I knew well that I was beyond his reach, and took care to let him have

all the talk to himself. They rummaged about all over the hold,

thrusting their cutlasses down every chink they could perceive, but no

one could they find give a single squeak. In about half an hour I heard

the well-known voice of the cabin boy calling me on deck. On reaching

the deck, I found that the gang had carried off three of our hands, and

had expressed their determination to renew their search next day. Of

course my grand object was to get ashore without delay. The moment we

anchored, the captain had gone off to Bristol to announce his arrival to

his owners; and as the mate and I were not on good terms, he refused to

allow me the use of the ship’s boat. None of the watermen whose boats we

hailed would come alongside, because if they had been found assisting

the crew of merchant vessels to escape the press, they themselves would

have been subjected to its grasp. About midnight, however, one waterman

came alongside, with whom the love of money overcame the fear of danger,

and he agreed to pull the second mate, boatswain, and myself ashore, for

half a guinea each. I had brought from the West Indies a small venture

in sugar, a cask of which, about a hundredweight, I took into the boat

with me, to clear present expenses.

Shortly after we had shoved off, we found ourselves chased by a long

boat, which the waterman knew, by the sound of the oars, to be the

guard-boat. How we did pull! But it seemed in vain; we found it would be

impossible to reach the landing-place, so we pulled for the nearest

point of land. The moment the boat touched the ground, I took the cask

of sugar on my shoulder, and expecting solid ground under the boat’s

bows, jumped ashore. Instead of solid ground, I found myself above the

knees in mud. The guard-boat was within a hundred yards of the shore,

and what was to be done! All that a man has will he give for his

liberty, so away went the cask of sugar. Thus lightened, I soon

scrambled out, when the three of us scampered off as fast as it was

possible for feet to carry us. What became of the waterman, or his boat,

or my cask of sugar, we never knew; nor did we think of stopping to

breathe or look round us, till we reached the town of Peel, where by a

blazing fire and over a dish of beef-steaks, and a few tankards of brown

stout, we soon forgot our dangers and our fears.

Our residence here, as far as liberty was concerned, was pretty nearly

on a par with prison residence. The second mate and I lodged together,

and during daylight we never durst show our faces, except, perhaps,

between four and six in the morning, when we sometimes took a ramble in

a neighbouring burying-ground, to read epitaphs; and this, from the love

of the English to poetical ones, was equivalent to the loan of a volume

of poetry. But Time’s pinions seemed in our eyes loaded with lead, and

we were often inclined to sing with the plaintive swain,

Ah! no, soft and slow

The time it winna pass,

The shadow of the trysting thorn,

Is tether’d on the grass.

And had it not been for the kindly attentions of our landlord’s two

handsome daughters, to whose eyebrows we indited stanzas, I know not how

we would have got the time killed.

Snug as we thought ourselves, the press-gang had by some means or other

been put on the scent, and one day very nearly pounced on us. So

cautious had they been in their visit, that their approach was not

perceived until they were actually in the kitchen. Fortunately we were

at this time in an upper room, and one of the daughters rightly judging

of the purpose of their visit, flew upstairs to warn us of our danger,

and point out a place of safety. This place was above the ceiling, and

the only access to it was through a hole in the wall a little way up the

vent. It was constructed as a secure place to lodge a little brandy or

geneva, that sometimes found its way to the house, without having been

polluted with the exciseman’s rod. It was excellently adapted to our

purpose, and the entrance to it was speedily pointed out by our pretty

little guardian angel. Up the vent we sprung like a brace of chimney

sweeps, and had scarcely reached our place of concealment, when the gang

rushed upstairs, burst open the door, and began to rummage every corner

of the room. The bed was turned out, the presses all minutely examined,

and even the vent itself underwent a scrutiny, but no seamen could be

found.

“Tell us, my young lady, whereabout you have stowed away them there

fellows, for we knows they are in the house?”

“What fellows?” said the dear little girl, with a composure which we

thought it impossible for her to assume so soon after her violent

trepidation.

“Why, them there fellows as came ashore from one of the West Indiamen

t’other day; we knows they are here, and are determined to have ’em.”

“You have certainly been misinformed,” said she; “you are welcome to

search the house, but be assured you will find no such men here.”

“Come, come, my little fair un, that is all in my eye and Betty Martin.

Here they are, this is certain, and we are determined to make our

quarters good till we find them out;” and away they went to search the

other apartments of the house.

Meanwhile our charming little protectress, alarmed at the threatened

siege, and fearing that we would be starved into a surrender, took the

opportunity, while the gang were rummaging the parlour and some other

bedrooms, to supply our garrison with provisions. A basket with boiled

ham, a couple of capons, a household loaf of ample dimensions,

half-a-dozen of brown stout, the family bottle of excellent stingo, and

a can of water, were expeditiously handed up the vent. This supply set

our minds quite at ease, as we knew it would enable us to stand a week’s

close siege. Our patience, however, was not put to this trial, for the

gang, after a two hours’ vigilant search, abandoned their pursuit in

despair, and departed.

We could not, of course, think of venturing up to Bristol to look after

our wages, so we employed our landlord to perform this duty. After a

good many vexatious delays, we succeeded in getting our money, paid off

all scores, and began to think how we were to dispose of ourselves. My

companion Lindsay was so deeply smitten with the charms of one of the

youthful sirens, that he found it impossible to depart; and I had to

concert all my future projects alone, and leave him bound in Cupid’s

silken chain.

My blue jacket and fringed dimity trousers, my check shirt and scarlet

vest, were at once discarded, and their places supplied by articles of a

more landward appearance. I knew that it would be impossible to travel

the country safely in seaman’s dress, so I determined to try my fortune

as a beau. The body of Bill Bobstay incased in a ruffled shirt, silk

vest, white stockings, breeches buttoned at the knees, and a

swallow-tailed coat, presented such a curious spectacle, that he himself

could scarcely help laughing at it, and it seemed to produce the same

effects on the landlord’s daughter, as she with a witching smile chucked

up my chin, until she arranged the bights and ends of my white

neckcloth, according to the most approved form. She took as long to

perform this little office as I could have rigged _in toto_, and seamen

are never backward in acts of courtesy, when the ladies are concerned.

Her ruby lips were all the while within marlingspike’s length of my own,

and how could I avoid saluting them?

Thus equipped, I set out on foot for Bath, but as I had no business to

perform in that city of invalided nabobs, I immediately took coach for

London, and after travelling all night, I, on awaking from a short nap,

found myself rattling over the stones at Hyde Park corner.

My object was to procure a passage to the northward, in one of the Leith

or Berwick smacks, and I expected in eight or ten days, after an absence

of as many years, to set foot once more on my native soil. As soon

therefore as the coach stopped in Piccadilly, I alighted, and knowing

the bearing by compass of London Bridge, I, without waiting to

breakfast, winded my way through the Haymarket, past Charing Cross,

along the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, till I arrived at St

Paul’s. From this point I took a fresh departure, and holding as nearly

as cross streets would admit, a south-easterly course, gained Thames

Street, and soon found myself in the vicinity of the Tower.

Smartly as I had moved my body along, my imagination, as is usual with

me, had got a long way a-head. It had obtained a passage, secured a fair

wind, landed me on the pier of Leith, and was arranging my introductory

visit to my friends, so as to produce the greatest sum of agreeable

surprise. But there is much, says the old proverb, between the cup and

the lip. In the midst of this agreeable reverie, as I was crossing Tower

Hill, I found myself tapped on the shoulder, and on looking round, was

accosted by a man in seaman’s dress in the words, “What ship?” I assumed

an air of gravity and surprise, and told him I apprehended he was under

some mistake, as my business did not lie among shipping. But the fellow

was too well acquainted with his business to be thus easily put off. He

gave a whistle, the sound of which still vibrates in my ear, and in a

moment I was surrounded by half-a-dozen ruffians, whom I immediately

suspected, and soon found out to be the press-gang. They dragged me

hurriedly through several lanes and alleys, amid the mingled sympathy

and execrations of a numerous crowd, which had collected to witness my

fate, and soon landed me in the rendezvous. I was immediately ushered

into the presence of the lieutenant of the gang, who questioned me as to

my name, country, profession, and what business had led me to Tower

Hill. Totally unexpecting any such interruption, I had not thought of

concocting any plausible story, and my answers were evasive and

contradictory. I did not acknowledge having been at sea; but my hands

were examined, found hard with work, and discoloured with tar. This

circumstance condemned me, and I was remanded for further examination.

Some of the gang then offered me spirits, affected to pity me, and

pretended to comfort me under my misfortune, but like the comforters of

Job, miserable comforters were they all. The very scoundrel who first

seized me put on a sympathising look, and observed what a pity it was to

be disappointed when so near the object of my wishes. Such sympathy from

such a source was truly provoking; but having no way of showing my

resentment, I was constrained to smother it.

In a short time I was reconducted into the presence of the lieutenant,

who told me, as I was already in his hands, and would assuredly be kept,

I might as well make a frank confession of my circumstances. It would

save time, and insure me better treatment. What could I do? I might

indeed have continued silent and sullen, but of what service could this

prove? It might, or might not, have procured me worse treatment, but one

thing I knew well, it would not restore me to liberty. I therefore

acknowledged that I had been a voyage to the West Indies, and had come

home carpenter of a ship. His eye brightened at this intelligence.

“I am glad of this, my lad. We are very much in want of carpenters. Step

along with these lads, and they will give you a passage aboard.”

The same fellows who had first seized me led me along the way we came,

handed me into a pinnace lying at Tower Wharf, and before mid-day I was

safely handed on board the Enterprize.

What crosses and vexations, and reverses and disappointments, are we

mortals destined to meet with in life’s tempestuous voyage! At eight in

the morning I entered London a free agent, elated with joy, and buoyed

up with hope. At noon I entered a prison ship, a miserable slave,

oppressed with sorrow, and ready to despair.

Despair, did I say? No. I will have nothing to do with that disturber of

human peace. When misfortune befalls us, we are not to sit down in

despondency and sigh. Up and be doing, is the wise man’s maxim, and it

was the maxim I was resolved to observe. What befell me on my arrival on

board the Enterprize, what reception I met with, and what mirth I

excited as I was lowered into the press-room, with my short breeches and

swallow-tailed coat—what measures I exerted to regain my liberty, and

what success attended these measures—the space at my disposal prevents

me setting forth.—_Paisley Magazine._

THE LAIRD OF COOL’S GHOST.

Upon the 3d day of February 1722 at seven o’clock in the evening, after

I had parted with Thurston, and coming up the burial road, one came up

riding after me. Upon hearing the noise of the horse’s feet, I took it

to be Thurston; but looking back, and seeing the horse of a gray colour,

I called, “Who’s there?” The answer was, “The Laird of Cool; be not

afraid.” Looking to him with the little light the moon afforded, I took

him to be Collector Castlelaw, who had a mind to put a trick upon me,

and immediately I struck with all my force with my cane, thinking I

would leave a mark upon him that would make him remember his

presumption; but although sensible I aimed as well as ever I did in my

life, yet my cane finding no resistance, but flying out of my hand to

the distance of sixty feet, and observing it by its white head, I

dismounted and took it up, but had some difficulty in mounting again,

partly by reason of a certain sort of trembling throughout my whole

joints, something also of anger had its share in my confusion; for

though he laughed when my staff flew out of my hand, coming up with him

again (who halted all the time I was seeking my staff), I asked him once

more who he was? He answered, “The Laird of Cool.” I inquired, first, if

he was the Laird of Cool; secondly, what brought him thither? and

thirdly, what was his business with me? He answered, “The reason that I

want you is, that I know you are disposed to do for me what none of your

brethren in Nithsdale will so much as attempt, though it serve never so

good a purpose.” I told him I would never refuse to do anything to serve

a good purpose, if I thought I was obliged to do it as my duty. He

answered, that I had undertaken what few in Nithsdale would, for he had

tried several persons on that subject, who were more obliged to him than

I was to any person living. Upon this I drew my bridle reins, and asked

in surprise, what I had undertaken? He answered, “That on Sabbath last,

I heard you condemned Mr Paton, and the other ministers of Dumfries, for

dissuading Mr Menzies from keeping his appointment with me; and if you

had been in their place, would have persuaded the lad to do as I

desired, and that you would have gone with him yourself, if he had been

afraid; and if you had been in Mr Paton’s place, you would have

delivered my commissions yourself, as they tended to do several persons

justice.” I asked him, “Pray, Cool, who informed you that I talked at

that rate?” to which he answered, “You must know that we are acquainted

with many things that the living know nothing about; these things you

did say, and much more to that purpose, and deliver my commissions to my

loving wife.” Upon this I said, “’Tis a pity, Cool, that you who know so

many things should not know the difference between an absolute and

conditional promise; I did, indeed, at the time you mention, blame Mr

Paton, for I thought him justly blamable, in hindering the lad to meet

with you, and if I had been in his place, I would have acted quite the

reverse; but I did never say, that if you would come to Innerwick and

employ me, that I would go all the way to Dumfries on such an errand;

that is what never so much as entered into my thoughts.” He answered,

“What were your thoughts I don’t pretend to know, but I can depend on my

information these were your words. But I see you are in some disorder; I

will wait upon you when you have more presence of mind.”

By this time we were at James Dickson’s enclosure, below the churchyard;

and when I was recollecting in my mind, if ever I had spoken these words

he alleged, he broke off from me through the churchyard, with greater

violence than any man on horseback is capable of, with such a singing

and buzzing noise, as put me in greater disorder than I was in all the

time I was with him. I came to my house, and my wife observed more than

ordinary paleness in my countenance, and alleged that something ailed

me. I called for a dram, and told her I was a little uneasy. After I

found myself a little refreshed, I went to my closet to meditate on this

most astonishing adventure.

Upon the 5th of March 1722, being at Harehead, baptizing the shepherd’s

child, I came off about sunsetting, and near William White’s march, the

Laird of Cool came up with me as formerly; and after his first

salutation bade me not be afraid. I told him I was not in the least

afraid, in the name of God and Christ my Saviour, that he would do me

the least harm; for I knew that He in whom I trusted was stronger than

all they put together; and if any of them should attempt to do, even to

the horse that I ride upon, as you have done to Doctor Menzies’ man, I

have free access to complain to my Lord and Master, to the lash to whose

resentment you are as liable now as before.

_Cool._ You need not multiply words on that head, for you are safe with

me; and safer, if safer can be, than when I was alive.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, let me have a peaceable and easy conversation

with you for the time we ride together, and give me some information

concerning the affairs of the other world, for no man inclines to lose

his time in conversing with the dead, without hearing or learning

something useful.

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you as far as I think proper and

convenient. Let me know what information you want.

_Ogil._ May I then ask you, if you be in a state of happiness or not?

_Cool._ There are a great many things I can answer that the living are

ignorant of; there are a great many things that, notwithstanding the

additional knowledge I have acquired since my death, I cannot answer;

and there are a great many questions you may start, of which the last is

one that I will not answer.

_Ogil._ Then I know how to manage our conversation; whatever I inquire

of you, I see you can easily shift me; to that I might profit more by

conversing with myself.

_Cool._ You may try.

_Ogil._ Well, then, what sort of a body is that you appear in; and what

sort of a horse is that you ride upon, which appears to be so full of

mettle?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it, it is not the same body that I was

witness to your marriage in, nor in which I died, for that is in the

grave rotting; but it is such a body as serves me in a moment, for I can

fly as fleet with it as my soul can do without it; so that I can go to

Dumfries, and return again, before you can ride twice the length of your

horse; nay, if I have a mind to go to London, or Jerusalem, or to the

moon, if you please, I can perform all these journeys equally soon, for

it costs me nothing but a thought or wish: for this body is as fleet as

your thought, for in the moment of time you can turn your thoughts on

Rome, I can go there in person; and as for my horse, he is much like

myself, for he is Andrew Johnston, my tenant, who died forty-eight hours

before me.

_Ogil._ So it seems when Andrew Johnston inclines to ride, you must

serve him in the quality of a horse, as he does you now.

_Cool._ You are mistaken.

_Ogil._ I thought that all distinctions between mistresses and maids,

lairds and tenants, had been done away at death.

_Cool._ True it is, but you do not take up the matter.

_Ogil._ This is one of the questions you won’t answer.

_Cool._ You are mistaken, for the question I can answer, and after you

may understand it.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, have you never yet appeared before God, nor

received any sentence from Him as a Judge?

_Cool._ Never yet.

_Ogil._ I know you was a scholar, Cool, and ’tis generally believed

there is a private judgment, besides the general at the great day, the

former immediately after death. Upon this he interrupted me, arguing.

_Cool._ No such thing, no such thing! No trial; no trial till the great

day! The heaven which good men enjoy after death consists only in the

serenity of their minds, and the satisfaction of a good conscience; and

the certain hopes they have of eternal joy, when that day shall come.

The punishment or hell of the wicked, immediately after death, consists

in the stings of an awakened conscience, and the terrors of facing the

great Judge, and the sensible apprehensions of eternal torments ensuing!

And this bears still a due proportion to the evils they did when living.

So indeed the state of some good folks differ but little in happiness

from what they enjoyed in the world, save only that they are free from

the body, and the sins and sorrows that attended it. On the other hand,

there are some who may be said rather not to have been good, than that

they are wicked; while living, their state is not easily distinguished

from that of the former; and under that class comes a great herd of

souls—a vast number of ignorant people, who have not much minded the

affairs of eternity, but at the same time have lived in much indolence,

ignorance, and innocence.

_Ogil._ I thought that their rejecting the terms of salvation offered

was sufficient ground for God to punish them with eternal displeasure;

and as to their ignorance, that could never excuse them, since they live

in a place of the world where the true knowledge of these things might

have been easily attained.

_Cool._ They never properly rejected the terms of salvation; they never,

strictly speaking, rejected Christ; poor souls, they had as great a

liking both to Him and heaven, as their gross imaginations were capable

of. Impartial reason must make many allowances, as the stupidity of

their parents, want of education, distance from people of good sense and

knowledge, and the uninterrupted applications they were obliged to give

to their secular affairs for their daily bread, the impious treachery of

their pastors, who persuaded them, that if they were of such a party all

was well; and many other considerations which God, who is pure and

perfect reason itself, will not overlook. These are not so much under

the load of Divine displeasure, as they are out of His grace and favour;

and you know it is one thing to be discouraged, and quite another thing

to be persecuted with all the power and rage of an incensed earthly

king. I assure you, men’s faces are not more various and different in

the world, than their circumstances are after death.

_Ogil._ I am loath to believe all that you have said at this time, Cool

(but I will not dispute those matters with you), because some things you

have advanced seem to contradict the Scriptures, which I shall always

look upon as the infallible truth of God. For I find, in the parable of

Dives and Lazarus, that the one was immediately after death carried up

by the angels into Abraham’s bosom, and the other immediately thrust

down to hell.

_Cool._ Excuse me, sir, that does not contradict one word that I have

said; but you seem not to understand the parable, whose only end is to

illustrate the truth, that a man may be very happy and flourishing in

this world, and wretched and miserable in the next; and that a man maybe

miserable in this world, and happy and glorious in the next.

_Ogil._ Be it so, Cool, I shall yield that point to you, and pass to

another, which has afforded me much speculation since our last

encounter; and that is, How you came to know that I talked after the

manner that I did concerning Mr Paton, on the first Sabbath of February

last? Was you present with me, but invisible? He answered very

haughtily, No, sir, I was not present myself. I answered, I would not

have you angry, Cool. I proposed this question for my own satisfaction;

but if you don’t think proper to answer, let it pass. After he had

paused, with his eyes on the ground, for three or four minutes of time

at most, with some haste and seeming cheerfulness, he says—

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you in that point. You must know that

there are sent from heaven angels to guard and comfort, and to do other

good services to good people, and even the spirits of good men departed

are employed in that errand.

_Ogil._ And do you not think that every man has a good angel?

_Cool._ No, but a great many particular men have: there are but few

houses of distinction especially, but what have at least one attending

them; and from what you have already heard of spirits, it is no

difficult matter to understand how they may be serviceable to each

particular member, though at different places at a great distance. Many

are the good offices which the good angels do to them that fear God,

though many times they are not sensible of it: and I know assuredly,

that one powerful angel, or even an active clever soul departed, may be

sufficient for some villages; but for your great cities, such as London,

Edinburgh, or the like, there is one great angel that has the

superintendence of the whole; and there are inferior angels, or souls

departed, to whose particular care such a man, of such a particular

weight or business, is committed. Now, sir, the kingdom of Satan does

ape the kingdom of Christ as much in matters of politics as can be, well

knowing that the court of wisdom is from above; so that from thence are

sent out missionaries in the same order. But because the kingdom of

Satan is much better replenished than the other, instead of one devil

there are in many instances two or three commissioned to attend a

particular family of influence and distinction.

_Ogil._ I read that there are ten thousand times ten thousand of angels

that wait upon God, and sing His praise and do His will; and I cannot

understand how the good angels can be inferior in number to the evil.

_Cool._ Did not I say, that whatever the number be, the spirits departed

are employed in the same business; so that as to the number of original

deities, whereof Satan is chief, I cannot determine, but you need not

doubt but there are more souls departed in that place, which in a loose

sense you call hell, by almost an infinity, than what are gone to that

place, which, in a like sense, you call heaven, which likewise are

employed in the same purpose; and I can assure you that there is as

great a difference between angels, both good and bad, as there is among

men, with respect to their sense, knowledge, cunning, cleverness, and

action; nay, which is more, the departed souls on both sides outdo

severals, from their very first departure, of the original angels. This

you will perhaps think a paradox, but is true.

_Ogil._ I do not doubt it; but what is that to my question, about which

I am solicitous?

_Cool._ Take a little patience, sir; from what I have said you might

have understood me, if you had your thoughts about you; but I shall

explain myself to you. Both the good and the bad angels have stated

times of rendezvous, and the principal angels, who have the charge

either of towns, cities, or kingdoms, not to mention particular persons,

villages, and families, and all that is transacted in these several

parts of the country, are there made open; and at their re-encounter on

each side, every thing is told, as in your parish, in milns, kilns, and

smithies, with this difference, that many things false are talked at the

living re-encounters, but nothing but what is exact truth is said or

told among the dead; only I must observe to you, that, as I am credibly

informed, several of the inferior bad angels, and souls of wicked men

departed, have told many things that they have done, and then when a

more intelligent spirit is sent out upon inquiry, and the report of the

former seeming doubtful, he brings in a contrary report, and makes it

appear truth, the former fares very ill: nevertheless their regard to

truth prevents it; for while they observe the truth, they do their

business and keep their station, for God is truth.

_Ogil._ So much truth being among the good angels, I am apt to think

that lies and falsehood will be as much in vogue among the bad.

_Cool._ A gross mistake, and it is not alone the mistake which the

living folks fall under with respect to the other world; for the case

plainly is this: an ill man will not stick at a falsehood to promote his

design; as little will an evil soul departed stop at anything that can

make himself successful; but in admitting report he must tell the truth,

or woe be to him. But besides their monthly, quarterly, or yearly

meetings, or whatever they be, departed souls acquainted may take a trip

to see one another yearly, weekly, daily, or oftener, if they please.

Thus, then, I answer your question that you was so much concerned about;

for my information was from no less than three persons, viz., Aikman,

who attends Thurston’s family; James Corbet, who waits upon Mr Paton;

for at that time he was then looking after Mrs Sarah Paton, who was at

your house, and an original emissary appointed to wait upon yours.

At this I was much surprised, and after a little thinking, I asked him,

And is their really, Cool, an emissary from hell, in whatever sense you

take it, that attends my family?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it.

_Ogil._ And what do you think is his business?

_Cool._ To divert you from your duty, and cause you to do as many ill

things as he can; for much depends on having the minister on their side.

Upon this I was struck with a sort of terror, which I cannot account

for. In the meantime he said several things I did not understand. But

after coming to my former presence of mind, said—

_Ogil._ But, Cool, tell me, in earnest, if there be a devil that attends

my family, though invisible.

_Cool._ Just as sure as you are breathing; but be not so much dejected

upon this information, for I tell you likewise that there is a good

angel who attends you, who is stronger than the other.

_Ogil._ Are you sure of that, Cool?

_Cool._ Yes; there is one riding on your right hand, who might as well

have been elsewhere, for I meant you no harm.

_Ogil._ And how long has he been with me?

_Cool._ Only since we passed Brand’s Lee, but now he is gone.

_Ogil._ We are just upon Elenscleugh, and I desire to part with you,

though perhaps I have gained more by conversation than I could have

otherwise done in a twelvemonth. I choose rather to see you another

time, when you’re at leisure, and I wish it were at as great a distance

from Innerwick as you can.

_Cool._ Be it so, sir; but I hope you will be as obliging to me next

re-encounter, as I have been to you this.

_Ogil._ I promise you I will, as far as is consistent with my duty to my

Lord and Master Christ Jesus; and since you have obliged me so much by

information, I will answer all the questions you propose, as far as

consists with my knowledge; but I believe you want no information from

me.

_Cool._ I came not here to be instructed by you, but I want your help of

another kind.

Upon the 5th of April 1722, as I was returning from Old Hamstocks, Cool

came up with me on horseback at the foot of the ruinous enclosure,

before we came to Dod. I told him his last conversation had proved so

acceptable to me, that I was well pleased to see him again; that there

was a number of things that I wanted to inform myself further of, if he

would be so good as satisfy me.

_Cool._ Last time we met, I refused you nothing you asked; and now I

expect that you shall refuse me nothing that I shall ask.

_Ogil._ Nothing, sir, that is in my power, or that I can do with safety

to my reputation and character. What, then, are your demands?

_Cool._ All that I desire of you is, that as you promised that on a

Sabbath-day you would go to my wife, who now possesses all my effects,

and tell her the following particulars—tell her in my name to rectify

these matters:—First, That I was owing justly to Provost Crosby £50

Scots, and three years’ interest, but on hearing of his death, my

good-brother the Laird of C—l and I forged a discharge, narrated the

bond, the sum, and other particulars, with this honourable clause, “And

at the time it had fallen by, and could not be found;” with an

obligation on the provost’s part to deliver up this bond as soon as he

could hit upon it. And this discharge was dated three months before the

provost’s death. And when his son and successor, Andrew Crosby, wrote to

me concerning this bond, I came to him and showed him the forged

discharge, which silenced him; so that I got up my bond without more

ado. And when I heard of Robert Kennedy’s death, with the same help of

C—l, I got a bill upon him for £190, of which I got full and complete

payment. C—l got the half. When I was at Dumfries, the same day that

Robert Grier died, to whom I was owing an account of £36, C—l, my

good-brother, was then at London; and not being able of myself, being

but a bad writer, to make out a discharge of the account, which I

wanted, I met accidently with one Robert Boyd, a poor writer lad in

Dumfries; I took him to Mrs Carnock’s, and gave him a bottle of wine,

and told him I had paid Thomas Grier’s account, but had neglected to get

a discharge, and if he would help me to one I would reward him. He flew

away from me in a great passion, saying, he would rather be hanged; but

if I had a mind for these things, I had better wait till C—l came home.

This gave me great trouble, fearing what C—l and I had done formerly was

no secret. I followed Boyd to the street, and made an apology, saying, I

was jesting, commending him for his honesty, and got his promise never

to repeat what had passed. I sent for my Cousin B—m H—rie, your

good-brother, who, with no difficulty, for a guinea and a half,

undertook and performed all that I wanted; and for a guinea more made me

up a discharge for £200 Scots that I was owing to your father-in-law and

his friend Mr Muirhead, which discharge I gave to John Ewart, when he

desired the money; and he, at my desire, produced it to you, which you

sustained.

A great many of the like instances were told, of which I cannot remember

the persons, names, and things; but, says he, what vexes me more than

all these, is the injustice I did Homer Maxwell, tenant to my Lord

Nithsdale, for whom I was factor. I borrowed £2000 from him, £500 of

which he borrowed from another hand: I gave him my bond, and, for

reasons I contrived, I obliged him to secrecy. He died within the year,

and left nine children, his wife being dead before himself. I came to

seal up his papers for my lord’s security; his eldest daughter entreated

me to look through them all, and to give her an account of what was

their stock and what was their debt. I very willingly undertook it; and

in going through the papers, I put my own bond in my pocket. His

circumstances proving bad, his nine children are now starving. These

things I desire you to represent to my wife, and take her brother with

you, and let them be immediately rectified, for she has a sufficient

fund to do it upon; and if it were done, I think I would be easy, and

therefore I hope you will make no delay.

After a short pause, I answered, ’Tis a good errand, Cool, you are

sending me to do justice to the oppressed and injured; but

notwithstanding I see myself come in for £200 Scots, yet I beg a little

time to consider the matter. And since I find you are as much master of

reason now as ever, and more than ever, I will reason upon the matter in

its general view, and then with respect to the expediency of my being

the messenger; and this I will do with all manner of frankness. From

what you have said, I see clearly what your present condition is, so

that I need not ask any more questions on that head; and you need not

bid me take courage, for at this moment I am no more afraid of you than

a new-born child.

_Cool._ Well, say on.

_Ogil._ Tell me, then, since such is your ability that you can fly a

thousand miles in the twinkling of an eye, if your desire to do the

oppressed justice be as great as you pretend, what’s the reason you

don’t fly to the coffers of some rich Jew or banker, where are thousands

of gold and silver, invisibly lift, and invisibly return it to the

coffers of the injured? And since your wife has sufficient funds, and

more, why cannot you empty her purse invisibly, to make these people

amends?

_Cool._ Because I cannot.

_Ogil._ You have satisfied me entirely upon that head. But pray, Cool,

what is the reason that you cannot go to your wife yourself, and tell

her what you have a mind? I should think this a more sure way to gain

your point.

_Cool._ Because I will not.

_Ogil._ That is not an answer to me, Cool.

_Cool._ That is one of the questions that I told you long ago I would

not answer: but if you go as I desire, I promise to give you full

satisfaction after you have done your business. Trust me for once, and

believe me I will not disappoint you.

Upon the 10th of April 1722, coming from Old Cambus, upon the post-road,

I met with Cool on the head of the heath called the Pees. He asked me,

if I had considered the matter he had recommended? I told him I had, and

was in the same opinion I was in when we parted; that I would not

possibly undertake his commissions, unless he could give me them in

writing under his hand. I told him that the list of his grievances were

so great that I could not possibly remember them without being put in

writing; and that I wanted nothing but reason to determine me in that,

and all other affairs of my life.

“I know,” says he, “this is a mere evasion: but tell me if the Laird of

Thurston will do it?”

“I am sure,” said I, “he will not; and if he should, I would do all that

I could to hinder him; for I think he has as little to do in these

matters as myself. But tell me, Cool, is it not as easy to write your

story as tell it, or ride on what-do-ye-call-him? for I have forgot your

horse’s name.”

_Cool._ No, sir, it is not; and perhaps I may convince you of the

reasonableness of it afterwards.

_Ogil._ I would be glad to hear a reason that is solid for not speaking

to your wife yourself; but, however, any rational creature may see what

a fool I would make of myself, if I would go to Dumfries, and tell your

wife you had appeared to me, and told so many forgeries and villanies

that you had committed, and that she behoved to make reparation; the

consequence might perhaps be, that she would scold me; for she would be

loath to part with any money she possesses, and therefore tell me I was

mad, or possibly pursue me for calumny. How would I vindicate myself;

how could I prove that you ever spoke with me? Mr Paton and other

ministers in Dumfries would tell me the devil had spoken with me; and

why should I repeat these things for truth which he, that was a liar

from the beginning, had told me? C—p—l and B—r— H—rie would be upon me,

and pursue me before the commissary; everybody would look upon me as

brain-sick or mad: therefore, I entreat you, do not insist upon sending

me so ridiculous an errand. The reasonableness of my demands I leave to

your own consideration, as you did your former to mine. But dropping the

matter till our next interview, give me leave to enter upon some more

diverting subject. I do not know, Cool, but the information you have

given may do as much service to mankind, as the redress of all these

grievances I would amount to. Mr Ogilvie died very soon after.—_Old Chap

Book._

ALLAN-A-SOP.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The MacLeans, a bold and hardy race, who, originally followers of the

Lords of the Isles, had assumed independence, seized upon great part

both of the Isle of Mull and the still more valuable island of Islay,

and made war on the MacDonalds with various success. There is a story

belonging to this clan, which I may tell you, as giving another striking

picture of the manners of the Hebrideans.

The chief of the clan, MacLean of Duart, in the Isle of Mull, had an

intrigue with a beautiful young woman of his own clan, who bore a son to

him. In consequence of the child’s being, by some accident, born on a

heap of straw, he received the name of Allan-a-Sop, or Allan of the

Straw, by which he was distinguished from others of his clan. As his

father and mother were not married, Allan was, of course, a bastard, or

natural son, and had no inheritance to look for, save that which he

might win for himself.

But the beauty of the boy’s mother having captivated a man of rank in

the clan, called MacLean of Torloisk, he married her, and took her to

reside with him at his castle of Torloisk, situated on the shores of the

sound, or small strait of the sea, which divides the smaller island of

Ulva from that of Mull. Allan-a-Sop paid his mother frequent visits at

her new residence, and she was naturally glad to see the poor boy, both

from affection, and on account of his personal strength and beauty,

which distinguished him above other youths of his age. But she was

obliged to confer marks of her attachment on him as privately as she

could, for Allan’s visits were by no means so acceptable to her husband

as to herself. Indeed, Torloisk liked so little to see the lad, that he

determined to put some affront on him, which should prevent his

returning to the castle for some time. An opportunity for executing his

purpose soon occurred.

The lady one morning, looking from the window, saw her son coming

wandering down the hill, and hastened to put a girdle cake upon the

fire, that he might have hot bread for breakfast. Something called her

out of the apartment after making this preparation, and her husband,

entering at the same time, saw at once what she had been about, and

determined to give the boy such a reception as should disgust him for

the future. He snatched the cake from the girdle, thrust it into his

stepson’s hands, which he forcibly closed on the scalding bread, saying,

“Here, Allan, here is a cake which your mother has got ready for your

breakfast.” Allan’s hands were severely burnt; and, being a sharp-witted

and proud boy, he resented this mark of his step-father’s ill-will, and

came not again to Torloisk.

At this time the western seas were covered with the vessels of pirates,

who, not unlike the sea-kings of Denmark at an early period, sometimes

settled and made conquests on the islands. Allan-a-Sop was young,

strong, and brave to desperation. He entered as a mariner on board of

one of these ships, and in process of time obtained the command, first

of one galley, then of a small flotilla, with which he sailed round the

seas and collected considerable plunder, until his name became both

feared and famous. At length he proposed to himself to pay a visit to

his mother, whom he had not seen for many years; and setting sail for

this purpose, he anchored one morning in the sound of Ulva, and in front

of the house of Torloisk. His mother was dead, but his step-father, to

whom he was now as much an object of fear as he had been formerly of

aversion, hastened to the shore to receive his formidable stepson, with

great affectation of kindness and interest in his prosperity; while

Allan-a-Sop, who, though very rough and hasty, does not appear to have

been sullen or vindictive, seemed to take his kind reception in good

part.

The crafty old man succeeded so well, as he thought, in securing Allan’s

friendship, and obliterating all recollections of the former affront put

on him, that he began to think it possible to employ his stepson in

executing his own private revenge upon MacQuarrie of Ulva, with whom, as

was usual between such neighbours, he had some feud. With this purpose,

he offered what he called the following good advice to his stepson:—“My

dear Allan, you have now wandered over the seas long enough: it is time

you should have some footing upon land—a castle to protect yourself in

winter, a village and cattle for your men, and a harbour to lay up your

galleys. Now, here is the island of Ulva, near at hand, which lies ready

for your occupation, and it will cost you no trouble, save that of

putting to death the present proprietor, the Laird of MacQuarrie, a

useless old carle, who has cumbered the world long enough.”

Allan-a-Sop thanked his step-father for so happy a suggestion, which he

declared he would put in execution forthwith. Accordingly, setting sail

the next morning, he appeared before MacQuarrie’s house an hour before

noon. The old chief of Ulva was much alarmed at the menacing apparition

of so many galleys, and his anxiety was not lessened by the news that

they were commanded by the redoubted Allan-a-Sop. Having no effectual

means of resistance, MacQuarrie, who was a man of shrewd sense, saw no

alternative save that of receiving the invaders, whatever might be their

purpose, with all outward demonstrations of joy and satisfaction; the

more especially as he recollected having taken some occasional notice of

Allan during his early youth, which he now resolved to make the most of.

Accordingly, MacQuarrie caused immediate preparations to be made for a

banquet, as splendid as circumstances admitted, hastened down to the

shore to meet the rover, and welcomed him to Ulva with such an

appearance of sincerity, that the pirate found it impossible to pick any

quarrel, which might afford a pretence for executing the violent purpose

which he had been led to meditate.

They feasted together the whole day; and, in the evening, as Allan-a-Sop

was about to retire to his ships, he thanked the laird for his

hospitality, but remarked, with a sigh, that it had cost him very dear.

“How can that be,” said MacQuarrie, “when I bestowed this entertainment

upon you in free goodwill?”

“It is true, my friend,” replied the pirate, “but then it has quite

disconcerted the purpose for which I came hither; which was to put you

to death, my good friend, and seize upon your house and island, and so

settle myself in the world. It would have been very convenient for me,

this island of Ulva; but your friendly reception has rendered it

impossible for me to execute my purpose, so that I must be a wanderer on

the seas for some time longer.”

Whatever MacQuarrie felt at learning he had been so near to destruction,

he took care to show no emotion save surprise, and replied to his

visitor: “My dear Allan, who was it that put into your mind so unkind a

purpose towards your old friend; for I am sure it never arose from your

own generous nature? It must have been old Torloisk, who made such an

indifferent husband to your mother, and such an unfriendly step-father

to you when you were a helpless boy; but now, when he sees you a bold

and powerful leader, he desires to make a quarrel betwixt you and those

who were the friends of your youth. If you consider this matter rightly,

Allan, you will see that the estate and harbour of Torloisk lie to the

full as conveniently for you as those of Ulva, and that, if you are

disposed (as is very natural) to make a settlement by force, it is much

better it should be at the expense of the old churl, who never showed

you kindness or countenance, than at that of a friend like me, who

always loved and honoured you.”

Allan-a-Sop was struck with the justice of this reasoning; and the old

offence of his scalded fingers was suddenly recalled to his mind. “It is

very true what you say, MacQuarrie,” he replied, “and, besides, I have

not forgotten what a hot breakfast my step-father treated me to one

morning. Farewell for the present; you shall soon hear news of me from

the other side of the Sound.” Having said thus much, the pirate got on

board, and commanding his men to unmoor the galleys, sailed back to

Torloisk, and prepared to land in arms. MacLean hastened to meet him, in

expectation to hear of the death of his enemy, MacQuarrie. But Allan

greeted him in a very different manner from what he expected.

“You hoary old traitor,” he said, “you instigated my simple good-nature

to murder a better man than yourself! But have you forgotten how you

scorched my fingers twenty years ago with a burning cake? The day is

come that that breakfast must be paid for.”

So saying, he dashed out the old man’s brains with a battle-axe, took

possession of his castle and property, and established there a

distinguished branch of the clan of MacLean.—_From Tales of a

Grandfather._

JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.

In a certain small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about

three years ago, a very respectable tailor, of the name of John

Hetherington—that is to say, John wore well with the world; but, like

too many of his craft, he was sorely addicted to cabbaging. Not a coat

could he make, not a pair of trousers could he cut out, not a waistcoat

could he stitch up, but he must have a patch of this, that, and t’other,

were it for no other purpose but just to serve as a bit of a memorial.

One very warm evening towards the end of August 1826, John had gone to

bed rather earlier than usual, but not without having laid in a very

good share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit; which said rabbit, being

composed of about a pound of tough cheese, of course furnished the poor

tailor, after he had fairly tumbled over into the land of Nod, with

something of a very curious Welsh-rabbit vision. It suddenly struck him

that this life, with all its cares and anxieties, was over with him;

that the finishing stitch had been put to the great work of life, and

the thread of his existence cut through. In the other world, to his

misfortune, he found things not moving so comfortably as he would have

wished; and the old gentleman with the short horns and the long tail,

rigged out in his best suit of black, was the first friend he

forgathered with after passing the border.

“There’s a fine morning,” said the wily old dog; “how do you find

yourself after long travel?”

“No that weel,” stammered out the half-dead son of a goose; “no that

weel; and I dinna think, all things considered, it would benefit me much

to be found in such company, no offence to your reverence,” as he saw

his new friend’s choler rise; “no offence to your reverence, I trust;

but if I may be so bold, I would thank you to tell me the reason of my

being here; and, above all, who’s to be thankit for the honour of an

introduction to your reverence?”

“That you will know shortly, friend; nay, John Hetherington, for you see

I know you;” and taking a large parcel from below his left arm, he

commenced to unroll it, and to the astonishment of poor John, unfolded a

long sheet of patchwork, in which were found scraps of every hue, a web

of many colours, all neatly stitched together; and in the middle, by way

of a set off, a large bit of most excellent blue cloth, which had been

cabbaged that very morning from a prime piece which he had got into his

hands for the purpose of making a marriage coat for his neighbour the

blacksmith.

“Was all this stuff got fairly and honestly, good man?” said the old

gentleman, with a sneer quite worthy of Beelzebub. “I suppose you will

be able to recognise some of these old bits. What think you now of that

piece in the middle which your eyes are fixed on—cabbaged no farther

back than this morning? Come along, my old boy, come along; you are a

true son of your old father, I see, and I will furnish you with as warm

winter quarters as you ever enjoyed when you was half-stewed with your

old maiden aunt, at the top of fifteen pair of stairs in the High Street

of Edinburgh, when serving your apprenticeship with Dick Mouleypouches.”

A cold sweat broke over the poor tailor, and he felt as if he could have

sunk snugly into the earth, if it had only had the goodness to open at

that moment for his especial accommodation, when he saw the long bony

arm stretched out, with its sharp eagle claws, to clutch him: he made a

sharp bolt back, and giving vent to his feelings in a loud and long

howl, which rung horribly in his ears long after opening his eyes, he

found himself sprawling in the middle of his wooden floor, with all the

bed-clothes tumbled above him. It was the first breaking out of a fine

morning: the sun was rising, and all nature looked fresh and fair; but

poor John was at the point of death with sheer bodily fear and

trembling, so that to get to bed again, and to sleep, would have been

martyrdom; therefore he huddled on his clothes, and walked out “to snuff

the caller air,” and muse over his wonderful dream. The more he thought

of it, the more he saw the necessity of reforming his mode of life; and,

before finishing his stroll, he was an altered man, and had made up his

mind never more to cabbage an inch of cloth; and, by walking circumspect

and just, he trusted that his past offences might be wiped out, and that

the wonderful web of many colours should no more be brought up as

evidence against him. To make him the more secure in the event of

forgetfulness in the hour of temptation, his foreman was let into the

great secret, and had orders at all times to rub up his remembrance when

there was any thing good going, which he used to do by the laconic

phrase of, “Master, mind the sheet!”

A year passed over, and the terror of the dream being yet fresh in his

memory, John’s transactions were strictly honest. He could cut out with

somewhat more considerable ease, and had lost a good deal the knack of

cutting out the sly piece at the corner. But, alas! for the stability of

all human resolutions, our friend was sorely tempted, and how he stood

we shall soon see. He had got to hand a beautiful piece of red cloth,

for what purpose I know not, whether for the coat of a field officer, or

the back of a fox hunter, but a prime piece of cloth that was; he turned

it over to this side, and back to that, viewed it in all lights and

shades, rubbed it against the grain, and found it faultless. He had

never seen such a fine piece of cloth before—scissors had never before

cut such immaculate stuff. He fixed his eye wistfully on a tempting

corner, looked up, and his foreman John was staring firmly in his face:

he had read his thoughts.

“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly ejaculated John.

“I’m just swithering, John; I’m just swithering: now when I mind, there

wasna a piece of red cloth in all the sheet; and mair by token, there

was a bit gap at one of the corners. Now, I’m just thinking, since it

maun be that all these bit odds and ends are to be evidence against me

when I come to the lang count, it would be better to snick a bit aff the

corner here; and that you see, John, will fill all deficiencies, and mak

the sheet, since it maun appear against me, evidence, John, without a

flaw!”

BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.

BY JAMES SMITH.

In the days no sae very lang syne, when the auld West Bow o’ Edinburgh

was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there lived an auld blackymore named

Joe Johnson. He was weel kent through a’ the toun for his great

ingenuity in makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—something like the

“Punch and Judy” o’ present times, but mair exquisitely finished

an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine word?—_artistic_?—that’s it. Aweel, this

man, commonly ca’d Black Joe, lived up a lang stair in the Bow, on the

richt-hand side gaun doun. He made his livin’ in simmer by the bonnie

bits o’ ships he made, displaying them for sale at the front gate o’

Heriot’s Wark, in Lauriston; an’ whiles he took a change at the drum an’

pan-pipes, wi’ a wee doggie ca’d Pincher, that stood on its hint-legs

when Joe was playin’, wi’ a tin saucer in its mouth to haud the coppers.

Sometimes, when Joe was playin’, and naething was comin’ in, the dog wad

bite somebody’s leg by mistake to vary the entertainment, to Joe’s

unspeakable delight. But this was often followed by somebody roaring

oot—“Horselip! Horselip!” an’ then the drumstick flew through the crowd

at somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally marched to the office between

twa policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper when roused, he had a kind,

canny way wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna hae wranged a livin’

cratur.

When the lang winter nichts set in, Joe had a show at the fit o’ his

stair; an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum an’ pan-pipes, as he stood at

the outside o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern stuck up in front,

whereon was painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button on the road to

Brentford, the Babes in the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his mare Meg,

pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty Sark makin’ a catch at Maggie’s tail,

or some ither scenic representation. Whiles, when Joe was burstin’ his

black face in the middle o’ a fine tune, some ragged imp wad roar—

Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—

Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,

Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!

Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe after the malicious urchin, the

doggie first and foremost in the chase. For whether the beast had been

trained, or acted through the force o’ instinct, certain it is, that nae

sooner was its maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it sprang, an’ fixed

its teeth in the shins o’ the first ane that cam in its way.

There was ae New Year’s nicht that an unco mess took place wi’ Joe’s

show. There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’ a man that the laddies aye

ca’d “Tooral”—ane o’ the best figures in the show. This figure was on

the stage singin’ “Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last verse—

Tak the pan an’ break his head—

Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;

That’s a’ as fac’ as death—

when a wild loon, that had been lookin’ on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a watery

mouth at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony langer to resist temptation,

made a dart at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot o’ the show. This

created an unco commotion, for when the folk begoud to rise up in the

gallery—it was a’ gallery thegither—as Joe rushed out after the thief,

cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch a thief! catch a thief!” the whole

rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great crash. But they didna fa’ far; for

it wasna muckle mair than five or six inches frae the ground

a’thegither. But the thief was never gotten that nicht, tho’ it’s a

consolation to ken that he was banished shortly afterwards for stealin’

a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’ saut butter frae a puir widdy woman, as

she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop in the Canongate.

But Joe was thrown into sic a state wi’ rinnin’ through the toun after

the thief, that next day he was delirious wi’ a ragin’ fever. My mither

lived but an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun in noo an’ then to see

how the puir body was doing, that a strange interest in Joe’s history

was awakened in her breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some very strange

expressions when lyin’ in the delirious state. Ance or twice he cried,

“Me nebber shoot massa—me nebber shoot massa. Major murder him broder—me

see ’im do it. Got pistol yet—me tell truth—me no tell lie;” an’ sae he

wad gang ravin’ on at this gait for hours. When at last the fever had

abated, an’ Joe was able to come ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s

fireside, she asked him, in her ain canny way, if he wadna like to gang

back again to his native country. But the black fell a tremblin’, an’

shook his head, sayin’ “Nebber—nebber—nebber more!” This roused my

mither’s curiosity to the highest pitch, for she was convinced noo, mair

than ever, that some dark history was locked up in the African’s breast.

Ae day, a while after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat doun by the fireside, as

usual; for though the day was scorching hot, being in the heat o’

simmer, the cratur was aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld. Takin

oot his cutty pipe, as usual, he began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no

lib long; me no strength—me weak as water—me no happy—wish ’im was

dead.”

“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang

day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”

But Joe aye shook his head.

“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his puir wasted hand in her ain, “there’s

something mair than weakness the matter wi’ ye. I ken that, whatever ye

may say; and the best thing for ye to do’s to mak a clean breast o’t.

Whatever ye may say to me, I promise shall be as secret as the grave. Ye

ken me ower weel to doot that.”

Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’ syne at the door. My mither

cannily closed the door, an’ sat doun beside him. Then the nigger,

cautioning her to mind her promise, telt her a story that sent her to

her bed that nicht wi’ a gey quaking heart. But as this story wadna be

richtly understood to gie’t in the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll

tell’t in my ain way.

Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh, baith him an’ his wife were

slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation in Jamaica. This Zedekiah Gilroy

was the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’ Hawkesneb Hoose. I mind o’ the

place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday; for mony a time I’ve

passed it on the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh. It’s a gude fourteen

hours’ journey frae Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye like. Aweel, the eldest

son o’ this Colonel Gilroy had gotten a commission in the East India

Company, an’ had risen to the rank o’ major in ane o’ the native

regiments; but brocht himsel’ into disgrace there by causing the death

o’ ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless cruelty, an’ was obliged to

sell oot, an’ come hame in disgrace. He hadna been lang hame, when a

letter cam frae his brither, requesting him to come oot an’ look after

his estate, for he had been twice attacked by yellow fever, an’ was

utterly incompetent to look after’t. His overseers, he said, were rivin’

him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’ a’thing was gaun wrang thegither. His wife

had been struck doun by the same fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits

had ta’en possession o’ him, that a’ the luxuries o’ high life an’

plenty o’ siller couldna diminish. His only wish was to see his brither

oot beside him, an’ tak for a while the oversicht o’ his affairs, till

health an’ strength blessed him ance mair. Aweel, under a’ thae

circumstances, the auld colonel advised his son to gang oot an’ do his

best to help his brither in his sair extremity. Sae the major, wi’ an

unco show o’ reluctance, at last consented, an’ aff he gaed to Jamaica,

to play the deevil there, as he had done before in the East Indies.

Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica when an unco change for the waur took

place. There was naething but orderin’, cursin’, swearin’, an’ lashin’

o’ slaves frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was amang the first that

succumbed to the murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in for mair than

his share. Rumours soon began to spread that the maister himsel’ was

tyrannised ower by his brither. He was ane o’ the very kindest o’

maisters to his slaves, until his brither cam like a frosty blicht, and

filled the whole estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this state o’ things gaed

on for nearly six months, when ae day Joe, exasperated at the inhuman

treatment he was receivin’ at the major’s instigation, took leg-bail to

the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the cliffs. There he lurked, day

after day, crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather shell-fish an’ dulse frae the

rocks, an’ castin’ his e’e ower the wide watery waste for the welcome

sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae the accursed spot. Mair than ance he

had heard the shouts o’ the manhunters on his track, intermingling wi’

the terrible bay o’ the bluidhound. But a’ their vigilance was eluded by

the impregnable nature o’ his position, high up amang the rocks.

On the morning o’ the thirteenth day after his escape, he cautiously

emerged frae his high den, an’ looked around him as usual. The air was

intensely hot, an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were fast drivin’ through a

black, lowering sky, the certain presage o’ a fearfu’ storm. The sea lay

calm and still, for there wasna a breath o’ wind stirring, an’ flocks o’

sea-birds were filling the sultry air wi’ their harsh, discordant cries.

Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’ illumined the black, murky sky, an’

a loud clap o’ thunder reverberated amang the mountains. Then the

lichtnin’ an’ thunder became incessant, the sea lashed itsel’ into foam

an’ fury, an’ the rain poured doun in torrents. As the slave surveyed

the elements thus ragin’ in a’ their terrific grandeur, the distant

sound o’ carriage-wheels caught his ear. Nearer an’ nearer they cam,

till he recognised a gig driven by the major comin’ on at a rattlin’

pace. His brither sat beside him, propped up wi’ shawls and cushions,

an’ appeared to be at that moment in an attitude o’ earnest entreaty;

while every noo and then the faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation

was borne on the gale that noo roared ower land an’ sea, though what

they said it was utterly impossible to distinguish. The slave looked on,

first in astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for, instead o’ turnin’ the

horse’s head hamewards as the storm cam on, the major persisted in

drivin’ richt on through the sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’

in, in spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’ his brither to turn. At last

the gig was stopped, as the horse, plunging and restive, went up to the

middle in water. Then a deadly struggle took place that lasted scarcely

a minute, when the report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the thunder, an’

the next instant the body o’ the invalid was hurled into the roaring

surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s head was turned hameward, an’ aff went

the gig in richt earnest, but no before a wild yell o’ execration frae

the cliff warned the murderer that the deed had been witnessed by mair

than the e’e o’ God abune. Scarcely had the sound o’ the wheels died

away, when the slave descended the lofty precipitous rocks wi’ the

agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged into the sea to save, if it were yet

possible, his puir maister. But the dark purple streaks on the surface

o’ the water where the deed was accomplished telt, ower fearfully, that

the sharks were already thrang at their horrid wark, an’ that a’ hope o’

saving him, if he werena clean deid after the pistol-shot was fired, was

for ever gane. Therefore he reluctantly swam back to the shore, wi’

barely enough o’ time to save himsel’. Before scaling the cliff, he

lifted the pistol that the murderer, in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the

moment, had left behind him on the beach. This incident filled the slave

wi’ fresh alarm, for it was certain the major wad come back for’t before

lang. Sae a’ that nicht he wearied sair for the mornin’ to come in.

Slowly at last the storm subsided, as the first pale streaks o’ dawn

were visible in the horizon; an’ as the daylicht lengthened mair an’

mair, he saw a dark speck floating on the waves, that on a nearer

approach proved to be a boat that had burst frae its moorings frae some

ship in the distant harbour. Fervently thanking God for this

providential means o’ deliverance, he descended frae his friendly

shelter for the last time, an’ boldly struck out for the boat, which he

reached in safety. Seizing the oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’

a fervent prayer that the dark drizzly fog that enveloped the ocean wad

continue to shield him, for a time, frae his merciless enemy, till some

friendly ship wad tak him up. It was high time; for he hadna gi’en

half-a-dozen strokes, when the sound o’ angry voices, among which was

the major’s, was borne on the breeze, an’ again the deep-toned bay o’

the bluidhound nerved his arms wi’ a’ the energy o’ desperation. Farther

an’ farther oot he gaed, battling wi’ the heavily swelling rollers that

threatened every moment to engulph the boat he steered sae bravely. For

mony a lang and weary hour he struggled wi’ the giant waves, enveloped

in fog, till the darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’ he was fast

gi’en up a’ hopes o’ succour, when the tout o’ a horn near at hand

warned him that a ship was bearing doun upon him. He had barely time to

steer oot o’ her way, when he was hailed by the captain, an’ asked where

he cam frae. Joe made answer that he was the sole survivor o’ the

_Nancy_, bound for England, that had sprung a leak, an’ foundered in

last nicht’s gale. At that moment a terrible wave capsized the boat, and

Joe was struggling in the water. But a rope was flung oot to him, an’ he

speedily drew himsel’ on board. This circumstance o’ the boat’s being

swamped was a mercy for Joe; for had the name o’ the ship she belanged

to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad hae been fand oot, an’ it micht

hae fared waur wi’ him. But the captain treated Joe wi’ great kindness,

and telt him he micht work his passage to Leith, which was the port o’

their destination. The vessel was a Leith trader named the _William and

Mary_, an’ was on her passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.

Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna to be blamed a’thegither for the

doonricht lee he telt the captain. He was a rinaway slave in the first

place, an’ had the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than likely he wad

hae delivered him up at the first port he touched at on the voyage hame.

In the second place, there was nae ither witness o’ the fearfu’ crime

binna himsel’; an’ he had the tact to see that evidence resting on the

sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair especially when that slave micht

be reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings against the murderer, wad

be treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’ even add to the horrors o’ his

ain death. Therefore Joe kept his ain coonsel, and when the vessel

arrived at Leith, he wandered up to Edinburgh, and resided for mony a

lang year in the West Bow, makin’ his livin’ in the manner already

related, and wi’ the secret carefully locked up in his breast until now.

“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when she had heard him oot, “that’s an

unco story, man. But are ye aware that the auld colonel’s aye livin’

yet, an’ that it wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?” Here Joe

lookit in her face sae pitifu’ an’ imploring like, that she didna find

it in her heart to press the question ony mair at that time. But when

the body gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’ and thinkin’ till the day

was far spent; an’ for mony a lang day after that she hadna muckle peace

o’ mind.

Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit and shawl, and said she wadna be hame

till late. Although I was a bit lassie at the time, I jaloused where she

was gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till late, late at nicht that she

cam hame, an’ then she telt me she had been at Hawkesneb Hoose on a

pretence to see if an auld servant she had kent mony a year sin’ was aye

bidin’ there. As she rang the gate-bell, she said a fearfu’ sense o’

shame an’ disgrace comin’ ower an auld man made her swither; but there

was the lodgekeeper’s wife comin’ to the gate, an’ it was ower late noo

to gang back. She then inquired for ane Jess Tamson, that had been a

servant up at the big hoose three years sin’; but the woman said she

didna ken o’ onybody o’ that name servin’ there noo. My mither said that

was an unco pity, as she had cam a lang way to see her, an’ her feet

were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The woman then opened the gate, an’

asked my mither into the lodge, an’ offered her a cup o’ tea, for which

my mither was very thankfu’. Then, when the twa fell on the crack, my

mither said the laird wad be gey far doon the brae noo, for he was an

auld man in Jess’s time. My mither came oot wi’ this in her ain pawky

way, to hear for certain whether the colonel were dead or livin’.

“The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a year sin’,” said the woman, “but his

son the major’s expected hame in a month; an’ I’m sure there has been

sic a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’, that what wi’ masons,

joiners, plasterers, painters, and glaziers, there hasna been muckle

rest for the servants this last fortnicht.”

“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.

“Married! no as yet,” said the woman. “They say he’s turned unco silent

and cantankerous since his brither’s death, sees naebody, an’ never

gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside.”

“The major never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by

his bedside!” said my mither, slowly comin’ ower the words after her.

“Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’ sair to keep in her breath. “What

kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’, hae ye heard?”

“What kind o’ death was’t? It was murder, dounricht murder!” said the

woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his ain slaves through revenge. But it

was a grand day for the major when his brither dee’d; for he wasna a

month gane when the plantation was selt aff, an’ the major left Jamaica

wi’ mony a braw thousand pound in his pouch.”

My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The woman said,

“No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither

every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health being in a

delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the advice o’

his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the auld laird’s

anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to wonder at the

major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he didna come to

lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo. As for

the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry after him for a

while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not likely he ever

will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his brither an airing in

a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae behind, wha fired a

pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled, wounding him

mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a lang distance and

fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the spot where the murder

had been committed, expecting to see the body; but, astonishing to

relate, the body had disappeared. And the man that did the deed, as I

said before, was never gotten; nor is it very likely he ever will be,

after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he fled awa to the mountains

among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”

“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain ways o’

workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way that

you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun hame;

but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far gane, an’

she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns. At that moment

the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to gang awa, he said

the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had nae doot the

guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she waited till the coach

cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.

Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had telt

this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she

to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.” It

aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’ gane

mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her slowly

readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid of

sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for

the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being

taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’ syne put a

mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after that, as the

puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae

bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she did, when

the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its result. The

puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she telt him the

murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun the Bible again,

an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully arrested her attention

the nicht before; and as she read them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation

shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a look o’ conscious innocence, that

dispelled every vestige o’ doot in my mither’s mind, if she ever had

ony, an’ made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had

endured since the murder was committed. He noo declared his readiness to

lodge an accusation against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being

misdooted vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my

mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae

slave-owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the

best white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be

rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation

preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an evidence

o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit bodies o’

lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’ lot, an’ mak

black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at this time deeply

engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to tak the major’s

part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach him

patience.

Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to control the

wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose,

carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual. It had been a drizzly

sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his journey’s end, as nicht set

in, he was wet through an’ through. The place was a’ in darkness, and as

he stood at the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky avenue, he half

resolved to gang back, an’ trust to time an’ the retributive justice o’

Heaven to prove his innocence. But an impulse he couldna resist chained

him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a

second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the

gate forward, and to his surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges.

Wi’ an unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he

reached the mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’

licht that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer,

the sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again

took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained the

mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’

her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’ nae

sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than she gied

a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht ben a’

the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as this

ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.

“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed in

black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye needna hae been

sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when the major’s lookit

for every minute.”

This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to the

big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while awa the

nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a swearin’, an’

was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler, a wee fat birsy

body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and seeing the nicht

was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him

a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer before him, tellin’

him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there. The hoosekeeper

didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune; but to

tell the truth, it seems that the twa were unco gracious, for when the

tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae that settles that. When Joe

had sat for a while preein’ the mercies set before him, ane o’ them—the

laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she

hadna haen a dance since gude kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the

kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a

similar manner.

“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A

bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird wi’ a drum

an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast show. A fiddle

michtna be sae bad.”

Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for

naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne struck

up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on he

played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the

whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell was

rung wi’ great violence.

“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper,

“an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the nicht noo,

when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to the major’s

room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’ was

confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.

The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and the

lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the

lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe; for

that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent

the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless

oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely forgotten

by the servants as if they had never been there. But as quietness was at

last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in his room, wi’ a

stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed wi’ supper

or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal to the

first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper,

wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang noo.

“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna open that door,” said the hoosekeeper;

“ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s asleep. I never saw sic a

savage-lookin’ man in my life, as he cam in at the front door. He’s

completely changed since I mind o’ him, when he wasna muckle mair than a

laddie. An’ sic a restless, suspicious e’e as he’s got! I dinna like

it—I positively dinna like it. But I’ll never pit up wi’ sic a man—I’ll

tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’ woman. An’ what the deil brocht

_you_ here?—makin’ things fifty times waur! Ye’ll never get oot o’ here

this nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet there’s that brute,” pointing to

Pincher, that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet under the table,

thrang worryin’ at a big bane—“what’s to be dune if it barks?”

But Joe gied her to understand there was nae fear o’ that, for he had

him ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance; but oh! he was

anxious—anxious to be off. The woman, hooever, remained inexorable.

There was therefore nae help for’t but to sit doun on a chair by the

kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit oot cannily in the mornin’ before the

major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa to their beds, an’ Joe was left alane

in the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at his side. But Joe couldna

close an e’e, wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here, at last, had

the providence o’ God brocht the murderer and his accuser beneath the

same roof. Joe lay doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the mornin’ comin’

in. The weather had cleared up, an’ the moon was streamin’ in through

the kitchen windows. The fire had gane oot, an’ the air felt cauld an’

chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’ horror took possession o’ Joe that he

couldna shake off. At last Pincher gaed a low growl, as if he had heard

somebody comin’. Joe could hear naething at first, but by degrees he

became sensible that a step was advancin’, saft, an’ almost noiseless,

doun the kitchen stair; an’ slowly the door opened as a figure dressed

in a lang dressin’-goun, an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand, entered

the kitchen. Speechless and unable to move, Joe saw his mortal enemy,

the major, starin’ him in the face; but as he silently returned the

gaze, he became sensible that it was void o’ consciousness. The major

was walkin’ in his sleep, that was evident, for he kept movin’ up an’

doun the kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid doun the candle on the

floor in ane o’ his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct that Joe

could hear every word—

“Will the sea give up its dead?—No, no. Why does his face always turn up

amid the roaring waves, as if to taunt me with the crime, and drag me to

eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s but a fancy after all. But the slave who

eluded my vengeance—curses on him!—where is _he_? Wandering over the

face of the earth, to confront me at last, perhaps, and accuse me as my

brother’s murderer. But will they believe _him_? They will not—nay, they

dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the black countenance of that infernal

fiend dogs me wherever I go, and will not give me peace—peace—peace!”

Then he took up the candle an’ made for the door, drew back, an’ again

cam into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a second time, an’ opened

the door. The sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the candle, an’ he

again entered the kitchen. At that moment he stumbled ower a chair, an’

Pincher gaed a loud bark, as the major started to his feet, restored to

consciousness. And as the moon’s rays revealed every surrounding object

wi’ a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that met his e’e was Joe—Joe

stannin’ before him, rigid and motionless—an auld rusty pistol in his

richt hand presented at him, an’ a wild glare o’ rage an’ defiance

flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’ e’en. The suddenness o’ the appearance

o’ this apparition—for apparition he thocht Joe to be—completely

paralysed him for the moment. His knees gaed knock, knockin’ thegither,

as Joe cried—

“Murderer! murderer! murderer! Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You dam

rascal—you villain—me hear to speak truth, and truth me speak spite of

eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”

As Joe said this, he advanced nearer an’ nearer, till the pistol touched

the major’s breast. But there he stood, powerless to resist; for his

belief still was that Joe was a phantom, till the growlin’ o’ the doggie

brocht him to himsel’ mair than onything else; and, fired by the energy

o’ desperation, he made a snatch at the pistol. But the nigger was ower

quick for him; for he sprang past the major, and oot at the kitchen door

that the major had providentially opened in his sleep, darted doun the

avenue and oot at the gate, syne awa at full speed on his lang journey

hame, which he reached by nine o’clock in the mornin’, mair deid than

alive. He cam into my mither’s just as she sat doun to her tea, an’ gaed

her the history o’ his last nicht’s adventure, as already related. My

mither’s advice to him was to gang directly to the authorities, an’

lodge an accusation. Joe did sae, and the result was that Captain S——,

accompanied by half a dozen constables, immediately took the coach for

Hawkesneb Hoose, which they reached about seven o’clock.

When they arrived there, the butler, hoosekeeper, an’ a’ the lave o’

them cam out, wonderin’ at seein’ the police authorities, accompanied by

the black man. But when Captain S—— asked, in a stern manner, if he

could see the major, an’ telling the men to watch the hoose, baith back

and front, their surprise was turned into consternation. The major wasna

up yet, the butler said; and his orders the nicht before were that

naebody was to disturb him unless his bell rang. And it was neither his

business nor onybody else’s to intrude where they werena wanted. On

hearing this, the captain peremptorily demanded to see his maister,

otherwise it wad be necessary to force an entrance into his room. At

this the hoosekeeper and butler baith gaed up, an’ cried the major’s

name; but nae answer cam. Then they tried to open the door, but the door

was evidently locked frae the inside, for it wadna open. When the

captain heard this, he gaed up himsel’, an’ burst open the door. On

entering the room, he lookit round, but could see naething. The bed lay

untouched; there had been naebody there, that was evident. But there was

a sma’ dressing-room that opened frae the bedroom, and on lookin’ there

he saw the major lyin’ in a doubled-up position on the carpet, wi’ his

hands clenched, an’ his e’en starin’ wide open. An empty phial lay

beside him, that telt, ower surely, what he had been after. The captain

placed his hand on his face, but it was quite cauld; an’ there wasna the

least doot that he had been dead for a lang time. When the captain cam

doun and communicated the news, there was sair wonder an’ astonishment,

but no muckle grief, ’od knows. The major had been a perfect stranger to

them a’, except the auld hoosekeeper; an’ to do the body justice, she

shed a tear or twa; but it’s my belief a third never made its

appearance, for a’ she tried.

Naething farther could be done in the matter. The major had anticipated

the demands o’ justice by takin’ justice on himsel’, an’ the wuddy had

been cheated o’ a victim, an’ a multitude o’ morbid sightseers rightly

ungratified. But oh, the joy o’ Joe’s heart when he cam into my mither’s

next mornin’! for it seems they had remained in the hoose a’ that nicht,

till the coach cam by on the Edinburgh journey. The fear that had hung

ower him like a nichtmare was dispelled for ever, an’ his innocence

triumphantly established beyond the least shadow o’ a doot. Kindly my

mither shook him by the hand, as she said—“The hand o’ God’s been in’t,

Joe, my man; an’ praise be to his name for sendin’ a bonnie glint o’

sunshine oot o’ the lang dreary darkness that’s encompassed ye. An’

never forget the verses that gaed ye sic blessed consolation;” an’

saftly an’ solemnly she cam ower them again—“Be not afraid of sudden

fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the

Lord shall be thy confidence, an’ shall keep thy foot from being taken.”

An’ Joe looked happy an’ contented, an’ never forgot my mither’s

kindness.

Joe gaed aboot the streets o’ Edinburgh mony a lang day after this. He

never taen up the show again, that I mind o’; but mony a bonnily riggit

ship he selt at Heriot’s Wark, and on the Earthen Mound, amang the

panoramas and the wild-beast shows, and doun at the stairs at bonnie

auld Shakespeare Square, that’s noo awa; an’ mony a time hae I heard his

drum an’ pan-pipes when I was baith a young quean an’ a married wife. He

dee’d a short time before the richt-hand side o’ the West Bow was taen

doun, an’ there’s no a single vestige noo to be seen o’ the auld land

where the show used to be, wi’ the lichtit paper-lantern at the door,

an’ the pan-pipes playin’ “Tooraladdy,” that cheered sae mony young

hearts in the days that are noo past an’ gane.—_From “Peggy Pinkerton’s

Recollections.”_

THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.

BY JAMES PATERSON.

Lieutenant Charles Ewart, better known as “Sergeant Ewart of the Greys,”

was born in Kilmarnock about the year 1767, and enlisted in that

regiment in 1789. He served under the Duke of York in the Low Country

Campaigns of 1793–4, and shared in all the victories and defeats which

the allied arms experienced. The disasters encountered by the British

arose in a great measure from the duplicity of the Dutch, as well as

from the military incapacity of the Royal general. At the battle, if we

mistake not, of Fleurus, in the Netherlands, where the Republican

forces, after a protracted contest, were the victors, Ewart had the

misfortune to be taken prisoner. Towards the close of the action, the

Greys were so thoroughly surrounded by the enemy that escape was

considered next to impossible. As the only means of preventing their

entire capture, they were ordered to disperse in small parties of twos

and threes, each to exert himself as he best might in finding his way to

the allied army, which had undertaken a retrograde movement. It was

evening as Ewart and his companions endeavoured to thread their way

amidst the smoke and spreading darkness by which they were enveloped.

They had not proceeded far, when, perceiving a body of French cavalry at

a short distance, they were compelled to seek safety in an opposite

direction. Though hotly pursued, they put spurs to their horses, and

soon distanced their enemies. At length they found themselves in the

vicinity of a wood, and, ignorant of the direction in which they were

proceeding, they determined on taking advantage of its shelter for the

night. Tying their jaded horses to a tree, they lay down beside them.

Tired out with the day’s fatigue, they fell soundly asleep; nor did they

awaken until rudely stirred from their slumber in the morning by a large

body of French infantry who had taken possession of the wood. Resistance

being out of the question, they instantly surrendered; but nothing could

save them from the abuse and insult of the soldiers, by whom they were

plundered of everything valuable. Fortunately, not above two hours

afterwards, the advance corps of the French were beaten back by a number

of Austrian troops, who in turn took the captors captive, and Ewart and

his comrades were restored to their regiment, not, however, without

having obtained permission of the Austrian officer in charge of the

prisoners to take from the Frenchmen the property of which they had been

plundered, and which they did with something of _interest_, by way of

repaying the usage they had experienced.

In the retreat of the British through Holland after the disastrous

battle of Nimguen, though conducted by Sir Ralph Abercrombie with great

skill and success, considering the desperate circumstances in which they

were placed, the army suffered the utmost privations. The winter was

unprecedentedly severe, and the loss of the stores and baggage added

greatly to their sufferings. Hundreds perished from excessive cold,

hunger, and fatigue. Many affecting anecdotes are told of the

vicissitudes endured. While on the march one day, near a place, the name

of which we forget, the faint wailings of a child were heard not far

from the roadside. Ewart dismounted, and proceeding to the spot, found a

woman and child lying amongst the snow. The mother was dead, but the

infant, still in life, was in the act of sucking the breast of its

lifeless parent. “Albeit unused to the melting mood,” Ewart felt

overcome by the spectacle. There was no time, however, for

sentimentalism; but lifting the child in his arms, and wrapping his

cloak around it, he remounted with his tender charge. On reaching the

encampment for the evening, he applied to the colonel, who generously

offered to defray the expenses of a nurse; but so entirely were the

women of the army absorbed with their own misfortunes, that not one of

them could be found to take care of the little orphan. Ewart was at

length fortunate in discovering the father of the child, a sergeant of

the 60th regiment, who was so much affected that he could scarcely be

restrained from retracing his steps in the vain hope of finding his

partner still in life. Three years after the return of the army to

Britain, and while the Greys were stationed in the south of England,

Ewart was one evening called to the head inn of the town. The soldier to

whom he was introduced grasped him warmly by the hand, as he inquired

whether he knew him. Ewart replied in the negative. A short explanation

sufficed. The stranger was the father of the child whom he had saved,

come to tender his thanks in a more substantial manner than was in his

power on the retreat in Holland. He had since that period been raised to

the rank of sergeant-major, and the little orphan was then a thriving

boy at home with his grandmother. He insisted on presenting Ewart with a

sum of money, but the offer was firmly rejected. He pressed him,

however, to accept a silver watch as a memento of his gratitude.

With the exception of a small portion of the regiment which took part in

the Peninsular War, the Scots Greys were not again called abroad till

1815. During the intervening period, no opportunity of distinguishing

themselves occurred. Ewart, who had borne himself with uniform

propriety, and gained the esteem of his superior officers by his

soldierly conduct, was early advanced as a sergeant, while his skill in

the sword exercise procured him further emolument by being appointed

master-of-fence to the regiment. The unlooked-for escape of Napoleon

from Elba gave a new impulse to the military ardour of this country. The

Greys, as well as the household troops, were called to arms, and in the

short but important campaign in Belgium, covered themselves with glory

on the plains of Waterloo. The splendid charge of General Ponsonby’s

cavalry brigade—composed of the First Royals, Greys, and

Inniskillings—is matter of history. It was in one of those dashing

affairs on the 18th, when covering the Highland brigade against a dense

mass of Invincibles, that the two eagles were captured by the Greys and

Royals. As the cavalry passed through the open columns of the

Highlanders, the cry of “Scotland for ever!” created an enthusiasm which

nothing could withstand, and the French infantry were scattered before

them. Upwards of two thousand prisoners were taken in this single onset.

Sergeant Ewart was engaged hand to hand with an officer, whom he was

about to cut down, when a young ensign of the Greys interceded in his

behalf, and desired that he might be passed to the rear. He had scarcely

complied with the request, when, on hearing the report of a pistol, he

turned and beheld the ensign falling from his saddle, and the French

officer in the act of replacing the weapon with which he had savagely

taken the life of his preserver. Enraged at the ingratitude of the

Frenchman, Ewart immediately turned upon him, and, deaf to his

supplications, cut him down to the brisket. This was the work only of a

moment, for the conflict still raged, the French infantry having been

supported by a numerous array of cuirassiers and lancers. Dashing

forward, he now came within reach of the standard-bearer of one of the

Invincible regiments to which they were opposed. A short conflict

ensued, when the French officer fell beneath Ewart’s sword, and the

staff of the eagle stuck fast in the ground, which was soft, so that he

was enabled to lay hold of it without further trouble. Had the standard

fallen, he could not have recovered it in the _melée_. Wheeling round,

Ewart was in the act of making off with his prize, when a lancer,

singling him out, galloped forward and hurled his spear at his breast.

With all his reputed quickness in defence, he had just strength enough

to ward off the blow, so that the lance merely grazed his side; then

raising himself in his stirrups, he brought his antagonist to the ground

with one cut of his sword. In riding away with the valuable trophy,

Ewart experienced another narrow escape—a wounded Frenchman, whom he had

supposed to be dead, having raised himself on his elbow, and fired at

him as he passed. The ball fortunately missed him, and he escaped to the

rear, when he was ordered to proceed with the standard to Brussels.

The prowess of Ewart was greatly applauded, not less in Belgium and

France than in Britain, and he subsequently, through the influence of

the late Sir John Sinclair, obtained a commission in a veteran battalion

as a reward for his services. When in Edinburgh in 1816, he was invited

to a Waterloo dinner at Leith, where Sir Walter Scott proposed his

health in an eloquent and highly complimentary speech. Little accustomed

to civilian society, Lieutenant Ewart felt diffident to reply; and, in a

note to the chairman, begged that he might be excused, adding, with the

bluntness of a soldier, that “he would rather fight the battle of

Waterloo over again, than face so large an assemblage.” The company,

however, would not be denied the gratification of a full-length view of

his person, and he was under the necessity of shaking off his diffidence

by acknowledging the toast in a brief reply, which he made amidst the

rapturous cheers of his entertainers. He was also publicly entertained

at dinner in Ayr and Kilmarnock, and was presented with the freedom of

Irvine.

CATCHING A TARTAR.

BY D. M. MOIR.

From the first moment I clapped eye on the caricature thing of a coat

that Tammie Bodkin had, in my absence, shaped out for Cursecowl the

butcher, I foresaw, in my own mind, that a catastrophe was brewing for

us; and never did soldier gird himself to fight the French, or sailor

prepare for a sea-storm, with greater alacrity, than I did to cope with

the bull-dog anger, and buffet back the uproarious vengeance of our

heathenish customer.

At first I thought of letting the thing take its natural course, and of

threaping down Cursecowl’s throat that he must have been feloniously

keeping in his breath when Tammie took his measure; and, moreover, that

as it was the fashion to be straight-laced, Tammie had done his utmost

trying to make him look like his betters; till, my conscience checking

me for such a nefarious intention, I endeavoured, as became me in the

relations of man, merchant, and Christian, to solder the matter

peaceably, and show him, if there was a fault committed, that there was

no evil intention on my side of the house. To this end I despatched the

bit servant wench, on the Friday afternoon, to deliver the coat, which

was neatly tied up in brown paper, and directed, “Mr Cursecowl, with

care,” and to buy a sheep’s-head; bidding her, by way of being civil,

give my kind compliments, and inquire how Mr and Mrs Cursecowl, and the

five little Miss Cursecowls, were keeping their healths, and trusting to

his honour in sending me a good article. But have a moment’s patience.

Being busy at the time turning a pair of kuttikins for old Mr

Mooleypouch the mealmonger, when the lassie came back I had no mind of

asking a sight of the sheep’s-head, as I aye like the little blackfaced

in preference to the white, fat, fozy Cheviot breed; but most

providentially I catched a gliskie of the wench passing the shop window,

on the road over to Jamie Coom the smith’s, to get it singed, having

been dispatched there by her mistress. Running round the counter like

lightning, I opened the sneck, and halooed to her to wheel to the right

about, having, somehow or other, a superstitious longing to look at the

article. As I was saying, there was a providence in this, which, at the

time, mortal man could never have thought of.

James Batter had popped in with a newspaper in his hand, to read me a

curious account of a mermaid that was seen singing a Gaelic song, and

combing its hair with a tortoise-shell comb, someway terrible far north

about Shetland, by a respectable minister of the district, riding home

in the gloaming after a Presbytery dinner. So, as he was just taking off

his spectacles cannily, and saying to me—“And was not that droll?”—the

lassie spread down her towel on the counter, when, lo, and behold! such

an abominable spectacle! James Batter observing me run back, and turn

white, put on his glasses again, cannily taking them out of his

well-worn shagreen case, and, giving a stare down at the towel, almost

touched the beast’s nose with his own.

“And what, in the name of goodness, is the matter?” quo’ James Batter;

“ye seem in a wonderful quandary.”

“The matter!” answered I, in astonishment, looking to see if the man had

lost his sight or his senses; “the matter! who ever saw a sheep’shead

with straight horns, and a visnomy all colours of the rainbow—red, blue,

orange, green, yellow, white, and black?”

“’Deed it is,” said James, after a nearer inspection; “it must be a

lowsynaturay. I’m sure I have read most of Buffon’s books, and I have

never heard tell of the like. It’s gey and queerish.”

“’Od, James,” answered I, “ye take everything very canny; you’re a

philosopher, to be sure; but I daresay if the moon was to fall from the

lift, and knock down the old kirk, ye would say no more than ‘it’s gey

and queerish.’”

“Queerish, man! Do ye not see that?” added I, shoving down his head

mostly on the top of it. “Do ye not see that? awful, most awful!

extonishing!! Do ye not see that long beard? Who, in the name of

goodness, ever was an eyewitness to a sheep’s-head, in a Christian land,

with a beard like an unshaven Jew, crying ‘owl clowes,’ with a green bag

over his left shoulder?”

“Dog on it,” said James, giving a fidge with his hainches; “dog on it,

as I am a living sinner, that is the head of a Willie-goat.”

“Willie or Nannie,” answered I, “it’s not meat for me; and never shall

an ounce of it cross the craig of my family—that is as sure as ever

James Batter drave a shuttle. Give counsel in need, James: what is to be

done?”

“That needs consideration,” quo’ James, giving a bit hoast. “Unless he

makes ample apology, and explains the mistake in a feasible way, it is

my humble opinion that he ought to be summoned before his betters. That

is the legal way to make him smart for his sins.”

At last a thought struck me, and I saw farther through my difficulties

than ever mortal man did through a millstone; but, like a politician, I

minted not the matter to James. Keeping my tongue cannily within my

teeth, I then laid the head, wrapped up in the bit towel, in a corner

behind the counter; and turning my face round again to James, I put my

hands into my breeches-pockets, as if nothing in the world had happened,

and ventured back to the story of the mermaid. I asked him how she

looked—what kind of dress she wore—if she swam with her corsets—what was

the colour of her hair—where she would buy the tortoise-shell comb—and

so on; when just as he was clearing his pipe to reply, who should burst

open the shop-door like a clap of thunder, with burning cat’s een, and a

face as red as a soldier’s jacket, but Cursecowl himself, with the new

killing-coat in his hand, which, giving a tremendous curse (the words of

which are not essentially necessary for me to repeat, being an elder of

our kirk), he made play flee at me with such a birr, that it twisted

round my neck, and mostly blinding me, made me doze like a tottum. At

the same time, to clear his way, and the better to enable him to take a

good mark, he gave James Batter a shove, that made him stoiter against

the wall, and snacked the good new farthing tobacco-pipe, that James was

taking his first whiff out of; crying at the same blessed moment—

“Hold out o’ my road, ye long, withered wabster. Ye’re a pair of

havering idiots; but I’ll have pennyworths out of both your skins, as

I’m a sinner!”

What was to be done? There was no time for speaking; for Cursecowl,

foaming like a mad dog with passion, seized hold of the ell-wand, which

he flourished round his head like a Highlander’s broadsword, and

stamping about with his stockings drawn up his thighs, threatened every

moment to commit bloody murder.

If James Batter never saw service before, he learned a little of it that

day, being in a pickle of bodily terror not to be imagined by living

man; but his presence of mind did not forsake him, and he cowered for

safety and succour into a far corner, holding out a web of buckram

before him, me crying all the time—“Send for the town-officer! Will ye

not send for the town-officer?”

You may talk of your General Moores and your Lord Wellingtons as ye

like; but never, since I was born, did I ever see or hear tell of

anything braver than the way Tammy Bodkin behaved, in saving both our

precious lives, at that blessed nick of time, from touch-and-go

jeopardy; for, when Cursecowl was rampauging about, cursing and swearing

like a Russian bear, hurling out volleys of oaths that would have

frighted John Knox, forbye the like of us, Tammie stole in behind him

like a wild cat, followed by Joseph Breekey, Walter Cuff, and Jack

Thorl, the three apprentices, on their stocking-soles; and having strong

and dumpy arms, pinned back his elbows like a flash of lightning, giving

the other callants time to jump on his back, and hold him like a vice;

while, having got time to draw my breath, and screw up my pluck, I ran

forward like a lion, and houghed the whole concern—Tammie Bodkin, the

three faithful apprentices, Cursecowl, and all, coming to the ground

like a battered castle.

It was now James Batter’s time to come up in line; and though a douce

man (being savage for the insulting way that Cursecowl had dared to use

him), he dropped down like mad, with his knees on Cursecowl’s breast,

who was yelling, roaring, and grinding his buck-teeth like a mad bull,

kicking right and spurring left with fire and fury; and, taking his

Kilmarnock off his head, thrust it, like a battering-ram, into

Cursecowl’s mouth, to hinder him from alarming the neighbourhood, and

bringing the whole world about our ears.

Such a stramash of tumbling, roaring, tearing, swearing, kicking,

pushing, cuffing, rugging, and riving about the floor!! I thought they

would not have left one another with a shirt on: it seemed a combat even

to the death. Cursecowl’s breath was choked up within him, like wind in

an empty bladder; and when I got a gliskie of his face, from beneath

James’s cowl, it was growing as black as the crown of my hat. It feared

me much that murder would be the upshot, the webs being all heeled over,

both of broad cloth, buckram, cassimir, and Welsh flannel; and the paper

shapings and worsted runds coiled about their throats and bodies like

fiery serpents. At long and last, I thought it became me, being the head

of the house, to sound a parley, and bid them give the savage a mouthful

of fresh air, to see if he had anything to say in his defence.

Cursecowl, by this time, had forcible assurance of our ability to

overpower him, and finding he had by far the worst of it, was obliged to

grow tamer, using the first breath he got to cry out—

“A barley, ye thieves! a barley! I tell you, give me wind. There’s not a

man in nine of ye!”

Finding our own strength, we saw, by this time, that we were masters of

the field; nevertheless we took care to make good terms when they were

in our power, nor would we allow Cursecowl to sit upright till after he

had said, three times over, on his honour as a gentleman, that he would

behave as became one.

After giving his breeches-knees a skuff with his loof, to dad off the

stoure, he came, right foot foremost, to the counter-side, while the

laddies were dighting their brows, and stowing away the webs upon their

ends round about, saying,—

“Maister Wauch, how have ye the conscience to send hame such a piece o’

wark as that coat to ony decent man? Do ye dare to imagine that I am a

Jerusalem spider, that I could be crammed, neck and heels, into such a

thing as that? Fie, shame—it would not button on yourself, man,

scarecrow-looking mortal though ye be!”

James Batter’s blood was now up, and boiling like an old Roman’s; so he

was determined to show Cursecowl that I had a friend in court, able and

willing to keep him at stave’s end.

“Keep a calm sough,” said James Batter, interfering; “and not miscall

the head of the house in his own shop; or, to say nothing of present

consequences, by way of showing ye the road to the door, perhaps Maister

Sneckdrawer, the penny-writer, ’ll give ye a caption-paper with a broad

margin, to claw your elbow with at your leisure, my good fellow.”

“Pugh, pugh!” cried Cursecowl, snapping his finger and thumb at James’s

beak; “I do not value your threatening an ill halfpenny. Come away out

your ways to the crown of the causey, and I’ll box any three of ye, over

the bannys, for half-a-mutchkin. But, ’odsake, Batter, my man, nobody’s

speaking to you,” added Cursecowl, giving a hack now and then, and a bit

spit down on the floor; “go hame, man, and get your cowl washed; I

daresay you have pushioned me, so I have no more to say to the like of

you. But now, Maister Wauch, just speaking hooly and fairly, do you not

think black burning shame of yourself, for putting such an article into

any decent Christian man’s hand, like mine?”

“Wait a wee—wait a wee, friend, and I’ll give ye a lock salt to your

broth,” answered I, in a calm and cool way; for, being a confidential

elder of Maister Wiggie’s, I kept myself free from the sin of getting

into a passion, or fighting, except in self-defence, which is forbidden

neither by law nor gospel; and, stooping down, I took up the towel from

the corner, and, spreading it upon the counter, bade him look, and see

if he knew an auld acquaintance!

Cursecowl, to be such a dragoon, had some rational points in his

character; so, seeing that he lent ear to me with a smirk on his rough

red face, I went on:

“Take my advice as a friend, and make the best of your way home,

killing-coat and all; for the most perfect will sometimes fall into an

innocent mistake, and, at any rate, it cannot be helped now. But if ye

show any symptom of obstripulosity, I’ll find myself under the necessity

of publishing you abroad to the world for what you are, and show about

that head in the towel for a wonder to broad Scotland, in a manner that

will make customers flee from your booth, as if it was infected with the

seven plagues of Egypt.”

At sight of the goat’s head, Cursecowl clapped his hand on his thigh two

or three times, and could scarcely muster good manners enough to keep

himself from bursting out a-laughing.

“Ye seem to have found a fiddle, friend,” said I; “but give me leave to

tell you, that ye’ll may be find it liker a hanging-match than a musical

matter. Are you not aware that I could hand you over to the sheriff, on

two special indictments? In the first place, for an action of assault

and batterification, in cuffing me, an elder of our kirk, with a sticked

killing-coat, in my own shop; and, in the second place, as a swindler,

imposing on his Majesty’s loyal subjects, taking the coin of the realm

on false pretences, and palming off goat’s flesh upon Christians, as if

they were perfect Pagans.”

Heathen though Cursecowl was, this oration alarmed him in a jiffie, soon

showing him, in a couple of hurries, that it was necessary for him to be

our humble servant; so he said, still keeping the smirk on his face—

“Keh, keh, it’s not worth making a noise about after all. Gie me the

jacket, Mansie, my man, and it’ll maybe serve my nephew, young Killim,

who is as lingit in the waist as a wasp. Let us take a shake of your paw

over the counter, and be friends. Bye-ganes should be bye-ganes.”

Never let it be said that Mansie Wauch, though one of the king’s

volunteers, ever thrust aside the olive branch of peace; so, ill-used

though I had been, to say nothing of James Batter, who had got his pipe

smashed to crunches, and one of the eyes of his spectacles knocked out,

I gave him my fist frankly.

James Batter’s birse had been so fiercely put up, and no wonder, that it

was not so easily sleeked down; so, for a while, he looked unco glum,

till Cursecowl insisted that our meeting should not be a dry one; nor

would he hear a single word on me and James Batter not accepting his

treat of a mutchkin of Kilbagie.

I did not think James would have been so doure and refractory, funking

and flinging like old Jeroboam; but at last, with the persuasion of the

treat, he came to, and, sleeking down his front hair, we all three took

a step down to the far end of the close, at the back street, where Widow

Thamson kept the sign of ‘The Tankard and the Tappit Hen;’ Cursecowl,

when we got ourselves seated, ordering in the spirits with a loud rap on

the table with his knuckles, and a whistle on the landlady through his

foreteeth, that made the roof ring. A bottle of beer was also brought;

so, after drinking one another’s healths round, with a tasting out of

the dram glass, Cursecowl swashed the rest of the raw creature into the

tankard, saying—

“Now take your will o’t; there’s drink fit for a king; that’s real

‘Pap-in.’”

He was an awful body, Cursecowl, and had a power of queer stories,

which, weel-a-wat, did not lose in the telling. James Batter, beginning

to brighten up, hodged and leuch like a nine-year-old; and I freely

confess, for another, that I was so diverted, that, I daresay, had it

not been for his fearsome oaths, which made our very hair stand on end,

and were enough to open the stone-wall, we would have both sate from

that time to this.

We got the whole story of the Willie-goat, out and out, it seeming to be

with Cursecowl a prime matter of diversion, especially that part of it

relating to the head, by which he had won a crown-piece from Deacon

Paunch, who wagered that the wife and me would eat it, without ever

finding out our mistake. But, aha, lad!

The long and the short of the matter was this. The Willie-goat had, for

eighteen years, belonged to a dragoon marching regiment, and, in its

better days, had seen a power of service abroad; till, being now old and

infirm, it had fallen off one of the baggage-carts, and got its leg

broken on the road to Piershill, where it was sold to Cursecowl, by a

corporal, for half-a-crown and a dram. The four quarters he had managed

to sell for mutton, like lightning, this one buying a jigget, that one a

back ribs, and so on. However, he had to weather a gey brisk gale in

making his point good. One woman remarked that it had an unearthly, rank

smell; to which he said, “No, no—ye do not ken your blessings, friend;

that’s the smell of venison, for the beast was brought up along with the

deers in the Duke’s parks.” And to another wife, that, after

smell-smelling at it, thought it was a wee humphed, he replied, “Faith,

that’s all the thanks folks get for letting their sheep crop heather

among the Cheviot hills,” and such-like lies. But as for the head, that

had been the doure business. Six times had it been sold and away, and

six times had it been brought back again. One bairn said that her

“mother didna like a sheep’s-head with horns like these,” and wanted it

changed for another one. A second one said, that “it had tup’s een, and

her father liked wether mutton.” A third customer found mortal fault

with the colours, which, she said, “were not canny, or in the course of

nature.” What the fourth one said, and the fifth one took leave to

observe, I have stupidly forgotten, though, I am sure, I heard both; but

I mind one remarked, quite off-hand, as she sought back her money, that

“unless sheep could do without beards, like their neighbours, she would

keep the pot boiling with a piece beef, in the meantime.” After all

this—would any mortal man believe it?—Deacon Paunch, the greasy Daniel

Lambert that he is, had taken the wager, as I before took opportunity to

remark, that our family would swallow the bait! But, aha, he was off his

eggs there!

James and me were so tickled with Cursecowl’s wild, outrageous,

off-hand, humoursome way of telling his crack, that, though sore with

neighering, none of the two of us ever thought of rising; Cursecowl

chapping in first one stoup, and then another, and birling the tankard

round the table, as if we had been drinking dub-water. I daresay I would

never have got away, had I not slipped out behind Lucky Thamson’s

back—for she was a broad fat body, with a round-eared mutch, and a

full-plaited check apron—when she was drawing the sixth bottle of small

beer, with her corkscrew between her knees; Cursecowl lecturing away, at

the dividual moment, like a Glasgow professor, to James Batter, whose

een were gathering straws, on a pliskie he had once, in the course of

trade, played on a conceited body of a French sick-nurse, by selling her

a lump of fat pork to make beef-tea of to her mistress, who was dwining

in the blue Beelzebubs.

Ohone, and woe’s me, for old Father Adam and the fall of man! Poor,

sober, good, honest James Batter was not, by a thousand miles, a match

for such company. Everything, however, has its moral, and the truth will

out. When Nanse and me were sitting at our breakfast next morning, we

heard from Benjie, who had been early up fishing for eels at the

water-side, that the whole town talk was concerning the misfortunate

James Batter, who had been carried home, totally incapable, far in the

night, by Cursecowl and an Irish labourer—that sleeped in Widow

Thamson’s garret—on a hand-barrow, borrowed from Maister Wiggie’s

servant-lass, Jenny Jessamine.—_Mansie Wauch._

_Commercial Printing Company, Edinburgh._

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

4. Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.