and sent for him, on a short warning, to help in roasting Covenanters?--or
have the fairies, those fair dames of the green knowe and the grey cairn,
seen and admired his proportions, and made a young 'Tam Lean' of poor Jack
Johnston? Let us on and see."
And see to be sure they did; for there was Jack, lying in the last agonies
of death, under his horse, which itself was lamed and lying with feet
uppermost. The horrid hound was lapping, with a growl, the blood which
oozed from the nose and lips of the dying man, and with a dreadful curse,
the terrible being expired, just as the party came within view. He had
tumbled headlong, owing to the pressure from the horse's feet, through the
slight rafter-work beneath, and had pitched head-foremost against a stone
seat, in consequence of which his skull was fractured, and his immediate
death ensued. Douglas looked like one bewildered, he would scarcely credit
his eyes; but his companion in arms did the needful; and Jack Johnston's
body was removed, his horse shot through the brain, and the whole band
returned, drooping and crestfallen, to Drumlanrig. Throwing his sword down
on the hall table when he arrived, he was heard to say, looking wildly and
fearfully all the while, "The hand of God is in this thing, and I knew it
not." It is a curious fact, but one of which my informant had no doubt,
that this very Douglas became, after this, quite an altered man. Mr Lawson,
who lived some years after his death, attended upon him in his last
illness. "God only knows the heart," would he say; "but, to all _outward_
appearance, William Douglas was a cleansed and a sanctified vessel: the
mercy of God is infinite--it even extended to the thief on the cross."
XIII.--PORTER'S HOLE.
In the west corner of the churchyard of Dalgarno--now a section of the
parish of Closeburn--there is a small, but neat headstone, with two figures
joining hands, as if in the attitude of marrying. Beneath is written, and
still legible--"John Porter and Augnas Milligan. They were lovely in their
lives, and in their deaths they were not divided." There is neither date
nor narrative; but, as this part of the churchyard has not been used as a
burial-ground since the union of the parishes, in the reign of Charles the
Second, the date must have been some time betwixt 1660 and 1684. This
beautiful and sequestered churchyard, all silent and cheerless as it is,
lies upon the banks of the Nith, immediately upon its union with the ocean;
and near to the most famous salmon-fishing pool in the whole river, called
Porter's Hole. Whilst yet a boy, and attending Closeburn school, our
attention was, one sunny afternoon, (when the trouts were unwilling to
visit the dry land,) drawn to the little stone in the corner, of which we
have just made mention, and recollecting, at the same time, that Porter was
the name of the pool, as well as of the person buried, we began to
speculate upon the possibility of there being some connection betwixt the
two circumstances--the name of the individual, and the well-known
designation of the blackest and deepest pool in the Closeburn part of the
river. Near to this solitary restingplace of the ashes of our
forefathers--the Harknesses, the Gibsons, and the Watsons of Closeburn from
time immemorial--there stood, at that time, an old cottage, straw or rather
_grass_-thatched, (for it was covered with green chicken-weed,) where
dwelt, in single solitude, Janet M'Guffoch--whether any relation of the
celebrated individual of that name mentioned by Sir Walter Scott, we know
not--but there dwelt Janet, a discontented, old waspish body of one hundred
years of age, according to general belief; and, being accompanied by a
black cat and a broom besom, was marked by us _boys_ as a decided witch. We
never had any doubt about it, and the thing was confirmed by the Laird of
Closeburn's gamekeeper, who swore that he had often hunted hares to Janet's
door; but never could start them again. Under all these circumstances, it
required no common impulse to induce us to enter the den of this emissary
of Satan; but our curiosity was excited by the similarity of the names
"Porter's Grave" and "Porter's Hole," (as the pool was familiarly named,)
and we at length mustered faith, and strength, and courage to thrust
ourselves past a bundle of withered twigs, which served Janet as a door in
summer, and as a door-protector in the blasts of winter. Janet was as usual
at her wheel, and crooning some old Covenanting ditty, about--
"Oh, gin Lag were dead and streekit,
An' that his ha' wi' mools was theekit!"
when, by means of a six-inch-square skylight, our physiognomy became
visible to Janet.
"And what art thou, that's creeping into an old body's dark den, and
leaving ahint thee the guid sunshine?"
We responded by mentioning our name.
"Ay, ay," said Janet, "come away and sit thee down on the creepy there,
beside the heidstane[B]--thou art freely welcome, for thou art o' the seed
o' the faithful, the precious salt of the earth: and the blessing of the
God of the Covenant will rest upon its children, even to the third and the
fourth generation!" Thus welcomed, we took our position as requested,
eyeing all the while the large black cat with a somewhat suspicious regard.
"The beast winna stir thee," said Janet, "it has, like its auld mistress,
mair regard for the martyr's seed."
Having hereupon taken advantage of a pause in Janet's discourse, we at once
stated the subject of our inquiry.
"Ay, ay," said Janet; "and atweel there is a connection betwixt that bonny
angel stane, and the pool ca'ed Porter's Hole. Ay, is there; an an awfu'
connection it is. But what comes thou here for to torment an auld body like
me, wi' greeting and groaning at my time o' life? Gae awa, gae awa--I canna
thole the very thochts o' the story whilk thou ettles to ken."
This only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language
about Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the
old crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can
mind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following
words:--
"Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the
auld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit;
and there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts
as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and
the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien
to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag,
in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter
for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes
Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno--a sister's son o' the auld
Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed
frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same
sports; and dabbled in the same river--the bloody, bloody Nith!--from
infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"---- Here Janet sorted
her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to
her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn--no _this_ nicht,
like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit
whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war
a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to
brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said
it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're
gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his
bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long
stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak
it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear
through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest.
On he went--for we a' witnessed what he did--on he went, steady, firm, an'
unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had
been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper
stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the
roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the
side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet;
but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an'
we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the
salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn,
an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the
whirl--she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they
were found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!--what
brocht ye here the day?"
Janet was found, next morning, dead in her bed--the exertion and excitement
had killed her.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] _Vide_ Jameson.
THE RECLUSE.
The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland,
are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the
surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but
few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly
felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises
from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining
the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have
little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing
exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice
positions--surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature.
One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the
parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle,
isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic
valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but
rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the
house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by
its singular beauty.
About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by
one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is
situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a
son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly
called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year,
the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered
girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed
by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter,
with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and
most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit;
nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten
minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a
voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light
and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful
laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively
and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this
apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating
mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated
with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female
nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she
had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her
attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy
could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the
sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth
or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.
Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land,
and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent
circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair
footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily
pay. But this was all; there was no surplus--nothing to spare; and the
less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his
daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several
winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more
elegant accomplishments in female education.
In character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt,
plain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He
was, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of
education, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at
any rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind.
Such, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period
to which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788.
It was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September
of that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a
young man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably
dressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his
arm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for
admittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the
person whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet.
It was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He
was thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet,
the night was intensely cold.
"Can you, my good friend," said the stranger, in a tone and manner that
bespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call
him a gentleman--"Can you give me quarters for a night?" he said, on being
confronted by Mr Adair. "I am an entire stranger in this part of the
country, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have
troubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation."
"A nicht's quarters, frien," replied Adair. "Oh, surely, ye'll get that,
an' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like
a half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the
kitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't."
In a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring
fire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he
insisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so,
brought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat,
trousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet
terminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an
invitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a
small table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had
at hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy
hastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the
table covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a
jolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the
stranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the
great disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly.
"Dear help me, man!--eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and
then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the
food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry
at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord,
man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it
that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife
and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at
least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about
the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a
pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye
may say ye hae made a bit supper o't."
Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind
one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be
expressed.
Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not
eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's
invitations to him to do so.
After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his
entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that
he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided
movement--
"My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than
to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma'
matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle."
Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant
returned with the desiderated commodity--a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of
about a gallon contents--which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by
its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the
health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and
presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of
excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a
cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll
no ken what to think o' ye at a'."
The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took
the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host
had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table.
"Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor
wyn--neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again.
Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't."
The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but
once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his
entertainer.
During all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single
thing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he
was--where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at
all; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief
expressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now,
under more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first
presented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited
a handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and
intelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled
melancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering
severely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the
symptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the
profound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it
partook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful
than otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these
qualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable.
Altogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly
did it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he
could possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired
to bed, which he did--pleading fatigue as an excuse--at an early hour. The
first ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night,
which the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into
consideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character
and calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His
habiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither
good, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called
respectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either
a peer of the realm or an English bagman.
Finding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council
next proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard
to these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this
conclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who,
let us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several
stolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the
kitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more
approved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark
expressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and
open forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have
been told.
So far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding
their guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such
an out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor
fishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was
odd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to?
These were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they
put, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in
hand himself on the subject.
"I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he
seems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him
a'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A',
however, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's
under our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll
gie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't.
It's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him." Having said this,
Robert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his
family knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment,
Adair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his
small clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same
operation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried
beneath the blankets; his "honest, sonsy, bawsint face," and red Kilmarnock
night-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes
more, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that
worthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all
earthly concerns.
On the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when
that liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the
preceding night--although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it
arose--gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased
with the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was
equally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of
his entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be
but of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all
probability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it
was by no means the one that followed--an odd incident at once threw out
all such calculation.
When breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the
table--Adair, his family, and the stranger--had risen to their feet, the
latter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be
so good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair,
although not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way
into a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had
breakfasted.
"Mr Adair," said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having
previously secured the door, "I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness
and hospitality you have shewn me."