wounded, were brought to James Nicholson and his daughter as they sat
waiting the return of her husband.
"Oh, I trust in goodness that naething has happened to William!" she
exclaimed. "But what can be stopping him? Oh, had he but ta'en my
advice!--had ye no persuaded him, faither! But ye was waur than him."
James made no reply. A gloomy apprehension that "something had happened"
was stealing over his mind. He took his staff, and walked forward, as
far as he was able, upon the road; but, after waiting for two hours, and
after fruitless inquiries at every one he met, he returned, having heard
nothing of his son-in-law. His daughter, with three children around her,
sat weeping before the fire. He endeavoured to comfort her, and to
inspire her with hopes which he did not himself feel, and to banish
fears from her breast which he himself entertained. Night set in, and,
with its darkness, their fears and their anxiety increased. The children
wept more bitterly as the distress of their mother became stronger; they
raised their little hands, they pulled her gown, and they called for
their father. A cart stopped at the door; and William Crawford, with his
arm bound up, was carried into his house by strangers. Catherine
screamed when she beheld him, and the children cried wildly. Old James
met them at the door, and said, "O William!"
He had been found by the side of a hedge, fainting from loss of blood. A
bullet had entered his arm below the shoulder--the bone was splintered;
and on a surgeon's being sent for, he declared that immediate amputation
was necessary. Poor Catherine and her little ones were taken into the
house of a neighbour while the operation was to be performed, and even
her father had not nerve to look on it. William sat calmly, and beheld
the surgeon and his assistant make their preparations, and when the
former took the knife in his hand, the wounded man thought not of bodily
pain, but the feelings of the father and the husband gushed forth.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "had it been my leg, it wad hae been naething; but
my arm--I will be helpless for life! What am I to do now for my puir
Katie and my bits o' bairns? Guid gracious! I canna beg!--and auld
James, puir body, what will come owre him! Oh, sir," added he,
addressing the surgeon, "I could bear to hae my arm cut through in
twenty different places, were it not that it deprives me o' the power o'
working for bread for my family!"
"Keep a stout heart, my good fellow," said the surgeon, as he began his
task; "they will be provided for in some way."
"Grant it may be sae!" answered William; "but I see naething for as but
to beg!"
I must here, however, take back my reader to 1815, and from the
neighbourhood of Stirling direct their attention to Brussels and
Waterloo. George Washington Nicholson, after the battle of Toulouse, had
been appointed to the rank of serjeant. For several months he was an
inmate in the house of a thriving merchant in Brussels; he had assisted
him in his business; he, in fact, acted as his chief clerk and his
confidant; he became as one of the family, and nothing was done by the
Belgian trader without consulting Serjeant Nicholson.
But the fearful night of the 15th of June arrived, when the sounds of
the pibroch rang through the streets of Brussels, startling soldier and
citizen, and the raven and the owl were invited to a feast. The name of
Napoleon was pronounced by tongues of every nation. "He comes!--he
comes!" was the cry. George Nicholson was one of the first to array
himself for battle, and rush forth to join his regiment. He bade a
hurried farewell to his host; but there was one in the house whose hand
trembled when he touched it, and on whose lips he passionately breathed
his abrupt adieu. It was the gentle Louise, the sole daughter of his
host.
The three following days were dreadful days in Brussels; confusion,
anxiety, dismay, prevailed in every street; they were pictured in every
countenance. On one hand were crowded the wounded from the battle, on
the other were citizens flying from the town to save their goods and
themselves, and, in their general eagerness to escape, blocking up their
flight. Shops were shut, houses deserted, and churches turned into
hospitals. But, in the midst of all--every hour, and more
frequently--there went a messenger from the house of the merchant with
whom Serjeant Nicholson had lodged, to the _Porte de Namur_, to inquire
how fared it with the Highlanders, to examine the caravans with the
wounded as they arrived, and to inquire at the hospitals, if _one whom
Louise named_ had been brought there.
Never was a Sabbath spent in a more unchristian manner than that of the
18th June, 1815, on the plains of Waterloo. At night the news of the
success of the British arrived in Brussels, and before sunrise on the
following morning the merchant in whose house George Nicholson had been
lodged, drove through the _Porte de Namur_, with his daughter Louise by
his side. At every step of their journey appalling spectacles presented
themselves before them; and, as they proceeded, they became more and
more horrible. They were compelled to quit their vehicle, for the roads
were blocked up, and proceeded through the forest _de Soignes_, into
which many of the wounded had crawled to die, or to escape being
trampled on by the pain-maddened horses. On emerging from the forest,
the disgusting shambles of war, with its human carcases, its blood, its
wounded, and its dying, spread all its horrors before them. From the
late rains, the field was as a morass. Conquerors and the conquered were
covered with mud. Here lay heaps of dead--there, soldier and citizen dug
pits to bury them in crowds, and they were hurled into a common grave,
"Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown."
Let the eyes turn where they would, there the ghastly sight of the
wounded met them; nor could the ear be rendered deaf to the groans of
the dying, and the cry from every quarter and in every tongue of "Water!
water!"--for the wounded were perishing from thirst, and their throats
were parched and their tongues dry. There, too, prowled the plunderer,
robbing the dead--the new-made widow sought her husband, and the mother
her son. To and fro rushed hundreds of war-horses, in foam and in agony,
without curb or rider--others lay kicking and snorting on the ground,
their broad chests heaving with the throes of departing life, and
struggling as though they thought themselves stronger than death.
Louise and her father were shown to the positions that had been occupied
by the Highland regiments. They inquired of every one whom they met, and
who wore the garb of Old Scotland, if they could tell them aught of the
fate of Serjeant Nicholson; but they shook their heads, and answered,
"No."
Louise was a beautiful and interesting girl, and the bloom of nineteen
summers blushed on her cheeks; but they were now pale, and her dark eyes
were bedimmed with tears. She leaned upon her father's arm, and they
were passing near a field of rye, which was trodden down as though a
scythe had been passed over it. Many dead and dying Highlanders lay near
it. Before them lay a wounded man, whose face was covered and disfigured
with blood--he was gasping for water, and his glazed eyes were
unconscious of the earnestness and affection with which they gazed on
him.
"It is he!--it is he!" cried Louise.
It was indeed George Nicholson.
"He lives!--he breathes!" she continued. She bent over him--she raised
his head--she applied a cordial to his lips. He swallowed it eagerly.
His eyes began to move--a glow of consciousness kindled in them. With
the assistance of her father, she washed and bound up his wounds, and
the latter having procured a litter, he had him conveyed to his house
at Brussels, and they accompanied him by the way. Louise watched over
him; and in a few days his wounds were pronounced to be no longer
dangerous, though he recovered slowly, and he acknowledged the affection
of his gentle deliverer with the tears of gratitude and the glance of
love.
As soon as he had acquired strength to use a pen, he wrote a letter to
his father, but he received no answer--a second time he wrote, and the
result was the same. He now believed that, because he had been a humble
instrument in contributing to the fall of a man, in whose greatness his
father's soul was wrapped up, he had cast him off, and disowned him.
The father of Louise obtained his discharge, and intrusted him with the
management of his business. He knew that his daughter's heart was
attached, with all a woman's devotedness, to the young Scotchman, and he
knew that his affection for her was not less ardent. He knew also his
worth; he had profited by his integrity and activity in business; and
when the next anniversary of Waterloo came, he bade them be happy, and
their hands were united.
There was now but one cloud which threw a shade over the felicity of
George Nicholson, and that was, that he had never heard from his
parents, and that his father would not acknowledge his letters; yet he
suspected not the cause. Almost six years had passed since he became the
husband of Louise, yet his heart yearned after the place of his birth,
and in the dreams of the night his spirit revisited it. He longed once
more to hear his mother's voice, to grasp his father's hand, to receive
a sister's welcome. But, more than these, he was now rich, and he wished
to remove them from penury, to crown their declining years with ease and
with plenty; nor could a son entertain a more honourable ambition, or
one more meriting the blessing of Heaven.
Taking Louise with him, they sailed from Antwerp, and in a few days
arrived in London; from thence they proceeded towards the Borders, and
the place of his birth. They had reached Alnwick, where they intended to
remain for a few hours, and they went out to visit the castle. They had
entered the square in front of the proud palace of the Percys, and in
the midst of the square they observed a one-handed flute-player, with a
young wife and three ragged children by his side, and the poor woman was
soliciting alms for her husband's music.
The heart of Louise was touched; she had drawn out her purse, and the
wife of the flute-player, with her children in her hand, modestly, and
without speaking, curtsied before her.
George shook--he started--he raised his hands.
"Catherine!--my sister!--my own sister!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand
of the supplicant.
"Oh, George!--my brother!" cried Catherine, and wept.
The flute-player looked around. The instrument fell from his hand.
"What!--William!--and without an arm, too!" added George, extending his
hand to the musician.
Louise took the hand of her new-found sister, and smiled, and wept, and
bent down, and kissed the cheeks of her children.
"My father--my mother, Catherine?" inquired George, in a tone that told
how he trembled to ask the question.
She informed him of their mother's death, of their father's infirmities,
and that he was then an out-door pauper in T----.
He relieved his sister's wants, and, with Louise, hastened to his
birth-place. He found his father almost bedridden--a boarder at
half-a-crown a-week in a miserable hovel, the occupants of which were as
poor as their parish lodger. Old James was sitting reading a newspaper,
which he had borrowed, when they entered; for his ruling passion
remained strong in the midst of his age and infirmities. The rays of
the setting sun were falling on his grey hairs. Tears had gathered in
the eyes of his son, and he inquired--
"Do you know me?"
James suddenly raised his eyes--they flashed with eager joy--he dropped
his paper.
"Ken ye! ken ye!--my son! my son! my lost George!" and he sank on his
son's bosom.
When the first burst of joy had subsided--
"And wha is this sweet leddy?" inquired James, gazing fondly at Louise.
"Your daughter," replied George, placing her hand in his.
I need not further dwell upon the history of the Leveller. From that
hour he ceased to be a pauper--he accompanied his son to Brussels, and
spent the remainder of his days in peace, and amidst many of the scenes
which he had long before read of with enthusiasm.
But, some reader may ask, what became of poor Catherine and her
flute-player? A linendraper's shop was taken and stocked for them by her
brother, and in it prosperity became a constant customer. Such is the
history of James Nicholson the Leveller and his children.
THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.
THE DEATH OF JAMES III.
In these enlightened times, when man has become so wise that he thinks
he knows everything, it is a practice with writers of legends which
border on the supernatural, to give a plausible solution of any
difficulty which occurs, and to reconcile, if possible, all mysterious
appearances with the ascertained and familiar ways of God's providence.
We are very far from discountenancing the study of physical causes,
recommended by Lord Bacon, and followed now-a-days with so much zeal,
and we might say, with so much impatience of what was at one time called
the wisdom of the world; but we may very humbly remark, that, as all
extremes transcend truth, the stickler for the old philosophy and the
exclusive supporter of the new are equally wide of their aim, if they
think that these respective studies comprehend severally all the ways of
Providence. The votary of superstition, who trembles at an omen, is not
farther distant from the path to eternal and immutable truth, than is
the conceited biped who, with rule and compass, dynamics, and
differential calculus, thinks he can measure and define all the powers
of nature. How little is it known to him who makes the _visible_ the
measure of nature's existence and power, that every step he makes, or
thinks he makes, in his progress, the farther he removes from the great
landmarks of those great truths on which is founded our holy religion.
James III. was killed in open day: who killed him? History is mute; but
tradition is eloquent, and fearfully impressive. The reign of this
unfortunate monarch was marked by more rebellion and murder than any
period of the same extent in the history of Scotland. Other reigns
exhibited, perhaps, more attacks on the part of England--more battles
and greater devastation; but the period we have mentioned stands
unrivalled for intestine commotion, faction, rebellion, plotting, and
counterplotting, and all the other effects that flow from a
weakly-exercised authority on the part of a king over subjects, the
greater part of whom, trained to arms and tournaments, and taught to
hate and despise humane attainments, could find no relief from the ennui
of idleness but in the stir of strife, whether exercised against their
external enemies, or their internal compeers, who stood in the way of
their ambition. Many have been the complaints which Scotland has made
against the invasions of England, and the sordid views of the English
monarchs which produced them; but little has been said against the
renegade conduct of many of her sons, who, with matricidal views,
endeavoured to put an end to her independence as a nation, by leaguing
with her enemies, and corrupting the loyalty of their brethren. It may
be doubted whether the successive treasons and rebellions of Mar,
Douglas, and Albany, and their consequent alliances with the King of
England, did not produce more evil to Scotland than ever resulted from
the unaided invasions of all the English monarchs together; yet such is
the inconsistency of man, that, even at this day, the cadets and scions
of these renegade families presume upon the honours of their birth, and
get their presumption admitted and countenanced by those who would
despise the industrious benefactor of his country.
There cannot be a doubt that it was entirely owing to the weakness of
the third James, that the noble enemies of order and justice, the high
barons, wrought so much evil to their country. A late historian, of some
beauty of diction, and great command of historical erudition, but
perhaps deficient in what is called the philosophy of history, has
endeavoured to support James against the censures of Leslie and
Buchanan; but his own narrative disproves his arguments, and leaves the
responsibility of a nation's sorrow at the debit of the weakness,
favouritism, and tergiversation of that unfortunate king. The rebellion
at Lauder--where his favourites, Crighton the mason, Rogers the
musician, and Ireland the man of letters, or rather of magic, were
hanged over the buttress of the bridge--was entirely produced by the
disappointment of the lords, who saw their places at court occupied by
mechanics, while they, too much inclined for tumult at any rate, were
left without civil distinctions and employments to occupy their minds
and incline them to peace. But, although the weakness of James may have
formed an excuse for the nobles to rise against him, what shall be said
for the conduct of his son, James IV., who headed the subsequent
rebellion against his own father, which ended so mournfully at the
battle of Sauchie Burn? It was unnecessary to add the cry of public
reprobation to the voice of a crying conscience; the prince conceived
himself to have been the murderer of his father, and never had a day's
rest or happiness on earth after the mysterious death which his
rebellious conduct had produced.
We have outlived the days of superstition, and we do not, we dare not,
believe what has been handed down to us on the subject of this
self-imputed parricide--but we are at liberty, as veracious chroniclers
of tradition, to narrate what were at one time supposed to be the ways
of a mysterious Providence, in punishing the unfilial conduct of a son
who, after experiencing the unlimited kindness of a parent, took into
his hand arms, which, by another, though unknown hand, were used against
that parent's life. Let the sceptical sons of modern philosophy
repudiate our narrative, as their sublime knowledge of the workings of
physical powers inclines them to shut their eyes against the dark
obscure beyond. We profess to believe that negation of light is not
exclusive of existences, and that, though light may be necessary to
enable us to see what is permitted us to see by the decree of Him who
made us, there is also ordained an alternation of darkness, whose
dominion being co-extensive with the light, carries a borrowed
conviction of existences, which, extended by analogy to unknown things
and regions, may make us abate our scepticism and humble our pride of
knowledge.
When the nobles who had committed the daring acts of rebellion and
murder at the Bridge of Lauder--among whom were Lords Gray and Hailes,
the Master of Hume, and Shaw of Sauchie--found that the king was not
inclined to extend to them letters of pardon, they set about devising a
scheme whereby they might force that safety to themselves and their
property, which they had not been able to procure by entreaty and
supplication. Their plan was subtle in its nature, and dexterously
executed; but, like all schemes of a similar kind, failed of that
success which the high hopes of political schemers point to, as the mean
of their elevation to rank and power. They resolved upon taking
advantage of the youth and versatility of the young prince, James, Duke
of Rothsay, and endeavouring to overcome his sentiments of filial love
and duty by the engrossing passion of political ambition, get him to
join them in their designs against the power and authority of his
father. By setting, in this way, the son against the parent, they would
give weight and power to their faction, and take away the responsibility
and guilt of rebellious leaders, which could not attach to operations
commanded by the heir-apparent of the throne. Unfortunately the
disposition of the young prince was predisposed to the reception of the
insidious whisperings of ambition. All the faculties of his mind were in
a high degree precocious; and his sentiments kept pace with his
intellectual powers, in suggesting wishes which his abilities might
gratify, and which his prudence was not able to suppress. These
tendencies had, it is supposed, been noticed by the rebellious schemers,
who, with the example of a prior Duke of Rothsay before them, could not
well have calculated upon overcoming the instinctive feelings of a son,
without some indications that these were weaker than they are even
generally found to be in the sons of kings.
This plan was begun to be put into execution, by getting the prince
prevailed upon to visit the Castle of Stirling, at that time under the
governorship of Shaw of Sauchie. He had no sooner arrived, than a great
display was made by the lords, who were assembled there for the purpose
of the most obsequious homage and the most impassioned affection, with
the view of stimulating those feelings of a desire of power, which
already had vindicated too much force in his youthful mind. A banquet
was prepared in honour of the heir-apparent, at which there were
assembled almost all those nobles who stood in fear of his father, from
having had a participation in the murder of the favourites at Lauder.
The most fulsome flattery was poured into his youthful ear; and the
conduct of his father, in resigning himself to the studies of astrology
and to the power of the professors of that occult science, treated with
a levity which bordered on derision and laughter. This was the true
chord to strike in the heart of the prince, who, filled with the highest
enthusiasm of chivalry, despised, as worthy of the supremest contempt of
an honourable man-at-arms, and far more of a king, all such applications
of the human intellect. He did not hesitate to declare, in the midst of
the nobles, that he did not approve of the conduct of his father, who
ought, as he thought, to have cultivated the knowledge of arms, and left
witchcraft to old wives, and astrology to old men. These sentiments were
lauded by the company, and the young man, buoyed up with the conceit of
a knowledge superior to that of his father, seemed to be far advanced in
the preparation he was undergoing for bolder sentiments and unfilial
resolutions. Well may philosophers lament the evil nature of man. Few
criminal purposes can be suggested to the human heart, without finding
in its hidden recesses some chord which, with eldrich notes, gives a
response often unknown to the will, but affording good proof that the
attuning and predisposing power of an evil angel has been at work in
that organ on which depends the salvation or perdition of mortals.
When the designing nobles saw that the young prince was so far prepared
for their purposes, they got him engaged, under cover of a recess of the
great hall, in a conversation with some of the leaders, and, in
particular, with Gray and Hume, who took the active part in the
demoralisation of the youth. The plan adopted by Gray, in conducting the
conversation, was the result of experience, and the very triumph of
cunning. He had noticed the self-complacent smile of the flattered
prince, when the elder nobles conceded to him their opinion, and
deferred a subtle point to the analysing powers of his boyish judgment;
and he took advantage of the weakness of vanity, to forward his schemes
of ambition.
"Your highness has doubtless been informed," said the arch diplomatist
to the royal boy, "of the reason why your royal father hath refused to
us, in this last parliament, the satisfaction of an act of pardon for
our conduct at Lauder, now five years old--notwithstanding that we have
been all that time in his power, and have not been troubled with any
trial for our crime or misdemeanour."
"I have understood," said the prince, "that my father's imprisonment and
misfortunes originated from the affair at Lauder. Is not that a good
enough reason for refusing the pardon?"
"When I tell thee, young prince," said Gray, "that at Lauder the king
lost his architect, his musician, his astrologer, and magician, all of
whom I assisted in hanging over the buttress of Lauder Bridge, will your
highness remain longer of opinion that our refusal of a pardon is owing
to the imprisonment of the king?"