Foster made no reply, but bowed and requested his visitor to walk

in, an invitation with which he immediately complied; but when

a similar one was extended to his followers, they, one and all,

declined, saying that their master intended staying so short a

time, that it was not worth their while dismounting—an apology

with which Foster was, at the time, satisfied, although some

circumstances soon afterwards occurred that made him doubt its

sincerity. One of them was, his observing two of the horsemen who

_had_ dismounted, notwithstanding what they had said just a moment

before, skulking about the door of the apartment in which he and

his guest were.

After the latter had sat for some time, and had partaken of

some refreshment that had been introduced, he inquired of his

entertainer, with affected carelessness, what had become of his

“fair daughter.” Foster replied that she was unwell, and confined

to her own apartment; which was, indeed, true.

“Unwell!” exclaimed his guest, starting to his feet; “you do not

say so! Ha! unwell!—I must see her, then. Perhaps I may be able

to restore her to health. I have some skill in the healing art.

Come, Foster,” he added, with a sudden ferocity and determination

of manner, which contrasted strongly with the benevolent purpose

he affected, “conduct me to her this instant—this instant, I say,

Foster.” And he drew a sword from beneath the cloak in which he was

enveloped.

“What means this conduct, my lord?” inquired his amazed and alarmed

host.

“Mean, sirrah! mean!” replied the Lord of Hermitage—“why, it

means that I am about to do your daughter an honour.” And, without

waiting for the guidance he had demanded, he rushed out of the

apartment—when he was instantly joined by two of his followers,

with drawn swords in their hands—and proceeded to search for the

chamber in which the object of his villany was confined. Having

quickly found the apartment, the ruffians, after in vain soliciting

admittance from its inmate, whom the previous noise had alarmed,

began to force the doors. While they were thus employed, Foster,

who had, in the meantime, armed himself, and brought two or three

of his men to his assistance, suddenly rushed in amongst the

assailants, and a close and sanguinary contest immediately ensued.

At this moment, the unfortunate young lady, hearing her father’s

voice raised in anger, and the clashing of swords in the passage

which led to her apartment, undid the door, and frantically rushed

into the midst of the conflict. Fatal indiscretion! She had

scarcely stepped from her room, when the thrust of a sword (not,

however, meant for her) reached her heart, and she fell, lifeless,

amongst the feet of the combatants.

In a few seconds afterwards, her unhappy father also fell, mortally

wounded; when the fiends, perceiving the purposes of their villany

thus fearfully frustrated, instantly quitted the house, mounted

their horses, and fled.

This new atrocity of the Lord of Hermitage—for he had been

guilty of many, although, perhaps, this was the most hideous of

all—excited, when it became known, such a universal feeling of

horror throughout the country, that the miscreant, powerful as

he was, was obliged to fly the kingdom, and betake himself to a

foreign land, to avoid the popular vengeance with which he was

threatened. But his crime was of too deep a dye to escape due

punishment, even on earth. There was one whose fierce and enduring

thirst for revenge he could not evade—one to escape whom all his

windings and doublings were vain, and from whose arm, neither

distance of place or time could ultimately protect him.

On hearing of the dreadful catastrophe, Isabella’s lover,

Armstrong, vowed he would have a deadly revenge, and that he would

never cease from the pursuit of the Lord of Hermitage, while both

remained in life, till he had accomplished his destruction; and, in

pursuance of this oath (which he swore on the grave of his lover),

he abandoned home and friends, assumed the habit of a palmer, and

set out in quest of the murderer of Isabella Foster and her father.

On leaving the country, the infamous Lord of Hermitage directed his

steps to London, where he remained for some time in concealment;

for the singular atrocity of his crime, which he had no doubt would

soon be known far and wide, made him consider himself unsafe, even

in the heart of the English capital; and unsafe, even here, he

certainly was, although unaware of the particular character of the

danger that threatened him; for Armstrong had traced him, and he

only escaped him by the chance circumstance of his leaving London

for the Continent, one single day before his pursuer had discovered

his retreat. Similar fortuitous circumstances saved him, at various

subsequent terms in the chase; but the bloodhound that tracked him,

though often thrown out, kept steadily to his purpose, and as often

regained as he lost the scent of his victim.

For two full years, the lover of Isabella Foster pursued her

murderer with unabated eagerness and unflagging zeal; and, for two

full years, the former, from various accidental circumstances,

escaped the vengeance that was thus, although unknown to him, so

closely pursuing him.

At the expiry of these two years, however, the Lord of Hermitage,

guided, in some measure, we suppose, by a similar instinct with

that which directs the hare back to her form, however wide and

numerous may have been the evolutions of her intermediate career,

sought his own castle again; entertaining also, doubtless, a

hope that his atrocious crime, though it could not possibly be

forgotten, would now be contemplated with less intensity of feeling

than on its first occurrence.

It was on a dark and stormy night in November, that he arrived at

his own gate on horseback, and alone. Their lord’s return being

wholly unexpected by his domestics, he had some difficulty in

gaining admittance; but having at length satisfied the porter who

kept the gate, that he was indeed his master, the former was thrown

open; and, all dripping with wet, and perishing with cold, the

Lord of Hermitage once more entered his own castle, where, in the

enjoyment of the luxuries of a blazing fire and an ample repast, he

quickly forgot the sufferings to which, for the last ten or twelve

hours, he had been exposed.

In little more than an hour afterwards, however, the Lord of

Hermitage’s arrival was followed by that of another person, who

rode furiously up to the gate, and inquired, in an eager and

anxious tone, if he had yet appeared. Being answered in the

affirmative, the stranger called on the porter to open the gate,

saying that he was an attendant of his master’s, whom the latter

had hired some days previously, and that he had lost both him

and his way in the dark, being a stranger in that part of the

country. The man’s story was plausible; and he was instantly

admitted. On entering the court-yard, and seeing some lights in

the windows that overlooked it, the stranger inquired of the person

who admitted him, whether any one, and which of these windows

belonged to his master’s sleeping apartment. The porter, naturally

thinking that the question was put by the stranger with the view

of affording his master his services, pointed out the apartment he

inquired after, and gave him particular directions how to find it.

Desiring his informant now to hold his horse for a few minutes,

till he should have informed his master of his arrival, when he

would return, he said, to take charge of the animal himself, the

stranger disappeared. In an instant after, the door of the Lord

of Hermitage’s apartment was suddenly opened, and “Jock o’ the

Syde” stood before its horror-struck inmate, who at once guessed

the intentions of the intruder. What followed was the work of a

moment. Armstrong—his eyes dilated with a fearful joy, and with a

deadly smile playing on his haggard countenance, seized the unhappy

Lord of Hermitage by the throat; and, as he struck a dagger to his

heart, exclaimed—“Villain! most atrocious of villains! the hour of

vengeance is come. I have caught thee at last. This, and this, and

this,” he said, as he repeated his stabs, “is for Isabella Foster

and her murdered father!”

Elated beyond bounds at this successful termination to all his

weary toils and watchings, and gratified to think that his

vengeance had been, after all, consummated in the very stronghold

of the murderer, Armstrong flew to the court-yard, leaped on his

horse, and having called to the porter, in a voice of fierce

exultation, to open the gate, as his master had ordered him on a

pressing and important mission, “Jock o’ the Syde” galloped out of

the castle; and his loud and triumphant, but most appalling laugh,

as he cleared the gate-way, rang wildly through the darkness and

solitude of the night, and struck those who heard it with awe and

dismay; for it was, indeed, unearthly.

GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.

XVIII.—KINALDY.

Kinaldy is now the property of Mr Purves—an excellent country

gentleman who has made an ample fortune in America; but the period

to which my narrative refers, was long prior to this. The property

is poor and moorish though now covered with wood, sheltered, and

highly cultivated. In the days of Andrew Watson, it bore a very

different appearance: in fact, Andrew was not the proprietor, but

only the farmer; whilst a nephew of Archbishop Sharp, long resident

in an asylum, was the nominal proprietor, under various trustees,

of whom the famous Archbishop was one.

Farm houses in those days were very different from those of the

present. A thatched and patched roof, with walls of alternate

layers of turf and stone, and mid-walls or hallens of clay and

straw, quite Egyptian manufacture, were all the go; and if any

one, more advanced and uppish than his neighbours, got the length

of a stone and clay wall, with a wooden partition within, he was

deemed uncommonly appointed, as times went. Through these stone

and turf walls there was free ingress and egress to the wind, as

well as a plentiful allotment of rats, and the light infantry, the

mice; and holes capable of admitting even the cat in full chase

of her prey, perforated the clayey hallen in particular. Thus, by

little and little, the frail separation betwixt but and ben—the

house and the cha’mer—was in a manner undermined; and even the

pressure of a little urchin’s elbow, of eight or ten years of age,

was sufficient to shake it to its foundation. It is of one such as

I am describing, that the author of Maggy Lauder speaks, when he

makes his jolly heroine contemptuously exclaim—

“Begone ye hallenshauker,”

in other words, ye puir contemptible body, whom no respectable

person will permit to advance further into their house than the

hallen, against which ye loiter and lean till it shakes.

The fire, in these times, occupied, like the sun, the centre of

the system, around which, at various distances, revolved, the

Venus guidwife, the Mars guidman, the Juno Jenny, the Jupiter

Jock, the Saturn Sandy, and a vast number of satellites, in the

shape of half-clad, bare-footed, uncombed, squalling brats. Pocket

handkerchiefs there were none; but coat-sleeves and petticoat

tails did just as well; and though the Kenley Burn ran past, pure

and pellucid, its waters were seldom defiled—unless perhaps,

on a church-going Sunday—with the ablution of hands and faces.

There was a byre covered with heath, and with rafters fixed in

the earth, without the advantage of walls, from which issued, in

their season, cows, stirks, and calves, all covered over, like the

Dacians, in scaly armour, rattling as they went in hardened shairn,

and sometimes carrying a considerable fragment of the door-head

of their cabin along with them; ducks swattered in a Glenburnie

midden dub; and an assortment of hens, over whom presided a most

dignified cock in full feather, giving an air of extreme liveliness

and stir to the whole. But although the outside of things was,

comparatively with modern manners and improvements, somewhat rude

and forbidding, there were warm hearts and tender consciences

within. There literature was indeed but limited; but, limited

as it was, it comprehended the Bible, the Confession of Faith,

and “Knox’s History of the Church of Scotland.” Well acquainted

was Andrew Watson, and so was his wife, Janet Morrison, with the

grievous defections and oppressions of the times. And never did

Andrew bend his knees in family worship, but he prayed the Lord in

behoof of the poor persecuted remnant, of the good and faithful Mr

Alexander Wilson, the ousted minister of Cameron, and of a’ those

that opposed Prelacy and conformity, and supported Presbytery, in

thae sairly afflicted lands.

It was half-past one o’clock, on as beautiful a 3rd of May as

ever burst, in glory and in song, upon the kingdom of Fife, in

the year of grace 1679, when Peggy Watson—a girl about fourteen

years of age, and daughter to the above-mentioned Andrew—entered

her father’s door in a dreadful state of affright. It was some

time before the poor girl could be brought to utter any coherent

sounds at all; at last, she said that she and Tam Cargill, a

neighbour’s boy had been amusing themselves in seeking for birds’

nests on Drumcarrow Craig, when she saw a number of men on

horseback gathered round the tall ash tree, at the farm of Magus.

By and by, a gentleman’s servant passed them on horseback, and

then a fine coach appeared, drawn by six horses. When the coach

passed (she said), the men under the tree set off at full gallop

after it; and she heard firing, and loud speaking, and saw the

coach overtaken, and stopped, and a man dragged out of it, and

shot at, and murdered—she was quite sure that he was murdered.

Thereupon, Tam Cargill had run off homewards in one direction, and

she in another; for she was afraid the dreadful men might look up

at Drumcarrow Craig, and murder her and her companion too. This

narrative caused a great sensation in the family, and Andrew was

at a loss how to understand it; for, although the archbishop’s

treachery and cruelty were well known in the country, yet the more

immediate object of popular detestation was Mr William Carmichael,

sheriff-substitute of Fife, from whose hornings, and finings, and

distrainings, and quarterings of a rapacious and sensual soldiery,

scarcely any one individual, unconnected with the prelatic

faction, had been excepted. Nothing farther occurred till about ten

o’clock at night, when all the family had been summoned around a

peat-fire, on a sandstone hearth, to family prayers. There were in

all ten individuals, comprehending the lad, the lass, six bairns,

of whom Peggy was the oldest, with the guidman and the guidwife,

worshipping and nursing the youngest bairn at the same time. The

dogs, which lay scattered about at their ease and convenience,

and which seemed, hitherto, to be enjoying a comfortable repose,

suddenly sprang to their legs, and gave tongue vociferously.

“Hide me,” ejaculated a young man, stout and square built, and of

a somewhat prepossessing appearance. “O conceal me, honest Andrew

Watson, for the pursuer is close at my heels!”

The Bible was immediately laid aside, and the whole family gathered

round the strange intruder in the utmost consternation.

“Dear me!” said Andrew Watson, “and what has brought you about our

hallen like an ill-doer, at this time o’ the night, and in sic

a like manner. I wish ye haena been where ye sudna hae been, Mr

George Balfour, my man. Are na the bonny woods o’ Gilston, o’er by

there, sufficient to shelter the laird’s son in the hour o’ his

difficulty and need?”

“I canna gang hame at ony rate—I have just seen, frae my

hiding-hole in the Linns o’ Kenley, a whole band o’ soldiers

scouring all over the country, and bearing down upon Gilston

direct.”

“But——” Andrew was proceeding, when his well-known neighbour

entreated of him to act and not to talk, for a party of dragoons

would, in all probability, be at his door in a few seconds. What

was to be done? The children screamed at the idea of dragoons; the

guidwife wrung her hands, completely nonplussed; whilst Andrew,

thinking for a moment, and ejaculating, “The son of the righteous

father guilty or not, must not be deserted in his need; he asks

shelter and secrecy, and he shall have both till morning, at

least.” So saying, he conducted Mr George Balfour privately to a

small barn immediately adjoining, and filling an empty sack nearly

half-full of straw, he thrust his neighbour into it, bringing

the straw up around his person and over his head—there being a

sufficiency of holes towards the fastenings at the mouth of the

sack, by which respiration could be effected, and even vision

partially obtained. Having done this, Andrew placed the sack, head

uppermost, in a recumbent position, in the centre of several other

sacks filled apparently in a similar manner with grain. “There,”

says Andrew, “stand ye there till morning; and gin ye hear the door

open, and see armed men enter, beware of your breathing, for even

that may betray you.”

Mr George Balfour had been seen passing Den Head, after the affair

of the archbishop, and a herd callant had pointed his route out in

the direction of Kinaldy farm-house. Thus instructed, a company

of from ten to twelve dragoons surrounded the dwelling-house of

Kinaldy about twelve o’clock at night, and, breaking up the door

without any ceremony, proceeded immediately to search for the

murderer. The children—even to that in the cradle—were all turned

out naked; the cows were dislodged from their stakes, and set

adrift in the fields; two horses were unstabled; and the dung-hill

fowls were sent screaming and cackling from their perches in the

byre. By and by, the barn occupied their attention; and having

made short work of the door opening, they commenced cutting and

thrusting with their broadswords amongst some straw which occupied

the further end. One of the band laid his hand upon a sack,

and finding that it contained oats, he immediately called for

assistance, and carried it out to the adjoining field, emptying

it immediately of its contents, and putting their horses to feed

at will. Still the object of their pursuit was invisible, and

they become more and more infuriated; so, taking the eldest girl,

already mentioned, they questioned her, with their pistols at her

breast, respecting what she had seen or knew. Fortunately, the girl

was really ignorant, as was the whole family, except Andrew, of the

hiding-place of him they were in pursuit of; but, terror-stricken

as she was, she admitted that she had seen Mr George Balfour, whom

she knew, in the house that very evening.

“Come, come,” said the leader of the troop—one of Carmichael’s

instruments of oppression—“we will make short work of it, Andrew;

either give up him we are in search of, or we will make a bonfire

of the hail bigging, and leave you and these naked savages to warm

your skins at the flames.” This they would actually have put into

execution, had not a horseman arrived at the critical moment with

information that Balfour of Burley had been traced to Dura Den,

and that their immediate presence was required to surround the

retreat on all sides, and capture the main instrument in the bloody

transaction. A retreat was thereupon immediately sounded, but not

till Andrew Watson had been assured that he, at least, should not

escape, but that his property; if not his person, should pay dearly

for harbouring a murderer. With great speed was the pass of Dura

surrounded, and afterwards searched, even to that cave in the steep

face of the rock, part of which is visible, immediately opposite to

Yoolfield, even to this hour; but, if even Balfour had taken refuge

here, as is, from several circumstances, more than probable, he

had received warning in time, and had fled to Lanark, in the west

country. So the avengers of blood were too late for their quarry,

and were obliged to return to Cupar towards morning, with the

report of their total failure in capturing any of the offenders.

In the meantime, Mr. George Balfour, younger of Gilston, escaped

from his durance, and, without saying to any one in what direction

he meant to retreat, escaped by Kenley Glen, from the old barn of

Kinaldy. That he went on board a ship at Elie, and immediately got

off to the Continent, was afterwards fully ascertained.

In the meantime, the poor family of Andrew Watson suffered most

severely. They were dragged up to the Sheriff-court at Cupar, and,

being examined on oath, were compelled to admit the concealment of

Mr. George Balfour; they pled, as was true, their ignorance of the

precise crime of which he had been guilty; for, although they might

suspect the nature of the crime from what the girl had witnessed,

and Mr. George himself had expressed, yet, no name had been

mentioned by either party, and the accused was entitled to plead

the benefit of ignorance on the main point. No matter; their goods

were distrained by orders of the infamous Carmichael, and they

themselves turned adrift as outlaws, to seek for shelter with the

beasts of the field. Such doings in those days were not uncommon,

and scarcely dared any one to express disapprobation, for fear of

involving themselves in the same fate.

Houseless and homeless did Andrew Watson, his wife, and six

children—of whom Peggy, already mentioned, was the eldest—take

their way on the 15th day of May (old style), across the moors

of Fife, towards Auchtermuchty, where an uncle of Andrew’s kept a

small public house, and dealt a little in horse flesh. This uncle

was a great favourite of Carmichael’s, and one of the most active

informers against the non-conformists, and, in particular, against

the murderers of the Archbishop. All this was known to Andrew; but

what was to be done; he did not know where to turn himself; and,

in the extremity of his condition, was, in a manner, compelled to

seek for refuge where he had never hitherto placed any confidence.

Wearied and worn out, the whole family arrived at Norman Watson’s

about sunset, and found his wife at home, but not himself. Their

piteous tale was told, and temporary sustenance rather grudgingly

afforded, when Norman arrived himself—his face dreadfully flushed

with drink and rage, and in words and with acts anything but

friendly—he insisted upon their immediately leaving his threshold.

His wife, though somewhat inclined to mercy and hospitality, was

manifestly the slave of her husband’s temper, and she offered no

resistance.

“O man!” exclaimed Andrew Watson, whilst he gathered up his weary

limbs, and beckoned to his wife to nurse her child ere they

departed—“O Norman, but ye are a hard-hearted man, and totally

destitute of natural feelings! But the Lord will provide, in his

own good way, for me and mine; whilst you, wha persecuted his

chosen flock, shall be reduced, ay, to want and beggary.” This last

expression touched old Norman even to frenzy; and he even lifted

up the handle of a horse whip, which he had in his hand, to strike

down his nephew with.

“Come on, man!—come on!” said Andrew. “Strike down and murder

your brothers bairn, and send _her_ there husbandless and _them_

there fatherless, into the woods of Falkland; but ye canna strike

down the uplifted arm of Him who now sees you, and who one day

will reward the sinner according to his deeds. But shall e’en

mak ye free of us.” And thus saying, he left the house, followed

by a sobbing wife, and five weeping and screaming children. They

wandered forth, in the dusk of a beautiful evening, into the woods

of Falkland, and, sitting down under the shelter of a large oak

tree, Andrew Watson proceeded to give out from memory, the 121st

Psalm, which was sung by the whole family, with the exception

of the child at the breast. It is impossible to conceive a more

appropriate exercise in such a locality than this. The twin

Lomonts rose to a considerable height above them. The moon had

just taken possession of the southern sky, and looked mildly and

benevolently down upon their sylvan resting-place. The sun had set

in glory, and his beams yet lingered on the nor’-western sky. The

air was warm, and the grass was dry, soft, and matted—the “_tenaci

gramine_” of Horace. Before proceeding to conclude with prayer, and

in consideration that they would not see to read a chapter from the

small pocket Bible which had been spared to them, Andrew gave the

following commentary on the psalm which had just been sung:—

‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes,’

Yes, there they lift their heads before us, the beautiful work of

God—the twin Lomonts of His own creation!

‘From whence doth come mine aid.’

“O Lord of Hosts! do thou descend here as thou didst on Sinai and

Horeb, and aid thy poor, wandering, houseless servants; for the

aid and protection of man I have not; and unless thou leavest thy

heavens and comest down, I and the wife of my bosom, and my poor

little ones, must perish.”

Hereupon the voice of lamentation was heard; but it was suddenly

repressed by Andrew springing to his feet, and repeating with great

emphasis:—

“‘My safety cometh from the Lord,

Who Heaven and Earth hath made.

The moon by night thee shall not smite,

Nor yet the sun by day.’

“So we will e’en go to rest in the confidence of the fulfilment of

His gracious promise.”

And, having prayed fervently, and placed the younger ones in each

other’s arms, they laid themselves down and fell asleep. They must

have slept long and soundly, for the sun was more than an hour

risen, when a staghound was seen licking the face of Andrew Watson

as he and his family lay in the woods of Falkland: in fact, Lord

Crawfurd had left, that morning, his residence at Struthers, in

the parish of Ceres, and had pursued a fallow deer, with “hound

and horn,” into Falkland forest. The hounds had been taken off

the scent by the unusual finding of a covey, as it were, of human

beings beneath a tree, and sleeping in the open air; so this

naturally excited observation, and his lordship himself, with

several attendants, immediately rode up to the spot. The Earls of

Crawfurd, from time immemorial, were distinguished not less by

their high and noble descent, than by their princely bearing and

kindly feeling; besides, they had all along aided the Reformation

from its opening, and supported Presbytery against the inroads of

Prelacy. The mournful story was told and listened to. A horseman

was called upon, and dismissed on a secret errand, and the family

were directed to make the best of their way to Struthers—the Fife

residence of his lordship. An ample breakfast with the housekeeper

awaited their arrival; and they were told after breakfast, that as

his lordship’s _hen-wife_ had died suddenly—a few days before—and

no new appointment had been made, Andrew Watson should possess

the lodge, which she formerly occupied at the gate. And whilst

he looked after the gate, and a few black-faced sheep which were

kept, for table use, in an adjoining park, his wife should take the

management of the poultry.

Thus ended the trials of Andrew Watson, who lived to see his uncle

bankrupt, turned out of house and hold, and carried to his grave,

with scarcely a mourning attendant, in consequence of his own acts.

Truly,

“The ways of God are righteous altogether.”

XIX.—THE TRIALS OF THE REV. SAMUEL AUSTIN.

Amongst the oldest recollections which I have, is my attendance,

along with my mother, at the dispensation of the Sacrament of the

Lord’s Supper, in the parish of Penpont, Dumfriesshire. Mr Keyden

officiated at that time as parish minister, and was known through

all the adjoining parishes, and, in particular, in my native parish

of Closeburn, as a most able, eloquent, and popular preacher.

Consequently, whenever the occasion came round, as it did regularly

about the middle of June—

“The roads war filled frae side to side

Wi’ mony a weary body,

In droves that day.”

Morton boated the Nith at the Boat-pool, and poured _in_ her

hundreds; Closeburn took the water at the nearest, with stilts,

horses, and carts; Kier was completely deserted. Penpont emptied

her wooded and sequestered glens of all that could wield a staff,

or kilt a petticoat; even the more remote Keir Glencairn, and

Dunsmore, sent their contributions of sacrament hunters. There

they all congregated on the green slope of the manse, looking

towards the sunny south. The Scaur sent her ample waters dancing

and sparkling on the saugh tree, and the willows saw themselves

reflected from her pools; whilst the stony banks murmured under the

gentle salute of the stream. The tent stood with its back to the

south, and the scorching sun; whilst a forest of faces fronted in

an opposite direction. The whole scene was at once so imposing and

picturesque, that it has established itself indelibly in my brain.

A bald-headed little person, with spectacles, mounts the tent stair

or ladder from behind; he takes off and thumbs his eye-glasses;

whilst his soul is complacently abroad over the communion-tables,

covered with napery—bleached white as the driven snow, on the very

green where it is now spread. It was on one of these occasions that

I heard Mr Keyden, in his _after_ address to the communicants,

express himself in nearly the following terms:—

“My friends and fellow-communicants, the ground which you now

occupy is hallowed—it is holy. On this very spot did your

forefathers meet, to hear the good, the pious, the persecuted Mr

Samuel Austin—him whom the lawless hands of wicked men banished,

with all he held dear, to the cave, and the moss, and the mountain.

O Creehope! that now re-echoest to thy peaceful waters, what a tale

thou couldst unfold of Austin’s nightly watchings, and prayer, and

praises. O Queensberry, that rearest thy proud and double front

to the very breast of heaven, have not thy long heath and deep

morasses hid the servants of God when the pursuer was near at hand!

O water! pure and peaceful water of Scaur, that now stealest along

as if unwilling to disturb our present doings and meditation, thou

didst hear him groan—thou didst mark his tears, and those of

his deeply afflicted wife and family, on the day when his trial

had come, and was not over; but now the servant of the Lord hath

gone home to the house of his father. He and his are now around

the throne, reaping, and greatly enjoying the reward of all their

sufferings—the noble, the everlasting recompence of reward. He

whom Lag pursued, and Douglas hunted, and Johnstone cursed with

words of wicked and self-condemning import, is now following the

Lamb whithersoever he goeth—yes, my friends, far and away, beyond

that white cloud, which now comes betwixt heaven’s sun and us; far

and away in the unfathomed depths of eternity—unmeasured fields of

immensity—there dwell—there dwell—he and his. They are clothed

in white, because they are worthy; and they cease not, night nor

day, giving glory to Him that sits upon the throne. Go ye, my dear

brethren, and do likewise; serve your God like him, through ill as

well as good report, in adversity as well as prosperity, and the

like reward will be yours.” My youthful feelings were naturally

excited by this very, very powerful address, in consequence of

which, on my way homewards, I laid my mother under contribution to

the whole extent of her traditional information on the subject.

This information has been, since that period, considerably

increased by a perusal of a MS. diary lent me by the late worthy

minister of Keir, Mr James Keyden, whose father—the minister

of Penpont, already referred to—had found it, along with some

other papers, in an old barrel in the manse garret. I cannot

speak positively, but my impression is (and the present minister

of Penpont, Mr Smith, will correct me if I am wrong), that this

little roll of torn and soiled papers is lodged in the hands of the

presbytery clerk, and may still be verified by actual inspection.

From these diaries, the following narrative, true in all its

leading facts, is composed.

Samuel Austin was a native of Closeburn, and born, apparently,

about the year 1600. His father was a shepherd on the farm of

Auchincairn; and the son was educated in a great measure by an

uncle, who had seen a little service, having served as a soldier

till the civil wars made him glad to retire on a small allowance,

which the Government of the time had made to him. This person

happened to be not only a soldier but a saint—that is, one who, in

the language of the day, sought his God frequently and earnestly in

prayer and supplication at a throne of mercy. He had, besides, been

well-educated for the times in which he lived, and took special

care that his young name-son, Samuel, should be benefited by his

superior information, as well as by his genuine and ever-fervent

piety. He would walk out with the boy of a summer evening; and,

having caught his attention, and gained his good-will by short and

striking narratives of his own adventures “by flood and field,”

he would take him to the top of that immense heap of stones from

which the farm manifestly has its appellation, and, pointing to

the magnificent prospect around, raise the young spirit from earth

to heaven—from the visible to the invisible—from the external

work to the internal agent. He would then talk of God’s visible

church on earth, of the Reformation and the reformers; of the

burnings and slayings, and torturings for conscience’ sake; and of

the efforts which had more recently been made to maintain beloved

Presbytery in Scotland in particular. All this was accompanied by

Bible and historical readings. It was then that young Samuel Austin

grew up under his uncle’s tuition, without ever having entered a

school door. When the boy was verging towards the man, he became

every day more and more attached to the cause of liberty and

Presbytery; and, at his uncle’s expense, was educated (according

to the limited and imperfect usage of the times) for the church.

When only twenty years of age, his learning and piety gained him

an unanimous call from the adjoining parish of Penpont, where,

at the period to which my narrative more particularly refers, he

had laboured successfully and most acceptably for many years. In

the meantime, his good friend, his uncle, had died, as also his

parents; whilst a blind girl, his only sister, had come to live

with him at the manse. About twelve months after his settlement,

he married. For many years after Samuel Austin became minister of

Penpont, all seems to have gone on well. I find his settlement

noticed in the diary referred to in the following terms:—“16th

September, 16—. This day I have been solemnly inducted into the

pastoral charge of many souls. Lord, what am I or my father’s

house, that thou shouldst honour me thus!”

Though re-instated on his throne, principally, by the Scottish

Presbyterians, through the agency and address of the famous

General Monk, and notwithstanding his having more than once sworn

to the famous National League and Covenant, yet no sooner was

Charles the Second, of infamous and treacherous memory, fairly

established on the throne, than, yielding to the interested

suggestions of intriguing and selfish counsellors, and to those

of the arch-traitor Sharp, in particular, did this monarch set

about establishing Prelacy in Scotland as well as in England,

under the agency of Middleton and Lauderdale. By them, Sharp,

Fairful, Wishart, Sydserff, Mitchel, Hamilton, Wallace, Fletcher,

Haliburton, Forbes, Paterson, M’Kenzie, and Leighton, were

ordered to be consecrated, and sent down to Scotland, with the

titles of Bishop and Archbishop, to take their seats as an Estate

in the Scottish Parliament and to forbid all induction into

benefices, unless by the imposition of the prelates’ hands. This

was immediately and extensively remonstrated against by Synods

and Presbyteries, as well as by lay and clerical individuals,

throughout Scotland in general, but more particularly throughout

the countries south of the Forth and Clyde. It was throwing up,

in spirit at least, all that their ancestors had been contending

for, even unto the death by _fire_, for more than 150 years, and

was, at the same time, submitting to an illegal and arbitrary

adjustment of star-chambers and councils. With Presbytery was there

all along entwined and commingled political freedom and equal law;

and the Covenanters of the year 1662 saw full well, that if they

sacrificed the one, they must likewise surrender the other. It

was about this time, that, on account of Mr Austin’s neglect of

obtaining conformation or induction of the then Bishop of Galloway,

within whose diocese Penpont lay, he received a summons ordering

him to appear incontinently before Bishop Hamilton (brother to Lord

Belhaven), to answer for his contumacious neglect. As Mr Austin had

originally been inducted and ordained, according to the rules of

the Presbyterian Church, he did not feel himself at liberty to obey

the bishop’s mandate.

Some time after this, the family of Mr Austin were placed in

circumstances of a very trying nature. William Austin, an only

son, and now a probationer of great promise and talents, had long

been threatened with that fatal complaint which smiles whilst it

drinks dry the well-springs of life. And sore and seriously did

the alarmed and affectionate mother plead with her husband to

satisfy the bishop, submit to a renewed presentation from Douglas

of Queensberry, the lay patron, and thus reclaim his manse and

stipend undisturbed and undisputed. But Samuel Austin was not to be

diverted from his line of conceived duty, even by the most tender

ties of the heart.

It was on a keen, frosty Saturday morning, in the month of January,

whilst all the surrounding hills were covered with snow, and the

pools, ponds, and lochs with ice, that the family of the manse were

convened in the little parlour, and engaged in family worship,

which was, as had been usual for some time, conducted by the young

probationer, William; for although the fatal disease had not yet

impaired his faculties, or very greatly reduced his strength, its

presence was still manifest by the hectic spot in the cheek and the

nightly fever. William had been selected as the future choice of a

neighbouring congregation, should they be permitted to make their

own selection; but the state of his health had made it manifest

to all that his Master had not so determined. Whilst William was

upon his knees (after having sung the psalm and read the chapter),

pouring forth, in extempore and fervent expression, the feelings

of himself and of his fellow-worshippers to the common and true

God, through the one common and only Saviour, the door was rudely

assailed, and ultimately forced open, and in came the harsh and

bearded countenance of the afterwards notorious General Dalziell of

Binns,[1] accompanied by a band of well accoutred dragoons.

“What have we here?” exclaimed the exasperated and really

astonished intruder—giving, at the same time, the person engaged

in prayer a rude push with his bootless foot[2]—“what have we

got here?” addressing himself to one of the troop of the name of

Johnston. “Why, here we have the whole batch—man, mistress, and

maid—seeking Cromwell’s corkskrew. Come, have done with your

canting and grunting, young one—up and be doing, thou old hoary

traitor—clear up these blinkers, bonny Betty Blossom, for I have a

message, in which ye are all somewhat concerned, from his Majesty,

King Charles, God bless him! and his curse be on all his enemies.

What! not grunt or growl an amen! Old Sam, I say, I have a polite

message here from his Majesty’s Lord Chancellor, at the instance

of my Lord Hamilton, Bishop of Galloway, to warn, denounce, and

declare you a runnigate traitor, unless you shall, within eight

days from and after this date, bestir your stumps, and wait upon

his Lordship, in his palace at Whithorn; and there, and in that

presence, receive and accept of ordination as an Episcopal curate

from his Lordship—having first obtained a presentation to this

living from the true and undisputed patron, my Lord Douglas of

Queensberry.”

“_That_,” ejaculated, instantly and firmly, the resolute and

determined servant of God—“_That_ no power on earth nor under

the earth—no force of arms nor menace of look—no Laird of Binns

nor Bishop of Galloway—shall ever compel poor Samuel Austin, the

honoured pastor of a Presbyterian people, _to do_.”

“Then,” replied General Dalziell, making use of an oath which

it would be fearful, as well as impious, to repeat, “off you

shall budge, this very day, hour, and instant, and betake

yourselves—man, woman, and boy, rag-tag and bobtail—from this

here snug, comfortable manse, to that there wide and roomy and

northern county of Angus, far and away beyond the river Tay—ay,

and until my Lord Chancellor’s farther pleasure be known respecting

you.”

“O spare us!—O spare us!” exclaimed, or rather screamed, Mrs

Austin, running up to the fearful, long-bearded man, and clasping

him round the knees, weeping and wailing most dismally—“O spare

us this once, and all shall be done as you wish it. Yes—yes, Sam,

my dear Samuel Austin, you must just say the word—just say you

will see about it—you will think about it—you will ask the Lord’s

advice about it—and maybe these terrible men will leave us (the

blind, ye see, sir, and the sick, and the old and infirm) to finish

our days—whar the feck o’ them hae been spent—and to lay our

banes in the auld kirkyard o’er by yonder.”

“Get up, woman, wi’ your yammering and blarney! D’ye think the

King’s officer does not know, and will not execute—ay, and to the

letter—his duty. Get up! and mak that auld hardened traitor say

the one half that ye hae done, and we shall soon rid you of our

presence.”

“O Samuel—Samuel!” said the poor woman, rushing from the knees

of the captain to those of her husband, and ultimately, as she

proceeded, taking him around the neck, and looking into his firm

and unchanged countenance in the most imploring manner—“O Samuel!

my own dear and kind husband! the father of my dear and dying boy!

the brother of that helpless blind creature sitting greeting in the

corner there! O Samuel Austin, look at me! Don’t look away that

gate; look in my face again, whar ye said ye have often looked

with pleasure. O look at me! look at me! at your own Betty Sheils,

_kindly_, and just say one word—one single short word—yes! O say

yes! at least do not say no; or we are ruined, harried, driven, in

frost and snow, at mid-winter, into the mountains and the forests!”

“No more of this mummery!” exclaimed Dalziell. “Either promise,

my old boy, to do as your wiser half would have you, or, by all

the broad acres of Binns, ye do not lodge another night under the

rooftree of Penpont Manse—that’s all.”

Hereupon the poor blind woman, who had all along been sobbing aloud

came rushing forward; and, catching hold of her brother’s hand,

bathed it in tears shed from beamless sockets, but remained silent.

This was indeed a trying hour to this good and affectionate man;

and, for a moment, his purpose seemed shaken, and he looked around

him, and towards his son, who had hitherto remained a silent but

interested spectator of what was going on.

“O Willie, Willie!” at last exclaimed the poor heart-broken

saint—“O Willie! my son! my only child! what wouldst _thou_ have

thy father do?”

“I would have him,” responded the boy (as he was called in the

family)—“I would have him do his duty, and leave the rest to God.”

“Thou art right—thou art right, my child! Come to my arms! I did

but for an instant wish the cup to pass from me; but thou art more

than thy father’s child. Thou hast saved thine own soul, and mine

besides; and now, ye men of war, and of rapine, and of blood,

come on; I am prepared”—(looking to his son)—“we are prepared;

do your worst. God, who fed Elijah in the wilderness, will not

permit the old, the blind, alas! my child, I fear I may add the

_dying_, to perish houseless and helpless. We will rid ye of our

presence this very day, and repair, with all possible despatch,

whithersoever the Lord willeth.”

Hereupon the poor mother fell down in a faint, and dropped into the

arms of her blind sister-in-law.

“Johnston,” said General Dalziell, “see these traitors unkenneled

before noonday’s sunset, lock the kirk and the manse doors, and

bring me the keys. March, my lads! We will be late for breakfast.”

So saying, the troop, with the exception of two, galloped off for

Drumlanrig, the seat of the Douglasses of Queensberry.

The following Sabbath was clear, cold, and frosty, and the ground

where the people met was dry, and free from snow. The crowd was

immense; many stood all day; some brought stools and benches; and

an old fallen ash-tree was completely occupied by human beings. The

manse-family, with some of the better classes, were accommodated

under the tent; whilst the young Laird of Closeburn (for which

he was afterwards severely fined) sat in the tent behind the

speaker. In the papers of this good man already mentioned, I find

the following reflections written manifestly on the eve of the

Communion Sabbath:—“The Lord has been very good and very gracious

this day. Five hundred Presbyterian believers partook this day of

the bread of life. There was no hand to help—no voice to rouse but

mine, and that of my poor dying child. My text—‘I will not leave

you comfortless,’ John xiv. 18—afforded me great openings of the

spirit, and His blessed spirit was indeed upon me this day in this

great work; but my poor boy has laboured too hard in preaching and

in prayer.”

On Monday morning, the manse of Penpont was surrounded by carts

and waggons, and the plenishing of the minister was conveyed to

several places of safety in the parish, awaiting the return,

if ever they should arrive, of better times. The weather was

exceedingly stormy; and, to attempt an immediate journey through

the Lauder Hills, towards the north, was altogether impossible.

Yet whosoever should harbour this ousted family, under existing

circumstances, would do so at their own peril, as well as that of

the proscribed individuals. When the cart, borrowed from a kind

neighbour, set out with the aged, the blind, and the sick, there

was one universal wailing heard from the surrounding parishioners;

nor did the procession separate, till they had reached the _then_

very small village of Thornhill, where the poor, expatriated family

had agreed to spend the first night in a small public-house, till

some ulterior measure could be resolved upon. Poor William was

immediately put to bed, for he was sadly exhausted by the previous

preaching and travel, as well as by that mental anxiety which cuts

through the body, as the sword does the scabbard. To remove him

in this state seemed impossible; and yet, to remain with him was

dangerous in the extreme; for Dalziell, accustomed to the massacre

of Turks and Russians, cared no more for life, or for sickness,

than for matters of the most ordinary interest! Accordingly, on

the second day, a detachment of soldiers was sent from Drumlanrig,

with orders to convey Samuel Austin, dead or alive, to his destined

place of banishment, beyond the Tay, to which place many of the

non-conforming ministers of the south of Scotland had already

been removed. It was a sad, sad parting for a father, who thought

that he would never more see his son alive, and for a son, who

loved and valued his father’s benediction over his last moments

so highly; but there was no remedy; and Mr Austin was marched off

for Leadhills about ten o’clock in the morning, accompanied by

three rank and file well armed men. To paint the separation is

impossible; even the hard-hearted soldiers, inured as they were to

all Dalziell’s cruelties, were moved; but it was but an involuntary

and momentary feeling, which soon gave way to the recollection of

their strict and military order. Away they marched onwards, slowly

and with difficulty, by Carron Bridge and Durrisdeer. At Durrisdeer

they halted for refreshment; and under some faint hope of some

means or other occurring to favour his escape, Austin supplied

the soldiers with a handsome sum to drink his health with, and he

even affected to become jovial on the occasion, and ultimately

won that most dangerous of all designations—“a good fellow.”

One of the soldiers became ultimately obstinate and quarrelsome,

and swore that he would march no farther that night. In vain did

his companions remonstrate with him—he swore he would shoot the

first man that laid hold of him, and fell suddenly fast asleep in

his chair. The other two, though considerably touched, were still

determined to march up the Well Path, and to reach Elwand foot that

night. The Well Path is a narrow ravine, which runs through the

range of mountains which separate Nithsdale from Clydesdale. The

hills on either hand are high, and almost perpendicular, and the

pass beneath is rough and winding; in snow, in particular, very

difficult to keep, and very dangerous to miss. Away, however, they

marched; and, with great difficulty, contrived to get to about

the middle of the pass. By this time the day, or rather evening,

had darkened down, and the yird drift had become choaking and

perplexing. The path was covered over, and smoothed in with snow,

and beneath was a precipice of some hundreds of feet, a tumble over

which would probably be fatal. Austin was well acquainted with the

pass, but so were _not_ the soldiers; and, having now reached the

famous well from which the path derives its name, they halted,

and Austin drew out from his pocket a bottle pretty well filled

with brandy, which he had secretly provided against accident at

the inn. The men, in succession, drew pretty copiously from this

source of refreshment, till, at last, fearing that they might fall

fast asleep in the snow, and thus perish, Mr Austin urged them

to proceed. To this they still had reason and prudence left to

assent, and immediately pushed, recklessly and speedily, through

the snow; but, having pushed in a wrong direction, they instantly

disappeared, the one catching hold of the other, and both tumbling

down the abyss.

It was about four o’clock in the morning, when the mother and

blind aunt were standing at the bedside of the dying lad. He had

become very rapidly worse since his father’s departure, and had

occasionally been delirious; calling aloud for his father—his

dear father, without whom he was unable to live. There was a

small lamp or cruise burning on a chest-lid by his bedside, and

his mother sat at his head with a cup of cold water, whilst the

blind woman was rubbing his legs, which now, alas! had begun to

swell. The tempest howled without, and an unfeeling landlord snored

loudly and fitfully from a bed in the adjoining chamber. All at

once, William Austin became more composed, and began to repeat

various texts and psalms—discoursing from them—as his mother

said, _most beautifully_, and, ever and anon, declaring that this

was the last night he would ever see. All at once he paused—and,

looking fearfully wild, and forcing himself up from his pillow, he

exclaimed—

“My father—my father—my dear, persecuted father!”

His mother and aunt, whose faces were turned to his, imagined that

he had begun suddenly to rave, and tried to press him down on his

pillow, when the well-known voice of Samuel Austin was _indeed_

heard declaring—

“It is I—it is I, indeed!—your earthly, and real father, whom the

Lord has delivered, for this special purpose, from his enemies,

that he might see and bless his beloved boy, once more, ere he

depart;” but, alas—alas! laying hold of his son’s hand, and

finding it cold, and, at the same time, marking the fatal signal in

the throat, “My boy—my boy is gone—he is gone to his God! Let us

pray.”

And, hereupon, he uttered the most composed and comforting prayer,

thanking his Maker for the loan—the pleasing loan; and expressing

his gratitude for the removal from the evil to come, which had

just taken place. Meanwhile, the mother and aunt had ascertained

the truth of the father’s averment, and were bathing the cold brow

of the lovely boy with their tears.

An explanation then took place; from which it appeared that,

after the soldiers had tumbled over the precipice, Mr Austin had

made his way backwards, with the view of seeing his beloved son

once more before he died, and of giving him a father’s blessing.

The precipice, he said, besides, over which the soldiers had

tumbled, was so covered in with snow, and so formed by nature,

that he had little doubt but that they would escape, with some

bruises, perhaps, but with life. In these circumstances, his

adjourn at Thornhill would probably be short; as the men would

naturally infer that he would return, rather than advance, in

their absence. In the meantime, a coffin was prepared, and the

body was removed to Mortontown (a village now extinct), where a

relation of his, an uncle, tenanted a small farm from _the_ Douglas

of Drumlanrig. This being closely adjoining to the kirkyard, the

body was quietly and secretly, during the second night after the

decease, deposited in the grave; and, much to the astonishment

of his friends at the time, another coffin was kept empty in

the room beside him. His wife and uncle having expressed their

surprise at this, he disclosed to them his plan, which was, to

take possession of the box, with the suitable cover over it, and

other necessary precautions with regard to air, should a search

for him be made within a few days; and that, if necessary, they

should carry him out on spokes to the churchyard, through the file

of soldiers, as if it were his son’s body. As he had anticipated,

so it happened—the same three men who had accompanied him before,

assisted by a fourth, a sergeant, surrounded the dwelling, and

passed their swords, as usual, through everything piercable in

the house; swearing and roaring, and eating and drinking, all

the while. The coffin, however, even _they_ respected; and,

having seen it conveyed out of doors, and in the act of being

carried towards the grave, they uttered a horrible quartette of

oaths and departed, determined to find out the old fox in the old

den—namely, at Penpont. Thus, by his own forethought and sagacity,

were these wicked men put upon a wrong scent; and ultimately,

broken and cashiered by their commanding officer, for a criminal,

and seemingly irremediable, neglect of duty.

Brownrig is now united with the adjoining farm of Mitchelslacks;

but it was, at this time, tenanted by a Mr Hunter, a predecessor of

the late distinguished Professor of Humanity, at St Andrew’s. This

honest man, Halbert Hunter, was a decided Covenanter; and had often

walked from ten to fifteen miles, of a Sabbath morning, to hear Mr

Austin preach. His residence was in the wildest division of the

parish of Closeburn, and very far removed from neighbours. Having

heard of Mr Austin’s misfortunes, Honest Hab—for by that name this

worthy man was familiarly known—set out westward, with the view

of tracing out Mr Austin’s retreat, and, at all risks, offering

him a refuge in his remote and obscure dwelling. But nobody could

give him information; and he was upon the point of returning home

to Brownrig again, without attaining the purpose, when, in passing

Morton Manse, his horse, scared at some clothes which were hanging,

hard-frozen, and rattling in the twilight wind, suddenly reared,

and, throwing him off, he was severely bruised, and carried into

the farm of Mortontown, where Mr Austin was actually lodged. Great

care was at first taken to keep Mr Austin and his family out of the

way; but, as soon as old Halbert was recognized, and his errand

accertained, the Lord’s doing was instantly perceptible, and the

evening was spent in pious conversation and devotional exercise.

Next evening saw the whole party—minister, wife, and sister—conveyed,

not without some difficulty, to Brownrig. This movement, however,

secret and guarded as it was, had not been unobserved by some of

those detestable informers, who, for hire, would have betrayed

their own fathers into the hands of a murderer; and, whilst Mr

Austin was, next day, addressing a number of young men and women,

inhabitants of this pastoral land, he was suddenly surrounded by

a band of dragoons, and captured without resistance. When his

poor blind sister heard that her brother was in the hands of his

enemies, whose voices she heard, though she could not see their

persons, she rushed out in the direction of the sound, in a frantic

manner—calling aloud on the men to spare her brother—her only

stay in this world, when, ere any one could prevent the accident,

she tumbled over a steep precipice, upon the brink of which, or

nearly so, Brownrig farm-steading was, and is still, placed, and,

lighting upon her head, she was killed on the spot. Mr Austin,

seeing the danger in which his blind sister, unacquainted with the

locality, was placed, strove hard to disengage himself from the

grasp of the soldiers, who held him fast, but in vain; and, when

he saw the poor helpless being putting her last step upon air, he

uttered a scream, and bursting a bloodvessel, was with difficulty

conveyed into the house alive.

“Keep down your sticks, lads—keep down your sticks. That’s no the

game we are accustomed to play at; when we begin, cheeks and chaft

blades are apt to dance a Highland fling. Keep off your hands,

or, by the mettle of this old Ferrara, which never yet failed me

against Turk or Tartar, ye shall have fewer hands to keep off.”

Thus saying, Dalziell pushed up his horse, cutting right and left,

in such a manner, however, as to terrify rather than seriously to

injure; for he struck with the side and not with the edge of his

weapon. In the meantime, Mr Austin was put to bed; his wife had

recovered to a perception of her misery; and the cavalcade rode

off, Dalziell having first appointed a guard of two men, to abide

by the apparently dying man, till (as he expressed it) the “deil

had his soul fairly in tow.”

The day of the funeral of the poor maiden sister arrived, and

with it came, through snow and storm, a considerable band of

mountaineers, secretly armed with various weapons, but avowedly and

openly prepared to convey the coffin to a considerable distance—to

Dulgarno churchyard. The soldiers did everything in their power

to annoy and obstruct, offering to assist in carrying, and then

suddenly withdrawing their hands, and causing the coffin to fall

to the ground—placing their muskets betwixt the feet of some of

the company, and thus tripping up their heels, &c., &c. This was

more than could be endured; so, after the funeral, a consultation

was held, and it was agreed that, as Mr Austin was now considerably

recovered, he and his wife should be conveyed from beneath

surveillance of these horrid men. But how was this to be done?

Many advices were tendered and discussed. At last, it was resolved

upon that, about twelve o’clock at night, information having

been previously given to the parties more immediately concerned,

a company of twelve stout shepherd lads, armed with pistols and

staves, should suddenly enter the door of Brownrig house, the bolt

being previously drawn from within, and immediately seize upon and

bind the twin demons, who had wrought, and were still working such

dreadful mischief and cruelty. The minister and his lady were to

be conveyed, through the snow, to the town of Moffat, about four

miles distant, there to be concealed in a friend’s house, to whom

a messenger was immediately despatched, advertising him of their

purpose.

Accordingly, at the hour appointed, and in the manner already

mentioned, the men were secured whilst asleep, and bound and

guarded; whilst Mr Austin, still incapable of walking, was conveyed

on horseback—with his wife behind him, and two men holding

him up on each side—over the long moor towards Moffat. It was

about five o’clock in the morning when the party arrived at its

destination, and the flying couple were placed for the time in a

place of safety. Upon the return of the young men to Brownrig,

they found nothing but a heap of smoking ruins. Dalziell, who had

received information of the meditated flight, but who had not

learned in what direction it was to be conducted, came about half

an hour after their departure, upon the farm-steading of Brownrig;

and, not being able, on account of the yird-drift, to trace the

fugitives, he returned in wrath upon the inhabitants of the place,

whom, after exchanging a few shots, and wounding one man severely

in the leg, he ultimately captured; liberated the soldiers, and

then, in the presence of the whole party, coolly set fire to the

thatched dwellings, and kept close guard till the fire had done its

commission.

Owing to the extreme cold and constant state of excitement, Mrs

Austin fevered soon after her arrival at Moffat, and died in her

husband’s arms, exhorting him, with her last breath, to persevere

in the good cause which he had undertaken; so much had “trial and

trouble” altered the views and sanctified the heart of this weak

but upright and pious woman.

Mr Austin continued to recover from his severe indisposition, and

spent some months at Moffat in comparative peace and safety. It was

here that he met with his brother-in-law, the worthy and beloved Mr

Shiels, minister of Kilbride. Indeed, all the ten ministers of the

Presbytery of Penpont, with the exception of Black of Closeburn,

and Wishart of Keir, had refused to conform, and, along with

nearly four hundred ministers in the south and west of Scotland in

particular, had been compelled to fly from their homes and their

flocks, and were, in many cases, conveyed in droves beyond the Tay;

compelled to emigrate to foreign lands, or to take up their abode

with the curlews and gleds of the lake and the mountain. It was

indeed a sad day for Scotland the 23rd of December, 16—, when,

by Middleton’s drunken act of Privy Council, so many conscientious

and pious men were laid aside for so long a time (many of them for

ever), from their sphere of useful and acceptable ministration in

the Presbyterian church. As the faithful historian of these dismal

times very expressively observes—“When those I am now speaking of

took leave of their dear flocks, it was a day not only of weeping

but howling, like the weeping of Jazer, as when a besieged city is

sacked.” Mothers were seen carrying their infants through snow and

storm, and large families of children accompanying their helpless

parents with tears and lamentations to the cold and often houseless

desert. Whoever gave them food or shelter was liable to be fined;

to have soldiers billeted upon them; or even to suffer imprisonment.

The leading persecutors being about this time principally engaged

about Wigton, Dalry, Dumfries (town), and other districts in

the south and west, the upper wards of Dumfriesshire were less

annoyed, and had more freedom of conventicle exercise. It was

therefore deemed a favourable opportunity—now that the month of

July had arrived—to hold a very general meeting, as privately

as possible, on the confines of Altrieve Lake—a locality which

has since acquired considerable notoriety from its having been

the residence of one of the most distinguished characters of more

modern times. The reader knows that I refer to James Hogg, the

Ettrick Shepherd, a more wonderful (perhaps) instance of merit in

a completely untaught man than even the case of the comparatively

early and well-educated and civilized Bard of Coila. This

situation was accordingly centrical and retired; elevated, and yet

surrounded by still higher eminences, and commanding the higher

districts or _moors_ of the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Tweed, and

the Annan. Mr Thomas Shiels was well-known to be a fit coadjutor

to the worthy Mr Samuel Austin; and several people of what may

be termed the better class—the small lairds, and the moorland or

sheep farmers—had agreed to defray all expense of the communion

elements, and to come armed to the table, that their blood might

not be mingled with their sacrifice, without their making some

resistance.

In the midst of a terrible storm of thunder, and lightning, and

hail, Mr Austin preached the action sermon, and Mr Shiels fenced

the tables—both serving the succeeding tables alternately. After

the storm had passed, the day cleared out, the mist left Mount

Benger’s brow, and sweet Bowhill looked out in soft and sparkling

radiance. No signal of an approaching enemy was made till all

was over, and the two officiating clergymen had returned with

worthy Davie Dun—mentioned in one of Hogg’s poems—to enjoy

a night’s repose. He was then shepherd on Mount Benger, and

lived in a sheilin on the banks of Ettrick. About daylight next

morning the sheilin was surrounded by dragoons, and Austin and

his brother-in-law, Shiels, were dragged out of bed and mounted

together upon one horse, without a saddle, and their legs tied

together under its belly; and, in this painful and ignominious

state, driven across the mountains towards Peebles. When they

arrived there, poor Austin, who had not yet completely recovered

from his late indisposition, became so faint and weak that he

could not sit, even when supported by a dragoon at each side on

horseback, and they were compelled to lodge there for the night.

Next morning, they were marched off in the same manner, but with

legs untied, towards Edinburgh, where they were safely lodged

in the Tolbooth. They were ultimately brought before Lauderdale

and the council; and after severe questioning, dismissed into

banishment, as was originally intended, into the shire of Angus.

Next day, they were conveyed over to Burntisland, and left to make

the best of their way across to Angus—being at the same time

informed, that if found south of the Tay, they would be taken up

and executed as traitors.

In Mr Austin’s note-book, I find the following notice with which I

shall conclude:—

“August, 1689.—It hath pleased the Lord to restore poor old

useless Samuel Austin to his people; but where are they?—twenty

years have made a sad event and reckoning here. The child has

attained to manhood; the man has disappeared, or labours under the

infirmities of age; and many have been removed, not only by death

but by duty; they have removed, in the course of God’s providence,

to other parishes, and even to other lands; and my flock is

changed, and I feel no heart in preaching to these new faces, who

know not Joseph. O Lord, let me arise and go hence; I am alone, in

an altered world, of which I am weary. My house is desolate; my

child—my wife—my sister—all—all gone on before; and fain, O,

guid Lord, wad I follow—now let thy servant depart and sleep in

peace.”

In the kirkyard of Penpont, at the west end of the church, there is

a monument (at least there was, in my young days, some fifty years

ago) with the following inscription:—

Here lies the worthy and godly

SAMUEL AUSTIN;

Forty-five years Minister of this Parish,

Nineteen of which years he was banished by ungodly men

from his dear Flock, and sorely persecuted for the

Truth, and for

PRESBYTERY’S SAKE.

God was pleased to restore him again at the period

of the

GLORIOUS REVOLUTION,

and he continued to the day of his death,

25th April, 1694,

faithfully, though in much bodily weakness, to administer

to his loved and loving

Flock.

“_The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance._”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Of the times to which reference is here made, as well as of the

character here introduced to the reader’s notice, Blackwood, in

the “Sketches of Scottish Character,” thus expresses himself, vol.

viii., p. 12:—

“Sad time indeed, oh most detested time,

When vice was fealty, and religion crime;

When counsellors were traitors to the state;

A chancellor’s authority was fate

And Scotland felt the grasp, o’er muir and dale,

Of cruel, beastly, turncoat Lauderdale;

When Grierson stepped abroad in human gore,

The peaceful peasant butchered at his door;

And cruel Graham, and merciless Dalziell,

In nightly rendezvous enacted hell.”

A very striking engraving of this well-known person, is given by

Burns of Paisley, in his admirable edition of Woodrow.

[2] Dalziell never wore boots.

THE CURSE OF SCOTLAND.

A night or two previous to the battle of Culloden, three or four

gentlemen, retainers of Prince Charles, and who were residing in

the same house with him at Inverness, were amusing themselves

with a game at cards. During the evening, one of the latter

suddenly disappeared, and, though anxiously sought for, could

nowhere be found. “Curse the card!” exclaimed one of the gentlemen

impatiently, after looking for it for some time in vain—“I wish

it were in the Duke of Cumberland’s throat.” The missing card was

the nine of diamonds. The gentlemen, however, determined not to

be baulked of their sport, contrived a substitute for the lost

article, and played on till bed time.

Two days after this, the battle of Culloden was fought; and, as is

well known, the insurgent army was totally defeated, and the hopes

of the unfortunate Adventurer laid prostrate for ever.

One consequence of this event was, that Inverness was thrown open

to the Royalists, and thither, accordingly, the victorious general,

the Duke of Cumberland, directed his steps after the engagement.

It was a practice of the Duke’s, on arriving at any town or village

which had been previously visited by Charles, to inquire for the

house, nay, for the very apartment and bed he had occupied, and to

take possession of them for his own use, alleging, shrewdly enough,

as a reason for this conduct, that they were sure to be the best in

the place. In conformity with this practice, the Duke, on arriving

at Inverness, inquired for the house in which Charles had stopped;

and it being pointed out to him, he immediately took up his abode

in it.

On the day after the engagement, it was reported to the Duke, that

a great number of the wounded insurgents and others were still

wandering, or in concealment in the neighbourhood of the field of

battle. The ruthless general—whose naturally cruel disposition and

sullen temper seem to have been fearfully excited by the resistance

he had met with, and by the trouble it had cost him to subdue the

rebellion in Scotland—on being informed of this circumstance,

gave instant orders that a party of military should be sent out to

destroy the unfortunate men wherever they could be found.

A strong body of troops were accordingly immediately dispatched

on this sanguinary mission. But the officer in command of the

party, after proceeding some way on his dreadful errand, suddenly

recollected that he had no written authority for the horrible

atrocity he was ordered to see perpetrated, the commands of the

Duke having been merely verbal. Desirous of being better secured

against any consequences which might arise from the shocking

proceeding in which he was about to be engaged, he hastened back

to Inverness, sought an audience of the Duke, and respectfully

requested him to give him his orders in writing.

“No occasion whatever,” said the Duke sternly, and somewhat

irritated at the want of confidence which the demand implied. “Do

as you are desired, sir. I’ll answer for the consequences.”

The officer, however, continued to press his request, and

reiterated his desire to be put in possession of documentary

evidence that what he was about to do was done by authority.

Impatient at his importunity, and desirous of getting quit at once

of the subject and his pertinacious visiter, the Duke hurriedly

looked about the apartment for paper on which to write the desired

order; but he could see none. While looking for the paper,

however, he accidentally turned up a corner of the carpet with

his foot, and brought to view a card which had been lying beneath

it. The Duke observing it, hastily stooped down and picked it up,

exclaiming, as he did so—“Oh, here, this will do well enough

for the death-warrant of a parcel of rebel scoundrels!” And he

immediately wrote the fatal order with a pencil on the back of

the card. This card was the nine of diamonds, the same which had

been lost a few evenings before; and such is one version, at any

rate, of the tradition that has given to this particular card the

startling title of “The Curse of Scotland.”

LEAVES

FROM THE

LIFE OF ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

Every reader has heard of the infamous speculation which is still

known by the name of the South Sea Bubble. It produced a mania in

the mercantile world, and brought ruin and misery to the hearths

of thousands. Many who laid their head upon their pillow at night

believing themselves to be rich, awoke beggars in the morning.

Now, at the time when the South Sea scheme was at its height,

there resided in Newcastle a Mr Hamilton, who had come from the

neighbourhood of Peebles, when but a mere boy, as a clerk to a

merchant; but he possessed much of the caution, the sobriety, and

the prudence for which many of his countrymen are noted; and he not

only obtained the confidence of his employers, but rose to be an

eminent merchant himself. For more than thirty years he carried on

business prosperously; he was believed to be wealthy, and he was

so. But he had always been a speculative man, one whose temperament

was too ardent, and he entered into the South Sea project with

his whole heart, embarking in it his entire capital. He was a

widower, and had an only son, named Alexander, who, at the age

of twenty-one, he took into partnership with himself. The senior

Mr Hamilton was a man who well knew the painful labour attending

self-teaching, for he had himself experienced it; and, though he

had always intended his son to be a merchant, he had sent him to

Cambridge for his education, saying, “A British merchant is a

citizen of the world, and stands in greater need of more languages

than one, than a divine does. Therefore, my son shall be a scholar.”

Alexander accordingly passed through his academical studies with

credit to himself; and, as has been said, when he had attained the

age of twenty-one, his father took him into partnership. But before

he was twenty-three he married Isabella Anderson, the daughter of

a gentleman who was then his father’s principal clerk, but who had

himself been an extensive merchant, until misfortune reduced him

to the situation which he then occupied. She was somewhat younger

than Alexander; and although a lovely girl, yet her virtues and the

sweetness of her temper far exceeded her personal attractions. The

elder Mr Hamilton, being aware of her many excellent qualities,

though he knew her to be portionless, was not averse to her

marriage with his son. But they had not been married twelve months,

when the high-blown bubble burst, and the old merchant found

himself a beggar. He took it deeply to heart, and, in the language

of the mercantile world, he never raised his head again; but he sat

sighing and pining away, like a broken-hearted child, and within

six weeks he sank into the grave a ruined man.

Alexander, finding that the firm was indeed bankrupt, and that

there was but little prospect of his again succeeding in Newcastle,

where his pride revolted from becoming the servant of others, left

his young wife with her father, and proceeded to London, where he

doubted not but that amongst those who had received from his parent

many thousands of pounds, he should soon be enabled to obtain

a situation which would enable him to support himself and his

Isabella in comfort.

His purse was, in truth, light when he arrived in the metropolis;

and having taken lodgings in a mean coffee-house in Ratcliffe

Highway, he despatched a note to a gentleman with whom they had

dealt extensively, and, without entering into particulars,

requested the loan of twenty pounds. He wrote, because he was

conscious that he had not the assurance to solicit the favour

personally; and he did solicit it, knowing that, before he could

obtain a situation in London, money to support him in the interim

was necessary. From that gentleman he received an answer by the

bearer of his own note, in which no notice was taken of his

father’s misfortunes or death; but the writer penned his reply as

though he were aware of neither, and expressed his regret that,

during the day, a circumstance occurred which deprived him of the

pleasure he should have felt in serving Mr Hamilton; and that he

was extremely sorry he could not then accommodate him with the

trifle he requested. He added, in continuance, that he supposed,

from the place from whence Mr Hamilton’s letter was dated, that

his embarrassment proceeded from some youthful frolic, and he

considered that the best method of discharging the debts of such

creditors, was to give their persons over to the power of the

magistrates.

“Such, then,” exclaimed Alexander, tearing the letter in pieces,

“such is the friendship of this world!”

He was aware that the person to whom he had written was acquainted

with the ruined fortunes of his house; and it was gall to his

spirit to find that he not only wrote as if ignorant of them, but

addressed him with the unfeeling familiarity of cold politeness,

attributing to the folly of youth what he well knew to be the

effect of misery and ruin.

He applied to another without obtaining any answer whatever; and

the third to whom he applied, having read his note, sent a verbal

message by the bearer, saying, “Tell Mr Hamilton that Mr —— is not

at home.”

Indignant at the treatment of supposed friends, on the evening of

the second day he discharged his bill at the coffee-house (on

doing which he had but a few shillings left), and resolved to call

personally upon an old college associate who had been often obliged

to him, and who then was indebted to him more than a hundred

pounds. This university companion, after coming of age, had fitted

up a house in a style of absurd extravagance in Leicester Square.

I should have told you that, previous to Alexander’s proceeding to

London, he had been compelled to dispose of the best part of his

apparel to support his wife and himself, and, at the time we speak

of, his appearance was what ought to be termed _shabby genteel_. He

proceeded to the house of his friend, and striking upon the huge

brass knocker, in the absence of the porter, a pert little French

valet, with powdered hair, peeped cautiously from behind the door,

and surveying him with a glance of aversion and contempt, in which

he no doubt set him down to be a dun, he inquired—“Vat you vant,

fellow?”

“The Honourable Edward Stafford, your master,” said Alexander,

firmly.

“Mon Dieu! ha! ha! ha!” said the little Gaul, and attempted

to thrust the door in his face; but Alexander, perceiving his

intention, thrust forth his hand with a force that made the door

fly back upon its hinges, and caused the huge brass knocker to

sound an unusual and unceremonious alarm through the house, and

at the same time drove the little powdered piece of foreign

impertinence upon his back at the further end of the lobby.

“Moorder! moorder!” shouted the little valet, sprawling upon his

back, and kicking with his feet upon the floor, till kitchen-maids,

housekeeper, cook, butler, and all the personages in the Honourable

Edward Stafford’s establishment, came rushing around him, holding

up their hands.

“_O sacra Marie!_” cried the little valet, as they raised him to

his feet; “de tief! de savage! vould commit von moorder!—_Ma foi!_

it be de miracle I be alive!” and, gathering himself upon his

hands and knees, he muttered, eyeing him askance—“_Je voudrais

qu’il s’en allat!_”

The Honourable Edward Stafford rushed also to the lobby, arrayed in

a dressing-gown, having sprung from the hands of a hair-dresser,

who was performing a piece of work upon his ringlets for which

he did not consider the valet qualified; and, to give additional

effect to the figure which he now made in the midst of his

servants, he appeared with the one side of his head in curls, while

a comb was left sticking in the other.

“What! in the name of the Tower of Babel!” cried, or rather

squeaked, Mr Stafford—“what is the meaning of this?”

Alexander, whose natural humour returned at the risible scene

before him, approached smiling; and, extending his hand,

said—“What! don’t you know me, Ned?”

“Back! back!” exclaimed the honourable and gentle Edward

Stafford; “the effluvia of thy garments is poison to my nostrils!

Faugh!—know thee—why thou art a moving tar barrel!” There was

some cause for this last remark; for Alexander had slept with the

common seamen during his passage to London, and his clothes yet

bore witness to the pitchy fragrance of his bed-chamber. But Mr

Stafford calling for an opera-glass, raised it to his eye, and,

surveying him for a few moments, inquired—“Why, who are you? Your

face—I have seen it somewhere! Who are you?”

“Have you forgot Cambridge and Alexander Hamilton?” said the other.

“Sandy Hamilton!” exclaimed Stafford, rising an inch, as if in

surprise—“we always called you Sandy. But, come, let me hear this

lark—’tis a prime one, I will vow, from your appearance; and yet

you were no lad for life either,” he added, as he coldly held out

his forefinger, and turned to conduct him into an apartment.

Alexander, having related to him his present situation requested

from him payment of such a portion of his college debt as he might

find convenient.

“A plaguy odd affair, ’pon my honour!” drawled out Stafford; “but

I’m sorry I can’t oblige you just at this moment. Never was a poor

dog so confoundedly dunned! I am obliged to bilk the bailiffs at

every corner. ’Pon my word, Sandy, I have had as many _Bills of

Middlesex_ served upon me, within these six months, as would fill

a stage coach! Nothing could be so provoking!—My rascal of a

tailor, too, got a _Quare claussum_ popped into my hands only this

morning! Lost a cool five hundred last night, also. So, you see I

am involved on all sides. There is no way of redemption for me,

that I can see, but taking a walk across Blackfriars. I do say that

it is confoundedly hard that one can’t oblige one’s friends—but

I hope you see, my dear fellow, that it is impossible. I am sorry

for you, but I can’t help it at present—you must see that plain

enough. Only, at the same time, your outward man seems approaching

to the third and fourth letters of the alphabet—and, if there be

anything in my wardrobe that would be of service——”

Here he paused—and be it known, gentle reader, that the Honourable

Edward Stafford was one of the most diminutive of men; and as he

stood by the side of Alexander, the crown of his head did not reach

his shoulder. He again proceeded—“But why, Sandy, you know, when

you were at Cambridge you were the Apollo, nay, the Adonis, of all

the heiresses and rich dowagers within seven leagues. Many of them

are in town now, and would be glad of an opportunity——”

“Sir,” said Alexander, reprovingly, “you forget that I am a

husband.”

“Yes, yes, so you are,” drawled out Mr Stafford; “but that need

not cause you to make sermons against your own preferment. I

remember now, it was a low match—the daughter of one of your

father’s clerks! O Sandy! Sandy!—I thought you had more spirit.”

“Sir,” replied Alexander, “my wife is the daughter of an honest

man, whom you contributed to bring low and to ruin;” and, casting

upon him a look of scorn, which caused the small gentleman to

make precipitate retreat behind his chair, he added, with a

sneer—“Farewell, Mr Stafford, and I wish you joy of your hopeful

prospects.” Thus saying, and without waiting a reply, he left the

house.

It was now July, and one hope remained. A gentleman who held a

seat in the House of Commons, and who owed his return to the money

advanced by the late Mr Hamilton, and the activity and zeal of

Alexander, professed to be touched by his misfortunes, and promised

to obtain for him a situation under government, which was then

vacant. The day on which he was to be installed into the office was

named; and Alexander, in the fulness and gladness of his heart,

wrote for Isabella to come to London.

It may here be as well to inform the reader that the Honourable

Edward Stafford, of whom we have spoken, was connected with the

Borders. As hinted by Alexander, he had been one of those who had

contributed to the ruin of Isabella’s father. But there was one

circumstance which Alexander knew not, and which was, that, for

some years prior to her marriage, the Honourable Edward Stafford

had been her heartless persecutor, and as a villain had beset

her path. The tale of her husband’s misfortunes having rekindled

his hopes, he proceeded to the north to renew his plots and

persecutions.

It was early in August, when a vessel, on board of which there were

many passengers, sailed from the quayside of Newcastle. The morning

was clear, the sky cloudless, and the villages, on either side

of the Tyne, appeared in summer beauty. They had passed Shields,

the pilot departed, and wished them a pleasant passage; several

ladies and gentlemen promenaded the deck, contemplating the scene.

Isabella, unconscious of being observed by all, sat alone on the

starboard side of the companion, her elbow resting by the top of

the binnacle lamp, and her eyes fixed upon the shore.

While she thus sat, an imposing little personage, wearing a superb

Spanish cloak, flung with what may be termed graceful negligence

across his shoulders, and having a highly-flavoured cigar in

his teeth, consequentially ascended the cabin stairs—looked

knowingly towards the mast-head—gave two or three springy struts

across the after-deck—cast an aristocratical glance around

the passengers—stood suddenly still—bent pryingly over the

companion—stole round on tiptoe, tapped Isabella familiarly on

the shoulder, and, throwing back his little body to its extreme

altitude, he stretched out his parcel of white fingers, saying—“A

study for a Rembrandt, by the Graces! I am a fortunate fellow

in meeting you again; but didn’t know, ’pon my honour, until

lately, that my friend, Sandy Hamilton, had the happiness of being

acquainted with you.”

“Mr Stafford,” said Isabella, “the wife of him whom you call your

friend has hitherto been accustomed to plainer language.”

“You are severe, my pretty paragon,” whispered the little man;

“but, now that you are leaving the north country in quest of a

husband, do not disfigure that lovely face with north country

formality.”

And, casting aside both formality and delicacy himself, with the

air of a wooer who presumes more upon his own importance than the

feelings of her professed to be beloved, he seated himself by her

side, and, with an affected and seemingly careless playfulness,

threw his arm across her shoulder.

“Sir,” said Isabella, rising indignantly, “you have this moment

called my husband your friend—if you are ignorant of the sacred

duties of a friend, or of the respect due to my sex, and the

conduct becoming a gentleman, let the misfortunes of our house be

my protection.”

“Protection!—creature of beauty!” said he, “I will protect you

with my life! Nay, do not frown; for your anger only makes your

loveliness the more provoking, and calls back the colour which your

misfortunes, as you term them, are trying to banish.”

“Begone, sir,” said Isabella, “practise your fooleries on those

who will listen to them;” and she walked to the opposite side of

the vessel, whither she was immediately followed by her unabashed

tormentor.

“Come, sweet one,” resumed he, “do not delight in throwing

lightnings from eyes where moonbeams would blush at the presence of

rivals.”

“Your behaviour, sir,” said Isabella, “in any man, but especially

in one bearing the rank of a gentleman, is contemptible, cowardly,

and unmanly. On former occasions I have borne your insults without

drawing upon you the chastisements which you merited; but you now

profess to know me as the wife of your friend, and as such I claim

your respect—or I shall know how to resent your conduct.”

“An angel in a fury!” exclaimed the Hon. Edward Stafford, with

a theatrical start. “Respect you!—why, I adore you!—worship

you!—will die for you!”

“Pitiable fool!” replied she, turning from him with disdain.

“Only the fool your eyes have made him, lovely cruelty!” rejoined

he, following her, and extending his hand to lay hold of her arm.

“’Vast there, you chap!” cried the skipper—a round, red-faced,

jolly-looking seaman, who had observed from the helm the conduct

of Mr Stafford; “’vast there, I say—I’ll have no monkey tricks

on board o’ my ship. That young lady is under my especial care;

for, d’ye see, her father was once one o’ my owners, and so was her

husband and his father before him—and I just tell ye, ceevilly, my

canny lad, ye had better shove your boat off!”

“Fellow!” sneered Mr Stafford, surveying him with a look of

contempt, “do you know to whom you speak?”

“I neither know nor care, young gentleman,” replied the skipper;

“but I’ll let you know that neither you nor any man shall ca’ me

fellow, or use any indecent liberties on board my ship, so ye had

better take in a reef, or keep a look-out for squalls.”

“Heathen—uncivilized Laplander!” fumed Mr Stafford, stamping his

little foot upon the deck; “do you know, sir, to whom you are

opening your barbarian lips?”

“My wig! I’ll tell ye what it is, young chap,” vociferated the

skipper, “I dinna care though ye were first cousin to the flying

Dutchman; ye shall know I’m maister o’ this vessel.”

“Confound you and your vessel!” retorted the little man, stamping

more passionately than before; “dare you open your frog’s mouth to

a gentleman?”

“Ye poor singet creature!—ye miserable button top!” rejoined the

skipper, “has an insignificant object like you the assurance to

confound anybody? Are you no feared that I wry your neck about like

a cock-sparrow’s? As sure as death, sir, if ye drop another word o’

your insolence to me I’ll capsize ye under a bucket.”

“You savage!—you Greenland bear!” reiterated Mr Stafford,

brandishing his clenched fist in the face of the other; “are

gentlemen to endure the boorish insolence of a Hottentot like you?

You’ll capsize me under a bucket, will you? Look you, sir, if you

don’t ask my pardon instantly, before the whole ship’s company,

sir, I’ll put a brace of bullets through your ass’s head! I will,

sir! Do you think with your cowardly carcass to intimidate me? Were

you as big as Goliath, I’ll let you know I’m a gentleman, sir!”

“Here Jack, take the helm,” roared the skipper to one of his crew;

“and now, ye chattering morsel o’ humanity, I’ll let ye see whether

you or I be the best gentleman in this ship, at any bat!”

He sprang forward, Edward Stafford sprang back, and the passengers

sprang between them.

“Hands off, gentlemen, if you please!” said the skipper; “remember

I am master o’ this vessel. I wud wish to be civil to everybody,

but it is not in the power o’ nature to put up wi’ the impudence

o’ a creature like that; and though I’ll no hurt him—smash me! he

shall either haud his tongue, or he shall never speak more. Did ye

hear such names as I put up wi’?”

“Unhand the ruffian, gentlemen!” cried Mr Stafford, who had

retreated amid-ships, and felt his courage revive under the

protection of half-a-dozen ladies. “Unhand the mountain of moving

mud! I’ll teach such fellows how to interfere with a gentleman!

Unhand him, and I’ll send him below with a piece of cold lead

through his fin!” And heroically taking from his pocket a handsome

silver-mounted ivory case, he placed it with a determined air

upon the top of a beef cask, again exclaiming—“Don’t hold him,

gentlemen—these will do for him!”

“I tell ye again, sirs,” shouted the skipper, “don’t hold me! Do

you think a thing like that shall threaten to shoot me on board o’

my own ship?” And he struggled to approach him.

“See to yourselves, gentlemen!” cried Mr Stafford, laying his hand

fiercely upon the pistol-case.

“O sir!—pray sir!—dear sir!—” screamed the ladies, grasping him

in their arms.

“Oh, don’t be alarmed,” said the little Honourable; “’pon honour, I

shall only wing him—I have had some experience in these matters.”

The skipper made a desperate rush forward—the ladies screamed

louder—Mr Stafford seized the pistol-case furiously, crying—“Then

die, fellow!——”

His exclamation was cut short—a lady grasped the terrible

pistol-case; it opened in the struggle, and the hateful weapons

fell upon the deck, though not in the shape of pistols, but

the honourable gentleman’s sea-stock of cigars! The gentlemen

laughed—the ladies tittered.

“It has ended in _smoke_, sir,” said a fair punster.

“You can still _fire_ them!” added another.

And the skipper, laughing like the mirth of a hoarse wave, taking

him firmly by the ear with his finger and thumb, said—“Gather them

up, sir—gather up your _firearms_!” And, as Mr Stafford persisted

in disobeying, another twitch was given to his ear, and another

and another, while he screamed and wept through passion and pain,

danced and twisted to be free, to the amusement of the spectators,

who enjoyed his punishment and humiliation.

“Sir,” said Isabella, addressing his tormentor, the frantic cries

of Mr Stafford having brought her from the cabin, where she retired

at the beginning of their altercation; “if a fly sting us, we may

drive it away, without taking pleasure in its tortures; and it is

but a cowardly revenge to torment an insect.”

“Well, ma’am,” said the skipper, withdrawing his hand from the ear

of the other; “I have no wish to hurt the thing; only, after his

impudence to you, as well as to mysel’, he had better have a care

what sort o’ colours he hoists for the rest o’ the passage—that’s

all.” The agony and confusion of Mr Stafford cannot be described.

He blushed, swore, threatened, and wept by turns—rushed to

the cabin, hurried back, threw his card in the captain’s

face—stamped, stormed, and vowed vengeance, till he became silent

from exhaustion. A few weeks before, he had left London for the

north, partly to avoid the importunities of his creditors, whose

claims had been discharged after his departure by the too fond

indulgence of a foolish mother, but chiefly to carry into effect

his long-cherished designs against the beautiful wife of his

college companion, whose misfortunes caused him now to look upon

her as an easy and lawful prize; and it was under this conviction

that he watched her departure for London, and took his passage in

the same vessel. Mortified at the ridiculous figure he exhibited,

he resolved to suspend all further attempts until they arrived at

London.

But three days were not past, notwithstanding the misfortune of

the pistol-case, until the Honourable Edward Stafford, through

the assistance of self-confidence or impudence, with pretended

wit and foppish extravagance, was again the principal personage

in the vessel. His brandy, his claret, and his cigars, operated

marvellously in his favour with the gentlemen; every one sought his

society, and called him a good fellow. The weather had hitherto

been too fine for sea-sickness, and his agreeable attentions, his

vivacity and elegant compliments, rendered him not less a favourite

with the ladies. Isabella alone despised him; while he, affecting

to despise her in return, circulated foul whispers against her

character. Whatever doubts there might be in the minds of his

auditory respecting the veracity of his accusation, the breath of

slander is exhaled from a poison so black, that for a time its

passing shadow will veil the holiness of a saint, and bedim the

radiance of a seraph. Isabella, therefore, was shunned by her own

sex as contagious, and by the other treated with cold indifference.

Occasionally she observed their scrutinizing glances, or coloured

at their half audible whispers, but, in the purity of her own

heart, she suspected not the cause. In the master of the vessel

only she still found a friend, who, although rough as his own

element, evinced towards her the tenderness of a parent.

For some days the wind was adverse, and on the Sabbath morning,

being the fifth from their leaving Newcastle, it was a dead

calm. The skipper was walking backward and forward upon the

deck, now glancing at the clouds, and now at the shore, with the

countenance of a man who considers he has reason neither to be

satisfied with himself nor with others. In the cabin some appeared

to read, others yawned, while some went to the deck and instantly

returned. The ladies looked at each other, whispered, fretted, and

exclaimed—“How tedious!” Isabella sat silent amidst the unhappy

group, “among them, but not of them.”

Mr Stafford, who hitherto had been whistling at his toilette,

turned round and exclaimed—“Dumb as the foundations of a Quaker’s

chapel! Come,” continued he, placing a couple of bottles of claret

upon the table, “my pantomimic company of tragedians, allow me

to administer the comforts of a calm to the necessities of your

poor dumb mouths;” and, as he poured out the wine, he sang a few

lines of an idle song. The company looked upon each other with a

flitting expression of horror—none of them had been accustomed

to hear the Sabbath so desecrated, though, as he proceeded, a

few of them relaxed into a smile. But Isabella, rising, said

emphatically—“Sir, the FOOL hath said in his heart, There is no

God!” And she pronounced the word, _fool_, with a pointed sarcasm,

which, although it in some measure took from the spirit of the

original, rendered it more poignant in its present application.

“Your ladyship!” replied he, sneeringly, and, bowing to her with

an air of mock humility. “Lily of the saints!” he added, “preach

on, that the humblest of thy slaves may treasure up in his heart of

hearts the pious honey of thine own sweet lips!”

He paused, and continuing his attitude of mock humility, commenced

to hum the tune which he before had attempted to sing.

“Sir,” said Isabella, glancing upon him with scorn and compassion,

“I pity you.”

“Now for a sermon!” he added, but the words faltered on his tongue,

and he sat down in confusion.

“Sermon or no sermon,” said the skipper, entering from the foot

of the cabin stairs, where he had descended to stop the singing

himself, “I’ll neither allow Sabbath-breaking nor any wickedness

that I can prevent, on board a ship o mine.”

“Come, old prig,” returned Stafford, “I’ve paid for my passage,

I suppose, and I’ll have you to know that I’ll amuse myself as I

please. Don’t think, my good fellow, that because I have listened

to a little sermonizing from a pretty face, that I am to be bored

with your croaking.” And he began to whistle a waltz.

“Poor thing!” resumed the skipper, “ye are to be pitied, after a’.

I’ll declare, when I see bits o’ dandy creatures like you glorying

in your wickedness, and doubling your nieves in the face o’ Heaven,

it puts me in mind o’ a peacock spreading its tail to stop a

whirlwind, or a cockle opening its shell to swallow a water-spout!”

At this moment the breeze sprang up, and the mate summoning all

hands to deck, Mr Stafford was left unheeded to reflect on his

own folly. During the night the wind blew very fresh; and the

vessel having left the land and entered Boston Deeps, laboured

considerably. From the ladies’ cabin issued prayers, shrieks, and

groans of suffering, and every one devoutly wished to be once more

blest with the tediousness of a calm; and, as the vessel yawed,

rocked, and staggered with the heavy swell, and the ponderous

boom, with its mainsail flapping like thunder, grating, crashing,

clanking, and tearing with sudden jerk, or with fearful lunge

reversing the laws of gravity, and tearing both mast and vessel

into the sea, scream rose upon scream; sickness and terror met

in conflict. Babel seemed above them and thunder below. The wind

bellowed more madly. The plunging of the vessel became more

frequent and more alarming. There was a running to and fro upon

the deck—a bawling and a bustle. Darkness hung over them—thick,

substantial darkness, rendering the very surge invisible. The

heavy clouds seemed embracing the waters, and the crushed winds

roared between the pressure of their meeting. A storm, by almost

imperceptible degrees, had circled round them. Every sail of the

vessel was reefed, and both anchors dropped; but the chain cable

snapped like the web of a gossamer, and she lunged and tugged from

her remaining anchor, dragging it after her, like a fiery horse

tearing from the rein of a schoolboy. The mast bent as a proud

man bends in the day of adversity; the topmast went overboard,

striking heavily upon the deck as it fell. It struck immediately

over the bed of the Honourable Edward Stafford. A loud shriek

issued from the curtained railings; they were flung open, and out

sprang Mr Stafford, dragging after him the bed-clothes, wringing

his hands, and crying to Heaven for mercy. The dressed and the

half-dressed now stood around the floor, clinging to each other

and the furniture of the cabin for safety—each speaking and no

one hearing;—but a clamour, loud, confused, and fearful, mingled

with the noise of the winds and waves. Isabella alone remained

tranquil. The vessel had dragged her anchor for several miles;

they were in the midst of breakers, and the increased confusion

upon deck announced the horrors of a lee shore, when she suddenly

brought to, and half turning to the weather, a heavy sea broke over

her, sweeping from the deck the boat, casks, and spars, and gushing

down the cabin stairs, encompassed its terror-stricken inmates

to the knees. The heart of Mr Stafford sprang to his throat, and

his feet to the table, where he remained upon his knees, wringing

his hands by the side of a flickering lamp. While he was in this

position, the vessel was suddenly driven upon her side; for,

through the darkness of the night, another vessel had run against

her, and she being cracked with age, the bowsprit of the other

went through planks and timbers, and, before it gave way, projected

rudely several feet into the cabin, forming an unexpected and

unwelcome intruder upon the motley scene of sickness and despair.

Fear had already fastened the gurgling gasp in the throats of many

of the passengers, when a voice from the deck exclaimed—“Ladies

and gentlemen, look to yourselves!” It was the signal of death.

A general groan followed. There was a rush to the cabin stairs.

Calm as Isabella had hitherto been, she was now changed. It is

difficult to look the grim angel in the face with indifference;

but she rushed not to the stairs with the others. Mr Stafford was

driven from the table by the uncourteous visit of the bowsprit, and

now wallowed upon the floor, buffeting with the brine, imagining

himself at the bottom of the vasty deep. The concussion of the

vessels had brought his head in violent conjunction with the

cabin floor, which, with his excited fears, deprived him of the

consciousness of time and place; and being immersed in water, he

continued to gasp, groan, shriek, and flounder upon the floor,

seizing the heels of his fellow-passengers—who, in their eagerness

for escape, had wedged up the cabin door—doubting nothing, as

they trode upon his delicate fingers, that he had thrust them into

the mouth of a ravenous fish, which had come to feast upon his

unfortunate body.

“Save me!—save me!” he cried again and again, as he continued

tossing and rolling in the water.

The vessel again righted, and he was swept to the feet of Isabella,

who, aroused by his cries of terror, raised him to his feet. He

struggled, gasped, trembled. His eyes and mouth opened to their

utmost width—he appeared to draw the breath of an hour in a

moment; and, gazing round vacantly, he seemed to marvel whether he

was in the world of men, of fish, or of spirits.

“You are living, brave sir!” said Isabella, sarcastically, smiling

at his excess of terror; “but,” added she, leaving him, “the

Sabbath-breaker and the scoffer are not the most courageous in the

hour of danger.”

It is only necessary to add, that the vessels having got

disentangled, with daybreak the storm abated; and, on the ninth

day, after leaving Newcastle, the vessel drew up off the Hermitage

Stairs, Wapping, with the loss of topmast, anchor, and cables,

beef and water casks, spars, oars, and other minor _et ceteras_,

together with damaged bulwarks and hulk; but with the crew and

passengers safe.

Isabella had not had an opportunity of writing to her husband, to

acquaint him with the name of the vessel in which she would take

her passage, nor when she would leave Newcastle; and, as they drew

up in the pier, while the friends and relatives of other passengers

thronged around them, to her no hand was extended. She stood as

one deserted upon the threshold of the Nineveh of nations; and the

crowds that passed before her seemed as the ghosts of solitude,

giving tongues to bereavement, and forms to desolation. She felt

herself alone in the midst of millions, solitary as a wearied bird

whose wing has drooped in the wilderness.

She went on shore, where she was immediately accosted by a

hackney-coachman, whom she requested to convey her to a Mr Fulton’s

in Cornhill, to whose care her husband had requested her to forward

the letters she addressed to him. She was informed by the skipper

that Cornhill was not above a mile and a half from the wharf; and,

as the coach drove on, passing the bustling crowds who hurried

along the streets, she forgot for a moment her own feelings in

contemplation of the motley scene. The coach stopped facing the

Mint, and the driver, leaving his box, spoke a few words with

another coachman, who immediately drove rapidly in the direction

of Watling Street. After a few minutes’ delay the coachman again

mounted the box. She had never before looked upon a countenance

where a grovelling and villanous soul had written in such broad and

unblushing characters its own worthlessness. It was one of those

countenances which it is hardly possible to pass upon the street

without disliking. In it were pourtrayed meanness, servility,

depravity, and deceit—it was purple with dissipation, and blotched

with iniquity. She shuddered to find herself, though in the broad

day, and in the midst of the metropolis, under the care of such

a man. She began to feel conscious that they must have proceeded

much farther than the distance mentioned by the skipper, and,

with a degree of alarm, she inquired at the driver if he rightly

understood where she wished to be set down.

“Vy, yes,” replied he, “I knows the house well enough; it is Mr

Fulton’s of Cornhill, an’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered; and he added that they would be there within

five minutes, and drove on. Within the time he specified they

stopped before an elegant house in a square, the silence of which

was only broken by the rattling of a few fashionable carriages. The

coachman alighted, and a liveried servant stood ready to receive

her. She inquired if the house to which she had been conducted

was Mr Fulton’s of Cornhill, and the servant answered that it

was. She, however, had been within it but a few minutes, when she

became conscious that she was under the roof and in the power of

the Honourable Edward Stafford. Despair gave her strength; she

raised her eyes to Heaven, and in the emphatic words of Judith,

prayed—“Strengthen my hand!” Grasping a fruit-knife, which lay

near her, in her hand, she made a desperate effort to escape; and,

although the servants aided their master in opposing her, yet,

as my readers have already had a specimen of his courage, and as

the heroism of his domestics was not of that description, which

“smiles at the drawn dagger and defies its point,” they will not be

surprised to learn that through half-a-dozen such assailants one

weak woman, rendered desperate, forced her escape.

Having reached Cornhill, she was from thence conducted, by one of

Mr Fulton’s clerks, to Red Lion Square, where her husband then

lodged. Their meeting was one of sorrow and of joy; but I need

not describe it. Alexander perceived that she was agitated, and

he entreated to know the cause. She, fearful of the consequences

that might arise from divulging it, would have concealed it; but it

is difficult for an affectionate wife to conceal from her husband

aught that concerns him; and within half an hour he knew all that

had passed during her passage to London and since she arrived. He

would have rushed forth on the instant to seek revenge, but she

clung around his neck, she entreated him not to leave her, and he

consented to defer the punishment of Stafford to a more favourable

moment.

From week to week, Alexander’s expected appointment under

government was delayed; and, although they had parted with almost

every article of any value which they had brought with them, they

began to be in want. Yet Isabella murmured not, but sought to sooth

her husband and raise his drooping spirits. At length, the long

wished-for day on which he was to be installed into office arrived,

and ten o’clock was the hour fixed by his patron for meeting him.

Everything around him wore a face of joy. He now knew that wealth

was unnecessary to secure happiness with one who had taught him

that contentment is true riches. He longed for the appointed hour.

There was a tear in Isabella’s eye, but it was a tear of gratitude

and happiness. “Bless thee—my own!” she said, as he rose to

depart; and in silence he kissed her cheek.

Never until now had she felt the full measure of her anxiety for

the issue of an event to which her husband looked forward with

passionate eagerness. Slowly and tediously the morning passed away;

noon came, and the hours seemed lengthening; and evening drew on,

but it brought not Alexander. The long summer day died in midnight,

but no remembered footstep stopped at the threshold. The morning

dawn stole upon the voiceless streets, imperceptibly filling them

with the slow and silent light.

“It is another day!” she exclaimed, in agony; “and where is my

Alexander?”

Precisely at the appointed hour, Alexander had arrived at the house

of his patron. The servant who opened the door, muttered that it

was too early—that his master was not down—and requested him

to remain a few minutes in an apartment adjoining the lobby. The

few minutes became an hour. Alexander was mortified and in agony.

The clock, measuring out the moments, seemed to remind him of the

insults to which he was subjected. At length he heard the “great

man’s” foot upon the stair, and rose to meet him. But the patron

passed on, and his carriage drew up to the door. Alexander sprang

forward, and, in the excitement of his feelings, placed his hand

upon his shoulder. The bestower of patronage turned haughtily, and

demanded the cause of the interruption. Alexander returned his

glance with equal haughtiness, and demanded to know how he had

dared first to mock and now insult him.

“Begone, fellow!” exclaimed the senator, contemptuously.

“Never!” replied Alexander, “until you have apologized for that

word, and for having dared to mock me.”

The courage of the silent member was rather of an aspen character,

and he became pale and trembled. Struggling for dignity of manner,

shaking, and calling up an air of offended importance, he said he

should have felt pleasure to have served him, in consideration of

the kindness of his family; but added, after considerable faltering

and hesitation, that he was compelled to withdraw his countenance

and patronage, owing to the representations which he had heard of

his habits and character, and that, in consequence, the situation

he intended for him was already bestowed upon another.

“Representations regarding MY habits and character, sir?” exclaimed

Alexander; “tell me who has dared to revile me.”

“My informant is a gentleman of honour and of family, one who knows

you well—and beyond this I will not be braved to inform you.”

“You shall!” exclaimed Alexander.

“Never!” answered the other bitterly, and called to his servants

to obtain assistance and give him into custody; and as he spoke he

slid to the farther corner of the lobby. Alexander’s eyes glared

upon him as a wounded lion measures its victim. There was an

unearthly earnestness and determination in his manner that might

have appalled a stouter heart. He grasped the trembler firmly by

the arm, and in a tone more impressive than anger, slowly and

solemnly inquired—“What is the name of my defamer?”

“The Honourable Edward Stafford,” stammered out the other, awed by

the desperate resoluteness of his manner.

“Stafford!” exclaimed Alexander, starting back—“am I then a second

time stung by a worm?—poisoned by a reptile?—Stafford!” he

repeated, and hurried from the house.

He had turned aside into the Park, to conceal his agitation,

indulging in the secret determination to proceed to Leicester

Square and seek vengeance upon his enemy; but his gestures betrayed

the agitation of his spirit, and excited the loud laughter of

two horsemen who rode behind him. He turned fiercely round upon

the mockers of his misery—one of them was the Honourable Edward

Stafford. Alexander sprang upon him, and dragged him to the ground,

as a tiger springeth upon his prey. In his fury he trampled him

beneath his feet, and he lay bleeding and insensible upon the

ground, when his companion, having procured the assistance of the

police, Alexander was taken into custody, and, being brought before

the magistrates, was committed for trial.

Wretched and disconsolate, Isabella beheld the sun of another day

set, and yet she heard nothing of her husband. She had hurried

from street to street, wild and restless as a household bird,

which, escaped from its cage, breaks its wings and its heart, as

it flutters, without aim and without rest, through the strange

wilderness of liberty. Wearied with fatigue, and well nigh

delirious with wretchedness, she was ready to inquire of every

stranger that she met—“Have you seen my Alexander?” And again

and again she returned to their silent and comfortless lodgings;

but there the sound of her own sighs murmured desolation; and, in

impatient agony, she exclaimed—“My husband!—my Alexander!—where

shall I find him?”

She had sent messengers in every direction, and to all of whom

she had heard him mention but their name; and, in her agony, her

tearful eyes had wandered over the broad Thames, fearfully and

eagerly surveying its shores, and following its stream for miles,

till, faint and weary, she sank despairing and exhausted on the

ground. A letter from her husband was at length put into her

hands, which informed her that he was then a prisoner in Newgate.

She immediately hastened to the gloomy prison-house, and when she

arrived before it, and beheld its ponderous gates, studded with

bolts of iron, and overhung with the emblems of the felon’s chain

and the gibbet, she recoiled back for a few paces, and her heart

failed.

Until the time of admission arrived, she wandered disconsolately in

front of the prison, and, on being admitted, she heard the sound

as of an unruly multitude issuing from the corner of the prison

whither she was conducted. She was shewn into a large and noxious

apartment, where about a hundred individuals, of all ages, the

accused and the condemned, were assembled together—some cooking,

some practising the art of the pickpocket, and others holding mock

courts of law. Her heart became motionless with horror as she

gazed wildly around the den of guilt and pollution. On perceiving

her, they desisted from their amusements and boisterous mirth,

and gazed upon her in silent wonder. Their sudden and unusual

silence aroused Alexander, who was sitting alone in a dark corner

of the room; and, sorrowfully raising his head, he perceived every

eye turned upon his own beautiful and afflicted wife. He sprang

forward, and, forgetful of all around, she sank upon his bosom. He

led her to a remote corner of the apartment, and pressing her hand

to his breast—“Ah, my Isabella!” he whispered in agony, “this is

indeed kind! to visit me in such a place, and in the midst of these

miserable beings!”

“Say not kind, dear husband,” she replied—“what is too much for

the affection of a wife to do? Horrible as this place is, but

yesterday to have known that you lived, and I could have been its

inmate for life.”

“Isabella,” added he, “for imprisonment I care but little—from a

tribunal of my countrymen I have nothing to fear; but there is one

constant and heart-piercing misery which is consuming me. While I

am here a prisoner, who will protect, who will provide for you, my

love, for you?”

A faint smile trembled over her features as she replied—“HE who

sheltereth the lamb from the storm! HE who provideth the ravens

with food!”

“But,” added he, “are not we already almost without money?—And,

until I am free, until——”

“Come, love,” said she tenderly, “do not afflict yourself with

idle fears. The sparrow chirps not the less joyfully in the

farm-yard because the last sheaf is given to the flail; but day

after day finds the little flutterer happy and contented as when it

nestled in profusion. You bade me come smiling, and you only are

sad. Come, love—give me one smile—fear not for me; with my needle

I may be enabled to provide for myself, and to assist you.”

“Isabella!” he exclaimed, starting with agitation, and smiting his

hand upon his brow.

“Nay, love,” she added, “start not at shadows; when real

deprivations are to be averted, yield not to those of pride and

imagination. Adversity is a stern master, but it relaxes its brow

before a cheerful pupil. Come,” she added, “let us rather speak of

what I can do for my prisoner.”

She endeavoured to pronounce the last word playfully; but the

attempt failed, and she turned aside her head to conceal a tear.

“Nay, sweetest,” said he, affectionately drawing her hand from

her face, “do not weep—I will not be unhappy—for the sake of my

Isabella I will not.”

But the day of trial came; Alexander was placed before his judges,

and his faithful wife stood near his side. The clerk of the court

rose, and, holding the indictment, said, “Alexander Hamilton, you

are charged with committing an unprovoked and outrageous assault,

with intent to murder, upon the person of the Honourable Edward

Stafford, in Hyde Park. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” said the prisoner, firmly.