THE LAIRD OF CASSWAY.
There is an old story which I have often heard related, about a great
Laird of Cassway, in an outer corner of Dumfries-shire, of the name of
Beattie, and his two sons. The incidents of the story are of a very
extraordinary nature. This Beattie had occasion to be almost
constantly in England, because, as my informant said, he took a great
hand in government affairs, from which I conclude that the tradition
had its rise about the time of the Civil Wars; for about the close of
that time, the Scotts took the advantage of the times to put the
Beatties down, who, for some previous ages, had maintained the
superiority of that district.
Be that as it may, the Laird of Cassway's second son, Francis, fell
desperately in love with a remarkably beautiful girl, the eldest
daughter of Henry Scott of Drumfielding, a gentleman, but still only a
retainer, and far beneath Beattie of Cassway, both in point of wealth
and influence. Francis was a scholar newly returned from the
University--was tall, handsome, of a pale complexion, and gentlemanly
appearance, while Thomas, the eldest son, was fair, ruddy, and
stout-made, a perfect picture of health and good-humour,--a sportsman,
a warrior, and a jovial blade; one who would not suffer a fox to get
rest in the whole moor district. He rode the best horse, kept the best
hounds, played the best fiddle, danced the best country bumpkin, and
took the stoutest draught of mountain dew, of any man between Erick
Brae and Teviot Stone, and was altogether that sort of a young man,
that whenever he cast his eyes on a pretty girl, either at chapel or
weapon-shaw, she would hide her face, and giggle as if tickled by some
unseen hand.
Now, though Thomas, or the Young Laird, as he was called, had only
spoke once to Ellen Scott in his life, at which time he chucked her
below the chin, and bid the devil take him if ever he saw as bonny a
face in his whole born days; yet, for all that, Ellen loved him. It
could not be said that she was _in love_ with him, for a maiden's
heart must be won before it is given absolutely away; but hers gave
him the preference to any other young man. She loved to see him, to
hear of him, and to laugh at him; and it was even observed by the
domestics, that Tam Beattie o' the Cassway's name came oftener into
her conversation than there was any good reason for.
Such was the state of affairs when Francis came home, and fell
desperately in love with Ellen Scott; and his father being in England,
and he under no restraint, he went frequently to visit her. She
received him with a kindness and affability that pleased him to the
heart; but he little wist that this was only a spontaneous and natural
glow of kindness towards him because of his connexions, and rather
because he was the Young Laird of Cassway's only brother, than the
poor but accomplished Francis Beattie, the scholar from Oxford.
He was, however, so much delighted with her, that he asked her
father's permission to pay his addresses to her. Her father, who was a
prudent and sensible man, answered him in this wise--"That nothing
would give him greater delight than to see his beloved Ellen joined
with so accomplished and amiable a young gentleman in the bonds of
holy wedlock, provided his father's assent was previously obtained.
But as he himself was subordinate to another house, not on the best
terms with the house of Cassway, he would not take it on him to
sanction any such connexion without the Old Laird's full consent.
That, moreover, as he, Francis Beattie, was just setting out in life,
as a lawyer, there was but too much reason to doubt that a
matrimonial connexion with Ellen at that time would be highly
imprudent; therefore it was not to be thought further of till the Old
Laird was consulted. In the meantime, he should always be welcome to
his house, and to his daughter's company, as he had the same
dependence on his honour and integrity, as if he had been a son of his
own."
The young man thanked him affectionately, and could not help
acquiescing in the truth of his remarks, promised not to mention
matrimony farther, till he had consulted his father, and added--"But
indeed you must excuse me, if I avail myself of your permission to
visit here often, as I am sensible that it will be impossible for me
to live for any space of time out of my dear Ellen's sight." He was
again assured of welcome, and the two parted mutually pleased.
Henry Scott of Drumfielding was a widower, with six daughters, over
whom presided Mrs Jane Jerdan, their maternal aunt, an old maid, with
fashions and ideas even more antiquated than herself. No sooner had
the young wooer taken his leave, than she bounced into the room, the
only sitting apartment in the house, and said, in a loud important
whisper, "What's that young swankey of a lawyer wanting, that he's aye
hankering sae muckle about our town? I'll tell you what, brother
Harry, it strikes me that he wants to make a wheelwright o' your
daughter Nell. Now, gin he axes your consent to ony siccan thing,
dinna ye grant it. That's a'. Take an auld fool's advice gin ye wad
prosper. Folk are a' wise ahint the hand, and sae will ye be."
"Dear, Mrs Jane, what objections can you have to Mr Francis Beattie,
the most accomplished young gentleman of the whole country?"
"'Complished gentleman! 'Complished kirn-milk! I'll tell you what,
brother Harry,--afore I were a landless lady, I wad rather be a
tailor's layboard. What has he to maintain a lady spouse with? The
wind o' his lungs, forsooth!--thinks to sell that for goud in
goupings. Hech me! Crazy wad they be wha wad buy it; and they wha
trust to crazy people for their living will live but crazily. Take an
auld fool's advice gin ye wad prosper, else ye'll be wise ahint the
hand. Have nae mair to do with him--Nell's bread for his betters; tell
him that. Or, by my certy, gin I meet wi' him face to face, _I'll_
tell him."
"It would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you, sister,
considering the interest you have taken in my family. I _have_ given
him my consent to visit my daughter, but at the same time have
restricted him from mentioning matrimony until he have consulted his
father."
"And what is the visiting to gang for, then? Away wi' him! Our Nell's
food for his betters. What wad you think an she could get the Young
Laird, his brother, wi' a blink o' her ee?"
"Never speak to me of that, Mrs Jane. I wad rather see the poorest of
his shepherd lads coming to court my child than see him;" and with
these words Henry left the room.
Mrs Jane stood long, making faces, shaking her apron with both hands,
nodding her head, and sometimes giving a stamp with her foot. "I have
set my face against that connexion," said she; "our Nell's no made for
a lady to a London lawyer. It wad set her rather better to be Lady of
Cassway. The Young Laird, for me! I'll hae the branks of love thrown
over the heads o' the twasome, tie the tangs thegither, and then let
them gallop like twa kippled grews. My brother Harry's a simple man;
he disna ken the credit that he has by his daughters--thanks to some
other body than him! Niece Nell has a shape, an ee, and a lady-manner
that wad kilhab the best lord o' the kingdom, were he to come under
their influence and my manoovres. She's a Jerdan a' through; and that
I'll let them ken! Folk are a' wise ahint the hand; credit only comes
by catch and keep. Goodnight to a' younger brothers, puffings o' love
vows, and sahs o' wind! Gie me the good green hills, the gruff
wedders, and bob-tail'd yowes; and let the Law and the Gospel-men sell
the wind o' their lungs as dear as they can."
In a few days, Henry of Drumfielding was called out to attend his
Chief on some expedition; on which Mrs Jane, not caring to trust her
message to any other person, went over to Cassway, and invited the
Young Laird to Drumfielding to see her niece, quite convinced that her
charms and endowments would at once enslave the elder brother as they
had done the younger. Tam Beattie was delighted at finding such a good
back friend as Mrs Jane, for he had not failed to observe, for a
twelvemonth back, that Ellen Scott was very pretty, and, either
through chance or design, he asked Mrs Jane if the young lady was
privy to this invitation.
"_She_ privy to it!" exclaimed Mrs Jane, shaking her apron. "Ha, weel
I wat, no! She wad soon hae flown in my face wi' her gibery and her
jaukery, had I tauld her my errand; but the gowk kens what the
tittling wants, although it is not aye crying, _Give, give_, like the
horse loch-leech."
"Does the horse-leech really cry that, Mrs Jane? I should think, from
a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely cry any thing," said Tom.
"Are ye sic a reprobate as to deny the words o' the Scripture, sir?
Hech, wae's me! what some folk hae to answer for! We're a' wise ahint
the hand. But hark ye,--come ye ower in time, else I am feared she may
be settled for ever out o' your reach. Now, I canna bide to think on
that, for I have always thought you twa made for ane anither. Let me
take a look o' you frae tap to tae--O yes--made for ane anither. Come
ower in time, before billy Harry come hame again; and let your visit
be in timeous hours, else I'll gie you the back of the door to
keep.--Wild reprobate!" she exclaimed to herself, on taking her leave;
"to deny that the horse loch-leech can speak! Ha--he--The Young Laird
is the man for me!"
Thomas Beattie was true to his appointment, as may be supposed, and
Mrs Jane having her niece dressed in style, he was perfectly charmed
with her; and really it cannot be denied that Ellen was as much
delighted with him. She was young, gay, and frolicsome, and Ellen
never spent a more joyous and happy afternoon, or knew before what it
was to be in a presence that delighted her so much. While they sat
conversing, and apparently better satisfied with the company of each
other than was likely to be regarded with indifference by any other
individual aspiring to the favour of the young lady, the door was
opened, and there entered no other than Francis Beattie! When Ellen
saw her devoted lover appear thus suddenly, she blushed deeply, and
her glee was damped in a moment. She looked rather like a condemned
criminal, or at least a guilty creature, than what she really was,--a
being over whose mind the cloud of guilt had never cast its shadow.
Francis loved her above all things on earth or in heaven, and the
moment he saw her so much abashed at being surprised in the company of
his brother, his spirit was moved to jealousy--to maddening and
uncontrolable jealousy. His ears rang, his hair stood on end, and the
contour of his face became like a bent bow. He walked up to his
brother with his hand on his hilt, and, in a state of excitement which
rendered his words inarticulate, addressed him thus, while his teeth
ground together like a horse-rattle:
"Pray, sir, may I ask you of your intentions, and of what you are
seeking here?"
"I know not, Frank, what right you have to ask any such questions; but
you will allow that I have a right to ask at you what _you_ are
seeking here at present, seeing you come so very inopportunely?"
"Sir," said Francis, whose passion could stay no farther parley, "dare
you put it to the issue of the sword this moment?"
"Come now, dear Francis, do not act the fool and the madman both at a
time. Rather than bring such a dispute to the issue of the sword
between two brothers who never had a quarrel in their lives, I propose
that we bring it to a much more temperate and decisive issue here
where we stand, by giving the maiden her choice. Stand you there at
that corner of the room, I at this, and Ellen Scott in the middle; let
us both ask her, and to whomsoever she comes, the prize be his. Why
should we try to decide, by the loss of one of our lives, what we
cannot decide, and what may be decided in a friendly and rational way
in one minute?"
"It is easy for you, sir, to talk temperately and with indifference of
such a trial, but not so with me. This young lady is dear to my
heart."
"Well, but so is she to mine. Let us, therefore, appeal to the lady at
once, whose claim is the best; and as your pretensions are the
highest, do you ask her first."
"My dearest Ellen," said Francis, humbly and affectionately, "you know
that my whole soul is devoted to your love, and that I aspire to it
only in the most honourable way; put an end to this dispute therefore
by honouring me with the preference which the unequivocal offer of my
hand merits."
Ellen stood dumb and motionless, looking steadfastly down at the hem
of her green jerkin, which she was nibbling with both her hands. She
dared not lift an eye to either of the brothers, though apparently
conscious that she ought to have recognised the claims of Francis.
"Ellen, I need not tell you that I love you," said Thomas, in a light
and careless manner, as if certain that his appeal would be
successful; "nor need I attempt to tell how dearly and how long I will
love you, for in faith I cannot. Will you make the discovery for
yourself by deciding in my favour?"
Ellen looked up. There was a smile on her lovely face; an arch,
mischievous, and happy smile, but it turned not on Thomas. Her face
turned to the contrary side, but yet the beam of that smile fell not
on Francis, who stood in a state of as terrible suspense between hope
and fear, as a Roman Catholic sinner at the gate of heaven, who has
implored of St Peter to open the gate, and awaits a final answer. The
die of his fate was soon cast, for Ellen, looking one way, yet moving
another, straightway threw herself into Thomas Beattie's arms,
exclaiming, "Ah, Tom! I fear I am doing that which I shall rue, but I
must trust to your generosity; for, bad as you are, I like you the
best!"
Thomas took her in his arms, and kissed her; but before he could say a
word in return, the despair and rage of his brother, breaking forth
over every barrier of reason, interrupted him. "This is the trick of a
coward, to screen himself from the chastisement he deserves. But you
escape me not thus! Follow me if you dare!" And as he said this,
Francis rushed from the house, shaking his naked sword at his brother.
Ellen trembled with agitation at the young man's rage; and while
Thomas still continued to assure her of his unalterable affection, Mrs
Jane Jerdan entered, plucking her apron so as to make it twang like a
bowstring.
"What's a' this, Squire Tummas? Are we to be habbled out o' house and
hadding by this rapturous[B] young lawyer o' yours? By the souls o'
the Jerdans, I'll kick up sic a stoure about his lugs as shall blind
the juridical een o' him! It's queer that men should study the law
only to learn to break it. Sure am I, nae gentleman, that hasna been
bred a lawyer, wad come into a neighbour's house bullyragging that
gate wi' sword in hand, malice prepense in his eye, and venom on his
tongue. Just as a lassie hadna her ain freedom o' choice, because a
fool has been pleased to ask her! Haud the grip you hae, Niece Nell;
ye hae made a wise choice for aince. Tam's the man for my money! Folk
are a' wise ahint the hand, but real wisdom lies in taking time by the
forelock. But, Squire Tam, the thing that I want to ken is this--Are
you going to put up wi' a' that bullying and threatening, or do ye
propose to chastise the fool according to his folly?"
"In truth, Mrs Jane, I am very sorry for my brother's behaviour, and
could not with honour yield any more than I did to pacify him. But he
must be humbled. It will not do to suffer him to carry matters with
so high a hand."
"Now, wad ye be but advised and leave him to me, I would play him sic
a plisky as he shouldna forget till his dying day. By the souls o' the
Jerdans, I would! Now promise to me that ye winna fight him."
"O promise, promise!" cried Ellen vehemently, "for the sake of
heaven's love, promise my aunt that."
Thomas smiled and shook his head, as much as if he had said, "You do
not know what you are asking." Mrs Jane went on.
"Do it then--do it with a vengeance, and remember this, that wherever
ye set the place o' combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn or moss
hagg, I shall have a thirdsman there to encourage you on. I shall give
you a meeting you little wot of."
Thomas Beattie took all this for words of course, as Mrs Jane was well
known for a raving, ranting old maid, whose vehemence few regarded,
though a great many respected her for the care she had taken of her
sister's family, and a greater number still regarded her with terror,
as a being possessed of superhuman powers; so after many expressions
of the fondest love for Ellen, he took his leave, his mind being made
up how it behoved him to deal with his brother.
I forgot to mention before, that old Beattie lived at Nether Cassway
with his family; and his eldest son Thomas at Over Cassway, having,
on his father's entering into a second marriage, been put in
possession of that castle, and these lands. Francis, of course, lived
in his father's house when in Scotland; and it was thus that his
brother knew nothing of his frequent visits to Ellen Scott.
That night, as soon as Thomas went home, he dispatched a note to his
brother to the following purport: That he was sorry for the rudeness
and unreasonableness of his behaviour. But if, on coming to himself,
he was willing to make an apology before his mistress, then he
(Thomas) would gladly extend to him the right hand of love and
brotherhood; but if he refused this, he would please to meet him on
the Crook of Glen-dearg next morning by the sun-rising. Francis
returned for answer that he would meet him at the time and place
appointed. There was then no farther door of reconciliation left open,
but Thomas still had hopes of managing him even on the combat field.
Francis slept little that night, being wholly set on revenge for the
loss of his beloved mistress; and a little after day-break he arose,
and putting himself in light armour, proceeded to the place of
rendezvous. He had farther to go than his elder brother, and on coming
in sight of the Crook of Glen-dearg, he perceived the latter there
before him. He was wrapt in his cavalier's cloak, and walking up and
down the Crook with impassioned strides, on which Francis
soliloquized as follows, as he hasted on:--"Ah ha! so Tom is here
before me! This is what I did not expect, for I did not think the
flagitious dog had so much spirit or courage in him as to meet me. I
am glad he has! for how I long to chastise him, and draw some of the
pampered blood from that vain and insolent heart, which has bereaved
me of all I held dear on earth!"
In this way did he cherish his wrath till close at his brother's side,
and then, addressing him in the same insolent terms, he desired him to
cease his cowardly cogitations and draw. His opponent instantly
wheeled about, threw off his horseman's cloak, and presented his
sword; and behold the young man's father stood before him, armed and
ready for action! The sword fell from Francis's hand, and he stood
appalled as if he had been a statue, unable either to utter a word or
move a muscle.
"Take up thy sword, caitiff, and let it work thy ruthless work of
vengeance here. Is it not better that thou shouldst pierce this old
heart, worn out with care and sorrow, and chilled by the ingratitude
of my race, than that of thy gallant and generous brother, the
representative of our house, and the Chief of our name? Take up thy
sword, I say, and if I do not chastise thee as thou deservest, may
Heaven reft the sword of justice from the hand of the avenger!"
"The God of Heaven forbid that I should ever lift my sword against my
honoured father!" said Francis.
"Thou darest not, thou traitor and coward!" returned the father.--"I
throw back the disgraceful terms in thy teeth which thou used'st to
thy brother. Thou camest here boiling with rancour, to shed his blood;
and when I appear in person for him, thou darest not accept the
challenge."
"You never did me wrong, my dear father; but my brother has wronged me
in the tenderest part."
"Thy brother never wronged thee intentionally, thou deceitful and
sanguinary fratricide. It was thou alone who forced this quarrel upon
him; and I have great reason to suspect thee of a design to cut him
off, that the inheritance and the maid might both be thine own. But
here I swear by the arm that made me, and the Redeemer that saved me,
if thou wilt not go straight and kneel to thy brother for forgiveness,
confessing thy injurious treatment, and swearing submission to thy
natural Chief, I will banish thee from my house and presence for ever,
and load thee with a parent's curse, which shall never be removed from
thy soul till thou art crushed to the lowest hell."
The young scholar, being utterly astounded at his father's words, and
at the awful and stern manner in which he addressed him, whom he had
never before reprimanded, was wholly overcome. He kneeled to his
parent, and implored his forgiveness, promising, with tears, to fulfil
every injunction which it would please him to enjoin; and on this
understanding, the two parted on amicable and gracious terms.
Francis went straight to the tower of Over Cassway, and inquired for
his brother, resolved to fulfil his father's stern injunctions to the
very letter. He was informed his brother was in his chamber in bed,
and indisposed. He asked the porter farther, if he had not been forth
that day, and was answered, that he had gone forth early in the
morning in armour, but had quickly returned, apparently in great
agitation, and betaken himself to his bed. Francis then requested to
be taken to his brother, to which the servant instantly assented, and
led him up to the chamber, never suspecting that there could be any
animosity between the two only brothers; but on John Burgess opening
the door, and announcing the Tutor, Thomas, being in a nervous state,
was a little alarmed. "Remain in the room there, Burgess," said
he.--"What, brother Frank, are you seeking here at this hour, armed
capapee? I hope you are not come to assassinate me in my bed?"
"God forbid, brother," said the other; "here John, take my sword down
with you, I want some private conversation with Thomas." John did so,
and the following conversation ensued; for as soon as the door closed,
Francis dropt on his knees, and said, "O, my dear brother, I have
erred grievously, and am come to confess my crime, and implore your
pardon."
"We have both erred, Francis, in suffering any earthly concern to
incite us against each other's lives. We have both erred, but you have
my forgiveness cheerfully; here is my hand on it, and grant me thine
in return. Oh, Francis, I have got an admonition this morning, that
never will be erased from my memory, and which has caused me to see my
life in a new light. What or whom think you I met an hour ago on my
way to the Crook of Glen-dearg to encounter you?"
"Our father, perhaps."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Indeed I have, and he has given me such a reprimand for severity, as
son never before received from a parent."
"Brother Frank, I must tell you, and when I do, you will not believe
me--It _was not_ our father whom we both saw this morning."
"It was no other whom I saw. What do you mean? Do you suppose that I
do not know my own father?"
"I tell you it was not, and could not be. I had an express from him
yesterday. He is two hundred miles from this, and cannot be in
Scotland sooner than three weeks hence."
"You astonish me, Thomas. This is beyond human comprehension!"
"It is true--that I avouch, and the certainty of it has sickened me at
heart. You must be aware that he came not home last night, and that
his horse and retinue have not arrived."
"He was not at home, it is true, nor have his horse and retinue
arrived in Scotland. Still there is no denying that our father is
here, and that it was he who spoke to and admonished me."
"I tell you it is impossible. A spirit hath spoke to us in our
father's likeness, for he is not, and cannot be, in Scotland at this
time. My faculties are altogether confounded by the event, not being
able to calculate on the qualities or condition of our monitor. An
evil spirit it certainly could not be, for all its admonitions pointed
to good. I sorely dread, Francis, that our father is no more--that
there has been another engagement, that he has lost his life, and that
his soul has been lingering around his family before taking its final
leave of this sphere. I believe that our father is dead; and for my
part I am so sick at heart, that my nerves are all unstrung. Pray, do
you take horse and post off for Salop, from whence his commission to
me yesterday was dated, and see what hath happened to our revered
father."
"I cannot, for my life, give credit to this, brother, or that it was
any other being but my father himself who rebuked me. Pray allow me to
tarry another day at least, before I set out. Perhaps our father may
appear in the neighbourhood, and may be concealing himself for some
secret purpose.--Did you tell him of our quarrel?"
"No. He never asked me concerning it, but charged me sharply with my
intent on the first word, and adjured me, by my regard for his
blessing, and my hope in heaven, to desist from my purpose."
"Then he knew it all intuitively; for when I first went in view of the
spot appointed for our meeting, I perceived him walking sharply to and
fro, wrapped in his military cloak. He never so much as deigned to
look at me, till I came close to his side, and thinking it was
yourself, I fell to upbraiding him, and desired him to draw. He then
threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and, telling me he came in your
place, dared me to the encounter. But he knew all the grounds of our
quarrel minutely, and laid the blame on me. I own I am a little
puzzled to reconcile circumstances, but am convinced my father is near
at hand. I heard his words, and saw his eyes flashing anger and
indignation. Unfortunately I did not touch him, which would have put
an end to all doubts; for he did not present the hand of
reconciliation to me, as I expected he would have done, on my
yielding implicitly to all his injunctions."
The two brothers then parted, with protestations of mutual forbearance
in all time coming, and with an understanding, as that was the morning
of Saturday, that if their father, or some word of him, did not reach
home before the next evening, the Tutor of Cassway was to take horse
for the county of Salop, early on Monday morning.
Thomas, being thus once more left to himself, could do nothing but
toss and tumble in his bed, and reflect on the extraordinary
occurrence of that morning; and, after many troubled cogitations, it
at length occurred to his recollection what Mrs Jane Jerdan had said
to him:--"Do it then. Do it with a vengeance!--But remember this, that
wherever ye set the place of combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn,
or moss hagg, I shall have a thirdsman there to encourage you on. I
shall give you a meeting you little wot of."
If he was confounded before, he was ten times more so at the
remembrance of these words, of most ominous import.
At the time he totally disregarded them, taking them for mere
rodomontade; but now the idea was to him terrible, that his father's
spirit, like the prophet's of old, should have been conjured up by
witchcraft; and then again he bethought himself that no witch would
have employed her power to prevent evil. In the end, he knew not what
to think, and so, taking the hammer from its rest, he gave three raps
on the pipe drum, for there were no bells in the towers of those days,
and up came old John Burgess, Thomas Beattie's henchman, huntsman, and
groom of the chambers, one who had been attached to the family for
fifty years, and he says, in his slow West-Border tongue, "How's tou
now, callan'?--Is tou ony betterlins? There has been tway stags seen
in the Bloodhope-Linns tis mworning already."
"Ay, and there has been something else seen, John, that lies nearer to
my heart, to-day." John looked at his master with an inquisitive eye
and quivering lip, but said nothing. The latter went on, "I am very
unwell to-day, John, and cannot tell what is the matter with me. I
think I am bewitched."
"It's very like tou is, callan. I pits nae doubt on't at a'."
"Is there any body in this moor district whom you ever heard blamed
for the horrible crime of witchcraft?"
"Ay, that there is; mair than ane or tway. There's our neighbour,
Lucky Jerdan, for instance, and her niece Nell,--the warst o' the
pair, I doubt." John said this with a sly stupid leer, for he had
admitted the old lady to an audience with his master the day before,
and had eyed him afterwards bending his course towards Drumfielding.
"John, I am not disposed to jest at this time; for I am disturbed in
mind, and very ill. Tell me, in reality, did you ever hear Mrs Jane
Jerdan accused of being a witch?"
"Why, look thee, master, I dares nae say she's a wotch; for Lucky has
mony good points in her character. But it's weel kenned she has mair
power nor her ain, for she can stwop a' the plews in Eskdale wi' a
wave o' her hand, and can raise the dead out o' their graves, just as
a matter o' cwoorse."
"That, John, is an extraordinary power indeed. But did you never hear
of her sending any living men _to_ their graves? For as that is rather
the danger that hangs over me, I wish you would take a ride over and
desire Mrs Jane to come and see me. Tell her I am ill, and request of
her to come and see me."
"I shall do that, callan'. But are tou sure it is the auld wotch I'm
to bring? For it strikes me the young ane maybe has done the deed; and
if sae, she is the fittest to effect the cure. But I sall bring the
auld ane--Dinna flee intil a rage, for I sall bring the auld ane;
though, gude forgie me, it is unco like bringing the houdy."
Away went John Burgess to Drumfielding; but Mrs Jane would not move
for all his entreaties. She sent back word to his master, to "rise
out o' his bed, for he wad be waur if ony thing ailed him; and if he
had aught to say to auld Jane Jerdan, she would be ready to hear it at
hame, though he behoved to remember that it wasna ilka subject under
the sun that she could thole to be questioned anent."
With this answer John was forced to return, and there being no
accounts of old Beattie having been seen in Scotland, the young men
remained all the Sabbath-day in the utmost consternation at the
apparition of their father they had seen, and the appalling rebuke
they had received from it. The most incredulous mind could scarce
doubt that they had had communion with a supernatural being; and not
being able to draw any other conclusion themselves, they became
persuaded that their father was dead; and accordingly, both prepared
for setting out early on Monday morning towards the county of Salop,
from whence they had last heard of him.
But just as they were ready to set out, when their spurs were buckled
on and their horses bridled, Andrew Johnston, their father's
confidential servant, arrived from the place to which they were bound.
He had rode night and day, never once stinting the light gallop, as he
said, and had changed his horse seven times. He appeared as if his
ideas were in a state of derangement and confusion; and when he saw
his young masters standing together, and ready-mounted for a journey,
he stared at them as if he scarcely believed his own senses. They of
course asked immediately about the cause of his express; but his
answers were equivocal, and he appeared not to be able to assign any
motive. They asked him concerning their father, and if any thing
extraordinary had happened to him. He would not say either that there
had, or that there had not; but inquired, in his turn, if nothing
extraordinary had happened with them at home. They looked to one
another, and returned him no answer; but at length the youngest said,
"Why, Andrew, you profess to have ridden express for the distance of
two hundred miles; now, you surely must have some guess for what
purpose you have done this? Say, then, at once, what your message is:
Is our father alive?"
"Ye--es; I think he is."
"You _think_ he is? Are you uncertain, then?"
"I am certain he is not _dead_,--at least was not when I left him.
But--hum--certainly there has a change taken place. Hark ye,
masters--can a man be said to be in life when he is out of himself?"
"Why, man, keep us not in this thrilling suspense.--Is our father
well?"
"No--not _quite_ well. I am sorry to say, honest gentleman, that he is
not. But the truth is, my masters, now that I see you well and hearty,
and about to take a journey in company, I begin to suspect that I
have been posted all this way on a fool's errand; and not another
syllable will I speak on the subject, till I have had some
refreshment, and if you still insist on hearing a ridiculous story,
you shall hear it then."
When the matter of the refreshment had been got over to Andrew's full
satisfaction, he began as follows:
"Why, faith, you see, my masters, it is not easy to say my errand to
you, for in fact I have none. Therefore, all that I can do is to tell
you a story,--a most ridiculous one it is, as ever sent a poor fellow
out on the gallop for the matter of two hundred miles or so. On the
morning before last, right early, little Isaac, the page, comes to me,
and he says,--'Johnston, thou must go and visit measter. He's bad.'
"'Bad!' says I. 'Whaten way is he bad?'
"'Why,' says he, 'he's so far ill as he's not well, and desires to see
you without one moment's delay. He's in fine taking, and that you'll
find; but whatfor do I stand here? Lword, I never got such a fright.
Why, Johnston, does thou know that measter hath lwost himself?'
"'How lost himself? rabbit,' says I, 'speak plain out, else I'll have
thee lug-hauled, thou dwarf!' for my blood rose at the imp, for
fooling at any mishap of my master's. But my choler only made him
worse, for there is not a greater deil's-buckie in all the Five
Dales.
"'Why, man, it is true that I said,' quoth he, laughing; 'the old
gurly squoir hath lwost himself; and it will be grand sport to see
thee going calling him at all the steane-crosses in the kingdom, in
this here way--Ho yes! and a two times ho yes! and a _three_ times ho
yes! Did any body no see the better half of my measter, Laird of the
twa Cassways, Bloodhope, and Pantland, which was amissing overnight,
and is supposed to have gone a-wool-gathering? If any body hath seen
that better part of my measter, whilk contains as mooch wit as a man
could drive on a hurlbarrow, let them restore it to me, Andrew
Johnston, piper, trumpeter, whacker, and wheedler, to the same great
and noble squoir; and high shall be his reward--Ho yes!'
"'The devil restore thee to thy right mind!' said I, knocking him
down, and leaving him sprawling in the kennel, and then hasted to my
master, whom I found feverish, restless, and raving, and yet with an
earnestness in his demeanour that stunned and terrified me. He seized
my hand in both his, which were burning like fire, and gave me such a
look of despair as I shall never forget. 'Johnston, I am ill,' said
he, 'grievously ill, and know not what is to become of me. Every nerve
in my body is in a burning heat, and my soul is as it were torn to
fritters with amazement. Johnston, as sure as you are in the body,
something most deplorable hath happened to em.'
"'Yes, as sure as I am in the body, there has, master,' says I. 'But
I'll have you bled and doctored in style; and you shall soon be as
sound as a roach,' says I; 'for a gentleman must not lose heart
altogether for a little fire-raising in his outworks, if it does not
reach the citadel,' says I to him. But he cut me short by shaking his
head and flinging my hand from him.
"'A truce with your talking,' says he. 'That which hath befallen me is
as much above your comprehension as the sun is above the earth, and
never will be comprehended by mortal man; but I must inform you of it,
as I have no other means of gaining the intelligence I yearn for, and
which I am incapable of gaining personally. Johnston, there never was
a mortal man suffered what I have suffered since midnight. I believe I
have had doings with hell; for I have been disembodied, and embodied
again, and the intensity of my tortures has been unparalleled.--I was
at home this morning at day-break.'
"'At home at Cassway!' says I. 'I am sorry to hear you say so, master,
because you know, or should know, that the thing is impossible, you
being in the ancient town of Shrewsbury on the King's business.'
"'I was at home in very deed, Andrew,' returned he; 'but whether in
the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell--the Lord only knoweth.
But there I was in this guise, and with this heart and all its
feelings within me, where I saw scenes, heard words, and spoke
others, which I will here relate to you. I had finished my dispatches
last night by midnight, and was sitting musing on the hard fate and
improvidence of my sovereign master, when, ere ever I was aware, a
neighbour of ours, Mrs Jane Jerdan, of Drumfielding, a mysterious
character, with whom I have had some strange doings in my time, came
suddenly into the chamber, and stood before me. I accosted her with
doubt and terror, asking what had brought her so far from home.'
"'You are not so far from home as you imagine,' said she; 'and it is
fortunate for some that it is so. Your two sons have quarrelled about
the possession of niece Ellen, and though the eldest is blameless of
the quarrel, yet has he been forced into it, and they are engaged to
fight at day-break at the Crook of Glen-dearg. There they will
assuredly fall by each other's hands, if you interpose not; for there
is no other authority now on earth that can prevent this woful
calamity.'
"'Alas! how can I interfere,' said I, 'at this distance? It is already
within a few hours of the meeting, and before I get from among the
windings of the Severn, their swords will be bathed in each other's
blood! I must trust to the interference of Heaven.'
"'Is your name and influence, then, to perish for ever?' said she. Is
it so soon to follow your master's, the great Maxwell of the Dales,
into utter oblivion? Why not rather rouse into requisition the
energies of the spirits that watch over human destinies? At least step
aside with me, that I may disclose the scene to your eyes. You know I
can do it; and you may then act according to your natural impulse.'
"'Such were the import of the words she spoke to me, if not the very
words themselves. I understood them not at the time; nor do I yet. But
when she had done speaking, she took me by the hand, and hurried me
towards the door of the apartment, which she opened, and the first
step we took over the threshold, we stepped into a void space, and
fell downward. I was going to call out, but felt my descent so rapid,
that my voice was stifled, and I could not so much as draw my breath.
I expected every moment to fall against something, and be dashed to
pieces; and I shut my eyes, clenched my teeth, and held by the dame's
hand with a frenzied grasp, in expectation of the catastrophe. But
down we went--down and down, with a celerity which tongue cannot
describe, without light, breath, or any sort of impediment. I now felt
assured that we had both at once stepped from off the earth, and were
hurled into the immeasurable void. The airs of darkness sung in my
ears with a booming din as I rolled down the steeps of everlasting
night, an outcast from nature and all its harmonies, and a journeyer
into the depths of hell.
"'I still held my companion's hand, and felt the pressure of hers; and
so long did this our alarming descent continue, that I at length
caught myself breathing once more, but as quick as if I had been in
the height of a fever. I then tried every effort to speak, but they
were all unavailing; for I could not emit one sound, although my lips
and tongue fashioned the words. Think, then, of my astonishment, when
my companion sung out the following stanza with the greatest glee:--
'Here we roll,
Body and soul,
Down to the deeps of the Paynim's goal--
With speed and with spell,
With yo and with yell,
This is the way to the palace of hell--
Sing Yo! Ho!
Level and low,
Down to the Valley of Vision we go!'
"'Ha, ha, ha! Tam Beattie,' added she, 'where is a' your courage now?
Cannot ye lift up your voice and sing a stave wi' your auld crony? And
cannot ye lift up your een, and see what region you are in now?'
"'I did force open my eyelids, and beheld light, and apparently
worlds, or huge lurid substances, gliding by me with speed beyond that
of the lightning of heaven. I certainly perceived light, though of a
dim uncertain nature; but so precipitate was my descent, I could not
distinguish from whence it proceeded, or of what it consisted, whether
of the vapours of chaotic wastes, or the streamers of hell. So I
again shut my eyes closer than ever, and waited the event in terror
unutterable.
"'We at length came upon something which interrupted our farther
progress. I had no feeling as we fell against it, but merely as if we
came in contact with some soft substance that impeded our descent; and
immediately afterwards I perceived that our motion had ceased.
"'What a terrible tumble we hae gotten, Laird!' said my companion.
'But ye are now in the place where you should be; and deil speed the
coward!'
"'So saying, she quitted my hand, and I felt as if she were wrested
from me by a third object; but still I durst not open my eyes, being
convinced that I was lying in the depths of hell, or some hideous
place not to be dreamt of; so I lay still in despair, not even daring
to address a prayer to my Maker. At length I lifted my eyes slowly and
fearfully; but they had no power of distinguishing objects. All that I
perceived was a vision of something in nature, with which I had in
life been too well acquainted. It was a glimpse of green glens, long
withdrawing ridges, and one high hill, with a cairn on its summit. I
rubbed my eyes to divest them of the enchantment, but when I opened
them again, the illusion was still brighter and more magnificent. Then
springing to my feet, I perceived that I was lying in a little fairy
ring, not one hundred yards from the door of my own hall!
"'I was, as you may well conceive, dazzled with admiration; still I
felt that something was not right with me, and that I was struggling
with an enchantment; but recollecting the hideous story told me by the
beldame, of the deadly discord between my two sons, I hasted to watch
their motions, for the morning was yet but dawning. In a few seconds
after recovering my senses, I perceived my eldest son Thomas leave his
tower armed, and pass on towards the place of appointment. I waylaid
him, and remarked to him that he was very early astir, and I feared on
no good intent. He made no answer, but stood like one in a stupor, and
gazed at me. 'I know your purpose, son Thomas,' said I; 'so it is in
vain for you to equivocate. You have challenged your brother, and are
going to meet him in deadly combat; but as you value your father's
blessing, and would deprecate his curse--as you value your hope in
heaven, and would escape the punishment of hell--abandon the hideous
and cursed intent, and be reconciled to your only brother.'
"'On this, my dutiful son Thomas kneeled to me, and presented his
sword, disclaiming, at the same time, all intentions of taking away
his brother's life, and all animosity for the vengeance sought against
himself, and thanked me in a flood of tears for my interference. I
then commanded him back to his couch, and taking his cloak and sword,
hasted away to the Crook of Glen-dearg, to wait the arrival of his
brother.'"
Here Andrew Johnston's narrative detailed the self-same circumstances
recorded in a former part of this tale, as having passed between the
father and his younger son, so that it is needless to recapitulate
them; but beginning where that broke off, he added, in the words of
the Old Laird, "'As soon as my son Francis had left me, in order to be
reconciled to his brother, I returned to the fairy knowe and ring
where I first found myself seated at day-break. I know not why I went
there, for though I considered with myself, I could discover no motive
that I had for doing so, but was led thither by a sort of impulse
which I could not resist, and from the same feeling spread my son's
mantle on the spot, laid his sword down beside it, and stretched me
down to sleep. I remember nothing farther with any degree of accuracy,
for I instantly fell into a chaos of suffering, confusion, and racking
dismay, from which I was only of late released by awaking from a
trance, on the very seat, and in the same guise in which I was the
evening before. I am certain I was at home in body or in spirit--saw
my sons--spake these words to them, and heard theirs in return. How I
returned I know even less, if that is possible, than how I went; for
it seemed to me that the mysterious force that presses us to this
sphere, and supports us on it, was in my case withdrawn or subverted,
and that I merely fell from one part of the earth's surface and
alighted on another. Now I am so ill that I cannot move from this
couch; therefore, Andrew, do you mount and ride straight home. Spare
no horse-flesh, by night or by day, to bring me word of my family, for
I dread that some evil hath befallen them. If you find them in life,
give them many charges from me of brotherly love and affection; if
not--what can I say, but, in the words of the patriarch, If I am
bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.'"
The two brothers, in utter amazement, went together to the green ring
on the top of the knoll above the Castle of Cassway, and there found
the mantle lying spread, and the sword beside it. They then, without
letting Johnston into the awful secret, mounted straight, and rode off
with him to their father. They found him still in bed, and very ill;
and though rejoiced at seeing them, they soon lost hope of his
recovery, his spirits being broken and deranged in a wonderful manner.
Their conversations together were of the most solemn nature, the
visitation deigned to them having been above their capacity. On the
third or fourth day, their father was removed by death from this
terrestrial scene, and the minds of the young men were so much
impressed by the whole of the circumstances, that it made a great
alteration in their after life. Thomas, as solemnly charged by his
father, married Ellen Scott, and Francis was well known afterward as
the celebrated Dr Beattie of Amherst. Ellen was mother to twelve sons,
and on the night that her seventh son was born, her aunt Jerdan was
lost, and never more heard of, either living or dead.
This will be viewed as a most romantic and unnatural story, as without
doubt it is; but I have the strongest reasons for believing that it is
founded on a literal fact, of which all the three were sensibly and
positively convinced. It was published in England in Dr Beattie's
lifetime, and by his acquiescence, and owing to the respectable source
from whence it came, it was never disputed in that day that it had its
origin in truth. It was again republished, with some miserable
alterations, in a London collection of 1770, by J. Smith, at No. 15,
Paternoster-Row; and though I have seen none of these accounts, but
relate the story wholly from tradition, yet the assurance attained
from a friend of their existence, is a curious corroborative
circumstance, and proves that, if the story was not true, the parties
at least believed it to be so.