yours; and so beautiful! Ask me not, but I know:--these hands, they
tear from my soul the sybil leaves of awful prophecy, which fate
has given me, and my voice must scatter them forth to you. Would
that I knew not the dark characters!--that my mind was as blind to
your future destiny as these shrouded orbs!”
“Hold!” exclaimed young Dawson, as he seized Katharine’s hand,
which the blind prophetess had, once more, taken. “Hold!--speak not
another word of thy frightful thoughts. Nay, touch not her hand.
Katharine, could you feel disappointment should nothing be spared
to us but love? Can your heart be broken when love encircles it?
Death,--name it not!”
“Here, here is the cause. You ruin each other. Love and death are
linked together. But, sir, be peaceable and loyal in the midst of
rebellion, and happiness may yet be yours.”
A faint smile passed over Dawson’s face, which had before been
clouded; and with an attempt at gaiety, he returned,--
“And am I not in the garb of peace? My cap has not the nodding
plume of war, but the quiet and simple flower of the valley. What
two beautiful shields I have secured for myself in danger, my own
Katharine, and sister Alice.”
“Beware,” repeated the prophetess, “of war. Change not the flower
for the cockade; and let none be your shields but those whom you
now protect.”
No longer did she seem the soft and mournful child, who had longed
so earnestly for the power of vision. She was altogether changed.
“Follow me not. Detain me not. I shall weep for you all. Farewell,
until we meet again,” and she instantly withdrew, and darkness hid
her steps.
* * * * *
Two months have elapsed since the above interview and conversation
took place, and the scene is now laid in Manchester. No more is the
soft peace inspired by evening walks, in lonely and secluded vales,
to be breathed over the characters of our Legend. A rebellion,
fostered by no dark intrigues, but by romantic daring, had arisen,
and the youthful heir of the unfortunate house of Stuart had
returned from exile, and appeared to claim his own, in the country
which dethroned his ancestors for their imbecility, wickedness,
and tyranny. Prince Charles Edward had been educated at the court
of France; but unlike her, whom, in person, he was said so much to
resemble--Mary of Scotland,--his manners were untainted with the
loose and dissolute habits prevalent there. Although surrounded
with pleasure, revelry, and giddy pomp, his thoughts were of
England and its crown; and these tended to preserve him from the
enervating influence of French dissipation. Gallantry was only
the occasional amusement, and not the sole pursuit of his life.
Nature had given him an exterior on which no lady could frown, or
be disposed to deny her favours; but he frequently withdrew from
the attractive company, where many of the proudest and fairest
daughters of the land were fluttering around him, with attentions
for the prince alone; and in private, sighed over the ruin of the
name he bore, and of the royal family, of which he was the sole
representative. But buoyed up with the false accounts which he had
received from those in this country, with whom he communicated,
assuring him that so numerous and devoted would be his followers,
should he again appear at the head of them, to plead his cause by
arms, he was induced to leave France, and towards the end of summer
1745, landed in the Hebrides; in a few days raised his standard in
Invernesshire; assembled a number of followers at Fort William,
and proceeded to Edinburgh, which opened to his claims. In the
beginning of November he marched to Carlisle, where the ceremony
of proclaiming his father king, and himself regent, was foolishly
performed, and where the delay thus occasioned, seemed to paralyze
the courage of his highland troops, and by carousing, to divide
them into factions.
Towards the end of the same month his troops, now amounting to six
thousand men, entered Lancashire, and passing by way of Preston
and Wigan, took up their quarters in Manchester, where they
hoped to secure provisions and ammunition, by free levies from
the inhabitants, as well as to recruit their numbers by English
soldiers.
The twenty-ninth day of November was bright, and a slight breeze
had not only prevented the heavy fog peculiar to the season, but
had likewise cleared away the smoke which lay dense and dull upon
the town; when, early in the afternoon, towards the suburbs,
masses of people were drawn together, expecting the arrival of the
Pretender and his army. There were the mob, prepared to espouse
the cause of any who should tickle their hands with a coin, or by
sweet words, gain their sweet voices. But amongst them were many of
noble rank, who had sympathized with the hardships of the present
aspirant to the throne of his fathers; and whom his romantic
expedition had fired with visions of military glory and renown, and
high titles and long lists. They impatiently spurred their horses
to a short distance from the crowd, to obtain a better view, and
then returned disappointed. Fair ladies were leaning on the arms
of their lovers, forbidding them to share in the dangers of the
enterprize, and in the crime of treason, but resolving, themselves,
to get a sight of the handsome Chevalier, and praise his person. A
silent hush was over all; nothing was heard, save low and gentle
whispers from the fair, who began to doubt whether he would really
appear, when the notes of distant music were borne on their ears,
and the steady tramp of troops was, soon after, distinguishable.
The crowd rushed up to an eminence on the skirts of the highway,
and beheld the banner floating over the rebel soldiery, and the
gleam of broadswords flashing in the sun. A sergeant rode forth
from the ranks, and furiously spurred his steed to the town, when
loud shouts, arising from the people and the inhabitants, assuring
him of the ready reception which his master should find, induced
him, after waving his plumed bonnet in return, to halt, until the
troops came up, which they speedily did, and, in haste, advanced.
At their head, surrounded by a band of hardy mountaineers with
their left hand upon the dirk, rode the prince, with no traces of
fatigue on his countenance; and looking as well, after his short
sojourn in the Highlands, as ever he did when he was the pride
of the French court, where he was fed by its luxuries. He was in
conversation with the Duke of Athol, who was beside him.
There was an interesting melancholy upon the otherwise gay
expression of his countenance, which suited well with the fallen
fortunes of his family. He was of slight and graceful form, and,
but for the noble enthusiasm beaming in his full blue eye, and the
firmness and decision compressing his thin lips, he might have
been mistaken for one who was better qualified to do honour to the
gaieties of a court, in the song and the dance, than the bloody
field of strife. His dress served to display, to advantage, the
beautiful proportions of his frame. His locks, of a light auburn
hue, fell in ringlets beneath the blue bonnet, mounted with a white
rose in front; and the snowy whiteness of his almost feminine
neck was but partially concealed by a plaid passing loosely over
his breastplate, and held fast by a blue-coloured sash. His
finely-polished limbs moving in all the elastic play and nerve of
youth, and in perfect ease, were attired in the Highland kilt; and
so small and beautifully formed was his foot, that no lady would
have refused her fair hand as a stirrup to the young Chevalier. His
dress was indeed plain for one who was now to strive for the crown
of Great Britain, but none could gaze upon the kingly form which it
enveloped, without almost wishing that soon he might be invested
with the purple robe of rule and empire.
His companion, the Duke of Athol, with whom he seemed frequently
to converse as a familiar friend, was tall and muscular. Broad and
commanding was his forehead, seen occasionally as he raised his
bonnet, when the prince mildly gave forth his orders. Long dark
whiskers added to the sternness and fierceness of his countenance,
and large over-hanging eyebrows only seemed to arch in the fiery
keenness of his restless glance, and concentrate it still more
deadly.
“Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and
horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath
your weapons.”
“Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly
carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The
English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They
should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to
the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good
and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake
not.”
“They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish
troops--gaze upon them--are furious: a word will fire them, and a
thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently
but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,--in their
scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”
The last words, accompanied as they were by the sudden sinking of
the swords into their scabbards, called forth a long and loud shout
from the gazing multitude, though they perceived that at the sound
of the bagpipe, the soldiers often placed their hands upon the
hilt of their swords, as if they could, with difficulty, refrain
from drawing them. The streets were all lined with spectators,
the most of whom seemed to have forgotten their loyalty to the
reigning sovereign. The Chevalier dismounted from his steed, and
marched on foot. Many a fair dame threw pitying looks upon his
form, and, struck with admiration, silently implored a blessing,
and full success upon his romantic endeavours; and as the band
played merrily, “the King shall have his own again,” they chorused
and encored it, with fond eyes, and waving handkerchiefs. He
gallantly bowed to them as he passed on; and thus sent many a
beautiful creature home, to dream of him, and when she awoke, in
the intervals, to wet her pillow with tears, and pray for his
safety. Roses were thrown upon him, from some of the terraces; he
stooped to pick them up, but they were faded, for they were summer
flowers, and had been gathered under the setting sun, many months
before, and he sighed as he thought of his own fortunes. But this
did not prevent him from kissing his hand in return, to those who
had showered them down, and they, of course, thought that they were
much sweeter roses themselves; and perhaps they were. The crowd
enthusiastically cheered him all the way.
“Athol, will they be as ready to give me assistance by money, as
they are to proffer their cheers?” asked the prince.
“_We_ give our blood,” replied the duke. “We place our heads as
your stepping stones to the throne, which is your rightful seat;
and shall not Englishmen give their money? Appoint a few of the
brave men under my command, as beggars, and trust me, that swords
and dirks in their hands, will levy something considerable. Steel
can find its way through coffers, and, without much ceremony, enter
pockets. Can it not?” and the chieftain smiled darkly.
“A freebooter still, Athol, although you have left your native glen
and castle. When shall I be able to make thee a courtier?”
“When I shall assist to make thee a king. Nay, noble prince, frown
not upon thy humble and trusty subject. I am a little chafed.
Nevertheless, is it not my duty to assist in making thee a king?”
“Thou hast, indeed, a true heart,” answered the Chevalier,
“though thy manners are not exactly so faultless, and may, with
much advantage, be reformed and amended. Nay, frown not in turn.
Montrose, are we yet within sight of our palace?”
The marquess, thus addressed, stepped forward, and having paid his
marks of reverence, replied,--
“Yes, noble prince. The hundred of our troops, who arrived
yesterday in Manchester are now surrounding it, waiting for your
presence.”
It was exactly as he said. In Market-street they stood around the
house of one Dickenson, which was thus converted into a palace,
and afterwards went by the name; though now it has fallen so
low as to become an inn. It had been given out that quarters and
accommodation would be required in the town for ten thousand men,
but now it did not seem, after they were all drawn up, that there
were more than six thousand. Amid loud and hearty acclamations, the
prince and the leaders entered the palace, while some of the troops
kept station and guard without, and the others dispersed themselves
over the town, after they had seen that the pieces of artillery
were in safe keeping.
* * * * *
The house of Dr. Dawson, who had, lately, altogether retired from
the duties of his profession, stood in a quiet and remote part of
the town. Alice was almost dying, through curiosity, to receive
the latest intelligence. But she could only observe others running
to _know_, and none coming to _tell_, her about the Pretender, and
his entry into Manchester; and this, certainly, was sufficiently
provoking for a young lady. James, her brother, had gone out early
in the morning, and had not returned, so that she had no one
to fret and teaze, but her father; and he was, alas, rather an
irritable toy, for a young lady to sport with.
“Alice, you are restless and fatigued in my company. Get thee to
thy looking-glass, you are never weary of being there.”
“It has a more pleasant face than you have, dear father, when you
frown,” playfully returned Alice.
“There, there,--my children accuse and rebel against me! No matter,
their father is old and infirm. I must bring them up, support them,
only to listen to their impertinence and disobedience. Would that
God had made me childless, or that he had made my children blind
or dumb; or had given them a golden portion each, to support them.
Oh! you look pretty in tears, Alice,--quite irresistible, upon mine
honour. But do not waste them, they are so precious. Pray reserve
some: it will be prudent, Alice, they will all be in good time when
you get a lover!”
“Would that he were come!” peevishly exclaimed Alice, “and I should
run off with him, at any hour of the night, and to any place!”
“What! without looking in at my bank notes? Eh? Oh! mistress Alice!
And there’s your brother--what can he do?”
“He can leave home, and I cannot.”
“Yes, he _has_ left home,” said the old man, now beginning to be
affected. “And where is he?”
“Ah! dear father, should he have joined the cause of the Pretender!
Oh! how you would repent of the harsh words you have often spoken
to him.”
“Dear Alice, _I do repent_ already. Come and kiss your harsh old
father. Look upon the face that you confess to be less pleasing
than your looking glass. Ah, Alice, you are a sly girl.”
They at length became impatient, when night came on, and still,
James was absent. They had heard the public crier announce that
a general illumination of the town was to take place, and Alice
thought that her brother might have appeared to assist in the
arrangements. And now, when lights, many and brilliant, arose in
the opposite windows, and crowds were passing in the streets, she
proceeded, with a heavy heart, to give directions to the servants,
and then anxiously sat down at the casement of her own apartment,
not to view any object--save James. Private disappointments,
however small, and in themselves contemptible, are fretted by
public rejoicings; and as the bells rung out a merry peal, and
music walked the streets, she only felt her loneliness the more.
A knocking was heard at the door, and Alice flew down herself, to
open it, and admit her brother to a well spiced scolding; if not
(she was in doubts) to a more violent demonstration of her feelings.
It was Katharine Norton, who had come to enjoy the company of her
friend, as her maiden aunt had been so busy in asking questions
at her servants, relative to the Pretender, his dress, and his
general appearance, that she had entirely deserted the parlour for
the kitchen, and her niece was thus left alone.
They spoke of James, although Katharine occasionally paused, and
introduced some other subject, lest he might arrive in the midst
of their conversation; and she too well knew, that her mischievous
companion would not scruple to inform him of its nature and
subject; but he came not.
“Katharine, what can we do to know where he is? He is not well, or
it is not well with him. Something must have happened. Katharine,
‘_Beware of the Cockade!_’ The prophecy now rises to my mind.
It must be true. I feel that it is. My brother is ardent, and
romantic; and often has he expressed his sympathy with the
unfortunate house of Stuart.”
Servants were sent forth to obtain some information concerning
James, and the causes of his strange absence. They returned, only
to tell their disappointment. No one had a tale--save the old
clock, which numbered the minutes and the hours; and although the
minutes seemed to move slowly, the rapid flight of the hours was
surprizing. The loud shouts of the crowd broke in upon the silence;
and the heavy tread of her impatient father, in the adjoining
apartment, fell upon the ear of Alice, but mournfully. She led
her companion into her brother’s study, and playfully threw his
dressing gown over Katharine, that she might behold a diligent
student: but as she met her own gaze in a mirror opposite, she
knew that she was but counterfeiting mirth and happiness. She
placed before her Newton’s Principia, and requested a display of
philosophy and learning, to support the great principle therein
developed, ‘that every particle of matter is attracted by, or
gravitates to, every other particle of matter, with a force
inversely proportional to the squares of their distances.’ “Oh!”
she exclaimed, as she seized upon a letter or two, concealed in the
pages, in which was the hand-writing and signature of her friend,
“so, my brother wishes to transplant beautiful flowers into such
barren fields, that when he is puzzled with problems and themes, he
may be refreshed with questions, and pretty soft confessions, which
he finds no difficulty in understanding? Blush, Katharine, and
close the volume.”
“It is beyond my comprehension, Alice. I have no desire to be a
literary lady, to nib my quill for poetry, and glancing up to the
ceiling for inspiration, commence to abuse the innocence of paper;
indeed, I am not certain whether my patience would extend to the
act of counting my fingers, through the length and breadth of a
sonnet.”
“Ah, Katharine,” returned Alice, with an attempt at mock pathos,
“you are insensible of the pleasures which a young lady feels when
engaged in literary pursuits. The pen in her hand, is the fair
fan with which she cools the fervid glow of her imagination and
affections. How interesting she appears when she has the requisite
strength of mind to banish toys, silks, and dresses, and introduce
on her dressing table nothing but long rolls of manuscript! She
dreams not of soft whispers, sweet glances, and handsome lovers;
but of that nice ode, that sublime epic, or the passionate drama,
which she made yesterday. She rises to stare at the sun, frighten
the flowers, and overflow the very Thames with ink, on paper. Or
should she be an astronomer, how becoming for a young lady to use a
telescope, instead of a quizzing glass!”
She then searched the desk, and discovering some rude drafts of
verses, addressed to “a lady,” inquired of Katharine whether
she had yet obtained a fair copy of them. For a time she was as
mischievous as usual; but all her sport was evidently feigned. In
the midst of it, at length, she became silent, and snatching up
a light, hurried to the clock, and instantly returned pale and
breathless.
“Katharine!” she exclaimed, while she grasped her hands, “it is
but a few minutes from midnight! He has become a traitor to his
home and his country. I have stopped the clock, that whenever
he returns, it may not disgrace him. Near midnight, and he
absent,--and at such a time, when all our fears are excited by
rebellion!”
Her companion, who was, naturally, of a firmer and more heroic
cast of mind, attempted to console her, although she needed one to
perform the same kindly office for herself.
“Nay, dear Alice, your brother is loyal.”
“Is that loyal?” she returned with a shriek, as her eye glanced
over some of her brother’s papers, where the Pretender’s name
was mentioned in glowing terms of admiration. “I knew it. James
has long admired Prince Charles Edward, and frequently, when no
subjects but those nearest to our hearts have been introduced, he
has spoken so feelingly of the royal youth’s exile in France. When
the news of his landing in Scotland reached us, an involuntary
exclamation escaped James, and he prayed for his safety, aye,
even for his success. Nay, I cannot divine any other motive for
his absence from the University, than to obtain leisure to watch
the progress of the Prince, and, at a fitting time, to join his
standard. But hush, let us be cheerful, for I hear my father’s
footsteps, and he is impatient at my brother’s absence.”
The old man entered. Katharine Norton rose to meet him, and he
addressed her kindly, as was his wont. But the smoothness of his
manner soon disappeared. In person, Dr. Dawson was tall and thin,
though very much bowed down by age, but now his form became erect.
He had a lofty forehead, on which a few white locks were sprinkled.
His hands were palsied, but now, by the strength of his feelings,
they were nerved, and he stood forth, firm and collected. He had
dark eyes, which had not lost the fire of his youth; and which
seemed to become brighter and brighter, by looking at his gold.
He was not altogether a miser, for he, as we have already stated,
loved his children occasionally, and even displayed bursts of
tenderness and affection; but his idols must be of gold, as well
as of flesh and blood. Ever since he was married, pretty fingers
must have gold rings, before he could admire them, and in his
profession, he had often been prevented from feeling the pulse for
some time, so much absorbed was his attention by the diamonds which
glittered.
After addressing Katharine, he turned to his daughter, “Alice,
where is your brother, has he not returned yet? I must wait for
him, considerate youth, although these aged limbs should long ere
now, have been reposing on my couch! I have no staff but this cane,
and money bought it. Money can do any thing but make children
obedient, except to close a parent’s eyes, and that they gladly
attend to. Come, affectionate youth, and see me die!” and he
laughed hysterically, in scorn and anger.
The two ladies supported and caressed him fondly, compelled him to
sit down, and almost smothered him with kisses. The old man could
not forbear smiling. “Ah, innocents, you would sooner heap them on
my son.”
“Nay, dear father,” returned Alice, in a merry tone, “a different
treatment from us awaits him, when he arrives.”
Her father heard her not, for he had relapsed once more into a fit
of passion, and he walked across the room, stamping violently.
“And I must totter on my cane, at my kind son’s inclination, and he
must dance so merrily, to give me pain. Oh! how fondly he is now
speaking to his fair partner, and doubtless requesting her not to
allow herself to be too much fatigued. He takes her to a recess,
lest she be weary with the dance; but his poor old father must
watch for him all the night. It matters not how weary I be. No, no,
I do my son wrong, great wrong. He wishes me to be at rest,--in
my grave. How kind! Nay, daughter, speak not in his favour. Hark
to the sounds of revelry around him. Sweet they are to his ears,
almost as sweet as my dying words.”