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WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
REVISED BY
ALEXANDER LEIGHTON
ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
VOL. VIII.
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
1885.
CONTENTS.
THE DOOM OF SOULIS, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
HARDEN'S REVENGE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
THE PHYSIOGNOMIST'S TALE, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_
THE GOOD MAN OF DRYFIELD, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
THE CHERRY-STONE
THE HENWIFE
THE ARTIST
THE BRIDE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
THE HENPECKED MAN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
MORTLAKE.--A LEGEND OF MERTON, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_
THE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_
THE BEGGAR'S CAMP
LEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
DUNCAN M'ARTHUR, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_
WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.
THE DOOM OF SOULIS.
"They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead--
A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;
They plunged him in the caldron red,
And melted him--lead, and bones, and all."--LEYDEN.
A Gazetteer would inform you that Denholm is a village beautifully
situated near the banks of the Teviot, about midway between Jedburgh and
Hawick, and in the Parish of Cavers; and perhaps, if of modern date, it
would add, it has the honour of being the birth-place of Dr. Leyden.
However, it was somewhat early on a summer morning, a few years ago,
that a young man, a stranger, with a fishing-rod in his hand, and a
creel fastened to his shoulders, entered the village. He stood in the
midst of it, and, turning round--"This, then," said he, "is the
birth-place of Leyden--the son of genius--the martyr of study--the
friend of Scott!"
Few of the villagers were astir; and at the first he met--who carried a
spade over his shoulder, and appeared to be a ditcher--he inquired if he
could show him the house in which the bard and scholar was born.
"Ou, ay, sir," said the man, "I wat I can; I'll show ye that instantly,
and proud to show you it, too."
"That is good," thought the stranger; "the prophet is dead, but he yet
speaketh--he hath honour in his own country."
The ditcher conducted him across the green, and past the end of a house,
which was described as being the school-house, and was newly built, and
led him towards a humble building, the height of which was but a single
storey, and which was found occupied by a millwright as a workshop. Yet,
again, the stranger rejoiced to find that the occupier venerated his
premises for the poet's sake, and that he honoured the genius of him who
was born in their precincts.
"Dash it!"[1] said the stranger, quoting the habitual phrase of poor
Leyden, "I shall fish none to-day."
[Footnote 1: This was a common expression of Leyden's, and, perhaps, was
in some degree expressive of his headlong and determined character.]
And I wonder not at his having so said; for it is not every day that we
stand beneath the thatch-clad roof--or any other roof--where was born
one whose name time will bear written in undying characters on its
wings, until those wings droop in the darkness of eternity.
The stranger proceeded up the Teviot, oftentimes thinking of Leyden, of
all that he had written, and occasionally repeating passages aloud. He
almost forgot that he had a rod in his hand--his eyes did anything but
follow the fly, and, I need hardly say, his success was not great.
About mid-day, he sat down on the green bank in solitariness, to enjoy a
sandwich, and he also placed by his side a small flask, containing
spirits, which almost every angler, who can afford it, carries with him.
But he had not sat long, when a venerable-looking old man saluted him
with--
"Here's a bonny day, sir."
The old man stood as he spoke. There was something prepossessing in his
appearance he had a weatherbeaten face, with thin white hair, blue eyes,
that had lost somewhat of their former lustre, his shoulders were rather
bent; and he seemed a man who was certainly neither rich nor affluent,
but who was at ease with the world, and the world was at ease with him.
They entered into conversation, and they sat down together. The old man
appeared exactly one of those characters whom you will occasionally find
fraught with the traditions of the Borders, and still tainted with, and
half believing in, their ancient superstitions. I wish not to infer that
superstition was carried to a greater height of absurdity on the Borders
than in other parts of England and Scotland, nor even that the
inhabitants of the North were as remarkable in early days for their
superstitions, as they now are for their intelligence; for every nation
had its superstitions, and I am persuaded that most of them might be
traced to a common origin. Yet, though the same in origin, they change
their likeness with the character of a nation or district. People
unconsciously made their superstitions to suit themselves, though their
imaginary effects still terrified them. There was, therefore, a
something characteristic in the fables of our forefathers, which fables
they believed as facts. The cunning deceived the ignorant--the ignorant
were willing to deceive themselves; and what we now laugh at as the
clever trick of a _hocus-pocus_ man, was, scarce more than a century
ago, received as a miracle--as a thing performed by the hand of the
"prince of the powers of the air." Religion without knowledge, and still
swaddled in darkness, fostered their idle fear; yea, there are few
superstitions, though prostituted by wickedness, that did not owe their
existence to some glimmering idea of religion. They had not seen the
lamp which lightens the soul, and leadeth it to knowledge; but having
perceived its far-off reflection, plunged into the quagmire of
error--and hence proceeded superstition.
But I digress into a descant on the superstitions of our fathers, nor
should I have done so, but that it is impossible to write a Border tale
of the olden time without bringing them forward, and, when I do so, it
is not with the intention of instilling into the minds of my readers the
old idea of sorcery, witchcraft, and visible spirits, but of showing
what was the belief and conduct of our forefathers. Therefore, without
further comment, I shall cut short these remarks, and simply observe,
that the thoughts of the young stranger still running upon Leyden, he
turned to the elder, after they had sat together for some time, and
said--
"Did you know Dr. Leyden, sir?"
"Ken him!" said the old man; "fifty year ago, I've wrought day's wark
beside his father for months together."
They continued their conversation for some time, and the younger
inquired of the elder if he were acquainted with Leyden's ballad of
"Lord Soulis."
"Why, I hae heard a verse or twa o' the ballad, sir," said the old man;
"but I'm sure everybody kens the story. However, if ye're no perfectly
acquaint wi' it, I'm sure I'm willing to let ye hear it wi' great
pleasure; and a remarkable story it is--and just as true, sir, ye may
tak my word on't, as that I'm raising this bottle to my lips."
So saying, the old man raised the flask to his mouth, and, after a
regular fisher's draught, added--
"Weel, sir, I'll let ye hear the story about Lord Soulis:--You have no
doubt heard of Hermitage Castle, which stands upon the river of that
name, at no great distance from Hawick. In the days of the great and
good King Robert the Bruce, that castle was inhabited by Lord Soulis.[2]
He was a man whose very name spread terror far and wide; for he was a
tyrant and a sorcerer. He had a giant's strength, an evil eye,[3] and a
demon's heart, and he kept his _familiar_[4] locked in a chest. Peer and
peasant became pale at the name of Lord Soulis. His hand smote down the
strong, his eye blasted the healthy; he oppressed the poor, and he
robbed the rich. He ruled over his vassals with a rod of iron. From the
banks of the Tweed, the Teviot, and the Jed, with their tributaries, to
beyond the Lothians, an incessant cry was raised against him to heaven
and to the king. But his life was protected by a charm, and mortal
weapons could not prevail against him."
[Footnote 2: He was also proprietor of Eccles, in Berwickshire, and,
according to history, was seized in the town of Berwick; but tradition
saith otherwise.]
[Footnote 3: There is, perhaps, no superstition more widely diffused
than the belief in the fascination of an evil eye, or a malignant
glance; and, I am sorry to say, the absurdity has still its believers.]
[Footnote 4: Each sorcerer was supposed to have his familiar spirit,
that accompanied him; but Soulis was said to keep his locked in a
chest.]
The seriousness with which the narrator said this, showed that he gave
full credit to the tradition, and believed in Lord Soulis as a sorcerer.
"He was a man of great stature, and his person was exceeding powerful.
He had also royal blood in his veins, and laid claim to the crown of
Scotland, in opposition to the Bruce. But two things troubled him: and
the one was, to place the crown of Scotland on his head; the other, to
possess the hand of a fair and rich, maiden, named Marion, who was about
to wed with Walter, the young heir of Branxholm, the stoutest and the
boldest youth on all the wide Borders. Soulis was a man who was not only
of a cruel heart, but it was filled with forbidden thoughts; and, to
accomplish his purpose, he went down into the dungeon of his castle, in
the dead of night, that no man might see him perform the 'deed without a
name.' He carried a small lamp in his hand, which threw around a lurid
light, like a glow-worm in a sepulchre; and as he went, he locked the
doors behind him. He carried a cat in his arms; behind him a dog
followed timidly, and before him, into the dungeon, he drove a young
bull, that had 'never nipped the grass.' He entered the deep and the
gloomy vault, and, with a loud voice, he exclaimed--
"'Spirit of darkness! I come!
"He placed the feeble lamp upon the ground, in the middle of the vault;
and with a pick-axe, which he had previously prepared, he dug a pit, and
buried the cat alive; and as the poor suffocating creature mewed, he
exclaimed the louder--
"'Spirit of darkness! come!'
"He then leaped upon the grave of the living animal, and, seizing the
dog by the neck, he dashed it violently against the wall, towards the
left corner where he stood, and, unable to rise, it lay howling long and
piteously on the floor. Then did he plunge his knife into the throat of
the young bull, and, while its bleatings mingled with the howling of the
dying dog, amidst what might be called the blue darkness of the vault,
he received the blood in the palms of his hands, and he stalked around
the dungeon, sprinkling it in circle, and crying with a loud voice--
"'Spirit of darkness! hear me!'
"Again he digged a pit, and, seizing the dying animal, he hurled it into
the grave, feet upwards;[5] and again he groaned, while the sweat stood
on his brow, 'Come, spirit! come!'
[Footnote 5: These are the recorded practices which sorcerers resorted
to, when they wished to have a _glimpse_ of _invisible_ spirits.]
"He took a horse-shoe, which had lain in the vault for years, and which
was called, in the family, the _spirit's shoe_, and he nailed it against
the door, so that it hung obliquely;[6] and, as he gave the last blow to
the nail, again he cried--'Spirit, I obey thee! come!'
[Footnote 6: In the account of the trial of Elizabeth Bathgate, wife of
Alexander Pae, maltman in Eyemouth, one of the accusations in the
indictment against her was, that she had "ane horse-schoe in ane darnet
and secriet pairt of your dur, keepit by you thairopoun, as ane devilish
meanis and instructions from the devill." But the superstitions of the
Borders, which it is necessary to illustrate in these Tales, as
exemplifying the character of our forefathers, are more particularly
dwelt upon, and their absurdity unmasked, in the Tales entitled, "Betty
Bathgate, the Witch of Eyemouth;" "Peggy Stoddart, the Witch of
Edlingham;" and "The Laidley Worm of Spindlestone Heugh."]
"Afterwards, he took his place in the middle of the floor, and nine
times he scattered around him a handful of salt, at each time
exclaiming--
"'Spirit! arise!'
"Then did he strike thrice nine times with his hand upon a chest which
stood in the middle of the floor, and by its foot was the pale lamp, and
at each blow he cried--
"'Arise, spirit! arise!'
"Therefore, when he had done these things, and cried twenty-and-seven
times, the lid of the chest began to move, and a fearful figure, with a
red cap[7] upon its head, and which resembled nothing in heaven above,
or on earth below, rose, and, with a hollow voice,[8] inquired--
[Footnote 7: Red-cap is a name given to spirits supposed to haunt
castles.]
[Footnote 8: In the proceedings regarding Sir George Maxwell, it is
gravely set forth, that the voice of evil spirits is "rough and
goustie;" and, to crown all, Lilly, in his "Life and Times," informs us,
that they speak Erse; and, adds he, "when they do so, it's like
Irishmen, much in the throat!"]
"'What want ye, Soulis?'
"'Power, spirit! power!' he cried, 'that mine eyes may have their
desire, and that every weapon formed by man may fall scatheless on my
body, as the spent light of a waning moon!'
"'Thy wish is granted, mortal!' groaned the fiend; 'to-morrow eve, young
Branxholm's bride shall sit within thy bower, and his sword return bent
from thy bosom, as though he had dashed it against a rock. Farewell!
invoke me not again for seven years, nor open the door of the vault, but
then knock thrice upon the chest, and I will answer thee. Away! follow
thy course of sin, and prosper; _but beware of a coming wood_!'
"With a loud and sudden noise, the lid of the massy chest fell, and the
spirit disappeared, and from the floor of the vault issued a deep
sound, like the reverbing of thunder. Soulis took up the flickering
lamp, and, leaving the dying dog still howling in the corner, whence he
had driven it, he locked the iron door, and placed the huge key in his
bosom.
"In the morning, his vassals came to him, and they preyed him on their
bended knees that he would lessen the weight of their hard bondage; but
he laughed at their prayers, and answered them with stripes. He
oppressed the widow, and persecuted the fatherless; he defied the
powerful, and trampled on the weak. His name spread terror wheresoever
it was breathed, and there was not in all Scotland a man more feared
than the Wizard Soulis, the Lord of Hermitage.
"He rode forth in the morning, with twenty of his chosen men behind him;
and wheresoever they passed the castle or the cottage, where the
occupier was the enemy of Soulis, or denied his right to the crown,[9]
they fired the latter, destroyed the cattle around the former, or he
sprinkled upon them the dust of a dead man's hand, that a murrain might
come amongst them.
[Footnote 9: If legitimacy could have been proved on the part of the
grandmother of Lord Soulis, he certainly was a nearer heir to the crown
than either Bruce or Baliol.]
"But, as they rode by the side of the Teviot, he beheld fair Marion, the
betrothed bride of young Walter, the heir of Branxholm, riding forth
with her maidens, and pursuing the red-deer.
"'By this token, spirit!' muttered Soulis, joyously, 'thou hast not
lied--to-night young Branxholm's bride shall sit within my bower!'
"He dashed the spur into the side of his fleet steed, and, although
Marion and her attendants forsook the chase, and fled, as they perceived
him, yet, as though his _familiar_ gave speed to his horse's feet, in a
few seconds he rode by the side of Marion, and, throwing out his arm, he
lifted her from the saddle, while her horse yet flew at its fastest
speed, and continued its course without its fair rider. She screamed
aloud, she struggled wildly, but her attendants had fled afar off, and
her strength was feeble as an insect's web in his terrible embrace. He
held her upon the saddle before him--
"'Marion!--fair Marion!' said the wizard and ruffian lover, 'scream
not--struggle not--be calm, and hear me. I love thee, pretty one!--I
love thee!' and he rudely raised her lips to his. 'Fate hath decreed
thou shalt be mine, Marion, and no human power shall take thee from me.
Weep not--strive not. Hear ye not, I love thee--love thee fiercely,
madly, maiden, as a she-wolf doth its cubs. As a river seeketh the sea,
so have I sought thee, Marion, and now, thou art mine--fate hath given
thee unto me, and thy fair cheek shall rest upon a manlier bosom than
that of Branxholm's beardless heir.' Thus saying, and still grasping her
before him, he again plunged his spurs into his horse's sides, and he
and his followers rode furiously towards Hermitage Castle.
"He locked the gentle Marion within a strong chamber, he
'Woo'd her as the lion woos his bride.'
And now she wept, she wrung her hands, she tore her raven hair before
him, and it hung dishevelled over her face and upon her shoulders. She
implored him to save her, to restore her to liberty; and again finding
her tears wasted and her prayers in vain, she defied him, she invoked
the vengeance of Heaven upon his head; and, at such moments, the tyrant
and the reputed sorcerer stood awed and stricken in her presence. For
there is something in the majesty of virtue, and the holiness of
innocence, as they flash from the eyes of an injured woman, which
deprives guilt of its strength, and defeats its purpose, as though
Heaven lent its electricity to defend the weak.
"But, wearied with importunity, and finding his threats of no effect, on
the third night that she had been within his castle, he clutched her in
his arms, and, while his vassals slept, he bore her to the haunted
dungeon, that the spirit might throw its spell over her, and compel her
to love him. He unlocked the massy door. The faint howls of the dog were
still heard from the corner of the vault. He placed the lamp upon the
ground. He still held the gentle Marion to his side, and her terror had
almost mastered her struggles. He struck his clenched hand upon the huge
chest--he cried aloud, 'Spirit! come forth!'
"Thrice he repeated the blow--thrice he uttered aloud his invocation.
But the spirit arose not at his summons. Marion knew the tale of his
sorcery--she knew and believed it--and terror deprived her of
consciousness. On recovering, she found herself again in the strong
chamber where she had been confined, but Soulis was not with her. She
strove to calm her fears, she knelt down and told her beads, and she
begged that her Walter might be sent to her deliverance.
"It was scarce daybreak when the young heir of Branxholm, whose bow no
man could bend, and whose sword was terrible in battle, with twice ten
armed men, arrived before Hermitage Castle, and demanded to speak with
Lord Soulis. The warder blew his horn, and Soulis and his attendants
came forth and looked over the battlement.
"'What want ye, boy,' inquired the wizard chief, 'that, ere the sun be
risen, ye come to seek the lion in his den?'
"'I come,' replied young Walter, boldly, 'in the name of our good king,
and by his authority, to demand that ye give into my hands, safe and
sound, my betrothed bride, lest vengeance come upon thee.'
"'Vengeance, beardling!' rejoined the sorcerer; 'who dare speak of
vengeance on the house of Soulis?--or whom call ye king? The crown is
mine--thy bride is mine, and thou also shalt be mine; and a dog's death
shalt thou die for thy morning's boasting.'
"'To arms!' he exclaimed, as he disappeared from the battlement, and
within a few minutes a hundred men rushed from the gate.
"Sir Walter's little band quailed as they beheld the superior force of
their enemies, and they were in dread also of the sorcery of Soulis. But
hope revived within them when they beheld the look of confidence on the
countenance of their young leader, and thought of the strength of his
arm, and the terror which his sword spread.
"As hungry tigers spring upon their prey, so rushed Soulis and his
vassals upon Sir Walter and his followers. No man could stand before the
sword of the sorcerer. Antagonists fell as impotent things before his
giant strength. Even Walter marvelled at the havoc he made, and he
pressed forward to measure swords with him. But, ere he could reach him,
his few followers who had escaped the hand of Soulis and his host fled,
and left him to maintain the battle single-handed. Every vassal of the
sorcerer, save three, pursued them; and against these three, and their
charmed lord, young Walter was left to maintain the unequal strife. But,
as they pressed around him, 'Back!' cried Soulis, trusting to his
strength and to his charm; 'from my hand alone must Branxholm's young
boaster meet his doom. It is meet that I should give his head as a toy
to my bride, fair Marion.'
"'Thy bride, fiend!' exclaimed Sir Walter; 'thine!--now perish!' and he
attacked him furiously.
"'Ha! ha!' cried Soulis, and laughed at the impetuosity of his
antagonist, while he parried his thrusts; 'take rushes for thy weapon,
boy; steel falls feckless upon me.'
"'Vile sorcerer!' continued Walter, pressing upon him more fiercely,
'this sword shall sever thy enchantment.'
"Again Soulis laughed; but he found that his contempt availed him not,
for the strength of his enemy was equal to his own, and, in repelling
his fierce assaults, he almost forgot the charm which rendered his body
invulnerable. They fought long and desperately, when one of the
followers of Soulis, suddenly and unobserved, thrusting his spear into
the side of Sir Walter's horse, it reared, stumbled, and fell, and
brought him to the ground.
"'An arrow-schot!'[10] exclaimed Soulis. 'Wherefore, boy, didst thou
presume to contend with me?' And suddenly springing from his horse, he
pressed his iron heel upon the breast of his foe, and turning also the
point of his sword towards his throat, 'Thou shalt not die yet,' said
he; and turning to the three attendants who had not followed in the
pursuit, he added, 'Hither--bind him fast and sure.' Then did the three
hold him on the ground, and bind his hands and his feet, while Soulis
held his naked sword over him.
[Footnote 10: When cattle died suddenly, it was believed to be by an
arrow-shot--that is, shot or struck down by the invisible dart of a
sorcerer.]
"'Coward and wizard!' exclaimed Walter, as they dragged him within the
gate, 'ye shall rue this foul treachery.'
"'Ha! ha! vain boasting boy!' returned Soulis, 'thou indeed shalt rue
thy recklessness.'
"He caused his vassals to bear Walter into the strong chamber where fair
Marion was confined, and, grasping him by the neck, while he held his
sword to his breast, he dragged him towards her, and said, sternly,
'Consent thee now, maiden, to be mine, and this boy shall live; refuse,
and his head shall roll before thee on the floor as a plaything.'
"'Monster!' she exclaimed, and screamed aloud, 'would ye harm my
Walter?'
"'Ha! my Marion!--Marion!' cried Walter, struggling to be free. And,
turning his eyes fiercely upon Soulis--'Destroy me fiend,' he added,
'but harm not her.'
"'Think on it, maiden,' cried the sorcerer, raising his sword; 'the life
of thy bonny bridegroom hangs upon thy word. But ye shall have until
midnight to reflect on it. Be mine, then, and harm shall not come upon
him or thee; but a man shall be thy husband, and not the boy whom he
hath brought to thee in bonds.'
"'Beshrew thee, vile sorcerer!' rejoined Walter. 'Were my hands unbound,
and unarmed as I am, I would force my way from thy prison, in spite of
thee and thine!'
"Soulis laughed scornfully, and again added, 'Think on it, fair Marion.'
"Then did he drag her betrothed bridegroom to a corner of the chamber,
and ordering a strong chain to be brought, he fettered him against the
wall; in the same manner, he fastened her to the opposite side of the
apartment--but the chains with which he bound her were made of silver.
"When they were left alone, 'Mourn not, sweet Marion,' said Walter, 'and
think not of saving me--before to-morrow our friends will be here to thy
rescue; and, though I fall a victim to the vengeance of the sorcerer,
still let me be the bridegroom of thy memory.'
"Marion wept bitterly, and said that she would die with him.
"Throughout the day, the spirit of Lord Soulis was troubled, and the
fear of coming evil sat heavy on his heart. He wandered to and fro on
the battlements of his castle, anxiously looking for the approach of his
retainers, who had followed in pursuit of the followers of Branxholm's
heir. But the sun set, and the twilight drew on, and still they came
not; and it was drawing towards midnight when a solitary horseman
spurred his jaded steed towards the castle gate. Soulis admitted him
with his own hand into the courtyard; and, ere the rider had dismounted,
he inquired of him hastily, and in a tone of apprehension--
"'Where be thy fellows, knave? and why come alone?'
"'Pardon me, my lord,' said the horseman, falteringly, as he dismounted;
'thy faithful bondsman is the bearer of evil tidings.'
"'Evil, slave!' exclaimed Soulis, striking him as he spoke; 'speak ye of
evil to me! What of it?--where are thy fellows?'
"The man trembled and added--'In pursuing the followers of Branxholm,
they sought refuge in the wilds of Tarras, and being ignorant of the
winding paths through its bottomless morass, horses and men have been
buried in it--they who sank not fell beneath the swords of those they
had pursued, and I only have escaped.'
"'And wherefore did ye escape, knave?' cried the fierce sorcerer; 'why
did ye live to remind me of the shame of the house of Soulis?' And, as
he spoke, he struck the trembling man again.
"He hurried to the haunted dungeon, and again performed his
incantations, with impatience in his manner and fury in his looks.
Thrice he violently struck the chest, and thrice he exclaimed,
impetuously--
"'Spirit! come forth!--arise and speak with me!'
"The lid was lifted up, and a deep and angry voice said, 'Mortal!
wherefore hast thou summoned me before the time I commanded thee? Was
not thy wish granted? Steel shall not wound thee--cords bind thee--hemp
hang thee--nor water drown thee. Away!'
"'Stay!' exclaimed Soulis--'add, nor fire consume me!'
"'Ha! ha!' cried the spirit, in a fit of horrid laughter, that made even
the sorcerer tremble. '_Beware of a coming wood!_' And, with a loud
clang, the lid of the chest fell, and the noise as of thunder beneath
his feet was repeated.
"'Beware of a coming wood!' muttered Soulis to himself; 'what means the
fiend?'
"He hastened from the dungeon without locking the door behind him, and
as he hurried from it, he drew the key from his bosom, and flung it over
his left shoulder, crying 'Keep it, spirit!'
"He shut himself up in his chamber to ponder on the words of his
familiar, and on the extirpation of his followers; and he thought not of
Marion and her bridegroom until daybreak, when, with a troubled and a
wrathful countenance, he entered the apartment where they were fettered.
"'How now, fair maiden,' he began; 'hast thou considered well my
words?--wilt thou be my willing bride, and let young Branxholm live? or
refuse, and look thy fill on his smooth face as his head adorns the
point of my good spear?'
"'Rather than see her thine,' exclaimed Walter, 'I would thou shouldst
hew me in pieces, and fling my mangled body to your hounds.'
"'Troth! and 'tis no bad thought,' said the sorcerer; 'thou mayest have
thy wish. Yet, boy, ye think that I have no mercy: I will teach thee
that I have, and refined mercy too. Now, tell me truly, were I in thy
power as thou art in mine, what fate would ye award to Soulis?'
"'Then truly,' replied Walter, 'I would hang thee on the highest tree in
Branxholm Woods.'
"'Well spoken, young Strong-bow,' returned Soulis; 'and I will show thee,
though ye think I have no mercy, that I am more merciful than thou.' Ye
would choose for me the highest tree, but I shall _give thee the choice
of the tree from which you may prefer your body to hang_, and from whose
top the owl may sing its midnight song, and to which the ravens shall
gather for a feast. And thou, pretty face,' added he, turning to Marion,
'sith you will not, even to save him, give me thine hand, i'faith, if I
may not be thy husband, I will be thy priest, and celebrate your
marriage, for I will bind your hands together, and ye shall hang on the
next branch to him.'
"'For that I thank thee,' said the undaunted maiden.
"He then called together his four remaining armed men, and placing
halters round the necks of his intended victims, they were dragged forth
to the woods around the Hermitage, where Walter was to choose the fatal
tree.
"Now a deep mist covered the face of the earth, and they could perceive
no object at the distance of half a bow-shot before them; and ere he had
approached the wood where he was to carry his merciless project into
execution--
"'The wood comes towards us!' exclaimed one of his followers.
"'What!--_the wood comes!_' cried Soulis, and his cheek became pale, and
he thought on the words of the demon--'_Beware of a coming wood!_'--and,
for a time, their remembrance, and the forest that seemed to advance
before him, deprived his arm of strength, and his mind of resolution,
and before his heart recovered, the followers of the house of Branxholm,
to the number of fourscore, each bearing a tall branch of a rowan-tree
in their hands,[11] as a charm against his sorcery, perceived, and
raising a loud shout, surrounded him.
[Footnote 11: It is probable that the legend of the "_coming wood_,"
referred to in the traditions respecting Lord Soulis, is the same as that
from which Shakspere takes Macbeth's charm--
"Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane."
The circumstances are similar.]
"The cords with which the arms of Marion and Walter were bound were
instantly cut asunder. But, although the odds against him were as twenty
to one, the daring Soulis defied them all. Yea, when his followers were
overpowered, his single arm dealt death around.
"Now, there was not a day passed that complaints were not brought to
King Robert, from those residing on the Borders, against Lord Soulis,
for his lawless oppression, his cruelty, and his wizard-craft. And, one
day, there came before the monarch, one after another, some complaining
that he had brought diseases on their cattle, or destroyed their houses
by fire, and a third, that he had stolen away the fair bride of
Branxholm's heir, and they stood before the king, and begged to know
what should be done with him. Now, the king was wearied with their
importunities and complaints, and he exclaimed, peevishly and
unthinkingly, '_boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more about
him_.' But,
"'It is the curse of kings to be attended
By slaves that take their humour for a warrant;'
and, when the enemies of Soulis heard these words from the lips of the
king, they hastened away to put them in execution; and with them they
took a wise man, one who was learned in breaking the spells of
sorcery,[12] and with him he carried a scroll, on which was written the
secret wisdom of Michael the Wizard; and they arrived before Hermitage
Castle, while its lord was contending single-handed against the
retainers of Branxholm, and their swords were blunted on his buckler,
and his body received no wounds. They struck him to the ground with
their lances; and they endeavoured to bind his hands and his feat with
cords, but his spells snapped them asunder as threads.
[Footnote 12: Dr. Leyden represents this personage as being "True
Thomas, Lord of Ersylton;" but the Rhymer was dead before the time fixed
by tradition of the death of Lord Soulis, which took place in the time
of Robert the Bruce, who came to the crown in 1308, and the Rhymer was
dead before 1299, for in that year his son and heir granted a charter to
the convent of Soltra, and in it he describes himself _Filius et haeves
Thomae Rymour de Erceldon_.]
"'Wrap him in lead,' cried the wise man, 'and boil him therewith,
according to the command of the king, for water and hempen cords have no
power over his sorcery.'
"Many ran towards the castle, and they tore the lead from the turrets,
and they held down the sorcerer, and rolled the sheets around him in
many folds, till he was powerless as a child, and the foam fell from his
lips in the impotency of his rage. Others procured a caldron, in which
it was said many of his incantations were performed, and the cry was
raised--
"'Boil him on the Nine-stane rig!'
"And they bore him to where the stones of the Druids are to be seen till
this day, and the two stones are yet pointed out from which the caldron
was suspended. They kindled piles of faggots beneath it, and they bent
the living body of Soulis within the lead; and thrust it into the
caldron, and, as the flames arose, the flesh and the bones of the wizard
were consumed in the boiling lead. Such was the doom of Soulis.
"The king sent messengers to prevent his hasty words being carried into
execution, but they arrived too late.
"In a few weeks there was mirth, and music, and a marriage feast in the
bowers of Branxholm, and fair Marion was the bride."
HARDEN'S REVENGE.
From a state of high civilisation, it is curious to look back upon the
manners and modes of life of our ancestors of barbarous times; and the
contrast never can be presented in stronger hues than in the picture of
the lives of the old Borderers, who so completely realised Hobbes'
theory of the beginning of society (fighting and stealing for their
daily bread), and that of the quiet, sedate men of industry and peace of
these days, whose blood never rises beyond the degree of the heat of a
money-making ambition. A shiver comes over us, when we read of the son
killed in a feud, carried in to his mother a corpse; of the father of a
family, and the laird of many broad acres, laid before his weeping wife
and children, the dead victim of a strife with his next neighbour; of
families rendered houseless and homeless, often by a marauding kinsman;
of the never-ceasing turmoil, strife, cruelty, and revenge, of the whole
inhabitants of that distracted part of our country. We read, pause,
tremble, and hug ourselves in the happy thought that we have been born
in more auspicious times, when the sword is turned into the ploughshare,
the castle into the granary, and the fire of enmity softened and changed
into the fervour of love and friendship. Yet, alas! if we carry our
thoughts farther, how little may we have to felicitate ourselves on in
the pictured contrast? Rudeness has its evils; but is civilisation
without them? If the household of the Border chief was begirt with
dangers of rieving and spoliation, the domestic _lares_ kept it free
from the inebriated and demoralised son, whom the genius of civilisation
sends from the city haunts of pollution, to lift his hand against his
parent. If the _ingenium perfervidum_, of a roving life carried the
husband from the arms of the wife, perhaps to be brought home a corpse,
she seldom witnessed in him the victim of any of the thousand civilised
crimes which render the common thief, the fraudulent bankrupt, the
swindler, the gambler, the disloyal-spouse, the drunkard, worse than
dead to her. If a well-directed revenge might deprive the inmates of the
turret of a rude home, the strength was, at least, free from the inroads
of the messenger or poinder, whose warrant has a crueller edge than the
falchion of an enemy. We advocate not the cause of robbery, though
dignified by the name of war or revenge, or coloured by the hues of a
chivalric spirit of daring; but, when we look around us, and see how
much civilisation has accomplished for our bodies and our intellects,
and how little for our hearts or our morals, we hesitate to condemn our
ancestors for crimes which they were taught to believe as virtues, to
attribute to them an unhappiness which they viewed as the mere chance of
war, and to laud the civilised doings of our own times, when the
criminal has not the excuse of a want of proper education to palliate
his offences against the laws of his country. We are led into these
remarks by some rising reminiscences of the doings of old Wat Scott of
Harden, the most gnarled, most crooked, and sturdiest stem of the tree
of that old family. He lived in the fifteenth century, the hottest
period of Border warfare, and occupied the old seat of the family,
Harden Castle--a place of considerable strength, situated on the
beetling brink of a dark and precipitous dell, not far from the river
Borthwick, and facing a small rivulet which brawled past to meet the
larger stream. The place was suitable to the castle and its possessor;
for the stronghold contained in security the sturdy riever, and the glen
was a species of _massy more_ for the cattle which he _made_ his own
upon the good old legitimate principle of _might_, so much despised in
these days of statutory legislation, when the acts of Parliament extend
to twenty times the size of the Bible.
Many anecdotes and stories have been recorded of Walter Scott of Harden;
and we ourselves, we believe, have, in prior parts of our work, noticed
him favourably. There can be little doubt, indeed, that he was a perfect
man--that is, according to the estimate of qualities in the times in
which he lived, as gallant in love as he was bold in war; and surely,
letting the latter rest on his undisputed fame, the former could not be
better proved than by his having, when still a fine bold riever, wooed
and won the "Flower of Yarrow," Mary Scott, the daughter of Philip Scott
of Dryhope--a young maiden, whose poetical appellation, expressive as it
is, would go small way in carrying to the minds of those curious in
beauties the perfections she enjoyed from nature. Of the manner in which
Harden conducted his operations on the heart of this famous beauty, it
may be difficult now to speak with that certainty which is applicable to
his seizure and appropriations of his neighbours' live stock generally;
but, judging from the analogy of the boldness of his other exploits, and
from the circumstance that his father-in-law stipulated in the
marriage-contract that he was "to find Harden in horse meat and man's
meat, at his tower of Dryhope, for a year and a day, but that (as five
barons pledge), at the expiry of that period, his son-in-law should
remove _without attempting to continue in possession by force_,"[13] it
may be presumed that the riever was not, in this instance, lost or
forgotten in the lover. Old Dryhope _knew_ him from the early fame he
had acquired; and, while he had no objection to give him the Flower of
Yarrow for his wife, he saw the necessity of providing against the
occurrence which would, in all likelihood, have taken place, of Walter
taking up his residence at Dryhope Tower, and becoming laird, at the
same time that he kept a firm hold of Harden and his other lands. The
spirit of _appropriation_, in short, was so strong and overpowering in
the heart of the bold chief, that, as was frequently alleged of him, it
was dangerous to let him sit down on a creepy stool belonging, to a
_bona fide_ proprietor; for three minutes' occupancy seemed to produce
in him all the effects of the long positive prescription; and he never
looked at an article of man's making, or nature's production, without
considering whether it were a moveable or a fixture.
[Footnote 13: The contract is extant in the charter-chest of the present
representative. Neither Harden nor the Flower of Yarrow could write
their names.--ED.]
The only period of Harden's life in which his peculiar notions of _meum_
and _tuum_ were lost sight of, was during the sweet moon of his marriage
with Mary Scott. For one lunation, the poor Border proprietors were
safe; and, if the Harden motto, _Cornua reparabit Phoebe_, had any
meaning in it, it was the only moon of his life that did not light him
forth to commit some depredation. His marriage, with the slight
exception already stated, had no such effect in modifying his
appropriating spirit, as marriages now-a-days produce on reclaimed
rogues or roues, for Mary Scott although the fairest of all the fair
women of her time, had the same relish for cooking other people's kye,
that her husband Walter felt in bringing them home. There was not a wife
in all the Borders that served up "the feast of spurs" to her lord with
greater regularity, and more attention to the rules of proper hussyskep,
than the Flower of Yarrow. If Walter came in crying for supper--
"Haste ye, my dame--what cheer the night?
I look to see your table dight;
For I hae been up since peep o' light,
Driving the dun deer merrilie"--
Her reply was just as spirited and ready;--
"Are ye sae keen set, Wat? 'Tis weel--
I'faith, ye'll find a dainty meal;
For it's a' o' the guid Rippon steel,
And ye maun digest it manfullie."
The spirit of the riever, inborn, and strengthened by education and
example, became, in the case of Harden, as it did in that of many a one
else of the Border lairds, a regular household duty; and perhaps a more
peaceable husband than he might have felt a difficulty in resisting the
authority of so fair a governess as Mary Scott.
In the course of a long period, occupied by Harden in his daily duty and
pastime of overturning the rights of moveable property--and sure he must
have been a happy man whose hobby was his duty--his helpmate bore him no
fewer than six sons, who inherited the spirit of their father, and the
beauty of their mother. They came all to man's estate, and there was not
one of them who disgraced the principles of education which their father
took so much care to instil into them, as well by precept as by the
example daily laid before them, of levying black mail, and keeping the
dark glen well filled with the cattle of their neighbours. It was the
ambition of Harden that each of his sons should be an independent
proprietor, who might rieve, in after times, on his own account; and, at
the time when our story properly begins, he could count four fine
properties which he intended for the inheritance of four of the six
youths. Two remained to be provided for, and a point soon came to be
mooted at the fireside of Harden Castle--how two fitting lairdships
might be acquired for them, so that it might never come to be said, by
posterity, that Wat of Harden was unable to steal, or win by power or
purchase, a good domain for every one of the sons of the Flower of
Yarrow. The great difficulty, of course, lay in the nature of the thing
to be acquired, because, unhappily, an estate could not be carried away;
and there had already begun to be introduced a practice on the Borders
of regulating the rights of land by pieces of parchment skins, whereby
the outside of a sheep--a creature itself easily conveyable--was made to
vest a right in the land on which it grazed. No doubt, the charter
chest might be carried away, and Walter had courage enough to enable him
to accomplish that object; but still there remained many difficulties in
the way; doubles of the charters were apt to make their appearance at a
future day, and the best fire that could be produced at Harden Castle
was not sufficient to burn out the vestiges of proprietorship which the
sword of its master could so easily overturn.
As his years increased, the anxiety of the old laird waxed stronger and
stronger on the subject which lay nearest to his heart. He had often
cast his eye on the property of Gilmanscleugh, not far distant; and he
had even counted the broad acres, to ascertain if they would make a
suitable inheritance for one of his sons. It belonged, also, to a family
of Scotts--a circumstance that increased its peculiar fitness for the
purpose he had so long cherished, as his son would still be a Scott of
Gilmanscleugh, and the injustice of the appropriation would be
diminished, by his being chief of the clan, and having a species of
superiority over its proprietor. By an unfortunate agreement of tempers,
the two families had long remained on a sort of friendly footing; and
Harden had never been able to bring about such a feud as might give him
a pretext for denouncing Gilmanscleugh at head-quarters, when he might
have got the envied property forfeited, and a grant of it to himself. No
doubt, he had often taken from Gilmanscleugh his kye, but what neighbour
had been fortunate enough to escape, and what victim of his cupidity
dared to resent an injury where resentment would have brought upon his
head an evil a thousand times greater than that attempted to be avenged?
It was even a species of favour conferred on a small proprietor to have
a theft committed upon him by old Harden, because he was generally sure
to be protected against more unscrupulous aggressors by the old lion,
who liked to preserve what he himself might come to require; and so
Gilmanscleugh, like many others, had suffered meekly the contributions
laid upon him--for the double object of retaining his old chief's
friendship, and preserving the rest of his stock from the hands of the
other marauders, who were continually roaming about to take whatever
they could violently lay hands upon. The situation of Harden was,
therefore, that of the wolf in the fable; but he had never yet been able
to come to the resolution of asserting that the lamb had rendered the
descending water muddy to him who drank further up the stream. On this
important subject he did not disdain to take the advice of Mary, who
could see no reason, any more than Walter himself, why the chief of the
Scotts should not be able to provide a landed portion for two of his
sons, when the whole of Liddesdale and the Debateable Land contained so
much good ground lying ready for the taking. She, moreover, was also
partial to Gilmanscleugh, and only lamented that it was not large enough
to form two good properties; though that, of course, was no reason why
it should not be taken, _quantum et quale_, for one of her sons, leaving
the other to be provided for by some other estate out of the many that
lay around them.
"By my faith, Mary," said Walter, "if Gilmanscleugh had four legs to it,
it should not be long the property of its present master."
"And if my Walter had the arms he used to have," replied she, "it should
not be long ere it was Harden's. My power hath faded. Formerly, if the
Flower of Yarrow had asked Harden to give her Gilmanscleugh for a
jointure, it would have been hers ere next morn heard the cock crow in
Harden glen, but years bring fears."
"Not to Harden, Mary, love. He knoweth not the meaning of the vile word.
Your dished spurs make me as sharp-set now, as they did when the cook
was the fairest maid in Yarrow.[14] It is these sheep-skin rights, lass,
that prevent me from bestowing Gilmanscleugh on one of our sons."
[Footnote 14: Mary Scott is well known to have been as famous for the
cooking of spurs as for her beauty.]
"She who cooks Rippon steel, Wat, needeth a fire," replied she.
"Charters will burn. I'll give ye the spurs, if ye'll give me the
parchment. It will roast one of Gilmanscleugh's kye."
"But I have no cause of quarrel, Mary," said Harden.
"If I were to swear on the altar at Melrose," replied she, laughing,
"that Harden, wishing cows, asked for a cause, there wouldn't a
simpleton on the Borders believe my oath. Where be thy wits, Wat? What
better cause of quarrel need ye now than you ever did--a good hanger?"
"You would not have me kill my kinsman, Mary, to get his lands for our
son? By the moon of our armorials, I've slain enough. Nothing now will
make me take a man's life but anger, unless he be an Englishman, and
then I'll do it for love."
"There is no use for killing," rejoined she, "I'll give ye the steel
feast in the morning, and set ye forth for Gilmanscleugh kine. Take them
all, with the pet lamb that frisks before the door, on the green lea,
and if this do not make Scott complain, I had no title to be called the
Flower of Yarrow. If he complain, ye want no more. Ranshakle the house,
bring me the parchment rights, and I'll have a fire 'bleezing bonnilie.'
One who hath cooked spurs may cook parchment."
"But there may be copies, Mary--doubles o' the rights," said Wat.
"Aweel, my fire's big enough," answered she. "I've seen ye take
fivescore o' sheep in one night, and the deil's in't if ye cannot take
two skins."
"Good faith, but thou'rt the Flower o' the Yarrow rievers, Mary! Now,
tell me where I shall get a property for our remaining son?"
"Gilmanscleugh may serve them both," replied she.