The counsel for the prosecution then rose—“Gentlemen of the jury,”

said he, “I confess I am at a loss to find words to express the

deadliness of purpose, and the desperate character of the assault

with which the prisoner is charged. A deed more reckless, more

atrocious and criminal in its character, never was attempted.

Its aim was blood!—murder at noonday, in the Park, and in the

midst of hundreds. After this, where is safety to be found? Were

the prisoner to go unpunished, madmen might be set at large,

and assassins crowd our streets with impunity. The ferocity of

a savage of the woods, when fired by victory and inflamed with

the war-whoop, is tame, compared with the brutal violence which

was manifested by the prisoner. With a disregard of all personal

consequences, his object was _murder_! I repeat the word—murder

was his object; and he has failed in accomplishing it only through

the prompt assistance of the medical gentleman to whose care my

client was intrusted. I do not say this from a desire to influence

you against the prisoner; but from a regard for truth, for our

common safety, and the public welfare. I shall prove to you that

this is not a solitary case of the prisoner’s outrage; but that,

on the same day on which he attempted the life of the prosecutor,

he was guilty of a scarcely less daring assault upon an honourable

member of the House of Commons—that on former occasions he has

forced his way into the house of Mr Stafford, and endeavoured to

extort money by violence. In short, the evidence is such as will

leave no doubt upon your mind of the prisoner’s guilt and desperate

character, and assures me of what will be your verdict. What plea

he will set up, I know not; but he who could attempt the life of

a fellow-man in broad day, will not be nice as to the expedients

to which he resorts. Should temporary insanity be urged, I need

not tell you that you will not consider whether it be lawful for

a person subject to such fits of lunacy to be left to go at large

amongst mankind; and that, if such a plea be offered, you will duly

examine that it be established.”

During this harangue, not a muscle of Alexander’s face moved;

but he stood with his eyes bent upon the speaker, manifesting

throughout the same calm and proud look of conscious innocence.

Isabella exhibited almost the same calmness as her husband; but at

times the glow of indignation and impatience flushed her cheek, and

she threw upon the accuser a glance of scorn.

I will not enter into the evidence. Several of the witnesses were

gentlemen of rank, who, having been spectators of the assault in

the Park, gave an unprejudiced statement of what they had seen,

and their testimony tended to prepare the minds of the court to

give credence to the evidence of less respectable witnesses; for

they confirmed the desperate character of the attack and the

injury received by the prosecutor. A herd of others were suborned

to aggravate the charges, and to controvert whatever evidence the

prisoner might bring forward. The case for the prosecution closed,

and every hope of acquittal was destroyed. Still he maintained

the same firmness; and, for a few seconds, not a sound was heard

throughout the court. To the ear of Isabella, the breathless

silence was as sudden thunder; hitherto, while listening to the

accumulated perjuries with which her husband’s ruin was sought,

notwithstanding her hopelessness and agony, her eye had not

wandered from him; but she now turned, with a wild and imploring

look, towards the jury, at once to read on their countenances the

impression which the evidence had made, and to conjure them in

speechless agony to believe it not. But she, shuddering, turned

away from the appalling scene, and a groan burst from her bosom.

She beheld in their features the cold, fixed expression of men who

knew no feeling but justice; and she saw their eyes turned to her

husband, but in sternness rather than in compassion.

“Prisoner,” said the judge, “you have heard the charges which have

been preferred against you; if you have any witnesses on your

behalf let them be brought forward; or, if you have aught to say in

your defence why judgment ought not to be pronounced against you,

speak now.”

“My lord,” said Alexander, “I crave your indulgence. Trusting to

innocence, I have employed no counsel, and I hoped to need none.

If, therefore, in the few words which I shall speak, I depart from

the rules and usages of this court, I beg your protection and

direction. Gentlemen of the jury,” he added “much of the evidence

which has this day been given before you has not impressed upon you

a firmer conviction of my wickedness than it has filled me with

horror at the baseness and the perjury of which men can be found

capable.”

“My lord,” interrupted the prosecutor’s counsel, “such language is

not to be borne.”

“The prisoner has claimed my protection,” said the judge, “and

he shall have it. Proceed,” added he, addressing Alexander, “but

remember that unsubstantiated charges against others will only

aggravate the proofs already given, and militate against you.”

Alexander bowed, and continued—“Gentlemen, that you believe me

the guilty being that I have been described, I cannot for a moment

doubt; nor do I hope that I shall be able to shake that conviction,

and prove to you between myself and the prosecutor, who is, indeed,

the guilty party. I know well that words spoken by one situated

as I now am come in a questionable form and produce but a slight

impression, yet, as truth is stronger than falsehood, I would hope

that what I do say may not be altogether ineffectual. That I did

make an attack upon the prosecutor in the Park, is _true_; that my

manner was as enraged as has been described, I admit; and that my

language might be of a threatening character, I do not deny; but

that my intentions were criminal, that I sought his life, is false.”

He then stated the nature of his acquaintance with Stafford—his

having forced his way into his house to request payment of a part

of the debt which he owed him. But when he spoke of the indignities

which he had offered to his wife, and of the calumnies he had

whispered in the ear of him who was to procure him an appointment

under government, his soul flashed truth from his eyes, every

glance told a tale of scorn and wrongs. Stafford, who was present,

quailed as the tide of his eloquent indignation rolled on; and

could the astonished listeners have turned their eyes from the

speaker to him of whom he spoke, they would have read guilt and

confusion on his pale cheeks. Even the judge laid down his notes,

and gazed upon the prisoner with a look of wonder. Isabella’s

fears passed away as she listened to the torrent of indignant

eloquence which he poured forth; and, while she participated in

the admiration of the crowd, she felt also the affection and the

pride of a wife, and, starting from a seat with which she had for

some time been accommodated, she pressed closer to his side, her

bosom heaving, her cheeks glowing, and her beaming eyes declaring

that, where he then stood as a criminal, she was proud to call him

husband.

“Could any man,” he exclaimed, in conclusion, “bear more than I

did and not resent it? Would any of you, gentlemen—yea, would his

lordship, under the same provocations, have acted otherwise than

I did? If the attack was furious, was it not provoked? Or could

human nature endure more and attempt less? If I am culpable, it

is because I have the feelings of a man—because I am not more

or because I am not less than man: and, if I am guilty, is my

prosecutor innocent?”

The counsel for the prosecution again rose, and added—“Gentlemen

of the jury, I presume it is now unnecessary for me to remind you

that the prisoner having attempted murder on one of his Majesty’s

subjects, it is altogether unnecessary for him to perform it now

upon his Majesty’s English. If rhetorical froth were proof, and

sound received as evidence, the case of the prisoner might be

different from what it is. But it unfortunately happens for his

oratory, that froth is not proof, and that noise is not evidence.

I will not insult your good sense by adverting for a moment to

his shallow calumnies and malicious assertions. You will place

them to the spirit of hardened wickedness that invented them. But,

gentlemen, we shall now see what evidence he has to bring forward

in support of his oratory, and in substantiation of his malicious

and frail subterfuges.”

No witnesses being likely to appear in behalf of the prisoner, the

governor of the gaol voluntarily came forward and bore testimony to

the excellence of Alexander’s conduct while under confinement, and

also to the exemplary affection and modesty manifested by his wife.

He left the witness-box, and another pause ensued, when Isabella

sprang forward, stretching out her arms towards the jury, and

exclaimed—“Hear me! hear me!—only for a moment—as you are

men—as you are fathers—as you are Christians, hear me! Do not

tear my Alexander from me—he is innocent! Yes! yes! he is innocent

of the guilt attributed towards him by the wicked man who seeks

his life!—innocent as your babes that may smile at their mother’s

breast! Save, then, my husband, and heaven will reward you! He is

all that is dear to me—will you tear us asunder? If ye have hearts

within you, you will not. Look on his countenance—is there guilt

there? Look upon his prosecutor, upon his enemy who sits before

you, and oh! can you find innocence where dissipation has left its

furrows, and hatred its shadows? If ye _will_ do what may seem to

you justice—remember to love mercy! Draw not upon your heads the

misery or the blood of a human being through the guilt of a false

witness! Save, I implore you, save my husband, for he is innocent!”

The judge summed up the evidence, and more than once he paused

and wiped away a tear that did not disgrace his office. “Go,” he

concluded, addressing the jury—“the prisoner is in your hands;

and if there be a doubt upon your minds as to whether you should

pronounce him guilty, give the prisoner the benefit of that doubt.”

“Merciful heaven!” exclaimed Isabella, “deliver my husband—make

known his innocence to these men!” She stretched her hand towards

him, and cried aloud, “O my Alexander—in death—even in death, I

will be yours! They shall not part us!”

And, as she wept, he bent over the dock and threw his arms upon

her neck, exclaiming—“Loved one, weep not. The Avenger of the

oppressed will not forsake us.”

The jury were rising to withdraw, every eye was moistened with

Isabella’s distress—while all felt conscious of her husband’s

doom—when a humming noise arose amidst the spectators, and, “Let

the jury stop!—let the jury stop!” cried many voices from the door.

The skipper of the vessel in which Isabella had come to London

pressed into the court; and, being sworn—

“Weel, sir,” said he, “it isn’t much that the like o’ me has got to

say; only, ye see, Mr Hamilton here, that ye ca’ a prisoner, is an

auld owner’s son o’ mine. I have known him since he was the height

o’ my knee, and he was always a guid and a cannie laddie; and I

venture to say, had his father not been ower honest a man, and paid

twenty shillings in the pound to every body, he wouldna hae been

in his grave to-day. As for _the thing_ that is carrying on the

prosecution against Mr Hamilton, I knaw something o’ him tae; and

he may think himself weel off that it wasna a wife o’ mine that he

shewed his blackguardism to, for had I been my auld maister’s son,

hang me! after the insults I saw him offer to this bonny lady here,

when they were both passengers on board o’ my ship, Jemmy Johnson,

take me! if I wudna hae twisted his neck off his shoulders in a

moment!”

The counsel for the prosecution had risen to ridicule the evidence

of the prisoner, when he was interrupted by a negro servant of

the Honourable Edward Stafford, who had been touched by the fiery

eloquence of Alexander and the distress of his wife, and who rose

and exclaimed, while others attempted to keep him down—“Me will

speak!—Massa be de grand villain! Me be black, but you won’t make

me one black heart. De prisoner be innocent! Massa do owe him von

hundred pound, for me carried it to massa, and massa did try to

steal de wife ob Massa Hamilton; which, be bad—berry bad! Prisoner

be de injured man, like de poor African!”

This involuntary testimony on the part of the negro arrested the

attention of both judge and jury, and they were requesting that he

should be placed in the witness-box, when two gentlemen hurriedly

entered the court, and pressed forward, requesting to be heard.

The one stated himself to be a Mr Fulton, a broker in Cornhill.

With him Alexander’s father had long had extensive dealings. He has

already been mentioned in the course of this narrative. Alexander

had requested that his wife should address her letters to him

to his counting-house. But he was abroad when Alexander reached

London, and he only arrived on the evening before his trial. He

knew the services which his friend, the elder Hamilton, and his

son also, had conferred upon the member of parliament of whom we

have spoken, and calling upon him, and hearing the accusations that

were preferred against Alexander by Stafford, he demanded that they

should be probed to the bottom. They did investigate into them, and

they discovered them to be wholly false and without foundation.

And the patron now came forward to express his contrition for the

act of injustice into which he had been betrayed, and to bear his

testimony against the character and malignity of the prosecutor.

A change came over the countenances of the jury. The judge seemed

perplexed, and was rising to sum up the evidence, when they rose as

one man, and exclaimed—“_Not guilty_.”

“Not guilty, my lord,” repeated the foreman of the jury; “but it

would give us pleasure to see the accuser stand where the accused

has this day stood.”

The spectators burst into a shout, and the Honourable Edward

Stafford endeavoured to escape from the court. All that is

necessary to add is, that Alexander Hamilton became the clerk of Mr

Fulton, in a few years his partner, and eventually his successor,

and his latter days were more prosperous than any that his father

had known, while the worth of his wife and her affection increased

with age. One word respecting the Honourable Edward Stafford,

and I have done. In a few years he became a titled beggar, and

twenty years afterwards, when Alexander Hamilton, with his wife

and family came to reside in Northumberland, where they had been

born and brought up, they heard of a poor gentleman at an inn in

the next village, who seemed to be in great distress. They went to

visit him—it was the Honourable Edward Stafford. He wept as he

recognised them. In the words of holy writ—they heaped coals of

fire upon his head—and with his hand in Alexander’s he breathed

his last, and at their own expense they buried him with his

fathers. Such are a few Leaves from the Life of Alexander Hamilton.

THE SPORTSMAN OF OUTFIELDHAUGH.

The old property of Eyrymount—belonging to a sept of the Græmes

that had at a former period emigrated to that locality, not far

from the Borders of Scotland, and possessed, at the time we

speak of, by Hugo Græme, a man somewhat advanced in years—was

(for it has latterly been broken down into small portions) one

of the finest small possessions of a commoner that could be seen

in the fairest part of Scotland. Compact, and divided into two

portions—one of the richest arable soil, and another, where the

mansion-house stood, of planted ground, adorned by green trees

and flowering shrubs—it was just that kind of property which,

filling the purse and pleasing the eye, a man of sense and a

lover of nature would choose to occupy and draw the rents of. The

proprietor of this fine retreat—Hugo, of the fourth generation of

these Græmes—was the very worst kind of man that could have been

placed upon such an estate; for he held that kind of middle station

between the exclusive great and the not exclusive, which, producing

discontentment with what is in one’s power, and generating an

ambition seldom realized, neutralizes all the advantages of

independence, and changes the gifts of Providence into gilded

evils. The property was too small to enable him to cope with those

whom he wished to associate with, while it was too extensive to

admit of its proprietor being classed with many of the neighbouring

lairds. Yet his pride struggled with the physical impossibilities

with which the limited nature of Eyrymount surrounded him; and

his life for many years had been occupied by a series of efforts

to make up, by art and diplomacy, what could not be wrung from

his patrimonial inheritance. His wife, Madam Græme—as she was

styled by the neighbours, from her possession of a pride equal

to, if not transcending that of her husband—was the daughter of

a rich banker, who, after her marriage, lost his wealth, and, of

course, the charm which procured for him the enviable title of

father-in-law to Hugo Græme of Eyrymount, the fourth lineal heir of

the southern sept of the Græmes. The pride which had been generated

in the bosom of the young lady by expectation, was not relinquished

with her hope of succeeding to a fortune that had taken to itself

“the wings of the morning.” Bringing in this way no riches to her

husband, she did not leave behind her the evils which generally

attend them and often survive them; and the hundred thousand pounds

she expected to succeed to, though now in the pockets of other

people, and feeding a pride of a more legitimate kind in the bosoms

of the possessors, founded that kind of claim to honour which a

ragged heir of a thousand acres which have been out of his family

for fifty years, thinks he has a right to assume, from the mere

circumstance of his grandfather having been the laird. The pride of

the master and mistress of Eyrymount, strong in the original stems,

was strengthened, but not, like the forest crab-apple, improved,

by the mutual ingrafture of connubial sympathy; and they strained

and pulled together, in their efforts to stretch the income of

Eyrymount into the means of supporting a state to which it was

inadequate.

An only child—a female, of considerable pretensions to beauty,

simple and humble, and highly interesting in her manners, and

called, after her mother, Dione, a title of which Madam Græme

was very proud—added considerably to the pride of the haughty

couple. They expected “to turn her to account,” and had already

fixed their eyes on an old rich nabob, called Benjamin Rice, who

had taken up his residence at Pansey Lodge, in the neighbourhood,

as a very suitable and easy kind of person, who would likely have

no objection to enter without much struggle into the matrimonial

noose. They never thought of consulting Dione on the subject; for,

though they did not dispute that she had “some interest” in the

affair, they took for granted that, as one of the family, she was

solicitous for the enhancement of its fortunes, and would at once

sell herself for the good of the Græmes of Eyrymount. The nabob

was not averse, at least in the first instance, to partake of the

fine dinners, served up as a costly kind of bait at Eyrymount

House. The dyspepsia, which, along with his rupees, he had caught

in India, made him nice in the selection of his food and wine; and

no cost was spared by the fortune-hunting Amphytrions, to procure

for him whatever might please his palate. Neither had the nabob

any disinclination to feast his eyes on the fair face of Dione,

who received his looks and attentions very much in the way that

children do that emetic Indian shrub, called ipecacuanha. The

tyranny of her proud mother, however, prevented her from shewing

symptoms of displeasure, when she felt herself subjected to his

scrutiny; and, as yet, no hint had been given that he was selected

as the man who was to make her “happy for life.”

Next to the getting off of the fair Dione in a carriage and four,

and repairing his fortunes with the fortune of her husband,

Hugo Græme had long sighed for getting back the merk-land of

Outfieldhaugh, formerly a part of Eyrymount, and very foolishly, as

he thought, given off from the estate, by his grandfather, Murdoch

Græme, to a favourite friend, at a small yearly feu of only a pound

sterling. This property was now a very pretty place; having been,

by the first feuar, embellished by plantations and fanciful shrubs,

which, in the course of time, had grown up and covered the high

parts with an umbrageous clothing of variegated hues, glittering in

the setting sun with a splendour which could too well be seen from

the windows of Eyrymount. The envied place had been taken from

the main estate in the most awkward and provoking manner possible;

for, in place of being, what its name implied, an outfield, it

lay in the very bosom of Eyrymount, and was composed of the best

land of the property, besides enjoying the finest prospect on any

part of the estate. Beyond all, it was for ever in the eye of the

gazer from the casements of the old house; and the original feeling

of regret was embittered by a daily accession of displeasure, as

strangers at Eyrymount pointed out to the laird the beautiful spot,

and asked whether it formed part of the old domain.

The fault committed by Murdoch Græme, had been attempted to be

cured by Hector Græme, the father of Hugo, who did everything

in his power to prevail upon the proprietor of Outfieldhaugh to

dispose of it again to him, whereby the integration of the old

estate would be effected, while another property could easily be

procured to the satisfaction of the seller, who had no family

feelings or prejudices to gratify, by clinging to his possession.

These efforts, however, had proved vain; for the proprietor of

Outfieldhaugh was just as fond of his merk-land as Græme was of

his larger possessions; and did not hesitate to get angry, as he

was well entitled to do, when solicited to part with his property,

to gratify a family pride he despised, because, perhaps, he had no

family of his own of which he could be otherwise than ashamed. The

wish which had actuated Hector Græme through life was transmitted

to his son on his deathbed; particular directions having been given

in his will that his heir should be upon the watch, night and day,

to pounce upon Outfieldhaugh, and reincorporate it with the main

estate, and a hint added, that there was no occasion for being

over-scrupulous as to the mode by which that great object should be

accomplished. This hint was only the advice which Hector himself

had followed.

“Honesty has nothing to do with the getting back of what should

never have been given away,” said the dying man to Hugo, who sat by

his bedside after the clergyman had departed. “I have examined all

the rights, charters, infeftments, retours, and what not, and held

them up to the light, to see if I could detect what the lawyers

call ‘erasures;’ but, though I never could see daylight through

them, your quicker eyes may be more successful. There’s a clause

in them, binding the heirs of Outfieldhaugh to lend the charters

to us as the superiors. I forced a loan of the title-deeds upon

that clause, and had a good fire in my library, which I looked at

often, and then at the charter again, and then at the fire again;

but—but—but——” And with these words on his tongue, old Hector

Græme, who was called the honest laird of Eyrymount, expired.

The recommendation of old Hector was not lost upon Hugo, who

recollected, particularly, the hint about the library fire; but

a slight legal education he had received in his youth taught him

that, as the charters had been registered at Edinburgh, the library

fire could not aid him in getting back Outfieldhaugh. After he

became satisfied of this, but not before, he “disdained,” as he

said, “to reacquire the property in the manner recommended by old

Hector, who knew nothing about the act 1617; besides, how could he

get the titles, without an obligation to redeliver them ’within a

reasonable time and under a suitable penalty?’” He resolved upon

another plan; but whether it was less dishonest than the speedy

mode recommended by old Hector, and affected to be despised by him,

may be safely left to the judgment of the world. This much may be

said for Hector’s project—that he had the merit of philosophizing;

for, though the qualities of phlogiston had already been pretty

well ascertained, the effects of its application to the rights of

another person’s property had not often been examined, except by

the anti-philosophical fifteen who sit in the Parliament House of

Edinburgh, and who foolishly allowed themselves to be led by musty

acts of parliament and old precedents. The mode adopted by Hugo,

again, was purely empirical, and, besides, suggested to him by a

change having taken place in the proprietorship of Outfieldhaugh.

Some time previous to our historical era, the proprietor of the

envied property died, without children, and without any settlement.

His heir-at-law was a poor hind, called Nashon Heatherton—a

name given to him by his father, who believed that a scripture

appellation, taken _ad aperturam bibliorum_, or chance opening of

the Bible, would be attended with luck—a belief well justified

by the result. Nashon had got little or no education, and, though

a remarkably good-looking, stalworth countryman, was accounted

shy, if not simple—an idea, however, derived merely from his

appearance, which denoted no great mental vigour, though the truth

was, that he had more wit than his neighbours, being only “shy of

using it,” and having a perverse pleasure in leading people astray,

while he enjoyed the unprofitable errors that were continually

made, in imputing to him a facility of being imposed upon. The

intelligence that the hind, Nashon Heatherton, had succeeded to

Outfieldhaugh, produced, apparently, greatly more effect upon the

public, who were not to benefit by it to the extent of a farthing,

than upon the “fortunate youth” himself; who, when the attorney

told him of his luck, replied, with a smile, that “he had nae

faith in lawyers, an’ wad be cautious in takin possession o’ an

estate, till he was satisfied he was the true heir.” Nashon had no

intention of being very difficult to be satisfied on the point of

right; but some who did not understand the vein of his humour, said

he was an idiot who could not distinguish good from evil.

When Nashon Heatherton took possession of Outfieldhaugh—a step he

adopted without the necessity of the application of force, contrary

to the ideas entertained by his neighbours—he was waited upon

by his superior, Hugo Græme, who went for the express purpose of

taking the dimensions and properties of the new proprietor, with a

view to his ulterior schemes, which he had been remodelling from

the instant he heard of the devolution of the envied right on an

obscure, illiterate, and simple hind.

“I am come, sir,” said Hugo, as he entered the hall of Outfieldhaugh,

and accosted Nashon, who was sitting in the finely furnished

apartment, occupied in “glowrin frae him—I am come to wish you joy

of a possession which has come to you without expectation; and,

therefore, must yield you pleasure, greater and of a different

kind, than acquisitions of property generally do, even to heirs.”

“I haena felt it yet,” replied Nashon, looking up to Græme with a

curious, arch expression of face. “The auld hoosekeeper, Esther

Maclean, has been cryin a’ day aboot the beauties o’ the place; but

she says there’s nae conies on’t, sae there can be little amusement

either for me or Birsey, wha sits growlin there because he’s no at

his auld quarters at Conybarns.”

“We have more foxes than conies in these quarters,” replied Græme,

struck with the cause of complaint stated _in limine_ by the new

proprietor.

“I suppose sae,” replied Nashon, eyeing Græme expressively;

“there’s nae want o’ them in ony quarter; but they’re easily got

quit o’; for, whar there’s nae _fules_, there’s nae foxes. We had

nane o’ them at Conybarns.”

“You seem to have a grateful recollection of that place,” said

Græme. “Old Langbane, the laird of it, would, I understand, sell

it. You should purchase it.”

“I hae aneugh o’ property,” replied Nashon; “when I hae

Outfieldhaugh—maybe owre muckle.”

“You do not understand me,” said Græme. “I mean that you should

sell Outfieldhaugh, and buy Conybarns with the price.”

“That wadna be ill to do,” said Nashon; “for they say the laird of

Eyrymount has a keen ee to the place; but dinna ye think I should

just be doin wi’t? There’s owre muckle wood on’t, but that can be

easily mended wi’ a guid axe; an’ I can get a breed o’ conies frae

Conybarns.”

“Useful improvements,” said Græme, staring at Nashon, and unable to

ascertain whether he was an idiot or a wag.

“I hae ither changes i’ my head,” replied Nashon, “if I could be

at the trouble o’ bringin them oot. I like a stir aboot a place.

There’s some fine waterfa’s i’ the dell yonder; but what’s a

waterfa withoot a mill? Folk rin after thae things, an’ seem to

like the noise o’ the dashin waters; but hoo muckle mair noise

wad there be if there was a guid birlin spinnin mill alangside o’

them? Besides, there’s some life aboot a mill—the swearin o’ the

men spinners, the screighin o’ the hizzies, their love-makins i’

the green haughs, their penny waddins i’ the ale-houses. It’s thae

things that mak a country place lichtsome. I wonder that Eyrymount

hasna mair sense than to keep his place sae quiet. I’ll shew him an

example.”

“That may not suit his taste,” replied Græme, at a loss what to

say; for he had some suspicions that Nashon knew him; and the

introduction of himself was now made a difficult matter.

“It is impossible, sir,” said Nashon: “would it no suit his taste

to mak siller? They say he spends weel; and, while his waters

are rinnin to the sea, withoot ca’in a single mill, he may rin

dry—unless, indeed, Benjamin Rice marries his bonny dochter,

Dione.”

“I am thinking Esther Maclean has been giving you the news of the

place,” said Græme, trying to smile, but unable to get beyond a

grin.

“Ou ay, the cratur has been trying to amuse me,” said Nashon; “for

she couldna bear, she said, to see me sittin i’ the middle o’ this

big ha’, lookin frae me, an’ thinkin o’ the huntin o’ the conies o’

Conybarns; but when the mills are set agaun, we’ll hae something

to keep us out o’ langer. I may, peradventure, think too o’ some

tanneries. It’s a pity to lose sae muckle oak bark; and Jamie

Skinner, the leather merchant o’ Peebles, says he could sell as

mony skins as I could gie him.”

“But you forget, Mr. Heatherton,” said Græme, beginning to lose

temper, “that you have only a servitude to a limited extent over

the Well Burn, and will not be entitled to destroy the purity of

the water.”

“But water doesna rin up the brae, sir,” replied Nashon. “I’m below

Eyrymount, an’ my neebours below me winna object. But, after a’, I

think o’ mony things I never execute.”

“I hope you will think twice about these things,” said Græme. “I

merely called in, as a neighbour, to wish you joy. Good morning!”

“Guid mornin, sir!” replied Nashon, without rising from his chair.

“That’s Eyrymount himsel,” he continued, after Græme had departed,

“if Esther’s account o’ him be correct. Isna that the laird o’

Eyrymount, Esther?” said he to Esther Maclean, as she entered.

“The very man,” replied Esther. “Was he wantin to buy Outfieldhaugh

frae ye?”

“Ou, ay,” replied Nashon; “but I tauld him I intended to build

spinnin mills an’ tannaries on the Well Burn.”

“An’ do ye intend to spoil yer estate in that way?” said Esther.

“It’s no very likely,” replied Nashon. “The value o Outfieldhaugh

lies in its woods an’ waterfa’s; an’, though I pretended to like

the whin muirs o’ Conybarns better, it was only to bring the laird

oot, an’ see if ye were richt in what ye tauld me. I think ye’re

nearly as wise as mysel.”

While Nashon and Esther Maclean were thus comparing notes, Hugo

Græme returned to Eyrymount, and had a conference with his lady on

the character of the new proprietor of Outfieldhaugh.

“What kind of a boor have you found this new proprietor of your

old estate?” said the lady, as he entered. “Is he simple enough to

sell, or wild enough to dissipate it by incurring debt?”

“He is either the most arch rogue or the greatest fool I ever met

in my life,” replied Græme. “I intended to introduce myself after

the first salutation; but the idiot began talking about Eyrymount

as if he thought I were some one else, and said such things as

entirely prevented me from making the declaration. His housekeeper

is old Esther Maclean, whom he has retained; and she, who bears us

no good feeling, has told him everything he requires to know to put

him on his guard against us—that is, I mean, if he has wit enough

to take advantage of it; for I doubt yet if he is not a born idiot.

He talked about hunting conies, and building spinning-mills on the

Well Burn, like a madman; yet, if he knew whom he was talking to,

there was a sense in his madness which I do not much like.”

“Did you ask him if he would sell Outfieldhaugh?” inquired the lady.

“I did,” answered Græme; “and his answer was a question—‘Dinna ye

think I should just be doing wi’t?’ What could you make of a person

who could return such an answer to a plain question?”

“But you say he talked of hunting,” said the lady. “That is a very

good way, as you well know, of getting into debt.”

“Yes, but it depends on the game,” replied Græme—“cony-hunting,

with an old hairy terrier he calls Birsey, will not ruin him, even

if he found any conies on Outfieldhaugh, which I defy him to do.”

“But the spirit of Nimrod,” replied the lady, “extends to every

kind of game, whether real statutory game, conies, or pigeons. Give

him a smack of reynard, and the despicable cony will soon be left

to its burrow.”

“If he has wit enough to distinguish between a fox and a rabbit,”

said Græme—“which, however, I doubt. Every effort must, no doubt,

be tried. Outfieldhaugh must be got by force or stealth. It must

be Dione’s dowry, when she is wedded to Benjamin Rice; and when

he dies, as he must soon do, if one can have any faith in his

gamboge-coloured skin, we shall have our patrimonial estate entire;

and his large fortune to dash away with in successful competition

with Sir James Featherstone of Cockairney, Sir George Beckett of

Turf Hall, and all our sporting neighbours, who at present outstrip

us in the race of pleasure, and excel us in the court of fashion.

The question is—How is this to be accomplished? ‘He that dares

well fares well,’ as the saying is; and I think we cannot do

better than try to innoculate this piece of untenanted spiritless

flesh with a little of the blood of Nimrod and Pollux. Hunting and

horse-racing comprehend within themselves all sorts of expensive

dissipation. If he joins our Soho Club, he will require money. I

will lend it, if I should borrow it for that purpose; and I know

the nature of an adjudication.”

“The project sounds well,” said the lady; “but I must see the

cony-hunter myself, for women are better judges of men, than men

are of their neighbours. I will give him a dinner, if you will give

him a present of a hunter. We must blow the soap-bell before it

flies and bursts.”

“If you are to make a _belle_ of him, you must indeed prepare

plenty of soap,” said Græme, smiling at the cleverness of a vile

pun. “But, without a joke, he is a good-looking boor, were he

washed. A cake of soap, with your invitation card, might be of some

importance. It is the _alpha_ of the education of a gentleman, and

we must begin at the beginning.”

This conversation was overheard by the gentle Dione, who was,

in no small degree, interested in the affair propounded by her

parents. She now knew, for certain, their intentions in regard

to the disposal of her hand; and, while her judgment disapproved

of their scheme, which was unfair towards the simple-minded (so

she termed him) Heatherton, and cruel to herself, her feelings

rebelled against a union with the gamboge-coloured old Indian, who

had already ogled her into a sympathetic jaundice. The process of

her thoughts was extremely favourable to calling forth a strong

interest in favour of Nashon, whom she had never seen, but whom she

figured to herself as a plain, good-looking man (as indeed he was),

whose simplicity was about to be taken advantage of, for her sake,

by his property being unjustly wrested from him and given to her,

as a dowry, on the occasion of her marriage with a man she hated.

Simple as she herself was, she felt inclined to counteract these

ambitious and unjustifiable intentions; and, if Nashon Heatherton

had been known to her, and in any way worthy of her affections, she

would (so she theorised) have thrown herself into the arms of the

new laird of Outfieldhaugh, saved him from ruin, and herself from

an interminable grief.

The intensity of her feelings, called up by what she had overheard,

and inflamed by the workings of her own mind, drove her into the

surrounding woods of Eyrymount, where she might weep unobserved;

and the excited state of her feelings sought relief by the natural

means of speaking out her thoughts. She was overheard by Nashon.

They spoke. An explanation took place, and that sympathy which

follows often on mutual knowledge, led the way to love. He learned

from her her own unhappy position, and the intentions of her father

to ruin him, for the purpose of securing Outfieldhaugh. Proceeding

homewards, he thus monologized:—

“An’ sae Eyrymount wants to ride me to the devil that he may get

Outfieldhaugh! He maun be ignorant o’ the siller I got as the auld

laird’s executor, besides the estate as his heir. Let him remain in

his ignorance, an’ we’ll see wha will ride langest an’ wha’ll keep

strongest. My neck has as mony liths in’t as Eyrymount’s craig; an’

if he canna get Oldfieldhaugh except by stretchin mine, I’ll no’

get his dochter Dione without gien his a thraw. Can onybody blame

me? Am I no fechtin him wi’ his ain weapons? and, besides, are we

no strugglin for the same object—the junction o’ the twa estates

that hae been owre lang separated?”

Continuing his train of thought farther than we think it necessary

to record it, Nashon arrived at Outfieldhaugh House, at the door of

which he met Esther Maclean, who presented to him a face so full of

expression, that the ideas seemed to be struggling in all parts of

it to get down to her mouth for vent. It was clear that something

pertaining to the Eyrymount family had occurred during the few

hours’ absence of her master; for few other subjects could have

produced such a mute loquacity as her moving wrinkles exhibited

when Nashon entered.

“Your threat to big spinnin mills on the Well Burn has biggit your

respectability, guid sir,” she exclaimed. “Read that, and then tak

a turn into the stable.”

Esther handed to Nashon, as she spoke, a letter from Madame Græme,

finely perfumed, the sight and smell of which produced a convulsion

in the old simple frame of mind of the quandam hind, which he did

not care about exhibiting even to Esther. The application of his

large coarse fingers to the _single drop_ of scented green wax with

which the note was sealed, produced a mysterious kind of feeling of

awe without a visible cause, which was entirely new to him; and

the great array of Cupids and roses stamped on the margin of the

fine hot-pressed paper, completed the effect of this mute Ariel

from the regions of high life. The note was as follows:—

“Mr. and Mrs. Græme, of Eyrymount, present their respects to Mr.

Nashon Heatherton, and request the honour of his company to dinner

at Eyrymount, on Wednesday se’enight, the 15th instant, at five

o’clock.”

On the other side of the note were a few lines, in another and a

bolder hand, to this effect.—

“Mr. Græme, who has had already the honour of conversing with Mr.

Heatherton, presumes upon his character of feudal superior of

Outfieldhaugh, to mark the introduction of a new vassal by some

trifling consideration; and therefore, and as the Soho Club meet

for the purpose of paying their respects to Mr. Reynard to-morrow

at the Shaking Bridge over the Hazel Burn, he requests Mr.

Heatherton’s acceptance of his favourite hunter, Springall, and the

pleasure of his company at the chase.”

“My auld maister wad hae tauld me what was in the letter,” said

Esther, turning up her eyes expressively into the face of Nashon.

“An’ yer new ane winna refuse ye the pleasure,” answered Nashon.

“The braw folk o’ Eyrymount have invited me to dinner on Wednesday

se’enight, and sent me a hunter for the chase, the morn, at the

Shakin Bridge.”

“An’ will ye gang?” said Esther.

“Surely,” replied Nashon—“ordinary politeness seems to demand it;

but what will I do for a huntin dress?”

“Yer ancestor’s scarlet coat winna disgrace his heir,” replied

Esther. “It’s up i’ the leather kist, i’ the blue parlour yonder;

an’ I’ll mak oot to get a len’ o’ a pair o’ boots frae Squire

Hawthorn’s butler, wha’ll never let on the thing to his maister.”

Nashon smiled at the idea of borrowing a pair of boots; but pride

had not yet in him attained that height which enables its votaries

to look down with contempt on the obligation of a loan, and he

chose to sport Squire Hawthorn’s boots and Squire Græme’s horse

in the meantime, to gratify an object which would require still

greater sacrifices. Next day, accordingly, he appeared at the

rendezvous, where he in a short time was accosted by Eyrymount,

who was accompanied by the proprietor of the under part of the

neophyte’s habiliments.

“You will find this sport better than cony-hunting, Mr Heatherton,”

said Eyrymount, laughing.

“Ou ay,” replied Nashon; “but I fear it’s mair expensive. I may

become owre fond o’t, an’ the rents of Outfieldhaugh may scarcely

haud agen the expense.”

“You cannot complain yet,” said Eyrymount, looking significantly at

Springall.

“I should think not,” said Squire Hawthorn, looking as significantly

at the boots.

“No,” replied Nashon, drawing up his leg a little, but immediately

throwing it down again, with a jerk of the stirrup—“but I

ken my weakness. I had nae less than nine terriers, ance, at

Conybarns—a perfect pack; an’ I wadna wonder to see me hae as mony

fox-hounds—ay, an’ maybe as mony hunters. I fear, Eyrymount, I

maun lay a’ that cost at your door.”

“There’s no sound on earth like the tally-ho!” cried Eyrymount,

delighted with Nashon’s views, which seemed to coincide so well

with his own. “You will be a true son of Nimrod, an’ may carry away

the gree of the hunting-cup of the southern sept of the Græmes.”

“I like baith the drinkin-horn an’ the tootin-horn,” said Nashon;

“an’ will empty the ane an’ fill the other as weel’s ony fox-hunter

i’ the kingdom.”

“Bravo! I have not been mistaken in you,” cried Græme.

“The grey lark flees highest o’ a’ the singin’ tribe,” replied

Nashon; “an’ the bright gooldie the lowest. Ye canna ken a man frae

his coat, ony mair than ye can tell whether a cat is a guid hunter

frae the colour o’ her skin.”

“You are right,” said Squire Hawthorn; “neither can you know a man

from his boots.”

“If they’re borrowed, ye can say that he’s a cautious, savin chiel

wha wears them,” replied Nashon; “but, if they’re bought an’ no

paid,” with a significant look at Hawthorn, who was known to be

deep in debt, “ye can say he’s an ass. Is the horn no sounded yet?

I’m keen to set aff. My bluid’s getting warm wi’ the thought a’ the

throw aff an’ the hark on. Ho! he! ho! tantivy! tantivy!”

And Nashon cracked his whip as he thus emulated, by a loud bellow,

the spirit of the huntsman.

The chase began, and was continued with great spirit. Reynard

displayed his usual tact; and the hounds, Squire Hawthorn’s pack,

were in fine blood. Nashon’s tally-ho was heard ringing loudest

in the woods; his horse was the finest of the company; and he

scoured on like the wind, heedless of the laugh that was attempted

to be raised against him by Hawthorn, who had told several of his

friends, that Springall, which once belonged to him, knew the touch

of the heel of his old boots, and, if they did not take care, would

carry the clown in at the death, and shame the whole Soho Club.

This sportive sally was successful in more ways than one; for while

its humour was well-calculated to produce cachination, there was a

ratiocination in it which was calculated to produce a lugubrious

reaction for, to the surprise and discomfiture of all the huntsmen,

Nashon Heatherton was the individual who was in at the death—a

feat, doubtless, as much owing to the speed of Springall as to the

dauntlessness of the rider, who, however, displayed great power of

horsemanship and surprising presence of mind, on grounds of great

difficulty and danger.

In the evening the club enjoyed the hospitality of the proprietor

of Nashon’s underfittings, and, although the borrower had, during

the day, suffered the gibes of the young fox-hunter, he did not

think that either these or the relation in which that part of his

dress stood to the lender, disqualified him from eating his meat or

drinking his wine. That he would be dubbed the butt of the company,

he knew before he went; but he felt himself under the obligations

of a peculiar humour, that ruled him with a power paramount to

other considerations; and, in the present instance, that humour was

itself subservient to objects of ambition of high import—motives

that led him to overlook the temporary buzz of an innocuous

raillery on the part of men who were fast going to a destruction

which he was taking active means to avoid. He, therefore, put

on the appearance of enjoying the fox-hunters’ peculiar mode of

draining the cup of pleasure to the dregs, laughed, sang, drank,

and even essayed, on one or two occasions, a sturdy oath. His

strength, robust health, and unsubdued constitution, enabled him to

cope with the strongest of these Tricongii in their own element,

wine; and when the _great cup_ was brought in—which was generally

when all parties were in that intermediate state between sense

and forgetfulness which demanded in charity a total finisher, to

send them to entire oblivion and rest—he was as sober as a judge.

A quarter of an hour after the emptying of that fearful goblet,

the fox-hunters around him, who had been high in their humour of

drawing “rises” out of him, according to the slang of aquatic

sportsmen, or “baiting the badger,” in their more appropriate

dialect, fell at his feet, singing as they descended, “with a

hey ho chevy!” and all groaning in rough chorus. He alone sat

immoveable, laughing at the sleeping pack who had been, during the

night, following him with their deep mouths, and boying forth

their humour. Where were they now? Their game had become their

whipper-in, though they were unconscious of his whip. He took

Græme’s hand as he slept, and shook it as that of his father-in-law

to be, and wished him joy of Outfieldhaugh. He then mounted

Springall, and sought his home and his bed.

On the day appointed, Nashon, dressed and scented in great style,

dined at Eyrymount. There were present several fox-hunters,

Benjamin Rice, and others of the neighbours—none of whom came up

to Nashon in brilliancy or scent. They seemed all delighted and

amused with the grotesque figure, excepting Dione, who stared at

him in sorrow and disappointment; for she could not conceive how

so sudden a transformation from simplicity to gaudy glitter and

bad taste, could have taken place on one who appeared to be gifted

with prudence and good sense. She feared the hunter had turned his

brain, and that her father and mother were in a fair way of seeing

their scheme accomplished. Her pride was, moreover, hurt, when she

saw the man whom she had begun to love, made a laughing-stock to a

whole company, including the hated Benjamin Rice, who was himself

exquisitely fitted for filling the high office so unaccountably

occupied by the plain and cautious Nashon Heatherton. Nor was she

better pleased with his conversation, which, while his old Scotch

was retained by necessity, was directed towards subjects which

she thought he despised—the interminable hunt, the turf, the

dog-kennel, and the wassail chamber.

“I am told, Mr. Heatherton,” said Benjamin Rice, “that you were in

at the death at the last hunt, and that you stood the great cup

better than any one of the company.”

“Ou ay,” replied Nashon—“I hae turned a great sportsman, thanks

to Eyrymount! an’ no bad hand at the bottle. I’m at present on

terms wi’ Gib Cowper, the horse-jockey, for twa famous hunters, as

guid, I think, as Springall. They’re baith by Bellerophon, real

bluids; but he asks twa hundred guineas for them, an’ that I think

is ower muckle; I offered him a hunder and ninety.”

“Where are they to be seen?” inquired Græme.

“I dinna ken,” replied Nashon. “He brought them to Outfieldhaugh;

but wadna leave them in my stable till we bargained. He said he

would ca’ again. I hae been offered Lord Luxmore’s pack, too, at

four hunder guineas, fifty head, that is about four guineas a

dog—owre muekle, dinna ye think, Eyrymount?”

“I don’t think so,” said Eyrymount—“I’ll run halves with you.”

“I’ll consider o’t,” said Nashon. “His lordship said he wad see

me again. We’ll better no seem owre anxious—we may mak a better

bargain, especially as they say he needs money.”

“Is it possible,” whispered Hawthorn to Eyrymount, “that the

borrower of my old boots has any serious intention of keeping a

pack?”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Eyrymount.

“Poor simpleton!” said Dione to herself, with a sigh, as she looked

on the ruddy cheeks and open countenance of her grotesquely dressed

lover—“has he fallen into the very snare I unwittingly pointed out

to him?”

“You are the most spirited laird that Outfieldhaugh ever saw, Mr

Heatherton,” said Madame Græme. “It is a great pleasure to have a

neighbour like you alongside of us.”

“An’ I’m as weel pleased wi’ the high-spirited Eyrymount,” said

Nashon—“we’ll dash away nicely thegither.”

“Saw you ever such a fool, Miss Græme?” whispered Benjamin. “He

will soon dash through Outfieldhaugh. If he had ploughed the salt

seas, and endured the blisters of a tropical sun for his money, as

I have done, he would know better how to guide it.”

Dione intuitively turned her face from the orange-coloured Indian

towards the rose-coloured youth, and sighed.

“Are you to be present at the steeple-chase on the 19th?” said

Eyrymount to Nashon.

“Surely,” replied he, readily, “I canna resist a steeple-chase. I

ken nae sport like that mixture o’ rinnin, louping, manœuvring,

jockeyin, tumblin, an’ brak-neck feats o’ horsemanship. It’s right

glorious. If life had naething better to offer us, as a reward, for

a’ we are doomed to suffer between the cradle and the grave, a guid

steeple-chase wad be aneugh to mak us a’ wish to live our lives

owre again. What are the rules?—will Springall be admitted?”

“No; he is beyond the age,” replied Græme, “but Hawthorn will sell

ye Copperbottom.”

“Weel, I’ll ca’ the morn an’ see Copper,” said Nashon. “If I buy,

I’ll ride him mysel—I’ll trust nae jockey. If I win I’ll gie the

gentlemen o’ the Soho Club a chance for the prize again by anither

steeple-chase, the day after the next county races, whereat,

by-the-by, I wad like to hae a sweat for the gowd cup, as a guid

way o’ bringin a person into notice, especially whar ane is his

ain jockey, as I wad be, wearin a green silk jacket as livery.

Hoo gran’ it wad be to hear the leddies cryin, ‘Success to the

green!’—bettin their gowd pins on his comin up in guid time to the

winnin post, and then shakin hands wi’ the victor, wi’ a thousand

gratulations on his success!”

“Do my ears deceive me,” said Dione to herself, “as my eyes seemed

to do when I saw the piebald character of his dress? How powerful

is pride, when it is stimulated in the hidden recesses of the mind

of the peasant, by the magic wand of fortune! Alas! alas! my choice

is now between a foolish beggar and a heartless nabob.”

The effect produced by Nashon on the whole company assembled

at Eyrymount was extraordinary. The master and mistress were

delighted with him, and devoted him in their imaginations, to a

speedy immolation on the altar of the god of folly; the members

of the Soho Club already marked him out as a good pigeon, whose

tail-feathers would enable them to fly yet a little longer in the

high regions of fashion; Dione sighed for a lost lover and ruined

simpleton; and Benjamin Rice counted, in his imagination, his

guineas, and congratulated himself on a gout that prevented him

from engaging in sports that might tend to dissipate them, along

with the remnant of a ruined constitution, which sack, and sago

pudding, and panado, could scarcely support.

Nashon bought Copperbottom, ran him, carried the prize, and sold

him next day for ten pounds of profit; on which great occasion

he informed his housekeeper, Esther Maclean, that he intended to

entertain the whole Soho Club at Outfieldhaugh—a communication

that produced a mixed feeling of terror and wonder on the part of

the old housekeeper, which she had no words adequately to express.

She wished him to be genteel, and like the other gentlemen of the

neighbourhood; but she had heard hints that he was getting fast

into the vortex of a sportsman’s dissipation; and the intelligence

that he was to entertain the “Soho”—equal, in her estimation,

to dining the Cham of Tartary and his staff—confirmed the

report, and filled her with sorrow and regret. All her efforts to

dissuade her master from his purpose were unavailing: cards were

issued to forty gentlemen; the question put by Esther, where he

was to find the necessary service of table apparatus, the wine,

the cooks, and the waiters, required to be answered; and he was

at no loss for an answer on a subject he had deeply considered.

Mounting Springall, he hastened away to a town at some considerable

distance, and procured an estimate from an innkeeper of the expense

of his projected entertainment. The innkeeper undertook to supply

everything, with livery servants, unknown to the company, and

keep his engagement a profound secret, for so much a-head. The

entertainment went off in great style; Nashon presided, with all

the manners of a thorough-bred blood sportsman—drank, sang, and

talked of races and steeple-chases, with all the slang and spirit

of the craft. The wine, the plate, the service, the servants

in livery, and all the appurtenances of a great establishment,

apparently belonging to the merry master of the revels, were of

the best kind, and produced universal admiration. The spirit and

bounty of Nashon were extolled to the utmost, and Squire Hawthorn

admitted, in a whisper to Græme, that the loan of the boots had

been amply repaid. Nashon again drank them all out. The extent of

the potations made no change on the expense, and a folly that was

never to be repeated might be carried with impunity to the confines

of madness.

Next morning, after encountering the lugubrious face of Esther

Maclean, who saw in the hired servants and the broken dishes and

glasses all the worst symptoms of approaching ruin, Nashon went out

to enjoy the refreshing breezes that swept along the Well Burn;

and, at her beloved spot, the Monks’ Well, he found Dione Græme

sitting, wrapped in meditation.

“Do I see,” said Dione, as he approached her, “the same individual

I met on this spot on a former occasion, when I thought his

unpolished prudence and good sense would have enabled him to profit

by a disclosure I made without intention.”

“The very same—Nashon Heatherton,” replied he, “wi’ nae change in

him, except it be that he is, if possible, still mair prudent and

far wiser than he was on that eventfu day.”

“I know you are a riddle, sir,” said Dione—“a charade I cannot

solve. Do not the neighbours say, what I have partially witnessed,

that you are inebriated with the spirit of the fox-hunter, and fast

riding to ruin, at the nod and by the example of my father, who,

however, is making his folly subservient to his purpose of ruining

you?”

“A’ true, my bonny Dione,” replied Nashon. “Naebody can be blamed

for sayin what I wish him to think. They say, and you suppose,

that I am ridin to the deevil; but will ye believe me when I tell

you that I am only ridin to _you_? If you’ll tak me as I stand,

and marry me in spite o’ your faither an’ mither, I’ll gie up my

mad pranks, and sit quietly down, as a douce, sensible man, whase

greatest ambition and highest pleasure would be to minister to the

comfort and happiness o’ Dione Græme.”

“My father and mother will never consent to that,” replied Dione.

“It was only this morning that my mother urged me to receive more

kindly, or rather less unkindly, the addresses of Benjamin Rice;

but how can it be that your behaving as a fool can ever come in

place of the consent of my parents, or procure me for your wife,

even if I were favourably affected towards you?”

“If you will tell me that you love me and will become my wife,

provided I get your faither and mither’s consent to our union,”

replied Nashon, “I will tell you the wisdom o’ my folly, an’

explain my riddle—that, in place o’ ridin to the deevil, I am

ridin to Dione.”

“I must believe the evidence of my senses,” replied Dione. “I

have already given you reason to suppose that I was well affected

towards you; but, if Benjamin Rice has disgusted me, Nashon

Heatherton has terrified me; and I must first see an amendment of

your conduct before I pledge myself to what may be my ruin.”

“Time tries whinstanes, Dione,” replied Nashon; “an’ my folly

is no quite sae hardened an’ perverse. If ye gang sae muckle by

the evidence o’ yer senses, I hae nae objection to mak them the

test o’ my conduct, when a’ its pairts are seen thegither, an’ my

motives for actin as I now do can be properly understood. Will ye

be kind to me, Dione, till I prove myself the same prudent Nashon

Heatherton you first thought me?”

“Most certainly,” replied Dione; “for it is my wish to respect you

and——”

“Love you,” said Nashon, making out her sentences. “Dione Græme,

if ye wad only repeat, wi’ thae bonny lips the words I hae now

uttered, I wad soon change the wish into the thing wished for; an’,

what is mair, I wad mak your love the handmaiden o’ your respect,

whilk, being an act o’ the judgment, whase laws are eternal, is

mair necessary to the happiness o’ a marriage than the love o’ the

fickle thing they ca’ the heart, whilk beats fast and slow wi’ the

changes o’ wind and weather.”

“Would that my respect were already equal to my—my—feeling for

you!” said Dione, blushing.

“The mair appropriate word ye hae now blinked,” said Nashon, “wad

hae been mair pleasant to me; but I maun be content wi’ your

thoughts till I shew mysel mair worthy o’ their bein revealed. The

morn’s the race-day, an’ my steeple-chase prize is to be run for

the day after. Ye may smile as ye like, but the laugh may yet be on

the other side. Ye see how grave I can be when I speak o’ serious

things. I understand your faither has bought a fine new tandem for

the occasion. We gae forward merrily—dashin awa in fine style.

Dinna we, Dione?”

“And where it is to end I know not,” replied she. “My father, I

understand, is merely an extravagant man, who will soon see the end

of his fortune; for I have heard he has been already applying to Mr

Langbane, the rich laird of Conybarns, for a loan of money; but, as

for you, there is a mystery about your extravagance which I cannot

penetrate—though this much I can easily understand, that he who

trusts himself upon a stormy sea in an open boat, may miscalculate

the power of his own resources in saving him from a watery grave.”

Nashon laughed at the fears of Dione, and, before they parted,

assumed the boldness of sealing the protestations of his

affection, and the sincerity of his views of ultimate prudence and

amendment, by a kiss, which, though it produced a blush extending

from bandeau to tucker, was, in the end, forgiven with such a

sweetness of expression and so modest a demeanour, that a stoic

could not have resisted the impulse which stimulated the thief to a

repetition of the petty larceny.

Nashon’s subsequent proceedings were of the same character as those

already detailed. He attended the races in a borrowed tandem,

without hinting anything concerning the proprietorship of what was

presumed to be his own. His generosity in being the contributor of

the prize of the next steeple-chase was lauded by all those who

got a chance for winning it. Dinners followed at Eyrymount and

other places; and Nashon, following in the wake of Græme, though

sometimes leading the way, appeared to be fast hurrying to the gulf

which awaits the victims of passions whose gratification holds no

proportion to the means of supporting a dissolute life. A year

passed on, during which a great deal of money was spent by Græme,

and not a little by Nashon, whose resources from the funds he got

as executor of the proprietor of Outfieldhaugh were, however,

more than sufficient for a much greater expenditure. In the midst

of this dissipation he was repeatedly attempted to be reclaimed

by those who wished him well, and, among others, his old master,

Langbane, had many interviews with him, with a view of producing

some salutary sense of the imprudence of his conduct.

“I hae warned you,” said the old miser, “an’ my warnins are nae

beetles’ sangs i’ the auld wa’s o’ spaein wives. But the truth o’

our proverbs works out in spite o’ a’ the warnins o’ Solomon; an I

think we hae ane that says, ‘Set a beggar on horseback an’ he’ll

ride to the deevil.’ I hae seen that verified often i’ my day; and

anither o’ the same kind—‘Reek comes aye down again, however high

it flees’—is just as pithy and pertinent to your case. I never mak

an apology for gi’en a man a guid advice; because, if he taks the

poker and drives me out o’ his house, he just verifies another guid

auld sayin—‘He that comes atween a fule and his ruin, is like him

wha interferes atween a man an’ his wife—he’s sure o’ the reddin

straik.’”

“But ye needna be afraid o’ my poker, guid friend,” replied Nashon,

laughing. “I tak a’ ye hae said in guid part, though I fear ye

wadna come sae weel aff at Eyrymount.”

“I believe if I wad lend him the three thousand pounds he wants

me to advance to him,” said Langbane, with a smile, “I might say

onything I liked to him.”

“An’ will ye lend him the money?” inquired Nashon, anxiously.

“I wad rather borrow yours, were it for nae ither object than to

keep it for ye,” replied Langbane.

“A joke has sometimes mair wisdom in’t than the pulpit oration o’ a

greetin minister,” replied Nashon. “I hae nae great confidence i’

my power o’ keepin thegither the five thousand pounds I hae yet o’

my executry; an’, if Eyrymount wad tak the loan frae me, I wad tak

a mortgage owre Eyrymount as my security; but I hae guid reason to

think he winna borrow frae his ain vassal. What wad ye think o’ my

giein you the siller, an’ lettin you lend it him in your name, you

giein me an assignation to the debt.”

“As your friend, Nashon, an’ wishin to keep thegither siller

whase wings are fast fledgin, I hae nae objection to your plan,”

replied Langbane. “I hae only ae remark to mak—Wha is to draw

the interest? for, if I assign the debt to ye, I canna tak the

interest, an’ then it will come out that ye are the creditor.”

“Muckle will come and gae afore my interest is due an’ payable,”

replied Nashon. “I hae every faith in ye. Here is a check on my

banker for three thousand pounds. Eyrymount, ye ken, pays the

expense o’ the lawyer’s papers.”

“Ye’re as well up to thae things as I am,” replied Langbane.

“There’s only ae thing ye dinna seem to ken.”

“What is that?” inquired Nashon.

“There’s a sma commission paid generally to negociators o’ lent

siller,” said the miser. “I’ll only charge ye a half per cent.”

“Weel, ye’ll get it,” said Nashon, “after ye work for’t. There’s

nae commission paid aforehand.”

“That’s true, too,” replied Langbane. “Ye’ll be a proud man wi’ a

bond ower Eyrymount.”

And Langbane left Nashon, with the view of going direct to

Eyrymount, to tell him that he was now willing to lend him the

money he required. The transaction was very soon finished. Langbane

got a mortgage over the property of Eyrymount, and assigned it

over to Nashon, who locked it past in his coffers, along with the

title-deeds of his property and the documents of his remaining cash.

After Eyrymount got this large sum, he increased still farther

his expenditure; while Nashon, having, to some extent, gained

his object, shewed indications of a wish to draw up. Eyrymount

noticed this, and appeared displeased, asking Nashon his reason

for not joining him in the prosecution of his schemes of pleasure.

Nashon replied, that his money was done; an answer which the other

apparently expected, and with which he seemed delighted.

“I have an overplus of ready cash just now,” he said. “What is

the use of money but to purchase with it the pleasures which this

life holds out in such profusion to those who are willing to buy?

Take a couple of thousands from me, and give me your note of hand

for it; a mere piece of form, you are aware, as I never would put

it to execution, relying, as I do implicitly, on your honour for

repayment.”

“What interest wad ye be expectin for’t,” said Nashon.

“Oh, a bagatelle. Say five per cent,” replied the other.

“Very weel,” said Nashon, who knew that Eyrymount was paying

himself five per cent, for the same money to Langbane. “I carena

though I lighten ye o’ the twa thousand; but I see nae source o’

repayin’t, save frae the flesh an’ banes o’ Outfieldhaugh.”

“Things will have gone far, and many changes been effected in us

and our friendships, ere that issue could take place,” replied the

other, who went to bring the money.

The transaction was instantly closed; the bill was given at a day’s

date, and seized by Eyrymount, as would have been the titles to

Outfieldhaugh, if destined to the library fire, their hereditary

enemy. The same course of life was pursued by him, and Nashon still

kept up, for a time, the appearance of going through, with all

due rapidity, the two thousand pounds he had thus borrowed from

his friend. The thousand pounds that had been left in Eyrymount’s

hands, of the sum he had borrowed from Langbane, was not sufficient

to keep him going for any length of time, and application was,

therefore, made to the same source for two thousand more. Nashon

supplied the cash, which was, in fact, just the two thousand

pounds he had got from Eyrymount; and Langbane’s mortgage over the

Eyrymount estate was assigned to him in the same way as the former.

Having waited until he thought a great part of this second loan was

spent, Nashon, who had had, in the meantime, several meetings with

Dione, at the Monks’ Well, was informed by her, that her father

and mother were now begun to press the marriage between her and

Benjamin Rice so urgently that she must either consent, or submit

to be treated as a rebel to their authority, and an alien from

their affections and interests.

“You shall never marry Benjamin Rice,” said Nashon.

“And whom shall I marry then?” said the unhappy girl, who had made

her communication to him in tears—“a ruined spendthrift, who has

borrowed two thousand from my father, and thereby placed himself

and his property in the power of one who, as I told you, had

originally in his view the seizure of an old part of his estate?

Where is all your wisdom new? Alas! how foolish I have been to put

any faith in the professions of one who is incapable of avoiding

a danger pointed out to his open eyes! To marry Benjamin Rice is

misery, if not death—to marry you is wretchedness and shame,

besides rebellion against the commands of my parents.”

“Calm yersel, Dione,” said Nashon. “I shall go instantly and ask

your father’s consent to our marriage.”

“If an objection existed formerly to your procuring that consent,”

replied Dione, still weeping, “think ye that is removed by your

being now in poverty, and my father’s debtor?”

“We’ll lat alane thae subtle questions, my Dione,” said Nashon, “an

try our mettle. Your father is my friend. Do we no ride thegither,

drink thegither, and laugh thegither? Why should he refuse me his

dochter, if he gives me his confidence? He never rides, drinks, or

laughs wi’ Benjamin Rice. I’ll awa to him, an’ try him. A faint

heart never wan sae fair a lady as Dione Græme.”

Nashon accordingly opened the subject to Eyrymount.

“I hae been thinkin o’ takin a wife,” he began, “to see an’ reclaim

me, an’ keep me frae ruin, and Outfieldhaugh frae the hammer.”

“Whom have you in contemplation?” said Eyrymount, fearfully

apprehensive that he was after a rich heiress whose fortune would

relieve him and his property from difficulties.

“I hae been thinking o’ twa or three,” replied Nashon. “Conybarns’

dochter, ye ken, will be a rich cratur, though she’s neither a lily

o’ the valley nor a rose o’ Sharon.”

“She has the king’s evil,” rejoined Eyrymount, whose objection to

this match was apparent.

“I thank ye for the intelligence,” replied Nashon. “What say ye to

yer ain Dione, provided I could get her consent?”

“My Dione!” cried Eyrymount, in surprise and pride. “Allow me

to tell ye, Mr Nashon Heatherton, that I do not intend to marry

my daughter to my vassal and my debtor. I am surprised at the

confidence that enabled you to propose so ridiculous a project,

though I am glad the secret has come out. It has been for this that

you have been dashing forth so brilliantly; expecting, no doubt,

that, by covering the coarse metal of your original uneducated

condition by the tinsel of fashion, you could produce an impression

upon the heart of my daughter. Thus you repay me for my kindness in

taking you out, introducing you to society, and even filling your

pocket with my money, which, by the by, I will now thank you to

repay.”

“I canna pay you,” replied Nashon; “the money is gane—at least I

hae nane o’t. Ye maun just wait till I save it oot o’ the rents o’

my property.”

“I will do no such thing,” said Eyrymount, who thought it was

now time to quarrel; “I must have either a mortgage, or an

adjudication, which is just a legal mortgage. Take your choice.”

“I winna meddle wi’t,” replied Nashon; “a wilfu man maun hae his

way. I think ye should just gie me Dione, an’ that wad settle a’;

an’, besides, it wad bring the twa properties thegither.”

“A man that cannot refrain from impertinence, should not trust

himself in other people’s houses,” cried the incensed Eyrymount. “I

request your instant departure.”

“You’ll maybe ca’ on me some day sune,” said Nashon, quietly, as he

took his hat; “I will be happy to see you at Outfieldhaugh.”

“You will soon see my deputy, at any rate,” said Eyrymount.

“I am much, obliged to ye,” said Nashon, and retired, with a very

low bow.

Eyrymount, who thought his proceedings ripe, instructed his

agent to raise an action of adjudication againt Nashon, whereby

Outfieldhaugh might be forcibly mortgaged to him, in security of

his two thousand pounds. The agent proceeded with all speed to

comply with the commands of his client; and, on a subsequent day,

a messenger-at-arms called at Outfieldhaugh, accompanied by his

witnesses, for the purpose of serving, as it is termed, or, in

plainer language, of giving a copy of the summons to the debtor.

“This is what the lawyers ca’ an adjudication?” said Nashon.

“Yes,” replied the messenger, gruffly.

“Can ae messenger serve twa maisters?” said Nashon.

“Yes,” replied the man.

“Weel,” said Nashon, “will ye tak a step owre to Eyrymount, an’

deliver to the laird o’ that property this requisition?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the messenger, taking the paper and

reading it. “I see it is a requisition to pay you £5000, contained

in two bonds, by Eyrymount, to Murdoch Langbane, and assigned by

him to you. It should properly be intimated by a notary, and one of

my concurrents has that qualification, though now greatly reduced.”

“See that it’s legally dune,” said Nashon. “My agent, Gilbert

Shortpage, drew it up, an’ I warrant it correct.”

“It shall be done instantly,” said the messenger, who filled up

the notary’s name in the paper, and departed to execute his new and

unexpected commission.

At the time the messenger rapped at the gate of Eyrymount, Græme

and his lady were occupied in talking about the prospect they now

had of seizing upon Outfieldhaugh.

“About this time the ambitious Nashon will be receiving my summons

of adjudication,” said Græme.

“A much more suitable gift, from his superior, than Dione Græme,”

said Madam.

“What is this, sir?” said Græme to the messenger, who had just

opened the door of the apartment.

“A _requisition_, your honour,” replied the messenger.

“From whom?” said Græme “Nashon Heatherton,” replied the messenger.

“A _requisition_ for delay, I fancy,” said Græme. “Ha ha! ha! He is

too late. The law must take its course Go tell him I cannot comply

with it.”

“Would not your honour better read it?” said the messenger.

“Oh, the usual cant, I presume,” said Græme, opening the paper and

glancing over it. “What is this?” he added, letting go the paper,

and falling back on his chair.

“What is the matter?” cried Madam, taking up the document, and

flying for a smelling-bottle at the same time.

“It is, Madam,” said the messenger, while she applied the salts to

her husband’s nose, “a requisition for payment of £5000, due to Mr

Heatherton, as assignee of Mr Langbane.”

“Heaven have mercy on us!” cried she, while she continued her

efforts to restore her husband.

The messenger and his men departed, and left Eyrymount and his wife

to the full anguish of their critical situation.

The news of this proceeding got wind, and reached the ears of

Benjamin Rice, who thought it prudent to suspend his visits

to Eyrymount. Græme had now the prospect of losing not only

Outfieldhaugh, but his own patrimonial estate. What could he do

but give Dione to Nashon? This he did. The couple were married;

the two properties were afterwards conjoined; and the sportsman of

Outfieldhaugh distanced all his competitors.

THE SEA FIGHT.

“Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep

Her march is o’er the mountain wave,

Her home is on the deep.”

CAMPBELL.

It was on the close of a sultry day in August, about the end of the

French war, that a carriage was slowly wending its way down one of

the principal streets of the town of Berwick. The dust with which

it was covered, and the jaded appearance of the horses, seemed to

betoken that it came from a distance. The postilion, a pursy little

man, whose rosy face bore the indubitable marks of a worshipper at

the shrine of Bacchus, drew up at the first inn which presented

itself to view. Out of the carriage stepped a young man who was

plainly dressed in the garb of a sailor. He had nothing particular

about his dress to distinguish him from the common run of seamen;

but his upright figure, and that indescribable something which is

peculiar to a “certain class,” and which serves to distinguish them

from those in humbler situations in life, at first sight shewed

that he belonged to the former. He appeared to be about twenty-six

years of age, while his weather-beaten face, and a slight scar on

his left cheek, shewed that he had borne both “the battle and the

breeze.” He was accompanied by a squat muscular-looking fellow, who

seemed to act in the capacity of servant; although his sea jargon

and hard horny hands shewed him to be more accustomed to the duty

of a sailor than that of a lacquey. After seeing that their baggage

was properly taken care of, they retired together to a private room.

“Well, Bill,” said he who seemed the superior to his companion,

“how do you feel after your ride? For my part, I would sooner sail

round the world in a gale of wind, and the ship pitching bows under

all the time, than be again jammed up and jostled in that infernal

cage.”

“Why, sir,” rejoined his companion, “I am as sore as if I had been

soundly thrashed with a handspike; but, howd-soever, that doesn’t

matter—we must look out for squalls on land as well as on sea,

till we are fairly housed either under ground or in Davy Jones.”

“Take my spy-glass,” said the young officer, “walk down to the

shore, and see if our little hooker is appearing in sight yet.”

“As I take it,” replied Bill, “she can’t be far _astarn_ of us, for

she has had a spanking breeze all day.”

So saying, snatching up his hat, he was preparing to quit the room,

when the officer bawled out—

“’Vast there, my lad—I’ll accompany you.” And they both descended

together.

Turning down the arch which leads to the pier, they strolled along

till they overtook four or five men who were lounging at that part

where the pier turns outward at an obtuse angle. Below them lay

a longboat, apparently intended for piloting the ships into the

harbour. One of them was a man about sixty years of age, whose

small head and piercing eye, slouched under a broad-brimmed hat,

were strangely contrasted with the bluff and muscular appearance

of his body. His face was covered with a thick shaggy beard, which

seemed not to have been in the hands of the barber for a month

at least. The rest of the men had nothing remarkable in their

appearance; but all of them seemed to be at least twenty years

younger than the old fellow just mentioned.

“Well, my lads,” said the officer, “any ships in sight?”

“Never a one,” replied the old fellow, in a gruff voice; “we may

stand here all the day blowing our fingers, and whistling to Molly

Jackson, long enough before she send us that windfall.”

“Perhaps that windfall may happen sooner than you expect,” replied

the officer. “I expect a vessel soon; she cannot be far distant.”

“Which direction does she come?” eagerly asked the old man. But no

sooner were the words out of his mouth than a square-rigged vessel

was observed doubling St Abb’s, which had before concealed her from

their view. In a minute the blue-jack flew up to her foretopmast

head.

“There comes the little _Hawk_,” cried Bill, rubbing his hands

for joy; “there comes the _Hawk_, as tight a little craft as ever

fought her guns on one deck.”

The sudden appearance of the brig seemed to act like an electric

shock upon the men. In an instant, hands were seen disappearing

from the flaps of their dirty canvass trousers; and each scrambling

down the pier as best he could, seized hold of their respective

oars, and, in a moment, the longboat was under way, the men pulling

as if it had been for life or death.

“Stop!” cried the officer; “take me on board with you.”

“Give way, my hearties,” roared out the old man, without attending

to him. “Give way—there is Hoby Elliot will be at our heels

directly.”

“I am commander of that vessel,” cried the officer, running along

the pier to keep up with the boat; but the men were too eager to

get at the vessel to attend to him.

“Well, Bill,” said he, turning to his companion, “see it is no go

with these fellows; so you will just step up to the inn, get our

luggage down, and here is some money to discharge our reckoning.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Bill, and moved off.

The brig, by this time, had neared the harbour considerably with

the wind, from the north-north-west, blowing right upon her

quarter. The young officer could not help a feeling of pride and

satisfaction as he fondly gazed upon his little vessel scudding

before the breeze, while her taut masts and long, slight yards,

literally covered with canvass, seemed to bend beneath their load.

There is a sympathy which the sailor feels for his ship, which it

is difficult to describe. It is not that love which a parent feels

for his child—nor yet the love of a child to its parent; it is

not that which a brother feels for his sister. No; it is something

stronger than this: it is the affection which an ardent lover feels

for his mistress—it is a love _riveted_ by the strongest links of

attachment; in it he has weathered many a tough gale; in it are

contained his jovial shipmates, bound together by mutual hardships

and perils.

The prospect which at this moment presented itself to the officer’s

view was beautiful in the extreme. To the south, beyond the long,

flat sands of Holy Island, were seen the old castle and abbey of

Lindisfern, hallowed by so many sacred associations; beyond them,

were seen rising, in the distance, the castles of Bamburgh and

Dunstanburg; to the west, were the fields yellow with corn ready

for the sickle; to the north, was the bold promontory of St Abb’s,

the finest headland in Europe, jutting into the sea; to the east,

was the German Ocean, stretching away till the view was bounded by

the clouds in the distant horizon, which seemed level with the sea;

and, what to the officer was dearer than all these, there was his

little vessel, the pride of his heart, skimming, like a thing of

life, over the blue waters.

Before proceeding farther with our present story, it may not be

amiss, first, to give the reader some insight into the history of

the hero of our tale.

Harry Fenwick was the son of a small landed proprietor in the

south-west of England, who, having unfortunately embarked his

whole fortune in a mercantile speculation, was, by a sudden loss,

reduced to poverty. The distress occasioned by this misfortune was

increased by the sudden death of his wife, which so preyed upon his

spirits that he soon after died of a broken heart, leaving poor

Harry and his little sister Susan unprotected in the world. But

Providence, who watches over the orphan and the destitute, soon

raised them up a protector in the person of a maternal uncle, who,

having been abroad for a number of years, had amassed a handsome

fortune, but arrived in England too late to close the eyes of his

sister. Having no children, he determined to adopt his nephew and

niece, who, from that day, became as his own. Harry was fourteen

years old on the death of his parents; and his uncle, Benjamin

Davis, determined to bring him up to his own profession—that of

a sailor. He was accordingly entered as a midshipman on board the

_Ranger_, a fifty-gun ship, where his conduct was such, that he

rose from one degree to another, till, at length, in an engagement

with a ship of superior metal, he so distinguished himself, that,

in reward for his bravery, he was promoted to the command of the

brig _Hawk_, mounting eight twelves and two short carronades, with

a crew of eighty hands, as smart fellows as ever sailed on salt

water. At the time when our story begins, Harry had left his ship

at Leith, to visit an old friend of his uncle’s, at whose house

he was a frequent visiter. Certain it is, that however much Harry

loved the yarns and company of the old tar, yet there was another

no less powerful attraction, in the person of his gentle and lovely

daughter Maria. Maria Everet was not what most people would call a

beauty; but the grace and symmetry of her slight figure, her sweet,

pensive manners, and the melodiousness of her voice, threw around

her a charm which captivated much more effectually than those whose

beauty dazzles at first sight.

Often would Maria listen, in silent wonder and admiration, to the

conversations between her father and Harry, of hairbreadth escapes,

of storms and battles; and, stealing a timid glance at the young

and hardy sailor, she would sigh, and, like Desdemona, would desire

him to repeat again what he had been relating. Harry, on the other

hand, felt interested in the lovely girl. At first he esteemed her

for her father’s sake, but a better acquaintance made him love her

for her own; and it was with secret joy and inward gratification

that the old father observed the growing attachment between Harry

and his daughter. Often would Harry, when cruising on the coast,

think of the peaceful home of the old sailor, where dwelt she

whom he loved above all the world; and, however far absent, his

thoughts, like the needle in his compass, always reverted to the

north. Great, then, was his disappointment, when, on arriving at

Everet’s house, he found that Maria had gone to England to visit

his uncle Ben and sister Susan. Without stopping longer than to

take a night’s rest, he set out for Berwick, where his ship was to

wait till his arrival; and, as he was bound for Plymouth, after an

eighteen months’ cruise, he determined to call on his uncle, who

dwelt on the sea coast. But to return to our story.

By the time the vessel had reached the mouth of the harbour, our

old friend, Bill Curtis, was hurrying along the pier, blowing like

a porpoise, and bawling out to the porter who accompanied him—

“Come, bear a hand, my lad—I see they are just manning the

six-oared gig!”

On the approach of the gig, Harry leaped down to the landing-place,

and stepped on board. In a moment, the caps of the sailors were

doffed in salutation to their commander; and a smile of pleasure

lighted up their weather-beaten countenances as he addressed them

in a kindly manner.

Harry was received on the quarter by his first and second

lieutenants; when the sailors, no longer restrained by the presence

of their commander, and bursting with impatience, asked all at

once—

“Well, Bill, what’s brought the captain and you so soon back?—has

the bird flown?”

“Avast a bit,” cried Bill—“I must first fill up a hole in my

stomach, big enough to hold a hogshead.” So, bursting past, he

descended the companion-ladder, and straightway betook himself to

the galley, where the cook, an old tar who had got his larboard

fin carried away by a cannon ball, was serving, out of a monstrous

ladle, a mess of beef and greens to the old pilot and his boat’s

crew, who were already devouring with their eyes the promised

feast—“Shiver my tafferel, if I don’t think I could swallow a

shark, bones and all, for sheer hunger!” roared Bill. So saying, he

slapped his knife into the beef, and ate as heartily as if he had

not tasted meat for a week.

At this instant, the boatswain’s whistle was heard piping up all

hands.

“What’s the matter now?” said the cook.

“Oh,” said Bill, “they are going to get the ship under way, I

suppose.”

“The ship under way!” said the old pilot, rising from a dark corner

where he was sitting. “Is the captain not going to enter the

harbour?”

“No, no,” replied Bill; “he is in too great a hurry to see his

sweetheart for that.”

“Where is she?” asked the old cook.

“On the coast of Norfolk,” said Bill, “where we are to stop on our

passage. But I must not stand speechifying here while the rest are

busy.”

So saying, he sprung on deck, followed by the old pilot.

When Bill and his companion came upon deck, they found Harry there,

giving orders. The old pilot went up to him, and doffing his hat,

said—

“Sir, I hope you are not going to get the ship under way to-night.”

“Why not?” asked Harry.

“Look, sir,” exclaimed the pilot, turning to the northeast, “do you

not see how the sky is lowering over yonder? and do you not feel

what a roll of the sea there is?—a sure sign of a coming storm,

if there has not been a gale before. Take an old man’s advice for

once, and one who has weathered many a tough gale—keep not to sea

to-night, but enter the harbour, where you will be safe from every

wind that blows.”

“Thank you, my old boy,” said Harry; “but a seaman must not be

frightened with every capful of wind that may blow.” So saying, he

moved off to give directions.

By this time the ship was again under way; but, although Harry had

disregarded the advice of the old pilot about entering the harbour,

yet he determined to make the ship snug for what might happen. So,

seizing a speaking-trumpet, he bawled out to some men aloft—

“Send down the royals and topgallantmasts there.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” shouted half a dozen voices from the clouds; and in

a minute down they came.

Harry, coming up to Archer, the second lieutenant, asked him what

he thought of the weather.

“I believe we are going to get a stiff north-easter,” replied

Archer; “and, by the _Lord Harry_, there it comes!” said he,

pointing to the east.

“Well, then,” said Harry, “get the topsails double-reefed, new lash

the guns, and send the carpenter and his mate to secure the boats

and batten down the hatchways. What course do you steer?” asked

Harry at the man at the wheel.

“South-east and by south,” said the man.

“Then keep her head two more points to the east; we must stand

without the Fern Islands, as the wind seems inclined to eastern

upon us.”

At this instant, a heavy squall struck the ship, and almost laid

her on her beam-ends. “Luff, my lad—luff!” roared out Harry to the

man at the wheel.

Seeing the ship much pressed, a midshipman with six men, were sent

to take in the staysails, by which the ship was eased considerably.

The wind, by this time, had risen to a perfect hurricane; the rain

fell in torrents, and the sea-birds were screaming and fluttering

about the rigging, as if seeking for shelter from the wind; the

sea, likewise, had risen prodigiously, and the ship, groaning and

weltering at every plunge, seemed to be cracking at every timber,

whilst the creaking of the guns and the rattling of the blocks

greatly increased the uproar and confusion.

“Surely some hag is dead to-night, it blows so desperately,” said

Clark, coming aft to where Harry was standing; “but, as the ship

makes good weather on this reach, as she is nearly bow on to the

sea, it may be as well to keep her on this tack during the night.”

“O sirs,” said the carpenter, coming up with a face as long as his

arm, “the ship is sinking, and we shall all go to the bottom.”

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

“The ship has sprung a leak in the powder-magazine, and the water

is pouring in like a sluice.”

“Hang your long phiz!” said an old grim fellow of a quartermaster,

standing by the main-chains; “why don’t you go and stop it, then?”

“Do you, Clark,” said Harry, “go down and see what is the matter;

and do you, carpenter, get your crew and man the weather pump.”

“There is a leak, indeed,” said Clark, returning; “but nothing to

make a work about.”

“An ugly sea that!” said the old quartermaster; “that greenhorn at

the helm has wet me into the skin. You rascal, why don’t you ease

the ship into the sea? If you carry on in that manner, you will

soon send us all to another place of worship.”

“Do you intend, sir,” said he, addressing himself to Harry, “to

stand long on this tack?”

“Yes,” replied Harry; “the ship will labour less on this tack than

on the other; and besides, it is best to get as much sea-room as

possible.”

“Had we not better run into the Fairway?” said the quartermaster;

“we are sure of getting shelter under the Big Fern; and I know the

coast well, for I was brought up in these parts.”

“That’s a good idea,” observed Harry.

“But a lee-shore is a dangerous place in a stormy night,” added

Clark.

“Oh, never fear the lee-shore—I’ll pilot you in safety; besides,

the lights will direct us.”

“Very well,” said Harry; “as the wind does not at all seem inclined

to take off, we had better do as you say; and do you, Clark, take

some men and clew up the foresail. Keep her away, my lad,” shouted

he to the man at the wheel. “So, so—steady. Ready there with the

boom-foresail halyards.”

“All ready, sir.”

“Then boom away, my lads; get the trysail down too, and we’ll run

under double-reefed topsails alone.”

The ship was much eased by this diminution of canvass, and ran much

steadier than might have been expected, only occasionally shipping

a little sea over the weather bow.

“A bit of a gale,” muttered the quartermaster to himself, as he

descended to the midshipman’s mess. “Humph,” said he, observing

the middies seated over a bowl of punch, “you seem to be enjoying

yourselves upon the strength of it.”

“Ay, and would have you to do the same,” exclaimed a little mid,

pushing him a glass of grog; “come douse your sou’-wester and join

us.”

Little invitation was needed on the part of the quartermaster, who

was one of those characters so emphatically termed, by seamen,

“_wet lads_,” and who, perhaps, very philosophically reason, that,

as they are exposed to so much fluid of a cold nature without, so a

proportionable degree of fluid of a hot nature within, is necessary

to preserve their equilibrium.

Notwithstanding this frailty, there was not a braver nor a kinder

heart in the British navy than that of the old quartermaster. The

middies he called his children; and they, in turn, were accustomed

to call him Daddy, although some of the tricks which they played

him savoured of anything but the respect which children owe to

their parents. Having fallen asleep in the midst of a song, with

his pipe in the one hand, and his glass in the other, this was

too good an opportunity for a lark to be slipped. As his head had

fallen back upon his seat, the middies slyly tied a cracker to his

pigtail, and were preparing to ignite it, when the quartermaster

suddenly awoke, and perceiving the trick they were about to play

him, he seized hold of a rope’s-end and soon made the middies seek

shelter from his fury under the table, where, being unable to get

at them, he sung out—

“Blow me, but you small craft have got into too shoal water for me

to follow you now; but if I get my big guns to bear upon you, I

will blow you out of the water.”

A sailor at this moment entering to tell the quartermaster that

he was required on deck, put an end to the joke, and relieved the

midshipmen from their confinement.

When the quartermaster came on deck, the Fern lights were right

a-head; and, by his directions, the vessel was soon moored under

the lee of the island, in safety from the tempest. Here, after

stopping two days, they again set sail, and had already got off the

coast of Norfolk, when, in the grey of the morning, a man at the

mast-head called out—

“On deck there, ahoy!”

“Well, my lad?” cried Archer, whose watch it was on deck.

“A large ship with French colours, on the weather bow.”

“Call up the captain and first lieutenant,” said Archer to a

midshipman.

“Mast-head again, ahoy!—what more do you make of her?”

“She looms large, and seems coming down upon us right before the

wind.”

Harry and Clark now came upon deck, followed by the old

quartermaster, who, rubbing his eyes, exclaimed—

“Why what’s the matter now?”

Archer pointed out the vessel, which was still at a great distance,

but evidently nearing them.

“All hands upon deck there!” shouted Harry; “boatswain, pipe up all

hands; and do you, Clark, go up aloft and see what you can make of

her.”

“She is a large vessel,” exclaimed Clark, looking through his

spy-glass, “with French colours and ship rig. There, I see her

side—all black, and white ports; there is one, two, three—I

cannot count them, they are so thick.”

“Ay, let her come,” cried Harry—“I warrant her she gets as good

as she brings. Up with the British ensign, my lads, and let the

Frenchman see what we are.”

“And I’ll take good care that it shall not come down in a hurry,

with your honour’s leave,” exclaimed the old quartermaster. So

saying, he mounted the rigging, and nailed the ensign to the mast.

“Now, Mr Frenchman, when that comes down, we’ll strike, but not

till then.”

All hands were now on deck, and straining their eyes with looking

at the strange sail.

“Get the ship clear for action,” roared out Harry; “run out the

guns there; pull down the studding-sails. Port!” to the man at the

helm. “So.”

The deck of the brig at this moment presented a most interesting

sight—all hands as busy as possible making arrangements for

the engagement. Powder-boxes, sponges, and buckets were strewed

along the deck—while some were loading the guns, others securing

the boats along the booms, and all in high glee at the thoughts

of having a peppering match at the Frenchman. The brig was soon

cleared, with the guns loaded and double-shotted on both sides, and

every man at his post stripped to his shirt.

There is perhaps no scene more awfully solemn than that which

is presented by a ship going into action. The utmost stillness

everywhere prevails, only occasionally broken by the commands of

the officers, delivered in a suppressed tone, or the whispers of

the sailors delivering to each other little commissions to their

wives or relations, if any of them should fall in battle. ’Tis

then that the sailor’s heart beats high with hope and expectation,

mingled with that undefined emotion of anxiety and dread which the

approach of danger always excites. But let the action once begin,

and let him hear the guns thundering over his head ’tis then that

the sailor forgets his hopes and his fears in his ardour for the

conflict. But to return. The breeze had now freshened; and the

Frenchman, scudding before it under a press of sail, was now almost

within gunshot.

“Hang your impudence, you French lubber!” mumbled the old

quartermaster to himself, as he paced up and down the deck with a

quick unsteady pace—“do you think to run our little vessel under

water? But, big as you are, Mr Monsieur, if the little _Hawk_ does

not make you sheer off as if you had run foul of a lee-shore, my

name is not Jack Scroggins.”

The Frenchman seemed inclined to confirm the opinion of the old

tar; for on he came, without altering his course, till, on coming

within hail of the brig, he bawled out—

“Pull down your colours and bring to, or else I’ll sink you.”

“Keep your ship away, then,” shouted Harry, “that I may bring her

alongside.”

The Frenchman accordingly did so; but passed so near as almost to

carry away the brig’s toppinglift.

“Now, luff my lad, and fire away, my hearties!” shouted Harry,

whilst the brig shot up to the wind, and a broadside, accompanied

with three hearty cheers, told the success of the skilful manœuvre.

The Frenchman was now left far behind, when she and the brig stayed

almost at the same instant—the Frenchman to get at the brig, and

the brig to get her other broadside to bear upon the Frenchman. The

brig was worked to perfection, and came round in fine style. Not

so, however, with the Frenchman; for the sudden broadside of the

brig had put him in such confusion that, when staying his ship, he

had forgot to loose the lee yard-arm of the foresail, by which the

vessel hung in the wind, and finally missed stays. Up once more

came the little _Hawk_, and saluted him with another broadside,

which increased the confusion of the Frenchman; but, being now

on the same tack with the brig, he soon came up with her, when

bringing his whole broadside to bear upon the _Hawk_, he poured in

such a tremendous volley as to threaten entire dissolution to the

frame of the little vessel.

The guns of the contending vessels had now roused the inhabitants

of the seacoast, and, by this time, the shore was lined with

spectators, who were watching the engagement with intense anxiety.

Amongst these, was no less a personage than Harry’s uncle, Benjamin

Davis, with whom Maria was at that time staying. The old tar, as

was his constant practice, was taking his morning walk along the

beach, with his spy-glass in his hand, and he had witnessed the

engagement from the beginning; and there he was, giving orders, as

if he had been on board the vessel.

The brig was, at this moment, passing close under the stern of the

Frenchman.

“Now, give it home, my lads,” shouted old Ben on the shore; and, as

if in obedience to his command, the brig opened her guns, one after

the other, upon the Frenchman, as she passed, which raked him fore

and aft, and did much execution.

The Frenchman, however, was not long behind; for, keeping his ship

away, he soon came up to the brig; when, opening upon her another

broadside, he would inevitably have sent the little vessel to the

bottom, had not the steersman, by a dexterous movement of the helm,

avoided part of the shock. The shot took effect principally upon

the stern of the brig, tore away the quarter-boards, killed the man

at the helm and three other men standing near.

As soon as the smoke cleared away, the people on the shore were

dismayed to find the little brig sheering off right before the

wind, but still keeping up a running-fire with her stern chasers,

at the Frenchman, who was pursuing her under a press of canvass.

“Curse upon you, for a cowardly rascal, who ever you are, to run

away from a Frenchman!” shouted out old Ben on the shore, whilst

the sweat trickled down in large drops from his forehead. But both

he and the Frenchman were mistaken, in thinking that the brig was

endeavouring to get off; for this was only a feint on the part of

Harry, who, finding that the enemy was so much superior in his

weight of metal, saw that his only chance was in close quarters,

when he trusted the bravery of his tars would prove victorious over

the number of the French. Calling, therefore, all his men on the

quarter-deck, he told them that their only chance of victory lay in

close quarters.

“Are you ready, my brave fellows,” he added, “to follow your

commander to the Frenchman’s deck? They are three to one of us; but

you know what the intrepidity of a handful of British seamen can

achieve.”

Three cheers followed these words, which were heard by the people

on the shore; and, ignorant of the cause, they anxiously awaited

the result.

“Get the boarding pikes ready there!” shouted Harry; “and every

man arm himself with a cutlass and brace of pistols; and when the

Frenchman comes up, lash her to us, and then to it, yard-arm and

yard-arm.”

“All ready, sir,” shouted the men—“all ready.”

The Frenchman was now again up to the brig, which she already

considered as her prize, when suddenly the _Hawk_ tacked right

athwart her bows, and in a moment was lashed alongside.

“Ay, that is something like,” cried Ben, rubbing his hands for

joy—“oh, that I was on board of you, to lend you a helping hand!”

“Hurrah, my hearties! and old England for ever!” shouted Harry,

springing on the Frenchman’s deck, followed by thirty of his crew.

“Old England for ever!” shouted his men, rushing after him, like so

many hungry tigers.

The scene which followed was terrific, each party fighting like

furies, and disputing inch for inch—the deck swimming with blood.

Two fellows set upon Harry at once. One of these, the lieutenant of

the Frenchman, he quickly dispatched with a shot from his pistol;

but the other, a strong thick-set seaman, with a black bushy beard,

was just firing his musket at his head, when a tremendous thwack

from a cutlass behind, severed the stock in pieces, and the next

moment the weapon was sheathed in the Frenchman’s breast. Harry,

on turning round to observe his deliverer, recognised in him our

old friend, Bill Curtis, who, covered with blood and powder, and

wounded as he was, was again in the thickest of the fray, dealing

death at every blow. There was no time for congratulation,

however, for the enemy was pressing them on every side; for,

although Harry had been nobly supported by Clark and Archer, with

thirty more men, yet the enemy had, by their numbers, hemmed them

in on every side, and would soon have cut them all to pieces, had

not an unexpected attack from behind suddenly changed the fortunes

of the day. This was no other than the old quartermaster, who had

been left in charge of the brig, with the remainder of the crew,

with strict injunctions not to leave her, happen what might.

He had, accordingly, for some time, impatiently looked on the

struggle, when, no longer bearing to remain inactive, he sung out

that the ship might go to the devil, but he would be hanged if he

would stand still any longer and see his shipmates cut to pieces by

lubberly Frenchmen. So saying, he jumped upon the Frenchman’s deck,

followed by the rest of the crew, who were all as eager as himself;

and so sudden and furious was the attack, that the Frenchmen,

quite dispirited by this unexpected assault, were glad to seek

shelter from their fury, some in the rigging, others down the hold,

while those who remained were fain to cry for quarter, which was

readily given them. The men in the rigging had fled to the tops

for shelter, but, seeing their comrades obtain quarter, they also

surrendered themselves at discretion. The next minute the British

ensign was waving proudly in the breeze at the topmast of the

Frenchman, and three long and hearty cheers, which were responded

to by the people on the shore, told the success of the engagement.

The loss on both sides was great, though that of the French greatly

exceeded that of the British. Harry, fearing that the French might

take it in their heads to set upon him again, as they were still

so much superior in number, ordered them below, and battened down

the hatches upon them all, except the surgeon and his mate, whom

he kept to assist his own in dressing the wounds of the men. On

looking amongst the slain of his crew, Harry observed amongst them

the stiffened corpse of poor Bill Curtis. Harry could not help

shedding a tear to the memory of this brave fellow, who had so

nobly seconded him in the time of need. Bill was covered with gore;

but an air of defiance was still seated upon his countenance, and

his hand still firmly grasped his cutlass, which had that day been

wielded with so much success against the enemies of his country.

The old quartermaster came up at this moment, and Harry, shaking

him by the hand, said to him, “I believe we must have you tried by

court-martial, for disobedience of orders. However,” he added, more

seriously, “I believe, had it not been for your disobedience of

orders, we should have all been in the state of that poor fellow,”

pointing to Bill.

“Ay,” said the old quartermaster with a sigh, “a braver fellow

never stepped in a black leather shoe. However, it’s a road we must

travel once; and where die better than fighting for one’s country?

For my part, I would sooner die on a ship’s deck, with the thunder

of the cannon sounding in my ears, than on a bed of the finest

down.”

The people on the shore, seeing that the danger was over, and

that the British had gained the victory, had now manned several

boats, and were approaching the ships. In the foremost of these

was old Ben, who, being the proprietor of the village in which he

lived, took upon himself, on all expeditions by sea, the office of

commodore of the fleet.

“A noble fellow the captain of that there little craft,” exclaimed

Ben, as he approached the _Hawk_; “he deserves to be made an

admiral, whoever he is. Gracious Heaven, there is my own nephew,

Harry!” cried he, springing up the fore chains.

“My own uncle, Ben!” exclaimed Harry, springing forward to embrace

him. Cordial, indeed, was the meeting of the uncle and nephew; and

perhaps it were difficult to tell which was the greater—the joy

of the nephew, or the pride of the uncle.

“But you are all blood, Harry,” said the uncle—“you must be

wounded.”

“A mere scratch,” said Harry; “but some of my poor fellows have

suffered; but, as the wind favours, we had better get the vessels

into the harbour.”

The news of the engagement had spread like wildfire through the

country; and, as the vessels approached the harbour, crowds of

people were waiting to cheer the gallant fellows who had fought

so nobly. The wounded were immediately conveyed on shore and

distributed among the inhabitants, who were eagerly striving which

should receive them; whilst those who had fallen, both French and

English, were decently interred, side by side, in that narrow house

where all feuds and animosities are buried in oblivion.

The rest of our story is soon told. Harry, soon after the

engagement, was united to Maria, with the consent of all parties.

For some time after his marriage, he still went to sea; but, on

the decease of Maria’s father, his property devolving upon him,

he retired to enjoy the society of his amiable wife, and that

domestic repose to which his toils and labours so well entitled

him. Clark, the first lieutenant, having fallen in battle, on

Harry’s giving up the service, Archer was promoted to the command

of the _Hawk_, and he soon after married Susan, Harry’s sister. As

for the old quartermaster, who had borne so distinguished a part in

the engagement, he was at last prevailed upon by Harry to take up

his abode in a beautiful cottage upon his estate. A clear stream

runs by the cottage door, and the situation commands a fine view

of the sea; and the old man may still frequently be seen sitting

at his cottage door, on a summer evening, enjoying the beauties of

the scene; or, if you rise soon enough, you may perhaps see him

taking his morning walk along the beach, with his spy-glass in his

hand. His chief delight, however, is in Harry’s house, where he is

quite at home. He is particularly attached to Harry’s children,

who are his inseparable companions; and the old man may frequently

be seen with one on each knee, recounting to them the exploits

of his former days, some of which we may, at some future period,

communicate to the reader.

As for the French prisoners, a peace with England soon put a

period to their captivity; but, when their release came, so much

had the people of the place endeared themselves to them by their

kindness, that many of them resolved to marry and settle in the

neighbourhood. And to this day may still be seen, in the village of

C——, some remnants of the victory of the _Hawk_.

END OF VOL. XIX.

_Tubbs, Brook, & Chrystal, Printers, Manchester._

Transcribers Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Spelling and hyphenation is inconsistent throughout the text

(examples: wouldna, wudna, wadna; death-bed, deathbed; visitor,

visiter). No attempt was made to change or normalize the spelling,

but the following apparent printing errors were corrected:

page 18: removed extra word “the” (...and it was manifest that

never a drop of anything)

page 64: accent added to protegé

page 135: “Robin-a-Dee” changed to “Robin-a-Ree”

page 156: “nnavailing” changed to “unavailing” (how unavailing

all the means he could employ)

page 183: “aud” changed to “and” (his purpose seemed shaken, and

he looked around him)

page 199: “a” added; apparently missed scanning edge of page (A

British merchant is a citizen of the world)

page 212: “pity you” apparently cut off by printer; re-added from

a later printing.

page 219: “minntes” changed to “minutes” (The few minutes became

an hour.)