Here we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the
gallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers!
Make haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they
come, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and--Who? Charles Gordon, I
declare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were
all true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married
must be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a
relation of the bridegroom's--he's rector of a large parish near
Deptford--how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman, Mr
Spence, assisting him, how happy he looks. They say he has known the bride
since she was an infant, and the bridegroom for some time. There!--she's no
longer Christina Cunningham! I wonder where they are going to after
breakfast? Blessings on them both!
FOOTNOTES:
[I] On account of the many accidents which happen almost yearly at the Carr
Rock, some plan for marking its dangerous locality has long been an object
of deep solicitude. The writer recollects of a round tower of some height
having been built on the rock, on the same principle as that on the Bell
Rock, but it was soon overthrown by the first winter's storm, because there
was not a sufficient surface of rock at the base to admit of a strong
enough building being placed upon it. But might not an erection be made of
strong bars of iron, and a large bell placed on its summit, with an iron
cylinder in the centre, perforated with holes to admit the sea water?
Within the cylinder let a powerful floater be placed, which by the
perpetual action of the tides' ebb and flow, would cause the bell to ring,
and so give timeous warning of danger near. Or, another method might be
adopted, viz., Let a steady officer be stationed at Fifeness, whose duty it
should be to fire a gun, say a six or eight-pounder, at short intervals in
snow storms, or in thick and foggy weather, when neither the land during
the day, nor the stars or lights at night, can be seen. In either way the
expense would be trifling, and the benefit might be great. Captains of
steamers and of other vessels enveloped in the fog would then, on hearing
the sound of the bell or gun, know where they were, and would take their
bearings from Fifeness accordingly.
[J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in
our fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was
a certain fixed sum _per month_ allotted for bills to be discounted. When
that sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there
were no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most
_needy_ were always, at the beginning of the month, the _earliest_
customers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills
the exception. Under these circumstances, it is not difficult to foresee
what would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the
agent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company
attempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the
National Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F.
Conolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years.
A handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank.
Two other branch banks have been opened in the town.
[K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the _Hawk_,
and the other the _Rising Sun_. The _Hawk_ was lost on her first voyage,
and Bailie Meldrum--some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester--one of
the crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did
not prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises,
which were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther,
afterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd.
A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR.
It was a beautiful evening in the month of September--the air still and
serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which
had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her
energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees
returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their
satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that
Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having
spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless
from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the
scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of
a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he
have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians.
Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much
of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes
were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed
from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the
hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from
a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never
been, save upon one occasion--an important epoch in his life--when, upon
some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the
capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse
at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit
of the few books he could procure; and there was one--the fountain of all
knowledge--he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could
scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of
the inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on
the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the
night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun,
which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours,
and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint
breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain,
when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the
night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the
shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through
the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three
objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with
difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A
feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over
the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business,
to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost
impassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and
troubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on
his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with
an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been
overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill
since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his
accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way
homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of
them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on
her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its
stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon
seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for
them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse--she
had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue
of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who
treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and
forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail,
and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle
age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner,
that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The
young and beautiful female they attended--apparently not above eighteen,
pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping--had not, as yet,
uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants,
especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several
stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but
afraid to give utterance to her thoughts.
The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while
Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town
for assistance. This the man promptly forbade--saying, that the other
attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at
such a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on
their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate
illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the
_valise_ with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer
or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage
consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition,
which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the
fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to
a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon
rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any
information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they
were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary
and uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the
house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a
shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul,
sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became
absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant
to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to
make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen
came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady
was now better.
"What has she got?" inquired Simon.
"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "--but one of them
is dead, and the mother is very weak."
While this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his
wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the
house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some
refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the
female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed;
but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition--saying, that
they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and
requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did,
and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours
afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two
attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick
lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her
bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt
alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was
soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the
horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to
the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they
approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing
was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes
were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.
"Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the
puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just
before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep.
She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna
taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a
piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take
anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'--and she drank it from my
hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that
cup!"
Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a passion of tears,
while Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and
the unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for
counsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and
collected.
"Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young
creature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me
to the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who,
perhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will
advise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need."
"I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen--"very eerie; but do mak all the
haste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return."
In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon,
along with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they
arrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh.
Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself
as being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the
minister had prayed, and assured her that no guilt could attach to her,
that she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had
informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had happened under his own
eye:--That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared
expert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient
as she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if
she had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a
harsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some
excuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great
awe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at
the hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired
what it was, when the assistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she
threw it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from
her pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as
it was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor
murdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.
The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of all the
circumstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to
send one of his maids to assist Helen, and to stay with her through the
day. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in
hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to
call in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct
to Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had
been there the day before, found that they had passed through the town,
only stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been
paid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily
terminated. In the meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed
laying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy.
Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of massive workmanship, was
suspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom.
"A true love-gift," ejaculated Helen, "an exchange o' plighted faiths.
Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay
upon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in
peace--your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon
as he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I
will ever be able to inform him of either father or mother." She then
placed the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband;
renewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping
over it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation
in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to
it--for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of
whom it had been her misfortune to bury.
The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and
told where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were
neither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of
the person to whom it had belonged--yet the make and chasing were peculiar,
and might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother
was interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse;
and the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up
under the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid
particular attention, and was proud of his pupil--for William Wallace, as
he was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to
learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits--for he delighted in
feats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir
William Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination--and he longed to
be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on.
William was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he
engaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled
on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his
aid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died
within a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little
wealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the
minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world.
The stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the
scenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of
the good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn
his mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or
other, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her
murder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain.
His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times
his feelings rose to agony--the idea that the guilty individual might be
his own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his
ignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and,
musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon
his horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward
his steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the
scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his life had gone by in
innocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a
few involuntary tears fell from his eyes--a token of regret due to the
memory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to
him by many tender associations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on,
undetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out,
everything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he
began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the
sight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish
them. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the
buildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from
entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his
eyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched
high above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy
rocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that
stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his
departing rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while
the diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre,
seemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of
youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so
fair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate,
when his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery
and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the
night at one of the many inns of the Grassmarket; and, revolving in his
mind what he had already seen, retired to bed.
Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his
curiosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that
every new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds.
On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he
observed among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the
walks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's
curiosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old
gentleman bowed.
"I beg pardon," said he--"may I be so bold as to request your name?--for I
feel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be;
for it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to
be more than that time old."
"My name is William Wallace," answered William, with a beating heart. "I
never had the honour to see you until to-day."
"Wallace? Wallace?" said the old gentleman, musing. "No---my friend's name
was not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment--his name was Seaton; but
the likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you."
William's heart sank--he remained silent for a few minutes--his face was
alternately flushed and pale--a new train of ideas crowded upon his
mind--he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance--wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of
confusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much
surprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized
his hand.
"Young man," said he, "that ring was once the property of my friend: how
came you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted
with it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty
years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's
regiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into
your possession."
"With pleasure," replied William. "It is a sad account, I have to give, and
I am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I
must feel too great an interest in him."
"The early friend I allude to," replied the old man, "was an honour to his
country. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed.
This you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton!
shall I ever see you again?"
Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the
principal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined,
William gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother,
and a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the
greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's
death by an exclamation of horror.