not, to save a brother! I have nothing to say for the young man."
And, as he turned away, he muttered, loud enough to be heard, "Let him
meet his appointed doom, and ye will extinguish the last o' a race o'
incorrigible rebels."
"Youth," said Montrose, addressing Alexander, "from the manner in which
ye addressed Mr Stuart, and the way in which he has answered my
inquiries respecting ye, it is evident to me that the turbulent spirit
o' the times has begotten a feeling between ye which ought not to exist;
and, through your quarrel, the heart o' a gentle maiden may be broken.
But I shall have no part in it. I think," he added, in a low tone, "I
have seen your face before. When the lot fell upon me to be the first to
cross the Tweed at Hirselhaugh into England, are ye not the stripling
that was the first to follow me?"
"I am," replied Alexander; "but what signifies that, my lord? _ye have
since crossed the water in an opposite direction!_"
Montrose frowned for a moment; but his better nature forced him to
admire the heroism of his prisoner; and he added, "Consent to leave the
rebellious cause into which you have plunged--embrace the service of
your king, and you are pardoned--you shall be promoted--the hand of the
maiden whom you love shall be yours. I will be surety for what I have
said."
Alexander remained silent for a few minutes, as though there were a
struggle in his bosom what he would say; at length, turning his eyes
towards Montrose, he answered, "What, my lord! turn renegrade like
you!--desert the cause for which my father and my brethren have laid
down their lives! Wi' a' the offers which ye hold out--and tempting one
o' them is--I scorn life at such a price. Let them lead me to execution;
and I have but one request to make to ye. Ye have heard the favour which
I besought o' that man, and which he refused to grant"--as he spoke he
pointed to the father of Flora. "Will ye inform his daughter that
Alexander Cockburn met death as became a man--that his last thoughts
were o' her--that his last breath breathed her name!"
"You shall not die!" exclaimed Montrose, impatiently; "I will not so far
gratify your pride. Conduct him to Perth," added he, addressing those
who guarded the prisoner; "and let him be held in safe keeping till our
further pleasure is known concerning him."
He had admired the dauntless spirit which young Cockburn displayed, and
he sought not his life, but he resolved, if it were possible, to engaged
him in his service.
For many weeks, Alexander remained as a prisoner in Perth, without hope
of rescue, and without being able to learn which cause prevailed--the
King, the Parliament, or the Covenant--for the Civil war was now
carried on by three parties. At length, by daily rubbing the iron bars
o' his prison window wi' some sort o' soap which he contrived to get,
they became so corroded, that the stanchels yielded to his hands as
rotten wood. He tore the blankets that covered him into ribands, and,
fastening them to a portion o' ane o' the broken bars, lowered himself
to the street.
It was night and he fled to the quay--and found concealment in the hold
of a vessel, which, on the following day, sailed for London.
But it is time to return to Alice--the widowed, the all but childless
mother. Day after day she prayed, she yearned, that she might obtain
tidings of her children; but no tidings came. Sleep forsook her solitary
pillow, and, like Rachel, she wept for her children because they were
not. But a messenger of evil at length arrived, bearing intelligence
that four of her sons had fallen in battle, and that the fifth, her
youngest, had been made prisoner, and was sentenced to die.
"My cup o' wretchedness is full," cried the bereaved mother; "have I
none left--not one--not even my Alexander, my youngest, the comfort o'
my age? But I must submit. It is for the best--it is a' for the best, or
it wadna be. I should rejoice that I hae been chastened, and that my
affliction has been for a cause that will confer liberty o' conscience
on posterity, and freedom on our poor distracted country. But oh, I
canna forget, my heart winna do it, that I was ance a wife--that I was a
mother, and had five sons, the marrow o' whom ye wouldna hae found in a'
the Merse, but now my husband is not, and my bairns are not, and I am a
lone widow, wearying to be wi' them, and wi' no ane here to speak to me!
Yet I ought not to murmur!--no! no! It was me that urged them to go
forth and fight the good fight; but, strong as my zeal then was--oh,
human nature and a wife's, a mother's feelings, are strong also!"
But Alice, in the day o' her distress, found a comforter, and one that
sympathised wi' her in all her sorrows, in one whom she had but small
right to expect to be a freend. When she was left to mourn in solitude,
wi' but few to visit her, there was one who came to condole wi' her, and
who, having once visited her, was seldom absent from her side--and that
was Flora Stuart, the betrothed o' her youngest son, o' whom she had
spoken rashly.
"Oh, bairn," said she, addressing Flora, "little, little indeed, does
Alice Cockburn deserve at yer hands!--for but for me, and my puir
Alexander might this day hae been in life, and held yer hand in his. But
forgie me, hinny! It was in a guid cause that I hae sacrificed a' that
was dear to me in this warld--only, it was a sair, sair stroke upon a
mother!"
Flora strove to comfort her; but it was in vain. She didna repine,
neither did she murmur as those who have no hope; but her health, which
had never been what doctors would call robust, was unable to stand the
shock which her feelings had met wi'; and, in a few weeks after hearing
o' the deaths o' her children, Alice Cockburn was gathered wi' the dead,
and Flora Stuart accompanied her body mourning to the grave.
I have mentioned that Alexander concealed himself on board a vessel
which sailed for London. He had been three days at sea before he
ventured from the place o' his concealment, and the captain himself
being the son o' a Covenanter, he was conveyed to the great city in
safety. He had been but a short time in London, when, meeting with a
gentleman who belonged to the neighbourhood o' Dunse, he learned that
his mother was dead, and that his father's brother, believing that he
was dead also, had taken possession o' the property.
Alexander had never had the same religious feelings in the cause in
which he had been engaged, that his father and his brothers had. He
fought for the sake o' what he called liberty, rather than for any
feeling o' conscience; and his ruling passion was a love o' warlike
adventures. He, therefore, had been but a short time in London, when he
joined the Parliamentary army; and his courage and talents soon drew
upon him the notice o' Cromwell, and others o' the Parliamentary
leaders.
It was about six years after the battle o' Tippermuir, when one, who was
supposed to be a spy from the royalists, fell into the hands o' a party
belonging to the Parliamentary army. He was examined, and evidence
bearing strongly against him, that he had come amongst them secretly to
pry out where the army would be most vulnerable, and, if possible, to
entrap them into the hands o' their enemies, was produced against him.
He was examined a second time, and letters were found concealed about
his person which left no doubt o' his being a spy. Some voted that he
should be immediately punished with death; but, while all agreed in the
nature o' the punishment that ought to be inflicted, there were some who
proposed that the execution o' his sentence should be deferred for a few
days, until the arrival o' their commanding officer, who was then
absent.
During the days that he was thus respited, a daughter o' the spy
arrived, and flinging herself upon her knees before the officers who had
condemned him, she besought them, with tears, that they would spare her
father's life. Her distress might have moved a heart o' stone. Before
them they beheld youth, beauty, loveliness, bathed in misery--bowed down
wi' distress. They saw her tears falling at their feet--but they had
been used to tears o' blood, and her wretchedness moved them not. All
that they could say to her was that their superior officer was not
present, and, with the evidence which they had to submit before him,
they could not revoke the sentence they had passed.
On the third day, the chief officer o' the party arrived. All that had
been proved against the prisoner was told to him, and the papers that
had been concealed about him were placed before him. He was about to
pronounce the words, "He shall surely die," when, pausing, he commanded
that the prisoner should be brought before him.
The doomed one was accordingly ushered into his presence. When the
officer beheld him approach, he started up.
"Can it be possible?" he exclaimed--"Mr Stuart?" and gasped as he spoke.
The prisoner also started at hearing his true name, and raising his head
said, "It is possible! Alexander Cockburn, I am your prisoner--_It is
your turn now_!"
The officer, who was chief in command o' the party, was none other than
Alexander Cockburn, the young Covenanter, and the doomed spy was Mr
Robert Stuart, the father o' Flora.
"Sir," said Alexander, "my turn is indeed come--it is come to prove to
you, that as generous feelings may kindle in the eyes that are barely
shaded by the blue bonnet o' a Covenanter as in those that look proudly
from beneath the gay beaver o' a cavalier. There was a time when I stood
as you were like to have done now, wi' but a few ticks o' a watch
between me and eternity--the watch that ye refused to take from my hand;
and when but the expression o' a wish from your lips was all that was
required to obtain my pardon, my freedom--and that wish ye wouldna
express."
"I ken it, lad! I ken it!" cried the prisoner; "but I am in your power
now; take your revenge--do by me as I would have done by you!"
"No, Mr Stuart!" replied the other, "vengeance belongs not to me. But I
rejoice that, in this instance, for the sake o' one whose name I dare
not mention here, I have the power o' pardoning. Soldiers, unloose his
hands--he is free--he is forgiven."
The soldiers did as they were commanded.
"Alexander Cockburn!" exclaimed the late captive, "will you make me
appear more contemptible than a worm in my own eyes? A minute has not
passed since you reminded me how I hated you, and how deadly I showed my
hatred. The remembrance o' the occasion on which I showed that feeling
has been like a biting adder in my breast ever since; and now to receive
life at your hands would be to make my future existence a mixture o'
wormwood and gall."
"Say not so," said Alexander, stepping forward, and taking his hand. "I
would speak with you in private."
At that moment a voice was heard without, crying, "Let me pass!--pray,
let me pass!--let a daughter intercede with your officer for the life of
a father!"
"Sir, sir!" exclaimed Alexander, "it is _her_!--it is _her_! My Flora's
voice!" And he rushed to the door to meet her.
"Flora!--my own Flora!" he continued; "your father is free--he is
forgiven--he shall live! What! do you not know me? I am your own
Alexander."
"Alexander!" she cried, springing forward to meet him, and, yielding to
the natural feelings o' the man, her father ran towards them, and
embraced them both.
My story (said the schoolmaster) is now at a close. Alexander gave up
his commission in the Parliamentary army. It was low-water mark wi' the
king's people, and Mr Stuart accompanied him; and need I tell ye, that
so did Flora. They had abundance to keep them comfortable; and, on the
day after they arrived at Dunse, she took them to the kirkyard, and
showed them the clean white headstone o' Alice Cockburn.
"Bless ye for this, my ain wife," said Alexander, while the tears were
in his een, and he raised her hand to his lips.
I have only to add (continued the narrator), that I, Simon Cockburn, am
the great-grandson o' Alexander Cockburn and Flora Stuart.
THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.
THE PRINCE OF SCOTLAND.
The character of David, Earl of Carrick, better known by the title of
Duke of Rothsay, is one of those which nature seems to delight in
distributing among nations at distant periods, apparently with the view
of teaching mankind, that, however brilliant may be the powers of mind
with which an individual is endowed, however captivating the qualities
of his person, his sparkling wit, his graceful manners, and polite
conversation; and however amiable the generosity, liberality, and
feeling of his heart--though all combined with high rank, and even the
station of a king--he has no charter of immunity from the obligations of
ordinary life; and that, if he endeavours, by the aid of these, to turn
serious things into frolic, and force a pastime from the sanctions of
religious or moral duty, he must pay the usual forfeit of a departure
from the rights of nature, and suffer destruction.
This young prince, it is well known, was the son of Robert III. of
Scotland, who allowed the reins of government to be wrested from his
feeble hands by the cunning and powerful Duke of Albany. The feebleness
of the father was not inherited by the son. Rothsay had powers of mind
which were equal to the management of a kingdom; and these, there is
reason to suppose, he would have displayed for the advantage of his
country, if the current of events in which he was involved had not been
influenced by his uncle, Albany, and turned to suit his schemes of
ambition. The indications of great talent which, in early youth, he
exhibited, were hailed by his father with pride and satisfaction; but by
his uncle, the governor, with well-founded fear and suspicion.
Unfortunately, it soon appeared that the fertility of the soil did not
limit its powers of production to the nobler and more useful plants.
Along with the prince's great powers of intellect, there arose a love of
pleasure which could be gratified only--such was its insatiable
character--by every species of extravagant sally and wild frolic. His
heart was untainted by any inclination to injure seriously the health,
reputation, or interests of any individual, however humble; but,
unfortunately, when a love of enjoyment took possession of him, all his
intellectual powers, as well as some of his moral perceptions, were
abused or overlooked, and a character naturally generous was shaded by
the faults of vicious intemperance.
To make all this the more to be regretted, young Rothsay was a beautiful
youth. His voice was full and melodious, capable of being exerted--and
he had the art to do it--in exciting, by the strains of exquisite music,
the tenderest feelings of the heart. His manner had in it the affability
of a free romping girl, with the grace and dignity of a young prince.
His hilarity seemed to have no interval, and his good-humour was
scarcely capable of being disturbed. His love of amusement, and his
genius in contriving schemes for the promotion of the happiness of his
friends and associates, made his company the desire of the aged and the
envy of the young. Yet, amidst all this, it was remarked as wonderful,
that he seldom lowered the dignity of his rank. Even his frolics were
those of a prince, and his humblest acts were performed with that
consummate grace which can lend a charm to what, in other hands, would
incur the charge of vulgarity.
But, while these fair features often set off with greater effect the
faults which inevitably flow from the indulgence of unlawful passions,
Rothsay had the power of combining his good and evil, and so mixing up
his passionate sallies of intemperance or vicious sport with traits of
generosity, humanity, and feeling, that it was often impossible to say
whether some of his actions were good or bad, or whether the people who
had apparently suffered from his unrestrained licentiousness would have
escaped the injury to be deprived of the benefit which it produced from
the calm reflection of the generous youth.
The friendship of Rothsay was extended to most of the young nobles of
that period; but no one was so successful in securing his affections as
Sir John de Ramorgny--a young man supposed to have come originally from
France, and certainly justifying his extraction by his character.
Originally bred to the church, he was learned beyond the nobles with
whom he associated; and, while few could boast his erudition and
knowledge, fewer still could cope with him in original powers of mind.
But these powers were ill directed; for they were used only in base
intrigues and vicious projects. A more dangerous friend or fatal enemy
could not be found among insidious Frenchmen or the still savage Scots.
His dissimulation, address, and elegance of personal appearance and
manners, were all used, as occasion required, to cover or aid his
designs of ambition, or his base seductions and purposes of revenge.
Able for the weightier projects of war or diplomacy, and admirably
adapted for court intrigue, he did not hesitate to descend to the most
trifling and vulgar pleasures. He could play the murderer, the insidious
betrayer, and the buffoon or mountebank, with equal address and with
equal satisfaction. With these qualities, the more wicked and dangerous
of which he could conceal, Ramorgny was easily able to recommend himself
to Rothsay; and the affection with which he was treated by the prince
was no doubt the effect of a similarity in manners and accomplishments,
and a congeniality of humour, which the unsuspecting and generous prince
mistook for an agreement of disposition.
Scotland is said to have been used from one end to the other, by these
dissolute companions, as the theatre of their amusements. They wandered
about in disguise, laying rich and poor, old and young, under
contributions for their wild pastime. They were often for weeks
associated with bands of wandering minstrels and female dancers,
entering into their humours, playing on their instruments, learning the
secrets of their wandering professions, and imitating their
performances. The protean versatility of their powers rendered their
extravagant exhibitions of easy accomplishment; while their hilarity and
boisterous merriment, recommended by a profusion of money, made them
welcome into whatever society of vagabonds they were ambitious of
entering. Nor was it by merely courting the favours of these tribes that
the companions were permitted to join in their revels. They were able to
stand their ground on an equal footing of reckless hardihood, and, where
occasion required, of pugilistic authority. They could sing and dance,
swear and bawl, get drunk and fight, with the most profligate members of
these outlawed associations.
These extravagances soon became known; and Queen Arabella, the young
duke's mother, was greatly grieved that her eldest son, and the object
of her dearest hopes and most anxious solicitudes, should act a part
which, while it would alienate from him the hearts of the people, would
enable his uncle Albany to continue longer his usurped dominion as
governor of Scotland. An attempt was therefore made to unite him to the
cares and solicitudes of office; and he was soon installed into that of
lieutenant of the kingdom--a council being, at the same time, appointed
to advise with him. This step was not followed by its expected benefits;
for the governor did not consider it either as incompatible with the
duties of his situation, or derogatory to the dignity of his high place,
to resort to his old modes of pleasure and amusement. All that was
required was a greater degree of care employed upon the habiliments of
his disguises; and the lord-lieutenant might have been detected joining
in a rondeau with a singing girl, acting the fanfaron with a Hector,
performing a daring croupade with a rope-dancer, or tripping to the
sound of an Italian theorbo. In all these things he was still kept in
countenance by Ramorgny; who, however, while he was joining him in his
revels, was meditating schemes of villany and selfishness.
The affairs of state having thus little power in withdrawing the prince
from his licentious companions and unbecoming practices, it was next
suggested by the queen, that the restraining influence of a wife's
affections might overcome his propensity for the outlawed pleasures to
which he had become enslaved. The king seconded this measure; and
without consulting the duke's sentiments, or ascertaining his taste in
the choice of a wife, it was communicated to him that the interests of
the nation required him to marry and provide an heir to the throne, and
that his choice of a wife lay between Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of
Archibald, Earl of Douglas, and Elizabeth of Dunbar, daughter of the
powerful Earl of March. Neither of these ladies had ever been seen by
the prince. It was surmised that he had a special favourite of his own,
selected no doubt from a host of willing beauties with whom he
associated; and the intelligence that he was called upon to resign his
liberty into the hands of a woman he had never seen, could not be
expected to be highly relished by a person of his spirit and habits of
life.
Seeking Ramorgny, Rothsay communicated to him the intentions of his
mother, and the commands of his father and the nation, and asked his
advice in so trying an emergency.
"By your father's crown," cried Ramorgny, "I see nothing for it but to
obey. The difficulty lies in the selection; for, if I am able to
appreciate the beauty of woman, thou wilt have to choose between a crow
and a rook. Elizabeth of Dunbar is the descendant of Black Agnes, who
defended that old castle, in the days of the Second David, against the
arms of the Duke of Salisbury; and Elizabeth of Douglas cannot fail to
have in her some portion of the blood of the Black Earl, who fell in
Spain, trusting to the protecting charm of Robert's heart, which he
carried with him in a casket. So thou seest the black choice thou hast
got; and the matter is not mended by having two in thy option, if the
old proverb carries faith, which sayeth, that 'Two blacks will not make
a white.'"
"By the faith of a prince," replied the duke, "it is a black business;
but thou hast been talking genealogically, good Ramorgny, while I wished
to have thy opinion physically. Blood doth not follow the law of the
mountain stream, by getting more muddy as it descends; neither are men
and women of the nature of the gaffled cocks we use to fight at the
mains on the Inch of Perth, which send down their fighting propensities
to the tenth gallinaceous generation. The two Besses may be whiter than
their progenitors, and of less pugnacious propensities!"
"Thy argument, good lieutenant," cried Sir John, "hath the goodly
property of proving two things:--In the first place, it proves that the
two Besses may have white skins; and, secondly, that thou mayest have a
white liver; for, if courage hath no descent but in cocks, thou canst
not boast of having the heart of the first Robert!"
"Hold! thou art too severe," cried Rothsay, "and not logical. Thou art
mixing up actuality with potentiality--for that my liver is not white,
is proved by the blue evidences I painted on thy back, when, in the
gipsy tent at Bothwell, I fought thee for a kiss of the Brown
morris-dancer, Marion of Leghorn, who, having given me the reward of my
victory, dressed thy wounds for pity's sake, and then cudgelled thee for
mine."
"I could turn thy argument against thee," answered Ramorgny; "for thy
courage was so much at fault, that thou didst require the aid of an
Italian morris-dancer to do that which good King Robert would have done
himself. But we have wandered from the two Besses, whom it now behoves
us to take up, and treat with more respect. What is thy course?"
"As lieutenant of Scotland, I commission thee, Sir John de Ramorgny, to
repair to the castle of Dunbar, and thereafter to that of Douglas, to
inquire into the qualities of Elizabeth of Dunbar and Elizabeth
Douglas--to note the height of their persons--the hue of their
skins--the colour of their eyes, and the nature of their dispositions;
and thereafter to report as becometh a trusty and faithful commissioner
of the king."