it might be, till two or three of a fine moonlight night, I have stolen
away about twelve, taken my course through the King's Park to the
Echoing Rock, and from thence to that long hollow valley of Bagdad,
which runs betwixt Arthur Seat and Salisbury Craigs, and there I have
seen the Island of Inchkeith lying, like a glittering diamond, on the
face of the deep and the silver sea, and hazy shores of Fife, and the
fleecy heavens, and the stars, and the "bonny lady moon," and two
figures in the moonlight; they are walking away from me, and are busily
engaged in conversation--they do not perceive me--I will ensconce myself
behind this large stone till I see what may happen. They have now sat
down on the greensward, and I hear their voices very much elevated. The
woman is reproaching the man in loud and angry tones--the man makes no
reply; or, if he does, it is in an under tone--Ha! he has sprung upon
the woman all at once, like a tiger, and she screams, "Murder, murder!"
aloud. Shall I allow a poor woman to be murdered in the solitude of
nature, without making an effort, even at the risk of my own life, to
save her? My resolution, nerved by the wine I had drunk, was taken in an
instant--I sprang forward, crying loudly to my _companions_ to assist
me. When the horrible object understood how things were going, and
imagining, no doubt, that there were more than _one_ witness of its
horrible doings, it took to its heels with the speed of lightning. I did
not pursue; in fact, I had no inclination to do so; it was sufficient
for me if I could save life--I did not wish to take it, either
personally or legally. When I went up to the poor woman, she was all
astonishment, and her first accents were uttered in thanksgiving to
Almighty God for sending me into the desert for her rescue. I found
that, although the villain had clutched her by the throat, he had not
had time to suffocate her. Her throat was indeed sore from the pressure,
and she breathed for some time with difficulty; but there were no deadly
symptoms about her. What a mysterious Providence is about us!--and we
often know it not. I had originally no intention of taking a moonlight
walk that evening, or rather morning, had it not been to avoid the
impertinence of a fellow-member of the Dialectic Society, who manifestly
wished, in his cups, to fasten a quarrel upon me. I stepped out from
Young's, and was off. I was manifestly the messenger of Heaven, and
could not help regarding myself with a kind of reverence. The poor
woman, who was in fact the wife of this worthless man, gave me her
history, to the following purpose:--
That brute, as you very properly call him, is my husband, and was once
as kind and affectionate to me as I could wish. Ours was what is called
a pure love marriage, for I was born to better circumstances and
prospects than, from my present condition and appearance, you may well
imagine. (Here the poor woman shed tears, and proceeded.) I was the
daughter of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood of Durham, where the
Princess of Wales' regiment of Light Dragoons was raised, and was then
lying, under the command of Lord Darlington. We--that is to say, my
father, my mother, my sister, and myself--used to go frequently into a
field adjoining the city, and see this really handsome regiment
reviewed, and go through their exercise. One day there was a mock battle
represented, in the very field adjoining to my father's house. Several
regiments were collected together, from Newcastle and elsewhere, for the
purpose. It was to be a great show; and the whole town of Durham, as
well as all the country round, were congregated to see the battle.
Cannons were fired, charges of cavalry were made, and a detachment of
the Darlington troop rode, in pursuit of the supposed enemy, past our
door. My father and I were at the upper window when the troop came
dashing along, clearing fences and springing over ditches in the finest
style imaginable. Just as they came opposite to my father's door, a pig,
which had escaped from its confinement in the back-court, dashed
headlong forward amongst the feet of the horses. One of the horses fell;
and the rider, having pitched on his head, was seemingly killed on the
spot. He was immediately carried into our house, and surgical aid was at
hand. It was a dislocation of the neck-bone, and was immediately put to
rights; but the patient was bled, and ordered to be kept quiet for some
days. I naturally became the young gentleman's nurse; for he was the son
of a poor but titled family in the neighbourhood of Darlington. Mr
Fitzwilliam was a handsome man, about my own age; but he was penniless,
and a soldier of fortune. My father, early seeing the danger of my
remaining in the way of temptation, had sent me off to a grand house in
the neighbourhood of Newcastle. But William Fitzwilliam had won my
heart, and, in spite of all watchings and lookings, we were man and wife
in less than a fortnight after my departure for Newcastle.
We were married at Gretna Green; and I have accompanied him ever since,
through Carlisle and Dumfries, Ayr, Glasgow, and ultimately to Jock's
Lodge, where the regiment is now lying. He has taken lodgings for me in
Edinburgh; but of late has sadly deserted me. I have been enabled, by
taking up linen, and sewing articles for the ladies' exhibition, to do
something in aid of our scanty funds. But William has of late undergone
a sad change. He has become addicted to gambling; has even introduced
improper characters, both male and female, into my presence; and has
talked, particularly in his cups, about a divorce and separation. He
wishes _me_, he says, to divorce him; and takes every method of giving
me sufficient grounds for so doing; but, with all his errors and vices,
I love him still, nor can I think, now that I have time to reflect on
it, he would have murdered me outright, even though you had not so
providentially interfered. He has of late succeeded to a title, by the
death of an uncle, who has disinherited him, and left his vast property
past him. This preyed upon his spirits of late; and I have reason to
know that he has been making love, and even offers of marriage, to a
rich widow lady, who dwells not far from York Place, Edinburgh. But my
marriage-lines lie sadly in his way; and it was to attain by force what
he could not otherwise, that he had almost, and, but for you, would have
perhaps altogether, murdered me, a few minutes ago. Poor William! my
heart still bleeds for him; but I will never give up, whilst I live, the
only means which I have of proving myself an honest woman.
All Edinburgh rang next morning with the news--Lord M---- had shot
himself dead in his bedroom.
In the year 1831, I had occasion to be several days in Durham. It
occurred to me, one day, whilst I was sauntering about the cathedral,
that the house, where probably still lived the father of the poor
unfortunate Mrs, or rather _Lady_ M----, might be in the neighbourhood.
I made inquiry; and, without much difficulty, found it out. From what I
learned in the neighbourhood, the poor woman had never taken up her
husband's title. Her father, on hearing of her husband's tragical end,
had relented, and taken her home, to keep his house, and comfort him in
his old age. I asked for her father, and was shown into a neat parlour,
where the old man sat, comfortably pillowed, but terribly pained with
gout and a complication of diseases. I introduced myself as an
acquaintance of Mrs Fitzwilliam, who was immediately sent for, and
entered the parlour. She did not know me, nor was it wonderful; for, as
I went to the country next day after the night adventure, I had no
opportunity of calling upon her. Indeed, I should scarcely have known
her either--her dress and manner were so much more imposing than they
had been at our first and only interview. However, upon my referring to
the circumstances, she immediately took me by the hand, burst into
tears, and, presenting me to her father, who was almost blind, "Papa,"
said she, "this is the gentleman who saved my life." I had the old man's
blessing. A bottle of home-made wine was called for, and discussed, and
I was pressed to come back to dinner; which, however, I politely
refused, for I did not know how far my enthusiastic temperament might
have gone, in the case of a truly beautiful woman, whom I had saved from
death, and whose gratitude led her to think very favourably of me. I
have not heard of her lately; but mean to write to my brother-in-law,
who lives in Durham, about her, and to ascertain whether she is still
living or dead; whether she is yet unmarried, or has again ventured to
face the blacksmith.
Such was one of my moonlight adventures; which, if you are so disposed,
you are at liberty to denominate a "matter of moonshine." But my
enthusiasm has not been limited to moonbeams. I am the mountain child,
and wedded even up to this hour to the mountain-land, with all its wild,
striking, and expanding associations. To meet a fair maiden in a _fair_
is pleasant, as also to replenish her lap with sweet-meats and trinkets.
To get a "canny hour at een, your arms about your deary," is snug,
comfortable, and something more. Burns prefers "rigs of barley," and the
"green rush bushes," as a courting parlour; whilst,
"Last night, in my late rambles,
All in the Isle of Sky,
I met a lovely creature
Up in the mountains high."
Now the Isle of Sky, and its high mountains, are entire strangers to me;
but I am well acquainted with two pretty decent hills, not above twenty
miles from Dumfries, called Queensberry, _little_ and _big_; and, amidst
their elevated and retired glens, the following incident took place. I
have from my boyhood been distractedly fond of fishing; and, up to this
hour, whenever I visit my native glen, the mania returns; and, though
things are sadly changed, and trouts are diminished both in number and
size, yet still, in spite of all disadvantages, I fish. It was on an
excursion on my way (whilst a young man of twenty) from college, that I
found myself, one dark and misty day, amidst the deep and mazy windings
of the _Brawn_. I was quickly and successively basketing trout after
trout, humming all the while some old Scottish sonnet, and calling in my
little dog, _Don_, from the sheep who were pasturing on the adjoining
hill, named the Dod, when a voice from the depths of the mist and the
solitude reached my ear. It was a voice of wo and deep lamentation.
Having chid Don's impertinence in giving tongue somewhat too freely, I
found, seated upon a grey stone, and weeping aloud, a young woman, about
my own age, with dark blue eyes, and a countenance of the most
prepossessing expression. She sat beside an infant, which she had
deposited on a bed of collected fern or braken, and who was fast asleep.
When she saw me, she started, and seemed disposed to fly; but when I
used my means to reassure her, she ventured to accost me, by informing
me that she had lost her way--that she was nurserymaid at Mitchelslacks,
and had wandered that morning with her charge beyond her accustomed
range, and, the mist coming suddenly on, she found it impossible to
retrace her steps. I thought myself quite in possession of the
information which she wanted, and told her that I would see her and her
little charge safely and immediately home. So, giving up my sport for
the time, I took up the sleeping infant, and immediately addressed
myself, accompanied by the fair wanderer, to the journey. We were
several miles distant from Mitchelslacks; but, as I considered myself
quite familiar with the ground, I struck immediately over the pathless
hill, by what I termed a _near cut_, instead of retracing the stream for
a couple of miles, and then crossing the Dod by a cart track. The child
awoke, and finding itself in strange hands, screamed violently; so I was
soon compelled to place the infant in the loveliest bosom I had ever
seen. I felt my frame tremble all over, as I came into contact with
pretty Peggy's person; and yet, for all the wealth of old Q----, I would
not have even conceived anything which might occasion alarm to so
beautiful and manifestly so innocent a creature. Yet I could not keep my
eyes off her, and found out, in spite of a dark and crawling mist, that
her frame was perfect symmetry, and rounded into that ripened plumpness
which bespeaks the fully-matured woman. We conversed freely as we
travelled; and my romantic feelings became so excited with my position,
that I thought but occasionally, and then indistinctly, of the
direction, right or wrong, in which we were advancing. Peggy from time
to time admonished me, that she trusted to me alone, as she was totally
unacquainted with the hill. Having attained at last the summit of the
steep, I expected to have found a cairn of stones, and, alongside of it
a shepherd's shieling or turf hut, where he reposed at noonday, and
shared his bread and milk with his faithful curs; but no such shieling
or cairn was to be seen. It then became manifest to me, all at once,
that I as well as my fair companion of the mist had lost my way, and
that, unless the day, which was still becoming darker and darker, should
clear up, we should be in danger of increasing instead of lessening the
distance betwixt us and Mitchelslacks. To increase our embarrassment,
the child cried continually, evidently from hunger, and great drops of
rain came down like hail-stones amidst the close and crawling mist. It
was evident that a thunderstorm was brooding--nor were we long kept in
suspense; for, all at once, the mist was kindled into flame around us,
and a sharp, smart crack, followed by the roar of a thousand hills, told
us that we were in the very centre of the electric cloud. Poor Peggy
sank down at once, overcome with terror; whilst I, immediately and
intuitively, squatted down beside her, clasping her to my bosom, child
and all. I may truly say with Patie, in regard to another lovely Peggy--
"Whilst hard and fast I held her in my grips,
My very soul cam loupin to my lips."
But the awful flash and peal were repeated, and then, in very truth, and
not metaphorically,
"Down rush'd a deluge of sonorous hail."
Peggy fainted outright, and the child screamed itself into hysterics,
when all at once a couple of shaggy shepherd's dogs gave tongue in the
neighbourhood. A young, yellow haired shepherd lad stood over us in an
instant; and, guessing at once how matters really stood, had us all
removed, as soon as Peggy had recovered her senses, into the small
shieling, in the immediate neighbourhood of which we were unconsciously
wandering. We had to stoop, and enter upon our hands and knees; and,
when we were all stowed away, there was not an inch of house room which
was not occupied either by human beings or dogs. But, though sitting, or
rather lying, on rushes, these rushes were dry, and our humble shelter
warded off the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder-cloud gradually
took to the top of the higher Queensberry, and left us with a clear
sunny day, and two miles to walk to the child's home. The truth was,
that the family at Mitchelslacks had become alarmed by the absence of
maid and child, and had sent nearly half-a-score of shepherds, and a
full score of dogs, to the hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery;
whilst Mr and Mrs Harkness, the parents, were in a state which may more
easily be imagined than described. All were now well; and I accompanied
the young shepherd, with his sweetheart--for such I soon discovered they
were--home, and had the happiness, by running on before, to be the first
to announce the safety of their child to the worthy and distracted
parents. They had, indeed, given up both the nurse and child for lost,
and their despair had been at least equal to their joy, when I ran
forward and threw the child in the mother's lap. Now, who could doubt
that enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, and shining in the tear-wet
eye of the mother, as she pressed the little lost one to her bosom? It
was, verily. But, after all I have said of the nature of this
extraordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever experienced in a
stronger and purer form than in that of _joy_. I care nothing for the
cause--it may be any one you please. All I insist for is, that it shall
be capable of stimulating, or rather exciting--for the former is a
phrenological word--the mind of the individual, however stupid, obese,
or phlegmatic, to the boiling-point of that most intense species of
human happiness. All the many forms of the feeling seem to tend to this
as the point of their realisation. Pythagoras and his proposition,
Argand and his lamp, Mungo Park and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs
Harkness and her child, and the child, probably, next day with a
butterfly, are all instances of the feeling in the point of
gratification. But I have been again wandering from my story--all
enthusiasm together; for there was love in the affair, which many insist
upon being the strongest, if not the purest, example that can be
presented of this mysterious and pervading essence. Those who think so
can take their own view; I retain mine; and it is very probable that we
are both wrong; and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly addressed myself,
will put us right, by telling us that poetry is the only genuine and
pure form in which this moral electricity can exhibit itself. Let it be
as you say, though I would advise you to be on your guard against your
friend Miss ----, who lost her lover last week, and will insist that
_hope_ is the soul of the feeling; and that, when that is gone,
enthusiasm has no more chance of getting into the mind or heart than I
have of getting into your favour by this digression from a story of
love, originating in, or perfected by, _mist_, one of the most romantic
mediums of the tender passion. So, to make a speedy conclusion, about a
fortnight after this incident, I was again at my old sport, when I was
accosted by my young friend, the shepherd, who now figured in
holiday-attire, and informed me that, as this was his wedding-day, my
company would be acceptable _owre by yonder_ at two o'clock. I pursued
my sport till then, and, in the old chamber of Mitchelslacks, saw Joseph
Robson and Margaret Gibson made man and wife. There was neither dancing
nor revelment of any kind, but there was a plentiful meal, many songs,
and as much punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the company chose to
make use of. All went merry as a marriage-bell. And now I find I am
checked by want of space, at the moment when the _jar_ is fully charged,
and the subtle spirit might have exploded in many more pretty
coruscations.
TREES AND BURNS.
Woods, natural woods, are most beautiful. To wander all day long amongst
bushes, hazels, oaks, thorns, of every hue and fruit--the haw, crab, and
sloe--is most delightful. To lose one's-self, as it were, at every turn,
and to be arrested by some new feature, ever and anon, as you thread
your mazy course through the pathless wood, is a pleasure, the
recollection of which still haunts and sweetens my dreams of early
being--
"In life's morning march,
When my bosom was young."
I don't like forests--they are too stiff and stately--they are like a
tea-and-turn-out party--sombre, silent, and affected. They have not the
easy negligence, the elegant simplicity, the "_simplex munditiis_," of
woods. They are always on their high horses, and darken whilst they look
down upon and despise the underwood. I had as rather associate with a
conclave of high churchmen or consulting doctors, as with a regular,
well-planted, and well-fenced plantation. Here man has played the tailor
with nature; and, in cutting down her skirts, has deprived her of all
that is graceful in drapery and folding. He has made a Bond Street
exquisite of the subject. But, far and beyond all other inanimate
objects, I have always been in love with single, individual, separate
trees. You cannot be truly--as the song has it--in love with many _fair
dames_ at one and the same time; I can never, on that account, bear to
hear the song sung, which begins thus--
"I'm in love with twenty,
I'm in love with twenty,
And I adore as many more--
There's nothing like a plenty."
I absolutely quarrelled with an old friend for his frequent singing of
this abominable and heretical song, and am scarcely reconciled to him to
this hour, though he has long ago limited his love to one object--he has
been married these thirty years. In the same spirit, and on the same
principle, I affirm, that no child, boy, girl, man, or woman, can be
truly in love with _two trees_ at one and the same time. Oh! I remember
well the old ash-tree that occupied the corner of our kail-yard. There
the same pyet built yearly her nest, and brought _out_ and _up_ her
young. To be sure I _tithed_ them occasionally, and taught her offspring
to imitate speaking most abominably; but still the old lady and
gentleman returned to their tree and their branch, and even to the same
cleft of the branch, annually; and my spirit rejoiced within me, as I
lifted up mine eyes and beheld the black-and-white tail of the dam, as
she sat, from morn to night, upon her beautifully-spotted,
black-and-white eggs. There, underneath that very tree, I did sit and
construct my first paper kite; there did I play from morn to night with
the cat and her kitten; there did I shelter myself from the shower, and
from the meridian heat; there did I repeat my morning and evening prayer
(short, it is true, but pithy--it was the Lord's Prayer, with an
additional petition in behalf of my only surviving parent, my mother);
there did I count my slain on returning from fishing expeditions; and
there, my dear departed friend and cousin, did you and I associate, eve
after eve, in true and holy affection. Alas! the cold earth has closed
over one of the kindest hearts and clearest heads I ever had occasion to
know anything about; but God's will be done. We all hasten to the same
place, however different our courses. Peace, my dear companion, to thy
manes! We shall meet, I hope, anon. In the meantime, I was speaking of
the old ash-tree at Auldwa's, which I have taken the liberty to
transplant to Dunsyett. But our common friend, and the friend of many
past generations, is now laid prostrate (as I am informed) with the
earth. How is the mighty fallen, and the lofty laid low, and the strong
one broken and smashed in his strength! The storm, the dreadful,
unexampled storm, which lately swept over our island with a whirlwind's
impetuosity and a hurricane's strength, has bent the gallant mast, and
sunk the noble ship, and buried its thousands and thousands of fathers,
and brothers, and husbands, and wives, and daughters in the deep sea. It
has uptorn forests, scattered woods to the heavens, and (_inter alia_)
has stooped from its altitude to lay my old and dear companion
prostrate. How many tempests, my poor uprooted friend, hast thou not
braved!--nay, when the fire of heaven split and splintered the adjoining
oak and ash, thou didst escape unhurt. The awful tempest of winter
1794-5, deprived thee, indeed, of a branch or two; but thou wert still
in the manhood of thy being, when the west wind blew as "'twad blaw its
last"--and M'Diarmid's newspaper is enriched with thy remains.
My next associate of the tree species was the "_Castle Beech_." Oh, what
a tree it was, and still (I humbly hope) is!--for the hand of man is not
yet formed in the womb which will dare to cut it down; and it stands
mighty in its individual girth, awful in its spread, and sheltered in
its position. This tree is the chronicler of my school days at
Wallacehall: on the smooth and ample bark of that tree are imprinted or
obliterated recollections of a fearful nature. Oh! who dares to take a
peep into the charnel-house of fifty years? There they are, playing it
hard and happy, at dools toosty, or England and Scotland.
"Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play:
No sense have they of ills to come--
No cares beyond to-day!"
But let forty years, with Juggernaut wheels, crash and creak over us,
and where are the happy hearts and merry voices? The sea will answer;
for she has had her full share. The river, the bloody river _Nith_, will
and must answer; for in its deceitful waters was lost my old and kind
class-fellow and companion, Richard Reid. The west must give up its
dead, and the east answer to my call. Where am I? My dear schoolfellows,
where are you? Why don't you answer? Alas! _at sixty_, I can scarcely
count six contemporaries who still breathe with me the breath of heaven,
and rejoice in a protracted though misimproved existence. But the old
beech, my kind friend Mr Watt of the castle informs me, is still
standing, though almost by a miracle, for his branches are so large and
numerous that he groaned, and creaked, and swung most dreadfully under
the tempest's shock. But it would not do; even the prince of the aerial
powers was foiled at last, and was compelled to desist from his
unhallowed attempt. The Castle Beech has weathered the storm; and there
are hearts in every land which will rejoice in the information which I
now convey.
But the "Three Brethren," the friends and companions of my more mature
years, are now no more. They have fallen with those cedars of Lebanon,
the mighty monarchs of Arbigland--_they_ have perished, and in their
fate have nearly involved that of their intelligent and benevolent
proprietor. But my heart reverts to Collestoun, and to the banks of the
blue and silver Nith, and to the Three Brethren. The pages of the
intelligent "Times" (county newspaper) are wet with the tears of
lamentation. But the "Times" knows not--it could not, and it cannot
know--the one-half that honest Allan Cunningham and I know about these
remarkable trees. Their traditional history is this:--