scene, was a man holding a white horse, and standing a little way aloof
from the crowd. The animal was an ordinary cart-horse, and the person
who held it seemed to be a carter by profession. The situation of both
seemed an odd and unsuitable one, considering attendant circumstances;
and they, of course, attracted some notice, and excited some curiosity;
the more so that the man looked as if he and his horse had some
business there, and waiting for something or other. Jamie, among the
rest, was struck with these indications, and, making up to the man,
bluntly but civilly said--
"What are ye gaun to be aboot wi' the horse here, frien?"
"A job I dinna like verra weel," replied the man, whose face was pale,
and lips white, with some strong internal feeling.
"What sort o' a job may that be?" inquired Jamie, his curiosity still
further excited by this answer.
"If ye wait a while, ye'll see," replied the person addressed, in a
manner that intimated a desire to hold no further communication on the
subject. Jamie took the hint, and walked off. In less than
quarter-of-an-hour after, the dense mass of human beings that surrounded
the gibbet seemed all at once struck with some new and strong feeling of
excitement. A suppressed cry or exclamation rolled over that immense sea
of heads; and the apathy which prevailed before was exchanged for a
feeling of intense eagerness and restless curiosity. The first act of
the tragedy had commenced; and it was the intelligence of this that was
now working its way through the crowd, and producing the excitement
alluded to. Conscious, with others, that the appalling proceedings of
the occasion had opened, Jamie rushed towards the iron railings which
enclosed a narrow paved way that ran round three sides of the jail, and
there saw a scene more horrible than anything that even his own fertile
imagination could have conceived. This was a hurdle, a machine somewhat
resembling a Kamtschatkan sledge, raised slightly at either end, and to
which was yoked the identical white horse, held by the head by the
identical person, who had attracted Jamie's notice a short while before.
Within this hurdle was seated, at one end, the executioner, with a
broad, bright, short-handled axe resting on his shoulder; and opposite
to him, in the other end, sat a quiet, composed-looking old man, of
about sixty or sixty-five years of age. This was Swan, the unhappy man
who was to suffer. In a second or two, the sledge moved on towards the
scaffold; and in a second or two more Swan appeared upon the fatal
platform. He was perfectly calm and collected throughout the whole of
this trying scene, as was made sufficiently evident by his turning round
to the executioner, and saying, with perfect composure, and an air of
unconcerted simplicity, "Tammas, did ye ever see sic a crowd?" In a
short time after, the miserable man was thrown off; and when he had hung
about a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes, three town-officers were
seen to mount the scaffold and approach the body, which they immediately
proceeded to lower--a ghastly spectacle, as they had to shoulder,
handle, and support the corpse in the hideous operation. That operation
performed, the body was placed in a position for decapitation, when
suddenly another personage appeared on the scaffold. His step was quick
and hurried. He wore a mask on his face, and was wrapped up in a loose
black gown, which entirely concealed his person. On ascending the
platform, this appalling personage, without looking to the right or
left, quickly passed his hand round or over the neck of the dead man, as
if to ascertain the proper place to strike. This done, he, with the same
expedition, raised the axe, and at one blow severed the head from the
body, and instantly thereafter glided from the scaffold, as mysteriously
and rapidly as he had ascended it; the whole being the work of not more,
perhaps, than a minute.
All this, then, Jamie Murdieston saw, and it struck him with horror. But
will the reader believe that it should have been the means of getting
him into another of his lying predicaments? All will think, we daresay,
that it should have had a very opposite effect, and have rather laid
than aroused the fibbing spirit that was within him. But, verily, such
was not the case.
On the evening of the same day, Jamie betook himself to a coffee-room,
to spend an hour, which he found hanging heavy on his hands, in taking a
peep of the papers, and listening to the varied and desultory
conversations which are usually to be heard in such places of resort.
Being of a social and communicative disposition, Jamie soon began to
take a share in the general talk. This talk, for the most part, as might
be expected, bore reference to the recent execution, and to the popular
movements out of which it had arisen.
"I'll tell you what it is," said Jamie, who was at this particular
moment pretty considerably muzzed--"I'll tell ye what it is," he said,
addressing two men who sat opposite him, and with whom he had got into
familiar conversation--"the government had better no try ony mair o'
thae tricks" (meaning executions for political offences), "or they'll
maybe get their kail through the reek. There's mair mischief brewin in
the country than they're aware o'."
"Faith, it's just as ye say, frien," said one of the persons spoken to.
"There _is_ some wark gaun on that'll bother the big-wigs at Lunnun,
when the proper time comes. But _we're_ no just ripe yet. Onything doin
amang the _Friends_ in your pairt o' the country?"
"We're gettin on cannily, but surely," replied Jamie, with a significant
look to the querist. Then, with a wink, pregnant with mysterious
intelligence--"I ken twa or three things aboot thae matters that haena
been cried at the cross."
On this, one of the men opposite Jamie stretched himself across the
table, and whispered in his ear--
"Are ye headin ony movement in your quarter, noo?"
Jamie replied with an expressive nod, and a look of great importance;
but did not think it necessary, or perhaps safe, to speak.
"Gie's yer haun, my frien," said the man who had whispered in Jamie's
ear, with an air of high-wrought enthusiasm. "I honour you for your
principles," he added, shaking, with great cordiality, the hand that was
extended to him, and at the same time turning off the contents of his
glass to Jamie's success.
"Thank ye, frien--thank ye," said Jamie, who, the reader will see, had
all at once set up for a Radical leader. "I'll tell ye what," he
continued, now leaning over the table towards his cronies, and speaking
in a cautiously low tone--"as I see ye're friens o' the guid cause, I'll
gie ye some intelligence that ye'll be glad aneugh to hear, I daresay.
We're, ye see, a hunner strong in oor quarter, and as fine a set o'
stout, resolute fallows as ye wad wish to see, and a' ready to turn oot
at a moment's notice. I'm their captain, ye see. They hae done me the
honour o' makin me their captain--a very unworthy, but a very willin
ane. But, ah! sirs, we had a sad fecht to get arms; and they wad never
hae been gotten an I hadna advanced a hunner poun oot o' my ain pouch;
takin bills frae the committee for the amount, payable oot o' the first
and readiest whan a's settled."
"I'm sure _the_ cause is much indebted to ye," here interrupted one of
Jamie's new friends. "And hoo are ye armed noo, then?"
"Ou, pretty weel--pretty weel," replied Jamie--"maistly pikes; for, ye
see, wi' oor sma' funds, we couldna touch fire-arms, although there's a
few o' thae among us too. But oor pikes'll be found troublesome things,
I'm thinkin. They're made after a fashion o' my ain invention. This is
the shape, ye see." And here Jamie dipped his forefinger into his
tumbler, and therewith proceeded to draw the figure of a very
formidable-looking weapon on the table. "That, ye see, is for stabbin,
and that's for cuttin, and that's for hookin, and that's for knockin
doon," continued Jamie, pointing out the various properties of the
complex instrument. "Winna that be a botherer?"
"My feth, in guid hauns it'll be that," responded one of Jamie's
friends; and added, "Are ye drillin hard?"
"Every nicht that we hae the least glint o' moonshine," replied Jamie,
without a moment's hesitation. "I gie them twa hours o't every nicht,
and am teachin them a new sort o' pike exercise, that'll be fand, if I'm
no mistaen, particularly effectual in keepin off horse."
"Where learned ye the use o' that weapon, sir, if I may take the liberty
of asking?" inquired the former querist.
Few questions found Jamie unprepared with an answer.
"I'll tell ye that, frien," he replied. "It was in the Lancers. I was
nine years a serjeant in that corps, which I left after the battle of
Waterloo, in consequence o' a severe wound I got in that engagement. But
what's come o' yer frien?" here said Jamie, suddenly interrupting
himself, and now adverting, for the first time, to the absence of the
companion of the person whom he addressed, and who had slipped out,
without saying anything, about a quarter-of-an-hour before.
"He'll be here in a minute," was the reply; and the calculation was
perfectly correct. In about a minute, the man appeared, but not alone.
He was now accompanied by three most equivocal-looking persons.
"That's your man," he said, with an inclination of his head towards
Jamie Murdieston.
"Friend," said one of the strangers, laying his hand on Jamie's
shoulder, "you'll come along with us, if you please."
"Alang wi' you!" exclaimed Jamie, in the utmost amazement. "I wad like
to ken whar and what for, first."
"We'll let you know all that by and by, friend," replied the spokesman
of the party; "but, in the meantime, you _must_ go with us; so there's
no use in palavering about it."
"I'll be hanged if I do, then," said Jamie, resolutely, "till I ken what
for. 'Od, this is a pretty business! Do you tak me to be a robber or a
murderer?"
"No, but we take you to be a traitor, a conspirer against the
government, and a leaguer with its enemies; and as such I apprehend
you," said the spokesman, at the same time collaring Jamie, and calling
on his assistants to aid him in making a forcible capture of his person.
The call was instantly obeyed. Jamie was seized on all sides, at one and
the same instant of time, and, despite of a loud and most earnest denial
of all hostility to the government, or of ever having in any way or
manner whatever aided in disturbing the peace of the realm, was dragged
out of the apartment, and finally snugly deposited in an airy cell in
the city jail.
On being left to himself, Jamie, in no very happy mood, seated himself
on a bench that ran along the wall, threw one leg over the other,
planted his elbow on his knee, and, supporting his head with his hand,
began to entertain himself with some reflections on the very
extraordinary predicament into which he had been thus so suddenly and
unexpectedly thrown.
"Preserve us, this is awfu!" said Jamie. "Waur a great deal than the
droonin business. What the deevil tempted me to speak such nonsense? But
wha could hae thocht this wad hae come o't? A bit harmless piece o'
falderal. Yon twa maun hae been a pair o' infernal scoundrels--that's
clear; and as clear is it that I'm in a most wickedly-awkward situation.
I maun, I suppose, either submit to be hanged peaceably, or confess that
I hae been tellin a most unconscionable lee--no a very pleasant
alternative; but the last's better than the first, I reckon."
Jamie's communings were at this time interrupted by the entrance of the
jailer, who came to see that all was right for the night.
"Man," said Jamie, addressing him, and trying to smile graciously, in
order to propitiate his good-will, "this is a queer business."
"I rather think you'll find it so," replied the jailer, coolly, and
unaffected by Jamie's soothing advances. "Both a queer business, and a
serious one."
"It was a' a joke, man," said Jamie.
"Perhaps so," said the jailer; "but, like many other jokes, you may
chance to find it attended with rather awkward consequences." And,
without saying more, the man banged to the door with a violence that
made the long passage on which it opened ring with an iron sound, and
left Jamie to find what repose he might.
"The fallow'll no believe me," he said, on being again left to himself,
"nae mair than if he kent me."
On the following morning, Jamie was conducted in procession, by three or
four criminal officers, into the presence of the Procurator-Fiscal, when
a precognition on his case immediately ensued.
"Well, sir," said the latter, at the same time referring to a paper
which lay on his desk before him, "so you have taken up arms against the
government."
"Naething o' the kind, my lord, I assure you," said Jamie.
"What, sir! do you mean to deny your spontaneous acknowledgment of the
fact, made last night in the presence of two credible witnesses?"
"Indeed do I, my lord."
"Why, you _may_," replied the fiscal, emphatically; "but, I fear, it
will do no good. Have you not mustered a body of armed men, or at least
taken the command of such a body, with the intention of overthrowing the
government of the country?--and have you not furnished them with funds
to procure arms?--and are you not in the habit of training them nightly,
as their captain, or leader, in military exercises?--and----"
"It's a' a lee, my lord--a lee frae beginnin to end," here interposed
Jamie, earnestly. "I just spoke a' that nonsense for a bit o' diversion.
It's just a way I hae, you see" (thus delicately did Jamie allude to his
failing), "o' amusin mysel and my friens."
"Oh, then, you mean to deny _in toto_," said the fiscal. "In that case,
we must adopt other proceedings; and, in the meantime, you return to
jail."
To his old quarters, accordingly, Jamie was forthwith carried, and there
lay for three entire days, until the result of the inquiries which were
set on foot established that he was indeed no traitor, but a most
inveterate and incorrigible liar. It is said, however, that Jamie, after
this, was a great deal more cautious as to the nature and character of
his romances, and as to the when, where, and to whom they were
promulgated.
DUNCAN M'ARTHUR.
In the year 1778, Mr M'Donald, an extensive West India planter, from the
island of Jamaica, came to Scotland, on a visit to his friends and
relations in the West Highlands; amongst whom he spent several months,
going from place to place, living a week or two here, and a week or two
there, as chance or other circumstances directed.
During one of these migrations, this gentleman came one day,
accidentally, in a solitary place on the banks of Loch Awe, on a little
kilted, barelegged, and bareheaded Highland boy, busily employed in
launching a little fleet of paper-sailed boats on the lake. The
situation in which Mr M'Donald was at the moment placed, was one of
those which strongly predispose one to enter into conversation with
whomsoever chance may throw in the way, without much regard to age, sex,
or appearance. The day was delightful--it was in the middle of June; the
place lonely, and the scenery around of the most sublime and beautiful
kind--the most beautiful, perhaps, in the Highlands of Scotland; and
this, as our readers know, is no mean character of its perfections.
These were the circumstances, then, in which Mr M'Donald was placed on
the occasion to which we have alluded, and on him they had the effect
which they would have had on anybody else--namely, that of opening up
the sympathies of his nature, of extinguishing the littleness of pride,
and of inducing one general feeling of benevolence; and it was in this
happy frame of mind that he now reined in his horse, and accosted the
young stranger.
"Well, my little fellow," he said, "what's this you're about?"
The boy looked up in his face, and blushed and smiled at the same time,
but made no reply, conceiving one unnecessary, as his employment was
sufficiently evident. There was in that single look of the boy's,
however, an expression of openness and intelligence that at once caught
Mr M'Donald's fancy; and he immediately added, good-naturedly, "Where
are all these ships going to?"
The boy again looked up in his face and laughed, but now vouchsafed a
reply:--
"To the West Indies, sir, for cargoes of rum and sugar."
This was spoken in pretty fair English, though strongly tinctured with
the Celtic accent.
"Indeed!" rejoined Mr M'Donald; "my word, but you are an extensive
trader, if it be the case, as I have no doubt it is, that all these fine
ships are your own. What's your name, my little fellow?"
"Duncan M'Arthur, sir."
"Are you at school?"
"Yes, sir; I'm just now on my way home from it."
"What are you learning there?"
"English, writing, and arithmetic."
"Can you write pretty well?"
"Ou ay, sir--middlin."
"Count?"
"Ay--middlin, too, sir."
"That's a clever fellow. How should you like, now, to go abroad, and see
the world? How should you like to go where you have just now sent these
ships?"
"It's mysel, sir, wad like it weel," said the boy, his sharp,
intelligent little eye brightening with the idea; "but my faither
couldna want me for herdin the cows, and helpin him wi' his peats."
"Where does your father live, my boy?" inquired Mr M'Donald.
"At the Ferry o' Bunaw, sir."
It was within half-a-mile of the house to which the latter was just
going, and where he intended stopping for a few days, previous to his
leaving the country for good and all.
"Well, my little fellow," he said, "I am going to Blackhouse. You know
it, I fancy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, call upon me there to-morrow forenoon. Ask for Mr M'Donald. I
wish to speak further with you."
The boy promised, and Mr M'Donald rode off.
Now, it would not be easy for us to say what were the latter's
intentions regarding the little barelegged boy; and for this simple
reason--that he did not well know himself. He had, however, taken a
fancy to the boy--that is certain--and felt a disposition to do him a
service, although he had not yet thought of what nature this should be,
or how it was to be done. He had, in truth, no definite views on the
subject; but he had not ridden far, when these began to assume something
of a tangible shape, and this was, to take the boy into his service as a
personal attendant, provided his parents should agree to it.
True to his appointment, little Duncan waited next day on Mr M'Donald,
his face well washed, and his hair carefully combed over his forehead.
"Ah, Duncan, are you there?" said the latter, on his entering the
apartment where he was. "I'm glad to see you. You said yesterday,
Duncan, that you would like to go abroad."
"Weel wad I like that, sir," replied the little bare-breeched
Highlander, "if my faither could spare me."
"Did you speak to your father on the subject, Duncan?"
"I tell't him that I met you, sir, and what you said."
"Ay; and what did he say, my little fellow?"
"He said, sir, 'The shentleman's been shoking you, Duncan; but ye may go
down to Blackhouse, as he pade you, and see what he has to say.'"
And Duncan looked at Mr M'Donald as if he would be glad himself to know
whether there was anything of a joke in the matter. Indeed, it was for
this purpose that he repeated his father's words, cunningly availing
himself of them to elicit the information he wanted.
"Joking you, Duncan!" repeated Mr M'Donald, smiling. "By no means; and
of this I'll soon convince both you and your father."
Having said this, he took up his hat and stick, and desired the boy to
conduct him to his father's.
The house was one of the poorest class; and it was evident, from
everything within and around it, that it was a hard struggle with its
occupants to make, as the saying has it, "the two ends to meet."
Having found Duncan's father, Mr M'Donald explained to him his views
regarding his son. These were readily acceded to by both the boy's
parents, who, though they sorely grudged to part with their little
Duncan, yet saw that it might be for his advantage, and therefore felt
themselves called on to sacrifice their own feelings in a case which
seemed to involve his future welfare. At this interview it was settled,
in short, that he should enter the service of Mr M'Donald, and of course
leave the country with him when he went.
Three days after this, Duncan bade farewell to his parents and the home
of his childhood. His patron was about to set out for Greenock, and
there to embark for Jamaica. The parting was a bitter one. His father
clasped him in his arms; and, while those tears, which no danger to
himself, and no sufferings merely his own, could ever have drawn from
him, streamed down his rugged cheeks, he fervently and solemnly prayed,
in Gaelic--in his own impressive language--for a blessing on his child.
"When I have had such a parting as this, Duncan," he said,
afterwards--"and many of them I've had with my brethren, and with more
remote but still dear friends--it was the honour of our country and our
name that caused the separation. They had girded on the sword, and went
to seek distinction in the ranks of war, and on the field of battle.
They went to be soldiers, Duncan; and I could wish that you had been now
following their footsteps. But it may be better as it is. Your days may
be more, though your reputation should be less. A different destiny
seems meted out for you."
But it was in the case of his mother that the parting of little Duncan
was most affecting. She held the boy to her bosom, as if she meant that
he should never again leave it, and loaded him with all the tender
epithets which her memory could supply, and with which the Gaelic
language so much abounds. On exhausting these, she proceeded to deplore
the approaching separation from her child, in that affecting strain, at
once metaphorical and poetical, peculiar to her country on such and
similar occasions.
"This day, my Duncan," she said, "the light of the sun is obscured to
your mother's eyes, and he shines not as he did before. The green woods
have lost their verdure, and the once sparkling waters of the fountain
their brightness. A dark cloud is on the face of the sun, that will
long, long remain, though none but your mother's eye will see it; a
blight, that she alone can perceive, is on the lovely woods of Ardmoran;
and, pure though the waters of the fountain may appear to others, to
her, Duncan, they will henceforth seem soiled and discoloured."
Such was the figurative language in which Duncan's mother went on to
describe her feelings as they were, and as she anticipated they would
be; and such was the strain in which she deplored the impending
separation from her child.
But this could be but of short duration. The moment of final separation
arrived, and Duncan hastened to rejoin his master, who was about to
embark in a small sailing vessel (there being then no steamboats on the
Clyde) for Greenock.
On going up the river, the boy was observed by the captain of the vessel
leaning over the side, and gazing with the most earnest attention at
something on the shore. The man's curiosity was excited by the
circumstance, and he asked him what he was looking at so intently.
"Oh, sir," replied Duncan, with great simplicity of manner, "I'm looking
at yon beautiful hoose yonder," pointing to a handsome house that stood
amidst an embowering wood on the face of a gentle acclivity. "It's the
bonniest I ever saw."
"Yes, my man, it's a very fine house," replied the skipper. "Should you
like to live in such a house as that?"
The boy looked up in his face and smiled--"That I would, sir; and, if I
had plenty of money, I would buy't, for I have never seen such a pretty
place."
"Why, man," replied the good-natured seaman, "perhaps you may be able to
buy it yet, or at least as good."
Duncan smiled, and shook his head; but, from this moment, the vision of
that house took possession of the boy's fancy, by one of those
unaccountable and uncontrollable emotions of the mind, which all must
have felt in particular instances; and, as long as he lived, he never
forgot it. It haunted him in his sleep, and was the frequent
resting-point of his memory, when far away in a foreign land. It was,
indeed, a boyish fancy; but it was one of those enduring ones that no
vicissitudes of after-life have power to efface, but that, on the
contrary, grow the brighter, the further they are removed by distance or
by time.
Shortly after arriving in Greenock, Duncan's nether man was arrayed, for
the first time, in a pair of inexpressibles and the kilt thrown aside.
To these were added a trim short coat, ornamented with the M'Donald
livery; and a smart hat, adorned with a gold band--and thus was the
first step of Duncan's metamorphosis completed.