Chapter 8

"They are off, by G----d!" exclaimed Douglas; "the fox has broken cover--we must continue the chase; and Rob," added he, to one who rode near him, "blaw that bugle till it crack again. When you start the old fox, I should like mightily to be at the death. But--so ho!--what have we here?--why, here are bottles and a cup, by Jove! These friends of the Covenant are no enemies, I perceive, to good cheer"--putting the bottle to his mouth, and making a long pull--"by the living Jingo! most excellent wine. Here, Rob," emptying what remained into the silver goblet or cup, "here, line your weasan with a drop of the red, and then for the red heart's blood of these psalm-singing, cup-kissing gentry. So ho--so ho!--hilloa--one and all--the fox is under cover still," (advancing towards the stone chair,) "and we thought him afield, too. Stand forth, old Canticles, 5 and 8th, and let us see whether you have got one or five bottles under your belt. What! you won't, or you can't stand! Grunt again!--you are made of stone, are you?--why, then, we will try your qualities with a little burnt powder and lead. Gentlemen of the horse-brigade, do you alight, and be d----d to you, and, just by way of experiment, rattle me half-a-dozen bullets in the face of that there image of stone, which looks so mighty like the parson of Closeburn that one might easily mistake the one for the other."

The men had alighted with their holster pistols, and had arranged themselves, as directed, in the front of the stone chair, and with a full view of the figure which occupied the seat, when, at this very critical juncture, a band of upwards of fifty horses, with panniers on their backs, came up at a smart trot.

"Stop your hellish speed!" said a voice from the front of the band; "or, by this broadsword, and these long six-footers, you are all dead men, ere you can say, Present, fire!" Instantly, Douglas saw and comprehended his position--"To horse!" was his short exhortation, and, in an instant, his five followers and himself had cleared the brow of the glen, and were out of sight at full speed. "Shed not their blood!--shed not their blood!" continued to exclaim a well-known voice amongst the band of smugglers--for such the reader may have guessed they were. It was the voice of Walter Gibson, well known to many of the smugglers; for again and again they had supplied Auchincairn with Hollands and Nantz. "Shed not one drop of blood, I say; but leave them to Him who has said, 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it;'--He will find His own time of revenging the death of my poor murdered bairn, whom they drowned in the King's Moss, owre by there. But, dear me, Mr Lawson, are ye dead or living, that ye tak nae tent o' what's going on?" In fact, Mr Lawson, having given himself up as lost, had committed himself, with shut eyes, so intently to prayer, that he had but a very confused notion of what had happened.

"The Lord's will be done!" he exclaimed at last; "and is this you, Walter Gibson?--fearful! fearful!--are these the Philistines around you?--and are you and I to travel, hand in hand, into Immanuel's land?--or, but do my poor eyes deceive me, and are these only our good friends, the fair traders, come to the rescue, under God and his mercy, in the time of our need?"

"Indeed," responded a known voice--that, namely, at whose bidding the work of death had been staid--"indeed, Mr Lawson, we are friends and not foes; and, whilst our cattle, which are a little blawn, with the haste into which they were hurried by old Walter here--until the beasts bite, I say, and eat their corn, we will e'en thank God, and take a little whet of the creature. You know, such comforts are not forbidden in the laws of Moses, or, indeed, in any laws but those of this persecuted and oppressed land."

So saying, he disengaged from a hamper a flagon of Nantz, and was about to make use of the Sacramental cup, which Douglas had dropped, to convey it around, when his arm was arrested by the still strong hand of Walter.

"For the sake of God and his church--of Him who shed his blood for poor sinners--profane not, I beseech you, the consecrated, the hallowed vessel which I have so lately held in these vile hands as the emblem of my purification through the blood of sprinkling--profane not, I say, that vessel which, when all worldly goods were forfeited and relinquished as things of no value, our worthy pastor has borne along with him--being the gift of his parishioners--to the mountain and the glen--to the desert and the wilderness!"

There needed no further admonition; the cup was deposited in the hands of its owner, and the whole _posse comitatus_ spread themselves out on the grass--for, though all around was heath, this little spot was green and lovely--and, by applying the vessel directly to their lips, each one took a draught so long and hearty that the captain or leader had again and again to replenish the measure. Nor were Lawson and old Walter Gibson behind in this work of refreshment. Many a day they had laid themselves down to rest in the damp and cold cave, with little of food and with nothing to cheer and support them but a mouthful, from time to time, of the _Solway waters_--viz., _smuggled brandy_. We are all the children, to a great amount, of circumstances; and the very men who, but a little ago, were engaged in the most solemn act of religion, and counted themselves as at the point of death--these very men were now so much cheered, and even exhilarated, by the reviving cordial, that they forgot, for the time, their dangers and their privations, and were not displeased to hear the smugglers sing the old song, "We are merry men all," when a figure approached, out of breath, exclaiming--

"The gaugers! the gaugers!--the excisemen from Dumfries!"

In an instant the whole troop stood to arms. They had been well-disciplined; and the horses, along with the parson and Walter, were stowed away, as they called it, behind. They spoke not; but there was the click of gunlocks, and a powerful _recover_, on the ground, of heavy muskets, with barrels fully six feet long, which had been used by their forefathers in the times of the first Charles and the civil commotion. The enemy came up at the gallop; but they had plainly miscalculated the forces of their opponents--_they_ were only about fifteen strong; so, wheeling suddenly round, they took their departure with as much dispatch as they had advanced.

"We must off instantly!" exclaimed the leader of this trading band. "We must gain the pass of Enterkin ere day-dawn; for these good neighbours will make common cause with the King's troops, whenever they meet them, and there will be bloody work, I trow, ere these kegs and good steeds change masters."

So saying, the march immediately proceeded up Gavin Muir, and the minister and Walter took possession of their usual retreat--the Cairny Cave I have so often referred to.

Douglas was not thus, by accident, to be foiled in his object; for having, in the course of a few days, obtained additional forces from Galloway, he returned to the search in Gavin Muir, where he had, again and again, been told meetings still continued to be held, and some caves of concealment existed. Old Lauderdale in council had one day said--"Why, run down the devils, like the natives of Jamaica, with blood-hounds." And the hint was not lost on bloody Clavers--he had actually a pair of hounds of this description with him in Galloway at this time; and, at his earnest request, Douglas was favoured with one of them. Down, therefore, this monster came upon Gavin Muir, not to shoot blackcocks or muirfowl, in which it abounded, but to track, and start and pistol, if necessary, poor, shivering, half-starved human beings, who had dared to think the laws of their God more binding than the empire and despotism of sinful men. The game was a merry one, and it was played by "merry men all:" forward went the hound through muirs and mosses; onward came the troop, hallooing and encouraging the animal in pursuit of its horrid instincts. As they passed the moss-hole in which the poor grand-daughter of Walter had been suffocated, the jest, and the oath, and the merriment were at their utmost.

"Had we but a slice of the young pup," said one, "to flesh our hound with, he would soon scent out the old one--they are kindred blood, you know. But what do I see?--old Bloody, is it, on the top of the cairn yonder?--and scooping, nosing, and giving tongue most determinedly. By the holy poker!--and that's a sanctified oath--I will on and see what's agoing here." Thus saying, he put spurs to his horse, and, waving his sword round his head, "Here goes for old Watty!--and may the devil burn me if I do not unearth the fox at last!" Onwards they all advanced at the gallop; but Jack Johnston was greatly in front, and had dashed his horse half-way up the steep cairn, when, in an instant, horse and man rushed down, and immediately disappeared.

"Why," said Douglas, "what has become of Jack?--has old Sooty smelt him, and sent for him, on a short warning, to help in roasting Covenanters?--or have the fairies, those fair dames of the green knowe and the grey cairn, seen and admired his proportions, and made a young 'Tam Lean' of poor Jack Johnston? Let us on and see."

And see to be sure they did; for there was Jack, lying in the last agonies of death, under his horse, which itself was lamed and lying with feet uppermost. The horrid hound was lapping, with a growl, the blood which oozed from the nose and lips of the dying man, and with a dreadful curse, the terrible being expired, just as the party came within view. He had tumbled headlong, owing to the pressure from the horse's feet, through the slight rafter-work beneath, and had pitched head-foremost against a stone seat, in consequence of which his skull was fractured, and his immediate death ensued. Douglas looked like one bewildered, he would scarcely credit his eyes; but his companion in arms did the needful; and Jack Johnston's body was removed, his horse shot through the brain, and the whole band returned, drooping and crestfallen, to Drumlanrig. Throwing his sword down on the hall table when he arrived, he was heard to say, looking wildly and fearfully all the while, "The hand of God is in this thing, and I knew it not." It is a curious fact, but one of which my informant had no doubt, that this very Douglas became, after this, quite an altered man. Mr Lawson, who lived some years after his death, attended upon him in his last illness. "God only knows the heart," would he say; "but, to all _outward_ appearance, William Douglas was a cleansed and a sanctified vessel: the mercy of God is infinite--it even extended to the thief on the cross."

XIII.--PORTER'S HOLE.

In the west corner of the churchyard of Dalgarno--now a section of the parish of Closeburn--there is a small, but neat headstone, with two figures joining hands, as if in the attitude of marrying. Beneath is written, and still legible--"John Porter and Augnas Milligan. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided." There is neither date nor narrative; but, as this part of the churchyard has not been used as a burial-ground since the union of the parishes, in the reign of Charles the Second, the date must have been some time betwixt 1660 and 1684. This beautiful and sequestered churchyard, all silent and cheerless as it is, lies upon the banks of the Nith, immediately upon its union with the ocean; and near to the most famous salmon-fishing pool in the whole river, called Porter's Hole. Whilst yet a boy, and attending Closeburn school, our attention was, one sunny afternoon, (when the trouts were unwilling to visit the dry land,) drawn to the little stone in the corner, of which we have just made mention, and recollecting, at the same time, that Porter was the name of the pool, as well as of the person buried, we began to speculate upon the possibility of there being some connection betwixt the two circumstances--the name of the individual, and the well-known designation of the blackest and deepest pool in the Closeburn part of the river. Near to this solitary restingplace of the ashes of our forefathers--the Harknesses, the Gibsons, and the Watsons of Closeburn from time immemorial--there stood, at that time, an old cottage, straw or rather _grass_-thatched, (for it was covered with green chicken-weed,) where dwelt, in single solitude, Janet M'Guffoch--whether any relation of the celebrated individual of that name mentioned by Sir Walter Scott, we know not--but there dwelt Janet, a discontented, old waspish body of one hundred years of age, according to general belief; and, being accompanied by a black cat and a broom besom, was marked by us _boys_ as a decided witch. We never had any doubt about it, and the thing was confirmed by the Laird of Closeburn's gamekeeper, who swore that he had often hunted hares to Janet's door; but never could start them again. Under all these circumstances, it required no common impulse to induce us to enter the den of this emissary of Satan; but our curiosity was excited by the similarity of the names "Porter's Grave" and "Porter's Hole," (as the pool was familiarly named,) and we at length mustered faith, and strength, and courage to thrust ourselves past a bundle of withered twigs, which served Janet as a door in summer, and as a door-protector in the blasts of winter. Janet was as usual at her wheel, and crooning some old Covenanting ditty, about--

"Oh, gin Lag were dead and streekit, An' that his ha' wi' mools was theekit!"

when, by means of a six-inch-square skylight, our physiognomy became visible to Janet.

"And what art thou, that's creeping into an old body's dark den, and leaving ahint thee the guid sunshine?"

We responded by mentioning our name.

"Ay, ay," said Janet, "come away and sit thee down on the creepy there, beside the heidstane[B]--thou art freely welcome, for thou art o' the seed o' the faithful, the precious salt of the earth: and the blessing of the God of the Covenant will rest upon its children, even to the third and the fourth generation!" Thus welcomed, we took our position as requested, eyeing all the while the large black cat with a somewhat suspicious regard.

"The beast winna stir thee," said Janet, "it has, like its auld mistress, mair regard for the martyr's seed."

Having hereupon taken advantage of a pause in Janet's discourse, we at once stated the subject of our inquiry.

"Ay, ay," said Janet; "and atweel there is a connection betwixt that bonny angel stane, and the pool ca'ed Porter's Hole. Ay, is there; an an awfu' connection it is. But what comes thou here for to torment an auld body like me, wi' greeting and groaning at my time o' life? Gae awa, gae awa--I canna thole the very thochts o' the story whilk thou ettles to ken."

This only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language about Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the old crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can mind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following words:--

"Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the auld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit; and there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag, in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno--a sister's son o' the auld Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same sports; and dabbled in the same river--the bloody, bloody Nith!--from infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"---- Here Janet sorted her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn--no _this_ nicht, like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest. On he went--for we a' witnessed what he did--on he went, steady, firm, an' unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet; but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an' we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn, an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the whirl--she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they were found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!--what brocht ye here the day?"

Janet was found, next morning, dead in her bed--the exertion and excitement had killed her.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] _Vide_ Jameson.

THE RECLUSE.

The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland, are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice positions--surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature. One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle, isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by its singular beauty.

About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year, the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter, with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit; nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.

Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land, and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily pay. But this was all; there was no surplus--nothing to spare; and the less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more elegant accomplishments in female education.

In character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt, plain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He was, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of education, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at any rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind.

Such, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period to which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788.

It was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September of that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a young man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably dressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his arm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for admittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the person whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet. It was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He was thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet, the night was intensely cold.

"Can you, my good friend," said the stranger, in a tone and manner that bespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call him a gentleman--"Can you give me quarters for a night?" he said, on being confronted by Mr Adair. "I am an entire stranger in this part of the country, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have troubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation."

"A nicht's quarters, frien," replied Adair. "Oh, surely, ye'll get that, an' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like a half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the kitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't."