s way.”
When Basil Rolland returned from executing his commission, the stranger
whom he had seen on the former day was in the shop, engaged in
conversation with Fairtext. The latter bade Basil conduct him to his
house, whether he himself would follow when he had dispatched some
necessary business. When they were seated, the stranger began—
“Thou hast seen, youth, that the things which I hinted to thee are in
part come to pass. The city is in confusion, the men of war are
discouraged, so that they will assuredly be a prey, and a spoil, and a
derision to their adversaries. What dost thou now intend?”
“What but to join the army of Aboyne, and do battle with my best blood
against these murdering rebels.”
“And what would be thy reward, young man? Thy good sense tells thee that
it is wrong to deprive free-born men of liberty of conscience. You would
fight for your own slavery. Charles is one who regardeth not covenants.
He will reward jugglers and lewd ones, rather than those who have shed
their blood for his wicked house. But he already totters on his throne,
and the day may not be distant when he himself shall cry for mercy from
those whose fathers, mothers, and children he hath slain. If you are
vanquished in the approaching contest, all with you is lost; if
successful, you are nothing the better, except for upholding a
Papistical hierarchy, the raw project of a godless debauchee. Thy
grandfather did battle on the wrong side, and, after his fall at the
battle of Pinkie, the family fell from its former power, which it has
never been able to regain.”
“Let me ask what comfort or reward could I expect by deserting my
friends? The Covenanters have renounced their oath of allegiance, and
have imbrued their hands in their countrymen’s blood. Good can never
follow an enterprise begun by perjury, and continued with carnage.”
“And did not Charles first deliberately break his oath and the covenant
made with the people? The paction was therefore nullified by him, and
could not bind the other party. If they have shed blood, their blood has
been shed; and it was not till every attempt at pacification failed that
they took up the carnal weapon. And, for comfort, I have long supported
this cause, and I can look back with greater pleasure to my conduct in
this respect than thou canst on the picture of thy lady love which even
now is peeping from thy bosom.”
“It is my mother’s picture,” said Basil, blushing to the eyes.
“Thy mother’s!” said the stranger, while, with an emotion which he had
not yet exhibited, he caught at the picture with such violence as to
break the silken riband with which it was suspended, and, unconscious of
Basil’s presence, riveted his eyes upon it, scanning the features with
the greatest eagerness.
“The same, the same,” said he to himself; “the arched brow and the
feeling eye, the smiling lips and the rosy cheek. But where is the
principle that gave these their value? Where is the life, the soul?”
continued he, kissing the senseless painting. “How inferior was this
once to thy beauty, and how superior now to thy mouldering ashes! Didst
thou appear as the ideal charmer of a flitting dream, or wert thou
indeed the pride of my youth, the light of my eyes, and the mistress of
my heart? Thou wert! thou wert! my sorrows tell it.—Preserve this
picture, young man. Thou never, alas! knewest a mother’s love—or a
father’s affection: the former flame was rudely quenched, the latter
burned unknown to thee.”
“Then you knew my mother?”
“Ay, Basil, I knew her. We ran together in infancy, we danced together
on the braes of Don, and wove each other garlands of the wild-flowers
that grew on its banks. Then we thought this world was as heaven, while
we were as innocent as angels. As we grew up, the sun, the wood, the
rock, was our temple, where we admired the beauteous novelty of this
earth. All was love, and peace, and joy; but sorrow came, and those
sweet dreams have vanished.”
During these unexpected communications, Basil felt himself strangely
agitated. The old man seemed to know his history, and with a mixture of
doubt and anxiety he inquired if he knew his father.
“_I_ am thy father,” said the stranger, weeping, and throwing himself
into his arms; “I am thy parent, thy joyous, sorrowing parent. How often
have I wished for this day! It is now come, and thou art all that I
could wish—except in one thing, and that is not thy fault. I have
claimed thee at a time when the boy must act the man, and take part
boldly in the great struggle. We must depart from this place to-night.
The citizens, thou knowest, are summoned to join the royalists under
pain of death, so that we may be delayed if we tarry longer.”
“But whither, my father, shall we go?” said Basil.
“Where but to the persecuted remnant that are even now struggling for
freedom. We will fight under the banner of the Covenant.”
“I have now found a father,” said Basil, “and his commands I must and
will obey; but you will not bid me lift the sword when every stroke must
fall upon an acquaintance or a schoolmate?”
Isaac Rolland then began to mention to his son the reasons which induced
him to join this party. He had no more of enthusiasm than it becomes one
to have who knows he is embarked in a good cause. He mentioned his own
early history, which we shall blend with that of his son. He had been
one of the mission, headed by Sir Thomas Menzies, that visited King
James in 1620 on civil business. About eighteen months before, he had
lost a loving and beloved wife, with whom he had been acquainted from
early infancy. She died on the birth of Basil. After this affliction,
Isaac Rolland could find no pleasure in the place of his nativity, where
everything reminded him of some dear departed joy; wherefore, having
interest to obtain a situation at court, he left his only son Basil
under the guardianship of his friend Fairtext, and contented himself by
hearing often about him, without ever visiting him till the time at
which this story commences. Rolland was acquainted partially with the
circumstances of his birth. He knew that his mother died when she gave
him life; he knew also that his father existed, but nothing farther.
Isaac laid before his son, in a clear and methodic manner, the reasons
for which the Covenanters took up arms, the reasonableness of their
demands, and the tyranny of their enemies. He neither palliated nor
denied the excesses of either party, but contended that these should
teach all to use their superiority mercifully. The forcible point of
view in which he set his arguments wrought instant conviction in Basil’s
mind, which his father observing,—
“Come, then,” said he, “and let us prepare for this struggle. If we be
successful (and shall we not be so in such a cause?), we shall have the
consolation of having given peace and freedom to the land. I have a
sufficiency of world’s goods, and thou and thy Mary—nay, start not, I
know all—thou and thy Mary will be the support and comfort of my old
age, and the subject of my last prayer, as ye have been of many, many in
the days bygone. Bid your friends farewell, and an hour hence we meet to
part no more. Be cautious, however, my son, for these men of Belial have
set a guard on the city, and death is the lot of all who seem about to
leave it. Farewell! God bless thee, my dear son;” and he again folded
him in his arms.
When Basil was left to himself, it would have been difficult to say
whether he was more sorrowful or joyful. He had found his father, a fond
and doting father; but his heart revolted at turning his back on the
scenes of his youth and the smiling face of his Mary. The latter was the
more distressing. She had listened to his suit, and the good-natured
provost, when acquainted with it, had sworn that no other should marry
his Mary. His own father seemed to approve his passion; wherefore he
resolved to bid her farewell, and moved accordingly to the provost’s
house.
She was alone, and received him with her usual smile of joy, but was
startled at the unusual expression of sorrow on his countenance. “Mary,”
said he; but his lips could articulate nothing farther.
She became alarmed. “Basil, you are ill!” said she.
He seized her hand. “Mary, I am come to bid you farewell—perhaps a long
farewell.”
She became pale in her turn, and asked him to explain himself. He
resumed,—
“When we were young, Mary, you were my only companion, and I yours. You
were unhappy when away from Basil Rolland, and I when absent from Mary
Leslie. When, in the folly of play, I had girded myself with your
father’s sword, you complained to him, while the tears ran down your
cheeks, that brother Basil was leaving you to become a soldier. Such
things at the time are trifling; but how often are they the types of
blessed love in riper years. I am now to leave you to mingle in scenes
of strife: let me carry with me the consciousness of your continued
love; confirm to me the troth that you have plighted, and, come life or
death, I shall be happy.”
“But why, O Basil, why are you leaving us? Have we not more need of thy
presence than ever?”
“I have found my father, and by his command I leave you this very
night.”
“This night!” said she, while the tears coursed in torrents down her
pale cheek. Basil caught her in his arms, and they wept together who had
never known sorrow before.
“Be comforted, Mary,” said Basil at length; “we shall meet again, and
the present sorrow will enhance the gladness of the meeting. My
happiness depends entirely on you, and my father looks fondly to our
union.”
“Oh! when you are gone far from this, you will soon forget the vows that
you have made. I have no mother to guide me; oh, do not then deceive me,
Basil.”
“I swear that my heart never owned the influence of another, and that
its last beat shall be true to you.”
“Then,” said she, throwing herself into his arms, “I am happy!”
Basil hastily explained to her what he knew of his destination, and,
with a chaste kiss of mutual transport, they separated.
He acquainted no other person with his intention of departing, but
returned to make some preparations for his journey. These were soon
completed; he was joined by his father, and leaving the town at sunset,
they walked leisurely to Stonehaven, where Montrose’s army was encamped.