The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 16

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Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 16

Compiler: John Mackay Wilson

Editor: Alexander Leighton

Release date: October 27, 2010 [eBook #34153]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND, VOLUME 16 ***

WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.

WITH A GLOSSARY.

REVISED BY

ALEXANDER LEIGHTON

ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

VOL. XVI.

LONDON:

WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE

AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.

1885.

CONTENTS.

The Leveller, (John Mackay Wilson)

The Old Chronicler's Tales, (Alexander Leighton)
The Death of James III.

Gleanings of the Covenant. (Professor Thomas Gillespie)
V.—The Rescue at Enterkin
VI.—The Fatal Mistake
VII.—Bonny Mary Gibson
VIII.—The Eskdalemuir Story
IX.—The Douglas Tragedy

The Countess of Cassilis, (Alexander Campbell)

The Happy Conclusion, (Anon.)

Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven: A Tale of Love and Bankruptcy, (Alexander Leighton)

The Man-of-war's Man, (John Howell)

The Angler's Tale, (Oliver Richardson)

Perseverance; or, the Autobiography of Roderic Gray, (John Mackay Wilson)

The Irish Reaper, (John Mackay Wilson)

Grace Cameron, (Alexander Campbell)

The Mysterious Disappearance, (Anon.)

WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE LEVELLER.

How far the term, "A Leveller," is provincial, or confined to the Borders, I am not certain; for before I had left them, to become as a pilgrim on the earth, the phrase had fallen into disuse, and the events, or rather the cause which brought it into existence, had passed away. But, twenty-five or even twenty years ago, in these parts, there was no epithet more familiar to the lips of every schoolboy than that of a Leveller. The juvenile lovers of mirth and mischief displayed their loyalty, by smeeking the houses or burning the effigies of the Levellers; and he was a good subject and a perfect gentleman, who, out of his liberality and patriotism, contributed a shilling to purchase powder to make the head of the effigy go off in a rocket, and its fingers start away in squibs. Levellers were persecuted by the young, and suspected by the old. Every town and village in the kingdom had its coterie of Levellers. They did not congregate together; for, as being suspected individuals, their so doing would have been attended with danger; but there was a sympathy and a sort of brotherhood amongst those in the same place, and they met in twos and threes, at the corners of the streets, in the fields, or the workshop, and not unfrequently at the operating rooms of the barber, as though there had been a secret understanding in the growth of their beards. Some of them were generally seen waiting the arrival of the mail, and running across the street, or the highway, as the case might be, eagerly inquiring of the guard—"What news?" But if, on the approach of the vehicle, they perceived it decorated with branches, or a flag displayed from it, away turned the Levellers from the unwelcome symbols of national rejoicing, and condoled one with another in their own places of retirement. They were seldom or never found amongst rosy-faced country gentlemen, who walked in the midst of their fellow-mortals as if measuring their acres. Occasionally they might be found amongst tradesmen; but they were most frequently met with at the loom, or amongst those who had learned the art and mystery of a cordwainer. The Leveller, however, was generally a peaceful and a moral man, and always a man of much reading and extensive information. Many looked upon the Leveller as the enemy of his country, and as wishing the destruction of its institutions: I always regarded them with a more favourable eye. Most of them I have met with were sincerely attached to liberty, though they frequently took strange methods of showing it. They were opposed to the war with France, and they were enthusiastic admirers, almost worshippers, of Napoleon and his glories. They could describe the scene of all his victories—they could repeat his speeches and his bulletins by heart. But the old Jacobins of the last century, the Levellers of the beginning of this, are a race rapidly becoming extinct.

I shall give the history of one of them, who was called James Nicholson, and who resided in the village of T——. James was by trade a weaver—a walking history of the wars, and altogether one of the most remarkable men I ever met with. He had an impressive and ready utterance; few could stand before him in an argument, and of him it might have been truly said—

"In reasoning, too, the parson own'd his skill,
And, though defeated, he could argue still."

He possessed also a bold imagination and a masculine understanding, and both had been improved by extensive reading. With such qualifications, it is not a matter of wonder that he was looked up to as the oracle, the head, or king, of the Levellers in T—— (if, indeed, they admitted the idea of a king). For miles around, he was familiarly known by the designation of Jemmy the Leveller; for though there were others of the name of James who held similar sentiments in the village and neighbourhood, he was Jemmy par excellence. But, in order that the reader may have a correct representation of James before him, I shall describe it as I saw him, about five-and-twenty years ago. He then appeared a man approaching to sixty years of age. His shoulders were rather bent, his height about five feet eleven, and he walked with his eyes fixed upon the ground. His arms were generally crossed upon his breast, and he stalked with a long and slow step, like a shepherd toiling up a hill. His forehead was one that Spurzheim would have travelled a hundred miles to finger—it was both broad and lofty; his eyebrows were thick, of a deep brown colour, and met together; his eyes were large, and of a dark greyish hue; his nose appertained to the Roman; his mouth was rather large, and his hair was mixed with grey. His figure was spare and thin. He wore a very low-crowned and a very broad-brimmed hat, a short brown coat, a dark striped waistcoat, with a double breast, corduroy breeches, which buckled at the knees, coarse blue stockings, and strong shoes, or rather brogues, neither of which articles had been new for at least three years; and around his body he wore a coarse half-bleached apron, which was stained with blue, and hung loose before him. Such was James Nicholson as he first appeared to me. For more than forty years he had remained in a state of single blessedness; but whether this arose from his heart having continued insensible to the influence of woman's charms—from his never having met with one whom he thought he could safely take "for better, for worse"—or whether it arose from the maidens being afraid to risk their future happiness, by uniting themselves with such a strange and dangerous character as Jemmy the Jacobin, I cannot tell. It is certain, however, that he became convinced that a bachelor's life was at best a dowie one; and there was another consideration that had considerable weight with him. He had nobody to "fill his pirns," or "give in his webs;" but he had to hire and pay people to do these things, and this made a great drawback on his earnings, particularly when the price of weaving became low. James therefore resolved to do as his father had done before him, and to take unto himself a wife. He cast his eyes abroad, and they rested on a decent spinster, who was beginning to be what is called a "stayed lass"—that is, very near approaching to the years when the phrase, a "stayed lass," is about to be exchanged for that of an old maid. In a word, the object of his choice was but a very few years younger than himself. Her name was Peggy Purves, and it is possible she was inclined to adopt the language of the song, and say—

"O mother, onybody!"

for when James made his proposal, she smirked and blushed—said she "didna ken what to say till't"—took the corners of her apron in her fingers—hung her head—smiled well pleased, and added, she "would see!" but within three months became the wife of Jemmy the Leveller.

James became the father of two children, a son and daughter; and we may here notice a circumstance attending the baptism of the son. About three weeks after the birth of the child, his mother began to inquire—

"What shall we ca' him, James? Do ye think we should ca' him Alexander, after your faither and mine?"

"Haud yer tongue, woman," replied James, somewhat testily. "Goodness me! where's the use in everlastingly yatter-yattering about what I will ca' him? The bairn shall hae a name—a name that will be like a deed o' virtue and greatness engraven on his memory as often as he hears it."

"Oh, James, James!" returned Peggy, "ye're the strangest and perversest man that ever I met wi' in my born days. I'm sure ye'll ne'er think o' giein ony o' yer heathenish Jacobin names to my bairn!"

"Just content yersel, Peggy," replied he—"just rest contented, if ye please. I'll gie the bairn a name that neither you nor him will ever hae cause to be ashamed o'."

Now, James was a rigid Dissenter, and caused the child to be taken to the meeting-house; and he stood up with it in his arms, in the midst of the congregation, that his infant might publicly receive baptism.

The minister inquired, in a low voice, "What is the child's name?"

His neighbours were anxious to hear the answer; and, in his deep, sonorous tones, he replied aloud—

"George Washington!"

There was a sort of buzz and a movement throughout the congregation, and the minister himself looked surprised.

When her daughter was born, the choice of the name was left to Peggy, and she called her Catherine, in remembrance of her mother.

Shortly after the birth of his children, the French Revolution began to lour in the political horizon, and James Nicholson, the weaver, with a fevered anxiety, watched its progress.

"It is a bursting forth o' the first seed o' the tree o' liberty, which the Americans planted, and George Washington reared," cried James, with enthusiasm; "the seeds o' that tree will spread owre the earth, as if scattered by the winds o' heaven—they will cover it as the waters do the sea—they will take root—they will spring up in every land: beneath the burning sun o' the West Indies, on the frozen deserts o' Siberia, the slave and the exile will rejoice beneath the shadow o' its branches, and their hearts be gladdened by its fruits."

"Ay, man, James, that's noble!" exclaimed some brother Leveller, who retailed the sayings of the weaver at second hand. "Losh! if ye haena a headpiece that wad astonish a privy council!"

But, when the storm burst, and the sea of blood gushed forth like a deluge, when the innocent and the guilty were butchered together, James was staggered, his eyes became heavy, and his countenance fell. At length he consoled his companions, saying—

"Weel, it's a pity—it's a great pity—it is bringing disgrace and guilt upon a glorious cause. But knives shouldna be put into the hands o' bairns till they ken how to use them. If the sun were to rise in a flash o' unclouded glory and dazzling brightness in a moment, succeeding the heavy darkness o' midnight, it wad be nae wonder if, for a time, we groped more blindly than we did in the dark. Or, if a blind man had his sight restored in a moment, and were set into the street, he would strike upon every object he met more readily than he did when he was blind; for he had neither acquired the use o' his eyes nor the idea o' distance. So is it wi' our neighbours in France: an instrument has been put into their hands before they ken how to use it—the sun o' liberty has burst upon them in an instant, without an intermediate dawn. They groaned under the tyranny o' blindness; but they hae acquired the power o' sight without being instructed in its use. But hae patience a little—the storm will gie place to the sunshine, the troubled waters will subside into a calm, and liberty will fling her garment o' knowledge and mercy owre her now uninstructed worshippers."

"Weel! that's grand, James!—that's really famous!" said one of the coterie of Levellers to whom it was delivered; "odd! ye beat a'thing—ye're a match for Wheatbread himsel."

"James," said another, "without meaning to flatter ye, if Billy Pitt had ye to gie him a dressing, I believe he wad offer ye a place the very next day, just to keep yer tongue quiet."

James was one of those who denounced, with all the vehemence and indignation of which he was capable, Britain's engaging in a war with France. He raised up his voice against it. He pronounced it to be an unjust and an impious attempt to support oppression, and to stifle freedom in its cradle.

"But in that freedom they will find a Hercules," cried he, "which, in its very cradle, will grip tyranny by the throat, and a' the kings in Europe winna be able to slacken its grasp."

When the star of Napoleon began to rise, and broke forth with a lustre which dazzled the eyes of a wondering world, the Levellers of Britain, like the Republicans of France, lost sight of their love of liberty, in their admiration of the military glories and rapid triumphs of the hero. James Nicholson was one of those who became blinded with the fame, the splendid success, and the daring genius of the young Corsican. Napoleon became his idol. His deeds, his capacity, his fame, were his daily theme. They became the favourite subject of every Leveller. They did not see in him one who laughed at liberty, and who made it his plaything, who regarded life as stubble, whose ambition circled the globe, and who was the enemy of Britain: they saw in him only a hero, who had burst from obscurity as a meteor from the darkness of night—whose glory had obscured the pomp of princes, and his word consumed their power.

The threatened invasion, and the false alarm, put the Leveller's admiration of Napoleon, and his love of his native land, to a severe trial; but we rejoice to say, for the sake of James Nicholson, that the latter triumphed, and he accompanied a party of volunteers ten miles along the coast, and remained an entire night, and the greater part of a day, under arms, and even he was then ready to say—

"Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave,
We'll gie them a welcome, we'll gie them a grave."

But, as the apprehension of the invasion passed away, his admiration of Napoleon's triumphs, and his reverence for what he termed his stupendous genius, burned with redoubled force.

"Princes are as grasshoppers before him," said James; "nations are as spiders' webs. The Alps became as a highway before his spirit—he looked upon Italy, and the land was conquered."

I might describe to you the exultation and the rejoicings of James and his brethren, when they heard of the victories of Marengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz; and how, in their little parties of two and three, they walked a mile farther together in the fields or by the sides of the Tweed, or peradventure indulged in an extra pint with one another, though most of them were temperate men: or, I might describe to you how, upon such occasions, they would ask eagerly, "But what is James saying to it?" I, however, shall dwell only upon his conduct when he heard of the battle of Jena. He was standing with a brother Leveller at a corner of the village when the mail arrived which conveyed the important tidings. I think I see him now, as he appeared at that moment. Both were in expectation of momentous information—they ran to the side of the coach together. "What news?—what news?" they inquired of the guard at once. He stooped down, as they ran by the side of the coach, and informed them. The eyes of James glowed with delight—his nostrils were dilated.

"Oh, the great, the glorious man!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands in ecstasy, and turning away from the coach; "the matchless!—the wonderful!—the great Napoleon! There is none like him—there never was—he is a sun among the stars—they cannot twinkle in his presence."

He and his friends received a weekly paper amongst them; it was the day on which it arrived. They followed the coach to the post-office to receive it; and I need not tell you with what eagerness the contents of that paper were read. James was the reader; and after he had read an account of the battle, he gave his readers a dissertation upon it.

He laid his head upon his pillow, with his thoughts filled with Napoleon and the battle of Jena; and when, on the following morning, he met two or three of his companions at the corner of the village, where they were wont to assemble for ten minutes after breakfast, to discuss the affairs of Europe, James, with a look of even more than his usual importance and sagacity, thus began:—

"I hae dreamed a marvellous dream. I saw the battle of Jena—I beheld the Prussians fly with dismay before the voice of the conqueror. Then did I see the great man, arrayed in his robes of victory, bearing the sword of power in his hand, ascend a throne of gold and of ivory. Over the throne was a gorgeous canopy of purple, and diamonds bespangled the tapestry as a firmament. The crowns of Europe lay before him, and kings, and princes, and nobles, kneeled at his feet. At his nod he made kings and exalted nations. Armies fled and advanced at the moving of his finger—they were machines in his hand. The spirits of Alexander and of Cæsar—all the heroes of antiquity—gazed in wonder upon his throne; each was surrounded by the halo of his victories and the fame of ages; but their haloes became dim before the flash of his sword of power, and the embodiment of their spirits became as a pale mist before the majesty of his eyes and the magnificence of his triumphs. The nations of the earth were also gathered around the throne, and, as with one voice, in the same language, and at the same moment, they waved their hands, and cried, as peals of thunder mingle wi' each other, "Long live the great emperor!" But, while my soul started within me at the mighty shout, and my eyes gazed with wonder and astonishment on the glory and the power of the great man, darkness fell upon the throne, troubled waters dashed around it, and the vision of night and vastness, the emperor, the kneeling kings, the armies, and the people, were encompassed in the dark waves—swallowed as though they had not been; and, with the cold perspiration standing on my forehead, I awoke, and found that I had dreamed."[1]

"It is a singular dream," said one.

"Sleeping or waking, James is the same man," said another, "aye out o' the common run. You and me wad hae sleepit a twelvemonth before we had dreamed the like o' that."

But one circumstance arose which troubled James much, and which all his admiration, yea, all his worship of Napoleon could not wholly overcome. James, as we have hinted, was a rigid Presbyterian, and the idea of a man putting away his wife he could not forgive. When, therefore, Napoleon divorced the gentle Josephine, and took the daughter of Austria to his bed—

"He hath done wrong," said James; "he has erred grievously. He has been an instrument in humbling the pope, the instrument foretold in the Revelation; and he has been the glorious means o' levelling and destroying the Inquisition—but this sin o' putting away his wife, and pretending to marry another, casts a blot upon a' his glories; and I fear that humiliation, as a punishment, will follow the foul sin. Yet, after a', as a man, he was subject to temptation; and, as being no common man, we maunna judge his conduct by common rules."

"Really, James," said the individual he addressed, "wi' a' my admiration o' the great man,[2] and my respect for you, I'm no just clear upon your last remark—when the Scriptures forbade a man to put away his wife, there was nae exception made for king or emperors."

"True," said James—"but——"

James never finished his "but." His conscience told him that his idol had sinned; and when the disastrous campaign to Russia shortly after followed, he imagined that he beheld in its terrible calamities the punishment he had predicted. The sun of Napoleon had reached its meridian, the fires of Moscow raised a cloud before it, behind which it hastened to its setting. In the events of that memorable invasion and retreat, James Nicholson took an eager and mournful interest. Thoughts of it haunted him in his sleep; and he would dream of Russian deserts which presented to the eye an unbounded waste of snow; or start, exclaiming, "The Cossacks!—the Cossacks!" His temper, too, became irritable, and his family found it hard to bear with it.

This, however, was not the only cause which increased the irritability, and provoked the indignation, of James the Leveller; for, as the glory of Napoleon began to wane, and the arms of the British achieved new victories in the Peninsula, he and his brethren in principle became the objects of almost nightly persecution. Never did the mail arrive, bearing tidings of the success of the British or their allies, but as surely was a figure, intended to represent one or other of the Levellers, paraded through the village, and burned before the door of the offender, amidst the shouts, the groans, and laughter, of some two or three hundred boys and young men. The reader may be surprised to hear that one of the principal leaders of these young and mischief-loving loyalists was no other than George Washington, the only son of our friend, James Nicholson. To turn him from conduct, and the manifestation of a principle, so unworthy of his name, James spared neither admonition, reproof, nor the rod of correction. But George was now too old for his father to apply the latter, and his advice and reproof in this matter was like throwing water in the sea. The namesake of the great President never took a part in such exhibitions of his father, and in holding his principles up to execration and contempt; on the contrary, he did all in his power to prevent them, and repeatedly did he prevent them—but he entered, with his whole heart, into every proposal to make a mock spectacle of others. The young tormentors knew little or nothing of the principles of the men they delighted to persecute—it was enough for them to know that they were Levellers, that they wished the French to win; and although James Nicholson was known to be, as I have already said, the very king and oracle of the levelling party in the neighbourhood, yet, for his son's sake, he frequently escaped the persecution intended for him, and it was visited upon the heads of more insignificant characters.

One evening, James beheld his son heading the noisy band in a crusade against the peace of a particular friend; moreover, George bore a long pole over his shoulder, to the top of which an intended resemblance of his father's friend was attached. James further saw his hopeful son and the crowd reach his friend's house, he beheld him scale the walls (which were but a single storey in height), he saw him stand upon the roof—the pole, with the effigy attached to it, was again handed to him, and, amidst the shouts of his companions, he put the pole down the chimney, leaving the figure as a smoke-doctor on its top.

James could endure no more. "Oh, the villain!—the scoundrel!" he cried—"the—the——" But he could add no more, from excess of indignation. He rushed along the street—he dashed through the crowd—he grasped his son by the throat, at the moment of his springing from the roof. He shook with rage. He struck him violently. He raised his feet and kicked him.

"What is a' this for?" said George, sullenly, while he suffered even more from shame than his father's violence.

"What is it for!" cried James, half choked with passion; "ye rascal!—ye disgrace!—ye profligate!—how can ye ask what is it for?" and he struck him again.

"Faither," said George, more sullenly than before, "I wad advise ye to keep yer hands to yersel—at least on the street and before folk."

"Awa wi' ye! ye reprobate!" exclaimed the old man, "and never enter my door again—never while ye breathe—ye thankless——"

"Be it sae," said George.

James returned to his house, in sorrow and in anger. He was out of humour with everything. He found fault with his daughter—he spoke angrily to his wife. Chairs, stools, tables, and crockery, he kicked to the right and left. He flung his supper behind the fire, when it was set before him. He was grieved at his son's conduct; but he was also angry with himself for his violence towards him.

A serjeant of a Highland regiment had been for some time in the village on the recruiting service. He was to leave with his recruits, and proceed to Leith, where they were immediately to embark on the following morning. Amongst the recruits were many of the acquaintances of George and his companions. After the affair of the effigy, they went to have a parting glass with them. George was then about nineteen. He had not yet forgiven his father for the indignity he had openly offered to him—he remembered he had forbidden him his house. One of his companions jestingly alluded to the indignation of the old man—he "wondered how George stood it." The remark made his feelings more bitter. He felt shame upon his face. Another of his companions enlisted; in the excitement of the moment, George followed his example, and, before sunrise on the following morning, was on his road to Leith with the other recruits.

Old James arose and went to his loom, unhappy and troubled in his spirit. He longed for a reconciliation with his son—to tell him he was sorry for the length to which his temper had led him, and also calmly to reason with him on the folly, the unreasonableness, and the wickedness, of his own conduct, in running with a crowd at his heels about the street, persecuting honest men, and endangering both the peace of the town and the safety of property. But he had been an hour at the loom, and George took not his place at his (for he had brought him up to his own trade); another hour passed, and breakfast time arrived, but the shuttle which had been driven by the hand of his son sent forth no sound.

"Where is George?" inquired he, as he entered the house; "wherefore has he no been ben at his wark?"

"Ye ken best," returned Peggy, who thought it her time to be out of humour, "for it lies between ye; but ye'll carry on yer rampaging fits o' passion till ye drive baith the bairns and me frae 'bout the house. Ye may seek for George whar ye saw him last: but there is his bed, untouched, as I made it yesterday morning, and ye see what ye've made o' yer handiwark."

"Oh, haud yer tongue, ye wicked woman, ye," said James, "for it wad clip clouts. Had Job been afflicted wi' yer tongue, he wad needed nae other trial!"

"My tongue!" retorted she; "ay, gude truly! but if ony woman but mysel had to put up wi' yer temper, they wad ken what it is to be tried."

"Puir woman! ye dinna ken ye're born," replied James; and, turning to his daughter, added, "Rin awa out, Katie, and see if yer brother is wi' ony o' his acquaintances—he'll hae been sleeping wi' some o' them. Tell him to come hame to his breakfast."

She left the house, and returned in about ten minutes, weeping, sobbing, wringing her hands, and exclaiming—

"George is listed and awa!—he's listed and awa! Oh, my poor George!"

"Listed!" exclaimed James, and he fell back against the wall, as though a bullet had entered his bosom.

"Listed! my bairn, my darling bairn, listed!" cried Peggy. "O James! James!—ye cruel man! see what ye've done!—ye hae driven my bairn to destruction!"

"Woman! woman!" added he, "dinna torment me beyond what I am able to endure. Do you no think I am suffering aneugh, and mair than aneugh, without you aggravating my misery? Oh, the rash, the thoughtless callant! Could he no forgie his faither for ae fault?—a faither that could lay down his life for him. Haste ye, Katie, get me my stick and my Sunday coat, and I'll follow him; he canna be far yet—I'll bring him back. Wheesht now, Peggy," he added, "let us hae nae mair reflections—just compose yersel. George shall be hame the night—and we'll let byganes be byganes."

"Oh, then, James, rin every foot," said Peggy, whose ill-humour had yielded to her maternal anxiety; "bring him back whether he will or no; tell him how ill Katie is; and that, if he persists in being a sodger, he will be the death o' his mother."

With a heavy and an anxious heart, James set out in pursuit of his son; but the serjeant and his recruits had taken the road six hours before him. On arriving at Dunbar, where he expected they would halt for the night, he was informed that the serjeant, being ordered to push forward to Leith with all possible expedition, as the vessel in which they were to embark was to sail with the morning tide, had, with his recruits, taken one of the coaches, and would then be within a few miles of Edinburgh. This was another blow to James. But, after resting for a space, not exceeding five minutes, he hastened forward to Leith.

It was midnight when he arrived, and he could learn nothing of his son or the vessel in which he was to embark; but, weary as he was, he wandered along the shore and the pier till morning. Day began to break; the shores of the Frith became dimly visible; the Bass, like a fixed cloud, appeared on the distant horizon; it was more than half-tide; and, as he stood upon the pier, he heard the yo-heave-ho! of seamen proceeding from a smack which lay on the south side of the harbour, by the lowest bridge. He hastened towards the vessel; but before he approached it, and while the cry of the seamen yet continued, a party of soldiers and recruits issued from a tavern on the shore. They tossed their caps in the air, they huzzaed, and proceeded towards the smack. With a throbbing heart, James hurried forward, and in the midst of them, through the grey light, he beheld his son.

"O George!" cried the anxious parent, "what a journey ye hae gien yer faither!"

George started at his father's voice, and for a moment he was silent and sullen, as though he had not yet forgiven him.

"Come, George," said the old man, affectionately, "let us forget and forgie. Come awa hame again, my man, and I'll pay the smart money. Dinna persist in bringing yer mother to her grave, in breaking yer sister's heart, puir thing, and in making me miserable."

"O faither! faither!" groaned George, grasping his father's hand, "it's owre late—it's owre late now! What's done canna be undone!"

"Why for no, bairn?" cried James; "and how is it owre late? The ship's no sailed, and I've the smart-money in my pocket."

"But I've ta'en the bounty, faither—I'm sworn in!" replied the son.

"Sworn in!" exclaimed the unhappy father. "Oh mercy me! what's this o't! My happiness is destroyed for ever. O George! George, man! what is this that ye've done? How shall I meet your puir wretched mother without ye?"

George laid his head upon his father's shoulder, and wrung his hand. He was beginning to experience what hours, what years of misery may proceed from the want of a minute's calm reflection. The thought of buying him off could not be entertained. The vessel was to sail within an hour—men were needed; but, even had no other obstacles attended the taking of such a step, there was one that was insurmountable—James Nicholson had never in his life been possessed of half the sum necessary to accomplish it, nor could he have raised it by the sale of his entire goods and chattels; and his nature forbade him to solicit a loan from others, even to redeem a son.

They were beginning to haul off the vessel; and poor George, he now felt all the bitterness of remorse, added to the anguish of parting from a parent, thrust his hand into his pocket, and, as he bade him farewell, attempted to put his bounty-money in his father's hand. The old man sprung back, as if a poisonous snake had touched him. The principles of the Leveller rose superior to the feelings of the father.

"George!" he cried, "George! can my ain son insult me, and in a moment like this? Me tak yer blood-money!—me!—me! Ye dinna ken yer faither! Before I wad touch money gotten in such a cause, I wad starve by a dyke-side. Fling it into the sea, George!—fling it into the sea!—that's the only favour ye can confer upon yer faither." But, again, the parent gained the ascendency in his heart, and he added—"But, poor chield, ye meant it kindly. Fareweel, then, my man!—Oh, fareweel, George! Heaven be wi' my misguided bairn! Oh! what shall I say to yer puir mother? Fareweel, lad!—fareweel!"

The vessel was pulled off—and thus parted the father and his son. I shall not describe the feelings of James on his solitary journey homewards, nor dwell upon the grief of his wife and daughter, when they beheld that he returned alone, and that George "was not."

It was about two years after his son had enlisted, that the news of the peace and the abdication of Napoleon arrived. James was not one of those who partook of the general joy; but while he mourned over the fall of the man whom he had all but worshipped, he denounced the conduct of the allied sovereigns in strong and bitter terms of indignation. The bellman went round the village, calling upon the inhabitants to demonstrate their rejoicing by an illumination. The Levellers consulted James upon the subject, and his advice was, that they ought not, let the consequences be what they would, comply with the request or command of the authorities, and which had been proclaimed by the town-crier; on the contrary, he recommended, that at the hour when the illumination was to commence, every man of them should extinguish the fires in his house, and leave not a lamp or a rushlight burning. His advice was always akin to a command, and it was implicitly followed. The houses were lighted up—the illumination was general, save only the windows of the Levellers, which appeared as in mourning; and soon attracted the attention of the crowd, the most unruly amongst whom raised the cry of "Smash them!—send them in!" and the cry was no sooner made than it was obeyed; stones flew thick as hail, panes were shivered, sashes broken, and they ran from one house to another carrying on their work of destruction. In its turn, they came to the dwelling of James—they raised a yell before it—a stone was thrown, and the crash of broken glass was heard. James opened the door, and stood before them. They yelled louder.

"Break away!" said he, contemptuously; "ye puir infatuated sauls that ye are—break away, and dinna leave a hale pane, if it's yer sovereign will and pleasure! Ye silly, thoughtless, senseless idiots, how mony hunder millions has it cost this country to cram the precious Bourbons on the people o' France again?—and wha's to pay it, think ye?"

"No you, Jemmy," cried a voice from the crowd.

"But I maun toil frae mornin till night to help to do it, ye blockhead ye," answered James; "and ye hae to do the same, and yer back has to gang bare, and yer bairns to be hungered for it! Certes, friends, ye hae great cause for an illumination! But, as if the hunders o' millions which yer assistance o' the Bourbons has added to the national debt were but a trifle, ye, forsooth, must increase yer county burdens by breaking decent people's windows, for their sake, out o' pure mischief. Break awa, freends, if it's yer pleasure, the damage winna come out o' my pocket; and if yer siller is sae plentifu that ye can afford to throw it awa in chucky-stanes!—fling! fling!" and withdrawing into the house, he shut the door.

"Odd! I dinna ken," said one of the crowd, "but there's a deal o' truth in what he says."

"It was too bad to touch his windows," said another; "his son George has been in the wars, and the life o' a son is o' mair value than a pund o' candles."

"Ye're richt," cried a third.

"Hurrah for Jemmy the Leveller!" cried another. The crowd gave a loud cheer, and left the house in good humour; nor was there another window in the village broken throughout the night.

Next day, James received the following letter from his son. It was dated

"Toulouse, April 14, 1814.

"Honoured Father and Mother,—I hope this will find you and my dear sister well, as it leaves me, thank Providence for it. I think this war will soon be over now; for, whatever you may think of the French and their fighting, father, we have driven them from pillar to post, and from post to pillar, as the saying is. Not but that they are brave fellows, and clever fellows, too; but we can beat them, and that is everything. Soult is one of their best generals, if not their very best; and though he was in his own country, and had his positions all of his own choosing, I assure you, upon the word of a soldier, that we have beaten him out and out twice within this fortnight; but if you still get the newspaper, you will have seen something about it. You must not expect me to give you any very particular account about what has taken place; for a single soldier just sees and knows as much about a battle as the spoke of a mill-wheel knows about the corn which it causes to be ground. I may, here, also, while I remember, tell you what my notions of bravery are. Some people talk about courageous men, and braving death, and this and that; but, so far as I have seen and felt, it is all talk—nothing but talk. There are very few such cowards as to run away, or not to do their duty (indeed, to run away from the ranks during an action would be no easy matter), but I believe I am no coward—I daresay you think the same thing; and the best man in all T—— durst not call me one; but I will tell you how I felt when I first entered a battle. We were under arms—I saw a part of the enemy's lines before us—we were ordered to advance—I knew that in ten minutes the work of death would begin, and I felt—not faintish, but some way confoundedly like it. The first firing commenced by the advanced wing; at the report, my knees shook (not visibly), and my heart leaped within me. A cold sweat (a slight one) broke over me. I remember the sensation. A second discharge took place—the work was at hand—something seemed to crack within my ears. I felt I don't know how; but it was not courageous, though, as to running away or being beaten, the thought never entered my head. Only I did not feel like what you read about heroes. Well, the word 'Fire' was given to our own regiment. The drum of my ear actually felt as if it were split. My heart gave one terrible bound, and I felt it no more. For a few moments all was ringing of the ears, smoke, and confusion. I forgot everything about death. The roar of the action had become general—through its din I at intervals heard the sounds of the drum and the fife. But my ears instantly became, as it were, 'cased.' I could hear nothing but the word of command, save a hum, hum, something like a swarm of bees about to settle round my head. I saw nothing, and I just loaded as I was ordered, and fired—fired—fired!—as insensible, for all the world, as if I had been on a parade. Two or three of my neighbours were shot to the right and left; but the ranks were filled up in a twinkling, and it was not every time that I observed whether they were killed or wounded. But, as I say, after the third firing or so, I hardly knew whether I was dead or living; I acted in a kind of way mechanically, as it were, through a sort of dumfoundered desperation, or anything else ye like to call it; and if this be courage, it's not the sort of courage that I've heard and read about—but it's the only kind of courage I felt on entering on my first engagement, and, as I have said, there are none that would dare to call me coward! But as I was telling ye, we have twice completely beaten Soult within these fourteen days. We have driven them out of Spain; and, but for the bad winter weather, we would have driven them through France before now. But we have driven them into France; and as I said, even in their own country, we have beaten them twice. Soult had his army all drawn up and ready, upon a rising ground, before a town they call Orthes. I have no doubt but ye have some idea of what sort of winter it has been, and that may lead you to judge of what sort of roads we have had to wade through in a country like this; and that we've come from where nobody ever had to complain of being imprisoned for the destroying of toll-bars! I think that was the most foolish and diabolical action ever any person in our country was guilty of. But, besides the state of the roads, we had three rivers to cross before we could reach the French. However, we did cross them. General Picton, with the third division of the army, crossed or forded what they call the Cave de Pau on the 26th of last month, and we got over the river on the following day. Our army completed their positions early in the afternoon, and Lord Wellington (for he is a prompt man) immediately began to give Soult notice that he must seek different quarters for the night. Well, the action began, and a dreadful and sanguinary battle it was. Our third division suffered terribly. But we drove the French from their heights—we routed them. We thus obtained possession of the navigation of the Adour, one of the principal commercial passages in France; and Soult found there was nothing left but to retreat, as he best might, to Toulouse (from whence I write this letter), and there we followed him; and from here, too, though after hard fighting, we forced him to run for it. You may say what you like, father, but Lord Wellington is a first-rate general—though none of us over-and-above like him, for he is terribly severe; he is a disciplinarian, soul and body of him, and a rigid one. We have beaten all Bonaparte's generals; and I should like to meet with him, just to see if we can beat him too. You used to talk so much about him, that if I live to get to Paris, I shall see him, though I give a shilling for it. What I mean by that is, that I think the game is up with him; and four or five Irish soldiers, of my acquaintance, have thought it an excellent speculation to club together, and to offer the Emperor Alexander and the rest of them (who, I daresay, will be very glad to get rid of him on cheap terms), a price for him, and to bring him over to Britain, and exhibit him round the country at so much a-head——"

"Oh depravity!—depravity!" cried James, rising in a fury, and flinging the letter from him. "Oh, that a bairn o' mine should be capable o' pennin sic disgracefu language!"

He would allow no more of the letter to be read—he said his son had turned a mere reprobate; he would never own him more.

A few weeks after this, Catherine, the daughter of our old Leveller, was married to a young weaver, named William Crawford, who then wrought in the neighbourhood of Stirling. He was a man according to James' own heart; for he had wrought in the same shop with him, and, when a boy, received his principles from him. James, therefore, rejoiced in his daughter's marriage; and he said "there was ane o' his family—which wasna large—that hadna disgraced him." Yet he took the abdication and the exile of Napoleon to heart grievously. Many said that, if he could have raised the money, he would have gone to Elba to condole with the exiled emperor, though he should have begged for the remainder of his days. He went about mourning for his fate; but, as the proverb says, they who mourn for trifles or strangers may soon have more to mourn for—and so it was with James Nicholson. His son was abroad—his daughter had left his house, and removed to another part of the country—and his wife fell sick and died. He felt all the solitariness of being left alone—he became fretful and unhappy. He said, that now he "hadna ane to do onything for him." His health also began to fail, and to him peace brought neither plenty nor prosperity. The weaving trade grew worse and worse every day. James said he believed that prices would come to nothing. He gradually became less able to work, and his earnings were less and less. He was evidently drooping fast. But the news arrived that Napoleon had left Elba—that he had landed in France—that he was on his way to Paris—that he had entered it—that the Bourbons had fled; and the eyes of James again sparkled with joy, and he went about rubbing his hands, and again exclaiming, "Oh, the great—the godlike man!—the beloved of the people!—the conqueror of hearts as well as countries! he is returned! he is returned! Everything will go well again!"

During "the hundred days," James forgot all his sorrow and all his solitariness; like the eagle, he seemed to have renewed his youth. But the tidings of Waterloo arrived.

"Treachery! foul treachery!" cried the old man, when he heard them; and he smote his hand upon his breast. But he remembered that his son was in that battle. He had not heard from him—he knew not but that he was numbered with the slain—he feared it, and he became tenfold more unhappy and miserable than before.

A few months after the battle, a wounded soldier arrived at T—— to recruit his health amongst his friends. He had enlisted with George, he had served in the same regiment, and seen him fall at the moment the cry of "The Prussians!" was raised.

"My son!—my poor son!" cried the miserable father, "and it is my doing—it is a' mine—I drove him to list; and how can I live wi' the murder o' my poor George upon my head?" His distress became deeper and more deep; his health and strength more rapidly declined; he was unable to work, and he began to be in want. About this period, also, he was attacked with a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of his right arm; and he was reluctantly compelled to remove to Stirlingshire, and become an inmate in the house of his daughter.

It was a sad grief to his proud spirit to feel himself a burden upon his child; but she and her husband strove anxiously to soothe him and to render him happy. He was still residing with them when the radical meetings took place in various parts of the country, and especially in the west of Scotland, in 1819. James contemplated them with delight. He said the spirit of liberty was casting its face upon his countrymen—they were beginning to think like men, and to understand the principles which he had gloried in, through good report and through bad report—yea, and through persecution, for more than half-a-century.

A meeting was to take place near Stirling, and James was sorrowful that he was unable to attend; but his son-in-law was to be present, and James charged him that he would bring him a faithful account of all the proceedings. Catherine knew little about the principles of her father, or her husband, or the object of the meeting. She asked if it would make wages any higher; but she had heard that the military would be called out to disperse it—that government would punish those who attended it, and her fears were excited.

"Tak my advice, Willie," said she to her husband, as he went towards the door; "tak a wife's advice for ance, and dinna gang near it. There will nae guid come out o't. Ye can mak naething by it, but will lose baith time and money; and I understand that it is likely great danger will attend it, and ye may be brought into trouble. Sae, dinna gang, Willie, like a guid lad—if ye hae ony regard for me, dinna gang."

"Really, Katie," said Willie, who was a good-natured man, "ye talk very silly. But ye're just like a' the women, hinny—their outcry is aye about expense and danger. But dinna ye trouble yersel—it's o' nae use to be put about for the death ye'll ne'er die. I'll be hame to my four-hours."

"The lassie's silly," said her father; "wherefore should he no gang? It is the duty o' every man to gang that is able; and sorry am I that I am not, or I wad hae rejoiced to hae stood forth this day as a champion in the great cause o' liberty."

So William Crawford, disregarding the remonstrances of his wife, went to the meeting. But while the people were yet assembling, the military were called out—the riot act was read—and the soldiers fired at or over the multitude. Instant confusion took place; there was a running to and fro, and the soldiers pursued. Several were wounded, and some seriously.

The news that the meeting had been dispersed, and that several were wounded, were brought to James Nicholson and his daughter as they sat waiting the return of her husband.

"Oh, I trust in goodness that naething has happened to William!" she exclaimed. "But what can be stopping him? Oh, had he but ta'en my advice!—had ye no persuaded him, faither! But ye was waur than him."

James made no reply. A gloomy apprehension that "something had happened" was stealing over his mind. He took his staff, and walked forward, as far as he was able, upon the road; but, after waiting for two hours, and after fruitless inquiries at every one he met, he returned, having heard nothing of his son-in-law. His daughter, with three children around her, sat weeping before the fire. He endeavoured to comfort her, and to inspire her with hopes which he did not himself feel, and to banish fears from her breast which he himself entertained. Night set in, and, with its darkness, their fears and their anxiety increased. The children wept more bitterly as the distress of their mother became stronger; they raised their little hands, they pulled her gown, and they called for their father. A cart stopped at the door; and William Crawford, with his arm bound up, was carried into his house by strangers. Catherine screamed when she beheld him, and the children cried wildly. Old James met them at the door, and said, "O William!"

He had been found by the side of a hedge, fainting from loss of blood. A bullet had entered his arm below the shoulder—the bone was splintered; and on a surgeon's being sent for, he declared that immediate amputation was necessary. Poor Catherine and her little ones were taken into the house of a neighbour while the operation was to be performed, and even her father had not nerve to look on it. William sat calmly, and beheld the surgeon and his assistant make their preparations, and when the former took the knife in his hand, the wounded man thought not of bodily pain, but the feelings of the father and the husband gushed forth.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "had it been my leg, it wad hae been naething; but my arm—I will be helpless for life! What am I to do now for my puir Katie and my bits o' bairns? Guid gracious! I canna beg!—and auld James, puir body, what will come owre him! Oh, sir," added he, addressing the surgeon, "I could bear to hae my arm cut through in twenty different places, were it not that it deprives me o' the power o' working for bread for my family!"

"Keep a stout heart, my good fellow," said the surgeon, as he began his task; "they will be provided for in some way."

"Grant it may be sae!" answered William; "but I see naething for as but to beg!"

I must here, however, take back my reader to 1815, and from the neighbourhood of Stirling direct their attention to Brussels and Waterloo. George Washington Nicholson, after the battle of Toulouse, had been appointed to the rank of serjeant. For several months he was an inmate in the house of a thriving merchant in Brussels; he had assisted him in his business; he, in fact, acted as his chief clerk and his confidant; he became as one of the family, and nothing was done by the Belgian trader without consulting Serjeant Nicholson.

But the fearful night of the 15th of June arrived, when the sounds of the pibroch rang through the streets of Brussels, startling soldier and citizen, and the raven and the owl were invited to a feast. The name of Napoleon was pronounced by tongues of every nation. "He comes!—he comes!" was the cry. George Nicholson was one of the first to array himself for battle, and rush forth to join his regiment. He bade a hurried farewell to his host; but there was one in the house whose hand trembled when he touched it, and on whose lips he passionately breathed his abrupt adieu. It was the gentle Louise, the sole daughter of his host.

The three following days were dreadful days in Brussels; confusion, anxiety, dismay, prevailed in every street; they were pictured in every countenance. On one hand were crowded the wounded from the battle, on the other were citizens flying from the town to save their goods and themselves, and, in their general eagerness to escape, blocking up their flight. Shops were shut, houses deserted, and churches turned into hospitals. But, in the midst of all—every hour, and more frequently—there went a messenger from the house of the merchant with whom Serjeant Nicholson had lodged, to the Porte de Namur, to inquire how fared it with the Highlanders, to examine the caravans with the wounded as they arrived, and to inquire at the hospitals, if one whom Louise named had been brought there.

Never was a Sabbath spent in a more unchristian manner than that of the 18th June, 1815, on the plains of Waterloo. At night the news of the success of the British arrived in Brussels, and before sunrise on the following morning the merchant in whose house George Nicholson had been lodged, drove through the Porte de Namur, with his daughter Louise by his side. At every step of their journey appalling spectacles presented themselves before them; and, as they proceeded, they became more and more horrible. They were compelled to quit their vehicle, for the roads were blocked up, and proceeded through the forest de Soignes, into which many of the wounded had crawled to die, or to escape being trampled on by the pain-maddened horses. On emerging from the forest, the disgusting shambles of war, with its human carcases, its blood, its wounded, and its dying, spread all its horrors before them. From the late rains, the field was as a morass. Conquerors and the conquered were covered with mud. Here lay heaps of dead—there, soldier and citizen dug pits to bury them in crowds, and they were hurled into a common grave,

"Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown."

Let the eyes turn where they would, there the ghastly sight of the wounded met them; nor could the ear be rendered deaf to the groans of the dying, and the cry from every quarter and in every tongue of "Water! water!"—for the wounded were perishing from thirst, and their throats were parched and their tongues dry. There, too, prowled the plunderer, robbing the dead—the new-made widow sought her husband, and the mother her son. To and fro rushed hundreds of war-horses, in foam and in agony, without curb or rider—others lay kicking and snorting on the ground, their broad chests heaving with the throes of departing life, and struggling as though they thought themselves stronger than death.

Louise and her father were shown to the positions that had been occupied by the Highland regiments. They inquired of every one whom they met, and who wore the garb of Old Scotland, if they could tell them aught of the fate of Serjeant Nicholson; but they shook their heads, and answered, "No."

Louise was a beautiful and interesting girl, and the bloom of nineteen summers blushed on her cheeks; but they were now pale, and her dark eyes were bedimmed with tears. She leaned upon her father's arm, and they were passing near a field of rye, which was trodden down as though a scythe had been passed over it. Many dead and dying Highlanders lay near it. Before them lay a wounded man, whose face was covered and disfigured with blood—he was gasping for water, and his glazed eyes were unconscious of the earnestness and affection with which they gazed on him.

"It is he!—it is he!" cried Louise.

It was indeed George Nicholson.

"He lives!—he breathes!" she continued. She bent over him—she raised his head—she applied a cordial to his lips. He swallowed it eagerly. His eyes began to move—a glow of consciousness kindled in them. With the assistance of her father, she washed and bound up his wounds, and the latter having procured a litter, he had him conveyed to his house at Brussels, and they accompanied him by the way. Louise watched over him; and in a few days his wounds were pronounced to be no longer dangerous, though he recovered slowly, and he acknowledged the affection of his gentle deliverer with the tears of gratitude and the glance of love.

As soon as he had acquired strength to use a pen, he wrote a letter to his father, but he received no answer—a second time he wrote, and the result was the same. He now believed that, because he had been a humble instrument in contributing to the fall of a man, in whose greatness his father's soul was wrapped up, he had cast him off, and disowned him.

The father of Louise obtained his discharge, and intrusted him with the management of his business. He knew that his daughter's heart was attached, with all a woman's devotedness, to the young Scotchman, and he knew that his affection for her was not less ardent. He knew also his worth; he had profited by his integrity and activity in business; and when the next anniversary of Waterloo came, he bade them be happy, and their hands were united.

There was now but one cloud which threw a shade over the felicity of George Nicholson, and that was, that he had never heard from his parents, and that his father would not acknowledge his letters; yet he suspected not the cause. Almost six years had passed since he became the husband of Louise, yet his heart yearned after the place of his birth, and in the dreams of the night his spirit revisited it. He longed once more to hear his mother's voice, to grasp his father's hand, to receive a sister's welcome. But, more than these, he was now rich, and he wished to remove them from penury, to crown their declining years with ease and with plenty; nor could a son entertain a more honourable ambition, or one more meriting the blessing of Heaven.

Taking Louise with him, they sailed from Antwerp, and in a few days arrived in London; from thence they proceeded towards the Borders, and the place of his birth. They had reached Alnwick, where they intended to remain for a few hours, and they went out to visit the castle. They had entered the square in front of the proud palace of the Percys, and in the midst of the square they observed a one-handed flute-player, with a young wife and three ragged children by his side, and the poor woman was soliciting alms for her husband's music.

The heart of Louise was touched; she had drawn out her purse, and the wife of the flute-player, with her children in her hand, modestly, and without speaking, curtsied before her.

George shook—he started—he raised his hands.

"Catherine!—my sister!—my own sister!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand of the supplicant.

"Oh, George!—my brother!" cried Catherine, and wept.

The flute-player looked around. The instrument fell from his hand.

"What!—William!—and without an arm, too!" added George, extending his hand to the musician.

Louise took the hand of her new-found sister, and smiled, and wept, and bent down, and kissed the cheeks of her children.

"My father—my mother, Catherine?" inquired George, in a tone that told how he trembled to ask the question.

She informed him of their mother's death, of their father's infirmities, and that he was then an out-door pauper in T——.

He relieved his sister's wants, and, with Louise, hastened to his birth-place. He found his father almost bedridden—a boarder at half-a-crown a-week in a miserable hovel, the occupants of which were as poor as their parish lodger. Old James was sitting reading a newspaper, which he had borrowed, when they entered; for his ruling passion remained strong in the midst of his age and infirmities. The rays of the setting sun were falling on his grey hairs. Tears had gathered in the eyes of his son, and he inquired—

"Do you know me?"

James suddenly raised his eyes—they flashed with eager joy—he dropped his paper.

"Ken ye! ken ye!—my son! my son! my lost George!" and he sank on his son's bosom.

When the first burst of joy had subsided—

"And wha is this sweet leddy?" inquired James, gazing fondly at Louise.

"Your daughter," replied George, placing her hand in his.

I need not further dwell upon the history of the Leveller. From that hour he ceased to be a pauper—he accompanied his son to Brussels, and spent the remainder of his days in peace, and amidst many of the scenes which he had long before read of with enthusiasm.

But, some reader may ask, what became of poor Catherine and her flute-player? A linendraper's shop was taken and stocked for them by her brother, and in it prosperity became a constant customer. Such is the history of James Nicholson the Leveller and his children.

THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.

THE DEATH OF JAMES III.

In these enlightened times, when man has become so wise that he thinks he knows everything, it is a practice with writers of legends which border on the supernatural, to give a plausible solution of any difficulty which occurs, and to reconcile, if possible, all mysterious appearances with the ascertained and familiar ways of God's providence. We are very far from discountenancing the study of physical causes, recommended by Lord Bacon, and followed now-a-days with so much zeal, and we might say, with so much impatience of what was at one time called the wisdom of the world; but we may very humbly remark, that, as all extremes transcend truth, the stickler for the old philosophy and the exclusive supporter of the new are equally wide of their aim, if they think that these respective studies comprehend severally all the ways of Providence. The votary of superstition, who trembles at an omen, is not farther distant from the path to eternal and immutable truth, than is the conceited biped who, with rule and compass, dynamics, and differential calculus, thinks he can measure and define all the powers of nature. How little is it known to him who makes the visible the measure of nature's existence and power, that every step he makes, or thinks he makes, in his progress, the farther he removes from the great landmarks of those great truths on which is founded our holy religion. James III. was killed in open day: who killed him? History is mute; but tradition is eloquent, and fearfully impressive. The reign of this unfortunate monarch was marked by more rebellion and murder than any period of the same extent in the history of Scotland. Other reigns exhibited, perhaps, more attacks on the part of England—more battles and greater devastation; but the period we have mentioned stands unrivalled for intestine commotion, faction, rebellion, plotting, and counterplotting, and all the other effects that flow from a weakly-exercised authority on the part of a king over subjects, the greater part of whom, trained to arms and tournaments, and taught to hate and despise humane attainments, could find no relief from the ennui of idleness but in the stir of strife, whether exercised against their external enemies, or their internal compeers, who stood in the way of their ambition. Many have been the complaints which Scotland has made against the invasions of England, and the sordid views of the English monarchs which produced them; but little has been said against the renegade conduct of many of her sons, who, with matricidal views, endeavoured to put an end to her independence as a nation, by leaguing with her enemies, and corrupting the loyalty of their brethren. It may be doubted whether the successive treasons and rebellions of Mar, Douglas, and Albany, and their consequent alliances with the King of England, did not produce more evil to Scotland than ever resulted from the unaided invasions of all the English monarchs together; yet such is the inconsistency of man, that, even at this day, the cadets and scions of these renegade families presume upon the honours of their birth, and get their presumption admitted and countenanced by those who would despise the industrious benefactor of his country.

There cannot be a doubt that it was entirely owing to the weakness of the third James, that the noble enemies of order and justice, the high barons, wrought so much evil to their country. A late historian, of some beauty of diction, and great command of historical erudition, but perhaps deficient in what is called the philosophy of history, has endeavoured to support James against the censures of Leslie and Buchanan; but his own narrative disproves his arguments, and leaves the responsibility of a nation's sorrow at the debit of the weakness, favouritism, and tergiversation of that unfortunate king. The rebellion at Lauder—where his favourites, Crighton the mason, Rogers the musician, and Ireland the man of letters, or rather of magic, were hanged over the buttress of the bridge—was entirely produced by the disappointment of the lords, who saw their places at court occupied by mechanics, while they, too much inclined for tumult at any rate, were left without civil distinctions and employments to occupy their minds and incline them to peace. But, although the weakness of James may have formed an excuse for the nobles to rise against him, what shall be said for the conduct of his son, James IV., who headed the subsequent rebellion against his own father, which ended so mournfully at the battle of Sauchie Burn? It was unnecessary to add the cry of public reprobation to the voice of a crying conscience; the prince conceived himself to have been the murderer of his father, and never had a day's rest or happiness on earth after the mysterious death which his rebellious conduct had produced.

We have outlived the days of superstition, and we do not, we dare not, believe what has been handed down to us on the subject of this self-imputed parricide—but we are at liberty, as veracious chroniclers of tradition, to narrate what were at one time supposed to be the ways of a mysterious Providence, in punishing the unfilial conduct of a son who, after experiencing the unlimited kindness of a parent, took into his hand arms, which, by another, though unknown hand, were used against that parent's life. Let the sceptical sons of modern philosophy repudiate our narrative, as their sublime knowledge of the workings of physical powers inclines them to shut their eyes against the dark obscure beyond. We profess to believe that negation of light is not exclusive of existences, and that, though light may be necessary to enable us to see what is permitted us to see by the decree of Him who made us, there is also ordained an alternation of darkness, whose dominion being co-extensive with the light, carries a borrowed conviction of existences, which, extended by analogy to unknown things and regions, may make us abate our scepticism and humble our pride of knowledge.

When the nobles who had committed the daring acts of rebellion and murder at the Bridge of Lauder—among whom were Lords Gray and Hailes, the Master of Hume, and Shaw of Sauchie—found that the king was not inclined to extend to them letters of pardon, they set about devising a scheme whereby they might force that safety to themselves and their property, which they had not been able to procure by entreaty and supplication. Their plan was subtle in its nature, and dexterously executed; but, like all schemes of a similar kind, failed of that success which the high hopes of political schemers point to, as the mean of their elevation to rank and power. They resolved upon taking advantage of the youth and versatility of the young prince, James, Duke of Rothsay, and endeavouring to overcome his sentiments of filial love and duty by the engrossing passion of political ambition, get him to join them in their designs against the power and authority of his father. By setting, in this way, the son against the parent, they would give weight and power to their faction, and take away the responsibility and guilt of rebellious leaders, which could not attach to operations commanded by the heir-apparent of the throne. Unfortunately the disposition of the young prince was predisposed to the reception of the insidious whisperings of ambition. All the faculties of his mind were in a high degree precocious; and his sentiments kept pace with his intellectual powers, in suggesting wishes which his abilities might gratify, and which his prudence was not able to suppress. These tendencies had, it is supposed, been noticed by the rebellious schemers, who, with the example of a prior Duke of Rothsay before them, could not well have calculated upon overcoming the instinctive feelings of a son, without some indications that these were weaker than they are even generally found to be in the sons of kings.

This plan was begun to be put into execution, by getting the prince prevailed upon to visit the Castle of Stirling, at that time under the governorship of Shaw of Sauchie. He had no sooner arrived, than a great display was made by the lords, who were assembled there for the purpose of the most obsequious homage and the most impassioned affection, with the view of stimulating those feelings of a desire of power, which already had vindicated too much force in his youthful mind. A banquet was prepared in honour of the heir-apparent, at which there were assembled almost all those nobles who stood in fear of his father, from having had a participation in the murder of the favourites at Lauder. The most fulsome flattery was poured into his youthful ear; and the conduct of his father, in resigning himself to the studies of astrology and to the power of the professors of that occult science, treated with a levity which bordered on derision and laughter. This was the true chord to strike in the heart of the prince, who, filled with the highest enthusiasm of chivalry, despised, as worthy of the supremest contempt of an honourable man-at-arms, and far more of a king, all such applications of the human intellect. He did not hesitate to declare, in the midst of the nobles, that he did not approve of the conduct of his father, who ought, as he thought, to have cultivated the knowledge of arms, and left witchcraft to old wives, and astrology to old men. These sentiments were lauded by the company, and the young man, buoyed up with the conceit of a knowledge superior to that of his father, seemed to be far advanced in the preparation he was undergoing for bolder sentiments and unfilial resolutions. Well may philosophers lament the evil nature of man. Few criminal purposes can be suggested to the human heart, without finding in its hidden recesses some chord which, with eldrich notes, gives a response often unknown to the will, but affording good proof that the attuning and predisposing power of an evil angel has been at work in that organ on which depends the salvation or perdition of mortals.

When the designing nobles saw that the young prince was so far prepared for their purposes, they got him engaged, under cover of a recess of the great hall, in a conversation with some of the leaders, and, in particular, with Gray and Hume, who took the active part in the demoralisation of the youth. The plan adopted by Gray, in conducting the conversation, was the result of experience, and the very triumph of cunning. He had noticed the self-complacent smile of the flattered prince, when the elder nobles conceded to him their opinion, and deferred a subtle point to the analysing powers of his boyish judgment; and he took advantage of the weakness of vanity, to forward his schemes of ambition.

"Your highness has doubtless been informed," said the arch diplomatist to the royal boy, "of the reason why your royal father hath refused to us, in this last parliament, the satisfaction of an act of pardon for our conduct at Lauder, now five years old—notwithstanding that we have been all that time in his power, and have not been troubled with any trial for our crime or misdemeanour."

"I have understood," said the prince, "that my father's imprisonment and misfortunes originated from the affair at Lauder. Is not that a good enough reason for refusing the pardon?"

"When I tell thee, young prince," said Gray, "that at Lauder the king lost his architect, his musician, his astrologer, and magician, all of whom I assisted in hanging over the buttress of Lauder Bridge, will your highness remain longer of opinion that our refusal of a pardon is owing to the imprisonment of the king?"

"No, my lord," replied the prince; "I believe I must renounce that opinion upon second thoughts; and I do it upon my recollection of what I have seen and heard of my father's sorrow for the fate of his favourites, and resentment against their executioners. He sigheth by night and by day for his brave and stately draughtsman, Earl Cochrane, his sweet-toned Rogers, and his erudite Ireland. I do, on my conscience, believe he sorrows more for these men than for his own imprisonment."

"And doth your highness approve or condemn our conduct, in hanging these favourites over Lauder Bridge?" said Hume.

"Why, I think a rope was too good for them, and a pardon not enough for the executioners," replied the prince; "you should have had a bounty on each head of the varlets. If my exchequer were not so empty, I would award ye a recompense myself. But I have heard that some of ye played into the hands of Gloucester, Albany, and Douglas, in that affair of Lauder. What say ye?"

"Thou hast been deceived," said Gray. "Archibald Bell-the-Cat was, doubtless, for the English king, but we stood true to our country. It was the favourites alone we wanted to punish—and we did punish them; an act which, apparently, thy father is determined not to forgive. What then are we to do? Wilt thou, the heir-apparent, stand aside and see those who freed thy father from the shackles of favouritism, and saved our country from the domination of a court of mechanics, consigned to a cruel punishment, or what is worse, to the terrors of Damocles?"

"Never!" cried the fiery youth; "I applaud your conduct, and could recommend to you some more work of the same kind; for my father has got another court of mechanics. Scarcely a nobleman is allowed to approach him. The Archbishop of St Andrew's, Schevez, has not forgotten his rudiments of astrology he learned from Spernicus at Louvaine—for the teaching of the king keeps up his own knowledge; and Cochrane, Rogers, Hemmil, Torphichen, Leonard, and Preston, whom you so beautifully suspended over the old bridge, have been replaced by others, no less elevated in their birth, and no less learned in the arts. My father is lost. Scotland is ruled by the stars. The birth of every year hath its horoscope. Chivalry declineth in the land. The glory of the Bruce is forgotten. There is much work before me, and I wish it were well begun, for I cannot doubt that by your services it will be well ended."

"Thou speakest like the wisdom of the oldest of us," said Gray; "and I am urged, by some of the concluding words of thy speech, to put a question to your highness—yet I tremble at my own boldness."

"Speak, good Gray," said the prince; "my father will not pardon you and your associates, after your work of good service is finished—I will pardon thee before thou beginnest."

"Is it the opinion of your highness," said the wily baron, "that a king who is ruled by the stars (the moon as a fixed one not excepted) is fit to govern this kingdom, which has heretofore obeyed the statutes of parliament and the sword of the knight?"

"Upon the honour of my order of knighthood," cried the prince, "thy question goeth home into the heart and marrow of the matter, and my answer shall not be behind it: I opine not."

"And doth not the situation in which we stand," said Hume—"we, the greater number of the nobles in the land, liable every instant to forfeit our lives to an aspect of the heavens—to be hanged for hanging the favourites of the king five years ago—render it imperative on us to seek, in the spirited and knightly heir-apparent, a substitute for him who is declared unfit to rule, without danger to the country and ruin to us?"

"Assuredly," answered the flattered prince. "If the king is not deposed, you will be deposed, and I shall be scandalised by the sight of a star-gazing king, and a host of dangling nobles at the end of ropes not so fine as the silk cords of Cochrane the mason's tent, which he requested for the special convenience of his noble craig. What will ye?"

"That thou shouldst head our party," said Gray, "and be our king in place of thy father, who is unfit to govern this kingdom, and unwilling to pardon his friends."

"I object not," replied the prince. "The king, my father, can be cared for tenderly. Let him be sent to my palace of Rothsay, where he can gaze on the heavens from sunset to sunrise, and send me daily an astrological express, to enable me to govern the kingdom by this heavenly wisdom."

"All hail, our king!" now cried the voices of a hundred knights and nobles, who, on a signal, had hurried from the table, and surrounded the prince. "All hail, James the Fourth, King of Scotland, and our lawful sovereign!"

And the whole assemblage kneeled before the young prince, who received the homage with every feeling of gratified pride.

While this extraordinary scene was in the course of being enacted, in the midst of a brilliant assemblage, and the eulogistic flattery of the interested actors, James felt no compunctions of broken filial duty and ruptured affection. Swelled with the pride of his new and suddenly-acquired honour, the thought of the price at which its confirmation must be bought—the deposition and degradation of an up-right and humane, though weak, king, and that king his father—never interfered with the flow of his gratified and excited feelings. Everything was now grand, hilarious, and hopeful; and a far vista of wise legislative and noble knightly achievements, claimed the rapt eye of his mind, when his attention could be taken off the brilliant scene before him. His experience of the mind of man and the operations of fate did not inform him that there is a mysterious agreement between the one and the other, whereby their results are mutually and wonderfully magnified, and the individual who studies himself is brought to tremble at the height of joy, as the precursor of a cause ready to plunge him into the depths of melancholy anticipation and sorrow. We are told that kings are great examples in the hands of a teaching Providence; and hence our authority for approaching, with greater confidence than we could do in relation to ordinary individuals, the cause of the change that awaited the feelings and aspirations of the young prince on the night of his anticipated honour.

About twelve o'clock he was attended to his chamber, the royal apartment of the castle, by Shaw of Sauchie, the governor, and several of the nobles, who, after conversing with him for some time, left him, locking the door after them as they departed—a measure, they explained to him, as being necessary for his own safety, in the midst of so much dissension and distrust as prevailed at that time among the nobility. The circumstance did not alarm the royal prisoner, though he could not but think it strange that, on the first night of his installation, his palace should be converted into a jail, and the king of his country should be the jail-bird of the seneschal of one of his own castles. Free of all sense of personal danger, he contemplated the temporary privation of his liberty rather with a disposition to being amused than annoyed, and lay down to court that rest which joy, equally as sorrow, banishes from the pillow of mortals. His thoughts took now a direction the very reverse of what they had followed during the day. The image of his deceased mother, Queen Margaret, forced itself on his mind. Her pious, reserved, and meek manners, with her devotion to her consort and her affection to her eldest son, all sanctified and made more lovely and interesting by her death, softened his heart, and filled his eyes with the tears of a son's love; while his undutiful conduct that night, in agreeing to the dethronement of his father, silently censured, as it appeared to be, by her gentle spirit, called up a feeling of remorse, which wrung his heart with pain, and added to the tears which he was already shedding in profusion. If left to his choice, he would now have undone what he had been so ready to perform at the request of factious and interested men; and, if the door of his apartment had not been locked, the strength of his feelings might have urged him to seek for safety and forgiveness at the feet of his injured parent.

The hour was far advanced, but the restlessness of his fevered fancy still prevented all rest. The apartment was dark, no attendant was within call, and he was necessitated, though a king, to yield obedience to a power which no mortal can resist; the feelings of love, sorrow, regret, remorse, and repentance—as applicable to the parent who was lying in a royal sepulchre, and to another who was virtually, in so far as regarded his intention, deposed and degraded—alternated, became stronger, decayed, and revived again with a painful and harassing vacillation. He heard the warder call two o'clock; again all was silent as before, and his thoughts were about to fall into the same painful train, when he heard the iron bar of the door of his apartment gently drawn, and saw enter the figure of an old man, with a long grey beard, a grey cloak, which reached to his feet, and was bound by a blue belt, and holding in his hand a taper, which, glimmering with a fitful light, exposed very imperfectly the strange and fearful-looking object who held it. James's eyes were fixed upon him intensely, and the lustreless orbs of his visiter repaid the looks with as intent a gaze, and made a thrill of superstitious terror run over his body. The figure continued the gaze as it approached the bed, which, having reached, it stood silent, holding up the lamp in the face of the trembling youth, and apparently taking care not to change the set of its features, or the direction or manner of its look. This attitude enabled James to scan narrowly the features of the individual: they appeared to be somewhat sinister, though he could not say where the precise expression lay, or what it truly was—seriousness seemed to degenerate into sternness, and that again into malignity, which was again relieved by some traces of kindness and patronising protection. A deep scar on the right cheek, and what by doctors is called a staphylomatic eye, in consequence of its resemblance to a white grape, had a great share in the production of the uncertain expression which was so difficult to read. Having thus stood for some time at the side of the bed, looking into the face of the prince, and holding the glimmering lamp so as to suit its imperfect vision, the figure lifted solemnly its left hand, and, in a low and somewhat guttural tone of voice, said—

"What is the duty of a son to a parent, of a subject to a king, of a creature to the Creator?"

James was silent; the question was threefold, and implied censure, which, co-operating with his fear, prevented reply.

"What doth he deserve," proceeded the figure, "who disobeyeth his parent, deposeth his king, and rebelleth against the laws of God?"

The terror of an apparition working on a predisposed mind was every moment receiving an augmentation of strength; and the young prince, in place of replying, grasped the bedclothes firmly around him, and eyed the speaker with nervous looks.

"Thou answerest not," continued the speaker—"and why? Pride and self-approbation are gifted with the loquacity of the joy which, they say, chattereth only when the sun shineth; but wisdom is represented by the owl, whose reign is in the still hours of night. Yesterday thou couldst speak of being a king—ay, a king over thy father and thy father's subjects—and a king in the verity of traitors' tongues thou art; yet where is thy authority, when even the tongue of royalty cleaveth slavishly to the parched mouth of the conscience-stricken, and preventeth thee from seizing these dry bones" (holding forth his hands), "and consigning this head of grey hairs to the Heading Hill of Stirling? The king or the prince who is enslaved by his conscience oweth the duties of villeinage to the worst and hardest of masters. The chain is forging, the forge is in action, the hammer and the anvil hold in their embrace the connecting link of a king's bondage. The eagle flies over Schiehallion to-day, and to-morrow the spurning pinions quiver in the grasp of the hand. The exulting, swelling heart of virtue hath not yet collapsed. There is time to rouse thyself, and throw off the tyrant whose power thou feelest even now. Return to thy allegiance. Love and obey thy father; aid him against his foes. Refuse—and be thrice miserably damned."

The figure turned, and retreated from the bed. The door was opened, shut and locked. Nothing was to be seen, and nothing heard. Roused from his fear, James sprung up, and cried—

"Whether of mortal mould, or a mere borrower on occasion of our rude forms of earth, return, and say whence thy commission, and of what import. If a mere messenger of man, I'll heed thee not; but, if thou'lt give me proof that James of Scotland, my royal father, enjoys the protection of the King of All, I'll on the instant renounce my new-born honours, hail him king, thee my good angel, and be once more plain James of Rothsay."

No answer was returned to the call of the prince; he listened for a time at the door of the apartment, and, hearing no sound, returned to bed, where, after tossing about for several hours, he fell into a sound sleep. Towards morning he dreamed that the figure again visited him, and communed with him on the crime of filial disobedience—the fancied apparition and the supposed conversation being in the dream so clearly developed, that, when he awoke, he felt the greatest difficulty in endeavouring to segregate the real from the imaginary appearances. He had even doubts whether he had actually seen the figure, or whether the first scene was not that of a dream as well as the second; and he knew of no mode other than that of having recourse to simple conviction, of satisfying himself on this interesting point. He was not contented with the proof afforded by his consciousness, the very ne plus ultra of human probation, and resolved on making an application to the warder, with the view of getting some confirmation of the evidence of his senses.

He had scarcely made his resolution, when Governor Shaw unlocked the door, and entered the apartment. Full of the thoughts he had been indulging and canvassing with so much anxiety since he arose, the prince told his visiter what he thought he had seen during the night, but candidly admitted that he had had also a vision in a dream approaching so nearly to the reality of the waking sense, that he could not take upon him to say that the first appearance was undoubtedly a real natural exhibition of a mortal existence. The governor listened with great attention, and anxiously inquired what was the subject of the conversation that passed between him and the old man. The prince narrated to him, as nearly as possible, the words used by the figure, and admitted that he himself had no power to reply, till after the visiter was gone and the door locked. Shaw was evidently much moved by the recital, and, in a confused and hurried manner, endeavoured to convince James that he had had a visit of nightmare—an affection with which he was probably, in consequence of his extreme youth, as yet unacquainted, but a mysterious operation of nature, quite sufficient to produce in a young and fervent mind that semi-consciousness of reality which had apparently perplexed him so much. He recommended to him to banish the affair from his mind, and, above all, to say nothing of it to the warlike nobles in the castle, whose very objection to the rule of his father was founded on the latter's faith in dreams, auguries, and astrological nostrums—a true sign of a weak intellect.

This latter part of the governor's statement, which was delivered with much gravity, produced a great effect upon the mind of James, whose contempt of his father's occult, astrological, and oneirocritical practices was the cause of his disobedience, as well as its apology. He trembled at the thought of incurring, on his own part, the censure which had been heaped on his parent, and felt anxious to escape precipitately from the subject he had broached, as well as from his own thoughts, which, mixing up reality and imagination in inextricable confusion, produced nothing but doubt, irresolution, and anxiety. If he had been anxious, on the entry of Shaw, to tell him the wonders of the night, he was now more anxious to undo what he had done, and remove from the mind of the governor any suspicion that he inherited from his father his hairbrained propensity to believe in dreams and divinations. Changing the style of his speech, as well as the expression of his countenance, he attempted to make light of his nocturnal adventure, and laughed off the clinging belief with an effort which was not unnoticed by his wily visiter. The power of early prejudices in overcoming the convictions of truth, effected a partial triumph; but there still clung to the mind of the youth a feeling of a struggling conviction, which his forced laugh and his expressed contempt of all supernatural beliefs had little power to affect. He felt, however, the necessity of maintaining absolute silence on a subject so intimately connected with his dispute with his father, and Shaw undertook to say nothing of the occurrence, which he affected to think had been properly treated by the noble mind of the young prince.

The scheme of this unnatural rebellion being persevered in with great determination and asperity, a court was held next day in the Castle of Stirling, where all the ceremonies of a royal levee were gone through with studied state and affected etiquette. The Earl of Argyle was reinstated in the office of chancellor, which had been conferred by his father on Elphinston, Bishop of Aberdeen. A negotiation was opened with the English king, Henry VII., who, having had a dispute with the old king as to the restoration of Berwick, very readily entered into the views of the son, and agreed to grant passports to his ambassadors, the Bishops of Glasgow and Dunkeld, the Earl of Argyle, Lords Lyle and Hailes, with the Master of Hume, who were, in fact, the heads of the rebellious party. The boldness of these proceedings, quadrating with the weakness of the king's actions, spread disaffection among the people of Scotland far and wide; and it was soon rumoured that the monarch, afraid of the disposition of his subjects towards the south, had proceeded to Aberdeen, and issued orders for the array of Strathearn and Angus, and all his friends in the north who still retained their allegiance. If the son soon found himself at the head of a large force in the south, the father was as successful in the north. Athole, Huntly, Crawford, and Lindsay of Byres, joined his standard; and to these were soon added Buchan, Errol, Glammis, Forbes, and Kilmaurs—so that the two ends of the kingdom were completely arrayed against each other, and the antagonist forces were headed by a father and a son.

The monarch having thus vacated the capital, and betaken himself to the north, an opportunity was held out to the son to lay siege to the Castle of Edinburgh; and orders were given to the troops to proceed in that direction. During all this time the mind of the prince had been kept up by the insidious counsels of the rebel lords, who represented the unfilial work in which he was engaged as conducive to the benefit of the kingdom, which would receive the blessings of his wise legislation. The youth was flattered by these statements; and the details of an army, by occupying his thoughts, banished from his recollection the night scene of the Castle of Stirling, which, as time aided the efforts of his sceptical wishes, gradually appeared to assume more and more the character of a false and delusive dream. Meanwhile, Hume and Hailes, and others who had been sent as ambassadors to England, returned with intelligence that Henry was favourable to their cause—a circumstance which still farther flattered the vanity of the youth, and prevented him from giving way to the feelings of instinctive duty and affection towards his father. Proceeding gradually forward, the rebel army came to Blackness, near Linlithgow, where they encamped.

The army of the king, in the meantime, came up, and the unusual sight was exhibited of two parts of a nation, headed by a father and a son, contending for a throne, arrayed against each other, with reciprocal feelings of enmity and views of mortal conflict. The benevolent heart of the father relented, and terms of accommodation, as prepared by Huntly and Errol, were sanctioned by his signature, but prevented from being properly submitted to the son by the rash conduct of Buchan, who thought he would be able to extinguish the rebellion by one blow. A skirmish was the consequence, in which the earl gained some advantage; but, though the triumph was magnified into a victory, the rebel forces were as strong as ever, while the sight of kindred blood on the swords of the warriors of either side of the field sickened the hearts of brave men, who, in other circumstances, would have been fired by the token of an advantage over an enemy. The wish for an accommodation was increased on the side of the king and his troops, and the former terms of accommodation were submitted to the rebel prince, who was still under the leading-strings of the arch traitors by whom he had been led into this unseemly and unnatural position.

The terms of accommodation were extremely favourable to the insurgent forces, as, without exacting any condition but that of laying down their arms, the king agreed to admit them to favour and grant them pardons for present and bygone offences; yet great dissension existed amongst the rebels on the subject of the acceptance of the offer of peace, and the prince, urged on by Gray, in whom he had the greatest confidence, headed the party who were inclined to stand out.

"I for one," said the youth, "receive nothing by these terms but the mighty boon of forgiveness, which will neither add to my honours nor contribute to my ambition. By being the friend of my royal father, I may be gratified by getting a view of Venus through his astrolabe; but I would rather, upon the honour of a knight, be his lieutenant in the government of this part of the planet Earth called Scotland. It is clear that my father is as unfit to rule the kingdom as was the father of the former holder of my title of Duke of Rothsay, Robert III, who made his son lieutenant-general—and why should I be debarred from what is my natural and legitimate right? It will be for the good of you all that I am appointed to that office, insomuch as the friendship of a ruler invested with all the power is better than the pardon of a king who has none."

These sentiments were opposed by many of the lords, and in particular by the Earl of Argyle.

"By these terms of accommodation," said he, "we get all we have been fighting for, or can expect from a victory gained through the blood of our countrymen and kinsmen—a free pardon for the execution of the favourites at the Bridge of Lauder, and a restoration to the favour and confidence of the king. We cannot force a lieutenantcy in favour of the prince who is at present our king, otherwise than by committing his royal father to close confinement—for what self-denying ordinance could prevent a sane and free king, not deposed by his subjects, from exercising his authority in opposition to that of a lieutenant forced upon him against his will, and acting against his wishes? The crown, as surely as a coffin, will come to one prince by the course of nature, and better wait for a regular inheritance, than anticipate a right by rebellion, spoliation, and force."

Other arguments were used by other nobles, and the convention retired to their tents without coming to any determination. The night was clear and beautiful; the sky shone with cerulean brightness; a clear full moon shot her silvery rays "over tower and tree;" and every twinkling star in the blue firmament seemed to rejoice in the opportunity of getting its weak beam thrown upon the green earth, and adding its small mite to the general exuberance of the smiles of the whole heavenly host. The noise of the convention of angry nobles having ceased, and the men, wearied by bearing arms all day, having retired to rest, there was nothing to disturb the silence which reigned coordinately with the serene light, and made the scene more impressively beautiful. When left to himself, the young prince felt the contrast between the appearance of nature, thus arrayed in her fairest smiles, and beautified by calmness and composure, and the position of a father and a son, lying in wait for an opportunity of engaging in the strife of war, and of even shedding each other's blood, by the vicarious hands of those they were leading on to the fight of kindred against kindred. His heart softened; the feelings of nature returned for a time, and vindicated the authority they should never have lost. His versatility was exclusive of a permanent establishment in his bosom of affection and duty, but it was, as it generally is, a pledge of the strength of the reigning emotion, for the time, which, in proportion to the shortness of its duration, was intense in its action, and engrossing in its extent. Having thrown himself on his couch, he resigned himself to the influence of these feelings; the poetical enthusiasm which is generated by a contemplation of nature in her beautiful moods, and, in his instance, called forth by a survey (through the opening of his tent) of the shining heavens and the sleeping earth, came in aid of the instinctive emotions which occupied his bosom; and he could not restrain the expression of what he felt.

"I have sat on the knee of him against whom I am arrayed in preparation for mortal fight, and I have seen the tear rise in his eye, as, looking first at me, and then at my departed mother (bless her pure spirit, which dwelleth in that ether!), he felt proud of the pledge of their loves, and hopeful of the virtues of a good king, to succeed him when he died. What would have been his emotions, if he had been told by some of his occult divinations that the boy he cherished and wept over would lift his hand against his life, and endeavour to pluck the crown from his living head? How dreadful, at this moment, appears to me my position and my conduct! Almost in my view, my parent lays his head on the pillow of a field-tent, uncertain whether his son and his son's friends may permit him to awake again, to view the beauties of that moon, and all that she discovers to the eye of man! Heavens! and I, conscious of my ingratitude, know its baneful effects on a parent's mind, and yet do not rise instantly and throw myself at his feet! Cruel versatility of nature under which I stand accursed! Where shall I find the elements of consistency, the true parent of happiness? Alas! I obey only the impulses of constitution. Would that, at this auspicious moment, I had an opportunity of acquiring again the matter of these terms of peace! The feelings of a son, roused by conscience, would suggest an eloquence before which all the specious views and paradoxes of Gray and Hume would disappear, like vapours before the light of that shining queen of the heavens."

He lifted his eyes as he spoke, to look again at the bright moon, and saw before him, palpable to his waking intelligence, the identical figure which had appeared to him in the Castle of Stirling. The light brought out his form in full perfection, and a long shadow thrown upon the floor of the tent gave an additional evidence of his presence; the scar upon his cheek and the staphylomatic orb were apparent, and proved his identity; and his look and manner indicated a purpose similar to that he had announced on the occasion of his prior appearance.

"He whom the gods wish to destroy," said the figure, "is first by them deprived of reason; and thy disregard of my counsel showeth that thou art bent on thine own ruin. Thy father lieth there" (pointing his finger)—"I will lead thee to his tent; and, see! there lieth beside thee on that couch a sword. What need of more? Why not in pity end his woes and life together? That bright moon will glory in the sight of a son imbruing his hand in the blood of a parent—her light will be incarnadined by the running stream of life—but water will wash the hands of the parricide. Come, follow! Dost thou hesitate? Why, then, this warlike array?"

"Fiend or angel," cried the prince, "which art thou? Are the counsels of heaven couched in irony, or am I advised by a messenger of hell? Give thy thoughts another and a clearer form, and satisfy me that thou art well commissioned for the counsel of youth, and I will hail thee friend. Of sage advisers, with hair as white as thine, and speech as strange, circuitous, and wild, I have enough—my soul is torn by their contests for the mastership of my royal will. I'd give an earldom of ten thousand acres for ten words winged with the wisdom of above. Speak!—what art thou?"

"All that is good comes from the skies," replied the man; "and mortals, to attain it, are not required to trust alone to the vicarious powers which live in that blue light of the moon's silver glory. The triumph of God's wisdom soundeth through man's heart. Thou hast heard it, and heeded it not. The soft and solemn notes of goodness, suited to the gravity of knowledge that tendeth to salvation, have not awakened thee; and the harsh tones of stimulating irony have, as a last resource, been tried on the obdurate heart of filial disobedience. Why more? Hast thou forgot our meeting in the Castle of Stirling? Renounce thy vain speculations on the origin of my mission and the nature of this form, which, thou seest, casteth a shadow on the ground, and listen to the counsel which is independent of the tongue of man or angel that pronounceth it. Agree to thy father's terms; hasten to his bosom, fall on it, weep away the dregs of thy disobedience, and rejoice in the composing and healing virtues of the fatted calf."

Having said these words, the figure glided quickly out of the tent; and, though James immediately rose and followed, he could see no trace of the extraordinary being who thus haunted him, and counselled him, apparently for his good. He called some of his attendants, and asked of them if they had seen any person leave his tent; but they answered in the negative; and, though he personally searched among the tents, and even visited the camp of the sutlers, he could find no trace of the mysterious counsellor. He returned to his tent, and again threw himself on his couch. This vision was at least no dream. All the powers of Shaw, and all the sceptical raillery of those who laughed his father's credulous belief in dreams and divinations to scorn, could not, he was satisfied, drive from his mind the effects produced by the appearance and language of this extraordinary visiter. He began to think that the wisdom of his father, whose maxim was, that there is more in nature than man's shallow philosophy can fathom, was truer and better lore than the self-sufficient and profane knowledge of his noble advisers; and, though he had no evidence that the figure was an unincorporated essence, but rather suspected that it was made of flesh and blood like himself, there was an impressiveness and solemnity in his thoughts and manner of delivering them, which justified the maxim he had himself delivered, that wisdom may come from heaven by other means than the mediation of celestial messengers. The train of reflections which followed were grave and sage; the feelings of a son who had injured his father, and wished to make amends, acquired an ascendency where they should never have lost their power, and a resolution to agree on the morn to the terms of accommodation offered, and thus obey the counsel of the mysterious visiter, was formed before slumber overtook his distracted mind.

Early in the morning, the council of nobles again met, and the discussions were resumed as to the expediency of accepting the offers of peace. The prince sat listening to the arguments in a mood of gloomy abstraction, from which he appeared to struggle to get free, and, at last starting up, he put an end to the strife of contending tongues by delivering solemnly his changed opinion.

"We have all heard," he said, "that there is great wisdom in night counsel (consilium in nocte)—forgive me—I do not say in dreams, or visions, or consultations of the heavens, but in the weighing of rational arguments in the balance of the judgment, when there is no disturbing cause to shake the scales, and no prejudice to add a false weight to the deductions of a biassed reasoning. I stand in a position different from you all. You are fighting against your king, I against my father. You are seeking what is offered to you by the terms in question; I am fighting for what death or superannuation alone can bestow—a king's crown or a vice-regent's tiara; and I am offered what I scarcely deserve—an indulgent father's forgiveness and affection. Why should I hesitate, when, by standing out, I may lose the crown and my father's love, while, by acquiescing, I insure the one at present, and retain the other by a sure expectancy? The words of Argyle have sat on my heart all night. If I live till my father die, a crown and a coffin are equally certain to me; and I shall put on the one and lie down in the other with feelings better befitting the heir of a kingdom on earth, and one in heaven, by acting as becometh a good son, than those that can result from a consciousness of disobedience. Our commissioners, therefore, have my authority for agreeing to the terms of peace."

This speech, so different from the one of the previous day, was received with loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from the leading rebels, who calculated with certainty on the steadiness of a youth, who, having been untrue to his father, might safely have been suspected of a tendency to a dangerous vacillation as regarded his new colleagues. The numbers on the side of the prince were, however, great—perhaps amounting to a majority—so that the discontented nobles were obliged to suppress their chagrin, and permit the commissioners to go through the ceremony of accepting the terms of accommodation. The treaty was therefore concluded in the course of the day.

The monarch, acting upon the supposition that everything was amicably settled, withdrew his army, and retired back upon Edinburgh, where, in the excess of his gratitude to those who had brought about a result so beneficial to the kingdom, and so gratifying to the feelings of a father, he bestowed upon several of the nobles and knights substantial marks of his royal favour. The Earl of Crawford was created Duke of Montrose, Lord Kilmaurs was raised to the rank of Earl Glencairn, and the Lairds of Balnamoon, Lag, Balyard, and others, received grants of land. All was settled, as the weak, but good, monarch thought, amicably and lastingly. Yet how vain are the anticipations of mortals! At the very time when a species of jubilee was celebrating in Edinburgh, on the re-organisation of the court and the restoration of peace and tranquillity, the uncompromising rebel lords were triumphing in another victory over the mind and sentiments of the prince. The versatile youth having survived the solemn impression made on his mind by his nocturnal counsellor, was as ready as ever to listen to the rebellious advice of the nobles, who, trusting to their power over him, had secretly kept together the army, which they had merely cantoned in various parts of the south. The monarch had scarcely rested himself in the Castle of Edinburgh, when he was informed that the same fierce faction had resumed their ambitious schemes, and were again assembled, with the prince at their head, in more formidable array than before.

The instant this intelligence reached Edinburgh, the king's friends who had remained in the city urged him to re-assemble his army without delay, and put a total end to the insurrection, by a quick and decisive blow. The loyal nobles were active in their measures, and collected, in a very short time, their retainers; while summonses were issued to all those who had returned home, and especially the lords of the north, to assemble their clans, and meet the king's troops at Stirling, whither his majesty intended to repair in person. The commands were most readily obeyed; the popularity of the cause of the father against the son was very great, and had considerably increased since the breach of faith which the latter and his rebel colleagues had displayed in not adhering to the late solemn treaty; and in a very short time the royal army exhibited an enlargement of its ranks, which justified expectations of a speedy settlement of this unnatural strife. Abandoning the Castle of Edinburgh, the monarch approached Stirling, where, having placed himself at the head of his army, he met and attacked with considerable spirit the forces of his son, which having dispersed, he forced them across the Forth, and immediately after demanded admittance into his Castle of Stirling. This request was refused by Shaw, the governor; and before preparations could be made for forcing a surrender, or, indeed, before a decision was come to whether an attack should, in the circumstances, be resorted to, intelligence was brought that the antagonist forces had re-assembled, and were encamped in strong array on the level plain above the bridge of the Torwood.

Upon hearing this intelligence, the monarch immediately advanced against the insurgents; and having no longer any faith in the breakers of solemn covenants, encountered them on a track of ground known at present by the name of Little Canglar, situated upon the east side of a small brook called Sauchie Burn, about two miles from Stirling, and one from the field of Bannockburn. The royal army was drawn up in three divisions, under the advice of Lord Lindsay—the first composed of the northern clans, under Athole and Huntly, forming an advance of Highlandmen, armed with bows, daggers, swords, and targets; the rear division, consisting of Westland and Stirling men, under Menteith, Erskine, and Graham; and the main battle, composed of burghers and commons, being led by the king himself. On the right of the king, who was splendidly armed, and rode a tall grey horse, presented to him by Lord Lindsay, was that venerable warrior and the Earl of Crawford, commanding a noble body of cavalry, consisting of the chivalry of Fife and Angus; while on his left Lord Ruthven, with the men of Strathearn and Stormont, formed a body of nearly five thousand spearmen. On the other hand, the rebel lords formed themselves also into three battles: the first division, composed of the hardy spearmen of East Lothian and Merse, being led by Lord Hailes and the Master of Hume; the second, formed of Galwegians and the hardy Borderers of Liddesdale and Annandale, being led by Lord Gray; while the middle, composed of the rebel lords, was led by the prince, whose mind, recurring again to the vision of Stirling and Blackness, was torn with remorse, and compelled him to seek some relief—alas! how small could the means afford!—by issuing an order that no one should dare, in the ensuing conflict, to lay violent hands on his father.

A shower of arrows (as usual) began the battle, and did little execution on either side; and it was not till the Borderers, with that steady and determined valour which practice in war from their infancy enabled them to turn to so good account, advanced, and attacked the royal army, that the serious work of the engagement could be said to have begun. But the beginning was more like an ending than the incipient skirmishing of men not yet warmed into the heat of strife. The onset was terrible, and the slaughter so great, that the Earls of Huntly and Menteith retreated in confusion upon the main body, commanded by the king, and threw it into an alarm from which it did not recover. After making a desperate stand, the royal forces began to waver; and the tumult having reached the spot where the king was stationed, he was implored by his attendant lords not to run the risk of death, which would bring ruin on their cause, but to leave the field while yet he had any chance of doing so with safety. The monarch consented reluctantly, and, while his nobles continued the battle, put spurs to his horse, and fled at full speed through the village of Bannockburn. On crossing the Bannock, at a hamlet called Milltown, he came suddenly upon a woman drawing water, who, surprised and terrified by the sight of an armed horseman, threw down her pitcher, and flew into her house. The noise terrified the noble steed, which, flying off and swerving to a side, cast his rider. The king fell heavily, with his armour bearing him to the ground, and being much bruised by the concussion, swooned, and lay senseless on the earth. He was instantly carried into a miller's cottage by people who knew nothing of his rank, but, compassionating his distress, treated him with great humanity.

Having put the unfortunate monarch to bed, the inmates of the house brought him such cordials as their poverty could command. In a short time he opened his eyes, and earnestly requested the presence of a priest.

"Who are you?" inquired the good woman who attended him, "that we may tell who it is that requires the assistance of the holy man."

"Alas! I was your sovereign this morning," replied he.

On this the poor woman ran out of the cottage, wringing her hands, and calling aloud for some one to come and confess the king.

"I will confess him," answered an old man in a grey cloak, tied round the waist with a blue sash. "Where is his majesty?"

The woman led him to the house, where the monarch was found lying on a flock-bed, with a coarse cloth thrown over him, in an obscure corner of the room. The old man knelt down, and asked him tenderly what ailed him, and whether he thought that, by the aid of medical remedies, he might recover? The king assured him there was no hope, and begged the supposed priest to receive his confession; whereupon the old man, bending over him, under pretence of discharging his holy office, drew a dagger, and stabbed the unresisting victim to the heart; repeating deliberately his thrusts, till he thought life was extinct.

On hearing of the death of his father, James was inconsolable. He ordered all search to be made for the murderer. No trace of him could be found—the only evidence that could be procured against him was the description of his person by the old woman of the cottage, and the dagger with which the deed had been committed. The woman was taken before James, that he might receive the evidence with his own ears. The room in which he led the evidence was purposely darkened. The dreadful state of mind into which the quasi parricide was cast, exhibiting alternately remorse, terror, grief, and shame, would have consigned him to absolute seclusion, had he not thought that he would make some amends for his crime, by endeavouring to discover the murderer of his parent. He threatened the most exemplary vengeance; and, while he sat wrapped in gloom, in an apartment darkened almost to night, his emissaries were active on every hand, in endeavouring to find some clue to the murder. The old woman was placed before the king, and the dagger put into his hands.

"What is this?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the instrument, which still retained upon its blade the blood of his father's heart. "God's mercy! It is my own dagger!—ay, that very dagger I wore and lost upon that dreadful day!"

The words were uttered in a low tone, and rendered, by the king's dreadful excitement, unintelligible. Partly recovering himself, he cast his eyes on the woman and the two courtiers that sat beside, and seeing them occupied in arranging the materials for taking down the precognition, he thrust the dagger among the folds of his robes, and sat and trembled, as if the finger of an avenging God was pointing him out to the world as the murderer of his father. He was several times on the point of swooning, as he thought he observed Lord Gray, who was present, following with his eye his extraordinary motions, and searching with a keen look for the dagger.

"We had better have the dagger for the woman to speak to," said Gray. "Your majesty hath examined it, I opine."

"Proceed with the precognition, my lord," said James, hesitatingly. "I shall retain the dagger, and examine it in private. My grief chokes me. I cannot put the questions. Proceed, my lord."

The king trembled as he uttered these words, and Gray and the other courtier looked at each other, as if they held a mental colloquy as to his strange conduct. They proceeded in the examination of the woman, in which they went over several incidents already communicated.

"Are you sure the dagger was that carried by the old priest who stabbed the king?" said Gray.

"I'm sure it is," answered the woman. "It fell frae him as he hastened out o' the cottage. It was the bluid on't that first tauld me o' his cruel act; for I thought the king's granes cam frae the pains o' his distress."

"You got a good sight of the old man, then, I presume?" continued Gray.

"A far better sight than thae closed shutters will allow me to hae o' his majesty, wha sits there," replied she.

James started, and looked fearfully at the witness.

"Describe the man," said Gray.

"He was a tall man," replied she, "dressed in a lang grey cloak, which was bound round the middle by a blue belt. I observed a deep scar on his right cheek, and his left ee was like a white grape."

This description, which was exactly that of James's night-visiter, came upon him like the ghost of his murdered father. He fainted. Lord Gray ran to his assistance; and, as he supported him, the dagger fell out from among the folds of the robes. James remained insensible for some time. As he recovered, his eye fell upon the bloodstained instrument, that was now in the hands of Gray; and, stretching out his right hand, he convulsively seized it, took it from the baron, and again secreted it in the folds of his robes. His manner was wild and confused.

"Take away that woman," he cried; "she has no more to say; and if she had, I am not in a condition to hear it. She talks strange things about a man that hath a gash on his cheek and an eye like a grape. I cannot listen to these things. The words burn my brain. She must be a sorceress. I shall have her sent to the stake."

"She is an honest dame, your majesty," said the other courtiers, "and beareth an excellent reputation where she resideth."

"Thou liest!" cried the king. "Take her away! take her away! I must be alone. These windows are not darkened enough. Hath the smith forged my penance-belt? See to it, Gray. My soul crieth for pain, as he who hath been burned crieth for fire to cure the pain of fire. I did not lose my dagger at Sauchie. It was a lie forged by a renegade. I have it still, and will show it thee on the morrow. Let me rest. This brain requireth repose."

The lords hurried away the witness, and left the king to his meditations. He was seized with one of those extraordinary fits of terror and remorse that afterwards visited him at regular intervals. When the fit left him, he summoned up courage to publish an account of the person who killed the king, and offered a large reward for his apprehension. In this description, he followed the account of the woman as well as his own experience; the fearful marks were set forth with great care; and no one doubted but that an individual, so strangely pointed out by nature, as differing from other men, would be instantly seized and brought before the throne. While this hope was vigorous, the king was in misery. He feared a meeting with the mysterious being who had tracked him in his rebellious course. Every sound roused him, and made him tremble. But the time passed, and the hope died. No such person was ever seen or heard of; and James was left, during the remainder of his life, to the terrors of a conscience that never slept. We do not pretend to reconcile the conduct of this mysterious personage, in first dissuading the prince from opposing his father, and then killing the latter with the former's dagger; but James himself put a construction upon it which accorded with the state of his mind and feelings. He wore around him, ever after, an iron chain, as penance for being the cause of the death of his father—conceiving that Providence followed that extraordinary course we have detailed for punishing him for his filial disobedience. Some say the same figure appeared to him before he went to Flodden. A reference to our forthcoming story, "The Death of James IV.," may clear up this point. The legends are clearly connected, and make one history. They are, however, both equally mysterious and obscure. In both, the figures boded for good, and yet evil came. They were fearful demonstrations of a secret power, that worketh "in strange ways." Inscrutable at the time, the mystery has never been cleared up. We have done something—yet how much remains in darkness!

GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.

V.—THE RESCUE AT ENTERKIN.

The Pass of Enterkin is well known to us. How often have we passed through it in the joyous season of youth, when travelling to and from the College of Edinburgh! It is a deep and steep ravine among the Lowther Hills, which separate Dumfries from Lanarkshire; through which a torrent pours its thousand-and-one cascades—

"Amidst the rocks around,
Devalling and falling into a pit profound."

The road, which is a mere track, winds along the banks of the torrent, ever and anon covered and flanked by huge masses of rock, which have been shaken from the brow of the mountain, or been excavated, as it were, and brought into high relief, by the roaring flood. About the middle of this pass, as if it were for the express purpose of relieving the thirst of the weary traveller, in a wilderness "unknown to public view," and at a distance from any human habitation, there sparkles out, from beneath a huge mass of grey-stone, a most plentiful and refreshing fount or well of spring-water. How often have we enjoyed the refreshment of this spring, in the society of the companions of our travel and of our early days! Here we reposed at noon, making use of refreshments, and indulging in all the wild and ungoverned hilarity of high spirits and bosoms void of care. Yet, even amidst our madness, we could not help viewing, or at least imagining that we viewed, a blood-spot on the very rock from which the water burst in such purity and abundance, and recollecting the sad narrative with which that stone was connected—for we were all Closeburn lads, and had heard the tale of the Pass of Enterkin repeated by our nearest and dearest relatives. Fletcher of Saltoun says, "Let me make the popular songs of a country, and any one who pleases may make the laws." We would go a little farther, and say that, in youth, the character is decidedly formed by traditionary lore; and that thus mothers contribute, far more than they are aware of at the time, to the formation of the future character—to the happiness or misery, through life, of their children. At least we know this, that we would not give what we learned from our mother, for all that we have ever attained either by private or public study. But to our story.

It was during a drifty night in the month of February, 168-, that a party of ten individuals were travelling up this awful pass. The party consisted of six dragoons, who had dismounted from and were leading their horses, and four country people, three males and one female, whom they were driving before them, bound as prisoners, on their way to Edinburgh. The drift was choking, and they had ever and again to turn round to prevent suffocation. There were other and imminent dangers. At every turn, the road, from the eddies of the drift, became invisible; and they were in danger of losing footing, and of being precipitated many fathoms down into the bottom of the roaring linn beneath. The soldiers were loud in their curses against their commanding officer, Captain Douglas, who had sent them, under command of a serjeant, on this business, at such an unseasonable hour, in such a tempest, and along such a difficult road; whilst the poor nonconformists—for such they were—employed their breath, in the intervals of the blast, in singing a part of the 121st Psalm:—

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid;
My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who heaven and earth hath made."

This employment was matter of scoffing and merriment to the soldiers, who said they would prefer a good fire and a warm supper, with a kind landlady, to all the hills in Scotland. They continued, however, captive and guard, to advance, till they arrived at a spot somewhat sheltered by a rock, beneath which the snow had melted, and presented a black appearance amidst the surrounding whiteness. It was manifest that this was a well of spring-water; and the serjeant called a halt, that the soldiers might partake of some refreshment from a flask of brandy which he had wisely provided. The poor prisoners were not so well supplied, and were admonished by the licentious and cruel-hearted soldiers to refresh themselves with a stave. Amidst the prisoners there was a young woman of great beauty, the daughter of the Laird of Stennis, or Stonehouse; whom, because she had refused to betray her own father, and had intercommuned, as they termed it, with a young man in her neighbourhood, to whom she was promised in marriage, they were dragging onward to Edinburgh, to stand her trial, along with her uncle, Thomas Harkness, Peter M'Kechnie, and John Gibson. After the soldiers had made several applications to the flask, one of them, manifestly intoxicated, put his arms around the maiden's waist, and, using language improper to be mentioned, was in the act of compelling her to admit his unseemly and dishonourable addresses, when all at once a musket was fired, and the soldier fell down, gave one groan, and expired. This was clearly a signal which had been anticipated by the survivors, for in an instant they were out of sight, with the exception of poor John Gibson, who was shot through the head as he was making for the linn beneath. There was an intended rescue; for several more shots were fired from behind the rock, and one of the surviving soldiers was severely wounded. However, the three remaining prisoners had escaped for the time, probably through their better knowledge of the road, which at this point leads to a fordable part of the torrent. This was the famous rescue of Enterkin, mentioned in Woodrow, in consequence of which the whole lower district of Dumfries-shire was laid under military law; and Grierson, and Douglas, and Dalzell of Binns, went about like roaring lions, devouring and murdering at their pleasure. The rescue had been planned and conducted by William M'Dougal, the young Laird of Glenross, who, knowing the route the soldiers would take, and arranging the thing with Mary Maxwell, had resolved upon a rescue at this very spot. The impertinence, however, of the soldier had accelerated the catastrophe; for Robert M'Turk, one of his own servants—whom, along with a young band of seven or eight from Monihive, he had associated with himself in the plot—observing the indignity to which Miss Maxwell was exposed, could not wait orders, but killed the brute on the spot. Poor Robert suffered for his rashness; for a volley was immediately fired in the direction of the shot, which proved immediately fatal to him, and wounded, though slightly, one or two of his associates. William M'Dougal, immediately observing the affray, followed Mary, who, according to a preconcerted scheme, had fled into the linn; and, detaching themselves from the other two, for purposes of safety, they, with great difficulty, gained the summit of the Lowther Hills, from which the snow had drifted into the hollows; and, after various efforts to secure shelter, were compelled to sit down amidst the cold drift, and under the scoug of a peat-brow. Poor Mary was entirely overcome; but her lover was strong and resolute; and, having provided himself with sufficient refreshments, these two attached lovers felt themselves comparatively comfortable, even amidst the snow and the tempest. Burns talks of "a canny hour at een," and Goldsmith of "the hawthorn shade, for whispering lovers made;" but here was the bare fell; the cold snow accumulating in drifted wreaths around their persons; and yet Will never kissed his Mary with greater good-will; nor did Mary at any other time—not even in the snug "chaumer ayont the close"—cling so closely to the breast or to the lips of her faithful lover and the saviour of her life. But what was to be done? The tempest continued unabated. It was twelve o'clock, and the moon was up, though only visible at intervals. There was no house known to them nearer than the shieling at Lowtherslacks, about two miles distant. The hollows were heaped up with drift, and it was scarcely possible to clear or to avoid them, in directing their course towards Lowtherslacks. What was to be done? They might have kindled a fire with Will's musket; but where were the combustibles? In spite of French brandy, a chilliness was gradually coming over them; and they were upon the point of falling into that fatal state in such a situation—namely, into a sound sleep—when their attention was aroused by the barking, or rather howling, of a dog in their immediate neighbourhood. At first Will sprung to his gun; but, upon reflection, he began to divine the cause; and, whilst raising his voice to invite the approach of the dog, the animal was literally betwixt his shoulders. It was manifestly in a great state of alarm, and looked and pulled at his clothes, as if inviting him to follow it. This was immediately done; and the couple were led on, across the moss, into a ravine or hollow, on the further side of which, where the snow lay deep, the dog began to scrape and work most vigorously. In a little the end or corner of a shepherd's plaid made its appearance, and ultimately the full-length figure of a man, who was still warm, and breathed as in a deep and refreshing sleep. With much difficulty the reclining body was aroused into perception, and he was made aware of his danger, and help which had thus miraculously arrived. There being still some of the cordial remaining, it was immediately applied to the awakened sleeper's lips; and, after a few minutes of mutual inquiry, it was resolved to attempt the road to Lowtherslacks, whence the shepherd had come, in quest, and to secure the safety, of his master's flocks. This, however, would have been almost impossible, had not the shepherd's son, with a young and stout lad, been in the neighbourhood, and actually in quest of the perishing man. With much difficulty, however, and through some danger from scaurs and deep wreaths, the party at last reached the shieling, where a half-distracted wife and a daughter, woman-grown, were thrown into ecstasy by their safe arrival.

Such accommodation and refreshment as the house could afford was freely and kindly given; and Mary Maxwell slept soundly, after all her troubles and escapes, in the arms of the shepherd's daughter.

Next morning brought light, a keen frost, a clear sky, and many serious thoughts regarding the safety of all concerned. The shepherd was not ignorant of the risk which he ran; and the guests were equally aware of the danger to which this hospitable family was exposed, in consequence of an act of humanity, or rather of gratitude. It was resolved at last, that, till the weather mitigated, Mary Maxwell should remain in hiding, in the corner of a ewe bught, in the neighbourhood, having her food supplied from the house, and coming out occasionally, during the darkness of night in particular, to join the family party. This small erection had been made to shelter one or two ewes, which had felt the severities of a late spring, during lambing time. It was lined with rushes, built of turf, and scarcely visible even when you were close upon it, in consequence of a high wall, into a corner or angle of which it was fixed, like a limpet to a rock. William M'Dougal bore away by a glen which opened into the Clyde; and, having promised to return for his beloved Mary when occasion should suit, he was seen no more for the present.

Leadhills was the nearest inhabited abode to this lonely shieling; and any little necessaries which so humble a cottage required were obtained from this village. In consequence of this intercourse, it was early known at the shieling of Lowtherslacks, that the strictest search had been made, and was still making, for the prisoners, and for the rescuers at the Pass of Enterkin; that several had been taken, and marched off to Edinburgh; but whether William Macdougal was of the number or not was not ascertained. In fact, it was more than dangerous to make any direct inquiry respecting any particular individual, as attention was thus drawn to his case; and informers were kept and paid all over the country (under the superintendence of the Aberdeen curates), to give information to the military, even of the most casual surmise. It was during a dark night, about a fortnight after Will M'Dougal's disappearance, that he reappeared at Lowtherslacks, and spent the whole evening in company with his beloved Mary and her kind entertainers. He had learned, he said, whilst in hiding at Crawfordjohn, that the soldiers had been called off to quell an apprehended insurrection at Glencairn, and had taken this opportunity of revisiting the spot which was so pleasantly associated in his mind. He had been observed, however, in crossing the hills, which had now escaped from a part of their covering, and information had been lodged with Grierson at Wanlockhead of the fact. The truth was, that the report of the absence of the dragoons from the hill country was a mere device to bring forth the poor nonconformist from his hiding-place, and to expose him the more readily to surprise. The fireside of Lowtherslacks was never more cheerfully encircled than on this memorable evening. The peats burned brightly, and the sooty rafters looked down from their smoky recesses, with a placid gleam, on the happy group. About twelve o'clock, it was judged safe to separate—Mary to return to her straw bed in the sheepfold, and William to make the best of his way back to his retreat at Crawfordjohn. Next morning, an hour before daybreak, and under the dim light of a waning moon, saw this solitary cottage surrounded with armed men on horseback. The inmates were immediately summoned from their beds, and a strict and unceremonious search for William M'Dougal commenced. The father, the son, the wife, the daughters, and the herd-lad, were all turned out, half naked, to the croft before the door. Never, perhaps, was there a more fearful and melancholy gathering. That moon,

"Well known to hynd and matron old,"

in her last quarter, hung on the southern horizon, ready to shroud herself from such unhallowed doings in the mountain shadow. Above them was the famous burial-ground, where, time out of mind, the suicides of two counties had been enearthed. The earth was partially blackened by a thaw, which still continued; but vast wreaths lay in the hollows, and looked out in cold and chilly brightness from their mountain recesses. Grierson insisted, in terms peculiar to himself, on the old shepherd and his family giving information of the retreat of M'Dougal, who had been traced but last night to the neighbourhood. It was mentioned by one of the dragoons, that he even saw the herd-lad foregather with a figure, which he took to be William M'Dougal, on the hill-top; but he was too distant, and without his horse, else he would have given chase.

The young man was interrogated, but refused to give any information on the subject. Grierson lost all patience, swore a round oath, and, presenting his pistol, shot him dead on the spot. The report of firearms brought up two figures, scarcely discernible in the dubious light, from the fold-dyke. The one was a female, the other a male. O God! they were those of Mary and William, who, being unable to withdraw himself from his beloved, had ensconced himself, along with her, amongst the rushes of the little cot. They came rushing on in frenzy, exclaiming that they were there to suffer—to be shot—to be tortured; but entreating that their kind and innocent entertainers might not suffer on their account. "So ho!" exclaimed Grierson, "we have unkennelled the foxes at last; secure them, lambs, and let us march for the guid town of Biggar; we will reach it ere night; and then, ho! my jolly lovers, for Edinburgh—sweet Edinburgh! Can you sing, my sweet maiden,

'Now wat ye wha I met yestreen?'

It's a pretty song, my neat one; and all about Edinburgh, and Arthur's Seat, and love, and sweet William. You will certainly give us a stanza or two by the way? It beats your covenanting psalm-singing hollow." And then he sang out, in a whining covenanting tone—

"'Wo's me, that I in Meschech am
A sojourner so long;
Or that I in the tents do dwell
To Grierson that belong.'

March, march, devils and devil's dams; we have now picked up a goodly company of these heather-bleats—these whistling miresnipes of the hills—no less than eight; we will march them, every clute, in at the West Port, to glorify God at the head of the Grassmarket. March! It is broad day, and we have a pretty long journey. As for you" (speaking to the shepherd), "old sheep's-head and Moniplies, we will leave you and your good friends to do the duties of sepulture to this bit of treason. There is good ground, I am told, hard by, where the weary rest. You can all cut your own throats, to save us the trouble, and your churchyard accommodation is secured to you. Good-by, old Lucky and young Chucky! I have no time at present to doff my bonnet and do the polite; and your joe, there, is past speaking, I suspect, much more past kissing. Good-by! good-by!" said the monster, waving his sword, and laughing immoderately at his own savage wit.

The body of Sandy Laidlaw was indeed carefully interred—not where pointed out by Lag, but in the churchyard of Leadhills, over which a small headstone still retains the letters, "A. L., murdered 1687." Poor Leezy Lawson, who was indeed the betrothed of Sandy, never saw a day to thrive after this dreadful morning. She went out of one strong convulsion into another for many hours; and then sank into a lethargic unconsciousness, which terminated in mental and bodily imbecility, which ended, in less than twelve months, in death. Her body lies alongside of that of her lover; but there is no intimation of this fact on the stone; and all marks of the presence on earth of these two once living and happy beings has passed away—etiam periere ruinæ—their very dust has perished.

The court at Edinburgh was crowded on the trial of the state prisoners, particularly of those who had been concerned in the rescue at Enterkin. There Lauderdale sat, after an evening's debauch, with his long hair hanging uncombed about his shoulders and over his brow; with his waistcoat unbuttoned towards the bottom; his face round, swollen, red, and fiery, and his eyes swimming in every cruel and unhallowed imagining. Poor Mary Maxwell, trembling, weak, and worn out with travelling on foot, was placed at the bar, and M'Kenzie, the king's advocate, proceeded against her. Her indictment was in the usual style. She was accused of harbouring nonconformists; of intercommuning with outlaws; of conspiring and aiding in the hellish rescue at Enterkin, where murder had been committed; and in continuing, after all due warning, to hold intercourse with the king's enemies. But the proof of all this was somewhat deficient; and even in these awful times, such was the respect for public opinion, that the court durst not, in the absence of some direct evidence, pronounce sentence of death. She, as well as William M'Dougal, against whom there was still less evidence, were remitted to Dunnottar Castle—of which march and unheard-of misery we have already told the tale—and were to have been exported thence, in due time, to America; but mercy and King William intercepted the cruel sentence: and William M'Dougal and Mary Maxwell were permitted to return to their native glen in peace. The M'Dougals of Glenross are sprung from this root, and still continue a respected name in the valley.

VI.—THE FATAL MISTAKE.

Old Elspeth Wallace lived, at the time of which I am about to speak, in a sequestered spot in the Parish of Dalry, in the district of Carrick, Ayrshire. She was a widow woman, but not in indigent circumstances. Through the kindness of the family of Cassilis, she had a cow's grass, a small croft, a pickle barley, which, in due time, and under the usual process, was converted into small drink, or tippenny, as it was called in those days.

"Wi' tippeny," says Burns, "I fear nae evil."

She had, besides, a good large kailyard, from which she contrived to support her cow during the winter season. In fact, Elspeth's whole riches consisted in her cow and an only daughter, who, however, was out at service in a neighbouring farm town. This cow and Elspeth were constant companions, and it was difficult to say which was most essential to the other's happiness. The first thing Elspeth did, after her duty to her God, was to attend to Doddy; and the first look Doddy gave over her shoulder was towards the door through which Elspeth was expected to enter. During the fine days of summer, Elspeth might be seen conversing with her cow as with a rational being, whilst Doddy was engaged in plucking, or in ruminating. If Elspeth went for a day from home, Doddy was quite disconsolate, and would roam about the house and park, as if in quest of her companion. In fact, these two sentient beings had become, as it were, essential to each other's happiness. The small circumstance of rationality had been overlooked, and the common instinct of kindly feeling had united them completely. There was just one other inmate of this sequestered apartment—a large, sonsy, gaucy cat. This animal partook in all Elspeth's meals and movements; ceased purring when Elspeth prayed, and went afield and returned at Elspeth's heels like a colly-dog. To be sure, there was a little jealousy on Doddy's side, when pussy seemed to occupy too much attention, for she (videlicet Doddy) would come up and smell at pussy as she sat on Elspeth's knee, and then, shaking her head and snorting, make off quick-step to a distance. Nevertheless, these three—we dare not say this triumvirate, for fear of the etymologists—got on exceedingly well, and with fewer disputations and quarrellings than generally occur amongst the same number of rationals. Elspeth had been married for one single year and fifteen days, as she often mentioned. Her husband had been gardener at Collean, and had been killed on the spot by the fall of a tree, which he was assisting in felling. Jenny, or, as she was familiarly called, Jessy, Wallace was born a few days after this mournful accident, and had been reared with much care and affection. Necessity, however, removed her, at the age of fifteen, from her mother's roof, but to no great distance; and she would frequently come to visit her mother of a Saturday evening, and return next day to her post of duty. Such was the state of things at Blairquhan, in the year of our Lord 1678, when the Highland Host was let loose upon the western district of Scotland, in particular. Bonds! bonds! bonds! were then the order of the day; the proprietor must give bond for his tenantry, the tenantry for their servants, the father and mother for their children, and the brother, even, for his sister. These bonds were certifications to prevent those who were, or were presumed to be, under your authority, from attending conventicles, hill-preachings, and prayer-meetings—in short, from committing any act which could be construed into a resistance to the most despotic and cruel executions that ever vexed an oppressed people. This Highland Host, as it was familiarly called, consisted of an army of half-naked and wholly savage Highlanders of the name and clan of Campbell, from the County of Argyle. Their only object was pillage, their only law the gratification of the lowest propensities, and their only restraint their officers' pleasure. "When the Highlanders went back," says Woodrow, "one would have thought that they had been at the sacking of some besieged town, by their baggage and luggage. They were loaded with spoil; they carried away a great many horses, cows, and no small quantity of goods out of merchant ships. You would have seen them with loads of bedclothes, carpets, men and women's wearing apparel, pots and pans, gridirons, shoes, and other furniture," &c. Such was the nature and character of the Highland Host, which, at the date to which we have referred, overspread, and oppressed, and outraged from Greenock to Galloway, from Lanark to the town of Ayr.

Elspeth Wallace and her daughter were sitting, of a Saturday's night, by the side of a comfortable peat-fire. It was a hard frost, moonlight, and in the month of February. Their supper consisted of boiled sowans, with a small accompaniment, on such occasions, as that of beer and bannock. Elspeth had just got her pipe lighted, and was beginning to weigh the propriety of her daughter accepting of a proposal of marriage, when the door opened, or rather gave way, and in burst "her nane sel," in all the glory of filth and nakedness. There were two figures on the floor, in Highland plaids; but with a very scanty appointment of nether garments. There was no commanding officer present; and these two helpless women were left to the mercy, or rather the merciless pleasure, of these two Highland savages. In vain did Elspeth expostulate, and represent the cruelty of their conduct. They but partially understood what she said, and replied in broken English. Their actions, however, were sufficiently demonstrative: for the one laid hold of the poor girl, who screamed and expostulated in vain; and the other unloosed the cow from the stake, and tying the old helpless woman to the same stake from which they had unloosed the cow, they immediately began their march up the Glen of Blairquhan. Poor Jessie Wallace soon learned that she was destined for the closet of my Lord Airley, then commanding in the district, who had unfortunately seen her, marked her beauty, and destined her to ruin; and that the cow was the price at which the services of these two savages had been procured. It was difficult to say which of these brothers (for brethren they were, not only in iniquity, but by blood) had the more difficult task—he who dragged onwards the camstairy and unwilling brute, or he who half-dragged, half-carried, the resisting and struggling maiden. The Sabine rape was playwork to this. Donald swore, and Archibald cursed; but still the progress which they made was little, and the trouble and labour which they were subjected to were immense. At last matters came to a dead stand: Doddy absolutely refused to march one inch further; and Donald proposed that, since "matters might no better be," they should "slay te prute" at once. So, having secured Jessie's ankles by means of her napkin, and placed her upon a rock in the midst of the mountain stream, with all suitable admonitions respecting the folly of even meditating an escape, Archibald and Donald set to work to carry their deadly purpose into execution on Doddy. But how was this to be effected? Doddy, very unaccountably, as it seemed to her nightly visiters, would neither lead nor drive, nor in any way be art and part in her own destruction. Having held a council of death, and having resolved to carry over the hill as much as they could of Doddy's flesh, they immediately set to work in compassing the means of destruction. But these were not so much at hand as might have been wished. They had neither nail nor hammer, else they would have given Doddy a Sisera exit; nor had they even an ordinary pocket-knife. They were totally destitute of arms, by order of their officer, as their duty was not to kill, but to keep alive—not to conquer, but to spoil. What was to be done? "Deil tak them wha hae nae shifts," says the old proverb; but then it unfortunately adds, "Deil tak them, again, that hae owre mony." So, at the suggestion of Donald, a large water-worn stone was selected from the channel of the burn, and being tied up firmly into the corner or poke of the Highland plaid, it was judged an efficient instrument of death. Doddy, however, observed, and appeared, at least to Jessie, to understand what was going on, and had taken her measures accordingly. There they stood—Donald holding on by the horns, and Archy swinging and aiming, but hesitating, from the instability of the object to be struck, to inflict the fatal blow. Again and again the stone was swung, and the blow was meditated; but again and again did Doddy twist and twine herself almost out of Donald's hands. At last, losing all patience, Archy swung the great stone round his head, which, when in mid-air, took a different direction from that which was intended—or it might be that the error was owing to the sudden wresting of Doddy; but so it was, and of verity, that the stone came ultimately full swing, not upon the forehead of the cow, but upon the temples of Donald, and felled him to the ground.

"Wi' glowering een and lifted hands,"

says Burns,

"Poor Hughoc like a statue stands."

It would be impossible, by any similitude or quotation, to give an accurate picture of Archy Campbell, when he saw Doddy, free as air, taking the bent and crooning defiance, and his own brother lying a corpse at his feet, and all by his own hands. It is needless to say that, in all bosoms, there are sympathies and calls of affection. The trade upon which Donald and Archy were employed was a bad one; but they had great brotherly affection; and it was indeed, as has been repeated to us, an affecting sight to behold Archy's grief on this occasion. He leaned over, he embraced, he kissed his brother, he raised up the dead body to the wind, he braided back the hair, he wiped the foam from the lips, he burst at last into tears, and fell down, apparently lifeless, on his brother's corpse. So deeply has God imprinted himself on our natures, nothing—not even Lauderdale cruelty—could entirely erase his image.

Poor Jessy escaped, in the meantime, to her mother, and was married in the course of a month. The present member of Parliament for the Ayr Burghs is her lineal descendant.

VII.—BONNY MARY GIBSON.

The summer of 168- was wet and ungenial; the little grain which Scotland at that time produced had never ripened, and men and women would shear all day, and carry home the greater part of the thin and scanty upland crop on their backs. The winter was issued in by strange and marvellous reports—men fighting in the air—showers of Highland bonnets—and eclipses of no ordinary occurrence. In fact, the northern lights, which for centuries had disappeared, had again returned, and were viewed by a superstitious people with much dread and amazement. The end of the world was anticipated and confidently predicted, and the soul of man sank within him under the pressure of an awakened conscience. Besides, political events were sufficiently distressing: the battle of Bothwell Brig had been fought and lost by the friends of Presbytery and religious freedom; and strong parties, under the command of demons, denominated Grierson, Johnstone, Douglas, and Clavers, scoured the west country, and Dumfries-shire in particular, making sad and fearful havoc amongst God's covenanted flock. It appeared to many, and to Walter Gibson of Auchincairn in particular, that, what betwixt the pestilence induced by want and bad provisions, and the devastations brought on the earth by the hand of man, life was not only precarious, but a burden. Men rose, went about their wonted employment, and retired again to rest, without a smile, and often without exchanging a word. Young men and young women were seen constantly perusing the Bible, and taking farewell of each other, with the feeling that they were never to meet again. The cattle were driven into the farmer's stores from the outfields, and there bled every three weeks. The blood thus obtained was mixed and boiled with green kail from the yard, and this, with a mere sprinkling of meal, was all the subsistence which could be afforded to master and servant, to guest and beggar. A capacious pot, filled with this supply, stood from morn to night in the farmer's kitchen, with a large horn spoon stuck into the centre of it; and every one who entered helped himself to a heaped spoonful, and retired, making way for a successor. If the summer had been ungenial, the winter was unusually severe. Snow and frost had set in long before Christmas, with awful severity. The sheep were starving and dying by scores on the hills; and the farmer, with his servant band, were employed all day in digging out the half and wholly dead from the snow wreaths. The strength of man failed him; and the very dogs deserted their masters, and lived wild on the hills, feeding on the dead and dying. It was indeed an awful time, and a judgment-like season, unparalleled (unless perhaps by the year '40 of the last century) in the annals of Scotland. Five hundred human beings are said to have perished of hunger merely within the limited district of Dumfries-shire, besides many hundreds whom the plague (for such it was deemed and called) cut off.

It was on a cold frosty night, with intervals of drifting and falling snow, that a strange apparition made its way into the kitchen of Auchincairn, in the hill district of the Parish of Closeburn. It was naked, emaciated, and extremely feeble, and rolled itself into the langsettle with extreme difficulty. "In the name of God," said Mrs Gibson, "who and what art thou?" But the apparition only stretched out its hand, and pointing to its mouth, signified that it was dumb. Food, such as has been described, was immediately administered; and a glass of French brandy seemed to revive the skeleton greatly. Walter Gibson, and his wife Janet Harkness, were not the persons to deny shelter on such a night and to such an object. Warm blankets and a great peat-fire were resorted to; and the next morning saw the stranger much recovered. But he was manifestly deaf and dumb, and could only converse by signs;—his features, now that they could be clearly marked, were regular, and a superior air marked his movements. He was apparently young; but he refused to make known, by means of writing, his previous history. There he was, and there he seemed disposed to remain; and it was not possible to eject by force a being at once so dependent and so interesting. As he gained strength, he would walk out with an old musket, which hung suspended from the roofing of the kitchen, and return with valuable and acceptable provisions—hares, miresnipes, woodcocks, partridges, and even crows, were welcome visiters in the kitchen of Auchincairn. Without the aid of a dog, and with ammunition which nobody knew how he procured, he contrived to contribute largely to the alleviation of the winter's sufferings. The family, consisting of one daughter about eighteen years of age, a son about twenty-two, and four or five male and female servants, were deeply impressed with the notion that he possessed some unearthly powers, and was actually sent by Heaven for the purpose of preserving them alive during the asperities and deprivations of the famine and the storm. The winter gradually and slowly passed away, and it was succeeded by a spring, and a summer, and a harvest of unusual beauty and productiveness. The stranger was a wanderer in the fields, and in the linns, and in the dark places of the mountains; and it was observed that he had read all the little library of Auchincairn—consisting of Knox's History, "The Holy War," "The Pilgrim's Progress," and a volume of sermons—again and again. He had clearly been well educated, and, as his frame resumed a healthy aspect, he looked every inch a gentleman. Mary Gibson was a kind-hearted, bonny lassie. There were no pretensions to ladyhood about her; but her sweet face beamed with benevolence, and her warm heart beat with goodness and affection. She had all along been most kind and attentive to the poor dumb gentleman (as she called him), for it early struck her that the stranger had been born such. But, all at once, the stranger disappeared; and, though search was made in all his haunts, not a trace of him could be found. It was feared that, in some of his reveries, he had stumbled over the Whiteside Linn; but his body was not to be found. Newspapers, in these days, there were none, at least in Dumfries-shire; and in a month or two the family of Auchincairn seemed to have made up their mind to regard their mysterious visiter in the light of a benevolent messenger of God—in short, of an angel. Into this opinion, however, Mary, it was observed, did not fully enter. But she said little, and sung much, and seemed but little affected by the stranger's departure.

It was in the month of November of this destructive season, that, one morning, long ere daylight, the close of Auchincairn was filled with dragoons. There were fearful oaths, and plunging of swords into bed-covers and wool-sacks, in quest of some one after whom they were searching. At length Walter Gibson and his son were roused from their beds, and placed, half-naked, in the presence of Grierson of Lag, to be interrogated respecting a stranger whom they had sheltered for months past, and whom Grierson described as an enemy to the king and his government. Of this, both son and father declared, and truly, their ignorance; but they were disbelieved, and immediately marched off, under a guard, to Lag Castle, to Dumfries, and ultimately to Edinburgh, there to await a mock trial, for harbouring a traitor. In vain was all remonstrance on the part of the wife and daughter. Resistance was impossible, and tears were regarded as a subject of merriment.

"Ay, pipe away there," said the infamous Lag, "and scream and howl your bellyfuls; but it will be long ere such music will reach the ear or soften the heart of my Lord Lauderdale. There is a maiden in Edinburgh, my gentle wood-dove," familiarly grasping Mary Gibson's chin, and squeezing it even to agony—"there is a maiden in Edinburgh more loving, by far, than thou canst be; and to this lady of the sharp tongue and heavy hand shall thy dainty brother soon be wedded. As to the old cock, a new pair of boots and a touch of the thumbikins will probably awaken his recollections and clear his judgment. But march, my lads!—we are wasting time." And the cavalcade rode off, having eaten and drunk all eatables and drinkables in the dwelling.

Mrs Gibson was a person of mild and submissive manners; but there was a strength in her character, which rose with the occasion. She immediately dried up her tears, spoke kindly, and in words of comforting, to her daughter; and, taking her plaid about her shoulders, retired to the barn, where she had long been in the habit of offering up her supplication and thanksgiving to the God of her fathers. When she came forth, after some hours of private communion with herself, she seemed cheered and resolved, and addressed herself to the arrangement of family matters as if nothing particular had happened. In a few days information was conveyed to her that her husband and son had been marched off to Edinburgh, there to await their trial, for the state offence of harbouring a rebel, but really to gratify the resentment of the parish curate, who had taken mortal offence at their nonconformity. Helen Gibson had already resolved in what manner she was to act; and, leaving her daughter to superintend domestic affairs, she set out, like her successor, Jeanie Deans, on foot and unprotected, to Edinburgh, there to visit her husband and son in their confinement, and intercede, should opportunity occur, with the superior and ruling powers, for their life and freedom. As she wandered up the wild path which conducts to Leadhills, it began to snow, and it was with infinite difficulty that she reached the highest town in Scotland, then an insignificant village. Fever was the consequence of this exertion; but, after a few days' rest, she recovered, and, though still feeble, pursued her way. At Biggar, news reached her that four individuals had, a few days before, been executed at the Gallowlee; and she retired to rest with an alarmed and a dispirited mind. The snow having thawed, she pursued her way under the Pentlands next day, and had advanced as far as Brighouse, at the foot of these hills, when, overcome by fatigue, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the excavation of a rock, upon the banks of a mountain torrent, which works its way through rock and over precipice at this place. Being engaged in prayer, she did not observe, for some time, a figure which stood behind her; but what was her surprise, when, on looking around, she recognised at once the well-known countenance of the poor dumb lad! He was now no longer dumb, but immediately informed her that he lived in the neighbourhood; and entreated his former mistress to accompany him home to his habitation. Surprise and astonishment had their play in her bosom—but comfort and something like confidence succeeded; for Mrs Gibson could not help seeing the finger of her God in this matter.

She was conveyed by her guide, now a well-dressed and well-spoken gentleman, to his abode at Pentland Tower—a strongly-built edifice, well fitted for defence, and indicating the antiquity of the family by which it had been possessed. The place was to her a palace, and she looked with amazement on the looking-glasses and pictures which it contained; but, what was of more moment and interest than all other considerations, she learned that King James had fled, and King William had given "liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison-doors to those who were bound." Nay more, her mysterious landlord informed her, that, having himself just obtained his pardon, he had only returned from skulking about, from place to place, to his paternal inheritance, a few days ago, and that, having heard of her family's misfortunes, occasioned in some measure by himself, he had immediately repaired to Edinburgh, had seen her husband and son, who were actually at that moment in another chamber of the same house, on their return home to Auchincairn. His rencounter with her had undoubtedly been providential, as he had not the slightest idea that she could possibly be in his neighbourhood.

The interview which followed, with all its interesting and fond recognisances, I shall leave to the reader's imagination—only noticing the kindness of the young Laird of Pentland Tower, in consequence of which the father and son were compelled to delay their return to Auchincairn for a few days, in the course of which a chaise one evening drove up to the door, from which alighted, dressed in her newest attire, and in all the pride of beauty and of a gentle nature, Mary Gibson.

The sequel can be easily anticipated. To all but Mary the poor persecuted stranger had been dumb; but to her he had formerly confided the secret of his birth, and his subsequent history; and in places "whar warl saw na," they had again and again sworn truth and fealty to each other. But, having learned that a search was going on in his neighbourhood, the young "Laird of Pentland Tower" had assumed a new disguise, and betaken himself to another locality, from which he was drawn by the blessed change of government already alluded to, as well as by his wish to dignify and adorn, with the name and the honour of wife, "a bonny, virtuous, kind-hearted lassie," who long continued to share and add to his happiness, and to secure the inheritance of Pentland Tower, with its domains, to the name of "Lindsay."

Among the claimants who, a few years ago, contended for the honours of the lordship of Lindsay, I observed a lineal descendant of Bonny Mary Gibson.

VIII.—THE ESKDALEMUIR STORY.

In the rural retreats of Eskdalemuir, the following narrative still exists in tradition:—

A soldier belonging to Johnstone of Westerhall's company had a fall from his horse, in consequence of which he was disabled for a time from service. He was committed to the charge of a poor but honest family in Eskdalemuir, near Yettbyres, where he was carefully nursed and well attended to. This family consisted of a mother, a daughter, and two sons, who were shepherds on the property of Yettbyres. The daughter's name was Jean Wilson; and the soldier's heart was lost to Jean, ere he was aware. In truth, Jean was a beauteous rosebud, a flower of the wilderness, in her seventeenth year, and most kind and attentive to their guest. To own more truth, Jean was likewise in love with the brave and manly figure and bearing of her patient; but she never told him so, being greatly averse to his profession and his politics—for he was one of the persecutors of God's people, and Jean's father had been shot on Dumfries Sands for his adherence to the Covenant. At last, however, and after many fruitless attempts on Jean's part to convert the soldier, and convince him of the evil of his profession, he was again summoned to his post—and the shieling of Yettbyres assumed its wonted peaceful aspect.

In the midst of the Eskdale mountains a scene was exhibited of no ordinary interest. A poor captive stood bound and blinded; a party of five soldiers, under the command of a serjeant, was ordered out to shoot him. The poor man had asked for five minutes of indulgence, which was granted; during which time he had sung some verses of a psalm, and prayed. It was night and full moon. It was in the midst of a mountain glen, and by the side of a mountain stream; all was still, and peaceful, and lonely around—but the passions of men were awake. There was a voice—it was the voice of Johnstone of Westerhall—which commanded the men to do their duty, and to blow out the brains of the poor kneeling captive.

"If I do, may I be hanged!" exclaimed the serjeant, standing out before his men, and looking defiance on his captain.

"What!" exclaimed Johnstone, "do you dare to disobey my orders? Soldiers, seize Serjeant Watson, and bind him!"

In the meantime, partly through the connivance of the men, and partly from the confusion which ensued, the captive had made his escape. To him the localities of this glen were all familiar; and, by ensconcing himself beneath and beyond a sheet of foaming water which was projected from an apron-fall in the linn, John Wilson effected his escape for the time.

The serjeant was immediately carried to head-quarters at Lockerby, and tried by a court-martial for disobedience of orders. The court consisted of Grierson of Lag, Winram of Wigton, Douglas of Drumlanrig, and Bruce of Bunyean. The fact of disobedience was not denied; but the soldier pled the obligations which he had been under to the Wilson family during his distress; and his consequent unwillingness to become the instrument of John Wilson's murder. Even Clavers was somewhat softened by the statement, and was half-inclined to sustain the reason, when Johnstone struck in, and urged strongly the necessity of preserving subordination at all times in the army—and particularly in these times, when instances of disobedience to orders were anything but uncommon. Douglas of Drumlanrig seemed likewise to be on the point of yielding to the better feelings of humanity, when Grierson, Winram, and Bruce decided, by a majority, that Serjeant Watson should be carried back to the ground where the act had been committed, and shot dead on the spot.

The poor serjeant's eyes were tied up, and the muskets of four soldiers levelled at his head, when a scream was heard, and a lovely girl, in the most frantic manner, threw herself into the arms of the victim.

"You shall not murder him!" she exclaimed; "or, if ye do, ye shall murder us both. What!—did he not save the life of my poor brother, and shall I scruple to lay down my life for him? Oh no, no! Level your murderous weapons, and bury us both, when your wish is done, in one grave! Oh, you never knew what woman's love was till now!"

He strained her to his bosom in reply.

"Keep off! keep off!" exclaimed a man's voice from behind. "Save, for Heaven and a Saviour's sake, oh, save innocent life! I am the victim you are in quest of—bind me, blindfold me, shoot me dead—but spare, oh, spare, in mercy and in justice, youth and innocence, the humane heart and the warm young bosom! Is not she my sister, ye men of blood?—and have none of ye a sister? Is not he my saviour, ye messengers of evil?—and have none of ye gratitude for deeds of mercy done? Surely, surely" (addressing himself to Westerhall), "ye will not, ye cannot, pronounce that fearful word which must prove fatal to three at once; for, as God is my hope, this day, and on this spot, will I die, if not to avert, at least to share, the fate of these two!"

It was remarked that a tear stood in the eye of Clavers, who turned his horse's head about, and galloped off the field. The men looked to Westerhall for orders; but he had turned his head aside, to look after his superior officer. It was evidently a fearful moment of suspense. The muskets shook in the men's hands; and, without saying one word, Johnstone turned his horse's head around, and rode over the hill after his superior.

The case was tried at Dumfries, and, hardened as bosoms were in these awful times, many an eye, unwont to weep, was filled with tears, as the circumstances of this fearful case unfolded themselves. Jean Wilson never looked so lovely as when, with a boldness altogether foreign to her general conduct, she confessed and exulted in her crime. The serjeant admitted the justice of his sentence, but pled his inability to avoid the guilt. John Wilson admitted his want of conformity, and urged his father's murder as sufficient ground for his rooted hatred of the murderers. The jury were not divided. They pronounced a sentence of acquittal, and the court rang with shouts of applause. From that day and hour Johnstone of Westerhall resigned his commission, and, betaking himself to private life, is said to have exhibited marks of genuine repentance.

The woods around Closeburn Castle are indeed most beautiful; and that winding glen which leads to Gilchristland is romantic in no ordinary degree. That is the land of the Watsons, the lineal descendants of this poor serjeant, who, immediately after the trial, married sweet Jeanie Wilson, and settled ultimately in the farm of Gilchristland, where they and theirs, many sons and daughters, have lived in respectability and independence ever since. That three-storey house which overlooks the valley of the Nith, and is visible from Drumlanrig to the Stepends of Closeburn, is tenanted by Alexander Watson, one of the wealthiest farmers and cattle-dealers in the south of Scotland.

IX.—THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

Upon the banks or shore of the Frith of Cree, at that point where it would be difficult to say whether the sea or the river prevailed, stood, in old times, a mud cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees. It was quite a nest of a thing; and beautifully did the blue smoke ascend, strongly relieved and brought out by the dark woodland. The ships in passing and repassing, sailed close to the door of this lonely dwelling, and would often, in fine weather, exchange salutations with its inmates. These inmates were Janet Smith and Nanny Nivison—the one old, and almost bedrid; the other young, and beautiful, and kind-hearted. Nanny, who was an orphan, lived with her grandmother; and, whilst she discharged the duties of a nurse, she was extremely efficient in earning their mutual subsistence. In these days, spinning-jennies were not; and many a fireside was enlivened by the whirr of the "big" or the birr of the "wee" wheel. The check-reel, with its cheerful click or challenge at every sixtieth revolution, was there; and the kitchen rafters were ornamented by suspended hanks of sale yarn. There sat, by a good, warm peat-fire, the aged and sleepy cat, winking contentment in both eyes, and prognosticating rain, by carefully washing her face with her fore-paw. There, too, in close alliance and perfect peacefulness, lay a blind cur-dog, who had known other days, and had followed to the field, if not some warlike lord, at least one of the lords of the creation, in the shape of John Nivison, who had been shot on the south range of the Galloway Hills for his adherence to the Covenant. His son Thomas, the brother of Nanny, had been long outlawed, and was supposed, even by his sister—his only sister—to have effected his escape to America. It was a beautiful and peaceful evening in the months of harvest—all was cheerfulness around. The mirthful band was employed, at no great distance, in cutting down and collecting into sheaves and stooks the abundant crop; and the husbandman, with his coat deposited in the hedge at the end of the field, was as busily employed as any of his band. The voice of man and woman, lad and lass, master and servant, was mixed in one continuous flow of rustic wit and rural jest. The surface of the Frith was smooth as glass, and the Galloway Hills looked down from heaven, and up from beneath, with brows of serenity and friendship. One or two vessels were tiding it up in the midst of the stream, with a motion scarcely perceptible. They had all sails set, and looked as if suspended in a glassy network, half-way betwixt heaven and earth. The sun shone westward, near to his setting, and the white and softly-rolled clouds only served to make the blue of a clear sky still more deep and lovely. The lassie wi' the lint-white locks spread over an eye of bonny blue—

"The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue!"—

might well assimilate to this sunny sky. Nature seemed to say to man, from above and from beneath—from hill and from dale—from land and from sea—from a thousand portals of beauty and blessedness—"Thou stranger on earth, enjoy the happiness which thy God prepares for thee. For thee, he hath hung the heavens in a drapery of light and love—for thee, he hath clothed the earth in fragrance and plenty—for thee, he hath spread out the waters of the great sea, and made them carriers of thy wealth and thy will from land to land, and from the broad sea to the city and the hamlet on the narrow frith." Thus spake, or seemed to speak, God to man, in the beautiful manifestations of his love. But what said "man to man?" Alas! true it is, and of verity, that

"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn."

The whole of the south of Scotland was, at this peaceful hour, overrun with locusts and caterpillars—with all that can hurt and destroy—that can mar, mangle, and torture—with rage, persecution, and violence—profanity, bloodshed, and death. Oh, what a contrast!—Look, only look, on this picture and on that:—Here all peace; there, Douglas, Grierson, Johnstone, Clavers: here, all mercy and love; there, the red dragoons, stained and besmeared with blood and with brains: here, the comforts, and fellowship, and affection of home and of kindred; there, the mountain solitude, the trembling refugee, the damp cave, and the bed of stone! Truly, God hath made man in innocence, but he hath found out many inventions, and, amongst others, the instruments of torture and of death—the bloody maiden—the accursed boots—and the thumbikin and torch, to twist and burn with anguish the writhing soul. And all this, for what? To convert the nation into a land of hypocrites—to stifle the dictates of conscience—to extinguish liberty, and establish despotism. But tempora mutantur: thank God! it is otherwise now with the people of Scotland—and the sword of oppressive violence has been sheathed for ever.

It was night, it was twelve o'clock, and all was silence, save that, at intervals, the grating crake of the landrail or corncraik was heard, like some importunate creditor craving payment, from breath to breath, of his due. An image stood in the passage of the clay-built dwelling—it was not visible, but there was silence and a voice—it was a well-known voice. "Oh, my God, it is my brother!" Thus exclaimed Nancy Nivison, whilst she threw herself, naked as she was, into the arms of her long-lost and sore-lamented brother. The old woman was gradually aroused to a conception of what was going forward; but her spirit was troubled within her, and she groaned, whilst she articulated, "Beware, I pray ye!—beware what ye're doing!—Douglas is as near as Wigton with his band o' murderers. They have shot the father, and they will not scruple to murder, by law or without law, the son. Oh sirs, I'm unco distressed to think o' the danger which this unexpected visit must occasion!" Thomas Nivison had, indeed, sailed for America; but he had been shipwrecked on the Isle of Arran, not far from the coast of Ireland, and had lived for months with the fishermen, by assisting them in their labour. But hame is hame—

"Oh, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!"

So breathes, in perfect nature and simplicity, the old song; and so felt, amidst the bare rocks and stormy inlets of Arran, poor Thomas Nivison. And for the sake of this humble home, this poor outlaw, upon whose head a price had been set (as he had wounded, almost to death, one of his father's murderers), had run, and was now running, incalculable risks. Long ere daylight Thomas Nivison had betaken himself to a hiding-place in the linns of Cree; but his visit had not escaped observation. A smuggler of brandy and tea from the Isle of Man, being engaged in what he denominated the free-trade, chanced to mark his approach, and fled immediately with the news to Douglas at Wigton. The troop surrounded the house by break of day; but the bird was flown.

What a scene was exhibited, in a few days, on this peaceful shore! Two women, the one old, and scarcely able to support her head, and the other young, beautiful, but stripped down to the waist, and tied to a stake within flood-mark on the Frith of Cree; a guard of dragoons surrounding the spot, and an officer of rank riding, ever and anon, to the saddlegirths into the swelling flood, and questioning the poor sufferers very hard. But it was all in vain; Thomas Nivison was neither betrayed by sister nor by grandmother. In fact, they knew not, though they might have their suspicions, of his retreat. Can it be believed in the present times—and yet this is a fact attested by history as well as by tradition—that these two helpless and guiltless beings were permitted to perish, to be suffocated by inches and gulps amidst the tide? The poor old woman died first. Her stake was mercifully sunk farther into the stream. She died, however, speaking encouragement to her grandchild.

"It will soon be over, Nanny—it will not last long—it will not be ill to bear—and there we shall be free" (looking up to heaven)—"there, there is nothing to hurt or to destroy; and my father is there, Nanny; and my mother is there; and my son—oh, my poor murdered boy!—is there! and you and I will be there, and he, too, will soon, soon follow; but his blood be on the guilty, Nanny, and not on us! We will not shed one drop of it for all that man can give—for all that man can do—

'For anything that man can do
I shall not be afraid.'"

These were the last words which she spoke, at least which were heard; for, in the beautiful language of Scripture, "she bowed her head, and gave up the ghost." She was not drowned, but chilled to death. The case was different with youth, strength, and beauty. Again and again was the offer made to her, to spare her life, on condition of her betraying a brother. Nature pled hard for life and length of days; and one of the dragoons, more humane, or rather less brutal, than the rest, was heard to exclaim—

"Oh, sir, she has said it—she has said it!"

"Said what?" responded Douglas, in a sharp voice. "Has she said where her renegade brother is to be found?"

Hearing this question thus fearfully put, she exclaimed, in an agony—

"Oh no—no—no!—never—never! Let me go—let me go!"

"The waters wild
Come o'er the child!"

THE COUNTESS OF CASSILIS.

At a short distance from the ancient castle of Tyningham—the seat, at the period of our story (the beginning of the seventeenth century), of Thomas, first Earl of Haddington, a man remarkable at once for his talents and successful ambition—there is a sequestered little spot, enclosed with steep banks, now cleared and cultivated, but then covered with natural wood, which, together with the abruptness of the rising ground, excluded all view of the smooth strip of green sward that lay between, until approached within a few yards' distance.

Here, in this lovely and retired spot, met, every evening, or at least as often as circumstances would permit, two fond and happy lovers; and here had they vowed a thousand times to remain true to each other while life endured, under all changes of circumstance and time. One of these personages was a remarkably stout and tall young man, of about three-and-twenty, of a frank, bold, and sanguine expression of countenance; the other was a young lady in the nineteenth year of her age, possessing more than ordinary beauty, together with a singularly graceful form and carriage. The first was no other—a personage of no meaner note—than Sir John Faa of Dunbar; a gentleman who had already established a high reputation for bravery and for superior prowess and dexterity in all manly exercises. The other, more than his equal in rank, was the Lady Jane Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Haddington, already spoken of.

It may be thought that such clandestine meetings between persons of such condition as this was not altogether becoming in either. But there was a reason for it.

The addresses of Sir John to the earl's daughter were not approved of by her father, who, desirous of connecting himself with the older peers—his own title being but a recent one—intended that Lady Jane should marry the Earl of Cassilis: a stern Covenanter, and a man, besides, of haughty and imperious temper, who had already made some overtures for the hand of the Lady Jane.

The interviews between the lovers, therefore, were—no uncommon thing—stolen ones; as the earl, aware of their attachment, had peremptorily forbidden Sir John his house, and had as peremptorily forbidden his daughter ever to see or hold any correspondence with him. But love was stronger than the sense of duty; and the fair lady continued to evade her father's injunctions, to elude his vigilance, and to meet with her lover in the little dell between the woods as often as occasion permitted or opportunity offered.

This intercourse, however, was carried on, on the part of the young knight, at the imminent risk of his life; since, had his stern rival, the Earl of Cassilis (who already considered himself as the affianced husband of the Lady Jane, although he had never deigned to consult the lady herself on the subject), been aware of his perseverance in his suit, his death would have been inevitable. The proud earl would not have brooked the insult; and it is not unlikely, had he known what was going forward, that others besides Sir John would have felt his vengeance. The lovers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the dangerous game they were playing; but this circumstance, instead of damping the ardour of their passion, had the effect only of increasing it, and of endearing them still more and more to each other.

It will readily be conceived, from what has been related, that the two rivals for the hand of the Lady Jane Hamilton entertained the most deadly dislike of each other—for the Earl of Cassilis was not ignorant of Sir John's pretensions; and this feeling never failed to evince itself when by any chance they happened to meet—a circumstance which more than once occurred.

On one of these occasions, they had even gone so far as to draw upon each other, and were prevented from closing in deadly strife only by the determined interference of some mutual friends who chanced to be present.

"Beware, Sir John," said the stern earl, on the occasion we allude to, at the same time returning his sword with violence into its scabbard—"beware, Sir John, of crossing my path—you know the quarter I mean—otherwise you may rue it. Remember, young man," he added, "I have cautioned you."

"And remember, I have defied you," replied the undaunted youth whom he addressed, "earl though ye be!" And he turned haughtily on his heel, and left the apartment which was the scene of this occurrence. To this defiance the earl made no reply; but those who were near him saw an expression of deadly wrath on his dark stern countenance, that made them at once congratulate themselves on not being the objects of it, and fear the worst for him who was, should he ever be unfortunate enough to fall into his power.

"And when, Sir John, will you return?" was a question put in a gentle and faint voice—faint with emotion—by the Lady Jane Hamilton to her lover, as they walked arm in arm in the little sequestered dell of which we have already spoken, one beautiful summer evening shortly after the occurrence of the circumstance just related. "When do you think you will return?" she said, sadly, on being informed by her lover that the following day was fixed upon for his departure for the Continent, whither he had, for some time previously, intended going—an intention of which the Lady Jane had been perfectly aware—to improve himself by a few months' travel.

"This is June," said the young knight, in a voice scarcely less tremulous than that of his fair companion. And he paused a moment, and then added, "I will be home, my love, God willing, about the latter end of October; and, believe me, Lady Jane, short as this time is, it looks an eternity to me."

A lengthened silence succeeded, for both were too much engrossed by the melancholy thoughts which their approaching separation gave rise to, to prosecute the conversation. Another short, but sad and yet happy hour quickly flew over the lovers, when the gathering shades of night intimated to them that their interview must terminate. Feeling this, the fond pair, for the thousandth time, solemnly pledged themselves, in the face of heaven, to continue faithful to their vows, tenderly embraced each other, and parted.

On the day following, Sir John set out for London, from whence he proceeded to Paris, thence to Madrid, where suddenly all traces of him were lost; and no after inquiries could ever elicit the slightest explanation of his mysterious disappearance.

Weeks, months, and years passed away, but they brought no intelligence of the fate of the unfortunate young knight. It was the universal belief that he had perished by the hands of assassins; and in this conviction all further inquiry regarding him finally ceased; while time, as it passed on, produced its usual effects in lessening the general interest in his fate, and in gradually obliterating the recollection of him from the minds of his acquaintance. But there was one over whose memory time had no such power—one who did not only fondly remember him, but who, night and day, sorrowed for his loss through long tedious years. Lady Jane Hamilton, although circumstances subsequently changed her destiny, never forgot the first love of her young and affectionate heart.

Soon after the departure of Sir John Faa, the Earl of Haddington, taking advantage of that circumstance, resolved, if possible, to accomplish the marriage of his daughter to the Earl of Cassilis before the return of the former; and fortunately, as he conceived, the latter himself, as if actuated by the same motive, renewed at this moment certain overtures connected with this matter which had lain for some time in abeyance, and pressed his suit with the lady's father with an urgency that would admit of no evasion or delay.

For full two years, however, after the departure of her lover, and fully a year and a-half after the period when he was first believed to have perished, neither the threats of her father, nor the importunities of her noble suitor, could prevail on the Lady Jane to become the Countess of Cassilis. At the end of this period, however, the broken-hearted maiden—believing in the death of her lover, and unable longer to withstand the incessant and remorseless persecution with which she was assailed, daily and hourly, by her ambitious father—permitted herself to be dragged to the altar, but not before she had been shown a letter, whether forged or not is not known, from the English ambassador at the Spanish court, giving assurance of the death of Sir John Faa, whom he represented as having perished in the way generally believed—namely, by the daggers of some bravos.

The marriage of the Lady Jane Hamilton to the Earl of Cassilis was celebrated at Tyningham Castle, with all the magnificence and pomp which the magic wand of wealth could call into existence. Its tall and numerous windows blazed with light. Its liveried lackeys flew through its illuminated halls, preciously burdened with silver trenchers, on which smoked the rarest and the richest viands; or bore massive flagons of the same precious metal, filled with the choicest wines; while its gorgeous apartments rung with the joyous sounds of mirth and music. But it was a striking thing to note, in the midst of all this splendid pageantry, and in the midst of this crowd of merry faces, that the only one who wore sad looks, the only one who appeared unmoved by this stirring scene, and who took no share in the rejoicing that was going forward, was she on whose account, and whom to honour, all this bustle and magnificence had been created.

In a corner of the principal hall, where all the élite of the night were assembled, the Countess of Cassilis sat all alone, pale as death, gazing with vacant eye on the moving and glittering spectacle before her, and looking only the more wretched and unhappy for the splendour with which she was attired. All the efforts of her father and her husband were unable to compel her even to assume the appearance of a becoming happiness; and, finding this, they at length refrained (from a fear that perseverance on their part would lead to some more awkward exposures) from insisting upon her taking any share in doing the honours of the evening, and allowed her to occupy undisturbed the retired seat which she had chosen, and to which, though frequently brought forward to receive the congratulations of newcomers, she seized every opportunity of instantly returning. Nor was the conduct of the unhappy bride during the ceremony of these congratulations, brief though they were, less marked by indications of the wretched feelings which overwhelmed her, than on other more important occasions. Her pale and emaciated countenance, the faint, forced smile, and the slight, cold, formal courtesy, with which she acknowledged the wishes of the guests for long life and happiness to the Countess of Cassilis, but too plainly showed how little of the latter she anticipated, and how little of the former she desired.

All the stirring and joyous revelry usual on such occasions, nevertheless, went on; but it was soon interrupted by an occurrence that threw a damp on the revellers, and finally hastened their departure. In the very midst of the mirth and rejoicing, and at the moment when those seemed to have attained their height, the whole assembly was suddenly thrown into the utmost consternation, by a loud and piercing shriek proceeding from that end of the hall where the Countess of Cassilis was seated. All hurried towards the spot—some leaving the dance unfinished, others hastily throwing down the untasted goblet—and crowded around the sufferer from whom the alarming cry had proceeded. It was the bride. Senseless, and extended on the floor, there lay the miserable Countess of Cassilis. But what had happened to cause this extraordinary accident no one could tell. It was ascertained that she had been sitting quite alone when the illness, of whatever nature it was, under which she was now suffering, had seized her; so that no sudden injury of any kind could have befallen her. Her illness, in short, was quite inexplicable. But, as she was about being removed, which was instantly done, there were one or two around her who, hearing her muttering, as she was being raised from the floor, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" more than guessed the cause of the poor lady's sudden illness.

On the removal of the countess, there were some attempts made to revive the revelries of the evening, and to re-infuse the spirit of mirth into the revellers, which the occurrence just related seemed to have dissipated; but in vain. After some ineffectual efforts of this kind, the company broke up; and, long before the anticipated hour, the guests were gone, the lights extinguished, and silence reigned in the halls of Tyningham Castle.

On the day following this event, the Countess of Cassilis was removed by her husband to Cassilis Castle, an old, heavy, gloomy-looking fortalice on the banks of the Doon, in the shire of Ayr, where the unhappy lady remained for four years, heart-broken, crushed in spirit, and looking forward to the grave as the only termination of her sorrows. Her stern husband took no pains to reconcile her to her destiny, nor did he even show her any of those little kindnesses and attentions which are so well calculated to win on the female heart, and which, had they been employed in this case, might have induced the Countess of Cassilis, since she could not love, at least to esteem, her lord. But the earl had obtained, in a large accession of wealth, all that he desired or cared for in uniting himself to the unfortunate Lady Jane; and the consequence was, that, soon after his marriage, he neglected her, to pursue his schemes of ambition and personal aggrandisement. Thus left alone, as she often was, for weeks, nay, for months, in the lonely castle in which she had been immured, the Countess of Cassilis might often be seen walking on the battlements—almost the only species of recreation within her power—in solitary sadness; at one time stopping to gaze, but with listless eye, on the wide and romantic scene that lay around her; at another, to look on the leaping and foaming waters of the Doon, immortalised by the poet's song, and to think of the days that were past, of her blighted hopes and untoward destiny.

Most appropriate to her, to her feelings and circumstances, would have been the melancholy song of Burns, of which her present locality was long afterwards to be the scene. Well might the poor Countess of Cassilis have exclaimed—

"Ye banks and braes o'bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o'care!"

But this beautiful lyric was not then in existence, nor for nearly two centuries after.

It was about the end of the fourth year after her marriage, and while leading this solitary and melancholy life, that the Countess of Cassilis, as she walked one evening, as was her wont, on the battlements of the castle, was suddenly alarmed by seeing a numerous band of gipsies approaching the building; and she was the more alarmed, that the earl, with nearly all his immediate retainers, was at that moment from home, the former being then in attendance on the Assembly of Divines at Westminster. The countess, however, would have felt but little uneasiness at the threatened visit of these wanderers, although they had been even much more numerous than they were—for such visitations were then of ordinary occurrence—had they presented the usual appearance, and had the band been composed of the usual materials—that is, of men, women, and children. But in this case there were none of the latter. The whole were men—and all young, stout, active-looking men they were: and hence the alarm of the countess.

Her fears, however, did not prevent her watching their motions for some time, ere she descended from the battlements; and this surveillance discovered to her that they were under the conduct of a leader, and that they were approaching the castle with a very suspicious degree of caution, and yet with a still more startling haste.

Strongly suspecting that the designs of the gipsies were evil, the Countess of Cassilis hastened down from the battlements, and secured herself within the walls of the castle. In the meantime, the band of gipsies approached; but, instead of attempting any violence, they began to sing some of the wild strains with which they usually sought to attract the notice and excite the charity of those to whom they appealed. Her apprehensions somewhat allayed by this pacific indication, the countess ventured towards a window that overlooked the rude minstrels, and was about to fling them a suitable guerdon, when, on obtaining the nearer view of their leader which this step afforded, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless on the floor. His disguise had not been able to conceal from her—for sharp, sharp are the eyes of love—that in the leader of the gipsies she had met with the lost knight of Dunbar. In the next instant, the countess was in the arms of the lover of her youth. He it was who acted as leader of the gipsies; and the purpose for which he now came was to carry off, in the absence of her husband—of whose absence he was aware—the betrothed of his early years.

In place of having been assassinated, as was generally believed, Sir John had been consigned to the dungeons of the Inquisition, in consequence of some unguarded expressions regarding the holy office which he had allowed to escape him when in Madrid; and in these dungeons had he lain, from the time he was first lost sight of, till within about six weeks of his appearance at Cassilis Castle. On his return home, he had learned, for the first time, of the marriage of the Lady Jane to the Earl of Cassilis; and this information having been accompanied by the intelligence that the latter was then in London, had determined him on the desperate enterprise in which he was now engaged. All this Sir John now communicated to the countess, and ended with proposing that she should fly with him.

"No, no, Sir John," said the now weeping and dreadfully-agitated lady—"I cannot, I will not, do anything so unbecoming the daughter of the Earl of Haddington and the wife of Cassilis. However unwillingly I may have become the latter, I feel myself equally bound to consult his honour as my own, and do nothing that might sully either. Go then, Sir John," she continued; "oh, do depart from me—do leave me, and take with you an assurance of my continued and unabated"—she paused for a moment, and added—"esteem."

But vain, vain were the good resolutions of the unfortunate countess—vain her determination not to take so hazardous, and perhaps it ought to be added, so infamous a step as that proposed by her desperate and unthinking lover. Love, almighty love, finally prevailed—all the countess's resolutions melted away before the energetic importunities of her lover, like snow beneath the midsummer sun; and the succeeding hour saw her mounted on the mettled steed which he had brought for the express purpose of carrying her away—

"So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung."

This done, exactly as the poet has described it, the ill-starred pair commenced their flight, still attended, however, by the gipsy band which Sir John had employed to aid him in the abduction, and which he thought it necessary to keep around him till he should have got to a sufficient distance to be relieved from all apprehensions of pursuit.

Leaving the guilty lovers to pursue their way, we shall return to Cassilis Castle, destined to be almost instantly afterwards the scene of another interesting and most ominous event. This was the unexpected return of the earl, who, with a large body of retainers, suddenly rode into the castle yard, within less than half-an-hour after the departure of the countess and her lover.

Before he had yet got his foot to the ground, the earl was informed of what had occurred.

"Gone, said you!—the countess gone, and with Sir John Faa!" exclaimed the amazed and now infuriated nobleman, to the person who gave the intelligence. "Impossible! Thou liest, knave!—thou wouldst deceive me, and thou shalt hang for it." But, exhibiting a strange contradiction between his conduct and his language, the earl, even while he spoke, sprang again into his saddle, and fiercely calling on his retainers to follow him, set off at full speed in the direction which the fugitives had taken. Nor was his ride, though a rapid, a long one. At a ford across the Doon, not many miles from Cassilis Castle, and still called from the circumstance we are about to relate the "Gipsies' Steps," the earl and his party overtook his unfortunate countess and her still more unfortunate seducer.

On seeing the former approach, which the fugitives did with a degree of amazement which could only have been equalled had they seen them drop from the clouds, Sir John, his natural intrepidity not permitting him to reckon on the fearful odds that were coming against him, prepared to offer resistance; and in this hopeless resolution he persisted, although aware that he could place but little reliance on the co-operation of those around him—the gipsies showing but little inclination to fight, from a well-grounded fear that such a proceeding would increase the severity of their treatment in the event of their being taken; and of this, from the overwhelming superiority in point of numbers of the party coming down upon them, they had no doubt.

Dismounting now from his horse, Sir John assisted the countess to alight; and, placing her at a sufficient distance to insure her safety from any instant danger, the brave young man leaped again into his saddle, and, drawing his sword, awaited the onset of his enemies, determined to defend the fair companion of his flight so long as he could continue to wield the good weapon which he now so resolutely and proudly grasped.

In a few minutes after, the pursuing party were down upon the fugitives, when the earl, singling out Sir John, exclaimed, as he rushed upon him, "Have at thee, villain!" and with these words discharged a blow at him which would have immediately unhorsed him, had it not been adroitly warded off. But of what avail was the averting the stroke of one sword, when there were many to contend with, and one single arm only to oppose them; for the gipsies had not offered the slightest resistance. In an instant, a score of weapons were flashing around the head of the solitary combatant; yet long and obstinately did he continue the unequal fight, and well did he prove his manhood, although it could have been wished that it had been exhibited in a better cause. More than one of Sir John's assailants fell beneath his sword, and numbers felt the keenness of its edge, and the dexterity with which it was handled, in their gaping wounds.

Such a contest as this, however, when it was one to fifty, could be but of short duration. In a few minutes, Sir John was severely wounded, unhorsed, and borne, or rather dragged down, bleeding and exhausted, to the earth. The moment he fell, the points of some eight or ten swords were levelled at his heart, and would have instantly transfixed it, had not the earl called out to those who wielded them to desist.

"Don't kill him—don't kill him!" he shouted out, at the same time forcing his way through the crowd that surrounded him. "I will clear scores with him in another way," he added. "A dog's death is more befitting him than a gentleman's." These were ominous words, and well understood by all who heard them.

The earl now rode up, for the first time, to where his unhappy countess stood, and assuming a mock gallantry as he approached her, but with a bitter smile on his countenance, took off his hat, and pointing to Sir John, who was now bound and placed on horseback, informed her that her lover intended honouring his castle with another visit, and had commissioned him to say that he would be glad of the Countess of Cassilis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants to assist his wretched wife to get on horseback, when, leaving her under their care, with instructions to see her safely conveyed to the castle, he left her without farther remark or observation, to join the party who surrounded the prisoners.

The whole cavalcade—the captives, consisting of Sir John and the whole of the gipsy gang, being placed in the middle—now set forward for Cassilis Castle. On their arrival there, the prisoners were halted beneath a large plane-tree, which grew, and, we believe, still flourishes, on a little knoll in front of the castle gate. All, both the prisoners and their captors, knew full well what the earl meant by his selection of their halting-place. The tree alluded to was one of dismal notoriety; it was known far and wide by the name of the "Dule Tree"—a name which it had acquired from its having been used by the Earl of Cassilis as a gallows on which all offenders, within his jurisdiction, who were condemned to death, were executed.

The prisoners were now drawn up in a line, and there kept until they had witnessed, what was immediately exhibited, the fatal preparations for execution; which consisted simply in fastening a rope, with a running noose, to one of the lower branches, and placing a cart underneath it, with a person standing in readiness by the horse's head to drive off at a given signal.

When these very primitive preliminaries were gone through, all the prisoners, including Sir John Faa, with the exception of one who was left for instant execution, were marched into the castle, and shut up with a strong guard in one of its apartments.

Everything being now ready for the performance of the dreadful tragedy which was about to be enacted, the Earl of Cassilis proceeded to the countess's chamber, and again assuming the mock air of politeness of which we have already spoken, he bowed low as he entered the apartment, and begged to inform the Countess of Cassilis that he had got up a play for her divertisement, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly undertaken to perform a principal part, and desired that she would condescend to witness the pastime. Saying this, he rudely seized the countess by the arm, and dragged her to an apartment where there was a window that overlooked the place of execution.

Having placed the countess at this window, the earl made a signal to those assembled beneath the "Dule Tree," and in an instant afterwards the first of the unhappy captives was seen suspended by the neck, struggling in the agonies of death. Another and another of these miserable men followed in due time, until of the whole party their unfortunate leader, Sir John, only remained.

On this ill-fated gentleman being brought out for execution, the earl roused the attention of his unhappy wife, by calling out to her, with savage glee, to look attentively, as her lover Sir John was now about to play his part; and he had no doubt, he said, that he would do it handsomely. The wretched lady glanced towards the fatal tree, and saw him who had been her first, and was yet her only, love about to suffer an ignominious death. The fatal rope was already about the neck of the gallant, but erring young man, whose bearing, in this dreadful situation, evinced all that unflinching fortitude for which he had always been remarkable.

Just before being thrown off, he caught a glimpse of the countess's figure at the window. He bowed gracefully towards her, kissed his hand to her, and waved an eternal adieu. In the next instant he was insensible to all earthly objects. These last proofs of the undaunted young man's unalterable affection, however, of which we have just spoken, were not seen by her for whom they were intended; for, although at the window (she was forcibly held there by her savage husband), her eyes were closed on the dreadful scene, and she herself wholly unconscious of what at that fatal instant was passing before her.

The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Cassilis was compelled to witness this dreadful tragedy is still pointed out by the name of the "Countess's Room." In this chamber the unhappy lady was kept a prisoner for several days after the execution of Sir John and his followers, when she was removed to another of the family residences in the town of Maybole, in Ayrshire, where she was confined during the remainder of her life—the earl her husband, in the meantime, marrying another wife.

Such is the story of the Countess of Cassilis and a veritable tale it is.

THE HAPPY CONCLUSION.

"It's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," said William Waterstone, throwing himself down in an arm-chair that stood by his own kitchen fireside, and at the same time laying aside his staff and bonnet; for William had just returned from a journey of ten or twelve miles, on which he had set out that morning—"it's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," he said, in a voice and with a look and manner of the deepest despair. "He'll no listen to ony terms," he went on, "or to ony delay, but insists on haein the money doun on the nail, and to the last farthin, or he says he'll roup us to the door, and that within fourteen days."

But what misfortune was this that threatened William Waterstone? And who was he? Why, we will tell you, good reader, beginning with your last query first. William Waterstone was a small farmer in Teviotdale, and one of the most honest, laborious, and worthy men in that part of the country. But all his industry, prudence, economy, and integrity had not enabled him, as, indeed, they could not, to cope with the disadvantages of falling markets and a poor and over-rented farm; and he fell into arrears with his landlord. It was in vain that poor William, who was now getting up in years, being close upon sixty, toiled late and early, assisted by his wife and daughter (his whole household), to reduce or keep down the debt that was growing up against him. It was in vain that he and they denied themselves every comfort to attain this desirable end. The arrears, in place of diminishing, went on increasing; for the farm, with all this toil and privation, could scarcely pay the current expenses, let alone enabling its occupant to liquidate an extra debt.

But this state of matters with William, though sad enough, and such as must, in any circumstances, have made him unhappy, would not have ended in his utter ruin, as it now threatened to do, had the property which he rented remained in the hands of his old landlord; for that person knew his excellent character, respected his worth, and, perfectly aware that he was doing all that man could do to discharge the claims he had on him, showed him every lenity and indulgence; and would, in all probability (indeed he had actually said as much), have forgiven him his arrears altogether. Unfortunately for William, however, his generous landlord just about this time died; and the property fell into other and very different hands.

The first step of the new proprietor, or rather of his factor, though of course done with the former's consent, was to ferret out all outstanding debts; the next, to enforce their payment, without distinction of persons or consideration of circumstances, by the most summary measures which the law allowed. On this black list, and amongst the foremost, stood the name of William Waterstone.

It was on the day preceding that on which our story opens, that William first received intimation by a threatening letter, of the determination of the new proprietor regarding the arrears which he was owing; and on the next he went himself to the factor, who lived at the distance of about ten miles, to endeavour to avert the proceedings with which he was threatened, by entering into some arrangements regarding the debt. The result of this interview is announced in the expressions with which William seated himself in his arm-chair, as quoted at the outset of our tale; for he had just at that moment returned from his unsuccessful mission.

He had addressed himself to his wife; but what he said was equally meant for the ear of his daughter—a young, beautiful, and interesting girl of about nineteen, who was also present at the time.

On William's announcing the determination of the factor regarding them, his wife, without saying a word, but looking the very picture of grief and despair, flung herself into a chair opposite her husband, where she sat for some time in silence, wiping away at intervals, with the corner of her apron, the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.

After a short time, during which neither father, mother, nor daughter had spoken a syllable, each being wrapped up in the contemplation of the miserable prospects which lay before them, Mrs Waterstone at length said—

"And is there, then, nae hope for us now, William, after a' oor toil and oor fecht?"

"Nane—nane that I can see," replied the husband, after a lengthened pause, in a voice rendered stern by despair, and at the same time glancing towards his daughter, who, with her face buried in her apron, was sobbing and weeping in a distant corner of the apartment. "Nane that I can see," he again repeated. "There's nae help for us under heaven. Naething for us noo, Betsy, but the meal pock."

"Weel, God's will be dune, William," replied the broken-hearted woman; "since it is sae, we maun submit; although it is hard, at oor time o' life, and after the lang and sair struggle we hae had to do justice to everybody, to be thrown destitute on the warld. But ye ken it is said, William, by the Psalmist, 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread;' and I've nae doot that, wi' God's assistance, we'll find these soothing and comforting words verified in oor ain case."

To this William Waterstone made no reply, but remained gloomily absorbed in his own dismal reflections. These were indeed bitter enough—and bitter also were those of the partner of his bosom, on this melancholy occasion; but they were light compared with those of their unhappy daughter. It was on her that the threatened calamity was to fall with its fullest force, and it was to her that it was to bring the largest share of misery. But this requires explanation; and we proceed to give it.

Marion—for such was her name—had long been wooed in vain by a wealthy suitor who resided at a short distance from her father's house. This person, whose name was Maitland, was a miller to business, and a sufficiently respectable man; but he was precisely three times the age of the young creature whose hand he sought. He was, besides, a widower, with several children, and was otherwise by no means such an object as was likely to attract the eye or engage the affections of a woman younger than the youngest of his own daughters.

But John Maitland was wealthy—a circumstance which, though it was of no weight whatever in the eyes of Marion herself, was of great consequence in those of her parents. They, however, although they secretly wished that their daughter would give a favourable ear to the miller's suit, did not urge her, at least otherwise than by indirect allusions and hints, to admit his addresses; and from even this, seeing that her repugnance to him was unconquerable, they had latterly abstained altogether. Notwithstanding Marion's coldness to him, however, and her dislike of him, which she could not conceal, Maitland continued his visits, and persevered in his suit, although to all but himself it seemed an utterly hopeless one. But Marion's conduct in this matter did not proceed solely from a dislike to Maitland. It was influenced by a double motive—a repugnance to him, and love for another.

The favoured suitor, whose name was Richard Spalding, was a young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened circumstances; and their united labours—for they tilled and sowed the same fields together—were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in arrears—arrears which he could not pay—to his landlord.

Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to the scene which that digression interrupted.

After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her mother, the latter again spoke.

"Oh, my John—my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in this hour o' distress!"

"Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?—and how comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares? How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow before me?"

These were harsh words from a father of his own child; but, so far as circumstances could enable that father to judge, they were not unmerited. William Waterstone's son—his only son—who had been bred a millwright, had gone out to the West Indies some five or six years previous to the period of which we write; and during the last three years of that time his parents had never heard from him, although they had learned that he was not only living, but rapidly accumulating a fortune. A score of letters, at least, his father had written him through the medium of the mercantile house by which he had been first sent out (and which kindly undertook not only to have all his letters forwarded to his son, but offered the same obliging services in the case of communications from the latter to the former), without ever receiving any answer; and this was the more unpardonable, that more than one of these letters contained requests from John Waterstone's father for a little pecuniary assistance to help him out of his difficulties.

These, however, were equally unattended to with the others; and it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that old Waterstone should have charged his son with ingratitude, and considered his conduct undutiful and unnatural. This was, in truth, as we have shown, his father's opinion of the young man; but, oh! what can weaken a mother's love? What can wither the strong and deep-rooted affections of her bosom for the child of her love? The conduct must be infamous indeed that could do this.

Mrs Waterstone, although she did allow that her son ought to have at least written them, yet thought, and, when she dared, spoke, of him with the most tender regard. For his apparent neglect of them, she said, she was sure there was some good reason, that would one day be explained to the satisfaction of them all. What this reason could be she owned she could not conjecture; but that was a circumstance which did not in the least shake her faith in its existence. When her husband, therefore, on the present occasion, upbraided her for naming her son, and accused him of ingratitude and undutiful conduct, she, as she always did in similar circumstances, stepped forward with the ready but unsatisfactory defence alluded to.

"Be patient, guidman, I beseech you," she said—"be patient; and, oh, man, dinna think sae unkindly o' the puir laddie. He'll be able, I warrant, to gie a guid reason for a' this when——"

"Let me hear nae mair o't, Betsy," again interrupted William Waterstone. "We've ither things to think o' enow. Here's ruin staring us in the face, woman—ruin! ruin! utter ruin!" he repeated, in a tone of the deepest and most bitter despair. "Naething can avert it. Without a house to shelter us, as we will sune be, our auld heads maun be exposed to the winds o' heaven and to the pelting o' the storm."

"Never, never, never!" at this moment suddenly exclaimed Marion, who had hitherto been sitting, as already described, absorbed in grief, at the further end of the apartment, with her face buried in her apron. "Never, never, never!" she exclaimed, rushing towards her father, and throwing her arms about his neck; "ye shall never be driven to that strait, sae lang as the means are in my power o' preventing it! Mother, mother, dear mother," she added—and now turning to the parent she named, and throwing herself on her knees before her—"I can stand this nae langer! I'll marry John Maitland, mother, and he'll lend as muckle siller as 'ill tak ye out o' this difficulty. He has often said that he wad help my faither, if I wad promise to become his wife."

"My bairn, my bairn!" replied her mother, overcome with this instance of her child's devoted affection; for well she knew the fearful extent of the sacrifice she had offered to make. "My bairn, my bairn!" she said, bursting into tears, and clasping her daughter closely in her arms—"God's blessing be wi' ye for this dutifu conduct to your puir parents, although it grieves me to the heart, my puir lassie, to see ye driven by oor necessities to become an unwillin bride. But ye see, my bairn, there is nae ither way o' savin us frae beggary in our auld days."

"I ken it, mother—I see it," replied Marion, weeping, and as pale as death; "and my mind's made up. Onything, onything will I endure rather than see ye turned oot o' yer ain house, and thrown destitute on the world."

"A faither's blessin and the blessin o' God be wi' ye, my dochter, for this!" said her father, now interfering for the first time, and laying his hand upon her head as she knelt before her mother. "Ye canna but prosper, my bairn, for such conduct as this; and your marriage, though in the meantime it mayna seem to you to promise much felicity, maun in the end be a happy ane. It canna be otherwise. But, Marion," he added, "I winna let ye mak this sacrifice till a' ither means hae failed me, and till I find that the factor is really determined to carry his threats into execution."

At this moment the latch of the outer door was raised, and Richard Spalding, wholly unaware of the state of matters in William Waterstone's, suddenly walked into the midst of the sorrowing family; and great was his surprise on witnessing the scene of disconsolation which presented itself. He guessed, indeed, in part the cause—for his father, as has been already said, was also under the ban of the new factor; but he little dreamed of the resolution to which it had driven his beloved Marion.

This was now, however, soon to be made known to him. On Richard's entrance, her father, who, as well as his wife, knew well of the attachment between the young couple, after hastily saluting him, left the apartment, and was speedily followed by Marion's mother; their object being to give their daughter an opportunity of informing her lover, with her own mouth, of the resolution she had come to regarding his rival.

On being left to themselves, Richard went up to Marion, who, seated in a chair, with her pale cheek resting on the back, looked the very image of hopeless despair. On Richard's first entrance, she had not looked towards him at all, nor exhibited any other symptom of a consciousness of his presence. Neither did she yet offer any signs of welcome. Astonished and alarmed at such unusual conduct, Richard took her affectionately by the hand, and anxiously inquired what was the matter. The poor girl burst into tears.

"Marion," said her lover, now greatly agitated and perplexed, "what in all the earth is wrong? Will you not tell me, Marion?"

"O Richard, Richard, do not ask me. I cannot, I will not tell you," said the distracted girl.

"Then you desire to make me miserable too, Marion," was the reply.

"No, no, Richard; but I cannot tell you what I know will break your heart, as it has already broken mine. My peace is gone for ever, Richard, but it has gone in a good cause."

"For Heaven's sake, Marion," said her agonised lover, "tell me, tell me at once what you mean, and do not torture me longer with this strange and unintelligible conduct. It's not using him well, Marion, who hopes to be more to you, one day, than any other person on the face of the earth."

"Never, Richard!—never, You can never now be more to me than you are at this moment. That's a' owre, Richard. We maun meet nae mair. I'm gaun to be the wife o' anither."

"Marion!" said Richard, his face now overspread with a deadly paleness, and his lips quivering with emotion, "in God's name, what does this mean? Have I done anything to offend you—anything to change your opinion of me?"

"No, no, Richard, you have not," said the weeping girl; "but I maun marry John Maitland, to save my puir father and mother frae ruin—to save them frae bein thrown on the cauld charity o' the warld in quest o' their bread."

And she now went on to detail the particulars of the situation in which they stood, and concluded by mentioning the promise she had made to her parents to accept of Maitland's addresses.

Poor Spalding stood the very personification of misery and wretchedness during the recital of these circumstances, that laid prostrate all his dearest hopes, and wrested from him that happiness which he had fondly believed was within his grasp. For some time he made no reply to, or remark on, what had just been communicated to him; but at length, taking Marion again by the hand.

"Well, Marion," he said, with a strong effort to suppress the emotion with which he was struggling, "this is dreadful news to me; but I do not blame you; or, rather, I cannot but commend you for the step you are going to take, although it be to the destruction of my peace and happiness in this world. But is there no way of averting this evil? Is there no way of saving your father but by your——" Here he suddenly stopped short. His feelings overcame him; and he could not come out with the two words necessary to finish the sentence; he could not bring himself to add, "marrying Maitland."

"Nane, nane, Richard," said Marion, who well knew what he would have said; "there's nae ither way left us—nane, nane, Richard."

"But," replied the latter, "your father said, Marion, you told me, that he will not ask you to make this sacrifice, until he sees that the factor is determined to proceed against him, and that there is no other means of satisfying his demands. Now, as it will be some days before he can ascertain the former, will ye promise me, Marion, that ye will take all the time that circumstances will afford you before you commit yourself further with Maitland? Will you promise me this, Marion?—and, in the meantime, I'll stir heaven and earth to save you from the fate that's threatening you."

This promise poor Marion readily gave; and, somewhat comforted by it, Richard left the house, to try every method he could think of, to avert the misfortune that threatened him. But, alas! what could he do? Where was he to raise £150 some odds, which was the amount of William Waterstone's debt to his landlord? Under the excitation of the moment during his interview with Marion, and under the blind and bewildering impulses excited by it, he thought he might, by some means or other, accomplish it. But, on coming to act on the vague and indefinite notions on this subject which first presented themselves to him, he found them burst like soap-bells in his grasp, until even he himself, sanguine as he was, became convinced that the pursuit was hopeless, and that his Marion was indeed lost to him for ever.

In the meantime, the dreaded crisis approached. Step after step had been taken by the factor in the process against William Waterstone, until at length it arrived at a consummation. His effects were sequestrated, and a day of sale announced. Still the poor man entertained hopes that the last and final proceeding would not be had recourse to—that, in short, no sale would actually take place; and in this desperate belief he had still delayed committing himself with Maitland regarding his daughter, although he had dropped some hints to that person of a tendency to encourage his hopes. From this delusion, however, he was now about to be roughly awakened. The day of sale arrived, and with it came the auctioneer; and, as the morning advanced, several persons were seen hovering about at a little distance. These were intending purchasers, whose respect for poor Waterstone, and whose sympathy for his unhappy situation, induced them thus to keep aloof, with the view of saving his feelings as much as possible, until their purpose there should render it necessary for them to approach nearer to the melancholy scene.

These appearances were far too serious to leave the slightest ground for the indulgence of any further hopes from the lenity of the prosecutor; and William Waterstone felt this. He saw now that the sacrifice which he had thus delayed till the twelfth hour must be made—that his daughter must pledge herself to become the wife of John Maitland; and with a heavy heart he now put on his bonnet to go down to that person, to enter into a full and final explanation with regard to this matter, and his own distressed situation. Poor Marion's doom was now, then, about to be irrevocably sealed. Her father was already at the door, on his way to fix her destiny, when he was suddenly arrested by a person, wrapped up in a travelling mantle, and who was about entering the house at the same moment, seizing him by the hand.

"Father!" exclaimed the apparent stranger.

William Waterstone looked unconsciously for an instant at the person who addressed him. It was his son.

"John!" said the father, at length, coldly, and returning the former's eager salutation with marked indifference.

"Yes, John," replied his son, in a tone of surprise at his father's reception of him; "and I thought you would have been more happy than you seem to be to have seen him, father?"

"Why should I be happy to see you, John?" said the latter, gravely. "What have you done for me that I should rejoice in the sight of you?"

"Not much, father, I confess," rejoined his son; "but I did for you what I could; and it is my intention to do more."

William Waterstone smiled satirically. It was the only reply he vouchsafed. At this moment, John's mother, who had heard and recognised his voice, rushed out and enfolded her son in her arms.

"My son—my son!" she exclaimed. "Thank God, I see you once more before I die! Ye'll explain a' noo. I'm sure, my John, and mak guid your mother's words."

To her son, part of this address was wholly unintelligible. What explanation was wanted he could not comprehend; and he therefore merely said, smiling as he spoke, that if anything in his conduct wanted explanation he would very readily give it.

"That ye will, my son," said his mother, "to the shame and confusion o' them that entertained ill thochts o' ye."

"Well, well, mother," replied John, more puzzled than ever—"we'll put all that to rights, whatever it is, by and by; but, in the meantime, pray tell me what is the meaning of all this?" And he pointed to the collection of farming implements and other articles, which had been placed in front of the house, preparatory to the sale, and which, with some other no less unequivocal circumstances, but too plainly intimated what was about to take place.

"The meanin o' that, sir," said his father, sternly, "is very sune tell't. We are gaun to be roupit out the day for arrear o' rent—that's a'—a thing very easy understood; and ye're just come in time to see't. Just in time," he added, bitterly, "to see your father and mother turned out beggars on the world."

"What! rouped out! beggared!" replied his son, with a look of the utmost consternation. "Then, surely, father, some great and sudden pecuniary misfortune must have befallen you; or there has been grievous mismanagement of some kind or other, to reduce you to this unhappy state."

"Oh no," said the father, in a dry, sarcastic tone, "nae sudden misfortune has befa'en me, nor has there been any mismanagement either. Naething has happened but what ye a' alang kent very weel about. The arrears o' rent, at least the greater part o' that debt, was standin against me before ye went abroad; and I suppose ye ken very weel that the prices o' farm produce hae been fa'in ever since; so that I dinna see, sir, that ye need be sae very much surprised at my situation as you seem, or pretend to be."

"I do not pretend, father. I assure you, to be more surprised than I really am," said his son, "and I think I have some reason. Surely what I sent you might have kept you out of debt at any rate."

"What you sent me, sir," rejoined his father, sternly: "I should like to ken what that was." And he again smiled sarcastically. "My troth, my debts wadna hae been ill to pay, if that could hae dune't."

"And I must say," replied his son, "that they must have been very considerable, and, I will add, more than they ought, if it could not."

"What do you mean, sirrah?" exclaimed William Waterstone, fiercely.

"I mean, father," replied John, now getting displeased in his turn, "that the three hundred pounds, which I have been sending you regularly every year, for the last three years, ought to have placed you in a better situation than I now find you."

"You been sendin me three hundred pounds every year, for the last three years!" said his father, with a look of amazement; and then, suddenly dropping this warmth of expression—"It may be sae, John," he added, coolly and doubtingly, "and I hope, for yer ain sake, ye speak truth; but I hae never seen a farthin o't."

"What! not of the money I have been remitting you?"

"Not a penny; but, if ye sent me the money, as ye say, John," he added, "how comes it that ye never answered ane o' my letters?"

"Your letters, father!" replied the latter. "Why, you have not written me for the last three years, although I have despatched at least a score of letters to you in that time, and have never had an answer to one of them."

"Never saw ane o' your letters," said William Waterstone, dryly.

"This is a most extraordinary and unaccountable business," exclaimed John.

"Queer aneugh," said his father, coolly, and plainly evincing by his manner that he did not believe a word of what his son had said to him.

"The money I sent you, father," rejoined the young man, "was transmitted you through the house of M., P., L., & Co., Glasgow. My letters were also sent to their care, and how it has happened that neither have reached you I cannot at all conjecture; but I will see into that matter immediately. How were your letters to me sent father?" he added.

"Ou, of course, to thae folks, too," replied the latter. "It was yer ain desire in the last letter I had frae ye."

"So it was, I recollect. Well, we shall have all this explained presently; but, in the meantime, father, let me know what is the amount of the debt that is just now pressing on you, that I may discharge it, and put a stop to these proceedings."

"I'm no sure if we'll need your assistance noo," said his father, coldly. "Your sister's gaun to be married to John Maitland, and I believe he'll lend me as muckle siller as 'll clear my feet o' this mischief, at ony rate."

"What! my sister going to marry old John Maitland!" said her brother, in amazement. "Impossible! He cannot have been her own free choice."

"I did not say he was," replied his father; "but Marion's a dutifu child, and would do that and mair to save her father frae ruin. But there she is comin," he added (pointing to Marion, who was now approaching the house, from which she had been absent since her brother's arrival, of which, therefore, she knew nothing), "and ye may speak to her yersel on the subject."

John ran towards his sister, and clasped her in his arms. She did not recognise him for a second or two; but when she did, she burst into tears, and—

"O John, John," she said, "this is a sorrowfu hoose ye hae come to; but yer faither 'll hae tell't ye a'?"

"He has, Marion; and, amongst the rest, he has told me, what has surprised me more than all, that you intend marrying old John Maitland."

Marion burst afresh into tears. "It maun he sae, brother," she said—"it maun be sae. There's nae ither way o' savin my puir faither and mother frae ruin."

"But there is, though, Marion," replied her brother. "Ye need not now give your hand where your heart is not, for any such purpose. I have the means of saving you from the necessity of making this sacrifice, and gladly shall I employ them. I will pay our father's debts, Marion, and make you once more a free woman."

We would fain describe the joy—the rapturous, the inexpressible joy—with which these delightful words filled the bosom of the poor girl on whose ravished ear they fell; but we are sure that such an attempt would only interfere with the reader's more lively and vivid conceptions, and we therefore refrain from it.

On the same day on which these events occurred, John Waterstone, having previously settled his father's debt to his landlord with those sent to look after the latter's interest at the intended sale, wrote to the house through which the money he had transmitted to his father had been sent, mentioning its non-delivery, and requesting an explanation of the circumstance.

To this letter Mr Waterstone received, two days afterwards, the following reply:—

"Sir,—We have received, with very painful feelings, though not with surprise, yours of the 10th instant. The misconduct of our junior partner, which has placed us in a similarly distressing predicament with several others as with you, has been the cause of the gross irregularity of which you demand an explanation. Your remittances, together with other moneys to a large amount, were appropriated by this person (who has lately absconded) to his own use—a practice which we have since discovered he has been long addicted to. As we, however, consider ourselves bound in honour to make good all such claims as yours—the sums you transmitted having been advised to the firm, and the responsibility accepted—we beg to inform you that the money alluded to will be paid to your order, at our counting-house, on demand. We need scarcely remark, that the circumstance above mentioned will sufficiently account for the suppression of letters of which you also complain.—We are, sir," &c.

This letter John Waterstone lost no time in laying before his father, whom it at once convinced of his son's veracity, and consequently of the injustice he had done him. But it was to his mother that this proof of her son's integrity and dutiful conduct brought the most triumphant joy.

"I was sure my John," she said, "wad never either forget or deceive us; and weel did I ken, as aften I have said, that it wad a' be satisfactorily accounted for, and that my laddie wad yet triumph owre a' his backbiters, and shame them that misdooted him."

We have only now to add, that John's generosity, on the occasion of this visit to his parents, which was only temporary, was not confined to the latter, but extended to his sister, on whom he bestowed a portion that enabled her and Richard Spalding to unite their destinies.

John returned shortly after to the West Indies, where he pursued a prosperous career for ten years longer, when he came home an independent man, and spent the remainder of his life in the place of his nativity.

MR SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN:

A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY.

CHAP I.—A WAY OF MAKING MONEY.

All the world knows that Mandeville, the author of the "Fable of the Bees," and Shaftesbury, the author of the "Characteristics," divided a great portion of mankind on a question which is now no question at all. That there are, assuredly, some instances to be met with of rational bipeds, who exhibit scarcely any traces of a moral sense, and act altogether upon the principle of selfishness, we do not deny; but this admission does not bind us to the selfish theory, for the very good reason, that we hold these creatures to be nothing better than a species of monsters. Nor do we think the world, with the tendency to self-love that prevails in it, would have been the better for the want of these living, walking exemplars of their patron—the devil; for, of a surety, they show us the fallen creature in all his naked deformity, and make us hate the principle of evil through the ugly flesh-case in which it works, and the noisome overt acts it turns up in the repugnant nostrils of good men. Now, if you are an inhabitant of that scandalous freestone village that lies near Arthur Seat, and took its name from the Northumbrian king, Edwin—corrupted, by the conceit of the inhabitants, into Edin—you will say that we mean something personal in these remarks; and, very probably, when we mention the name of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who, about twenty years after Mr John Neal introduced to the admiring eyes of the inhabitants of the Scottish metropolis the term haberdasher, carried on that trade in one of the principal streets of the city, our intention will be held manifest. And what then? We will only share the fate, without exhibiting the talent, of Horace, and shall care nothing if we return his good-humour—a quality of far greater importance to mankind than even that knowledge "which is versant with the stars."

Now, this Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who took up, as we have already signified, the trade designated by the strange appellative introduced by the said John Neal, was one of those dabblers in morals who endeavour to make the whole system of morality accord with their own wishes. As to the moral sense, so strongly insisted for by the noble author of the "Characteristics," he considered it as a taste something like that for vertù, which a man might have or not have, just as it pleased Dame Nature or Mr Syntax Pedagogue, but which he could pretend to have as often and in as great profusion as it pleased himself. It was, he acknowledged, a very good thing to have, sometimes, about one, but there were many things in the world far better—such as money, a good house, good victuals, good clothing, and so forth. It was again, sometimes, a thing a man might be much better without. It formed a stumbling-block to prosperity; and when, at the long run, a man had made to it many sacrifices, and become a beggar, "rich in the virtue of good offices," he did not find that it got him a softer bed in an almshouse, or a whiter piece of bread at the door of the rich. These sentiments were probably strengthened by the view he took of the world, and especially of our great country, where there is a mighty crying, and a mighty printing, about virtue, magnanimity, and honesty, in the abstract, while there is, probably, less real active honesty than might be found among the Karomantyns—yea, or the Hottentots or Cherokees. Then, too, it could not be denied that "riches cover a multitude of sins;" why, then, should not Mr Thriven strive to get rich?

Upon such a theory did Mr Samuel Thriven propose to act. It had clearly an advantage over theories in general, insomuch as it was every day reduced to practice by a great proportion of mankind, and so proved to be a good workable speculation. That he intended to follow out the practical part of his scheme with the same wisdom he had exhibited in choosing his theory of morals, may be safely doubted. Caution, which is of great use to all men in a densely-populated country, is an indispensable element in the composition of one who would be rich at the expense of others. A good-natured man will often allow himself to be cheated out of a sum which is not greater than the price of his ease; and there are a great number of such good-natured men in all communities. It is upon these that clever men operate—without them a great portion of the cleverest would starve. They are the lambs with sweet flesh and soft wool, making the plains a paradise for the wolves. A system of successful operations carried on against these quiet subjects, for a number of years, might have enabled Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven to have retired, with his feelings of enjoyment blunted, and his conscience quickened, to some romantic spot, where he might have turned poetical. An idle man is always, to some extent, a poet; and a rogue makes often a good sentimentalist.

This ought clearly to have been the course which worldly caution should have suggested as the legitimate working out of the theory of selfishness. But Mr Thriven was not gifted with the virtue of patience to the same extent that he was with the spirit of theorising on the great process of getting rich. He wanted to seize Plutus by a coup de main, and hug the god until he got out of him a liberal allowance. The plan has been attended with success; but it is always a dangerous one. The great deity of wealth has been painted lame, blind, and foolish, because he gives, without distinction, to the undeserving as well as to the worthy—to the bad often more than to the good. It is seldom his godship will be coaxed into a gift; and if he is attempted to be forced, he can use his lame leg, and send the rough worshipper to the devil. Neither can we say that Mr Thriven's scheme was new or ingenious, being no other than to "break with the full hand"—a project of great antiquity in Scotland, and struck at for the first time by the act 1621, cap. 18. It existed, indeed, in ancient Rome, and was comprehended under the general term of stellionate, from stelio, a little subtle serpent, common in Italy. Always in great vogue in our country, it at one time roused the choler of our judges to such an extent, that they condemned the culprits either to wear the yellow cap and stockings of different colours, or be for ever at the mercy of their creditors. But these times had gone by, and a man might make a very respectable thing of a break, if he could manage it adroitly enough to make it appear that he had himself been the victim of misplaced confidence. So Mr Samuel having given large orders to the English houses for goods, at a pretty long credit, got himself in debt to an amount proportioned to the sum he wished to make by his failure. There is no place in the world where a man may get more easily in debt than in Scotland. We go for a decent, composed, shrewd, honest people; and, though we are very adequately and sufficiently hated by the volatile English, whom we so often beat on their own ground, and at their own weapons, we enjoy a greater share of their confidence in mercantile matters than their own countrymen. Vouchsafe to John the privilege of abusing Sawney, and calling him all manner of hard names, and he will allow his English neck to be placed in the Scottish noose with a civility and decorum that is just as commendable as his abuse of our countryman is ungenerous and unmanly. Mr Thriven's warehouses were accordingly soon filled with goods from both England and Scotland; and it is no inconsiderable indication of a man's respectability that he is able to get pretty largely in debt. When a man is to enter upon the speculation of failing, the step we have now mentioned is the first and most important preliminary. Debt is the Ossa from which the successful speculator rolls into the rich vale of Tempe. There are some rugged rocks in the side of his descent to independence—such as the examinations under the statutes—that are next to be guarded against, and the getting over these is a more difficult achievement than the getting himself regularly constituted a debtor. The running away of a trusty servant with a hundred pounds, especially if he has forged the cheque, may be the making of a good speculator in bankruptcy, because the loss of a thousand or two may be safely laid to the charge of one who dare not appear to defend himself. The failure and flight of a relation, to whom one gives a hundred pounds to leave him in his books a creditor in a thousand, is also a very good mode of overcoming some of the difficulties of failing; and a clever man, with a sharp foresight, ought to be working assiduously for a length of time in collecting the names of removing families, every one of whom will make a good "bad debtor." These things were not unknown to Mr Thriven; but accident did what the devil was essaying to do for him, or rather, speaking in a more orthodox manner, the great enemy, taking the form of the mighty power yclept Chance, set the neighbouring uninsured premises, belonging to Miss Fortune, the milliner, in a blaze; and a large back warehouse, in which there was scarcely anything save Mr Thriven's ledgers, was burned so effectually, that no person could have told whether they were full of Manchester goods or merely atmospheric air of the ordinary weight—that is, thirty-one grains to a hundred cubic inches.

When a respectable man wishes ardently for a calamity, he arrays his face in comely melancholy, because he has too much respect for public decorum to outrage the decencies of life. Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven accordingly looked the loss he had sustained with a propriety that might have done honour to a widower between whom and a bad wife the cold grave has been shut for the space of a day, and then set about writing circulars to his creditors, stating that, owing to his having sustained a loss through the burning of a warehouse where he had deposited three thousand pounds' worth of goods, he was under the necessity of stopping payment. No attorney ever made more of letter-writing than Mr Samuel did on that day: in place of three shillings and fourpence for two pages, every word he penned was equal to a pound.

CHAP. II.—THE INSCRIPTION.

"Well," said Mr Samuel Thriven, after he had retired to his house, "this has been hard and hot work; but a man has a satisfaction in doing his duty, and that satisfaction may not be diminished by a bottle of port."

Now the port was as good as Ofleys; and Mr Thriven's thirst was nothing the less for the fire of the previous night, which he had done his utmost not to extinguish, and as he was in good spirits, he, like those people in good health who, to make themselves better, begin to take in a load of Morrison's pills, drew another cork, with that increased sound which belongs peculiarly to second bottles, and in a short time was well through with his potation. "How much, now," said he, as he pretended, in a knowing way, to look for a dead fly in the glass, which he held up between him and the candle, shutting, in the operation, the left eye, according to the practice of connoisseurs—"how much may I make of this transanction in the way of business?—Let me see—let me see."

And, as he accordingly tried to see, he took down from the mantelpiece an ink-bottle and a pen, and, having no paper within reach—he laid hold of a small book, well known to serious-minded people, and which was no other, in fact, than the "Pilgrim's Progress." But it was all one to Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, in the middle of his second bottle, what the book was, provided it had a blank leaf at the beginning or end thereof. It might, indeed, have been the "Louping-on-Stone for Heavy-Bottomed Believers," or the "Economy of Human Life," or the "Young Man's Best Companion," or "A New Way to Pay Old Debts;" or any other book or brochure in the wide republic of letters which the wisdom or wit of man has ever produced. It may verily be much doubted if he knew himself what book it was.

"Well, let me see," he said again, as he seized the pen, and held the blank leaf open before him. "The three thousand pounds lost by the fire is a very good item; I can easily make a very good list of very bad debts to the extent of five hundred pounds; I have three thousand of good banknotes in the house; and if I get off with a dividend of five shillings in the pound, which I can pay out of my stock, I may clear by this single transaction, in the way of business, as much as may make me comfortable for the whole period of my natural life."

And having made some monologue of this kind, he began to jot down particulars; laying on the table his pen, occasionally, to take another glass of the port wine, and resuming his operation again, with that peculiar zest which accompanies a playfulness of the fancy on a subject of darling interest. So he finished his arithmetical operation and dream, just about the time when the wine finished him; fell sound asleep; and awoke about two in the morning, with a headache, and no more recollection of having committed his secret to the blank leaf of the "Pilgrim's Progress," than if he had never written a word thereon at all.

CHAP. III.—THE FACING OF CREDITORS.

Of all men in the world, a bankrupt requires to wear a lugubrious look. It is proper, too, that he should keep the house, hold out the flag of distress, and pretend that he is an unfortunate mortal, who has been the prey either of adverse fate or designing rogues. Of all this Mr Thriven was well aware as ever man could be; no man could have acted the dyvour better than he, even though he had been upon the pillory, with the bankrupt's yellow cap on his head. Creditors kept calling upon him—some threatening imprisonment, and some trying to cajole him out of a preference; but Mr Samuel was a match for them all.

"It is all very well to look thus concernedly," said Mr Horner, a large creditor; "but will this pay the two hundred pounds you owe me?"

"Would to heaven that it might!" replied Mr Thriven, drawing his hand over his eyes; "but, alas! it is the peculiar feature of the misfortune of bankruptcy, that a man who has been himself ruined—ay, burned out of his stock by a fire that he had no hand in raising, and thus made a beggar of, probably for ever—receives not a single drop of sympathy in return for all the tears he sheds for his unfortunate creditors. Your case concerns me, sir, most of all; and, were it for nothing in the wide world but to make up your loss, I will strive with all my energies, even to the urging of the blood from the ends of my laborious fingers, and to the latest period of a wretched existence."

And Mr Horner being mollified, he was next attacked by Mr Wrench.

"It is but fair to inform you, sir," said the vulture-faced dealer in ginghams, "that I intend to try the effect of the prison upon you."

"That is because the most wicked of nature's elements-fire—has rendered me a beggar," replied Mr Samuel, rubbing again his eyes. "It is just the way of this world; when fate has rendered a man unfortunate, his fellow-creature, man, falls upon him to complete his wretchedness; even like the creatures of the forest, who fall upon the poor stag that has been wounded by the fall from the crags, man is ever cruellest to him who is already down. Yet you, who threaten to put me in jail, are the creditor of all others whose case concerns me most. The feeling for my own loss is nothing to what I suffer for yours; and I will never be satisfied till, by hard labour, I make up to you what I have been the unwilling and unconscious instrument of depriving you of."

And having got quit of Wrench, who declared himself not satisfied, though his threat, as he departed, was more feebly expressed, he was accosted by Mr Bairnsfather.

"Your face, sir, tortures me," said Mr Samuel, turning away his head, "even as one is tortured by the ghost of the friend he has murdered with a bloody and relentless hand. All my creditors put together do not furnish me matter of grief equal to your individual case. Do not I know that you are the father of ten children, whom probably I have ruined. Yet am I not also ruined, and all by a misfortune whose origin is beyond the ken of mortals?"

"You have spoken a melancholy truth, Mr Thriven," replied the father; "but will that truth feed my children?"

"No, sir; but I will feed them, when once discharged under a sequestration," rejoined Mr Thriven. "Your case above all the others, it shall be my care to assuage. Nor night nor day shall see my energies relaxed, till this wrong shall be made right."

"Our present necessities must be relieved," rejoined "the parent." "Could you not give us a part of our debt, in the meantime."

"And be dishonest in addition to being unfortunate!" ejaculated Mr Samuel. "That, sir, is the worst cut of all. No, no. I may be imprisoned, I may be fed on bread and water, I may be denied the benefit of the act of grace, but I shall never be forced to give an undue preference to one creditor over another. You forget, Mr Bairnsfather, that a bankrupt may have a conscience."

After much more of such converse, Mr Bairnsfather retired. And the next who came for the relief which she was not destined to receive, was Widow Mercer.

"This is a dreadful business, Mr Thriven," said she, as she ran forward in the confusion of unfeigned anguish.

"Dreadful, indeed, my good lady," answered he; "and who can feel it more than myself—that is, after you."

"You are a man, and I am a woman," rejoined the disconsolate creditor; "a woman who has struggled, since the death of her good husband, to support herself and a headless family, who, but for their mother's industry, might have, ere now, been reduced to seek their bread as the boon of pity. But ah, sir, it cannot be that you are to class me with the rest of your creditors. They are men, and may make up their losses in some other way. To me the loss of fifty pounds would be total ruin. Oh, sir, you will!—I know by that face of sympathy, you will make me an exception. Heaven will bless you for it; and my children will pray for you to the end of our lives."

"All this just adds to my misery," replied Mr Samuel; "and that misery, Heaven knows, is great enough already. Your case is that of the mother and the widow; and what need is there for a single word to tell me that it stands apart from all the others. But, madam, were I to pay your debt, do not you see that both you and I would be acting against the laws of our country. What supports me, think ye, under my misfortune, but the consciousness of innocence. Now, you would cruelly take away from me that consciousness, whereby, for the sake of a fifty-pound note, you would render me miserable here, and a condemned man hereafter. A hotter fire, of a verity, there is than that which burned up my stock. But I am bound to make amends for the loss I have brought upon you; and you may rest assured that, as soon as I am discharged, I will do my best for you and your poor bereaved sons and daughters."

And thus Mr Thriven managed these importunate beings, termed creditors, in a manner that he, doubtless, considered highly creditable to himself, in so far as he thereby spread more widely the fact that he had been ruined by no fault of his own, at the same time that he proved himself to be a man of feeling, justice, and sentiment. Meanwhile, his agent, Mr Sharp, was as busy as ever an attorney could be, in getting out a sequestration, with the indispensable adjunct of a personal protection, which the lords very willingly granted upon the lugubrious appeal, set forth in the petition, that Mr Thriven's misfortunes were attributable to the element of fire. A fifty-pound note, too, sent his shopman, Mr Joseph Clossmuns, over the Atlantic; and, the coast being clear, Mr Thriven went through his examinations with considerable eclat.

CHAP. IV.—THE WINDFALL.

"These men," said Mr Thriven, after he got home to dinner, "have worried me so by their questions, that they have imposed upon me the necessity of taking some cooling liquor to allay the fervour of my blood. I must drink to them, besides, for they were, upon the whole, less severe than they might have been; and a bottle of cool claret will answer both ends. And now," he continued, after he drank off a bumper to the long lives of his creditors—"the greatest part of my danger being over, I can see no great risk of my failing in getting them to accept a composition of five shillings in the pound. But what then? I have no great fancy to the counter. After all, a haberdasher is at best but a species of man-milliner; and I do no see why I should not, when I get my discharge in my pocket, act the gentleman as well as the best of them. All that is necessary is to get the devout Miss Angelina M'Falzen, who regenerates the species by distributing good books, to consent to be my wife. She has a spare figure, a sharp face, and a round thousand. Her fortune will be a cover to my idleness; and then I can draw upon the sum I have made by my failure, just as occasion requires."

At the end of this monologue, a sharp broken voice was heard in the passage; and Mr Samuel Thriven's bottle of claret was, in the twinkling of an eye, replaced by a jug of cool spring water.

"Ah, how do you do, my clear Miss M'Falzen?" cried Mr Samuel, as he rose to meet his devout sweetheart.

"Sir," responded the devout distributor of tracts, stiffly and coldly, "you are in far better spirits than becomes one who is the means of bringing ruin on so many families. I expected to have found you contrite of heart, and of a comely sadness of spirits and seriousness of look."

"And yet I am only feasting on cold water," replied Samuel, letting the muscles of his face fall, as he looked at the jug. "But you know, Miss Angelina, that I am innocent of the consequences of the fire, and, when one has a clear conscience, he may be as happy in adversity over a cup of water, as he may be in prosperity over a bottle of claret."

"A pretty sentiment, Mr Thriven—la! a beautiful sentiment," replied Miss Angelina; "and satisfied as I am of your purity, let me tell you that our intercourse shall not, with my will, be interrupted by your misfortune. I would rather, indeed, feel a delight in soothing you under your affliction, and administering the balm of friendship to the heart that is contrite, under the stroke which cannot be averted."

"And does my Angelina," cried Samuel, "regard me with the same kindness and tenderness in my present reduced circumstances, as when I was engaged in a flourishing trade, which might have emboldened me to hope for a still more intimate, ay, and sacred connection?"

"Mr Thriven," replied the other, gravely, "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer." Samuel's face underwent some considerable change. "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer, who has reported to me some sentiments stated by you to her, of so beautiful and amiable a character, and so becoming a Christian, that I admire you for them. You promised to do your utmost, after you are discharged, to make amends to her and her poor family for the loss she will sustain by your bankruptcy. Ah, sir, that alone proves to me that you are an honest, innocent, and merely unfortunate insolvent; and to show you that I am not behind you in magnanimity, I have paid her the fifty pounds wherein you were indebted to her, and got an assignation to her debt. You may pay me when you please; and, meanwhile, I will accept of the composition you intend to offer to your creditors."

"Fifty pounds off her tocher," muttered Samuel between his teeth, and then took a drink of the cold water, in the full memory of the claret.

"It scarcely beseems a man," said he, "to be aught but a silent listener, when his praise is spoken by one he loves and respects. But, is it possible, Miss M'Falzen, that my misfortune has not changed those feelings—those—excuse me, Miss Angelina—those intentions with which, I had reason to believe, you regarded me."

And, with great gallantry, he seized the fair spinster round the waist, as he had been in the habit of doing before he was a bankrupt, to show, at least, that he was now no bankrupt in affection.

"To be plain with you, sir," replied she, wriggling herself out of his hands, "my intention once was to wait until I saw whether you would come unscathed and pure out of the fiery ordeal; but, on second thoughts, I conceived that this would be unfair to one whom I had always looked upon as an honest man, though, probably, not so seriously-minded a Christian as I could have wished; therefore," she added, smiling—yet no smiling matter to Samuel—"I have, you see, trusted you fifty pounds—a pretty good earnest—he! he!—that my heart is just where it was."

Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven kissed Miss Angelina M'Falzen.

"But oh, sir," she added, by way of protest, "I hope and trust that not one single spot shall be detected in your fair fame and reputation, and that you will come forth out of trial as unsullied in the eyes of good men, as you were pure in the estimation of one who thus proves for you her attachment."

"Never doubt it," replied Mr Samuel. "Innocence gives me courage and confidence."

He placed, theatrically, his hand on his heart.

"And what think you," added Miss Angelina, "of John Bunyan's book, which I lent you, and which I now see lying here? Is it not a devout performance—an extraordinary allegory? How much good I do by that kind of books! Ha, by the by, Mrs Bairnsfather, good creature, wishes to read it. So I shall just put it in my pocket. To be plain with you, she is much cast down, poor creature, by the loss her husband has sustained through your involuntary failure; and I have said that she will find much comfort in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"A staunch book, madam," replied Samuel, seriously—"an extraordinary allegory, worth a piece of the vellum of the old Covenant. I have derived great satisfaction and much good from it. I have no doubt it will support her, as it has done me, under our mutual affliction."

"Oh, how I do love to hear you talk that way," replied Miss Angelina. "It is so becoming your situation. When do you think you will get a discharge? I will answer for Mr Bairnsfather agreeing to the composition; and you know I am now a creditor myself in fifty pounds. Of course you have my vote; but you will tell me all about it afterwards. Good-day, Mr Thriven."

"Good-day, Miss M'Falzen."

The which lady was no sooner out, than was the bottle of claret. In a few minutes more Mr Thriven was laughing over his replenished glass, as totally oblivious of the secret carried away by his lover, on the blank leaf of the good old tinker's book, as he was on that night when he made free with the two bottles of port as good as Ofleys.

"The matter looks well enough," said he. "I can make no manner of doubt that my composition will be accepted; and then, with the two thousand five hundred, at least, that I will make of my bankruptcy, and the round thousand possessed by Miss Angelina M'Falzen, I can perform the part of a walking gentleman on the great stage of the world."

"Is Mr Thriven within?" he now heard asked at the door.

"Ho, it is Sharp!" muttered he, as he shoved the bottle and the glass into a recess, and laid again hold of the water-jug.

"Water, Thriven!" cried the attorney, as he bounded forward, and seized the bankrupt by the hand. "Water! and Mrs Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie dead, of a dead certainty, this forenoon; and you her nephew, and a will in her drawers, written by Jem Birtwhistle, in your favour, and her fortune ten thousand; and the never a mortal thought the old harridan had more than a five hundred."

"The devil a drop!" cried Mr Samuel Thriven. "The devil a drop of water; for, have I not in this press a half bottle of claret, which I laid past there that day of the fire, and never had the courage to touch it since. But me her heir! Ho, Mr Joseph Sharp, you are, of a verity, fooling a poor bankrupt, who has not a penny in the world after setting aside his composition of five shillings in the pound. Me her heir! Why, I was told by herself that I was cut off with a shilling; and you must say it seriously ere I believe a word on't."

"I say it as seriously," replied the writer, "as ever you answered a homethrust to-day in the sheriff's office, as to the amount of stock you lost by the burning of your premises—as sure as a decree of the Fifteen. I say your loss had made her repent; so come away with the claret."

Mr Thriven emptied the whole of the half bottle, at one throw, into a tumbler.

"Drink, thou pink of an attorney!" said he, and then fell back into his chair, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed on the roof, and his two hands closed in each other, as if they had been two notes for five thousand each.

"Are you mad, Mr Thriven?" cried Sharp, after he had bolted the whole tumbler of claret.

"Yes!" answered Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven.

"Have you any more of this Bordeaux water in the house?"

"Yes!" answered Mr Thriven. "Open that lockfast" (pointing to a press), "and drink till you are only able to shout 'M'Whirter'—'Cockenzie'—'Thriven'—'ten thousand'—'hurra!'—and never let a word more come out of you, till you fall dead drunk on the floor."

The first part of the request, at least, was very quickly obeyed, and two bottles were placed on the table, one of which the attorney bored in an instant, and had a good portion of it rebottled in his stomach by the time that Mr Thriven got his eyes taken off the roof of the chamber.

"Hand me half-a-tumbler!" cried he, "that I may gather my senses, and see the full extent of my misfortune."

"Misfortune!" echoed Sharp.

"Ay!" rejoined Samuel, as he turned the bottom of the tumbler to the roof. "Why did Grizel M'Whirter die, sir, until I got my discharge?"

"Ah, sir!" replied Sharp, on whom the wine was already beginning to operate, "you have thus a noble opportunity of being the architect of a reputation that might be the envy of the world. You can now pay your creditors in full—twenty shillings in the pound, and retain five thousand to yourself, with the character of being that noblest work of nature—an honest man.'

"When a thing is utterly beyond one's reach," rejoined Samuel, looking, with a wry face, right into the soul of the attorney, "how beautiful it appears."

Sharp accepted coolly the cut, because he had claret to heal it, otherwise he would have assuredly knocked down Mr Samuel Thriven.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Sharp!" continued his friend; "but I felt a little pained, sir, at the high-flown expression of the great good that awaits me, as if I were not already conscious of being, and known to be, that noblest work of nature. The cut came from you, Mr Sharp, and I only returned it. All I regret, sir, is, that my aunt did not live till I got my discharge, because then, not being bound to pay my creditors one farthing, I might have paid them in full, without obligation at all, and thereby have proved myself what I am—a generous man. No more of the claret. You must away with me to Cockenzie, to see that the repositories are sealed, and the will safe."

"By my faith, I forgot that!" replied Sharp; "a pretty good sign that, if you are a generous man, I am not a selfish one. We had better," he added, "let the claret alone till we return from Cockenzie. What think you?"

Now Samuel had already told Sharp that he was to have no more of the wine; and the question of the attorney, which was a clear forestaller, would have angered any man who was not an heir (five minutes old) of ten thousand. But Samuel knew better than to quarrel with the attorney at that juncture; so he answered him in the affirmative; and, in five minutes afterwards, the heir and the lawyer were in a coach, driving off to Cockenzie. The bankrupt was, in a few minutes more, in a dream—the principal vision of which was himself in the act of paying his creditors in full with their own money, and earning a splendid reputation for honesty. The sooner he performed the glorious act, the greater credit he would secure by it; his name would be in the "Courant" and "Mercury," headed by the large letters—"Praiseworthy instance of honesty coming out, in full strength, from the ordeal of fire."

"What has Miss Angelina M'Falzen been doing at the house of Mrs Bairnsfather?" cried Sharp, as he turned from the window of the carriage (now in the Canongate) to the face of Samuel, whose eyes were fixed by the charm of his glorious hallucination.

"Lending her the 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" answered Samuel, as he started from his dream.

Now Sharp could not for the life of him understand this ready answer of his friend, for he had put the query to awaken him from his dream, and without the slightest hope of receiving a reply to a question which savoured so much of the character of questions in general; so he left him to his dream, and, in a short time, they were at Cockenzie.

CHAP. V.—THE TEA-PARTY.

"Well, my dear," said Mr Bairnsfather to his wife, when he came home to tea on that same afternoon of which we have now been narrating the incidents, "I hope you are getting over our losses; yet I have no very good news for you to-day—for all that Thriven intends to offer of dividend is five shillings in the pound."

"It is but a weary world this we live in," said the disconsolate wife. "We are all pilgrims; and there is for each of us some slough of despond, through which we must struggle to the happy valley."

"What, ho!" rejoined the husband; "I have come home to tea, and you are giving me a piece of Bunyan. Come, lay down your book, for Mr Wrench and Mr Horner are to be here to get some of your souchong."

"And I," replied the good-wife, "asked Miss Angelina M'Falzen to come back and get a cup with us. I could not do less to the devout creature; for she took the trouble of going to Mr Thriven's to-day, and getting from him the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' that she might bring it to me, to reconcile me to the evils of life, and, among the rest, the loss which we have sustained by her friend's failure."

"Poh! I hate all 'Pilgrim's-Progress'-reading insolvents!" rejoined the husband, taking the book out of his wife's hands. "Go, love, and get ready the tea, while I sojourn with the Elstow tinker in the valley of humiliation, out of which a cup of China brown stout and some converse will transport me to the 'house beautiful.'"

And Mr Bairnsfather, while his wife went to prepare tea, and his many children were dispersed here and there and everywhere, got very rapidly into "Vanity Fair," of the which, being somewhat aweary, as he said, with a yawn, he turned the leaves over and over, and at last fixed his eyes on the leaf that had once been, though it was now no longer, blank. The awl of the Elstow tinker himself never could have gone with greater determination through the leather of a pair of bellows, than did Mr Bairnsfather's eye seem to penetrate that written page. Like the seer of the vision of a ghost in the night, he drew his head back, and he removed it forwards, and he shut his eyes, and opened his eyes, and rubbed his eyes; and the more he did all this, the more he was at a loss to comprehend what the writing on the said blank leaf was intended to carry to the eyes of mortals. It was of the handwriting of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, for a certainty—he could swear to it; for the bill he had in his possession—and whereby he would lose three-fourth parts of two hundred pounds—was written in the same character. What could it mean?

"What can it mean?" he said, again and again.

"How should I, if you, who are a cleverer man, do not know, Mr Bairnsfather," said Mr Wrench, who was standing at his back, having entered in the meantime. "I have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' which Mrs B. says you are reading, more than once, and fairly admit that there are obscure passages in it. But here comes Mr Horner, who can perhaps unravel the mystery, if you can point out what limb of the centipede allegory it is which appears to you to have a limp."

"By my faith, it is in the tail," said Mr Bairnsfather, as he still bored his eyes into the end of the book.

"Let me see the passage," said Mr Horner.

And all the three began to look at the writing, which set forth the heads and particulars of Mr Samuel Thriven's gain by his bankruptcy.

"A very good progress for a pilgrim," said Mr Horner; and they looked at each other knowingly, and winked their six eyes, and nodded their three heads.

Miss M'Falzen and the tea came in at this moment. The three creditors were mute, and the devout spinster was talkative. Mrs Bairnsfather then filled up and handed round the tea-cups (they sat all close to the table), and her husband handed round to his two friends the book.

"What an interest that book does produce," said Miss Angelina, apparently piqued by the attention shown to the genius of the tinker.

"Come, now, Miss Angelina," said Mrs Bairnsfather, "confess that that copy produces no small interest in yourself, considering the hands it was in to-day."

"Fie! fie, ma'am!" rejoined the blushing spinster. "How could the touch of a man's fingers impart a charm to mere paper. If Mr Thriven had appended some pretty piece of devout or poetical sentiment to it, why, you know, that would have made all the difference in the world, ma'am. He is really an excellent man, Mr Thriven; though we have all suffered in consequence of his loss, yet, I daresay, we all feel for his unmerited misfortune."

The three creditors were too much absorbed in Bunyan even to smile.

"When did you lend this copy to Mr Thriven?" inquired Mr Wrench; and the two others fixed their eyes, filled with awful import, on the face of the devout spinster.

"Just the day before the fire," replied she; "and ah, sir! how delighted I am that I did it! for he assures me that it has sustained him wonderfully in his affliction."

The three men smiled, rose simultaneously, and retired to a parlour, taking Bunyan with them. Their looks were ominous; and Mrs Bairnsfather could not, for the world, understand the mystery. After some time, they returned, and looked more ominously than before.

"It is worth three thousand pounds, if it is worth a penny," said Mr Horner, seriously.

"Every farthing of it," rejoined Mr Wrench. "The most extraordinary book I ever saw in my life."

"An exposition miraculous, through the agency of Heaven," added Mr Bairnsfather.

Now all this time their tea was cooling, and the hostess examined and searched the eyes of her husband and guests. Have they all got inspired or mad, thought she; but her thought produced no change, for the men still looked and whispered, and shook their heads, and nodded, and winked, and left their tea standing, till she began to think of the state of the moon.

"How delighted I am," ejaculated Miss M'Falzen; "for I never saw such an effect produced by the famous allegory in any family into which I ever introduced it. You see the effect of agitation in devout matters, Mrs Bairnsfather."

"You know not half the effect it has produced on us, ma'am," said Mr Horner. "It has electrified us—so much so, indeed, that we cannot remain longer to enjoy your excellent society. You will, therefore, ladies, excuse us if we swallow our tea cleverly, and go to promulgate in the proper quarters the information afforded us by this wonderful production."

"The sooner we are away the better," added Mr Wrench, drinking off his cup. "We must call a private meeting, and lay it secretly before them."

"Certainly," added Mr Bairnsfather; "and you, Miss M'Falzen, authorise us to tell the peregrinations of the book—into whose hands it has been—and how it came here."

"Bless you, sir!" cried the devout spinster; while Mrs Bairnsfather kept staring at her husband and guests, unable to solve the strange mystery, "you do not know a tithe of the good that this little book has achieved. It has been in half the houses in the Cowgate and Canongate. It is relished by the poor, and sought after by the rich; it mends the heart, improves the understanding, and binds up the wounds of those that are struck by the hands of the archers. Oh! I agitate in the good work mightily with it, and others of the same class; and may all success attend your efforts, also, in so excellent a cause. Call meetings by all means, read, expound, examine, exhort, entreat, and, hark ye, take Mr Samuel Thriven with you, for his heart is in the cause of the improvement of his fellow-creatures, and he knows the value of the allegory of the devout tinker of Elstow.

"We cannot do without Mr Thriven," replied Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile; and while Mrs Bairnsfather was calling out to them to take another cup, and explain to her the meaning of their conduct, the creditors rose all together, and, taking their hats and Bunyan, were on the point of leaving the room, in great haste and manifest excitement, when the door opened, and the soft voice of Widow Mercer saluted them.

"Have you heard the news?" said she.

"Does it concern Mr Thriven?" replied more than one.

"Yes, to be sure it does," rejoined she. "We will all now get full payment of our debts; what think ye of that, sirs?"

"Hush, hush," said Mr Bairnsfather, in the ear of the widow. "Say nothing of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You know Miss M'Falzen is a friend of Mr Thriven's."

"The 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" ejaculated the widow.

"Alas! he is, of a verity, mad," rejoined Mrs Bairnsfather.

"The 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" again cried Mrs Mercer.

"Tush, we knew all about it," whispered Mr Wrench. "You also have seen the book?"

"Yes," replied the widow, "I have, as who hasn't? but Lord bless me!"—and she whispered in his ear—"what, in the name of wonder, has the 'Pilgrim's Progress' to do with Mr Thriven having got ten thousand pounds left him by Mrs Grizel M'Whirter."

The whisper was communicated to the two other creditors by Mr Wrench. The three merchants, stimulated at the same moment by the same impulse of joy, laid hold of the good widow, and whirled her like a top round the room, snapping their fingers the while, and exhibiting other perfectly innocent demonstrations of gladness.

"The most extraordinary method of proselytising," said the spinster, "that I, who have carried on the trade of mending the species for many years, have ever yet seen."

"It is all beyond my poor wits together," added the wife.

And beyond her poor wits the creditors allowed it to remain; for they immediately went forth upon their intended mission. In some hours afterwards, accordingly, there was a secret meeting in the "White Horse," not less dangerous to Mr Samuel Thriven than was that held in the Trojan one to old Troy.

CHAP. VI.—THE PAYMENT.

Now all this time, while Mr Thriven's creditors were in the "White Horse," he himself was in heaven; for Sharp and he having found all right at Cockenzie, returned, and sat down to finish the claret which had been forestalled by the attorney before setting out. They resolved upon consigning Mrs Grizel M'Whirter to the cold earth a day sooner than custom might have warranted; and the reason for this especial care was simply that Mr Samuel wished, with all the ardour inspired by the Bordeaux waters, to make a grand and glorious display of his honesty, by calling all his creditors together, and paying them principal and interest—twenty shillings in the pound. They even, at this early period, set about making a draft of the circular letter which was to announce the thrilling intelligence.

"Heavens! what a commotion this will produce among the trade!" said Samuel, as he threw himself back in his chair, and fixed his enchanted eye on Sharp's copy. "It will electrify them; and, sir, the editors of the newspapers are bound, as patrons of public virtue, to set it forth as an example to others, to induce them to do the same in time coming. And now, since we have discussed so much business and claret, we will retire to our beds; I to enjoy the satisfaction of having resolved on a noble action, and you the hope of making a few six-and-eightpences by the death of Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie."

"A few!" cried Sharp, in an attorney's heroics. "You will see, when you count them, I am not less honest or generous than yourself."

The friends thereupon separated, to enjoy in their beds the two pleasures incident to their peculiar situations.

At the end of the period—less by one day than the customary time of corpses being allowed to remain on the face of the earth—Mrs Grizel M'Whirter was buried; and as her will contained a specific assignation to the greater part of her money, the same was in a day or two afterwards got hold of by Mr Thriven, and out went the round of circulars to the creditors, announcing that on the following Thursday, Mr Thriven would be seated in his house, ready to pay all his creditors their debts, and requesting them to attend and bring with them their receipts. Among these circulars was one to Miss Angelina M'Falzen—the very woman he had promised, before he succeeded to Mrs Grizel M'Whirter's fortune, to make a wife of; a pretty plain proof that now, when he had become rich, he intended to shake off the devout spinster who had attempted to reform him by lending him the allegory of the Tinker of Elstow. The eventful day at length arrived, when Mr Thriven was to enjoy the great triumph he had panted for—namely to pay the creditors in full every farthing, with their own money; and at the hour appointed a considerable number arrived at his house, among whom not a few knew, as well as they did the contents of their own Bibles, the nefarious device of the haberdasher. When the creditors were seated—

"It ill becomes a man," said Mr Thriven, affecting a comely modesty—"it ill becomes one who resolves merely to do an act of ordinary justice, to take credit to himself for the possession of uncommon honesty. Therefore, I say, away with all egotistical assumption of principles, which ought to belong to a man, merely (as we say in trade), as part and parcel of humanity; for, were it a miracle to be honest, why should we not tolerate dishonesty, which yet is, by the voice of all good men, condemned and put down. The debts due to you I incurred, why then should I not pay them? It makes not a nail of difference that I lost three-fourths of the amount thereof by fire; because, what had you to do with the fire? You were not the incendiaries. No; the fault lay with me; I should have insured my stock, in gratitude for the credit with which you honoured me. It is for these reasons that I now disdain to take any credit to myself for coming thus cleverly forward to do you an act of justice, which the will of Heaven has put in my power, by the demise of that lamented woman, Mrs Grizel M'Whirter, and which you could by law have forced me to do, though, probably, not so soon as I now propose to do of my own free will and accord."

Mr Thriven paused, for a burst of applause; and Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile on his face, stood up.

"It is all very well," said he, glancing to his friends, "for Mr Thriven to pretend that no merit attaches to one who acts in the noble and generous way he has resolved to follow on this occasion. Every honest act deserves applause, were it for nothing else in the world than to keep up the credit of honesty. No doubt we might have compelled Mr Thriven to pay us out of the money to which he has succeeded, and to this extent we may admit his plea of no merit; but the readiness, if not precipitancy, he has exhibited on the measure, is not only in itself worthy of high commendation, but, by a reflex effect, it satisfies us all of that of which we probably were not very sceptical, that his failure was an honest one, and that he is not now making a display of paying us out of any other money than his own."

"Shall we not accord to these sentiments of our brother creditor?" said Mr Wrench, rising with great seriousness. "How seldom is it, in the ordinary affairs of life, that we find the true Mr Greatheart of the 'Pilgrim's Progress!' But when we do find him, shall we not say to him, let him have his reward—and what shall that reward be? Empty praise? No! Mr Thriven needs not that, because he has the voice of conscience sounding within him—far more musical, I deem, to the ear of honesty than the hollow notes of external applause. A piece of plate? Very good for praise-devouring politicians to place on the table when the clique is carousing and settling the affairs of the state, but altogether unsuitable for the gratification of meek, self-denied, retiring honesty. A book of morals? What say ye to that, friends? I throw it out merely as a hint."

"And I second the suggestion," said Mr Horner, "with the amendment, that there shall be an inscription on a blank leaf, setting forth in detail the merits of the individual; and where could we find a better than the allegory of the progress of the pilgrim, written by the tinker of Elstow?"

A round of applause, fully suitable to the appetite of Mr Samuel, followed Mr Horner's amendment. The process of payment commenced, and was completed to the satisfaction of all parties; and when the creditors went away, Mr Thriven sat down to consider the position in which he stood. He had got applause; but he did not well understand it. Above all, he could not comprehend the allusion to the book written by John Bunyan.

"Well," he said, as he took up the "Mercury," "it is beyond my comprehension; and, after all, the good people may only mean to present me with some suitable gift, in consideration of the act of justice I have this day done them. Let me see if there be any news." And he fell back in his chair in that delightful langueur d'esprit to which a newspaper of all things is the most acceptable. "Why," he continued, as he still searched for some racy bit, "did not Sharp undertake to get a notice inserted, by way of an editor's advertisement of three lines, to immortalise me, and pave my way to the hand of Miss Clarinda Pott?" And he wrung the muscles of his face as if they had been a dish-clout filled with the humour of his bile. At length his eye stood in his head, his mouth opened, and he became what artists would call "a living picture." The part of the paper which produced this strange effect consisted of merely a few lines, to this import:—

"New Light.—The matter which the fire in ——- Street failed to illumine has, we understand, been illustrated by no less an individual than John Bunyan, Tinker at Elstow. Everything may be reduced to an allegory; the world itself is an allegory; and this scrap of ours is nothing but an allegory."

Samuel laid down the paper.

"What can this mean?" said he. "If this be not an allegory, I know not what is."

"Ah, sir, you are a man this day to be envied," said Miss M'Falzen, who now entered. "You have proved yourself to be an honest man. I was sure of it; and you know, Samuel, when all deserted you, I stuck fast by you, and even gave the—the—excuse me, sir—the consent you asked of me, while you had no prospect before you in this bad world other than beggary."

"What consent, ma'am?" replied Mr Thriven, with a face that displayed no more curiosity than it did love.

"Bless me, Mr Thriven, do you forget?—Is it possible that you can have forgotten so interesting an occasion?"

"I believe, by the by, ma'am, you have called for your debts," said Mr Thriven.

"Debt!" ejaculated the devout spinster. "Why should there be any debt between two people situated as we are. Why should not all claims be extinguished by the mixture of what Mr Sharp calls the goods in communion. If I take this money from you to-day, won't I be giving it back after the ceremony. True, my small fortune is now nothing to yours; yet I will remember with pleasure, and you will never surely forget, that all I had was at your service when you had lost all you had in the world; so, you see, my dear Samuel, if you have this day proved yourself to have a noble spirit, I am not behind you."

"What is the exact amount of your claim, Miss M'Falzen?" said Mr Thriven, with a determination to distance sentiment.

"And would you really pay it, cruel, cruel man?" said she, somewhat alarmed.

"Certainly, ma'am," replied he, dryly.

"Are you serious?" said she again, looking him full and searchingly in the face.

"Yes," answered he, more dryly than ever.

"Can it be possible that your sentiments towards me have undergone a change, Mr Thriven?" rejoined she. "Ah! I forgot. You are now a man of ten thousand pounds, and I have only one. The film is falling off my eyes. O deluded Angelina!"

"Then you will see the better to count the money I am to pay you," said he, attempting to laugh. "Fifty pounds, ma'am. Here it is; I will thank you for Mr Mercer's bill."

"Well, sir, since it has come to this, I will none of the money. Alas! this is the effect of John Bunyan's famous book. Good-day—good-day, Mr Samuel;" and the spinster, covering her face with her handkerchief, rushed out of the room.

CHAP. VII.—THE DENOUEMENT.

"Thus have I got quit of the spinster," said Mr Thriven, "and thus have I too got quit of my creditors. But how comes this? She also talks of Bunyan; everybody talks of Bunyan. But this paper? No, spite—spite—let them present me with an inscription on a blank leaf. It will do as well as a piece of plate. I will get the words of praise inserted in another newspaper, and then begin to act the gentleman in earnest on my ten thousand. I shall instantly engage a buggy with a bright bay; and a man-servant, with a stripe of silver lace round his hat, shall sit on my sinister side. Let them stare and point at me. They can only say, there rides an honest man, who failed, and paid his creditors twenty shillings the pound. Ho! here comes Sharp."

"What is the meaning of this?" said he, holding out the paper. "Some wretched joke of an editor who would take from me the honour intended for me by my creditors. I see by your face that you smell an action of damages."

"Joke!" echoed Sharp. "That copy of Bunyan which Miss M'Falzen was lending to Mrs Bairnsfather that day when we went to Cockenzie, is now in the hands of the procurator-fiscal."

"Oh, the devout maiden lends it to everybody," replied Samuel. "She will be to get the fiscal to reclaim sinners by it, rather than to punish them by the arm of the law."

"Is it possible, Mr Thriven, that you can thus make light of an affair that involves banishment?" said Sharp. "Did you really write on a blank leaf of that book the details of the profit you were to make of the burning?"

Samuel jumped at least three feet from the floor; and when he came down again, he muttered strange things, and did strange things, which no pen could describe, because they were unique, had no appropriate symbols in language, had never been muttered or done before since the beginning of the world, and, probably, will never be again. It might, however, have been gathered from his ravings, that he had some recollection of having scribbled something about his failure, but that he thought it was in the blank leaf of a pocket-book, the which book he grasped and examined, but all was a dead blank. He then threw himself on a chair, and twisted himself into all possible shapes, cursing Miss Angelina M'Falzen, himself, his creditors, every one who had the smallest share in this tremendous revolution from wealth, hopes of a high match, buggy, servant with silver lace, even to disgrace, confiscation, and banishment.

"You are renowned for the quickness, loopiness, subtleness, of thy profession. Can you not assist me, Sharp? A man's scrawls are not evidence of themselves."

"But, with the testimony of Clossmuns, who has returned from Liverpool, they will be conclusive," replied the attorney, whose game now lay in Mr Samuel's misfortunes. "Such evidence never went before a jury since the time of the regiam majestatem.

"What then is to be done?" inquired Samuel.

"Fly! fly! and leave me a power of attorney to collect your moneys. There is two thousand of Grizel M'Whirter's fortune still to uplift—your stock in trade is to be disposed of—I will manage it beautifully for you, and, in spite of an outlawry, get the proceeds sent to you wheresoever you go."

"Dreadful relief!" ejaculated the other, "to fly one's country, and leave one's affairs in the hands of an attorney!"

"Better than banishment," replied Sharp, grinding his teeth as if sharp set for the quarry that lay before him. "What do you resolve on? Shall I write out the power of attorney, or will you wait till the officers are on you?" muttering to himself, in conclusion, "A few six-and-eight-pences! I'faith I have him now!"

"Then there is no alternative?" rejoined Samuel.

"None," replied Sharp. "I have it on good authority that the warrant against you was in the act of being written out, when I hurried here, as you find, to save you. Shall I prepare the commission?"

"Yes, yes! as quick as an ellwand that leaps three inches short of the yard."

And, while he continued in this extremity of his despair, Sharp set about writing out the factory—short and general—giving all powers of uplifting money, and reserving none. It was signed. In a few minutes more, Mr Thriven was in a post-chaise, driving on to a seaport in England. The news of the flight of the honest merchant, with all the circumstances, soon reached the ear of the devout spinster, even as she was weeping over the result of the interview she had had with her cruel lover. She wiped her eyes and repressed her sobs, and congratulated herself on the consequences of her devout labours. Mr Thriven was not heard of again; neither was his cash.

THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN.

In the calm clear evenings of June and July, when the heat of the day has been abated, it has been my custom to walk forth to brace my nerves after the cares and fatigues of the day. Pent up for these thirty years in one of the dingy shops of the Luckenbooths, I have toiled to gain wealth enough to enable me to exchange the chimes of St Giles' bells for the singing of the larks; but, alas! I fear my ears will be too hard, and my eyes too dim, ere that time come when I may seek to enjoy the melody of the songsters, or the verdure of their habitations. Gradually already have they been becoming less cheering to me than they were in those young sunny days of my apprenticeship, when I used to sally forth as soon as I had given the keys to my master. I have still, however, the impressions of memory; and this summer they are as vivid as when they were real perceptions. While sitting at my desk, I wander, in fond recollection, around Arthur Seat, and fondly think that such evenings in June may be yet for me as I have enjoyed them. Such is the folly of men of business. From the month I commenced for myself, the lark has been singing less sweetly, and my loved haunts have been becoming less and less engaging. Have the vocalists of these times degenerated, and the fields become aged? The change cannot be in me; I am still in my vigour, and a bachelor. Fifty-two is not an old man—so spoke the heart's wishes—yet this fact is otherwise. Since that period when I took the cares of the world upon my own shoulders, I have, in general, been lost to everything else around me. The incubus of the counter and desk mounts upon my shoulders, and whispers in my ears of bills and debts unpaid, or to pay; and immediately, in place of the visions of my youth, ledgers and slips of paper, spangled with columns of figures, occupy what were once the sad recesses of love. Thus hag-ridden, yet still in search of happiness, have I stalked over the loveliest of the lovely scenes that abound around Edinburgh, almost unconscious of where I have been. And what has been the reward of all my cares? I have accumulated three thousand pounds, and some properties that yield what some would call good interest; and the making of this has been the unmaking of the sensibilities of enjoyment, without which it is nothing.

Such were my reflections before I had reached the last stile next to Samson's Ribs. Early visions of Duddingston Loch had haunted me through the day; and hence I had sought again the scene that so sweetly combines the Alpine and champaign, as if they here met to embrace. I had passed up through the valley between the Craigs and Arthur Seat, and continued sauntering along the narrow road, like one cast forth by all the world, gloomy and dissatisfied—my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed vacantly upon the ground, and my hands at my back. Some maidens and their swains were dancing beneath at the Wells of Weary,[3] to the measure of their own "wood-notes wild." My heart was touched almost to tears. The demon that drove enjoyment from my walks fled, and a flood of tender recollections flowed in upon it. On that verdant spot, thirty-two years before, I had been as happy and as joyous as the group before me, dancing to the same heart-stirring air, with one I had loved with all the fervour of a youthful heart, until the chilling influence of what the world calls prudence damped my flame, but could not extinguish it. She was now the dispenser of happiness and comfort to another, and the mother of a lovely family—not so rich in what the world calls wealth; how much richer was she in peace and joy! I had for years kept her heart in suspense, until it sickened at my undecided courtship and shuffling delays. I know she loved me better than all the world beside, and would have consented to be mine, whatever had been my lot—faithful and kind to me, also a soother of my soul, in all conditions, she would have been. To riches I had sacrificed her and myself. Alas! I found now their heart-searing consolations. Again and again have I striven to persuade myself that I acted wisely in delaying our union. I at the time even took praise for vanquishing the warmth of my love, that we might feel less the delay. Alas! I knew not woman's heart. My coolness pained and piqued her; and while I was all-intent upon acquiring wealth which she was to enjoy with me, another was warming that heart which I had chilled. She was wed unknown to me. I met the marriage party in the church. What would I have given, to have been able to roll back the wheels of Time, and throw upon them all my hopes of wealth, with the curse which they deserved.

In this reverie I stumbled upon an artist. He was drawing the scene of my dreams. A few words passed. He resumed; and I gazed upon the happy group which he was ably sketching, till early recollections raised a sigh almost amounting to a groan. The stranger started, and inquired if I was unwell. The sincere and sympathising tone of his voice interested me, and I requested to have the pleasure of looking at his sketch.

"You are most welcome," he replied: "but it is a mere scratch. I will be enabled to do much better soon. I mean it for the foreground of a picture I am painting, sir. I am one of the most fortunate fellows in the world; I always get what I wish just at the moment I want it, or at least soon after it."

This speech struck me as a most singular one from the person who made it. He was apparently about thirty years of age, with an open, generous countenance, which, though not handsome, exhibited the glance of the eye and lofty brow that spoke intellect and feeling.

"I am no judge of painting or drawing further than of what gives me pleasure," said I; and I looked upon his sketch with a melancholy delight; for he had drawn the group as they really were—true to nature—and fancy enabled me to see, in one of the females, her I had lost. I spoke my praise in the warmth of my feelings; for I again enjoyed the scene so much, that it conquered my love of money, and I at once, and for the first time in my life, resolved to purchase a picture.

I looked from the sketch to the artist, to examine the man I was to deal with, that I might judge how to make my bargain; for, strong as my inclination was to have the picture, my mercantile habits were equally strong. His dress was much the worse for the service it had seen; and there was an appearance of penury about him that made me anticipate a good bargain.

"Do you paint for amusement only," said I, "or do you dispose of them?"

"I paint for fame and fortune, my good sir," said he; "but I am yet only a novice in the noble art, however long I may have been an admirer."

"Is your present work bespoke?" again said I.

"Oh no, sir," replied he; "but I will soon get it off my hands when it is finished; for I am, as I told you, a fortunate man."

"How much do you expect for it?"

"If I had as much money as purchase a frame for it," said he, "I might get five pounds; but, as that is not the case, I must take what I can get from a dealer—perhaps a pound, or less."

For the first time for many years, I felt the generous glow of doing good to a fellow-creature at the expense of my cash; but, if the truth will be told, it was the recollection of the good and gentle Helen that at this moment operated upon me.

"Well, sir, if you will sell me this sketch and the finished picture for two pounds, I will be the purchaser," said I.

"I accept your offer," was his reply, "and I feel grateful for your patronage, as I am yet unknown; but I feel confident I shall succeed at length in this my present aim at fame and fortune. The goddess has eluded me often, doubtless even when I was sure I held her in my grasp. But that is nothing. I was happy, as I am at present, in the pursuit; for all my life has been a series of anticipations supremely happy."

We had stood during this discourse; my eye was on him; and I could see the glow that was upon his face. How strange to me it seemed: I, too, had lived in anticipation of being rich, yet never felt the thrill, the full joy, of hope which possession banishes. How justly may anticipation and fruition be compared to youth and age!—the one, joyous and buoyant, moves along the rough walks of life, with hope pointing the way and smoothing his path; fruition, like an aged traveller, feeble and spent, sees ever a length of way before him, rendered rougher by cares for what he has attained, while all behind him is nothing. One of my gloomy fits was coming over me—my mind was turning in upon itself, when he aroused me, by inquiring where he should have the pleasure of bringing his work to me. I gave him my address, and we began to return to the city. Long before we reached the last stile, he had so won upon my regard, that I invited him home with me to supper, under promise that he should give me an outline of his life. He redeemed his pledge thus:—

My father, Andrew Elder (said he), lived in one of the villages not far from town, where I was born. He was not rich, but well enough to do; by trade a joiner, tolerably well read, of a shrewd and argumentative turn of mind, and the oracle of the village, at a time when it was distracted by the politics of the period, which ran high between the aristocrats and democrats. The French Revolution had attained the climax of its horrors, and the best blood of France was poured forth as water. Once a democrat, he had changed his former opinions, and his antipathy was as intense against the bloody miscreants who, in the public commotion, had wriggled themselves into their bad pre-eminence, as his sympathy had been strong at the commencement in favour of an enslaved people. I was scarce seventeen—an anxious listener to all that passed in the shop between my father and his opponents. All he said was to me true as holy writ; and those hearers who doubted one word he said were deemed worthy only of my pity. Well do I recollect—it was the beginning of May, 1794, and our dinner hour; the newspaper had just arrived; a number of neighbours were seated on or standing around the bench on which the all-engrossing paper was spread. My father gave a shout of triumph, and looked contempt upon the democratic part of his audience, who were ranged on the opposite side. They again looked, their anxiety not unmixed with fear.

"Hurrah!" cried my father, "the bloody monsters will soon be put down and die by their own accursed guillotine. James, run into the house and bring me my Gazetteer; I wish to see the map."

I was not slow to obey, for I was as eager to learn the cause of my father's joy as the oldest politician present.

He read, with exultation, the arrival of the Emperor of Germany at Brussels on the 9th of April, and his advance to Valenciennes, to join the Duke of York, who lay there with the Allied Army under his command. Then, opening Guthrie's well-thumbed volume, and laying it before his auditors, he seized his compasses, as a marshal would his truncheon, waved them in triumph, then spread out the map, measuring on the scale a number of leagues to illustrate his demonstration.

"Now, attention, you blacknebs," he said, "and do not interrupt me;" and immediately all eyes were bent upon the map. "Now, here is Valenciennes," said he; "and here is Paris, the den of the murderers. The Allies will be there in three weeks at farthest; what can stay them? Tell me, ye democrats!" They hung their heads, as he struck the bench, to give his demonstration force. "In four months," he continued, "the king, Louis XVII., will be in Paris, to avenge his brother's blood; and peace will be restored before the corn is off the ground. Hurrah!"

There might have been some grave humour in his earnestness, but his prophecy made an impression on me he little dreamed of; while he spoke, a voice seemed to sound in my ear that made me start—"Here is an opportunity for you to see the world you have often wished for. The contest will not last four months; you may enter the navy, which will be paid off at the end of the war; be home before winter, and boast to your father of all you have seen and done." The impulse was so strong that I left the politicians in keen debate—for the dinner hour was not expired—and, putting on my coat and hat, set off for Leith as quick as I could walk. My only fear was that I might be too late to be received; the account of the Allies having entered Paris might have arrived; peace might be made before I could join, and my golden dreams be dissipated.

It was nearly dark before I reached the rendezvous upon the shore. A throb of joy gave new spirit to me when I saw the union-jack hanging over the door. I entered at once, and inquired if I was not too late to go on board of a man-of-war?

"By no means," said the active Captain Nash, who was present at the time. "Were you ever at sea, my spirited lad?"

"No, sir," said I; "but I hope that will be no objection."

"Oh, none in the least," said he. "You shall, in an hour or two, be put on board the tender which sails for the Nore to-morrow. Here, mate, give this volunteer something to drink his majesty's health."

I was now seated at a long table, at which were some of the most forbidding individuals I had ever seen: several were evidently intoxicated, spoke in phrases I could not comprehend, and uttered oaths that made my heart tremble. I became bewildered; the situation in which I had placed myself was not what I had anticipated. I loathed the liquor they offered me, began to think I had done a foolish action, and wished to be at my bench again, a free agent.

How long my mind continued in this state I know not; but I was soon roused to a fuller sense of the situation in which I had so rashly placed myself. I soon saw enough to make me weep. Six of the gang entered, swearing, and threatening two young sailors, whom they dragged in with them, and who, as well as several of their captors, were severely cut, bruised, and bleeding. They had, doubtless, fought stoutly to escape the gang. I was there a voluntary victim, and any little fortitude that had until now sustained me fled, as I gazed upon the painful sight. They were both about the same age, and stout, active young men; they spoke not one word; but their countenances were sad, gloomy, and desponding; and, at times, I could perceive a shade of sullenness, bordering on ferocity, pass over their faces, as they lifted their eyes from the floor towards the men who were busy removing the stains of the conflict. In a short time after, we were taken to the Ferry Stairs, and put into their boat. It was now, for the first time, that I began to doubt if my father was correct in his eulogiums of British liberty. I soon understood that the cases of these lads were peculiarly hard; yet, after all, not so very hard as that of many I afterwards knew. They were brothers, and belonged to Leith, where their parents still lived. They had been absent three years upon a whaling expedition in the South Seas; and, anxious to see their father and mother (the former of whom was stretched on a sick-bed), had, with circumspection, and in disguise, reached their home, when, only after a few hours, some unfeeling wretch, for the paltry reward, became informer, and the gang secured their prey. The sick, if not dying, parent entreated in vain; and the mother's tears and groans, as she saw her loved and manly sons struggling against an overwhelming force (for what, my father oft had said, was the birthright of every British subject), were equally unavailing. I kept my eyes on the two youths who, for no offence, were thus treated as felons, and compelled, against their wills and interests, to leave their homes, and all that they held dear; yet, so strangely are we constituted, this train of thought passed off, as I surveyed the clear night, with the full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and reflected by the waters of the placid Frith. My young heart even felt a glow of pleasure: I hoped the worst of my new life was past, and that I would soon be again with my father, to recount to him the sights I had seen.

When we reached the tall dark sides of the (to my inexperienced mind) gigantic tender, all my regrets were fled, and expectation again filled my breast. Having hailed, and been answered by the watch on board, the two pressed men were forced to ascend from the boat, which they did with an ease and facility that astonished me. I attempted to stand up, but fell across the thwarts—the motion of the boat, inconsiderable as it was, throwing me off my balance at every effort. Forced to hold on by one of the gang, I had my ears filled with a volley of oaths. A rope was at last lowered from the deck, and made fast under my arms, and thus I partly climbed, and was partly hoisted up, until I could hold on by the bulwarks—furnishing merriment to those on board, and greeted by no kindly voice, my feelings were again damped. For the first time in my life I felt that I was alone in the world, and must rely upon my own energies for protection. Ordered below, I staggered, as I moved upon the deck, like one intoxicated, still grasping at everything to prevent me falling, and bewildered at all I saw and heard. How unlike were these things to what I had found in books, or dreamed of in my enthusiasm, of the noble navy of my country. My mind was all confusion. My native language, spoken by those around me, was mixed with such terms and phrases, that it was all but incomprehensible. When I reached the hatch, and was in the act of descending the ladder, I missed my hold, fell to the deck, and a laugh sounded in my ears—all the pity I received, though I lay sick, stunned, and bruised among my fellow-creatures. I crawled out of the way, lest I should be trampled upon by those who had occasion to pass up and down. No kindly hand was held out to me; and there upon the bare boards I passed my first night from home. Youth and health triumphed, and I soon fell sound asleep.

Well, not to be too circumstantial, this rough initiation into my naval adventures was of immense advantage to me. Follow out my course I must, whether I now willed or not. I had the consolation of my father's prophecy, that the war would terminate before the winter commenced; and if I wished to see the world, I must take things as they come. It has ever been my nature to look upon every event on the sunny side. I anticipate pleasure even amidst privations and discomfort; and I have thus enjoyed hours and days of happiness, when those who suffered with me have been driven almost to despair. When day dawned, I was awakened by the noise and bustle around me. I looked at the murky den in which I had passed the night close by a gun-carriage. Some were extended on the deck here and there; a greater number snugly hung in their hammocks were the regular seamen; the others were landsmen like myself, unprovided with anything—their all on their backs, and as ignorant of life at sea as their purses were empty. I will not say that I was pleased with the turn my adventure had assumed; yet I was not discouraged; I knew that thousands passed their lives in the navy, and I would not be worse off than my equals in rank. I arose, and, seated upon the gun-carriage, began to be amused by what was passing around. As the day advanced, my interest began to increase, and I formed a few friendships with my fellows. One of these, a young seaman who had been impressed a few days before out of a West Indiaman, was of vast service to me, in giving me instruction how to conduct myself, and allowed me to sleep with him. I had left home without one shilling; was provided with nothing, and must remain so until rated in some ship after we reached the Nore.

No person who has not seen, can conceive the scenes of wickedness and folly that are acted on board a tender, where all are crowded together with no regular messes formed, and no routine of duty laid down to engage the mind or dispel the tedium. The careless act their parts, but the thoughts are forced in upon the serious thinker. Some sat in deep abstraction, unconscious of all that was passing around them, fetching a deep sigh occasionally, and looking mournfully at their merry mates; others were walking backwards and forwards, with a restless cast of countenance, like a caged animal; while here and there were small groups, deep plunged in the excitement of gambling for small sums, and swearing over their well-thumbed dirty cards; others were carousing in secret, with ardent spirits, brought secretly on board, by boats which were continually arriving from or departing for the shore with the friends of those on board; and very many passed their time listlessly leaning over the nettings, gazing upon the shore they were so soon to see, perhaps, for the last time, yet caring not whether they ever saw it again or not. At length the boatswain piped to weigh anchor. The foresheet was shaken out, and we stood down the Frith. As the shores receded from us, some became more sad, but the greater number seemed as if a load had been taken from their minds. As for myself, I felt my spirits increase as we gallantly bounded over the waters.

When we reached the Nore, I, along with several others, was draughted into a frigate, which had received orders to sail for the West Indies. As soon as I was rated, I received from the purser what necessaries I required, which was placed to my account to be deducted from my wages. I felt my importance much increased as I put on my new dress and got my station on board; yet a qualm of disappointment came over me as I thought of the distance I was to be carried from home, and I began to doubt if I could return to Scotland before winter, when the peace I had anticipated would take place. My sailor life presented many features that belied my expectations. At this time a war-ship was managed in the most tyrannical manner, by the caprice of the captain and first-lieutenant. The rattan of the boatswain was in constant play; and it often seemed as if he struck the men more for his own gratification than their correction. Standing at the foot of the rattlins when they were ordered aloft, he invariably struck the last, whether in ascending or descending. This was to make them look sharp. The same course was followed in regard to every duty to which he called them; and a dozen or more of lashes were often given for what the most microscopic eye could not have detected as a fault: the cat was seldom out of use, and never a day passed without several punishments. A chit of a midshipman, if he took an umbrage at a man, would order him to stand while he mounted a gun-carriage to strike him about the head or face; and if the gallant fellow moved on, he was reported to the officer on duty as mutinous, tied to the grating, and received a dozen or two. Our provisions too were very scanty, and not of the best quality; while a complaint would have been mutiny. Before we reached the Island of Jamaica, custom overcame disgust. I saw, besides, that it was the rule of the service—officers were not, in their station, better off than the men; midshipmen were cobbed or ordered aloft with as little compunction or inquiry as the men were flogged. The only individual on board who stood not in fear of some other alongside was the captain; yet he feared the admiral, and the admiral crouched to the Lords of the Admiralty, who succumbed to the ministry, who crouched to the king; and, as a landsman on board a man-of-war, all being in a circle, I was next to him again to complete it. The whole I saw to be an intricate system of coercion and discipline; and I submitted with all the cheerfulness I could; but there was a messmate of mine, who claimed the sympathy I disregarded. Poor James! I am to this hour sad when I think of him. Who or what he was I never knew; for his years, he was the best learned and most intelligent person I have ever met with in the world. Every genteel accomplishment was his. About two years my senior, he was an age in advance of me; and I looked up to him with a reverence I have never felt since for any human being, as we have sat on a gun-carriage, I listening to the knowledge that flowed from his lips, and which he took a pleasure in imparting to me. Thus, when it was not our watch, he stored my mind with truths and information, both ancient and modern, the benefit of which I feel even now. An exquisite draughtsman, he taught me the rudiments of the art, and practice has done the rest. Yet he was secret as the grave as to the cause of his sorrows; and though he knew that I wished to be acquainted with his history, not through idle curiosity, but to console him, if in my power, he shunned the subject. That he was born to a rank far above that in which I knew him, both the officers and the men allowed. He was prompt in his duties from an innate sense of honour; and there was a lofty bearing in all he did—not the effect of an effort, but of natural impulse—that extorted the respect of his shipmates; though, of all men, sailors are the quickest at perceiving peculiarity of character among themselves, and an appropriate sobriquet is generally the consequence. To his officers he was as politely humble as the strictest rules could require; but this manner was so different from the uncouth and crouching humility of the other men, that a stranger would have conceived he was the superior returning the civility. His soul was, indeed, truly Roman, and superior to his fate. Whether that fall was the effect of circumstances over which he had no control, or voluntarily chosen, from some secret reason, he would never avow. Once I heard him sigh heavily in his sleep, and murmur the name Matilda; from which I suspected he had been crossed in love, and was now a victim of consuming melancholy, which seemed only lightened by his activity, or when he was storing my mind with information. Books we had none; but I felt not the want. His memory was well stored and tenacious, and he was always ready for whatever subject was the study of the time for which we were at leisure. I feel conscious I learned much more, and infinitely faster, by this oral method, than if I had had the volumes, and read them myself. His vigorous and intelligent mind epitomised and digested my mental food—imparting to me thus the spirit of volumes, which I might in vain have endeavoured to comprehend after long study. But, to proceed:—

With this mixture of pleasure and suffering, we reached Kingston and cast anchor off the harbour, where we had remained only for a few days, when we sailed to cruise in quest of a French frigate, which had taken several of our merchantmen. We continued to range the seas for nearly three weeks, in quest of the enemy, without gaining either sight or intelligence of him, and had almost given up all hope, when, one afternoon, a dense fog came on, which obscured the horizon, and we could not see two lengths of the ship from her decks. It continued thus until a little after sunrise next morning, when a gentle breeze sprung up, which cleared all around, and, to our surprise, we saw a French forty-gun frigate about six or seven leagues to windward. We mounted only thirty guns. The odds were fearfully against us; but the captain resolved to engage the enemy. The boatswain piped all hands to quarters, the drum beat to arms, the bulkheads were taken down, and all was clear for action in a few minutes—every gun double-shotted, and the match waiting the orders to fire. James and I were stationed at the same gun on the quarterdeck, when I saw the enemy, under a cloud of sail, bearing down, with his formidable range of guns bristling his sides. I felt my breathing become short, and a strange sensation took hold of me, as if I doubted whether I could command another full respiration. I looked at James—there was a melancholy shade of satisfaction on his countenance, and I thought I saw a languid smile lurking around his lips, along with a sternness in his eye, that imparted to me a bold feeling of assurance. I stood with the ramrod in my hand. The interval of suspense was short. The Frenchman, as he ranged alongside, within pistol-shot, hailed us in good English to strike. The captain, who stood near me, looking over the nettings, with his speaking-trumpet in his hand, lifted it to his mouth, and roared—

"Ay! ay! I'll strike by and by;" then passed the word—"Now, my lads, give them a broadside."

Scarcely was the order given, when our little frigate quivered from the recoil, and we were enveloped in smoke; but I could hear the crash of our shot on the sides and rigging of the Frenchman, which did not return the fire for a minute or two.

"Well done," shouted the captain. "Another of the same."

And by the time the Frenchman fired his first volley, we were ready. The salute was simultaneous and fearful. The enemy did awful execution: five of our gun-ports were torn into one, and several of our men killed and wounded. I have little recollection of what followed for some time—the smoke was too dense for observation, and my exertions in working our gun were too unremitting to allow of extraneous attentions. At length the shot in the locker being expended, I called for more; and, on looking round, saw my companion, James, lying extended behind the gun, bleeding. There was not one moment to spare—the balls were supplied as quick as called for—and, at the sight of my wounded friend, my dogged resolution was roused to revenge. I urged those who were still able for duty to redouble their fire.

"Well done, Elder!" said the captain; "you are a noble fellow."

At this moment, a small splinter struck my hand, as I withdrew the rammer, and almost divided my forefinger and thumb. I plucked it out—the blood poured—but I felt less pain from that source than from my mouth, which was so dry and parched, that I would have given worlds for a drop of water.

"For God's sake," I cried, "bring me a mouthful of water, for I will not leave my gun."

You may smile at my folly, for who was there to serve me? Yet, patience—the captain, who kept the quarterdeck, as cool as if we had been lying at anchor; nay, cooler, for he was then always finding fault, or in a passion—heard me, and taking a lime from his pocket, cut it in two, and put one-half into my mouth, as I was ramming home the charge.

"Here, my lad," said he, "you deserve it, were it a diamond;" and put the other half into my cut hand. The sting of the pain almost made me cry out. He smiled, and said it would cure it; then remarked to the first lieutenant, who had just come up to him, "I have often heard that the Scots fight best when they are hungry, or see their own blood; there is an instance; look at Elder's hand, and see how he works at his gun."

At this moment I heard a crash—it was our foremast nearly gone by the board.

"These Frenchmen fire well," he said, with the greatest coolness.

"That stroke is very unfortunate," replied the first lieutenant; "but it cannot last long."

"No," said the captain; "they must either strike soon, or blow us out of the water. How is my ship below."

"Much cut up, sir; but our remaining hands work their guns well. The enemy must have suffered severely."

I can convey no impression of the calmness with which these few words were spoken in the middle of this carnage and noise. We had already, as I afterwards learned, been engaged two glasses. All conception of the time, from the first broadside until the last gun was fired, seemed to have been banished from our minds. Scarcely had the conversation between the captain and lieutenant finished, when the Frenchman's mizzenmast fell forward, their fire began to slacken, and we, in a clear interval, could see a bustling on board.

"Boarders, arm," shouted the captain; then, in a lower voice, to one of the officers—"They are either going to run for it, or board us; were our rigging not so much cut up, she might be ours." It was at this moment he first showed his impatience:—"Aim at her rigging," he cried—"she shuns the contest—ten guineas to the gun that disables her;" but her sails began to fill, and she bore away before the wind, leaving us too much disabled to follow her.

When the first firing ceased, I felt so fatigued and faint, from the loss of blood and the pain of my hand, that I leaned upon my gun, almost incapable of exertion. A double allowance of grog was now served out to the survivors. I felt revived, though still unable for duty, and went to the cockpit to see James, who had been carried there, and to have my own hand dressed. A cockpit scene has been often described, but description is a burlesque of the reality. We had twelve killed, and twenty wounded, more or less severely. I found my poor friend lying upon a mattress, calm and resigned—no groan or sob escaped him. One of his legs had been broken and cut by a splinter, and there was a wound from a musket-ball in his shoulder. Both had been dressed by the surgeon, who was a humane, active, and skilful man. When my own scratch was cleaned and dressed, all my attention was bestowed upon James and others. An hospital was rigged out, and every care humanity could suggest paid to the wounded; and our otherwise austere captain was as mild and kindly by the side of the victims as a nurse. James lay, for the most part, silent and in deep thought. When he did speak, it was of indifferent subjects; and, to my frequent inquiries how he felt his wounds, he replied, that they engaged not his thoughts further than that he feared he might recover.

"That I do not wish," said he. "It is long since I received the wound that is destined to prove mortal, independently of these disruptions of the flesh, which merely confine me to this sick-bed, and are come rather as a remedy. Elder, think not I am ungrateful for your kindness: I thank you from my heart. There is one favour you must promise to do me; and I feel assured I may trust you."

"Name it," answered I; "and if I should die in the attempt, I shall not fail to do all in my power to accomplish your smallest wish." He pressed my hand, which was grasped in his.

"Enough, Elder," said he; "all I request is easily done; yet I was not the less anxious to find one whom I could confide in. As soon as this oppressed heart ceases to beat, you must take this locket and ring"—and he uncovered his bosom, upon which they lay, besmeared with his blood. Smiling, he continued: "The blood is a proper envelope for them; and I am only so far happy that I was not killed out-right—for then they might have fallen into hands which would have done them no justice. These baubles and I must be forgotten together, whether I die here at sea, or survive until we reach Jamaica. You must, when I am to be consigned to my abode of peace and rest, place them where they lie at present. You will do this for me?"

I pressed his hand, for words were denied me. My tears fell upon his pale face, as I stooped to kiss his forehead; a sigh was all that passed between us; but our eyes told more than our lips could have uttered. I left him alone, to enjoy his own reflections, and went upon deck. In a few hours the surgeon's worst fears were realised; tetanus came on, and he died the following morning in my arms. I fulfilled his last request, and his body was launched into the restless ocean on the day before we reached Kingston. His man-of-war's name, as the seamen call it, when one—a different from their real one—is assumed for any reason that requires concealment, was James Walden, by which he was rated in the ship's books. Next day, when his effects, scanty as they were, were put up for sale, I bought a small prayer-book, which I had often seen him use, for less money than I have seen a few needles and a little thread bring at the mainmast. Amongst all that he possessed, there was not a single scrap of paper, or anything by which I could be led to guess who he was. On a blank page of the prayer-book there was written, in a small, beautiful female hand, "Matilda Everard;" but whether it was written by the individual he had once mentioned in his sleep, or some other, it was impossible to say.

We had spoken, on our return to Jamaica, several merchant vessels, so that the account of our action with the French frigate was before us. We were, accordingly, received as conquerors—the sailors complimented in the streets, and our officers invited to all entertainments. As for myself, I felt alone after the loss of my friend, and fretted a little at the news of peace not having been yet received. I had not yet called my father's political sagacity in question. It was now the month of September; our frigate was once more, if possible, in better trim than she was before the action; we had our water on board, and everything ready for sea to cruise amongst the French islands. All was joy and hope of prize-money. We were to have sailed next morning, when the accounts of Admiral Howe's glorious victory of the first of June arrived, when all became a scene of excitement and exultation. Salutes were fired; every vessel was hung with as many flags as she could muster, along her stays, from the bowsprit to the taffrail. Kingston was to be illuminated in the evening; and we requested leave, and were allowed, to have an illumination on board of our ship. My spirits recovered in some degree—every one was of opinion that the republicans of France never could recover the blow they had received—my father's prediction was verified—and I would soon be free, and at home. During the afternoon, which was as lovely as a warm day in Jamaica can be, all was bustle on board, each mess procuring candles, and each striving who could exhibit the greatest number. The ingenuity of one of our number was exercised on some empty barrels, which, with their bottoms pierced, filled with lights, and placed opposite the port-holes, shamed the bottles and candles of the others, and gave us the victory. Just before sundown, all was ready. As soon as all the candles were lit, every port was opened; and our little frigate and the other ships of war produced a sight truly beautiful—sitting upon the waters, which reflected the glare like glowing furnaces, and sending all around their so regular and intense beams. Meanwhile our decks were crowded with dancers, who, footing it away to the music of our fiddles, exhibited, in the strange mixture of white European and dark Kingston girls, all brought out in full relief by the lights, one of the most extraordinary scenes I had ever seen. At a late hour the lights were doused, and all was as still as death; and the late refulgent vessels floated a number of black masses under the moonbeams.

Next morning found us under weigh, and the Island of Jamaica sinking under our stern. I missed my friend sadly, having formed no new intimacy; for there was not one on board, in my estimation, to supply his place. He had formed my mind for higher enjoyments than could have been relished or shared with me by any of my shipmates; yet we had on board a mass of talent, in all its variety, debased, no doubt, by evil passions and low dissipation. There were, indeed, among us some rough but honest, unsophisticated children of nature; but they were like jewels dug from the mine, placed in a package with flints, and shaken on a rough road, losing by attrition their asperities, but taking no polish. A few, too, there were who had, with care, been bred by their parents for higher objects, but had sunk from their station, by vice and folly, even to a lower level than the standard of our crew. I had thus small choice, and fell back on the memory of the pleasures I had enjoyed in the conversation of my friend. We had been out from port about three weeks, without seeing anything save one or two of our merchant ships, and one from Liverpool bound for New York, with passengers, from the latter of which we impressed six stout young men, who were on their way for the New World. Such are the miseries of war, that liberty is invaded and all human ties severed by the necessity it engenders. The case of one of these young men was truly hard. He was on his way to New York, to take possession of some property left him by an uncle, who had died there the year before; and his intention was to remain and settle upon his late uncle's farm. A few days before he had left his native village, in Ayrshire, with a young woman whom he had long loved, and at last married. Their all had been expended in their passage money and outfit, but young hope, love, and joy, were the companions of their voyage, until our boat, under the command of our second lieutenant, appeared as the demon that was to put these to flight. The crew and passengers were mustered upon the deck, and many forced from their hiding-places, where they had stowed themselves away below among the cargo. George Wilson (for that was his name), fearful for his Jane, had remained by her side; he was ordered into the boat; his supplications were as nothing; and the tears and agonies of his young wife, if possible, less. It is a fact worthy of the consideration of the philosopher, that the actions of men, forced to perform an unpleasant duty, are often fretted into greater harshness by appeals to feeling. We were short of hands, and, goaded by necessity and duty, I verily believe that some who seized the youth more sharply when he was attempted to be taken from them by the female, would not have been slow to weep for her in other circumstances. There was another case not less cruel—that of an only son of a family, called Grant, who were emigrating, consisting of a father and mother, two sisters, and this young lad, their hope and stay. He too was ordered into the boat. I noticed the two as they came up the ship's side. It is seldom that human nature is exhibited under such circumstances of trial. Description, in such cases, is almost impertinent. It may be doubted if the young men themselves are then conscious of one-half of the evil that had befallen them: they were stupid with despair.

But I did not know what was awaiting myself. Some few days after this event, we were standing under easy sail, listlessly gazing over the immense expanse of waters, with all eyes sharp for a sail of some kind or other, to break the monotony of our listless life. The look-out from the mast-head sang out—

"Sail, ahoy!"

"Where away?" cried the officer on duty.

"Nor-west, on our lee-beam."

"Can you make her out?"

"Nay, sir; she is yet hull down; but she appears English rig, as her top-royals rise out of the water."

"Stretch every inch of canvas; haul taut," cried the officer.

And her bows were crowded by the anxious seamen. There was now an object to engage their attention, while the captain and officers kept their glasses steady in the direction pointed out. In a short time, the points of her masts and sails began to appear above the horizon, like black patches, where the bounding line between the ocean and sky terminates. We continued our progress for several hours, manifestly not making fast on her; yet we could see that her sails rose almost imperceptibly out of the water. She kept her distance so well that the captain became excited and piqued. The wind blew pretty fresh, and we were both on a wind. She was now made out to be either a privateer or a merchant vessel; but her superior sailing led strongly to the opinion that she was the former. Our deck guns were now run aft to raise our bows, and every effort that skill could put to account was tried. Still we gained but slowly upon her; and the afternoon was far advanced without our being satisfied of more than that she was an enemy; for she must have seen us for some hours, and our ensign was flying at our royal mast-head. Now great masses of gorgeously-coloured clouds began to gather around the brilliant luminary in the far west. It was close upon sundown, when the darkness almost immediately follows in the twilightless latitudes. The tall masts of the chase were between us and the brilliant scene, like a dark spirit crossing the path of heaven. The captain, striking the bulwarks of the quarterdeck with his hand, said aloud—

"I'd give a hundred guineas to have her within range of my long eighteens at this moment, or when I shall see your beams again in the morning." He looked to the broad disk of the sun, which was just sinking in the dense mass of resplendent clouds, while his last rays shot like long broad ribands over the edge of the highest, and undulated upon the long swell that was raised by the breeze, which covered its top with masses of white foam, resembling flocks at play in an immense meadow.

Anxious to obtain the last glance of this magnificent panorama, I had got upon the nettings in which the hammocks are stowed, and stood so long holding on by the mizzen-rattlins, absorbed in pleasing dreamy thoughts, not unmixed with regret, that it was quite dark before I was conscious of the change. My mind had again turned in upon itself, and the lovely harvest nights of my regretted home came before me, more chastened in their grandeur, but not the less lovely on that account. Wilson and Grant were conversing in whispers near the spot where I stood, talking of their blighted hopes, as if they felt that nature, in the grand aspect she now exhibited, looked lovely in mockery of their woes. We still held on as we had done through the afternoon—the surges rising and sprinkling our foredeck as we passed swiftly through the waters, urged on by an increasing gale. Weary of my position, I was in the act of descending to the deck, when, by some accident, I lost my hold, and fell overboard, striking against the dead-eyes, and wounding my tongue so severely in my fall that it was bit through. When I rose to the surface, stunned and confused, the water was hissing in my ears, and my mouth full of blood. I attempted to call out for help; but my efforts were vain. My tongue was unfit for its office; I only uttered unintelligible sounds, not to be distinguished amidst the noise of the waves. Still hope was strong in me, for I could hear the cries on deck, "A man overboard!" though I could distinguish no object in the darkness. The sounds became faint and more faint. The vessel's way was so great, she shot from the spot like a bird; and I could at intervals see the lights that they had hung out as I rose to the top of the waves, which I buffeted with all my energies. The frigate had evidently laid to. I strove to make for the lights. I saw, far astern, a boat had been lowered, and hope again braced my nerves. Could I have called out, I had been saved; for I heard their voices shouting for me, and even the plash of their oars; but I was dumb. My tongue had almost instantly swelled so as to fill my mouth; yet still I struggled amidst the waves to reach the source of the sounds. At that moment they could not have been many yards distant from me, if I could have judged from the distinctness with which I heard them call. At last they ceased for a few minutes, as if in consultation. Moment of horrid agony! I was in the grasp of inevitable death, and those who were anxious for my rescue were within hail, and that hail I could not utter. The struggle for life is not easily terminated, and my exertions were almost superhuman. A flash, and the report of a gun now fell on my ears, and it came as my doom; it was a signal for the boats to return. I felt as if my arms had become powerless. My heart failed, and I was sinking, when again the stroke of the oars revived me. Again I attempted to shout—vain effort! "Poor Elder!" I heard uttered by my shipmates, amidst the sweltering of the waves that were about to engulf me. The oar-dip gradually died away—and where was I?

Tired and exhausted, and almost suffocated by the water and blood that flowed from my tongue, I turned upon my back, but sunk deep in the water from the weight of my jacket and trousers, and thus floated at the will of the swell, that often almost turned me over. I attempted to pray, but could not collect my thoughts. All I could say was, "Lord be merciful to me—a sinner!" I almost felt as if already dead; for all energy had fled, both mental and bodily; and the little I did to place me on my back, when the surge turned me over, seemed the involuntary efforts of sinking nature. In this state I was aroused from my stupor by my coming in contact with a hard body. I stretched forth one of my hands, which had been crossed upon my breast, and grasped it with the energy of despair. It was a large hencoop, which had been thrown over in the hope that I might reach it until the boat arrived. New life began to revive in my heart. I got upon it; and, taking my silk neckerchief from my neck, which I fortunately had on when I fell, lashed myself to it. My thoughts now became, in some degree, collected, and a slight beam cheered the gloom of that fearful night, as I floated, a miserable speck of human nature, on that boundless, unfathomable waste of troubled waters. I thought that I was not forgot by my Creator, who had in his mercy sent me this assurance in my last extremity, frail as it was, to be the means of my deliverance. It was now that my whole soul poured forth in prayer; and tears, not of anguish, but of love and gratitude, flowed from my eyes, as I was drifted along before the wind, and tossed by the waves. Through that long and dreadful night, nothing but this pious feeling could have sustained me; for my limbs were benumbed and cramped; my tongue still almost filled my mouth, and pained me.

Day at length dawned; but it did not bring with it renewed hope. I had prayed and longed for it, in the expectation that I might be seen and picked up by some vessel; but my heart did not rise in my bosom as the beams of the sun shot over the waters around me. No sight met my eyes but the sky, bounded at a short distance around by my low position in the water. The breeze had considerably abated, the sea was much smoother, and the fears of a lingering death by hunger and thirst began to assail me. As the morning advanced, my faith in my deliverance began to fail, and terrible thoughts crowded upon my mind. I tremble yet when I revert to them. It seemed as if the great tempter of mankind had been with me in this hour of trial, and whispered in my ears thoughts foreign to my nature. I even began to doubt the mercy and goodness of God; despair was again busy with me, and my clasp-knife suggested a short and ready remedy for my misery. I clutched it in my hand, and opened it; but my hand was stayed; my feelings had again undergone a revolution. I dropped the instrument, and wept. I now thought I heard a rushing sound in the air, and looked up. An immense albatross, with his huge extended wings, was suspended over me, attracted by the strange sight I exhibited. In any other situation, would I have been alarmed at the sight of a bird? Now, my heart sunk when I saw the creature circling high above my head. I thought he was examining the object previous to his pouncing upon it. I thought he might strike my head, and my woes would be ended: he might alight, and tear me piece by piece with his strong-hooked bill. The terror of the waters was merged in that of my new enemy; and such is man, that, though I had reconciled myself to the one, I felt my courage and resolution rise within me when I saw a visible and tangible enemy to grapple with. His circles round me became more and more narrow; and, as he descended, I seized my open knife. This precaution was, doubtless, unnecessary. The bird probably only wanted to ascertain what strange inhabitant of the waters now appeared to it. Still, however, it kept up its surveillance, receding now by large circles, and again approaching me, only again to betake itself to a greater distance, and again to renew its approach. I cannot tell how long this continued: but a full hour, at least, must have passed—during all which time I remained under the unaccountable apprehension that I would, unless I defended myself, fall a victim to this gigantic bird of prey. At length he took a long sweep, and I saw him sailing away on his solitary journey, as if he despised the poor object he had left alone on the waste of waters.

From the scorching rays upon the exposed part of my body, I began to suffer much, and my thirst became excessive; my strength gradually declined, and by the time the sun reached his meridian, I had again made up my mind to my fate, commending my soul to its Maker, through my Redeemer. I closed my eyes, as I thought, for ever upon all earthly things. I had lain thus only a short time, when, raising myself up as far as I could upon my raft, and gazing around upon what I thought was to be my tomb, an involuntary cry of joy burst from me. There was a vessel in sight; my weakness and misery were forgot. I saw them lower a boat; and from that moment my mind became a tumult of thoughts and sensations, which I have often since attempted in vain to analyse. The horrors of my late situation were still upon me, and I could with difficulty persuade myself that my delivery was real.

So exquisitely soothing was the feeling that now possessed me, that I feared to open my eyes or move, lest I might break the spell that was upon me, and awaken in the misery I had so lately endured. But I even tired of enjoyment, for my position became irksome. I attempted to turn, but the effort was so painful, that a groan escaped me. A gentle hand wiped the perspiration from my brow, and inquired if I wished to be turned. The sound of that voice was like a beam of light upon my bewildered mind. I opened my eyes, and saw a young female in widow's weeds standing by the side of my cot.

"Generous being," I said, "is it to you that I owe my deliverance?"

A sad smile passed over her face as she gazed at me, and said, "I am happy to see you restored to recollection; but you must not speak." And she gently withdrew from the side of the cot.

I wished much to make inquiries; but felt so weak that I did not persist, but sunk again into the same dreamy state. It is of no use detailing the events of the few days that were passed in this helpless state. By the kind nursing of the female and the kindness of the captain, I slowly recovered, and learned that, by the merest accident, I had been discovered by them as I floated upon the waves; and that, had I not been seen to move when I had raised myself up, they would have passed me; and that I was now on board the Betsy and Ann of Leith, bound from Quebec to that port. My heart overflowed with love and gratitude to that merciful God who had delivered me; for what the kind captain called accident, I felt in my heart was his loving-kindness; now I firmly believe there is no such thing as what men call chance or accident. We are taught by Scripture that all things are ordered and directed by the Creator of the universe, from the fall of a sparrow to the fall of an empire; and, in the eye of Omnipotence, nothing is great or small, all being directed to one great end.

I was now able to leave my cot for a short time, but not the cabin. The young widow was ever by my side, to minister to my wants. I felt much for her sorrows, which she bore with pious resignation; but I had no power to minister to her comforts as my gratitude prompted me, when I observed her, as I lay in my cot, weeping in silence, when she thought me asleep. It was the third day after I was picked up, as I sat in the cabin, and felt myself much recovered, that I gave her an account of my leaving home, and my adventures since. She sat and listened with interest, and seemed much affected by my account of my friend, James Walden. She sighed heavily as I proceeded, and her tears fell fast. When I mentioned his untimely death, she uttered a piercing cry, and fell insensible upon the floor. I cried loudly for help; and her servant and the captain, who were on deck, came quickly to my aid. After some time she recovered, but was so ill that she was forced to be put to bed by her maid. Her mind seemed quite unsettled by what I had said of my friend's death; for she spoke strangely and incoherently, unconscious of what she uttered; often repeating, "James, I shall never see you more. How could I hope? I wished, but dared not hope, humbled as I was—yet frown not on me so; I am more to be pitied than hated." Thus she continued during the greater part of the day.

Towards evening, she became more composed, but was so ill that she could not leave the state-room without the support of her servant, which she did contrary to the remonstrances of the captain; only replying—

"What is life now to me but a dreary blank? O that I were at rest under these rolling waves! O Mr Elder! have you strength to tell me all you know of James before my heart bursts?"

I could myself have wept; but her eyes were dry, yet heavy and languid; her face pale as marble, with a ghastly composure upon it, more heart-moving than clamorous grief. Again I went over every circumstance, and concluded by regretting the prayer-book, as the only article I valued, left on board. She heard me the second time without altering a muscle of her face. When I finished, she said—

"I was Matilda Everard; these fingers wrote the name upon the prayer-book, which I gave to James Everard, my cousin. Walden was the name of his mother; he was an orphan, the ward of my father; I am an only daughter. We were brought up together. I was my father's only child—an heiress; he had little more than his own abilities to depend upon. I was a spoiled child, thoughtless and volatile. I loved him then as a brother. He was some years older than I; he loved me as never man loved woman. I sported with his misery; for I knew not love. My father discovered his passion, and banished him from the house. I regretted him as a brother—no, not as a brother—as a playmate. His feelings of honour were so high, he took no covert means to meet me again; but I saw him often at church, and elsewhere. I used to kiss my hand to him; but we never exchanged words. Urged by my father, I married a rich merchant. He was much older than I. The cold, haughty, and money-making habits of my husband first turned my thoughts to James. I contrasted the joy that used to beam in his eyes, when I smiled upon him, with the indifference of my husband; and my love, once that of a sister, became all that James could have desired, had I been still a maid. Upon my marriage, James disappeared. Neither my father nor any one else knew where he had gone. It is now three years—long, long years—since then. Circumstances called my husband to Quebec, that, if not looked after, might involve him in ruin. Jealous and morose, he took me with him. Months of misery I dragged on there. My husband sickened and died. I am now on my way to my father; but I feel we shall never meet. My heart, I feel, is broken, and life ebbs fast. Farewell! and may you be blessed for your kindness to James. Bury me in the waves; I long to sleep by his side."

Having taken farewell of the captain, she retired, and we never saw her again in life. Some time after, agreeable to her request, she slept with James under the waves of the Atlantic. For some days I was much affected by the melancholy event; but my spirits, with my health, gradually returned. A few weeks more would bring me to my father's house, and I resolved never again to trust to any political prognosticator, even of my own father, for I had never known him so much deceived before. I had been eighteen months away, and the war, so far from being over, was, if possible, fiercer than ever; and the democrats of France were carrying murder and desolation wherever their armies went.

THE ANGLER'S TALE.

Never did boy long more anxiously for the arrival of the happy day which was to free him from the trammels of school discipline than I, a grey-haired man, always do for the return of bright and beautiful summer—that happy season when all nature seems to sympathise with the fortunate citizen who can escape from the confinement, bustle, and excitement of the crowded haunts of men, to soothe his spirit and forget his cares amid the beautiful scenery and calm retirement of the country. I always allow myself, if possible, a holiday in the summer months; and with rod in hand, and knapsack on back, I wander wherever whim or chance may lead me. Oh! the delight I experience, when the city is left far behind me!—the buoyancy, the springiness of feeling, with which I whistle along my path, rejoicing in my freedom! The very birds seem to welcome me with their song; the fields, the streams, all seem breathing of delight; I forget my grey hairs; and the spirit of youth and the freshness of youthful feeling are again upon me.

In one of my fishing excursions, a few years since, I became accidentally acquainted with a worthy farmer of the name of Thompson, who lived on the banks of the Esk, in the neighbourhood of the beautifully-situated town of Langholm. He was a good, though by no means a rare, specimen of the class of men to which he belonged—a shrewd, sensible, well-informed man, frank and friendly in his address, and with an air of quiet, unobtrusive independence.

He made up to me with such kindness and hospitality, and was so cordial and pressing in urging me to repeat my visit, that I have ever since made his comfortable house my head-quarters during the fishing season. His cottage was beautifully situated on a gentle rise, surrounded by lofty trees; immediately below ran the winding Esk, dashing and foaming over a bed of limestone, and spanned, at a short distance, by a lofty bridge of one arch, commanding a view of the ruins of the famed tower of Gilnockie. The neat and cheerful exterior of the cottage bespoke comfort and plenty within; and kinder and more hospitable people never existed than its inmates. Elsie Thompson, the good-wife, in her plain but neat "mournings," and her close white mutch, mild and gentle in her manner, looked the very personification of benevolence and hospitality. She had been a very handsome woman; but the hand of affliction had been heavy upon her, and had left its marks upon her careworn features: four of her children had been carried off by a contagious disorder, and her sole remaining comfort, besides her husband, was her daughter.

Ellen was one of the loveliest creatures my eye ever rested upon. Hers was a face of sunny beauty. The braids of her rich brown hair rested upon a brow of more than common whiteness, from beneath which her large blue eyes sparkled with the light of pure and innocent joyousness. The whole of her features bore the impress of light-hearted mirth; and yet at times a passing shade of sadness flitted across them, which, while it softened their beauty, gave an additional charm to their expression. But it was not Ellen's beauty alone that rendered her interesting: a kinder-hearted, more attentive and affectionate daughter never existed; her whole soul seemed to be wrapped up in her parents; her every action had reference to some wish or habit of theirs. She was equally exemplary in the performance of all her household duties, and was the pride and blessing of her parents.

Ellen and I soon became intimate; for, in the country, untrammelled by the forms of etiquette, acquaintance soon ripens into friendship. Fortunate was it for me that my days of romance were over, or she would have been a dangerous companion; as it was, I could gaze upon her as I would upon a beautiful picture, admiringly, not lovingly. Many a happy evening have I spent, sitting in the mild summer sunset, under the shade of the large beech-tree at Edward Thompson's door, listening to the brawling of the foaming waters, with Ellen by my side. It was at such times that I more particularly remarked the melancholy I have before mentioned. Her thoughts were evidently far from the scene she looked upon, and a tear would sometimes steal down her cheek. Whenever I asked her the occasion of her grief, she would answer, with a languid attempt at a smile, "Oh, naething ava!" and immediately began to talk in a strain of forced liveliness and indifference. I saw that she had some secret cause of unhappiness; but, as she did not volunteer her confidence, I did not consider myself justified in attempting to force it, and set her unhappiness down in my own mind to that general and all-powerful disturber of youthful feelings—love for some absent one.

Last summer, I had been engaged in my favourite amusement of fishing, and had wandered some distance down the Esk, when certain inner warnings admonished me that it was time to recruit my energies. As I am rather an epicure, however, and enjoy my crust with more gout, the more beautiful the scenery by which I am surrounded, I resisted the cravings of appetite until I had reached a situation the beauty of which tempted my stay, and then, laying my rod on the bank, I proceeded to examine the contents of my knapsack. It was high noon; but the sun was partially shrouded by light fleecy clouds, and threw a softened light on the green bank on which I seated myself. Immediately at my feet ran the clear stream, fringed a little higher up with willows and trees of a larger growth; opposite to me were the rich woods and lawns of Netherby; to the left, on the other side of the river, was a picturesque, ivy-covered, turreted building, called the fishing tower; to the right, far down the river, were seen the bridge and buildings of Longtown; and in the distance, the beautiful hills of Cumberland. The high-road was only a few yards distant, immediately behind me; but I was shut out from its view by a substantial stone wall, with a neat gate opening to the water-side. Scarcely had I seated myself, when I heard the sound of coming footsteps on the high-road. The sound ceased; and, turning round, I saw a traveller looking over the green gate behind me. I am a great disciple of Lavater, and flatter myself, notwithstanding the many mistakes I have been led into, that I can sometimes read a man's countenance, almost as well as a "written book." To me, a good countenance is always a letter of recommendation, and one to which, in spite of the whisperings of prudence, I always pay instant attention. There was something particularly prepossessing in the countenance and appearance of the stranger. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, with a laughing dark eye, hair black as the raven's wing, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to sun and clime. He was dressed like a sailor, in a neat blue jacket, a narrow-rimmed glazed hat, and with a small bundle on the stick over his shoulder. Seeing me look round, and encouraged, I suppose, by the friendly interest with which I regarded him, he remarked upon the fineness of the day, and asked if I had had good sport.

"Yes," replied I, "tolerable; and now I have a tolerable appetite. Will you come and join my mess?"

"Thank ye kindly, sir—wi' a' my heart. I've travelled far to-day, and I'll be a' the better of an elevener."[4]

After a hearty and simple meal, washed down with a dram of Connal's best,[5] and a draught of pure river water, I lighted my cigar, and, giving my new messmate one, to keep me in countenance, I lounged in luxurious ease upon my grassy couch, while he seated himself with modest frankness beside me.

"Your face tells of other climates, my friend," says I; "it was not an English sun that bronzed it thus."

"It's five years noo, sir, sin' I left the banks o' the bonny Esk; and weel ye ken that a wanderer by land and sea sees mair in a year than a man that aye sits at the ingle-cheek will in his lifetime. Gude be thankit, I haena felt muckle care or sorrow mysel! but I hae had my ain share o' hardships."

"You seem not to have forgot your mother-tongue, however. You are a native of this part of the country, I suppose?"

"I am, sir; and though I've been lang aneugh amang the Englishers to hae been half English mysel, I couldna mak up my mouth to speak their daft-like lingo; and noo the sicht o' my ain dear river, the thocht that I'm but a few miles frae my ain hame, has dung what little I did ken o't clean oot o' my head."

"I wonder you are not in a greater hurry to get onwards," said I. "I think, if I were in your situation, I should be eager to reach my home as soon as possible."

"Oh, sir, I maun gang and see puir Geordie Gordon's folk before I gang hame. It's ill news I hae to tell them, and I maun wait till the gloamin."

"And who is Geordie Gordon?"

"He was the kindest-hearted o' messmates, and the best o' freends. A better seaman, or a kinder, never stepped atween stem and stern o' a ship. Puir Geordie!" And he hastily passed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes.

"Suppose you let me hear some of your adventures," said I; "it will pass away the time, and I should like much to know something of the ways of you sailors, and the customs on board a ship."

"Oh, sir, I hae nae adventures to tell. Could you but hae heard puir Geordie—he was the lad for spinning yarns, as we ca' it."

"Well, but you can tell me what took you first to sea, and what you thought of the life of a sailor after you had joined a ship."

"Weel, sir! I'll just begin at the beginning, and tell ye a' aboot it; and if ye're wearied wi' my clavers, ye maun just tell me:—"

There was a large family o' us, and a happy family we were—for my faither was an industrious farmer, weel to do in the world, and weel respeckit by a' wha kenned him; and my mither was a kind-hearted, worthy woman, wha dearly lo'ed us a', but never let her luve blind her to our fauts. She aye taught us that idleness was the root o' a' mischief, and that we needna fear man as lang's we did our duty to our Maker.

I was about seventeen when Geordie Gordon cam hame frae the sea, to see his folk, wha lived in our parishen. A heartsome and a weel-faured lad was Geordie, wi' a merry ee, and a laugh—I maist think I hear't noo—that cam ringing frae the heart. He was a favourite wi' auld and young; and mony was the bright ee that blinked o'er on him as he sat in the kirk wi' his roun blue jacket, and his checkit sark, and his smiling happy face. Jenny Birrel was his sweetheart; a blithe lass and a bonny was Jenny, and guid as she was bonny. Wae'll be her heart when she hears what has happened her Joe!

Weel, sir, I was like the lave—I likit Geordie, and Geordie likit me, and we were aye thegither. It garred my vera heart loup to hear him spin yarns, as he ca'd it, about the dangers he had escapit, and the unco sichts he had seen; till, frae less to mair, I felt an eager wish to gang wi' him on his neist voyage, and to witness the wonders o' the deep, and to veesit forran lands. Besides, I saw that a' the lassies thocht mair o'ane who had been leading a life o' danger and hardship, than o' the douce lads wha keepit following the pleuch, or thumping wi' the flail a' the days o' their lives. And I thocht that my ain wee Joe wad lo'e me better, and that I micht earn something to mak us comfortable; and that, after I had seen a' the ferlies o' forran lans, I wad come hame laden wi' braws to mak her my wife. Bonny wee thing! I wonder if she minds me yet! In storm, in darkness, in danger, I never forgot her.

Sair did my mither greet when I tell't her I was for awa wi' Geordie; and aft, aft did she beg me to change my min'.

"Stay at hame, Tam, my bairn," said she, "and tak care o' yer auld mither. A' the lave are gane but yersel, and if ye gang too, what'll become o' us!" But I wadna be persuaded; the spirit o' change was upon me, and gang I wad.

"I winna hinder ye, my bairn," said my faither; "if yer min' is made up to gang for a sailor, gang, and His blessing gang wi' ye. Ye'll be as safe in the midst o' the raging sea as ye wad be by yer ain fireside, as lang's ye trust in Him."

But the warst was to come. I maist repented o' my determination when I gaed for the last time to the trysting tree, whar I had sae aft met my dear lassie. She was there, wi' her face buried in her hans, sabbing as if her young heart would break. Oh, sir, it was a sad sicht to me!

It was a bonny nicht: the moon was at the full, and the stars were a' glinting roun' her; there wasna a cloud, but on our ain hearts; the hail holm was ae bleeze o' licht, amaist as licht as day; the leaves were just soughing o'er our heads; and the soun' o' the burn wimpling near us cam clear upon our ears. Our hearts were owre sair for muckle speaking; she sabbit, and I tried to comfort her—but a' in vain. I wanted comfort mysel; and at last I could stan' it nae langer—I just grat in company.

But this couldna last for lang. We vowed to be leal to ilk ither; and, wi' ae last kiss, I forced mysel awa.

Neist morn, Geordie Gordon and I took foot in han' and awa to Leith, and frae that worked our passage to Lunnon. Weel, sir, it's an awsome bit that Lunnon! The streets just like hedgeraws, and the kirk steeples like poplar-trees; and then the folk as thrang on the planestanes on a week-day as if a' the kirks were scaling at ance! Ye'll hae been in Lunnon, I'se warran, sir? Min', I'm just telling ye hoo I thocht and felt then, for I ken better sin' syne. Then the ships a' crooding on ane anither, like sheep in a fauld, their masts as thick as the trees in yon wud: and the muckle barges wi' but ae man to guide them; and the wee bit cockleshells o' wherries skimming alang, loaded wi' passengers sitting amaist upon the water; and the noise o' men, and the thunner o' carriages, and the smoke o' ten thousand chimlas! 'Od, sir, I used to think Car'il a grand toun, but it's naething ava to Lunnon.

Weel, sir, ae day, Geordie and me were walkin on a place they ca' Tower Hill—whar there's a grand auld castle they ca' the Tower o' Lunnon, where they say a sodger chiel, o' the name o' Julius Cæsar, was beheadit langsyne, in the time o' ane o' our auld Scottish kings—when a weel-faured, sonsy-looking chiel, dressed like a provost, wi' a hat on his head might serve a duke, cam up till us, and seeing us glowering aboot, and just doing naething ava, began colloquying wi' us.

"It's a fine day, my lads," said he, looking as blithe as the sun in a May morning. "You seem to be strangers in London. I like your honest looks; and, as I am an idler myself, I will go with you, if you like, and show you the lions."

"The lions! 'od, sir, are there ony lions hereawa?" said I.

"Many that you know nothing of," said he, stuffing his pocket-napkin into his mouth, to keep the dust oot, I thocht. "Come with me, and we'll drink to our better acquaintance."

Wi' that he taks us into a bit public near by, and tells us to ca' for what we likit; and then he crackit awa, and was unco jocose and blithe.

"Have you got plenty of money, lads?" said he at last. And we lookit like twa fules, for Geordie had but twa shillins left, and I had nae mair mysel. He saw, for he had a gleg ee in his head, that we werna weel provided; so cried he, "Never mind, my boys—I'll stand treat; the landlord o' this house is my friend; you can have whatever you call for, and stay with him as long as you like."

Wi' that he ca'ed for mair drink; and, frae ae thing to anither, what wi' laughing and drinking, we got gey and fou, and were weel pleased to win till oor beds.

"Troth, Geordie, lad," says I, "I think we've lichted on oor feet this time; it's no every day in the week we'll meet sic a freend."

"I dinna ken what to mak o' him," said Geordie, wha kenned mair aboot the warld than mysel, as he had been three years sailing atween Dumfries and America; "he's owre ceevil by half. I've aye heard tell that there's a set o' born deevils in Lunnon. It's a' vera weel as far as it's gane; but I'm feared for the aftercome."

Weel, the neist morning, oor kind freend ordered breakfast for us, and then asked us if we'd like to tak a walk and look aboot us. "But," said he, "you must have better toggery than that you have on." And wi' that he took us into a shop, where he ordered a jacket and trousers for each o' us; and, when we had putten them on, we cam oot, looking as braw as the best. In the coorse o' oor cracks, we had tell't him we wanted to go to forran parts.

"Well," said he, "there's a fine East Indiaman at Gravesend, just going to sail for China. I can get you a berth on board of her."

Now, though Geordie and I were baith keen to gang to sea, yet we wanted to choose oor ain ship; and, besides, we had resolved no to gang in ane o' the East India Company's ships; for the lads on board the smack, coming frae Leith, had tell't us to keep clear o' the Indiamen, for that they were manned wi' the sweepings o' Newgate, and that there was mair flogging on board o' them than in the navy.

"We're no for sailing in a Company's ship, sir," said I; "we'll choose for oursels."

"Very well, lads," said he; "but before we part, we must 'square yards,' if you please. Pay me what you owe me." And, wi' that, he pulls oot a bill as lang's my airm, for sae muckle meat, sae lang lodging, and sae muckle for claithes.

"'Od, sir," said I, "did ye no treat us? Ye ken vera weel we haena a bodle to pay ye wi'."

"Then you must either tramp to prison, or go on board the Indiaman. What say you?"

"Weel, if we maun gang, we maun, and there's an end o't; but ye ha'ena behaved to us like a gentleman and a Christian."

"A gentleman and a Christian!" said he, girning; "why, you Scotch noodle, I'm a crimp!"

("And what, in the name of wonder, is a crimp?" said I, interrupting Tom in his long-winded story.

"A crimp, sir!" said Tom; "d'ye no ken what's a crimp? Why, sir, a crimp is, ye ken—a crimp is—hoot, he's just a crimp."[6]

"Very satisfactory, certainly," replied I. "However, go on with your story.")

Neist morning, Geordie and I, wi' mony ithers, were put into a Gravesend boat, and sent down tae a bit ca'ed Northfleet, whar the Indiaman was lying at the buoys. She was the first large ship I'd ever seen—and eh! but I was astonished. I hae seen mony a ane since, and far bigger anes; but she aye seems to my min' the biggest o' them a'. She was ca'd the True Briton; and grand she did look, wi' her tall masts, and her colours a' fleeing abroad, and the muckle guns peeping out o' the holes in her sides they ca' ports. When we speeled up her sides, it was maist like munting a hill; and when we got on board, I was fairly 'mazed, and stood glowring frae the gangway as if I were bewitched, till a chiel, wi' a face like a foumart, and a siller pipe hanging round his neck wi' a black riband (he was a boatswain's mate), ca'd out to me—

"What are you staring at, you great fool? Come down from the gangway!"

And wi' that he gied me a pu' by the jacket, that maist garred me fa' on the deck. My bluid was up in a moment; and I was just gaun to gie him as guid's he brocht, when Geordie, wha was at my elbow, said—

"Haud yer hand, Tam! Never heed him. Do as ye see me do."

Wi' that he touched his hat to an officer who was walking the deck and tell't him that we wished to ship as seamen.

"Can you hand, reef, steer, and heave the lead, my man?" said he.

"Yes, sir," said George; "but this callant has never been to sea afore."

"Oh, then, he won't do for us; besides, he is too light a hand. How long have you been at sea?"

"Six years, sir—three in a collier, and three in a Dumfries trader to America. But, if Tom here is not shipped, I'll no go either."

"Well, you are a smart, stout-looking fellow yourself; and, as we want a boy or two, we'll take Tom, too, as you call him. Midshipman, take these men to the doctor."

"Ay, ay, sir!" said a smart wee boy, wi' a gilt loop and cockade in his hat—"follow me, my lads!"

"What in a' the yirth is the doctor gaun to do till us? He's no gaun to put a mark upon us, is he, Geordie?" whispered I.

"Whisht, ye great gowk!" was a' the answer I got; and I followed, as I thocht, like a lamb to the slaughter, doun a ladder, till anither flat deck, where a' the officers' cabins were.

'Od, sir, I never was sae astonished in a' my days! It was just like a street in a toun; the cabins, on each side, like raws o' houses; and, farder on, as far as ane could see, a raw o' muckle guns a' standing abreast. It was unco low o'erhead, and I maist brak my head twice or thrice or I won to the doctor's cabin. 'Od, I've aften laughed sin' syne, to think how queer everything lookit to me then!

Weel, sir, the doctor felt our pulses, and lookit in our mouths, and punchit us in the ribs, and examined us just as a horse-dealer wad a beast, to see gin we war sound, wind and limb. And when he was satisfied—

"Mr Noodle," said he to the midshipman, "tell Mr Douglas these men will do."

And awa we gaed up the ladder again.

The ship was only waiting for men to mak up her complement; and, as we were the last, we signed the contract for the voyage, and received twa months' pay as arles. Our kind freend, the crimp, was waiting at the pay-table wi' his bill, and sune eased us o' maist o' our money. The morning after, two steamboats cam alangside, and were lashed to the ship; we cut from the buoy, and in a few minutes the ship was whirring doun the water wi' twa lang cluds o' smoke fleeing awa ahint, and the red ensign just glinting now and then through them in the sunshine. We cam to anchor at a place they ca' the Lower Hope; and in the afternoon the boatswain and his three mates went about chirping wi' their siller pipes, and ca'in, "All hands to muster, ahoy!" and the men a' cam skelping up frae below, and went on the quarterdeck, where the officers were a' standing on the ane side, and the men ranged themsels on the ither.

"All up, sir," said the third mate, touching his hat to the chief.

"Very well—go on, steward." And the ship's steward ca'd out the names o' a' the men, and they went round the capstan, touching their hats as they answered. The chief mate afterwards tell't them a' their stations, for reefing, furling, and tacking, and divided them into starboard and larboard watches. Geordie Gordon being an able seaman, and a smart, active chiel, was made a forecastle-man, and I was stationed in the mizzentop.

At daylight neist morning we were roused out o' our hammocks by the boatswain and his mates calling out on the upper-deck, "All hands up anchor, ahoy! Up all hammocks, ahoy!" And then they cam doun below, and made noise aneugh to wauken the dead or my auld deaf grannie, crying, "Tumble up! tumble up!—show a leg!—lash and carry!" (Meaning the hammocks.) Then the men jumpit out, and began hurrying on their claes, and lashing up their hammocks. I had never been in a hammock afore that nicht, and I had just been dreaming o' hame, when I was waukened by the noise as if a' the deevils had broken loose, and I started up and jumpit out o' my ain bed at hame, as I thocht, but I cam doun wi' sic a thud on the deck as maist brak my head.

As soon as the hammocks were a' up, and put awa in the nettings on deck, the capstan bars were shipped and manned, and the chief mate shouted down the hatchway—

"Are you all ready there below?"

"All ready, sir!" replied the third mate.

"Heave taut for unbitting!"

As soon as the cable was unbitted, "Heave round!" was the cry from the lower-deck.

"Heave round!" said the mate; "step out, my hearts!"

The fifes struck up "The girl I left behind me," the men stamped round the capstan with a cheerful, steady step, and in a very short time the cable was nearly up and doun.

"Up and down, sir!" shouted the boatswain from the forecastle.

"Heave and paul!" cried the chief mate. "Out bars, out bars! bear a hand, my lads!—Up there, topmen—loose sails! Send everybody up from below to make sail!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

Eh! but I was dumfoundered to see the lads rinning up the rigging like sae mony monkeys. And while I was standing glowering at them, a young midshipman ca'd to me, "Holloa! you, Wilson!—don't you know you're a mizzentopman?—Spin up and loose the topsail!"

"Me gang up, sir!—I canna, sir, I'd tumble."

"Can't, sir! there's no such word on board ship. Up you go; and if you're afraid of falling, hold on with your teeth!"

"So I was obleeged to gang up; but I was a' in a tremble, and just was up to the top in time to creep doun again; for the sails were a' loose, and a' the lads coming doun. Eh! hoo the sailors did laugh at me! But, in a fortnight's time, there wasna ane amang them could lay saut on my tail. But what's the use o' my fashing yer honour wi' a' thae idle clavers? Nae doot ye're tired o' them already."

"Oh no, Tom!" said I, "go on; I am much amused, I assure you; but you'd better moisten your lips out of my flask before you go on."

"Thank ye, sir!"

Eh, but I thocht it a bonny sicht, when I lookit frae the rigging, where I was hauding on wi' a' my fingers, like a fleyed kitlin, to see the men a' lying oot on the different yards, loosening the rapes that keep the sails rowed up—(they ca' them gaskets). Then the chief mate cried oot, "Are you all ready there, forward!"

"All ready, sir."

"Are you ready in the maintop?"

"All ready, sir."

"Ready abaft?"

"All ready, sir."

"Let fall!"—And then the boatswain and his mates gied a loud skirl wi' their pipes, and doun cam a' the sails flaffing at ane and the same time; and in five minutes the masts that lookit afore as bare as trees in winter, were a' cled in canvas frae tap to bottom. Weel, sir, the sails were a' set, and just swelled out bonnily wi' the light breeze, and the yards were trimmed, as they ca' it, for casting.

"Man the capstan bars!" shouted the chief mate. "Hold on there below!"

"All ready, sir!—heave round!" And away went the men again to the soun o' the fife, till the boatswain gied a loud chirrup wi' his pipe, as much as to say the anchor was up; and the paul o' the capstan clinkit, and the bars were ta'en oot, and the men ran aboot a' gaets as they war ordered, and the anchor was made fast, and in a short time the ship was snooving through the water, bobbing and frisking like a fine leddy dressed in a' her braws in a kintra dance.

'Od, sir, a muckle ship's a queer thing when ye come to think on't; it's just, for a' the warl, like a toun afloat. If ye gang to the ane end, ye hear the quacking o' ducks, and the cheep-cheeping o' turkeys, and the crawing o' cocks;—gang to the ither, and there's the baaing o' sheep, and the grumphing o' pigs, and the kye rowting as natural like as if they war in a farm-steading at hame. Then there's Jemmy Ducks, a kind o' henwife, only he's a man; and a butcher, and a baker, and cooks, and carpenters, and joiners, and sail-makers, and blacksmiths (armourers they ca' them), and a smiddy, and a' things like a place on shore. Then, if ye want yer shoon clouted, or yer jacket mendit, or yer hair clippit, ye're safe to fin' tailors, and cobblers, and shavers amang the crew.

We had a vera crooded ship; there war near five hundred sodgers, wi' some o' their wives, on board; and an awfu time we had on't at first.

We had just got fairly oot into the Channel, whan it beguid to blaw great guns, as they say, and the sail was a' taen in but the maintopsail, and the ship tossed and tumbled in the water like a strong man warstlin wi' his enemy. Whiles an awfu sea, as big's a hill-side, wad come rampaging and raining doun upon her, as if it was gaun to swallow her up a'thegither; and, wi' an awsome thud agen her bow, wad send a shower o' thick spray owre her hail length; then she tumbled owre, graining and maning like a leeving thing, till her side went deep into the water, as if she war never gaun to rise mair; then up she wad come again, whirring, and roll owre the tither way, dauring the sea, as 'twere, to anither tussle, while the lang masts were whisking aboot as if they wad sweep the heavens abune oor heads.

The sodgers, puir bodies, were doun on the lowest deck—they ca't the hollup (orlop)—wi' nae licht nor air but what cam doun the hatchways, so that we were obliged to keep the hatch off, and every time a sea struck the ship, a great body o' water ran doun below, till the hollup was rinning maist foot deep; and there were the puir mithers sitting hauding on by the stanchions in the midst o' the deck, and trying to catch the helpless bit weans as they were carried frae side to side by the rolling o' the ship and the rushing o' the water. Eh, it was a sad sicht to see the bits o' things! Mony a puir wean died afterwards.

I could tell ye a feck o' queer things about the voyage; but I hae nae time enow. But I'll just tell ye twa bit stories, ane about a sodger, and the ither about puir Geordie Gordon; they baith affected me much at the time.

Amang the sodgers there was a serjeant—a colour-serjeant, they ca'd him—wha was weel likit by a' the crew. His name was George Hastie; he was a weel-faured, douce, canny body, wi' twa mitherless weans.

Oh, but it was a pleasant sicht to see how carefu he was o' the bairns!—and bonny bairns they were. He kamed their hair, and washed the bit faces and hands, and keepit them aye as trig and clean as their ain mither could hae dune. There was a wee bit shuffling luftennan on board, wha likit his glass weel, and aye lookit twa inches taller after denner, and as proud as a wee bantam cock. Weel, ae day the puir serjeant, what wi' the heat o' the day and the strength o' the grog, was a thocht the waur o' drink, and was maybe no exactly sae respectfu to the bit offisher as he sud hae been; and—I kenna hoo it was, but he was had afore a court-martial, and the stripes were taen aff the airm o' his coat, and he was reduced to the ranks to do duty as a common sentry. Puir fallow! we were a' terrible ill-pleased about it, and nane mair than the vera offishers that condemned him.

Eight days after cam the 23d of April, when the king's birth-day, that's dead, was keepit. At daylicht in the morning, in place o' the drums and fifes striking up what the sodgers ca' the revilly, the hail band o' music—twenty-twa instruments, forby drums—beguid playing, "God Save the King," the colours o' the regiment were fleeing on the poop, and the offishers a' dressed oot in their gran coats. After breakfast, the leddies—bless their blithe looks and bonny faces!—war a' walking up and doun the poop, when the bugles sounded to parade, and a' the sodgers fell in on the quarterdeck. A grand set o' fallows they war—as neat and clean as if they'd just turned oot o' a barrack-yard, wi' their belts as white as snaw, and their brass muntings glinting in the sun, quite dazzling to look at. They war formed into three sides o' a square, as near as micht be, and the colonel and a' the offishers were standing at the open end, a' in full dress. The colonel's breast was just covered a' owre wi' orders.

When the men war a' settled, there was a dead silence; and the onlookers wondered what was coming neist.

"Call Private George Hastie of Captain Thomas's company to the front," said the colonel. And oot afore them a' steppit puir Hastie, pale as a sheet, but firm, erect, and sodger-like.

"George Hastie," said the colonel, "I have been induced, by the solicitations of the ladies, and of the captain and officers of the ship, as well as by the wishes of your own officers, to pardon the transgression of military discipline of which you have been guilty, and to restore you to the rank of flag-serjeant. I hope your temporary degradation will act as a warning to you for the future, and that you will not again run the risk of forfeiting the good opinion which, I am happy to say, your officers have hitherto had of you."

Wi' that, oot whiskit the regimental tailor, and in a jiffey the bit stripes war on Geordie's arm, and he was a made man again.

He just touched his cap to the colonel, puir chiel, and said nought; but a tear cam intil his ee, and gaed stealing owre his cheek, that spak mair and better than words could hae dune. Everybody was delighted at his restoration; it was an act o' mercy wordy o' the occasion;—the king's birth-day couldna hae been better celebrated. The sodgers war then dismissed, and gaed below; and in the evening the band was up, and an extra pint o' grog, to drink the king's health, was served out; and there was naething but joy and diversion from ae end o' the ship to the ither. Sae much for George Hastie! And noo I maun tell ye aboot puir Geordie.

One evening we war comin near ane o' the shoals that's put doun in the chart—but it wasna weel kent whether there really was ane there or no—and the captain cam oot aboot sax in the evening, and tell't the offisher o' the watch to shorten sail, and hae a' ready for lowering the larboard cutter. I was standing on the poop at the time, and heard him gie the order.

Weel, sir, we beguid to shorten sail, while the cutter's crew were clearing awa the boat. We took in a' the stun-sails, and hauled up the courses, and furled the royals; then the mainyard was laid aback, and the boat was lowered and hauled up to the gangway. Geordie Gordon was ane o' the crew o' the boat—and sax o' the finest young lads in the ship they war. Ane o' the mates and a midshipman were sent in the boat, wi' orders to mak sail, and keep ahead o' the ship, sounding for the shoal. They had a compass, twa or three muskets, and some blue lichts for signals, wi' them.

It was a fine evening; a licht, steady breeze was blawing, and the ship, under her topgallantsails, was gaun aboot four knots an hour through the water; and the wee boat danced merrily owre the waves a gey bit ahead, wi' her white sails glinting in the sun, like the wings o' a bonny sea-bird.

Whan the darkening cam on, the captain, afore he turned in, said to the offisher o' the watch, "Keep your eye on the boat, Mr Bowline, and on no account let the ship go faster through the water than she does at present. Let me know if the boat makes any signal, or if the breeze should freshen."

"Ay, ay, sir!—Keep a good look-out for the boat there, forward!"

Weel, sir, the breeze keepit steady, and the ship gaed cannily through the water, and the boat was easy to be seen—till aboot seven-bells—that's half-past eleven—the sky beguid to be o'ercast, and the breeze to freshen; but still through the darkness the bit white sail was seen.

At eight-bells, that's twal o'clock, the watch was relieved, and anither officer came up to tak charge o' the ship.

"A cloudy night, Bowline. What are the orders?"

"You're to keep the ship the same course" (I dinna just min' what it was), "and not to lose sight of the boat on any account."

"Very well. But where is the boat?"

"There she is, just under that dark cloud. Good-night!"

"Don't be in such a hurry. I can't see the boat!"

"Why, there she is!"

"I can't see her," said the other; "and what's more, I won't take charge of the deck till I do."

"I'm sure I saw her two minutes ago," said Bowline.

Weel, sir, they lookit and lookit, and we a' lookit, and they gat up their nicht-glasses; but a' in vain, for the boat wasna to be seen.

The offisher o' the deck was maist demented, and ran in to the captain—"We've lost sight of the boat, sir!"

"The devil!" said he, starting oot o' his cot, and rinning on deck—"burn a blue light directly!"

The gunner's mate ran doun for a blue licht; and, in a minute, it was fizzing awa on the quarter, throwing a bricht glare o' licht a' owre the ship. The nicht was dark by this time; but you could see every rape in her, and the faces o' the men at the far end looking a' blue and ghaist-like.

Lang and sair we lookit for an answer to the signal; ye micht hae heard a whisper, we war sae quiet wi' fear and hope; but there was nowther sicht nor sound in reply. Anither was burned—but still nae answer.

A gloom fell upon us a', a fear o' we didna ken what. We durstna speak our thochts to ane anither; and, as for our captain, I thocht he wad hae gane clean oot o' his mind—for a kinder-hearted man never steppit a quarterdeck. We hove the ship to, as they ca't, and fired guns every two or three minutes, in hopes the lads in the boat wad hear; and sair and sadly we langed for the morning licht.

It cam at last; but there was naething to be seen but the lift and the water. The ship was hauled to the wind; and the hail o' that day we made short tacks backward and forward across our auld course, wi' signals fleeing at our mastheads, and firing guns every hauf-hour, and a' the men straining their een to get a gliff o' the boat—but a' for nocht—we never saw them mair! Whether the boat was capsised in a sudden squall, or the ship had struck her, or whatever it was, will never be kent till the sea gies up her dead!

Oh, sir, was it no an awfu thing to think that sae mony fine lads, wha had left us a few hours afore, fu' o' life and speerit, should be hurried awa at a moment's warning, and buried in the waves o' the sea! There was an unco gloom owre the ship a' that day and the neist—the men gaed about whispering to ilk ither, as if they were feared to hear the sound o' their ain voices—and the bauldest amang them were sobered for a time. But oh, sir, to see how sune the dearest and best are forgotten! In a few days the maist o' the men were as heartsome and blithe as if naething had happened. Puir Geordie! aft hae I thocht o' you when it was my look-out on deck, and o' the merry ee and the heartsome laugh that I'll ne'er see or hear mair. But it's getting weel on in the day, sir; so I maun cut short my yarn, as we sailors say, and leave ye. I left the ship in China, and volunteered on board a man-o'-war, and, after being three years on a forran station, I was paid aff a fort-nicht past, and am now on my way hame, to share my savings wi' my wee lass, if she hasna forgotten me. Guid afternoon, sir. I'll maybe meet ye again ere lang, and then, if ye like to listen to them, I'll gie ye mair o' my cracks. I maun awa to puir Geordie's faither.

And, before I had time to question him as to the whereabouts of his home, and how or when I was to meet him again, he bounded over the gate, and disappeared.

That same evening, I was sitting in Edward Thompson's comfortable parlour, reading my favourite, Burns; Elsie was knitting near me, and Ellen was preparing some of the trout that I had brought home for supper. The sun had long set, and the twilight was only just beginning to fade into night; the window was open to admit the mild evening air; and the song of the thrush and blackbird had usurped the place of all other sounds with sweet melody.

Just as we were about to seat ourselves at the plain but comfortable board, we heard some one at a short distance whistling the air of

"Dinna think, bonny lass,
I'm gaun to leave you."

And immediately afterwards, a fine, clear, manly voice sang—

"I'll tak my stick into my hand,
And come again and see you."

Ellen started, and turned pale.

"What ails the lass?" said her father, when the door burst open, and, glowing with health and exercise, my friend of the morning stood before us.

The old people stared with surprise; their memory was at fault. Not so Ellen: she blushed, turned pale; and burst into tears.

"Faither, d'ye no mind Tam?—Tam Wilson?" And the next moment Tom—her Tom—was at her side, and fondling her to his heart.

That was a happy night at Fairyknowe. Tom was in all his glory; the old man indulged in an extra glass of toddy while listening to his yarns; and Ellen looked the joy she felt—there was no shade on her features now. Next Sunday, which was only two days afterwards, the gossips of the parish were quite astonished when they heard the names of Tom Wilson and Ellen Thompson cried three times in the kirk.

"Whatna Tam Wilson can that be, I wonder?" Nobody knew. But next Sabbath-day all their "wonderings" were satisfactorily silenced, by witnessing the gay kirking party, with Tom and Ellen at their head—the handsomest couple, so they all said, they had seen this "mony a lang day." I was present at the wedding, which took place on the Friday preceding, and a happy scene it was. Tom has left ploughing the sea, to follow the plough on shore, and he and Ellen are settled in a small and comfortable farm with every prospect of happiness before them.

PERSEVERANCE;

OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF RODERIC GRAY.

Courteous reader, thou must be aware that there is no virtue which conferreth greater benefits upon its possessor than the virtue of perseverance. It can scale precipices, overtop mountains, encompass seas. Perseverance is a mighty conqueror; it fighteth against odds, and neither turneth its back nor is dismayed. Its progress may be slow, but in the end it is sure. As a snail ascendeth a perpendicular wall, it may fall or be driven back to the ground, but it will renew the attempt. It suffereth longer than charity, and hence came the adage, that "they who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't." It has been said, "Great is truth, and it will prevail;" and in addition thereunto, I would say, "Great is perseverance, for it also will prevail." The motto of every man should be, "nil desperandum." Every one should remember that real honour and esteem do not seek a man on whom they are to alight—the man must seek them; he must win them, and then wear them.

Instead, however, of detaining the reader with dull and general remarks on perseverance, I shall at once lay before them a copy of the autobiography of Roderic Gray, whose history will illustrate its effects in particulars:—

I was the son of poor but of honest parents. (With this stereotyped piece of history concerning poverty and honesty, Roderic Gray began his autobiography.) Yes, I repeat that my father and my mother were very poor, but they were sterlingly honest. They had a numerous family, and many privations to contend with; and the first thing I remember of my father was a constant, I may say a daily, expression of his, "Set a stout heart to a stey brae." Another great phrase of his, when any of us were like to be beaten by ought that we were attempting, was, "Try it again—never be beat—step by step brings the mountain low." My mother was of a disposition precisely similar to my father. Almost the first thing I remember of her is, what was her favourite expression, "Try it again, as your faither says—practice makes perfiteness."[7]

These expressions of my honoured parents were the rudiments of my education. They left an impression upon my heart and upon my brain, before I was sensible of what an impression was. There is often a great deal more conveyed through a single sentence, than we are apt to imagine. Our future destiny may be swayed by the hearing of one little word, and that word may be spoken in our hearing at a very early period of our lives. Many a father, when years began to sober down the buoyant tumult of his spirits, has wondered at and grieved over the disposition and actions of his son, marvelling whence they came; whereas the son received the feelings which gave birth to such actions, while he was but an infant, from the lips of his father, as he heard that father recount the deeds, the exploits, the feats of bravery of his young manhood. From the hour that a child begins to notice the objects around it, or to be sensible of kind or of harsh treatment, from that moment every one who takes it in their arms, every object around it, become its instructors. I find I am digressing from my autobiography, but I shall go on with it by and by, and as I have mentioned the subject of education, I shall say a few more words upon that topic, and especially on the education of the young, which, though it detain the reader for a short space from my history, will neither be uninstructive, nor without interest.

Some years ago, I met with a modern Job, who said he had read through the large edition of Johnson's Dictionary; and I do regret, with considerable sincerity, having neglected to ask the gentleman whether, in the course of his highly entertaining reading, he met with any word so murdered, butchered, abused, and misunderstood, as the poor polysyllable—education. Many wise people conceive it to signify many multitudes of words—of dead words and of living words, of words without symbols; or, in plain language, they say (or they act as if they said) that education means to make a man's head a portable lexicon of all languages. This is what they term the education classical. Some very wise men go a step farther with the meaning of the term. They shake their heads in contempt at the mere word-men. They mingle more of utility with their idea of the signification. They maintain that education meaneth also certain figures, whereby something is learned concerning pounds and pence, and square inches and solid inches. Here the general idea of education terminates; and this is the education mercantile and mathematical. There are, however, a third class of philosophically-wise men, who affirm that education means the macadamising, on a small scale, of blue stones and grey ones; in describing comets with tails, and planets without tails; in making the invisible gases give forth light in darkness, as the invisible mind lighteth mortality. This is the education scientific. Thus the artillery of all the three is directed against the head. The head is made a gentleman, a scholar, a philosopher, while the poor heart is suffered to remain in a state of untutored, uncared-for barbarity and ignorance. And in all this parade, concerning what education in reality imports, it is overlooked, that the heart from whence all evil proceeds—the heart where all good is received—is the soil where the first seeds of education ought to be sown, watered, watched over, pruned, and reared with tenderness. And it is not until the heart has become a sturdy savage, hardened in ignorance, that any attempts are made to curb it within the limits of moral obligation. A more insane idea cannot be conceived by a rational man, than supposing that education begins by learning to know that one letter is called A, a second B, and a third C. Education begins with the first glance which the mother bestows upon her child in answer to its first smile. Before the infant has lisped its first word, the work of education has made progress. The mother is the first, the fondest, the most important and responsible teacher. It is hers to draw out the young soul, which dreams in the smiles and the laughing eyes of her infant; it is hers to subdue, and in gentleness to root up, the first germ of evil that springs into existence; it is hers to unfold, by a thousand ways and a thousand tendernesses, which a mother's heart can only conceive, and a mother's eye only can express, the first shadows of right and of wrong; it is hers to teach feelings of love, of gentleness, and gratitude—to give a direction and a colouring to the embryo passions which shall mark the future character and destiny of her yet sucking child. Nor is there an object upon earth more worthy the admiration, we had almost said the envy, of an angel, than a Christian mother gazing, in the depth of her affection, upon the babe of her bosom, watching its faculties expand like young flowers—bending them to the sun of truth, gently as the linnet bends the twig where it thrills its little song to cheer its partner. But, when the infant leaves the lap of its mother, and other duties divide her care, it is then necessary that a teacher, equally affectionate and equally efficient, be provided; for children seek, and will find, teachers of good or of evil in every scene, and in every playmate. It is now that the Infant School must mature the education which the mother has, or ought to have, begun. Some disciple of moth-eaten customs, whose ideas are like the flight of a bat, and whose imagination is hung round with cobwebs, may snarl out his mouthfuls of broken humanity, and inquire, what could be learned by infants of two or of five years of age, to compensate for blighting their ruddy cheeks like tender plants in a frost-wind, by mewing them up and crowding them together within the dismal walls of a noxious schoolroom, through the midst of which a male or a female tyrant continue their dreary tramp, tramping to and fro within the hated circle of their terror, and flourishing fear and trembling in their hand, in the shape of a birch, the bark of which has yielded to their work of punishment? I readily admit that, in such a place, and under such a teacher, nothing could be learned—nothing experienced—but an early foretaste of future misery. This is no picture of an infant school—this is no part of its discipline. Never would I confine the little innocents within the walls of a prison-house—never would I behold them trembling beneath the frown of a taskmaster. I would not curtail one of their infant joys, nor cut off one of their young pleasures. I would not mar their merry play, nor curb the glee that wantons in their little clubs. But I would mingle education with their joy and with their pleasures—health and lessons with their play—and affection and forgiveness in their little bands. Thus their joys or their pleasures, their play and their companions, become their teachers. By an infant school I would not mean a room where a hundred children may be crowded together in an unhealthy atmosphere. The situation and comforts of the school are almost as important as the nature of the instruction, or the character and disposition of the teacher. The situation should be airy and healthy, and the room well ventilated, with a small play-ground attached. For the play-ground is almost as necessary as the school, and both are regarded by the pupils as places of loved amusement, where the presence of the teacher inspires no terror, no restraint, but where he mingles in their sports and directs them as an elder playmate, while they regard him as such, and in return love him as a parent. And while all appears unrestrained mirth on the little yard, or the little green; and exercise gives play to the lungs, vigour to the system, and health to the blood, and the small gymnasium rings with the joy of the happy beings, no incident, however trifling, is suffered to pass unimproved, to "lead them from nature up to nature's God," to eradicate evil propensities, and cherish a love of truth, justice, mercy, and mutual love. Their sports, their tempers, their little wrongs, or quarrels, all become monitors in the hands of the teacher, to render his infant charges the future good men, or the excellent women. The schoolroom is only changing the scene of amusement, and tasks which I remember were to me the very essence of purgatory, pain, and punishment, are rendered to them an exquisite pastime. The pence table they carol merrily to the tune of "Nancy Dawson." With two or three sets of merry motions, they chant the formidable multiplication table, which affords them all the hilarity of chasing a butterfly, or romping on the meadow. Nothing is given them in the shape of a task, but every new lesson is a new pleasure. They are not so much taught by words, as by bringing the thing signified under their observation. I should be sorry if the objects of infant schools should ever be so perverted as to attempt making them nurseries for infant prodigies. I care no more for precocity of talent than I do for a tree that has blossomed before its time, the fruit of which is sure not to be worth the gathering. The design of infant schools is not to make ignorant parents vain of their children, but to make all parents happy in their children. It is not so much the quantity of what they learn that is to be regarded, as the quality of what they learn. They will learn cheerful obedience to their parents, their instructors, and their future masters; they will learn the most important of all lessons to their after happiness, the government of their temper; they will learn conscientiousness in all that they do; they will learn sincerity; they will learn habits of order, of cleanliness, and of courtesy; they will learn method and dislike confusion; they will learn to bestow neatness, without vanity, on their persons; and order in all things. They will acquire a knowledge of geography, of the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral kingdoms, not as words but as things that exist, and of which they have an understanding. They will acquire much to amuse and delight the fireside of their parents—much to surround it with edification and instruction. And instances have been, where they have there conveyed upon their lisping tongues conviction and conversion to a parent's heart; while their Maker from the lips of babes and of sucklings perfected praise. They will be taught to feel that there is ever in the midst of them a God of love, of mercy, and of power, who is angry with the wicked every day. They will be taught to love the creatures He has framed, to know his Word, and revere its precepts—to love virtue for virtue's sake. It may be urged that much of the good produced by infant schools will be afterwards destroyed, by their mingling in other schools in riper years, with children whose passions have been permitted to run wild, and especially where evil examples may exist on the part of the parents. That these will have a prejudicial effect to a certain extent, is not to be denied. But for them there is also a preventive and a remedy. The infant school is the nursery of the Sabbath school, where all the good begun will be strengthened and confirmed. Great as the moral and religious change is which Sabbath schools have effected upon society, their effect would have been tenfold, had not the moral culture of the child been so unheeded before sending it to the school, and its heart so hardened by years and neglect, as to render an abiding impression impossible. But religious instruction, whether implanted in our minds by our father's fireside, in the infant school, or the Sabbath school, will never be forgotten. It will not depart from us. We may endeavour to shake it off, but it will struggle with us as Jacob with the angel. It will be a whisper in our souls for ever. We may grow up, and we may mingle with the world, and we may cast our Bibles far from us—and we may become wicked men and thoughtless women, but these whispers of eternal truth, though even thought to be forgotten by ourselves, will return and return again; and, when we wander in solitude, or lie sleepless on our pillow in the darkness of midnight, they will rush back upon our guilty minds, in texts, in verses, and in chapters, long, long forgotten.

But to return to my history. I have said that the first of my education was the sayings which I heard from the lips of my father and mother. They gave an inclination to my spirit, as the hand bendeth the twig. They became to me as monitors that were always present. I often think that I hear the voice of my honoured father saying unto me still, "Whatsoever ye take in hand, persevere until ye accomplish it." That maxim became with me a principle, which has continued with me from childhood unto this day.

Before proceeding farther, it is necessary for me to say that my father was not only a poor man, but his occupation was one of the humblest which a peasant could occupy. He filled no higher situation than that of occasional barnman, and hedger and ditcher, upon a farm near Thornhill, in Dumfries-shire. Neither was he what some would call a strong-minded man, nor did he know much of what the world calls education; but, if he did not know what education was, he knew what the want of it was, and he was resolved that that was a knowledge which his children should never acquire. It was therefore his ambition to make them scholars to the extent of his means. But, when I state that his income did not exceed six shillings, you will agree with me that those means were not great. But my father's maxim, persevere, carried him over every difficulty. When my mother had said to him, as a quarter's wages became due—"Robin, I will never be able to stand thir bairns' schooling—sae mony o' them is a perfect ruination to me."

"Nonsense, Jenny," he would have said, in his own half-laughing, good-natured way; "the back is aye made fit for the burden. Just try anither quarter, though we have to be put to our shifts to make it out. I'm no feared but that we will make it out some way or other. We have always done it yet, and what we have done, we can do again. Let us give them a' the schooling we can, poor things; and the day will come when they will thank us, or mair than thank us, for a' that we have wared upon them. O Jenny, woman! had I been a scholar, as I am not, instead o' being the wife o' a labouring man the day, ye would have been my wife—but a leddy."

A thousand times since, it has been a matter of wonder to me how my parents, out of their niggard income, provided food, clothing, and education for their family, which consisted of five sons and four daughters, all of whom could not only read, write, and cast accounts; but, though I say it who perhaps ought not to say it, his sons, in point of "schooling" in higher branches, were the equals, and perhaps more than the equals, of the richest farmer's sons in the neighbourhood. And never did a quarter-day arrive, on which any of the nine children of Robert and Janet Gray went before his teacher without his money in their hand, even as the brethren of Joseph, the patriarch, carried the money in their sacks' mouth. For it was not with my revered parents, as now-a-days it is with too many, who regard paying a schoolmaster his fees somewhat in the same light as paying a physician after his patient is dead, or a lawyer when the cause is lost.

Every Saturday night my father, though no scholar himself, caused us to bring home our books and our slates, and in his homely way he examined us—or rather he examined them (the books and the slates)—as to the proficiency we had made. Of figures he did know something: grammar, he said, was a new invention, and there, for a time, his examinations were at fault, and he knew not how to judge or to decide. But (I being the eldest) as I grew up, he transferred the examination of my younger brothers, as regarded grammatical proficiency, to me. And well do I remember, that every weekly examination closed with the admonition—"Now, bairns, persevere. Ye see how your mother and me have to fecht late and early to keep ye at the schule; and it is my greatest ambition to see ye a' scholars. Learning is a grand thing; it is a fortune equal to the best estate in the kingdom—ay, even to the Duke o' Buccleugh's; but oh, the want o' it is a great calamity, as nane can tell ye better than your faither. Therefore, bairns, persevere; always strive to be at the head o' your class, and if I live to be an auld man, I shall see some o' ye leddies and gentlemen."

Thus the word persevere was for ever rung in our ears; and I believe, before any of us knew its meaning, we one and all put it in practice. And often, when the frost lay white upon the ground, before the sun got up, and even when the ice drew itself together like a piece of lace-work on the shallow pools, at the head of all the classes in our school, which were just like stepping-stairs, a barefooted and barelegged laddie, but with hands and face as clean as the linen on his back, might have been seen as the dux of every class: and all those barefeeted or barelegged laddies were the bairns of Robert Gray.

"Persevere as ye are doing, Roderic," my old teacher used to say, "and ye will live to be an ornament to your country yet." I doubt all the ornament I have been to my country is hardly of a higher kind than that of a stucco or a paste-board figure on a mantelpiece, and perhaps not so much. However, be that as it may, I have the consolation to think that I have not passed through the world exactly as if I had been a cipher.

I know it is a difficult and a delicate thing for a man to write a sketch of his own life, without committing shipwreck on the shoals and quicksands of egotism; but I will endeavour to steer clear of this, and while it is certain that I will "set down nought in malice," I trust that I shall be able to show that I will "nothing extenuate."

My father's precept of perseverance carried me through my schoolboy days gloriously, even as it had borne him through the expense of paying out of his scanty earnings for the education of nine children. I wanted three days of completing my thirteenth year when I left the school, but then I had begun to read Homer in Greek—I had read Horace in Latin, and I was acquainted with Euclid. My father was proud of me, my master was proud of me, for I had persevered. It was seldom that the son of a cottar, or the son of any one else, left the school at such an age so far advanced.

Many said that before I was twenty they would see me in a pulpit—but they were mistaken. My father's habitual word, persevere, had taken too deep root in my heart, until it produced a sort of mental perpetual motion, which ever urged me onward—onward! and I found that the limits of a pulpit would never confine or contain me. I felt like a thing of life and happiness, that rejoiced and shook its wings beneath the sunshine of freedom, and I longed to expand my wings, even though they should fall or break under me.

I have said that I left school three days before I had completed my thirteenth year, and on the day that I did so, I was to become tutor in the family of a Colonel Mortimer, of the Honourable the East India Company's service. I was to be at once the playmate and instructor of two children; the one five, the other seven years of age—both boys. But his family contained another child—Jessy Mortimer—a lovely, dark-eyed girl of fifteen. The sun of an eastern clime had early drawn forth her beauty into ripeness, and although but two years older than myself, she was as a woman, while I was not only a mere boy, but, if I might use the expression, something between what might be termed a boy and a child; and certainly at the very age when children are most disagreeable to persons of a riper age. Yet, young as I was, from the very day that I beheld her, my soul took up its habitation in her eyes. I was dumb in her presence, I opened not my mouth. I was as a whisper, a shadow, in the family—a piece of mechanism that performed the task designed for it. It was a presumptuous thing in the son of a humble barnman to fix his eyes and his heart upon the daughter of an East India colonel, and one two years older than himself; but the heart hath its vagaries, even as our actions have.

For the first two years that I was in the house of Colonel Mortimer, I may say that, save in my class-room, my voice was not heard above my breath. But, as my voluntary dumbness became more and more oppressive, so also did my affection, my devotion, for Jessy become the more intense. The difference between our ages seemed even to have become more marked, and I felt it. Yet I began to think that her eyes looked upon me more tenderly; and the thought increased the devotion which for two years I had silently cherished. There seemed also a music, a spirit of gentleness and of kindness, in her voice, which first inspired me with hope.

Thus did five years pass on, and during that period I hardly ventured to lift up my eyes in her presence; though throughout that period I had said within my heart, Jessy Mortimer shall be my wife, and that was a bold thought for the son of a barnman to entertain towards the daughter of a wealthy nabob. But throughout my whole life I had endeavoured to put into practice my father's counsel concerning perseverance; and most of all was I determined to follow it in the subject which was deepest in my heart.

I remember the first time I ever spoke to Jessy. When I say the first time I spoke to her, I mean the first time that my soul spoke to her through my lips. For more than five years we had exchanged the common civilities of society with each other; but the language of the heart is ever a sealed volume, when the cold-fashioned ceremonies of society have to be observed.

But to proceed. I was now upwards of eighteen, and the children under my tuition were to be removed to a public school. It was no disgrace to me that they were to be so removed, for I knew it from the beginning of my engagement. Yet I felt it as disgrace—as more than disgrace—because that it would tear me from the side of Jessy, on whom my eyes lived and my mind dreamed. I had no wish to be a teacher, no ambition to become a minister; and her father had procured for me a situation as a clerk to a broker in London. But to me the thoughts of departure were terrible. Everything within and around the colonel's establishment had become things that I loved. I loved them because Jessy loved them, because she saw them, touched them, was familiar with and in the midst of them. They had become a portion of my home. I was unhappy at the thought of leaving them; but, beyond every other cause, my mind was without comfort at the thought of leaving her—it was hopeless, desolate. It was like causing a memory by force to perish in my heart.

It was in the month of September; I was wandering amidst the wooded walks upon her father's grounds. The rainbowed bronze of autumn lay upon the trees, deepening as it lay. The sun hung over the western hills; and the lark, after its summer silence, carolled over the heads of the last reapers of the season, to cheer their toil. A few solitary swallows twittered together, as if crying, "Come—come!" to summon them to a gathering and departure. The wood-pigeon cooed in the plantations, and as the twilight deepened, the plaintiveness of its strain increased. As I have said, I was then wandering in the wooded walks upon Colonel Mortimer's grounds, and my thoughts were far too deep for words. While I so wandered in lonely melancholy, my attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps approaching. I looked up, and Jessy Mortimer stood before me. I was too bashful to advance—too proud, too attached towards her, to retire.

We stood as though an electric spark had stricken both. I trembled, and my eyes grew dim; but I saw the rose die upon her cheeks. I beheld her ready to fall upon the ground, and, half unconscious of what I did, I sprang forward, and my arm encircled her waist.

"Jessy!—Miss Mortimer!" I cried. "Pardon me—speak to me."

"Sir!" she exclaimed—"Roderic!" I approached her—I took her hand. We stood before each other in silence. She drew herself up—she fixed her eyes upon me. "Sir," she returned, "I will not pretend to misunderstand your meaning; but remember the difference that exists in our situations."

"I remember it, Miss Mortimer—I do. I will remember it, Jessy. There is a difference in our situations."

I sprang from her—I thought I felt her hand detaining mine; and, as I rushed away, I heard her exclaiming, "Stay, Roderick! stay!" But wounded pride forbade me—it withheld me. I thought of my father's and of my mother's words—"Persevere! persevere!" And while I thought, I felt a something within, which whispered that I should one day speak to the daughter of Colonel Mortimer as her equal.

As I rushed away, I turned round for a moment to exclaim, "Farewell, Jessy!—we shall meet again!" Me-thought, as I hurried onward, I heard the accents of broken-hearted agony following after me; and through all, and over all, her voice was there. But I would not, I could not return. It was better to feel the arrow in my soul, than to have a new one thrust into it.

In a few days I took my departure towards London. I carried with me the letters of introduction which her father had given me. The broker to whom he recommended me was a Mr Stafford. He received me civilly, but at the same time most coldly, and pointing with his finger to the desk, said, "You will take your place there."

I did so, and in a very few weeks I became acquainted with the minutiæ of a broker's office. I perceived the situation which my senior clerks occupied, and I trusted one day to be as they were. I had heard them tell of our master having come to London with only half-a-crown in his pocket; and I thought of my father's maxim, "persevere," and that I might do even as my master had done.

There were a dozen clerks; and three years had not passed, until I occupied one of the chief seats in the counting-house. I became a favourite with my employer, and one in whom he trusted.

During that period I had heard nothing of my early benefactor—nothing of Jessy; but my thoughts were full of them.

Now it came to pass, somewhat more than three years after I had arrived in London, that, one day as I was passing up Oldgate, a person stopped me, and exclaimed, "Roderic!"

"Esau!" I returned; for his name was Esau Taylor.

"The same," he replied, "your old schoolfellow."

Hunger sat upon his cheeks—starvation glared from his eyeballs—necessity fluttered around him as a ragged robe. The shoes upon his feet were the ghost of what they had been. His whole apparel was the laughingstock of the wind; but my father had taught me to despise no one, however humble. It was a saying of his, "Look to the heart within a breast, and not to the coat that covers it;" and therefore I received Esau Taylor kindly. He was the son of an extensive farmer in our neighbourhood, and although I wondered to find him in a situation so distressed, I recollected that in London such things were matter of everyday occurrence. Therefore I did not receive him coldly, because of the shabbiness of his coat, and the misery of his appearance. I knew that I was the son of a barnman, and that my father's coat might be out at the elbows.

"Ha, Esau! my dear fellow," said I to him, "when did you come to town?"

"Several weeks ago," he replied.

"And what have you been doing?" said I.

"Nothing, nothing," he rejoined.

"Well," said I, "will you meet me in this house to-morrow? You were always good at figures, Esau; you can keep accounts. I think I can do something for you; and if you persevere, I doubt not but that you may arrive at the top of the tree, and become the managing clerk of the establishment."

"Thank you! thank you! thank you!" said Esau, grasping my hands as he spoke.

"Ah!" said I, "there is no necessity for thanks; I am a plain, blunt person. I did not know you personally in the place of my nativity, but I remember having seen you. I remember also your friends; and as a townsman it will give me pleasure to know that I can be of service to you."

Esau grasped my hand, and he shook it as though he would have taken it from the elbow. I was certain that he would obtain the situation which I had in view for him. We sat down together—we talked of old times, when the feelings of our hearts were young; and, amongst other things, we spoke of Jessy Mortimer. I sat—I drank with him—we became happy together—we became mad together. My Jessy—Jessy Mortimer was before me. Her presence filled my thoughts—it overshadowed me. I could think of nothing else—I could speak of nothing else. I drank to her in bumpers; but Esau sat as calm as a judge with the black cap upon his head. I marvelled that the man had so little of what is called sympathy in his soul. He appeared before me as a dead man—a thing that moved merely as it was moved. I almost despised, and yet I trusted him, because he was connected with the part of the country to which I belonged.

Now, as I have informed you, we sat together, we drank together, and the name of Jessy Mortimer overcame me; but I sat till I forgot her, until I forgot myself—my companion—everything! In this state I was left sitting; and when consciousness returned, I was alone, bewildered. My companion had left me. My first sensation was that of shame—of burning shame. I felt that I had abused the time and the confidence of my employer, and the thought rendered me wretched.

It was two days before I ventured to call again at the office, where I had become a confidential clerk. My master passed me as I entered, but he neither spoke to nor noticed me. His coldness stung me. I felt my guiltiness burning over me. But my confusion was increased, when I learned that I was not only discharged, but that my place was to be supplied by Esau Taylor!

"Impossible!" I exclaimed.

"Deem it so," said my informant. "But you have cherished an adder that has stung you; and, with all your knowledge, you are ignorant of the world, and of the people that live, breathe, and act in it. Take my counsel, and regard every man as though he were your enemy, until you have proved him to be your friend."

There was something in his words that more than restored my wandering thoughts into their proper channel.

I found that I had performed an act of kindness towards a villain—for I had not only treated Esau Taylor hospitably, but knowing that in London a good coat is of as much importance as a good character, I had furnished him with wearing apparel from my own wardrobe. A few days afterwards I met him in the Strand, arrayed in my garments, and he passed me with a supercilious air, as though I were a being only fit to be despised. I walked on as though I saw him not, conscious that, if he had a soul within him, it must be burning with the coals of fire which I had heaped upon his head.

I soon found it was much easier to lose a good situation than to obtain an indifferent one, and that one act of folly might accomplish what a thousand of repentances could not retrieve.

In a few months I found myself in a state of destitution; and while the coat which I had given to Esau Taylor was still glossy upon his back, mine—my last remaining one—hung loose and forlorn upon my shoulders. Yet, although I then suffered from both cold and hunger, the words which my parents had made a portion of my character departed not from me, and the words "persevere!—persevere!" were ever in my heart, kindling, glowing as a flame, until, in solitary enthusiasm, I have exclaimed aloud, as I wandered (not having a roof to shelter me) upon the streets at midnight, "I will persevere."

I was glad to accept of employment as copying clerk to a law stationer, at a salary of seven shillings a-week. It was a small sum, and I have often thoughtlessly wasted many times the amount since; but it made me happy then. It snatched, or rather it bought from the gripe of death—it relieved me from the pains and the terrors of want. My situation was now sufficiently humble, but my spirit was not broken; neither had I forgotten Jessy Mortimer, nor did I despair of one day calling her mine.

During the days of humiliation which I am recording, I was struck with an incident, which, although trifling in itself, I shall here relate; for from it I drew a lesson which encouraged me, and made me resolve, if possible, to carry my maxim into more active practice. Frequently on a Saturday afternoon, when the labours of the week were over, instead of returning to my wretched garret (for which I paid a shilling a-week, and which contained no furniture save a shake-down bed and a broken chair), I was wont to go out in the country, and to seek the silence and solitude of the woods and the green lanes. On such occasions

"My lodging was on the cold ground,"

and on the Sabbath mornings, I was wont to steal, as if unobserved, into the first country church, or rather place of worship, which I found open. I was there unknown; and in a congregation of English peasantry, the one-half of whom were in their smock-frocks, there were none to observe the shabbiness of my garments. And in the plainness of everything around me, there was something that accorded with my frame of mind, and in the midst of which I felt happier, and more at ease, than I could in the splendid cathedral or the gaudy chapel of a great city. It was in the month of May, and the sweet blossom, like odoriferous snow, lay on the hawthorn. The lark sang over me its Sabbath hymn. The sun had just risen, and, like the canopy of a celestial couch on which an angel might have reposed, the clouds, like curtains of red and gold, seemed drawn asunder. I sat beneath a venerable elm-tree, over which more than a hundred winters had passed; but their frosts had not nipped the majesty of its beauty. Above me a goldfinch chirmed and fed its young, and they seemed ready to break away upon the wing. It chirped to them, it fluttered from branch to branch, to allure them from the nest. One bolder than the rest ventured to follow, but ignorant of the strength of its wings, it fell upon the ground. The parent bird descended, and with strange motions mourned over it, anxiously striving again to teach it to ascend and regain its nest. My first impulse was to take up the little flutterer, to climb the tree, and replace it in the home which its first parent had built; but I lay and watched its motions for a few minutes. Again and again by a bold effort it endeavoured to reach the lofty branch where its parent had poised its nest, but as often it fell upon the ground, and its little breast panted on the earth. At length it perched upon the lowest twig, and from it got to others higher and higher, turning round proudly as it ascended, as if conversing with its parent, happy in what it was achieving, until the nest was regained.

"There," I exclaimed—"there is an example of perseverance; and a lesson is taught me by that little bird. It attempted too much at once, and its efforts were unsuccessful; it endeavoured to rise step by step, and it has gained the object it desired. That bird shall be my monitor, and I will endeavour to rise step by step, even as it has done."

I returned to London, and as I went, the attempts of the little bird were the text on which my thoughts dwelt. By sedulous attention to my duties, I began to rise in the esteem of my employer, the law stationer, and he increased my salary from seven shillings to a guinea a-week. I said unto myself, that, like the young bird, I had gained a higher branch.

Within twelve months he obtained me a situation in the office of an eminent solicitor, where I was engaged at a salary of a hundred pounds a-year. This was the scaling of another branch; and I again found myself in circumstances equal to those I had enjoyed previous to the treachery of Esau Taylor. I did not, in order to ingratiate myself with my employer, practise the bowing system, with which my countrymen have at times been accused; but I strove to be useful, I studied to oblige, and was rewarded with his confidence and favour.

It became a part of my employment to draw up abstracts of pleadings. On one occasion, I had drawn out a brief, which was to be placed in the hands of one of the most eminent counsel at the bar. He was struck with the manner in which the task was executed, and was pleased to pronounce it the clearest, the ablest, and best arranged brief that had ever been placed in his hands. He inquired who had drawn it out; and my employer introduced me to him. He spoke to me kindly and encouragingly, and recommended me to persevere. The word rekindled every slumbering energy of my soul. I had always endeavoured to do so, but now stronger impulses seemed to stir within me, and there was a confidence in my hopes that I had never felt before. He suggested that I should prepare myself for the bar, and generously offered to assist me. Through his interest, and the liberality of my master, I was admitted a student of the Inner Temple. My perseverance was now more necessary than ever, and again I thought of the little bird and its successful efforts. I had gained another branch, and the topmost bough to which I aspired was now visible.

I allowed myself but five hours out of the twenty-four for repose; the rest I devoted to hard study, and to the duties of assistant reporter to a daily newspaper. But often, in the midst of my studies, and even while noting down the strife of words in Parliament, thoughts of Jessy Mortimer came over me, and her image was pictured on my mind, like a guardian angel revealing for a moment the brightness of its countenance. My hopes became more sanguine, and I felt an assurance that the day would come when I should call her mine.

I had many privations to encounter, and many difficulties to overcome, but for none did I turn aside; my watch-word was "onward," and in due time I was called to the bar. I expected to struggle for years with the genteel misery of a briefless barrister, but the thought dismayed me not.

Before, however, I proceed farther with my own career, I shall notice that of Esau Taylor. There was no species of cunning, of treachery, or of meanness, of which he was not capable. There was none to which he did not resort. His brother clerks hated him; for, to his other properties, he added that of a low tale-bearer. But he was plausible as Lucifer, and with his smooth tongue, and fair professions, he succeeded in ingratiating himself into the chief place in his master's confidence; and eventually was placed by him at the head of his establishment; and, in order further to reward what he considered his singular worth and honesty, he permitted him to have a small share in the firm. But Esau was not one of those whom a small share, or any portion short of the whole, would satisfy. This he accomplished more easily and more speedily than it is possible that even he, with all his guilty cunning, had anticipated.

The merchant from whose employment he had supplanted me, and over whom his plausibility and pretended honesty had gained such an ascendency, had a daughter—an only child—who, about the time of Taylor's being admitted into a sort of partnership, returned from a boarding-school in Yorkshire. He immediately conceived that the easiest way to obtain both the father's business and his wealth would be by first securing the daughter's hand. Of anything even bordering upon affection his sordid soul was incapable: but to obtain his object he could assume its appearance, and he could employ the rhapsodies which at times pass for its language. The maiden was young and inexperienced, and with just as much of affectation as made her the more likely to be entangled in the snares of a plausible hypocrite, who adapted his conversation to her taste. The girl began to imagine that she loved him—perhaps she did—but more possibly it was a morbid fancy which she mistook for affection, and which he well knew how to encourage.

She became pensive, sighed, and drooped like a lily that is nipped by the frost, and seemed ready to leave her father childless; and the merchant, to save his daughter, consented to her union with Esau Taylor, his managing clerk and nominal partner.

The old man lived but a few months after their union, bequeathing to them his fortune and his business; and within a year and a-half his daughter followed him to the grave; to which, it was said, she was hurried through the cruelty and neglect of her husband.

Esau was now a rich man, a great man, and withal a bad man—one whose heart was blacker than the darkness of the grave, where his injured, I believe I may say his murdered, wife was buried.

We had not met each other for more than five years, and it is possible that he had half forgotten me, or, if he remembered me, considered me unworthy of a thought.

I have told you that I was called to the bar, and for ten months I attended the courts in my gown and wig, sitting in the back benches, and listening to the eloquence of my seniors, with a light pocket, and frequently a heavy heart.

I was sitting one evening in my chambers, as they were called—though they contained nothing but an old writing-desk, two chairs, and a few law books; I was poring over a volume of olden statutes, mincing a biscuit, and sipping a glass of cold water, when the bell rang, and on opening the door, my old master, the solicitor, stood before me, and he had what appeared to be a brief in his hand. My heart began to beat audibly in my bosom.

"Well, Roderic," said he, entering, "I always promised that I would do what I could for you, and now I am determined to bring you out. Here is a case that may make your fortune. You will have scope for argument, feeling, declamation. If you do not produce an impression in it, you are not the person I take you for. Don't tremble, don't be too diffident; but, as I say to you, throw your soul into it, and I will answer for it making your fortune. Here are fifty guineas as a retaining fee, and it is not unlikely that my fair client to-morrow may give you fifty more as a refresher."

"Fifty guineas!" I involuntarily exclaimed, and my eyes glanced upon the money. I felt as though my fortune were already made, and that I should be rich for ever.

"Come, Roderic," said he, "don't think about the retainer, but think of the case—think of getting another."

"What is the case?" I inquired.

"That," replied he, "your brief, which is as clearly and fully drawn up as if you had done it yourself, will explain to you. In the meantime, I may state, that your client, the defendant, is a young lady of matchless beauty, great fortune and accomplishments. When you see her, you will be inspired. She is the orphan daughter, and now the sole surviving child, of an officer who had extensive dealings with a house in the city. Of late years the prosecutor was his broker. Some time after the father's death, the prosecutor made overtures of marriage to the defendant, which she rejected. He has now, stimulated by revenge, set up a fictitious claim for twenty thousand pounds, which he alleges her father owed to the house of which he is now at the head; and for this claim he now drags my client into court. Now, I trust that we shall not only be able to prove that the debt is fictitious, but to establish that the documents which he holds, bearing the colonel's signature, are forgeries. It is a glorious case for you—here is your brief, and I shall call on you again in the morning."

I took the brief from his hand, glanced my eyes upon the back of it, and read the words—"Taylor against Mortimer."

"Taylor against Mortimer!" I exclaimed, starting from my seat; "what Taylor?—what Mortimer? Not Jessy—my Jessy? Not the villain, Esau?—the supplanter——the——"

"Hold, hold," said the solicitor, in surprise; "such are, indeed, the names of the parties; but, if you are in an ecstasy already, I must take the brief to one who will read it soberly."

"No!" I cried, grasping the brief in my hand—"take back your fee—I will plead this cause for love."

"Keep the money—keep the money," said he, dryly; "it will be of as much service to you in the meantime as love. But let me know the cause of this enthusiasm."

I unbosomed my soul to him. I did not see Miss Mortimer until the day of trial, in the court; and, when I rose to plead for her, she started, the word "Roderic!" escaped from her lips, and tears gushed into her bright eyes. It was at the same moment that Esau Taylor saw and recognised me—his eyes quailed beneath my gaze; his guilt gushed to his face. I commenced my address to the jury—I drew the picture of a fiend. Taylor trembled. Every individual in the court was already convinced of his guilt. He endeavoured to escape amidst the crowd. I called upon the officers to seize him. I gained the cause, and with it, also, won the hand of Jessy Mortimer, to obtain which, from boy-hood I had persevered. Taylor was committed to prison, to stand his trial for the forgeries; but, before the day of trial came, he was buried within the prison walls, with disgrace for his epitaph.

THE IRISH REAPER.

Some years ago, I was proceeding from Runcorn to Manchester, in one of the passage-boats which ply upon the Duke of Bridgewater's canal. There could not be less than a hundred passengers, and they were of as motley a description as the imagination of man could conceive even in a dream. The boats exactly resemble a long, low, flat-roofed wooden house; but sufficiently lofty for a middle-sized person to stand erect between the floor and the roof, or rather the deck. At one end sat about a dozen Primitive Methodists, alternately reading passages of Scripture, or bursting forth, at the extreme pitch of their voice, into a squall of music, singing hymn upon hymn, till my very ears ached, and the timbers of the boat might have started. Near them sat a number of young, rosy-cheeked Welsh women, staring at the vocalists with a look of wondering vacancy, that the goats on their own mountains could not have surpassed. There were, also, manufacturers' wives and children returning from a seven days' visit to Runcorn, for the benefit of a salt-water dip in the Mersey; and six or eight prim, sober, sleek, silent, well-dressed Quakers; with a more than sprinkling of the boys of the Emerald Isle. The loud laugh of one of them was ever and anon heard above the shrill music of the Ranters. He was about five feet seven inches high, and exceedingly strong and well made. He wore an old greatcoat, of a yellowish blanket colour, and a hat, the crown of which had fallen in with service, and its brim was equally turned up before and behind, and on both sides. His feet were thrust into a pair of brogues of true Irish manufacture, which, with a pair of coarse blue worsted stockings and corduroy inexpressibles, completed his outward man. He carried an apparently empty sack under his arm, and was surrounded by about a dozen of his countrymen, who seemed to regard him as an oracle, heartily echoing back his boisterous laughter, and exclaiming, "Well done, Mister M'Carthy!—faith, and it's you that's your mother's own son, at any rate."

O'Connell had sailed from Liverpool on the previous day, and his countrymen were discussing his political merits.

"Why, bad luck to ye," exclaimed our hero with the greatcoat, in answer to one who had held forth in praise of the counsellor; "and it is you, Mick Behan, that says every man in Ireland should pay the O'Connell rint?—but I'll tell you a bit of a parable, as Father O'Shee says, and a parable, too, of my own natural mother's making. 'Larry,' says she to me—'Larry M'Carthy, don't be after planting those big potaties for seed; for they've a hole in their heart a little Christian might slape in?"

"You're no better thin a Sassenach, Larry," interrupted the aforesaid Mick; "can't you spake your maneing like a man, if you have any maneing at all, at all."

This was like to have ended in an Irish row in reality; though the majority evidently sided with Mister Larry M'Carthy, not because they agreed with him in opinion, but because, as afterwards appeared, he was their master or employer. The disputants paused for a moment, and a loud groan, as if from one in great bodily pain, mingled with the wailings of a woman, was heard from the farther corner of the boat. Larry turned round, to use his own expression, "like a flash of lightning," and the next moment he stood by the side of the sufferer, who was a tall, bony-looking figure; but, save the skin that covered them, there was little of his mortal man but the bones left. It was only necessary to look on his features, wasted as they were, to tell that he, too, was an Irishman. A young wife sat beside him, whose countenance resembled beauty personifying sorrow; she had a child at her breast, and two others, the eldest not more than five years of age, stood by her knee Larry looked upon the group, and his heart was touched.

"Och! and what may be ailing ye, countryman?" said he; "sure and ye wouldn't be after dying among friends would ye?"

"Ohon! and is it a friend that would be asking after my own Patrick!" replied the poor wife. "Sure, then, and he is ill, and we're all ill togidder; and it is six blessed months since he earned the bridth of tinpinny. Oh, blackness on the day that the rheumatiz came on him——"

"Shure now, and is that all?" interrupted Larry; "and, belike, the doctors have been chating you; for I tell you, honey, and you, too, Patrick, those 'natomy chaps know no more about the rheumatiz than holy Solomon knew about stameboats. But, belike, I'm the lad that disn't know neither; but maybe your chating yoursilf if ye think so. I'll tell ye what it is: the rheumatiz is a wandering wind between the flesh and the bone; and, more than that, there is no way to cure it but to squaze it out at the ends of the fingers or toes."

"Oh, my childer's sorrow on it, thin!" replied the suffering man's wife; "but, more and above the rheumatiz, Patrick got his leg broke last Fibruary——"

"Ay, splintered, honey," added the husband; "and the doctors—bad luck be wid them!—can't make nothing on't; and I am now goin to the great Salford bone-doctor."

"And maybe he won't be curing the bit bone without the money?" said Larry, with an expression of sympathy.

The sufferer shook his head, and was silent; his wife burst into tears.

"I will work, I will beg, I will die, for my Patrick," she exclaimed, and pressed the child closer to her breast.

"You had better be barring the dying, honey," returned Larry; "and wouldn't a raffle, think ye, among friends, be more gintale thin begging among strangers?"

"Ohon! and is it friends you say?" replied she.

"Yes, shure, and it is friends that I say," answered Larry; "and a raffle is what no gintleman need be ashamed on."

The boat at this moment stopped opposite an inn at the side of the canal; Larry borrowed a quart measure from the skipper, and sprang ashore. In a few minutes he returned with a quantity of rum, and, handing it first to the wife, and then to her lame husband, said, "Come, warm up thy ould bones with a drop of the cratur." He called the rest of his countrymen around him, and handed the liquor to each. When gathered together, there might be about sixteen or eighteen of them in all.

"Arrah, now, and these are all my men," said Mister Larry M'Carthy, with a look of comical consequence, to his infirm countryman; "and where would you be finding better? We are goin up to a bit of work in Lancashire; for the Inglish are no better than born childer at our work;[8] and," raising the liquor to his head, he added, "here's the Holy Virgin be with us, countryman, and better luck to your bad leg; and, should it ever be mended at all—though you mayn't be good for much at hood-work iny more, you have still a stout bone for a barrow—and you won't be forgetting to ask for Larry M'Carthy. And, now, boys," continued he, turning to his workmen, "here is this poor man, and more than this, I'm saying, our own lawful countryman, with the rheumatiz and a broken leg, and his wife, too, as you see, and those three little cherubims, all starving, to be sure, and he going to the doctor's without a penny! Sure you won't disgrace Ould Ireland—just look at the childer—and I say that a raffle is the gintale way of doing the thing."

So saying, he thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small canvas bag well filled with silver, and tied round the mouth with a strong cord. He took off his indescribable brown hat; he threw in a piece or two of silver, and went round, shaking it among his countrymen. Each took out a bag similar to Larry's, and threw his mite into the hat. He then, without counting them, emptied its contents into the lap of the poor woman; and I should think, from their appearance, they must have amounted to thirty or forty shillings. She burst into tears. The lame man grasped his hand, and endeavoured to thank him.

"Don't be after spakeing," said Larry; "did you think we warn't Christians?"

Such was the Irish raffle. Larry instantly resumed his jokes, his jests, and his arguments; but I could do nothing during the rest of the passage but think of the good Samaritan, and admire Mister Larry M'Carthy.

In the September of 1834, I was wandering by the side of a country churchyard, situated near the banks of the Tyne. The sun had gone down, and the twilight was falling grey upon the graves. I saw a poor-looking man, whose garments fluttered in tatters with the evening breeze, and who, by his appearance, seemed to be an Irish reaper, rise from among the tombs. He repeatedly drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes, and I could hear him sobbing heavily, as though his heart would burst. As we approached each other, I discovered that he was my old canal-boat companion, the then merry and kind-hearted Larry M'Carthy; but no more like the Larry I had then seen him than a funeral to a bridal.

His frame was wasted to a skeleton, and hunger and misery glistened in his eyes together.

"Ha!" said I, accosting him, "is it possible that sorrow can have laid its heavy hand upon the light heart of Larry M'Carthy?"

"Shure," said he, drying away the tears that ran down his wan and wantworn cheeks, "and it is true, and too true, and heavy is the hand, shure enough; but not so heavy as it should be, or it would be weighing me into that grave." He pointed to the grave I had seen him leave, and added, "But how do you know me, sir—and who tould ye my name?—as I don't know yours—for, shure, and mine is Larry M'Carthy, as my father and mother, and his rivirence, wid my natarel sponsors, to boot, all, every one of thim, say and affirm."

I reminded him of the canal-boat and the raffle, and inquired the cause of his distress, and his visit to the grave.

"Arrah, master," said he, "and you touch a sore place when you ask me to tell it. Perhaps you don't know—for how should you—that, not long after the time you spake of in the canal-boat, I came down to what ye call the Borders here, to a bit o' navigating work that was to be a long job. I lodged wid a widow—a dacent ould woman, that had a daughter they called Mary—and, och! you may be thinking that ever Mary had an equal, but it's wrong that ye are, if ye think so. Her eyes were like drops of dew upon the shamrock; and, although she was not Irish but Scotch, it was all one; for, ye know, the Scotch and Irish are one man's childer. But, at any rate, she had a true Irish heart; and, but for the sae or the Channel, as they call it, she would have been Irish as well as me. The more I saw of Mary, I loved her the more—better than a bird loves the green tree. She loved me, too; and we were married. The ould woman died a few weeks before Mary presented me with two little Larrys. I might have called them both Larry; for they were as like each other as your two eyes, and both of them as like me, too, as any two stars in the blessed firmament are like each other, where nobody can see a difference.

"Mary made the best wife in Christendom; and, when our little cherubs began to run about our knees, and to lisp and spake to us, a thousand times have I clasped Mary to my breast, and blessed her as though my heart would burst with joy. 'Sure,' I used to say, 'what would my own mother have said, had her ould eyes been witness to the happiness of her son, Larry M'Carthy?'

"But often the thought came staleing over me, that my happiness was too like a drame to last long; and sure and it was a drame, and a short one, too. A cruel, mortal fever came to the village, and who should it seize upon but my little darlints. It was hard to see them dying together, and my Mary wept her bright eyes blind over them. But bad luck was upon me. The 'pothecary tould us as how our lovely childer would die; and on the very day that he said so, the wife that was dearer to me than Ould Ireland to Saint Patrick, lay down on the bed beside them—and och, sir! before another sun looked in at our window, a dying mother lay between her dead childer. I wished that I might die, too; and, within three days, I followed my wife and my little ones together to the same grave. It was this arm that lowered them into the cold earth—into the narrow house—and, sure, it has been weak as a child's since. My strength is buried in their grave. I have wrought but little since; for I cannot. I have no home now; and I take a light job anywhere when it comes in my way. Every year, at reaping time, I visit their grave, and bring with me a bit of shamrock to place over it, and that it may be a mark where to bury me, should I die here, as I hope I will."

Within ten days after this, I beheld the body of the once lively and generous-hearted Larry M'Carthy consigned to the grave, by the side of his wife and children.

GRACE CAMERON.

In the centre of a remote glen or strath, in the West Highlands of Scotland, stands the old mansion-house of the family of Duntruskin. At the time of the rebellion of 1745-6, this house was the residence of Ewan Cameron, Esq., a gentleman of considerable landed property and extensive influence in the country. Mr Cameron was, at the period of our story, a widower, with an only child. This child was Grace Cameron, a fine, blooming girl of nineteen, with a bosom filled with all the romance and high-souled sentiment of her mountain birth and education. In the commotions of the unhappy period above alluded to, Mr Cameron, although warmly attached to the cause of the Pretender, took personally no active part; but he assisted in its promotion by secret supplies of money, proportioned in amount to his means. In the result of the struggle—which, although he was not yet aware of it, had already arrived at a consummation on Culloden Muir—neither he nor his daughter had anything to fear for themselves; but this did not by any means relieve them from all anxiety on the momentous occasion. The father had to fear for many dear and intimate friends, and the daughter for the fate of a lover, who were in the ranks of the rebel army. This lover was Malcolm M'Gregor of Strontian—a warmhearted, high-spirited young man, the son of a neighbouring tacksman, to whom Grace had been long attached, and by whom she was most sincerely and tenderly loved in return. M'Gregor at this period held a captain's commission in the service of the Prince, and had distinguished himself by his bravery in the various contests with the royal troops that had occurred during the rebellion.

Having given this brief preliminary sketch, and advising the reader that the precise period at which our tale opens is on the second day after the battle of Culloden, and the locality a certain little parlour in Duntruskin House, we proceed with our story. Seated in this little parlour, on the day in question, Grace Cameron—occasionally employing her needle, but more frequently pausing to muse on the absent, to reflect on the past, or to anticipate the future—awaited, with intense anxiety, some intelligence regarding the movements and fortunes of the rebel army, with whose fate she deemed her own connected, since it was shared by one who was dearer to her than all the earth besides.

Grace did not expect any special communication on this important subject; but she knew that common fame would soon bring a rumour of every occurrence of consequence which should take place at this interesting crisis. With this expectation, she anxiously watched from her window the approach of every stranger to the house; and, when one appeared, was the first to meet and to question him regarding the events of the day. At length a report reached her, in which all agreed—for her informers had differed widely in others—that a great event had taken place, that a sanguinary battle had been fought; but, this admitted, the usual discrepancies and contradictions followed. Some declared that the Prince's army was defeated, and that a number of his leading men had been killed and taken prisoners; others, with equal confidence, asserted that the rebels were victorious, and that the king's troops were flying in all directions. Elated and depressed by turns by these conflicting rumours, Grace awaited, in dreadful anxiety, some certain intelligence regarding what had taken place. It was while in this state of mind, and while gazing listlessly, and almost unconsciously, from her little parlour window on the wide prospect which it commanded, that her eye was suddenly riveted on one particular spot. This was an abrupt turn in the great road leading to Inverness, which passed Duntruskin House at the distance of about half-a-mile, and from which, at this moment, the sun's rays were suddenly reflected, in bright, brief, and frequent flashes, as if from many surfaces of polished steel. Grace's heart beat violently; for she instantly and rightly conjectured that the dark body which now gradually, but rapidly, came in sight, and from which the coruscations which had first attracted her attention emanated, was composed of armed men; but whether they were rebels or king's troops, the distance prevented her from ascertaining. In this state of doubt, however, she did not long remain. Their rapid approach soon showed her that they were a party of royalist dragoons—a circumstance which threw her into the utmost terror. Nor was this feeling lessened by her perceiving them leave the highway, and make directly for the house. On seeing this, Grace, in the greatest alarm, hastened to seek out her father, whom she found busily engaged in writing, and utterly unconscious of the threatened visit. When informed of it, his countenance became pale, and his whole frame agitated; for he dreaded that his secret connection with the rebels had been discovered, and that he was now about to be apprehended; and these were also the fears of his daughter. Without saying a word, however, in reply to what had just been communicated to him, Mr Cameron threw down his pen, started hastily to his feet, and hurried to the window, beneath which, so rapid had been their motions, the troopers were already drawn up. The commander of the party—for there was only one officer—was a little thickset man, about forty-two years of age, with a red, florid, vulgar countenance, expressive at once of gross sensuality, much indulgence in the bottle, and a total absence of all feeling. In the manner of his dress he evidently affected the military dandy: his shirt neck reached nearly to the point of his nose; his gloves were of the purest white; a showy silk handkerchief was carelessly thrust into his breast, with just enough left projecting to indicate its presence. Notwithstanding this display of finery, however, and in despite of a splendid uniform made after the smartest military fashion of the time, Captain Stubbs was still exceedingly unlike a gentleman, and still more unlike a soldier. The first he was not, either by birth or education; the latter he had neither talents nor energy of character sufficient ever to become. The absence, however, of these qualities in Captain Stubbs was amply supplied by others. He was vain, irascible, conceited, and cruel; brutal and overbearing in his manners; and coarse and utterly regardless of the feelings of others in his language. He was, moreover, both an epicure and a glutton; and, to complete his very amiable character, a most egregious coward.

Having drawn up his party in front of the house as already mentioned, Captain Stubbs, before dismounting, threw a scrutinising glance at several of the windows of the building, as if to ascertain what sort of quarters he might expect—a point with him of the last importance. In the course of this brief survey, his eye alighted on that occupied by Mr Cameron and his daughter, whom he saluted with an insolent and familiar nod. In the next instant he was at the door, where he was met by Mr Cameron himself, with a countenance strongly expressive of the alarm and uncertainty which he felt, and could not conceal, regarding the issue of the interview now about to take place.

On their meeting—"Ha," said Stubbs, addressing the latter, "you are, I presume, Mr—Mr——Hang me, I forget your name, sir! Mine, sir, is Captain Stubbs, of the —— regiment of dragoons. I find your name is in my list of—of"—here the captain (who had by this time been conducted to the dining-room), perfectly indifferent as to the particular of finishing his sentence, began to pull off his gloves, and to detach his spurs from his boots, with the air of one who is determined to be quite at home—"of—of," he continued to repeat, with the utmost disregard of ordinary politeness, and with the most profound contempt for the feelings of his host, who, taking alarm at the ominous hiatus, which he fully expected would be filled up by his being ranked amongst the proscribed, waited patiently and meekly the conveniency of Captain Stubbs—"of—of," repeated the captain slowly, after having divested himself of his accoutrements, and otherwise prepared himself for an hour or two's enjoyment—"of the friends of the government," he at length said; and the words instantly relieved both his host and his daughter from the most dreadful apprehensions. "So I have just beat you up," continued Captain Stubbs, "en passant, as 'twere, to tell you of the total defeat of the rebels, at a place called Culloden, and to have a morsel of dinner—eh, old boy?—and an hour or two's quarters for the men and horses."

"Much obliged for the honour," replied Mr Cameron, ironically, and accompanying the expression with a polite and formal bow; but, at the same time, cautiously guarding against any expression of his real feelings on this occasion, amongst which was a strong inclination to kick the redoubted Captain Stubbs to the door. His prudence, however, prevented him embroiling himself in this or any other way with a visiter who had the means of retaliation so much in his power.

Immediately after making the announcement above recorded, Captain Stubbs added, "And now, Mr—A—a——Pray, what the devil's your name, sir?"

"My name, sir," replied the party interrogated, "is Cameron—Ewan Cameron."

"Ah! Cameron—ay, Cameron," repeated Captain Stubbs, knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look very dignified. "Why, then, sir, I want some brandy and water; and pray, see that some of your fellows look after my horses." Having been provided with, and having swallowed a very handsome modicum of the beverage he had called for, Captain Stubbs went on—"I say, Cameron, can any of your brutes, your Hottentots, prepare me a fowl, à la Condé?"

"Why, Captain Stubbs," replied Mr Cameron, whose anxiety to keep well with the government and all connected with it induced him to suppress the resentment which the amazing insolence of his guest was so well calculated to excite—"our cookery is in general of a very plain sort."

"Ay, oh! boiled beef and cabbage, I suppose," interrupted Captain Stubbs, with a sneer.

"But my daughter," continued Mr Cameron, without noticing the impertinent interruption, "has, I believe, some little skill in these matters, and will be happy, I doubt not, to make some attempt to produce the dish you speak of; I will not, however, answer for her success."

"Your daughter, Mr A—a—a; ay, your daughter," said Captain Stubbs; "why, let me see—yes, let her try it; but, zounds, if she spoil it, it shall be at her peril. No, no," he added, after a moment's thought—"I'll tell you what, Mr Cameron—as it would be a devil of a business to have the thing botched, I suppose I must give instructions about it myself: so, pray, order every one out of your kitchen but your cook, and I shall go down-stairs presently, and see the thing properly done. In the meantime, Mr Thingumbob, call in your daughter, that I may have some conversation with her on the subject, that I may learn how far she may be trusted in this affair."

Mr Cameron immediately rung the bell, and desired the servant who obeyed the summons to inform his daughter that he wished to see her immediately. "And, that she may not be altogether unprepared," he added, "say to her that I wish to introduce her to Captain Stubbs."

"Ah!" ejaculated the latter, with a supercilious nod, in acknowledgment of his acquiescence in the terms of the message. In a few minutes, Miss Cameron entered the apartment. "Ah! Miss Cameron, I presume," said the captain, with a haughty inclination of his head, but without moving from his seat. "Your father, madam," he continued, "tells me that you know something of le grand cuisine. Now, pray, madam, how do you compound your sauce for a fowl, à la Condé? Eh, ma'am? Answer me that, if you please. Do you use chopped veal or not? If you don't, you spoil the dish—that's all. I've seen mutton used, but it's downright abomination."

"Why, sir," replied Miss Cameron, haughtily, shocked and disgusted with the insolence and gross epicureanism of the brute, "I am not accustomed to be catechised on these subjects, or on any other, in the very peculiar manner which you seem to have adopted."

"No!" exclaimed the gallant captain, starting up to a sitting posture, and at the same time seizing his shirt-collars with finger and thumb, and tugging them up at least another inch higher on his face. "I say, you are uncivil, and confoundedly unpolite, madam. I am a king's officer, madam—and a soldier, madam—and, by heavens, neither man nor woman shall insult Captain Stubbs with impunity!"

"Nobly said, captain!" replied Miss Cameron, with an air of the mock heroic; "draw your sword, sir, and lay your insulter dead at your feet; or, if you are not altogether so sanguinary, you may send me a challenge by my waiting-maid, who, I daresay, will have no objection to act as my second in any little affair of honour—such as this is likely to be."

"Miss Cameron, madam—Mr Cameron," stuttered and sputtered out Captain Stubbs, starting to his feet, his face reddening with rage, and every feature exhibiting symptoms of the high indignation which he felt—"Mr Cameron, sir, I command you, sir, in the king's name, to turn your daughter out of this apartment, otherwise I shall order up half-a-dozen of my fellows, with pistol and sabre, to drive her from my presence; and it is not improbable, sir, that I may have her apprehended, and tried, and shot as a rebel, sir."

Whilst delivering himself of this appalling speech, Captain Stubbs strutted up and down the apartment, chafing with rage; at one time impatiently tugging on his gloves, at another buttoning up his coat with an air of determination, which he thought, no doubt, would strike terror into the breasts of his auditors.

Mr Cameron, unwilling that matters should be carried any farther, and still desirous to keep up appearances with his guest, now approached his daughter; and, taking her gently by the hand, and at the same time leading her towards the door—

"Grace," he said, "I think you had better retire. You do not appear disposed," he added—smiling in his daughter's face as he spoke, but taking care to conceal this expression of his real feelings from the enraged captain—"to make yourself agreeable to-day; and therefore it may be as well that you carry your temper to some other quarter."

"Oh, certainly, sir, since it is your pleasure," replied Miss Cameron, tripping towards the door, where she stood for an instant—looked full at the captain—said she would expect to hear from him at his convenience, as to time, place, and weapons—made him a stately curtsey, and left the apartment.

When she had gone—"Don't think I am afraid of her, Mr Cameron," said Captain Stubbs. "I am a man, sir, and a soldier, sir," he continued, still pacing the room, in great indignation at the treatment he had received from his fair antagonist, "and not to be frightened with trifles; but I say, Mr A—a—," he added, in a more subdued tone, "as I am not a man to permit such small occurrences as this to direct my attention from any important object I may have in view, I beg to know distinctly what you have for dinner, and I insist upon you, at the same time, recollecting, sir, that I am a king's officer, sir, and have a right to civil treatment."

"What sort of dinner you are to have, Captain Stubbs," replied Mr Cameron, "I really do not exactly know; but you may rest assured that, in so far as it lies with me, you shall have civil treatment; and I request of you to point out to me in what way I may contribute to your comfort."

"Ah! well—very well," replied Captain Stubbs. "Am I, then, or am I not, to have a fowl à la Condé, sir—eh?"

"Surely, sir," said his host; "if any of my people can prepare such a dish as you speak of, you shall have it."

"What the devil, then!" exclaimed Stubbs, passionately; "and am I to lose my dinner if your Hottentots shouldn't happen to know how to cook it? No! hang me, sir, I'll superintend the thing myself. I'll do it with my own hands, if you will show me the way to your kitchen."

With this request Mr Cameron immediately complied, by marshalling the captain to the scene of his proposed labours. On arriving in the kitchen, he forthwith prepared himself for the work he was about to undertake, by throwing off his regimental coat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves to his shoulders, and seizing on a large carving-knife which happened to be lying within his reach. Thus prepared, Captain Stubbs, after having been provided, by his own special orders, with a pair of choice fowls, lemon juice, bacon, parsley, thyme, bay-leaf, cloves, &c. &c., commenced operations; and, forgetting his dignity in his devotion to good living, he might now be seen smeared, from finger-ends to elbows, with grease and offal, earnestly engaged in disembowelling, with his own hands, the fowls on which he meant to exercise his gastronomic skill.

Leaving Captain Stubbs, of his majesty's —— regiment of horse, thus becomingly employed, we shall return to a personage who, we should suppose, will be fully more interesting to the reader. This is Grace Cameron. That lady, on leaving the presence of her father, and him of the fowl à la Condé, returned to her own apartment, when, recollecting that the dragoons were still in front of the house, she walked up to the window, to gratify her curiosity by taking another peep at the warlike display; and it was while thus employed that Miss Cameron, for the first time, perceived that there was a prisoner amongst the soldiers. The prisoner was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age. He was mounted behind one of the dragoons, to whom he was secured by a cord, which was passed round the bodies of both. Grace thought she perceived that the boy looked up at the windows of the house with more earnestness and anxiety than curiosity; and, when his eye at length rested on that she occupied, he threw a peculiar intelligence into his look, accompanied by certain expressive but almost imperceptible signs, that convinced her that he was desirous of holding some communication with her. Satisfied of this, Grace raised the window at which she stood, and beckoned to the serjeant of the troop to approach nearer. He rode up to within a few yards of the house.

"Is that poor boy a prisoner, sir?" inquired Miss Cameron.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the serjeant, touching his hat.

"For what has he been taken up? What has he done?"

"Done, ma'am! Lord love you, ma'am—excuse me—he has done nothing as I knows of; but our captain suspects him of being a rebel."

"Where did you fall in with him?"

"Why, ma'am, we picked him up on the road as we came along this morning. Captain saw him skulking behind a hedge. 'There's a blackguard-looking rascal, serjeant,' says he. 'He has the rebel cut about him as perfect as a picture. Pick him up, and strap him to one of the fellows, and we'll see what the cat-o'-nine-tails will bring out of him.'"

"Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Grace, shocked at this instance of military despotism, "is it possible that such a state of things exists—that you can apprehend and punish whomsoever you please, without a shadow of crime being established against them? You cannot have such a power, serjeant. It is impossible."

"Oh, bless you, ma'am, but we have, though," replied the serjeant. "Captain may hang or shoot a dozen every day, if he has a mind, without ever axing them a question. We could never get through our work otherwise; and, as to this young rogue's being a rebel, there's no doubt of it. He's all in rags; and, as captain says, every poor-looking ragged rascal is sure to be a rebel."

"Pretty grounds, truly, on which to subject a man to the treatment of a felon!" said Miss Cameron. "However," she continued, "will it be any dereliction of your duty, serjeant, to permit me to speak for a moment with the unfortunate lad?"

"By no means, ma'am," replied the serjeant. "Provided he's kept fast till captain's pleasure is known regarding him, I don't see it signifies a pinch of gunpowder who speaks to him."

Availing herself of the permission granted her, Grace was in an instant afterwards beside the prisoner, whose looks brightened up with an expression of extreme delight as she approached him. After asking the lad a few trivial questions, she observed him cautiously stealing something forth from a concealment in his dress. It was a letter. Watching an opportunity, he slipped this document unperceived into her hand.

Trembling with agitation, although she knew not well for what, Grace crammed the letter into her bosom, and saying to its bearer that she would speak with him again, she hurried into the house, and sought a retired apartment, when, pulling it from her bosom, she discovered, from the handwriting of the address, that it was from Malcolm M'Gregor. With a beating heart and trembling hand, she opened it, and read—

"Dearest Grace,—All is lost. The Prince's army is defeated and dispersed, and I am now a wandering fugitive in my native land, with the axe of the executioner suspended over my neck. This is a dreadful reverse, and carries with it destruction to all our hopes—to mine, individually, utter annihilation. I have only time to add, dearest Grace, that, if I can escape the bloodhounds that are in pursuit of us, I must seek safety in a foreign land. I will, however, endeavour to see you before I go. I must see you, Grace, and shall do so at all hazards. I have hitherto escaped unhurt. God bless you," &c. &c.

With mingled feelings of joy and grief—joy to find that her lover still lived, and had escaped the dangers of the battle-field, and grief for the unfortunate position in which he was now placed—Grace returned the letter to her bosom, and hastily left the apartment, when she was met by her father, who insisted upon her joining Captain Stubbs and himself at dinner; requesting her, at the same time, to conduct herself in a conciliatory way to the captain, and thus to endeavour to make her peace with him, as he was such a man, he said, as might occasion them trouble, if allowed to leave the house with any feelings of irritation towards them.

Obedient to her father's commands, Grace joined the party, and not only avoided giving Stubbs any farther offence, but got so far into his good graces that she actually prevailed on him to order the release of the boy who had been the bearer of Malcolm's letter—an order which Grace took care to see immediately fulfilled; nay, Captain Stubbs not only did this, but began, after dinner, when his temper had been mollified by the good things of which he had partaken, to play the gallant—and in this character he was standing at a window with Miss Cameron, when, suddenly dropping the awkward badinage which he had been attempting—

"But who the devil have we got here?" he exclaimed, his eye having caught a man in a mean dress, who, on discovering the dragoons as he approached the house, suddenly stopped short, and, in evident surprise and alarm, sprung to one side of the road, and endeavoured to conceal himself behind a low and rather thin hedge that ran parallel to the house, and directly in front of it. Stubbs pointed him out to Miss Cameron; she started, and turned pale; for, meanly dressed as he was, she at once recognised in the stranger her lover, Malcolm M'Gregor. He had come, she doubted not, in this disguise, to pay the visit which his letter had promised. In the meantime, Stubbs, flushed with the wine he had drunk, and desirous of showing Miss Cameron his promptitude and energy on sudden emergencies, threw up the window violently, and called out to the soldiers to pursue the fugitive, and to fire upon him, if he did not surrender himself. It was in vain that Miss Cameron—at this trying moment forgetting the additional danger to which the warm and earnest expressions of her interest in the fate of her lover would subject him—implored Captain Stubbs to allow him to escape.

"For Heaven's sake," she exclaimed, in the agony of her feelings, and seizing him almost convulsively by the hand as she spoke, "do not commit murder! Do not send the soldiers after him, captain. I will do anything for you—I will go on my bended knees to you," said the distracted girl, "if you will call your men back, and allow him to escape." To this appeal Stubbs made no other reply than by repeating, with additional vehemence, his orders to the soldiers; half-a-dozen of whom, with the serjeant at their head, now galloped furiously off in the direction which he pointed out. Then, turning round to Miss Cameron, with a look of mingled triumph and self-complacency—

"Why, madam," he said, "we must do our duty. We soldiers mustn't stand on trifles. The fellow must be shot; and, if he isn't shot, he must be hanged—that's all; so there's but two ways of it—eh? Tight work that, madam, isn't it—eh?"

At this instant, the report of a carbine was heard, and immediately after, another and another.

"Oh heavens! they have killed him, they have killed him!" exclaimed Miss Cameron, covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself into a seat, in an agony of horror and despair. "They have murdered him, the ruthless savages. Oh Malcolm, my beloved Malcolm! that you had never loved me, that you had never looked on this fatal face!—for it is I, and I alone, that have been the cause of your cruel and untimely death." And here the violence of her feelings choked her utterance, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Fortunately Captain Stubbs was too intently occupied in watching the proceedings of the party who were in pursuit of the fugitive, to hear all that Miss Cameron had permitted to escape her in her agony; or, indeed, to notice her distress at all. Quizzing-glass in hand, he was employed in looking at the chase, and ever and anon giving utterance to the various feelings which its various turns excited.

"Ha, you've pinned him at last, serjeant," muttered the captain, in his own peculiar and elegant phraseology, on perceiving the fugitive stumble and fall, immediately after a carbine had been discharged at him by the officer just named.

"No, you blind rascal," again muttered Stubbs, on seeing the fallen man taking once more to his feet, and clearing hedges and ditches with an activity that sufficiently showed he had sustained, at any rate, no serious injury. "You haven't touched him. I'll have you back to the ranks again for that, you scoundrel, or my name's not Stubbs." And, after a moment's pause—"Ay, ay, you villain," he added, "he's off, he's off; you'll never get within shot of him again. Hang me, if I don't get every man of you flogged to death for this!"

When Captain Stubbs said the fugitive had escaped, he was right. The nature of the ground had been all along greatly in his favour, being so interspersed and encumbered with hedges, ditches, walls, and trees, that the dragoons had little or no chance of ever being able to overtake him, should he escape their carbines; and these had hitherto been discharged at him without effect.

The last effort of the fugitive—that which secured his final escape, and which had called forth the expressions of Captain Stubbs' displeasure—was his plunging into a thick plantation that grew on the face of a steep and rocky hill, where it was impossible for the troopers to pursue him. The latter finding this, two or three shots were discharged at random into the wood; a volley of oaths followed, and the pursuit was abandoned.

The dragoons turned their horses' heads towards Duntruskin House, where they soon after rejoined their comrades.

During the pursuit, Miss Cameron awaited its result in deep but silent wretchedness, till, aroused by the delightful intelligence communicated involuntarily by Stubbs, that the fugitive yet lived—

"He is not killed, then!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of rapture, starting from her seat, her face flushed with joy, and her soft dark eye beaming with inexpressible happiness. "He is not killed, then!" she said, rushing wildly to the window. "Oh, thank God, thank God for his mercies!" she exclaimed, on perceiving that the fugitive appeared to be still unhurt, and that he was continuing his exertions to escape, with unabated energy.

Unable, however, to look longer upon the doubtful and critical struggle between the pursuers and the pursued, she had again retired from the window, and again her fears for the eventual safety of her lover had returned. These, however, Captain Stubbs' latter exclamations had once more removed.

"Off! is he off?" she wildly repeated, taking up the words in which the joyful event had been communicated; and she again flew to the window. "Dear Captain Stubbs," she exclaimed—forgetting in the excitation of the moment all former feelings and antipathies regarding him she addressed—"is he indeed off? Has—has"—and she was about to pronounce the name of M'Gregor, when a sudden recollection of the imprudence of doing so struck her, and she merely added, "has the man really escaped?" Having quickly satisfied herself that it was so, Miss Cameron, unable longer to control the warm and overflowing sense of gratitude which she felt towards the Omnipotent Being who had protected the beloved object of her affections in the moment of peril, clasped her hands together, looked upwards with a countenance strongly expressive of thankfulness and joy, and breathed a short but fervent prayer of thanksgiving.

The scene was one which Stubbs could not comprehend. He thought it very odd, but he said nothing. In a few seconds after, Grace left the apartment—a step to which she was urged by two motives. Captain Stubbs had threatened that he would instantly go himself, with his whole troop, on foot, to search the wood in which the fugitive had concealed himself—a measure which, if executed, would almost certainly secure the capture of M'Gregor, or, at least, render it a very probable event. The other motive, proceeding from this circumstance, was, to see whether she could not fall on any means of preventing the threatened expedition.

On leaving the apartment, Grace met the serjeant on his way to Captain Stubbs, to make his report of the proceeding in which he had just been engaged. Without well knowing for what precise purpose, but with some general idea that she might prevail on him, by some means or other, to second her views in defeating the object of Stubbs' proposed search, she stopped him, and hurriedly conducted him into an unoccupied apartment.

"Oh, serjeant!" she exclaimed, in great agitation, and scarcely knowing what she said, "will you—will you do me a favour—a great favour, serjeant? For God's sake, do not refuse me!"

The man looked at her in utter amazement.

"Your captain," continued Grace, "proposes renewing the pursuit of the person that has just escaped you. I am interested in that person. Now, serjeant, will you do what you can to prevent this search taking place, or to render it unavailing if it does?" And with these last words she put a purse, containing ten guineas, into the serjeant's hand.

The man looked from the gift to the giver, and again from the latter to the former, in silent astonishment, for several seconds. At length—

"Why, miss," he said, "since you are in such a taking about this matter, and as I don't mind a poor fellow's escaping now and then, I will do what I can to serve you in the case." And he put the purse into his pocket.

"Oh, thank you, serjeant, thank you!—God bless you for these words!" said Grace, in a rapture of joy. "But how—how, serjeant, will you manage it?"

"Oh, leave me alone for that, miss," replied the latter; "I knows how to manage it, and I'll do it effectually, I warrant you. I can send captain in any direction I please on the shortest notice. He don't like the smell of gunpowder, though he be a soldier; and, when he can, always follows the wind that brings it."

In a few minutes after, Serjeant Higginbotham was in the presence of the pink of chivalry, Captain Stubbs. Having informed the latter briefly of the result of the pursuit, he added, that, when he was out, he had seen "something suspicious."

"What was it?" inquired Stubbs, in a tone and with a look of alarm.

"Why, sir," responded the serjeant, "a crowd of people assembled on the face of the hill where the fellow escaped us."

"The devil! Are they rebels, think you, serjeant?" said the captain, with increased perturbation.

"And, please your honour, I think as how there is no doubt of it," replied Higginbotham.

"In great force, you say, serjeant?" added Stubbs; "in overwhelming force—madness to attack them—you can depone on oath before a court-martial?"

"To be sure I can, sir," rejoined the former.

"That's a good fellow; order my horse to the door instantly, and let the men fall in."

These orders were immediately obeyed; and in the next instant Captain Stubbs appeared at the door.

"In what direction are these rascals?" he said, addressing the serjeant, as he was about to mount his charger.

"In that direction, your honour," replied the latter, pointing towards the place of M'Gregor's concealment.

"Ah!" ejaculated Captain Stubbs; and, in a moment after, he was in full gallop, followed by his whole troop, in the opposite direction.

We should certainly fail, were we to attempt to describe the joy of Grace Cameron when she beheld the departure of the dragoons. That joy, as will readily be believed, was extreme.

For some time after the troopers had left the house, Grace continued to keep her eye on the spot where M'Gregor had disappeared, in the hope that he would again show himself. Nor was she mistaken. Malcolm appeared also to have been able to see from his hiding-place the departure of the soldiers; for they had not been more than a quarter-of-an-hour gone, when he again appeared at the skirts of the wood where he had been concealed, and made towards the house. On recognising him, Grace hastened out to meet him.

This meeting we need not describe, as it very much resembled all other meetings of a similar kind—only that it was, perhaps, a little more interesting, from the peculiar situation of the parties. The lovers had much to say to each other, and much was said in a very small space of time. Amongst other things, Malcolm informed Grace that it was his intention to request her father for an asylum for three or four days, when, he said, it was his intention to proceed to the coast, and to endeavour to effect his escape from thence to France.

The asylum that Malcolm requested was readily granted by Mr Cameron, and a place of concealment was found for him, which promised every security—and there was need that it should; for, on the following day, the surrounding country was filled with soldiers, who were everywhere making the strictest search for the fugitive insurgents; and of these several parties had already paid domiciliary visits to Duntruskin House.

The constant state of terror and alarm for the safety of her lover, in which these visits kept Grace Cameron, and the imminent risk he ran of being discovered, at length suggested to the romantic girl an undertaking which well accorded with her strong affection and noble spirit; but which certainly, had it been known, must have appeared to all but herself as utterly hopeless.

On the second day after the occurrence just related, Grace, seizing such an opportunity as she thought favourable for her purpose, suddenly flung her arms around her father's neck, and said, smiling affectionately in his face as she spoke—

"Father, I am going to ask you a favour."

"Well, Grace, my dear," replied he, "I tell you, before you ask it, that, if it be reasonable in itself, and within my power, I shall grant it."

"Thank you, my dear father," said Grace; "but I am afraid you will not think it reasonable. Nevertheless, you must grant it."

"Nay, Grace, that's more than I bargain for," rejoined Mr Cameron, laughing. "But let me know what it is you want, and I shall then be better able to judge of its propriety."

"Well, then, father," replied Grace, "will you allow me to go from home for two days, to take my pony with me—for I mean to travel—and allow Macpherson to accompany me?"

"Where do you propose going to, Grace?" inquired her father, rather gravely.

"That's a question, father," said his daughter, "that relates to a part of the bargain I mean to drive with you which I have not yet arrived at, and which will seem to you the most unreasonable of the whole, I daresay. You must not ask me where I am going to, nor what I'm going to do. On my return, you shall know all."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr Cameron; "why, this is certainly strange, Grace—I don't understand it; and, what is more, I must say I do not like it; but, as I have every reliance on your good sense and discretion, my child, I will grant your request. But I really wish you would tell me what it means; for you cannot suppose that I can be otherwise than uneasy till you return."

"I have your unconditional consent, father, to my terms," said Grace, playfully; "so you must not put any questions; and, as to your being uneasy about me, I assure you there is not the slightest occasion; for my project involves no chance whatever of personal injury to myself."

"Well, well, Grace," replied her father, "since you assure me of that, and since I have certainly given my consent to your request, I will keep my word. You may go when you please."

Delighted with her success, Grace flew to give the necessary orders regarding her intended journey; and amongst these were instructions to Macpherson—a favourite servant of long standing in the family—to have her pony, and a horse for himself, in readiness at an early hour on the following morning. When this hour arrived, it found Grace and her attendant jogging forward, at a pretty round pace, on the road leading to the town of Inverness.

Leaving her to prosecute her mysterious journey, we shall return to Duntruskin House, where a scene was about to occur of no ordinary interest.

On the second day after Grace's departure, a young Irish officer, who had been in the service of the Pretender, and who was well acquainted with both Mr Cameron and M'Gregor—with the latter intimately, as they had served together—arrived at Duntruskin House. He, too, was a fugitive, and was now endeavouring to find his way back to Ireland, and to avoid the numerous military parties that were scouring the country.

This gentleman, whose name was Terence Sullivan, was a genuine Milesian. He was frank, open, generous, warmhearted, and brave to a fault; for he was rash and impetuous, and never stopped an instant to reckon on the odds that might be against him in any case, either of love or war. On he went, reckless of consequences and fearless of results. Terence was thus, in truth, rather a dangerous ally in cases where either caution, deliberation, or forbearance, was necessary, and where their opposites were attended with peril. Such as he was, however, he now appeared at Duntruskin, on his way to the coast for the purpose already mentioned. But Mr Sullivan brought a piece of intelligence with him which it was rather singular he should have fallen in with; and it was intelligence that greatly surprised and alarmed both Cameron and M'Gregor. This was, that the place of concealment of the latter was known, and that he might every moment expect to be apprehended; and, to show that his information was well founded, he described the place of M'Gregor's retreat with such accuracy that it was instantly recognised, and left no doubt that a special information on the subject had been laid by some person or other. Sullivan said that the way in which he came by the intelligence was this:—He had slept on the preceding night in a small public-house, and having been much fatigued, had retired early to bed. This bed was in a recess in the wall, with a sliding-door on its front, which he drew close. Soon after he had lain down, a party of military came to the house in quest of refreshments; and, being shown into the apartment where he lay, he overheard all that passed amongst them; and part of this conversation, he said, was what he had just communicated.

On receiving this startling intelligence, Mr Cameron hastened to inform M'Gregor of his danger, when an earnest conversation ensued between them as to what steps the latter ought now to take to secure his safety.

Leaving them for an instant thus employed, we will return to Terence, who, having been left alone by Mr Cameron while he went to speak with his protegé, had taken his station at a window which overlooked the approach to the house, and was there humming away, with great spirit, one of his lively national airs, when his eye was suddenly caught by the red coats of a party of dragoons advancing towards the house. Terence's eye instantly brightened up with an almost joyous expression when he saw them; for he anticipated some amusement in the way of fighting, as he took it for granted that the house was to be defended to the last extremity. Having at once settled this point, he hurriedly looked about the apartment, to see whether he could not find any eligible weapon wherewith to resist the approaching foe; and in this particular his luck was singularly great indeed. Over the fireplace there hung a rifle gun and a flask of powder, and on the mantelpiece were several bullets that fitted to a hair—the very things wanted. Never was man so fortunate. Delighted beyond measure with his good luck, Terence seized the rifle, loaded it in a twinkling, and again took his place at the window, which he now banged up to its utmost height, and stood ready for mischief; never dreaming that it was at all necessary to consult the master of the house as to the manner in which he meant to receive his visiters, or conceiving that anything else could be thought of in the case but fighting.

"Blessings on them, the darlings! There they are," said Terence to himself, as he stood at the window in the way already described, "as large as life, and as lively as two-year olds." Muttering this, he raised his rifle, and, putting it on full cock, "You'll see now, my jewels," he added, "how beautifully I'll turn over that fellow on the white charger."

He fired, and almost in the same instant the unfortunate man whom he had selected fell lifeless from his horse.

Terence gave a shout of joy and triumph at the success of his shot, and was proceeding with the utmost expedition to reload, when his arm was suddenly seized from behind by Mr Cameron, who, in amazement at his proceedings, and in great distress for their very serious result, which he had seen from another part of the house, had hastened to the apartment where he was.

"Good heavens, Mr Sullivan! what is the meaning of this?—what are you doing?—what have you done?" he exclaimed, in great agitation. "We shall be all put to the sword—by the laws of war, our lives are forfeited. It was foolish—it was madness, Mr Sullivan!"

"Faith, my dear fellow," replied Terence, not a little astonished that his proceedings should have been found fault with, "you may call it what you please; but no man shall ever convince Terence Sullivan that it's either folly or madness to kill an enemy when you can."

At this moment they were joined by M'Gregor; and in the next instant the commanding officer of the troop—a very different man from Stubbs—entered the apartment, with his drawn sword in one hand, and a pistol in the other, and followed by about a dozen of his men; the remainder being drawn up in front of the house.

"Gentlemen," said the officer, on his entrance, "you perceive, I trust, that further resistance will be vain, and can only bring down destruction on your own heads."

"Not so fast, my good fellow—we perceive nothing of the kind," exclaimed Terence, forcibly releasing himself from the grip which Mr Cameron still held of him, and, in the next instant, preparing his rifle for another charge. "Just keep off a bit, and let us have fair play for our money. Shot about, my beautiful fellows. It's all I ask, and no gentleman can refuse so reasonable a request."

"Terence, Terence!" exclaimed Mr Cameron, again laying his hand on the right arm of his hot-headed friend, "listen to me, I beseech you, as a special favour. I request of you, I beg of you, to desist."

"Well, well, my dear fellow," replied Terence, somewhat doggedly, and at the same time resting the butt of his rifle on the floor, "do as you please, only it's a cursed pity you wouldn't allow a few shots to be exchanged between these gentlemen and me, if it were only for the respectability of your own house."

"Don't you know, sir," here interposed the commanding officer of the party, addressing Terence, "that by the laws of war I could——"

"Och, no more of that blarney, if you please, my dear fellow," interrupted Terence, impatiently. "Mr Cameron has told me all about that already."

"If he has, then, sir," said the officer, haughtily, "you know the extent of the obligation you lie under to my clemency."

Terence was about to reply to this insinuation, and probably in no very measured terms, when he was stopped short by Mr Cameron, who dreaded that some immediate act of violence would result from the continuance of this irritating conversation.

"Mr Cameron," said the officer, now proceeding to the real purpose of his visit, "my business here is to make this gentleman"—and he bowed slightly to M'Gregor—"my prisoner, although this is not precisely the spot in which I expected to find him. I feel it to be a painful duty, sir," he said, now directly addressing Malcolm; "but it is unavoidable."

"I am aware of it, sir," replied the latter, "and am obliged by the consideration which induces you to say it is unpleasant to you. I have no doubt it is. I am ready to attend you, sir."

The officer bowed, and now turning to Terence, "You will please, also, sir, consider yourself as my prisoner. Your rashness and folly have placed you in a very precarious predicament. Serjeant," he added, addressing a non-commissioned officer, "remain here, keeping six men with you, with these gentlemen, till I return; and see that you guard against escape."

Saying this, he again bowed, and left the apartment. In a minute after he was mounted, and off with his troop, in pursuit of some object of a similar kind with that which had brought him to Duntruskin.

"This is a devil of a business, Mac," said Terence, when the officer had left the apartment; then sinking his voice, so as to be heard only by Malcolm—"but I think we three might clear the room of these fellows, if we set to it with right good-will. What say you to try? I'll begin."

"Hush," said M'Gregor, under his breath—"madness, Terence, madness. We are fairly in for it, and must just abide the consequences. Our doom is sealed. In plain English, we must hang for it, Terence."

"Faith, and that we won't, if we can help it, Mac; and we'll try whether it can be helped or not," said Terence. "We'll get the fellows drunk, if we can, and that will be always one step gained.—I say, serjeant," he added, now speaking out, and confronting the person he addressed, "I think you're a countryman of my own."

"I don't know, sir," replied the serjeant, in a brogue that at once showed Terence's conjecture was right—"I am from Ireland."

"I thought so," rejoined the latter. "I saw potatoes and butter-milk written on your sweet countenance as plain as a pike-staff. Perhaps, now, you wouldn't have any objection to take a small matter of refreshment yourself, nor to allow your men to partake of it, if our friend, Mr Cameron here, would be kind enough to offer it."

"No, certainly not, sir," replied the serjeant.

"Mr Cameron," continued Terence, and now turning to the person he named, "would ye be good enough to order a little whisky for the lads here; for we'll have a long march of it by and by, and they'll be the better of something to help them over the stones."

A large black bottle of the stimulative spoken of by Terence was instantly brought; when the latter, installing himself master of the ceremonies, seized it, and began to deal about its contents with unsparing liberality.

"Come now, my lads," he said, after having completed three rounds of the black-jack, "make yourselves as comfortable as a rat in a corn-chest. Here's the stuff," he continued, slapping the bottle, and commencing a fourth progress with it, "that'll make ye forget the sins and sorrows of your wicked, lives. Won't it now, serjeant?"

"Troth and it will, sir, I'll be sworn," replied the latter, whose eyes were already twinkling in his head, and his articulation fast thickening into utter unintelligibility; "it's as good for one as a sight of the quartermaster at pay-day."

"Right, serjeant, right," exclaimed Terence; "I see your education hasn't been neglected. You have had some experience of the world, serjeant, and know some of its hardships."

"Faith, and it's yourself, sir, may say that of a man who has been hundreds of times in the saddle thirteen days out of the fortnight; living in the air, as one may say, night and day, and never allowed to put his foot on the ground, no more than if it had been covered with china tea-cups."

"No joke, serjeant—by my faith, no joke," replied Terence; and again he made a round with the bottle, a proceeding which brought matters fairly to a crisis. The faces of the soldiers suddenly became as red as their coats; their eyes began to dance in their heads; and they were now all talking together at the tops of their voices, shouting out at intervals, "Long life and glory" to their entertainer. Nor was the serjeant himself in any better condition than his men; but his genius, under the influence of liquor, took a musical direction, and he began trolling scraps of songs; for, as his memory failed him in almost every instance in these attempts, he was compelled to make up by variety what he wanted in continuous matter. Thus favourably, then, were affairs going on for Terence's design; and there was every appearance that the men would soon be in such a state as should render escape from them a matter of no very difficult accomplishment. But lo! just as the flow of mirth and good-fellowship had attained its height, another serjeant, detached with an additional half-dozen of men, from the troop that had visited the house in the morning, suddenly entered the apartment, with orders from the commanding officer, to the effect that the party which had been left with the prisoners should proceed immediately to Fort George with Sullivan, and that they themselves were to remain with M'Gregor till their officer came.

This, as will readily be believed, was by no means welcome intelligence, as it threatened to render the attempt to unfit the soldiers for their duty abortive, in so far as the object of doing so was concerned. This, indeed, it fully effected as regarded Malcolm's escape, since he was to be left behind; while it rendered Terence's much more precarious than if the debauch had been allowed to proceed.

Terence, however, did not feel that all chance of escape was yet lost. He hoped that what he had not had time to effect at Duntruskin, he should be able to accomplish while they were on the march; and he resolved to watch with the utmost vigilance for such an opportunity as was necessary to success in his intended attempt.

In the meantime, preparations were made, in obedience to the order just received, for the march of Terence's escort with their prisoner. An affecting parting now took place between M'Gregor and Sullivan, especially on the part of the former, who deemed it a last farewell—an opinion, however, in which he was by no means joined by his friend, who, with the natural buoyancy of his disposition, and cheerful and sanguine temper, entertained strong hopes of being able to give his guards the slip; and he bade Malcolm good-by with all the hilarity of manner and brightness of countenance which these hopes inspired.

The drunken troopers now staggered out of the apartment one after the other—their swords tripping them at every step, and several of them with their caps turned the wrong way—next came Terence, and lastly the serjeant, trolling, as he left the room—

"I'm bother'd with whisky, I'm bother'd with love;
I'm bother'd with this, and I'm bother'd with that;
I'm bother'd at home, and I'm bother'd abroad;
And it's all botheration together, says Pat."

M'Gregor went to the window, to see what he had no doubt was the last of his poor friend, Sullivan—and he soon had this melancholy satisfaction. In a few minutes, the party appeared proceeding down the avenue, with Terence in the centre, mounted on one of the dragoon's horses—a favour which his uproarious good-fellowship at Duntruskin had procured for him. He caught a sight of Malcolm just as he and his escort were about to take a turn in the road that would conceal them from each other, and waved an adieu, accompanied by one of his characteristic shouts, which, though plainly enough indicated by his gestures, was, from the distance, unheard by him for whose edification it was intended.

In about an hour after the departure of Terence Sullivan, the commanding officer of the party, who had been at Duntruskin House in the morning, appeared riding up the avenue at the head of his troop. In a few minutes afterward, he was again in the apartment with M'Gregor.

"We will now proceed, sir, if you please," he said, on entering. "Are you ready?"

"I believe I must say I am, sir," replied Malcolm, with as much composure as he could command.

"Nay," said the officer, who marked his agitation; "you need not say you are, if you are not. Is there anything you wish yet done before you go? Any one you wish to see?"

"There is—there is one I wish to see, sir—one to whom I should have wished to have bidden farewell," said Malcolm, with an emotion which he could not conceal; "but I know not when she may be here, and——"

"She is here, Malcolm—she is here," said Grace, at this instant rushing into the apartment.

Malcolm flew towards her. "God be thanked, Grace, you are come! I would have been miserable, if I had not seen you before I went. A few minutes later, Grace, and we should never have beheld each other more. We have now met," he added, "for the last time."

"No, no, Malcolm; we have not, we have not," said Grace, hurriedly, and in great agitation, taking a letter from her bosom, which, with a blush and a curtsey, she presented to Major Ormsby—the name of the officer already so often alluded to. He bowed as he received it; and, unfolding it, began to read. The perusal did not occupy him an instant. The matter was short but effective. Having read it, he advanced towards Malcolm with extended hand, and said—

"Allow me, sir, to congratulate you on your restoration to freedom, and to an immunity from all danger on account of certain late transactions which you wot of." And, as he said this, he smiled significantly. "You are at liberty, Mr M'Gregor. I have no more control over you, and have therefore to regret that I shall not have the pleasure of your company to Fort-George, as I expected."

"What does all this mean, sir?" inquired Malcolm, in the utmost amazement.

"Why, sir, it means simply that you are a free man," replied Major Ormsby. "And here is at once my authority for saying so and my warrant for releasing you." And he read:—

"This is to discharge all officers of his majesty's government, civil and military, and all other persons whatsoever, from apprehending, or in any other ways molesting, Malcolm M'Gregor, Esq. of Strontian, for his concern in the late rebellion; and, if he be already taken, this shall be sufficient warrant for those detaining him to set him at liberty, which they are hereby required to do forthwith.

"Cumberland.

"At Inverness, the 19th day of
April, 1746."

"Grace," exclaimed Malcolm, in a transport of joy, when Major Ormsby had concluded, "this is your doing, noble and generous girl. It is to you, and to you alone, that I am indebted for life and liberty. But how, how on earth, Grace, did you accomplish it?" he added, taking her affectionately by the hand.

The explanation was a brief one. She had gone to Inverness—had sought and obtained an interview with the Duke of Cumberland—had implored him for a pardon to her lover, and to the amazement of those who were present on the occasion, had succeeded. Her youth, her beauty, the natural eloquence of her appeal, and the romance of the circumstance altogether, had touched the merciless conqueror, and had betrayed him for once into an act of humanity and generosity.

After partaking of some refreshment, Major Ormsby with his troop left Duntruskin, and the happiness of Malcolm would have been complete only for one circumstance. This was the miserable situation of his poor friend, Sullivan; presenting, as it did, such a contrast to his own. This, however, was a ground of unhappiness which was soon and most unexpectedly to be removed. In less than two hours after the departure of Major Ormsby, as Malcolm, Miss Cameron, and her father were sitting together, talking over the events of the preceding two or three days, to their inexpressible amazement, Sullivan suddenly burst into the apartment, with a loud shout.

"Haven't I done them, after all, Malcolm?" He exclaimed—"done them beautifully! Didn't I tell you, now, I would give the drunken rogues the slip somewhere? Och! and just give me a bottle of whisky in my fist, and I'll take in hand to bother a saint, let alone a serjeant of dragoons."

We need not describe the joy of the party whom Terence on this occasion addressed, when he appeared amongst them. It was very great, and very sincere. Terence, however, was immediately hurried off by M'Gregor, who dreaded an instant return of the dragoons in quest of him, to a place of concealment at a little distance from the house, where he remained for two days, when he was secretly conveyed by his friend to the coast, and embarked on board a small wherry, hired for the purpose, for his native land, where he arrived in safety on the evening of the following day.

Within a year after these occurrences, Grace Cameron was fully better known in the country by the name of Mrs M'Gregor, than by that which we have just written.

THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

In the very midst of apparent contentedness and happiness, W—— B——, a merchant in Dumfermline, disappeared all at once. No one could tell whither he had gone; and his wife was just as ignorant of his destination or fate as any one else. That he had left the country, could not be supposed, because he had taken nothing with him; that he had made away with himself, was almost as unlikely, seeing that it is not generally in the midst of gaiety and good humour that people commit suicide. Every search, however, was made for him, but all in vain—no trace could be found of him, except that a person who had been near the old ruin called the Magazine, part of the old castle in the neighbourhood of the town, reported that, on the night when he disappeared, he, the narrator, heard in that quarter a very extraordinary soliloquy from the lips of some one in great agony; but that all his efforts (for it was dark) could not enable him to ascertain who or where he was. So far as he could recollect, the words of the person were as follows:—

"The self-destroyer has nae richt to expect a better place." (Groans.) "A' is dark and dismal—a thousand times mair sae than what my fancy ever pictured upon earth. But there will be licht sune, ay, and scorchin fires, and a' the ither terrors o' the place whar the wicked receive the reward o' their sins. If I had again the days to begin, which, when in the body, I spent sae fruitlessly and sinfully, hoo wad I be benefited by this sicht o' the very entrance to the regions o' the miserable? and yet does not the great Author o' guid strive, wi' a never-wearyin energy, by dreams and visions, and revelations and thoughts, which vain man tries to measure and value by the gauge o' his insignificant reason, to show him what I now see, and turn him to the practice o' a better life. This is a narrow pit—there is neither room for the voice o' lamentation, nor for the struggle o' the restless limbs o' the miserable; the light, and the air, and the space, and the view o' the blue heavens, and the fair earth, which mak men proud, as if they were proprietors o' the upper world, and sinfu, as if its joys were made for them, are vanished, and a narrow cell, nae bigger than my body, wi' nae air, nae licht, nae warmth—cauld, dark, lonely, and dismal—is the last and eternal place appointed for the wicked." (Groans.) "On earth men, though sinners, hae the companionship o' men; here my only companion is a gnawin conscience, the true fire o' the lower pit, and a thousand times waur than a' the imagined flames which haunt the minds o' the doers o' evil."

These dreadful words were spoken at intervals, and loud groans bespoke the agony of the sufferer. The individual who heard them, at a loss what to conceive, became alarmed, ran away to get assistance, and, in a short time, returned, with a companion and a light, to search among the old ruins for the individual who was thus apparently suffering under the imagined terrors of the last place of punishment. They looked carefully up and down throughout the place called the Magazine, among the ruins of the castle, and in every hole and cranny of the neighbourhood, but neither could they see any human being, nor hear again any of the extraordinary sounds which had chained the ear of the listener, and roused his terrors. The idea of a supernatural presence was the first that presented itself; and a ghost giving its hollow utterance to the lamentations of its suffering spirit, confined, doubtless, in some of the vaults of the castle, and struggling for that liberty which depends upon the performance of some penance upon earth, was the ready solution of a difficulty which defied all recourse to ordinary means of explanation. Having ascertained that nothing was to be seen or heard, the two friends returned to the town, where they told what had happened. The disappearance about that time of W—— B—— suggested to many a more rational explanation of the mysterious affair; and a number of people adjourned to the Magazine, for the purpose of exploring its dark recesses more thoroughly, under the conviction that the missing individual might be concealed in some part that had not been searched. Every effort was employed, in vain. They penetrated all the holes, and explored all the dark corners—nothing was to be seen, nothing heard; and the conclusion was arrived at, either that the narrator was deceiving or deceived, or that the spirit had ceased to issue its lamentations.

For many days and many years afterwards, no trace could be had of W——B——, nor was there ever even so much as whispered a single statement of any one who had seen him either alive or dead. The food for speculation which the mysterious affair afforded to the minds of the inhabitants was for a time increased by the total want of success which attended all the efforts of inquiry; and, after the fancies of all had been exhausted by the vain work of endeavouring to discover that which seemed to be hid by a higher power from human knowledge, the circumstance degenerated into one of the wonders of nature, supplying the old women with the material of a fireside tale, for the amusement or terror of children. But it would seem that the energies of vulgar everyday life are arrayed with inveterate hostility against the luxury of a mystery so greedily grasped at by all people, however thoroughly liberated from the prejudices of early education or of late sanctification; and accordingly, one day many years after the occurrences now mentioned, as some boys were amusing themselves among the ruins of the old castle, they discovered lying in a hole—called the Piper's Hole, from the circumstance of a piper having once entered it with a pair of bagpipes, which he intended to play on till he reached the end of it, but never returned—the body of a man, reduced to a skeleton, but retaining on his bare bones the clothes which he had worn when in life. It was the body of W—— B——. On searching his pockets, there was found in one of them a few pence, and in another a bottle, with a paper label, marked "Laudanum."

This discovery cleared up all mystery. The unfortunate man had intended to kill himself in such a way as would put his suicidal act beyond the knowledge of his friends, and had resorted to the extraordinary plan of creeping up into the dark and narrow passage, where the action of the fatal soporific had produced the delusion that he was in the place appointed for the wicked, with the soliloquy already detailed, and then death. The physical mystery was cleared up; but a mystery of a moral nature remains, which will bid defiance to the revealing efforts of philosophers—the strength and peculiarity of feeling which, working on a sane mind, produced a purpose so extraordinary, and the resolution to carry it into effect.

END OF VOL. XVI

[1] Many in this neighbourhood, who read the Leveller's dream, will remember the original. Twenty years ago, I heard it related by the dreamer, with all the enthusiasm of a staunch admirer of Napoleon, and I have preserved his words and imagery as closely as I could recollect them.

[2] I have often remarked that the admirers of Napoleon were wont to speak of him as the great man.

[3] The Wells of Weary are now numbered with the things that were. The terminus of the Dalkeith and Edinburgh Railway tunnel, at the eastern end, has swept them away. They were the favourite resort, in the olden time, of the love-sick swains and maidens of the city. Many a soft tale of love was breathed there. It was a wild, sequestered spot—in our recollection like an oasis in a desert, rendered lovely by the neighbouring stillness and desolation.

[4] A nautical term for a forenoon whet.

[5] Langholm Distillery.

[6] A crimp is a person who receives a certain sum of money from shipowners for procuring sailors to man their vessels.

[7] Perfection

[8] Larry and his countrymen were all navigators, as they are called, or rather excavators, employed in digging canals, railways, docks, &c.

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