Between Falkirk and Stirling are the remains of a wood, even yet pretty

extensive, which existed in the times of Wallace and Bruce. It is the

well-known Torwood, so frequently mentioned in the histories of these

Scottish heroes, and so celebrated for the shelter and concealment it

afforded them on frequent occasions during their seasons of adversity.

In those days, however, if we may believe old chronicles, the Torwood

covered a great deal more ground than it does now, extending, on its

northern side, it is said, to the banks of the Forth, a distance of

about four miles. Experiencing the fate of our other ancient woods, the

progress of cultivation and improvement has now greatly lessened its

extent; but it forms even in the present day, a singularly striking and

impressive piece of sylvian scenery. Its outward characteristics,

striking as they are, may not differ from those of other forests; but

there are associations connected with the Torwood, which fill its

sombre, solitary depths and recesses with a profound and solemn mystery,

and which diffuse throughout its picturesque glades a golden atmosphere

of poetry and romance. The spirit of the olden time is there, and has

flung its bewitching glamoury around the forest scene. There are few who

have wandered through its green arcades, and have penetrated its far and

gloomy depths, with a knowledge and recollection of the scenes which

they have witnessed, and the sounds they have heard--the mustering of

Wallace's patriot bands, and the stirring strains of the bugle of

Bruce--few, we say, who have roamed through the dark solitudes of the

Torwood, and who have thought of these things, but must have felt the

fullest, the deepest effect of those sacred associations and

recollections which enshrine the memory of the mighty dead.

At the period we refer to, namely, the glorious period when Bruce was

struggling to complete the work which his great predecessor Wallace had

begun--to compass the independence of Scotland--a rude little cottage or

bothy reared its humble form on the eastern skirts of the Torwood, or

rather a little way within the verge of the forest.

This lowly and lonely domicile was then occupied by a widow woman of the

name of Margaret Grahame. Her husband had been killed, some years

previous to the period at which we introduce her to the notice of the

reader, in a skirmish with a party of the English garrison from

Stirling; and she was thus left to bring up, as she best might, a family

of young children; the eldest of whom, a beautiful girl, named after her

mother, was only nine years of age at the time of her husband's death.

Margaret, however, was not one of those women who sink under

misfortune--who unresistingly yield to the pressure of calamity. In that

which had befallen her, she only saw an additional reason for redoubling

those exertions in behalf of her family which had never, at any time,

been wanting. After her husband's death, she continued to cultivate,

with the assistance of her children, the little patch of ground, which,

together with a small track of pasturage, on which two cows, her whole

stock of bestial, grazed, formed her only means of subsistence.

Small and humble as these means were, however, the industry and thrifty

management of Margaret Grahame rendered them sufficient to place herself

and family beyond the reach of want. The fare, indeed, which she could

put before her children, was homely enough in quality, but it was

abundant.

In character, Margaret, who had been a remarkably good-looking woman in

her day, and who was even yet a comely dame to look upon, was what we,

in Scotland here, call "furthy." She was a lively, rattling,

kind-hearted, out-spoken person; warm in her feelings, active in all her

habits, and possessing a natural courage and presence of mind, that

singularly fitted her for performing the duties of friendship in cases

of difficulty, danger, or distress.

Such, then, was Margaret Grahame, and such were the circumstances in

which she was placed at the period when we bring her before the reader.

These essential preliminary matters recorded, we proceed to say, that,

on a certain evening, a wet and stormy one, in the month of October,

1307, as Margaret was busily employed, with the assistance of her eldest

daughter--the younger children having been put to bed--in toasting some

barley meal bannocks before the fire, some one rapped smartly at the

door.

"Wha's there?" exclaimed Margaret, in some surprise at the lateness of

the visit, and little accustomed to the calls of either friends or foes

at her remote and solitary dwelling, wondering who the person could be

who sought admittance. To her inquiry, a mellow-toned, but masculine

voice replied--that the person without was one who had no other place of

shelter to go to for the night, and who would cheerfully pay for a

little refreshment, and an hour or two's shelter from the storm.

"A houseless stranger! Rin Margaret and open the door and let him in."

"I'm feart, mother," replied the timid girl, holding back, and putting

her finger to her mouth.

"Feart, ye little cowardly thing; what are ye feart for?" exclaimed Mrs

Grahame, hastening herself to the door. "Wha wad do us ony harm, ye

gowk," she continued, as she undid the fastenings of the door; "and is't

feer, think ye, that's to hinder us frae gien shelter to the

shelterless, or food to the hungry?"

As she uttered the last word, she flung the door widely and boldly open;

and there entered a figure which might well have appalled even the stout

heart of Margaret Grahame. This figure was that of a man of gigantic

stature and powerful frame, wearing a steel cap and shirt of mail that

glanced through the openings of a leathern doublet by which it was

covered, and in some measure concealed. From a belt which passed over

his right shoulder, depended a sword of dimension corresponding to the

tremendous strength indicated by the proportions of the wearer; and in

another belt, which passed round his middle, and which was joined in

front by a silver clasp, part of whose fashioning displayed two lion's

heads, was stuck a richly hilted dagger. A small silver bugle horn,

which was suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal,

completed his appointments.

On the entrance of this formidable figure, the little girl uttered a

scream of terror, and flew to a remote corner of the apartment. The

gigantic stranger smiled, and, turning to her mother, said--

"I am sorry that my appearance is so alarming as to make young ladies

fly me. I would have them believe that I would much sooner protect than

injure them. God forbid it should ever be otherwise. Come hither, my

little primrose, and let me assure thee of all safety at my hands." And

the stranger drew out a silken purse and took from it a small gold coin,

which he seemed desirous of presenting to the little fugitive fair one.

He was, however, interrupted.

"Never mind her, sir; never mind her," said her mother, who now

perceived that her guest was a person apparently of some note; "she'll

sune learn no to be sae frichtened for the men. Sit doon, sir, sit doon.

Tak a seat, and throw aff your wat jerkin, and I'll gie ye a pair o' my

puir gude-man's stockins to draw on, for I'm sure ye're soakit to the

skin; and a pair o' slippers to yer feet." And while the kindly-hearted

and hospitable woman was thus rattling away, she was actively employed

in seeking out the various comforts which she enumerated.

In a very few minutes after, the portly figure of the stranger filled

the favourite arm-chair, by the fire, of Mrs Grahame's late husband, in

as comfortable a plight as the hospitable attentions of his hostess

could place him. Several of these, however, he declined. He would not

part with his boots, nor divest himself of any part of his apparel or

appointments, excepting his steel cap and sword, both of which he placed

on the floor close by his chair, as if desirous that they should be

within reach on the slightest appearance of emergency.

"Now, my good dame," said the stranger, after enjoying for a few minutes

the invigorating warmth of a blazing fire, which his hostess had heaped

with faggots for his comfort, "I must be plain enough to tell ye that I

am famishing of hunger, and that these barley bannocks of yours look

most tempting."

"And do ye think, sir, I wasna gaun to mak ye an offer o' a tastin o'

them? That wad be a gay churlish like thing, I think; I was but waiting

till they war ready, to place some o' them before ye, wi' a soup milk,

and a bit butter, cheese, and a cauler egg or twa. Ye'll hae them a' in

ten minutes, and welcome."

"Thank you, my kind lady, thank you; and now, with your leave," added

Margaret's guest, whose hunger seemed to be in one of its most active

moods--"I'll just see what state the bannocks are in," and he stretched

out his hand, took one from the fire, blew on it, tossed it quickly to

and fro in his hands--for it was too hot to hold steadily--and, finally,

when it had cooled a little, broke it, took a mouthful, pronounced it

nearly ready, and, with great gusto, despatched the remainder.

"Dear me, man," said Mrs Grahame, who witnessed this gastronomic feat of

her guest with a feeling of increased compassion for his condition; "but

ye are awfu' hungry, I dare say, or ye wadna hae eaten a half-raw barley

bannock that way."

"The sweetest morsel ever I ate in my life!" replied the stranger,

smiling. "I'll never forget it; nor you either, my good dame."

"Pho, nonsense, man; but I see you're dreadfu' hungry;" and she

commenced an active turn of the bannocks, to expedite the process of

toasting.

This done, she redoubled her exertions in general preparation, and with

such effect, that in a few minutes, a little round table, spread with a

clean white cloth, which she placed by the elbow of her guest, was

covered with the homely but wholesome edibles which she had

enumerated--namely, a small basin of fresh eggs, a quarter of a cheese,

a plate of butter, a large bowl of milk, and a heaped-up platter of warm

smoking barley bread.

"Noo, sir, set to, and do me and yoursel credit by makin a hearty

supper. I'm sure ye're welcome; and I houp I needna say that again."

Obeying, without hesitation or further ceremony, the kind and cordial

invitation of his hostess, the stalworth stranger commenced a vigorous

attack on the tempting viands placed before him; and, had the credit of

Mrs Grahame been dependant on the quantity he might consume, it was

safe, for he did, indeed, make a splendid meal of it.

The stranger had completed his repast, but his hostess had scarcely

removed the surplus and other traces of the meal, when both were

suddenly alarmed by the sound of the trampling of horses' feet from

without, mingled with occasional shouts by the riders, some of mirth,

and some of imprecation.

"No sound of bugle--they cannot be friends!" exclaimed Mrs Grahame's

guest, starting to his feet and seizing his sword. "Now, my good

weapon," he added, as he unsheathed the shining blade, "stand me in as

good stead this night as thou hast hitherto done, and thou shalt find

that I will do my duty by thee."

"Fecht, sir! ye'll fecht nane here," exclaimed Margaret Grahame, who had

been, during the previous instant, listening eagerly with her ear close

to the door, endeavouring to make out who or what the approaching party

of horsemen were. "Fecht! ye'll fecht nane," she exclaimed, rushing up

to her guest, and seizing him by the sword arm. "It wad be madness,

perfect madness. It's a party o' Englishers frae Stirlin Castle--a

dizzen at least. And what could your single arm, strong as it is, do

against sae mony? No, no, come here--here wi' me," she added, in a state

of great excitement. "Leave me to fecht the Englishers; I ken how to

do't. I'll fecht them wi' barley bannocks and dauds o' butter. Keep thae

chiels chowan, and deil haet else they'll think o'."

By this time Margaret Grahame had conducted, or rather dragged her

guest, who passively, and, it may be added, prudently yielded to her

proceeding, into a dark back apartment. This gained, she hastily threw

aside the curtain of a bed, which occupied a corner of the room, opened

a _press_ or closet, the door of which the former concealed, and

unceremoniously thrust her guest, without saying another word, into the

unoccupied receptacle, fastened the door, and drew the curtains of the

bed again before it.

All this was the work of but an instant, and there was need that it

should be so; for the English troopers--such they were--were already

thundering at the door for admittance.

"Comin this moment!" exclaimed Margaret Grahame. "Dear me, will ye no

gie folk time to throw on their claes," she added, as she undid the

fastenings of the door. "To raise folk out o' their beds this way at

this time o' nicht."

As she said this, she threw the door open, and, in the same instant, six

or eight dismounted troopers, who had given their horses in charge to

two or three comrades remaining mounted outside, entered.

On the entrance of the soldiers, Margaret Grahame, in pursuance of the

particular line of tactics which she had laid down for herself,

commenced, with great volubility of speech, to overwhelm her visiters

with both words and deeds of hospitality--she stirred the fire to warm

them, and covered her homely board with the best she had to regale them,

and all this with such expedition, accompanied by such an outpouring of

expressions of kindness, that the soldiers could do nothing but look at

each other in surprise, and, by their smiles, express the perplexity

into which such an unexpected reception had placed them.

One obvious general effect, however, was produced on them all by

Margaret's proceedings; this was the completely disarming them of all

vindictive feeling, and substituting in its place one of kindness and

sympathy.

Pressed by their hostess, and nothing loth themselves, the soldiers now

sat down to the well-spread board which the former's hospitality had

prepared for them, and ate heartily; those first served giving place to

their comrades, until the whole had partaken of the widow's good cheer.

This done, the soldiers, though not without apologies for the rudeness

which their duty imposed on them, informed Margaret Grahame that the

purpose of their visit was to search her house for a certain important

personage--not naming him--who, they had information, had been seen in

that neighbourhood in the course of the day.

Having given her this intimation, the soldiers, attended by Margaret

herself, proceeded to search the house, but in a temper so mollified by

the kind treatment they had received, that they went through the process

more as a matter of form than duty.

On completing their brief and cursory search, the troopers, after

thanking their hostess for her hospitality, remounted their horses, and

departed.

It was not for some time after they were gone, that Margaret Grahame

ventured to seek the hiding-place of her first guest of the evening.

There were two reasons for this delay. The first was to ensure the

perfect safety of the latter, by allowing her late visiters to get to a

secure distance; the other was one of a less definite and more

perplexing nature. From some expressions which had dropped from the

troopers in the course of their search, she had now no doubt that her

concealed guest was no other than Robert Bruce.

It was under this impression, then, and under the feeling of reverential

awe it inspired, that Margaret Grahame at length went to intimate to her

concealed guest that the troopers were gone, and that he might now come

forth from his hiding-place.

On the latter's stepping from his concealment, Margaret flung herself on

her knees, and calling him her King, implored his pardon for the homely

and familiar manner in which, in ignorance of his quality, she had

treated him.

"So, my good dame," replied Bruce, smiling--for it was indeed he--and

taking his hostess kindly by the hand, and raising her from her humble

position, "so you have discovered me? These troopers have blabbed, I

fancy. Well, my secret could not be in safer keeping, I feel assured,

than in thine, my kind hostess. It is even so. I _am_ Robert Bruce, and

none other."

Overcome by the various and tumultuous feelings which the incident,

altogether, was so well calculated to excite, Margaret Grahame burst

into tears, and, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, stood

thus for some seconds without uttering a word.

Bruce, affected, even to the starting of a tear, took his hostess again

by the hand, and, not without very evident emotion, said--"Come, my good

dame, why those tears?"

"I canna richtly tell mysel, sir. I dinna ken. I canna help it. Maybe it

is to see you in this plight--to see Scotland's chief without a single

attendant, and glad o' the shelter o' sae lowly a roof as mine."

"Pho, pho, my kind hostess, and what is in that?" replied Bruce, in a

cheering tone. "We must all rough it out as we best can in these times,

king and cobbler, baron and beggar. Better days are coming, and we will

then think of our present hardships only to laugh at them. As to

attendants," he added, with a look of peculiar intelligence, "I am not,

perhaps, so destitute of them as I may seem; although they are not, it

may be, within calling at this moment. Half-an-hour's walk into the

Torwood, however, and half-a-dozen blasts of this little horn would

bring around me a band of as stalworth, nay, as brave hearts as Scotland

can boast."

"God be thankit for that!" said Bruce's enthusiastic hostess. "Then

there is hope yet."

"There is, there is. A day of reckoning is coming. But now, my good

dame," he added, glancing at a little window, through which the dull,

faint light of the breaking day had just begun to gleam, "I must take my

departure. I must be at the mustering place an hour after daybreak."

Saying this the redoubted warrior drew out a leathern purse, from whence

he took several pieces of gold coin, which he vainly endeavoured to

press on the acceptance of his hostess.

"Well, well, my good dame," he said, on finding his urgency only gave

offence; "we'll settle all this on some future day. Depend upon it, _I_

will not forget the score which stands against me here. In the meantime,

farewell; and fare ye well too, my little maiden," he said, taking his

hostess's daughter by the hand; "you and I will meet again." Having said

this, and having once more bid mother and daughter adieu, Bruce left the

house, and soon after disappeared in the depths of the Torwood.

Margaret Grahame stood at the door, and, with the corner of her apron at

her eye, looked after the stately figure of the patriot chief, as long

as it remained in sight. When it had disappeared, she returned into the

house, and began, as she busied herself in brushing up, or, as she would

herself have called it, "redding" up her little cottage, after the

hospitalities of which it had been the scene, in _crooning_ a popular

Scottish ditty of the day, of which the two first verses ran thus,

"Guid speed the wark o' bow and brand

That's raised for Scotland's weal,

And blessins on the heart and hand

O' the ever true and leal."

"Come frae the east, come frae the wast,

Come frae the south and north;

For Bruce's horn has blawn a blast

That's heard frae Clyde to Forth."

"Guid speed the wark," &c.

Here, we beg to apprise the reader, the first act of our little drama

closes--the curtain drops; and when we again raise it, years have passed

away, and many things have undergone those changes which the lapse of

time so certainly produces.

During the interval to which we allude--an interval of eight or ten

years, Scotland, after a long and arduous struggle, had achieved her

independence, and Bruce was now in secure and peaceable possession of

the Scottish crown.

To all, however, the changes which had taken place had not been equally

fortunate or favourable. On many the sanguinary and ruthless warfare

which had desolated the country brought poverty and ruin.

Amongst the sufferers of this description was Margaret Grahame. About

three years after the occurrence of the incidents which occupy the

preceding pages, a party of English soldiers had first plundered and

then burned her little cottage, driving herself and family forth on the

world, to earn a livelihood as they best might, or to subsist, if other

means failed, on the scanty doles of charity.

On being driven from her home, Margaret Grahame, followed by her

children, in melancholy procession, wandered she knew nor cared not

whither; but, instinctively, taking that direction which promised to

leave further danger at the greatest distance behind her. This direction

was westward, and on this route she continued; subsisting by the way on

the benevolence of the humane; most of whom, however, were more willing

than able to relieve her, till she reached the neighbourhood of the

village of Kilpatrick, on the Clyde. Exhausted with fatigue, and

famishing with hunger, the widow and her children here applied at a

respectable farm-house, which stood a little way off the road, for

relief.

The door was opened by the farmer himself, a man of mild and benevolent

disposition. To him, therefore, the petition of the destitute widow was

not proffered in vain. Herself and children were instantly admitted, and

a plenteous meal of bread, and cheese, and milk, placed before them.

When the famishing family had satisfied the cravings of hunger, the

farmer, whose name was Blackadder, inquired, but in the most delicate

manner possible, into the history of the widow. She told him her story.

When she had concluded, Blackadder, looking at her two sons, said that

they were fine stout boys, and that he thought, if she chose, he could

find them employment about his farm.

"Ye're kind, sir, very kind," replied the widow; "but I'm sweart to

pairt wi' my bairns. Destitute as I am, I canna think o' separatin frae

them."

"But there's no occasion for that either," replied the farmer. "I'm

willin, in consideration o' their services, to gie ye a bit sma cot to

live in, and ye'll never want a pickle meal, and a soup o' milk forbye.

And for this bonnie lassie, here," he added, and now looking at

Margaret, who had grown into a tall and handsome girl, "she micht mak

herself useful about my house too, for which, of course, I wad gie her

the wages gaun. Ye micht then be a' comfortable aneuch, for a wee, at

ony rate."

Need we say that the kind offers of Blackadder were readily closed with.

We think we need not. The grateful family, the children, by looks of

glee and satisfaction, and the mother by broken sentences and tears of

joy, acknowledged their deep sense of the obligation proposed to be

conferred on them.

"And wha kens," said the farmer, on this matter being settled, "an wha

kens," he said, smiling; "but this bonny lassie here," laying his hand

on Margaret's shoulder, "may sune fa' in wi' a bit canny guidman

hereawa, wi' a weel-stocked mailin."

"I doot, sir, that's a' settled already," replied the widow, smiling,

"although there's but little gear in the case. Margaret, I'm jalousin,

has left her heart at the Torwood. There's a certain young lad, a

farmer's son there, that I'm thinkin she wadna willingly forget. But

want o' warl's gear aften sunders fond hearts."

"Better times may come roun, guidwife," replied Mr Blackadder; "an' the

lass may get her leman for a'."

During this conversation, the subject of it seemed in an agony of

maidenly distress. With a face burning with blushes, she vainly

attempted, with a series of unconnected interjections, amongst which

were several _denials_ of the _fact_, to arrest her mother's

communications regarding the secrets of her heart. Finding these

efforts ineffectual, the bashful girl retreated behind her mother's

chair, and there, concealing herself as much as possible, awaited, in

suffering silence, the conclusion of the, to her, most annoying

discussion.

In less than a week from this period, Widow Grahame was comfortably

domiciled in a small cot-house at a little distance from the residence

of her benefactor, Blackadder. Here, contented with her humble lot, and

grateful to a kind Providence, which had so timeously interposed in her

behalf, Margaret Grahame plied her wheel the livelong day, singing as

merrily, the while, as the "laverock in the lift." Her boys were giving

every satisfaction to their employer, and her daughter was no less

successful in pleasing in her department. She was thus in the enjoyment

of one of the greatest happinesses of which her condition was

susceptible, and she fully appreciated the blessing. It was while

matters were in this state with Widow Grahame, and somewhere about two

years after she had settled at Kilpatrick, that her eldest son said to

her one evening, on returning home after the labours of the day were

over:--

"Mother, they say the King has come to Cardross Castle and I believe

it's true; for I saw, frae the braes, a great cavalcade o' knights and

gentlemen on horseback, doon on the Glasgow road, gaun towards Dumbarton

as hard's they could bir."

"An' what's that to me, laddie, whar the King, God bless him, is?"

replied his mother. "I'm aye blithe to hear o' his weelfare, for auld

lang syne; but what mair is there aboot it?"

"I dinna ken, mother," said the boy; "but I've been thinkin that if he

kent you were here, or kent whar to fin ye, he wad maybe let you see

that he hadna forgotten the barley meal bannocks o' the Torwood, that ye

hae sae aften tell't us aboot."

"Tuts, ye foolish boy," replied his mother, plying away at her wheel.

"Whatna notion is that? The King, honest man, has, I daresay, forgotten

baith me and my bannocks many a day syne. He had owre muckle to do and

owre muckle to think o' after that, to keep ony mind o' sae sma' and

ordinary a matter as that. The _recollection_ o' that nicht, Jamie, is,

at onyrate, reward aneuch for me."

"Feth, I dinna ken, mither," said the pertinacious youngster; "but I

think ye micht do waur than try. Ye micht do waur than tak a step doun

to Cardross Castle--it's only about seven or aucht miles frae this, and

get a sicht o' the King, an' tell him wha ye are. It micht do us a'

guid."

To this very distinct and rational proposition, Margaret made no reply.

It threw her into a musing mood, in which she continued for some time;

making the wheel revolve, the while, with redoubled velocity. At length,

studiously, as it appeared, avoiding all recurrence to the subject on

which her son and herself had been speaking,

"Tak your bread and milk, Jamie, and gang to your bed. Ye ken ye hae to

rise by three the morn's mornin."

The boy, without further urging his proposal, or saying anything more

regarding it, did as he was desired--ate his bread and milk, and retired

to bed, where he quickly fell fast asleep. His mother, on ascertaining

that he had done so, got up from her wheel, went to a small wooden tub

that stood in a corner of the cottage, and filled from it a small basin

of barley-meal. With this meal she forthwith proceeded to bake a bannock

of small size, which she subsequently toasted with great care. This

done, she placed it in a cupboard, and soon after retired to bed. On the

following morning, at an early hour, Margaret Grahame, dressed in her

best, and carrying in her hand the identical barley meal bannock above

spoken of, neatly wrapped up in a snow-white towel, was seen posting

stoutly along the Dumbarton road, and evidently bent on a journey of

some length. It was so: Margaret was making for Cardross Castle, where

she arrived about three hours after leaving her own house. On reaching

the outer gate of the castle, Margaret addressed herself to a sentinel

who was walking backwards and forwards with a drawn sword in his hand.

"Is the King here, sir, just now?" she said.

"He is," replied the man, shortly.

"Could I see him, sir, do you think?"

"Indeed, mistress, I think you could _not_," replied the sentinel,

peremptorily. "None but properly accredited persons can obtain access to

him at present."

"I'm sure, however, he wad be glad aneuch to see me," said Margaret;

"for him and I are auld acquantance."

"Perhaps so," replied the soldier. "Of that I know nothing; but I know

my duty, and that is to keep out all unknown and unaccredited persons.

But here's Balcanquhail, the King's confidential personal attendant, and

you may speak to him if you like. Ho, Balcanquhail, here's a woman who

claims _old acquaintanceship_" (a smile accompanying, and intelligent

emphasis laid on these two words) "with the King, and who wants

admittance to his Majesty," added the sentinel, beckoning her towards

him, and now addressing the person whom he named.

"You cannot be admitted, honest woman," said Balcanquhail, scanning the

supplicant with something of a contemptuous expression of face. "You

cannot, on any account, so it's no use insisting."

"Weel, sir," replied Margaret, calmly, "if ye winna let mysel in, will

ye tak in this to the King?" and she presented the white towel with its

inclosure to the "chaumer chiel" of Robert Bruce. "Let the King hae

that, and, if I'm no mista'en, ye'll sune hae orders to fling a' the

gates o' the castle open to me."

"What is it?" said Balcanquhail, peering curiously into the folds of the

towel.

"Atweel it's neither mair nor less," replied the widow, "than a

barley-meal bannock. Nae very rare nor costly commodity; but place ye't

before the King, and he'll understand what it means. I'll wait here till

ye come back."

Accustomed to such symbolical communications, which were much resorted

to in these days, and sometimes on very important occasions,

Balcanquhail readily agreed, without further inquiry or remark, to

comply with the widow's request.

Hastening to the King's private apartment--the King being at the moment

at breakfast--Balcanquhail placed his charge on the table before him, in

the precise state in which he received it, without saying a word.

"What's this, Balcanquhail?" said Bruce, opening out the towel as he

spoke, and without waiting for a reply. "Ah! a barley bannock. What can

this mean?" and he mused for an instant. Then suddenly starting from his

seat--"I have it!--I have it!" he exclaimed, with eager delight. "How

should I forget the barley bannocks of the 'Torwood?' Who brought this

bannock, Balcanquhail? Where is the person who brought it?" Balcanquhail

informed him.

"Send her up to me instantly--instantly!" rejoined the excited monarch.

"This is the good woman about whom I have been so anxiously, but vainly,

inquiring for these two or three years back. Quick, quick, bring her

hither, Balcanquhail?"

In less than two minutes afterwards, Margaret Grahame was in the

presence of her Sovereign. On her entrance, the King hastened towards

her with extended hand, and after giving her a cordial welcome:--

"Where in all the world hast thou been, my good dame?" he said, "that I

have not been able to find thee, although I have had emissaries employed

from time to time, in all directions, for the last two or three years,

to trace thee out, with the offer of a reward to him who should first

discover thee? No one about thy old place of residence--whither I went

myself to seek thee--could tell aught of thee. They knew not what had

become of thee, nor where thou hadst gone to. Where, on earth, hast thou

been?"

Margaret gave the history of her whole proceedings, and of all that had

happened her since the eventful night on which she had entertained the

king in her little cot on the skirts of the Torwood.

When she was done, Bruce, with many expressions of kindness, presented

her with a large purse of gold for her present exigencies. He

subsequently built her a handsome mansion-house, where she lived in

comfort and independence for many years, on the site of her ruined

cottage--a locality which he chose in order to commemorate the event

which forms the ground of this tale--gave her a charter of three or four

extensive farms that lay around it, dowered her daughter Margaret

Grahame, who was by this means enabled to wed the man of her choice,

and, finally, placed her two sons in situations of profit and trust

about his own person.

And so, gentle reader, ends the story of the "Barley Bannock."

GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.

XX.--JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE.

In the Greyfriars' Churchyard of Edinburgh I have often spent a solitary

hour, during what, in Scotland, is called the "gloaming." The large and

handsome monument which still records the sufferings of the covenanted

friends of freedom, always occupied my deepest thoughts; and when I

looked around me on the quiet solitude of the scene, on the modest and

unassuming style of the sacred edifice, and on the old and

scarcely-visible fort,[1] which had stood so many sieges, and witnessed

so many changes, I have often let the moon peep upon my meditative

movements, over the top of the Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, or Salisbury

Crags. There passed, on the outside of the wall, the light-hearted

carter, whistling alongside of his horse; or the fish-wife, proclaiming

the caller commodity she wished to sell; or the merry school boy,

indicating his relish of freedom from school restraint by boisterous

mirth and unrestrained motion;--and yet, on the inner side of the wall,

all was alone and peaceful, as if I had taken up my station in a far-off

Highland glen. These were the days of my youthful feelings, and warm and

generous emotion. If my blood did not _boil_ within me, it warmed

exceedingly, as the vision of other times and far different scenes

crossed my brain, and was reflected from my heart. From the works of our

historians--of Knox and Woodrow in particular--I had early become

acquainted with the history of those times, (which are still continuing

to interest our feelings and influence our judgment;) and I could not

fail to image out more particularly the dismal aspect which this very

locality presented in 1679. Whilst engaged one evening in these

reveries, I inadvertently wandered away behind the church, and stood

looking out upon the moonshine, which, "o'er the dark a silver mantle

threw;" whilst the officer of the Greyfriars' Church, seeing nobody in

the yard, quietly and unperceived by me, locked the door, and retired to

his home in the Netherbow. Accordingly, when I began to think, about

eleven o'clock, of home and repose, I was not a little surprised to find

all egress by the customary outlet impossible. The night was indeed

lovely--mild and still; but yet there was something not altogether

satisfactory in being compelled to enjoy it in company with the dead of

many generations. A large mastiff, too, which had concealed itself for

some time under the wall, came forth into the moonlight, with a bone in

his jaws--manifestly a human skull.

[Footnote 1: Edinburgh Castle]

"And I saw the lean dog, _beneath the wall_,

Hold o'er the dead its carnival;

And its white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull

As it slipped through its jaws, when the edge grew dull,

As it lazily mumbled the bones of the dead."

The sight was not only jarring to all my more composed and soothing

reflections, but not unaccompanied with a certain indefinite

apprehension of evil. The season had been hot, and hydrophobia had shewn

its dreadful existence in Leith Walk and in the Canongate. Two persons

had died of it raving mad. I was, therefore, exceedingly anxious to

place the high wall which surrounded the Greyfriars' Churchyard betwixt

my companion and myself. But how was this to be effected? I ventured to

raise my voice, and shout aloud; but no notice was taken of my call.

Nay, my growling and crunching neighbour approached me--offering seeming

defiance. He was a fearful animal, of that very breed which I have all

my life trusted the least--I may say feared and abhorred the most. I

began to speak soothingly to him; but, to all my "poor fellows," and

other accents of friendly intercourse, he only answered with a deeper

growl. What was to be done? I was afraid to renew my shout; for that

manifestly annoyed him; and yet he seemed evidently approaching me.

Merciful God! I could see the very glare of his eyes, even in the

softened moonlight. I looked up, in perfect despair, to the moon and to

the stars, and could not help envying them their secure positions. I

would have become anything heavenly, even a star of the very least

magnitude, to have secured my retreat from this bull-headed monster. I

edged myself towards the monument of the Martyrs; and, with some

difficulty, got myself elevated a considerable way up one of the

pillars. I clung to every projection like one perishing; and, being

young, slender, and full of elastic vigour, I at last gained the top of

the wall, from whence I immediately informed a night watch, then passing

along, of my terrible situation. In the meantime, the hideous monster

made a spring from a tombstone to the top of the same wall; but, instead

of visiting me, he dropped himself quietly into a carrier's cart, to

which he belonged, and which stood near the doorway of the "Harrow"

public house. I was immediately relieved both from my fears and my

position, by the assistance of John Brown, the Greyfriars' Church

officer, who opened the gate, and assisted me in my descent. The

incident was somewhat singular; and, as I stood in need of some

refreshment, and honest Johnny Dowie's shop did not shut till twelve, I

asked the pleasure of John Brown's company to a red herring and a glass

"Of as guid nappy liquor

As ever reamed in horn or bicker."

During the discussion of these viands, (and, maybe, a wee drap of

Highland whisky made into warm todd,) John Brown and I became

exceedingly well acquainted. He had occupied his present office for

upwards of forty years, was an enthusiast about the Covenanters, and

possessed, in fact, some written documents on the subject, which he

promised to shew me. He was a lineal descendant, he informed me, of the

famous Thomas Brown, who suffered, along with John Waddel, Andrew Sword,

John Clide, and James Wood, on Magus Muir. The documents, as I

afterwards found, were nothing more nor less than some scattered and

pencilled notices by one John Govan, in the parish of Kirkliston, of his

share in the affair of Bothwell Brig, and his sufferings in consequence

thereof. I shall avail myself partially of these pencillings, in the

following narrative:--

"O Lord, thy mercies are manifold! Thou wilt not desert thine ancient

inheritance--thy puir, suffering, persecuted remnant. O Lord! thou wilt,

and thou _must_ stand by thy servants, godly Hamilton, and Cargill, and

Rathillet, and by us and our cause--which, guid Lord, is, after all,

thine own--in this awful day. I see the Duke's men on the hill-side

opposite. They are now, even now, making downwards towards the bridge.

They have opened their guns. I must up and do my duty. Lord, stand by

the righteous!"

The battle, as is here anticipated, began; and (owing to the sad

divisions in the camp of the nonconformists) was won by the Duke of

Buccleuch and Monmouth, almost without any resistance. Notwithstanding

the humane exertions of the Duke--owing to the sanguinary revenge of

Clavers in particular--the slaughter after the battle, in what may be

termed the wantonness of cruelty, was very great indeed. The next

extract from Govan's diary, confirms this historical truth:--

"And thou, O Lord, hast yet more work to do for poor John Govan. But

poor Samuel Logan lies dead in the next field there--I saw him run when

I fell into a ditch, and just lay still; but the destroyer was hard

behind him. Sam _darned_ at last in a corn-field; and there I saw him

shot through the head by that terrible Clavers. He did not give him an

instant to make his peace wi' his Maker. O Lord! wherefore is it thus

with thy Zion? But it belongs not to poor John Govan to find fault wi'

sic a Master--thy ways are not as our ways, nor thy thoughts as ours."

Poor John Govan was, however, at last taken prisoner, whilst

endeavouring to conceal himself in an outhouse of a farm-steading in

Strathavon, but not till after a whole volley of balls had been poured

in upon his retreat, only one of which, however, had taken effect, and

that on the fleshy part of his leg. Notwithstanding his wound, and the

stiffness, which, after it had bled profusely, was induced upon the

limb, he was compelled to march on foot, along with upwards of three

hundred prisoners--many of them badly wounded--towards Edinburgh. Mr

Reid and Mr King--both of whom were afterwards tried, tortured, hanged,

and quartered--were of the number. To avoid the commiseration and

sympathy of the more populous districts, Clavers marched the prisoners

through the upper district of Lanarkshire. At Lanark the first halt was

made for the night; and there the men were tied together by twos and

threes, and compelled to bivouac in the open air, in a barn-yard. In

vain were all their groanings and complainings--some from their wounds,

others from hunger or thirst, and not a few from the dismal fate which

had overtaken the cause which they supported. The infamous soldiery,

urged on, or at least not properly checked by their leaders, only

laughed at their calamities, telling them to be patient--that patience

was a d----d good supper--a great deal too good for a covenanter, &c.,

&c. Upon this I found the following reflections in Govan:--

"O Lord! when will their ire be stayed?--when will thy face return and

shine again upon thy heritage? This night has been an awful night: my

sufferings, all our sufferings, have been great, great beyond

bearing--four of our number have died of their wounds and fatigue. My

own cousin, William Young, has paid the debt of nature; he has gone to

the bosom of his God; for William was a just, and a good, and a holy

man. I held his head till he expired; it was a sore struggle, but he

quailed not; he repeated as long as he could speak--'Though he slay me,

yet will I trust in him; my heart and my flesh may faint and fail--oh,

yes! the earthly house of our tabernacle must be dissolved; but we have

a house, John, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens; and the

Spirit and the bride say, Come;' and, with these words, he bowed his

head and he gave up the ghost. He and I were tied together by the legs,

and I sat till morning light with his dead body in my arms. These

dreadful men only scoffed when I spoke of death, and bade me take my

supper off the dead man's bones. O Lord! how long? O Lord! how long?"

The next resting-place seems to have been in the midst of the "Lang

Whang"--a barren and bleak muir, which stretches eastward ten or eleven

miles beyond Carnwath. Here an enclosure was effected by means of stakes

and ropes, as the binding system had been found ineffectual, there being

generally some method adopted by the fettered sufferers to relieve

themselves. Within this enclosure these three hundred men stood or lay

during a dark and a rainy night, without fire, and with very scanty

provisions; whilst the demons on the outside of the enclosure lighted up

fires of the heath, and of some peats which were found ready dried in

the neighbourhood, and spent the night in roasting all manner of

barn-door fowls, pigs, and even sheep, which they had captured as they

passed along. Refreshment of a spirituous character was not denied them;

and their songs, and their blasphemies, and their insulting language,

"rose up in the midst of the wilderness" as Govan expresses it--"to the

throne of the Most High, calling for vengeance in the day of

retribution, on the head of the oppressor."

"This," continues he, "is a second morning, and a cold, and a gloomy,

and a dreadful one it is. Clavers and his attendants are galloping up

from Carnwath, where they have been spending the night in jollification

wi' the laird; and we are just about to renew our dismal march. My leg

is exceedingly troublesome; but, as we advance but slowly, I make a

shift to get on. One man died last night raving mad; and another, I much

fear, has put an end, with his own hand, to an unendurable existence. O

Lord, give me strength to bear whatever thy wisdom sees meet to

inflict!"

From the Lang Whang, the Grass Market was reached on the succeeding

evening, and, after being united with two hundred prisoners from

Stirling, they were all marched from the Grass Market; and, after some

seasonable refreshment, ordered by the humane and kind-hearted Duke of

Monmouth, into the Greyfriars' Churchyard, there to abide--from the

month of June to that of December following--all the peltings of the

pitiless storm, without a sufficiency of food, and entirely without

covering.

Men of Scotland, was there ever anything like this? Can the remembrance

of such atrocities ever be obliterated? Can century upon century, as

they slowly roll on their course, ever place these events, and this

event in particular, beyond the range of your interest? We read with

horror of the scaffold and the guillotine; but what immediate death

could equal in atrocity their protracted sufferings? Friends have they,

indeed, within these walls, but they cannot, or but seldom, and at great

risk, obtain an entrance. Many are disposed to supply the houseless

prisoner with couch and covering, but they only supply additional means

of debauchery to the ruffian soldiery. The chambers of the _many dead_

are defiled and rendered pestilential by the presence of the _many

living_. Death, in ordinary circumstances, is a boon to this. Winter

approaching--(nay, has arrived)--the sleety shower plashing over the

Castle--the whirling drifts, eddying about, amongst, and beneath the

tombstones--the wild, long, endless night, to which succeeds no dawn of

comfort--no warm chamber--no invigorating and cheering meal. Oh, honest

and fearless shades, tell us all! how did you stand it? How was it that

you did not sell your remaining strength as dearly as possible?--that

you did not rush like tigers upon your guards, and perish whilst rending

them with your teeth and nails? But ye are silent as becomes ye; so I

must apply to honest John Govan's MS.

"This is now the sixth week that I have dwelt in this dreary place. Oh,

happy they who lie beneath! they are covered, and feel not our

privations, and pains, and sufferings; and yet freedom and home is

offered to us, and accepted by many. God forgive them, if it be His

will!--but John Govan will never accept his liberty on such terms. His

mother's shade would rise up in judgment. Shall I take their infamous

oaths, or subscribe their no less infamous bonds? Shall I swear that the

Bishop's death is murder, and that the resistance of an oppressed and

persecuted people is rebellion? Shall I 'bind, oblige, and enact

myself,' that I shall not hereafter take up arms in so good a cause? No!

I will sooner perish, inch by inch; I will sooner suffer the tortures of

the boot, and the final cruel judgment of the maiden. Men are yet unborn

that will bless us--a whole people, happy in a pure religion and a free

government, will adore the memory of the most humble son of the

Covenant; they will build and erect pillars and monuments to our memory;

they will count, anxiously count, kindred with us; they will record and

register our deeds and our sufferings; and, when this world, with all

its interests, shall have ceased to exist, we shall be in everlasting

remembrance."

Thus reasoned, and thus were supported, these men, who set at defiance

threats, and entreaties, and insidious reasonings; who valued the

approbation of their own consciences above every other; who feared their

God, and had no other fear.

As winter drew on, the intercourse with the inhabitants of Edinburgh

became more frequent and less easily obstructed. It was absolutely

necessary that brothers, and even sisters, and wives, and mothers,

should be permitted occasionally to carry some warm broth, or some still

stronger stimulants, to those whose rations were so limited, and whose

exposure to the cold air was so dismally protracted. Even partial

scaffoldings were erected around the churchyard, and towards the east,

or town side in particular; and some imperfect, no doubt, but still

acceptable shelter, was thus extended to the perishing inmates. It was

not possible that disease should not walk in the train of so much

deprivation. Many died of fever; some of consumption or bad colds; and

not a few of downright debility. The guards, too, became tired of the

monotony of their task, and often retired into adjoining taverns to keep

up their spirits. Some escaped by one means and some by another; one in

the dress of a sister, and another in the garb of a mason. An Act of

Indemnity was at last passed, from which, however, about twenty were

exempted, and perhaps nine or ten executed. John Govan seems to have

survived these dismal times by some years; for I find him next on Magus

Muir, encouraging and supporting his friends who suffered. His

concluding sentences are these:--

"I have seen, I have seen--mine eyes have seen thy salvation;

Presbytery, my beloved Presbytery, established by law; freedom of

conscience secured to all; a Protestant King; a Protestant government;

every man dwelling in peace, under his own vine and his own fig-tree;

mine own son delivering the word of God to a Protestant congregation,

and protected by law. My old age has been soothed by many comforts; the

partner of my fortunes and sharer of all my trials still alive, and

capable of uniting with me in the song of thanksgiving--verily, the Lord

has been merciful and gracious, and I now await his divine pleasure with

perfect resignation. I am old, and have had my day. I trust I have not

altogether neglected my duty; and when it shall be His blessed will to

call me, I will depart cheerfully home, and appear in his presence. My

sins and imperfections are indeed many; but I know in whom I have

believed, and to whom I have committed the soul, my immortal part. Lord,

now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace."

Thus far honest John Govan, who seems to have slept with his fathers a

year or two after the Revolution, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.

The papers, John Brown informed me, passed into his grandfather's

keeping, in consequence of the friendship which continued to exist

betwixt the Govans and the Browns; the Govans having long ago emigrated

to America, and left the Browns a bequest of books, and these papers

besides.

XXI.--"OLD BLUNTIE."

Creehope Linn was a well-known retreat of the old Covenanters in

Dumfriesshire. The water, in the course of successive ages, has cut

itself a smooth, winding, and extremely deep passage, through an immense

bed of sandstone; and so capricious have been its excavations, that,

whilst the rock beneath is hollowed out into vast recesses, or natural

caves and chambers, the rock above almost meets, and spreads a gloom,

approaching to complete darkness, all around the caverns below. In these

caverns--as I already, more than once, have had occasion to

mention--the poor persecuted flock found a temporary shelter and safety.

There was something in the natural gloom which induced melancholy and

even fearful cogitations. One of these caves, immediately over what is

still known by the appropriate designation of "Hell's Cauldron," was,

long after the Revolution, tenanted by an old man of singular aspect and

character, who cobbled shoes for the peasantry around. His residence is

still shown, and known as the "Sutor's Seat." You may still see the

hollow in the rock where he lay himself, and another which contained his

implements. Tradition gives but few notices of his habits, but these few

are perhaps worth recording. He was manifestly crazy; but still there

was a method in his madness; and nothing would persuade him, after the

Revolution, that he might ever safely visit the upper world. He still

talked of Clavers, and Johnston, and Douglas, and Lag; and the rocks

retain to this day, it is said, the names of some of these worthies,

engraved by Sutor Bluntie's awl. Whether this appellation of "Bluntie"

was his own original name, or whether it was only a cognomen, I cannot

positively aver, though I think the _last_ is more than probable, as I

never heard of any person of this name in Dumfriesshire, or, indeed,

anywhere else. He would, whilst in the act of mending a shoe or cobbling

a boot, suddenly spring to his legs, look fearfully around him, and aver

that he was not alone--that the pursuer was present--that a fearfully

disfigured, mangled carcase stood in the very centre of Hell's Caldron.

"There it stands!" he would say--"there! there! One jaw hanging down,

and one eye out; its legs broken; its skull in pieces; its belly ripped

up; and yet it looks terribly at me. But the foul fiend will be here by

and by--ay will he. He will soon settle your jabbering, Donald Cameron.

There--there he comes: he is rushing, like a tempest, among these

trees!--he is sweeping like a whirlwind amongst these rocks! Yes--he

comes, like a lion, roaring for his prey. But you are gone, Donald

Cameron; it was as well. You sank into the Caldron to award the foul

fiend, did you?--out of the frying-pan into the fire, lad! But now all's

quiet again--I will finish my job in spite of you!" Even at mid-day, he

kept a lamp constantly burning; and the rock is still blackened by the

smoke. Thus, doubtless, his mind had taken a gloomy tint, which

gradually diverged into downright insanity. But there was, after all, a

method in his madness. There was a particular reason for the peculiar

usages which his imagination conjured up; and it was this:--During the

hottest period of the Persecution, Old Bluntie, who was by profession a

shoemaker, had taken to this (to him) well-known and familiar recess.

There he remained during the day; but at night he stole out, with the

beasts of prey, to obtain food. His wife (for he had no children) had

been shot, one day, by a dragoon, as she stood in her doorway. The man

simply exclaimed--"That's the Covenanting b----!" fired his pistol, and

the woman fell. Bluntie became, ever after this, altogether reckless;

his only object was, by one means or another, by hook or by crook, to

lead or decoy the persecutors into ambushes and danger. It was he mainly

who decoyed the party into the Pass of Enterkin, already described in

these papers. He pretended to turn informer; but when the cave was

searched, the inmate was flown; but a rifle-gun, from behind a hedge,

seldom missed its mark. Another plan of his was of a somewhat original

character. Creehope Linn divides, as I have already described, a

sandstone rock, over which there lies a deep layer of moss, surmounted

by close and tall heather--at least this was the case formerly, and may

be so still. For a considerable way below the fall known by the name of

the "Grey Mare's Tail," the linn _almost_ meets above, and the heather

_altogether_--to an inexperienced stranger, there is no evidence

whatever of the dreadful abyss, of sixty feet depth, which yawns

beneath. The ground around is level, and the water moves on at such a

distance from the surface, that, unless in floods, it is quite

inaudible. Clavers at this time was a stranger in the southern district,

to which, in consequence of Turner's rising at Dumfries, he had been

recently appointed; and his men were, of course, equally strangers. Old

Bluntie caused a report to be conveyed to Clavers, whilst stationed at

Croalchapel, in the neighbourhood, that a number of the friends of the

Covenant, with old Cargill at their head, were to have a meeting, or

conventicle, in a hollow glen, fifty yards south of the Linn. It was, of

course, to take place at night, and by favour of a harvest moon. Having

been deceived by false intelligence on other occasions, Clavers ordered

Red Rob to lead a troop of ten men into an adjoining cleugh, and there

to dismiss one of them on foot to reconnoitre the ground. All this was

done. But when the soldier came within sight of the place of meeting, he

found only one man, whom he immediately hailed. The figure started, and

ran swiftly away, whilst a ball went fully more swiftly in pursuit, but

missed its mark. The soldier pursued sword in hand, and Bluntie made the

best of his way onward towards the mountain pass of Bellybught. But, all

at once, the soldier disappeared. He had sunk through the heather, and

was not to be seen. The other nine dragoons, who had heard the report,

now followed in hot pursuit, and, coming inadvertently on the same

concealed danger, horse and man went over at once. The legs of several

of the horses were broken; two stuck in the jaws of the ravine, which

was not wide enough to allow them to sink; and one rider went plump to

the bottom; whilst another had his neck broken, by being pitched on his

head to some distance. This person's name was John Campbell; and the

spot retains the name of "Jock's Step" to this hour.

XXII.--THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN.

I have already given some account of the famous rescue at Enterkin--I am

now about to follow out one of the consequences of that rescue:--

Amongst those who were engaged in this affair, was Thomas Harkness of

Lockerben, parish of Dalgarno. Immediately after the affray, the various

individuals who were principally concerned in it separated. Andrew

Clerk, in Leadhills, fled to Annandale; Samuel M'Ewan, in Glencairn,

made off towards Cumnock; and Thomas Harkness hovered for some time

amongst the Lowther heights, and then took refuge in a widow woman's

house in Leadhills. Marion Morrison was the widow of David Douglas, a

miner, who had lost his life in one of the shafts. She lived in a small

cottage on the heathy muir, and at a considerable distance from the

other houses, which, in these times, were not numerous. She had one only

daughter--now woman-grown and comely--who, by spinning sale-yarn for the

Lanark and Douglas market, supported herself and her mother, if not in

comfort, at least in competence and peace. They were both religious

persons, and took a deep interest in the persecuted remnant. Many a

prayer had Marion put up in behalf of God's own people, to which her

daughter May, as she was called, responded with deep sincerity. As the

old song says, "It was in and about the Martinmas time," when Marion and

her daughter were engaged, the one in carding and the other in spinning

wool, the tarry-woo of the mountain land. May was blythe and cheerful,

half-singing and half-chanting the now old, but then popular song--

"Oh, tarry woo is ill to spin!

Card it weel ere ye begin--

Card it weel, and draw it sma'--

Tarry woo is the best of a'!"

when the cat was observed to make a sudden movement across the hearth,

and in stepped a tall figure, wrapped up in a shepherd's plaid. Marion

started, and May all but screamed. But the figure soon unfolded itself,

exclaiming--

"Be not afeared--be not afeared, honest Christian women. I am a poor,

pursued, persecuted bird, flying into your hut from the claws of the

kite. I have neither slept nor broken bread for these three days and

three nights; but, now that the moon has waned, I have ventured down, in

the dark, to beg a morsel of meal and water, a night's shelter, and a

few hours' rest. My name is Thomas Harkness of Lockerben, where my

forbears have lived for these three hundred years bygane; and it's e'en

a richt sair case that, wi' thae grey hairs and wrinkles, I should be

compelled to sleep wi' the peaseweep, and to sup wi' the fox on the

mountain fell."

"Indeed, and sae it is," responded Marion; "and welcome, thrice welcome,

I trow, are ye, or ony o' the name and the lineage o' the Harknesses, to

puir Marion Morrison's best; and, oh, that it was better, for your sake!

Ye hae forgotten the bit whilking lassie, nae doubt, that drave oot yer

worthy faither's stirks to the calf-park and back again, that helpit the

mistress wi' the bairns, and whiles scrapit potatoes, and sic like.

Weel, that bit young, thoughtless cummer, is now the auld, decrepit

body--bonny May, as yer mother used to ca' me, is now auld Marion, wham

the folks hereabout deeply suspect o' witchcraft, and I kenna what ither

craft, I'm turned sae unwarl and pookit-like. But, May, my bairn, the

guid man's sleeping wi' downright fatigue. Get on the pot; there's a wee

pickle barley in the auld barrel, and there's a bit o' the meat that I

was keeping for our Sabbath meal; but the Lord is a rich provider, and

we winna want; sae just put in the bit meat wi' the barley, and get

broth and mutton for my auld master's son. The mashlom bannock is amang

the meal, in the kist. Bring it oot, wi' a bit saut butter, in the

meantime; for oh, sirs! hunger's ill to bide. But, dear, and be wi' me!

if the guidman bena as sound as a tap! It wad be a'maist a pity to waken

him, till the broth pot be fairly set a poppling at least."

May executed her mother's orders with alacrity; and, ere an hour had

escaped, Thomas Harkness was aroused to a most delicious meal, which he

devoured more like a famished wolf than a Christian man; not, however,

hungry and ravenous as he was, before doffing his blue bonnet, and

asking of his Maker a blessing with the offered mercy. He was soon after

conveyed ben the house, and put into possession of the only bed which

the cottage contained; the mother and daughter sleeping and watching

alternately, the one in a large elbow chair, and the other upon a sack

of tarry woo. Day dawned, beautiful and sweet, over the wild mountains

of Leadhills, and May Douglas stood without the low and confined door of

her little cottage, when she was startled by the firing of muskets on

the opposite hill-side. The smoke directed her eye to the spot, and she

saw a poor boy, who had been running hard for the old shafts, fall

immediately forward amongst the long rank heather. "Let the cursed dog

lie there and bleed to death," was uttered aloud, in the most horrid

tone of voice. "Where the watch has been set, the enemy must be lurking;

we'll search, my lads, the village from corner to corner; and, if we

cannot start the game otherwise, we'll put a blazing peat to it, and

smoke out the old fox from his den." It was manifest to May Douglas that

Thomas Harkness was now placed in the utmost jeopardy; and she flew ben

the house, and, with that unconsciousness of impropriety so natural to

her age and innocence, immediately roused the guidman of Lockerben, and

made him sensible of his situation. What was to be done?--An instant

more, and all might be lost. It struck the good girl that there was an

old shaft mouth, within a few yards of the back part of the house, into

which the pursued fugitive might pass through a window, or hole, which

opened, to let out the smoke and _in_ the light, backwards. No sooner

thought of than said--and Thomas, with the greater part of his clothing

under his arm, thrust himself through the opening with some difficulty,

and found himself in a second or two within the hiding of the old shaft.

In an instant after, the house was surrounded, and armed men, with

swords and holster pistols, rushed into the house of this poor

unprotected woman.

"Turn out the old b---- with her whelp," said Clavers to the band, "and

cast her Bible and Psalm-Book after, that she may amuse herself and her

beauty, whilst we secure the stray sheep of the house of Israel. So ho!

here is trail, here is trail; tally-ho!--a shepherd's plaid, and a pair

of good large shoes, well soled and tacketed. The guidman himself is not

far off--he will be at his devotions, Rob; see you do not disturb him,

you unmannerly rascal."

"Oh no," replied the well-known corporal, Rob Douglas, "I will only join

in the psalmody." And then he bawled out, in stentorian whine, mimicking

the voice and manner of a Covenanter--

"'In Judah's land God is well-known,

His name in Israel great,

In Salem is his tabernacle,

In Zion is his seat.'

But no, no, my sweet chick of canticles, not so fast, dear, not so

fast--neither you nor old grunty must budge a foot-length from the place

where you now stand--sit or lie, as you please--till you get permission

from this here person with the King's authority on both his shoulders."

In the meantime, everything in the house had been turned topsy-turvy,

and the eleventh commandment, as they facetiously denominated the

broadsword, had been passed through all manner of pierceables; when,

enraged at being foiled of his prey when so nearly securing it, Clavers

ordered the hut to be set on fire, and the old hunks to be thrown into

the midst of it. "As to this young chick," said he, giving her chin a

rude blow upwards, "why, I do not know that I shall burn her till

Halloween, and then she will skip and flame on the hearth-stane amongst

the nuts."

No sooner said than done--the house was immediately set fire to at all

the four corners, whilst the brutal soldiery stood round watching, and

making sport of some mice, whom their instinct led to escape. Marion

Morrison was actually in the rude hands of the soldiers, when fear of

the consequences, or, it may be, something resembling humanity, led

Clavers to give orders to let the b---- live, to plague the whole

village for half a century to come.

In the meantime, Mr Robert Ramsay, the manager of the lead-mines,

appeared, to remonstrate with Clavers for his very unhandsome treatment

of the women, and his destruction of property which belonged to the

family of Hopetoun. It being the time, too, when the workmen shifted

their labours, the hill-side poured forth, its fifties and hundreds, as

if it had actually teemed with life. Clavers and his men were

immediately surrounded with a grim and an incensed crowd, headed by

their much-esteemed manager--the father, as was afterwards the case, of

the celebrated Allan Ramsay, who thus celebrates the place of his

birth--

"Of Crawford Moor--born in Leadhill--

Where mineral springs Glengonner fill,

Which joins sweet-flowing Clyde,

Between auld Crawford Lindsay's towers

And where Duneaton rapid pours

His stream to Glotta's tide."

In vain did Ramsay remonstrate with Clavers. He boasted his Orders in

Council; defied all remonstrance; ordered his men to charge; and,

firing on the crowd right and left, made his escape to the hills.

Providentially no one was even hurt; and it was strongly suspected that,

knowing he had already rather exceeded his commission, he had ordered

the dragoons to charge without ball-cartridge. After this affair was

over, the district was freed, for a time, from the hateful presence of

the King's troops, as they were known to be occupied on a similar office

in Annandale, and the higher district of Nithsdale.

Thomas Harkness being duly informed of his safety, came forth from his

hiding, which was nearly covered over by spret and long heather, and was

welcomed (though not without apprehension) to the manager's dwelling,

which stood then, where the manager's house still stands, in the midst

of the town, and was and still is surrounded by trees--the only ones to

be seen for many miles around. The old woman, Marion Morrison, with her

bonny May, were likewise taken home to the same hospitable dwelling,

till some arrangement could be made, with the generous and noble-minded

family of Hopetoun, for their future accommodation. Mr Robert Ramsay was

a young, unmarried man of family--as his name implies--and he felt the

impropriety of keeping a young, unmarried woman under his roof. Whether

it was that he and May understood each other before this time, or that

their unexpected juxtaposition, now accelerated the consummation, I know

not; but so it was, that, in a few days, preparations were agoing

forward of a somewhat demonstrative nature. A fine black-faced sheep was

killed; ale barrels were seen travelling up Glengonner; four dozen of

good port wine were placed on the sideboard, whilst a cask of strong

Nantz brandy slept quietly beneath. On Sabbath, the names of Robert

Ramsay and May Douglas, both of this parish, were read aloud by the

precentor, schoolmaster, and manager's clerk; and the Friday following

was fixed upon for the marriage.

Any festivity amongst these congregated children of the mountains, is

anticipated by them with peculiar relish and excitement. Miles beneath

the ground, the voice of joy and jest, and colloquy, penetrated; and,

whilst the jumper penetrated the rock, and the hammer fell ponderous and

frequent, the tongue was not idle, and the heart was not sad. Every one

spoke well of the bride; most of them knew her father and esteemed him.

Old Marion, to be sure, was a _quisquis_ character; but then, she was

now to be the manager's stepmother, honest man; and it was deemed that,

if ever old Marion had dealt with the old gentleman, she would now

prefer the young one. The long-looked-for, wished-for day, at last

arrived, and the nonconforming minister of the parish of Crawford--the

godly Mr Austin--was brought from his retreat, at the town of Douglas,

to perform the marriage ceremony. All was gay as a marriage bell; the

men had a full holiday, by order of Lord Hopetoun, with full wages, on

the occasion. They, with their wives and daughters, were all arranged on

the green plot in front of the manager's house; whilst viands, of a most

substantial nature, were served out to them in abundance--amongst which,

sheep-heads, haggises, and Irish stews, were not forgotten. The tankards

circulated; the wine was handed round in queghs and skuties, or timber

shells; and brandy followed in abundance. The heart of the poor labourer

was gladdened, whilst, glowing as it did with gratitude and kindly

feeling, it was made better; and the young and handsome couple walked

round amongst the people with pride and honest delight. One mother was

sad, because her son lay still in a bed of sickness. He had fallen when

wounded (as was before mentioned) on the hill, and having been shot

through the knee-joint, his wound was long of healing--still there was a

certainty that, though lame for life, he would not die of the injury,

and the mother ventured out, though with a clouded aspect. A Highland

bagpiper made his appearance, (probably from a previous arrangement,)

and, having taken his seat and his draught--

"He screwed his pipes, and gart them skirl,

Till glen and mountain a' did dirl."

The lads sprung to their feet--

"Wi' wooer babs

At their blue-bonnet lugs."

"The lasses--bonny witches--

Were a' dressed up in aprons clean,

And braw white Sunday mutches."

So to it they went; and round and round the green they reeled it, and

country-danced it, and shouted it, and flapped it, and jumped it--and

"Haverel Jean her hanging stocking ties,

And to the dance with maddening fury flies,"

till nature could hold out no longer, and wearied limbs were stretched

out full length on the soft greensward. In the meantime, _in_ came two

pilgrims from the Holy Land, and they spoke of Eastern lands and Eastern

manners; and, being wearied with travel, they behoved to partake of the

cheer. Next to them succeeded Auld Glenae, tied all round with straw

ropes, and making love to every bonny lassie present, clapping the old

women on the back, and kissing the young lassies. Even Thomas Harkness

has laid aside, for a season, his nonconformity, and absolutely foots it

away with old Marion Morrison. Laughter goes round in peals, and punch

in pailfuls; and the jolly god shakes his sides as he contemplates his

happy worshippers. Never did Mount Nysa resound to more genuine

revelment. But whom have we here? A horseman--a dragoon! Let me look

through the trees. Oh, my God! we are surrounded by a troop of horse,

and all means of resistance of escape is cut off from us! Clavers

advances very coolly into the midst of the festive circle; and, making

his obeisance in the most polite manner, takes up a full tankard, and

drinks to the health of the new-married couple--nay, nothing will serve

him but he must dance a reel with the bride, who, though reluctant, is

forced to comply. Then, turning round, in the most playful manner, to Mr

Robert Ramsay--

"I know," said he, "you are an honest man, and a true, and trouble

yourself mighty little with conformity or nonconformity; and, therefore,

my business is not with you. As to you, Mr Austin, your day is coming;

but the pear is not ripe yet. I have my eyes upon you; and the first

conventicle which you hold at the old town of Douglas shall seal your

fate. At present, you are free. But with you, Mr Thomas Lockerben, I

must hold some private communing; and, with the permission of this jolly

company, and with all thanks to our hospitable entertainers, we shall

now withdraw. Soldiers, see the prisoner secured, and his hands tied

firm behind his back. Bundle him up there behind the sergeant. One file

on each side, and one behind! All ready! March!"

The next appearance which poor Thomas Harkness made was in the

Grassmarket of Edinburgh, where he emitted the testimony to be found in

Wodrow--(Burns' edition, vol. iv., p. 68.)

XXIII.--THE SHOES REVERSED.

The banks of the Liddel are green, peaceful, and productive. The stream

itself is all which a pastoral stream ever ought to aspire to: it is

neither turbid nor calm; neither precipitous nor sluggish. When chafed,

indeed, by the flood, it can assert, and boldly, its independence; and

sometimes, just by way of showing its strength and general forbearance,

you may see a hay-stack, or a stray sheep, floating on the railway of

its current. But, in general, it winds its course along a narrow,

indeed, but a sweet pastoral valley, with all becoming moderation, and

even modesty--retiring occasionally, like the coquette in Virgil, _ad

salices_, and, like her, too, _cupiens ante videri_; now passing from

behind a steep, and again trotting it off in graceful and visible

windings. Yet, peaceful and beautiful as this Scottish Tempe now is, it

was for ages the scene of rapine, blood, and battle--of all those Border

feuds which, from age to age, concentrated on this point, till the

waters of the Liddel ran red, and its green banks were dyed with the

blood of vassal and lord, of Scotchman and Englishman, of Douglas, Hume,

Howard, Graham, and Percy. During these bold and stirring times,

characters were formed which remained long after reiving had ceased. The

Elliot, the Armstrong, the Jardine, and the Johnstone, entailed upon

their posterity a spirit of fearless independence and wassail

hospitality, which remains, though in a greatly diluted state, to this

hour. At the time to which this narrative points, it was still in full

vigour; and the incidents of the story are illustrative of such a

character.

The property of Whithaugh has been in the possession of the ancestors of

the venerable and kind-hearted present proprietor for at least four

centuries. Its produce has always been sufficient for the necessaries,

and even some of the luxuries of life; and, what is somewhat singular,

no miser and no spendthrift has ever increased or diminished its extent.

What it was in the days of James V. of Scotland, (who once lodged a

night in the mansion-house,) it continues to be. The rental may be

somewhat about L. 600 per annum; and, with the income free and

unincumbered, the present proprietor is just as rich as he wishes to be,

and can afford to exercise that immemorial bias towards hospitality for

which the Elliots of Whithaugh are, and have always been, quite

celebrated. My tale--which is, indeed, too true in all its general

outline--I heard, a few years ago, from old Elliot himself, in the

presence of the worthy minister of Castleton, my old and good friend,

the Rev. Mr Barton, to whom I can safely appeal for the truth of the

facts related.

Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall was a well-known persecutor during the

reign of the detestable Second Charles; and, as his mansion was at no

great distance from Liddesdale, he treated himself occasionally to a

Border chase, as he termed it--riding with a troop of dragoons up and

down the dale, levying heavy fines, and shooting occasionally, a stray

son of the Covenant, as he fled to the cave or the morass. In one of

these excursions Johnstone encountered the Laird of Whithaugh's poor,

fatuous brother, who had, by some means, escaped into the mountains from

the hands of a stout man, to whose care and protection the inoffensive,

but perfectly fatuous creature was committed. Archy Elliot (known in the

neighbourhood by the familiar designation, "_A but_ Archy," from his

commencing every sentence with the words "A but") had wandered into a

mountain dell; and, at last, unable to extricate himself, he had sat

down to rest him upon a rock, which overhung a small stream, over which

the branches of the rowan tree, or mountain ash, were spread. Johnstone

and his party were in quest, at the time, of poor Gilbert Watson,

against whom the curate of the parish of Applegirth had lodged an

information, on the score of his having got his child baptized by the

lately ousted minister of the parish. Gilbert had been compelled to

betake him to the mountain passes on this account, and was supposed to

have taken up his abode in what was called "Fox Den," on the water of

Tarras. Johnstone immediately dismounted from his horse, (upon seeing

the figure of a man by the stream-side,) and, with two dragoons to

assist him, proceeded to descend into the hollow where poor Archy

Elliot was seated.

"Hollo!" vociferated Johnstone, in a loud and harsh tone of

voice--"hollo! brother brush-the-heather, what have we here? A Bible, no

doubt, and a psalm-tune, and Covenanting dirge, made up of profanity and

high treason in equal proportions. Stir your stumps, old Gibby! Ye're

wanted, man, by the guidwife. She can get nae rest without you; and the

vile, roaring _get_ which ye sae lately made a Christian o', took a

taste o' the caller air this morning at the top o' Sergeant Pagan's

sword. Look, man! glour, man!--you, Gibby, wi' or without the

_girds_--there's the blood o' the yelping brat on the sword yet. Pat

Pagan tells me it won't come off; so we'll e'en see if the Tarras water

winna wash it oot"--pulling the sword out of the hands of the grim

sergeant, and swinging it backwards and forwards in the adjoining pool.

In the meantime, Daft Archy had sprung to his feet, and was staring

wildly at the company by which he was surrounded.

"A but, man--a but, man--I'm Archy, ye ken--Archy Elliot, ye ken--a but,

no kill Archy--a but--a but--a but!" &c.

"None of your Whiggery slang here, ye manting, shamming fool! D'ye think

we dinna see that all this foolery is put on, man? D'ye think we dinna

ken Gibby Watson o' the Goosedub? Men, do your duty, and secure the

traitor!"

Thus saying, the dragoons were proceeding to execute their orders, when

one of them interfered, and assured his Honour that he was mistaken in

the person--for this was the daft brither o' the Laird o' Whithaugh,

"owre by yonder."

"Elliot o' Whithaugh!" exclaimed Johnstone, with a demoniacal grin.

"Auld, canting, traitor-hiding Elliot! I have a good mind to set his

house in a lunt about his lugs, and toss this lump of idiocy into the

fire, just to beet the flame. Tie the creature with cords to a tree,

and let us proceed to Elliot's of Whithaugh. It is a thousand to one

that 'Gibby God-be-thanked' is not snugly lodged in the laird's pantry;

or, maybe, luggit into the heart o' a peat-stack."

Altogether reckless of the screams and struggles of the poor innocent,

away the party scampered, as if on a holiday excursion, towards the old

house of Whithaugh. It had rained hard over night, and the Liddel was

running dark, smooth, and foam-belled. Instead, however, of going about

a mile round by the old stone bridge, the whole party dashed at once

fearlessly into the swollen stream, and made furiously forward towards

the opposite bank. The bank however was steep; and, as Sergeant Pagan's

horse was trying to clear an ascent of some feet, it fairly fell back,

with its rider beneath, into the turbid and boiling water. At once rider

and man were tumbled over by the flood, and lodged in a deep pool under

a steep cliff, some yards lower down. The horse and man, for some time,

seemed entangled with each other; but, at last, the horse escaped, and

made for the further shore, which was shelvy and hard. The man was never

again seen alive. His body was afterwards found some miles lower down.

Having ascertained that one of his troop--one of the most tried and

trustworthy--in other words, of the most cruel and daring--had paid the

forfeit of his own temerity, Johnstone uttered a curse or two in

reference to the departed's soul, and swore that he would make old

Whithaugh suffer for this. Up, accordingly, the band trotted towards the

front door, which faced southward upon a green lawn. But, upon demanding

entrance, he was told from a window that none would be permitted. In

fact, the party had been seen advancing, and their purpose guessed at;

and Whithaugh had resolved, by the assistance of two stout sons, an only

daughter of singular beauty, and nearly half-a-dozen ploughmen, to

defend Gilbert Watson and his own premises by force. This altered

somewhat the aspect of things; and Johnstone, after bestowing his usual

allowance of curses upon the old man, the house, and all its inmates,

drew from his pocket what he termed a "Lauderdale," or high commission,

by which he was entitled to search out, sack, and if necessary, put to

the sword all manner of traitors and conventiclers in these parts.

Having read as it were the "riot act," he was proceeding to open the

front door by force, when poor Archy was heard fast approaching under

the conduct of his keeper.

"A but, a but," said Archy--"a but--no kill, no kill--ah, but tie--ah,

but tie--tree! tree! tree!"--pointing to the trees which surrounded the

green.

"Give the old cutter a broadside," said Johnstone, retreating from the

door to give freedom to the men; and immediately the whole front windows

were lying in shining fragments inside and outside of the apartments.

Luckily, seeing the preparation that was made, everybody had stood aside

from the windows, and no one in the house was injured. His keeper had a

strong hold of Archy, and was endeavouring to keep him out of harm's

way, by thrusting his back against a tree in the orchard, when, by a

sudden effort, he escaped, and, armed with a pitchfork, which he had

found in the stack-yard, he rushed instantly upon the assailants,

lodging the weapon in the flanks of one of the trooper's horses, ere his

rider could turn him round. This so incensed the soldier, that he

instantly pulled out his holster pistol, and shot the poor half-witted

creature through the head. He fell, repeating his well-known

exclamation, "a but," and was dead in an instant.

Seeing how matters were going on without, old Whithaugh, who had

hitherto acted merely upon the defensive, discharged a fowling-piece,

which he had ready loaded, at the captain of the band. The ball grazed

his bridle hand, and blood followed the slight injury. This so incensed

the leader that he immediately ordered the stack-yard and out-houses to

be set fire to, vowing that if the traitor were not given up, he would

burn down the Ha' house likewise, and not leave a combustible unconsumed

about the steading. Already had the poor cattle begun to roar at the

stake, and the hens and turkeys to escape from the flaming stack-yard,

when out Whithaugh issued, surrounded by his resolute supporters, armed

with grapes, pitchforks, and such other lethal weapons as the place and

the occasion admitted of. Seeing matters come to this pass, poor

Gilbert, who had actually been built up into a hay-stack, the farther

extremity of which was now on fire, immediately sprung forth, and,

throwing himself betwixt the combatants, called aloud for an armistice,

and at once offered to surrender. Meanwhile, the fair but distracted

Helen Elliot rushed likewise betwixt the parties, and prayed, on her

knees, that her father's grey hairs might be spared. This somewhat

altered the state of matters. The cattle were got extricated from the

burning--in some cases the flames were extinguished--and, Johnstone

having gained his object, though at the expense of life and much

valuable property, gave orders for a retreat. Placing poor Gilbert

Watson, upon a dragoon's saddle, in a very inconvenient position, whilst

the rider sat comfortably in the saddle behind him, and bestowing some

extravagant, but unwelcome praises upon the personal charms of fair

Helen--the whole party, with the exception of the wounded horse, which

was speared to death, and the man who had lost his life in the water,

marched up the dale, being resolved that, now at least, they should not

risk their lives in the swollen flood. There stood at this time, and

probably there stands still, a little public-house at the bridge, and

about half a mile from the manse of Castleton. Into this public-house

the party betook themselves to refresh, whilst the curate of Castleton

was sent for, to have an interview with Johnstone, to whom he was

intimately known, and to whom he had often given private information

respecting the poor HIDING people, who fled to the mountain and glen,

and the moss and the cave, for life and for conscience-sake. This curate

of Castleton was a somewhat singular personage in appearance. He gave

one a pretty correct idea of AEsop. He was a little bandy-legged body,

with a large aquiline nose, a hunched back, and a most sinister squint.

His church, indeed, was deserted, unless by the family in the small

change-house, and one or two farmers, who, for fear of suspicion and

consequent spoliation, were in the habit of occasionally attending. He,

like his neighbours of the curacy, had been imported, _ready made_, from

Aberdeen, with all its strange dialect, and all its stranger leanings to

oppression and Episcopacy. Just at the moment when Johnstone's messenger

arrived at the manse, then situated high up the hill, upon the brink of

a precipice, the curate was in private converse with a person who was

giving him the important information, that a conventicle was this very

evening to be held at the Dead-Water--a large mountain-moss, situated on

the Borders, and giving rise to the river Tyne on the one side, and the

Liddel on the other. This information having been obtained, the curate,

commonly designated Clatterwallet, hastened away, in company with

Johnstone's messenger, for the Brig change-house. An interview with

Johnstone was immediately obtained; and, in a few minutes, orders were

given to his men to hold themselves in readiness to march. Meanwhile,

the prisoner, Watson, was put under the guardianship of a dragoon, and

lodged in a small byre attached to the gavel of the dwelling-house.

Several attempts were made by _seeming_ travellers, to get the soldier

withdrawn from his station, but they proved ineffectual. Meantime, the

night began to darken in, with a soft-falling snow shower, which

rendered the ground all white around. Poor Gilbert Watson had said his

prayers, sung the 121st Psalm, and was preparing to rest himself, with a

cow and her calf for his companions, when he thought he heard a voice

whispering to him from the roof of the thatched byre. It was indeed a

voice, and a friendly one; for it said, "_Here! Here!_" A staff was

thrust through a small aperture in the thatch. Gilbert moved towards the

place, and heard, in whispers exceedingly low, that an opening in the

roof was about to be made for his escape. Meanwhile, Gilbert kept

constantly moving about, so that the watch at the door might be assured

that he was still in his keeping. All at once, when a hole large enough

had been made, Gilbert was pulled up by the arms and shoulders, and

carried on the back of a strong man, with amazing velocity down the

glen. The soldier had heard the noise which this occasioned, and

immediately hailed his prisoner. No answer being returned, he entered,

and discovered at once the trick which had been played upon him. He

immediately _rounded_ the byre; but, in doing so, felt his feet

entangled in a strong rope, which, when he had put down his hands to

disentangle, he was caught by the waist in a strong fox-trap. This made

him roar aloud for help; but ere the innkeeper could give him the

desired assistance, the prisoner had considerable time to escape. In

fact, in noiseless speed, the strong man had borne Gilbert to a

considerable distance, and then setting him down, he _untied his shoes,

and putting the heels foremost, fastened them, thus reversed, by strings

to his feet_. "Now," said the voice, in parting--"now for

Castle-Hermitage and its dungeon! till to-morrow morning, when

assistance will be rendered." And, saying thus, the strong man took his

immediate departure, and disappeared amongst the woods. Poor Gilbert did

as he was instructed, and, in about an hour, reached the dismal solitude

of Castle-Hermitage. There, on some straw which still remained from the

time when poor Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie had been starved to

death by Sir William Douglas, did this poor persecuted man remain till

the following morning. In the meantime, Johnstone having discovered that

he had been sent on a fool's errand, and that no such meeting was about

to take place, as the curate had been advertised of, at the

Dead-Water-Moss, returned in no very good humour--first, to the manse of

Castleton, from which he proposed ejecting the curate over the

precipice, which lay underneath his window, and then, about midnight, to

the inn at the Brig-end of Liddel Water. Here his rage was converted

into fury at the trick which had now manifestly been played upon him;

and he stamped, and swore, and blasphemed during the remainder of the

night; drinking, however, and eating mutton ham, by turns, and warning

his man that, so soon as day broke, they should give chase to the old

fox. Day broke, and chase was given. Some were dismissed in one

direction, and some in another; and, as the snow had been undisturbed

from the time of the escape till morning, it was naturally guessed that

the footsteps of the pursued might still be traced. Accordingly,

Johnstone, with three of his men, set out in the track from the back of

the byre, and made sure work of it till they came to the bottom of the

glen--their footsteps were confused, and the party seemed to have made

off towards Whithaugh. Having, however, despatched a strong body to

trace those footsteps, Johnstone and his men rode immediately over the

rising ground, and came down at once on the old towers of

Castle-Hermitage. Here the truth appeared to be manifest. There were

double footsteps--those of one approaching and one departing--and the

inference was immediately drawn, that the pursued had betaken himself to

the castle keep, but had again effected his escape. In fact, the strong

man of last evening had advanced, towards morning, with provisions and

refreshment to the dungeon; and his shoes being nailed and formed very

much like those of Gilbert, they very naturally took the two

foot-prints, the one advancing and the other retreating, for one--and

off they set at full gallop--whilst Gilbert and one of Whithaugh's

ploughmen made the best of their way in the opposite direction, and

ultimately separated within sight of Hawick--the honest ploughman

returning, not a little satisfied with his dexterity to the broad and

fertile acres of Whithaugh; whilst Gilbert Watson ultimately reached

some friends who lived in the Cowgate of Edinburgh--by which means he

escaped.

The shoes which contributed so greatly to the escape of Gilbert Watson,

were presented as a memorial to the family of Elliot, and are still

shown to the curious in such matters, by the present hospitable and

worthy proprietor of Whithaugh. It was remarked, that, after this

unfortunate _raid_, Johnstone became morose and peevish, beyond his

usual; seemed to suffer great mental agony; and was one morning found

dead in his bed. Helen Elliot, the fair maid of Whithaugh, was wooed and

won by a Charteris of Empsfield; and from her are the present honourable

family of that title descended. So ends my Hysteron Proteron or, "the

Shoes Reversed."

THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE.[2]

[Footnote 2: This tale is the production of the Rev. George Thomson,

"the happy Dominie Thomson of the happy days of Abbotsford," as Lockhart

designates him in the last volume of his "Life of Scott," when alluding

to the sad inroads of death into the family circle where Thomson had

been Tutor for many years. He was a son of the late minister of Melrose,

and much respected for his sterling worth, amiability, and sound

learning--particularly noted, also, for the eccentricity of his wit, and

the humour of his sayings and doings. The above, and another tale, are,

so far as I can learn, the only contributions to literature by the

amanuensis of Scott.--ED.]

"There are few men," says a peculiar moralist, "however much they may

have been loved and esteemed in their day, whose return to life, after

any considerable interval, would not be regarded with feelings of

regret." In this observation there is some truth. The places once

occupied by the departed have been supplied by others; their return to

life would be regretted by those whom they would "push from their

stools;" and it may be very well believed that, if the rightful heir of

a great estate were to make his appearance in life, after having been

long lost and regarded as dead, the feelings of the person whom he would

supplant, whose possessions, prerogatives, and ostensibility, he would

take away, would not be particularly pleasant. But, when no personal

interests are at stake, and no feelings of malign selfishness are

awakened, there are few things from which a person well constituted in

heart and mind, will derive a more vivid delight, or a more exquisite

excitement, than the return, and an unexpected meeting with, a long lost

and long absent friend. Mark, in proof, the stare of astonishment, the

eyes eagerly looking into each other, while the mind gradually opens

into recognition, and such exclamations as, "Guide me! it's no

possible! can this be really you?--eh, it's lang since I hae seen

ye!--hoo hae ye been a' this time?" In no place are such feelings more

vivid, or such exclamations more rife, than on the Scottish Borders,

whose good-humoured natives have always been distinguished for

enterprising energy, as well as warmth of heart, producing a disposition

both to rove and to return.

On the east coast--somewhere between Berwick and St Abb's Head--a

village is situated at the mouth of a small stream, which gives it an

immediate access to, and egress from the open sea. Its harbour does not

admit vessels of any considerable burthen; but there is good anchorage

ground in the offing, and its situation being favourable for the

irregular discharge of a cargo, it is said to have been, in former

times, notorious for the contraband trade. It continued to enjoy an

honourable prosperity, however, after this infamous and most pernicious

traffic had been put down by the vigilance of government, owing to its

permanent local advantages. The chief employment of its inhabitants is

fishing; and its coasting trade is considerable, affording to the

tenantry of the adjoining country a ready market for farm produce of all

kinds--grazing, pastoral, and agricultural. In this village, long before

the formation of those regularly constituted clubs which now exist in

every considerable market town, a number of persons, whom business had

brought together, used to hold regular meetings in the evening of the

market day. These meetings, of which, when a young man, I was a constant

attender, were generally composed of nearly the same persons, who, by

tacit agreement, used to assemble at the same time and in the same

place; one particular apartment of the principal inn being always

reserved for their use. On these occasions, there was much innocent

enjoyment and little variety. In allusion to the chief avocations of the

persons present, and the commodities which formed the staple of the

market, it was customary to give, as the toast of the evening--

"The life of man, the death of fish,

The boat, the crook, the plough;

Horn, corn, lint, and yarn,

Flax, and tarry woo."

The chief transactions of the day having been talked over, and the party

having gradually diminished as the evening advanced, to a few intimates

who dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, many a tale, anecdote, and

legend used to be told, while the glass circled round. The appetite for

legendary lore, orally delivered, had not begun to abate in the days of

my youth.

I remember well a particular evening in which many stories were told, of

"hair-breadth 'scapes," strange coincidences, and remarkable incidents

of various kinds; but gene rally connected with the departure and return

of Scottish adventurers. Mr Plainworth, and the patient butt of his

playful humour, Mr Wonderlove, two respectable Septuagenarians, and the

venerable fathers of the club, occupied, as usual, the two arm chairs

which stood one on each side of the fire. At length, after having been

long a silent listener, Mr Plainworth stated that an incident as

remarkable as any that had yet been told, had occurred in the very

apartment in which we were sitting, and when he himself was present.

"Did any of you," said he, "know the late William Elphinstone, Esq.?"

"I for one knew him well, for a most excellent and worthy man," said

Wonderlove; "and his family is said to be the first of their line that

ever did well. I have heard of a dule (doom) which was formerly laid

upon that house, by a mother cursing, in the anguish of her heart, and

on her bare knees, the bearing of which was, that the sword would never

be off the race, till their pride had been humbled--till their head had

wedded a maiden of low degree."

"That," said Plainworth, "I regarded as a mere folly of the olden time.

Some aggravated case of seduction, in which family pride was exhibited,

and innocence ruined and forsaken, had suggested the idea of a suitable

doom, which was supposed to hang over the house; or a curse may have

been pronounced under such awful circumstances; and as there would be no

black and white upon the matter, its import and bearing might easily be

made to correspond with subsequent events. An obliquity of

disposition--a transmitted depravity of character--will sometimes be

hereditary for two or three generations in a particular race; on the

removal of which, the evils to which, by natural consequence, it had

led, and which might seem to flow from a hereditary fatality or doom,

will also pass away. The fortunes of the house of Elphinstone seem to

have improved with the improved character of the race."

"You are a deep thinker, Mr Plainworth," said the other; "but it is

well-known that, for a long period of time, the sword never was off that

house. Deeply involved in the troubles that preceded and followed the

civil wars, they always came off with the worst. Some fell in battle;

some bled on the scaffold; and when others ceased to kill them, they

began to put an end to themselves."

"You allude," said Plainworth, "to the death of Edward Elphinstone, the

brother of the laird. Poor unhappy young man! I knew him well."

"Sir," said Wonderlove, "I could tell you of a strange thing, which I

cannot help thinking is somehow connected with his death. I was

acquainted with the son of the parish minister. He and his father had

occasion to go down to the churchyard, on account of something which had

gone wrong with the cattle. A loud scream was heard at the west-end of

the church, in a little while followed by another. The son, who hurried

forward to see what was the matter, beheld a light streaming from the

window of the Elphinstone aisle; and, on looking in, he could perceive

a human figure, lying on the central grave-stone, under a white sheet.

He stood and gazed till, from below the white sheet, another scream came

pealing exactly like the two he had heard before; and then he ran back

in terror to his father, and both made the best of their way home. Next

morning, Edward Elphinstone was found dead in the neighbouring woods. He

had fired his own gun through his head, by means of a string attached to

the trigger, and passed round the butt end. Now, sir, what is your

opinion as to that?"

"I would say," replied Plainworth, "that it must have been the poor

youth stretching himself in life, in the place where he was shortly to

lie dead--put down, alas! by his own hand--one of the strange fancies of

a mind meditating suicide, and therefore labouring under a degree of

frenzied excitement. Had he been conveyed home, the catastrophe might

have been prevented."

"An admirable explanation," said the other, "and a true."

"What!" cried Plainworth, "and is Wonderlove so ready to give up such a

likely and well-authenticated tale of diablerie? Well, in return for

your candour, I assure you that William Elphinstone, the first of the

line who seems to have been freed from the dread hereditary doom, really

did marry 'a maiden of low degree.' I was his friend, and the confidant

of his innocent and honourable love."

"And the thing you mean to tell us of--does it concern him?" asked

Wonderlove.

"It does, as you shall hear," replied Plainworth. "After the death of

Edward, the second son," continued Plainworth, "there remained of the

family of Elphinstone, only the Laird, and William, the youngest son, my

particular friend. The health of the laird had been irreparably injured,

both by early excesses, and by a fall which he got from his horse while

hunting. After this accident, his life was despaired of; and, although

he partially recovered, his constitution, owing to an injury in the

head, was ruined for ever. A cousin, who would have succeeded to the

estates, failing him and his brother, made various abortive attempts to

sow dissension between them; which, being ascribed to their true motive,

caused the laird to hate him most cordially. To defeat the crooked

policy of this bad man, he was anxious to keep William at home; and he

endeavoured to effect a marriage between him and an heiress of good

family, great fortune, and greater expectations. The lady was

favourable--her friends not less so. But William had placed his

affections in a lower sphere. He had long loved the only daughter of a

Mr Constant, the humble proprietor of about fifty acres of poor land,

called Sanditofts. Mary Constant was a young woman who had everything to

recommend her, except fortune. William had succeeded in gaining her

heart; but, with a noble disinterestedness, she persisted in

discouraging his addresses to herself, and did her utmost to prevail on

him to gratify his elder brother, by preferring the more advantageous

match.

"Of this ground of difference, the first which had existed between the

brothers, the wicked cousin endeavoured to make the most. He contrived

to have unworthy suspicions of the innocent object of William's love,

insinuated into the mind of the laird; and that there might be some

foundation for these suspicions, the fiend had insidiously pointed her

out to the notice of a Sir Charles Ranger--a man of fashion and

profligate manners, who happened at the time to be resident in this part

of the country. Observing something peculiar in William's manner one

day, I wrung from him the secret cause, which was, that he had been

given to understand that Mary was in the habit of receiving, and with

encouragement, the attentions of Sir Charles. 'If that should be true,'

said he, with a sigh, 'how inconsistent in a creature who, in mind as

well as in person, seems to be all perfection!' On my demanding his

authority, he stated that his brother had been his first informer, who

had got his information from one lady, who had got it from another, and

so on; but that he thought he had been able, very nearly, to run up the

slander to his cousin, with whom it must have originated."

"'What can be the villain's motive?' cried I, indignantly.

"'Evidently,' said he, 'to give my brother an unfavourable opinion of

Mary, that he may be induced to set his face, like flint, against my

being united to her in marriage; in which case he may anticipate that

such a quarrel might arise between him and me as would admit of no

reconciliation; and that, as I might then have to lead the precarious

unsettled life of an adventurer, the extinction of the elder branch of

the family would become more likely. That may be his policy, for, in my

brother's infirm state, I am certainly the chief obstruction to his hope

of eventually succeeding to the family inheritance; but why speculate

about the motives of such a man? I beat him soundly on the occasion you

know of, when he attempted to do me ill offices with my brother.'

"'Beat him, did you?' cried I.

"'That I did,' said he, 'and with right good will. I began with mild

expostulation, which was all I intended at first; but his shameless

attempts at justification, and at maintaining the character of a mutual

friend, made him appear so vile in my eyes, that I threw him on the

ground, told him that I would make an impression on his body, if not on

his mind, and beat him with a sapling, till I had tired my arm, rather

than exhausted my wrath."

"'He well deserved all he got,' said I; 'but a mind like his will never

forgive a blow--far less a long succession of blows, most energetically

laid on--although he may not have the spirit to show his resentment

openly.'

"'He hates me from his soul,' said he, 'while he fawns upon me; and he

well knows that to let fly an envenomed shaft at poor Mary, is the

likeliest way to give me a deadly wound.'

"'You have acted most rashly towards him,' said I; 'for he is a dark,

deep, dangerous man; the deadly enmity of such as he ought never to be

unnecessarily provoked; under the sting of a reptile will a lion die.'

"'He is indeed a reptile,' replied he, 'whom I pity and despise, and

whom you will have some difficulty in persuading me to fear. I am not

free,' he added with perceptible agitation, 'I am not free from the

hereditary imperfection of our ill-fated race; but I endeavour to

restrain my mind by those means by which the mind can best be

restrained. As for the inheritance of our house, which seems to excite

my wretched cousin's cupidity, I could almost wish he had it, with the

hereditary curse along with it; so that I had only a moderate

competence, with God's blessing, a peaceful mind, and Mary's love.'

"A few days after the above conversation took place, as William

Elphinstone and I were sauntering about, without any particular object,

who should we see coming over the hill but Mary herself, along with Sir

Charles Ranger? 'Now, Elphinstone,' said I, on observing them, 'keep

your temper, and don't allow yourself to be flung off your guard--that

is indeed Sir Charles; but the meeting has been unintentional on Mary's

part. The poor girl could not drive such an intruder away, as easily as

the wind would a piece of thistle-down.'

"'They are walking wide apart, on opposite sides of the road,' said he,

with considerable emotion.

"As we moved towards them, keeping on the inside of a hedge, which

afforded us concealment, we lost sight of them for a little while; but,

on turning a corner, they again came in view. She was evidently walking

too fast for her gallant attendant; and William seemed to be amused with

his efforts to maintain his fashionable swagger at the unusual pace. As

we continued to follow them unobserved, we could see him in several

instances come over to her side of the road; but she always crossed to

the other, and quickened her pace. At length having come to a turn of

the road, where Sir Charles perhaps thought that he behoved either to

desist, or to make a bold effort, he sprung forward, and placed himself

before her, so as to obstruct her passage, and began to pour forth all

manner of professions, protestations, and unmeaning extravagances. Mary,

with indignation and disdain in her every look, peremptorily demanded to

be permitted to pass on unmolested. At length he went so far as to catch

her in his arms, earnestly imploring that she would give him for one

moment a hearing. Upon which she screamed in terror; and young

Elphinstone springing over the hedge, seized the unprincipled libertine

by the collar, and dashed him to the ground. On my coming forward, he

delivered the trembling girl into my care; and then turning to Sir

Charles, as he was attempting to rise, he quietly begged to know who it

was that had pointed out that young woman to him, as a fit person for

such as he to accost.'

"'Well thought of, Elphinstone,' cried I; 'wring an answer to that

question out of him, one way or other.'

"Mary did her utmost to put a stop to further violence, but I prevented

her from interfering, and encouraged William to proceed. Upon which,

fixing on his prostrate foe, a look, in which was expressed all the fire

of his race, he repeated his question. Sir Charles refused to

answer--William threatened! the one hesitated--the other kept holding

him down. At length, finding himself compelled to speak, Sir Charles

pronounced the name of William Elphinstone's cousin.

"'All's well,' cried the latter, assisting him to rise. 'You may now go

away, sir; and if you should think that the punishment inflicted has

been in this case greater than the evil you have been able to do, you

will perhaps remember passages in your life, in which the balance was

the other way.'

"As the baffled profligate withdrew, he tried to put on a menacing look,

and hinted that, as Elphinstone's conduct was dissonant to the usages of

society, he was determined to demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,

and that he should hear from him shortly. This threat, however, was

never put into effect; for, although bold enough toward an unprotected

female, he was not over-fond of confronting an antagonist such as

Elphinstone.

"In excuse for our having continued violent measures ill-suited to her

presence, after protection had been afforded, I shewed to Mary, as we

were escorting her home, the importance of the disclosure which had been

wrung from Sir Charles, which would enable us to ascribe not merely the

insults to which she had been exposed, but also the slanders by which

her good name had been secretly assailed, to the malice of William's

cousin, whose name Sir Charles had been compelled to give up. I spoke,

also, of the distress which we had both had on her account for some time

past. Whenever she became aware of the painful fact, that she had been

an object of suspicion, she stopped, her features became agitated, and

she burst into tears. Nothing that we could say would pacify her--stung

to the heart with the anguish of offended female pride. When she had

somewhat recovered from this agitation, young Elphinstone began to press

his suit with impassioned earnestness; while Mary, on her part,

persisted in giving him no encouragement, but pointed out the great

advantages of the other match intended for him by his brother; and

extolled the lady as being far superior to herself in every respect. She

spoke firmly, but yet with the air of one who is rather acting on high

principle than from inclination. William had evidently a powerful

advocate in her heart. Long did she hesitate, nevertheless; and much did

she say about the impropriety of her allowing him to sacrifice to his

passion for her, the favour of his elder brother, and such great

expectations. But at last the lover's importunities were successful.

Mary--her countenance becoming pale and then crimson--faintly, yet

distinctly pronounced the words--'Speak to my father.'

"Soon after this, we heard the sound of a horseman, who was coming up

behind us at a rapid trot. This was none other than Mr Elphinstone, the

brother of William, who began with accusing him of having acted in a

most ruffian-like manner toward Sir Charles Ranger, whom he had met, and

by whose representations a most unfavourable impression had been made

upon his mind. William attempted to explain; the former, however, would

not hear; but harshly added, with a look of cruel meaning, directed to

the most interesting person present--'I find you, sir, in most improper

society.'

"William, forgetting himself for an instant, made a grasp at his

brother's rein, and also at his collar, saying--'Not one disrespectful

word, sir, of that young woman; a more innocent and a nobler the world

does not hold.'

"'Unloose your hand from my rein and collar,' vociferated the elder

Elphinstone, fiercely; 'after this insolence, we can never meet more.'

With that he immediately rode off.

"'The laird will soon be informed of the true state of matters,' said I,

soothingly; 'and he is not a man to retain his anger long.'

"'This is the first time,' replied William, 'that a harsh word ever

passed between my brother and me; and I can only regret that our feud

should have originated in such a cause.'

"The humble habitation of Mary now came in sight--a low cottage-looking

building, with agricultural appurtenances behind it--neat and

comfortable, though plain in its appearance, and betokening the

residence of a person in easy circumstances, who was not disposed to

live above his sphere. On our approaching the house, Mary's father came

out to welcome us; and, perceiving, from our appearance, that something

more than ordinary had happened, he looked inquiringly. Mary and her

lover entered the house, each, with a look, devolving the task of

explanation upon me; and, between Mr Constant and myself, a long

conversation followed, in which everything was told. Entering then the

house where he was anxiously waited for, he bent over the chair which

William Elphinstone occupied, and exclaimed--'My dear young man, accept

a father's thanks for the protection which ye have this day afforded to

his only child. As for what ye further intend, there are difficulties,

but none shall arise from me. Had ye been of our own sphere of life,

there is none in the country on whom I would have been more willing to

have bestowed my daughter.'

"We spent the evening there; and I never saw William appear to such

advantage. If he could not raise his wife to the sphere in which he had

been bred and born, he was to go down contentedly into hers; to

constitute her happiness was to be the delight of his life. Mr

Constant--who had long esteemed him highly, but had never before seen

him open, throwing forth in rich profusion, the treasures of his noble

heart and vigorous understanding--was in amazement. As for Mary, her

heart seemed to be overflowing with happiness, while she contemplated,

with a woman's pride, the high qualities of the man who had chosen her

for his own. Every doubt as to the propriety of the momentous step which

she had taken, having been removed by her father's knowledge,

concurrence, and approbation--

"'----she, pleased, resigned

To tender feelings all her lovely mind.'

"Next day, William sent to his brother a plain unvarnished statement of

all that had happened, expressed in a fair manly style--asking for

nothing, apologizing for nothing, and conceding nothing; and, after

having discharged this act of fraternal duty, he came and met me early

in the afternoon in the town here, for the purpose of bringing me back

with him to Sanditofts. It was the market day, and, wherever he went,

his old friends gathered in congratulating groups around him; for he was

a universal favourite. On our proposing to leave them, they absolutely

laid violent hands on us; and so having sent off a card to apologize,

and bring Mr Constant to meet us, we sat down along with them to their

usual dinner in this same room. I could easily see that poor William

would rather have been at Sanditofts, where his heart was; but, making a

virtue of necessity, he exerted himself to please, and was successful.

His affair with Sir Charles was brought on, or rather it insensibly

stole upon the carpet. One person accidentally made a very distant

allusion to it; a second reproved him for so doing; a third, a fourth, a

fifth made observations, pointing, though from afar, to what had

happened. Pleased and amused at the delicacy which was so visibly

restraining the general feeling, William threw open the subject at once,

by giving a modest statement of the whole affair. He added--'I would

have done as much for any other young woman under the like

circumstances; and what could I have done less for her who has been for

long the object of my fondest love--a love now sanctioned by her

father!'

"The importance of this disclosure, and the deep pathos of his voice,

produced an instant silence, which was first broken by Mr Macquil, the

lawyer, who gave his opinion as to the legal bearings of the case. He

assured us that Sir Charles had no ground for an action whatsoever,

having been guilty of accosting rudely, and with evil intent, a lone

woman--the most sacred of all objects in the eye of the law.

"'I remember a case,' said he, 'in which a rude person having merely

used, in female society, some expressions not suitable for a female ear,

a young officer of the army present, seized upon and twisted his nose.

Upon which an action was raised against the officer; and, the case

having come before the fifteen, sixpence of damages only was awarded,

with no expenses at all.'

"Thus did the evening pass on, none of us apprehending that it was to

have such a woful termination. As the party separated, each, as he

retired, came and grasped William by the hand, testifying the highest

approbation of the part which he had acted, in simple warm-hearted

language. In these feelings, all the great proprietors around

participated. They are strictly moral, the _real_ gentry, and they have

noble hearts. They detested Sir Charles for his dissolute life; and they

suspected him of being, what he afterwards really proved to be, a ruined

profligate, flying from English creditors to this side of the Border.

"All those members of the company whose homes were at any distance had

now retired; and the party had become such a one as we have at present.

The fine spirits which William had maintained throughout the evening,

had vanished; his attitude, and the expression of his countenance, had

become thoughtful and strangely sad; and I thought he looked fearfully

like his brother Edward. At length he started up from his reverie; and

I, approaching him, looked anxiously into his countenance, and asked him

how he did. He assured me that he had never been better in his

life--that he had never enjoyed so much of the best happiness which can

irradiate the heart. 'But,' said he, 'my quarrel with my brother hurts

me. I never loved him so much in my life as when that spark of his old

fire, which my rude grasp struck out of him, made him look so like what

he was in other days. And, Mary--to think of her having at length given

up her opposition to my wishes, in such a manner! Altogether, it is too

much for me; and I have been silly enough to allow shadowy imaginations

of evils, which may affect my relations with her and my poor brother,

and mar the happiness of us all, to disturb my ruminations. That is the

fact; and I apprehend that you, regarding my foolish features with

friendly anxiety, have been speculating thereon.'

"This explanation, which agreed well with what I knew of the character

of his mind, in which there was not a little of an undue ascendency of

the imagination, seemed to me quite satisfactory; and I said to

him--'Everything is to go right; you and your brother will soon be

reconciled.'

"'I am not entirely dependent on my brother,' said he; 'as I shall show

you all to-night, when we talk seriously over certain arrangements.'

"'Where are you going just now?' said I to him, as he was moving toward

the door.

"'Merely to have a look at the evening,' said he--'I will be back to you

in five seconds.'

"Thus did he retire; and I, relieved from apprehensions which, in the

issue, seemed to be very like 'coming events casting their shadows

before,' fell fast asleep on resuming my chair. Meanwhile, Mr. Constant

came in and awoke me, to inquire after William. He told me that he had

received his card, but had been prevented from being with us earlier, by

a visit which he had received from Mr Elphinstone, the laird, who had

spent the day with them, and was with them still; and he gave me the

gratifying information that the letter which William had that day sent

to his brother had removed every bad impression from his mind, that,

instead of opposing his inclinations, he was anxious that his marriage

with Mary might take place as soon as possible; and that he was

impatient to see himself personally, that everything might be

satisfactorily arranged for it, and that they might be reconciled after

the unpleasant affair of yesterday, which, he said, was the only

serious difference they had ever had.

"'I have just come down,' continued he, 'to bring you both to

Sanditofts, for that purpose.'