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Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 15

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Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 15

Compiler: John Mackay Wilson

Editor: Alexander Leighton


        
Release date: October 27, 2010 [eBook #34152]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND, VOLUME 15 ***




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









                     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. XV.

LONDON:

WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE

AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.

1885.




CONTENTS


THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_

THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_

    THE DEATH OF JAMES I

THE CURATE OF GOVAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_

GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_

    I.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE
    II.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH
    III.--PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON
    IV.--THE PERSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS

THE STORY OF TOM BERTRAM, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_

THE COTTAR'S DAUGHTER, _(ANON.)_

THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_

     THE CASE OF EVIDENCE

THE WARNING, _(ALEXANDER BETHUNE)_

GRIZEL COCHRANE. A TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_

SQUIRE BEN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_

THE BATTLE OF DRYFFE SANDS, _(ANON.)_

THE CLERICAL MURDERER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_




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




THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH.




There is no feeling more strongly or more generally implanted in the
human breast, than man's love for the place of his nativity. The
shivering Icelander sees a beauty, that renders them pleasant, in his
mountains of perpetual snow; and the sunburned Moor discovers a
loveliness in his sultry and sandy desert. The scenes of our nativity
become implanted on our hearts like the memory of undying dreams; and
with them the word _home_ is for ever associated, and

    "Through pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

We cannot forget the place where our eyes first looked upon the glorious
sun; where the moon was a thing of wonder, the evening companion of our
childish gambols, joining with us in the race, and flying through the
heavens as we ran! where we first listened to the song of the lark,
received the outpourings of a mother's love upon our neck, or saw a
father's eyes sparkle with joy as he beheld his happy children around
him; where we first breathed affection's tale or heard its vows, and
perchance were happy, wretched, blessed, or distracted, within a short
hour. There is a magic influence about nativity that the soul loves to
cherish. Its woods, its rivers, its hills, its old memories, fling their
shadows and associations after us, and over us, even to the ends of the
earth; and while these whisper of our early joys, or of what we fancied
to be care ere we knew what care was--its churchyard tells us we have a
portion there--that there our brethren and our kindred sleep. We may be
absent from it until our very name is forgotten; yet we love it not the
less. The man who loves it not hath his affections "dark as Erebus." It
is a common wish, and it hath patriotism in it, too, that where we drew
our first breath, there also we should breathe our last. Yet, in this
world of changes and vicissitudes, such is not the lot of many. While I
thus moralise, however, I detain the reader from the Recollections of
the Village Patriarch; and as some of the individuals mentioned in his
reminiscences may be yet living, I shall speak of the place in which he
dwelt as the village of A----.

The name of the patriarch was Roger Rutherford. He was in many respects
a singular old man. He was the proprietor of three or four cottages, and
of some thirty acres of arable land adjoining to them. He was a man of
considerable reading, of some education, and much shrewdness. His years,
at the period we speak of, were fourscore and four. By general consent,
he was a sort of home-made magistrate in the village, and the umpire in
all the disputes which arose amongst his neighbours. It was common with
them to say, instead of going to law, "We will leave the matter to old
Roger;" and the patriarch so managed or balanced his opinions, that he
generally succeeded in pleasing both parties. He was also the living or
walking history or chronicle of the village. He could record all the
changes that had taken place in it for more than seventy years; and he
could speak of all the ups and downs of its inhabitants. What Byron
beautifully says of the ocean--

    "Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow"--

might have been said of the memory and intellect of the patriarch. He
had also a happy art in telling his village tales, which rendered it
pleasant to listen to the old man.

It was in the month of August, 1830, and just before the crops were
ready for the sickle, old Roger was sitting, as his custom was (when the
weather permitted), enjoying his afternoon pipe on a stone seat at the
door, when a genteel-looking stranger, who might be about fifty years of
age, approached him, and entered into conversation with him. The
stranger asked many questions concerning the village and its old
inhabitants, and Roger, eyeing him attentively for the space of a
minute, said, "Weel, ye seem to ken something about the town, but I
cannot charge my memory with having the smallest recollection o' ye;
however, sit down, and I shall inform ye concerning whatever ye wish to
hear."

So the stranger sat down beside the patriarch on the stone seat by the
door, and he mentioned to him the circumstances respecting which he
wished to be informed, and the individuals concerning whom he wished to
learn tidings. And thus did the old man narrate his recollections, and
the tales of

THE VILLAGE.

I have often thought, sir (he began), that A---- is one of the bonniest
towns on all the Borders--indeed I may say in all broad Scotland. I
dinna suppose ye will find its marrow in England; and I dinna say this
through any prejudice in its favour, or partiality towards it, because I
was born in it, and have lived in it now for the better part o'
fourscore and four years; but I will leave your own eyes to be the
judge. It is as clean as the hearth-stane of a tidy wife--and there
certainly is a great improvement in it, in this respect, since I first
knew it. There is the bit garden before almost every door, wi'
vegetables in the middle, flowers alang the edges, a pear or cherry tree
running up the side o' the house, and the sweet, bonny brier mixing wi'
the hedges round about. It lies just in the bosom of woods, too, in the
centre of a lovely haugh, where the river soughs along, like the echo of
the cooing of the cushats in the plantations. The population is four
times what it was when I remember it first, and there are but few of the
old original residenters left. There have been a great many alterations,
changes, and improvements in it, since I first kenned it; but young folk
will have young fashions, and it is of no use talking to them. The first
inroad upon our ancient and primitive habits was made by one Lucky
Riddle taking out a license to sell whisky, and tippenny, and other
liquors. She hadna carried on the trade for six months, until a great
alteration was observable in the morals o' several in the parish. It was
a sad heart-sore to our worthy minister. He once spoke to me o' having
Lucky Riddle summoned before the session. But says I to him--"Sir, I am
afraid it is a case in which the session canna interfere. Ye see she has
out a king's license, and she is contributing to what they call the
revenue o' the country; therefore, if she be only acting up to her
regulations, I doubt we canna interfere, and that we would only bring
ourselves into trouble if we did."

"But, Roger," quoth he, "her strong drink is making weak vessels of some
of my parishioners. There is Thomas Elliot, and William Archbold, or
Blithe Willie, as some call him for a by-word; those lads, and a dozen
o' others, I am creditably informed, are there, drinking, singing,
swearing, fighting, or dancing, night after night; and even Johnny
Grippy, the miser, that I would have made an elder last year, but on
account o' his penuriousness, is said to slip in on the edge o' his foot
every morning, to swallow his dram before breakfast! I tell ye, Roger,
she is bringing them to ruin faster than I can bring them to a sense o'
sin--or whatever impression I may make, her liquor is washing away. She
has brought a plague amongst us, and it is entering our habitations--it
is thinning the sanctuary, striking down our strong men, and making
mothers miserable. Therefore, unless Lucky Riddle will, in the meantime,
relinquish her traffic, I think we ought, in duty, to prohibit her from
coming forward on the next half-yearly occasion."

I was perfectly aware that there was a vast deal o' truth in what the
minister said, but I thought he was carrying the case to a length that
couldna be justified; and I advised him to remember that he was a
minister o' the gospel, but not o' the law. So all proceedings against
Mrs Riddle were stopped, and her business went on, doing much injury to
the minds, bodies, purses, and families, of many in the village.

It was nae great secret that there were folk, both in and about the
town, that had small stills concealed and working about their premises,
and that there wasna a night but they sent gallons o' spirits owre the
hills into England; but, by some means or other, government got wit of
these clandestine transactions, and the consequence was, that a gauger
was sent to live in the village, and three armed soldiers were billeted
on the inhabitants, who had to provide beds for them week about. Naebody
cared for having men wi' swords and firearms in their house, and they
preferred paying for their bed at Lucky Riddle's. They were regarded as
spies, and their appearance caused a great commotion amongst young and
old. I often feared that the spirit of murmuring would break out into
open rebellion; and one morning the soldiers came down from the hills,
carrying the gauger, covered wi' blood, and in a state that ye could
hardly ken life in him. One o' the soldiers also was dreadfully bruised
about the head, and his sword was broken through the middle. They
acknowledged that they had had a terrible battle wi' a party o'
smugglers, and rewards were offered for their apprehension. But, though
many of our people were then making rapid strides towards depravity,
there was none of them so depraved as to sell his neighbour, as Judas
did his Master, for a sum of money. None o' us had any great doubts
about who had been in the ploy, and some o' our folk werena seen for
months after; and, when inquiries were made concerning them, their
friends said they were in England, or the dear kens where--places where
they could have no more business than wi' the man o' the moon--but when
they came back, some o' them were lamiters for life.

The next improvement, as they called it, was the building of a strong,
square, flat-roofed house, like a castle in miniature, wi' an
iron-stancheled window, and an oak door that might have resisted the
attack of a battering-ram. This was intended to be a place of
confinement for disorderly persons. A constable was appointed to take
care of it, and it often furnished some o' Lucky Riddle's customers with
a night's lodgings. Persons guilty of offences were also confined there,
until they could be removed to the county jail.

The next thing that followed certainly was an improvement, but it had
its drawbacks. It was the erection of a woollen manufactory, in which a
great number o' men, women, and bairns, were employed. But they were
mostly strangers; for our folk were ignorant of the work, and the
proprietor of the factory brought them someway from the west of England.
The auld residenters were swallowed up in the influx of new comers. But
it caused a great stir about the town, and gave the street quite a new
appearance. The factory hadna commenced three months, when a rival
establishment was set up in opposition to Lucky Riddle, and one
public-house followed upon the back of another, until now we have ten of
them. As a matter of course, there was a great deal of more money spent
in the village; and several young lads belonging to it, that had served
their time as shopkeepers in the county town, came and commenced
business in it, some of them beneath their father's roof, and enlarging
the bit window o' six panes--where their mother had exposed thread,
biscuits, and gingerbread for sale--into a great bow-window that
projected into the street, they there exhibited for sale all that the
eye could desire for dress, or the palate to pet it. Yet, with an
increase of trade and money, there also came an increase of crime and a
laxity of morals, and vices became common among both sexes that were
unheard of in my young days. Nevertheless, the evil did not come without
a degree of good to counterbalance it; and, in course of time, besides
the kirk, the handsome dissenting meeting-house, that ye would observe
at the foot of the town, was built. Four schools, besides the
parish-school, also sprang up, so that every one had education actually
brought to their door; but opposition at that time (which was very
singular), instead o' lowering, raised the price o' schooling, and he
that charged highest got the genteelest school. Then both the kirk and
the meeting-house got libraries attached to them, and Luckie Riddle
found the libraries by far the most powerful opposition she had had to
contend wi'. Some of the youngsters, also, formed what they called a
Mechanics' Institution, and they also got a library, and met for
instruction after work hours; and, I declare to ye, that even callants,
in a manner, became so learned, that I often had great difficulty to
keep my ground wi' them; and I have actually heard some of them have the
impudence to tell the dominie that taught them their letters, that he
was utterly ignorant of all useful learning, and that he knew nothing of
the properties of either chemistry or mechanics. When I was a youth,
also, I dinna ken if there was a person in the village, save the
minister, kenned what a newspaper was. Politics never were heard tell of
until about the year seventy-five or eighty, but ever since then, they
have been more and more discussed, until now they have divided the whole
town into parties, and keep it in a state of perpetual ferment; and now
there are not less than five newspapers come from London by the post
every day, besides a score of weekly ones on the Saturday. Ye see, sir,
that even in my time very great changes and improvements have taken
place; and I am free to give it as my opinion, that society is more
intellectual now than it was when I first kenned it; and, upon the
whole, I would say, that mankind, instead of degenerating, are
improving. I recollect, that even the street there, ye couldna get
across it in the winter season, without lairing knee-deep in a dub; and
now ye see, it is all what they call macadamised, and as firm, dry, and
durable, as a sheet of iron. In fact, sir, within the last forty years,
the improvements and changes in this village alone are past all
belief--and the alterations in the place are nothing to what I have seen
and heard of the ups, and downs, and vicissitudes of its inhabitants.

The patriarch having finished his account of the village, thus proceeded
with the history of the individuals after whom the stranger had
inquired.


THE LAIRD.

Ye have asked me if auld Laird Cochrane be still living at the Ha',
which, for three centuries, was the glory and pride of his ancestors.
Listen, sir, and ye shall hear concerning him. He was born and brought
up amongst us, and for many years he was a blessing to this part of the
country. The good he did was incalculable. He was owner of two thousand
acres of as excellent land as ye would have found on all the Borders;
and I could have defied ony man to hear a poor mouth made throughout the
whole length and breadth of his estate. His tenants were all happy,
weel-to-do, and content. There wasna a murmur amongst them, nor amongst
all his servants. He was a landlord amongst ten thousand. He was always
devising some new scheme or improvement to give employment to the poor;
and he would as soon have thought of taking away his own life as
distressing a tenant. But the longest day has an end, and so had the
goodness and benevolence of Laird Cochrane.

It will be eight-and-twenty years ago, just about this present time,
that he took a sort of back-going in his health, and somebody got him
advised to go to a place in the south that they call Tunbridge
Wells--one of the places where people that can afford annually to have
fashionable complaints go to drink mineral waters. He would then be
about fifty-two years of age; and the distress of both auld and young in
the village was very great at his departure. Men, women, and children
accompanied him a full mile from the porter's lodge; and when his
carriage drove away, there was not one that didna say, "Heaven bless
you!" On the Sabbath, also, our minister, Mr Anderson, prayed for him
very fervidly.

Weel, we heard no more about the laird, nor how the waters agreed wi'
his stomach, for the space of about two months, when, to our surprise, a
rumour got abroad that he was on the eve of being married. Some folk
laughed at the report, and made light of it; but I did no such thing;
for I remembered the proverb, that "An auld fool is the worst of all
fools." But, to increase our astonishment, cartloads of furniture, and
numbers of upholsterers, arrived from Edinburgh; and the housekeeper and
butler received orders to have everything in readiness, in the best
manner, for the reception of their new leddy. There was nothing else
talked about in the village for a fortnight, and, I believe, nothing
else dreamed about. A clap of thunder bursting out on a New-year's
morning, ushering in the year, and continuing for a day without
intermission, could not have surprised us more. There were several
widows and auld maids in the parish, that the laird allowed so much
a-year to, and their dinner every Sunday and Wednesday from the Ha'
kitchen; and they, poor creatures, were in very great distress about the
matter. They were principally auld or feckless people; and they were
afraid, if their benefactor should stop his bounty, that they would be
left to perish. Whether they judged by their own dispositions or not, it
is not for me to say; but certain it is, that one and all of them were
afraid that his marrying a wife would put an end both to their annuities
and the dinners which they received twice a-week from his kitchen.

I dinna suppose that there was a great deal the matter wi' the laird
when he went to Tunbridge Wells. Like many others, he wasna weel from
having owre little to do. But he had not been there many days, when his
fancy was attracted by a dashing young leddy of four or five-and-twenty,
the daughter of a gentleman who was a dignitary in the church, but who
lived up to, and rather beyond, his income, so that, when he should die,
his gay family, of whom he had four daughters, would be left penniless.
The name of the laird's intended was Jemima, and she certainly was a
pretty woman, and what ye would call a handsome one; but there was a
haughtiness about her looks, and a boldness in her carriage, which were
far from being becoming in a woman. Her looks and carriage, however,
were not her worst fault. She had been taken to the Wells by her mamma,
as she termed her mother, for the express purpose of being
exhibited--much after the same manner as cattle are exhibited at a
fair--to see whether any bachelor or widower would make proposals. Our
good laird was smitten, sighed, was accepted, and sealed the marriage
contract.

The marriage took place immediately, but he didna arrive at the Ha' wi'
his young wife till the following June. When they did arrive, her
father, the divine, was wi' them; and, within a week, there was a
complete overturning of the whole establishment, from head to foot. They
came in two speck-and-span-new carriages, shining like the sun wi'
silver ornaments. They brought also a leddy's-maid wi' them, that wore
her veils, and her frills, and her fal-de-rals; and the housekeeper
declared that, for the first eight days, she didna ken her mistress from
the maid; for miss imitated madam, and both took such airs upon
themselves, that the auld body was confounded, and curtsied to both
without distinction, for fear of making a mistake. They also brought a
man-servant wi' them, that couldna speak a word like a Christian, nor
utter a word but in some heathenish foreign tongue. Within a week the
auld servants were driven about from the right hand to the left, and
from the left to the right. The incomers ordered them to do this and to
do that, wi' as much insolence and authority as if he had been a lord
and she a leddy.

But, in a short time, the leddy discovered that all the auld domestics,
from the housekeeper and butler down to the scullion wench, some of whom
had been in the house for twenty years, were little better than a den of
thieves; and, at the Martinmas term, a new race of servants took
possession of the Ha'. But this was not the only change which her young
leddyship and her father brought about within a few weeks. Her nerves
could not stand the smell of vegetables, which arose from the kitchen
when the broth was cooking for the widows and their families, the auld
maidens, and other helpless persons in the village and neighbourhood, on
the Sundays and Wednesdays, and she gave orders that the _nuisance_
should be discontinued. Thus, sir, for the sake of the gentility and
delicacy of her leddyship's organ of smelling, forty stomachs were left
twice a-week to yearn with hunger. At that time the labouring men on the
estate had seven shillings a-week, with liberty to keep a cow to graze
in the plantations; and those that dwelt by the river-side kept ducks
and geese, all of which were great helps to them. But her leddyship had
an aversion to horned cattle. She never saw them, she said, but she
dreamed of them, and to dream of them was to dream of an enemy! The
laird endeavoured to laugh her out of such silly notions, and appealed
to her father, the dignitary and divine, to prove that belief in dreams
was absurd. His reverence agreed that it was ridiculous to place faith
in dreams, but he hinted that there were occasions when the wishes of a
wife, though a little extravagant, and perhaps absurd, ought to be
complied with; and he also stated, that he himself had seen the cattle
in question rubbing against the young trees, and nibbling the tender
twigs; besides, there were walks through the plantations, and, as there
might be running cattle amongst them, he certainly thought, with his
daughter, that the grazing in the woods ought to be discontinued. His
authority was decisive. Next day, the steward was commanded to issue an
order, that every cottar upon the estate must either sell his cow, or
pay for its grass to a farmer.

This was a sad blow to the poor hedgers and ditchers, and those that
work with the spade. There was mourning that day in many a cottage--it
was equal to taking a meal a-day off every family. But the change that
was taking place in their condition did not end there. The divine, like
another great and immortal member of the sacred profession--the
illustrious Paley--was fond of angling; but there the resemblance
between them stopped. I have said that he was fond of angling--but he
was short-sighted, and one of the worst fishers that ever cracked off a
hook, or raised a splash in the water. Once, when he might have preached
upon the text, that he "had toiled all day, and caught nothing," he was
fishing on the river, about a mile above where we now are, when he
perceived the geese and ducks of a cottager swimming and diving their
heads in the stream. It immediately occurred to the wise man that his
want of success arose from the geese and ducks destroying all the
fish!--and he forthwith prevailed upon his son-in-law to order his
tenants to part with their poultry.[1] This was another sair blow to the
poor cottagers, and was the cause of their bairns gaun barelegged in
winter and hungry in summer. The gardens, the avenues, the lodge,
everything about the place, was altered. But, to crown all, the lease of
three or four of the laird's tenants was out at the following Martinmas,
and their rents were doubled. Every person marvelled at the change in
the conduct and character of the laird. Some thought he had gone out of
his wits, and others that he was possessed by the evil one; but the
greater part thought, like me, that he was a silly, hen-pecked man.

[Footnote 1: Absurd as this may seem, it is a FACT.]

A few months after her leddyship arrived, she gave birth to a son and
heir, and there were great rejoicings about the Ha' on the occasion, but
very little upon the estate; for already it had become a place that
every one saw it would be desirable to leave as soon as possible. As the
young birkie grew up, he soon gave evidence of being a sad scapegrace.
Never a day passed but we heard of his being in some ploy or other; and
his worthy mother said, that it showed a spirit becoming his station in
life. Before he had reached man's estate, he was considered to be a
great proficient in horse-racing, cock-fighting, fox-hunting, gambling,
and other gentlemanly amusements; but as to learning, though he had been
at both school and college, I dinna suppose that there is a trades lad
connected wi' the Mechanics' Institution here that he was fit to hand
the candle to. His grandfather, the divine, sometimes lectured him about
the little attention which he paid to his learning, but the young
hopeful answered, that "There was no necessity for a gentleman who was
heir to five or six thousand a-year, and whose father was seventy years
of age, boring over books."

They generally resided in London, and were never about the Ha', save
during a month or two in the shooting season. We heard, however, that
they had fine carryings on in the great city; that they kept up a
perpetual course of routes parties, and assemblies--that the estate was
deeply mortgaged; and the laird, from the course of dissipation into
which he had been dragged, had sunk into premature dotage. It was even
reported that Johnny Grippy, the miser, had advanced several thousand
pounds upon the estate, at a very exorbitant interest.

At length their course of extravagance, like a lang tether, came to an
end. Creditors grew numerous and clamorous; they would have their money,
and nothing but their money would satisfy them. The infatuated auld
laird sought refuge in the Abbey at Holyrood; and his son went on racing
about and gambling as formerly, borrowing money from John Grippy when
down here, and from Jews when in London, and giving them promises and
securities that would make the estate disappear, when it came into his
possession, like snow in summer. Her leddyship came down to the Ha',
and, to my certain knowledge, was refused credit for twenty shillings in
a shop in the village here, which was then kept by a son of one of the
cottars that she and her father had caused to part wi' their kye and
their poultry. This was what the young man called "seeing day about wi'
her leddyship."

The auld laird hadna been twelve months in the Abbey, when, finding
himself utterly deserted by his wife and son, he sank into despondency,
and died in misery; rueing, I will make free to say, that ever he had
set his foot in Tunbridge Wells. His young successor, in gratitude to
his mother for her over indulgence, and the example she had set him,
turned her from the Ha' on his taking possession of it, and left her to
seek refuge in the house of her father, the divine; and we never heard
of her in this part of the country again. The career and end of the
young laird I will state to ye, as I notice the histories of the
minister and Ne'er-do-weel Tam. And now for that of


THE MINISTER.

A more excellent, worthy, and sincere man than Mr Anderson never entered
a pulpit, or preached words of hope and consolation to sinners. He was
not a flowery orator or a fashionable preacher; but he was plain,
simple, nervous, earnest. His homeliness and anxious sincerity riveted
the attention of the most thoughtless; and, as a poet says,

    "They who came to scoff remain'd to pray."

I remember when he was first placed amongst us as minister of the
parish: he was a mere youngster, but as primitive in his manners as if
he had just come from the plough instead of a college. His father was a
farm-steward upon the estate of the then member for the county; and the
patronage being in the crown--as it is called--it was through the
interest of the member that he got the kirk. About twelve months after
he was placed, he took a wife; and his marriage gave great satisfaction
to the whole congregation--at least to the poor and middle classes, who
of course were the great majority. And the reason why his marriage gave
such satisfaction was, that his wife was the daughter of a poor hind,
that he had taken a liking to when he was but a laddie and her a lassie;
and he had promised her, when they came from the harvest-field together
(for while he was at the college, he always wrought in the
harvest-time), that, if he lived, and was spared to be a minister, she
should be his wife. I am sorry to say that such promises are owre often
neglected by young people, when either the one or the other of them
happens to get their head up in the world. But our minister thereby
showed that his heart was actuated by right principles, and that he
preferred happiness to every mercenary consideration. It showed that he
was desirous of domestic comfort, and not ambitious of worldly
aggrandisement. She was a bonny, quiet, discreet creature; and, if she
hadna what ye may call the manners of a leddy, yet her modesty and
good-nature lent an air of politeness to everything she did. Her
constant desire to please far more than counterbalanced for her want of
being what is called weel-bred; and, if she had not gentility, she had
what is of more importance in a preacher's wife--a pious mind, a
cheerful and charitable disposition, and a meek spirit; and whatever she
was ignorant of, there was one thing she was acquainted with--she

    "Knew her Bible true."

But after their marriage, he took great pains in instructing her in
various branches of learning; and in that she made great proficiency, I
am qualified to give evidence; for, when I have been present at the
dinners after the sacramental occasions, I have heard her dispute wi'
the ministers upon points of divinity, history, and other matters, and
maintain her ground very manfully, if I may say it.

I believe that a happier couple were not to be found in Great Britain.
She bore unto him fourteen children, but of these, all save two, a boy
and a girl, died in infancy; and in giving birth to the last, the mother
perished. It was on a Sunday that she died; and I remember that, on the
following Sabbath, her widowed husband entered the pulpit to preach her
funeral sermon. His text was, "Why should we mourn as those who have no
hope?" He proceeded with his discourse, but every few minutes he paused,
he sobbed; the big tears ran down his cheeks; and all the congregation
wept with him. At last he quoted the words, "In the morning I preached
to the people, and in the evening my wife died!" His heart filled--the
tears gushed from his eyes--he could say no more. He sank down on the
seat, and covered his face with his hands. Two of the elders went up to
the pulpit, and led him to the manse; and the precentor, of his own
accord, giving out a psalm, the congregation sang it and dispersed.

I have mentioned to ye his two surviving bairns--the name of the laddie
was Edward, and of the lassie, Esther. Edward was several years older
than his sister; and, from his youth upwards, he was a bold, sprightly,
fearless callant. Often have I observed him playing the part of a
captain, and drilling the laddies of the village into squares and lines,
like a little army; and as often have I heard him say, that he would be
nothing but a sodger. His father (as every Christian ought to do)
regarded war as a great wickedness, and as an abomination that disgraced
the earth; he therefore was grieved to see the military bent of his
son's inclination, and did everything in his power to break him from it.
He believed, and correctly too, that Edward had too much pride to enter
the army as a common soldier, where he would be little better than a
slave, and have to lift his hat to every puppy that wore an epaulette on
his shoulder or a sash round his waist. The minister, therefore, was
resolved that he would not advance the money to buy his son a
commission.

Here I must notice Johnny Grippy, who had never been kenned to perform a
generous action in the whole course of his existence. He was a man that,
if he had parted wi' a bawbee, to save a fellow-creature from
starvation, wadna, through vexation, have slept again for a week. If ony
body had pleaded poverty to him, he would have asked them--"What right
they had to be poor?" It would have been more difficult for him to
answer--"What right he had to be rich?" Johnny never forgave Mr Anderson
for prohibiting him from being made an elder; and, in his own quiet, but
cruel way, he said he would see that he got satisfaction, to the last
plack, for the insult. Now, what do ye think the miser did? He
absolutely offered young Maister Edward money to buy an ensign's
commission, at the moderate interest of ten per cent., and on the
understanding that he would gie him four years' credit for the interest,
and that he wadna request the principal until he was made a captain.
This proposal was made for the sole and individual purpose of grieving
and afflicting Mr Anderson, and of being revenged on him. The silly
laddie, dazzled wi' the bright sword and the gold-laced coat of an
officer, and thinking it a grand thing to be a soldier--fancying himself
a general, a hero, a conqueror in a hundred fights--swallowed the
temptation, took the offered money on the conditions agreed to; and
through the assistance of a college acquaintance, the son of a member of
parliament, purchased a commission in a foot regiment. All this was done
without his father's knowledge; and when Johnny Grippy witnessed the
good man's tears as he parted with his son, his cold heart rejoiced that
his revenge had been so far successful, and for once he regretted not
having parted with his money without a sure bond being made doubly sure.

In a very few weeks after Edward Anderson joined his regiment, he
accompanied it abroad; and twelve months had not passed when the public
papers contained an account of his having been promoted to the rank of
lieutenant on the field, on account of his bravery.

But listen, sir, to what follows.--It was on our fast-day, that the news
arrived concerning a great victory in the Indies. We were all interested
in the tidings, and the more particularly, as we knew that our
minister's son was at the battle. His father and his sister were in a
state of great anxiety concerning him, for whether he was dead or
living, they could not tell. The weather was remarkably fine, and as a
great preacher was to serve some of the tables, and preach during the
afternoon's service, the kirk was crowded almost to suffocation, and it
was found necessary to perform the ordinances in the open air. A green
plot in front of the manse was chosen for the occasion, and which was
capable of accommodating two or three thousand people. It was a grand
sight to see such a multitude sitting on the green sward, singing the
praises of their Maker, wi' the great heavens aboon them for a canopy!
its very glory and immensity rendering them incapable of appreciating
its unspeakable magnificence, and rendering as less than the dust in the
balance the temples of men's hands. It reminded me of the days of the
Covenant, when the pulpit was a mountain side, and its covering a cloud.
Mr Anderson was a man whose very existence seemed linked wi' affection
for his family. He had had great affection in it, and every death seemed
to transfer the love that he had borne for the dead in a stronger degree
towards those that were left. His soul was built up in them. All the
congregation observed that he was greatly agitated various times during
his discourse. It was evident to all that apprehensions for the fate of
his son were forcing themselves upon his thoughts.

The postman at that time brought the letters from the next town every
day about one o'clock. Mr Anderson was serving the first table, and his
face was towards the manse, when the postman, approaching the door,
waved his hand towards Miss Esther, who sat near it, as much as to say
that he had a letter from her brother. The father's voice failed,
through agitation and anxiety, as he saw the letter in the postman's
hand, and abruptly concluding his exhortation, he sat down trembling,
while his eyes remained as if fixed upon the letter. I myself observed,
as the postman passed me wi' it in his hand, that it was sealed wi'
black. I regarded it as a fatal omen, and I at first looked towards the
minister, to see whether he had observed it; but I believe that his eyes
were so blinded wi' tears that he could not perceive it; and I then
turned round towards Miss Esther; who I observed hastening to take the
letter in her hand. At the sight of the black seal, she almost fainted
upon the ground; and I saw the poor thing shaking as a leaf that quivers
in the wind. But when, wi' a hurried and trembling hand, she had broken
the seal, she hadna read three lines until the letter dropped upon the
ground, and, clasping her hands together, wi' a wild heart-piercing
scream, that sounded wildly through the worship of the people, she
exclaimed, "My brother!--my brother!" and fell wi' her face upon the
ground. The spectators raised her in their arms. Her father's heart
could hold no longer. He rushed through the multitude--he snatched up
the fatal letter. It bore the post-mark of Bengal, but it was not the
handwriting of his son. He, too, seemed to read but a line, when he
smote his hand upon his forehead, and exclaimed, in agony, "My son! my
son!--my poor Edward!"

His gallant boy was one of those who were slain and buried upon the
field; and the letter, which was from his colonel, recorded his courage,
his virtues, and his death! All the people rose, and sorrow and sympathy
seemed on every countenance save one--and that was the face of the auld
miser and hypocrite, Johnny Grippy. The body seemed actually to glut,
wi' a malicious delight, over the misery and affliction of which he, in
a measure, had been the cause; and, though he did try to screw his mouth
into a form of pity or compassion, and squeezed his een together to make
them water, I more than once observed the twittering streak of
satisfaction and delight pass owre his cheeks, just as ye have seen the
shadow of a swift cloud pass owre a field of waving grain. I hated the
auld miser for his very looks and his attempted hypocrisy; and, forgive
me for saying so, but I believe, if at that moment it had been in my
power to have annihilated him, I would have done it. The man who does
the work of iniquity openly or through error, I would pray for; but he
that does it beneath the mask of virtue or religion, I would
exterminate.

It was many weeks before Mr Anderson was able to resume his place in the
pulpit again; and his daughter, also, took the death of her brother
greatly to heart. The whole parish sought to condole wi' them, not even
excepting young Laird Cochrane of the Ha', who had not then come to the
estate. I firmly believe, sir, that he was a predestinated villain from
his cradle, for he showed symptoms of the most disgusting depravity more
early than ever laddie did. The aulder he grew, when he was in the
country, he went the more about the manse, and Esther was nearly about
his own age. She was a lassie that I would call the very perfection of
loveliness--simple, artless, confiding, but not without a sprinkling o'
woman's vanity. There was a laddie, the son of Thomas Elliot, or
Ne'er-do-weel Tam, as he was commonly called, that was very fond of her;
he was a fine, deserving callant, and all the town thought she was fond
of him. But the young laird put himself forward as his rival, and the
one was rich and the other poor. The laird of the Ha' sent daily
presents of geese, turkeys, and all sorts of game in their season, to
the manse; and he also presented rings, trinkets, and other fine things
to Esther; while the other, who was considered a sort of poet in the
neighbourhood, could only say, as a sang that I hear them singing
now-a-days says--

    "My heart and lute are all my store
    And these I bring to thee."

The laird was also an adept in flattery, in its most cunningly-devised
forms. Now, sir, it is amazing what an effect the use of such means will
ultimately produce upon the best-regulated minds. They are like the
constant dropping that weareth away a stone. Though unconscious of it
herself, Esther, who was but a young thing, began to listen with more
patience to the addresses of the heir of the Ha'; and she occasionally
exhibited something like dryness and petulance in the presence of poor
Alexander Elliot--for such was his name. At the very first shadow of
change upon her countenance, his spirit became bitter wi' jealousy, and
he rashly charged her wi' deserting him for the sake of the young laird
and the estate to which he was heir. This was a tearing asunder of the
silken cords that for years had held their hearts together. He was
proud, and so was she--they became distrustful of each other, and at
length they quarrelled, and parted never to meet again. I have heard it
said, that it was partly to be revenged on Alexander that Esther gave an
ear to the addresses of the laird; but that is a subject on which I
offer no opinion. All that I know is, that Alexander enlisted, and went
out to join his regiment in the West Indies. The laird followed Esther
like her shadow; and every one, save myself, said that there would be a
marriage between them. Even her worthy father seemed to dream in the
golden delusion; and, I am sorry to say, that I believe he was in no
small degree the cause of finally breaking off the intimacy between her
and Alexander Elliot. She was, as I have informed ye, a sensitive,
confiding lassie; and the laird, who had a honeyed tongue, succeeded not
only, in the long run, in gaining her affections, but in making her to
believe in his very looks; for, being incapable of falsehood herself,
she did not suspect it in others, and least of all in those who had
obtained a place in her heart.

The young villain went so far as, in her presence, to ask her father's
consent to their marriage; and the auld laird being then dead, the
minister agreed. It was not long after this, that the scapegrace went to
London, and Esther began to droop like a flower nipped wi' a frost.
Half-a-dozen times in the day her father found her in tears, and he
endeavoured to comfort and to cheer her; but his efforts were
unavailing. It pained his heart, which had already been sorely chastened
by affliction, to behold the youngling, and last of his flock, pining
away before him. The young laird neither returned nor wrote, and he
suspected not the cause of his daughter's grief. The first hint he got
of it was from his elders assembled in session. The old man in agony
fell back--he gasped, he smote his breast, and tore his grey hairs. In
his agony he cried that his Maker had forsaken him! The elders sought to
condole wi' him, but it was in vain; he was carried to the manse, and he
never preached more. His heart was broken, and, before a month passed,
the thread of life snapped also.

Wi' the weight of her own shame and sorrow, and her father's death, poor
Esther became demented. About nine weeks after her father's funeral, she
gave birth to a still-born child; and it was a happy thing that the
infant and its mother were buried at the same time, in the same grave.

Such, sir, is all that it is necessary for me to inform ye concerning
our late worthy minister; and of the young laird ye shall hear more
presently, in the history of


NE'ER-DO-WEEL TAM.

I never kenned a lad that I entertained a higher regard for than Thomas
Elliot. His father left him fifteen hundred pounds, laid out upon a
mortgage at five per cent. interest, and bequeathed in such a way that
he couldna lift the principal. There was a vast deal of real goodness
about his heart--he was frank, liberal, sincere. Every person that
kenned him liked him. His first and greatest fault was that he was owre
open; he laid bare his breast, as it were, to the attack of every enemy
that chose to hurl a shaft at it. He was a fool for his pains; and, I
daresay, he saw it in the end. There was always some person taking the
advantage of the frankness of his disposition. But the thing that ruined
him, and fixed the by-name on him, was, that he became a sort of fixture
in Luckie Riddle's parlour. His chief companion was a lad of the name of
William Archbold--a blithe, singing chield, that was always happy, and
ready at onything. Thomas and he were courting two sisters--Jenny and
Peggy Lilly--the daughters of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, and
both of them were bonny, weel-respected lasses. The folk in this quarter
used to call William Archbold _Blithe Willie_. He was a blacksmith to
his trade, but quite a youth; and come upon him by night or by day,
Willie was sure to be found laughing, whistling, or singing. He hadna a
yearly income like Thomas Elliot; and, strange to say, he got the blame
of gieing him a howff at Luckie Riddle's. But that was a doctrine which
I always protested against; and I said it was much more likely that, as
Thomas was fu'-handed, while his neighbour had to work for his bread,
the man of money led the blacksmith to their howff, and not the
blacksmith the man of money. One thing is certain, that both of them
were far oftener at Luckie's than was either good for their health,
wealth, or reputation. One night, it seems, after having drunk until, if
"they werena fu', they just had plenty," they reeled away to see the two
sisters, their sweethearts. Jenny didna wish to quarrel wi' Thomas,
because he had the siller; but Peggy turned away wi' scorn from Blithe
Willie, and said, that she "never again would speak to one who was no
better than a common blackguard, and who neither had regard for himself,
nor for any one connected wi' him." What more passed between them I
canna tell, but it is said he turned sober in an instant; and, certain
it is, that night he left the town, and has never been more heard tell
off.

Thomas Elliot and Jenny were married, but she died the second year after
their marriage, leaving to his charge an infant son, who was kirsened by
the name of Alexander. Thomas, after his wife's death, tried many things
(for while she lived she keepit him to rights), but he neglected them
all. He began twenty things, and ended nothing. He was to be found in
Luckie Riddle's in the morning, and he was to be seen sitting there at
night. Before he was forty, he became a perfect sot; and I used to ask,
"Wha leads him away now." The fact was, he was miserable save when he
was in company; and, for the sake of company, he would have sat sipping
and drinking from sunrise to sunset, without ever perceiving that in
that time he had been sitting wi' twenty different companies, each of
whom had remained maybe half-an-hour, and left him bibbing there to make
a crony of the customer that last came in. But this course of life could
not last long. He had mortgaged the mortgage that his father left him,
until, although he could not lift it, he had almost swallowed it up; and
at the age of forty-four he fell into the grave like a lump of diseased
flesh--a thing without a soul!

I have informed ye that he left a son, named Alexander, behind him. He
was a laddie that was beloved by the whole town; and it was him that
frae bairnhood was set down as the future husband of Esther Anderson,
our minister's daughter. I have already told ye how he enlisted, when he
fancied that she was drawing up wi' the young laird, and slighting him.

Now, mark ye, sir--for this is one of the most singular things in the
history of our village--about three years after the melancholy deaths of
Esther and her father, the laird, wi' a pack o' young men as thoughtless
and wicked as himself, came down to the Ha'. It was plain as noonday
that the murder of a young lassie, her bairn, and her honoured father,
had never cost the young libertine a thought. He returned to all his
former profligacy, as a sow returns to its wallowing in the mire.

He was returning, towards evening, with three or four of his companions
from an otter-hunt, and was within a quarter-of-a-mile of the Ha', when
he was met by two strangers--the one a youth, and the other a man of
middle age.

"Stand!" cried the young man, sternly.

"What do you want, fellow?" inquired the laird, proudly.

"Dismount," retorted the other, "and take this," presenting to him a
pistol. "I come to avenge the murder of Esther Anderson and her father;
and," added he, "wi' your blood to wash the bruise ye have inflicted on
my wounded heart. Did ye think, because her brave brother was with the
dead, that there was none left to revenge the ruin of her innocence?
Beneath the very tree where we now stand, she plighted me her first vow,
and we were happy as the birds that sang upon its branches, until ye, as
a serpent, crossed our path. Dismount, Laird Cochrane, if ye be not
coward as weel as villain."

"Alexander Elliot," replied the laird, "are ye not aware that I am a
magistrate, and have power to commit ye even now as a deserter. Begone,
sir, and take your hand from my horse's head; for it becomes not a
gentleman to quarrel wi' such as you."

"Dismount, ye palsy-spirited slave!" cried Alexander, "and choose your
weapon and your distance. Let your friends that are wi' you see that ye
have fair play. Dismount, or I will shoot ye dead where ye sit." And as
he spoke he dragged him from his horse.

It was an awful tragedy to take place in a peaceable corner of the earth
like this. The stranger that accompanied Alexander took the pistols, and
addressing one of the gentlemen that were wi' the laird, said, coolly,
"This business must be settled, sir, and the sooner the better. Choose
ye one of these weapons, and let the principals take their ground."

They did take their ground, as it was termed, and their pistols were
levelled at each other's heart. Guilt and surprise made the laird to
tremble, but revenge gave steadiness to the hand of young Elliot. Both
fired at the same moment, and with a sudden groan the laird fell dead
upon the ground.

Some said that the earth was weel rid of a prodigal; while others
thought it an awful thing that he should have been cut off in such a
manner, in the very middle of his iniquities and career of wickedness;
and it was generally regretted that he should have fallen by the hand of
a lad so universally respected as Alexander Elliot. Such, sir, was the
end of the young laird; but what has become of Alexander is more than
any one in these parts can tell. I have just now a few words to say
concerning


JOHNNY GRIPPY.

The Grippys were a very remarkable family; and it was a common saying,
that they were weel named. There were originally three brothers of them;
and when I first kenned them, they were ragged, barelegged callants, but
every one of them as keen as a Jew, and as hard as a flinty rock. Two of
them were in the cattle line; and, through stinginess, cheatery, and
such-like means, they amassed a power of money. But both of them died,
and being unmarried, their brother Johnny became sole heir to their
property. He was a man that would have walked ten miles to pick up a
farthing. He keepit a shop, or what the Americans would call a _store_,
in the village, for he sold everything, new and auld, good, bad, and
indifferent--eatable and wearable, or for whatever purpose it was
wanted; for everything ye could think about was to be had for money at
the shop of Johnny Grippy. Of late years, it was weel ascertained that
he dealt extensively in sending whisky into England, and in such a way,
too, that neither the dirdum, the risk, nor the loss could land at his
door. But he had dealings in many concerns, both here and elsewhere.
Wherever he heard of anything by which there was money to be made, he
always endeavoured to get his finger in. It was affirmed that he was
connected wi' some wealthy trading companies about London, and that he
had ships upon the sea. I know for a positive fact, that he went up to
the great city every year, and that he actually begged his way there and
back again. But it is my opinion that he made the greater part of his
wealth by lending out money to usury. By this means a great deal of
property fell into his possession, for he was as cruel as a starving
tiger. He was a despiser of both justice and mercy, and all he cared
about was--"_I maun hae my bargain_." That was always his answer, if
onybody offered to intercede wi' him for ony poor creature that he was
distressing.

The auld knave endeavoured to cover his avarice wi' the cloak o'
religion, and, as I have already informed ye, sought to be made an
elder; and, as ye have been made aware, he never forgave our late worthy
minister for the slight and disappointment, but, even against his
nature, parted wi' money to obtain a cruel revenge. It would tire you,
if I were to inform you of the one-thousandth part of Johnny's meanness,
and the instances of his ravening avariciousness, or the misery which he
caused in the habitations of both high and low. Indeed, I may say, that
he grew rich through the ruin of others; and he sought out objects of
misery on which he might fix his devouring talons, even as a vulture
seeketh out a dead carcase.

At an enormous interest, he lent money to the auld laird; and he
cunningly permitted the interest to accumulate, year after year, until
the laird's death. He also advanced sums to the young laird at a rate
even more usurious, and got the entire title-deeds of the estate into
his hands as security; and when the laird fell in the duel wi' Alexander
Elliot, he seized and took possession of Ha' estate, and all that was
thereon, claiming them as his! The whole parish was thunderstruck wi'
astonishment.

The next kin to the young laird threatened to throw the case into the
Court of Chancery.

"Let them," said Johnny, laughing in his sleeve, "they will live lang
that live to see it settled there--and _I will hae my bargain_."

Weel, the case was thrown into Chancery, and Johnny did not live to see
it settled, for settled it is not until this day, and what some one said
of eternity might be said of it--it is "beginning to begin."

I think ye heard that John had acquired a habit of slipping owre to
Luckie Riddle's on the edge of his foot for a dram before breakfast. He
took a strong liking for her strong bottle, and by way of saving the
expense of the dram, he left off the practice of taking a breakfast; and
when the single dram increased to two and three in the day, he confined
himself to one meal, and that of the poorest and scantiest kind--a
potato and salt, or maybe a herring as a luxury. But it was more than
suspected that the potatoes on which he lived were not all honestly came
by; for I myself have seen him in a field amongst other folks', stooping
down and fingering at the drills, and slipping the potatoes into his
coat-pocket; and when asked what he was doing, he would have said (quite
collectedly, for there was no possibility of confusing him), "Ou, I am
just looking what sort of crop such-a-one is going to have this year."

But the miser's love of drink increased upon him, and the more he spent
on liquor, the more he hungered himself. He became a living skeleton,
and in the depth of a severe winter, he was found sitting dead behind
his desk, with the copy of a letter before him, in which he had
instructed his man of business to sell off, immediately, the husband of
Peggy Lilly.

"The husband of Peggy Lilly!" interrupted the stranger, who had hitherto
listened to the records of the Patriarch in silence--"who was he?"

"That," resumed the old man, "seems to interest you, and wherefore I
cannot divine, as I have no recollection of your face; but, if ye have
patience and hearken, ye shall hear all that I can tell ye of the
history of


PEGGY LILLY.

Peggy was allowed to be the bonniest lass in all the parish; but she
was as prudent and sedate as she was bonny, and everybody wondered that
she keepit company wi' William Archbold sae lang as she did, after he
had gien himself up to a habit o' dissipation; though she, perhaps,
thocht as I did, that it was mere thochtlessness in the young man, that
he was just drawn awa by his friend, Thomas Elliot, and that, if he were
married, he would reform. Luckie Riddle's sign, however, was a black
sight to him, and I doot it has been a heart-sore to puir Peggy. The
difference that the subject gave rise to between them, was perhaps
unlucky for the happiness o' baith parties. In the vexation o' the
moment, she uttered words o' harshness which her heart did not dictate,
and, in leaving as he did, he acted rashly.

When we heard, however, of William Archbold's having left the town, and
the cause of his leaving--that it arose from Peggy having spoken to him
as if disgusted at his conduct--we laughed, and said he would soon come
back again. She thought the same thing; but weeks and months succeeded
each other, and now five-and-twenty years have passed, and the lad has
been no more heard of. How deeply Peggy grieved for her conduct, and
mourned his absence, was visible in her countenance.

About ten years after her sister's death, her parents, who had both
become very frail, were thrown out of their bit farm, after several very
unfortunate seasons in it, and they were left entirely dependent upon
her exertions for their support. They were reduced to very great
straits, and many a time it was a wonder to me how they lived; but late
and early did she toil for their maintenance; and, poor hizzy, the
sorrow that fell upon her face for the loss of William Archbold never
left it.

At that time a very decent man, who had taken a small farm in the
neighbourhood, began to pay attention to her, and often called at her
father's house. She heard his request, that she would marry him, wi' a
sigh--for she hadna forgotten Blithe Willie. But her father and mither
looked at her, wi' the tears in their een, and they besought her night
and day, that they might see her settled and provided for. She at length
yielded to their solicitations, and gied him her hand; but she was
candid enough to confess to him, that her affection couldna accompany
it, though her respect and duty should.

So far as the world could judge, they seemed to live happily together,
and Peggy made an exemplary wife; but there was always like a quiet
settled melancholy on her countenance. Their farm was too dear taken,
and about a year after they were married, it became the property of
Johnny Grippy. Ye have already heard what sort of man he was, reaping
where he had not sown. He exacted his rent to the last farthing, or
without ceremony paid himself double from the stock upon the farm.

Peggy's husband became unable, though he struggled early and late, to
make up his rent, and having fought until his strength was exhausted,
and his health and heart broken, he sank down upon his bed, a dying man;
and Johnny, causing the sheriff's-officer to seize all that was upon the
farm, made them seize also the very bed upon which the dying man lay. He
in fact died in their hands; and Peggy was turned out upon the world, a
friendless widow, with two helpless infants at her knee; and a sore,
sore fight she has had to get the bite and the sup for them, poor
things, from that day to this.

"But," replied the stranger, with emotion, "there is one left who will
provide for her and her children."

"Who may that be?" inquired the patriarch.

"William Archbold," answered the other.

"Preserve us!" said the old man, in surprise; "I daresay I have been
blind not to have recognised ye before--ye are William!"

"I am," replied the other--"Blithe Willie, as you once termed me.
Peggy's cutting and just rebuke roused my pride, and filled me with
self-abasement at the same instant. In a state of mind bordering on
madness, I left the village, where I considered my character to be
blasted for ever. I went to London, and there engaged to go out to
India. I was there fortunate in business, and in a few years became
rich. I there, some years ago, discovered Alexander Elliot (the son of
my old companion), whose regiment had gone to the East, and not to the
West Indies, as you supposed. I purchased his discharge, and employed
him as a clerk. He requested permission to visit this country, and it
was granted; but I knew not the deadly nature of his errand. It was
during that visit that he so fatally avenged the ruin of poor Esther. He
is again in India, and prospering. But you say that Peggy has been
married--that she is a widow--a widow!"

"Yes; a widow, sir," answered the patriarch; "and if ye be single, I
think ye canna do better than make her a wife."

"No, no!" said William, drawing his hand across his eyes; "I cannot; I
will not glean where another has reaped. But here is a bank-order for
five hundred pounds; let it be conveyed to her; but let her never know
the hand from whence it came."

"Hoots! nonsense, Maister William!" said the old man. "See her again,
for auld langsyne, at ony rate, and gie her it yersel."

What course William Archbold would have adopted I cannot tell; but at
that moment Peggy passed down the street, and spoke to the old man as
she passed. William started to his feet, he stretched out his hand, he
exclaimed, "Peggy!"

She was speechless--tears gushed into her eyes. Old love, it is said,
soon kindles again. Be this as it may, within six weeks Peggy left the
village in a coach as the wife of William Archbold, and her children
accompanied her.




THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES.

THE DEATH OF JAMES I.


The scrupulous, we might almost say affected, regard for what they
conceive to be historical truth, on the part of many historians, leading
them to admit nothing into their veritable histories but what has been
"proven," and proven in such a manner as to please themselves, has been
productive of at least this effect--that many a fact in history has been
consigned to the regions of fable and romance, because supported only by
that evidence which has hanged millions of God's creatures--namely, the
testimony of witnesses. The weight of tradition, often the very best and
truest evidence, in so far as it combines experience and faith, is, in
the estimation of historiographers, overbalanced by a fragment of paper,
provided it be written upon, and the writing be formed after some old
court-hand or black-letter style; though, after all, the valued
antiquarian scrap, formed by the operation of one goose quill, moved by
one hand, and that hand impelled by the mind of one frail mortal, may be
merely a distorted relic of that very tradition which is so much
despised. We do not profess to be fastidious in the selection of
authorities. Tradition, in our opinion, ought to be tested by the
experience of mankind: where it stands that test, it ought to be
received as a part of veritable history; and sure we are that, if by
this mode anything may be thought to be lost in point of strict truth,
it will be well balanced by what is gained in point of amusement. It is
upon these principles we have selected, and now lay before our readers,
an account of a well-known catastrophe of Scottish history, much more
full in its details than any that has yet been offered to the public.

In the beginning of the winter 1436, Sir Robert Graham (whose nephew,
Patrick Graham, had been married to the daughter of David, Earl of
Strathearn, and who himself bore that dignity) appeared at the royal
residence of Walter Stuart, Duke of Athol, his kinsman (the latter being
uncle to Patrick, Earl of Strathearn's wife), in a state of disguise.
The night was far advanced when he arrived, and the duke was called from
his bed to see the visiter, who had been for some time under the ban of
the stern authority of his sovereign, James I. The duke knew well what
was the main object of the knight, though he was entirely ignorant of
the special intelligence that the latter had to communicate to him. They
met in the large wainscoted hall, which in brighter days had resounded
to the merry sounds of the wassail of King Robert's sons, but which,
ever since the accession of the reigning king, had echoed nothing but
the sighs and groans of the persecuted victims of James' vengeance
against all the relatives and supporters of the unfortunate house of
Albany. The duke and the knight were now both old men, though the former
was much in advance of the latter; they were both grandfathers--the
grandson of the duke being Sir Robert Stuart, chamberlain to the king,
and the grandson of the latter being Malise Graham, who had been
disinherited of his Earldom of Strathearn by the unwise policy of the
monarch; but old and grey-headed as they were, they, true to the
character of the age in which they lived, retained that fierce spirit of
vengeance which was held one of the cardinal virtues of the creed of
nobility and knighthood of that extraordinary period.

As the duke entered the hall, which was lighted only by a small lamp
that stood on the oaken table at which the inhabitants of the castle
dined, he required to use well both his eyes and his ears, obtuse as
his external senses had become by age, before he was apprised of the
situation occupied by the knight, who, musing over his schemes of
revenge, did not observe the duke enter. He was roused from his reverie
by the hand of his old friend, applied by way of slap to his shoulder,
as if for the purpose of wakening him from sleep--a power that seldom
overcomes the restless spirit of vengeance.

"The arm of King James," said the duke, "reaches farther than mine, and
a smaller light than that glimmering taper, that twinkles so mournfully
in this ancient hall of the Stuarts, enables him to see farther than is
now permitted to these old eyes; and yet you are here on the very
borders of the Lowlands, and within a score miles of the court, where
the enemy of our families holds undisputed sway. Are you not afraid of
the Heading-hill of Stirling, which still shows the marks of the blood
of the murdered Stuarts?"

"I have come from the fastnesses of the north," said Graham, as he took
off his plaid, which was covered with snow, to shake it, and exhibited a
belt well stored with daggers and hunting-knives--"I have come from my
residence among the eagles, like one of the old grey-headed birds with
which I am become familiar, to warm the cold blood of a mountain life
with some of the warm stream that nerves the arms of my enemies of the
valley."

"Or rather," replied the duke, smiling, "you have come to ask an old
fox, with a head greyer than that of an eagle, to hunt with you, and
guide you to the caves of your foes; but you have destroyed your scheme
of vengeance, by advising your principal enemy of your intention. Why,
speaking seriously, did you write such an epistle to the king? You have
lived among your grey-headed friends to little purpose, when you have
used one of their feathers as an instrument for telling your victim that
another is to fledge the arrow that is to seek his heart's blood. Such
an act may be said to be noble, when the avenger is to give his enemy a
fair chance for his life; but that you do not intend to do, for your
vengeance (which must be glutted in secret, if it is to be glutted at
all) is not to be stayed by the forms of the laws of chivalry. James is
now on his guard. You have told him you intend to slay him--and slay him
now if you can!"

"And, by the arms of the Grahams of Kincardine, I _will_, Athol--I
_will_, I _shall_! Is it your grace who would dissuade me from my
purpose of revenge, merely because the fire is so furious that it sent
forth a gleam on the victim that is destined to feel its scorching
heat?--you, who have within these few minutes brought up to our burning
imaginations the bloody scene of the Heading-hill of Stirling, whereon
perished so many of your kinsmen--you, whose dukedom has been first
wrested from you, and then bestowed on you in _liferent_, because you
are _old_--you who should" (here he spoke into the ear of the duke) "be
_king_!"--pausing. "Who does not know that Robert III., your brother,
was born out of lawful wedlock? His father never married Elizabeth More;
but who could doubt that Euphemia Ross, your mother, the widow of the
famous Randolph, was joined to him in lawful wedlock? The people of
Scotland know this, and they are sick of the bastard on the
throne"--pausing again, and looking earnestly at the duke through the
gloom of the large hall. "Is it to be tolerated that legitimacy is to be
longer trampled under foot by bastardy? Too long have you overlooked
your right of blood; but it is not yet too late for ample amends. The
usurper has done all in his power, by oppressing you and slaying your
friends, to force you to assert and vindicate your indefeasible right,
and gratify a legitimate revenge. In these veins," seizing the old man's
shrivelled wrist, "runs the blood of _the Bruce_! What a thought is
that!--what heart could resist its impulse? what brain its fire?"

After whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into the ear of
the old duke, Graham paused again, and looked at him. The words had
produced the effect which they might have been expected to produce on
the mind of one who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and
purposes, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had been
prevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates of his judgment,
the call of his ambition, and the spur of revenge. The energetic manner
in which the old fancies had been roused by the wily Graham threw him
into a reverie, the result of which the knight did not think fit to
wait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in stimulating the
lethargy of age, and sending through the shrivelled veins of the scion
of royalty the blood that owned the influence of the passion-struck
heart; it was now his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push
for more; and as the duke still stood muffled up in his morning-gown,
and his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter proceeded--

"Your grace has often declared to me," he continued, "that you have
faith in our Highland seers, and believe the sounds of the _taisch_, as
given forth by the inspired visionary."

"Who can doubt these things?" replied the old duke, looking seriously,
and continuing his musing position. "I certainly never had the
hardihood. I have seen too many instances of their verification, to be
sceptical on that head. The fate of the family of Albany was foretold by
a seer many months before the execution of Duke Murdoch and his sons.
But what has this to do with my persecution, or with my being king of
Scotland? God knows, I have at this moment visions enough!--your remarks
have roused my sleeping mind; yet I could almost say I dream."

"This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my presence at this
late hour, may well produce an illusion; but I deal in no fancies. I
have only truths to tell, and deeds to do--ay, and such deeds as may
well cross the rapt eyes of the seer; Scotland has not seen such for
many a day, sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings. Will
your grace hear _your_ fate from the lips of a seer?"

"I would rather hear that of my enemy, who rules this kingdom with a rod
of iron," replied the duke.

"You will hear the fates and fortunes of both," said Graham--"ay, even
as is seen the scales of justice, which, as the beam moves, lifts one,
only to depress the other. If you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut,
back among your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in store
for you and King James."

"I will," replied the duke, anxiously; "but age requires rest. I was
hunting all day, and feel weary. Let us postpone our visit till
to-morrow evening."

"Ah!" cried Graham, "the _hunter_ may say he is wearied, but the
_hunted_ has no title to speak the language of nature. If we go at all,
we must go _now_. The visions of the seer come on him during night. At
the solemn hour of midnight, futurity is revealed to him--to the hunted
outlaw, whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed the
ordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress--I will lead
your grace's horse through the hills. We have no time to lose--the old
enemy is beforehand with us, and our grizzled locks mock the tardiness
of our revenge. Come!"

"My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words, Graham," said the
old duke. "Tell Malcolm to get my horse in readiness; meanwhile, I will
dress, and be presently with you."

The duke went up to his bedroom, and Graham sought the servant, who
proceeded to obey his directions. He came again back to the hall, and
folding his arms, walked to and fro, muttering to himself, stopping at
times, and raising his hand in a menacing attitude, as if he were
wholly engrossed by one feeling of revenge, and then resuming his musing
attitude. The duke, dressed, belted, and muffled up in a large
riding-cloak, again roused him from his reverie. They proceeded to the
courtyard, where the duke mounted, and Graham, taking the bridle into
his hand, took the horse away into a by-path that led to the hills.
After proceeding forward for about an hour in the dark, they observed a
small light glimmering in the distance, and coming apparently from the
window of some cottage. For this Graham made as directly as the
unevenness of the ground would permit; and in a short time they arrived
at the door of the small dwelling, from the window of which the beam of
light shot out amongst the darkness, suggesting the idea of life, and
probably some of its comforts (at least a fire), amidst the dead
stillness of a winter night in so dreary a situation.

At the door of this cottage, Graham rapped in a peculiar manner; and
without a word being spoken, it was opened by a young man clad in the
Highland garb. The two friends entered. The scene presented to them was
the ordinary appearance of a mountain hut in those days: a small fire of
peats burned in the middle of the apartment, and sent out the light
which, beaming through the small aperture in place of a window, had
attracted the eyes of the guests. In a corner, a small truckle-bed
stuffed with heather, part of which protruded at the side and end, and
covered with a coarse blanket or two, contained an old woman, with a
clear, active eye, which twinkled in the light of the fire, and moved
with great rapidity as she scanned narrowly the persons of the guests.
In another corner was the bed of the young Highlander, composed simply
of a collection of heather, and without blanket or covering of any kind.
The guests seated themselves on two coarse stools that stood by the
fire; holding their hands over the flame, to receive as much as
possible of the heat to thaw their limbs, which the freezing night air,
co-operating with their advanced years, had stiffened and benumbed.
While they were engaged in this preliminary but indispensable operation,
the young man, who appeared restless and confused, placed another stool
before the bed of the old woman, so that, when seated upon it, his back
would be supported by the side of the bed, and his face in some degree
concealed from the gaze of the guests, who, being on the other side of
the peat fire, could, through the ascending smoke, see him only
indistinctly and at intervals.

With the exception of a few words that had passed between the young
Highlander and Graham--and which, being in Gaelic, were not understood
by the royal duke, who, though formerly Lord of Brechin, and resident in
the north, had been too long in leaving the royal residence of his
father, Robert II., to acquire the language--there was nothing for some
time said. The guests continued their manual applications to the peat
fire, and the young Gael, who had for some time been seated on his
stool, threw himself occasionally back on the fore part of the bed, then
brought himself forward again, and at intervals muttered quickly some
words in Gaelic, accompanied with sounds of wonder and surprise, from
all which he suddenly relapsed into quietness and silence. While these
strange operations were going on, Graham directed the attention of the
duke to the uncouth actor, and whispered something in his ear which had
the effect of rousing him, and making him look anxiously through the
smoke, to get a better view of the strange gestures of the youth. The
old woman in the bed made, in the meantime, efforts as if she intended
to speak; but these were repressed by a sudden motion of the youth,
whose hand, slipped back, was applied as secretly as possible to her
mouth, and then, in a menacing attitude, clenched and shaken in her
face.

"Is your hour come yet, Allan?" said Graham, in a deep and serious
voice.

"He says no," answered the old woman, with a sharp, clear voice, from
the bed, translating the Gaelic response of the youth; "but he sees
signs o' an oncome."

"Is it to be a mute vision, Allan?" again said Graham; "or see you any
signs of a _taisch_?"

"He thinks," said the woman again, as translator, "he will see again the
face and feir o' a dead king, wha will speak wi' sobs and granes o' him
wha will come after him, and sit in the browden and burniest ha' o'
Scone's auld palace, whar he will be crowned."

Silence again succeeded the clear notes of the woman's voice; the young
man's movements and gestures recommenced; and the old duke's attention
was riveted by the strange proceedings which, to an absolute believer in
the powers of the seer, were fraught with intense interest. The
prophetic paroxysm seemed to approach more near: the body of the seer
was bent stiffly back, and leaned on the bed; his eyes were wide open,
and fixed upon a mental object; his hands were extended forth; his lips
were apart; and every gesture indicated that state of the mind when,
under the influence of a rapt vision, it takes from the body its nervous
energy, and leaves the limbs as if under the power of a trance.

He remained in this condition for fully five minutes; and then, throwing
his arms about, he cried out some quickly-uttered words in Gaelic, which
the old woman translated into--"It comes! it comes!" After a pause of a
few minutes, during which the most death-like silence prevailed
throughout the cottage, he began to move his hands slowly through the
air, from right to left, as if he were following the progress of a
passing creation of the mind; and, as he continued this movement, he
spoke, in a deep, tremulous voice, with a kind of mournful, singing
cadence, the Gaelic words, which were continually translated by the old
woman.

"There comes slowly, as if frae the womb o' a cloud o' mountain mist,
the seim o' a turreted abbey, wi' the tomb o' the Bruce and the
monuments o' other kings, amang which a new grave, wi' the moul o'
centuries o' rotten banes lying on its edge, and mixed wi' the skulls o'
dead kings, and arm-banes that ance bore the sceptre o' Scotland!--It is
gane!--the seim has vanished, and my eye is again darkened!"

A deep silence succeeded, and lasted for several minutes. The speaker's
hands again began to move from right to left, and slowly-uttered words
again came from his lips!

"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and shows the wraith o' a
gowd-graithit bier, movin to the wast; the Scotch lion is on the lid,
and a shinin halbrik, owre whilk waves the royal pennon o' Scotland,
begirt wi' gowd, is carried afore, by the king-at-arms. A warlock, auld
and shrivelled, wi' a white beard, touches wi' his wand the coffin; the
lid lifts, and the head o' a king, wi' a leaden crown, rises frae the
bier! A _taisch_! a _taisch_!--hark! the lips o' the dead open and move,
and he speaks the weird that never deceives! '_Hail, Walter, King o' the
Scots!_'"

This extraordinary statement was accompanied by a kind of yell or
scream, that rung through the cottage, and pierced the ears of the
listeners. Silence again followed, and lasted several minutes, during
which the seer was quiet. The duke was apparently entranced, and Graham
looked wonder and surprise. The seer began again to move his hands, and
speak as before.

"The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and my eye follows the seim o'
the royal chair o' Scone, wherein sits" (a loud scream of surprise broke
from the seer) "Walter, Lord o' Brechin that was, Duke o' Athol that
is--King o' Scotland that will be!"

These words were no sooner uttered, than the duke started from the stool
on which he sat, and showed strong indications of surprise and
confusion. His belief in the predictions of a seer was, as was common in
that age, unbounded, and when he heard himself pronounced King o'
Scotland his mind, freed from all manner of scepticism or doubt,
reverted to the circumstance of the doubtful legitimacy of his
half-brothers; the aspirations and day-dreams he had so long indulged
seemed in an instant to have received the stamp of truth; the prospect
of having his ambition at last gratified, by wearing the crown which his
enemy now bore, inflamed his mind, and the coldness and lethargy of old
age seemed to have been supplanted by the fire and energy of youth.

"Is the vision complete?" said he to the old woman, as he saw the seer
gradually regaining his upright position, and resulting his natural
manner, like one who had come out of a fit.

"Ay," replied she. "Allan is himsel again; but, if ye are the Duke o'
Athol, as I tak ye to be, I could rede ye, before our reddin, never
mair, aiblins, to meet on this side o' time, something that wad make
your auld een glimmer through the smeik o' that ingle mair swith and
deftly than could a' the visions o' the seers o' Scotland."

Graham looked alarmed at this unexpected speech of the old woman; and
Allan, the seer, slipping gently his hand behind her back, stopped her
mouth, and produced silence. The duke and Graham left the cottage--the
latter exhibiting a wish that the former should not remain longer, after
the object was attained for which they had made their visit. They
returned in the same way they had come; and for some time the duke was
so much occupied with the thoughts of the extraordinary vision he had
got declared to him, that he rode forward, still led by Graham, without
uttering a word. The night was, if possible, darker than it was when
they left the castle; and the stillness of a lazy fall of snow reigned
among the hills, unbroken by a single sound, even of the night-birds.

"It is then ordained above," said the duke at last, in a low tone--"my
lot is already cast among the destinies, and all the dreams of a long
life are at last to be realised. I can scarcely believe that I have been
awake for this last hour; yet what can be more certain than that I am
now suffering the cold of these hills, a bodily feeling which dreams
cannot simulate? 'Walter, King of Scotland!' Ha! it sounds as well as
James--we are both the first of our name. It is tardy justice, but it is
justice accompanied by retribution; and when is the blood too thin and
cold to feed the fire of revenge? When do the pulses of the old heart
cease to quicken at the thought of a just retribution? When is the head
too bald to bear a crown lined with purple velvet? My spirits, frozen by
age and this cold night, are thawed by the fire of these visions of
vengeance, and dance in the wild array of youthful delight. Ha! he took
from me the fee of my dukedom, and gave me, because I was _old_, the
usufruct, the liferent: I shall now have the usufruct of a
_kingdom_--_his_ kingdom by courtesy, _mine_ by right. Hark, Graham! How
is this vision to be realised? The seer pointed to James's death--who is
to kill the tyrant?"

"I with this hand shall strike the blow," replied Graham. "My plans are
already laid, and I wanted only your cooperation and assistance; for
why, you know, should I be so improvident as to kill one king, until
another is ready to take his place?"

"I cannot speak lightly of this affair," said the duke, in check of
Graham's levity. "What are your plans? The fewer co-operators in a
conspiracy the better."

"I know it," replied Graham. "Your grandson, Sir Robert Stuart, whom
James has foolishly retained as chamberlain, while he has taken from him
his chance of succeeding you in your dukedom, waits for your command to
give us access to the royal chamber. The king is to celebrate the
Christmas holidays at the monastery of the Dominicans in Perth; he comes
to the point of our dagger, held by a hand nerved by a thousand wrongs,
to plunge it into his bosom. I can command the services of Sir John
Hall, and Christopher and Thomas Chambers, who cry for revenge for the
murder of their master Albany; three hundred caterans are at my service,
ready to do the work of death at my bidding; and all that was required
to complete my schemes was the consent of your grace, now happily
obtained, to the act which is to right you, to revenge you, to crown
you."

"If the king is to be at Perth," replied the duke, after a pause, "I
shall be at the revels of Christmas. My grandson Sir Robert, who, as
chamberlain, may be said to be the keeper of the king, can let your
three hundred caterans into the monastery, and the work may be finished
with a facility which seldom attends the execution of the purposes of
revenge."

"Your grace has anticipated my very thoughts and words," replied the
wily Graham. "Heaven aids the work of a just retribution on the head of
the tyrant. Mark the supernatural coincidences. When was the vision of
the seer presented to the living senses of the avenger of his own and
his country's wrongs--the executioner of a tyrant, and the successor who
is to occupy his throne--as if to urge him to his duty? When did the
groaning victims of royal cruelty get a chamberlain to turn for them the
key of the tyrant's sleeping room? And when were the suspicions of
remorse and guilt of the wrong-doer so opportunely lulled, as to give
room to a confidence which brings him to the dagger's point?"

"Walter, King of Scotland!" ejaculated the duke, who, during Graham's
speech, had been musing over the sudden change in his fortunes. "Ha!
how many acts shall I have to repeal! how many nobles to right! how many
wounds to bind up of my bleeding country! Graham, you shall be Earl of
Menteith, and your grand-nephew, Malise, shall have, instead of that
earldom, his own Strathearn. How my mind burns with the thoughts of
turning wrong into right, and taking the weight of the royal sceptre out
of the scales of justice!"

By this time, the pair had arrived again at the palace of Athol. Their
plans were completed: the duke retired to dream of his crown and
sceptre, and Graham returned to seek a heather bed, in his retreat,
beyond the reach of his enemies.

Some time after, he met Allan, the seer, whose surname was Mackay, among
the hills. The Gael had apparently gone in quest of his employer, and
seemed to have some important object to attain, by travelling so far as
he had done to meet him.

"I peg your honour's pardon," said the seer, as he came up to Graham;
"te katherans are to pe at te red stane in te howe o' te hills, on te
saxth. I hae seen a' te praw fallows, wha are as keen for te onset as te
eagles o' Shehallion. Ye will meet them, dootless, and keep up the fire
o' their pluid, pe te three grand powers--te speeches, te peat-reek, and
te pay. Hoo did I manage te duke? Te play was weel played, your honour,
though Allan Mackay pe te man who says it; and te mair's my credit, that
I never pefore acted to seer in presence o' te son o' a king. Ugh--ugh!
put it was a praw performance, and are that deserves to pe weel paid
for. Hoo muckle did your honour promise to gie me for my remuneration?
Te sum has clean escaped my memory."

"It was five merks, Allan," said Graham.

"I peg your pardon, your honour," said Allan. "It was shust exactly
seven; and little aneugh, seein I had my mither's mouth to keep close,
for fear she wad peach te secret to te duke, pesides te grand story o'
Dumferlin Appey, and te funeral, and te taisch, and te Palace o' Scone,
to invent and perform. King Shames's actors are petter paid for
performin his 'Peebles to te Play.' Maybe your honour can pay me te
seven merks shusht now?"

"I cannot quarrel with you, Allan," said Graham; "but our bargain was
five. Here's your own sum, however. Since that night, I have had
apprehensions about your mother's steadfastness. You must watch her, and
prevent her from going from home. Women have been the ruin of all plots,
since the beginning of the world."

"That was shust what I was to speak aboot, next after the payment, your
honour," said Allan. "She's awa owre the hills already, Cot knows whar."

"What!" cried Graham, in great agitation--"has she gone away without
your knowledge, and without telling you whither she was going?"

"That's shust the very thing I hae to inform ye o'," replied the
phlegmatic Gael. "Te last time I saw her was on Wednesday morning, when
she was warstlin wi' the winds that plaw ower te tap o' te hill o' Gary.
A glint o' te risin sun showed me her red cloak is it fluttered in te
plast, and, in a moment after, a' my powers o' the second sight couldna
discover her. But we've ae satisfaction; she's no awa to the duke. Put
maybe" (turning up his eye slyly) "she's awa to King Shames. I would
follow her, and pring her pack, put I require te seven merks I hae got
frae your honour for other necessary occasions, and purposes, and
necessities; and a pody canna travel in the Lowlands, whar there's nae
heather to sleep on, without pawpees."

"Death and fury!" cried the agitated Graham, "are all my long-meditated
schemes of revenge, are the concerted purposes for cutting off a tyrant
and righting a nation, to be counteracted by the wag of an old woman's
tongue? Allan" (lowering his voice), "you must after your mother--dog
her through hill and dale, highway and city vennel; seize her, by force
or guile; prevent her from seeking the presence of the king, or those
who may have the power of communicating with him; and get her back to
her cottage, on the peril of all our lives. Here's money for you"
(giving him a purse), "and here is a passport to the confidence of Sir
Robert Stuart, the king's chamberlain, one of our friends, who will
co-operate with you in preventing her from approaching the royal
presence."

"She's a Lowlander, your honour," said Allan, putting the money in his
pocket; "and maybe she's awa to see her praw freends o' the south, whar
she gaes ance a-year, shust about this time; put, to oplige, and favour,
and satisfy your honour, I'll awa doon te Strath o' te Tay; and, if I
dinna find her wi' her relations in Dundee, there may be some reason,
and occasion, and authority for your honour's apprehension, and for my
crossin te Tay and te Forth, to prevent her frae payin her respects to
Shames, whilk she wad think nae mair o' doin than o' speakin in te way
she did to te Duke o' Athol."

"Away--away, then!" cried Graham; "and remember that your head's at
stake as well as that of the best of us. So look to yourself."

Graham went away to an appointed place, where he was to meet Sir John
Hall, who was to accompany him to the meeting of the caterans, and Allan
went back to the cottage, and, taking out some necessaries, proceeded to
Strath Tay. He arrived at the town of Dundee next evening; and, having
ascertained that his mother had crossed over to Fife, had no doubt that
she was away to Edinburgh for the purpose of communicating to King James
what she knew of the conspiracy of the north. He therefore also crossed
the Tay, proceeded through Fife, and, after considerable delay,
produced by ineffectual inquiries after an old woman in a red cloak, he
arrived in Edinburgh on the third day after he had set out from his
cottage. He had procured no trace of his mother, and all his wanderings
and searchings through the Scottish metropolis were unavailing--he could
neither see nor hear of her; and he therefore resolved to wait upon Sir
Robert Stuart, to put him on his guard, lest she might, by her cunning,
escape also his notice, and get access to the king by means of some
subtle story told to the usher. He had no difficulty in getting access
to Sir Robert, who was, about that time, too much occupied with secret
messengers from the seat of the conspiracy in which he had engaged, to
hesitate an instant about consenting to see the Gael, who, he doubted
not, came from Sir Robert Graham, or his grandfather, the duke--both, he
knew, deeply engaged in the secret affair. Having been admitted, Allan,
as he walked up to the end of the apartment where Sir Robert was seated,
looked cautiously around; and, seeing no one near, assumed an attitude
and demeanour somewhat bolder, but still suited to the secresy of his
message.

"Has your honour seen an old woman in a red cloak, apoot te precincts o'
te king's residence?" said he, in a whispering tone, as he slipped
Graham's token--a piece of paper with ciphers on it--into Sir Robert's
hand.

"Sir Robert has himself written me about that beldam," said the
chamberlain. "She is in our secret, I understand--an extraordinary
instance of imprudence, which I must have explained to me. Meantime, the
danger must be averted. I have not seen her. Have you, sir?"

"No," answered Allan. "I wish I could get a climpse o' her. It's te very
thing I want. She would never see te face o' te king, if she ance
crossed my path--tamn her!"

"What would ye do with her?" inquired the chamberlain, eagerly. "I wish
we could get her out of the way. You know what I mean; a sum of money is
of no importance in comparison of security--real, absolute, undoubted
security--from this plague. You understand me?" And he touched his
sword, to make himself better understood.

"Understand ye!--ugh, ugh, your honour," cried the Gael, "there was nae
occasion for touchin te sword; your words are sharp aneugh for gettin to
my intellects. You mean" (whispering in the chamberlain's ear) "that for
a praw consideration and remuneration, I might kill te auld hag. Eh!
isn't that it, your honour?"

"Supposing, but not admitting, that that was my meaning," said the
chamberlain, cautiously, "what would you say to the proposition?"

"Say to't, your honour!" said Allan. "Ugh! ugh! Let your honour say te
word and pay te remuneration, and te auld harridan is dead twa hoors
after I get a climpse o' her. Of course" (looking knowingly into the
chamberlain's face), "your honour would protect me till I got to to
hills. Te work itsel is naething--an auld wife's easy kilt--it's no pe
tat te remuneration should be measured--it's pe te risk o' hangin. Was
it ten merks your honour said?"

"I did not mention any sum," said the chamberlain; "but you may have
twenty, if you relieve us of this fear in the manner you have yourself
mentioned."

"Ten in hand, I fancy," said the Gael--"word for word, your honour. If I
trust you ten merks, you may trust me te trifle o' killin an auld
wife--a mere pagatelle. I hae kilt twenty shust to please te Wolf o'
Padenoch's son, Duncan."

"But do you know the woman?" said the chamberlain.

"I think I do," answered Allan. "There pe nae fear o' a mistake; put, if
I should kill ae auld wife for anithor, whar's te harm? The right ane
can easily be kilt afterwards."

The importance of being entirely relieved from the danger that thus
impended over the heads of the conspirators was very apparent to Sir
Robert Stuart. He knew well the character of James: a hint was often
sufficient for him; and the statement of a woman, if it quadrated with
known facts and suspicions, would be believed; inquiry would follow; one
fact would lead to another, and the whole scheme be laid open. He
therefore eagerly closed with Allan's offer; the ten merks were paid;
and it was agreed upon that the murderer should receive his other ten
merks, as well as harbourage and protection, upon satisfying the
chamberlain that the deed was executed. Well pleased at having made so
easily a sum of considerable magnitude in those days, Allan went to look
for his mother--not, it may readily be conceived, for the purpose of
killing her, but simply with the view of getting her out of the way,
until the king had set off for Perth, which he understood he would do in
a few days.

He wandered round the skirts of the town, musing on his good fortune,
looking at the novelties that presented themselves to his view, and
keeping a sharp eye for a red cloak. In this way he passed the time
until the grey of the twilight; when, as he sauntered along the foot of
the Calton Hill, he saw, lying in a sequestered spot, his aged parent,
wrapped up in her red cloak, and apparently in a sound sleep, into which
she had, in all likelihood, fallen, from the excessive fatigue to which
she had been exposed in her long journey to the metropolis. The
affection of the son produced only an involuntary sigh, and a musing
attitude of a few moments. He hastened to the residence of the
chamberlain; and, as he passed the door of a flesher who was killing
sheep, ran in, and, without saying a word, dipped his sword in the
blood, and then proceeded on his way. He got instant admittance to his
employer, who was sitting alone, occupied by the thoughts of the mighty
and dangerous enterprise on which he had entered. Slipping up to him,
with an air of great secresy, he stood before him.

"She's dead!" said Allan, looking into the face of Stuart, with an
expression of countenance in which triumph and cunning were strangely
blended.

"You are a most expeditious workman," replied the chamberlain; "but
where is the evidence of our being freed from this plague?"

"Will her heart's pluid satisfy ye?" replied Allan, holding up the sword
covered with the sheep's blood. "Waur evidence has hanged a shentleman
before noo. Ye'll pe ken there's twa kinds o' pluid in te human body--a
red and a plack: te ane comes frae flesh wounds o' te skean dhu, when
it's bashfu, and winna gang far ben; and te other follows te plow o' te
determined dirk, when it seeks te habitation o' life in te heart itsel.
Does yer honour ken te difference? What say ye to that?" showing him the
sword. "I'm sure ye never saw ponnier plack pluid i' te heart o' a
courtier o' King Shames."

"You are getting ironical in your probation," said the chamberlain. "I'm
no judge of the difference of veinous and arterial blood; but, if I
were, how am I to be satisfied that this is the life stream of the old
woman?"

"Nae other auld plack teevel could hae kept it sae lang in her gizzard,"
replied the Gael. "Put there pe mair evidence. An honest man's like
gowd--he rejoices in te fiery furnace. I'll show ye te pody o' te
treacherous hag hersel, wha would hae sent us a' to te head o' her clan,
Satan, if I hadna peen beforehand wi' her. She lies on te Calton yonder,
as quietly as if she were in the Greyfriars; and if your honour will
accompany me, ye may satisfy yersel o' te absolute truth and verity o'
my statement."

"The dead body cannot be long there," answered Sir Robert, "without
being discovered; and by approaching the spot we may subject ourselves
to suspicion, especially if you were previously seen hounding about the
place."

"Ugh! ugh! Is that a' your honour kens o' a Gael's prudence?" replied
Allan. "Think ye I wanted to let your Edinburghers see how neatly we
Gaels can strike pelow te fifth rib? Na! I was working for te ten merks,
and te salvation o' mysel, your honour, and Sir Robert Graham; and if te
auld witch hersel wasna inclined to spake o' te affair, it didna pecome
me to say a single word. She took it as quietly and decently as I'll
receive te ten merks (and whatever mair my expedition merits) frae te
hands o' yer honour. Put te night's fa'in, and there's nae danger in
lookin at te pody o' a dead wife. Come, your honour, and trust to me for
your guide."

The chamberlain, pleased with the issue of his negotiation, was
notwithstanding fully aware of the danger to which he was exposed by his
connection with the murderer. He hesitated about examining the evidence
of the murder; but how otherwise could he have any faith in the
statement of the Highlander? And his peace of mind, as well as the
safety of his colleagues, would repay the slight risk he ran in taking a
cursory view of the body of the murdered woman. He resolved, therefore,
on accompanying Allan to the spot; and having requested the Gael to go
before, he secretly followed him, until he saw his guide stop, and point
with his finger to the spot where his mother lay. Still under an alarm,
which the increasing gloom might have in some measure allayed, he walked
irresolutely forward, and having seen the body of the woman wrapped up
in the red cloak lying extended on the ground, he had not the slightest
doubt that she was dead, having been killed by the stern Gael. He
instantly retreated; and having waited for the approach of Allan, paid
him twenty merks (being ten in addition), and requested him to fly with
all expedition to the Highlands. Allan received the money, counting it
with a nonchalance which surprised the chamberlain, and bidding him
good-night, walked away to waken his mother, and take her to a warm bed,
while the other went home, delighted that this great danger had been so
easily averted.

Some days afterwards, the king and queen set out for Perth--Sir Robert
Stuart, now freed from all alarm, having preceded them, for the purpose
of making the necessary preparations at Dundee for the reception of his
royal master and mistress, and for their journey along the north bank of
the Tay to Perth. The royal party arrived at Leith about twelve o'clock
of the day, for the purpose of embarking in a yacht, which was to carry
them across the Forth. A large assemblage of people was present,
collected from Edinburgh and Leith, to see the embarkation; among whom,
the courtiers, dressed in their gay robes, were conspicuous, as well
from their dresses as the air of authority they assumed, on an occasion
which some of them might suspect was to be the last in which their
monarch would ever require their attendance. The sounds of the carriages
and horses, of a tumultuous crowd, and of those actually engaged in the
embarkation--with the crushing of anxious spectators, and the efforts of
the military to insure order, and make room for the progress of the
party towards the yacht--produced the confusion generally attending such
a scene. The queen had been escorted forward to the side of the vessel,
and been assisted on board; and the king was on the eve of taking the
step which was to remove him from the pier into the yacht, when an old
woman, wrapped in a red cloak, rushed forward, and, holding up two
spare, wrinkled arms in the face of the monarch, cried, in a wild and
prophetic manner--

"James Stuart, receive this warning! It is not made in vain, however it
may be received. If you cross the Scottish sea, betwixt and the feast o'
Christmas, you will never come back again in life."

Having said these words, she waved her hands, and disappeared. Struck
with her solemn and impressive manner, and her extraordinary
appearance, James started, and stood for a moment mute. Recollecting
himself, he called out to a knight to follow, and question her. He
obeyed; but ere he could make his way among the crowd, Allan Mackay had
seized his mother (for such she was), and hurried her beyond the reach
of the courtiers. The event struck James forcibly. He concealed it from
his queen; but, during the passage to Kirkcaldy, he was remarked to be
silent and abstracted--a mood which remained on him during a great part
of his journey. At Dundee, he repaired to the palace, in St Margaret's
Close, where he still meditated secretly on the strange warning, and
compared it with the denunciation and threat contained in the letter he
had some time before received from Sir Robert Graham. After retiring to
his chamber, he sent for Sir Robert Stuart, to commune with him on
matters of importance. The message alarmed the guilty chamberlain, who
conceived that the conspiracy of the north had been discovered, in spite
of his murderous effort to conceal it, by the death of the Highland
woman. He repaired to the presence-chamber, trembling, and full of
fearful anticipations.

"Sir Robert," said the king, as the chamberlain approached him, "I am
filled with gloomy apprehensions of a violent death, that will prevent
me from re-crossing the Forth. Have you heard anything of late of my
bitter foe, Graham, who has denounced me? Are you certain he is not
hatching against me some bloody conspiracy in these fastnesses of the
north?"

The question went to the heart of the conspirator. He gave up all for
lost, and guilt supplied all that was awanting in the king's speech to
fix upon him the reproach of plotting against the life of his sovereign.
Happily, James did not observe his agitation, having relapsed, after his
question, into the gloomy despondency in which he had for several days
been immerged. All the resolution of the guilty man was required to
enable him to utter a solitary question.

"What reason has your majesty," he said, "for entertaining these fears,
apparently so unfounded?"

"I have been warned," replied the king, in a deep voice, "surely by a
messenger from Heaven. As I stood on the pier of Leith, ready to step
into the yacht, a strange woman, muffled up in a red cloak, approached
me, and holding out her hands, warned me against crossing the Forth, and
said that if I did, I would never come back alive. Her manner was
supernatural, her voice hollow and grave-like. She disappeared, and,
notwithstanding the efforts of my messengers to seize her, could nowhere
be found. I cannot shake this vision from my mind. Every one knows that
I despise superstitious fears; but that very circumstance makes my gloom
and despondency the more remarkable."

This speech struck another chord in the mind of the guilty courtier. No
doubt had remained in his mind that the old woman in the red cloak,
mentioned by Sir Robert Graham, had been by his orders killed; he had
seen her blood on the fatal sword, and he had seen her body lying
lifeless on the ground. Who, then, was this second old woman in the red
cloak, that had made such a fearful impression upon the king? Had Heaven
not taken up arms against him, and re-incorporated the departed spirit
of the murdered woman, for the purpose of her humane object being still
attained? Had not the king himself, the most dauntless of men, said the
figure was supernatural? And, above all, was it not certain that there
was a just occasion for the interposition of Providence, when one of the
rulers of the earth, who have often been protected by Heaven, was about
to fall a victim to a cruel purpose, in which he himself was engaged?
These thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of light, and
struck his heart with a remorse and fear which made him quake. James
looked at him with surprise; but attributed his agitation to the
strange tidings he had communicated regarding the supposed supernatural
visitation. Relieved, however, from the fear of personal danger produced
by the king's first announcement, the guilty chamberlain endeavoured to
shake off his superstitious feelings, and, summoning all his powers,
contrived to put together a few sentences of vulgar scepticism,
recommending to the king not to allow the ravings of a maniac (as the
old woman undoubtedly was) to disturb his tranquillity, or interfere
with his sound and philosophical notions of the government of the
universe.

The king proceeded to Perth, and subsequently overcame the feeling of
apprehension and despondency produced by the supposed apparition; and
the chamberlain got again so completely entoiled in the details of his
conspiracy, that the affair passed from his mind also. By the time the
festivities of Christmas came to be celebrated, the apprehensions of
evil had died away, just in proportion as the real danger became every
day more to be dreaded. The power of the chamberlain was now exercised
vigorously, and with ill-merited success. He contrived to gain over to
his side many of the royal guards; while Sir Robert Graham was not less
successful in his organisation of the external forces, composed of wild
and daring caterans, ready, on being let into the palace, to spread
death and desolation wherever they came. Meanwhile, the Duke of Athol
dreamed his day-dream of royalty, and indulged in all the intoxicating
visions of state and power, which he thought were on the point of being
realised. Yet the conspiracy was confined to a very few influential
individuals--the duke himself, Graham, Stuart, Hall, and Chambers being
almost the only persons of any distinction or authority who had been
asked to join the bold enterprise; and these, it is supposed, would not
have ventured on the scheme, had they not been blindfolded by personal
cravings of insatiable revenge, which prevented all prudential
calculations of consequences.

As the revels approached, the chamberlain took care to prevail upon the
king to send an invitation to those of the conspirators who were
considered to be so much in favour at court as to be entitled to that
mark of the royal favour; while especial care was also taken to get the
invitations to the _real_ friends of the king so distributed, that there
should, on the night intended for the murder, be collected in the
monastery as few as possible of the latter, and as many of the former as
the king could be prevailed upon to invite. There would thus be
insidious enemies within, at the head of whom would be the Duke of
Athol; and fierce foes without, led by the furious and bloodthirsty
Graham, to the latter of whom, by the bribing of the guards, a free
passage would be opened to the sleeping apartment of the king, where the
bloody scene was intended to be enacted in presence of the queen.

It was on the night of the 20th of February that the conspirators had
resolved to execute their work of death. All things were carefully
prepared: wooden boards were placed across the moat which surrounded the
monastery, to enable the conspirators to pass unknown to the warders,
who were placed only at the entrances; and the extraordinary precaution
was taken by the chamberlain, to destroy the locks of the royal
bedchamber, and of those of the outer room with which it communicated,
whereby it would be impossible for those within to secure the doors, and
to prevent the entrance of the party. Meanwhile, in the inside of the
monastery, a gay party was collected, consisting of young and gallant
nobles and knights, and crowds of fair damsels, dressed in the glowing
colours so much beloved by the belles of that age. In the midst of this
happy group were the traitors Sir Robert Stuart and his aged
grandfather, Athol, who looked and smiled upon the scene, while they
knew that, in a few minutes, that presence-chamber would in all
likelihood be flowing with the blood of the king who sat beside them,
and become, through their means, a scene of massacre and carnage.

Of all the individuals in the royal presence-chamber on that night, no
one was more joyous than the merry monarch himself. A poet of exquisite
humour, as well exemplified in his performance of "Peebles to the Play,"
he was the life and spirit of the amusements of the evening, which
consisted chiefly of the recitation of poetical stories, the reading of
romances, the playing on the harp to the plaintive tunes of the old
Scottish ballads (the touching words being the suitable accompaniment),
the game of tables, and all the other diversions of the age. In all
this, the king joined with (it is said) greater pleasure and alacrity
than he had exhibited for many years. In the midst of his jests and
merry sayings, he even laughed and made light of a prophecy which had
foretold his death in that year--an allusion perfectly understood by
those who knew of the apparition of the old woman in the red cloak,
whose warning, though not forgotten, was now treated with his accustomed
levity. In playing at chess with a young knight, over whose shoulder the
grey-bearded Athol looked smilingly into the face of the king, his
jesting and merriment were kept up and exercised in a manner that
suggested the most extraordinary coincidences. He had been accustomed to
call the young knight "the king of love;" and, in allusion to the
warning, advised him to look well to his safety, as they were the only
two kings in the land. The old duke started as he heard this statement
come from the mouth of one on the very eve of being consigned to the
dagger; and for a moment thought that the conspiracy had been
discovered; but a second look at the joyous merry-maker left no doubt on
his mind that his jesting was the mere overflow of an exuberance of
spirits.

At this moment a hundred wild and kilted caterans, armed with swords and
knives, and thirsting for blood, were lurking in the dark angles of the
court of the monastery, directing their eyes to the blazing windows of
the presence-chamber, and listening to the sounds of the revels. The
conspirators within knew, by a concerted signal, that Graham and his
party were in this situation, and looked anxiously for the breaking up
of the entertainment; but the king was inclined to prolong the
amusements, and the hour was getting near midnight. While the king was
engaged in play with the young knight, Christopher Chambers, one of the
conspirators, was seized with a fit of remorse, and repeatedly
approached the royal presence, with a view to inform James of his
danger; but the crowd of knights and ladies who filled the
presence-chamber prevented him from executing his purpose. The
amusements continued; it was now long past midnight, and Stuart and
Athol heard at length the long-wished-for declaration of the king, that
the revels should be concluded.

Just as James had uttered this wish, the usher of the presence-chamber
approached Stuart, and whispered in his ear that an old woman, wrapped
up in a red cloak, was at the door, and requested permission to see and
speak with the king. The guilty chamberlain, who was on the point of
giving the fatal signal, heard the statement with horror, and recoiled
back from the usher; but the die was cast, and even the powers of heaven
were disregarded amidst the turmoil of wild thoughts that were then
careering through his excited mind. "Bid her begone--thrust her from the
door!" he whispered in the ear of the usher, and applied himself again
to the dreadful work in which he was engaged.

Soon after this, the king called for the parting cup, and the company
dispersed--Athol and Stuart being the last to leave the apartment. With
the view of going to bed, James and his queen now retired to the
sleeping chamber, where the merry monarch, still under the influence of
high spirits, stood before the fire in his night-gown, talking gaily
with those around him. At that moment, a clang of arms was heard, and a
blaze of torches was seen in the court of the monastery. The quick mind
of the king saw his danger in an instant; a suspicion of treason, and a
dread of his bloodthirsty enemy, Graham, were his first thoughts. Alarm
was now the prevailing power; and the ladies of the bedchamber, rushing
into the sleeping room, cried that treason was abroad. The queen and her
attendants flew to secure the doors; the locks were useless; and the
certainty of having been betrayed by his chamberlain now occupied the
mind of the king. Yet, though he saw his destruction resolved on, he did
not lose presence of mind. He called to his queen and ladies to obstruct
all entrance as long as they could, and rushed to the windows. They were
firmly secured by iron bars, and all escape in that way was impossible.
The clang of arms increased; and the sounds of the approach of armed men
along the passages came every instant nearer and nearer. The ladies
screamed, and held the doors; the king was in despair; and, seizing a
pair of tongs from the fireplace, with unexampled force wrenched up the
boards of the floor, and descended into a vault below, while the ladies
replaced the covering.

A slight hope was now entertained that he might escape. The vault
communicated with the outer court; but, unfortunately, the passage had
been, shortly before, by the king's own orders, built up, to prevent the
tennis-balls of the players in the tennis-court, to which the passage
led, from rolling into the vault (as they had often done), and being
lost. There was, therefore, no escape. Meanwhile, Graham and his
caterans rushed towards the bedchamber, and having slain Walter
Straiton, a page they met in the passage, began to force open the door,
amidst the shrieks of the women, who still, though weakly, attempted to
barricade it. An extraordinary circumstance here occurred: Catherine
Douglas, with the heroic resolution of her family, thrust her arm into
the staple from which the bolt had been taken by the traitors, and in an
instant it was snapped asunder. The conspirators, yelling like fiends,
and with bloody daggers and knives in their hands, now rushed into the
room, and cowardly stabbed some of the defenceless ladies, as they fled
screaming round the apartment, or trying vainly to hide themselves in
its corners and beneath the bed. The queen herself never moved: horror
had thrown its cataleptic power over her frame; she stood rooted to the
floor, a striking spectacle--her hair hanging over her shoulders, and
nothing on her but her kirtle and mantle. In this situation, she was
stabbed by one of the conspirators, and was only saved from the knives
of others and death itself, by a son of Graham, who, impatient for the
life of the king, commanded the men to leave such work for that which
was more important. The king was not to be found; and a suspicion gained
ground that he had escaped from the sleeping room by the door. A search
was therefore made throughout the whole monastery, in all the outer
rooms along the corridor, and in the court; and had it not been that
Stuart assured them that it was impossible the king could have escaped
beyond the walls, the search would have been relinquished in despair.

Meanwhile, the citizens and the nobles who were quartered in the town
heard the tumult, and were hastening to the spot. The king might yet be
saved; for his place of escape had not been discovered, and rescue was
at hand. Alas! his own impatience brought on his head the ruin that
seemed to be averted. Hearing all quiet, he fancied that the traitors
had relinquished the search, and called up from the vault to the ladies,
to bring the sheets from the bed and draw him up again into the
apartment. In attempting this, one of the ladies, Elizabeth Douglas,
fell down into the vault. The noise recalled the murderers. Thomas
Chambers, who knew all the holes and recesses of the monastery, suddenly
remembered the small vault, and concluded that James must be concealed
there. He therefore returned; the torn floor caught his eye; the planks
were again lifted, and a blazing torch was soon held down into the dark
hole. The king and the unfortunate lady, who lay apparently breathless
beside him, were seen; and, glorying in his discovery, the relentless
ruffian shouted aloud with savage merriment, and called his companions
back; "for," as he said, "the bride was found for whom they had sought
and carolled all night." A dreadful scene was now enacted in the vault,
in the hearing of the queen, who, with her attendants, was still in the
apartment. Sir John Hall first leaped down; but James, strong in his
agony, throttled him, and flung him beneath his feet. Hall's brother
next descended, and met the same fate; and now came the arch-enemy, Sir
Robert Graham. Like a roaring tiger, he threw himself into the hole, and
James, bleeding sore from the wounds of the Halls' knives, was overcome,
and fell, with the stern murderer over him. The wretched monarch
implored mercy, and begged his life, should it be at the price of half
his kingdom.

"Thou cruel tyrant!" said Graham, "never hadst thou compassion on thine
own noble kindred; therefore expect none from me."

"At least," cried James, "let me have a confessor, for the good of my
soul."

"None," replied Graham, "but this sword!" Upon which he stabbed him in a
vital part; but the king continued to implore so piteously for mercy,
that even Graham's nerves were shaken, and he felt inclined to fly from
the dreadful scene.

His companions above noticed this change; and, as he was scrambling up,
leaving the king still breathing, they threatened him with death, if he
did not complete the work. He at last obeyed, and struck the king many
times, till he died.

The story of the Highland woman who appeared to King James, which to
historians has so long been a subject of mystery, is thus, by our
chronicle, cleared up. We may afterwards do the same good office to
other curious and doubtful parts of Scottish history; but, in the
meantime, as it may be satisfactory to know the fate of those bold
conspirators who executed so desperate a purpose as that we have
narrated, we may mention that the queen never rested till she had
brought them all to justice. Never was retribution so certain, so ample,
so merited, and so satisfactory to a whole nation; for James's alleged
harshness was confined to the nobles, and never extended to the people,
who loved the royal poet, and revered their king. Sir Robert Stuart and
Thomas Chambers were first taken; and, upon a confession of their guilt,
were beheaded on a high scaffold raised in the market-place, and their
heads fixed on the gates of Perth. Athol next suffered; and, as he had
sighed for a crown, his head, when it was severed from his body, was
encompassed by an iron one. Graham was next seized; and, after the
manner of the times, was tortured before his execution in a manner which
we cannot describe. Hall and all the others suffered a similar fate; and
it was alleged that not a single individual who had a hand in the
terrible tragedy was allowed to escape--thus justifying the ways of God,
where vengeance, though sometimes concealed, sooner or later overtakes
those who contravene His laws.




THE CURATE OF GOVAN.


Do any of our east or south country readers know anything of the little
village of Govan, within about two miles or so of Glasgow? If they do,
they will acknowledge, we daresay, that it is one of the most
prettily-situated little hamlets that may be seen. We mean, however,
solely that portion of it which stands on the banks of the Clyde. On a
summer evening, when the tide is at its height, filling up the channel
of the river from side to side in a bumper, and is gliding stilly and
gently along between its margins of green, there cannot, we think, be
anything prettier than the scene of which the little picturesque village
of Govan forms the centre or principal object. The antique row of houses
stretching down to the water, widened, at this particular spot, into a
little lake, by the confluence of the Kelvin; the rude but picturesque
salmon fisher's hut in the foreground; the river winding far to the
west, and skirting the base of the beautiful hills of Kilpatrick, that
form the boundary of the scene in that direction--all combine to form,
as we have already said, a scene of more than ordinary beauty.

Such, as nearly as we can describe it, is the local situation and
appearance of Govan at the present day; for often, often have we been
there in our younger years, and never shall we forget the happy hours we
have spent in it. Pleasant, indeed, was the walk of a summer's evening
on the banks of the Clyde--pleasant was the feast of kippered salmon,
for which the village was celebrated; but pleasanter than all were the
looks--the kindly, _pawky_ looks--the civility and the homely but shrewd
wit of David Dreghorn, the honest, worthy, and kindhearted landlord of
the ----. We are not sure if his house had a name; but it was not
necessary; for well and widely was David known, and by none was he known
by whom he was not esteemed and respected.

But there were other landlords in Govan before David's day--not more
worthy or better men, but of older date--yes, as far back as the time of
James V. At that period, the principal, indeed the only, hostelry in
Govan was kept by one Ninian, or, as he was more commonly called, Ringan
Scouler. The house--a small, plain-looking building with marvellously
few windows, and these few marvellously small in size and wide
apart--was situated at the extreme end of the village, which terminates
at or near the margin of the river. All trace of it has long since
disappeared; but we have pointed out its precise locality. It commanded,
as those who know the spot will at once believe, a delightful view, or
rather series of views. The front windows looked up the Clyde, the back
windows down; and those in the gable commanded the Kelvin and the
woodland scenery (more so then than now) around and beyond. The sign of
his calling, which hung above the door of Ringan Scouler's little
hostelry, was then, as it still is, that of several of his brethren in
trade in the village--the figure of a salmon, painted in its natural
colours on a black ground. Ringan's emblematic fish, however, was not a
very shapely animal; but there was enough of likeness remaining to place
beyond all manner of doubt that it was meant to represent the "monarch
of the flood." Mine host himself was a quiet-mannered, good-humoured,
and good-natured person, with just such an eye to the one thing needful
as admitted of his cherishing this temperament, and of keeping a
comfortable house over his head. Perhaps his propensity of the kind just
alluded to went even a little further in its objects than this. We will
not say that, with all his quiet wit, and good-humour, and kindness,
and apparent carelessness about the main chance, he was not a pretty
vigilant marker of it. But what then? It was all in a fair and honest
way; and he gave his urbanity of manner as an equivalent.

Ringan, at the period of our story, was about fifty years of age, of a
fresh, healthy complexion, and shrewd cast of countenance; the latter
being lighted up by a couple of little, cunning, grey eyes, deep set
beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, which, again, were surmounted by a
head of hair, prematurely grey--a constitutional characteristic; for
neither his years nor his cares warranted this usual indication of the
pressure of one or other, or both of these causes. Ringan was, moreover,
well to pass in the world; for, being a man of at least ordinary
prudence, and having as excellent business, his circumstances throve
apace. His business, we have said, was excellent. It could not be
otherwise; for it was not in the nature of man to pass Ringan's door
without entering it. His good things, in the shape of liquor and
provender; his quaint, sly jokes, spoken almost under breath, which, in
his case, added to their effect; his cunning, smirking, facetious look
and manner--were all and each of them wholly irresistible; and all the
king's lieges who passed within a mile of his door, and who had a penny
in their pockets, felt them to be so.

Such was Ringan Scouler, the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron--for we
forgot to say, in its proper place, that the culinary implement just
named appropriately figured at one end of the board. The list of
Ringan's regular customers, which was a very extensive one, included the
curate and schoolmaster of Govan, both drouthy cronies and sworn
friends, although there was not a night in the world that they did not
quarrel; but this was more the effect of Ringan's ale than of any
inherent pugnacity of disposition in the belligerents themselves. This
quarrel, however, was so usual and so regular, that Ringan could tell
to a measure of liquor when it would commence.

In summer, these worthies generally occupied a little room that
overlooked the river; but in winter, or when the weather began to get
chill, they took possession of a corner of the kitchen, the most
cheerful apartment in the house at that season, as it was always kept in
most admirable order. The walls were white as snow, the floor strewed
with bright white sand; immense rows of shining pewter plates and jugs
of the same metal glittered on the rack; and a rousing fire crackled in
the old-fashioned chimney. Nothing, in short, could be more tempting to
the wayfarer, on a dark, cold, and drizzly night, than a casual peep
through the blazing windows into Ringan's cheerful kitchen; and nothing
could in reality be more comfortable than that kitchen, when you were
once into it. In a corner of this snug apartment was to be found
regularly, every evening, say, from October to May, between the hours of
seven and ten, Mr Walter Gibson, curate of Govan, and Mr John Craig,
schoolmaster there. Before them, and near to the fireplace, stood a
small fir table, and on this table invariably stood a large pewter
measure of ale, and three horn tumblers with silver rims--one for each
of the persons just named, and a spare one for the use of the landlord,
who joined their potations as often as the demands on his attention to
the duties of the house permitted.

Out of all the evenings, however, which the curate and schoolmaster
spent in Ringan Scouler's, we can afford to select one only; but this
shall be one on which something occurred to diversify the monotony of
their meetings, otherwise distinguished only by the usual quarrel, the
usual humdrum conversation (which, though sufficiently interesting to
themselves, would, if recorded, afford very little entertainment to the
reader), and the usual consumption of somewhere about a gallon of mine
host's double ale. The particular evening to which we have alluded
shall be one in the latter end of the month of October, and the
year somewhere about _anno_ 1529. It was a raw, wet, and cold
night--circumstances which greatly enhanced the comforts of Ringan's
kitchen, as both the curate and schoolmaster very sensibly felt. Having
each turned off a couple of horns of their good host's home-brewed, the
conversation between the two worthies began to assume a lively,
desultory character.

"I was up in the toun the day, curate," said the schoolmaster--a thin,
hard-visaged personage, with a good deal of the failing said to be
inherent in his craft--conceit. "I was up in the toun," he said--meaning
Glasgow.

"Were ye?" quoth the curate--in personal appearance and manner the very
antipodes of his friend; being a stout, homely-looking man, of blunt
speech and great good-nature; his age, about forty-five. "And what saw
ye strange there, Mr Craig?"

"Naething very particular, but the braw new gatehouse o' the archbishop.
My certy, yon's a notable piece o' wark! His arms are engraven on the
front o't--three cushions within the double tressure. Man, curate, can
ye no contrive to warsle up the brae a bit? I'm sure waur than you's
been made a bishop."

"I'm no sae ambitious, Johnny," replied the curate. "If I were rector o'
Govan, I wad be content. But St Mungo himsel wadna get even that length
noo-a-days without a pouchfu o' interest--and I hae nane."

"The mair's the pity," said the schoolmaster, filling up his horn
tumbler; "but there's nae sayin what may happen yet."

"Indeed, is there no, Mr Craig," interposed Ringan, who made at this
particular moment one of the party. "Ye may get promotion, curate, whan
ye least expeck it, and may find a freend whar ye didna look for him.
There's mony chances, baith o' guid and ill, befa' folk in this warld."

While the curate's friends were endeavouring, by these vague and
sufficiently commonplace but well-meant remarks, to inspire him with
hopes of better days, it was announced to the party that the ferry-boat
was bringing over a passenger. By the way, with regard to this
particular, we forgot to say before that there _was_ a ferry across the
Clyde, just below Ringan's house; and, as the passengers were not then,
as they are now, very numerous, there was always a degree of interest
and speculation excited by their appearance.

"Wha can he be?" said Ringan. "Some o' oor ain folk, I fancy. It'll be
Jamie Dinwoodie frae Glasgow fair, I'll wad a groat. He's come roun by
Partick, instead o' comin doun by the water-side."

"The deil o' him it's, at ony rate, Ringan," said the schoolmaster.
"Jamie's been hame twa hoors since, and as fou's a fiddler."

All further speculation on the subject of the passenger was here
interrupted by the entrance of that person himself; and it was with some
disappointment the speculators found that, to judge by his appearance,
he was not worth speculating about; for he was very meanly dressed--nay,
worse than meanly--his attire was beggarly; so much so, indeed, that
there was a general belief that he was a mendicant by profession,
although, perhaps, of a somewhat better order than common. His apparel
consisted of a threadbare and patched short coat or surtout, of coarse
grey cloth, secured round his middle by a black belt. On his legs he
wore a pair of thick blue rig-and-fur hose or stockings, as a certain
description of these _wearables_ are called in Scotland. They are now
nearly extinct, but may still be seen occasionally. Those on the legs of
the stranger were darned in fifty places, and with worsted of various
colours. His shoes were in no better condition than his stockings, being
patched in nearly as many places. On his head he wore an old broad blue
bonnet, which, with a pair of sadly dilapidated inexpressibles, and a
rough newly-cut staff, completed his equipment--the whole unequivocally
bespeaking a very limited exchequer. On his entrance, the stranger,
perceiving the respectable quality of the guests assembled in the
kitchen of the Grilse and Gridiron, reverently doffed his bonnet, and
apologised for intruding on the "honourable company."

"Nae apology necessary, freend," said the curate, rising from his seat,
to allow the poor traveller, who was dripping with wet, to approach
nearer to the fire. "Come awa--nae apology at a' necessary. This is a
public hostelry; and, if ye can birl your bawbee, ye've as guid a richt
to accommodation as the best in the land."

"Thanks to ye, honourable sir," replied the stranger, meekly. "I wish
every ane were o' your way o' thinking; but I find this auld coat and
thae clouted shoon nae great recommendations to civility onywhere."

Saying this, the stranger planted himself in a chair before the fire,
and ordered the landlord to bring him a measure of ale.

"Tak a moothfu o' this in the meantime, honest man," said the curate,
handing him his own goblet; "for ye seem to be baith wat and weary."

"Ou, no--no very weary, sir," replied the stranger, taking the proffered
goblet; "but a wee thing wet, certainly. I hae only come frae Glasgow
the day."

"Nae far'er?" said the curate.

"No an inch," replied the other.

"Tak it oot, man, tak it oot," said the former, as the latter was about
to return the goblet, after merely tasting it. "It'll warm your heart,
man, and I'm sure ye're welcome till't."

The stranger, without any remark, did as he was bid, and drained out the
cup. In the business of this scene, the schoolmaster took no part, but
maintained a haughty distance; his pride evidently hurt by the intrusion
into his society of a person of such questionable condition--a feeling
which he indicated by observing a dignified silence. This difference of
disposition between the two gentlemen did not escape the stranger, who
might have been detected from time to time throwing expressive glances
of inquiry, not unmingled with contempt, at the offended dominie. The
displeasure of his friend, however, did not deter the kindhearted curate
from prosecuting his conversation with the stranger, who eventually
proved to be so intelligent and entertaining a person, that he gradually
forced himself into the position of an understood, though not formally
acknowledged, member of the party. Being full of anecdote and quaint
humour, such as even the schoolmaster could not altogether resist,
although he made several ineffectual attempts to do so, the laugh and
the liquor both soon began to circulate with great cordiality; and in
due time songs were added to the evening's enjoyment. In this species of
entertainment the good-humoured curate set the example, at the earnest
request of Ringan, who asked him, and not in vain, to "skirl up," as he
called it, the following ditty, which he had often heard the worthy
churchman sing before:--

    "In scarlet hose the bishop he goes,
      In the best o' braid claith goes the vicar;
    But the curate, puir soul, has only the bowl
      To comfort him wi' its drap liquor, drap liquor,
          To comfort him wi' its drap liquor.

    "Right substantial, in troth, is the fat prebend's broth,
      And the bishop's a hantle yet thicker;
    But muslin kail to the curate they deal,
      Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor, drap liquor,
          Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor.

    "Gie the sodger renown, the doctor a gown,
      And the lover the long looked-for letter;
    But for me the main chance is a weel-plenish'd manse--
      And the sooner I get it the better, the better,
          And the sooner I get it the better."

"Faith, and I say so too with all my heart, sir," said the stranger,
laughing loudly, and ruffing applause of the good curate's humorous song
on the table. "I'm sure I've known many a one planted in a comfortable
living, who, I would take it upon me to say, were less deserving of it
than you are."

"That may be, honest man," replied the curate; "but, as I said to my
freend here a little ago, when he made the same remark, I hae nae
interest; and withoot that, ye ken, it's as impossible to get on, as for
a milestane to row its lane up a hill."

"Indeed, sir, that is but too true, I fear," said the stranger; "yet the
king, they say, is very well disposed to reward merit when he finds it,
and has often done so with out the interference of influence."

"Ou, I daur say," replied the curate; "he's gude aneugh that way--na,
very guid, I believe; but I hae nae access to the king, and it'll be
lang aneugh before my merits, if I hae ony--which I mysel very much
doot--'ll find their way to him. He has owre mony greedy gleds to feed,
for the like o' me to hae ony chance o' promotion. No, no, freend--

    "Curate o' Govan I was born to be,
    An' curate o' Govan I'm destined to dee."

"Ha, ha!" exclaimed the stranger, laughing; "a bit of a poet, curate."

"In an unco sma' way, freend," replied the worthy churchman.

"Excuse my freedom, sir," rejoined the stranger; "but pray how long have
you been curate of this parish?'

"Nine years, come Martinmas next."

"And no prospect of advancement yet?"

"Just as muckle as ye may see through a whunstane; and ye ken it taks
gey sharp een to see onything through that."

"Nae doot," replied the stranger; "but the king, though he cannot see
through a whunstane farther than ither folk, has pretty sharp eyes, and
ears, too, sir, and baith hears and sees things that every one is not
aware of. You may, therefore--who knows?--be nearer promotion than you
think. Isn't the rectorship of Govan vacant just now?"

"Deed is't, freend," said the curate; "and if I had it, I wadna ca' the
king my cousin, though he were my uncle's son. But it'll no be lang
vacant, I warrant; some o' thae hungry hingers-on aboot the court 'll be
clinkin doun intill't in the turnin o' a divot. It's owre canny a seat
to be lang withoot a sitter."

"It will not be long without an incumbent, I daresay," rejoined the
stranger; "but I'm not sure that you're right, curate, as to the
description of person that will obtain it. But will your friend here not
favour us with a verse or two? It is his turn now."

"Ou, I daresay he will," replied the curate. "Come, Johnny, gie's yer
auld favourite."

With this request, the schoolmaster, who was now considerably mollified
by the liquor he had drank, readily complied, and struck up--

    'Let kings their subjects keep in awe,
      By terror o' the laws;
    For me, I fin' there's naething like
      A guid thick pair o' tawse.

    'Let doctors think to store the mind,
      By screeds o' rules and saws--
    Commend me to the learning that's
      Weel whupp'd in wi' the tawse.

    'Let lawyers, whan they wad prevail
      In fine words plead their cause--
    The _argumentum_ still wi' mo
      Is thae bit nine-taed tawse.'

Suiting the action to the word, the dominie, on repeating the last line,
whipped the formidable and efficacious instrument he spoke of out of his
pocket. Whether, however, it had actually nine toes or not, or whether
that assertion was merely a poetical flourish, none of those present
took the trouble of ascertaining.

"By my troth, sir," said the stranger, when the schoolmaster had
concluded, "it's a pity that such a thing as tawse was not in use
outside the school as well as inside. There are many children of the
larger growth in the world who would be greatly improved by its
application."

"Come, landlord," now said the curate, "it's your turn now;--and it'll
be yours belyve, freend," he added, addressing the stranger. "Up wi't,
Ringan--up wi't, man."

"Ye'se no want that lang," said the jolly, good-natured landlord of the
Grilse and Gridiron, with one of his quiet, cunning shrugs of the
shoulders and pawky leers of the eye; and off he went with--

    "A flowing jug, a reaming jug,
      'S a glorious sicht, my dear boys;
    It waukens love, it lichtens care,
      And drowns all sorts of fear, boys.

"Come, gentlemen, chorus.

                    "Fal de ral, &c.

    "Your sober man's an arrant fool,
      His spirits are all sunk, boys;
    Give me your honest, jovial soul,
      That night and day is drunk, boys.

"Chorus, gentlemen.

                    "Fal de ral, &c.

    "You tell me that his outward man
      Is shabby, spare, and thin, boys;
    But you forget to reckon on
      The comfort that's within, boys.

"Chorus.

                    "Fal de ral, &c.

    "Then, whether I be here or there,
      Or this or t'other side, boys,
    May streams o' ale still round me flow,
      As broad and deep's the Clyde, boys!

"Chorus, gentlemen.

    "Fal de ral," &c.

At the moment the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron had completed his
temperance-society lyric, and ere the tribute of applause which was
ready to be paid down on the nail to him for it by his auditors could be
tendered him--the feelings of the whole party were directed into another
channel, by the information that a boat-load of passengers had just
landed at the ferry. On receiving this intelligence, Ringan hurriedly
rose from the table, and ran to the door, to see what portion of the
human cargo was likely to come his way--and right glad was he to find
that he was about to be favoured with the company of the whole. They
were one party, and were approaching Ringan's house in a string. On
entering the kitchen, they were found to be three men and two women. The
former were apparently farmers--two of them elderly men, and one of them
a young, loutish-looking fellow, of about two-and-twenty. The women were
mother and daughter--the latter a beautiful girl, of about eighteen or
twenty years of age. The whole of these persons were well known to the
curate, schoolmaster, and landlord; and the consequence was a general
cry of recognition, and a tumultuous shaking of hands.

"How are ye, curate?" "How are ye, Clayslaps?" "Glad to see you, Mr
Craig!" "As glad to see you, Jordanhill!"

"And hoo are _ye_, guidwife?" said the curate, advancing towards the
elder of the two females, and taking her kindly by the hand--"and you,
Meenie, my bonny dear," he said, turning towards the daughter--"hoo are
ye? and hoo," he added, with an intelligent smirk, "is Davy Linn o'
Partick? But hoo's this?" he said, more seriously, and now peering into
her face--"there's a tear in yer ee, Meenie. What's wrang, lassie? Hae
ye lost yer leman? Has Davy no been sae kind's he should hae been?"

Poor Meenie made no reply to the worthy curate's half-jocular,
half-serious remarks. Her heart was sad; and to her dismal and
heart-withering was the errand on which she and her friends (for, of the
men of the party, one was her father, the other her uncle, and the third
her intended husband) had come to Govan. While the curate spoke to her,
she held down her head to hide the tears that were fast falling from her
beautiful dark hazel eyes; but she could not conceal the heaving of her
bosom, from the sobs which she was endeavouring to suppress.

"She's a camstairy cutty," said her father, Adam Ritchie of Clayslaps,
frowningly, "and most undutifu, no to submit to the wishes o' her
parents wi' a better grace."

"Surely every bairn is bound to obey with cheerfulness those to whom
they owe their being," said the curate; "but there are some cases,
Clayslaps, where it wad be cruelty to impose restraint, and unreasonable
to expect ungrudged compliance."

"Weel, weel, curate," replied Adam Ritchie, impatiently, "we'll speak o'
thae things anither time. In the meantime, landlord," he said, turning
to Ringan, "bring us in some brandy; for we're baith cauld and wat, and
a thumblefu o' the Frenchman'll do us nae harm."

This order was speedily complied with. A small pewter measure of the
liquor desired, accompanied by a small silver drinking-cup or quaigh,
was placed on the table; and the whole party, including the former
occupants of the kitchen, soon began to get cheerful and somewhat
talkative, with the exception of Meenie Ritchie. In all that had
hitherto passed, he of the clouted shoes and darned hose had taken no
part, but had kept his eye steadily fixed on Meenie, with a look of
deep interest and compassion. At length, as if urged on by the
increasing energy of those feelings, he rose, went up to her, and
clapping her kindly on the shoulder--

"I wish, my sweet lass," he said, "it were in my power to lighten that
bit heartie o' yours; for it seems to me to be sore burdened wi' some
grief or other; and I am wae to see't."

"And what business hae ye to interfere, freend?" said her father,
angrily. "If the lassie's in grief, whilk she has but little reason to
be, she has them aboot her here wha hae a deeper interest in her than ye
can hae, and a hantle better richt to be her comforters."

"Sma' comfort she's like to get amang ye, be ye what ye like to her,"
replied the stranger, doughtily; "and, if it's onything I can richt her
in, tak my word for't, honest man, I'll do it with but small regard to
your displeasure."

"My troth, ye're no blate, sirrah, to tell me sae--her ain faither,"
said Clayslaps, reddening with anger; "but I advise ye, freend, neither
to mak nor meddle wi' oor affairs, else ye may repent it. That lassie,
sir, is my dochter; and there's her mother, and there's her uncle, and
there's her husband to be; sae ye may see hoo very little your
interference is needed here."

"Weel, weel," replied the stranger, now retiring to his seat, "if
there's only fair play going, I'm content; but I like to see that
everywhere and on all occasions."

"So, Clayslaps," said the curate, here interfering, "is't to be a match
after a'--is't?"

"Indeed is't, curate," replied the former. "Meenie's come roun at last,
and is convinced her parents wadna advise her against her interest. Sae
we have just come here this nicht for the express purpose o' gettin a
cast o' your office; and I consider it the luckiest thing in the world
that we hae foregathered wi' ye sae cannily, curate."

"Indeed, ay, curate," here chimed in Meenie's mother with that ready
volubility and a little of the incoherence of her particular class and
character, "we're just gaun to close the business at ance, and be dune
wi't. I'm sure, muckle trouble and thocht it has cost us, curate. Ye ken
Davy o'Partick, that was rinnin after Meenie, and wha the fulish,
thochtless thing had sic a wark wi', hasna a plack in his purse--neither
maut nor meal, neither hoose nor ha'; and were we gaun to throw awa oor
lassie, wi' fifty merks o' tocher in her pouch, forbye what she may get
whan the guidman and me's raked i' the mools, on a landless, penniless
chiel like that? Na, my certy--we kent better than that, curate; and
we're just gaun to gie her to the young laird o' Goupinsfou there, wha
can lay down plack for plack wi' her, and has a bien house to tak her
to, forbye."

"But," here interrupted the curate, at the same time looking towards
Meenie, "are ye quite sure, Mrs Ritchie, that ye hae brocht your dochter
to see this matter in the same prudent licht that ye do? I maun say, I
doot it. And besides, guidwife, what's a' the hurry in marryin the
lassie--she's but young yet."

"That's a faut that's aye mendin, curate," replied Meenie's mother; "and
we think the suner she's oot o' harm's way the better. He's but a
reckless chiel that Davy, and there's nae sayin what he micht do. Maybe
rin awa wi' her afore mornin; for he has heard an inklin o' oor
intentions. Sae we just cam slippin awa in the dark, to get the business
settled withoot his kennin."

During all this time, poor Meenie Ritchie sat the picture of misery and
suffering. She had never, since she entered, once raised her head, but
continued wrapped up in the silent wretchedness of despair; painfully
and forcibly showing how little she partook in the anxiety of her
parents to accomplish the impending union. Meenie was evidently, in
short, a victim to parental authority; and this all present felt and
saw, and none with more compassion than the worthy curate who was to be
the unwilling instrument of her doom.

"To be plain wi' ye, guidwife," said the kindhearted churchman, when the
former had gone through her somewhat unconnected, but sufficiently
intelligible, story, "and you, Clayslaps, and the rest o' ye that's
concerned in this business, I dinna like it, and I will not marry these
persons but with the full and free consent of both."

"But ye may not refuse, curate," said Meenie's father, somewhat testily.
"She has consented already, and will consent again."

"In that case, certainly, I may not refuse," said the curate, going up
to the afflicted girl, and taking her kindly by the hand. "Meenie, my
dear," he now said, addressing her, "are ye here for the purpose o'
being united to Goupinsfou, o' yer ain free will and accord?"

The poor girl made no reply.

The curate repeated his question, when her father sternly called on her
to answer. Thus urged, she uttered a scarcely audible affirmative.

"Then, since it is so, Meenie," said the curate, dropping her hand, "I
may not decline to effect the union. Do you desire, Clayslaps, that the
ceremony should be immediately performed?"

"As sune's ye like, curate," replied the latter.

"And the suner the better," added Meenie's mother.

"Our worthy landlord here, then," said the curate, "will prepare an
apartment for us, and we will retire thither and unite this young
couple. In the meantime, freends," he added, addressing the schoolmaster
and he of the darned hose, "we had better settle oor lawin."

The schoolmaster instantly drew from his pocket his share of the
reckoning, while the stranger pulled out the foot of an old stocking,
which had been ingeniously converted into a purse, and was about
undoing the bit of twine with which it was secured, when the curate
placed his hand on his arm, to arrest his proceedings, saying--

"The ne'er a bodle, freend, ye'll pay. This'll be the schule-maister's
and mine."

"The ne'er o' that it'll be, curate," replied the schoolmaster. "Every
ane for himsel. Plack aboot's fair play. Let every herrin hing by its
ain head. The deil a bodle I'll pay for onybody."

"Then I will," said the curate. "I'll pay for this honest man here; for
it may be he canna sae weel spare't." And he laid down his own and the
stranger's share of the reckoning.

"Many thanks to ye, curate," said the latter; "but there's no occasion
for this kindness. I have, indeed, but little to spare; but that gives
me no claim whatever on your generosity."

"Say nae mair aboot it, freend," replied the curate--"say nae mair aboot
it, man. Ye'll maybe pay for me in a strait, some ither time. It's but a
trifle, at ony rate--no worth speakin aboot; sae ye'll obleege me by
giein me my ain way."

"Well, well, since you insist on it," said the stranger, again tying up
the stocking-foot, "I winna press the matter. Many thanks to ye."

The important affair of the reckoning settled, a general movement was
made amongst the party to adjourn to the apartment which had been
prepared for the celebration of the marriage ceremony. Taking advantage
of the momentary confusion created by this circumstance, the curate's
new friend touched him on the elbow, led him aside, and whispered into
his ear, "Delay the ceremony as long as you can. The poor girl, you see,
is about to be sacrificed. Perhaps I can prevent it."

The curate nodded assent, although it was but the result of an impulse
of his kind nature; for he could not conceive how any one--particularly
such a very humble personage as he who had spoken to him--should have
the power to stay an event of the kind, and under the circumstances of
that which was about to take place. Still, as the request was in
accordance with his own feelings, and as he did not know what this very
odd person might have it in his power to do in the matter, he resolved
to do what he could to comply with it. Having made the communication to
the curate just recorded, the stranger suddenly and hurriedly left the
apartment. Whither, and the purpose for which he went, we shall
ascertain by following him.

On leaving the house, he hastened down to the river side, and having
called the ferryman out of his temporary habitation, a little hut
erected on the bank, "Friend," he said, "do you know Davy Linn
o'Partick?"

"Brawly that," replied the ferryman. "No a better or decenter chiel in
the country side than Davy. A warmhearted, honest fellow!"

"Glad to hear it," said the inquirer. "Well, then, since that is the
case, you will have no objection to do him a service, I daresay?"

"It would be ill my part, if I had," replied the man; "for he has done
me twa or three services that I wadna willingly forget."

"Then across the water with you, and up to Partick as fast as if the old
one were after you, and tell Davy to come here directly--to come along
with you--if he would not lose Meenie Ritchie for ever."

"Feth, that'll mak him rin, if onything will," said the man, who knew of
Davy's attachment to Meenie.

"And stay, sir," continued the stranger, without noticing the
interruption; "take this"--producing a small gold ring--"and go, at the
same time, to the bishop's castle, up the way, there, on the Kelvin, and
request some one of the domestics to put it into the hands of Sir John
Elphingstone, who is residing there just now with the bishop. He will
instantly come out to you; and, when he does, tell him that the person
who sent it desires to see him here immediately, and requests that he
may come along with you. And now, my friend," he continued, "that you
may do all these errands with the greater good-will and despatch, here's
a gold Jacobus for thee."

The man took the coin, though not without a look of surprise at the
donor, whom he evidently thought a most unlikely person to deal in gold
rings and Jacobuses. He, however, made no remark, but prepared to
execute the mission with which he had been intrusted; and was just about
to push off his boat, when his employer called out to him--

"I forgot to say, friend, that when you have brought over your
passengers, you will desire them to wait in your hut here until you have
acquainted me with their arrival. You will find me in Scouler's
hostelry."

With this order the boatman promised compliance, and pushed off; when
his employer returned to the inn, and, planting himself before the
kitchen fire, anxiously awaited the return of his messenger.

The curate, in the meantime, was faithfully performing his part, in
promoting delay, by the aid of story and anecdote, although he felt as
if it were a hopeless case. While thus employed, the landlady, a lively,
active, bustling body, happening to come into the room, he suddenly
stopped in the middle of a story, and exclaimed, laughingly, "Mrs
Scouler, hae ye been makin ony brandy parritch lately?"

"Tuts, Mr Gibson, will I never hear the end o' that?" replied the
hostess of the Grilse and Gridiron, good-naturedly, and hurrying out of
the apartment, to escape the further banter of the facetious churchman.

"What aboot the brandy parritch, curate?" exclaimed the guidwife of
Clayslaps, on the hostess leaving the room.

I'll tell you that (replied the curate). Ae morning, pretty early, last
summer, there cam a serving man, mounted on horseback, to oor freend
Ringan Scouler's door here, and said he belonged to Lord Minto; and that
he had been sent forward by his master, who was on the road comin frae
Arran through to Edinburgh; to order some breakfast to be prepared for
him. But what, think ye, was the breakfast ordered for his lordship?
Why, it was parritch--plain, simple parritch; for it seems he prefers it
to a' ither kind of food for his morning meal. Weel, however much
astonished Mrs Scouler was at this order, she readily undertook to
prepare the dish desired, and the man departed. But he had no sooner
gone, than it occurred to her, that parritch for a lord ought to be made
somewhat differently from those intended for a plebeian stomach. But
wherein was this difference to consist? There was no choice of
materials, no variety of ingredients, no process of manufacture, but
one, that she had ever seen or heard tell of. At length, after racking
her brain for some time, to see if she could not strike out something
new on the subject, it occurred to her that, if she would substitute
brandy for water, the desired object would be accomplished, and a lordly
dish produced. Acting on this bright idea, the guidwife immediately
emptied a bottle of brandy into the parritch-pot, and proceeded with the
remainder of the process in the usual way. By the time his lordship came
up, the parritch was ready, and a dish of them placed before him. Little
suspecting--although he thocht they looked a wee thing darker than they
should do--that there was anything wrong, his lordship took a thumpin
spoonfu to begin wi'; but he no sooner fan' the extraordinary taste they
had, than he jumped from his seat, threw doon the spune, and sputtered
the contents o' his mooth a' owre the table, thinkin he was poisoned.
He then ran to the door, and called oot violently for oor guid hostess
here. In great alarm she ran hastily up the stair, and inquired what was
the matter.

"The matter, woman!" exclaimed his lordship, in a towering passion.
"What's this you hae gien me?" pointing to the parritch; "what infernal
stuff is that?"

Mrs Scouler, surprised at his lordship's want of discernment, explained
to him what she had dune; when he burst out a-laughing, told her that
the taste of a peer and a ploughman were precisely the same, and
requested her to make him just such a mess as she made for her ain
family. This was accordingly dune; whan his lordship, payin sax prices
for his hamely breakfast, set off in great good humour, telling Mrs
Scouler, however, at parting, never to put brandy in his parritch again.

The curate, having concluded his episodical anecdote, proceeded with the
story which he had interrupted to relate it; but was beginning to be
secretly uneasy at the long delay which was taking place in the
operations of his friend of the darned stockings. From this feeling,
however, he was in some measure relieved by the latter's sending for
him, after a short while, and begging of him to gain but other fifteen
minutes, if he could, when he pledged himself that such an event would
occur as would, in all probability, save Meenie Ritchie from the fate
that threatened her.

"But what is the event ye allude to, freend, and what is't ye propose to
do in this matter that'll produce the effect ye speak o'?" said the
curate, looking doubtingly at his new acquaintance.

"Patience a little, my good sir," replied the latter, smiling, "and ye
shall know all. In the meantime, trust to my good faith, and you will
find that I can do more, perhaps, than my appearance would promise.

"Be it even so, then," said the curate; "but observe I cannot possibly
put the ceremony off beyond the time you have mentioned; for a' but the
puir lassie hersel are gettin restlessly impatient."

The curate now returned to his party, and again had recourse to his
store of anecdote, which was an inexhaustible one, to protract the
performance of the ceremony. In the meantime, the boatman, faithful to
his trust, was diligently executing the missions confided to him. On
entering the house of Davy Linn's father, he found Davy sitting
disconsolately by the fire, his head resting on his hand, and his eyes
fixed, in thoughtful gaze, on the burning embers. He was thinking of
Meenie Ritchie--there could be no doubt of that; for poor Davy thought
of little else. Formerly, these thoughts had been pleasant to Davy; but
at this moment they were sad and heart-withering; for he had heard some
rumours of her parents intending to marry her to another; and he now,
therefore, considered her as for ever lost to him.

"What the mischief, Davy, man, are ye sittin gloomin and glunchin at
there?" said the ferryman, whose name was Archy Dawson, slapping the
person he addressed on the shoulder--"up, man, up!--I hae guid news for
you--at least what I think's likely to turn oot sae."

Davy, who had hitherto been so engrossed by his own gloomy reflections,
as either not to have heard or not heeded the entrance of Archy Dawson,
now rose from his seat, and, confronting the former, asked, with a faint
smile, what the news was.

"Is there naebody in the hoose but yersel, Davy?" inquired Archy,
looking cautiously round the apartment.

"Nane at this moment," replied Davy; "but there'll be some of them here
belyve, I daursay."

"Weel, before they come, Davy, I'll tell you what's brocht me here the
nicht." And Archy proceeded to relate the particulars of his mission.

Davy made no reply for some time; but the clenching of his teeth showed
that some fierce spirit had been roused within him by the intelligence.
At length he said--"Ay, I see how it is; they have stolen a march on me.
Oh, if I had known this but an hour since, they should have had more
guests at the wedding than they counted on, although some of them might
not have been very welcome."

"Maybe, maybe, Davy," said Archy; "but it's likely no owre late yet; sae
come awa as fast's ye can, man, and let's see what this business'll turn
oot to, and I'll tell ye the rest o' my story as we gang alang."

Davy, although without knowing distinctly why or wherefore now left the
house with his friend Archy, when the latter, as promised, acquainted
him with the other mission he had to execute--namely, the delivering the
ring to Sir John Elphingstone, at the bishop's castle, whither Davy
subsequently accompanied him.

On arriving at the lordly mansion of the prelate, Archy inquired of a
servant if Sir John was there, and was told that he was.

"Then," said he, "be sae guid, freend, as tak up this bit trantalum o' a
thing till him, and I'll wait whar I am till I hear frae him."

In a few minutes after Sir John appeared, and, accosting Archy, said,
"Well, my friend, what commands have you brought along with this?"
producing the ring.

"The person that gied me that, sir," said Archy, "desired me to tell you
to come along wi' me."

"And, pray, where are you from, friend?"

"Ou, no far awa, sir," said Archy; "just frae Govan, owre the way
there."

"Very well, I'll accompany you. But who's this you have with you?"
inquired the knight, looking at Davy Linn, who stood close by.

"That lad's name, sir," said Archy, "is Davy Linn; he belangs to
Partick, up there, sir. He's a fine lad, Davy--a fine, decent, canny
lad, sir."

"I have no reason to doubt it," replied Sir John; "but what does he here
with you?"

"Dear me, sir," said Archy--"he was sent for, too, by the same chield
that sent you the ring. I was desired to bring ye baith."

"Oh, indeed," replied Sir John--"that's enough; let us proceed, then."
And the three immediately set off for Govan. On their arrival on the
opposite bank of the river, Archy, leaving them there, hastened up to
Ringan Scouler's, and intimated to his employer that he had executed his
mission, and that the persons he had sent for waited him in his hut. On
receiving this information, the former hastened down to the ferry
station; and, after a brief interview and hasty explanation with Sir
John and Davy, of which we leave the sequel to show the import, returned
with equal haste to the hostelry, and now pushed boldly into the
apartment occupied by the marriage party. The time stipulated with the
curate had expired; and the latter, finding he could no longer delay the
discharge of the duty he was called upon to perform, had already
commenced the service.

"Friend," said the intruder, with a degree of boldness and familiarity
in his manner which he had not before assumed, and at the same time
laying his hand on the arm of the curate, to arrest his attention,
"pray, stop a moment, if you please, till I speak a word with the
bride's father." Saying this, and now turning round to the person to
whom he alluded, "May I ask, Clayslaps," he said, "if your objection to
your daughter's having the man of her choice is his want of fortune?"

Clayslaps looked for a moment at the querist with an expression of
extreme surprise, but at length said--

"I dinna see what richt, freend, ye hae to put such questions;
nevertheless, I will answer't. It is; and a guid and sufficient ane
it'll be allooed, I think."

"Is it your only one? Have you no other fault to lay to the young man's
charge?"

"I hae nae faut to charge him wi'," replied Clayslaps, crustily and
reluctantly. "The lad, for ought I ken to the contrary, is weel aneugh
in ither respects. But he's nae match for my dochter."

"Your wife has said," continued the querist, "that your daughter's
portion is fifty merks, which is to be met by a similar sum on the part
of the young man whom you intend for her husband. Now, friend, if Davy
could produce two merks for her one--that is, a hundred to her
fifty--what would you say to having him still for a son-in-law?"

"Why," said the bride's father, "that wad certainly hae altered the case
at ae time; but it's owre late noo."

"Not a bit--not a bit," replied the propounder of the question--"better
late than never."

"But young Goupinsfou has lands as weel as siller," rejoined Clayslaps.

"True, I believe," said the other speaker; "but suppose Davy could
produce you evidence of his being a laird, too--say--let me see"--and he
paused a moment--"say he could show you that he was laird of a hundred
acres of the best land within half-a-dozen miles of Partick, what would
you say then, guidman, to having Davy for your daughter's husband?"

"What's the use o' talking this nonsense?" said the Laird of Clayslaps,
impatiently; "everybody kens that Davy Linn's baith landless and
penniless, and likely aye to be. Sae, freend, hae the guidness to
retire--for your company's no wanted here--and let the ceremony
proceed."

"Not so fast, laird, if you please," returned the person addressed; and
then, turning to the bride's mother, "What would you say, guidwife, to
Davy for a son-in-law, if he had all the property I have mentioned?"

"Ou, indeed, man, it wad surely hae altered the case athegither--there's
nae doot o' that. I wad hae had nae objection till him, had that been
the case--neither wad her faither, I am sure. But, as the guidman has
said, what's the use o' speaking o' thae things, now, at ony rate? Davy
has naething, and Goupinsfou has plenty, and that maks a' the
differ--but, my faith, an unco differ it is."

"No doubt; but, if we remove this differ, guidwife," rejoined the
stranger, "perhaps we may yet prevent two fond hearts being separated;
and, to end this matter at once," continued the speaker, but now in a
serious tone, "_I_ will pay down a hundred merks on Davy Linn's account,
as a free gift to him, on the day after he has become the husband of
your daughter, and _I_ will put him in possession, as a free gift also,
of a hundred acres of the best land within six miles of Partick, on the
same day, and on the same conditions."

"_Ye'll_ pay doon a hunner merks to Davy Linn, and _ye'll_ gie him a
hunner acres o' land!" exclaimed Clayslaps, in the utmost amazement, and
looking at the threadbare coat, clouted shoes, and darned hose of the
man of promises, with the most profound contempt and incredulity. "And
whar the deil are _ye_ to get them?"

"Never ye fear that, freend," replied the latter, laughing; "I'll find
them, I warrant you."

"Let's see the siller," said Clayslaps, triumphantly.

"Why, you certainly have me there, Clayslaps. I have not the money on
me, indeed; but I will find you instant security for it, and for the
entire fulfilment of my promises. Landlord," continued the speaker, and
now turning to Ringan, who was one of his astonished auditors, "please
to say to Sir John Elphingstone, whom I presume you know is to be found
in the next room, that it will be obliging if he will step this way a
moment."

We will not stop to describe the amazement that was felt by all, and
expressed on every countenance in the apartment, on the delivery of this
extraordinary message. Sir John Elphingstone was well known to every one
there as a gentleman of large possessions and highly honourable
character; and how he came to be at the call of such a person as he who
had sent for him, or how he came to be in the house at all at such a
time, was matter of inexpressible surprise to every one present. The
whole affair, in short, was one of impenetrable mystery and perplexity
to all, including the worthy curate. We will not, however, wait to
describe the feelings of the party on this occasion, but go straight on
with our story. Neither will we do so, in any case--thinking it much
better to leave such matters wholly to the reader's own imagination.

The summons that called Sir John into the presence of the marriage-folks
was immediately obeyed. In an instant that gentleman entered the
apartment, with a smile upon his face, all the party standing up and
receiving him with the most marked reverence and respect.

"You'll excuse the liberty I have taken in sending for you, Sir John,"
said the person who had called him, on the former's entrance; "and I
certainly would not have taken that liberty, had I not known how much
pleasure it gives you when an opportunity is afforded you of doing a
generous thing. Here, Sir John, is a young woman about to be sacrificed
at the altar of Mammon. Now, I know that you would not permit this if
you could help it. Neither will I; and, to prevent it, I have promised
to the intended bride's father here, that I will give one hundred merks
and one hundred acres of land to the husband of Meenie's choice, Davy
Linn of Partick--a very deserving young man, I believe--on the day after
she is married to him. Now, Sir John, will you become my security to
Clayslaps for the fulfilment of this promise?"

"Most assuredly," said Sir John, smiling; "let me have pen, ink, and
paper, and I will give him my written obligation to that effect."

The materials were brought, and the obligation drawn out; Clayslaps and
all the others being too much confounded by what was passing to offer
any interruption or make any remark. When the paper was written, it was
handed to Meenie's father, who, almost unconsciously--for he did not
seem to know very well what he was doing--read it over. On concluding
the perusal,

"A'richt aneugh," he said--"a'richt aneugh. Od, this _is_ a queer
business. But it's a' owre late, guid sirs. We canna be aff wi'
Goupinsfou at this stage o' the affair, and in this sort o' way. It
wadna be fair nor honest, and wad look unco strange like. Besides, ye
canna expeck that he would submit to't himsel."

This was certainly a reasonable enough supposition, but it happened to
be an unfounded one; for Goupinsfou was not only an ass, but a most
abominably mean and selfish one; and Sir John, aware of this, thought he
knew a way to reconcile him to the loss of Meenie.

Going up to Goupinsfou, he took him aside, and whispered in his ear, "I
say, laird, you've long had an eye, I know, to the bit holm on the
Kelvin, below the Gorroch Mills."

"It's a bonny spot," interrupted Goupinsfou, cocking his ears.

"It is," replied Sir John. "Well, then, it shall be yours, if you give
up all claim to the hand of Meenie Ritchie, and give me in writing an
entire quittance on that score."

"Dune!" exclaimed Goupinsfou, instantly, wisely calculating that he
could readily find another wife, but might not so readily get another
offer of the piece of land he so much coveted. "Dune, Sir John!" he
exclaimed, grasping that gentleman by the hand with the selfish
eagerness that belonged to his character; but, desirous of glossing
over the meanness of the transaction, he placed his acquiescence on
another footing than that of bribery, by adding, "I wadna like, I'm
sure, to force the lassie to marry me against her will. I gie her up wi'
a' my heart."

Having obtained the brute's consent to resign the hand of Meenie, Sir
John turned to the party, and informed them that their worthy friend,
the Laird of Goupinsfou, out of consideration for the feelings of Meenie
Ritchie, which he feared were not favourable to him, resigned all claim
to her hand, and left her at full liberty to marry whom she pleased.

"Weel, that's certainly sae far guid," said Clayslaps; "but still I'm no
athegither reconciled to this business. It looks----"

"Toots, guidman," here interposed his wife, "the thing's a'richt aneugh.
Havena ye Sir John's haun o' vrit for the promise made by
this--this"--and she looked at the person she meant, and would have said
_gentleman_, but another glimpse of the patched shoes directed her to
the words--"_honest man_, to gie Davie the land and siller spoken o';
and what mair wad ye hae? Davie's a discreet, decent, well-doin lad,
everybody kens, that will mak, I'm sure, a guid husband to Meenie; sae,
just let them e'en gang thegither."

She would scarcely have said so much for Davie an hour before; but she
said it now, and it was all well enough.

"Weel, weel, guidwife," said Clayslaps, "since it is sae, we'll see
aboot it. There can be nae harm, however, in delayin a day or twa, at
ony rate, till we think owre't."

"No, no--no delay," exclaimed the meddling stranger; "delays are
dangerous, guidman. Nothing like the present moment. Let us strike while
the iron's hot. Landlord," he said, turning round to Ringan, "send Davie
Linn here."

In a second after, Davie Linn rushed into the apartment, flew to Meenie,
and caught her in his arms. "Mine yet! mine yet, Meenie!" he exclaimed,
rapturously. It was all he could say; and, little as it was, it was more
than she he addressed was able to express. During the whole night,
indeed, she had not opened her lips, and seemed to have been scarcely
conscious of what was passing around her. This was the effect of deep
misery; and the result was now nearly the same from an excess of joy.

"No delay now, curate," said the intermeddler. "Set to work as fast as
you can, and buckle these two together. No objection, I fancy?"

"Oh, none in the world," said the curate; "I'll fix them in a trice. But
I say, freend," he added, laughing, "I'm thinkin what a fule I was to
pay your reckonin the nicht--ane wha maks the merks flee like drift snaw
on a windy day, and gies awa lumps o' land wi' as little thocht
as--as--as I settled your lawin. Feth, but it was fulish aneugh o' me,
and ye're a queer ane, be ye wha ye like."

"Not so very foolish, perhaps, as you think, curate," said the person
thus addressed, "and that it's possible ye may find. At any rate, it's
no lost what a friend gets, you know, curate; but, in the meantime, will
you proceed with the ceremony, if you please. And, guidman," he added,
turning to Clayslaps, "will ye allow me to give away the bride?"

"I ken nane here that has a better richt," replied the latter, now
thoroughly reconciled to the sudden and most unexpected change in his
daughter's destiny which had taken place. "Ye may either gie her awa or
tak her yersel, just as ye like; for, by my faith, ye seem to be a guid
honest chiel, be ye wha ye like, as the curate says."

"Well, then, since you place her at my disposal, I here give her to
Davie Linn o' Partick--and may he always continue to deserve her!"

This conveyance of the fair Meenie, the curate lost no time in
legalising and confirming. When the ceremony was completed, "Now," said
the stranger, "if there be a fiddler or piper in all Govan who will
play to us for love or money, let him be brought here instantly, and
we'll finish as well as we've begun. By St Bride, we'll have a night of
it! What say you, Sir John?" And he turned to that gentleman with a
smile. "Will you condescend to honour us with your presence, and with as
much good-humour as you can conveniently spare?"

"Oh, most certainly," replied the latter, laughing, "with all my heart."

The desired musician was procured, and made his appearance. The room was
cleared, creature comforts were ordered in, in unsparing abundance, and
such a night of mirth and fun ensued as, we believe, has not been seen
since in the little village of Govan, and perhaps not often anywhere
else. The curate danced and frisked about like a three-year-old; Sir
John conducted himself with no less animation; but neither of them had
the smallest chance with the gentleman in the darned hose. He kept the
floor almost the whole night, whooping and hallooing in a most spirited
manner, and dancing fully half the time with the bride, and the rest
with her mother, the guidwife of Clayslaps, relieved occasionally by a
turn-out with some young girls of the neighbourhood, whom the landlord
of the Grilse and Gridiron had hurriedly brought together, on the
principle of "the more the merrier." But time and tide wait on no man.
Morning came, and the revellers prepared to depart to their several
homes. The marriage party, including the bride and bridegroom, and Sir
John Elphingstone, proceeded to the ferry, to which they were
accompanied by him who had performed the principal character of the
night. Having seen them all embarked, and having wished the young
married couple every happiness, he stood on the shore for an instant,
waved them a final adieu, retired by the way of the village, and was
seen no more.

Within a week after the occurrence of the events just related, the
worthy curate of Govan was surprised one day by receiving a letter from
the Archbishop of Glasgow.

"What's wrang now?" said the curate to himself, as he opened it. "My
dismissal, I suppose, for the irregularity o' my conduct at Ringan
Scouler's the ither nicht."

It was not exactly so, as the reader will perceive. The letter ran
thus:--

     "At the recommendation of a high personage, I intend appointing
     you to the vacant rectorship of Govan. You will therefore
     repair immediately to me, either at my palace at Glasgow or my
     castle at Partick, that I may confer with you farther on the
     subject.

     "DUNBAR, A. B. OF G."

"Whe-e-e-ou!" ejaculated the curate, with a long-drawn expiration, when
he had read this very pleasant document--"I smell a rat. 'Od, but it was
stupid o' me no to think o't afore. I'm sure I micht hae kent him; for
I've seen him twa or three times; but then he was in a green frock-coat
o' the finest claith; a velvet bonnet, wi' ruby and feathers, was on his
head; a chain o' gowd, worth five hundred merks, if it was worth a
bodle, round his neck, and a gaucy sword by his side. Still I ought to
hae kent him, for a' his clouted shoon and darned hose. But the cat's
oot o' the pock; and, my word, a bonny beast it is!"

What does the good curate's hints and allegorical allusions mean?
inquires the reader. Why, it means that the worthy man suspected--and we
have no doubt his suspicion was perfectly correct--that the person in
the darned hose was no other than James V., King of Scotland.




GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.




I.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE.


Notwithstanding the researches of Woodrow, and the more recent
enlargement and excellent annotations of Dr Burns, we are quite
conscious that a volume somewhat interesting might still be collected of
additional and traditional atrocities, of which no written record
remains, nor other, save the recollections _of recollections_--in other
words, the remembrance which we and a few others possess of the
narratives of our grandmothers whilst we were yet children. Our own
maternal grandmother died at ninety-six--we ourselves are now in our
sixtieth year; so that, deducting eight or nine years for our age
previous to our taking an interest in such concerns, we have our
grandmother existing before (say) 1695, which, deducting eight years of
infancy, brings us to 1703, which is only twenty-five years posterior to
the conclusion, and fifty-three to the commencement, of the atrocious
twenty-eight years' persecution. It is then manifest, from this
arithmetical computation, that our own grandmother, on whose truthful
intentions we can rely with confidence, came into contact and
conversation with those who were contemporaneous with the events and
persons she referred to. This surely is no very violent or unsafe
stretch of tradition; but, even though it were much more so, we would be
disposed to yield to it somewhat more consideration than is generally
done. Now-a-days, the pen and the press are almost the only recorders of
passing and past events and circumstances; but, in the age to which we
refer, this was not the case. The children of Israel were bound by a
holy and inviolate law to record _verbally_ to their children, and
those again to theirs, what the Lord had done for their forefathers. And
on the same principle, and under the same comparative absence of written
records, did our grandmothers receive from their immediate predecessors
the revolting disclosures which they have handed down to us. There are
here but two links in the chain--those, namely, which connect our
grandmothers with their parents, and with us; but, had there been
twenty--nay, fifty or a hundred links--we should not, on account of the
high antiquity of such a tradition, have been disposed to dismiss it as
altogether groundless, and not implying even the slightest authority. In
illustration of this, we may adduce the facts, sufficiently well known
and authenticated, which were disclosed about thirty years ago at
Burgh-head, the ultimate extent of Roman conquest in Scotland. In that
promontory, now inhabited by a scattered population, there remained,
from age to age, a tradition that a Roman well had existed on the
particular spot. There being a lack of water in the place, the
inhabitants combined to have the locality opened, with the view of
disclosing so useful and essential an element. They dug twenty and even
thirty feet downwards, but made no disclosures; and were on the point of
giving up the search, when the father of the late Duke of Gordon
happening to pass, and to ascertain their object and their want of
success, very generously supplied them with the means of making a
further excavation. At last, to their no small surprise and delight,
they came to a nicely built and rounded well-mouth, with a stair
downwards to the bottom, and the bronze statues of Mercury and other
heathen gods stuck into niches. This well remains to this hour, and may
be visited by the traveller along the Moray Frith, as an indisputable
and indelible evidence of the value of traditions in ages when almost no
other means of record existed. True, such traditions are deeply
coloured and tinged by the prejudices of the age in which they
originated--allowance as to exaggeration must be made for excited
feelings and outraged opinions; but still the groundwork may in general
be depended on. The old, and perhaps vulgar, proverb, "There is aye SOME
water where the stirkie drowns!" applies in this case with a conclusive
force; and we may rely upon it, even from the collateral and written
evidence of parties and partisans on all sides, that nothing which mere
tradition has hinted at can exceed, in characters of genuine cruelty and
downright bloodshed and murder, those historical statements which have
reached us.

True, a writer lately deceased, whose memory is immortal, and whose
writings will survive whilst national feelings and the vitality of high
talent remain, has given us a somewhat chivalrous and attractive
character of the most distinguished actor in the atrocities of the
fearful time; and it is to be more than lamented--to be deplored--that
an early and habitual, and ultimately constitutional, leaning to
aristocratic and chivalrous views should have induced such a writer as
Sir Walter Scott to draw such an interesting picture of the really
infamous "Clavers"--of him who, for a piece of morning pastime, could,
with his own pistol, blow out a husband's brains, without law or trial,
and that in the presence of his wife and infant family! But the great
body of historians are on the side of truth and tradition; and the
recently-published, and still publishing, Life by Lockhart has unfolded,
and will yet unfold, those leanings of the great novelist which have
occasioned so lamentable a deviation from real history.

Under the shelter, then, of these preliminary observations, we proceed
with such notices and statements as we have heard repeated, or seen in
manuscripts which have (as we believe) never been printed. And we shall
give these notices and statements as they were given to us--surrounded
by a halo of superstition, and involving much belief which is now,
happily or unhappily--we do not say which--completely exploded.

Oh, my bairn! these were fearful times!--(Grandmother _loquitur_)--ay,
and atweel war _they_. My own mother has again and again made my hair
stand on end, and my heart-blood run cold at her relations.

Ye ken Auchincairn, my bairn; and maybe, whan ye were seeking for hawks'
nests, ye hae searched the Whitestane Cleughs. Aweel, ye maybe hae seen,
or maybe no--for young hearts and een like yours (O sirs! mine are now
dim and sair!) tak little tent o' sic-like things; but, my bonny bairn,
though tent it ye didna, true it is, and of verity, that, at the very
bottom o' that steep and fearfu linn, there is a rock, a stane like a
blue whunstane; and owre that stane the water has run for years and
years, and the winds and the rains of heaven hae dashed and plashed
against it; but still that stane remains (dear me, I'm amaist
greeting!)--it remains stained and spotted _wi' bluid_. And that bluid,
my dear bairn, is o' the bluid that rins in yer ain veins--it is the
bluid o' William Harkness, my own faither's brother. Weel, and ye shall
hear; for my mother used to tell me the langsyne stories sae aft, that I
can just repeat them in her ain words. Weel, it was the month of
October, and the nights were beginning to lengthen; and the puir
persecuted saints, that had taen to the _outside_ a' simmer, and were
seldom, if ever, to be seen in the _inside_, were beginning to pop in
again nows and thans, when they thought Dalyel, and Johnston, and
Clavers, and Douglas, and the rest o' the murdering gang, war elsewhere.
Aweel, as I am telling ye, yer granduncle cam hame to his ain brother's
house; it might be about the dawn o' the morning, whan a' the house,
except his brother, were sleeping, and he had got a cog o' crap whey on
his knee, wi' a barley scone--for glad, glad was he to get it; and he
had just finished saying the grace, and was conversing quietly like,
and in whisper, wi' his ain brother, when what should he hear, but a rap
at the kitchen-door, and a voice pouring in through the keyhole--

"Willie Harkness! Willie Harkness! the Philistines are upon ye! They are
just now crossing the Pothouseburn."

I trow when he heard that, he wasna lang in clearing the closs, and
takin doun the shank, straight for the foot of the Whiteside Linn, where
the cave was in which he had for weeks and months been concealed. It was
now, ye see, the grey o' the morning, and things could be seen moving at
some distance. Just as my uncle was about to enter the bramble-bushes at
the foot o' the linn, he was met by a trooper on horseback.

"Stand!" said a voice, in accents of Satan; "stand, this moment, and
surrender; or your life is not worth three snuffs of a Covenanter's
mull."

My uncle kent weel the consequences of standing, and of being taken
captive; and ye see, my bairn, life is sweet to us a'; sae he e'en
dashed into the thicket, and, in an instant o' time, and ere the dragoon
could shoulder his musket, he was tumbling head-foremost (but holding by
the branches) towards the bottom of Whiteside Linn. There lay my worthy
uncle, breathless, and motionless, and silent, expecting every moment
that the dragoon would dismount and secure him. However, the man o' sin
contented himsel wi' firing several times (at random) into the linn. The
last shot which was fired took effect on my uncle's knee; the blood
sprung from it, and he fainted. As God would have it, at this time no
further pursuit was attempted, and my uncle was lame for life. The blood
still remains on the stane, as witness against the unholy hand that shed
it. But, alas! we are a' erring creatures; and who knows but even a
dragoon may get repentance and find mercy! God forbid, my wee man, that
we should condemn ony ane, even a persecutor, to eternal damnation!
It's awfu--it's fearfu! But that's no a' ye shall hear. When the
trooper came up to the house, and joined his party, he repeated what had
passed, and a search was set about in the linn for my uncle; but William
had by this time crippen into his cauld, dripping cave, over which the
water spouted in a cascade, and thus concealed him from their search;
sae, after marking the blood, and almost raving like bloodhounds with
disappointment, they tied up a servant girl--whom they had first abused
in the most unseemly and beastly manner--to a tree, and there they left
her, incapable, though she had been able, of freeing herself. She was
relieved in an hour; but never recovered either the shame or the
cruelty. She died, and her grave is in the east corner, near the large
bushy tree in Closeburn kirkyard. "Blessed are the dead which die in the
Lord; for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them."

Muckle better, my dear, was her fate, though seemingly a hard one, than
that o' the ungodly curate o' Closeburn--o' him wha was informer against
the puir persecuted remnant, and wha, through the instrumentality o' his
spies and informers, had occasioned a' this murder and cruelty. Ye shall
hear. He--I mean, my bairn, the curate--had been hurlin the folk,
whether they would or no, to the kirk, for weeks, in carts and
hurdles--for oh, they liked his cauld, moral harangues ill, and his
conduct far waur. He had even got the laird to refuse burial in the
kirkyard to ony who refused to hear his fushionless preaching. Puir
Nanny Walker's funeral (she who had been sae horribly murdered) was to
tak place on sic a day. The curate had heard o' this, and he was
resolved to oppose the interment. But God's ways, my wean, are not as
our ways, nor his thoughts as ours; in his hands are the issues of life
and of death; he killeth and he maketh alive--blessed be his name, for
ever, amen! Weel, as I was telling ye, out cam the curate, raging,
running, and stamping like a madman; coming down his ain entry like a
roaring lion, and swearing--for he stuck at naething--that Nanny
Walker's vile Covenanting heart should never rot in Closeburn kirkyard.
Aweel, when he had just reached the kirk stile, and was in the act o'
lifting up his hand against them who were bearing the coffin into the
kirkyard, what think ye, my bairn, happened? The ungodly man, with his
mouth open in cursing, and his hand uplifted to strike, instantly fell
down on the flagstanes, uttered but one groan, and expired! Ye see, my
bairn, what a fearfu thing it is to persecute, and then to fall into the
hands o' an angry and avenging God. Oh, may never descendant o' mine
deserve or meet wi' sic a fate! But there is mair to tell ye still. Just
at the time when this fearfu visitation o' Providence took place, the
family o' Auchincairn war a' engaged wi' the Buik, whan _in_ should rush
wha but daft Gibbie Galloway, wha had never spoken a sensible word in
his life--for he was a born innocent, he and his mither afore him! Weel,
and to be sure, just about this time, for they compared it afterwards,
_in_ Gibbie stammered into the kitchen, whar they war a' convened, and
interrupted the guidman's prayer, wha happened at the time to be prayin
to the Lord for vengeance against the ungodly curate:--

"Haud at him," said Gibby--"haud at him! he's 'ust at the pit-brow!"

Ay, fearfu, sirs--thae war awfu times!




II.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH.


The narratives of the Rev. Mr Frazer of Alness, as well as those of
Quentin Dick, William M'Millan, and Mr Robert M'Lellan, Laird of
Balmagechan--all sufferers by, and MS. historians of the same events--we
have carefully perused; and it is from a collection of these hitherto
unpublished MSS. that the following paper is composed.

Mr Frazer had gone to London about the end of the year 1676, and had
continued there till 1685, when he was seized, along with the Laird of
Balmagechan, in Galloway, whilst they were listening to the instructions
of the Rev. Mr Alexander Shields, the celebrated author of the "Hynd let
loose," and forwarded by sea, under fetter and hatchway, to Leith. After
a variety of tossing and council-questioning, as was the order of the
day at this time, they were marched from the Canongate Tolbooth, along
with upwards of 200 prisoners, to Dunnottar Castle in Kincardineshire.

Of the sudden and unexpected summoning which they experienced, the
reverend autobiographer speaks in these terms:--

"We were engaged, as was usual with us in our Babel captivity, in
singing a psalm. It was our evening sacrifice, and whilst the sun was
sinking ayont the Pentlands. The voice of a godly and much-tried woman,
Euphan Thriepland, ascended clear and full of heavenly melody above the
rest. The prison-door was suddenly thrown open, and we at first
imagined--alas!--that our captivity had ended; but it was not so. The
Lord saw meet to put us to still severer trials. We were marched, under
the command of Colonel Douglas, to Leith. This poor woman, who was
labouring under great bodily weakness, pled hard and strove sair for
leave to stay behind. But she was mounted behind a corporal, and, amidst
many an obscene jest and much blasphemous language, conveyed to the pier
at Leith."

Next morning, we find the whole prisoners put up in the most indecent
and uncomfortable manner in two rooms of the Tolbooth at Burntisland,
and undergoing an examination before the Laird of Gosford, as to their
opinions of allegiance and absolute supremacy. Forty acknowledged King
James as head of our Presbyterian Church, and superior lord over all law
and authority in the kingdom; and the forty-first was standing in the
presence of the oath administrator, with his hand uplifted, and in the
very act of following the example of his brethren, when his aunt, Euphan
Thriepland, _alias_ M'Birnie (for her husband's name was such),
advancing with difficulty towards the table, thus proceeded, with
violent gesticulation, and in a firm tone of voice, to address her
nephew. Here we use the words of the Laird of Balmagechan, who has given
the whole scene with singular force and fidelity:--

"Jamie M'Birnie, what's that ye're about? Down wi' yer hand, man!--down
wi' yer hand, this moment!--or ye may weel expect it to rot aff by the
shackle-bane, man! Ye're but a young man, Jamie, and muckle atweel ye
seem to require counsel. Had Peter M'Birnie, yer worthy faither--now
with his Maker--stood where I now (though with tottering joints and a
feeble voice) stand, he would neither have held his peace nor withheld
his admonition. He would rather hae seen that hand--now stretched oot to
abjure Christ and his Covenanted Kirk--burning and frying in the hettest
flame, than hae witnessed the waefu sicht I now see. It's weel wi'
him!--oh, it's weel wi' him, that his eyes are shut on earth, and that,
in heaven, there is nae annoyance; otherwise, sair, sair would his heart
hae been, to see my sister's wean devoting himsel wi' his ain uplifted
hand to Satan. O Jamie, what says the Bible? It says awfu things to you,
Jamie--it says, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is
better to go into heaven with one eye, than that the whole body'--Jamie,
mark that! the whole body--'should be cast into hell fire.' And is not
an eye dearer than a hand, and must not the dearest member be
sacrificed, if it stand in the way of the soul's salvation? Ye may own
King James, and muckle thanks ye'll get for't; and ye may abjure and
renounce Christ, and ye'll sune see wha will gain or lose by that. And
ye may adhere to the king's curates, or to the bishops' curates, and
starve at the breast o' a _yeld_, a milkless mither; but tak tent that
ye dinna feed and nourish in your bosom a fearful _worm_, that winna
die nor lie still, but will gnaw and gnaw as lang as the fire burns and
isna quenched."

Jamie M'Birnie's hand continued to fall gradually du

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