now no call for such doings. While I was in Spain, my heart was ever
here with you and Jeanie. I cannot help feeling my blood move quicker in
my veins when I recall these moments of intense excitement. It is all
the reward I shall ever have for my fatigues and wounds. We felt that we
fought in Spain to keep the battle from our own beloved homes; and the
scenes of rapine and desolation we witnessed there gave us double
energy; for the foe that ravaged the fields of Spain had long threatened
the land of our fathers, where all we held dear remained. A short time
before the siege of Burgos, a party of our regiment were sent as a
convoy to some stores. We halted at a village, where a foraging party of
the French had been only a few hours before. Every house was a scene of
ruin and blood. In one cottage that we entered, we found a beautiful
young female sitting upon the ground, weeping over the bodies of her
murdered father and brother, who had fallen defending her from the
violence of the French soldiers. As the evening was soon to be upon us,
we were halted until daybreak in the morning. Donald Ross, one of the
men in our company, was particularly struck with the charms of the
female, and, somehow, or other, became so intimate with her, that she
agreed to go with him as soon as she had buried her father and
brother--and she was as good as her word. Donald being a Roman Catholic,
they were married by a Spanish priest, and lived happy enough for some
time. While we lay at Abrantes, a party of Spanish guerillas came into
the town. All at once, Maritornes became very dull and uneasy. Donald,
at his coming home, often found her in tears; but she would not impart
to him the cause of her distress. Ross, who loved her with all his
heart, became himself uneasy upon her account. All at once she was
amissing, and no accounts of her could be had, although diligent search
was made for her. The guerillas were still in the neighbourhood of the
town; and Donald suspected that she had gone to some of them, and
resolved to go and make the necessary inquiries. On the morning of the
day he was to have gone, having got leave from his officer, her body was
found, stabbed to the heart, concealed in a thicket near the town. Poor
Donald wept over her like an infant, and, after becoming a little more
calm, swore a fearful vengeance on her murderer, should he ever meet
him, and to do all in his power to discover the cruel perpetrator. The
day following her interment, as he was indulging his grief for her loss,
and thinking of means to trace her destroyer, near the spot where her
body had been found, one of the guerillas started from behind a tree,
and thrust a knife at his bosom. Fortunately it struck his breastplate,
and glanced off. In a twinkling his bayonet was plunged to the socket in
the body of the assassin, and he fell, grinding his teeth in rage and
pain. Donald shouted for assistance, not to aid him in the strife--for
his enemy was now helpless, and to all appearance dead at his feet--but
to assist in bearing him into the town, as he had an impression on his
mind that this was the murderer of his beloved. Two of his comrades who
were in the neighbourhood came to his aid, bore the wounded man into
the town, and carried him to the hospital, where his wound, which proved
to be mortal, was dressed. Before his death, he confessed the murder of
Maritornes, and gave the following account of himself:--His father had
been a vine-dresser, whose vineyard joined that of the parents of
Maritornes, so that they had been brought up together from their
earliest childhood. After he came to man's estate, the beauty of
Maritornes had made a violent impression upon him; but, being of a wild
and unsettled turn of mind, her parents had disapproved of his
attentions to her; and she herself had never encouraged his addresses,
but had always appeared uneasy and fearful in his presence. He had tried
every method to win her affections in vain, and had been involved in
several quarrels upon her account with the other youths, one of whom he
had slain, and was forced to fly. The war breaking out soon after, he
had joined one of the guerilla parties, and had never seen or heard of
her since he left the village, until he found her the wife of a vile
heretic, as he thought. The sight was too much for him, and he resolved
to murder her; for, he said, the hope of at one time or other winning
her affections had never forsaken his mind until then; and he vowed the
death of her and her seducer, as he supposed Donald to be. She had seen
and recognised her tormentor, which had been the cause of her distress.
For several days he had tracked and watched her steps like a bloodhound,
until he accomplished his horrid purpose; and he showed not the least
contrition for the deed, but appeared to regret that he had not slain
Donald also. It was long before Donald ceased to regret the death of
Maritornes, or to think of her; but it was perhaps wisely ordered for
himself, for, after the battle of Bayonne was fought, and the peace
made, the troops left for England. None of the men were allowed to take
their Portuguese or Spanish wives out of the country along with them;
and there were several hundreds, who had followed the army and clung to
their husbands in all our privations, wherever we went. Poor things! my
heart bled for them. When the order came, it was one of the most
heartrending scenes to witness the distress of both parties--the despair
and wailings of the females, and the anguish of many of the
men--severals deserted, and all promised to return for these poor
creatures, as soon as it was in their power. Many are the disconsolate
females who still languish in their lonely homes, hoping in vain for the
return of husbands they shall never see again, and who, if alive, only
think of them now with indifference, or perhaps have heartlessly formed
new ties."
"O Jamie, Jamie," said Jeanie, "it is not possible, I learn frae
yoursel, to tell a pleasing tale o' war. They are all o' blood,
injustice, and violence. It gradually steels the heart to the best
feelings o' the human race, and does away wi' the sense o' right and
wrong by a false plea o' necessity. Surely man is never placed, but by
his ain evil passions, in a situation where it is necessary either to be
unjust or cruel."
"Let us forget, my love," said James, "that such things ever were, and
look forward in hope. I have, no doubt, the world once more to begin. I
am not yet an old man; and, if I am not rich in cash, I am richer in
experience than many others who have been at home, and shall, by the
blessing of God, do my endeavour to put to use my dear-purchased wisdom.
I shall then be more fortunate than poor Walter B---- and several others
I have known."
"Dear Jamie, tell us about Walter--what o' him?" said Margaret.
There were severals in the army (continued James) whom I knew as common
soldiers, that had been born to rank and riches--one in particular,
Walter B----. I will give you his lamentable story, as I had it from his
own mouth, in one of his fits of melancholy and repentance. We were on
the heights above Roncesvalles, and the weather was more boisterous
than I had ever seen it in my life anywhere; the gusts of wind blew down
our tents, and the hailstorms were so severe, that we were forced to
shelter ourselves from them by any means we could, and even the very
mules were scarce able to endure their severity. He had been in one of
his desponding fits for several days, and I had done all in my power to
amuse him in vain. Towards the shades of evening, we sat shivering and
cowering from the extreme cold, and, having given him an outline of my
own history, he in return gave me his, nearly as follows:--He was a
native of England, and a relative of some of the oldest families in it.
His father had been one of the established clergy, and held a rich
living, beloved and respected for his benevolence and piety. Walter, who
was an only son, had received as good an education as England could
afford; but, unfortunately for himself, he was of an unsettled and
extravagant disposition, and was always getting himself into
disagreeable situations, from which he was always relieved, after a show
of contrition, by his indulgent parent. Thus matters waxed worse and
worse with him, until he could not from very shame apply to his
forgiving father. He had lost a large sum of money at play in London,
and had no means of liquidating the debt. In an agony of shame and
remorse, he fled, and, having no means of maintaining himself, changed
his name, and enlisted as a private soldier. His distressed parent, for
several years, knew not whether he was dead or alive. Matters remained
thus with him until the arrival of a new chaplain to the regiment in
which he was serving. Shortly after the chaplain joined, he recognised
Walter, spoke to and reasoned with him in a truly Christian spirit, and
chide him for his cruelty to his parent, who continued to mourn his
loss, and would, he had no doubt, once more receive him to his bosom,
would he only promise to behave more circumspectly in future, and
express his sorrow for what he had done. Poor Walter was heartily sick
of his present situation, and requested the chaplain to write for him
what he chose, and, upon the receipt of an answer from his father, he
would do all in his power to regain his pardon and confidence. In a few
weeks after, Walter got his discharge, and returned to his father's
mansion, where he was received with joy and forgiveness. His parent only
appeared to have lived to be blessed in the return of his prodigal son;
for he died in about three months after his return. Walter was his sole
heir and was now rich, as he had been lately poor, while a private
soldier. For a few months, he was all that his relations could have
wished him--reserved and penitent for his former follies, and most
punctual in his religious duties. In this frame of mind he became
attached to a young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring squire, rather
his superior in rank and fortune. To her he was wed, and lived in
happiness and peace for some months, when unfortunately he paid a visit
to London with his young wife; and, as bad fortune would have it, he
once again launched out into all his former extravagance, and soon
became embarrassed in his circumstances. An unsuccessful bet at a
horse-race once more placed him in the same position he had been in at
his first enlistment: but his distress was tenfold greater, for his
young and innocent wife was now a partaker in his misery. He solemnly
declared to me he more than once resolved to put a period to his
existence, but was always prevented by some trivial interruption or
other. At this critical period, an uncle of his wife's died, and she was
his sole heir. Thus, once again, he was unexpectedly snatched from
beggary, and was much richer than he was at his father's death; but,
alas for him! not wiser; for, with accelerated pace, he held on his
former career, and the consequence was, that he was forced to leave his
young and beautiful wife to the charity of her relations. Under his
assumed name, he became my companion in the ranks--a strange,
interesting, even fearful companion, too, he was at times; for he would
occasionally be the most light-hearted and amusing person in the group;
at others, he was sullen and morose, scarce a monosyllable would escape
his lips; and, when irritated, the expressions he made use of were
sublimely fearful, such as a devil might have used, making even the most
depraved of the men quail. Yet, when in his quiet and gentle moods, I
have listened to his discourse with rapture. One hour of his
conversation conveyed more information to my mind than a month of
reading could have done. I have seen him, when we were alone, weep like
a child over his fallen fortunes; then, the next moment, knit his brows,
compress his lips, clench his fists, and stamp upon the ground, and call
upon death to deliver him from his own thoughts. Times out of number I
have heard him express a wish that he might fall in the next action. He
had escaped without a scratch until the battle of Bayonne. Well do I
remember the conversation we had the evening before. It were tedious to
repeat it; but he expressed his fears that the enemy would miss him, and
declared to me his firm determination to desert and remain in Spain (he
spoke the language like a native) rather than return to England; for
there was a rumour in the camp at the time of the reverses of Bonaparte,
and the anticipations of a speedy peace. Towards the close of the action
we had driven in the opposing column, and the fire had slackened;
hundreds of dead and wounded lay around us, for the affair had been very
sharp.
"Blair," said he, "I knew they could not hit me; I must live on in
misery."
Scarce were the words spoken, when he fell upon his face. I stopped, and
turned him on his back; his eyes were fixed in death; his countenance
more placid and resigned than I ever remember to have seen it. He
grasped my hand, his lips moved, but the noise of the firing deadened
his voice. I placed my ear to his lips, and could just make out--
"James, I am now happy. Gracious God, pardon your erring creature!"
A slight shiver passed along his frame, and all was over. What his real
name was I never knew, or I would have written to his wife. Such were
his talents, that, had his mind been well regulated, there was no effort
that man can accomplish he was not capable of; but, alas! he perished,
the victim of his uncontrolled passions.
Here ended the soldier's narratives. James Blair had returned, and in
health, but he had not found happiness, neither had his mother or
cousin; yet his hopes were most reasonable. He had only attained one
object, to find another more difficult to attain, humble as that object
is--a way to earn his daily bread. Matters were in this state, when a
rumour spread through the parish that a captain had purchased an estate
which had been for some time in the market, and meant to build a new
house, and live constantly at it. This was a matter of great joy to us,
for it brought hope of employment, for a time at least; and James
brightened up. The weather was no sooner favourable, than the new
proprietor came to survey his purchase, and plan his improvements. A
number of labourers were employed, and James among the rest; for he was
first in his application. The captain, struck by his cleanly and
military appearance, was much taken with him, and inquired as to his
services. James gave a modest account of them, and retired, the captain
making no observation at the time; but it was observed that he oftener
stopped and spoke to him than to any other of his work-people, and
observed him more closely. Still nothing uncommon had occurred to James,
more than the rest. He received his wages the same as the others, and
was most assiduous to please and give satisfaction to his employer.
Since his return, he had been most punctual in his attendance at church,
and zealous in his religious duties--for he felt all the heart-consoling
comforts they are calculated to bestow; and thus had won back to himself
the approbation of his own mind and the esteem of others, who had
formerly thought very lightly of his principles and conduct.
The consequence was, that James (who, before he went from among us, was
well skilled in all the branches of agricultural labour) was appointed
grieve by the new proprietor over his estate, towards the end of the
harvest, and put into possession of a neat house before the winter
commenced. All obstructions to his wedding with Jeanie Aitken were now
removed; they were married, and after the wedding she left the widow's
cottage for her own house, a happy bride; but the Widow Blair would not
leave her cottage to live with them. Years thus rolled on; James's
family had increased to three, two boys and a girl, when Widow Blair
paid the debt of nature, and was buried beside her husband. James had
accumulated a small sum of money by his industry and strict economy,
when his excellent and worthy master died suddenly, and he was again
without a way to live, though in much better circumstances than when he
had first returned. He was now under a great necessity to exert himself,
but he could not at once make up his mind as to the manner. He at last
resolved to emigrate, and set sail for Sydney towards the fall of the
leaf. I have parted with relations and dearest friends, but never did I
feel a sharper throe than when I last bade farewell to James Blair and
Jeanie Aitken.
But I have often a letter from them. In my last, James says he is
prosperous far above his deserts. He is sole proprietor of thousands of
sheep of the best breed; and has the range of more land than he can ride
round in a long day.
THE WHITE WOMAN OF TARRAS.
Up among the wild moors of Liddlesdale and Ewesdale rises the Tarras, a
small, black-looking stream, which, after dashing and brawling through
scenes as wild as itself, joins the Esk near Irvine, about twelve or
fifteen miles from its source. In the olden time, the banks of the
Tarras formed one of the favourite resorts of the freebooters of the
Scottish Borders, who, in the midst of their inaccessible morasses,
either set pursuit at defiance, or made an easy conquest of those who
were foolhardy enough to follow them into their strongholds. They have
long ceased their roving and adventurous life--pursuer and pursued have
long been lying in the quiet churchyards, or slumbering in their
forgotten graves among the wild hills where they fought and fell; but
Tarras has since been haunted by other spirits than the turbulent ones
of whom we have spoken; for, when the days of rapine and murder were
past, it was but natural that superstition should people the wild and
desolate morasses with the spirits of the departed.
The "march of intellect" is gradually trampling under foot the legends,
omens, and superstitions which formerly flourished in their strength
amid the wild fastnesses of the land; and they are seldom talked of now
but as things that have been, but never will be again. The incidents
upon which the present tale is founded were matters of common
conversation some sixty or seventy years since, and the belief in their
truth was general and implicit; _now_, they only live in the
recollection of the aged, like a half-forgotten dream in their early
days. It was from an infirm old man, the son of our _ghost-seer_ that
the tradition was obtained.
Late one evening, in the autumn of 17--, Willie Bell, the blacksmith,
was standing at the door, wondering what had become of his apprentice,
John Graham, who had left Clay-yett that morning, to go to the
neighbouring town of Langholm, where his father was lying dangerously
ill. It was bright moonlight--calm and beautiful; the few clouds seen in
the sky lay still and motionless on the horizon, like barks becalmed at
sea, only waiting for a breeze to waft them.
"I hope naething has happened the callant," said Nelly, the guidwife;
"it's a bonny nicht--he canna hae tint the gate."
"Hout, na," said Willie, "he kens the gate as weel's I do mysel--there's
nae fear o' him; but I'm thinkin, maybe, his father's waur than he
expeckit, and he'll be bidin at the Langholm a' nicht."
"Puir chiel! I did hear tell that his father was waitin on; but I hope
he's no that far gane yet."
It was now near nine o'clock, and the good folks were beginning to be
rather uneasy about John Graham, who had faithfully promised to return
before eight, when they heard the sound of rapidly approaching
footsteps, and presently the object of their solitude appeared, running
at the top of his speed, and looking anxiously behind him, as if
dreading pursuit, or flying from danger. He soon reached the cottage,
and staggered to the door, where he leaned, apparently quite exhausted.
His face was ghastly pale, large drops of perspiration stood on his
brow, and his limbs trembled as if he were under the influence of ague.
"Mercy on us!" said Nelly, looking wonderingly and anxiously in his
face, "what ails the callant? Speak, my bonny man! What ails ye?"
"Gie's a sowp water," said John Graham--"I'm amaist deed."
The water seemed to revive him a little, and he stared wildly around
him.
"D'ye see ought?" said he; "eh!--what's yon?"
"Hoot, the laddie's daft; there's nought yonder but just the holly buss,
lookin, for a' the world, like a man body in the moonlicht."
"Eh, whow!--eh, whow!" groaned the poor boy to himself, burying his face
in his hands. "Nelly!" said he, at last, slowly and solemnly, "tell me
the truth! When a body sees a ghost, is it no a warnin that his ain
time's no far aff?"
"Hout, na! I hae seen half-a-score ghosts mysel, and I'm no a bit the
waur. Some folks threep that it's no canny to speak to a ghost; for, if
ane does, there's sure some mischief to follow."
"Deil's i' the woman, clatterin about ghosts!" said the blacksmith;
"it's silly havers aboot them athegither. What is a ghost? It canna be a
body--for we ken that the bodies o' the dead are moulderin in the grave;
it canna be a soul--for what could gar a happy speerit come back frae
heaven to revisit this wearisome warld?--and frae the ither bit, Auld
Clootie wad tak far owre guid care o' them to let e'er a speerit among
them won back again. Na, na! there's nae sic thing as ghosts."
"Whether there's ghosts or no," said John Graham, solemnly, "I'm
thinking I've seen ane the nicht. Gude be thankit, I didna speak
till't!"
"Seen a ghost!" cried Nelly. "Eh, John!--whar was't?--what was't like?"
"Oh, like a holly buss, I'se warran," said the blacksmith, sneeringly;
"or like a mucklecalf, or the shadow o' himsel."
"Never heed him, John, lad," said Nelly; "say yer say, and tell us a'
about it."
Weel, Nelly, ye see, I'd been at the Langholm, and I fand my puir
faither just waitin on, and my mother maist dementit, sabbin and greetin
fit to kill hersel; and the doctor was fleechin on her to haud her
tongue, and no disturb her husband in his last moments; and sair wark
had we baith to keep her quiet. The doctor tell't us that my faither had
just come to the warst, and that it was just the toss up o' a bawbee
whether he lived or died. Weel, about the four hours, my faither fell
into a sound sleep, and when he awakened up again, he'd gotten the turn;
and the doctor said if he was keepit quiet, there was nae fear but he'd
won owre it. Eh, but my mother was a pleased woman, and whan she gied
the guidman the cordial, she kissed him, and cried out affectionately,
"Geordie! Gude be thankit, ye're spared till us! Gae to sleep, my man."
She then steekit the door, and cam ben and took a muckle bottle oot o'
the cupboard, and mixed a glass o' real guid toddy, and said to me--
"Tak this afore ye gang hame, my bairn; 'twill do ye nae harm; drink it,
and be thankfu that yer faither's life's spared. Ye maunna bide ony
longer, but get back to yer maister's as fast as ye can; it's bonny
moonlicht, and young limbs mak quick wark. Guid-nicht! His blessin be
wi' ye!"
Weel, I made the best o' my way owre the hill, and was aye thinkin o' my
faither, and what a sad thing 'twad hae been if he'd been taen frae us;
when, just as I'd gotten to yon side o' Tarras, and was passin a holly
buss near the Gallsyke, I felt a' at ance, I canna tell hoo--the air
seemed quite cauld and damp, a tremblin cam owre me, my flesh seemed as
if 'twere creepin thegither, and a fear o' I dinna ken what garred me
look roun, and there, as I'm a leevin man, no sax yards frae me, walkin
the same gate wi' mysel, was a leddy a' dressed oot in white. It was
bricht moon licht--I couldna be mistaen, I saw her as plain as I see
yersel at this moment. I rubbit my een, thinkin I micht be dreamin--for
I'd heard tell o' folk walkin in their sleep--but, na! there she was
still. I didna ken hoo it was--whether it was the glass o' toddy my
mother had gien me, or that I didna dread there was onything forbye
common aboot her--but I didna feel at a' afeard o' her, though I still
had the same unco oot-o'-the-way scudderin, and dread o' something I
couldna conceive what. To tell the truth, I was mair pleased nor feared,
to see a leevin body sae near me, and me sae fearfu in mysel. Weel,
there she walkit, never turnin her head to the richt nor the left, and
me glowrin at her, but no daurin to speak; for she was grandly dressed,
just like a leddy, wi' pinners on her head, and buckles glintin in her
shoon. There was a little wind at the time, but it never stirred her
claes, and her feet gaed fast o'er the grund, but nae sound cam frae
them; I didna notice a' that at the time, but I minded it after.
"We had gotten as far as the auld aik-tree yonder, when, while I had my
eye upon her--while I could tak my Bible aith she was there beside
me--she was gane as clean's a whistle. I lookit ahint the tree--I lookit
a' round me, but I seed nought; and then a' at ance, the thocht cam into
my head that I'd seen a ghost. I couldna doot it, for the cauld air had
passed awa wi' her, and I felt as if the chill had gaen clean out o' my
bluid; for when I cam to think o' the awfu' company I'd been in, I maist
swarfed wi' fear; and as soon's I cam roun, I set aff for hame as fast's
my legs wad carry me."
"Weel, that beats a'," said the blacksmith; "ye've seen the White Leddy
o' Tarras!"
"And wha's that?" said John Graham.
"Come yer ways in, lad, and sit doun, and I'll tell a' I ken aboot her,
for I'm thinkin nane o' us 'll be for gaun to bed enow; and it's better
for ye to be sitting by the cheerfu ingle than cowerin aneath the
bedclaes. Nelly, woman! gie's oot the whisky--the puir lad 'll no be the
waur for a sowp, and I dinna care to tak a drap, to keep him company."