CHAPTER II.

“And trow ye,” said the old woman, who, attracted from her hut by the drowning cries of the young fisherman, had remained an auditor of the mariner’s legend; “and trow ye, Mark Macmoran, that the tale of the Haunted Ships is done? I can say no to that. Mickle have my ears heard, but more mine eyes have witnessed since I came to dwell in this humble home by the side of the deep sea. I mind the night weel: it was on Hallow-e’en, the nuts were cracked, and the apples were eaten, and spell and charm were tried at my fireside; till, wearied with diving into the dark waves of futurity, the lads and lasses fairly took to the more visible blessings of kind words, tender clasps, and gentle courtship.

“Soft words in a maiden’s ear, and a kindly kiss o’ her lip, were old world matters to me, Mark Macmoran; though I mean not to say that I have been free of the folly of daundering and daffin’ with a youth in my day, and keeping tryst with him in dark and lonely places. However, as I say, these times of enjoyment were past and gone with me; the mair’s the pity that pleasure should flee sae fast away,—and as I couldna make sport I thought I would not mar any; so out I sauntered into the fresh cold air, and sat down behind that old oak, and looked abroad on the wide sea. I had my ain sad thoughts, ye may think, at the time; it was in that very bay my blythe gudeman perished, with seven more in his company; and on that very bank where ye see the waves leaping and foaming, I saw seven stately corses streeked, but the dearest was the eighth. It was a woful sight to me, a widow, with four bonnie boys, with nought to support them but these twa hands, and God’s blessing, and a cow’s grass. I have never liked to live out of sight of this bay since that time; and mony’s the moonlight night I sit looking on these watery mountains, and these waste shores; it does my heart good, whatever it may do to my head. So ye see it was Hallow-e’en; and looking on sea and land sat I; and my heart wandering to other thoughts soon made me forget my youthful company at hame. It might be near the howe hour of the night; the tide was making, and its singing brought strange old-world stories with it; and I thought on the dangers that sailors endure, the fates they meet with, and the fearful forms they see. My own blithe gude-man had seen sights that made him grave enough at times, though he aye tried to laugh them away.

“Aweel, between that very rock aneath us and the coming tide, I saw, or thought I saw (for the tale is so dream-like that the whole might pass for a vision of the night) the form of a man. His plaid was gray; his face was gray; and his hair, which hung low down till it nearly came to the middle of his back, was as white as the white sea-foam. He began to houk and dig under the bank; and God be near me! thought I, this maun be the unblessed spirit of auld Adam Gowdgowpin, the miser, who is doomed to dig for shipwrecked treasure, and count how many millions are hidden for ever from man’s enjoyment. The form found something, which in shape and hue seemed a left-foot slipper of brass; so down to the tide he marched, and placing it on the water, whirled it thrice round; and the infernal slipper dilated at every turn, till it became a bonnie barge with its sails bent, and on board leaped the form, and scudded swiftly away. He came to one of the haunted ships; and striking it with his oar, a fair ship, with mast and canvas, and mariners, started up: he touched the other haunted ship, and produced the like transformation; and away the three spectre ships bounded, leaving a track of fire behind them on the billows, which was long unextinguished.

“Now wasna that a bonnie and a fearful sight to see beneath the light of the Hallowmas moon? But the tale is far frae finished; for mariners say that once a year, on a certain night, if ye stand on the Borranpoint, ye will see the infernal shallops coming snoring through the Solway; ye will hear the same laugh, and song, and mirth, and minstrelsy, which our ancestors heard; see them bound over the sandbanks and sunken rocks like sea-gulls, cast their anchor in Blawhooly Bay, while the shadowy figures lower down the boat, and augment their numbers with the four unhappy mortals to whose memory a stone stands in the kirkyard, with a sinking ship and a shoreless sea cut upon it. Then the spectre-ships vanish, and the drowning shriek of mortals and the rejoicing laugh of fiends are heard, and the old hulls are left as a memorial that the old spiritual kingdom has not departed from the earth. But I maun away and trim my little cottage fire, and make it burn and blaze up bonnie, to warm the crickets, and my cauld and crazy bones, that maun soon be laid aneath the green sod in the eerie kirkyard.”

And away the old dame tottered to her cottage, secured the door on the inside, and soon the hearth-flame was seen to glimmer and gleam through the key-hole and the window.

“I’ll tell ye what,” said the old mariner, in a subdued tone, and with a shrewd and suspicious glance of his eye after the old sibyl, “it’s a word that may not very well be uttered, but there are many mistakes made in evening stories if old Moll Moray there, where she lives, knows not mickle more than she is willing to tell of the Haunted Ships, and their unhallowed mariners. She lives cannily and quietly; no one knows how she is fed or supported; but her dress is aye whole, her cottage ever smokes, and her table lacks neither of wine, white and red, nor of fowl and fish, and white bread and brown. It was a dear scoff to Jock Matheson, when he called old Moll the uncannie carline of Blawhooly: his boat ran round and round in the centre of the Solway—everybody said it was enchanted—and down it went head foremost; and hadna Jock been a swimmer equal to a sheldrake, he would have fed the fish; but I warrant it sobered the lad’s speech, and he never reckoned himself safe till he made auld Moll the present of a new kirtle and a stone of cheese.”

“O father,” said his granddaughter Barbara, “ye surely wrong poor old Mary Moray: what use could it be to an old woman like her, who has no wrongs to redress, no malice to work out against mankind, and nothing to seek of enjoyment save a cannie hour and a quiet grave—what use could the fellowship of the fiends, and the communion of evil spirits, be to her? I know Jenny Primrose puts rowan-tree above the doorhead when she sees old Mary coming; I know the goodwife of Kittlenacket wears rowan-berry leaves in the head-band of her blue kirtle, and all for the sake of averting the unsonsie glance of Mary’s right ee; and I know that the auld laird of Burntroutwater drives his seven cows to their pasture with a wand of witchtree, to keep Mary from milking them. But what has all that to do with haunted shallops, visionary mariners, and bottomless boats? I have heard myself as pleasant a tale about the Haunted Ships and their unworldly crews as any one would wish to hear in a winter evening. It was told me by young Benjie Macharg, one summer night, sitting on Arbiglandbank; the lad intended a sort of lovemeeting, but all that he could talk of was about smearing sheep and shearing sheep, and of the wife which the Norway elves of the Haunted Ships made for his uncle Sandie Macharg. And I shall tell ye the tale as the honest lad told it to me.

“Alexander Macharg, besides being the laird of three acres of peat-moss, two kail gardens, and the owner of seven good milch cows, a pair of horses, and six pet sheep, was the husband of one of the handsomest women in seven parishes. Many a lad sighed the day he was brided; and a Nithsdale laird and two Annandale moorland farmers drank themselves to their last linen, as well as their last shilling, through sorrow for her loss. But married was the dame; and home she was carried, to bear rule over her home and her husband, as an honest woman should. Now ye maun ken that though flesh-and-blood lovers of Alexander’s bonnie wife all ceased to love and to sue her after she became another’s, there were certain admirers who did not consider their claim at all abated, or their hopes lessened, by the kirk’s famous obstacle of matrimony.

“Ye have heard how the devout minister of Tinwald had a fair son carried away, and bedded against his liking to an unchristened bride, whom the elves and the fairies provided: ye have heard how the bonnie bride of the drunken laird of Soukitup was stolen by the fairies out at the back window of the bridal chamber the time the bridegroom was groping his way to the chamber door; and ye have heard—but why need I multiply cases? Such things in the ancient days were as common as candlelight. So ye’ll no hinder certain water-elves and sea-fairies, who sometimes keep festival and summer mirth in these old haunted hulks, from falling in love with the weel-faured wife of Laird Macharg; and to their plots and contrivances they went, how they might accomplish to sunder man and wife; and sundering such a man and such a wife was like sundering the green leaf from the summer, or the fragrance from the flower.

“So it fell on a time that Laird Macharg took his halve-net on his back, and his steel spear in his hand, and down to Blawhooly Bay gaed he, and into the water he went right between the two haunted hulks, and placing his net awaited the coming of the tide. The night, ye maun ken, was mirk, and the wind lown, and the singing of the increasing waters among the shells and the pebbles was heard for sundry miles. All at once lights began to glance and twinkle on board the two Haunted Ships from every hole and seam, and presently the sound as of a hatchet employed in squaring timber echoed far and wide. But if the toil of these unearthly workmen amazed the laird, how much more was his amazement increased when a sharp shrill voice called out, ‘Ho! brother, what are you doing now?’ A voice still shriller responded from the other haunted ship, ‘I’m making a wife to Sandie Macharg.’ And a loud quavering laugh running from ship to ship, and from bank to bank, told the joy they expected from their labour.

“Now the laird, besides being a devout and a God-fearing man, was shrewd and bold; and in plot and contrivance, and skill in conducting his designs, was fairly an overmatch for any dozen land elves. But the water elves are far more subtle; besides, their haunts and their dwellings being in the great deep, pursuit and detection are hopeless, if they succeed in carrying their prey to the waves. But ye shall hear.

“Home flew the laird, collected his family around the hearth, spoke of the signs and the sins of the times, and talked of mortification and prayer for averting calamity; and finally, taking from the shelf his father’s Bible, brass clasps, black print, and covered with calf-skin, he proceeded, without let or stint, to perform domestic worship. I should have told ye that he bolted and locked the door, shut up all inlet to the house, threw salt into the fire, and proceeded in every way like a man skilful in guarding against the plots of fairies and fiends. His wife looked on all this with wonder; but she saw something in her husband’s looks that hindered her from intruding either question or advice, and a wise woman was she.

“Near the mid-hour of the night the rush of a horse’s feet was heard, and the sound of a rider leaping from his back, and a heavy knock came to the door, accompanied by a voice, saying, ‘The cummer’s drink’s hot, and the knave bairn is expected at Laird Laurie’s to-night; sae mount, gudewife, and come.’

“‘Preserve me!’ said the wife of Sandie Macharg, ‘that’s news indeed! who could have thought it? The laird has been heirless for seventeen years. Now, Sandie, my man, fetch me my skirt and hood.’

“But he laid his arm round his wife’s neck and said—

“‘If all the lairds in Galloway go heirless, over this door threshold shall you not stir to-night; and I have said it, and I have sworn it: seek not to know why and wherefore,—but, Lord, send us Thy blessed moonlight!’

The wife looked for a moment in her husband’s eyes, and desisted from further entreaty.

“‘But let us send a civil message to the gossips, Sandie; and hadna ye better say I’m sair laid wi’ a sudden sickness?—though it’s sinful-like to send the poor messenger a mile agate with a lie in his mouth without a glass of brandy.’

“‘To such a messenger, and to those who sent him, no apology is needed,’ said the austere laird, ‘so let him depart.’

“And the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and the muttered imprecations of its rider on the churlish treatment he had experienced.

“‘Now, Sandie, my lad,’ said his wife, laying an arm particularly white and round about his neck as she spoke, ‘are you not a queer man and a stern? I have been your wedded wife now these three years, and, beside my dower, have brought you three as bonnie bairns as ever smiled aneath a summer sun. O man! you a douce man, and fitter to be an elder than even Willie Greer himsel,—I have the minister’s ain word for’t,—to put on these hard-hearted looks, and gang waving your arms that way, as if ye said, “I winna tak’ the counsel o’ sic a hempie as you.” I’m your ain leal wife, and will and maun hae an explanation.’

“To all this Sandy Macharg replied, ‘It is written, “Wives, obey your husbands;” but we have been stayed in our devotion, so let us pray;’ and down he knelt. His wife knelt also, for she was as devout as bonnie; and beside them knelt their household, and all lights were extinguished.”

“‘Now this beats a’,’ muttered his wife to herself; ‘however, I shall be obedient for a time; but if I dinna ken what all this is for before the morn by sunket-time, my tongue is nae langer a tongue, nor my hands worth wearing.’

“The voice of her husband in prayer interrupted this mental soliloquy; and ardently did he beseech to be preserved from the wiles of the fiends and the snares of Satan; ‘from witches, ghosts, goblins, elves, fairies, spunkies, and water-kelpies; from the spectre shallop of Solway; from spirits visible and invisible; from the Haunted Ships and their unearthly tenants; from maritime spirits that plotted against godly men, and fell in love with their wives’——

“‘Nay, but His presence be near us!’ said his wife in a low tone of dismay. ‘God guide my gudeman’s wits! I never heard such a prayer from human lips before. But, Sandie, my man, for Lord’s sake, rise; what fearful light is this?—barn, and byre, and stable, maun be in a blaze; and Hawkie and Hurley, Doddie and Cherrie, and Damson-plum, will be smoored with reek and scorched with flame.’

“And a flood of light, but not so gross as a common fire, which ascended to heaven and filled all the court before the house, amply justified the good wife’s suspicions. But to the terrors of fire, Sandie was as immovable as he was to the imaginary groans of the barren wife of Laird Laurie; and he held his wife, and threatened the weight of his right hand—and it was a heavy one—to all who ventured abroad, or even unbolted the door. The neighing and prancing of horses, and the bellowing of cows, augmented the horrors of the night; and to any one who only heard the din, it seemed that the whole onstead was in a blaze, and horses and cattle perishing in the flame. All wiles, common or extraordinary, were put in practice to entice or force the honest farmer and his wife to open their door; and when the like success attended every new stratagem, silence for a little while ensued, and a long, loud, and shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic efforts of the night.

“In the morning, when Laird Macharg went to the door, he found standing against one of the pilasters a piece of black ship oak, rudely fashioned into something like a human form, and which skilful people declared would have been clothed with seeming flesh and blood, and palmed upon him by elfin adroitness for his wife, had he admitted his visitants. A synod of wise men and women sat upon the woman of timber, and she was finally ordered to be devoured by fire, and that in the open air. A fire was soon made, and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed from the prongs of two pairs of pitchforks. The blaze that rose was awful to behold; and hissings, and burstings, and loud cracklings, and strange noises, were heard in the midst of the flame; and when the whole sank into ashes, a drinking cup of some precious metal was found; and this cup, fashioned no doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless by the purification with fire, the sons and daughters of Sandie Macharg and his wife drink out of to this day.”

A TALE OF THE MARTYRS.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”

Red Tam Harkness came into the farm-house of Garrick, in the parish of Closeburn, one day, and began to look about for some place to hide in, when the gudewife, whose name was Jane Kilpatrick, said to him in great alarm, “What’s the matter, what’s the matter, Tam Harkness!”

“Hide me, or else I’m a dead man: that’s the present matter, gudewife,” said he. “But yet, when I have time—if ever I hae mair time—I have heavy news for you. For Christ’s sake, hide me, Jane, for the killers are hard at hand.”

Jane Kilpatrick sprung to her feet, but she was quite benumbed and powerless. She ran to one press and opened it, and then to another; there was not room to stuff a clog into either of them. She looked into a bed; there was no shelter there, and her knees began to bend under her weight with terror. The voices of the troopers were by this time heard fast approaching, and Harkness had no other shift but in one moment to conceal himself behind the outer door, which was open, but the place where he stood was quite dark. He heard one of them say to another, “I fear the scoundrel is not here after all. Guard all the outhouses.”

On that three or four of the troop rushed by him, and began to search the house and examine the inmates. Harkness that moment slid out without being observed, and tried to escape up a narrow glen called Kinrivah, immediately behind the house, but unluckily two troopers, who had been in another chase, there met him in the face. When he perceived them, he turned and ran to the eastward; on which they both fired, which raised the alarm, and instantly the whole pack were after him. It was afterwards conjectured that one of the shots had wounded him, for though he, with others, had been nearly surrounded that morning, and twice waylaid, he had quite outrun the soldiers; but now it was observed that some of them began to gain ground on him, and they still continued firing, till at length he fell into a kind of slough east from the farm-house of Locherben, where they came up to him, and ran him through with their bayonets. The spot is called Red Tam’s Gutter to this day.

Jane Kilpatrick was one of the first who went to his mangled corpse—a woful sight, lying in the slough, and sore did she lament the loss of that poor and honest man. But there was more: she came to his corpse by a sort of yearning impatience to learn what was the woful news he had to communicate to her. But, alas! the intelligence was lost, and the man to whose bosom alone it had haply been confided was no more; yet Jane could scarcely prevail on herself to have any fears for her own husband, for she knew him to be in perfectly safe hiding in Glen Govar; still Tam’s last words hung heavy on her mind. They were both suspected to have been at the harmless rising at Enterkin for the relief of a favourite minister, which was effected; and that was the extent of their crime. And though it was only suspicion, four men were shot on the hills that morning without trial or examination, and their bodies forbidden Christian burial.

One of these four was John Weir of Garrick, the husband of Jane Kilpatrick, a man of great worth and honour, and universally respected. He had left his hiding-place in order to carry some intelligence to his friends, and to pray with them, but was entrapped among them and slain. Still there was no intelligence brought to his family, save the single expression that fell from the lips of Thomas Harkness in a moment of distraction. Nevertheless, Jane could not rest, but set out all the way to her sister’s house in Glen Govar, in Crawford Muir, and arrived there at eleven o’clock on a Sabbath evening. The family being at prayers when she went, and the house dark, she stood still behind the hallan, and all the time was convinced that the voice of the man that prayed was the voice of her husband, John Weir. All the time that fervent prayer lasted the tears of joy ran from her eyes, and her heart beat with gratitude to her Maker as she drank into her soul every sentence of the petitions and thanksgiving. Accordingly, when worship was ended, and the candle lighted, she went forward with a light heart and joyful countenance. Her sister embraced her, though manifestly embarrassed and troubled at seeing her there at such a time. From her she flew to embrace her husband, but he stood still like a statue, and did not meet her embrace. She gazed at him—she grew pale, and, sitting down, she covered her face with her apron. This man was one of her husband’s brothers, likewise in hiding, whom she had never before seen; but the tones of his voice, and even the devotional expressions that he used, were so like her husband’s, that she mistook them for his.

All was now grief and consternation, for John Weir had not been seen or heard of there since Wednesday evening, when he had gone to warn his friends of some impending danger; but they all tried to comfort each other as well as they could, and, in particular, by saying they were all in the Lord’s hand, and it behoved Him to do with them as seemed to Him good, with many other expressions of piety and submission. But the next morning, when the two sisters were about to part, the one says to the other,—“Jane, I cannot help telling you a strange confused dream that I had just afore ye wakened me. Ye ken I put nae faith in dreams, and I dinna want you to regard it; but it is as well for friends to tell them to ane anither, and then, if aught turn out like it in the course o’ Providence, it may bring it to baith their minds that their spirits had been conversing with God.”

“Na, na, Aggie, I want nane o’ your confused dreams. I hae other things to think o’, and mony’s the time and oft ye hae deaved me wi’ them, an’ sometimes made me angry.”

“I never bade ye believe them, Jeanie, but I likit aye to tell them to you; and this I daresay rose out o’ our conversation yestreen. But I thought I was away (ye see I dinna ken where I was); and I was feared and confused, thinking I had lost my way. And then I came to an auld man, an’ he says to me, ‘Is it the road to heaven that you are seeking, Aggie?’ An’ I said, ‘Ay,’ for I didna like to deny’t.

“‘Then I’ll tell you where you maun gang,’ said he; ‘ye maun gang up by the head of yon dark, mossy cleuch, an’ you will find ane there that will show you the road to heaven;’ and I said ‘Ay,’ for I didna like to refuse, although it was an uncouth looking road, and ane that I didna like to gang. But when I gaed to the cleuch-head, wha do I see sitting there but your ain gudeman, John Weir, and I thought I never saw him look sae weel; and when I gaed close up to him, there I saw another John Weir, lying strippet to the sark, and a’ bedded in blood. He was cauld dead, and his head turned to ae side, and when I saw siccan a sight, I was terrified, an’ held wide aff him. But I gaed up to the living John Weir, and said to him,—‘Gudeman, how’s this?’

“‘Dinna ye see how it is, sister Aggie?’ says he, ‘I’m just set to herd this poor man that’s lying here.’

“‘Then I think ye’ll no hae a sair post, John,’ says I, ‘for he disna look as if he wad rin far away.’ It was very unreverend o’ me to speak that gate, sister, but these were the words that I thought I said; an’ as it is but a dream, ye ken ye needna heed it.

“‘Alas, poor Aggie,’ says he, ‘ye are still in the gall o’ bitterness. Look ower your right shoulder, an’ ye will see what I hae to do. An’ sae I looked ower my right shoulder, and there saw a hale drove o’ foxes and wulcats, an’ fumarts, an’ martins, an’ corby-craws, an’ a hunder vile beasts, a’ staunin’ round wi’ glaring een, eager to be at the corpse of the dead John Weir; an’ then I was terribly astoundit, an’ I says to him, ‘Gudeman, how is this?’

“‘I am commissioned to keep these awa,’ said he. ‘Do you think these een that are yet open to the light o’ heaven, and that tongue that has to syllable the praises of a Redeemer far within yon sky, should be left to become a prey o’ siccan vermin as these?’

“‘Will it make sae vera muckle difference, John Weir,’ said I, ‘whether the carcass is eaten up by these or by the worms?’

“‘Ah, Aggie, Aggie! worms are worms; but ye little wot what these are,’ says he. ‘But John Weir has warred wi’ them a’ his life, an’ that to some purpose, and they maunna get the advantage o’ him now.’

“‘But which is the right John Weir?’ said I; ‘for here is ane lying stiff and lappered in his blood, and another in health and strength and sound mind.’

“‘I am the right John Weir,’ says he. ‘Did you ever think the good man o’ Garrick could die! Na, na, Aggie; Clavers could only kill the body, an’ that’s but the poorest part o’ the man. But where are you gaun this wild gate?’

“‘I was directed this way on my road to heaven,’ said I.

“‘Ay, an’ ye were directed right, then,’ says he; ‘for this is the direct path to heaven, and there is no other.’

“‘That is very extraordinary,’ says I. ‘And, pray, what is the name of this place, that I may direct my sister Jane, your wife, and all my friends by the same way.’

“‘This is Faith’s Hope,’ says he.

At the mention of this place, Jane Kilpatrick of Garrick rose slowly up to her feet, and held up both her hands. “Hold, hold, sister Aggie,” cried she, “you have told enough. Was it in the head of Faith’s Hope that you saw this vision of my dead husband?”

“Yes; but at the same time I saw your husband alive.”

“Then I fear your dream has a double meaning,” she answered; “for though it appears like a religious allegory, you do not know that there really is such a place, and that not very far from our house. I have often laughed at your dreams, sister, but this one hurries me from you to-day with a heavy and trembling heart.”

Jane left Glen Govar by the break of day, and took her way through the wild ranges of Crawford Muir, straight for the head of Faith’s Hope. She had some bread in her lap, and a little Bible that she always carried with her; and without one to assist or comfort her, she went in search of her lost husband. Before she reached the head of that wild glen, the day was far spent, and the sun wearing down. The valley of Nith lay spread far below her in all its beauty, but around her there was nothing but darkness, dread, and desolation. The mist hovered on the hills, and on the skirts of the mist the ravens sailed about in circles, croaking furiously, which had a most ominous effect on the heart of poor Jane. As she advanced further up, she perceived a fox and an eagle sitting over against each other, watching something which yet they seemed terrified to approach; and right between them, in a little green hollow, surrounded by black haggs, she found the corpse of her husband in the same manner as described by her sister. He was stripped of his coat and vest, which it was thought he had thrown from him when flying from the soldiers, to enable him to effect his escape. He was shot through the heart with two bullets, but nothing relating to his death was ever known, whether he died praying, or was shot as he fled; but there was he found lying, bathed in his blood, in the wilderness, and none of the wild beasts of the forest had dared to touch his lifeless form.

The bitterness of death was now past with poor Jane. Her staff and shield was taken from her right hand, and laid low in death by the violence of wicked men. True, she had still a home to go to, although that home was robbed and spoiled; but she found that without him it was no home, and that where his beloved form reposed, there was the home of her rest. She washed his wounds and the stains of blood from his body, tied her napkin round his face, covered him with her apron, and sat down and watched beside him all the livelong night, praying to the Almighty, and singing hymns and spiritual songs alternately. The next day she warned her friends and neighbours, who went with her the following night, and buried him privately in the northwest corner of the churchyard of Morton.

THE TOWN DRUMMER.

BY JOHN GALT.

For many a year one Robin Boss had been town drummer; he was a relic of some American war fencibles, and was, to say the truth of him, a divor body, with no manner of conduct, saving a very earnest endeavour to fill himself fou as often as he could get the means; the consequence of which was, that his face was as plooky as a curran bun, and his nose as red as a partan’s tae.

One afternoon there was need to send out a proclamation to abolish a practice that was growing into a custom, in some of the by-parts of the town, of keeping swine at large—ordering them to be confined in proper styes, and other suitable places. As on all occasions when the matter to be proclaimed was from the magistrates, Thomas, on this, was attended by the town-officers in their Sunday garbs, and with their halberts in their hands; but the abominable and irreverent creature was so drunk, that he wam’let to and fro over the drum, as if there had not been a bane in his body. He was seemingly as soople and as senseless as a bolster. Still, as this was no new thing with him, it might have passed; for James Hound, the senior officer, was in the practice, when Robin was in that state, of reading the proclamations himself. On this occasion, however, James happened to be absent on some hue and cry quest, and another of the officers (I forget which) was appointed to perform for him. Robin, accustomed to James, no sooner heard the other man begin to read than he began to curse and swear at him as an incapable nincompoop—an impertinent term that he was much addicted to. The grammar school was at the time skailing, and the boys seeing the stramash, gathered round the officer, and yelling and shouting, encouraged Robin more and more into rebellion, till at last they worked up his corruption to such a pitch, that he took the drum from about his neck, and made it fly like a bombshell at the officer’s head.

The officers behaved very well, for they dragged Robin by the lug and the horn to the tolbooth, and then came with their complaint to me. Seeing how the authorities had been set at nought, and the necessity there was of making an example, I forthwith ordered Robin to be cashiered from the service of the town; and as so important a concern as a proclamation ought not to be delayed, I likewise, upon the spot, ordered the officers to take a lad that had been also a drummer in a marching regiment, and go with him to make the proclamation.

Nothing could be done in a more earnest and zealous public spirit than this was done by me. But habit had begot in the town a partiality for the drunken ne’er-do-well, Robin; and this just act of mine was immediately condemned as a daring stretch of arbitrary power; and the consequence was, that when the council met next day, some sharp words flew among us, as to my usurping an undue authority; and the thanks I got for my pains was the mortification to see the worthless body restored to full power and dignity, with no other reward than an admonition to behave better for the future. Now, I leave it to the unbiassed judgment of posterity to determine if any public man could be more ungraciously treated by his colleagues than I was on this occasion. But, verily, the council had their reward.

The divor Robin Boss being, as I have recorded, reinstated in office, soon began to play his old tricks. In the course of the week after the Michaelmas term at which my second provostry ended, he was so insupportably drunk that he fell head foremost into his drum, which cost the town five-and-twenty shillings for a new one—an accident that was not without some satisfaction to me; and I trow I was not sparing in my derisive commendations on the worth of such a public officer. Nevertheless, he was still kept on, some befriending him for compassion, and others as it were to spite me.

But Robin’s good behaviour did not end with breaking the drum, and costing a new one. In the course of the winter it was his custom to beat, “Go to bed, Tom,” about ten o’clock at night, and the reveille at five in the morning. In one of his drunken fits he made a mistake, and instead of going his rounds as usual at ten o’clock, he had fallen asleep in a change-house, and waking about the midnight hour in the terror of some whisky dream, he seized his drum, and running into the streets, began to strike the fire-beat in the most awful manner.

It was a fine clear frosty moonlight, and the hollow sound of the drum resounded through the silent streets like thunder. In a moment everybody was afoot, and the cry of “Whaur is’t? whaur’s the fire?” was heard echoing from all sides. Robin, quite unconscious that he alone was the cause of the alarm, still went along beating the dreadful summons. I heard the noise and rose; but while I was drawing on my stockings in the chair at the bed-head, and telling Mrs Pawkie to compose herself, for our houses were all insured, I suddenly recollected that Robin had the night before neglected to go his rounds at ten o’clock as usual, and the thought came into my head that the alarm might be one of his inebriated mistakes; so, instead of dressing myself any further, I went to the window, and looked out through the glass, without opening it, for, being in my night-clothes, I was afraid of taking cold.

The street was as throng as on a market day, and every face in the moonlight was pale with fear. Men and lads were running with their coats, and carrying their breeches in their hands; wives and maidens were all asking questions at one another, and even lasses were fleeing to and fro, like waternymphs with urns, having stoups and pails in their hands. There was swearing and tearing of men, hoarse with the rage of impatience, at the tolbooth, getting out the fire-engine from its stance under the stair; and loud and terrible afar off, and over all, came the peal of alarm from drunken Robin’s drum.

I could scarcely keep my composity when I beheld and heard all this, for I was soon thoroughly persuaded of the fact. At last I saw Deacon Girdwood, the chief advocate and champion of Robin, passing down the causeway like a demented man, with a red nightcap, and his big-coat on; for some had cried that the fire was in his yard.

“Deacon,” cried I, opening the window, forgetting, in the jocularity of the moment, the risk I ran from being so naked; “whaur away sae fast, deacon?”

The deacon stopped and said, “Is’t out? is’t out?”

“Gang your ways home,” quo’ I, very coolly, “for I hae a notion that a’ this hobleshow’s but the fume of a gill in your friend Robin’s head.”

“It’s no possible!” exclaimed the deacon.

“Possible here or possible there, Mr Girdwood,” quo’ I, “it’s ower cauld for me to stand talking wi’ you here; we’ll learn the rights o’t in the morning, so good night;” and with that I pulled down the window. But scarcely had I done so, when a shout of laughter came gathering up the street, and soon after poor drunken Robin was brought along by the cuff of the neck, between two of the town-officers, one of them carrying his drum. The next day he was put out of office for ever, and folk recollecting in what manner I had acted towards him before, the outcry about my arbitrary power was forgotten in the blame that was heaped upon those who had espoused Robin’s cause against me.

THE AWFUL NIGHT.

BY D. M. MOIR (DELTA).

Ha!—’twas but a dream; But then so terrible, it shakes my soul! Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh; My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror. —_Richard the Third._

The Fire-King one day rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast-iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt’s belly. Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them as though you should try To play the piano on thimbles. —_Rejected Addresses._

In the course of a fortnight from the time I parted with Maister Glen, the Lauder carrier, limping Jamie, brought his callant to our shop door in his hand. He was a tall, slender laddie, some fourteen years old, and sore grown away from his clothes. There was something genty and delicate like about him, having a pale, sharp face, blue eyes, a nose like a hawk’s, and long yellow hair hanging about his haffets, as if barbers were unco scarce cattle among the howes of the Lammermoor hills. Having a general experience of human nature, I saw that I would have something to do towards bringing him into a state of rational civilisation; but, considering his opportunities, he had been well educated, and I liked his appearance on the whole not that ill.

To divert him a while, as I did not intend yoking him to work the first day, I sent out Benjie with him, after giving him some refreshment of bread and milk, to let him see the town and all the uncos about it. I told Benjie first to take him to the auld kirk, which is a wonderful building, steeple and aisle; and as for mason work, far before anything to be seen or heard tell of in our day; syne to Lugton brig, which is a grand affair, hanging over the river Esk and the flour-mills like a rainbow; syne to the Tolbooth, which is a terror to evil-doers, and from which the Lord preserve us all! syne to the Market, where ye’ll see lamb, beef, mutton, and veal, hanging up on the cleeks, in roasting and boiling pieces—spar-rib, jiggot, shoulder, and heuk-bane, in the great prodigality of abundance; and syne down to the Duke’s gate, by looking through the bonny white painted iron-staunchels of which ye’ll see the deer running beneath the green trees; and the palace itself, in the inside of which dwells one that needs not be proud to call the king his cousin.

Brawly did I know, that it is a little after a laddie’s being loosed from his mother’s apron-string, and hurried from home, till the mind can make itself up to stay among fremit folk; or that the attention can be roused to anything said or done, however simple in the uptake. So, after Benjie brought Mungo home again, gey forfaughten and wearied-out like, I bade the wife give him his four-hours, and told him he might go to his bed as soon as he liked. Jalousing also, at the same time, that creatures brought up in the country have strange notions about them with respect to supernaturals—such as ghosts, brownies, fairies, and bogles—to say nothing of witches, warlocks, and evil-spirits, I made Benjie take off his clothes and lie down beside him, as I said, to keep him warm; but, in plain matter of fact (between friends), that the callant might sleep sounder, finding himself in a strange bed, and not very sure as to how the house stood as to the matter of a good name.

Knowing by my own common sense, and from long experience of the ways of a wicked world, that there is nothing like industry, I went to Mungo’s bedside in the morning, and wakened him betimes. Indeed, I’m leein’ there; I need not call it wakening him, for Benjie told me, when he was supping his parritch out of his luggie at breakfast-time, that he never winked an eye all night, and that sometimes he heard him greetin’ to himself in the dark—such and so powerful is our love of home and the force of natural affection. Howsoever, as I was saying, I took him ben the house with me down to the workshop, where I had begun to cut out a pair of nankeen trowsers for a young lad that was to be married the week after to a servant-maid of Mr Wiggie’s,—a trig quean, that afterwards made him a good wife, and the father of a numerous small family.

Speaking of nankeen, I would advise everyone, as a friend, to buy the Indian, and not the British kind, the expense of outlay being ill hained, even at sixpence a-yard—the latter not standing the washing, but making a man’s legs, at a distance, look like a yellow yorline.

It behoved me now as a maister, bent on the improvement of his prentice, to commence learning Mungo some few of the mysteries of our trade; so having showed him the way to crook his hough (example is better than precept, as James Batter observes), I taught him the plan of holding the needle; and having fitted his middle-finger with a bottomless thimble of our own sort, I set him to sewing the cotton-lining into one leg, knowing that it was a part not very particular, and not very likely to be seen; so that the matter was not great, whether the stitching was exactly regular, or rather in the zigzag line. As is customary with all new beginners, he made a desperate awkward hand at it, and of which I would of course have said nothing, but that he chanced to brog his thumb, and completely soiled the whole piece of work with the stains of blood; which, for one thing, could not wash out without being seen; and, for another, was an unlucky omen to happen to a marriage garment.

Every man should be on his guard: this was a lesson I learned when I was in the volunteers, at the time Buonaparte was expected to land down at Dunbar. Luckily for me in this case, I had, by some foolish mistake or another, made an allowance of a half yard over and above what I found I could manage to shape on; so I boldly made up my mind to cut out the piece altogether, it being in the back seam. In that business I trust I showed the art of a good tradesman, having managed to do it so neatly that it could not be noticed without the narrowest inspection; and, having the advantage of a covering by the coat flaps, had indeed no chance of being so, except on desperately windy days.

In the week succeeding that on which this unlucky mischance happened, an accident almost as bad befell, though not to me, further than that every one is bound by the ten commandments, to say nothing of his own conscience, to take a part in the afflictions that befall their door-neighbours.

When the voice of man was whisht, and all was sunk in the sound sleep of midnight, it chanced that I was busy dreaming that I was sitting, one of the spectators, looking at another playacting business. Before coming this length, howsoever, I should by right have observed, that ere going to bed I had eaten for my supper part of a black pudding and two sausages, that widow Grassie had sent in a compliment to my wife, being a genteel woman, and mindful of her friends—so that I must have had some sort of nightmare, and not been exactly in my seven senses, else I could not have been even dreaming of siccan a place. Well, as I was saying, in the play-house I thought I was; and all at once I heard Maister Wiggie, like one crying in the wilderness, hallooing with a loud voice through the window, bidding me flee from the snares, traps, and gin-nets of the Evil One, and from the terrors of the wrath to come. I was in a terrible funk; and just as I was trying to rise from the seat, that seemed somehow glued to my body and would not let me, to reach down my hat, which, with its glazed cover, was hanging on a pin to one side, my face all red, and glowing like a fiery furnace, for shame of being a second time caught in deadly sin, I heard the kirk-bell jow-jowing, as if it was the last trump summoning sinners to their long and black account; and Maister Wiggie thrust in his arm in his desperation, in a whirlwind of passion, claughting hold of my hand like a vice, to drag me out head foremost. Even in my sleep, howsoever, it appears that I like free-will, and ken that there are no slaves in our blessed country; so I tried with all my might to pull against him, and gave his arm such a drive back, that he seemed to bleach over on his side, and raised a hullaballoo of a yell, that not only wakened me, but made me start upright in my bed.

For all the world such a scene! My wife was roaring “Murder, murder!—Mansie Wauch, will ye no wauken?—Murder, murder! ye’ve felled me wi’ your nieve,—ye’ve felled me outright,—I’m gone for evermair,—my hale teeth are doun my throat. Will ye no wauken, Mansie Wauch?—will ye no wauken?—Murder, murder!—I say murder, murder, murder, murder!”

“Who’s murdering us?” cried I, throwing my cowl back on the pillow, and rubbing my eyes in the hurry of a tremendous fright.—“Wha’s murdering us?—where’s the robbers?—send for the town officer!”

“O Mansie!—O Mansie!” said Nanse, in a kind of greeting tone, “I daursay ye’ve felled me—but no matter, now I’ve gotten ye roused. Do ye no see the hale street in a bleeze of flames? Bad is the best; we maun either be burned to death, or out of house and hall, without a rag to cover our nakedness. Where’s my son?—where’s my dear bairn, Benjie?”

In a most awful consternation, I jumped at this out to the middle of the floor, hearing the causeway all in an uproar of voices; and seeing the flichtering of the flames glancing on the houses in the opposite side of the street, all the windows of which were filled with the heads of half-naked folks in round-eared mutches or Kilmarnocks, their mouths open, and their eyes staring with fright; while the sound of the fire-engine, rattling through the streets like thunder, seemed like the dead cart of the plague come to hurry away the corpses of the deceased for interment in the kirkyard.

Never such a spectacle was witnessed in this world of sin and sorrow since the creation of Adam. I pulled up the window and looked out; and, lo and behold! the very next house to our own was all in a lowe from cellar to garret; the burning joists hissing and cracking like mad; and the very wind blew along as warm as if it had been out of the mouth of a baker’s oven!

It was a most awful spectacle! more by token to me, who was likely to be intimately concerned with it; and beating my brow with my clenched nieve like a distracted creature, I saw that the labour of my whole life was likely to go for nought, and me to be a ruined man; all the earnings of my industry being laid out on my stock-in-trade, and on the plenishing of our bit house. The darkness of the latter days came over my spirit like a vision before the prophet Isaiah; and I could see nothing in the years to come but beggary and starvation; myself a fallen old man, with an out-at-the-elbows coat, a greasy hat, and a bald pow, hirpling over a staff, requeeshting an awmous; Nanse a broken-hearted beggar wife, torn down to tatters, and weeping like Rachel when she thought on better days; and poor wee Benjie going from door to door with a meal-pock on his back.

The thought first dung me stupid, and then drove me to desperation; and not even minding the dear wife of my bosom, that had fainted away as dead as a herring, I pulled on my trowsers like mad, and rushed out into the street, bareheaded and barefoot as the day that Lucky Bringthereout dragged me into the world.

The crowd saw in the twinkling of an eyeball that I was a desperate man, fierce as Sir William Wallace, and not to be withstood by gentle or simple. So most of them made way for me; they that tried to stop me finding it a bad job, being heeled over from right to left, on the broad of their backs, like flounders, without respect of age or person; some old women that were obstrepulous being gey sore hurt, and one of them has a pain in her hainch even to this day. When I had got almost to the doorcheek of the burning house, I found one grupping me by the back like grim death; and in looking over my shoulder, who was it but Nanse herself, that, rising up from her faint, had pursued me like a whirlwind. It was a heavy trial, but my duty to myself in the first place, and to my neighbours in the second, roused me up to withstand it; so, making a spend like a greyhound, I left the hindside of my shirt in her grasp, like Joseph’s garment in the nieve of Potiphar’s wife, and up the stairs head-foremost among the flames.

Mercy keep us all! what a sight for mortal man to glower at with his living eyes! The bells were tolling amid the dark, like a summons from above for the parish of Dalkeith to pack off to another world; the drums were beat-beating as if the French were coming, thousand on thousand, to kill, slay, and devour every maid and mother’s son of us; the fire-engine pump-pump-pumping like daft, showering the water like rainbows, as if the windows of heaven were opened, and the days of old Noah come back again; and the rabble throwing the good furniture over the windows like onion peelings, where it either felled the folk below, or was dung to a thousand shivers on the causey. I cried to them for the love of goodness to make search in the beds, in case there might be any weans there, human life being still more precious than human means; but not a living soul was seen but a cat, which, being raised and wild with the din, would on no consideration allow itself to be catched. Jacob Dribble found that to his cost; for right or wrong, having a drappie in his head, he swore like a trooper that he would catch her, and carry her down beneath his oxter; so forward he weired her into a corner, crouching on his hunkers. He had much better have let it alone; for it fuffed over his shoulder like wildfire, and, scarting his back all the way down, jumped like a lamplighter head-foremost through the flames, where, in the raging and roaring of the devouring element, its pitiful cries were soon hushed to silence for ever and ever.

At long and last, a woman’s howl was heard on the street, lamenting, like Hagar over young Ishmael in the wilderness of Beersheba, and crying that her old grannie, that was a lameter, and had been bedridden for four years come the Martinmas following, was burning to a cinder in the fore-garret. My heart was like to burst within me when I heard this dismal news, remembering that I myself had once an old mother, that was now in the mools; so I brushed up the stair like a hatter, and burst open the door of the fore-garret—for in the hurry I could not find the sneck, and did not like to stand on ceremony. I could not see my finger before me, and did not know my right hand from the left, for the smoke; but I groped round and round, though the reek mostly cut my breath, and made me cough at no allowance, till at last I catched hold of something cold and clammy, which I gave a pull, not knowing what it was, but found out to be the old wife’s nose. I cried out as loud as I was able for the poor creature to hoise herself up into my arms; but, receiving no answer, I discovered in a moment that she was suffocated, the foul air having gone down her wrong hause; and, though I had aye a terror at looking at, far less handling, a dead corpse, there was something brave within me at the moment, my blood being up; so I caught hold of her by the shoulders, and hurling her with all my might out of her bed, got her lifted on my back heads and thraws in the manner of a boll of meal, and away as fast as my legs could carry me.

There was a providence in this haste; for ere I was half-way down the stair, the floor fell with a thud like thunder; and such a combustion of soot, stour, and sparks arose, as was never seen or heard tell of in the memory of man since the day that Samson pulled over the pillars in the house of Dagon, and smoored all the mocking Philistines as flat as flounders. For the space of a minute I was as blind as a beetle, and was like to be choked for want of breath; however, as the dust began to clear up, I saw an open window, and hallooed down to the crowd for the sake of mercy to bring a ladder, to save the lives of two perishing fellow-creatures, for now my own was also in imminent jeopardy. They were long of coming, and I did not know what to do; so thinking that the old wife, as she had not spoken, was maybe dead already, I was once determined just to let her drop down upon the street, but I knew that the so doing would have cracked every bone in her body, and the glory of my bravery would thus have been worse than lost. I persevered, therefore, though I was ready to fall down under the dead weight, she not being able to help herself, and having a deal of beef in her skin for an old woman of eighty; but I got a lean, by squeezing her a wee between me and the wall.

I thought they would never have come, for my shoeless feet were all bruised and bleeding from the crunched lime and the splinters of broken stones; but, at long and last, a ladder was hoisted up, and having fastened a kinch of ropes beneath her oxters, I let her slide down over the upper step, by way of a pillyshee, having the satisfaction of seeing her safely landed in the arms of seven old wives, that were waiting with a cosey warm blanket below. Having accomplished this grand manœuvre, wherein I succeeded in saving the precious life of a woman of eighty, that had been four long years bedridden, I tripped down the steps myself like a nine-year-old, and had the pleasure, when the roof fell in, to know that I for one had done my duty; and that, to the best of my knowledge, no living creature, except the poor cat, had perished within the jaws of the devouring element.

But bide a wee; the work was, as yet, only half done. The fire was still roaring and raging, every puff of wind that blew through the black firmament driving the red sparks high into the air, where they died away like the tail of a comet, or the train of a sky-rocket; the joisting crazing, cracking, and tumbling down; and now and then the bursting cans playing flee in a hundred flinders from the chimney-heads. One would have naturally enough thought that our engine could have drowned out a fire of any kind whatsoever in half a second, scores of folks driving about with pitcherfuls of water, and scaling half of it on one another and the causey in their hurry; but, woe’s me! it did not play puh on the red-het stones that whizzed like iron in a smiddy trough; so, as soon as it was darkness and smoke in one place, it was fire and fury in another.

My anxiety was great. Seeing that I had done my best for my neighbours, it behoved me now, in my turn, to try and see what I could do for myself; so, notwithstanding the remonstrances of my friend James Batter—whom Nanse, knowing I had bare feet, had sent out to seek me, with a pair of shoon in his hand, and who, in scratching his head, mostly rugged out every hair of his wig with sheer vexation—I ran off, and mounted the ladder a second time, and succeeded, after muckle speeling, in getting upon the top of the wall; where, having a bucket slung up to me by means of a rope, I swashed down such showers on the top of the flames, that I soon did more good, in the space of five minutes, than the engine and the ten men, that were all in a broth of perspiration with pumping it, did the whole night over; to say nothing of the multitude of drawers of water, men, wives, and weans, with their cuddies, leglins, pitchers, pails, and water-stoups; having the satisfaction, in a short time, to observe everything getting as black as the crown of my hat, and the gable of my own house becoming as cool as a cucumber.

Being a man of method, and acquainted with business, I could have liked to have given a finishing stitch to my work before descending the ladder; but, losh me! sic a whingeing, girning, greeting, and roaring got up all of a sudden, as was never seen or heard of since Bowed Joseph[23] raised the mealmob, and burned Johnnie Wilkes in effigy, and, looking down, I saw Benjie, the bairn of my own heart, and the callant Glen, my apprentice on trial, that had both been as sound as tops till this blessed moment, standing in their nightgowns and their little red cowls, rubbing their eyes, cowering with cold and fright, and making an awful uproar, crying on me to come down and not be killed. The voice of Benjie especially pierced through and through my heart, like a two-edged sword, and I could on no manner of account suffer myself to bear it any longer, as I jaloused the bairn would have gone into convulsion fits if I had not heeded him; so, making a sign to them to be quiet, I came my ways down, taking hold of one in ilka hand, which must have been a fatherly sight to the spectators that saw us. After waiting on the crown of the causey for half-an-hour, to make sure that the fire was extinguished, and all tight and right, I saw the crowd scaling, and thought it best to go in too, carrying the two youngsters along with me. When I began to move off, however, siccan a cheering of the multitude got up as would have deafened a cannon; and, though I say it myself, who should not say it, they seemed struck with a sore amazement at my heroic behaviour, following me with loud cheers, even to the threshold of my own door.

Footnote 23:

A noted Edinburgh character.

From this folk should condescend to take a lesson, seeing that, though the world is a bitter bad world, yet that good deeds are not only a reward to themselves, but call forth the applause of Jew and Gentile; for the sweet savour of my conduct, on this memorable night, remained in my nostrils for goodness knows the length of time, many praising my brave humanity in public companies and assemblies of the people, such as strawberry ploys, council meetings, dinner parties, and so forth; and many in private conversation at their own ingle-cheek, by way of two-handed crack; in stage-coach confab, and in causey talk in the forenoon, before going in to take their meridians. Indeed, between friends, the business proved in the upshot of no small advantage to me, bringing to me a sowd of strange faces, by way of customers, both gentle and simple, that I verily believe had not so muckle as ever heard of my name before, and giving me many a coat to cut, and cloth to shape, that, but for my gallant behaviour on the fearsome night aforesaid, would doubtless have been cut, sewed, and shaped by other hands. Indeed, considering the great noise the thing made in the world, it is no wonder that every one was anxious to have a garment of wearing apparel made by the individual same hands that had succeeded, under Providence, in saving the precious life of an old woman of eighty, that had been bedridden, some say, four years come Yule, and others, come Martinmas.

When we got to the ingle-side, and, barring the door, saw that all was safe, it was now three in the morning; so we thought it by much the best way of managing, not to think of sleeping any more, but to be on the look-out—as we aye used to be when walking sentry in the volunteers—in case the flames should, by ony mischancy accident or other, happen to break out again. My wife blamed my hardihood muckle, and the rashness with which I had ventured at once to places where even masons and slaters were afraid to put foot on; yet I saw, in the interim, that she looked on me with a prouder eye—knowing herself the helpmate of one that had courageously risked his neck, and every bone in his skin, in the cause of humanity. I saw this as plain as a pikestaff, as, with one of her kindest looks, she insisted on my putting on a better happing to screen me from the cold, and on my taking something comfortable inwardly towards the dispelling of bad consequences. So, after half a minute’s stand-out, by way of refusal like, I agreed to a cupful of het-pint, as I thought it would be a thing Mungo Glen might never have had the good fortune to have tasted, and as it might operate by way of a cordial on the gallant Benjie, who kept aye smally and in a dwining way. No sooner said than done, and off Nanse brushed in a couple of hurries to make the het-pint.

After the small beer was put into the pan to boil, we found, to our great mortification, that there was no eggs in the house, and Benjie was sent out with a candle to the hen-house, to see if any of the hens had laid since gloaming, and fetch what he could get. In the middle of the meantime, I was expatiating to Mungo on what taste it would have, and how he had never seen anything finer than it would be, when in ran Benjie, all out of breath, and his face as pale as a dish-clout.

“What’s the matter, Benjie, what’s the matter?” said I to him, rising up from my chair in a great hurry of a fright. “Has onybody killed ye? or is the fire broken out again? or has the French landed? or have ye seen a ghost? or are”—

“Eh, crifty!” cried Benjie, coming till his speech, “they’re a’ aff—cock and hens and a’; there’s naething left but the rotten nest-egg in the corner!”

This was an awful dispensation. In the midst of the desolation of the fire—such is the depravity of human nature—some ne’er-do-weels had taken advantage of my absence to break open the hen-house door; and our whole stock of poultry, the cock along with our seven hens—two of them tappit, and one muffled—were carried away bodily, stoop and roop.

On this subject, howsoever, I shall say no more, but merely observe in conclusion, that, as to our het-pint, we were obliged to make the best of a bad bargain, making up with whisky what it wanted in eggs; though our banquet could not be called altogether a merry one, the joys of our escape from the horrors of the fire being damped, as it were by a wet blanket, on account of the nefarious pillaging of our hen-house.

ROSE JAMIESON.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,— I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lily new cut i’ the bud, And fading at its place.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,— Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gane was the holy breath o’ heaven, To sing the evening psalm.—_Allan Cunningham._

Andrew Jamieson was a thorough-paced Cameronian. He held hats in abomination, as they savoured of Erastianism; abhorred boots, because the troopers of 1685 wore them while galloping over the wilds of Dumfriesshire in quest of the persecuted remnant; testified against the use of “fanners” in the process of separating the chaff from the wheat, as a tacit renunciation of the doctrine of a superintending Providence. He judged of the excellences or defects of a sermon by its length; and on that of prayer by the colloquial familiarity which the clergyman held with the Deity; pronounced on his orthodoxy by the complexion of his text; and lifted up his voice against gowns, bands, and white pocket-handkerchiefs, as frippery belonging to the scarlet lady. Academical honours were his loathing, as he knew that, like plenary indulgences, they are, and were, to be had for money; nor would his prejudice allow him to distinguish between the man who received a D.D.-ship as the honourable reward of a life devoted to sacred literature, and him who carried it by lodging a professor’s wife and daughter during the race week.

Sermons in MS., though they had been the composition of a Chalmers, and read with the classic elocution of a Thomson, appeared to him as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal; or, in his own vernacular phrase, “in at the tae lug, and out at the tither.” ’Twas the pride of his heart to travel twenty or thirty miles on foot to hear a favourite preacher; or to attend sacramental occasions in the air, in unfrequented districts, in imitation of the heroes of the covenant, who scorned to square their creed to the mandates of a tyrannical government; and I verily believe that a slight touch of persecution would have added to his enjoyments in this sublunary sphere; but this, as he frequently hinted, was too great a privilege to hope for from a government “neither cold nor hot.”

Andrew was a small farmer in the uplands of Nithsdale, had been prudent to a proverb in worldly matters, and consequently was rich, not only in his hopes of futurity, but in the more tangible currency of this sinful world. Frugality had been one of his most prominent characteristics; and while many less wealthy neighbours sported broad cloth at fairs and preachings, according to his inimitable countryman—

His garb was gude gray hodden,— His bonnet was a broad one;

which garb, and which bonnet, had been familiar to the frequenters of “tent preachings” for the greater part of forty years. Such was the father of Rose Jamieson, the beautiful, the meek, the modest Rose Jamieson, whose fame extended for many a mile round her father’s dwelling; and whose fortune perhaps lent her an additional charm in the eyes of the less worthy of her suitors. Beautiful women have been so often described by master-spirits, that it would be presumptuous in me to attempt it. I entreat the reader, therefore, to place before his mind’s eye Milton’s Eve, or Thomson’s Lavinia, or Campbell’s Gertrude, or some of the still more glorious creations of Scott or Shakspeare; ’twill serve my purpose a thousand times better, and save me a world of trouble. Having thus briefly disposed of her bodily and mental attractions, it is needless to add that she was sought in marriage by the flower of the peasantry, and even by many above that rank in life, but shrunk from their society, as the sensitive plant shrinks from the human touch, or the sunflower when its idol withdraws to his ocean bed.

Her pursuits were of an intellectual nature. She loved literature immensely; and though her parent was sufficiently rigid and unbending in general, relative to what he designated the “vanities,” yet he gladly supplied her with the means of gratifying her taste for books, and even condescended at intervals to direct her in the choice of their “mute friends;” but his selections generally consisted of those tremendous folios of divinity, both doctrinal and controversial, which even yet may be seen on the shelves of our more unsophisticated peasantry; and her masculine mind was not slow in making herself mistress of their voluminous contents.

By a careful perusal, however, of the immaculate Volume which the great Founder of Christianity left as a guide to His followers, she perceived that her father’s favourite authors did not always resemble their Divine Master in the milder virtues—such as charity, which thinketh no evil; brotherly kindness, which is ever and anon ready to bear with an erring being; and that humility of spirit which is ever ready to esteem another better than one’s self. As her mind got emancipated from the thraldom of the austere dogmas which had been inculcated on it from infancy, she saw a very great deal to admire, nay, to love, in the doctrines of those very persons whom her father had branded with the name of “prelatists” and “malignants;” and hence she began to examine more closely into the merits of the controversy which raged with so much violence between persons worshipping the same God, through the mediation of the same Redeemer.

The result was, that she saw much to praise and much to blame on both sides, and she endeavoured to cover the failings of either party with the mantle of Christian love. That many of the Episcopalian clergy of that unhappy period, when the lieges were forced to attend the parish church at the point of the bayonet, disgraced their sacred profession, and brought obloquy on the holy name by which they were called, can neither be denied nor disputed. That some of them acted like incarnations of the devil, will not be controverted even in our own times, when truth, like the meridian sun, has dissipated the clouds of error and prejudice; but it is equally true, that there were men among them who adorned their profession by a walk and conversation becoming the Gospel, and who lamented in secret the evils which their circumscribed influence could not avert. Who does not revere the memory of the great and good Leighton, whose philanthropy extended to all mankind—whose whole existence was a living commentary on the great doctrine which was ever on his lips—namely, that the Founder of Christianity came to proclaim “peace on earth, good-will to men?” After the Revolution, when Presbyterianism again unfurled her banners to the mountain-breezes of our country—banners which, alas! had been wofully trampled under foot, and in defending which the best blood in Scotland had been poured out like water—the son of one of the ejected curates settled in the parish of —— as a farmer, retaining, however, the religious principles in which he had been educated, and which were now doubly dear to him in the hour of his church’s adversity.

Like his father, he was a Christian, not only in theory, but in practice; his faith was evinced, not by vague declamation, not by ultra-sanctimoniousness, but by its genuine fruits—namely, good works.

Son succeeded sire in the same district and the same principles; and it seemed that a peculiar blessing had descended on the whole race; as whatever things were lovely, or of good report, these things they did; and the promise to the meek was fulfilled them, for they literally “inherited the earth.”

Their flocks and herds were numerous; their corn and pasture fields ample;—they enlarged their borders, and, at the time this sketch commences, they mingled with the aristocracy of the county.

The youngest son of a branch of this family had studied at the University of Oxford, with a view to the Church of which his family had been such distinguished members. He was a youth not only of ardent piety, but of intense application; he fearlessly grappled with the most abstruse subjects; he divested philosophy of its jargon, and divinity of its verbosity; and nothing was so dear to his heart as when he discovered truth like a diamond amidst the heaps of rubbish which had been accumulating for ages.

But, alas! like the gentle Kirke White, while his mind was expanding and luxuriating amid the treasures of Greece and Rome, and the still more sacred stores of Palestine, his body was declining with corresponding rapidity; therefore, with attenuated frame and depressed spirits, he sought once more his native vale, to inhale health with its invigorating breezes.

Secluded from the great world, and debarred from pursuing his favourite studies, he sought the society of Rose Jamieson as an antidote to that _ennui_ which will inevitably obtrude itself on the mind amid the solitudes of a thinly peopled country. The great poet of nature has told us that the recluse may find—

Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

And I have no doubt that the amiable and interesting student would have been sufficiently charmed with the beauties of external nature, and instructed by her eloquence, had there not been “metal more attractive” in the beautiful being who shared his walks and his friendship.

The lovely Rose Jamieson became his ministering angel; her smile chased away the languor that brooded over his intelligent countenance; her sweet voice quickened his sluggish pulse, and made his heart thrill with an indescribable joy—a heretofore unknown rapture; her sunny glances diffused life, light, and gladness through his whole frame.

The golden hours on angel wing

flew over them; the summer day became too short for them; their walks became Eden, and their day-dreams Elysium; they loved—fervently—mutually.

Soon as morning gleamed on the mountains, the fond pair were to be seen brushing the dew from the clover, by the banks of the romantic Nith, or climbing the daisied uplands with elastic steps and buoyant hearts—for the mountain air had already renovated the youth’s enfeebled frame, and hope had animated his spirits, and given vivacity to his conversation. They expatiated on the beauty and sublimity of the scenery around them—on the power and goodness of the Deity, displayed alike in the creation of the sun in the firmament, and the production of the myriads of wild-flowers which enamelled the green sward beneath their feet. The rushing of the mighty river to a still mightier ocean, and the diamond dewdrop hid in the petal of the half-opened rose; the wide-spreading and venerable oak of a century, and the lowly gowan of yesterday, afforded inexhaustible themes for discussion; and the conclusion which invariably forced itself on their attention, was that of the pious Addison—

In Reason’s ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing, as they shine, “The hand that made us is divine.”

The summer months glided over the youthful pair imperceptibly; but with returning health, imperative duty impelled the enamoured scholar to resume his studies; to resign the delicious society of her he loved for the musty tome, the midnight lamp, and the emulation approaching hostility, within the time-hallowed walls of Oxford. Already had his trunks been packed, the day of his departure fixed, and his adieus uttered—all but _one_.

They met for this purpose one Sabbath evening in a sequestered glen; the larch and laburnum formed a rude arbour over them, and a nameless streamlet murmured at their feet. The stock-doves uttered mournful cadences, and the plovers over the neighbouring heath sent forth ominous wailings. The early autumnal breeze moaned through the thick foliage, and the rustle of the overhanging leaves gave a dreary response. ’Twas a sad hour; they vowed eternal fidelity—mingled their tears—exchanged Bibles—and parted—he to the crowded haunts of science, she to the solitude of her own little apartment, to brood over the waking dreams of bliss which she had so lately experienced. On opening the little Bible which she had received from the hands of her lover, she found the following text written on the fly-leaf, in a tremulous hand:—“Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths,” and she could trace, moreover, certain globular stains, the cause of which was not ill to define. “Yes!” she exclaimed, while the tears started from her large blue eyes, “I will perform all I have vowed to thee, to the very letter. I will love thee as woman never loved—in sorrow and in sickness, in poverty and in exile—nay, in death itself I will love thee; neither shall the influence of wealth, rank, talent, manly beauty, nor shall the authority, which preponderates more than all these together, even that of my only parent, ever alienate my affections from thee, thou chosen of my heart!”

At this moment the door was opened, and her father stood before her. A harsh expression pervaded his rigid countenance; there was a stern inflexibility in his eye, and his lip quivered with emotion; he held his staff with a convulsive grasp, and his whole frame trembled with conflicting passions.

“Daughter,” said he, in a tremulous and hollow voice, “daughter, I had indeed suspected that the corbie was attempting to gain the dove’s nest—that the descendant of the malignant, with malicious wile, was endeavouring to secure an interest in thine affections, and bitterly do I rue that I did not put a stop to it sooner. But little did I think that thou, the child of my love, the only daughter of thy sainted mother, whom I have cherished like the apple of mine eye, wouldst have so far forgotten thy duty as to vow love and obedience to a scion of an abjured prelatical stock, against whom thy father and thy father’s fathers have lifted up their testimony, since the glorious carved work of the sanctuary has been defaced by their unhallowed hands. Did they not shed the blood of the saints in torrents? Were they not butchered in the face of the sun, and in cold blood? And did not their cries enter—but my blood curdles to enumerate the half of their enormities, and I shall therefore refrain from adverting to branding, mutilation, fine, imprisonment, exile, and death. Daughter,” said he, in a sepulchral voice, “thou must break off all intercourse and connection with this young man instantly; between us there is an impassable gulf. And if thou perseverest in thine ill-starred choice; if thou art disobedient to thy hoary-headed father; if thou cherish his image in thy bosom, or even at some future period, when I am gathered to my fathers, become his wife, I shall bequeath thee my malison for thy dowry, and my ban for thine inheritance.”

So saying, he flung himself out of the chamber in a paroxysm of rage. His beauteous daughter, meanwhile, had become inanimate on the couch. The usual remedies in these cases were promptly resorted to; and after a short interval, she opened her eyes, but it was only to gaze on vacancy. The “silver cord was loosed, and the golden bow was broken.” Her reason had fled, and never returned. In one month she was where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest. Her father, though he deemed he had only done an imperative duty, could not withstand the shock. Nature sunk beneath the unlooked-for calamity; he mourned, and he _would not_ be comforted. In a few weeks he breathed his last; and another tenant was added to the house appointed for all living.

But who may paint the misery of the unhappy youth when he learnt the harrowing intelligence? Sorrow is sacred, and we shall not enter into its detail. Suffice it to say, that he gave up his studies, returned to his native vale with a broken heart; and in the words of his celebrated countryman (who no doubt had the pair in his mind’s eye when he penned the touchingly simple ballad), he is reported to have said—

Low there thou lies, my lassie, Low there thou lies; A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise!

There’s nought but dust now mine, lassie, There’s nought but dust now mine; My soul’s with thee in the cauld, cauld grave, And why should I stay behin’?

A NIGHT AT THE HERRING FISHING.

BY HUGH MILLER.

In the latter end of August 1819, I went out to the fishing then prosecuted on Guilliam in a Cromarty boat. The evening was remarkably pleasant. A low breeze from the west scarcely ruffled the surface of the frith, which was varied in every direction by unequal stripes and patches of a dead calmness. The bay of Cromarty, burnished by the rays of the declining sun until it glowed like a sheet of molten fire, lay behind, winding in all its beauty beneath purple hills and jutting headlands; while before stretched the wide extent of the Moray Frith, speckled with fleets of boats which had lately left their several ports, and were now all sailing in one direction. The point to which they were bound was the bank of Guilliam, which, seen from betwixt the Sutors, seemed to verge on the faint blue line of the horizon; and the fleets which had already arrived on it had, to the naked eye, the appearance of a little rough-edged cloud resting on the water. As we advanced, this cloud of boats grew larger and darker; and soon after sunset, when the bank was scarcely a mile distant, it assumed the appearance of a thick leafless wood covering a low brown island.

The tide, before we left the shore, had risen high on the beach, and was now beginning to recede. Aware of this, we lowered sail several hundred yards to the south of the fishing ground; and after determining the point from whence the course of the current would drift us direct over the bank, we took down the mast, cleared the hinder part of the boat, and began to cast out the nets. Before the Inlaw appeared in the line of the Gaelic Chapel (the landmark by which the southernmost extremity of Guilliam is ascertained), the whole drift was thrown overboard and made fast to the swing. Night came on. The sky assumed a dead and leaden hue. A low dull mist roughened the outline of the distant hills, and in some places blotted them out from the landscape. The faint breeze that had hitherto scarcely been felt now roughened the water, which was of a dark blue colour, approaching to black. The sounds which predominated were in unison with the scene. The almost measured dash of the waves against the sides of the boat and the faint rustle of the breeze were incessant; while the low dull moan of the surf breaking on the distant beach, and the short sudden cry of an aquatic fowl of the diving species, occasionally mingled with the sweet though rather monotonous notes of a Gaelic song. “It’s ane o’ the Gairloch fishermen,” said our skipper; “puir folk, they’re aye singin’ an’ thinkin’ o’ the Hielands.”

Our boat, as the tides were not powerful, drifted slowly over the bank. The buoys stretched out from the bows in an unbroken line. There was no sign of fish, and the boatmen, after spreading the sail over the beams, laid themselves down on it. The scene was at the time so new to me, and, though of a somewhat melancholy cast, so pleasing, that I stayed up. A singular appearance attracted my notice. “How,” said I to one of the boatmen, who a moment before had made me an offer of his greatcoat, “how do you account for that calm silvery spot on the water, which moves at such a rate in the line of our drift?” He started up. A moment after he called on the others to rise, and then replied, “That moving speck of calm water covers a shoal of herrings. If it advances a hundred yards farther in that direction, we shall have some employment for you.” This piece of information made me regard the little patch, which, from the light it caught, and the blackness of the surrounding water, seemed a bright opening in a dark sky, with considerable interest. It moved onward with increased velocity. It came in contact with the line of the drift, and three of the buoys immediately sunk. A few minutes were suffered to elapse, and we then commenced hauling. The two strongest of the crew, as is usual, were stationed at the cork, the two others at the ground baulk. My assistance, which I readily tendered, was pronounced unnecessary, so I hung over the gunwale watching the nets as they approached the side of the boat. The three first, from the phosphoric light of the water, appeared as if bursting into flames of a pale green colour. The fourth was still brighter, and glittered through the waves while it was yet several fathoms away, reminding me of an intensely bright sheet of the aurora borealis. As it approached the side, the pale green of the phosphoric matter appeared as if mingled with large flakes of snow. It contained a body of fish. “A white horse! a white horse!” exclaimed one of the men at the cork baulk; “lend us a haul.” I immediately sprung aft, laid hold on the rope, and commenced hauling. In somewhat less than half an hour we had all the nets on board, and rather more than twelve barrels of herrings.

The night had now become so dark, that we could scarcely discern the boats which lay within gunshot of our own; and we had no means of ascertaining the position of the bank except by sounding. The lead was cast, and soon after the nets shot a second time. The skipper’s bottle was next produced, and a dram of whisky sent round in a tin measure containing nearly a gill. We then folded down the sail, which had been rolled up to make way for the herrings, and were soon fast asleep.

Ten years have elapsed since I laid myself down on this couch, and I was not then so accustomed to a rough bed as I am now, when I can look back on my wanderings as a journeyman mason over a considerable part of both the Lowlands and Highlands of Scotland. About midnight I awoke quite chill, and all over sore with the hard beams and sharp rivets of the boat. Well, thought I, this is the tax I pay for my curiosity. I rose and crept softly over the sail to the bows, where I stood, and where, in the singular beauty of the scene, which was of a character as different from that I had lately witnessed as is possible to conceive, I soon lost all sense of every feeling that was not pleasure. The breeze had died into a perfect calm. The heavens were glowing with stars, and the sea, from the smoothness of the surface, appeared a second sky, as bright and starry as the other, but with this difference, that all its stars appeared comets. There seemed no line of division at the horizon, which rendered the allusion more striking. The distant hills appeared a chain of dark thundery clouds sleeping in the heavens. Tn short, the scene was one of the strangest I ever witnessed; and the thoughts and imaginations which it suggested were of a character as singular. I looked at the boat as it appeared in the dim light of midnight, a dark irregularly-shaped mass; I gazed on the sky of stars above, and the sky of comets below, and imagined myself in the centre of space, far removed from the earth and every other world—the solitary inhabitant of a planetary fragment. This allusion, too romantic to be lasting, was dissipated by an incident which convinced me that I had not yet left the world. A crew of south shore fishermen, either by accident or design, had shot their nets right across those of another boat, and, in disentangling them, a quarrel ensued. Our boat lay more than half a mile from the scene of contention, but I could hear, without being particularly attentive, that on the one side there were terrible threats of violence, immediate and bloody; and on the other, threats of the still more terrible pains and penalties of the law. In a few minutes, however, the entangled nets were freed, and the roar of altercation gradually sunk into a silence as dead as that which had preceded it.

An hour before sunrise, I was somewhat disheartened to find the view on every side bounded by a dense low bank of fog, which hung over the water, while the central firmament remained blue and cloudless. The neighbouring boats appeared through the mist huge misshapen things, manned by giants. We commenced hauling, and found in one of the nets a small rock-cod and a half-starved whiting, which proved the whole of our draught. I was informed by the fishermen, that even when the shoal is thickest on the Guilliam, so close does it keep by the bank, that not a solitary herring is to be caught a gunshot from the edge on either side.

We rowed up to the other boats, few of whom had been more successful in their last haul than ourselves, and none equally so in their first. The mist prevented us from ascertaining, by known landmarks, the position of the bank, which we at length discovered in a manner that displayed much of the peculiar art of the fisherman. The depth of the water, and the nature of the bottom, showed us that it lay to the south. A faint tremulous heave of the sea, which was still calm, was the only remaining vestige of the gale which had blown from the west in the early part of the night, and this heave, together with the current, which at this stage of the flood runs in a southwestern direction, served as our compass. We next premised how far our boat had drifted down the frith with the ebb-tide, and how far she had been carried back again by the flood. We then turned her bows in the line of the current, and in rather less than half an hour were, as the lead informed us, on the eastern extremity of Guilliam, where we shot our nets for the third time.

Soon after sunrise the mist began to dissipate, and the surface of the water to appear for miles around roughened as if by a smart breeze, though there was not the slightest breath of wind at the time. “How do you account for that appearance?” said I to one of the fishermen. “Ah, lad, that is by no means so favourable a token as the one you asked me to explain last night. I had as lief see the _Bhodry-more_.” “Why, what does it betoken? and what is the _Bhodry-more_?” “It betokens that the shoal have spawned, and will shortly leave the frith; for when the fish are sick and weighty they never rise to the surface in that way. But have you never heard of the _Bhodry-more_?” I replied in the negative. “Well, but you shall.” “Nay,” said another of the crew, “leave that for our return; do you not see the herrings playing by thousands round our nets, and not one of the buoys sinking in the water? There is not a single fish swimming so low as the upper baulks of our drift. Shall we not shorten the buoy-ropes, and take off the sinkers?” This did not meet the approbation of the others, one of whom took up a stone, and flung it in the middle of the shoal. The fish immediately disappeared from the surface for several fathoms round. “Ah, there they go!” he exclaimed; “if they go but low enough; four years ago I startled thirty barrels of light fish into my drift just by throwing a stone among them.”

The whole frith at this time, so far as the eye could reach, appeared crowded with herrings; and its surface was so broken by them as to remind one of the pool of a waterfall. They leaped by millions a few inches into the air, and sunk with a hollow plumping noise, somewhat resembling the dull rippling sound of a sudden breeze; while to the eye there was a continual twinkling, which, while it mocked every effort that attempted to examine in detail, showed to the less curious glance like a blue robe sprinkled with silver. But it is not by such comparisons that so singular a scene is to be described so as to be felt. It was one of those which, through the living myriads of creation, testify of the infinite Creator.

About noon we hauled for the third and last time, and found nearly eight barrels of fish. I observed when hauling that the natural heat of the herring is scarcely less than that of quadrupeds or birds; that when alive its sides are shaded by a beautiful crimson colour which it loses when dead; and that when newly brought out of the water, it utters a sharp faint cry somewhat resembling that of a mouse. We had now twenty barrels on board. The _easterly har_, a sea-breeze so called by fishermen, which in the Moray Frith, during the summer months, and first month of autumn, commonly comes on after ten o’clock A.M., and fails at four o’clock P.M., had now set in. We hoisted our mast and sail, and were soon scudding right before it.

The story of the _Bhodry-more_, which I demanded of the skipper as soon as we had trimmed our sail, proved interesting in no common degree, and was linked with a great many others. The _Bhodry-more_[24] is an active, mischievous fish of the whale species, which has been known to attack and even founder boats. About eight years ago, a very large one passed the town of Cromarty through the middle of the bay, and was seen by many of the townsfolks leaping out of the water in the manner of a salmon, fully to the height of a boat’s mast. It appeared about thirty feet in length. This animal may almost be regarded as the mermaid of modern times: for the fishermen deem it to have fully as much of the demon as of the fish. There have been instances of its pursuing a boat under sail for many miles, and even of its leaping over it from side to side. It appears, however, that its habits and appetites are unlike those of the shark; and that the annoyance which it gives the fisherman is out of no desire of making him its prey, but from its predilection for amusement. It seldom meddles with a boat when at anchor, but pursues one under sail, as a kitten would a rolling ball of yarn. The large physalus whale is comparatively a dull, sluggish animal; occasionally, however, it evinces a partiality for the amusements of the _Bhodry-more_. Our skipper said, that when on the Caithness coast, a few years before, an enormous fish of the species kept direct in the wake of his boat for more than a mile, frequently rising so near the stern as to be within reach of the boat-hook. He described the expression of its large goggle eyes as at once frightful and amusing; and so graphic was his narrative that I could almost paint the animal stretching out for more than sixty feet behind the boat, with his black marble-looking skin and cliff-like fins. He at length grew tired of its gambols, and with a sharp fragment of rock struck it between the eyes. It sunk with a sudden plunge, and did not rise for ten minutes after, when it appeared a full mile a-stern. This narrative was but the first of I no not know how many, of a similar cast, which presented to my imagination the _Bhodry-more_ whale and hun-fish in every possible point of view. The latter, a voracious formidable animal of the shark species, frequently makes great havoc among the tackle with which cod and haddock are caught. Like the shark, it throws itself on its back when in the act of seizing its prey. The fishermen frequently see it lying motionless, its white belly glittering through the water, a few fathoms from the boat’s side, employed in stripping off every fish from their hooks as the line is drawn over it. This formidable animal is from six to ten feet in length, and formed like the common shark.

Footnote 24:

Properly, perhaps, the musculous whale.

One of the boatmen’s stories, though somewhat in the Munchausen style, I shall take the liberty of relating. Two Cromarty men, many years ago, were employed on a fine calm day in angling for coal-fish and rock-cod, with rods and hand-lines. Their little skiff rode to a large oblong stone, which served for an anchor, nearly opposite a rocky spire termed the chapel, three miles south of Shandwick. Suddenly the stone was raised from the bottom with a jerk, and the boat began to move. “What can this mean!” exclaimed the elder of the men, pulling in his rod, “we have surely broken loose; but who could have thought that there ran such a current here!” The other, a young daring fellow, John Clark by name, remarked in reply, that the apparent course of the skiff was directly contrary to that of the current. The motion, which was at first gentle, increased to a frightful velocity; the rope a-head was straitened until the very stem cracked; and the sea rose upon either bows into a furrow that nearly overtopped the gunwale. “Old man,” said the young fellow, “didst thou ever see the like o’ that!” “Guid save us, boy,” said the other; “cut, cut the swing.” “Na, na, bide a wee first, I manna skaith the rape: didst thou ever see the like o’ that!”

In a few minutes, according to the story, they were dragged in this manner nearly two miles, when the motion ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the skiff rode to the swing as before.

THE TWIN SISTERS.

BY ALEXANDER BALFOUR.

One of these men is genius to the other; And so, of these which is the natural man, And which the spirit? Who decyphers them? _Shakspeare._

Emma and Emily Graham were twin daughters of a respectable farmer and cattle-dealer in Perthshire. The girls bore such a striking resemblance to each other, that their mother found it necessary to clothe them in different colours, as the only method by which they could be distinguished. As they grew up, their similarity became, if possible, more perfect; the colour of their eyes and hair had no shade of difference; and, indeed, every feature of their faces, their form and stature, were so exactly alike, that the same distinction of different dresses continued necessary. They had a brother, Edward, about fifteen months younger, who bore as great a likeness to both as they did to each other. When the girls arrived at nine or ten years of age, they gave promise of being rather above the ordinary stature of their sex, with a very considerable share of personal beauty. But it was only in externals that the resemblance was complete; for, although both had excellent dispositions, with a large share of good nature, their minds were in most respects dissimilar.

Emma was sedate and modest, even to bashfulness; while Emily was so free and lively, that many thought her forward, and her lightheartedness akin to levity. Edward’s mind resembled that of his younger sister as closely as his personal appearance. She was all mirth and frolic, and, by changing clothes with her sister, amused, perplexed, and sometimes fretted her parents; in all which Edward delighted to bear a part. At school there was an ample field for these sportive tricks; and the teacher himself was often sadly teased by their playful metamorphoses.

When the sisters completed their seventeenth year, they had more the appearance of grown women than is common at that age; and their resemblance still continued perfect. Their voices, although slightly masculine, were pleasant and musical; and both had the same tone and sound, pitched to the same key. The dispositions which they had exhibited in childhood still seemed to “grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength.” In one thing they, however, agreed, which was, that whenever they appeared in public, they dressed perfectly alike, and were frequently amused and delighted with the mistakes produced by the uniformity. To distinguish their clothes, every article belonging to Emma was marked Em. G., and those of Emily with E. G. only.

As Edward grew up, his striking likeness to his sisters continued; even their difference of voice could be distinguished only by a fine and delicate ear; and with this close resemblance he was so highly pleased, that he used every means by which it could be preserved. To add to the perplexity of their friends, Emma would assume more than her usual vivacity, while Emily would put herself under some restraint; although the one was apt to become suddenly grave, and the other relax into lightheartedness. But they were now divided; for Emma went to reside with an aunt, at fifty miles’ distance, and there she continued for a considerable time.

Both the girls had been courted occasionally by the young men of their acquaintance; but their hearts had never felt a reciprocal passion. There was, in particular, an old widower, Francis Meldrum, who had become enamoured of Emily; and, as he was rich, her parents anxiously wished to promote the match. But their daughter shrunk from it with the most decided aversion: no repulse, however, could release her from the importunity of his addresses, as he was countenanced and encouraged by her parents.

During the summer, their father was in the practice of going into England with a drove of cattle, sometimes not returning till the approach of harvest. He now departed on his usual excursion; and, soon after, the mother was called away to visit her sick grandmother, from whom the family had considerable expectations. The farm and house were thus left under the charge of Edward and Emily, both willing to do their duty, but both thoughtless, and delighting in frolic; which, now that they were relieved from the surveillance and remonstrances of the sedate Emma, they had a better opportunity of indulging.

There was a fair in Perth, only a few miles distant, and Emily requested her brother to accompany her thither, that they might have at least one day of pleasure. Her proposal was most readily acceded to by Edward; and they departed together. A company of military, part of the —— regiment, were quartered in Perth, under the command of Captain Munro, who had received orders to recruit during his stay. The fair was a good opportunity for that purpose, and the Captain, with his troop, paraded the streets in their best array. From a window in the inn where they were dining, Edward and his sister saw them pass along the street. Emily had never known what it was to love; but she had a susceptible heart. Her hour was now come, and her lively fancy was enraptured with the fine, martial appearance of the gallant Captain. Little accustomed to reflection, she fell in love at first sight; and unpractised in disguising her feelings, although she did not express her thoughts to her brother, she was at little pains to conceal the impression made on her heart. This he soon perceived, and began to rally her on the subject, when she frankly acknowledged that she thought the officer the most handsome-looking man she had ever seen, expressing an anxious wish to know his rank and name. That information was easily obtained by Edward, in a casual conversation with the waiter, who said he was from the same quarter with Captain Munro, who was the son and heir of a landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, was unmarried, and a great favourite with the ladies in town. When the couple reached home, Emily’s head and heart both full of the handsome Captain, they had a message from her mother, intimating that the old woman was dying, and that she could not return till she saw the result. There was also a letter from their father, requesting Edward to follow him into England with a supply of cattle, as speedily as possible.

Captain Munro had occupied Emily’s sleeping and waking thoughts; and she began to wish that an opportunity might occur for her becoming acquainted with him. With her characteristic love of frolic, she formed a plan which promised to facilitate her wishes; and circumstances seemed favourable for its execution, but it required the assistance of her brother for carrying it into effect. It was communicated to Edward; and he, equally rash and imprudent as herself, was prevailed upon to play his part, which was no less than to enlist himself with Captain Munro as a recruit, and trust to his sister relieving him, according to a scheme pointed out by her, and which appeared feasible to Edward. In compliance with the plan which they had concerted, Edward, with a servant, left the farm for the cattle. Having put them on the way, and arranged to rejoin the servant, he rode into Perth, and enlisted with the Captain, receiving a shilling of earnest. Promising to come back next morning to receive his bounty, and be attested, Edward mounted his horse, and pushed forward to England, leaving Emily to settle the business as best she could.

The day when he had promised to return passed away without any appearance of the recruit. Being a fine-looking fellow, the officer was reluctant to loose him; therefore, next morning, he despatched a serjeant, with a party, to inquire after him. On their arrival at the farm, they found only Emily and the servants. The serjeant had seen Edward when he enlisted, and now believed that he saw, in Emily, the same person in disguise; in consequence of which he threatened to carry her before his commanding officer; but, preserving her good humour, she held his threats in defiance, and, for his own sake, requested him to take care what he did. Some of the party had remained in the kitchen, and there learned from the servants, that Emily sometimes assumed her brother’s dress; and, they had no doubt, had personated her brother, as a joke on the Captain. Emily now regaled the party with hospitable cheer, and, dismissing them in excellent humour, requested the serjeant to make her compliments to Captain Munro, trusting that he would take better care of his next recruit. The serjeant imparted all this to his superior, together with what the soldiers had heard in the kitchen, from which the officer was persuaded, that either himself or the serjeant had been completely hoaxed, and, determined to investigate the matter fully, both in discharge of his duty, and for the gratification of his curiosity, which had been highly excited, he next morning visited the farm, intending to judge for himself. This was just what Emily wished and expected. She had therefore taken care to inform herself, in a short interview with her brother, of almost every circumstance which had passed between him and the Captain, the relation of which, she trusted, would convince him of her being the recruit. The moment Captain Munro looked at her, he was convinced of her being the identical person he had enlisted, although he still had doubts about her sex; while, at the same time, he felt that he had never seen one of his own with features so fine and delicate. Although Captain Munro was in every respect a gentleman, yet the extraordinary circumstances which had produced this interview, warranted a freedom of manner which, in other cases, he could not have employed, where he was so much a stranger. He therefore now informed Emily, that he was fully convinced of her being the person who had enlisted with him, and also quite satisfied that she now appeared in the habit which belonged to her sex; still, he presumed he had some right to inquire her motive for a step so uncommon, and which she appeared so early to relinquish.

This question, although she had anticipated it, brought deep blushes into Emily’s face; and her heart palpitated as she replied, that, although she now regretted having adopted a measure so incompatible with female delicacy, she felt it a duty which she owed to herself, to inform him of her inducement, lest it might be attributed to something still more unbecoming. She then went on to state that she had, for a long time past, been persecuted with the odious addresses of a widower, old enough to be her father, and whom her parents wished her to marry because he was rich; but, although he had been her equal in age, their dispositions were so opposite, that she must have despised him, for he was a miserly, stingy, jealous, and contemptible wretch; and she had availed herself of the absence of her parents to adopt a measure which, she was sure, would, on its coming to his knowledge, have the effect of relieving her from his offensive importunities; and, although she now saw the imprudent folly she had committed, her regret would be diminished, if it produced the consequences she so anxiously wished.

The part she was now acting, and the situation in which she had placed herself, in spite of all Emily’s natural forwardness, called forth that modest timidity which still adds to the loveliness of a young and beautiful woman, suffusing her cheeks with crimson, and softening the brightness of her sparkling eye. Altogether, her appearance and behaviour made a powerful impression on the heart of the gallant soldier; and he contrived to protract the interview till the latest period that good breeding permitted. When Emily offered to return the shilling which her brother had received, the Captain refused it, saying, with a smile, that he had not yet renounced his claim on her, but reserved it for further investigation, for the discussion of which he proposed repeating his visit.

With self-possession, but becoming modesty, Emily replied, that although she had already overstepped the bounds of female decorum, she was neither ignorant of, nor indifferent to, that propriety of conduct which her situation required; and would therefore request, that if he was again inclined to visit the farm of Greenbraes, it might be after the return of her parents. The Captain now left Emily, nearly as much fascinated with her as she had been with his first appearance; while the respectful propriety of his behaviour, in a case where some freedom of speech might have been excusable, raised him in her estimation; and she flattered herself that he had not seen her with indifference.

The Captain was now impatient for the return of her parents; as, afraid of incurring the displeasure of Emily, he could not venture to visit Greenbraes till that time; but he, oftener than once, threw himself in the way by walking in the vicinity, hoping to meet her whom he now found it impossible to forget. Emily had seen him sauntering in the fields, and rightly conjectured his purpose; but she, actuated, no doubt, partly by a little coquetry, had uniformly disappointed him.

Her father now returned from England; and Emily, who had never before disguised her actions, convinced that her parent must soon hear, from some officious friend, what had already made much noise in the place, resolved to tell as much of the truth as suited her purpose. She therefore informed her father that Edward, in a frolic, had enlisted; but that she had sent him out of the way, and represented him when the Captain came to claim his recruit, and that officer had laughed heartily at the joke.

“Ah, Emily! you are a light-hearted, and lighter-headed lassie,” said the fond father. “You carry things ower far; and I’m fleyed ye’ll tine your ain character, or render it no worth the keeping. What will Francie Meldrum say to that business? I’ll think shame to see him.”

“My dear father, if naebody’s angry but Francie, I’ll never rue doing that for my brother. Say that _you’re_ no angry, father, and set my heart at ease.” And, looking in her father’s face with a timid, but affectionate smile, she laid her arm around his neck, pressing her glowing lip to his bronzed cheek.

“I am angry, you little flattering gipsey; but promise to gie ower thae light-headed pranks, and I’ll forgive you for this.”

Emily had reason to congratulate herself on this speedy reconciliation with her father, who she saw was in good humour; for, looking from the window, she saw Francis, the object of her detestation, approaching, although he had never tormented her during the absence of her parents. Leaving her father to receive the unwelcome visitor, Emily secreted herself in an adjoining closet, where she could hear every word of the conversation, which soon became more agreeable to her than she had expected; for Francis began to speak of her frolic with an asperity which her father did not think it merited. They came to high words, the result of which was, that the farmer conducted his guest to the door, requesting him never to enter it again till Emily bade him welcome. This was so far beyond Emily’s expectations, that her heart bounded with delight; and, had it not been that she must have betrayed her being a listener, she would have rushed in, and, kneeling to her father, thanked him for the deliverance.

The fact was, that her father, on his return from England, had stayed in Perth to deposit some money with his banker, who insisted on his dining with him, as he was to see a few friends that day. Captain Munro happened to be of the party, and, hearing the farmer’s name and residence, endeavoured to make himself as agreeable as possible, in which he succeeded admirably. Before parting, he took an opportunity of having a private conversation with the farmer, relating circumstantially what the reader is already acquainted with, as far as consisted with his own knowledge. He concluded by confessing the impression which Emily had made on him, which all that he had since heard concerning her had contributed to deepen; and that her motive for the frolic which had given him the pleasure of knowing her was a sufficient apology; and, as it was obvious she would never consent to marry the widower, he begged the farmer to sanction his addresses, instead of a man whose age certainly rendered the match very unsuitable. For his own character and family he referred him to the banker, under whose roof they were, requesting the pleasure of another interview before he left town.

The honest farmer was rather vexed at the first part of this relation, but the conclusion put him in good humour; and, in a conversation with the banker, he learned that Captain Munro was the son and heir of a landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, and that the young officer bore a highly respectable character, both as a man and a soldier. The farmer and Captain again met, when the former gave the officer his hearty permission to address his daughter, adding, that as she had several times perplexed him with her harmless tricks, of which the Captain had seen and felt a specimen, he wished this interview to be kept secret, and, when they met at Greenbraes, that they might appear strangers to each other. The Captain approved of the suggestion, esteeming it a good joke; and they parted, both in high spirits.

Emily was highly delighted with the dismissal of the importunate widower; and, just as she was wondering whether the Captain knew that her father had returned, she, one morning, saw him approaching the house.

Although this was by no means a disagreeable discovery, yet, when commanded by her father to join them in the parlour, she entered with a palpitating heart, and her cheeks blushing like a half-blown rose.

The Captain met her with the respectful ease of a gentleman and an old acquaintance, when her father, in rather a severe tone, said, “Emily, you informed me of a joke which you played off upon this gentleman, and gave me to understand it was all settled and forgotten; but I find that is not the case. Captain Munro insists that you received earnest money from him, which you still retain; and, therefore, he is entitled either to your services, or satisfaction for the insult offered to him. What do you say?”

“When Captain Munro explains what he wants, I shall then know how to answer,” replied Emily.

“That is easily done, Miss Graham,” replied the Captain. “You engaged to be a soldier for life, and I claim the fulfilment of your agreement—wish you to follow the drum. In a word, dear Emily, I love you, and wish to make you a soldier’s wife. When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, I informed you that I reserved my claim for further discussion, and requested permission to visit you, which you very prudently declined till your father’s return. He is now present, and I wait your reply. A soldier hates trifling.”

“My first engagement with you, Captain, was rash, and I repented,” replied Emily. “I am afraid you have imitated my folly, in the present declaration, which you would probably regret on reflection. I shall take time to deliberate; and, when we both know each other better, if you continue in the same mind, I shall then be prepared to reply.”

This response, while it did credit to Emily’s prudence, was such as gave the suitor every reasonable hope of success; as the expression, “when we know each other better,” was sufficiently encouraging to induce him to continue his visits. Love had already done his work with both hearts, and in a short time they perfectly understood each other.

Emily’s mother now returned; and, after the necessary preparations, the wedding-day was appointed, when the Captain was called to Edinburgh, as member of a court-martial, to be held in the Castle. They had known each other but a short time, and both had been so much engrossed with their own affairs, that, although the Captain had heard Emma’s name mentioned, he was ignorant of the striking resemblance which she bore to her sister. Emily had also continued unacquainted with the Captain’s first interview with her father, till she happened to overhear the latter relating it to her mother, and chuckling over it as a good joke which he and the Captain had played off on Emily. Although not displeased at the imposition practised on her, she resolved, sooner or later, to pay both her father and lover in their own coin; and her fertile invention soon contrived a scheme, in which, if she could engage her sister as a confederate, she trusted to enjoy the pleasure of full retaliation.

A letter had been despatched to Emma, announcing the intended nuptials, and requesting her presence, to officiate as bride’s maid on the occasion. This message had, however, been crossed on the road by another from Emma, to the same tune; informing her parents of her intended marriage, two days before that fixed for Emily’s wedding, and requesting the same service of her sister which had been expected from her.

This _contretemps_ was a disappointment to both; however, a second letter arrived from Emma, congratulating Emily on the approaching event, and intimating that she and her husband intended doing themselves the pleasure of being with them in time to witness the ceremony.

The absence of some important witnesses in the case before the court-martial had prevented its sitting; and a letter arrived from Captain Munro, intimating, that, however much it vexed him, he found it would be impossible for him to be at Greenbraes sooner than the day appointed for their union; and, even then, the hour of his arrival was uncertain, but he hoped to be in time for dinner.

Edward arrived from England on the eve of the wedding-day; and Emma, with her husband, in the morning. After the mutual congratulations among so many friends, Emily took an early opportunity of communicating her intentions, and requesting their assistance; especially as it was the last opportunity she would have of indulging in frolic; as, in a few hours, she should be sworn to love, honour, and obey her husband. Edward was highly delighted with the scheme; and Emma’s husband, who loved a joke, prevailed on her to comply with her sister’s request, and perform her share in the plot, as explained by Emily; and the striking likeness of the two sisters being still as strong as ever, rendered success almost certain. As a necessary preliminary, it was agreed that the sisters should be dressed exactly alike, in every, the minutest article, except that Emma should wear a _bandeau_ of artificial rosebuds, by which she could be at once distinguished from her sister. All this was carried into effect; and, when dressed, the distinction was pointed out to their parents, to prevent, as they said, any ridiculous mistake at the approaching ceremony.

The farmhouse of Greenbraes had, in former times, been the mansion-house of the estate, and still had attached to it an extensive and old-fashioned garden. The house stood on a rising ground, and had a commanding view of the road by which the bridegroom must approach. Emily had every thing ready; and, when she saw him at some distance, she joined her brother, with Emma and her husband, in the garden, where they had been for some time; but, as she passed out, requested her mother to conduct Captain Munro to the garden, on his arrival, contriving some excuse for leaving him as he entered, as she wished to she him privately.

The party had disposed themselves in order, waiting his approach; and, when they heard the garden-door open, Edward and Emily withdrew, secreting themselves in a thicket of evergreens; and the Captain entering, beheld Emma and her husband sauntering most lovingly, at a little distance before him. They did not seem to observe the bridegroom; but, on turning the corner of a new-clipped yew-hedge, Emma, as if by accident, dropped her handkerchief, and the next moment they were out of sight. Captain Munro believed at first glance that it was Emily he had seen, but still was reluctant to suppose it possible that she would permit any other man to use the freedom he had just witnessed; and endeavoured to persuade himself that the lady must be a stranger, invited to the wedding. However, the handkerchief seemed a probable clue to solve his doubts; he approached, took it up, and found it marked Em. G. In no very pleasant mood, he stepped forward a little farther, when he heard a soft whisper, which he knew proceeded from a rustic bower; and he was aware that, by a slight circuit, he could discover the occupants without being seen. He now saw, as he believed, Emily seated in the bower, her head leaning on the shoulder of a handsome-looking young man, whose arm encircled her waist. Rage and jealousy now took possession of the bridegroom’s soul, and he was at first disposed to leave the farm, without speaking to any one, but, standing for a few minutes in a stupor, he determined to see the face of him for whom he had been so cruelly deceived. He therefore walked up in front of the bower, and, with all the calm respect which he could assume, said, “Madam, permit me to present your handkerchief, which you dropped in the walk.”

“I thank you, Sir,” replied Emma; “may I inquire to whom I am indebted for restoring it to its owner?”

The cool composure with which this question was put, raised the indignation of the maddened bridegroom to its highest pitch; and, with a glance of the most sovereign contempt which he could assume, he replied, “To one, madam, who despises you from his soul, and thanks God for his timely discovery of your infamy!”

Her husband now started to his feet, and said, “Sir, you bear the insignia, although you want the manners of a gentleman. But were you of the blood-royal, you should not insult my wife with impunity.”

Captain Munro started at the word, and repeated, “Wife! did you say, Sir? Permit me to ask one question, to which your candid reply will oblige me. How long has that woman been your wife?”

“For these two days.”

“Enough. Farewell for ever! infamous woman!”

Edward now sprung from the thicket, and standing right before the Captain, in the exact costume in which he had enlisted, said, with an arch and good-humoured smile, “My honoured Captain, excuse the freedom of your recruit. I cannot patiently hear those opprobrious epithets applied to my sister; perhaps she could explain all this if you had patience.”

The Captain was now fairly bewildered, and stood staring, first at the one, and then the other, in half-frantic amazement, when, to his relief, the farmer approached; and, seeing the four looking in gloomy silence on each other, exclaimed, “Why, what is the matter with all of you, that you stare as if bewitched?”

Captain Munro, recovering himself a little, replied, “It is even so, Sir; and you are come in time to remove the spell. Say, who are these before you?”

The farmer surveyed the group, and observing that Emma had not the _bandeau_ of rose-buds by which she was to be distinguished from her sister, replied: “Captain, what do you mean? The young man is my son Edward; the other is Dr Malcolm, my son-in-law: you surely do not require to be told that the female is _my_ daughter, and _your_ bride.”

“She is no bride of mine—I renounce her for ever!” said the angry soldier, in a most indignant tone.

While the farmer stood, as much amazed as the Captain had been, Emily came forward from the thicket, and, standing close beside her sister, said, “Dear father, let not the gentlemen quarrel; you have certainly a daughter for each of them; and as both of us are quite willing to have husbands, have the goodness to give our hands to those for whom you intend us;” and both sisters stood with the stillness, gravity, and silence of statues. The astonished father found the distinguishing badge wanting in both, and replied, “I must confess I am fairly bewildered; gentlemen, choose for yourselves, for I cannot!”

Edward now put on Emily’s playful smile, and looked at the Captain in a manner which made him at once clasp the youth in his arms, crying, “My dear Emily! I know you now.”

The loud laughter of the party again renewed the confusion of the bridegroom and farmer, which was enjoyed for a considerable time before they condescended to give any explanation. It was, however, at last made; all was set right, and the evening passed at Greenbraes in hilarity and unclouded happiness.

ALBERT BANE: _AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN_.

BY HENRY MACKENZIE.

When I was, last autumn, at my friend Colonel Caustic’s in the country, I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young gentleman and his sister, children of a neighbour of the Colonel’s, with whose appearance and manner I was particularly pleased.

The history of their parents, said my friend, is somewhat particular, and I love to tell it, as I do everything that is to the honour of our nature. Man is so poor a thing, taken in the gross, that when I meet with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am fain to rest upon it long, and to recall it often, as in coming thither over our barren hills you would look with double delight on a spot of cultivation or of beauty.

The father of those young folks, whose looks you were struck with, was a gentleman of considerable domains and extensive influence on the northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was then more the fashion than it is now, at the seat of his ancestors, surrounded with Gothic grandeur, and compassed with feudal followers and dependants, all of whom could trace their connection at a period more or less remote with the family of their chief. Every domestic in his house bore the family-name, and looked on himself as in a certain degree partaking its dignity, and sharing its fortunes. Of these, one was in a particular manner the favourite of his master. Albert Bane (the surname, you know, is generally lost in a name descriptive of the individual) had been his companion from his infancy. Of an age so much more advanced as to enable him to be a sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert had early taught him the rural exercises and rural amusements, in which himself was eminently skilful; he had attended him in the course of his education at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the constant companion of his excursions, and the associate of his sports.

On one of those latter occasions, a favourite dog of Albert’s, whom he had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was proud, happened to mar the sport which his master expected, who, irritated at the disappointment, and having his gun ready cocked in his hand, fired at the animal, which, however, in the hurry of his resentment, he missed. Albert, to whom Oscar was a child, remonstrated against the rashness of the deed in a manner rather too warm for his master, ruffled as he was with the accident, and conscious of being in the wrong, to bear. In his passion he struck his faithful attendant, who suffered the indignity in silence: and retiring, rather in grief than in anger, left his native country that very night; and when he reached the nearest town, enlisted with a recruiting party of a regiment then on foreign service. It was in the beginning of the war with France, which broke out in 1744, rendered remarkable for the rebellion which the policy of the French court excited, in which some of the first families of the Highlands were unfortunately engaged. Among those who joined the standard of Charles, was the master of Albert.

After the battle of Culloden, so fatal to that party, this gentleman, along with others who had escaped the slaughter of the field, sheltered themselves from the rage of the unsparing soldiery among the distant recesses of their country. To him his native mountains offered an asylum; and thither he naturally fled for protection. Acquainted, in the pursuits of the chase, with every secret path and unworn track, he lived for a considerable time, like the deer of his forest, close hid all day, and only venturing down at the fall of evening, to obtain from some of his cottagers, whose fidelity he could trust, a scanty and precarious support. I have often heard him (for he is one of my oldest acquaintances) describe the scene of his hiding-place, at a later period, when he could recollect it in its sublimity, without its horror. “At times,” said he, “when I ventured to the edge of the wood, among some of those inaccessible crags which you remember a few miles from my house, I have heard, in the pauses of the breeze which rolled solemn through the pines beneath me, the distant voices of the soldiers, shouting in answer to one another amidst their inhuman search. I have heard their shouts re-echoed from cliff to cliff, and seen reflected from the deep still lake below the gleam of those fires which consumed the cottages of my people. Sometimes shame and indignation wellnigh overcame my fear, and I have prepared to rush down the steep, unarmed as I was, and to die at once by the swords of my enemies; but the instinctive love of life prevailed, and starting, as the roe bounded by me, I have again shrunk back to the shelter I had left.

“One day,” continued he, “the noise was nearer than usual; and at last, from the cave in which I lay, I heard the parties immediately below so close upon me, that I could distinguish the words they spoke. After some time of horrible suspense, the voices grew weaker and more distant; and at last I heard them die away at the further end of the wood. I rose and stole to the mouth of the cave, when suddenly a dog met me, and gave that short quick bark by which they indicate their prey. Amidst the terror of the circumstance, I was yet master enough of myself to discover that the dog was Oscar; and I own to you I felt his appearance like the retribution of justice and of heaven. ‘Stand!’ cried a threatening voice, and a soldier pressed through the thicket, with his bayonet charged. It was Albert! Shame, confusion, and remorse stopped my utterance, and I stood motionless before him. ‘My master!’ said he, with the stifled voice of wonder and of fear, and threw himself at my feet. I had recovered my recollection. You are revenged, said I, and I am your prisoner. ‘Revenged! Alas! you have judged too harshly of me; I have not had one happy day since that fatal one on which I left my master; but I have lived, I hope, to save him. The party to which I belong are passed; for I lingered behind them among those woods and rocks, which I remember so well in happier days. There is, however, no time to be lost. In a few hours this wood will blaze, though they do not suspect that it shelters you. Take my dress, which may help your escape, and I will endeavour to dispose of yours. On the coast, to the westward, we have learned there is a small party of your friends, which, by following the river’s track till dusk, and then striking over the shoulder of the hill, you may join without much danger of discovery.’ I felt the disgrace of owing so much to him I had injured, and remonstrated against exposing him to such imminent danger of its being known that he favoured my escape, which, from the temper of his commander, I knew would be instant death. Albert, in an agony of fear and distress, besought me to think only of my own safety. ‘Save us both,’ said he, ‘for if you die, I cannot live. Perhaps we may meet again; but whatever comes of Albert, may the blessing of God be with his master!’”

Albert’s prayer was heard. His master, by the exercise of talents which, though he had always possessed, adversity only taught him to use, acquired abroad a station of equal honour and emolument; and when the proscriptions of party had ceased, returned home to his own country, where he found Albert advanced to the rank of a lieutenant in the army, to which his valour and merit had raised him, married to a lady, by whom he had got some little fortune, and the father of an only daughter, for whom nature had done much, and to whose native endowments it was the chief study and delight of her parents to add everything that art could bestow. The gratitude of the chief was only equalled by the happiness of his follower, whose honest pride was not long after gratified by his daughter becoming the wife of that master whom his generous fidelity had saved. That master, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times, was again restored to the domains of his ancestors, and had the satisfaction of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy the hereditary birthright of his race. I accompanied Colonel Caustic on a visit to this gentleman’s house, and was delighted to observe his grateful attention to his father-in-law, as well as the unassuming happiness of the good old man, conscious of the perfect reward which his former fidelity had met with. Nor did it escape my notice, that the sweet boy and girl, who had been our guests at the Colonel’s, had a favourite brown and white spaniel, whom they caressed much after dinner, whose name was Oscar.

THE PENNY-WEDDING.

BY ALEX. CAMPBELL.

If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding, they will agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack’s; but, from all we have heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.

It is very well known to those who know anything at all of penny-weddings, that, when a farmer’s servant is about to be married—such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most frequent occasion of these festivities—all the neighbouring farmers, with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the wedding guests—some sending one thing and some another, till materials are accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the parties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little domicile.

Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago. The parties—we name them, although it is of no consequence to our story—were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison, and both very deserving and well-doing persons.

On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the services of blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings and rosin.

“An’ a wee bit box o’ elbow grease, Willie,” said Andrew, slily; “for ye’ll hae gude aught hours o’t, at the very least.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that too, Andrew,” replied Willie, laughing; “but it’s no aught hours that’ll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen without stoppin, except to rosit.”

“And to weet your whistle,” slipped in Andrew.

“Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu’ and at it again,” said Willie. “I just tak, Andrew,” he went on, “precisely the time o’ a demisemiquaver to a tumbler o’ cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and twa minims or four crochets to a tumbler o’ het drink, such as toddy; for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only get through wi’ at the rate o’ ‘Roslin Castle,’ or the ‘Dead March in Saul,’ especially when its brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never be done to a fiddler.”

Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement by Willie, of the time consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events, this we know, that Willie was a very indifferent, if not positively a very bad fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive, and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the employment he obtained, as to their love or charity.

The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his best, popped his best fiddle—which was, after all, but a very sober article, having no more tone than a salt-box—into a green bag, slipped the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which had been carefully swept and levelled for the “light fantastic _toes_” of some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the Chinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of platform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this again a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly say, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to pour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When Willie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not yet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were every minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine summer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew forth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the infinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not having gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself, waiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to Willie’s music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very appropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening.

While Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the look-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly appeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth of his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his thumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was near his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped short.

“I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market,” he said, guessing at once the object of the stranger. “An’ ye hae been travellin too, I daresay?” he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the intruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling.

“Ay,” replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about eight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, “I hae been travellin, as ye say, neebor, an’ hae came twa or three miles out o’ my way to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin.”

“I am sorry now, man, for that,” said Willie, sympathisingly. “I doot ye’ll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for’t this fortnight past. But I’ll tell ye what: if ye’re onything guid o’ the fiddle, ye may remain, jist to relieve me now an’ then, an’ I’ll mind ye when a’s ower; an’ at ony rate ye’ll aye pick up a mouthfu’ o’ guid meat and drink—an’ that ye ken’s no to be fand at every dyke-side.”

“A bargain be’t,” said the stranger, “an’ much obliged to you, frien. I maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu. But isna your waddin folks lang o’ comin?” he added.

“They’ll be here belyve,” replied Willie, and added, “Ye’ll no be blin, frien?”

“Ou, no,” said the stranger; “thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am otherwise in such a bad state o’ health, that I canna work, and am obliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence.”

While this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen dropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for the scene of the evening’s festivities, where they all very soon after assembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that were now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having had their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on their labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and open field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings, Willie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the elevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed him his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in hand, on his principal’s left, but standing on the ground, as there was no room for him on the platform.

Everything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their respective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin, an order which he instantly obeyed by opening in great style.

On the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which the strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his coadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next.

“Weel,” replied the latter, “if ye think ye can gae through wi’t onything decently, ye may try your hand.”

“I’ll no promise much,” said the stranger, now for the first time drawing his fiddle out of its bag; “but, for the credit o’ the craft, I’ll do the best I can.”

Having said this, Willie’s colleague drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in the apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and surprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those of poor Willie’s salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating ear amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference. But infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the stranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and beauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master of the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by all, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and goodwill, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life.

The result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to lift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its labours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather say the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an apparently invincible elbow.

For several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without any apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers; but, at the end of this period, some symptoms of exhaustion began to manifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary cessation of both the mirth and music.

It was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler, who had been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie’s elevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the floor, stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the hat with his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper, if he knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the partners in the last reel that had been danced.

“Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark-ee’d, and dark-haired lassie, about nineteen or twenty?” inquired Willie, in his turn.

“The same,” replied the fiddler.

“Ou, that’s Jeanie Harrison,” said Willie, “a kind-hearted, nice bit lassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a’ the parish. She’s a dochter o’ Mr Harrison o’ Todshaws, the young couple’s maister, an’ a very respectable man. He’s here himsel, too, amang the lave.”

“Just so,” replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which he saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury. Amongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.

“Is there naebody’ll tak me out for a reel?” exclaimed the lively girl; and without waiting for an answer, “Weel, then, I’ll hae the fiddler.” And she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was seated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her choice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility of a harlequin, exclaiming, “Thank ye, my bonny lassie, thank ye for the honour. I’m your man at a moment’s notice, either for feet or fiddle.”

It is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made choice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to retract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice, or rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her engagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one insisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could do no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she could, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie having now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of command, and away the dancers went like meteors; and here again the surprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our friend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that he far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for there were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he danced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who witnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner, nor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined gallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble station in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where the beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every one found it difficult to conjecture.

On the termination of the dance, the fiddler—as we shall call him, _par excellence_, and to distinguish him from Willie—resumed his seat and his fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former spirit; but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost constantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had been very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This circumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to those who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit of his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use of the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be put out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might present itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination.

Leaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to where Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her partner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring farmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced with a fiddler.

Premising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties themselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and jealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in this particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad tempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies themselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities which usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for connoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they professed to be profound judges—premising this, then, we proceed to quote the conversation that passed between the three ladies—that is, the Misses Murray and Miss Harrison; the latter taking her seat between them after dancing with the fiddler.

“My certy!” exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head, “ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi’ a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill aff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi’ such a ragamuffin.”

“An’ to go an’ ask him too!” said the younger, with an imitative toss. “I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi’ me, let alane a fiddler! If they dinna choose to come o’ their ain accord, they may stay.”

“Tuts, lassies, it was a’ a piece o’ fun,” said the good-humoured girl. “I’m sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man’s well aneugh—na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better clad. There’s no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies,” she added, “ye may get as guid dancers in your partners—that’s a’.”

“Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an’ a very strange notion o’ propriety!” exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.

“To dance wi’ a fiddler!” simpered out the younger—who, by the way, was no chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty.

“Ay, to be sure, dance wi’ a fiddler or a piper either. I’ll dance wi’ baith o’ them—an’ what for no?” replied Jeanie. “There’s neither sin nor shame in’t; and I’ll dance wi’ him again, if he’ll only but ask me.”

“An’ faith he’ll do that wi’ a’ the pleasure in the warld, my bonny lassie,” quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his high place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing while the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every word of it. “Wi’ a’ the pleasure in the warld,” he said, advancing towards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation; and again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept it, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends and to provoke the Misses Murray.

Having accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples having been mustered for the set, Jeanie’s partner again called on Willie to strike up; again the dancers started, and again the fiddler astonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his performances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician’s predilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal character; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her father’s, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle.

“Nae objection in the warld,” replied Jeanie. “Come as aften as ye like; and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi’ ye, for we’re a’ fond o’ music.”

“A bargain be’t,” said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.

“Time and the hour,” says Shakspeare, “will wear through the roughest day;” and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous party of whom we are speaking now soon found.

Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.

These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings as payment in full for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger’s share, he generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party, as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.

“Very fair,” said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his brother in trade—“very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the odd sixpences?”

“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie, “wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid notion.”

And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.

“Ye’re a guid fiddler—I’ll say that o’ ye,” quoth Willie, after tossing down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. “I would never wish to hear a better.”

“I have had some practice,” said the other modestly, and at the same time following his companion’s example with his glass.

“Nae doot, nae doot, sae’s seen on your playin,” replied the latter. “How do you fend wi’ yer fiddle? Do ye mak onything o’ a guid leevin o’t?”

“No that ill ava,” said the stranger. “I play for the auld leddy at the castle—Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I’m sometimes ca’d the leddy’s fiddler, and she’s uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp when I gang there.”

“That’s sae far weel,” replied Willie. “She’s a guid judge o’ music that Leddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I’m tauld her son, Sir John, plays a capital bow.”

“No amiss, I believe,” said the stranger; “but the leddy, as ye say, is an excellent judge o’ music, although whiles, I think, rather ower fond o’t, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be wi’ Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that’s no sweer o’ the cap. But, speaking o’ that, I’ll tell ye what, frien,” he continued, “if ye’ll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I’ll be blithe to see you, for I’m there at least ance every day, and I’ll warrant ye—for ye see I can use every liberty there—in a guid het dinner, an’ a jug o’ hetter toddy to wash it ower wi’.”

“A bargain be’t,” quoth Willie; “will the morn do?”

“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the sooner the better.”

This settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time near his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This feeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the toddy, and of his friend’s frank and jovial manner, he at length ventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice.

“That’s an uncommon guid instrument o’ yours, frien,” he said.

“Very good,” replied his companion, briefly.

“But ye’ll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?” rejoined the other.

“I hae ither twa.”

“In that case,” said Willie, “maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt wi’ that ane, an’ the price offered ye wur a’ the mair temptin. I’ll gie ye the fifteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an’ my fiddle, for’t.”

“Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer,” replied the stranger; “but I daurna accept o’t, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by Leddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi’t. She wad miss’t, and then there would be the deevil to pay.”

“Oh, an’ that’s the case,” said Willie, “I’ll sae nae mair aboot it; but it’s a first-rate fiddle—sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the lane o’t.”

It being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the blind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that the former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now going, he said, to seek a night’s quarters) on the following day.

True to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or Castle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for “the fiddler.” His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the footman who opened the door. He was told “the fiddler” was there, and desired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the footman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards entertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler joined him.

“My word, neighbour,” said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of the good things that were set before him, and having drank in proportion, “but ye’re in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to some purpose, an’ treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the persons o’ its professors. But what,” he added, “if Sir John should come in upon us? He wadna like maybe a’ thegither to see a stranger wi’ ye?”

“Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He’s but a wild harum-scarum throughither chap at the best, an’ no muckle to be heeded.”

“Ay, he’s fond o’ a frolic, they tell me,” quoth Willie; “an’ there’s a heap o’ gie queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no; but his heart’s in the richt place, I’m thinkin, for a’ that. I’ve heard o’ mony guid turns he has dune.”

“Ou, he’s no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay,” replied Willie’s companion. “His bark’s waur than his bite—an’ that’s mair than can be said o’ a rat-trap, at ony rate.”

It was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain strange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie’s mind regarding his entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an air of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied the humble situation of “the lady’s fiddler;” but, singular as this appeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were obeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing, however; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his brother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and, lost in admiration of his friend’s felicity, he was about again to express his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery entered the room, and bowing respectfully, said, “The carriage waits you, Sir John.”

“I will be with you presently, Thomas,” replied who? inquires the reader.

Why, Willie’s companion!

What! is he then Sir John Gowan—he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding, Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the wealthiest man in the county?

The same and no other, good reader, we assure thee.

A great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was one of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler; and, as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that most difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments.

We will not attempt to describe poor Willie’s amazement and confusion when this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable, and therefore better left to the reader’s imagination. On recovering a little from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his astonishment in such broken sentences as these—“Wha in earth wad hae ever dreamed o’t? Rosit an’ fiddle-strings!—this beats a’. Faith, a’n I’ve been fairly taen in—clean dune for. A knight o’ the shire to play at a penny-waddin wi’ blin Willie Hodge the fiddler! The like was ne’er heard tell o’.”

As it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the scene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying, that Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted, and which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down to him the half of the proceeds of the previous night’s labours which he had pocketed, added a handsome _douceur_ from his own purse, and finally dismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle as often as it suited his inclination and convenience.

Having arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain one or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the sequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to what has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of him are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about him. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if it was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was an excellent young man—kind, generous, and affable; of the strictest honour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an exceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he was unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was most affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good deal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became disgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the frivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the resolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely to the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which his position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him.

Simple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to discover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from time to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he could think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one fresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule of art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of the previous night.

Bringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a close, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our little drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at Todshaws.

The house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best description of such establishments. The building itself was substantial, nay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it, and all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was surrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the summit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little rivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging with hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound through an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged into another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left.

The approach to Mr Harrison’s house lay along this little rivulet, and was commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the former—a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine summer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events just related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at the wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful intelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of a merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger branches.

When the fiddler—with whose identity the reader is now as well acquainted as we are—had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to the house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and expressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health, rushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaws.

“Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank ye,” replied the disguised baronet, expressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his assumed station. “Are ye ready for anither dance?”

“Oh, a score o’ them—a thousand o’ them,” said the lively girl.

“But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?” inquired the fiddler.

“Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o’ your sour carles that wad deny ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see a’body happy around him—every ane his ain way.”

“An’ your mother?”

“Jist the same. Ye’ll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o’ us. She’ll dance as lang’s a string hauds o’t.”

“Then, I may be quite at my ease,” rejoined Sir John.

“Quite so,” replied Jeanie—and she slipped half-a-crown into his hand—“and there’s your arles; but ye’ll be minded better ere ye leave us.”

“My word, no an ill beginnin,” quoth the musician, looking with well-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully into his pocket. “But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles than half-a-crown,” he added, “and no been a penny the poorer either.”

“What’s that?” said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and more than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was meant.

“Why, my bonny leddie,” he replied, “jist a kiss o’ that pretty little mou o’ yours.”

“Oh, ye gowk!” exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble gallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very handsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of remarkably fine features—qualities which did not escape the vigilance of the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we say that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without producing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler.

“Oh, ye gowk!” said Jeanie; “wha ever heard o’ a fiddler preferring a kiss to half-a-crown?”

“But _I_ do, though,” replied the disguised knight; “and I’ll gie ye yours back again for’t.”

“The mair fule you,” exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house, and leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself.

On reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where a plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and considerate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest’s making a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces of cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily refused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed them into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out like a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any one who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them for that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it was found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently indicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however—we mean the projection of the bones from the pockets—we must observe, the owner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would have been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which Jeanie’s warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him.

Be this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his repast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow pathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie’s eye filled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but melancholy turns of the affecting tune.

Twice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to perceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before him, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a susceptible heart and of a generous nature.

A third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with a song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the others which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once manly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every justice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and well-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:—

Oh, I hae lived wi’ high-bred dames, Each state of life to prove, But never till this hour hae met The girl that I could love.

It’s no in fashion’s gilded ha’s That she is to be seen; Beneath her father’s humble roof Abides my bonny Jean.

Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair, Ae kindly thought on me, Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair, Though low be my degree.

Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair, Wi’ gowd her wrists sae sma’; An’ had I lands and houses, she’d Be leddy ower them a’.

The sun abune’s no what he seems, Nor is the night’s fair queen; Then wha kens wha the minstrel is That’s wooin bonny Jean?

Jeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded with a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself.

She, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as merely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat embarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush that mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the fixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted.

When he had concluded, “Well, good folks all,” he said, “what think ye of my song?” And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed very indifferent, he added, “and how do you like it, Jeanie?” directing the question exclusively to the party he named.

“Very weel,” replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than before; “the song is pretty, an’ the air delightfu’; but some o’ the verses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understand them.”

“Don’t you?” replied Sir John, laughing; “then I’ll explain them to you by-and-by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for my dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to begin.” A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices; and straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a suggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir John took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and immediately commenced his labours.

For several hours the dance went on with uninterrupted glee, old Mr Harrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the youngest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly playing of the musician. But although, as on a former occasion, Sir John did not suffer anything to interfere with, or interrupt the charge of the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his mind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged. All, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on which his affections had now become irrevocably fixed.

Neither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means dictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates entertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more serious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would afford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver. Of these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty correct estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of seeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for his purpose than those of a domestic nature.

It was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the result of his observations was highly gratifying to him.

He found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He found her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered, beloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her with a sincere and ardent love.

Such were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this occasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart of the fortunate finder, as these did that of him who made them. It is true that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses would be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made himself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong confidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently, tolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of another day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts’ content of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the fiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with the same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his hand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken lightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he had a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little daylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but this he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties with which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon repeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, “I promised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather attempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the explanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a day or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction. Till then, do not forget your poor fiddler.”

“No, I winna forget ye,” said Jeanie. “It wadna be easy to forget ane that has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more than gratefu’ to do so, I think.”

“And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however humble may be their attempts to win your favour; of that I feel assured.” Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he quickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried out of the door.

What Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we really do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to any one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but for what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the general manners of the humble musician, with the melodious tones of his voice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love! thou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty daughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment, with certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark, good reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in love with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too much. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something about him that left no disagreeable impression—nay, something which she wished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be.

Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the footsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a rapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the distance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and man-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment. Having hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle Gowan.

In this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan’s, or rather in the romantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and hand to the daughter of a humble farmer, there was but one doubtful point on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he could obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved him with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and affectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the happiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life, there was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any proposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well knew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now about to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she would answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and without the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his marrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some misgivings that he entered his mother’s private apartment on the day following his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the secret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed regarding it.

“Mother,” he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual affectionate inquiries of the morning, “you have often expressed a wish that I would marry.”

“I have, John,” replied the good old lady. “Nothing in this world would afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who should be every way deserving of you—one with whom you could live happily.”

“Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say—nay, God forbid I should—that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can discover what is their real nature and character. They are still strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the slightest point of variety. Now, mother,” continued Sir John, “the wife I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of the world.”

“Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning,” said Lady Gowan, laughing. “But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very sensible speech of yours? for that there is a drift in it I can clearly perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump upon me at once.”

Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother’s shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded. Having pressed her on this point—

“Well, my son,” replied Lady Gowan, “if you think that you cannot find a woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her. Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine. I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of irreproachable character; and I don’t think this is being unreasonable. But do now, John, tell me at once,” she added, in a graver tone, and taking her son solemnly by the hand, “have you fixed your affections on a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case.”

“I have then, mother,” replied Sir John, returning his mother’s expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand; “the daughter of a humble yeoman, a woman who——” But we will spare the reader the infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment of the female sex.

When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that, nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. “Nay,” she added, smiling, “if she only possesses one-tenth—ay, one-tenth, John—of the good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But, John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust, and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go for nothing with you? Does——”

“My dear mother,” here burst in Sir John, “if you please, we will not argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison—that is, of course, if Miss Harrison will marry me?”

“Fully and freely, my child,” said the old lady, now flinging her arms around her son’s neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; “and may God bless your union, and make it happy!”

Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her for her ready compliance with his wishes.

On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards the house.

“Wha in a’ the world’s this?” said Jeanie to her father, as they both stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in the sun and rolled on towards them. “Some travellers that hae mistaen their road.”

“Very likely,” replied her father; “yet I canna understand what kind o’ a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o’-the-way place as this. It’s no a regular carriage road—that they micht hae seen; an’ if they hae gane wrang, they’ll find some difficulty in getting richt again. But here they are, sae we’ll sune ken a’ about it.”

As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped; a gentleman stepped out, and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who their visitor was.

“How do you do, Mr Harrison?” exclaimed the latter, stretching out his hand to the person he addressed; “and how do you do, Miss Harrison?” he said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.

In the stranger’s tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary likeness to the fiddler—only that he had no fiddle, that he was infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person, however, she never dreamed for a moment.

In his daughter’s perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to, Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and it was thus that he replied to the stranger’s courtesies with a gravity and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such an effect upon her.

Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his daughter—

“Mr Harrison,” he said, “may I have a private word with you?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the former. And he led the way into a little back parlour.

“Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison,” said the stranger, with a smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.

On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of his visitor.

“Mr Harrison,” now began the latter, “in the first place, it may be proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan.”

“Oh!” said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and extending his hand towards him; “I am very happy indeed to see Sir John Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John.”

“Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison,” replied the baronet, laughing. “I am glad that my character, since it happens to be a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I daresay,” continued Sir John, “a certain fiddler who played to you at a certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on the green in front of your own house the other night.”

Mr Harrison’s first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes’ pause thus employed, “No, certainly not, sir,” he said, still greatly perplexed and amazed. “But I do not understand you. What is it you mean, Sir John?”

“Why,” replied the latter, laughing, “I mean very distinctly that _I_ was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The personification of such a character has been one of my favourite frolics; and however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at least be allowed to have been a harmless one.”

“Well, this is most extraordinary,” replied Mr Harrison, in great astonishment. “Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are ye jesting?”

“Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all this,” continued Sir John, “is but a prelude to the business I came upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison: I saw and particularly marked your daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words, is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty, her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart, and I have now come to offer her my hand.”

“Why, Sir John, this—this,” stammered out the astonished farmer, “is more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour, Sir John—great honour, indeed.”

“Not a word of that,” replied the knight, “not a word of that, Mr Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her affections, I hope, are not preengaged?”

“Not that I know of, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison; “indeed, I may venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet, that I am aware of, thought of a husband—at least, not more than young women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned.”

“And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your daughter?”

“Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should.”

“Will you, then, my dear sir,” added Sir John, “be kind enough to go to Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your return?”

With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison’s communication had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting, laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together in one tremendous medley, and so loud that it reached the ears of Sir John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at the strange uproar.

“But, oh! the cauld beef an’ the cheese that I crammed into his pockets, father,” exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation. “He’ll never forgie me that—never, never,” she said, in great distress of mind. “To fill a knight’s pockets wi’ dauds o’ beef and cheese! Oh! goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It’s impossible, father—impossible, impossible!”

“If that be a’ your objections, Jeanie,” replied her father, smiling, “we’ll soon get the better o’t. I’ll undertake to procure ye Sir John’s forgiveness for the cauld beef and cheese—that’s if ye think it necessary to ask a man’s pardon for filling his pockets wi’ most unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man’s pouches war as weel lined, lassie, as Sir John’s was that nicht.” Saying this, Mr Harrison returned to Sir John, and informed him of the result of his mission, which was—but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie could not be brought to give any rational answer at all—that his addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter, “which,” he added, “is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime, Sir John.”

“Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that’s not worth wooing’s not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way, and only desire that you may wish me success.”

“That I do with all my heart,” replied the farmer; “and, if I can lend you a hand, I will do it with right good will.”

“Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you,” replied Sir John; “and now, my dear sir,” he continued, “since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will you be good enough to help me just one step farther? Will you now introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto she has known me only,” he said, smiling as he spoke, “as an itinerant fiddler, and I long to meet her on a more serious footing—and on one,” he added, again laughing, “I hope, a trifle more respectable.”

“That I’ll very willingly do, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison, smiling in his turn; “but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has one most serious objection to seeing you.”

“Indeed!” replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some alarm. “Pray, what is that objection?”

“Why, sir,” rejoined the latter, “allow me to reply to that question by asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold beef?”

“Oh! perfectly, perfectly,” said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat perplexed. “Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my pocket with her own fair hands.”

“Just so,” replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. “Well, then, to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that circumstance, that she positively will not face you.”

“Oh ho! is that the affair?” exclaimed the delighted baronet. “Why, then, if she won’t come to us, we’ll go to her; so lead the way, Mr Harrison, if you please.” Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was caught.

Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan, very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in due time, became LADY GOWAN.

PEAT-CASTING TIME.

BY THOMAS GILLESPIE.

In the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when labour and frolic went hand in hand—when professional duty and kindhearted glee mutually kissed each other. The “rockin’” mentioned by Burns—

On Fasten e’en we had a rockin’—

I still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is only under the refractive medium of vigorous recollection that I can again bring up to view (as the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those images that have been reposing, “’midst the wreck of things that were,” for more than fifty years. Yet my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile and juvenile festivities. _There_ still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch and check-apron, projecting at intervals the well-filled spindle into the distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating and twirling the yet unwound thread. Nanny Nivison occupies a _creepy_ on the further side of the fire (making the third Fate!), with her shears. Around, and on bedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad; Tam Kirkpatrick, with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob Paton the stirk-herd; and your humble servant. And “now the crack gaes round, and who so wilful as to put it by?” The story of past times; the report of recent love-matches and miscarriages; the gleeful song, bursting unbid from the young heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the waters from the rock of Meribah; the occasional female remonstrance against certain _welcome_ impertinences, in shape of, “Come now, Tam—nane o’ yer nonsense.” “Will! I say, be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk. ’Od, ye’ll squeeze the very breath out o’ a body.”

Till, in a social glass o’ strunt, They parted off careering On sic a night.

I’ve heard a lilting at our ewe-milking.

How few of the present generation have ever heard of this “lilting,” except in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The young lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating it, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the plain are marching—

The labour much of man and dog—

to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing with the jackdaw! All is bustle, excitement, and badinage.

“Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!”

“Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin. Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!”

Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch, hoch, hoch!—there _in_ they go, and in they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a trio of stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up “_à la breeches_,” tugging away at their well-filled dugs.

“Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; ’od, I think ye hae gotten haud o’ the auld tup himsel. He’s as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou.”

“Troth, at weel, Tam, ye’re a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am o’ cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o’ a howlet.”

“Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy you a new pan.”

At this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible from its universality, mixed as it is with the bleating of ewes, the barking of dogs, together with the singing of herd-laddies and of your humble servant.

Harvest is a blithe time! May all the charms of “Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on him” who shall first invent a reaping-machine! The best of all reaping-machines is “the human _arm_ divine,” whether brawny or muscular, or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all year long at her domestic occupations—you would deem her incapable of any out-door exertions; but, at the sound of the harvest-horn, she renews her youth, and sallies forth into the harvest-field, with hook over shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the spirit of the season, to take her place and drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown boy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in frolic, in jest and jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest and the most matured. Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, and, above and beyond all, “lads and lasses, lovers gay!” mix and mingle in one united band, for honest labour and exquisite enjoyment; and when at last the joyous kirn is won—when the maiden of straw is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn for twelve months the wall of the farmer’s ben—when the rich and cooling curds-and-cream have been ramhorn-spooned into as many mouths as there are persons in the “toun”—then comes the mighty and long-anticipated festival, the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the big pot enriched with the cheering and elevating draught, the punch dealt about in ladles and in jugs, the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the Highland fling.

_We_ cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to us!

Hay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling those of the grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and glows with fainter colouring around the interior and the brighter, so did the hay harvest of yore anticipate and prefigure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded to the sun; the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her cheeks redolent of youth, and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting, carting or ricking, the sweetly-scented meadow produce, under a June sun and a blue sky!

Oh, to feel as I have felt, Or be what I have been!—

the favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now in its fourteenth summer—myself as pure and all unthinking of aught but affection the most intense, and feelings the most soft and unaccountable.

Ah, little did thy mother think, That day she cradled thee, What lands thou hadst to travel in, What death thou hadst to dee!

Poor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen her, only a few weeks ago, during the sittings of the General Assembly, sunk in poverty, emaciated by disease, the wife of an old soldier, himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark hovel in Pipe’s Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh.

In the upper district of Dumfriesshire—the land of my birth, and of all those early associations which cling to me as the mistletoe to the oak, and which are equally hallowed with that druidical excrescence—there are no coals, but a superabundance of moss; consequently peat-fires _are_ very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the time of which I speak, _universally_, made use of; and a peat-fire, on a cold, frosty night of winter, when every star is glinting and goggling through the blue, or when the tempest raves, and

There’s no a star in a’ the cary,

is by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived—but then it kindles soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us with fantastic and playful jets of flame—but then its light is full, united, and steady; the heat which it sends out on all sides is superior to that of coals. Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It eats away into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat—

The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane—

is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then peats must be prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate in meadows. They must be cut from the black and consolidated moss; and a peculiarly-constructed spade, with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be made use of for that purpose; and into the field of operation must be brought, at casting-time, the spademen, with their spades; and the barrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their barrows; and the breakfast sowans, with their creamy milk, cut and crossed into circles and squares; and the dinner stew, with its sappy potatoes and gusty-onioned mutton fragments; and the rest at noon, with its active sports and feats of agility; and, in particular, with its jumps from the moss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath—and _thereby hangs my tale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible.

One of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was a year or so older than me; but we went and returned from school together. She was the only daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself in a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching or whitening webs. In those days, the alkalies and acids had not yet superseded the slower progress of whitening green linen by soap-boiling, trampling, and alternate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure running water. Many is the time and oft that Nanny and I have wielded the watering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long. Whilst the humble-bee boomed past us, the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and the mother of Nanny employed herself in some more laborious department of the same process, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward—_in tenaci gramine_—played at chucks, “head him and cross him,” or some such amusement. At school, Nanny had ever a faithful defender and avenger in me; and I have even purloined apples and gooseberries from the castle garden—and all for the love I bore “to my Nanny, oh!”

I know not that any one has rightly described a first love. It is not the love of man and woman, though that be fervent and terrible; it is not the love of mere boy and girlhood, though that be disinterested and engrossing; but it is the love of the period of life which unites the two. “Is there a man whose blood is warm within him” who does not recollect it? Is there a woman who has passed through the novitiate of fifteen, who has not still a distinct impression of the feeling of which I speak? It is not sexual, and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes. It is the sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being can pass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence of the adored—in seclusion, in meditation, and in dreams—it is bold, resolute, and determined. There is no plan, no design, no right conception of _cause_; yet the _effect_ is sure and the bliss perfect. Oh, for one hour—one little hour—from the thousands which I have idled, sported, dreamed away in the company of my darling school-companion, Nancy!

Will Mather was about two years older than Nancy—a fine youth, attending the same school, and evidently an admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love of comparative boyhood; but his was a passion gradually ripening (as the charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a manly and matrimonial feeling. I loved the girl merely as such—his eye, his heart, his whole soul were in his future bride. Marriage in no shape ever entered into my computations; but his eager look and heaving bosom bespoke the definite purpose—the anticipated felicity. I don’t know exactly why, but I was never jealous of Will Mather. We were companions; and he was high-souled and generous, and stood my friend in many perilous quarrels. I knew that _my_ pathway in life was to be afar from that in which Nancy and Will were likely to walk; and I felt in my heart that, dear as this beautiful rosebud was to me, I was not _man_ enough—I was not _peasant_ enough to wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy on any occasion turned round to be kissed by me, I would have fled over muir and dale to avoid her presence; and yet I had often a great desire to obtain that favour. Once, indeed, and only once, did I obtain, or rather steal it. She was sitting beside a bird’s nest, the young ones of which she was feeding and cherishing—for the parent birds, by the rapacity of a cat, had recently perished. As the little bills were expanding to receive their food, her countenance beamed with pity and benevolence. I never saw even _her_ so lovely; so, in a moment, I had her round the neck, and clung to her lips with the tenacity of a creature drowning. But, feeling at once the awkwardness of my position, I took to my heels, becoming immediately invisible amidst the surrounding brushwood.

Such was Will Mather, and such was Nancy Morrison, at the period of which I am speaking. We must now advance about two or three years in our chronology, and find Will possessed of a piece of information which bore materially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegitimate child. His mother had kept the secret so well that he did not know his father, though he had frequently urged her to reveal to him privately all that she knew of his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now affianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes; whilst she, with a becoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not to press an aged parent on so delicate a point. At last the old woman was taken seriously ill, and, on her death-bed and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of his birth. He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a much-respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his mother’s eyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode of his father, and, entering by a window, was in his father’s bed-chamber and over his body ere he was fully awake.

“John Scott!” said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his parent meantime convulsively round the neck, “John Scott of Auchincleuch, _I am thy son_!”

The conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost imagining this a supernatural intimation from Heaven, exclaimed, in trembling accents:

“But who are you that makes this averment?”

“I am thy son, father—oh, I am thy son!”

Will could say no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped hot and heavy on a father’s face.

“Yes,” replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob—(O Heaven! thou art just!)—“yes, thou _art_ indeed my son—my long-denied and ill-used boy—whom the fear of the world’s scorn has tempted me, against all the yearnings of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to my bosom—to a father’s bosom _now_, for I know that voice too well to distrust thee.”

In a few months after this interesting disclosure, John Scott was numbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no longer Mather) became Laird of Auchincleuch.

Poor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this discovery, which put her betrothed in a position to expect a higher or genteeler match. But there was no cause of alarm. Will was true to the backbone, and would as soon have burned his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride. After much pressing for an early day on the part of the lover, it was agreed, at last, that the marriage should take place at “Peatcasting Time,” and that Nancy should, for the last time, assist at the casting of her mother’s peats.

I wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you an account of the happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy Morrison, the handsomest couple in the parish of Closeburn. But it may not be! These eyes, which are still filled (though it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and this pen, which trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the catastrophe.

Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I (for I was now on the point of leaving school for college) agreed to have a jump for the last time (often had we jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow.

“My frolicsome days will sune be ower,” she cried, laughing; “the Gudewife of Auchincleuch will hae something else to do than jump frae the moss-brow; and, while my name is Nancy Morrison, I’ll hail the dules, or jump wi’ the best o’ my auld playmates.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried I; “you are now to be the wife o’ the Laird o’ Auchincleuch, when your jumping days will be at an end; and I am soon to be sent to college, where the only jump I may get may be from the top of a pile of old black-letter folios—no half sae gude a point of advantage as the moss-brow.”

“There’s the Laird o’ Auchincleuch coming,” cried Peggy Chalmers, one of the peat-casters, who was standing aside, along with several others. “He’s nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the blithest swankie o’ the barnyard. Siller maks sair changes; and yet, wha wad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich bridegroom, Nancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna tempt Providence, my hinny! The laird winna like to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe like a daft giglet, within a week o’ her marriage.”

“Tout!” cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh; “see, he’s awa round by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us—and whar’s the harm if he did? Come now, Tammie, just ae spring and the last, and I’ll wad ye my kame against your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o’ my marriage slipper.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on their spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation.

The Laird had, as Nancy said, crossed over by what was called the Craw Plantin, and was now out of sight. To make the affair more ludicrous (for we were all bent on fun), Nancy took out, from among her high-built locks of auburn hair, her comb—a present from her lover—and impledged it in the hands of Billy Watson, along with my cravat, which I had taken off, and handed to the umpire.

“Here is a better moss-brow,” cried one, at a distance.

And so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than the one we had fixed upon, and the landing-place was soft and elastic. Our practice was, always to jump together, so that the points of the toes could be measured when both the competitors’ feet were still fixed in the moss. We mounted the mossbrow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could scarcely contain herself for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I went off, but the mad girl could not follow, for she was still holding her sides, and laughing immoderately. I asked her what she laughed at. She could not tell. She was under the influence of one of those extraordinary cachinations that sometimes convulse our diaphragms, without our being able to tell why, and certainly without our being able to put a stop to them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her glee shone bright in her eye. I took my position again.

“Now!” cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and spongy moss.

I stood with my feet in the ground, that the umpire might come and mark the distance. A loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and, dreadful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground, with the blood pouring out at her mouth in a large stream! She had burst a blood-vessel. The fit of laughing which preceded her effort to leap had, in all likelihood, distended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to the unhappy result.

The loud scream had attracted the notice of the bridegroom, who came running from the back of the Craw Plantin. The sight appalled and stupefied him. He cried for explanation, and ran forward to his dead or dying bride, in wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation, but none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the unhappy man; but, though we could not speak intelligibly, we could act, and several of us lifted her up. This step sealed her fate. The change in her position produced another stream of blood. She opened her eyes once, and fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed them, and for ever.

I saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld her head, fainted before he proceeded twenty yards, and I was obliged to take his place. I was almost as unfit for the task as himself; for I reproached myself as the cause of her death. I have lived long. Will the image of that procession ever pass from my mind? The blood-stained moss-ground, the bleeding body, the trailing clothes, the unbound locks, are all before me. I can proceed no further. Would that I could stop the current of my thoughts as easily as that of this feathered chronicler of sorrow! But—

There is a silent sorrow here, A grief I’ll ne’er impart; It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear, But it consumes my heart.

I have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still remains a bachelor, and that on every visit I make to Dumfriesshire, I take my dinner, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are annually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy.

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE PRESS-GANG.

How goes the press? was, as usual, our first and most anxious inquiry when the pilot boat came alongside to the westward of Lundy Island. The brief but emphatic reply was, “As hot as blazes.” Knowing therefore what we had to expect, the second mate and I, and one or two others, applied to the captain to set us ashore at Ilfracomb, but he would not listen to us. A double-reefed topsail breeze was blowing from the westward, and a vigorous flood-tide was setting up channel, enabling us to pass over the ground about fifteen knots. Such advantages the captain was no way disposed to forego, so that there was nothing for us but to trust to Providence and our stow holes. The breeze flagged towards sunset, and it was not until an hour after dusk that we dropped anchor in Kingroad.

As soon as the ship was brought up, I stepped in the main rigging to lend a hand to furl the topsail, but had not reached the top, when I heard the cabin boy calling out in an Irish whisper, “Bobstay, down, down, the press-boat is alongside.” I was on deck in a twinkling, and was springing to the after scuttle, when I found myself seized violently by the arm. I trembled. It was the same boy that had called me down. “They are already in the mizen chains,” said he; “to the fore scuttle, or you are a gone man.”

Down the fore peak I went with the rapidity of lightning, and down jumped three of the gang after me with little less velocity.

“Oho, my tight little fellow,” said one of them, thrusting his cutlass down a crevice over my head; “I see you; out you must come, or here goes an inch or two of cold steel into your bread-bag.”

I knew well that I was beyond his reach, and took care to let him have all the talk to himself. They rummaged about all over the hold, thrusting their cutlasses down every chink they could perceive, but no one could they find give a single squeak. In about half an hour I heard the well-known voice of the cabin boy calling me on deck. On reaching the deck, I found that the gang had carried off three of our hands, and had expressed their determination to renew their search next day. Of course my grand object was to get ashore without delay. The moment we anchored, the captain had gone off to Bristol to announce his arrival to his owners; and as the mate and I were not on good terms, he refused to allow me the use of the ship’s boat. None of the watermen whose boats we hailed would come alongside, because if they had been found assisting the crew of merchant vessels to escape the press, they themselves would have been subjected to its grasp. About midnight, however, one waterman came alongside, with whom the love of money overcame the fear of danger, and he agreed to pull the second mate, boatswain, and myself ashore, for half a guinea each. I had brought from the West Indies a small venture in sugar, a cask of which, about a hundredweight, I took into the boat with me, to clear present expenses.

Shortly after we had shoved off, we found ourselves chased by a long boat, which the waterman knew, by the sound of the oars, to be the guard-boat. How we did pull! But it seemed in vain; we found it would be impossible to reach the landing-place, so we pulled for the nearest point of land. The moment the boat touched the ground, I took the cask of sugar on my shoulder, and expecting solid ground under the boat’s bows, jumped ashore. Instead of solid ground, I found myself above the knees in mud. The guard-boat was within a hundred yards of the shore, and what was to be done! All that a man has will he give for his liberty, so away went the cask of sugar. Thus lightened, I soon scrambled out, when the three of us scampered off as fast as it was possible for feet to carry us. What became of the waterman, or his boat, or my cask of sugar, we never knew; nor did we think of stopping to breathe or look round us, till we reached the town of Peel, where by a blazing fire and over a dish of beef-steaks, and a few tankards of brown stout, we soon forgot our dangers and our fears.

Our residence here, as far as liberty was concerned, was pretty nearly on a par with prison residence. The second mate and I lodged together, and during daylight we never durst show our faces, except, perhaps, between four and six in the morning, when we sometimes took a ramble in a neighbouring burying-ground, to read epitaphs; and this, from the love of the English to poetical ones, was equivalent to the loan of a volume of poetry. But Time’s pinions seemed in our eyes loaded with lead, and we were often inclined to sing with the plaintive swain,

Ah! no, soft and slow The time it winna pass, The shadow of the trysting thorn, Is tether’d on the grass.

And had it not been for the kindly attentions of our landlord’s two handsome daughters, to whose eyebrows we indited stanzas, I know not how we would have got the time killed.

Snug as we thought ourselves, the press-gang had by some means or other been put on the scent, and one day very nearly pounced on us. So cautious had they been in their visit, that their approach was not perceived until they were actually in the kitchen. Fortunately we were at this time in an upper room, and one of the daughters rightly judging of the purpose of their visit, flew upstairs to warn us of our danger, and point out a place of safety. This place was above the ceiling, and the only access to it was through a hole in the wall a little way up the vent. It was constructed as a secure place to lodge a little brandy or geneva, that sometimes found its way to the house, without having been polluted with the exciseman’s rod. It was excellently adapted to our purpose, and the entrance to it was speedily pointed out by our pretty little guardian angel. Up the vent we sprung like a brace of chimney sweeps, and had scarcely reached our place of concealment, when the gang rushed upstairs, burst open the door, and began to rummage every corner of the room. The bed was turned out, the presses all minutely examined, and even the vent itself underwent a scrutiny, but no seamen could be found.

“Tell us, my young lady, whereabout you have stowed away them there fellows, for we knows they are in the house?”

“What fellows?” said the dear little girl, with a composure which we thought it impossible for her to assume so soon after her violent trepidation.

“Why, them there fellows as came ashore from one of the West Indiamen t’other day; we knows they are here, and are determined to have ’em.”

“You have certainly been misinformed,” said she; “you are welcome to search the house, but be assured you will find no such men here.”

“Come, come, my little fair un, that is all in my eye and Betty Martin. Here they are, this is certain, and we are determined to make our quarters good till we find them out;” and away they went to search the other apartments of the house.

Meanwhile our charming little protectress, alarmed at the threatened siege, and fearing that we would be starved into a surrender, took the opportunity, while the gang were rummaging the parlour and some other bedrooms, to supply our garrison with provisions. A basket with boiled ham, a couple of capons, a household loaf of ample dimensions, half-a-dozen of brown stout, the family bottle of excellent stingo, and a can of water, were expeditiously handed up the vent. This supply set our minds quite at ease, as we knew it would enable us to stand a week’s close siege. Our patience, however, was not put to this trial, for the gang, after a two hours’ vigilant search, abandoned their pursuit in despair, and departed.

We could not, of course, think of venturing up to Bristol to look after our wages, so we employed our landlord to perform this duty. After a good many vexatious delays, we succeeded in getting our money, paid off all scores, and began to think how we were to dispose of ourselves. My companion Lindsay was so deeply smitten with the charms of one of the youthful sirens, that he found it impossible to depart; and I had to concert all my future projects alone, and leave him bound in Cupid’s silken chain.

My blue jacket and fringed dimity trousers, my check shirt and scarlet vest, were at once discarded, and their places supplied by articles of a more landward appearance. I knew that it would be impossible to travel the country safely in seaman’s dress, so I determined to try my fortune as a beau. The body of Bill Bobstay incased in a ruffled shirt, silk vest, white stockings, breeches buttoned at the knees, and a swallow-tailed coat, presented such a curious spectacle, that he himself could scarcely help laughing at it, and it seemed to produce the same effects on the landlord’s daughter, as she with a witching smile chucked up my chin, until she arranged the bights and ends of my white neckcloth, according to the most approved form. She took as long to perform this little office as I could have rigged _in toto_, and seamen are never backward in acts of courtesy, when the ladies are concerned. Her ruby lips were all the while within marlingspike’s length of my own, and how could I avoid saluting them?

Thus equipped, I set out on foot for Bath, but as I had no business to perform in that city of invalided nabobs, I immediately took coach for London, and after travelling all night, I, on awaking from a short nap, found myself rattling over the stones at Hyde Park corner.

My object was to procure a passage to the northward, in one of the Leith or Berwick smacks, and I expected in eight or ten days, after an absence of as many years, to set foot once more on my native soil. As soon therefore as the coach stopped in Piccadilly, I alighted, and knowing the bearing by compass of London Bridge, I, without waiting to breakfast, winded my way through the Haymarket, past Charing Cross, along the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, till I arrived at St Paul’s. From this point I took a fresh departure, and holding as nearly as cross streets would admit, a south-easterly course, gained Thames Street, and soon found myself in the vicinity of the Tower.

Smartly as I had moved my body along, my imagination, as is usual with me, had got a long way a-head. It had obtained a passage, secured a fair wind, landed me on the pier of Leith, and was arranging my introductory visit to my friends, so as to produce the greatest sum of agreeable surprise. But there is much, says the old proverb, between the cup and the lip. In the midst of this agreeable reverie, as I was crossing Tower Hill, I found myself tapped on the shoulder, and on looking round, was accosted by a man in seaman’s dress in the words, “What ship?” I assumed an air of gravity and surprise, and told him I apprehended he was under some mistake, as my business did not lie among shipping. But the fellow was too well acquainted with his business to be thus easily put off. He gave a whistle, the sound of which still vibrates in my ear, and in a moment I was surrounded by half-a-dozen ruffians, whom I immediately suspected, and soon found out to be the press-gang. They dragged me hurriedly through several lanes and alleys, amid the mingled sympathy and execrations of a numerous crowd, which had collected to witness my fate, and soon landed me in the rendezvous. I was immediately ushered into the presence of the lieutenant of the gang, who questioned me as to my name, country, profession, and what business had led me to Tower Hill. Totally unexpecting any such interruption, I had not thought of concocting any plausible story, and my answers were evasive and contradictory. I did not acknowledge having been at sea; but my hands were examined, found hard with work, and discoloured with tar. This circumstance condemned me, and I was remanded for further examination.

Some of the gang then offered me spirits, affected to pity me, and pretended to comfort me under my misfortune, but like the comforters of Job, miserable comforters were they all. The very scoundrel who first seized me put on a sympathising look, and observed what a pity it was to be disappointed when so near the object of my wishes. Such sympathy from such a source was truly provoking; but having no way of showing my resentment, I was constrained to smother it.

In a short time I was reconducted into the presence of the lieutenant, who told me, as I was already in his hands, and would assuredly be kept, I might as well make a frank confession of my circumstances. It would save time, and insure me better treatment. What could I do? I might indeed have continued silent and sullen, but of what service could this prove? It might, or might not, have procured me worse treatment, but one thing I knew well, it would not restore me to liberty. I therefore acknowledged that I had been a voyage to the West Indies, and had come home carpenter of a ship. His eye brightened at this intelligence.

“I am glad of this, my lad. We are very much in want of carpenters. Step along with these lads, and they will give you a passage aboard.”

The same fellows who had first seized me led me along the way we came, handed me into a pinnace lying at Tower Wharf, and before mid-day I was safely handed on board the Enterprize.

What crosses and vexations, and reverses and disappointments, are we mortals destined to meet with in life’s tempestuous voyage! At eight in the morning I entered London a free agent, elated with joy, and buoyed up with hope. At noon I entered a prison ship, a miserable slave, oppressed with sorrow, and ready to despair.

Despair, did I say? No. I will have nothing to do with that disturber of human peace. When misfortune befalls us, we are not to sit down in despondency and sigh. Up and be doing, is the wise man’s maxim, and it was the maxim I was resolved to observe. What befell me on my arrival on board the Enterprize, what reception I met with, and what mirth I excited as I was lowered into the press-room, with my short breeches and swallow-tailed coat—what measures I exerted to regain my liberty, and what success attended these measures—the space at my disposal prevents me setting forth.—_Paisley Magazine._

THE LAIRD OF COOL’S GHOST.

Upon the 3d day of February 1722 at seven o’clock in the evening, after I had parted with Thurston, and coming up the burial road, one came up riding after me. Upon hearing the noise of the horse’s feet, I took it to be Thurston; but looking back, and seeing the horse of a gray colour, I called, “Who’s there?” The answer was, “The Laird of Cool; be not afraid.” Looking to him with the little light the moon afforded, I took him to be Collector Castlelaw, who had a mind to put a trick upon me, and immediately I struck with all my force with my cane, thinking I would leave a mark upon him that would make him remember his presumption; but although sensible I aimed as well as ever I did in my life, yet my cane finding no resistance, but flying out of my hand to the distance of sixty feet, and observing it by its white head, I dismounted and took it up, but had some difficulty in mounting again, partly by reason of a certain sort of trembling throughout my whole joints, something also of anger had its share in my confusion; for though he laughed when my staff flew out of my hand, coming up with him again (who halted all the time I was seeking my staff), I asked him once more who he was? He answered, “The Laird of Cool.” I inquired, first, if he was the Laird of Cool; secondly, what brought him thither? and thirdly, what was his business with me? He answered, “The reason that I want you is, that I know you are disposed to do for me what none of your brethren in Nithsdale will so much as attempt, though it serve never so good a purpose.” I told him I would never refuse to do anything to serve a good purpose, if I thought I was obliged to do it as my duty. He answered, that I had undertaken what few in Nithsdale would, for he had tried several persons on that subject, who were more obliged to him than I was to any person living. Upon this I drew my bridle reins, and asked in surprise, what I had undertaken? He answered, “That on Sabbath last, I heard you condemned Mr Paton, and the other ministers of Dumfries, for dissuading Mr Menzies from keeping his appointment with me; and if you had been in their place, would have persuaded the lad to do as I desired, and that you would have gone with him yourself, if he had been afraid; and if you had been in Mr Paton’s place, you would have delivered my commissions yourself, as they tended to do several persons justice.” I asked him, “Pray, Cool, who informed you that I talked at that rate?” to which he answered, “You must know that we are acquainted with many things that the living know nothing about; these things you did say, and much more to that purpose, and deliver my commissions to my loving wife.” Upon this I said, “’Tis a pity, Cool, that you who know so many things should not know the difference between an absolute and conditional promise; I did, indeed, at the time you mention, blame Mr Paton, for I thought him justly blamable, in hindering the lad to meet with you, and if I had been in his place, I would have acted quite the reverse; but I did never say, that if you would come to Innerwick and employ me, that I would go all the way to Dumfries on such an errand; that is what never so much as entered into my thoughts.” He answered, “What were your thoughts I don’t pretend to know, but I can depend on my information these were your words. But I see you are in some disorder; I will wait upon you when you have more presence of mind.”

By this time we were at James Dickson’s enclosure, below the churchyard; and when I was recollecting in my mind, if ever I had spoken these words he alleged, he broke off from me through the churchyard, with greater violence than any man on horseback is capable of, with such a singing and buzzing noise, as put me in greater disorder than I was in all the time I was with him. I came to my house, and my wife observed more than ordinary paleness in my countenance, and alleged that something ailed me. I called for a dram, and told her I was a little uneasy. After I found myself a little refreshed, I went to my closet to meditate on this most astonishing adventure.

Upon the 5th of March 1722, being at Harehead, baptizing the shepherd’s child, I came off about sunsetting, and near William White’s march, the Laird of Cool came up with me as formerly; and after his first salutation bade me not be afraid. I told him I was not in the least afraid, in the name of God and Christ my Saviour, that he would do me the least harm; for I knew that He in whom I trusted was stronger than all they put together; and if any of them should attempt to do, even to the horse that I ride upon, as you have done to Doctor Menzies’ man, I have free access to complain to my Lord and Master, to the lash to whose resentment you are as liable now as before.

_Cool._ You need not multiply words on that head, for you are safe with me; and safer, if safer can be, than when I was alive.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, let me have a peaceable and easy conversation with you for the time we ride together, and give me some information concerning the affairs of the other world, for no man inclines to lose his time in conversing with the dead, without hearing or learning something useful.

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you as far as I think proper and convenient. Let me know what information you want.

_Ogil._ May I then ask you, if you be in a state of happiness or not?

_Cool._ There are a great many things I can answer that the living are ignorant of; there are a great many things that, notwithstanding the additional knowledge I have acquired since my death, I cannot answer; and there are a great many questions you may start, of which the last is one that I will not answer.

_Ogil._ Then I know how to manage our conversation; whatever I inquire of you, I see you can easily shift me; to that I might profit more by conversing with myself.

_Cool._ You may try.

_Ogil._ Well, then, what sort of a body is that you appear in; and what sort of a horse is that you ride upon, which appears to be so full of mettle?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it, it is not the same body that I was witness to your marriage in, nor in which I died, for that is in the grave rotting; but it is such a body as serves me in a moment, for I can fly as fleet with it as my soul can do without it; so that I can go to Dumfries, and return again, before you can ride twice the length of your horse; nay, if I have a mind to go to London, or Jerusalem, or to the moon, if you please, I can perform all these journeys equally soon, for it costs me nothing but a thought or wish: for this body is as fleet as your thought, for in the moment of time you can turn your thoughts on Rome, I can go there in person; and as for my horse, he is much like myself, for he is Andrew Johnston, my tenant, who died forty-eight hours before me.

_Ogil._ So it seems when Andrew Johnston inclines to ride, you must serve him in the quality of a horse, as he does you now.

_Cool._ You are mistaken.

_Ogil._ I thought that all distinctions between mistresses and maids, lairds and tenants, had been done away at death.

_Cool._ True it is, but you do not take up the matter.

_Ogil._ This is one of the questions you won’t answer.

_Cool._ You are mistaken, for the question I can answer, and after you may understand it.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, have you never yet appeared before God, nor received any sentence from Him as a Judge?

_Cool._ Never yet.

_Ogil._ I know you was a scholar, Cool, and ’tis generally believed there is a private judgment, besides the general at the great day, the former immediately after death. Upon this he interrupted me, arguing.

_Cool._ No such thing, no such thing! No trial; no trial till the great day! The heaven which good men enjoy after death consists only in the serenity of their minds, and the satisfaction of a good conscience; and the certain hopes they have of eternal joy, when that day shall come. The punishment or hell of the wicked, immediately after death, consists in the stings of an awakened conscience, and the terrors of facing the great Judge, and the sensible apprehensions of eternal torments ensuing! And this bears still a due proportion to the evils they did when living. So indeed the state of some good folks differ but little in happiness from what they enjoyed in the world, save only that they are free from the body, and the sins and sorrows that attended it. On the other hand, there are some who may be said rather not to have been good, than that they are wicked; while living, their state is not easily distinguished from that of the former; and under that class comes a great herd of souls—a vast number of ignorant people, who have not much minded the affairs of eternity, but at the same time have lived in much indolence, ignorance, and innocence.

_Ogil._ I thought that their rejecting the terms of salvation offered was sufficient ground for God to punish them with eternal displeasure; and as to their ignorance, that could never excuse them, since they live in a place of the world where the true knowledge of these things might have been easily attained.

_Cool._ They never properly rejected the terms of salvation; they never, strictly speaking, rejected Christ; poor souls, they had as great a liking both to Him and heaven, as their gross imaginations were capable of. Impartial reason must make many allowances, as the stupidity of their parents, want of education, distance from people of good sense and knowledge, and the uninterrupted applications they were obliged to give to their secular affairs for their daily bread, the impious treachery of their pastors, who persuaded them, that if they were of such a party all was well; and many other considerations which God, who is pure and perfect reason itself, will not overlook. These are not so much under the load of Divine displeasure, as they are out of His grace and favour; and you know it is one thing to be discouraged, and quite another thing to be persecuted with all the power and rage of an incensed earthly king. I assure you, men’s faces are not more various and different in the world, than their circumstances are after death.

_Ogil._ I am loath to believe all that you have said at this time, Cool (but I will not dispute those matters with you), because some things you have advanced seem to contradict the Scriptures, which I shall always look upon as the infallible truth of God. For I find, in the parable of Dives and Lazarus, that the one was immediately after death carried up by the angels into Abraham’s bosom, and the other immediately thrust down to hell.

_Cool._ Excuse me, sir, that does not contradict one word that I have said; but you seem not to understand the parable, whose only end is to illustrate the truth, that a man may be very happy and flourishing in this world, and wretched and miserable in the next; and that a man maybe miserable in this world, and happy and glorious in the next.

_Ogil._ Be it so, Cool, I shall yield that point to you, and pass to another, which has afforded me much speculation since our last encounter; and that is, How you came to know that I talked after the manner that I did concerning Mr Paton, on the first Sabbath of February last? Was you present with me, but invisible? He answered very haughtily, No, sir, I was not present myself. I answered, I would not have you angry, Cool. I proposed this question for my own satisfaction; but if you don’t think proper to answer, let it pass. After he had paused, with his eyes on the ground, for three or four minutes of time at most, with some haste and seeming cheerfulness, he says—

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you in that point. You must know that there are sent from heaven angels to guard and comfort, and to do other good services to good people, and even the spirits of good men departed are employed in that errand.

_Ogil._ And do you not think that every man has a good angel?

_Cool._ No, but a great many particular men have: there are but few houses of distinction especially, but what have at least one attending them; and from what you have already heard of spirits, it is no difficult matter to understand how they may be serviceable to each particular member, though at different places at a great distance. Many are the good offices which the good angels do to them that fear God, though many times they are not sensible of it: and I know assuredly, that one powerful angel, or even an active clever soul departed, may be sufficient for some villages; but for your great cities, such as London, Edinburgh, or the like, there is one great angel that has the superintendence of the whole; and there are inferior angels, or souls departed, to whose particular care such a man, of such a particular weight or business, is committed. Now, sir, the kingdom of Satan does ape the kingdom of Christ as much in matters of politics as can be, well knowing that the court of wisdom is from above; so that from thence are sent out missionaries in the same order. But because the kingdom of Satan is much better replenished than the other, instead of one devil there are in many instances two or three commissioned to attend a particular family of influence and distinction.

_Ogil._ I read that there are ten thousand times ten thousand of angels that wait upon God, and sing His praise and do His will; and I cannot understand how the good angels can be inferior in number to the evil.

_Cool._ Did not I say, that whatever the number be, the spirits departed are employed in the same business; so that as to the number of original deities, whereof Satan is chief, I cannot determine, but you need not doubt but there are more souls departed in that place, which in a loose sense you call hell, by almost an infinity, than what are gone to that place, which, in a like sense, you call heaven, which likewise are employed in the same purpose; and I can assure you that there is as great a difference between angels, both good and bad, as there is among men, with respect to their sense, knowledge, cunning, cleverness, and action; nay, which is more, the departed souls on both sides outdo severals, from their very first departure, of the original angels. This you will perhaps think a paradox, but is true.

_Ogil._ I do not doubt it; but what is that to my question, about which I am solicitous?

_Cool._ Take a little patience, sir; from what I have said you might have understood me, if you had your thoughts about you; but I shall explain myself to you. Both the good and the bad angels have stated times of rendezvous, and the principal angels, who have the charge either of towns, cities, or kingdoms, not to mention particular persons, villages, and families, and all that is transacted in these several parts of the country, are there made open; and at their re-encounter on each side, every thing is told, as in your parish, in milns, kilns, and smithies, with this difference, that many things false are talked at the living re-encounters, but nothing but what is exact truth is said or told among the dead; only I must observe to you, that, as I am credibly informed, several of the inferior bad angels, and souls of wicked men departed, have told many things that they have done, and then when a more intelligent spirit is sent out upon inquiry, and the report of the former seeming doubtful, he brings in a contrary report, and makes it appear truth, the former fares very ill: nevertheless their regard to truth prevents it; for while they observe the truth, they do their business and keep their station, for God is truth.

_Ogil._ So much truth being among the good angels, I am apt to think that lies and falsehood will be as much in vogue among the bad.

_Cool._ A gross mistake, and it is not alone the mistake which the living folks fall under with respect to the other world; for the case plainly is this: an ill man will not stick at a falsehood to promote his design; as little will an evil soul departed stop at anything that can make himself successful; but in admitting report he must tell the truth, or woe be to him. But besides their monthly, quarterly, or yearly meetings, or whatever they be, departed souls acquainted may take a trip to see one another yearly, weekly, daily, or oftener, if they please. Thus, then, I answer your question that you was so much concerned about; for my information was from no less than three persons, viz., Aikman, who attends Thurston’s family; James Corbet, who waits upon Mr Paton; for at that time he was then looking after Mrs Sarah Paton, who was at your house, and an original emissary appointed to wait upon yours.

At this I was much surprised, and after a little thinking, I asked him, And is their really, Cool, an emissary from hell, in whatever sense you take it, that attends my family?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it.

_Ogil._ And what do you think is his business?

_Cool._ To divert you from your duty, and cause you to do as many ill things as he can; for much depends on having the minister on their side.

Upon this I was struck with a sort of terror, which I cannot account for. In the meantime he said several things I did not understand. But after coming to my former presence of mind, said—

_Ogil._ But, Cool, tell me, in earnest, if there be a devil that attends my family, though invisible.

_Cool._ Just as sure as you are breathing; but be not so much dejected upon this information, for I tell you likewise that there is a good angel who attends you, who is stronger than the other.

_Ogil._ Are you sure of that, Cool?

_Cool._ Yes; there is one riding on your right hand, who might as well have been elsewhere, for I meant you no harm.

_Ogil._ And how long has he been with me?

_Cool._ Only since we passed Brand’s Lee, but now he is gone.

_Ogil._ We are just upon Elenscleugh, and I desire to part with you, though perhaps I have gained more by conversation than I could have otherwise done in a twelvemonth. I choose rather to see you another time, when you’re at leisure, and I wish it were at as great a distance from Innerwick as you can.

_Cool._ Be it so, sir; but I hope you will be as obliging to me next re-encounter, as I have been to you this.

_Ogil._ I promise you I will, as far as is consistent with my duty to my Lord and Master Christ Jesus; and since you have obliged me so much by information, I will answer all the questions you propose, as far as consists with my knowledge; but I believe you want no information from me.

_Cool._ I came not here to be instructed by you, but I want your help of another kind.

Upon the 5th of April 1722, as I was returning from Old Hamstocks, Cool came up with me on horseback at the foot of the ruinous enclosure, before we came to Dod. I told him his last conversation had proved so acceptable to me, that I was well pleased to see him again; that there was a number of things that I wanted to inform myself further of, if he would be so good as satisfy me.

_Cool._ Last time we met, I refused you nothing you asked; and now I expect that you shall refuse me nothing that I shall ask.

_Ogil._ Nothing, sir, that is in my power, or that I can do with safety to my reputation and character. What, then, are your demands?

_Cool._ All that I desire of you is, that as you promised that on a Sabbath-day you would go to my wife, who now possesses all my effects, and tell her the following particulars—tell her in my name to rectify these matters:—First, That I was owing justly to Provost Crosby £50 Scots, and three years’ interest, but on hearing of his death, my good-brother the Laird of C—l and I forged a discharge, narrated the bond, the sum, and other particulars, with this honourable clause, “And at the time it had fallen by, and could not be found;” with an obligation on the provost’s part to deliver up this bond as soon as he could hit upon it. And this discharge was dated three months before the provost’s death. And when his son and successor, Andrew Crosby, wrote to me concerning this bond, I came to him and showed him the forged discharge, which silenced him; so that I got up my bond without more ado. And when I heard of Robert Kennedy’s death, with the same help of C—l, I got a bill upon him for £190, of which I got full and complete payment. C—l got the half. When I was at Dumfries, the same day that Robert Grier died, to whom I was owing an account of £36, C—l, my good-brother, was then at London; and not being able of myself, being but a bad writer, to make out a discharge of the account, which I wanted, I met accidently with one Robert Boyd, a poor writer lad in Dumfries; I took him to Mrs Carnock’s, and gave him a bottle of wine, and told him I had paid Thomas Grier’s account, but had neglected to get a discharge, and if he would help me to one I would reward him. He flew away from me in a great passion, saying, he would rather be hanged; but if I had a mind for these things, I had better wait till C—l came home. This gave me great trouble, fearing what C—l and I had done formerly was no secret. I followed Boyd to the street, and made an apology, saying, I was jesting, commending him for his honesty, and got his promise never to repeat what had passed. I sent for my Cousin B—m H—rie, your good-brother, who, with no difficulty, for a guinea and a half, undertook and performed all that I wanted; and for a guinea more made me up a discharge for £200 Scots that I was owing to your father-in-law and his friend Mr Muirhead, which discharge I gave to John Ewart, when he desired the money; and he, at my desire, produced it to you, which you sustained.

A great many of the like instances were told, of which I cannot remember the persons, names, and things; but, says he, what vexes me more than all these, is the injustice I did Homer Maxwell, tenant to my Lord Nithsdale, for whom I was factor. I borrowed £2000 from him, £500 of which he borrowed from another hand: I gave him my bond, and, for reasons I contrived, I obliged him to secrecy. He died within the year, and left nine children, his wife being dead before himself. I came to seal up his papers for my lord’s security; his eldest daughter entreated me to look through them all, and to give her an account of what was their stock and what was their debt. I very willingly undertook it; and in going through the papers, I put my own bond in my pocket. His circumstances proving bad, his nine children are now starving. These things I desire you to represent to my wife, and take her brother with you, and let them be immediately rectified, for she has a sufficient fund to do it upon; and if it were done, I think I would be easy, and therefore I hope you will make no delay.

After a short pause, I answered, ’Tis a good errand, Cool, you are sending me to do justice to the oppressed and injured; but notwithstanding I see myself come in for £200 Scots, yet I beg a little time to consider the matter. And since I find you are as much master of reason now as ever, and more than ever, I will reason upon the matter in its general view, and then with respect to the expediency of my being the messenger; and this I will do with all manner of frankness. From what you have said, I see clearly what your present condition is, so that I need not ask any more questions on that head; and you need not bid me take courage, for at this moment I am no more afraid of you than a new-born child.

_Cool._ Well, say on.

_Ogil._ Tell me, then, since such is your ability that you can fly a thousand miles in the twinkling of an eye, if your desire to do the oppressed justice be as great as you pretend, what’s the reason you don’t fly to the coffers of some rich Jew or banker, where are thousands of gold and silver, invisibly lift, and invisibly return it to the coffers of the injured? And since your wife has sufficient funds, and more, why cannot you empty her purse invisibly, to make these people amends?

_Cool._ Because I cannot.

_Ogil._ You have satisfied me entirely upon that head. But pray, Cool, what is the reason that you cannot go to your wife yourself, and tell her what you have a mind? I should think this a more sure way to gain your point.

_Cool._ Because I will not.

_Ogil._ That is not an answer to me, Cool.

_Cool._ That is one of the questions that I told you long ago I would not answer: but if you go as I desire, I promise to give you full satisfaction after you have done your business. Trust me for once, and believe me I will not disappoint you.

Upon the 10th of April 1722, coming from Old Cambus, upon the post-road, I met with Cool on the head of the heath called the Pees. He asked me, if I had considered the matter he had recommended? I told him I had, and was in the same opinion I was in when we parted; that I would not possibly undertake his commissions, unless he could give me them in writing under his hand. I told him that the list of his grievances were so great that I could not possibly remember them without being put in writing; and that I wanted nothing but reason to determine me in that, and all other affairs of my life.

“I know,” says he, “this is a mere evasion: but tell me if the Laird of Thurston will do it?”

“I am sure,” said I, “he will not; and if he should, I would do all that I could to hinder him; for I think he has as little to do in these matters as myself. But tell me, Cool, is it not as easy to write your story as tell it, or ride on what-do-ye-call-him? for I have forgot your horse’s name.”

_Cool._ No, sir, it is not; and perhaps I may convince you of the reasonableness of it afterwards.

_Ogil._ I would be glad to hear a reason that is solid for not speaking to your wife yourself; but, however, any rational creature may see what a fool I would make of myself, if I would go to Dumfries, and tell your wife you had appeared to me, and told so many forgeries and villanies that you had committed, and that she behoved to make reparation; the consequence might perhaps be, that she would scold me; for she would be loath to part with any money she possesses, and therefore tell me I was mad, or possibly pursue me for calumny. How would I vindicate myself; how could I prove that you ever spoke with me? Mr Paton and other ministers in Dumfries would tell me the devil had spoken with me; and why should I repeat these things for truth which he, that was a liar from the beginning, had told me? C—p—l and B—r— H—rie would be upon me, and pursue me before the commissary; everybody would look upon me as brain-sick or mad: therefore, I entreat you, do not insist upon sending me so ridiculous an errand. The reasonableness of my demands I leave to your own consideration, as you did your former to mine. But dropping the matter till our next interview, give me leave to enter upon some more diverting subject. I do not know, Cool, but the information you have given may do as much service to mankind, as the redress of all these grievances I would amount to. Mr Ogilvie died very soon after.—_Old Chap Book._

ALLAN-A-SOP.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The MacLeans, a bold and hardy race, who, originally followers of the Lords of the Isles, had assumed independence, seized upon great part both of the Isle of Mull and the still more valuable island of Islay, and made war on the MacDonalds with various success. There is a story belonging to this clan, which I may tell you, as giving another striking picture of the manners of the Hebrideans.

The chief of the clan, MacLean of Duart, in the Isle of Mull, had an intrigue with a beautiful young woman of his own clan, who bore a son to him. In consequence of the child’s being, by some accident, born on a heap of straw, he received the name of Allan-a-Sop, or Allan of the Straw, by which he was distinguished from others of his clan. As his father and mother were not married, Allan was, of course, a bastard, or natural son, and had no inheritance to look for, save that which he might win for himself.

But the beauty of the boy’s mother having captivated a man of rank in the clan, called MacLean of Torloisk, he married her, and took her to reside with him at his castle of Torloisk, situated on the shores of the sound, or small strait of the sea, which divides the smaller island of Ulva from that of Mull. Allan-a-Sop paid his mother frequent visits at her new residence, and she was naturally glad to see the poor boy, both from affection, and on account of his personal strength and beauty, which distinguished him above other youths of his age. But she was obliged to confer marks of her attachment on him as privately as she could, for Allan’s visits were by no means so acceptable to her husband as to herself. Indeed, Torloisk liked so little to see the lad, that he determined to put some affront on him, which should prevent his returning to the castle for some time. An opportunity for executing his purpose soon occurred.

The lady one morning, looking from the window, saw her son coming wandering down the hill, and hastened to put a girdle cake upon the fire, that he might have hot bread for breakfast. Something called her out of the apartment after making this preparation, and her husband, entering at the same time, saw at once what she had been about, and determined to give the boy such a reception as should disgust him for the future. He snatched the cake from the girdle, thrust it into his stepson’s hands, which he forcibly closed on the scalding bread, saying, “Here, Allan, here is a cake which your mother has got ready for your breakfast.” Allan’s hands were severely burnt; and, being a sharp-witted and proud boy, he resented this mark of his step-father’s ill-will, and came not again to Torloisk.

At this time the western seas were covered with the vessels of pirates, who, not unlike the sea-kings of Denmark at an early period, sometimes settled and made conquests on the islands. Allan-a-Sop was young, strong, and brave to desperation. He entered as a mariner on board of one of these ships, and in process of time obtained the command, first of one galley, then of a small flotilla, with which he sailed round the seas and collected considerable plunder, until his name became both feared and famous. At length he proposed to himself to pay a visit to his mother, whom he had not seen for many years; and setting sail for this purpose, he anchored one morning in the sound of Ulva, and in front of the house of Torloisk. His mother was dead, but his step-father, to whom he was now as much an object of fear as he had been formerly of aversion, hastened to the shore to receive his formidable stepson, with great affectation of kindness and interest in his prosperity; while Allan-a-Sop, who, though very rough and hasty, does not appear to have been sullen or vindictive, seemed to take his kind reception in good part.

The crafty old man succeeded so well, as he thought, in securing Allan’s friendship, and obliterating all recollections of the former affront put on him, that he began to think it possible to employ his stepson in executing his own private revenge upon MacQuarrie of Ulva, with whom, as was usual between such neighbours, he had some feud. With this purpose, he offered what he called the following good advice to his stepson:—“My dear Allan, you have now wandered over the seas long enough: it is time you should have some footing upon land—a castle to protect yourself in winter, a village and cattle for your men, and a harbour to lay up your galleys. Now, here is the island of Ulva, near at hand, which lies ready for your occupation, and it will cost you no trouble, save that of putting to death the present proprietor, the Laird of MacQuarrie, a useless old carle, who has cumbered the world long enough.”

Allan-a-Sop thanked his step-father for so happy a suggestion, which he declared he would put in execution forthwith. Accordingly, setting sail the next morning, he appeared before MacQuarrie’s house an hour before noon. The old chief of Ulva was much alarmed at the menacing apparition of so many galleys, and his anxiety was not lessened by the news that they were commanded by the redoubted Allan-a-Sop. Having no effectual means of resistance, MacQuarrie, who was a man of shrewd sense, saw no alternative save that of receiving the invaders, whatever might be their purpose, with all outward demonstrations of joy and satisfaction; the more especially as he recollected having taken some occasional notice of Allan during his early youth, which he now resolved to make the most of. Accordingly, MacQuarrie caused immediate preparations to be made for a banquet, as splendid as circumstances admitted, hastened down to the shore to meet the rover, and welcomed him to Ulva with such an appearance of sincerity, that the pirate found it impossible to pick any quarrel, which might afford a pretence for executing the violent purpose which he had been led to meditate.

They feasted together the whole day; and, in the evening, as Allan-a-Sop was about to retire to his ships, he thanked the laird for his hospitality, but remarked, with a sigh, that it had cost him very dear.

“How can that be,” said MacQuarrie, “when I bestowed this entertainment upon you in free goodwill?”

“It is true, my friend,” replied the pirate, “but then it has quite disconcerted the purpose for which I came hither; which was to put you to death, my good friend, and seize upon your house and island, and so settle myself in the world. It would have been very convenient for me, this island of Ulva; but your friendly reception has rendered it impossible for me to execute my purpose, so that I must be a wanderer on the seas for some time longer.”

Whatever MacQuarrie felt at learning he had been so near to destruction, he took care to show no emotion save surprise, and replied to his visitor: “My dear Allan, who was it that put into your mind so unkind a purpose towards your old friend; for I am sure it never arose from your own generous nature? It must have been old Torloisk, who made such an indifferent husband to your mother, and such an unfriendly step-father to you when you were a helpless boy; but now, when he sees you a bold and powerful leader, he desires to make a quarrel betwixt you and those who were the friends of your youth. If you consider this matter rightly, Allan, you will see that the estate and harbour of Torloisk lie to the full as conveniently for you as those of Ulva, and that, if you are disposed (as is very natural) to make a settlement by force, it is much better it should be at the expense of the old churl, who never showed you kindness or countenance, than at that of a friend like me, who always loved and honoured you.”

Allan-a-Sop was struck with the justice of this reasoning; and the old offence of his scalded fingers was suddenly recalled to his mind. “It is very true what you say, MacQuarrie,” he replied, “and, besides, I have not forgotten what a hot breakfast my step-father treated me to one morning. Farewell for the present; you shall soon hear news of me from the other side of the Sound.” Having said thus much, the pirate got on board, and commanding his men to unmoor the galleys, sailed back to Torloisk, and prepared to land in arms. MacLean hastened to meet him, in expectation to hear of the death of his enemy, MacQuarrie. But Allan greeted him in a very different manner from what he expected.

“You hoary old traitor,” he said, “you instigated my simple good-nature to murder a better man than yourself! But have you forgotten how you scorched my fingers twenty years ago with a burning cake? The day is come that that breakfast must be paid for.”

So saying, he dashed out the old man’s brains with a battle-axe, took possession of his castle and property, and established there a distinguished branch of the clan of MacLean.—_From Tales of a Grandfather._

JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.

In a certain small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about three years ago, a very respectable tailor, of the name of John Hetherington—that is to say, John wore well with the world; but, like too many of his craft, he was sorely addicted to cabbaging. Not a coat could he make, not a pair of trousers could he cut out, not a waistcoat could he stitch up, but he must have a patch of this, that, and t’other, were it for no other purpose but just to serve as a bit of a memorial. One very warm evening towards the end of August 1826, John had gone to bed rather earlier than usual, but not without having laid in a very good share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit; which said rabbit, being composed of about a pound of tough cheese, of course furnished the poor tailor, after he had fairly tumbled over into the land of Nod, with something of a very curious Welsh-rabbit vision. It suddenly struck him that this life, with all its cares and anxieties, was over with him; that the finishing stitch had been put to the great work of life, and the thread of his existence cut through. In the other world, to his misfortune, he found things not moving so comfortably as he would have wished; and the old gentleman with the short horns and the long tail, rigged out in his best suit of black, was the first friend he forgathered with after passing the border.

“There’s a fine morning,” said the wily old dog; “how do you find yourself after long travel?”

“No that weel,” stammered out the half-dead son of a goose; “no that weel; and I dinna think, all things considered, it would benefit me much to be found in such company, no offence to your reverence,” as he saw his new friend’s choler rise; “no offence to your reverence, I trust; but if I may be so bold, I would thank you to tell me the reason of my being here; and, above all, who’s to be thankit for the honour of an introduction to your reverence?”

“That you will know shortly, friend; nay, John Hetherington, for you see I know you;” and taking a large parcel from below his left arm, he commenced to unroll it, and to the astonishment of poor John, unfolded a long sheet of patchwork, in which were found scraps of every hue, a web of many colours, all neatly stitched together; and in the middle, by way of a set off, a large bit of most excellent blue cloth, which had been cabbaged that very morning from a prime piece which he had got into his hands for the purpose of making a marriage coat for his neighbour the blacksmith.

“Was all this stuff got fairly and honestly, good man?” said the old gentleman, with a sneer quite worthy of Beelzebub. “I suppose you will be able to recognise some of these old bits. What think you now of that piece in the middle which your eyes are fixed on—cabbaged no farther back than this morning? Come along, my old boy, come along; you are a true son of your old father, I see, and I will furnish you with as warm winter quarters as you ever enjoyed when you was half-stewed with your old maiden aunt, at the top of fifteen pair of stairs in the High Street of Edinburgh, when serving your apprenticeship with Dick Mouleypouches.”

A cold sweat broke over the poor tailor, and he felt as if he could have sunk snugly into the earth, if it had only had the goodness to open at that moment for his especial accommodation, when he saw the long bony arm stretched out, with its sharp eagle claws, to clutch him: he made a sharp bolt back, and giving vent to his feelings in a loud and long howl, which rung horribly in his ears long after opening his eyes, he found himself sprawling in the middle of his wooden floor, with all the bed-clothes tumbled above him. It was the first breaking out of a fine morning: the sun was rising, and all nature looked fresh and fair; but poor John was at the point of death with sheer bodily fear and trembling, so that to get to bed again, and to sleep, would have been martyrdom; therefore he huddled on his clothes, and walked out “to snuff the caller air,” and muse over his wonderful dream. The more he thought of it, the more he saw the necessity of reforming his mode of life; and, before finishing his stroll, he was an altered man, and had made up his mind never more to cabbage an inch of cloth; and, by walking circumspect and just, he trusted that his past offences might be wiped out, and that the wonderful web of many colours should no more be brought up as evidence against him. To make him the more secure in the event of forgetfulness in the hour of temptation, his foreman was let into the great secret, and had orders at all times to rub up his remembrance when there was any thing good going, which he used to do by the laconic phrase of, “Master, mind the sheet!”

A year passed over, and the terror of the dream being yet fresh in his memory, John’s transactions were strictly honest. He could cut out with somewhat more considerable ease, and had lost a good deal the knack of cutting out the sly piece at the corner. But, alas! for the stability of all human resolutions, our friend was sorely tempted, and how he stood we shall soon see. He had got to hand a beautiful piece of red cloth, for what purpose I know not, whether for the coat of a field officer, or the back of a fox hunter, but a prime piece of cloth that was; he turned it over to this side, and back to that, viewed it in all lights and shades, rubbed it against the grain, and found it faultless. He had never seen such a fine piece of cloth before—scissors had never before cut such immaculate stuff. He fixed his eye wistfully on a tempting corner, looked up, and his foreman John was staring firmly in his face: he had read his thoughts.

“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly ejaculated John.

“I’m just swithering, John; I’m just swithering: now when I mind, there wasna a piece of red cloth in all the sheet; and mair by token, there was a bit gap at one of the corners. Now, I’m just thinking, since it maun be that all these bit odds and ends are to be evidence against me when I come to the lang count, it would be better to snick a bit aff the corner here; and that you see, John, will fill all deficiencies, and mak the sheet, since it maun appear against me, evidence, John, without a flaw!”

BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.

BY JAMES SMITH.

In the days no sae very lang syne, when the auld West Bow o’ Edinburgh was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there lived an auld blackymore named Joe Johnson. He was weel kent through a’ the toun for his great ingenuity in makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—something like the “Punch and Judy” o’ present times, but mair exquisitely finished an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine word?—_artistic_?—that’s it. Aweel, this man, commonly ca’d Black Joe, lived up a lang stair in the Bow, on the richt-hand side gaun doun. He made his livin’ in simmer by the bonnie bits o’ ships he made, displaying them for sale at the front gate o’ Heriot’s Wark, in Lauriston; an’ whiles he took a change at the drum an’ pan-pipes, wi’ a wee doggie ca’d Pincher, that stood on its hint-legs when Joe was playin’, wi’ a tin saucer in its mouth to haud the coppers. Sometimes, when Joe was playin’, and naething was comin’ in, the dog wad bite somebody’s leg by mistake to vary the entertainment, to Joe’s unspeakable delight. But this was often followed by somebody roaring oot—“Horselip! Horselip!” an’ then the drumstick flew through the crowd at somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally marched to the office between twa policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper when roused, he had a kind, canny way wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna hae wranged a livin’ cratur.

When the lang winter nichts set in, Joe had a show at the fit o’ his stair; an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum an’ pan-pipes, as he stood at the outside o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern stuck up in front, whereon was painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button on the road to Brentford, the Babes in the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his mare Meg, pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty Sark makin’ a catch at Maggie’s tail, or some ither scenic representation. Whiles, when Joe was burstin’ his black face in the middle o’ a fine tune, some ragged imp wad roar—

Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow— Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow, Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!

Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe after the malicious urchin, the doggie first and foremost in the chase. For whether the beast had been trained, or acted through the force o’ instinct, certain it is, that nae sooner was its maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it sprang, an’ fixed its teeth in the shins o’ the first ane that cam in its way.

There was ae New Year’s nicht that an unco mess took place wi’ Joe’s show. There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’ a man that the laddies aye ca’d “Tooral”—ane o’ the best figures in the show. This figure was on the stage singin’ “Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last verse—

Tak the pan an’ break his head— Tooraladdy, tooraladdy; That’s a’ as fac’ as death—

when a wild loon, that had been lookin’ on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a watery mouth at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony langer to resist temptation, made a dart at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot o’ the show. This created an unco commotion, for when the folk begoud to rise up in the gallery—it was a’ gallery thegither—as Joe rushed out after the thief, cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch a thief! catch a thief!” the whole rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great crash. But they didna fa’ far; for it wasna muckle mair than five or six inches frae the ground a’thegither. But the thief was never gotten that nicht, tho’ it’s a consolation to ken that he was banished shortly afterwards for stealin’ a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’ saut butter frae a puir widdy woman, as she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop in the Canongate.

But Joe was thrown into sic a state wi’ rinnin’ through the toun after the thief, that next day he was delirious wi’ a ragin’ fever. My mither lived but an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun in noo an’ then to see how the puir body was doing, that a strange interest in Joe’s history was awakened in her breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some very strange expressions when lyin’ in the delirious state. Ance or twice he cried, “Me nebber shoot massa—me nebber shoot massa. Major murder him broder—me see ’im do it. Got pistol yet—me tell truth—me no tell lie;” an’ sae he wad gang ravin’ on at this gait for hours. When at last the fever had abated, an’ Joe was able to come ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s fireside, she asked him, in her ain canny way, if he wadna like to gang back again to his native country. But the black fell a tremblin’, an’ shook his head, sayin’ “Nebber—nebber—nebber more!” This roused my mither’s curiosity to the highest pitch, for she was convinced noo, mair than ever, that some dark history was locked up in the African’s breast. Ae day, a while after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat doun by the fireside, as usual; for though the day was scorching hot, being in the heat o’ simmer, the cratur was aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld. Takin oot his cutty pipe, as usual, he began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no lib long; me no strength—me weak as water—me no happy—wish ’im was dead.”

“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”

But Joe aye shook his head.

“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his puir wasted hand in her ain, “there’s something mair than weakness the matter wi’ ye. I ken that, whatever ye may say; and the best thing for ye to do’s to mak a clean breast o’t. Whatever ye may say to me, I promise shall be as secret as the grave. Ye ken me ower weel to doot that.”

Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’ syne at the door. My mither cannily closed the door, an’ sat doun beside him. Then the nigger, cautioning her to mind her promise, telt her a story that sent her to her bed that nicht wi’ a gey quaking heart. But as this story wadna be richtly understood to gie’t in the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll tell’t in my ain way.

Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh, baith him an’ his wife were slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation in Jamaica. This Zedekiah Gilroy was the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’ Hawkesneb Hoose. I mind o’ the place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday; for mony a time I’ve passed it on the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh. It’s a gude fourteen hours’ journey frae Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye like. Aweel, the eldest son o’ this Colonel Gilroy had gotten a commission in the East India Company, an’ had risen to the rank o’ major in ane o’ the native regiments; but brocht himsel’ into disgrace there by causing the death o’ ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless cruelty, an’ was obliged to sell oot, an’ come hame in disgrace. He hadna been lang hame, when a letter cam frae his brither, requesting him to come oot an’ look after his estate, for he had been twice attacked by yellow fever, an’ was utterly incompetent to look after’t. His overseers, he said, were rivin’ him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’ a’thing was gaun wrang thegither. His wife had been struck doun by the same fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits had ta’en possession o’ him, that a’ the luxuries o’ high life an’ plenty o’ siller couldna diminish. His only wish was to see his brither oot beside him, an’ tak for a while the oversicht o’ his affairs, till health an’ strength blessed him ance mair. Aweel, under a’ thae circumstances, the auld colonel advised his son to gang oot an’ do his best to help his brither in his sair extremity. Sae the major, wi’ an unco show o’ reluctance, at last consented, an’ aff he gaed to Jamaica, to play the deevil there, as he had done before in the East Indies.

Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica when an unco change for the waur took place. There was naething but orderin’, cursin’, swearin’, an’ lashin’ o’ slaves frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was amang the first that succumbed to the murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in for mair than his share. Rumours soon began to spread that the maister himsel’ was tyrannised ower by his brither. He was ane o’ the very kindest o’ maisters to his slaves, until his brither cam like a frosty blicht, and filled the whole estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this state o’ things gaed on for nearly six months, when ae day Joe, exasperated at the inhuman treatment he was receivin’ at the major’s instigation, took leg-bail to the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the cliffs. There he lurked, day after day, crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather shell-fish an’ dulse frae the rocks, an’ castin’ his e’e ower the wide watery waste for the welcome sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae the accursed spot. Mair than ance he had heard the shouts o’ the manhunters on his track, intermingling wi’ the terrible bay o’ the bluidhound. But a’ their vigilance was eluded by the impregnable nature o’ his position, high up amang the rocks.

On the morning o’ the thirteenth day after his escape, he cautiously emerged frae his high den, an’ looked around him as usual. The air was intensely hot, an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were fast drivin’ through a black, lowering sky, the certain presage o’ a fearfu’ storm. The sea lay calm and still, for there wasna a breath o’ wind stirring, an’ flocks o’ sea-birds were filling the sultry air wi’ their harsh, discordant cries. Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’ illumined the black, murky sky, an’ a loud clap o’ thunder reverberated amang the mountains. Then the lichtnin’ an’ thunder became incessant, the sea lashed itsel’ into foam an’ fury, an’ the rain poured doun in torrents. As the slave surveyed the elements thus ragin’ in a’ their terrific grandeur, the distant sound o’ carriage-wheels caught his ear. Nearer an’ nearer they cam, till he recognised a gig driven by the major comin’ on at a rattlin’ pace. His brither sat beside him, propped up wi’ shawls and cushions, an’ appeared to be at that moment in an attitude o’ earnest entreaty; while every noo and then the faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation was borne on the gale that noo roared ower land an’ sea, though what they said it was utterly impossible to distinguish. The slave looked on, first in astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for, instead o’ turnin’ the horse’s head hamewards as the storm cam on, the major persisted in drivin’ richt on through the sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’ in, in spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’ his brither to turn. At last the gig was stopped, as the horse, plunging and restive, went up to the middle in water. Then a deadly struggle took place that lasted scarcely a minute, when the report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the thunder, an’ the next instant the body o’ the invalid was hurled into the roaring surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s head was turned hameward, an’ aff went the gig in richt earnest, but no before a wild yell o’ execration frae the cliff warned the murderer that the deed had been witnessed by mair than the e’e o’ God abune. Scarcely had the sound o’ the wheels died away, when the slave descended the lofty precipitous rocks wi’ the agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged into the sea to save, if it were yet possible, his puir maister. But the dark purple streaks on the surface o’ the water where the deed was accomplished telt, ower fearfully, that the sharks were already thrang at their horrid wark, an’ that a’ hope o’ saving him, if he werena clean deid after the pistol-shot was fired, was for ever gane. Therefore he reluctantly swam back to the shore, wi’ barely enough o’ time to save himsel’. Before scaling the cliff, he lifted the pistol that the murderer, in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the moment, had left behind him on the beach. This incident filled the slave wi’ fresh alarm, for it was certain the major wad come back for’t before lang. Sae a’ that nicht he wearied sair for the mornin’ to come in. Slowly at last the storm subsided, as the first pale streaks o’ dawn were visible in the horizon; an’ as the daylicht lengthened mair an’ mair, he saw a dark speck floating on the waves, that on a nearer approach proved to be a boat that had burst frae its moorings frae some ship in the distant harbour. Fervently thanking God for this providential means o’ deliverance, he descended frae his friendly shelter for the last time, an’ boldly struck out for the boat, which he reached in safety. Seizing the oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’ a fervent prayer that the dark drizzly fog that enveloped the ocean wad continue to shield him, for a time, frae his merciless enemy, till some friendly ship wad tak him up. It was high time; for he hadna gi’en half-a-dozen strokes, when the sound o’ angry voices, among which was the major’s, was borne on the breeze, an’ again the deep-toned bay o’ the bluidhound nerved his arms wi’ a’ the energy o’ desperation. Farther an’ farther oot he gaed, battling wi’ the heavily swelling rollers that threatened every moment to engulph the boat he steered sae bravely. For mony a lang and weary hour he struggled wi’ the giant waves, enveloped in fog, till the darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’ he was fast gi’en up a’ hopes o’ succour, when the tout o’ a horn near at hand warned him that a ship was bearing doun upon him. He had barely time to steer oot o’ her way, when he was hailed by the captain, an’ asked where he cam frae. Joe made answer that he was the sole survivor o’ the _Nancy_, bound for England, that had sprung a leak, an’ foundered in last nicht’s gale. At that moment a terrible wave capsized the boat, and Joe was struggling in the water. But a rope was flung oot to him, an’ he speedily drew himsel’ on board. This circumstance o’ the boat’s being swamped was a mercy for Joe; for had the name o’ the ship she belanged to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad hae been fand oot, an’ it micht hae fared waur wi’ him. But the captain treated Joe wi’ great kindness, and telt him he micht work his passage to Leith, which was the port o’ their destination. The vessel was a Leith trader named the _William and Mary_, an’ was on her passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.

Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna to be blamed a’thegither for the doonricht lee he telt the captain. He was a rinaway slave in the first place, an’ had the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than likely he wad hae delivered him up at the first port he touched at on the voyage hame. In the second place, there was nae ither witness o’ the fearfu’ crime binna himsel’; an’ he had the tact to see that evidence resting on the sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair especially when that slave micht be reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings against the murderer, wad be treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’ even add to the horrors o’ his ain death. Therefore Joe kept his ain coonsel, and when the vessel arrived at Leith, he wandered up to Edinburgh, and resided for mony a lang year in the West Bow, makin’ his livin’ in the manner already related, and wi’ the secret carefully locked up in his breast until now.

“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when she had heard him oot, “that’s an unco story, man. But are ye aware that the auld colonel’s aye livin’ yet, an’ that it wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?” Here Joe lookit in her face sae pitifu’ an’ imploring like, that she didna find it in her heart to press the question ony mair at that time. But when the body gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’ and thinkin’ till the day was far spent; an’ for mony a lang day after that she hadna muckle peace o’ mind.

Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit and shawl, and said she wadna be hame till late. Although I was a bit lassie at the time, I jaloused where she was gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till late, late at nicht that she cam hame, an’ then she telt me she had been at Hawkesneb Hoose on a pretence to see if an auld servant she had kent mony a year sin’ was aye bidin’ there. As she rang the gate-bell, she said a fearfu’ sense o’ shame an’ disgrace comin’ ower an auld man made her swither; but there was the lodgekeeper’s wife comin’ to the gate, an’ it was ower late noo to gang back. She then inquired for ane Jess Tamson, that had been a servant up at the big hoose three years sin’; but the woman said she didna ken o’ onybody o’ that name servin’ there noo. My mither said that was an unco pity, as she had cam a lang way to see her, an’ her feet were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The woman then opened the gate, an’ asked my mither into the lodge, an’ offered her a cup o’ tea, for which my mither was very thankfu’. Then, when the twa fell on the crack, my mither said the laird wad be gey far doon the brae noo, for he was an auld man in Jess’s time. My mither came oot wi’ this in her ain pawky way, to hear for certain whether the colonel were dead or livin’.

“The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a year sin’,” said the woman, “but his son the major’s expected hame in a month; an’ I’m sure there has been sic a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’, that what wi’ masons, joiners, plasterers, painters, and glaziers, there hasna been muckle rest for the servants this last fortnicht.”

“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.

“Married! no as yet,” said the woman. “They say he’s turned unco silent and cantankerous since his brither’s death, sees naebody, an’ never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside.”

“The major never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside!” said my mither, slowly comin’ ower the words after her. “Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’ sair to keep in her breath. “What kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’, hae ye heard?”

“What kind o’ death was’t? It was murder, dounricht murder!” said the woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his ain slaves through revenge. But it was a grand day for the major when his brither dee’d; for he wasna a month gane when the plantation was selt aff, an’ the major left Jamaica wi’ mony a braw thousand pound in his pouch.”

My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The woman said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health being in a delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the advice o’ his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the auld laird’s anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to wonder at the major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he didna come to lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo. As for the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry after him for a while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not likely he ever will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his brither an airing in a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae behind, wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled, wounding him mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a lang distance and fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the spot where the murder had been committed, expecting to see the body; but, astonishing to relate, the body had disappeared. And the man that did the deed, as I said before, was never gotten; nor is it very likely he ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he fled awa to the mountains among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”

“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain ways o’ workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way that you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun hame; but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far gane, an’ she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns. At that moment the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she waited till the coach cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.

Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had telt this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.” It aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’ gane mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’ syne put a mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after that, as the puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she did, when the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its result. The puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she telt him the murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun the Bible again, an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully arrested her attention the nicht before; and as she read them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled every vestige o’ doot in my mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’ made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had endured since the murder was committed. He noo declared his readiness to lodge an accusation against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being misdooted vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae slave-owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the best white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an evidence o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit bodies o’ lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’ lot, an’ mak black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at this time deeply engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach him patience.

Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to control the wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose, carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual. It had been a drizzly sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was wet through an’ through. The place was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky avenue, he half resolved to gang back, an’ trust to time an’ the retributive justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence. But an impulse he couldna resist chained him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the gate forward, and to his surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he reached the mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’ licht that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer, the sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained the mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’ her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’ nae sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than she gied a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht ben a’ the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.

“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye needna hae been sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when the major’s lookit for every minute.”

This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to the big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while awa the nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler, a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and seeing the nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer before him, tellin’ him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there. The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune; but to tell the truth, it seems that the twa were unco gracious, for when the tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae that settles that. When Joe had sat for a while preein’ the mercies set before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a dance since gude kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a similar manner.

“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird wi’ a drum an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast show. A fiddle michtna be sae bad.”

Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne struck up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on he played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell was rung wi’ great violence.

“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper, “an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the nicht noo, when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’ was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.

The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and the lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe; for that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely forgotten by the servants as if they had never been there. But as quietness was at last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in his room, wi’ a stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed wi’ supper or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal to the first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper, wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang noo.

“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna open that door,” said the hoosekeeper; “ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s asleep. I never saw sic a savage-lookin’ man in my life, as he cam in at the front door. He’s completely changed since I mind o’ him, when he wasna muckle mair than a laddie. An’ sic a restless, suspicious e’e as he’s got! I dinna like it—I positively dinna like it. But I’ll never pit up wi’ sic a man—I’ll tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’ woman. An’ what the deil brocht _you_ here?—makin’ things fifty times waur! Ye’ll never get oot o’ here this nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet there’s that brute,” pointing to Pincher, that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet under the table, thrang worryin’ at a big bane—“what’s to be dune if it barks?”

But Joe gied her to understand there was nae fear o’ that, for he had him ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance; but oh! he was anxious—anxious to be off. The woman, hooever, remained inexorable. There was therefore nae help for’t but to sit doun on a chair by the kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit oot cannily in the mornin’ before the major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa to their beds, an’ Joe was left alane in the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at his side. But Joe couldna close an e’e, wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here, at last, had the providence o’ God brocht the murderer and his accuser beneath the same roof. Joe lay doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the mornin’ comin’ in. The weather had cleared up, an’ the moon was streamin’ in through the kitchen windows. The fire had gane oot, an’ the air felt cauld an’ chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’ horror took possession o’ Joe that he couldna shake off. At last Pincher gaed a low growl, as if he had heard somebody comin’. Joe could hear naething at first, but by degrees he became sensible that a step was advancin’, saft, an’ almost noiseless, doun the kitchen stair; an’ slowly the door opened as a figure dressed in a lang dressin’-goun, an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand, entered the kitchen. Speechless and unable to move, Joe saw his mortal enemy, the major, starin’ him in the face; but as he silently returned the gaze, he became sensible that it was void o’ consciousness. The major was walkin’ in his sleep, that was evident, for he kept movin’ up an’ doun the kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid doun the candle on the floor in ane o’ his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct that Joe could hear every word—

“Will the sea give up its dead?—No, no. Why does his face always turn up amid the roaring waves, as if to taunt me with the crime, and drag me to eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s but a fancy after all. But the slave who eluded my vengeance—curses on him!—where is _he_? Wandering over the face of the earth, to confront me at last, perhaps, and accuse me as my brother’s murderer. But will they believe _him_? They will not—nay, they dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the black countenance of that infernal fiend dogs me wherever I go, and will not give me peace—peace—peace!”

Then he took up the candle an’ made for the door, drew back, an’ again cam into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a second time, an’ opened the door. The sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the candle, an’ he again entered the kitchen. At that moment he stumbled ower a chair, an’ Pincher gaed a loud bark, as the major started to his feet, restored to consciousness. And as the moon’s rays revealed every surrounding object wi’ a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that met his e’e was Joe—Joe stannin’ before him, rigid and motionless—an auld rusty pistol in his richt hand presented at him, an’ a wild glare o’ rage an’ defiance flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’ e’en. The suddenness o’ the appearance o’ this apparition—for apparition he thocht Joe to be—completely paralysed him for the moment. His knees gaed knock, knockin’ thegither, as Joe cried—

“Murderer! murderer! murderer! Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You dam rascal—you villain—me hear to speak truth, and truth me speak spite of eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”

As Joe said this, he advanced nearer an’ nearer, till the pistol touched the major’s breast. But there he stood, powerless to resist; for his belief still was that Joe was a phantom, till the growlin’ o’ the doggie brocht him to himsel’ mair than onything else; and, fired by the energy o’ desperation, he made a snatch at the pistol. But the nigger was ower quick for him; for he sprang past the major, and oot at the kitchen door that the major had providentially opened in his sleep, darted doun the avenue and oot at the gate, syne awa at full speed on his lang journey hame, which he reached by nine o’clock in the mornin’, mair deid than alive. He cam into my mither’s just as she sat doun to her tea, an’ gaed her the history o’ his last nicht’s adventure, as already related. My mither’s advice to him was to gang directly to the authorities, an’ lodge an accusation. Joe did sae, and the result was that Captain S——, accompanied by half a dozen constables, immediately took the coach for Hawkesneb Hoose, which they reached about seven o’clock.

When they arrived there, the butler, hoosekeeper, an’ a’ the lave o’ them cam out, wonderin’ at seein’ the police authorities, accompanied by the black man. But when Captain S—— asked, in a stern manner, if he could see the major, an’ telling the men to watch the hoose, baith back and front, their surprise was turned into consternation. The major wasna up yet, the butler said; and his orders the nicht before were that naebody was to disturb him unless his bell rang. And it was neither his business nor onybody else’s to intrude where they werena wanted. On hearing this, the captain peremptorily demanded to see his maister, otherwise it wad be necessary to force an entrance into his room. At this the hoosekeeper and butler baith gaed up, an’ cried the major’s name; but nae answer cam. Then they tried to open the door, but the door was evidently locked frae the inside, for it wadna open. When the captain heard this, he gaed up himsel’, an’ burst open the door. On entering the room, he lookit round, but could see naething. The bed lay untouched; there had been naebody there, that was evident. But there was a sma’ dressing-room that opened frae the bedroom, and on lookin’ there he saw the major lyin’ in a doubled-up position on the carpet, wi’ his hands clenched, an’ his e’en starin’ wide open. An empty phial lay beside him, that telt, ower surely, what he had been after. The captain placed his hand on his face, but it was quite cauld; an’ there wasna the least doot that he had been dead for a lang time. When the captain cam doun and communicated the news, there was sair wonder an’ astonishment, but no muckle grief, ’od knows. The major had been a perfect stranger to them a’, except the auld hoosekeeper; an’ to do the body justice, she shed a tear or twa; but it’s my belief a third never made its appearance, for a’ she tried.

Naething farther could be done in the matter. The major had anticipated the demands o’ justice by takin’ justice on himsel’, an’ the wuddy had been cheated o’ a victim, an’ a multitude o’ morbid sightseers rightly ungratified. But oh, the joy o’ Joe’s heart when he cam into my mither’s next mornin’! for it seems they had remained in the hoose a’ that nicht, till the coach cam by on the Edinburgh journey. The fear that had hung ower him like a nichtmare was dispelled for ever, an’ his innocence triumphantly established beyond the least shadow o’ a doot. Kindly my mither shook him by the hand, as she said—“The hand o’ God’s been in’t, Joe, my man; an’ praise be to his name for sendin’ a bonnie glint o’ sunshine oot o’ the lang dreary darkness that’s encompassed ye. An’ never forget the verses that gaed ye sic blessed consolation;” an’ saftly an’ solemnly she cam ower them again—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, an’ shall keep thy foot from being taken.” An’ Joe looked happy an’ contented, an’ never forgot my mither’s kindness.

Joe gaed aboot the streets o’ Edinburgh mony a lang day after this. He never taen up the show again, that I mind o’; but mony a bonnily riggit ship he selt at Heriot’s Wark, and on the Earthen Mound, amang the panoramas and the wild-beast shows, and doun at the stairs at bonnie auld Shakespeare Square, that’s noo awa; an’ mony a time hae I heard his drum an’ pan-pipes when I was baith a young quean an’ a married wife. He dee’d a short time before the richt-hand side o’ the West Bow was taen doun, an’ there’s no a single vestige noo to be seen o’ the auld land where the show used to be, wi’ the lichtit paper-lantern at the door, an’ the pan-pipes playin’ “Tooraladdy,” that cheered sae mony young hearts in the days that are noo past an’ gane.—_From “Peggy Pinkerton’s Recollections.”_

THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.

BY JAMES PATERSON.

Lieutenant Charles Ewart, better known as “Sergeant Ewart of the Greys,” was born in Kilmarnock about the year 1767, and enlisted in that regiment in 1789. He served under the Duke of York in the Low Country Campaigns of 1793–4, and shared in all the victories and defeats which the allied arms experienced. The disasters encountered by the British arose in a great measure from the duplicity of the Dutch, as well as from the military incapacity of the Royal general. At the battle, if we mistake not, of Fleurus, in the Netherlands, where the Republican forces, after a protracted contest, were the victors, Ewart had the misfortune to be taken prisoner. Towards the close of the action, the Greys were so thoroughly surrounded by the enemy that escape was considered next to impossible. As the only means of preventing their entire capture, they were ordered to disperse in small parties of twos and threes, each to exert himself as he best might in finding his way to the allied army, which had undertaken a retrograde movement. It was evening as Ewart and his companions endeavoured to thread their way amidst the smoke and spreading darkness by which they were enveloped. They had not proceeded far, when, perceiving a body of French cavalry at a short distance, they were compelled to seek safety in an opposite direction. Though hotly pursued, they put spurs to their horses, and soon distanced their enemies. At length they found themselves in the vicinity of a wood, and, ignorant of the direction in which they were proceeding, they determined on taking advantage of its shelter for the night. Tying their jaded horses to a tree, they lay down beside them. Tired out with the day’s fatigue, they fell soundly asleep; nor did they awaken until rudely stirred from their slumber in the morning by a large body of French infantry who had taken possession of the wood. Resistance being out of the question, they instantly surrendered; but nothing could save them from the abuse and insult of the soldiers, by whom they were plundered of everything valuable. Fortunately, not above two hours afterwards, the advance corps of the French were beaten back by a number of Austrian troops, who in turn took the captors captive, and Ewart and his comrades were restored to their regiment, not, however, without having obtained permission of the Austrian officer in charge of the prisoners to take from the Frenchmen the property of which they had been plundered, and which they did with something of _interest_, by way of repaying the usage they had experienced.

In the retreat of the British through Holland after the disastrous battle of Nimguen, though conducted by Sir Ralph Abercrombie with great skill and success, considering the desperate circumstances in which they were placed, the army suffered the utmost privations. The winter was unprecedentedly severe, and the loss of the stores and baggage added greatly to their sufferings. Hundreds perished from excessive cold, hunger, and fatigue. Many affecting anecdotes are told of the vicissitudes endured. While on the march one day, near a place, the name of which we forget, the faint wailings of a child were heard not far from the roadside. Ewart dismounted, and proceeding to the spot, found a woman and child lying amongst the snow. The mother was dead, but the infant, still in life, was in the act of sucking the breast of its lifeless parent. “Albeit unused to the melting mood,” Ewart felt overcome by the spectacle. There was no time, however, for sentimentalism; but lifting the child in his arms, and wrapping his cloak around it, he remounted with his tender charge. On reaching the encampment for the evening, he applied to the colonel, who generously offered to defray the expenses of a nurse; but so entirely were the women of the army absorbed with their own misfortunes, that not one of them could be found to take care of the little orphan. Ewart was at length fortunate in discovering the father of the child, a sergeant of the 60th regiment, who was so much affected that he could scarcely be restrained from retracing his steps in the vain hope of finding his partner still in life. Three years after the return of the army to Britain, and while the Greys were stationed in the south of England, Ewart was one evening called to the head inn of the town. The soldier to whom he was introduced grasped him warmly by the hand, as he inquired whether he knew him. Ewart replied in the negative. A short explanation sufficed. The stranger was the father of the child whom he had saved, come to tender his thanks in a more substantial manner than was in his power on the retreat in Holland. He had since that period been raised to the rank of sergeant-major, and the little orphan was then a thriving boy at home with his grandmother. He insisted on presenting Ewart with a sum of money, but the offer was firmly rejected. He pressed him, however, to accept a silver watch as a memento of his gratitude.

With the exception of a small portion of the regiment which took part in the Peninsular War, the Scots Greys were not again called abroad till 1815. During the intervening period, no opportunity of distinguishing themselves occurred. Ewart, who had borne himself with uniform propriety, and gained the esteem of his superior officers by his soldierly conduct, was early advanced as a sergeant, while his skill in the sword exercise procured him further emolument by being appointed master-of-fence to the regiment. The unlooked-for escape of Napoleon from Elba gave a new impulse to the military ardour of this country. The Greys, as well as the household troops, were called to arms, and in the short but important campaign in Belgium, covered themselves with glory on the plains of Waterloo. The splendid charge of General Ponsonby’s cavalry brigade—composed of the First Royals, Greys, and Inniskillings—is matter of history. It was in one of those dashing affairs on the 18th, when covering the Highland brigade against a dense mass of Invincibles, that the two eagles were captured by the Greys and Royals. As the cavalry passed through the open columns of the Highlanders, the cry of “Scotland for ever!” created an enthusiasm which nothing could withstand, and the French infantry were scattered before them. Upwards of two thousand prisoners were taken in this single onset. Sergeant Ewart was engaged hand to hand with an officer, whom he was about to cut down, when a young ensign of the Greys interceded in his behalf, and desired that he might be passed to the rear. He had scarcely complied with the request, when, on hearing the report of a pistol, he turned and beheld the ensign falling from his saddle, and the French officer in the act of replacing the weapon with which he had savagely taken the life of his preserver. Enraged at the ingratitude of the Frenchman, Ewart immediately turned upon him, and, deaf to his supplications, cut him down to the brisket. This was the work only of a moment, for the conflict still raged, the French infantry having been supported by a numerous array of cuirassiers and lancers. Dashing forward, he now came within reach of the standard-bearer of one of the Invincible regiments to which they were opposed. A short conflict ensued, when the French officer fell beneath Ewart’s sword, and the staff of the eagle stuck fast in the ground, which was soft, so that he was enabled to lay hold of it without further trouble. Had the standard fallen, he could not have recovered it in the _melée_. Wheeling round, Ewart was in the act of making off with his prize, when a lancer, singling him out, galloped forward and hurled his spear at his breast. With all his reputed quickness in defence, he had just strength enough to ward off the blow, so that the lance merely grazed his side; then raising himself in his stirrups, he brought his antagonist to the ground with one cut of his sword. In riding away with the valuable trophy, Ewart experienced another narrow escape—a wounded Frenchman, whom he had supposed to be dead, having raised himself on his elbow, and fired at him as he passed. The ball fortunately missed him, and he escaped to the rear, when he was ordered to proceed with the standard to Brussels.

The prowess of Ewart was greatly applauded, not less in Belgium and France than in Britain, and he subsequently, through the influence of the late Sir John Sinclair, obtained a commission in a veteran battalion as a reward for his services. When in Edinburgh in 1816, he was invited to a Waterloo dinner at Leith, where Sir Walter Scott proposed his health in an eloquent and highly complimentary speech. Little accustomed to civilian society, Lieutenant Ewart felt diffident to reply; and, in a note to the chairman, begged that he might be excused, adding, with the bluntness of a soldier, that “he would rather fight the battle of Waterloo over again, than face so large an assemblage.” The company, however, would not be denied the gratification of a full-length view of his person, and he was under the necessity of shaking off his diffidence by acknowledging the toast in a brief reply, which he made amidst the rapturous cheers of his entertainers. He was also publicly entertained at dinner in Ayr and Kilmarnock, and was presented with the freedom of Irvine.

CATCHING A TARTAR.

BY D. M. MOIR.

From the first moment I clapped eye on the caricature thing of a coat that Tammie Bodkin had, in my absence, shaped out for Cursecowl the butcher, I foresaw, in my own mind, that a catastrophe was brewing for us; and never did soldier gird himself to fight the French, or sailor prepare for a sea-storm, with greater alacrity, than I did to cope with the bull-dog anger, and buffet back the uproarious vengeance of our heathenish customer.

At first I thought of letting the thing take its natural course, and of threaping down Cursecowl’s throat that he must have been feloniously keeping in his breath when Tammie took his measure; and, moreover, that as it was the fashion to be straight-laced, Tammie had done his utmost trying to make him look like his betters; till, my conscience checking me for such a nefarious intention, I endeavoured, as became me in the relations of man, merchant, and Christian, to solder the matter peaceably, and show him, if there was a fault committed, that there was no evil intention on my side of the house. To this end I despatched the bit servant wench, on the Friday afternoon, to deliver the coat, which was neatly tied up in brown paper, and directed, “Mr Cursecowl, with care,” and to buy a sheep’s-head; bidding her, by way of being civil, give my kind compliments, and inquire how Mr and Mrs Cursecowl, and the five little Miss Cursecowls, were keeping their healths, and trusting to his honour in sending me a good article. But have a moment’s patience.

Being busy at the time turning a pair of kuttikins for old Mr Mooleypouch the mealmonger, when the lassie came back I had no mind of asking a sight of the sheep’s-head, as I aye like the little blackfaced in preference to the white, fat, fozy Cheviot breed; but most providentially I catched a gliskie of the wench passing the shop window, on the road over to Jamie Coom the smith’s, to get it singed, having been dispatched there by her mistress. Running round the counter like lightning, I opened the sneck, and halooed to her to wheel to the right about, having, somehow or other, a superstitious longing to look at the article. As I was saying, there was a providence in this, which, at the time, mortal man could never have thought of.

James Batter had popped in with a newspaper in his hand, to read me a curious account of a mermaid that was seen singing a Gaelic song, and combing its hair with a tortoise-shell comb, someway terrible far north about Shetland, by a respectable minister of the district, riding home in the gloaming after a Presbytery dinner. So, as he was just taking off his spectacles cannily, and saying to me—“And was not that droll?”—the lassie spread down her towel on the counter, when, lo, and behold! such an abominable spectacle! James Batter observing me run back, and turn white, put on his glasses again, cannily taking them out of his well-worn shagreen case, and, giving a stare down at the towel, almost touched the beast’s nose with his own.

“And what, in the name of goodness, is the matter?” quo’ James Batter; “ye seem in a wonderful quandary.”

“The matter!” answered I, in astonishment, looking to see if the man had lost his sight or his senses; “the matter! who ever saw a sheep’shead with straight horns, and a visnomy all colours of the rainbow—red, blue, orange, green, yellow, white, and black?”

“’Deed it is,” said James, after a nearer inspection; “it must be a lowsynaturay. I’m sure I have read most of Buffon’s books, and I have never heard tell of the like. It’s gey and queerish.”

“’Od, James,” answered I, “ye take everything very canny; you’re a philosopher, to be sure; but I daresay if the moon was to fall from the lift, and knock down the old kirk, ye would say no more than ‘it’s gey and queerish.’”

“Queerish, man! Do ye not see that?” added I, shoving down his head mostly on the top of it. “Do ye not see that? awful, most awful! extonishing!! Do ye not see that long beard? Who, in the name of goodness, ever was an eyewitness to a sheep’s-head, in a Christian land, with a beard like an unshaven Jew, crying ‘owl clowes,’ with a green bag over his left shoulder?”

“Dog on it,” said James, giving a fidge with his hainches; “dog on it, as I am a living sinner, that is the head of a Willie-goat.”

“Willie or Nannie,” answered I, “it’s not meat for me; and never shall an ounce of it cross the craig of my family—that is as sure as ever James Batter drave a shuttle. Give counsel in need, James: what is to be done?”

“That needs consideration,” quo’ James, giving a bit hoast. “Unless he makes ample apology, and explains the mistake in a feasible way, it is my humble opinion that he ought to be summoned before his betters. That is the legal way to make him smart for his sins.”

At last a thought struck me, and I saw farther through my difficulties than ever mortal man did through a millstone; but, like a politician, I minted not the matter to James. Keeping my tongue cannily within my teeth, I then laid the head, wrapped up in the bit towel, in a corner behind the counter; and turning my face round again to James, I put my hands into my breeches-pockets, as if nothing in the world had happened, and ventured back to the story of the mermaid. I asked him how she looked—what kind of dress she wore—if she swam with her corsets—what was the colour of her hair—where she would buy the tortoise-shell comb—and so on; when just as he was clearing his pipe to reply, who should burst open the shop-door like a clap of thunder, with burning cat’s een, and a face as red as a soldier’s jacket, but Cursecowl himself, with the new killing-coat in his hand, which, giving a tremendous curse (the words of which are not essentially necessary for me to repeat, being an elder of our kirk), he made play flee at me with such a birr, that it twisted round my neck, and mostly blinding me, made me doze like a tottum. At the same time, to clear his way, and the better to enable him to take a good mark, he gave James Batter a shove, that made him stoiter against the wall, and snacked the good new farthing tobacco-pipe, that James was taking his first whiff out of; crying at the same blessed moment—

“Hold out o’ my road, ye long, withered wabster. Ye’re a pair of havering idiots; but I’ll have pennyworths out of both your skins, as I’m a sinner!”

What was to be done? There was no time for speaking; for Cursecowl, foaming like a mad dog with passion, seized hold of the ell-wand, which he flourished round his head like a Highlander’s broadsword, and stamping about with his stockings drawn up his thighs, threatened every moment to commit bloody murder.

If James Batter never saw service before, he learned a little of it that day, being in a pickle of bodily terror not to be imagined by living man; but his presence of mind did not forsake him, and he cowered for safety and succour into a far corner, holding out a web of buckram before him, me crying all the time—“Send for the town-officer! Will ye not send for the town-officer?”

You may talk of your General Moores and your Lord Wellingtons as ye like; but never, since I was born, did I ever see or hear tell of anything braver than the way Tammy Bodkin behaved, in saving both our precious lives, at that blessed nick of time, from touch-and-go jeopardy; for, when Cursecowl was rampauging about, cursing and swearing like a Russian bear, hurling out volleys of oaths that would have frighted John Knox, forbye the like of us, Tammie stole in behind him like a wild cat, followed by Joseph Breekey, Walter Cuff, and Jack Thorl, the three apprentices, on their stocking-soles; and having strong and dumpy arms, pinned back his elbows like a flash of lightning, giving the other callants time to jump on his back, and hold him like a vice; while, having got time to draw my breath, and screw up my pluck, I ran forward like a lion, and houghed the whole concern—Tammie Bodkin, the three faithful apprentices, Cursecowl, and all, coming to the ground like a battered castle.

It was now James Batter’s time to come up in line; and though a douce man (being savage for the insulting way that Cursecowl had dared to use him), he dropped down like mad, with his knees on Cursecowl’s breast, who was yelling, roaring, and grinding his buck-teeth like a mad bull, kicking right and spurring left with fire and fury; and, taking his Kilmarnock off his head, thrust it, like a battering-ram, into Cursecowl’s mouth, to hinder him from alarming the neighbourhood, and bringing the whole world about our ears.

Such a stramash of tumbling, roaring, tearing, swearing, kicking, pushing, cuffing, rugging, and riving about the floor!! I thought they would not have left one another with a shirt on: it seemed a combat even to the death. Cursecowl’s breath was choked up within him, like wind in an empty bladder; and when I got a gliskie of his face, from beneath James’s cowl, it was growing as black as the crown of my hat. It feared me much that murder would be the upshot, the webs being all heeled over, both of broad cloth, buckram, cassimir, and Welsh flannel; and the paper shapings and worsted runds coiled about their throats and bodies like fiery serpents. At long and last, I thought it became me, being the head of the house, to sound a parley, and bid them give the savage a mouthful of fresh air, to see if he had anything to say in his defence.

Cursecowl, by this time, had forcible assurance of our ability to overpower him, and finding he had by far the worst of it, was obliged to grow tamer, using the first breath he got to cry out—

“A barley, ye thieves! a barley! I tell you, give me wind. There’s not a man in nine of ye!”

Finding our own strength, we saw, by this time, that we were masters of the field; nevertheless we took care to make good terms when they were in our power, nor would we allow Cursecowl to sit upright till after he had said, three times over, on his honour as a gentleman, that he would behave as became one.

After giving his breeches-knees a skuff with his loof, to dad off the stoure, he came, right foot foremost, to the counter-side, while the laddies were dighting their brows, and stowing away the webs upon their ends round about, saying,—

“Maister Wauch, how have ye the conscience to send hame such a piece o’ wark as that coat to ony decent man? Do ye dare to imagine that I am a Jerusalem spider, that I could be crammed, neck and heels, into such a thing as that? Fie, shame—it would not button on yourself, man, scarecrow-looking mortal though ye be!”

James Batter’s blood was now up, and boiling like an old Roman’s; so he was determined to show Cursecowl that I had a friend in court, able and willing to keep him at stave’s end.

“Keep a calm sough,” said James Batter, interfering; “and not miscall the head of the house in his own shop; or, to say nothing of present consequences, by way of showing ye the road to the door, perhaps Maister Sneckdrawer, the penny-writer, ’ll give ye a caption-paper with a broad margin, to claw your elbow with at your leisure, my good fellow.”

“Pugh, pugh!” cried Cursecowl, snapping his finger and thumb at James’s beak; “I do not value your threatening an ill halfpenny. Come away out your ways to the crown of the causey, and I’ll box any three of ye, over the bannys, for half-a-mutchkin. But, ’odsake, Batter, my man, nobody’s speaking to you,” added Cursecowl, giving a hack now and then, and a bit spit down on the floor; “go hame, man, and get your cowl washed; I daresay you have pushioned me, so I have no more to say to the like of you. But now, Maister Wauch, just speaking hooly and fairly, do you not think black burning shame of yourself, for putting such an article into any decent Christian man’s hand, like mine?”

“Wait a wee—wait a wee, friend, and I’ll give ye a lock salt to your broth,” answered I, in a calm and cool way; for, being a confidential elder of Maister Wiggie’s, I kept myself free from the sin of getting into a passion, or fighting, except in self-defence, which is forbidden neither by law nor gospel; and, stooping down, I took up the towel from the corner, and, spreading it upon the counter, bade him look, and see if he knew an auld acquaintance!

Cursecowl, to be such a dragoon, had some rational points in his character; so, seeing that he lent ear to me with a smirk on his rough red face, I went on:

“Take my advice as a friend, and make the best of your way home, killing-coat and all; for the most perfect will sometimes fall into an innocent mistake, and, at any rate, it cannot be helped now. But if ye show any symptom of obstripulosity, I’ll find myself under the necessity of publishing you abroad to the world for what you are, and show about that head in the towel for a wonder to broad Scotland, in a manner that will make customers flee from your booth, as if it was infected with the seven plagues of Egypt.”

At sight of the goat’s head, Cursecowl clapped his hand on his thigh two or three times, and could scarcely muster good manners enough to keep himself from bursting out a-laughing.

“Ye seem to have found a fiddle, friend,” said I; “but give me leave to tell you, that ye’ll may be find it liker a hanging-match than a musical matter. Are you not aware that I could hand you over to the sheriff, on two special indictments? In the first place, for an action of assault and batterification, in cuffing me, an elder of our kirk, with a sticked killing-coat, in my own shop; and, in the second place, as a swindler, imposing on his Majesty’s loyal subjects, taking the coin of the realm on false pretences, and palming off goat’s flesh upon Christians, as if they were perfect Pagans.”

Heathen though Cursecowl was, this oration alarmed him in a jiffie, soon showing him, in a couple of hurries, that it was necessary for him to be our humble servant; so he said, still keeping the smirk on his face—

“Keh, keh, it’s not worth making a noise about after all. Gie me the jacket, Mansie, my man, and it’ll maybe serve my nephew, young Killim, who is as lingit in the waist as a wasp. Let us take a shake of your paw over the counter, and be friends. Bye-ganes should be bye-ganes.”

Never let it be said that Mansie Wauch, though one of the king’s volunteers, ever thrust aside the olive branch of peace; so, ill-used though I had been, to say nothing of James Batter, who had got his pipe smashed to crunches, and one of the eyes of his spectacles knocked out, I gave him my fist frankly.

James Batter’s birse had been so fiercely put up, and no wonder, that it was not so easily sleeked down; so, for a while, he looked unco glum, till Cursecowl insisted that our meeting should not be a dry one; nor would he hear a single word on me and James Batter not accepting his treat of a mutchkin of Kilbagie.

I did not think James would have been so doure and refractory, funking and flinging like old Jeroboam; but at last, with the persuasion of the treat, he came to, and, sleeking down his front hair, we all three took a step down to the far end of the close, at the back street, where Widow Thamson kept the sign of ‘The Tankard and the Tappit Hen;’ Cursecowl, when we got ourselves seated, ordering in the spirits with a loud rap on the table with his knuckles, and a whistle on the landlady through his foreteeth, that made the roof ring. A bottle of beer was also brought; so, after drinking one another’s healths round, with a tasting out of the dram glass, Cursecowl swashed the rest of the raw creature into the tankard, saying—

“Now take your will o’t; there’s drink fit for a king; that’s real ‘Pap-in.’”

He was an awful body, Cursecowl, and had a power of queer stories, which, weel-a-wat, did not lose in the telling. James Batter, beginning to brighten up, hodged and leuch like a nine-year-old; and I freely confess, for another, that I was so diverted, that, I daresay, had it not been for his fearsome oaths, which made our very hair stand on end, and were enough to open the stone-wall, we would have both sate from that time to this.

We got the whole story of the Willie-goat, out and out, it seeming to be with Cursecowl a prime matter of diversion, especially that part of it relating to the head, by which he had won a crown-piece from Deacon Paunch, who wagered that the wife and me would eat it, without ever finding out our mistake. But, aha, lad!

The long and the short of the matter was this. The Willie-goat had, for eighteen years, belonged to a dragoon marching regiment, and, in its better days, had seen a power of service abroad; till, being now old and infirm, it had fallen off one of the baggage-carts, and got its leg broken on the road to Piershill, where it was sold to Cursecowl, by a corporal, for half-a-crown and a dram. The four quarters he had managed to sell for mutton, like lightning, this one buying a jigget, that one a back ribs, and so on. However, he had to weather a gey brisk gale in making his point good. One woman remarked that it had an unearthly, rank smell; to which he said, “No, no—ye do not ken your blessings, friend; that’s the smell of venison, for the beast was brought up along with the deers in the Duke’s parks.” And to another wife, that, after smell-smelling at it, thought it was a wee humphed, he replied, “Faith, that’s all the thanks folks get for letting their sheep crop heather among the Cheviot hills,” and such-like lies. But as for the head, that had been the doure business. Six times had it been sold and away, and six times had it been brought back again. One bairn said that her “mother didna like a sheep’s-head with horns like these,” and wanted it changed for another one. A second one said, that “it had tup’s een, and her father liked wether mutton.” A third customer found mortal fault with the colours, which, she said, “were not canny, or in the course of nature.” What the fourth one said, and the fifth one took leave to observe, I have stupidly forgotten, though, I am sure, I heard both; but I mind one remarked, quite off-hand, as she sought back her money, that “unless sheep could do without beards, like their neighbours, she would keep the pot boiling with a piece beef, in the meantime.” After all this—would any mortal man believe it?—Deacon Paunch, the greasy Daniel Lambert that he is, had taken the wager, as I before took opportunity to remark, that our family would swallow the bait! But, aha, he was off his eggs there!

James and me were so tickled with Cursecowl’s wild, outrageous, off-hand, humoursome way of telling his crack, that, though sore with neighering, none of the two of us ever thought of rising; Cursecowl chapping in first one stoup, and then another, and birling the tankard round the table, as if we had been drinking dub-water. I daresay I would never have got away, had I not slipped out behind Lucky Thamson’s back—for she was a broad fat body, with a round-eared mutch, and a full-plaited check apron—when she was drawing the sixth bottle of small beer, with her corkscrew between her knees; Cursecowl lecturing away, at the dividual moment, like a Glasgow professor, to James Batter, whose een were gathering straws, on a pliskie he had once, in the course of trade, played on a conceited body of a French sick-nurse, by selling her a lump of fat pork to make beef-tea of to her mistress, who was dwining in the blue Beelzebubs.

Ohone, and woe’s me, for old Father Adam and the fall of man! Poor, sober, good, honest James Batter was not, by a thousand miles, a match for such company. Everything, however, has its moral, and the truth will out. When Nanse and me were sitting at our breakfast next morning, we heard from Benjie, who had been early up fishing for eels at the water-side, that the whole town talk was concerning the misfortunate James Batter, who had been carried home, totally incapable, far in the night, by Cursecowl and an Irish labourer—that sleeped in Widow Thamson’s garret—on a hand-barrow, borrowed from Maister Wiggie’s servant-lass, Jenny Jessamine.—_Mansie Wauch._

_Commercial Printing Company, Edinburgh._

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 4. Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.