Such of them as have sojourned there are called north-westers, and are

distinguished by that modest assurance, and perfect ease and

self-possession, only to be acquired by mixing frequently and freely

with the best society. Indeed, one would suppose that their manners were

formed upon the model of the old French school; and _queues_ are in

general use among them—not, however, those of the small pigtail kind,

but ones which in shape and size strongly resemble the Boulogne sausage.

And now, amidst these ancients, I recognise my old and very worthy

friend, Mr James Houston, kirk-officer and sexton of the parish, of whom

a few words, perhaps, may not be unacceptable.

His degree of longitude may be about five feet from the earth, and in

latitude he may extend at an average to about three. His countenance,

which is swarthy, and fully as broad as it is long, although not

altogether the model which an Italian painter would select for his

Apollo, would yet be considered handsome among the Esquimaux; or, as

James calls them, the _Huskinese_. His hair, which (notwithstanding an

age at which Time generally saves us the expense of the powder-tax) is

jet black, is of a length and strength that would not shrink from

comparison with that of a horse’s tail, and hangs down over his broad

shoulders in a fine and generous flow. The coat which he wears upon

this, as upon all other occasions, is cut upon the model of the spencer;

its colour, a “heavenly blue,” varied by numerous dark spots, like

clouds in a summer sky; while his nether bulk is embraced by a pair of

tight buckskin “unmentionables.”

Extending from the bosom down to the knee he wears a leather apron. This

part of his dress is never dispensed with, except at church; and though

I have not been able to ascertain its precise purpose with perfect

certainty, I am inclined to think it is used as a perpetual pinafore, to

preserve his garments from the pollution of soup and grease-drops at

table.

The principal materials of his dress are, moreover, prepared for use by

his own hands: Mr Houston being at once sole proprietor and operative of

a small manufactory, consisting of a single loom; when not employed at

which, or in spreading the couch of rest in the churchyard, he enjoys a

kind of perpetual _otium cum dignitate_.

His chief moveables, in addition to the loom, consist of three Shetland

ponies and a small Orkney plough, by the united aid of which he is

enabled to scratch up the surface of a small estate, which supplies him

with grain sufficient for home consumption, but not for exportation.

His peculiar and more shining accomplishments consist in the art of

mimicking the dance of every man and woman in the parish, which he does

with a curious felicity, and in executing short pieces of music on that

sweetest of lyres, the Jew’s harp.

Like most of his profession, he is a humorist; and though he has long

“walked hand-in-hand with death,” nobody enjoys life with a keener

relish at the festive board or the midnight ball, which he finds

delightful relaxations from his _grave_ occupations during the day; and

yet even these latter afford him a rare and consolatory joy denied to

other men,—I mean that of meeting with his old friends, after they have

been long dead, and of welcoming, with a grin of recognition, the skulls

of his early associates, as he playfully pats them with his spade, and

tosses them into the light of day.

But it is in his capacity of kirk-officer that Mr Houston appears to the

greatest advantage, while ushering the clergyman to the pulpit, and

marching before him with an air truly magnificent, and an erectness of

carriage somewhat beyond the perpendicular, he performs his important

function of opening and shutting the door of the pulpit, and takes his

seat under an almost overwhelming sense of dignity, being for the time a

kind of lord high constable, with whom is entrusted the execution of the

law. And that he does not bear the sword in vain is known to their cost,

by all the litigious and churchgoing dogs of the parish; for no sooner

do they begin to growl and tear each other, with loud yells, which they

generally do, so as to chime in with the first notes of the first psalm,

than starting up with a long staff,—the awe-inspiring baton of

office,—he belabours the yelping curs with such blessed effect as to

restore them to a sense of propriety, and prevent them from mingling

their unhallowed chorus with that of the melodious choir.

Having given this brief outline of Mr Houston, we shall proceed through

the remaining part of the scene. A large and very substantial dinner

forms an agreeable variety in the entertainments of the day; and in the

evening the scene of elegant conviviality is transferred to the

ball-room, where dancing again commences with renovated spirit. The

perpetual motion, also, seems at last to be discovered in that of the

_three-lugged cog_, which circulates unceasing as the sun;—like that,

diffusing life and gladness in its growing orbit round the room, and

kissed in its course by so many fair lips, bears off upon its edges much

of their balmy dew, affording a double-refined relish to its inspiring

draughts.

At length the supper is announced, and a rich repast it is: quarters of

mutton, boiled and roasted, flocks of fat hens, in marshalled ranks,

flanked with roasted geese, luxuriously swimming in a savoury sea of

butter, form the _élite_ of the feast; from which all manner of

vegetables are entirely excluded, being considered as much too humble

for such an occasion.

The company do ample justice to the hospitality of their entertainers;

and even the bride, considering the delicacy of her situation, has

already exceeded all bounds of moderation. This, however, is entirely

owing to her high sense of politeness; for she conceives that it would

be rude in her to decline eating so long as she is asked to do so by the

various carvers. But now I really begin to be alarmed for her: already

has she dispatched six or seven services of animal food, and is even now

essaying to disjoint the leg and wing of a goose; but, thank Heaven!—in

attempting to cut through the bone, she has upset her plate, and

transferred its contents into her lap; which circumstance, I trust, she

will consider a providential warning to eat no more.

And now, before leaving the wedding, we will have a little conversation

with some of my country friends, who are fond of chatting with those

whom they call _the gentry_; and who, being particularly partial to a

pompous phraseology, and addicted to the use of words, of which they

either do not understand the meaning at all, or very imperfectly, are

all of the Malaprop school, and often quite untranslatable. A fair

specimen of their style may be had from my friend Magnus Isbister, who

has taken his seat upon my left hand, but at such a distance from the

table that his victuals are continually dropping betwixt his plate and

his mouth. I will speak to him.

“I am glad to see you here, Magnus; and looking so well, that I need not

inquire after your health.”

_Magnus._ “Why, thanks to the Best, sir, I’m brave and easy that way;

but sairly hadden down wi’ the laird, wha’s threatenin’ to raise my rent

that’s ower high already; but he was aye a _raxward_ man,—and, between

you and me, he’s rather greedy.”

“That’s a hard case, Magnus; you should speak to the factor, and explain

your circumstances to him.”

_Mag._ “Oh, sir, I hae been doin’ that already; but he got into a

_sevandable_ passion, an’ said something about ‘his eye and Betty

Martin;’—I’m sure I ken naething about her; but ye maun ken he’s a

_felonious_ arguer, an’ ower deep for the like o’ us puir _infidel

bodies_.”

“Had you not better sit nearer to the table, Magnus? You are losing your

victuals by keeping at such a distance.”

_Mag._ “Na, na, sir; I doubt ye’re mockan’ me noo; but I ken what gude

manners is better than do ony siccan a thing.”

“Where is your son at present?”

_Mag._ “Why, thanks be praised, sir, he’s doing bravely. He follows the

_swindling_ trade awa in the south, whaur they tell me the great Bishops

o’ Lunnon are proclaiming war wi’ the Papists.”

“That they are, Magnus, and ever will do.”

_Mag._ “Can ye tell me, sir, if it’s true that the king’s intending to

part wi’ his ministers? I’m thinking it would be a’ the better for the

like o’ us boons folk, and wad free us frae the tithes.”

“You misunderstand the thing, Magnus; the king’s ministers are not those

of the Church, but of the State.”

_Mag._ “Oh—is that it? Weel, I never kent that before. But can ye tell

me, sir, wha that gentleman is upon your ither side?”

“He is a young Englishman, who has come north to see this country.”

_Mag._ “Is he indeed, sir? And, by your leave, what _ack o’ parliament_

does he drive?”

“He is, I believe, a doctor of medicine.”

_Mag._ “Just so, sir; I wonder if he could tell what would be good for

me?”

“I thought you told me you were in good health?”

_Mag._ “Weel, as I said before, I’m brave and easy that way, indeed; but

yet I’m whiles fashed wi’ the _rheumaticisms_, and sometimes I’m very

_domalis_.”

“Domalis!—what’s that, Magnus?”

_Mag._ “Weel, never might there be the waur o’ that; I thought you,

that’s been at college, wad hae kent that;—domalis is just ‘_flamp_’

(listless).”

“I would advise you to keep clear of the doctors, Magnus; believe me,

you don’t require them at present;—but come, favour me with a toast.”

_Mag._ (_Filling his glass._) “Weel, sir, I’se do my best to gie ye a

gude ane (_scratching his head_);—weel, sir, ‘Here’s luck.’”

“An excellent toast, Magnus, which I drink with all my heart; and, in

return ‘Here’s to your health and happiness, and that of the bride and

bridegroom, and the rest of this pleasant company, and a good night to

you all.’”

THE GHOST WITH THE GOLDEN CASKET.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Is my soul tamed

And baby-rid with the thought that flood or field

Can render back, to scare men and the moon,

The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb?

And what if ’tis so—shall I lose the crown

Of my most golden hope, ’cause its fair circle

Is haunted by a shadow?

From the coast of Cumberland the beautiful old castle of Caerlaverock is

seen standing on the point of a fine green promontory, bounded by the

river Nith on one side, by the deep sea on another, by the almost

impassable morass of Solway on a third; while, far beyond, you observe

the three spires of Dumfries, and the high green hills of Dalswinton and

Keir. It was formerly the residence of the almost princely names of

Douglas, Seaton, Kirkpatrick, and Maxwell: it is now the dwelling-place

of the hawk and the owl; its courts are a lair for cattle, and its walls

afford a midnight shelter to the passing smuggler, or, like those of the

city doomed in Scripture, are places for the fishermen to dry their

nets. Between this fine old ruin and the banks of the Nith, at the foot

of a grove of pines, and within a stone-cast of tide-mark, the remains

of a rude cottage are yet visible to the curious eye; the bramble and

the wild plum have in vain tried to triumph over the huge gray granite

blocks, which composed the foundations of its walls. The vestiges of a

small garden may still be traced, more particularly in summer, when

roses and lilies, and other relics of its former beauty, begin to open

their bloom, clinging, amid the neglect and desolation of the place,

with something like human affection, to the soil. This rustic ruin

presents no attractions to the eye of the profound antiquary, compared

to those of its more stately companion, Caerlaverock Castle; but with

this rude cottage and its garden, tradition connects a tale so wild and

so moving, as to elevate it, in the contemplation of the peasantry,

above all the princely feasts and feudal atrocities of its neighbour.

It is now some fifty years since I visited the parish of Caerlaverock;

but the memory of its people, its scenery, and the story of the Ghost

with the Golden Casket, are as fresh with me as matters of yesterday. I

had walked out to the river bank one sweet afternoon of July, when the

fishermen were hastening to dip their nets in the coming tide, and the

broad waters of the Solway sea were swelling and leaping against bank

and cliff, as far as the eye could reach. It was studded over with

boats, and its more unfrequented bays were white with water-fowl. I sat

down on a small grassy mound between the cottage ruins and the old

garden plot, and gazed, with all the hitherto untasted pleasure of a

stranger, on the beautiful scene before me. On the right, and beyond the

river, the mouldering relics of the ancient religion of Scotland

ascended, in unassimilating beauty, above the humble kirk of New Abbey

and its squalid village; farther to the south rose the white sharp

cliffs of Barnhourie; while on the left stood the ancient Keeps of

Cumlongan and Torthorald, and the Castle of Caerlaverock. Over the whole

looked the stately green mountain of Criffel, confronting its more

stately but less beautiful neighbour, Skiddaw; while between them flowed

the deep wide sea of Solway, hemmed with cliff, and castle, and town.

As I sat looking on the increasing multitudes of waters, and watching

the success of the fishermen, I became aware of the approach of an old

man, leading, as one will conduct a dog in a string, a fine young milch

cow, in a halter of twisted hair, which, passing through the ends of two

pieces of flat wood, fitted to the animal’s cheek-bones, pressed her

nose, and gave her great pain whenever she became disobedient. The cow

seemed willing to enjoy the luxury of a browse on the rich pasture which

surrounded the little ruined cottage; but in this humble wish she was

not to be indulged; for the aged owner, coiling up the tether, and

seizing her closely by the head, conducted her past the tempting herbage

towards a small and close-cropt hillock, a good stone-cast distant. In

this piece of self-denial the animal seemed reluctant to sympathise—she

snuffed the fresh green pasture, and plunged, and startled, and nearly

broke away. What the old man’s strength seemed nearly unequal to was

accomplished by speech:—

“Bonnie leddy, bonnie leddy,” said he, in a soothing tone, “it canna be,

it maunna be; hinnie! hinnie! what would become of my three-bonnie

grandbairns, made fatherless and mitherless by that false flood afore

us, if they supped milk, and tasted butter, that came from the

greensward of this doomed and unblessed spot?”

The animal appeared to comprehend something in her own way from the

speech of her owner: she abated her resistance; and, indulging only in a

passing glance at the rich deep herbage, passed on to her destined

pasture.

I had often heard of the singular superstitions of the Scottish

peasantry, and that every hillock had its song, every hill its ballad,

and every valley its tale. I followed with my eye the old man and his

cow: he went but a little way, till, seating himself on the ground,

retaining still the tether in his hand, he said,—

“Now, bonnie leddy, feast thy fill on this good greensward; it is

halesome and holy, compared to the sward at the doomed cottage of auld

Gibbie Gyrape—leave that to smugglers’ nags: Willie o’ Brandyburn and

roaring Jock o’ Kempstane will ca’ the Haunted Ha’ a hained bit—they are

godless fearnoughts.”

I looked at the person of the peasant. He was a stout hale old man, with

a weather-beaten face, furrowed something by time, and perhaps by

sorrow. Though summer was at its warmest, he wore a broad chequered

mantle, fastened at the bosom with a skewer of steel; a broad bonnet,

from beneath the circumference of which straggled a few thin locks, as

white as driven snow, shining like amber, and softer than the finest

flax; while his legs were warmly cased in blue-ribbed boot-hose. Having

laid his charge to the grass, he looked leisurely around him, and

espying me,—a stranger, and dressed above the manner of the

peasantry,—he acknowledged my presence by touching his bonnet; and, as

if willing to communicate something of importance, he struck the

tethered stake in the ground and came to the old garden fence.

Wishing to know the peasant’s reason for avoiding the ruins, I thus

addressed him:—

“This is a pretty spot, my aged friend, and the herbage looks so fresh

and abundant, that I would advise thee to bring thy charge hither; and

while she continues to browse, I would gladly listen to the history of

thy white locks, for they seem to have been bleached in many tempests.”

“Ay, ay,” said the peasant, shaking his white head with a grave smile;

“they have braved sundry tempests between sixteen and sixty; but

touching this pasture, sir, I know of none who would like their cows to

crop it: the aged cattle shun the place;—the bushes bloom, but bear no

fruit,—the birds never build in the branches,—the children never come

near to play,—and the aged never choose it for a resting-place; but,

pointing it out as they pass to the young, tell them the story of its

desolation. Sae ye see, sir, having nae gude-will to such a spot of

earth myself, I like little to see a stranger sitting in such an

unblessed place; and I would as good as advise ye to come ower wi’ me to

the cowslip knoll—there are reasons mony that an honest man shouldna sit

there.”

I arose at once, and seating myself beside the peasant on the cowslip

knoll, desired to know something of the history of the spot from which

he had just warned me. The old man looked on me with an air of

embarrassment.

“I am just thinking,” said he, “that, as ye are an Englishman, I

shouldna acquaint ye wi’ such a story. Ye’ll mak it, I’m doubting, a

matter of reproach and vaunt when ye gae hame, how Willie Borlan o’

Caerlaverock told ye a tale of Scottish iniquity, that cowed a’ the

stories in southern book or history.”

This unexpected obstacle was soon removed.

“My sage and considerate friend,” I said, “I have the blood in my bosom

that will keep me from revealing such a tale to the scoffer and the

scorner. I am something of a Caerlaverock man—the grandson of Marion

Stobie of Dookdub.”

The peasant seized my hand—“Marion Stobie! bonnie Marion Stobie o’

Dookdub—whom I wooed sae sair, and loved sae lang!—Man, I love ye for

her sake; and well was it for her braw English bridegroom that William

Borlan—frail and faded now, but strong and in manhood then—was a

thousand miles from Caerlaverock, rolling on the salt sea, when she was

brided. Ye have the glance of her ee,—I could ken it yet amang ten

thousand, gray as my head is. I will tell the grandson of bonnie Marion

Stobie ony tale he likes to ask for; and the story of the Ghost and the

Gowd Casket shall be foremost.”

“You may imagine then,” said the old Caerlaverock peasant, rising at

once with the commencement of his story from his native dialect into

very passable English—“you may imagine these ruined walls raised again

in their beauty,—whitened, and covered with a coating of green broom;

that garden, now desolate, filled with herbs in their season, and with

flowers, hemmed round with a fence of cherry and plumtrees; and the

whole possessed by a young fisherman, who won a fair subsistence for his

wife and children from the waters of the Solway sea: you may imagine it,

too, as far from the present time as fifty years. There are only two

persons living now, who remember when the Bonne Homme Richard—the first

ship ever Richard Faulder commanded—was wrecked on the Pelock sands: one

of these persons now addresses you, the other is the fisherman who once

owned that cottage,—whose name ought never to be named, and whose life

seems lengthened as a warning to the earth, how fierce God’s judgments

are. Life changes—all breathing things have their time and their season;

but the Solway flows in the same beauty—Criffel rises in the same

majesty—the light of morning comes, and the full moon arises now, as

they did then;—but this moralizing matters little. It was about the

middle of harvest—I remember the day well; it had been sultry and

suffocating, accompanied by rushings of wind, sudden convulsions of the

water, and cloudings of the sun:—I heard my father sigh and say, ‘Dool,

dool to them found on the deep sea to-night; there will happen strong

storm and fearful tempest!’

“The day closed, and the moon came over Skiddaw: all was perfectly clear

and still; frequent dashings and whirling agitations of the sea were

soon heard mingling with the hasty clang of the water-fowls’ wings, as

they forsook the waves, and sought shelter among the hollows of the

rocks. The storm was nigh. The sky darkened down at once; clap after

clap of thunder followed; and lightning flashed so vividly, and so

frequent, that the wide and agitated expanse of Solway was visible from

side to side—from St Bees to Barnhourie. A very heavy rain, mingled with

hail, succeeded; and a wind accompanied it, so fierce, and so high, that

the white foam of the sea was showered as thick as snow on the summit of

Caerlaverock Castle.

“Through this perilous sea, and amid this darkness and tempest, a bark

was observed coming swiftly down the middle of the sea; her sails rent,

and her decks crowded with people. The ‘carry,’ as it is called, of the

tempest was direct from St Bees to Caerlaverock; and experienced men

could see that the bark would be driven full on the fatal shoals of the

Scottish side; but the lightning was so fierce that few dared venture to

look on the approaching vessel, or take measures for endeavouring to

preserve the lives of the unfortunate mariners. My father stood on the

threshold of his door, and beheld all that passed in the bosom of the

sea. The bark approached fast, her canvas rent to shreds, her masts

nearly levelled with the deck, and the sea foaming over her so deep, and

so strong, as to threaten to sweep the remains of her crew from the

little refuge the broken masts and splintered beams still afforded them.

She now seemed within half a mile of the shore, when a strong flash of

lightning, that appeared to hang over the bark for a moment, showed the

figure of a lady richly dressed, clinging to a youth who was pressing

her to his bosom.

“My father exclaimed, ‘Saddle me my black horse, and saddle me my gray,

and bring them down to the Dead-man’s bank,’—and, swift in action as he

was in resolve, he hastened to the shore, his servants following with

his horses. The shore of Solway presented then, as it does now, the same

varying line of coast; and the house of my father stood in the bosom of

a little bay, nearly a mile distant from where we sit. The remains of an

old forest interposed between the bay at Dead-man’s bank, and the bay at

our feet; and mariners had learned to wish, that if it were their doom

to be wrecked, it might be in the bay of douce William Borlan, rather

than that of Gilbert Gyrape, the proprietor of that ruined cottage. But

human wishes are vanities, wished either by sea or land. I have heard my

father say, he could never forget the cries of the mariners, as the bark

smote on the Pellock bank, and the flood rushed through the chasms made

by the concussion; but he could far less forget the agony of a lady—the

loveliest that could be looked upon, and the calm and affectionate

courage of the young man who supported her, and endeavoured to save her

from destruction. Richard Faulder, the only man who survived, has often

sat at my fireside, and sung me a very rude, but a very moving ballad,

which he made on this young and unhappy pair; and the old mariner

assured me he had only added rhymes, and a descriptive line or two, to

the language in which Sir William Musgrave endeavoured to soothe and

support his wife.”

It seemed a thing truly singular, that at this very moment two young

fishermen, who sat on the margin of the sea below us, watching their

halve-nets, should sing, and with much sweetness, the very song the old

man had described. They warbled verse and verse alternately; and rock

and bay seemed to retain and then release the sound. Nothing is so sweet

as a song by the seaside on a tranquil evening.

SIR WILLIAM MUSGRAVE.

_First Fisherman._

“O lady, lady, why do you weep?

Tho’ the wind be loosed on the raging deep,

Tho’ the heaven be mirker than mirk may be,

And our frail bark ships a fearful sea,—

Yet thou art safe—as on that sweet night

When our bridal candles gleamed far and bright.”—

There came a shriek, and there came a sound,

And the Solway roared, and the ship spun round.

_Second Fisherman._

“O lady, lady, why do you cry?

Though the waves be flashing top-mast high,

Though our frail bark yields to the dashing brine,

And heaven and earth show no saving sign,

There is One who comes in the time of need,

And curbs the waves as we curb a steed.”—

The lightning came, with the whirlwind blast,

And cleaved the prow, and smote down the mast.

_First Fisherman._

“O lady, lady, weep not nor wail,

Though the sea runs howe as Dalswinton vale,

Then flashes high as Barnhourie brave,

And yawns for thee, like the yearning grave—

Tho’ twixt thee and the ravening flood

There is but my arm and this splintering wood,

The fell quicksand, or the famished brine,

Can ne’er harm a face so fair as thine.”

_Both._

“O lady, lady, be bold and brave,

Spread thy white breast to the fearful wave,

And cling to me with that white right hand,

And I’ll set thee safe on the good dry land.”

A lightning flash on the shallop strook,

The Solway roared, and Caerlaverock shook;

From the sinking ship there were shriekings cast,

That were heard above the tempest’s blast.

The young fishermen having concluded their song, my companion proceeded.

“The lightning still flashed vivid and fast, and the storm raged with

unabated fury; for, between the ship and the shore, the sea broke in

frightful undulation, and leaped on the greensward several fathoms deep

abreast. My father, mounted on one horse, and holding another in his

hand, stood prepared to give all the aid that a brave man could to the

unhappy mariners; but neither horse nor man could endure the onset of

that tremendous surge. The bark bore for a time the fury of the element;

but a strong eastern wind came suddenly upon her, and crushing her

between the wave and the freestone bank, drove her from the entrance of

my father’s little bay towards the dwelling of Gibbie Gyrape, and the

thick forest intervening, she was out of sight in a moment. My father

saw, for the last time, the lady and her husband looking shoreward from

the side of the vessel, as she drifted along; and as he galloped round

the head of the forest, he heard for the last time the outcry of some,

and the wail and intercession of others. When he came before the

fisherman’s house, a fearful sight presented itself: the ship, dashed to

atoms, covered the shore with its wreck, and with the bodies of the

mariners—not a living soul escaped, save Richard Faulder, whom the fiend

who guides the spectre shallop of the Solway had rendered proof to the

perils of the deep. The fisherman himself came suddenly from his

cottage, all dripping and drenched, and my father addressed him:—

“‘O, Gilbert, Gilbert, what a fearful sight is this! Has Heaven blessed

thee with making thee the means of saving a human soul?’

“‘Nor soul nor body have I saved,’ said the fisherman, doggedly. ‘I have

done my best; the storm proved too stark, and the lightning too fierce

for me; their boat alone came near with a lady and a casket of gold, but

she was swallowed up with the surge.’

“My father confessed afterwards that he was struck with the tone in

which these words were delivered, and made answer—

“‘If thou hast done thy best to save souls to-night, a bright reward

will be thine;—if thou hast been fonder for gain than for working the

mariners’ redemption, thou hast much to answer for.’

“As he uttered these words, an immense wave rolled landward, as far as

the place where they stood; it almost left its foam on their faces, and

suddenly receding, deposited at their feet the dead body of the lady. As

my father lifted her in his arms, he observed that the jewels which had

adorned her hair—at that time worn long—had been forcibly rent away; the

diamonds and gold that enclosed her neck, and ornamented the bosom of

her rich satin dress, had been torn off,—the rings removed from her

fingers,—and on her neck, lately so lily-white and pure, there appeared

the marks of hands—not laid there in love and gentleness, but with a

fierce and deadly grasp.

“The lady was buried with the body of her husband, side by side, in

Caerlaverock burial-ground. My father never openly accused Gilbert the

fisherman of having murdered the lady for her riches, as she reached the

shore, preserved from sinking, as was supposed, by her long, wide, and

stiff satin robes;—but from that hour till the hour of his death, my

father never broke bread with him—never shook him or his by the hand,

nor spoke with them in wrath or in love. The fisherman from that time,

too, waxed rich and prosperous; and from being the needy proprietor of a

halve-net, and the tenant at will of a rude cottage, he became, by

purchase, lord of a handsome inheritance, proceeded to build a bonny

mansion, and called it Gyrape-ha’; and became a leading man in a flock

of a purer kind of Presbyterians, and a precept and example to the

community.

“But though the portioner of Gyrape-ha’ prospered wondrously, his claims

to parochial distinction, and the continuance of his fortune, were

treated with scorn by many, and with doubt by all; though nothing open

or direct was said, yet looks, more cutting at times than the keenest

speech, and actions still more expressive, showed that the hearts of

honest men were alienated—the cause was left to his own interpretation.

The peasant scrupled to become his servant; sailors hesitated to receive

his grain on board, lest perils should find them on the deep; the beggar

ceased to solicit alms; the drover and horse-couper—an unscrupulous

generation—found out a more distant mode of concluding bargains than by

shaking his hand; his daughters, handsome and blue-eyed, were neither

wooed nor married; no maiden would hold tryst with his sons, though

maidens were then as little loth as they are now; and the aged peasant,

as he passed his new mansion, would shake his head and say—‘The voice of

spilt blood will be lifted up against thee; and a spirit shall come up

from the waters, and cause the corner-stone of thy habitation to tremble

and quake.’

It happened, during the summer which succeeded this unfortunate

shipwreck, that I accompanied my father to the Solway, to examine his

nets. It was near midnight, the tide was making, and I sat down by his

side and watched the coming of the waters. The shore was glittering in

starlight as far as the eye could reach. Gilbert, the fisherman, had

that morning removed from his cottage to his new mansion; the former was

therefore untenanted, and the latter, from its vantage-ground on the

crest of the hill, threw down to us the sound of mirth, and music, and

dancing,—a revelry common in Scotland on taking possession of a new

house. As we lay quietly looking on the swelling sea, and observing the

water-fowl swimming and ducking in the increasing waters, the sound of

the merriment became more audible. My father listened to the mirth,

looked to the sea, looked to the deserted cottage, and then to the new

mansion, and said—

“‘My son, I have a counsel to give thee; treasure it in thy heart, and

practise it in thy life: the daughters of _him_ of Gyrape-ha’ are fair,

and have an eye that would wile away the wits of the wisest. Their

father has wealth,—I say nought of the way he came by it,—they will have

golden portions doubtless. But I would rather lay thy head aneath the

gowans in Caerlaverock kirkyard (and son have I none beside thee), than

see thee lay it on the bridal pillow with the begotten of that man,

though she had Nithsdale for her dowry. Let not my words be as seed sown

on the ocean. I may not now tell thee why this warning is given. Before

that fatal shipwreck, I would have said Prudence Gyrape, in her kirtle,

was a better bride than some who have golden dowers. I have long thought

some one would see a sight; and often, while holding my halve-net in the

midnight tide, have I looked for something to appear, for where blood is

shed there doth the spirit haunt for a time, and give warning to man.

May I be strengthened to endure the sight!’

“I answered not, being accustomed to regard my father’s counsel as a

matter not to be debated, as a solemn command: we heard something like

the rustling of wings on the water, accompanied by a slight curling

motion of the tide. ‘God haud His right hand about us!’ said my father,

breathing thick with emotion and awe, and looking on the sea with a gaze

so intense that his eyes seemed to dilate, and the hair of his forehead

to project forward, and bristle into life. I looked, but observed

nothing, save a long line of thin and quivering light, dancing along the

surface of the sea: it ascended the bank, on which it seemed to linger

for a moment, and then entering the fisherman’s cottage, made roof and

rafter gleam with a sudden illumination. ‘I’ll tell thee what, Gibbie

Gyrape,’ said my father, ‘I wouldna be the owner of thy heart, and the

proprietor of thy right hand, for all the treasures in earth and ocean.’

“A loud and piercing scream from the cottage made us thrill with fear,

and in a moment the figures of three human beings rushed into the open

air, and ran towards us with a swiftness which supernatural dread alone

could inspire. We instantly knew them to be three noted smugglers who

infested the country; and rallying when they found my father maintain

his ground, they thus mingled their fears and the secrets of their

trade, for terror fairly overpowered their habitual caution.

“‘I vow by the night tide, and the crooked timber,’ said Willie

Weethause, ‘I never beheld sic a light as yon since our distillation

pipe took fire, and made a burnt instead of a drink offering of our

spirits; I’ll uphold it comes for nae good—a warning maybe—sae ye may

gang on, Wattie Bouseaway, wi’ yer wickedness; as for me, I’se gang hame

and repent.’

“‘Saulless bodie!’ said his companion, whose natural hardihood was

considerably supported by his communion with the brandy cup—‘saulless

bodie, for a flaff o’ fire and a maiden’s shadow, would ye foreswear the

gallant trade? Saul to gude! but auld Miller Morison shall turn yer

thrapple into a drain-pipe to wyse the waste water from his mill, if ye

turn back now, and help us nae through wi’ as strong an importation as

ever cheered the throat, and cheeped in the crapin. Confound the

fuzhionless bodie! he glowers as if this fine starlight were something

frae the warst side o’ the world, and thae staring een o’ his are busy

shaping heaven’s sweetest and balmiest air into the figures of wraiths

and goblins.’

“‘Robert Telfer,’ said my father, addressing the third smuggler, ‘tell

me naught of the secrets of your perilous trade; but tell me what you

have seen, and why ye uttered that fearful scream, that made the

wood-doves start from Caerlaverock pines.’

“‘I’ll tell ye what, goodman,’ said the mariner, ‘I have seen the fires

of heaven running as thick along the sky, and on the surface of the

ocean, as ye ever saw the blaze on a bowl o’ punch at a merry-making,

and neither quaked nor screamed; but ye’ll mind the light that came to

that cottage to-night was one for some fearful purport, which let the

wise expound; sae it lessened nae one’s courage to quail for sic an

apparition? ’Od, if I thought living soul would ever make the start I

gied an upcast to me, I’d drill his breast-bane with my dirk like a

turnip-lantern.’

“My father mollified the wrath of this maritime desperado, by assuring

him that he beheld the light go from the sea to the cottage, and that he

shook with terror, for it seemed no common light.

“‘Ou, then,’ said hopeful Robin, ‘since it was ane o’ our ain cannie sea

apparitions, I care less about it. I took it for some landward sprite!

And now I think on’t, where were my een? Did it no stand amang its ain

light, with its long hanks of hair dripping and drenched; with a casket

of gold in ae hand, and the other guarding its throat? I’ll be bound

it’s the ghost o’ some sonsie lass that has had her neck nipped for her

gold; and had she stayed till I emptied the bicker o’ brandy, I would

have asked a cannie question or twa.’

“Willie Weethause had now fairly overcome his consternation, and began

to feel all his love return for the ‘gallant trade,’ as his comrade

called it.

“‘The tide serves, lads! the tide serves; let us slip our drap o’ brandy

into the bit bonnie boat, and tottle awa amang the sweet starlight as

far as the Kingholm or the town quarry—ye ken we have to meet Bailie

Gardevine and Laird Soukaway o’ Ladlemouth.’

“They then returned, not without hesitation and fear, to the old

cottage; carried their brandy to the boat; and as my father and I went

home, we heard the dipping of their oars in the Nith, along the banks of

which they sold their liquor, and told their tale of fear, magnifying

its horror at every step, and introducing abundance of variations.

“The story of the Ghost with the Golden Casket flew over the country

side with all its variations, and with many comments. Some said they saw

her, and some thought they saw her; and those who had the hardihood to

keep watch on the beach at midnight had their tales to tell of terrible

lights and strange visions. With one who delighted in the marvellous,

the spectre was decked in attributes that made the circle of auditors

tighten round the hearth; while others, who allowed to a ghost only a

certain quantity of thin air to clothe itself in, reduced it in their

description to a very unpoetic shadow, or a kind of better sort of

will-o’-the-wisp, that could for its own amusement counterfeit the human

shape. There were many others who, like my father, beheld the singular

illumination appear at midnight on the coast; saw also something sailing

along with it in the form of a lady in bright garments, her hair long

and wet, and shining in diamonds; and heard a struggle, and the shriek

as of a creature drowning.

“The belief of the peasantry did not long confine the apparition to the

sea coast; it was seen sometimes late at night far inland, and following

Gilbert the fisherman, like a human shadow—like a pure light—like a

white garment—and often in the shape and with the attributes in which it

disturbed the carousal of the smugglers. I heard douce Davie Haining—a

God-fearing man, and an elder of the Burgher congregation, and on whose

word I could well lippen, when drink was kept from his head—I heard him

say that as he rode home late from the Roodfair of Dumfries—the night

was dark, there lay a dusting of snow on the ground, and no one appeared

on the road but himself; he was lilting and singing the canny end of the

auld sang, ‘There’s a cutty stool in our kirk,’ which was made on some

foolish quean’s misfortune, when he heard the sound of horses’ feet

behind him at full gallop, and ere he could look round, who should flee

past, urging his horse with whip and spur, but Gilbert the fisherman!

‘Little wonder that he galloped,’ said the elder, ‘for a fearful form

hovered around him, making many a clutch at him, and with every clutch

uttering a shriek most piercing to hear. But why should I make a long

story of a common tale? The curse of spilt blood fell on him, and on his

children, and on all he possessed; his sons and daughters died; his

flocks perished; his grain grew, but never filled the ear; and fire came

from heaven, or rose from hell, and consumed his house and all that was

therein. He is now a man of ninety years; a fugitive and a vagabond on

the earth, without a house to put his white head in, and with the

unexpiated curse still clinging to him.’

While my companion was making this summary of human wretchedness, I

observed the figure of a man, stooping to the earth with extreme age,

gliding through among the bushes of the ruined cottage, and approaching

the advancing tide. He wore a loose great-coat, patched to the ground,

and fastened round his waist by a belt and buckle; the remains of

stockings and shoes were on his feet; a kind of fisherman’s cap

surmounted some remaining white hairs, while a long peeled stick

supported him as he went. My companion gave an involuntary shudder when

he saw him—

“Lo and behold, now, here comes Gilbert the fisherman! Once every

twenty-four hours does he come, let the wind and the rain be as they

will, to the nightly tide, to work o’er again, in imagination, his old

tragedy of unrighteousness. See how he waves his hand, as if he welcomed

some one from the sea; he raises his voice, too, as if something in the

water required his counsel; and see how he dashes up to the middle, and

grapples with the water as if he clutched a human being!”

I looked on the old man, and heard him call in a hollow and broken

voice—

“Ahoy! the ship ahoy,—turn your boat’s head ashore! And, my bonnie

leddy, keep haud o’ yer casket. Hech be’t! that wave would have sunk a

three-decker, let a be a slender boat. See—see an she binna sailing

abune the water like a wild swan!”—and wading deeper in the tide as he

spoke, he seemed to clutch at something with both hands, and struggle

with it in the water.

“Na, na—dinna haud your white hands to me; ye wear ower mickle gowd in

your hair, and ower mony diamonds on your bosom, to ’scape drowning.

There’s as mickle gowd in this casket as would have sunk thee seventy

fathom deep.” And he continued to hold his hands under the water,

muttering all the while.

“She’s half gane now; and I’ll be a braw laird, and build a bonnie

house, and gang crousely to kirk and market. Now I may let the waves

work their will; my wark will be ta’en for theirs.”

He turned to wade to the shore, but a large and heavy wave came full

dash on him, and bore him off his feet, and ere any assistance reached

him, all human aid was too late; for nature was so exhausted with the

fulness of years, and with his exertions, that a spoonful of water would

have drowned him. The body of this miserable old man was interred, after

some opposition from the peasantry, beneath the wall of the kirkyard;

and from that time the Ghost with the Golden Casket was seen no more,

and only continued to haunt the evening tale of the hind and the farmer.

RANALD OF THE HENS:

_A TRADITION OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.

Early in the sixteenth century, Macdonald of Clanranald married the

daughter of Fraser Lord Lovat, and from this connection some very

unfortunate consequences to both these powerful families followed. Soon

after his marriage Clanranald died, and left but one lawful son, who was

bred and educated at Castle Donie, the seat of Lovat, under the care of

his maternal grandfather. The name of the young chieftain was Ranald,

and, unhappily for himself, he was distinguished by the appellation

_Gaulta_, or Lowland, because Lovat’s country was considered as

approaching towards the manners, customs, and appearance of the

Lowlands, compared to his own native land of Moidart, one of the most

barren and mountainous districts in the Highlands.

Ranald was an accomplished youth, and promised to be an ornament to his

family and his country; his disposition was amiable, and his personal

appearance extremely handsome and prepossessing. While yet a stripling,

he visited his estate; and his people being desirous to give him the

best reception in their power, he found at every house great

entertainments provided, and much expense incurred by the slaughter of

cattle and other acts of extravagance, which appeared to Ranald very

superfluous. He was a stranger to the customs of the country, and it

would seem that he had no friendly or judicious counsellor. In an evil

hour, he remarked that he was extremely averse to this ruinous practice,

which he was convinced the people could ill afford; and said that, for

his own part, he would be perfectly satisfied to dine on a fowl. Ranald

had an illegitimate brother (or, as some say, an uncle’s son), who was

born and bred on the estate. He was many years older than the young

Clanranald, and was possessed of very superior abilities in his way. He

was active, brave, and ambitious, to which were added much address and

shrewdness. Having always resided in Moidart, where he associated with

the people, and had rendered himself very popular, he had acquired the

appellation of _Ian Muidartich_, or John of Moidart,—a much more

endearing distinction than _Gaulta_.

The remark Ranald had made as to the extravagance of his people gave

great offence; and the preference he gave to a fowl was conceived to

indicate a sordid disposition, unbecoming the representative of so great

a family. John Muidartich and his friends encouraged these ideas, and

Ranald was soon known by the yet more contemptuous appellation of

“Ranald of the Hens.” He soon left Moidart, and returned to his

grandfather’s house. His brother (and now his opponent) remained in that

country, and he used all the means in his power to strengthen his

interest. He married the daughter of Macdonald of Ardnamurchan, the head

of a numerous and turbulent tribe, whose estate bordered on Moidart, and

his intention to oppose Ranald became daily more evident. Several

attempts were made by mutual friends to effect a compromise, without any

permanent result. At length a conference between the brothers was

appointed at Inverlochy, where Ranald attended, accompanied by old Lovat

and a considerable body of his clan; but especially a very large portion

of the principal gentlemen of his name were present. John also appeared,

and, to prevent any suspicion of violence, the number of his attendants

was but small, and his demeanour was pacific and unassuming.

Lovat made proposals on the part of his grandson, and with very little

hesitation they were acceded to by John and his friends. All parties

appeared to be highly pleased, and they separated,—John and his small

party directing their course homeward, whilst Ranald accompanied his

aged relation to his own country, which was much more distant.

John of Moidart, however, was all along playing a deep game: he ordered

a strong body of his father-in-law’s people to lie in ambush in a

certain spot near the path by which Lovat and his men must necessarily

pass on their return home; and he took care to join them himself, by

travelling all night across the mountains.

The Frasers and young Clanranald appeared, and they were attacked by

their wily foe. The combat was fearfully bloody and fatal. It is said

that no more than six of Lovat’s party escaped, and not triple that

number of their enemies—Ranald, unquestionably the lawful representative

of the family, fell covered with wounds, after having given proof that

he was possessed of the greatest bravery; and his memory is to this day

respected even among the descendants of those who destroyed him. John of

Moidart obtained possession of the whole estate, and led a very

turbulent life. Tradition says that he compromised the claims of

Macdonald of Morar for a third part of his lands, which he yielded up to

him on relinquishing further right.

The conflict is distinguished by the designation of _Blar Leine_, or the

Battle of the Shirts, the combatants having stripped themselves during

the action. It was fought at the eastern end of Loch Lochy, near the

line of the Caledonian Canal, in July 1554.—_Literary Gazette._

THE FRENCH SPY.

BY JOHN GALT.

One day—in the month of August it was—I had gone on some private

concernment of my own to Kilmarnock, and Mr Booble, who was then oldest

bailie, naturally officiated as chief magistrate in my stead.

There had been, as the world knows, a disposition, on the part of the

grand monarque of that time, to invade and conquer this country, the

which made it a duty incumbent on all magistrates to keep a vigilant eye

on the incomings and outgoings of aliens and other suspectable persons.

On the said day, and during my absence, a Frenchman, that could speak no

manner of English, somehow was discovered in the Cross Key Inn. What he

was, or where he came from, nobody at the time could tell, as I was

informed; but there he was, having come into the house at the door, with

a bundle in his hand, and a portmanteau on his shoulder, like a

traveller out of some vehicle of conveyance. Mrs Drammer, the landlady,

did not like his looks; for he had toozy black whiskers, was lank and

wan, and moreover deformed beyond human nature, as she said, with a

parrot nose, and had no cravat, but only a bit black riband drawn

through two button-holes, fastening his ill-coloured sark-neck, which

gave him altogether something of an unwholesome, outlandish appearance.

Finding he was a foreigner, and understanding that strict injunctions

were laid on the magistrates by the king and government anent the

egressing of such persons, she thought, for the credit of her house, and

the safety of the community at large, that it behoved her to send word

to me, then provost, of this man’s visibility among us; but as I was not

at home, Mrs Pawkie, my wife, directed the messenger to Bailie Booble’s.

The bailie was, at all times, overly ready to claught at an alarm; and

when he heard the news, he went straight to the council-room, and

sending for the rest of the council, ordered the alien enemy, as he

called the forlorn Frenchman, to be brought before him. By this time the

suspicion of a spy in the town had spread far and wide; and Mrs Pawkie

told me, that there was a pallid consternation in every countenance when

the black and yellow man—for he had not the looks of the honest folks of

this country—was brought up the street between two of the town officers,

to stand an examine before Bailie Booble.

Neither the bailie, nor those that were then sitting with him, could

speak any French language, and “the alien enemy” was as little master of

our tongue. I have often wondered how the bailie did not jalouse that he

could be no spy, seeing how, in that respect, he wanted the main

faculty. But he was under the enchantment of a panic, partly thinking

also, perhaps, that he was to do a great exploit for the government in

my absence.

However, the man was brought before him, and there was he, and them all,

speaking loud out to one another as if they had been hard of hearing,

when I, on coming home from Kilmarnock, went to see what was going on in

the council. Considering that the procedure had been in hand some time

before my arrival, I thought it judicious to leave the whole business

with those present, and to sit still as a spectator; and really it was

very comical to observe how the bailie was driven to his wits’-end by

the poor lean and yellow Frenchman, and in what a pucker of passion the

panel put himself at every new interlocutor, none of which he could

understand. At last, the bailie getting no satisfaction—how could he?—he

directed the man’s portmanteau and bundle to be opened; and in the

bottom of the forementioned package, there, to be sure, was found many a

mystical and suspicious paper, which no one could read; among others,

there was a strange map, as it then seemed to all present.

“I’ gude faith,” cried the bailie, with a keckle of exultation, “here’s

proof enough now. This is a plain map o’ the Frith o’ Clyde, all the way

to the Tail of the Bank at Greenock. This muckle place is Arran; that

round ane is the Craig of Ailsa; the wee ane between is Pladda.

Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is a sore discovery; there will be hanging

and quartering on this.” So he ordered the man to be forthwith committed

as a king’s prisoner to the tolbooth; and turning to me said—“My Lord

Provost, as ye have not been present throughout the whole of this

troublesome affair, I’ll e’en gie an account mysel to the Lord Advocate

of what we have done.” I thought, at the time, there was something fey

and overly forward in this, but I assented; for I know not what it was

that seemed to me as if there was something neither right nor regular;

indeed, to say the truth, I was no ill pleased that the bailie took on

him what he did; so I allowed him to write himself to the Lord Advocate;

and, as the sequel showed, it was a blessed prudence on my part that I

did so. For no sooner did his lordship receive the bailie’s terrifying

letter, than a special king’s messenger was sent to take the spy into

Edinburgh Castle; and nothing could surpass the great importance that

Bailie Booble made of himself on the occasion, on getting the man into a

coach, and two dragoons to guard him into Glasgow.

But oh! what a dejected man was the miserable Bailie Booble, and what a

laugh rose from shop and chamber, when the tidings came out from

Edinburgh that “the alien enemy” was but a French cook coming over from

Dublin, with the intent to take up the trade of a confectioner in

Glasgow, and that the map of the Clyde was nothing but a plan for the

outset of a fashionable table—the bailie’s island of Arran being the

roast beef, and the Craig of Ailsa the plum-pudding, and Pladda a

butterboat. Nobody enjoyed the jocularity of the business more than

myself; but I trembled when I thought of the escape that my honour and

character had with the Lord Advocate. I trow, Bailie Booble never set

himself so forward from that day to this.—“_The Provost._”

[Illustration: Fleuron]

THE MINISTER’S BEAT.

A man he was to all the country dear.

· · · · ·

Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile.—_Goldsmith._

CHAPTER I.

“I am just about to make a round of friendly visits,” said the minister;

“and as far as our roads lie together, you will perhaps go with me. You

are a bad visitor, I know, Mr Frank; but most of my calls will be where

forms are unknown, and etiquette dispensed with.”

I am indeed a bad visitor, which, in the ordinary acceptation of the

term, means no visitor at all; but I own the temptation of seeing my

worthy friend’s reception, and the hope of coming in for a share of the

cordial welcome he was sure to call forth, overcame my scruples;

especially as in cottages and farm-steadings there is generally

something to be learned even during a morning call;—some trait of

unsophisticated nature to be smiled at, or some sturdy lesson of

practical wisdom to be treasured for future use.

We had not ridden far when my companion, turning up a pretty rough

cart-road leading to a large farmhouse on the right, said, with an arch

smile,—“I love what our superstitious forefathers would esteem a lucky

beginning even to a morning’s ride, and am glad ours commences with a

wedding visit. Peter Bandster has taken a wife in my absence, and I must

go and call him to account for defrauding me of the ploy. Have you heard

anything, Mr Francis, about the bride?”

More than I could wish, thinks I to myself; for my old duenna, who

indemnifies herself for my lack of hospitality by assiduous

frequentation of all marriages, christenings, and gossipings abroad, had

deaved me for the last three weeks with philippics about this unlucky

wedding. The folly of Peter in marrying above his own line; the

ignorance of the bride, who scarce knew lint-yarn from tow, or bere from

barley; her unpardonable accomplishments of netting purses and playing

on the spinnet; above all, her plated candlesticks, flounced gown, and

fashionable bonnet, had furnished Hannah with inexhaustible matter for

that exercise of the tongue, which the Scots call “rhyming,” and the

English “ringing the changes;” to which, as to all other noises, custom

can alone render one insensible.

I had no mind to damp the minister’s benevolent feelings towards the

couple, and contented myself with answering, that I heard the bride was

both bonnie and braw. The good man shook his head. “We have an old

proverb, and a true one,” said he, “‘a bonnie bride is sune buskit;’ but

I have known gawdy butterflies cast their painted wings, and become

excellent housewives in the end.”

“But there stands Peter—no very blithe bridegroom, methinks!” said I, as

my eye rested on the tall and usually jolly young farmer, musing

disconsolately in his cattle-yard over what appeared to be the body of a

dead cow. He started on seeing the minister, as if ashamed of his sorrow

or its cause, and came forward to meet us, struggling to adapt his

countenance a little better to his circumstances.

“Well, Peter,” said the minister, frankly extending his hand, “and so I

am to wish you joy! I thought when I gave you your name, five-and-twenty

years ago, if it pleased God to spare me, to have given you your

helpmate also; but what signifies it by whom the knot is tied, if true

love and the blessing of God go with it? Nay, never hang your head,

Peter; but tell me, before we beat up the young gudewife’s quarters,

what you were leaning over so wae-like when we rode forward.”

“’Od, sir,” cried Peter, reddening up, “it wasna the value o’ the beast,

though she was the best cow in my mother’s byre, but the way I lost her,

that pat me a wee out o’ tune. My Jessie (for I maunna ca’ her gudewife,

it seems, nor mistress neither) is an ill guide o’ kye, ay, and what’s

waur, o’ lasses. We had a tea-drinking last night, nae doubt, as

new-married folk should; and what for no?—I’se warrant my mither had

them too in her daft days. But she didna keep the house asteer the hale

night wi’ fiddles and dancin’, and it neither New Year nor Hansel

Monday; nor she didna lie in her bed till aught or nine o’clock, as my

Jess does; na, nor yet”——

“But what has all this to do with the loss of your cow, Peter?”

“Ower muckle, sir; ower muckle. The lasses and lads liket reels as weel

as their mistress, and whisky a hantle better. They a’ sleepit in, and

mysel among the lave. Nae mortal ever lookit the airt that puir Blue

Bell was in, and her at the very calving; and this morning, when the

byre-door was opened, she was lying stiff and stark, wi’ a dead calf

beside her. It’s no the cow, sir (though it was but the last market I

had the offer o’ fifteen pund for her), it’s the thought that she was

sae sair neglected amang me, and my Jess, and her tawpies o’ lasses.”

“Come, come, Peter,” said the good minister, “you seem to have been as

much to blame as the rest; and as for your young town bride, she maun

creep, as the auld wives say, before she can gang. Country thrift can no

more be learnt in a day than town breeding; and of that your wife, they

say, has her share.”

“Ower muckle, may be,” was the half-muttered reply, as he marshalled us

into the house. The “ben” end of the old-fashioned farm-house, which,

during the primitive sway of Peter’s mother, had exhibited the usual

decorations of an aumrie, a clock, and a pair of press-beds, with a

clean swept ingle, and carefully sanded floor, had undergone a

metamorphosis not less violent than some of Ovid’s or Harlequin’s. The

“aumrie” had given place to a satin-wood work-table, the clock to a

mirror, and the press-beds (whose removal no one could regret) to that

object of Hannah’s direst vituperations—the pianoforte; while the

fire-place revelled in all the summer luxury of elaborately twisted

shavings, and the once sanded floor was covered with an already soiled

and faded carpet, to whose delicate colours Peter, fresh from the clay

furrows, and his two sheep-dogs dripping from the pond, had nearly

proved equally fatal.

In this _sanctum sanctorum_ sat the really pretty bride, in all the

dignity of outraged feeling which ignorance of life and a lavish perusal

of romances could inspire, on witnessing the first cloud on her usually

good-natured husband’s brow. She hastily cleared up her ruffled looks,

gave the minister a cordial, though somewhat affected welcome, and

dropped me a curtsey which twenty years’ rustication enabled me very

inadequately to return.

The good pastor bent on this new lamb of his fold a benignant yet

searching glance, and seemed watching where, amid the fluent small talk

which succeeded, he might edge in a word of playful yet serious import

to the happiness of the youthful pair. The bride was stretching forth

her hand with all the dignity of her new station, to ring the bell for

cake and wine, when Peter (whose spleen was evidently waiting for a

vent), hastily starting up, cried out, “Mistress! if ye’re ower grand to

serve the minister yoursel, there’s ane ’ill be proud to do’t. There

shall nae quean fill a glass for him in this house while it ca’s me

master. My mither wad hae served him on her bended knees, gin he wad hae

let her; and ye think it ower muckle to bring ben the bridal bread to

him! Oh, Jess, Jess! I canna awa wi’ your town ways and town airs.”

The bride coloured and pouted; but there gathered a large drop in her

eye, and the pastor hailed it as an earnest of future concession. He

took her hand kindly, and put it into Peter’s not reluctant one.

“‘Spring showers make May flowers,’ my dear lassie, says the old

proverb, and I trust out o’ these little clouds will spring your future

happiness. You, Jessy, have chosen an honest, worthy, kind-hearted,

country husband, whose love will be well worth the sacrifice of a few

second-hand graces. And you, Peter, have taken, for better and for

worse, a lassie, in whose eye, in spite of foreign airs, I read a heart

to be won by kindness. Bear and forbear, my dear bairns—let each be

apter to yield than the other to exact. You are both travelling to a

better country; see that ye fall not out by the way.”

The bride by this time was sobbing, and Peter’s heart evidently

softened. So leaving the pair to seal their reconciliation in this

favourable mood, the good minister and I mounted our horses, and rode

off without further parley.

We were just turning the corner of the loan to regain the high road,

when a woman from a cottage in an adjoining field came running to

intercept us. There was in her look a wildness bordering on distraction,

but it was evidently of no painful kind. She seemed like one not

recovered from the first shock of some delightful surprise, too much for

the frail fabric of mortality to bear without tottering to its very

foundations. The minister checked his horse, whose bridle she grasped

convulsively, panting partly from fatigue and more from emotion,

endeavouring, but vainly, to give utterance to the tidings with which

her bosom laboured. Twice she looked up, shook her head, and was silent;

then with a strong effort faltered out,—

“He’s come back!—the Lord be praised for it!”

“Who is come back, Jenny?” said the pastor, in the deepest tone of

sympathy,—“Is it little Andrew, ye mean?”

“Andrew!” echoed the matron, with an expression of contempt, which at

any other time this favourite grandchild would have been very far from

calling forth—“Andrew!—Andrew’s _father_, I mean my ain first-born son

Jamie, that I wore mournings for till they would wear nae langer, and

thought lying fifty fathoms down in solid ice, in yon wild place

Greenland, or torn to pieces wi’ savage bears, like the mocking bairns

in Scripture,—he’s yonder!” said she, wildly pointing to the house;

“he’s yonder, living, and living like; and oh, gin ye wad come, and

maybe speak a word in season to us, we might be better able to praise

the Lord, as is His due.”

We turned our horses’ heads, and followed her as she ran, or rather

flew, towards the cottage with the instinct of some animal long

separated from its offspring. The little boy before mentioned ran out to

hold our horses, and whispered as the minister stooped to stroke his

head, “Daddy’s come hame frae the sea.”

The scene within the cottage baffles description. The old mother,

exhausted with her exertion, had sunk down beside her son on the edge of

the bed on which he was sitting, where his blind and bed-rid father lay,

and clasped his withered hands in speechless prayer. His lips continued

to move, unconscious of our presence, and ever and anon he stretched

forth a feeble arm to ascertain the actual vicinity of his long-mourned

son. On a low stool, before the once gay and handsome, but now

frost-nipt and hunger-worn mariner, sat his young wife, her hand firmly

clasped in his, her fixed eye riveted on his countenance, giving no

other sign of life than a convulsive pressure of the former, or a big

drop descending unwiped from the latter; while her unemployed hand was

plucking quite mechanically the badge of widowhood from her duffle

cloak, which (having just reached home as her husband knocked at his

father’s door) was yet lying across her knee.

The poor sailor gazed on all around him with somewhat of a bewildered

air, but most of all upon a rosy creature between his knees, of about a

year and a half old, born just after his departure, and who had only

learned the sad word “Daddy,” from the childish prattle of his older

brother Andrew, and his sisters. Of these, one had been summoned, wild

and barelegged, from the herding, the other, meek and modest, from the

village school. The former, idle and intractable, half shrunk in fear of

her returned parent’s well-remembered strictness; the other, too young

not to have forgotten his person, only wondered whether this was the

Father in heaven of whom she had heard so often. She did not think it

could be so, for there was no grief or trouble there, and this father

looked as if he had seen much of both.

Such was the group to whose emotions, almost too much for human nature,

our entrance gave a turn.

“Jamie,” said the good pastor (gently pressing the still united hands of

the mariner and his faithful Annie), “you are welcome back from the

gates of death and the perils of the deep. Well is it said, that they

who go down to the sea in ships see more of the wonders of the Lord than

other men; but it was not from storm and tempests alone that you have

been delivered,—cold and famine, want and nakedness—wild beasts to

devour, and darkness to dismay;—these have been around your dreary

path—but He that was with you was mightier than all that were against

you; and you are returned a living man to tell the wondrous tale. Let us

praise the Lord, my friends, for His goodness, and His wonderful works

to the children of men.” We all knelt down and joined in the brief but

fervent prayer that followed. The stranger’s heartfelt sigh of sympathy

mingled with the pastor’s pious orisons, with the feeble accents of

decrepitude, the lisp of wondering childhood, the soul-felt piety of

rescued manhood, and the deep, unutterable gratitude of a wife and

mother’s heart!

For such high-wrought emotions prayer is the only adequate channel. They

found vent in it, and were calmed and subdued to the level of ordinary

intercourse. The minister kindly addressed Jamie, and drew forth, by his

judicious questions, the leading features of that marvellous history of

peril and privations, endured by the crew of a Greenland ship detained a

winter in the ice, with which all are now familiar, but of which a Parry

or a Franklin can perhaps alone appreciate the horrors. They were

related with a simplicity that did them ample justice.

“I never despaired, sir,” said the hardy mariner; “we were young and

stout. Providence, aye when at the warst, did us some gude turn, and

this kept up our hearts. We had mostly a’ wives or mithers at hame, and

kent that prayers wadna be wanting for our safety; and little as men may

think o’ them on land, or even at sea on a prosperous voyage,—a winter

at the Pole makes prayers precious. We had little to do but sleep; and

oh, the nights were lang! I was aye a great dreamer; and, ye maunna be

angry, sir (to the minister), the seeing Annie and the bairns amaist

ilka time I lay down, and aye braw and buskit, did mair to keep up my

hopes than a’ the rest. I never could see wee Jamie, though,” said he,

smiling, and kissing the child on his knee; “I saw a cradle weel enough,

but the face o’ the bit creature in’t I never could mak out, and it

vexed me; for whiles I thought my babe was dead, and whiles I feared it

had never been born; but God be praised he’s here, and no that unlike

mysel neither.”

“Annie!” said the minister, gently loosing her renewed grasp of Jamie’s

hand, “you are forgetting your duty as a gudewife—we maun drink to

Jamie’s health and happiness ere we go—we’ll steal a glass or two out of

old Andrew’s cordial bottle; a drop of this day’s joy will be better to

him than it a’.”

“Atweel, that’s true,” said the old father, with a distinctness of

utterance, and acuteness of hearing, he had not manifested for many

months. The bottle was brought, the health of the day went round; I

shook the weather-beaten sailor warmly by the hand, and begging leave to

come and hear more of his story at a fitter season, followed the

minister to the door.

“Andrew,” said he, giving the little patient equerry a bright new

sixpence, “tell your daddy I gave you this for being a dutiful son to

your mother when he was at the sea.”

The child’s eye glistened as he ran into the cottage to execute the

welcome command, and we rode off, our hearts too full for much

communication.

CHAPTER II.

The day was advancing. These two scenes had encroached deeply on the

privileged hours for visiting, and the minister, partly to turn the

account of our thoughts into a less agitating channel, partly to balance

the delights of the last hour with their due counterpoise of alloy,

suggested the propriety of going next to pay, at the house of his

patron, the laird of the parish, the visit of duty and ceremony, which

his late return, and a domestic affliction in the family, rendered

indispensable. There were reasons which made my going equally proper and

disagreeable; and formal calls being among the many evils which are

lightened by participation, I gladly availed myself of the shelter of

the minister’s name and company.

Mr Morison, of Castle Morison, was one of those spoiled children of

fortune, whom in her cruel kindness she renders miserable. He had never

known contradiction, and a straw across his path made him chafe like a

resisted torrent; he had never known sorrow, and was, consequently, but

half acquainted with joy; he was a stranger to compassion, and

consequently himself an object of pity to all who could allow for the

force of early education in searing and hardening the human heart. He

had, as a boy, made his mother tremble; it is little to be wondered that

in manhood he was the tyrant of his wife and children. Mrs Morison’s

spirit, originally gentle, was soon broken; and if her heart was not

equally so, it was because she learned reluctantly to despise her

tyrant, and found compensation in the double portion of affection

bestowed on her by her son and daughters. For the latter, Mr Morison

manifested only contempt. There was not a horse in his stable, nor a dog

in his kennel, which did not engross more of his attention; but like the

foxes and hares which it was the business of these favourite animals to

hunt down, girls could be made to afford no bad sport in a rainy day. It

was no wonder, that with them fear usurped the place of reverence for

such a parent. If they did not hate him, they were indebted to their

mother’s piety and their own sweet dispositions; and if they neither

hated nor envied their only brother, it was not the fault of him, who,

by injudicious distinctions and blind indulgence, laid the foundation

for envy and all uncharitableness in their youthful bosoms. In that of

his favourite, they had the usual effect of generating self-will and

rebellion; and while Jane and Agnes, well knowing nothing they did would

be thought right, rarely erred from the path of duty, Edmund, aware that

he could scarce do wrong, took care his privileges should not rust for

want of exercise.

But though suffered in all minor matters to follow the dictates of

caprice, to laugh at his tutor, lame the horse, and break rules (to all

others those of the Medes and Persians), with impunity, he found himself

suddenly reined up in his headlong career by an equally capricious

parent, precisely at the period when restraint was nearly forgotten, and

peculiarly irksome. It was tacitly agreed by both parties, that the heir

of Castle Morison could only go into the army; but while the guards or a

dragoon regiment was the natural enough ambition of Edmund, Morison was

suddenly seized with a fit of contradiction, which he chose to style

economy, and talked of a marching regiment, with, perhaps an extra £100

per annum to the undoubted heir of nearly ten thousand a-year. Neither

would yield—the one had taught, the other learned, stubbornness; and

Edmund, backed by the sympathy of the world, and the clamours of his

companions, told his father he had changed his mind, and was going to

India with a near relation, about to proceed to Bombay in a high

official character.

Morison had a peculiar prejudice against the East, and a personal pique

towards the cousin to whose patronage Edmund had betaken himself. His

rage was as boundless as his former partiality, and the only consolation

his poor wife felt when her darling son left his father’s house, alike

impenitent and unblest, was, that her boy’s disposition was originally

good, and would probably recover the ascendant; and that it was out of

the power of her husband to make his son a beggar as well as an exile.

The estate was strictly entailed, and the knowledge of this, while it

embittered Morison’s sense of his son’s disobedience, no doubt

strengthened the feeling of independence so natural to headstrong youth.

While Morison was perverting legal ingenuity, in vain hopes of being

able to disinherit his refractory heir, his unnatural schemes were

anticipated by a mightier agent. An epidemic fever carried off, in one

short month (about two years after his quitting England), the

unreconciled, but no longer unconciliatory exile, and his young and

beautiful bride, the daughter of his patron, his union with whom had

been construed, by the causeless antipathy of his father, into a fresh

cause of indignation. Death, whose cold hand loosens this world’s grasp,

and whose deep voice stills this world’s strife, only tightens the bonds

of nature, and teaches the stormiest spirits to “part in peace.” Edmund

lived to write to his father a few lines of undissembled and

unconditional penitence; to own, that if the path of duty had been

rugged, he had in vain sought happiness beyond it, and to entreat that

the place he had forfeited in his father’s favour might be transferred

to his unoffending child.

All this had been conveyed to Mr Monteith and myself by the voice of

rumour some days before, and we had been more shocked than surprised to

learn that Morison’s resentment had survived its object, and that he

disclaimed all intention of ever seeing or receiving the infant boy who,

it was gall to him to reflect, must inherit his estate. Mrs Morison had

exerted, to soften his hard heart, all the little influence she now

possessed. Her tender soul yearned towards her Edmund’s child; and

sometimes the thought of seeking a separation, and devoting herself to

rear it, crossed her despairing mind. But her daughters were a tie still

more powerful to her unhappy home. She could neither leave them,

unprotected, to its discomforts, nor conscientiously advise their

desertion of a parent, however unworthy; so she wandered, a paler and

sadder inmate than before of her cold and stately mansion; and her fair,

subdued-looking daughters shuddered as they passed the long-locked doors

of their brother’s nursery and schoolroom.

The accounts of young Morison’s death had arrived since the good

pastor’s departure, and it was with feelings of equal sympathy towards

the female part of the family, and sorrow for the unchristian frame of

its head, that he prepared for our present visit. As we rode up the old

straight avenue, I perceived a postchaise at the door, and instead of

shrinking from this probable accession of strangers, felt that any

addition to the usually constrained and gloomy family circle must be a

relief. On reaching the door, we were struck with a very unusual

appendage to the dusty and travel-stained vehicle, in the shape of an

ancient, venerable-looking Asiatic, in the dress of his country, beneath

whose ample muslin folds he might easily have been mistaken for an old

female nurse, a character which, in all its skill and tenderness, was

amply sustained by this faithful and attached Oriental. His broken

English and passionate gestures excited our attention, already awakened

by the singularity of his costume and appearance; and as we got close to

him, the big tears which rolled over his sallow and furrowed cheeks,

powerfully called forth our sympathy, and told, better than words, his

forcible exclusion from the splendid mansion which had reluctantly

admitted within its precincts the child dearer to him than country and

kindred!

Our visit (had it borne less of a pastoral character) had all the

appearance of being very ill-timed. There were servants running to and

fro in the hall, and loud voices in the dining-room; and from a little

parlour on one side the front door, issued female sobs, mingled with

infant wailings in an unknown dialect.

“Thank God!” whispered the minister, “the bairn is fairly in the house.

Providence and nature will surely do the rest.”

It was not a time to intrude abruptly, so we sent in our names to Mr

Morison, and during our pretty long detention on horseback, could not

avoid seeing in at the open window of the parlour before-mentioned, a

scene which it grieved us to think was only witnessed by ourselves.

Mrs Morison was sitting in a chair (on which she had evidently sunk down

powerless), with her son’s orphan boy on her knee, the bright dark eyes

of the little wild unearthly-looking creature fixed in steadfast gaze on

her pale matronly countenance. “No cry, Mama Englise,” said the child,

as her big tears rolled unheeded on his bosom—“Billy Edmund will be

welly welly good.” His youngest aunt, whose keen and long-repressed

feelings found vent in sobs of mingled joy and agony, was covering his

little hands with showers of kisses, while the elder (his father’s

favourite sister) was comparing behind him the rich dark locks that

clustered on his neck with the locket which, since Edmund’s departure,

had dwelt next her heart.

A message from the laird summoned us from this affecting sight, and,

amid the pathetic entreaties of the old Oriental, that we would restore

his nursling, we proceeded to the dining-room, made aware of our

approach to it by the still-storming, though half-suppressed

imprecations of its hard-hearted master. He was pacing in stern and

moody agitation through the spacious apartment. His welcome was

evidently extorted, and his face (to use a strong Scripture expression)

set as a flint against the voice of remonstrance and exhortation, for

which he was evidently prepared. My skilful coadjutor went quite another

way to work.

“Mr Morison,” said he, apparently unconscious of the poor man’s pitiable

state of mind, “I came to condole, but I find it is my lot to

congratulate. The Lord hath taken away with the one hand, but it has

been to give with the other. His blessing be with you and your son’s

son, whom He hath sent to be the staff and comfort of your age!” This

was said with his usual benign frankness, and the hard heart, which

would have silenced admonition, and scorned reproof, scarce knew how to

repulse the voice of Christian congratulation. He walked about,

muttering to himself—“No son of mine—bad breed! Let him go to those who

taught his father disobedience, and his mother artifice!—anywhere they

please; there is no room for him here.”

“Have you seen your grandchild yet, Mr Morison?” resumed the minister,

nothing daunted by the continued obduracy of the proud laird. “Let me

have the joy of putting him into your arms. You must expect to be a good

deal overcome; sweet little fellow, there is a strong likeness!”

A shudder passed across the father’s hard frame, and he recoiled as from

an adder, when worthy Mr Monteith, gently grasping his arm, sought to

draw him, still sullen, though more faintly resisting, towards the other

room. A shrill cry of infant agony rose from the parlour as we crossed

the hall, and nature never perhaps exhibited a stronger contrast than

presented itself between the cruel old man, struggling to escape from

the presence of his grandchild, and the faithful ancient domestic

shrieking wildly to be admitted into it.

As I threw open the door for the entrance of the former, little Edmund,

whose infant promises of good behaviour had soon given way before the

continued society of strangers, was stamping in all the impotence of

baby rage (and in this unhallowed mood too faithful a miniature of both

father and grandfather), and calling loudly for the old Oriental. With

the first glance at the door his exclamations redoubled. We began to

fear the worst effect from this abrupt introduction; but no sooner had

the beautiful boy (beautiful even in passion) cast a second bewildered

glance on his still erect and handsome grandfather, than, clapping his

little hands, and calling out, “My Bombay papa!” he flew into his arms!

The servants, concluding the interdict removed by their master’s

entrance into the apartment, had ceased to obstruct the efforts of the

old Hindoo to fly to his precious charge; and while the astonished and

fairly overwhelmed Morison’s neck was encircled by the infant grasp of

his son’s orphan boy, his knees were suddenly embraced by that son’s

devoted and gray-haired domestic.

One arm of little Edmund was instantly loosened from his grandfather’s

shoulder, and passed round the neck of the faithful old Oriental, who

kissed alternately the little cherub hand of his nursling, and the

hitherto iron one of the proud laird. It softened, and the hard heart

with it! It was long since love—pure unsophisticated love, and

spontaneous reverence—had been Morison’s portion, and they were

proportionally sweet. He buried his face in his grandson’s clustering

ringlets. We heard a groan deep as when rocks are rending, and the earth

heaves with long pent-up fires. It was wildly mingling with childish

laughter and hysteric bursts of female tenderness, as, stealing

cautiously and unheeded from the spot, we mounted our horses and rode

away.

“God be praised!” said the minister, with a deep-drawn sigh, when,

emerging from the gloomy avenue, we regained the cheerful beaten track.

“This has been a day of strange dispensations, Mr Francis—we have seen

much together to make us wonder at the ways of Providence, to soften,

and, I hope, improve our hearts. But, after such solemn scenes, mine

(and yours, I doubt not, also) requires something to cheer and lighten

it; and I am bound where, if the sight of virtuous happiness can do it,

I am sure to succeed. Do let me persuade you to be my companion a little

longer, and close this day’s visitation at the humble board of, I’ll

venture to say, the happiest couple in Scotland. I am engaged to

christen the first-born of honest Willie Meldrum and his bonnie Helen,

and to dine, of course, after the ceremony. Mrs Monteith and the bairns

will be there to meet me; and, as my friend, you’ll be ‘welcome as the

flowers in May.’”

After some slight scruples about intruding on this scene of domestic

enjoyment, easily overruled by the hearty assurances of the divine, and

my own natural relish for humble life, we marched towards the farmhouse

of Blinkbonnie; and during our short ride the minister gave me, in a few

words, the history of its inmates.

CHAPTER III.

“I don’t know, Mr Francis, if you remember a bonny orphan lassie, called

Helen Ormiston, whom my wife took some years back into the family to

assist her in the care of the bairns. Helen was come of no ungentle kin;

but poverty had sat down heavily on her father and mother, and sunk them

into an early grave; and it was a godsend to poor Helen to get service

in a house where poverty would be held no reproach to her. If ye ever

saw the creature, ye wadna easily forget her. Many bonnier, blither

lassies are to be seen daily; but such a look of settled serenity and

downcast modesty ye might go far to find. It quite won my wife’s heart

and mine, and more hearts than ours, as I shall tell you presently. As

for the bairns, they just doated on Helen, and she on them; and my poor

youngest, that is now with God, during all her long, long decline, was

little if ever off her knee. No wonder, then, that Helen grew pale and

thin, ate little, and slept less. I first set it down to anxiety, and,

when the innocent bairn was released, to grief; and from these, no

doubt, it partly arose. But when all was over, and when weeks had passed

away, when even my poor wife dried her mother’s tears, and I could say,

‘God’s will be done,’ still Helen grew paler and thinner, and refused to

be comforted; so I saw there was more in it than appeared, and I bade

her open her heart to me; and open it she did, with a flood of tears

that would have melted a stone.

“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘I maun go away. I think it will kill me to leave you

and Mrs Monteith, and the dear bairns in the nursery, and wee Jeanie’s

grave in the kirkyard; but stay I canna, and I will tell you why. It is

months, ay, amaist years, since Willie Meldrum, auld Blinkbonnie’s son,

fell in fancy wi’ me, and a sair sair heart, I may say, I have had ever

sin syne. His auld hard father, they tell me, swears (wi’ sic oaths as

wad gar ye grue to hear them) that he will cut him off wi’ a shilling if

ever he thinks o’ me; and oh! it wad be a puir return for the lad’s

kindness to do him sic an ill turn! so I maun awa out of the country

till the auld man dies, or Willie taks a wife to his mind, for I’ve seen

ower muckle o’ poverty, Mr Monteith, to be the cause o’t to ony man,

though I whiles think it wad be naething to me, that’s sae weel used

till’t mysel.’

“‘Helen,’ said I, ‘when did Willie Meldrum find opportunities to gain

your heart? I never saw him in the house in my life.’

“‘Oh, sir!’ said she, ‘gin I could hae bidden in the house, he wad never

hae seen me either; but I was forced to walk out wi’ the bairns, and

there was nae place sae quiet and out o’ the gate, but Willie was sure

to find me out. If I gaed down the burn, Willie was aye fishing; if I

gaed up the loan, there was aye something to be dune about the kye. At

the kirk door, Willie was aye at hand to spier for your honour, and gie

the bairns posies; and after our sair distress, when I was little out

for mony a day, I couldna slip out ae moonlight night, to sit a moment

upon Jeanie’s grave, but Willie was there like a ghaist aside me, and

made my very heart loup to my mouth!’

“‘And do you return his good-will, Helen?’ said I, gravely.

“‘Oh, sir,’ said the poor thing, trembling, ‘I darena tell you a lie. I

tried to be as proud and as shy as a lassie should be to ane abune her

degree, and that might do sae muckle better, puir fallow! I tried to

look anither gate when I saw him, and mak mysel deaf when he spoke o’

his love; but oh! his words were sae true and kindly, that I doubt mine

werena aye sae short and saucy as they sud hae been. It’s hard for a

tocherless, fatherless lassie to be cauldrife to the lad that wad tak

her to his heart and hame; but oh! it wad be harder still, if she was to

requite him wi’ a father’s curse! It’s ill eneuch to hae nae parents o’

my ain, without makin’ mischief wi’ ither folk’s. The auld man gets

dourer and dourer ilka day, and the young ane dafter and dafter—sae ye

maun just send me aff the country to some decent service, till Willie’s

a free man, or a bridegroom.’

“‘My dear Helen,’ said I, ‘you are a good upright girl, and I will

forward your honest intentions. If it be God’s will that Willie and you

come together, the hearts of men are in His hand. If otherwise, yours

will never at least reproach you with bringing ruin on your lover’s

head.’

“So I sent Helen, Mr Francis, to my brother’s in the south country,

where she proved as great a blessing and as chief a favourite as she had

been with us. I saw her some months afterwards; and though her bloom had

not returned, she was tranquil and contented, as one who has cast her

lot into the lap of Heaven.

“Well, to make a long story short, Willie, though he was unreasonable

enough, good, worthy lad as he is, to take in dudgeon Helen’s going away

(though he might have guessed it was all for his good), was too proud,

or too constant, to say he would give her up, or bind himself never to

marry her, as his father insisted. So the old man, one day, after a

violent altercation, made his will, and left all his hard-won siller to

a rich brother in Liverpool, who neither wanted nor deserved it. Willie,

upon this quarrel, had left home very unhappy, and stayed away some

time, and during his absence old Blinkbonnie was taken extremely ill.

When he thought himself dying, he sent for me (I had twice called in

vain before), and you may be sure I did my best not to let him depart in

so unchristian a frame towards his only child. I did not deny his right

to advise his son in the choice of a wife; but I told him he might

search the world before he found one more desirable than Helen, whose

beauty and sense would secure his son’s steadiness, and her frugality

and sobriety double his substance. I told him how she had turned a deaf

ear to all his son’s proposals of a clandestine marriage and made

herself the sacrifice to his own unjust and groundless prejudices. Dying

men are generally open to conviction; and I got a fresh will made in

favour of his son, with a full consent to his marriage honourably

inserted among its provisions. This he deposited with me, feeling no

great confidence in the lawyer who had made his previous settlement, and

desired me to produce it when he was gone.

“It so happened that I was called to a distance before his decease, and

did not return till some days after the funeral. Willie had flown home

on hearing of his father’s danger, and had the comfort to find him

completely softened, and to receive from his nearly speechless parent

many a silent demonstration of returned affection. It was, therefore, a

doubly severe shock to him, on opening the first will (the only one

forthcoming in my absence), to find himself cut off from everything,

except the joint lease of the farm, and instead of five thousand pounds,

not worth a shilling in the world. His first exclamation, I was told,

was, ‘It’s hard to get baith scorn and skaith—to lose baith poor Helen

and the gear. If I had lost it for her, they might hae ta’en it that

likit!’

“About a week after, I came home and found on my table a letter from

Helen. She had heard of Willie’s misfortune, and in a way the most

modest and engaging, expressed herself ready, if I thought it would

still be acceptable, to share his poverty and toil with him through

life. ‘I am weel used to work,’ said she, ‘and, but for you, wad hae

been weel used to want. If Willie will let me bear a share o’ his

burden, I trust in God we may warsle through thegither; and, to tell you

the truth,’ added she, with her usual honesty, ‘I wad rather things were

ordered as they are, than that Willie’s wealth should shame my poverty.’

“I put this letter in one pocket, and his father’s will in the other,

and walked over to Blinkbonnie. Willie was working with the manly

resolution of one who has no other resource. I told him I was glad to

see him so little cast down.

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I’ll no say but I am vexed that my father gaed to his

grave wi’ a grudge against me, the mair sae, as when he squeezed my hand

on his death-bed I thought a’ was forgotten. But siller is but warld’s

gear, and I could thole the want o’t, an’ it had nae been for Helen

Ormiston, that I hoped to hae gotten to share it wi’ me. She may sune do

better now, wi’ that bonnie face and kind heart o’ hers!’

“‘It is indeed a kind heart, Willie,’ answered I: ‘if ever I doubted it,

this would have put me to shame!’——So saying, I reached him the letter,

and oh, that Helen could have seen the flush of grateful surprise that

crossed his manly brow as he read it! It passed away, though, quickly,

and he said, with a sigh, ‘Very kind, Mr Monteith, and very like hersel;

but I canna take advantage o’ an auld gude will, now that I canna reward

it as it deserves!’”

‘And what if ye could, Willie?’ said I, ‘as far, at least, as worldly

wealth can requite true affection? There is your father’s will, made

when it pleased God to touch his heart, and you are as rich a man as you

were when Helen Ormiston first refused to make you a beggar.’

“Willie was not insensible to this happy change in his prospects; but

his kind heart was chiefly soothed by his father’s altered feelings, and

at the honourable mention of Helen’s name he fairly began to greet.

“The sequel is easily told; but I think the jaunt I made to Tweeddale

with Willie, to bring back Helen Ormiston in triumph, was the proudest

journey of my life.

“A year ago I married them at the manse, amid much joy, but abundance of

tears in the nursery. To-day, when, according to an old promise, I am to

christen my name-son Charlie, I expect to be fairly deaved with the

clamorous rejoicings of my young fry, who, I verily believe, have not

slept this week for thinking of it. But” (pulling out his watch), “it is

near four o’clock: sad quality hour for Blinkbonnie! The hotch-potch

will be turned into porridge, and the how-towdies burnt to sticks, if we

don’t make haste!”

I wish, my dear reader, you could see the farm of Blinkbonnie, lying as

it does on a gently sloping bank, sheltered from the north by a wooded

crag or knoll, flanked upon the east by a group of venerable ashes,

enlivened and perfumed on the west by a gay luxuriant garden, and open

on the south to such a sea-view, as none but dwellers on the Firth of

Forth have any idea of. Last Saturday, it was the very _beau ideal_ of

rural comfort and serenity. The old trees were reposing, after a course

of somewhat boisterous weather, in all the dignity and silence of years.

The crows, their usual inhabitants, having gone on their Highland

excursion, those fantastic interlopers, Helen’s peacocks (a present from

the children at the manse), were already preparing for their “siesta” on

the topmost boughs. Beneath the spreading branches the cows were

dreaming delightfully, in sweet oblivion of the heats of noon. In an

adjoining paddock, graceful foals, and awkward calves, indulged in their

rival gambols; while shrieks of joy from behind the garden hedge, told

these were not the only happy young things in creation.

We deposited our horses in a stable, to whose comforts they bore

testimony by an approving neigh, and made our way by a narrow path,

bordered with sweet-brier and woodbine, to the front of the house. Its

tall, good-looking young master came hastily to meet us, and I would not

have given his blushing welcome, and the bashful scrape that accompanied

it, for all the most elaborate courtesies of Chesterfield.

No sooner were our footsteps heard approaching, than out poured the

minister’s whole family from the little honey-suckled porch, with

glowing faces and tangled hair, and frocks, probably white some hours

before, but which now claimed affinity with every bush in the garden.

Mrs Monteith gently joined in the chorus of reproaches to papa for being

so late; but the look with which she was answered seemed to satisfy her,

as it usually did, that he could not be in fault. We were then ushered

into the parlour, whose substantial comforts, and exquisite consistency,

spoke volumes in favour of its mistress. Opulence might be traced in the

excellent quality of the homely furniture—in the liberal display of

antique china (particularly the choice and curious christening-bowl)—but

there was nothing incongruous, nothing out of keeping, nothing to make

you for a moment mistake this first-rate farmhouse parlour for a clumsy,

ill-fancied drawing-room. A few pots of roses, a few shelves of books,

bore testimony to Helen’s taste and education; but there were neither

exotics nor romances in the collection; and the piece of furniture

evidently dearest in her eyes was the cradle, in which reposed, amid all

the din of this joyous occasion, the yet unchristened hero of the day.

It is time to speak of Helen herself, and she was just what, from her

story, I knew she must be. The actors, in some striking drama of human

life, often disappoint us by their utter dissimilitude to the pictures

of our mind’s eye, but Helen was precisely the perfection of a gentle,

modest, self-possessed Scottish lassie,—the mind, in short, of Jeanie

Deans, with the personal advantages of poor Effie. Her dress was as

suitable as anything else. Her gown, white as snow, and her cap of the

nicest materials, were neither of them on the pattern of my lady’s; but

they had a matronly grace of their own, worth a thousand second-hand

fashions; and when Helen, having awakened her first-born, delivered him,

with sweet maternal solicitude, into the outstretched arms of the

minister’s proud and favoured youngest girl, I thought I never saw a

picture worthier the pencil of Correggio. It was completed, when,

bending in all the graceful awkwardness of a novice over the group,

Willie received his boy into his arms, and vowed before his pastor and

his God to discharge a parent’s duty, while a parent’s transport

sparkled in his eyes.

I have sat, as Shakspeare says, “at good men’s feasts ere now”—have ate

turtle at the lord mayor’s and venison at peers’ tables, and _soufflés_

at diplomatic dinners—have ate sturgeon at St Petersburg, and mullet at

Naples; mutton in Wales, and grouse in the Highlands; roast-beef with

John Bull, and _volauxvents_ at Beauvilliers’; but I have no hesitation

in saying that the hotch-potch and how-towdies of Blinkbonnie excelled

them all. How far the happy human faces of all ages round the table

contributed to enhance the gusto, I do not pretend to decide; but I can

tell Mr Véry that, among all his _consommés_, there is nothing like a

judicious mixture of youth and beauty, with manliness, integrity, and

virtue.—_Blackwood’s Magazine._

A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY.

BY SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER.

“Though last, not least of nature’s works, I must now introduce you to a

friend of mine,” said Mr Douglas, as they bent their steps towards the

Castlehill of Edinburgh. “Mrs Violet Macshake is an aunt of my mother’s,

whom you must often have heard of, and the last remaining branch of the

noble race of Girnachgowl.”

“I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?” said Mary.

Her uncle hesitated.

“No, not formidable,—only rather particular, as all old people are; but

she is very good-hearted.”

“I understand; in other words, she is very disagreeable. All

ill-tempered people, I observe, have the character of being

good-hearted, or else all good-hearted people are ill-tempered—I can’t

tell which.”

“It is more than reputation with her,” said Mr Douglas, somewhat

angrily; “for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman, as I

experienced when a boy at college. Many a crown-piece and half-guinea I

used to get from her. Many a scold, to be sure, went along with them;

but that, I daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is very rich, and I am her

reputed heir; therefore gratitude and self-interest combine to render

her extremely amiable in my estimation.”

They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs Macshake resided, and

having rung, the door was at length most deliberately opened by an

ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted female, who ushered them into an

apartment, the _coup d’œil_ of which struck a chill to Mary’s heart. It

was a good-sized room, with a bare sufficiency of small-legged

dining-tables, and lank hair-cloth chairs, ranged in high order round

the walls. Although the season was advanced, and the air piercing cold,

the grate stood smiling in all the charms of polished steel; and the

mistress of the mansion was seated by the side of it in an arm-chair,

still in its summer position. She appeared to have no other occupation

than what her own meditations afforded; for a single glance sufficed to

show that not a vestage of book or work was harboured there. She was a

tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time’s iron hand had scarcely bent,

as she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping snuffy nose,

a long turned-up chin, small, quick, gray eyes, and her face projected

far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd, restless curiosity.

She wore a mode (not _a-la-mode_) bonnet, and cardinal of the same; a

pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms.

As soon as she recognized Mr Douglas, she welcomed him with much

cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand,—patted him on the

back,—looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction; and, in

short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentlewomen of

a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an

_impromptu_ than a habitual feeling; for as the surprise wore off, her

visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager

to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited.

“An’ wha thought o’ seein’ you e’noo?” said she, in a quick gabbling

voice; “what’s brought you to the toun? Are ye come to spend your honest

faither’s siller, ere he’s weel cauld in his grave, puir man?”

Mr Douglas explained, that it was upon account of his niece’s health.

“Health!” repeated she, with a sardonic smile, “it wad mak a howlet

laugh to hear the wark that’s made about young fowk’s health noo-a-days.

I wonder what ye’re a’ made o’,” grasping Mary’s arm in her great bony

hand; “a wheen puir feckless windle-straes—ye maun awa to England for

yer healths. Set ye up! I wonder what came o’ the lasses i’ my time,

that but to bide hame? And whilk o’ ye, I sud like to ken, will e’er

live to see ninety-sax, like me?—Health! he! he!”

“You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr

Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.

“Time eneugh—will ye let me draw my breath, man?—fowk canna say a’ thing

at ance. An’ ye but to hae an English wife, too?—A Scotch lass wadna

ser’ ye. An’ yer wean, I’se warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s

wonders—it’s been unco lang o’ comin’—he! he!”

“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!” said Mr

Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.

“An’ wha’s faut was that?—I ne’er heard tell the like o’t, to hae the

bairn kirsened an’ its grandfather deein’! But fowk are neither born,

nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to do—a’thing’s

changed.”

“You must indeed have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr Douglas,

rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

“Changes!—weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it’s the same warld, an’ if

it’s my ain head that’s upon my shouthers.”

“But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?” said

Mary, in a tone of diffidence.

“Impruvements!” turning sharply round upon her, “what ken ye about

impruvements, bairn? A bonnie impruvement to see tylors and sclaters

leevin’ whaur I mind Jukes and Yerls. An’ that great glowerin’ New Town

there,” pointing out of her windows, “whaur I used to sit and look at

bonnie green parks, and see the kye milket, and the bits o’ bairnies

rowin’ an’ tumblin’, an’ the lasses trampin’ in their tubs;—what see I

noo, but stane and lime, and stour and dirt, and idle chiels, and

dunket-out madams prancing.—Impruvements, indeed!”

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady’s harangue;

but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured handkerchief, and

shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon

her cardinal, she resumed:

“An’ nae word o’ ony o’ your sisters gaun to get men yet? They tell me

they’re but coorse lasses; an’ wha’ll tak ill-faured, tocherless queans,

when there’s walth o’ bonny faces an’ lang purses i’ the market?—he,

he!” Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary,—“An’ I’se warran’ ye’ll be

lookin’ for an English sweetheart too;—that’ll be what’s takin’ ye awa

to England!”

“On the contrary,” said Mr Douglas, seeing Mary was too much frightened

to answer for herself—“on the contrary, Mary declares she will never

marry any but a true Highlander—one who wears the dirk and plaid, and

has the ‘second sight.’ And the nuptials are to be celebrated with all

the pomp of feudal times; with bagpipes and bonfires, and gatherings of

clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of whisky, and”——

“Weel a wat an’ she’s i’ the right there,” interrupted Mrs Mackshake,

with more complacency than she had yet shown. “They may ca’ them what

they like, but there’s nae waddin’s noo. Wha’s the better o’ them but

innkeepers and chaise-drivers? I wadna count mysel married i’ the

hidlin’s way they gang aboot it noo.”

Mr Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady’s reminiscences,

availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to rise and take

leave.

“Ou, what’s takin’ ye awa, Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,”

laying her hand upon his arm, “an’ rest ye, and tak a glass o’ wine; or

maybe,” turning to Mary, “ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye.

What gars ye look sae blae, my bairn? I’m sure it’s no cauld; but ye’re

just like the lave; ye gang a’ skiltin’ about the streets half-naked,

an’ then ye maun sit and birsle yersels afore the fire at hame.”

The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr Douglas made another

attempt to withdraw, but in vain.

“Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an’ let me speir after my auld freens at

Glenfern? Hoo’s Grizzy, an’ Jacky, an’ Nicky?—aye working awa at the

pills and the drogs?—he, he! I ne’er swallowed a pill, nor gaed a doit

for drogs, a’ my days, an’ see an ony of them’ll run a race wi’ me when

they’re naur five score.”

Mr Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which

were pretty well received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter

from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and a

brace of moor game.

“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, atweel it’s no worth the

sending,—puir fushionless dirt, no worth the chewing; weel a wat, I

begrudged my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was no that ill, but they’re no

worth the carrying; they’re dang cheap i’ the market e’noo, so it’s nae

great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ good mutton, or a

caller sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t; but ye’re ane o’

the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel wi’ your presents; it’s but the

pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warrant ye’re thinking mair o’

your ain diversion than o’ my stamack when ye’re at the shooting o’

them, puir beasts.”

Mr Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself

and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life

before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour

rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from

his lips, as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and

breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back,—

“So, I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie,—aye ready to tak the

strumps, an ye dinna get a’thing yer ain way. Mony a time I had to

fleech ye oot o’ the dorts when ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye was

affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon pie an’ a tanker o’

tippenny, ae night to yer four-hours, afore some leddies? he, he, he!

Weel a wat, your wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye’re a

cumstarie chield, Archie.”

Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be

angry.

“Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn,” said she, as

she pulled Mary into an adjoining bed-chamber, which wore the same

aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a

large bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer, out of which

she took a pair of diamond ear-rings.

“Hae, bairn,” said she, as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they

belanged to your faither’s grandmother. She was a good woman, an’ had

four and twenty sons and dochters, an’ I wuss ye nae waur fortin than

just to hae as mony. But mind ye,” shaking her bony finger, “they maun

a’ be Scots. Gin I thocht ye wad marry ony pock-puddin’, fient hait wad

ye gotten frae me. Noo, haud yer tongue, and dinna deave me wi’ thanks,”

almost pushing her into the parlour again; “and sin’ ye’re gaun awa the

morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye e’noo—so fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye

maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’ me. I hae muckle to say to you;—but

ye maunna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious

grin to her mollified favourite, as they shook hands and

parted.—“_Marriage: a Novel._”

THE FAITHLESS NURSE:

_A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT REBELLION_.

Most of our readers who are citizens of “our own romantic town,” are

familiarly acquainted with the valley which, winding among the Pentland

Hills, forms the path by which the waters of Glencorse seek their way to

those of the more celebrated Esk. It has long been the haunt of those

“pilgrims of his genius” who loved to see with their own eyes the sacred

scene chosen by the Pastoral Poet of Scotland for the display of lowly

loves and rustic beauty; and it has now—alas the day!—acquired

attractions for spirits of a far different sort; and who can see without

a sigh the triumphs of art domineering over and insulting the sweetest

charms of nature? It is not, however, to visit the stupendous and

unseemly barrier which now chains up the gentle waters of the burn, nor

even to seek the summer-breathing spot where Patie sung and Roger

sighed, that we now request the attendance of our readers; but simply to

point out to their attention a party of three individuals, who, on a

still September evening, in the memorable year 1644, might have been

seen slowly riding up the glen.

Two of the party were entitled in courtesy to be termed fair; but of

these twain, one would have been acknowledged lovely by the most

uncourteous boor that ever breathed. She had hardly reached the earliest

years of womanhood, ’tis true, and the peachy bloom that mantled o’er

her cheek showed as yet only the dawn of future loveliness; but her fair

brow, on which, contrary to the fashion—we had almost said _taste_—of

the times, her auburn locks danced gracefully; the laughing lustre of

her dark-blue eye, and the stinging sweetness of her pouting lip, aided

by an expression of indomitable gentleness of heart and kindliness of

manner, lent a witchery to her countenance which few could gaze upon

unmoved.

The other female had thrice the years of Lady Lilias Hay; but they had

not brought her one tithe of that maiden’s beauty, and what little God

had given her, she had, long ere the day we saw her first, destroyed, by

screwing her features into an unvarying cast of prim solemnity, which,

had she practised it, would have blighted the cheek of Venus herself.

The “squire of dames” who accompanied the pair we have described was

also young, his chin as yet being guiltless of a hair. But there was a

firmness in his look, a dark something in his eye, that bespoke his

courage superior to his years; and a scar that trenched his open brow

showed that he had arrived at the daring, if not the wisdom of manhood.

On the present occasion, however, it was not a feeling of recklessness

which characterised the demeanour of the youth. He was thoughtful and

abstracted, riding silently by the side of the maiden, who more than

once attempted to dispel the gloom which hung over the gallant. It gave

way, indeed, to the influence of her gentle voice; but it was for a

moment only, and the downcast eye and contracted brow ever and anon

returned when the accents of her voice had ceased.

“Nay, prithee, cousin Maurice, do doff the visor of thy melancholy, and

let us behold thy merry heart unmasked. I could stake my little jennet

here to Elspeth’s favourite “baudrons,” that if Montrose should meet

thee in this moody temperament, he will rather promote thee to a halter

as a spy from the Committee of Estates, than to honourable command

befitting one who has bled beneath the eye, and been knighted by the

honour-giving hand of his royal master! Do laugh with me a little.”

“Why, my dearest Lilias, you seem in higher spirits to-day than is usual

with you. Cannot the surety of our parting to-morrow, and the

uncertainty of our ever meeting again, throw even a passing cloud over

your gaiety?”

“Modestly put, my valiant cousin. I am well reminded of my unbecoming

conduct. It must, of course, be night with me when you, bright sun of my

happiness, shall have withdrawn your beams from me.”

“Nay, banter me not, sweet Lily. Have you never known an hour when the

sweetest sights were irksome to the eye, and the softest strains of

music fell harshly on the ear?”

“Pshaw! if you will neither smile nor talk, of what use are you by a

lady’s side? What say you to a race? Yonder stands the kirk of Saint

Catherine. Will you try your roan that length? An you ride not so fast

now as you did from Cromwell at Longmarston Moor, I shall beat you.

_Via!_”

And so saying, the light-hearted girl gave rein to her snowy palfrey,

and flew up the glen toward the edifice she had mentioned, at a speed

which Maurice Ogilvy had some difficulty in equalling, and which

prevented him from overtaking her until she had reached the gate.

All who have visited—and who has not?—Roslin’s “proud chapelle,” are

familiar with the legend of Sir William St Clair, and his venturous

boast to the Bruce, that he would find, on peril of his head, a dog that

would bring down the deer ere it could cross Glencorse burn;—how the

trusty hound did redeem his own credit and his master’s life, by seizing

the quarry in the very middle of the stream;—and how, in gratitude to

the gentle saint by whose intercession this mighty feat was

accomplished, he built a church on the bank of the stream, and dedicated

it to Saint Catherine of the Howe. This virgin martyr was unfortunately

no more successful than her sister saints in protecting her mansions

from the desolating zeal of the earlier reformers. The church was

destroyed by a fanatical mob, and nothing now remains to record the

kindness of Catherine, and the gratitude of the “high Saint Clair,” but

a few uneven grassy heaps of deeper green than the surrounding verdure,

and the name of the neighbouring farm town, which is yet called Kirkton.

At the time we are at present writing of, however, the roofless walls of

the building, though gray with the ruin of a hundred years, were still

almost entire, and the cemetery then and long after continued to be used

by the neighbouring peasantry.

When Maurice reached the church, he found that the Lady Lilias had

dismounted. He too alighted, and sought her in the interior. She was

seated on a fallen stone, and the deep melancholy which now shadowed her

fair countenance was more in unison with the sombre aspect of the place

and of the hour, than he had expected to find it. She arose at his

approach, and addressed him.

“You have something to tell me, Maurice, and you wished to do it alone.

We have now an opportunity. What has befallen us?”

“Nay, fair Lily, why should you think so? Is not the thought that

to-morrow we must part of itself sufficient to dull my spirit and sadden

my countenance?”