It is a pleasant and impressive time, when, at the close of divine

service, in some small country church, there takes place the gentle stir

and preparation for a baptism. A sudden air of cheerfulness spreads over

the whole congregation; the more solemn expression of all countenances

fades away; and it is at once felt that a rite is about to be performed

which, although of a sacred and awful kind, is yet connected with a

thousand delightful associations of purity, beauty, and innocence. Then

there is an eager bending of smiling faces over the humble galleries—an

unconscious rising up in affectionate curiosity—and a slight murmuring

sound, in which is no violation of the Sabbath sanctity of God’s house,

when, in the middle passage of the church, the party of women is seen,

matrons and maids, who bear in their bosoms, or in their arms, the

helpless beings about to be made members of the Christian communion.

There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the fond and happy baptismal

group. The babies have been intrusted, for a precious hour, to the

bosoms of young maidens, who tenderly fold them to their yearning

hearts, and with endearments taught by nature, are stilling, not always

successfully, their plaintive cries. Then the proud and delighted girls

rise up, one after the other, in sight of the whole congregation, and

hold up the infants, arrayed in neat caps and long flowing linen, into

their fathers’ hands. For the poorest of the poor, if he has a heart at

all, will have his infant well dressed on such a day, even although it

should scant his meal for weeks to come, and force him to spare fuel to

his winter fire.

And now the fathers were all standing below the pulpit, with grave and

thoughtful faces. Each has tenderly taken his infant into his

toil-hardened hands, and supports it in gentle and steadfast affection.

They are all the children of poverty, and if they live, are destined to

a life of toil. But now poverty puts on its most pleasant aspect, for it

is beheld standing before the altar of religion with contentment and

faith. This is a time when the better and deeper nature of every man

must rise up within him, and when he must feel, more especially, that he

is a spiritual and immortal being making covenant with God. He is about

to take upon himself a holy charge; to promise to look after his child’s

immortal soul; and to keep its little feet from the paths of evil, and

in those of innocence and peace. Such a thought elevates the lowest mind

above itself, diffuses additional tenderness over the domestic

relations, and makes them who hold up their infants to the baptismal

font, better fathers, husbands, and sons, by the deeper insight which

they then possess into their nature and their life.

The minister consecrates the water; and, as it falls on his infant’s

face, the father feels the great oath in his soul. As the poor helpless

creature is wailing in his arms, he thinks how needful indeed to human

infancy is the love of Providence! And when, after delivering each his

child into the arms of the smiling maiden from whom he had received it,

he again takes his place for admonition and advice before the pulpit,

his mind is well disposed to think on the perfect beauty of that

religion of which the Divine Founder said, “Suffer little children to be

brought unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven!”

The rite of baptism had not thus been performed for several months in

the kirk of Lanark. It was now the hottest time of persecution; and the

inhabitants of that parish found other places in which to worship God

and celebrate the ordinances of religion. It was now the Sabbath-day,

and a small congregation of about a hundred souls had met for divine

service in a place of worship more magnificent than any temple that

human hands had ever built to Deity. Here, too, were three children

about to be baptised. The congregation had not assembled to the toll of

the bell, but each heart knew the hour and observed it; for there are a

hundred sun-dials among the hills, woods, moors, and fields, and the

shepherd and the peasant see the hours passing by them in sunshine and

shadow.

The church in which they were assembled was hewn by God’s hand out of

the eternal rocks. A river rolled its way through a mighty chasm of

cliffs, several hundred feet high, of which the one side presented

enormous masses, and the other corresponding recesses, as if the great

stone girdle had been rent by a convulsion. The channel was overspread

with prodigious fragments of rock or large loose stones, some of them

smooth and bare, others containing soil and verdure in their rents and

fissures, and here and there crowned with shrubs and trees. The eye

could at once command a long stretching vista, seemingly closed and shut

up at both extremities by the coalescing cliffs. This majestic reach of

river contained pools, streams, rushing shelves, and waterfalls

innumerable; and when the water was low, which it now was in the common

drought, it was easy to walk up this scene, with the calm blue sky

overhead, an utter and sublime solitude. On looking up, the soul was

bowed down by the feeling of that prodigious height of unscaleable and

often overhanging cliff. Between the channel and the summit of the

far-extended precipices were perpetually flying rooks and wood-pigeons,

and now and then a hawk, filling the profound abyss with their wild

cawing, deep murmur, or shrilly shriek. Sometimes a heron would stand

erect and still on some little stone island, or rise up like a white

cloud along the black wall of the chasm and disappear. Winged creatures

alone could inhabit this region. The fox and wild-cat chose more

accessible haunts. Yet there came the persecuted Christians and

worshipped God, whose hand hung over their heads those magnificent

pillars and arches, scooped out those galleries from the solid rock, and

laid at their feet the calm water in its transparent beauty, in which

they could see themselves sitting in reflected groups, with their Bibles

in their hands.

Here, upon a semicircular ledge of rocks, over a narrow chasm, of which

the tiny stream played in a murmuring waterfall, and divided the

congregation into two equal parts, sat about a hundred persons, all

devoutly listening to their minister, who stood before them on what

might well be called a small natural pulpit of living stone. Up to it

there led a short flight of steps, and over it waved the canopy of a

tall graceful birch-tree. This pulpit stood in the middle of the

channel, directly facing that congregation, and separated from them by

the clear deep sparkling pool into which the scarce-heard water poured

over the blackened rock. The water, as it left the pool, separated into

two streams, and flowed on each side of that altar, thus placing it on

an island, whose large mossy stones were richly embowered under the

golden blossoms and green tresses of the broom. Divine service was

closed, and a row of maidens, all clothed in purest white, came gliding

off from the congregation, and crossing the stream on some

stepping-stones, arranged themselves at the foot of the pulpit, with the

infants about to be baptized. The fathers of the infants, just as if

they had been in their own kirk, had been sitting there during worship,

and now stood up before the minister. The baptismal water, taken from

the pellucid pool, was lying consecrated in a small hollow of one of the

upright stones that formed one side or pillar of the pulpit, and the

holy rite proceeded. Some of the younger ones in that semicircle kept

gazing down into the pool, in which the whole scene was reflected, and

now and then, in spite of the grave looks or admonishing whispers of

their elders, letting a pebble fall into the water, that they might

judge of its depth from the length of time that elapsed before the clear

air-bells lay sparkling on the agitated surface. The rite was over, and

the religious services of the day closed by a psalm. The mighty rocks

hemmed in the holy sound, and sent it in a more compacted volume, clear,

sweet, and strong, up to heaven. When the psalm ceased, an echo, like a

spirit’s voice, was heard dying away up among the magnificent

architecture of the cliffs, and once more might be noticed in the

silence the reviving voice of the waterfall.

Just then a large stone fell from the top of the cliff into the pool, a

loud voice was heard, and a plaid hung over on the point of a shepherd’s

staff. Their watchful sentinel had descried danger, and this was his

warning. Forthwith the congregation rose. There were paths dangerous to

unpractised feet, along the ledges of the rocks, leading up to several

caves and places of concealment. The more active and young assisted the

elder—more especially the old pastor, and the women with the infants;

and many minutes had not elapsed, till not a living creature was visible

in the channel of the stream, but all of them hidden, or nearly so, in

the clefts and caverns.

The shepherd who had given the alarm had lain down again in his plaid

instantly on the greensward upon the summit of these precipices. A party

of soldiers were immediately upon him, and demanded what signals he had

been making, and to whom; when one of them, looking over the edge of the

cliff, exclaimed, “See, see, Humphrey! we have caught the whole

tabernacle of the Lord in a net at last. There they are, praising God

among the stones of the river Mouss. These are the Cartland Craigs. By

my soul’s salvation, a noble cathedral!” “Fling the lying sentinel over

the cliffs. Here is a canting Covenanter for you, deceiving honest

soldiers on the very Sabbath-day. Over with him, over with him—out of

the gallery into the pit.” But the shepherd had vanished like a shadow;

and, mixing with the tall green broom and brushes, was making his unseen

way towards the wood. “Satan has saved his servant. But come, my lads,

follow me; I know the way down into the bed of the stream, and the steps

up to Wallace’s Cave. They are called the ‘Kittle Nine Stanes.’ The

hunt’s up—we’ll be all in at the death. Halloo, my boys, halloo!”

The soldiers dashed down a less precipitous part of the wooded banks, a

little below the “Craigs,” and hurried up the channel. But when they

reached the altar where the old grayhaired minister had been seen

standing, and the rocks that had been covered with people, all was

silent and solitary—not a creature to be seen.

“Here is a Bible dropped by some of them,” cried a soldier; and with his

foot spun it away into the pool.

“A bonnet! a bonnet!” cried another. “Now for the pretty sanctified face

that rolled its demure eyes below it.”

But after a few jests and oaths the soldiers stood still, eyeing with a

kind of mysterious dread the black and silent walls of the rock that

hemmed them in, and hearing only the small voice of the stream that sent

a profounder stillness through the heart of that majestic solitude.

“Curse these cowardly Covenanters! What if they tumble down upon our

heads pieces of rock from their hiding-places? Advance? Or retreat?”

There was no reply; for a slight fear was upon every man. Musket or

bayonet could be of little use to men obliged to clamber up rocks, along

slender paths, leading they knew not where; and they were aware that

armed men now-a-days worshipped God,—men of iron hearts, who feared not

the glitter of the soldier’s arms, neither barrel nor bayonet; men of

long stride, firm step, and broad breast, who, on the open field, would

have overthrown the marshalled line, and gone first and foremost if a

city had to be taken by storm.

As the soldiers were standing together irresolute, a noise came upon

their ears like distant thunder, but even more appalling; and a slight

current of air, as if propelled by it, passed whispering along the

sweetbriers and the broom, and the tresses of the birch-trees. It came

deepening and rolling, and roaring on, and the very Cartland Craigs

shook to their foundation as if in an earthquake. “The Lord have mercy

upon us!—what is this?” And down fell many of the miserable wretches on

their knees, and some on their faces, upon the sharp-pointed rocks. Now

it was like the sound of many myriad chariots rolling on their iron

axles down the stony channel of the torrent. The old grayhaired minister

issued from the mouth of Wallace’s Cave, and said, with a loud voice,

“The Lord God terrible reigneth!” A waterspout had burst up among the

moorlands, and the river, in its power, was at hand. There it

came—tumbling along into that long reach of cliffs, and in a moment

filled it with one mass of waves. Huge agitated clouds of foam rode on

the surface of a blood-red torrent. An army must have been swept off by

that flood. The soldiers perished in a moment; but high up in the

cliffs, above the sweep of destruction, were the Covenanters—men, women,

and children, uttering prayers to God, unheard by themselves in that

raging thunder.

THE LAIRD’S WOOING.

BY JOHN GALT.

The laird began the record of his eighteenth year in these words:—

There lived at this time, on the farmstead of Broomlands, a person that

was a woman, by calling a widow; and she and her husband, when he was in

this life, had atween them Annie Daisie, a dochter;—very fair she was to

look upon, comely withal, and of a feleecity o’ nature.

This pretty Annie Daisie, I know not hoo, found favour in my eyes, and I

made no scruple of going to the kirk every Sabbath day to see her,

though Mr Glebeantiends was, to a certainty, a vera maksleepie preacher.

When I forgathered with her by accident, I was all in a confusion; and

when I would hae spoken to her wi’ kindly words, I could but look in her

clear een and nicher like Willie Gouk, the haverel laddie; the which

made her jeer me as if I had a want, and been daft likewise; so that

seeing I cam no speed in courting for myself, I thocht o’ telling my

mother; but that was a kittle job,—howsoever, I took heart, and said—

“Mother!”

“Well, son,” she made answer, “what would ye?”

“I’m going to be marriet,” quo’ I.

“Marriet!” cried she, spreading out her arms wi’ consternation. “And

wha’s the bride?”

I didna like just to gie her an even down answer, but said I thought

myself old enough for a helpmeet to my table, which caused her to

respond with a laugh; whereupon I told her I was thinking of Annie

Daisie.

“Ye’ll surely ne’er marry the like o’ her;—she’s only a gair’ner’s

dochter.”

But I thocht of Adam and Eve, and said—“We’re a’ come of a

gair’ner;”—the which caused her presently to wax vera wroth with me; and

she stampit with her foot, and called me a blot on the ‘scutcheon o’

Auldbiggins; then she sat down, and began to reflec’ with herself; and,

after a season, she spoke rawtional about the connection, saying she had

a wife in her mind for me, far more to the purpose than such a

causey-dancer as Annie Daisie.

But I couldna bide to hear Annie Daisie mislikened, and yet I was feart

to commit the sin of disobedience, for my mother had no mercy when she

thought I rebelled against her authority; so I sat down, and was in a

tribulation, and then I speir’t, with a flutter of affliction, who it

was that she had willed to be my wife.

“Miss Betty Græme,” said she; “if she can be persuaded to tak sic a

headowit.”

Now this Miss Betty Græme was the tocherless sixth daughter o’ a broken

Glasgow provost, and made her leevin’ by seamstress-work and flowering

lawn; but she was come of gentle blood, and was herself a gentle

creature, though no sae blithe as bonnie Annie Daisie; and for that I

told my mother I would never take her, though it should be the death o’

me. Accordingly I ran out of the house, and took to the hills, and

wistna where I was, till I found myself at the door of the Broomlands,

with Annie Daisie before me, singing like a laverock as she watered the

yarn of her ain spinning on the green. On seeing me, however, she

stoppit, and cried—

“Gude keep us a’, laird!—what’s frightened you to flee hither?”

But I was desperate, and I ran till her, and fell on my knees in a

lover-like fashion; but wha would hae thocht it?—she dang me ower on my

back, and as I lay on the ground she watered me with her watering-can,

and was like to dee wi’ laughing: the which sign and manifestation of

hatred on her part quenched the low o’ love on mine; an’ I raise an’

went hame, drookit and dripping as I was, and told my mother I would be

an obedient and dutiful son.

Soon after this, Annie Daisie was marriet to John Lounlans; and there

was a fulsome phrasing about them when they were kirkit, as the

comeliest couple in the parish. It was castor-oil to hear’t; and I was

determined to be upsides with them, for the way she had jilted me.

In the meanwhile my mother, that never, when she had a turn in hand,

alloo’t the grass to grow in her path, invited Miss Betty Græme to stay

a week with us; the which, as her father’s family were in a straitened

circumstance, she was glad to accept; and being come, and her mother

with her, I could discern a confabbing atween the twa auld leddies—Mrs

Græme shaking the head of scrupulosity, and my mother laying down the

law and the gospel;—all denoting a matter-o’-money plot for me and Miss

Betty.

At last it came to pass, on the morning of the third day, that Miss

Betty did not rise to take her breakfast with us, but was indisposed;

and when she came to her dinner, her een were bleared and begrutten.

After dinner, however, my mother that day put down, what wasna common

with her housewifery, a bottle o’ port in a decanter, instead o’ the

gardevin for toddy, and made Miss Betty drink a glass to mak her better,

and me to drink three, saying, “Faint heart never won fair leddy.” Upon

the whilk hint I took another myself, and drank a toast for better

acquaintance with Miss Betty. Then the twa matrons raise to leave the

room, and Miss Betty was rising too; but her mother laid her hand upon

her shouther, and said—

“It’s our lot, my dear, and we maun bear with it.”

Thus it came to pass that I and Miss Betty were left by ourselves in a

very comical situation.

There was silence for a space of time between us; at last she drew a

deep sigh, and I responded, to the best o’ my ability, with another.

Then she took out her pocket-napkin, and began to wipe her eyes. This is

something like serious courting, thocht I to myself, for sighs and tears

are the food of love; but I wasna yet just ready to greet; hoosever, I

likewise took up my pocket-napkin, and made a sign of sympathy by

blowing my nose, and then I said—

“Miss Betty Græme, how would ye like to be Leddy of Auldbiggins, under

my mother?”

“Oh, heavens!” cried she, in a voice that gart me a’ dinnle; and she

burst into a passion of tears—the whilk to see so affectit me that I

couldna help greeting too; the sight whereof made her rise and walk the

room like a dementit bedlamite.

I was terrified, for her agitation wasna like the raptures I expectit;

but I rose from my seat, and going round to the other side of the table

where she was pacing the floor, I followed her, and pulling her by the

skirt, said, in a gallant way, to raise her spirits—

“Miss Betty Græme, will ye sit doon on my knee?”

I’ll ne’er forget the look she gied for answer; but it raised my

courage, and I said, “E’en’s ye like, Meg Dorts”—and with a flourish o’

my heel, I left her to tune her pipes alane. This did the business, as I

thocht; for though I saw her no more that night, yet the next morning

she came to breakfast a subdued woman, and my mother, before the week

was out, began to make preparations for the wedding.

But, lo and behold! one afternoon, as Miss Betty and me were taking a

walk, at her own request, on the high road, by came a whisky with a

young man in it, that had been a penny-clerk to her father, and before

you could say, hey cockolorum! she was up in the gig, and doon at his

side, and aff and away like the dust in a whirlwind.

I was very angry to be sae jiltit a second time, but it wasna with an

anger like the anger I suffered for what I met with at the hands of

Annie Daisie. It was a real passion. I ran hame like a clap o’ thunder,

and raged and rampaged till Mrs Græme was out of the house, bag and

baggage. My mother thought I was gane wud, and stood and lookit at me,

and didna daur to say nay to my commands. Whereas, the thocht o’ the

usage I had gotten frae Annie Daisie bred a heart-sickness of

humiliation, and I surely think that if she had not carried her scorn o’

me sae far as to prefer a bare farmer lad like John Lounlans, I had hae

sank into a decline, and sought the grave with a broken heart. But her

marrying him roused my corruption, and was as souring to the milk of my

nature. I could hae forgiven her the watering; and had she gotten a

gentleman of family, I would not have been overly miscontented; but to

think, after the offer she had from a man of my degree, that she should

take up with a tiller of the ground, a hewer of wood and a drawer of

water, was gall and wormwood. Truly, it was nothing less than a kithing

of the evil spirit of the democraws that sae withered the green

bay-trees of the world, when I was made a captain in the volunteers, by

order of the Lord Lieutenant, ’cause, as his lordship said, of my stake

in the country.—“_The Last of the Lairds._”

THOMAS THE RHYMER:

_AN ANCIENT FAIRY LEGEND_.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Thomas of Erceldoune, in Lauderdale, called the Rhymer on account of his

producing a poetical romance on the subject of Tristrem and Yseult,

which is curious as the earliest specimen of English verse known to

exist, flourished in the reign of Alexander III. of Scotland. Like other

men of talent of the period, Thomas was suspected of magic. He was also

said to have the gift of prophecy, which was accounted for in the

following peculiar manner, referring entirely to the Elfin superstition.

As Thomas lay on Huntly Bank (a place on the descent of the Eildon

hills, which raise their triple crest above the celebrated monastery of

Melrose), he saw a lady so extremely beautiful that he imagined it must

be the Virgin Mary herself. Her appointments, however, were those rather

of an amazon, or goddess of the woods. Her steed was of the highest

beauty, and at his mane hung thirty silver bells and nine, which were

music to the wind as she paced along. Her saddle was of “royal bone”

(ivory), laid over with “orfeverie” (goldsmith’s work). Her stirrups—her

dress—all corresponded with her extreme beauty and the magnificence of

her array. The fair huntress had her bow in hand, and her arrows at her

belt. She led three greyhounds in a leash, and three raches, or hounds

of scent, followed her closely.

She rejected and disclaimed the homage which Thomas desired to pay to

her; so that, passing from one extremity to the other, Thomas became as

bold as he had at first been humble. The lady warns him that he must

become her slave, if he should prosecute his suit towards her in the

manner he proposes. Before their interview terminates, the appearance of

the beautiful lady is changed into that of the most hideous hag in

existence. A witch from the spital or almshouse would have been a

goddess in comparison to the late beautiful huntress. Hideous as she

was, Thomas’s irregular desires had placed him under the control of this

hag, and when she bade him take leave of the sun, and of the leaf that

grew on the tree, he felt himself under the necessity of obeying her. A

cavern received them, in which, following his frightful guide, he for

three days travelled in darkness, sometimes hearing the booming of a

distant ocean, sometimes walking through rivers of blood, which crossed

their subterranean path. At length they emerged into daylight, in a most

beautiful orchard. Thomas, almost fainting for want of food, stretches

out his hand towards the goodly fruit which hangs around him, but is

forbidden by his conductress, who informs him that these are the fatal

apples which were the cause of the fall of man. He perceives also that

his guide had no sooner entered this mysterious ground, and breathed its

magic air, than she was revived in beauty, equipage, and splendour, as

fair or fairer than he had first seen her on the mountain. She then

proceeds to explain to him the character of the country.

“Yonder right hand path,” she says, “conveys the spirits of the blest to

paradise. Yon downward and well-worn way leads sinful souls to the place

of everlasting punishment. The third road, by yonder dark brake,

conducts to the milder place of pain, from which prayer and mass may

release offenders. But see you yet a fourth road, sweeping along the

plain to yonder splendid castle? Yonder is the road to Elfland, to which

we are now bound. The lord of the castle is king of the country, and I

am his queen. And when we enter yonder castle, you must observe strict

silence, and answer no question that is asked at you, and I will account

for your silence by saying I took your speech when I brought you from

middle earth.”

Having thus instructed her lover, they journeyed on to the castle, and

entering by the kitchen, found themselves in the midst of such a festive

scene as might become the mansion of a great feudal lord or prince.

Thirty carcases of deer were lying on the massive kitchen board, under

the hands of numerous cooks, who toiled to cut them up and dress them,

while the gigantic greyhounds which had taken the spoil lay lapping the

blood, and enjoying the sight of the slain game. They came next to the

royal hall, where the king received his loving consort without censure

or suspicion. Knights and ladies, dancing by threes, occupied the floor

of the hall, and Thomas, the fatigues of his journey from the Eildon

hills forgotten, went forward and joined in the revelry. After a period,

however, which seemed to him a very short one, the queen spoke with him

apart, and bade him prepare to return to his own country.

“Now,” said the queen, “how long think you that you have been here?”

“Certes, fair lady,” answered Thomas, “not above these seven days.”

“You are deceived,” answered the queen; “you have been seven years in

this castle; and it is full time you were gone. Know, Thomas, that the

archfiend will come to this castle to-morrow to demand his tribute, and

so handsome a man as you will attract his eye. For all the world would I

not suffer you to be betrayed to such a fate; therefore up, and let us

be going.”

This terrible news reconciled Thomas to his departure from Elfin land,

and the queen was not long in placing him upon Huntly Bank, where the

birds were singing. She took a tender leave of him, and to ensure his

reputation bestowed on him the tongue which _could not lie_. Thomas in

vain objected to this inconvenient and involuntary adhesion to veracity,

which would make him, as he thought, unfit for church or for market, for

king’s court or for lady’s bower. But all his remonstrances were

disregarded by the lady, and Thomas the Rhymer, whenever the discourse

turned on the future, gained the credit of a prophet whether he would or

not; for he could say nothing but what was sure to come to pass.

Thomas remained several years in his own tower near Erceldoune, and

enjoyed the fame of his predictions, several of which are current among

the country people to this day. At length, as the prophet was

entertaining the Earl of March in his dwelling, a cry of astonishment

arose in the village, on the appearance of a hart and hind, which left

the forest, and, contrary to their shy nature, came quietly onward,

traversing the village towards the dwelling of Thomas. The prophet

instantly rose from the board; and acknowledging the prodigy as the

summons of his fate, he accompanied the hart and hind into the forest,

and though occasionally seen by individuals to whom he has chosen to

show himself, he has never again mixed familiarly with mankind.

Thomas of Erceldoune, during his retirement, has been supposed, from

time to time, to be levying forces to take the field in some crisis of

his country’s fate. The story has often been told, of a daring

horse-jockey having sold a black horse to a man of venerable and antique

appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon Eildon hills,

called the Lucken-hare, as the place where, at twelve o’clock at night,

he should receive the price. He came, and his money was paid in ancient

coin, and he was invited by his customer to view his residence. The

trader in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment through

several ranges of stalls, in each of which a horse stood motionless,

while an armed warrior lay equally still at the charger’s feet.

“All these men,” said the wizard in a whisper, “will awaken at the

battle of Sheriffmuir.”

At the extremity of this extraordinary depôt hung a sword and a horn,

which the prophet pointed out to the horse-dealer as containing the

means of dissolving the spell. The man in confusion took the horn, and

attempted to wind it. The horses instantly started in their stalls,

stamped, and shook their bridles; the men arose and clashed their

armour, and the mortal, terrified at the tumult he had excited, dropped

the horn from his hand. A voice like that of a giant, louder even than

the tumult around, pronounced these words:—

Woe to the coward that ever he was born,

That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!

A whirlwind expelled the horse-dealer from the cavern, the entrance to

which he could never again find. A moral might, perhaps, be extracted

from the legend,—namely, that it is best to be armed against danger

before bidding it defiance. But it is a circumstance worth notice, that

although this edition of the tale is limited to the year 1715, by the

very mention of Sheriffmuir, yet a similar story appears to have been

current during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, which is given by Reginald

Scot. The narrative is edifying as peculiarly illustrative of the mode

of marring a curious tale in telling it, which was one of the virtues

professed by Caius when he hired himself to King Lear. Reginald Scot,

incredulous on the subject of witchcraft, seems to have given some

weight to the belief of those who thought that the spirits of famous men

do, after death, take up some particular habitations near cities, towns,

and countries, and act as tutelary and guardian spirits to the places

they loved while in the flesh.

“But more particularly to illustrate this conjecture,” says he, “I could

name a person who hath lately appeared thrice since his decease, at

least some ghostly being or other that calls itself by the name of such

a person, who was dead a hundred years ago, and was in his lifetime

accounted as a prophet or predicter, by the assistance of sublunary

spirits; and now, at his appearance, did also give strange predictions

respecting famine and plenty, war and bloodshed, and the end of the

world. By the information of the person that had communication with him,

the last of his appearances was in the following manner:—‘I had been,’

said he, ‘to sell a horse at the next market town, but not attaining my

price, as I returned home, by the way I met this man, who began to be

familiar with me, asking what news, and how affairs moved through the

country. I answered as I thought fit; withal I told him of my horse,

whom he began to cheapen, and proceeded with me so far that the price

was agreed upon. So he turned back with me, and told me that if I would

go along with him, I should receive my money. On our way we went,—I upon

my horse, and he on another milk-white beast. After much travel, I asked

him where he dwelt, and what his name was. He told me that his dwelling

was a mile off, at a place called _Farran_, of which place I had never

heard,[20] though I knew all the country round about. He also told me

that he himself was the person of the family of Learmonths,[21] so much

spoken of as a prophet. At which I began to be somewhat fearful,

perceiving we were on a road which I had never been on before, which

increased my fear and amazement more. Well! on we went till he brought

me under ground, I knew not how, into the presence of a beautiful woman,

who paid me the money without speaking a word. He conducted me out again

through a large and long entry, where I saw above six hundred men in

armour laid prostrate on the ground as if asleep. At last I found myself

in the open field, by the help of the moonlight, in the very place where

I first met him, and made a shift to get home by three in the morning.

But the money I received was just double of what I esteemed it when the

woman paid me, of which, at this instant, I have several pieces to show,

consisting of ninepennies, thirteenpence-halfpennies, &c.’”

Footnote 20:

In this Sir Walter confesses himself “in the same ignorance as his

namesake Reginald, though having at least as many opportunities of

information.”

Footnote 21:

In popular tradition, the name of Thomas the Rhymer was always averred

to be Learmonth, though he neither uses it himself, nor is described

by his son other than Le Rymour. The Learmonths of Dairsie, in Fife,

claimed descent from the prophet.

It is a great pity that this horse-dealer, having specimens of the fairy

coin, of a quality more permanent than usual, had not favoured us with

an account of an impress so valuable to medallists. It is not the less

edifying, as we are deprived of the more picturesque parts of the story,

to learn that Thomas’s payment was as faithful as his prophecies. The

beautiful lady who bore the purse must have been undoubtedly the Fairy

Queen, whose affection, though, like that of his own Yseult, we cannot

term it altogether laudable, seems yet to have borne a faithful and firm

character.

LACHLAN MORE:

_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.

Lachlan More Maclean, of Duart, was one of the most remarkable men

connected with the Highlands of Scotland in his days. His father having

died early, King James the Fifth took a considerable interest in this

young man, and he was educated at his expense. Lachlan’s grandfather had

been at the fatal battle of Flodden, with a large body of his clan, and

he was killed in the immediate defence of his unfortunate prince.

The son and successor of James the Fourth was not unmindful of this, and

he was desirous of forming a matrimonial connection between the young

chief and the heiress of Athole. Preliminaries having been settled among

the parties, the bridegroom was suddenly called to his own country, and

on his way he visited the Earl of Glencairn, at his castle on the banks

of the Clyde. Cards were introduced in the evening, and Maclean’s

partner was one of the earl’s daughters. In the course of the evening

the game happened to be changed, and the company again cut for partners;

on which another of the daughters whispered in her sister’s ear, that if

the Highland chief had been her partner, she would not have hazarded the

loss of him by cutting anew. The chief heard the remark, and was so

pleased with the compliment, and so fascinated with the charm of Lady

Margaret Cunningham, that a match was made up between them, and they

were speedily married. Maclean thus gave great offence to the king, and

lost the richest heiress at that time in Scotland.

Lachlan More’s sister was married to Angus Macdonald, of Islay and

Kintyre, then the most powerful of the branches which sprung from the

Lord of the Isles. These two chiefs appear to have been much of the same

disposition,—both were violent, ambitious, and turbulent. Their bloody

feuds were productive of much misery to their people, and ended

injuriously to all parties. Macdonald, on his return from the Isle of

Skye, was forced to take shelter in that portion of the island of Jura

which was the property of Maclean; and it unfortunately happened that

two villains of the clan Macdonald, whose bad conduct had induced them

to take refuge in Mull, to escape punishment from their own chief,

happened to be then in Jura. It would seem that they delighted in

mischief, and they adopted an expedient which effectually answered their

purpose.

Maclean had some cattle close to the place where the Macdonalds lay; the

two renegades slaughtered some of these, and carried away many more of

them. They left Jura before daylight, and contrived to convey

information to Lachlan More that Macdonald had done him all this damage.

Duart collected a considerable number of his men, and arrived in Jura

before the Macdonalds departed. Without making proper inquiry into the

circumstances, he rashly attacked the other party, and many of them were

slain, but their chief escaped. It appears to be admitted on all hands

that this was the beginning of the sanguinary warfare which followed,

and Maclean was certainly culpable. Mutual friends interfered, and

endeavoured to effect a reconciliation between persons so nearly

connected. The Earl of Argyle was maternal uncle to Lachlan, and chiefly

by his powerful intercession the further effusion of blood was prevented

for a time.

Macdonald had occasion to be again in Skye, and on his return he was

invited by Maclean to visit him in the castle of Duart. After dinner,

some unfortunate circumstance occurred which produced a quarrel.

Tradition varies in regard to what immediately followed. It seems,

however, that Maclean demanded that the other should yield to him

possession of the whole island of Islay, of which he then held but the

half. Some consideration was to have been given in return for this

concession; but Maclean chose to detain as hostages, to ensure the

fulfilment of the treaty, the eldest son of Macdonald, then a boy, and

also a brother, together with several other persons of some note.

Maclean soon after set out for Islay to take possession of that island.

His nephew accompanied him, but the other hostages were left in Mull

until the whole business should be arranged. What ensued was no more

than might have been expected: Macdonald pretended to be disposed for an

amicable adjustment of the terms formerly agreed upon, and prevailed on

Lachlan More to visit him at his house in Islay, where nothing appeared

to create alarm.

After supper, Maclean and his people retired to a barn for rest; but

Macdonald soon knocked at the door, and said he had forgot to give his

guests their reposing draught, and desired to be admitted for that

purpose. A large force had by this time been collected, and Lachlan soon

understood that he would be made to suffer for his former conduct. He

was determined, however, to make a resolute defence. He stood in the

door fully armed, and in his left hand he held his nephew, who lay with

him. He was a man of extraordinary size and strength, as the appellation

_More_ indicates, and his situation required all his prowess. Macdonald,

desirous to save the life of his son, agreed to permit Lachlan to quit

the barn, which had by this time been set on fire. The greater part of

his attendants also followed their chief; but the two Macdonalds, who

had first fomented this unhappy quarrel, were consumed in the flames.

Macdonald of Islay having now recovered possession of his son, was

determined to put Maclean and all his people to death; but fortunately

for them, he had a fall from his horse, by which one of his legs was

fractured. This retarded the execution of his fell purpose, and enabled

the Earl of Argyle to make a representation of the case to the

government. Maclean was permitted to return to Mull; but several of the

principal gentlemen of his clan, who had accompanied them to Islay, were

retained as hostages for the safety of those who still remained in the

same condition at Duart.

Very soon after Maclean’s departure from Islay, Macdonald of

Ardnamurchan, commonly distinguished by the patronimic of _Mac-vic-Ian_,

the son of John’s son, arrived there, and falsely informed Macdonald

that Lachlan More had destroyed all his hostages on his return home.

This was retaliated on Maclean’s hostages, who were all put to death,

and the next day the other hostages arrived safely from Mull.

This is a specimen of the deplorable state of barbarism into which

Scotland sunk during the minority of James the Sixth. The whole kingdom

was full of blood and rapine, but the Highlands were in the worst

condition of all. For a century afterwards very little amelioration

seems to have taken place; but it is pleasing to reflect that for the

last fifty years there is not in Europe a country where the law bears

more absolute sway than in the Scottish Highlands.

Macdonald and Maclean were both committed to ward, one in the Bass, and

the other in the Castle of Edinburgh, where they were detained for

several years. They were liberated on strong assurances of peaceable

conduct, and on giving hostages. Maclean was afterwards ordered to join

the Earl of Argyle, who took the command of the army appointed to oppose

the Earls of Huntly and Errol, then in open rebellion against the

government of James the Sixth.

The two armies encountered at Glenlivat, and the rebels were victorious.

Argyle, though brave, was young and inexperienced, nor were all his

officers faithful to their trust. Innes, in his History of Moray,

asserts that some of the principal men of his own name were in

correspondence with the enemy; and other writers ascribe much effect to

the cannon used by the rebel earls. On this occasion Lachlan More was

greatly distinguished for bravery and for prudence, having acted the

part of an experienced commander, and gained the applause of both

armies.

It were well if he had always confined his warfare to such honourable

combats. Soon after we find him again engaged in Islay against his

nephew, James Macdonald, Angus, his former antagonist, being dead. On

this occasion, it would seem, however, that he was disposed for peace.

Lachlan had embraced the Protestant religion; and it was a practice with

his Catholic ancestors to walk thrice in procession around the shores of

a small island lying in Lochspelvie, invoking success to the expedition

on which they were about to be engaged. With singular absurdity, Lachlan

resolved to show his contempt for Catholic superstition: he walked

thrice around the island, but his ancestors had always walked right

about, or in the same course with the sun; but this enlightened

Protestant reversed it. The day following he departed with his forces

for Islay, and he never returned. The weather became boisterous, and he

was compelled to bear away for Island Nare, in the mouth of Loch

Gruinard. A day was appointed for a conference between himself and his

nephew; and Lachlan, attended by a small portion of his men, was to be

met by Macdonald with an equal number. Macdonald had, however, placed a

large body in ambush at some distance. The conference commenced under

favourable appearances, but a misunderstanding soon arose, and swords

were drawn. A dreadful conflict ensued, and Maclean fought with

astonishing bravery. The reserve which had lain concealed joined their

friends; but both were on the eve of being defeated, when a body of

auxiliaries from the island of Arran arrived, and Lachlan More was

killed, with all those who had accompanied him on this fatal

expedition.[22]

Footnote 22:

Lachlan More was killed in the year 1598.

His son had remained on the island with a much larger force, but the

pacific appearances deceived him, and he neglected to keep the boats

afloat. When the fight commenced on shore, he and his men were looking

on, but could not launch their heavy boats, or render assistance. The

Macdonalds suffered severe loss, and James (afterwards Sir James) was

left for dead on the field.

A poor woman of his own clan, assisted by her son, conveyed Lachlan’s

body on a sledge to the church of Kilchomen, in Islay, where she got him

buried. By the jolting of the sledge, the features of the body acquired

a particular expression, at which the young man smiled. His name was

Macdonald, and his mother was so enraged at his sneer, that she made a

thrust at him with a dirk, and wounded him severely.—_Lit. Gazette._

ALEMOOR:

_A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY_.

Sad is the wail that floats o’er Alemoor’s lake,

And nightly bids her gulfs unbottomed quake,

While moonbeams, sailing o’er her waters blue,

Reveal the frequent tinge of blood-red hue.

The water-birds, with shrill discordant scream,

Oft rouse the peasant from his tranquil dream;

He dreads to raise his slow unclosing eye,

And thinks he hears an infant’s feeble cry.—_Leyden._

CHAPTER I.

In one of those frequent incursions which the Scottish Borderers used to

make into the sister territory, it was the misfortune of Sir John

Douglas, a gallant and distinguished warrior, to be taken prisoner by

Richard de Mowbray, who, to a naturally proud and vindictive temper,

added a bitter and irreconcilable hatred to that branch of the house of

Douglas to which his prisoner belonged. Instead of treating the brave

and noble youth with that courtesy which the law of arms and the manners

of the times authorised, he loaded his limbs with fetters, and threw him

into one of the deepest dungeons of his baronial castle of Holme

Cultrum. Earl de Mowbray, his father, was then at the English court, in

attendance on his sovereign, so that he had none to gainsay his

authority, but yielded, without hesitation or restraint, to every

impulse of his passions. To what lengths the savage cruelty of his

temper might have led him in practising against the life of his youthful

prisoner is not known, for he was also summoned to London to assist in

the stormy councils of that distracted period.

Meanwhile, Douglas lay on the floor of his dungeon, loaded with fetters,

and expecting every hour to be led out to die. No murmur escaped his

lips. He waited patiently till the fatal message arrived, only

regretting that it had not pleased Heaven to suffer him to die sword in

hand, like his brave ancestors. “Yes!” he exclaimed, as he raised his

stately and warlike form from the ground, and clashing his fettered

hands together, while his dark eye shot fire; “yes! let false tyrannical

Mowbray come with all his ruffian band—let them give me death by sword

or by cord—my cheek shall not blanch, nor my look quail before them. As

a Douglas I have lived, as a Douglas I shall die!” But the expected

summons came not. Day after day passed on in sullen monotony, more

trying to a brave mind than even the prospect of suffering. No sound

broke in on the silence around him, but the daily visit of a veteran

man-at-arms, who brought him his scanty meal. No entreaties could induce

this man to speak, so that the unfortunate prisoner could only guess at

his probable fate. Sometimes despondency, in spite of his better reason,

would steal over his mind. “Shall I never again see my noble, my widowed

mother? my innocent, playful sister?—never again wander through the

green woods of Drumlanrig, or hunt the deer on its lordly domain? Shall

my sight never again be greeted by the green earth or cheerful sun? Will

these hateful walls enclose me till damp and famine destroy me, and my

withered limbs be left in this charnel-house, a monument of the cruelty

and unceasing hatred of De Mowbray?”

Seven long weeks had rolled tediously along when the prisoner was

surprised by his allowance being brought by a stranger in the dress of a

Cumbrian peasant. Eagerly, rapidly he questioned the man respecting

Mowbray, his intentions, and why he had been so long left without being

allowed to name a ransom. The peasant told him of De Mowbray’s absence,

and added that, as there was to be a general invasion of Scotland, all

the men-at-arms had been marched away that morning to join their

companions, except the warders, by whom he had been ordered to bring

food to the prisoner. Joy now thrilled through the heart and frame of

the youthful warrior, but he had still enough of caution left to make no

further inquiries, but allow his new jailer to depart without exciting

his suspicions too early.

It is well known to those who are conversant with the history of that

period, that, however bitter the animosities of the two nations were

while engaged in actual warfare, yet in times of peace, or even of

truce, the commons lived on friendly terms, and carried on even a sort

of trade in cattle. All this was known to Sir John, who hoped, through

the means of his new attendant, to open a communication with his

retainers, if he could not engage him to let him free, and become a

follower of the Douglas, whose name was alike dreaded in both nations.

But events over which he had no control were even then working for him,

and his deliverance was to come from a quarter he thought not of.

At the date of this tale, the ladies of rank had few amusements when

compared to those of modern times. Books, even if they could have been

procured, would sometimes not have been valued or understood, from the

very limited education which, in those days, was allowed to females.

Guarded in their inaccessible towers or castles, their only amusement

was listening to the tales of pilgrims, or the songs of wandering

minstrels, both of whom were always made welcome to the halls of nobles,

and whose persons, like those of heralds, were deemed sacred even among

contending parties. To be present at a tournament was considered as an

event of the first importance, and looked forward to with the highest

expectation, and afterwards formed an era in their lives. When such

amusements were not to be had, a walk on the ramparts, attended by their

trusty maid, was the next resource against the tedium of time. It was

during such a walk as this that Emma, only daughter of Earl Mowbray,

addressed her attendant as follows:—

“Do you think it possible, Edith, that the prisoner, whom my brother is

so solicitous to conceal, can be that noble Douglas of whom we have

heard so much, and about whom Graham, the old blind minstrel, sung such

gallant verses?”

“Indeed, my sweet lady,” replied her attendant, “the prisoner in yonder

dungeon is certainly of the house of Douglas, and, as I think, the very

Sir John of whom we have heard so much.”

“How knowest thou that?” inquired her lady, eagerly.

“I had always my own thoughts of it,” whispered Edith cautiously, and

drawing nearer her mistress; “but since Ralph of Teesdale succeeded grim

old Norman as his keeper, I am almost certain of it. He knows every

Douglas of them, and, from his account, though the dungeon was dark, he

believes it was Sir John who performed such prodigies of valour at the

taking of Alnwick.”

“May Heaven, then, preserve and succour him!” sighed the Lady Emma, as

she clasped her hands together.

Emma De Mowbray, the only daughter of the most powerful and warlike of

the northern earls, was dazzlingly fair, and her very beautiful features

were only relieved from the charge of insipidity on the first look, by

the lustre of her dark blue eyes, which were shaded by long and

beautiful eye-lashes. Her stature was scarcely above the middle size,

but so finely proportioned, that the eye of the beholder never tired

gazing on it. She was only seventeen, and had not yet been allowed to

grace a tournament, her ambitious father having determined to seclude

his northern flower till he could astonish the Court of England with her

charms, and secure for her such an advantageous settlement as would

increase his own power and resources. Thus had Emma grown up the very

child of nature and tenderness. Shut out from society of every kind, her

imagination had run riot, and her most pleasing hours, when not occupied

by devotional duties, were spent in musing over the romantic legends

which she had heard either from minstrels, or those adventurers who

ofttimes found a home in the castle of a powerful chief, and which were

circulated among the domestics till they reached the ear of their

youthful lady. These feelings had been unconsciously fostered by her

spiritual director, Father Anselm, who, of noble birth himself, had once

been a soldier, and delighted, in the long winter evenings, to recount

the prowess of his youth; and in the tale of other years, often and

often was the noble name of Douglas introduced and dwelt upon with

enthusiastic rapture, as he narrated the chief’s bravery in the Holy

Land. In short, every circumstance combined to feed and excite the

feverish exalted imagination of this untutored child. Had her mother

lived, the sensibilities of her nature had been cherished and refined,

and taught to keep within the bounds of their proper channel. As it was,

they were allowed to run riot, and almost led her to overstep the limits

of that retiring modesty which is so beautiful in the sex. No sooner,

then, had she learnt that Douglas was the captive of her haughty

brother, and perhaps doomed to a lingering or ignominious death, than

she resolved to attempt his escape, be the consequences what they would.

A wild tumultuary feeling took possession of her mind as she came to

this resolution. What would the liberated object say to her, or how look

his thanks? and, oh! if indeed he proved to be the hero of her

day-dreams, how blessed would she be to have it in her power to be his

guardian angel! The tear of delight trembled in her eye, as she turned

from the bartisan of the castle, and sought the solitude of her chamber.

It was midnight—the last stroke of the deep-toned castle bell had been

answered by the echoes from the neighbouring hills, when two shrouded

figures stood by the couch of the prisoner. The glare of a small

lantern, carried by one of them, awoke Douglas. He sprung to his feet as

lightly as if the heavy fetters he was loaded with had been of silk, and

in a stern voice told them he was ready. “Be silent and follow us,” was

the reply of one of the muffled visitors. He bowed in silence, and

prepared to leave his dungeon,—not an easy undertaking, when it is

remembered that he was so heavily ironed; but the care and ingenuity of

his conductors obviated as much as possible even this difficulty; one

came on each side, and prevented as much as possible the fetters from

clashing on each other. In this manner they hurried him on through a

long subterraneous passage, then crossed some courts which seemed

overgrown with weeds, and then entered a chapel, where Douglas could

perceive a noble tomb surrounded by burning tapers. “You must allow

yourself to be blindfolded,” said one of them in a sweet, musical, but

suppressed voice; he did so, and no sooner was the bandage made fast,

than he heard the snap as of a spring, and was immediately led forward.

In a few minutes more he felt he had left the rough stones of the

church, and its chill sepulchral air, for a matted floor and a warmer

atmosphere; the bandage dropped from his eyes, and he found himself in a

small square room, comfortably furnished, with a fire blazing in the

chimney; a second look convinced him he was in the private room of an

ecclesiastic, and that he was alone.

It need not be told the sagacious reader that this escape was the work

of Lady Emma, aided by Father Anselm, and Ralph Teesdale, who was her

foster-brother, and therefore bound to serve her almost at the risk of

his life—so very strong were such ties then considered. No sooner did

Douglas learn from the venerable ecclesiastic to whom he owed his life

and liberty, than he pleaded for an interview with all the warmth of

gratitude which such a boon could inspire.

Recruited by a night of comfortable repose, and refreshed by wholesome

food, our youthful warrior looked more like those of his name than when

stretched on the floor of the dungeon. It was the evening of the second

day after his liberation, while Douglas was listening to his kind and

venerable host’s account of the daring deeds by which his ancestor, the

good Lord James, had been distinguished, when the door opened, and Lady

Emma and her attendant entered. Instantly sinking on one knee, Sir John

poured forth his thanks in language so courtly, so refined, yet so

earnest and heartfelt, that Lady Emma’s heart beat tumultuously, and her

eyes became suffused with tears.

“Suffer me,” continued Douglas, “to behold the features of her who has

indeed been a guardian angel to the descendant of that house who never

forgave an injury, nor ever, while breath animated them, forgot a

favour.”

Lady Emma slowly raised her veil, and the eyes of the youthful pair met,

and dwelt on each other with mutual admiration. Again the knight knelt,

and, pressing her hand to his lips, vowed that he would ever approve

himself her faithful and devoted champion. The conversation then took a

less agitating turn, and, in another hour, Lady Emma took her leave of

the good father and his interesting companion, in whose favour she could

not conceal that she was already inspired with the most fervent

feelings. Nor did she chide Edith, who, while she braided the beautiful

locks of her mistress, expatiated on the fine form and manly features of

Douglas, and rejoiced in his escape.

It was now time for Sir John to make some inquiries of Father Anselm

about the state of the country, and if the Scotch had beat back their

assailants in the attack made upon them, and learned, to his pleasure

and surprise, that the enemy were then too much divided among themselves

to think of making reprisals, the whole force of the kingdom being then

gathered together to decide the claims of York and Lancaster to the

crown of England; that Earl Mowbray and his son, adherents of the queen,

were then lying at York with their retainers, ready to close in battle

with the adverse party. It might be supposed that this intelligence

would inspire the captive with the wish to complete his escape, and

return to Scotland. But no. A secret influence—a sort of charm—bound him

to the spot; he was fascinated; he had no power to fly, even if the

massy gates of the castle had unfolded themselves before him.

Bred up in the camp, Douglas was unused to the small sweet courtesies of

life; his hours, when in his paternal towers of Drumlanrig, were chiefly

spent in the chase, or in warlike exercises with his brothers, and the

vassals of their house. His mother, a lady of noble birth, descended

from the bold Seatons, encouraged such feelings, and kept up that state

in her castle and retinue which befitted her high rank. His sister

Bertha was a mere child, whom he used to fondle and caress in his

moments of relaxation. But now a new world broke upon his astonished

senses. He had seen a young, a beautiful lady, to whom he owed life and

liberty, who, unsought, had generously come forward to his relief. Of

the female character he knew nothing; if he did think of them, it was

either invested with the matronly air of his mother, or the playful

fondness of his sister. His emotions were new and delightful, and he

longed to tell his fair deliverer all he felt; and he did tell her,

and—she listened.

But why prolong the tale? Interview succeeded interview, till even

Father Anselm became aware of their growing attachment. Alas! the good

priest saw his error too late; and although, even then, he attempted to

reason with both on the consequences of their passion, yet his arguments

made no impression.

“You will turn war into peace,” whispered Lady Emma, as she listened to

her spiritual director, “by healing the feud between the families.”

“And you will, by uniting us,” boldly exclaimed the youthful lover,

“give to the Mowbrays a friend who will never fail in council or in

field.”

Overcome by these and similar arguments, the tender-hearted Anselm at

last consented to join their hands. At the solemn hour of midnight, when

the menials and retainers were bound in sleep, an agitated yet happy

group stood by the altar of the castle chapel. There might be seen the

noble form of Douglas, with a rich mantle wrapped round him, and the

fair and beautiful figure of his bride, as she blushingly left the arm

of her attendant to bestow her hand where her heart was already given.

The light of the sacred tapers fell full upon the reverend form of

Father Anselm, and the chapel reverberated the solemn words he uttered

as he invoked Heaven to bless their union. The athletic figure of Ralph

Teesdale was seen near the door to guard against surprise.

CHAPTER II.

Nothing occurred for some time to mar the harmony and peace of the

married lovers. At length their tranquillity was broken by accounts of

the fatal and bloody battle of Towton, which gave a death-blow to the

interests of the Lancastrians. This news spread consternation among the

small party at Holme Cultrum. The question was, whether to remain and

boldly confront the Mowbrays, or fly towards Scotland and endeavour to

reach Drumlanrig; but the distracted state of the country forbade this

plan, and the arrival of some fugitives from the field of battle having

brought the intelligence that both Earl Mowbray and his son were

unwounded, and had fled to France, determined the party to remain where

they were. This, however, they soon repented of, when they understood

that a large body of Yorkists were in full march northwards to demolish

all the castles held by the insurgent noblemen. This trumpet-note roused

the warlike spirit of Douglas. He boldly showed himself to the soldiers,

and swore to defend the castle to the last, or be buried in its ruins,

if they would stand by him. But the men-at-arms, either unwilling to

fight under a stranger, or panicstruck at their late defeat, coldly met

this proposal; and while Father Anselm and Douglas were examining the

outward works, they made their escape by a postern, leaving only two or

three infirm old men, besides the menials, to resist the conquering

army. Sir John, undaunted by the dastardly behaviour of the men, still

continued his preparations, and inspired such courage into the hearts of

his little garrison, that they vowed to stand by him to the last. But

these preparations proved needless: Edward, either allured by the

prospect of greater booty in some richer castle, or afraid of harassing

his troops, turned aside into the midland counties, and left the

bold-hearted Douglas to the enjoyment of his wife’s society.

Months of unalloyed felicity were theirs; and while England was torn by

civil dissensions,—when the father pursued the son, and the son the

father, and the most sacred bonds of nature were rent asunder at the

shrine of party, and while the unburied dead gave the fields of merry

England the appearance of a charnel-house,—all was peace, love, and joy

within the walls of Holme Cultrum. Seated in the lofty halls of her

fathers, Lady Emma appeared the personification of content; hers was

indeed that felicity she had not dared to hope for even in her wildest

daydreams. It was indeed a lovely sight to behold her leaning on the arm

of her noble husband, listening to his details of well-fought fields;

her eye now sparkling with hope, and her cheek now blanched with terror,

as they paced in the twilight the ample battlements of the castle: it

was like the ivy clinging and clasping round the stately oak. If at such

moments Douglas wearied of the monotony of existence, and half-wished he

was once more in the front of battle, he had only to look in the soft

blue eye of his Emma, press her to his heart, and everything else was

forgot.

Summer had passed away, and the fields wore the golden livery of autumn.

It was on a beautiful evening, while Douglas, Lady Emma, and Father

Anselm, were enjoying the soothing breeze, when Ralph Teesdale rushed

before them, his face pale and his trembling accents proclaiming his

terror.

“Fly, my lord!” addressing Douglas; “fly, for you are betrayed; the earl

is come, at the head of a band of mercenaries, and vows to have your

head stuck on the battlements before tomorrow’s sun rise.”

“I will not fly,” said Douglas; “boldly will I confront the earl, and

claim my wife.”

“My father is good, is kind; he will yield to the prayers and tears of

his Emma.”

“Alas, alas! my dearest and honoured lady,” rejoined her foster-brother,

“your noble father is no more, and ’tis your brother who now seeks the

life of Douglas.”

The first part of the sentence was only heard by Lady Emma, who fell

senseless into the arms of her husband, and was immediately conveyed to

her chamber by her ever-ready attendant. A hasty council was then held

between Father Anselm and Douglas.

“You had better take the advice of that faithful fellow, and give way.

You know,” continued the priest, “the dreadful temper and baleful

passions of Richard de Mowbray. Not only your own life, but that of your

wife, may fall a sacrifice to his fury, were he to find you. I am well

aware that he has long considered his sister as an encumbrance on his

succession, and will either cause her to be shut up in a convent, or

secretly destroyed.”

Douglas shuddered at the picture, and asked the holy father what he

should do.

“Retreat to my secret chamber, in the first instance; it were madness,

and worse, to attempt to exclude the Earl de Mowbray from his castle,

even if we had sufficient strength within, which you know we have not. I

shall cause Lady Emma to be conveyed there also when she recovers; we

must resolve on some scheme instantly; the secret of the spring is

unknown to all but your faithful friends.”

Sir John at length complied, and was shortly afterwards joined in his

retreat by Lady Emma and Edith. Flight—instant flight—was resolved on;

and the timid and gentle Emma, who had hardly ever ventured beyond the

walls of the castle, declared she was ready to dare everything rather

than be torn from her husband, or be the means of his being consigned to

endless captivity, or, it might be, a cruel and lingering death. Father

Anselm set off again in search of Ralph, and soon returned with the

joyful intelligence that De Mowbray was still at a castle a few miles

distant; that those of his followers who had already arrived were then

carousing deeply; and as soon as the first watch was set, a pair of

fleet horses would be waiting at the small postern, to which Douglas and

his lady could steal unobserved, wrapt in horsemen’s cloaks. The short

interval which intervened was spent by Edith in making such preparations

as were required for the travellers, and by the churchman in fervent

petitions to Heaven for their safety. At length the expected signal was

given from the chapel, and the agitated party stood at the low postern,

where Ralph waited with the horses. It was some moments before the lady

could disengage herself from the arms of her weeping attendant; but the

father hurried them away, and soon their figures were lost in the gloom,

and their horses’ tread became faint in the distance.

Well it was for the fugitives that their plans had been so quickly

executed, for ere midnight the trumpets of De Mowbray sounded before the

castle gate. There all was uproar and confusion. The means of

refreshment had been given with unsparing hand, and the wild spirits of

the mercenaries whom he commanded were then in a state bordering on

stupefaction from their lengthened debauch. The few who accompanied him

were not much better, and he himself had all his evil passions inflamed

by the wine he had quaffed with the Lord of Barnard Castle. Hastily

throwing himself from his reeking charger, he entered his castle sword

in hand, and ordered his sister to be brought before him, and the castle

to be searched, from turret to foundation stone, for the presumptuous

Douglas. Pale, trembling, and in tears, Edith threw herself at his feet.

“O, my good lord, my lady, my dear lady is ill, very ill, ever since she

heard of the death of her honoured father. To-morrow she will endeavour

to see you.”

“Off, woman!” he exclaimed. “This night I must and shall see my sister,

dead or alive,” and he arose with fury in his looks.

But Wolfstone, his lieutenant, a brave young man, stepped before him,

and, drawing his sword, exclaimed—

“You must pass over my dead body ere you break in upon the sacred

sorrows of Lady Emma.”

There was something in the brave bearing of the gallant foreigner which

even De Mowbray respected, for he lowered his voice, and stealing his

hand from his dagger, said—

“And where is Father Anselm, that he comes not to welcome me to the

halls of my fathers?”

“He is gone,” returned Edith, “to the neighbouring monastery, to say a

mass for the honoured dead,” and she devoutly crossed herself, turning

her tearful eye on Wolfstone, who, with the most respectful tone, added—

“Go, faithful maiden! say to your lady that Conrad Wolfstone guards her

chamber till her pleasure is known.”

“Now lead in our prisoner there;” but a dozen of voices exclaimed

against further duty that night.

“He sleeps sound in his dungeon,” said De Mowbray’s squire; “and

tomorrow you may make him sleep sounder, if you will. A cup of wine

would be more to the purpose, methinks, after our long and toilsome

march.”

A hundred voices joined in the request. The wine was brought, and the

tyrant soon forgot his projects of vengeance in a prolonged debauch. He

slept too—that unnatural monster slept—and dreamt of his victims, and

the sweet revenge that was awaiting him. It was owing to the presence of

mind of Ralph that the flight of Douglas was not discovered. He had the

address to persuade the half-inebriated soldiers that the prisoner was

actually securely fettered in the dungeon which he had all along

occupied. No sooner did he see them engaged in the new carousal than he

hastened to join Edith in the secret chamber, where they united with

Father Anselm in his devotions, and prayed for blessings on the head of

their noble lord and lady.

Meanwhile the fugitives had reached Scotland, and were now leisurely

pursuing their way, thinking themselves far beyond the reach of pursuit.

On their first crossing the border, a shepherd’s hut afforded the

agitated Lady Emma an hour’s repose and a draught of milk. The morning

air revived her spirits, and once more she smiled sweetly as her husband

bade her welcome to his native soil. From the fear of pursuit, they

durst not take the most direct road to Drumlanrig, but continued to

follow the narrow tracks among the hills, known only to huntsmen and

shepherds.

It was now evening; the sun was sinking among a lofty range of

mountains, tinging their heathy summits with a purple hue, as his broad

disc seemed to touch their tops. The travellers were entering a narrow

defile, at the end of which a small but beautiful mountain lake or loch

burst upon their sight; its waters lay delightfully still and placid,

reflecting aslant a few alder bushes which grew on its banks, while the

canna, or wild cotton grass, reared its white head here and there among

the bushes of wild thyme which sent their perfume far on the air. The

wild and melancholy note of the curlew, as she was roused from her nest

by the travellers, or the occasional bleat of a lamb, was all that broke

the universal stillness.

“Ah, my love,” said Lady Emma, riding up close to her husband, “what a

scene of peace and tranquillity! Why could we not live here, far from

courts and camps, from battle and bloodshed? But,” she continued,

looking fondly and fixedly at her husband, “this displeases you,—think

of it only as a fond dream, and pardon me.”

“True, my Emma,” returned Douglas, “these are but fond dreams; the state

of our poor country commands every man to do his duty, and how could the

followers of the Bloody Heart sheath their swords, and live like

bondsmen? Never—never! But let us ride on now; the smoke from yonder

cabin on the brow of the hill promises shelter for the night, and, ere

to-morrow’s sun go down, you shall be welcomed as the daughter of one of

the noblest dames of Scotland. Ride on—the night wears apace.”

Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when the quick tramp of a steed

behind caused him to turn round. It was Mowbray, his eyes glaring with

fury, and his frame trembling with rage and excitement.

“Turn, traitor! coward! robber! turn, and meet your just punishment!”

“Coward was never heard by a Douglas unrevenged,” was the haughty answer

to this defiance, as he wheeled round to meet the challenger, at the

same time waving to Lady Emma to ride on; but she became paralysed with

fear and surprise, and sat on her palfrey motionless. Both drew their

swords, and the combat began. It was furious but short: Douglas unhorsed

his antagonist, and then, leaping from his own steed, went to assist in

raising him, unwilling farther to harm the brother of his wife. But oh,

the treachery and cruelty of the wicked! No sooner did the

tender-hearted Douglas kneel down beside him to ascertain the nature of

his wounds, than Mowbray drew his secret dagger, and stabbed him to the

heart.

The moon rose pale and cold on the waters of this inland lake, and

showed distinctly the body of a female lying near its shore, while a

dark heap, resembling men asleep, was seen at a little distance on a

rising ground,—the mournful howl of a large dog only broke the

death-like stillness. Soon, however, a horseman was seen descending the

pass; he was directed by the dog to the female, who still lay as if life

indeed had fled. He sprung from his horse, and brought water from the

lake, which he sprinkled on her face and hands. Long his efforts were

unavailing, but at last the pulse of life began once more to beat, the

eye opened, and she wildly exclaimed—

“O do not kill him!”

“He is safe for me, lady,” said the well-known voice of Ralph Teesdale.

“Thou here, my trusty friend!” murmured Lady Emma; “bear me to Douglas,

and all may yet be well.”

She could utter no more; insensibility again seized her, and Ralph,

lifting her up, bore her in his arms to what he supposed to be a

shepherd’s cottage, but found it only a deserted summer sheiling. He was

almost distracted, and, laying down his precious burden, wrapped in his

horseman’s cloak, he ran out again in search of assistance, though

hardly hoping to find it in such a wild district, still closely followed

by the dog, which continued at intervals the same dismal howl which had

attracted the notice of Ralph as they ascended the hill. The sad note of

the hound was answered by a loud barking, and never fell sounds more

welcome on the ear of the faithful vassal. He followed the sounds, and

they led him to a hut tenanted by a shepherd and his wife. His tale was

soon told. They hastened with him to the deserted sheiling, where they

found the object of their solicitude in a situation to demand instant

and female assistance. There, amid the wilds of Scotland, in a

comfortless cabin, the heir of the warlike and noble Sir John Douglas

first saw the light. Long ere perfect consciousness returned, Lady Emma

was removed to the more comfortable home of the shepherd, and there his

wife paid her every possible attention.

The care of Ralph consigned the remains of the rival chiefs to one

grave. It was supposed that De Mowbray had expired soon after giving

Douglas the fatal stroke, as his fingers still firmly grasped the hilt

of his dagger. Their horses and accoutrements were disposed of by the

shepherd, and thus furnished a fund for the maintenance of the noble

lady, who was so strangely cast upon their care. Many weeks elapsed ere

she was aware she had neither husband nor brother.

Time, which calms or extinguishes every passion of the human heart, had

exerted its healing influence over the mind of Lady Emma. She sat

watching the gambols of her son on the banks of the peaceful lake, whose

waters had first recalled her to life on the disastrous evening of his

birth. There was even a smile on her pale thin lip, as he tottered to

her knee, and laid there a handful of yellow wildflowers. She clasped

the blooming boy to her heart, murmuring, “My Douglas!” On her first

awakening to a full sense of her loss and forlorn condition, it was only

by presenting her son to her that she could be persuaded to live; and

when her strength returned, she determined to go to Drumlanrig, and

claim protection for herself and child. But the prudence of Ralph

suggested the propriety of his first going to ascertain the state of the

family; and recommending his lady to the care of Gilbert Scott and his

kind-hearted wife, he set out on his embassy. But sad was his welcome:

the noble pile was a heap of blackened and smoking ruins, and the lady

fled no one knew whither. Sad and sorrowful he returned to the mountain

retreat, and was surprised at the calmness with which his honoured

mistress heard his tale. Alas! he knew not that the pang she had already

suffered made every other loss appear trivial!

The lonely sheiling was repaired and furnished. Here Lady Emma, in

placid content, nursed her child, attended by her faithful

foster-brother, who made occasional excursions to the neighbouring town

to supply her with any necessary she required. On an occasion of this

kind, when the lovely boy was nearly two years old, she sat at the door

of her humble dwelling, listening to his sweet prattle. It was the first

time he had attempted to say the most endearing of all words. She forgot

her sorrows, and was almost happy. Her attention was soon called to some

domestic concern within the cottage. The boy was on his accustomed seat

at the door, when a shrill and piercing scream caused her to run out.

Need her anguish and despair be painted, when she saw her lovely boy

borne aloft in the air in the talons of an eagle? To run, to scream, to

shout, was the first movement of the frenzied mother; but vain had been

her efforts, had she not been almost immediately joined by some of her

neighbours, whose united efforts made the fatigued bird quit its prey

and drop it into the loch. Many a willing heart, many an active hand,

was ready to save the boy. He was delivered to his mother, but, alas!

only as a drenched and nerveless corse. Human nature could endure no

more. Her brain reeled, and reason fled for ever. Her faithful and

attached follower returned to find his lady a wandering maniac. Year

after year did he follow her footsteps, nor, till death put a period to

her sufferings, did his care slacken for one instant. After he had seen

her laid by her husband and brother, he bade adieu to the simple

inhabitants, and it is supposed he fell in some of the border raids of

the period, as he was never more heard of.

Reader, this tale is no idle fiction. On the borders of Alemoor Loch, in

Selkirkshire, may still be seen a small clump of moss-grown trees, among

which were one or two of the crab-apple kind, which showed that here the

hand of cultivation had once been. Within this enclosure was a small

green mound, to which tradition, in reference to the above story, gave

the name of the Lady’s Seat; and about half a mile to the south-west of

the lonely loch is an oblong bench, with a rising ground above, still

called the Chieftain’s Grave.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal._

TIBBY FOWLER.

BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

Tibby Fowler o’ the glen,

A’ the lads are wooin’ at her.—_Old Song._

All our readers have heard and sung of “Tibby Fowler o’ the glen;” but

they may not all be aware that the glen referred to lies within about

four miles of Berwick. No one has seen and not admired the romantic

amphitheatre below Edrington Castle, through which the Whitadder coils

like a beautiful serpent glittering in the sun, and sports in fantastic

curves beneath the pasture-clad hills, the gray ruin, the mossy and

precipitous crag, and the pyramid of woods, whose branches, meeting from

either side, bend down and kiss the glittering river, till its waters

seem lost in their leafy bosom. Now, gentle reader, if you have looked

upon the scene we have described, we shall make plain to you the

situation of Tibby Fowler’s cottage, by a homely map, which is generally

_at hand_. You have only to bend your arm, and suppose your shoulder to

represent Edrington Castle, your hand Clarabad, and near the elbow you

will have the spot where “ten cam rowing ower the water;” a little

nearer to Clarabad is the “lang dyke side,” and immediately at the foot

of it is the site of Tibby’s cottage, which stood upon the Edrington

side of the river; and a little to the west of the cottage, you will

find a shadowy row of palm-trees, planted, as tradition testifieth, by

the hands of Tibby’s father, old Ned Fowler, of whom many speak until

this day. The locality of the song was known to many; and if any should

be inclined to inquire how we became acquainted with the other

particulars of our story, we have only to reply, that that belongs to a

class of questions to which we do not return an answer. There is no

necessity for a writer of tales taking for his motto—_vitam impendere

vero_. Tibby’s parents had the character of being “bien bodies;” and,

together with their own savings, and a legacy that had been left them by

a relative, they were enabled at their death to leave their daughter in

possession of five hundred pounds. This was esteemed a fortune in those

days, and would afford a very respectable foundation for the rearing of

one yet. Tibby, however, was left an orphan, as well as the sole

mistress of five hundred pounds, and the proprietor of a neat and

well-furnished cottage, with a piece of land adjoining, before she had

completed her nineteenth year; and when we add that she had hair like

the raven’s wings when the sun glances upon them, cheeks where the lily

and the rose seemed to have lent their most delicate hues, and eyes like

twin dew-drops glistening beneath a summer moonbeam, with a waist and an

arm rounded like a model for a sculptor, it is not to be wondered at

that “a’ the lads cam wooin’ at her.” But she had a woman’s heart as

well as woman’s beauty and the portion of an heiress. She found her

cottage surrounded, and her path beset, by a herd of grovelling

pounds-shillings-and-pence hunters, whom her very soul loathed. The

sneaking wretches, who profaned the name of lovers, seemed to have

_money_ written on their very eyeballs, and the sighs they professed to

heave in her presence sounded to her like stifled groans of—_Your

gold—your gold!_ She did not hate them, but she despised their meanness;

and as they one by one gave up persecuting her with their addresses,

they consoled themselves with retorting upon her the words of the adage,

that “her _pride_ would have a fall!” But it was not from pride that she

rejected them, but because her heart was capable of love—of love, pure,

devoted, unchangeable, springing from being beloved, and because her

feelings were sensitive as the quivering aspen, which trembles at the

rustling of an insect’s wing. Amongst her suitors there might have been

some who were disinterested; but the meanness and sordid objects of many

caused her to regard all with suspicion, and there was none among the

number to whose voice her bosom responded as the needle turns to the

magnet, and frequently from a cause as inexplicable. She had resolved

that the man to whom she gave her hand should wed her for herself—and

for herself only. Her parents had died in the same month; and about a

year after their death she sold the cottage and the piece of ground, and

took her journey towards Edinburgh, where the report of her being a

“great fortune,” as her neighbours termed her, might be unknown. But

Tibby, although a sensitive girl, was also, in many respects, a prudent

one. Frequently she had heard her mother, when she had to take but a

shilling from the legacy, quote the proverb, that it was

Like a cow in a clout,

That soon wears out.

Proverbs we know are in bad taste, but we quote it, because by its

repetition the mother produced a deeper impression on her daughter’s

mind than could have been effected by a volume of sentiment. Bearing

therefore in her memory the maxim of her frugal parent, Tibby deposited

her money in the only bank, we believe, that was at that period in the

Scottish capital, and hired herself as a child’s maid in the family of a

gentleman who occupied a house in the neighbourhood of Restalrig. Here

the story of her fortune was unknown, and Tibby was distinguished only

for a kind heart and a lovely countenance. It was during the summer

months, and Leith Links became her daily resort; and there she was wont

to walk, with a child in her arms and leading another by the hand, for

there she could wander by the side of the sounding sea; and her heart

still glowed for her father’s cottage and its fairy glen, where she had

often heard the voice of its deep waters, and she felt the sensation

which we believe may have been experienced by many who have been born

within hearing of old ocean’s roar, that wherever they may be, they hear

the murmur of its billows as the voice of a youthful friend; and she

almost fancied, as she approached the sea, that she drew nearer the home

which sheltered her infancy. She had been but a few weeks in the family

we have alluded to, when, returning from her accustomed walk, her eyes

met those of a young man habited as a seaman. He appeared to be about

five-and-twenty, and his features were rather manly than handsome. There

was a dash of boldness and confidence in his countenance; but as the

eyes of the maiden met his, he turned aside as if abashed, and passed

on. Tibby blushed at her foolishness, but she could not help it; she

felt interested in the stranger. There was an expression, a language, an

inquiry in his gaze, she had never witnessed before. She would have

turned round to cast a look after him, but she blushed deeper at the

thought, and modesty forbade it. She walked on for a few minutes,

upbraiding herself for entertaining the silly wish, when the child who

walked by her side fell a few yards behind. She turned round to call him

by his name. Tibby was certain that she had no motive but to call the

child, and though she did steal a sidelong glance towards the spot where

she had passed the stranger, it was a mere accident; it could not be

avoided—at least so the maiden wished to persuade her conscience against

her conviction; but that glance revealed to her the young sailor, not

pursuing the path on which she had met him, but following her within the

distance of a few yards, and until she reached her master’s door she

heard the sound of his footsteps behind her. She experienced an emotion

between being pleased and offended at his conduct, though we suspect the

former eventually predominated; for the next day she was upon the Links

as usual, and there also was the young seaman, and again he followed her

to within sight of her master’s house. How long this sort of dumb

love-making, or the pleasures of diffidence, continued, we cannot tell.

Certain it is that at length he spoke, wooed, and conquered; and about a

twelvemonth after their first meeting, Tibby Fowler became the wife of

William Gordon, the mate of a foreign trader. On the second week after

their marriage, William was to sail upon a long, long voyage, and might

not be expected to return for more than twelve months. This was a severe

trial for poor Tibby, and she felt as if she would not be able to stand

up against it. As yet her husband knew nothing of her dowry, and for

this hour she had reserved its discovery. A few days before their

marriage she had drawn her money from the bank and deposited it in her

chest.

“No, Willie, my ain Willie,” she cried, “ye maunna, ye winna leave me

already: I have neither faither, mother, brother, nor kindred; naebody

but you, Willie; only you in the wide world; and I am a stranger here,

and ye winna leave your Tibby. Say that ye winna, Willie?” And she wrung

his hand, gazed in his face, and wept.

“I maun gang, dearest; I maun gang,” said Willie, and pressed her to his

breast; “but the thocht o’ my ain wifie will mak the months chase ane

anither like the moon driving shadows ower the sea. There’s nae danger

in the voyage, hinny; no a grain o’ danger; sae dinna greet; but come,

kiss me, Tibby, and when I come hame I’ll mak ye leddy o’ them a’.”

“Oh no, no, Willie!” she replied; “I want to be nae leddy; I want

naething but my Willie. Only say that ye’ll no gang, and here’s

something here, something for ye to look at.” And she hurried to her

chest, and took from it a large leathern pocket-book that had been her

father’s, and which contained her treasure, now amounting to somewhat

more than six hundred pounds. In a moment she returned to her husband;

she threw her arms around his neck; she thrust the pocket-book into his

bosom. “There, Willie, there!” she exclaimed; “that is yours—my faither

placed it in my hand wi’ a blessing, and wi’ the same blessing I

transfer it to you; but dinna, dinna leave me.” Thus saying, she hurried

out of the room. We will not attempt to describe the astonishment, we

may say the joy, of the fond husband, on opening the pocket-book and

finding the unlooked-for dowry. However intensely a man may love a

woman, there is little chance that her putting an unexpected portion of

six hundred pounds into his hands will diminish his attachment; nor did

it diminish that of William Gordon. He relinquished his intention of

proceeding on the foreign voyage, and purchased a small coasting vessel,

of which he was both owner and commander. Five years of unclouded

prosperity passed over them, and Tibby had become the mother of three

fair children. William sold his small vessel, and purchased a larger

one, and in fitting it up all the gains of his five successful years

were swallowed up. But trade was good. She was a beautiful brig, and he

had her called the _Tibby Fowler_. He now took a fond farewell of his

wife and little ones upon a foreign voyage which was not calculated to

exceed four months, and which held out high promise of advantage. But

four, eight, twelve months passed away, and there was no tidings of the

_Tibby Fowler_. Britain was then at war; there were enemies’ ships and

pirates upon the sea, and there had been fierce storms and hurricanes

since her husband left; and Tibby thought of all these things and wept;

and her lisping children asked her when their father would return, for

he had promised presents to all, and she answered, to-morrow, and

to-morrow, and turned from them, and wept again. She began to be in

want, and at first she received assistance from some of the friends of

their prosperity; but all hope of her husband’s return was now

abandoned. The ship was not insured, and the mother and her family were

reduced to beggary. In order to support them, she sold one article of

furniture after another, until what remained was seized by the landlord

in security for his rent. It was then that Tibby and her children, with

scarce a blanket to cover them, were cast friendless upon the streets,

to die or to beg. To the last resource she could not yet stoop, and from

the remnants of former friendship she was furnished with a basket and a

few trifling wares, with which, with her children by her side, she set

out, with a broken and sorrowful heart, wandering from village to

village. She had journeyed in this manner for some months, when she drew

near her native glen, and the cottage that had been her father’s—that

had been her own—stood before her. She had travelled all the day and

sold nothing. Her children were pulling by her tattered gown, weeping

and crying, “Bread, mother, give us bread!” and her own heart was sick

with hunger.

“Oh, wheesht, my darlings, wheesht!” she exclaimed, and she fell upon

her knees, and threw her arms round the necks of all the three, “You

will get bread soon; the Almighty will not permit my bairns to perish;

no, no, ye shall have bread.”

In despair she hurried to the cottage of her birth. The door was opened

by one who had been a rejected suitor. He gazed upon her intently for a

few seconds; and she was still young, being scarce more than

six-and-twenty, and in the midst of her wretchedness yet lovely.

“Gude gracious, Tibby Fowler!” he exclaimed, “is that you? Poor

creature! are ye seeking charity? Weel, I think ye’ll mind what I said

to you now, that your pride would have a fa’!”

While the heartless owner of the cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her

was heard exclaiming, “It is her! it is her! my ain Tibby and her

bairns!”

At the well-known voice, Tibby uttered a wild scream of joy, and fell

senseless on the earth; but the next moment her husband, William Gordon,

raised her to his breast. Three weeks before, he had returned to

Britain, and traced her from village to village, till he found her in

the midst of their children, on the threshold of the place of her

nativity. His story we need not here tell. He had fallen into the hands

of the enemy; he had been retained for months on board of their vessel;

and when a storm had arisen, and hope was gone, he had saved her from

being lost and her crew from perishing. In reward for his services, his

own vessel had been restored to him, and he was returned to his country,

after an absence of eighteen months, richer than when he left, and laden

with honours. The rest is soon told. After Tibby and her husband had

wept upon each other’s neck, and he had kissed his children, and again

their mother, with his youngest child on one arm, and his wife resting

on the other, he hastened from the spot that had been the scene of such

bitterness and transport. In a few years more, William Gordon having

obtained a competency, they re-purchased the cottage in the glen, where

Tibby Fowler lived to see her children’s children, and died at a good

old age in the house in which she had been born—the remains of which, we

have only to add, for the edification of the curious, may be seen until

this day.

DANIEL CATHIE, TOBACCONIST.

Daniel Cathie was a reputable dealer in snuff, tobacco, and candles, in

a considerable market town in Scotland. His shop had, externally,

something neat and enticing about it. In the centre of one window glowed

a transparency of a ferocious-looking Celt, bonneted, plaided, and

kilted, with his unsheathed claymore in one hand, and his ram’s-horn

mull in the other; intended, no doubt, to emblem to the spectator, that

from thence he recruited his animal spirits, drawing courage from the

titillation of every pinch. Around him were tastefully distributed jars

of different dimensions, bearing each the appropriate title of the

various compounds within, from Maccuba and Lundy Foot down to Beggar’s

Brown and Irish Blackguard. In the other, one half was allotted to

tobacco pipes of all dimensions, tastefully arranged, so as to form a

variety of figures, such as crosses, triangles, and squares; decorated

at intervals with rolls of twist, serpentinings of pigtail, and

monticuli of shag. The upper half displayed candles, distributed with

equal exhibition of taste, from the prime four in the pound down to the

halfpenny dip; some of a snowy whiteness, and others of an aged and

delicate yellow tinge; enticing to the eyes of experienced housewives

and spectacled cognoscenti. Over the door rode a swarthy son of Congo,

with broad nostrils, and eyes whose whites were fearfully

dilated,—astride on a tobacco hogshead,—his woolly head bound with a

coronal of feathers, a quiver peeping over his shoulder, and a pipe in

his cheeks blown up for the eternity of his wooden existence, in the

ecstasy of inhalation.

Daniel himself, the autocrat of this domicile, was a little squat

fellow, five feet and upwards, of a rosy complexion, with broad

shoulders, and no inconsiderable rotundity of paunch. His eye was quick

and sparkling, with something of an archness in its twinkle, as if he

loved a joke occasionally, and could wink at any one who presumed so far

in tampering with his shrewdness. His forehead was bald, as well as no

small portion of either temple; and the black curls, which projected

above his ears, gave to his face the appearance of more than its actual

breadth, which was scantily relieved by a slight blue spotted

handkerchief, loosely tied around a rather apoplectic neck.

His dress was commonly a bottle-green jacket, single-breasted, and

square in the tails; a striped cotton waistcoat; velveteen breeches, and

light blue ridge-and-furrow worsted stockings. A watch-chain, of a broad

steel pattern, hung glittering before him, at which depended a small

gold seal, a white almond-shaped shell, and a perforated Queen Anne’s

sixpence. Over all this lower display, suppose that you fasten a clean,

glossy linen apron, and you have his entire portrait and appearance.

From very small beginnings he had risen, by careful industry, to a

respectable place in society, and was now the landlord of the property

he had for many years only rented.

Matters prospered, and he got on by slow but steady paces. Business

began to extend its circle around him, and his customers became more

respectable and genteel.

In a short time Daniel opened accounts with his banker. His

establishment became more extensive; and after the lapse of a few not

unimproved years, he took his place in the first rank of the merchants

of a populous burgh.

His lengthening purse and respectable character pointed him out as a fit

candidate for city honours, and the town-council pitched upon him as an

eligible person to grace their board. This was a new field opened for

him. His reasoning powers were publicly called into play; and he had,

what he had never before been accustomed to, luxurious eating and

drinking, and both without being obliged to put his hand into his

breeches-pocket. Daniel was a happy man—

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

He now cogitated with his own mighty mind on the propriety of entering

upon the matrimonial estate, and of paying his worship to the blind god.

With the precision of a man of business, he took down in his note-book a

list of the ladies who, he thought, might be fit candidates for the

honour he intended them, the merits of the multitude being settled, in

his mind, in exact accordance with the supposed extent of their

treasures. Let not the reader mistake the term. By treasure he neither

meant worth nor beauty, but the article which can be paid down in

bullion or in bank-notes, possessing the magic properties of adding

field to field, and tenement to tenement.

One after another the pen was drawn through their names, as occasion

offered of scrutinising their means more clearly, or as lack-success

obliged him, until the candidates were reduced to a couple; to wit—Miss

Jenny Drybones, a tall spinster, lean and ill-looking, somewhat beyond

her grand climacteric; and Mrs Martha Bouncer, a brisk widow, fat, fair,

and a few years on the better side of forty.

Miss Jenny, from her remote youth upwards, had been housekeeper to her

brother, a retired wine merchant, who departed this life six years

before, without occasioning any very general lamentation; having been a

man of exceedingly strict habits of business, according to the jargon of

his friends; that is to say, in plain English, a keen, dull, plodding,

avaricious old knave.

But he was rich, that was one felicity; therefore he had friends. It is

a great pity that such people ever die, as their worth, or, in other

words, their wealth, cannot gain currency in the other world; but die he

did, in spite of twenty thousand pounds and the doctor, who was not

called in till death had a firm grip of the old miser’s windpipe,

through which respiration came scant and slow, almost like the vacant

yawns of a broken bellows.

Expectant friends were staggered, as by a thunder-stroke, when the read

will, too legal for their satisfaction, left Miss Jenny in sure and

undivided possession of goods and chattels all and sundry.

For the regular period she mourned with laudable zeal, displaying black

feathers, quilled ruffles, crape veils, and starched weepers, in great

and unwonted prodigality, which no one objected to, or cavilled about,

solely because no one had any business to do so.

It was evident that her views of life from that era assumed a new

aspect, and the polar winter of her features exhibited something like an

appearance of incipient thaw; but the downy chin, wrinkled brow, and

pinched nose, were still, alas! too visible. Accordingly, it is more

than probable that, instead of renewing her youth like the eagles, she

had only made a bold and laudable attempt to _rifacciamento_, in thus

lighting up her features with a more frequent and general succession of

smiles.

No one can deny that, in as far as regards externals, Miss Jenny mourned

lugubriously and well, not stinting the usually allotted number of

calendar months. These passed away, and so did black drapery; garments

brightening by progressive but rapid strides. Ere the twelve months

expired, Miss Jenny flaunted about in colours as gaudy as those of “the

tiger-moth’s deep damasked wings,”—the counterpart of the bird of

paradise, the rival of the rainbow.

Widow Martha Bouncer was a lady of a different stamp. Her features still

glowed in the freshness of youthful beauty, though the symmetry of her

person was a little destroyed by a tendency to corpulency. She dressed

well; and there was a liveliness and activity about her motions,

together with an archness in her smile, which captivated the affections

of the tobacconist, rather more than was compatible with his known and

undisguised hankering after the so-called good things of this life, the

flesh-pots of Egypt.

Mrs Bouncer was the widow of a captain in a marching regiment;

consequently she had seen a good deal of the world, and had a budget of

adventures ever open for the admiration of the listening customer.

Sometimes it might even be objected, that her tongue went a little too

glibly; but she had a pretty face and a musical voice, and seldom failed

in being attended to.

The captain did not, as his profession might lead us to surmise, decamp

to the other world, after having swallowed a bullet, and dropped the

death-dealing blade from his blood-besmeared hand on the field of

battle, but quietly in his bed, with three pairs of excellent blankets

over him, not reckoning a curiously quilted counterpane. Long

anticipation lessens the shock of fate; consequently the grief of his

widow was not of that violent and overwhelming kind which a more

sharply-wound-up catastrophe is apt to occasion; but, having noticed the

slow but gradual approaches of the grim tyrant, in the symptoms of

swelled ankles, shrivelled features, troublesome cough, and excessive

debility, the event came upon her as an evil long foreseen; and the

sorrow occasioned by the exit of the captain was sustained with becoming

fortitude.

Having been fully as free of his sacrifices to Bacchus as to the brother

of Bellona, the captain left his mate in circumstances not the most

flourishing; but she was enabled to keep up appearances, and to preserve

herself from the gulf of debt, by an annuity bequeathed to her by her

father, and by the liberality of the widows’ fund.

Time passed on at its usual careless jog-trot; and animal spirits, being

a gift of nature, like all strong natural impulses, asserted their

legitimate sway. Mrs Martha began to smile and simper as formerly. Folks

remarked, that black suited her complexion; and Daniel Cathie could not

help giving breath to the gallant remark, as he was discharging her last

year’s account, that he never before had seen her looking half so well.

On this hint the lady wrought. Daniel was a greasy lubberly civilian to

be sure, and could not escort her about with powdered collar, laced

beaver, and glittering epaulettes; but he was a substantial fellow, not

amiss as to looks, and with regard to circumstances, possessing

everything to render a wife comfortable and snug. Elysian happiness, Mrs

Martha was too experienced a stager to expect on this side of the valley

of death. Moreover, she had been tossed about sufficiently in the world,

and was heartily tired of a wandering life. The height of her wise

ambition, therefore, reached no higher than a quiet settlement and a

comfortable domicile. She knew that the hour of trial was come, and

sedulously set herself to work, directing against Daniel the whole

artillery of her charms. She passed before his door every morning in her

walk; and sometimes stood with her pretty face directed to the shop

window, as if narrowly examining some article in it. She ogled him as he

sat in church; looking as if she felt happy at seeing him seated with

the bailies; and Daniel was never met abroad, but the lady drew off her

silken glove, and yielded a milk-white delicate hand to the tobacconist,

who took a peculiar pleasure in shaking it cordially. A subsequent

rencontre in a stage coach, where they enjoyed a delightful

_téte-à-téte_ together for some miles (_procul, ô procul esto profani_),

told with a still deeper effect; and everything seemed in a fair way of

being amicably adjusted.

Miss Jenny, undismayed by these not unmarked symptoms of ripening

intimacy, determined to pursue her own line of amatory politics, and set

her whole enginery of attack in readiness for operation. She had always

considered the shop at the cross as the surest path for her to the

temple of Bona Fortuna. Thence driven, she was lost in hopeless mazes,

and knew not where to turn.

She flaunted about, and flashed her finery in the optical observers of

Daniel, as if to say, This is a specimen,—_ex uno disce

omnes_,—thousands lie under this sample. Hope and fear swayed her heart

by turns, though the former passion was uppermost; yet she saw a snake,

in the form of Mrs Bouncer, lurking in her way; and she took every

lawful means, or such as an inamorata considers such, to scotch it.

Well might Daniel be surprised at the quantity of candles made use of in

Miss Jenny’s establishment. It puzzled his utmost calculation; for

though the whole house had been illuminated from top to bottom, and

fours to the pound had been lighted at both ends, no such quantity could

be consumed. But there she was, week after week, with her young vassal

with the yellow neck behind her, swinging a large wicker-basket over his

arm, in which were deposited, layer above layer, the various produce of

Miss Jenny’s marketing.

On Daniel, on these occasions, she showered her complaisance with the

liberality of March rains; inquiring anxiously after his health;

cautioning him to wear flannel, and beware of the rheumatics; telling

him her private news, and admiring the elegance of his articles, while

all the time her shrivelled features “grinned horrible a ghastly smile,”

which only quadrupled the “fold upon fold innumerable” of her wrinkles,

and displayed gums innocent of teeth,—generosity not being able to

elevate three rusty stumps to that honour and dignity.

There was a strong conflict in Daniel’s mind, and the poor man was

completely “bamboozled.” Ought he to let nature have its sway for once,

take to his arms the blushing and beautiful widow, and trust to the

success of his efforts for future aggrandisement? Or must strong habit

still domineer over him, and Miss Jenny’s hook, baited with twenty

thousand pounds, draw him to the shores of wedlock, “a willing captive?”

Must he leave behind him sons and daughters with small portions, and

“the world before them, where to choose;” or none—and his name die away

among the things of the past, while cousins ten times removed alike in

blood and regard, riot on his substance? The question was complicated,

and different interrogatories put to the oracle of his mind afforded

different responses. The affair was one, in every respect, so nicely

balanced, that “he wist not what to do.” Fortune long hung equal in the

balance, and might have done so much longer, had not an unforeseen

accident made the scale of the widow precipitately mount aloft, and kick

the beam.

It was about ten o’clock on the night of a blustering November day, that

a tall, red-haired, moustachioed, and raw-boned personage, wrapt up in a

military great-coat, alighted from the top of the _Telegraph_ at the

Salutation Inn, and delivered his portmanteau into the assiduous hands

of Bill the waiter. He was ushered into a comfortable room, whose

flickering blazing fire mocked the cacophony of his puckered features,

and induced him hastily to doff his envelopments, and draw in an

arm-chair to the borders of the hearthrug.

Having discussed a smoking and substantial supper, he asked Bill, who

was in the act of supplying his rummer with hot water, if a Mrs Bouncer,

an officer’s widow, resided in the neighbourhood.

“Yes,” replied Bill, “I know her well; she lives at third house round

the corner, on the second floor, turning to the door on your right

hand.”

“She is quite well, I hope?” asked the son of Mars.

“Oh! quite well, bless you; and about to take a second husband. I hear

they are to be proclaimed next week. She is making a good bargain.”

“Next week to be married!” ejaculated the gallant captain, turning up

his eyes, and starting to his legs with a hurried perplexity.

“So I believe, sir,” continued Bill very calmly. “If you have come to

the ceremony, you will find that it does not take place till then.

Depend upon it, sir, you have mistaken the date of your invitation

card.”

“Well, waiter, you may leave me,” said the captain, stroking his chin in

evident embarrassment; “but stop, who is she about to get?”

“Oh, I thought everybody knew Mr Daniel Cathie, one of the town-council,

sir; a tobacconist, and a respectable man; likely soon to come to the

provostry, sir. He is rather up in years to be sure; but he is as rich

as a Jew.”

“What do you say is his name?”

“Daniel Cathie, Esq., tobacconist, and a candlemaker near the Cross.

That is his name and designation,—a very respectable man, sir.”

“Well, order the girl to have my bed well warmed, and to put pens, ink,

and paper into the room. In the meantime, bring me the boot-jack.”

The captain kept his fiery feelings in restraint before Bill; but the

intelligence hit him like a cannon-shot. He retired almost immediately

to his bed-chamber; but a guest in the adjoining room declared in the

morning, that he had never been allowed to close his eyes, from some

person’s alternately snoring or speaking in his sleep, as if in violent

altercation with some one; and that, whenever these sounds died away,

they were only exchanged for the irregular tread of a foot measuring the

apartment, seemingly in every direction.

It was nine in the morning; and Daniel, as he was ringing a shilling on

the counter, which he had just taken for “value received,” and half

ejaculating aloud as he peered at it through his spectacles—“Not a

Birmingham, I hope”—had a card put into his hand by Jonas Bunting, the

Salutation shoeblack.

Having broken the seal, Daniel read to himself,—“A gentleman wishes to

see Mr Cathie at the Salutation Inn, on particular business, as speedily

as possible. Inquire for the gentleman in No. 7.—A quarter before nine,

A.M.”

“Some of these dunning travellers!” exclaimed Daniel to himself. “They

are continually pestering me for orders. If I had the lighting up of the

moon, I could not satisfy them all. I have a good mind not to go, for

this fellow not sending his name. It is impudence with a vengeance, and

a new way of requesting favours!” As he was muttering these thoughts

between his teeth, however, he was proceeding in the almost unconscious

act of undoing his apron, which having flung aside, he adjusted his hair

before the glass, carefully pressed his hat into shape, and drew it down

on his temples with both hands; after which, with hasty steps, he

vanished from behind the counter.

Arriving at the inn, he was ushered into No. 7 by the officious Bill,

who handed his name before him, and closed the door after him.

“This is an unpleasant business, Mr Cathie,” said the swaggering

captain, drawing himself up to his full length, and putting on a look of

important ferocity. “It is needless to waste words on the subject: there

is a brace of pistols, both are loaded,—take one, and I take the other;

choose either, sir. The room is fully eight paces,” added he, striding

across in a hurried manner, and clanking his iron heels on the carpet.

“It would, I think, be but civil,” said Daniel, evidently in

considerable mental as well as bodily agitation, “to inform me what are

your intentions, before forcing me to commit murder. Probably you have

mistaken me for some other; if not, please let me know in what you

conceive I have offended you!”

“By the powers!” said Captain Thwackeray with great vehemence, “you have

injured me materially,—nay, mortally,—and either your life, sir, or my

own, sir, shall be sacrificed to the adjustment.”

While saying this, the captain took up first the one pistol, and then

the other, beating down the contents with the ramrod, and measuring with

his finger the comparative depth to which each was loaded.

“A pretty story, certainly, to injure a gentleman in the tenderest part,

and then to beg a recital of the particulars. Have you no regard for my

feelings, sir?”

“Believe me, sir, on the word of an honest man, that as to your meaning

in this business, I am in utter darkness,” said Daniel with cool

firmness.

“To be plain, then,—to be explicit,—to come to the point, sir,—are you

not on the eve of marrying Mrs Bouncer?”

“Mrs Bouncer!” echoed the tallow-chandler, starting back, and

crimsoning. Immediately, however, commanding himself, he continued:—“As

to the truth of the case, that is another matter; but were it as you

represent it, I was unaware that I could be injuring any one in so

doing.”

“Now, sir, we have come to the point; _rem tetigisti acu_; and you speak

out plainly. Take your pistol,” bravoed the captain.

“No, no,—not so fast;—perhaps we may understand each other without being

driven to that alternative.”

“Well then, sir, abjure her this moment, and resign her to me, or one of

our lives must be sacrificed.”

While he was saying this, Daniel laid his hands on one of the pistols,

and appeared as if examining it; which motion the captain instantly took

for a signal of acquiescence, and “changed his hand, and checked his

pride.”

“I hope,” continued he, evidently much softened, “that there shall be no

need of resorting to desperate measures. In a word, the affair is

this:—I have a written promise from Mrs Bouncer, that, if ever she

married a second time, her hand was mine. It matters not with the

legality of the measure, though the proceeding took place in the

lifetime of her late husband, my friend, Captain Bouncer. It is quite an

affair of honour. I assure you, sir, she has vowed to accept of none but

me, Captain Thwackeray, as his successor. If you have paid your

addresses to her in ignorance of this, I forgive you; if not, we stand

opposed as before.”

“Oh ho! if that be the way the land lies,” replied Daniel, with a shrill

whistle, “she is yours, captain, for me, and heartily welcome. I resign

her unconditionally, as you military gentlemen phrase it. A great deal

of trouble is spared by one’s speaking out. If you had told me this,

there would have been no reason for loading the pistols. May I now wish

you a good morning! ’Od save us! but these are fearful weapons on the

table! Good morning, sir.”

“Bless your heart, no,” said Captain Thwackeray, evidently much relieved

from his distressing situation. “Oh no, sir; not before we breakfast

together;” and, so saying, before Daniel had a moment’s time for reply,

he pulled the bell violently.

“Bill, bring in breakfast for two, as expeditiously as possible—(_Exit

Bill_). I knew that no man of honour, such as I know or believe you to

be (your appearance bespeaks it), would act such a selfish part as

deprive me of my legal right; and I trust that this transaction shall

not prevent friendly intercourse between us, if I come, as my present

intention is, to take up my abode among you in this town.”

“By no means,” said Daniel; “Mrs Bouncer is yours for me; and as to

matrimonials, I am otherwise provided. There are no grounds for

contention, captain.”

Breakfast was discussed with admirable appetite by both. The contents of

the pistols were drawn, the powder carefully returned into the flask,

the two bullets into the waistcoat pocket, and the instruments of

destruction themselves deposited in a green woollen case. After

cordially shaking each other by the hand, the captain saw Mr Daniel to

the door, and made a very low _congé_, besides kissing his hand at

parting.

The captain we leave to fight his own battles, and return to our hero,

whose stoicism, notwithstanding its firmness, did not prevent him from

feeling considerably on the occasion. Towards Mrs Bouncer he had not a

Romeo-enthusiasm, but certainly a stronger attachment than he had ever

experienced for any other of her sex. Though the case was hopeless, he

did not allow himself to pine away with “a green and yellow melancholy,”

but reconciled himself to his fate with the more facility, as the

transaction between Thwackeray and her was said to have taken place

during the lifetime of her late husband, which considerably lessened her

in his estimation; having been educated a rigid Presbyterian, and

holding in great abhorrence all such illustrations of military morality.

“No, no,” thought he; “my loss is more apparent than real: the woman who

was capable of doing such a thing, would not content herself with

stopping even there. Miss Jenny Drybones is the woman for _me_—I am the

man for _her_ money.” And here a thousand selfish notions crowded on his

heart, and confirmed him in his determination, which he set about

without delay.

There was little need of delicacy in the matter; and Daniel went to work

quite in a business-like style. He commenced operations on the

offensive, offered Miss Jenny his arm, squeezed her hand, buttered her

with love-phrases, ogled her out of countenance, and haunted her like a

ghost. Refusal was in vain; and after a faint, a feeble, and sham show

of resistance, the damsel drew down her flag of defiance, and submitted

to honourable terms of capitulation.

Ten days after Miss Jenny’s surrender, their names were proclaimed in

church; and as the people stared at each other in half wonder and half

good-humour, the precentor continued, after a slight pause, “There is

also a purpose of marriage between Mrs Martha Bouncer, at present

residing in the parish, and Augustus Thwackeray, Esq., captain of the

Bengal Rangers; whoever can produce any lawful objections against the

same, he is requested to do so, time and place convenient.”