1683, that the farm-house of Barjarg, in the parish of Keir and county of
Dumfries, was surrounded by dragoons. They were in quest of a sergeant of
the name of Wilson--a Sergeant Wilson--who had all unexpectedly (for he was
a steady man and a good soldier) deserted his colours, and was nowhere to
be found. The reason why they had come to Barjarg, was the report which one
of Sergeant Wilson's companions in arms had made, that he knew the deserter
was in love with Catherine Chalmers, the farmer's fair and only child.
Catherine Chalmers was indeed forthcoming in all her innocence and
bloom--but William was nowhere to be found, though they searched most
minutely into every hole and corner. Being compelled, at last, to retire
without their object--though not without threatening Catherine with the
thumbikins, if she persevered in refusing to discover her lover's
retreat--the family of Barjarg was once more left to enjoy its wonted
quietude and peace. Adjoining to the farm-house of Barjarg, and occupying
the ground where the mansion-house now stands, there stood an old tower,
containing one habitable apartment; but only occupied as a sleeping room by
one of the ploughmen, and the herd boy. There were one or two
lumber-garrets besides; but these were seldom entered, as they were
understood to contain nothing of any value, besides being dark, and
swarming with vermin. Reports of odd noises and fearful apparitions had
begun to prevail about the place, and both ploughman and herd were
unwilling to continue any longer in a lodgment into which it was their firm
persuasion that something "no canny" had entered. Holding this exceedingly
cheap, Adam Chalmers, the veteran guidman of Barjarg, agreed to take a
night of the old tower, and to set the devil and all his imps at defiance;
but it was observed, that he came home next morning thoughtful and out of
spirits, agreeing, at once, that nobody should, in future, be compelled to
sleep in the old tower. He said little of what he had seen or heard, but he
shook his head, and seemed to intimate that he knew more than he was at
liberty to divulge. Things went on in this manner for some time--reports of
noises at unseasonable hours still prevailing, and every one shunning the
place after dark--till, one morning before daylight, the whole building was
observed to be on fire, surrounded at the same time, as the flames were, by
a troop of Grierson's men, with their leader at their head. The scream
which Catherine Chalmers uttered when she beheld the flames, but too
plainly intimated the state of her mind; nor was her father less composed,
but went about, wringing his hands and exclaiming--"Oh! poor Sergeant
Wilson! poor Sergeant Wilson!" At this instant, the fire had made its way
to the upper apartment, and had thrown light upon a human head and
shoulders, which leaned over the decayed battlement. Every one was
horror-struck except the inhuman soldiery, who collected around the burning
pile, and shouted up their profane and insulting jests, in the face of the
poor perishing being, who, from his footing immediately giving way, was
precipitated into the flames, and disappeared.
"There, let him go," said Grierson, "dog and traitor as he is, let him sink
to the lowest pit, there to wait the arrival of his canting and Covenanting
spouse, whom we shall now take the liberty of carrying to head-quarters,
there to await her sentence, for decoying a king's sworn servant and a
sergeant, from his duty and allegiance."
No sooner said than done, was the order of these dreadful times. Catherine
Chalmers was placed in one of her father's carts; and, notwithstanding
every remonstrance, and an assurance that poor Catherine was now a widow,
she was placed betwixt two soldiers, who rode alongside the cart on
horseback, and conveyed her to Dumfries, there to stand her trial before
the Sheriff, Clavers, and the inhuman Laird of Lag. When arrived at her
destination, she was put under lock and key, but allowed more personal
liberty than many others who were accused of crimes more heinous in the
eyes of the persecutors, than those of which she was merely suspected to be
guilty. It so happened, that the quarterly meeting of the court was held in
a few days, and the chief witness produced against Catherine Wilson, was a
servant maid of her father, who was compelled, very much against her will,
to bear evidence to her having seen Sergeant Wilson and her mistress (for
Catherine kept her father's house) several times together in the old tower,
as well as under a particular tree at the end of the old avenue, and that
her mistress had told her that Sergeant Wilson was heartily tired of the
service in which he was engaged. Her own father, too, was compelled to
confess, that he had had an interview with the sergeant, in the tower, who
had confessed to him the marriage, had asked and with difficulty obtained
his forgiveness, and that he meditated a departure along with his wife, to
some distant place, beyond the reach of his enemies. There was no direct
evidence, however, that Catherine had persuaded him to desert, or to vilify
the service which he had left; and the court were about to dismiss her
_simpliciter_ from the bar, when, to the amazement of all, Catherine rose
in her place, and addressed the court to the following purpose:--"And now
ye have done your utmost, and I am innocent, in as far as your evidence has
gone; but I am NOT INNOCENT--I am deeply guilty, if guilt ye deem it, in
this matter. 'Twas I that first awakened poor William's conscience to a
sense of his danger, in serving an emissary of Satan; 'twas I that spoke to
him of the blood that cries day and night under the Altar; 'twas I that
made him tremble--ay, as an aspen leaf, and as some here will yet shake
before the Judge of all--when I brought to his recollection the brutal
scenes which he had witnessed, and in which he had taken a part; 'twas I
that agreed to marry him privately, without my dear father's consent,
(whose pardon I have sought on my knees, and whose blessing I have already
obtained,) [hereupon her father nodded assent] provided he would desert,
and retire with me, at least for a time, beyond the reach of ye all--ye
messengers of evil, sent to scourge a guilty and backsliding race; 'twas I
that visited him night after night in that old tower, which you inhumanly
set on fire, and in which--O my God!"----Hereupon she laid hold of the desk
before her, and would have dropped to the earth, had not an officer in
attendance supported her, and borne her, under the authority of the court,
into the open air. She was now, notwithstanding her self-accusation,
declared to be at liberty: and immediately, so soon as strength was given
her, retired into the house of an acquaintance and relative, where suitable
restoratives and refreshments were administered. The house where her friend
lived was close upon what is called the Sands of Dumfries, adjoining to the
river, which up to this point is navigable, and where boats are generally
to be seen. During the night, she disappeared, and, though all search was
made at home and everywhere else, she was not heard of. Her father at first
took her disappearance sadly to heart; but time seemed to have a remedial
effect upon his spirits, and he at length rallied, even into cheerfulness.
Things went on for years and years, very much in the old way at Barjarg.
The old man's hairs gradually whitened and became more scanty, whilst this
loss was made up for by an increase of wrinkles. The only change in his
habits were not unfrequent visits which he payed to an old friend, he said,
in Whitehaven, and from which he always returned in high spirits. It might
have been stated formerly that, when the ashes of the old tower were
searched, after they had cooled, for the body of poor Wilson, no such body
was found--but the inference was made by the neighbours, that the remains
had been early removed by his wife's orders, who would naturally wish to
possess herself of so valued a deposit. In fact, the whole transaction
melted away in the stream of time, like the snow-flake on the surface of
the water; and things went on very much us usual. Six long years revolved,
and still no word of Catherine Wilson. Many conjectured that she had missed
her foot in the dark, and fallen into the river, and been carried out to
sea by the reflux of the tide. Others again hinted at suicide, from extreme
grief; and some very charitable females nodded and winked something meant
to be significant, about some people's not being easily known--and that
some people, provided that they got a _grip_ of a man, would not be very
nice about the object or the manner!
Oh, what a blessed thing it was when King William came in!--and with him
came amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer
evening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious
disappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was
sitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old
tree, which had been converted into a _dais_, or out-of-doors seat. It was
about the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months,
when Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford's Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon
one of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can
boast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a
thousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all
blooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier
above tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left
were the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away
into the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley
from the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea
of storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun's
effulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and
hard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing
Linn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!--how deeply art
thou impressed upon this poor brain!--go where we will--see what we
may--thou art still unique to us--thou art still superior to all other
lands.
It was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise
entered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old
mansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The
steps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long
lost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her
followed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and
perhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out
a fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at
the breast! It was indeed a joyous meeting; and the old man bustled about,
embracing and pressing his child, and then surveying, with silent and
intense interest, his grandchildren; taking the oldest on his knee, and
permitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his grey
hairs.
One of Lag's troop, the intimate and attached friend of the sergeant, had
conveyed to him, by means of a letter, the fact, that his haunt was
discovered; and that Lag had sworn he would search him out like a fox,--in
short, that he would burn the old tower about his ears. A thought struck
Wilson, that even though he should now escape, the pursuit would still be
continued; but that, if he could by any means persuade his enemies that he
had perished in the flames, the search of course would cease. As he was
occupied with these thoughts, it occurred to him, that, by placing a couple
of pillows, dressed in some old clothes, which were lying about, and which
belonged to the former tenant, in the topmost turret of the tower, he might
impose the belief upon Lag and his party, that he had actually perished in
the flames. Having communicated this plan to his friend in the troop by a
secret messenger, he immediately, and without waiting even to advertise his
wife of the deception, departed, and hastened on to a brother's house in
the neighbourhood of Dumfries, where he lay concealed. By the management of
his friend, the deception was accomplished; for he even swore to the
captain, that he heard Wilson scream, and jump upwards, and then sink down
into the devouring flames. The trial was not unknown to Wilson, and he had
prevailed upon his brother, with a few friends sworn to secrecy, to assist
him in possessing himself of the person of his wife, in going to or coming
from the court-house. Matters, however, succeeded beyond his utmost hopes.
His spouse was liberated, and, by means of a boat well manned, he reached
Douglas in the Isle of Man in safety, in the course of eight-and-forty
hours. There, at last, he was safe, being beyond immediate pursuit, and
indeed being supposed to be dead; and there, by a successful speculation or
two, with money which had been left him by an uncle, after whom he was
named, and who had prospered in the Virginia trade, he soon became
prosperous, and even wealthy. His wife having a natural desire to see her
father, took means to have him apprised of the secret of their retreat. His
visits, nominally to England, were in fact made to Douglas; and the
Revolution now put it in the power of Sergeant Wilson to return with his
young and interesting family to the farm of Barjarg, and to purchase the
property on which the old house stood, it being now in the market; to refit
the old burnt tower; to rebuild the old castle, and to live there along
with old Adam for several years, not only in comfort, but in splendour.
When engaged over a bottle, of which he became ultimately rather more fond
than was good for his health, he used to amuse his friends with the above
narrative, adding always at the end--"The burning o' me has been the making
o' me." The property has long passed into other hands, and is now in the
family of Hunter; but such was its destination for at least fifty years,
during the life of the sergeant, and the greater part of the life of the
son, who, being a spendthrift, spent and sold it.
XI.--HELEN PALMER.
Helen Palmer was originally from Cumberland; her parents were English, but
her father had removed with Helen, an only daughter, whilst yet a child, to
the neighbourhood of Closeburn Castle, to a small village which still goes
by the name of Croalchapel. There the husband and father had been employed
originally as forester on the estate of Closeburn, belonging to Sir Roger
Kirkpatrick, and had afterwards become chamberlain or factor on the same
property. Peter Palmer was a superior man. He had been well educated for
the time in which he lived, and had been employed in Cumberland in keeping
accounts for a mining establishment. The death, however, in child-birth, of
his beloved and well-born wife, (she had married below her station,) had,
for some time, disgusted him with life, and his intellects had nearly given
way. Having committed several acts of insanity, so as to make himself
spoken of in the neighbourhood, he took a moonlight flitting, with his
child and a faithful nurse, and, wandering north and north, at last fixed
his residence in the locality already mentioned, where he was soon noticed
as a superior person by the Laird of Closeburn, and advanced as has been
stated.
Helen Palmer was the apple of her father's eye; he would permit no one but
the nurse to approach her person, and he himself was her only instructor;
he taught her to read, to write, and to calculate accounts; in short, every
spare hour he had was spent with little Helen. There you might see him,
after dinner, with Helen on his knee, his forest dog sleeping before him,
and a tumbler of negus on a small table by his side, conversing with his
child, as he would have done with her mother; holding her out at arm's
length, to mark her opening features; and then again straining her to his
bosom in a paroxysm of tears.
"Just my Helen--my own dear Helen anew!" he would say; "oh, my child--my
child!--dear, dear art thou to thy poor heart-broken father! but I will
live for thee!--I will live with thee!--and when thou diest, child, thou
shalt sleep on this breast--thou shalt be buried, child, in thy father's
dust; and thy mother and we shall meet, and I will tell her of her babe; of
that babe which cost her so much, and we will rejoin in divine love for
ever and ever!"
Oh, how beautiful is paternal affection!--the love of an only surviving
parent for an only child--and she a female. It is beautiful as the smile of
Providence on benevolence--it is strong as the bond which binds the world
to a common centre--it is enduring as the affections which, being cherished
on earth, are matured above!
As Helen grew up, her eye kindled, her brow expanded, her cheeks freshened
into the most delicious bloom, and she walked on fairy footsteps of the
most delicate impression. Her feet, her hands, her arms, her bust, her
whole person, spoke her at once the lady of a thousand descents--ages had
modelled her into aristocratic symmetry. But with all this, there was a
rustic simplicity about her, an open, frank, unaffected manner, which
seemed to say, as plain as any manner could, "I am not ashamed of being my
father's daughter." When Helen Palmer had attained her sixteenth year, she
was quite a woman--not one of your thread-paper bulrushes, which shoot
upwards merely into unfleshed gentility; but a round, firm, well-spread,
and formed woman--a bonny lass, invested with all the delicacy and softness
of a complete lady. Her bodily accomplishments, however, were not her only
recommendation; her mind was unusually acute, and her memory was stored
with much and varied information. She knew, for example, that the age in
which she lived was one of cruelty and bloodshed; that the second Charles,
who, at that time, filled the throne, was a sensual tyrant; that Lag,
Clavers, Douglas, Johnstone, and others, were bloody persecutors; and that
even Sir Roger Kirkpatrick himself, the humane and amiable in many
respects, was "a friend of the castle"--of the court--and would not permit
any of the poor persecuted remnant to take refuge in the linns of Creehope,
or in any of the fastnesses on his estate of Closeburn. All this grieved
Helen's heart; but her father had taught her that it was _her_ duty, as
well as his own, to be silent on such subjects, and not to give offence to
one whose bread he was eating, and whose patronage he had enjoyed to so
great an extent.
There were frequent visiters, in those days, at Closeburn Castle. In fact,
with all the chivalric hospitality of ancient times and of an ancient
family, Sir Roger kept, in a manner, open house. During dinner, the
drawbridge was regularly elevated, and, for a couple of hours at least,
none might enter. This state ceremony had cost the family of Kirkpatrick
many broad acres; for, when the old and heirless proprietor of the fine
estate of Carlaverock called at the castle of Closeburn, with the view of
bequeathing his whole property to the then laird, the drawbridge was up--he
was refused immediate entrance, because Sir Thomas was at dinner. "Tell Sir
Thomas," said the enraged visitor, "tell your master to take his dinner,
and with zest; but tell him, at the same time, that I will put a better
dinner _by_ his table this day than ever was on it." So he went on to
Drumlanrig, and left the whole property to Douglas of Queensberry. Such,
however, was not the reception of some young gentlemen who arrived about
this time at the castle of Closeburn, on a sporting expedition, with dogs
and guns, and a suitable accompaniment of gamekeepers and other servants.
These strangers were manifestly Englishmen, but from what quarter of
England nobody knew, and, indeed, nobody inquired. They were only birds of
passage, and would, in a month or so, give place to another arrival, about
to disappear, in its turn, from a similar cause. As Helen Palmer was one
day walking, according to her wont, amongst the Barmoor-woods, in her
immediate neighbourhood, a hare crossed her path, followed closely by a
greyhound, by which it was immediately killed. Poor Helen started,
screamed, and dropped her book in an agony of pity. She had not been
accustomed to such barbarities; and the poor dying animal cried like a
child, too, as it expired! At this instant, a horseman brought up his steed
in her presence, and, immediately alighting, proceeded, in the most polite
and delicate manner imaginable, to administer such relief as was in his
power. He begged her to be composed, for the animal was now dead, and its
suffering over; and her feelings should never be lascerated again in this
manner, as they would pursue their sport somewhere else, at a greater
distance from her abode. Upon recovering herself, Helen felt ashamed at her
position, and even at her weakness in betraying her feelings, and, begging
the stranger's pardon for the interruption to his sport which she had
occasioned, with a most graceful courtesy she withdrew from his sight. The
stranger was exceedingly struck with her appearance. It was not that she
was beautiful, for with beautiful women he had long been familiar; but
there was something in the expression of her countenance which made him
tremble all over--she was the very picture of his father; nay, his own
features and hers bore a close resemblance. The same indefinite terror
which had seized this young and exceedingly handsome sportsman had
penetrated the breast of Helen. The resemblance of the stranger to herself,
was what struck her with amazement. There was the same arched eyebrow--the
same hazel eye--and the same dimple in the chin. Besides, there was an
all-over sameness in the air, manner, and even step, which she could not,
with all her efforts, drive from her recollection. She did not, however,
think proper to inform her father of this little foolish incident; but, ere
she went to bed that night, she surveyed herself in the glass with more
than wonted attention. Still, still, she was left in surprise, by comparing
what she saw with what she recollected--the image in her bosom with that in
the glass.
Next day, as might have been anticipated, the stranger called to see if she
had recovered from her fright, and spent a considerable time in very
pleasing conversation. Her father happened to be in the writing office at
the time, and did not see him. These calls were repeated from time to time,
till at last it became evident to all about the castle, that the young heir
of Middlefield, in Cumberland, was deeply in love. He had almost entirely
given up his former amusements, and even railed against the cruelty of such
sports. Mr Graham, a near connection of him of Netherby, was a young person
of an excellent heart, and of a large property, to which, from his father's
death, by an accident, he had just succeeded. He was besides, one of the
handsomest men in Cumberland; and it was reported that Sir James Graham's
oldest daughter had expressed herself very favourably respecting her
kinsman's pretensions to her hand, should he _presume so high_! However,
his heart was not in the match, and he had made this visit to his father's
intimate friend, in order to avoid all importunity on a subject which was
irksome to him. It is useless to mince the matter. Helen, in spite of her
father's remonstrances and representations, was deeply and irrecoverably in
love with the gallant Graham, and he, in his turn, was at least equally
enamoured of the face, person, manners, mind, and soul, of the lovely and
fascinating Miss Palmer.
There was only one subject on which there was any division of opinion
betwixt the lovers--Helen was every inch a Covenanter; whilst Mr William
was rather, if anything, inclined to view their opposition to government as
factious and inexcusable. He did not, indeed, approve of the atrocities
which were practising every day around him, and in the parish of Closeburn
in particular; but he ventured to hope that a few instances of severity
would put an end to the delusion of the people, and that they would again
return to their allegiance and their parish churches. Helen was mighty and
magnificent in the cause of non-conformity and humanity. She talked of
freedom, conscience, religion, on the one hand--of tyranny, treachery,
oppression, and cruelty, on the other--till Mr William, either convinced,
or appearing to be so, fairly gave in, promising most willingly, and in
perfect good faith, that he would never assist the Laird of Closeburn, or
of Lag, in any of their unhallowed proceedings.
One day when Helen and her lover (for it was now no secret) were on a walk
into the Barmoor-wood, they were naturally attracted to the spot where
their intercourse had begun; and, sitting down opposite to each other on
the trunks of some felled trees, they gradually began a somewhat
confidential conversation respecting their birth and parentage. Helen
disguised nothing; she was born in Cumberland, and brought here whilst a
child; her mother, whose name was Helen Graham, had died at her birth. At
the mention of this name, the stranger and lover started convulsively to
his feet, and running up to and embracing Helen, he exclaimed--"O God! O
God! you are my own cousin!" Helen fainted, and was with difficulty
recovered, by an application of water from the adjoining brook. It was
indeed so. Out of delicacy, Mr William had made no particular inquiries at
Helen respecting her mother; and Helen, on the other hand, knew that Graham
is an almost universal name, in Cumberland in particular. This, therefore,
excited no suspicion; but true it is, and of verity, these two similar and
affianced beings were cousins-german. Helen Graham, the sister of the Lord
of Middlefield having married beneath her rank, was abandoned by her
brother and family, and her name was never mentioned in Middlefield House.
An old servant, however, of the family had made the young heir master of
the fact of the marriage, and of the death of his old aunt; but he could
not tell what had become of the father or the child; he supposed that they
had either died or gone to the plantations abroad; and there the matter
rested till this sudden and unexpected discovery. Peter Palmer, the father
of Helen, was altogether unacquainted with William Graham, as he was a mere
child when Peter left Cumberland; and his father had used him so cruelly as
to make him avoid his residence and presence as carefully as possible.
Would to heaven we could stop here, and gratify the reader with a wedding,
and as much matrimonial happiness as poor mortality can possibly
inherit!--But it may not be. As Lockhart says beautifully of Sir Walter, we
hear "the sound of the muffled drum."