There was a fair in Perth, only a few miles distant, and Emily requested

her brother to accompany her thither, that they might have at least one

day of pleasure. Her proposal was most readily acceded to by Edward; and

they departed together. A company of military, part of the —— regiment,

were quartered in Perth, under the command of Captain Munro, who had

received orders to recruit during his stay. The fair was a good

opportunity for that purpose, and the Captain, with his troop, paraded

the streets in their best array. From a window in the inn where they

were dining, Edward and his sister saw them pass along the street. Emily

had never known what it was to love; but she had a susceptible heart.

Her hour was now come, and her lively fancy was enraptured with the

fine, martial appearance of the gallant Captain. Little accustomed to

reflection, she fell in love at first sight; and unpractised in

disguising her feelings, although she did not express her thoughts to

her brother, she was at little pains to conceal the impression made on

her heart. This he soon perceived, and began to rally her on the

subject, when she frankly acknowledged that she thought the officer the

most handsome-looking man she had ever seen, expressing an anxious wish

to know his rank and name. That information was easily obtained by

Edward, in a casual conversation with the waiter, who said he was from

the same quarter with Captain Munro, who was the son and heir of a

landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, was unmarried, and a great favourite

with the ladies in town. When the couple reached home, Emily’s head and

heart both full of the handsome Captain, they had a message from her

mother, intimating that the old woman was dying, and that she could not

return till she saw the result. There was also a letter from their

father, requesting Edward to follow him into England with a supply of

cattle, as speedily as possible.

Captain Munro had occupied Emily’s sleeping and waking thoughts; and she

began to wish that an opportunity might occur for her becoming

acquainted with him. With her characteristic love of frolic, she formed

a plan which promised to facilitate her wishes; and circumstances seemed

favourable for its execution, but it required the assistance of her

brother for carrying it into effect. It was communicated to Edward; and

he, equally rash and imprudent as herself, was prevailed upon to play

his part, which was no less than to enlist himself with Captain Munro as

a recruit, and trust to his sister relieving him, according to a scheme

pointed out by her, and which appeared feasible to Edward. In compliance

with the plan which they had concerted, Edward, with a servant, left the

farm for the cattle. Having put them on the way, and arranged to rejoin

the servant, he rode into Perth, and enlisted with the Captain,

receiving a shilling of earnest. Promising to come back next morning to

receive his bounty, and be attested, Edward mounted his horse, and

pushed forward to England, leaving Emily to settle the business as best

she could.

The day when he had promised to return passed away without any

appearance of the recruit. Being a fine-looking fellow, the officer was

reluctant to loose him; therefore, next morning, he despatched a

serjeant, with a party, to inquire after him. On their arrival at the

farm, they found only Emily and the servants. The serjeant had seen

Edward when he enlisted, and now believed that he saw, in Emily, the

same person in disguise; in consequence of which he threatened to carry

her before his commanding officer; but, preserving her good humour, she

held his threats in defiance, and, for his own sake, requested him to

take care what he did. Some of the party had remained in the kitchen,

and there learned from the servants, that Emily sometimes assumed her

brother’s dress; and, they had no doubt, had personated her brother, as

a joke on the Captain. Emily now regaled the party with hospitable

cheer, and, dismissing them in excellent humour, requested the serjeant

to make her compliments to Captain Munro, trusting that he would take

better care of his next recruit. The serjeant imparted all this to his

superior, together with what the soldiers had heard in the kitchen, from

which the officer was persuaded, that either himself or the serjeant had

been completely hoaxed, and, determined to investigate the matter fully,

both in discharge of his duty, and for the gratification of his

curiosity, which had been highly excited, he next morning visited the

farm, intending to judge for himself. This was just what Emily wished

and expected. She had therefore taken care to inform herself, in a short

interview with her brother, of almost every circumstance which had

passed between him and the Captain, the relation of which, she trusted,

would convince him of her being the recruit. The moment Captain Munro

looked at her, he was convinced of her being the identical person he had

enlisted, although he still had doubts about her sex; while, at the same

time, he felt that he had never seen one of his own with features so

fine and delicate. Although Captain Munro was in every respect a

gentleman, yet the extraordinary circumstances which had produced this

interview, warranted a freedom of manner which, in other cases, he could

not have employed, where he was so much a stranger. He therefore now

informed Emily, that he was fully convinced of her being the person who

had enlisted with him, and also quite satisfied that she now appeared in

the habit which belonged to her sex; still, he presumed he had some

right to inquire her motive for a step so uncommon, and which she

appeared so early to relinquish.

This question, although she had anticipated it, brought deep blushes

into Emily’s face; and her heart palpitated as she replied, that,

although she now regretted having adopted a measure so incompatible with

female delicacy, she felt it a duty which she owed to herself, to inform

him of her inducement, lest it might be attributed to something still

more unbecoming. She then went on to state that she had, for a long time

past, been persecuted with the odious addresses of a widower, old enough

to be her father, and whom her parents wished her to marry because he

was rich; but, although he had been her equal in age, their dispositions

were so opposite, that she must have despised him, for he was a miserly,

stingy, jealous, and contemptible wretch; and she had availed herself of

the absence of her parents to adopt a measure which, she was sure,

would, on its coming to his knowledge, have the effect of relieving her

from his offensive importunities; and, although she now saw the

imprudent folly she had committed, her regret would be diminished, if it

produced the consequences she so anxiously wished.

The part she was now acting, and the situation in which she had placed

herself, in spite of all Emily’s natural forwardness, called forth that

modest timidity which still adds to the loveliness of a young and

beautiful woman, suffusing her cheeks with crimson, and softening the

brightness of her sparkling eye. Altogether, her appearance and

behaviour made a powerful impression on the heart of the gallant

soldier; and he contrived to protract the interview till the latest

period that good breeding permitted. When Emily offered to return the

shilling which her brother had received, the Captain refused it, saying,

with a smile, that he had not yet renounced his claim on her, but

reserved it for further investigation, for the discussion of which he

proposed repeating his visit.

With self-possession, but becoming modesty, Emily replied, that although

she had already overstepped the bounds of female decorum, she was

neither ignorant of, nor indifferent to, that propriety of conduct which

her situation required; and would therefore request, that if he was

again inclined to visit the farm of Greenbraes, it might be after the

return of her parents. The Captain now left Emily, nearly as much

fascinated with her as she had been with his first appearance; while the

respectful propriety of his behaviour, in a case where some freedom of

speech might have been excusable, raised him in her estimation; and she

flattered herself that he had not seen her with indifference.

The Captain was now impatient for the return of her parents; as, afraid

of incurring the displeasure of Emily, he could not venture to visit

Greenbraes till that time; but he, oftener than once, threw himself in

the way by walking in the vicinity, hoping to meet her whom he now found

it impossible to forget. Emily had seen him sauntering in the fields,

and rightly conjectured his purpose; but she, actuated, no doubt, partly

by a little coquetry, had uniformly disappointed him.

Her father now returned from England; and Emily, who had never before

disguised her actions, convinced that her parent must soon hear, from

some officious friend, what had already made much noise in the place,

resolved to tell as much of the truth as suited her purpose. She

therefore informed her father that Edward, in a frolic, had enlisted;

but that she had sent him out of the way, and represented him when the

Captain came to claim his recruit, and that officer had laughed heartily

at the joke.

“Ah, Emily! you are a light-hearted, and lighter-headed lassie,” said

the fond father. “You carry things ower far; and I’m fleyed ye’ll tine

your ain character, or render it no worth the keeping. What will Francie

Meldrum say to that business? I’ll think shame to see him.”

“My dear father, if naebody’s angry but Francie, I’ll never rue doing

that for my brother. Say that _you’re_ no angry, father, and set my

heart at ease.” And, looking in her father’s face with a timid, but

affectionate smile, she laid her arm around his neck, pressing her

glowing lip to his bronzed cheek.

“I am angry, you little flattering gipsey; but promise to gie ower thae

light-headed pranks, and I’ll forgive you for this.”

Emily had reason to congratulate herself on this speedy reconciliation

with her father, who she saw was in good humour; for, looking from the

window, she saw Francis, the object of her detestation, approaching,

although he had never tormented her during the absence of her parents.

Leaving her father to receive the unwelcome visitor, Emily secreted

herself in an adjoining closet, where she could hear every word of the

conversation, which soon became more agreeable to her than she had

expected; for Francis began to speak of her frolic with an asperity

which her father did not think it merited. They came to high words, the

result of which was, that the farmer conducted his guest to the door,

requesting him never to enter it again till Emily bade him welcome. This

was so far beyond Emily’s expectations, that her heart bounded with

delight; and, had it not been that she must have betrayed her being a

listener, she would have rushed in, and, kneeling to her father, thanked

him for the deliverance.

The fact was, that her father, on his return from England, had stayed in

Perth to deposit some money with his banker, who insisted on his dining

with him, as he was to see a few friends that day. Captain Munro

happened to be of the party, and, hearing the farmer’s name and

residence, endeavoured to make himself as agreeable as possible, in

which he succeeded admirably. Before parting, he took an opportunity of

having a private conversation with the farmer, relating circumstantially

what the reader is already acquainted with, as far as consisted with his

own knowledge. He concluded by confessing the impression which Emily had

made on him, which all that he had since heard concerning her had

contributed to deepen; and that her motive for the frolic which had

given him the pleasure of knowing her was a sufficient apology; and, as

it was obvious she would never consent to marry the widower, he begged

the farmer to sanction his addresses, instead of a man whose age

certainly rendered the match very unsuitable. For his own character and

family he referred him to the banker, under whose roof they were,

requesting the pleasure of another interview before he left town.

The honest farmer was rather vexed at the first part of this relation,

but the conclusion put him in good humour; and, in a conversation with

the banker, he learned that Captain Munro was the son and heir of a

landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, and that the young officer bore a

highly respectable character, both as a man and a soldier. The farmer

and Captain again met, when the former gave the officer his hearty

permission to address his daughter, adding, that as she had several

times perplexed him with her harmless tricks, of which the Captain had

seen and felt a specimen, he wished this interview to be kept secret,

and, when they met at Greenbraes, that they might appear strangers to

each other. The Captain approved of the suggestion, esteeming it a good

joke; and they parted, both in high spirits.

Emily was highly delighted with the dismissal of the importunate

widower; and, just as she was wondering whether the Captain knew that

her father had returned, she, one morning, saw him approaching the

house.

Although this was by no means a disagreeable discovery, yet, when

commanded by her father to join them in the parlour, she entered with a

palpitating heart, and her cheeks blushing like a half-blown rose.

The Captain met her with the respectful ease of a gentleman and an old

acquaintance, when her father, in rather a severe tone, said, “Emily,

you informed me of a joke which you played off upon this gentleman, and

gave me to understand it was all settled and forgotten; but I find that

is not the case. Captain Munro insists that you received earnest money

from him, which you still retain; and, therefore, he is entitled either

to your services, or satisfaction for the insult offered to him. What do

you say?”

“When Captain Munro explains what he wants, I shall then know how to

answer,” replied Emily.

“That is easily done, Miss Graham,” replied the Captain. “You engaged to

be a soldier for life, and I claim the fulfilment of your agreement—wish

you to follow the drum. In a word, dear Emily, I love you, and wish to

make you a soldier’s wife. When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, I

informed you that I reserved my claim for further discussion, and

requested permission to visit you, which you very prudently declined

till your father’s return. He is now present, and I wait your reply. A

soldier hates trifling.”

“My first engagement with you, Captain, was rash, and I repented,”

replied Emily. “I am afraid you have imitated my folly, in the present

declaration, which you would probably regret on reflection. I shall take

time to deliberate; and, when we both know each other better, if you

continue in the same mind, I shall then be prepared to reply.”

This response, while it did credit to Emily’s prudence, was such as gave

the suitor every reasonable hope of success; as the expression, “when we

know each other better,” was sufficiently encouraging to induce him to

continue his visits. Love had already done his work with both hearts,

and in a short time they perfectly understood each other.

Emily’s mother now returned; and, after the necessary preparations, the

wedding-day was appointed, when the Captain was called to Edinburgh, as

member of a court-martial, to be held in the Castle. They had known each

other but a short time, and both had been so much engrossed with their

own affairs, that, although the Captain had heard Emma’s name mentioned,

he was ignorant of the striking resemblance which she bore to her

sister. Emily had also continued unacquainted with the Captain’s first

interview with her father, till she happened to overhear the latter

relating it to her mother, and chuckling over it as a good joke which he

and the Captain had played off on Emily. Although not displeased at the

imposition practised on her, she resolved, sooner or later, to pay both

her father and lover in their own coin; and her fertile invention soon

contrived a scheme, in which, if she could engage her sister as a

confederate, she trusted to enjoy the pleasure of full retaliation.

A letter had been despatched to Emma, announcing the intended nuptials,

and requesting her presence, to officiate as bride’s maid on the

occasion. This message had, however, been crossed on the road by another

from Emma, to the same tune; informing her parents of her intended

marriage, two days before that fixed for Emily’s wedding, and requesting

the same service of her sister which had been expected from her.

This _contretemps_ was a disappointment to both; however, a second

letter arrived from Emma, congratulating Emily on the approaching event,

and intimating that she and her husband intended doing themselves the

pleasure of being with them in time to witness the ceremony.

The absence of some important witnesses in the case before the

court-martial had prevented its sitting; and a letter arrived from

Captain Munro, intimating, that, however much it vexed him, he found it

would be impossible for him to be at Greenbraes sooner than the day

appointed for their union; and, even then, the hour of his arrival was

uncertain, but he hoped to be in time for dinner.

Edward arrived from England on the eve of the wedding-day; and Emma,

with her husband, in the morning. After the mutual congratulations among

so many friends, Emily took an early opportunity of communicating her

intentions, and requesting their assistance; especially as it was the

last opportunity she would have of indulging in frolic; as, in a few

hours, she should be sworn to love, honour, and obey her husband. Edward

was highly delighted with the scheme; and Emma’s husband, who loved a

joke, prevailed on her to comply with her sister’s request, and perform

her share in the plot, as explained by Emily; and the striking likeness

of the two sisters being still as strong as ever, rendered success

almost certain. As a necessary preliminary, it was agreed that the

sisters should be dressed exactly alike, in every, the minutest article,

except that Emma should wear a _bandeau_ of artificial rosebuds, by

which she could be at once distinguished from her sister. All this was

carried into effect; and, when dressed, the distinction was pointed out

to their parents, to prevent, as they said, any ridiculous mistake at

the approaching ceremony.

The farmhouse of Greenbraes had, in former times, been the mansion-house

of the estate, and still had attached to it an extensive and

old-fashioned garden. The house stood on a rising ground, and had a

commanding view of the road by which the bridegroom must approach. Emily

had every thing ready; and, when she saw him at some distance, she

joined her brother, with Emma and her husband, in the garden, where they

had been for some time; but, as she passed out, requested her mother to

conduct Captain Munro to the garden, on his arrival, contriving some

excuse for leaving him as he entered, as she wished to she him

privately.

The party had disposed themselves in order, waiting his approach; and,

when they heard the garden-door open, Edward and Emily withdrew,

secreting themselves in a thicket of evergreens; and the Captain

entering, beheld Emma and her husband sauntering most lovingly, at a

little distance before him. They did not seem to observe the bridegroom;

but, on turning the corner of a new-clipped yew-hedge, Emma, as if by

accident, dropped her handkerchief, and the next moment they were out of

sight. Captain Munro believed at first glance that it was Emily he had

seen, but still was reluctant to suppose it possible that she would

permit any other man to use the freedom he had just witnessed; and

endeavoured to persuade himself that the lady must be a stranger,

invited to the wedding. However, the handkerchief seemed a probable clue

to solve his doubts; he approached, took it up, and found it marked Em.

G. In no very pleasant mood, he stepped forward a little farther, when

he heard a soft whisper, which he knew proceeded from a rustic bower;

and he was aware that, by a slight circuit, he could discover the

occupants without being seen. He now saw, as he believed, Emily seated

in the bower, her head leaning on the shoulder of a handsome-looking

young man, whose arm encircled her waist. Rage and jealousy now took

possession of the bridegroom’s soul, and he was at first disposed to

leave the farm, without speaking to any one, but, standing for a few

minutes in a stupor, he determined to see the face of him for whom he

had been so cruelly deceived. He therefore walked up in front of the

bower, and, with all the calm respect which he could assume, said,

“Madam, permit me to present your handkerchief, which you dropped in the

walk.”

“I thank you, Sir,” replied Emma; “may I inquire to whom I am indebted

for restoring it to its owner?”

The cool composure with which this question was put, raised the

indignation of the maddened bridegroom to its highest pitch; and, with a

glance of the most sovereign contempt which he could assume, he replied,

“To one, madam, who despises you from his soul, and thanks God for his

timely discovery of your infamy!”

Her husband now started to his feet, and said, “Sir, you bear the

insignia, although you want the manners of a gentleman. But were you of

the blood-royal, you should not insult my wife with impunity.”

Captain Munro started at the word, and repeated, “Wife! did you say,

Sir? Permit me to ask one question, to which your candid reply will

oblige me. How long has that woman been your wife?”

“For these two days.”

“Enough. Farewell for ever! infamous woman!”

Edward now sprung from the thicket, and standing right before the

Captain, in the exact costume in which he had enlisted, said, with an

arch and good-humoured smile, “My honoured Captain, excuse the freedom

of your recruit. I cannot patiently hear those opprobrious epithets

applied to my sister; perhaps she could explain all this if you had

patience.”

The Captain was now fairly bewildered, and stood staring, first at the

one, and then the other, in half-frantic amazement, when, to his relief,

the farmer approached; and, seeing the four looking in gloomy silence on

each other, exclaimed, “Why, what is the matter with all of you, that

you stare as if bewitched?”

Captain Munro, recovering himself a little, replied, “It is even so,

Sir; and you are come in time to remove the spell. Say, who are these

before you?”

The farmer surveyed the group, and observing that Emma had not the

_bandeau_ of rose-buds by which she was to be distinguished from her

sister, replied: “Captain, what do you mean? The young man is my son

Edward; the other is Dr Malcolm, my son-in-law: you surely do not

require to be told that the female is _my_ daughter, and _your_ bride.”

“She is no bride of mine—I renounce her for ever!” said the angry

soldier, in a most indignant tone.

While the farmer stood, as much amazed as the Captain had been, Emily

came forward from the thicket, and, standing close beside her sister,

said, “Dear father, let not the gentlemen quarrel; you have certainly a

daughter for each of them; and as both of us are quite willing to have

husbands, have the goodness to give our hands to those for whom you

intend us;” and both sisters stood with the stillness, gravity, and

silence of statues. The astonished father found the distinguishing badge

wanting in both, and replied, “I must confess I am fairly bewildered;

gentlemen, choose for yourselves, for I cannot!”

Edward now put on Emily’s playful smile, and looked at the Captain in a

manner which made him at once clasp the youth in his arms, crying, “My

dear Emily! I know you now.”

The loud laughter of the party again renewed the confusion of the

bridegroom and farmer, which was enjoyed for a considerable time before

they condescended to give any explanation. It was, however, at last

made; all was set right, and the evening passed at Greenbraes in

hilarity and unclouded happiness.

ALBERT BANE:

_AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN_.

BY HENRY MACKENZIE.

When I was, last autumn, at my friend Colonel Caustic’s in the country,

I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young gentleman and his

sister, children of a neighbour of the Colonel’s, with whose appearance

and manner I was particularly pleased.

The history of their parents, said my friend, is somewhat particular,

and I love to tell it, as I do everything that is to the honour of our

nature. Man is so poor a thing, taken in the gross, that when I meet

with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am fain to rest upon it long,

and to recall it often, as in coming thither over our barren hills you

would look with double delight on a spot of cultivation or of beauty.

The father of those young folks, whose looks you were struck with, was a

gentleman of considerable domains and extensive influence on the

northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was then

more the fashion than it is now, at the seat of his ancestors,

surrounded with Gothic grandeur, and compassed with feudal followers and

dependants, all of whom could trace their connection at a period more or

less remote with the family of their chief. Every domestic in his house

bore the family-name, and looked on himself as in a certain degree

partaking its dignity, and sharing its fortunes. Of these, one was in a

particular manner the favourite of his master. Albert Bane (the surname,

you know, is generally lost in a name descriptive of the individual) had

been his companion from his infancy. Of an age so much more advanced as

to enable him to be a sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert had

early taught him the rural exercises and rural amusements, in which

himself was eminently skilful; he had attended him in the course of his

education at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the constant

companion of his excursions, and the associate of his sports.

On one of those latter occasions, a favourite dog of Albert’s, whom he

had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was proud, happened to

mar the sport which his master expected, who, irritated at the

disappointment, and having his gun ready cocked in his hand, fired at

the animal, which, however, in the hurry of his resentment, he missed.

Albert, to whom Oscar was a child, remonstrated against the rashness of

the deed in a manner rather too warm for his master, ruffled as he was

with the accident, and conscious of being in the wrong, to bear. In his

passion he struck his faithful attendant, who suffered the indignity in

silence: and retiring, rather in grief than in anger, left his native

country that very night; and when he reached the nearest town, enlisted

with a recruiting party of a regiment then on foreign service. It was in

the beginning of the war with France, which broke out in 1744, rendered

remarkable for the rebellion which the policy of the French court

excited, in which some of the first families of the Highlands were

unfortunately engaged. Among those who joined the standard of Charles,

was the master of Albert.

After the battle of Culloden, so fatal to that party, this gentleman,

along with others who had escaped the slaughter of the field, sheltered

themselves from the rage of the unsparing soldiery among the distant

recesses of their country. To him his native mountains offered an

asylum; and thither he naturally fled for protection. Acquainted, in the

pursuits of the chase, with every secret path and unworn track, he lived

for a considerable time, like the deer of his forest, close hid all day,

and only venturing down at the fall of evening, to obtain from some of

his cottagers, whose fidelity he could trust, a scanty and precarious

support. I have often heard him (for he is one of my oldest

acquaintances) describe the scene of his hiding-place, at a later

period, when he could recollect it in its sublimity, without its horror.

“At times,” said he, “when I ventured to the edge of the wood, among

some of those inaccessible crags which you remember a few miles from my

house, I have heard, in the pauses of the breeze which rolled solemn

through the pines beneath me, the distant voices of the soldiers,

shouting in answer to one another amidst their inhuman search. I have

heard their shouts re-echoed from cliff to cliff, and seen reflected

from the deep still lake below the gleam of those fires which consumed

the cottages of my people. Sometimes shame and indignation wellnigh

overcame my fear, and I have prepared to rush down the steep, unarmed as

I was, and to die at once by the swords of my enemies; but the

instinctive love of life prevailed, and starting, as the roe bounded by

me, I have again shrunk back to the shelter I had left.

“One day,” continued he, “the noise was nearer than usual; and at last,

from the cave in which I lay, I heard the parties immediately below so

close upon me, that I could distinguish the words they spoke. After some

time of horrible suspense, the voices grew weaker and more distant; and

at last I heard them die away at the further end of the wood. I rose and

stole to the mouth of the cave, when suddenly a dog met me, and gave

that short quick bark by which they indicate their prey. Amidst the

terror of the circumstance, I was yet master enough of myself to

discover that the dog was Oscar; and I own to you I felt his appearance

like the retribution of justice and of heaven. ‘Stand!’ cried a

threatening voice, and a soldier pressed through the thicket, with his

bayonet charged. It was Albert! Shame, confusion, and remorse stopped my

utterance, and I stood motionless before him. ‘My master!’ said he, with

the stifled voice of wonder and of fear, and threw himself at my feet. I

had recovered my recollection. You are revenged, said I, and I am your

prisoner. ‘Revenged! Alas! you have judged too harshly of me; I have not

had one happy day since that fatal one on which I left my master; but I

have lived, I hope, to save him. The party to which I belong are passed;

for I lingered behind them among those woods and rocks, which I remember

so well in happier days. There is, however, no time to be lost. In a few

hours this wood will blaze, though they do not suspect that it shelters

you. Take my dress, which may help your escape, and I will endeavour to

dispose of yours. On the coast, to the westward, we have learned there

is a small party of your friends, which, by following the river’s track

till dusk, and then striking over the shoulder of the hill, you may join

without much danger of discovery.’ I felt the disgrace of owing so much

to him I had injured, and remonstrated against exposing him to such

imminent danger of its being known that he favoured my escape, which,

from the temper of his commander, I knew would be instant death. Albert,

in an agony of fear and distress, besought me to think only of my own

safety. ‘Save us both,’ said he, ‘for if you die, I cannot live. Perhaps

we may meet again; but whatever comes of Albert, may the blessing of God

be with his master!’”

Albert’s prayer was heard. His master, by the exercise of talents which,

though he had always possessed, adversity only taught him to use,

acquired abroad a station of equal honour and emolument; and when the

proscriptions of party had ceased, returned home to his own country,

where he found Albert advanced to the rank of a lieutenant in the army,

to which his valour and merit had raised him, married to a lady, by whom

he had got some little fortune, and the father of an only daughter, for

whom nature had done much, and to whose native endowments it was the

chief study and delight of her parents to add everything that art could

bestow. The gratitude of the chief was only equalled by the happiness of

his follower, whose honest pride was not long after gratified by his

daughter becoming the wife of that master whom his generous fidelity had

saved. That master, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times,

was again restored to the domains of his ancestors, and had the

satisfaction of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy the hereditary

birthright of his race. I accompanied Colonel Caustic on a visit to this

gentleman’s house, and was delighted to observe his grateful attention

to his father-in-law, as well as the unassuming happiness of the good

old man, conscious of the perfect reward which his former fidelity had

met with. Nor did it escape my notice, that the sweet boy and girl, who

had been our guests at the Colonel’s, had a favourite brown and white

spaniel, whom they caressed much after dinner, whose name was Oscar.

THE PENNY-WEDDING.

BY ALEX. CAMPBELL.

If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding, they will

agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its

mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it

generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not

quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack’s; but, from all we have

heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts

would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we

are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.

It is very well known to those who know anything at all of

penny-weddings, that, when a farmer’s servant is about to be

married—such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most

frequent occasion of these festivities—all the neighbouring farmers,

with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited

to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the

farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to

the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the

wedding guests—some sending one thing and some another, till materials

are accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would

extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew

better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the

parties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little

domicile.

Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we

proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had

done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more

particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago.

The parties—we name them, although it is of no consequence to our

story—were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a

respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison,

and both very deserving and well-doing persons.

On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the

services of blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all

propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily

agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best

fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings

and rosin.

“An’ a wee bit box o’ elbow grease, Willie,” said Andrew, slily; “for

ye’ll hae gude aught hours o’t, at the very least.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that too, Andrew,” replied Willie, laughing; “but

it’s no aught hours that’ll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen

without stoppin, except to rosit.”

“And to weet your whistle,” slipped in Andrew.

“Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu’ and at it again,”

said Willie. “I just tak, Andrew,” he went on, “precisely the time o’ a

demisemiquaver to a tumbler o’ cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and

twa minims or four crochets to a tumbler o’ het drink, such as toddy;

for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only

get through wi’ at the rate o’ ‘Roslin Castle,’ or the ‘Dead March in

Saul,’ especially when its brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never

be done to a fiddler.”

Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement by Willie, of the time

consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have

nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when

Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages

he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a

longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events, this we

know, that Willie was a very indifferent, if not positively a very bad

fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive,

and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was

fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the

employment he obtained, as to their love or charity.

The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine

and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his

best, popped his best fiddle—which was, after all, but a very sober

article, having no more tone than a salt-box—into a green bag, slipped

the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded

towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which

had been carefully swept and levelled for the “light fantastic _toes_”

of some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the

Chinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of

platform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this

again a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly

say, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to

pour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When

Willie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not

yet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were

every minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine

summer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew

forth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the

infinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not

having gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself,

waiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to

Willie’s music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very

appropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening.

While Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the

look-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly

appeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth

of his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his

thumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was

near his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped

short.

“I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market,” he said, guessing at

once the object of the stranger. “An’ ye hae been travellin too, I

daresay?” he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the

intruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling.

“Ay,” replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about

eight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, “I hae been

travellin, as ye say, neebor, an’ hae came twa or three miles out o’ my

way to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin.”

“I am sorry now, man, for that,” said Willie, sympathisingly. “I doot

ye’ll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for’t this fortnight past.

But I’ll tell ye what: if ye’re onything guid o’ the fiddle, ye may

remain, jist to relieve me now an’ then, an’ I’ll mind ye when a’s ower;

an’ at ony rate ye’ll aye pick up a mouthfu’ o’ guid meat and drink—an’

that ye ken’s no to be fand at every dyke-side.”

“A bargain be’t,” said the stranger, “an’ much obliged to you, frien. I

maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu. But isna your waddin folks lang

o’ comin?” he added.

“They’ll be here belyve,” replied Willie, and added, “Ye’ll no be blin,

frien?”

“Ou, no,” said the stranger; “thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am

otherwise in such a bad state o’ health, that I canna work, and am

obliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence.”

While this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen

dropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for

the scene of the evening’s festivities, where they all very soon after

assembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that

were now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having

had their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on

their labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and

open field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings,

Willie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the

elevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed

him his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in

hand, on his principal’s left, but standing on the ground, as there was

no room for him on the platform.

Everything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their

respective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin, an

order which he instantly obeyed by opening in great style.

On the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which

the strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his

coadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next.

“Weel,” replied the latter, “if ye think ye can gae through wi’t

onything decently, ye may try your hand.”

“I’ll no promise much,” said the stranger, now for the first time

drawing his fiddle out of its bag; “but, for the credit o’ the craft,

I’ll do the best I can.”

Having said this, Willie’s colleague drew his bow across the strings of

his fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in

the apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and

surprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those

of poor Willie’s salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating

ear amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference.

But infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the

stranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and

beauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master

of the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by

all, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and

goodwill, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life.

The result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to

lift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its

labours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather

say the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an

apparently invincible elbow.

For several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without

any apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers;

but, at the end of this period, some symptoms of exhaustion began to

manifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary

cessation of both the mirth and music.

It was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler, who

had been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie’s

elevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the floor,

stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the hat with

his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper, if he

knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the partners in

the last reel that had been danced.

“Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark-ee’d, and dark-haired lassie, about

nineteen or twenty?” inquired Willie, in his turn.

“The same,” replied the fiddler.

“Ou, that’s Jeanie Harrison,” said Willie, “a kind-hearted, nice bit

lassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a’ the parish. She’s a dochter o’

Mr Harrison o’ Todshaws, the young couple’s maister, an’ a very

respectable man. He’s here himsel, too, amang the lave.”

“Just so,” replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to

screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which

he saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury.

Amongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.

“Is there naebody’ll tak me out for a reel?” exclaimed the lively girl;

and without waiting for an answer, “Weel, then, I’ll hae the fiddler.”

And she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was

seated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her

choice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility

of a harlequin, exclaiming, “Thank ye, my bonny lassie, thank ye for the

honour. I’m your man at a moment’s notice, either for feet or fiddle.”

It is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made

choice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to

retract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice,

or rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her

engagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one

insisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could

do no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she

could, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie

having now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of

command, and away the dancers went like meteors; and here again the

surprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our

friend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that

he far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for

there were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he

danced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who

witnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner,

nor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the

reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined

gallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble

station in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where

the beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every

one found it difficult to conjecture.

On the termination of the dance, the fiddler—as we shall call him, _par

excellence_, and to distinguish him from Willie—resumed his seat and his

fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former spirit;

but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost

constantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had

been very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This

circumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to

those who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit

of his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use

of the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be

put out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might

present itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination.

Leaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to

where Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her

partner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring

farmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced

with a fiddler.

Premising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties

themselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and

jealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in

this particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad

tempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies

themselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities

which usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for

connoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they

professed to be profound judges—premising this, then, we proceed to

quote the conversation that passed between the three ladies—that is, the

Misses Murray and Miss Harrison; the latter taking her seat between them

after dancing with the fiddler.

“My certy!” exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head,

“ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi’ a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill

aff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi’ such a

ragamuffin.”

“An’ to go an’ ask him too!” said the younger, with an imitative toss.

“I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi’ me, let alane a

fiddler! If they dinna choose to come o’ their ain accord, they may

stay.”

“Tuts, lassies, it was a’ a piece o’ fun,” said the good-humoured girl.

“I’m sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man’s well

aneugh—na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better clad.

There’s no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies,” she

added, “ye may get as guid dancers in your partners—that’s a’.”

“Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an’ a very strange notion o’

propriety!” exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.

“To dance wi’ a fiddler!” simpered out the younger—who, by the way, was

no chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty.

“Ay, to be sure, dance wi’ a fiddler or a piper either. I’ll dance wi’

baith o’ them—an’ what for no?” replied Jeanie. “There’s neither sin nor

shame in’t; and I’ll dance wi’ him again, if he’ll only but ask me.”

“An’ faith he’ll do that wi’ a’ the pleasure in the warld, my bonny

lassie,” quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his

high place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing

while the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every

word of it. “Wi’ a’ the pleasure in the warld,” he said, advancing

towards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation;

and again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept

it, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends and to provoke

the Misses Murray.

Having accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples

having been mustered for the set, Jeanie’s partner again called on

Willie to strike up; again the dancers started, and again the fiddler

astonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his

performances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician’s

predilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal

character; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her

father’s, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle.

“Nae objection in the warld,” replied Jeanie. “Come as aften as ye like;

and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi’ ye, for

we’re a’ fond o’ music.”

“A bargain be’t,” said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of

the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.

“Time and the hour,” says Shakspeare, “will wear through the roughest

day;” and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous

party of whom we are speaking now soon found.

Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and

even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the

influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke

up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.

These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and

set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of

the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings as payment in full

for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and

unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger’s share, he

generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party,

as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of

the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.

“Very fair,” said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his

brother in trade—“very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the

odd sixpences?”

“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie, “wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid

notion.”

And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly

ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.

“Ye’re a guid fiddler—I’ll say that o’ ye,” quoth Willie, after tossing

down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. “I would never

wish to hear a better.”

“I have had some practice,” said the other modestly, and at the same

time following his companion’s example with his glass.

“Nae doot, nae doot, sae’s seen on your playin,” replied the latter.

“How do you fend wi’ yer fiddle? Do ye mak onything o’ a guid leevin

o’t?”

“No that ill ava,” said the stranger. “I play for the auld leddy at the

castle—Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I’m sometimes ca’d the leddy’s

fiddler, and she’s uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp

when I gang there.”

“That’s sae far weel,” replied Willie. “She’s a guid judge o’ music that

Leddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I’m tauld her son, Sir John, plays

a capital bow.”

“No amiss, I believe,” said the stranger; “but the leddy, as ye say, is

an excellent judge o’ music, although whiles, I think, rather ower fond

o’t, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be

wi’ Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that’s no sweer

o’ the cap. But, speaking o’ that, I’ll tell ye what, frien,” he

continued, “if ye’ll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I’ll be blithe to

see you, for I’m there at least ance every day, and I’ll warrant ye—for

ye see I can use every liberty there—in a guid het dinner, an’ a jug o’

hetter toddy to wash it ower wi’.”

“A bargain be’t,” quoth Willie; “will the morn do?”

“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the sooner the better.”

This settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time

near his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This

feeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the

toddy, and of his friend’s frank and jovial manner, he at length

ventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice.

“That’s an uncommon guid instrument o’ yours, frien,” he said.

“Very good,” replied his companion, briefly.

“But ye’ll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?” rejoined the other.

“I hae ither twa.”

“In that case,” said Willie, “maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt

wi’ that ane, an’ the price offered ye wur a’ the mair temptin. I’ll gie

ye the fifteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an’ my fiddle, for’t.”

“Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer,” replied the stranger; “but I

daurna accept o’t, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by

Leddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi’t. She wad miss’t, and then there

would be the deevil to pay.”

“Oh, an’ that’s the case,” said Willie, “I’ll sae nae mair aboot it; but

it’s a first-rate fiddle—sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the

lane o’t.”

It being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the

blind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that

the former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now

going, he said, to seek a night’s quarters) on the following day.

True to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or

Castle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for “the

fiddler.” His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the

footman who opened the door. He was told “the fiddler” was there, and

desired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the

footman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards

entertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler

joined him.

“My word, neighbour,” said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of

the good things that were set before him, and having drank in

proportion, “but ye’re in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to

some purpose, an’ treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the

persons o’ its professors. But what,” he added, “if Sir John should come

in upon us? He wadna like maybe a’ thegither to see a stranger wi’ ye?”

“Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He’s but a wild harum-scarum

throughither chap at the best, an’ no muckle to be heeded.”

“Ay, he’s fond o’ a frolic, they tell me,” quoth Willie; “an’ there’s a

heap o’ gie queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no;

but his heart’s in the richt place, I’m thinkin, for a’ that. I’ve heard

o’ mony guid turns he has dune.”

“Ou, he’s no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay,” replied Willie’s

companion. “His bark’s waur than his bite—an’ that’s mair than can be

said o’ a rat-trap, at ony rate.”

It was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain

strange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie’s mind regarding

his entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an

air of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied

the humble situation of “the lady’s fiddler;” but, singular as this

appeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were

obeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing,

however; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his

brother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and,

lost in admiration of his friend’s felicity, he was about again to

express his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery

entered the room, and bowing respectfully, said, “The carriage waits

you, Sir John.”

“I will be with you presently, Thomas,” replied who? inquires the

reader.

Why, Willie’s companion!

What! is he then Sir John Gowan—he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding,

Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the

wealthiest man in the county?

The same and no other, good reader, we assure thee.

A great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was

one of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler;

and, as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that

most difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments.

We will not attempt to describe poor Willie’s amazement and confusion

when this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable,

and therefore better left to the reader’s imagination. On recovering a

little from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his

astonishment in such broken sentences as these—“Wha in earth wad hae

ever dreamed o’t? Rosit an’ fiddle-strings!—this beats a’. Faith, a’n

I’ve been fairly taen in—clean dune for. A knight o’ the shire to play

at a penny-waddin wi’ blin Willie Hodge the fiddler! The like was ne’er

heard tell o’.”

As it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the

scene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying,

that Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted,

and which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down

to him the half of the proceeds of the previous night’s labours which he

had pocketed, added a handsome _douceur_ from his own purse, and finally

dismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle

as often as it suited his inclination and convenience.

Having arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain

one or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the

sequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to

what has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of

him are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about

him. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if

it was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was

an excellent young man—kind, generous, and affable; of the strictest

honour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an

exceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he

was unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was

most affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good

deal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became

disgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the

frivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the

resolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely

to the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which

his position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him.

Simple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to

discover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from

time to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he

could think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one

fresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule

of art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of

the previous night.

Bringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a

close, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our

little drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at

Todshaws.

The house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best

description of such establishments. The building itself was substantial,

nay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it,

and all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was

surrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the

summit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little

rivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging

with hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound

through an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged

into another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left.

The approach to Mr Harrison’s house lay along this little rivulet, and

was commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the

former—a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine

summer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events

just related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at

the wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful

intelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of

a merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger

branches.

When the fiddler—with whose identity the reader is now as well

acquainted as we are—had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to

the house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and

expressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health,

rushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaws.

“Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank ye,” replied the disguised baronet,

expressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his

assumed station. “Are ye ready for anither dance?”

“Oh, a score o’ them—a thousand o’ them,” said the lively girl.

“But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?”

inquired the fiddler.

“Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o’ your sour carles that wad deny

ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see

a’body happy around him—every ane his ain way.”

“An’ your mother?”

“Jist the same. Ye’ll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o’ us.

She’ll dance as lang’s a string hauds o’t.”

“Then, I may be quite at my ease,” rejoined Sir John.

“Quite so,” replied Jeanie—and she slipped half-a-crown into his

hand—“and there’s your arles; but ye’ll be minded better ere ye leave

us.”

“My word, no an ill beginnin,” quoth the musician, looking with

well-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully

into his pocket. “But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles

than half-a-crown,” he added, “and no been a penny the poorer either.”

“What’s that?” said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and

more than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was

meant.

“Why, my bonny leddie,” he replied, “jist a kiss o’ that pretty little

mou o’ yours.”

“Oh, ye gowk!” exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble

gallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very

handsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of

remarkably fine features—qualities which did not escape the vigilance of

the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we say

that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without

producing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler.

“Oh, ye gowk!” said Jeanie; “wha ever heard o’ a fiddler preferring a

kiss to half-a-crown?”

“But _I_ do, though,” replied the disguised knight; “and I’ll gie ye

yours back again for’t.”

“The mair fule you,” exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house,

and leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself.

On reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where

a plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and

considerate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest’s

making a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces

of cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily

refused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed

them into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out

like a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any

one who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them

for that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it

was found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently

indicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however—we

mean the projection of the bones from the pockets—we must observe, the

owner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would

have been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which

Jeanie’s warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him.

Be this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his

repast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow

pathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie’s eye

filled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but

melancholy turns of the affecting tune.

Twice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to

perceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before

him, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a

susceptible heart and of a generous nature.

A third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with

a song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the

others which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once

manly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every

justice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and

well-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:—

Oh, I hae lived wi’ high-bred dames,

Each state of life to prove,

But never till this hour hae met

The girl that I could love.

It’s no in fashion’s gilded ha’s

That she is to be seen;

Beneath her father’s humble roof

Abides my bonny Jean.

Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,

Ae kindly thought on me,

Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,

Though low be my degree.

Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,

Wi’ gowd her wrists sae sma’;

An’ had I lands and houses, she’d

Be leddy ower them a’.

The sun abune’s no what he seems,

Nor is the night’s fair queen;

Then wha kens wha the minstrel is

That’s wooin bonny Jean?

Jeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded

with a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself.

She, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as

merely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat

embarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush

that mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the

fixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted.

When he had concluded, “Well, good folks all,” he said, “what think ye

of my song?” And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed

very indifferent, he added, “and how do you like it, Jeanie?” directing

the question exclusively to the party he named.

“Very weel,” replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than

before; “the song is pretty, an’ the air delightfu’; but some o’ the

verses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understand them.”

“Don’t you?” replied Sir John, laughing; “then I’ll explain them to you

by-and-by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for

my dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to

begin.” A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices;

and straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a

suggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir

John took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and

immediately commenced his labours.

For several hours the dance went on with uninterrupted glee, old Mr

Harrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the

youngest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly

playing of the musician. But although, as on a former occasion, Sir John

did not suffer anything to interfere with, or interrupt the charge of

the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his

mind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged.

All, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on

which his affections had now become irrevocably fixed.

Neither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means

dictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates

entertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more

serious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would

afford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver.

Of these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty

correct estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of

seeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for

his purpose than those of a domestic nature.

It was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the

result of his observations was highly gratifying to him.

He found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He

found her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered,

beloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her

with a sincere and ardent love.

Such were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this

occasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart

of the fortunate finder, as these did that of him who made them. It is

true that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses

would be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made

himself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong

confidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently,

tolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of

another day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts’

content of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the

fiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with

the same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his

hand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken

lightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he

had a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little

daylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but

this he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties

with which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon

repeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, “I

promised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather

attempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the

explanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a

day or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction.

Till then, do not forget your poor fiddler.”

“No, I winna forget ye,” said Jeanie. “It wadna be easy to forget ane

that has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more

than gratefu’ to do so, I think.”

“And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however

humble may be their attempts to win your favour; of that I feel

assured.” Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he

quickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried

out of the door.

What Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we

really do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever

her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to

any one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but

for what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the

general manners of the humble musician, with the melodious tones of his

voice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love!

thou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty

daughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment,

with certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark,

good reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in

love with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too

much. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something

about him that left no disagreeable impression—nay, something which she

wished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be.

Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the

footsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a

rapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the

distance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and

man-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment.

Having hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own

dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle

Gowan.

In this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan’s, or rather in the

romantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and

hand to the daughter of a humble farmer, there was but one doubtful

point on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he

could obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved

him with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and

affectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the

happiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life,

there was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any

proposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well

knew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now

about to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she

would answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and

without the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his

marrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some

misgivings that he entered his mother’s private apartment on the day

following his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the

secret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed

regarding it.

“Mother,” he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual

affectionate inquiries of the morning, “you have often expressed a wish

that I would marry.”

“I have, John,” replied the good old lady. “Nothing in this world would

afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who

should be every way deserving of you—one with whom you could live

happily.”

“Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with

me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good

deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not

been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say—nay, God

forbid I should—that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable

women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt

there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate

enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of

ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of

these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a

factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can

discover what is their real nature and character. They are still

strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You

cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all

to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become

mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the

slightest point of variety. Now, mother,” continued Sir John, “the wife

I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once

open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of

the world.”

“Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning,”

said Lady Gowan, laughing. “But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and

unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very

sensible speech of yours? for that there is a drift in it I can clearly

perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump

upon me at once.”

Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother’s

shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured

to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her

opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded.

Having pressed her on this point—

“Well, my son,” replied Lady Gowan, “if you think that you cannot find a

woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your

taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her.

Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine.

I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I

bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of

irreproachable character; and I don’t think this is being unreasonable.

But do now, John, tell me at once,” she added, in a graver tone, and

taking her son solemnly by the hand, “have you fixed your affections on

a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case.”

“I have then, mother,” replied Sir John, returning his mother’s

expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand; “the daughter of a

humble yeoman, a woman who——” But we will spare the reader the

infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John

lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they

included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment

of the female sex.

When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements

from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said

that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had

fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that,

nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison

as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. “Nay,” she added,

smiling, “if she only possesses one-tenth—ay, one-tenth, John—of the

good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a

singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But,

John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very

easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call

them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust,

and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does

the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of

manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go

for nothing with you? Does——”

“My dear mother,” here burst in Sir John, “if you please, we will not

argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue

about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent

parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison—that is, of

course, if Miss Harrison will marry me?”

“Fully and freely, my child,” said the old lady, now flinging her arms

around her son’s neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; “and may God

bless your union, and make it happy!”

Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate

parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her

for her ready compliance with his wishes.

On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between

Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were

surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards

the house.

“Wha in a’ the world’s this?” said Jeanie to her father, as they both

stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in

the sun and rolled on towards them. “Some travellers that hae mistaen

their road.”

“Very likely,” replied her father; “yet I canna understand what kind o’

a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o’-the-way

place as this. It’s no a regular carriage road—that they micht hae seen;

an’ if they hae gane wrang, they’ll find some difficulty in getting

richt again. But here they are, sae we’ll sune ken a’ about it.”

As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some

twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped; a gentleman stepped out,

and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked

surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who

their visitor was.

“How do you do, Mr Harrison?” exclaimed the latter, stretching out his

hand to the person he addressed; “and how do you do, Miss Harrison?” he

said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.

In the stranger’s tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss

Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the

recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by

the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger

recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the

person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary

likeness to the fiddler—only that he had no fiddle, that he was

infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out

with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person,

however, she never dreamed for a moment.

In his daughter’s perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to,

Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention

to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and

it was thus that he replied to the stranger’s courtesies with a gravity

and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment

and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know

how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such

an effect upon her.

Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above

mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his

daughter—

“Mr Harrison,” he said, “may I have a private word with you?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the former. And he led the way into a little

back parlour.

“Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison,” said the stranger, with a

smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.

On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a

seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of

his visitor.

“Mr Harrison,” now began the latter, “in the first place, it may be

proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan.”

“Oh!” said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and

extending his hand towards him; “I am very happy indeed to see Sir John

Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have

heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John.”

“Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison,” replied the

baronet, laughing. “I am glad that my character, since it happens to be

a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to

proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I

daresay,” continued Sir John, “a certain fiddler who played to you at a

certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on

the green in front of your own house the other night.”

Mr Harrison’s first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad

stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes’

pause thus employed, “No, certainly not, sir,” he said, still greatly

perplexed and amazed. “But I do not understand you. What is it you mean,

Sir John?”

“Why,” replied the latter, laughing, “I mean very distinctly that _I_

was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The

personification of such a character has been one of my favourite

frolics; and however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at

least be allowed to have been a harmless one.”

“Well, this is most extraordinary,” replied Mr Harrison, in great

astonishment. “Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are

ye jesting?”

“Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all

this,” continued Sir John, “is but a prelude to the business I came

upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison: I saw and particularly marked your

daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words,

is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty,

her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart,

and I have now come to offer her my hand.”

“Why, Sir John, this—this,” stammered out the astonished farmer, “is

more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour,

Sir John—great honour, indeed.”

“Not a word of that,” replied the knight, “not a word of that, Mr

Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and

therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I

hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I

trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her

affections, I hope, are not preengaged?”

“Not that I know of, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison; “indeed, I may

venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet,

that I am aware of, thought of a husband—at least, not more than young

women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far

from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular

mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned.”

“And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your

daughter?”

“Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should.”

“Will you, then, my dear sir,” added Sir John, “be kind enough to go to

Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your

return?”

With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his

daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which

he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly

incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison’s communication

had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to

all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting,

laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together

in one tremendous medley, and so loud that it reached the ears of Sir

John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at

the strange uproar.

“But, oh! the cauld beef an’ the cheese that I crammed into his pockets,

father,” exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation.

“He’ll never forgie me that—never, never,” she said, in great distress

of mind. “To fill a knight’s pockets wi’ dauds o’ beef and cheese! Oh!

goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It’s

impossible, father—impossible, impossible!”

“If that be a’ your objections, Jeanie,” replied her father, smiling,

“we’ll soon get the better o’t. I’ll undertake to procure ye Sir John’s

forgiveness for the cauld beef and cheese—that’s if ye think it

necessary to ask a man’s pardon for filling his pockets wi’ most

unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man’s pouches war as weel

lined, lassie, as Sir John’s was that nicht.” Saying this, Mr Harrison

returned to Sir John, and informed him of the result of his mission,

which was—but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie

could not be brought to give any rational answer at all—that his

addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter,

“which,” he added, “is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime,

Sir John.”

“Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that’s not worth wooing’s

not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a

regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs

to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way,

and only desire that you may wish me success.”

“That I do with all my heart,” replied the farmer; “and, if I can lend

you a hand, I will do it with right good will.”

“Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you,” replied Sir John; “and now, my dear

sir,” he continued, “since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will

you be good enough to help me just one step farther? Will you now

introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto she has

known me only,” he said, smiling as he spoke, “as an itinerant fiddler,

and I long to meet her on a more serious footing—and on one,” he added,

again laughing, “I hope, a trifle more respectable.”

“That I’ll very willingly do, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison, smiling in

his turn; “but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being

able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has

one most serious objection to seeing you.”

“Indeed!” replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some

alarm. “Pray, what is that objection?”

“Why, sir,” rejoined the latter, “allow me to reply to that question by

asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my

house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold

beef?”

“Oh! perfectly, perfectly,” said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat

perplexed. “Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very

liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my

pocket with her own fair hands.”

“Just so,” replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. “Well, then,

to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that

circumstance, that she positively will not face you.”

“Oh ho! is that the affair?” exclaimed the delighted baronet. “Why,

then, if she won’t come to us, we’ll go to her; so lead the way, Mr

Harrison, if you please.” Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was

caught.

Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its

interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning

manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan,

very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in

due time, became LADY GOWAN.

PEAT-CASTING TIME.

BY THOMAS GILLESPIE.

In the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when labour and

frolic went hand in hand—when professional duty and kindhearted glee

mutually kissed each other. The “rockin’” mentioned by Burns—

On Fasten e’en we had a rockin’—

I still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is only under

the refractive medium of vigorous recollection that I can again bring up

to view (as the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those images that have been

reposing, “’midst the wreck of things that were,” for more than fifty

years. Yet my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile and

juvenile festivities. _There_ still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch

and check-apron, projecting at intervals the well-filled spindle into

the distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating and twirling the yet

unwound thread. Nanny Nivison occupies a _creepy_ on the further side of

the fire (making the third Fate!), with her shears. Around, and on

bedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad; Tam

Kirkpatrick, with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob Paton the stirk-herd; and

your humble servant. And “now the crack gaes round, and who so wilful as

to put it by?” The story of past times; the report of recent

love-matches and miscarriages; the gleeful song, bursting unbid from the

young heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the waters

from the rock of Meribah; the occasional female remonstrance against

certain _welcome_ impertinences, in shape of, “Come now, Tam—nane o’ yer

nonsense.” “Will! I say, be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk.

’Od, ye’ll squeeze the very breath out o’ a body.”

Till, in a social glass o’ strunt,

They parted off careering

On sic a night.

I’ve heard a lilting at our ewe-milking.

How few of the present generation have ever heard of this “lilting,”

except in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The

young lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating

it, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the

plain are marching—

The labour much of man and dog—

to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their

woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It

is the raven conversing with the jackdaw! All is bustle, excitement, and

badinage.

“Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a

blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!”

“Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin.

Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!”

Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch, hoch, hoch!—there _in_ they go,

and in they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a trio of

stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up “_à la breeches_,”

tugging away at their well-filled dugs.

“Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; ’od, I think ye hae gotten haud o’

the auld tup himsel. He’s as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie,

wham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou.”

“Troth, at weel, Tam, ye’re a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am

o’ cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o’ a howlet.”

“Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy

you a new pan.”

At this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible from its

universality, mixed as it is with the bleating of ewes, the barking of

dogs, together with the singing of herd-laddies and of your humble

servant.

Harvest is a blithe time! May all the charms of “Sycorax, toads,

beetles, bats, light on him” who shall first invent a reaping-machine!

The best of all reaping-machines is “the human _arm_ divine,” whether

brawny or muscular, or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all

year long at her domestic occupations—you would deem her incapable of

any out-door exertions; but, at the sound of the harvest-horn, she

renews her youth, and sallies forth into the harvest-field, with hook

over shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the spirit of the season, to

take her place and drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown

boy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in frolic, in jest

and jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest and the most matured.

Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, and, above and beyond all,

“lads and lasses, lovers gay!” mix and mingle in one united band, for

honest labour and exquisite enjoyment; and when at last the joyous kirn

is won—when the maiden of straw is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn

for twelve months the wall of the farmer’s ben—when the rich and cooling

curds-and-cream have been ramhorn-spooned into as many mouths as there

are persons in the “toun”—then comes the mighty and long-anticipated

festival, the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the big pot enriched with

the cheering and elevating draught, the punch dealt about in ladles and

in jugs, the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the Highland

fling.

_We_ cannot but remember such things were,

And were most dear to us!

Hay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling those of

the grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and glows with fainter

colouring around the interior and the brighter, so did the hay harvest

of yore anticipate and prefigure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded

to the sun; the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her

cheeks redolent of youth, and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting,

carting or ricking, the sweetly-scented meadow produce, under a June sun

and a blue sky!

Oh, to feel as I have felt,

Or be what I have been!—

the favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now in its

fourteenth summer—myself as pure and all unthinking of aught but

affection the most intense, and feelings the most soft and

unaccountable.

Ah, little did thy mother think,

That day she cradled thee,

What lands thou hadst to travel in,

What death thou hadst to dee!

Poor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen her, only a few weeks ago, during the

sittings of the General Assembly, sunk in poverty, emaciated by disease,

the wife of an old soldier, himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark

hovel in Pipe’s Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh.

In the upper district of Dumfriesshire—the land of my birth, and of all

those early associations which cling to me as the mistletoe to the oak,

and which are equally hallowed with that druidical excrescence—there are

no coals, but a superabundance of moss; consequently peat-fires _are_

very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the time of which I speak,

_universally_, made use of; and a peat-fire, on a cold, frosty night of

winter, when every star is glinting and goggling through the blue, or

when the tempest raves, and

There’s no a star in a’ the cary,

is by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived—but then it

kindles soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us with fantastic and

playful jets of flame—but then its light is full, united, and steady;

the heat which it sends out on all sides is superior to that of coals.

Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It eats

away into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat—

The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane—

is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then peats must be

prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate in meadows. They

must be cut from the black and consolidated moss; and a

peculiarly-constructed spade, with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must

be made use of for that purpose; and into the field of operation must

be brought, at casting-time, the spademen, with their spades; and the

barrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their barrows; and the

breakfast sowans, with their creamy milk, cut and crossed into circles

and squares; and the dinner stew, with its sappy potatoes and

gusty-onioned mutton fragments; and the rest at noon, with its active

sports and feats of agility; and, in particular, with its jumps from

the moss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath—and _thereby

hangs my tale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible.

One of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was a

year or so older than me; but we went and returned from school together.

She was the only daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself

in a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching

or whitening webs. In those days, the alkalies and acids had not yet

superseded the slower progress of whitening green linen by soap-boiling,

trampling, and alternate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure

running water. Many is the time and oft that Nanny and I have wielded

the watering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long. Whilst the

humble-bee boomed past us, the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and the

mother of Nanny employed herself in some more laborious department of

the same process, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward—_in

tenaci gramine_—played at chucks, “head him and cross him,” or some such

amusement. At school, Nanny had ever a faithful defender and avenger in

me; and I have even purloined apples and gooseberries from the castle

garden—and all for the love I bore “to my Nanny, oh!”

I know not that any one has rightly described a first love. It is not

the love of man and woman, though that be fervent and terrible; it is

not the love of mere boy and girlhood, though that be disinterested and

engrossing; but it is the love of the period of life which unites the

two. “Is there a man whose blood is warm within him” who does not

recollect it? Is there a woman who has passed through the novitiate of

fifteen, who has not still a distinct impression of the feeling of which

I speak? It is not sexual, and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes.

It is the sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being can

pass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence of the

adored—in seclusion, in meditation, and in dreams—it is bold, resolute,

and determined. There is no plan, no design, no right conception of

_cause_; yet the _effect_ is sure and the bliss perfect. Oh, for one

hour—one little hour—from the thousands which I have idled, sported,

dreamed away in the company of my darling school-companion, Nancy!

Will Mather was about two years older than Nancy—a fine youth, attending

the same school, and evidently an admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love of

comparative boyhood; but his was a passion gradually ripening (as the

charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a manly and matrimonial

feeling. I loved the girl merely as such—his eye, his heart, his whole

soul were in his future bride. Marriage in no shape ever entered into my

computations; but his eager look and heaving bosom bespoke the definite

purpose—the anticipated felicity. I don’t know exactly why, but I was

never jealous of Will Mather. We were companions; and he was high-souled

and generous, and stood my friend in many perilous quarrels. I knew that

_my_ pathway in life was to be afar from that in which Nancy and Will

were likely to walk; and I felt in my heart that, dear as this beautiful

rosebud was to me, I was not _man_ enough—I was not _peasant_ enough to

wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy on any occasion turned round to be kissed

by me, I would have fled over muir and dale to avoid her presence; and

yet I had often a great desire to obtain that favour. Once, indeed, and

only once, did I obtain, or rather steal it. She was sitting beside a

bird’s nest, the young ones of which she was feeding and cherishing—for

the parent birds, by the rapacity of a cat, had recently perished. As

the little bills were expanding to receive their food, her countenance

beamed with pity and benevolence. I never saw even _her_ so lovely; so,

in a moment, I had her round the neck, and clung to her lips with the

tenacity of a creature drowning. But, feeling at once the awkwardness of

my position, I took to my heels, becoming immediately invisible amidst

the surrounding brushwood.

Such was Will Mather, and such was Nancy Morrison, at the period of

which I am speaking. We must now advance about two or three years in our

chronology, and find Will possessed of a piece of information which bore

materially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegitimate child. His

mother had kept the secret so well that he did not know his father,

though he had frequently urged her to reveal to him privately all that

she knew of his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now

affianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes; whilst she, with a

becoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not to press an aged parent

on so delicate a point. At last the old woman was taken seriously ill,

and, on her death-bed and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of

his birth. He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a

much-respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his mother’s

eyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode of his father, and,

entering by a window, was in his father’s bed-chamber and over his body

ere he was fully awake.

“John Scott!” said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his

parent meantime convulsively round the neck, “John Scott of

Auchincleuch, _I am thy son_!”

The conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost

imagining this a supernatural intimation from Heaven, exclaimed, in

trembling accents:

“But who are you that makes this averment?”

“I am thy son, father—oh, I am thy son!”

Will could say no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped

hot and heavy on a father’s face.

“Yes,” replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob—(O Heaven! thou

art just!)—“yes, thou _art_ indeed my son—my long-denied and ill-used

boy—whom the fear of the world’s scorn has tempted me, against all the

yearnings of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to my

bosom—to a father’s bosom _now_, for I know that voice too well to

distrust thee.”

In a few months after this interesting disclosure, John Scott was

numbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no longer Mather) became

Laird of Auchincleuch.

Poor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this discovery, which put

her betrothed in a position to expect a higher or genteeler match. But

there was no cause of alarm. Will was true to the backbone, and would as

soon have burned his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride. After

much pressing for an early day on the part of the lover, it was agreed,

at last, that the marriage should take place at “Peatcasting Time,” and

that Nancy should, for the last time, assist at the casting of her

mother’s peats.

I wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you an account of

the happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy Morrison, the handsomest

couple in the parish of Closeburn. But it may not be! These eyes, which

are still filled (though it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and

this pen, which trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the

catastrophe.

Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I (for I was now on the point of leaving

school for college) agreed to have a jump for the last time (often had

we jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow.

“My frolicsome days will sune be ower,” she cried, laughing; “the

Gudewife of Auchincleuch will hae something else to do than jump frae

the moss-brow; and, while my name is Nancy Morrison, I’ll hail the

dules, or jump wi’ the best o’ my auld playmates.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried I; “you are now to be the wife o’ the Laird o’

Auchincleuch, when your jumping days will be at an end; and I am soon to

be sent to college, where the only jump I may get may be from the top of

a pile of old black-letter folios—no half sae gude a point of advantage

as the moss-brow.”

“There’s the Laird o’ Auchincleuch coming,” cried Peggy Chalmers, one of

the peat-casters, who was standing aside, along with several others.

“He’s nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the

blithest swankie o’ the barnyard. Siller maks sair changes; and yet, wha

wad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich bridegroom,

Nancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna tempt Providence, my

hinny! The laird winna like to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe

like a daft giglet, within a week o’ her marriage.”

“Tout!” cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh; “see, he’s awa

round by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us—and whar’s the harm if he

did? Come now, Tammie, just ae spring and the last, and I’ll wad ye my

kame against your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o’ my marriage

slipper.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on

their spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation.

The Laird had, as Nancy said, crossed over by what was called the Craw

Plantin, and was now out of sight. To make the affair more ludicrous

(for we were all bent on fun), Nancy took out, from among her high-built

locks of auburn hair, her comb—a present from her lover—and impledged it

in the hands of Billy Watson, along with my cravat, which I had taken

off, and handed to the umpire.

“Here is a better moss-brow,” cried one, at a distance.

And so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than the one we had

fixed upon, and the landing-place was soft and elastic. Our practice

was, always to jump together, so that the points of the toes could be

measured when both the competitors’ feet were still fixed in the moss.

We mounted the mossbrow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could scarcely

contain herself for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I went off, but the

mad girl could not follow, for she was still holding her sides, and

laughing immoderately. I asked her what she laughed at. She could not

tell. She was under the influence of one of those extraordinary

cachinations that sometimes convulse our diaphragms, without our being

able to tell why, and certainly without our being able to put a stop to

them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her glee shone bright in her

eye. I took my position again.

“Now!” cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and

spongy moss.

I stood with my feet in the ground, that the umpire might come and mark

the distance. A loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and,

dreadful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground, with the blood

pouring out at her mouth in a large stream! She had burst a

blood-vessel. The fit of laughing which preceded her effort to leap had,

in all likelihood, distended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to

the unhappy result.

The loud scream had attracted the notice of the bridegroom, who came

running from the back of the Craw Plantin. The sight appalled and

stupefied him. He cried for explanation, and ran forward to his dead or

dying bride, in wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation,

but none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the

unhappy man; but, though we could not speak intelligibly, we could act,

and several of us lifted her up. This step sealed her fate. The change

in her position produced another stream of blood. She opened her eyes

once, and fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed them,

and for ever.

I saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld her head, fainted

before he proceeded twenty yards, and I was obliged to take his place. I

was almost as unfit for the task as himself; for I reproached myself as

the cause of her death. I have lived long. Will the image of that

procession ever pass from my mind? The blood-stained moss-ground, the

bleeding body, the trailing clothes, the unbound locks, are all before

me. I can proceed no further. Would that I could stop the current of my

thoughts as easily as that of this feathered chronicler of sorrow! But—

There is a silent sorrow here,

A grief I’ll ne’er impart;

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,

But it consumes my heart.

I have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still remains a

bachelor, and that on every visit I make to Dumfriesshire, I take my

dinner, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are

annually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy.

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE PRESS-GANG.

How goes the press? was, as usual, our first and most anxious inquiry

when the pilot boat came alongside to the westward of Lundy Island. The

brief but emphatic reply was, “As hot as blazes.” Knowing therefore what

we had to expect, the second mate and I, and one or two others, applied

to the captain to set us ashore at Ilfracomb, but he would not listen to

us. A double-reefed topsail breeze was blowing from the westward, and a

vigorous flood-tide was setting up channel, enabling us to pass over the

ground about fifteen knots. Such advantages the captain was no way

disposed to forego, so that there was nothing for us but to trust to

Providence and our stow holes. The breeze flagged towards sunset, and it

was not until an hour after dusk that we dropped anchor in Kingroad.

As soon as the ship was brought up, I stepped in the main rigging to

lend a hand to furl the topsail, but had not reached the top, when I

heard the cabin boy calling out in an Irish whisper, “Bobstay, down,

down, the press-boat is alongside.” I was on deck in a twinkling, and

was springing to the after scuttle, when I found myself seized violently

by the arm. I trembled. It was the same boy that had called me down.

“They are already in the mizen chains,” said he; “to the fore scuttle,

or you are a gone man.”

Down the fore peak I went with the rapidity of lightning, and down

jumped three of the gang after me with little less velocity.

“Oho, my tight little fellow,” said one of them, thrusting his cutlass

down a crevice over my head; “I see you; out you must come, or here goes

an inch or two of cold steel into your bread-bag.”