CHAPTER V.

Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong,

The wretch’s destinie;

Macpherson’s time will not be long

On yonder gallows-tree.—_Old Song._

Basil Rolland was conducted into one of the cells of the common prison,

and, notwithstanding his excitement, fell into a profound slumber; but

it was of that troubled kind which nature obtains by force when the mind

is disposed for watchfulness. He imagined himself by the sea, on a

beautiful summer evening, walking with his love by the murmuring shore.

On a sudden they were separated; and he, in a small boat, was on the

bosom of the ocean. The tempest was raging in all its grandeur, and the

unwilling bark was whirling and reeling on the mountainous waves; it

struck upon a rock, and was dashed into a thousand pieces. He felt the

waters rushing in his ears; he saw the sea-monsters waiting for their

prey; and his bubbling screams filled his own heart with horror. He

sunk—but the waters receded and receded, till he stood firmly on a dry

rock. A vast plain was around him—a black and barren wilderness, without

one plant, one shrub, or one blade of grass. It lay stretched before

him, as far as his eye could reach, the same dismal, monotonous scene of

desolation. On a sudden, the mists that covered its termination were

dispelled, and piles of rocky mountains, whose tops touched the clouds,

began to close around him. A vast amphitheatre of smooth and

perpendicular stone surrounded him, and chained him to the desert. The

rocky walls began to contract themselves, and to move nearer to the spot

where he stood. Their summits were covered with multitudes of

spectators, whose fiendish shout was echoed from rock to rock, until it

fell upon his aching ear. Wild, unearthly faces were before him on every

side; and fingers pointed at him with a demoniacal giggle. The rocks

still moved on. The narrow circle on which he stood was darkened by

their height—he heard the clashing of their collision—he felt his body

crushed and bruised by the gigantic pressure. He raised his voice to

shriek his last farewell; but the scene was changed. The grave had given

up her dead; and the sea, the dead that were in her. He was among the

companions of his childhood; and not one was wanting. The jest and the

game went on as in the days of his youth. His departed mother awaited

his return; but her kiss of welcome blenched his cheek with cold. Again

he was involved in a scene of strife. The death-bearing missiles were

whizzing around him; but he had not the power to lift an arm in his own

defence. A supernatural energy chained him to the spot, and paralysed

all his efforts. A gigantic trooper levelled his carbine at him; the aim

was taken deliberately; he heard the snap of the lock; he saw the flash

of fire; he gave a loud and piercing shriek, and awoke in agony, gasping

for breath.

The sun was shining through the grated window when he awoke, weak and

exhausted by his unrefreshing sleep. He found the sober form of the

Covenanting preacher seated beside his pallet, with a small Bible in his

hand.

“I thought it my duty,” said the preacher, “to visit thee, and mark how

thou bearest thyself under this dispensation, and to offer thee that

consolation, in the name of my Master, which smoothes the passage to the

tomb.”

“You have my thanks,” said the unfortunate youth. “Have you waited long

in the apartment?”

“I came at daybreak; but often was I tempted to rouse thee from thy

slumbers, for thy dreams seemed terrifying.”

“I have indeed passed a fearful night. Fancy has chased fancy in my

scorching brain till it appeared reality. But I can spend only another

such night.”

“I grieve to tell thee, young man, that thy days are numbered: all the

intercession of thy father and his friends hath been fruitless. I also

talked to James of Montrose concerning thee; for I hold that he hath

overstretched the limit of his power, and that there is no cause of

death in thee: but he treated me as one that mocketh, when I unfolded

the revealed will of God, that the earth will not cover Innocent blood;

wherefore turn, I beseech thee, thine eyes to the Lord,—for vain is the

help of man. Look to the glory on the other side of the grave. Fear not

them which can kill the body, but after that can have no power; but fear

Him that can cast both soul and body into hell.”

“I fear not, father; I fear not death. I could close my eyes for ever on

the green land of God without a sigh. Had death met me in the field, the

bugle would have sung my requiem, and I would have laid me on the turf,

happy in being permitted to die like a man; but to die like a thief—like

a dog—is fearful and appalling. Besides, there are ties which bind to

earth souls stronger than mine. Alas! alas! what is the common approach

of Death to the stealthy and ignominious step with which he visits me!”

“Compose thyself,” said the preacher, “and let these earthly wishes have

no place in thy thoughts. Time, to thee, is nearly done, and eternity is

at hand. Approach thy Creator, as the Father of Mercy, in His Son.

Murmur not at His dispensations; for He chasteneth in love.”

“A hard lesson!” said Basil. “Tell me, didst though ever love a wife, a

son, or a daughter?”

“I lost a wife and a son,” said the preacher with emotion.

“In what manner?” said Basil.

“I visited the west country, on business of the Congregation, and in my

absence the hand of Death was busy in my house. When I returned, my wife

and son were both beneath the sod. But God’s will be done! They are now

in heaven,” said he, while the tears stole down his cheeks.

“And,” said Basil, “did you never feel a desire again to see them? Did

you not wish that the decree of fate had been altered, and that your

family had been again restored to you?”

“Often—often,” said he, wringing his hands. “God forgive me! often have

I murmured at His dispensation. At some seasons I would have bartered my

life—nay, my soul’s weal—for one hour of their society.”

“And yet ye bid me do that which ye confess to be above your efforts!

You lost but your wife and child; I lose my own life—my fame—my Mary.”

“But your father”——

“Peace! I have no father—no friend—no love. To-morrow’s sun will see me

as I was before my being; all of me gone, except my name coupled with

hated murderers and traitors. Away, away, old man! it drives me to

madness. But, if the spirits of the dead can burst the sepulchre, I will

be near my murderer. In the blackness of night I will be near him, and

whisper in his thoughts dark, dark as hell.”

“Have patience”——

“Patience! Heaven and earth! Remove these bonds,” said he, striking his

manacles together till the vaulted roof echoed the clanking. “Give me my

sword,—place Montrose before me,—and I’ll be patient! very patient!”—and

he burst into a fit of hysterical laughter which made the preacher

shudder.

“Prepare to meet thy God, young man,” exclaimed the Covenanter. He

succeeded in gaining his attention, and resumed: “Thy thoughts are full

of carnal revenge, forgetting Him who hath said, ‘vengeance is mine.’ I

tell thee that thy thoughts are evil, and not good. Turn thyself to thy

Saviour, and, instead of denouncing woe on thy fellows, prepare thyself

for thy long journey.”

“Long, indeed!” said Basil, entering into a new train of ideas. “Ere

to-morrow’s sun go down, my soul, how far wilt thou have travelled? Thou

wilt outstrip the lightning’s speed. And then, the account! I am wrong,

good man; but my brain is giddy. Leave me now,—but, prithee, return.”

“I shall see thee again. Put thy trust in the Lord. Compose thy troubled

mind, and God be with thee! Thy father is soliciting thy pardon; and he

bade me tell thee he would visit thee to-day. I’ll go to Montrose

myself,—for he shall pardon thee.”

The day following, a dark gibbet frowned in the centre of the

market-place, erected in the bore of the millstone which lies at this

day in the middle of Castle Street. At an early hour the whole square

was filled with spectators to witness the tragedy. A powerful band of

the Covenanters guarded the scaffold. A deep feeling of sympathy

pervaded the multitude, for the wretched prisoner was known to almost

every individual. Every one was talking to his neighbour on the

distressing event, with an interest which showed the intensity of their

sympathy with the sufferer.

“Willawins! willawins!” said an aged woman; “I suckled him at this auld

breast, and dandled him in these frail arms. On the vera last winter,

when I was ill wi’ an income, he was amaist the only ane that came to

speir for me; an’ weel I wat, he didna come toom-handed. I just hirpled

out, because I thought I wad like to see his bonny face and his glossy

curls ance mair; but I canna thole that black woodie! It glamours my

auld een. Lord be wi’ him! Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!”

“Vera right, cummer,” said Tenor the wright; “it’s a waesome business.

Troth, ilka nail that I drave into that woodie, I could have wished to

have been a nail o’ my ain coffin.”

“And what for stand ye a’ idle here?” said a withered beldame, whom

Basil had found means to save from being tried for witchcraft, which, as

the reader is aware that “Jeddart justice” was administered on these

occasions, was tantamount to condemnation. “Why stand ye idle here? I’ve

seen the time when a’ the Whigs in the land dauredna do this. Tak the

sword! tak the sword! The day ’ill come when the corbies will eat

Montrose’s fause heart, and”——

“Whisht, sirs! whisht!” exclaimed several voices; and there was a rush

among the crowd, which made the whole mass vibrate like the waves of the

sea. It was the appearance of our hero, surrounded by a guard of the

insurgents. His arms were bound. The cart followed behind; but he was

spared the indignity of riding in it. It contained the executioner, a

miserable-looking man, tottering in the extremity of old age. It also

bore the prisoner’s coffin. His demeanour was calm and composed, his

step firm and regular; but the flush of a slight hectic was on his

cheek. He was attended by the Covenanting preacher, whom, on his coming

out, he asked, “If _she_ knew of this?” He whispered in his ear. “Then

the bitterness of death is past;” and the procession moved on. These

were the last words he was heard to utter. He never raised his eyes from

the ground till he reached the scaffold, when, with a determined and

convulsive energy, he bent his eyes upon the scene before him. It was

but for a moment; and they sank again to the earth, while his lips were

moving in secret prayer.

We must now retrograde a little in our story, to mark the progress of

two horsemen, who, about noon, were advancing with the utmost rapidity

to Aberdeen. These were Isaac Rolland and Hackit, Provost Leslie’s

servant. To explain their appearance here, it will be necessary to

notice some events of the preceding day. Isaac Rolland and his friends

had applied earnestly to Montrose for the repeal of his hasty sentence;

and their representations seemed to have great weight with him. He told

them to return early next morning to receive his answer. At the first

peep of day Isaac was at his lodgings, and found, to his surprise and

sorrow, that news had arrived of the pacification of Berwick late the

evening before, and that Montrose had instantly taken horse for the

south. There was no time to be lost, and, accompanied by Hackit, he set

out on horseback to Arbroath, where Montrose was to rest for a little,

and reached it as the other was preparing to depart.

The pardon was readily granted, as peace was now established between all

the king’s subjects. Montrose, moreover, acknowledged that he had

proceeded too hastily.

They accordingly set out on their journey, and spared neither whip nor

spur, lest they should arrive too late. They changed horses at Dunottar,

and rode on to Aberdeen with all the speed they could make. When about

six miles from the town, Isaac Rolland’s horse broke down under him,

when Hackit, who was better mounted, seized the papers, and, bidding him

follow as fast as possible, pushed on. The noble animal that bore him

went with the speed of lightning, but far too slowly for the impatient

rider. Having shot along the bridge of Dee at full gallop, he arrived at

Castle Street, by the Shiprow with his horse panting and foaming, while

the clotted blood hung from the armed heels of his rider.

“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted Hackit, as he recklessly galloped over and

through the thick-set multitude, and lancing to the quick his horse’s

sides with his deep rowels at every exclamation. “A pardon! a pardon!”

cried he, advancing still faster, for the rope was adjusted, and all was

ready for the fatal consummation. “Lord hae mercy on him!” His horse

with one bound brought him to the foot of the scaffold, and then dropped

down dead, while a loud execration burst from the spectators, which

drowned his cries. The prisoner was thrown off just in Hackit’s sight as

he advanced, the Covenanters having dreaded that this was the beginning

of some commotion. He threw the sealed pardon at the head of the

commandant, and, mounting the scaffold, cut the cord in a twinkling,

letting the body fall into the arms of some of the crowd who had

followed him; and, quicker than thought, conveyed him into an adjacent

house, where every means was tried to restore animation. There was not

one who could refrain from tears when they compared the crushed and

maimed being before them with the jovial young man he was a few days

before. His eyes, bleared and bloodshot, were protruded from their

sockets; a red circle surrounded his neck, and the blood, coagulated

under his eyes, showed the effects of strangulation. After some time he

heaved a sigh, and attempted to raise his right hand to his breast; his

intention was anticipated, and a picture that hung round his neck was

put into his hand. At this moment Mary Leslie entered the apartment. A

tremulous shuddering ran through his frame; he attempted to raise

himself, but life ebbed by the effort, and, with a deep groan, he fell

back into the arms of death. Mary Leslie, however, did not witness his

departure, for she had sunk senseless on the floor. When she recovered,

all was calm, save her eye which rolled with the quickness of insanity.

“Hush!” said she; “he sleeps, and you will waken him. I’ll cover him

with my own plaid, for it is cold—cold.” She set herself to cover him,

and sang the verse of the ballad—

My love has gone to the good green wood

To hunt the dark-brown daes;

His beild will be the ferny den,

Or the shade of the heathery braes.

But I’ll build my love a bonny bower——

“Basil, awake! the old man waits you at the Playfield—arise! He hears me

not—ha—I remember!” and she sank again on the floor, and was carried

home by her friends.

A fair company of young men bore Basil to his grave; and by his side a

weeping band of maidens carried Mary Leslie. They were lovely in their

lives, and in death they were not separated. One grave contains them

both, which was long hallowed by the remembrance of this tragical

transaction. The sacred spot has now become common ground, and I have

searched in vain for it, that I might shed one tear to the memory of the

unfortunate lovers.

The goodwill of his fellow-citizens called Patrick Leslie several times

to be their chief magistrate; but life to him had lost its savour, and

he lingered for several years in this world as one whose hopes and

enjoyments were elsewhere. It was said that Isaac Rolland, at stated

intervals, visited the grave of his son, and watered it with the tear of

unavailing sorrow. He afterwards involved himself with the factions that

tore the kingdom asunder, and, it was supposed, perished at the battle

between the Covenanters and Oliver Cromwell, at Dunbar, in

1650.—_Aberdeen Censor._

THE LAST OF THE JACOBITES.

BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.

I had occasion to mention, at the conclusion of my “History of the

Insurrection of 1745,” that after that period the spirit of Jacobitism

became a very different thing from what it had formerly been; that,

acquiring no fresh adherents among the young subsequent to that

disastrous year, it grew old, and decayed with the individuals who had

witnessed its better days; and that, in the end, it became altogether

dependent upon the existence of a few aged enthusiasts, more generally

of the female than the male sex.

These relics of the party—for they could be called nothing else—soon

became isolated in the midst of general society; and latterly were

looked upon, by modern politicians, with a feeling similar to that with

which the antediluvian patriarchs must have been regarded in the new

world, after they had survived several generations of their short-lived

descendants. As their glory lay in all the past, they took an especial

pride in retaining every description of manners and dress which could be

considered old-fashioned, much upon the principle which induced Will

Honeycomb to continue wearing the wig in which he had gained a young

lady’s heart. Their manners were entirely of that stately and formal

sort which obtained at the commencement of the eighteenth century, and

which is so inseparably associated in the mind of a modern with ideas of

full-bottomed perukes, long-backed coats, gold-buckled shoes, and tall

walking canes. Mr Pitt’s tax, which had so strong an effect upon the

heads of the British public, did not perhaps unsettle one grain of truly

Jacobite powder; nor is it hypothetical to suppose that the general

abandonment of snuff-taking by the ladies, which happened rather before

that period, wrenched a single box from the fingers of any ancient dame,

whose mind had been made up on politics, as her taste had been upon

black rappee, before the year of grace 1745.

In proportion as the world at large ceased to regard the claims of the

house of Stuart, and as old age advanced upon those who still cherished

them, the spirit of Jacobitism, once so lofty and so chivalrous,

assimilated more and more with the mere imbecility of dotage. What it

thus lost, however, in extensive application, it gained in virulence;

and it perhaps never burned in any bosoms with so much fervour as in

those few which last retained it. True, the generosity which

characterised it in earlier and better times had now degenerated into a

sort of acrid humour, like good wine turned into vinegar. Yet, if an

example were wanting of the true inveterate Jacobite, it could not be

found anywhere in such perfection as amongst the few who survived till

recent times, and who had carried the spirit unscathed and unquenched

through three-quarters of a century of every other kind of political

sentiment.

As no general description can present a very vivid portraiture to the

mind, it may be proper here to condescend upon the features of the

party, by giving a sketch of an individual Jacobite who was

characterised in the manner alluded to, and who might be considered a

fair specimen of his brethren. The person meant to be described, might

be styled the LAST OF THE JACOBITES; for, at the period of his death in

1825, there was not known to exist, at least in Edinburgh, any person,

besides himself, who refused to acknowledge the reigning family. His

name was Alexander Halket. He had been, in early life, a merchant in the

remote town of Fraserburgh, on the Moray Firth; but had retired for many

years before his death, to live upon a small annuity in Edinburgh. The

propensity which characterised him, in common with all the rest of his

party, to regard the antiquities of his native land with reverence,

joined with the narrowness of his fortune in inducing him to take up his

abode in the Old Town.

He lodged in one of those old stately hotels near the palace of

Holyroodhouse, which had formerly been occupied by the noblemen

attendant upon the Scottish court, but which have latterly become so

completely overrun by the lower class of citizens. Let it not be

supposed that he possessed the whole of one of these magnificent hotels.

He only occupied two rooms in one of the floors or “flats” into which

all such buildings in Edinburgh are divided; and these he possessed only

in the character of a lodger, not as tenant at first hand. He was,

nevertheless, as comfortably domiciled as most old gentlemen who happen

to have survived the period of matrimony. His room—for one of them was

so styled _par excellence_—was cased round with white-painted panelling,

and hung with a number of portraits representing the latter members of

the house of Stuart, among whom the Old and Young Chevaliers were not

forgotten.[15] His windows had a prospect on the one hand of the quiet

and cloistered precincts of Chessels’ Court, and on the other to the

gilded spires and gray, time-honoured turrets of Holyroodhouse. Twice a

year, when he held a card party, with three candles on the table, and

the old joke about the number which adorn that of the laird of Grant,

was he duly gratified with compliments upon the comfortable nature of

his “room,” by the ancient Jacobite spinsters and dowagers, who, in silk

mantles and pattens, came from Abbeyhill and New Street to honour him

with their venerable company.

Footnote 15:

Some rascally picture-dealer had imposed upon him a nondescript daub

of the female face divine as a likeness of the beautiful Queen Mary.

How he accomplished this it is not easy to say; probably he was

acquainted with Mr Halket’s ardent devotion to the cause of the house

of Stuart, at every period of its history, and availed himself of this

knowledge to palm the wretched portrait upon the old gentleman’s

unsuspecting enthusiasm. Certain it is that the said portrait was hung

in the place of honour—over the mantelpiece—in Mr Halket’s apartment,

and was, on state occasions, exhibited to his guests with no small

complacency. Many of his friends were, like himself, too blindly

attached to everything that carried a show of antiquity to suspect the

cheat; and others were too good-natured to disturb a harmless

delusion, from the indulgence of which he derived so much

satisfaction. One of them, however, actuated by an unhappy spirit of

connoisseurship, was guilty of the cruelty of undeceiving him, and not

only persuaded him that the picture was not a likeness of the goddess

of his idolatry,—Queen Mary,—but possessed him with the belief that it

represented the vinegar aspect of the hated Elizabeth. Mr Halket,

however, was too proud to acknowledge his mortification by causing the

picture to be removed, or perhaps it might not have been convenient

for him to supply its place; and he did not want wit to devise a

pretext for allowing it to remain, without compromising his hostility

to the English queen one whit. “Very well,” said he, “I am glad you

have told me it is Elizabeth; for I shall have the pleasure of showing

my contempt of her every day by turning my back upon her when I sit

down to table.”

Halket was an old man of dignified appearance, and generally wore a

dress of the antique fashion above alluded to. On Sundays and holidays

he always exhibited a sort of court-dress, and walked with a cane of

more than ordinary stateliness. He also assumed this dignified attire on

occasions of peculiar ceremony. It was his custom, for instance, on a

particular day every year, to pay a visit to the deserted court of

Holyrood in this dress, which he considered alone suitable to an affair

of so much importance. On the morning of the particular day which he was

thus wont to keep holy, he always dressed himself with extreme care, got

his hair put into order by a professional hand, and, after breakfast,

walked out of doors with deliberate steps and a solemn mind. His march

down the Canongate was performed with all the decorum which might have

attended one of the state processions of a former day. He did not walk

upon the pavement by the side of the way. That would have brought him

into contact with the modern existing world, the rude touch of which

might have brushed from his coat the dust and sanctitude of years. He

assumed the centre of the street, where, in the desolation which had

overtaken the place, he ran no risk of being jostled by either carriage

or foot-passenger, and where the play of his thoughts and the play of

his cane-arm alike got ample scope. There, wrapped up in his own pensive

reflections, perhaps imagining himself one in a court-pageant, he walked

along, under the lofty shadows of the Canongate,—a wreck of yesterday

floating down the stream of to-day, and almost in himself a procession.

On entering the porch of the palace he took off his hat; then, pacing

along the quadrangle, he ascended the staircase of the Hamilton

apartments, and entered Queen Mary’s chambers. Had the beauteous queen

still kept court there, and still been sitting upon her throne to

receive the homage of mankind, Mr Halket could not have entered with

more awe-struck solemnity of deportment, or a mind more alive to the

nature of the scene. When he had gone over the whole of the various

rooms, and also traversed in mind the whole of the recollections which

they are calculated to excite, he retired to the picture-gallery, and

there endeavoured to recall, in the same manner, the more recent glories

of the court of Prince Charles. To have seen the amiable old enthusiast

sitting in that long and lofty hall, gazing alternately upon vacant

space and the portraits which hang upon the walls, and to all appearance

absorbed beyond recall in the contemplation of the scene, one would have

supposed him to be fascinated to the spot, and that he conceived it

possible, by devout wishes, long and fixedly entertained, to annul the

interval of time, and reproduce upon that floor the glories which once

pervaded it, but which had so long passed away. After a day of pure and

most ideal enjoyment, he used to retire to his own house, in a state of

mind approaching, as near as may be possible on this earth, to perfect

beatitude.[16]

Footnote 16:

He paid a visit, in full dress, with a sword by his side, to the Crown

Room, in Edinburgh Castle, immediately after the old regalia of the

kingdom had been there discovered in 1818. On this occasion a friend

of the author saw him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation,

as he was marching up the Castle Hill; but he was too deeply absorbed

in reflection upon the sacred objects which he had to see, to be able

to speak. He just gazed on the person accosting him, and walked on.

Mr Halket belonged, as a matter of course, to the primitive apostolical

church, whose history has been so intimately and so fatally associated

with that of the house of Stuart. He used to attend an obscure chapel in

the Old Town; one of those unostentatious places of worship to which the

Episcopalian clergy had retired, when dispossessed of their legitimate

fanes at the Revolution, and where they have since performed the duties

of religion, rather, it may be said, to a family, or at most a circle of

acquaintances, than to a congregation. He was one of the old-fashioned

sort of Episcopalians, who always used to pronounce the responses aloud;

and, during the whole of the Liturgy, he held up one of his hands in an

attitude of devotion. One portion alone of that formula did he abstain

from assenting to—the prayer for the Royal Family. At that place, he

always blew his nose, as a token of contempt. In order that even his eye

might not be offended by the names of the Hanoverian family, as he

called them, he used a prayer-book which had been printed before the

Revolution, and which still prayed for King Charles, the Duke of York,

and the Princess Anne. He was excessively accurate in all the forms of

the Episcopalian mode of worship; and indeed acted as a sort of fugleman

to the chapel; the rise or fall of his person being in some measure a

signal to guide the corresponding motions of all the rest of the

congregation.

Such was Alexander Halket—at least in his more poetical and gentlemanly

aspect. His character and history, however, were not without their

disagreeable points. For instance, although but humbly born himself, he

was perpetually affecting the airs of an aristocrat, was always talking

of “good old families, who had seen better days,” and declaimed

incessantly against the upstart pride and consequence of people who had

originally been nothing. This peculiarity, which was, perhaps, after

all, not inconsistent with his Jacobite craze, he had exhibited even

when a shopkeeper in Fraserburgh. If a person came in, for instance, and

asked to have a hat, Halket would take down one of a quality suitable,

as he thought, to the rank or wealth of the customer, and if any

objection was made to it, or a wish expressed for one of a better sort,

he would say, “That hat, sir, is quite good enough for a man in your

rank of life. I will give you no other.” He was also very finical in the

decoration of his person, and very much of a hypochondriac in regard to

little incidental maladies. Somebody, to quiz him on this last score,

once circulated a report that he had caught cold one night, going home

from a party, in consequence of having left off wearing a particular

gold ring. And it really was not impossible for him to have believed

such a thing, extravagant as it may appear.

THE GRAVE-DIGGER’S TALE.

It was one cold November morning, on the day of an intended voyage, when

Mrs M‘Cosey, my landlady, tapped at my bed-chamber door, informing me

that it was “braid day light;” but on reaching the caller air I found,

by my watch and the light of the moon, that I had full two hours to

spare for such sublunary delights as such a circumstance might create. A

traveller, when he has once taken his leave, and rung the changes of

“farewell,” “adieu,” “goodbye,” and “God bless you,” on the connubial

and domestic harmonies of his last lodgings, will rather hazard his

health by an exposure to the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” for a

handful of hours, than try an experiment on his landlady’s sincerity a

second time, within the short space of the same moon. If casualty should

force him to make an abrupt return, enviable must be his feelings if

they withstand the cold unfriendly welcome of “Ye’re no awa yet!”

delivered by some quivering Abigail, in sylvan equipment, like one of

Dian’s foresters, as she slowly and uninvitingly opens the creaking

door—a commentary on the forbidding salute. He enters, and the strong

caloric now beginning to thaw his sensibilities, he makes for his room,

which he forgets is no longer _his_; when, though he be still in the

dark, he has no need of a candle to enable him to discover that some

kind remembrancer has already been rummaging his corner cupboard, making

lawful seizure and removal (“‘convey’ the wise it call”) of the contents

of his tea-caddy, butter-kit, sugar-bowl, and “comforter;” to which he

had looked forward, on his return, as a small solace for the

disappointment of the morning, affording him the means of knocking up a

comfortable “check,” without again distressing the exchequer.

I had therefore determined not to return to Mrs M‘Cosey’s; for “frailty,

thy name is woman;” and I felt myself getting into a sad frame of mind,

as I involuntarily strolled a considerable distance along the high road,

pondering on the best means of walking “out of the air,” as Hamlet says,

when, as the moon receded behind a black cloud, my head came full butt

against a wall; the concussion making it ring, till I actually imagined

I could distinguish something like a tune from my brain. Surely, said I,

this is no melody of my making; as I now heard, like two voices trolling

a merry stave—

Duncan’s comin’, Donald’s comin’, &c.

Turning round to the direction from whence the sound seemed to proceed,

I perceived I was in the neighbourhood of the “Auld Kirk Yard;” where,

by the light from his lantern, I could discover the old grave-digger at

work—his bald head, with single white and silvery-crisped forelock,

making transits over the dark line of the grave, like a white-crested

dove, or a sea-gull, flaunting over the yawning gulf.

One stride, and I had cleared the wall of the Auld Kirk Yard.

“You seem merry, old boy!—You are conscious, I presume, that this world

has few troubles that can affect you in your present situation—the

grave.”

“I was takin’ my medicine to keep my heart up, sir; but I wasna merry:

yet I’m content wi’ my station, and am a thocht independent. I court the

company o’ nae man alive; I boo to nae man breathin’—I quarrel nane wi’

my neebours;—yet am I sought after by high and low, rich and puir; the

king himsel maun come under my rule—this rod of airn;—though I’m grown

frail and feckless afore my time: for healthy as my looks be, I’m aye,

aye at death’s door; our work, ye see, sir, ’s a’ below the breath; and

that’s a sair trade for takin’ the wind oot o’ a body. Then, I hae my

trials,—sair visitations, sic as fa’ to the lot o’ nae man on this side

the grave but mysel! It’s true, that when the wind gaes round merrily to

the east, I get a sma’ share o’ what’s gaun; but just look at that yird,

sir,—as bonnie a healthy yird as ane could delight to lie in;—neist,

look at that spear,—a fortnight’s rust upon that dibble! Mind, I downa

complain;—_Live, and let live_, say I!

“But what’s the use of talkin’ sae to a life-like, graceless,

thochtless, bairn-getting parish?—the feck o’ whom, after having lived

on the fat o’ the kintra-side, naething will sair, but they maun gang up

to the town to lay their banes amang the gentles, and creesh some hungry

yird wi’ their marrow! The fa’ o’ the leaf is come and gane; an’ saving

some twa or three consumptions—for whilk the Lord be thankit, as a sma’

fend—tak the parish a’ ower head—frae head to tail—and for ane that gaes

out at my gate-end, ye’ll find a score come in at the howdie’s!”

“_Damna famæ majora quam quæ æstimari possint._”[17]

Footnote 17:

The loss of reputation is greater than can be reckoned.

“I hae lost my Gaelic, sir; but ye speak like a sensible man. The fame

o’ the place is just as ye say, there’s ower mony _merry pows in’t_. But

see, there’s a sober pow, wi’ a siller clasp on’t.”

“With all due gravity, may I ask, whose property was that?”

“Hech, man! that’s a skeigh tune for a dry whistle; sae, gin ye please,

we’ll tak our morning first.”

So saying, he took his spade, and cutting steps in the side of the grave

he was digging, he mounted to the surface; then, walking off a few

paces, I saw him strike some dark substance lying on a flat stone; when,

to my astonishment, a Flibbertigibbet-looking creature unrolled itself,

from a mortcloth, at my feet.

“Hannibal Grub, my ’prentice, sir, at your service.—Hawney, tak the

shanker ower to Jenny Nailor’s, an’ bring a dooble-floorer to the

gentleman; an’, hear ye, say it’s for the minister’s wife—fourpenny

strunt, Grub, mind—nae pinchin’. If ye meet his reverence, honest man,

tell him ye’re gaun for oil to the cruizie.”

“That auld wizzened pow is a’ that’s left o’ the Laird o’ Nettleriggs.

It was lying face down, when I cam till’t this morning, maist horrifu’

to see; for he maun hae turned in his kist, or been buried back upwards!

It was ae blawy, sleety nicht, about this time twal-year, when I was

sent for express to speak wi’ the laird. Thinkin’ that he maybe wanted

the family lair snodded out, or a new coat o’ paint to the staunchels, I

set out without delay. I had four mile o’ gate to gang on a darksome

dreary road, an’ I couldna but say that I felt mair eerie than I had

ever felt in my ain plantin’, amang honest folk. Sae, wi’ your leave,

I’ll just put in ane o’ Jenny’s screws, afore I gae ony farther. Here’s

wishing better acquaintance to us, sir.—Is this frae the ‘Broon Coo,’

Grub?”

“Ay!” groaned an unearthly voice, as if the “Broon Cow” herself had

spoken.

“Weel, I gaed, an’ I better gaed. ‘The wind blew as ’twad blawn its

last;’ the fitfu’ changes o’ the shrouded moon threw flitting shadows

across my path;—whiles like a muckle colley, and syne as if I stood on

the brink o’ a dreadfu’ precipice, when I wad then stand still, till the

moon shone again. The bleachfield dogs sent round their lang, uncanny

bodings; the vera cocks crawed,—sic horror had the time; the last leaves

o’ hairst were driftin’ an’ clatterin’ amang my feet—whiles hittin’ me

like a whup on the face; or tappin’ me on the back, as if ane wad say,

‘Saunders, this is death!’ when I wad then stand stockstill again, my

knees fechtin’ an’ thumpin’ at ane anither, and my teeth gaun like a

watchman’s rattle; while noos and thans, the wind wad howl and birr, as

if the Prince o’ Air himsel were pipin’ to the clouds. I ne’er doubted

thae things to be the bodings o’ death; but I thocht sic feydoms might

hae been better wared on a muckle better man than me. At length I got to

the house-door, as the laird’s messan began to bark.

“‘Look to the door, Peggy!’ quo’ the gudewife.

“‘Ay, mither. Jock, look to the door for your mither, will ye no?’

“‘Look till’t yersel! Can I gang, when I’m greetin’ this way?—Pate—look

to the door!’

“‘I’m greetin’ too,’ says Pate.

“‘Peggy Mucklewham, will ye no look to the door, for your deein’

faither’s sake?’

“‘Tuts!’ quo’ Peggy, ‘Can ye not get up yersel—fashin’ folk?’

“Weel, I then got entrance—the sneck being cannily lifted, an’ the

bairns makin’ a breenge into a hidin’ corner, until, by the light o’ the

fire, they kent my face.

“‘Ou, it’s auld Saunders, as sure as death. Ay, man, my faither’s real

ill—he’s just gaspin’, and that’s a’! Hear till that—that’s him

whistlin’! Hae ye no brought Towzie wi’ ye? Man, Pate and me wad hae’n

sic grand fun chasin’ the mawkins, when my mither’s at the kirk the

morn.’

“‘Are ye sorry to lose your faither, bairnies?’ quo’ I.

“‘Ou, ay,’ quo’ Pate, ‘but I dinna like to look at him, he maks sic

awfu’ faces, man; but I hae been thrang greetin’, sin’ four o’clock even

on—twice as muckle’s Jock!’

“A lang deep groan now was heard from out o’ the spence, whaur the laird

was lying; and the bairnies, in a fricht, ran screeching to anither

apartment, leaving the youngest wean by the fireside, rowed in ane o’

the auld man’s black coats.

“‘Gude save us, lammie!’ quo’ I, ‘is there naebody tending your puir

auld faither? Whaur’s uncle, lammie? and aunty? and your minnie,

lammie?’ I mind weel the bit bairnie’s answer—‘Unkey a’ doon—aunty a’

doon—daddy a’ doon!’

“Mrs Mucklewham was a stout buirdly quean, like a house-end; and the

laird was just a bit han’fu’ o’ a cratur—a bit saxteen-to-the-dizzen

body. They were a pair o’ whom it was said, by the kintra-side, that

they had married afore they had courted. The laird was an auld man when

he brought hame a woman thirty years younger than himsel;—auld folk are

twice bairns, and he was beginning to need nursing. It’s wonderfu’ to

think how little a matter hinders gentlebred folk frae getting on in the

warld! A’ that Jenny Screameger wantit o’ the complete leddy was the bit

dirty penny siller; an’ sae they were joined thegither, without its ever

being mentioned in the contract, or understood, that they bound and

obliged themselves to hae a heartliking for ane anither!

“She had been keepit by the gudeman geyan short by the tether; sae as

her hale life was made just a dull round till her—o’ rising and lying

down—eating, drinking, and sleeping—feeding the pigs, milking the

cow—flyting the servant—and skelping the weans a’ round;—unless when she

dreamed o’ burials, or saw a spale at the candle—or heard o’ a murder

committed in the neighbourhood—or a marriage made or broken aff—or a

criminal to suffer on the gallows; till at her advanced time o’ life it

was grown just as neccessar’ that food should be gotten for her mind’s

maintenance, as it was for her body’s.

“‘This is a sair time for ye, Mrs Mucklewhaum,’ quo’ I, as she cam ben

frae her bedroom gauntin’.

“‘Hey! ho! hy! Saunders—I haena closed an ee thae twa lang nichts! But I

hear there’s something gaun to be dune noo—Hey! ho! hy!’

“I stappit ben wi’ her to the laird’s room; and I saw in his face he was

bespoken. Everything was laid out in the room, comfortable and in

apple-pie order, befitting the occasion. The straughtin’ board, on whilk

his death’s ee was fixed, stood up against the wa’; here lay a bowt o’

tippeny knittin’ for binding his limbs, and as mony black preens as wad

hae stockit a shop; there hung his dead shirt, o’ new hamespun claith,

providently airing afore the fire.

“‘Gin ye be thrang, Saunders, ye needna wait on the gudeman—ye ken his

length—and gie him a deep biel,’ quo’ the gudewife; when just as I laid

my hand upon his brow, he fixed his ee upon me like a hawk; an’ after

anither kirkyard groan—the like I never heard from mortal man—he seemed

reviving, an’ new strength to be filling his limbs, as he rose up on his

elbow, on the bed, and laid his other hand on mine—sic an icy hand as I

never felt abune grund!—thus speaking to me in his seeming agony:

“‘Saunders, do not pray for me; I have been long a dead man; lay your

hand upon my bosom, and you will feel the flames of hell ascending to my

soul!’ I laid my hand upon his heart, and I declare, sir, I thocht the

flesh wad hae cindered aff the finger-banes! The heat was just awfu’!

“‘I was made life-renter of a sum which at my decease descends to the

younger branches of my father’s family; and my life has been miserable

to myself—a burden to others—and my death the desire of my kindred!’

“‘He’s raving, Saunders—he’s clean raving! An’ I canna persuade him he’s

a deein’ man,’ quo’ Mrs Mucklewham, as she stapped forrit wi’ a red

bottle, to gie him a quatenin’ dram.

“‘Haud, haud!’ quo’ I, ‘he’ll do without it,’ as the laird, raising his

voice, began again to speak:

“‘I had but one friend in the world,—the highwayman that robbed me, and

then laid my skull open with the butt-end of his whip;—would to God he

had made me a beggar, and saved my soul! I had no worse wish to bestow

on him than that he might be a life-renter for his poor relations.

Saunders, look on the face of that unfeeling woman—more horrible to me

than death itself;—look on my deserted death-bed, and my chamber

decorated like a charnel house? Horrible as the sensation of death is,

as his iron gropings are stealing round my heart, there is yet to me a

sight more hideous, and which I thank God I shall be spared

witnessing—_when the dead shall bury the dead_!’

“Mrs Mucklewham broke frae my weak hand—wrenched open his locked teeth,

and emptied the hale contents down his throat—grunds an’ a’—o’ his

‘quatenin’ draught;’ I felt myself a’ _ug_, as I saw his teeth gnash

thegither, an’ his lips close in quateness for ever.

“I gaed out wi’ the mortclaith; I saw the gathering; I was present when

the bread an’ dram service were waiting for the grace:—‘Try ye’t, John,’

quo’ ane. ‘Begin yersel; ye’re dead sweer,’ quo’ anither; when I heard

ane break down an’ auld prayer into twa blessin’s. Some were crackin’

about the rise o’ oats; some about the fa’ o’ hay. His bit callans were

there in rowth o’ claith; auld elbows of coats mak gude breekknees for

bairns. I saw the coffin carried out to the hearse without ane admiring

its bonnie gilding—quite sair and melancholy to see! I saw the bedral

bodies, wi’ their light-coloured gravats, an’ rusty black cowls,

stuffing their wide pouches—maist pitifu’, I thought, to behold. Then I

saw the house-servants, wha had drunk deepest o’ the cup o’ woe; till

sae mista’en were their notions o’ sorrow, that they were just by the

conception o’ the mind o’ man. Then there was sic a clanjamphry o’

beggars; some praising the laird for virtues that they wha kenned him

kent they were failings in him; an’ ithers were cracking o’

familiarities wi’ him, that might hae been painful to his nearest o’ kin

to hear: there was but sma’ grief when they first gathered; but when

they learned there was nae awmous for them, I trow ony tears that were

shed at the burial were o’ their drappin’.

“There was the witless idewit Jock Murra, mair mournfu’ to see than a’

that was sad there; when just as the hearse began to move on, he liltit

up a rantin’ sang—

Mony an awmous I’ve got.

I lookit round me when the company began to move on frae the house wi’

the hearse; but as I shall answer, sir, there wasna ae face that lookit

sad but might as well hae smiled; the vera look o’t, in a Christian

land, broucht the saut tears gushing frae my ain auld dry withered ee!

“In compliance with the friends’ request, as it was a lang road to come

back, his will had been read afore the interment; when sae muckle was

left to ae hospit an’ sae muckle to anither, as if the only gude he had

ever done was reserved for the day o’ his burial; or like ane wha delays

his letter till after the mail shuts, and then pays thrice the sum to

overtake the coach. It was the certainty o’ thae things that made it the

maist mournfu’ plantin’ I e’er made; an’ I threw the yird on him, as he

was let down by stranger hands (for the friends excused themselves frae

gaun ony farther, after they had heard his will), and happit him up, wi’

a heavier heart than on the morning when I took my ain wifie frae my

side, an’ laid her in the clay.—You’ll excuse me, sir; here’s ‘success

to trade!’”—“_The Auld Kirk Yard._”

THE FAIRY BRIDE:

_A TRADITIONARY TALE_.

A short time before the rising of the Presbyterians, which terminated in

the rout at Pentland, a young gentleman of the name of Elliot had been

called by business to Edinburgh. On his way homeward, he resolved to pay

a visit to an old friend named Scott, whose residence was either upon

the banks of the Tweed or some of its larger tributaries,—for on this

point the tradition is not very distinct. Elliot stopped at a small

house of entertainment not far from Scott’s mansion, in order to give

his parting directions to a servant he was despatching home with some

commissions.

The signs of the times had not altogether escaped the notice of our

hero. The people were quiet, but reserved, and their looks expressed

anything but satisfaction. In Edinburgh there were musterings and

inspections of troops, and expresses to and from London were hourly

departing and arriving. As Elliot travelled along, he had more than once

encountered small parties of military reconnoitring the country, or

hastening to some post which had been assigned them. Fewer labourers

were to be seen in the fields than was usual at the season. The cottars

lounged before their doors, and gazed after the passing warriors with an

air of sullen apathy. There was no violence or disturbance on the part

of the people,—there had as yet been no arrestments,—but it was evident

to the most careless that hostile suspicion was rapidly taking the place

of that inactive dislike which had previously existed between the

governors and the governed.

It was natural that in such a condition of the national temper, affairs

of state should form the chief subject of gossip around the fireside of

a country inn. Elliot was not surprised, therefore, while sitting at the

long deal table, giving directions to his servant, to hear the name of

his friend frequent in the mouths of the peasantry. It was a matter of

course that at such a period the motions and inclinations of a wealthy

and active landholder of old family should be jealously watched. But it

struck him that Scott’s name was always uttered in a low, hesitating

tone, as if the speakers were labouring under a high degree of awe. He

continued, therefore, some time after he had dismissed his attendant,

sitting as if lost in thought, but anxiously listening to the desultory

conversation dropping around him, like the few shots of a distant

skirmish. The allusions of the peasants were chiefly directed to his

friend’s wife. She was beautiful and kind, but there was an unearthly

light in her dark eye. Then there was a dark allusion to a marriage on

the hillside,—far from human habitation,—to the terror of the clergyman

who officiated, at meeting so lovely a creature in so lonely a place.

The Episcopalian predilections of the family of Scott were not passed

unnoticed. And it seemed universally admitted that the house had been

given over to the glamour and fascination of some unearthly being. The

power of a leader so connected, in the impending strife, was the subject

of dark forebodings.

Rather amused to find his old crony become a person of such consequence,

Elliot discharged his reckoning, mounted his steed, and on reaching

Scott’s residence, was warmly and cheerfully welcomed. He was

immediately introduced to the lady, whom he regarded with a degree of

attention which he would have been ashamed to confess to himself was in

some degree owing to the conversation he had lately overheard. She was a

figure of a fairy size, delicately proportioned, with not one feature or

point of her form to which objection could be urged. Her rich brown hair

clustered down her neck, and lay in massive curls upon her bosom. Her

complexion was delicate in the extreme, and the rich blood mantled in

her face at every word. Her eyes were a rich brownish hazel, and emitted

an almost preternatural light, but there was nothing ungentle in their

expression. The honeymoon had not elapsed, and she stood before the

admiring traveller in all the beauty of a bride—the most beautiful state

of woman’s existence, when, to the unfolding delicate beauty of girlhood

is superadded the flush of a fuller consciousness of existence, the

warmth of affection which dare now utter itself unchecked, the first

half-serious, half-playful assumption of matronly dignity. After a brief

interchange of compliment with her guest, she left the apartment, either

because “the house affairs did call her thence,” or because she wished

to leave the friends to the indulgence of an unrestrained confidential

conversation.

“A perfect fairy queen,” said Elliot, as the door closed behind her.

“So you have already heard that silly story?” answered his host. “Well!

I have no right to complain, for I have only myself to thank for it.”

Elliot requested that he would explain his meaning, and he in compliance

narrated his “whole course of wooing.”

“I was detained abroad, as you well know, for some years after his

Majesty’s restoration, partly on account of the dilapidated state of my

fortunes, and partly because I wished to prosecute the career of arms I

had commenced. It is now about nine months since I returned to my native

country. It was a gloomy day as I approached home. You remember the

footpath which strikes across the hill behind the house, from the bed of

the stream which mingles, about a mile below us, with that on whose

banks we now are. Where it separates from the public road, I gave my

horse to the servant, intending to pursue the by-path alone, resolved

that no one should watch my emotions when I again beheld the home of my

fathers. I was looking after the lad, when I heard the tread of horses

close behind me. On turning, I saw a tall, elderly gentleman, of

commanding aspect, and by his side a young lady upon a slender

milk-white palfrey. I need not describe her; you have seen her to-day. I

was struck with the delicacy of her features, the sweet smile upon her

lips, and the living fire that sparkled from her eyes. I gazed after her

until a turning of the road concealed her from my view.

“It was in vain that I inquired among my relations and acquaintances. No

person was known in the neighbourhood such as I described her. The

impression she left upon me, vivid though it was at the moment, had died

away, when one day, as I was walking near the turn of the road where I

had lost her, she again rode past me with the same companion. The sweet

smile, the glance of the eye, were heightened this time by a blush of

recognition. The pair were soon lost to me round the elbow of the road.

I hurried on, but they had disappeared. The straggling trees which

obscured the view, ceased at a bridge which stood a couple of gun-shots

before me. Ere I could reach it, I caught a glimpse of the companions.

They were at the edge of the stream, a little way above the bridge—their

horses were drinking. I pressed onward, but before I had cleared the

intervening trees and reached the bridge, they had once more

disappeared. There was a small break in the water immediately beneath

the place where they had stood. For a moment, I thought that I must have

mistaken its whiteness for the white palfrey, but the glance I had got

of them was too clear to have been an illusion. Yet no road led in that

direction. I examined the banks on both sides of the river, but that on

which I saw them was too hard to receive a hoof-print, and the opposite

bank was loose shingle, which refused to retain it when made. The

exceeding beauty of the maiden, the mysterious nature of her

disappearance, the irritable humour into which I had worked myself by

conjectures and an unavailing search, riveted her impression upon my

memory. I traversed the country telling my story, and making incessant

inquiry. In vain! No one knew of such a person. The peasants began to

look strangely on me, and whisper in each other’s ears, that I had been

deluded by some Nixy. And many were the old prophecies regarding my

family remembered—or manufactured—for the occasion.

“Five months passed away in vain pursuit. My pertinacity was beginning

to relax, when one evening, returning from a visit to our friend

Whitelee, I heard a clashing of swords on the road before me. Two

fellows ran off as I rode hastily up, leaving a gentleman, who had

vigorously defended himself against their joint assault. ‘Are you hurt,

sir?’ was my first inquiry. ‘I fear I am,’ replied the stranger, whom I

immediately recognised as the companion of the mysterious beauty. ‘Can I

assist you?’ He looked earnestly at me, and with an expression of

hesitation on his countenance. ‘Henry Scott, you are a man of honour.’

He paused, but immediately resumed, ‘I have no choice, and I dare trust

a soldier. Lend me your arm, sir. My dwelling is not far from here.’ I

accompanied him, he leaning heavily upon me, for the exertion of the

combat had shaken his frame, and the loss of blood weakened him. We

followed the direction he indicated for nearly half an hour round the

trackless base of a hill, until we came in sight of one of those old

gray towers which stud our ravines. ‘There,’ said my companion, pointing

to the ruin. I recognised it immediately; it stood not far distant from

the place where he and his fair fellow-traveller had disappeared, and

had often been examined by me, but always in vain.

“Turning an angle of the building, we approached a heap of _debris_,

which in one part encumbered its base. Putting aside some tangled briers

which clustered around, he showed me a narrow entry between the ruins

and the wall. Passing up to this, he stopped before a door, and gave

three gentle knocks; it opened, and we were admitted into a rude, narrow

vault. It was tenanted, as I had anticipated, by his fair companion. As

soon as her alarm at seeing her father return exhausted, bleeding, and

in company with a stranger, was stilled, and the old man’s wound

dressed, he turned to explain to me the circumstances in which I found

him. His story was brief. He was of good family; had killed a cadet of a

noble house, and was obliged to save himself from its resentment by

hiding in ruins and holes of the earth. In all his wanderings his gentle

daughter had never quitted his side.

“I need not weary you with the further details of our growing

acquaintance. It is the common story of a young man and a young woman

thrown frequently into each other’s company in a lonely place. But, oh!

tame though it may appear to others, the mere memory of the three months

of my life which followed is ecstasy! I saw her daily—in that

unfrequented spot there was small danger of intrusion, and she dared

range the hillside freely. We walked, and sat, and talked together in

the birchen wood beneath the tower, and we felt our love unfold itself

as their leaves spread out to the advancing summer. There was no check

in the tranquil progress of our affections—no jealousies, for there was

none to be jealous of. Unmarked, it overpowered us both. It swelled upon

us, like the tide of a breathless summer day, purely and noiselessly.

“A few weeks ago her father took me aside, and prefacing that he had

marked with pleasure our growing attachment, asked me if I had

sufficient confidence in my own constancy to pledge myself to be for

life an affectionate and watchful guardian of his child? He went on to

say, that means of escaping from the country had been provided, and

offers of promotion in the Spanish service made to him. Your own heart

will suggest my answer; and I left him, charged to return after

nightfall with a clergyman. Our good curate is too much attached to the

family to refuse me anything. To him I revealed my story. At midnight he

united me to Ellen, and scarcely was the ceremony over, when Sir James

tore himself away, leaving his weeping child almost insensible in my

arms.

“Two gentlemen, who accompanied Sir James to the coast, were witnesses

of the marriage. It was therefore unnecessary to let any of the

household into the secret. You may guess their astonishment, therefore,

when, having seen the curate and me ride up the solitary glen alone

under cloud of night, they saw us return in the course of a few hours

with a lady, who was introduced to them as their mistress. Great has

been their questioning, and great has been the delight of our jolly

priest to mystify them with dark hints of ruined towers, hillsides

opening, and such like. The story of the Nixy has been revived, too, and

Ellen is looked on by many with a superstitious awe. I rather enjoyed

the joke at first, but now begin to fear, from the deep root the folly

seems to have taken, that it may one day bear evil fruits for my

delicate girl.”

His augury of evil was well-founded, but the blight fell upon his own

heart. As soon as he heard of the rising in the west, he joined the

royal forces at the head of his tenantry. During his absence, and while

the storm of civil war was raging over the land, his cherished one was

seized with the pangs of premature labour. She lay in the same grave

with her child, before her husband could reach his home. The remembrance

of what she had undergone, her loneliness amid the tempests of winter,

her isolation from all friends, had so shaken her frame that the first

attack of illness snapped the thread of life. Her sufferings were

comparatively short. But the widower! He sought to efface the

remembrance of his loss in active service. Wherever insubordination

showed itself, he prayed for employment. The Presbyterians learned at

last to consider him as the embodied personification of persecution. The

story of his mysterious marriage got wind. He was regarded as one allied

to, and acting under, the influence of unholy powers. He knew it, and,

in the bitterness of his heart, he rejoiced to be marked out by their

fear and terror, as one who had nothing in common with them. His own

misery, and this outcast feeling, made him aspire to be ranked in their

minds as a destroying spirit. The young, gallant, and kind-hearted

soldier became the most relentless persecutor of the followers of the

Covenant. Even yet does his memory, and that of his Fairy Bride, live in

popular tradition like a thunderstorm, gloomy and desolating, yet not

without lambent flashes of more than earthly beauty.—_Edinburgh Literary

Journal._

THE LOST LITTLE ONES.

CHAPTER I.

I have a story to tell relative to what happened to Sir George and Lady

Beaumont, the excellent and beloved proprietors of the Hermitage, in a

neighbouring county. At the period of which I speak, their family

consisted of five children, three sons and two daughters; and their

eldest, a daughter called Charlotte, was then nine years of age. She was

a remarkably clever child, and a great favourite of her parents; but her

mother used to remark that her vivacity required checking, and,

notwithstanding her partiality for her, she never failed to exercise it

when it became necessary. It would have been well had others acted

equally judiciously.

It happened one day, as the family were going to sit down to dinner,

that Charlotte did not make her appearance. The maid was sent up to her

room, but she was not there. The dinner-bell was ordered to be rung

again, and a servant was at the same time dispatched to the garden; and

this having been done, Sir George and his lady proceeded with the other

youngsters to the dining-room, not doubting but Charlotte would be home

immediately. The soup, however, was finished without any tidings of her,

when, Lady Beaumont seeming a little uneasy, Sir George assured her

there was no cause for alarm, as Charlotte would probably be found under

her favourite gooseberry bush. Lady Beaumont seemed to acquiesce in

this, and appeared tolerably composed, till the servant who had been

sent to the garden came back to say that she was not there. Sir George

insisted that the man had probably passed her without seeing her, the

garden being so large; but the servant averred that he had been through

the whole of it, and had shouted repeatedly Miss Charlotte’s name.

“Oh!” exclaimed Sir George, “she has pretended not to hear you, Robert,

and, I daresay, will be back immediately, now that she has succeeded in

giving you a race round the garden; however,” added he, “you may go back

again, and take Samuel and Thomas with you, and if you do not find her

hiding herself in the garden, you may take a peep into the shrubbery, as

she may slip in there, on seeing you returning; and as you go along, you

may call to her, and say that dinner waits, and that Lady Beaumont is

much displeased with her being out at this time of the day. And now, my

love,” continued Sir George to his lady, “just let us proceed with

dinner, and compose yourself.”

Lady Beaumont forced a smile, and busied herself in attending to her

young ones; but her own plate was neglected, and her eyes were

continually turned towards the window which looked upon the lawn.

“What can keep Robert, papa?” said Charles to his father.

“Indeed, my boy,” said Sir George, “I do not know. Charlotte,” continued

he to Lady Beaumont, “do you see any thing?”

“They are all coming back,” exclaimed Lady Beaumont, “and alone!” and

she rose hastily from her chair.

Robert and the other men now entered, and reported that they had

searched every spot in the garden and the shrubbery, but without finding

any trace of her; and the people who had been working there all day had

seen nothing of her. Lady Beaumont now became excessively alarmed, and

Sir George himself was far from easy, though he appeared before his lady

to treat the matter lightly.

“She’ll have gone up to the cottages to see her god-brother,” said Sir

George; “or perhaps have wandered over to the mill.”

“And if she has fallen into the stream!” ejaculated Lady Beaumont.

“Now, dear Charlotte, do not needlessly alarm yourself; there’s no fear

but we shall soon find her.”

“God grant it!” said Lady Beaumont, “but my mind misgives me sadly.”

Messengers were now dispatched to the cottages, and to the mill, and in

various other directions around the Hermitage, but all came back without

having obtained any tidings of the missing child. Sir George, now very

seriously alarmed, gave private directions for having the fish-pond, and

the stream which ran at the bottom of the garden, carefully dragged. It

was done, but nothing was found. The whole household was now in motion,

and as the story spread, the tenants and neighbours came pouring from

all quarters, with offers to search the country round in every

direction; so much was Sir George esteemed and beloved by all classes.

Their offers were thankfully accepted, and after choosing their ground,

and dividing themselves into different parties, they set out from the

Hermitage, resolved, as they said, to find the little one, if she was

above ground. Sir George and his lady went out as the parties set off in

their different directions, and continued walking up and down the

avenue, that they might the sooner perceive the approach of those

bringing intelligence; but hour after hour elapsed, and no one came. Sir

George then proposed that Lady Beaumont should go home and see the young

ones put to bed. She did so, but soon returned again.

“I know,” said she, answering Sir George’s look, “that you wished me to

remain at home and rest myself; but what rest can there be for me, till

we have some intelligence of”——and her voice faltered.

“Well, well, then,” said Sir George, pressing her arm in his, “let us

take a few more turns—surely we must hear something soon.”

The people now began to come dropping in from different quarters, but

all had the same melancholy answer—no one had seen or heard of her. The

hearts of the poor parents were sadly depressed, for daylight was fast

closing in, and almost all those who had set off on the search had now

returned, and amongst them their faithful servant Robert, principally

from anxiety to learn if any intelligence had been obtained of his

favourite. But when he found that all had returned unsuccessful, he

declared his determination to continue the search during the night; and

he, and a good many others who joined him, set off soon afterwards,

being supplied with torches and lanterns of various descriptions.

This determination gave new hopes to the inmates of the Hermitage, and

Lady Beaumont endeavoured to rally her spirits; but when at length, as

daylight broke, Robert and his party returned alone, and without

intelligence, nature exhausted gave way, and she fell senseless in her

husband’s arms.

In the morning Robert tapped at Sir George’s door, and communicated

quietly to him his recollecting to have seen a rather suspicious-looking

woman near the Hermitage the previous day, and that he had just heard

from a neighbour, that a woman of that description, with a child in her

arms, had been seen passing to the eastward. Orders were immediately

given for a pursuit on horseback;—Sir George giving directions to bring

in every one whom they suspected; saying, that he would compensate those

who had reason to complain of being used in this way. But, though many

were brought to the Hermitage, and large rewards were offered, yet week

after week passed over without bringing them the smallest intelligence

of their lost little one.

Some months had elapsed since their child had disappeared, and the minds

of the parents had become comparatively composed, when their attention

was one evening attracted by the appearance of an unusual number of

people in the grounds below the terrace, and whose motions it seemed

difficult to understand.

“What can have brought so many people there?” asked Lady Beaumont; “and

what are they doing?”

“Indeed, my love, I do not know,” said Sir George, “but there’s Robert,

passing down the walk, and he will tell us;” and he called to Robert,

who, however, seemed rather not to wish to hear; but Sir George called

again, and so loudly, that Robert was obliged to stop. “Robert,” said

Sir George, “what do these people seek in the low grounds there?”

“They are looking for —— of Widow Watt’s, your honour,” said Robert.

“Did you hear what it was, my dear?” said Sir George to his lady.

“No,” said Lady Beaumont; “but probably her pet lamb, or more likely her

cow, has strayed.”

“Is it her cow that’s amissing, Robert?” called Sir George.

“No, your honour,” said Robert.

“Her lamb then, or some other beast?” asked Sir George.

“Naething o’ the kind, your honour,” answered Robert.

“What then?” demanded Sir George, in a tone that showed he would be

answered.

“Why, your honour, they say that wee Leezie Watt’s no come hame, and the

folk are gaun to seek for her; and nae doubt they’ll soon find her,”

added Robert, stepping hastily away to join them.

Sir George had felt Lady Beaumont’s convulsive grasp of his arm, and

gently led her to a seat, where after a while she became more composed,

and was able to walk to the Hermitage.

“And now,” said she, on reaching the door, “think no more of me, but

give all your thoughts to the most likely means of restoring the poor

child to its widowed parent.”

“Spoken like yourself,” said Sir George, pressing her hand; and

immediately flew to give directions for making the most thorough and

effectual search. But this search, alas! proved equally unavailing as

the former one, and no trace whatever could be found of the widow’s

child.

The story, joined to the disappearance of Sir George’s daughter, made a

great noise, and created considerable alarm in that part of the country;

and this alarm was increased fourfold, when, in three weeks afterwards,

another child was lost. The whole population now turned out, and people

were stationed to watch in different places by night and by day. But no

discovery was made; and, to add to their horror, child after child

disappeared, till the number of the lost little ones amounted to seven.

Parents no longer durst trust their children for a moment out of their

sight. They went with them to school, and also went to bring them back

again; and these precautions had the best effect, many weeks having

elapsed without anything unpleasant happening. The neighbours now began

to congratulate each other on the probability, or rather certainty, that

those who had inflicted so much misery in that quarter of the country

had gone somewhere else, and that they would now be able to live in some

kind of peace and comfort. But this peaceful state was not destined to

continue.

One of Sir George’s best tenants, David Williams, had been busily

engaged in ploughing the whole day, and was thinking of unyoking and

going home, when his wife looked over the dyke, and asked him how he was

coming on. “But whaur,” continued she, “are the bairns? are they at the

t’ither end o’ the field?”

“The bairns!” said David, “I haena seen them; but is’t time for their

being back frae the school?”

“Time!” exclaimed his wife; “muckle mair than time, they should hae been

hame an hour syne; and that brought me out to see gif they were wi’ you,

as you said ye wad may be lowse and gang to meet them!”

“’Od, I was unco keen,” said David, “to finish this bit lea, and had nae

notion it was sae far in the day.”

“Preserve us!” exclaimed Matty, “gif anything has happened to them!”

“Nonsense,” cried David, “when there’s three o’ them thegither; but,

here,” says he, “tak ye the beasts hame, and I’se be off, and will soon

be back wi’ them; sae dinna vex yoursel.”

“I hope it may be sae,” said Matty, “but my heart misgies me

sair—however, dinna wait to speak about it.”

David Williams was not long of reaching the school, where he learned

from the mistress, that his children had remained a good while after the

rest, expecting him to come for them; but that they had at length set

out to meet him, as she understood, and that they had been gone above an

hour, and she thought they would have been home long ago. “But,

perhaps,” continued she, “they may have called in at their aunt’s, for I

heard them speaking of her to-day.”

David took a hasty leave, and posted away to his sister’s, but the

children had not been there, nor had any one seen them. His

brother-in-law, John Maxwell, seeing his distress, proposed taking one

road, while David took the other, towards home, and to meet at the

corner of the planting near his house. They did so, and arrived nearly

at the same time, and each without having heard or seen anything of the

children. David Williams was now in a perfect agony, and the

perspiration ran like water from his forehead.

“Maybe they’re hame already,” said his brother-in-law; “I daurna gang up

mysel to speir, bit we’ll send yon herd laddie.”

John went, and gave the boy his directions to ask, first, if David

Williams was at hame, and then to ask, cannie-like, if the weans were

in. He then sat down beside David, keeping his eye on the cottage, when

he sees Matty come fleeing out like one distracted.

“Down, David! down wi’ your head, man,” cried John, “that she mayna see

us.” But Matty had got a glimpse of them, and came right down on them as

fast as she could run.

“Whaur’s my bairns, David?” cried she; “whaur’s our bonnie bairns? I

kent weel, whenever the callant askit if they were come hame, what was

the meaning o’t. They’re lost, they’re lost!” continued the poor woman,

wringing her hands, “and what’ll become o’ me?”

“Now Matty, Matty, my ain wife,” said David, “dinna ye gang on at that

gate, and hurt yoursel; naebody but John and me has been looking for

them, and we’ve come straught hame, and there’s a heap o’ ither ways, ye

ken, that they may hae gane by.”

“Ay, ower mony—ower mony ways, I’m doubtin’,” said Matty mournfully,

shaking her head; “but dinna let us put aff time this gate. Rin ye baith

an’ alarm the neebours, and I’ll awa to the Hermitage, where we’re sure

to get help; and God grant it mayna end wi’ mine as it did wi’ ithers!”

CHAPTER II.

“By heavens!” exclaimed Sir George, while the blood mounted to his

forehead, “but this is infamous. Ring the alarm bell,” continued he,

“and let all my tenants and domestics turn out on foot or on horseback,

and form as large a circle round the place as possible; and let them

bring out all their dogs, in case this horrid business is caused by some

wild animal or another which may have broken from its keeper; and

Robert,” continued Sir George, “see that no strangers are allowed to

pass the circle, on any pretence whatever, without my having seen and

examined them.”

These orders were immediately obeyed, and the alarm having spread far

and near, an immense body of people quickly assembled, and commenced a

most determined and active search, gradually narrowing their circle as

they advanced.

Lady Beaumont, ascending to the top of the Hermitage, which commanded a

view of the whole surrounding country, watched their proceedings with

the most intense interest; trusting that the result would be not only

the restoration of David Williams’ children, but the discovery also of

the others which had disappeared, and of her own little one amongst the

number. At times, single horsemen would dash from the circle at a

gallop, and presently return with some man or woman for Sir George’s

examination; and while that lasted, Lady Beaumont’s heart beat fast and

thick; but the dismissal of the people, and the re-commencement of the

search, painfully convinced her that no discovery had yet been made; and

sighing deeply, she again turned her eyes on the searchers. At other

times, the furious barking of the dogs, and the running of the people on

foot towards the spot, seemed to promise some discovery; but the

bursting out from the plantation of some unfortunate calf or sheep,

showed that the people had been merely hastening to protect them from

the unruly animals which had been brought together, and who, having

straggled away from their masters, were under no control.

The day was now fast closing in, and the circle had become greatly

diminished in extent; and when, in a short time afterwards, it had

advanced on all sides from the plantations, and nothing but a small open

space divided the people from each other, Sir George directed them to

halt, and, after thanking them for what they had done, he requested them

to rest themselves on the grass till refreshments could be brought from

the Hermitage, after partaking of which they had best move homewards, as

it seemed in vain to attempt anything more till next day. He then took

leave of them, and hurried home to the Hermitage, from whence a number

of people were soon seen returning with the promised refreshments.

Having finished what was set before them, and sufficiently rested

themselves, most of them departed, having first declared their readiness

to turn out the moment they were wanted. But when his friends proposed

to David Williams his returning home, he resolutely refused, declaring

his determination to continue his search the whole night; and the poor

man’s distress seemed so great, that a number of the people agreed to

accompany him. Robert, on being applied to, furnished them, from the

Hermitage, with a quantity of torches and lanterns; and the people

themselves, having got others from the cottages in the neighbourhood,

divided into bands, and, fixing on John Maxwell’s house for intelligence

to be sent to, parted in different ways on their search.

At first all were extremely active, and no place the least suspicious

was passed by; but as the night advanced their exertions evidently

flagged, and many of them began to whisper to each other that it was in

vain to expect doing any good in the midst of darkness; and, as the idea

gained ground, the people gradually separated from each other, and

returned to their homes, promising to be ready early in the morning to

renew the search.

“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell, “let’s be gaun on.”

“No to my house,” cried David;—“not to my ain house. I canna face Matty,

and them no found yet.”

“Aweel, then,” said John, “suppose ye gang hame wi’ me, and fling yersel

down for a wee; an’ then we’ll be ready to start again at gray

daylight.”

“An’ what will Matty think in the meantime?” answered David. “But gang

on, gang on, however,” he added, “an’ I’se follow ye.”

John Maxwell, glad that he had got him this length, now led the way,

occasionally making a remark to David, which was very briefly answered,

so that John, seeing him in that mood, gave up speaking to him, till,

coming at length to a bad step, and warning David of it, to which he got

no answer, he hastily turned round and found that he was gone. He

immediately went back, calling to David as loud as he could, but all to

no purpose. It then occurred to him that David had probably changed his

mind, and had gone homewards; and, at any rate, if he had taken another

direction, that it was in vain for him to attempt following him, the

light he carried being now nearly burnt out. He therefore made the best

of his way to his own house.

In the meantime, poor David Williams, who could neither endure the

thought of going to his own house nor to his brother-in-law’s, and had

purposely given him the slip, continued to wander up and down without

well knowing where he was, or where he was going to, when he suddenly

found himself, on coming out of the wood, close to the cottage inhabited

by a widow named Elie Anderson.

“I wad gie the world for a drink o’ water,” said he to himself; “but the

puir creature will hae lain down lang syne, an’ I’m sweer to disturb

her;” and as he said this, he listened at the door, and tried to see in

at the window, but he could neither see nor hear anything, and was

turning to go away, when he thought he saw something like the reflection

of a light from a hole in the wall, on a tree which was opposite. It was

too high for him to get at it without something to stand upon; but after

searching about, he got part of an old hen-coop, and placing it to the

side of the house, he mounted quietly on it. He now applied his eye to

the hole where the light came through, and the first sight which met his

horrified gaze was the body of his eldest daughter, lying on a table

quite dead,—a large incision down her breast, and another across it!

David Williams could not tell how he forced his way into the house; but

he remembered bolts and bars crashing before him,—his seizing Elie

Anderson, and dashing her from him with all his might; and that he was

standing gazing on his murdered child when two young ones put out their

hands from beneath the bed-clothes.

“There’s faither,” said the one.

“Oh, faither, faither,” said the other, “but I’m glad ye’re come, for

Nanny’s been crying sair, sair, an’ she’s a’ bluiding.”

David pressed them to his heart in a perfect agony, then catching them

up in his arms, he rushed like a maniac from the place, and soon

afterwards burst into John Maxwell’s cottage,—his face pale, his eye

wild, and gasping for breath.

“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell, “the bairns are found! But where’s

Nanny?”

Poor David tried to speak, but could not articulate a word.

“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?” said John; “but tell me whaur Nanny

is, and I’se set out for her momently.”

“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower

late!”

“How sae? how sae?” cried John; “surely naething mischancy has happened

to the lassie?”

“John,” said David, “grasping his hand, she’s murdered—my bairn’s

murdered, John!”

“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John; “an’ wha’s dune it?”

“Elie Anderson,” answered David; “the poor innocent lies yonder a’ cut

to bits;” and the unhappy man broke into a passion of tears.

John Maxwell darted off to Saunders Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!” cried

he, thundering at the door; “haste ye and rise!”

“What’s the matter now?” said Saunders.

“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and yoke

your cart, that we may tak her to the towbuith.”

Up jumped Saunders Wilson, and up jumped his wife and his weans, and in

a few minutes the story was spread like wildfire. Many a man had lain

down so weary with the long search they had made, that nothing they

thought would have tempted them to rise again; but now they and their

families sprung from their beds, and hurried, many of them only

half-dressed, to John Maxwell’s, scarcely believing that the story could

be true. Amongst the first came Geordie Turnbull, who proposed that a

number of them should set off immediately, without waiting till Saunders

Wilson was ready, as Elie Anderson might abscond in the meantime; and

away he went, followed by about a dozen of the most active. They soon

reached her habitation, where they found the door open and a light

burning.

“Ay, ay,” said Geordie, “she’s aff, nae doubt, but we’ll get her yet.

Na, faith,” cried he, entering, “she’s here still; but, gudesake, what a

sight’s this!” continued he, gazing on the slaughtered child. The others

now entered, and seemed filled with horror at what they saw.

“Haste ye,” cried Geordie, “and fling a sheet or something ower her,

that we mayna lose our wits a’thegither. And now, ye wretch,” turning to

Elie Anderson, “your life shall answer for this infernal deed. Here,”

continued he, “bring ropes and tie her, and whenever Saunders comes up,

we’ll off wi’ her to the towbuith.”

Ropes were soon got, and she was tied roughly enough, and then thrown

carelessly into the cart; but notwithstanding the pain occasioned by her

thigh-bone being broken by the force with which David Williams dashed

her to the ground, she answered not one word to all their threats and

reproaches, till the cart coming on some very uneven ground, occasioned

her such exquisite pain, that, losing all command over herself, she

broke out into such a torrent of abuse against those who surrounded her,

that Geordie Turnbull would have killed her on the spot, had they not

prevented him by main force.

Shortly afterwards they arrived at the prison; and having delivered her

to the jailor, with many strict charges to keep her safe, they

immediately returned to assist in the search for the bodies of the other

children, who, they had no doubt, would be found in or about her house.

When they arrived there, they found an immense crowd assembled, for the

story had spread everywhere; and all who had lost children, accompanied

by their friends and neighbours and acquaintances, had repaired to the

spot, and had already commenced digging and searching all round. After

working in this way for a long while, without any discovery being made,

it was at length proposed to give up the search and return home, when

Robin Galt, who was a mason, and who had been repeatedly pacing the

ground from the kitchen to the pig-sty, and from the pig-sty to the

kitchen, said, “Frien’s, I’ve been considering, and I canna help

thinking that there maun be a space no discovered atween the sty and the

kitchen, an’ I’m unco fond to hae that ascertained.”

“We’ll sune settle that,” says Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts should it

be?”

“Just there, I think,” says Robin.

Geordie immediately drove a stone or two out, so that he could get his

hand in.

“Does onybody see my hand frae the kitchen?” asked he.

“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.

“Nor frae the sty?”

“Nor frae that either.”

“Then there maun be a space, sure enough,” cried Geordie, drawing out

one stone after another, till he had made a large hole in the wall. “An’

now,” said he, “gie me a light;” and he shoved in a lantern, and looked

into the place. “The Lord preserve us a’!” cried he, starting back.

“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the people, pressing forward on all sides.

“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he answered; “they’re a there—a’ the

murdered weans are there, lying in a raw!”

The wall was torn down in a moment; and, as he had said, the bodies of

the poor innocents were found laid side by side together. Those who

entered first gazed on the horrid scene without speaking, and then

proceeded to carry out the bodies, and to lay them on the green before

the house. It was then that the grief of the unhappy parents broke

forth; and their cries and lamentations, as they recognised their

murdered little ones, roused the passions of the crowd to absolute

frenzy.

“Hanging’s ower gude for her,” cried one.

“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed another.

A universal shout was the answer; and immediately the greater part of

them set off for the prison, their numbers increasing as they ran, and

all burning with fury against the unhappy author of so much misery.

The wretched woman was at this moment sitting with an old crony who had

been admitted to see her, and to whom she was confessing what had

influenced her in acting as she had done.

“Ye ken,” said she, “I haena jist been mysel since a rascal that had a

grudge at me put aboot a story of my having made awa wi’ John Anderson,

wi’ the help o’ arsenic. I was ta’en up and examined aboot it, and

afterwards tried for it, and though I was acquitted, the neebours aye

looked on me wi’ an evil eye, and avoided me. This drave me to drinking

and other bad courses, and it ended in my leaving that part of the

kintra, and coming here. But the thing rankled in my mind, and many a

time hae I sat thinkin’ on it, till I scarcely kent where I was, or what

I was doing. Weel, ae day, as I was sitting at the roadside, near the

Hermitage, and very low about it, I heard a voice say, ‘Are you thinking

on John Anderson, Elie? Ay, woman,’ said Charlotte Beaumont, for it was

her, ‘what a shame in you to poison your own gudeman!’ and she pointed

her finger, and hissed at me. When I heard that,” continued Elie, “the

whole blood in my body seemed to flee up to my face, an’ my very een

were like to start frae my head; an’ I believe I wad hae killed her on

the spot, hadna ane o’ Sir George’s servants come up at the time; sae I

sat mysel doun again, an’ after a lang while, I reasoned mysel, as I

thought, into the notion that I shouldna mind what a bairn said; but I

hadna forgotten’t for a’ that.

“Weel, ae day that I met wi’ her near the wood, I tell’t her that it

wasna right in her to speak yon gate, an’ didna mean to say ony mair,

hadna the lassie gane on ten times waur nor she had done before, and sae

angered me, that I gied her a wee bit shake, and then she threatened me

wi’ what her faither wad do, and misca’ed me sae sair, that I struck

her, and my passion being ance up, I gaed on striking her till I killed

her outright. I didna ken for a while that she was dead; but when I

found that it was really sae, I had sense enough left to row her in my

apron, an’ to tak her hame wi’ me; an’ when I had barred the door, I

laid her body on a chair, and sat down on my knees beside it, an’ grat

an’ wrung my hands a’ night lang.

“Then I began to think what would be done to me if it was found out; an’

thought o’ pittin’ her into a cunning place, which the man who had the

house before me, and who was a great poacher, had contrived to hide his

game in; and when that was done, I was a thought easier, though I

couldna forgie mysel for what I had done, till it cam into my head that

it had been the means o’ saving her frae sin, and frae haein’ muckle to

answer for; an’ this thought made me unco happy. At last I began to

think that it would be right to save mair o’ them, and that it would

atone for a’ my former sins; an’ this took sic a hold o’ me, that I was

aye on the watch to get some ane or ither o’ them by themselves, to

dedicate them to their Maker, by marking their bodies wi’ the holy

cross:—but oh!” she groaned, “if I hae been wrang in a’ this!”

The sound of the people rushing towards the prison was now distinctly

heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend their object.

“Is there no way of escape, Elie,” asked her friend, wringing her hands.

Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and shook her head. “Besides,” said

she, “I know my hour is come.”

The mob had now reached the prison, and immediately burst open the

doors. Ascending to the room where Elie was confined, they seized her by

the hair, and dragged her furiously downstairs. They then hurried her to

the river, and, with the bitterest curses, plunged her into the stream;

but their intention was not so soon accomplished as they had expected;

and one of the party having exclaimed that a witch would not drown, it

was suggested, and unanimously agreed to, to burn her. A fire was

instantly lighted by the waterside, and when they thought it was

sufficiently kindled, they threw her into the midst of it. For some time

her wet clothes protected her, but when the fire began to scorch her,

she made a strong exertion, and rolled herself off. She was immediately

seized and thrown on again; but having again succeeded in rolling

herself off, the mob became furious, and called for more wood for the

fire; and by stirring it on all hands, they raised it into a tremendous

blaze. Some of the most active now hastened to lay hold of the poor

wretch, and to toss her into it; but in their hurry one of them having

trod on her broken limb, caused her such excessive pain, that when

Geordie Turnbull stooped to assist in lifting her head, she suddenly

caught him by the thumb with her teeth, and held him so fast, that he

found it impossible to extricate it. She was therefore laid down again,

and in many ways tried to force open her mouth, but without other effect

than increasing Geordie’s agony; till at length one of them seizing a

pointed stick from the fire, and thrusting it into an aperture

occasioned by the loss of some of her teeth, the pressure of its sharp

point against the roof of her mouth, and the smoke setting her coughing,

forced her to relax her hold, when the man’s thumb was got out of her

grasp terribly lacerated. Immediately thereafter she was tossed in the

midst of the flames, and forcibly held there by means of long prongs;

and the fire soon reaching the vital parts, the poor wretch’s screams

and imprecations became so horrifying, that one of the bystanders,

unable to bear it any longer, threw a large stone at her head, which,

hitting her on the temples, deprived her of sense and motion.

Their vengeance satisfied, the people immediately dispersed, having

first pledged themselves to the strictest secrecy. Most of them returned

home, but a few went back to Elie Anderson’s, whose house, and

everything belonging to her, had been set on fire by the furious

multitude. They then retired, leaving a few men to watch the remains of

the children, till coffins could be procured for them. “Never in a’ my

days,” said John Maxwell, when speaking of it afterwards, “did I weary

for daylight as I did that night. When the smoke smothered the fire, and

it was quite dark, we didna mind sae muckle; but when a rafter or a bit

o’ the roof fell in, and a bleeze raise, then the firelight shining on

the ghastly faces of the puir wee innocents a’ laid in a row,—it was

mair than we could weel stand; and it was mony a day or I was my ainsel

again.”

CHAPTER III.

Next morning the parents met, and it being agreed that all their little

ones should be interred in one grave, and that the funeral should take

place on the following day, the necessary preparations were accordingly

made. In the meantime, Matty went over to her brother John Maxwell, to

tell him, if possible, to persuade David Williams not to attend the

funeral, as she was sure he could not stand it. “He hadna closed his

ee,” she said, “since that terrible night, and had neither ate nor

drank, but had just wandered up and down between the house and the

fields, moaning as if his heart would break.” John Maxwell promised to

speak to David, but when he did so, he found him so determined on

attending, that it was needless to say any more on the subject.

On the morning of the funeral, David Williams appeared very composed;

and John Maxwell was saying to some of the neighbours that he thought he

would be quite able to attend, when word was brought that Geordie

Turnbull had died that morning of lock-jaw, brought on, it was supposed,

as much from the idea of his having been bitten by a witch, or one that

was not canny, as from the injury done to him.

This news made an evident impression on David Williams, and he became so

restless and uneasy, and felt himself so unwell, that he at one time

declared he would not go to the funeral; but getting afterwards somewhat

more composed, he joined the melancholy procession, and conducted

himself with firmness and propriety from the time of their setting out

till all the coffins were lowered into the grave. But the first spadeful

of earth was scarcely thrown in, when the people were startled by his

breaking into a long and loud laugh;—

“There she’s!—there she’s!” he exclaimed; and, darting through the

astonished multitude, he made with all his speed to the gate of the

churchyard.

“Oh! stop him,—will naebody stop him?” cried his distracted wife; and

immediately a number of his friends and acquaintances set off after him,

the remainder of the people crowding to the churchyard wall, whence

there was an extensive view over the surrounding country. But quickly as

those ran who followed him, David Williams kept far a-head of them,

terror lending him wings,—till at length, on slackening his pace,

William Russel, who was the only one near, gained on him, and

endeavoured, by calling in a kind and soothing manner, to prevail on him

to return. This only made him increase his speed, and William would have

been thrown behind farther than ever, had he not taken a short cut,

which brought him very near him.

“Thank God, he will get him now!” cried the people in the churchyard;

when David Williams, turning suddenly to the right, made with the utmost

speed towards a rising ground, at the end of which was a freestone

quarry of great depth. At this sight a cry of horror arose from the

crowd, and most fervently did they pray that he might yet be overtaken;

and great was their joy when they saw that, by the most wonderful

exertion, William Russel had got up so near as to stretch out his arm to

catch him; but at that instant his foot slipped, and ere he could

recover himself, the unhappy man, who had now gained the summit, loudly

shouting, sprung into the air.

“God preserve us!” cried the people, covering their eyes that they might

not see a fellow-creature dashed in pieces; “it is all over!”

“Then help me to lift his poor wife,” said Isabel Lawson. “And now stan’

back, and gie her a’ the air, that she may draw her breath.”

“She’s drawn her last breath already, I’m doubting,” said Janet Ogilvie,

an old skilful woman; and her fears were found to be too true.

“An’ what will become o’ the poor orphans?” said Isabel.

She had scarcely spoken, when Sir George Beaumont advanced, and, taking

one of the children in each hand, he motioned the people to return

towards the grave.

“The puir bairns are provided for now,” whispered one to another, as

they followed to witness the completion of the mournful ceremony. It was

hastily finished in silence, and Sir George having said a few words to

his steward, and committed the orphans to his care, set out on his way

to the Hermitage, the assembled multitude all standing uncovered as he

passed, to mark their respect for his goodness and humanity.

As might have been expected, the late unhappy occurrences greatly

affected Lady Beaumont’s health, and Sir George determined to quit the

Hermitage for a time; and directions were accordingly given to prepare

for their immediate removal. While this was doing, the friend who had

been with Elie Anderson in the prison happened to call at the Hermitage,

and the servants crowded about her, eager to learn what had induced Elie

to commit such crimes. When she had repeated what Elie had said, a young

woman, one of the servants, exclaimed, “I know who’s been the cause of

this; for if Bet,”——and she suddenly checked herself.

“That must mean Betsy Pringle,” said Robert, who was her sweetheart, and

indeed engaged to her; “so you will please let us hear what you have to

say against her, or own that you’re a slanderer.”

“I have no wish to make mischief,” said the servant; “and as what I said

came out without much thought, I would rather say no more; but I’ll not

be called a slanderer neither.”

“Then say what you have to say,” cried Robert; “it’s the only way to

settle the matter.”

“Well, then,” said she, “since I must do it, I shall. Soon after I came

here, I was one day walking with the bairns and Betsy Pringle, when we

met a woman rather oddly dressed, and who had something queer in her

manner, and, when she had left us, I asked Betsy who it was. ‘Why,’ said

Betsy, ‘I don’t know a great deal about her, as she comes from another

part of the country; but if what a friend of mine told me lately is

true, this Elie Anderson, as they call her, should have been hanged.’

“‘Hanged!’ cried Miss Charlotte; ‘and why should she be hanged, Betsy?’

“‘Never you mind, Miss Charlotte,’ said Betsy, ‘I’m speaking to Fanny

here.’

“‘You can tell me some other time,’ said I.

“‘Nonsense,’ cried Betsy, ‘what can a bairn know about it? Weel,’

continued she, ‘it was believed that she had made away with John

Anderson, her gudeman.’

“‘What’s a gudeman, Betsy?’ asked Miss Charlotte.

“‘A husband,’ answered she.

“‘And what’s making away with him, Betsy?’

“‘What need you care?’ said Betsy.

“‘You may just as well tell me,’ said Miss Charlotte; ‘or I’ll ask Elie

Anderson herself all about it, the first time I meet her.’

“‘That would be a good joke,’ said Betsy, laughing; ‘how Elie Anderson

would look to hear a bairn like you speaking about a gudeman, and making

away with him; however,’ she continued, ‘that means killing him.’

“‘Killing him!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte. ‘Oh, the wretch; and how did

she kill him, Betsy?’

“‘You must ask no more questions, miss,’ said Betsy, and the subject

dropped.

“‘Betsy,’ said I to her afterwards, you should not have mentioned these

things before the children; do you forget how noticing they are?’

“‘Oh, so they are,’ said Betsy, ‘but only for the moment; and I’ll wager

Miss Charlotte has forgotten it all already.’

“But, poor thing,” Fanny added, “she remembered it but too well.”

“I’ll not believe this,” cried Robert.

“Let Betsy be called, then,” said the housekeeper, “and we’ll soon get

at the truth.” Betsy came, was questioned by the housekeeper, and

acknowledged the fact.

“Then,” said Robert, “you have murdered my master’s daughter, and you

and I can never be more to one another than we are at this moment;” and

he hastily left the room.

Betsy gazed after him for an instant, and then fell on the floor. She

was immediately raised up and conveyed to bed, but recovering soon

after, and expressing a wish to sleep, her attendant left her. The

unhappy woman, feeling herself unable to face her mistress after what

had happened, immediately got up, and, jumping from the window, fled

from the Hermitage. The first accounts they had of her were contained in

a letter from herself to Lady Beaumont, written on her death-bed,

wherein she described the miserable life she had led since quitting the

Hermitage, and entreating her ladyship’s forgiveness for the unhappiness

which she had occasioned.

“Let what has happened,” said Lady Beaumont, “be a warning to those who

have the charge of them, to _beware of what they say before children_;—a

sentiment which Sir George considered as so just and important, that he

had it engraven on the stone which covered the little innocents, that

their fate and its cause might be had in everlasting remembrance.”—“_The

Odd Volume._”

AN ORKNEY WEDDING.

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—_Goldsmith._

Gentle reader! you, I doubt not, have seen many strange sights, and have

passed through a variety of eventful scenes. Perhaps you have visited

the Thames Tunnel, and there threaded your way under ground and under

water, or you may have witnessed Mr Green’s balloon ascent, and seen him

take an airing on horseback among the clouds.

Perhaps, too, you have been an observer of human life in all its

varieties and extremes: one night figuring away at Almack’s with

aristocratic beauty, and the next footing it with a band of gipsies in

Epping Forest. But, pray tell me, have you ever seen an Orkney Wedding?

If not, as I have just received an invitation to one, inclusive of a

friend, you shall, if it so please you, accompany me to that scene of

rural hospitality.

In conformity with the custom of the country, I have sent off to the

young couple a pair of fowls and a leg of mutton, to play their parts

upon the festive board; and as every family contributes in like manner,

a general pic-nic is formed, which considerably diminishes the expense

incident to the occasion; although, as the festivities are frequently

kept up for three or four days by a numerous assemblage of rural beauty

and fashion, the young people must contrive to live upon love, if they

can, during the first year of their union, having little else left upon

which to subsist, except the fragments of the mighty feast.

Well, then, away we go, and about noon approach the scene of

festivity,—a country-seat built in the cottage style, thatched with

straw, and flanked with a barn and a well-filled corn-yard, enclosed

with a turf-dyke.

The wedding company are now seen making their way towards the place of

rendezvous; and the young women, arrayed in white robes of emblematic

purity, exhibit a most edifying example of economy. With their upper

garments carried to a height to which the fashion of short petticoats

never reached even at Paris, they trip it away barefooted through the

mud, until they reach the banks of a purling stream, about a quarter of

a mile distant from the wedding-house. Here their feet, having been

previously kissed by the crystal waters, and covered with cotton

stockings, which in whiteness would fain vie with the skin they

enviously conceal, are inserted into shoes, in whose mirror of glossy

black the enamoured youth obtains a peep of his own charms, while

stooping down to adjust their ties into a love-knot.

Immediately in front of the outer-door, or principal entrance of the

house, and answering the double purpose of shelter and ornament, stands

a broad square pile, composed of the most varied materials, needless to

be enumerated, and vulgarly denominated a _midden_, around the base of

which some half-dozen of pigs are acting the part of miners, in search

of its hidden treasures. It is separated from the house by a sheet of

water, tinged with the fairest hues of heaven and earth, viz., blue and

green, and over which we pass by a bridge of stepping-stones.

And now, my friend, before entering the house, it may be as well to

consider what character you are to personate during the entertainment;

for the good people in these islands, like their neighbours of the

mainland of Scotland, take that friendly interest in other people’s

affairs, which the thankless world very unkindly denominates impertinent

curiosity.

If I pass you off as a lawyer, you will immediately be overwhelmed with

statements of their quarrels and grievances; for they are main fond of

law, and will expend the hard-earned savings of years in litigation,

although the subject-matter of dispute should happen to be only a goose.

You must not, therefore, belong to the bar, since, in the present case,

consultations would produce no fees.

I think I shall therefore confer upon you the degree of M.D., which will

do as well for the occasion as if you had obtained it by purchase at the

University of Aberdeen; although I am not sure that it also may not

subject you to some trouble in the way of medical advice.

And now having safely passed over the puddle, and tapped gently at the

door, our arrival is immediately announced by a grand musical chorus,

produced by the barking of curs, the cackling of geese, the quacking of

ducks, and the grunting and squeaking of pigs. After this preliminary

salutation, we are received by the bridegroom, and ushered, with many

kind welcomes, into the principal hall, through a half open door, at one

end of which we are refreshed with a picture of rural felicity, namely,

some sleek-looking cows, _ruminating_ in philosophical tranquillity on

the subject of diet.

In the middle of the hall is a large blazing turf fire, the smoke of

which escapes in part through an aperture in the roof, while the

remainder expands in the manner of a pavilion over the heads of the

guests.

A door at the other end of the hall opens into the withdrawing-room, the

principal furniture of which consists of two large chests filled with

oat and barley meal and home-made cheeses, a concealed bed, and a chest

of drawers. Both rooms have floors inlaid with earth, and roofs of a

dark soot colour, from which drops of a corresponding hue occasionally

fall upon the bridal robes of the ladies, with all the fine effect

arising from contrast, and ornamental on the principle of the patch upon

the cheek of beauty.

Separated from the dwelling-house only by a puddle dotted with

stepping-stones stands the barn, which, from its length and breadth, is

admirably adapted for the purposes of a ball-room.

Upon entering the withdrawing-room, which the good people with admirable

modesty call _the ben_, we take our seats among the elders and chiefs of

the people, and drink to the health of the young couple in a glass of

delicious Hollands, which, unlike Macbeth’s “Amen,” does not stick in

our throats, although we are well aware that it never paid duty, but was

slily smuggled over sea in a Dutch lugger, and safely stowed, during

some dark night, in the caves of the more remote islands.

The clergyman having now arrived, the company assembled, and the

ceremony of marriage being about to take place, the parties to be united

walk in, accompanied by the best man and the bride’s maid,—those

important functionaries, whose business it is to pull off the gloves

from the right hands of their constituents, as soon as the order is

given to “join hands,”—but this they find to be no easy matter, for at

that eventful part of the ceremony their efforts are long baffled, owing

to the tightness of the gloves. While they are tugging away to no

purpose, the bridegroom looks chagrined, and the bride is covered with

blushes; and when at last the operation is accomplished, and

perseverance crowned with success, the confusion of the scene seems to

have infected the parson, who thus blunders through the ceremony:

“Bridegroom,” quoth he, “do you take the woman whom you now hold by the

hand, to be your lawful married husband?”

To which interrogation the bridegroom having nodded in the affirmative,

the parson perceives his mistake, and calls out, “Wife, I mean.” “Wife,

I mean,” echoes the bridegroom; and the whole company are in a titter.

But, thank heaven, the affair is got over at last; and the bride being

well saluted, a large rich cake is broken over her head, the fragments

of which are the subject of a scramble among the bystanders, by whom

they are picked up as precious relics, having power to produce

love-dreams.

And now the married pair, followed by the whole company, set off to

church, to be _kirked_, as the phrase is. A performer on the violin (not

quite a Rossini) heads the procession, and plays a variety of

appropriate airs, until he reaches the church-door. As soon as the party

have entered and taken their seats, the parish-clerk, in a truly

impressive and orthodox tone of voice, reads a certain portion of

Scripture, wherein wives are enjoined to be obedient to their husbands.

The service is concluded with a psalm, and the whole party march back,

headed as before by the musician.

Upon returning from church, the company partake of a cold collation,

called the _hansel_, which is distributed to each and all by the bride’s

mother, who for the time obtains the elegant designation of

_hansel-wife_. The refreshments consist of cheese, old and new, cut down

in large slices, or rather junks, and placed upon oat and barley

cakes,—some of the former being about an inch thick, and called

_snoddies_.

These delicate viands are washed down with copious libations of new ale,

which is handed about in a large wooden vessel, having three handles,

and ycleped a _three-lugged cog_.[18] The etherial beverage is seasoned

with pepper, ginger, and nutmeg, and thickened with eggs and pieces of

toasted biscuit.

Footnote 18:

Also called _the Bride’s cog_.—ED.

These preliminaries being concluded, the company return to the barn,

where the music strikes up, and the dancing commences with what is

called the Bride’s Reel; after which, two or three young men take

possession of the floor, which they do not resign until they have danced

with every woman present; they then give place to others, who pass

through the same ordeal, and so on. The dance then becomes more varied

and general. Old men and young ones, maids, matrons, and grandmothers,

mingle in its mazes. And, oh! what movements are there,—what freaks of

the “fantastic toe,”—what goodly figures and glorious gambols in a

dance;—compared to which the waltz is but the shadow of joy, and the

quadrille the feeble effort of Mirth upon her last legs.

Casting an eye, however, upon the various performers, I cannot but

observe that the old people seem to have monopolised all the airs and

graces; for, while the young maidens slide through the reel in the most

quiet and unostentatious way, and then keep bobbing opposite to their

partners in all the monotony of the back-step, their more gifted

grandmothers figure away in quite another style. With a length of waist

which our modern belles do not wish to possess, and an underfigure,

which they cannot if they would, even with the aid of pads, but which is

nevertheless the true court-shape, rendering the hoop unnecessary, and

which is moreover increased by the swinging appendages of huge scarlet

pockets, stuffed with bread and cheese, behold them sideling up to their

partners in a kind of _echellon_ movement, spreading out their

petticoats like sails, and then, as if seized with a sudden fit of

bashfulness, making a hasty retreat rearwards. Back they go at a round

trot; and seldom do they stop until their career of retiring modesty

ends in a somersault over the sitters along the sides of the room.

The old men, in like manner, possess similar advantages over the young

ones; the latter being sadly inferior to their seniors in address and

attitudes. Nor is this much to be wondered at, the young gentlemen

having passed most of their summer vacations at Davis’ Straits, where

their society consisted chiefly of bears; whereas the old ones are men

of the world, having in early life entered the Company’s service (I do

not mean that of the East Indies, but of Hudson’s Bay), where their

manners must no doubt have been highly polished by their intercourse

with the Squaws, and all the beauty and fashion of that interesting

country.