CHAPTER V.

Neist day the miller spoke to James anent his marriage, an’ tell’t him, as they were no to move frae the mill, it needna be putten aff ony langer; sae it was settled to be in a fortnight, an’ that created an unco bustle in the house. An’ Jeanie was every now and then speakin’ o’ how they were a’ to manage, but the miller ne’er seemed to mind her.

So ae day, when they’re in the kitchen by themsels, she begins on’t again: “An’ James an’ his wife will hae to get the room that he an’ William are in; an’ then William he maun either get mine, or sleep outby, for there’ll be nae puttin’ him in yon cauld, damp bed, unless we want him to gang like a cripple; sae I dinna ken what’s to be dune.”

“Ye forget, Jeanie,” said the miller, “that John Murdoch sleepit there, an’ he didna seem to be the waur o’t.”

“Aye, for ae night, nae doubt, and in fine weather; but how lang will that last?”

The miller gies her nae answer; but after sittin’ thinking a wee, he rises and taks down his bonnet.

“It’s a fine day for being out,” says Jeanie; “but are ye gaun far, father?”

“Nae farer than the Hope,” said the miller.

“The Hope!” exclaimed Jeanie, as her face reddened.

“Ay,” says the miller; “and I’m thinking o’ speirin’ if there’s room there for ane o’ ye.”

“Now God bless my gude auld father,” said Jeanie; “he sees brawly what I wanted, and wadna even look me in the face to confuse me.”

* * * * *

“Geordie Wilson,” cries the miller, “when will it suit you to marry my dochter?”

“The day—the morn—ony day,” answers Geordie, as happy’s a prince.

“Because I was thinking,” says the miller, “that it might be as weel to pit James’s waddin’ and yours ower thegither.”

“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says Geordie, “wi’ a’ my heart!”

“Weel, then,” quoth the miller, “I’ll awa hame and see what our Jeanie says to’t.”

“And I’ll gang wi’ you,” cries Geordie.

“Come your wa’s then, my man,” says the miller.

And sae as they’re gaun down the road thegither, they meets William, an’ Geordie tells him how matters stood. An’ when William hears o’t, he shakes Geordie by the hand, an’ awa he flees ower ditch and dyke, an’ is hame in nae time. An’ after resting himsel a minute, an’ to tak breath, in he gangs to the kitchen; an’ when Jeanie sees him, she says, “Ye’re warm-like, William,—ye’ve surely been running?”

“Is onything wrang wi’ my father?” asked he.

“Gude forbid!” said Jeanie; “but what maks ye speir?”

“Ou, naething ava, amaist; but only I met him walking unco grave-like, an’ he scarcely spak to me; an’ I met wi’ Geordie Wilson too, and he didna say muckle either.”

“Preserve us a’!” cries Jeanie; “if onything has happened atween the twa!”

“What could put that nonsense in your head, lassie?” said William. “By-the-by,” continues he, after a pause, “Geordie’s at the end o’ the lane, an’ wishing muckle to speak to ye.”

“An’ what for did ye no tell me that at first, ye haverel?” cried Jeanie; and out she flees. An’ just as she’s turning the corner, she runs against her father wi’ a great drive.

“The lassie’s in a creel, I think!” quoth the miller; “but it’s the same wi’ them a’.”

“Jeanie! my ain Jeanie!” whispers Geordie, “an’ it’s a’ settled for neist week, and we’ll be sae happy!”

Jeanie held him at arm’s length frae her, that she might look him in the face.

“I see it’s true! I see it’s true!” she said, “an’ ye’re no joking me! An’ that wicked callant, to gang and gie me sic a fright! Hech! I haena gotten the better o’t yet!”

“An’ now, Jeanie, that I hae seen ye,” says Geordie, “I maun rin awa hame and tell my gude auld mither that it’s a’ fixed; for she wasna in when your father cam to the Hope; and then I maun awa to the toun for things. An’ what’ll I bring ye, Jeanie? what’ll I bring?”

“Ou, just onything ye like,” said she; “bring back yoursel, that’s a’ Jeanie cares about.”

An’ she stands an’ looks after him till he’s out o’ sight; an’ as she turns about, “Jeanie! my ain Jeanie!” says James, takin’ her in his arms.

“My ain gude and aye kind brither!” said Jeanie, resting her head on his shouther.

“She’ll no speak to _me_, nae doubt,” says William, his voice shakin’ a wee.

“Ah, ye wicked callant!” says Jeanie, kissing his cheek. “But ye mauna plague me nae mair; na, ye’ll no daur do’t!”

“No!” cries William, “I’m sure I’m fit for a’ that Geordie Wilson can do ony day, an’ maybe mair.”

Jeanie was gaun to answer, but she got her ee on the miller standing at the door.

“I maun hae _his_ blessing first,” she cries, “and then Jeanie’s heart will be at peace.”

When the miller saw her coming, he gaes slowly back to his ain room, an’ in she comes after him, and, “Bless me, bless your bairn, my gude auld father!—you that’s been father an’ mither, an’ a’ to her since before she could guide hersel! Bless your Jeanie, an’ she’ll hae naething mair to wish for!”

“How like she’s to her mither!” said the miller in a low voice; “but ye’ll no mind her sae weel, Jeanie. I mind weel, that on the night before she dee’t, an’ when I was like ane distrackit, ‘It’s the will o’ Providence, John,’ says she, ‘and we maun a’ bow till’t; but dinna ye grieve sae sair for my loss, John; for young as she is yet, my heart tells me that I’m leaving ane ahint me, wha’ll be a blessing an’ a comfort to ye when I’m awa;’ and ne’er were truer words spoken,” continued the miller, “for ne’er frae that day to this was her father’s heart wae for Jeanie; sae bless you, my bairn, an’ may a’ that’s gude attend ye, an’ may ye be spared to be a comfort and an example to a’ around ye, lang, lang after your auld father’s head’s laid low.” An’ as he raised her frae her knees he kissed her, an’ then turned slowly frae her, an’ Jeanie slippit saftly awa.

On the neist Friday the twa marriages took place, an’ a’ the folk sat down to a gude an’ a plentifu’ dinner, an’ there was an unco deal o’ fun an’ laughing gaed on. An’ when dinner was ower and thanks returned, the miller cried for a’ to fill a fu’, fu’ bumper. “An’ now,” says he, “we’ll dring King James’s health, an’ lang may he and his rule ower us.”

This led them to speak o’ his coming there as John Murdoch; and some o’ them that hadna heard the hale story, askit the miller to tell’t.

“Wi’ a’ my heart,” quoth the miller; “but first open that cage-door, Jeanie, for it’s no fitting that _it_, wha had sae muckle share in’t, should be a prisoner at sic a time.”

An’ the robin cam fleein’ out to the miller’s whistle, an’ lightit on the table beside him.

When the miller was dune wi’ the story, “An’ now, frien’s,” said he, “ye may learn this frae it, that it’s aye best to do as muckle gude and as little ill as we can. But there’s a time for a’thing,” continued he; “sae here, Jeanie, my dawtie, put ye by the robin again; and now, lads, round wi’ the whisky.”

They a’ sat crackin’ an’ laughin’ thegither, till it was time for Geordie an’ his wife to be settin’ aff for the Hope, and the rest o’ the folk gaed wi’ them, an’ a’ was quiet at the mill again.

In twa year after that, William was married to Elie Allison. And when he was three score and ten, the miller yielded up his spirit to Him that gied it; an’ when King James heard that he was dead, he said publicly, that he had lost a gude subject and an honest man, and that he wished there was mair folk in the kintra like John Marshall.

And James succeeded to his father; an’ after James cam James’s sons, and their sons after them for never sae lang; and, for aught I ken to the contrair, there’s a Marshall in the Mill o’ Doune at this day.—“_The Odd Volume._”

THE HEADLESS CUMINS.

BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.

In the parish of Edinkellie, a place towards the centre of Morayshire, in the northern part of Scotland, there is a romantic and fearful chasm, supposed to have been at one time the bed of the river Divie. It has two entrances at the upper end, and the ancient courses which led the river into these successively are easily traceable. The lower extremity of the ravine terminates abruptly about forty feet high above the Divie, that flows at its base. This spot is one of a very interesting nature. Its name in Gaelic signifies “the Hollow of the Heads;” a name originating, it is said, in the following transaction:—

Near the upper end of the ravine there is a curious cavern, formed of huge masses of fallen crags, that cover the bottom of the place. It enters downwards like a pit, and the mouth, which is no more than wide enough to admit a man, is not easily discovered. Here it was that the brave Allister Bane secreted himself after the Battle of the Lost Standard. At this time the Castle of Dunphail was besieged by Randolph, Earl of Moray; and Allister Bane, who could no longer make head against him in the open field, contented himself with harassing the enemy. Knowing that his father and his garrison were reduced to great want, he and a few of his followers disguised themselves as countrymen, and, driving a parcel of horses, yoked in rude sledges, laden with sacks, they came to the edge of the glen where Randolph’s beleaguering party lay, and, pretending to be peasants carrying meal from the low country to the Highlands, they entreated their protection from one Allister Bane, of whom they were afraid. Their prayer being granted, they unyoked their horses, and took care to leave their sledges at the brink of the precipice, so that, on a given signal agreed on with the garrison, they tumbled sledges, sacks, and all over into the glen below, and the garrison, making a sally at the same time, each man bore off a sack on his back, whilst the pretended peasants sprang on their horses, and were out of sight before the astonished sentinels of the enemy had well given the alarm.

Randolph was so provoked on learning who the author of this trick was, that he set a price upon his head. A certain private pique led a Cumin to betray his master’s lurking-place. His enemies hurried to the spot to make sure of their game; but when they saw the small uncouth-looking aperture, they paused in a circle round it. One only could descend at a time, and the death of him who should attempt it was certain; for the red glare of the Cumin’s eye in the obscurity within, and the flash of his dirk-blade, showed that he had wound up his dauntless soul to die with the “_courage_” of the lion on his crest. They called on him to surrender at discretion. He replied by howling a deep note of defiance from the dark womb of the rocks,—“Let me but come out, and with my back to that crag, I will live or die like a Cumin!” “No!” exclaimed the leader of his foes; “thou shalt die like a fox as thou art!” Brushwood was quickly piled over the hole, but no word of entreaty for mercy ascended from below. Heap after heap was set fire to, and crammed blazing down upon him. His struggles to force a way upwards were easily repelled by those above, and after a sufficient quantity of burning matter had been thrust in to ensure his suffocation, they rolled stones over the mouth of the hole.

When the cruel deed was done, and the hole opened, Allister Bane was found reclining in one corner, his head muffled in his plaid, and resting on the pummel of his sword, with two or three attendants around him, all dead. To make sure of them, their heads were cut off and thrown, one after another, into the fortress, with this horrible taunt to the old man,—“Your son provided you with meal, and we now send you flesh to eat with it.” The veteran warrior recognised the fair head of his son. “It is a bitter morsel indeed,” said he, as he took it up, kissed it, and wept over it; “but I will gnaw the last bone of it before I surrender.”

THE LADY ISABEL: _A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY_.

The Lady Isabel was a Scottish baron’s daughter, and far was she famed. Were others fair, she was fairer; were others rich, she was richer. In short, all perfections were said to be centred in the Lady Isabel, and yet that quality for which she ought to have been most prized, seemed the one which made the least noise in the world,—this was her devoted duty to her father. She was his only child—the child of his old age, the idol of his heart, and the lamp of his life. But still was he a cruel father; for in return for her duteous affection, he had determined to wed her to a man she had never seen, while he knew that her heart was another’s.

The Lord of Ormisdale was the son of his ancient friend, and the possessor of broad lands in a distant part of Scotland. The two old men had sworn to each other that their children should be united, but ere this paction, the youth had been sent abroad to be initiated in the art of war—an art but too much practised in his native country at that time; for be it known that our peerless beauty bloomed in the 15th century, when the feuds of the Scottish nobility were frequent and deadly. Much was bruited abroad of the goodly person and brave qualities of the young earl, but of this Lady Isabel had no opportunity of judging, for never, as has been told, had she seen him. She had, however, but too often seen his cousin Roderick, and to him was her heart devoted. It was true he had neither title, nor lands, nor vassals; but he was a handsome, a noble, and a gallant youth, and he had knelt at her feet, confessed his love, and swore eternal constancy; and though, when she thought of her father, she turned coldly away, it was but to treasure his image in her heart, and to weep most bitter tears for the hapless fate which doomed her to wed another. Roderick, by-and-by, went away to a foreign land, distraught by his passion for the Lady Isabel; and the time was long, and he returned not, and none spoke of him, or seemed to think of him, save his disconsolate love. But it was not so; for the old Baron loved him for his worth and manly bearing; and when he saw his daughter drooping her head like a lily, he too was unhappy, and repented him of his rash vow, though he would rather have sacrificed his own life, and hers too, than have broken his oath. And so time passed on, and many were the suitors that sought the hand of the Lady Isabel. Some loved her for herself, some for her great possessions, and some for both; but all were sent hopeless away.

And now the time was at hand when the sun was to shine upon the nineteenth birthday of the baron’s daughter, and multitudes were invited to his castle to celebrate the festival with mirth and revelry. Many were the reasons on which he had thrown wide his castle gates and welcomed numerous guests, and ample the hospitable provision he had made for them; but never, during his life, or that of his forefathers, had there been such doings as now. Whole hecatombs of sheep and oxen bled on the occasion, with wain-loads of deer, wild and tame fowl, and other creatures. Every country seemed to have been taxed for fruit and other delicacies, while beer of the strongest, and wines of the richest, seemed, by the quantities provided, to be intended absolutely to flow in rivers. The birthday of the Lady Isabel had been celebrated, as it came round, ever since that on which she first drew her breath, but never had there been even imagined such preparations as this. The tongues of all the gossiping old dowagers in the kingdom were set a-going on the occasion: some assigned one reason for this extraordinary entertainment, and some another. There were several whose eager curiosity caused them so much uneasiness, that they went so far as to ask an explanation of the old baron himself. They were all, however, foiled in the attempt to penetrate the mystery, and therefore settled in their own minds that the old man had either lost his wits altogether, or was in his dotage.

Nor, to speak the truth, did the young lady, on whose account was all this turmoil, feel less surprised than other people at her father’s unbounded extravagance, especially as there arrived from the capital chest after chest, packed with the richest vestments, cut in the approved fashion of the day, and boxes filled with jewellery, which, added to the family gems she already possessed, might have furnished the dowry of a princess.

The day at length arrived for which all this extraordinary preparation had been made; and the baron, not content with charging his daughter to apparel herself in a suit which, by its exceeding splendour, seemed to have been particularly intended for the occasion, and to wear her most costly jewels, also commanded her maidens to tax their wits in ornamenting and setting off, to the best advantage, the charms of their young mistress.

And now, after having arranged all things, and being promised implicit obedience by his daughter, the mystery of all his magnificent proceedings was partly unravelled by his telling her that they were that night to expect the arrival of the Earl of Ormisdale. He moreover presented her with a mask, and informed her that he had taken order that each of his guests should put on a visor before they enter the ball-room, after they left the banqueting-hall, and that he had done this for her sake, that the eye of idle curiosity should not read in her features what was passing in her mind when she first met her betrothed. It was in vain that the afflicted Lady Isabel pled most movingly for a more private meeting, for her father was deaf to her entreaties, while he affirmed that his precaution of the visor would do away all objections, and was so peremptory in the matter, that, as usual, she acquiesced; and having thanked and kissed his dutiful daughter, he withdrew from her with renewed youth in his step, and joy in his eye. How different, however, were the feelings of his daughter on this momentous subject! and sore averse was she to meet the man she was sure that she could never love; and many were the tears shed, and many the resolves she made to retract all her promises, and live and die in solitude. But then she bethought her of the despair of her poor old father—of his tender, though mistaken love—of the few remaining years of his life embittered by disappointment—and his death probably hurried on through her means. All this was too much when laid in the balance with only her own happiness, and she still sustained the character of a dutiful daughter, by heroically determining to sacrifice all selfishness at the altar of filial duty and affection.

But though this was her ultimate resolve, we need not be surprised that, when decked in her splendid attire, and presiding in the gorgeous banqueting-hall of her father, she looked and felt as if assisting at a funeral feast, and that she even then would have been the better of the visor to prevent many conjectures on what her saddened looks might mean. But the time for assuming the mask arrived, and the nobles of the land, with their haughty dames, and many a knight, and many a damsel fair, bedight in silk and cloth of gold, and blazing with jewels, graced the tapestried ball-room, on which a flood of brilliant light was poured from lamp and torch. And each in joyous mood, cheered by the merry minstrels, and by the sound of harp and viol, impatiently awaited the commencement of the dance, when they were informed that it was stayed for an expected and honourable guest. And now again curiosity was at its height. But presently there was a flourish of the music, and a cry of the ushers to make way for the noble Earl of Ormisdale, and the large doors at the foot of the hall were flung wide open, and the gallant young earl, masked, and attended by a train of young gentlemen, all his kinsmen, or picked and chosen friends, advanced amid murmurs of admiration to the middle of the hall. Here they were met and welcomed by the baron, who led the earl to his lovely daughter, and having presented him to her, the guests were presently gratified by seeing the gallant young nobleman take the hand of the Lady Isabel, and lead her out to dance. Nor were there any present whose eyes did not follow them with admiration, though the measure chosen by the high-born damsel savoured more that night of grace and dignity than lightness of either heart or heel. Meantime, the old baron was so full of joy and delight, that it was remarked by all, as he was still seen near his daughter and her partner. But their hearts were both quaking: the unhappy Lady Isabel’s with thinking of her promise to her father, and that of her betrothed with a fear known only to himself, for he had heard that she had loved, and now observed her narrowly. And, not content with this, he asked her, as he sat beside her, many a wily question, till at last he spoke his fears in plain guise, and she, with many sighs and tears shed within her mask, confessed the truth; still saying, that for her father’s sake she would be his wife, if he accepted of her on such terms. But now her father whispered to her that she must presently prepare to keep her word, as this must be her bridal-night, for to that purpose alone was this high wassail kept. Her lover, too, no way daunted by his knowledge of her heart, pressed on his suit to have it so. And now was the despairing damsel almost beside herself, when her father, announcing aloud his purpose to the astonished guests, called for the priest, and caused all to unmask. But in what words shall we paint the surprise, the delight, the flood of joy that came upon the heart of the Lady Isabel, when the earl’s mask was removed, and she beheld in him her much beloved Roderick, who, his cousin being dead, was now the Earl of Ormisdale!

And now was each corner of the castle, from basement stone to turret height, filled with joyous greetings, and the health and happiness of the noble Earl Roderick, and of his bride, the dutiful Lady Isabel, deeply drank in many a wassail bowl.

The stately castle and its revels, the proud baron and his pomp, the beauteous dame and her children’s children, have now passed away into oblivion, save this slight record, which has only been preserved in remembrance of the daughter’s virtue, who preferred her father’s happiness to her own.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1833.

THE DESPERATE DUEL.

BY D. M. MOIR, M.D.

Nay, never shake thy gory locks at me; Thou canst not say I did it!—_Macbeth._

It was on a fine summer morning, somewhere about four o’clock, when I waukened from my night’s rest, and was about thinking to bestir mysel, that I heard the sound of voices in the kail-yard, stretching south frae our back windows. I listened—and I listened—and I better listened—and still the sound of the argle-bargling became more distinct, now in a fleeching way, and now in harsh angry tones, as if some quarrelsome disagreement had ta’en place. I hadna the comfort of my wife’s company in this dilemma; she being awa, three days before, on the top of Tammy Trundle the carrier’s cart, to Lauder, on a visit to her folks there; her mother (my gudemother, like) having been for some time ill, with an income in her leg, which threatened to make a lameter of her in her old age; the twa doctors there, no speaking of the blacksmith, and sundry skeely old women, being able to mak naething of the business; so nane happened to be wi’ me in the room, saving wee Benjie, who was lying asleep at the back of the bed, with his little Kilmarnock on his head, as sound as a top. Nevertheless, I lookit for my claes; and opening one-half of the window-shutter, I saw four young birkies well dressed; indeed three of them customers of my ain, all belanging to the toun; twa of them young doctors; ane of them a writer’s clerk; and the ither a grocer; the hale looking very fierce and fearsome, like turkey cocks; swaggering about with their hands and arms as if they had been the king’s dragoons; and priming a pair of pistols, which ane of the surgeons, a speerity, out-spoken lad, Maister Blister, was haddin’ in his grip.

I jaloused at ance what they were after, being now a wee up to firearms; so I saw that skaith was to come o’t, and that I wad be wanting in my duty on four heads—first, as a Christian; second, as a man; third, as a subject; and fourth, as a father, if I withheld mysel frae the scene, nor lifted up my voice, however fruitlessly, against such crying iniquity as the wanton letting out of human blood; sae furth I hastened—half-dressed, with my gray stockings rolled up my thighs, over my corduroys, and my auld hat aboon my cowl—to the kail-yard of contention.

I was just in the nick of time, and my presence checked the effusion of blood for a little;—but wait a wee. So high and furious were at least three of the party, that I saw it was catching water in a sieve to waste words on them, knowing, as clearly as the sun serves the world, that interceding would be of no avail. Howsomever, I made a feint, and threatened to bowl awa for a magistrait, if they wadna desist, and stop from their barbarous and bluidy purpose; but, i’fegs, I had better have keepit my counsel till it was asked for.

“Tailor Mansie,” quoth Maister Thomas Blister, with a furious cock of his eye (he was a queer Eirish birkie, come ower for his yedication), “since ye have ventured to thrust your nose,” said he, “where nobody invited ye, you must just stay,” said he, “and abide by the consequences. This is an affair of honour,” quoth he; “and if ye venture to stir one foot from the spot, och then,” said he, “by the poker of St Patrick, but whisk through ye goes one of these leaden playthings, as sure as ye ever spoiled a coat, or cabbaged broadcloth. Ye have now come out, ye observe, hark ye,” said ye, “and are art and part in the business;—and, if one, or both, of the principals be killed, poor devils,” said he, “we are all alike liable to take our trial before the Justiciary Court, hark ye; and, by the powers,” said he, “I doubt not but that, on proper consideration, they will allow us to get off mercifully, on this side of hanging, by a verdict of manslaughter.”

’Od, I fund mysel immediately in a scrape; but how to get out of it baffled my gumption. It set me all a shivering; yet I thought that, come the warst when it wad, they surely wad not hang the faither of a helpless sma family, that had naething but his needle for their support, if I made a proper affidavy, about having tried to make peace between the youths. So, conscience being a brave supporter, I abode in silence, though not without many queer and qualmish thochts, and a pit-patting of the heart, no unco pleasant in the tholing.

“Blood and wounds!” bawled Maister Thomas Blister, “it would be a disgrace for ever on the honourable profession of physic,” egging on puir Maister Willie Magneezhy, whose face was as white as double-bleached linen, “to make any apology for such an insult. You not fit to doctor a cat,—you not fit to bleed a calf,—you not fit to poultice a pig,—after three years apprenticeship,” said he, “and a winter with Doctor Monro? By the cupping-glasses of ’Pocrates,” said he, “and by the pistol of Gallon, but I would have caned him on the spot, if he had just let out half as much to me. Look ye, man,” said he, “look ye, man, he is all shaking” (this was the truth); “he’ll turn tail. At him like fire, Willie.”

Magneezhy, though sadly frightened, looked a thocht brighter, and made a kind o’ half stap forrit. “Say that ye’ll ask my pardon once more,—and if no,” said the puir lad, with a voice broken and trembling, “then we must just shoot one another.”

“Devil a bit,” answered Mr Bloatsheet, “devil a bit. No, sir; you must down on your bare knees, and beg ten thousand pardons for calling me out here, in a raw morning; or I’ll have a shot at you, whether you will or no.”

“Will you stand that?” said Blister, with eyes like burning coals. “By the living jingo and the holy poker, Magneezhy, if you stand that—if you stand that, I say, I stand no longer your second, but leave you to disgrace, and a caning. If he likes to shoot you like a dog, and not as a gentleman, then let him do it and be done.”

“No, sir,” replied Magneezhy, with a quivering voice, which he tried in vain, puir fellow, to render warlike (he had never been in the volunteers, like me). “Hand us the pistols, then, and let us do or die!”

“Spoken like a hero, and brother of the lancet: as little afraid at the sight of your own blood, as at that of your patients,” said Blister. “Hand over the pistols.”

It was an awfu’ business. Gude save us, such goings on in a Christian land! While Mr Bloatsheet, the young writer, was in the act of doing what he was bid, I again, but to no purpose, endeavoured to slip in a word edgeways. Magneezhy was in an awfu’ case; if he had been already shot, he could not have looked mair clay and corpse-like; so I took a kind of whispering, while the stramash was drawing to a bloody conclusion, with Maister Harry Molasses, the fourth in the spree, who was standing behind Bloatsheet, with a large mahogany box under his arm, something in shape like that of a licensed packman, ganging about from house to house through the country-side, selling toys and trinkets, or niffering plated ear-rings and sic like, wi’ young lasses, for auld silver coins or cracked tea-spoons.

“Oh!” answered he, very composedly, as if it had been a canister fu’ of black rappee, or blackguard, that he had just lifted down from his tap shelf, “it’s just Doctor Blister’s saws, whittles, and big knives, in case ony of their legs or arms be blawn away, that he may cut them off.” Little wad have prevented me sinking down through the ground, had I not remembered, at the preceese moment, that I myself was a soldier, and liable, when the hour of danger threatened, to be called out, in marching order, to the field of battle. But by this time the pistols were handed to the two infatuated young men—Mr Bloatsheet, as fierce as a hussar dragoon, and Magneezhy, as supple in the knees as if he was all on oiled hinges; so the next consideration was to get weel out of the way, the lookers-on running nearly as great a chance of being shot as the principals, they no being accustomed, like me, for instance, to the use of arms; on which account, I scougged mysel behind a big pear-tree; baith being to fire when Blister gied the word “Off!”

I had hardly jouked into my hidy-hole, when “crack, crack” played the pistols like lightning, and as soon as I got my cowl ta’en from my een, and looked about, wae’s me, I saw Magneezhy clap his hand to his brow, wheel round like a peerie, or a sheep seized wi’ the sturdie, and then play flap down on his braidside, breaking the necks of half a dozen cabbage-stocks, three of which were afterwards clean lost, as we couldna pit them all into the pat at ae time. The hale o’ us ran forrit, but foremost was Bloatsheet, who, seizing Magneezhy by the hand, said wi’ a mournful face, “I hope you forgive me?—Only say this as long as you have breath, for I am off to Leith harbour in half a minute.”

The blude was rinning ower puir Magneezhy’s een, and drib-dribbling frae the neb o’ his nose; so he was truly in a pitiful state; but he said with more strength than I thocht he could have mustered,—“Yes, yes, fly for your life, I am dying without much pain—fly for your life, for I am a gone man!”

Bloatsheet bounced through the bit kail-yard like a maukin, clamb ower the bit wa’, and aff like mad; while Blister was feeling Magneezhy’s pulse with ane hand, and looking at his doctor’s watch, which he had in the ither.

“Do ye think that the puir lad will live, doctor?” said I till him.

He gave his head a wise shake, and only observed, “I dare say, it will be a hanging business amang us. In what direction do you think, Mansie, we should all take flight?”

But I answered bravely, “Flee them that will, I’se flee nane. If am ta’en prisoner, the town-officers maun haul me frae my ain house; but nevertheless I trust the visibility of my innocence will be as plain as a pikestaff to the een of the fifteen.”

“What then, Mansie, will we do with poor Magneezhy? Give us your advice in need.”

“Let us carry him down to my ain bed,” answered I; “I wad not desert a fellow-creature in his dying hour! Help me down wi’ him, and then flee the country as fast as you are able!”

We immediately proceeded, and lifted the poor lad, wha had now dwaumed away, upon our wife’s hand-barrow, Blister taking the feet, and me the oxters, whereby I got my waistcoat a’ japanned with blude; so, when we got him laid right, we proceeded to carry him between us down the close, just as if he had been a stickit sheep, and in at the back door, which cost us some trouble, being narrow, and the barrow getting jammed in; but, at lang and last, we got him streeked out aboon the blankets, having previously shooken Benjie, and waukened him out of his morning’s nap.

A’ this being accomplished, and got ower, Blister decamped, leaving me my leeful lane, excepting Benjie, wha was next to naebody, in the house with the deein’ man. What a frightfu’ face he had, all smeared ower with blude and pouther! And I really jaloused, that if he deed in that room, it wad be haunted for ever mair, he being in a manner a murdered man, so that, even should I be acquitted of art and part, his ghaist might still come to bother us, making our house a hell upon yirth, and frightening us out of our seven senses. But, in the midst of my dreadful surmeeses, when all was still, so that you might hae heard a pin fall, a knock-knock-knock cam to the door, on which, recovering my senses, I dreaded first that it was the death-chap, and syne that the affair had gotten wind, and that it was the beagles come in search of me; so I kissed little Benjie, wha was sitting on his creepie, blubbering and greeting for his parritch, while a tear stood in my ain ee, as I gaed forrit to lift the sneck, to let the officers, as I thocht, harry our house, by carrying aff me, its master; but it was—thank Heaven!—only Tammy Bodkin coming in whistling to his wark with some measuring-papers hinging round his neck.

“Ah, Tammy,” said I to him, my heart warming at a kent face, and making the laddie, although my bounden servant by a regular indenture of five years, a friend in my need, “come in, my man. I fear ye’ll hae to tak charge of the business for some time to come. Mind what I tell’d ye about the shaping and the cutting, and no making the goose ower warm, as I doubt I am about to be harled awa to the Tolbooth.”

Tammy’s heart louped to his mouth.

“Ay, maister,” he said, “ye’re joking. What should ye have done that ye should be ta’en to sic an ill place?”

“Ah, Tammy, lad,” answered I, “it is but ower true.”

“Weel, weel,” quo’ Tammy—I really thought it a great deal of the laddie—“weel, weel, they canna prevent me coming to sew beside ye; and, if I can tak the measure of customers without, ye can cut the claith within. But what is’t for, maister?”

“Come in here,” said I to him, “and believe your ain een, Tammy, my man.”

“Losh me!” cried the puir laddie, glowering at the bluidy face of the man in the bed. “Ay—ay—ay! maister; save us, maister; ay—ay—ay—you have na cloured his harnpan wi’ the goose? Ay, maister, maister! what an unyirthly sight!! I doubt they’ll hang us a’;—you for doing’t, and me on suspicion, and Benjie as art and part, puir thing. But I’ll rin for a doctor. Will I, maister?”

The thocht had never struck me before, being in a sort of a manner dung stupid; but catching up the word, I said wi’ all my pith and birr, “Rin, rin, Tammy, rin for life and death!”

Tammy bolted like a nine-year-auld, never looking ahint his tail: so, in less than ten minutes, he returned, hauling alang auld Doctor Gripes, whom he had wakened out o’ his bed by the lug and horn, at the very time I was trying to quiet young Benjie, wha was following me up and doun the house, as I was pacing to and fro in distraction, girning and whinging for his breakfast.

“Bad business, bad business; bless us, what is this?” said the auld doctor, staring at Magneezhy’s bluidy face through his silver spectacles—“What’s the matter?”

The puir patient knew at once his maister’s tongue, and, lifting up ane of his eyes—the other being stiff and barkened down—said in a melancholy voice, “Ah, master, do ye think I’ll get better?”

Doctor Gripes, auld man as he was, started back, as if he had been a French dancing-master, or had strampit on a het bar of iron. “Tom, Tom, is this you? What, in the name of wonder, has done this?” Then feeling his wrist—“But your pulse is quite good. Have you fallen, boy? Where is the blood coming from?”

“Somewhere about the hairy scaup,” answered Magneezhy, in his own sort of lingo. “I doubt some artery’s cut through!”

The doctor immediately bade him lie quiet, and hush, as he was getting a needle and silken thread ready to sew it up; ordering me to get a basin and water ready, to wash the puir lad’s physog. I did so as hard as I was able, though I wasna sure about the blude just; auld Doctor Gripes watching ower my shouther, wi’ a lighted penny candle in ae hand, and the needle and thread in the ither, to see where the bluid spouted frae. But we were as daft as wise; so he bade me tak my big shears, and cut out a’ the hair on the fore part of the head as bare as my loof; and syne we washed, and better washed; so Magneezhy got the ither ee up, when the barkened blude was loosed, looking, though as pale as a clean shirt, mair frighted than hurt; until it became plain to us all, first to the doctor, syne to me, and syne to Tammy Bodkin, and last of a’ to Magneezhy himsel, that his skin was na sae much as peeled; so we helped him out of the bed, and blithe was I to see the lad standing on the floor, without a haud, on his ain feet.

I did my best to clean his neckcloth and sark-neck of the blude, making him look as decentish as possible, considering circumstances; and lending him, as the Scripture commands, my tartan mantle to hide the infirmity of his bluidy breeks and waistcoat. Hame gaed he and his maister thegither, me standing at our close mouth, wishing them a gude morning, and blithe to see their backs. Indeed, a condemned thief with the rope about his neck, and the white cowl tied ower his een, to say naething of his hands yerked thegither behind his back, and on the nick of being thrown ower, couldna been mair thankfu’ for a reprieve than I was, at the same blessed moment. It was like Adam seeing the deil’s rear marching out o’ Paradise, if ane may be allowed to think sic a thing.

The hale business—tag, rag, and bobtail—soon, however, spunkit out, and was the town talk for mair than ae day. But ye’ll hear.

At the first I pitied the puir lads, that I thocht had fled for ever and aye from their native country to Bengal, Seringapatam, Copenhagen, Botany Bay, or Jamaica; leaving behint them all their friends and auld Scotland, as they might never hear o’ the gudeness of Providence in their behalf. But—wait a wee.

Wad ye believe it? As sure’s death, the hale was but a wicked trick played by that mischievous loon Blister and his cronies, upon ane that was a simple and saft-headed callant. Deil a haet was in the ae pistol but a pluff o’ pouther; and, in the ither, a cartridge paper, fu’ o’ bull’s blood, was rammed down upon the charge, the which, hiting Magneezhy on the ee-bree, had caused a business that seemed to have put him out o’ life, and nearly put me (though ane of the volunteers) out of my seven senses.—_Mansie Wauch._

THE VACANT CHAIR.

BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

You have all heard of the Cheviot mountains. They are a rough, rugged, majestic chain of hills, which a poet might term the Roman wall of nature; crowned with snow, belted with storms, surrounded by pastures and fruitful fields, and still dividing the northern portion of Great Britain from the southern. With their proud summits piercing the clouds, and their dark, rocky declivities frowning upon the glens below, thay appear symbolical of the wild and untamable spirits of the Borderers who once inhabited their sides. We say, you have all heard of the Cheviots, and know them to be very high hills, like a huge clasp riveting England and Scotland together; but we are not aware that you may have heard of Marchlaw, an old, gray-looking farm-house, substantial as a modern fortress, recently, and, for aught we know to the contrary, still inhabited by Peter Elliot, the proprietor of some five hundred surrounding acres. The boundaries of Peter’s farm, indeed, were defined neither by fields, hedges, nor stone walls. A wooden stake here, and a stone there, at considerable distances from each other, were the general landmarks; but neither Peter nor his neighbours considered a few acres worth quarrelling about; and their sheep frequently visited each other’s pastures in a friendly way, harmoniously sharing a family dinner, in the same spirit as their masters made themselves free at each other’s tables.

Peter was placed in very unpleasant circumstances, owing to the situation of Marchlaw House, which, unfortunately, was built immediately across the “ideal line,” dividing the two kingdoms; and his misfortune was, that, being born within it, he knew not whether he was an Englishman or a Scotchman. He could trace his ancestral line no farther back than his great-grandfather, who, it appeared from the family Bible, had, together with his grandfather and father, claimed Marchlaw as their birthplace. They, however, were not involved in the same perplexities as their descendant. The parlour was distinctly acknowledged to be in Scotland, and two-thirds of the kitchen were as certainly allowed to be in England;—his three ancestors were born in the room over the parlour, and, therefore, were Scotchmen beyond question; but Peter, unluckily, being brought into the world before the death of his grandfather, his parents occupied a room immediately over the debatable boundary line which crossed the kitchen. The room, though scarcely eight feet square, was evidently situated between the two countries; but, no one being able to ascertain what portion belonged to each, Peter, after many arguments and altercations upon the subject, was driven to the disagreeable alternative of confessing he knew not what countryman he was. What rendered the confession the more painful was, that it was Peter’s highest ambition to be thought a Scotsman. All his arable land lay on the Scottish side; his mother was collaterally related to the Stuarts; and few families were more ancient or respectable than the Elliots. Peter’s speech, indeed, bewrayed him to be a walking partition between the two kingdoms—a living representation of the Union; for in one word he pronounced the letter _r_ with the broad, masculine sound of the North Briton, and in the next with the liquid _burr_ of the Northumbrians.

Peter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot, Esquire of Marchlaw, in the counties of Northumberland and Roxburgh, was, for many years, the best runner, leaper, and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh. Whirled from his hand, the ponderous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on the wing; and the best “putter” on the Borders quailed from competition. As a feather in his grasp, he seized the unwieldy hammer, swept it round and round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly as swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrunk back, and the spectators burst into a shout. “Well done, squire! the squire for ever!” once exclaimed a servile observer of titles. “Squire! wha are ye squiring at?” returned Peter. “Confound ye! where was ye when I was christened squire? My name’s Peter Elliot—your man, or onybody’s man, at whatever they like!”

Peter’s soul was free, bounding, and buoyant as the wind that carolled in a zephyr, or shouted in a hurricane, upon his native hills; and his body was thirteen stone of healthy substantial flesh, steeped in the spirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage had wrought no change upon him. They who suppose that wedlock transforms the lark into an owl, offer an insult to the lovely beings who, brightening our darkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us that that only is unbecoming in the husband which is disgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty years had passed over them; but Janet was still as kind, and, in his eyes, as beautiful as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her vows at the altar; and he was still as happy, as generous, and as free. Nine fair children sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the youngling of the flock, smiled upon its mother’s knee. Peter had never known sorrow; he was blest in his wife, in his children, in his flocks. He had become richer than his fathers. He was beloved by his neighbours, the tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen: yea, no man envied his prosperity. But a blight passed over the harvest of his joys, and gall was rained into the cup of his felicity.

It was Christmas-day, and a more melancholy-looking sun never rose on the 25th of December. One vast, sable cloud, like a universal pall, overspread the heavens. For weeks the ground had been covered with clear, dazzling snow; and as throughout the day the rain continued its unwearied and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed a character and appearance melancholy and troubled as the heavens. Like a mastiff that has lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was re-echoed from the caves of the mountains, as the lamentations of a legion of invisible spirits. The frowning, snow-clad precipices were instinct with motion, as avalanche upon avalanche, the larger burying the less, crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The simple mountain rills had assumed the majesty of rivers; the broader streams were swollen into the wild torrent, and, gushing forth as cataracts, in fury and in foam, enveloped the valleys in an angry flood. But at Marchlaw the fire blazed blithely; the kitchen groaned beneath the load of preparations for a joyful feast; and glad faces glided from room to room.

Peter Elliot kept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas, as in honour of its being the birthday of Thomas, his first-born, who that day entered his nineteenth year. With a father’s love, his heart yearned for all his children; but Thomas was the pride of his eyes. Cards of apology had not then found their way among our Border hills; and as all knew that, although Peter admitted no spirits within his threshold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was, nevertheless, no niggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without ceremony. The guests were assembled; and the kitchen being the only apartment in the building large enough to contain them, the cloth was spread upon a long, clean, oaken table, stretching from England into Scotland. On the English end of the board were placed a ponderous plum-pudding, studded with temptation, and a smoking sirloin; on Scotland, a savoury and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep’shead and trotters; while the intermediate space was filled with the good things of this life, common to both kingdoms and to the season.

The guests from the north and from the south were arranged promiscuously. Every seat was filled—save one. The chair by Peter’s right hand remained unoccupied. He had raised his hands before his eyes, and besought a blessing on what was placed before them, and was preparing to carve for his visitors, when his eyes fell upon the vacant chair. The knife dropped upon the table. Anxiety flashed across his countenance, like an arrow from an unseen hand.

“Janet, where is Thomas?” he inquired; “hae nane o’ ye seen him?” and, without waiting an answer, he continued—“How is it possible he can be absent at a time like this? And on such a day, too? Excuse me a minute, friends, till I just step out and see if I can find him. Since ever I kept this day, as mony o’ ye ken, he has always been at my right hand, in that very chair; I canna think o’ beginning our dinner while I see it empty.”

“If the filling of the chair be all,” said a pert young sheep-farmer, named Johnson, “I will step into it till Master Thomas arrive.”

“Ye’re not a father, young man,” said Peter, and walked out of the room.

Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became hungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an excellent dinner continued spoiling before them. Mrs Elliot, whose goodnature was the most prominent feature in her character, strove, by every possible effort, to beguile the unpleasant impressions she perceived gathering upon their countenances.

“Peter is just as bad as him,” she remarked, “to hae gane to seek him when he kenned the dinner wouldna keep. And I’m sure Thomas kenned it would be ready at one o’clock to a minute. It’s sae unthinking and unfriendly like to keep folk waiting.” And, endeavouring to smile upon a beautiful black-haired girl of seventeen, who sat by her elbow, she continued in an anxious whisper—“Did ye see naething o’ him, Elizabeth, hinny?”

The maiden blushed deeply; the question evidently gave freedom to a tear, which had, for some time, been an unwilling prisoner in the brightest eyes in the room; and the monosyllable, “No,” that trembled from her lips, was audible only to the ear of the inquirer. In vain Mrs Elliot despatched one of her children after another, in quest of their father and brother; they came and went, but brought no tidings more cheering than the moaning of the hollow wind. Minutes rolled into hours, yet neither came. She perceived the prouder of her guests preparing to withdraw, and, observing that “Thomas’s absence was so singular and unaccountable, and so unlike either him or his father, she didna ken what apology to make to her friends for such treatment; but it was needless waiting, and begged they would use no ceremony, but just begin.”

No second invitation was necessary. Good humour appeared to be restored, and sirloins, pies, pasties, and moorfowl began to disappear like the lost son. For a moment, Mrs Elliot apparently partook in the restoration of cheerfulness; but a low sigh at her elbow again drove the colour from her rosy cheeks. Her eye wandered to the farther end of the table, and rested on the unoccupied seat of her husband, and the vacant chair of her first-born. Her heart fell heavily within her; all the mother gushed into her bosom; and, rising from the table, “What in the world can be the meaning o’ this?” said she, as she hurried, with a troubled countenance, towards the door. Her husband met her on the threshold.

“Where hae ye been, Peter?” said she, eagerly. “Hae ye seen naething o’ him?”

“Naething, naething,” replied he; “is he no cast up yet?” And, with a melancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. His lips quivered, his tongue faltered.

“Gude forgie me,” said he, “and such a day for even an enemy to be out in! I’ve been up and doun every way that I can think on, but not a living creature has seen or heard tell o’ him. Ye’ll excuse me, neebors,” he added, leaving the house; “I must awa again, for I canna rest.”

“I ken by mysel, friends,” said Adam Bell, a decent-looking Northumbrian, “that a faither’s heart is as sensitive as the apple o’ his e’e; and I think we would show a want o’ natural sympathy and respect for our worthy neighbour, if we didna every one get his foot into the stirrup without loss o’ time, and assist him in his search. For, in my rough, country way o’ thinking, it must be something particularly out o’ the common that would tempt Thomas to be amissing. Indeed, I needna say tempt, for there could be no inclination in the way. And our hills,” he concluded, in a lower tone, “are not ower chancy in other respects, besides the breaking up o’ the storm.”

“Oh!” said Mrs Elliot, wringing her hands, “I have had the coming o’ this about me for days and days. My head was growing dizzy with happiness, but thoughts came stealing upon me like ghosts, and I felt a lonely soughing about my heart, without being able to tell the cause; but the cause is come at last! And my dear Thomas—the very pride and staff o’ my life—is lost—lost to me for ever!”

“I ken, Mrs Elliot,” replied the Northumbrian, “it is an easy matter to say compose yourself, for them that dinna ken what it is to feel. But, at the same time, in our plain, country way o’ thinking, we are always ready to believe the worst. I’ve often heard my father say, and I’ve as often remarked it myself, that, before anything happens to a body, there is a something comes ower them, like a cloud before the face o’ the sun; a sort o’ dumb whispering about the breast from the other world. And though I trust there is naething o’ the kind in your case, yet as you observe, when I find myself growing dizzy, as it were, with happiness, it makes good a saying o’ my mother’s, poor body. ‘Bairns, bairns,’ she used to say, ‘there is ower muckle singing in your heads to-night; we will have a shower before bedtime.’ And I never, in my born days, saw it fail.”

At any other period, Mr Bell’s dissertation on presentiments would have been found a fitting text on which to hang all the dreams, wraiths, warnings, and marvellous circumstances, that had been handed down to the company from the days of their grandfathers; but, in the present instance, they were too much occupied in consultation regarding the different routes to be taken in their search.

Twelve horsemen, and some half-dozen pedestrians, were seen hurrying in divers directions from Marchlaw, as the last faint lights of a melancholy day were yielding to the heavy darkness which appeared pressing in solid masses down the sides of the mountains. The wives and daughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who alternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to weep not, for their brother would soon return; while the tears stole down her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother wept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and poured upon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one remained silent. The daughter of Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs Elliot’s elbow at table, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face she held a handkerchief wet with tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively; and, as occasionally her broken sighs burst from their prison house, a significant whisper passed among the younger part of the company.

Mrs Elliot approached her, and taking her hand tenderly within both of hers—“Oh, hinny! hinny!” said she, “yer sighs gae through my heart like a knife! An’ what can I do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love, let us hope for the best. Ye see before ye a sorrowin’ mother—a mother that fondly hoped to see you an’—I canna say it—an’ I am ill qualified to gie comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace! But, oh! let us try and remember the blessed portion, ‘Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,’ an’ inwardly pray for strength to say ‘His will be done!’”

Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to listen.

“No, no, no,” cried the mother, again and again, with increasing anguish, “it’s no the foot o’ my ain bairn;” while her keen gaze still remained riveted upon the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of despair relinquished, till the individual entered, and with a silent and ominous shake of his head, betokened his fruitless efforts. The clock had struck twelve; all were returned, save the father. The wind howled more wildly; the rain poured upon the windows in ceaseless torrents; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of deeper ghostliness to their sepulchral silence; for they sat, each wrapt in forebodings, listening to the storm; and no sounds were heard, save the groans of the mother, the weeping of her children, and the bitter and broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her father’s bosom, refusing to be comforted.

At length the barking of the farm dog announced footsteps at a distance. Every ear was raised to listen, every eye turned to the door; but, before the tread was yet audible to the listeners—“Oh! it is only Peter’s foot!” said the miserable mother, and, weeping, rose to meet him.

“Janet, Janet!” he exclaimed, as he entered, and threw his arms around her neck, “what’s this come upon us at last?”

He cast an inquisitive glance around his dwelling, and a convulsive shiver passed over his manly frame, as his eye again fell on the vacant chair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the company separated not; and low, sorrowful whispers mingled with the lamentations of the parents.

“Neighbours,” said Adam Bell, “the morn is a new day, and we will wait to see what it may bring forth; but, in the meantime, let us read a portion o’ the Divine Word, an’ kneel together in prayer, that, whether or not the day-dawn cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement, the Sun o’ Righteousness may arise wi’ healing on His wings, upon the hearts o’ this afflicted family, an’ upon the hearts o’ all present.”

“Amen!” responded Peter, wringing his hands; and his friend, taking down the “Ha’ Bible,” read the chapter wherein it is written—“It is better to be in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting;” and again the portion which saith—“It is well for me that I have been afflicted, for before I was afflicted I went astray.”

The morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn farewell, all the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned every one to their own house; and the disconsolate father, with his servants, again renewed the search among the hills and surrounding villages.

Days, weeks, months, and years rolled on. Time had subdued the anguish of the parents into a holy calm; but their lost first-born was not forgotten, although no trace of his fate had been discovered. The general belief was, that he had perished on the breaking up of the snow; and the few in whose remembrance he still lived, merely spoke of his death as a “very extraordinary circumstance,” remarking that “he was a wild, venturesome sort o’ lad.”

Christmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliot still kept it in commemoration of the birthday of him who was not. For the first few years after the loss of their son, sadness and silence characterized the party who sat down to dinner at Marchlaw, and still at Peter’s right hand was placed the vacant chair. But, as the younger branches of the family advanced in years, the remembrance of their brother became less poignant. Christmas was, with all around them, a day of rejoicing, and they began to make merry with their friends; while their parents partook in their enjoyment, with a smile, half of approval and half of sorrow.

Twelve years had passed away; Christmas had again come. It was the counterpart of its fatal predecessor. The hills had not yet cast off their summer verdure; the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none of its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though participating in its gladness; and the clear blue sky was tranquil as the sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many visitors had again assembled at Marchlaw. The sons of Mr Elliot, and the young men of the party, were assembled upon a level green near the house, amusing themselves with throwing the hammer, and other Border games, while himself and the elder guests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the sheep-farmer, whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic fellow of two-and-thirty, bore away in every game the palm from all competitors. More than once, as Peter beheld his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of youth glowing in his veins, and, “Oh!” muttered he, in bitterness, “had my Thomas been spared to me, he would hae thrown his heart’s blude after the hammer, before he would hae been beat by e’er a Johnson in the country!”

While he thus soliloquized, and with difficulty restrained an impulse to compete with the victor himself, a dark, foreign-looking, strong-built seaman, unceremoniously approached, and, with his arms folded, cast a look of contempt upon the boasting conqueror. Every eye was turned with a scrutinizing glance upon the stranger. In height he could not exceed five feet nine, but his whole frame was the model of muscular strength; his features open and manly, but deeply sunburnt and weather-beaten; his long, glossy, black hair, curled into ringlets by the breeze and the billow, fell thickly over his temples and forehead; and whiskers of a similar hue, more conspicuous for size than elegance, gave a character of fierceness to a countenance otherwise possessing a striking impress of manly beauty. Without asking permission, he stepped forward, lifted the hammer, and, swinging it around his head, hurled it upwards of five yards beyond Johnson’s most successful throw. “Well done!” shouted the astonished spectators. The heart of Peter Elliott warmed within him, and he was hurrying forward to grasp the stranger by the hand, when the words groaned in his throat, “It was just such a throw as my Thomas would have made!—my own lost Thomas!” The tears burst into his eyes, and, without speaking, he turned back, and hurried towards the house to conceal his emotion.

Successively, at every game, the stranger had defeated all who ventured to oppose him, when a messenger announced that dinner waited their arrival. Some of the guests were already seated, others entering; and, as heretofore, placed beside Mrs Elliot was Elizabeth Bell, still in the noontide of her beauty; but sorrow had passed over her features, like a veil before the countenance of an angel. Johnson, crest-fallen and out of humour at his defeat, seated himself by her side. In early life he had regarded Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections; and, stimulated by the knowledge that Adam Bell would be able to bestow several thousands upon his daughter for a dowry, he yet prosecuted his attentions with unabated assiduity, in despite of the daughter’s aversion and the coldness of her father. Peter had taken his place at the table; and still by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared the vacant chair, the chair of his first-born, whereon none had sat since his mysterious death or disappearance.

“Bairns,” said he, “did nane o’ye ask the sailor to come up and tak a bit o’ dinner wi’ us?”

“We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr Johnson,” whispered one of the sons.

“He is come without asking,” replied the stranger, entering; “and the wind shall blow from a new point if I destroy the mirth or happiness of the company.”

“Ye’re a stranger, young man,” said Peter, “or ye would ken this is no a meeting o’ mirth-makers. But, I assure ye, ye are welcome, heartily welcome. Haste ye, lasses,” he added to the servants; “some o’ ye get a chair for the gentleman.”

“Gentleman, indeed!” muttered Johnson between his teeth.

“Never mind about a chair, my hearties,” said the seaman; “this will do!” And, before Peter could speak to withhold him, he had thrown himself carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated, the twelve years unoccupied chair! The spirit of sacrilege uttering blasphemies from a pulpit could not have smitten a congregation of pious worshippers with deeper horror and consternation, than did this filling of the vacant chair the inhabitants of Marchlaw.

“Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!” said Peter, the words trembling upon his tongue; “but ye cannot—ye cannot sit there!”

“O man! man!” cried Mrs Elliot, “get out o’ that! get out o’ that!—take my chair!—take ony chair i’ the house!—but dinna, dinna sit there! It has never been sat in by mortal being since the death o’ my dear bairn!—and to see it filled by another is a thing I canna endure!”

“Sir! sir!” continued the father, “ye have done it through ignorance, and we excuse ye. But that was my Thomas’s seat! Twelve years this very day—his birthday—he perished, Heaven kens how! He went out from our sight, like the cloud that passes over the hills—never, never to return. And, O sir, spare a father’s feelings! for to see it filled wrings the blood from my heart!”

“Give me your hand, my worthy soul!” exclaimed the seaman; “I revere—nay, hang it! I would die for your feelings! But Tom Elliot was my friend, and I cast anchor in this chair by special commission. I know that a sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing; but as I don’t know how to preach a sermon before telling you, all I have to say is—that Tom aint dead.”

“Not dead!” said Peter, grasping the hand of the stranger, and speaking with an eagerness that almost choked his utterance. “O sir! sir! tell me how!—how!—Did ye say living?—Is my ain Thomas living?”

“Not dead, do ye say?” cried Mrs Elliot, hurrying towards him and grasping his other hand—“not dead! And shall I see my bairn again? Oh! may the blessing o’ Heaven, and the blessing o’ a broken-hearted mother be upon the bearer o’ the gracious tidings! But tell me—tell me, how is it possible? As ye would expect happiness here or hereafter, dinna, dinna deceive me!”

“Deceive you!” returned the stranger, grasping, with impassioned earnestness, their hands in his—“Never!—never! and all I can say is—Tom Elliot is alive and hearty.”

“No, no!” said Elizabeth, rising from her seat, “he does not deceive us; there is that in his countenance which bespeaks a falsehood impossible.” And she also endeavoured to move towards him, when Johnson threw his arm around her to withhold her.

“Hands off, you land-lubber!” exclaimed the seaman, springing towards them, “or, shiver me! I’ll show daylight through your timbers in the turning of a handspike.” And, clasping the lovely girl in his arms, “Betty! Betty, my love!” he cried, “don’t you know your own Tom? Father, mother, don’t you know me? Have you really forgot your own son? If twelve years have made some change on his face, his heart is as sound as ever.”

His father, his mother, and his brothers clung around him, weeping, smiling, and mingling a hundred questions together. He threw his arms around the neck of each, and in answer to their enquiries, replied—“Well! well! there is time enough to answer questions, but not to-day—not to-day!”

“No, my bairn,” said his mother, “we’ll ask you no questions—nobody shall ask you any! But how—how were you torn away from us, my love? And, O hinny! where—where hae you been?”

“It’s a long story, mother,” said he, “and would take a week to tell it. But, howsoever, to make a long story short, you remember when the smugglers were pursued, and wished to conceal their brandy in our house, my father prevented them; they left muttering revenge—and they have been revenged. This day twelve years, I went out with the intention of meeting Elizabeth and her father, when I came upon a party of the gang concealed in Hell’s Hole. In a moment half-a-dozen pistols were held to my breast, and, tying my hands to my sides, they dragged me into the cavern. Here I had not been long their prisoner, when the snow, rolling down the mountains, almost totally blocked up its mouth. On the second night they cut through the snow, and, hurrying me along with them, I was bound to a horse between two, and, before daylight, found myself stowed, like a piece of old junk, in the hold of a smuggling lugger. Within a week I was shipped on board a Dutch man-of-war, and for six years was kept dodging about on different stations, till our old yawning hulk received orders to join the fleet, which was to fight against the gallant Duncan at Camperdown. To think of fighting against my own countrymen—my own flesh and blood—was worse than to be cut to pieces by a cat-o’-nine tails; and, under cover of the smoke of the first broadside, I sprang upon the gunwale, plunged into the sea, and swam for the English fleet. Never, never shall I forget the moment that my feet first trod upon the deck of a British frigate! My nerves felt as firm as her oak, and my heart free as the pennant that waved defiance from her masthead! I was as active as any one during the battle; and when it was over, and I found myself again among my own countrymen, and all speaking my own language, I fancied—nay, hang it! I almost believed—I should meet my father, my mother, or my dear Bess, on board of the British frigate. I expected to see you all again in a few weeks at farthest; but, instead of returning to old England, before I was aware, I found it was helm about with us. As to writing, I never had an opportunity but once. We were anchored before a French fort; a packet was lying alongside ready to sail; I had half a side written, and was scratching my head to think how I should come over writing about you, Bess, my love, when, as bad luck would have it, our lieutenant comes to me, and says he, ‘Elliot,’ says he, ‘I know you like a little smart service; come, my lad, take the head oar, while we board some of those French bum-boats under the batteries.’ I couldn’t say no. We pulled ashore, made a bonfire of one of their craft, and were setting fire to a second, when a deadly shower of small shot from the garrison scuttled our boat, killed our commanding officer with half of the crew, and the few who were left of us were made prisoners. It is of no use bothering you by telling how we escaped from a French prison. We did escape, and Tom once more fills his vacant chair.”

Should any of our readers wish farther acquaintance with our friends, all we can say is, the new year was still young when Adam Bell bestowed his daughter’s hand upon the heir of Marchlaw, and Peter beheld the once vacant chair again occupied, and a namesake of the third generation prattling on his knee.

COLKITTOCH.

The name of Colkittoch often occurs in the history of the great rebellion in the reign of Charles I. By some he is denominated Macdonald of Colkittoch, by others Colkittoch, and by many he is confounded with his son. His name was Coll, or Colle, Macdonald: he was a native of Ireland. His father was Archibald Macdonell, who was an illegitimate son of the Earl of Antrim. With the aid of his partisans, Coll took violent possession of the island of Colonsay, one of the Hebrides, having driven away the Macfees, who had held it for many centuries. Coll was denominated Kittoch, or, more correctly, Ciotach, from his being left-handed. Coll had distinguished himself in the unhappy disturbances in Ireland, and when Lord Antrim sent troops to Scotland as auxiliaries in the royal cause, he served as an officer under his own son, Allister, or Alexander, who had the chief command of the corps. The father and son were well qualified for this service, both of them being well known in the Highlands, and connected by blood or marriage with some of the best families in that country.

Coll was noted for his strength and prowess, though tainted with the cruelty too familiar to his countrymen at that time. He fought in all the battles in which the Irish auxiliaries were engaged under Montrose; he was also concerned in their plundering expeditions in Argyleshire, where private revenge was unfortunately added to the horrors of war. Many of the lyric compositions of those days extol his bravery and his bloody vengeance on his antagonists, the Campbells, though it seems he was on very friendly terms with some of that name.

Coll had possession of the Castle of Duntroon, and having placed a garrison in it, he went to another quarter; but in his absence it was taken by stratagem. He was ignorant of this misfortune, and on his return he steered his boat direct for the castle. His own piper was then a prisoner there; and knowing his master’s boat, to warn him of his danger, he played a tune which he composed for the purpose; and so accurately did the sound correspond with the meaning, that Coll understood the intention, and avoided the castle.

After the defeat of Montrose at Philiphaugh, and the retreat of his son Alexander to Ireland, Coll was left in command of the castle of Dunaovaig, the ancient seat of the Macdonalds of Islay. The garrison consisted of 150 men; but the pipes which conveyed the water being cut by the enemy, on the assurance of Sir David Leslie, who commanded the parliamentary forces, Coll was induced to go out of the castle to hold parley with his old friend Campbell of Dunstaffnage. Leslie basely broke his word, and made Coll prisoner. The Marquis of Argyle was present on the occasion, and was blamed for this. After the Restoration, when Argyle was brought to trial, he was accused of the heinous crime of having ordered this garrison to be put on a rock, surrounded by the sea, to perish without food or water. He denied all knowledge of any such thing; and the proof on this point does not appear satisfactory, nor could we find any tradition in that country of such an atrocious action.

Coll was committed to the custody of the captain of Dunstaffnage, in whose castle he was confined, and the tower where he lay is still named after him. That gentleman being no doubt sensible of the dishonourable treatment his prisoner had received, gave him every possible indulgence. He permitted Coll to walk about the place, but he had cause to repent his lenity. The Marquis of Argyle charged him with misconduct; and dreading the well-known severity of his chief, Dunstaffnage denied it. Argyle swore that if Coll should be found at large, the captain would be severely punished, and a messenger was despatched to ascertain the fact. Dunstaffnage being at Inveraray at the time, ordered his foster-brother to set off with all speed, and outrun the other, which he did; and on coming in sight of the castle, he cried out, “Coll in irons! Coll in irons!” Coll was occupied in superintending the shearing of corn at the time, and was the first who heard the cries. Conjecturing what the cause might be, he instantly retired to his dungeon, and with his own hands put on the irons. He was soon after this brought to trial before the sheriff of Argyle, in the castle where he was confined. Maclean of Ardgour, who originally had been on the royal side, was one of the jury; and wishing to display his zeal for the republican cause, which, with many others, he then espoused, asked Coll if he had been present at the battle of Inverlochy; the prisoner boldly replied, “By my baptism! I was so, carle, and did more service there than thyself.” He was condemned to die, and was executed, by hanging from the mast of his own boat, laid across the cleft of a rock.[11] He suffered death without dismay, requesting that his body might be laid so near that of his friend, the captain of Dunstaffnage, that they might exchange snuff-boxes in their graves; and this request was complied with. The fate of Collkittoch was amply avenged: at the Restoration, his death and sufferings formed some of the most serious and fatal charges against the Marquis of Argyle.—_“Traditions of the Western Highlands,” in the London Literary Gazette._

Footnote 11:

Coll’s execution took place in 1647.

THE COVENANTERS: _A TRADITIONARY TALE OF LANARKSHIRE_.

BY ROBERT MACNISH, LL.D.