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WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
REVISED BY
ALEXANDER LEIGHTON
ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
VOL. X.
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
1885.
CONTENTS.
THE FIRST-FOOT, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_
THE ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF PERTH, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_
PEAT-CASTING TIME
THE MEDAL
THE MEETING AT ST BOSWELL'S, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_
THE STORY OF MAY DARLING, _(JOHN FRANCIS SMITH)_
I CANNA BE FASHED; OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS, _(JOHN MACKAY
WILSON)_
TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE, _(MATTHEW FORSTER CONOLLY)_
THE CASTLE OF CRAIL; OR, KING DAVID AND MAUDE
THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE
THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY
CALEB CRABBIN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
THE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_
THE IMPRUDENT MARRIAGE
THE BEWILDERED STUDENT, _(JOHN BETHUNE)_
THE CROOKED COMYN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_
WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.
THE FIRST-FOOT.
Notwithstanding the shortness of their days, the bitterness of their
frosts, and the fury of their storms, December and January are merry
months. First comes old Christmas, shaking his hoary locks, belike, in
the shape of snow-drift, and laughing, well-pleased, beneath his crown
of mistletoe, over the smoking sirloin and the savoury goose. There is
not a child on the south side of the Borders who longs not for the
coming of merry Christmas: it is their holiday of holidays, their season
of play and of presents; and old and young shake hands with Christmas,
and with each other. And even on the northern side of "the river," and
"the ideal line by fancy drawn," which "divide the sister kingdoms,"
there are thousands who welcome and forget not "blithe Yule Day." Next
comes the New Year--the bottle, the hot pint, and the _first-foot_--and
we might notice, also, Hansel Monday, and "Auld Hansel Monanday," which
follow in their wake, and keep up the merriment till the back of January
is broken. But our business at present is with the _first-foot_, and we
must hold. It matters not on what side of the Borders it may be--and
northward the feeling extends far beyond the Borders--there is a
mysterious, an ominous importance attached to the individual who first
crosses the threshold, after the clock has struck twelve at midnight, on
the 31st of December, or who is the _first-foot_ in a house after the
New Year has begun. The _first-foot_ stamps the "luck" of the house--the
good fortune or the evil fortune of its inmates throughout the year! But
to begin with our story. There was not a person on all the Borders, nor
yet in all Scotland, who attached more importance to the first-foot than
Nelly Rogers. Nelly was a very worthy, kind-hearted, yea, even sensible
sort of woman; but a vein of superstition ran through her sense: she had
imbibed a variety of "auld-warld notions" in infancy, and, as she grew
up, they became a part of her creed. She did not exactly believe that
ghosts and apparitions existed in her day, but she was perfectly sure
they _had_ existed, and _had_ been seen; she was sure, also, there was
something in dreams, and she was positive there was a great deal in the
luckiness or unluckiness of a first-foot; she had remarked it in her own
experience thirty times, and, she said, "it was o' nae use attempting to
argue her out o' what she had observed hersel." Nelly was the wife of
one Richard Rogers, a respectable farmer, whose farmhouse stood by the
side of the post-road between Kelso and Lauder. They had a family of
several children; but our business is with the eldest, who was called
George, and who had the misfortune to receive, both from his parents and
their neighbours, the character of being _a genius_. This is a very
unfortunate character to give to any one who has a fortune to make in
the world, as will be seen when we come to notice the history of George
the Genius--for such was the appellation by which he was familiarly
mentioned. Now, it was the last night of the old year--George was about
twelve years of age, and, because he was their first-born, and,
moreover, because he was a genius, he was permitted to sit with his
father and his mother, and a few friends, who had come to visit them, to
see the old year out, and the New Year in. The cuckoo clock struck
twelve, and the company rose, shook hands, wished each other a happy new
year, and, in a bumper, drank, "May the year that's awa be the warst o'
our lives."
"I wonder wha will be our first-foot," said Nelly; "I hope it will be a
lucky ane."
The company began to argue whether there was anything in the luck of a
first-foot or not, and the young genius sided with his mother; and,
while they yet disputed upon the subject, a knocking was heard at the
front-door.
"There's somebody," said Nelly; "if it's onybody that I think's no luck,
I winna let them in."
"Nonsense!" said Richard.
"It's nae nonsense," replied Nelly; "it may be a _flat-soled_ body, for
onything I ken; and do ye think I wad risk the like o' that. Haud awa,
see wha it is, George," added she, addressing the genius; "and dinna let
them in unless you're sure that they dinna come empty-handed."
"Did ever ye hear the like o' the woman?" said her husband. "Sic havers!
Rin awa, George, hinny; open the door."
The boy ran to the door, and inquired--"Who's there?"
"A stranger," was the reply.
"What do ye want?" inquired the genius, with a degree of caution seldom
found in persons honoured with such an epithet.
"I have a letter to Master Rogers, from his brother," answered the
stranger.
"A letter frae my brother John!" cried Richard, starting from his seat;
"open the door, laddie--open the door."
Now, Richard Rogers had a brother, who also had been considered a sort
of a genius in his youth. He was of a wild and restless disposition in
those days, and his acquaintances were wont to call him by the name of
Jack the Rambler. But it is a long road that has no turning--he had now
been many years at sea--was the captain of a free-trader--and as
remarkable for his steadiness and worldly wisdom, as he had been noted
for the wildness of his youth. There was a mysterious spot in the
captain's history, which even his brother Richard had never been able to
clear up. But that spot will be brought to light by and by.
George opened the door, and the stranger entered. He was dressed as a
seaman; and Nelly drew back and appeared troubled as her eyes fell upon
him. It was evident she had set him down in her mind as an unlucky
first-foot. He was not, indeed, the most comely personage that one might
desire to look upon on a New-year's morning; for he was a squat little
fellow, with huge red whiskers that almost buried his face; his burly
head was covered with a sou-wester, and his eyes squinted most
fearfully. Nelly could not withdraw her eyes from the man's eyes--she
contemplated the squint with horror! Such eyes were never in the head of
a first-foot before! She was sure that "something no canny would be the
upshot."
"Tak a seat, sir--tak a seat, sir," said Richard, addressing the sailor;
"fill out a glass, and mak yoursel at hame. Nelly, bring a clean
tumbler. And ye hae a letter frae my brother, the captain, sir," added
he, anxiously; "how is he?--where is he?--when did ye see him?"
"I left him at Liverpool, sir," replied the queer-looking sailor; "and,
as I intended to take a run down over and to Leith to see my old mother,
'Bill,' says he to me (for my name's Bill, sir--Bill Somers)--well, as
I'm saying, 'Bill,' says he, 'you'll be going past the door of a brother
of mine, and I wish I were going with you'--(and I wish he had, for, not
to say it before you, sir, there an't a better or a cleverer fellow than
Captain Rogers in the whole service--nor a luckier one either, though,
poor fellow, he has had his bad luck too in some things; and it sticks
to him still, and will stick to him)--however, as I say, said he to
me--'Bill, here is a bit of a letter, give it to my brother--it concerns
my nevy, George'--(yes, George, I think he called him). So I took the
letter and set off--that is some days ago--and I arrived at the
public-house, a little from this, about four hours since, and intended
to cast anchor there for the night; but having taken a glass or two, by
way of ballast, I found myself in good sailing trim, and, having
inquired about you, and finding that you lived but a short way off, and
that the people in the house said, it being New-year's times, you
wouldn't be moored yet, I desired the landlady to fill me up
half-a-gallon or so of her best rum, that I mightn't come
empty-handed--for that wouldn't be lucky, ma'am, I reckon," added he,
squinting in the face of Mrs Rogers, who looked now at his eyes, and now
at a large bottle, which he drew from beneath a sort of half greatcoat
or monkey-jacket. Nelly was no friend to spirit-drinking; nevertheless
she was glad that her first-foot, though he did squint, had not come
empty-handed.
The letter was handed to Mr Rogers, who, having broke the
seal--"Preserve us, Richard!" said Nelly, "that's a lang epistle! I
daursay the captain's made his will in't--what does he say?"
"It's a kind, sensible, weel-written letter," said Richard, "for John
was a genius a' his days; and there is mair about a will in't than ye're
aware o'. But there's nae secret in't. George will read it."
The letter was then given to the genius, who read as follows:--
"DEAR DICK,--As one of my crew, Bill Somers, who has sailed
with me for a dozen years, is going down to Scotland, and will
pass your way, I take the opportunity of writing to you, and
letting you know that I am as well as a person who has as much
cause to be unhappy as I have can desire to be. The cause of
that unhappiness you don't know, and few know it--but I do, and
that's enough. I have made some money--perhaps a good deal--but
that's of no consequence. I once thought that I might have
_them_ of my own flesh and blood to inherit it; however, that
was not to be. It is a long story, and a sad story--one that
you know nothing about, and which it is of no use to tell you
about now. As things are, my nevy George is to be heir to
whatever money, goods, and chattels I possess."
As her son read this, Nelly thought that it was nonsense, after all, to
say that a squint first-foot was unlucky.
"Read on, George," said his father, "and tak heed to what your uncle
says."
The boy resumed the letter, and again read--
"Now, as my nevy is to be my heir, I think it my duty to lay
down a sort of chart--or call it what you like--by which I
would wish him to shape his future conduct. I am glad to hear
that his head is of the right sort; but let us have none of
your fiddle ornaments about it. A lofty prow is not always the
best for a storm, and looks bad enough with a Dutch stern.
Beware, also, how you let him to sea before his vessel is
fairly rigged, caulked, and waterproof--or, if you do, then
look out for his growing top-heavy, and capsising in the turn
of a handspike. If you set him off with a bare allowance of
ballast, and without a single letter of credit--do you expect
him to bring home a cargo? It is stuff, Dick--arrant stuff! All
your boy exhibitions are downright swindling. Prodigies,
forsooth!--why, parrots can speak, and jackdaws chatter. Or, to
render myself intelligible to your agricultural senses, a tree
blossoms in its first year, and a selfish, deluded idiot plucks
it up, exhibits it in the market-place--the bud perishes, and
the tree withers, while gaping lubbers wonder that it did not
bear fruit! Now, Dick, this is always the case with all you
fast-sailing miracles. Give a boy the helm, and get him to the
drudgery of the cabin again, if you can.
"As to his love affairs, provided the girl of his choice be
virtuous, and tolerably pretty--though neither very rich nor
very intelligent--see that you don't strike off at a tangent,
and, like one of your own stupid cattle, run counter to his
will. If you do, it will only hasten what you wish to
prevent--or render a marriage certain, which the young couple
thought sufficiently doubtful. Besides, your opposition might
spoil a poor girl's reputation; and I have always found that
imputations of a certain class, upon a man, are like marks left
upon the sand within a tide-mark; but to a woman--a lovely,
helpless woman--they adhere like a limpit to the rock. Besides
this, Dick, I am certain the most powerful impression of moral
rectitude you can imprint upon his heart would be like a pistol
fired from a cock-boat, compared to the glorious and
irresistible broadside of a seventy-four, when you contrast its
influence upon his actions with the delightful and conquering
emotions of love and esteem which he entertains for an amiable
woman. Don't preach to me, Dick, for I know when the devil, the
world, and the flesh, war against our better principles, and
when early instructions, counsels, and all that sort of things,
are fairly run down and drop astern, why, if a fellow just
think for a moment of the beautiful being, whose soul is as
pure as the blue sea on a summer day--if he just think of
her--or of her last words, '_Don't forget me!_'--belay! is the
word--about goes the helm--head round from the lee-shore of
inconsistency, and he is again quietly moored in the fair-way
of virtue.
"When he begins to shape into manhood, _Discretion_ is the
watchword; and whatever he or others may think of his
abilities, let him douse _Presumption_, and stow it below,
hoist a _desire to please_ at the fore-top, place
_Perseverance_, at the helm, and _Civility_ and _Moderate
Ambition_ upon the watch. People say they like a plain-spoken,
honest fellow, who says what he thinks. But it is all a fudge.
Just speak in the jack-blunt manner which they praise
respecting themselves, and, mark me, they will march off to
another tune. Let any man practise this for a time, and he will
soon be hated by every soul on board. I don't mean to advise
dissimulation; but a man can get enemies enough without making
them; therefore, where he has no good to say of a person,
though they may have injured him, let him hold his tongue.
"Another thing, and an important one, for him to remember,
is--he who is the king of good fellows, and a 'good soul'
amongst his associates, is styled by the public a thoughtless
man, and by his enemies a drunkard. Now, Dick, in the world of
business, a _good fellow_ simply means a _good-for-nothing_.
Therefore, see to it, and put my nevy on the look-out; for, not
to speak of the growing influence of habit, just attribute
unsteadiness to a man, and you bring him a wind ahead, stop his
credit, and hurl him to ruin headlong. Sobriety is his
compass--sobriety is his passport.
"Again, Dick, I would neither wish to see him a booby nor a
maw-worm; but I must tell you that the opinion the world forms
of us is often cast upon very trivial circumstances. A
heedlessly committed action, which we forget in half-an-hour,
others will remember to our disadvantage for twelve months.
There is nothing like being well-braced with circumspection;
let him always look well to his bearing and distance, or he
will soon find himself out in his latitude. No man of any
ambition, or whether he was ambitious or not, ever loved a man
who presumed to be in all things wiser that himself. I don't
wish to lecture upon humbug humility, but diffidence and
good-breeding should never be under the poop. Let him take
heed, also, how he dabbles in politics or religion. Both
concern him, and he must think and act upon both; but he must
do so as becomes a man. I hate all your noisy boatswain
politicians, both aboard the Commons and out of it. The moment
I see a lubberly fellow swinging his arms about and blowing a
hurricane, whether he be endeavouring to blow a nation or a
tavern into agitation--there rages a grand rascal, say I; his
patriotism, and the froth which he scatters from his mouth, are
of a piece. Now, as to his religious principles, of all things,
let him keep them to himself. Every man is as much in the
right, in his own estimation, as he is. Nothing will procure a
man more enemies than a real or affected singularity in matters
of religion. For though there is a great deal of good sense
afloat in the world, yet there is such a fry of feverish,
canting, small craft, always skulking about, and peeping into
our _pees_ and _ques_, which, though they cannot sink your
character, they annoy it with their sparrow-hail. In a word,
Dick, every intelligent being's religion lies between his own
conscience and his Maker. Give my nevy a Bible, with a father's
best blessing--in it he will find the ennobling hopes of
eternity, and learn to do unto others as he would wish others
to do unto him; and this, from the bottom of my heart, is the
advice of his uncle Jack.
"A sterling, upright, moral character, is absolutely
indispensable. If the heart be well built, and kept in good
sailing trim, he will have a tell-tale there which will keep
all right aloft. As well set a seaman upon a voyage of
discovery without a compass, as a young fellow upon the world
without a character. But, d'ye see, because you can't go to sea
without a compass of this kind, you are not to expect that, in
all cases, it will insure you of reaching the pole. No, Dick,
it is rather like a pilot sent out to steer you in, when you
are within sight of land, and without whose assistance you
cannot reach the port.
"In conversation, too, I hate to see a smooth-water puppy
running at the rate of twelve knots, as if no vessel in the
fleet could sail but his own. I have seen fellows of this sort
showing off like gilded pinnaces at a regatta, while they were
only showing how little they had on board. Two things, in
particular, I wish my nevy to avoid--namely, argufying in
company, and speaking about himself. There is a time and a
place for everything; and, though argument be well enough in
its way, he who is always upon the look-out for one is just as
sure as he finds it to find an enemy; and, as to speaking of
one's-self, independent of its ill-breeding, it is like a dose
of salt-water served round the company. The grand secret of
conversation is, to say little in a way to please, and the
moment you fail to do so, it is time to shove your boat off.
Whenever you see a person yawn in your company, take your hat.
"Independent of these things, let him look well to his
tide-table. Without punctuality, the best character becomes a
bad one. The moment a man breaks his word, or becomes
indifferent to his engagement, why, the confidence of his
commodore is at an end; and, instead of being promoted to the
quarterdeck, he may slave before the mast till the boatswain's
last whistle pipes all hands to his funeral. Punctuality,
Dick--systematical, methodical punctuality--is a fortune to a
fellow ready made. Let him once listen to the syren voice of
delay--neglect to weigh anchor with the tide, and if he don't
drift back with the current, go to pieces on a sand-bank, or be
blown to sticks by a foul wind, my name's not Jack. Let him
keep a sharp eye upon the beginning, the middle, and the end of
everything he undertakes. He must not tack about, like a fellow
on a cruise or a roving commission, but, whatever wind blows,
maintain a straight course, keeping his head to the port.
Burns, the poet, spoke like a philosopher, when he said it was
the misfortune of his life to be without an aim. But I tell you
what, Dick, we must not only have an object to steer to, but it
must be a reasonable object. A madman may say he is determined
to go to the North Pole, or the moon; but that's not the thing,
Dick: our anticipations must be likelihoods, our ambitions
probabilities; and when we have made frequent calculations, and
find ourselves correct in our reckoning, though we have made
but little way, then down with despondency, and stick to
perseverance. I don't mean a beggarly, servile, grovelling
perseverance, but the unsubdued determination of an
unconquerable spirit, riding out the storm, and, while small
craft sink on every side, disdaining to take in a single reef.
"Now, having said thus much about shaping his course, and
laying in a freight, it is material that I drop a concluding
word with regard to his rigging. Send him out with patched
canvas, and the veriest punt that ever disgraced the water will
clear out before him. A patch upon his coat will be an embargo
on his prospects. People affect to despise tailors; but it is
base ingratitude, or shallow dissimulation. Not that I would
for the world see my nevy an insignificant dandy, but remember,
the moment the elbows of your coat open, every door shuts.
"But my fingers are cramped with this long epistle, and,
moreover, the paper is full; and with love to nevy George, to
Nelly, and the little ones, I am, dear Dick, your affectionate
brother,
"JOHN ROGERS,
"Otherwise, JACK THE RAMBLER."
All applauded this letter, when they had heard it, and they vowed the
captain was a clever fellow--a noble fellow--ay, and a wise one; and
they drank his health and a happy New Year to him, though half of what
he had written, from his nautical types and symbols, was as Greek and
Latin unto those who heard it, and worse unto George the Genius, who
read it; though some parts of it all understood.
When the health of Captain Rogers had gone round--
"I wonder in the world," said Richard, "what it can be that my brother
aye refers to about being unhappy? I've written to him fifty times, to
try to fathom it; but I never could--he never would gie me ony
satisfaction."
"Why," said the seaman, as he sat leaning forward, and turning round his
sou-wester between his knees, "I believe I know, or I can guess a
something about the matter. It's about ten years ago, according to my
reckoning, we were coming down the Mediterranean--the captain was as
fine a looking young fellow then as ever stood upon a deck. Well, as I
was saying, we were coming down the Mediterranean, and at Genoa we took
a gentleman and his daughter on board. She was a pretty creature; I've
seen nothing like her neither before nor since. So, as I'm telling you,
we took them on board at Genoa, for England, and they had not been many
days on board, till every one saw, and I saw--though my eyes are none o'
the smartest--that the captain could look on nothing but his lovely
passenger. It wasn't hard to see that she looked much in the same way at
him, and I have seen them walking on the deck at night, with her arm
through his, in the moonlight; and, let me tell you, a glorious sight
it is--moonlight on the Mediterranean! It is enough to make a man fall
in love with moonlight itself, if there be nothing else beside him.
Well, d'ye see, as I am saying, it wasn't long until the old gentleman,
her father, saw which way the land lay; and one day we heard the lady
weeping; she never came out of her cabin during the rest of the voyage,
nor did her father again speak to the master. We were laid up for a long
time, and there was a report that the captain and her had got married,
unknown to her father. However, we sailed on a long voyage; we weren't
back to England again for more than twelve months; but the day after we
landed, the captain shut himself up, and, for long and long, we used to
find him sitting with the salt-water in his eyes. We again heard the
report that he had been married, and also that his lady had died in
childbed; but whether the child was living or ever was living, or
whether it was a boy or a girl, we didn't know; nor did he know; and, I
believe, he never was able to hear any more about the old gentleman--so,
as I say, that's all I know about the matter, poor fellow."
Now, the squinting sailor remained two days in the house of Richard
Rogers, and he was such a comical man, and such a good-natured,
kind-hearted man, that Mrs Rogers was certain he would be a lucky
first-foot, even though he had a very unfortunate cross look with his
eyes; and she was the more convinced in this opinion, because, in a
conversation she had had with him, and in which she had inquired--"What
siller he thought the captain might be worth?"--"Why, I'm saying,"
answered the sailor, "Captain Rogers is worth a round twenty thousand,
if he be worth a single penny;--and that, I'm thinking, is a pretty
comfortable thing for Master George to be heir to!"--"Ay, and so it is,"
responded Nelly. And there was no longer anything disagreeable in the
sailor's squint.
Well, week followed week, and month succeeded month--spring came, and
summer came, and harvest followed; and it was altogether a lucky year to
Richard Rogers. Nelly declared that the squinting sailor had been an
excellent first-foot.
Another year came, another, and another, until eight years passed round
since they had been visited by the outlandish seaman. Nelly had had both
lucky and unlucky first-feet. George the Genius was now a lad of twenty,
and the other children were well grown--but George was still a genius,
and nothing but a genius. He was indeed a good scholar--a grand scholar,
as his mother declared--and a great one, as his father affirmed. He had
been brought up to no profession, for it was of no use thinking of a
profession for one who was heir to twenty thousand pounds; and, at any
rate, his genius was sure to make him a fortune. In what way his genius
was to do this was never taken into consideration. Many people said, "If
we had your genius, George, we could make a fortune." And George thought
he would and could. The joiner in the next village, however, said, that
"Wi' a' George's genius, he didna believe he could mak an elshin-heft,
and stick him!--and, in his opinion, there was mair to be made by making
elshin-hefts than by writing ballants!"
As I have said, eight years had passed; it was again the last night of
the old year, and a very dark and stormy night it was. Mr Rogers, his
wife, their son George, and the rest of their family, had again seen the
old year out, and the New Year in, and exchanged with each other the
compliments of the season, when the cuckoo-clock again announced the
hour of twelve. Nelly had "_happed_ up the fire" with her own hands--a
thing that she always did on the last night of the old year, that it
might not be out on a New-year's morning. She was again wondering who
would be their first-foot, and expressing a hope that it would be a
lucky one, when a chaise drew up before the house, and the driver,
dismounting and knocking at the window, begged that they would favour
him with a light, as the roads were exceedingly dark, and the lamps of
the chaise had been blown out by the wind.
"A licht!" exclaimed Betty, half petrified at the request; "preserve us!
is the man beside himsel? Do ye imagine that onybody is gaun to gie ye
out a licht the first thing on a New-year's morning? Gae awa!--gae awa!"
In vain the driver expostulated--he had met with similar treatment at
other houses at which he had called. "Ye hae nao business to travel at
siccan a time o' nicht," replied Betty to all his arguments. Her husband
said little, for he entertained some of his wife's scruples against
giving a light at such a time. George mildly ridiculed the absurdity of
the refusal; but--"I am mistress o' my ain house," answered his mother,
"and I'll gie a licht out o't when I please, and only when I please. Wi'
a' yer learnin, George, ye wad be a great fool sometimes."
The voice of a lady was now heard at the window with the driver,
saying--"Pray, good people, do permit us to light the lamps, and you
shall have any recompense." No sooner did George hear the lady's voice,
than, in despite of his mother's frowns, he sprang to the door and
unlocked it. With an awkward sort of gallantry he ushered in the fair
stranger. She was, indeed, the loveliest first-foot that had ever
crossed the threshold of Mrs Rogers. She had no sooner entered, than
Nelly saw and felt this, and, with a civility which formed a strange
contrast to her answers to the driver, she smoothed down for her the
cushioned arm-chair by the side of the fire. The young lady (for she
hardly appeared to exceed seventeen) politely declined the proffered
hospitality. "Sit down, my sweet young leddy; now, do sit down just to
oblige me," said Nelly. "Ye are our first-foot, and I hope--I'm sure
ye'll ba a lucky ane; and ye wadna, ye canna be gaun out without tasting
wi' us on a New-year's morning."
The young lady sat down; and Nelly hastened to spread upon the table
little mountains of short-bread (of which she was a notable maker), with
her spice-loaf, milk-scones, and her best ewe-cheese, and her
cream-cheese, which was quite a fancy! And while his mother was so
occupied, George produced three or four sorts of home-made wine of his
own manufacture; for, in his catalogue of capabilities as a genius, it
must be admitted that he had some which might be said to belong to the
useful.
"Now, make yoursel at hame, my dear leddy," said Nelly; "need nae
pressing. Or if ye wad like it better, I'll get ye ready a cup o' tea in
a minute or twa; the kettle's boiling; and it's only to mask, so dinna
say no. Indeed, if ye'll only consent to stop a' nicht, ye shall hae the
best bed in the house, and we'll put the horses in the stable; for it's
no owre and aboon lucky to gie or tak a licht on a New-year's morning."
A faint smile played across the lips of the fair stranger, at the
mixture of Nelly's kindness and credulity; and she thanked her for her
hospitality, but stated that she must proceed on her journey, as she was
hastening to the death-bed of a near and only relative. The young lady,
however, sat longer than she wist, for she had entered into conversation
with George--how, she knew not, and he knew not; but they were pleased
with each other; and there were times (though it was only at times) that
George could talk like an inspired being; and this was one of those
times. The knowledge, the youth, the beauty of the lovely stranger, had
kindled all the fires of his genius within him. Even his father was
surprised, and his mother forgot that the chaise-driver was lighting the
lamps; and how long the fair lady might have listened to George, we
cannot tell, had not the driver hinted, "All's ready, ma'am; the horses
will get no good in the cold." She arose, and took leave of her
entertainers; and George accompanied her to the chaise, and shook her
hand, and bade her farewell, as though she had been an old and a very
dear friend. He even thought, as she replied, "_Farewell_," that there
was a sadness in her tone, as if she were sorry to say it.
Richard and his spouse retired to rest; but still the thought of having
given a light out of her house on a New-year's morning troubled her, and
she feared that, after all, her lovely first-foot would prove an unlucky
one. George laid his head upon his pillow, to dream dreams, and conjure
up visions of the fair stranger.
A short week had not passed, however--Richard was returning from Kelso
market, the roads were literally a sheet of ice (it is said that bones
are most easily broken in frosty weather), his horse fell, and rolled
over him, and he was carried home bruised, and with his leg broken.
Nelly was loud in her lamentations, and yet louder in her upbraidings,
against George and against herself, that she permitted a light to be
carried out of her house on a New-year's morning.
"It was borne in upon me," said she, "the leddy wadna be lucky, that
something would come out o' the giein the licht!"
But this was not all: before two months elapsed, and just as her husband
was beginning to set his foot to the ground again, from friction and
negligence together, the thrashing-machine took fire. It was still a
severe frost, there was scarce a drop of water to be procured about the
place, and, in spite of the exertions of all the people on the farm, and
their neighbours, who came to their assistance, the fierce flames
roared, spread, and rushed from stack to stack, until the barn, the
stables, the stackyard, and the dwelling-house presented a heap of
smouldering ashes and smoking ruins. Yet this was not the worst evil
which had that day fallen upon Richard Rogers. He was one of those
individuals who have an aversion to the very name of a bank, and he had
the savings and the profits of twenty years--in fifty-pound notes, and
in five-pound notes, and crown-pieces--locked away in a strong drawer
in his bedroom. In the confusion of the fire, and as he bustled halting
about, with the hope of saving some of his wheat-stacks (for wheat was
selling high at the time), he forgot the strong drawer, and his twenty
years' savings, until flames were seen bursting from the window of his
bedroom. The window had been left open, and some of the burning
materials having been blown into the room, it was the first part of the
house which caught fire.
"Oh, I'm ruined!--I'm ruined!" cried Richard; "my siller!--my
siller!--my hard-won siller!"
A rush was made to the bedroom; but before they reached it, the stairs
gave way, the floor fell in, and a thick flame and suffocating smoke
buried the fruits of poor Richard's industry--the treasure which he had
laid up for his children.
"Now, I am a beggar!" groaned he, lifting up his hands, while the flames
almost scorched his face.
"Oh, black sorrow tak that leddy!" cried Nelly, wringing her hands;
"what tempted her to be my first-foot?--or what tempted me to gie her a
licht? George! George! it was a' you! We gied fire out o' the house, and
now we've brocht it about us! Wae's me!--wae's me! I'm a ruined woman!
Oh, Richard, what will we do? What was ye thinking about, that ye didna
mind the siller?"
Richard knew nothing of the number of his notes, and his riches had
indeed vanished in a flash of fire! He was now obliged to take shelter
with his family in an outhouse, which had been occupied by a cottar. He
had not heard from Captain Rogers for more than twelve months, and he
knew not where he was; therefore he could expect no immediate assistance
from him. It was now necessary that George should bring his genius into
action--his father could no longer support him in idleness; and, as it
had always been said that he had only to exert his genius to make a
fortune, George resolved that he would exert it, and he was pleased with
the thought of setting his father on his feet again by the reward of his
talents. He had read somewhere in the writings of Dr Johnson (and the
doctor had a good deal of experience in the matter), that "genius was
_sure_ to meet with its reward in London;" and, if the doctor was _sure_
of that, George was as _sure_ that he was a genius, and therefore ho
considered the reward as certain. So George determined, as his uncle
might live many years, that he would go to London and make a fortune for
himself, and to assist his father in the meantime. A cow was taken to
Kelso market and sold for eight pounds, and the money was given to
George, to pay his expenses to the metropolis, and to keep him there
until his genius should put him in the way of making the anticipated
fortune. His coat was not exactly such a one as his uncle desired he
should be sent out into the world in--not that it was positively a bad
coat, but it was beginning to be rather smooth and clear about the
elbows, a lighter shade ran up on each side of the seams at the back,
and his hat was becoming bare round the edges on the crown. To be sure,
as his mother said, "he would aye hae ink beside him, and a dip o' ink
would help to hide that." These, however, were things that could not be
mended--the wardrobe of the whole family had been consumed at the fire;
but these things did not distress George, for he did not consider it
necessary for a genius to appear in a new coat. There were many tears
shed on both sides when George bade adieu to his father, his mother, and
his brethren, and took his journey towards London.
It was about the middle of March when he arrived in the metropolis; and,
having spent two days wandering about and wondering at all he saw,
without once thinking how his genius was to make the long-talked-of
fortune, on the third day he delivered a letter of introduction, which
he had received, to a broker in the city. Now it so happened that in
this letter poor George was spoken of as an "_extraordinary genius_!"
"So you are a _great genius_, young man, my friend informs mo," said the
broker; "what have you a genius for?"
George blushed and looked confused; he almost said--"for everything;"
but he hung down his head, and said nothing.
"Is it a genius for making machines--or playing the fiddle--or what?"
added the broker.
George looked more and more confused; he replied--"that he could neither
make machines, nor did he know anything of music."
"Then I hope it's not a genius for making ballads, is it?" continued the
other.
"I have written ballads," answered George, hesitatingly.
"Oh, then, you must try the west end--you won't do for the city," added
the broker; "your genius is an article that's not in demand here."
George left the office of the London citizen, mortified and humiliated.
For a dozen long years everybody had told him he was a genius; and now,
when the question was put to him--"what had he a genius for?" he could
not answer it. This rebuff rendered him melancholy for several days, and
he wandered from street to street, sometimes standing, unconscious of
what he was doing, before the window of a bookseller, till, jostled by
the crowd, he moved on, and again took his stand before the window of
the printseller, the jeweller, or the vender of caricatures. Still he
believed that he was a genius, and he was conscious that that genius
might make him a fortune; only he knew not how to apply it--he was
puzzled where to begin. Yet he did not despair. He thought the day would
come--but how it was to come he knew not. He took out his uncle's
letter, which his father had put into his hands when he left him, and he
read it again, and said, it was all very good, but what was he the
better of it?--it was all very true--too true, for he understood every
word of it now; and he turned round his arm, and examined his coat with
a sigh, and beheld that the lining was beginning to show its unwelcome
face through the seams of the elbows. I should have told you that he was
then sitting in a coffee-house, sipping his three-halfpence-worth of
coffee, and _kitchening_ his pennyworth of bread, which was but
half-a-slice, slightly buttered--and a thin slice, too, compared with
those of his mother's cutting. He was beginning to feel one of the first
rewards of genius--_eating by measure_! To divert the melancholy of his
feelings, and the gloom of his prospects, he took up a magazine which
lay on the table before him. His eyes fell upon a review of a poem which
had been lately published, and for which the author was said to have
received a thousand guineas!
"_A thousand guineas!_" exclaimed George, dropping the magazine--"a
_thousand guineas_! I shall make a fortune yet!"
He had read some of the extracts from the poem--he was sure he could
write better lines--his eyes flashed with ecstasy--his very nostrils
distended with delight--a thousand guineas seemed already in his pocket!
though, alas! out of the eight pounds which he had received as the price
of his father's cow, with all his management, and with all his economy,
he had but eight shillings left. But his resolution was taken--he saw
fortune hovering over him with her golden wings--he purchased a quire of
paper and half-a-dozen quills, and hurried to his garret--for his
lodging _was_ a garret, in which there was nothing but an old bed and an
olden chair, not even an apology for a table; but sometimes the bed
served the purpose of one, and at other times he sat upon the floor like
a Turk, and wrote upon the chair. He was resolved to write an epic; for
the idea of a thousand guineas had taken possession of all his
faculties. He made a pen--he folded the paper--he rubbed his hands
across his brow for a subject. He might have said with Byron--had Byron
then said it--
"I want a hero!"
He thought of a hundred subjects, and with each the idea of his mother's
beautiful but most unlucky first-foot was mingled! At length he fixed
upon one, and began to write. He wrote most industriously--in short, he
wrote for a thousand guineas! He tasked himself to four hundred lines
a-day, and in a fortnight he finished a poem containing about five
thousand. It was longer than that for which the thousand guineas had
been given; but George thought, though he should get no more for his,
that even a thousand guineas was very good payment for a fortnight's
labour. Of the eight shillings which we mentioned his being in
possession of when he began the epic, he had now but threepence, and he
was in arrears for the week's rent of his garret. The landlady began to
cast very suspicious glances at her lodger--she looked at him with the
sides of her eyes. She did not know exactly what a genius meant, but she
had proof positive it did not mean a gentleman. At times, also, she
would stand with his garret-door in her hand, as if she intended to say,
"Mr Rogers, I would thank you for last week's rent."
Scarce was the ink dry upon the last page of his poem, when George,
folding up the manuscript, put it carefully into his coat-pocket, and
hurried to the bookseller of whom he had read that he had given a
thousand guineas for a shorter work, and one, too, that, he was
satisfied in his own mind, was every way inferior to his. We do not say
that he exactly expected the publisher to fall down and worship him, the
moment he read the first page of his production, but he did believe that
he would regard him as a prodigy, and at once offer terms for the
copyright. He was informed by a shopman, however, that the publisher was
engaged, and he left the manuscript, stating that he would call again.
George did call again, and yet again, trembling with hope and anxiety;
and he began to discover that a great London publisher was as difficult
of access as his imperial mightiness the Emperor of China. At length, by
accident, he found the bibliopole in his shop. He gave a glance at
George--it was a withering glance--a glance at his coat and at his
elbows. The unfortunate genius remembered, when it was too late, the
passage in his uncle's letter, "the moment the elbows of your coat open,
every door shuts." We have already mentioned that the lining was
beginning to peer through them, and, during the fervour of inspiration,
or the _furor_ of excitement in composing the epic, he had not observed
that the rent had become greater, that the lining, too, had given way,
and that now his linen, which was not of a snow colour, was visible. He
inquired after his manuscript.
"What is it?" asked the publisher.
"A poem," answered George--"an epic!"
The man of books smiled; he gave another look at the forlorn elbows of
the genius--it was evident he measured the value of his poetry by the
value of his coat.
"A poem!" replied he; "poetry's a drug! It is of no use for such as you
to think about writing poetry. Give the young man his manuscript," said
he to the shopman, and walked away.
The reader may imagine the feelings of our disappointed genius: they
were bitter as the human soul could bear. Yet he did not altogether
despair; there were more booksellers in London. It is unnecessary to
tell how he offered his manuscript to another, and another, yea, to
twenty more--how he examined what books they had published in their
windows--and how he entered their shops with fear and trembling, for
his hopes were becoming fainter and more faint. Some opened it, others
did not, but all shook their heads, and said, nobody would undertake to
publish poetry, or that it was not in their way; some advised him to
publish by subscription, but George Rogers did not know a soul in
London; others recommended him to try the magazines. It was with a heavy
heart that he abandoned the idea of publishing his epic, and with it
also his fond dream of obtaining a thousand guineas. He had resolved
within himself that the moment he received the money, he would go down
to Scotland, and rebuild his father's house; and all who knew him should
marvel, and hold up their hands, at the fame and fortune of George the
Genius. But a hungry man cannot indulge in day-dreams, and his visions
by night are an aggravation of his misery; he therefore had to renounce
the fond delusion, that he might have bread to eat. His last resource
was to try the magazines. His epic was out of the question for them; and
he wrote songs, odes, essays, and short tales, on every scrap of paper,
and on the back of every letter in his possession. With this bundle of
"shreds and patches," he waited upon several magazine publishers. One
told him he was overstocked with contributions; another, that he might
leave the papers, and he should have an answer in two or three weeks.
But three weeks was an eternity to a man who had not tasted food for
three days. A third said, "he could seldom make room for new
contributors--poetry was not an article for which he gave money--essays
were at a discount, and he only published tales by writers of
established reputation." There was one article, however, which pleased
him, and he handed George a guinea for it. The tears started into his
eyes as he received it--he thought he would never be poor again--he was
as proud of that guinea as if it had been a thousand! It convinced him
more and more that he _was_ a genius. I need not tell you how that
guinea was husbanded, and how it was doled out; but, although George
reckoned that it would purchase two hundred and fifty-two penny loaves,
and that that was almost as many as a man need to eat in a twelvemonth,
yet the guinea vanished to the last penny before a month went round.
He had frequently called at the shop of his first patron, the publisher
of the magazine; and on one day when he so called--
"Oh, Mr Rogers," said the bookseller, "I have just heard of a little job
which will suit you. Lord L---- wishes me to find him a person to write a
pamphlet in defence of the war. You are just the person to do it. Make
it pungent and peppery, and it will be five or ten guineas for you, and
perhaps the patronage of his lordship; and you know no bookseller will
look at genius without patronage."
A new light broke upon George--he discovered why his epic had been
rejected. He hurried to his garret. He began the pamphlet with the
eagerness of frenzy. It was both peppery and passionate. Before the
afternoon of the following day it was completed, and he flew with it to
the house of the nobleman. Our genius was hardly, as the reader may
suppose, in a fitting garb for the drawing-room or library of a British
peer, and the pampered menial who opened the door attempted to dash it
back in his face. He, however, neither lacked spirit nor strength, and
he forced his way into the lobby.
"Inform his lordship," said George, "that Mr Rogers has called with the
pamphlet in defence of the war!" And he spoke this with an air of
consequence and authority.
The man of genius was ushered into the library of the literary lord,
who, raising his glass to his eye, surveyed him from head to foot with a
look partaking of scorn and disgust; and there was no mistaking that its
meaning was--"Stand back!" At length he desired our author to remain
where he was, and to read his manuscript. The chagrin which he felt at
this reception marred the effect of the first two or three sentences,
but, as he acquired his self-possession, he read with excellent feeling
and emphasis. Every sentence told. "Good! good!" said the peer, rubbing
his hands--"that will do!--excellent!--give me the manuscript!"
George was stepping boldly forward to the chair of his lordship, when
the latter, rising, stretched his arm at its extreme length across the
table, and received the manuscript between his finger and thumb, as
though he feared contagion from the touch of the author, or fancied that
the plague was sewed up between the seams of his threadbare coat. The
peer glanced his eye over the title-page, which George had not read--"A
Defence of the War with France," said he; "by--by who!--the
deuce!--George Rogers!--who is George Rogers?"
"I am, your lordship," answered the author.
"You are!--you!" said his lordship, "you the author of _the Defence_?
Impertinent fool! had not you the idea from me? Am not I to pay for it?
The work is mine!" So saying, he rang the bell, and addressing the
servant who entered, added, "Give that gentleman a guinea."