CHAPTER VI.

A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE TO THE EFFORTS OF MY GENIUS.

Next day, I tauld Mrs Kennedy to dress hersel, and be ready, wi' her

bairn and her marriage-lines, to accompany me to a neighbour's house. We

departed thegither. We took the road to Langacres. I felt the necessity

here o' the maist inordinate caution--for I never could have been

answerable for the effects o' my bein seen at a distance, walkin in my

ordinary, erect, bauld, and somewhat martial manner, upon the house o' a

jaundiced invalid, wha possessed the idea that I had already assaulted,

and endeavoured to abduct his dochter. He might, in the first place,

either be placed in a situation o' intense fear and alarm--prejudicial,

if not fatal, to an invalid--or he might fire upon me from the windows,

wi' ane o' his auld sportin guns, for he was ance a great sportsman. At

same time it was necessary to conceal Mrs Kennedy, in case she might hae

been recognised by her faithless spouse. We took, therefore, a

circuitous route, under the cover o' a wood, that led up to the kitchen

door. The moment I entered, the women in the kitchen began to scream and

flee awa; but I soon shewed them I was perfectly canny, and even got the

length o' bein allowed to daut ane o' them (but she was a little

advanced in life) on the back. I was nae langer impeded in my endeavour

to see Mr Gilbert Walker, whom I discovered in an arm-chair, as yellow

as saffron, and as cankered as a nettle. He tried to start up when I

entered; but, heaven be praised! his jaundice sune brought him to his

seat again.

"I am come, sir," said I, "in a matter o' the maist interest in nature

to you and your dochter May."

"How, sir," screamed he, "can ye dare to sully the name o' that

innocent creature, by makin't run the gauntlet o' thae treacherous lips!

Awa wi' ye, ye vile Nicanor! ye wolf that carries woo on your back in

place o' hair! Alas! what a warld is this! 'Baith prophet and priest are

profane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness.'"

"Gilbert Walker," said I, calmly, "my intentions towards your dochter

were honourable, and I am come here this day--little thanks to me!--to

put you on your guard against one whose intentions are false,

treacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a

married man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for

merely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband

o' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned

though honourable Coelebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me,

her faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act,

convict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side

wi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could

justify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man?

There's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan,

frae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that

taste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland."

"What is this?" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in

the arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. "What do I hear? Who says

that George Webster is a married man?"

"Your greatest enemy!" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with

his outstretched hand. "Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected,

dejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared

to spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is

gratitude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just

vengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that

awarded him his safety."

"I see, I see it a'," cried May. "I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the

auld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom

bushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the

yellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry

their poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's

ha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in

the green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie

him nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the

Warlocks' Glen."

I sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard

spinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance--

"Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!--it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never

shew your face in this house again."

In three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness

and calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of

native etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet,

Mrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in

her pouch.

"I beg leave to introduce to you," said I, "Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu

wedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George

Webster, which is a mere cover--a vile deceit, and an imposition."

I hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her

bairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a

love that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi'

her longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious

mastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he

can. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake

the king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore,

kicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck

like a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht

hae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid.

But the foolish man struggled--vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane

effort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew,

and puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle

was for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for

life. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe,

impeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out,

as if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned

up, to show their whites. A hollow _raucitus_, or rattle, began in his

throat.

"Save the man frae strangulation," cried Gilbert Walker.

"Haud the young Kennedy, May," said I, throwin the bairn into her arms,

squallin wi' a great noise.

I flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's

hands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was

deprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy,

staggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a

short time, the puir woman cam to hersel.

"Hugh, dearest Hugh," she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, "can it

be possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither--me, wha left,

for yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the

bonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene

o' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves--for ay and for ever?"

"I know you not, woman," said he, doggedly.

"Dinna ken yer wedded wife!" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her

marriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. "Dinna ken Lucy Graeme,

dochter o' Arthur Graeme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by

marryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to

cherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This

is the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae

brought on my puir head. That bairn," (risin an' seizin the child,)

"that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted

its houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your

cauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge--got, dootless, frae heaven--o'

its natural protector. O maiden, maiden," (lookin to May Walker,) "tak

example by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it,

dinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree,

and means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has

taen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace--he wad hae taen

frae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour."

Kennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his

wife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I

watched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled

me to a side--I stumbled and fell--the women screamed--and, before I got

up, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn

still in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae

power wad restrain her--she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs,

after her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair.

Gratitude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time

completely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin.

We were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that

famous wark, "The Border Tales."

SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON.

An every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son

of pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly

right, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say

they were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck

nine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife

Betty called in their man-servant and their maid-servant into what

now-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms,

of reading the Word, and of prayer, was heard; and, moreover, their

actions corresponded with their profession. I say also they were

respectable; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, consisting

of fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was "making money

like hay"--for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days.

Foxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the

farm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The

brae on which Foxlaw stood, formed one side of a sort of deep valley or

ravine; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few

respectable-looking houses scattered here and there in its

neighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when,

to the exceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called

his name Peter--that having been the Christian name of his paternal

grandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would

be a prodigy; and was heard to say--"See, Robin, man, see!--did ye ever

ken the like o' that?--see how he laughs!--he kens his name already!"

And Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his

smile. "O Betty," said Robin--for Robin was no common man--"that smile

was the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul!--Thank

God! the bairn has a' its faculties." At five years old Peter was sent

to the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen; and there

he was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a book-worm.

Nevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his

class; but this was accounted for by the fact, that, when he made a

blunder, no one dared to _trap_ him, well knowing that if they had done

so, the moment they were out of school, Peter would have made his

knuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions

when he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a

boy lower in the class, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look

now at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again

look from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before

his face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stammerer, would give a

sort of significant nod to his fist suddenly clenched upon the open

page; and when the teacher stamped his foot, and cried, "Speak, sir!"

the trembler whimpered, "I daurna, sir." "Ye daurna!" the enraged

dominie would cry--"Why?" "Because--because, sir," was slowly stammered

out--"Peter Paterson wud _lick_ me!" Then would the incensed

disciplinarian spring upon Peter; and, grasping him by the collar, whirl

his _taws_ in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the

back, sides, and limbs of Peter; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes

more stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the

face of his tormentor with a look of imperturbable defiance and

contempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had

attained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary

to call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more

for his son, adding that--"He was fit for the college; and, though he

said it, that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever

entered it." These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin

treated the dominie to an extra tumbler. He, however, thought his son

was young enough for the college--"We'll wait anither year," said he;

"an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame; an' ye can gie a look in,

Maister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should

hae--we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll

say that for ye."

So another year passed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now

sometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun,

and more frequently still with a fishing rod. At the end of the twelve

months, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother

entreated, and his father threatened; but it was labour in vain. At

last--"It's o' nae use striving against the stream," said Robin--"ye

canna gather berries off a whin bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an'

he may live to rue it." Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fishing,

and working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to

receive a number of epithets from his neighbours. His old schoolmaster

called him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter;" but the dominie was a mere proser; he

knew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was

incapable of appreciating its soul. Some called him "Poetical Peter,"

and a few "Prosing Peter;" but the latter were downright bargain-making,

pounds-shillings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to

"The music of sweet sounds;"

and sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called

him "_Daft_ Peter," for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless

mischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him

"Handsome Peter." Yet he of whom they thus spoke would wander for hours

alone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves

warring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict;

or he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when

the morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the shore, a flash of

glory; or, when the moon-beams, like a million torches shooting from the

deep, danced on its undulating billows--then would he stand, like an

entranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul,

awed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, worshipped God, the

Creator of the great sea. With all his reputed wildness, and with all

his thoughtlessness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the

brae-side, Peter found voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him

the tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood;

and he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw

out the very soul of the

"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower."

It, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, "Just

idling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels." His father

now said--"Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight--an he'll

either mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson."

But, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire

to live to see him, as she expressed it, "wag his pow in a poopit," or,

at any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when

Robin was at Dunse hiring-market, the schoolmaster having called on his

old pupil, "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," the two entered into a controversy in

the presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the discussion,

the man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the

arguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into

Betty's eyes, to hear, as she said, "her bairn expawtiate equal--ay,

superior to ony minister;" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn,

than, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said--

"O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae?--an' sae fu' o' the dictioner'!

Troth but ye wad cut a figure i' the poopit! There wad nae dust gather

on your cushion--there wad be nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while

my Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad

mother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college! Ye wadna be lang o'

gettin a kirk, my man--I can tell ye that; an', if ye'll only consent to

gang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething

about--my bairn shall appear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was

an infant, it has aye been my hope an' my prayer, Peter, to see ye a

minister; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' butter to the

market, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to keep his pockets at

the college."

Peter was, in the main, a most dutiful and most affectionate son; but on

this point he was strangely stubborn; and he replied--

"Wheesht, mother! wheesht!--nae mair aboot it."

"Nae mair aboot it, bairn!" said she; "but I maun say mair aboot it.

Man! wad ye fling awa yer learnin' at a dyke-side, an' yer talents at a

pleugh-tail? Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart? O Peter!

Peter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava?--What is yer objection?"

"Weel, keep your temper, mother," said he, "an' I'll tell ye

candidly:--The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae

elbow-room in!"

"What do ye mean, ye graceless?" added she, in a voice betokening a sort

of horror.

"Oh, naething particular; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as--the

Reverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on

his ain glebe--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the

presbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Miller's

dam--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear before the

General Assembly for clappin' Tammy the Miller's servant lassie on the

shouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome quean--or"----

"Or!"--exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother--"Oh, ye forward an'

profane rascal ye! how daur ye speak in sic a strain--or wad ye be

guilty o' sic unministerial conduct?--wad ye disgrace _the coat_ by sic

ungodly behaviour?"

"There's nae sayin', mother," added he; "but dinna be angry--I'm sure,

if I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny lassie on the shouther,

ye wadna think it unlike your son Peter."

"Weel, weel," said the good-natured matron, softened down by his manner;

"it's true your faither says--it's nae use striving against the stream;

an' a' gifts arena graces. But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye

be? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate?"

"Worse an' worse, mother! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of

another."

"Then, callant," added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she

spoke--"I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye. Will ye no be a doctor?"

"What!" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical attitude--"an

apothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a

pestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before

me."

"Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!" said his mother, as she

rose and left the room in a passion; "ye'll be a play-actor yet, an'

that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'."

Peter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger

ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about

seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up

his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the

village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master

of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the

villagers expressed it, "a sort o' money." He had a family of several

children, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same

age as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter;

they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up

between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion;

for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row,

reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a

boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper,

runner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a

long yarn, and, over a glass of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a

man; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards

him, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit

of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed

suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat.

His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr

Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing

every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire

soul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed

up in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over her fair brow;

but Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes

occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely

face, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost

sculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the

shining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on

Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before;

and he knew not wherefore.

Next day, and every day, found Peter at the house of Captain Graham; and

often as love's own hour threw its grey mantle over the hills, he was to

be seen wandering with the gentle Ann by his side, on the sea-banks, by

the beach, and in the unfrequented paths. Again and again, when no eye

saw them, and when no ear heard them, he had revealed the fulness of his

heart before her; and, in the rapture of the moment, sealed his truth

upon her lips; while she, with affection too deep for words, would fling

her arm across his shoulder, and hide her face on his breast to conceal

the tear of joy and of love.

His parents looked upon Ann as their future daughter; and, with Peter,

the course of "true love ran smooth." A farm had been taken in an

adjoining parish, on which he was to enter at the following Whitsunday;

and, on taking possession of his farm, Ann Graham was to become his

bride. Never did exile long more ardently for his native land, than did

Peter Paterson for the coming Whitsunday; but, ere it came, the poetical

truth was verified, that

"The course of true love _never did_ run smooth."

Contiguous to the farm of Foxlaw, lay the estate of one Laird Horslie--a

young gentleman but little known in the neighbourhood; for he had

visited it but once, and that only for a few weeks, since it came into

his possession. All that was known of him was, that he wrote J.P. after

his name--that he was a hard landlord, and had the reputation of

spending his rents faster than his factor could forward them to him. To

him belonged the farm that had been taken for Peter; and it so happened,

that, before the Whitsunday which was to make the latter happy arrived,

the laird paid a second visit to his estate. At the kirk, on the Sunday,

all eyes were fixed on the young laird. Captain Graham was one of his

tenants, and occupied a pew immediately behind the square seat of the

squire. But, while all eyes were fixed upon Laird Horslie, he turned his

back upon the minister, and gazed, and gazed again, upon the lovely

countenance of Ann Graham. All the congregation observed it. Ann blushed

and hung her head; but the young squire, with the privilege of a man of

property, gazed on unabashed. What was observed by all the rest of the

congregation, was not unobserved by Peter. Many, with a questionable

expression in their eyes, turned them from the laird, and fixed them

upon him. Peter observed this also and his soul was wroth. His face

glowed like a furnace; he stood up in his seat, and his teeth were

clenched together. His fist was once or twice observed to be clenched

also; and he continued scowling on the laird, wishing in his heart for

ability to annihilate him with a glance.

Next day, the squire called upon the old skipper, and he praised the

beauty of Ann in her own presence, and in the presence of her parents.

But there was nothing particular in this; for he called upon all his

tenants, he chatted with them, tasted their bottle, paid compliments to

their daughters, and declared that their sons did honour to

"Scotland's glorious peasantry."

Many began to say, that the laird was "a nice young gentleman"--that he

had been "wickedly misca'ed;" and the factor "got the wyte o' a'." His

visits to Mr Graham's cottage, however, were continued day after day;

and his attentions to Ann became more and more marked. A keen sportsman

himself, he was the implacable enemy of poachers, and had strictly

prohibited shooting on his estate; but, to the old skipper, the

privilege was granted of shooting when and where he pleased. Instead,

therefore, of seeing Peter Paterson and the old seaman in the fields

together, it was no uncommon thing to meet the skipper and the squire.

The affection of the former, indeed, had wonderfully cooled towards his

intended son-in-law. Peter saw and felt this; and the visits of the

squire were wormwood to his spirit. If they did not make him jealous,

they rendered him impatient, impetuous, miserable.

He was wandering alone upon the shore, at the hour which Hogg calls

"between the gloamin' and the mirk," in one of those impatient,

impetuous, and unhappy moods, when he resolved not to live in a state of

torture and anxiety until Whitsunday, but to have the sacred knot tied

at once.

Having so determined, Peter turned towards Graham's cottage. He had not

proceeded far, when he observed a figure gliding before him on the

footpath, leading from the village to the cottage. Darkness was

gathering fast, but he at once recognised the form before him to be that

of his own Ann. She was not a hundred yards before him, and he hastened

forward to overtake her; but, as the proverb has it, there is much

between the cup and the lip. A part of the footpath ran through a young

plantation, and this plantation Ann Graham was just entering, when

observed by Peter. He also had entered the wood, when his progress was

arrested for a moment by the sudden sound of voices. It was Ann's voice,

and it reached his ear in tones of anger and reproach; and these were

tones so new to him, as proceeding from one whom he regarded as all

gentleness and love, that he stood involuntarily still. The words he

could not distinguish; but, after halting for an instant, he pushed

softly but hastily forward, and heard the voice of the young laird

reply--

"A rose-bud in a fury, by the goddesses!--Nay, frown not, fairest,"

continued he, throwing his arm around her, and adding--

"What pity that so delicate a form

Should be devoted to the rude embrace

Of some indecent clown!"

Peter heard this, and muttered an oath or an ejaculation which we will

not write.

"Sir," said Ann, indignantly, and struggling as she spoke, "if you have

the fortune of a gentleman, have, at least, the decency of a man."

"Nay, sweetest; but you, having the beauty of an angel, have the heart

of a woman." And he attempted to kiss her cheek.

"Laird Horslie!" shouted Peter, as if an earthquake had burst at the

heels of the squire--"hands off!--I say, hands off!"

Now, Peter did not exactly suit the action to the word; for, while he

yet exclaimed "hands off!" he, with both hands, clutched the laird by

the collar, and hurling him across the path, caused him to roll like a

ball at the foot of a tree.

"Fellow!" exclaimed Horslie, furiously, rising on his knee, and rubbing

his sores--

"Fellow!" interrupted Peter--"confound ye, sir, dinna _fellow_ me, or

there'll be _fellin_' in the way. You can keep yer farm, and be hanged

to ye; and let me tell ye, sir, if ye were ten thousand lairds, if ye

dared to lay yer ill-faur'd lips on a sweetheart o' mine, I wad twist

yer neck about like a turnip-shaw! Come awa, Annie, love," added he,

tenderly, "and be thankfu' I cam in the way."

Before they entered the house, he had obtained her consent to their

immediate union; but the acquiescence of the old skipper was still

wanting; and when Peter made known his wishes to him--

"Belay," cried the old boy; "not so fast, Master Peter; a craft such as

my girl is worth a longer run, lad. Time enough to take her in tow, when

you've a harbour to moor her in, Master Peter. There may be other

cutters upon the coast, too, that will give you a race for her, and that

have got what I call _shot_ in their lockers. So you can take in a reef,

my lad; and, if you don't like it, why--helm about--that's all."

"Captain Graham," said Peter, proudly and earnestly, "I both understand

and feel your remarks; and, but for Ann's sake, I would resent them

also. But, sir, you are a faither--you are an affectionate one--dinna be

a deluded one. By a side-wind, ye hae flung my poverty in my teeth; but,

sir, if I hae poverty, and Laird Horslie riches, I hae loved yer

dochter as a man--he seeks to destroy her like a villain."

"'Vast, Peter, 'vast!" cried the old man; "mind I am Ann's father--tell

me what you mean."

"I mean, sir, that ye hae been hoodwinked," added the other--"that ye

hae been flung aff yer guard, and led to the precipice o' the deep, dark

sea o' destruction an' disgrace; that a villain has hovered round yer

house, like a hawk round a wood-pigeon's nest, waiting an opportunity to

destroy yer peace for ever! Sir, to use a phrase o' yer ain, wad ye

behold yer dochter driven a ruined wreck upon the world's bleak shore,

the discarded property o' the lord o' the manor? If ye doubt me, as to

the rascal's intentions, ask Ann hersel."

"'Sdeath, Peter, man!" cried the old tar, "do you say that the fellow

has tried to make a marine of me?--that a lubber has got the weathergage

of Bill Graham? Call in Ann."

Ann entered the room where her father and Peter sat.

"Ann, love," said the old man, "I know you are a true girl; you know

Squire Horslie, and you know he comes here for you; now, tell me at

once, dear--I say, tell me what you think of him?"

"I think," replied she, bursting into tears--"I _know_ he is a villain!"

"You know it!" returned he; "blow me, have I harboured a shark! What!

the salt water in my girl's eyes, too! If I thought he had whispered a

word in your ear, but the thing that was honourable--hang me! I would

warm the puppy's back with a round dozen with my own hand."

"You have to thank Peter," said she, sobbing, "for rescuing me to-night

from his unmanly rudeness."

"What! saved you from his rudeness!--you didn't tell me that, Peter;

well, well, my lad, you have saved an old sailor from being drifted on

a rock. There's my hand--forgive me--get Ann's, and God bless you!"

Within three weeks, all was in readiness for the wedding. At Foxlaw, old

Betty was, as she said, up to the elbows in preparation, and Robin was

almost as happy as his son; for Ann was loved by every one. It was

Monday evening, and the wedding was to take place next day. Peter was

too much of a sportsman not to have game upon the table at his marriage

feast. He took his gun, and went among the fields. He had traversed over

the fifty acres of Foxlaw in vain, when, in an adjoining field, the

property of his rival, he perceived a full-grown hare holding his

circuitous gambols. It was a noble-looking animal. The temptation was

irresistible. He took aim; and the next moment bounded over the low

hedge. He was a dead shot; and he had taken up the prize, and was

holding it, surveying it before him, when Mr Horslie and his gamekeeper

sprang upon him, and, ere he was aware, their hands were on his breast.

Angry words passed, and words rose to blows. Peter threw the hare over

his shoulder, and left the squire and his gamekeeper to console each

other on the ground. He returned home; but nothing said he of his second

adventure with Laird Horslie.

The wedding-day dawned; and, though the village had no bells to ring,

there were not wanting demonstrations of rejoicing; and, as the marriage

party passed through its little street to the manse, children shouted,

waved ribbons, and smiled, and every fowling-piece and pistol in the

place sent forth a joyful noise; yea, the village Vulcan himself, as

they passed his smithy, stood with a rod of red-hot iron in his hand,

and having his stithies arranged before him like a battery, and charged

with powder, saluted them with a rustic but hearty _feu d'joie_. There

was not a countenance but seemed to bless them. Peter was the very

picture of manly joy--Ann of modesty and love. They were within five

yards of the manse, where the minister waited to pronounce over them the

charmed and holy words, when Squire Horslie's gamekeeper and two

constables intercepted the party.

"You are our prisoner," said one of the latter, producing his warrant,

and laying his hand upon Peter.

Peter's cheek grew pale; he stood silent and motionless, as if palsy had

smitten his very soul. Ann uttered a short, sudden scream of despair,

and fell senseless at the feet of the best-man. Her cry of agony

recalled the bridegroom to instant consciousness; he started round--he

raised her in his arms, he held her to his bosom. "Ann!--my ain Ann!" he

cried; "look up--oh, look up, dear! It is me, Ann--they canna, they

daurna harm me."

Confusion and dismay took possession of the whole party.

"What is the meaning o' this, sirs?" said Robin Paterson, his voice

half-choked with agitation; "what has my son done, that ye choose sic an

untimeous hour to bring a warrant against him?"

"He has done, old boy, what will give him employment for seven years,"

said the gamekeeper, insolently. "Constables, do your duty."

"Sirs," said Robin, as they again attempted to lay hands upon his son,

"I am sure he has been guilty o' nae crime--leave us noo, an' whatever

be his offence, I, his faither, will be answerable for his forthcoming

to the last penny in my possession."

"And I will be bail to the same amount, master constables," said the old

skipper; "for, blow me, d'ye see, if there an't black work at the bottom

o' this, and somebody shall hear about it, that's all."

Consciousness had returned to the fair bride. She threw her arms around

Peter's neck--"They shall not--no, they shall not take you from me!"

exclaimed she.

"No, no, dear," returned he; "dinna put yersel' about."

The minister had come out of the manse, and offered to join the old men

as security for Peter's appearance on the following day.

"To the devil with your bail!--you are no justices, master constables,"

replied the inexorable gamekeeper--"seize him instantly."

"Slave!" cried Peter, raising his hand and grasping the other by the

throat.

"Help! help, in the king's name!" shouted the provincial executors of

the law, each seizing him by the arm.

"Be quiet, Peter, my man," said his father, clapping his shoulder, and a

tear stole down his cheek as he spoke, "dinna mak bad worse."

"A rescue, by Harry!--a rescue!" cried the old skipper.

"No, no," returned Peter--"no rescue; if it cam to that, I wad need nae

assistance. Quit my arms, sirs, and I'll accompany ye in peace. Ann,

love--fareweel the noo, an' Heaven bless you, dearest!--but dinna greet,

hinny--dinna greet!" And he pressed his lips to hers. "Help her,

faither--help her," added he; "see her hame, and try to comfort her."

The old man placed his arm tenderly round her waist--she clung closer to

her bridegroom's neck; and, as they gently lifted up her hands, she

uttered a heart-piercing, and it seemed, a heart-broken scream, that

rang down the valley like the wail o' desolation. Her head dropped upon

her bosom. Peter hastily raised her hand to his lips; then turning to

the myrmidons of the law, said sternly--"I am ready, sirs; lead me where

you will."

I might describe to you the fears, the anguish, and the agony of Peter's

mother, as, from the door of Foxlaw, she beheld the bridal party return

to the village. "Bless me, are they back already!--can anything hae

happened the minister?" was her first exclamation; but she saw the

villagers collecting around them in silent crowds; she beheld the women

raising their hands, as if stricken with dismay; the joy that had

greeted them a few minutes before was dead, and the very children seemed

to follow in sorrow. "Oh, bairn!" said she to the serving maid, who

stood beside her, "saw ye e'er the like o' yon? Rin doun an' see what's

happened; for my knees are sinking under me." The next moment she beheld

her husband and Captain Graham supporting the unwedded bride in their

arms. They approached not to Foxlaw, but turned to the direction of the

Captain's cottage. A dimness came over the mother's eyes--for a moment

they sought her son, but found him not. "Gracious Heaven!" she cried,

wringing her hands, "what's this come owre us!" She rushed forward--the

valley, the village, and the joyless bridal party, floated round before

her--her heart was sick with agony, and she fell with her face upon the

earth.

The next day found Peter in Greenlaw jail. He had not only been detected

in the act of poaching; but a violent assault, as it was termed, against

one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, was proved against him; and,

before his father or his friends could visit him, he was hurried to

Leith, and placed on board a frigate about to sail from the Roads. He

was made of sterner stuff than to sink beneath oppression; and, though

his heart yearned for the mourning bride from whose arms he had been

torn, and he found it hard to brook the imperious commands and even

insolence of men "dressed in a little brief authority;" yet, as the

awkwardness of a landsman began to wear away, and the tumult of his

feelings to subside, his situation became less disagreeable; and, before

twelve months had passed, Peter Paterson was a favourite with every one

on board.

At the time we speak of, some French privateers had annoyed the fishing

smacks employed in carrying salmon from Scotland to London; and the

frigate on board of which Peter had been sent, was cruising to and fro

in quest of them. One beautiful summer evening, when the blue sea was

smooth as a mirror, the winds seemed dead, and the very clouds slept

motionless beneath the blue sky, the frigate lay becalmed in a sort of

bay within two miles of the shore. Well was that shore known to Peter;

he was familiar with the appearance of every rock--with the form of

every hill--with the situation of every tree--with the name of every

house and its inhabitants. It was the place of his birth; and, before

him, the setting sun shed its evening rays upon his father's house, and

upon the habitation of her whom he regarded as his wife. He leaned

anxiously over the proud bulwarks of the vessel, gazing till his

imprisoned soul seemed ready to burst from his body, and mingle with the

objects it loved. The sun sank behind the hills--the big tears swelled

in his eyes--indistinctness gathered over the shore--he wrung his hands

in silence and in bitterness. He muttered in agony the name of his

parents, and the name of her he loved. He felt himself a slave. He

dashed his hand against his forehead--"O Heaven!" he exclaimed aloud,

"thy curse upon mine enemy!"

"Paterson!" cried an officer, who had observed him, and overheard his

exclamation; "are you mad? See him below," continued he, addressing

another seaman; "the fellow appears deranged."

"I am not mad, your honour," returned Peter, though his look and his

late manner almost belied his words; and, briefly telling his story, he

begged permission to go on shore. The frigate, however, was considered

as his prison, and his place of punishment; when sent on board, he had

been described as "a dangerous character"--his recent bitter prayer or

imprecation went far in confirmation of that description; and his

earnest request was refused.

Darkness silently stretched its dull curtain over earth and sea--still

the wind slept as a cradled child, and the evening star, like a gem on

the bosom of night, threw its pale light upon the land. Peter had again

crept upon the deck; and, while the tears yet glistened in his eyes, he

gazed eagerly towards the shore, and on the star of hope and of love. It

seemed like a lamp from Heaven suspended over his father's house--the

home of his heart, and of his childhood. He felt as though it at once

invited him to the scene of his young affections, and lighted the way.

For the first time, the gathering tears rolled down his cheeks. He bent

his knees--he clasped his hands in silent prayer--one desperate

resolution had taken possession of his soul; and the next moment he

descended gently into the silent sea. He dived by the side of the

vessel; and, ascending at the distance of about twenty yards, strained

every nerve for the shore.

It was about day-dawn, when Robin Paterson and his wife were aroused by

the loud barking of their farm-dog; but the sound suddenly ceased, as if

the watch-dog were familiar with the intruder; and a gentle tapping was

heard at the window of the room where they slept.

"Wha's there?" inquired Betty.

"A friend--an old friend," was replied in a low, and seemingly disguised

voice.

But there was no disguising the voice of a lost son to a mother's ear.

"Robin! Robin!" she exclaimed--"it is _him_!--Oh, it is

_him_!--Peter!--my bairn!"

In an instant, the door flew open, and Peter Paterson stood on his

parents' hearth, with their arms around his neck, while their tears were

mingled together.

After a brief space wasted in hurried exclamations, inquiries, and tears

of joy and surprise--"Come, hinny," said the anxious mother, "let me get

ye changed, for ye're wet through and through. Oh, come, my man, and

we'll hear a' thing by and by--or ye'll get yer death o' cauld, for

ye're droukit into the very skin. But, preserve us, bairn! ye hae

neither a hat to yer head, nor a coat to yer back! O Peter, hinny, what

is't--what's the matter?--tell me what's the meaning o't."

"O mother, do not ask me!--I have but a few minutes to stop. Faither, ye

can understand me--I maun go back to the ship again; if I stay, they

will be after me."

"O Peter!--Peter, man!" exclaimed Robin, weeping as he spoke, and

pressing his son's hand between his--"what's this o't!--yes, yes, yer

faither understands ye! But is it no possible to hide?"

"No, no, faither!" replied he--"dinna think o't."

"O bairn!" cried Betty, "what is't ye mean? Wad ye leave yer mother

again? Oh! if ye kenned what I've suffered for yer sake, ye wadna speak

o't."

"O mother!" exclaimed Peter, dashing his hand before his face, "this is

worse than death! But I must!--I must go back, or they would tear me

from you. Yet, before I do go, I would see my poor Ann."

"Ye shall see her--see her presently," cried Betty; "and baith her and

yer mother will gang doon on oor knees to ye, Peter, if ye'll promise no

to leave us."

"Haste ye, then, Betty," said Robin, anxiously; "rin awa owre to Mr

Graham's as quick as ye can; for, though ye no understand it, I see

there's nae chance for poor Peter but to tak horse for it before the

sun's up."

Hastily the weeping mother flew towards Mr Graham's. Robin, in spite of

the remonstrances of his son, went out to saddle a horse on which he

might fly. The sun had not yet risen when Peter beheld his mother, his

betrothed bride, and her father, hurrying towards Foxlaw. He rushed out

to meet them--to press the object of his love to his heart. They

met--their arms were flung around each other.

A loud huzza burst from a rising ground between them and the beach. The

old skipper started round. He beheld a boat's crew of the frigate, with

their pistols levelled towards himself, his unhappy daughter, and her

hapless bridegroom!

"O Ann, woman!" exclaimed Peter, wildly, "this is terrible! it is mair

than flesh and blood can stand!"

"Peter! O Peter!" cried the wretched girl, clinging around him.

The party from the frigate approached them. Even their hearts were

touched.

"From my soul, I feel for you, Paterson," said the lieutenant commanding

them; "and I am sorry to see these old people and that lovely girl in

distress; but you know I must do my duty, lad."

"O sir! sir!" cried his mother, wringing her hands, and addressing the

lieutenant, "if ye hae a drap o' compassion in yer heart, spare my puir

bairn! O sir! I implore ye, as ye wad expect mercy here or hereafter,

dinna tear him frae the door o' the mother that bore him."

"Good woman," replied the officer, "your son must go with us; but I

shall do all that I can to render his punishment as light as possible."

Ann uttered a shriek of horror.

"Punishment!" exclaimed Betty, grasping the arm of the lieutenant--"O,

sir, what do ye mean by punishment? Surely, though your heart was harder

than a nether mill-stane, ye couldna be sae cruel as to hurt my bairn

for comin to see his ain mother?"

"Sir," said Robin, "my son never intended to rin awa frae your ship. He

told me he was gaun to return immediately--I assure ye o' that. But,

sir, if ye could only leave him, and if siller can do anything in the

case, ye shall hae the savings o' thirty years, an' a faither's blessing

into the bargain."

"Oh, ay, sir!" cried his mother; "ye shall hae the last penny we hae i'

the world--ye shall hae the very stock of the farm, if ye'll leave my

bairn!"

The officer shook his head. The sailors attempted to pinion Peter's

arms.

"'Vast there, shipmates! 'vast!" said Peter, sorrowfully; "there is no

need for that; had I intended to run for it, you would not have found me

here. Ann, love"----he added--his heart was too full for words--he

groaned--he pressed his teeth upon his lip--he wrung her hand. He

grasped the hands of his parents and of Mr Graham--he burst into tears,

and in bitterness exclaimed, "Farewell!" I will not describe the painful

scene, nor paint the silent agony of the father, the heart-rending

lamentations of the bereaved mother, nor the tears and anguish of the

miserable maiden who refused to be comforted.

Peter was taken to the boat, and conveyed again to the frigate. His

officer sat in judgment upon his offence, and Peter stood as a culprit

before them. He begged to be heard in his defence, and his prayer was

granted.

"I know, your honours," said Peter, "that I have been guilty of a breach

of discipline; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the

service. Who amongst you, that has a heart to feel, would not, under the

same circumstances, have acted as I did? Who that has been torn from a

faither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take

a faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or

who that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than

life, would not risk life for her sake? Gentlemen, it becomes not man to

punish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog,

torture, and degrade me--I do not supplicate for mercy--but will

degradation prompt me to serve my king more faithfully? I know you must

do your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers--as men

who have hearts to feel."

During this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted provincial accent.

There was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and

the punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement.

It was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The

frigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon

the station about three months; and, during that time, as the seamen

said--"not a lubber of the enemy had dared to show his face--there was

no _life_ going at all;" and they were becoming impatient for a friendly

set-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the

mast-head. "A sail!--a Yankee!" shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra

burst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the

rigging to ascertain the fact. "All's right," he cried--"a sixty-gun

ship, at least."

"Clear the deck, my boys," cried the commander; "get the guns in

order--active--be steady, and down upon her."

Within ten minutes, all was in readiness for action.

"Then down on the deck, my lads," cried the captain; "not a word amongst

you--give them a British welcome."

The brave fellows silently knelt by the guns, glowing with impatience

for the command to be given to open their fire upon the enemy. The

Americans seemed nothing loath to meet them half-way. Like winged

engines of death rushing to shower destruction on each other, the proud

vessels came within gunshot. The American opened the first fire upon the

frigate. Several shot had passed over her, and some of the crew were

already wounded. Still no word escaped from the lips of the British

commander. At length he spoke a word in the ear of the man at the helm,

and the next moment the frigate was brought across the bow of the enemy.

"Now, my lads," cried the captain, "now give them it." An earthquake

seemed to burst at his words--the American was raked fore and aft, and

the dead and dying, and limbs of the wounded, strewed her deck. The

enemy quickly brought their vessel round--then followed the random gun,

and anon the heavy broadsides were poured into each other. For an hour

the action had continued, but victory or death seemed the determination

of both parties. Both ships were crippled, and had become almost

unmanageable, and in each, equal courage and seamanship were displayed.

It was drawing towards nightfall, they became entangled, and the word

"to board!" was given by the commander of the frigate. Peter Paterson

was the first man who, cutlass in hand, sprang upon the deck of the

American. He seemed to possess a lion's strength, and more than a lion's

ferocity. In a few minutes, four of the enemy had sunk beneath his

weapon. "On, my hearties!--follow Paterson!" cried an officer; "Peter's

a hero!" Fifty Englishmen were engaged hand to hand with the crew of the

American; and for a time they gained ground; but they were opposed with

a determination equal to their own, and, overpowered by a superiority of

numbers, they were driven back and compelled to leap again into the

frigate. At the moment his comrades were repulsed, Peter was engaged

with the first lieutenant of the American--"Stop a minute!" shouted

Peter, as he beheld them driven back; "keep your ground till I finish

this fellow!" His request was made in vain, and he was left alone on the

enemy's deck; but Peter could turn his back upon no man. "It lies

between you and me now, friend," said he to his antagonist. He had

shivered the sword of the lieutenant by the hilt, when a Yankee seaman,

armed with a crowbar, felled Peter to the deck.

Darkness came on, and the vessels separated. The Americans were flinging

their dead into the sea--they lifted the body of Peter. His hands

moved--the supposed dead man groaned. They again placed him on the deck.

He at length looked round in bewilderment. He raised himself on his

side. "I say, neighbours," said he to the group around him, "is this

_our_ ship or _yours_?" The Americans made merry at Peter's question.

"Well," continued he, "if it be yours, I can only tell you it was foul

play that did it. It was a low, cowardly action, to fell a man behind

his back; but come face to face, and twa at a time if ye like, and I'll

clear the decks o' the whole ship's crew o' you."

"You are a noble fellow," said the lieutenant whom he had encountered,

"and if you will join our service, I guess your merit shan't be long

without promotion."

"What!" cried Peter, "raise my right hand against my ain country! Gude

gracious, sir! I wud sooner eat it as my next meal!"

In a few weeks the vessel put into Boston for repairs; and, on her

arrival, it was ascertained that peace had been concluded between the

two countries. Peter found himself once more at liberty; but with

liberty he found himself in a strange land, without a sixpence in his

pocket. This was no enviable situation to be placed in, even in America,

renowned as it is as the paradise of the unfortunate; and he was

standing, on the second morning after his being put on shore, counting

the picturesque islands which stud Boston harbour, for his breakfast,

poor fellow, when a person accosted him--"Well, my lad, how is the new

world using you?" Peter started round--it was his old adversary the

lieutenant.

"A weel-filled pocket, sir," returned Peter, "will mak either the new

warld or the auld use you weel; and without that, I reckon your usage in

either the ane or the ither wad be naething to mak a sang about."

The lieutenant pulled out his purse--"I am not rich, Paterson," said he;

"but, perhaps, I can assist a brave man in need." Peter was prevailed

upon to accept a few dollars. He knew that to return to Berwickshire was

again to throw himself into the power of his persecutor, and he communed

with himself what to do. He could plough--he could manage a farm--he

was master of all field-work; and, within a week, he engaged himself as

a farm-servant to a proprietor in the neighbourhood of Charleston. He

had small reason, however, to be in love with his new employment. Peter

was proud and high-minded, (in the English, not the American acceptation

of the word,) and he found his master an imperious, avaricious,

republican tyrant. The man's conduct ill-accorded with his professions

of universal liberty. His wish seemed to be, to level all down to his

own standard, that he might the more easily trample on all beneath him.

His incessant cry, from the rising of the sun until its setting, was,

"Work! work!" and with an oath he again called upon his servants to

"work!" He treated them as beasts of burden. "Work! hang ye, work!" and

a few oaths, seemed to be the principal words in the man's vocabulary.

Peter had not been overwrought in the frigate--he had been his own

master at Foxlaw--and, when doing his utmost, he hated to hear those

words everlastingly rung in his ear. But he had another cause for

abhorring his employment; his master had a number of slaves, on whom he

wreaked the full measure of his cruelty. There was one, an old man, in

particular, on whom he almost every day gratified his savageness. Peter

had beheld the brutal treatment of the old negro till he could stand it

no longer; and one day, when he was vainly imploring the man who called

himself the owner of his flesh for mercy, Peter rushed forward, he

seized the savage by the breast, and exclaimed--"Confound ye, sir, if I

see ye strike that poor auld black creature again, I'll cleave ye to the

chin."

The slave-owner trembled with rage. "What!" said he--"it's a fine thing,

indeed, if we've wollopped the English for liberty, and after all, a man

an't to have the liberty of wollopping his own neeger!"

He drew out his purse, and flung Peter's wages contemptuously on the

ground. Peter, stooping, placed the money in his pocket, and, turning

towards Charleston, proceeded along the bridge to Boston. He had seen

enough of tilling another man's fields in America, and resolved to try

his fortune in some other way, but was at a loss how to begin. I have

already told you how Peter's mother praised his delivery in his debate

with the schoolmaster; and Peter himself thought that he could deliver a

passage from Shakspeare in a manner that would make the fortune of any

hero of the sock and buskin; and he was passing along the Mall, counting

the number of trees on every row, much in the same manner, and for the

same reason, as he had formerly counted the islands in the harbour, when

the thought struck him that the Americans were fond of theatricals; and

he resolved to try the stage. He called at the lodgings of the manager

in Franklin Place. He gave a specimen of his abilities; and, at a salary

of eighteen dollars a-week, Peter Paterson was engaged as leader of the

"heavy business" of the Boston _corps dramatique_. The tidings would

have killed his mother. Lear was chosen as the part in which he was to

make his first appearance. The curtain was drawn up. "Peter, what would

your mother say?" whispered his conscience, as he looked in the glass,

just as the bell rung and the prompter called him; and what, indeed,

would Betty Paterson have said to have seen her own son Peter, with a

red cloak, a painted face, a grey wig, and a white beard falling on his

breast! Lear--Peter--entered. He looked above, below, and around him.

The audience clapped their hands, shouted, and clapped their hands

again. It was to cheer the new performer. Peter thought they would bring

down the theatre. The lights dazzled his eyes. The gallery began to

swim--the pit moved--the boxes appeared to wave backward and forward.

Peter became pale through the very rouge that bedaubed his face, and

sweat, cold as icicles, rained down his temples. The shouting and the

clapping of hands was resumed--he felt a trembling about his limbs--he

endeavoured to look upon the audience--he could discern only a confused

mass. The noise again ceased.

"Attend----France----Burgundy----hem!----Gloster!" faltered out poor

Peter. The laughter became louder than the clapping of hands had been

before. The manager led Peter off the stage, paid him the half of his

week's salary, and wished him good-by. It is unnecessary to tell you how

Peter, after this disappointment, laid out eight dollars in the purchase

of a pack, and how, as pedlar, he travelled for two years among the

Indians and back-settlers of Canada, and how he made money in his new

calling. He had written to his parents and to Ann Graham; but, in his

unsettled way of life, it is no wonder that he had not received an

answer. He had written again to say, that, in the course of four months,

he would have to be in New York _in the way of business_--for Peter's

pride would not permit him to acknowledge that he carried a pack--and if

they addressed their letters to him at the Post-office there, he would

receive them. He had been some weeks in New York, and called every day,

with an anxious heart, at the Post-office. But his time was not lost; he

had obtained many rare and valuable skins from the Indians, and, with

his shop upon his back, he was doing more business than the most

fashionable store-keeper in the Broadway. At length, a letter arrived.

Peter hastily opened the seal, which bore the impress of his mother's

thimble, and read:--"My dear bairn,--This comes to inform ye that baith

your faither and me are weel--thanks to the Giver o' a' good--and hoping

to find ye the same. O Peter, hinny, could ye only come hame--did you

only ken what sleepless nights I spend on your account, ye wad leave

America as soon as ye get my letter. I wonder that ye no ken that Ann,

poor woman, an' her faither an her mother, an' the family, a' gaed to

about America mair than a year and a half syne, and I'm surprised ye

haena seen them."

"Ann in America!" cried Peter. He was unable to read the remainder of

his mother's letter. He again flung his pack upon his shoulder, but not

so much to barter and to sell, as to seek his betrothed bride. He

visited almost every city in the States, and in the provinces of British

America. He advertised for her in more than fifty newspapers; but his

search was fruitless--it was "Love's labour lost." Yet, during his

search, the world prospered with Peter. His pack had made him rich. He

opened a store in New York. He became also a shareholder in canals, and

a proprietor of steam-boats; in short he was looked upon as one of the

most prosperous men in the city. But his heart yearned for his native

land; and Peter Paterson, Esq., turned his property into cash, and

embarked for Liverpool.

Ten long years had passed since the eyes of Betty Paterson had looked

upon her son; and she was busied, on a winter day, feeding her poultry

in the barn-yard, when she observed a post-chaise drive through the

village, and begin to ascend the hill towards Foxlaw.

"Preserve us, Robin!" she cried, as she bustled into the house, "there's

a coach comin' here--what can folk in a coach want wi' the like o' us?

Haud awa out an' see what they want, till I fling on a clean mutch an'

an apron, an' mak mysel wiselike."

"I watna wha it can be," said Robin, as he rose and went towards the

door.

The chaise drew up--a tall genteel-looking man alighted from it--at the

first glance he seemed nearly forty years of age, but he was much

younger. As he approached Robin started back--his heart sprang to his

throat--his tongue faltered.

"Pe--Pe--Peter!" he exclaimed. The stranger leaped forward, and fell

upon the old man's neck.

Betty heard the word _Peter!_--the clean cap fell from her hand, she

uttered a scream of joy, and rushed to the door, her grey hairs falling

over her face; and the next moment her arms encircled her son.

I need not tell you of the thousand anxious questions of the fond

mother, and how she wept as he hinted at the misfortunes he had

encountered, and smiled, and wept, and grasped his hand again, as he

dwelt upon his prosperity.

"Did I no aye say," exclaimed she, "that I would live to see my Peter a

gentleman?"

"Yet, mother," said Peter, "riches cannot bring happiness--at least not

to me, while I can hear nothing of poor Ann. Can no one tell to what

part of America her father went?--for I have sought them everywhere."

"Oh, forgie me, hinny," cried Betty, bitterly; "it was a mistake o' yer

mother's a'thegither. I understand, now, it wasna Ameri_ca_, they gaed

to; but it was Jamai_ca_, or some _ca_, and we hear they're back again."

"Not America," said Peter: "and back again!--then, where--where shall I

find her?"

"When we wrote to you, that, after leaving here, they had gaen to

America," said Robin, "it was understood they had gaen there--at ony

rate, they went abroad someway--and we never heard, till the other week,

that they were back to this country, and are now about Liverpool, where

I'm very sorry to hear they are very ill off; for the warld, they say,

has gaen a' wrang wi' the auld man."

This was the only information Peter could obtain. They were bitter

tidings; but they brought hope with them.

"Ye were saying that ye was in Liverpool the other day," added his

mother; "I wonder ye didna see some o' them!"

Peter's spirit was sad, yet he almost smiled at the simplicity of his

parent; and he resolved to set out in quest of his betrothed on the

following day.

Leaving Foxlaw, we shall introduce the reader to Sparling Street, in

Liverpool. Amongst the miserable cellars where the poor are crowded

together, and where they are almost without light and without air, one

near the foot of the street was distinguished by its outward

cleanliness; and in the window was a ticket with the words--"_A Girl's

School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." Over this humble cellar was a

boarding-house, from which, ever and anon, the loud laugh of jolly

seamen rang boisterous as on their own element. By a feeble fire in the

comfortless cellar, sat an emaciated, and apparently dying man; near him

sat his wife, engaged in making such articles of apparel as the

slop-dealers send to the West Indies, and near the window was a pale but

beautiful young woman, instructing a few children in needle-work and the

rudiments of education. The children being dismissed, she began to

assist her mother; and, addressing her father, said--

"Come, cheer up, dear father--do not give way to despondency--we shall

see better times. Come, smile now, and I will sing your favourite song."

"Heaven bless thee, my own sweet child!" said the old man, while the

tears trickled down his cheeks. "Thou wilt sing to cheer me, wilt

thou?--bless thee!--bless thee! It is enough that, in my old age, I eat

thy bread, my child!--sing not!--sing not!--there is no music now for

thy father's heart."

"Oh, speak not--think not thus," she cried, tenderly; "you make me sad,

too."

"I would not make thee sad, love," returned he, "but it is hard--it is

very hard--that, after cruising till I had made a fortune, as I may say,

and after being anchored in safety, to be tempted to make another

voyage, where my all was wrecked--and not only all wrecked, but my

little ones too--thy brothers and thy sisters, Ann--to see them struck

down one after another, and I hardly left wherewith to bury them--it is

hard to bear, child!--and, worse than all, to be knocked up like a

useless hulk, and see thee and thy mother toiling and killing

themselves for me--it is more than a father's heart can stand, Ann."

"Nay, repine not, father," said she: "He who tempereth the wind to the

shorn lamb, will not permit adversity to press on us more hardly than he

gives us strength to endure it. Though we suffer poverty, our exertions

keep us above want."

The old woman turned aside her head and wept.

"True, dear," added he, "thy exertions keep us from charity; but those

exertions, my child, will not long be able to make--I see it--I feel it?

And, oh, Ann, shall I see thee and thy mother inmates of a

workhouse--shall I hear men call thy father, Bill Graham, the old

pauper?"

The sweat broke upon the old man's brow from his excitement; his

daughter strove to soothe him, and, with an assumed playfulness,

commenced singing Skinner's beautiful old man's song, beginning--

"Oh, why should old age so much wound us!"

Now, Peter Paterson had been several days in Liverpool anxiously

inquiring for Captain Graham, but without obtaining any information of

him or of his daughter, or where they dwelt. Again and again he had

wandered along the docks; and he was disconsolately passing up Sparling

Street, when the loud revelry of the seamen in the boarding-house

attracted his attention. It reminded him of old associations; he paused

for a moment, and glanced upon the house and, as the pealing laughter

ceased, a low, sweet voice, pouring forth a simple Scottish air, reached

his ear. Peter now stood still. He listened--"That voice!" he exclaimed

audibly, and he shook as he spoke. He looked down towards the

cellar--the ticket in the window caught his eye. He read the words, "_A

Girl's School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." "I have found her!" he cried,

clasping his hands together. He rushed down the few steps, he stood in

the midst of them--"I have found her!" he repeated, as he entered. His

voice fell like a sunbeam on the cheerless heart of the fair vocalist.

"Peter!--My own"----she exclaimed, starting to her feet. She could not

utter more; she would have fallen to the ground, but Peter caught her in

his arms.

I need not describe the scene that followed: that night they left the

hovel which had served as a grave for their misfortunes. Within a week

they had arrived at Foxlaw, and within a week old and young in the

village danced at a joyful wedding. I may only add, that, a few weeks

after his marriage, Peter read in the papers an advertisement,

headed--"UPSET PRICE GREATLY REDUCED.--_Desirable Property in the

neighbourhood of Foxlaw, &c._" It was the very farm now offered for sale

of which Peter was to have become a tenant some twelve years before, and

was the remnant of the estates of the hopeful Laird Horslie; and Peter

became the purchaser. The old skipper regained his wonted health and

cheerfulness; and Betty Paterson lived to tell her grandchildren, "she

aye said their faither wad be a gentleman, and her words cam true." Even

the old schoolmaster, who had styled him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," said, he

"had aye predicted o' Mr Paterson, even when a callant, that he would

turn out an extraordinary man."

THE HEROINE.

A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE.

After it became known that the wily Sir Robert Carey had hurried away

from the deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce to the delighted

monarch of Scotland his succession to the crown of England, a great many

English noblemen and gentlemen came north on much the same errand that

brings so many of them at this day--viz., to hunt; the game, in the one

case, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse.

Among the rest, was one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in

Devonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set off

by an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours,

but exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and

mental acquirements, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature,

in all her departments, delights to display--suggesting, as it did, to

an ancient philosopher, that the _pulchrum_ and the _utile_ are dealt

out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their union in one

person.

Having arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at

the palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was informed that there were no

apartments close to the palace which could be given to him for his

accommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who

had come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their

allegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on

the occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took

up his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled down more

than a hundred years ago--at that time known by the name of the House

of Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been

occupied by the ducal family of that name. It was situated on the south

side of the street, and nearly opposite to the close called Big Loch-end

Close, which possessed at that time a very different appearance from

what it does at present; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts

which lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings,

which do not look half so well as their more humble predecessors.

Now, in one of these little huts there lived, at that time--unconscious,

doubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest

centuries after they were gathered to their fathers--a man called Adam

Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere

of their own little gossiping world; but, if these humble individuals

had been all that their lowly mansion contained, the chronicler would

scarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was

a third inmate in that house--an orphan girl, called Margaret

Williamson--a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years

of age, of bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and

meekness of disposition, that endeared her to thousands. Producing that

kind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so

often found to be the effect of the mysterious power of beauty, though

allied to poverty, which, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret seemed

as unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the

singular fate that awaited her. She had been heard of where she was not

seen; and, innocent and harmless as she was, she had not been passed

unheeded by the "wise women" of her day, who, in spite of fire and King

James' wrath, provided her, according to their love or their spite, with

a prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. As already hinted, Margaret

was represented as being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous

kindness of Adam Hunter and his wife, though there were not wanting some

who thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was

represented.

Scotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice

of gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and

number of remarks on the new-comers to the house of Gordon; and the

family of Adam Hunter were not behind their neighbours in their

curiosity.

"He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon," said

Janet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire.

"Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he is," inquired Adam, "atour the mere

title an' form o' his knighthood?"

"I ken naething aboot him," replied Janet, "save that his name is Sir

Willoughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham

he treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured, and

Elspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o'

speech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and

honour o' mony a bonny maiden may perish, like the silly boats that

trust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy

Williamson can tell mair aboot the knight than a' the 'wise women' frae

the Watergate to St. Mary's."

"An' if she can," said Adam, "it may be waur for her than if she were as

deep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art, whereby she

works sae meikle mischief to her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon

her head the vengeance o' the law. I houp better things o' Peggy."

"I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Feather," said Margaret,

with a deep sigh; "and wherefore should I?--he's far abune my degree."

"But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, "that he wears a white feather,

my bonny bird--and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when

they're far frae their ain countrie. Even our ain robin, wha condescends

to come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in

summer; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna

hesitate, when he has a guid opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast

wi' the blood o' his companions."

It was apparent that both Adam Hunter and Janet were suspicious of

Margaret's limited knowledge of the knight, and they had good reason to

be so; for Janet had been told that, one night, when Margaret had said

she was going to meet a person of the name of Simon Frazer--a tradesman

who had been making honourable proposals to her, along with many others

who were proud to be called her suitors--she had been seen walking with

a gentleman wrapped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to be Sir

Willoughby, in the glen of St Arthur's Seat, called the Hunter's Bog. On

another occasion, she had been followed by Simon Frazer to a trysting

place, known by the name of the Hunter's Rest--a large boulder of basalt

lying on the side of the bog, and remarkable to geologists by its

unaccountable position. On this stone Margaret had sat till the moon had

concealed her horns behind the top of St Arthur's, and the glen had

gradually become enveloped in the shade of the hill. Simon Frazer took

advantage of the gloom, and concealed himself near to the spot where

Margaret sat; and, amidst the silence which reigned in this secluded

place, he could distinctly hear the sighs of the maiden, as the hope of

seeing the person she had come to meet became fainter and fainter.

"Wae's my puir, deluded heart!" she said, in a desponding and tremulous

voice; "what is it that drives me, like a charmed bird or a dementit

thing, into the power o' this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings o'

Elspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam Hunter, and, what's abune a', the

fearsome visions o' my ain wild dreams? Can it be that I, wha hae seen,

and may still see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' my ain country

supplicating my favours as if their condition here and in anither warld

depended on a blink o' these worthless een, sit here, even noo, at the

Hunter's Rest, a mile frae my ain hame, and when naething but spirits

are in the glen, to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha speaks a

strange language, and mak's love in a strange fashion? But it is even

sae. My heart is nae langer my ain. He has ta'en it into his ain

keeping, and he may, in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as he may

crush the bonny blue bells that flower there i' the glen."

At the termination of Margaret's simple soliloquy, the sound of

footsteps was heard, and there soon followed the greeting of lovers.

Margaret's spirits soon revived, and, having taken Sir Willoughby's arm,

she said, playfully, as she looked up into his face--"The faithless moon

has been truer this nicht than ye hae been; for she left the tap o' the

hill half an hour syne, and ye are only here noo."

"Upbraid me not, my fair Margaret," answered Sir Willoughby; "for I was

scared at the Friar's Path by some person who seemed inclined to follow

me, and I was obliged to change my road; but thou knowest that love is

fed by hindrances, and its course is none of the straightest."

"I didna think," answered the simple maiden, "that true love stood in

need o' onything else in this warld, than the company and kindness o'

the twa lovers to ane anither."

"By my feather, Margaret, that is a true maiden's speech! But I do not

think that St Arthur, who must surely be the lover's saint, will thank

us for an argument, instead of a love-token, on such a beautiful night

as this. Observe these gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like streaks of

silver on the tops of the crags, investing the darkness of this glen

with a mystery in which love delights, and thou wilt forget thy

argument, in the sweets of our accustomed dalliance."

"That is a licht aith, Sir Willoughby, that ye hae sworn," answered the

maiden; "but every land, as the sang says, has its ain laugh, and it may

also hae its ain aith; and I may weel forgie ye that, for the bonny

words ye hae now spoken. Foreign lands hae finer words than puir

Scotland; but dinna think that I canna enjoy the beauty o' these silvery

rocks and that mirky glen, because my silly heart can find nae utterance

to its feelings, but by its ain unmeaning thrabs."

"And that is nature's best and most beautiful language, my sweet bird,"

said Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding maiden; "nor would I give one

throb of thy fair bosom for all the eloquence of poetry."

Holding such conversation, the lovers passed deeper into the shades of

the hill, and disappeared; but the death-like silence of the place

discovered, to the disappointed Simon Frazer, many sighs and

protestations which otherwise would have been sacred to the happy pair.

Well, many such meetings had Sir Willoughby and Margaret. Their walks

became more frequent, and of longer duration; and it was often a late

hour before Margaret returned to her home. It could not be that such a

change in the habits of the girl could escape the keen eye of public

curiosity, and far less the suspicious guardianship of Adam Hunter. Wide

spread, and generally known, as was the beauty of the maiden, so, in

proportion, was the voice of scandal heard over the town, whispering the

strange tidings, that Peggy Williamson had been seduced by the great

knight who lived in the House of Gordon.

The circumstance, indeed, very soon became apparent, from the appearance

of the unhappy girl, who could no longer conceal her condition. She

was, in consequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, and interrogated

whether she had received any promise of marriage, or any pledge whereon

she could found any expectation or hope that the knight's intentions

towards her were of an honourable nature. On this subject, no

satisfaction could be got from Margaret, who persisted in a dogged

silence, whenever any question was put to her, tending to implicate, in

any way, the man who, to all appearance, had ruined her. But chance

brought to light what Margaret had been so anxious to conceal; for one

evening, Janet Hunter discovered in Margaret's sleeping apartment a

small scented paper, curiously folded up, which she instantly carried to

her husband. Adam took the paper to a learned clerk, in Blackfriars'

Hospital--(for few persons, at that day, could either write, or read

writing)--who read it to him; and he was surprised to find that it

contained a promise, on the faith of a knight, that Sir Willoughby

Somerset would make, when time and circumstances afforded opportunity,

Margaret Williamson his wedded wife. The paper was again returned to the

place from which it was taken.

This paper, combined with Margaret's condition, having satisfied Adam

Hunter of the truth of the general report and his own suspicions, he

lost no time in waiting upon the knight. Being a man of hasty and even

furious temper, he taxed Sir Willoughby, in unmeasured terms, with the

seduction of his ward, and demanded, with a stern determination,

satisfaction to the maiden and to himself. Touched to the quick, and

wounded in his pride by the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, Sir

Willoughby lost in turn his temper, and seizing a baton which lay near

him, he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow on the head, and, with the

aid of his servants, kicked him out of the house. One of Sir

Willoughby's servants, who aided in this ejection and outrage, was

Richard Foster; the person who, it was supposed, first procured a

meeting between his master and Margaret. He was possessed of his

master's secrets, in this and many other dishonourable amours; and,

though he now, by his master's orders, assisted in the expulsion of Adam

Hunter, he hated him in his heart, in consequence of a blow which he had

some time before received from him, on which occasion he had threatened

to report his master's practices to Sir Robert Carey, who would not have

failed to communicate them to King James, whereby Sir Willoughby's

status at Court would have been lost, and his ruin accomplished. The

knight wished, therefore, to get quit of Richard; but to part with him

living was to part with his secrets; and he had accordingly made up his

mind to get him disposed of in such a manner as that he could tell no

tales. An opportunity for this occurred sooner than might have been

expected.

Stung with an ungovernable rage, Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold

of the house of Gordon, threw himself on his knees, and vowed to

Almighty God that he would take the first opportunity that fortune

afforded him of depriving his enemy of life. This dreadful purpose, thus

definitively and impiously settled, calmed Adam Hunter's rage; for he

felt, as if by anticipation, that he was revenged. He walked

deliberately home, and without hinting anything of his deadly intention

to his wife, sent for Simon Frazer, Margaret's rejected suitor,

communicated to him his design, and requested his co-operation. Frazer

entered into the scheme with all the spirit of his clan, and all the

rage of a disappointed lover towards his successful rival. They resolved

to fix the manner of accomplishing their purpose that evening, after

Janet and Margaret had retired to rest.

In the evening, when Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer met, Margaret had just

retired to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was occupied with the

thoughts of her situation. She had now become suspicious of Sir

Willoughby's intentions. In her late interviews with him, he had been

distant and shy; and he had even refused, on one occasion, to meet her,

alleging, as an excuse, that he was engaged to go to an evening

entertainment, to which it was ascertained he never went. He had,

besides, endeavoured to get back from her the letter, which, in an

unguarded moment, when intoxicated with love and wine, he had given to

her. All these circumstances satisfied the unhappy maiden that she was

about to become, or rather had already become, the dupe of a heartless

villain. She now considered herself standing on the very verge of ruin;

about to become, as Elspet Craig had foreboded, the victim of a passion

insidiously introduced into her young heart; and left to the scorn of an

unfeeling world, or the unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruitful

philanthropy. These reflections were passing through her mind, when she

heard Simon Frazer come into the house; for her bed was so situated that

she could hear everything that occurred in the adjoining apartment. She

soon ascertained the object of this late meeting of the two friends; and

with feelings that shook her whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on

the following evening, when Sir Willoughby was expected to go to an

evening entertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter should gain the

staircase window of Widow Hutchison, fire upon his enemy, and, upon

seeing him fall, make his escape, along with his friend, by a back

passage that led to the North Back of the Canongate. This resolved upon,

the two friends parted.

The agitation which the knowledge of this fierce and bloody purpose

produced in the mind of Margaret, was proportioned to the love which she

still bore to her seducer, and to the gentle character of the maiden,

who shrunk from the very thought of violence. Her nerves had, moreover,

been severely affected by the train of sorrowful thoughts which, at the

moment when she heard the fatal resolution, were passing through her

mind. But a new feeling soon arose. She was now called upon to act, and

the urgency of the case requiring the most prompt communication to Sir

Willoughby, assuaged, in some degree, her nervous excitement, by forcing

her ideas into a train calculated to the contrivance of some method of

meeting him in the morning.

At daybreak, Margaret rose from her sleepless pillow, wrapt herself up

in her plaid, and went and secreted herself behind a large tree, which

stood in the garden at the back of the House of Gordon, from which she

could observe the bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It was a cold raw

morning; the rain was pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant thunder

shook the heavens. In this situation, Margaret sat for two hours, wet,

wearied, and disconsolate. Her attention was, in some degree, arrested

by a new equipage that stood in the court-yard, apparently newly arrived

from a distance; and she concluded that Sir Willoughby had visitors--a

prediction which she had good reason to verify. Her eye sought

continually the casement of the knight's sleeping apartment, which was

at last opened, and to her surprise and mortification, she saw standing

behind the dressing-glass, the form of a gay and fashionable lady, with

Sir Willoughby standing behind her--his head leaning on her left

shoulder, and his right hand patting, with playful fondness, her cheek,

and arranging her ringlets with the sportive gaiety and confidence of a

professed libertine.

Overcome by this apparition, which so completely justified Margaret's

suspicions of the character of her lover, and wearied and wasted as she

was by the scene of the previous night, the fevered vigil which

succeeded, and the cold and wet position she had so long occupied on

this morning, she became faint; and, being unable longer to stand, leant

herself, in a stooping posture, against the stem of the tree under which

she stood. Sir Willoughby now entered the garden; he had observed her

from the window, and came with marked displeasure in his countenance.

"Why this early visit, young maiden?" he said, with a querulous tone of

voice, and without making any effort to assist her to rise.

"I dinna come here this morning, Sir Willoughby Somerset," replied

Margaret, with the warmth of offended pride, and standing up, nerved by

her feelings, which were roused as far as the gentleness of her nature

permitted--"I dinna come here this morning on my ain account, though

maybe I hae as meikle reason to do that as the braw leddie wha sits,

even noo, in your sleepin chamber, and whose braw hair ye were pleased,

in a fashion of merriment, to put in disorder. Oh, that it had pleased

heaven that ye had deranged nae mair o' me than my worthless locks, I

might this morning hae been the blithe, thochtless, and innocent Peggy

Williamson, that I was when my stray wits left me to mysel' at the

Hunter's Rest! Na, Sir Willoughby, I dinna come to tell ye o' your

broken troth, and my lost love, and the ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad

gladly hae laid down her worthless life to save yours. These

things--though, by our memories, whilk are but as the quicksand to the

finger-marks of the drowning sailor, they may ance be forgotten--are

recorded, doubtless, whar' they shall remain, ay, as the graving on

adamant. Yet, though these things, in this world at least, concern only

me, wha am, doubtless, o' sma concernment to ony living mortal; and

though they may cost me _my_ life, may be o' sma avail, they are o' less

importance to me at this time than what I cam' to tell ye, being

naething less than how to save your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to

slay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. Tak' anither road than the

Canongate; or, what is better, stay at hame, and save a life that is

dearer to Peggy Williamson than her ain.--Fareweel, fareweel!" And

before Sir Willoughby could reply, she had left him, waving her hand to

him as she went. But, on looking back, as she opened the wicket, she saw

the same lady--whom she afterwards ascertained to be lady Arabella

Winford, a person of bad repute, with whom Sir Willoughby had resided

for some time on the continent--enter the garden, and greet him in a

manner very different from the modest custom of Scotland at that day.

After the departure of Margaret, Sir Willoughby, instead of being in any

degree affected by gratitude for the preservation of his life, or by

compassion for the kind maiden who had been instrumental in doing him

that service, projected, from her information, a scheme marked by

cowardice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid of his servant Richard

Forster, and put an end to him and the secrets with which he had

entrusted him, at the same moment. He resolved, and true to the

character he bore--a combination of cruelty and frivolity--he resolved,

amidst the blandishments of meretricious affection, and the imbecile

badinage and persiflage of a strumpet's conversation, to send Richard

down the Canongate in the evening, wrapped up in his cloak, and wearing

his hat and white plume, by which he had become so remarkable. The

project was executed as it was planned; and a deed was done with which

Edinburgh, and indeed Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard Forster,

wearing the cloak and plumed hat of his master, was shot dead in the

Canongate, opposite the house of the widow Hutchison, by the unerring

hand of Adam Hunter, who, seeing his supposed victim fall, flew in the

direction of the Calton Hill, leaving the gun, with which he had done

the deed, lying in a hedge, which at that time skirted a part of the

north back of the Canongate.

A hue and cry was soon raised against Adam Hunter who, about a week

after the crime was committed, was laid hold of by the officers of the

law, and lodged in prison. Sufficient evidence having, in the opinion of

the crown authorities, been procured for a conviction, the unfortunate

man was, in due course of time, brought to trial before the High Court

of Justiciary. The court met on the 15th day of November; and Adam

Hunter, guarded on each side by members of the City Guard, sat, with the

stoical indifference which marked his character, to hear the evidence to

be brought forward against him, and, in all probability, to receive

sentence of death. The august appearance of the judges, sitting in their

silk robes, the venerable and even dignified aspect of the unfortunate

culprit, and the strange and mysterious crime with which he stood

charged, joined with the fate of the well-known Canongate beauty, with

which that crime was unaccountably associated, produced a sensation in

the Justiciary Court which had not been experienced for many years. The

deepest silence prevailed when the indictment was read; and the Lord

Justice-Clerk, having put the ordinary question to the pannel of guilty

or not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firmness, and calmly and

respectfully answered--"Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder of Richard

Forster." The trial proceeded, and the crown advocate spoke:--

"My Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of murder, whereto,

so far as I can see, no defence or plea of justification, or even

palliation, can be set up by the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that

which is indeed an aggravation, that he did intend to kill one man

against whom he entertained _malice prepense_, and slew another against

whom he had no cause of quarrel. On the day preceding the commission of

this murder, the prisoner at the bar was, in consequence of his

outrageous and brutal conduct in the House of Gordon, occupied at

present by Sir Willoughby Somerset, kicked by that honourable knight out

of doors, whereby, being fiercely enraged, he impiously vowed a

desperate revenge, the which, though he had taken it instanter and

killed his enemy, _percitus rixa_, would still, by the just laws of this

land, which make no distinction between forethought felony, and _chaude

melee_, have been murder, and sufficient to subject the prisoner to the

penal consequences of that heinous crime. But, my Lords, the prisoner

cannot even plead _homicidium in rixa_; for he went home and meditated

upon his crime; settled deliberately the _modus trucidandi_ in cool

blood--or, as we say, _sanguine frigida_; and, on the following day,

watched, _sanguinem sitiens_, for his victim; and more like a

bloodhound, _canis vestigator_, than a human being, deprived him, whom

he supposed to be his victim, of life. But revenge is known to be blind,

and, instead of his enemy, the prisoner murdered, by shooting him

through the body, a person who was not in any degree guilty of having

offended him; but who was going about his private affairs, as any of us

might have been, unconscious of meriting, standing in no fear of

receiving, and knowing no reason for expecting such an awful fate as

that which awaited him. This, I say, is an aggravation of the crime of

murder, in so far as, while in the ordinary case there may, in man's

estimation, be some palliation in consequence of the infliction of an

injury--in this there can be none."

The witnesses for the crown were then called. The death of Richard

Forster, caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. It was also proved,

that the gun found in the hedge was Adam Hunter's. The quarrel with Sir

Willoughby Somerset was next established, as also the fact that the

deceased wore, on that evening, the dress of his master. The macer of

court then called out the name of the next witness, which was that of

Margaret Williamson; but, before she had time to make her appearance,

Adam Hunter rose from his seat and addressed the court in the following

terms:--

"My Lords, it doesna appear to me, that, in the eye o' God, or even in

that o' man, it can abide the twitch o' natural reason that a puir bairn

should, in ignorance o' the relation she bears to him against whom she

is to swear, be entrapped by cunning men o' the law, to gie evidence

against the life o' him wha gave her life. The veins o' Margaret

Williamson are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart mayna beat wi' the

ordinary feelings o' a bairn to a father; for she, puir thing, has nae

knowledge that Adam Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound to love and

respect, and therefore she may this day, in that unseemly ignorance

which I and my wife Janet have imposed upon her, say what at some future

time she may repent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna recall to her

the parent she has slain. I canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye

can consider it unreasonable in a parent--a character maybe some o'

yourselves bear, and, if ye do, oh, think what it is to be doomed by

your ain bairn!--that this puir lassie be tauld, before she be examined,

that she is bane o' the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him whom she is

about to arraign o' murder."

As soon as Adam Hunter had finished his speech, which, delivered with

much emphasis, produced a great sensation in all the persons present,

who never understood that Margaret Williamson was in any way related to

him, the crown counsel stood up and said--

"My Lords, this is an ingenious device, on the part of the prisoner at

the bar, to deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, who is about to

be brought forward as a witness, has been held out to the world as an

orphan--a fact that may be testified by hundreds of persons, and is,

indeed, admitted by the culprit himself. The story now fabricated by the

prisoner is, indeed, improbable--as what father would deny his child? I

cannot, therefore, consent to allow any communication to be made to the

witness, whereby the fountain of evidence may be contaminated by

prejudice, and truth itself sacrificed to the false feelings and

hysterical emotions of a relationship which, in my opinion, has no

foundation in fact."

The judges, having disbelieved the statement of Adam Hunter, refused to

comply with his request. Margaret Williamson was, accordingly, brought

in and placed in the witnesses' box. Upon being examined, she gave, in

evidence, the substance of the conversation which took place between

Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer on that night when the death of Sir

Willoughby Somerset was resolved upon. She was then asked whether she

had, between that period and the death of Richard Forster, any

communication with Sir Willoughby; but to this question she refused to

give any answer, or rather she, by the effect of her simplicity--in this

instance, however, made subservient to something approaching to

cunning--so completely baffled the men of law that they were obliged to

give up the question in despair.

On the part of Adam Hunter, an attempt was made to prove an alibi; but

that having failed, the jury, upon the charge of the judge, who

considered the crime proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and Adam

Hunter received sentence of death.

The speech which Adam Hunter had made on the occasion of his trial, as

already said, excited much sensation, and the truth of the fact stated

by him was subjected to investigation. It was found to be perfectly

true, though no notice is taken of it in the books of adjournal.

Margaret Williamson was the illegitimate child of Adam Hunter, by the

daughter of Elspet Craig, who died in giving birth to the infant; and it

was to gratify the prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused to bring up

the child on any other condition, that the parentage had been so

industriously concealed.

The unfortunate Adam Hunter was executed according to his sentence. At

the time of his execution, considerable uproar was observed among the

populace, who, displaying the usual shrewdness of the lower orders in

Scotland, perceived that, although Adam could not be justified, he was

only one of the actors in the tragedy; and that, while their unfortunate

countryman was expiating his crime by an ignominious death, the English

knight, whose enmity towards Richard Forster, and shameful conduct

towards Adam's daughter, were now generally known, was allowed to

escape.

The rumours thus circulated by the crowd at the execution of Adam Hunter

were not unknown to the crown officers, who felt the force of the

extraordinary circumstance, that Richard Forster should, on that fatal

night, have worn the clothes of his master. That fact was, moreover, in

a considerable degree, explained by another, which had been elicited

from one of Sir Willoughby's servants, of the name of William Evans,

viz., that Sir Willoughby and Richard had had a quarrel, which produced

high words between the parties, and some threats on the part of the

knight. The crown officers were, besides, moved by the curious

circumstance, that Margaret Williamson had so artfully evaded the

question put to her on the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter; while

it was almost impossible to believe that she would not have communicated

to Sir Willoughby the plot that was laid for his life, notwithstanding

of the injury she had received by being made the victim of his

seduction.

A warrant was accordingly issued for the apprehension of Sir Willoughby

Somerset. He was found by the officers in the company of Lady Arabella

Winford, torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. The charge against him

was the murder of Richard Forster, perpetrated by his having, _sciens et

prudens_, sent him where death awaited him. Application was, in the

meantime, again made by the crown officers to Margaret Williamson, for

information as to whether she had had any communication with Sir

Willoughby on the day on which Richard Forster was slain. Margaret's

answers were still of an evasive character, and her examinators left

her, stating that they would visit her again, and use some other means

of extorting the truth. Before this threat was put in execution, the

knight, having heard that Margaret was in the hands of the examinators,

overcome by fear and cowardice, and indulging the mean and despicable

hope of being able to persuade his victim to save his life a second

time, still without rendering her justice, sent for her to visit him in

prison--a request with which she instantly complied.

"My fair Margaret," commenced the knight, "I have sent for thee to know

what are still thy feelings towards one who loves thee, and now requires

some aid and consolation, such as only thou canst render him. I flatter

myself that, at one time, I was not indifferent to thee; and, if my

present peril were past (and thou art the arbiter of my fate), I may

find a suitable opportunity of showing thee that I still love thee as

fervently as I did when I used to meet thee, by the light of the moon,

at the Hunter's Rest. I understand that my persecutors have been with

thee, and it is my pleasure to be informed, from thy own fair lips, that

it is not thy intention to communicate to them what passed between thee

and me in my garden, on the day of the death of my worthless servant."

"I didna think," replied Margaret, with calmness and dignity, "that Sir

Willoughby Somerset could hae mistaken sae far the heart of Margaret

Williamson as to find, in the compass o' his ain, any doubt sufficient

to cause him to put that question to her. Aince already hae I saved your

life, and I would be laith to throw that awa now which I had before sae

meikle pains--though wae's my heart! sae little thanks or reward--to

preserve. Na, na; let the officers of the law tak' their course--mine

has been lang fixed; and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scotland, and

even the black wuddy itsel', winna wrest frae me sae meikle as would

injure a single hair o' your head. It may be that I only preserve ye for

the love o' anither; but I will at least hae that satisfaction--and it

is better to the broken heart than a fause love that has now nae power

to bind it--that I hae rendered, as our holy religion inculcates, good

for evil."

These sentiments only interested or concerned Sir Willoughby in so far

as they told him that the fair maiden would not betray him. He mistook

entirely the Scotch character generally; and he had not himself any of

those high-minded qualities which could enable him to appreciate

Margaret's. Betrayed, by her determination to do justice to her own

standard of female duty, into an idea that the sacrifices she had

thrown, and was again to throw, on the shrine of that duty which she

had, in her fervid imagination, defied, were mere indications of a wish

to oblige and conciliate him, Sir Willoughby thought he might safely go

a step further, and endeavour to wring out of her the written promise of

marriage he had so unguardedly given her. He began by using some more of

the bland language by which he had originally beguiled her; but he had

scarcely approached the subject on which her mind was fixed, when

Margaret, with the perspicacity of her sex in these tender points,

interrupted him; and, raising herself to the utmost extent of her

height, while the fire flashed from her dark blue eye, said--

"If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' shame I hae carried for six moons

under my broken heart, and restore to me my lost repute, aince pure as

the snaw that the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir and mountain, and

tear from my puir crazy brain the image I hae made an idol o', and on

whose unholy alter I hae sacrificed my maiden virtue--and maybe that

eternal life that hasna been promised to the trafficker in sin--then,

Sir Willoughby, ye may ask me for that whilk stands to me in the place

of ane haly covenant. It is the only solace left to bind up my broken

spirit, and be a sign and a token to your bairn whom I hae yet to bear,

that its puir mother, though doubtless guilty o' a great sin, was the

victim o' a knight's broken troth, and maybe entitled to a drap o' mercy

in her burning cup. Tell me, sir to keep frae the officers o' the law

the secret that would bring ye to a shamefu' death, and I will part wi'

it as sune as I will part wi' the written testimonial of what a merciful

God, and the less merciful laws o' my countrie, may, peradventure, deal

wi' as ane haly bond o' marriage."

With these words, Margaret abruptly left the prison, and Sir Willoughby,

concerned only for his liberation, denied access to his heart to the

sentiments which reflected so much honour on the feelings of his victim,

from whom he was entitled to expect nothing but revenge.

Margaret was soon again visited by the officers of the law; but she

remained firm to her resolution, not to say anything tending to

implicate Sir Willoughby. Recourse was therefore had, according to the

usages of that period, to the ordinary mode of dealing with an unwilling

witness. She was now told, that, as a person refractory, and disobedient

to the laws of her country, she must go to prison, where the means of

extorting her withholden testimony would be more in the power of the

crown officials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to the prison in which

Sir Willoughby was confined, and intimation was solemnly made to her

that, on the following morning, she would be subjected to the rack of

the thumbikins. The threat was fulfilled with fidelity and vigour. On

the first application of this cruel instrument, the poor girl screamed

with agony; but the unstability of her frame, attenuated and weakened by

her previous sufferings, and her pregnancy, loosened, under the effect

of the torture, that connection between agony and resolution, without

which all tortured methods of extorting testimony must be unavailing.

Every increased pressure produced an agonized scream, succeeded by a

state of insensibility, or faint, which these deluded searchers for

truth had as much difficulty in bringing her out of, as they had in

producing. The torture continued to be applied, at stated intervals, for

days, and the screams of the unfortunate maiden could not fail to find

their way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the wretch by whom her

sufferings had been occasioned. Little impression, however, was produced

on Margaret's resolution to die with her secret; and, upon the occasion

of one application of the instrument, the syncope produced had so long a

period of duration, that the medical man who was present declared that

it could not be applied without danger of producing death.

The officers were now inclined to allow the period of Margaret's

pregnancy to pass before they again applied the instrument--a

circumstance of rather an anamolous nature in the proceedings of these

lovers of truth; for a true medical philalethes would naturally have

conceived, that the weaker the habit of the patient, the more certain

was the chance of a recovery. In the meantime, however, a circumstance

came to the ears of the king's prosecutor, which induced him to relax

his energies in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. Several of his

servants now declared, (no doubt by the aid of concealed bribery), that

Richard Forster was in the habit of attiring himself in his master's

garments, and personating him in the prosecution of amours. In addition

to this, Janet Hunter, though called upon, could not swear that Margaret

Williamson had stirred from the house on the day of the murder. Unable

to force Margaret to speak, and influenced by the testimony of these

witnesses, the public prosecutor came to the resolution of liberating

Sir Willoughby, and the knight was accordingly let out of gaol.

Within a few hours after his liberation, he was on his way to England,

in company with Lady Arabella. He had devoted the whole period of his

imprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against

Scotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in

the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his

sufferings--for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked

are the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her

retributions.

Nothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby; but she whom he

had ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an

object of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a

son, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam.

Margaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to

pity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the

alms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of

the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

Now, it was five years after the transactions I have detailed, and when

King James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, that

Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in

Edinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name

of Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a

small ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of

Edinburgh. A man who was standing at the top of Leith Wynd took him to

Margaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the

object of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight.

Lionel entered into conversation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw

her into a recital of the story of her life; but she evaded, though in

the gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her

secrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make

the other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the

impertinent interrogations of gossiping people, who often insulted her

by withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip

ungratified.

Lionel made many visits to Margaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in

breaking down her reluctance to speak of herself. He told her, that he

had been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for

the sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a

gentleman, that the only use he would make of her information would be

in turning it to her advantage. He was evidently already well acquainted

with many parts of her story; but the chief object of his inquiry

related to the written promise of marriage which, he had been given to

understand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. Margaret, at first, would

not admit that any such document existed, and appeared to feel acute

pain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, at last, by

his importunity, she went to a little chest, which was secreted in a

recess dug into the wall of her apartment, and having drawn it out, and

opened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but

curiously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with

which Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With conclusive sobs,

Margaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read

it, and found it to contain the following words, written in a small

affected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by

the writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. "Sir

Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset Hall, knight of the noble order

of--(here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon)--doth,

by these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed Margaret

Williamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the

order to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day of

April, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of

England."

This document Lionel copied, and having returned the original to

Margaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London.

"If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset," answered she, "I will sooner

walk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wha lie

between Leith and Aberdour."

"It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden," said Sir Lionel;

"and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is your friend, I

promise thee thou shalt not have cause to regret thy journey."

After much solicitation, Margaret agreed to go to London and take her

child with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to

escape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after

ten days' travelling. On their arrival, Margaret and her child were

taken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till

Lionel called for her.

After some days, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady, carrying a

bundle, came out, and asked to be shown to the apartment occupied by the

Scotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number

of specimens of tartan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her

to point out the kind she wore when she lived with Adam Hunter. This

Margaret did; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret

should describe to her the shape of the garments, and the manner in

which she wore them; all of which Margaret complied with, and the lady

departed.

In two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and

requested Margaret to put them on, and, with the child, accompany her to

the place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed

together in a coach. After driving for some little time, the coach

stopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lady led Margaret

and her child up a great many stairs, and round winding passages, until

they came to a room, where she was requested to remain. After waiting

about ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook

her kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and without any

explanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a

part of his salutation.

"Why, woman, didna ye mak' some legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae

your braw lover, Sir Willoughby Somerset? Can it be possible that ye

didna ken, that by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage,

coupled wi' a--a--hem! hem!--a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, as

gude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o' haly

kirk? By my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly lassie, whatever

folk may sae o' ye, praising ye for the hich and michtie honour ye made

sae meikle fashion o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha

ruined ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the wuddy o' my countrie,

though made o' guid aik, a mair suitable wife to him, God wot, than the

like o' ye. But lat that alane--_tempus reparabit_--ha! ha! ye ken

naething o' Latin, I fancy, but I meant only by that flicht to tell ye

that ye will be revenged."

While in the act of delivering this strange speech, the gentleman began

to drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of the room where they were, into

another; his speech and the dragging operation going on at the same

time. She now found herself in a large hall, where she saw an elevated

chair overshaded by a canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of which was

a crown. The gentleman, still in the same confused manner--speaking

sometimes to himself, and sometimes to her--shoved her behind a small

screen, apparently placed there for the purpose of concealing some one,

telling her to remain there until she was called for.

The folding doors of the apartment now opened, and Margaret heard the

voices of heralds, and saw a great number of high-dressed ladies and

gentlemen come in, and stand round the elevated chair. Among these she

observed Sir Willoughby Somerset, and a lady (the same she had seen in

the garden of the House of Gordon) leaning upon his arm. "Come forth,

Margaret Williamson," cried the gentleman who had first spoken to her;

and Margaret, with her tartan plaid around her, and her child at her

foot, stood before King James. Opposite to her stood Sir Willoughby

Somerset and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, and forming

a strange and striking contrast with the plaided stranger.

"I am right glad," said James, "to see my auld subjects o' my native

kingdom; and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, and wish ye and your

bairn mony braw days. I also greet ye weel, Sir Willoughby Somerset,

Knight, and your braw leddie, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, in

sae meikle as she is nearest your heart, in the fashion o' the

connection whilk exists between our auld Scotch wuddy and the heart o'

Mid-Loudon. But awa wi' this--_Et nunc labores exantlare_--whilk means,

to wark, to wark. Ken ye this Scotch lassie, Sir Willoughby Somerset?"

"No, sire," answered the knight, in evident confusion, but still

retaining a portion of his natural impudence.

"It's fause, sir," answered the King, whose choler now rose to the

boiling point of his royal fervour--"It's fause, sir; ye ken her as weel

as did our royal faither our royal mither, or as Hamman did his wuddy,

whilk was made o' sweet-smelling cedar, as is clearly made out by the

learned Chrysostom. I canna believe you; for our royal brither Solomon

hath said, that if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants shall be

wicked. But, maybe, ye may ken your ain handwriting better than ye do

the lassie. Look at that, man; do ye ken that?"

Sir Willoughby was silent.

"I will take your silence, man, for an ill-favoured confession; and now,

sir, let it be understood by ye, that that bit writing and that bit

callant--wha doesna ken ye sae weel as ye ken his mither--maks a gude

marriage by the law o' Scotland. I dinna mean, sir, in the presence o'

this assembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will serve the purposes o'

justice; and I leave ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about ye as

reflection, how ye treated this po'r lassie, wham ye ruined, and wha,

though fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, are given, as

Ecclesiasticus says, for vengeance, sat quietly and--seeking nae other

satisfaction--sucked, wi' her honied lips, the poison which your shaft

carried to her broken heart; and wha, though exposed to terrible and

racking tortures, saved, on twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her

ain. Now, sir, though the lassie can claim ye as her husband, she alane

has the power o' severing that connection on the ground o' your

cohabitation wi' that leddie, wham ye call your wife; whilk power, by my

advice, she will doubtless exercise. But, sir, there maun here be a

_solatium_; and I ask you if you are willing to sign that paper whilk

Lionel Apsley is ready to shaw ye?"

Sir Willoughby took the document, which purported to be a conveyance to

Margaret Williamson, in liferent, and her son in fee, of one-half of the

domain of Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to L2,000 a year; and,

having read it, he seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his hesitation,

James whispered in his ear the name of Richard Foster. His manner

changed, and he signed the deed.

Margaret Williamson received the deed from the King, giving, in return,

one of her best curtsies. She came down to Scotland, prosecuted a

divorce against Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a much honoured and

respected lady, in Edinburgh, for many years.

THE BARLEY BANNOCK