I liked her ere Meggy I saw,
And they say it is sinfu for on
Man upon earth to like twa.
My heart it is rugg'd and tormented,
I'd live wi' or die for them baith;
I've done what I've often repented,
To baith I have plighted my aith.
"And oft when I'm walkin wi' Meggy
I'll say, 'Dear Marion,' and start;
While fearfu she'll say, 'Weel, I ken ye
Hae ithers mair dear to your heart.'
Was ever a man sae confounded?
I dinna ken what will be dune;
Baith sides o' my bosom are wounded,
And they'll be the death o' me sune."
"Hark!" said Marion, as she listened to the strain of the minstrel; "it
is the song of the Egyptian thief, Johnny Faa. Mind ye since he sang it
beneath our window at Kimmerghame?"
"I remember it weel," replied Margaret; "but dinna call him thief,
sister; for, be Johnny a king or no a king, he is one that King James is
glad to lift his bonnet to; and I am sure that he means weel to us at
present. Wheesht ye, Marion, and I will whisper to him a low chant over
the window." And, in a low voice, she sung--
"O, saw ye my laddie comin, Johnny?
O, saw ye my laddie comin?
If ye've no seen him, tell him frae me,
That I'm a waefu woman.
We here are sisters twa, Johnny,
Confined within this tower;
And ilka time the sun gaes down
It points to our death-hour."
"I heard it rumoured, gentle maiden," said the gypsy, gazing eagerly
towards the window from whence they looked, "that no good was intended
ye in this place; and though it be not in the power o' Johnny Faa to
bring to ye the assistance o' his own men, yet it strikes me there is
_ane_, if no _twa_, maidens, that I could bring to your rescue, and
that wad make a clap o' thunder ring through the deepest cell in
Herdmanstone."
"Thank ye, Johnny," replied Margaret; "ye're kind--ye're very kind; and
if ye wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to Wedderburn Castle, greatly would
ye aid a distressed damsel."
"I thank ye, my doo, for relying on the word and promise o' John, king
and lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken me, and less is their
knowledge o' our race, who think that we would look upon those who are
wronged without seeing them righted. How I heard o' your imprisonment or
the wrong intended ye, never fash your thumb; though a bird waffed it in
my lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped it in them as it chirmed past
me, it is aneugh that I ken o' your wrongs, and that I will assist ye.
Trust me, maidens."
"I will trust ye," answered Margaret.
"Dinna trust him, sister," said Marion; "he may be some spy of our
uncle's."
"Of being a spy," cried the other, "I dinna believe him capable. Stop,
Johnny, or king, or whatever ye be," she added, "and I will throw ye a
word or two, to carry to Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn."
She addressed to him a few words, and threw the paper which contained
them into the hands of the gipsy.
"Bless ye for your confidence, my bonny lassie!" said Johnny Faa; "and
before the sun gae down, Sir Patrick Hume shall ken that there is ane
that likes him pining in a captive's prison, wi' nane but ane that his
brother likes to bear her company."
The gipsy king was mounted on an active pony, and although it was
without a saddle, and reined only by a hempen bridle, he dashed off with
it, at the pace of a fleet racer, and directed his course toward the
Lammermuirs.
It was not noon when he arrived at the Castle Wedderburn. The porter at
the gate retreated in terror, as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa
king had become terrible on the Borders, and even the king had been glad
to grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to the
presence of the knight--"What is it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir
Patrick, "that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men?"
"Honest!" said the gipsy--"ha! ha! ha! I daresay your honesty and mine
are muckle about a par. Between us twa it is, tak who can. Ye hae the
bit land, Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or a more cunning hand,
nor yet a sharper sword, than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak
at evens wi' me, lest ye rue it."
"And wherefore should I speak at evens," answered Hume, "with the like
o' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men?"
"The mischief light on ye!" said the gipsy; "ye have provoked me sair,
and I have tholed wi' your slights and taunting; but try me not wi'
another word, lest ye rue it, Sir Patrick Hume, and your brother rue it,
and every Hume o' the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool,
for refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa."
"And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave?" cried the
knight.
"Merely," retorted the gipsy, "that there is a bonny lassie, ane wha is
owre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel, now
lying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while
ye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue."
"Of whom speak ye?" vociferated the Laird of Wedderburn.
"Who," rejoined the gipsy, slyly, "is nearest to your heart?--who
nearest to your door? Have you seen her within these four days?"
"What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, "speak ye of my Margaret?"
"Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak?" said Faa.
"It is then to her that ye allude?" cried Sir Patrick.
"Ay, it is to her," was the reply; "and what knight are ye that would
remain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden o'
your love?"
"Pardon me, stranger," said Sir Patrick; "tell me where she is."
"Ye ask me to pardon ye now," answered the gipsy, proudly; "ye knew me
before, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because
ye bear a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds
of war, that I come to you; but it is because of the maiden who loves
you as the Mayfly does the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and her sister
are the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone.
He has looked with an eye of covetousness upon their estates--he longs
to possess them; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the
fair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit."
The knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. "Thank ye, thank ye," he
cried; "I will reward ye for this act of kindness."
"You reward me!" shouted the gipsy king, disdainfully. "Think ye that,
when the King of Little Egypt does an act of humanity or generosity, he
is to be rewarded for it by a Scottish knight! Away with ye, man! I
spurn your thanks! I am as far above them as the moon is above the
glow-worm that glimmers on the ground--ay, as the sun above the fetid
matter from which it draws life. Know, then, that Margaret Sinclair and
her sister will die unless ye have courage to release them, and that
before another Sabbath shine a holiday to you."
Wedderburn held his hand in thankfulness. "Forgive me, forgive me," he
cried; "I have spoken unjustly to one that has a soul within him and who
has sympathised for those in whom my happiness is bound up. Again, I
say, forgive me."
"Ye are forgiven," said the Faa; "and, if assistance be needed in the
hour of peril, ye shall find willing hands ready to help ye, though ye
deserve it not."
So saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, and withdrew from the presence of
Hume. Sir Patrick bore the tidings instantly to his brother; and, within
two hours, a hundred of their retainers stood armed around Wedderburn
Castle. "To Herdmanstone!" was the cry; "and the rescue of the lady-love
of the Lord of Wedderburn!"
"Ay, and for Marion, the maid of Kimmerghame!" cried George, the brother
of Sir Patrick; "and the Sinclairs shall wear stout bucklers and belts
to boot, that this sword pierce not."
The party being marshalled, they took their way across the Lammermuirs
with the brothers Sir Patrick and George Hume at their head. It was
shortly after daybreak when they appeared before Herdmanstone Castle;
and the Lady Margaret was the first to perceive their approach.
"Sister!" she cried; "see! see! aid is at hand--the banner of the Humes
is waving over the fields of Herdmanstone."
"Ye dream, sister!" said Marion, starting from her couch.
"Nay, I dream not," retorted Margaret. "Arise; through the grey light I
perceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, and the gay jacket which my
sister wrought for his brother."
Marion sprang forward to the place where her sister stood; they thrust
their hands from the window, to encourage their deliverers to the
rescue, while Sir Patrick and his brother answered them back, crying,
"We come! we come! The haughty and cruel Sinclair shall repent in
blood."
The trumpets of the Humes sounded; and, as if prepared for the
approaching conflict, within a few minutes, more than fifty retainers of
Sir William Sinclair were in arms. Ignorant of the number of their
foes, they rushed forth to meet them, hand to hand, and sword to sword.
Long the strife was desperate--it was even doubtful; but, at length,
superiority of numbers, on the part of the Humes, prevailed; the
retainers of Sir William were routed in all directions, and his castle
was assailed, even to its threshold. "To the rescue of the fair
maidens!" shouted the Humes. Independent of the immediate retainers of
Sir William Sinclair, however, his neighbours came to his aid; and
although they were at first as two to one, the conflict had not lasted
long when the Humes became the weaker party. The battle raged
keenly--swords were broken in the grasp of their owners--the strong
war-horse kicked upon the ground, in the agony of death, indenting the
earth with its hoofs as it died, leaving the impression of its
agony--their wounded men grappled with, and reviled each other, as
though they had been foreigners or aliens--spears were broken, and
shields clanked against each other--while the war-shout and the dying
groan mingled together. Victory seemed still to be doubtful; for, though
the Humes fought bravely, and their leaders led them on as with the
heroism of despair, yet every minute the numbers of their adversaries
increased, while theirs, if the expression might be used, became fewer
and more few.
Yet there were two spectators of the conflict who beheld it with
feelings that may not, that cannot be described. Now, the one beheld the
plume which she had adorned for her betrothed husband severed by the
sword of an enemy; while the other saw the gay jerkin which she had
weaved for hers tarnished with blood. They perceived also what we might
term the ebbing and flowing of the deadly feud--the retreating and the
driving back; and they were spectators also of the wounded, the dying,
and the dead. They saw the party in whom their hopes were fixed
gradually overpowered--they beheld them fall back beneath the swords of
their opponents, disputing inch by inch as they retired, and their
hearts fell within them. When hope, fear, and anxiety were wrought to
their highest point of endurance, and the party in whom their trust lay
seemed to be vanquished, and were driven back, at that period, Johnny
Faa, and a number of his followers, rushed to their succour.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the wanderer, "for the braw lasses o' Polwarth and
Kimmerghame! Fight, ye Humes! fight! There is a prize before ye worthy a
clour on the crown, or even a stab through the brisket."
The approach of the Faa king turned the tide of victory, and his
followers shouted, "The bonny lasses o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame shall
be free!"
"For ever, ay, and a day after it," cried Sir William, "shall the man
inherit a cow's mailing, and a cow to boot, upon the lands o'
Herdmanstone, who this day brings me upon his sword the head o' ane o'
the birkies o' Wedderburn."
Sir William, however, became a suppliant for mercy beneath the red sword
of Patrick Hume; and his life being granted, the Sinclairs gave their
arms into the hands of their opponents. The young brothers each rushed
into the house, to the rescue of the captive damsels; and Margaret and
Marion each fell upon the neck of the man she loved.
On arriving at Polwarth, they were met by the glad villagers, with whom
the fair ladies joined hands, and they danced together in joy around a
thorn-tree, upon the village green.
In a few weeks, each of the maidens gave her hand to her
deliverer--Margaret to Sir Patrick, and Marion to his brother George. On
their marriage-day, the gay dance at the thorn upon the green was
resumed, and a festive crowd tripped joyously around it, blessing the
bride of Polwarth and her fair sister, Marion of Kimmerghame; and the
music to which they that day danced proceeded from the pipes of King
Johnny Faa, who, with half-a-dozen of his people, sat each with a pair
of union pipes beneath his arm, and discoursing "most eloquent music,"
without "fee, favour, or reward," save that they were partakers of the
good things which were that day plentifully circulated upon Polwarth
Green.
In concluding this account of the co-heiresses of Polwarth and
Kimmerghame, it is only necessary to add, that, from her union with Hume
of Wedderburn, the fair Margaret became the progenitor of the future
Earls of Marchmont.
THE FESTIVAL.
In most of the villages on the southern Border, and particularly in part
of Northumberland, together with Norham and Islandshires, there are what
are called annual feasts. In the manner in which they are now kept, they
resemble the _Wakes_ or _Revels_ which are held in various parts of
England. They were originally religious festivals, and are still
commemorated upon the anniversary of the saint to which the church or
religious house in the village, or with which it was connected, was in
olden times dedicated. They have long ago lost their religious
character, and joviality has assumed the place of seriousness.
Nevertheless, although, for more than a century, these feasts have been
attended with much boisterous merriment, there is still much connected
with them that we respect and revere. They came, as it were, whispering
the good, the godlike admonition of Scripture--"Let brotherly love
continue." For in those days, brethren and the children of a family meet
together from afar beneath a father's or a brother's roof--the grandsire
and the grandson sit at the table together--and the words of the
inspired royal bard, that it is good and pleasant for brethren to dwell
together in unity, are exemplified. They are seasons of mutual
forgiveness, and of the exchange of family love. They are also seasons
for which a many a parent's heart longs eagerly; and although they are
what may be termed changeable feasts, they fall on days which they all
know without the aid of an almanack; for there is no calendar so true as
a father's or mother's heart. They are days to which many a mother looks
forward, as to the time when she will press an absent son or daughter
to her bosom--when a father shall give them the right hand of welcome,
and in the fulness of his joy press his teeth upon his lip to conceal
his emotion, while a stranger tear steals out, and seeks a home upon his
cheek. They are, in every house, days in which the "fatted calf" is
killed; and each village or feast has its own particular dainty,
according to the season. At one is the luscious grilse (on that occasion
baked instead of boiled); at another, dishes of fruit; and at a third,
the roast goose. But each feast has its particular viands, and of them
the poorest make an effort to partake. They are not as the Christmas
feast was of old, when the rich fed the poor and their dependants at
their table, and regaled each with a "smack of the good black jack;" but
they are days on which the very poorest strive to make a feast for
themselves, and to see _their own_ around their humble board.
We confess, however, that these feasts do not present sunny pictures
exclusively; there are many who, as we have hinted, crown them with
boisterous merriment. It was an ancient custom to elect, on the morning
after the feast, a _Mayor_, or _Lord of the Festival_, whose word was
law, and who was the sovereign dispenser of fun and frolic, and against
whose command there was no appeal. The farce of "_The Mayor of Garret_"
furnishes a correct example of this species of rustic revelry. We are
not yet very old; but are old enough to remember the time when the
mayor, or lord of the festivities referred to, was chosen in accordance
with the words of Burns--
"Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
Let him be king among us a'!"
But it is long since the treatment of a master of the revels ceased even
to be decent--we would say merciful. In most places he is no longer
paraded as an absolute monarch upon the shoulders of his subjects, but
as the slave of the multitude, of whom they delight to make pastime. The
mayor of the village feast, "has fallen from his high estate," of
dictating imperious commands for his short hour of power; and now he is
generally placed in the condition of the frog in the fable, and what may
be sport to his tormentors, is well-nigh death to him.
The festival from which our present story takes its rise was held in
Tweedmouth (the southern suburb of Berwick), nearly seventy years ago;
and, according to custom, on Margaret's day, or the following Monday.
For, although most of them are in some degree held upon the Sunday (a
celebration which would "be more honoured in the breach than in the
observance"), Monday may always be considered as the chief day of the
feast. Now at that period there resided at Tweedmouth a Mrs Mordington,
the widow of the commander of a coasting sloop, who had left her with
two children, a son and daughter. The son, at the period our tale
begins, was about one-and-twenty; his sister, two years younger. The
son's name was George, and he was then a clerk in the office of a
merchant in Gateshead. At the feast of St Margaret's, therefore--which
is commemorated in Tweedmouth in July, when the sun is in the plenitude
of its strength, and when the very birds, oppressed with its heat, leave
the thin air and the upper branches, and, folding their wings, sit
silently in the umbrageous shades, enjoying, well pleased, the coolness
of their leafy shelter--George Mordington returned to Tweedside, to see
his mother and his sister; yea, and there was another whom he longed not
less eagerly to behold, and that was Marion Weatherly, a fair-headed
maiden of nineteen, and the daughter of a master fisherman, who had the
lease of some two hundred yards upon the Tweed, somewhere between where
the Whitadder joins it and the bridge; but whether on the south or north
side I cannot tell. As there may be thousands of the readers of these
tales unacquainted with the nature of salmon fisheries, or of what is
meant by having been a master fisherman in those days, I shall simply
state that Mr Weatherly had taken a lease of a particular spot on one
side of the Tweed, and which was in length about two hundred yards, and
on that space he had the right of casting out and dragging in his nets.
He had this river-farm at a very small sum annually; though, within a
mile from the spot where he held it, we have known a lesser portion of
fishing right in the river let for nearly two thousand pounds sterling
per annum; and that, too, when the wisdom of the present generation
(perhaps I ought to put the generation in the past tense) almost threw a
_dyke_ across the mouth of the river, which built up what was called the
_Meadow Haven_, and which haven was a gut in the rocks, by which the
fish, coming in shoals from the north, entered the river; and this being
built up by the _dyke_ or _pier_ aforesaid, after running their noses
against a stone wall, instead of meeting with the _natural_ entrance to
the river which _nature_ dictated to them to pursue, they were left,
like a pack of fox-hounds that had been thrown off their scent, to seek
the artificial entrance where they might find it, or for another river
if they chose. Thus, the good old Tweed being half blocked up, fishing
waters, in the present day, do not abound with the silver-mailed salmon,
as they did in the days of Mr Weatherly. Besides, the river was then
_fished_, not _harried_! It is not, therefore, wonderful that the father
of Marion became a man of property.
Now, George Mordington and Marion Weatherly had known each other from
childhood. I do not say that they had loved each other from that period;
but they were at the same school together, and even before they left it,
they were _equalled_ to each other. This _equalling_, or, as it is
sometimes called, _evening_ to each other, by schoolmates or
acquaintances, often goes far towards producing the wedded love of riper
years. Many a match would never have been made, but for the schoolboy's
or the comrade's jeer. Once name young hearts in the same breath, and
you draw a magic circle round them; and, however little they may be
acquainted with each other, whoever of the two may break through that
circle, strikes a passing pang into the bosom of the other. Pride feels
wounded, if nothing else does; but there is a feeling deeper and more
tender than pride that has been rudely touched. It does not last long;
but it is keen while it lasts. I am perfectly aware that there are many
who may say, "Pshaw! it is all nonsense; who cares anything about these
things _now_?" No middle-aged person, I grant you. Individuals of such
an age like some home truth--something that comes home to their business
and their bosoms as they are; and when such a thing meets them they say,
"Oh, it is very natural." Granted that _it_ is natural, why should
people of middle age, yea, or of grey hairs, forget that they were once
young; and that what is now "stale, flat, and unprofitable" to them, is
still the feelings of thousands--is still delightful to thousands--was
once _their_ feelings, and delightful to _them_? Though past the sunny
heyday ourselves, we like not to hear either man or woman cry out, with
the Preacher, "all is vanity!" For light is beautiful--so is the sun
that sheds it forth. The fair earth, with its buds, its flowers, its
leaves, its fruits, and its trees with their singing birds--they are all
beautiful--exquisitely beautiful! No man can look upon the works of his
Maker, without adoring, worshipping, and loving the Power that formed
them. Oh, when we so look abroad upon the glorious creation that is
above, beneath, and around us--when we see so much that is measureless,
magnificent, and that steals forth in beauty as a bud opens, until its
loveliness is revealed before the very soul; and, above all, when we
think also of the kind hearts that share our sorrows and our joys, that
watch over us and that throb for us, that mourn with us and rejoice with
us, and that are one with us in all things--we are tempted to say that
all is "not vanity," but that man is the author of his own "vexation of
spirit." Now George Mordington was one who loved all the works of nature
for their loveliness. He saw nothing to which his young heart would
respond, "it is vanity!" He loved the very worm that crawled--writhing
and dying as it crawled--over his path, and pushed it gently with his
foot upon its parent earth, that it might live. Was there nothing in the
scenery of his birthplace that he should admire it? There was neither
the sublimity of mountains to awe him into remembrance--the majesty of
wooded hills (which there might be), nor lakes where echoes died in
music; but there was the Tweed, the stream of his nativity, which rushes
into the arms of the ocean, like a beautiful bride that has been cast
off by her parent, and falls upon the neck of her lover without
adornments; and there was the rich lands of the Merse and Islandshire,
for ever spread out before him, with the everlasting ocean, its calms
and its storms, its placid stillness and its terrible waves--forming
together a scene such as he that has once looked upon can never forget.
Through such scenes George Mordington recollected Marion Weatherly.