retired to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on
the morrow, for the downfall of the innovating Provost. The morning
was still grey, the sun was not above the horizon, when the
Deaconess, as was her wont, arose to begin her household duties; but,
anxious to communicate the strange conduct of the Provost, in raising
the wall of partition in the city, she seized her water stoups, and
hurried to the public well at the Bow-head, to replenish them, and
ease her overcharged mind of the mighty circumstance. Early as the
hour was, many of the wives of the good citizens were already there,
seated on their water stoups, and awaiting their turn to be
supplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the more sonorous
tones of the Highland water-carriers, and rising in violent
contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion of
Babel.
The sensation caused by the relation of the Deaconess of her
husband's adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by
the story being related at second-hand. Arms were raised in
astonishment as she proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high
wall built in so short a space by the Provost. After some time spent
in fruitless debate, it was agreed that they should go down in a body
and examine this bold encroachment upon the citizens--and away they
went, with the indignant Deaconess at their head.
For some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail
and Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of
Amazons; but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was
said to stand, they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter
and derision burst from the band. The Deaconess stood petrified, the
image of shame and anger. No wall was there--everything stood as it
had done for years!
"Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow
the Deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu' wa' ye spak'
o', that he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!"
"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs Dickson?" screamed
another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late out with his
cronies. He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales.
Were my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the
deafest side of his head."
"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the
Deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been
some witchcraft played off upon him and the Treasurer last night;
for, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een.
There's been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks
in the town than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a
lie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at
ony hour."
By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their
water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure
the Deacon had encountered the evening before, and the Deaconess to
tell her better half of the delusion he had been under. Before
breakfast time, the story was in everyone's mouth, from the Castle to
the Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended. On a clear
moonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was
pointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties, we have heard
it said--"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get
over Deacon Dickson's wall."
The Treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's
entertainment as the Deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the
wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached
the Deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or
rather morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached
the Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the
night: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot
from whence the sound came, urged by `humanity, he
drew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by
the dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support
herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief
and surprise he exclaimed--
"Mrs Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous
hour? What's the cause of your grief?"
"Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God
alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried
her face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled
through her withered fingers.
"I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come
home, my good woman, and I shall accompany you."
"I have no home," washer sad reply. "Alas! I have no home, but the
grave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age.
Comfortable, and even rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have
neither house nor hall to cover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only
dead and buried out of this sinful world, to hide the shame of my own
child. An hour is scarce passed since I thought my heart would burst
in my bosom before I would be enabled to reach the Greyfriars'
Churchyard, to lay my head upon Willie Horner's grave, and the graves
of my innocent babes, that sleep in peace by his side. I feared my
strength would fail; for all I wish, is to die there. I did reach
the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the cold turf, and prayed
for Death to join as he had separated us; but my heart refused to
break, and tears that were denied me before, began to stream from my
eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me, stronger
even than my grief. Strange moaning and sounds came on the faint
night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight
made the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I
will tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was
here my only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun;
and on the fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my
grandfather cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights
of a persecuted kirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny.
I can die here with pleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom
can a mother look for comfort or pity, when her own son has turned
her out upon a cold world? I am as Rachel mourning for her children.
I will not be comforted." And the mourner wrapped her mantle round
her head with the energy of despair, and, bending it upon the well,
burst anew into an agony of sobs and tears.
The Treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and
began to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the
moment--whether to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His
better feeling prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the
mourner, whom he had known in happier times; but his caution and
avarice, backed by the dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force
he felt every moment less able to resist, to leave her and hurry
home. As he stood irresolute, the voice of the stern monitor sounded
in the auricles of his heart like the knell of doom, and roused into
fearful energy feelings he had long treated lightly, or striven to
suppress when they rose upon him with great force. He ran like a
guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings of the crushed and
pitiable object he had left, had given them a force he had never
before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate-head as if he
wished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments
having fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an
awakened conscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his
agitation, often hinted at by his acquaintance, but in its full
extent only known in his own family--a striking similarity between
the situation of his own mother and that of Widow Horner. The cases
of the two aged individuals agreed in all points, save that he had
not yet turned her out of doors; and conscience told him that even
that result had been prevented, more by the patient endurance of his
worthy parent herself, than any kindly feeling upon the part of her
son.
The father of the Treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had
both been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses
of the city. At their death, they had left their widows with an only
child to succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had
struggled hard to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were
of age to succeed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich
reward, as they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the
prosperity of their sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea
so repugnant to their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was
never harboured in their bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to
falsify their anticipations.
The Treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a
woman whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to
prevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her
power. Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten
the event she wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place;
the consequence was, that the hated alliance was completed several
weeks before she was made aware of it by the kindness of a gossiping
neighbour or two. Much as she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung,
she, like a prudent woman, shed her tears of bitter anguish at the
want of filial regard in her son, in secret. She at once resolved to
pardon this act of ingratitude, and, for her son's sake, to receive
her unwelcome daughter-in-law with all the kindness she could assume
on the trying occasion. Not so her daughter-in-law, who was of an
overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn of mind. The mother of her
husband had wounded her pride: she resolved never to forget or
forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a deep revenge
was vowed against her as soon as it was in her power to execute it.
The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had feelings
to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to outward
appearance--the widow, from love to her son, striving to love his
wife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting
to gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part,
that, before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas
was requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the
family, and to save the expense of a separate establishment. From
that hour the house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for
the first few months almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a
spoiled child, was not naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but
selfish and capricious from over-indulgence. Amidst all his faults,
there was still a love and esteem of his mother, which his wife,
seeing it would be dangerous openly to attack, had resolved to
undermine, and therefore laid her wicked schemes accordingly. In the
presence of her husband, she was, for a time, all smiles and
affability; but, in his absence, she said and did a thousand little
nameless things to tease and irritate the good old dame. This
produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his wife of
them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the misery
she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To himself
she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his
mother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were
so artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in
the fault. Gradually the son's affection became deadened towards his
parent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For
her there was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made
over to her son all she possessed in the world; she was thus in his
power; yet her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge
of the wife was not complete even after the spirit of the victim was
completely crushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the
malignant woman would affect lowness of spirits, and even tears,
refusing to tell the cause of her grief until urged by endearments,
and obtaining an assurance that he would not regard her folly in
yielding to her feeling; but she could not help it--were it not for
her love to him, she knew not in what she had ever offended his
mother, save in preferring him to every other lover who had sought
her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her imperious turn
of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the Treasurer was
completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just retribution, he
was punished for his want of filial affection, for he was as much the
sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of her malice.
With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the kitchen,
moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to insult
and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the
parents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying
rods in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought
into use, when the recollection of their own conduct would give
tenfold poignancy to every blow.
On the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailing
of Widow Horner still rung in the ears of the Treasurer. All his
acts of unkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous
phantasmagoria as he hurried down the Cowgate. He even became afraid
of himself, as scene after scene arose to his awakened
conscience--all the misery and indignities that had been heaped upon
his parent by his termagant wife, he himself either looking on with
indifference, or supporting his spouse in her cruelty. Goaded by
remorse, he still hurried on. The celerity of his movements seemed
to relieve him. He had formed no fixed resolution as to how he was
to act upon his arrival at home. A dreamy idea floated in his
tortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it, and
do justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution
to dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the
thought of encountering one who had, in all contentions ever been the
victor, and riveted her chains the more closely around him on every
attempt he had made to break them. In this pitiable state, he had
got as far towards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the
sound of a carriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and
put all other thoughts to flight. With a start of horror and alarm,
he groaned--"The Lord have mercy upon me! The Major's coach! If I
see it, my days are numbered." And, with an effort resembling the
energy of despair, he rushed into a stair-foot, and, placing both his
hands upon his face to shut out from his sight the fearful object,
supported himself by leaning upon the wall. As the sound increased,
so did the Treasurer's fears; but what words can express his agony
when it drew up at the foot of the very stair in which he stood, and
a sepulchral voice issued from it--
"Is he here?"
"Just come," was the reply in a similar tone.
"Then all's right."
"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!" screamed the Treasurer, as he
sank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.
How long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval,
he could give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found
himself seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed,
supported on each side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for
the bright moonlight shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited
two heads detached from their bodies dangling from the top. The
glance was momentary. Uttering a deep groan, he shut his eyes to
avoid the fearful sight. He would have spoken; but his palsied
tongue refused to move, even to implore for mercy. Wringing his
hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom of the coach upon
his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He felt their
grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same fearful
voice he had first heard fell again on his ear--"Sit still. Utter no
cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the Major's
tribunal. He knows you well, but wishes to test your truth.
Proceed!"
With a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to
nothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he
seemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth
appeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected
duties. His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance
moistened his bosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a
pause ensued of a few minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was
sinking behind a dense mass of clouds. The wind began to blow
fitfully, with a melancholy sound, along the few objects that
interrupted its way, and around the fearful conveyance in which he
sat, more dead than alive. The measured tramp of the horses, and
rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like the knell of death.
He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused to leave it and
perform its functions. Human nature could not have sustained itself
under such circumstances much longer. The carriage stopped; the door
opened with violence; his breathing became like a quick succession of
sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness. Still he was
fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality seemed to
endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were in
action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed
to quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence.
"Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my
power this once. Beware of a relapse. Go; do the duty of a son to
your worthy parent. You have been a worse man than ever I was on
earth. I have my parents' blessing with me in the midst of my
sufferings; and there is a soothing in it which the wretched can
alone feel."
Quick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the
ground. With the speed of a whirlwind, as it ap peared to him, the
carriage disappeared and the sound died away. For some time he sat
bewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds. Gradually he began
to breathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful nightmare had just
passed away. Slowly the events of the night rose in regular
succession. The forlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in
the coach, that, without heads, spake and moved with such energy--the
whole now passed before him so vividly that he shuddered. At first
he hoped all had been a fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on
which he sat banished the fond idea. He felt, in all its force, that
he was now wide awake, as he groped with his hands and touched the
damp grass beneath him. All around was enveloped in impenetrable
darkness. Not one star shone in the murky sky. How much of the
night had passed, or where he at present was, he had no means to
ascertain. The first use he made of his restored faculties was to
rise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God, imploring pardon
and protection in this hour of suffering. He rose with a heart much
lightened, and felt his energies restored. Stumbling onwards, he
proceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and faint
from exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait
patiently the approach of dawn. Thus, melancholy and pensive, he
sat, eager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the
grave, save the faint rustling of the long grass waving around him in
the night breeze that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful
gusts, swept past him. The hope of surviving the night had almost
forsaken him, when the distant tramp of a horse fell on his longing
ears. Then the cheerful sound of a popular air, whistled to cheer
the darkness, gladdened his heart. In an ecstasy of pleasure, he
sprung to his feet. The rolling of wheels over the rugged road was
soon added to the cheering sounds. With caution he approached them
over hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was, he could discern the
object of his search almost before him--a carrier's cart, with the
driver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his whip to the
time.
"Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you."
"Na, na," replied the carrier; "I will do no such foolish action.
Hap, Bassie! hap!" And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its
speed. "Come not near my cart, or I will make Cæsar tear you in
pieces. Look to him, Cæsar!" And the snarling of a dog gave fearful
warning to the poor Treasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered
desperate by his situation, he continued to follow, calling out--
"Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me. I
am a poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to
reward you, if you will save my life. I am no robber, but a decent
burgess and freeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot
tell."
"Woo, Bassie! woo!" responded the carrier. "Silence, Cæsar!
Preserve us from all evil! Amen! Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr,
whose shop is in Saint Mary's Wynd?"
"The very same; but who are you that know my voice?"
"Who should I be," rejoined he, "but Watty Clinkscales, the Berwick
carrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well enough that
Wednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up beside
me, man, and do not stand longer there. If you have lost yourself,
as you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this dark
morning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing
at the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed? I am
thinking, friend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last
night."
While the carrier was speaking, the Treasurer mounted the cart, and
took his seat beside him. They moved slowly on. To all the
questions of the carrier, evasive answers were returned; the
Treasurer felt no desire to be communicative. As they reached the
Watergate, the first rays of morning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the
Calton Hill. Before they entered, the Treasurer dismounted, having
first rewarded the carrier for his trouble, and proceeded to his home
by the South Back of the Canongate, faint and unwell. When he
reached his own door, he was nearly exhausted. It was opened to him
by his anxious mother, who had watched for him through the whole
night. Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance, timidly she
inquired what had happened to him, to cause such an alteration in his
looks in so short a time. The tears started into his eyes as he
looked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire. He took her
hand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out--
"Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son? Only say you will
forgive me."
"Tammy, my bairn," she replied, "what have I to pardon? Is not all
my pleasure in life to see you happy? What signifies what becomes of
me the few years I have to be on earth? But you are ill, my son--you
are very ill!"
"I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind," said he. "Say you
pardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated
since my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without
hearing you pronounce it."
"Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my
blessing, and the blessing of God, which is above all riches! But go
to your bed, my bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family."
At this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began,
in her usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous
hours. Still holding his mother's hand in his, he commanded her, in
a voice he had never before assumed to her, to be silent. She looked
at him in amazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his
presence; and was on the point of becoming more violent, when his
fierce glance, immediately followed by the sunken, sickly look which
one night of suffering had given him, alarmed her for his safety, and
she desisted, anxiously assisting his mother to undress and put him
to bed.
He soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the
afternoon, unrefreshed and feverish. His wife was seated by his bed
when he awoke. Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for
his mother. A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he
was too ill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his
spouse. The anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards
the evening. A physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his
life to be in extreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was
despaired of.